Andrew Lenza Real Estate

Thank the Germans

2011-11-23T12:11:52Z

Thank the Germans for the word “thanks.” The Proto-Germans coined the original connotation around 200 A.D. Then, the word for thanks was “pancian.”

When the Goths, the first Germans, traipsed from Sweden to the Baltic Sea around the time of Jesus, they no doubt left a trail of heart-felt thank you’s along the way.

Thanks for your mead.

Thanks for your head.

Thanks for your daughter.

Although we have no way of knowing how they said it.

Until that marauding horde reached the land which is now Denmark, stripping the landscape of any resources so the Danes resorted to whittling shoes out of driftwood.

“Pancian” morphed to “thankojan," replaced by “danke” in the Middle Ages.

Fast forward several hundred years to the 20th century and the Austrians who fell under Nazi control as characterized by the movie The Sound of Music, for which we are all thankful that the seven, annoying Von Trapp children didn’t tap dance as well as harmonize.

I’m thankful the Allies defeated the Axis and saved the world from ledenhosen and the attendant inner-thigh chafing that comes from wrapping one’s privates in cowhide.

None of this etymology benefited the Native American Indians. The Anglos brought war, syphilis, smallpox and funny spats. Doesn’t seem fair the Pilgrims traded the Wampanoag tribe pestilence and pantaloons for maize soon after the meal.

As members of the League of Delaware indians, the Wampanoags spoke Algonquin. The Algonquin word for thanks is “meegwetch.”

Perhaps today’s slang “corn hole” is more fitting.

#OccupyDogPark

2011-10-11T18:42:53Z

I woke up ready to change my world. I’ve always felt a secret admiration for cats. They’re often maligned, labeled “aloof” and “distant.” Who speaks for cats? I will, I thought to myself.

I will speak for cats.

I headed over to the neighborhood dog park and chained myself to the gates at five in the morning and waited.

Waited (played Angry Birds on my I-pad).

Waited for the first dog-walkers to arrive and begin my protest. It’s a myth that dog owners are early risers. The first couple arrived at 8:45AM with a grotesquely overweight basset hound that smelled of polyurethane. Were they wrapping the dog up in a new raincoat every night?

“What’s up?” asked the man, a squatty fellow with a monk’s hairdo.

“I’m occupying this dog park,” I said, “like those Wall Street protesters.”

The woman bent her yellow-frosted head close to the man’s shoulder and yelled, “There’s an octopus in the dog park? That’s farkin ridiculous!” She wore a cocktail dress and patent fuscia heels.

Her shrill pierced the bucolic surroundings. Quarter to nine didn’t seem that late anymore.

The man rolled his eyes. “She’s hard of hearing.”

"Oh," I mustered, fearing I would become emotionally attached to one of my oppressors.

“What’s the purpose of your protest?” asked the man half-interested, trying to shimmy past me and the chain link while dragging the plump, plastic-smelling ‘Beano.’

“You’re not going to fit. You’re both too--.”

The man shot me a look.

“I’m really bolted on here,” I bragged.

He retreated a step. The woman started to wander back towards their BMW, the stilettos clicking against the gravel of the parking lot.

“Seriously,” he said, drawing a long breath and resisting an outburst, “Beano wants to walk.”

“Wouldn’t Beano be happier if his feline counterparts could walk with him? Every 11.2 minutes some well-meaning American is posting a photo on Facebook of a dog and a cat communing together, but it’s all a farce. Most of those pictures are photoshopped. Or the cats are drugged. Cats aren’t allowed here. It’s a segregation of the species. Everyone turns a blind eye. There’s real injustice happening in every dog park across this great land,” I finished.

“People don’t walk cats,” the man defended.

I noticed the woman started to edge dangerously close to the side of the road. Seconds later a school bus nearly de-heeled her.

“Are you going to go get her?” I asked.

“She’s fine. Sees like a hawk,” he muttered. “What do you attempt to change?” he asked, perking up. “You’re only one man. There are hundreds of dog parks in New Jersey, thousands in the country.”

“My peeps are coming. #OccupyDogPark is all over Twitter. We assembled a Finance Committee. Donations are pouring in. We’ve made contact with the feral underground,” I said, my adrenaline starting to race.

“You and Beano and Whatever-happened-to-Baby-Jane over there better get used to cats sharing this dog park,” I announced, certain of triumph.

Just then the woman fell over a highway cone and plopped on the far shoulder of the road.

“Are you--” but he didn’t let me finish.

“Fine, fine, fine,” he waved me off. “She’s sleepy.”

Beano started to howl and paw at the matted grass.

“I am getting angry,” snarled the man. “Beano is getting angry, too, aren’t you boy? Yes, you are. Angry Beano. Badass Beano. Going to bite the shiftless rabble,” he bent down and started stroking the dog’s scruff.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the woman’s motionless form. A Poland Springs water truck rushed down the lane, the force sucking one of her Betsey Johnson heels off her foot; her pink heel landed between the double yellow lines.

Still, she didn’t move.

I couldn’t unlock myself fast enough and run to her.

Victorious, he boomed behind me, “that’s the problem with you kids. You abandon the cause too easily. Cats in the dog park. Ha! Never happen!”

I heard the fence open and Beano pant as he entered the Promised Land.

When I rolled her on her side, I caught the first whiff of caramel alcohol. She reeked of Amaretto. Another car pulled into the lot. I saw a brown lab bounce excitedly from front seat to back inside a Saab. I had forfeited the advantage. More dogs would come.

The woman reached up and grabbed my arm as I knelt beside her.

“Waffles?” she slurred, one eye a-flutter. A streak of drool, like a snail’s slick, lined her cheek.

I would not speak for cats.

Sonny's Key, Part I

2011-06-07T18:10:45Z

Non-real estate fiction ...

Silence terrified Minna. Or so her lover thought. Sonny suspected an episode of her youth, a familial indiscretion of such magnitude that to refrain from conversation risked a return of the unspeakable horror.

Minna did not prattle, though. She did not babble.

She talked purposefully with a slow meander, Sonny surmised, to stay an evil only she could recognize.

Sonny found himself lost in the verbal avalanche. He tried to tether his attention to a certain word in the endless whiteout and then belay himself back to a position of comprehension, but Minna proved too expert a shirpa for him to retrace.

He miscalculated with the Word-a-Day calendar, hoping an esoteric word here or there might provide secure footing. Her vocabulary proliferated and the new additions further confused him until he asked the same juvenile questions to keep pace.

“Are you still talking about bio-terrorists?” he asked.

To which Minna would cut him a look of absolute astonishment.

