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Market Hates

We all thought it was just a fad… But now, the pleasure of shopping for second-hand clothes at the markets is just a distant memory. Who is to blame? CAROLINE HAMILTON investigates.

What is it with markets these days? Historically, local flea markets were associated with the washed up wreckage of industrial life, and a quick glimpse at Sydney's market landscape is enough to convince anyone that ‘wreckage' is still an appropriate description for contemporary market life.

saggiehippie[1]The first market archetype you are likely to encounter are the Saggy Old Hippies, flogging incense and yak-hair vests every freakin' week. Why do they bother? Surely anyone who wanted a hemp jumpsuit or a smock handwoven by Himalayan children reared by goats has already made that purchase ... and, shortly thereafter, suffered inevitable buyer's remorse. Yak hair or no, the Nepalese don't do timeless fashion classics. The real puzzle isn't who buys this stuff but who is more deserving of our scorn? The stall holders who peddle this crap or the feeble-minded suckers who buy it?

Even worse than the stinky old hippies with their craggy leather skin are the Aromather-Harpies, hawking scented candles and body butter. Last time I checked the human body did not require basting, and in no way resembled a piece of toast. Strangely, these oldies seem to suffer under the illusion that a weekly market stall and an occasional meditation class entitle them to take a superior ‘enlightened' and ‘deeply spiritual' tone with everyone who passes by.

I wouldn't take beauty advice from these crones, let alone spiritual counselling. Come to think of it, the only subject these women are qualified to comment on are varieties of thrush treatment. But there's much worse to be feared at the markets than the smelly, pushy baby-boomers hocking incense and natural remedies. Witness the second-hand CD stall.

grossjock[1]The thing about the CD stallholder, also known as the Indie Bedwetter, is that, at first glance, he looks nice, maybe even normal. Not ‘normal' normal, but markets normal. The kind of guy you might not try to avoid talking to and certainly a welcome relief from the evil social blight that is the Fashion Jock, with his Presets t-shirt and white slip-on canvas shoes (note to these weasels: you are not Don Johnson. The ‘sockless loafer look' is not ironic. Stop pretending to be fags, guys, that ship has sailed). The Indie Bedwetter is no weasel, but he's by no means a fox. And this is the real pity; all potential - no potency. Yes, the indie boy is the figurative limp dick. The floppy hair, the dishevelled clothes, the permanent middle-distance stare - it's like he's been given a partial lobotomy.

Sometimes in charitable moments it's possible to imagine that selling second-hand CDs at the markets is a nice, stable rehabilitation job, like working as a janitor, or serving lunches to schoolchildren. The reality is much sadder. If you take a moment to look around the stall you'll very quickly realise that everyone shopping here is starring in their own private One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. The guys flicking their way through the merchandise are all rhythmically nodding, eyes cast downward, emitting a faint waft of desperation.

Possibly even more disturbing, and certainly more unpleasant, than the shy-indie saddoes are the Vinyl Tragics. These are men who have taken their antisocial disorders to the next level. Vinyl Tragics are not content to disguise their insecurities behind a veneer of aloof silence. The group is almost exclusively comprised of men over the age of forty, this breed of market weirdo just can't rest until every crate has been triple-checked for rare, first-pressing vinyl records.

These dorks compete to find vinyl like it's an Olympic event. The aim of the game is to find the most obscure pressing of some 1970s Japanese noise band and then to present it, triumphantly, to the Indie Bedwetter, whose only available response will be to feign casual indifference. Back off Vinyl Tragic! There's no vinyl for sale here - move on! Go back home to your flat out the back of your Mum's house and re-watch the Buffy box-set with your knob in hand, loser!

tryhardksubi[1]But very worst of all are the Tsubi/Ksubi Piggies ... You know who I'm talking about. Maybe you are even are one of them. Tsubi Piggies are a genetic half-breed, like vampires who can walk about in daylight, and they hunt in packs. Neither genuinely fashionable nor resolutely uncool, they disguise their affliction by cloaking themselves in outrageously overpriced tight denim and oversized plastic sunglasses. The irony in all this is that Tsubi Piggies, despite their seemingly cavalier attitude to the concept of value, voraciously shop at the markets. Certainly the most repellent aspect of the Tsubi Piggies are their insistence on haggling for things when they're wearing jeans that cost $300!

