Do Cards, As If They Were Drugs.

We all know how "Addicting & Adventurous" baseball cards are. This Hobby is full of Cardboard Junkies.



But did you ever say to yourself, "Dude, this box of Bowman Platinum would be sooooooo much better if I had a rag doused with chloroform and two bottles of Formula 44?" Fear not, here are some of your favorite baseball card sets, as if they were drugs (legal or otherwise).

TOPPS FLAGSHIP: Marijuana.

The classic "gateway drug." It's the one we all got started with, and the one we continue to get our buzz on with. Just like weed, there are different "strains" of Topps (i.e. Hobby, HTA, retail, Blasters, Hangerpacks) and everyone knows a dealer where you can score some late at night.

FINEST, TOPPS CHROME, BOWMAN CHROME: LSD, Mescaline, and Esctasy (respectively).

WHOA MAN, LOOK AT ALL THE PRETTY COLORS OF THESE REFRACTORS!

2008 RAZOR SIGNATURE: "Bath Salts."

Completely whack, and banned in seven states for lack of a proper license.

OPENING DAY: Methadone.

A completely meaningless substance designed to wean you off your addictions.

TOPPS ATTAX: Paper bag of aluminum paint huffed by 12-year-old Romanian orphans in the back-alleys of Bucharest.

A cheap high, marketed towards kids. Quickly wears off after about five minutes.

GYSPY QUEEN: Black-Tar Heroin; ALLEN & GINTER: China White.

Both Black-Tar Heroin and China White make you "Chase the Dragon." Gypsy Queen and Allen & Ginter make you "Chase the SPs." Back in the 1880s, your grand pappy was doing this junk in some back-alley Chinatown opium den.

MOMENTS & MILESTONES: Six cans of computer duster.

Each can looks exactly the same, except for a small number on the bottom. All serial-numbered to 199 copies, and every 30th can is red and a one-of-one.

O-PEE-CHEE: Tylenol 222s.

Available over-the-counter in Canada!



MOST MID-00s DONRUSS-PLAYOFF SETS: Balloon full of nitrous oxide sold in the parking lot of Citizens Bank Park.

Really? You're still doing this stuff?



1984 DONRUSS: Bottle of Chateau Mouton-Rothschild 1982.

A classic. Best of the 80s. A 600-bottle case sold for $420,000 in '97.

PANINI HRX & UPPER DECK Whatever-the-hell-they-call-their-video-trading-card: Model Airplane Glue.

Seriously, what self-respecting drug abuser still huffs model airplane glue? What self-respecting card collector really wants these "cards."

2001 DONRUSS: Ex-Lax.

A complete pile shit. Cardboard diarrhea.

1994 FLEER: Immodium.

The remedy to shitty wax.

TOPPS TRIBUTE: Ketamine (a.k.a. "Special K").

Overpriced "designer drug" whose effects wear off quickly. But it doesn't stop those addicted from throwing their money away on more.

BOWMAN: Robitussin.

You need to buy at least three cases of Bowman to hit that "third-plateau" of MOJO.

TRIPLE THREADS: Roofies.

Only, you're the one who unwittingly takes it in the ass.

1991 FLEER: Banana Peels.

Yellow, and has no intoxicating effect whatsoever.

1972 TOPPS: Ether.

"It makes you behave like the village drunkard in some early Irish novel..."



1991 STADIUM CLUB: A fine 20-year Single Malt Scotch.

Just like a good Scotch, '91 Stadium Club only gets better with age.

1952 TOPPS: Remy Martin Louis XIII.

The world's greatest post-War card set. The world's greatest Cognac.

The Siege of Atlanta (A Ken Burns Production): Part Two

"I hate newspapermen. They come into camp and pick up their camp rumors and print them as facts. I regard them as spies, which, in truth, they are. If I killed them all there would be news from Hell before breakfast."
-- William Tecumseh Sherman

DAY TWO

George Will, The Washington Post: "Baseball card collecting, it is said, is only a Hobby. True. And the Grand Canyon is only a hole in Arizona. Not all holes, or Hobbies, are created equal. All I remember about my wedding day in 1967 is pulling a Milt Pappas card out of a pack and wondering where the facsimile autograph was."

Narrator: "Day Two of The Atlanta Campaign started bright and early for the combined forces of Harris and Thomas. After a hearty breakfast at a Norcross diner, they returned to the site of the previous day's skirmish."

Shelby Foote, Historian: "The Saturday of a three-day show tends to be the most heavily attended, and this show was no different. Saturday usually brings out the civilians and curiosity seekers, and with Matt Ryan and Jason Heyward signing autographs the Atlanta Show was no different. But what was considered a "Big Show" for the locals, for the Yankees? Well, boredom began to set in."

General Christopher Harris: "I do not know what to think of these Rebel cardshows. I do not know what to think of Rebel collectors. But I am already bored. For all the time and for all the money we've spent just to get here, I must say I am disappointed."

Narrator: "But for all the inaction in Harris' forces, it was nothing to the boredom experienced by the 84th New York Regiment."

Doris Kearns Goodwin, Historian: "Let's face it, cardshows are nothing more than a big, giant, ahem, sausage party. So if you're like me and actually collect cards, and are at a cardshow, you do get many of the same looks. Oh, she must be here with her boyfriend, or she must play for the `other team;' and yes, like 99% of female card collectors, I have been asked if I wanted any WNBA cards.

"So when I take a closer look at Brigadier Lulgjuraj and her plight during the Atlanta Campaign, I can't help but feel a little sympathetic."

Brigadier General Susan Lulgjuraj, Commander, 84th New York Regiment: "This sucks. The only thing I've collected in Atlanta is a cold. I've found only one Derek Jeter card to add to my collection, I feel sick, and I'm spending most of my time getting hit on by 16-year-old boys in the FCB chat room. I truly wish for this campaign to be over, and quickly, and I hope to the Almighty that I never come back to this miserable place again."

N: "Day two of the Atlanta Campaign was turning into a stalemate. Over the course of the day General Harris spent a grand total of $26, $16 on top-loaders and cardboard boxes.

Perhaps the best score of the came from Major General Campbell, who pulled out of a dollar box a double-jersey, double-autograph, of Prince Fielder and Mat Gamel serial-numbered to 39."

"Day Two of the Atlanta Campaign ended in disappointment. At the end of the evening, Harris and Thomas took out the frustrations at a minor league hockey game."

Harris: "With Michael Vick here tomorrow, I am hoping that the action picks up. If not, we shall leave this miserable city with more cash than I know what to do with."

The Siege of Atlanta (A Ken Burns Production): Part One

You cannot qualify war in harsher terms than I will. War is cruelty, and you cannot refine it; and those who brought war into our country deserve all the curses and maledictions a people can pour out.
--William Tecumseh Sherman
Letter to the city of Atlanta, 1864

DAY ONE

Doris Kearns Goodwin, Historian: "The Atlanta campaign in 2011 was a turning point. This cardshow had been organized on such short notice, ummm, eight weeks I believe. So, there was a lot of last-minute changing of plans and whatnot. But what's amazing is, somehow, they were able to pull it off."

Narrator: "For the final assault on Atlanta, The Union was under the command of an experienced General, General Christopher Harris of New Jersey. Known for his wit and sarcasm and his take-no-prisoners approach of dollar boxes, Harris was no stranger to the South. "

"Early in the War, Harris' troops laid siege to North Carolina, and for the last few years had been roaming the card shows of Northern Virginia. But this would be different. Never before had Union forces penetrated this far South.

Daniel Orkent, The New York Times: "The Hobby in The South is a little different. It had been a few years since a `big show' had been in Atlanta, or anywhere in The South for that matter. And while card shows in The North, White Plains, Philly, Chantilly, always have about 200-300 tables, this one would only have 100."

N: "General Harris would be joined in this campaign by Colonel Thomas and his 14th Ohio Regiment, a battle-hardened crew eager for action; Brigader Lulgjuraj's 84th New York; and the 61st Georgia Volunteers a.k.a. `Campbell's Mad Junkies.' It would be a formidable force, all prepared for the invasion of Atlanta."

