So what exactly is a boxlot?  Well, every estate has piles of tchotchkes that aren’t necessarily garbage, but that aren’t good enough to stand on their own.  Individually, these bric-a-brac are worth $10 and less.  Trying to sell each of these things individually during an auction is boring and inefficient.  However, these items still have value, and as auctioneers, we are obligated to produce every dollar we can for our consignors.  So we make boxlots:  literally cardboard boxes loaded with miscellaneous items that are sold together for one price.  Boxlots are a win-win situation.  The consignors get the value out of usable items that may have been otherwise disregarded, and the bidders get the opportunity to buy those items in an efficient way.

Some boxlots at Rebecca's Auction Gallery.

And so it is with my writing.  Sometimes I have ideas, thoughts, or stories that aren’t necessarily garbage, but that aren’t good enough to stand on their own.  Hence, this first of many entries tagged “Boxlot Post,” where I gather some of my miscellaneous cerebral tchotchkes into a virtual cardboard box, giving you the opportunity to enjoy that which may have been otherwise disregarded…

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I’m 6’4″ tall; my brother, Carlo, is 5’4″ tall.  Sometimes, upon learning that we are brothers, this foot of disparity will cause people to rudely point at Carlo and exclaim, “So what the hell happened to you?”  But Carlo raised an excellent point when he asked me, “Why don’t people ever point at you and ask why you’re such a giant?”

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Someday, someone will invent matter-energy transportation like what we have all come to know from Star Trek.  Such technology will inevitably be used by auctioneers.  (Oh, how I would love to be able to push a button and have the contents of an estate disappear in a cascade of lights and reappear in my gallery.)  However, I have a sneaking suspicion that should matter-energy transportation ever become a reality, there will be a group of zealots who will create a market for antiques and collectibles that have never been de- and re- materialized.  These “non-trans” will employ experts to certify merchandise as “unenergized,” claiming that chattel moved by sweat is pure, but stuff moved by Scotty becomes an abomination.  This stance will have no scientific basis, but will occur because humans have a natural penchant and need to be asinine.

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Yes!  For the Nth time, 99.99999% of all records (LPs, 45s, 78s, even wax cylinders) are worth nothing.  Nothing!  Reasonable people understand this when I tell them so.  Unreasonable people argue with me, yell at me, cry, and/or curse me to writhe in agony in the deepest layer of Hell.  Weary of such reactions, I propose that all records everywhere in the world be gathered onto a rocket and sent hurtling into the sun.  Especially Herb Albert’s “Whipped Cream and Other Delights.”  Was a law passed in 1965 that ordered everyone in the entire world to buy that album?  No, really… I’m asking.

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A good friend of the family extended a kindness to my father and sent him one of those edible fruit bouquets.  It was delivered to our auction gallery, and the guy who brought it figured that while he was there, he’d take the opportunity to ask me about a floor model cranking Victrola:

“It’s mint,” Delivery Guy proclaimed.  “Mint!”

“Well, I doubt it’s mint,” I said, “being that it’s 90 or 100 years old.  Mint would mean that it was never–”

“No,” he cut me off, “it’s mint.”

“Fine,” I sighed.  “Most floor model Victrolas these days–if they’re working and in good shape–are bringing between $100 and $150.”

“No!” Delivery Guy barked.  “It’s worth more than that.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” I barked back.  “You deliver fruit for a living; I’m only an auctioneer.”

Then, I walked away from him and helped Dad eat the fruit bouquet.

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An elderly gentleman attempted to convince Carlo and me that his pair of small and damaged Victorian vases were 300 years old.  We politely disagreed with him and dated them from the 1890s.

“No,” the gentleman argued.  “I was told they were over 100 years old when they were given to me and I’ve had them for 100 years.”

“You’ve owned them 100 years!?” I exclaimed.  “Well how old are you then?”

“I’m 80 years old,” he replied.

“Then how have you had them for 100 years if you’re only 80?” I asked.

He had no answer, and Carlo and I gently informed him that we couldn’t help him.

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