Archive for 'Close Encounters'
READ ALOUD IN A BOISTEROUS VOICE
December 10, 2011 by Ronn Ives, under Close Encounters.
Sitting quietly at an auction early this morning, with my thermal mug of hot, home brewed coffee next to me, I was merely trying to wake up so I could do my job. I figured it would be at least a two hour wait for all my chosen items to come up for bid. With it raining outside, I was stuck indoors on this groggy, gray Saturday.
People mill around at an auction, inspecting items, taking notes on little, palm sized pieces of paper, and whispering secret “tactical plans” to their significant others. “There are no friends at an auction” is almost always true. And, trust me here, there IS always one person with a loud mouth. I mean both in volume AND attitude… and s/he ALWAYS sits near me. Today’s example was Klassick…
(For full effect, READ ALOUD IN A BOISTEROUS VOICE, and remember, you don’t need anyone actually paying attention to you:)
“LOOK! FRANK’S HERE!! GET OUT THE EAR PLUGS. DO WE HAVE EARPLUGS HERE? WE’LL NEED EARPLUGS NOW! YOU KNOW WHY? ‘CAUSE FRANK’S HERE!!! EARPLUGS PLEASE!!!”
…The irony seems to evade these people.
RULE #1: NEVER make eye contact with them.
RULE #2: NEVER smile or even smirk for a split second.
RULE #3: NEVER move closer to them even if you can get the best chair in the house and your back is killing you.
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“Uhhuh. Ugonnaywuk foami?”
December 9, 2011 by Ronn Ives, under Close Encounters.
You may as well get used to the idea I don’t need to make things up – my world is odd enough.
One day – a normal day at FUTURES Antiques – a young boy walked in alone, carrying a big, brown paper sack. I said “Can I help you with something?” He lugged his package all the way to the back of my store where I sat at my desk.
The little fella began jabbering at high speed in a “language” I did NOT understand. Was he a miniature, urban “NELL”? Since he looked entirely American and not at all feral, I figured I could solve this one. (You’ve seen movies where the “solution” to the secret code was in slowing down the recording or playing it backwards, etc., right?) I put my hand on his shoulder, and said “Okay, take your time, tell me what it is you need…”
“Ewannabi summadis?” he asked.
NOW I understood him (“You want to buy some of this?”), but I didn’t know what it was he was offering. “What do you mean?” I said.
“Ahgodese heh…”, and he opened the sack.
Inside was what he was offering for sale: four pieces of raw chicken meat.
“You want to sell me these pieces of CHICKEN??”
“Uhhuh. Ugonnaywuk foami?”
“My friend, NO ONE is going to want to buy raw meat from you… they don’t know how long it’s been warm, where it came from, nothing. They could get sick! And it’s just me here in my store. I can’t afford to hire you for any work. I’m sorry.” I put my hand on his shoulder again, and added: “Give up the idea of selling the chicken, but DON’T stop asking people if they have work. Maybe someone will, and you seem like a good guy.”
“Okithankyu,” and he left.
It was just another day in my brick & mortar antiques store. After twenty years at that location, FUTURES is now exclusive to the web.
And, don’t send any digital raw chicken, please.
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WHAT family!?
October 25, 2011 by Ronn Ives, under Close Encounters.
This one deserves repeating:
October 3, 2001:
The weather today was the finest of the entire year. It’s a double edged sword for someone like me who loves dry, sunny, breezy weather. Why? GOOD weather translates into fewer buying customers. Why? They go to the beach, out boating, to their gardens… that sort of thing. People go “antiquing” mainly on BAD weather weekends. So, I found myself with more time on my hands than I wanted, sitting outside in superb weather, on my “I’M OPEN” sidewalk chair, LOVING the physical experience – and regretting the lack of earned income. Trust me, if it’s just a matter of SITTING, I’d rather be sitting roofless in my Miata sports car zipping along curvy country roads.
So, it was within this context that The Charming Lady and her Passive Family pulled up to the curb… (I don’t know about YOU, but people who are all smiles and full of artificial sweetener cause my Suspicion Gland to secrete gallons of Caution Juice. And boy was she smilin’.)
“I just LOVE that color of {raggedy} t-shirt on you!” she crooned. You get the point.
“Are you the owner of this store?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I have some antiques I’d like to sell.”
“Okay, let’s have a look.”
