Flea Market Quotes

I don't trust happiness. I turn it over as if it were a glass at a flea market or a rug at a souk, looking for chipped rims or loose threads.

You cannot imagine what sorrow and anger seize one's whole soul when a great idea, which one has long and piously revered, is picked up by some bunglers and dragged into the street, to more fools like themselves, and one suddenly meets it in the flea market, unrecognizable, dirty, askew, absurdly presented, without proportion, without harmony, a toy for stupid children.

Beauty is startling. She wears a gold shawl in the summer and sells seven kinds of honey at the flea market. She is young and old at once, my daughter and my grandmother. In school she excelled in mathematics and poetry. . . Beauty will dance with anyone who is brave enough to ask her.

The humanities are like the great old Paris Flea Market where, amidst masses of junk, people with a good eye found cast away treasures...They are like a refugee camp where all the geniuses driven out of their jobs and countries by unfriendly regimes are idling.

Saturday is Flea Market Day, holiest of days.

Shopping has nothing to do with money. If you have it, you go to stores and galleries, and if not, you haunt flea markets or Goodwills. Never, though, do you not do it, choosing instead to visit a park or a temple or some cultural institution where they don’t sell things.

Sisters, girlfriends and troublemakers -- you know who you are -- you are fearfully and wonderfully made! In other words, God doesn't make junk. Thankfully, his children do, and that's why we have been blessed with flea markets just about everywhere.

It;s called a flea market, because they sell old things that might have fleas living in them.

For official record, if become bankrupt old retail distribution centers-labeled supermega, so-enlarged foodstuff market- later reincarnate to become worship shrine. First sell food-stuff, next then same structure sell battered furnitures, next now born as gymnasium club, next broker flea markets, only at final end of life...sell religions.

Flea-Market vendors are frozen mid-haggle. Middle-aged women are frozen in the middle of their lives. The gavels of frozen judges are frozen between guilt and innocence. On the ground are the crystals of the frozen first breaths of babies, and those of the last gasps of the dying.

Yeah, but I don’t buy my books at used bookstores and flea markets,” he said. “I get ’em hot off the presses so they stay fresh.” “Oh for heaven’s sake! Books aren’t bagels. They don’t go stale,

She spoke with all the authority vested in her by her flea-market prayer beads and her lotus-flower tramp stamp.

Fifty years from now, strangers discovering this album at some parking-lot flea market would glance at us and flip the page, not even interested enough to wonder who we’d been.

I picked up an old microscope at a flea market in Verona. In the long evenings, in my imitation of life science, I set up in the courtyard and examined local specimens. Pointless pleasure, stripped of ends. The ancient contadino from across the road, long since convinced that we were mad, could not resist coming over for a look. I showed him where to put his eye. I watched him, thinking, this is how we attach to existence. We look through awareness’s tube and see the swarm at the end of the scope, taking what we come upon there for the full field of sight itself. The old man lifted his eye from the microscope lens, crying. Signore, ho ottantotto anni e non ho mai Saputo prima che cosa ci fosse in una goccia d’acqua. I’m eighty-eight years old and I never knew what was in a droplet of water.

I somehow graduated 90s pre-Internet high school and got into college with just a set of flea market 50s encyclopedias at home.

These camps – with their streets and squares, their hospitals and flea markets, their crematoria and their stadiums – were the expanding cities of a new Europe.

His style of dress went way beyond your usual adolescent grunge: old men’s overcoats bought at flea markets; crusty, baggy tweed pants; sneakers held together with duct tape.

Some things aren’t worth the trouble. Even if we got them for almost nothing at a flea market.

I knew that making something discoverable on the Internet was like sending someone on a scavenger hunt into the universe's biggest flea market.

Rome was a flea market of borrowed gods and conquered peoples, a bargain basement on two floors, earth and heaven, a mass of filth convoluted in a triple not as in an intestinal obstruction

He touched the sword he had taken from the ambush. "Aside from this and the trio of juggling stones, I've nothing but the clothes on my back." Well then, tomorrow we'll go-" "No. Prince Ryne told me to make sure you stay in the manor." "It's just into town to buy you a few things. Surely there won't be any danger at the market." I sensed a softening. "And we'll take along Saul or Odd." No. We'll send one of the caregivers with a shopping list," Flea said. "Hey, that's..." He waited. I huffed. "A good idea. But don't be so smug. You're not going to win every argument." "Oh, yes, I am." "Oh, no, you're not." Flea straightened to his full height. When did he get so tall? He rested his hands on his hips. "I am. Prince Ryne trusted me with the task of keeping you safe. And I'm not going to disappoint him." I crossed my arms. "You sound like Kerrick." "Thank you." Uh-huh. You do know I disobeyed almost all of his orders. Right?" I suppressed a grin. "I do. But I'm smarter than Kerrick." "You are?" Oh, yes. I know the magic word." "And what would that be?" "Please.