“Anthrax? No. I’m talking about my cousin’s baby shower. Hello to Sonny. Transport ship leaving Pluto for Earth. Last call,” she mocked. “I really wonder where it is you go when you go.”

“I’m here,” said Sonny.

On a freezing Saturday evening he made the mistake of blaming her when he missed the exit. “I would have turned off if you didn’t distract me with all the gum-flapping.”

“My fault,” she muttered, “always my fault for your fault. Fine. I’ll shut up,” she warned. Sonny hid his preoccupation with the Honda’s clock while silence surrounded them.

How long could she stay quiet?

* *

Sonny is scared of conversation, thought Minna.

When they were dating she spent the better part of six months probing his childhood, school and work history; always looking for the seminal event of Sonny’s life that explained the young man’s disllusionment with dialogue.

Her mother tried to assure her. “He’s just not a talker. Kiss the rosary, Minna. Some men want to sit at the kitchen table with the women and gab. It’s not a fit. Your Uncle Dimi was always hanging around your Aunt Nettie when we played Hand-and-Foot. I wanted to say ‘Go inside and watch the game with the fellas.’”

Minna fell upon the theory that a phrase could unlock her beau’s lips, possibly a single word. So against her parents’ advice she moved in with Sonny, who unsurprisingly, did not raise a word in protest.

She came to call the missing glyph between them as ‘Sonny’s key.’ After another six months, she ruled out common sayings and traffic signs. Sonny steered clear the closing doors and tested the brakes on a steep decline. He touched wet paint with a civil disobedience.

She turned to foreign languages.

A pricey dinner at the new French place on Gibraltar eliminated fois grais. A goose did not purloin Sonny’s golden tongue. She rented The Seven Samurai on pay-per-view one night, disabled the English sub-titles and carefully watched his reaction from the loveseat across from his recliner.

“They’re speaking Japanese, Minna.”

“How do you know they’re speaking Japanese?” she asked, scrutinizing his chubby face for any minute tell or a flinch of the eye.

“Who would make a film called ‘The Seven Samurai’ in Spanish?” he asked back. She doubted she would find Sonny’s key in the Slavic languages. She returned the original works of Pushkin to the library without reading aloud one poem.

She convinced herself that her words alone possessed Sonny’s key. Her love would liberate his larynx.

* *

Sonny eased the Honda onto 72 West, a desolate stretch of twenty six miles through the Pine Barrens. They would not make the seven o’clock appointment in Philly, not in the swirling snow and sleet. Minna remained silent for seven minutes and counting.

The night they talked of children turned the bedroom cold and quiet. Minna went to sleep without a word -- a whole nine hours. The next morning she woke early and cooked Sonny a plate of sunnyside up eggs, her black hair pulled behind her ears.

“I like Yolanda for a girl and Stefan for a boy,” she said.

Sonny looked up, a dollop of yolk formed a droplet in the corner of his mouth.

“A girl named Yo?” he asked.

“Perhaps you’re right,” she said. She crossed off ‘contraception’, ‘menstruation’, ‘gestation’ and ‘fatherhood’ off the list of potential keys.

* *

When Sonny agreed to move Ralphie back from Lafayette with his younger brother John, they talked of Minna.

“Dude, she’s wierd,” said John. Ralphie tweaked his brother on the elbow.

“Bitch! What grown man pinches another guy?” John complained.

“I think Minna’s pretty cool,” said Ralphie. “Educated, witty and she tells amazing stories.”

The brothers waited on Sonny for a response, peering over to their driver while his sausage fingers wrapped around the wheel of the Jeep in textbook ten-AM-and-two-PM configuration.

“Some don’t end,” Sonny said. He felt the -nd of ‘end’ hang in the air uncomfortably between the three like the initial sound of a telephone busy signal, fearing the -nd would repeat over and over in his ears for the next hour until he cleared the line.

“The stories,” Sonny added, his voice fading.

“Yeah, we figured,” said John, throwing a frustrated look towards Ralphie.

* *

“I’m leaving,” Minna announced when Sonny came home from running a family of six up to Newark Airport in the new Suburban. Minna piled all of her belongings in the middle of the foyer. None of her stuff was packed or boxed, a disjointed assemblage of clothes and books.

“The swiffer mop,” he said.

“What of it?” she asked, confused. The mop rested against her minature bust of Mozart.

“It’s mine.”

“I’m not taking your freakin mop, Sonny. It happens to be next to my stuff because I cleaned up a little before I go. I cleaned for you.”

Sonny scanned the downstairs. Everything looked the same before he left for work.

“Thank you,” he mumbled. Minna placed her face into her hands. Her slender shoulders hunched. She appeared tiny and curled. Rising, she dabbed both her brown, tearless eyes.

“I accept your apology. Please help me put my things away and take me out to dinner.”

* *

Sonny’s parents died when he was high school. His older sister Erica raised him. She lived outside Detroit with her significant other and their two adopted Korean children.

“I’d like to buy Sonny a special birthday gift,” she mentioned to Erica over the phone. “Any suggestions?”

“He loved to make paper clip chains as a boy,” Erica shared. “All over the house. A paper clip chain instead of the string to pull the attic light bulb. He made a paper clip chain for my mother’s eyeglasses. Sonny pulled out all the wiring from the toilet guts and replaced them with paper clip chains. When the toilets stopped flushing, my father fumed. Forbade him from playing with paper clips. Whatever you do, don’t give him paper clips for his birthday.”

A few weeks later Sonny opened up a wrapped shoe box to find an assortment of odd-sized Post-It notes in pastel colors. Sticky notes shaped like hearts and houses and animals.

“This way you can leave me a note on the bathroom mirror, Sonny. If you want to get drunk, you can write me a note on a pink elephant sticky,” gushed Minna.

“Our own little code,” she continued, “and these are so much better than paper clips.”

* *

Sonny ratcheted up the defroster to the highest setting. A spiderweb of ice started to form on the borders of the windshield. He looked for tail lights ahead and headlights behind. Nothing.

Except for a half-hearted yawn, Minna did not utter a sound for the last twenty three minutes. As an apology of sorts, Sonny fingered the radio dial to find a sports talk station.

If Minna would not talk, let someone else. The commentator launched into an elaborate explanation of the Flyers’ anemic power play, while his sidekick producer interjected with a chorus of “No doubt about it, Wayne.”

No doubt about it, Wayne. No doubt about it, Wayne. No doubt about it, Wayne. An incessant, verbal tic that irritated Sonny until he flicked the radio off.

Minna looked outside her window into the surge. Sonny felt she would break and suggest they turn off the road.

She did not.