General Chris Harris: "I must be honest, I don't know what to expect from this campaign. But I do know one thing; we shall whip those Rebel dealers out of their singles, rookies, and wax. We shall whip them without mercy. And when those Rebels ask for mercy, we shall whip them some more."

N: "General Harris rendezvoused with Thomas' forces south of town, then marched northeast to establish base camp at the Hilton Garden Inn in Duluth. Along the way, the marching armies stopped for provisions at The Varsity in Gwinnett."

Harris: "The chili dogs are not as good as the half-smokes at Ben's Chili Bowl or the Shirlington Weenie Beenie, but damn that's some good eating."

N: "After establishing base camp, Harris and Thomas made their initial assault."

Shelby Foote: "When the Union forces arrived at the hall, I'm sure they didn't know what to expect. I'm sure they were pleasantly surprised to see all the singles dealers, but with only one dealer with any significant wax, they had to be disappointed."

Harris: "If this were a Yankee card show, there'd be dozens of tables full of wax, new and junk. I was hoping to score some 90s wax, but no. I only bought an HTA box of 2011 Topps."

N: "Day one of the campaign ended, with minimal damage inflicted. Harris managed a box of 2011 Topps and some cheap singles. Colonel Thomas went through a couple of dime and quarter boxes. Afterward, the combined forces decamped to the Duluth Hilton Garden Inn, then went out for drinks at the Taco Mac with Major General Campbell."

Doris Kearns Goodwin: "The first day of the Atlanta Campaign started off slowly. You kind of had the feeling that, ummm..., the Union forces were kind of, feeling the Rebels out. You could tell that as the weekend wore on, the Union would step up their attack."

Royz N The Hood

Last year, it was The Great Raul Hunt. This year, it's...


Coming soon to a baseball cardblog near you....

Fear and Loathing in the Charm City. (part four)

For Part One, click here...

...Part Two...

...Part Three

"I would never want to live anywhere but Baltimore... It's as if every eccentric in the South decided to move north, ran out of gas in Baltimore, and decided to stay." -- John Waters

Saturday Afternoon: Day Four (continued)

Later that afternoon, I finally met up with Chris Thomas and we made our way back to the FCB booth. I introduced Chris to Sooz and Marie of A Cardboard Problem and we jointly asked them if they wished to join us later that evening for drinks in Fells Point. They politely declined our offer, and to be honest with you, I can't say that I blame them. In retrospect, "Chris & Chris invite the ACP girls for drinks" sounded almost like a double-date offer; totally unprofessional and more than inappropriate for the situation. Then again, maybe they were on to something. Maybe they already knew about Darf.

Darf is the biggest piece of shit I've ever had the misfortune to meet. A total asshole. He's the kind of guy who'll drink your beer, eat your food, make fun of your ethnic heritage, grope your date's rear-end and proposition her to perform acts that are still illegal in The Bible Belt, then challenge half the bar to a fistfight. By the end of the evening Darf usually winds up with a broken nose and passed out in a pool of various bodily fluids and excrement -- not all of which is his own. When Darf arrives anywhere, the police are usually not all that far behind to take him away.

We all know someone like Darf, and I know him a bit too well. Unfortunately, we both happen to share the same body. Darf only comes out when Chris (me, not Chris Thomas) has too much to drink -- but not always. But when the booze start flowing, a humble, mild-mannered, riddled-with-a-touch-of-Asperger's, graduate student/gonzo journalist magically becomes infected with the personality of Darf.

I don't often go out to watering holes anymore, lest he make an appearance. But I had already committed myself. So we (myself, Chris Thomas and his two friends from Ohio) made our way into Fells Point. We settled on a place rated the best pub in Maryland, Max's Taphouse.

Indeed. Any establishment with 140 different beers on tap, five on cask, and 1200 different bottles, is a world class drinking establishment. You won't find shit like Budweiser on-tap in a joint like this, but you will find is stuff like "St. Peter's English Ale." Perfect. A English style bitter for a bitter card collector in a city full of bitter people. The four of us all ordered our rounds and made smalltalk about The Show.

I few minutes later, I finish my first pint and look up-and-down the beer menu. My eyes stopped at "Flying Dog Double Dog (Nitro) ... 11.0% ABV." 11% alcohol by volume? I think I could handle that easily. Why not?

I don't remember much about the taste, but I do remember that I was surprised that such a beer with a high ABV went down smooth and easy and I finished it rather quickly. So much so, that just 15 minutes after I had received my first Double Dog, Chris Thomas had bought me another pint and I drank that quickly as well. And then you-know-who made his appearance.

No. Stay calm... Fight that son-of-a-bitch. GO AWAY YOU EVIL ASSHOLE! NOT TONIGHT! I've just met these people. Back! Back!

I got up from the table. "That's it. I have to leave," I said.

"Leave? Where are you going?" said Chris Thomas.

"I have to leave the country. Nice knowing you all."

Clearly, they did not understand the terror I was in. I could feel Darf's presence. But I was able to successfully fight that rotten bastard off. After about 20 minutes, eventually, Chris Thomas and his friends got me to calm down. We took a walk around the block, ate a couple of slices of pizza, then headed back into the city. I then crashed in my car for a few hours to sober up, and around 2:30am drove back to The Republic.

---

Sunday: Day Five

Memories of this day are extremely hazy. All I have, for guide-pegs, is a pocket full of cocktail napkins all covered in scribbled notes. Here is one: "Case full of balls autographed by `Bonds' and `Mays' ... $50 each ... genuine? ... Get on the phone, lean on the fuckers ... heavy yelling."

Another says: "Jesse Jane on floor of Convo Hall ... Who knew porn stars collected? ... Here to promote appearance at Hustler Club, left empty handed. Guess not? ... Too many collagen injections, mouth looks like it could float small boat ... Still a Katie Morgan man."

Sunday was designated "Family Day" at The National. Not that you'd know that from the crowds. Instead of Family Day, maybe they should have called it "Pack your bags early and get the fuck out of Baltimore by sundown, but we'll still charge you dumb schmucks who didn't come early in the week full-price for a ticket anyway, day."

There is nothing more depressing than the final day of a mega show like The National, and Sunday was no exception. By 3:30, 90 minutes before the official closing, and the place was already a ghost town.

Although a ghost town, you can get a deal on just about anything. Most of the big waxjobbers (i.e. D&A, Atlanta, Blowout) marked down most of their boxes by $5-$10 -- except 2010 Bowman Baseball, of course. I picked up a box of 2003 Fleer Platinum from Dave & Adam's for $48 (marked down from $55) just for the hell of it. Pulled a "Rodriguez" game jersey serial-numbered to 400, but I couldn't figure out if it was Alex or Ivan. (And you wonder why this company went out of business?)

Towards the front of the hall, as I was making my way to the exit, I saw the damnedest thing I've ever seen at a card show. An entire eight-foot table covered about a foot-and-a-half high with miscellaneous ephemera. It was literally, the perfect metaphor for the state of The Hobby in 2010: A pile of junk.

Late-80s/early-90s Donruss Jumbo Diamond Kings. Post cards of obscure Eastern European soccer stadiums. Mid-80s-era McDonald's football cards -- complete with unscratched "tabs." 1990 Topps Heads-Up singles. Promos from decade's old Nationals, issued by long forgotten card companies. A team photo of the '96 Baltimore Ravens. Anything on the table, just a buck.

"It's not all junk, although it's tempting to call it that," said a collector, seated at the head of the table, picking through this pile of unwanted cardboard debris. "That's what the kids call it these days."

I responded, "Are there kids left in The Hobby?" and casually tossed back into the pile a 1978 Sportcaster of bowler Earl Anthony.

---

It had been ninety-seven-and-one-half-hours since that fateful Wednesday afternoon, and it seemed like everyone, myself included, had been "Nationaled Out." Maybe those dealers who left just after lunchtime were onto something. It was time to flee, back to The Republic. So, I headed back to the Light Rail stop and got on the train back to Glen Burnie. Then I got in my car, put in a Tobacco CD and headed South.