I saw a teen couple with a baby on the way at a flea market. Picking out their Engagement Knives. With a table of fantasy daggers. They were having a hard time. Fire Dragon? Ice Tiger? "We have to get this right!" And maybe they did.

The circus and the flea market are so joyful because of the collection of rich, delightful sensations they offer. The abundance aesthetic is defined by a layering of color, texture, and pattern, and you don’t need a lot of stuff to achieve it.

My sense of narrative structure was shaped by ROM (Spaceknight) comics. I'd find random issues at the flea market and read them out of order with no context. The entire series was based on a toy I never owned. None of this made any difference.

This book is, in a way, a scrapbook of my writing life. From shopping the cathedral flea market in Barcelona with David Sedaris to having drinks at Cognac with Nora Ephron just months before she died. To the years of sporadic correspondence I had with Thom Jones and Ira Levin. I’ve stalked my share of mentors, asking for advice. Therefore, if you came back another day and asked me to teach you, I’d tell you that becoming an author involves more than talent and skill. I’ve known fantastic writers who never finished a project. And writers who launched incredible ideas, then never fully executed them. And I’ve seen writers who sold a single book and became so disillusioned by the process that they never wrote another. I’d paraphrase the writer Joy Williams, who says that writers must be smart enough to hatch a brilliant idea—but dull enough to research it, keyboard it, edit and re-edit it, market the manuscript, revise it, revise it, re-revise it, review the copy edit, proofread the typeset galleys, slog through the interviews and write the essays to promote it, and finally to show up in a dozen cities and autograph copies for thousands or tens of thousands of people… And then I’d tell you, “Now get off my porch.” But if you came back to me a third time, I’d say, “Kid…” I’d say, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Boston itself was a flea market of racism. It had all varieties, old and new. The city had corrupt, city hall-crony racists, brick-throwing, send-’em-back-to-Africa racists, and in the university areas phony radical-chic racists. . . . Other than that, I liked the city.

Everything with Chloe is more fun. Donuts and shopping and traveling on the candy plane—it’s all better when she’s around. Errand-running and laundry and hours spent at a flea market. I’ll take it. Because I know that every day I spend with Chloe is the best day of my life.

I told you not to park there,” some woman would say to her husband outside a movie theater or a flea market, and those words would move Gillian to tears. How wonderful to say whatever you wanted without having to go over it in your mind, again and again, to make certain it wouldn’t set him off.

I did not mean to be a Christian. I have been very clear about that. My first words upon encountering the presence of Jesus for the first time 12 years ago, were, I swear to God, “I would rather die.” I really would have rather died at that point than to have my wonderful brilliant left-wing non-believer friends know that I had begun to love Jesus. I think they would have been less appalled if I had developed a close personal friendship with Strom Thurmond. At least there is some reason to believe that Strom Thurmond is a real person. You know, more or less. But I never felt like I had much choice with Jesus; he was relentless. I didn’t experience him so much as the hound of heaven, as the old description has it, as the alley cat of heaven, who seemed to believe that if it just keeps showing up , mewling outside your door, you’d eventually open up and give him a bowl of milk. Of course, as soon as you do, you are fucked, and the next thing you know, he’s sleeping on your bed every night, and stepping on your chest at dawn to play a little push-push. I resisted as long as I could, like Sam-I-Am in “Green Eggs and Ham” — I would not, could not in a boat! I could not would not with a goat! I do not want to follow Jesus, I just want expensive cheeses. Or something. Anyway, he wore me out. He won. I was tired and vulnerable and he won. I let him in. This is what I said at the moment of my conversion: I said, “Fuck it. Come in. I quit.” He started sleeping on my bed that night. It was not so bad. It was even pretty nice. He loved me, he didn’t shed or need to have his claws trimmed, and he never needed a flea dip. I mean, what a savior, right? Then, when I was dozing, tiny kitten that I was, he picked me up like a mother cat, by the scruff of my neck, and deposited me in a little church across from the flea market in Marin’s black ghetto. That’s where I was when I came to. And then I came to believe.

Mythologist Joseph Campbell once spent 5 years living in a shack in rural New York where he read 9 hours a day. I did something similar as I was in middle school but I suspect Campbell read much better books. Most of my books were acquired at the flea market in Chiefland, FL where a hoarse voiced lady sold musty paperbacks 5 for $1.