A different silence crept back into the car now. Before, the two heard the swish of tires rolling through the slush and the dink-dank of the directional when Sonny made a turn, hand-over-hand. Out on the straight away the slush hardened, the wipers glossed over the weaves of spider ice that started to descend from the top of the car and impede Sonny’s vision.

The wind abated, leaving parts of the world nubbed by rounded, white ice. Other parts of the world lay jagged, foisting translucent shards upon the unsuspecting.

* *

Images of Colts Neck Township New Jersey 07722

2011-05-10T15:58:28Z

Wonderful place to live and raise a family, Colts Neck New Jersey 07722.

A favorite activity of local Colts Neck residents is walking or jogging on the Township complex paths located on Cedar Drive in plain view of the Colts Neck Police Department. The town installed fitness stations so folks can stretch and exercise specific muscle groups as they saunter or lope or sprint towards a healthy lifestyle.

Every ten feet another Hallmark greeting card jumps into the lens of the camera, even if that camera is handled by an amateur like myself.

Between the agricultural panorama that captures the simpler elements of a bygone age and some wonderful Colts Neck homes for sale, this is a place that merits attention for any buyer considering a move to Monmouth County, New Jersey.

Enjoy the slide show :-)

Interested in Colts Neck New Jersey homes for sale? E-mail me today! Or call me on (732) 580-0822.

Andrew J. Lenza, ABR GRI MBA Broker Sales Associate
Coldwell Banker Residential Brokerage

Oh Brother Can You Spare a Like?

2011-04-11T13:27:39Z

While exiting Dunkin Donuts in Colts Neck a dapper stranger held the door open for me.

“Thanks,” I demurred.

“Hey, can you do me a favor now?” the gent asked. Not a single salt-and-pepper hair out of place. He reminded me of a sixtyish JFK; certainly his light gray and powder blue pinstripe suit projected Presidential regalia. He inflected the word 'now.'

'Now' sounded complicated. So I, dressed in a stained Saint Peter's College hoody and mud-caked running shoes, stopped.

“Car broke? Need a ride?” If so, he held the door open for the wrong guy.

“No, I’m good.” He glanced with a boyish smirk over his shoulder in the direction of glossy, black CLS550 coupe, the Batman-inspired Mercedes. You're more than good I said to myself. What could I possibly give to this dandy?

“Can you recommend me?” he asked.

I squeegied up my face with confusion, scrunching both cheeks into my bent nose. I must have looked like a Charpay fighting Bells’ Palsy.

“You know, recommend me online. Do you have a phone with email capability? I’ll shoot you a link.”

He leaned in closer. I smelled Clive Christian “C” for men, retail $400 per ounce. I only know that because my eight thumbed cousin Shalootz got canned from his job in the Men’s Department at Macy’s for dropping a bottle and he came home reeking of the gack.

“So just go to www.stik.com. When you’re done there, jump to www.mixtent.com. What’s your name and e-mail?” he asked.

“Hey, mister. No offense but I don’t know you,” I said.

He raised a sophisticated eyebrow.

“I appreciate you holding the door open, but ...” I stammered. “But I don’t even know what you do.”

“It’s all there on my Linked-in profile. There are recommendations from other people. Read theirs. That’ll give you a sense of what I’m looking for. Oh, and when you’re done, hit me up on Facebook. My fan page. Like early and like often as they say at the polls.”

He finished his pitch, threw his angular shoulders back. I’d rather get to know your tailor, I thought.

“Good luck,” I nodded and continued to walk past him.

“Just like that?” he yelled back, holding his hands open and slightly annoyed. He wore a thin gold pinky ring that would have glinted under sunnier skies.

“After all we’ve been through together,” I muttered underneath my breath.

A cold drizzle started to fall as I walked the two miles to the house. Then the wind slanted from the west. Raw, the elements nearly froze my coffee in the cup.

When I got to my driveway I found the mailman, Paulo, waiting for me. Paulo wears his hair military short and once explained to me that he goes for two haircuts to two different barbers: first a trim to shed the excess and then a shape-up to edge the sides and back.

“Do I have to sign for a registered letter or something,” I asked.

Paulo shook his head.

“Don’t tell me the dog chased you again?”

Another shake of his head.

“Per favore mi puoi seguire su Twitter?” he asked. Bewildered, I again folded the second half of my face up into my mile high forehead.

“Sorry, English, English, English,” he chanted low and Monk-like. “Please can you follow me on the Twitter?” he said, recovering.

"Twitter?" I asked.

"Si."

I didn't see a CLS550 coupe in Paolo's future.

“The computer inside,” I said, raising my voice and gesturing with both hands to the front door. “It’s broken!”

He knew I was lying.

Guest Blogging for Epic Public Relations Group

2011-04-07T18:08:10Z

I started a guest blogging gig over at Epic Public Relations Group located in Alexandria, Virginia.

Epic is a boutique PR firm, specializing in launching, implementing and maintaining consumer-focused public relations campaigns for corporations, nonprofits and associations. Epic is owned and operated by Adele Gambardella Cehrs.

Here's my first online article for Epic. (My next "column" will be a spoof on narcissistic Italians.)

Social Media Losers: Average Dogs and Cats

Growing up in the seventies I’d pass many a creosote-soaked telephone pole on Victory Boulevard on Staten Island, running home as fast as my Chuck Lapchick black ankle-high Converse sneakers would carry me. That's how the word got out back then, stapling a bulletin to an oil, sweaty log.

Clutching a paper flyer in my sticky hand, I leapt into the living room to pow wow with the big Bow Wow.

“Dad, can I adopt this puppy?” I said, gulping for air.

“He’s free!” I yelped, grenading the flyer over the newspaper he was reading while he sat in a lopsided easy chair.

Anticipatory pause.

“Nah, I don’t want a dog,” the old man would drawl, “but he is cute. He’ll find a home.”

Try to put an average dog or cat on Facebook today. Poor orphans don’t even get a “Like.” Post that Pekingese twice on your Status Update and you could get hidden from several friends’ walls.

To continue reading the rest of the story click --> HERE.

Lewis Woke Up As a Goat

2011-03-28T02:13:03Z

Lewis woke up a goat.

Not an innocent dupe or the fall guy to a doomed enterprise. Not a straw man fronting a sinister evil who consummated a scheme.

Lewis awoke as a real goat. Horns, overbite and stinking of urine.

Lewis wasn’t the most attractive squire when he was a man. He tried to tame a flyaway head of brown hair that attracted static no matter how much Sir Horatio’s Magic Hair Tonic he slopped on his scalp. He opened his maw a little too wide to talk and when he did his teeth appeared jutted and upended as if a box of Chiclets gum spilled into a shirt pocket.

But he never smelled of urine. Mrs. Grink would never allow it.

