Are Homeowners Really the Bad Guys?

Yes, as it has been charged by many, various arms of the government did push mortgage lenders toward providing more people the opportunity to seek homeownership. However, many characterize it as "strong-arming" which is, in my opinion, misleading. It's difficult to envision the American banking system being "strong-armed" by anyone, even the Feds.

Mortgage lenders resisted until they discovered that they could make huge profits from such lending. It is the lenders who threw out all of the long standing protocols for processing and approving mortgage loans. It is they who dropped the ball in performing proper diligence in verifying borrower employment, income, credit standing, etc. It is the lenders who largely discarded appraisals, opting instead for "desk top" valuations and the use of AVMs or Automated Valuation Models which are often wildly inaccurate.

As to blaming the borrowers, while it's true that a few understood what was going on and took advantage of the situation to sate their greed, that is NOT true of most of the people who got caught up in this mess.

Most were and are young, expecting or at least hoping to be "upwardly mobile" and wanting to purchase a home - the supposed great American dream.

Scenario:

Hubby and Wifey test the waters only to find that their bank and/or some of the more traditional lenders to which they apply, deny them their quest. Something about a weak credit score. However, someone advises them to seek out a mortgage broker (the bane of our existence,) who can shop around for a lender who will, perhaps, approve their application.

The mortgage broker, Bobby Slick of 'We Saw Ya Comin Mortgage Services,' smiles broadly and invites them to have a seat. He takes their application, sometimes suggesting ways in which to "tweak" some numbers here and there. This may make the potential mortgagors a bit nervous, but Bobby just laughs it off, reassuring them that to do so presents no problem. He does it all the time. Keep in mind that nothing is said to these people about anything called "sub-prime" mortgages.

Bobby puts all of this "data" together, sends it off into cyberspace and then waits like a bluehaired grandmother playing nickel slots at a riverboat casino, until some lender bites. It's a rare occurance if not even one takes the bait. There are usually 3 or 4.

Bobby calls his marks, or, er his clients with the good news: Welendtoanybodywithapulse Mortgage is more than happy to take on their loan request. Woohoo!

Now a few days or weeks pass and periodically the broker contacts the clueless applicants with questions to answer, papers to sign, changes to make here and there - further "tweaks" to help grease the slide.

Our 'wannabe homeowners' are informed that with a convenient 'adjustable' mortgage having an up front low interest rate and consequent low payment, they can step into a lot more house than they originally believed. They don' gotta mess aroun' with that stinkin' 40 year old 1200 square foot, 3 bedroom ranch they been lookin at. Instead, they can go for the big enchilada, and get that glorious new, 2 story, 3000 square foot, 4 bedroom box in "Vinyl Village Estates" they were dreaming about. None of that "starter home" crap for them, by god!

Bobby may suggest to them that the mortgage payment will likely go up in a few years, but that shouldn't be a problem because they will no doubt be making a lot more money by that time as the buyer's "upward mobility" should be kicking in:

Bobby: "Am I right?"

H&W: "Uh, yeah, sure, we guess so."

Bobby: "Of course I'm right! Gotta keep the faith. You'll be king of the world by then!" Right? Right! You know I'm right!

Again, Hubby and Wifey are nervous about all this, and may ask a few questions, but further reassurances from 'The Slickster' and their own giddiness overcome all that. They are gonna grab the American dream by the goddamn throat!

Eventually, the processing gets done. The How Much Do You Need? appraisal company came in with a good figure. They've been approved! It's a go.

A few days later everybody involved in the transaction comes together to sit around a long table in some conference room at a title insurance company or some law firm and watch as these gullible folks sign their lives away. The new mortgagors are happy, a little squeamish, perhaps, but happy. But even happier are those walking out with big checks tucked securely in their wallets. Partay tonite!

Fast forward: Three or five or maybe seven years down the road our happy homeowners get the bad news. Their 4% mortgage has now crept up to 7% or 8% or more. They knew it was coming, but still. The reality is alarming. In the meantime, Hubby hasn't gotten quite the boost in income he had anticipated, and Wifey has not been working owing to the arrival of a couple of little critters. But they're struggling by. She gives piano lessons to a few kids each week, and he's been moonlighting at a convenience store. It's a little rough, but they'll get through it. It's only temporary.

Then, the shit hits the fan. Hubby gets his pink slip. His company has decided to "go in a different direction." His services are no longer required. "Here's a couple months severence. Clean out your desk NOW!!, have a nice life, and don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out."

