This is how you heat a home! People's Gas will even give you a personalized credit card if you promise to keep this system in place.
ALBANY PARK
Friday, May 27, 2011
Efficiency is SO Overrated
This is how you heat a home! People's Gas will even give you a personalized credit card if you promise to keep this system in place.
ALBANY PARK
Little Person's Door Offends Tall Buyer
A crafty homeowner played on the idea of the old swinging kitchen saloon doors by making his own. Unfortunately, his 6 year old can now see all the illicit activity that takes place behind closed doors.
HORNER PARK
Elderly Man Still Making Bombs
Nobody could verify why the doorbells had been left with their guts exposed, but the house had a faint odor of mothballs.
NORTH PARK/BUDLONG WOODS
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Missing Children's Remnants Found
BUDLONG WOODS/NORTH PARK
Dive Bar Bathrooms are the Latest Fad
In this $400,000 two flat, the owners were apparently targeting the hipster home purchasing market
HORNER PARK/ALBANY PARK
The 1950's...Fading...
Sure, communists were imprisoned and jello molds were fine dining, but at least somebody figured out that your radiator didn't have to take up valuable floor space in your cramped apartment and that a radio could be a sculptural piece.
BUDLONG WOODS/NORTH PARK
Monday, May 23, 2011
Diversity Doesn't Always Work
One single block of Humboldt Park seems to offer both the worst of yesterday and today. The only difference is the 'yesterday' people didn't have much money and 'today's' people chose to have these homes built!
HUMBOLDT PARK
Rustic City Life on a Schooner
The Captain apparently abandoned his lodge for swanker accommodation in an early 80's split level in Joliet.
LOGAN SQUARE
So Many Choices
The latest trend in home renovation shows builders mixing influences with aged oak treads, new maple flooring, heavy carpet, and vintage paneling.
LOGAN SQUARE
Friday, May 20, 2011
Yeoman's Kitchen Cures Cripple
Humboldt Park
Weapons of Mass Destruction Found
Logan Square
Frank Lloyd Wright 's Illegitimate Grandson Still Designing
In an Effort to impress his biological grandfather, Willie Alonzo Lloyd Wright continues to make prairie style homes that offer a fine combination of 'my grandfather's smooth lines and my commitment to Lego's'
Humboldt Park
Hmmmm....Is it Really Better than Siding?
AVONDALE
But I Wanted Stainless
Seller disappointed he can't show a stainless oven which he assumes must be better since everyone else has one.
Logan Square
Welcome to the New Chicago - You Know you Love it!
Symmetry, Conformity, and Bricks, yes, Bricks make it Chicago. This is the future of American Cities. And who isn't excited with hedge landscaping and parking for all.
Avondale
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Overpriced Home being Considered thanks to Three Buck Chuckie
You know Logan Square is finally HERE when the Owner puts out a fine bottle of the best three dollar wine since the days of Maddog 20/20, the neighborhood's last fine wine of choice
Logan Square
Frederick Law Olmstead Used Wood Chips Too
A clever rehabber figures nobody will notice how ugly the yard is if he covers it in delicious chemically coated mulch
Humboldt Park
Door Alarm Embarrassed, Asks to be Returned
Thieves have promised to not break into this home until the owner replaces with a more challenging security system and a more desirable home
Avondale
If only the Sidestreets were Like this
Why people should spend more time in Garfield Park
Garfield Park
Could the Incans Build a Temple here?
“Wasn't that the place with the short basement ceilings?” my client asked as if he was Granpa trying to remember his childhood home.
“I think so. Let me check the photos.”
A buyer will see so many homes that eventually he will think the kitchen of one place belongs to the living room of another that has the yard of a completely different place.
Besides the photos, going back for a second visit usually keeps a place in the running, or finds it unceremoniously dumped like an internet date with a falsified photo.
An investor bought the property in foreclosure for $30,000. They renovated the home, two stories and a rehabbed basement converted into a famous Chicago 'in-law,' which should probably be known as an 'out-law' considering the city considers them illegal if not zoned properly. But people need a place to live, and many building owners rent out basements to those looking to save a few dollars and enjoy the fresh smells of Mother Earth. Rarely are the apartments ever shut down.
The new owner wanted $150,000. And people will think, “that's a crazy mark-up, I'll just buy my own cheap place and renovate it.” Except few people today can get a bank to loan them money on a trashed property and then find the additional $75,000 to do the work. Or they don't have the time.
And one major benefit of buying a home from a Rehabber is that often times you can negotiate in your contract to get them to either fix things to your inspector's recommendations, or better yet, they will tear down a wall, build a garage, add fixtures, even put on a dormer. As long as the property can appraise, it's like getting a rehab loan without the work. Your place is ready for move-in at closing.
