C’mon in, it’s open…

Come by and see me at my open house on Alabama Hill tomorrow and I’ll buy you a cookie. 

The news in Whatcom County is good and getting better. The holiday ceasefire was brief and the inventory we’ve been so parched for for so long is starting to break free. Prospective sellers who wished they’d sold before our peak in the spring of 2007 are recognizing they’ve gained back most of what they lost during the five-year downturn that ended at the beginning of 2013. Mortgage money is practically free. Unemployment remains low. Foreclosure filings continue to plummet. 

Happy Days are here again. 

large living room

This 3-bed 3-bath rambler two doors off the trails of 240-acre Whatcom Falls Park is a nice opportunity in a surging market. Built heartily in 1969 with real wood, this home has been carefully-maintained and judiciously-updated. New hardwood floors throughout most of the nearly 1800sqft are a great base for a buyer’s dream kitchen. The rooms are generous and the floorplan is much more interesting than the drab rambler plans that came a decade later. The parlor off the entry is a great place to read or do paperwork, anchored by a cozy gas fireplace. There are two potential dining areas flanking the galley kitchen, one of them contiguous to the large living room with a picture window overlooking the 10ksqft fenced lot. The full guest bath in the hall and the full master bath are both large, featuring new plumbing & lighting fixtures and flooring. 

Continue reading

Why I still root for white guys who wear number 12

Disclaimer– this blog post has almost nothing to do with Real Estate  




These Seattle Seahawks are hard to dislike. And I am a very experienced disliker of Seattle Seahawks.

I’ll explain.

My family drove into Washington State on the nation’s bicentennial– July 4, 1976– from my childhood home in the Bay Area. The Seahawks played their innagural game three weeks later, kicking off a hate affair that has lasted nearly forty years.
Before we left California, Uncle Larry held season tickets to the Raiders, and I spent many a Sunday afternoon in the early ’70s in the gritty bleachers of Oakland Alameda County Stadium rooting for one of the most colorful franchises in the history of organized sports. Raider football was my life, and even though they won the Super Bowl the year we moved to Federal Way, I loathed & distrusted my new home team nearly as much as I loved my old one.

The improvisational theater of Efren Herrara

The teams were instant rivals, of course, playing in the same division (most of) those first 25 seasons. And spectacularly awful as they were in those early days, the bumbling black-shoed Seahawks would often rise to supernatural stature when facing the Raiders, staging breathtaking upsets. Seattle won 4 of the first 5 meetings, in fact, against variations of the Raider squads that dominated Super Bowls XI and XV. Oakland (and later LA) managed only a 4-game advantage over Seattle for the entire 20th century, with the teams’ two post-season contests split down the middle– one win each. Bear in mind the Raiders won three Super Bowls during this era, while the Seahawks largely languished in their own feces like the expansion team they were. Still, they proved a nagging burr in the saddle of the Silver & Black, much to my historical chagrin.

At school, I was subject to a vast array of Monday morning asskickings: spiritual and literal, not to mention financial. Twice a season I took every bet offered to me– brashly giving points and talking shit. Countless Monday mornings taunted, poked and shoved in the hallways– a fistfull of dollar bills in my handraider and a tear in my eye. I suffered for my Pride & Poise (the Raider motto before Just Win, Baby) and my resentment for the popular Seahawks deepened. Continue reading

The Max Factor: free house with purchase of 18lb black cat

photo by Phil Rose


Max doesn’t give a damn. He’s fat and rich, but that hasn’t gone to his head. His head is huge– like the rest of him– but it’s not out of any inflated sense of self. He just doesn’t give a damn.

Outdoor cats generally don’t. They’re usually quite content with their stations– free to roam and kill and fuck. Out all night every night with no demands on them whatsoever. Free as the wind. A pirate’s life!

As long as someone leaves some food out, that is. Mice and birds and snakes are delicious supplements, but it’s hard to get fat hunting. Someone to leave the dry food out is crucial. It doesn’t much matter who it is. Continue reading