We’re here to sell houses and chew bubblegum. We’re all out of bubblegum.
Local Real Estate Agent Admits Home Not Really ‘A Steal’
In a stunning declaration, local Scottsdale Real Estate agent Barry Sniggles admitted today that his listing at 1007 N Firewater Blvd is not really a steal.
While it is unclear exactly what prompted the confession, Sniggles has been besieged with demands from consumers and REALTORs alike to recant his bombastic claims about the modest three bedroom starter home in recent weeks.
On a hastily arranged conference call, Sniggles told reporters that he regretted any prior advertising that may have led consumers to believe that the nondescript property was, in fact, anything more than a pedestrian Real Estate offering.
“I never set out to deceive anyone,” Sniggles responded when asked if his tweet on September 14th that ‘This Home is a Steal!’ was deliberately misleading. “But I can see how it would be taken out of context.”
Similar puffery has been documented on Sniggles’ Facebook page and within the descriptive content of the property listing itself.
Community activist Steven Caste has been one of the home’s most vocal detractors.
“I mean, it’s not like it’s the biggest piece of &%$? I’ve ever seen,” Caste said when reached for comment at his Scottsdale apartment. “But a steal? Not hardly. It’s at least ten thousand high and could stand some paint.”
“It’s not just this property,” competing Real Estate agent Ronald Cutcheons added. “He’s been doing this stuff for years. ‘Forever views!’ ‘I’m Beautiful Inside!’ … it’s all baloney. I can’t find a Mrs. Clean anywhere in the tax records, yet he claims she lives in every home he lists. It has to stop.”
For Sniggles, the revelation accompanies a personal pledge to remove all allusions to ‘theft,’ ‘larceny’ and ‘steals’ from his marketing.
“I don’t want to be the Realtor who cried wolf anymore,” Sniggles explained.
With several new prospects on the horizon, he won’t have to wait long for the first test of his resolve.
“I’ve got a new listing coming up in McCormick Ranch,” Sniggles said. “This one really is a ste- … I mean, an average value.”
The House on Foreclosure Hill
The wind whipped up and down Oak Street, depositing stray leaves at the feet of the group loitering in front of the last house at the top of the hill. The late October chill worked its way inside loose seams and under plastic masks as the motley assemblage of superheroes and ghouls faced each other in the pale glow of a streetlamp.
“I h-h-heard one kid snuck in the window and n-n-never came back out,” Peter said through chattering teeth.
Batman for the third year in a row, the caped crusader clung to the handle of a hollow, plastic pumpkin that held the evening’s haul. Despite nearly three hours of relentless trick or treating, it remained alarmingly light.
“Yeah, the P-P-Perkins kid,” Tommy gulped, makeshift Frankenstein bolts jutting out of his grey neck. “All t-they found was his b-bike.”
“And he was a sixth g-grader,” Cameron added. He carved a reverent six into the night sky with his green lightsaber.
Conversation ceased as all eyes focused on the overgrown Victorian. Rumored to have been the scene of untold horrors years ago, it sat vacant for as long as they could remember. Though none of the boys was eager to venture any closer, they were desperate. Striking out at nearly every other house on the block, the old Gribsby house was one of only two with an illuminated front porch on this All Hallow’s Eve.
But who turned on the lights?
“You go,” Peter directed Tommy, nudging him with an artificially-muscled arm.
“Me,” Tommy squealed. “Why d-don’t you go?”
“Because I’ve been up there before,” Peter countered.
“Fibber,” Timmy accused. “When?”
“A couple years ago,” Peter lied, his face warming beneath his mask. “With some b-big kids. But if you’re too chicken, Cameron will do it.”
“Uh uh,” Cameron refused, his prosthetic ears flapping crazily as he shook his head.
“Wrong, you are,” he said in his best Yoda voice. “Another Skywalker, you s-seek.”
I’ll go,” little Emily Sue said.
Engrossed in negotiation, the three older boys didn’t hear her.
The gang had been unhappy to learn that their first unchaperoned Halloween came with the burden of babysitting Peter’s kid sister, and they had tried to ditch the Powerpuff Girl at every opportunity. Unable to shake their unwanted pink shadow, they had moved on to ignoring her.
“Rock, scissors, paper for it,” Peter suggested, knowing full well that his friends always threw rock.
Emily Sue broke from the pack and approached the house, her bright attire standing out in stark contrast to the dreary backdrop.
