A California-born colleague of mine tells the story of being completely befuddled in a North Carolina ice cream parlor many years ago. The girl behind the counter was asking him a simple question. But because of both her thick accent and the words she was using, it took him a while to realize she was asking, “One dip or two?” A “dip” to her was a “scoop” to him.
I had the same reaction this week dealing with a Realtor in Des Moines, Iowa, where DBNR has a distressed property on 11th St. that we’re selling. The Realtor is representing us on the 5BR, 1BA (believe it or not) 1,400-square-foot gabled house with porch and basement. It was a bank foreclosure that was transferred first to the middlemen from whom we purchased our cluster of distressed properties and then to DBNR.
We’ve gone through several rounds of negotiations around commission and closing costs because the price is so low, and I thought those would be the most of our aggravations on this property. I was wrong. In a phone conversation last week, the Realtor asked me where the abstract to the house was. That was my “one dip or two” moment, because I had no idea what an abstract was.
I’ve learned working with distressed properties across the U.S. that I’ve grown remarkably comfortable in the bubble of local Silicon Valley real estate. Whatever vagaries we have to deal with out there, I’ve long since grown used to them. I’d forgotten that lots of other places of vagaries too. In Iowa, it’s the concept of an “abstract of title.”
Apparently, a long time ago, the lawyers in Iowa pushed through legislation that forbid the use of title insurance, substituting a regulation in which real-estate lawyers draw up abstracts confirming the transfer of ownership. Whenever the title to a house is transferred, another page is added to the abstract, which is a physical sheaf of papers that stays with the house and is handed from owner to owner. The older the house, the thicker the stack of papers. It’s up to the homeowner to figure out whether to keep them in a binder, or a manila folder, or a box. Technically, if you don’t have the abstract, you can’t own the house.
But as you know, the bank foreclosed on the owners. This wasn’t a friendly transaction where one happy home seller handed off the keys to the house to another happy home buyer with their real estate agents beaming in the background, a scene where the abstract would presumably handed off as well. And DBNR was three owners later. Where was the abstract, indeed?
As it turns out, we did a little research and discovered that just because the state doesn’t have title insurance doesn’t mean it doesn’t have title companies. It’s not so antediluvian that the state doesn’t require copies of the abstract to be filed with the state. A title search — though expensive — can be done and a copy of the abstract ordered. (And yes, we would have expected a Realtor in Iowa to know that.)
But for a while there, we were wondering how we were going to lay our hands on this obscure document that could have been anywhere between here and Des Moines. Life is very educational when you get a glimpse of what’s going on outside your bubble.













If the title of this post sounds vaguely familiar, it’s because it’s from a song in the 1958 Broadway musical Flower Drum Song. It predates “Kids” from Bye Bye Birdie, but had the same sentiments.
A Catch-22, as defined by author Joseph Heller in his famous novel, is an unsolvable paradox of logic. As we approach the 50th anniversary of Heller’s novel in 2011, those paradoxes show no sign of abating.
With apologies to William Shakespeare, a recurring suggestion for solving the real estate crisis seems to be eliminating commissions for real-estate agents. Firms like Help-U-Sell and Zip Realty offer either reduced commissions, or services for fees, as opposed to commissions. For people who have a high level of comfort with their own understanding of the legal and ethical pitfalls of real-estate transactions, these are acceptable options.
Now that the barn door is open and the horses have galloped off into a landscape of foreclosed homes, the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development has developed guidelines to help people more aware that they’re entering into dubious mortgage arrangements.
The late Speaker of the House Tip O’Neill used to say, “All politics is local.” That used to be true about the real estate industry too. In order to make investments, you needed a local expert, someone who understood the market and could guide your way.
One of the hardest parts about starting a business, I’ve learned over this past year, is balancing the mundane with the mission.
New York Times columnist Thomas Friedman frequently talks about how technology has “flattened” the world, which both makes connections easier and business models more fragile. This is nowhere more true than it is in residential real estate, which used to be local and, thanks to distressed property programs such as ours, is now shifting toward something broader.