Max, now three, is our first Grandson.
Nicholas - our Newbie - is our second.

Max, straight from the womb (he may have crawled out on his own), began a very physical life despite the fact he is allergic to many foods. He's the kind of boy who learns more from the use of his body. Alexandra, his little "big" sis, learns more from the use of her mind. They're both important, but Max intentionally collides with the planet.

As soon as Max could crawl, stand, walk, run, climb, and jump, he did it at speeds and heights that literally threatened his daily health. Cheri and Ross - Mommy and Daddy - and now with the help of smaller Alexandra - try to keep Max from crashing. I've personally seen Max run into walls, bounce off, crash to the floor, get up, and do it again. And again. And again. Max gets a kick out of gravity, and it kicks him back.

Pat, my wife, called me at the store today. She was near tears... and not the funny, romantic, or sad tears she can conjure. I knew immediately to begin worrying. (Tomorrow will be our 19th anniversary. I should know by now...) She'd just received an email from Cheri out in Seattle.

Max

Max found a length of wire, sat on the floor, and stuck it into an electrical outlet. He'd been told repeatedly not to do anything near those "holes"... he would get hurt... BAD.

The shock kicked him back, burned his hand as he kept a grip on the wire, scorched the wall above the outlet, and FRIED a blueberry to his skin that'd been stuck on him from an earlier snack. He screamed, wouldn't stop, Cheri called 911, emergency vehicles came, and they took it to the next level - a hospital emergency room. (Alexandra stayed with neighbors. Ross is in Canada and cannot be reached.)

EKGs etc. were run on Max. He should be okay. He'll carry a scar on his hand from the burning wire. (Frankly, I see that as good. Max will notice his hand every day... and this will occasionally remind him he CAN make BIG mistakes when he's NOT thinking. We ALL need such a scar.)

The email was written at 3:45 a.m.., so it was a LONG night for everyone. When Cheri went over to the neighbors, she found Alexandra asleep with her pillow wet from crying.

Max: alive, okay, a little worse for the wear, and on to the next challenge he'll create for himself... and everyone around him.

Over and out,
Grampa Ronn.

Posted by Ronn Ives at 11:43 AM | Link

I know people who are deep into every possible conspiracy theory that has ever existed... and a few that haven't. I am - literally - sent one to five per day. No joke.

Here's one:

.

http://www.news.com.au/story/0,23599,24070088-13762,00.html

"FORMER NASA astronaut and moon-walker Dr Edgar Mitchell - a veteran of the Apollo 14 mission - has stunningly claimed aliens exist."

.

Certainly, the world is a more interesting place for these people, but this stuff really tires me out. I picture conspiracy nuts as dogs chasing their own tails.

ARE there conspiracies? Of course. Do most exist? No.

Let's say there are 100 conspiracies, and 90 are bogus. That leaves 10 with potential. I think ten percent is very generous.

Now let's say that actual investigation of well-covered-up issues take 10-20 years to fully uncover (optimistically). This means if you are someone who wants to actually bring a real conspiracy to light, odds are you must investigate 9 to reach the 10th. It means you're putting in 90-180 years in exploration merely to find the one worthy of uncovering which adds an additional 10-20 years.

In this case, the conspiracy you need to uncover and validate had better be the one where the Government has been hiding all the data (learned from extra-terrestrials) on extending the human life span to 500 years.

.

We are SUCH a self-centered species.

Posted by Ronn Ives at 08:47 AM | Link

(I asked an innocent enough question to Elle, owner of Austin Modern(.com) in Austin Texas. The following was our "exchange") (SHE did all the work):

Elle,

I rewatched "Slacker" the other night. How do you feel it represents Austin?

Ronn,

Ohh good question..! I think that it represented one segment of Austin's varied demographic very well at the time it came out. Meaning if you were a young broke 20 something living in Austin in the early 90s, it was pretty much exactly like that.

I actually know a lot of the people that starred in that film, they used a lot of locals. The big beautiful Victorian in the background of the hit and run scene was actually the headquarters for Austin Film Society (basically a glorified crash pad for Rodriguez and his friends). I tried to buy that building since in the late 90s it was basically abandoned. Currently it's a Magic Wok or Johnny Rockets or some other chain cheap food junk palace. Broke my heart when they gutted that building.

Les Amis has also been turned into a Starbucks... Starbucks had a brick through their plate glass windows every week for months during their initial year here before they finally replaced all their windows with Lexan. People in Austin are funny.. they hold their local icons dear but they are also unlikely to donate to a fund to 'save' the icon.

Honestly I haven't seen the movie in about 10 years so... ?

Do people hang out and bitch about stupid stuff for months on end drinking cup after cup of coffee and chain smoking? Yes. Do the street kids actually come from extremely wealthy families in Dallas? Yes. Can you walk down the drag (main street downtown) smoking a joint without getting hassled.. Used to be yes. Do people openly share bongs with strangers at concerts? Yes.

I think Austin being a kind of underground freakfest in the 60s and 70s added to the environment that is Austin today. It's in the middle of straight laced Texas and yet we had Janice, the 13th Floor Elevators, the Big Boys, Johnny Winter.. lots of musical talent, lots of drugs and not a lot of money. But 3 big Universities. So you've got a town of creative, broke, talented, educated, diy'ers with a median age of 38. I think Austin is a lot like Tallahassee.. somehow.

If I had to pick a handful of movies that represented Austin, I'd say Slacker, Dazed and Confused, Waking Life and Office Space. All filmed here and all by Austin based directors. Each representing a different slice of the Austin pie.

Bill Hicks is one of Austin's beloved (departed) comedians, Alex Jones is our favorite 9-11 conspiracy nutjob and Leslie is our favorite Transvestite who gets a heavy percentage of votes for Mayor every election. Leslie can usually be found downtown in the business district in a thong and platforms.. not pretty. We like to keep it weird. But if you have to make it a bumper sticker then it's not all that weird.

Slacker touched on one thing that seems to me to stand out as a weird phenomena specific to Austin. I think of it as concentric social circles that in a "real world" setting shouldn't happen.

For example, you go to a rent party thrown by some hippie/musician in central Austin, most everyone there is 20 something and aimless. 3 days later a girl at the grocery store invites you to a lecture at the University on Aquatic Animal Husbandry (for laughs and because Austinites love free info), the professor invites some of you out to dinner.

Over dinner you notice the bus boy is the guy who threw the rent party 3 days earlier. Three days later you go to some uber riche house out in the hills for a bbq with a bunch of new money 30 something techies from LA, one of them came to Austin because his sister works at the little co-op grocery store (oh yeah she invited you to that lecture), the following week you make plans to meet your 60 something friend at the library for a game of chess, he wants you to meet his friend who turns out to be one of the uber techies. In a small town it wouldn't be odd but in a city with a core population of 800,000 it's kind of weird.

It's like social circles that shouldn't have anything in common are always connected 6 ways from Sunday. If you are from Austin, it will not surprise you to run into a friend you haven't seen in years on a random street corner in Thailand. Nor will it surprise you to find out that the sister of the guy you went to high school with is your seat mate on a flight out of New York to Miami.

It's weirder to somehow NOT be able to find a common connection with a fellow Austinite. Though that is changing too.

It's a weird town. But everyone lives in a weird town. If you want I think this is a fairly accurate description of Austin Culture

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Austin,_Texas#Culture

Though it's worth keeping in mind that they have to put a pretty spin on all of this and probably don't mention that most of our music venues don't PAY the local musicians leading to "Velvet Coffin" syndrome (It's killing you but it's such a comfortable way to go!)

Elle

Posted by Ronn Ives at 04:56 PM | Link

I drive my Scion xB most of the time. It's my work vehicle, and I work most of the time. My sky blue Miata MX5 sits in the driveway waiting for me. Today would be a day to stretch its sporty legs on the highway. I hosed off the last two weeks of twigs, dead leaves, and bird crap. But, the hose also made something else happen:

Ants. Thousands of Ants rushing out of Miata crevices. Adults and teens, with the little egg babies in their jaws. I'd disturbed an entire Ant civilization begun only two weeks ago, now in its 3rd generation.

I like Ants. I don't have a problem with them, but I don't live in their home, and they're not going to live in mine.

If any of them survive to move on to a new country, they will tell this

Tale of Woe:

"We'd settled in 'Blue Metallande' three generations back. We were happy there. Time was ours. It was huge, dark, dry, and safe there... or so we thought... until.............

'The Day of Quakes, Floods, Wind, and Poison'.

This is when we lost most of our Bretheren.

It was a normal day. Workers were out collecting food. Egg Nurses were tending to the Next Flock. It was a normal day. It was indeed a Good Antday. A Normal Day.

