Sep 1999
Oct 1999
Nov 1999
Dec 1999
Jan 2000
Feb 2000
Mar 2000
Apr 2000
May 2000
Jun 2000
Jul 2000
Aug 2000
Sep 2000
Oct 2000
Nov 2000
Dec 2000
Jan 2001
Feb 2001
Mar 2001
Apr 2001
May 2001
Jun 2001
Jul 2001
Aug 2001
Sep 2001
Oct 2001
Nov 2001
Dec 2001
Jan 2002
Feb 2002
Mar 2002
Apr 2002
May 2002
Jun 2002
Jul 2002
Aug 2002
Sep 2002
Oct 2002
Nov 2002
Dec 2002
Jan 2003
Feb 2003
Mar 2003
Apr 2003
May 2003
Jun 2003
Jul 2003
Aug 2003
Sep 2003
Oct 2003
Nov 2003
Dec 2003
Jan 2004
Feb 2004
Mar 2004
Apr 2004
May 2004
Jun 2004
Jul 2004
Aug 2004
Sep 2004
Oct 2004
Nov 2004
Dec 2004
Jan 2005
Feb 2005
Mar 2005
Apr 2005
May 2005
Jun 2005
Jul 2005
Aug 2005
Sep 2005
Oct 2005
Nov 2005
Dec 2005
Jan 2006
Feb 2006
Mar 2006
Apr 2006
May 2006
Jun 2006
Jul 2006
Aug 2006
Sep 2006
Oct 2006
Nov 2006
Dec 2006
Jan 2007
Feb 2007
Mar 2007
Apr 2007
May 2007
Jun 2007
Jul 2007
Aug 2007
Sep 2007
Oct 2007
Nov 2007
Dec 2007
Jan 2008
Feb 2008
Mar 2008
Apr 2008
May 2008
Jun 2008
Jul 2008
Aug 2008
Sep 2008
Oct 2008
Nov 2008
Dec 2008
Jan 2009
Feb 2009
Mar 2009
Apr 2009
May 2009
Jun 2009
Jul 2009
Aug 2009
Sep 2009
Oct 2009
Nov 2009
Dec 2009
Jan 2010
Aug 2010
Sep 2010
Oct 2010
Nov 2010
Dec 2010
Feb 2011
Mar 2011
Apr 2011
May 2011
Sep 2011
Oct 2011
Nov 2011
Feb 2012
Mar 2012
May 2012
Apr 2023
May 2023
Jun 2023
Jul 2023
Sep 2023
Oct 2023

Daily Condition:

in car tapedeck: Art of Noise, Best of Art of Noise. It now sounds like I'm in an 80s police film as a drive!

my condition: sad, hoping my efforts succeed the way I hope.

Saturdays bring garage sales.

Destiny and I park across the street and saunter over to the South Moorhead sale.

First, I think, "Score! T'Pau and Art of Noise cassettes!" There's a handful of scifi novels -- and, the young couple, around my age, had notified us upon arrival that everything was half off. Everything I liked had originally been marked 50 cents. There was even a Boba Fett pez dispenser.

I regret not picking up the Fett pez, but I did select a Neal Stephenson novel and three of the Art of Noise cassettes.

A painful thought then crossed my mind. Mostly, the cool stuff at garage sales is cool for it's kitch value. They're old big-eyed kid paintings, or children's book-and-record sets. Usually if there's something cool, it's because the college student kid was asked to put some stuff out on the tables, and he wants near-retail for them.

This garage sale, however, pushes things to another level. The items are genuinely cool, but they're genuinely garage-sale. This couple (the woman I sorta recognize from my youth) were cleaning out useless stuff, and selling it for dirt cheap to clear space.

That's supposed to happen to crap from my parents' era -- how can young, cool people part with it? It makes me old to say, "can you believe these people are selling this stuff for a quarter? They're crazy!" Those things are said by 40-somethings upon finding a stash of macrame plant-hangers or Bill Cosby LPs. Are Fine Young Cannibals, Edie Brickell, and Lita Ford so un-hip now that they're marked DOWN from $0.50?

I make my purchase, and we drop off my items at the car before checking another garage sale across the street.

On our way back to the car, I switch my pince-nez glasses for my mirrorshades, and I straighten my New Jersey Transit t-shirt as my bowling shoes tread the pavement.

We settle ourselves in the car. I pull into the ex-hipsters' driveway to turn around, pausing long enough for them to see my APATHY license plate. I crank up the Macy Gray, and we pull away.

I am not ex-hip. I am still cool. You cannot stop me.

Soon, CafePress is opening a self-publishing option. No setup fees, no minimum quantities, and you can offer bound printed materials to your customers.

Earlier today, a visitor to The Books of Dog asked what it'd take to buy The Books of Dog.

The gears are a few weeks, The Books of Dog may be available for all, smartly bound and in full color.

Garage sales, garage sales. I stop at one, and find the prospects disappointing. Leftover craft yarn, miscellaneous useless things, clothes.

Under the end of a table, I spy a box. It's the kind that bulk paper comes in, open top with the cover missing.

Inside are a dozen bowling and volleyball trophies.

Taped to the box's exterior is a piece of lined notebook paper. In a girlish script is written 4 letters -- "FREE".

I pick up the box and head to the front table, where two teen girls sat.

"I'm taking your free box," I say.

They don't say OK, they just kind of stare at me. They don't object, either, so I take my box of faux gold and marble treasures and drive away.

blog advertising is good for you
Looking For "Wookies"?