Geno Petro's Chicago Real Estate Blog

Chicago Real Estate: 26.2 miles of cinder

Geno Petro (ChicagoHomeEstates.com) — Fri, 11 Jul 2008 14:25:10 -0500

Carter Suggs and the rest of us slugs

In case you haven't been observing from the sidelines dear readers, this whole Chicago real estate diversion I've been a party to these past several years is a marathon--not a sprint. And while I don't recall ever actually running 26.2 miles consecutively or even un-consecutively (I was a sprinter when I last set foot on a track 35 very long years ago as you'll soon learn) I have been involved in some marathon-like negotiations as of late. And I'm telling you straight up, with St. Joseph as my witness, it's the last 2 /10ths (.2), that ubiquitous straw of camel back-breaking fame, that can tip the scales in either direction, for the better or worse. And it is this very, constantly shrinking margin between what makes and breaks a real estate transaction these days, that has me taking a short 'breather' to wax poetic before I re-double my efforts tomorrow and try to put together a deal that might actually involve a trip to a title company in the near future. Soooo....., allow me to digress...

My last heat

It was a blistering afternoon in the late Spring of 1974. The graduating members of our high school relay team, the mighty Mustangs of Myers Park, were slowly disembarking the un-air conditoned 1950's green and white diesel beast (our ancient, beloved, mascot emblemed school bus) for the final time, somewhere in the boondocks of eastern North Carolina, when we were suddenly struck motionless in our proverbial track shoes. We gazed in wonderment at the rural venue. Compared to our own hallowed stadium grounds of green and gold composite track surfaces, Booster Club sponsored electric scoreboard, and manicured white chalked and numbered playing field fescue back in Charlotte, the vision was almost other wordly. And myself, having only been recently relocated from the great sprawl of northeast Philadelphia where one could definitely see the air one breathed, I was all the more intrigued by the Nature of it all. I decided it was, indeed, time to take off my leather jacket and Ray Bans and get serious. People were jogging through the woods, warming up barefoot, for crissakes.

The burnt colored, coarsely raked, 440 yard oval cut-out that encircled the overgrown football/baseball/tobacco field we looked onto was a Milky Way of sooty glass specks and finely crushed gravel--cinder, to be exact. The infield, 120 patchy yards, elbow to elbow with other multicolored warm-up suited runners in different stretched positions alongside their own painted diesel transports; The Demons, The Eagles, The Orangemen--was a base of red, hard Carolina clay. Bushels of unharvested dandelion weeds lined the outer perimeter of the back country school grounds.

The air smelled of pine tar and lumber from a nearby saw mill. An uninterrupted trickle of sulphuric well water leaked from an old fashioned hand pump in the far end zone. The Home side bleachers boasted two separate, half dozen row sections of gray splintered wooden planks attached to a common bent, rusty metal skeleton. The Visitors side sitting area was cracked earth. We looked at each other with young, overprivileged, suburban eyes. No world records would be set on this May day we joked half-heartedly. What none of us knew at that moment was that we were only correct by a mere fraction of a second.

9.3 (seconds, that is)

In 1974, Track and Field events were measured in yards and timed in minutes and seconds. The Men's World Record for the 100 Yard Dash was 9.0 seconds and had stood, unchallenged, for years. I was blessed enough to be among a handful of other sprinters to break the 10.0 second barrier that day--9.9 to be exact, finishing fifth out of a field of 6 in my heat. A young, Tarboro, NC high school student named Carter Suggs ran a 9.5 in the same race. The memory is a blur as was the image of his posterior, all ass and elbows, 30 feet ahead of me from jump street. I almost gave up smoking right then and there. Twenty minutes later in the final heat, (as I looked on from the cracked earth Visitors area with the rest of the slugs) he blazed a 9.3 on the cinder track--.3 seconds off the world mark.