“Mother!” he thought, scampering about on the straw. “She must be worried sick for not finding me in my bed!”

Every morning before Lewis left for the real estate office, Mrs. Grink would serve him peanut butter on raisin bread toast with a glass of Tang.

She didn’t let Lewis drink coffee. Nor was he allowed to chew tobacco or frequent Johnny's. She refused to let him eat eggs on account of losing Mr. Grink to high cholesterol. (Mr. Grink ran off with the buxom secretary from his cardiologist’s office.)

“What’s today?” bleated Lewis. “Tuesday? I’m going to miss the office meeting and caravan. I have a new listing--”

Lewis stopped. He looked above the wire gate of the stall and perused the barn. He squinted to read a sign over the entrance on the other side of the building.

Sorley’s.

Although he couldn’t see above his pen, Lewis heard other goats scratching at the dirt floor and bleating incessantly. He guessed twenty goats occupied identical stalls.

Lewis remembered. He drove out yesterday afternoon to pitch Old Man Sorley about listing the place. Sorley’s wife died years ago. He had no heirs. The Sorley spread was coveted by every moneyman and cityslicker, offering fifty of the last buildable acres in Montrose County.

Lewis hoped to land the deal and prove to the other agents in the office he was more than a thirty-nine year old ham radio hobbyist living in his mother’s basement. Everyone knew that Teddy the broker kept Lewis on because Lewis could squeeze up into the rafters and reset the attic fan during the humid summers when the circuit breaker tripped.

Lewis wondered if he could still shimmy up Teddy's trap door as a goat. Goats were known to be good climbers.

He heard a latch on the barn door and then the shuffling of feet. A shadow of a stooped figure made its way toward the goat pen. Old Man Sorley dragged his right foot.

Sorley wasn’t more than five feet tall fully stretched. Frail and skinny, he wore a men’s size small that accentuated a physique similar to a teenage girl. Yet he possessed a Herculean strength.

One story told that Sorley lifted a lame mule out of a drainage ditch only to find the animal drowned the night before in a flash flood.

That stirred the coffee clutch down at Johnny’s Diner with Buckles Hefflahan joking, “How many Sorley’s does it take to save a mule? None. The dumb ass up and drowned while the other ass gave it mouth-to-mouth!”

Lewis remembered how he belly laughed at that one while sipping his black coffee. He always drank coffee down at Johnny’s. Lewis was, after all, a Grink and Grink men struggled with independence. Grinks were known to be good followers.

“Think you were going to hijack my land?” asked Sorley as he leaned over the goat pen.

Lewis tried to speak but the only sound that came out of his hairy snoot was a throaty bleat, “Hraaaaaaa.”

Sorley possessed unusual features. His dark-ringed eyes protruded at least a full two inches from each other, spread far apart from his triangular nose. If Sorley was an animal, he’d resemble a sloth. A demonic looking sloth.

“My family been tied to this dirt for a hundred years, Lewis Grink,” boasted the old man.

“Hraaaaaaa,” bleated Lewis.

“I got the spirit in my blood. I make old magic,” Sorley hissed. “You think you the first suit to drive out here and try to get me to sign that paper.”

“Hraaaaaaa.”

Sorley smiled. “Listen Lewis Grink. Listen to all the other fancy Nancy’s from Main Street who came out to try and grab my farm. I got me thirty two goats who used to be real estate brokers. There’s a drawer in the house filled with pens and flag lapel pins.”

Lewis stopped bleating. He wasn’t going to see his mother again. He wasn’t going to finish the Lego model of the Golden Gate Bridge. He wasn’t going to wear his Batman pajamas late at night to watch kung fu movies with English sub-titles.

He was going to die on Sorley’s farm a goat.

His eyes watered. Hot tears trickled down Lewis' hairy cheeks, tiny drops that fell softy into the dirty hay. The grin on Sorley’s face faded. The old man stifled a pang of sorrow for the little spotted goat that stood before him.

“Awww, don’t be doing that now Lewis Grink,” he said. “There’s worse things to being a goat.”

Yet Lewis continued to cry in silence.

The old man shuffled back and forth and grew anxious.

“Now you stop crying Lewis Grink. I oughtn’t feel bad for turning you into a goat. You’re just about the worst real estate agent that ever come up here anyway. My sister used to babysit for your Papa. She told me the Grinks were just about the most foolish dunwoodies in these parts. You’ll live longer as a goat. It’s safer.”

And still Lewis cried.

Sorley dragged his right foot to the left and back again. He uttered strange words to himself like “scragdangit” and “beesmidget.” He chewed on his thumb and kneaded his knobby fingers.

Lewis cried.

“Aright, aright,” howled the old man, “I’ll turn yer back. But promise me Lewis Grink that you’re going to quit this real estate nonsense and move out of your Mama’s house. And don’t ever let me find you drinking coffee and assembling with those fools down at Johnny’s!”

Just then a tremendous bell went off in his head and Lewis slumped to the dirt floor unconscious.

He awoke in his bed. Mrs. Grink prodded him.

“Lewis, sweetie, get up. You’re going to be late for work.”

Lewis looked up at his mother, a simple woman with dimpled cheeks and a head shaped like a dented cantalopue. He felt his face. Smooth and clean shaven. He wasn’t a goat.

“I’m not going to sell real estate anymore, Mama. I want to work in a toy store.”

Mrs. Grink smiled wide, her pale blue eyes lit with excitement.

“I think that’s a lovely idea, son,” she said as she pulled the sheets down and helped Lewis get out of bed.

A stench rose up from the covers and Mrs. Grink pinched her nose.

“Goodness, Lewis! What did you do! Did you pee the bed?”

~ ~ ~

Andrew J. Lenza (c), Copyright 2011.

Welcome to the Spring Revival of Dorbrook Park, Colts Neck New Jersey: What a Perk for the Buyer of a Colts Neck NJ Home For Sale!

2011-03-18T16:58:28Z

I guess you could say the collage of Spring earth tones that surrounds us, the swirl of gold and brown and tan, is really green waiting to happen.

After a dismal Winter, Nature awakens. Especially in Dorbrook Park, Colts Neck New Jersey.

Dorbrook Park is a Monmouth County park but its proximity to Conover Road Elementary and Primary and Middle Schools make it a refuge for Colts Neck parents, children, hikers and tennis players. Liz and I are discovered Dorbrook after we moved here and what a pleasant surprise.

I hope you enjoy my Photo Slideshow of Dorbrook Park, Colts Neck NJ and would consider calling me if you're interested in a Colts Neck NJ home for sale.

* * * * *

Interested in Colts Neck New Jersey homes for sale? E-mail me today! Or call me on (732) 580-0822.

