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

Aloha!

See you in two weeks. We're off to the Big Island (as well as a couple of the smaller ones). I'm about to click the Hybrid Realtor auto-pilot button feature on all my sites so any response you receive from me until December 14th will be totally computer generated and utterly impersonal but hey, I'm connected. So let me take this opportunity to say, as sincerely as I can...

"Thankyouverymuch..."

G

Racoons in the Trash

There is a racoon living on our property–actually, a family of racoons. We thought this was pretty cool a few months ago when we decided to buy a timeworn, if not stately, house on the utmost western tip of the Chicago city limits. Our property virtually abuts a forest preserve to the north and a Metra commuter train stop to the south–a line whose tracks are also shared by Amtrak and what remains of the Illinois Central Railroad (the latter would be freight trains btw). Note to self: Spend an entire night in the next house I buy before cutting the final earnest money check for escrow. It’s all good, though.

There are also deer, I shat you not. Now I don’t eat venison, nor do I hunt, but if one more forest preserve denizen bolts in front of my BMW on my way to or from civilization, then I’m picking up a freezer at Costco and a red plaid jacket like every other husband in the neighborhood, if you get my meaning (hey guys, it’s Chicago…hello?). Racoons, deer, and plaid are everywhere around here. Trains, too. This place is lousy with trains.

Deep breath…



But as usual, I overstate. If I didn’t find myself in such a hurry all the time and if I didn’t fancy myself as one of the few ’on call’ realtors in this new, ‘always open’ real estate millennium, I might actually be able to kick back and enjoy the implicit Americana of it all; the romantic clanging of the conductors’ bells (yes, I can see real live train conductors right out the window of my library–an actual little front room parlor with french doors at one entrance, a pocket door at the other, and a massive picture window looking out over the plantation columned veranda and beyond), the oversized city parcels ripe with foilage and wildlife, and the 1890s Victorian architecture that dots the streets and lanes of this unlikely whistle stop community. And even as I write, a Currier and Ives snowfall dusts this postcard setting known as Forest Glen, which, unlike the Classics of Lakeview Condominiums from where my wife and I just moved (neither classic nor anywhere near a view of the lake), boasts both a forest and a glen...of sorts. But it’s the racoons that are bothering me today.

They remind me of those people who dabble, or aspire to dabble, in foreclosures–the tablescraps left over from the main course that didn’t make it into the refrigerator. And since I’m pretty much dialed into REWeb 2.0, these folks are on both my website and my blog almost daily.

“What do you know about foreclosures?” they usually inquire (a question, by the way, any expert in the field has yet to ever pose to me) in response to my ‘Thank you for registering on my site /I am unable to locate my iphone at this time’ Auto-Reply.

“I know more than you,” I want to respond, “and I don’t go near them.”

Which is really to say, ’Leave that mess up to the experts/If you have to ask, then…/Stop watching late night cable/Get a real estate license, complete your CE credits, and pay your MLS dues like the rest of us so called professionals…’

In other words, I’m not a fan of this volatile housing market trend or most of the amateur quick money investors who hope to exploit it. There are a handful of pros in this town who dominate the entire foreclosure sector and whatever properties remain after they are done passing the basket (back and forth to each other, mostly) are not worth sinking a nickle into, in my opinion. What’s left is generally garbage, barely worth its landfill value.

Q. How does a racoon, with his head stuck in the trash, react when a greater force of nature sneaks up upon him?

A. Like a deer in headlights. BAM! (Hey, it’s this realtor’s attempt at a scavenger/roadkill allegory, if not apologue.) Anyway…



I was laying awake late the other evening, counting boxcars; 47, 48, 49… and staring at the dancing shadows on my bedroom ceiling. Beneath the rumble I swore I heard a distant howl. I looked over at the silhouette outline of my sleeping wife laying across the bed; back facing me, cat between us, eyemask on, ear plugs in. I reached over and tapped her shoulder as I sensed the caboose (car number 67 or so, and still no closer to dreamland for me) nearing. It was quiet now.