I wanted to take a photo of his face just then. That boyish grin. That look of love, of contentedness. Couldn't he see? We didn't need children to complete us. We were already complete. I had my flowers and plants, and he had his writing. Wasn't that enough? Didn't he love the ebb and flow of our life together just as it was? The way I'd race home for dinner with a basket brimming with vegetables from the market or a handful of herbs from a garden project, eager to read the pages he'd written that day. Didn't he love, as I did, the quiet mornings we spent in our garden, sipping espresso and discussing our latest venture to a flea market in Queens or an antiques shop in Connecticut? Once we carted an enormous painted dresser to a taping of 'Antiques Roadshow' only to find that the piece was made in China. I grinned at the memory.

The flea market looked like an old chicken coop. All rusted wire and weathered wood. A few scattered tables under a tin roof. One table was covered in old paperbacks. We don't need a word for "old book smell" to appreciate it. The lady there sat in a plastic lawn chair and slowly ate a sandwich. A title caught our eye. How much? A dollar. But she wasn't sure if she wanted to sell it. We left frustrated. Some books are not for sale.

All the pictures in this book are authentic, vintage found photographs, and with the exception of a few that have undergone minimal postprocessing, they are unaltered. They were lent from the personal archives of ten collectors, people who have spent years and countless hours hunting through giant bins of unsorted snapshots at flea markets and antiques malls and yard sales to find a transcendent few, rescuing images of historical significance and arresting beauty from obscurity—and, most likely, the dump. Their work is an unglamorous labor of love, and I think they are the unsung heroes of the photography world.

Simply put, within AS, there is a wide range of function. In truth, many AS people will never receive a diagnosis. They will continue to live with other labels or no label at all. At their best, they will be the eccentrics who wow us with their unusual habits and stream-of-consciousness creativity, the inventors who give us wonderfully unique gadgets that whiz and whirl and make our life surprisingly more manageable, the geniuses who discover new mathematical equations, the great musicians and writers and artists who enliven our lives. At their most neutral, they will be the loners who never now quite how to greet us, the aloof who aren't sure they want to greet us, the collectors who know everyone at the flea market by name and date of birth, the non-conformists who cover their cars in bumper stickers, a few of the professors everyone has in college. At their most noticeable, they will be the lost souls who invade our personal space, the regulars at every diner who carry on complete conversations with the group ten tables away, the people who sound suspiciously like robots, the characters who insist they wear the same socks and eat the same breakfast day in and day out, the people who never quite find their way but never quite lose it either.

And on Sunday we went to the flea market and it was so cool. Nicola said she wanted to look at pictures and fabrics, so Carey and I went to an amazing part, called the Marché Malik, all retro stuff, and I got this denim jacket, it’s just gorgeous, got all flowers embroidered on it, so much cooler than some mass-produced thing from Hollister. I’ll go and get it.’ ‘And there we were spending squillions on one from Hollister,’ said Bianca, ‘so uncool. Silly us not to know. I’m not sure about this friendship, Patrick.’ Patrick grinned at her. ‘It won’t last. They’ll probably fall out next term.’ ‘And I really don’t like this thing of giving her cocktails. So

let's let the bombs go I'm tired of waiting I've put away my toys folded the road maps canceled my subscription to Time kissed Disneyland goodbye I've taken the flea collars off my cats unplugged the tv I no longer dream of pink flamingoes I no longer check the market index let's let 'em go let's let 'em blow I'm tired of waiting I don't like this kind of blackmail I don't like governments playing cutesy with my life: either crap or get off the pot I'm tired of waiting I'm tired of dangling I'm tired of the fix let the bombs blow you cheap sniveling cowardly nations you mindless giants do it do it do it! and escape to your planets and space stations then you can fuck it up there too.

Who’s that hot piece of cowboy standing with Nathan?” She pointed toward one end of the barn by a stack of hay bales. A scowl tightened all the muscles in his face as he followed the length of her arm to the direction of her fingertip. Before he could answer, she was already pulling him again. This time toward his cousin. “Nate, who’s your friend?” she asked, not bothering with hellos. Letting go of Caleb’s hand and leaving him feeling empty, she shifted her weight to her toes when she stopped in front of Preston. “Your eyes remind me of those old Sprite bottles. I found one at a flea market once. I think it’s still lying around somewhere in my room.” Nathan’s chuckle caught her attention. “Diana Alexander, let me introduce you to Preston Grant. He’s a childhood friend of mine and Caleb’s. Pres, this is Didi.” “Can I paint you naked?” she asked, unabashed, looking up at him. Nathan’s chuckles became full-blown laughter. She hiked her thumb at Caleb. His scowl deepened. “This one’s too shy.” “It’s nice to meet you, Didi,” Preston said. He seemed unperturbed by her request. The bastard. She danced to Nathan’s side and leaned in conspiratorially, not taking her eyes away from Preston. “Between you and me,” she whispered loud enough for Caleb and the object of her fascination to hear, “just how far does his tan go?” That had done it. The words came out of his mouth without thinking. “If you’re going to paint someone naked, it will be me.” With impatience running through his veins, he laced their fingers together and tugged. “Come on.

