Thank You

Another year has gone by and I find myself disappointed again.  It seems as though the Nobel Prize Committee has ignored our stellar work here at www.easternshorefishandgame.com.  So has the Pulitzer committee, and the Publisher’s Clearinghouse clearly made a mistake.

Cameras, lights, guys with microphones, helium-filled balloons, and a giant cardboard check have eluded me once more.  Still, I have my acceptance speech all prepared and ready for an extraordinary presentation thanking all that made this award possible.

Watching those phonies in the audience at presentation ceremonies for Golden Globes, Oscars, Emmys, and People’s Choice awards actually make me glad I’m not part of that crowd.  Plastic smiles and fake body parts, hair weaves, tons of makeup, are enough to make anyone cringe, and then you look at the women attendees…

After all, most of them are egotists who merely want to claw their way back into the spotlight as they are now has-beens, otherwise known as B actors.

You can detect hints of envy in their eyes as the cameras pan the audience, anxiously awaiting the sound of a tearing envelope that will reveal the next award recipient.  Fake applause then follow with disappointed scowls that silently announce, “I’m just like that guy at www.easternshorefishandgame.com, now.”

Sure, but then we have people like Sophia Vergara who now dots the airwaves.  Ms. Vergara must have the best agent in America.  She stars in a TV show, sells cosmetics, and even has her own line of bedding at Kmart.  Perhaps she is the new Martha Stewart; not that jail thingy but a temporary flash-in-the-pan.  But, I digress.

For some, playing was a pastime when we were children.  We pretended to be soldiers and nurses, and cowboys.  We were construction workers with our toys moving dirt and building roads or housewives making delectable mud pies.  Some outgrew their young games, other did not.

Take sports for an example.  We played basketball, football, and sandlot baseball for enjoyment.  Others were fortunate enough to parlay their games into careers.  Still, many pro-ballers gripe about their meager seven-figure salaries.  Professional bass fisherman can pull in many thousands of dollars for a day on the water.  Skiers and skateboarders are also able to reap tons of cash for having fun. 

Basically, it all boils down to what people have accomplished in their respective lives.  A few years ago, a teacher assigned his class a writing exercise which required his students to write their own obituaries.  While sounding pretty morbid, it was a mental workout that forced people to reflect on their goals and accomplishments.

To say that a person pretended to be a soap opera character for 35-years may be something truly special to some, but being a real soldier and good parent is special to others.  An Emmy may be in store for that actor however, big awards and tuxedos are usually not the norm for armed service personnel.

Thanking our military men and women, and their families, for all they’ve given seems in order.  Yet, I doubt many of them will mind as they are the real thing – full of love for country and humility.

They don’t denounce the United States with too many making the ultimate sacrifice for it and all those who loathe them and our great nation.

Thank you, one and all.

A sign from above

A recent trip to help the economy and hunt for bargains took me to countless yard sales and two different flea markets.

Yard sales are conducted by one of two types of people: The kind that want to sell their clutter and make money, and the kind that merely want to talk to other people.

Those wanting to rid their lives and homes of useless clutter have the best prices and more than willing to haggle.  Guy tools from that failed marriage can be a real bargain, as can hunting and fishing equipment, happily being negotiated for pennies on the dollar.

The people wanting to talk are clearly evident.  Nothing on their tables is priced.  Upon picking up an item, the seller will say, “Make me an offer.”  At this point I usually retort with some insulting offer along the lines of twenty-five cents for a Tiffany lamp.  Those vendors are simply hoping that someone will offer them nine-dollars for an old stick, or that someone will merely sit and chat with them about some item they remember as kids.

Finding these venues can be an arduous task, too.  On the main thoroughfare is a sign with an arrow directing traffic to a “Humongous Yard Sale,” or “Awesome Garage Sale.”  Upon entering the development which looks like it was designed by Rod Serling, the signs become increasingly smaller until half matchbook covers, with the all-important address, are hung about 15-feet up on a utility pole, written illegibly.  Here’s a tip: Try reading it yourself while driving by at 30 MPH.  If you can’t, I can’t, either.  Please have change for a twenty, too.  I’m not a bank.

