The Great Piss Storm of '013

I'm wistful today. You see, it's the time for the Holiday Extravaganza, a wonderful event that's timed every year to coincide with winter and Christmas. Which was fun to go to until they changed some of their policies.

Someone asked me to go several years ago. And they were right, the various handiwork holiday crafts were nauseating to see, but, as it turned out, were especially a delight to piss on.

This is true. It's one of the few Craft Sale/Holiday Extravaganza-type events I'd ever seen that had a lenient policy on pissing on the merchandise and exhibits. Which was especially welcome to me, because when I see a lot of that stuff, Santa Clauses with the rounded heart bored in his chest area, denoting the heart of Santa offered up to the world, etc., I experience one of two reactions: 1) A spinning feeling that makes me feel faint; and, 2) The need to piss on it, thereby expressing my revulsion.

But enough about me. Except to add, I went to the first Extravaganza I heard about, and was unprepared for what I would see. Which is to say I'd relieved myself sufficiently at home, then when it came time to express my feelings I could only muster a few minor tinkles, something like an eighth of a cup were it measured. Hardly worth my time.

The second Extravaganza was in '012 (Ought 12). Again I didn't make a production of it, just enough of an output to say I had one. Because, frankly, these days no one cares, really. You tell someone what you did and they always answer with something they did. Leaving my story to wither on the vine and get no kudos. I hate that about life these days. It's almost enough to make me strain real hard, like right now, till my face turns red, and, oops, there went about an eighth of a cup...

The third Extravaganza was in Ought 13. This time I didn't care what anyone thought. So I crammed for it. I knew -- by now I knew what they'd have -- I'd see lots of those Santas with the rounded heart, PLUS -- and this was really what got me going -- some touching sculptures of Santa kneeling at Jesus' manger. I had drunk probably three pots of black coffee. The level in me was something like this, starting at my groin and going to my nostrils. I was noticeably yellow with jaundice, the liquid I was packing.

Long story briefly told, I got to the Extravaganza and was amused to see a few of the better pissers taking little demur tinkles on the merchandise. Just enough, really, to season them, but not enough to put you in the books. But it's a big place, with plenty to piss you off. Like the little old ladies -- who were cool hippie chicks in the '60s -- fidgeting with their tablecloths, etc., and rearranging the merchandise for the best psychological presentation. I saw that -- and these are all things that push my buttons -- and went into a whirl.

When you go into a whirl, it's a brain function, I'm guessing. But it starts in the gut. You get a queasy feeling, kind of like what a volcano feels. You know you've got to do something; this thing is inexorable. Similar to having to sneeze when the sun's out. I took in the whole panorama of the place. The little old ladies, the holiday sprays, the "old-fashioned" children's horses, trees trimmed with ornaments, and especially those Santas with hearts bored in them -- tiny hearts, medium ones, and big hearts... Oh god!

What a terrific memory this is for me -- although for the others, I'm sure they regretted the normal liberal pissing policy. I went into a spin -- I was stirred in the depths -- and essentially lost my consciousness, having trained it nearly completely on the task at hand, destroying their Holiday Extravaganza with such a prodigious gushing output. It rivaled a small town's water tower rusting through, if it's not too immodest to say so.

I crossed my eyes and could see the yellow in my own eyes, the level sloshing back and forth as I walked. Walked? I strode, unzipping in a most determined, focused way. It'd ruin my pants if I didn't get it out. This son of a bitch -- if I'm permitted one vulgarity -- couldn't be stifled, couldn't be stymied. It was like a train coming through town; you might make an ordinance against it in the future, but it's vain to try to stop it in the present moment.

I literally saw the heavens opened, but I cried out, "Not now, Lord, I've gotta go!" And ... I did. Everyone dove for cover and I did what had to be done. Spraying, dousing, flooding that arena with so much piss -- they've literally got a marker on the walls 10 inches from the floor denoting the level. I know it was such a mess I got some on me and had to wash my jeans after all.

