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Garfield Park
Jan. 2015
Showing posts with label west side. Show all posts
Showing posts with label west side. Show all posts
Monday, January 12, 2015
Realtor Promises Buyers Change is Coming
Garfield Park
Jan. 2015
Friday, September 20, 2013
God Admits to Landlord Troubles
God told the potential buyers of her 3 flat greystone that modern ideas of tolerance are not practical. "Back in the old days, you don't pay ya rent, I stone ya. And that don't work, I take ya first born."
Garfield Park
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Embarrassed Dog Locks Himself in Bedroom
Humboldt Park
Thursday, May 19, 2011
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.
Friday, May 13, 2011
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?”
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
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