Every
year, the Alaska Gun Collectors Association holds two shows–spring and
fall–at the state fair grounds. There is usually a big crowd, and
since 1) I am taking Visa and MasterCard now, and 2) I carry
switchblades, and 3) had a good selection of swords and battle-axes–I
had high hopes–I actually thought I might gross over 2K. Reality came
crashing through, and I only grossed half of that, and profits came to
only half of THAT.

And the food was lousy. First day, I paid
$8 for lukewarm scrambled eggs and medicre biscuits and gravy–second
day, I ate breakfast–cold cereal–at home before I left. And I paid
$5.50 for a buffalo burger that had been made in advance and on a steam
table so long that the tomato slice was partially cooked.

Usually,
I find a couple of cheap unregistered handguns to resell at a
profit–this time, nada. There WAS a nine-shot H&R revolver for
$150 which was mildly tempting, but the grips didn’t feel right to me,
and a used Jensen .22 auto for $70–but last year, I got one new for
$50. Also, someone had some SKS assault rifles tarted up with the
Draganov-style stock for $199, but I didn’t have enough mad money to
spring for one of them. One year, a guy had plain-Jane SKS’s for $100,
but they were gone in a twinkling.

On the plus side–my display
looked better than ever, since I had purchased a glass-topped display
case this summer. And a coin dealer who is an officer in AGCA had some
tables there, and I got an 1858 seated liberty half dollar, an 1897
Barber half, a 1909 Barber quarter and an almost-uncirculated 1921
silver dollar–all for about $40.

But the weekend took a big
toll physically–from the exertion and being on my feet so much, the
last two nights I woke up in pain, and it is hard for me to move around
even today, what with stiffness and pain in my knees and hips.

Since someone asked, in view of the paucity of posts lately–I’m fine, and every day is just as good as I choose to make it.  Businesss has been largely nonexistant lately due to the weather, and I have been feeling a bit of a pinch.  We have plenty of wiggle room on our credit cards, but the way I was brought up, it seems almost immoral to put groceries on a credit card.  Which I will be doing, soon after I leave the library.  Getting gas is different, since they has gas credit cards when I was a kid.  Speaking of which, I recall my dad was one of the inventors of the cash advance–he would pull into the Esso stattion and tell  attendant “give me $5 worth of regular, but don’t put it in the tank” with a wink.  The attendant would ring up the charge “sale,” hand my dad a fin, and dad had beer money for the day.  But I digress.

The biggest gun show of the year comes up in a few weeks, and I have high hopes. since the PFD comes out a few days before the show, and I am now accepting Visa and MC on sales.   I just called in an order for a bunch of swords–probably enough to last me a year or so–and next week, I’ll be ordering a dozen crossbows.  This is one of the fun things about being an arms merchant–getting tons of neat stuff in the mail  Sadly, the CRKT Desert Cruiser–an awesome liner-lock tactical folder–is sold out.  Sigh.

In other news briefly, I am dealing with a shitload of cats.  About a mointh ago, this nitwit returned two cats she had talked me into giving her in the first place–they were a tad too young to leave home, b ut I let her had them just to get her off my back–and she dumped them off on my porch when I was away, with a kid-written note of apology.   A bit after that, someone else dumped this lovely sweet little  short-haired calico female–now named Fancy– along with a bag of food, no note.  A week after that, a really neat calico female with awesome alien looks (triangular face, bushy tail that looks more like a fox tail than a cats) showed  up and stole my heart–so she got named Raffles.  CC has pretty much gone feral again, Freaky seems to be MIA, and Peachy shows up for  quick meal every few weeks.

Lots of good trashy books out–lawrence Block has a new Keller book out, and Lee Child outdid himself with the latest Jack Reacher.  And soon, Thomas Harris will be coming out with a Hannibal prequel.  Hannibal–my hero!  (Sigh.)

Th th th that’s all, folks!

Would You be a “Friend of God”?

Over the past ten years or so, Neale Donald Walsh has written as
many books about God–a god rather different than the one portrayed
(not to say libelled) in  traditional holy books.

The god he writes of does not judge or punish; this god only loves and creates.

This god is not to be feared, but  befriended.  Indeed, one of his recent books is entitled Friendship With God.

This god sends no plagues or jihads–only blessings.

My wife says she likes it when I read one of these books, because
life with me immediately improves.  And my health gets better, my
mood gets better, I become more serene and mellow.  In the past,
though, in time I would slip back to my old ways of being angry and
fearful much of the time.  This time is different.

For the past month or so, I wake each day with joyous anticipation,
knowing that the day will bring wonders.  I have never been
disappointed.  I spend more time looking at the clouds and
mountains–and yes, weeds and rain and mud–and feel awe and wonder and
gratitude at the beauty and perfection of God’s work.  Every day,
I find myself filled with more love for those around me–even people
who used to annoy me, people I thought to be my foes.

