The Volvo SUV was in the shop, he said.
Little Village
Friday, April 29, 2011
You can take the Hillbilly out of the country but you can't....
The Volvo SUV was in the shop, he said.
Little Village
Wild Dog Protects That Guy with All the Cans
Millionaire can collector kidnaps local dog to act as protection
Lakeview
I Always Wanted to Marry a Foreclosure
“Hey, can we go look at that two flat, the one in Logan for $120,000?,” my client asked excitedly, delightfully oblivious to the car crash he was about to encounter.
“Uh, yeah, sure, but you know it's going to most likely need some work, and you weren't that keen on anything more than painting and some floor refinishing.”
“I know I said that but I've got a good feeling about this one. Something about the outside photo speaks to me.”
Apparently, he'd never explored the all too real world of online dating, where dreamy avatars arrive for coffeeshop dates aged by vienna beef and a cracked rolodex of spoiled romances.
“Alright, we'll take a look. Maybe you're right. I'm sure somewhere in Chicago real estate history a solid underpriced property has been forsaken by buyers for months, while it waited for just the right visionary, who keenly understood that painting those purple walls white would change everything. I'll meet you tomorrow at 3.”
A clean vinyl sided two flat awaited, taunting us like a cantankerous curmudgeon of an old maid, determined to thwart suitors until her rapidly approaching death. VINYL SIDING...Is there a more heinous material in the history of home building? A house built with wet dung is more architecturally appealing. Duct taping giant garbage bags around the exterior wall studs would even surpass the nausea that vinyl siding brings to the senses. Write your Senators. And your alderman. Ban that Shit! (Full disclosure: I'm so embarrassed by the vinyl that enshrines my building that I meet guests on the corner and escort them blindfolded to my door).
“Let's do it,” my client said with no hint of irony, a lifetime of happiness still awaiting him behind Door number one.
The smell of abandonment pervaded like the metamorphosis of mold and cat pee. The floors were still original hardwood though, which should be Chicago's new moniker. Fuck The Windy City. It's the City of Hardwood Floors. You may find a home drowning in yellowed Tribunes and Harold's Chicken boxes, mold blackened bathrooms, and shot out windows, but I guarantee you the realtor (or seller) will turn to you with the straightest face possible and earnestly declare, “Look at the hardwood floors. A quick polish and they'll really turn this place around.” Sure, if you're ok bathing in a plastic tub in the rear corner of the basement and inhaling cracked plaster on your elevated air bed.
“Hey, check out these moldings,” my client barked, still refusing to face the reality that his cyber date isn't even a woman.
“Yeah, not bad, only three, maybe four layers top of paint to strip.”
The rotting galvanized plumbing clawed out from the broken bathroom walls. Two presidencies worth of mold extracted the Bush empire from the forgotten bile in the pit of your belly. Stepping inside the oval office was not an option. The Spinster was beginning to show her spite. Walking down the brief hallway revealed everyone's new favorite room, the former dungeon of domestic servitude, El Kitchen.
A violent storm of post foreclosure looting dropped a Category 5 on my client's Emeril fantasies. Bam!
The countertop had been completely removed leaving only the plywood skeleton, which hung in the air like a subprime diving board. More broken rusty pipes poked through the cracked cabinetry to offer a salutary welcome. And then the Old Lady crapped on us.
“What was that?”the first octaves of concern bellowed from the buyer's mouth.
“Um, she wants us out.”
“Huh?”
“Look up”
A crop circle of peeling paint neatly framed a tub size crater. A small FHA obstacle.
He wanted to swear of internet dating unaware that it's a numbers game. Everything's a numbers game.
“Hey, listen, you can get a rehab loan, and really make this place something. Probably add $80-$100 grand to the purchase price, and in a year you'll have the place you wanted,” I consoled, trying to minimize the hurt a misleading photo will do to a young man's heart.
“You know, I think I'll have to pass on this one. It's a little more work than I thought.”
“But don't you want to see the upstairs unit. Or the basement. Maybe those were kept pristine. This is the classic 'show 'em your ugly side first, and if he can bear with it, than he may be the one' move.” Again, consoling the bereaved.
“Uh, well, uh, ok. Let's take a look upstairs.”
The back porch was quickly reclaiming it's place in Chicago's clay earth, the perilous slant inebriating us for our upper deck arrival. A rusty water heater greeted us with the tip tap tip of it's final fluids. The kitchen had vanished. Abducted? Transplanted? We walked a circle of wonder around The Bam room, two old men at a Mapplethorpe exhibit. The matron waited. So what's it gonna be boy. Can you handle me?
“It's alright. We can go back downstairs. I'm ready,” the solemnity dripping from his mouth like the water tank that now bid us adieu.
Passing back through the downstairs kitchen was a painful Christmas tour of a childhood family album, now digitized by Dad to allow immediate trauma, On Demand. A sticky spatula glanced from the spot where the stove once sat. My client did the foreclosure walk of shame. Look around Chicago for wood boarded windows or a giant orange sticker on a padlocked door. If you see somebody leaving that home, not the one with the bad suit and a bluetooth, but the person accompanying, dejected, face to the ground, wondering what he was thinking, questioning why she couldn't have just posted some real time photos of herself. Everyday in Chicago, hundreds of prospects do the same walk.
But there's hope. There's always hope. It's what makes us human. And, of course, the Bank, who despite tight-assing their soaring profits, is still happy to give you a few more dollars to get the home you deserve.
“Hey, c'mon now,” I said like Coach after another beatdown, “Chicago's a big city. There's no such thing as only one soul mate. We're flooded with options here. I mean, did you see at least see those hardwood floors?”
“Uh, yeah, sure, but you know it's going to most likely need some work, and you weren't that keen on anything more than painting and some floor refinishing.”
“I know I said that but I've got a good feeling about this one. Something about the outside photo speaks to me.”
Apparently, he'd never explored the all too real world of online dating, where dreamy avatars arrive for coffeeshop dates aged by vienna beef and a cracked rolodex of spoiled romances.
“Alright, we'll take a look. Maybe you're right. I'm sure somewhere in Chicago real estate history a solid underpriced property has been forsaken by buyers for months, while it waited for just the right visionary, who keenly understood that painting those purple walls white would change everything. I'll meet you tomorrow at 3.”
