Great Moments in Maine Real Estate: The Holy Shit Edition

Now you real estate people have really gone and done it. You’ve enticed me — no, compelled me — strike that — backed me into a corner and forced me to use an honest to goodness, Anglo-Saxon word in the title. Nothing but strong language, and a strong drink nearby, will prepare you for the residential feast of worms you’re about to eat. Normally, on Great Moments in Maine Real Estate, we feature a melange of different real estate fiascos. Not today. Just one house in this installment, and it takes the moldy dumb cake. Ladies and gemmen, I give you The Camden Architectural Apocalypse, by the architects Sodom and Gomorrah, AIA:

You’re going to have to keep two things in mind before we venture further. Firstly, once we really get going, you’re going to completely forget that no matter how bizarre the house is, how thunder and lightning vulgar, psychedelic flashback inducing, spastic budgeted, delirium tremens suborned that this place appears, it’s nothing but a split level ranch with two undersized garage doors. Try to stay focused.

Secondly, it’s in Camden Maine:

Now, if you’re unfamiliar with Maine in general, and Camden in particular, I’ll try to explain both. For the most part, Maine is an undifferentiated morass of bogs, trees, mud, flies, barren-looking potato fields, wind and solar farm abominations, dotted only occasionally with trailer parks and the vinyl-sided hulks of capes, farmhouses, and bungalows. It’s huge, with no one in it. Well, except for a strip along the southern coast, which includes Camden, where Thurston Howell VII summers, and uses summer as a verb.

Camden is close to the perfect imaginary ideal image of Maine everyone “from away” thinks of when he thinks of our fair state. Despite what you see in the picture, it’s not just a yacht club that won’t let in any garlic eaters. Camden is a twee village hard by the Atlantic, just far enough from Boston and New York to feel like vacation if you’re a partner in a white-shoe law firm. It’s a mayonnaise on white bread sandwich traditionally peopled by rich swells with lots of whales on their pants and zeroes in their trust funds. These people are capable of anything. They’ll eat rhubarb for dessert, and look you right in the eye and tell you they like it.

But they’re not capable of living in a split level ranch under any circumstances, even if it costs 2.2 million spondulicks like this one does. And boyo, am I going to show you some circumstances. What this thing is doing, and doing in Maine, is a dark and bloody mystery to me.

A slight digression: On the intertunnel, it’s fairly common to find numerous writers who make a hobbyhorse out of disliking Baby Boomers. I suspect that it’s mostly because their parents would rather go on cruises than do the decent thing and die suddenly, in order to leave enough money for them to buy more Lego sets and Star Wars action figures than the other middle-aged guys that work in their cubicle farm. I can’t say I blame them. Technically, I’m a Boomer, and I don’t like Abba or flared pants or Hamburger Helper or mustaches or ‘vettes or shag carpeting or hot tubs or avocado and harvest gold appliances. But a word of caution to my friends who hate me and my cohort over nothing more than the calendar: When the Boomers croak, the last architect who could use a T-square and pencil will be gone, and all you have left is people who learned architecture from Minecraft:

Let’s step inside, shall we?

As the pornographer once said, there’s a lot to take in here, but if everyone does their best, I’m sure we can get through it.

Let’s start with those, ahem, columns. Pilasters, almost. You know, when I spend big money on Corinthian capitals for my  pole-like structures, I don’t want to waste them way up high where the chandeliers soar. I put them upside-down on the floor, where everyone can enjoy them. Easier to dust the acanthus leaves, too.

Then of course, the first thing I do when I come home from a hard day of selling opium in China, or whatever your WASPy relatives did to make Camden money, is to fix myself a good, stiff drink. Luckily, this has been already been taken care of, courtesy of a pixellated-tile bar over on the right. In this house, everything you can think of has been taken care of for you, including many, many things no one sane person would ever think of.

Hey, let’s look at the kitchen, or should I say, kitschen:

Now, I’m not going to exaggerate here, because what’s the point of that? It’s quite possible that the countertops are not made from recycled bowling balls and skateboard wheels. It’s likely, but not certain, so I’m not going to accuse anyone without more proof. Never mind that. I’ve been alive a long time. Long enough, apparently, to finally find someone who thought it would be a grand idea to tile both the inside and the outside of the kitchen cabinets, and finish it off a faux marble flat astragal moulding. Unless it’s not faux. Then I sit corrected.