The date was going well. The top two floors looked exactly how we remembered. Wood trim preserved, hardwood re-finished, windows replaced, and bathrooms completely remodeled. But the basement was the core. The date conversation was changing from 'what's the last movie you saw' to 'how do you feel about an open relationship?'
A home with a finished basement that has separate entrances along with a bath and a kitchen hookup lets an owner have additional 'roommates' or family stay with them. It's tangible security. Many will take their chances with the city and rent it since the new income will be the difference between just making the mortgage and having Alinea money every month. Or Petrillo's.
The descent down the re-built stairs allowed the new paint fumes to excite us with possibility. And a cheap afternoon high. That was a joke. You can't get high on latex paint fumes. I've watched people in the alley try, unsuccessfully, until they gave up and found the nearest 40 ounce bottle of a fine malted beverage gently sheathed by the slight crumpled reveal of brown paper.
The cermaic tile glistened. Basements are the only part of a home, outside bathrooms, that are allowed to have tile. That's a law. An unwritten law that keeps your hard earned money from going to waste on wood floors that will warp or carpet that is bound to asphyxiate your tenants with a moldy stank. My client strolled the large living area with a smile inching up his face until he saw scraping my ear scraping against the freshly drywalled ceiling. I guess I could travel the apartment by office roller chair like Alex P. Keaton.
I turned to the investor/owner/sales guy, my aching head slanted ninety degrees. “You did such a nice job of renovating this place. It shows great. But what happened down here? Did you think Chicago had an under served dwarf population tired of getting on step stools to open their bathroom doors?”
“No, actually, it's funny you bring that up, cause, you know, we debated taking the floor down some, but we figured this apartment would be for a hispanic family. And they're short, you know. They can definitely fit in here. This neighborhood has lots of them hispanics. But you know something, about 90% of the people who come to look at the building are Anglos, like you guys.”
“I'm not actually an Anglo. I'm just White.”
I yelled over to my client, his smile retreating back to neutral, “Hey, are you an Anglo?”
“No, not really. Part German, but mostly I'm just White.”
First dates are always deceiving. The second date predicts the future. And this relationship will be another one of the many, where one kitchen merges with somebody else's perfect master bathroom. The Hunt continues.
“I think so. Let me check the photos.”
A buyer will see so many homes that eventually he will think the kitchen of one place belongs to the living room of another that has the yard of a completely different place.
Besides the photos, going back for a second visit usually keeps a place in the running, or finds it unceremoniously dumped like an internet date with a falsified photo.
An investor bought the property in foreclosure for $30,000. They renovated the home, two stories and a rehabbed basement converted into a famous Chicago 'in-law,' which should probably be known as an 'out-law' considering the city considers them illegal if not zoned properly. But people need a place to live, and many building owners rent out basements to those looking to save a few dollars and enjoy the fresh smells of Mother Earth. Rarely are the apartments ever shut down.
The new owner wanted $150,000. And people will think, “that's a crazy mark-up, I'll just buy my own cheap place and renovate it.” Except few people today can get a bank to loan them money on a trashed property and then find the additional $75,000 to do the work. Or they don't have the time.
And one major benefit of buying a home from a Rehabber is that often times you can negotiate in your contract to get them to either fix things to your inspector's recommendations, or better yet, they will tear down a wall, build a garage, add fixtures, even put on a dormer. As long as the property can appraise, it's like getting a rehab loan without the work. Your place is ready for move-in at closing.
The date was going well. The top two floors looked exactly how we remembered. Wood trim preserved, hardwood re-finished, windows replaced, and bathrooms completely remodeled. But the basement was the core. The date conversation was changing from 'what's the last movie you saw' to 'how do you feel about an open relationship?'
A home with a finished basement that has separate entrances along with a bath and a kitchen hookup lets an owner have additional 'roommates' or family stay with them. It's tangible security. Many will take their chances with the city and rent it since the new income will be the difference between just making the mortgage and having Alinea money every month. Or Petrillo's.
The descent down the re-built stairs allowed the new paint fumes to excite us with possibility. And a cheap afternoon high. That was a joke. You can't get high on latex paint fumes. I've watched people in the alley try, unsuccessfully, until they gave up and found the nearest 40 ounce bottle of a fine malted beverage gently sheathed by the slight crumpled reveal of brown paper.
The cermaic tile glistened. Basements are the only part of a home, outside bathrooms, that are allowed to have tile. That's a law. An unwritten law that keeps your hard earned money from going to waste on wood floors that will warp or carpet that is bound to asphyxiate your tenants with a moldy stank. My client strolled the large living area with a smile inching up his face until he saw scraping my ear scraping against the freshly drywalled ceiling. I guess I could travel the apartment by office roller chair like Alex P. Keaton.