Suddenly, a quaking in all of 'Blue Metalland' was felt, and our country seemed to move and rumble. Some of us screamed. Some held still. Just as suddenly, the moving ceased.

Just when we thought this was not a disaster, the Floods began. Floods like none had ever seen in Antdom... floods with the force of 10,000 Rains crashing over our beloved country and into our homes.

On this day - and the day was far from over - we lost at least half of our members to the Floods. They were never to be seen again. Then, just as suddenly as the Floods began, they suddenly stopped.

We went out to find bodies... but the Floods returned! We ran in. The Floods ceased! We went out. The Floods returned. We ran in. Each time we lost more of our community.

And then... all was quiet... dripping, but quiet... and we hoped this was a good sign.......but it was not.

The Quaking returned - this time with such a violence and roar, it threw everyone from one place to another. Shock waves shook the land. Then came Great Winds... ...winds like no other. Winds that did not sing over our land, but smashed through the village and into every dark home, which sent all our brothers and sisters into tumbling flight. More were lost.

The Great Winds lasted longer than the Floods. They did slow down and eventually cease. Once again we thought 'Maybe it is over?'

We came out from the dark places that were no longer safe, and began searching for our Lost. The Horror was to continue.

Now came a Wind of Poison Mist. It killed all who were touched by it. We did not know what it was, and tried to hide, but the Mist entered our Land as had the Winds and the Floods. It seemed the entire World was at its End.

Screaming and dying - this is all we saw. Workers and youth alike - all gone. Once the Winds vanished, the Poison stayed in Pools of Death. Those still alive stumbled around and through them, only to die later...

,
,
,

I do not know how or why I survived. For as unbelievable as all of this it sounds, it IS true. I AM here to tell you it happened. WHY did it happen? I do not know, but I have given it much thought:

We angered our Gods who created 'Blue Metalland' and all things Antish. We, as a society, lost our Way, somehow. We were punished. Our Gods do not tolerate disobedience, and though I have not determined how we wronged them, I have one guess:

'Blue Metalland' was different from other countries. It seemed safer. We came to take it for granted. We heard stories about other countries created in 'Brown Dirtland', and thought 'How sad for them'... we are certainly the Priveledged Ones, the Ones of 'Blue Metalland'.

We were self-assured, and we were wrong, and we were punished for it.

I have travelled far. I have seen the fabled 'Tan Sandland', and I am now here in 'Brown Dirtland' to tell you ALL of this greatest of warnings, and, to beg you ALL to never take your country for granted. Thank the Gods every morning, every afternoon, and every evening. Give them part of your reaping. Give them a few of our 'Untouched Ones'. Set aside days of Thanks. Say their names out loud. Tell others to do the same. A single Ant unwilling to do this could bring great disasters to us again. We cannot allow this to happen.

Of THIS I am certain.

Of this I AM certain.

OF THIS I AM CERTAIN!

Let us chant...."

Posted by Ronn Ives at 08:20 PM | Link

I found MY limit with caffeine during the years friends and I EXISTED at a coffee shop. EXISTED. Driving home down the highway late one night in my fast, sleek, orange Datsun 240Z - (up to and over 100 miles per hour on that road at that time of night) - with its round, shark-stare headlights burning away the dark for the necessary split second - I began hallucinating.

That night, between me and Dan - a best friend - we'd shared EIGHT entire POTS of coffee over about a four HOUR period (for the grand total of 25 cents per customer drink-all-the-java-you-want - god I LOVED IHOP in those daze...), and, with us chatting at speeds to match the car, a 20 foot high, blindingly brilliant lime green, flaming, pulsating DONUT appeared floating over the road 100 feet in front of me.

Yep. That's what it was alright.

Picture one of those flaming rings-of-fire through which circus lion tamers force their big cats to leap ... but this LSD-ish DONUT was way bigger and thicker... and even brighter.

Well now......... THIS was interesting...

I kept quiet, and slowly eased off the gas pedal. Yep, it stayed ahead of me. This was GOOD... I wasn't going to smash into it. But, the problem was I could NOT see around it... so I continued easing off the gas... and slowly pulled over to the shoulder of the highway. The DONUT did not go away.

"What're ya doin'?" asked Dan.

"I want you to drive the rest of the way." (He also had a 240Z, so I trusted him.)

(BTW: A little advice: the following is something you announce once the car is PARKED):

"Why?"

"I'm hallucinating."

"What??!!"

"There's a huge flaming green DONUT in front of me..."

.
.
.
.

Naturally, he agreed to take over.

It was just another evening of being 23.

---

Not to exclude Dan and HIS Road-Hallucination experiences...

He was driving straight through from New York to Denver (which makes my 888 mile Tucson-to-Denver straight-throughs look like an ice cream cruise). I don't remember if it was a combo meal of No-Doz AND coffee or what, but at some point in the middle of the night, as he sped down the highway of Missouri or Kansas or godknowswhere, he saw a Giant - a Huge Giant Man - running along-side his car. The Giant kept pace with his car.

Here's the BEAUTY of being out of your skull: Your ability to adjust is incredible. Dan decided this Giant would help guide his drive, keep him company, and hey, if he had a flat tire or something, there would be a very useful helper with him.

I get all warm and fuzzy just thinking about it.

Pass the coffee and donuts.

Posted by Ronn Ives at 04:44 PM | Link

A few days ago, I was talking with a friend who owns a much larger business than mine. While we spoke, he noticed a problem in one of the back rooms where furniture is prepared for display and sale. A large, all-leather lounge chair was sitting deserted but still covered in intense, wet, leather cleaners, which had now pooled up in spots. This caused the cleaner to concentrate - over-cleaning the pooled zones. Think of it as big bleach spots in the leather.

His cleaning man had wandered off, leaving it in this state.

I left the boss to his business, and later he caught back up to me. He was shaking his head, and said "You'll never believe this one!"

"I searched the building... and I found him. He was in the bathroom. A buddy of his dropped by for a visit. While he was cleaning the lounger, they decided he needed to take a break, so he just walked away from the chair, leaving it as we found it. He and his buddy were sitting on the men's bathroom floor - tossing dice - for money...

I jumped down his throat, and told him he'd better get the chair fixed."

I asked "Gonna fire him?"

Boss shook his head and laughed: "HE - THIS guy - is my BEST employee!! My BEST!!! What am I supposed to DO???!!!"

I started laughing because he was laughing, but this wasn't funny-funny, it was pathetic-funny. Laugh or cry funny.

I said, "Sometimes I think I'd like to have my business up to this size, but maintain the FUTURES quality. You remind me THAT is impossible."

They are contradictions.

We both laughed... because we didn't want to cry in public.

Posted by Ronn Ives at 10:22 AM | Link

I can't remember if I ever told you all about this or not (I was reminded of it because of an article on "Hand Models" on CBS Sunday Morning this morning), but I was once a hand model. No, really. A "Hand Model".

I was in Graduate School. I shot a lot of my self-portrait photos (in preparation for my etchings) up on the roof of the main Art building a) because I had the keys (I was also their security guard), b) could lock myself up there and not be disturbed, c) I was the cheapest model I knew, d) I needed a brick wall background, and e) it was often a lengthy, hot, personal job with lots of equipment and posing.

One day I was up there, hadn't locked the roof door, and was photographing black paper cut-out "shadows" I'd made and taped to the brick walls. I finally noticed a man watching me. He was a new faculty member in the Art History department. Mind you, I'm ALONE on this roof, and now I have a man watching me from the entry/exit door.

He approached me, and said "I've been watching you. May I see your hands?"

THAT creeped me out, but jumping over the roof wall and dropping four stories to the hard desert ground seemed counter-productive to finishing my Thesis.

"My HANDS?"

"Yes."

(A little of my hand history: My hands are small, with stubby fingers that differ in length from left to right hands. Richard, a best friend, tried to teach me basics of guitar and piano, but I couldn't make those wide finger stretches. I've used my hands as a first defense against the world. They are scarred, bent, veiny, tanned to leather, cuticles picked till bloody, the fingernails grow distorted because of it, I write inky notes to myself on the top back of my left hand, and I tear skin off of them and save it for my upcoming sculptures. My hands are brutalized. They are my weapons, tools, and art supply store. No, really.)

"MY hands?"

"Yes. I'm working on a book..." and he proceeded to explain he is also an author on primitive, pre-historic cultures, and noticed my hands one day in the third floor hallway. The look of my hands was "perfect" for Primitive Man. He'd like to photograph them in poses doing the various jobs of Pre-Man.

"MY hands??"

"Yes!"

I shook my head, laughed, said "Sure. If you need my help, you have it."

