Rabbit R.I.P.

He was truly a man of letters. He won two Pulitzers. From essays on baseball to short stories in The New Yorker, he continued to publish long past the point where he ever needed the money---or the recognition. He had been my favorite writer since undergraduate school. John Updike, of Rabbit Run, Rabbit Redux, Rabbit is Rich, and Rabbit at Rest notoriety, is dead...and I feel saddened today by the loss.

For my 52nd birthday I received the above mentioned Rabbit Angstrom tetralogy in a single bound 1500 page hardback. I've been reading (re-reading actually) a little bit at a time since last August. I pick up the book now and notice I'm on page 1314, almost done with the final novel. It's the only American publication in its genre written entirely in the present tense. It unfolds like a screenplay in real time; four screenplays written over four decades--one book every ten years, streaming through the base and mosaic mind of Harry 'Rabbit' Angstrom, protagonist/antagonist/hero/anti-hero flawed post World War Two modern Man.

I have a theory. When great thinkers pass on, exceptional humanitarians die, or virtuoso guitarists crash and burn, their extinguished super-talent gets somehow spread among the living and everyone left behind gets just a tiny bit better. And this is the only thought that keeps me from being any sadder right now. In the present tense, today, like it's supposed to be.

I suppose now he knows...

Geno Petro

Chicago Cold Snaps

Pictured below are a few frames of interest that made me pull over in traffic, jump out of the vehicle, and risk my life on the streets of Chicago as I snapped away on my iPhone camera. I don't know why....maybe looking at all those National Geographics as a kid imprinted a latent desire to be a photojournalist (although I've yet to run across a naked Watusi---which is the reason, of course, any American 10 year old boy would even be looking at NG to begin with).

1) Ouch!


This guy was really pissed because he drove his truck under an overpass on Clybourn Avenue...almost. He is pictured letting the air out of the tires so he can hopefully back out of the....ahem....jam. Both he and the approaching Chicago city policeman at the bottom left told me to "GTFO" which I did at my own pace. Hey, I'm a Cook County property tax payer. I have the right to investigate which rocket scientists are running their trucks into our bridges and who's being paid to Serve and Protect us. My comment back to them...

"Close, but no Watusi."


2) Irony!


I heard someone crunching up behind me on one of the "M" streets in Jefferson Park the other morning asking "Can't you read the GD sign?"

"Why, is that your sign?" I asked old Mr Grumpy Retired City Worker.

"GD right it is." said he. (What is with all the potty mouth this week?)

"I don't see any grass..." I muttered as I walked away.

"That's because #%$%#s like you can't KEEP OFF IT," said the Last Word Grump.

And he was right. I just couldn't resist.


3) Enough Already!


I learned my lesson back in 1994 when I had an Ollie North sticker pasted on the back of my own Jeep bumper and birds kept pooping on my hood. Anyway, the owner of this traveling think tank was a little put off when she came out of Jenny Craig on Diversey and caught me snapping a shot of her Jeep's rear end. Yes, I said her Jeep's rear end. (I noticed a box of Ho Ho's on the back seat but kept my mouth shut not really expecting the situation to Change. Besides, anyone who has a WTF sticker on their car is fair political game in my yet to be written book.)


Geno Petro


photos by me

Gimme, Gimme, Gimme (shelter)

A Real Estate contract is generally not enforceable in the great state of Illinois unless it is a) Written, b) 'Signed-off ' on by competent parties (Acceptance), and c) Some form of Consideration ($$$) is placed in an escrow account to show 'Good Faith' on the Buyer's part. Think of it as the Holy Trinity of the home buying experience.

It's the 'Good Faith' part of the experience I wish to address here. The truth is, most of the negotiation process in this North Side Chicago market takes place verbally. Once a written Offer is submitted to the Seller's side of the deal, the details usually get hammered out by the respective Realtors involved via cell phone, text messages and email. Sometimes we are The Negotiators, other times, mere Messengers. Either way, there are at least four channels of emotion, rationality and objectivity that need to be successfully navigated--the Seller, the Listing Agent, the Buyer, and the Buyer's Agent-- not to mention the chorus, and supporting cast of Attorneys, Home Inspectors, Lenders, Appraisers, and Blood Relations waiting in the wings for Act II to begin. Once there is signed Agreement the 'experience' as it were, takes off in another direction altogether. Another story for another day.