Sue stepped into a haven that smelled of candles and lemon-scented dish soap, a cabinet of curiosities, one of which was the bathtub smack dab in the middle of the small kitchen. Bob Roy’s railroad flat was four tight, connected rooms, each stuffed with koombies, knickknacks, doodads, furniture pieces of any style, shelves, books, photos in frames, trophies bought from flea markets, old records, small lamps, and calendars from decades before. “I know,” he said. “It looks like I sell magic potions in here, like I’m an animated badger from a Disney cartoon.” He lit a burner on the stove with a huge kitchen match, then filled a shiny, Olde English–style kettle with water from the tap. As he prepared cups on a tray he said, “Tea in minutes, titmouse. Make a home for yourself.

When I first started hearing about the places that give people joy, I realized that many of them evoke this giddy feeling of abundance: carnivals and circuses, dollar stores and flea markets, and giant old hotels like the Grand Budapest of director Wes Anderson’s imagining. The same feeling also exists on a smaller scale. An ice-cream cone covered in rainbow sprinkles is like a candy store held in your hand. A shower of confetti, a multicolored quilt, a simple game of pick-up sticks, have this irresistible allure. Even the language of joy is rife with excess. We say we’re overjoyed or that we’re brimming with happiness. We say, “My cup runneth over.” And this is very much how it feels to be in a moment of joy, when our delight is so abundant it feels like it can’t be contained by the boundaries of our bodies.

Then one day Chip showed up with the back of his pickup truck just loaded with old metal letters he’d found at a flea market--big, oddly shaped letters taken from various old signs. They were mismatched and rusty and dented--and I loved them. We tacked them up on the front of the shop, spelling out the name that would come to mean so much: Magnolia. The letters were uneven and looked a little handmade and ragged, but it seemed to work. I loved this sign because Chip designed it and made it with his own two hands. It came together in such an imperfectly perfect way, and I hoped people would get it. To this day that sign is one of my proudest accomplishments. I’m no Joanna Gaines, but I certainly see things differently and love design in my own unique way. That first sign really reflected that for me. I would glow when I would hear a customer come in the shop and say, “I saw the sign and just had to stop in.

All useless, according to the common sense of utility, yet all of them inspiring in me curiosity and the simplest delight. Delight in the fact that beautiful things made by people forty years ago sit around, bringing pleasure to a stranger in the now. It reminds me of my duty, everyone's duty, to the future. My friends kids will need in twenty years to find crap like this at the markets so that they can feel held by the hands of past people's future dreams and not feel totally alone.

OPTIONS FOR REDUCING While thrift stores such as Goodwill or the Salvation Army can be a convenient way to initially let go, many other outlets exist and are often more appropriate for usable items. Here are some examples: • Amazon.com • Antiques shops • Auction houses • Churches • Consignment shops (quality items) • Craigslist.org (large items, moving boxes, free items) • Crossroads Trading Co. (trendy clothes) • Diggerslist.com (home improvement) • Dress for Success (workplace attire) • Ebay.com (small items of value) • Flea markets • Food banks (food) • Freecycle.org (free items) • Friends • Garage and yard sales • Habitat for Humanity (building materials, furniture, and/or appliances) • Homeless and women’s shelters • Laundromats (magazines and laundry supplies) • Library (books, CDs and DVDs) • Local SPCA (towels and sheets) • Nurseries and preschools (blankets, toys) • Operation Christmas Child (new items in a shoe box) • Optometrists (eyeglasses) • Regifting • Rummage sales for a cause • Salvage yards (building materials) • Schools (art supplies, magazines, dishes to eliminate class party disposables) • Tool co-ops (tools) • Waiting rooms (magazines) • Your curb with a “Free” sign

