Secondhand Nation

Deep Thrifting: The Men's Department

Figure 1: All of these outfits available, somewhere, at a thrift store near you. 

Most thrift store men's departments are a no-man's-land of pleated dress pants, stained neckties and 80's style shaker sweaters worn by Bill Cosby circa 1985.

Unless you're in the market to look like Corey Haim at the peak of his career, you'll not be shopping for men's clothing in most thrifts. Still, there are gems to unearth, if you know what to look for.

Figure 2:  Corey Haim, not at the peak of his career.  Is it right to call what Corey Haim does a "career"?

First, check out the sweaters. Sure, you'll find mostly stuff that the Cos would approve, but if you are a knitter or needle-crafter, you'll want to look for thick-knit ones, in cottons, wools or good blends, that you can take apart for the yarn. Read about that here.

Second, head for the jeans. Sometimes thrift store pricers won't realize they are pricing women's jeans and you'll find some Levi's marked at significantly less than they would be in the women's area.

Third, HOODIES.  That's right, girls.  If you're not the midriff-skimming type, you'll find normal-sized hoodies over here in the men's department.  Thrift store employees tend to put big and bulky stuff in men's, when it could easily be unisex.  But that makes life terribly complicated and working in a thrift store is an endless parade of unquantifiable and uncategorizable merchandise as it stands.

Finally, look at the socks and ties.  Men's socks can come in bitchin' argyle styles, which are fun and the one exception to my No Used Socks rule.  And ties?  Well, try making a lightplate nice and fancy with this little ole project from Craft Magazine.   

Bad Books Nobody Wants, Part II

Here's another annotated list of books I hate that continually flood the thrift store I work at:

See, I Told You So and The Way Things Ought To Be by Rush Limbaugh. 

Here's the thing with political books written by media commentators:  by the time they reach print, they are untimely and out of step.  700 million new things have happened to reveal their snappy, house-of-cards analyses for the gum-flapping horseshit they are.  Also, Rush Limbaugh?  Can go fuck a roof rake.

Let's Roll:  Ordinary People, Extraordinary Courage by Lisa Beamer. 

This is the wife of Todd Beamer, the guy who probably helped over-take the terrorists on United Flight 93, which prevented the plane from crashing into its intended target.  Sure, this is a skin-tingling scenario to imagine and surely offers more than cold comfort to Lisa Beamer.  But seeing this book, over and over, I dunno.  It just annoys the shit out of me.  It reminds me that people will commodify and market almost anything - hero husbands, boil-in-a-bag pasta, their spiritual relationship with anal sex - which brings out the worst cynical hermitty characteristics of my personality. 

Seven From Heaven by Kenny and Bobbi McCaughey. 

First, I hate the word Heaven.  If the concept of heaven was rendered dramatically, it would be the gayest Broadway musical review ever, with Vegas showgirls, talking chimps and ending with a song-and-dance number culminating in an ejaculation of glitter confetti.  Ugh.  Second, there's the multiple births.  You know, I don't think having seven tiny, needy infants ALL AT ONCE is all that cute.  Clearly, I'm not gonna get all teary and sentimental about 7 eating-and-shitting machines.  Because I have one eating-and-shitting machine and I KNOW what I speak of.   Third, take a second and work up a profile in your head of what kind of individual bought this book.  If you're thinking the saggy-assed lady in the Christmas-applique sweatshirt with the home perm and the GOD IS PRO-LIFE sticker on her rusting mini-van, then bingo.

A Million Little Pieces by James Frey. 

You have to feel pretty bad for James Frey.  First, he's got that awful white-guy jheri curl.  Then Oprah goes and busts his nuts on daytime television.  And before I found out that his book was basically poppycock, I must admit the story fascinated me.  Though I feel for his fairy-tale-creating, lying ass, I am tired of seeing this book come in, since there is almost one in every box of books I go through.  I kept my copy, at least. Jesus, if you hated it so much, do me a favor and just set it on fire in your own home.

The Celestine Prophecy & The Tenth Insight by James Redfield.

I suppose by now you're getting a sense of what side of the self-help fence I fall onto.  I'm all for self-help, as in, helping yourself, whether it be to Asian buffets or just getting your closets organized.  But not so much for Self-Help Books.  Especially when they get all woo-woo and make all sorts of crazy leaping insights into "exotic" cultures.  That's right, Carlos Casteneda;  put down that peyote and look at me when I'm talking to you.