There is one main road back from this part of Maryland to The Republic of Fairfax: The Baltimore-Washington Parkway, a straight, flat-out high-speed burn through Jessup and Laurel and College Park. And then onto the Capital Beltway, across the American Legion Bridge, and straight into frantic oblivion: safety, obscurity, just another burnt-out card collector on his way home from The National.

Fear and Loathing in the Charm City. (part three)

For Part One, click here

For Part Two, click here

"I have enjoyed the years enormously in Cleveland and especially in Baltimore." -- Art Modell

For those that have yet to visit this fair city, I feel obliged to warn you: Forcible sodomy is now 100% legal in the City of Baltimore. I should know, I was victimized first hand.

On Saturday, rather than take the Light Rail train into town, I decided to drive. Earlier in the week, I received a message over the Mojo Wire from Chris Thomas, my collaborator/co-conspirator on baseballcardpedia.com, that he and a couple of his friends were coming down from Ohio for The National and wanted to know if I could join them for drinks that evening. Unfortunately, the Baltimore Light Rail doesn't run past 11pm, and I'm not exactly the kind of guy to take chances when it comes to transportation.

So I got into the Big Blue Whale, threw a Kraftwerk CD into the car stereo, and drove the 55 miles from The Republic of Fairfax into The Inner Harbor. Even though I'm used to longer drives (from The Republic to South Jersey usually takes me three hours and 160 miles), it's still nice to have that one "driving record" you can rely on for situations like this. In my world, a 55 mile drive is routine, kid stuff; but it seems to go by a little quicker under the pulsating beat of the Trans Europa Express album.

Downtown Baltimore is a convenient place to drive to, with a spur off I-95 leading directly past Camden Yards and the Convention Center. Unfortunately, there are very few places to park. I spent about 20 minutes circling the Inner Harbor looking for a place until about two blocks east of the Convention Center, I see a sign for a parking garage. Why not? It seemed like a perfectly reasonable place to park; plenty of space on a Saturday Morning.

It wasn't until I took my ticket from the machine, and drove over the barrier that I noticed the big white sign with "$23.00 ALL DAY."

$23.00? TWENTY-THREE FUCKING DOLLARS? TO PARK A CAR? AND IT'S NOT A WORK DAY?

I felt raped. I mean, for that money, the least they could do is throw-in a complementary reach-around.

---

I finally got to the floor around Noon. Immediately, I knew this would be like no other day. Saturday is usually the busiest day during a mega-show like this. Not only do you get the die-hard collectors, like myself, but the civilians, the curiosity seekers, and the dumb schmucks who actually work for a living. Very busy. Very tense. The air was filled with the pungent scent of avarice and corruption. Me? I just wanted to pick up some cheap singles.

And boy did I find cheap singles, a whole boatload of them, tucked away in the far corner of the convention floor. I've been scoping this particular dealer for the last few days, with his dozens of 3200-count boxes of late-90s-era inserts for a nickel each. And not just any late-90s inserts. 1997 Pinnacle Certified Mirror Red parallels by-the-dozen; scores of 1998 Leaf Rookies & Stars short-prints; '97 Pinnacle Certified Team inserts; at least a dozen 1997 Select Darin Erstad Rookie Revolution inserts, all in serial-number order (i.e. 0505, 0506, 0507... all the way down to 0520); all for only a nickel each.

I couldn't believe my eyes! Some of these were one-per-box hits, and here's this guy with 20 copies of the same 1997 Leaf Garret Anderson Die-Cut Fractal Matrix! There were only about 100 of them made, and he has 20 in one box! Where did he get them? Who's his connection? It's as if the bitter ex-employees of Pinnacle Brands helped themselves to these cards on their way to the unemployment line. Aww, who gives a damn, they're ONLY A NICKEL EACH!

Why not? I must have spent about four hours picking through this guy's boxes and I wound up filling a 400-count box full of late-90s/early-00s inserts. Total price: $40.

I spent the remainder of the afternoon wandering around, looking at whatever caught my eye. I noticed the ladies of A Cardboard Problem hanging out at the Freedom Cardboard booth -- unbeknownst to me at the time, but they were working for FCB. Susan was in the midst of interviewing someone for Freedom Cardboard, and I didn't want to interrupt. Besides, the last thing I need on my record is yet another restraining order.

Which leads me to think for a moment. How in the hell does a website, a website which does not charge its end-users anything, afford a corporate booth at The National? Sure they have advertisers, but really? A corporate booth at The National? Do you know how much that costs? With former NFL MVP Mark Mosley signing free autographs? And promo card giveaways? And free t-shirts and FCB-emblazoned blue tumblers?

Maybe Five Guys Burgers & Fries fronted them the money for Mosley. Who knows? But I find it a bit curious that a website that's only been around for a couple of years is able to afford something this extravagant.

Cazart! Why not a Stale Gum booth at next year's National? Shit, if FCB can scrape up the money, why not me? Step right up folks, and shake the hand of the bitterest, most angry, pundit in the cardblogosphere! Watch him as he trashes another garbage card set during a video box break! Grab your complementary "Jefferson Burdick Has A Posse" sticker!

Indeed. But I think the last thing The Hobby needs/wants is a drunkard/gonzo journalist setting up a booth at The National. What would I do? Blather about Jefferson Burdick all day?

Speaking of our friend Jeff, I found it shocking how little the legend of Jefferson Burdick is known by the modern collector. A few days earlier, when I was in-line for my Strasburg Topps Heritage card, I handed one of my Burdick gimmick stickers to a guy who vaguely recognized me. He actually thought my name was "Jefferson Burdick."

I felt personally insulted. Not because he thought my name was Jefferson Burdick, but that he didn't know who ol' Jeff was. Don't you realize that if not for Jefferson Burdick, The Hobby as we know it would not exist? and that you, and The National, wouldn't be here, in Baltimore, on a Friday afternoon, in-line for a $100 Stephen Strasburg card? You should be on your knees, preparing sacrifice and making a pilgrimage to his final resting place to pay your respect to the greatest collector who ever lived!

I turned to him and laughed. "Don't worry," I said. "I'm just another good American like yourself."

His smile disappeared. Did he understand? I couldn't be sure. But that hardly mattered now.

Look for Part Four, soon!

Fear and Loathing in the Charm City. (part two)

"Good morning, Baltimore!
Every day's like an open door.
Every night is a fantasy.
Every sound's like a symphony.

"Good morning, Baltimore!
And some day when I take to the floor,
The world's gonna wake up and see...
Baltimore and me!" -- Tracy Turnblad

On Thursday night, Topps held a "Meet-and-Greet" for collectors. This was free to attend and you had to have a ticket, but they were giving them away at their booth for anyone who asked. Best of all, free food and an open bar. After I received my ticket, I started to wonder. Is this really a good idea? Dozens of angry and aggrieved collectors, all hopped up on unlimited booze, asking questions of the Topps Nomenklatura? This had the makings of a disaster. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea.

At around 4:50pm, the room began to fill. All of a sudden, a felt a tap on my shoulder and someone saying, "Hey, your Chris Harris from Stale Gum, right?"

I tried to play it coy with this person. While being a semi-famous internet celebrity has its privilege, sometimes you like to have some privacy. So I turned to face this person, extended my hand, and introduced myself as "Mr. Allen N. Ginter, a friend of Michael Eisner." Then I took a look at his face and realized, it was Tracy Hackler. No use fooling ol' T-Hack.

Looking around the room, I noticed a few familiar faces: The gals from A Cardboard Problem were seated squarely across from me, Greg "a.k.a. Beardy" and Kevin from the 1965 Topps and Orioles Card of the Day blogs were in the back. Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a blue-shirted phalanx of a dozen or so taking their seats in the front three rows. The Freedom Card Board posse had made their entrance known.

Thank God for the open bar, because without it I don't think I would have survived the first hour. After about 45 minutes of corporate mumbo-jumbo, and four Sam Adams Boston Lagers, I had had enough. So, I slipped into the mens room and split a bottle of Robitussin with T-Hack.

