Here's to the losers, bless 'em all
WOW, we have a lot of amazing crap in the jewelry room at work. Mary sent me back in there to find stuff for the next auction (which works out fine for me, I'd rather dig through dusty stockpiles of cool than jab at buttons on a register any day) and once I finally managed to clear a hole to work in, I was amazed at all the stuff back there. Some of it is not ever going to sell because it's stupid and shouldn't have been set aside for the auction in the first place but Mary seems to think it will just fly right off the charts so I have to stick it in anyway (hello, can I interest you in these fine leather jackets? No?), but some things...I could dig in there for hours and probably not find half of what's in there.
There are two vintage accordions, one of which I sold in the last auction. I got that one out of the way first because the other one, and I can't believe I'm saying this because I didn't believe they actually existed, is a very cool accordion. It's like if a mariachi band had to go undercover in a '50s diner, all gray and black and white with chrome detailing. There's a little girl's stamp collection from the thirties, filled with stamps from countries whose borders have warped and morphed into nonexistence. Two musical posters, one for Rent and one for Chicago, slouch in poorly-fitted frames under the weight of their cast signatures, both pinned to the table by the respectable heft of a book of photos of the Normandie cruise ship from around 1933. Tucked in a box was one lonely postcard sent by a Clara Kuckenbecker (yeah, I don't know if I spelled that right) to a cousin who was apparently very bad about maintaining correspondence. We have The Beatle's Magical Mystery Tour album sandwiched between six old Catholic art prints and a sword. To my delight, I found a box full of vintage Star Trek comic books and fanzines. That kept me busy (and drooling slightly) for a looooong time. There was what appeared to be a very colorfully autographed Ozzy Osbourne album (MYTH BUSTED (I looked his autograph up on google image search, even allowing for severe brain damage that's still not anywhere near his handwriting, and I'm slightly relieved, I really didn't want to put that in the display case)) and even a pile of '70s Playboys, which I will not be putting in the silent auction. I don't care if they're collectible or not, I am NOT going to be the one who has to open up the case so some sleazy geezer can spend an hour seeing if the articles are any good before he puts down a false bid and shuffles away. Not gonna happen.
I think what gets me the most is the small stack of big, old family photos in their bulky frames and convex glass, the ones where the man's face is dominated by massive amounts of mustache and the woman's hair is pulled into a bun as severe as the cut of her dress, and they both look out of the picture with an expression as stern as it is slightly quizzical, and you'll never know who they are or what they meant to somebody because someone packed them into a box and bequeathed unto them the anonymity of a thrift store shelf. They're just pictures, gazing out from a moment frozen on paper, and the only people who knew anything about them either don't care or are no longer in a position to care. I guess in an age choked with media, where even the phones have cameras and most pictures are taken by at arm's length by pointedly sad-faced teenagers with their hair brushed in front of their black rimmed rectangular glasses, it makes you pause a moment to recall that there was once a time when photographs were serious business, that moment when you would be preserved for generations to look at you and wonder why you look so uptight and what made you think curling your hair that way would ever be a good idea.
Well, and then you wind up nameless under a card table in the back room of a filthy thrift store, but I guess that's just how it goes.
There are two vintage accordions, one of which I sold in the last auction. I got that one out of the way first because the other one, and I can't believe I'm saying this because I didn't believe they actually existed, is a very cool accordion. It's like if a mariachi band had to go undercover in a '50s diner, all gray and black and white with chrome detailing. There's a little girl's stamp collection from the thirties, filled with stamps from countries whose borders have warped and morphed into nonexistence. Two musical posters, one for Rent and one for Chicago, slouch in poorly-fitted frames under the weight of their cast signatures, both pinned to the table by the respectable heft of a book of photos of the Normandie cruise ship from around 1933. Tucked in a box was one lonely postcard sent by a Clara Kuckenbecker (yeah, I don't know if I spelled that right) to a cousin who was apparently very bad about maintaining correspondence. We have The Beatle's Magical Mystery Tour album sandwiched between six old Catholic art prints and a sword. To my delight, I found a box full of vintage Star Trek comic books and fanzines. That kept me busy (and drooling slightly) for a looooong time. There was what appeared to be a very colorfully autographed Ozzy Osbourne album (MYTH BUSTED (I looked his autograph up on google image search, even allowing for severe brain damage that's still not anywhere near his handwriting, and I'm slightly relieved, I really didn't want to put that in the display case)) and even a pile of '70s Playboys, which I will not be putting in the silent auction. I don't care if they're collectible or not, I am NOT going to be the one who has to open up the case so some sleazy geezer can spend an hour seeing if the articles are any good before he puts down a false bid and shuffles away. Not gonna happen.
I think what gets me the most is the small stack of big, old family photos in their bulky frames and convex glass, the ones where the man's face is dominated by massive amounts of mustache and the woman's hair is pulled into a bun as severe as the cut of her dress, and they both look out of the picture with an expression as stern as it is slightly quizzical, and you'll never know who they are or what they meant to somebody because someone packed them into a box and bequeathed unto them the anonymity of a thrift store shelf. They're just pictures, gazing out from a moment frozen on paper, and the only people who knew anything about them either don't care or are no longer in a position to care. I guess in an age choked with media, where even the phones have cameras and most pictures are taken by at arm's length by pointedly sad-faced teenagers with their hair brushed in front of their black rimmed rectangular glasses, it makes you pause a moment to recall that there was once a time when photographs were serious business, that moment when you would be preserved for generations to look at you and wonder why you look so uptight and what made you think curling your hair that way would ever be a good idea.
Well, and then you wind up nameless under a card table in the back room of a filthy thrift store, but I guess that's just how it goes.
posted by Betsi at 11:01 PM
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