Karma

Ok, now I'm really a nice guy. I don't try to rip anyone off. I'm honest about my product. And if someone tries to give me a tip for making a special order for them, or adding a few rings to make a piece fit, I hand them their change and ask them to pass it on to one of the street buskers instead.

But sometimes, every now and then, rarely but once in a blue moon, something occurs that is beyond my control.

Just the other day a man came by booth.

Oh, wait. Before I tell you that story, I should mention a different one. And before that, I should say that I was born in Chicago. I'm an American. Canadian, too, now, but still American. So please don't think that I have anything against Americans. I don't.

Last year this couple came to my booth early in the morning, as I was setting up shop for the day. They were from Georgia, southern US Georgia not Georgia on the deep Black Sea. And after a short but pleasant conversation, out of the blue, the guy says, "I really like Canada. If there weren't so many left-wing anti-gun freaks, I'd consider moving here." The wife, to her credit, looked aghast that he had said such a thing. After the momentary shock of I-can't-believe-I-just-heard-this, I replied, "Yeah. And if it weren't for all the right-wing gun-toting nutcases, I might have stayed in the US." And to think, I was actually civil and smiling politely when I said that. I mean, it's not why I moved to Canada, but I couldn't help saying that.

Anyways, just the other day, this guy comes up to my booth and he's wearing a "Trump" baseball hat. My first thought was, "Wow. You got some balls wearing that outside of the US." But then he started talking and I realized that he really was a jerk. I mean, like a complete jerk. A total blockhead. A real imbecile. An absolute, one hundred percent, abnormal wrinkles around the mouth, flatulantly speaking asshole.

He was, in short, exactly the sort of person that I truly don't want to sell to. No interest. Nada. Zip. Zero.

But he picked up a $100 bracelet and asked if I accepted cash.

"Sure", I said, with as little enthusiasm as I could muster.

"'Murican?"

"Of course."

"What's the exchange rate?"

Ok. So at least he realized that he was in another country. Given some of the the things he had been saying earlier to his friends, I was truly wondering. I mean, not all who land here in Victoria with the cruise ships do. We are, after all, their only stop in Canada, and it just doesn't occur to them. No problem. We all understand. But given some of the excrement that exuded from his lips, I was truly surprised at that question.

Now, again, to be fair, I'm really a nice guy. I've been told so by many people. In fact, my wife, when we began courting said, "You're a nice guy, but..." I didn't actually hear anything she said after that for a few minutes, but then I realized she was talking about how she liked me and was a bit concerned that I might not like her, and that this might upset our friendship, and was I interested in exploring a relationship with her. Ladies out there, you might not be aware of it, but there is a switch in the male brain that turns on with the phrase, "You're a nice guy, but..." and continues with screaming internal sobs of "Nooooo! Why me?" Please. If you have any compassion at all for the guy, never, and I mean never, use that phrase on a friend.

Where was I?

Oh yes, nice guy. Really. I am.

Exchange rate. Right.

"20%."

If you're at all familiar with the Canadian dollar, our beloved Loonie (don't you just love a currency called "The Loonie"), and the US dollar, the almighty buck (which makes me think of a male deer on steroids), then you know that the current rate is closer to 30%. It wasn't that I was trying to rip him off. Not at all. It's just that I'm not a bank. I'm not a currency exchange. It costs me money to deposit US cash, and I'm not sure what the exchange rate will be when I eventually get around to thinking about considering the possibility of going to the bank, so I give myself a little cushion. And besides, I can calculate 20% in my head.

"What's that come to?"

"$120." See? I can calculate 20% on $100 in my head, no problem. I'm good with math. My Dad used to say that it was my first language.

"Really?"

By this point I was tired, and just wanted this guy out of my booth. You'll notice that I haven't said a word about what he actually said or did that made me come to conclusion about his anatomical development. That would be backbiting, after all, and I won't do that. I just know that humans are deuterostomes, which means that our rectal opening develops first, meaning that as we grow in the womb, there is a point in our development during which we are basically just an asshole. And I'm aware that some of us never develop beyond that stage. And there, standing in front of me, was a prime example. And I just wanted him gone.

And being a nice guy, (remember, I'm a nice guy) I said, "Really. But I'll let you have it for $100."

"Oh, okay." And he reached in his wallet and handed me a $100 bill.

A $100 US bill.

He took the bracelet, from which I had already removed the price tag, and walked away.

I must have stood for there for a full minute or two puzzled about something, holding that bill, with a bit of a frinkle. That's a cross between a frown on your face and that wrinkle that develops between the eyebrows. I stood there. For well over a minute.

And then I realized that we had both converted that money in the wrong direction.

By the time that dawned on me, he was long gone.

And I was left thinking, oh well, karma in action.

Stars

Just the other day I had a man come to my booth and ask if I'd be willing to loan a piece to a performer to wear on stage during a concert. This concert, by the way, is to help raise money for refugees. Now, you may not know it, but I used to be on the board of directors for an immigration and refugee council. As an immigrant myself, I have a lot of compassion for anyone who is a refugee, and not just your average run-of-the-mill immigrant, like myself. I mean, I chose to uproot myself. I had the choice. They don't.

Anyways, I was up for it. Anything to support a good cause.

In the end, though, this performer wasn't interested in this one piece, but was hoping that I could make two hand pieces for her to wear, which could then be auctioned off.

Well, that sounded awesome to me, and now I just have to design and make it.