“Rock, paper, scissors, shoot,” Peter commanded, flattening his hand on the last word.
Neither of his friends flinched.
“Uh, Peter,” Tommy said, raising an arm inside his soiled, hand-me-down sportcoat to point. “Look.”
Peter followed Tommy’s extended finger to see his sister passing through the open courtyard gate.
“Em, no,” he whisper-shouted. “Come back!”
But she didn’t listen. The floor boards groaned as Emily Sue took a hesitant step onto the decrepit porch.
“Em!”
A dense tapestry of cobwebs clung to the gabled eaves and shimmered in the flickering light. She shuffled forward.
One step.
Then another.
Each footfall scared more dust from its hiding place, stinging her eyes and tickling her nose.
She soon found herself standing before a monolithic oak door; its heavy, iron knocker well beyond her reach. Protected from the swirling wind beyond the porch, all sound disappeared save for her own shallow breathing. A glowing doorbell beckoned.
As she stretched towards it, the carriage light winked out, casting the house and Emily Sue into darkness.
… To Be Continued
Online Home Evaluation
“Friedster, what the hell are you doing with that chicken?”
Startled, Ned Friedgen looked up to find his moon-faced boss hovering in the doorway.
“Oh. Hi, sir,” the design engineer acknowledged. “Just fiddling with the ‘Nequity’ algorithm again.”
Squawk!
“What’s with the blindfold,” Baron Schlumpf pressed as he eyed the fowl.
Ned’s brow wrinkled in confusion as he gnawed on a piece of vending machine jerky.
“What blindfold?”
“Exactly,” Mr. Schlumpf responded, pulling up a lime green, ergonomic bean-bag chair and plopping down uninvited.
“I understand that this is your first week here,” he said over the chair’s protesting contents. “It’s only natural that you want to ease into things, feel your way around a bit before sticking your neck out.”
He chuckled at his own pun.
“I just don’t understand why-” Ned began.
“We didn’t bring you on board to play it safe,” Mr. Schlumpf continued over him. “If there is one thing we here at Umilleau.com are all about, it’s taking risks. We want you to be bold. We want you to be outlandish. We want you to be the guy that we hand-picked out of the World of Warcraft chat room for this position. We don’t want Ned Friedgen. We want the Friedster.”
Ned hung his head; a palpable air of defeat overpowering his liberally-applied Axe Body Wash as the chicken pecked at his vintage Converse All Stars.
Squawk!
“Ah, don’t take it so hard,” Mr. Schlumpf consoled. “You’ll get the hang of it. The most important thing to remember is that we don’t think outside the box, because there is no box. Take your wildest idea, and make it even wilder. That’s the Umilleau way.”
“There is no spoon,” Ned intoned, affecting his best Keanu Reeves impersonation before biting off another succulent hunk of jerky. He thought it might be bison, but that didn’t seem quite right.
“Take your chicken here,” Mr. Schlumpf continued. “Teasing the plumage into a rockabilly pompadour was a fine start, you just need to dial it up a notch to really take it to the next level.”
“Next level,” Ned asked.
The bird tugged at a red shoelace. Ned decided to call him Elvis.
“We don’t just want a chicken,” Mr. Schlumpf answered. “We want a blindfolded chicken.”
“Is that even legal?”
“We don’t just want a blindfolded chicken,” Mr. Schlumpf pressed on, his loose jowls threatening to consume his skinny, black tie as his excitement grew. “We want a blindfolded chicken that navigates an electrified hopscotch grid with randomly assigned corresponding numbers.”
“Oh my God!”
“Most importantly,” Mr. Schlumpf concluded. “We want it by Friday.”
“You want me to completely redesign the home evaluation metric by Friday,” Ned squealed in horror.
His boss nodded.
“We’ve had a good run with the blind donkey we have been using to select property values from a top hat,” Mr. Schlumpf confided, shifting gears.
“Are you serious,” Ned questioned. “I looked my house up on the site last night, and the value was off by a hundred thousand!”
“An all too familiar refrain,” Mr. Schlumpf admitted. “Alas, Blinky had to die.”
Ned’s hazel eyes bulged out of his head in near perfect imitation of the image of John Belushi under the word College on his grey t-shirt.
“You killed a donkey because he picked the wrong values out of a hat?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mr. Schlumpf retorted. “I’m not an ogre. We didn’t send him off to the great barn in the sky because of the ninety two percent margin of error.”
