Junky Saturday Afternoon

So Saturday I afforded myself some time to go and attend an auction at a local auction house. I made myself sit through 4 grueling hours and hundreds of wild life art prints with a smattering of junky junk in between all the ducks and pheasants and deers and bears and mountain men of print. I have had nothing but bad feelings about all that Ducks Unlimited feathers aflying stuff for the past 25 years. It really astounds me how people think they are buying art of any worth. Sure there is no accounting for taste. If you think it's a pretty picture or you get a certain buzz or fantasy boner for a big buck jumping over a stump that you would love to come across for real and plug with lead then so be it and so buy it, but the whole cult created for the purposes to make people like Terry Redlin or Les Kouba, to name just a couple and all the dealers millionaires is just horrible. It all stems from the fact that this country on a whole has forgone teaching the masses any type of art appreciation. Or am I just jealous? Sure but I still think that their art is really bad as far as paintings go. Really they are more conceptual than straight forward landscape painters, the concept being cash. They are in the same vein as Damien Hirst. Clever merchandisers. I can imagine that they spend more time signing these prints than painting. All these collectors should save up their money and just buy one actual painting by these guys if they like them so much. I suppose people think they could never afford a real painting but I saw people spend well over $2000.00 on a pile of prints they couldn't possibly have wall room for and are not worth much more than a scenic paper placemat picked off the table at a restaurant .

Ok, enuf of the anti-art rant. This is the bounty I came home with. I spent $12.00 and here are a sampling of the fine treasures I came home with. Lets talk more of my good taste shall we?

SO this little groovy thing is a CB lingo and code converter. You pull up the antenna and a line and the numbers on the left correspond with the definitions that appear in the slot at the top of the radio. On the back is a slang interpreter. It's life size to boot!





This strange little calling card or business card for CB sales. I'm thinking Witch Doctor was their handle. On the back is a number code interpreter.






Some dirty pink Poms with somebodies hair tangled in and a smaller clutch of Packer Poms.



Then I found these buried in a box of various sundries.
Man-Zan: Sample Rectal Itch medicine tins. Why, I ask, would anyone save these? They are old, but why even would an auctioneer offer them up for sale? I save a lot of things but I don't think I would save an empty tube of Preparation H. I suppose that depression era sort thought the tins would be handy for storage but Good God! They are slightly smaller than pictured maybe handy for storage of a snort of cocaine or one shiny penny. I hardly wanted to touch them. I think there is a pube stuck on the poopy looking one in the lower right. I couldn't get them open, not that I tried too hard to see if the sample was still in there, it wasn't like I was going to try it out. I will have you know I suffer no itching in that region. I am a fastidious wiper and do not suffer from hemorrhoids. I wash, I scrub it good. Praise be. I should offer them for sale on Ebay and see how much some crazy person would pay or maybe I will give them to my crazy friend Greta who would have no problem turning them into earrings.



"Put up"... PUT UP?...." with a collapsible tube with nozzle". Obviously that equipment didn't come in the tin. It sounds like an ordeal requiring mysterious devices. I just might PUT UP with the itch and scratch. Seems easier. Ish.