(This sort of thing happens everyday and I’m grateful for it. Some people really DO understand what I’m doing with FUTURES, and their keeping me in mind is a compliment.)
Smiley Woman’s husband and two children sat passively in the Jeep, staring quietly towards the front as she opened the rear hatch door to exhibit her offerings to me. I immediately knew her items were older than my usual perimeters, but she went ahead with the pitch. (It’s not like I had anything else to do at the moment anyhow…).
“This large, handcolored photograph is of my family, and is in the original oval frame with curved glass. They are on the porch of their first home, in 1912.”
I said “You don’t want to sell this.”
“Yes, I do. Cash, right now.”
“I won’t buy something like this that holds so much value for your family.”
“It doesn’t matter to me. I just want to sell it.”
…Okay, so I’m thinking “Hey, her KIDS are listening to her… this is just sick”, and I restated my thought so the kids would hear it:
“I can’t buy something that you should be keeping. Go home, stash it away, whatever… but pass it on to your kids. Let them know who these people are.”
“Well, how much do you think it’s worth?”
“I don’t think I can help you.”
“Who could I take these things to?”
“I don’t know.”
She closed the hatch, was now less perky and sweet, and they drove off.
Ed, my next door store neighbor, was also sitting outside. He asked “What did she have?” so I repeated the conversation. “That’s kind of sad,” he pondered, and then asked “How much do you think she could’ve gotten for it?”
“Enough to buy burgers and fries for all four of them this afternoon… which by tomorrow would be crap flushed down the toilette… leaving them with nothing’, I said.
Ed added, “You just taught her to leave the “Family” part OUT of her next sales pitch.”
“Damnit, Ed. You’re right,” I sighed.
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Legs
July 28, 2011 by Ronn Ives, under Close Encounters.
Sitting outside, I watched a man push another man down the sidewalk in a wheel chair, and overhead I watched a local Crow fly along. I see him around. He has a broken leg hanging down in a recognizable way.
-
Still sitting outside: this guy thought he was good:
I was outside again, sitting in the shade, thinking about my lousy living wage, while I clipped and filed a fingernail.
Tell me at exactly what point you figure out what this guy was up to:
He: “Hey, how ya doin’?”
Me: “Fine.”
“Nice weather.”
“Yep.”
“This your shop?”
“Yep.”
“Antiques, huh?”
“Yep.”
“How are sales?”
“Bad.”
(Okay, who here is thinking “Panhandler!”? If so, was it because I said “Bad”? You know, to let him know there will be zero handouts? Raise your hands.
Okay, back to the dialog:)
“Bad.”
“BAD? I love this stuff!” (He hasn’t been inside the shop remember? We are outside. So we see an ass-kiss angle now.)
“Bad.”
“So where do you find all that stuff? Like from people or what?”
(Okay, now you’re thinking he’s one of the mentally disabled cared for down the street in the group home.)
Back to the dialog:)
“Yeh, from people.”
“Cool… cool…”
” (my silence) ”
He: “Um, how about books? You have any old books?”
(Here’s when I knew where he was headed. What about you? Think about it a minute. I’ve had more practice at this, perhaps.)
Me: “Nope. No old books.”
“Why not? I LOVE old books!”
“No one else does.”
“Oh I do!”
“No one else does.”
“I found an old Bible once in a thrift store. It had the people’s family history and everything in it!”
“Yeh. They did that then.”
(NOW you have it, right? Okay, back to dialog. It doesn’t last much longer. I’m about to machete his legs:)
Me: “Yeh, they did that then.”
He: “…Has anyone ever talked to you about Mormonism?”
“Yep.”
“Oh YEH? What did he say?”
“That’s between me and him.”
“Oh… yeh. Well, do you want to learn more?”
“Nope.”
“No?”
“No.”
“…………….oh. Well, you have a great day and have a great business!”
Have a Great Business??? You weren’t listening?!
Swiiiiiisssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhh HACK HACK!
Later, Stumpy.
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Staring at a Car Wreck with Saucer Sized Eyes
July 18, 2011 by Ronn Ives, under Close Encounters.
I recently acquired a gloriously awful collection of wonderfully depressing, scary, weird “Big Eyed” pictures. They are now in my “Good and Bad Memories” gallery on the “Shop” page here on the web site.
