Sunday.
What better day then to venture forth to the social cesspool that is the flea market, in search of trivial, useless shit or fleas, I haven't figured out which yet.
I thought it time to reacquaint myself with the salt of the earth, the great unwashed, the toothless wonders and genetic blunders of society.
I have to say, I wasn't disappointed.
In a mere few hours I encountered these alluring sites:
- More little ankle-biters with rattail hairs cuts -- and no shoes-- then I could shake a stick at
- Many, many overweight woman in spandex which was much, much to small for them
- Mass quantities of corn dogs and cheap beer consumed at such a rapid pace as to make even Marlon Brando envious
But, there was a saving grace.
I met this elderly gentleman, who had a keen selection of belt buckles. Well, I'm always looking for boss belt accessories, so I struck up a conversation with him.
Mind you, I have almost no compassion for social groups as a whole but for some reason that pessimism on my part does not extend to senior citizens.
I LIKE old folks.
They were raised at a time when you had appreciation and respect for others.
They tend, in general, to live life in a far less disposable manner then todays society as a whole.
I'll take a two hour story from them before I'll take a two minute, dullard, simpering story from most of my peers.
It burns my ass that senior citizens are relegated to the status of second class citizens simply because they are not the overly active demographic that consumer and financial interests so hungrily want.
Maybe if we took one goddamn minute to talk to them, as opposed to giving the ole' "smile and nod" in that same patronizing way people do to their young children when they say something silly, then maybe, just maybe we'd learn something.
But, no, we're too much in a fucking rush to get to our grande lattes and sushi dinners.
Don was his name, he was an engraver for fifty-one years. Fifty-one. Over half of a century applied to a trade that he held so dear.
And he had just recently been diagnosed with macular degeneration.
When he gave me change, it had to be from a bowl with four separate depressions in it, each holding a different denomination of coin, so he could feel them as he passed them out.
When he went to offer me bills, he had inadvertently began to give me a ten back, when all that was due was a five and a few ones.
It struck me that flea markets aren't particularly known for a high morale fiber and I wonder how many times this nice gentleman had been taken advantage of by unscrupulous types.
I corrected his miscalculation and made a point to ask, "Thanks so much. By the way, what's your name?"
He gave a big smile, "Cunningham, Don Cunningham."
I shook his hand and honestly offered, "Ya know, Don, good to meet ya -- I'll see you soon."
He smiled back, and said, "See you soon."
No.
He won't.
He'll be blind by the end of the year.
And that just fucking sucks.
What better day then to venture forth to the social cesspool that is the flea market, in search of trivial, useless shit or fleas, I haven't figured out which yet.
I thought it time to reacquaint myself with the salt of the earth, the great unwashed, the toothless wonders and genetic blunders of society.
I have to say, I wasn't disappointed.
In a mere few hours I encountered these alluring sites:
- More little ankle-biters with rattail hairs cuts -- and no shoes-- then I could shake a stick at
- Many, many overweight woman in spandex which was much, much to small for them
- Mass quantities of corn dogs and cheap beer consumed at such a rapid pace as to make even Marlon Brando envious
But, there was a saving grace.
I met this elderly gentleman, who had a keen selection of belt buckles. Well, I'm always looking for boss belt accessories, so I struck up a conversation with him.
Mind you, I have almost no compassion for social groups as a whole but for some reason that pessimism on my part does not extend to senior citizens.
I LIKE old folks.
They were raised at a time when you had appreciation and respect for others.
They tend, in general, to live life in a far less disposable manner then todays society as a whole.
I'll take a two hour story from them before I'll take a two minute, dullard, simpering story from most of my peers.
It burns my ass that senior citizens are relegated to the status of second class citizens simply because they are not the overly active demographic that consumer and financial interests so hungrily want.
Maybe if we took one goddamn minute to talk to them, as opposed to giving the ole' "smile and nod" in that same patronizing way people do to their young children when they say something silly, then maybe, just maybe we'd learn something.
But, no, we're too much in a fucking rush to get to our grande lattes and sushi dinners.
Don was his name, he was an engraver for fifty-one years. Fifty-one. Over half of a century applied to a trade that he held so dear.
And he had just recently been diagnosed with macular degeneration.
When he gave me change, it had to be from a bowl with four separate depressions in it, each holding a different denomination of coin, so he could feel them as he passed them out.
When he went to offer me bills, he had inadvertently began to give me a ten back, when all that was due was a five and a few ones.
It struck me that flea markets aren't particularly known for a high morale fiber and I wonder how many times this nice gentleman had been taken advantage of by unscrupulous types.
I corrected his miscalculation and made a point to ask, "Thanks so much. By the way, what's your name?"
He gave a big smile, "Cunningham, Don Cunningham."
I shook his hand and honestly offered, "Ya know, Don, good to meet ya -- I'll see you soon."
He smiled back, and said, "See you soon."
No.
He won't.
He'll be blind by the end of the year.
And that just fucking sucks.
But I'm rambling. Us old-timers do go on, don't we?
There's nothing like a story.