Oh, How I Wish the Economy Would Improve

So the apartment across the hall from me would sell.
And the guy living in it now, a buddy of the seller, would have to leave.
Because every time I am sitting at the computer,
he is on the other side of the wall,
talking on the phone,
SO VERY LOUD.
Every single time.
How is that even possible?

Who is he talking to?
What are they talking about?
I am trying trying trying not to focus on the actual words for that might drive me insane.
But did I just hear a reference to Timberwolves center Al Jefferson?

Why don't they just text like normal people?

Maybe I will pool my resources and buy the place myself.
Rent it only to mutes or those who have taken a vow of silence.

Maybe I'll just store my CDs in there.
Another bookshelf or two wouldn't hurt either.

Last month I found two Christmas cards in the lobby with this street address, but not addressed to a name I recognized. I left them outside the door across from me with a note reading "For you?"

The cards, the note--he didn't touch them. Not a "Sorry, not me." Nothing.
WHat sort of social etiquette is that?
Or does he never leave?

(I tried to Google the name on the envelopes. Checked the Jersey City phonebook for the name on the return address. No dice. Finally wrote "Not at this address" and left them for the mail carrier. I feel like I let somebody down.)

The guy before--now he was quiet.
Kept to himself, but so what?
Never figured out what he did for a living.
Had theorized road crew or chef.
His dad sells carpet.
Couple of times we (me and the guy, not me and the dad) mentioned getting a drink, but, it never happened.

What's he building in there?

It's quiet now.
But it won't be for long.
I just know it.

"Why is that a-hole always tippety-tippety-tapping on his keyboard?" he's probably thinking right now.

Iron Girders

I wish blogger would let these photos be larger. But I chose a tool certain non-technological people could use (John) and so, I'll explain the photo. The landscape of my commute has certainly changed in the past two years. 'For Rent' signs have sprung up everywhere amidst weeds that have also sprouted on crumbling, dirt- filled lots with battered rent-a-fences falling to the ground. Half-finished buildings dot the sky (see girders in photo) with nobody working on them. The mc-mansion next door to us, once a cute bungalow back in the day, is now an unfinished behemoth with no garage door, an unknown roof status, and crumbling cement for stairs up to its taped front door.
I can see its green pool from my bedroom.

You Know the Housing Market Is in Trouble

...when real estate offices are available for lease.

Just for Fun

It so happened we were in S.F. when we stumbled upon Janis Joplin's house for sale. It's in Marin county, for a little over a million dollars. It was a nice wooded dead- end street.

NY

Dianna and I spent a quick weekend in New York. We made no plans to look up friends due to lack of time, but we were walking down Broadway just as two of Dianna's friends stepped outside for a cigarette. We'd heard they were paying thirty-thousand a month for their loft, so eagerly accepted their invitation to go upstairs. I'd expected something amazing, but it was merely nice. In New York, thirty-thousand a month will get you a nice place.

Sub Prime Mortgages

A few years back, I was living in Pennsylvania, working at a community college and in the process of buying my first house. The offer process was irritating as hell, the owner wanted to raise the purchase price and pay my closing costs and do a number of shifting balances of things, and I was refusing, and people were getting irritated with me.
Then came the mortgage brokers.
The first one arrived, late, and pulled out a wad of papers, including a credit report. He started by shaking his head.
"Ok, you have some late cell phone bills. I can help you, but we have to clear these things up."
He leaned back in the chair and folded his hands in front of his face and stared at me.
"I don't have a cell phone."
He ignored me and kept talking. He set up his "best plan" and then his "second best plan". The first was an adjustable rate mortgage (so my payments would be so low, he said, 200 dollars a month!) with a second mortgage for ten grand with some cash back feature "for all the repairs you'll obviously need."
The second plan was also and ARM with a second mortgage but this one was zero down! I'd pay a little more in the long run, but probably not, that's so far down the line he was sure, he said, I wouldn't be living in a 'starter home' at that point. I could do this tomorrow! Please just sign here! He handed me a pen and I refused.
I got the guy out of my house and called my brother Frank.
"Classic sub-prime lending," he told me.
"Frank, it's like charging part of the loan on a credit card. That's insane," I told him.
"Well, understandable," he said. But then he added, "For comparison's sake, though, interest rates in the 1980's were higher."
I was determined not to be sub-primed into eternity. The seller was getting irritated, the realtor told me. She wanted my loans to be done. I just needed to get on with this. I could be sued. I needed to find a mortgage.

