Thrift store Indiana Jones

Wading through an undulating sea of knick knacks and cast-offs. I feel like Jacques Cousteau exploring the millions of miles of empty unknown searching for a glistening stone buried among the sifting sands. Or a rare fish flitting about the sweeping green weeds. The thrift store is not always willing to cough up it's treasures though. She's a hard mistress, no... rather, a nagging old hag who loves to talk, gossip, and look for meanings in the bottoms of cups. However, every once in a great while I get lucky and find a designer shirt, a kitschy, colorful artistic work, or a sturdy pair of good boots.

How does the phrase go, it's not the destination but the journey? It's the hunt. The relentless, obsessive-compulsive search for that treasure everyone has somehow managed to ignorantly pass up. Today I count myself lucky. I find a powdered blue sweater that zips up in the front. The neighborhood of make-believe awaits. I have a very important dinner date with Queen Sarah and Henrietta Pussycat, and I'm 24 years too late.

The illusion is so much dreamier than reality isn't it?

What we all don't know, but should, is Fred Rogers was a marine sniper with over 60 confirmed kills. All head-shots. Lucky for us he left the beast in the steaming jungles of Korea, in a bamboo hut, sitting next to Colonel Kurtz.

A mentally handicapped woman smiles at me as she painstakingly rings up my purchase. My treasure. My booty. My diamond. All the while I whistle “Lullaby” by the Cure and think about Daniel Tiger and King Friday.