This was no small deal. The merchandise -- the good, bad, and in-between -- was all ruined. Leading to the rules change in Ought 14 banning pissing on the merchandise all together. Which I heard about from others, since the bastards banned me.

Ah well, and today's the day. I saw it mentioned in the paper just as I was finishing my third cup of coffee, and thought, "If only..." But it could never happen. Not again. Because I'm a good guy and respect the rules. Live and let live. I'll just pee later in a more appropriate place.

The Billionaire Buys My Easter Bunnies

Easter Sunday is coming, the day I celebrate above all others, a great and glorious day, the day I enjoy my profits from selling Easter bunnies at the craft sale. The sale, this past Saturday, was especially great for me this year, giving me a lot to rejoice over, and it's all thanks to the billionaire.

Wow, I'm in awe, to think I met such a rich man -- an actual billionaire -- a guy with more money than I'd ever know what to do with. This isn't going to be the same old Easter now, thanks to him. The wealth that guys has, it boggles the mind. And to think, he's not afraid to get out and spend it, thank God!

It all went down just like I'm saying: I made up 50 new Easter bunnies and with my hold-over stock trudged sullenly to the shopping center, dreading the usual dismal sale. Those bastards, the shopping center management, are always looking for ways to stick it to us. And it was the same this year. They put us in the opposite wing, where the bathroom's three times as far. That's bad for a guy like me, a solo act, meaning I have to leave my stuff at the mercy of criminals and cutthroats to pee. There's enough thieving kids at the shopping center -- wild animals lusting to steal -- that it's tempting to sacrifice your bladder to protect your stock.

I looked up at the crowd gathering at the line in anticipation of the starting pistol. Three old ladies with empty plastic sacks looking for free samples and no pistol. Big encouragement! But thankfully things did pick up, a few stagglers here and there. Being slow isn't terrible; it cuts down on shoplifting, and of course the ever present threat of other backstabbing crafters wanting to get illicit photos of your stuff. It can be a mess except for some downtime.

I also use those opportunities to keep my table tidy. I have an eye for posing the bunnies, positioning them for maximum appeal. Angled out, a few about an inch from the edge of the table. It shows they're eager to go, looking for a good home. I've noticed a lot of ladies, with their mothering instincts, like anything that suggests eagerness. They get that from hungry babies, and even look for it in inanimate objects, especially if they're cute. I've been exploiting their weakness for years, always looking for a way of making these bunnies more babyish, cuter, and eager.

Some of the gals coming through, though, didn't seem to have the mothering instinct, being more concerned about price than what they could do for these little orphans. But I anticipated them, and put prices by the little guys. A strict $5 apiece or 2 for $9, a dollar discount. I hate giving up that dollar, but some of our less instinctual people need the extra push. Cheapskates.

11:30 came and went -- the dog days of any craft sale -- when people are thinking about eating and not as apt to be wanting our junk. You see it on the faces of fellow crafters. The fans come out, they're rolling their eyes, and bitching about the shopping center. Which isn't slow to take our fees but isn't so quick to address our grievances, like why we have to be parked by 8-10 empty stores. It'd make more sense to put us in a couple of the empty stores closer to the main traffic. But hey, that's insider stuff.

Anyway, here's the real news. This guy -- someone recognized him and said he was a billionaire -- came in with his people, and was enthusiastic about what he saw. There was one lady with a clipboard, a guy with a briefcase full of money, and several bodyguards. The billionaire himself, a good looking guy with a friendly face, a little older than me (62), appeared from the middle of the group.

He had a good word and a handshake for everyone, and assured us he wanted to buy everything we had! I didn't know how that'd go, but it was easy. We simply stated our price and the lady with the clipboard wrote it down and the other guy paid us. No haggling, no nothing, although the clipboard lady, obviously, if left to herself, would've been tighter. The billionaire had places to be, money to make.