“I think I just heard a coyote.”

She rustled for a second and I’m pretty sure I heard her reply, half asleep and offering it out to the Universe in general from her own dreamland, most likely ….

“Darling I love you but give me Park Avenue…”

Geno Petro

Big, Lazy Beast?

We've already established that he's big and he's hungry. We also know that, like Pavlov's four legged, snouted companion, he's predictable in his response to the dinner bell. He's our big, lovable lender and without him...well, home just wouldn't be the same sweet home--on the range, or otherwise.

But just because he moves a little slower these days does not necessarily mean he's lazy. He's been on a diet after all, and is only trying to conserve his energy and look presentable for the Holiday Season and beyond.. (Easy on the wassel and sub-prime bisquits, big guy.) The new, and soon to be improved beast, has resolved to be a much pickier eater in 2008 and will emerge, a much better man's best friend as a result.

There's a concept I came across recently called Lazy Money. Who knew? Apparently, it has to do with a form of aggregate currency just laying around waiting to be scooped up and buried into the Real Estate backyard with the rest of the bones. Its aroma has the same allure that drew overseas investors in droves into our secondary mortgage market (Freddie Mac, of course, notwithstanding) with the promise of slobbery sweet returns and a bite of mom's apple piechart. But those dog days have come and gone forever, I fear; no more lounging around on expensive furniture waiting for investors to call; no more 5 minute, or better yet, drive-by appraisals by those once overburdened, third party scribes, now relegated to the lending industry dog house; no more dirty deals with pumped up projections and unlimited upside.

He may be slow, and he may be stout but can that dog still hunt? Let's ring the dinner bell, (the equivalent of spotting a squirel in a fat dog's world) and see if he drools. I have a nonconforming client with 5% down and 650 credit. Any takers?

Geno Petro

the image is my dog

My Carbon Webprint

If you Google my name on any given day, 30,000 or so entries pop up saying pretty much the same thing; Chicago, blah blah blah: Realtor, blah blah blah; Writer/Weblog Commentor, yada yada yada. By simply placing " "s around the two words, the number instantly gets whacked by 66%. Click on the last number at the bottom of the search page and the total amount of entries under "Geno Petro" gets trimmed to either side of 100 after all the 'duplicate' articles and strings get filtered out.

Now, I'm no Al Gore (al-gor-ithm? hmmm.) but I have to believe all those wasted characters are how somehow contributing to this global warming mess we're apparently in. I know for a fact that I personally am very wasteful when it come to commas, semi-colons, and dashes. I'm also a big fan of the '...' . I use ... a lot. Those little cyberkinetic dits and dots are like pistachio nuts to me; I can't put them down no matter how detrimental red dye is to the environment. See, I just did it again. I just snuck another semi-colon. On a positive note, at least I make good use of the Recycle Bin.

Google is both smart and stupid at the same time. It thinks I'm important in some ways but doesn't really know or understand why. It's always messing around with my Page Rank 3,4,5,4,3. I consider it a fickle friend who does and doesn't know I exist. It talks a big game at first then betrays me the nanosecond someone else puts quotation marks around my name, ready to trim (laser) the fat right down to the bone for whoever dares to go (click) the distance. The question remains; where do all those wasted words end up? And why is it 62 degrees today, November 14th... in Chicago?

Big, Hungry Beast

Ding Dong (the doorbell)

...And immediately all hell breaks loose in the house. My 125 pound hound starts baying, and woofing, and snorting. toenails clicking and sliding sideways on the hardwood floors while his too short legs lose traction, and he barrels head down, straight ahead--like the slowest guard on the football team-toward the front door to protect us from the FedEx guy.

