The public access channel on Saturday nights never fails to entertain. Henry and I usually watch belligerent Bible shows with our jaws slack, but on this night we were entranced by Moyé’s Hair Talk Show, which didn’t actually feature much talking but did have a wonderful Anita Baker-esque soundtrack going on.
The girl getting her hairs did was talking about how she is going to be in a fashion show even though she is actually quite shy, and that she is looking forward to walking down the catwalk in front of all of the rich people.
Henry was hyper-critical about the show’s name, as if that was the biggest thing wrong with it.
The next morning, I ditched Henry and Chooch in favor of a Blue Flame breakfast with Tommy and Jessy, where we had the best waitress ever who talked to me about my tattoo and Chiodos and Jessy was all, “God, just friend each other on Facebook already.” Then we went to the Perry Flea Market, where I didn’t really see anything too cool aside from a bin of vintage noisemakers going for NINETY DOLLARS and a buffet of multi-flavored whoopie pies, of which I bought two to share with Jessy, so now she can never say I haven’t done anything for her when I spent A BUCK FITTY on her, you guys.
I said we didn’t see anyTHING cool, not anyONE. This man had the most majestically out-of-place moustache in all of the east coast. I was frantic to capture his facial coif to treasure for all of eternity, but one of his daughters quickly caught on to what I was doing and saw right through my “I’m just taking pictures of my friend’s shoulder” charade. Considering this happened right when we got there, I decided to quit while I was ahead.
I let Tommy explain to me what was so special about this fishing bait bullshit because that’s what a sweet person I am, except that my intentions were stewed in sarcasm and irony. Jessy walked away immediately so she wouldn’t be bored to death, then we giggled about it later behind Tommy’s back.
When Tommy surreptitiously veered the truck onto a back country road upon leaving the flea market, I thought to myself, “Oh how nice, we get to enjoy the beautiful sunshine by looking at the countryside” which is completely out of character for me to think; approximately .0005 seconds later, my new thought was, “Wait — I think he might be driving us to our freshly-dug graves.”
Instead, he pulled into a junk yard (I LOVE JUNK YARDS!) to see if he could find a new handle for my car, because now we can’t open the drivers side door from the outside. Everything Henry and I touch breaks. When I go somewhere alone, I have to get in on the passenger side and pretend like I’m looking for something in the glove compartment while attempting to lean over and inconspicuously pushing open the drivers side door.
Our last stop was Marcell’s Pottery, which is this really iconic building that I’ve passed a million times in my life but have never stopped in because, well, it’s a pottery shop. However, as soon as I walked through the door, I was met with an icy glare. It took a few seconds for it to register, but I realized it was the Moustache’s Daughter.
I ran over and tugged on Jessy’s arm, hissing at her in a hyper-giddy squeal.
“What are the odds?” she laughed. I mean, the pottery is literally right down the road from the flea market, but we spent all that time, what seemed like an hour, driving around aimlessly, looking at country houses and cars propped up on cinder blocks.
Fought to get a good shot of the ‘stache, to no avail. His daughter was watching me like I was a hooded teenaged boy with Skittles on my person.
This place had the motherlode of religious shit though, so I was glad we stopped there.
And pupil-less Dutch kids!