So here's the scenario: A potential Client sits at her computer, Googles 'Search Chicago Real Estate' and of course, lands on Page One. After surveying the first 10 choices she decides to click on ChicagoHomeEstates.com because...well, it just sounds so right. Chicago...Home, no...even better... Estates. She then decides to choose an Agent so she can Register on the site for greater access, picks the best looking one and Voila!...she arrives at my Home Page. Once registered, she is free to search the Chicagoland area for a home or rather...an estate of her dreams. She requests a showing for a Condominium that piques her interest. I respond.

Now this is where the afore mentioned 'Good Faith' begins. Our website Features our own Listings while at the same time providing a Search Engine for the entire MLS of Northern Illinois. This is provided under under the guidelines of Broker Reciprocity and is about as clear as clear can be, in my opinionated opinion. Every Listing that is not in the Chicago Home Estates personal inventory has a clearly marked icon (a little house button to click for more info) stating so.

There is a question asked and a response box to be checked: Working with a Realtor? YES or NO.

Check NO, and I'm her guy.

Check YES, and her own Realtor will need to show her the requested property (and should probably also invest in his own website with advanced Search Engine capability). Just so you know, there are only two sides of any Real Estate transaction as far as Realtors are concerned--the List side and the Buy Side. There really isn't any more room in a deal for a third Realtor. We have a name in the business for such a soul. We call him 'The Unpaid One.'

It is at this point in the experience that I make it crystal clear to my potential Client that her Request For Showing either is or is not my own Listing (I have no intention of ever being The Unpaid One) and I proceed from there.

Now let's just say that we meet at the property, introduce ourselves to the Listing Agent, and take the tour. Thirty minutes later she decides the place is perfect and wishes to make an Offer. Whether I write the deal or not I have established what is called Procuring Cause on that particular property, thus avoiding any possibility of becoming The Unpaid One. We soon thereafter fill out an approved Board of Realtors contract, sign and initial all the appropriate spaces, forward it on the the other side of the deal, and wait for a counter-offer.

It is at this point that the verbiage begins. Several phone calls back and forth between all parties involved and hopefully, a middle ground can be found. Let me walk you through the dialogue of a recent negotiation attempt that mirrors my example above. The gender has been changed to protect the idiot...I mean innocent..

"The List Price is $639,000," I said. "I suggest we come in around $605,000 and hopefully get this deal done under $620,000. " Just so you know, while aggressive in negotiations I am not a bush league 'low baller.' If the List Price is ridiculous then that's another story but even in this somewhat flat North Side Chicago market, most properties still sell within 5% of the Asking Price in less than 180 days.

"We are obviously not on the same page," says my Client. "I will not consider offering anything with a 'six' in it. Tell them $550,000 and we'll close in three weeks." (In case math wasn't your best subject in grade school, that's $89,000 under List Price.) I put on my Messenger outfit and prepare to deliver the news.

"Good news is...we have an Offer for you!" I say to the happy, happy Listing Agent. "Bad news is we are coming in 15% under List." Actually, I don't really say any of this. Instead, I just let the ink on paper speak for itself.

As expected, our opening Offer was met with dead silence by the other side. After 10 minutes of verbal resuscitation and another 3 or 4 minutes of 'point and counterpoint' with the Listing Agent I was finally able to persuade him to just give us a counter-offer. He called back an hour later. "$625,000. March 30th Close." This was good.

"Not good enough," was my Client's response. "$565,000 and we want our February Close date..."


FAST FORWARD ...

THREE MORE COUNTERS AND 72 HOURS LATER...

"They are willing to spilt the middle and come down below their 'Drop Dead Number,' I inform my Client. "$600,o00." I deliver the news feeling more like The Negotiator than the Messenger for the first time in a couple of days. I know that I am but $1 away from getting a deal done with no 'six' in it. I am indeed, the man.

"Okay, but I want $10,000 more back in the form of a Closing Cost Credit paid to me at the settlement table," demands my Client. "Net sale price of $590,000. It's my final Offer. Make it happen Geno!" Grabbing with both hands from the candy dish. (Gimme Gimmee Gimmee)

'Bad Faith Bad Faith Bad Faith,' I think... but I do as directed.

And I do get it done, feeling a little uneasy about throwing in a Closing Credit curve ball so late in the negotiation (poor form, to be sure). The Sellers however, eventually agree after several more hours of persuasion, and I forward the good news to my Client.