“Then why,” Ned asked, perplexed.
“Money,” Mr. Schlumpf answered. “The damn thing wanted more money.”
“So what, um … what did you do with him?”
A gleam rose in Mr. Schlumpf’s eye.
“How’s the jerky,” he asked with a wicked grin.
Horrified, Ned spat the last few strands onto the bamboo floor.
“Jesus!”
Mr. Schlumpf bowed his mostly bald head and made the sign of the cross in mock reverence.
“Couldn’t you just ship him off to the circus or something,” Ned asked, trying to wipe the oily taste from his tongue.
“And set an example for the chicken that contract holdouts are rewarded,” Mr. Schlumpf demanded. “I think not!”
Mr. Schlumpf’s eyes narrowed as he wagged a bloated finger at his underling.
“Don’t you go getting too close to the talent, kid,” Mr. Schlumpf warned. “Your predecessor made that mistake. Couldn’t handle the inevitable eventuality. That’s why it falls to you to get a new fortune-telling beast trained up before the East coast FSBO market starts crawling our site this weekend.”
“Can I ask a stupid question.” Ned ventured.
“There are no stupid questions,” Mr. Schlumpf assured him with a conspiratorial wink. “Just stupid people eager to be manipulated.”
“Why don’t we just implement a reliable analysis of a home’s true worth?”
Mr. Schlumpf erupted in wet laughter, ending in a coughing fit.
“Sure,” he croaked between spasms. “While we’re at it, we can call ourselves ‘appraisers,’ or ‘Realtors!’ Maybe catch a plane to look at each individual property we evaluate from two thousand miles away?”
“Look,” he lectured the newbie. “We are creating our own niche here. To survive online in this day and age, you can offer something reliable, or you can offer something revolutionary. We offer revolutionary.”
“Even if it doesn’t work?”
“Especially if it doesn’t work,” Mr. Schlumpf stressed. “Consumers want ‘right now’ more than they want ‘right,’ so they’ll keep coming back as long as the lie is too brazen to doubt.”
“Seems like a business model with a limited shelf life,” Ned argued, deciding he wouldn’t list this career detour when he updated his resume for Monster.
Mr. Schlumpf grudgingly nodded.
“Once the novelty wears off and the public starts looking at your service critically, investor capital dries up faster than a Danny Bonaduce comeback.”
“So you need a shiny, new gimmick,” Ned intuited. “Or a feathery one, as it were.”
They both looked at the quizzical chicken, which was now pecking at its reflection in the funhouse mirror on the exterior wall where a window should have been. Mr. Schlumpf was right. Elvis didn’t strike Ned as particularly captivating.
“How about a card-counting baboon with a purple ass,” Ned suggested at last.
Squawk!
“Now you’re getting it.”
The Good, The Bad and The Stinky
“So what do we think of Toots?”
Rochelle Laraway waited the three seconds it took for her husband to look up from his notes.
“Toots,” the software engineer questioned, pulling his keen eyes from the meticulously organized data on the yellow legal pad.
“Mr. Bartowski,” Rochelle replied. “Don’t pretend you didn’t notice.”
She pinched her nose and waved a hand in front of her face; her flawless skin scrunched up against an imagined stench.
“That’s just mean, Ro,” Shane scolded, unable to suppress a smile. “It could be a medical condition.”
“Yeah, gluteous halitosis,” Rochelle countered with a laugh. “I’m sorry, but he smells like rotten eggplant.”
Shane threw his hands in the air; exasperated, as always, by his wife’s unparalleled aversion to pragmatism. Who knew choosing a Real Estate agent would be the first real test of their young marriage?
“We’re not getting anywhere here,” he declared, focusing on her thick eyelashes as they batted once, twice, thrice.
“Really? I think we are making some progress,” Rochelle argued.
“Progress,” Shane wondered. “Thus far, we have determined that Mrs. Dahl has a voice like shrapnel and reminds you of my mother …”
“Grr,” Rochelle growled.
“… Mr. Shroeder, or should I say, Jerry Maguire,” Shane continued, “is too slick.”
“Show me the money,” Rochelle squealed.
“And now poor Mr. Bartowski is a touch malodorous,” Shane finished.
“A touch malodorous,” Rochelle gasped. “The man is a walking septic tank!”
Shane bent back over his notes, tugging on the sleeve cuff of his lightly-starched cotton button-up exactly three times before picking up the pad.