Within a couple of weeks, we'd scheduled meetings up-on-the-roof in the brilliant natural light. He brought his own equipment, and had a tight game plan. As it turned out, he also wanted to brain storm with me.

"Now, when you're rubbing those sticks together, which way feels more effective and comfortable?" We were actually finessing his theories about making and handling tools.

Months, if not a year or more later, he approached me with a gift. It was the published book, with a personal thank you in it. I have it somewhere, but haven't look at it in years. It's not on my resume or coffee table, and, I can see my hands anyday right there at the ends of my arms.

The NEXT time you see the "Seinfeld" rerun of George becoming a "Hand Model", think of me.

Posted by Ronn Ives at 12:05 PM | Link

"Magic Carpet Golf" was a miniature golf course we'd visit for a funky, warm evening of stupid, cheap fun in Tucson Arizona. You know... putt a golf ball into the hiney of a Tyranosaurus, it drops out of its mouth, and rolls through a little windmill. THAT sort of place.

THIS lead us - friends, precisionists, and Grad school competitors that we were - to seek a professional course, which of course meant the one and only Gold Standard: "Putt Putt Golf". Zen in its simplicity. You faced short pile astro-turf and white banking boards. The Billiards of Miniature Golf. No nonsense, no gimmicks. It was Pure. We went to the Blue Note strip bar for sleaze, the Middle Eastern restaurant for banana daiquiris and superb, exotic belly dancing, the transvestite bar for a good game of "Determining That Gender!" - but Putt Putt was utter Zen.

THIS lead fellow artist, Tom, and I and our girlfriends and pals to go there on a steady basis. The more low scores, the more free or discounted games. THIS lead to getting good. THIS lead to our eventual entries into the city-wide competition. Tom and I were equally good. Somewhere I still have those famous score sheets. Upon every visit to the course, we would all pick new names for our Putt Putt personas. "Buzzy", "Jimbo", "Edna", whatever. Hey, it was one of our traditions. Shut up and make your own history.

The night of the Big Putt Putt Playoff (and our Putting was always at night in Tucson, lest we faint dead away from the intense light and heat of the day), we were there early... looking over the courses, making sure they were flawless, eyeing the competition... getting in the Zone, THE ZONE. Finding the 'Tude. THE 'Tude.

A young blonde boy of maybe 14, chauffered by his parents, arrived in all white clothing with Putt Putt logos on everything he wore or owned. "Little punk probably has Putt Putt tighty whities..." He was carrying a case. In it he had a 2-piece, screw-together, privately-owned putter. WE rented random putters from the P-P counter man each night. We were workin' class stiffs who made Art. We didn't own no stinking 2-piece personal putters.

(This is where you need to imagine the 1960's Clint Eastwood "Man with No Name" Spaghetti Western theme song of whistling & moaning designed by Ennio Morricone...)

"Who IS this STARCHED white stranger?"

Long story short - the competition fell away through the night, until, after 36 Holes of Intensity, it was down to Shiny Boy, me, and Tom. I believe we pushed into overtime for another 4-8 holes. THAT is A LOT of running even. Do you UNDERSTAND the STRESS here??? Tom lost his focus for one thousandth of one second, and missed a putt. It was down to me and Golden Boy. We went another couple holes. I blinked..... I missed.... .........and he won.

(Now imagine the whistling again, and a tumbleweed blowing through the parking lot.) It was over.

IT was over. He received his award...yeh, yeh, blah blah blah. I think it was another two-piece putter. I didn't want no stinking 2-piece putter no-hows. I was Official Second Place Putter of the City. I was handed coupons for burgers at McDonald's. I don't remember if Tom got a Third Place "award". I DO remember we all used my coupons at McDonald's on the way home. We were starving Graduate Students, after all.

(More Italian cowboy whistling and haunt-ish moaning, please.)

"Doo do do do doooo........... Wah waaah waaahhhh....."

"Make my day, BLEACH Boy..."

I throw my poncho over my shoulder, reveal my weapon, chew on my cigarillo, squint into the bright desert sun, give an unflinching stare to my competition, look down, and stroke my trusty rented putter.

"Doo do do do doooo........... Wah waaah waaahhhh....."

Posted by Ronn Ives at 05:04 PM | Link

Pat, my Wife, and I went to a music concert last night. It was an evening of Texas/acoustic/electrified/country/folk/duet type music. Sorry, but I don't remember the name of the opening act. The announcer was a little too laid back. The musician was okay, with moments of brilliance, yet too many repetitive stylistic touches. The stage was amped for a much larger space, so all of the acoustics, especially lyrics, were distorted and often oppressive.

The headliner was "Everybodyfields". They were also okay, occasionally brilliant, again t.m.r.s.t., and the stage remained highly amped. This time I suggested we move to the back of the theater, which helped a little. The high points were when the young woman sang lead solo or with subdued backup. Their steel guitarist was wonderful. The male lead sounded too much like Louden Wainwright - no plus for me. If we could've picked and pulled selections from the concert (which was generously lengthy - c. 3 hours), we could've assembled a nice album. They lacked stage polish (refreshing), the woman, who was gorgeous, literally "danced" with her bass guitar in a subtle, swaying, beautiful way that enhanced the songs. (And OF COURSE there were buttheads in the audience, to which "Everybodyfields" mistakenly reacted - even encouraged. BIG mistake. You DON'T encourage buttheads. They become relentless. They lack timing and proportion. That's why they're called buttheads.

The theater is a "restored" 1919 building in Norfolk Virginia, called "Attuck's". Lots of money has been sunk into it as part of the revitalization effort being made towards poorer sections of Norfolk. We were looking forward to seeing the interior. Frankly, they DIDN'T RESTORE it. They REDECORATED it, with only small glimmers of its "1919-ness" there. It looked like pieces of 1919 floating in the belly of a 1985 whale. Some theaters have been truly restored in Norfolk, and they are glorious. Not this one. Not "Attuck's Theatre". Most of the staff was equally unprofessional - behaving more like rag men at a car wash. All through the performances, I could hear them just outside the concert space doors, talking, laughing, joking, and yelling. It's also the first restored theater I've ever attended where they sold beer, in bottles, to be taken into the "restored" hall to be consumed during the concert. The place needs new management top to bottom.

---

Sunday night we are going to see "Stomp". Not at Attuck's.

---

Tonight: I don't think we're going anywhere, but the Governor hasn't called lately...

---

and now for a story:

"Mr. Emer - the Man Who Knew it was Earth Day"

Yesterday, an event happened that turned out so funny for both Alvin and I, we were laughing about it again today, and I thought you might like it too.

"It was a normal day...." and a woman turned the corner. She parked on the side street. I'd been sweeping outside, so I saw her pull up. It was a perfectly find parking job: far from the corner, correct distance from my car (VERY important!), correct distance from the curb... it was an all-around good parking job. What more could anyone ask? She got out of her car and approached me as I was reentering FUTURES.

"Do you think I parked okay?"

"Uh...sure. Why do you wonder?"

"I'm not too close to the curb, am I?"

"No..."

"Is this legal parking?"

"Yes...........of course. It's a public street."

"I thought maybe I missed a sign or something."

"No......................... So... what can I do for you?"

She began asking questions about my business location, how long I've been in business... stuff like that. She had a note pad. Then she asked: "Do you carry parts?"

"Carry? Parts?"

"Mm hmmmm. Parts. You know!"

"No... I DON'T know."

"HOUSE parts. Parts of a HOUSE."

"Architectural details?"

"Yes, those."

"No. None. I'm not a 'Parts' guy. My things are ready to go. Turn-key condition. No projects here."

"Oh. I was told you sold parts."

"Nope."

"Aren't you 'Country Boy Antiques'?"

"No... (like my windows and door say) this is 'FUTURES Antiques'."

"Oh. Well, I'm a reporter for the newspaper and..."

(...and she's rattling on, but I'm now busy thinking about THIS woman being a "REPORTER" for the NEWSPAPER! We're all in trouble...)

"You want to walk out of my door and turn left. Go down 3 more doors. Look to the left. You'll be at 'Country Boy Antiques'. Ask for Alvin Jones."

"Can I ask YOU questions?"

("You already have, and it hasn't gone very well for you but...") "Sure, I have no customers at the moment. What do you need?"

"Are you aware of 'Earth Day'?"

"Yes..."

"Do you know what it's for?"

(.........I sigh.) "Sure... it was one of the late 60's/early 70's attempts to bring ecological/etc. awareness to the general public."

"Right."

("Gee! Thanks! Ms. 40-year-old gauzy-skirted Birkenstock-shod late-Hippie Wishshewuz who needs a hand-held GPS - STAT!")