And then within a matter of hours my Client bails out of the deal totally. The reasons and excuses were numerous but the real reason (and thus the point of this sad but true essay) is she could. The original contract was written over the phone and faxed to all parties (not unusual for people with busy schedules and allowable by law), no Initial Earnest Money check was ever collected (again, the initial check is but a token gesture and is not needed until Signed Agreement occurs), and the motivation to Sell was greater than the motivation to Buy in this case. My internet Client was just fishing around the bottom of the lake seeing what she could snag on the cheap. Looking back, it was just a lot of words accompanied by very little action, not the least important of which was the Seller's signature. Lots of talk with no accompanying walk.

Postscript: As it turns out the Buyer (no longer my Client at this point) tried to go around me and cut a deal with the other side on her own shortly before this all even started. When that didn't fly she then tried to persuade me to take my commission out of the Listing Agent's portion hoping to keep the Buy-Side Co-op for herself. Again, failure to launch.

In the end, she had just agreed to use my proffered services as the great Negotiator/Messenger I am, and waste my time for half a week ultimately doing what she felt was in her own best interest. And I'm actually cool with that. Thus is the nature of the beast we call the internet.

The other three deals I'm presently working on (all internet Registrants on our site) are as sweet as blueberry pie--the people couldn't be nicer. Half of my annual business comes from a mixture of the ChicagoHomeEstates.com website and the Blog you are presently reading. The other half is made up of past Clients and referrals. And only a few deals a year come from people who can't talk and walk at the same time. C'est la Vie, say I.


Geno Petro


image clearly courtesy of weirdthings.org

Change for a Buck

I spoke briefly with this gentleman (above) today as he stood near the corner of Irving Park and Elston Avenue on Chicago's near northwest side. He mentioned that this gig was not his chosen profession and that he and all the other hired statues were indeed, hoping for at least some kind of career change with the coming Administration. I felt it was my civic duty to step up and fill him in with the real scoop. After all, I am a blogger and if nothing else, I have an opinion.

You see, I'm not sure Obama's new Jobs Initiative Proposal has a place for this guy (or his co-workers) but then again, there's probably not a spot carved out in it for me either. Sorry folks, I am not working on roads or bridges (vertigo) for a living. It's better for everybody, believe me.

I still owe my college, Slippery Rock, a library fine from two decades ago (over $300 interest and penalties as of this writing. I can pay it any time...but I won't. I'm leaving it to them in my will, I've decided) and they wont release my transcripts---so I can't be a teacher. I tried to explain this to my new friend...you know, as an example...so as not to get his hopes up with all the political rhetoric he's been hearing on the Chicago sidewalks these past several months. It was my intention to simply help prepare him for yet even more career disappointment. He just shrugged and told me his boss was hiring if I was interested. I thanked him and politely declined an interview. (I'm still reeling from the last time I wore a costume for a paycheck: the bad Easter Bunny at Neshaminy Mall back in 1976.)

I think back on the things I, myself, have done for a buck: I was a morning paperboy for most of my early teenage years (and thus, I am wide awake at 4:45AM, even to this day), I've picked tobacco in North Carolina (2 days), worked in a warehouse loading 120 lbs boxed dumbell sets into a semi truck all day (okay, half a day...once), painted apartments (okay apartment) with a recently released, convicted, practicing alcoholic felon who stole my radio when I went to the bathroom (again, one half day and I left at lunch after he accused me of calling him a thief and wanted to fight me.), the afore mentioned Easter Bunny gig (one long alcohol induced week) and an insurance salesman (15 even longer alcohol induced years). So I offered Mr Liberty a buck for a snapshot, you know...to be polite. He held out for a five note. Come to find out, he didn't really want change after all. Or at least, not the kind of loose change I had in mind. He smelled a little boozy, too. I told him he didn't have to drink, that his life could get better---maybe even shed the costume one day, but this is about the time his mood changed for the worse and I decided to split before I got into a fight and he stole my iPhone and my radio.

Anyway, I hope this serves as a symbol of how great a country we live in. Remember, in just a few quick months and a corporate mandate here or there, any one of us can find ourself standing on a corner getting patronized for a buck or two. Now that is what I call liberty and justice for all...if not, good old American equality.