A clean vinyl sided two flat awaited, taunting us like a cantankerous curmudgeon of an old maid, determined to thwart suitors until her rapidly approaching death. VINYL SIDING...Is there a more heinous material in the history of home building? A house built with wet dung is more architecturally appealing. Duct taping giant garbage bags around the exterior wall studs would even surpass the nausea that vinyl siding brings to the senses. Write your Senators. And your alderman. Ban that Shit! (Full disclosure: I'm so embarrassed by the vinyl that enshrines my building that I meet guests on the corner and escort them blindfolded to my door).
“Let's do it,” my client said with no hint of irony, a lifetime of happiness still awaiting him behind Door number one.
The smell of abandonment pervaded like the metamorphosis of mold and cat pee. The floors were still original hardwood though, which should be Chicago's new moniker. Fuck The Windy City. It's the City of Hardwood Floors. You may find a home drowning in yellowed Tribunes and Harold's Chicken boxes, mold blackened bathrooms, and shot out windows, but I guarantee you the realtor (or seller) will turn to you with the straightest face possible and earnestly declare, “Look at the hardwood floors. A quick polish and they'll really turn this place around.” Sure, if you're ok bathing in a plastic tub in the rear corner of the basement and inhaling cracked plaster on your elevated air bed.
“Hey, check out these moldings,” my client barked, still refusing to face the reality that his cyber date isn't even a woman.
“Yeah, not bad, only three, maybe four layers top of paint to strip.”
The rotting galvanized plumbing clawed out from the broken bathroom walls. Two presidencies worth of mold extracted the Bush empire from the forgotten bile in the pit of your belly. Stepping inside the oval office was not an option. The Spinster was beginning to show her spite. Walking down the brief hallway revealed everyone's new favorite room, the former dungeon of domestic servitude, El Kitchen.
A violent storm of post foreclosure looting dropped a Category 5 on my client's Emeril fantasies. Bam!
The countertop had been completely removed leaving only the plywood skeleton, which hung in the air like a subprime diving board. More broken rusty pipes poked through the cracked cabinetry to offer a salutary welcome. And then the Old Lady crapped on us.
“What was that?”the first octaves of concern bellowed from the buyer's mouth.
“Um, she wants us out.”
“Huh?”
“Look up”
A crop circle of peeling paint neatly framed a tub size crater. A small FHA obstacle.
He wanted to swear of internet dating unaware that it's a numbers game. Everything's a numbers game.
“Hey, listen, you can get a rehab loan, and really make this place something. Probably add $80-$100 grand to the purchase price, and in a year you'll have the place you wanted,” I consoled, trying to minimize the hurt a misleading photo will do to a young man's heart.
“You know, I think I'll have to pass on this one. It's a little more work than I thought.”
“But don't you want to see the upstairs unit. Or the basement. Maybe those were kept pristine. This is the classic 'show 'em your ugly side first, and if he can bear with it, than he may be the one' move.” Again, consoling the bereaved.
“Uh, well, uh, ok. Let's take a look upstairs.”
The back porch was quickly reclaiming it's place in Chicago's clay earth, the perilous slant inebriating us for our upper deck arrival. A rusty water heater greeted us with the tip tap tip of it's final fluids. The kitchen had vanished. Abducted? Transplanted? We walked a circle of wonder around The Bam room, two old men at a Mapplethorpe exhibit. The matron waited. So what's it gonna be boy. Can you handle me?
“It's alright. We can go back downstairs. I'm ready,” the solemnity dripping from his mouth like the water tank that now bid us adieu.
Passing back through the downstairs kitchen was a painful Christmas tour of a childhood family album, now digitized by Dad to allow immediate trauma, On Demand. A sticky spatula glanced from the spot where the stove once sat. My client did the foreclosure walk of shame. Look around Chicago for wood boarded windows or a giant orange sticker on a padlocked door. If you see somebody leaving that home, not the one with the bad suit and a bluetooth, but the person accompanying, dejected, face to the ground, wondering what he was thinking, questioning why she couldn't have just posted some real time photos of herself. Everyday in Chicago, hundreds of prospects do the same walk.
But there's hope. There's always hope. It's what makes us human. And, of course, the Bank, who despite tight-assing their soaring profits, is still happy to give you a few more dollars to get the home you deserve.
“Hey, c'mon now,” I said like Coach after another beatdown, “Chicago's a big city. There's no such thing as only one soul mate. We're flooded with options here. I mean, did you see at least see those hardwood floors?”
But You Said You Wanted a SubZero
Tell all your foodie friends that $650k got you a 1982 SubZero
Edgewater
Architecturally Unique or Just Plain Ugly?
You could buy a small island in the South Pacific or half of Mchenry County for the value of this thing
Lakeview
Friday, April 22, 2011
Every Home Has a Secret
Imagine buying a Mac direct from the designers who created it, or a car from the engineers who built it, or even a pear from the farmer who grew it. It would be nice. But generally, the more expensive the product, the more distance between the Buyer and the Source. We accept this. But a few people will still fly out to Stockholm to buy their Volvo, or buy produce on a McHenry farm. More are likely to choose to eat at a restaurant where the Chef is the owner, and he leaves the kitchen to talk to his diners. Those same people probably prefer to buy their hardware from the local Screw Guy because they know he will take the extra five minutes to show his client how to properly install the shower door with irregular fitting requirements.
On the contrary, a trip to Home Depot leaves you searching in desperation for someone to help, when twenty minutes of frustration yields a baggy jean kid who needs you to 'just hold on a minute' while he finishes his round of text messaging. A simple call to straighten out a Citibank credit card statement leads to a live robot in Bombay which eventually makes you question exactly what language the British were teaching in the Subcontinent.
A real estate agent selling a house, a good agent, will make sure the sale happens. Paperwork will proceed through the right channels, and in the end, the Seller and Buyer will both get what they want. But the actual home, it's life and times, can only be known by the residents. Their stories of child rearing and remodeling adventures make the home breathe. Their room to room tours involve more than the standard, “And this is the second bedroom, and this is the hallway, and this is the bathroom...” These tours tell a story of life lived under a roof that you may call yours one day, and eventually these escorted journeys reveal the dwelling's true condition. The Seller stutters too long when you ask about a history of flooding in the basement, or an excited referral for the electrician who updated the wiring, or an apologetic denial when asked about the roof being replaced during their tenure – these are the insights a Buyer needs to make a wise purchasing decision.
