Everything on the Blanket's a Dolla
Today I went to the flea market on a quest for...(drumroll)...a recipe box. Yeah, ya know, a little metal or wooden box, perhaps with images of flowers or chicken legs or cupcakes or sausages or whatever other random images that may or may not belong on a recipe box. I need the box to house this super cool collection of recipe cards given to me by lovely friend down in Brooklyn. Now that my kitchen is worthy of food prep and winter is settling in (not that you'd guess that based on the weather lately), I want to start tackling some of these recipes. And with all that build up you'd think I came home with my quest fulfilled. Nope.
With certainty, there was a recipe box, probably a dozen or twenty or forty recipe boxes somewhere at that flea market. What was striking me today as I ambled distractedly around the dirt lot amidst the boxes and tables was basically something like this: "Holy Crap do people in New England know how to hang onto shit or what?" Fucking seriously. And the vendors are obviously pretty hard-up for some cash, because they will bring anything, and I do mean anything to try and pawn off. The last booth I stopped at seemed to be the entire contents of some dilapidated shed - everything was the same color, a sort of rusty brown, regardless of what material it was made of. Most of it was broken. A youngish couple was overseeing the whole display from the back of their truck.
Just before their booth was a group of twenty-something year old men, selling swords, knives, and various other martial-artsy weapons that looked illegal. I stared at them solemnly through my sunglasses then cracked a slight smile as I walked past.
Military medals. Baseball cards. Piece of shit plastic toys. Worn out sandals. The All in the Family soundtrack. A shoeshine box. A flour sifter. X-box games. Wooden shoe stretchers. More rusty crap. A flocked deer made of some kind of foam. Enough costume jewelry to open a small shop. Harlequin romances. Boxes of greeting cards mailed to Providence, RI, saved for years from the 1920's on. Bike parts. Then a rather odd booth that had several "theater" masks, along with a boxed vinyl record set of Beethoven's "Fidelio". If you've ever seen Kubrick's Eyes Wide Shut you'll understand why this was a little odd. As I stood and stared at the Fidelio record, a teenaged boy passed behind me and made an attempt at singing the word, Fidelio.
The sun circled around me. Dust and cars and cigarettes. I'd seen about one twentieth of the entire flea market. I had no recipe box. But I just wanted to drive, the energy of all that stuff with all its stories was hanging on me. Usually that's why I like the flea market. But I just didn't have room today.
With certainty, there was a recipe box, probably a dozen or twenty or forty recipe boxes somewhere at that flea market. What was striking me today as I ambled distractedly around the dirt lot amidst the boxes and tables was basically something like this: "Holy Crap do people in New England know how to hang onto shit or what?" Fucking seriously. And the vendors are obviously pretty hard-up for some cash, because they will bring anything, and I do mean anything to try and pawn off. The last booth I stopped at seemed to be the entire contents of some dilapidated shed - everything was the same color, a sort of rusty brown, regardless of what material it was made of. Most of it was broken. A youngish couple was overseeing the whole display from the back of their truck.
Just before their booth was a group of twenty-something year old men, selling swords, knives, and various other martial-artsy weapons that looked illegal. I stared at them solemnly through my sunglasses then cracked a slight smile as I walked past.
Military medals. Baseball cards. Piece of shit plastic toys. Worn out sandals. The All in the Family soundtrack. A shoeshine box. A flour sifter. X-box games. Wooden shoe stretchers. More rusty crap. A flocked deer made of some kind of foam. Enough costume jewelry to open a small shop. Harlequin romances. Boxes of greeting cards mailed to Providence, RI, saved for years from the 1920's on. Bike parts. Then a rather odd booth that had several "theater" masks, along with a boxed vinyl record set of Beethoven's "Fidelio". If you've ever seen Kubrick's Eyes Wide Shut you'll understand why this was a little odd. As I stood and stared at the Fidelio record, a teenaged boy passed behind me and made an attempt at singing the word, Fidelio.
The sun circled around me. Dust and cars and cigarettes. I'd seen about one twentieth of the entire flea market. I had no recipe box. But I just wanted to drive, the energy of all that stuff with all its stories was hanging on me. Usually that's why I like the flea market. But I just didn't have room today.
posted by Black Egg at 11:59 PM
3 Comments:
i used to like going to the flea market myself... but like you said, it just a bunch of peoples old crap... and the one thats close to here is always getting busted for selling stolen shit... lame, anyway i hope your holidays were great!
I'm pretty sure there's a fair amt. of stolen shit at this one, too, but I've never heard of anyone getting busted. The whole place is so shady that I think it's just left to its own devices. I used to be a real regular, but I've gotten very picky by necessity about what kinds of junk I bring into my environment. But once in awhile it's just where I want to be. It's fun. My holidays were Ok - yours sounded pretty damned fun!
hey, it's me...you know...me!, with a new identity! woot woot. i have missed commenting on your blogs.
here in Holyoke, we have a flea market on Sunday. It is exactly what you described...fan-tastic. except when it's not. i found some great shit there. and some...just shit.
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