Geno Petro

Chill Chicago, Chill

I strolled into the garage this morning bundled up like Randy in "A Christmas Story," jumped into my vehicle, and stared at the dashboard through frosted eyelashes. It was so cold the radio didn't come on. I cranked Old Paint and she coughed and choked before rattling to life and I almost fumed myself into the next 'Kingdom Come' waiting for the interior compartment to warm up as I sat there idling.

I finally pulled onto the street and glanced up at the Forest Glen Metra platform. My wife stood there shivering beneath her Orbitz backpack, hooded dog walking coat (warm but not pretty) and snow boots (cute). The temperature was well below Zero and her train was already ten minutes late. We made eye contact. My iPhone immediately rang.

Ten minutes later I'm driving her to work downtown in bumper to bumper to bumper traffic. I snapped a shot of my instrument panel (above); 6MPH and Minus 8 Degrees Below Zero... Fahrenheit. The radio finally came on and we listened to a preacher ask for money on a Bible station for the next forty-five minutes. This will serve as church for us for the next 6 months. We made dinner plans, kissed each goodbye and went on our separate ways for the day--her to the world of travel, me to the world of Chicago real estate. An hour later we were chatting on Facebook. Hey, it's Winter, it's Friday.... and I'm FMAO. I always fancied myself more of a Summer Realtor anyway. If you want to see one of my Listings, call for the Lockbox number. BTW, this is the last time I'm mentioning the weather (or traffic) until I can see the grass below my hammock.

Geno Petro

Forest Glen Freeze Out

Inside looking out from my second floor window in the Forest Glen neighborhood of Chicago. Sunday morning.


Also...check out my latest post on Bloodhound Blog.



Geno Petro

Chicago B.L.U.E.S. on Halsted

I stopped in for an icy shot of Blues this past weekend at, where else?... B.L.U.E.S. on Halsted Street. It's been my favorite live musical joint ever since parking my own U-Haul sideways in a Chicago alley one snowy December night some 13 years ago and unloading once and for all. Whenever things aren't low down, dirty, or tattered enough in my own life as a Chicago realtor, I just pop into B.L.U.E.S. for a reminder of how sad it really can be. On this eve it was Carlos Johnson, on a vintage left handed Gibson, and his band dealing out the pain shooters. As usual, Big Time Sarah was hunkered down at the main bar, bellowing her own crushed rock baselines above the amplified Peavys. The place, as always, was jammed to the rafters.

One man was missing though; in mortal body anyway. And if Chicago guitar legend Chico Banks was indeed in the room, which I believe he just may have been, it was in spirit and memory only. The audience learned from an overwrought Carlos Johnson that the 47 year old virtuoso had just unexpectantly passed away. Johnson gave a checkerboard bluesman's eulogy to a now hushed crowd, raised his snifter to the Heavens, took a sip of cognac, then immediately ripped into a 15 minute jam that tore the wallboards from the studs. And I mean that. Each musician in the tightly wound quartet tore...it...up. The dude on keys, the brother on bass, the monster on drums, and CJ out in front. Shredded it. I raised my own club soda from a stool against the wall in back and silently toasted Life in general. I got the fix I subconsciously came cruising for.

Women were crying. Men were choking. Big Time Sarah was howling on the floor. The crowd was emersed, swallowed by the sound and the soul of the Blues. And not the weak ass, watered down swill they serve up across the street at Kingston Mines but the real deal. The kind that comes out indigo when you cut. The kind that pumped through the veins of Chico Banks until a few days ago.


Geno Petro


I snapped the shot of Carlos Johnson (but I did not shoot the deputy)

Geno From Chicago 2008

My "Best of" Blog Posts for 2008 from across the internet can be found at:


Geno From Chicago


(Comments have been Disabled but links to all original posts are live.)


Geno Petro

That's a Wrap...

To Chicago, the free world, and beyond:

I just posted my final 2008 piece on Bloodhound Blog for the year. Check it out with your morning coffee. It's a little strong so you may need some sugar. They don't call me 'Doppio' for nothing...or at least that's how I think they've been spelling it. And as an added bonus, I actually make mention of 'real estate' in this one.

Simple Peace, if not true and everlasting Love, to you all in 2009,

Geno


image is Chicago through a dirty windshield on LSD

Wish List: pick-up truck, house trailer, forgiveness...

