Is it Sticky?

Estate sales are the backbone of the inventory for id. I’m not sure what image is conjured for you when I say “Estate Sale,” but I’m fairly sure it’s wrong. Do you think about driveways with stone lions, grand cherry furniture, heavy gold frames with pictures of pasty men in scratchy collars? Ok, sure, that is some of it, but those aren’t the ones we attend. Hopefully by now you have a sense of our vibe. Plastic-covered wingbacks don’t work for us. However, many estate sales are goldmines of crazy crap that only a Mother (and Paige and I) could love. 

A moment of silence for the families of the people who have passed away who do not want 8,000 t-shirts with penis references on them. To them we owe a debt of gratitude. Cause that shit cracks us up.

Believe it or not, the kooky folk who frequent estate sales are a decently small community. Maybe that isn’t shocking. In any case, since we go a lot, we have gotten to know some of the people who run the “put everything you want in a bag and we will give you a price” clean out company. So when we arrive, they will sometimes point us in the direction of things they think will interest us: the aforementioned penis shirts, plants, retro pyrex, MCM lamps, and on one recent occasion, porn on VHS.

I mean, come on. Who is going to pass up a trip to someone’s moldy basement to weed through boxes of owner’s manuals in the hopes of uncovering “Sammy and Rosie Get Laid” or “ My Beautiful Launderette,” and especially “Frankenhooker”? 

Not us!

So, we bought them—or rather—were given them for free. Sort of a wacko gift with purchase: Buy 5 plants, get free vintage porn. And here comes the best part, IT’S NOT PORN. At the risk of divulging too much about my knowledge on this subject, you are just going to have to trust me. Also trust that it is not the weirdest thing we have encountered while pickin’ at estate sales.

So, I think I’ll leave it there. 

Sure, I could talk about the info I found when I looked up the titles, we could debate the merits of farce, maybe explore the psyche of the person who loved them enough to record them, but instead, I’m just going to go wash my hands.