You may remember a few of them, and you may even know the name of the couple who made them a [shudder] “household word”:
the KeANeS
(Their marital life-story is a tacky horror in itself – and I may get to that later IF I have the stamina – but don’t count on it.)
The “Fabulous Fifties” had come to a close. Thank god. Ask the soldiers returning from World War II and Korea how fabulous the 50′s were for them trying to adjust. Ask the minorities who were still told where they could [and could not] go. Ask everyone black-balled during the Commie Hunts. Ask all the children who were required to practice Atomic Bomb Attack drills in their schools. Okay, you get my radioactive drift… and it took too long for those daze came to a close… sort of.
The “Swinging Sixties” arrived as the OPENLY VIOLENT version of the 50′s. Viet Nam began in earnest, leaders were being assassinated as fast as they could gain a following, the Anti-war and Equal Rights movements poured into the streets, Atomic war was literally mere hours from starting 90 miles off our shore, drug use was being romanticized and promoted… Yeh. Swinging. Baby.
And there, in the midst of the end of the 50′s and the start of the 60′s, Big Eyed Children (and Adults, Animals, etc.) ran silently onto the stage and stared out at the public sitting there in the dark of those times. Had they not “hit a chord” with viewers, they would have died a quick, deserved death but… they took over like Pod People. WHY? WHY???? Pictures of cute, ill-proportioned, abandoned, starving, fearful, alienated creatures were everywhere, and the buying Middle Class couldn’t get enough of them… (and THIS was WAAAAY before “E.T.”) so… WHY???!!!
First of all, we were Paranoid. Paranoia thrived in the fear of Commie infiltration. And, IF we WERE being infiltrated, it was because the Enemy looked LIKE US and we couldn’t identify them. All they had to do was DRESS LIKE US and we were vulnerable!!! (If they had an ACCENT, we could at least LISTEN for those to report to the CIA.)
In my opinion, the 50′s ended on the terrible day of November 22, 1963 with the murder of President John F. Kennedy. Yet, by that time, Big Eyed Creeps were well on their way to overtaking our world. It was the Commie Scare that gave birth to these Things… other events just added more fuel to the dark fire. One of my favorite creepy movies of that time is the subversively threatening movie “Village of the Damned” – about what ? but weird British children who TOOK OVER. It’s a great, moody movie expressing the fears of that era’s world. Another of the genre is “The Day the Earth Stood Still”. (Don’t be an Unfortunate. See it!) It does not present itself with the stark reality of “Failsafe” or “The Manchurian Candidate”, or the snide dark humor of “Dr. Strangelove”, but they all belong to the world of Big Eyed Creatures of the late 50′s and early 60′s.
Please DON’T be confused by the later kute-kiddies of the mid-60′s to mid-70′s. THOSE large-craniumed kids were born in the capitalist market riding the coattails of the counter culture / flower power / peace and love era, expressing (in a pathetically mediocre, sappy way) the hope for an end to the Viet Nam War and Peace in the World for All Humankind. But again, they SOLD. Big. No one said Americans have refined taste or commercial savvy.
None the less, these images show who we were… painful as that may be. And, they’re just plain stupid fun. They ARE a “Guilty Pleasure”.
PS: Okay okay !! I’ll take a deep breath… and talk about Walter and Margaret Keane. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Walter was quoted as saying “My paintings ask the eternal question ‘Why?‘” THAT man was deep – I mean DEEP! In 1947, he quit California real estate and journeyed for – where else ? but Paris. A strolling Shomp Zaylie Zay cliche, he wore a beret and just-messy-enough hair. He drove a white convertible and toted around 4 white toy poodles named after actual famous artists. Walter considered himself a “bon vivant”. (It HURTS to read this, doesn’t it?!)
He claimed the waifs wandering war-torn Europe were his inspiration. Once back in California, he met Margaret at an outdoor art show… and GUESS WHAT?? She TOO was painting Big Eyed kids!! Their immediate attraction was soon followed by closed-eyes marriage. Over the years, their styles merged almost to one. How Romantic. With no real success in the Art World, they opened their own art gallery. That’ll solve THAT! And, they advertised in the free, local “Penny Saver” newsstand paper. You’re familiar with it: the neighborhood paper you pick up at the grocery store. (That’s how Rembrandt was discovered, by the way… in the Amsterdam “Guilder Saver”.)