"Dude," I say, grasping his choker collar with one hand and wiping the slobber from his jowels with the side of my jeans. "Act that way when they don't ring the doorbell." Like when they come through the basement window I want to say, but there is no need to expound. He's just a hound with a three or four track mind.

He's a big guy and needs fed a lot. When I cut back on his portions, eliminate the table scraps, or forbid the bisquits until he drops a pound or two, he's very put off. He's come to expect a lot of food on a regular basis. He expects a lot of attention. He's just like my bank. Just like them...

Them

Maybe they got a little too fat, too quick. Maybe they made some wrong choices off the menu. Maybe they liked the restaurant so much (when they were flush with dough) that they bought and staffed it--the whole chain, perhaps. An entire sector.

They found investors overseas and lured them into the business model. They spent billions on land acquisitions, brick and mortar. They increased their payrolls, cut their rates and flooded the airwaves and web with promotion. They experimented with new, low-fat, low-interest cuisine. They found a way to feed anyone. They thought they could service everyone.

Then the media stuck their snouts into the soup and found that there were just too many cooks in the Kitchen. Hell, there were just too many kitchens. They discovered that a few Chefs (Chiefs?) at the top of the food chain were skimming the cream off the top of the vat. Customers began sending their meals back, skipping out on the bill, cancelling reservations, staying at home...Perhaps the cooks and busboys were here illegally and scattered into the gangways and alleys leaving their houses (and promissary notes) behind. What about E-coli, non-smoking sections, and foie gras? The investors overseas demanded a raincheck. The tougher ones demanded a refund. The banks looked into the mirror, studied the ugly sight, and went on a crash diet. They pledged to starve themselves back into shape.

Us

Now even the best customers have to pay more. There's a shortage of product. "The credit is a little crunchy this month, don't you think?" we say to our Loan Originators as they stand before us, still willing to serve, and a little hungry themselves.

We asked for the check but our credit card was denied. We stopped making even our minimum payments. We stopped even looking for a parking space. The red coat valets and attendants fail to even show up. There are no cars to park. Things are lean. We start eating our young...

Hunger

...But for how long? How long can a big, hungry beast like my dog go without food? Eventually he will find a way to settle his stomach. Same with the banks. They are a huge part of the GDP and it is only a matter of time before the purging stops and the yo-yo begins to sail up into the opposite direction. And just like all failed dieters, they will actually end up a little heavier than before the whole cycle started. You just wait and see. You can say 'I told you so' if, in 5 years, total reported banking profits, and the number of loans originated, aren't significantly higher than they are today.

There are a few weblogs on the subject of Lending I read with great frequency. One is Dan Green's The Mortgage Reports out of Cincinnati. The other is Brian Brady's Mortgage Rates Reports out of San Diego. And of course, I communicate on a weekly basis with the Mortgage Guru here in Chicago, Chris Hahn. And we all have a different take on the subject.

But hey, from a realtor's point of view, this is how I see it. And as I sit here at my desk watching my dog asleep on the floor, snoring and twitching and chasing rabbits off in doggie dream land, I know the peace is not for long. His belly is full now and he is content. But if he goes too long between meals, and no one pats him on the head, and the door bell rings...well, I just wouldn't want to be the FedEx guy. Like I said, 'He's a big, hungry beast and he needs to be fed...'

the image is not my dog

Life Of A Butterfly

…or is it the ‘Butterfly Effect’? (or perhaps Affect?...I can never remember and I'm just too tired to Google right now.) You know...that theory or postulate or whatever we learned back in 8th Grade: A single, lone butterfly turns left instead of right 17 million years ago, gets squashed by a T-Rex and never makes it to the next flower to pollenate which throws the entire order of the Universe off by one butterfly…actually, by one butterfly plus all future ancestors of that one butterfly and everything they would have pollenated, ad infinitum. We are all effected (and affected) by some teensy weensiy event that happened in a rain forest more than two Ice Ages ago that itself, ceases to even exist anymore.