Andrew J. Lenza, ABR GRI MBA Broker Sales Associate
Coldwell Banker Residential Brokerage

Plan on Purchasing New Jersey Raw Land in Spring Lake? A Lecture by Michael Rubino Jr., Attorney-at-Law

2011-03-16T13:09:20Z

"Before purchasing New Jersey raw land in Spring Lake, it's important the purchaser choose a real estate professional who is aware of local zoning codes and issues," so says Michael Rubino Jr., Attorney-at-Law at today's Coldwell Banker Attorney Roundtable.

The seven Coldwell Banker offices of Monmouth County (Howell, Holmdel, Middletown, Marlboro, Rumson, Spring Lake and Wall) assembled at Trump International Golf Course in Colts Neck to learn from experts like Mr. Rubino on a spectrum of legal issues affecting real estate.

BUILDING YOUR DREAM HOUSE ON RAW LAND

Rubino's advice to Realtors is rooted in common sense. Realtors who are representing buyers of vacant land should qualify their clients' motivations by asking questions:

Have you -- the buyer -- selected an attorney expert in land use, New Jersey municipal zoning and the application for variances? Especially if your intent is to build a new house on your newly acquired dirt.
Selected an engineer?
Selected a surveyor?

Further, a buyer's agent practiced in raw land sales and knockdown properties should research the local town's existing code that establishes front, rear and side setbacks, as well as the total square footage of a conforming lot.

"Trying to develop an undersized lot in relation to existing code could prove difficult," advises Rubino.

A buyer who expects to erect a new house should be mindful that older towns like Spring Lake and Colts Neck are hesitant to approve a plan that grossly expands beyond current construction code. Even if the application (or permit) navigates the process without any hitches, the buyer can expect an approval process lasting 8 to 10 months in certain Monmouth County locales according to Rubino.

THE KNOCKDOWN HOUSE

Mr. Rubino covered the knockdown purchase at length. Some buyers prefer to overhaul an existing home with a major renovation. The original structure could pre-date to the turn of the century. Historic or preserved status presents another dilemma. The local zoning board of the specific town may prefer (a) the major renovation occur within the original footprint or foundation or (b) retain an architectural characteristic of the original home.

Often if the knockdown buyer plans to add a porch, a variance is needed.

"Very few sellers are agreeing to 'subject to' anymore," continued Rubino, "putting the risk of receiving appropriate approvals and variances on today's buyer of raw land."

Michael Rubino, is a local attorney who specializes in land use and variances. Mr. Rubino is a partner with Pandolfe, Shaw and Rubino located at 215 Morris Avenue, Spring Lake NJ 07762. His office number is (732) 449-7500.

Disclaimer -- This article is for informational purposes; it is not to be construed as legal advice. If you have a legal question concerning zoning, variances or land use, kindly contact a licensed New Jersey attorney.

Renting Single Family Homes in Affluent New Jersey Suburbs: Colts Neck, New Jersey as a Case Study

2011-03-12T22:37:53Z

Who would pay three thousand, five thousand -- even twelve thousand -- dollars a month to rent a home in an affluent suburb of New Jersey? Happens more than one would imagine in a town like Colts Neck Township.

What's the motivation of the renter?

Let's analyze this particular housing need using Colts Neck as our case study.

Colts Neck is a rural, affluent town in central New Jersey that, like most agricultural townships, experienced the same transformation characteristic of the roaring real estate market.

Older Ranch and Colonial homes giving way to the mansion and luxury estate boom. Now that the Recession may have proved so many ambitious plans as speculative folly, the Colts Neck single family rental market is not immune to economic changes.

Why rent when you can buy? (Really, why rent a single family home in Colts Neck NJ and pay rent for the same price of a mortgage?)

The reasons are diverse, mirroring the demographic of many a New Jersey affluent suburb:

The foreign national who is stationed in the states is often given a generous housing allowance by his/her employer. Many are lured by the prestige of a town like Colts Neck.
Residents tackling a large renovation to their primary residence often need to vacate during construction, yet are hesitant to uproot their families to a new community.
The same goes for folks building a house in Colts Neck NJ.
Divorced couples. Yes, the dissolution of a marriage creates a need for a second household. Often the decision to stay in town is made for the benefit of the children, allowing them to remain in the same school district with the same friends.
Homeowners "cashing out" by selling. I'm not a fan of the term, yet it does succinctly describe the financial strategy of some Colts Neck homeowners of selling and then renting short term (usually a year) until their youngest child graduates from either Colts Neck High School or the Colts Neck middle school called "Cedar Drive."

Still, it's not cheap to rent a single family home in Colts Neck. The following table depicts MLS listing data for Colts Neck rentals, the number of transactions and the rate of appreciation or depreciation:

Year Average Rent/Month + Appreciation/- Depreciation # Rentals

2007 $3,160 11

2008 $3,650 + 16% 23

2009 $3,820 + 5% 13

2010 $3,450 - 10% 10

Just like Colts Neck homes for sale that are tagged "over-priced," the same applies to Colts Neck rentals. Motivated landlords, with the aid of a expert Realtor, track changes to the rental market and adjust rents and terms. An over-priced, poor condition Colts Neck single family home for rent can expect to sit vacant, often lapped by newer inventory that offers the qualified Colts Neck tenant a more superior alternative.

Interested in the Colts Neck New Jersey rental market? E-mail me today! Or call me on (732) 580-0822.

Andrew J. Lenza, Broker Sales Associate
Coldwell Banker Residential Brokerage

Short Sale Data for Single Family Homes in Middletown NJ 07748: The Numbers May Surprise You!

2011-03-02T17:06:59Z

After researching short sales for Middletown NJ 07748 for the past fourteen months, I was surprised to learn the effect of a downward real estate market has had on recent values.

There is no indicator field in the Monmouth Ocean County Multiple Listing Service (MLS) to flag an actual short sale. In our market Realtors indicate a short sale status in the Public Remarks or Agent Notes.

Of the twenty seven (27) closings the average Days-on-Market was 129 days. Meaning from list date until the deal went "under contract," there was an average processing time of 129 days.
Of course, from Under Contract to Settlement took additional time. Those 27 short sale closings only accounted for 5% of the 530 sales in that period. Conversely, 95% of the Middletown sales for the last 14 months were NON-short sale.

No, the Middletown real estate market is not characterized by a surplus of short sale single family homes in zipcode 07748.

Springtime in Colts Neck, New Jersey 07722

2011-02-27T20:59:30Z

I love the Netflix radio spots where the contestant attempts to correlate meaningless clues. Reminds me of the blog as a medium. Writing in the first person on a blog is akin to talking about yourself constantly.