Driving downstate through an ice storm this past week allowed me many quiet white-out hours to ponder my own, unfulfilled, Life's wish list. The cosmic notion hit me just about the time we pulled into Effingham, Illinois (love the name, Effingham---consider: "Honey, I'm sick of that Effing-ham. How 'bout some Effing-turkey instead this Christmas?") some 240 miles and 8 crawling hours south of our bittersweet home in sub-zero, salt mottled Chicago. We settled down for the cold winter's night at a Comfort Inn and dined on some warm gruel at TGI FRIDAY'S before awaking, early and rested, on Day Two to resume our annual Christmas pilgrimage to Tennessee and all gifts sweet and southern.



Next stop on the GPS, Metropolis: 'Home of the Giant Superman Statue.' We had been meaning to check out this giant statue for several years now but always took a pass in an effort to make better travel time. Perhaps this day would finally be.... 'the day' we threw haste to the wind and dropped in on the Caped Crusader and that whole cast of characters. Wait...maybe that's Gotham. Hmmm... Oh well, in the end it really didn't matter.

In a fleeting moment of clarity, I realized that all I ever really desire in this fair and unbalanced world is what everybody else around me has. I could learn to be content with just that, I supposed. The key to this mental metacafe, I concluded, lies not so much in the 'What'... but in the 'Where.' I want what everyone around me has as long as it's: on the Right Bank of Paris; on the Upper East Side of NYC; on a tropical beach... in the Tropics! So in the case of Metropolis, Illinois, this would compute to a comfortable house to decorate for the holidays, a pick-up truck, and a secure assistant-middle-management job at the Big John Supermarket in town.





My wife and I, forever pondering the myriad of future retirement options, always seem to pose the same question whenever we find ourselves in a new spot far, far away from Chicago: "Think we could live here?" We look around, pause...and usually continue on in silence. Truth is, we generally don't fit in. And this day is no different. We quietly pulled up to the Metropolis town square in the BMW and got out to stretch our legs. As advertised, there stood a statue of Superman, although whether it is 'GIANT' or not is arguable.



All things equal, the Big John statue at the Big John Supermarket across the street is much taller and more muscular for my money. But I'm an outsider. What do I know? Some teenaged locals were giving me a hard local look from the next pick-up truck over as I framed my iPhone camera upward for some tourist shots. One of them proclaimed, "That's a pretty big dog to be haulin' around in that fancy ve-hic-le."

I looked over my shoulder and observed our overfed pampered pet sitting upright on his own heated backseat with a jingle belled Santa collar around his neck, panting out the window. The locals had two very lean, growling pitbulls with rusty spike collars chained to the side rail of their flat bed. I looked back up at the two statues towering above and tried to remember the last time someone picked a fight with me. I attempted to mentally recall some of my karate moves but to no avail. I have a black belt laying around the house somewhere, I remember. I wondered if it was still good, praying for muscle memory. Another life, sadly. Really need to get back in shape...clean out the basement...did I unplug the coffee pot?...what was I just saying?...

"Where do you get parts for that?" another big farm boy asked, pulling me back into the Metropolis moment.

Hmmm. Good question. If I answered "at the BMW shop" someone was going to take a swing at me and let the dogs loose for sure.

"Its not mine," I finally say. "I just stole it. Wanna buy it? 30 grand. Cache." Smiling. Thank God I was wearing my sunglasses and skull cap. No more words were exchanged between the humans although the collective hounds continued giving each other the city/country stink eye for several awkward seconds.



I snapped a few shots, jumped back in the fancy ve-hic-le, and headed toward the interstate wondering how long I'd even survive in a short sleeve white shirt and clip-on tie, assistant-managing such indigenous folk. Maybe the retail food industry is not for me after all, I concluded. I pictured me and Big John eventually butting heads somewhere down my second career line and dismissed the fantasy altogether. "You can scratch Metropolis off the retirement list," I said. And although Mona would have made a pretty hot Superwoman, she didn't seem too disappointed with my executive decision (although just between us, she is faster than any speeding Bloomingdale's shopper I've ever met).



Upon reaching our peaceful and rolling hilled destination of northwestern Tennessee, we tossed around the benefits of good country living for two days and ate like fatted calves like we always do in this bucolic family setting. My father-in-law once again reminded me exactly how much real estate I'd need to sell in Dyer County to make a comfortable living. We've had this conversation often. The conclusion is always the same. A lot...of real estate, that is.

