My Man Jake

I work in a business where a lot of people go on record claiming to be the best at what they do. Of course, the opinion is purely subjective. We are our own biggest fans, us Roosters...I mean, Realtors.

The truth is, and I've mentioned this many times before, the hero is the Agent with the Listing at that serendipitous moment a bona fide Buyer walks through the door. In my Real Estate career in Chicago I've been simultaneously 'Hailed the Chief,' and stripped of my rank; promoted to the corner lot office, and given my walking papers. Currently, I'm the 5th (FIFTH!) Listing Agent on a 14 unit project with 6 units left to sale. Recently, I lost a Listing after 180 of the most brutal Market Time in recent housing history. It's all about timing, dear readers.

I believe there are many Realtors in Chicago who work everyday and always put the best interest of their clients first. All things equal, I believe I am one of those Realtors, and in fact, even at the head of the coop. But then again, nobody thinks more about me...than me.

And as far as my buddy on the photographed window sign above ^ is concerned, all I have to say is, "That's a bold statement, Jake. How do the chickens feel about that?"


Geno Petro

A Sign From God?

Personally, I would have thought for an incumbent, He'd have a slicker marketing plan and a little nicer digs. In fact, His headquarters building, shown here at Elston and Kimball on Chicago's Northwest side, looks a little shopworn to me but hey, who am I to judge? I admittedly haven't read Revelations so I'm not too sure of the 'Economic Stimulus Package He had in mind for this particular generation of Americans. I'm pretty certain though, Sacrifice must be stuck in there somewhere.

Perhaps it was attached as a congressional rider. Think about it; it makes a very good case for line item veto privilages for those in the highest office. But again, it's only me at the keyboard and as I've inferred early and often, Theology wasn't my strongest subject.

Anyway, since I've been known to give almost anything a shot, I pulled into the gravel parking lot on my way home, turned down NPR on the radio, and said a heathen's equivalent of a novena for world peace, the health of our own Nation in particular, and a couple of my Listings approaching the 180 day market time benchmark...for my Sellers' collective sakes, of course. (I'm already blessed in a lot of ways so no need going to that wishing well one time too many, if you know what I'm saying. I'm saving up those tokens for a free pass out of a real foxhole situation.)

Geno Petro

Romancing the Deal

I'm in the middle of a deal right now that is a little reminiscent of a plot line from Romancing the Stone---peril lurks around every corner and a single false step will insure either one of those big rocks rolling my way in a catacomb, or me getting yelled at by someone, for sure. At the very least, there's a feeling of impending doom and I'm being portrayed as ill intentioned Ralph, the Danny Devito character who's only in it for the money. "You know, I bet you can buy a great townhouse down here...for around five or six dollars," says poor Ralph in mock sincerity as his Sufi Arab captors drag him across the desert floor and into the darkness...

Actually the deal I'm referring to is already negotiated, out of Attorney Review and clear to Close--sort of. The 'deal' itself is cool...for the most part--only the final appraisal lingers in the wings. The actual condominium that is attached to the deal is what has a Curse on it. You see, it's New Construction. It has the notorious New Construction Curse wherein everything surrounding the transaction begins on a flat note back at Day One, continues off key, pitchy and not quite in tune through all the syncopated stages of completion, until the last and final hour when the heaviest lady at Chicago Title sings Goodnight Irene at the settlement table and everyone is free to pile into the elevator and exit the building in silence, all feeling that they somehow got gypped out of the real treasure along the way.

Even good news seems like bad news when the New Construction Curse has been cast:

Agent: "Good news, folks. The cabinets have arrived. "

Buyers: "Where were they?"

Agent: "I don't know. On the truck? Stuck at the Canadian border? Held up in Customs?" Doesn't matter. They're here now."

Buyers: "Ten years later."

Agent: "Weeks. Ten weeks later"

Buyers: "Seems like years. What color were they again? I think we might want to go with a differrent finish. How hard is that to change?"

Ralph stands at the very edge of the 900 foot craggy cliff contemplating the pros and cons of taking just one more baby step....

At this point he is only in it for the money, it would seem. And while most two-party deals move along as smooth as silk and without high adventure; like carrots and peas or Forrest and Jenny, such is not the case with those deals which are Cursed. It usually starts out with a simple email exchange:

Dear Ralph,

I found your website on Google. May be relocating to Chicago. Please enroll me in your Dream Locator. I want the world and I want it cheap.

Jack T. Colton, Mercenary at Large


**************

Dear Jack,

Not a prob. The world's sucking major wind these days. It's a world buyer's market. Come on down.

Ralph

**************

Ralph,

Roger that. I'll be in town on Saturday. Rock on.