“I knew it would come to this,” he confided. “So I went ahead and compiled a list of pros and cons for each candidate.”
Rochelle slouched back in her chair with arms crossed. Her dark eyes brimmed with skepticism. She was stunning.
“To take emotion and irrelevant personality quirks out of the equation, I assigned each one a number at random,” Shane said. “Remember, Ro, we’re selecting a Real Estate agent, not a travel companion.”
Rochelle remained silent.
“Agent number one is a twenty year veteran of the business. Strong interpersonal skills, strong sales record,” Shane began. “Numerous productivity awards and industry designations. Works for a boutique brokerage that specializes in both our area and the luxury market.”
“Likes pina coladas and getting caught in the rain,” Rochelle deadpanned.
“Negatives,” Shane continued, ignoring her. “Unimpressive web presence, including a non-user friendly website. More emphasis on print marketing than internet advertising. High commission rate.”
Shane waited a beat, expecting another retort from the resident smart alec. When he didn’t get one, he continued.
“Agent number two is a sixteen year vet. Decent web presence. Equal emphasis on online marketing and traditional methods. Not as many sales in our neighborhood as Agent One, but more total sales in the last twelve months. Works for a large brokerage with a national buyer referral base. Slightly better commission rate.”
“Go on,” Rochelle prodded, warming to the analytical approach despite herself.
“Chief negatives include a high volume of listings, and being slightly out of area. Will our home receive the attention it requires? Will we get passed on to an assistant?”
“Agent number three is the most tech savvy,” Shane continued. “Amazing website, near the top of virtually every Google search term for our area. Very user-friendly. More reliance on tech than traditional marketing means less intrusion from tour groups and open houses. Best commission rate of the bunch. Very aggressive.”
“Negatives,” Rochelle prompted, now leaning forward with elbows on knees; the palms of her hands supporting her delicate chin.
“Only four years in the business,” Shane obliged. “Fewest total sales, none in the immediate neighborhood. Never heard of the brokerage.”
“Number two,” Rochelle announced.
“Just like that?”
“Yes, just like that,” she confirmed. “And that’s your choice, too.”
All Shane could do was smile. Married less than a year, and she already knew him inside and out.
“See, babe,” he crowed. “Logic and reason. It’s all about choosing the right tool for the job, not a best friend.”
“Shall we meet our agent,” he asked with a wry grin, tapping the notepad three times before flipping the page.
“Drumroll, please,” he requested.
Rochelle obliged by rolling her tongue and patting her designer blue jean-clad knees.
“And the winner is … Hans Bartowski!”
Rochelle groaned and buried her head in her hands.
“Reshuffle the deck,” she instructed through her fingers. “We are not listing with Captain Flatulence.”
“You mean Toots,” Shane corrected as he tore the sheet of paper from the pad, folded it three times and set it aside.
“So now what?”
“We tried it your way,” Rochelle advised. “Now we try mine.”
Now it was Shane’s turn to groan as he emptied his mind of reason and held on for the ride.
Three Agents Walk Into a Bar
Three Real Estate agents sat shoulder to shoulder at the bar of a local watering hole, sipping happy hour cocktails like they did every Friday. One made his bones in the current market as a bank owned property (REO) specialist. Another had carved out a niche in the short sale arena. The third had migrated to property management after the bubble burst.
“So, Stanley,” Wayne, the REO agent, began as he adjusted his considerable girth from one cheek to the other on an overmatched bar stool. “How go things in the land of non-successful closings?”
The perpetually nervous short sale agent jumped at the accompanying nudge from his ham hocked companion. His black, horn-rimmed glasses were undisturbed, but he adjusted them anyway.
“Going just fine, thank you very much,” he replied; his clipped, aristocratic voice accompanied by an explosion of slender fingers. “These banks are finally getting the idea that it’s better to offload losing assets before they hit their books. Better systems, better staffing, better closing rates … I’d say your aorta isn’t the only thing that’s gonna need a stent soon, my ample friend.”
He made an “O” with his thumb and fingertips, closing one eye and peering at his obnoxious companion through the opening with the other before slowly collapsing his knuckles into a fist.
“How’s that pipeline of yours looking these days?”
Wayne guffawed; a deep, throaty chortle. He fiddled with the gargantuan turquoise ring on his left pinkie.
“Please,” he dismissed. “I’m carrying fourteen listings right now, and have six BPOs lined up for this weekend. As long as your deals keep blowing up at the zero hour, I’ll have a job.”