A real house with a copper pot for making jam, and sugar cookies in a metal box hidden deep inside a dresser. A long farmhouse table, thick and homey, and cretonne curtains. She smiled. She had no idea what cretonne was, or even if she'd like it, but she liked the way the words went together: cretonne curtains. She'd have a guest room and- who knows- maybe even some guests. A well-kept little garden, hens who'd provide her with tasty boiled eggs, cats to chase after the field mice and dogs to chase after the cats. A little plot of aromatic herbs, a fireplace, sagging armchairs and books all around. White tablecloths, napkin rings unearthed at flea markets, some sort of device so she could listen to the same operas her father used to listen to, and a coal stove where she could let a rich beef-and-carrot stew simmer all morning along. A rich beef-and-carrot stew. What was she thinking. A little house like the ones that kids draw, with a door and two windows on either side. Old-fashioned, discreet, silent, overrun with Virginia creeper and climbing roses. A house with those little fire bugs on the porch, red and black insects scurrying everywhere in pairs. A warm porch where the heat of the day would linger and she could sit in the evening to watch for the return of the heron.

People who don't empower your goals are human headwind bloviators. They add friction to the journey. When you spout excitement over actions or ideas, bloviators react with doubt and disbelief and use conditioned talking points such as, “Oh that won't work,” “Someone is already doing it,” and “Why bother?” In motivational circles, they call them “dream stealers.” You must turn your back on them. Every entrepreneur has bloviators in their life. Network marketers consider me a bloviator. These people are normal obstacles to the Fastlane road trip. Remember, these people have been socially conditioned to believe in the preordained path. They don't know about The Fastlane, nor do they believe it. Anything outside of that box is foreign, and when you talk Fastlane, you may as well be speaking Klingon. As a producer, you are the minority, while consumers are the rest. To be unlike “everyone” (who isn't rich), you (who will be rich) require a strong defense; otherwise, their toxicity infects your mindset. Commiserating with habitual, negative, limited thinkers is treasonous. Uncontrolled, these headwinds lead directly to the couch and the video game console. Yes, the old, “If you hang out with dogs, you get fleas.” This dichotomy[…]

In La Tête d’Obsidienne André Malraux relates a conversation that he had with Picasso in 1937, at the time he was painting “Guernica.” Picasso said, “People are always talking about the influence of the blacks on me. What can one say? We all of us liked those fetishes. Van Gogh said, ‘We all of us had Japanese art in common.’ In our day it was the Negroes. Their forms did not influence me any more than they influenced Matisse. Or Derain. But as far as Matisse and Derain were concerned, the Negro masks were just so many other carvings, the same as the rest of sculpture. When Matisse showed me his first Negro head he talked about Egyptian art. “When I went to the Trocadéro, it was revolting. Like a flea-market. The smell. I was all by myself. I wanted to get out. I didn’t go: I stayed. It came to me that this was very important: something was happening to me, right? “Those masks were not just pieces of sculpture like the rest. Not in the least. They were magic. And why weren’t the Egyptians or Chaldees? We hadn’t understood what it was really about: we had seen primitive sculpture, not magic. These Negroes were intercessors—that’s a word I’ve known in French ever since then. Against everything: against unknown, threatening spirits. I kept on staring at these fetishes. Then it came to me—I too was against everything. I too felt that everything was unknown, hostile! Everything! Not just this and that but everything, women, children, animals, smoking, playing … Everything! I understood what their sculpture meant to the blacks, what it was really for. Why carve like that and not in any other way?

I steal cracker packets. I hoard them. Once my collection is large enough, I’ll take them to the flea market and try to sell them to discerning lovers.

Shopping has nothing to do with money. If you have it, you go to stores and galleries, and if not, you haunt flea markets or Goodwills.

One day I found myself at a local flea market, talking to a guy who was selling refurbished printers for $50. I had seen identical printers on eBay for $300, so I bought his entire inventory, put them on eBay for an unbeatable $200, and made $150 on each one. Every week I would go back to the flea market and take the printers off the guy’s hands, and every week I was making money. Not much, mind you, but more than I would have been making at McDonald’s. Still,

Once I went to buy a turtle at the Chiefland flea market. They said turtles were only legal to buy for "educational purposes." Before I could buy I was asked to write "For Education" on a piece of paper. With the official paperwork completed we headed behind the booth to get the turtle. There was a capybara snoozing in a kid's wading pool. The capybara was not for sale.

I can imagine a world where I learn to be alone, learn to cook for one, learn to make lists (don’t forget to water the plants, the trash doesn’t magically take itself out to the curb, laundry must be moved from washer to dryer) and set timers and reminders and alarms and calendar invites to myself. When the phone rings, it won’t be Aidan. Here in this white on white with white accents space, I can see my things for what they are rather than what they remind me of. The monkey-wearing-a-top-hat lamp we bought laughing until we cried at a flea market in Wisconsin is now in a Goodwill in North Carolina. This light fixture was ordered by my sister from a website specializing in things without a soul.

