Vicks and I went to a giant flea market this weekend. Giant was not the word. We walked for hours (our feet looked something like this) and I don't think we even saw half of all the booths that were there.

It is unbelieve how much garbage humans accumulate. Some booths made sense. Some were selling collectibles, glassware, books, etc. But then there was the completely random crap that no one would ever buy.

It was sort of like if Ebay threw up it's innards onto a huge field in a small Canadian town.

But yet, we had a compulsion to go through each booth to see what could be out there. Vicks got a great pair of Adidas sneakers. I got a set of crappy candleholders that didn't survive their maiden lighting. Oh, and fudge. That was decent.

Another interesting aspect of this outing was that it appeared that most of the sellers were living at the flea market. They had their tents or tailers set up. They sort of reminded me of carneys. They all seemed to know each other, and seemed to speak a language that was foreign to me. Many of them were old, probably retired, and overweight. I suppose there's worse ways to spend your retirement; going from town to town, selling crap that's been in your basement for decades, possibly making enough money to cover the cost of gas for the week. Maybe I've been missing out? Maybe I should consider a career change?

Uhm, no.