Boo to You, Scooby Doo...

Enough of the doom and gloom financial market Tricks, already. How about an evening of sugar coated Treats instead? My wife is dressing up in a mini skirt as the Real Estate Witch of Forest Glen this year so BEWARE all you short little sellers looking for some cheap bargains on Balmoral Avenue. The Hound of the Baskervilles has her back (see above) so there'll be no fooling around on this eerie Chicago eve. You might just get bit in the butt by who know who, Rooby Roo..... (once again, see above)


ps...Don't grab with both hands (the candy) and remember to say thank you, Mrs Petro. Oh yeah, and if you insist on being unreasonable in these slightly scary times, then at least bring your highest and best trick. In other words, No Contingencies!


Hoohoohaahaahaaa....


Geno Petro

The Doctor's Loan: Part 3 in a Series

A Treat...not a Trick!

Bank of America's Doctor's Loan Mortgage is an excellent financing option for physicians whether they recently graduated from medical school, in residency, or who have been in practice and already established in their servicing community. (Chris Hahn here in Chicago is the man I refer my real estate business to in these situations.) I've previously written about this here and here.

Many new medical school graduates are searching for loans with low interest rates and little or zero down payment. They don't care to use their student loan debt in the qualifying debt ratio and hope to project future income into the scenario, even before they start their first assignment. Chris and I, over the past months, have discussed at length a variety of programs that address such needs for this specialized condo and new home buyer.

Unfortunately, all standard Fannie Mae loans would outright deny such scenarios and most candidates using more traditional financing vehicles, would fail to secure and lock down the best rates once a potential property is identified. A lot of lenders try and work through these deals as non-conforming loans (with higher rates and rather static terms.) Chris Hahn offers a very competitive (if not the best) rate, little (sometimes zero) down payment, and does not include deferred student loans in the young (or old!) doctor's debt ratios. There is no Private Mortgage Insurance requirement (which allows for more of the monthly payment to go directly toward Principle and Interest) and once again, the physician or resident can qualify based on future income even before actually received.

Whether you are considering buying real estate here in Chicago or in any municipality across America that offers health care to its community, Chris Hahn can accomodate your post medical school financing needs. You can Subscribe to this Blog by registering in the sidebar and you can Search the Entire Chicago MLS (Multiple Listing Service) by simply following this link.

Geno Petro

Yikes Stripes!

So I was standing on the sidewalk in front of my 33 E. 26th Street Chicago real estate listing watching the tow truck yank a late model Crown Victoria from the front patio of my client's residence. The vehicle (driver?) somehow (drinking?) managed to leave the roadway, jump the curb, carom across the sidewalk and crash through the iron fence before coming to rest a few feet from the sliding glass door, the gas guzzling beast left teetering above the sunken patio. My showing appointment was due in 15 minutes and I was hoping (praying) that at least the car would be gone by then. From what I was told it had been dangling there for hours. Passersby couldn't help stopping for a gander. Unbelievable, really.

A man and a woman walked up to me and announced that they lived in the next building (same project) and that they too, may want to go on the market in the Spring; or so I think I understood them to say. I could barely interpret their broken (shattered) English. My guess, if I had to put money on it (from all my dining experience), would be Mainland Chinese. Chicago's Chinatown neighborhood, after all, is only a few blocks away.

"Ours on top floor. No car." They smile very wide. "Joke."

"Yes, it is very funny," I say. "I get it." And it is. Funny. Sort of. If you don't actually own the condo. And if it's not your Listing. And if you didn't have a showing in 15 minutes.

I ponder my options and decide to keep the showing appointment as I wave goodbye to my new friends next door. They wave back animately. I wait for 30 minutes. I get blown off. Yet again. So much for advertising on Craigslist.

(On a side note, check out my latest post on Bloodhound Blog.)


Geno Petro


pix by mike drury and me.