Everywhere.

Blog long enough and you'll talk about yourself to inanimate objects. You'll talk to the electronic EZ-pass reader in a Turnpike toll plaza. You'll talk to a train of shopping carts in front of Wegman's. ("Hey, you! Don't roll away from me. I'm not done talking to you yet!")

Lonely enough a tree. Wood -- not the best conversationalist.

One of my hobbies is taking pictures of flowers. Especially if there's a critter on the flower. Sort of like my Aunt Tessa at the Venetian hour dessert table at my cousin Gus's wedding. She ain't moving.

Easy shot.

One hope is to catch a hummingbird mid-flight atop a flower.

Hard shot.

I've come close to that shot in Colts Neck, New Jersey three times in seventeen years.

So in honor of Springtime, the seasonal savior of our discontented Northeast winter, I present a montage of my second rate flower photos. "Second rate" because I lost my primo shots.

Spring is the season of second chances, though.

What's a Jersey Dad To Do With Kids On His Own? Why the Monmouth Museum at Brookdale University in Lincroft!

2011-02-26T22:10:21Z

No one had the heart to tell her the toast was burning in the demonic toaster frugal Aunt Fanny gave them for a wedding present. The smoke flipped her switch.

"I need a pedi!" screeched Mom, brandishing a spatula after making eggs for the family on a cloudy Saturday morning.

"You need more than that," Pop wanted to say but checked his tongue.

Miraculously.

After oodles and oodles of snow and a groundhog with a perverse sense of timing, they were all winter cooked.

Fried and grizzled like Mom's eggs.

Cabin fever gave way to Bieber fever over two months ago. A winter so long even Bieber was shaving. If one more brat announced "I'm bored," Pop was going to take him into the garage, build a raft and make Junior wait for the spring thaw.

Right beside the rake.

"Wash them. Dress them. Take them," she ordered, swooping across the table and grabbing Pop's cup of coffee. The one with the Rider University logo.

"Where? I'm broke," he complained, "I'm heating this house with oil above a hundred dollars a barrel. I can't afford my Giants' tickets let alone regime change in the Middle East."

Mom double wrapped the belt of her checkered bathrobe around her waist, blew a shock of graying red hair out of her eyes and -- taking a deep breath -- whispered in Pop's ear.

"The Monmouth Museum at Brookdale University is seven bucks a head. Lincroft is right around the corner. Even you oh February Scrooge can Marley up a few shillings to get them in."

Aaaahh, Pop said with a smile. She really was the smarter half.

The Museum is open on Tuesdays to Friday at 2PM to 4:30PM. Saturday from 10AM to 4:30PM. Sunday from 1PM to 5PM. Closed Mondays.

* * * * * * *

To read specific information about the Monmouth Museum like directions, art exhibits, future programs and a Calendar of Events, please head over to my Wordpress blog called Garden State 360.

Interested in Lincroft New Jersey homes for sale? E-mail me today! Or call me on (732) 671-1000.

Andrew J. Lenza, Broker Sales Associate
Coldwell Banker Residential Brokerage

Relax, It's Not Contagious. I Think. Single Family Home Sales in Middletown, New Jersey.

2011-02-24T16:45:35Z

We're doctors without the six years of schooling.

Prognosticators, perhaps.

Yes, real estate brokers are imbued with an unrivaled vision, especially when divining the future. Give a real estate agent a cup of coffee and he'll read the tea leaves at the bottom of the cup.

Thank Nostradamus most state associations have barred the practice of reading the entrails of a sleeping appraiser.

The market's up. It's down. Sideways with a chance of sleet.

Let me tell you where the single family home market for Middletown, New Jersey homes is going.

Truth is I haven't a clue.

So far in February twenty one (21) Middletown houses closed for an average sale price of $370,000 compared to fourteen (14) sales for an average of $567,300 for the same period last year. Quite a discrepancy in price but not so concerning by the numbers.

Why not?

Because Middletown is a huge township, encompassing several "towns" and dozens of neighborhoods.

Truth is if you're ready, then buy.

Or wait for lower prices. Or lower rates. Or higher prices and higher rates. Or sober neighbors and quieter dogs. Or drunk dogs and anti-social neighbors.

My opinion about the future of the market? How do I know -- my last stock tip came from a cabbie. It was a winner. I did stay at a Holiday Inn last night but that wasn't by choice. And, no, I didn't see it coming :-).

Interested in Middletown New Jersey homes for sale? E-mail me today! Or call me on (732) 671-1000.

Andrew J. Lenza, Broker Sales Associate
Coldwell Banker Residential Brokerage

Selling Your Middletown, New Jersey Home? A Cash Buyer Could Knock On Your Door!

2011-02-14T17:24:13Z

For my last post I anaylzed the cash buyer of Monmouth County homes for sale. Crunching the numbers prompted me to dig deeper into Middletown, New Jersey where I concentrate my real estate activities.

You can read my latest article titled Cash Buyers for Middletown New Jersey Homes For Sale over on my Wordpress blog by clicking HERE -->.

Interested in Middletown New Jersey homes for sale? E-mail me today! Or call me on (732) 671-1000.

Andrew J. Lenza, Broker Sales Associate
Coldwell Banker Residential Brokerage

Cash ... Coming to a Real Estate Market Near You!

2011-02-13T00:43:09Z

This week's Wall Street Journal headline Cash Buyers Lift Housing cranked a few gears upstairs. Prompted me to dust off the old Fordham MBA.

The following stats reflect the percentage of cash sales of Monmouth County single-family homes for the last five years:

Year # Cash Closings # Total Closings % Cash to Total Average Sale Price

2006 485 5,389 9.0% $557,200

2007 421 5,008 8.4% $563,100

2008 400 3,940 10.2% $542,100

2009 557 3,966 14.0% $484,300

2010 611 3,956 15.5% $504,400

An increase in cash purchases and a decrease in total closings is pushing the percentage of cash deals higher. Oh, and the average sale price of a single-family home in Monmouth County appears to be bottoming from the shakeout.

Now cash buyers do attempt to leverage their position by entering lower offers. The strategy -- statistically -- appears to work. Notice the following stats for the Percentage of the Sale Price versus the List Price for the same five year period, especially when comparing Cash to Conventional financing:

Year % Sale Price vs. List Price for Cash % Sale Price vs. List Price for Conventional Mortgages

2006 90.72% 95.41%

2007 92.35% 94.92%

2008 91.17% 94.19%

2009 91.24% 93.26%

2010 90.60% 94.00%

These MLS stats indicate that the cash buyer received a discount better than three percentage points (3.14%) over the buyer who financed the single-family home purchase in Monmouth County. Ancedotally, we are seeing an increase in cash buyers. Perhaps these folks are exiting the equity markets in pursuit of hard assets. Or financing continues to prove cumbersome.