But all this got me thinking about "stardom" once again.

I am often asked if I have ever considered movies, or tv, or selling to stars. The simple answer is "yes" and "no" at the same time. I mean, I've done movie pieces, and tv pieces, and have had "famous" people buy my work. But I don't really consider it. I just make my work, and let people buy what they will.

In fact, I'm often asked who has purchased my pieces, and I always respond with "I'm sorry but I don't share my client list."

Why not?

Because I want people to buy my work because they like it for itself, not because so-and-so purchased a piece. Besides, it also helps keep my prices reasonable. After all, I'm out to make a living, not a killing.

Way back when, sometime in the late 80s or early 90s, when I was in Chicago, I was at an art show selling my work. And up comes this very nice woman who began a lovely conversation, asking me all sorts of questions about my work. She explained what she was looking for, but, in the end, didn't buy anything. We talked for a few months about a possible special order, but nothing ever came of it. In the end, though, I was still very impressed with her courtesy and genuine interest. Her name? Oprah.

See? I can share her name, because she never did buy anything.

Odd that.

But a strange occurrence happened just a couple of years ago. Another famous performer came up to my booth while I was talking with someone else, who, presumably, was not as well-known. As I usually do, I turned and said "Hi" and went back to answering the first person's question, who was, by the way, a bit wide-eyed at that moment. The second individual interrupted me with some sort of question that came off as fairly rude.

"One moment. I'll be right with you."

Well, this wasn't good enough for Ms Well-Known.

"Do you", she pouted, "have any idea who I am?"

As someone who has dealt with many stars over the years, and worked with international diplomats and politicians on a consultative level, I am not fazed by this question. In fact, I am rather turned off by this type of ego.

Aside: I'm a big Doctor Who fan, going back to the 70s, when it first showed in Chicago on PBS. A little while later, the first Doctor Who convention was in Chicago, and I had the bounty of attending. There I had the pleasure of meeting Jon Pertwee for the first time. As he treated me as an equal, I had the impression of him as an older friend. When he returned, a few years later, I naturally went to see him again, just to say "Hi". This time he introduced me to his friend, Patrick Troughton. Well, later, when a mutual friend of ours told him that I was living in Oxford, he actually came out to my work to see me. A few years later, at another convention, I had an invitation to pass on to him, so I went up to the star suite to pass it on. When I walked in, and began to look around for him, another man came up to me and said, "Hi, I'm Tom Baker. Do you want my autograph?" Without even thinking about how rude I might have been, I instinctively said, "No", and continued to look for Jon. I think that difference of ego between Jon and Pat, and Tom, really made me appreciate Jon and Pat even more.

So, when this entertainer who was at my booth asked me if I knew who they were, I wasn't having any of it.

I turned to them, stared for a moment and said, "I'm familiar with your music, and even enjoy your movies. But no, I have no idea who YOU are." And then I went back to my other customer and proceeded to finish helping her to the best of my meager ability.

When I was done, I turned back to this second person, who was now far more courteous, and gave her my full attention. Just as I would anyone else.

And I could see, by her change in posture, that this distinction I had made between her and her work, really hit a nerve. Or struck a chord.

Just because someone is well-known, doesn't make them a star. A star, after all, is a source of guidance on a dark night. It helps the sailors know where to go, where they are. If a performer is filled with their own ego, they are not a star in my books. But if they are willing to help a young kid at a convention find their own feet, then they are truly a star to me, even if nobody else knows their name.

For now, though, I have to figure out how to make these pieces for this other performer, so that we can help a few refugees find their feet again.

Like

"Whoa", he cried out, wide-eyed, as he walked into my booth at the market with a few of his friends, "is this like chain-mail?"

I must have stood there for only a fraction of a second with my jaw open, but it sure felt like longer. "Well...", I began.

But his friend interrupted, with a loud exclamation of "What kind of an idiot are you? Of course it isn't like chain-mail. It is chain-mail, you dolt."

"That's a bit more blunt than I would have phrased it, but yes, he's essentially right. It is chain-mail."

I just love the questions like that. They expose a certain something, a definite "je ne sais quoi", about people. And really, I don't know what it is, but it sure says something.

Usually the question is more like, "But is it real?"

I always want to answer, "No, it's an illusion." It's as if jewelry made of something other than 24 karat gold is somehow no longer within the realm of reality.

"Do you make it all by hand?"

This one has a few different responses, depending on my mood. "No. I use my feet." Or perhaps, "Actually, it's done with mirrors." Or even the more accurate, "I use pliers."

"But will it stop a sword?"

"Of course," I guarantee. "It will stop any balloon sword out there."

"What about arrows?"

"Nerf arrows."

They always say that there is no such thing as a stupid question, but I respectfully disagree. There really are some stupid questions out there. Al Jaffee got it right. (Google it, if you must.)

And then my favorite: "But it's not real chain-mail, is it?"

Well, that all depends on what you mean by "real chain-mail", doesn't it? If you're referring to armour, or protective clothing, then no, I wouldn't consider it real. If you're referring to interlocking rings making up a fabric, then yes, it is. And if you only think of chain-mail as real if it'll stop a blow, then I would guess that you have more serious issues to worry about.

But best of all was the macho dude who came and put on an actual piece of armour, the sword-stopping shirt kind, and turned to his buddy and said, "Go ahead, hit me." Who promptly cold-cocked him right on the jaw.