God F.S.B.O. in Chicago

I suppose it's how one defines 'Good News' (or even God, for that matter). Personally, I'm getting mixed messages here. As I snapped these shots I couldn't help but feel a little put off that The Owner chose not to use a realtor or more critically, that He didn't see this whole economic downturn thing coming in the first place. And what's more, He's trying to save a few points on the commission by selling it Himself. Good luck with that Master Plan, Big Guy.

Also, since He created everything to begin with, one would think He'd have picked a better location to set up shop but maybe this is just sour grapes on my part. I haven't been feeling the Love lately even though people have mentioned to me from time to time that I am a 'miracle' although quite possibly, tongue in cheek. I gave the number on the F.S.B.O. sign a call just for the hell of it (pun) and some guy named Peter picked up. Hmmm...

For Sale By Owner. Makes perfect sense to me. As I've mentioned many times over the years, I was a real estate consumer long before I was ever a real estate professional. And since moving to Chicago 13 years ago (OMG...I mean OMF.S.B.O., has it been that long already?) I've negotiated more than my mortal share of deals on both sides of the property fence so I don't begrudge Someone trying to save a buck or two by selling it Himself. Just be careful. There are a lot of unsavory characters walking around this Earth but then again, I suppose that would be preaching to the Choir, telling Noah about the flood, Jonah about the whale, et al...

Geno Petro


ps... Happy Birthday Dad. There's a UPS box on your front porch. I hope.

I think I thought (I saw you try)

'That's me in the Corner'

My voter registration card came in the mail this morning, just under the wire as usual. And rightly so. I don't know what I think about politics these days, I really don't. It is one of those subjects I've always mentally deferred to the pundits who are supposed to know better than I---specifically politicians, elected officials (the actual winners, please), and those who objectively report and editorialize on the red, blue and green concerns of this culturally divided country. (Isn't there some uniform 'Objective Oath' everyone in the Media is required to take after journalism/modeling school? Maybe not. Maybe I ditched that day in high school and am just experiencing a time released Poli-Sci hallucination.)

Same thing, I believe, holds true with the medicine/health care industry that everyone is always yapping about. I just assume the doctors and everyone else involved in that profession--nurses, administrators, pharmaceutical salesmen--know what's new and shiny in the field and their word is, well...up. Word up, Doc. There is an Oath they all pledge to, I'm almost positive (although maybe not for the salesmen). In other words, I've always relied on sources outside my own subjective cranium (thick head) for the real, unfiltered, 'down low' (Oprah) on what is swirling around me in this universe of billions and trillions (population and national debt respectively).



For reasons too personal to delve into here, my own 'first thoughts' are usually self-motivated and thus, make me lack the objectivity needed to execute clear, unfettered judgments in areas where voices must be heard and votes counted. This is why I skim over 30 to 40 blogs each day--many more on a slow Chicago real estate day--for other peoples' opinions and insights (hey, I'm a fast if not totally retentive reader with a relatively short attention span and a fairly open mind...I think.). Oh, and I've always read into musical lyrics more than is actually there. Ah Music! Nature's muse....the true opiate of the peeps. 'Like a hurt lost and blinded fool, fool...'


Most bloggers (some professional but many more amateur and apparently lonely) I read are so out of their minds over one candidate or the other that the noise is just confusing me even more. I have to say, I'm a little worried about more than a few of my fellow scribes given the subjective, party line diatribes I've been perusing these past few weeks.

November 4th, 2008, will be the 14th presidential Election Day of my life; 13 of which I have at least a passing (vague?) recollection. And quite honestly, nothing much besides fashion, technology and music has changed from this man's vantage point. My own personal time traveling bubble that has been hovering 5 feet 10 inches above this Earth since the mid-1950s still can't push through the rhetoric and the political buzz that surrounds such red letter events as Election Day; dull, stale, and obtuse as its always been....



When I was four years old, there was a Kennedy family who lived in a custom Levittowner at the top of our drive. The father was a steel mill supervisor who wore a suit and they had a hundred kids running around their expanded, single level asbestos sided American Dream. In my small mind I remember thinking it was him everyone was talking about, this Mr. Kennedy. He was a man who lived at the top of our hill and just got elected President, whatever that meant. I remember wondering why my own father wasn't the one who got elected although he only wore a suit on Sundays. Maybe that was it, I thought. My wife told me she wondered the same thing about her own father when she was a kid. Ironically, the two most decent and honest men we both know are not on the ballot this year and never have been.