Jack

**************


Then the househunting trip is scheduled, conducted and consumated. Fifteen condominiums are visited in a single weekend and a decision is made within 48 hours:

"I'll take the one by the lake that is almost ready. Tell them to upgrade the cabinets, beef up the lighting allowance and be ready to close in 60 days. I want the preferred parking space, steam showers in all bathrooms and California Closets throughout the unit. Heat the floors, paint it all blue, and pay half my Closing Costs at settlement. Tell them if they do all that, we got a deal..."



I do as I'm instructed and get them to agree. What else can they do? It's a world buyer's market and there's no shortage of world right now, not in Chicago anyway. They always agree to what they can't deliver. That's what 'they' do best. And 'they' know who I'm talking about, too.

It's my belief that such a 'Curse' often begins during the negotiation with unreasonable expectations. Not always, but often. Anyway, here's how the afore-mentioned scenario has played out for me and my client up until this point in time:

January 25-26: Viewed 15 different properties; some resale, some new, some proposed.

January 27: Submitted an offer on a Model unit in a New Construction project in near move-in condition.

January 28: Negotiated details with the Listing Agent and Builder and reached a verbal agreement with only minor changes.

January 29: Another higher offer comes in and is accepted and signed by the Builder. We get bumped out of the Model deal but are offered a 'yet to be built out' unit on the same terms, one floor above.

January 30: We accept the deal on the the condition of a 60 day completion and a close of escrow on April 1st. They agree.

January 31-March 6: My iPhone barely rings. Nothing significant transpires except: Cabinets are delayed. Original lighting is no longer in stock. The wrong color granite is ordered. Paint color is three shades off. Closets are on back order.

March 7: Chicago City Council votes overwhelmingly to increase the Property Tax Stamp on home sales by 40% and passes it on the the Buyer effective April 1st.

March 8: We ask to move up the Closing date one day to March 31st but the Builder is reluctant to do so.

March 9-16: New selections are chosen and things move along at a snail's pace.

March 17: City Council reverses its decision and votes overwhelmingly to pass the 40% Tax Stamp hike onto the Seller instead, effective April 1st.

March 20: The Builder immediately agrees to complete and close by March 31st and all hell suddenly breaks loose. My iPhone rings and pings every few hours, 24/7 for the next 3 days; Builder, Lisiting Agent, Appraiser, Cabinet Guy, Loan Officer, Underwriter, Appraiser, Listing Agent, Buyer, Appraiser, Listing Agent....did I mention the Appraiser?

March 21: Here I sit, frustrated and contemplating walking the earth like Caine in Kung Fu except no Shaolin Monk, am I. In fact, staying in any place with less than a 3 star rating is a little distasteful to me not to mention my martial arts are a little rusty to be hitting the road barefoot, at age 51. The iPhone is ringing and pinging even as we speak. I pause and listen to the voice mails and then read the multiple texts email messages. I have no more answers for this day. I fly out of town at 5:30AM tomorrow morning for a weekend with family and loved ones. What can I say? It's not my only deal. There are also a half dozen other Listings with my name attached that need an equal amount of attention. And again as many Buyers in the car as well. Everybody has questions. I scramble for the correct answers. I let the Sufis have their way with me...

The Curse will be there when I return; of this I'm certain. I also imagine most of my Listings aren't going anywhere between now and Monday either. And just as sure as Michael Douglas, aka Jack T. Colton, gets Kathleen Turner in the final scene and poor, pithy Ralph gets his just desserts in the desert, we will all live to star in another sequel and grapple with another 'Curse' or two before it's lights out for everybody.....Jewel of the Nile, or otherwise. And not to mix movie metaphors but 'That's all I have to say about that..."



Geno Petro

The Promo Sapien

The Promo Sapien is a direct descendant of the more popular and easily recognizable species known as the Homo Sapien--latin meaning: "wise or knowing man {or woman}." The PS, while similar in many ways to the HS, is generally a more smiley yet slightly condescending sort of creature who, in recent years, migrated en masse to the real estate business and enjoyed fleeting success until Global Warming and Web 2.0 set in and all the remaining unlicensed regular Sapiens learned how to find properties on their own on Zillow. They usually can be spotted these days in Starbucks with Blackberry in hand and Bluetooth in ear somewhere between the moms and the toddlers. At least, that's where you can usually find me.

This social glacier calving, as it were, spawned yet another subspecies, the Self-Promo Sapien--Chicago meaning: "any Realtor who constantly professes his or her superiority over any other qualified but less self-promoting PS as well as all HSes in general--and can be found on most any page of Chicago Agent Magazine (or any other industry ledger that will publish a 'Feature Article' if enough accompanying ad space is purchased), sic." And again, that's where you might one day find me as well, if someone can ever convince me it's worth the advertising ruble.

