![]() And when no one is buying, the bastards, he's so distraught he collapses from exhaustion only to find a band of monkees (hmmm. I took pity on this proletariat and his need to sell caps to support his family. Now, living through Reagan and Bush #41, I had a different take on the whole russian peddler. I hadn't read it in years and instantly the above memories came into play. ![]() Then, Carol, my one true college friend, (I was shy, okay?) gave me a copy. then I'd strut around bellowing 'caps for sale!' 'caps for sale!' Some relative or stoned out friend of the family would take pity on me and flip me a nickel and soon the whole room would be wearing my creations. I usually wore skull caps, plastic visors, big floppy straw hats, the occasional beer helmet. Of course, we weren't much of a 'cap' family. let's just say, lots of drinking and bell bottoms and white men with afros, I'm sure hallucinogenics played some sort of role. This was the 70s and my mom's friends were of a uh. ![]() ![]() I'd hunt down all the hats in our house and try to recreate the peddler's walk during one of my mom's work parties. That said, Caps for Sale was a favorite of mine when I was young. I've had this touch of nostalgia lately.so, tonight I came across this book and I thought 'What the hell, why not review it and subject the GR community to my musings'-Keep in mind that it's 4:13am and I've had a shitty night. ![]()
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