On
the second Sunday of each month one can sleep in, somewhat, and then
venture out and pay $6 to the event organizer of the Pasadena Rose
Bowl Flea Market (who, coincidentally, also coordinates circus') or
one can shell out an extra $11 and go in early as a 'special preview
VIP', probably limiting yourself to bagels or donuts, depending on
your persuasion, but nonetheless significantly increasing your chances
of scoring just that perfect thing to add the polish you need for
your collection of goods that will, as an accumulation, define your
Lifestyle. As one wanders among the maze of stalls, the neuroses grow,
made even more painful by a very conscious absence of anything resembling
real coffee, for could it be, that there in front of you is not only
the cr¨me de la cr¨me of Burmese neo-revolutionary hand-blown pickling
spoons, but also, as you eagerly hand over your extra cash, you spy
a friend, whose smiling countenance cannot hide their jealousy over
your uncanny luck. A few years ago I arrived in New York City late
on a Friday night and took a taxi to a friends' loft downtown. He
had a few other friends over and we all sat down to eat dinner. Somehow
we got on the topic of Flea Markets and one of the guests told a story
about being a 'special preview VIP'. He used to buy books from the
back of big rig trucks a few hours before the same truck rolled into
the loading dock of some mega chain bookstore in midtown Manhattan.
He would then carry the books downtown on the Subway, and with all
of his family members sell them in a stall at a parking lot near Union
Square where each weekend is the kind of Flea Market that the traditional
sense of the term conjures. His 'best-sellers', he admitted, were
those big, pretty, arty, coffee table books, full of pictures and
no content. As it happens, the person across the table from him was
a photographer and a year before had published one of his 'best-sellers'.
"Oh yes" the VIP said with a great smile. "That was a big one. I sold
a ton of those!" Like most things in California, the long history
of Flea Markets - 'markets' indeed, but often full of goods whose
better life may have been but one notch above being a flea nursery,
has been converted into a game of acquisition equal to the Royal hunts,
with princely sums changing hands for goods that are now highly prized
pieces of "thrift" and sometimes are downright "antiques." When I
went last month, to help a friend shop for barware, I couldn't decide
which lifestyle I would want to adopt, mid-century minimalist modern,
maybe some Hans Wegner with a dash of Knoll and Eames, or loud western
style 50's, red checkered tumblers in brass carrying trays and leatherette
and chrome chairs, maybe with a Hudson Bay Point blanket and a vintage
Thermos thrown in. My friend was looking for Depression glass decanters
to go with his Ruby and Green whiskey glasses, but came up short,
settling for a faux depression shot glass. "It's for 'Irony', he said,
as I peered questionably at his purchase, as if Irony was a small
child with soft slippers waiting at home, and not a tool in managing
his picture perfect collection. For Irony was the only thing that
could keep the stylistic channels open for a simple conversion in
the next phase of Life-style development.