When we returned, it was time for questions; most of which were predictable. "What is Topps doing to avoid the use of sticker autographs in high-end products?" "What's is like to have an exclusive MLB license?" "How is Stephen Strasburg... blah, blah, blah, Strasburg, blah."

After about 15 minutes of this, I decided to raise my hand. But before I was recognized, Susan of ACP was called on.

"Are you ever going to bring back Topps Total?"

Huh? ... Did... she... just... ask...

THAT WAS MY QUESTION GODAMMIT!

No. Stay calm. Show no anger or other emotions. How could she possibly have known that I was about to ask about Topps Total? Strange. Could it be that somehow she was able to establish a one-way telepathic link with my inner thoughts? What else could she know? Maybe I'm putting too much thought into this? Fuck it, I thought, and went back to the bar for another Sam Adams.

After the meet-and-greet, I took some time to press-the-flesh and pass out my "Jefferson Burdick Has A Posse" stickers to my fans. I took the train back to The Republic, got home and fixed myself a John Daly. Then I put a Zappa album on the stereo, popped a Tylenol PM, and watched the trees outside my balcony getting lashed around in the wind.

---

Wednesday. Day Three. No more time for pussyfooting around, time to buy. I've scoped out the floor for the past two days, and yes, it was now time to strike.

I drove up from the Republic of Fairfax, parked the car in Glen Burnie, and took the light rail into town. Contrary to the stereotype, or what you've seen in The Wire, Baltimore isn't such a bad place. I've seen urban decay, poverty, and blight first hand -- after all, I did go to college in Camden, New Jersey, The Most Dangerous City in America. And yes, there are places in this town you just do not go -- especially after dark.

One thing that Baltimore has in abundance is beggars and street peddlers. I was at the Light Rail station outside the Convention Center, waiting for the train home on Thursday, when a gentleman in an Orioles t-shirt demanded that I "Let me (i.e. him) have fifty cents!"

Excuse me? Let you have fifty cents? No "please" at the end of your sentence? And what would happen if I don't give you fifty cents?

I didn't want to start trouble, so I gave the man a strong "fuck you" stare and barked "No." He never bothered me again.

This was not an isolated incident, as it happened at least three times during the course of The National. A more honest way to hustle for a buck are the small armies of bottled water salesmen that seem to occupy every street corner. "ICE COLD WATTTTAH!.... ONLY A DOLLLLLLAH!" Judging by the size of some of the bankrolls, selling bottled water (and soft drinks, and Gatorade, et al) on the streets of Baltimore on a hot Summer day can be a very lucrative endeavor. There isn't much overhead -- just a cooler, some ice, and a couple of cases of bottled water that you can buy in bulk at BJ's, Sam's Club and the like. If this whole graduate school/gonzo journalism thing doesn't work out for me, I think I've found my calling: Baltimore Bottled Water Salesman.

Wednesday was my designated "wax day" and I started out with a retail box of the new Allen & Ginter for $45. Retail is the same as Hobby, just two less "hits" per box. Why pay $35 extra for something you don't really want anyway?

Indeed. Just at that moment, I noticed a sign: "TOPPS STRASBURG LINE FORMS HERE AT 1:00." Hmmm... I checked the time and it was 12:45. Maybe I can wait 15 minutes, open this box at the Topps booth & get the Stephen Strasburg card I missed out on Wednesday!

Why not? But first, Mother Nature called.

Five minutes later, where there had been no line at all, all of a sudden the line was already starting to form! Holy shit! Where did all these people come from? Fortunately, I was able to get in line at a place that guaranteed me (provided I could wait) a Strasburg.

About 90 minutes later, I got to the Topps booth, dutifully opened ten packs out of my Allen & Ginter box, and received my $100 bill with Stephen Strasburg's face on it. It wasn't until after I walked away from the Topps booth that I flipped the card over and noticed the serial number.

036/999

One away from his jersey number! What are the chances?

Now with my prize in-hand, off to buy more wax. I wasn't in the mood for any new stuff, older wax from the 90s and early 2000s mostly. One waxbox on my "bucket list" is 1993 Finest, but I only saw one dealer with any, and at $295 it seemed a price too steep. Hardly anything from the late-90s or early-00s was to be found, so I settled for a box of 2003 Flair for $40.

I ran into T-Hack again, this time just outside the Beckett booth, chatting with Chris Olds and the ACP gals. I don't know why everyone hates on Hackler. Check that, I do know why: jealousy. Tracy Hackler is just living the dream. He's got the greatest job in the world: writing for Beckett -- and gets paid to do it! No wonder there's so much hate.

After this improptu gathering, I decided to wander around some more. Card shows like this are great for people watching. Big crowds around the Blowout and Dave & Adam's tables.

Who are these people? Where do they come from? Sweet Jesus, there are a hell of a lot of them -- still screaming around the tables at four-thirty in the afternoon on a Friday. Still dry-humping the American Dream, that vision of a Big Mojo Hit!!! somehow emerging from an overpriced pack in the chaos of a stale convention hall.

Big Strike in the Charm City. Get the case hit and go home rich. Why not? I stopped by the Atlanta Sports Cards table and picked up a rack box of 2004 Fleer Platinum (four autographs per box), thinking as always that some idle instinct might carry the whole thing off.

But no. Angel Berroa, Chris Bootcheck, Dan Haren and Eric Gagne were my four autographs. Just another forty-eight bucks down the tube. Bastards! No. Calm down. Learn to enjoy busting shit packs. There's still two more days to go. Who knows what might happen?


The National concludes with Part Three, coming soon...

Fear and Loathing in the Charm City. (part one)

“A card collection is a magic carpet that takes you away from work-a-day cares to havens of relaxing quietude where you can relive the pleasures and adventures of a past day —- brought to life in vivid picture and prose.” -- Jefferson Burdick

They came together on a hot afternoon in Baltimore, howling and clawing at each other like wild beasts in heat. On a sunny Chesapeake Bay day, the fierceness of their struggle brought tears to the eyes of thousands. They were men who were somehow more than men. They were giants, idols, titans...

They Were Collectors.

They stood for everything Good and True and Right in the American Spirit. Because they had guts. And they yearned for the Ultimate Glory, the Great Prize, the Final Fruits of a long a vicious year.

A Stephen Strasburg baseball card.

They were hungry for it. They were thirsty. All year, they had struggled to reach this Pinnacle... and when the clock struck 3:30 on that fateful Wednesday in August, they were ready. To seize the Final Fruit.

They could almost taste it. The smell was stronger that a bushel of decaying blue crabs. Their nerves burned like open sores on a dog's neck. White knuckles nervously grabbing their 10 packs of Allen & Ginter. Wild eyes. Strange fluids welled up in their throats, with a taste sharper than bile.

Collectors.

The tension was almost unbearable. By 4:00 in the afternoon, many were weeping openly, for no apparent reason. Others wrung their hands or gnawed on the necks of plastic soda bottles, trying to stay calm. Many fist-fights were reported in the urinals. Nervous rent-a-cops roamed up and down the aisles, confiscating alcoholic beverages and occasionally grappling with drunkards. Gangs of crazed Joe Collectors prowled through the aisles, beating the mortal shit out of luckless strangers...

What? No... Jefferson Burdick would have never written weird stuff like that: His prose was sparse & lean; his descriptions came straight from the gut. Then again, he'd never heard of one Mr. Stephen James Strasburg. And if ol' Jeff rose from the dead to attend the 31st Annual National Sports Collectors Convention, chances are he'd be right in there with them. Waiting in line, with a waxbox of 2010 Topps, to receive his $100 bill/Stephen Strasburg rookie card.

Indeed. There is a dangerous kind of simple-minded worship at the root of the massive fascination with rookie cards in this Hobby, and people like me are mainly responsible for it. With a few rare exceptions, we in The Hobby Media are a kind of rude and brainless subculture of fascist drunks whose only real function is to publicize & sell whatever the product managers send them...

Which is a nice why to make a living, because it keeps a man busy and requires no thought at all. The two keys to success in The Hobby Media are: (1) A blind willingness to believe anything you're told by the flacks, hustlers, and other "official spokesmen" for the card companies who provide the free cards & free booze ... and: (2) A Roget's Thesaurus, in order to avoid using the same verbs and adjectives twice in the same paragraph.

