Meandering Diatribes: April 2004 Archives

So, first: All the information on where to find it and how it's run, because I found it myself after about ten minutes of searching and there are sites trying to charge you for the information. That pisses me off.

Chicago's police auctions are monthly. They're run by Ace Auctioneers, at the West Technical Institute. All the information, along with schedules, is here. The West Technical Institute is easy to get to an impossible to miss, so knock yourself out.

I went as an experiment, mostly. Wanted to see what they had.

They had bikes. Holy shit, did they have bikes. I HAVE NEVER SEEN SO MANY GODDAMN BIKES. Kid's bikes, adult's bikes, trick bikes, mountain bikes, city bikes, vintage bikes... and one impossibly gorgeous freak bike, which I kind of felt bad about seeing up on the block. Must have broken the owner's heart when it was stolen, it obviously had weeks of work put into it.

Went for fifty bucks.

The auctioneer took the time between lots to recommend bike locks to the crowd, and giving advice about how to saw the remains of the former owners' locks off the frame.

After the bikes came a potpourri of remote controlled cars, car stereos and speakers, suits, t-shirts, silverware, and, uh, teapots. Among other things. I think the furnace went for a hundred. How the hell you seize a furnace in the line of duty, I have no idea.

For a general idea of how out of touch I am, I was horrified to see a new mountain bike go for one hundred and seventy dollars. I made a note of the brand, and their website tells me that model retails for about a grand.

So... yeah. Consider me a cheerleader for this sort of thing. Forever.

I just wish I needed a bike.

I have seen a lot of stupid crap today. But this is probably the stupidest.

From the cover of the latest Dick Blick catalog, which is regularly delivered to me through no fault of my own.

Loaf tote.

I like to think about the sort of person who would regard this as anything other than criminally absurd. I like to picture the greying retirees and housewives looking at this appalling fucking picture and thinking: "Yeah. Loaf tote." And tapping their teeth with a fingernail and dreaming of tasteful, unchallenging, pastel watercolors of flower arrangements and gazebos and Scottish moors, the kind that match every couch. The kind hotels buy, because they sort of have to. The kind that crowd the streets and sidewalks for every art festival, shoulder-to-shoudler with the mermaid dolls and photorealistic cuddly puppy portraits and mass-produced, glossy prints of white unicorns bounding over sparkly rainbows.

So the housewife buys this bag (shown in paprika, also available in black) and she shells out the $54.99, and what the hell gets herself that Classic Santa Fe IV easel for $569.98 (on sale) and some paints (oil paints because that's what Van Gogh used, you know) and hey why not some kicky little clogs and that cute little Bohemian sunhat and the beret (giggle giggle) and the smock and she converts a quarter of her basement into HER STUDIO and it is HER STUDIO and DO NOT LET THE DOGS DOWN HERE I AM WORKING GOD DAMN IT EDGAR WHAT DID I JUST SAY TODAY IS MY ART DAY.

Then... crap, wait. What? The instructional tapes made this look easier. What? Where? No no no, back up. Scumble? The fuck?? WHERE DO I BUY THAT IT'S NOT IN THE CATALOG.

Whoops. This is hard. Never mind.

So the two thousand dollars in art supplies sits in the basement. And mice have babies in it.

I think I finally understand how most art stores stay in business. Even with me and my slob friends counting our pennies out on the counter to take home three watercolor brushes and sketchpad.