She then asked "Did you know it's STILL being celebrated?"

"No, I did not."

"Well, it IS! Do you know what DAY it's on?"

"Clearly not. If I wasn't even aware it was still being 'celebrated', its date would get past me too. I guess the PR people involved in keeping up awareness aren't doing that great of a job."

"YES they are!"

("We have a NUT! Alert! Alert!!")

"No, they're not. And I tell you what - I'll BET you that when you're done on this block or in this city or whenever the article is done, the majority of those you interviewed did NOT know what you hoped they would."

"Oh, they WILL!"

"Then we have a bet?"

"Everyone I've interviewed so far has known..." she smirked. She actually smirked.

"Interesting," I said. "How many have you interviewed?"

"Well...................................................................you're the first."

All I could do was stare at her and shake my head.

But it's not over! Yes, she DID leave my store, and DID follow my simple directions on how to get fifty feet down the sidewalk to Country Boy. Alvin was outside. I discreetly warned him he had a "situation" in his store.

---

(The work day ends, the night passes, and he and I were catching up this morning...)

---

He's laughing and agreeing it was good I'd warned him he had a goofball (A REPORTER???) He WAS interviewed and is now scared to death about what she'll end up writing. He did not let her take a photo of him. Smart man. Keep a little anonymity just in case!) (Still, we'll know his news-destiny in a week).

So we're sitting outside in front of his store. In his show window he has a sign:

"Contact for Emer. - Call #737-1234".

He said to me: "Listen to this! That woman was asking me questions, and she asks 'Who is 'Emer'?" Ronn, I looked at her. She wasn't joking! I said to her ''EMER? 'Emer.' is an abbreviation for Emergency!"

So I said "YOU pal are in DEEP TROUBLE. By the time the article comes out you'll be 'Palvin Bones of Poor Boy Parts Store on Blandy Street!' You're a dead man! If she mentions ME, I'll be 'the completely uninformed old owner of Past the Future Retro Mart'."

We were laughing. Hard.

He told me she also interviewed two customers in the store. No one knew Earth Day dates, etc.. Now I'm going into an asthma attack I'm laughing so violently.

"That explains why she seemed to time her fast exit past my store as I was carrying the sidewalk sign inside! She didn't want me to catch her and ask for the survey results."

PLEASE! WHERE'S MY INHALER??? Oh my god. I'm laughing too hard. Slap me!!

---

That's not all.

A man who seems to visit Alvin every Saturday was sitting with us, laughing along, shaking his head, staring at the cement. He then said "I have one for you..."

"...I was getting a tire replacement at a tire store, right? A woman was ahead of me. She was watching the man add air pressure and spin balance her tire. She asked him 'Do you spin it to make sure the air is 'even' inside the tire?'"

We all stared at the cement, shaking our heads like Nodder Dogs in the back window shelf of a '61 Pontiac.

Posted by Ronn Ives at 08:09 PM | Link

So I'm in a thrift store (I needed some old lamp parts), and I'm standing in line waiting to buy them. My eyes are browsing around, and I see their long line of nested, parked shopping carts. This thrift store has been around a long time. On the side of each cart is a blue and white commercially produced sign. It says:

"D.A.V. Thirft Store"

Okay, I have Dyslexia, so I reread it a few times. It STAYS "Thirft".

I got up to the cashier and I said "How many people comment on the messed up spelling of your shopping carts?"

She looked over at them. And looked. And looked.

She said "No one. Ever."

I said "Huh. No one ever noticed THIR-FT?"

She looked again. "Oh my god!"

"Yeh, that's right."

---

Okay, my next stop - my very next stop - is Home Depot for some light bulbs. I choose them, and again I'm standing in a checkout line. There's a man in front of me. I watch the cashier type in the name of his item being purchased:

"Utilly light".

She looks at it, backs up through the letters and retypes:

"Utilily light".

Yeh, that's right.

---

I've avoided Lowe's ever since my FIRST visit because a) it took finding three people before one of them could speak English, and b) it took four people before I found someone who knew what "steel wool" was.

Where DO we go?

I don't know, but I CAN tell you where we're NOT GOING... and it's not uphill.

Posted by Ronn Ives at 10:10 AM | Link

It's "Trash Can Pickup Day" in Norfolk!

Really. It is "Trash-Can-PICK-UP-Day" in Norfolk Virginia!

It's also National Irony Day. Did you know THAT?

A big, heavy, green, plastic lidded trash can on wheels... nearly as big as me... the kind a truck picks up from the curbside with big robot pincers and dumps your crap into its top-hole and drives on to the next can. That's what I have at FUTURES.

I drilled it to take a bicycle lock. This way I have no hassles with vandals or trash divers who like to leave it dumped all over the ground. I've had the thing since 1993. I use it for my trash, plant clippings, tossing last night's litter, and when it's closed, as a spray painting and cleaning stand. My address is painted on it, also. I've noticed it's been cracking from the violent pincer life. Still, it is mine... and I need it.

On trash day, I unlock it and walk it to the corner and across the pedestrian brick way to the opposite side of the street, where the trash guys need it positioned for their pincering. If I'm not busy and I hear them coming, I'll stand outside and wait, wave, thank them, and roll my can back over to FUTURES after their dump. If I put out dead florescent light tubes, they go in the can and, wearing goggles, I smack each with a wrench to explode them so it's a non-issue. Kids are dumb and WILL do it if you don't - not knowing how vacuum tubes implode or what inhalation dangers exist with an opened light tube... Bad internal chemicals.

So, I have this relationship between my business and that CAN, as well as the neighborhood and the people who live or wander through here... and the trash men, of course.

Today, after trash pick up, it was stolen. That's right. My TRASH CAN. Fifteen years old and cracked. STOLEN. Broad daylight. Oh yes, I WALKED the neighborhood looking for it, you can bet! But, It had been rolled further away than I could find on foot.

THIS is what I needed to do with my day?! - make calls to an office somewhere in the city system and say "My can was stolen. I need my can?!" I opened the blue pages of the phone book, called the "Gov", and miracle of miracles, got the correct office AND the correct man:

"Darnell" said "Oh wow! STOLEN? Your TRASH can?"

Ronn said "Yeh."

We talked about neighborhoods in the city.

Darnell said "I'll get a new can to you in 7-10 working days."

Ronn said "And in the meantime?"

Darnell said "You call, we'll pick anything up from you."

Ronn said "Wow, that's cool! You've been a big help, Darnell. Thanks!"

Darnell said "No problem." He took my information, and that was that. Darnell rocks, but there was no "irony" about our interactions. Here's the Irony:

I was up early (that's not ironic, it's just weird) and went in to my shop by 9:30 a.m.. FUTURES was in pieces from the removal and delivery of the big, beautiful, streamlined desk I sold last night. (Which I am now FEELING - since it had to get up three floors of narrow stairwell in an old restored 1914 apartment building last night.) (Ah, indeed... La Glow and Glamour of Chez Profession!)

But when I pulled up, what did I see out front of FUTURES? My sidewalk sign and both of my outdoor chairs! That's right. In the midst of the desk jockeying yesterday, I absent-mindedly left all of them out there OVERNIGHT. But... nothing was stolen! I pulled up... saw it all... and alone in my car I said out loud "You IDIOT!"... then sighed with relief...

(Trust me, I'm building to some shattering irony just like in a 19th century British novel!)

Well, I had to get the shop in order again, but it was also waiting for me to unload (UGH, my lower back!) a great Art Deco overstuffed chair intended for a freshly created front show window. I figured this solo act was going to take some risky lower back-work, when just then I saw "Jim" (who helped install my new store A/C last year), and since I couldn't do it alone (safely), I asked him if he could help, and he could. Whew! In the process, we chatted, and with my sign-and-chairs brain-fart still partially stinking the inside my head, I told him what I'd done.

"Yeh, you'd think someone WOULD'VE stolen 'em," he mused. "Hey, you need help with your trash can?"

"Nah, I'm good", I replied as I grabbed it and began rolling it to the corner. I looked back and added "Sometimes I'm surprised my old trash can isn't stolen, considering some of the fools who seem to live around here!"

Posted by Ronn Ives at 09:02 PM | Link

It happens so often, I flinch whenever I see this combination of people:

Middle/Upper Class White Female Mother age 30-40,
with (typically) one Child (either sex) age 2-10.

I arrived at the shop early. These days it's nice to get the place warmed up before I open - so I kick in the heaters, leave on my coat, and stroll down to to the other antiques shop for a chat with the owner.

In his store was The Combo: highly entitled SUV-driving white woman age 30-40 with 9 year old toe-headed son. He was picking up, dropping, throwing to the cement floor or forcing to bend any antique he had the momentary urge to "experience" (read "damage").

