Garage

Garage sales are not unlike buying a Hapsburg a shot of Bourbon-a dicey prospect, to be certain (anybody into pre-World War I European history jokes?) OK, how about challenging Falco to a butt sex competition? The odds are against you, considering your opponent wrote 'Rock Me, Amadeus.' Unless, of course, you're Taco (of Puttin' On the Ritz fame), in which case, you may want to take the money line on your bad self. At any given yard/garage sales event, one must take into consideration the chances of encountering baby clothes, chromatic brown silkscreened fabric art by Marushka, Tom Clancy novels, and promotional telephones, once provided at no cost to subscibers, by Sports Illustrated or Newsweek magazines. Not to mention, inappropriate garage sale items such as Cool Whip tubs, bed pans (also those yellowed toilet donuts that geezers use to crap off of), half-used bottles of shampoo, expired presciptions, and underwear. Crappy items aside, you have to muster some sort of garage sale bravura to enter some stranger's temple, only to inform them (after a hurried sweep and scan) that they have nothing of interest to you. A simple "thanks," will usually suffice, but it can be a long walk if the cashier looks all dejected and shit because you couldn't find one single item worth your while for a quarter....especially if there's nobody else shopping to run static for you. One must keep in mind that although the items for sale were hand-selected and deemed sellable at a discounted rate (nobody should be too offended if you skip over the brass and scratched-oak bellows), it's still ultimately, a reflection of their tasteless, tacky lives. Let's face it, one's taste doesn't change that much, unless an Ikea gets built near a local expressway--in that case, even the hillbillies seem like the niwa-shi of the Meiji period (anyone into Japanese garden design jokes?). When one frequents garage sales, one is bound to run into other cheap assholes on the circuit. These worthy adversaries always seem to beat you to the next sale- they also are usually better prepared: they've got a van, they've got GPS, they even have a wingman riding bitch for optimal bric-a-brac scannage while you're haggling over the price of an erotic lithograph (I love Nagel!), and most imprtantly, they have DOROTHY- a state of the art weather probe that is used to study tornadoes by releasing several small sensors throuh the inflows of the tornado. If it works, DOROTHY will help increase warning times and save lives. Wait. That's the movie Twister. Sorry. Anyway, the good ones you only see on a Thursday or Friday, as Saturday is famously for ameteurs (who actually have to work during the week). Friday mornings are the best, but be careful about lunchtime rushes- they can harsh your mellowtop.
It is at this time that I would like to introduce new legislation that would effectively ban old people from garage sales. The other day I got beat to a fine Wusthof chef's knife that had a $7 tag on it by some old piece of shit guy. I was so pissed I screamed "What the fuck are you gonna do with that? You're gonna fucking die at like any minute. Give it up to someone who can use it for something else besides fending off the grim reaper's sickle!" My grandpa is such a fucking asshole. But seriously, there should be an age limit. Write your local representative.Another great thing happened to me the other day at a garage sale. I was busy MYOB'n just checking out some rare as shit Sing Along With Mitch records when I heard a lady say this:
"I'm gonna have to drop a dollar-fifty, Marty. It's an Escher."
I couldn't believe it! This lady found an M.C. Escher for a buck and a half! Fuuuck me. I'm so interested in tesselations and fucking lizards and shit and hands drawing hands and stairs that go up and down in space. I love doodling all types of cubes on legal pads when I'm on the telephone also. I've been into Escher since I first layed eyes on his awesome shit in poster-form in a college dormroom. I said to myself, what kind of fantastical realm has just been opened up to me and me alone? And I didn't get the fucking Escher that I rightfully deserve. Marty got it. You think Marty is gonna take care of it? You think Marty's gonna let it sleep in his bed when it's thundering outside? You think Marty is gonna let it use his toothbrush? You think Marty knows anything about fine art? You think Marty's not gonna throw it out when he gets rid of his Boris Vallejo prints and decides to make a Sportsroom instead, in an alcoholic rage? I'm over garage sales. Estate sales are much less bruising on my fragile psyche.