The-Zoning-Complaint-Spin-Game

Every day in the office is different. You walk in with a clear agenda. Driving to work, you organize and prioritize the work that needs doing today. You outline your daily goals. By the time you sit at your desk, java in the mug next to the phone, your day is prepared. You have laid your mental spreadsheet out before you. You sip your coffee. You're ready.

Then the phone rings.

You begin to spin ever-so slowly, nothing to be worried about, you've been in this spin before. You can handle it. It's only Mrs. Gigliotti from 4th street.
"What can I do for you today, Mrs. Gigliotti?" you ask. You grab a pencil and a notepad.
"Everyone calls me Mrs. G", she replies.
"Yes, Mrs. Gigliotti, how may I be of service today?" A small smile creeps onto your face.

Her first complaint is about a small inflatable swimming pool in her neighbors yard. Shouldn't they need a fence? Someone told Mrs. G if the water level is deeper than 20 inches, a fence is required. You wonder who that someone is. You look at the weather channel temperature on your desktop. It is 30 degrees outside. You imagine happy little 3rd graders ice skating on the surface of the little pool.

Her second complaint is about a rear-yard fence on 5th street. It is leaning into the alley. She is afraid it will fall over onto children playing in the alley. You try to calculate the chance of this happening: height of fence x degree of lean/condition of posts x width of alley/percent chance children present in the alley/ percent chance of specific hour in a day when fence would fall= percent chance fence will land on the head of a small child. You realize you forgot to include wind speed.

You promise to investigate her complaints as soon as time allows. The phone call has now struck the 25 minute mark. The spin quickens and you think you can feel it now. You return to the first paragraph of your letter.

The Town secretary steps into your office. "There is a someone here to see you." Could it be the same someone? Of course not. This is a different someone. This is the doggie-poo man. He sits down across from you, a young man, possibly in his early thirties, well-groomed, immaculately dressed. He looks like a concierge or a tie salesman.

"I really don't want to complain, but my neighbor is not cleaning up after their 6 dogs. Now the snow is melting and the dog dirt has liquefied and is running under my fence into my yard." he tells you. He also tells you that he owns two dogs of his own. He also tells you he has made a complaint to the police department. He then hands you an envelope stuffed with photographs. He has pictures. Pictures of brown liquid running under a fence and down a walkway. This is his backyard. This is the brown dog-poopy water. This is your head spinning faster and faster.

Mr. doggie-poo is very upset. He is mad as hell and not going to take it any more. Your mind wanders as he describes the minutiae of life with an uncaring neighbor. You are in front of the judge. "Your Honor, I would now like to call to the stand Dr. Chow, an expert in canine DNA testing."

You bring the meeting to a conclusion, walking the complainant to the front door. You promise to write a letter, as soon as you are finished with a few higher priorities: forcing a slumlord to provide heat for his tenants; issuing a Notice of Violation to the tattoo parlor that opened for business without any permits; and also, there is this fence in the alley behind 5th street that may fall over at any second, crushing Mrs. Thompson's entire 3rd grade class.

You are now spinning quite nicely, reflecting sunlight at every turn. You decide to leave the office and head for the streets and alleys. You see violations at every turn- house alterations, unlicensed cars in back yards, little illegal swimming pools everywhere, and every fence is about to fall over into the alley. Spin! Spin! Spin!

You return to the office. The phone rings. It is your darling wife. "Honey", she says, "can we get a dog?"

Never Give Your Cell Number to a Tenant

The place was a disaster. Three apartments. Two upstairs, one downstairs. The landlord lived in another state and had no interest in maintaining the building. He appointed the downstairs tenant (in violation of that tenant's HUD agreement) as property manager "PM". This tenant couldn't fix a broken pencil point with an electric sharpener.

PM displayed little talent for involving the landlord in normal maintenance. His terminally ill mother lived with him. His mentally challenged brother lived with him. His two teenage children lived with him. He was unemployed and in poor health. Surprisingly, he wasn't my biggest problem. Gary, the tenant who complained, held that esteemed position.

PM played victim to a rotting infrastructure- of old, decaying plumbing, of neglect- of apathy from all parties. He was the front man for a foreign-born, American-trained slumlord. And on one cold winter's afternoon, shit really hit the fan- or rather, PM's dining room floor.

