My Adventure to "Friendly Frank's Famous Flea Market" located at the Jackson-Madison County Fairgrounds

My Adventure to "Friendly Frank's Famous Flea Market" located at the Jackson-Madison County Fairgrounds

First, may I say, I made this trip as a purely educational fact-finding mission and had absolutely no intention of parting with a single dollar, but 600 thread count sheets for $20 does tempt me. Naturally there must be something shifty about this, but do I care? Twenty bucks is quite worth a chance on a set of sheets. Especially when they are the kind of sheets that take away all of your problems and force you into a comfortable night of sleep whether you like it or not. (My current sheets seem to mock me as if saying "really? you again... fine. whatever.") Even if these are rank forgery 300 ct sheets in a libelous packaging it's still a decent deal. And lets face it they are very likely just stolen goods, right? In which case they would be the real thing. Maybe, maybe not. Could be too good to be true, but again it's only twenty bucks. Obviously this is a sensible investment, and that's how they get you.

Of course there is another more ominous factor... I would be spending money at the flea market. Can I sleep with a good conscience, knowing I have done business with such an odious enterprise? Is there any way that the luxury of 600 thread count sheets can suffocate the feeling of distress and panic that will rouse you in the night because you've supported the wayward and wrongful lifestyles of itinerant kitsch trinket merchants?
I couldn't. I could not take that chance. I didn't go to the Friendly Frank's to be tempted; I went for the reason I do most things. General mockery and the freedom to be amused and entertained as I scribble notes as quickly as possible with no regard for those around me.

There are cardboard boxes, most of which seem to have at one time shipped fresh bananas, now holding beaten packages of over-the-counter medications, deodorants, and make-up. And the yokels are searching through them as though a golden chest is somewhere within. one table reads "Anything on this table 25¢", NOTHING on that table should cost twenty-five cents. Whatever company it is that makes the wealth of bland uninteresting decorative angel figurines deserves to be sentenced for their crimes against aesthetics. (I type this in my grandmother's living room which contains no less than five of these monstrosities). On the far edge of the flea market I see a man selling vacuum cleaners out of a van. he has a sign that says they are guaranteed for a year... Is that a manufacturers guarantee or do you just find him somewhere along I-40 and bring your documentation?

Often the most jarring sites are the incongruous mixtures of products for sale. The camouflage laden gentleman operating next to "vacuum charlie" saw nothing unusual in the sale of mattress covers and pecans, and why should he? For years I've said "When, when will be the day when I can purchase a questionable mattress pad and a ziplock bag full of pecans from a shopkeep whom prefers to hide amongst the trees and leaves and let his products speak for themselves" Clearly my prophetic dream has finally come to pass. This is the flea market. What is the appeal of this place? (beyond oddity and sheets... mmmm sheets.) Inside I see a leopard print cat bed. yikes. Diabetic socks, because apparently the treatment for difficulty in absorbing glucose as caused by insufficient production of insulin is going to be availed by a clever knee sock. I spot another table, this one quite crowded, that features guns, knives, swords, and fake dog feces. --clearly they cater to an elite clientele. Lots of people are selling VHS tapes, because surely somebody is still watching those, right? C'mon they're only outdated by what two major video formats (assuming we aren't counting direct digital downloads). Another stand sells "homade budder" or bizzarely thick looking home-made flavored butter from unpasteurized cow milk. The "budder" comes in a variety of colors all in mason jars and having the consistency somewhere between cottage cheese and molasses. NOTE: none of this seemed to be refrigerated either. In a corner a woman was drawing what was hoped to be whimsical cartoon caricatures, though in actuality they were bizarrely similar looking profiles, all of which seemed to be either riding in a race car or golfing. Her variety was striking. Almost as striking as the hemp "drink carriers" she was selling in addition to the sketches. How often does a 20 oz. bottle of water require a shoulder harness? This would-be hippie had all the marks of a woman who after her childless divorce had gone back to school, in this case Jackson State Community College, at the age of forty (coincidentally also the number of cats she owns) to study an unspecified "art" in hopes of recapturing her lost dreams and wayward ambition, that in reality never existed.

