Languages in LA

Rent control has made Los Angeles a patchwork quilt of prices. I don’t know if it was enacted in a bid for stability, or a blow against landlords on behalf of “the little guy,” but like every government mandate, it’s a tangled vine from which blooms weird flowers.

 
The law is, apparently, that once you sign a lease, your rent can only be raised about 3-7% a year, depending on where you live. But of course, new leases can be set at market value, which seems to go up about 10-15% a year. Landlords owning large buildings jack up rent on empty apartments to compensate for the loss they are forced to swallow by rent control, driving the market value up further.

 The result, of course, is buildings in which one unit is being rented for $800 because the renter took it in 1989 and can’t afford to leave now. The unit next door, which is identical, is being advertised for $1450.

 The weird result is that in L.A., people who would never dream of asking you how much your salary is will not hesitate to ask you what you pay for rent. It’s a burning curiosity, a desire that overrides all other considerations, rather like the sexual urge that will compel you to sleep with someone but not ask them about their ex-girlfriend because that would be too personal.

 
And there is nothing so galling as finding out that the unit you are paying $1450 for was only $1125 for the previous renter and $650 for the guy downstairs, that barefoot git with the banjo. All you can do is hope for the day when they’ve all died off and you are still there, bragging to newcomers that you only pay $1850 and they’re paying $4,000.