Just so you know, the difference betwwen a 9.9 and a 9.3 is about a city block spread at the finish line, or in less urban terms--from grill to tail pipe--the entire length of an old green and white painted school bus, diesel, unleaded, or otherwise. It is most certainly the difference between a shot at a professional athletic career and one that entails slinging residential property for a living. At the very least, it provides a margin of posterity for all to ponder. (I've been Googling myself off and on for the past 3 years and while I can't find any virtual proof of my personal 9.9 second sprinting effort back in the glory days of 1974, I have no trouble unearthing almost every residential listing I've ever advertised during my Chicago real estate career--good, bad, or indifferent.)

I think I missed the Google "High School Track and Field Statistics" long tail search engine cut-off by considerably more than a few tenths of a second (bus lengths, city blocks, whatever...) in the same manner my last buy-side deal died over a couple thousand dollar closing credit and a furnace tune-up. It would probably be in the same manner I'd collapse at the 26 mile mark, just .2 miles shy of the golden ring, should I ever be daring enough to enter a marathon in the first place---which of course, is what this whole real estate business is---isn't it? Or shall I digress...

Geno Petro

image by billingsgazette

Oh, that Sears...

Geno Petro (ChicagoHomeEstates.com) — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 10:31:40 -0500

I don't believe I'm all that different from most people who live in Chicago proper (i.e. not the 'burbs) in that I rarely take in the downtown sights except in accidental passing or escorting the occasional out of town visitor. My relocation referrals and I are usually zooming by each landmark, three minutes behind schedule, taking a 'pass' on the touristy stuff in lieu of a Starbucks stop.

"Was that the Sears Tower?" They ask.

"No. Hancock Building," I answer.

"It looks smaller," They say.

"That's because we're going 72 MPH down a one way side street." I kid. I look down at my speedometer, an even steven 60 (hyperbole, still).

'Were you ever a taxi driver?' They wonder, I'm sure...

Chicago is a settlement of over 200 unique and cloistered neighborhoods (with Madison Street being the great divide betweeen north and south 'hoods and State Street sundering the east and west communities) and we Midwesterners don't like to stray to0 far from the homestead unless we really have to. Chicago was originally a city of parishes; Saint Gert's (Edgewater), Saint Mike's (Old Town), and Saint Pat's (West Loop) being but a few examples and historically, people socialize and procreate where they pray (I am told). But as usual, I digress.

So I am walking out of the Sears Roebuck store (shopping for appliances, not clothes, thank you) on State Street last Sunday when a group of foreign visitors approached me. I could tell they were foreign by their attire and I knew they were visitors by their cameras.

"Sears?" The tallest one asked me

"Yes." I answered.

"Sears?" A little more emphatically this time,

"Yes. Sears." I say again. I turn around and point up to the sign in the window. "See...Sears."

And in an instant flash of flashes; like a rapid spray of friendly fire, or a Tiger Woods 18th hole gallery, or a Lindsay Lohan papparazzi locust swarm--a half-dozen smiling, second city visitors turned their cameras upward and let loose a digital stream of gigs and pixels onto the side of the unassuming 4 story building.

They thanked me very much. I told them they were very welcome before attempting to explain for 5 unsuccessful minutes in my own broken English (I don't know why I always end up assuming the accent of the misdirected foreigner I'm speaking with) how to get to Navy Pier. They turned in unison and headed in the opposite direction. What can I say?

Mona and I had taken the Metra in from Forest Glen for a late Father's Day lunch and a little downtown Chicago shopping. As we strolled west down Adams Street on the way back to Union Station we stopped for a few minutes to check out the Rookery before approaching South Wacker Drive. There they stood, the whole group of them, heads tilted back at 45 degree angles, clicking their digital cameras 110 stories into the clouds above.

"I think they meant that Sears tower," said my wife.

The tallest one caught my eye and shot me a dirty glance. I pointed toward the exit ramp down to Lower Wacker, home of the homeless and the cardboard box Abandominium...

"Navy Pier," I mouth with an animated whisper.

Mona punches me in the arm for being a smartass as we run across Wacker, over the Chicago River bridge, and down into the diesel fumed catacombs with 3 minutes to spare before the 5:55 heads north.