Or the price of local real estate is getting so attractive that savvy buyers ask themselves, "Why borrow at all?"

Interested in Monmouth County real estate? E-mail me today! Or call me on (732) 671-1000.

Andrew J. Lenza, Broker Sales Associate
Coldwell Banker Residential Brokerage

Middletown New Jersey Real Estate Agents: How To Start Blogging.

2011-02-07T16:09:04Z

So you're a new agent in the business.

Perhaps you're an experienced Middletown, New Jersey real estate agent who peers from the outside into this brave, new world of blogging.

How do I use keyword searches?
How do I acheive SEO (Search Engine Optimization)?
Do I have to be a natural writer?
What topics should I write about?
How do I engage the general public?
What pitfalls should I avoid?

Many Broker/Managers do not post original content on the Internet, let alone teach their Sales Associates how to maximize their online presence. Here at Coldwell Banker we're not trying to stay ahead of the curve.

We're laying down the road :-)

The good news for newly-licensed agents and battle-tested Realtors is that I'm here to coach you to -- and through -- the frontier. I started blogging on Active Rain several years ago.

So if you're interested in joining a progressive-minded, tech-savvy office in Monmouth County, please consider the Coldwell Banker Middletown office. E-mail me today for a confidential appointment! Or call me on (732) 671-1000.

Andrew J. Lenza, Broker Sales Associate

Trapped in a Vast White Thing Conspiracy

2011-01-01T14:01:30Z

They warned us.

We scoffed.

They blocked us.

We drove around the orange cones.

Government shouldn’t declare a “state of emergency.” They should use reverse psychology like “Free Home HBO the Day after Christmas” if they want us to stay indoors during a record blizzard.

To disperse a crowd in New Jersey just yell “Come look at the corpse!” instead of “Keep walking, citizens. Nothing to see here.”

Nothing? That means it’s some thing.

Do the same people who abandon their cars in five foot drifts then walk home and start shoveling snow into the streets?

In Colts Neck the farmers saved the day by affixing plows to their tractors. The chatter is that municipal workers throughout Monmouth County boycotted their snow removal duties because of cutbacks in overtime.

Maybe too much snow fell too fast, almost five inches per hour.

Backlash? More like whiplash from hurling two feet of snow back into the wind. I’m renaming the Great Christmas Blizzard of 2010 to Hollerpoolaza, as in “CAN I GET A LITTLE HELP HERE?”

Or pen a little poem to mark the event called “The Day They Drove Ole Frosty Down."

I know exactly who to blame.

Those millions of children who prayed, fervently, for a white Christmas. Apparently the clouds answer to a higher authority. No, not an elected official or union worker but the four Norman’s.

In 1913 Norman Rockwell painted a Boys Life cover of two scouts helping Santa out of the snow.
Norman Krasna and Norman Panama wrote the 1954 movie “White Christmas.”
Fifteen years later Norman Greenbaum would write his seminal hit “Spirit in the Sky” in 1969.

Talk about your conspiracies. Remember that weather is three parts perspitation and one part protest. Slightly shaken like a snow globe.

Lie to Me

2010-12-23T00:15:23Z

“I expect perps and real estate agents to lie to me.”

Can’t pin that ditty on me. That little gem belongs to the staff writers of the television show Law & Order: Criminal Intent.

When is it going to end, the media bias?

That line of dialogue is an affront to every honest perp out there. Not every perp is going to abscond with escrow. Not every perp is going to jump another perp’s lead on a hot corner for sale. Perps don’t pocket listings. Real estate agents pocket listings.

There was a time when a perp could look himself in the mirror, trim his nose hair with a jeweler's plier and say, “I may have sold Ma’s house out from under her but that don’t make me a real estate agent.”

Now everyone assumes if you’re schiesting a little something something you’re licensed with alphabet soup after your name.

Get’s me all ginned up.

I could be driving down Route 18 in a stolen Cutlass and I see that white school bus pulled over to the median, the prison rig with “NJDOC” stenciled wide across the side and I feel like yelling to those New Jersey Department of Correction detainees while they’re picking Pepsi cans and Marlboro butts out of knee-high grass full of ticks ...

“Howyalikeyourrealestatenow?”

Perps lie like real estate agents? Next they’ll be accusing us of sellling like used car salesmen, or worse, lending loan-sharking like bankers my Uncle Fig.

The Colts Neck NJ Bi-Level: Fifty and Still Stepping. Meet the Suburban House "Cougar."

2010-12-19T21:55:52Z

From 1960 to 1975 New Jersey built its share of Bi-Levels. You can trace the design back to the 1950's but the 1960's accelerated the construction of your basic model.

The Bi-Level craze waned by the 1970's once architects chased the next, young thing -- the Center Hall Colonial. And the young thing continues to lure buyers.

Still, the Colts Neck NJ Bi-Level hangs around -- still in its prime -- and entices the eccentric buyer. This Suburban House Cougar (my blog title is a wordplay since the Colts Neck High School mascot is the Cougar) isn't shy to wear olive green, fashion wrought-iron for interior railings and draw ample light in from full "First Floor" windows.

The Bi-Level lacks a traditional basement, however.

It features a direct staircase down to the First Floor from the front door and one staircase directly up to the Second Floor. Most fourth bedrooms are found on the First (or ground) Floor along with a half bath (a full bath if the original owner sprang for the upgrade) and a walkout.

Since a Bi-Level is on a slab, it's imperative proper irrigation routes roof and surface water as far from the structure as possible.

(I've yet to see a perimeter drain in a Bi-Level.)

On the Second Floor you'll find the Kitchen, Bedrooms, Living Room and Full Baths.

Probably why this Cougar can't sway gravity.

Today's buyers want their eat-in Kitchens on a separate level than the Bedrooms and Baths.

Why buy a Colts Neck Bi-Level?

Opportunity.

(You'll actually find a handful of Bi-Levels for sale in the Clover Hill section of Colts Neck every spring.)

True, the design ranks towards the bottom on most buyers' lists. Unlike the versatile Ranch that allows an investor or buyer to renovate "up" and add a Second Floor, thereby transforming the pedestrian Rancher into a Center Hall Colonial, the Bi-Level's upper fate is sealed.

Savvy sellers recognize they need to flash a lot of cosmetic improvements and lower their expectations when filling their dance cards on Singles' Night. So the Lonely Hearts Buyer gets one slow spin around the negotiating table, whispering ...

"Discount."