Directly above the dining room was a bathroom for the second floor apartment. For quite some time, a small amount of water leaked through the ceiling and down the dining room wall. PM ignored it until January, when a 3 foot section of the ceiling collapsed and toilet water rained down upon PM's family. That was when I received my first phone call-from Gary.

Gary's complaint involved all three apartments. PM's apartment had sewage raining into his dining room from Jill's apartment upstairs. Jill's kitchen sink drained into a bucket. The plumbing was no longer connected to the drain. Two of Jill's stove burners were broken and the warning light was always lit. Gary's apartment had a blocked sink drain, along with broken plumbing underneath their sink. Gary also had no working stove and no hot water. According to Gary, the gas company had refused to supply gas to these items until proper shut-offs were installed.

I inspected and confirmed the violations. Then the fun began.

My first decision: Everyone must move out until the health hazards are corrected. I began to prepare the notices and placards. Because PM had a Section 8 voucher from HUD, I began making phone calls to State and County agencies to try to find emergency housing for his family. My only success? I convinced a HUD inspector to meet me at the property at 5pm that same day. However, there was no emergency housing available. I was referred to private church-funded shelters. After another hour on the phone, I had made no progress. I couldn't even find a manger.

I made contact with the owners and they danced around the problems until I warned them that I would move everyone into the nearest motel, at the owner's expense. I was bluffing. Without the owner's cooperation, I would have to make the expenditure and then sue the landlords to force payment. The town fathers would never agree to that. I couldn't use my personal credit cards. The owners did agree to hire a contractor and fix the problems as soon as possible.

I made my second decision: Everyone could stay, but Jill would have to stop using her bathroom toilet. At 5pm I met the HUD inspector and we inspected PM's apartment. Gary showed up to tell me that a contractor had been located and that Gary would be coordinating the repairs. We were making progress. I went home, convinced that Monday would bring results.

Around 7 pm, I received a call from tenant Gary. I couldn't understand what he was saying because his words were slurred. He was claiming something about the contractor refusing to do the work. I told him I would handle it Monday morning. Around 9 pm, I received another phone call from Gary- he wanted to apologize for disturbing me earlier. I began to regret giving Gary my cell number. He appeared to be very intoxicated. I accepted his apology and quickly ended the phone call.

Saturday rumbled along without any problems. We decided to rent a movie and settle in for a cozy, snugly night. About half-way through the movie, Gary called. Things were much worse, he said. Someone was upstairs and had flushed 2-3 times already in an hour. I hopped in the truck, grabbed a placard, and drove the the apartment house. I contacted the local police who met me there. I knocked on the door of Jill's apartment. No answer.

I made my third decision: I placarded the door. "Occupancy is Prohibited" Then the door swung open and before us stood a young man, probably in his twenties. I explained the situation and he agreed to leave the building. I wanted to move the PM's family out as well. But there was no place for them to go. I imagined the next day's headlines, "Code Officer Throws Seriously Ill Woman out in Street in 15 degree weather." We couldn't have that.

By Monday evening, the contractor was hired and would start Tuesday morning with the repairs. Except for Gary's hot water,stove, and Jill's stove- Gary was going to make those arrangements himself. Around 10 pm Monday night, Gary called me. This time I had no doubt. He was clearly drunk and raving about the landlord forcing him to pay the contractor for the work. I had already spoken to both the landlord and the contractor. No such arrangement existed.

I made my fourth decision: "Gary, it is 10:00 o'clock at night. You are are abusing your cell phone privilege. If this is an an emergency, call 911. Otherwise, leave me alone until tomorrow morning." After he profusely apologized (with great drama), I ended the phone call.

By Wednesday morning, the contractor had repaired the bathroom floor, replaced the toilet, fixed all plumbing leaks, and installed a new ceiling in the dining room. Gary still had no hot water or a working stove. He also hadn't installed Jill's new stove. He had made no progress at all. His litany of excuses crashed upon each other like waves on an angry sea. It had become painfully clear-Gary was incapable of getting the job done. If he relies upon himself, he will never have hot water, his brand new stove will sit disconnected, and his incredibly filthy apartment will not be clean.