But for now I think not. The truth is, if no one else is offering up the accolades, I don't feel the need to make that superlative declaration myself. Now I will publish all compliments and 'attaboys' in my sidebar on the right; verbatim, referenced of course, and unsolicited all-- but I am not inclined to utter the words of praise myself, to be set apart from and above, all other PSes and SPSes with a Blackberry and an earpiece. Besides, the best Realtors in this town have already switched over to iPhone...


Geno Petro

My Newest Project OPEN SUNDAYS 1-4

3601-09 W. Le Moyne in Chicago



Click Here For Website



Offered by Geno Petro

Taxes Schmaxes (Active Rain re-post)

(This essay originally got 'buried' at Active Rain back in January so hopefully, Google has bigger kids than me to kick duplicate copy sand on before the next page ranking comes out. I used to be featured on AR quite often but now that there are over 70,000 members and HouseValues is involved, an infrequent blogger like myself just gets lost in the multitude of hourly posts. Hey, if I'm going to write for thin, cold air then it might as well be here in sweet cold Chicago.

I'd rather be ignored locally than nationally any time and the truth is, business has so increased that writing at all is a time allotted struggle--thus the recent rash of picture posts and no Sis, I haven't taken up Scrapbooking as a hobby.They're good for a 1,000 words each, I'm told. Also, I've embeded a new video toward the bottom of my sidebar. Of course, it has to do with me and my world. Me, me, me, as I like to say...)
I was half-listening to a lady being interviewed on NPR a few weeks back as I drove in a gazy daze out of the city and toward the general direction of Canada. I was running late for an appointment with my tax Wizard, a fourth generation accountant who fled from the tangle of the city 10 years ago to kick back On Golden Pond and perform his magic in a more bucolic setting. His father was an accountant, his grandfather was an accountant and every first born male for the last 500 years in his family were accountants--all pencil and paper sort of fellows from what I gathered.

My guy however, has flat screen plasmas throughout his office suite with a different financial news channel on each, and the latest in electronic everything to get his fiscal point across to the rest of the universe. He also has an IQ that hovers around the batting average of a Major League 2nd baseman. He barely had time for my call...

"Taxes, schmaxes," was his response to my initial phone inquiry two months earlier. That, and something about $200 an hour. I thought he was kidding. The mutual business acquaintance who ultimately hooked us up would soon after assure me otherwise.

"He's pricey and a little odd but he's a genius. A tax genius. A wizard, really..." she told me.

"Yeah, but $200 an hour? I don't pay my shrink but half of that," said I, lying about the shrink part.

"Your shrink sounds about as good as your last accountant." Which was true. I was my last accountant.

The lady on the radio, a spry sounding 65 year old, was talking about being 'in oneness with the all,' or maybe it was ‘one with the allness,' I'm still not certain. I immediately shot over to the shoulder of the interstate to enter the lofty, if not misquoted, phrase into the Note section of my new iPhone for later review. This is my biggest gripe with my car radio; no digital replay-no RiVo, as it were.

Normally, I would have just continued along with the 70 mph flow, eyes darting up and over, to and fro, steering with my knees in and out of the morning suburban egression and typing the qwerty with my thumbs, but I have yet to master the nuances of my newest tax-deductible gadget with its slick, electromagnetic glass face and all those colorful, vascillating screens; shrinking, expanding and spinning sideways with even the slightest tilt of the wrist. Ah, iPhone..mere marconian radio is but a relic in comparason.

The truth is, I haven't had an original conveyable thought in weeks so I risked the morning rush triple lane change maneuver and found a semi-safe idling spot alongside the poor, frozen remains of some animal who wasn't nearly as deft at negotiating the northbound lanes of I-94 as me. I looked out the window and half-wondered if it too, was now one with anything besides the pavement and the ice and the rumble of the highway. Bad omen, I thought. I said a prayer in my own way for both of our souls, remembering again, for a quick nauseating second, the box of tax records in my back seat and the IRS auditor waiting my arrival in exactly 37 minutes.

She was attending Maharishi University and studying flying yoga or some type of meditation where one can eventually learn to ‘hover,' continued the lady on the radio. She went on about sitting in silence and levitating in her mind and, well...just becoming one with everything, or allness, and I have to say, at that particular moment, I felt pretty darn mortal. It was snowing very hard, I had a back seat full of bank statements; money long spent and barely accounted for, and to be quite blunt, an IRS agent was the last person I felt like encountering that day. I believe I also experienced a sudden sensation of levitation but it wasn't of the transcendental nature nor was it anything even remotely close to what the lady on the radio was discussing. Traffic screamed by my window while I took a few seconds to gather my senses, enter my notes of oneness onto its proper screen, then push hard and away toward the Illinois/Wisconsin border town of Genoa City for a few hours of fun and games at $200 bucks per copy.