I turned to the investor/owner/sales guy, my aching head slanted ninety degrees. “You did such a nice job of renovating this place. It shows great. But what happened down here? Did you think Chicago had an under served dwarf population tired of getting on step stools to open their bathroom doors?”
“No, actually, it's funny you bring that up, cause, you know, we debated taking the floor down some, but we figured this apartment would be for a hispanic family. And they're short, you know. They can definitely fit in here. This neighborhood has lots of them hispanics. But you know something, about 90% of the people who come to look at the building are Anglos, like you guys.”
“I'm not actually an Anglo. I'm just White.”
I yelled over to my client, his smile retreating back to neutral, “Hey, are you an Anglo?”
“No, not really. Part German, but mostly I'm just White.”
First dates are always deceiving. The second date predicts the future. And this relationship will be another one of the many, where one kitchen merges with somebody else's perfect master bathroom. The Hunt continues.
Capone's 'Smaller than Expected' Safe Finally Found
Behind a deadbolted door in the basement corner was this concreted safe where the contractor hid his sour patch kids from marauding tradesmen.
South Humboldt Park, Real South
Lovely Astroturf Chosen to Disguise Manhole Cover
It saves water AND it lets the tots play football like the pros
Humboldt Park
Monday, May 16, 2011
Outhouses Make Indoor Comeback
Budget minded Buyers/Sellers/Remodelers should know that a protruding waste pipe and sufficient flooring for your two feet are enough to constitute a bathroom
Bridgeport
Kitchen Completely Rehabbed...to it's 1973 Origins
The two flat was actually advertised as fully rehabbed, but it was by a realtor who keeps her name in "quotes"
Bridgeport
Psychedelics Affecting Church Designers
There's a reason this House of Prayer was built in the 60's, straddling the McKinley Park Bridgeport borders
Bridgeport
Friday, May 13, 2011
Recession Hurting Home Security Companies
Why spend $34.99 a month and worry about your wife setting off the alarm when she goes downstairs for a midnight snack, when you can rip off two sideview mirrors from your neighbor's car?
Bridgeport
Dawg of Da Week
At least when this pitbull bites you, you'll tell your friends how cute he was
McKinley Park
...With a view of the Sears Tower
Can you see it, there, between the two buildings, tall and black, that realtor wasn't lying, was she...
Bridgeport
Crazy or Genius?
The silhouette was unmistakable. A child would recognize it. Well, a child of The City. Torn stained clothes, greasy hair flopping over to reveal the furthest corner of a confused smile, aimless pacing, slight muttering, and a posture to make a pilates instructor collapse with indignation.
We had seen him throughout our tour of the diminutive brick two flat, expertly rehabbed with flor de lis tiles throughout. Who wants aged oak hardwood floors when you can awaken to 1000 square feet of shiny decorative flor de lis tile every morning?
His appearance would welcome us to each window, an apparition we knew we couldn't escape. We would check out the ill fitting layout, and then take the inevitable 'out the window' scan, only to constantly see him, pacing and looking back toward the building. It was one of these rear lot homes you occasionally find in Chicago; No garage, hugging the alley, with a front yard guaranteed to wet dream the most fastidious suburban lawnmower man. And his presence loomed over the realtor's For Sale sign, itself an odd piece of neighborhood artifact, advertising the realtor's name as if she was Cher:
REALTY 'R Us
“Abigail”
773-555-2100
Have you ever seen a sign for any professional omitting the surname, and putting the given name in parentheses? Perhaps it had something to do with the agent's barely understandable English. She was like a Bombay call center boy named Steve. That at least explained the tile job.
The imprisonment became unbearable. There was nothing redeemable about this fully rehabbed Bridgeport home. Just because somebody is Born Again doesn't exactly mean they were Born Again the right way. We had to get out of there. It was like some impending school yard fight. And the clock was stuck at 3:15p.m. He waited for us. Pacing and waiting.
We walked the yard's plank, our stalker closer with each dry swallow, assuring ourselves that we would unlock our bikes as swiftly as possible, refusing to make eye contact.
“So, uh, hey, yo, you guys looking at dis, uh, place?”
No response. The car wouldn't start. Key not fitting in bike lock. Fit. FIT. Get IN! “Abigail” taunts us from the chainlink. C'mon “Abigail”. Don't you have some mystical powers.
“Hey, hey, so, what's da deal, ya know, you guys like the place, you gonna moves in, whats gonna be?”
There was that small part of me, quite small, that macho part, that wanted to scream “Hey bro, we're not homos! This is my client,” and that other part, the guy who knowingly flirts with his gay waiter, who wanted to let this indigent believe his 21st century fantasy.
“Well, yo, use know, I make a deal with use guys. You have no alley, use know, cuz use got to brings da gahbaje to da street. But no problems, ha, cuz weeze can make a deal, and I sell use easement rights, and bam, use have easement and use can use da side of my house, and have da back for da gahbaje.”