DISCLAIMER

{I recently posted a picture and an accompanying story on my primary Blog and was informed by another site's SEO that my duplicate content might get me banned from Google! Wow, I had no idea. But I reminded myself that ignorance of the 'law' is no excuse. The content apparently needs to be 25% different (am I there yet?) and thus, a commentary before or after should be in order. (Obviously this is an example of a commentary after a duplicate post. All previous AR entires I have already submitted will soon have commentarfies after the duplicate post as well---but I suppose they {the commentaries} will each need to be 25% different) I don't know nothin' about nothin'. It wasn't me. Why didn't you tell me?

The truth of the matter is I stumbled across Active Rain by accident while checking out Sellsious. It wasn't sure anyone in the blogosphere was even looking at my primary Blog since I had a total of 1 comment from a friend and 1 comment from my wife and 1 comment from an insane person (a diatribe, actually) the first 3 months I was up an posting. I didn't think my stuff was that bad so I decided to start posting here as well. So from here on forward and backward, this is my 25% Difference Non Duplicate Discalaimer, and I'm sticking to it...unless its a bannable offense from Google in which case I'll sell my overpriced Google stock and show them! I'll ban them from my portfolio. See how they like it when I give them no page rank! Now I know 'I'm double dog daring' a big guy on the playground (Jean Sheppard reference for my Philly friend, Brian Brady) but right now according to Google, I'm not even another Bozo on the bus. So Thus I Disclaim and wait for the axe.}

Geno Petro

A Realtor's Tale (part one)

Geno Petro (ChicagoHomeEstates.com) — Wed, 11 Jun 2008 08:54:48 -0500

The seller thinks she's being robbed. She hasn't actually come out and said it but I can tell. I can always tell. The Chicago real estate market has not responded well to her little corner of Uptown these last 365 days and the MLS listed 2 bedroom, 1 bath condominium she is trying to sell is now hovering close to the price she bought it for in 2004. She reminds me again that it's already priced below the last 'closed comparable' in the neighborhood. I gently remind her that I represent my buyers and that the 'market' ultimately determines what things sell for--not her or me.

She has also dropped the original list price $40,000 (in three spaced out increments) over the past several months. The Cook County tax records indicate that indeed, even at her present asking price, once commissions are paid, closing costs covered, present mortgages satisfied (there are two) and tax pro-rations escrowed---a flat-line, break-even, zero-margin net-sum-gain scenario is almost certainly in the woman's future. I advise my clients to make a move.

We come in low and hard. The seller tosses back a cookie the following day. Two days later we toss it back with two big bites taken out of it. The seller waits a day then reluctantly slips below the net-zero-sum line she's been stradding for the last 90 days and into the realm of capital losses and cookie crumbs as she goes directly to her absolute bottom number--a little below, actually.

My buyers, however, feel we can still get a better deal--after all, we are, in essence, the Chicago real estate market on this particular property in this particular point in time. In other words, we have the only bona fide offer on the table. Everybody involved is very nice but there's a pink elephant in the sunroom and at this stage of the process, no one cares to empathize with the other side or acknowledge the squatting beast in the corner. Money is involved--big, fat, pink, sunroom money. We all want the deal to happen but no one wants to say as much. Not just yet.

Final counter offers have been exchanged and presented. We stand $3,000 apart on a $250,000 property. We are now going entire days without talking, each side waiting for the elephant to make his move toward foyer, down the hallway, and out of the building forever. I imagine the pink pachyderm trouncing past the motorists on Montrose Avenue, across six lanes of traffic on Lake Shore Drive, and into the depths of Lake Michigan to swim away like Puff the Magic Elephant, freeing up all of our futures in this Northside real estate allegory.

It just so happens that the seller is also the realtor and is representing herself in the transaction. At this particular point in the pink elephant game, I am merely the messenger working on behalf of my buyers. It's not my job to spend my clients' money. My job is to guide this deal to the closing table with their best interest in mind. I ponder big Pinky in the sunroom...

A wise man once posed the question to me, "How do you eat an elephant, Geno?"

"Huh? I dunno." Big, dumb me.

