thrift'n

ever since we were little kids we've been going to thrift shops on Saturday mornings~ my favorite was the Red Door in Goshen, NY, in the basement of a side street run by some of the oldest little skinny ladies in the world, the prices ranged from ten cents to a dollar, we'd buy sweaters and books, and eat at the diner, with coffee in Buffalo cups

driving home in other peoples unwashed cloths, smelling like dead old guys, stained with there last lunch~ reading their underlined phrases from under Mickey Spillane pulp covers

like walking into everyone you've ever knows mom's house, she's kind of poor and kind of kooky, stuck in the previous decade, or more, it's all broken crap

crummy/wonderful art gets kicked around and stacked up

a couple of young guys carried this painting thru the crowded parking lot as i drove off~ it's probably hanging in their dorm room~ now~ stunning

everything looks comfortable~ washed out~ it's all averaged~ i don't buy anything

the furniture section is mostly empty, dusty and sad, a bored old guy seated reading, awaiting spring and birds~ they should put a TV in this room maybe some snacks

having huge feet, i have never purchased shoes at a thrift store~ something about this pink sticker against Mary Jane's, made my face want to burst into tears

this is how you tell the upcoming seasons by crap gazing

i steal things like super-8 cartridges, found an Israeli passport, in my pocket, watched a state police officer try to establish parking lot order by holding his hands up and yelling at mad bag sales patrons who ignored him while i snuck a picture of him and hide in piles and tufts of jackets, books and crafty wooden salad forks and giant plastic toys

when i test a machine i always type this line, the end of the civil war was near~ i cant remember the line which contains every letter, somebody else is much more pragmatic

years ago at the Warwick church second hand store, in a basement, again, i saw these two girls who from the neck down were dressed in serious filthy rags, torn, dirty, stinking with no recognisable style at all, like bums, but their little beautiful heads looked like they'd been transplanted, from somewhere too cute~ in pixie hair cuts, and glittered faces like little dolls~ so beautiful~ today, I'm still confused

i used to take photos of manikins dressed in underwear, i don't' know why so many church basements dressed their manikins in panties and bra but they do, and i took photos and Thrift Score fanzine published them, i loved that fanzine

Saturday mornings~ now that we haven't been surfing, because of the cold, the old, the econo, the kids, a whole list of excuse, the truck died, Toby moved, now the old draw, of wandering cluttered shelves pulls me to go out amongst the poor, the hungover, the Mexicans the hipsters, and I, am all of them

i would have bought this~ but completely empty it weighed thirty pounds~ sick though

look at all the compartments, me and this Spanish guy pawed at it for awhile, until we both moved on, i bought Mee Mee a sweet little ToughSkin denim jacket, half price 3.00 dollar, some great patterns, and summer time shorts~ at this very same shop once i walked into the unlocked bathroom, right into the middle of a little old lady peeing, i screamed and ran out side

we used to ride down country roads listening to VKR radio shows and, greasy kids stuff, drinking coffee in the rain~ with camera and piles of books

back before we had children and the stores were usually empty but for old guys and gals listening to oldies, yelling out prices to each other, doing arithmetic on paper bags

i bought bikes and cookies and birthday presents

That's where i met you baby, and wanted to crawl into your bags to let you take me home

now i only find stuff in the trash, in free piles, my dead neighbours house, as i type this out, I'm wearing a poached shirt

i don't go out to church, bag, or thrift shops much anymore~ maybe when I'm old, I'll go to church and help out with the bag sale, the bake sale, the charity

when i get old you can wear my lunch shirt, you can wear my shoes, and listen to my 8-tracks

this is what our towns newpaper is not sold from anymore~ black painted monolitic boxes/locked