Then there is that whole Six Degrees of Separation, Kevin Bacon or whomever, and everything that phenomenon entails. I mean, if a tree falls onto a house in Malibu and everyone is evacuated, who is going to tell Leo DiCaprio who was in This Boy's Life to tell Ellen Barkin who played his mother and also starred in Diner with both Kevin Bacon and Mickey Rourke, if a sound was made---if everyone was evacuated? I mean think about it...if a T-Rex stomped on a caterpillar before it even became a butterfly back before Adam was chasing Eve around the mulberry bush (and we all know what that whole episode was really about), then none of us would be here including Mickey Rourke, even after his comeback.

The chain of events that I see in the Real Estate profession that mirrors both of these examples is the way Realtors change companies in Chicago. If a Remax office opened in Lakeview and nobody bothered to pay the franchise fee, would a Coldwell Banker office in Lincoln Park have 100 more or fewer Agents by year's end? How about in five years? If the Managing Broker left Prudential Preferred and took over a Keller Williams shop, bringing along 50 live bodies in the coup, or 250, would anyone really make a better living? Is it really any different anywhere? Why are we always fooling around with the Natural Order of things when Sales is ultimately an inside job to begin with?

I sit back and watch as people I know in this business jump from one company to the next. Some do remarkably better, at least for a while. The vast majority do not. I know how to look up any Realtor's Closed Transactions for the year as well as previous years. Every so often I sneak a peek, just out of curiosity, to see if the grass stayed green after a winter or two . Almost everyone who has ever left the office I'm presently in is doing worse now than when they were here. It's a fact. Everybody seems to know someone who knows someone who knows Kevin Bacon but just because he's a star...well, no need to spin off in that direction.

I've worked under the same fellow, Joe Pinto, since I got my Real Estate license seven years ago. I've seen countless numbers of potentially good (or at least potentially decent) Agents come through our doors only to be lured away by recruiters who don't sell, and be promised training by trainers who can't sell, much less train. It's no skin off my nose really, as I in essence, work for myself. I have no management responsibilities and am paid no incentive if someone comes, stays, or goes. But if enough butterflies get stepped on by the bigger animals in the jungle before having a chance to pollenate their own businesses, then pretty soon everything changes for all of us.

My pat answer for Global Warming concerns when approached by the GreenPeace crowd outside any neighborhood Starbucks is, "I like Global Warming...especially in February." Of course, I'm being smug because my views on these types of issues are personal. I don't want to hear the hype. Hype doesn't make me want to buy anything (except the i phone. I really want one although both the OS and carrier are in a totally different groove than I'm presently in.) What I really want, more than anything, is to believe in myself when it comes to this business of selling Real Estate in Chicago.

I don't need to go out and look for another company with a seemingly better deal. I have a better deal right here. All I, or anyone, has to do is just wake up and do it. Nobody knows what I can do more than me--no recruiter, no trainer, no Managing Broker. Whether you change the logo on the business cards or the company colors, move the office or replace the Broker, it's still me walking through the front door every morning and the only promises I need to keep track of are the ones I made myself. "...And that's all I have to say about that." (my hero, Forrest Gump)

On a side note, Ive recently been invited to be a Frequent Contributor on the nationally renowned BloodhoundBlog, a multi-author weblog championed by the most prolific blogger on RE Web 2.0, Greg Swann. If you're an avid reader in this medium and haven't read his work then... "You're not thinking fourth dimensionally! " (Doc Brown, Back to the Future)

Geno Petro

Memoirs Of A Big Fat Liar

Lightning In A Bottle

   Actually, a bunch of big fat liars. I'll include myself in the group for this exercise (as an embedded observer, of course) although I can state here comfortably--eyeball to eyeball, without flinching and safely nested behind the double locked doors of my home office library--that my truthfulness in business dealings consistently falls within the soupy gray boundries of acceptable sales chatter. In other words, I try not to exaggerate or overblow my Real Estate accomplishments when things fall nicely into my lap nor do I whine and moan (or shriek like a little girl...anymore) at the first sign of a market correction or the foreshadow of a lenghty Listing stint.

