One of the things I love most about spring is that it means the flea markets will be in full effect. Some of them are still open during the winter months, but nothing beats rifling through piles of bootlegged DVDs and bongs next to some old overweight skank in Steelers booty shorts.
I was relatively hung over from a wine party the night before (more on that at a later date), and stupidly left the house without making any coffee under the pretense of stopping at Starbucks first, but then Starbucks was OMGSUPERPACKED (it was Sunday morning, duh) and Henry got all angry about that and then we fought and he turned around THREE TIMES to go back home but then I finally got my fucking skinny cinnamon dulce latte and all was right again. I tried to laugh about it later but Henry gave me the “TOO SOON” snarl and shrugged away from me.
(This literally delayed us 45 minutes. Chooch will probably be referencing it at a therapy session somewhere down the road.
These are the sorts of things that bring Henry out to the yard on Sunday mornings: rusty tools…..and…..you know, I actually don’t really know what Henry looks at. Vegetables, sometimes. One time he bought incense off some ex-Dead Head.
Maybe I should start paying more attention to Henry.
I do know that he uses the bathroom there a lot.
OMG he’s totally fucking some old Yinzer skank next to a goddamn shit-clogged commode!!
The Korean “proprietors” of this fine piece of flea market real estate were on the news last year, having all of their inventory hauled out of their shady house by the police.
But don’t worry, Chooch! They’re back and ready to take your dollars!
Chooch has to touch EVERY LAST STUFFED ANIMAL he passes. And we’re all, “No stuffed animals!!!”
Got stuck behind the Sisterhood of Traveling Pants n’at and wanted to chop them up and stuff them in their stupid wheeled luggage. I still can’t understand why people don’t clear a path when they see me coming,w hcih makes me seriously consider wearing that skin-mask I scored at Ed Gein’s white elephant last Christmas.
My boo, Wobbling Eye Mole Guy! I think he must know me by now (most likely as “that sucker who will pay way too much for religious shit”) because he said hello to me in an extremely friendly manner and I wasn’t wearing a low-cut shirt, so it wasn’t that.
Unforch, WEMG didn’t have any Christ-like gems tucked away behind vintage Steelers bullshit and stuffed raccoons.
I wonder if he ever had his “operation.”
Anyway, during one of Henry’s “bathroom runs,” Chooch and I stumbled across a pretty cool clown picture and struck up a conversation with the old man selling it. I have a super soft spot for old man flea market sellers. I will almost always give them my money. And this guy was awesome, squeezing my arm and patting Chooch’s head.
Or completely creepy, depending on your sleaze threshhold.
“I gotta get at least $15 for that,” he said and then explained why but I wasn’t listening.
“I’ll be back with my Money Man,” I said with faux importance. He laughed knowingly and molested my arm again.
A few minutes later, Chooch and I ran into a recently-urinated Henry who cut us off by saying, “Yeah, I know. I can already guess what it is you’re talking about. I saw it.” And he really did know! He reluctantly gave me money for another clown picture to add to the clown room in my invisible never-house!
And then he had to carry it around with him for the rest of the morning.
Hoarder Lady! No visit to Trader Jack’s is complete without strolling past Hoarder Lady’s hoard-carnival. Chooch insists on touching everything and you have no idea what kind of precariously-stacked mound of clutter this is. It’s a life-sized game of Junk Jenga. I have watched Hoarder Lady swoop down on a Happy Meal toy that some asshole shopper left dangling like a participle and stuff it back into the mountain, corking the inevitable avalanche.
This is where Steven Spielberg got the props for the inside of the Goonies pirate ship. True story.
(But don’t quote me. I’m shy.)
“No stuffed animals. No stuffed animals! NO STUFFED ANIMALS! Ugh, fine.” How can I resist a stuffed cat that looks like a Marcy/Don hybrid?
I mean…that face. How can I resist that precious face of my child?
Of course, we had to wait for Henry to return from the bathroom again (“It’s all that iced tea!” he stuttered) and he made the “Oh for fuck’s sake” face before shoving his hand into his money bag. Meanwhile, Chooch struck up a conversation with Hoarder Lady about cats, so now she doesn’t look at him as a human wrecking ball anymore, but someone on her own cat-collecting level.
Henry always acts all bent out of shape when Chooch and I leave the flea market with bounty, but he has nothing. I mean, what did you want, Henry? If you want a rusty hoe so bad, maybe see if your ex-wife will take you back, I don’t really know what else to tell you. But you’re not spending my flea market allowance on yourself.
I mean, at least we let him stop at the pretzel place on the way home. I’m pretty sure that’s the only reason he goes to the flea market anyway.
Chooch and I always let him stop at the pretzel place on the way home though. Go on, big guy. Treat yourself.