My client unlocked the bikes, but before we could pedal to freedom, “Abigail's” military strength chain and lock was not fitting back around the fence. “Abigail” kept staring. I felt myself losing this contest. How could I not respond? Why were there bums in Bridgeport, on a street designated the new Arts District? Well, they could actually be a strategic plant to give artists the 'edge' they need to escape the guilt of their North Shore upbringing. But c'mon. Easement? That ain't typical vocabulary for the homeless. Maybe this was like those Florida land contracts that ensnared so many naïve midwesterners. We pay him with dreams of unfettered alley garbage access, only to take legal ownership of the home, as proud homosexual realtor and client, never to see our unimpeded garbage drop off access again. No way. I'm not that stupid.
Game over dude. Our eyes finally connected. Was he Mexican? Asian? Interesting features. I like the high cheekbones. Anyway, “How much? You know, for the easement?”
“Well, weeze can work someding out, ya know? I make use a good price. Dont worry. Me and use. Just have to promise me use keep the gate shut, cuz dem gangbangers be getting in.”
“There are gangbangers over here, in Bridgeport, of the gun toting variety, or the drunken Sox kind?”
“Ha. No, well, not any more, ya know, use got to go south of Pershing. But dey got em.”
South of Pershing. That was almost a mile away. A county in city terms. It was time to deliver his meds. The truth must be spoken.
“Well, I think you should probably talk with the owner of that building before you go around selling their easement. Maybe chat with Abigail too.”
“Ha. Yeah (and he laughs some more, but more than a simple 'ha'). This is my place. 5 units. I bought about ten years ago. I always trying to stay ahead, ya know. I wuz back in Lincoln Park in da seventy's. So when dey arrived, I said, I'm gonna go west, ya know, so I end up in Bucktown. Good ride, ya know, good people and good buildings deyse got, but dem others start comin, ya know, in da late eighty's, so I go west again, over dere in Humboldt Park. Renting nice places for like $300. Right on da Boulevard. But man, dem kids be looking to rent, and see da gangs, and run away. I like dat hood, but at da time, was difficult to rent my places, ya know. So I gots to move again, not cause dey be coming but becuz just not renting, ya know, so I find Bridgeport. It's alright down here. We got all types. Good peoples. Nice community. So, use want to look at my place. I get use a drink or someding?”
Didn't the politically correct types teach us Not to stereotype? I stood in disbelief. “How did you get into the multi-unit lifestyle, the whole landlord who lives in your building thing, a property OWNER?”
“Yeah, wells, ya know, I grew up helping my pops clean and fix properties in da Gold Coast where he owned some buildings. Now you can't touch nuttin' over dere, but back then my ole man had him a couples, and I be helping out when I don't have school. Always cleaning and fixing. Kind of like in my blood, ya know?”
As we started to leave, and the slight look of shame crossed our faces, I saw the Easement Man take something out of his pants pocket. Small and black...with an apple on the back. He put it underneath that shiny mat of hair, and began talking, ignoring his new Boystown buds, and started pacing, with the occasional glance back at “Abigail”'s place.
“So like I wuz saying before I hung up, use gonna pick up the chilayan sea bass or am I?”
We had seen him throughout our tour of the diminutive brick two flat, expertly rehabbed with flor de lis tiles throughout. Who wants aged oak hardwood floors when you can awaken to 1000 square feet of shiny decorative flor de lis tile every morning?
His appearance would welcome us to each window, an apparition we knew we couldn't escape. We would check out the ill fitting layout, and then take the inevitable 'out the window' scan, only to constantly see him, pacing and looking back toward the building. It was one of these rear lot homes you occasionally find in Chicago; No garage, hugging the alley, with a front yard guaranteed to wet dream the most fastidious suburban lawnmower man. And his presence loomed over the realtor's For Sale sign, itself an odd piece of neighborhood artifact, advertising the realtor's name as if she was Cher:
REALTY 'R Us
“Abigail”
773-555-2100
Have you ever seen a sign for any professional omitting the surname, and putting the given name in parentheses? Perhaps it had something to do with the agent's barely understandable English. She was like a Bombay call center boy named Steve. That at least explained the tile job.
The imprisonment became unbearable. There was nothing redeemable about this fully rehabbed Bridgeport home. Just because somebody is Born Again doesn't exactly mean they were Born Again the right way. We had to get out of there. It was like some impending school yard fight. And the clock was stuck at 3:15p.m. He waited for us. Pacing and waiting.
We walked the yard's plank, our stalker closer with each dry swallow, assuring ourselves that we would unlock our bikes as swiftly as possible, refusing to make eye contact.
“So, uh, hey, yo, you guys looking at dis, uh, place?”