As if it is not enough that the Tsubi Piggies insist on ridiculous discounts, they also inflict their god-awful personalities on everyone nearby. With a mobile phone permanently pressed to the side of their head, they're always talking loudly, always telling someone about ‘REZ'S PARTY, LATER TONIGHT AFTER WE KICKBACK FOR A WHILE WITH GEENA', about ‘MEETING UP AT THE BAR LATER, HON', about how ‘LACHLAN'S DEFINITELY COMING ALONG BUT NEEDS TO GET THE CAR FROM HIS STEPDAD'S HOUSE IN BALMAIN'.

bigglasses[2]Tsubi Piggies mistakenly believe that their social life is of considerable public interest, they cannot survive if they are routinely ignored or submitted to other more grievous acts of cruelty: the systemic removal of hair extensions, the snapping of said plastic sunglasses, the deliberate and wilful misapprehension of their ‘irony' as serious statement of intent.

Be certain: no one is safe. We cannot be rid of this terrible scourge. From this time onward, our peaceful parks and local schoolyards are nothing more than weekend haunts for infuriatingly elitist misers, smelly baby-boomers and lonely middle-aged cranks. If it hasn't happened in your neighborhood yet, beware! They are coming! Steadily the terror will descend upon us all. Before you even realise, you'll look up from the racks of ‘vintage' clothes, or the enviro-friendly cosmetics, and discover you not even at the markets. All this time you've been shopping at David Jones!

Don't let it happen to YOU!

Duke issue 2This article and accompanying images first published in DUKE magazine. DUKE magazine is an irreverent and absurdist pop culture, fashion, and art magazine created by two young Sydney artists, Raquel Welch and Emily Hunt. Launched in December 2006, Issue Deux has just been released.

DUKE offers readers a Warhol-esque take on celebrity culture, thrift fashion and lifestyle, interviews with interesting characters, and even a sexy male centrefold!

DUKE Magazine says what others don’t dare. It is an offensive and entertaining journal, which delivers its message with biting humour and brutal honesty. It is a magazine with an opinion and fierce independent spirit.

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Titles such as Ancient Maya: The Rise and Fall of a Rainforest Civilization fill faculty bookshelves. It has also provided fodder for literature and films, most recently Mel Gibson's Apocalypto. There is a grim, irresistible appeal to this tale of central American oblivion. Recent events have injected a jarring note into Mayan studies: a sense of anxiety, even foreboding. Serious people are asking a question that at first sounds ridiculous. What if the fate of the Maya is to be our fate? What if climate change and the global financial crisis are harbingers of a system that is destined to warp, buckle and collapse?

No one is suggesting that vines will start crawling up the concrete canyons of Wall Street, or that howler monkeys will chase pin-striped bankers through Manhattan. Mayan kings who screwed up were ritually tortured and sacrificed with the aid of stingray spines to pierce the penis; an emphatic application of moral hazard. In our era, the only thing slashed is a bonus. There are, however, striking parallels between the Maya fall and our era's convulsions. "We think we are different," says Jared Diamond, the American evolutionary biologist. "In fact . . . all of those powerful societies of the past thought that they too were unique, right up to the moment of their collapse."

Complex and organised it may have been but Mayan society resembled a frog who stays in slowly boiling water. The environmental trouble built up over centuries and was partly concealed by short-term fluctuations in rainfall patterns and harvest yields. But when the tipping point came, events moved quickly. "Their success was built on very thin ice. Kings were supposed to keep order and avoid chaos through rituals and sacrifice," says David Webster, author of The Fall of the Ancient Maya. "When manifestly they couldn't do it people lost confidence and the whole system of kingship fell apart."

Which brings us to modern parallels. Webster, watching the season's first snowflakes through the window of his office at Pennsylvania State University, has been waiting for the question. Pinned to his wall is an old clipping about the fall of Enron Corporation in 2001. "That was the first tremor," he muses. "You know, human beings are always surprised when things collapse just when they seem most successful. We look around and we think we're fat, we're clever, we're comfortable and we don't think we're on the edge of something nasty. Hubris? No: ignorance."