Mom? Could care less. She was busy with her own interests, and for that short period of time, her son could be someone else's problem. After all, SHE is special, he's hers, and they are both Entitled.

The owner didn't speak up - until they'd gone. People love him because he's so pleasant. What they don't know is he DOES notice, feel, and remember what they do... but I'm who hears about it - not them. He'll eventually drop dead of high blood pressure. I will not. THAT'S NOT my style.

People need feedback. It's not always fun or pretty, but it's the MODE of behavior I use because I think it has better long run effects than worse. Plus, IF "it takes a village" (I often waiver about that idea), then BEHAVE like you ARE a member of the village. But, who am I to tell anyone anything... NO ONE in situations like I just described, but by then my concern was not so much about this kid as my business friend who's trying to survive just like me. I would want him to say something if he saw THAT in MY shop - but he wouldn't. It's just not him.

It takes a village to cover your back, I guess.

Anyhow, the unsupervised, feral Darling of the 'Burbs was finally being so rough on one antique, I knew it would snap within the next few seconds if I didn't speak up. Seriously. So I spoke (I'm just a stranger in the store, as far as they know).

"Hey, don't do that! You're about to break it!"

"It won't do what I want it to do!"

"It's not yours, and you're going to break it!"

"But it won't..."

Mom, within eight feet, doesn't even look over at him - which is VERY telling (if you hadn't picked up any clues yet).

"Wimbley, we're about to leeeeeave..." she sings. Sings.

"I'm LOOKING at something!"

("About to leave"?! THAT's your response?! To SING?")

He then picked up a composition doll (fragile) he'd already thrown on the floor, and threw it instead in a box before he reached Mom. They inched past me, and went outside. I kept watching.

He began smacking items from the shop on the sidewalk. Stomping on them. Knocking them over. The owner said nothing. I walked up... SAID nothing... but walked up within four feet of them. He looked at me and stopped. He put the things back from where he'd snatched them.

He wasn't retarded, he wasn't ADHD, he was nothing but improperly taught and tolerated, which gave him the grand sense he was Entitled. Someone, ANYONE, came along came said "No" - and he responded. For one minute he acknowledged the world was NOT all his, and he had a social responsibility. That's all. He didn't cry, didn't wrap around Mommy's legs, didn't do anything except the right thing for one unusual minute.

Mom didn't flinch. She showed no shock, no interest, no embarrassment, and certainly did not apologize to the owner of the shop... after all, HE hadn't said anything.

I didn't know which direction she was headed. She might've thought of walking up the block to visit "that other antiques shop" (mine). I'd already decided Golden Woman & Her Son were not welcome.

If you and I could've bet money right then, I'd of bet the conversation would've gone like this - and I know I would've won -

"Sorry, but I don't allow unsupervised children in my store."

"I'll keep an eye on him. He's my boy, and he's a very well behaved boy."

"Apparently you didn't notice I've observed you both - in action - the last fifteen minutes."

(Now hand over the cash. I know I won.)

Posted by Ronn Ives at 06:24 PM | Link

I arrive to work. It's lovely weather. A nice day in The City. Crisp but warm and sunny. Inviting. "I think I'll begin my day by opening the store and parking myself in a chair out front."

And, I do just that. Across the street in a vacant parking lot, I see a man and woman walking and yelling !!! at each other. "Okay ! Entertainment! Plus, I can be a witness should anything extreme happen !!"

They stand, circle, huff off, return, approach, shake fists, and scream, Scream, SCREAM !!!! at each other. The pitch builds to where it looks like one'll take a swing at the other... but they don't.

A high school girl runs the "Silver Rattle" next door on Sundays. You know, she's somewhat less experienced, more "in the Moment". She arrived, walked past me sitting there, and stopped to watch the action with me. It's, like, you know, like SHOCKING !!! to her. "It's something to do," I said.

The arguing couple falls into each other's arms at one point. "Baby, I loves you, you KNOW I do!" "I knows, and you know I loves you, too!" Then it was back to arguing.

Alvin ("Country Boy Antiques") starts to open. I wave him up to my place. He says "They've been at it since 7:00 this mornin'. I saw them at 7-11." That means FIVE hours of this mess has been going on out in public.

Sigh.

They disappear. I had whatever business day there was, and about 4:00 Alvin comes back up to my store. I am inside, and we go out on the front sidewalk to chit chat again.

An old man is walking towards us, slightly weaving. I smile and say to Alvin "Hey, YOU are behind the times in your Fashion, m'brutha..." The old man is wearing those standard dark blue work slacks you might see on a uniformed janitor... and over THOSE he's wearing a big pair of long-legged blue jean hip-hop shorts. He's mumbling (he immediately became "The Mumbler" on our neighborhood roster - we're VERY quick with the labels), and he stumble/glides past us mumbling "wanna cigret n munny. Wan' sum muh n sigre... jes wah mh si gris yaw ga mo dan..."

"Nah, we ain't got none," I said, but by then he'd already looked through me and was somewhere else in his head.

He went up the block, stopped, wobbled in confusion, and turned around, heading towards us again. This time there were no exchanges. I shook my head, and we quietly laughed at his "overdressing" for the occasion.

A few minutes later, another old guy comes down the sidewalk in a wheelchair. He's moving at window shopping speed, but seems a little on the spacey or stoned or crazy level. I bid him "good afternoon" and he nodded and smiled. His wheelchair was decked with all the stuff you would see on a homeless guy's shopping cart, plus a couple American flags, and eye-catching junk/paraphernalia. He was soon out of view - down the same direction as The Mumbler. The man in the wheelchair didn't have a name - yet - but he soon would.

So........ Alvin and I are chatting about what we planned on doing tonight, which is never much of anything...

"I'll fix a stew in my crock pot," he'll often say.

"I'll watch a movie," I always say.

For us, these are " Barney and Anj " moments up at Emmett's Gas Station.

Then suddenly I spy two bodies in a violent wrestling match rolling across the 7-11 parking lot, onto the sidewalk, and who knows, maybe into the street.

"Check THAT out, Alvin."

We naturally leaned into the Silver Rattle to alert high school girl and Heidi (the owner, who'd just arrived) about the "entertainment". A small crowd was slowly gathering. Some fool was standing there saying "You all gotta stop this!" as IF he had effective words for controlling two crazy sidewalk wrestlers...

oh my god, it's crazy Mumbler Man wrestling with someone! And right then he loses BOTH pairs of his pants...... and we see WHO he's wrestling.....

IT'S Wheel Chair Guy! Yes, they were all over the place, fighting and mumble-yelling, and losing pants. Wait, where's his wheel chair? We saw it about 100 feet away. It's not making sense!

Eventually both idiots got tired, and stopped their own fight. That's how it works. Just let 'em work off the steam. They'll give up. We ain't no social workers OR po-lice.

That's when Crazy Mumbler Guy stands up, too drunk to pull up his pants, AND Crazy Fake Wheel Chair Guy........ STANDS UP, and WALKS back to his wheel chair...... .then RUNS at Mumbler again....... someone stops him.......he WALKS back to his wheel chair again, HOPS on, and rolls off across the street.............. yelling at an empty parked car.

---

I haven't seen "Crazy Judy" in a LONG time. The "Woman with No Weather" has been missing for a couple of months. We have an obnoxious guy who never stops talking - some goofball we've named "Tardo", who immigrated here from a Slav country via New Joisey, but he's barely entertainment. He's just obnoxious. "Crazy Bobby" is often banned from our neighborhood. He's too crude and rude to people. We don't tolerate that. "Crazy Machete Bicycle Man" was REMOVED due to our phone calls to the police to HAVE him removed. He came back a couple months ago - looked like a new man - cleaned up, no bike, no machete, no screaming at sign posts - but it was too late for him. He was removed again, and he'll have to start a new life on some other street corner. So, really, we were close to Crazy-less, and to tell you the truth, it was getting Dull.

To Crazy Two-Pants Mumbler Man & Crazy Fake Wheelchair Guy:

WEL*COME !!

Posted by Ronn Ives at 10:49 AM | Link

Heidi, the woman who has the new baby decor store next door ("The Silver Rattle") has been adding signage to her door and show windows, along with an A-frame sidewalk sign complete with helium balloons tied to it, and a big flapping flag poking off the front of her shop. Everything is done in pastel pink, blue, yellow, and green.

My pal, Chris, and I were sitting outside of FUTURES, chatting this morning while the shade was still on the sidewalk. We brainstorm. In keeping with the "baby" theme, we came up with an idea for me, both similar and different. "Edge appropriate", I guess you could say.