Yup, nobody deserves to be alone in the housing market.

Seriously, the Bi-Level attracts folks like myself -- fifty year-olds -- who wax nostalgic when entering a Bi-Level since we grew up during the 60's and 70's. We remember the Brady Bunch (an architect who slept three kids to a room), disco and Nixon.

Not necessarily in that order.

Interested in Colts Neck houses for sale? Contact me. I am the Branch Vice President and Broker/Manager of the Coldwell Banker office in Middletown and a 17 year resident of Colts Neck Township.

Andrew J. Lenza, ABR GRI MBA

Coldwell Banker Residential Brokerage

Office Telephone (732) 671-1000

Click HERE for the CB-Middletown Office for our Agent Roster and Listing Inventory

Click HERE to send me an e-mail!

EXIT 109 -- My Last Stop on the Writer's Highway

2010-12-16T21:13:46Z

From now on you can catch my creative writing over at Live Journal with the link http://andrewlenza.livejournal.com/

(Not a full nuke, Tomson. More like a skinning).

My Most Dangerous Man Dangles the Short Money.

2010-12-01T01:20:25Z

I met a most dangerous man to my real estate career many years ago. Obliged to represent him I learned of his philosophy during a frantic negotiation. He shared with me words I still summon the courage to say aloud.

"I don't believe in karma."

Despite the fusillade of zeroes, clauses and contingencies going back from both sides of our private little war, I managed a dialogue with my most dangerous man through the smoke and bluster.

"Do you believe in fate?"

No.

"Do you believe in deja vu?"

No.

"Do you believe spirits of dead relatives watch over you?"

Laughter.

I had heard of such a species, cloned from the bones of Cerberus and suckled on the milk of Medusa; to bear witness to a man who so deftly molted his humanity both scared yet entranced me.

"So if you and your wife were trapped in a burning--"

Me.

Just like that. Surgical.

"A school bus of children plummets down a steep--"

Smirk.

Withdrawn. Stupid question. If you're not going to save your wife, what chance does the second grade of Our Perpetual Star have?

Funny how we cleave to a word like "relentless" when describing an adversary or competition; the premeditated avoidance of relent which means to soften or forgive.

To go easy.

Let breathe.

When's the last time you heard "relent" used as a verb? "Relent" dates back to 14th century. Maybe we should bring it back today. Once or twice a year. No drastic need to start a movement.

I often babble on to any agent within hearing distance a mantra I picked up on Wall Street. The short money always leads to long misery.

The karmaless client -- your own dangerous man -- he's the kingfisher at dangling short money. May you swim with a better class of our species.

The Gal That Got Away

2010-11-23T18:06:07Z

Today I present a guest blogger, my Coldwell Banker Middletown colleague Mary Rose Marrale.

I hope you enjoy Mary Rose's riff on Thanksgiving.

THE GAL THAT GOT AWAY

by Mary Rose Marrale

Meet Tomasina Turkey. I met "Tommy Girl" at the Veteran's Memorial Park in Hazlet, New Jersey when a traveling petting zoo rolled into town a few years ago. Over 46 million turkeys wind up on a Thanksgiving table every year. I thought the same fate awaited Tommy until I received this inspiring email yesterday.

* * *

Hey Mary Rose,

So I'm celebrating my fifth year of freedom. Jumped the zoo fence in 2005 and never looked back. Right now I'm sunning my feathers in a Key West gated community. Though one hundred degree humidity is wreaking havoc with my new henna. Great thing about Florida is the folks eat more fish. Gotta go. My Pilates group is off to the track to watch the dogs run. I know I can count on you to go vegetarian for the Holidays, kid.

Love, Tomasina the Turkey (Retired)

* * *

I didn't have the heart to write back to Tommy Girl with the news I just put my order in for a twenty five pound fresh bird.

When it comes to cooking and real estate, Mary Rose Marrale is all business. Buying or selling, she's your first and last "turkey" call for Hazlet homes for sale.

Mary Rose Marrale, Sales Associate Office (732) 671-1000 and Mobile (917) 626-7418

Coldwell Banker, 864 Highway 35 Middletown NJ 07748

E-mail: MRMarrale@yahoo.com

Cooperatives For Sale in New Jersey? I Thought That Was a New York Thing. Introducing Riverview Towers, Red Bank

2010-11-18T23:49:16Z

Yes, we do have a few cooperative (aka "co-op's") in Monmouth County, none more famous than Riverview Towers of Red Bank.

Property ownership in New Jersey is typically fee simple, meaning purchasers "own" their dirt. Contrast to cooperative living in which buyers receive a proprietary lease and share ownership of the dwelling.

Folks interested in buying a Riverview Tower apartment require Board Approval and a credit check.

Erected in 1969, the Riverview Tower high-rise sits majestic on the edge of the Navesink River. Buyers can choose from one and two bedroom units.

There's a reason "value" comes before "view" in the dictionary.

Folks do fall for the picturesque and breathtaking view of the water and the higher one travels upward in this twelve story building, so too does the price.

Currently, buyers can choose from eleven of the co-op units for sale; from a one bedroom unit for $182,000 and a two bedroom unit for $675,000.

(Coldwell Banker, Middletown represents four of the units for sale.)

To continue reading my description of cooperative living in Riverview Towers, Red Bank kindly click here -->

Andrew J. Lenza, ABR GRI MBA

Office (732) 671-1000

Branch Vice President and Broker Sales Associate, Coldwell Banker Middletown Office

Williamsburg, Brooklyn NY Condo For Rent

2010-11-13T22:08:28Z

Light, bright and new one bedroom, two full bath condo in The Belvedere. This 4th story apartment features stainless steel, black contemporary kitchen and hardwood floors throughout.

Williamsburg (aka "Willy B") is fast becoming the chic neighborhood, offering quick access to Manhattan and an eclectic mix of eateries, entertainment and recreation.

The unit is located on the corner of Withers and Graham in close proximity to McCarren Park. Stunning views of New York City from the living area and private rooftop terrace. Enjoyable views of Williamsburg from the bedroom balcony.

Amenities

Private deck
Balcony
Multi-level
Duplex
Dishwasher
Washer
Hardwood floors
High ceilings
Marble bath
Granite kitchen
Laundry in unit
City view
Open floorplan

Click here for the full listing -->

For Rent at $2,700/month.

Panaromic View of New York City from Private Rooftop Terrace

Interior of Newly Built Unit (Be the First to Occupy!)

* Andrew J. Lenza is an equity member of the investment LLC which owns this Williamsburg Brooklyn apartment for rent.

* * Listed exclusively for rent by Bond Realty of New York. This is not a Coldwell Banker property.