Even an editor, for instance, might notice something wrong with a lede that said: "The precision-jackhammer attack of Joe Collector stomped the balls off a case of Topps Tribute today by stomping and hammering with one precise jackthrusting rip after another, mixed with some BIG MOJO HITZ!!! and numerous hammer-jack rips of foilpacks...."

Right. That was the genius of Jefferson Burdick. He was a Syracuse Man and had no need for such exaggerations.

But what the hell? Why not? It's almost midnight in the Republic of Fairfax as I write this. It's hot, muggy, and I've been here all night drinking John Daly's and getting more and more wired on something out of Tokyo called the "Yellow Magic Orchestra" howling out of four big speakers hung in all four corners of the room.

With what I've witnessed over the past few days, I kept wondering: "What would Jefferson Burdick have thought of The National?" It has been a thought that has haunted me.

---

On Wednesday, I took the light rail train to Baltimore to attend Day One of the 31st Annual National Sports Collectors Convention. I arrived at 2:00, just-in-time to receive my VIP credential, and to prepare for the madness that is The World's Biggest Card Show.

After a brief opening reception thrown by the Beckett people (sadly, no open bar), by 3:00pm many of the collectors, myself included, began to make their way to the entrance of the convention hall. One of the perks of being a VIP is the fact that the doors to the show open 30 minutes earlier. While this may not seem like a big deal, and for most it isn't, the jockeying-for-position was already on. They knew what was on the line. For once in my life, looking at the dumb schmucks on the other side of the velvet rope, I actually felt like a Very Important Person.

At 3:30pm the doors flew open and the mad dash to the Topps corporate booth was on. Like stampeding bulls in Pamplona, the rush to be one of the first 100 in line for the coveted Stephen Strasburg card was on. So much so, that by 3:37pm, I was counted as the 105th person in the queue. Sucks to be me, I suppose.

For the remainder of day one, I wandered the table-enclosed aisles doing some serious window shopping. I made a pledge to myself that I wouldn't buy anything the first two days of the show. Just see what's out there and take mental notes.

Indeed. At a show like The National, you can't afford to fuck around. Every collector has a limited budget and impulse purchases early in the week usually mean that come the weekend, when the dealers slash their prices looking to break even for the week, you're tapped out. So, you just wait. Just see what's out there. Be patient. Keep moving.

For day two, I kept to the same plan. Looking. One of the great joys of going to The National, even if you're not a collector and just a sports fan, is for five days it is the largest sports museum in the Free World. You will see things you never knew existed, like Adrian "Cap" Anson's bat -- which wound up selling for $286,000. And there are things you know exist, but are so be rare and expensive, the only place you can see them is The National. Like the T-206 "Big Four" (Honus Wagner, Eddie Plank, Sherry "Magee," and Joe Doyle "NAT'L"), Dmitri Young's collection of Gem Mint "PSA 10" rookie cards, and entire display cases of high-grade Babe Ruth cards.

Just as I wandered to the PSA booth (where the "Big Four" were on display), a horrible thought came to me. What would it take for me steal all these cards? We're not talking a run-of-the-mill smash-and-grab; that's bush-league stuff. Surely, it would take a full frontal assault with multiple high-powered firearms, body armor, smoke bombs, stun grenades, etc.?

Cazart! Even with all the rent-a-cops, uniformed police, undercover FBI agents, et al, inside the Baltimore Convention Center; not to mention the firepower amassed outside, there's no way to escape. Sheer madness, a suicide mission. Then again, I am surprised no one's thought of it before.


The adventure continues in Part Two, soon...

The Hobby Rumor Mill, with Tracy-Chris Hackolds.

Hi there! I'm Stale Gum "Special Correspondent" Tracy-Chris Hackolds, and here’s a little something that should get The Hobby abuzz … a little something I'll throw out there from time to time called The Hobby Rumor Mill.

- Rumor has it ... That a certain card company CEO hasn't been seen around the office for the last couple of weeks. Maybe spending a little extra time at the penthouse, hmmm?

- Rumor has it ... This same CEO is scheduled to return to the office THIS MORNING to address the troops -- or what remains of them. The CFO quit last week, and much of the rest of upper management has already walked out.

- Rumor has it ... The KFC Double-Down will replace the Ben's Chili Bowl Half-Smoke as "Food of the Gods." Zeus was unavailable for comment.

- Rumor has it ... A major sports organization that recently granted an exclusive trading card license, has already pulled the license BEFORE a single product was ever issued by the licensee! Looks like someone got "schooled!"

- Rumor has it ... That an anonymous entrant into the Stale Gum Upper Deck Death Pool is about to pick...

... hey wait a minute that can't be right? This Friday? April 23rd? 2010? And this anonymous entrant is putting up 10 packs of 1990s era SP Baseball?

I'm not so sure I believe that one. But, we shall see!

We’ll bring you more from The Hobby Rumor Mill soon.

Tracy-Chris Hackolds is the "Special Correspondent" of stalegum.com. Have a comment, question or idea? Send an e-mail to him at tchackolds@stalegum.com.

The Great Raul Hunt.

The mission: To find as many Raul Ibanez rookie cards out of a pair of recently purchased junkwax boxes. It would be a tough job, but I had an obligation to my readers to find the Raul's, for good or ill.

Box #1: 1996 Bowman








Base Set: 188 of 385 (48.83%)
47 doubles
2 triples

Parallels: 24 Foils (one-per-pack)

Inserts:
2 1996 Bowman's Best Preview (30 cards, 1:12) C. Baerga, C. Jones
1 1996 Bowman's Best Preview Refractor (30 cards, 1:24) NOE-MAH!
2 1996 Minor League Player of the Year Candidate (15 cards, 1:12) R. Rivera, G. Alvarez
1 1952 Bowman Mickey Mantle Reprint (one card, 1:48)

Autogamers: NONE

RAUUUUUUUUUL's: 2

---

Box #2 1996 Bowman's Best




Base Set: 106 of 180 (58.89%)
24 doubles
6 triples

Parallels
2 Refractors (1:12) J. Buhner, T. Greene

Inserts
1 Mirror Image Atomic Refractor (10 cards, 1:192) Alomar/Relaford/Biggio/Castillo
1 Bowman's Best Cuts (15 cards, 1:24) ManRam
1 Bowman's Best Cuts Refractors (15 cards, 1:48) M. Piazza
1 Bowman's Best Cuts Atomic Refractors (15 cards, 1:96) M. Piazza
1 Mickey Mantle 1952 Bowman Chromium (one card, 1:24)

Autogamers: NONE

RAUUUUUUUUUL's: 1

On-Location Box Break Preview

It's not quite as awesome as ripping a box on Jefferson Burdick's grave, but it's pretty damn cool nonetheless.



Tomorrow.

A Comparison: 1998 SP Authentic vs. 2008 SP Authentic.

This is an experiment in video gonzo journalism. A little something different. Enjoy.



Box Break

Base Set: 107 of 198 (54.04%)
2 doubles

Parallels: NONE

Inserts
8 Sheer Dominance Silver (42 cards, 1:3) G. Maddux, The Big Rat, L. Walker, R. Alomar, R. Clemens, M. Vaughn, J. Thome, J. Bagwell
2 Sheer Dominance Gold (numbered to 2000) Chipper, D. Jeter

Autogamers
1 Chirography: R. Clemens /400

According to Beckett, Roger Clemens signed only 400 copies of his '98 SPA Chirography cards -- although the card itself is not serial-numbered. They lists it at $60-$120. Even if this card fetches the more realistic LO end on eBay, this card all but pays for the box.

Compare that to the three junk autographs I got last year, and a winner is 1998 SPA.

For comparison's sake, here's my break of last year's SPA.

Fear and Loathing in Valley Forge

We began our Sunday in Toms River, at The Backstop of course, ripping boxes of the new Topps Heritage. And when the call came, I was ready.

"HEYYYYY, IT'S THE DOC-TAH!"

