I'm your 21st century boy

June 30, 2005

To: Mike Whybark, Seattle

FINANCIAL INSTITUTION WITHHELD has been notified by FINANCIAL INSTITUTION WITHHELD of a theft of records from a third party credit card processor. … Unfortunately, your card number is among those potentially at risk.

Please note that no personal data, such as your name, address, social security number, or member number was involved in the theft of data.

To protect your account, FINANCIAL INSTITUTION WITHHELD will block your FINANCIAL INSTITUTION WITHHELD card from further transactions effective DATE REDACTED. On that date a new FINANCIAL INSTITUTION WITHHELD card will be issued to you.

Unfortunately, there will be a time delay between blocking your existing card and receiving a replacement card. If you have pre-authorized transfer or payment arrangements, you will need to propagate the new card number and expiration date.

FINANCIAL INSTITUTION WITHHELD regrets the inconvenience.

Sincerely.

NAME WITHHELD

Manger

POSITION DELETED

FINANCIAL INSTITUTION WITHHELD

(Abridgements, exaggerations, redactions, deletions, and withholdings by me.)

What is it that makes a house a home?

Viv and I have been consumed, eaten alive, devoured by househunting. On Saturday, before enjoying some sprawling dinner and drinks with Greg and Stacey, we saw no less than fifteen houses in an all-day marathon. Some were good, some were bad, none were it.

I particularly liked a 1947 house in near-ish southwest Seattle near a golf course, to my surprise. It was quite suburban, and even on a cul-de-sac-ish loop street, much like places I grew up and basically loathed for their isolation. It’s amazing what a few years of break-ins and bum feces will do to a man. The house is vetoed, however, as it’s under the approach for one of the primary runways at Sea-Tac, and while the constant thrum of jets is essentially music to my ears, Viv has a different opinion. We counted ten 500-foot overflights in one fifteen minute period this weekend, against the suburban quietude of the hushed neighborhood.

We have looked at any number of homes advertised or described as 1000 square feet that strike me as smaller, all in the 250-300k range. Some have not struck me as particularly habitable, no matter what the size. Most common among these have been homes where a prior steward felt the need for self-expression, and consequently created a sort of architectural maze via successive unrelated remodels, mistaking confusion and entrapment for comfort and security.

We have been particularly struck by four of the houses, and I believe we are passing on two of the four for various reasons. Two are under continued consideration. One requires a massive unremodeling. I would move the house off of its’ full basement foundation onto a new full basement. The new location would be at a 45-degree angle to and several dozen feet away from the old location. Oh, and in addition, we’d need to ungraft and move a staircase from it’s prewar remodeled location to the original location within the house. Among other things.

Viv pointed out that these plans were pretty persuasive evidence that I did not really want to live in the house, not as it stands. She’s right.

I toss and turn and grind my teeth about this now, losing sleep, obsessively clicking the various regional sites that provide mapped views into the various MLS databases. They all suck, too.

The ones with the most base data do not share details, often stinting such crucial considerations as street address. My favorite, Redfin, clearly sometimes posts listings that are totally wrong. Today, for example, we wanted to see a home listed for sale in upper west Seattle. Our agent found the listing – but the Redfin listing was an inaccurate reactivation of an old listing that sold in April. This is troubling, and while I love Redfin’s data transparency, inaccurate data transparency only makes it harder for me to apply heat to the soles of my agent (who appears to be doing a pretty good job, but alternative information sources equal greater leverage).

I have realized that some of my tossing and turning at night is my verbally-oriented mind, yammering away at top speed, analyzing this and discussing that about our househunt. I’ve decided to blog the hunt, to an extent. It will help me to burn off that chattering analyst in my head and at the same time provide a record that I can review to develop and sharpen our goals and strategies. It will be a bit tricky, though, I think. I’m uncomfortable posting pictures of most of these houses, for example, and equally uncomfortable mentioning specifics such as addresses or monetary amounts, so I’m afraid the blog may come out as impenetrable as the Regency memoirs of any given Madame X (as penetrable as she may have been).

Oh well, at least Ken is coming out here soon.

Hail

I had an amazing dream last night in which I was on the phone in a friend’s incomplete, under renovation house. I was speaking to Scott Colburn and Joey and Johnny Ramone on the telephone, when enormous hailstones began to fall from the skies outside. I got off the phone and rushed to grab my new camera, which at first was a digital Leica and then became a D70. By the time I’d rounded up a memory card and figured out that the camera’s battery was not fully charged, the hail had shrunk in size to a fine mist, a slurry of water and ice, which blanketed the landscape to a depth of three inches, but which was rapidly melting.

A couple days ago I dreamt I was driving around the perimeter of the site of the Seattle World’s Fair of 1932, which had been unaccountably abandonded for many years. The muscly art-deco buildings were proudly incised with cheerful bombast such as “A SEA OF TOURISTS AWAITS THE FUTURE VISTA” and “LET US GO FORTH AND MINE OUR FELLOW MAN,” but the cheap concrete surface of the stubby towers flaked with age, the white paint peeling in strips.

Broken windows and twisted frames drooped like the eyelids of a dead man. Around the base of the buildings, baking in a noon sun, weeds, rippled asphalt, heaving slabs. Debris festooned the empty lots behind rusted chainlink fences.

iTunes podcasting: feh.

As the new iTunes podcasting integration requires one to turn on the music store access in the app, I must say: fuck that shit.

Also, what the fuck is up with the visual overload in the store UI, people? How on Earth can anyone with the visual sensibilities of sea cucumber possibly understand when, how, or if they are purchasing something? It’s like plucking your eyeballs from your head and dunking them into a molten pot of lead, eyestalks distended but intact, transmitting the sight of the sparking bright orange surface into your brain right up until they fry horribly in the liquid metal.

Gawd. I have no idea how you people can put up with that crap.