We arrived on time. The seller's agent called multiple times to assure that I would not be tardy. This was the world of Chicago real estate over $500,000, where realtors actually show up for appointments. On this particular Sunday, the guilt ridden vacationing realtor would not be able to attend. Unfortunately, he said, the Seller would have to show my client and me the property. Shucks! I felt like a fourteen year old kid whose parents just told him they had to leave town for the weekend and sadly, there would be no babysitter.
It was an unflattering block of Edgewater, where the homes tell you that you are slowly creeping toward Rogers Park, but the availability of parking spaces reminds you that you've yet to cross Devon.
Chicago's Big Two, The Lake and The El, were nearby, but the block by block nature of The Windy City's evolution meant that two blocks away sat renovated American Four Squares on deep lots while our present sidewalk hosted a bland row of frame single family cottages and unadorned bricks that were the Arts & Crafts era's last gasp. But if you can live on a block without known criminal activity, and be located a few blocks away from Garden Walk Winners and dreamy front porches, then, for a $75,000 savings, it's worth the look.
The owner didn't answer the door. How long do you wait until the next ring? I wait two minutes the first time. Followed by a quick double ring. One more minute. Then one more ring. Then begins the peeping tom walk around the house. Just as Tom began to peep, she answered the door. I turned back to find a surprised woman reluctant to open. But didn't he tell you we were coming? He told her it was earlier in the day. Well, we were just at the $500,000 mark so I shouldn't expect too much from a Seller's realtor.
Seductive arched entryways, a vast sea of unvarnished hardwood, and.... closed window shades. HEY! If you want to sell your home, open the God Damn windows! We all live five feet from our neighbor's but without light, life dies, so let the sun do it's magic lady. We soon realized why. Adjacent to the possession strewn living room, sat an expansive sunroom, completely blacked-out on a sun drenched Spring day. An unrecognizable silhouette taunted us through the scattered rays of light that penetrated the musty darkness. The shadows danced slowly but they did dance. What was that?
Naturally, we wanted to look, but the owner detoured us through the hectic dining room to the dated kitchen, and outside to the frowning yard, and as we made our way back to the front of this sprawling home, the children's upbringing already told, we were once again denied entry into the blacked out front parlor by gentle gestures that lead us to the rear stairs like naughty guests at Uncle Rick's Christmas Party. The owner let us inspect the unkempt bedrooms alone, preferring not to delve into the teenage angst that probably erupted within.
I immediately turned to my dejected client. “Hey, did you see what that was in the front room?”
“That was weird, huh? Maybe it was a science project or something”
“No. No way. It was moving. I know. It sounds crazy, but it was like, almost human.”
“I don't think so. I didn't hear anything.”
“Alright, just follow me and we'll try to get a look.”
So we proceeded back down the ample oak treads where The Mystery beckoned us with it's disjointed light refractions. As we turned to enter The Forbidden, I saw the silhouette move. Awkward flailing movements. Were those limbs? Two steps closer and the owner appeared, wanting to show us the basement. Classic 70's rec room and somebody's profane love of Bruce Lee couldn't derail my growing desire to learn The Mystery.
At the top of the basement stairs, I made another attempt to ascertain the truth. I stepped into the sunroom, my eager pupils attempting to adjust to the blackness, but within seconds, the diligent owner wanted to show us something else in the kitchen. I did the backstep escape while she talked to my client. Returning to the NightRoom, I creeped up on it like a cat hunting alley prey. The shape appeared distinctly human, although oblivious to my gawky movements, while the aged flooring didn't help my pathetic attempts to be stealth. Just as I was about to yank that shower curtain open, I heard, “Seth, come here please, the owner wants to show you something.” Argggh.
At least The Mystery helped bring out more truths. The faucet wouldn't stop dripping. The plumbing was backing up recently. Those two windows didn't seal right and got drafty in the winter. Give them enough time, and most owners get attacked by guilt. It's re-assuring actually. The 6 o'clock news has maligned the human character. We're not that bad. But really, for her asking price, this home was already out of the question. Just let us see the creature.
The three of us made our way to the front, the owner probably oblivious that her poor choice in design would prevent a sale from ever taking place at this price. My client paused to examine the slowly moving shadow. I made one last attempt to intercept it. The owner slyly passed between us, a hand forbidding an over-eager guy from getting too far on the first date. My attempts were in vain. I'd have to remove her by force. I considered it. The late afternoon light revealed an outline that became more human. Was she hiding something? What if that thing needed our help? A kidnap victim? Maybe it was a child from the milk cartons, or a cloning experiment. A centaur? I wanted to know. But my client had already lost interest. It was the owner and me. An old fashioned real estate showdown. I should have been happy. We learned what we needed to know. But I was a pouty kid who had to settle for the single scoop ice cream cone instead of the triple fudge sundae.
My client was leaning against our bikes, slumped against an oak's wide stump. She stared back at the home, that 'maybe if I look longer it will change' look. But it's the same look men on the highway give to engines under open hoods. It's full of hope, but in the end, you'll need outside help if you want to make it work.
She looked down from the home's vacant dormer, and meekly asked, “so, what did you think?”
“I'm not sure. It could have been human. But something tells me it was an exotic animal. Something she shouldn't be having in Chicago. Or anywhere.”
“What? Oh, who cares. I mean, I'm sorry, but I can't live on a block like this. Look at these homes. These aren't people I'd be friends with. I don't want to live on the nicest home on the block, you know what I mean? I just don't know about this place. Something creepy. And strange.”
I couldn't respond. Cause she would never believe me. It wasn't the block. Not really. It was the owner. And her refusal to clean the house, and open the shades, and fix the simple things, and to harbor a BoogieMan. Really, it was definitely the BoogieMan. Maybe there's good reason you don't pick your dinner up directly from the restaurant kitchen. Have you ever seen who cooks that rib-eye?
On the contrary, a trip to Home Depot leaves you searching in desperation for someone to help, when twenty minutes of frustration yields a baggy jean kid who needs you to 'just hold on a minute' while he finishes his round of text messaging. A simple call to straighten out a Citibank credit card statement leads to a live robot in Bombay which eventually makes you question exactly what language the British were teaching in the Subcontinent.
