Occult Marketing Can't Sell Overpriced Home

Despite low housing inventory, record low interest rates, and a glut of buyers, some Chicago home sellers can't manage to sell their houses. Such sellers are adamant they know what their home is worth, and if a neighbor who clearly had inferior faucets and less exotic hardwood floors could sell his house, then their home is worth the premium. When asked if they might be acting a bit greedy, the owners of the non-selling homes were fairly unanimous in their opinion - they'll save their mortgage payments for a couple of years, let the bank foreclose, rent somewhere nearby, and buy again in two to three years.
Andersonville

Lincoln Square Alcoholics Celebrate Winter

Refusing to give in to Polar Vortexes and Global Cooling, a coterie of Lincoln Square residents, who casually drink six nights a week but definitely do not have a drinking problem, have been gathering around the Yule Pole of a recently listed property to enjoy bottles of Skyy Vodka. The owner of the aging Victorian has welcomed any activity that prevents buyers from realizing he has resided in the home for twenty years without spending a dime on property maintenance.
Lincoln Square

Buyer Sees the Light

After ten grueling minutes slogging through a dilapidated Pilsen foreclosure wondering why his realtor brought him to such a place, the exasperated buyer finally saw the light. And the rat holes. And the dusty stack of unpaid bills. And, the exit.
Pilsen

Couple Turns to Stone Waiting for Short Sale

Rescuers discovered the missing bodies of a pair of buyers who had stowed away in the basement of the Portage Park bungalow they had hoped to buy. The Cook County Coroner has estimated the approximate date of their stoning to be approximately 139 weeks after placing their short sale offer. Upstairs, the owners of the home were found enjoying the latest in modern conveniences without the hassles of paying a mortgage.
Portage Park

Swingers Abandon Property

Apparently too much swinging can eventually lead to the same financial calamities that have affected other foreclosed homes. Potential buyers and even their realtors are now asked to sign a swinging waiver before entering a property that clarifies that any swinging they may do is at their own risk.
Sauganash

Anti-Smoking VHS Bootlegger Foreclosed On

A notorious northside VHS video pirate who would place subliminal anti-smoking messages in his bootlegs was unable to compete with the booming LaserDisc market and has become another victim of the Chicago real estate crisis, losing his Edgewater Victorian mansion to foreclosure.
EDGEWATER

Physical Therapist Redesigns Bathroom

After her client refused to do exercises to rehabilitate his torn rotator cuff, a local Chicago physical therapist decided her client could practice his arm stretches somewhere more comfortable. After seeing positive results, she is currently raising the height of all the light switches and has suspended his living room couch from the ceiling.
Logan Square

Bank Steals Tenant's Stolen Stove

The former owner of this Pilsen brick two flat, affectionately know as "the landlord", had purchased a used stove from a nearby shop specializing in used stoves that purchases their stoves from gentlemen who arrive at their store early in the morning accompanied by a shopping cart and a refreshing beverage.

When the previous owner of the building was unable to pay his mortgage due to the over borrowing of additional money against his property, his tenant, allegedly an artist, decided that she would be the caretaker of the stove, even going so far as to claim it as her very own. Now, the bank, who will not give the artist a loan, but was more than willing to loan to the previous owner, has taken ownership of the stove. As of this writing, there were gentleman, transported by a simple four wheeled vehicle, enjoying a cloaked beverage while inspecting the property.
Pilsen

New Year Vow Shields TV from Cruel World

In an effort to protect the only possession he owns outright, the seller of this Edgewater vintage single family home promised his 61" plasma television that it would no longer be forced to witness the stream of buyers that have spent the past year walking in front of it, grumbling about how they refused to pay 2006 prices for a neglected home that hasn't been updated since the first Mayor Daley was in office.
Edgewater

Seller Blames Virgin on His Short Sale

A despondent seller of a Bridgeport two flat, and former patron of St. Mary's Church, blamed the misguided advice he received from Mother Mary on the excessive home equity loans he took out on his family's historic compound that have led to his unwanted short sale situation.
BRIDGEPORT

Banks Putting the Unemployed to Work

Whether it's increased federal regulation or a growing conscience for the plight of the nation's least fortunate, banks have begun hiring the jobless to paint foreclosed properties, and as of today, May 9th, both parties appear very content with the results. HUMBOLDT PARK

Dutch Woman Last Seen on Roof

An elderly Dutch woman, alleged to be Mrs. VanGoghmetkaas, was last seen on her northwest side bungalow roof, attempting to complete her monthly moth ball distribution. Anyone who may have seen Mrs. VanGoghmetkaas should contact the Association for Lost Dutch Grandmothers making sure to note exact clog size.
PORTAGE PARK

Bank Lovingly Provides Caretaker's Bedroom

Devastated by a wave of vandalism that has been dragging down the already below market prices of bank owned foreclosures, especially here in Chicago, banks have begun providing incentives for tenants or caretakers to remain in the property in order to maintain the appearance of a home in liveable condition.
ROGERS PARK

Optical Illusion Turns Out to Not Be

Two windows for the price of one. Some contractors are now offering this special throughout the Southside for value oriented consumers. They plan on launching a similar program for doors in the Spring.
Bridgeport

Former Owner Haunts Foreclosure

Prospective buyers of a Logan Square two flat claimed a creepy presence was following them in the garage, completely abandoned except for a wrought iron window guard, which clearly confused the buyer when she nervously asked, "What is a Rawl?"
Logan Square

Dawgs Refuse Banks' Bones for Keys Offer

After twenty-one months of missed mortgage payments, failed loan modifications, and refusals to answer automated phone calls, this Northside family of twenty-six Croatian Dalmations was offered a lucrative Bones for Keys incentive to politely exit their dwelling. After some heated barkuments, the family decided they would rather live rent free then give up their doodie-when-we-want-how-we-want home for a two week supply of low quality Purina dog bones.
EDGEWATER

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.

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.

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?”