An Accountant, an Italian, and an IRS agent walk into a bar...

It was the wrong day. A Treasury Department representative was in fact, in the conference room but he wasn't there to see me. My own red letter day had been moved 'indefinitely into the future' according to my Wizard. Somehow, even with all the technology on both ends, I never got the message. This was fine. This was oneness, floating above the ground, with sugar on top, as far as I was concerned.

"Let's get some caffeine," said the Wizard, grabbing his hat and overcoat while motioning toward the conference room with a head tilt.

"Tell him he can come, too. His appointment just called to reschedule. Too bad, huh?" He said, chuckling away at 5.5 cents a second.

I froze. Why did I have to break someone else's bad news to the G-Man? I was the one who drove an hour through a blizzard to stick my neck on the block for a tax year ending in a very foggy period of my life from a previous century I barely recall. And, I was on time, too. At $200 an hour I just wanted to about face and bolt.

We made eye contact. The IRS guy got up from the table and approached me just as my iPhone pinged my e-mail with a blast of news alerts; the Dow was fighting hard to recover, the foreign markets were going apeshit, Heath Ledger was found dead...

"How do you like that?"

What? How do I like what? Why is he talking to me? My appointment was rescheduled indefinitely into the future. I was on time. I prayed for a dead animal. My Wizard said everything was cool...

"Your iPhone. How do you like it? Thinking about finally ditching my BlackBerry."

I forgot I was still holding it. The little fellow couldn't have been more than 30 years old. He wore a black shirt and wrinkled black tie with equally wrinkled pants and scuffed-up shoes. He had one of those haircuts that Starbucks baristas and bank tellers in grocery stores like to sport these days--kind of shaved, kind of not--you know what I'm talking about. He had a very soft voice. I handed him my iPhone for examination.

"Heath Ledger just died," was all I could think of to say.

He took my device, read the screen and looked me back in the eye. I thought he was going to cry. He waited a few seconds before speaking. The young civil servant, with his watery blue eyes and stark, unpressed attire indeed, appeared to have a soul. His face showed compassion and remorse. He fiddled with the screen for a moment or two before handing it back to me.

"Tax deductible if you use Schedule C," he said.

"Yeah. I know," I thought to myself. "It's my favorite Schedule. It's the whole reason I'm even here to begin with..."said I.

G.P.



Geno Petro

image by fusilly

Pick me, Pick me...

Click on the hyperlink below to see this week's Bloodhound Blog contest winners (including my own She tried to make me buy a rehab... {...but I said no, no, no} which won the Odysseus Medal. Hooray!)

http://www.bloodhoundrealty.com/BloodhoundBlog/?p=2614

As you probably know, I've been posting my more general and wide sweeping content on the Bloodhound national platform since November while keeping my real estate focus here at CHW more 'localized' and relevant to the market I work in every day. Anyway, check it out. You'll find 23 of the best RE.net writers in the country at BHB, all unchained, and all baying to the voices in their own heads....Oh yeah.

Geno Petro

Need I Say More?

Photos by Geno Petro

Is Snow Organic? (or just distasteful)

This is one of the many windows in my house I stare out of when the snow is too deep to shovel, there is unwanted excess time on my hands, or I can't think of one meaningful real estate-centric item to write about without being negative about the political forces that be in this city; in other words, any and all events outside of my control that cost me (and my clients) money. And in case you haven't noticed---from the Chicago Association of Realtors (C.A.R.), to the the public servants we taxpayers elected to mandate law in City Hall, to that pontificating supernova of talking hairdos that calls itself The Media---it's all political.

That, and there's nothing good to eat in my house. Everything we have on the shelves or in the fridge seems to be organic and personally, I was just fine with the old way--pre-organic or un-organic or not organic or whatever it used to be called before our grocery bill doubled. Cold, hungry, with nothing really upbeat to say about my chosen profession is not a good place for an otherwise blithe real estate blogger like me to find himself in. The half-full glass of organic pomegranate juice starts looking a little half-empty, if you know what I'm saying.

You see, one recent Chicago real estate news 'development,' reported in tandem with another non-related but equally germain city 'issue,' has had me speaking in tongues back to my car radio every day for a week now; as if mere rush hour traffic in itself isn't enough to make a holy man, much less a sinner like myself, take you know Who's name in vain a dozen times in as many city blocks behind a staggered bevy of CTA buses, insane bicyclists (oh yeah) and C-Dot snow plows. So here it is, laid out for you; the ugly reality that has me seeking something warm and beautiful on the other side of the frosted window pane...

