These people are coming to the area this week.
They buy stuff. Mostly collectibles that might be in the basement or attic. Stuff you might be hanging onto for posterity. But in these austere times, sentimentality doesn’t make cents.
They take out full page ads in the local papers, and I always look at them to see what I might have once had (baseball cards, mostly) that was long discarded.
They also buy autographs, provided that the person who scribbled his or her name is dead. In today’s ad, I couldn’t help but notice that they’d buy George Washington’s signature for anywhere between $4,000 and $20,000.
But Abe Lincoln’s signature is worth only between $2,000 and $9,000.
What’s up with that? Sure, the wigged one had better penmanship, but did Abe sign so much stuff that he devalued himself without ever knowing that he’d become a collectible? Did he sign for everybody at every campaign stop? (And we all know Mary Todd was a whiner. “Abe, I’m hungrrrrry. Let’s go!”)
And Jesse James’ autograph is worth even more. Up to $30,000! (No, not Sandra Bullock’s husband, you gearheads.)
Maybe crime does pay. 127 years later.
This is what I’m thinking today. Sometimes it’s a simple life.