I made my fifth decision: Tenants will no longer receive my cell number. There has to be a clear boundary between a Code Officer and the general public he serves. Gary helped me find mine.

P.S. to Gary: Try not to stuff your food waste down the kitchen sink- it clogs the drain.

The Sign Ordinance: A Literary Classic

I received a phone call from Indiana today. Melanie, representing a sign manufacturer, phoned to request Borough requirements for a sign. The first question I asked was, "What type of sign are you talking about? A free-standing, billboard, marquee, wall-attached, awning, address, contractor, real estate, home occupation, individual letters or symbols, political, projecting, or temporary sign?" She laughed. "How about some basic regs for all signs?", she asked. Easy enough to ask for, but so difficult to answer.

Signs. They are everywhere. Local governments try to regulate them in all different sorts of ways. Some regulate by type, by height, with setbacks, with illumination standards, by content, by obstructions, and by zones. If you live in a town, borough, village, or city, it is likely your community has one of these ordinances. Go read it. Then go read a classic like Aristophanes' Lysistrata . We will all agree. Both are Greek. Only one is properly translated.

I peppered Melanie with a variety of different rules, requirements, and whatevers and we ended our phone call in good spirits. Imagine her plight! I only have to deal with one exasperatingly opaque sign ordinance. She has to maneuver her way through dozens, maybe hundreds of sign requirements from all over the country. I'm liking my job a little better today.

Our phone call jangled my curiosity bone and I went a-googling. I found an extensively researched and somewhat dryly written essay on Constitutional law and Sign Ordinances (pdf file). Our Supreme Court has had a few things to say about the troublesome tyranny of restrictive sign ordinances. Something about free speech, 1st amendment rights, and liability for past damages. Nothing big really- unless you're the poor soul who is enforcing the libelous law.
I had better take another look at that ordinance of ours. I may want to place a sign on my lawn that says, "Please Change Your Sign Ordinance So I can Take This Down."

Welcome to Slumlord Enterprises LLC

Zoning is one of the most boring discussion topics imaginable. Unless you are a Zoner. But I could be wrong. I know a few zoning officers. They like to drink. They are not popular with the public. They have strange ideas, facial ticks, and steal your dollars for Cash-5 lottery. I doubt they ever buy your ticket. How do you think they make their car payments?

Zoners can't be trusted, they always say no, always tell you where you can put that shed, where you can stick that garage, and that fence. They are the crushers of beauty salon dreams and fracturers of home catering fantasies. Zoning Officers are the third person to show up when your window shatters. The first person is the kid who threw the rock, the second person is the police officer you called for, and the third person is the Zoning Officer handing you the violation notice for a broken window. You have thirty (30) days to fix that, Mr. Public.

Zoning is a learned discipline, like yoga. In yoga, cute chicks bend themselves into strange and erotic positions. In zoning, the officer's mind is bent into strange positions by Joe Citizen, Sammy Slumlord, and Tammy Tenant. In yoga, it takes years of self-discipline to learn the most difficult of positions and hold them in perfect stillness. In zoning, it takes years of self-discipline to keep from kicking the town busybody down the steps of the Borough hall and over the hood of her 1976 Plymouth Valiant.

I have searched the web and my soul, and a few sleazy tattoo parlours downtown. There are no zoning blogs, code enforcement codas, or mad, rambling babble-thoughts from Zoners any where in the world. Oh, the dry sherry of zoning is available for your reading pleasure: zoning law reviews; code enforcement updates; half-ton volumes of regulations; seminars and more seminars. I can't wait to attend my next seminar. PowerPoint was never so exhausting, so excruciatingly banal, so wonderfully benign. No wonder zoning officers often have that look of the zombies in Dawn of the Dead. We either think we have died and this is our hell or you should die and join us here.

Yet....every day is different, with unusual people walking through the town hall doors. This blog is about those people, about the problems we Zoners face, the family feuds and rivalries, the small town politics, the setback of one foot short, the determination to improve our neighborhoods, and the spirit of humanity that flows through the office, down the street, and around the block. The river of the human condition. I love its wet touch and hate its drowning currents. Zoning is about dreaming, reality, discovery, and loss. It is a fascinating tale I want to share with you. That is what this blog is all about: sharing the experience, the blessing, and the curse. There are stories to be told here.