First of all, the Cook County property tax bills are arriving in the mail again this week (for some smelly political reason I won't go into here) just a mere 60 days after the last semi-annual payment was due in full. In my case, this is another $6,000 thanks to the sad fact that the city is always 18 months in the arrears and I closed on my new house last September before the tax pro-ration formula could be accurately factored into my settlement costs. BTW, we couldn't determine the actual tax at that time because (again, for the same smelly reason I won't go into here) the budget wasn't balanced in Springfield and the whole process was excessively late due to legislative bickering. I've never been to Springfield but I'm pretty sure I hate it there.

and...

Secondly, the City of Chicago Aldermen (i.e. our elected officials), against the wishes of, I dare say, every future property owner within a 12 mile radius of City Hall (i.e. the city limits) and any self-respecting buy-side representative who pays his dues to C.A.R., overwhelmingly (41-6) passed a 40% Property Stamp increase on future real estate purchases, effective April 1st of this year. The new 'Transfer Stamp' (which is a political word for a #@&#! tax) is now $10.50 per each $1,000 of purchase price. (That's over $5,000 on a $500,000 purchase, $10,500 on a million.) The old 'Stamp' of $7.50 per $1,000 was already barely palatable and considered by most on the buy side of any real estate transaction to be the ugliest line on the HUD statement.

Those two concurrent issues along with organic food in general are really putting me off right now. So like I said; I'm staring out the window, eating a carrot stick (from a gently hugged,locally grown carrot tree, no doubt), imagining something warm and beautiful on the other side to write about. Deep breath...

Let's see...my phone has been ringing, albeit not off the hook, but ringing, nonetheless. Two listings recently came under contract and another just closed. Our ChicagoHomeEstates.com internet presence appears to be handling anything Morse's Law might extrapolate into the foreseeable future and clients are in my car every weekend for the next four weeks. I suppose as long as you don't mind paying taxes and you don't care what what you put in your mouth or how much it costs then hell, it's sunny and 72 outside... as long as you wear shades and four layers of gortex. Oh yeah...and saved up for a snowy tax day.

ps...I know that carrots really don't grow on trees but it's as funny as I can allow myself be under such circumstances...


Geno Petro

Oh yeah, one more...for Spicoli

My parents hated this one so much they refused to pay the school photographer. Nor did it make it into the class yearbook that year. (What you're seeing is a bootleg copy I smuggled from my homeroom teacher's desk before it got sent back to the warehouse with all the other rejects.) Oh, how things have changed since 1972.

I think I thought I was Kurt Cobain--- before Kurt Cobain was even born --okay, maybe he was 5 in '72 but I had the look first--(Courtney Love, please stay away. There's no liquor in the house.) However, my boss thinks I looked like Spicoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High.

Anyway, what the glam shot doesn't show is a copy of The Catcher in the Rye in my back pocket and a yet undiscovered and unyielding passion to be an advocate for the Chicago Real Estate consumer. Ahem...

"Free bird!"


Geno Petro

Random Photos and Meanderings

Webcam & iPhone photos, i.e., a little too much free time between deals...

Someone recently commented on one of my blogs: "What's up with the Blair Witch photo?" Nice. So I shot a new one with the same webcam but without the winterwear (see at top). Not much better. My mother hates them both so of course what do I do? I post them for the entire world to see. The truth is, no matter how bad of a picture I take, I look even worse in person. That's why people enjoy me for my personality and general real estate expertise and not for anything particularly above skin level. HaHa...I mean, LOL.

So, from the top down:

My new webcam picture, the best of a bad lot.

My favorite Chicago building, The Rookery.

A funny sign on my way to the office.

The subject business that allegedly 'skips cycles' and has 'poor management.' Go figure.

The Chicago Brown Line EL advertising non-stop flights to London and New York. Go figure again.

'Blair Witch Geno.'

'Blair Witch Elvis.'

'Blair Witch Oscar.'

Anyway, these are things that made me smile this week. Coming soon, a list of things that didn't...

Geno Petro

No, it's not that kind of 'green'

What would Frances Cabrini and William Green think? The remaining few red brick (the Reds) and white concrete (the Whites) highrise canyons known as Cabrini-Green are slowly but finally, resting in pieces. Sixty-five years after the inception of one of the least successful social experiments in U.S. history, closure, if not complete demolition, is finally in order.

Dotted along a stretch of land that was planned as an enclave of low income housing and actually occupied by Italian imigrants in its early days, the experiment hit the Near North Chicago landscape (and social elite) like a series of undefendable meteors over a twenty year period. The notorious Green, a community that in many way began decaying before its roots ever took hold, is all but gone now. Only a few skeletons and the ghosts and memories of a couple hundred thousand Chicagoans from a past era remain.