   The truth is, the Listing Agent who has the signed Exclusive Agreement when the actual Buyer walks through the door is the hero. Period. Don't let them (us) tell you otherwise. We all know this. I once lost a deal (and one of my best friends) early on in my career two days after an Agreement expired. I had a lot of activity on the property--many showings, loads of interest--but on day 90, my about-to-be-married buddy decided that the unsold property was hurting our friendship and yanked the house from me. He fired me over the phone from Vegas--on his honeymoon. (I'd love to report here how that marriage ended up but that would be gloating now, wouldn't it?)

   The new Agent was literally taking down my sign and putting his own up when the eventual Buyer came tooling along with his wife. They wrote a deal without representation (a 'double bubble' for the Agent) and Closed in 30 days. That my friends is what we Realtors call, 'lightning in a bottle.' And I've been the recipient of such happenstance, as well. I've just learned not to gloat over it when it occurs nor do I stand outside in the the middle of a thunderstorm (or worse yet, a drought), arms raised to the heavens with coke bottles in each hand, waiting for it to strike again. I have other stupid things I do...

Promising The Moon
  ...And this is one of them. Not so much anymore but still...I want to be liked. Deep down, I don't want to be the person to break the bad news...

   "You see, Mr and Mrs Climbladder, your house is very beautiful. It's just 1.2 million dollar beautiful... not 1.7 million dollar beautiful. If it were 1.7 million dollar beautiful it would most likely be surrounded by several other 1.7 million dollar beautiful homes in a 1.7 million dollar neighborhood."

   blah blah blah.

   "Yes, I know it was featured in the local newspaper but no one is reading that particular issue anymore...except of course, you."

   blah blah blabbity blah! 

   "And yes, I see you spent a couple hundred thou on the bathrooms and kitchen and I'm sure you have enjoyed them but Buyers expect such finishes at this price point. Like I said, it's beautiful...it's just not 1.7 million dollar beautiful."

   blah?
   "Yes, Mr and Mrs Climbladder...I'm afraid so....blah."

   The point is I try not to promise the moon unless I promise a Price Recduction to go along with it. I'm very nice about it, though.

The Sunday Papers
   I once heard renowned newscaster, Sam Donaldson, state in an interview, "I don't go to the casinos because winning a hundred dollars means nothing to me but losing a hundred dollars really pisses me off." I concur. I also feel the same about newspaper advertising. IMO, it only brands the company name...it doesn't sell houses. Not here in Chicago, anyway. To spend money foolishly on a longshot bet is one thing, but to advocate such a strategy as a Marketing Plan is cretinous. (You can look it up if you like but it basically means stupid.)

   Marketing in this day and age goes well beyond ink on paper advertising. If it is disposable then it will be disposed of. Print advertising is untrackable, expensive, and passive. I'd rather pay-per-click any (every) day of the week though the cost of doing business is equivalent. At least I know my hard earned money isn't wrapped around a dead fish in the garbage.

   I am confident that Internet Channels, Digital Open Houses, and other technologies along these lines are the way of the future in Real Estate. And even as I restructure my own business model for the next five years I'll still make it a point to tip the paperboy every month when he knocks on our front door. (Besides being an enterprising young kid in the image of you know who, he's the best hacker I know.)

Ladybug In A Juice glass 

   I won't promise 'lightning in a bottle' to a potential client but I will pledge to use my resources (spend my own money) in the most efficient manner I see fit. Let's face it, the Listing Agent is in the hole the minute he walks out the door with the Exclusive and only collects when the property actually sells--correction: ...when the property actually sells under his watch. Phone calls from Vegas are never good under any circumstance, I've found.

