M. and I went separate ways on separate bikes today. He was off to change his seat to some teenie sliver of aerodynamic leather and get in a decent distant bike ride. My ambitions were far less athletic.

The City of Palo Alto sponsored a bunch of its locals to simultaneously have yard sales. I figured weaving in and out of residential neighborhoods examining the fine citizens’ junk was a fabulous use of my afternoon.

Sadly, I bought nothing. I was tempted by an old-school, beige rotary phone for a buck. I should have snatched it. But, the Radio Shack, cord-splicing project required to rewire it to a modern day phone port seemed like just the thing I would have done when I was single and fancy free. Not leaving junk around for future crafty projects at some indefinite time, though, is exactly the kind of sacrifice one makes in the civil society of coupledom. Sigh.

Other than that, folks have sorted out that old dishes are “collectible.” For me, that means the blue willow single saucer that should have been 50 cents was $4. Fuck you market forces.

The sad part of my yard saling ambitions was not seeing the dude with the giant, monster paparazzi lenses and press pass until after I slammed the brakes for a sale. It is now entirely possible that I, in my bike-helmeted, dorky glory, will be part of a garage-sale photo essay in the Palo Alto Daily News.

The price of a fucking free press.