Occasionally I go through my Google Drive and pull out these little snippets and thoughts that, at the time, must have been so important that I saved it. This is that.
July, 11th, 2018: The American Flea Market is the perfect place to get a sense of this mythical economic anxiety. But you have to come early. Not so early that the lines of tables and cars laden with used wares and treasure haven’t begun to form. And not so late that the hustle and bustle of making and getting deals performs it’s own late capitalism dance, screaming swans squawking stop the discarded consumer food some idiot bought at retail price.
Why should I pay $10 for a shirt when I can get one for $1?
Why should anyone?
Who bought the shirt first?
No you have to come right before official opening time when the ratio of set up to string up is about 2-1. Here is where you’ll see dealers buying from other dealers people struggling to sort their “vintage” rust covered tools, DVDs I lovingly sorted into shoe boxes and wrinkled WalMart bags carefully stacked near the cash box ready for the next sucker. Here is Trumps America, with cars stream with confederate flags not too far down from the stall selling a book with the n-word in the title (Rare! $7.00). A man wearing a shirt that says he stands for his flag and kneels for the fallen looks over his collection of glass wear and paperbacks while snippets of Spanish wash over the gravel and no one seems to mind – yet. It’s morning in America and the sun is bright and the dealing is good.