The next loan guy pulled up to my apartment in a shiny silver VW Bug and brought in his fancy satchel; we sat down at my kitchen table. He set up a pile of papers and pulled out his orange calculator and set it on the table. I pulled out my trusty TI-83 plus graphing calculator and set it on the table with a thud. He laughed. "What is that?" he said.
"Scientific calculator," I replied.
He started tapping on the calculator. He proudly showed me the number on the screen: 201.40.
"That can be your payment!"
I asked him to show me how he arrived at such a number.
"Why wouldn't you want to pay 200 dollars a month for a home? You pay so much more now for this... this small apartment."
"Because in five years I'd be paying over a thousand a month and I don't want that."
He replied quickly, "But who is to say where you'll be in five years? Certainly you'll be in a better job, making more money! Then you can just sell your house and buy and even better house and guess what? Pay 200 dollars a month for that one! And that one might have a pool! And be fancier!"
I showed him the door.
I'm not in this crisis they are voting on now and and am not sure how I feel about it. Thoughts?

Tony: A Man of Property

Excerpts from a St. Helena Star article from 2004. This is Tony.



Tony may not be able to control his hand or his checkbook, but it seems he has a good wife who is trying to keep that pesky addiction under control.


But then, the problem becomes clear: land is just flying at them!



Then the article gets into how they've never been to France (too busy buying land!) and a few parcels that they don't own around what they do own, and how this little piece of the pie irks him and he concludes:



Maybe someone will die and the phone will ring. Maybe someone will throw the land at him so he can finally close that darn checkbook and get down to the business of living.

mortgage meltdown

There's been a lot of talk about helping out homeowners. Alan Greenspan was the latest to suggest some sort of bailout.

What is it about homeowners that elicits such sentiment? Where were these concerned parties when the bankruptcy bill was pushed through? Is credit card debt inherently less noble than mortgage debt?

Or if you like your victims even more blameless, consider the plight of recent college graduates. Many are entering the workplace with student loans in excess of $100,000. It limits their career choices and blocks public service and entrepreneurial innovation. Are we really willing to sacrifice these kids so people with terrible taste can stay in houses they couldn't afford in the first place?

A Great Bargain

Dear Land Owner,
I see you are selling some land near Chatsworth! With a view! I do feel like I should notify any potential buyers lest they remain unawares: the Santa Susana Field Lab was a rocket and nuclear test facility with a long and colorful history of meltdowns, partial meltdowns, radioactive fires, fission fires, and at least four nuclear reactor accidents. Because these were all 'experiments', there were no containment structures such as the ones found in commercial structures. The largest meltdown happened in 1959, and it is estimated that about 400 times the amount of radiation as Three Mile Island was released into the air. 22 out of 27 men who worked in the 'burn pit'- whatever that may be- all dead of cancer. Stories abound of illegal burning of toxic waste, cancer deaths in the area are high, local water supplies are filled with all sorts of toxins. How this isn't a superfund site is a great mystery to me. One story last year (my personal favorite) was about workers shooting barrels filled with radioactive waste in the nineties to dispose of them. But-- there is good news! Boeing may be able to shirk its responsibility to clean up this area and may donate 2,400 acres to parkland! So the potential buyer will have a view of uninterrupted parkland.
But I see you haven't left a number. Maybe you're not so hopeful either.