'Losing My Religion?'




Perhaps. I think Sarah Palin is cute (especially the Photo Shopped versions) although I've known much cuter, and Barack Obama is handsome and alert. Joe Biden and John McCain, both strained and blurry through these weakening eyes, somehow remind me of two old college fraternity rivals reminiscing back to a time when everyone wore coon skin hats and big Varsity letters on their sweaters. A Tom Collins society. Wing tips and tie bars. Mad men from another era. Someone is yelling into a megaphone..."Go Harvard! Go Yale!" No Ivy League child left behind...

There is incongruity along party lines. Both sides are mismatched, I observe. And I'm pretty sure at least one of the four in this presidential spotlight isn't even a real politician. (Guess who.) So my question to the universe is: Why do I even have to order off this menu at all? Chicken or Fish? Hmmm. Can I get back to you on that?



"Honey, don't RSVP my cousin's Vinny's wedding just yet. The first two times he got married the food was outstanding. But this time, well..."

"Maybe the loan sharking business is feeling the crunch too," my Honey retorts.



"Hey, don't be judgmental," I quip. "The politically correct term is Sub Prime. That side of the family is sensitive."



"Anyone offering only chicken and fish to registered gift-toting guests is not sensitive," she says. "This I do know, political, familial, or otherwise."

"They're Democrats," I whisper, not even knowing what party I belong to anymore. And by the way, where exactly have you gone, Joe The Plumber DiMaggio? (sorry, had to slip it in.)


'Just a dream, just a dream'


a) How has my life changed since I've been a voting adult?

... and...

b) How much of this 'change' do I attribute to government interaction?


The answers in order are:


a) A lot.

and

b) Zero.

I make the money I make. I pay the taxes I pay according to the tax code that's in place at the time. I either do or do not have health insurance on any given day depending on who I go to and who choses to participate in whatever plan I subscribe to. I basically do what I'm told (not really) as mandated by the rules of life in general.

What I'm saying is I just don't feel strongly one way or another about any of the choices on my ballot this go-round. I'm not so sure those running for office do either. I've watched every debate with as objective a mind as someone who doesn't give a crap can. I'm telling you, juxtapose the sound bites and distort the voices and I'll be damned if they're not all proclaiming the very same thing--Utopia. Opiate. Bullshat....

I go back to the mail on my desk. I look at the voter registration card I just received and study the front. My name is misspelled. I glance at the wedding invitation tucked between the pages of a half read article about Cindy McCain in The New Yorker. The accompanying illustration makes her appear prettier than she really is. I pull out the makeshift bookmark and examine it. Chicken or fish? I finally come to a conclusion:



When improperly prepared, fish can actually taste like chicken. And what could possibly be worse than that? The opposite, I suppose. I check Will Not Attend and throw it back on top of the pile of other undecided rhetoric on my desk. Note to self: 'unjam the shredder.'

Geno Petro

assorted lyrics by R.E.M.

photo courtesy of C. McCain's medicine cabinet

Stat, Stat! (Doctor's Loan Part 2)

Stat: –adverb Medicine/Medical Informal. Immediately.

Like many people my age (teenager in the 1970s), M*A*S*H* reruns are forever ingrained in sepia, stored in the back of my mental media vault. The familiar theme song--something about painless suicide (how romantic), the helicopter landing with stretchers and MDs scurrying, that blond actress with those fat (hot?) lips made it all so glamorous to be an unshaven, martini sipping surgeon in 1950s Korea. I know of at least three guys (including my oldest cousin) who were directly affected by that series and went on to study medicine. I couldn't cut up the frog in Biology so I headed off in another direction (while still having notions of one day at least playing a doctor on TV). As we all know, I ended up in sales.