And so, after more than half a century of being a seeker of the
Light, I have found it–not that it was hidden very well.  Now I
would become a bringer of the Light.  I wish to spread the
message–known collectively as the New Gospel–every way I can, short
of buttonholing strangers and raving on street corners.  In other
words, I wish to be a friend of God.

This god reminds me of things like this:

We are All One.  No man or woman or nation or religion is any better than any other.

Life is Eternal.  Death is not an end, but a transition to another plane of being.

There are no victims or villains.  I alone am responsible for how I experience life.

There are no coincidences.  Nothing happens by accident, and God does not make mistakes.

There is no Hell.  (If this one throws you, may I add that this
view was shared by no less a Christian authority than Pope John
Paul II, who said that Hell is not a place, but a state of mind we
create when we cut ourselves off from God.)

If these ideas resonate with the truth in your heart,  contact
me.  See if you might wish to join me in being a Friend of God.

I am doing this because I enjoy feeling joyous and free, and wish to
share that feeling.  I am not working for or with Neale– as far
as I know, he doesn’t even  know who I am.  I have no hidden
agenda, no wish to start a cult or become some sort of guru, or get
rich and famous through this.  I intend to accept whatever
happens.  This “Friends of God” idea may fizzle out.  Then
again, it may just be that a few people will read this and think
“Yeah–I like this.”  And tell a few of their friends.

And little by little, the planet will come that much closer to being
saved, and the human race will become that much closer to being healed.

New Evidence of Senility Arises

Me, that is–not the Shrub.  He’s just stupid, as evidenced by his latest frat-boy idiocies in Europe.  But I digress.  This is supposed to be about me.  Okay, this morning I’m getting ready for my shower.  The task at hand wasn’t exactly rocket science, to wit–1) take clean shorts from clean shorts drawer; 2) take clean socks from clean socks drawer; 3) place same in shower pack.  Seems easy enough.

What I did, however–as I discovered after  I got to the laundromat and had finished my shower and gotten home again was: 1) get clean shorts from clean shorts drawer; 2) place clean shorts in clean socks drawer; 3)  leave everything there.

Sigh.

Thank heavens for luck.  I need it.

Not to mention safe and effective central nervous system stimulants.

Give Wal-mart some credit!

Sure, Swill-mart is a bloated and inflamed pustule on the body of commerce, but at least they are up-front about it.

Like when they got caught stealing from their low-wage employees by erasing hours worked from the payroll computers.  A spokesperson admitted it–the exact quote (as reported by the New York Times)–”In an organization of this size, this sort of thing is inevitable.”  Perhaps meaning that all big companies rip off their employees?  Still, commendable honesty.

And a few years before that, one of their big-shot suits admitted that their corporate goal was to put out of business every other retailer on the planet.

Sure, Wal-mart is a rapacious, slimy, oppressive corporate monster–but at least you know where they stand.

Mostly, on your neck.

A Day at the Market

The Wasilla Farmer’s Market, that is.  This is my pleasant day each week.  The local historical society sets up tables in a little historical park behind the musem and rents them to venders.  The name is a misnomer–there are a few folks selling produce, but there are also crafters and folks selling fresh-baked bread and out and out venders like me.  Anyway, it is a welcome change from the dust and noise of the strip, and I get a better class of customer.  More affluent tourists, fewer drunks and meth heads.

This blog is about two groups of customers who were especially interesting–”Interesting” in the sense of the Chinese curse, “May you lead an interesting life.”

A couple of tourists–well off middle aged white folks–stopped by.  The guy saw my knives and complained about his being lost at airport security.  I commiserated, added a bunch of subversive, not to say treasonous comments, about the futility and stupidity of the system–and for good measure, told them how easy it was to get a gun on the plane. (Details on request.)  Anyway, he dicided to buy a replacement, and the fun began.

He had made some disparaging comments about Chinese knives, with no explanation, so I steered him towards the American-made (and way more expensive) ones–Buck and Schrade.  (The old Schrade, not the new crapola.)  His wife was like a kid in a candy store–she must have looked at darn near every Schrade I had, and some Bucks, and a few top-end TigerSharps made in Taiwan for good measure.  They looked at one Schrade–a nice little lockback, MSR $34.95–about four times and I was sure he would get it.

Surprise, surprise–he finally bought what my sweety calls the Swiss Army jalepeno–a little green knife shaped like a pepper, which has a scissors blade and a can and bottle opener blade besides the knife blade.  I sell it for $10–and it’s made in China.  Go figure.  My two boxes of high-end knives were in a shambles, but they had so fun, I didn’t really mind cleaning up their mess.