He tossed a handful of pistachios into his reddening maw.
“Just listen to you two,” the property manager said as she set down her scotch and soda with a loud thunk. “Having a pissing contest in your own clients’ graveyard.”
Stanley and Wayne rolled their eyes as they braced for the perfunctory scolding.
“These are real people losing their homes, and all you buffoons can do is laugh about it as you take your blood money?”
“Lighten up, Agnes,” Wayne answered. “I don’t like these banks anymore than you do, but someone has to list their properties. Would you rather they just sit there and collect weeds? Maybe you don’t mind living with vacant crack houses in your neighborhood, but I’d rather sell them to nice families who will fix them up and actually add value to the community. ”
“He’s right, your Highness,” Stanley confirmed. “Besides, how can you accuse me of anything but heroism? While you’ve been hiding out in property management limbo and shirking your obligations, I’m helping bail my old clients out of their dire circumstances. You hit the eject button, and left me and Wayne here to clean up the mess. If anything, we deserve medals.”
“Ejected? Ejected?!”
Agnes shook with rage, her weathered face going beet red beneath a salt and pepper crew cut.
“I moved into an arena where I could actually help my clients hold onto their homes instead of killing their dreams of home ownership for the next two to five years,” she railed. “What do you tell your underwater clients who are forced to move by a job relocation or a family crisis? Sorry, but let’s crash your credit so I can get paid? Good luck buying or leasing a home wherever you are heading?”
“Quit being so melodramatic, Agnes,” Wayne chastised. “You’re going to give Stanley another stroke.”
Both looked at Stanley, who, true to form, appeared to be vacillating somewhere between diabetic shock and epileptic fit. A scent reminiscent of Lysol and cough drops emanated from the beads of clammy sweat that rose on his forehead.
“Breathe, little buddy, breathe,” Wayne coached as Agnes signaled the bartender to hit her again.
The waif of a man closed his eyes and focused on his happy place, 2005, until the episode passed.
“Let’s just agree that we are all contributing in our own way,” Stanley squeaked through clenched teeth.
“Agreed,” Agnes mumbled into her drink.
“Agreed,” Wayne declared with gusto, holding his pint aloft. “We are Real Estate knights, come forth to slay the marauding dragons!”
“Pardon me,” a new voice interrupted.
The trio swiveled on their stools to take in the interloper before responding in unison.
“Jerry?”
The newcomer raised the pistol in his right hand and shot each agent in the face. The bar erupted in chaos as the remaining patrons fled.
“What,” the gunman demanded in response to the bartender’s frozen stare.
“That one said he’d stop the foreclosure,” he explained, gesturing at Stanley’s rigid body with his chin.
“This fat bastard had the locks changed and all my stuff thrown out on the street,” he said, his foot swallowed by Wayne’s ample abdomen as he kicked the REO agent in the ribs.
“And Miss Congeniality here denied my application for not one, but two rental properties on account of my ruined credit. I’ve been living behind the Luby’s on 12th the last two weeks.”
The bartender gulped, his tired eyes widening in recognition.
“Heard the guy that sold me the place back in oh six left the business entirely,” Jerry confided.
The bartender turned to run.
“Can’t miss neighborhood, eh, Ted,” Jerry asked as he leveled the gun and squeezed the trigger a fourth and final time.
Which Came First, The Real Estate Chicken (Purchase) or the Egg (Sale)?
One of the more confounding logistical quandaries that can arise in Real Estate is the classic chicken or the egg paradigm: Does one sell a house before knowing where he is moving, or does one buy a new house without having his current one sold?
No doubt, the dilemma of which cap to doff first has vexed many a consumer. Selecting the correct course of action is dependent, like most things, on a variety of factors. For the sake of clarity, we will keep things simple.
If you have a boatload of equity in your current home, have flexibility with the ultimate selling price and have the financial wherewithal (cash in hand or the ability to obtain a new loan that is not conditional upon the sale of your home) to purchase a new home prior to selling your existing one, then you are the rare individual in the enviable position to call your shot. To eliminate the prospects of a double move and the fear of obligating yourself to the sale of your home without clear knowledge of where you are heading, you will likely opt to buy first. Especially if you are not convinced that the home of your dreams is lurking in the market at present, it makes sense to locate the next property before committing yourself to the rest of the process.