Mere price point alone dictates that selling houses and condos in Chicago assures at least a modicum of success for a Realtor compared to the deflated, slow moving housing market of this rural section of the Economy. Still, townsfolk sit around the local eatery, Toot-'n-Tell-It, and discuss the future of America as they see it. 'Goodyear's laying off. No acorns this year. Lot's of pecans, though...' The parking lot is full (as it is on every occasion I've been there) and the local, flannel shirted workers chew on the three square fat over black coffee and pie, everyday except Sunday.



Funny. The Chevrolet dealership in town is boarded up. Goodyear down the road is rumored to be laying off soon. GM, on a national level, is about to crash, but Toot-'n-Tell-It in Dyer, Tennessee is still packing them in and slinging hash morning, noon and night.

"If we retire here we could sell the BMW, buy a trailer and you could get a job waitressing," I said as we pulled into the parking lot full of pick-up trucks for one last stop before hitting the road for good after a most pleasant Christmas visit. My wife just looked at me. The passenger compartment smelled like dog and pecan pie. We'd been in the ve-hic-le hundreds of hours and traveled thousands of miles through storms of biblical proportions these past several days. And now we were about to embark on the final leg of our Christmas journey; the 492 foggy miles straight home to Chicago. No stopping; Effingham, Metropolis, and now Dyer, soon to be mere holiday memories left behind...




"Where do we get parts for this thing?" she asked, as we idled in front of Toot-'n-Tell-It for the final time this trip.

"I don't know. Not the Chevy dealership, that's for sure," I said.

"Why don't you go inside and ask someone?" she asked.

And I would have but I still couldn't remember if I had an actual Black Belt designation or not. I reached into the backseat and took the ridiculous collar off my dog before he got us both beat up, set the navigation, and waited for a signal, before pulling away. "TURN LEFT. 100 FEET," it instructed.

"Real men down here use compasses," Mona said, as we pulled onto Route 45 North, still pissed about the waitress comment.

"Yes," I said, as I adjusted my power seat and fastened my safety belt. "And their wives keep the trailer nice and clean, I'm told." as I quickly added Forgiveness to the list...


Geno Petro


images via iPhone

It's beginning to look a lot like...

To: All

Believe me, I'm feeling you. Who (besides most grandparents and myself) really cares about receiving other people's family pictures on Holiday Greeting cards? It seems instead of Hallmark illustrated Santas in Santaland or Winters in Wonderland, the way to roll on the Christmas cover anymore is straight from the digital files of the household hard drive: Happy Holidays from the Holihans in Hawaii! (on the beach), or Merry Merry from Murray and Mary in MuckityMuck! (in matching reindeer sweaters by the hearth), or Rappy Rolidays rum Rover! (in antlers and fluffy white neckwear).

And whether the photoshopped families are adorned in swimwear, sweaters, or slobbery scarves, it's almost always about the Sender and not the Receiver. Or so I've heard. Lucky for us, the two Christmas cards we received so far this year clearly came from a box of 25 others just like them. We use them as coffee cup coasters instead of lining them up on a mantle or stringing them across the room. Like I mentioned, two cards total this season. (I'm secretly hoping to break our record of six total from last year.)

And this is because two is exactly two more than we have ever sent out ourselves, total, since we were married 7 years ago. The first year the cheer just kept on coming, 50 or 60 cards at least. Year two, as well. Then, recessionary numbers were reported in years 3 through 5 with a dramatic supply-side drop-off in year 6. And this year only two. One from my parents. One from my daughter. Oh, and one from the housekeeper with something written in Polish, either Merry Christmas or I Quit!, I imagine. Either way, it was one of those money holder cards but there was no money in it. Gee....I winter wonder what that means? (I don't count Christmas cards in the tally that I receive but actually have to put a check in and hand back.)

To be honest, we still exchange gifts with our inner circle and dearest loved ones and to be fair, Merry Christmas To: and From: is usually printed on the tag or wrapping paper somewhere. I don't count these as cards although the thought (and gift) is certainly there. You really can't set a cup of coffee on a To: and From: tag. And they look very silly strung across the living room, as well. Or lined up on the mantle, for that matter.