"One bite at a time," said the wise man. "You eat an elephant one... bite... at...a...time." A wise man, indeed.

to be continued...

Geno Petro

Hot Doug's...Chicago Style

Geno Petro (ChicagoHomeEstates.com) — Tue, 03 Jun 2008 18:42:29 -0500

For months now I've been following with growing interest...no, make that great intrigue, the shaggy chic (if not downright haute) North Side neighbor-hood 'foodie' chatter surrounding a certain hot dog stand at the no-mans-land corner of Roscoe and California Avenues in the Avondale section of town. Location, location, location (the ubiquitous Chicago real estate mantra) my arse. I kid you not, dear readers...the joint is in an annexed tract of light manufacturing sprawl where you might still be able to get some land for free if you stake a claim with the City of Chicago and know someone at City Hall. (And yes, as always I exaggerate.)

It's "Hot Doug's this" and "Hot Doug's that...." say they all; at dinner parties, over cocktails at unhappy hours everywhere from the Gold Coast to Rogers Park, in churches all across Chicago (I'm guessing). Everyone's talking about it but nobody I know has actually ever eaten there.

Like Yogi Berra (the Ronnie Santo of the East Coast malapropism) once proclaimed..."Nobody ever eats there...the line is always too long to get in." Ahem.

On two previous occasions I attempted to stop in for a taste of their famous Chicago hot dogs and accompanying 'Duck Fat' Chicago fries, mainstays both. Each time the line to simply get in the joint nearly wrapped around an entire city block. Once inside, an equally tedius wait is in order before you actually get your food.

It was raining farm animals yesterday morning as I awoke and since it was indeed Friday, one of the only two 'Duck Fat Days' (along with Saturday), I figured I stood my best chance of finally sinking my chops into a Hot diggity Doug dog. After all, what other knucklehead would be willing to drive through a torrent in a Mini Cooper for a mere taste of encased meat and shoe string potatoes deep fried in foie gras? Besides me, that is...and about 75 other knuckleheads? (See picture above)

I waited in the rain outside of Hot Doug's for 30 minutes as the gentleman behind me, (pictured left) actually intelligent enough the bring an umbrella to a rain storm, refused to share his shelter...or even make eye contact. I waited another 10 minutes in the vestibule with 12 other people, and when I finally did place my order---a Keira Knightley (super hot...get it?) with 'everything' (in Chicago 'everything' means mustard, neon green relish, grilled onions, tomatoes, pickle, hot peppers and celery salt), an order of Duck Fat Fries, and a Coke Zero (watching the calories, you know)---I waited another 15 minutes for the food.

Also on the menu that day were Alligator Dogs, Parsley Infused Weisswurst Dogs, Chipolte and Cilantro Smoked Chicken Sausage Dogs, and a half dozen other varieties of blended meat Dogs; bratworsts, sausages, and kielbasis. Sadly though, Friday's Special 'Celebrity Sausage' was the Harvey Korman (may his funny soul rest in new found peace)---Sun-Dried Tomato and Basil Chicken Sausage with Vodka-Cream Marinara and Burrata Cheese. Oh yeah, just so we're perfectly clear, only non Duck Fat Fries are served up Mondays through Thursdays.

John Lennon and Yoko stopped in (also pictured above) and ordered two Pete Shelley's (a Vegetarian Dog if you can even Imagine such an animal). 'It's easy if you try...'

Finally my own name was called and I grabbed my satchels of charbroiled snouts with all the trimmings and raced home to my bride to share the feast. My dog met me at the door, already having sniffed the duck fatted vittles from two blocks away. I emptied the food from the greasy brown bags onto white paper plates. The kitchen immediately smelled like duck liver. I almost gagged....