Since we're on a major artery through the city, I came up with the idea he could design a very life-like baby that if pulled, would scoot its arms and legs in a crawling fashion. I could hook it TO a hook at the end of one of those big trophy fish rods and reels, and cast it out all the way across the street, across the island, across the other side of the street, to the other sidewalk. I would then step inside my store, with the clear ("invisible") fishing line coming back through my two doors, and I could slowly reel it back across the street. THIS WOULD STOP TRAFFIC (a plus!), and the baby would crawl right up to my front doors, where people WOULD then notice my signage and probably the show windows too....

Man. GREAT idea!

While Chris and I were sitting outside coming up with baby ideas, a FedEx truck began pulling up to the curb. Something...something was stuck to the front tire, and flopping around and around.

"Oh my god, it's a chunk of scalp and hair!"

"Hey, Mister FedEx, have you seen what's stuck to your front tire?"

"Yeh, it's been there awhile now."

I ran inside, got my camera, and took a photo.

THIS is why I think a FAKE baby in the street is a BETTER idea.

(If you'd like to see the photo, go to page TWO of "SHOP", click on "WHAT I SEE", open the gallery "VERSIONS OF NATURE", click on page TWO for photo "...and stuck to the tire...")

Posted by Ronn Ives at 10:44 AM | Link

A Sighting from the FUTURES

He's a skewed baseball cap topped all white faux basketball sports clothes wearing hip hop white guy out for the day with his girlfriend and mother. When he looks at an antique, he looks with disdain, sniffs loudly, and taps each thing as though he's putting quick curses on them. He walks like he actually thinks he has this power.

He's the guy who gets real drunk on keg beer. If you KNOW him, he slaps your back too much and tells you he "loves you man!", and, if you DON'T know him, he hates you. He's a real piece of work. And he's real common.

We've all known this guy. It was probably for a very short time, but he was in our proximity long enough to become a pain in the ass, or at least an embarrassment.

He was the guy who stayed afloat in his drunken delusion because when Monday came and he was back at school, The School wanted him to run somewhere in their uniform with a ball...... so they looked the other way when it came to grades, personal habits, and date rapes. For all HE knew, his latest victim was complimented by his weekend attention and thrilled to rise in social status by becoming his short term fluids depository.

Equally sad, we all knew a gal who believed this to be true. She was normally somewhere up in the hierarchy of "cool", but deep down she still doubted herself and spread herself thin grabbing any extra confirmation she could concoct and swallow.

After a week or two, the truth would come out, and her supportive girl friends would step in to sop up her mess of beliefs. NOT that they would offer a better solution. They could only help her feel less alone, and in doing so, they all had to hold the same beliefs.

Meanwhile, the guy, just as screwed up, went to HIS people and got HIS reconfirmation. "Yeh man, the Four F's...it's the only thing they understand, and anyhow, you know they wannit!" His friends had to hold the same beliefs too.

"SCORE! Hey, ...uh ...You done with 'er? When ya are, lemme know, awright?"

(What? You didn't think these people had ethics?~)

Posted by Ronn Ives at 09:25 AM | Link

Here's what I do sometimes:

Yesterday, Alvin (the antiques dealer down the block) bought some fixtures etc. out of a building "going down". In the haul, he had an old "Modess" sanitary pad machine from the women's bathroom. It was old enough to have a 5-digit phone number on the metal logo tag.

I said: "I think I know who will want this."

"THIS machine?"

"Yep. Let me see what I can do tonight. I have PEOPLE I can contact, IF their emails are still good..."

"Okay..........................."

So, I got into my 3.5" floppy disk of "Customer Wants", went to the "Specific, M-Z" file, opened it, scrolled down to, what else? "Menstruation". Here it is (slightly edited to protect the innocent and odd):

"Menstruation/birth control memorabilia, pref. pre-1970, booklets, pads, tampons, boxes, etc. - nothing but m.i.b., no single package, etc. over $100., (see printout of details), Jennie Van Xyzzzz, JEVXyz@xyz, 6-98."

Unfortunately, she no longer has this email, and I told Alvin he was on his own with the sanitary pads. I was a major supplier of mint condition Menstruation Memorabilia for this woman in the 1990's.

Welcome to My World.

Sometimes it gives me cramps.

Ronn.

Posted by Ronn Ives at 07:46 PM | Link

Sticking with "nostalgia" stories...I know I've told a number of them about HARD northern Indiana winters. The "worst" I remember was having to walk to and from my Junior High in waist-high snow at twenty degrees below zero for two and a half miles.

I KNOW that sounds like one of those "You young 'uns got it so DAMNED EASY! Why, when I was a kid..." stories. Over the years you begin to doubt the accuracy of your stories, even if you DO repeat them.

So, I got on the web, and looked up my old Junior High in South Bend Indiana. It was Muessel Junior High back in 1962-63, and was built in 1890. Cool old building, actually. Well, times change. It's gone, and was been replaced (not all that long ago!), but retains the name and is still on the same city property.

Then I google-mapped it, and counted the city blocks between it and my home, on the exact route I most often used. Alright! I'm NOT a nostalgic old freak who has twisted his old stories into pathetically dramatic and heroic episodes (which is a great relief)! The route is sixteen blocks long. I don't know how to turn blocks into feet or miles, but it seems to me I have it right... I had to walk to and from my Junior High in waist-high snow at twenty degrees below zero for two and a half miles.

Excellent! (Except for the distance, waist high snow, and twenty below...)

Hey, we WERE tough Back Then. We grew our own popcorn! We didn't go namby pamby to a store and buy it in a sack! We planted our own pop corn kernels, we'd water the land every day, and by the end of the summer the stalks were up and green. We'd harvest the ear or two of popcorn that made it, then slaughter a pig, fry it up, get some pig grease which we'd then heat over a fire to pop the corn, and we'd get 8 or 9 pieces of popcorn out of all that work, and BY GOD we ENJOYED it and we were GRATEFUL for what we got, damnit!

We were TOUGH.

If we wanted SALT on those 8 or 9 kernals, we had to dig it out of the ground ourselves... with STICKS, damnit!

We made our own popcorn bowls out of mud. We dried them in the hot Indiana sun, and then fired them in a homemade kiln powered by pig fat lit with a homemade magnifying glass we fashioned from polished fish scales. That's right!!

We were TOUGH.

God, THOSE were the GOOD old days... when men were men, and boys were men, and the girls were almost boys who were men. We were ALL tough.

TOUGH, DAMNIT!!!

And we LIKED it that way! Superman was nothing but a slightly stronger member of our Clan. We ate ROCKS until those 8 or 9 kernels of popcorn were ready. Wimps would wash the dirt off the rocks. Not me and MY friends!

No way.

Damnit.

Posted by Ronn Ives at 07:57 PM | Link

Last night, my wife took me out for dinner (it was my birthday), and we stopped in "Border's Books" (and Music, and Films) afterwards. Candy Store time!! I picked out my presents. Talk about exciting! She actually gave me a higher limit, but I felt satisfied and happy with my choices, and was ready to go home... so, we got in line to pay for the gifts...

Now...at the BORDER'S checkout station, they clearly delineate the line-up zone, and the cash register zone. It is to give people with credit cards, etc. a little breathing room and privacy. I get it. So do you. Most people do. However...

You may not live on a coast, and may not have any people like this where you live, but around here (on the U.S. mid-Atlantic coast) there is a phony surfer culture that pretends Virginia Beach is Hawaii or Australia, and the little laps of water that reach our sand are monster 90' mountains of gnarly water with bitchin' tubes just waitin' for you to shoot the curl. It's pretty sad.

So this Dude, tanning booth burnt to leather, looking 70 years old but was probably 50, with his six month old hair bleach supposed to appear sun-drenched all winter long, decked in his funky floral shirt, shorts, & flip flops was ahead of us. Dime a dozen. Jimmy Buffet Parrothead type.

I didn't notice him yet, except he was clueless about the waiting line zone, and wandered aimlessly within the cash register/privacy zone. Yeh, he's smoked dope for the last 35 years, lacks brain cells, and, like I said... Dime a Dozen.

When it WAS his turn to complete his transaction in the register zone, he was called up by the check out woman standing there. He, being the genius he was, walked up to the wrong cash register where NO ONE stood waiting for him. And, even after the woman reached over to him, brought his items over to HER scanner, and CONTINUED dealing with him "over there", he still didn't catch on. He stayed in his PREDETERMINED wrong place.

Alright, she finished up with him. By now I'm fascinated and hanging onto this moment. She bagged his stuff, and said:

"Have a good evening."

And he said:

"You're welcome."

