Not really an answer to your question, but I was in Laguna Beach this weekend and curiosity got the better of me, because open house signs were sprouting up like acne on an imperious adolescent cheek. The first house I visited, the agent hadn’t shaved (metaphorically) for four weeks “…I just want to sell the damn thing,” he sighed, knocking over a empty whiskey glass, then correcting his poise with a noble but noticeable quiver. “Inventory is three times it’s normal level”, he continued. I asked if he had any offers today, which was met with a side long glance, soon followed by an eruption into one of those knowing chortles, that leaves one in no doubt as to the answer it was intended to supplant. Before I could take another step, he boldly announced “it’s a two bedroom, with $2.5 million for the asking,” as if that was somehow supposed to shake out any lack of serious intent on my behalf. Or maybe it was an invitation to share in the woes of a yet over-priced housing market, where sellers-in-denial seem to take avid delight in seeing their realtors cope with four wall gazing. Feeling a little self conscious at not being to the beach hut born, I declined the invitation and kept my visit short but well-intentioned, and departed wishing him well. He immediately resumed watching basket-ball in resigned protest.

On a final note, it’s not really clear to me that Robert Schiller frequents the backwaters bars of the well-heeled where post-bubble nonchalance is in an Orpheus and Prometheus struggle with deep-seated subconscious denial.

Not really an answer to your question, but I was in Laguna Beach this weekend and curiosity got the better of me, because open house signs were sprouting up like acne on an imperious adolescent cheek. The first house I visited, the agent hadn’t shaved (metaphorically) for four weeks “…I just want to sell the damn thing,” he sighed, knocking over a empty whiskey glass, then correcting his poise with a noble but noticeable quiver. “Inventory is three times it’s normal level”, he continued. I asked if he had any offers today, which was met with a side long glance, soon followed by an eruption into one of those knowing chortles, that leaves one in no doubt as to the answer it was intended to supplant. Before I could take another step, he boldly announced “it’s a two bedroom, with $2.5 million for the asking,” as if that was somehow supposed to shake out any lack of serious intent on my behalf. Or maybe it was an invitation to share in the woes of a yet over-priced housing market, where sellers-in-denial seem to take avid delight in seeing their realtors cope with four wall gazing. Feeling a little self conscious at not being to the beach hut born, I declined the invitation and kept my visit short but well-intentioned, and departed wishing him well. He immediately resumed watching basket-ball in resigned protest.

On a final note, it’s not really clear to me that Robert Schiller frequents the backwaters bars of the well-heeled where post-bubble nonchalance is in an Orpheus and Prometheus struggle with deep-seated subconscious denial.

Not really an answer to your question, but I was in Laguna Beach this weekend and curiosity got the better of me, because open house signs were sprouting up like acne on an imperious adolescent cheek. The first house I visited, the agent hadn’t shaved (metaphorically) for four weeks “…I just want to sell the damn thing,” he sighed, knocking over a empty whiskey glass, then correcting his poise with a noble but noticeable quiver. “Inventory is three times it’s normal level”, he continued. I asked if he had any offers today, which was met with a side long glance, soon followed by an eruption into one of those knowing chortles, that leaves one in no doubt as to the answer it was intended to supplant. Before I could take another step, he boldly announced “it’s a two bedroom, with $2.5 million for the asking,” as if that was somehow supposed to shake out any lack of serious intent on my behalf. Or maybe it was an invitation to share in the woes of a yet over-priced housing market, where sellers-in-denial seem to take avid delight in seeing their realtors cope with four wall gazing. Feeling a little self conscious at not being to the beach hut born, I declined the invitation and kept my visit short but well-intentioned, and departed wishing him well. He immediately resumed watching basket-ball in resigned protest.

On a final note, it’s not really clear to me that Robert Schiller frequents the backwaters bars of the well-heeled where post-bubble nonchalance is in an Orpheus and Prometheus struggle with deep-seated subconscious denial.