A real estate agent selling a house, a good agent, will make sure the sale happens. Paperwork will proceed through the right channels, and in the end, the Seller and Buyer will both get what they want. But the actual home, it's life and times, can only be known by the residents. Their stories of child rearing and remodeling adventures make the home breathe. Their room to room tours involve more than the standard, “And this is the second bedroom, and this is the hallway, and this is the bathroom...” These tours tell a story of life lived under a roof that you may call yours one day, and eventually these escorted journeys reveal the dwelling's true condition. The Seller stutters too long when you ask about a history of flooding in the basement, or an excited referral for the electrician who updated the wiring, or an apologetic denial when asked about the roof being replaced during their tenure – these are the insights a Buyer needs to make a wise purchasing decision.
We arrived on time. The seller's agent called multiple times to assure that I would not be tardy. This was the world of Chicago real estate over $500,000, where realtors actually show up for appointments. On this particular Sunday, the guilt ridden vacationing realtor would not be able to attend. Unfortunately, he said, the Seller would have to show my client and me the property. Shucks! I felt like a fourteen year old kid whose parents just told him they had to leave town for the weekend and sadly, there would be no babysitter.
It was an unflattering block of Edgewater, where the homes tell you that you are slowly creeping toward Rogers Park, but the availability of parking spaces reminds you that you've yet to cross Devon.
Chicago's Big Two, The Lake and The El, were nearby, but the block by block nature of The Windy City's evolution meant that two blocks away sat renovated American Four Squares on deep lots while our present sidewalk hosted a bland row of frame single family cottages and unadorned bricks that were the Arts & Crafts era's last gasp. But if you can live on a block without known criminal activity, and be located a few blocks away from Garden Walk Winners and dreamy front porches, then, for a $75,000 savings, it's worth the look.
The owner didn't answer the door. How long do you wait until the next ring? I wait two minutes the first time. Followed by a quick double ring. One more minute. Then one more ring. Then begins the peeping tom walk around the house. Just as Tom began to peep, she answered the door. I turned back to find a surprised woman reluctant to open. But didn't he tell you we were coming? He told her it was earlier in the day. Well, we were just at the $500,000 mark so I shouldn't expect too much from a Seller's realtor.
Seductive arched entryways, a vast sea of unvarnished hardwood, and.... closed window shades. HEY! If you want to sell your home, open the God Damn windows! We all live five feet from our neighbor's but without light, life dies, so let the sun do it's magic lady. We soon realized why. Adjacent to the possession strewn living room, sat an expansive sunroom, completely blacked-out on a sun drenched Spring day. An unrecognizable silhouette taunted us through the scattered rays of light that penetrated the musty darkness. The shadows danced slowly but they did dance. What was that?
Naturally, we wanted to look, but the owner detoured us through the hectic dining room to the dated kitchen, and outside to the frowning yard, and as we made our way back to the front of this sprawling home, the children's upbringing already told, we were once again denied entry into the blacked out front parlor by gentle gestures that lead us to the rear stairs like naughty guests at Uncle Rick's Christmas Party. The owner let us inspect the unkempt bedrooms alone, preferring not to delve into the teenage angst that probably erupted within.
I immediately turned to my dejected client. “Hey, did you see what that was in the front room?”
“That was weird, huh? Maybe it was a science project or something”
“No. No way. It was moving. I know. It sounds crazy, but it was like, almost human.”
“I don't think so. I didn't hear anything.”
“Alright, just follow me and we'll try to get a look.”
So we proceeded back down the ample oak treads where The Mystery beckoned us with it's disjointed light refractions. As we turned to enter The Forbidden, I saw the silhouette move. Awkward flailing movements. Were those limbs? Two steps closer and the owner appeared, wanting to show us the basement. Classic 70's rec room and somebody's profane love of Bruce Lee couldn't derail my growing desire to learn The Mystery.
At the top of the basement stairs, I made another attempt to ascertain the truth. I stepped into the sunroom, my eager pupils attempting to adjust to the blackness, but within seconds, the diligent owner wanted to show us something else in the kitchen. I did the backstep escape while she talked to my client. Returning to the NightRoom, I creeped up on it like a cat hunting alley prey. The shape appeared distinctly human, although oblivious to my gawky movements, while the aged flooring didn't help my pathetic attempts to be stealth. Just as I was about to yank that shower curtain open, I heard, “Seth, come here please, the owner wants to show you something.” Argggh.
At least The Mystery helped bring out more truths. The faucet wouldn't stop dripping. The plumbing was backing up recently. Those two windows didn't seal right and got drafty in the winter. Give them enough time, and most owners get attacked by guilt. It's re-assuring actually. The 6 o'clock news has maligned the human character. We're not that bad. But really, for her asking price, this home was already out of the question. Just let us see the creature.
The three of us made our way to the front, the owner probably oblivious that her poor choice in design would prevent a sale from ever taking place at this price. My client paused to examine the slowly moving shadow. I made one last attempt to intercept it. The owner slyly passed between us, a hand forbidding an over-eager guy from getting too far on the first date. My attempts were in vain. I'd have to remove her by force. I considered it. The late afternoon light revealed an outline that became more human. Was she hiding something? What if that thing needed our help? A kidnap victim? Maybe it was a child from the milk cartons, or a cloning experiment. A centaur? I wanted to know. But my client had already lost interest. It was the owner and me. An old fashioned real estate showdown. I should have been happy. We learned what we needed to know. But I was a pouty kid who had to settle for the single scoop ice cream cone instead of the triple fudge sundae.
My client was leaning against our bikes, slumped against an oak's wide stump. She stared back at the home, that 'maybe if I look longer it will change' look. But it's the same look men on the highway give to engines under open hoods. It's full of hope, but in the end, you'll need outside help if you want to make it work.
She looked down from the home's vacant dormer, and meekly asked, “so, what did you think?”
“I'm not sure. It could have been human. But something tells me it was an exotic animal. Something she shouldn't be having in Chicago. Or anywhere.”
“What? Oh, who cares. I mean, I'm sorry, but I can't live on a block like this. Look at these homes. These aren't people I'd be friends with. I don't want to live on the nicest home on the block, you know what I mean? I just don't know about this place. Something creepy. And strange.”
I couldn't respond. Cause she would never believe me. It wasn't the block. Not really. It was the owner. And her refusal to clean the house, and open the shades, and fix the simple things, and to harbor a BoogieMan. Really, it was definitely the BoogieMan. Maybe there's good reason you don't pick your dinner up directly from the restaurant kitchen. Have you ever seen who cooks that rib-eye?
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Basement Beams Should Be Free! Release Them!
Too many people drywall over these in finished basements
Humboldt Park
How to View a Property in Under 3 Minutes
“Whoa, where are we?,”my client, who we'll call D, exclaimed with a passionate mix of fear and excitement.