But for those who wish to follow their Socratic dreams and also possess the grades and wherewithal to back it up, there is one fabulous perk at the end of the journey; Home Mortgage Assistance in the form of a so called Doctor's Loan. And for those blessed Medical Residents who have been sacrificing precious time, money and energy for an 8 extra years, Bank of America is the preferred provider of such a benefit in my book. Chris Hahn, a good friend and personal client (as am I to him), is the B of A man behind this very special plan for Medical Residents, Medical Doctors, Licensed Dental Surgeons specialing in oral and maxillofacial surgery, and full-time Medical Instructors who are also Medical Doctors.

Turn on CNBC (or any financial channel for that matter) this week and you see what we all see--the world Banking System in shambles. Except for Bank of America (and one or two others perhaps), lending institutions across the board are looking to bigger, rock solid suitors for infusions of Capital. Chris Hahn's company is just such a suitor. Bank of America is a beacon to which all other financial institutions turn in dire financial times. And for those in the medical profession, it is the only ship in this housing port with it's low money down programs (5/1 and 7/1 Adjustable Arms as well as 15 and 30 Fixed Rate vehicles). There is no income restrictions and even an allowance for undocumented income is permitted in certain situations. These programs are available for both Purchase and Refinance.

Hawkeye Pierce spent the entire war reminiscing and waxing poetic for his beloved Crabapple Cove, Maine and the quintessential American Dream that it embodied. The House. The Wife. The Kids. And while Chris Hahn and myself can't do much about the latter two, we've both got you covered on the former; The House, and more specifically, the Doctor's Loan that goes with it. It's right up our respective Chicago alleys, so to speak. I personally only do business here in Cook and surrounding counties (Chicagoland) but Chris can originate loans anywhere in America. Just click on his link above or in my sidebar to the right under Mortgage Guru.

So all of you Maxwell Q. Klingers out there, get out your party dresses. It's almost Saturday night. Don't waste all your energy trying to prove you shouldn't be in the Army (or buy a house at the bottom of a market). Dance with the ones 'who brung ya'... (that would be us).

Stat. Stat. It's happy hour at the 4077. The war is almost over and a pristine Cape Cod is waiting for a buyer in your personal Crabapple Cove. (Oh yeah...MDs need only apply.)

Geno Petro

Hey Chicago

Come to Bloodhound Blog OR Geno From Chicago to check out my latest posts across the internet.

Thanks for reading and for your comments. I generally can't respond but I do read every one...more than once!

G

Is it safe to come out yet?

We are hunkered down. We've brought in supplies for the long November haul. Our new minds are set. Storm windows are affixed and our shutters pulled tight and locked. Our safes are stuffed with inflated tender; confederate currency for a later day perhaps, pilfered from the Dows, the Joneses, and the Banks of middle America. Our media scouts up on the Hill tell us there is hope on the fiscal horizon but the morning on this day is still dark and cool. We put our ears to the ground and sense apathy rumbling amongst our uncivil servants.

We've opened our garage stables and set our horses free to run in the solar wind, too expensive to maintain anymore. We are willing to walk away from our leveraged homesteads, settling for pennies on the dollar when our escrowed notes expire; Selling short. Falling shorter.

On the safe side of the glass we look across the plains and into the vortex. We count our blessings on one hand and await the new Obama Nation with fingers crossed, on the other. Our children join us on our financial corners begging for spare Euros. You can keep the Change. We want Service... and at least two weeks in Cabo (oceanfront) for the holidays. We are, after all, still Americans.

Geno Petro

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Geno Petro

The Doctor's Loan: Part One in a Series

I was working with an out-of-state client earlier this summer who had just completed the last stage of his Medical Residency and was planning a move to Chicago. He was hoping to purchase a condominium along Lake Michigan that was walking distance to his new hospital and priced around $300,000. The two big, lingering questions on his mind were:

1) 'How would his accrued Medical School debts affect his ability to purchase a first home?'

and

2) 'How much down payment and closing cost money would be needed for such a purchase?