Next to Artsy-McArt-ington sat my natural enemy, the Chiropractor. For the sake of simplicity I'm just going to quote the skeptic's dictionary here to explain my animosity towards such blatant quackery.
"The basic idea of classical chiropractic is that "subluxations" are the cause of most medical problems. According to chiropractic, a "subluxation" is a misalignment of the spine that allegedly interferes with nerve signals from the brain. However, there is no scientific evidence for spinal subluxations and none have ever been observed by medical practitioners such as orthopedic surgeons, neurosurgeons, or radiologists. Chiropractors think that by adjusting the misalignments they can thereby restore the nerve signals and cure health problems. This idea was first propounded in 1895 by D. D. Palmer, a grocer from Davenport, Iowa, and a vitalist who considered intelligent energy to be conveying information among various body parts."
I made quite a few circles past the Chiropractor's table. He was offering "free computer health scans" Crikey, why doesn't my regular college educated doctor ever rely on the quick and easy "computer health scan" to check me out. On the first pass I overheard him say, and I grant this is quite possibly very much out of context "you aren't in the police are you?", on another swing by I heard him diagnose lactose intolerance from his magical all knowing health computer.

On the opposing corner was a table with a truly baffling sign "Sublimation while you wait". For a split second, I thought he was in cahoots with the chiropractor, but then I read it again "Sublimation" not "Subluxation". I thought I was a bit off, but a check of the dictionary came to my aide –

Sublimate
verb (used with object)

1.	Psychology. to divert the energy of (a sexual or other biological impulse) from its immediate goal to one of a more acceptable social, moral, or aesthetic nature or use.

2.	Chemistry. a. to sublime (a solid substance); extract by this process. b. to refine or purify (a substance).

3.	to make nobler or purer: To read about great men sublimates ambition.

"Sublimation while you wait" it wasn't meant to be ironic, at least I don't think so. Quite bizarre. In reality this vendor was there to take a digital photo of you and then decoupage it onto a piece of wood or a plate... while you wait. Maybe he inteded to create a new word from sub and laminate? I have no idea. But in no way does a decoupaged photo of a two year old covered in snot and a smeared crust of "homade budder" about his pate denote nobility or purity, much less aesthetic value.

Another table had the alarmingly unsettling sign "child sized geisha outfit". which in fact pointed to a small kimono. Another brandished a professional airbrusher. airbrushing? is it 1991? seriously. And of course there was the requisite table of hand crafted wooden decorations, all made lovingly by a psychopath in his woodshed whilst taking a break from writing apocalyptic rants on the walls using his own feces. He had an assortment of birdhouses and a portfolio of other wooden crafts he had built in his "medically prescribed" spare time (and/or moments of lucidity) He also sold bouquets of flowers made from painted wood chips. When I stoped ever so briefly to take note of them he poped out at me like a drug-addled jack-in-the-box "Magical, just magical aren't they. Go ahead smell them if you like."

Another realization Pentecostals LOVE funnel cake. I saw many a Pentecostal woman milling about and few were the ones who did not have a plate of steaming deep-fried dough buried beneath an avalanche of powdered sugar. I saw one woman anxiously rifling through her nonsensically large purse in the funnel cake line. (because such treats apparently induce lines)

"Is that your church money?"
"yes, that's my church money."
"well --here, just take part of mine."
"No- I need my funnel cake."

There was a clearly audible desperation in that need. Here's a question: How do Pentecostals justify dressing like complete and total fucking morons? Seriously, if a magical sky-god demands the female dress code to be: Denim ankle length skirts and bizarrely coiffed giant hair-dos then, surprise! You should realize your god is a complete fucking idiot with the taste and intelligence of an aborted chimpanzee fetus. Do not pass go, do not collect two-hundred dollars.

The last leg of my tour took me to a stand that sold pretty much anything and everything with a confederate flag on it. I can't say I was surprised to see this, just a little shocked at the various forms of tat containing this antiquated and unwelcome symbol. T-shirts, blankets, hats, potholders, baby bibs, and oven mitts. People in the south generally say, "the Confederate flag isn't about racism, it's about heritage" These people are also generally known as half-wits, simpletons, or "Jerry's Kids". And their knowledge and understanding of history is also seriously at question here.

Nearby I found a man poised in an aluminum chair presiding over a group of boxes sitting directly on the ground. What should be in these boxes, you ask? Why at that height clearly this was prime real-estate for childrens' toys and there were plenty, water-guns, Spider-man pencil sets, bouncy balls... all conveniently located right next to the box of loosely sheathed assorted military knives. Not Swiss Army Knives, mind you, but serious four inch bladed knives ready for the next Rambo or Birdhouse making nut-job to go on a slice and dice spree.

The flea market returns every month, and I am very tempted to go back, no not for the hopes of seeing a child lose a finger to the box-o-knives, and not see how long it takes before someone realizes that the "caricature artist" can only draw three different profiles, and not even for those sheets... well not entirely for the sheets and their 600 threads of comfort, I will be kicking myself forever until I see exactly how a computer health scan works and if i can get a copy to run on XP.