If the kitchen leaves your stomach unsettled, repair to the bathroom to compose yourself, and — whoah Nellie:

Boy howdy, they love that tile. Most of the house is encrusted with it. I love the crystal funerary sink and the roll of paper towels to dry your hands. Very classy. And that tub. I’m not sure if you’re supposed to get in it and look out, or be outside it and look in. If you’re not Gussie Fink-Nottle, I’m not sure I grok the utility of it. There are eleventy bathrooms in the joint, and they all have them.

Most of the the bedrooms are comparatively staid, if you overlook the gold lame headboards, anyway. There are gigantic televisions everywhere. In some cases, they’re stacked on on top of the other, like here. I’m trying to picture two people in bed watching two different things at the same time, but I can’t. Not without going back to the foyer for another stiff one.

My wife pointed out something. Many rooms have these little tables and ergonomic chairs in the corner. She said it looked like a manicure station from a salon. Dear Buddha, is this house built with the proceeds of a mani pedi empire? They’ve got calendars hanging over them, too, to keep track of the appointments.

The garage is interesting. I had Lyme Disease once. That was also interesting. I’m trying to conjure up a flooring material worse for a garage than polished granite, but I can’t. The marble door surrounds try to compete with the floor, and the brass railings, but they can’t compete, either.  I predict that someone will compete with that column sooner or later. And lose.

The landscaping ceded the field early on to the hardscaping. When you’ve got a fountain and elephants to do the heavy exterior lifting, why even bother. They didn’t. Seventeen gas station flowers did the trick.

The RE listing uses several adjectives that can be taken two ways that give the game away:

Exquisite

Exacting

Exceptional

Unique

and of course:

Incredible

Well, they hit the target with that last one. I’ve seen it, and I still don’t believe it.

See all 57 pictures here, if you dare.

[Thanks for reading and commenting, buying my books, recommending this site to your interfriends, and hitting the tip jar. It is greatly appreciated]

Great Moments in Maine Real Estate: Nueve

Well, Maine has really been letting me down of late. It’s getting harder and harder to populate Great Moments in Maine Real Estate, because many of the free spirits in the state, with the appropriate “devil may care” attitude, have lit out for greener pastures, or maybe gone back to prison. I don’t know exactly why they would prefer to live in a pasture than a house in Maine, but I have my suspicions. Here are just a few clues to the mindset:

For a rural Maine man, this place has it all. Mildew blooms, plastic over the busted windows, an ad-hoc fence to keep the dog amused, if not corralled. An electric heater abandoned right next to an abandoned air conditioner on top of a meager woodpile. Over yonder is the pickup truck bed cap from a vehicle last registered in 1987, and long since gone to its scrapyard reward. This stuff is only piled outside because the inside is already stuffed to the sagging rafters with similar jetsam. But the piece de resistance has got to be the “I ♥ Poon” bumper sticker on the door.

Decorating schemes in Maine generally crash into the Scylla of the Hobby Lobby, bounce off, and then careen into the side of the Home Depot Charybdis. The center of the main channel through the architectural straits is clear, and well-marked with Martha Stewart buoys, but Mainers don’t trust anything that looks that easy. So they’ll often find themselves stranded on the shoals of the Island of OSB, and similar ersatz plywood materials. This Gilligan must have been stranded overlong, because every surface in this house — ceiling, walls, floors, everything– is covered in oriented strand board. In case I forget to mention it later: Please, No Smoking.

This room has it all. I’m surprised there isn’t a stove and fridge in there, too. It’s got a map of Maine on the wall in case you find yourself lost while making your way from the bed to the woob-woob tub. Sometimes I think Mainers think of everything. Other times I think other things. But anyway, I’m flummoxed why they don’t install a diving board off the footboard. Seems easier and safer than two marble stairs.

This room has a lot going for it. It’s tranquil. There may or may not be someone dozing in the sleeping bag while the realtor tiptoes in to take a picture. The comfort level is high. When you’re lying on your mattress, discerning TV watchers always turn the set on its side, to match the orientation of your noggin. The windows are spray painted black to keep nosy neighbors and parole officers from peeking in, or the sunshine from disturbing the spiders who hold the ceiling down on top of the walls with their silky constructions. There are elegant photos of Marilyn Monroe on the wall, so that any hot supermodels who might drop by will feel at home. Snacks are always close at hand, if you’re willing to fish through the packages and fight the ants for the remainders. However, there are just too many half-filled jugs of yellowish liquids in the picture to suit my delicate sensibilities. The resident must work at an Amazon fulfillment center, and he takes his work home with him, is my guess.

You keep it classy, Maine.

You can see our entire series of Great Moments in Maine Real Estate here.