I immediately shot off an email to Chris Hahn at Bank of America, the only professional source in Chicago I know of who specializes in such a program. This is what I found:

• While some loans are available with No Money Down, a nominal amount of capital (3-5%) is generally required. Still, this is far less than many conventional conforming loans on the market today.
  
  
• PMI (Private Mortgage Insurance) is usually NOT required.

• Student Loans are NOT counted in the Debt Ratios.

• Flexible Loan Programs (such as ARMS and Interest Only) are available.
  
  

This program is available to Medical Residents, Medical Doctors, Licensed Dental Surgeons specializing in oral and maxillofacial surgery and full-time Medical Instructors who are Licensed Doctors.

Feel free to comment below or simply email Chris Hahn at:

Christopher.T.Hahn@BankOfAmerica.com

Geno Petro

Chicago Cinema

Mona and I had a bite to eat at La Creperie on Clark Street last evening then afterwards, walked over to the Landmark's Century Centre Cinema for a reception and screening of Chicago Writer/Director Steve Conrad's The Promotion starring Chicago actors John C. Reilly and Fred Armisen. Sponsored by the Midwest Independent Film Festival, a Producer's Panel, headed by long time local movie mainstay Steve Jones, kicked off the non-socializing part of the night at 6:30 followed by the 85 minute semi-dark comedy. Conrad and Jones then held a brief Q&A before everyone, several hundred independent film and media types, flocked to an after party at Forno Diablo on Diversey. I had to grab my wife by the arm and head in the opposite direction; home to reality in Forest Glen and a good night's sleep after a long real estate day (a career as rewarding at times, but not nearly as glamorous, I've concluded).

The beauty of this sweet and funny film, for me, was not so much the clever dialogue and intelligent performances from a variety of local actors but the presence of the various Chicago settings in the frames; a south side grocery store at Greenwood and 55th Street, several vacant lots in gentrifying areas with new construction projects and crafty shots of the skyline in the rack-focused background (not the usual stock footage of the Sears, Hancock, Lakefront, Navy Pier, etc ...), interior settings of 1920's brick apartment dwellings and two-flats, and of course...the cadre of Chicago 'extras' on the street (and in the parking lot--rent the DVD which comes out this week and you'll see what I mean. Hilarious.).

The first Tuesday of every month a different independent film from Chicago (and the other Midwestern states) is featured. My suggestion though, is to inquire about passes in advance. At the ticket booth I was told there was only one ticket left and I reluctantly forked over $10 for it at the urging of my wife. "Don't worry. I'll get in," she promised as she wandered up to the guy standing behind the velvet VIP rope. A few minutes later she was back with a ticket of her own.

"How did you manage that?" I asked.

"I told them my husband was a writer. He asked me 'who's your husband?' I said Geno Petro. He looked down at his paperwork and said 'he's not on the list. What's his name?' I said Geno Petro...okay, maybe he's just a blogger. Anyway, he gave me a ticket for free."

Figures. Beauty works every time. But then again, she actually looks like a movie star. I only look like a blogger.


Geno Petro

Bad to da Chicago bone

This gray, primed beast can usually be found parked in front of Suzie China's on Lincoln Ave in the West Lakeview neighborhood of Chicago at around high noon. It's 'chopped and channeled and lowered and louvered' and...well, it pretty much follows along with the rest of the lines of that old Tom Waits song, too. The machine may be out of time and place with the rest of the BMW condo set in this bustling upwardly mobile phoned community but one thing is for sure; it is definitely not 'cookie cutter.'

In the last 10 years this offbeat Ashland/Belmont/Lincoln enclave has moved from a double row of gritty storefronts and 1920s apartment rentals to an upscale, walk around 'hood along the lines of Lincoln Square, Roscoe Village, and even Bucktown. Only Suzie C and a handful of other old mainstays remain. In this way, the old gray beast is a metaphor of yesteryear Chicago.