He came over and was admiring my stock, commenting on how cute the bunnies are, and even engaged me in some shop talk. On my color scheme, why I chose pinkish ears for them. I explained I thought it was a pleasant color for ears, then started into a more indepth explanation on the psychology of appealing both to children and mothering-type women, when he waved me off with a laugh, also shaking my hand boisterously and saying, "All that's inside baseball, over my head; I'm just looking for nice things!" That really did something for my ego, to think I was smarter than a billionaire!

The key thing, beyond the pleasantness of this encounter, was I got an amazing $2,000 for around $400 of inventory. In one swift transaction, no fuss, no muss. And the same thing went for the others. The billionaire didn't care. One of his people also passed out coupons from the downtown coffee shop for free lattes. It was win-win all around.

This was easily the best craft sale I've ever set up for. It made up for a lot of dismal Easter sales out there, that's for sure! Giving me money to burn ... I'll save some of it for my golden years, probably.

The thing now -- which is a discouraging thought -- is what's going to happen next year? Do I make twice as many bunnies, then have the billionaire not show up? But that's next year's worry. This year I'm celebrating big time, with a joy to last me all week, and, I'm hoping, right through Easter Sunday itself ... and beyond! He is Risen! Moolah!
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Previous Easter Bunny Craft Sales:

2010:
Local Man Makes and Sells Easter Bunnies
Selling Easter Bunnies at the Shopping Center
Last Call for Easter Bunnies
Boxing Up My Bunnies

2011:
The Easter Craft Sale

2012:
I'm Selling Easter Bunnies at the Craft Sale

2013:
Easter Bunnies -- Is This The End of Crafts?
The Easter Craft Sale -- Post-Mortem

2014:
Shell-Shocked -- The Easter Craft Sale

Shell-Shocked -- The Easter Craft Sale

It's ironic that, after the Army couldn't save from destruction the shopping center, where we've always had the Easter craft sale, this year we had it at the VFW hall. Of course if you lose the battle you shouldn't reap the spoils, but I'm only one voice.

Right away, I saw this one local character, Terry, a shell-shocked Vietnam vet, handling everyone's stuff roughly. He left some of the ears on my bunnies bent, then was oblivious to it. I was using psych tactics on him, busying myself with unnecessary rearranging when he was around, trying to get him to leave. So he didn't do too much actual damage.

The place was a terrible place for a sale. They have their bar right there in the next room with an open door between us. You get the secondhand smell of drinks and smoke, pretty intense. Terrible. I saw the pool table, untouched, with the casual light above bearing down on it. There was a quarter in one of the corners, like someone called next game, but was then was so shell-shocked he forgot.

In our room, the sale area, there was a similar bad vibe. The walls were lined with huge black and white portraits of past commanders, trim looking old guys, mostly from the Greatest Generation. Then there's a number of more modern pictures, some in fading color from the '60s. The '70s pictures are more casual, showing the breakdown that started after Nam. And I believe Ronald Reagan allowed much more breakdown, then, in the '80s. You see it in the '80s pix, hair over ears, bushier mustaches, and darker glasses, in what might be called the military's Mr. Potato Head years.

None of this was good. Because the whole point of a craft sale is to get women in. And women don't want to come to a revolting man-cave like this. You'd be afraid to bring your kids. They'd catch one glimpse of Terry and swear off war altogether. So the sale sucked.

I had plenty of time to look around. I and some of the other crafters -- we're usually complaining about something -- could do nothing but shake our heads and laugh. Once you see you're not going to make money no matter what, that's when you laugh. It was different at the shopping center; you didn't always make a lot of money, but the potential was there. That's why we were always bitching.