As we pedaled across Pulaski, an early Spring day's cloudless sky began to reveal the Bungalow. Logan Square's 'appeal to all' nature of brick two flats, greystones, vinyl sided multifamilies, and restored victorians bleached out into a conforming sea of the everyman's house. Some had stained glass, others a curved bay window. A few had protruding dormers. But they were all Chicago brick bungalows, the workingman's urban retreat. The sometimes Windy City is blessed with fenceless islands of these legendary contributors to America's claim as a housing oasis, where generations of immigrants have escaped cramped apartments and rudimentary shacks to obtain gardens and garages, finished basements and eat-in kitchens.
A hair north of Fullerton, and two blocks toward the Mississippi from Pulaski, beyond a frontier of still operating factories, one enters Hermosa, a pleasant change from the Parks and Squares that stumped the naming creativity of the city's neighborhood founders.
We had the code. In minutes D would get his first chance to see the ornate moldings and oak floors that still enchant most bungalows. He would understand why these simple homes, built like tanks for the proletariat, continue to prevent the suburban exodus of home craving urbanites.
The storm door was stuck. The bane of real estate professionals is keys. And doors. Entry is never as easy as one might expect. The other bane is the actual real estate professionals. As D perused a street void of wrought iron fencing, I frantically dialed the real estate office, but like all professional real estate offices handling lower priced properties, nobody answered. You receive a lockbox code for unoccupied properties. They are meant to help a real estate agent show a property that he or she may otherwise be unable to attend. But many lockbox realtors feel a Buyer is better escorted by an Agent who has never seen the property. So, in an effort to retain their title as the nation's most admirable profession, they reluctantly collect commissions from underwater sellers while other individuals do their contracted work.
In desperation, I began to knock at the windows, hoping, by chance, that the real estate office was so completely incompetent that they put a lockbox on the home of a resident who spends his Tuesday mornings in the living room. Realtor incompetence sometimes works in your favor.
An elderly man, his overpowering aftershave welcoming us, stood atop the concrete landing with a look of suspicious surprise, as I attempted to explain why two men were attempting to enter his castle.
He remained motionless behind the glass storm door. His thinning grey hair, long and straggly, was mobster grease combed. Polyester slacks rose above the naval, supporting one of those short sleeve button downs that hipsters find so amusing at thrift stores. His bushy gray mustache was not ironic. And those furry house slippers beckoned you to relax for awhile. But he was not beckoning.
“I'm from Captain Realty. We had an appointment at 11:30 to see your listing. The office gave me the lockbox combo. Here it is....”
Luckily he didn't see our no Cadillac bicycles, but my shaggy long hair was still casting doubt. He wouldn't open. I guess my client and I could have been those people from the evening news, that realtor and client impersonation team who go around stealing Tchotchkes and fake Andes mints from the plush carpeted homes of naïve immigrant homesellers. But we weren't. This was D's first bungalow. Please. He needs to understand.
I gave him a business card as if that 2 x 3 piece of low quality paper stock would validate my professional existence. I repeated the lockbox code, and the difficult to pronounce surname of his hardworking agent. His whiskers twinkled. The slippers rotated slightly. One more glance toward my client, whose friendly demeanor and close cropped hair sealed our fate. We were in.
Without introduction or an offering of the low quality Easter treats that sat longingly on his frilly lace covered dining room table, our reluctant host began his perfunctory tour.
“Have you made any repairs recently, or upgraded the mechanicals, like the plumbing or electric?”
“Everything new. Everything new,” he repeated in a thick eastern european accent.
“How about the roof?”
“You call office. Call the office.”
Hmmm. Why would the office know about his roof. “Excuse me, is this your home, or are you renting it?”
“You call the office. Call the office,” he brusquely repeated, as became his manner, in what was apparently broken, broken English.
Was this was some conspiratorial arrangement between the no-show agent and this character?
The heartless tour continued. “Here one bedroom, here one bedroom, here bathroom.” His penetrating glare put the fear of Pope John Paul into us, preventing even a cursory glance at the closets or the functioning capabilities of the shaded windows.
Maybe if I changed the topic away from the home, he would open up a bit. “So, where do you want to move when you leave here?”
“You call the office. Call the office.”
Two minutes hadn't passed before we were being rushed through the basement, finished but barren save a solitary plush chair that the old man utilized to study Lech Walesa's admonitions of those who traffic in real estate.
“Here one room. Here one room. Everything new. No junky. No junky.”
I thought I'd inspect the furnace room but Mark Twain's Polish doppelganger would have none of it.
“Outside. Come. I show you outside. Come. Outside, you come.”
Obedient German captives, we followed our captor. We climbed back through the steep basement stairs hidden behind a closet door. Our leader made a sharp right and we followed one step behind, his knockoff Old Spice drowning us in Grandfather. We stopped briefly in the leader's sunroom, a paneled conversion of his enclosed porch, where more beckoning chocolates peeped over the tops of coffee table crystal and Polish news beamed from the anachronistic flat screen television perched delicately on a cheap formica end table. D and I looked at the chocolates. Dear Leader gave us the GetOut look.
“Here outside. Have ga-rage. Have yard. No junky. Everything new. No junky.”
Indeed, it was a meticulous rear, his yard, already prepared for the Spring carrot and dill planting season. What was this man's story?
“Have you lived here for long?”
“Call the office. You must call the office.”
D did not seem comfortable. I couldn't resist another question.
“What is your opinion of the mortgage interest deduction for homeowners?”
“Call the office. You must call the office.”
He allowed us approximately twenty seconds to digest the exterior landscape. He pointed to the bungalow's flush tuckpointing. “New. Everything new. No junky. No junky. Come front home. You see front.”
For once, our host had us lead. He followed as closely as we had, as we led him along the home's concrete walkway. We opened the iron gate to the manicured front lawn. As we turned around to get a close look at the roofline and facade's tuckpointing, we noticed that our fragrant host had vanished. Sort of. He was on the other side of the gate, key in hand, deadbolting it. Before either of us could laugh, a shadow passed the bungalow's heavily draped bay window, and a click was heard, and then another. The shadow passed once more, never to be seen or heard from again.
I decided to call the office. It's what HE would want.
“Yeah, this is Seth from Captain Realty. We had an appointment to see your property at 11:30. You left the lockbox code but we couldn't get to it. The owner was home and very surprised to see us. And he did not seem happy.”