Ohmigod! Hubby looks up only to realize that about half or more of the houses in Vinyl Village are sitting empty because their former occupants got pretty much the same news in the weeks and months before his own comuppance. What the hell are they going to do?

Attempts to find another job paying anything similar to what Hubby had been making have been fruitless. He's even been turned down for lesser employment because he's "overqualified." Wifey has started cashiering part time at the local Giganto Mart while Hubby stays home and changes diapers and does the laundry.

The severance runs out all too soon and their income is only a quarter of what they need. They miss a mortgage payment or two because they don't really have enough to pay it, and they needed to pay the utility bills so they'd at least have some light and heat.

They avoid answering the phone. Caller ID informs them that the mortgage company is calling 8 or 10 times a day. Yesterday, their 2 year old Subaru Forester got repossessed. They are left with the rusting 14 year old Mercury Grand Marquis with the bad muffler and the electric windows that don't go up or down that they inherited from grandma's estate last year. It currently gets around 9 miles to the gallon and leaves a huge puddle of oil in the driveway, but, oh well. It's wheels.

Finally, these once proud, happy homeowners are informed that they have 24 hours to vacate the property before the county sheriff comes to evict them. They borrow Uncle Floyd's old pick-up and stuff it and the Grand Marquis hauling out what they can fit into them, leaving the rest. They are reduced to living in his father and mother's partly finished basement. Their American dream is history.

End of Scenario.

Were these people at fault for their own mess? In part, yes. They were not necessarily greedy, but more likely just naive. They wanted a home. They trustingly bought into the bullshit that Bobby Slick and perhaps the builder or a realtor fed them. Their desire to own a piece of the rock blinded them to the possibility that it could all blow up in their faces. Nevertheless, it did.

Commerce largely depends upon the naivete' of the buying public. When it comes down to it, the vast majority of products and services provided to the American market place are things we don't particularly need. Therefore, advertisers are burdened with the task of convincing us to the contrary.

Hubby and Wifey did not NEED to buy a home. They certainly did not NEED to purchase a 3000 square foot monolith for more than they could realistically afford. But, they were enticed into believing that they did in fact need it, and that given the prediction of a rosey future, they came to believe that they could afford it. They were wrong.

Those who lay the blame at the feet of people like my ficticious couple believe unswervingly in caveat emptor - let the buyer beware. Granted, we all need at least a modicum of such caution. But most of us don't assume that well established banks, lending institutions, realtors, etc. - the bulwark of our economy - should be equated with snake oil salesmen. When going after the American dream, we want to believe that the rose colored glasses through which we observe the world is not a distortion. Sadly, we often learn in our despair that the hue is not rose, but rather, simply the tarnish of lies and opportunism.

TLS

Just Another Day

I inspected this little bungalow yesterday during what turned out to be about a four inch snow fall. To many, 4 inches of snow is no big deal. It normally isn't here in Indy either.
However, this snow fell atop approximately 12 inches we had received a few days prior. Also, it fell in a relatively short time and during our morning rush hour. Visiblilty was bad. A 30+ car pile up on an interstate north of the city took 3 lives.
My problem was, in addition to driving the 20 or so miles from my home to this property, physically measuring around this nearly 6000 square foot monster. The land slopes away and down at the rear making the footing even more precarious. But, I did it. I did all the measuring, taking of photos without doing myself harm. I spent nearly an hour inside completing the floor plan, taking notes, photos, etc. Upon completing my work, I bid the homeowner fairwell, walked out the door, down the walkway. Approximately 6 feet from my car sitting in the driveway I stepped into a bit of snow only to discover that beneath was solid ice. I went down like a sack of potatoes. The full force of my fall centered on my right arm and shoulder. What a crock!
I'm not sure just what damage I did, but I cannot lift my arm more than an inch or two without considerable pain. I don't believe I broke any bones, or dislocated anything. I'm fairly certain that I tore some tendons, ligaments or even some muscle. Have I gone to a doctor? No. What could they do?
I keep telling myself that I am entering my "Golden Years." - My ass!

TLS

This is a link to a very nice little story (just a couple of pages) that appears in the latest issue of the New York Times Magazine written by a friend of my son, Karen Russell. She is a writer living in NYC who has published one book of short stories and has a novel about ready to hit the market. She is one of my son's favorite people.

Read it, you'll like it.

