Notes from the flea market

David Horowitz is a right-wing schmuck who blathers on about a vast Arab conspiracy to either convert everyone to Islam or blow up Yankee Stadium, I can’t decide. He makes Jews (like yours truly) seem like a bunch of lunatics. For the record, I believe that the only people who should occupy the West Bank are Palestinians and Druids. However, in the 80’s there was another David Horowitz on our local Los Angeles NBC affiliate. He had what I can only describe as THE BEST SHOW EVER called, “Fight Back.” FB, as I affectionately call it, boasted a truly triumphant, like soaring on the wings of eagles, theme song with the chorus: “Fight back! Show ‘em that they juuussst can’t win!” Each week, Horowitz exposed local scams long before the gotcha journalism of Dateline’s Chris Hansen. The most interesting part was that Horowitz examined local business and acted as an advocate for two wildly exploited groups: immigrants and the elderly. Ever sit in a “Jiffy Lube” sort of establishment only to be confronted by an angry man in coveralls holding up an air filter that you simply MUST replace since you’re clearly an automotive deadbeat? Guess what? That’s not even your air filter! David Horowitz taught me that!

There are too many fashion blogs. I don’t know how to dress, so I can’t do one of those. There are too many blogs about feelings. I don’t have many of those. Some teacher in a state college (or was it Michael Douglas in “Wonder Boys”?) once said, “write about what you know.” I know about cons and scams because I am vigilant…and I am also a con artist. Therefore, that’s where I am taking this blog. We are on a non-stop journey to honestyville: a place where girls (and a few sensitive guys) will learn to avoid cons, scams, and hustles through my casual pedanticism and bad puns.

Avoiding Flea Market Scams:

I went to our local flea market yesterday and while I was surprised to find a few funny conversation pieces (a Diff’rent Strokes coloring book with the most inadvertently homoerotic illustrations on earth and some new deadstock Schlitz Malt Liquor stickers which look amazingly aimed at children), I was put off by the scores of ridiculous hustlers masquerading as legitimate dealers. Here are ten rules to avoid being gouged by an ex-con with a trunk full of junk.