No response. The car wouldn't start. Key not fitting in bike lock. Fit. FIT. Get IN! “Abigail” taunts us from the chainlink. C'mon “Abigail”. Don't you have some mystical powers.
“Hey, hey, so, what's da deal, ya know, you guys like the place, you gonna moves in, whats gonna be?”
There was that small part of me, quite small, that macho part, that wanted to scream “Hey bro, we're not homos! This is my client,” and that other part, the guy who knowingly flirts with his gay waiter, who wanted to let this indigent believe his 21st century fantasy.
“Well, yo, use know, I make a deal with use guys. You have no alley, use know, cuz use got to brings da gahbaje to da street. But no problems, ha, cuz weeze can make a deal, and I sell use easement rights, and bam, use have easement and use can use da side of my house, and have da back for da gahbaje.”
My client unlocked the bikes, but before we could pedal to freedom, “Abigail's” military strength chain and lock was not fitting back around the fence. “Abigail” kept staring. I felt myself losing this contest. How could I not respond? Why were there bums in Bridgeport, on a street designated the new Arts District? Well, they could actually be a strategic plant to give artists the 'edge' they need to escape the guilt of their North Shore upbringing. But c'mon. Easement? That ain't typical vocabulary for the homeless. Maybe this was like those Florida land contracts that ensnared so many naïve midwesterners. We pay him with dreams of unfettered alley garbage access, only to take legal ownership of the home, as proud homosexual realtor and client, never to see our unimpeded garbage drop off access again. No way. I'm not that stupid.
Game over dude. Our eyes finally connected. Was he Mexican? Asian? Interesting features. I like the high cheekbones. Anyway, “How much? You know, for the easement?”
“Well, weeze can work someding out, ya know? I make use a good price. Dont worry. Me and use. Just have to promise me use keep the gate shut, cuz dem gangbangers be getting in.”
“There are gangbangers over here, in Bridgeport, of the gun toting variety, or the drunken Sox kind?”
“Ha. No, well, not any more, ya know, use got to go south of Pershing. But dey got em.”
South of Pershing. That was almost a mile away. A county in city terms. It was time to deliver his meds. The truth must be spoken.
“Well, I think you should probably talk with the owner of that building before you go around selling their easement. Maybe chat with Abigail too.”
“Ha. Yeah (and he laughs some more, but more than a simple 'ha'). This is my place. 5 units. I bought about ten years ago. I always trying to stay ahead, ya know. I wuz back in Lincoln Park in da seventy's. So when dey arrived, I said, I'm gonna go west, ya know, so I end up in Bucktown. Good ride, ya know, good people and good buildings deyse got, but dem others start comin, ya know, in da late eighty's, so I go west again, over dere in Humboldt Park. Renting nice places for like $300. Right on da Boulevard. But man, dem kids be looking to rent, and see da gangs, and run away. I like dat hood, but at da time, was difficult to rent my places, ya know. So I gots to move again, not cause dey be coming but becuz just not renting, ya know, so I find Bridgeport. It's alright down here. We got all types. Good peoples. Nice community. So, use want to look at my place. I get use a drink or someding?”
Didn't the politically correct types teach us Not to stereotype? I stood in disbelief. “How did you get into the multi-unit lifestyle, the whole landlord who lives in your building thing, a property OWNER?”
“Yeah, wells, ya know, I grew up helping my pops clean and fix properties in da Gold Coast where he owned some buildings. Now you can't touch nuttin' over dere, but back then my ole man had him a couples, and I be helping out when I don't have school. Always cleaning and fixing. Kind of like in my blood, ya know?”
As we started to leave, and the slight look of shame crossed our faces, I saw the Easement Man take something out of his pants pocket. Small and black...with an apple on the back. He put it underneath that shiny mat of hair, and began talking, ignoring his new Boystown buds, and started pacing, with the occasional glance back at “Abigail”'s place.
“So like I wuz saying before I hung up, use gonna pick up the chilayan sea bass or am I?”
Furnace Jenga, Fun for the Whole Family
Why spend an extra five bucks on more ductwork when you can simply raise the level of your furnace with uneven bricks found in your neighbor's backyard.
Bridgeport
Chicago-Schaumburg Marriage Going Well
Situated along the pleasant odors of the Chicago River, these four story Chicago style brick homes promise all the convenience of the City with the splendid lawn care and home association rules you desire from the suburbs.
Bridgeport
We Finally Found a 3 Bedroom We Can Afford
The midget's sleeping bag had already been removed, but nonetheless, this was the honestly advertised 3rd bedroom measuring an ample 14 x 18...inches.
McKinley Park
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
UGLY, Who you Callin' Ugly Chump?
When your property is declared historically hideous, the only solution is to make it more historically hideous. Future generations of preservationists will be asking themselves WTF, except things in the future will be even more abbreviated. So just, 'F'.