"Uh-Huh."

"OK, I put him on."

"HEYYYYY CHRIS, THIS GUY ON DA LINE WANTS TA SPEAK TA YA."

Dr. Wax approached the table cautiously, and when he handed me the telephone I said nothing, merely listened. "That was headquarters," I said. "They want me to go to Valley Forge at once."

My attorney said nothing for a moment, then he suddenly came alive in his chair. "God hell!" he exclaimed. "I think I see the pattern. This one sounds like real trouble! You're going to need plenty of legal advice before this thing is over," he said. "As your attorney I advise you to gas up the car. And then you need the junk wax. Some of those Rated Rookie T-Shirts, music for the road, and get the hell out of New Jersey for the afternoon." He shook his head sadly. "This blows my Sunday, because naturally I'll have to go with you -- and we'll have to arm ourselves, to the teeth."

"Why not?" I said. "If a thing like this is worth doing at all, it's worth doing right."

"What kind of card show is this?" he asked.

"The Philly Show," I said. "It's the oldest, most continuously operated sports memorabilia show in the country... at least that's what the press release says."

"Well," he said, "as your attorney I advise you to buy a case of 1991 Donruss. How else can you cover a thing like this righteously?"

"No way," I said. "Where can we get a hold of an entire case of 1991 Donruss?"

Getting hold of the Rated Rookie T-Shirts was no problem. But an entire case of 1991 Donruss Baseball was not an easy thing to round up on a Sunday morning in South Jersey. We went to a bar, where my attorney made seventeen calls before locating a card shop with an unopened case of '91 Donruss.

"Hang on to it," I heard him say into the phone. "We'll be over in thirty minutes." Then after a pause, he began shouting: "What? Of course the gentleman has a major credit card! Do you realize who the fuck you're talking to?"

"Don't take any guff from these swine," I said as he slammed the phone down.

We spent the rest of the morning rounding up the junk wax and packing the car. Then we ripped a jumbo box of '92 Fleer, pulling a Frank Thomas Rookie Sensation. Sometime around Noon we had lunch at a diner, then drove very carefully across Toms River and plunged onto the pine-covered New Jersey State Route 70, heading West.

This assignment was different. It was a classic affirmation of everything right and true and decent in The Hobby. It was a gross, physical salute to the fantastic possibilities of this great Hobby -- but only for those with true grit. And we were chock full of that.

But what was the story? Nobody had bothered to say. So we would have to drum it up on our own. Free Enterprise. The American Dream. Jefferson Burdick gone mad on junk wax in the Philadelphia suburbs. Do it now: fake Gonzo journalism!

---

We finally arrived early in the afternoon. We were forced to stand in line with all the others -- which proved to be very difficult under the circumstances. There was a gun show happening simultaneously at the Convention Center, and the atmosphere was very tense. And that's where the trouble started.

A boney, middle-aged hoodlum wearing an Orioles jersey yelled: "God damn! What day is this -- Saturday?"

"More like Sunday," somebody replied.

"Hah! That's a bitch, ain't it?" the hoodlum in the Brian Roberts O's jersey shouted to nobody in particular. "Last night I was out home in Ball-Tee-More and somebody said they were having the Philly Show today, so I says to my old lady, `Man, I'm goin'." He laughed. "So she gives me a lot of crap about it, you know... so I started slappin' her around and the next thing I knew two guys I never even seen before got me out on the sidewalk workin' me over. Jesus! They beat me stupid."

He laughed again, talking to the crowd and not seeming to care who listened. "Hell yes!" he continued. "Then one of 'em says, `Where you going?' And I says, `Valley Forge, Pennsylvania, to the baseball card show.' So they gave me twenty bucks and drove me down to the bus station..." He paused. "At least I think it was them..."

"Well, anyway, here I am. And I tell you that was one hell of a long night, man! Seven hours on those goddamn buses and trains! But when I woke up it was dawn here and I was outside the Valley Forge Convention Center and for a minute I didn't know what the hell I was doin' here. All I could think was, `O Jesus, here we go again: Who's divorced me this time?'"

He accepted a pack of '91 Upper Deck from from somebody in the crowd, still grinning as he tore it open. "But then I remembered, by God! I was here for the Philly Show... and man, that's all I needed to know. I tell you it's wonderful to be here, man, I don't give a damn what you collect. It's just wonderful to be here with you people...."

Nobody argued with him, we all understood. This, after all, was the 101st edition of the World's Greatest Card Show; the Philly Show -- now under new management and a new venue: The Valley Forge Convention Center. No more driving to that shit town Reading! This card show attracts a very special breed, and our man in the Orioles shirt was clearly one of them.

---

We entered the basement of the Valley Forge Convention Center and started -- as we always do at these gatherings -- roaming the aisles. Ah yes. This is what it's all about. Total control now. Tooling along the center aisle on a Sunday afternoon at the Philly Show, two card collectors ... stoned, ripped, twisted ... Good People.

We walked over to a table that had about a dozen Hobby boxes of the new Topps Heritage for $70 each. "I don't know about you," I told my attorney, "but in my line of business it's important to be Hep."

"Mine too," he said. "But as your attorney I advise you to pick up a box of Upper Deck Spectrum. There's a couple of boxes over there for $73."

"Why?" I asked.

"Why what?"

"Why should I pay out my hard-earned dollars to rip shitty wax?"

"Look," he said. "Why are we out here? To entertain ourselves, or to do the job?"

"The job, of course," I replied. We were walking around in circles, weaving through the table-enclosed walkways.

My attorney was scanning the hall, looking for hints of action. "How about `2008 Topps Moments & Milestones, $50?'" he said. "`ADDDED VALUE IN EVERY PACK: DO IT NOW!' that sounds heavy... Twenty-nine cent packs of '91 Fleer..."

---

Why were we here? What did it all mean? All these cards. All these collectors. All these tables. Why?

I could have bought that box of '09 Heritage, or I could have spent it all picking out singles out of a 50%-off box. All throughout, I kept saying to myself: "What would Jefferson Burdick do?"

I snuck into the gun show and picked up a spray can of Bear Mace for $44.98 and suddenly, in the midst of that last thought, I was struck by the hideous possibilities of using it, here in the hall. Macing Joe Collectors left-and-right as they sit at the snack bar ripping their over-priced Triple Threads waxboxes, then slipping away and firing a huge load of Mace into the JSA and BGS booths. Or Macing those in line for Jennie Finch and Jim Rice at the autograph tables, for their own good of course.

"Oh, I'm sorry Ms. Finch. I apologize for that deranged man who just sprayed you in the face with Bear Mace. I promise you, it will never, ever, happen again."

As I think these terrible thoughts, one thing kept coming up in my mind: What would Jefferson Burdick think of all this? I'm sure if Ol' Jeff were here to see this awful spectacle, and to see how his once-great Hobby had degenerated into this, he'd do what I'd do. Bear Mace every pathetic soul in Valley Forge.

---

In the end, my attorney and I picked up a retail box of '09 Heritage for only $55. "As your attorney, I advise you not to pay an extra $15 for cards you don't want. Go with the retail box," my attorney said. My attorney is a wise man. He's not some dingbat I picked up on The Strip. I also picked up the entire set of 25 Hobby Store cards from last year's Topps Trading Card History set for only $10. "Why not? It's a good deal, and it's Hobby only," I said. I spent $11 on a handful of inserts from last year's Goudey and Allen & Ginter, and $6 on six packs of top-loaders.

---

Just as we were about to exit, we were spotted. I guess the "Rated Rookie" t-shirts gave it away, but we were caught and apprehended by some cardgeek on the way out the door.

"Hey, you're that guy!" he said.

I pretended to ignore the remark, but my attorney nudged me. "He's speaking to you."

"Your that guy from the website, aren't you? Stinky Gum, or something like that? SHIT! Jimmy, GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE! It's him!"

I politely extended my right hand to the poor bugger. And then I noticed the awful smell. In his haste to extend his hand, my attorney accidentally discharged the Bear Mace onto his shirt. Panic ensues. Collectors, still clutching their afternoon's purchases, bum rush the exits. Me and my attorney barely made it out the door before security clamped down, slipping the noose once again.