Believe it or not, this tactic worked, and when they opened another gallery in New York City, the show sold out. (Way to go, you klassie New Yawkuhs!). In fact, Jerry Lewis – well known for his subtle taste and acting style – paid Margaret $10,000 (the price of a modest house in those days) to paint his, his wife, kids, dogs, and cats portrait – yes, ALL with Big Eyes AND ALL wearing clown costumes. A patronage made in Hell. Joan Crawford commissioned Walt to paint a life size portrait of her, which she hung where ? but over her sofa. (She was sofa-sized.) On his tee-vee show, Jack Paar showed a Keane painting to America and said it was “the greatest painting I have ever seen in my life!” Jack, Jack, Jack… you need to get out of your basement more often! Writer Earl Wilson called the Keanes “the find of the twentieth century”. For a nice slice of the sleazy action maybe I woulda warbled too.
Then, like a house of spam, it all came splatting down.
In 1965, the Keanes divorced. Five years later, Margie was on talk radio claiming SHE was the only one who did the paintings and Walt threatened to kill her if she let the ugly, big-eyed Kitty outa the bag. She challenged Walt to a painting shoot out at high noon in a court of law. Walt walked away. You decide why.
What? You think this story is over? You really DON’T understand the power of tastelessness, do you???
Fourteen years LATER, Walt told USA Today (the Two-Penny Saver) Margie took credit because she thought he was DEAD and therefore couldn’t fight back. Margie sued Walt for slander.
A Honolulu trial in 1986 (are you keeping track of the YEARS here??) had Margie claiming that all the Big Eyed kiddie-poo was HERS, and the inspiration WASN’T horrifying children of Europe but her horrifying marriage to Walt.
That ain’t all.
Walt was in that courtroom. He watched Marge stand up and begin painting right there in front of God and All. In an hour she had created one of his famous Big Eyed kids. (THERE’S somethin’ to brag about!) Well, the Judge asked Walt to stand up and perform the same painting. (Can you say “Jerry Springer holds art class”?) What do you think happened?
NO, Walt didn’t murder Margie. No, Walt didn’t even sock her. And no, Walt didn’t do a painting! Walt said his shoulder hurt and he couldn’t paint right then… Ow. That hurts.
Margaret was awarded four million dollars.
Walt said he couldn’t come up with the dough. He said he was broke…
Now it’s YOUR turn. HOW OH HOW SHOULD THEIR STORY END?
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Top Ten Worst Human Ideas
July 15, 2011 by Ronn Ives, under Close Encounters.
The 10 Worst Music Group/Musician NAMES!
The Electric Prunes
The Ink Spots
The Strawberry Alarm Clock
The Fugs
The Vanilla Fudge
The West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band
Chubby Checker
Randy and the Rainbows
Little Joey and the Flips
Cannibal and the Headhunters
TOP TEN WORST Human Ideas:
“Our religion owns the Truth”
“Hey! Let’s eat these big Sea Bugs!”
“We’re all alike”
“Let’s pay someone to represent us”
“If it feels good, it’s good for you”
“If it feels good, it’s bad for you”
“If it feels bad, it’s good for you”
“If it feels bad, it’s bad for you”
“We’ll only do it this once. What could happen?”
“Come on… What are ya? ‘Chicken’?! Do it!”
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I lie to customers and staple my face
July 14, 2011 by Ronn Ives, under Close Encounters.
A young couple has been considering a marble and oak credenza. They’ve been in twice looking, thinking, and measuring. I could tell it was stressing their budget by the looks on their faces. They returned today for their third visit. “Knowing” they’d be back, I’d already reduced the price for them…
…which they didn’t know.
They: “We’re back about this credenza.”
Me: “I assume you’ve driven all this way to tell me you don’t want it.” (That unexpected comment stopped them in their tracks.)
They: “Um, no… we’re here because we WANT it.”
Me: “Oh! Okay then. I have to warn you though, I’ve changed the price. It’s a lot higher now…”
They: (Imagine dejected faces). “Really?”
Me: “Here, look at the sales display card again.”
They look: “It’s LOWER!”
Me: “Yep. I knew you’d come back. I went ahead and lowered it for you.”
They: “GREAT! Now… um… another question… will you do a ‘layaway’?”
Me: “Sure. How much did you plan on putting down?”
They: “$500.00.”
Me: “And you saw the new price?”
They: “Yeh….. OH! THAT means all we’d owe is tax and $25.00?!!”
