[See this post in orginal format at The Real Estate Lounge Chicago]
Saturday
If I were from Boston (which I am not), I might say this - "It was a wicked busy day." I love the way those guys from Boston talk and use the word wicked. Maybe it stems from the fact that I have enjoyably witnessed my lovely wife repeatedly watch "Good Will Hunting." Or perhaps it's the parallel universes that Boston and Chicago occupy in my mind. Whatever the case is, Saturday was "wicked" busy. I had showings at four of my listings while I showed a buying client (whose condo just went under contract) six homes. And as the hands on the clock wound their way in a furious frenzy as I spun from River West to Lakeview to Roscoe Village to Oak Park to Lincoln Square to Wrigleyville I found myself face-to-face in my truck with a little green critter who called himself Jiminy.
It Truly Did Happen (I Think)
I kid you not. It started with a subtle tingle along my left arm. "Just that sore arm" I thought. But I'll be darned if that rascal didn't read my mind and chirp, "Hey fellah, it's not your arm." Shocked in the way that you're shocked when you're driving and that precious container of coffee is tipping the wrong way and threatening to either besmirch your trousers or the passenger side floorboard, I jumped in my seat and nearly squished a sun-bathing squirrel in the process. Standing on my dashboard next to the happy Buddha who is front and center in my vehicle as if to ensure that the road I am traveling is safe stood this impish cricket, dressed to the nines and sporting a monocle that may have been fashionable pre-WWII. But on him it looked good. As did a certain churlish scowl that I suppose was meant to freeze me in my tracks. Instead I just chuckled and muttered "WTF." "Huh," said the little green rascal. "WTF? World Trade Federation?" deepening his scowl as he directed his beady gaze my way. "Not quite what I had in mind," I responded. And went saying, "Who are you - how'd you get in my truck - what do you want?"
The Cricket's Purpose
"What I want," his voice swirling in a slow chittering, "is to know who is writing your copy?" My copy, I thought to myself as I said, "I have no idea what you are talking about." "Don't play coy. It's unattractive and it portrays me as something of a sap." Considering that my itsy bitsy counterpart likely had a brain less sizable than something my three-year-old might find on the tip of his finger after a moment of nasal exploration I thought that such a portrayal wouldn't be difficult to accomplish. But lacking the desire to be mean-spirited I simply said, "You've gotta help me out here." "The blog," he said. "And..." I responded, with a disjointed pause after the single word utterance sounding too much like a pained teenage girl who was rolling her eyes while flinching when asked a painfully redonkulous question by an obtuse parent. Fortunately the cricket was too enraged with my reticence to be affronted by my simpish call out to things teen. He just maintained his interrogative course as I directed my 4-Runner to the next appointment.
He Had Been Reading The Real Estate Lounge Chicago Blog and Had a Question
It turns out he had been training his monocled eye online to read The Real Estate Lounge Chicago blog for quite a while and he was certain that I was relying on some unidentified others to gain what I was calling my voice. Bristling with more indignation than Rhett Butler could have imagined I lifted my chin, thrust out my chest and issued a haughty sigh. "I have no one on retainer - my copy is my own." Sensing the sincerity of my tone and probably recognizing that I would easily silence his piercing voice with the flick of a finger or swipe of the hand the little dude started to whistle a different tune. "Your own copy! Your own copy! Remarkable! Adventurous! Tremendous!" "Hey, look, I don't need you to wax my back." I guess the sheer oddness of this combination of words replaced what may have been previously fear-induced as it dawned on him that ever run-on sentence, dangling participle and double entendre really did traverse the corridors of my mind as it made its way out through the tips of my typing fingers. Who else but somebody that said a thing like "wax my back" could conjure up Moses as a realtor or 2-year-old children issuing Zen-like aphorisms or "burying" St. Joseph images online
?
Partially Satisfied, His Inquiry Persisted
And though I could tell he was satisfied I could tell that it was only a "pretty much" satisfied - something still was tickling his chirper. "There's something more?" "The photographs?" "Mine." "Yours?" "Entirely." "And the kids?"
A Group Called CERTAIN
As soon as he had said this I could tell he regretted it, and if to assuage my irritation he reached into the tiniest briefcase I had ever seen and pulled out an official looking document. It looked like a diploma and it read "Coalition to Eradicate Totally Asinine Internet Nonsense." "WTF," I said again. And he raised an eye over his monocle. "No," he interjected, "CERTAIN." "CERTAIN," I responded. "Fine. Whatever. What's the point?" "The goal of CERTAIN is to draw attention to those folks engaging in online chatter and to ensure that the chatter in which they engage is chatter that they create." "Really," I said. "You're telling me that purveyors of online thinking are kicking out canned content?" "They are." "The bastards" I muttered. "Don't they know about authenticity, value, voice and personal branding?" "What they know is the old paradigm" he said, exhibiting the wisdom of the majority of insects and animals in martial arts cartoons. "Your role? You've showed up here for a reason."
The Path of The Empty Hand
"I teach the path of the empty hand," he said. "Meaning?" "That if you had been one of what I refer to as the insentient gleaners I would have made you an offer you couldn't refuse." "Sounds serious," I said, briefly imagining that Prthe cricket resembled Don Corleone. "Making the internet safe for decent human beings to read original content related to the Chicago real estate market or any market where condos or homes are bought or sold is serious." "And the empty hand?" "Just like it sounds - I make the transgressor realize that putting down his laptop, emptying his hand, is his best and only option." "Any luck?" "There's the rub," he said as he appeared to chortle to himself. "The folks using canned writing or ghostwriters aren't creative enough to witness me." I was going to say something along the lines of all of it sounding crazy but in the current conversation it really did sound crazy and it was entirely possible that it was yours truly serving up both sides of the dialogue. So I simply opted for "WTF." "Yeah, it creates something of a pickle." Feeling somewhat defeated and a bit hopeless I asked, "So what now?"
Apparently Enough Rope Will Do The Trick
"Give 'em enough rope." Baffled by that little nugget I looked over my shades to the cricket and said, "I don't follow you." "Precisely. Follow. Or to not follow. The thing is the reading public, the buying public, the selling public, they are smarter than these characters perceive. Let neophytes who think that society is so vapid as to accept or appreciate canned writing keep polluting the airwaves with content created in a sweaty cube half a continent away and they will find out the truth that the reading public, buying public and selling public will drop the canned content quicker than they'd upchuck Hormel Spam." He went on, "Blogs are today's version of a campfire. They are where we gather and tell stories, exchange parts of ourselves, where we get to the truth. It's where we add to and construct a stronger, more vital society. And the folks who try to take a shortcut and use stories that are written by others will violate the precept of finding and speaking the truth." He paused a moment, perhaps overtaken by the weight of what he was saying and what he was teaching me. After clearing his throat and with the solemness of a cricket-version of James Earl Jones he continued by saying, "And those whose voices are the product of outsourcing and canned content, they will find themselves to be wandering ghosts, with no audience except the occasional few who peer like those observing an accident site before they shield their eyes." "I like what you're saying," I veritably shouted at the tiny critter who had said such a mouthful.
The Cricket's Chirp of Approval
To which he simply replied, "And I like what you are saying." And as he scrunched down on his haunches and readied to hurl himself into the "wicked" Chicago Saturday out of my 4-Runner he swiveled his itsy-bitsy head and over his green shoulder said, "So keep saying it my friend. Let your conscience be your guide. And when in doubt know that CERTAIN has a way with the empty hand." I nodded as he departed and vowed to do just that, to keep saying it.
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