1. DO NOT FEEL BAD FOR THE VENDOR UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE. Oh, their spouse is sick so they’re getting rid of as much as possible to pay for hospital bills? Bullshit. Times are tough? Don’t give a damn. Pick up a night shift at McDonalds. In fact, if someone starts trying to reel you in with a sob story, walk away.
2. VENDORS DO NOT KNOW THERE IS SOMETHING CALLED “THE INTERNET” NOW. They don’t know that if you’re a collector, you spend hours a week pricing things for your collections. If they do use the internet, here’s what they do: they go onto eBay, find a mint or near-mint copy of their item for sale and then price it at the maximum bid. Problem? It’s the fucking flea market. Whatever they’re selling is usually jammed in a box full of crap and sitting out in the sun.
3. FAKE ANTIQUES are just that: FAKE ANTIQUES. Yes, certain types of glassware are old, but mostly, they’re worthless pieces of mass-produced junk. When someone is trying to sell you “depression glass”, it is, most likely, carnival glass which is just glass with cheap acetate or enamel sprayed on it. If you pay more than ten dollars per item, you are a sucker. Toys that look like they’re from the 40’s or 50’s from Hong Kong or Japan are BRAND NEW or at most, ten years old. They’re fun, they’re junk, and they’re worth almost nothing.
4. ANOTHER NOTE ABOUT ANTIQUES: If they’re so valuable, what the hell are they doing baking out in the hot sun?
5. THE VENDOR HAS NO PERSONAL ATTACHMENT TO THE ITEM REGARDLESS OF WHAT THEY SAY. Unless he or she is selling hand-crafted jewelry or plants, would you like to know where their goods originate? Let’s begin with this: you are not buying someone’s boyhood toy that their grandmother gave him right before she died of the plague. That Charlie’s Angels lunch box for which the vendor wants eighty bucks? He didn’t scour eBay for it so he could make a six-dollar profit. Nearly all of the junk at flea markets comes from bulk auction lots and estate sale remainders. Logically, that’s the only way to make a profit. If you buy huge lots of garbage, you can sort through to find saleable items. When someone dies without a will and no living heirs, their estate goes intestate. That means the state gets all of their crap and eventually auctions it off to cover legal costs. Two lessons here: don’t pay full price and write a damn will.
6. IF AN ITEM IS TAGGED, YOU ARE DEALING WITH AN OKAY VENDOR. The tags prevent you from the awkward, “How much is this coon skin cap?” or “How much is this July 1987 Penthouse?” questions. But those tags are also a starting price. Spaces full of untagged items are where the real swindlin’ happens. The vendor will look at you, size you up, and then come up with an arbitrary price.
7. DO NOT BE TOO SHY TO BARGAIN. It took me years to learn how to do this because it seems rude, but it’s the nature of the business. Start with an extremely lowball offer. If something is $40, your starting bid should be about $10. The vendor, if he/she is cool, will take the bait. The economy does suck; the ball is in your court. Keep haggling in increments of two or three dollars until you reach a reasonable price.
8. DO NOT BE AFRAID OF THE WAY THE VENDOR LOOKS. A lot of these dipshits look like ex-cons….because they are. If they’re rude to you, do what I do: shoplift when they turn the other way. What are they gonna do? Call a cop? Fuck them and fuck the police, too.
9. IF A VENDOR FLIRTS WITH YOU, walk away. It’s a con. Also, you’re better than that, right?
10. FINALLY, BE CAREFUL WHEN BUYING VINYL. If the crates aren’t shielded from the sun, you’re going to wind up with a warped piece of crap you could’ve found at Goodwill for a buck. If the crates are shielded and the vinyl is encased in slipcovers, you’re dealing with a legit yet overpriced vendor. They will charge you the Goldmine price for the album. Before you go, check the Goldmine price/condition list at GEMM and know what you want. Ask to look at the LP, too.

So ladies, fight back. Show ‘em that they just can’t win.

Love,
Esther a.k.a. “Wheeler, dealer, and nutsack stealer”

An Open Letter to My Local Car Wash

Dear U-Wash,

While immersed in the loving restoration of the natural glow of our 2005 Ford Focus, I reached into your wall-mounted Armor All dispenser and slit the tip of my finger. Luckily, I did not die of exsanguination or any other terms I learned from CSI. Since I lived (or the infection has not set in as of late), I would like to ask the following:

you are fucking kidding me, right?

As I possess neither the internal fortitude required to proceed with litigation nor any discernible form of health insurance, I’m going to let this one go. However, the chute in the machine where the alleged finger mangle occurred is at the eye-level of a child. If you do not want to assist me, just think about the children.

And their eyes.