As most buyers are reliant upon the proceeds from their current house to purchase a new home, however, the above scenario is a pipe dream for the less well-heeled. Most will face the stark reality that they are simply hamstrung on a purchase until they sell their existing house.
So how does one combat the fear of committing to destinations unknown when putting a home on the market?
The ideal method is to negotiate a purchase that is conditioned upon the ultimate sale of your home, but few and far between are the sellers who will entertain straight contingent offers of that ilk. The preponderance of bank owned properties and short sales in the present market makes the task even more arduous as contingent offers are simply not entertained by the banks. Only the most patient seller will take a flyer on an offer from someone who has to sell a property to make the deal work. And if you happen to find such a rare bird, you’ll likely have to overpay for the home due to the weakness of your position.
When purchasing first or conditionally is not an option, the best compromise is to make your offers after you have accepted a contract on the home you are selling, but before it has closed escrow. With a buyer in hand, it is considerably easier to approach another seller with an offer. More attractive than a straight contingency in which you still have to line up a willing buyer, you can structure your offer to be subject to the successful close of escrow of the contract currently in place. This is not only more appealing to the seller, but if you have negotiated a longer close of escrow on the home you are selling, you can build in a little time to locate a property and negotiate a contract, thus avoiding a dreaded double move. Timing the closings can be tricky, but if done correctly, you can move directly from one home to the other without having to put your gear in storage while you, the kids, your dog Sadie, and the goldfish check into the Holiday Inn for a few weeks.
Naturally, to make this scenario work perfectly, you have to do your homework in advance. Even prior to listing your home for sale, start looking online at the available inventory. Get in the car with your agent to look at homes that fit your parameters. Get preapproved with your lender so that you are ready to pounce at a moment’s notice, as the right home for you is often right for someone else, too. Wasting time getting your preapproval in place after you find the property opens the door to not only unrealistic window shopping, but losing an ideal candidate to a buyer who is one step ahead. Do your due diligence up front and you’ll be ready to enter the scrum as soon as your home attracts a buyer.
To be sure, coordinating the near simultaneous buying and selling of homes is a stressful undertaking. You will experience Exorcist moments in which your head spins around a full 360 degrees. Understanding the process and the steps you can take to increase your chances of success will limit the projectile vomiting, however.
So which comes first, the chicken or the egg?
It varies from coup to coup, but in the end, it’s all protein.
Realtors To Stop Photographing Themselves in Bathroom Mirrors
Scottsdale, AZ – According to a hastily released statement from the National Association of Realtors this morning, the 1.2 million active members of the nation’s largest trade organization will hereby stop including themselves in property listing photos. Effective immediately, the public will be assured that any agent appearing in the reflection of a master bathroom mirror is not a dues-paying REALTOR®.
“It’s this kind of initiative that exemplifies the difference between a mere Real Estate agent and a REALTOR,” NAR spokesman Thelonius Diedel explained. “Well, that and a couple hundred bucks annually.”
“Ghosting, as we call it, is a threat to consumers which we here at the NAR take very seriously,” Diedel continued. “A REALTOR designation assures home sellers they are working with a professional who has been trained to take a picture from around a corner, or at an angle.”
Not confined to issues of self-inclusion, Real Estate agents have long vexed online property shoppers with errant fingers on lenses, moving trucks in driveways and labrador retrievers in foyers. Exterior photos taken directly into the sun have caused at least nine cases of blindness since 2008.*
“Don’t even get me started on those fish eye virtual tours,” Cameron Stultz of the consumer watchdog group, People for Competent Photography, added when reached for comment. “I mean, thanks for showing us what the house would look like if we just chased a sheet of LSD with a liter of Jack Daniels and formaldehyde, but most buyers aren’t Alice when she’s ten feet tall. We’re just regular-size folks who want an accurate visual representation of the property.”
“This is what being a REALTOR is all about,” Diedel concluded. “Being heard, but not seen. In bathrooms.”
Diedel declined comment when asked how the initiative would help kickstart a slumping national housing market.
Melina Tomson, a non-NAR affiliated Real Estate broker in Salem, Oregon added, “Are you f&^%$*! kidding me with this?”
_______________________________________________________________________________
Paul Slaybaugh, Disassociative Press ©2011
*Data provided by intracranial study of author’s overactive imagination
Follow you on Facebook? Sure! Wait … why?
I must confess, most solicitations to follow a local business on Twitter, Facebook or any other recently-sprouted head of the social media hydra are met with the same level of enthusiasm I once harbored for an extra trip to the orthodontist.