I heard someone comment recently that receiving a Christmas card with someone elses family vacation picture on the cover is kind of like receiving a Birthday card with a picture of the Sender on the cover. Especially when it is 5 degrees below zero outside and the Holihans are hanging 5 at the 21st Parallel. And really especially if they lost weight. Get my snow drift? Same goes for the family pet. However, take a peek at the very top of this post and tell me, is that not cute or what?

Merry, Happy, Cheer, and Joy to all and to all...let's get this year over with already!

Peace, too

From: The Petros


image: Oscar on a box, under the tree.

Why I Should Pay My Mortgage: Reason #23

When my mostly white galoot of a hound goes galloping across the side yard as I stand watching--coffee cup already clutched and brimming--through the toastier side of the veranda picture window in my boxers and nightcap, all I can make out through the Chicago pre-dawn snowscape is a snout and three brown spots darting from pine to pine. We both know it's sub-zero outside but the animal has his own morning ritual--a personal call to duty marking his American Bulldog territory in chemical union with the less domesticated denizens of the adjoining Cook County Forest Preserve; racoons, possums, gophers and such. Basically, they just pee all over each other.

The truth be known, this is one of the main reasons I begged my wife to buy the house in the first place. I love my dog. I hate walking him in the winter. I no longer have the patience or thermal body make-up to dawdle from tree to tree to and back again on my end of the leash, waiting...anticipating...begging..."Elvis, take a dump already! I'm freezing!" He's on dog time. He does what he has to do, when he has to do it. No sooner, no later.

Forest Glen, as I've written many times before, is a bucolic little alcove tucked in a residential nook between the Milwaukee District North Metra tracks and the North Branch of the Chicago River. We love it here. We are demographically in the city of Chicago but mentally in Mayberry RFD, or at least this is what I'm told by our more urbane, fairer weather Lincoln Park/Old Town acquaintances. It's a 22 minute train ride to Union Station and a 22 second walk to Nature. It's where a guy can stand at the window in his boxer shorts and nightcap watching his dog walk himself at 5:45 AM. And it's the best and only reason I can think of today to get dressed, drive to the Bank of America branch on Clybourn and North Avenues, and make my December mortgage payment, which, by the way, is about the price of two round-trip Business Class tickets to Rome. Every month. Go figure...then again, don't bother. We all have our own financial beasts of burden to, well...burden

"Elvis...HURRY UP!!!" I yell through the frosted window as he sniffs around for the perfect spot, still putzing. He is such a putzer, that dog; definitely not built for condominium living, that's for sure. Not in the dead of winter anyway, which like I said, is one of the main reasons I put a contract on this house to begin with. After this month's payment we only have 345 more to go. That's 28 3/4 years. I'll be 81 and Elvis will be 35 (245 in dog years). Mona, of course, will still be 37. I should have done the math, I suppose, but I didn't. I follow my heart, not my accountant's advice; always have, never will. Besides, we're dead for a long time I've heard...


Geno Petro

Swann Song

Folks, you must read the following essay from the veritable Greg Swann of BloodhoundBlog.com.


(click below)

Hope and despair at the onset of economic recession: Who cares about the tunnel? All I can see is the light…

Geno Petro

cute image property of BloodhoundBlog

Chicago Readers...Hark!

Greetings to all you Chicago's Home Weblog readers, fellow real estate bloggers, internet insomniacs, on-the-clock Facebook addicts, disappointed Illinois constituents, Obama chanting optimists, run-of-the-mill blogosphereans (yeah, I made it up) and everyone else electronically cyber-chained to their work-space cubicles: I just posted on BloodhoundBlog. Click below for my latest essay:


"COLLOQUIAL WARMING"

(ps...they tell me its at least humorous, if not entirely factual)

Geno Petro

Temporary Housing

"We build sand castles," a sales manager once told me. "When it comes to recruiting and developing a team you have to remember that a third are coming, a third are going, and a third are making up their minds..." Ironically, I happened to be one of those 'going' at the time.

The same holds true with home sales in Chicago today. Lenders are sorting through stacks of mortgage re-work files on ivory tower credenzas deciding (arbitrarily it seems) which deals to stick with and which deals to send off to the oyster shucker. I have a condo buyer who, when we first spoke back in August, only wanted to look at Short Sales and Foreclosures. His latest Text to me this morning pinged the following urgent message: NO MORE SHT SALES. NO MORE 4CLOSURES. NO MORE PAIN. We lost another one at the witching hour. I looked in my briefcase and pulled out four different Initial Earnest money checks with his signature. I wrote VOID, too, on the latest example.

