So, another Brimfield Flea Market down. That’s it for the year.

I do enjoy being up and on the road in a van crammed full of shit that used to belong to people who are dead now, shit that we’ve appropriated, put a price on, and will unload on some other person whose express purpose is to start that cycle again.

Brimfield is fundamentally different from, say, the Winter Antiques Show (where I also work) because at its heart, it is a giant flea market and not some curated, vetted, swell-attended deal. Brimfield is like a Bruegel painting with chemical toilets and $5 parking. And if it’s old, or made to look old, you’ll probably find it there.

Fully half the dudes at Brimfield look like Dr. Phil. Dr. Phil could wander around all day and not even get hassled. The median age of the women at Brimfield is about 100, and the uniform is a giant floppy hat and a wire cart dragged in a way that leaves a path of destruction and dinged shins in its wake. The majority of attendees have a singular obsession*, and some even wear signs or t-shirts that proclaim this, like the guy with the t-shirt that reads “LOOKING FOR BOY SCOUT MEMORABILIA.” Um, ok.

And they all want it for less money. My dad is generally acquiescent when they ask. When folks try to haggle with me, I defer to my dad, but if I didn’t, I would not be as good-natured about it. I think I’d be more like, “I can’t do that” or “perhaps this isn’t the item for you” or “how about you kiss my ass in two places and dream about a third?” I’m not a nice person. But that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the whole experience.

And this morning, I came back. A surprising number of people in Hudson commute into the City for work via Amtrak. (By surprising, I mean like four or five. Still.) That is a long way to go and a spendy way to do it. So, on the 7:20 train this morning, I found myself among other people. At 7:20 am on most mornings I am in the presence of one other person, max, and a cat. Both are fairly careful to avoid me.

I am, in fact, a morning person. Just a solitary one.

*I picked up a couple old group portraits — my singular obsession — but had to pass up the best one I found, because it was lying on a table right next to a bunch of WW2 Nazi memorabilia. Y’know, it’s not just that it offends my sensibilities to profit from atrocities (and I will include in this category anything REM recorded after 1989)…it’s also that so much of that shit is fake. Just as there are enough relics of the holy cross to build an entire hillside of them, there is enough Nazi regalia to outfit the entire population of Europe. So it irritates me that these dealers are so craven that they’re willing to sell FAKE atrocity souvenirs.
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