An interesting experience yesterday viewing David Stockman’s house , $23 million, and another that’s asking a mere $17 million. The Stockman house, while unpretentious from the exterior, went on and on and on and eventually overwhelmed this middle class boy. A house like this involves such an elaborate, complicated lifestyle that I was totally repulsed.
But I don’t entertain heads of state nor do I expect to. It’s a grand place, I’m certain (the dog’s sleeping pen at the top of the staircase is larger than my daughter’s bedroom) and I respect Mr. Stockman hugely, but I’m glad I don’t have to live in this house.
The other Conyers Farm listing was more amusing because it evoked a memory of one of my worst gaffes as a realtor. The place has been for sale since 2002, listed with every prominent broker in town (the latest is Joe Barbieri) and sometime between then and now, I went to an open house with two colleagues, one of whom had built the house back in the 80s.
We were in the library when the builder said, “you know, there’s a secret panel here that leads to a panic room, but I can’t remember how it works.” He poked around the bookshelves for awhile and, just as we other two were leaving the room, the builder exclaimed, “Ah here it is!” And he pushed the panel.
Well – turns out, the secret door was armed with its own alarm. Bells rang, lights started flashing and alarm sirens wailed. The Conyers Farm security guards were calling and the poor showing broker, who had obtained the listing just the day before, had no idea how to shut off the noise. He went nuts and the three of us slunk out the door – who, us?
When I visited yesterday everything was quiet, so I assume they figured it all out. I did not try that panel again.