      •   Share some of your personal experiences in writing the book. Did you take the ferry to San Francisco one day for a fresh perspective? Did you frequent garage sales or flea markets in search of ideas for your characters’ attire? Did you sip a Bombay Sapphire martini at a local dive as you searched for unusual character traits in people?

Equally scandalized by this election are the colorful band of lipstick jihadi Hirsi Ali wannabes who are writing one erotic fantasy after another about Iranian “women,” oversexualizing Iranian politics as they opt for “love and danger” during their “honeymoon in Tehran.” The representation of Iranian women in the flea market of the US publishing industry began under President Bush with Azar Nafisi’s Reading Lolita in Tehran and has now reached a new depth of depravity in Pardis Mahdavi’s Passionate Uprisings: Iran’s Sexual Revolution. Between a harem full of Lolitas and a bathhouse of nymphomaniacs is where Nafisi and Mahdavi have Iranian women, marching in despair, awaiting liberation by US marines and Israeli bombers. What a contrast to the real work of women, as testified to in this election, and now on the street in defense of the collective will of the nation.

She’d been building junk-art birds, mostly cranes, since before I was born. Making those birds was a cross between pure love and a nervous habit, the way some might do crossword puzzles or needlepoint. She sold them in the restaurants where she worked or at small flea markets and coffee shops for a little extra money. I thought they were the most beautiful creatures I’d ever seen and always felt a twinge when they flew away to their forever home, wishing we’d find ours.

We had left the flea market—collecting Malena from a stall that sold live birds, where she’d purchased a box of pigeons which she had proceeded to suck dry in the car—

In 1784, the new prime minister, William Pitt the Younger, reduced the tea tax from 119 percent to 12.5 percent. Cheap tea was then available to the masses, though elitists decried tea's ill effects on "persons of an inferior rank." Women neglected "the affairs of their families" for afternoon tea sipping.

People imagined the Cockaigne ("Land of Plenty") menu as full of delectable meats such as hare, deer and wild boar . all which let themselves be caught. Grilled fish leaped out of rivers of wine onto your plate. Roast geese waddled down streets paved in pastry, just begging to be eaten. Flying pigs and buttered birds fell from the sky like rain, directly into people's mouths. People lived in edible houses made of pancake roofs and walls made of sausage.

I like the clothes, too. I should shop flea markets more often." He laughed at that. "You'd look good in anything, even rags.

He could sell snow to an Eskimo. --Overheard in a Real Estate Office

Final Note: Vineyard Vines is one of my all – time favorite brands to resell on eBay when it comes to clothing and clothing

Owners of these vehicles who want to repair their cars need these and will be willing to pay whatever it costs to get their hands on the valuable information! If you find one of these you could be looking at some big money!

Final Note: I advise when it comes to purchasing diet/health books to resell on eBay that you look them up first to see the selling history.

Many customers who purchase these types of items on eBay are collectors, so be aware that condition can either make or break you in terms of your profits. One of my favorite teams to buy and sell is the Chicago bulls!

Final Note: When it comes to the Robert Talbott ties I like to stick to the ones that say “Best of Class”. Also I find the ties within this brand that sell best have an interesting pattern

Final Note: This is one of my favorite brands in terms of tie. Brioni is a high end Italian designer brand that makes a

Final Note: The prices can range greatly on any baseball glove depending on the condition, age, style and model. As a general rule of thumb the more fancy the glove looks the more money it will bring.

Chapter 3: Gaming Consoles   Item# 7: Atari 2600

On the other hand, those who don’t want to spend a small fortune while shopping can choose Hackischer Markt, more popular among students and young people. Here, shoppers can find everything from affordable brands to a flea market and many delicious and cheap restaurants.

mismatched collection of flea market leftovers. The walls, though, were exhibiting an interesting collection of oils and pastels by local artists, all for sale at very reasonable prices. The artwork. The prior year the equity partners at Scully & Pershing had gone to war over a designer’s proposal to spend $2 million on some baffling avant-garde paintings to be hung in the firm’s main foyer. The designer was ultimately fired, the paintings forgotten, and the money split into bonuses.

At the wooden counters up front, laden with thick catalogues in tattered binders, people would haggle for switches, resistors, capacitors, and sometimes the latest memory chips. His father used to do that for auto parts, and he succeeded because he knew the value of each better than the clerks. Jobs followed suit. He developed a knowledge of electronic parts that was honed by his love of negotiating and turning a profit. He would go to electronic flea markets, such as the San Jose swap meet, haggle for a used circuit board that contained some valuable chips or components, and then sell those to his manager at Haltek.