[Thanks for reading and commenting, buying my books, recommending this site to your interfriends, and hitting the tip jar. It is greatly appreciated]

Great Moments in Maine Real Estate: Ocho

Well, we’re back again with a roundup of interesting things from Maine real estate listings. I’m using the word “interesting” in the same way your psychiatrist does when you tell them some weird thing you dreamed. “That’s interesting, ” they’ll say, and up your prescription for Lithium.

Maine is getting less interesting since I moved here. The landscape used to be adorned with many more abandoned houses,  chock-a-block full of interesting things. Now the whole state has been flipped, just about. Every floor is gray, every wall is gray, every exterior is gray plastic. It’s a form of mental illness, but it ain’t interesting.

On to today’s batch of Maine architectural wonderments:

You know, duct tape is pretty handy stuff. And Lincoln Logs are fun to play with.But I’m not sure I’d trust a combination of the two materials to hold up the first floor. The electrical wiring is interesting, though, ain’t it?

If you’ve ever been a landlord, you know that one constant with all tenants is they love to paint the walls in their apartments, and they always select something interesting. However, few achieve the coveted Mondrian corner.

Nothing says romance like a spray of plastic flowers on a bar table with a couple of stools tucked in the corner of a basement on a concrete floor under an unfinished drywall ceiling, with the wall painted arctic blue-gray. That’s a pellet stove, by the way, and the top doesn’t even get warm, so putting a cast iron kettle on top to humidify the room is an interesting idea.

I had to do a bit of a double take there. Is that Hondo hisself in the corner? I’ve watched a lot of movies with the Duke in ’em, but I don’t remember any where he encouraged anyone to play frisbee golf. Maybe they only have that one on Tubi.

This is what happens when you hire Charlotte Bronte to decorate your house instead of Martha Stewart. Instead of quartz countertops and luxury vinyl flooring, she spends the whole budget on an impromtu calaboose in the attic to hide away your crazy first wife. You know, instead of putting her on reality TV like everybody does now. The crutches tucked into the rafters are an interesting touch.

There’s no ambiance like “bare light bulb” ambiance, is there? I call this decorating motif “Sleep here now, interrogation later.”

Well, everybody, that’s it for this batch of Great Moments in Maine Real Estate. Feel free to vote for your favorite in the comments, but please: no wagering. And don’t forget to have an interesting day!

Great Moments in Maine Real Estate. Siete, Amigos

I’m allowed to write things in Spanish occasionally, like siete, because I live near Mexico. Mexico, Maine, that is. And Peru, now that I think about it. I’m fairly close to Norway, as well, but I won’t be slinging any Norwegian at you. You’re welcome in advance. Norsk got all them fricatives and flaps and glottal this and retroflex that. Nei takk, venner. Oops, sorry. But I’ll knock it off, I promise, and get down to business. Great Moments in Maine Real Estate coming up!

I can’t help myself. I get to noticing things others don’t. I get to wondering about things maybe I shouldn’t. So you’ll forgive me if I wonder aloud what exactly  might be sticking through the wall in the next room.

I’m on (broken) record as identifying Frank Gehry, the architect, as one of the most destructive individuals from the last hundred years or so. You know, the brushy mustache guy needed a big army to wreck most of Europe, but Gehry only needs a pencil and paper to lay waste to the countryside. His big idea, if you can call it that, is that houses, and especially public buildings, should be incredibly complex, expensive, and above all, goofy-looking. Telling expensive jokes in sticks and bricks desolates the landscape, and can’t be reversed easily. And the idea permeates its way down through the architectural floor into the construction groundwater, and the result is a pressure-treated KFC bucket someone is supposed to live in.

I don’t know about you, but when I roll out of bed in the morning, I’m not ready for the Montreal Cognitive Assessment. I can’t memorize a short list of anything, name objects shown in pictures, or copy motions or shapes while performing other tasks until I’ve had a cup of coffee, at least. While there are still pillow lines on my face, and my hair is in a somewhat architectural configuration, I’m not ready for a Mini-Mental State examination. You know, identifying objects in a room, counting backwards, knowing the date, and being able to expound on common facts. I’m not in the mood for Memory Impairments Screen, a Functional Activities Questionnaire, or even putting those oddly shaped blocks into their respective holes in the Shape Sorter thing. So I’m definitely not in the mood for figuring out this assortment of shower knobs, the kind of thing I’d expect to find after teaching the Chief to play basketball. Besides, how many knobs do they need to give you a cold shower?