The housing market, as we know it today, is subject to the winds and tides of economic change--- both globally and locally. My advice: Determine the safest distance from the tsunami and then make an Offer. Oh yeah, bring plenty of supplies and don't bother glancing at your timepiece, either. Remember, we're on Island Time (not Chicago time) now and waiting for a quick answer, like swilling warm sea water or staring into the eclipse, will only drive you insane (or at least that's what the nuns used to say). When the Sun does re-appear (one day soon I predict), those who purchased at low tide will be the king and queen crabs of the sandy 'hood, taking those long, romantic walks on the beach, hand in claw...or something along those metaphoric lines.

Geno Petro

image taken from my iPhone on Captiva Island last Monday

Chicago's Top Ten Real Estate Deals

Check out Dennis Rodkin's latest ChicagoMagazine.com Deal Estate piece to see my new Top Ten Real Estate Deals in Chicago blog. I am the Chicago 'concierge' (je suis) for the nationally syndicated Top 10 Real Estate Deals which features, you guessed it... the Top Ten Condo & Luxury Real Estate Deals in major housing markets across the country. (And people complain about how hard the state licensing exam is...)

And while the business of actually buying and selling property is as challenging as it has ever been in recent years, there are still bargains to be found (and had). You just have to know where to look and from whom to seek your advice (ahem...). Oh yes, and remember the sage words of Joe Pinto, my Managing Broker/Owner at Chicago Home Estates, "It's only a buyer's market if you're actually buying."

Meanwhile, Mona and I are off to Captiva Island, Florida until next week. That is, if we don't get snowed in tonight. I need some natural Vitamin D from our nearest star to bronze up the winter pallor.



Geno Petro

Oh this so sux

Quick cosmic question for the odd Augustan poet out there: Exactly which Circle of Hell in Dante's Inferno can Chicago in the wintertime be found? I awoke at dawn this day only to discover a 3 inch blanket of ice and cinder covering my usually (6 months a year) bucolic parkway. Neither household pet would go near the veranda doors although bladders and curious minds were certainly brimming (my first morning chore regardless of climate, animal relief). The coffee tasted flat and the radiators in the house were clinking like a fleet of old tin lizzies. Oh...and it was garbage day--cans by the curb. (Minor household repairs, coffee and trash--also my chores.)

A month or so before I relocated to Chicago back in 1995 I was under the (wrong) impression that I'd soon be moving to Delray Beach, Florida. It was sort of a company transfer thing and my options (a direct order from my vice president) were limited (nonexistent). I had already resigned from my established position--and been replaced--in Virginia (beautiful 11 months a year) and was awaiting my turn in the corporate re-organization queue (take it or leave it) of a Fortune 500 insurance giant (with a very small unFortunate--the giant, that is--wiener). I pissed someone off upstairs (go figure) then suddenly, one day, they shoveled me off to Chicago instead of Delray and the rest is deep frozen history (the other 6 months a year here). So today I stand before the frosted window, 13 years to that fateful day later, wondering...once again...WTF???

"Where's your winter coat?" People would often ask me during those first few seasons in this, the windiest of all frozen cities.

"This is my winter coat," I'd reply, teeth chattering, ears frozen, eyes watering from behind my Ray Bans.

"That's not a winter coat," they'd parry. "That's a Members Only jacket."

"It goes with my boots," I'd say, looking down at my thin soled, Italian leather, hand crafted slip ons---mortally soaked and stained with cinder and salt, my skinned head uncovered as well.

"Those aren't boots," they'd declare before pointing down to their own buckskin and fur lined knee highs with Gore-Tex outers and Vibram soles, "These are boots!...And where's your hat?"

And so it continued until I got a real estate license and purchased my first condo in this incongruous love/hate city of soot and sparkle. I met the woman I'd eventually (instantly) love and marry and she would then forever after buy me hats and coats and boots til death does its part. And now, on any given day from December through April, I look like a duck hunter roaming the streets of the big city for my next meal. So on this, the onset of my 14th year in Chicago, I must once again ask to whomever might be listening....."WTF? Exactly which Circle of Hell..........."


Geno Petro

(image is not my car but if it was, I doubt I'd bother washing it either)