Rationed shoes? Count yer blessings, people. We are so lucky to have it as good as we do. So lucky.

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MIKE, FOR CHRIST’S SAKE, DON’T CHANGE A THING: Unwrap “Mikes Candy Wrappers” and get it going. So good. I mean, anymore, it’s not even the collection, just…uh…the idea of the guy behind it, all excited to add a couple wrappers to his growing collection. That’s the shit that gets me every time. Mike, you are golden. (Horked off Coudal.com.)

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THERE GOES THE AFTERNOON: Tons of cover, of old historical maps. Incredible. And man, all that info? Hours of enjoyment. Think about surveyors and pioneers and land merchants using those, and maybe that’ll enhance things a bit. It did for me. (Thanks, Streger.)

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HARD TO LEAVE THIS ONE BEHIND: Went to an estate sale this morning in the goddamn Pearl District of all place, after Dale tipped me off while he was on the job down in Sellwood. He calls and says, “You oughta hit that one up.” Trusting Dale, I blast over the river and down to the Pearl. There’s a monster line forming, with all the parasites you see at EVERY estate sale here in town. Bastards. So I’m #60 on the waiting list, after a couple waves of letting folks in, I get in. The place is a bust for the most part. Shit was way overpriced, you know, by “antique people” who “knew what they had” or something. That type of an “estate sale.” Sharp teeth on those sharks.

Anyhoo, this was a little something was “hard to leave behind.” There you go.

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WHAT IT LOOKED LIKE, LONG TIME AGO: “Help Us Add Another Day.”

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NICE WORDS BESTOWED UPON US: Some of the nicest stuff, ever. Thanks, fellas. Just what we needed, as the week comes to an end.

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SMOKE UP, JOHNNY: The one and only Alan Valek comes in high on nicotine with “40 Gorgeous Vintage Tobacco Advertisements.” Just like the link says.

I’m pretty glad I never took up that vice. I tried a cig on a chairlift in 1986. It was at Shanty Creek just outside of Bellaire, Mich. I was skiing (I know, I know…) with Tom Prote and friends, and someone had some smokes. I was 11 or 12. I remember lighting it, and the taste of it, but here’s what I remember most: The way my fingers smelled afterward. That was enough to keep me away from those cancer sticks forever.

The only time Dale calls is when he’s on a smoke break. I can hear him sucking and blowing. Which means, I’m his goddamn entertainment while he’s burning one. Real nice.

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SPEAKING OF DALE, WELL, HERE YOU GO: This last weekend while we were out junking, I hear Dale groan across the room, “Yeeesh, you gotta see this.” And he pulls out this old framed family picture. I’m not gonna saya fucking thing regarding this one. This one is “all Dale.”

I’ll just leave you with that. Have a good weekend, you rough-necked hooligans.