I'll try not to promise the Moon no matter how much I allow myself to be manipulated by the situation (potential paycheck). And that is why we do it, you know. We Realtors are ironically, the easiest people to manipuate because we count the money before it's printed. We may say we don't but most of us secretly do. After all, we have BMWs and college to pay for. (It also stokes our Ego when we nail a Sold placard across the For Sale sign. I usually wait until rush hour so everyone stalled in traffic can watch me perform the ritual. It usually takes a good half hour depending on whether or not I have to find and unbury St. Joseph.)

I may be big, and I may or may not be fat depending on the season or what I'm wearing, but a Big, Fat, Liar I am not. Not all three. I won't promise 'lightning in a bottle' but I will do my best to catch a ladybug in a juiceglass. Oh yeah....and work for free until I get the place sold, just like every other self-respecting Realtor.


Geno Petro

The Eight Deadly Sin...

Fear Knocked

We've all heard tell of certain California and Nevada housing markets in recent years where simply offering 'List Price' on a property didn't cut it on the real estate trading floor. Demand had a strangle hold on Supply and only the earliest of pre-approved birds brought home the juciest worms to the nest. Even the economically horizontal section of the United States where I reside and conduct business enjoyed it's own vertical spike in new construction housing starts with six and seven figure price tags to go with it. The appetite for real estate--condominiums in particular--seemed insatiable and looking back I'm not quite sure if it was greed, gluttony, or some other deadly sin feeding the emotional frenzy. The market was big and it was fast and the word on the street was...the only 'losers' were the snoozers when it came to building a portfolio of brick and mortar. What we didn't realize at the time was we were approaching the top of a housing cycle. No biggie, unless you really overpaid.

Over the past 18 months though, the typical real estate Buyer has steadily evolved from the above mentioned 'Emotional' type to the more cautious 'Analytical' type, or so notes my Broker, Joe Pinto. It is a keen observation, I believe. No longer are young couples packing a 'back-up' checkbook in the glove box of the Hummer before beginning their weekly Open House patrol on Sundays. The day of the great American housing auction has gone the way of detente, it appears.

CNN reports that 'outbidding ambushes' in model units by the ubiquitous Jones clan (down the street) as well as Multiple Offers in general declined sharply in the Third Quarter across the Midwest. I heard Alan Greenspan sneezed during a luncheon in Washington and the market reacted accordingly. Sellers are jumping from first floor windows of their cul-de-sac ranch homes from Peoria to Padukah, says one suburban Broker. In downtown Chicago, Listing Agents just take the elevator to the lobby, head straight for the bar and wait for the Buy-side representation to serve up a lowball on the rocks....Ingredients: Identify a property, measure twice, Offer once, hold the urgency. No bubbles, please.

Faith Answered

Shame on anyone in the market for a home if they fail to make a deal at the bottom of this current housing cycle. One National Association of Realtors (NAR) report pointed to an 18 year high in housing inventory across the board nationally. That's a lot of meat in the freezer, as they say.

It is my observation that only the truly needy' are moving forward these days. And by 'needy' I mean just that--in need of a home. Be it a job transfer, domestic change (marriage/divorce), or unexpected triplets, there is a certain sector of the population always in the market for a new place to live.

If a thousand closed escrows a week was the Chicago average in 2004 and that number has been reduced by 30% today, this is still 700 transactions being negotiated, closed and recorded on the tax rolls. And while once wily investors are perhaps now standing in the wings licking their collective, speculative, and respective spreadsheet papercuts, I believe the path is clear and safe for those who purchase real estate for their primary residence.

No One Was There

The Cuban Missile Crisis. The Cold War. The Gas Shortage of the 1970's. The Double Digit Mortgage Rates of the 1980s. Inflation. Solar Flares. The Savings and Loan fiasco of the 1990s. The Killer Bees. The Killer Asian Carp. The Killer Asian Beetles. Recession. The Dot.Com thing of a decade ago. Health Care. The Y2K computer thing in 2000. The Housing Bubble talk of a year ago. Sub Prime Lending. The Credit Crunch. Over a dozen Presidential elections in my lifetime, both Republican and Democrat...all those panic driven headlines for the past 50 years and you know what?