In another five years it will be as if Cabrini-Green never existed; just like the current intersection of Armitage and Sheffield, the cafe society ground zero of upscale Lincoln Park (Starbucks, Vosges, Rugby) that once was home instead, to five (5) liquor stores on four (4) adjacent corners and dozens of heroin 'shooting galleries' within spitting distance. I'm not saying one way or another which is better although I suppose if forced to choose, I'd rather be caught dead in a Polo shirt and Dockers in Lincoln Park in the year 2008 than in an alley with a needle in my arm in 1968. But believe me, both scenarios are pure fiction.

Anyway, here's to the future of Urban Development and responsible City Planning---may they eventually get it right so we can all move on to more pressing issues, like bringing the 2016 Olympics to town, saving the Public Transportation infrastructure, and watching baseball when the ivy is brown at Wrigley or the Autumn wind is blowing out over left-center at 35th and Wentworth...

images by technovelgy and me

Geno Petro

Conforming Mumbo Jumbo...

Okay, this is my idea. It came to me the other night as I lie awake mentally tossing around all my deals and wondering how many of them might actually make it to the finish line (i.e. the Closing Table). Thinking as an Investor/Developer, I pondered this: Find a way to buy, construct then market a neighborhood project with an across the board price point that hovers precisely at the Conforming/Jumbo loan rate cutoff--in other words every Unit in this community would have a cost basis price of $417,000 out, or rather, 'in the door'--plus... whatever down payment the Lender requires. They can fight amongst themselves for that business. Also, all the 2nd Mortgage people who don't want to lend money anymore wouldn't have a thing to worry about because they aren't invited to this party.

Price increases can only occur if the Conforming Rate moves up. Want to offer less? The answer is NO. Want to offer more? That ultimate number would be between the Buyer and the Lender. In other words, the cost of a house in my utopian 'hood would be whatever the Conforming rate currently is plus whatever Down Payment the Buyer can negotiate with the Bank on his/her own. This amount would then be placed in Escrow in a different financial vehicle; something with both upside and guarantees, like an Annuity, or stock in Google, to be determined of course, at a later date when and if this economic flying machine ever got off the ground.

The Listing Realtor would get paid on the $417,000, The Builder would take his profit out of the $417,000. The initial Acquisition Cost of the Land would come out of the $417,000. Hard costs and bank fees charged to the Builder would come out of the $417,000. All future capital improvements would be 100% tax decuctible and thus, not added on the Price. There are no Appraisers in this near perfect model because the bank pre-appraised everything before the project began. Foreclosures would occur only because a particular Buyer no longer had the financial ability to make the payments on the loan, not because the Unit lost value and simply walking away seemed like the best idea. Oh yeah, want to sell? Fine. The Price is $417,000. The Seller's profit comes out of the side investment. They can also keep any paydown of the original (and only) loan; again, that would be the $417,000. The Bank makes its money on the Origination Fees, Ammortization/Interest /Yield etc...)

If Foreclosure is indeed unavoidable, the Bank would simply keep the Down Payment Escrow and put the Defaulted Property back on the market for....

Guess...

That's right; $417,000. Oh yeah, plus whatever Down Payment they negotiated with the new Buyer. There would be no Short Sales. Short Sales would be declared an Act of Terrorism and that would be left up to Jenna Bush, by this time the 46th or so President, to decide in the year 2024 or thereabouts, when something like this might make better sense.

Either that....

or...

Another idea of mine called Size 6. It would be a Woman's Store that only sold Size 6 shoes, dresses, bathing suits, etc., regardless of the height and weight of the female customer or how huge her feet are or the actual amount of material needed to construct such individual couture or footwear. The label would simply say... 'Size 6.' The Sign above the store door would say 'Size 6.' All Media advertising would declare...Size 6 is the new Size 14! Again, this would be all be subject to the approval and veto authority of Ms. Bush and whatever she decides is best for the country; she, and of course, Oprah.

I really do need to get some sleep...or something better Close soon, one.

LOL,

Geno

Hate The Snow? Just Wait 10 minutes

Five Days Later...

There I was, in the exact same spot as I stood just 5 days earlier, staring at the front of my house in winter wonderment. As I pointed my brand new camera equipped iphone in the direction of the porch (my beloved Treo having accidently met its own demise in 6 inches of afore mentioned slush, gurgling its last Google in the gutter as I watched on from the curb), I couldn't help but notice the multi-color Weather widget on the sleek, glassy, electroconductive touch screen in my hand--Fair and 59.

It's one of those things you gotta love about this town. It's climate is as fickle as any woman I've ever known, (not that I've known that many but they've all been fickle. But in a good way, of course...the best of ways, to be sure...like I said, you gotta love...I think I'll stop right here.) I snapped the photo, ran into my office, and synced the image to my Desktop. Unbelievable.