It’s because of these poorly planned neighborhood events that I turned to the flea markets.  Flea markets of yore were altogether different than they are today.  Back when we wrestled dinosaurs enroute to and from school, flea markets consisted of those yard salers who wanted greater exposure so, they would pay five bucks to rent a space at a drive-in theater and sell their wares, there.  For you youngsters, a drive-in theater was where babies came from.  But, I digress.

Today, flea market booths are largely manned by people selling new junk in the order of cheap bracelets, do-rags, clothes pins, and dead batteries.  Occasionally, you will find someone selling old-school junk or as we veteran flea marketeers call it, treasure.

One flea market was so well equipped with vendors of such a wide variety that they could put the local mall out of business if they were open weekdays.

There were three jewelers, three produce stands, two kitchen gadget places, one store selling parrots and other annoying birds, one dog and cat shop that sold dogs and cats, a cigar store, a uniform shop selling nurse’s smocks and uniforms, five vendors selling tools, one guy selling trailer parts, one woman selling lawnmower parts, three stores specializing in leather jackets and vests and chaps, and one joint selling all-important bingo supplies.  Fishing supplies, vacuum cleaners, and sunglasses surrounded the used car dealer.  Yes, used cars are even sold at this flea market.

There was a dentist, a barber shop, and a tattoo parlor, as well as a gun shop.  Four shops were selling plants and two were offering golfing needs.  Let’s not forget the carpet shop, the lottery ticket vendor, or the head shop.  This is what I call one-stop shopping.

And being hungry can get you into trouble.  Five greasy spoons were selling everything from oleaginous egg and sausage sandwiches to hot dogs that travel six-miles a day on those silver rollers.  To wash all your gastronomical challenges down, there were two bars serving that much needed cold beer at 9:00 AM.  This find was truly as stroke of luck.

And, the best part of all this is that there is a price on everything but, everything was still negotiable.

So, if you want to gab, add that fact to your yard sale sign – the sign that is large enough to read by a creature other than a hawk.  And if you want to sell something, place a price upon it because I don’t want to gab with you.

Make my day

Each week I diligently tune in to America’s version of Antique Roadshow.  It, much like countless other TV shows, began in Great Britain.  Their version of the show is set on the grounds of old castles and estates and involves people visiting the hosts and experts with their treasures.  They bring paintings and silver tea sets that were created centuries ago.  This British stuff is ages old – real antiques that must be over 100-years old to qualify as an antique.

Their experts ogle and fondle this stuff and mumble in British accents, eventually offering a suggested price for which the owners of that stuff should insure it.  I have no idea what that stuff is worth because they announce the price in British Pounds Sterling.

It seems a though the exchange rate changes so frequently and is so foreign that a pound is worth somewhere in the neighborhood of a dollar-and-a-half and three Cheez-its, as of this writing.

The American version is much easier to understand partly because in this version they speak English.  People bring in mostly junk bought at yard sales and flea markets and shamelessly have experts examine this American stuff.

I usually enjoy this banter because I’m so far away from predicting the worth of this stuff that my knowledge borders on criminal.

Folks bring stuff such as pottery, jewelry, and toys, as well as paintings and crusty documents.  The experts can identify some of the pottery as made by the Sioux in the late 1800’s for toting water.  Intricate carvings identify the potter as Chief Fullofbull and then ask where the owner acquired it.

“I got it at a garage sale last year for a quarter because I liked the squiggly lines,” the owner announces.

After replacing her dentures back into her mouth, the expert then announces this piece is worth $185,000.

This parade of wanna-be millionaires continues for the next sixty-minutes.  Antique furniture, pocket watches, and Civil War swords are scrutinized for authenticity and value one-by-one.  Most surprising to me are the values placed on this stuff.

A chair owned and used by Benjamin Franklin is valued at $38,000, while Elvis Presley salt and pepper shakers are valued at $63,000 in mint condition.

But, no matter how much this stuff is worth, the same broken record sentence is repeated by the owners.