TLS

"The Shack"

The photos here are of a small building measuring about 4'x6' resting in the back yard of the place where I grew up on the east side of Indianapolis. It's a fairly innocuous little structure, too small to really be useful as a workspace or for serious storage or much of anything else except for it's original intended use: a playhouse.

My father built it for me when I was about eight or nine-years-old. My childhood friends and I had spent a number of damp, itchy, nights in small, smelly canvas pup tents and had built a number of makeshift structures in our backyards out of whatever we could get our hands on including a hodgepodge of wood for framing, cardboard boxes, and even on occasion old scatter rugs, which really got funky when rained on.

I voiced my desire for some kind of a clubhouse or "fort" to my dad, who at first dismissed the idea. Undaunted, I drew up plans for what would have been, if built, larger than some of the neighborhood houses. I conceived a structure which would be large enough to house around four fold-down cots, at least a couple of chairs, a table, a cook stove, and a ladder leading up to what would have been a small cupola for a "lookout." Dad informed me I was nuts.

A week or so later I spied my Dad pulling into the garage one evening with the trunk of the car ajar, the lid tied down with sisal twine. Protruding out the rear were four or five wood pallets he brought from his business.

My father was a partner in a small printing company. Paper was delivered to them on wood pallets. These pallets had well made 'two by' frames and the tops were solid 1'x8' pine wood planks unlike most skeletal type rough hewn pallets one usually sees today. Over the next couple of weeks, Dad appeared with more of these pallets, odds and ends of wood, and other paraphernalia. Through it all, he remained mute regarding his intended use for all this stuff.

One Saturday morning I arose to the sound of hammering coming from the back yard. I threw on some clothes and sauntered out to see what was up. My dad had laid out two of the pallets now braced together with three 2x6s vertically affixed underneath. This was the base and floor of my "fort."

Over the course of the next several days — evenings after dad came home from work and a couple more weekends — what ultimately became known as "the shack" took shape. Other pallets were fashioned into the walls and roof.

Small as it is, dad included a lot of detail. The structure has a nicely gabled roof and there are several windows. At the front there is a small window built into the narrow door and a fairly large window to its right. Additionally, there are two smaller windows on either side and two at the rear. The six windows on the sides and rear were hinged and could be opened. They were all screened. They even had outwardly-angled sills to insure proper runoff of rainwater.

If you look closely, you'll see there are two small hatches, front and rear, near the apex of the roof, which could also be opened to encourage some airflow. These were also screened. Gotta keep those bugs out. The interior walls were never "finished" but the floor was ultimately covered with linoleum.

As I noted, my father partnered in a small offset printing firm. All of the exterior "siding" is actually old litho printing plates Dad brought from work and then tacked on over the roof and all of the exterior walls. These "plates" are approximately 3’x3’ aluminum and zink squares - the kind of thing you can shake to make "thunder" sounds with, and the mishandling of which can slice you up pretty good. The only exposed wood is the door and the window frames.

You may also note that there is now a rather large, gaping hole near the bottom of the door. Time, and perhaps some abuse, has apparently taken its toll. Other than this, though, the shack appears to be pretty much as I remember it. There may have been a couple coats of paint added, but the damn thing is still there and apparently in tact after some 50 years, more or less. (I'm a fairly old fart.)

At first I was rather dismayed at the downsized version of my planned "fort," or whatever it was that I had determined it would be called. But my neighborhood friends and I quickly took to it and made good use of it for a number of years. We had several campouts.

Owing to its spacial limits, no more than three of us could sleep in it at a time, but that was quite enough. Usually, it would just be me and one other pre-pubescent neighborhood goof ball.

Dad even ran an electric extension into the shack from the adjacent garage so as to provide some light. We would sometimes plug a radio into it as well and listen to Dick Summer's Summertime, an evening rock and roll program on WIBC radio.

This show came to us "live" from Merrill's High Decker, a local Indy drive-in hamburger joint on 38th St. across from the State Fair Grounds. Summer broadcast from a small glass booth atop the restaurant spinning his 45 rpm golden wax. I remember feeling betrayed when he left Indy and wound up having pretty much the same gig on WBZ in Boston.

During those campouts we would eat whatever passed for junk food in those days and play cards or games or various versions of grab ass as young boys are want to do. On one particularly hot summer night, Dad appeared out of the darkness with an ancient, small, black electric fan that he mounted inside at the highest point on the front wall over the door. It felt great.

