We can all agree that this past Saturday was sort of a big, dirty bust. And we didn't feel all that bad about making our last-minute cancellation at the Brooklyn Flea. We simply told ourselves, "It's raining. Nobody eats pops in the rain, and nobody in their right mind tries to sell pops in the rain."
Up to this past Friday, it had rained for 15 of the past 19 days of June, and like every other New Yorker, we were over it. That's why when we woke up on Sunday at 6am, took a long, eye-glasses-less gander out the window and heard those fat drops smacking the pavement, we decided once again to throw in the towel. Accuweather's futuristic weather radar animation & the 90% chance of T-storms reassured us, so we went back to sleep, a tad peeved about our lame-duck Sunday.
A couple hours later, we woke up. Birds were chirping, the sun was beaming, and we were pissed. Like, ultra-pissed. The sort of pissed that gets you an all-expenses paid trip to the slammer.
That's when his name came over us like hot, humid, garlicky breath...Good Morning America's sun-kissed Lord of the Weather, Sam Champion...the revered boogie messiah of bbq's, beach-days, outdoor catered weddings and corporate events himself. A solar deity to most New Yorkers, Sam Champion is North America's Nostradamous: the premier, most precise, finely-tuned instrument of wizard-like weather prediction known today.
That is, until yesterday. He dropped a ball so huge, it crushed our spirits. Pops melted, children cried, and David needed a hug so large, it required several tremendous men to administer it.
So, while we recoup this coming week wondering why Sam denied us our livelyhood, we'll be carefully planning this week at Battery Park. And this coming weekend at Gay Pride. And at Brooklyn Flea Fort Greene. And at Brooklyn Flea DUMBO. And at Water Taxi Beach in L.I.C. (???).
Keep the faith, y'all.
xoxo,
JND
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