I got an email this morning inviting me to get in touch via Twitter. I’m actually rather socially awkward on the socially networking, much like life. But, I did just set it up to track about 5 thousand and 12 news services. I’ll know everything about the presidential campaign before it even happens.

On the possibly even more mundane existence of my actual existence, today was pretty much eaten up entirely by both open houses and tooling around Pacifica, CA with a real estate agent. I’m disappointed. When I looked for a condo in ’95 it was non-stop visiting of jesusfuckingchrist-do-people-really-live-here fixers. I could end a day knowing that I hadn’t found a house, but I was tickled by the freakishness of the human race.

My two favorite visits back then included the single gal (as the agent pointed out, just like me) who really maximized the space by putting a full-sized chest freezer in the master bedroom’s walk in closet. Imagine that dinner party, where the charming hostess keeps ducking into her bedroom and coming back with loins and cutlets and bags of peas and the fixings for her fabulous baked Alaska. In my mind it was a great way to save the trophies from my kills.

The other favorite was more about the cheap thrill. Another place with another female owner of my own vintage or so, who was home and encouraged the real estate agent and me to check out the back bedroom. I’m not sure who was more surprised, the possibly Middle Eastern fella in the very skimpy black, polyester robe standing next to a mussed bed in a room that truly needed a good airing out of the prevailing funk, or us.

Now, likely because of the economic realities of a sinking housing market providing incentive for folks to put their best foot forward coupled with our looking at places 10 times more pricey than I sought back then, the homes were all lovely and staged. Except for one.

The special place was a “short sale” property at risk for foreclosure. It was wonderful in all the wrong ways. It too needed a good airing out like that back bedroom of over a decade ago. There was a decidedly piquant aroma of frat house and men. The oversized yellow and black leather sofa and love seat really kind of spoke of no female influence in the decor.

The best feature of that place was the approximately one-foot square of falling and broken off tiles in the center of the shower wall no longer covering black and water damaged drywall. By way of explanation the owner’s nephew, and I believe chief resident of the house, noted it was where his housemate had hit his head. I do believe there is much, much more to that story.

A couple of places were rather cool. With the top contender of the moment about a five minute walk from this fog-drenched beach. The Taco Bell is the only one on a beach, according to guidebooks and Wikipedia.

The house doesn’t have a view of the beach. Nah, just a kick ass view of the mountains from a picture window in the living room and the rather large front deck. These pics aren’t the view, but they are the beginning of said mountains.

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