Open House

I felt good after doing a modest amount of work at the farm. I got the truck unloaded, finally, and hauled the media cabinet and little blue couch up to the front door, up the plank stoop and into the back room.

I moved out the existing Adirondack chairs, transferring them to the garage, and the old footlocker and oriental chest that the flat screen television sat upon.

Then I swept the deck of debris and dead birds and got the truck washed, returning the old Blue Rhino propane tank and trimmed the branches of the pine tree that kept hitting me in the head approaching the front gate.

The work was simple and repetitive, requiring no thought. It is  totally different than what I do for a living and I was startled when I glanced at the cell phone to see that it was time to head back north to the Capital.

I didn’t want to go. It was too nice. I collected the clothes I washed in the machines in the little laundry room, scratched Heckle the Cat and got in the Bluesmobile and blasted north. I listened to the radio- replays of NPR from the week, mostly, and reception is crappy down Brandy Station way. But I did hear them talking about the Occupy Wall Street protests.

There is even an alternate newspaper that has emerged from the chaotic protestors- the Occupy Wall Street Journal.

Apparently some folks are comparing the movement to The Arab Spring, a spontaneous explosion of democracy that will do….well, no one is quite sure. The only manifesto I can find is something that was published in the Journal of the Alternate Universe, penned by a fellow named Arun Gupta. He wrote:

“Our system is broken at every level. More than 25 million Americans are unemployed. More than 50 million live without health insurance. Perhaps 100 million Americans are mired in poverty, using realistic measures. Yet the fat cats continue to get tax breaks and reap billions while politicians compete to turn the austerity screws on all of us.

At some point the number of people occupying Wall Street — whether that’s 5,000, 10,000 or 50,000 — will force the powers that be to offer concessions. No one can say how many people it will take or even how things will change exactly, but there is a real potential for bypassing a corrupt political process and for realizing a society based on human needs, not hedge fund profits.

After all, who would have imagined a year ago that Tunisians and Egyptians would oust their dictators?”

I could quibble with his numbers- they are skewed by about a quarter- and throw in the latest news from Egypt that reports Coptic Christians are being hunted down and killed by Islamic radials and security forces- but I take his point.

I have certainly urged my fellow citizens to take up torches and pitchforks and march on Goldman-Sachs, so Mr. Gupta and the other five hundred folks who are camping out in New York have clearly tapped into something that resonates on visceral level, and protests have radiated across the nation.

The apparent contradiction between a Progressive crowd protesting the most Progressive Administration in history does have me a bit bemused, but never mind. Nor do I have any idea what sort of concessions the Occupiers have in mind.

My thought was to try the greedy pricks who brought down the markets, find them guilty by law, strip them of their ill-gotten gains, and move on. I have a list of names, by the way, just in case anyone wants to get serious about this. James A. Johnson, former Fannie Mae CEO heads my list, but I would suggest that the mob might want to Google up the addresses of:

Alan Greenspan, chairman of US Federal Reserve 1987- 2006
Bill Clinton, former US president
George W Bush, former US president
Abby Cohen, Goldman Sachs chief US strategist
Dick Fuld, Lehman Brothers chief executive
Ralph Cioffi, Bear Stearns Smart Guy
Matthew Tannin, Bear Stearns.
Lewis Ranieri, “Godfather” of mortgage finance,.
Barney Frank, unapologetic fan of Fannie Mae
Joseph Cassano, AIG Financial Products
Chuck Prince, former Citi boss
Angelo Mozilo, Countrywide Financial
Stan O’Neal, former boss of Merrill Lynch
Christopher Dodd, chairman, Senate banking committee
The American public

I throw in all the rest of us, since we acted with what War Criminal Greenspan might have characterized as “irrational exuberance” at the whole circus. We forgot that what seems to good to be true usually is.

Anyway, I got the laundry out of the Bluesmobile and put it in the rolling cart to take upstairs. Elsbeth, the German war bride, was the desk. She is a remarkable woman. The GI she had married to get out of Berlin had died on her, laving eight children behind. She could tell us something about pulling up our Big Girl pants and getting on with life.

She had been from a town called Danzig, which no longer exists, and cared for her sister after the Red Army had its way with her at the Battalion level.

I never asked if they had her, too, but didn’t quite know how to phrase the question. Nothing had come in since I left town, but I noted there was a sign on the end of the counter advertising an open house on Unit 604.

My ears pricked right up. I had made an offer on the unit across the hall- Number 603- back in the bubble days.

I have never been so grateful about not winning. I think the gal who was selling wanted $415,000, and the two-bedroom, two bath unit is on the end of the building. Those units have an extra couple hundred feet, and windows on the end that face the lights of Ballston.

The sixth floor is still above the tree-line, too, and 604 overlooks the Big Pink pool and gets the afternoon sun.

I dumped the laundry in my place and walked up the two floors to check it out.

Karen-the-Realtor was there alone when I rapped on the door. She showed me around. There had been a nice upgrade to the unit: walls knocked out of the kitchen,  breakfast bar installed with black granite countertops, chair rails, new glass closet doors, closet organizers, re-done half bath, new convectors, and a roller-screen door to the balcony.

I asked how much they wanted for it, and Karen said “$315K.”

“Wow,” I said. “That means if I had bought the place across the hall, I would be out a hundred thousand dollars and still underwater. Man, am I lucky.”

“Well, at least the market seems to be stabilizing,” she said. “And look at these views!”

“I paid $375K for a place a little smaller than this,” I said, pointing down in the direction of my unit. “I can’t refinance even though the mortgage is current and I have not missed a payment on any of the houses I have ever owned.”

“They do want 20% down,” said Karen. “It makes it almost impossible to refinance since so many people are underwater on their property.”

“Yeah, it is sort of crazy that they seem to think that I can’t afford to continue to pay them less money on time, even if I give them a point or two up front for the privilege. “I thanked her for her time, wondering if I should make a bid on the place and sell the one with the onerous 6.1% mortgage. That way I could just take my beating and be done with it.

I took away the advertising information and walked down the staircase. As turned the key in the upper lock to get in, I thought there are indeed some people I would like to see do the same thing.

Or invite myself over for an Open House and administer the beating myself.

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com