This place, though, with the beer/smoke/old carpet odor, the odd stacks of chairs against the walls, the old nicked-up wooden coat racks, the dim lighting, and those godawful leering pictures, killed us. And the flickering fluorescent lights! They made my bunnies look frail and sickly. And their purple ears don't need help! And the Styrofoam, my God! I was afraid it was softening up, maybe even subtly melting from the alcohol (actual and from guys' breath) in the air. They say Styrofoam lasts forever in the landfill. Maybe all they need is the VFW to go and break it down!

On the positive side -- just to be fair -- the tables were definitely cheaper. Although, to be negative again, if you're not making money, what's the use? I felt like a crafts sadist sitting there. You have to have some traffic, besides these shell-shocked guys bending things and breathing on  you. As I was hauling my unsold bunnies out, I saw Terry one more time: hat on backwards, food on his mustache, saluting the jukebox, in a word, shell-shocked.

So, unfortunately, I ended up with bad results today, no big surprise, I know. At this rate -- money being what it is -- I might be able to afford a medium Easter ham. But that'll be it. No sides, no bread, no glaze on the ham. Just one dry naked bare ham. But, I'm happy ... Keep repeating, I'm happy; better than an empty table.

Never again! Seriously, this is my vow before God and man, and please, someone, mark it down! We will never again have the craft sale at the V-freaking-FW, or I'll know why!

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Previous Easter Bunny Craft Sales:

2010:
Local Man Makes and Sells Easter Bunnies
Selling Easter Bunnies at the Shopping Center
Last Call for Easter Bunnies
Boxing Up My Bunnies

2011:
The Easter Craft Sale

2012:
I'm Selling Easter Bunnies at the Craft Sale

2013:
Easter Bunnies -- Is This The End of Crafts?
The Easter Craft Sale -- Post-Mortem

The Easter Craft Sale -- Post Mortem

I've had a long and hard day, so I'm really not in any mood to make comments about the Easter Craft Sale at the shopping center. But I feel I owe it to everyone to say something, and I'll try to put a good face on it, regardless of how terrible it seemed at the time.

The day started badly. The set-up time is between 7 and 8 a.m. And for some reason my alarm didn't go off, meaning I overslept for the first time in something like 25 years. I'm thinking I subconsciously didn't want to go, and so whatever internal timer mechanism I have tried its best to spare me. Except I did need to go, since I'd already paid the exorbitant $40 fee for my table, up five bucks from last year.

After I did everything I had to do, including loading the bunnies in the car, and going to the bathroom, etc., I headed out to the shopping center, knowing it was going to be rough. Spots for the tables, except for the higher class people, the real long-termers, is first come, first serve. Which ended up meaning precisely how I knew it'd go, the other bastards would grab the best spots, leaving me, the latecomer, the crappiest spot in the world, a few tables past where even the diehard customers are likely to go.

I got a few nasty comments from some of the ones who know me: "Bedhead," "Look what the cat dragged in," "At least you're well-rested," and "Good luck -- You're going to need it." The worst part of the process of getting in was that I needed to make multiple trips past some of these cretins, giving them plenty of opportunities to level their best taunts.

But I finally made it, and got my stuff all set up: A nice blue tablecloth, my signs -- "Lovely to look at, wonderful to hold, but if you pop off an eye or mess up the styrofoam head, we mark it sold.", "Cute, crazy, cuddly," "No photographs or sketches please," and the price card, "$5 apiece, 2 for $9." Now it was just time to settle in for a day of bustling business.

I guess I'm always an optimist, at least going in. Then as the day drags by, I'm nothing but a realist, "I'm sunk, this sucks, I should've stayed in bed..." For customers I had the usual dregs, lots of lookers who can't be bothered to spend a quality minute examining my stuff, kids who have no qualms about bending the pipe cleaners, and preoccupied mothers who foolishly ignore their children's desire for a nice bunny. Then occasionally -- but never often enough -- one will be persuadable, and it's those ones I like. I'm quick to get their cash before they have time to reconsider. They might walk away and the kid immediately breaks the bunny, but no matter ... I just look the other way.