---

Black Chevy blowing through traffic on the Schuylkill Expressway. The fake journalist is driving, ignoring his passenger who is now nearly naked after taking off most of his clothing, which he holds out the window, trying to wind-wash the Mace out of it. His eyes are bright red and his face and chest are soaked with beer he’s been using to rinse the awful chemical off his flesh. The front of his woolen trousers is soaked with vomit; his body is racked with fits of coughing and wild chocking sobs. The fake journalist rams the car through traffic and into a spot in front of the train station, then he reaches over to open the door on the passenger’s side and shoves his attorney, snarling: "Bug off, you worthless faggot! You twisted pigfucker! If I weren’t sick I’d kick your ass all the way back to Toms River -– you scum sucking geek. Mace is too good for you! We can do without your kind in Philadelphia!"

Total Spent on Cards: $82
Admission: $6
Tolls: $4
Can of Bear Mace: $44.98
GRAND TOTAL: $136.98

Fear and Loathing in Delaware: The Tom the Ripper Remix

Jefferson Airplane, I need a rising sound.

Fear and Loathing in Delaware

Newark, the third largest city in the State of Delaware. Home to the State's flagship University. But we're not here to see the Fightin' Blue Hens. Our destination is the Aetna Fire Hall for a good old fashioned card show.

Shows like this were commonplace back in the 80s and 90s. The concept is simple: some local dealer rents out a conference room at a motel or fire hall, set up about 20-25 tables, and presto. Instant card show.

Santa Claus sent me one of those cheap battery-powered camcorders for Christmas, so I thought I'd use it to show you the scene. You know, video gonzo journalism. But the fascist at the door ordered me to put me camera it away.

I had to settle for shooting this in the parking lot.



All in all, a good way to kill a Sunday afternoon.

There is Nothing in the World...

... more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a collector in the depths of an Andre Ethier binge.



And I knew I'd get into those rotten cards pretty soon.

"We're your friends? We're not like the others."

"GET IN!"

Join Stale Gum's Chris Harris, Raoul Duke, their attorney Dr. Gonzo, and hundreds of pathetically eager card freaks, this weekend for a savage journey into the heart of The Hobby. A true atavistic waxbox freakout. It's the fabulous Philadelphia Sports Card and Memorabilia Show in Las Vegas Reading.

Free Enterprise. The American Dream. Horatio Alger gone mad on junkwax in the middle of the Schuylkill Valley. DO IT NOW!

Where and When:
The Greater Reading Expo Center, 2525 N. 12th St., Reading, PA
Saturday, September 27
Admission: $7 (free parking!)

More info: phillyshow.org
RSVP: chris.harris@stalegum.com

White Plains: Not Quite as Decadent and Depraved.

I got out of my car around one in the afternoon and no one spoke as I crossed the Bronx River Parkway towards the arena. The air was unusually warm. Inside, people hugged each other and shook hands...big grins and a whoop here and there: "By God! You old bastard! Good to see you, boy! Damn good...and I mean it!"

In the air conditioned snack bar I met a man from Long Island who said his name was something or other--"but just call me Vito"--and he was here to get it on. "I'm ready for anything, by God! Anything at all. Yeah, what are you drinkin?" I ordered a Pepsi.

"Look." He tapped me on the arm to make sure I was listening. "I know this White Plains crowd, I come here every show, and let me tell you one thing I've learned -- this is no card show to be giving people the impression you're a non-collector. Not in public, anyway. Shit, they'll roll you in a minute, knock you in the head and take every goddam card you have."

"Say," he said, "you look like you might be in the card business...am I right?"

"No," I said. "I'm a writer."

"Oh yeah?" He eyed my ragged book of wantlists with new interest. "Is that what you got there -- notepads? Who you write for?"

"Stale Gum," I said.

He laughed. "Well, goddam! I read that page all the time!" He was laughing wildly. "Hell yes!"

I shook my head and said nothing; just stared at him for a moment, trying to look grim. "There's going to be trouble," I said. "I'm here to cover the story."

"Story?"

I hesitated, twirling the ice in my Pepsi. "On the floor. 2008 Bowman Baseball." I stared at him again. "Don't you read my site?"

The grin on his face had collapsed. "What the hell are you talkin' about?"

"Well...maybe I shouldn't be telling you..." I shrugged. "But hell, everybody else seems to know. Everybody's been ready for weeks. They brought 25 cases. They've warned us -- all the press and bloggers -- to wear helmets and special vests like flak jackets. We were told to expect rioting..."

"No!" he shouted; his hands flew up and hovered momentarily between us, as if to ward off the words he was hearing. Then he whacked his fist on the bar. "Topps! Those sons of bitches! God Almighty! The White Plains Show!" He kept shaking his head. "No! Jesus! That's almost too bad to believe!" Now he seemed to be sagging on the stool, and when he looked up his eyes were misty. "Why? Why here? Don't they respect anything?"

I shrugged again. "It's not just Topps. Beckett says box loads of Celebrity Cuts are coming from Donruss -- to mix with the other wax and attack collector's wallets all at once, from every direction. They'll look like all the other high-end packs. But when the trouble starts...well, that's why I brought this." I then showed him my can of "Chemical Billy."

He sat for a moment, looking hurt and confused and not quite able to digest all this terrible news. Then he cried out: "Oh...Jesus! What in the name of God is happening in this Hobby? Where can you get away from it?"

"Not here," I said, picking up my wantlists. "Thanks for the drink...and good luck."

He grabbed my arm, urging me to have another, but I said I was overdue on the floor and hustled off to get my act together for the awful spectacle.

I went to one table to pick up a box of '08 Upper Deck series two, but the moon-faced young swinger in charge said they didn't have any. "You can't buy one anywhere," he assured me. "It ain't out for another couple a weeks. Besides, our pre-sells have been booked for six weeks."

I leaned closer to him, half-whispering: "Look, I'm from stalegum.com. How would you like to write for a Hobby blog?"

He backed off quickly. "What? Come on, now. What kind of a blog?"

"Never mind," I said. "You just blew it." I swept my wantlist book off the table and went to find some cheap inserts. A man in a gimmicky T-Shirt is a valuable prop in this kind of work; I have lots and the most prominent of all is a very official, navy blue thing that says "Rated Rookie." I bought it from a website somewhere, and they told me how to use it. "Never mention your website until you're sure they've seen you in this shirt first," they said. "Then, when you see them notice it, that's the time to strike. They'll go belly up ever time. This thing is magic, I tell you. Pure magic."

Well...maybe so. I'd used it on the poor geek in the snack bar, and now I felt a little guilty about jangling the poor bugger's brains. But what the hell? Anybody who wanders around the world saying, "Hell yes, I'm from Long Island," deserves whatever happens to him. And he had, after all, come here once again to make a nineteenth-century ass of himself in the midst of some jaded, atavistic waxbox freakout. Early in our chat, Vito had told me that he hadn't missed a White Plains show since 1996. "The little lady won't come anymore," he said. "She grits her teeth and turns me loose for this one. And when I say 'loose' I do mean loose! I toss ten-dollar bills around like they were goin' out of style! Wax, singles, rookies...shit, there's dealers in this building that'll do anything for money."

Why not? Money is a good thing to have in these twisted times. The Hobby, meanwhile, continues its grim slide.

---

My attorney was unable to accompany me to White Plains. But I remember what he told me before I left.

"As your attorney, I advise you not to buy 2008 Bowman wax. With all the gimmicks and autographed "rookies," it's a junkwax product now. You'll be able to get a box for half-price after the baseball season ends."

My attorney is a very wise man. He's not just some dingbat I found on the Strip. I think he's probably Samoan.

---

I came for a cardboard riot, and left a bit disappointed. Although 2008 Bowman was live, and in ample supply (Hobbby: $60-$63; HTA: $89-$95), it wasn't selling. In fact, in my three hours at White Plains, I did not witness a single box sold nor did I see a single collector carrying around a purchased box. Maybe card collectors are starting to get hep to Bowman? Either that, or they all have my attorney on retainer.

