Sunday, June 08, 2008

Oh, Agadore


Yesterday morning, my sister Ker and I decided to hit a few gahoroohj sales. We began at Pete's for some butch Joe and schlepped around the hood. Nothing doing for blocks until we stumbled upon this situation: a gun packing, badge toting security guard. ?! He was 6ft. tall with a supple bosom and Charlie Chaplin eyebrows (plucked to perfection), a 14K gold plated chain around his neck and a heaaaaaaaaavy Greek accent.


We circled the spot a few times, not sure we should risk it. Would he bust out his gun and point it in our direction if we picked up an item and held it longer than 2 minutes? 5 minutes? 7 minutes? Were the owners of the house selling high ticket tchoch? Were they famous? Infamous?


After circling the house a few times, in the cheeriest tone, Agadore instructed us to park. We were curious and nervous, so we did. Aggie welcomed us a la Mr. Roarke from Fantasy Island.


This moment needed to be preserved on film. Pretending to take pictures of the garden, I positioned myself to click, when Agadore jumped in the center and said, "Take my picture instead." That's how I got the above pick.



We ambled through the driveway, the center of the sale. After Aggie's greeting, we got a cold welcome from one of the homeowners. His ass was planted on the back-door stoop. He was eating a fiber bagel bar with cream cheese (question, is that self-defeating or self-loathing?). "Help yourself to anything. We're sick to death of this shit and want to get rid of it," he said, spit-talking food. So vile.



We saw a giant box of white betamax tapes, not vinty fab glass, cheap ass Wal-Mart glass, vases, plates and statuettes. Oooh-oooh was that Jadeite I just spotted at the end of the table? Not so much. More like fauxite. Tattered and dusty, off-the-rack clothing to give the illusion of being vintage. Random crap scattered on the ground, in boxes, on fold-up card tables and in beat-up bookcases. Junk you wouldn't re-gift or send to an enemy.



Finally, we hit the garage part of the sale, and met the other homeowner, stalking the only true antique items available, 4 depression glass decanters. I know my vinty glass and these babies retailed at $25 a pop, maybe. After name dropping himself into a frenzy about all of the famous estate sales he'd been to, he looked at his pile of shit for sale and realized there wasn't a single testament to his tale. He quickly turned his back to us like a super model who only banked 5MM in 07' (DistributorCap, two MM's or one when it's a single digit million?)


Ker and I looked at each other, both feeling a wave of creepy darkness and flew out of there. Passing Agadore, he authoritatively said, "Stop!" Shit. We were about to get whacked by an over zealous Greek security guard at a shitroohj saleaaay in West LA on a Saturday morning. Oh, God, please don't let me peel out this way. I mean, really. Really?!



Smiling like he'd just won the lotto, he said, "Wouldn't I make a fabulous Kojak?" Simultaneously, Ker and I insecurely said, "Shhhure." To which he responded, "I sing, too."



Agadore broke into song. He ripped Papa can you hear me into shreds with a burst of sunlight beaming on his Kojak scalp. It was fuckin' tits.

As we drove away, it dawned on us that we were in The Birdcage and this was Agadore, part-time-faithful-house-boy-sometimes-leather-queen-full-time, I have a dream, to star in my own television show.

Though we can't help Agadore make his dream come true, we sure do hope some fabbylish telly executive passed by the sale Saturday to cast him in the remake of Kojak, Greek style, starring: Omega Agadore Papadiamantopoulos.

 

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