Waiting for the Barbarians: Philadelphia Punk Rock Flea Market

Yesterday was the day I was prepping for all winter: Philadelphia's Punk Rock Flea Market.

I hoped to sell at least $500 worth of stuff, including all my Playboy coasters and new Playboy Vargas Girl Box Shrine, which I made in one long night instead of the yebra (Syrian style grape leaves) that Badgerette #1 requested for Family Heritage Day at her school.

Let's be clear: I did not bring the shrine to school as an example of family heritage.

I felt insecure about my Punk Rock credentials, though, a feeling that was hilariously reinforced by a childhood friend, Otaku USA editor Pat Macias, who--just two days before the market--posted this 90s commercial "Punk CD" on Facebook.


I was in tears by the time these two listed "Hey Now" by Crowded House. 

I reposted it and burst into giggly tears again when my friend Guy quipped, "Thought it was a joke till I heard 'Huey Lewis'...Legit."

Pat didn't attach my name to the original post, so maybe I was being overly sensitive, like that person who panics when someone in a crowd shouts, "Hey, YOU!" But even in my teen Death Rocker days, Pat called me "the Camp Counsellor," a name I deserved because I was actually a very good girl... and because I wore red plaid flannel shirts to bed, so I looked the part, too.

But, Pat, answer this: Does a Hustler need to BE a punk to sell the goods to punks?

On the off chance my punk creds were questioned, though, I wore the most punk rock shirt I owned: Radiolab "Apocalyptical: Dinos De Los Muertos."

Cuz nothing says Punk Rock like NPR.
Watch the show here!

As with the Trenton Avenue Street Fair, Jonelle and I drove for three hours to arrive just in time to throw our goods out for perusal. By opening time at 10:00 am, we were sweaty, but mostly ready.

Evidence of my OCD Winter of Craft: I needed more space!

Jonelle made seriously brilliant stuff for the sale. Check out her store.

And, just like at Trenton Ave, there were so many people in attendance at the Punk Rock Flea Market that I had to fight some feelings of agoraphobia.

This was the short side of the warehouse.

Wanna find our stall? Look against the far wall, to the left of the big banner. We were between the small yellowish square thing and that black box thing, right under the huge wall fan, which blew delightful air right over us to the secondhand clothing sellers crew wearing the fishnet stockings. But we did get the noise of the fan, so that was something.

Two hours in, I had gotten many enthusiastic and sincere compliments on my work, but I'd only sold $23... of magnets, naturally. My part of the table, gas, and road tolls alone totalled $80+, so I was on the verge of real tears, perhaps realizing too late that punk rockers have budget issues like the rest of us.

Then suddenly, sales started to happen.

Emma here took home my Bowie box

May your spirit fly with Wonder Woman, Amy!

This young lady couldn't resist my box of Liza in Cabaret...

I did a little dance at 1:15pm, when I reached $150 in sales and realized that I would end up in the black after all (never got to $500, but no tears). Although I had to drop prices like a reverse auctioneer to make it happen, the sales kept coming.



Just put the box on a shelf, Dear Girl, and no one will see
that I messed up and put the back page on upside down, the sad result of finally
getting HBO and watching John Oliver while working.

Natalie, another vendor, leaped on this 1969 LIFE Magazine cigar box purse with
Samsonite handle. Bonus: it totally matches her outfit!

Robert, adorably sweat-free in this blazing hot warehouse, took two boxes
(Spider-man and Wonder Woman) plus this WW votive for his dining table.

Gorgeous Anna here took home Wonder Woman "Welcome to My Nightmare,"
my most difficult glass decoupage piece. Treat it with love, Anna; it can do magic.

There were down times throughout the day and too quiet a crowd when the nearest stall stopped blasting the psychobilly (My Favorite is The Cramps). There were times I got distracted from my sales mission, too, like when I tried to make a love connection between sweet Dan here and a gorgeous Irish girl from Wexford who's travelling around the world.


Remember, Dan, just write. The Man in Black wasn't brilliant every moment, either.
Trust the revision process.

Ziggy Stardust sold. Iggy Pop sold. The Clash sold. The Ramones sold. AC/DC sold. The Rolling Stones sold. Nirvana sold. Vintage Romance Comics sold. So did Frank Sinatra, and Sammy Davis, Jr., and Star Trek, and Cher. But Playboy DID NOT SELL. Not one thing. Bunch of Puritanical punks, you Philly folks who've left me with yet another kind of Playboy problem...overstock.

For many hours yesterday, no matter what people bought (or didn't buy) one item caught everyone's attention: The Freddie Mercury Lightswitch Cover.

In a sad parallel to Freddie's real life, every shopper pointed at, picked up, and inappropriately touched it. But no one was willing to make a commitment to him... until this lovely girl heard me despair for poor Freddie Lightswitch and bought it on the spot. She didn't even bargain.


Dear Lovely Girl: don't be too surprised if you get a virus from this kiss.
I mean, a hell of a lot of hands touched Freddie yesterday.

In the last hour, from 4-5pm, I went into full Carnival Barker mode, yelling to passers-by, "C'mon over here and fall in love with something! I'll name a price that you'll love, too! You'll buy it, take it home, and be smiling in your sleep tonight, knowing you got the best deal ever!"

I think I startled Jonelle with my vehemence, but I wanted to make another hundred in sales. And I did. Anyway, I've been doing shameless things to make sales since I was thirteen and Little Mamacita let me dress like this for a St. George Melkite Church bake sale in Sacramento's Country Club Mall.

Several Old Man Mall Walkers lewdly offered Pull My Tail.
I enjoyed retorting, "I'm THIRTEEN, Mister!" every single time.

I was back home and in bed before midnight, wearing my flannel jammies and sleepily debating with The Prince of the Forest what really constitutes "Punk." If I am to judge by the patches the flea market kids pinned to their spiked leather jackets, then Rush, those venerable Canadians, are punk. 

Tom Sawyer, dude!

(Take that, Pat.) If Punk means body modification and tattoos, then half the mothers I know in Westchester, one of the richest counties in the USA, are punks. If Punk means dyeing your hair blue or purple, then a decent percentage of America's high school cheerleaders are now punk. If Punk means expressing deep alienation from a society that demeans and abuses you and holds your intellect and abilities in contempt, then ALL the mothers I know are Punks. Fight the Power, Mamas!

I think punks and other supposed social oddities have always been those who wear their hearts on their sleeves. The toughest punk I saw at the Trenton Avenue Fair proudly marched along the artists' stalls behind his pig-tailed daughter who was driving her electric pink Cadillac and blasting Katy Perry's "Eye of the Tiger," a craft beer in one heavily tattooed hand, his daughter's dripping pink ice cream cone in the other.

I enjoyed the moment too much to take a photo, so I drew it for you.

Copyright 2015, Tanya Monier