Still alive,
Esther

An Open Letter to the National Bank of Ireland

Written before St. Patrick’s Day

Status: MAILED

Response: NONEDear National Bank of Ireland,

Did you ever receive my previous letter regarding the addition of Phil Lynott to your currency? Perhaps, like your sister organization, the United States Department of the Treasury, you have some aversion to putting people of color on your money. Sacagawea is truly a national gift, but did she write “Jailbreak?” No, National Bank of Ireland, she did not. If the addition of a music icon to legal tender bothers you, let me remind you that the nation of Estonia added Depeche Mode to their stamps. They did not write “Jailbreak”, either.
The purpose of this letter is more exploratory than accusatory, although as someone of mixed Ukrainian Jewish, Roma, and Irish ancestry, I take umbrage at several events in your past. During WWII, Ireland took in the fewest Jewish refugees of any allied country on the planet at, you guessed it, the behest of the National Bank of Ireland. We’re talking somewhere “in the tens.” Did you not realize that when Jews (of some gypsy stock) and the Irish (of some traveler stock) collide, you wind up with me? I’m pretty bad ass, National Bank of Ireland. You also wind up with Daniel Day Lewis. Chew on that for a bit.
Secondly, the scheduling of St. Patrick ’s Day is not like Election Day in the United States. That shit is in our constitution and it “occurs on the Tuesday after the first Monday of November in even-numbered years; the earliest possible date is November 2 and the latest November 8.” That’s right, Money Bank, it’s a day with a delimited yet flexible calendar date. Do you know what that means? You can simply make St. Patrick’s Day a Friday EVERY YEAR. Since you’re clearly not Jews or Zoroastrians, you don’t have to go by a lunar cycle.
Some might question why I’m writing to a bank as I should, perhaps author a missive to your Taoiseach, Brian Cowen. National Bank, in 1903, you declared St. Patrick’s Day a bank holiday which, in most countries, turns a religious holiday into a national holiday. I think we both know that the Catholic Church plays it a bit fast and loose with the ole rules now and then, so I don’t think they’d be rigidly opposed to a fixed Friday from this year forward. Worldwide productivity would skyrocket if nobody had to call in sick on March 18th. We could probably fix the global economy in a few years. From one font of financial wisdom to another, let’s do this!

I forgive you.

Erin go bragh,

Esther

An Open Letter to High Times

(Written 2 months ago.)

Dear High Times,

It took every bit of strength in my body and mind to not open this note with “What’s up, dudes?” I hold you in higher esteem than that, my colleagues. While I normally reserve reading your action-packed pages on trips that require a seated journey of personal elimination and evacuation, I sometimes find myself entertained by your publication at gas stations and liquor stores while I’m waiting for a guy named “Pepsi” (I swear, he works at Mobil on Main and that’s his actual name) to find me an emerald green lighter.
Your noble journalists rarely deviate from what must be a tried-and-true formula: stories about pot, stories about people who smoke pot, stories about new strains of pot, and stories about new equipment with which you can smoke pot. I’m really behind you guys on the carbonite, by the way. Where you drop the ball, however, is in your music and movie review section. People smoke weed in order to either enhance or determine their interests. Therefore, your blanket assertion of “two bongs up” or whatever doesn’t explain anything to me. In fact, it just speaks volumes about your lassitude, High Times.
Despite a miserable economy, I managed to find a job where I can write all day and since I make enough money to pay for my way of life, I am willing to write for you por gratis. That’s right, you could get this beast for free. The devil is in the details, High Times, thus I have discovered and collected ten relatively-unexplored movie subgenres, the reviews of which I will provide at no cost.

These are in no particular order:

10. Movies with laughably “erotic” food scenes. No matter how you slice it, there’s nothing that sexy about watching someone lick Richard Dreyfuss’s mustard stain…unless it’s Close Encounters-era Richard Dreyfuss. We can negotiate that.
09. Movies that would be so much better if the main character died. Think about “The Fugitive.” Remember the scene where Tommy Lee Jones watches Harrison Ford make that death plunge into a reservoir? What if Harrison Ford, a.k.a. Dr. Richard Kimball, didn’t survive it and the rest of the movie was just TLJ talking to a corpse on a slab, promising to avenge his death? Killer!
08. Movies where it’s pretty obvious the other cop is the killer so you’re not really spoiling anything by talking about it. I’m looking at you, Brian Dennehy, Nick Nolte, and Ned Beatty.
07. Famous people with albinism besides Edgar Winter and Tobin Bell. This isn’t really a movie genre, but I think it merits a national discussion.
06. Movies that completely justify Edward Woodward’s paranoia
05. Movies that completely justify Gene Hackman’s paranoia
04. Movies that completely justify my paranoia: any documentary.
03. Teen sex comedies based on Norse mythology. Take an honest look at “Just One of the Guys” and you tell me. Also, how great is the Stooges song in that movie?
02. Picaresque about a wild-eyed teen on a quest (to resolve what’s clearly a mixed bag of mother issues and Catholic guilt) that involves getting laid and winning concert tickets. Yeah, I said picaresque not picturesque.
01. Movies that aren’t obvious stoner classics. I assure you, the world doesn’t need another pothead’s review of “Superbad”, but it does need a review of “The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner.”