They don't build cars with chrome teeth anymore. And while it may take a fairly frugal owner to shun a two-tone emerald powdercoat for an Earl Sheibs coupon special, it takes an even out-of-the-boxier individual to keep the paint job primer gray with a cobwebbed pinstripe applique. But above all, I think, it takes a truly singular soul, with an iron clad constitution (and colon), to eat at Suzie China's everyday.

Geno Petro

i snapped the shot (but as always, I did not shoot the deputy...)

Chicago Hardball

I am, what some might call, a Bi-Soxual--I love both teams, north(side) as well as south(side). If a ball, bat and hot dogs are involved then I'm all in. If a cool, summer Chicago night happens to be the setting, all the better. Add a couple dingers over the left field fence and a 7th inning stretch led by Cubbie great, Ron Santo or Drunky Martin offspring, Dina...well, words just can't describe the euphoria. Not fully, anyway. (Only a quick correction from a flat Chicago real estate market could be better. But for now, I'll enjoy the hot dogs and the dingers.)

As of this writing both the Chicago White Sox and the Chicago Cubs are perched atop their respective Divisions with 36 games to go. In interleague play back in June, each team swept the other at home. Then there's Lou. And Ozzie. And the fans.

I've heard mutterings of a 'Subway Series' as I go about my day; water cooler talk in the office, passing conversations on the sidewalk, whispers carrying on the lake front breeze over the bike paths and beaches. Toddlers are donned with Cubbie Blue and White Sox Black as the mothers congregate in Starbacks for their morning fixes. W flags are hanging everywhere north of Madison. The radio talk show pundits recalculate the Vegas spread on a daily basis.

And the numbers don't lie:

Theriot is batting 316. Quentin has 35 Homers. Jenks has 25 Saves, Wood 26. Soriano is on fire. The Cubs have the strongest batting line-up in the majors. The Sox may have the best bullpen of all time (according to Joe Morgan and others). October is only weeks away--that's 36 games in baseball years--and Chicago is ready for some cross-town hardball. When the boys of summer are gone (the Brewers, the Twins, the Yanks, et al) that's when the men of autumn suit up and play for all the marbles, several million each in bonus money (split 50 ways), and the Championship flag; the World Series in Chicago...somebody pinch me, please. And just to be clear, the word was Bi-Sox-ual.

Geno Petro

pix: Wrigley Field from the $52.00 nosebleed seats (another story for another day) and a guy (who only looks like me) in a goofy shirt.

A Cafe Society

I was cruising down Lincoln Avenue last week when I caught a glimpse of the rare bird out of the corner of my eye. She was perched at a meter in front of the Starbucks at Greenview but by the time I pulled over to the curb for a closer look, she had flown away in the opposite direction towards Southport Avenue in a blur of orange creme beauty. I couldn't identify the exact specimen at first but I made a note to myself on the iPhone...'Cafe Racer/Orange/very rare/Google it.'

Two days ago I saw her again, banking the Diversey/Racine/Lincoln 6 way at a 45 degree angle and sling shotting toward the Chicago lake front and all things high rise and condominium. I did a loose back end U-turn, gunned it, but lost her just before the Sheffield Brown Line construction quagmire, my Mini Cooper jammed between two CTA buses and a Flash Cab, everyone's horn blaring at once in the same impatient disharmony. This time I noticed the badge on the gas tank as she weaved between vehicles, eastward and away---BMW Cafe. She soared into the exhaust horizon...

Now if you've ever met my father you would know for sure that you've been in the presence of a true Birder (that's a bird watcher in layman's terms). The fascination has been there for as long as I can recall. There was the time he spotted a 'flicker' (Woodpecker? Not quite) on Roosevelt Boulevard in Philadelphia and stopped his Cadillac dead in the middle lane of traffic for a better, craned neck view. There were the countless trips to Cape May, New Jersey and the Maryland wetlands, in his younger days, to catch a glimpse of soaring eagles or sandy beach egrets. His den at home is packed with Omithological reference books, high end binoculars, artwork, photos, and bird sounding clocks. Lot's of clocks--every hour, on the hour; CHIRP. Chirp, chirp, WHISTLE, Whistle, whistle, BEEP, Beep, beep or some variation thereof. Anyway, that's where I get it from.