Like I mentioned, in just five days, the temperature swing in this town, (or at least on my block), including wind chill factor, was more than 70 degrees. Anyway, if two pictures (see post below) are worth anywhere near the couple thousand words everyone says they are, then I'm going to stop right here as well, before I get started on that whole fickle subject again--fickle, in a beautiful way, of course...


Geno Petro

I'm not 'Dreaming of a White' anything...

I reached for the phone but there was no one to call. The six inches of snow on top of the other six inches of last week's snow has made leaving or entering my house challenging, and access to my garage--(the whole point of having one to begin with being harborage from the elements), treacherous. And even though I am my father's son (and the apple never falls too far from that tree, as we are all well aware), it's not my intention this day to discuss the weather.

I'm ticked-off because I don't have a management company to complain to because my walkways are under a foot of snow and the City of Chicago snow-plows, buried my garage door. My mailman, (correction: he prefers to be called a letter carrier per his Christmas card signature...your letter carrier, Roger) Roger won't walk up my icy steps, from the sidewalk, to deliver my bills. I do have a phone number for the Post Office but...well, never mind...

One of the reasons we bought a single family house, nestled between the trees on three contiguous city lots, in the first place was to escape the clutches of condominium association and the ever escalating monthly assessments that are inherent in such an urban housing arrangement. In other words, we no longer wished to be 'One' with our neighbors nor did we wish to continue dropping upwards of three bills a month to participate in such a social networking community.

Six Months Ago

"Think of all the money we'll save in monthly maintenance fees...," I pitched to my lovely wife as I pushed the sales contract across the table for her signature then quickly refilled her wine glass. Ignoring the gesture, she looked me in the eye and asked...

"Do you even know how to cut grass?"

"Who me? Grass? Sure..." I declared. "I've cut a lot of grass in my day." That particular day being many, many years ago.

"What about leaves, and snow, and painting and..."

"Fine," I said, snatching back the paperwork. "We'll stay in the Dorm."

Actually, we 'stayed' in a lovely condominium complex surrounded by wonderful people amidst the great Chicago neighborhood of Lincoln Park. I called it a Dorm only because I was easily 10 years older than anyone else who had purchased there. I wanted a house goddammit, and I wasn't going to let a litte snow, grass or paint get in my way. So, I pouted...

"Give me the paperwork," she said, snatching it back. She signed, dated, and pushed the completed offer back to my side of the table. "So what...?" she finished..."Are you going to cut grass in a leather jacket and Dior sunglasses?"

I honestly hadn't thought about that. Yard work apparel...

Home Sweet Home

So in the three months since we closed on the new house (actually built in the 1890s and a whole different subject for an entirely different blizzard), I've spent:

$ 1737 Home Depot (all kinds of home ownership stuff I shoved into my garage and basement.)

$ 200 One Time Autumn Leaf Removal Service (although part of the above mentioned $1737 does include an actual leaf blower and a rake which, to my wife's delectation, I haven't yet found the time, energy or apparel to utilize.)

$ 100 Snow Removal Door Knocking Gypsies (who only shoveled half the agreed upon area before disappearing into the last flurry forever with the pre-paid loot and a magazine from my mailbox.)

$ 195 Water and Sewage Bill (which I forgot was included in our afore mentioned condo maintenance fee until my complaint was addressed by the City of Chicago Water Department-- that 'address' being a sharp city worker comment, "You live in an actual house, now, Mr. Petro. You pay the water and sewage bill yourself. Capisce?" Da Bears.

$ 200 Interior Design Consultation

$ 5,500 Custom Interior Paint Job as a result of the consultation.

I think I'll stop right here as I'm fairly close to telling myself, "I told you so." I just spend three years worth of assessment budget in three months and I don't even have anyone to call to make this snow go away. Instead, I'm staring out the window onto a winter wonderland--aptly named as I sit here wondering which kindhearted neighbor might show up with a snowblower. I honestly hope the deadbeat shovelers come knocking again. I'll pay them double.

At the end of the day...

I walk across the room and gaze out the other window toward the quickly setting sun. I forgot about all those bags of grass seed, ferilizer, mulch, and lime stacked behind the garage next to the six or seven 55 gallon lawn bags of twigs, tree limbs and branches (oh yeah, add a chainsaw, weed wacker, hacksaw and another $350 to the list) I keep meaning to do something with---but have no idea what. The City of Chicago garbage truck for my street refuses to haul it all away although they did take the case of beer I tried to bribe them with the last time I dragged everything to the curb on Christmas Eve. I suppose if the favor is never returned then it's not actually considered graft in this Administration. So much for the quid pro quo everyone is always yakking about in this town.