Around noon, I saw some clown with his phone out, snapping pictures of some of the crafts upstream. For which I came prepared. I whipped out two other tablecloths and covered my stuff, then prominently put the "No photographs" sign on top of the whole works. He got down to me and looked a little put out, but I only smiled, knowing I'd scored a major win for our side. Hell man, if you want a picture of a bunny, buy one, then go home and photograph it to your damned heart's content. I don't want my stuff on Pinterest. Knock off someone else's art ... or craft, in this case.

It slowed to a dead crawl around 2 p.m. I was able to get out and talk to some of the other crafters. My day was terrible but they had even more gripes than me. That's one of the great things about craft sales. If you really want to hear complaints, crafters should be your go-to guys. The sale was poorly advertised, the shopping center doesn't respect us, the increased table fee was egregious, and a lot of the browsers are only in the vicinity to use the bathroom; they don't care about us. Plus, we kick around the bad economy and people's decreased disposable income, despite the evidence to the contrary, poor people going by carrying $5 coffee and their grubby little rug-rats eating $4 cotton candy.

I had a few anxieties of my own. One, my sales were worse than previous years. Two, just because I caught that one photographer doesn't mean I didn't miss a few others. A few of these knockoff artists have someone distract you with friendly talk, then they're snapping pictures, only to have the friend drop you like a hot potato when they've got what they want. On that point, I suspect the friendly girl with the deep cleavage who visited with me -- stunning eye contact! -- might have been a photographer's confederate. But she was sweet enough it was almost worth it. And, three, offering a twofer (2 bunnies for $9) about kills my profit margin. I like the come-on aspect of it, I just have to hope not too many customers abuse it.

Oh, I used the word "customers." In crafter language, the word for them is "fresh meat." That's one of the biggest complaints. Listen for it if you get close to a crafter. If they're complaining about "Not enough fresh meat," all it means is they wish we had more customers. If only the stinking shopping center would advertise more!

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Previous Easter Bunny Craft Sales:

2010:
Local Man Makes and Sells Easter Bunnies
Selling Easter Bunnies at the Shopping Center
Last Call for Easter Bunnies
Boxing Up My Bunnies

2011:
The Easter Craft Sale

2012:
I'm Selling Easter Bunnies at the Craft Sale

2013:
Easter Bunnies -- Is This The End of Crafts?

Easter Bunnies -- Is This The End Of Crafts?

Well, I have to confess, I'm not in a very good mood. You can probably guess why: Easter's coming! Meaning, yes, even though Easter is a very joyous holiday, it's also the season for the Easter craft sale at the shopping center. Which once again I'm planning to set up for. Even though at this point I'm more depressed about it than ever.

Still, I keep telling myself, anything I make is more than I have now. But it definitely could be better. It's almost not worth it. And yet ... there I'll be.

When it comes to crafting, I think crafting's in a sad/weird state. It's not the best of times, it's the worst. One, you've got the old-timers, dinosaurs like me, who insist on only the finest craftsmanship, being heavily into the tradition of the thing. Only, we don't get much for it. Then you've got all the young turks, mostly women who are learning their "craft" off the internet -- as I call them, Pinterest copycats, churning out crap and that by imitation.

I'm proud to say I came up with my bunnies on my own. It took a lot of tinkering. But what's that count for these days? That and a quarter and I'm as good as broke. So, in part, I'm going to be there for my fellow old-timers. We have to stick together, even if it's hard; I see a lot of very grim expressions. But the others, the newbies, they've made it a social media thing for themselves, so they're always bubbling over with a silly excitement, la de dah. Crafting fangirls, big fans of each other, and not an original idea in the whole pack!

Even though I'm sticking with it, I have an incredible insight: No one really needs crafts. It's all do-it-yourself now. With the internet -- and the worst scourge, cameras everywhere -- anyone can knockoff your crafts. Like my bunnies. If you have a picture of them, and aren't just going by memory, it's not too tough to see what fits where. Although, insisting on craftsmanship and tradition as I do, of course they aren't going to be near as good. But I'm realistic; we're not making a living at it. Those who try, we have a word for them, the poor.