“Yeah, but I’m keeping it because it’s worth more to me in sentimental value.”  Sure.

I’m waiting of the first honest person who, when told their antique milking stool, that has been stuck in the attic unbeknownst to anyone for the last 90-years, is valued at $18,000, exuberantly says, “Sold!”

Fake Tiffany lamps and Faberge eggs often turn up in these evaluations with owners clearly disappointed their bargains were not bargains after all.

A dead giveaway to something being counterfeit is the ink stamp on the bottom of that priceless 9^th century Mayan statue that reads “Made in Japan.”

Still, one can see the occasional fake Stradivarius violin and the genuine Peter Max ashtray being evaluated by experts evoking personal thoughts of what I may have given to the Salvation Army or sold for pennies at my own tag sale.

The bottom line is what is precious to some is junk to others, and that some people know the price of everything and the value of nothing. 

Forward to 1865!

We all have times during which we reflect.  While pumping gas recently, I thought about a time a few years back when I was fishing.

Crusty and I were floating about in a boat on a lazy, sunny day when out of nowhere he spewed what he considered profound thought.

“Years ago, GM bought the patent for a carburetor that runs on water from some guy.  GM basically stole it and now we have to pay through the nose for gas to drive!” was his epiphany.

Because I am a non-confrontational person, I let this one go. 

“Exxon also bought a car that ran on batteries and hid it so that no one would be able to replicate it and force us to buy gas!” was the next sentence from Crusty’s pea brain that made me realize he needed institutionalizing.

Crusty, like many other easily-swayed folks, like to play freely with the realities.  Facts have no place in their logic.

I am old – dirt was invented two years after my birth – and remember the bread delivery method in my neighborhood was via horse and wagon.  Sure, it was great for little kids like me to see horses about the streets but, for the edification of urbanites, or modern city slickers, horses bring problems that motor vehicles don’t.

Equines emit methane gas and other bodily wastes at will.  Read: In the streets, anywhere and everywhere.  Suddenly, horses are not as sanitary as one would hope.  Besides, with the benefit of a good rain, all that farm animal debris washes down the storm sewers and into the streams and rivers, causing pollution.  Although nostalgic, horses as methods of transportation are not practical.

Yet, environmentalists feel they can re-invent the proverbial wheel and try to make life better.  They can’t but, inventors can.

Environmentalists would like us to believe cars, trucks, and buses can and should be powered by clean, renewable energy such as solar power.  Such ideas are as crazy as those emitting from Crusty’s yap.  While solar panels have evolved since I was young, they are barely able to now power a small radio much less a vehicle which needs to travel reliably on America’s highways.

Then there are those do-gooders who think trains and trolleys are the wave of the future.  They will be able to carry many, many passengers to all sorts of places quickly and efficiently, say those idea folks.  That is forward thinking to 1865, perhaps, but not 2013 and beyond.

Crusty and his wife enjoy cruises but, they don’t board cruise liners with masts and sails.  That would be terribly cost effective saving tons of fuel to amble about the seas. Unfortunately, the trips would last far beyond the six day, seven night passage more often than not.  That is inefficient, at best.

And, windmills are the rage for people who don’t have to look at them every day, all day.  Giant posts supporting spinning blades, catching the wind to produce electricity also sounds like a win-win situation.  The late Senator Edward Kennedy wanted windmills in everyone’s yard because they were so good for the environment yet he put the brakes on a project to build some near his home because of aesthetics.

 

Zero emissions to yield a valuable product is quite a coup – until one figures in that the batteries needed to store the magically captured power have to be replaced every few years.  This is akin to the electric cars that require battery replacement to the tune of several thousands of dollars and the pollution created to both make and dispose of them. 

Still, Crusty and other weak minded individuals actually believe that some wealthy, greedy corporations have a hidden vault somewhere in which this water-fed carbs and lifetime batteries are stored. 

To recap, the Dutch were renaissance people with their windmills, Christopher Columbus was a true genius proved by his three ships, and the iron horse was science fiction fodder.

It’s too bad that environmentalists don’t want to bring back horses.  I loved them.