Dad was a collector. Mom said it was all junk. Sotheby's was about to prove dad right and mom wrong.

My Dad was definitely not an entrepreneur. True he had worked for Donald Trump and Donald knew my dad by his first name, but that was only because dad worked the security desk in Trump Towers. Sir Donald would say hello every morning. (He really is a nice guy.)

All of my relatives used to ask dad if he ever got any stock market advice from Donald. No, my dad was content with his job. It was steady and he got home at 5.30 every evening.

Looking back, I can't even say that dad had a knack for collecting the right stuff when he was younger. Sure as a kid, he collected bottle caps and baseball cards and as a teenager, 45 records and Miss NY subway posters but they never were worth much. And for grandma, it was just more junk in their Bronx apartment.

One night dad brought home an autograph of Barbara Streisand. Actually I would not call it an autograph. It was the sign-in sheet from Trump Towers. Barbara had visited Sir Donald and, as was the requirement, she had signed in at the front desk. Dad decided to show it off to his brother in law, my uncle Bernie. There definitely were a number of oows and ahhs from the relatives but it still could not compete with the SAT scores my cousins were announcing at the Sabbath dinner table.

One of dad's few business accomplishments was that he organized the union of doorman and maintenance workers at New York's fanciest buildings. Soon dad's colleagues were sending him their sign-in sheets. Didn't anyone ever ask where the old sign sheets were? No, they just seemed to collect in basement file cabinets through out the city. Well dad started collecting them. The only problem was that his pals would give him five cartons of sign-in sheets and tell him that somewhere inside were the autographs of the Beatles when they entered the CBS studio to perform on the Ed Sullivan show.

So the stuff started collecting in our house, not only in the basement but also in every room, including the bathroom. My job and my brother's were to diligently go through the papers and catalogue the famous signatures (and my wife wants to know why we both became accountants).

As security increased in every venue of the country, my dad's collection grew. He started developing special market niches. His favorite, as a New Yorker, was the sign-in sheet from the final game the Dodgers played in Ebbets Field in 1957. Each player had to return the five towels he had received at the beginning of the season or pays a fine of $2.25 per towel. Looks like Mr. O'Malley collected an additional $25 dollars and change.

After dad retired from Trump Towers, he became an expert in the value of the sign-in sheet as a method of tracing the history of our country. One of his pride achievements was obtaining for the Library of Congress a collection of sign in sheets utilized by the White House commissary. Each U.S. President was asked to sign in at the beginning of his term of office and sign out upon his completion four years later. It had actually evolved from a cost cutting practice of President Polk. (He required his personal signature on all deliveries over five dollars to the White House.) Dad had the August 1974 sign-in sheet where Richard Nixon had signed out at 11.58 am and Gerald Ford had signed in at 12:02 pm. Nixon had left a message next to his signature, "I am not a crook."

Dad's collection was the next item up for bid. I had just returned by limo from an interview on the Today Show. Mom was on Letterman the night before. My brother, of course, was holding out for Saturday Night Live. The auctioneer knew his business. He had incased dad's memorabilia under some type of bulletproof glass, and had an inert gas blown in. The frame looked like it had last hugged the Mona Lisa.

"Ladies and gentleman, please take a look at the close circuit TV's through out the ballroom. The camera will focus on the famous signatures before you." No need to squint, the camera had blown it up ten-fold. There were the signatures of the astronauts of Apollo 13 on the sign-in sheet used just before they entered the Apollo spacecraft. The bidding started at $2500 and quickly shot up to $25,000. The final bid at $37,250 was from a sci-fi crazed rock star.

My favorite was next. Dad had also become an expert in deciphering handwriting. He had testified under oath that Marilyn Monroe had actually signed in and out of the White House one evening in 1962 using the name Marcia Muscovitz. Would you believe this signature brought in more money then Monroe's sequined dress that she wore when she sang "Happy Birthday, Mr. President."

My dad had stated in his will that each grandchild equally share in the proceeds of the Sotheby's auction. My Wharton MBA daughter had already committed her inheritance to continue her grandpa's obsession, except within a 21st century paradigm. (She wrote a business plan and is actively seeking angel investors if you are interested). Think about this. When you call your credit card company, or just about any business, a voice tells you that your call may be recorded for quality assurance. That's right, she has first option on purchasing all the tapes. So don't forget to speak clearly. Your inane question is being captured for all eternity.

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