Shopping has nothing to do with money. If you have it, you go to stores and galleries, and if not, you haunt flea markets or Goodwills. Never, though, do you not do it, choosing instead to visit a park or a temple or some cultural institution where they don’t sell things. Our sister-in-law, Kathy, swears by eBay, but I like the social aspect of shopping, the getting out. The touching things and talking to people.

My mom and I don't look much alike. She's wild, with red curly hair, freckles, and hazel eyes. I take after my father, she says. The few pictures I've seen of him prove her right. The pale skin, black hair, elfin features, and green eyes are nearly identical. I may have gotten my looks from my father, but I get my determination and stubbornness from my mother. She limps around the kitchen serving up our breakfast, and I resist the urge to help her, to insist she sits. I know she's in pain. I can see it eating away at her, in the pinched expressions on her face and weariness of her eyes. It's gotten worse over the years, and her pain pills are less and less effective. But despite it all, she won't let me help. My mother is nothing if not proud and fiercely independent. We sit at our two-person plastic kitchen table surrounded by peeling yellow walls with cheap flea market paintings of flowers and fruit decorating them. I love our kitchen, as tiny and old as it is. It's cheery and always smells of cinnamon and honey. I'm

...grand oaks, maples, and chestnuts muscle in on one another, flared in their autumn robes; a motley conflagration under the dazzling mid-October sun. We are in the middle of a beautiful nowhere, digging into sprawling hinterlands, into territories of wild earth. The rolling, winding roads away from Bangor took us through towns with names like Charleston, Dover-Foxcroft, Monson, and Shirley, all with their own quaint, beautifully cinematic set dressing. It was like each was curated from grange hall flea markets and movie sets rife with small-town Americana. Stoic stone war memorials. American flags. Whitewashed, chipping town hall buildings from other centuries. Church bell towers in the actual process of tolling, gonging, calling. To me, the sound was ominous in a remote sort of way, unnamable.

Have you ever been to New Mexico? The whole state is one giant flea market for turquoise jewelry.

Beyond Inclusion (The Sonnet) It is not really inclusion that we must aim for, Rather we must work to outgrow the need for inclusion. It is not really global harmony that we must aim for, We must outgrow the very term international relations. It is not really a reform in policy that we must aim for, Rather we must aim to outgrow the need for policy aids. It is not really social awareness we must aim to advocate, Rather we must be the living epitome of social oneness. It is not a flea market of parties that we must aim to build, Rather we must turn the very term partisanism obsolete. It is not a junkyard of ideologies that we must aim to raise, Absorbing good from all, let us stop being ideological elites. Plenty of time we have wasted on arguments of philosophy. Now let's go out on the streets and soil to get our hands dirty.

Sonnet for Ochún After my left arm I washed my right, neck, décolletage, and navel. I ate ground meat with large crystals of imported salt. The women and men who would stroke my hair if I asked, I thought of them fondly then sadly. At the flea market, what I touched with a fingernail was a copper lamp, a mundane painting of mountains, the cashier’s hum. I bought nothing I didn’t want. In the cul-de-sac, I found clouds on leashes, loose roosters. I thought thoughts ugly as clothespins. Reading a used book, I suspected I knew less about death than the last person who held it. I spat into a mirrored sink. I lost my slippers and face. To feel more like water, I drank it. Before bed, I walked my plank of uncertainties and plunged further into uncertainty. Am I capturing all of history in this gesture? I shouted into the future. In the wet air of the future, I could have but never appeared. No one was sorry but me.

Ebay is still the number one site for individuals and small businesses to sell their items to people worldwide. While it is much larger than it was initially, at its core, Ebay still functions like the world’s largest flea market with items of every type and at every price point available. Ebay continues to expand and improve, giving sellers like me confidence that they will be around for years to come. With nearly two hundred million registered Ebay users, there are still plenty of opportunities to make money on Ebay. But why sell your items on Ebay instead of a garage sale or consignment shop? Hands down, you will get the most money for your items on Ebay versus selling them locally. As I mentioned earlier, there are nearly 200 million registered Ebay users, meaning there are 200 million more chances to sell your items. Let’s say you have a rare collectible to sell. While only a handful of people will come to your garage sale or enter your local consignment shop, on Ebay, your item is available for purchase to the millions of Ebay account holders worldwide. You only need to wait for that one

I looked around the room. There were the turn-of-the-century bronze-and-silver vases and the old books with worn leather spines that I’d collected at flea markets. There were the Georgian maps I’d had framed, the Persian rugs, and the overstuffed leather armchair I liked to sink into at the end of the day. I’d tried to make a home for myself here, tried to turn the apartment into the sort of place where the person I wanted to be would live. But I could never enjoy the room without worrying about Mom and Dad huddled on a sidewalk grate somewhere. I fretted about them, but I was embarrassed by them, too, and ashamed of myself for wearing pearls and living on Park Avenue while my parents were busy keeping warm and finding something to eat

the kind of abundance that really matters is not material accumulation but sensorial richness. The circus and the flea market are so joyful because of the collection of rich, delightful sensations they offer. The abundance aesthetic is defined by a layering of color, texture, and pattern, and you don’t need a lot of stuff to achieve it.