Me: “No… because I’ll pay your taxes for you.” (They’re really a sweet couple. Being ACTUAL sweet, not FAKE sweet, gets you much further than your ACTUAL sweet nature allows you to imagine.)
They: “REALLY?! Oh thanks!!”
Me: “You’re welcome. PLUS, you two now hold the RECORD for the HIGHEST PERCENTAGE DOWNPAYMENT PAID in history!”
They: “Hey, cool!”
Me: There’s only one other issue… I want everything I have to go to good homes, so I have a few pages of personal information I’ll need from you, just to make certain everything is okay… you know, for the antique’s sake? I’m sure you understand…”
They: (Blank but ready to smirk faces.)
Me: “And there’s a short psychological test…”
They: “Honey, do you have your passport with you? Let’s get the paperwork and testing going.”
So we had fun with that, and once they set up transport (the Scion remains FULL, so I was of no use), we set up a moving time, enough people (it was big, heavy, solid oak and marble), and created a path out of the store for it to traverse.
They: “I guess we’re grown ups now…”
Me: “Yes, you are. Adulthood is defined when you buy your first piece of really heavy furniture.”
On the dopier side of life in The FUTURES:
A double bag of clichés began my day. Every cliche you can think of – and a few more – is what I got from these first two women.
Go ahead. Think of one cliché ……………………….
I’ll wait here ……………………………….
Okay, you’ve had enough time.
“I had one of these when I was a kid!”
Really. All of these came from these two women. Word for word. Here are more:
“Grandma had one of THESE!”
“I remember when Mom had one of these.”
“Then they got rid of them. I wish they’d hung onto them.”
“If we’d only known that they would be VALUABLE!”
At this point I fell off my chair, reached up into my desk drawer, and began stapling my face to distract the pain in my stomach.
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La La La It’s Time for a Menopause!!
June 20, 2011 by Ronn Ives, under Close Encounters.
MENOPAUSE !
Okay, now for “Menopause – the Musical”. Yes, last night we DID in fact GO to a musical with that title. Why, I even closed the shop 1/2 hour early to make sure we were where we needed to be by the appointed time.
Should you go see “Menopause – the Musical”?
Allow me to qualify:
NO, do NOT attend if:
- You are male
- You are female and have more than half a brain.
- You have a sense of humor that rises above cliches
equal to the “Happy Days” tee-vee show of the 1970′s.
- You have sensitive hearing.
- You are a non-herd sort of person.
- You have this squeamish feeling that most women don’t
even “get” that this “sisterhood” is somehow a twisted
version of inside-out lost feminism gone stupid.
YES, if:
- You are none of the above, or
- You don’t even “get” what I said above.
Look, we were given $80.00 worth of two free tickets to attend this last night of what is apparently a big national hit making huge money for the woman who wrote it. Had I PAID, you’d be hearing from one VERY PISSED OFF man right now.
As we walked out – and I was walking faster than Pat (it’s usually the other way around) – two men were standing across the street waiting for their wives to come out. They hadn’t attended. They looked at me and asked “How was it?” All I could say – I didn’t slow my walk at all – was “Ohh…..maaannnnnnnnn….” and I shook my head.
Let’s back up. At one point a few minutes before the “event” began, I stood up and counted any heads that looked male in a sea of seated bodies in a large, restored theater. I counted seven. 7. Okay, so it’s a sex thing here. Menopause is somehow a fascinating and mystical event for most women, and they apparently LOVE being together to discuss it. Considering the attendance, I have concluded this.
I don’t know one man – and I know more than seven – who feel the need to share, discuss, or celebrate their prostate, waning sexuality, or make comparisons of their testicles. None of it. Ever. With ANYONE. And we’re happy to keep it that way.
Okay fine. I don’t get the “Tribal” effect of menstruation coming on or going away. Fine. However, a joke is a joke, and… how can I put this simply? … I didn’t laugh once. Not once. Two hours of relentless shtick… and not once. And hey, I was ready to laugh if it was funny. It was Sunday night – which is MY “Friday” night – we were there for free, and, me and six other men were floating in a sea of ebbing estrogen. What the hell.
It was like a sinking Comedy Cruise Ship.
So, to sum my point: I don’t get the Communal Crotch business, and it wasn’t funny.
