This weekend I had my first foray into another institution of American life; suing people when bad stuff happens gun ownership the Yard Sale.

Like most men, I've accumulated just way to much crap over the years. I've always been loathed to ever get rid of any of it, because, according to the well-known bloke mantra, "It might come in handy one day.". This is why many men have sheds (in the UK), and workshops/garages (in the US). You've got to have somewhere to pile that stuff up. Anyway, it was time to thin the herd.

So, an advert was placed in the paper, and Miles and I spent some time driving around the 'hood, putting up signs in conspicuous places, on the busier roads that surround our part of Cherry Creek.

Note To Passing Motorists
If, gentlemen (and it's always men), you're going to heckle me, as I'm putting signs up, why not slow down, so I've got time to actually hear your heckle? I mean, seriously, the impact of your wit is lost on me if I can't make out what the heck you're shouting. Mind you, given that the main perpetrator was yet another CJD, I daresay that Wildean ferocity of wit was lacking somewhat.

On the upside, I spent a good several minutes, replaying what I thought i heard, over and over, to see if I could figure out WTF you were saying. It passed the time, I suppose.

Meanwhile Back At The Yard...
I'd been warned by friends of all the types of yard sale characters to expect. I wasn't disappointed. They pretty much all showed up.

Despite the advertising stating that the sale started at 10am, the hard-core yard sale stormtroopers started turning up at 8.20am, just as I was carrying stuff out, and putting up shelves.

They were like a small swarm of badly-dressed locusts. Some looked like they'd spent a lot on their apparel, others looked like they'd just finished work at a building site. All of them, however, were clutching coffees like their lives depended upon them, their eyes darting back and forth across the housewares.

Just as I'd been warned by friends, there were a number of them, who marched up to me, demanding to see any jewellery, clocks or watches I had, and marched away again. They seemed to be arriving in groups of four shock troops at a time, and I'm sure I saw on or two of them carrying gas masks and tear gas.

The majority of punters were friendly, and keen to find out about the stuff for sale, where I was from, how long had I been in the US, and what hat size I took. OK, I lied about the last bit, but you get the idea.

There was this one guy, however, who arrived in a Lexus, stepped out of it, with his cell phone jammed up against his ear, bellowing loudly into it.

You know the sort of person I mean. Due to moving to the US just as cell phones were really taking off here, I've had to go through the whole mobile phone phenomenon twice (having gone through it in Europe a few years earlier). Hmmm. I can see a whole article on the Lifecycle of Mobile Phone Adoption, brewing in my tiny mind. I'll make it funny, I promise!

Anyway, my point here, is that some people, are incapable of having a quiet mobile phone conversation. They carry out every call, at full, bellowing volume, as if they're actually using tin can and string device, rather than some sophisticated electronics. Not only are they loud, but they are almost sociopathically oblivious to the effect of their fog-horn-like output upon other people.

Fashionwise, he was wearing a look I can best describe as Yacht-owner Wannabe. Consisting of, what looked like a pair of $200 baggy shorts, and white polo shirt, that I'm fairly certain, had never seen action in a game of polo. Oh, and facially, he looked a bit like a low-budget Joe Isuzu.

Bellowing inanity into his cell phone, he marched across the street, into the yard sale, and around my worldly goods. All the time, his phone never left his ear, and he treated the other customers to one half of a conversation that seemed to be about how he'd conned some old lady out of a family heirloom. To add to my loathing of him, he mispronounced "chaise" (as in "Chaise Longue"). The 'ch' is pronounced like 'sh" BTW.

He ended his visit by abruptly snapping his cell phone shut, and commenting to my co-conspirator, that, "Well, there's nothing I can't live without.". Sadly, I wasn't there for that bit. Had I been, I might have suggested, that he'd have a hard time living without a steady supply of oxygen, and if he didn't fuck off pronto, I'd see what I could do about proving that point. Rude bastard.

It was a long long day, not helped by the fact that it was damn hot and sunny. I managed not to spontaneously burst into flames, however. At the end of day one, we'd made a fair few dollars. Day two was much quieter, and less sodding hot, which gave me time to do a bunch of stuff online. As you may have spotted, that did not include writing for DMfM.