Now I'm not quite sure why I would even fathom liking anything prepared in duck fat, or foie gras, or any kind of liver for that matter. (You ought to see what I've done to my own liver over the years, for crissakes.) I was clearly caught up in the hype. Sure, the dogs were good but all dogs in Chicago are good. Hot Doug's makes a darn good Chicago style hot dog, this much is true. And I suppose if you don't hate ducks and liver then the fries are pretty tasty, as well. But if you ask me, people are just looking for an excuse, any excuse, to stand in a long line to say they've done the new 'In' thing. It was Monkees tickets when I was 10. It was Tickle Me Elmo when my niece was 4. It's my wife and her friends tonight for that whole Sex and the City and Cosmo hoopla. It was me yesterday (along with 75 other zombies) in a torrential downpour....

So I digress. As I was about to finally exit the restaurant, the guy with the umbrella, my fellow line standing follower of the masses, made a snide comment as to my constant picture taking during the previous hour.

"Tourist" he muttered.

"No, blogger," I snapped back.

"I'm a real estate blogger," I wanted to say, but didn't---stopping just short. He simply looked at me with his perfectly dry face without making eye contact; collapsed umbrella in one hand, CTA Bus pass in the other, awaiting his own name to be called. I wanted to add a little something extra about him being a professional duck loving line stander, what with his Bus Pass, premeditated umbrella, and all but I let it slide. It was raining farm animals outside and I had my own real estate challenges awaiting my attention. And as I sped off toward the old homestead and the oily waft from the brown paper satchels filled the interior compartment of my Cooper, I wondered what my dog thought about duck liver, the $13 I just spent on hot dogs, and if I really did look like a tourist...

DISCLAIMER

Geno Petro

The Low Art of the Graffito

Geno Petro (ChicagoHomeEstates.com) — Fri, 16 May 2008 21:12:00 -0500

I've always looked at it this way; as long as it's not painted across the side of my house, I can live with it, even sort of appreciate it. Sort of.

Hey, I reside in a big, grown up city so who am I to judge what is and is not a proper canvas for an aspiring artist? After all, I'm just a Chicago realtor trying to do my own thing in the same concrete jungle and am hardly a patron (of the Arts) myself. Anyway, Art (low or otherwise), iconoclasm, and vandalism have always made for strange bedfellows. Think Jean-Michel Basquiat. Think The Splasher.

And again, as long as it's not scribbled or sprayed across the side of my own crib...or my fence, (or my car, for that matter) I'm Kool and the Gang, nowatimsayin? (Do you know what I'm saying?) You see, true Grafitti, in my opinion, is not a random act of vandalsim. There are a whole heap of obstacles and factors to overcome before the multi-colored Word ever reaches the eyes of the pondering public, those haters. There seems to be some thought behind the ubiquitous late night deed that goes beyond mere 'tagging' (which is vandalism and does warrant a crack in the knees with a ball bat). Kool is not with the Gang on tagging, nowatimean?

First: The young, urban artisan must obtain his materials; aerosol cans of mulit-colored spray paint (a behemoth feat in itself according to City of Chicago ordinance). Clearly, there are laws in place. I tried to buy Rustoleum at Home Depot the other day (to touch up a rusty porch railing, not paint my masterpiece under mercury illumination) and almost got arrested. I was ordered to the city limits then escorted over the township line into the suburb of Skokie where Rustoleum is just another can of something that is marked up double the MSRP because it is not available (10 feet away) in the city. Okay, I exaggerate, but not overly. It's not unlike making a quick trip over the state line to Indiana twice a year for fireworks.

Firecracker in Hammond, big fun.

Firecracker in Chicago, big fine. $200+.

Not that I care one way or another about firecrackers either... although, I actually enjoy them on occasion in small, festive doses. Just so long as they are not exploded inside my: mailbox, front porch Halloween pumpkin, or cat, I am, as well, once again...Kool and the Gang.

Secondly: There has to be a space. The artisan must also seek out his venue. Under a bridge. Across an abandoned warehouse alley. On a billboard. Not on Geno and Mona's fence in Forest Glen; all very good options requiring at least some forethought and planning, I would imagine.

Thirdly: There has to be a degree of covertness. Now think; how much grafitti have you seen in your own lifetime? And now recall... how many times have you actually seen an act of grafitto in progress? My guess to your answers would be, in order... a lot... and none.

