Flea Market.

Sunday-
Faith, Max, and myself head to the flea market. we drive down 40 through the grey wetness. The brief ride through winston feels like a trip through a walker evan's photobook left out in the rain. A half hour passes in the car, and we end up at Cook's. We park in the back, trudge through gravel, hop over puddles, climb the rusty stairs, and enter through a red door. Inside - it's amazing. A dim, musty warehouse with concrete floors. Voices of men, women, and children speaking in different tones, accents, dialects, languages echo. My eyes can't take it all in. Ramshackle booths with wobbly-legged tables and rolls of chicken wire. Everything is for sale, up for bargain (except the E.T. lamp at the old man's candle stand). Used books, dusty albums, plastic and poorly painted animals, vacuums, colorful tupperware containers, hookahs and bongs and other glassware, lion head lamps and zebra ashtrays, musical piggy banks with pupils blown like they're on ecstasy, baby bamboo trees in panda-shaped dishes, sleepy-eyed puppies, hotdog stands with vendors in stuffed hotdog hats, technicolor cowboy boots and sparkling vinyl handbags . . I wander off with my camera in hand trying to catch fleeting glances of unaware passersby. I stop and ask half a dozen for photos. They all respond the same- "why??" i explain it's just for my own pleasure, and all but one crotchity old hag comply. I purchase a pink and peacock feather mask from the World Famous Wizard. He's closing up, smiles, and gives it to me for half off, a grand total of $2. His portrait is my favorite from the day. Before we know it closing time arrives and we venture back out into the rain. We drive home through the dark with Vampire Weekend playing our soundtrack.