Retro’s stomping ground isn’t the auction house or antique dealer but the flea market, charity shop, jumble sale and junk shop.

It wasn’t hard to get urine. Folks back home had taken to selling Mason jars of it at flea markets. Whitney

The scene felt all the more surreal when I considered that in their real life, when not selling trinkets at a flea market, they sailed a deep space leviathan between the stars. It sounded romantic, but it wasn’t exciting. It was just their job.

Tea, politics, and scandal, the ingredients of an Afghan Sunday at the flea market.

Wait. What’s that?” She points to the last item. “Bizarre? Like . . . strange?” “No, no,” I insist. “It’s bizarre like a flea market. “You know. Bizarre.” “Oh, Taryn!” Mom’s eyes glisten and she smiles. “You mean the word ‘bazaar,’ don’t you? With three A’s.” “Oh, yeah. Whoops.” I quickly scratch off the misspelled word and rewrite it the way Mom says to. As I do, Mom laughs and tousles my hair. Sometimes when she does that I feel like a baby all over again. And right now, for some reason, I don’t mind so much. I inhale a whiff of her perfume, and everything seems just right in the world. “Bazaar,” I say the word slowly, a little embarrassed, trying to emphasize the A’s so I don’t get it wrong ever again. I may be starting off sixth grade with a bang, but my spelling still needs some serious help. Maybe I should spend the weekend locked in my bedroom with a dictionary? Like that’s ever going to happen.

MfE must have bought those at a flea market! he thought. Nobody had used spacesuits like that in the past

Everywhere a sudden light shone down. The all-type cover of New York’s Christmas issue harked and heralded the news that “NEW YORK IS BACK.” “The death of this city has been declared so often,” it read, “that almost no one realizes life here is actually getting better—safer, nicer, tastier, cheaper, snazzier, more sensible and exciting than it’s been in years. Who knew?” Inside, the “celebration of the new, improved metropolis” began “Admit it: You’ve been feeling better, but don’t know why,” though it certainly hinted by naming Rudy himself one of the thirty-eight “new, improved” things about New York: “Rudy Giuliani’s first year as mayor, though far from perfect, has been so eventful, so thrillingly New Paradigmatic that the Dinkins administration seems even less accomplished in memory than it was in fact.” Yet out of the thirty-seven other reasons cited, little was new or in any way related to Giuliani. From Times Square, Chelsea Piers, and Bryant Park to better subways, bustling flea markets, and a wave of coffeehouses, this sudden awakening was the result of policies, plans, and battles of prior administrations and the tireless efforts of individuals who’d fought and labored with their fellow New Yorkers for more than a decade.

The foursome settled down in Kate's living room, which was furnished academically, i.e., from flea markets and yard sales.

Flea markets are also now legal in Cuba, and a petty trade in cast-off clothing and household goods takes place. Twelve years ago it was unthinkable for anyone to buy or sell anything in the open, for buying and selling were symptoms of bourgeois individualism and contrary to Fidel’s socialist vision, in which everything is to be rationed—rationally, as it were—according to need. (In practice, of course, this meant rationing according to what there was, which was not much.)

In 2008, when almost every other investor got crushed, and even the Wall Street 'experts' were down by almost half, I was up 17 percent - beating the S&P Average by over 50 percent. Reminiscences of a Stock Market Flea

Be a Flea, not a Bull or a Bear. Don't delay, retire anyway. Trading is NOT a four letter word. Buy carefully, sell aggressively. Don't mark duds while drinking. When your plan fails, change it. Don't be slow, don't be greedy. Don't be obtuse with a machine gun pointed at you. There's still time to build wealth and retire well. The Stock Market Flea: Lessons from the Front

In 2008, when almost every other investor got crushed, and even the Wall Street "experts" were down by almost half, I was up 17 percent - beating the S&P Average by over 50 percent. Reminiscences of a Stock Market Flea

Today we're buying designer shoes from a flea market, then reselling them at the mall with a ‘luxury tax