Realtors Worth Their Weight in Paper

Real estate agents have finally begun to understand their true value lies in successfully choosing the correct fonts - a specialized skill that requires the delicate navigation of thousands of letter types, only one of which will yield the necessary offer. For an upgrade fee, select Chicago realtors will highlight items a novice buyer might have otherwise missed. However, hand selected fonts will entail an additional charge.
Hyde Park

Hardwood Floor Allergy? Seller has Solution

In an effort to appeal to the small but growing number of home buyers who are appalled at the rapidly disintegrating conditions of the nearly endangered Midwestern dust mite, the seller of this Bronzeville rowhome enlisted the professional expertise of neighborhood carpet salvagers to create a rug so luxuriantly beautiful that dust mites would no longer have to be concerned with their eradication at the hands of hardwood floor elitists who have exhibited a wholesale philistinism toward the rights and habitat of our most beloved allergens.
Bronzeville

Reclaimed Wood Fridge Claimed by No One

When purchasing a home, items such as appliances and lights are considered a part of the home unless a seller decides they want to keep them. But it isn't common for buyers to refuse a fixture. Until now.

The buyers of this turn of the century Garfield Park two flat demanded that the reclaimed wood refrigerator be removed from the property by closing. They told undisclosed sources that they thought the reclaimed wood as a disgrace because it wasn't old enough, and that they would reclaim even older, more age appropriate wood for their non-stainless refrigerator.
Garfield Park

Local Boiler Hired to Teach Economics

As economists have struggled to correctly explain the economy's direction, one well renowned Chicago university has decided to give an adjunct professorship to a local Pilsen boiler, who correctly read the economy in 1953 and again in 1979, and today serves as an adviser to many home buyers looking for clues to the market's future.
Pilsen

Local AA President Foreclosed On

A very close of friend of Bill W., known to many South Side Chicago locals as the head of their local Alcoholics Anonymous chapter, has lost his two flat due to foreclosure. Neighbors were surprised to find the living room completely empty, and further, showed complete confusion over where to hold their next AA meeting.
SOUTH SIDE

Seller Leaves Baby Outside for Showings

In order to successfully sell a home, owners are told to get rid of clutter, put up a fresh coat of paint, and make sure there are no distractions in the home when potential buyers come visit. This Bridgeport home seller wanted to highlight the fact that he was a father but also understood what it takes to sell a home in today's market.
BRIDGEPORT

Montessori Says Creativity Must Have Limits

Montessori officials allegedly are not taking kindly to the growing Montefiore movement in Chicago, an affordable charter alternative to the pricey educational offerings of Montessori. One official was overheard stating that "those guys should just be called the M.F'ers. Nobody discounts Montessori. They'll always be McDowell's to us!"
Chicago

Brick Union Now Known as Wallpaper Union

What's happened to Chicago's famed brick walls, a fixture in the city for over one hundred years? Some blame the rising popularity of the vomit face block used in many new construction dwellings, while others keep shouting, "It's the banks" or "It's cause of China." Union reps and Builders have all taken notice, and are now offering homeowners tuckpoint-free brick for interiors, promising easy sponge cleaning and a look just guaranteed to impress.
Bridgeport (where else?)

Electricians Take Bribes from da Limbo Union

Seen as a sign of the ever growing powers of the Limbo Union in Chicago, electricians have been exposing their metal piping in doorways throughout the city in an effort to abide by the Limbo Union's stated mission of getting citizens to re-gain an appreciation for America's favorite birthday party ritual, and in turn put many out of work limbo stick holders, dancers, manufacturers, distributors, & mc's back to work. How low can YOU go?
Pilsen

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?”

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.

A Kitchen of Convenience

Space is overrated
Little Village

Do the Gangs Teach Reading These Days?

To see the chalklines you need to look real close
Little Village

Excorcisms in the Garden Unit

The Seller's Realtor wouldn't let us enter
Little Village

Rarely Seen

Is everything upside down?
Little Village

The Bank's Housesitter

An iconic symbol for the current state of the Chicago real estate market
Little Village