At other times, we would variously use the shack when playing cowboys, army, cops and robbers, or whatever. During humid midsummer days it was usually far too hot to really spend any time in it despite having the windows and vents open and the fan going. It was best used during the evening and overnight. Needless to say, there was no heat.

Of course, as we got older, the shack fell out of favor. It ultimately came to be used as storage space for perhaps a bicycle, a lawn mower, a birdbath, and a lawn chair or two.

My father died in 1978. My mother lived on until 1999, dying at age 92. She sold the house and the shack along with it in the early 1990s. A young couple purchased it, the girl expecting their first child. Apparently they separated and divorced a couple of years later. She moved away and the guy stayed. He lived alone in the house for a few years, but then contracted some type of disease or condition that ultimately killed him - or so said a neighbor we occasionally heard from.
Afterward, the house sat empty for a year or more. For a while it was apparently owned by an investor who rented it out, but then, he (or she) too, lost it. It once again sat fallow for several months. Happily, the home is now occupied. I don't know if by the owner or more tenants.

There's no magical ending to this tale. I've sometimes thought of inquiring about purchasing the shack and moving it to my home, but the logistics have always seemed too daunting. I imagine the thing weighs a bloody ton. At any rate, I've never had the money to spend on such an indulgence, and I'm not really sure what I'd do with it. I doubt that I would have any campouts.

The view I had of it the other day when I drove by and took the pictures was not close enough to really discern its condition. Obviously, the door needs work and another coat of paint appears to be in order, but otherwise it does look pretty much the same. I do hope that over the intervening years, some other kids have had a few campouts eating junk food, playing cards, games, and grab ass.

What Fresh Hell Is This?

Do you see that? -->

Is General Mills screwing with our minds?

On the left in the photo is the box we Honey Nut Clusters devotees have all come to know and love.

The box on the right?

Where's the bright blue, the sunny yellow? Where's the damn squirrel?

It's a new box. It's sensible. It's staid. It's "adult."

It's boring! How did they manage to juxtapose the words "Honey," "Nut" and "Clusters" with sensible, staid and adult? It is obviously an insidious plot to do away with our beloved morning munch. This is tantamount to a knife in the very heart of Honey Nut Clusters and those who live for that magic blend of bland, more or less tasteless multi-grain flakes and small globs of nut crumbs.

A couple of weeks ago I went to the one and only store I have found in Indy that still carries Clusters. I scanned the cereal aisle looking for the blue and yellow box with uh, "Clusty" - yeah, that's it, Clusty - Clusty the Squirrel, but alas. I looked left and right, up and down. No! No bright blue. No sunny yellow. No squirrel.

I started shuffling back toward the front of the store deflated, defeated and dejected. The last bastion of HNCs gone. But then, something caught my eye. In my peripheral vision on the bottom shelf I spied that magic word: Clusters! I turned only to see in sensible (but admittedly not unattractive) earth tone colors "Honey Nut Clusters!!" Yes!!! I lunged forward and grabbed one, then two boxes with spittal suddenly running down my grizzled chin. I looked about with fright and suspicion, ready to strike out at anyone getting too close. (Back! Back I say!) I made my way like a launched arrow to the check out nervously expecting a mob of other HNC crazies to attack in a mad frenzy over the check out ripping my two humble boxes of Clusters to shreds in their desparation. But no. I was handed my never to decompose plastic bag and briskly headed to the door, out into the parking lot and hot footed it to my car, constantly on the alert. Nervously fumbling with my keys, I finally made it into my old Buick unmolested. I immediately locked the doors and looked around seeing no one who appeared to be aware of me or my Clusters. Were they trying to put me off my guard? I wouldn't put it past them. We Clusters fanatics are a wiley bunch. Suddenly I glanced up into my rear view mirror believing I caught some movement in the back seat. I spun around only to see just the unmoving pile of coats, boots, shoes, gloves, hats and other crap I keep on hand in case of a dire emergency.

Before I started the car, I grabbed a towel out of the mess in the back to wipe the flop sweat off my brow, my face, my hands and my pits. I left the damp nether regions for a more private moment. Suffice it to say, I made it home without incident. I ate my Clusters with glee, but with the troubling fear that something is afoot.

What is General Mills up to? I'm telling you, it's a death knell. It's only a matter of time.

TLS

THE WALL

If you've got some time to kill and you like Pink Floyd settle back and watch "The Wall." Yeah, the whole thing!

SUNSET AT

MARSEILLES