Genius. I'm sure he sees big waves, lots of bitchin' chix, gets far-out with his tokes, still wishes he had a woody, and dreams of the day his Hangin' Ten isn't on the sand.

"Far out!! My social security check got here today! Awesome!"

Posted by Ronn Ives at 08:52 AM | Link

During a quiet moment at FUTURES (while working on expenditures), I stepped outside for some fresh air, and across the street were two "one-click-above-bum" men standing at the bus stop.

"HEY! HEEEEYYYYYY!!" (They're yelling my direction, but I want nothing to do with them.)

"HEY YOU! HEY MISTER!!" I glance over. My mistake. Eye contact.

"HEY, CAN YA ANSWER ME SOMETHIN'?"

"I dunno!"

"IS THIS THE BUS STOP?"

"What's the sign say there next to you?"

"BUS STOP."

"Well, I guess it's a bus stop!"

"SO YOU THINK THE BUS'LL STOP HERE?"

I squinted at him. He's GOT to be joking now. He isn't. I respond: "Probably."

Enough fresh air and "socializing". Idiots. I went back inside.

A friend visits me.

We were chatting about home ownership.

One of the two bus stop idiots then walks into my store.

He yells out, not seeing me, or I him. "HEY!"

"I'm HERE if you have a question." Then, I see it's him. Sigh.

"What can I do for you?"

"YOU SAY THAT'S A BUS STOP?"

"Yes, it's still a bus stop," we confirm. After all, busses do stop, and there IS that sign...

"SO WHEN DOES IT COME BY?"

"I don't know. I don't use the bus, and pay no attention."

My friend adds: "I think it's like every ten-till on the hour."

"SO IS IT COMING BY SOON?"

"I don't know."

My always-helpful friend adds "It might... Let's see, it's 'x' o'clock now, so... uh, it'll be awhile yet."

"SO NOT YET?"

I repeated: "I don't know."

Idiots.

Posted by Ronn Ives at 04:40 PM | Link

Yesterday I had a Klassick Olde Skool collector/barterer in the shop.

Here's what they do:

1. Start friendly. ("Hey, How's it GOING? Great! Mind if I look around??!")

2. Get quiet. ("......").

3. Look for long periods at what interests them. ("Oh man! I can't believe he HAS one of these!")

4. Start degrading those items, the shop, the owner. "I guess you haven't been at this very long?" "I've never noticed your store before." "No one's ever told me you were here, and I get around!" "You're never open". (Yes, they're now tripping over their own routines.) "Is this thing in your showcase a fake, is it chipped?" "Yeh, I got hundreds of 'em." "How long have you HAD this thing?" "You've probably heard of me. I'm X, who collects Z." "I know everyone." "That's a common item."

5. Think they've set the stage. ("Now's the time. I've got him weak. He's reeling with my insight and power. Hit him with a low ball offer!")

6. Put on the most casual air they can muster.

"Well, even though I have PLENTY of these, and THIS one's COMMON and CHIPPED, what will it cost me to take if OFF YOUR HANDS?"

Mind you, I haven't bothered with eye contact or other responses acknowledging their tired old routines. I've been too busy with more important things, apparently. No one gets a rise out of me with that crap. Yadda yadda yadda. However, NOW Ye Olde Quest-ion has been put on my desk.

"Well, I've been at 15 years, in this location for 13, I've been open 7 days a week for the last two months, and otherwise I am here 5 days a week..." (Let that hang there now...until they respond.)

"....Oh. Well, I guess I've just missed you..."

(Standard dodge. Nothing brilliant happening here.)

"Uh huh.... I'm afraid I haven't heard of you, but I'm so cloistered in this world of mine, it's no wonder. As far as ALL of my things go, NONE are fakes, and I often give away chipped items. Can you tell me why you say it's a fake, and where you see a chip? I seem to have missed it..."

"I have a lot of books, and I read somewhere once..." (Can you see me sighing?) "..that there were fakes of this made and I think that the light color spot is a chip...."

"What book was it you read? And no, the light spot is part of the glaze design. In fact, the spottier glazes are more desirable. You said you collect this stuff?" (S/he didn't say that exactly, but... JAB.)

"Yeh, I collect some of it. I don't remember the name of the book, though, & I didn't know this glaze was rarer..."

(The Ye Olde Bargainer is on the ropes now...)

"Much rarer. Worth twice as much. I'm surprised you didn't know that. I guess you don't have a couple of the books I own, or you just missed that part. Do you own the Smith book on it?"

"Uh, no...I don't."

"Here's what it looks like, in case you ever want to pick it up." (Pull it off the shelf, display it in a helpful manner.) "As far the price of my item goes, it's underpriced, perfect, and I'll stick to the price I have on it... since I price my things so larger city dealers can visit and make a living with me also... but thanks for bringing it up. I like being able to help people learn more about what they're trying to collect." JAB JABJAB JABJABHJAB.

"... Oh. Uh. Okay, sure. No problem."

Look folks, just walk in, enjoy the visit (this ISN'T a poker game), be nice, be honest, show your enthusiasm, and if you're on a budget (not just out for the "sport" of bartering), ask if there's any chance the price could come down even a little, and thank them whether the answer is yes, or no. Why be nasty? Instead, be unique AND welcomed back next time.

Posted by Ronn Ives at 08:25 PM | Link

Let's face it... sometimes we are Spousal Units at rituals to which we are not, and never will be, connected. We stand back & watch people swap incidents & language we do not understand, telling tales of mysterious events that were apparently hilarious, frustrating, or important. We understand the Primary Participants through the gossip we're given over the years and the behaviors we observe between the members at these heightened group gatherings.

We feel like Anthropologists.

"Flavorful fluids containing behavior-altering intoxicants. Vocalizations raise in volume throughout the rituals, much attention and laughter given to sexual references. Costuming generally more complex and less modest or practical than during their common shared daily activities. Designated couplings seem to lose some clarity. Non-tribe members tend to linger outside of the event cores."

Happy Office Parties to All,

Ronn.

Posted by Ronn Ives at 08:01 PM | Link

"WELL!!!!!!!!! YOU'RE FINALLY OPEN!!!!!!!!!!" she said as she strode into my shop like my best friend and worst enemy.

"Finally?" I asked.

"FINALLY!! I come by ALL THE TIME! You're NEVER here!"

(grumble*......"I'll give her some rope...") "So what day was it you missed me?"

"Let me think..." (okay, she's now confirmed she came by ONCE)..."It was Tuesday!"

"I was here Tuesday. Try again."

She tried. I let her run with as much rope as she wanted, and then I told her I'd only had two days off in the last six weeks...and THEY were 1) a huge Nor'eastern storm that closed everyone in the region, and 2) Thanksgiving day. So which of those two days did she go antiquing?

"Oh," she said, "Well, uh... THAT'S when I missed you then!"

I had to laugh. "You're here NOW! Look around & enjoy", I said.

She's overly friendly, in that gregarious in-your-face style. She's asked me two questions so far:

1) "Where do you get all your things...do people sell them to you?", and,
2) "Do you CONSIGN things?"

I KNOW where she's probably headed. So do you.

She has things to sell.

---

"THIS is an INTERESTING buffet..." commented a lady.

"Oh? Why do you think so?" I asked.

"It's higher than I've ever seen, and has this open space between the levels..."

(Do you see THIS one coming?)

I paused. Is she thinking what I'm thinking she is? Is she not noticing the woods, styles, and hardware that don't match?

"..........No...that is one buffet stacked on top of another buffet. They're not attached... they're unrelated."

"Oh."

---

Yeh, it's a slightly quirky day. Nothing obnoxious, just quirky. People who seem just a little over the center line.... weaving just a little out of the normal lane.

---

* DON'T walk into someone's little business - Mom and Pop type - run by the owner - and tell them they're never there. It DOESN'T go over well. No small business owner puts in less than 60-80 hours a week...

Posted by Ronn Ives at 08:15 PM | Link

With the dreaded Daylight Savings curse now upon us, home security becomes an even larger issue. Since it is a fair assumption you are HERE because you love your Home, I want to bring this to your attention. I have nothing to say that this incredibly valuable link can't describe much better:

http://www.popcenter.org/problems/problem-burglary-family.htm

Go. Read. Pass along. No joke.

Ronn Ives, owner of FUTURES Antiques

Posted by Ronn Ives at 10:39 AM | Link

Did you just say "Huge Mass Turd Cart"?

My wife took me to my mechanic to pick up my lousy FORD van, which was in for ANOTHER series of Sanford & Son patches. I handed him my MasterCard. I never have that kind of cash. Duh. No wads of bread dough on this man. No Upper Crust Loafer here.

I've had this MasterCard for YEARS. Their fees are high, but I'm a Pathetic Creature of Habit. Suddenly, it comes back "D E C L I N E D".