Sure, I’ll “like” your fanpage! And maybe later we can head over to Dr. Evil’s office for a superfluous tightening!
While following another’s social exploits is comparatively painless, it is often every bit as pointless. Today’s consumer is besieged with invitations to like, follow, connect, kneel and kiss the rings of businesses across the myriad social platforms. It’s not enough that you subscribe to the blog or sign up for the newsletter, they must own you everywhere their online profile intersects with the public.
But to what end?
Why must you “follow” someone here if you already “like” them there? What additional benefit do you gain from this demand for universal allegiance?
Social media efforts tend to be a cross-pollinated mess. Good little worker bee that I am, my own marketing “campaigns” in this forum are no exception, having devolved into a black hole of pithy renduncy. A blurb on twitter, a joke on Facebook, links to new listings and blog posts on each … I have really provided no compelling reason to follow me or my business across multiple venues.
Until now.
Henceforth, I will be using the Scottsdale Property Shop page on Facebook to exclusively promote the “Scottsdale Foreclosure Value of the Day” and other daily property bargains that catch my eye. Not really blog fodder, it’s more at home on our fan page than within the confines of this site. While you, the consumer, can continue to perform your own home searches and sign up for listing alerts here, you’ll want to fan up our page to follow along with these pre-screened daily property selections.
You can continue to comb through the MLS for the best values yourself, or you can let us do it for you. Your choice.
Sure, there will still be a little of the humor and observation that tinges everything we do, but the page itself will be purposeful, not just another outlet for promoting this site.
So what are you waiting for? Now that there is an actual reason to do so, go ahead and “like” us on Facebook. You won’t feel a thing.
Oh, but the Twitter handle? @PaulSlaybaugh is still reserved for nonsensical shenanigans. Follow at your own intellectual peril.
The Tenant and the Cabana Boy
Joyce DeMannon traced a white glove-encased fingertip over a lamp shade and inspected it for residue. Satisfied, she gave a curt, reluctant nod to the head of the maid staff.
“Turndown service every morning, of course,” the chambermaid informed her dour guest. “Standard mint on the pillow, or you can inform my staff of a particular preference.”
She turned on a smartly polished heel and led her charge to the master bath.
“As our baths have all been retrofitted with steam settings, you needn’t leave your own room to indulge in a full, luxurious spa experience. Complimentary hot rocks, cucumber water and sea salts are all available through the concierge’s desk.”
Joyce inspected the facilities in silence with hands clasped behind her back.
“Towels on the floor or in the hamper to indicate you wish them laundered, please,” the chambermaid continued in a clipped, practiced cadence.
“And the minibar,” Joyce rasped in a voice as dehydrated as her sloughed, bronze skin.
“There is absolutely nothing mini about it, madam,” the chambermaid responded on cue as they made their way back into the hallway. “Our bars are full-sized and fully stocked with the finest spirits and liquers. Hand-rolled cigars are located in the adjacent humidor. All complimentary, of course.”
“Virginia Slims are available through the concierge,” she quickly added, well-adapted to intuiting the unique needs of her guests.
“Cable or satellite,” Joyce croaked.
“Both, of course,” the chambermaid replied, mildly offended. “Along with movies on demand, video games and unlimited wi-fi access.”
The chambermaid slid open the glass arcadia door in the living room and stepped out onto the patio.
“Landscapers come at one o’clock on the dot every afternoon, so as not to disrupt your sleep.”
Joyce looked down the sharp ridge of her eroding nose at the khaki-clad laborer with a leaf-blower strapped to his back. He was dripping sweat under a ratty straw hat that made her itch.
Another curt nod indicated her appeasement.
“The fitness center and pool are open twenty four hours a day,” the chambermaid informed her upon reentering the living room.
“Every guest is assigned a personal superintendent for any and all repair needs,” she continued. “Simply call me at any hour of the day, for any reason whatsoever, and I will have him here within five minutes.”
“And group activities,” Joyce prompted. “I presume there to be outings and entertainment available nightly?”
“Certainly, madam,” the chambermaid responded. “There are shuttles on call to take our guests to and from sporting events, theater shows, restaurants and nightclubs. We also have nightly luaus, bridge tournaments and countless other activities for our guests to enjoy.”
A knock at the door interrupted them.
“Ah, that must be Javier,” the chambermaid surmised, a faint smile touching her lips.