A woman in a heavily accented eastern european accent, representing an agent with a name like Jabberwocki, informed me that there must have been a mistake. “Sir, we calling this man and tell him you are come to see property.”
“Why do you keep a lockbox on a property where somebody resides? I don't want to get shot.”
“Sir, no, no is true. Nobody shoot you. We tell the man you are coming. Maybe he forget.”
“I don't think this man speaks English. But he is fond of your office.”
“Yes sir. Maybe this problem. Maybe no more having person speaking the English call seller man. We call him next time in language he speaking.”
The Few. The Proud. Realtors.
As we pedaled across Pulaski, an early Spring day's cloudless sky began to reveal the Bungalow. Logan Square's 'appeal to all' nature of brick two flats, greystones, vinyl sided multifamilies, and restored victorians bleached out into a conforming sea of the everyman's house. Some had stained glass, others a curved bay window. A few had protruding dormers. But they were all Chicago brick bungalows, the workingman's urban retreat. The sometimes Windy City is blessed with fenceless islands of these legendary contributors to America's claim as a housing oasis, where generations of immigrants have escaped cramped apartments and rudimentary shacks to obtain gardens and garages, finished basements and eat-in kitchens.
A hair north of Fullerton, and two blocks toward the Mississippi from Pulaski, beyond a frontier of still operating factories, one enters Hermosa, a pleasant change from the Parks and Squares that stumped the naming creativity of the city's neighborhood founders.
We had the code. In minutes D would get his first chance to see the ornate moldings and oak floors that still enchant most bungalows. He would understand why these simple homes, built like tanks for the proletariat, continue to prevent the suburban exodus of home craving urbanites.
The storm door was stuck. The bane of real estate professionals is keys. And doors. Entry is never as easy as one might expect. The other bane is the actual real estate professionals. As D perused a street void of wrought iron fencing, I frantically dialed the real estate office, but like all professional real estate offices handling lower priced properties, nobody answered. You receive a lockbox code for unoccupied properties. They are meant to help a real estate agent show a property that he or she may otherwise be unable to attend. But many lockbox realtors feel a Buyer is better escorted by an Agent who has never seen the property. So, in an effort to retain their title as the nation's most admirable profession, they reluctantly collect commissions from underwater sellers while other individuals do their contracted work.
In desperation, I began to knock at the windows, hoping, by chance, that the real estate office was so completely incompetent that they put a lockbox on the home of a resident who spends his Tuesday mornings in the living room. Realtor incompetence sometimes works in your favor.
An elderly man, his overpowering aftershave welcoming us, stood atop the concrete landing with a look of suspicious surprise, as I attempted to explain why two men were attempting to enter his castle.
He remained motionless behind the glass storm door. His thinning grey hair, long and straggly, was mobster grease combed. Polyester slacks rose above the naval, supporting one of those short sleeve button downs that hipsters find so amusing at thrift stores. His bushy gray mustache was not ironic. And those furry house slippers beckoned you to relax for awhile. But he was not beckoning.
“I'm from Captain Realty. We had an appointment at 11:30 to see your listing. The office gave me the lockbox combo. Here it is....”
Luckily he didn't see our no Cadillac bicycles, but my shaggy long hair was still casting doubt. He wouldn't open. I guess my client and I could have been those people from the evening news, that realtor and client impersonation team who go around stealing Tchotchkes and fake Andes mints from the plush carpeted homes of naïve immigrant homesellers. But we weren't. This was D's first bungalow. Please. He needs to understand.
I gave him a business card as if that 2 x 3 piece of low quality paper stock would validate my professional existence. I repeated the lockbox code, and the difficult to pronounce surname of his hardworking agent. His whiskers twinkled. The slippers rotated slightly. One more glance toward my client, whose friendly demeanor and close cropped hair sealed our fate. We were in.
Without introduction or an offering of the low quality Easter treats that sat longingly on his frilly lace covered dining room table, our reluctant host began his perfunctory tour.
“Have you made any repairs recently, or upgraded the mechanicals, like the plumbing or electric?”
“Everything new. Everything new,” he repeated in a thick eastern european accent.
“How about the roof?”
“You call office. Call the office.”
Hmmm. Why would the office know about his roof. “Excuse me, is this your home, or are you renting it?”
“You call the office. Call the office,” he brusquely repeated, as became his manner, in what was apparently broken, broken English.
Was this was some conspiratorial arrangement between the no-show agent and this character?
The heartless tour continued. “Here one bedroom, here one bedroom, here bathroom.” His penetrating glare put the fear of Pope John Paul into us, preventing even a cursory glance at the closets or the functioning capabilities of the shaded windows.
Maybe if I changed the topic away from the home, he would open up a bit. “So, where do you want to move when you leave here?”
“You call the office. Call the office.”
Two minutes hadn't passed before we were being rushed through the basement, finished but barren save a solitary plush chair that the old man utilized to study Lech Walesa's admonitions of those who traffic in real estate.
“Here one room. Here one room. Everything new. No junky. No junky.”
I thought I'd inspect the furnace room but Mark Twain's Polish doppelganger would have none of it.
“Outside. Come. I show you outside. Come. Outside, you come.”
Obedient German captives, we followed our captor. We climbed back through the steep basement stairs hidden behind a closet door. Our leader made a sharp right and we followed one step behind, his knockoff Old Spice drowning us in Grandfather. We stopped briefly in the leader's sunroom, a paneled conversion of his enclosed porch, where more beckoning chocolates peeped over the tops of coffee table crystal and Polish news beamed from the anachronistic flat screen television perched delicately on a cheap formica end table. D and I looked at the chocolates. Dear Leader gave us the GetOut look.
“Here outside. Have ga-rage. Have yard. No junky. Everything new. No junky.”
Indeed, it was a meticulous rear, his yard, already prepared for the Spring carrot and dill planting season. What was this man's story?
“Have you lived here for long?”
“Call the office. You must call the office.”
D did not seem comfortable. I couldn't resist another question.
“What is your opinion of the mortgage interest deduction for homeowners?”
“Call the office. You must call the office.”
He allowed us approximately twenty seconds to digest the exterior landscape. He pointed to the bungalow's flush tuckpointing. “New. Everything new. No junky. No junky. Come front home. You see front.”