McKinley Park
Where the Pope Stays in Chicago
Eastern European? Chinese? Whoever designed this hermetically sealed pulpit is putting those new construction balcony-to-nowhere people out of business
Bridgeport
This ain't Daley's Bridgeport
“Are you sure you want to check out these buildings down in Bridgeport?” I nervously asked my client.
“Yeah, of course, why not?”
“Well, that neighborhood is, you know, a bit different than what you're used to. I just hope that's all right.”
“Yeah, I know, don't worry alright, I'll be fine. I can handle it.”
Twenty minutes later we arrived, our bikes secured to the nearest wrought iron fence, a sunny Spring day finally upon us.
“Shit, what's with all the White people?” he said with both surprise and indignation.
“I tried telling you, but you said you were up for it.”
The Buyer lived in North Lawndale, a predominantly black neighborhood enlightened with blocks of historic greystones and the beautiful expanse that is Douglas Park, and he worked with mostly young Latinos. That was what he knew of Chicago. The fact that he himself was White, raised in White exurbia, made no difference. He wasn't a self hater who spent his time caring for his cornrows and rapping nostalgic about the death of Biggie. But he was acclimated to a culture, or cultures, that offered a lot of energetic life that happened outside the living room. He became fond of the strong importance that both Blacks and Latinos put on family and festivals. He assumed most White neighborhoods were full of people who wanted to tell you how to live your life and then retreat behind their towering fences of sustainably harvested raw grain cedar.
I told him he needed to open his mind because in ten years of traveling Chicago by bicycle, I have only been screamed at and nearly attacked in two neighborhoods, Lakeview and Bridgeport, both predominantly Gringo havens. Oh...and last year one guy tried to attack my girlfriend and I on my motorcycle, on the NorthSide, near Irving Park and Sheridan. He was White too. So I told him, “Hey, don't be so hard on our kin, they can be wild and festive too.”
Our first home to inspect sat on one of Bridgeport's crazy diagonal streets, the maze that runs south of 31st Street to the highway. Chicago is a great city for the urban explorer since many small residential streets spread across several communities, like Racine, or Paulina, or Oakley. But others only exist for a single block, never to be found anywhere else. That's our pocket here, a labyrinth of one namers, an alderman's wet patronage dream.
The brick workman's cottage was a testament to Chicago's turn of the century builders. It really was built to house workers at any one of the city's numerous factories. But instead of some tornado bait tract house in Bourbonnais, laborers could walk home from the 'office' to a home with intricately carved ornamentation hollering below the roof line, and enjoy oak moldings throughout the house, and of course, because it's Chicago...hardwood floors.
We were loudly greeted by the sweaty hairy open arms of Foreclosure: several sheets of brightly colored paper hung at obtuse angles along the front door and living room windows. A rotting lockbox dared us from the precipice of a shiny gold kwikset lock, barely retaining it's position in the rotting plywood replacement door.
Inside, thieves resuscitated the home's dignity by absconding with the previous owner's poor taste in bathroom fixtures and kitchen décor. Unfortunately, nobody was willing to steal the stained dentist office grey carpeting that sheathed the hardwood from the blasphemous re-decorating skills of an Owner who 'just needed a change.'
But the expensive things, the things that aren't eye candy, that most Buyers overlook, the wiring and the plumbing, and the HVAC system, well, they were all relatively new. And then begins the inevitable question a Buyer, or visitor asks inside a foreclosed home, “What happened? Why did they leave?”
Like the Mayans or Hair Metal Groupies, we have a fairly accurate report of what might have happened to the former habitants, without actually able to know the whole truth. This home, like many that I come across in foreclosure, if not ALL, seems to be the result not of lost jobs, or Bank malfeasance, or subprime tomfoolery, but what the Right Wing would call a lack of Responsibility. The sales histories of many foreclosures will show a similar pattern. The person either bought their home during the boom years of 2003-2006, or they refinanced during those years. Then shortly after they bought or refinanced the home, they attempted to sell the home for much more than they owed, and rarely dropped the price until it was too late. A two year spiral generally ensued before their greedy sales price turned into a short sale turned into a foreclosure. Sure, we all hear the horror stories of bank errors and the old lady forced out due to one late payment, but the reality is, on the ground here in Chicago, that the majority of the foreclosures are most likely (because just like those fans of Twisted Sister we don't have fully substantiated evidence) the result of irresponsible owners who thought they could cash out while the market was hot, and had loans that were more than their paychecks. Incidentally, many of the income properties I deal with remained habitated by landlords who would collect rent for years before foreclosure while never making a single payment. But, c'mon, who cares, right, that was so yesterday. Let's talk about Murdoch wicked tango moves on Dancing with The Stars.