I mentioned cameras. What a scourge. They're everywhere. I wish it was the 1800's, like with Lincoln, where they had to ignite a living vulture on a pole for the flash and make a 30 second exposure. It wouldn't be hard to catch people taking pictures then! Now they're on the sly. Every phone is a camera. There's probably cameras built into wedding rings. It's a Dick Tracy world, only not as full of promise as we once expected, more a curse.

Really, it's like this: If you want to keep your ideas to yourself, you about have to cover them with a sheet and only offer peeks to people who express a real interest in buying. I think it might be good for them to put down a small deposit -- let's say $25 to $50 -- to take a peek. Then if they buy, they get the deposit back. That'd cut down on the frivolous browsers as well as those with a hidden camera or photographic memory. Or maybe put them to public shame if they didn't buy something, like dunking their head in molasses and spraying sawdust on them, or at the very least putting a big "Kick Me" sign around their neck. That'd cut down on idea-stealing.

On the other hand, if this is the end of crafts, it could be a big year. If people think the end is here, maybe they'll want it to go out with a bang. They might snap up my stuff like collector's items, the last hurrah of a dying era. I'd like to say tradition and craftsmanship wins out, but I don't think it does. Not when you have all these women and the fast thrills of social media, all of them getting together to celebrate one another's supposed cleverness (yeah, we know!), then it no doubt degenerates into touching, heavy breathing, impassioned stripping, and who knows what all, as they writhe in ecstasy on the floor. I hope they choke on it...
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Previous Easter Bunny Craft Sales:

2010:
Local Man Makes and Sells Easter Bunnies
Selling Easter Bunnies at the Shopping Center
Last Call for Easter Bunnies
Boxing Up My Bunnies

2011:
The Easter Craft Sale

2012:
I'm Selling Easter Bunnies at the Craft Sale

I'm Selling Easter Bunnies At The Craft Sale

Like I've been doing for a number of years now -- I think this must be 10 years -- I'm selling Easter bunnies at the shopping center craft sale. Thank God Easter only comes once a year, because sitting here, and of course putting up with all the crap, can be almost too much.

I'm always an optimist. Especially when it comes to religious holidays. I always think religious holidays ought to bring out the best in people. So that, say you're at a craft sale, they ought to be a lot more willing to part with their hard-earned money for whatever trifles people are selling, for their own benefit, and also because I'm helping them get more into the spirit of the holiday. But no, it's the same old crap, a big disappointment from my point of view

And then there's the craft sale business period. It's gone to hell, I think. The shopping center doesn't respect the hard work we put into crafting They don't respect crafters, period! Except for the bigger crafters, who are practically moguls compared to the rest of us, the peons. That really came out this year especially. The way they had us set up this year, of course we were down at the far end, in the vicinity of the stores that start up and shut down a few weeks later.

But here's the twist this year: They set up the moguls first, then dribble dribble dribble, you have the next top dog, then another, and so on, until you get to the true peons, the few of us with only one table each. I was right there -- those bastards -- at the very end of the line. So that by the time any customer might ever wander down as far as me, they'd most like spent all their money, or were looking like they thought they'd be mugged if they went much farther.

I'm very fortunate that I only do this one sale now in the year. Because there's nothing more unpleasant than hearing the grousing of crafters at craft sales. Which I actually caught myself joining in, because, for crying out loud, what are we, scum under people's feet? By the time you put money into your supplies, your table rental, and the entire day's time, you're lucky to make pennies on the dollar. You're sitting there like some kind of off-scouring, with squalling kids and cranky mothers who don't feel like buying them cute bunnies, etc. It's enough to drive you wacky.