My spellcheck didn’t pick up “pothead” and that really blew my mind. Get back to me.

Legalize it,

Esther

An Open Letter to Vince Offer

(Written before he landed himself in the pokey for the prostitute fisticuffs…am I psychic or am I psychic?)

Dear Mr. Offer,

Last week, I made the decision to terminate my relationship with cable television. The pain was excruciating as cable television and I shared a common dream for the last twenty-nine years. We wanted to be entertained at all times with Roseanne reruns, teleplays about Hitler’s bunker, and an entire channel devoted to Headbanger’s Ball. However, our delightful folie à deux became a terrifying ménage a trois when you entered our relationship by peddling your two useless products: the “ShamWow!” and the “Slap Chop.”
The human spirit is by nature inquisitive, Mr. Offer, thus I did not readily dismiss your overtures without a little intellectual footwork. It appears, sir, that prior to ham-handedly forcing your gadgets upon us, you penned a film, cleverly-titled, “Underground Comedy Movie.” Oh, and you SUED THE CHURCH OF SCIENTOLOGY.
When I learned this, Mr. Offer, I was on your side. In fact, I would have followed you to the ends of our battlefield, earth, wearing nothing but a loin cloth made out of ShamWows and indiscriminately mashing our foes with the Slap Chop. Errantly, I assumed you were some crazy freedom fighter opposing a religion that foists upon its members a doctrine of wealth entitlement and anti-psychological claptrap masquerading as science.
Forgotten imagist poet, Allen Upward, first coined the term “scientology” albeit in a pejorative manner, as “science elevated to unquestioning doctrine”. L. Ron Hubbard apparently didn’t read Upward’s book when sitting in his living room, crafting a religion based on personality audits, thetans, and the existence of our souls on other planets. Hubbard also eschewed the trajectory of ontology by forgetting that men like Auguste Comte and Herbert Spencer attempted nearly the same thing and they were eventually, and rightfully, dismissed as quacks.
A bit of a litigious fellow you are, Mr. Offer. You also sued the Farrelly brothers because you claimed intellectual property rights over the use of human ejaculate as a grooming aid. You sued the late Anna Nicole Smith for failing to appear in your film. While those cases were dismissed, I find your suit against Scientology far more fascinating. You were a member of the church and, based on your “Underground Comedy Movie”, their governing body deemed you a “declared suppressive” which is their term for an “enemy of Scientology.”
In order to shed some light on this trial, I quote from your own release on PR Wire:

“This court was run by four scientology church staff members, the youngest being about 14 years of age, and in March of 1998, a ruling document entitled “Findings and Recommendations,” held Offer to be guilty of 23 charges, none of which were ever presented to him in the “court.” To add insult to injury, the ruling document labeled him a “Declare Type B,” a Scientology term which means
a person who is a “Criminal” and has “a criminal record.” This was publicly distributed or communicated to all associates, future associates of Offer and general Scientology members, thereby sealing his fate as an outcast.”

My eyes welled up with sympathetic tears and I almost offered you the wise words of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, “Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains.” Then something occurred to me. How much of a Mount Vesuvius-sized asshole must you be for the Scientologists to want nothing to do with you? To put this into perspective, sir, I took one of their “personality audits” completely loaded on blow and Old Granddad and I scored so abysmally low (and accidentally left my actual phone number)that one of their “youth outreach” people called me every day for a year just to make sure I was okay. I, Mr. Offer, am a complete liability to any religion and they’d still have me!
The signs were there. Your ridiculous double entendre did not escape me. “You’re gonna love my nuts!” you proclaim mere moments before asserting that children can use your product with just one finger. I’ve loved many nuts in my life, Mr. Offer, and I assure you I will never love yours. And you look directly at me when you state, while squeezing the Shamwow!, that “The Germans always make good stuff.” Like what? Zyklon B? Fuck you, too, Vince.

Cleansing my thetans,

Esther