Lastly: There has to be the inner vision. The idea. The final twisted images of color, dimension, and phonetic spelling with its blend of loopy and angled penmanship, at the same time balloonish and severe, threatening and poignant, painted across anything I don't personally own or pay property taxes on. As long as it's all that....I am, like I said, Kool and the Gang. (Okay with it.)

postscript...pictures taken by me, under a Forest Preserve viaduct, a little too close to my house for either comfort or appreciation.....

Geno Petro

Flip This Garage

Geno Petro (ChicagoHomeEstates.com) — Thu, 01 May 2008 17:35:05 -0500

An earthquake measuring 5.2 on the Richter Scale (the 'It' source when it comes to earthquakes from what everybody says) hit downstate Illinois last Monday with an ensuing aftershock that actually shook the house I live in, 200 miles north in Chicago (not pictured, thank you). This was exactly three days after a 125 pound wild cougar was shot in a nearby neighborhood alley by Chicago police and one fateful day before 20 separate people in 20 separate incidents were shot in a single weekend with handguns on the city's South side. Correction: a few were actually gunned down with an AK-47 which, from what I understand, is more of an assault rifle than a handgun. But what do I know? I only own a baseball bat and a big dog.

The City of Chicago owes me $4300 for an overpaid Property Tax Refund and is making me wait 60 days for the "checks to clear" although the semi-annual bill was paid (TWICE) via electronic transfer and deposited into the city coffers instantly. I have receipts with timestamps. I have bank statements.

The Voice in the County Assessors office speaks after finally locating my file:
"Receipts and bank statements don't make a difference Mr. Genoa Petrol, (the way Spellcheck corrects my name according to Kris Berg and others) ...Everybody waits 60 days. Try back in a few more weeks."

"You're kidding me, right?" I say to The Voice on the phone. "You guys didn't wait 60 seconds to post the deposit. Twice."
"This is the City of Chicago, Mr. Petrol.... Why would I be kidding?" The Voice has the last word.

My Mini Cooper hit a pothole the other morning on Elston Avenue that cracked my head on the glass sunroof and almost shoved the engine up into my lap. I called the City of Chicago Streets and Sanitation number to report the crater. I was put on hold for 10 minutes before getting transferred to The Voice. I hung up.

I'm currently involved in a deal where the buy-side attorney thinks he's prosecuting the Monkey Trial. His paralegal (the real attorney is too busy lawyerin' to take my calls) tells me that 'Realtors' involved in the deal are not the clients of the attorney and thus, are not privy to to all the super secret, very classified, inside information concerning a single Xerox copy of a Water Certification document that I need for my files. Her advice to me was to call the City of Chicago. Which I did...

I called them and told them that I believe the Richter Scale earthquake damaged a structure on my street and could they please send someone out to take a look (see above picture). Now I'm fairly new to the community but neighbors tell me that the delapidated building, (a garage actually) has been in that same lean-to condition for at least 15 years. A mean dog chased me away before I made it to the alley for a sharper angle snapshot (with much more daylight coming through the roof). It was either a dog or a cougar, I'm not certain.

While on the phone I also asked how the cop who shot the other cougar was faring emotionally, inquired about the pothole/sinkhole on Elston and whether or not a baseball bat needed to be registered as a weapon (see The Untouchables). I mentioned that I did have a valid license for my dog, however. I asked if they could check how the Water Cert documentation was coming along for my Supreme Court case studio apartment deal, and also inquired about a certain missing, lost in cyberspace, $4300 Property Tax Refund with my name on it. I got transferred a half dozen times until finally...
The Voice, "Mr. Genoa Petrol...is that you?"

I hung up.

Geno Petro

untouchables photo by reverseshot

Gray Skies and Cheap Shoes...

Geno Petro (ChicagoHomeEstates.com) — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 14:46:48 -0500

First thing, the sky here is very gray--the weatherman says it may thunderstorm tonight. Secondly, the red and yellow advertisement on the bus stop bench at Clybourn and Ashland avenues indicates shoes can be had for $9.99. Lastly, Premium gas is $4.09 per gallon--and rising. I'm not even going to mention what else they are reporting on NPR this morning but I'll give you a hint; marshmallows and fairy dust are not in the week's forecast and traffic is, as always, unbearable.