I've always looked at motorized vehicles, cars and motorcycles alike, as engineering wonders of beauty (save the occasional Chevy Vega or Ford Maverick. The AMC Pacer was pretty lame too, along with countless station wagons and most things with four or more doors). Some however, are almost the same as Art. The rare few are Art. I've collected them for years in my mind.

When I was seven or eight years old I would sit on the grassy area alongside the Mill Creek Parkway in Levittown and identify the cars as they zoomed by; 1950s and 60s Impalas, Bel Airs, Imperials, the rare Corvette Stingray, a whole variety of Studebakers and Ramblers. Later on, and a little further south down the Eastern Seaboard, motorcycles would be included in the ritual; Triumphs, Nortons, BSAs and of course, Harleys. I never did acquire a taste for anything Japanese (two or four wheelers) although the new Lexus L650H V12 Hybrid Super Sedan is a bad maama jaama, from what they say.

My first and only motorcycle was a 1969 BSA 441 Victor; yellow and chrome with a ripped leather seat and scratchy horsehair sticking out. It smelled like a saddle; a saddle and motor oil. I rode it until it needed a total rebuild and eventually sold it in a basket for $441. It, like most of the guitars that have also passed through my hands over the years, would be worth many, many times the original value had I kept it. Doesn't matter anyway, my wife won't let me have a motorcycle and my dog goes bonkers whenever he hears one rumble down the street as every other husband on my block in Forest Glen has a big, fat Harley (okay, maybe not every husband, but a few...at least one I'm positive of, although he may not actually be married anymore). Anyway... I am allowed to look...

I saw the orange and creme BMW Cafe parked in front of the Starbucks near my office on Friday. I recognized the owner as he sat on the patio and worked his crossword puzzle. I felt like a kid asking for an autograph as I interrupted his morning ritual.

"Is that your bike?" I asked motioning toward the sidewalk with my head.

"Yeah."

"Can I take a picture?" I followed.

He looked up at me for a second, sizing me up no doubt; 'Older dude. Bike enthusiast. Probably has a wife who won't let him have a motorcycle.'

"Sure. Go ahead..." he said.

I almost got clipped by a beer truck as I stood in the street trying to get a cool angle with my iPhone camera. Like I mentioned earlier, I am very closely related to a man who will slam on the brakes in the middle of Philadelphia to see a yellow breasted sap sucker. We are fearless, us Petros, if nothing else. Fearless with an eye for beauty.

Geno Petro

Chicago Market Days

There are a lot of places where, quite frankly, I stick out like a sore thumb (see photos in the sidebar > ) but believe me when I tell you, Chicago's Halsted Street in August is not one of those places....









...and I think I'll just leave it at that.


Geno Petro

yeah, I took them all

Drove my Chevy to the Levee...

...then I left it there for 35 years. Nostalgia will not get the best of me. Not this time. It's back to the future, if anything.

You see, I went to my 20th high school reunion back in 1994--an event I had pondered for the better part of a decade prior--basically wondering how my peers were aging and succeeding in comparison to...well, me. But no, that wasn't enough. I had to go back for seconds 10 years later, even fatter, balder and more mediocre (but with a much better wife) than the first time. Few classmates looked even vaguely familiar during this second visit, and I spent most of the evening talking with someone named Chippy; a person I'd never seen before in my life (although according to him we were the best of buds back in the day... frequently skipping homeroom for higher ground, as it were. Hey, I don't remember nothin' but apparently, he graduated from Duke and I barely made it through Slippery Rock with a 2.0 average so he must not have been inhaling.). Anyway, the few people I did recognize were very happy to learn that rumors of my early demise 'were greatly exaggerated,' to paraphrase Twain/Clements/et al... as was I.

