That sound you hear?
Blank Silence.
That's the sound of my digital camera not downloading pictures.
I have no freakin' idea why.
Whatever. I was going to post a shitload of stuff on Etsy, but now? Not so much.
I'll figure it out. And I have another video cord lying around here somewhere.
So, we'll talk about Craft Shows:
October Handmade Market @ Shuba's
Great room, lots of natural light. No customers.
Not one. And it wasn't just me. It was everyone. Nobody sold shit. It was lame.
I blame the neighbourhood.
November Handmade Market @ The empty Bottle
Rockin' as always.
Here's my favorite discussion with a 'customer'...I'll use that term, because 'clueless fuckwit' doesn't sound very nice. The interaction took place at Shuba's.
Clueless Fuckwit fondles my yarn for a while, and her equally clueless daughter of about 40 stands next to her.
CF: So, we pick the yarns out, and you knit it into something for us?
Me: No, people buy the yarn, and then they do stuff with it. You know, knit, crochet, whatever.
CF: So, you don't make it into anything?
Me: Nope, I just hand spin the yarn. You know, like on a spinning wheel.
CF gives me a narrow-eyed look. She holds up a hank of yarn.
CF: So it's almost 20 dollars just for the yarn? That's too much money!
I imagine the satisfaction I feel as I rip the yarn out of her gnarled hand and kick her fragile, brittle bones to dust. I slap on a fake smile.
Me: We'll these are very special. Mostly rare breed, or locally shorn sheep.
I offer another fake, bright smile, willing them to just move on to the next table and torture her.
CF: At most kitting shops they knit it for you!
Okay, so she was old. And, things have changed. I decide to cut her a break.
Me: That used to be true. For a small price, many Yarn Stores (notice my clever phrasing) did have some knitters that, for a small price, would knit a custom item. That's really not so true anymore.
CF: I don't believe that!
Me: Well....
I pause here. She is leaning over my table, lower jaw jutting out, sort of looking like a nasty, elderly bulldog. I hate her. I could continue this exchange, which, really isn't pissing me off, but she would get madder and madder, until her wraith-like body started twitching. She -could- have some sort of stroke. Am I up for this? I take a deep breath.
Me: You know, there's a yarn shop right around the corner. You should go talk to them about it.
I'm probably wrong.
CF snorts, tossing down the yarn.
CF: You don't know anything about knitting.
Okay, so I do feel bad about sending this woman to a LYS. But they were kinda bitchy when I was there...