Nothing really happened. Nothing that a little patience couldn't have remedied. Nothing that couldn't be attributed to some type of cycle except maybe that whole Y2K thing which was just plain stupid.

So Relax. Buy a house. I just did. In five years I'll be wishing I bought two at this price (like I always do). Only my self-proclaimed 8th Deadly Sin of Fear is keeping me from doing so. I admit it, I too am human and not immune from the media scuttle of the month. I keep one ear on the radio and one eye on the news channels like everyone else I know. And just between us, I do still wonder about those Killer Bees on occasion.

Geno Petro

Lessons Never Learned

While awaiting my turn in the checkout line (for the fifth time in as many days) at the Home Depot last Sunday it occurred to me that my wife and I alone probably spend as much money in a single weekend as my parents spent in an entire month raising a family of five. Even after backing out the present day cost of housing which borders on ridiculous, and adjusting the 1967 dollar to the 2007 equivilant, our lack of frugality is pretty close to shameful. We are 'consumers extraordinaire,' us Petros. 'Recycling' in this household means riding a bicycle we paid $900 for, more than once.

My mother used to run the house on around $100 of my father's monthly paycheck so it was Wheaties and whole milk on the 2nd and rolled oats and powdered milk by the 30th. Somewhere around the 15th, the 'milk' became a 50/50 powder solution, gradually increasing to 95% water by month's end. To this day, on the rare occasion I ever touch the stuff, I still shake a milk carton out of habit before pouring. And as far as ground beef goes... well just never mind.

The first house in my memory was a 3 bedroom, 1 bath Levittowner with a carport, in Levittown, Pennsylvania. Millions were built with three models to choose from, all with the same 3/1 layout. Everyone in the extended Petro family has either bought one or lived in one sometime in their (our) lives. Only the fronts of the houses, the color, and how they faced the street distinguished one from one's neighbor as many errant spouses claimed as a defense for Adultery in Divorce Court--or so went the neighborhood joke. "But your Honor, it was dark and I walked into the wrong Levittowner and..."

It was post WWII and the first modern suburban boom was sounding. $9999.99--which computed to $100 down and $69 a month for 30 years at a miserable interest rate--bought at least the first half hour of the not so great American Dream. And it was clear to anyone with even the slightest lick of ambition that the remainder of the Dream involved getting the hell out--which my parents eventually did 10 years later, selliing for a mere thousand more than they paid a decade earlier.

Our new house cost $26,000 in 1963 and was followed immediately by two additional children and the afore mentioned budget crunch. My mother stopped working and became a stay at home mom and in fairly short order I went from privileged Only Child status to the Oldest of Three in a single income household. In other words, it was Fruit Loops and cream to rolled oats and powdered milk in one fell swoop. No hard feelings or permanent damage, though. My sisters and I still shake our milk cartons one leg at a time to this day although the youngest, Liz, claims to have blocked a good portion of her early years completely from her memory.

On the ride home from HD I started to make some mental notes of my current spending habits and how these behaviors are most likely rooted in my past.---Brief Interruption---{Case In Point Number One (CIP#1): I'm downstairs in my home office writing this piece and my wife just calls my cell phone on her cell phone from the third floor of our house in her home office to ask me where I want to go for dinner tonight. Forty years ago I got grounded for using the wall mounted telephone in our Burnt Orange kitchen and if I ever dared to ask where we might be going for dinner that night, I'd probably get double grounded for being a smart ass-- which I was, BTW.} At any rate, I offer the following for your perusal:

* CIP #2: My mother would only drive the most basic of Volkswagons. No air. No radio. Roll-up windows. Stick-shift. Results: Both my sisters and I can drive any stick-shift vehicle of almost any non-commercial size variety with deft ability (my sister Margie can even drive a forklift) but if my car isn't made in Europe and equipped with power everything, I am an unhappy and discontented man.

