Gotta Catch 'Em All....October 11, 1999

Gotta Catch 'Em All....October 11, 1999

Every Sunday from 1-5pm there is a Community Flea Market, either at one of the malls, or, during Sunday shopping season, at the local high school. Despite the rather abrasive, back-woods demeanour of some of the peddlers, empowered one day of the week with the honour of being budding capitalists and on the road to making their dreams come true, I rather enjoy going to the Flea Market.

Without meaning to sound materialistic or elitist, I must assert that most of the items for sale at these things are pure junk. I mean, really, who has a need for Grandma's tomato sauce stained tupperware colander, or the very retro cassette player that is missing the rewind button, and will not record anything, which used to be Junior's coveted ghetto blaster back in the mid eighties?

But alas, there are steps being taken by these toothless entrepreneurs to upgrade the Flea Market's image from an oversized yard sale to something more along the lines of a mall sidewalk sale. One can now purchase things like deoderants, razor blades, cd's and video tapes, all pristine and fresh in their wrappers.

Personally, I have a huge problem purchasing over-priced personal hygiene items that are displayed right beside a flo-bee and late Grandpa's foot-soaking basin.

Nevertheless, I rather enjoy seeing antique furniture, old coins, and the rare authentic Aboriginal artwork and crafts. I say rare because only once in a while will a First Nations individual be there selling handmade wares. It is always a treat, however, when he or she is there, and it keeps me going back, client or no. Lately, a wonderful artist named White Bear has been there week after week. His work is some of the finest, spritually moving I have ever seen. He makes rawhide TPs, talking sticks, fur keychains, dream catchers, moccasins, and drums to mention just a small portion of his prolific talent. He also sells a cd that he recorded recently, which of course I bought and enjoy thoroughly.

Meeting White Bear has been a spiritual experience for me. From the moment I first encountered his profoundly powerful soul, I felt a connection, yet from I know not where. We glided into conversation as easily as if we were old friends; perhaps in another reality we were. Today, I mustered the courage to drop off a baby Moo tooth, and humbly asked him if he could make a piece of jewellry out of it for The Goddess' upcoming birthday. He said he would see what he could do, and to return next week when he would probably have something for me. I asked him to make whatever came to him.

I cannot wait to see what he comes up with.

Damien has done a great job lately of thoroughly souring me on the whole flea market experience. He insists on going there every week, for one reason, and one reason only. Woe be to anyone who dares stand in his way.

Just what, you ask, has the power to turn a leisure afternoon of chance treasure hunting into an experience of torture? What has transformed an inexpensive, relaxing afternoon activity into something I dread the coming of Sunday over?

Evil...pure evil, I say.

True to Damien's nature...

He has developed an obsession for...

Pokemon cards.

There, I was able to say it.

Yes, despite his lack of social skills, and devoid of any sense of the bartering system, Damien insists on going to the flea market every week, handful of bent, stained, and ripped Pokemon cards in hand, to try and take advantage of Mr. Junior CEO whose parents have invested hundreds of dollars in Pokemon solely to take advantage of peers like Damien. He is ignorant of it all.

I know the art of trading cards has been around for decades, but I have never been able to comprehend it. It is so very arbitrary to me. How someone can look at a piece of ink imprinted cardboard and say it is worth a hundred dollars goes beyond what I can concieve as rational. Nevertheless, pubescent youth for generations have given up their loose change on the chance that someday that combination of wood and ink will make them a fortune.

The fact that the latest craze is Pokemon boggles my mind even further.

But I digress.

As I was writing, Damien has made going to the flea market a chore. He pushes his way through very cramped, very slow moving aisles, paying no mind to the fact that he just almost knocked over granny and her walker, to get to the first table with Pokemon he sees. Given the fact that it is usually swarming with other frothing youngsters, he usually has to shove them out of the way, too. Since he has no money, he wants to make a trade. Since Junior CEO either has everything Damien has already, or is unwilling to take anything in less than perfect condition, Damien usually strikes out. Despite his being told by the mini-peddler that no trades are being done, he keeps shuffling through the packed binders, asking to trade this or that. I end up telling him rather insistently that he has already been told that no trades are being done. He does not take this well. By the time the process is repeated at at least two more tables he has trampled his way to, he throws a fit, especially if I comment on how rude he is behaving. We end up leaving, no so willingly, with him either cursing the vendors because they will not trade his common goods, his mother for being poor, or me for not giving him any money. On special days, it is a combination of all three, and I am dragging him to the car.

Gotta catch 'em all.

....Blessed Be...