Huh uh. No way. No way!

He tries again. Same message. I don't have my checkbook with me. I expected nothing like this. He says "Go home. Call them. Clear it up from there. Call me when it is ready to go."

"Okay. Thanks."

I called the card's "service center". By my experience today, I'd say it's midnight there, and monkeys are sleeping peacefully in the palm trees just outside of the screened windows of the local MasterCard hut complex.

After much difficulty communicating with and answering the "privacy/verification" questions, I THOUGHT I had the woman with the heavy East Indian accent in sync. She said "Jes", she saw "dis" attempted charge on her computer, which was "declined" because it was "above" the norm (MY words here) for my average charge. "Fine." "Eet iss fix-ed now. Kin I hep yu wit inny ting el-ess?" "No thank you. Are you certain it is fixed?" "Oh yezsir eet iss." "Thank you. Goodbye."

It wasn't fix-ed.

Three hours pass. I made numerous attempts to get through the menus, only to finally reach other East Indian DRONES with accents so heavy I can't understand half of what they're saying, and, no doubt, they don't understand me. They read off a long list of "personal verification" questions that - you'll think I'm joking here, but DO I SOUND LIKE I'M F'ING JOKING????????????? - go back more than 30 (THIRTY) years in my history.

After "Eh, wat bonk hild de lo-an on yaw pweviss hom?" (26 years ago), I snapped. "You expect me to remember THAT?! (IF I understand what you're asking!) You NUTS!??"

Of course, she didn't understand my meaning of "NUTS". Perhaps I was referring to that which she plucked from the trees outside the second story screened window of her rattan cubicle, as a luncheon snack...

After three of these incompetents, I stopped this one, and said, "Connect me to your manager. NOW." She understood these words. NOT the first time she's heard it, perhaps?

"Doz Umirikans dey minny mush not nice peepho!"

"NOW" means 15 minutes on Hold. I guess they showed ME! Finally, I got a "manager". Within two words I hear the same accent. I said "Before we start, I need to know if English is your primary language."

"Yays zshir, eet iss!"

"Really? It does not SOUND like it."

"Zshir, Iy hap bean tolt yoo dun wan to ahnsir dee kweshuns ob dee uhssistin."

"It's clear we will not communicate, and you lied to me about your primary language."

I hung up.

I got back on the phone with my mechanic, who would LIKE to be paid. "Try sequential, smaller amounts." It was no-go. MasterCard has frozen my account entirely, due to their mistake and inability to fix it, let alone understand it.

This must get fixed, if only to clear it up before I dump them. I get junk mail every day asking me to join another company instead. I will. Not before I send Master Card a few thoughts, which they will, of course, dismiss quite easily.

WHAT does THIS have to do with Design? It's about Good Design vs Money. Greed has driven MasterCard to hire people outside of this country, who cannot properly communicate with MasterCard's customers & are willing to work for Less Money, at the expense of the quality of the System. MC's System is badly Designed. It fails their customers. They are big...but their customer's money will go elsewhere. MasterCard saved a dime today, and lost a dollar next year.

I'm no longer a Pathetic Creature of Habit. Are YOU a Pathetic Creature of Habit? I'm telling you NOW: get out from under that shady, collapsing Mass Turd Cart before it dumps stink all over you too. Go away.

I'M cleaning house. I have no more patience.

DUMP MASTERCARD AS FAST AS YOU CAN.
DON'T SAY I DIDN'T WARN YOU.
DUMP MASTERCARD AS FAST AS YOU CAN,
BEFORE THIS HAPPENS TO YOU, TOO.

MASTERCARD.

DUMP THEM.

Posted by Ronn Ives at 10:14 AM | Link

A man walks into FUTURES. I greet him. He walks up the center aisle... a nicely dressed middle aged fellow with no hint of insanity.

He: "Oh, I see you have REAL antiques."

Me: "....uh, Yes. (?) No fakes here."

He: "I mean, they're nice."

Me: ("THAT'S what you meant?!") "Thank you. Yes, they are."

He: "I want a thrift store."

Me: ("You WANT a thrift store? As a business enterprise?" Oh, you're LOOKING FOR a thrift store...?) "You're in the wrong place then."

He: "Where is one? I've looked all over. I don't understand why this city does not have one near by! Cities should have such things near by!"

Me: "There ARE a bunch near by."

He: "There ARE? Well, what I need is a hardware store."

Me: "I thought you said 'thrift store'."

He: "I did. I need some rope. Do you buy china?"

Me: "Oh. No, I don't buy china (I do, but this guy is nuts...). Do you want to go to a THRIFT STORE OR A HARDWARE STORE?"

He: "A military surplus place."

Me: "I thought you just said thrift store, then hardware store."

He: "I did. I want rope to tie some stuff down."

Me: "And you can't find rope?"

He: "I've looked everywhere. I thought a military surplus might have it. Why aren't there things like this in this city?"

Me: "There are, and there IS military surplus at 27th and Granby, which is near here."

He: "I know. I went there."

Me: "I thought you said you couldn't find one."

He: "I did. Their prices are too high."

Me: "Maybe you should look for a discount Rope Store."

He: "Where's the thrift store?"

Me: "I don't know" (I DO, but we are SO DONE now).

He: "So I still need rope and you don't buy china?"

Me: "Right. You still need rope, I don't buy china, and I couldn't help you, so you need to go find someone who CAN help you (and you DO need help)."

Posted by Ronn Ives at 10:26 AM | Link

Yesterday, while I was stopped at a red light, I saw a man pointing. I heard him yelling at a bus, which was also stopped at the light:

"HEY! Ah wanna go THAT way! Ah WANNA GO THAAAT WAY!!!!"
(Which was the opposite direction the bus was headed for the moment on its route.)

The light turned green. Both myself and the bus driver moved our vehicles forward.

It was another normal day.

Posted by Ronn Ives at 04:52 PM | Link

Back in the days when hitch hiking was still a "reasonably" SAFE activity (pre-Charles Manson), my close friend Richard, another pal named Mark, and myself, picked up a woman hitch hiking along the interstate. She was out in the middle of NO Where. You DIDN'T leave a person out there in the open range of Colorado - especially a young woman.

I don't remember her name, but then, many people had abandoned their real names during those years of the late 60's/early 70's anyhow. Yes, it was time to get embarrassing with up-to-the-minute, hip labels which seemed to express "the REAL you". "Hi, my name is Pine Wind..." Whatever... At least it wasn't permanent (like a tattoo).

Anyhow, this young woman was odd, but then, millions of people were trying on new modes of not only clothing, hair, and music, but relating and expressing. So, her being odd was not that unusual. I met a woman at a light
show/rock concert/Be-In who responded only with the question "Why?" The rest of the conversation was on me, all that night. (Hey, she was cute.) Odd was common, and common was odd - at least among my associations.

I'D become oddly common to those who knew me best during those years. By 1968, I'd rejected the drug scene, which - at THAT time - implied I'd abandoned a political position, a philosophy, a mode of expanding consciousness - I'd left the "Future" behind. Arriving at my LONG-awaited college life, with a good scholarship, and despite wearing the uniform of the Left/Activist, the Drug/Counter Culture, I was the guy telling MY friends to cut out the dope, because it was a waste of time, energy, and money. (Have you EVER successfully talked anyone out of experimenting with drugs? No, me either.) And, for awhile, my position actually had me on the "outside" of social life of my peers... but it gave me more time to devote to Art - the reason I was there - so it all worked out fine. My Best Friends never truly left my side. They were just stoned for a while, and we tolerated each other's states of consciousness.

This hitch hiking young woman (she was dirty blonde, dressed in the travelwear of the time - RAGS), was something of a mutterer, but again, this was not so unusual. (I had speed freak friends who were the worst - unbearably chatty/muttery.) Her chatter was merely part of the "ambience" our warm, sunny drive across the open range of Colorado - windows down in a '66 dark blue VW bug, at 70 mph.

We pulled into our college town of Ft. Collins, drove down the main drag to our hangout coffee shop, with the intention of buying her a meal before she headed back out into the world. She was a tumbleweed.

Then it happened: the song "Fire" by Crazy Arthur Brown came on the car's AM radio.

She LIT up like SHE was on FIRE...like someone gave her the best HOT FOOT of all time, and she LOVED it.

NOW we're getting a little concerned. Her muttering vanished. She was hyper excited and clear. She was the first true PYROMANIAC any of us ever met. She LOVED fire. FIRE was her god, friend, medium, icon, expression.

Okaaaaaaaaaaayyy..................... What the hell... We're Open Minded, Hip Young Men......let's not