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Visit these other humorous sites by Marjorie Dorfman:

Eat, Drink and
Really Be Merry


Home Is Where
the Dirt Is


Middle Age
and Other Mistakes

Don't Tech Me In

What's New, Emu?

Laughing Matters Ink

I Was Absent



Copyright © 2001, 2002.
All rights reserved.
Buying Memorabilia: The Price Really Paid for James Cagney's Dirty Socks
by Marjorie Dorfman

page 2

I was offended by the tone of voice, but I listened anyway. I listened and watched helplessly as my hand went down and the bidding went up and up and up, climaxing at $900 for the photograph of a boat and a cute little man tying the rigging! Surely I could have bought most of a boat of my own for that money. (And maybe some cute little man to boot!) But what a cute and famous little man! And that is the point. But wait. I am not finished with my story. There were still those lonesome taps to consider. Even if I couldn't look at Mr. Cagney himself, maybe this way I could watch him dance. (Even if it was only in my mind's eye!)

I grabbed a bite to eat after the morning sale and returned to the church, determined to own a piece, however small, of Mr. James Cagney. And then it happened again. Those lonesome taps in search of shoes came up for sale. The catalogue estimated $75-$100. Guess what they went for? 350 smackeroos! And guess who didn't buy them?

As sad a tale as this is, I did learn my lesson. When the estate of Jackie Onassis went on sale I stayed away, not even barely tempted to view the extravagant pickings. And from what I understand everything was quite inflated and a lot of people were unhappy with the prices that many of her personal items garnered. I wonder if she had any dirty socks. Did a lady like her ever even wear socks? If so, were they ever dirty? I don't know. I won't say I don't care. I'll just say that I admit that I can't afford her socks or anyone else's, except maybe Kay-Mart's!

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humor pop culture
Culture is one thing and varnish another
R.W. Emerson, Journals, 1868


In the room, the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo
T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock


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