I left high school thinking I was going to be an actor or a writer or a movie director but ended up selling insurance for 15 years--my 'profession' when I made that first grand re-entrance to a gallery of uncaring eyes at the 20th gathering. A good many of my immediate peers in attendance had either inherited family businesses or were existing on some form of trust fund or another. Old money runs deep and wide in those Mid-Atlantic southern states or at least, that's how I've observed it over the years. All my rich kid friends became rich parent aquaintances--if even that.

When I hobbled into the 30th get together, 10 years later, I held the designation of 'Chicago Realtor.' Again, my immediate peers were either semi-retired or at the very least, identical clones of their own wealthy mothers and fathers, grandparents, etc.; good old boys in the richest sense. Old money is funny like that--it is genetically unforgiving. More so than ever, I realized that I was cast into a life where any success on my part would have to either come from within (i.e....selling lots of condos, houses and multi-units), or via the Illinois lottery.

And now it's 2008 and Classmates.com has informed me of yet another soiree---The 35th Reunion of the Myers Park Graduating Class of 1974. I emailed Chippy to see if he was going but he responded back saying he had no idea who I was and to take him off my list. (I email at least a half dozen other people every week I never went to high school with who tell me basically the same thing. The real estate business is also funny that way--quite unforgiving in its own right.)

The truth is, I don't have a list. I only approach those who have either happened upon one of my blogs or Googled 'Chicago Real Estate' and registered on our ChicagoHomeEstates.com site. These registrants are then assigned to me for follow-up. I don't send out direct mail or make cold calls or even knock on doors anymore. No farming. No magnets. No newspaper advertising, to be sure. No billboards. Only the Internet, dear friends (and the occasional referral or past client still residing in the overtaxed boundries of Cook County). The Internet holds the passcode to the future of Chicago real estate marketing as I see it. So don't worry Chippy, you'll never hear from me again. Same for anyone who has registered but apparently forgotten. Not a problem. I'm trying to reduce my oversized nostalgic footprint anyway.

And while I'm at it, bye bye to Miss American Pie as well. I'm sick of the refrain and you're getting a little long in the tooth, if you don't mind me saying. After a couple hundred million spins of the disk over a 35 year period this could very well be the day that I die and I don't want that tune stuck in my skull ad infinitum. Like I mentioned a few minutes ago...you can find my Chevy at the levee with a couple thousand cases of long ago emptied whiskey and rye. And if the good old boys still feel like singing around the yesteryear campfire, so be it. I'll be scouring the Chicago MLS on my laptop for price reductions.

Geno Petro

and no...it's not really my ride.

No Crying in Baseball

It's one of my favorite Tom Hanks lines..."There's no crying in baseball." How could there be? In Chicago, with both teams currently at the top of their respective divisions in early August, only tears of joy are permitted. Those, and perhaps the kind that come from too much hot pepper and gardinara on the sausage, if you know what I'm sayin'. Can you tell....I just came back from a game?

The two Pinto brothers, Joe and Carmen, took me down to the old neighborhood at 32nd Street to see the White Sox chase the Tigers out of town last night. I hadn't been to 'The Cell' since...well, since its been 'The Cell' (U.S. Cellular Field for all of you outta towners and anyone trying to use AT&T service on the premises), and I have to say it's a wonderful ball park; great sight lines, good food, and lots of fanfare. And a shot of Southside Chicago revelry too; a couple of old rat pack dudes in tuxedos and bad toupees doing Frank and Deano at the front gate stage, three more fat dudes, also in tuxedos, singing The Star Spangled Banner in opera, and the lovely Dina Martin (Dean's daughter) singing Amore! on the 1st Base dugout during the 7th inning 'Stretch. Hey, it was Italian night....whacanIsay?

A few more sausages, a cup of lemon ice, and a giant pretzel with mustard later, I was drinking Alka Seltzer and chewing Extra Strength Tums like Christmas candy just to make it into dreamland where I, too, can imagine myself at the hot corner, wearing black and white pin stripes before a cheering crowd of 35,000. After all, Crede is on minor league rehabilitation assignment and Uribe is now playing third. He's batting .216 which is only .216 more than me...and I'm not even on a team.

Geno Petro