It's a cold, rainy Sunday morning and instead of snuggling in a nice warm bed (like a toasty cinnamon bun) or eating a delicious brunch (like some toasty cinnamon buns), I have to slog it over to the Junk Store to participate in some "Vintage Sale" fiasco. Eight or so hours of watching suckers angrily hand over big bucks for for baggies full of broken sixties shit. And when they tell me the prices are too high I can't really argue. They are. But when you slap those seven magic letters on the label, the sky's the limit.