* CIP #3: The whole living on a budget thing. Results: I check the price of almost nothing before I purchase and would rather throw-up on the table before ever presenting a coupon to a waiter. Even gift certificates bother me a little. I can only tell you in rough estimation what I have in any given bank account on any given day and our monthly American Express bill is so high that I can't remember the last time we ever had to buy airline tickets or hotel rooms with anything but Rewards Points--and we travel quite a bit.

* CIP #4: Housing then and now. Results: What can I say? I'm a Realtor. My wife and I buy places to live like other people buy basic transportation. Hopefully that pattern has been broken as I write this from our new (to us, that is. It was built in the 1890s) house in the Forest Glen neighborhood of Chicago. No, it is not a suburb. Yes, it's still within the city limits although it is an old established bedroom community with the Metra commuter stop (and all that goes along with that) just across the corner of our property line. It was by far, the biggest house on the market for the money. So what if nine hundred tons of diesel train and clanging bells come rolling through all hours of the day and night? One thing is for sure...it will never be mistaken for a Levittowner so all you errant men, stay away from my wife.

*CIP #5: Puppies in a box, $5. Year 1965. Results: Elvis, our overpriced 'Designer' American Bulldog/Boxer 'cross-breed' (i.e. mutt). Even he knows we got ripped off when we bought him a few years ago for $800.

*CIP #6: Family Values. Results: I think we're cool in this regard. A little spend thriftish? Maybe. But I truly believe my wife and I both took the best parts of our respective upbringings and integrated them into our present day lives. Neither one of us came from families of great or even marginal wealth. We both have Poverty-era parents who probably spend a lot of their silent time still worrying about money. My wife and I have a list of things from those wonder years that we ask each other and laugh about on occasion:

"Did you have to bring your brown paper lunch bags back home from school each day to use again the next day?"

"Did you have to refold the aluminum foil and bring it back, too? Pickle juice and all?"

"Did you have to drink 'Ting,' the cheaper version of Tang?" (I mean really...how expensive could Tang have ever been?)

"Did you have a 5 gallon keg of ice milk (not ice cream) in your freezer jammed between the rest of the 'side of beef'?"

"Did you have a lunch money jar? One Quarter, one dime, and one nickle...40 cents a day?"

And of course, my all time favorite: the above mentioned 'shake the milk bottle' scenario. I was talking to one of my childhood friends and his spouse at our 30th Class Reunion a few years ago who apparently had several children of their own. The ill fitting clothes and dull, pale pallor of the squat couple couldn't hide the years of sacrifice they themselves must have incurred. The college tuition alone must have set them back a cool half million. The subject came up in passing.
"Yeah," he remarked out of the blue. "What was with that milk thing at your mother's house?"

I ordered him a top shelf single malt scotch from the bartender to make up for the resurfaced mental picture from decades past and added that apparently his father got paid more than once a month. He didn't say anything. I then turned to my wife, the best looking woman in the room by everyone's standards and said in true Petro fashion,

"I'm hungry. Let go to Ruth's Chris."

Life is short and you're dead for a long time, as they say.

Geno Petro

Be Back Soon...

Yeah...like I know how to fish. Besides, it's a cruel sport. Anyway, I'll be catching up on my writings soon. It's a long, long story and involves a move from a condo to a house that needs work, a new computer that's apparently lost in DHL limbo, and a non-english cable/broadband guy who has my finger and thumb prints around his neck. (The latter is my fault I suppose, for never picking up the Eastern European languages in my younger years. And I'm just kidding about the neck thing.) If I can find a way to curb the profanity I think I may have a few things to say once all the construction dust has settled.

Ciao for now.

G