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Today I briefly entertained the thought to tell you all about my latest fishing exploits. However, after beginning to write about it, I soon grew bored and chucked the idea. It was nothing that I haven't written about before in one way or another and it all sounded rehashed and recycled. I'm going to chase muskies with a fly rod next week. I have a good friend that'll put me on some eager fish on a west suburban lake and it'll be up to me to close the deal. I'm confident we'll do well and I'll let you know how that went at a later date. That's something I definitely will write about because it's fresh and, well, different.

So instead of a reconstituted fishing tale, this week's column fell into my lap and I couldn't pass it up. I spent a couple of hours on Sunday at a nearby flea market and discovered I had all I needed right in front of me to write an article. All of the wonderfully weird and eclectic things I was hearing and seeing while I was there overwhelmed me, and at one point I actually asked a vendor if he had an extra pen and piece of scratch paper handy so I could write it all down.

I assume most of you have been to a flea market. If you're as interested in diverse human behavior as I am, you soon realize that a typical flea market is sort of a strange place, and that hardcore, seasoned vendors seem to be stamped from a particular mold.

There is a fairly uniform look to the vendors, particularly the men. If you have a proclivity for sweat-stained straw cowboy hats, checkered short-sleeved western shirts and very large belt buckles, you'd almost have the look nailed. To really look legit though, you need to maintain your weight at around a buck-twenty and have a non-filtered heater hanging off your lower lip. You get bonus points if you can somehow keep the cigarette's ash between two and three inches in length as it bobs precariously up and down while you're talking. The only thing that might beat a long heater ash would be a personal mobility scooter (with the wire basket up front) parked behind the vendor's tent.

The first place I popped into last Sunday was a wood-framed walk-in structure run by an older couple. I'll tell you what, these folks had a very serious Elvis thing going on. I mean really big. So big that they sold framed copies of newspaper clippings announcing Elvis' death. And if that weren't creepy enough, they also sold laminated photocopies of the Nashville Medical Examiners' Report. They also sold lots and lots of knives and various edged weaponry, so I ducked out of there while the ducking was good.

I then spied a really nifty family-sized tent for sale a few booths down. The vendor only wanted ten dollars for it. I took a better look at the price tag and read that the poles and stakes were missing. Hmm, without poles to "tent" the fabric, can you really call it a tent at that point? I got to thinking that if a guy wanted to spend a month or two fashioning long saplings into tent poles he might have himself a pretty good deal there. I quickly dismissed the thought, as I personally don't have that sort of time or whittling expertise.

If you decide to stroll around a flea market, let me give you some free advice. I've been poking around flea markets and dickering with vendors for a lot of years, so pay attention. My nugget of wisdom is this: No matter what the junk is you intend to purchase, if you ask the seller what it'll cost, he'll invariably spin a very questionably tale about the junk's esteemed provenance. Some of these guys have pretty creative imaginations, so be on guard for a story like this one: "That there is a very rare harp. I pulled it out of an estate sale just last week where it sat in some old lady's living room for like seventy years. She died two years ago right there in that very house and nobody discovered her missing for well over a year. God rest her soul. Place smelled awful. That's why I got such a good deal and I want to pass my good fortune onto you. I'll let that harp go for ninety-five dollars. I might be able to get a bit more for it, but there are a few strings missing and it's badly out of tune."

Another thing to look out for are the vendors that become an instant authority on whatever piece of crap you bring to them for a price quote. I rummaged through a box of busted up cameras and discovered an old 8x30 monocular that was sort of neat. When I brought it to the vendor, he first looked into the wrong end of the thing. When I told the guy that he was looking into it backwards, he quickly recovered his composure and snapped, "Don'tcha think I know that, young man? I was just making sure the roof prism mirror dealie in there was properly aligned." He then flipped it around and focused in on some imaginary distant object, then told me, "Ten dollars." I could tell he hadn't been a flea market vendor for very long because the inflection of his voice rose when he said it. It sounded like he was questioning his own price. It came out, "Ten dollars?" He immediately lost my respect, so I dropped the monocular back into the box of busted stuff and walked. I didn't even acknowledge him when he yelled after me, "What'll ya give me for it?" Too late, Jessup. My interest waned and something else caught my eye.

I did discover today that professional flea market vendors and their families aren't a whole lot different than carnies or circus folks, and I certainly don't mean that in a negative way. I say that because they all lead something of a nomadic lifestyle. In a way, I can see the allure of it all. I'm a self-described antique shop and flea market junkie, so the idea of traveling and buying and selling and being around old stuff for a living appeals to me on many levels.

So I was running around the flea market observing things and writing my notes when I happened upon one of the food vendors there. Holy Guacamole, I hit the jackpot. This guy had so much weird stuff for sale I couldn't possibly retain everything mentally, so I kept trolling past and taking notes once I was out of eyeshot. He not only sold Karmel Korn and cotton candy, he also offered up umbrellas, decorative stitched leather purses, nunchucks, brass knuckles, real Samurai swords and mace. I'm not talking pepper spray mace here, I'm talking a 4-inch spiked steel ball attached to a big wooden stick by a chain that you use to bash a Medieval enemy's head in with. "Okay kid, let's see what you got here. That's $3.50 for the Karmel Korn and $55.00 for the 4-foot, razor-sharp sword. Don't eat too much of that corn all at once now, ya hear? You could choke."

I do love poking around flea markets in hopes of finding an under priced treasure. I've had pretty good luck in the past, snagging a German-made Gischard wood and brass barometer (circa 1920) and a pre-WWII German "Munich's Child" bier stein for five bucks each. I'd put a value of a couple of hundred dollars on those two items, so it does sometimes pay to have a good look at what's out on those tables. Of course you sort of have to know what to look for too.

Flea markets are great. To my way of thinking, it's a most pleasant way to spend an afternoon. If you haven't been to a flea market yet this season, run out to one and do some treasure hunting. You might luck out and find some really neat stuff.

If you have comments for Dan or story ideas contact him at e-mail [email protected].

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