The home had promise. Good bones and a pretty backside as they taught us in Realtor College (enroll now and receive a free subscription to every infomercial ever made conveniently rolled into a monthly magazine). The Buyer and I took a walk around the block. School had just let out. Grammar school kids laughed and played from one end of the block to the other. Shaved Ice and elotes were being hawked on the corner.
“Hey, it's not so White. Look at that kid. And that one. I think he may actually be Asian. Wow, Asians!” my client clucked with new found enthusiasm for Bridgeport.
“Yeah, well, I should have mentioned that Bridgeport has actually become the nexus of the near South Side where the Chinese, Mexican, and Irish/White populations merge into one giant chop suey taco on sodabread.”
Two large brick buildings on either side of the property had their doors opened as kids funneled inside. What was this?
We followed the children, but not too close, because, this is still America after all, and two grown men seen within inches of a child is reason for a SWAT team beatdown. A cheery young woman told us what was going on: Afterschool programs where the kids can play sports, do crafts, learn computer programming, and even learn how to be sound engineers. Plus they gave food at a no or little cost to the seniors in the area. She recommended we speak to the Director. He was just outside the door.
Another cheery member of this bustling program interrupted his conversation to chat with us. This was Benton House. And yes, he was the director.
“Can you tell us a little about this place?” I asked like a front row nerd on a field trip to City Hall.
So we learned about the 100 year history of the organization, and the various community programs they provided for children, teens, the homeless, and the elderly. But then we found out that maybe foreclosures aren't what we think they are, or for that matter, nothing is what it should be. There was a staff of several people helping run programs for hundreds of people, and of course, a Director, this gentleman, who oversaw everything. Nobody was paid. Not even the Director! Not one person earned a paycheck from Benton House. Some of them got free room in the main building. But these people, these volunteers, had one intention, and that was to help others that could use some assistance. An entire organization, a successful organization, a group serving people throughout the Bridgeport community, regardless of race, was being staffed entirely by volunteers.
For all the negative news we hear, for all the people who only see life through the prism of a Dollar, for all the foreclosures and struggling economy, for all the racial categories we insist on categorizing, there are people who's only motivation is to help another human tolerate, enjoy, and even excel in life.
Bridgeport is getting labeled a “Community of the Future” by many residents of the area, even finding it's way into marketing campaigns for a local organic food supplier. Maybe they are on to something.
“Yeah, of course, why not?”
“Well, that neighborhood is, you know, a bit different than what you're used to. I just hope that's all right.”
“Yeah, I know, don't worry alright, I'll be fine. I can handle it.”
Twenty minutes later we arrived, our bikes secured to the nearest wrought iron fence, a sunny Spring day finally upon us.
“Shit, what's with all the White people?” he said with both surprise and indignation.
“I tried telling you, but you said you were up for it.”
The Buyer lived in North Lawndale, a predominantly black neighborhood enlightened with blocks of historic greystones and the beautiful expanse that is Douglas Park, and he worked with mostly young Latinos. That was what he knew of Chicago. The fact that he himself was White, raised in White exurbia, made no difference. He wasn't a self hater who spent his time caring for his cornrows and rapping nostalgic about the death of Biggie. But he was acclimated to a culture, or cultures, that offered a lot of energetic life that happened outside the living room. He became fond of the strong importance that both Blacks and Latinos put on family and festivals. He assumed most White neighborhoods were full of people who wanted to tell you how to live your life and then retreat behind their towering fences of sustainably harvested raw grain cedar.
I told him he needed to open his mind because in ten years of traveling Chicago by bicycle, I have only been screamed at and nearly attacked in two neighborhoods, Lakeview and Bridgeport, both predominantly Gringo havens. Oh...and last year one guy tried to attack my girlfriend and I on my motorcycle, on the NorthSide, near Irving Park and Sheridan. He was White too. So I told him, “Hey, don't be so hard on our kin, they can be wild and festive too.”
Our first home to inspect sat on one of Bridgeport's crazy diagonal streets, the maze that runs south of 31st Street to the highway. Chicago is a great city for the urban explorer since many small residential streets spread across several communities, like Racine, or Paulina, or Oakley. But others only exist for a single block, never to be found anywhere else. That's our pocket here, a labyrinth of one namers, an alderman's wet patronage dream.
The brick workman's cottage was a testament to Chicago's turn of the century builders. It really was built to house workers at any one of the city's numerous factories. But instead of some tornado bait tract house in Bourbonnais, laborers could walk home from the 'office' to a home with intricately carved ornamentation hollering below the roof line, and enjoy oak moldings throughout the house, and of course, because it's Chicago...hardwood floors.
