
Could it be that the tumblr format is just so damn easy in comparison to WordPress? Lately I’ve felt like the creative equivalent of some dude who hasn’t left his chair for two days, bathed in the glow of a video game, scratching his back with a repurposed spaghetti spoon and eating Kozy Shack pudding with his hands.
Whatever that means. Oh, yes: Tumblr is easier.
So, just to dilute my brand a little more, I’ve created a new tumblr, Lovely Jetsam. It’s an assortment of old items I’ve found on online auction sites, things I would probably buy if I had unlimited funds and space. Go check it out. Follow me, if you must.
I’m dicking around with the design. While I practice my CSS legerdemain, things may or may not be borked. In the meantime, please visit the Too Sweet to Die tumblr, where the ease of posting suits my unambitious MO.
I did not watch Sarah Palin’s Alaska last night. I spent most of the day laid up experiencing what might, in another context, be considered “cleansing.”* I attribute it to Indian takeout at 11pm the night before (and possibly the bloody marys earlier in the day — horseradish: nature’s Drano). I *did* catch Walking Dead, which is still gory enough to be enjoyable but getting a little silly, plot-wise. Grimes and his raggle-taggle gang head back into Atlanta to rescue a bag of guns as well as the racist and totally unhinged Merle** at the behest of his racist and totally unhinged brother, Daryl.*** (Because, naturally, that’s what rednecks are named, hurr!)
Speaking of lazy film tropes, I can forgive the melange of regionally incorrect Southern accents. But what was the deal with the fortress protected by the members of Suicidal Tendencies? It was like the costume designer bought a bunch of Vato Loco Halloween costumes, and the truth is that the gang life of Atlanta is considerably more nuanced than a Gang of Hats. And no, before you ask, I am incapable of willful suspension of disbelief.
Oh, and then, back at the camp [SPOILER ALERT!] everybody dies.**** The end!
*But not if you saw the toilet bowl. ::rimshot::
**Played by Michael Rooker, whose first speaking role was in Streets of Fire, which just goes to show that EVERYTHING can be traced back to that movie. EVERYTHING. (Side note: I love him and all but his tweets are pretty goddamned stupid.)
***Played by that guy in that god-awful movie Boondock Saints, which is probably best known as Every Racist American’s Favorite Film. Oh, and also, Willem Dafoe was in it, which only serves to bolster my Streets of Fire theory, above.
****Nah, not really.
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.
Where did she go?
I am lazy. If you're bored, go visit my tumblr, updated daily with other people's witticisms and erudition.Also by me
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