Those four women on the stage worked hard. Their material didn’t let them shine as far as I could see, but I am not a stage guy, and I’m sure as hell not a Musical guy… and THIS only made my iron clad belief stainless steel plated. They worked hard for material I was thinking should be thrown into the dumpster out back.
It was relentlessly loud and harsh – to the level of sound distortion, but WHY? Does menopause make women deaf? Or does volume made things funnier? Sillier? Kitschier? I don’t know. It was obnoxious.
All the tunes were re-lyric’d pop tunes from the 50′s, 60′s, and 70′s, just like the age of the target audience. The running jokes weren’t just used and reused like bad tires with no tread, they arrived with expiration dates already way passed on ‘em.
“Menopause? A musical, huh? Yeh, okay, we’ll need 985 “hot flash” jokes, and, uh, 770 “mood” jokes. That should cover it.”
A few of the lyrics were almost funny. I almost smiled once, I think. Almost.
I’m trying to come up with a MALE equivalent for this sort of… what the hell is it… some sort of gender bonding? There isn’t one. Men just don’t “do” this, and it is TRULY a boggling concept to me. A woman discovers she’s out of tampons, asks the woman in the next stall if she has one. She does, passes it under the divider, and they become best friends for life (or until they’re both interested in the same man). Men don’t do this.
“Bro, you got a spare condom?’
“Get the hell away from me!”
“Man, you got any toilette paper over there?”
“What?”
“I need some.”
“It’s YOUR problem. Shut up. Check the roll next time, you fool.”
“Say fella, how’s your weener?”
“(Smack, thud. The inquirer falls unconscious on the pavement from the fist to his face.
What’s WITH you women? “Menopause – the Musical” showed “you” fighting over a bra at a sale table. It showed you fanning your crotch. It showed you screaming in the mirror. It showed you kissing a dildo.
There are more bras. Wear cotton underpants. Don’t look in the mirror so much. And, Sister, if you loan out your vibrator, you need to probe that thought a little deeper.
“Menopause – the Musical” was two hours of loud, harsh, unfunny, cliche-ridden jokes sung by hard working women (who will hopefully move on), received by an audience full of half-wits who thought it was just the funniest darned thing they’ve ever experienced as a member of a sex. If that’s true, a change of life is in desperate need.
Gag.
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The Leech Appraisal Dead End Wild Goose Chase
March 27, 2011 by Ronn Ives, under Close Encounters.
A call comes in to FUTURES. I answer:
“FUTURES Antiques.”
“Let me ask you somethin’.”
“… Okay…” (You and I already know where this is headed.)
“I have some Noritake dishware.”
(Here it comes…) (I remain silent.)
“…and it’s marked ‘Noritake’ on the back.”
(I remain silent.)
“……………..so…………I was wondering what it’s worth.”
(Okay, YOU all are laughing, as you should, but these people keep breeding and coming at me…)
(I respond with:) “Asking me what ‘Noritake’ is worth is like
asking me what a ‘Chevrolet’ is worth. Do you understand? So many factors are MISSING it’s impossible to answer.”
“………….Oh. Well, do you BUY it?”
(Okay, NOW she’s starting to piss me off, so I put a kink
in what I’ve made easy for her so far and ask the fair
and correct question:)
“Buy what?”
“………Noritake. Do you buy Noritake?”
(It’s not true, but I say:) “No, I don’t.”
“You don’t? Do you know who does?”
(Now, at THIS point I had a choice. I could REALLY mess
with her – set her up and send her out on a Leech Appraisal
Dead End Goose Chase, or, I could just end it here and now…)
L.A.D.E.G.C. Version: “I would suggest first that you make every piece beautifully presentable with a nice washing and drying, then load it into a good strong box… and you must put a layer of that special thin styrofoam paper between each and every piece. You can buy it just about anywhere. Also, make a complete paper tally of what you have, and be prepared to give it to all Noritake dealers.
NOW you’re ready! I’m about the only one who ISN’T interested in that beautiful dishware. Set aside a Friday AND a Saturday to visit all the shops in our region. Don’t bother with appointments. Just show up. People do it all the time. Don’t ask the shop owners to come outside and see it, because they are not supposed to leave the shop, especially with any customers in there, of course – so carry your boxes inside the store … after all, THIS is where their purchasing power comes from, right?