We were loudly greeted by the sweaty hairy open arms of Foreclosure: several sheets of brightly colored paper hung at obtuse angles along the front door and living room windows. A rotting lockbox dared us from the precipice of a shiny gold kwikset lock, barely retaining it's position in the rotting plywood replacement door.
Inside, thieves resuscitated the home's dignity by absconding with the previous owner's poor taste in bathroom fixtures and kitchen décor. Unfortunately, nobody was willing to steal the stained dentist office grey carpeting that sheathed the hardwood from the blasphemous re-decorating skills of an Owner who 'just needed a change.'
But the expensive things, the things that aren't eye candy, that most Buyers overlook, the wiring and the plumbing, and the HVAC system, well, they were all relatively new. And then begins the inevitable question a Buyer, or visitor asks inside a foreclosed home, “What happened? Why did they leave?”
Like the Mayans or Hair Metal Groupies, we have a fairly accurate report of what might have happened to the former habitants, without actually able to know the whole truth. This home, like many that I come across in foreclosure, if not ALL, seems to be the result not of lost jobs, or Bank malfeasance, or subprime tomfoolery, but what the Right Wing would call a lack of Responsibility. The sales histories of many foreclosures will show a similar pattern. The person either bought their home during the boom years of 2003-2006, or they refinanced during those years. Then shortly after they bought or refinanced the home, they attempted to sell the home for much more than they owed, and rarely dropped the price until it was too late. A two year spiral generally ensued before their greedy sales price turned into a short sale turned into a foreclosure. Sure, we all hear the horror stories of bank errors and the old lady forced out due to one late payment, but the reality is, on the ground here in Chicago, that the majority of the foreclosures are most likely (because just like those fans of Twisted Sister we don't have fully substantiated evidence) the result of irresponsible owners who thought they could cash out while the market was hot, and had loans that were more than their paychecks. Incidentally, many of the income properties I deal with remained habitated by landlords who would collect rent for years before foreclosure while never making a single payment. But, c'mon, who cares, right, that was so yesterday. Let's talk about Murdoch wicked tango moves on Dancing with The Stars.
The home had promise. Good bones and a pretty backside as they taught us in Realtor College (enroll now and receive a free subscription to every infomercial ever made conveniently rolled into a monthly magazine). The Buyer and I took a walk around the block. School had just let out. Grammar school kids laughed and played from one end of the block to the other. Shaved Ice and elotes were being hawked on the corner.
“Hey, it's not so White. Look at that kid. And that one. I think he may actually be Asian. Wow, Asians!” my client clucked with new found enthusiasm for Bridgeport.
“Yeah, well, I should have mentioned that Bridgeport has actually become the nexus of the near South Side where the Chinese, Mexican, and Irish/White populations merge into one giant chop suey taco on sodabread.”
Two large brick buildings on either side of the property had their doors opened as kids funneled inside. What was this?
We followed the children, but not too close, because, this is still America after all, and two grown men seen within inches of a child is reason for a SWAT team beatdown. A cheery young woman told us what was going on: Afterschool programs where the kids can play sports, do crafts, learn computer programming, and even learn how to be sound engineers. Plus they gave food at a no or little cost to the seniors in the area. She recommended we speak to the Director. He was just outside the door.
Another cheery member of this bustling program interrupted his conversation to chat with us. This was Benton House. And yes, he was the director.
“Can you tell us a little about this place?” I asked like a front row nerd on a field trip to City Hall.
So we learned about the 100 year history of the organization, and the various community programs they provided for children, teens, the homeless, and the elderly. But then we found out that maybe foreclosures aren't what we think they are, or for that matter, nothing is what it should be. There was a staff of several people helping run programs for hundreds of people, and of course, a Director, this gentleman, who oversaw everything. Nobody was paid. Not even the Director! Not one person earned a paycheck from Benton House. Some of them got free room in the main building. But these people, these volunteers, had one intention, and that was to help others that could use some assistance. An entire organization, a successful organization, a group serving people throughout the Bridgeport community, regardless of race, was being staffed entirely by volunteers.
For all the negative news we hear, for all the people who only see life through the prism of a Dollar, for all the foreclosures and struggling economy, for all the racial categories we insist on categorizing, there are people who's only motivation is to help another human tolerate, enjoy, and even excel in life.
Bridgeport is getting labeled a “Community of the Future” by many residents of the area, even finding it's way into marketing campaigns for a local organic food supplier. Maybe they are on to something.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Contractor Forgets to Drywall Small Portion of Living Room
Services were interrupted by the three flat screens in the neighboring kitchen
Wicker Park
Emperor of Absurdistan Gentrifies Far North Side
New Immigrants show community that locals know nothing about style
North Park
Washing THINGS has Never been So Easy
Enjoy the calming nature of a blue sky while you enjoy our custom four foot high shower, and relax to the soothing sounds of Spin Cycle
Wicker Park
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