It wasn't just the Bowman wax. The entire Westchester County Center was a morgue. The last show... The Hobbyists were packed into that place like a Tokyo subway car. Shit, there were so many dealer tables, they had 'em stacked up on the stage! This show... Nothing. No junkwax. No loose packs to review on APAD. No, nothing.

Then again, it probably wasn't a smart idea to schedule the show during the first weekend of Interleague Play. In these parts, The Subway Series is a far, far better thing than the Super Bowl, the Kentucky Derby, and the Lower Oakland Roller Derby Finals all rolled into one. The White Plains show attracts a very special breed, and they were either out at Yankee Stadium, or home watching the game on TV.

I began wandering the aisle looking for something to bust. Leftover boxes of Topps Moments and Milestones for only $69. (Now with a complementary layer of dust!) A box of 2001 Bowman Chrome for $600. Some poor sap is probably dumb enough to buy that box, and he'll probably pull that Albert Pujols redemption card. Sucker. Monster box after monster box of commons and cheap inserts. I looked at those monster boxes and began to think. How would Jefferson Burdick handle the situation?

Panic. It crept up my spine like the first rising vibes of a wax frenzy. All these horrible realities began to dawn on me: Here I was all alone in White Plains, completely twisted and in need of a wax fix, with no attorney, not much cash, and no wax riot story for the blog. How would Jefferson Burdick handle the situation? Shit! I'm not even sure ol' Jeff could handle this.

---

I wound up purchasing a stack of 2004 Topps Heritage SPs interspersed with 2007 Fleer and Topps Heritage commons for $80. I also spent $40 on a stack of over 50 inserts from a dollar box -- ranging from 1994-2007. I was able to pull a 2001 Roy Oswalt Rookie Diamond King, so I can add that to the 2K1 D'Russ blog.

All in all, a pretty disappointing show.

Total Spent on Cards: $120
Admission and Parking: $11
Tolls: $15.70

GRAND TOTAL: $146.70

Fear and Loathing in Reading.

We were somewhere around King of Prussia, on the edge of the Pennsylvania Turnpike, when the pack busting jones began to take hold. I remember saying something like "I feel a bit lightheaded; maybe you should drive..." And suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us and the sky was full of what looked like former late-night sports collectible TV hosts, all swooping and screeching and diving around the car, which was going about seventy-five miles an hour to Reading. And a voice was screaming: "GEM! MINT! TEN!"

Then it was quiet again. "What the hell are you yelling about?" my attorney muttered, staring up at the sun. "Never mind," I said. "It's your turn to drive." I hit the brakes and aimed the Great Black Tank toward the shoulder of the PA Turnpike. No point in mentioning the voices of Don West and Kenny Goldin, I thought. The poor bastard will hear them soon enough.

It was almost Noon, and we still had thirty miles to go. They would be tough miles. Very soon, I knew, we would both be twisted. But there was no going back, and no time to rest. We would have to ride it out. The fabulous Philadelphia Sports Card & Memorabilia Show was already underway, and we had to get there by four. And I was, after all, a semi-professional fake-gonzo baseball card journalist; so I had an obligation to cover the story, for good or ill.

I had $300 in cash, most of which was already spent on extremely worthless baseball cards. The trunk of the car looked like a mobile Shop at Home studio. We had two factory sets of '90 Donruss, 75 waxpacks of 1989 Topps, five waxboxes of 1991 Classic Draft Picks, a 800-count box half-full of Casey Candaele rookie cards, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored '90 Topps, '91 Fleer, '88 Score, '94 Stadium Club... and also a set of '81 Donruss, a vending box of '88 Topps, a case of '87 Sportflix, a rack box of '89 Score and two dozen '01 Donruss singles.

Not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get locked into a serious junkwax collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can.

The only thing that really worried me was the '89 Score. There is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a man in the depths of an '89 Score pack busting binge. And I knew we'd get into that rotten stuff pretty soon. Probably at the next Turnpike rest area. We had sampled almost everything else, and now -- yes, it was time for an '89 Score rack pack.

"Man this is the way to travel," said my attorney. He leaned over to turn the volume up on the radio, humming along and moaning the words: "K-Y-W! News-Ray-Dee-Oh! Ten-Sixty!"

You poor fool! Wait till you hear Ken Goldin's voice!

---

We drove around to the Greater Reading Expo Center and parked near the front door. "This is the place," I said. "Where's the '88 Fleer?" said my attorney. "The '93 Topps ain't working." I gave him the key to the trunk while I ripped into some '92 Leaf. He came back with two '88 Fleer cellos, opened them, then emptied the cards into an 660-count box. This is the main advantage of late-80s junkwax: it makes you behave like the village drunkard in some early-Irish novel. Which is interesting, because the brain continues to function more or less normally ... you can actually watch yourself behaving in this terrible way, but you can't control it.

You approach the entrance leading into the Greater Reading Expo Center and you know that when you get there, you have to give the lady six dollars or she won't let you inside ... but when you get there, everything goes wrong: you misjudge the distance to the front door and slam against it, bounce off and grab hold of the old lady handing out complementary EPSCC gift bags and you think: What's going on here? What's going on? Ah, devil '88 Fleer.

The ground floor of the Greater Reading Expo Center is full of dealer tables, like all the other card shows ... but even bigger. I came in wanting to buy wax; specifically the brand new 2008 Topps Heritage. I step up to the first table with '08 TH: going price $69. "As your attorney, I advise you to pay no more than $65 for the new Topps Heritage."

Eventually found what I was looking for: a box of '08 TH for only $62. This particular dealer also had a box of 1997 Pinnacle and I was tempted to pick it up. At only $15 it seemed like a bargain, and the perfect addition to our burgeoning junkwax collection.

"As your attorney I advise you not to buy the '97 Pinnacle box. Instead you should search for the $4 boxes of 1986 Donruss All-Stars that Scott wrote about on A Pack A Day."

Ah yes, the '86 Donruss All-Stars. Me and my attorney searched far-and-near for these boxes, but our collective efforts went for naught.

---

Sometime around two-thirty my attorney wanted something to eat. We were standing in front of former Phillies pitcher (and the show's autograph guest) Shane Rawley when my attorney began yelling at the people in line.

"Hey there? You folks wanna buy some junkwax?"

No reply. No sign of recognition. They'd been warned of this kind of crap: Just ignore it ... "Goddamnit, I'm serious! I wanna sell you some pure fuckin' junkwax!" But still nobody answered. I glanced over, very briefly, and saw four Pennsylvanian faces frozen with shock, staring straight ahead.

It was sometime around three when we entered the Greater Reading Expo Center's snack bar. There was something about the atmosphere of the snack bar to put me on guard. The cashier was passively hostile, but I was accustomed to that. All I wanted from her, was a Budweiser Select and a $5 basket of chicken fingers. No hassels, no talk -- just a place to rest and regroup. I wasn't even hungry.

My attorney had no cards, or anything else to compel his attention. So he focused, out of boredom, on the cashier. She was taking our orders like a robot when he punched through her crust with a demand for "Two cans of Bud -- and a plastic cup!"

My attorney poured the two cans into the cup and drank them in one long gulp, then asked for another can of Bud. I noticed that the cashier seemed tense.

Fuck it, I thought. I was reading the insertion odds on the back of my 2008 Heritage box.

---

What the fuck was I still doing here? I wondered. It made no sense at all. Since I was already here, I though I might as well buy a box of last year's Heritage, and found one for $60. After purchasing the box, we turned away and reeled off in the general direction of the exit.

"God's mercy on you swine!" I shouted at two dealers coming out of the men's room.

They looked at me, but said nothing. By this time I was laughing crazily. But it made no difference. I was just another cardboard degenerate. Shit, they love me on A Pack A Day. I felt like a monster reincarnation of Jefferson Burdick ... A Collector on the Move, and just sick enough to be totally confident.

Total Spent on Cards: $122
Admission: $6
Tolls: $7
Basket of Chicken Fingers and three cans of Bud Select: $17
Grand Total: $152