Interestingly, Wine Rack Full of Skulls is the name of my Pantera tribute band, But I digress.

There is no power on Earth that could keep me from calling this “The Sh*t Chute” if I lived there. Of course, there’s no power on Earth that could get me to live there in the first place, so the point is moot. Still, if the next occupant wants to call it that, I’ll waive copyright on it.

I call this decorating motif the “Instant Divorce.” Because I don’t know about you guys, but I’d say things like, “Are you gonna skin that sheepleg, pilgrim,” or maybe, “Liberty Valance’s the toughest man south of the Picketwire – next to me,” every single time I went through those doors, until my wife couldn’t take it any more.

Well, there you go. It’s a selección bastante buena for you to enjoy. You can vote for your favorite in the comments, but please: no wagering.

Great Moments in Maine Real Estate Seis

I’ve long since adapted my way of thinking to the Maine life. Nary a hint of Massachusetts left in it. In order to demonstrate how fully I’ve become acclimated, let me list all the furniture and other items currently on display in our living room:

• A large, very old couch, heavily frilled at the edges by multiple cats, covered with a dropcloth because I’ve been patching the ceiling
• An orange five-gallon pail filled with sand I swept out of the road last fall because who pays for sand?
• A roll-around office chair I don’t like
• My thirty-year-old work boots, which have a hint of Chaplin about them
• A bolt cutters (don’t ask)
• Four, seventy-five-year-old postcards I found behind the heavy oak baseboards when we removed them
• A pair of children’s metal craft scissors I found inside the wall when I rewired an outlet
• A snowblower
• A gray cat, looking at the snowblower, and wondering if it’s nuttier than the tree we dragged in there last month

So I’m obviously “getting there” as far as Maine life goes, although I can’t bring myself to put the couch on the porch outside and finish the effect. A Portsmouth Bridge Too Far, that is. But I’m starting to feel like I can make the rounds of Maine real estate with more affection and sympathy than a regular flatlander could. So let’s try to all get in the spirit of the thing, and enjoy another blast of Great Moments in Maine Real Estate.

Whoah. I can hear you now. “Sippican, you’re losing a little off your fastball. How are we going to make mordant remarks about this cabin getaway?” Well, you’re partially right.  The partial Typar siding effect is nothing special in Maine. A house on stilts holds no terrors for folks from Baton Rouge or anything. The rich, red stain has a pleasing effect. That porch is as pleasant a place to slap flies on your neck as you could wish for. Why single this place out as notable, you’re wondering.

Because it’s in Moxie Gore. No shit, really; there’s a place called Moxie Gore in Maine. I want to write a potboiler novel with a crime-fighting sexy female lumberjack named Moxie Gore. Admit it. Maine is cooler than wherever it is you live, because we have a Moxie Gore in our state, and you don’t. Also, it’s January, so Maine is so much cooler already than most everywhere else.

But don’t cry for us, Argentina. Mainers know how to deal with the cold. We have numerous large dogs and even larger girlfriends, and we sleep cozy every night. If that fails, and she leaves you for a totally different trailer park beau, and takes the dogs with her, we also know how to install radiators to keep us warm. And stay in the corner with all the heat to ourselves, away from whatever left that stain on the floor there.

Let’s talk about this room. No, really, talk. Oh, you’ll talk. No matter how long we have to keep you in here, you’ll talk. And if the ransom doesn’t come through, well, I don’t have to tell you what the snowblower in the living room is for, do I?

Hulk no like bath, Hulk-mom. Hulk no like shower either. Hulk no happy. Hulk smash bathtub. Hulk happy now.

Let he who is without sin cast the first stone here, people. This is a very expensive house by Maine standards. It has indoor plumbing, for instance, and lots of it. But the builders still had the common touch. No matter how swanky the customer, we’ve all been in the same boat at one time or another: Just grabbed a quick bite in a Chipotle. Bombed through the drive-thru at the Taco Bell. Got the bucket of chicken so big at a Colonel Sanders joint you could wash a toddler in it when you’re through. That’s when you’re grateful for a contractor who knew that sometimes, you need a “two-hander” after you finish up. Nothing less will get the job done.

I always thought it would be a sweet gig to work for the paint company and name the colors. You know, instead of calling the colors j26-589, they have names like Periwinkle Heaven or Madagascar Sunset and stuff like that. I think I’d be good at it. For instance, I think the paint in the last photo should be called Subterranean Homesick Blues. But that sort of approach would just invite lawsuits, I guess, so I know I’ll never get the job.