I’ve seen a few dealers who TRY to decide whether they like the dishware pattern by seeing only one or two pieces. This is wrong. You can’t really understand the quality of a set unless you SEE the entire set, so I suggest you unwrap it all before the conversation starts. Just find a quiet corner of the shop, and do it. When they see what you have, they’ll appreciate what you did for them.
Don’t fall for the “old school” barter of their ‘not’ being interested. They’re just being cagey, you know. Stick with it. Don’t let them con you. They want it. It’s NORITAKE for gosh sakes! They’ll respect you once the deal is done.
There are a lot of shops in the region… let me give you a short list first – no reason to waste fuel, right? Go first to these people:”
(I rattle off a number of shops – shops with dealers that con the public, have been nasty to me or someone I know, who have bounced checks or run various scams on other dealers, or any of the other reasons they are on my or someone I respect shit list.)
“Yes, go to these people prepared as I have suggested. You’ll do very well.”
“Thank you so much. I didn’t want to have to buy a book or somethin’, so this really helps me!”
“No problem. Just call me again when you’ve completed this, and let me know how it went. My name is Jim, and this is (name of a shop I hate), okay?”
“I sure will. Thanks again, Jim.”
“No problem.”
Instead, I just said “No.”
—
I taught. I dispensed information and interpretable experiences that would help my students survive as well as have pleasure & satisfaction in the process.
Despite my love of teaching, one way or another my students paid my salary, and I was there for them.
I no longer teach.
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The First Irony
September 21, 2010 by Ronn Ives, under Close Encounters.
So yesterday I was out in the back yard putting bbs through one of my paper targets I pinned to a big piece of styrofoam. I’m happy to report the design and production of my Smith & Wesson .357 magnum revolver is of a much higher quality than this child’s toy – the Daisy Red Ryder BB air rifle – and, its “power” is less than the dime store slingshots I so loved and used as a kid in the 1950′s.
NONE THE LESS… It’s fun. Even if I don’t keep it, I can now say I had one, which heals my open boyhood wound of 55 years.
“You’ll shoot your eye out. You’ll shoot your eye out! blah blah blah…”
“Aw, Mom!! No I won’t!”
The irony – the unbelievably CLEAR irony – THE Irony that taught me as a child WHAT Irony WAS – WAS my parents not only allowed me to have but were the adults who bought all my pocket knives, hunting knives, hatchets, slingshots, my fiberglass bow and steel tipped arrows, my archery club membership, the firecrackers, cherry bombs, M-80′s, and bottle rockets, my chemistry set, magnifying glasses (otherwise known as “fire starters”), steel tipped darts… the list goes on, AND, these were the same parents who admired the artistry of my hand-crafted, decorated spears carved from sweet smelling, beautifully true, Sassafras saplings I downed with my honed hatchet and carved to a deadly point with my razor-sharp knives.
Yet somehow that bb shooter was the Threat? Oh, the Pain of Irony while yet a youth! Oh!!
Bill, one of my good third grade buddies, had a real CROSSBOW, for goshsakes!! And holy moley! … Ken, one of my two best buddies, was allowed to build go-karts – I mean FAST go-carts – and we’d race them in our alleys and streets! And, he secretly built a cannon – a small one, but a CANNON – which we packed full with explosives – and fired! (Okay, we DID decide THAT reached our definition of dangerous and crazy, so it was scrapped… NOT because it failed, but because it was frighteningly good.) The point is, in MY Huckleberry Finn / Tom Sawyer childhood, I was a relatively mild lad with my belt circled in hanging steel! Ray, my other best buddy, taught me how to make hot-air balloons that would sail above the neighborhood while on fire. (A lovely sight in the Summer dusk, by the way…). (No, I won’t tell you how it’s done!) Anyhow, DON’T tell me about a dopey bb gun being the ultimate danger! Heck, Teddy liked to “draw” designs on the cement floor in his dark home basement… with LIGHTER FLUID, which glowed in orange and blue flame as he put a match to the traveling lines.
“You’ll shoot your eye out! You’ll shoot your eye out!”
Feh.
I couldn’t give my folks the TRUE perspective of REAL dangers within our idyllic neighborhood, cuz, ya know, I woulda been rattin’ on my pals, but I CAN tell YOU, NOW, and I’m SURE you see the inherit unfairness of my not being given that Daisy Red Ryder bb air rifle back then.
Am I right? AM I RIGHT??
Darn tootin’ I’m right.
Dang.