For once, our host had us lead. He followed as closely as we had, as we led him along the home's concrete walkway. We opened the iron gate to the manicured front lawn. As we turned around to get a close look at the roofline and facade's tuckpointing, we noticed that our fragrant host had vanished. Sort of. He was on the other side of the gate, key in hand, deadbolting it. Before either of us could laugh, a shadow passed the bungalow's heavily draped bay window, and a click was heard, and then another. The shadow passed once more, never to be seen or heard from again.
I decided to call the office. It's what HE would want.
“Yeah, this is Seth from Captain Realty. We had an appointment to see your property at 11:30. You left the lockbox code but we couldn't get to it. The owner was home and very surprised to see us. And he did not seem happy.”
A woman in a heavily accented eastern european accent, representing an agent with a name like Jabberwocki, informed me that there must have been a mistake. “Sir, we calling this man and tell him you are come to see property.”
“Why do you keep a lockbox on a property where somebody resides? I don't want to get shot.”
“Sir, no, no is true. Nobody shoot you. We tell the man you are coming. Maybe he forget.”
“I don't think this man speaks English. But he is fond of your office.”
“Yes sir. Maybe this problem. Maybe no more having person speaking the English call seller man. We call him next time in language he speaking.”
The Few. The Proud. Realtors.
Realtors Work Hard for You
Another hard working real estate professional took time to leave six different keys in a lockbox, completely unmarked, in an effort to show the sellers how hard their agent works for them
Logan Square
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Do the Gangs Teach Reading These Days?
To see the chalklines you need to look real close
Little Village
The Bank's Housesitter
An iconic symbol for the current state of the Chicago real estate market
Little Village
Waja Do Wit Da Key?
Resident Story
scene: myself, buyer, seller's agent, and resident in illegal basement apartment, known as an 'in-law' in Chicago's Little Village neighborhood
From an infamous Chicago 'in-law', those don't ask, don't tell dwellings that occupy damp dungeons throughout the don't ask don't tell city, where one can find monthly habitation costs for less than a solid medical insurance policy, located beneath a pleasantly fading 2 flat greystone near Central Park and 26th, in the heart of Little Village, known to some as 'La Villita' or the 'real Pilsen'.
One too many Italian beefs, but his giardiniera soaked heart still pumps blood to the stories unfolding like El Milagro tortillas (corn, never flour) from his radiating corpulence. He's the kind of garrulous man you find yourself listening to in front of one of those members only drinking clubs that occupy discreet neighborhood corners. An hour passes, a captivating slice of Chicago history transforms your pixelated mind into a vivid reel of Algren inspired scenes, and you are back home, in your tenant-less basement, still enthralled by this jabbering man's tales, when you realize that you forgot to buy the detergent. We are talking with this man. A caricature of Chicago, one of many caricatures.
His realtor doesn't share my excitement. And he's one of the good ones. One of the few real estate agents selling less than luxury homes who actually shows up to give prospective buyers a tour. Many building owners in Chicago living in homes under $300,000 pay a realtor 5-6% of the sales price so that their licensed representative can go through the painstaking trouble of putting a sometimes functioning lockbox on the door where prospective buyers can 'just see for themselves'. Other hard working realtors expend tremendous amounts of their limited time allowing tenants to show the property. A true treat that all renters should be lucky to experience. These fine pillars of the Realtor community continue to bestow upon the profession it's deserved reputation. And it's because this realtor had appointments to get to that he didn't have patience for another one of Basement Barney's tales of yesteryear. But we did. And we were the Buyers.
His dees, dose, and das were straight from the Chicago school of Hooked on Phonics. This particular accent immortalized by legions of suburban drunks chanting 'da bears' on the corner of State and Division never appears to exit the mouth of black Chicagoans. Perplexing for anyone familiar with the New York accent, which knows no racial boundary. The storyteller, who we'll affectionately call our 'in-law', was not of African descent, but he was two shades darker than a Sicilian macchiato. When he spoke, you reacted with the same surprise as an Asian speaking with a British accent. How was it possible? You don't allow yourself the time to think about one culture raised within another. That would take effort. You just listen with the same childhood curiosity and awe as a man from McHenry county meeting a woman on Halsted, a woman who is clearly not a fully operational woman.
“Ize come here, right d'here, on dis block, oh my, bouts sixty four. Dats right boyz, Werz you even born d'yet (laughing)? So weeze get here, place full of dem bohemians and da poles. Czechs too. Weeze da first Mexicans on da block. Hellz, weeze mayha been da first mexicans in all da area....
I wanted to interrupt. There was so much I wanted to know, but I didn't need to. This flick had no intermissions.
“Oh myze, you shoulda seen da faces of deese Poles. All of 'dem. Deyse be drowing da trash canz in ourse yard every day. I come home. I put da can back in da alley. Next day. Happenz again. I walk to da bus, or to da train, and always be one of 'dem, yelling someding at us. 'Go home beaner. Dirty Mexican.' Deyse be callin us all sorts of names dya know? Every name, all 'dem bad ones. They call us.
So's one day, I decides I'm gonna say someding to deez poles. Maybe da first guy, hez a bohemian or some czech. I can't reallys remember. So dis guy, he callz me some name, and den hes says someding about 'gimme money.' But he don't have da weapon. Nuttin. And dis time, I dont keep walking. No sir. I get up in da Pole's face. I tell dat Pole, 'use want my money, come and get it. Ize ain't scared of you poles.' And Ize just be standing 'dere, looking mean and tough. And dis guy... I tells ya, dis guy, he just starts runnin. And after dat, every one of 'dem who say someding, I do da same, and soon, it stopped. Deyse stop messing' wit me. Dens one day, I notice, dere ain't so many dems left here. More of myse people are coming, and more of dem keeps leaving. I says to people, 'wherez da ol' neyburhood?' And one friend he sayz to me, 'we are da neyburhood' now. And so da white gangs goez a different area and come our gangs. Dya know? Dat's Chicago.”
“Wasn't this crazy for you, I mean, to come from Mexico and see the American dream turn out to be like this?”
He's laughing his one too many Italian beef laugh, and then he puts forth, “Ha. Dat wasn't nuttin for me. Ize raized on Taylor Street. Eye-talyans. Deyse taught me how to fight.”
The in-law's exasperated realtor cut him off. “Ok. Thanks. But we have to get going.”
As we walked up the junk strewn rear porch, falling back into the Earth like most enclosed Chicago porches, the realtor turned to me, his professional opposite but nonetheless a 'colleague', and he curtly said, “Sorry about that. He's got a mouth.”
