Home Sweet Monster

Steve Stajich

Mirror Contributing Writer 

   The Santa Monica City Council and the North of Montana Association (NOMA) have delivered an important message to residents of our fair city: size does matter. 
   Several weeks ago, the Council, after hearing supporting statements from NOMA, passed an emergency ordinance limiting the size of new homes being built north of Montana Avenue. NOMA reports it is getting phone calls from people who would like the same kind of protection in their area.
   Protection against...huge monuments to somebody’s ego. In the form of so-called “monster mansions” or houses that are too big for the neighborhood and too big to logically be called a “home” unless you’re the Munsters or the Schwarzeneggers.
   We’re zoned for excess in certain parts of Los Angeles and NOMA wants to keep oversized clown architecture where it belongs: Knott’s Berry Farm and Beverly Hills. Thanks to its vigilance, we’re safe... for now. Of course, you can never let your guard down. Nod off for even a minute, and when you awaken there’s a Hooters near the Promenade. 
   What gives birth to these lumbering giants? I understand how investing in a home protects your money. But if you sink your fortunes into a Xanadu with 14 bedrooms, when do you hope to get that money back? You’d need a scenario in which the head of a Mormon family shoots at a rabbit outside Provo, strikes oil, and decides his 52 member-family would be more comfortable just north of Montana Avenue. 
   Cults can be a boon to the monster home market. But they only pay the mortgage for a few years. Then the mothership arrives and you’ve got all that clean up to do. And those are the friendly ones. The ones that return your missing pets. 
   Somebody likes huge houses, or the City Council wouldn’t have to act to stop them from ingesting our neighborhoods. How does a person come to believe that they need a home you can maneuver a golf cart through?
   Perhaps people who have the kind of resources to build such homes have an accompanying fear of intimacy. Your wife and kids can bug you all they want. But first, they have to find you! Between the movement from enormous room to enormous room, and the cell phone calls, you can avoid talking to your son until he’s 18 and opening a nightclub with his partner Corey Feldman.
   The psychological scars of life in a monster mansion can cut deep. Imagine a baby crying out for “Mommie” and realizing it will take her ten to fifteen minutes to travel from Sector C near the pool to the Nanny/Child Corral located in the east wing. Years later, that grown child is unable to register into a major hotel without first checking all 800 rooms for his mother. Or at least, that’s the story he gives to the police. 
   These monster mansions are not for us. Santa Monica homes are about diversity, not gross abundance. Drive through any section of the city and you’ll see a mix of styles and approaches and no one of them is eating up the other. There’s nothing of the Aaron Spelling School Of Domicile Corpulence. Santa Monica homeowners would much rather you found their home interesting. A pronounced architectural flourish that confuses the neighbors (“How fast was the airplane going when it hit your house? Oh, those are skylights?”) is better than overkill. 
   Tied to this is a certain level of cool. It’s always fascinated me that there are homes all over town with truly wonderful angles and exteriors. And you will never see any of it, because it’s all shrouded in landscaping designed to provide privacy and seclusion. You have to be invited to the home, then stand away from it in the backyard. Drink your wine, enjoy, but please leave early. Photographers are coming in the morning to do a piece on our home for “You’ll Never Live Here” magazine. 
   As must be evident by now, I don’t have the background to comment on any of this. I grew up in that part of America where people put plaster deer and trolls in their front yards, and then throw light on the happy tableaus at night. There might be a wishing well sitting there, too. Close your eyes, throw in a coin, and make a wish. Nope: the trolls and the deer are still there. There might also be a wooden sign near the mailbox. It’s shaped like an owl or a cat and it has the name of the family inside. No, “The Hansens” aren’t a family of turtles...they just like turtles. 
   But there aren’t any monster mansions back there, either. And I’m sure they’d applaud the Council’s action against them, so, let’s all join hands and sing “Our House.” As we do, let’s review some of the other great things about Santa Monica’s attractive and sensibly sized collection of homes. 
   We’re the world capitol of exterior sheet metal flourishes and tasteful tile. Aluminum siding salesmen were often killed by roaming gangs of architects in the late 1980s. The resulting shortage of quick and affordable exterior finishes from sources like Sears led to great innovation. Now broken glass, ceramic debris, and stuff thrown out by orthodontists can be found on the outside of houses that offer visual textures borrowed equally from New Mexico and the movie “Road Warrior.” Move on into Venice and the industrial elements increase. More glass, sheet metal, and storm fencing. And that’s in the kid’s room.
Santa Monica homes feature wonderful decks and open air balconies. Many of them never seem to be in use, although now there’s a greater number of phone calls made there. It’s just plain more fun to use a phone outdoors, isn’t it? And much of the appeal of a wireless phone is the human desire to tell the person on the other end exactly where you are. “I’m in the hot tub on the deck...Man, smell that ocean. So, how is Detroit?”
   And Santa Monica is a protector of that vanishing species, the seaside cottage. Little bungalows where one is transported to a gentler time when neighbors dropped by to borrow a hammer or some butter. Life is one long cup of cocoa inside the comfy-cozy cocoon with the light blue paint, the gingerbread trim, and the $1.2 million asking price. And when you go to borrow that stick of butter, your neighbor, the producer, will tell you how his latest release “The Decapitator” helped pay for the new porch swing. 
   But better those humble cottages than monster mansions. A report on the improvements Sylvester Stallone is making to his new 16,000 square foot Beverly Hills house reads like brochure for a Las Vegas hotel. He’s converting a terrace into a gym and building a theater. He’s refinishing the house in the style of an old Tuscan villa. The 900 square foot bathroom will have copper sinks and a copper bathtub. And in a few months, Sly will have a mint green butt after every relaxing soak. 
   As far as Stallone needing 16,000 square feet, it’s interesting to note that the flight deck of a US aircraft carrier is only 252 feet wide. Of course Sly won’t be landing anything bigger than his next paycheck, but it still might be easier to park a jet fighter in his bathroom than on the deck of the USS Nimitz. Either way, his neighbors should note that Sly is adding more rooms on to the house. In other words: “Battle Stations!”