We should have seen this coming. I took the above snapshot only as an ex post facto exercise; simple documentation of an end result of existing fiscal uncertainty in our marketplace. To the untrained urban eye, the image is nothing but a typical north side Chicago intersection on a typical weekday morning. But for those of us in the know-- in other words, those of us who stayed awake during high school Economics class back in 1975--the picture validates what disheveled Mr. Finkle (Sprinkle Dinkle Wrinkle Finkle) in his short sleeve shirt and too-short soup stained necktie tried to warn us about; that according to the pre-printed Lorenze Curve on the back of his laminated pen protector, milk and gasoline would be $5.00 a gallon by the next millennium- a mere 25 years down the road at the time. A loaf of bread, too. Houses would become unaffordable to all but the very wealthy and pollution would kill all the birds and trees. China would rule the world, said he.

Personally, I couldn't care less at the time about any of that. I vaguely recall raising my hand and asking if the pen protector protected the shirt from the pens or the pens from the shirt. After all, five bucks filled up my VW in those days and bought a pack of smokes to boot. High finance meant burning one in the parking lot before class. Still, somehow, the concept stuck in my memory bank along with Meritime Influence, Supply and Demand, and how to recite that ridiculous Middle English Canterbury Tale, "...The droghte of March hath perced to the roote.." thing. Public school education, to be sure.

You see, I knew the price of gasoline would someday hover around where it is today. Mr Finkle told us as much back in the 1970s. And milk? We drank the powdered version at home when I was growing up so the liquid, or anything that resembles it, never touches my lips to this day. I know Lake Michigan will stay cold until July and warm until October (relatively speaking) and what goes up doesn't necesarily come back down. The birds and the trees are on their own--hopefully God will step in on that issue.

Chicago is gray 6 months a year and traffic is always unbearable, this we all know. I am even wrapping my mind (and business plan as a Realtor) around the whole unaffordable housing concept although foreclosures in my particular market have only increased a little above the norm and condo sales, if not brisk, are certainly occurring at a predictable pace. What I wasn't prepared for, and what caught my attention to begin with, is shoes for $9.99. Now that, in my estimation, is something to worry about. That, and possibly China.

Geno Petro

photo by me

Funny how? ...ps...I'm back!

Geno Petro (ChicagoHomeEstates.com) — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 12:35:38 -0500

imagery by a.j. pinto idea by ben osbun inspired by dennis hopper edited for content by mona petro edited for language by american express directed by joe pinto featuring geno petro

Having a great group of office mates to work with (and pull my leg)...priceless. Oh wait, that's the other company. What's in your wallet? No...that's not them either. Anyway, I don't leave home without it. And that's the Word on this Chicago street. Anyway, get ready...I'm back!

Peace,

G.

A Sign From God?

Geno Petro (ChicagoHomeEstates.com) — Sat, 29 Mar 2008 14:45:11 -0500

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

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

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

Geno Petro

Taxes Schmaxes

Geno Petro (ChicagoHomeEstates.com) — Sun, 03 Feb 2008 08:41:35 -0600

I was half-listening to a lady being interviewed on NPR a few Tuesday mornings ago as I drove in a gazy daze out of the city and toward the general direction of Canada. I was running late for an appointment with my tax Wizard, a fourth generation accountant who fled from the tangle of the city 10 years ago to kick back On Golden Pond and perform his magic in a more bucolic setting. His father was an accountant, his grandfather was an accountant and every first born male for the last 500 years in his family were accountants--all pencil and paper sort of fellows from what I gathered. My guy however, has flat screen plasmas throughout his office suite with a different financial news channel on each, and the latest in electronic everything to get his fiscal point across to the rest of the universe. He also has an IQ that hovers around the batting average of a Major League 2nd baseman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How do you like that?"

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

"Your iPhone. How do you like it?"