My Managing Broker Joe Pinto, gave me a high pressure power washer as a house warming gift. I considered hooking it up to the hose I forgot to pull in for the winter and blasting the snow off my walkways but after playing that mental tape all the way through, so to speak, I decided to take a pass. Besides, the hose is frozen to the ground and the sprinkler head is a block of ice--a slow leak or something. Probably a good thing, as I thought more about the idea and the potential rat's nest of a mess that might ensue.

"You know," Joe once mentioned over a typical afternoon lunch, "...people who complain about high assessments in condos don't have a clue how much it costs to maintain a building or a property. Anytime you drive down a street and see a single family homeowner cutting his own grass, washing his own windows or shoveling his own snow...anytime you see that, just know that there's a financial trade off for those efforts."

But how would I know? I've yet to do any of those things. I just bought all the accessories at Home Depot. Oh yeah, and the house.

Geno Petro

How do I really feel about that, I wonder?

I see this car all the time around the northside of Chicago but have never actually laid eyes on the owner. I'm not sure why it intrigues me but it does. The stickered-up jalopy usually sits in one parking lot or another in the neighborhood near my office like some migrating obiter dictum on the state of the nation, world, and beyond. Once it was ahead of me in traffic and I did my best to catch up but I lost it at a four way stop during the evening rush. And just so you know, it's not without its own carbon footprint--a little leaky in the tailpipe for a self proclaimed harbinger of global causes, if you know what I'm saying.

Another time I actually parked next to it and waited 20 minutes for the driver to come out of a grocery store. Growing restless, I finally went inside to try and figure out who might best resemble the owner of such a traveling wilbury. When I came back to my own car without spotting a single credible suspect, it was gone. Like a gypsy in the crowd.

I suppose my interest lies more in the why surrounding this vehicular vagabond than the actual how of it all. Let's face it, the slowly rusting, smog emitting heap with all its pasted-on ideologies is just as valid a medium of expression as is this blog you're now reading (....hello out there...you are reading, aren't you? Please don't let this be one of those trees falling in that stupid forest everyone is always taking about but nobody really hears). It may even have more of an audience than me on any given day depending where it rests its leaking headers for the night. But it's all those words with all those hidden meanings that have me scratching my head this day. Like the one sticker on the bumper that reads: Repeal Conceal. What does that mean?

Or, Think Globally Act Locally. Coexist. War Costs $. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to think about all these things. I don't know where I stand. Do I side with Hannity or Hillary? Buddah or Jesus? In times of flux, everyone makes a good argument, it seems to me.

You see, as a realtor I don't even disagree with the FSBO model of home selling. I believe everyone has the right to sell their own property. Buy it, too, for that matter. As far as I'm concerned, the consumer can do his own legal work, as well. And to be truthful, I couldn't tell you what the Title Companies do for their fee. I was in the insurance business long enough to know that the risk is mathematically designed to expire before the claim comes in--if it ever does; hurricanes and tsumanis, notwithstanding. Hey, the premium reflects it. Don't let them tell you it doesn't.

This car makes me wonder, I guess, for what I really stand for in a world full of clans and echos, divisions and paradigms. Maybe its owner is just another version of me searching for a voice to identify with and hedging as many bets as possible to get some, any point across and be heard in this vast Polyverse of humanity. Maybe it's his only way to be noticed, pasting all those stickers on his ride. Or...maybe he just bought it that way.

Geno Petro

Word

1. 
   
   Apparently, I now work in Alberto's crew. I haven't discussed this with my Managing Broker yet nor have I contacted the Chicago Association of Realtors for licensing specifics but you better believe both of these tasks are on my To Do list. If I have to pay yet another set of fees, this time to The Latin Kings, then I want to know what I'm getting for my money (although to be honest, I don't remember even joining a street gang). And I'm pretty sure the tax-deductible donation I made to the Jewish Defense League earlier this month doesn't qualify as 'kicking up' to a homey.
   
   Or perhaps I'm just jumping to conclusions. Maybe Alberto just wants a little taste, so to speak. Perhaps a referral fee. Maybe he is the regional representative for the national relocation company I'm presently doing a deal with. I don't know. He wrote all over the side door as well. He seems pretty pissed about something.
   
   

The truth of the matter is, I don't really care who I pay a fee to as long as I get something back for my money. Some trackable results. Maybe Alberto represents some emerging market I'm not aware of. Maybe he's been trying to page me and just never got through. After all, the pay phone at the end of my block has been out of order for three years. He probably just got tired of playing phone tag and decided to tag a building instead.

And if what I suspect is, in fact, true---I hope that I can at least get CE credits for watching "Snoop Dogg's Father Hood" on the E! Channel. I'm not sure if Alberto is down with that or not but hey, that's life on the real estate streets of Chicago. And if Alberto is indeed a drug dealer to boot, I only hope he's not a discount broker. Or...maybe he's just a moron with a magic marker.

Geno Petro