My client is laughing. I'm laughing. “We love that guy. Make him a partner.”
The realtor with the rotary dial mobile didn't seem amused. “Alright, well, I want to get you guys upstairs but I don't have the key. And the seller isn't coming home. It's a great unit. Totally renovated. I think you're going to like it. But I can't get you in. You'll have to come back.”
It's the reason real estate is one of America's most difficult professions. You have to obtain small delicate metal objects used to gain entry. You need to physically open the doors, some of them requiring an extra push. You need to show people where the cabinets are and how the shower turns on. You need to point to the backyard and tell the buyer what they can plant there. And you have to spend a few extra minutes listening to people's real life stories. Real Estate. The Few. The Proud.
Stick with da in-laws. Da good stuff is always underground.
scene: myself, buyer, seller's agent, and resident in illegal basement apartment, known as an 'in-law' in Chicago's Little Village neighborhood
From an infamous Chicago 'in-law', those don't ask, don't tell dwellings that occupy damp dungeons throughout the don't ask don't tell city, where one can find monthly habitation costs for less than a solid medical insurance policy, located beneath a pleasantly fading 2 flat greystone near Central Park and 26th, in the heart of Little Village, known to some as 'La Villita' or the 'real Pilsen'.
One too many Italian beefs, but his giardiniera soaked heart still pumps blood to the stories unfolding like El Milagro tortillas (corn, never flour) from his radiating corpulence. He's the kind of garrulous man you find yourself listening to in front of one of those members only drinking clubs that occupy discreet neighborhood corners. An hour passes, a captivating slice of Chicago history transforms your pixelated mind into a vivid reel of Algren inspired scenes, and you are back home, in your tenant-less basement, still enthralled by this jabbering man's tales, when you realize that you forgot to buy the detergent. We are talking with this man. A caricature of Chicago, one of many caricatures.
His realtor doesn't share my excitement. And he's one of the good ones. One of the few real estate agents selling less than luxury homes who actually shows up to give prospective buyers a tour. Many building owners in Chicago living in homes under $300,000 pay a realtor 5-6% of the sales price so that their licensed representative can go through the painstaking trouble of putting a sometimes functioning lockbox on the door where prospective buyers can 'just see for themselves'. Other hard working realtors expend tremendous amounts of their limited time allowing tenants to show the property. A true treat that all renters should be lucky to experience. These fine pillars of the Realtor community continue to bestow upon the profession it's deserved reputation. And it's because this realtor had appointments to get to that he didn't have patience for another one of Basement Barney's tales of yesteryear. But we did. And we were the Buyers.
His dees, dose, and das were straight from the Chicago school of Hooked on Phonics. This particular accent immortalized by legions of suburban drunks chanting 'da bears' on the corner of State and Division never appears to exit the mouth of black Chicagoans. Perplexing for anyone familiar with the New York accent, which knows no racial boundary. The storyteller, who we'll affectionately call our 'in-law', was not of African descent, but he was two shades darker than a Sicilian macchiato. When he spoke, you reacted with the same surprise as an Asian speaking with a British accent. How was it possible? You don't allow yourself the time to think about one culture raised within another. That would take effort. You just listen with the same childhood curiosity and awe as a man from McHenry county meeting a woman on Halsted, a woman who is clearly not a fully operational woman.
“Ize come here, right d'here, on dis block, oh my, bouts sixty four. Dats right boyz, Werz you even born d'yet (laughing)? So weeze get here, place full of dem bohemians and da poles. Czechs too. Weeze da first Mexicans on da block. Hellz, weeze mayha been da first mexicans in all da area....
I wanted to interrupt. There was so much I wanted to know, but I didn't need to. This flick had no intermissions.
“Oh myze, you shoulda seen da faces of deese Poles. All of 'dem. Deyse be drowing da trash canz in ourse yard every day. I come home. I put da can back in da alley. Next day. Happenz again. I walk to da bus, or to da train, and always be one of 'dem, yelling someding at us. 'Go home beaner. Dirty Mexican.' Deyse be callin us all sorts of names dya know? Every name, all 'dem bad ones. They call us.
So's one day, I decides I'm gonna say someding to deez poles. Maybe da first guy, hez a bohemian or some czech. I can't reallys remember. So dis guy, he callz me some name, and den hes says someding about 'gimme money.' But he don't have da weapon. Nuttin. And dis time, I dont keep walking. No sir. I get up in da Pole's face. I tell dat Pole, 'use want my money, come and get it. Ize ain't scared of you poles.' And Ize just be standing 'dere, looking mean and tough. And dis guy... I tells ya, dis guy, he just starts runnin. And after dat, every one of 'dem who say someding, I do da same, and soon, it stopped. Deyse stop messing' wit me. Dens one day, I notice, dere ain't so many dems left here. More of myse people are coming, and more of dem keeps leaving. I says to people, 'wherez da ol' neyburhood?' And one friend he sayz to me, 'we are da neyburhood' now. And so da white gangs goez a different area and come our gangs. Dya know? Dat's Chicago.”
“Wasn't this crazy for you, I mean, to come from Mexico and see the American dream turn out to be like this?”
He's laughing his one too many Italian beef laugh, and then he puts forth, “Ha. Dat wasn't nuttin for me. Ize raized on Taylor Street. Eye-talyans. Deyse taught me how to fight.”
The in-law's exasperated realtor cut him off. “Ok. Thanks. But we have to get going.”
As we walked up the junk strewn rear porch, falling back into the Earth like most enclosed Chicago porches, the realtor turned to me, his professional opposite but nonetheless a 'colleague', and he curtly said, “Sorry about that. He's got a mouth.”
My client is laughing. I'm laughing. “We love that guy. Make him a partner.”
The realtor with the rotary dial mobile didn't seem amused. “Alright, well, I want to get you guys upstairs but I don't have the key. And the seller isn't coming home. It's a great unit. Totally renovated. I think you're going to like it. But I can't get you in. You'll have to come back.”
It's the reason real estate is one of America's most difficult professions. You have to obtain small delicate metal objects used to gain entry. You need to physically open the doors, some of them requiring an extra push. You need to show people where the cabinets are and how the shower turns on. You need to point to the backyard and tell the buyer what they can plant there. And you have to spend a few extra minutes listening to people's real life stories. Real Estate. The Few. The Proud.
Stick with da in-laws. Da good stuff is always underground.
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