describe the Technic nine-volt motor. Technic debuted in 1977 as the Expert Builder series (the name changed in 1984). As one might guess, it was designed for advanced builders, with lights and movable parts in working machines that had gears and motors. I click through the links and thereby discover the online marketplace of BrickLink, where millions of new and used LEGO bricks are bought and sold.
The “unofficial LEGO marketplace,” according to the site’s slogan, BrickLink.com is eBay for the AFOL community, and I am visitor 28,733,814. This is where the collectors and builders have come to shop since it opened its virtual doors in 2000 as Brickbay.
BrinkLink actually made national headlines in 2005, when William Swanberg, a Nevada resident and online seller, was charged with fencing stolen LEGO sets on the auction site. He allegedly used a barcode switch scheme in toy stores across the Pacific Northwest, tagging more expensive sets like the Millennium Falcon with cheaper bar codes, and then reselling the sets online at close to the true retail price. In just three years, he sold approximately $600,000 worth of LEGO bricks.
When I mention Swanberg’s story to Duane, he says Swanberg was a big seller on BrickLink, even volunteering as an inventory administrator, cataloging the parts in sets.
“Sure, I bought some parts from him,” says Duane.
“Really? What was he like?” I ask.
“Just another seller. He sent me what I ordered.”
I’m not sure I believe him until I look at the feedback records for Swanberg and see Duane’s account pop up three times in 2005. “Great deal. Thanks, I’ll be back!” Duane wrote in April. Swanberg was arrested seven months later, pleading guilty to three counts of felony theft and receiving thirteen months in prison. U.S postal inspector agents had to rent a twenty-foot moving truck to haul away the evidence.
While reading about Swanberg on my desktop, I’m absentmindedly snapping together white and black bricks. I’m using primarily 2 × 2 bricks (two studs wide by two studs long) to build what ends up looking like a two-humped camel. It’s four studs wide with a slope for a head and yellow feet. It rests on my desk, and when my wife gets home she compliments me on what I’ve built. I smile, but don’t reveal my secret. I, like balloon animal hacks everywhere, can only make one animal so far. It is a LEGO version of the Island of Dr. Moreau, wherein I have brick-engineered a pig-camel, a dog-camel, and a camel with wheels. These monstrosities are quickly torn apart, and I wonder if I have some unresolved camel issues.
BrickLink has the same addictive pull as eBay. You’re looking at minifig heads and suddenly find yourself considering a bid on alligator tails. Come on, they’re only eight cents apiece. I can see how it would be very dangerous to go to this site while drinking. When I search for local sellers, I come across the BrickScope store, which is based out of Lee’s Summit, Missouri, about twenty minutes southeast of Kansas City.
The next day I’m at a local sandwich shop, where I’m to meet Andreas Stabno, the general manager of BrickScope. I’m flipping through a LEGO catalog when behind me, I hear someone say, “Jonathan?”
I look up and see a tall, slim man with close-cropped black hair. I’m not sure what I was expecting of a guy who has a five-hundred-thousand-piece inventory, but it certainly wasn’t Andreas Stabno. In an oxford shirt and pleated khakis, he is dressed just like the other five guys who entered the shop before him. Each of whom I gave a polite nod to in an effort to awkwardly determine if they were the person I was supposed to meet.
Andreas is, by all appearances, normal. Arriving exactly on time, he talks in the measured speech of an actuary, his day job.
“How’s building going?” he asks.
“I think very early on, I’ve almost avoided building too much and tried to regulate a little bit,” I tell him,
The “unofficial LEGO marketplace,” according to the site’s slogan, BrickLink.com is eBay for the AFOL community, and I am visitor 28,733,814. This is where the collectors and builders have come to shop since it opened its virtual doors in 2000 as Brickbay.
BrinkLink actually made national headlines in 2005, when William Swanberg, a Nevada resident and online seller, was charged with fencing stolen LEGO sets on the auction site. He allegedly used a barcode switch scheme in toy stores across the Pacific Northwest, tagging more expensive sets like the Millennium Falcon with cheaper bar codes, and then reselling the sets online at close to the true retail price. In just three years, he sold approximately $600,000 worth of LEGO bricks.
When I mention Swanberg’s story to Duane, he says Swanberg was a big seller on BrickLink, even volunteering as an inventory administrator, cataloging the parts in sets.
“Sure, I bought some parts from him,” says Duane.
“Really? What was he like?” I ask.
“Just another seller. He sent me what I ordered.”
I’m not sure I believe him until I look at the feedback records for Swanberg and see Duane’s account pop up three times in 2005. “Great deal. Thanks, I’ll be back!” Duane wrote in April. Swanberg was arrested seven months later, pleading guilty to three counts of felony theft and receiving thirteen months in prison. U.S postal inspector agents had to rent a twenty-foot moving truck to haul away the evidence.
While reading about Swanberg on my desktop, I’m absentmindedly snapping together white and black bricks. I’m using primarily 2 × 2 bricks (two studs wide by two studs long) to build what ends up looking like a two-humped camel. It’s four studs wide with a slope for a head and yellow feet. It rests on my desk, and when my wife gets home she compliments me on what I’ve built. I smile, but don’t reveal my secret. I, like balloon animal hacks everywhere, can only make one animal so far. It is a LEGO version of the Island of Dr. Moreau, wherein I have brick-engineered a pig-camel, a dog-camel, and a camel with wheels. These monstrosities are quickly torn apart, and I wonder if I have some unresolved camel issues.
BrickLink has the same addictive pull as eBay. You’re looking at minifig heads and suddenly find yourself considering a bid on alligator tails. Come on, they’re only eight cents apiece. I can see how it would be very dangerous to go to this site while drinking. When I search for local sellers, I come across the BrickScope store, which is based out of Lee’s Summit, Missouri, about twenty minutes southeast of Kansas City.
The next day I’m at a local sandwich shop, where I’m to meet Andreas Stabno, the general manager of BrickScope. I’m flipping through a LEGO catalog when behind me, I hear someone say, “Jonathan?”
I look up and see a tall, slim man with close-cropped black hair. I’m not sure what I was expecting of a guy who has a five-hundred-thousand-piece inventory, but it certainly wasn’t Andreas Stabno. In an oxford shirt and pleated khakis, he is dressed just like the other five guys who entered the shop before him. Each of whom I gave a polite nod to in an effort to awkwardly determine if they were the person I was supposed to meet.
Andreas is, by all appearances, normal. Arriving exactly on time, he talks in the measured speech of an actuary, his day job.
“How’s building going?” he asks.
“I think very early on, I’ve almost avoided building too much and tried to regulate a little bit,” I tell him,
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