The housing crisis

Erin and I have moved into the state of seriousness that goes by the chilling term “househunting.” On Tuesday, a real estate agent called us in a frenzy—a very nice house in Cameron Park had just come up for sale. $419,500 was the asking price. By Tuesday evening, there were already eight real estate agents’ business cards in the house, and one offer already made. We raced scraped our pennies together and made an offer of $416,000, which we thought was probably more than we could really afford, but we’d give it a shot. By Wednesday, the house had sold for $430,000.

Meanwhile, Erin’s seriously concerned about the decor of any house we might inhabit, for precisely the same reason Will Baude hints at. (Probably one reason Baude ticks me off so often is because we’re so alike.) I love books; I’ve been collecting my personal library since the 10th grade, and I have about 60 boxes of them still waiting at my parents’ home while I seek a house where I can fit them.

By the way, if you live in a sane part of the country and you’re astounded by the idea of paying $430,000 for one house, Northern California real estate is seriously exploding; with no sign of letting up. (Probably because we are now a hate-free zone. Phew!) The median price for residential property in San Francisco is now $600,000. Meanwhile, as I drive around Placerville, I see signs that say “Vote yes on Measure B, because it will limit growth.” Gee, thanks! As they say, pull up the ladder, I’m aboard! Who cares about young folks looking for their first homes? Screw ‘em; I got mine, eh? (There are also signs that say “Vote no on Measure B, because it will allow too much growth.” Really.)