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

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

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

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

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

Geno Petro

Conforming Mumbo Jumbo

Geno Petro (ChicagoHomeEstates.com) — Thu, 17 Jan 2008 20:11:36 -0600

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

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

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

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

Guess...

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

Either that....

or...

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

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

LOL,

Geno

imagebypqbon

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

Geno Petro (ChicagoHomeEstates.com) — Tue, 01 Jan 2008 20:35:00 -0600

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

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

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

Six Months Ago

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

"Do you even know how to cut grass?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Home Sweet Home

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

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

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

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

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

$ 200    Interior Design Consultation

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

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

At the end of the day...

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

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

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

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

Geno Petro

Word

Geno Petro (ChicagoHomeEstates.com) — Tue, 18 Dec 2007 12:44:49 -0600

Apparently, I now work in Alberto's crew. I haven't discussed this with my Managing Broker yet nor have I contacted the Chicago Association of Realtors for licensing specifics but you better believe both of these tasks are on my To Do list. If I have to pay yet another set of fees, this time to The Latin Kings, then I want to know what I'm getting for my money (although to be honest, I don't remember even joining a street gang). And I'm pretty sure the tax-deductible donation I made to the Jewish Defense League earlier this month doesn't qualify as 'kicking up' to a homey.

Or perhaps I'm just jumping to conclusions. Maybe Alberto just wants a little taste, so to speak. Perhaps a referral fee. Maybe he is the regional representative for the national relocation company I'm presently doing a deal with. I don't know. He wrote all over the side door as well. He seems pretty pissed about something.

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

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

Geno Petro

Racoons in the Trash

Geno Petro (ChicagoHomeEstates.com) — Fri, 23 Nov 2007 11:37:08 -0600

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

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

Deep breath...

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

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

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

"I know more than you," I want to respond, "and I don't go near them."

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

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

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

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

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

"I think I just heard a coyote."

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

"Darling I love you but give me Park Avenue..."

Geno Petro

Big, Hungry Beast

Geno Petro (ChicagoHomeEstates.com) — Thu, 08 Nov 2007 16:17:51 -0600

Ding Dong (the doorbell)

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

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

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

Them

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

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

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

Us

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

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

Hunger

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

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

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

the image is notmydog

Memoirs Of A Big, Fat Liar

Geno Petro (ChicagoHomeEstates.com) — Wed, 24 Oct 2007 11:41:38 -0500

Lightning In A Bottle

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

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

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

Promising The Moon

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

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

blah blah blah

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

blah blah blabbity blah

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

blah

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

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

The Sunday Papers

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

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

I am certain that internet channels (I'll be rolling mine out in 2008), digital open houses, and technology along these similar lines are the way of the future in Real Estate. And even as I restructure my own business model for the next five years I'll still make it a point to tip the paperboy every month when he knocks on our front door. Besides being an enterprising young kid in the image of you know who, he's the best hacker I know.

Ladybug In A Juice glass

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

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

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

image by stormchasers

Geno Petro

The 8th Deadly Sin

Geno Petro (ChicagoHomeEstates.com) — Mon, 08 Oct 2007 19:27:37 -0500

Fear Knocked

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

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

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

Faith Answered

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

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

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

No One Was There

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

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

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

Geno Petro

image by artkg

Lessons Never Learned

Geno Petro (ChicagoHomeEstates.com) — Tue, 25 Sep 2007 13:30:42 -0500

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*CIP #5: Puppies in a box, $5. Year 1965. Results: Elvis, our $800 'Designer' American Bulldog/Boxer 'cross-breed' (i.e. mutt). Even he knows we got ripped off when we bought him a few years ago for $800.
*CIP #6: Family Values. Results: I think we're cool here. A little spend thriftish? Maybe. But I truly believe my wife and I both took the best parts of our respective upbringings and integrated them into our present day lives. Neither one of us came from families of great or even marginal wealth. We both have Poverty-era parents who probably spend a lot of their silent time still worrying about money. My wife and I have a list of things from those wonder years that we ask each other and laugh about on occasion:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

image by levittowner.com

Geno Petro