Toward the end of the day, a family came by which just made my stomach tighten on sight.  Two grubby little boys, aged around seven and nine.  And I DO mean grubby–I was afraid they’d get the knives dirty as they fingered them.  The woman was this big fat Wal-mart shopper, nattily attired in dirty t-shirt and stretch pants.  The guy–”Uncle” someone–was maybe  6’3″, and must have weighed around 400 pounds.  I mean, really–you google “fat slob” and you get his picture.  He was crammed into sweat pants  and a (surprise!) a dirty t-shirt.

Well, the kids fingered and fooled with the knives and made feeble efforts to put some of them back in the boxes–finally, I just asked them to leave the knives out, since I  had to clean them off now anyway–they didn’t get the hint.  Uncle fooled around, clumsily, with a butterfly knife, which made me nervous, seeing those big sausage fingers fumbling with a knife in my general area.  Finally, he bought $5 worth of throwing stars and a  $20  set of throwing knives.  Cool!  After some more fooling around, one of the kids bought a butterfly knife for $10.  Finally, the other kid bought a Venom Stinger (don’t ask!) for $20.  The total sale of $55 was my biggest sale, not only of the day, but of the week.

I should have been grateful, but it was such a hassle dealing with the group that my profits were well-earned indeed.

But the day ended well.  Traffic was slow, it being the day after the fourth–several of the regular venders hadn’t even showed up.  Some were grumbling about the slow day and packed up early, but me–the old Turkish rug peddler–I had record sales for the day.

An Odd Dream

Kathy and I often tell each other our dreams.  We adhere to the admonition in the Torah–”An uninterpreted dream is like an unopened letter.”  Thing is, I usually  have vivid and bizarre dreams, but  can’t remember them.  This time is an exception, and rather than burn cell phone minutes to recount it to her, I am putting it down here, for her, and whatever other Xanga readers I have, and the NSA to read.

I had just moved into an apartment in new Yrok City and was sharing it with my mother (who is edead now, and was young then) and my sister Alyce (who is married, addicted, and rather loony).  Mom was working as a waitress, I had some sort of job, I don’t remember what.  It was a very nice building–one of our neighbors owned an antique shop near the apartment building–she had a bunch of items out on the sidewalk for sale, one of which had a Betty Boop motif, which I wanted to buy–she only wanted $22 for it.

My father (who is also dead now) stopped by to visit, and had some items to give me, including an owners manual for his first car, a 1932 Chevy coupe (in real life, his first car was a 1949 Pontiac sedan) and some war medals.

There was more–we were getting company, I wanted to change out of the odd thing–soert of like a track suit made out of a shower curtain–I had been wearing, couldn’t get it off, that sort of thing–but can’t remember any more.

Paging Dr. Jung. . . . .

I feel spiffy, oh so spiffy. . . . .

My sweety once said  I was a clothes horse, and I took umbrage at that.  She’s good at that–in fact, during the fall of 2002, so many people had taken umbrage at her remarks that there was a severe shortage on the East Coast, and umbrage futures soared to record highs on the New York Commodities Market.  But I digress….

I have long since returned the umbrage–at uxorious rates, I might add–and now revel in my equine sartoriality.  Take today.  In two hours, the Wasilla market opens, and since there is a better class of folks there  than the drunks and dopers and assorted unindicted co-conspirators who are my usual customers at the Strip, I have eschewed my usual frayed jeans and garish t-shirt and ball cap in favor of this: starting at ground level, Arnold Palmer signature suede walkers–comfy, not terribly bling, but nice.  Bill Blass casual slacks, with generous pleats and full cuffs and a nice break over the heel–old man pants, in other words, but I like them.  They are held up by a nice leather belt in an alligator  texture.  Next, we have the Bill Blass checked sport shirt, and the whole is  topped off by an imported Austrian fedora.  My watch is a Sergio Valente calendar tank watch, set with a wee diamond at the twelve o’clock position.

Now just a darn tootin’ minute, protests someone from the peanut gallery.  You are always going on about your poverty and shit–what did you do, pull off a daring daylight robbery at the local men’s emporium?  No way, sez I.  Here is my secret.

The shoes, pants and shirt came from a local thrift shop–total cost for them, less than ten bucks.  My sweety got the hat and belt online for me at a big discount years ago, when we had lots more dough–she was making thousands off the books growing pot, I was doing $200-300 a day as a street peddler in Talkeetna.  This was before they ran me out of town.

The watch I got on sale–one of the local box stores has a close-out sale once a year–and paid less that $13 for it.

Oh, and I smell faintly of Tommy Hilfiger Body Lotion–which I got out of the local dumpster.  Smells pretty good.

The lotion, not the dumpster, ya big silly.