But I'm focused on my own grief. My own grief keeps me very busy. Although, yes, I was listening to what everyone else was saying. About the moguls and the rest of us. That was a big topic of conversation. What I really think might be behind it, ultimately, is the old tactic of divide and conquer. Like this: The shopping center knows we hold a cudgel against them for the yearly mistreatment. But what if they divide the crafters and get us at each other's throats? Suddenly, we're not standing united and the shopping center steamrolls us. Not that standing united really has done us that much good in the past.

But take this year. If we'd been united, maybe they would've rethought the increase on table fees. Five damned dollars more! And I can't raise my prices. I'm already scraping the bottom as far as any profit goes, but in a bad economy, you tell me, is anyone going to pay top dollar, even though they're clearly worth it, for a few styrofoam bunnies? No, the morons are pinching pennies, probably saving their money for food or cable TV, which also goes up all the time.

Add to my misery the fact that I always feel I have to give them a bargain if they buy more than one. They're $5 each, OK? It's set in stone, because I can't raise the price, as I said. But if you buy two, then they're $9 total. I'm losing a whole buck everything someone wants two, which is about the same as giving the damned things away. A few twofers I can absorb. But if people knew my margin, they could wipe me out on these sale just like that! So I'm sitting there praying two things, 1) For a sale period; and, 2) Please buy them one at a time; the twofers aren't helping me...

That's the financial beef. Then there's all the rest. Like everybody and their damned cameras! You tell me: Isn't it widely known, universally known, that you don't take pictures at craft sales? It's simply not done! It's forbidden! And for very good reason. We don't want the rest of the world taking pictures, then stealing our ideas and making their own crafts at home. This is a point all of us agree on, mogul or peon. On this, in fact, it's the moguls leading the way. They go to enough craft sales, they have professionally-made signs, full color with illustrations, a camera in a red circle crossed out, meaning, "No cameras allowed! No pictures, please!"

But the big difference between now and, say, 10 years ago, is there's a lot more cameras. And people, especially kids, who aren't shy about popping out their phone, then whipping it up to take a picture of your stuff. They don't think a thing of it! It's in their nature now! They're stupid! "My hand is permanently affixed to an iPhone camera." People used to have five fingers, now they have a sixth finger, their camera! That's what it looks like. So there we're sitting, the crafters, rolling our eyes at each other, trying to bite our tongue, and casually putting the signs a little closer to the flow of traffic. Fat lot of good it does. They don't teach reading in school anymore!

I'm sitting there, watching all this go on, and I was that close, I was about to bust. But thank God I held it in, for the most part. Because this one guy, two tables up from me, he had his fill, and he did bust. It was after noon, he hadn't eaten, thanks to being at the end of the line and only making two sales -- he paints smiley faces on jelly beans -- so he busted. And I know that's no excuse. But these brainless teenage girls were going in real close on his beans, snapping pictures of the smiles.

Well, he showed them a scowl! "Do you not see these signs? 'No photos allowed.' This isn't a photo studio, darlin'! The items you see on the tables are for sale. Otherwise, everything you see is copyrighted, my intellectual property. So no pictures, thank you!" That was a very snide 'thank you,' which really showed them, since they immediately left with a bunch of swear words barely concealed under their breath, and, incongruously, giggling. The guy was sitting there, red as a beet, and fuming. He looked around for some support and our eyes met. I gave him a thumbs up, then decided to rearrange my table.

It's been dead since then. Like some kind of cutoff point. Like maybe the girls went back and spread the word. Probably not. It's just always that way after noon. The ones who wanted something got here early. Anyone who shows up after noon is here by accident, and they don't care. To them you're just garbage blocking the halls. Except for me, I'm so far down no one generally makes it that far.

So the bottom line is, I sold only a few, less than 20. Some of those were twofers. The good news, if I'm willing to dig for good news, is I won't have to make quite as many next year, since I still have plenty of stock.

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2011 - The Easter Craft Sale
2010 - Selling Easter Bunnies at the Shopping Center