“Javier?”
“Your cabana boy,” the chambermaid replied, adjusting her costume-like uniform and crossing the fifteen steps to the door.
Joyce felt her hands move to her head, smoothing her bobbed, bottle-blonde hair of their own accord. Her formerly lifeless gray eyes flashed in nervous anticipation. Many years had past since she had last held the undivided attention of a handsome, young man.
The chambermaid cast a devilish grin over her shoulder as her slender fingers wrapped around the door knob. Slowly, ever so slowly, she twisted, reveling in her charge’s evident discomfort. At last, when the knob would turn no further, she paused, and tugged open the door.
A khaki flash accompanied the deeply-tanned figure that entered. Joyce only realized she had been holding her breath when she blew it out in disgust.
“This,” she spit. “This is Javier?”
She jerked an indignant thumb at the same rumpled, middle-aged landscaper who had been working in the backyard moments earlier.
“Yep,” the chambermaid answered. “And he’s here to plunge the hall toilet.”
“I, I don’t understand,” Joyce stammered.
“It’s really quite simple, Ms. DeMannon,” the chambermaid replied. “Javier here is the landscaper, plumber, electrician, A/C tech and general handyman. When stuff breaks, he fixes it.”
“But what about my cabana boy,” Joyce wailed.
“There is no maid service, Ms. DeMannon,” the chambermaid continued, removing her “Beatrice” name tag and dropping it into a blouse pocket. “There is no 24 hour gym. There is no Olympic pool. There is no mint on the pillow, and there is, most assuredly, no cabana boy.”
“But, but,” Joyce sputtered.
“This is a rental townhome, Ms. DeMannon, not the Hyatt,” the listing agent informed the stricken tenant.
She withdrew her Planet Real Estate pin from another frilly pocket of the ridiculous blouse and affixed it where the other had been, effectively ending the ruse.
“Your agent would have done well to direct you to one of our wonderful local resorts if you require concierge service,” she chastised. “Perhaps, those accommodations might be a bit more to your liking than our modest eight hundred dollar a month condo.”
“I get it,” Joyce sneered. “This is about my walk-through list, isn’t it?”
She produced and unfolded a multi-page document from her imitation Coach purse.
A gurgle, followed by a full flush, emanated from the hall bath.
“Ah, yes,” the agent answered. “Your list. From the sound of things, I’d say Javier just took care of it.”
“But there are two hundred and thirty seven items that require immediate attention!”
“Two hundred and thirty six,” the agent corrected. “And we will not be repainting the hallway to a ‘more appealing tan,’ stripping the wallpaper border in the breakfast nook, replacing the vertical blinds with shutters, installing ceiling fans or addressing any of the other assorted nonsense erroneously deemed deficient.”
With that, she turned for the door at the same time the handyman emerged from the bathroom. She paused and looked back at the forlorn tenant before the pair slipped out into the midday sun.
“But if the sh*&^%r backs up again? We’ll send Javier right over.”
Americans Divided on Real Estate Recovery
(Scottsdale, AZ) – Coke versus Pepsi. Republicans versus Democrats. Ginger versus Mary Ann.
You can throw the Real Estate recovery onto the list of great American debates.
According to recent polling* of consumer confidence by the Fallacy-Inclined Bureau of Statistics (FIBS), 59% of Americans believe that now is a “very good” time to buy a home. This represents the highest such percentage since 2006. On the other hand, 74% of Americans “strongly believe” that failure by Congress to raise the debt ceiling prior to August 2nd will derail the economic recovery and doom housing to the third ring of hell for all eternity.
Taken together, sampling indicates that consumer confidence in the Real Estate market is improving, but remains tenuous at best. While 52% of those polled “somewhat believe” that Real Estate values are likely to have bottomed out, 43% “somewhat strongly believe” a double dip in housing values is imminent due to inflation, stagflation, conflagration, alien invasion, Tina Yothers, tofu, Justin Bieber, Bigfoot, zombies or some combination of all.
97% “strongly believe” that the US is still within a hummingbird’s fart of The Great Depression.
For the 28th consecutive year, Admiral Ackbar believes “it’s a trap.”
Filed by Paul Slaybaugh, Disassociative Press.
*Phone survey of twenty voting-eligible US citizens who self-identify as Josiah “Jed” Bartlet supporters conducted between 1pm and 1:15pm PST on 4/20/11.
Margin of error: +/- 100%