What time is it? It’s screaming grandmother time!

It MAY not be someone’s aging blue-haired grandmother, mouth wrapped lovingly around her own personal Winchester (and the antique clock face seems even more out of place, not that any style would have made sense unless the second hand was replaced by a flopping tongue spinning endlessly and calling out the hours, or maybe a Pall Mall.) The hair more closely resembles a massive plop of blueberry sherbet thrown rudely over her head, causing her, in shocked terror, to reveal her clock.

Nine o’Clock! It’s Sherbet Time! (Splat)

I’ll have to ask my sister if this is how it’s done. She works in a nursing home, but they may not be able to talk about these little secrets.

I think she may be a dolphin. The portrait is realistic in all other ways, why would the designer give her a fin? This means something.

This is not a happy woman. Discounting the blueberry sherbet theory, she could also be a clever allegory of the full human experience–her egg-shaped noggin bespeaking her birth, the ovoid genesis of all things. Every day now, she complains of the pains of age, every word from her mouth a prayer in a litany of time. Somehow leopard print sunglasses figure into this, I’m not sure how, and maybe she’s a dolphin, too. Symbolism is tricky, it works on levels.

Goodwill on Metric and 183. It’s such a tease.

Next on our Thrift Land “weird yellow things” hit parade, the world’s biggest, and certainly most suggestive Golden Delicious apple.

Someone, somewhere, really loves his fruit. And it’s clear that the apple is enjoying itself, too.

We again face the question of artistic intent. Is the man carrying the massive apple? And if so, is he aware that it has a cheerful, somewhat impish face? Perhaps he’s trying to get rid of it. I would. It wouldn’t matter how big the apple was, it’s not going to win any prizes at the state fair if it’s going to lick the judge. Horrible leers and raised eyebrows have got to be disqualifiers.

Maybe it’s not an apple. Not quite. Maybe it’s the head of a massive, pomaceous god, the Jolly Green Giant’s sweeter, rounder half-brother. You know, the fruit. Unless it appears in all its seed-bearing glory as just a giant, appletine head. That kind of sounds like a Japanese yokai, some strange spirit that was created because the Japanese word for “Apple” sounds suspiciously like its word for “bodiless leering horse-sized head.”

My other option is that it was some sort of apple endowed with stubby, tyrannosaurus-like arms. From a certain angle this made more sense–

–but this actually raised more questions than answers. Questions I didn’t want to answer. Like, “why would it bother wearing long sleeves,” and “where are its legs,” and “is there any way to get it to flail its arms like a muppet on PCP? Because that would be really beautiful.” But life is full of questions. And giant apples with faces.

Or not so little, but definitely different. Both of these little guys were on the brick-a-brack shelf (or, “crapstack”) at Thrift Land on Stassney near I35. Both…well, I’m not sure but the authorial intent, we’ll just leave it at that.

“On a winter night, when the moon rises over a gloomy sea and it’s so cold that the shrimp come pre-frozen, the catch of the day is cocktail ice, and you’ve put the sail up because it might just shatter, the thing I most like to do is put on my best yellow rain slicker, my matching yellow hat–don’t you know, yellow’s the only color we have on the sea, anything else brings bad luck, that’s why we paint ourselves with a rich black walnut stain all the time, and it does so highlight the crags, but I do digress and thank you for humoring an old sailor–I dress in my best yellows, and I hide under the captain’s ashtray.

“Don’t look at me like that, it’s perfectly normal. I don’t even think he’s noticed. And I can’t tell you how much it warms me up, body and soul. Nothing makes a man think that all’s right with the world until his superior officer knocks a couple of pipes out on his headgear. It’s a bit of a balancing act, and you don’t want to tip over when the ship rocks, which most ashtrays might and why I’m actually performing a kind of a service. I’m a thoughtful ashtray.

“And could be worse, could be worse. On the really, REALLY cold nights, when it’s so devilishly cold that the St. Elmo’s Fire freezes up and falls off the mast and you can use it to light up steering, I’ll take my little ashtray and my best mackintosh, and go down to the crew’s quarters for a spell, it’s more a pleasure than a duty. And at the end of the day, maybe my neck’s a bit sore, maybe it takes a few hours to get the smoke out of my hair and maybe my beard’s been a bit on fire, but I look at the night and say to myself, ‘Job well done, sir, job well done.’

“And then I say to myself, ‘Well, sir, at least you’re not Jeffey, the cook’s boy. He thinks he’s a spittoon.’”

Thought, such as it is, continued Wednesday.

Come on! Don’t be shy! It’s a bright, beautiful day, just like you! Turn around, let’s see your smiling face, little kitten!

Ooh. Never mind.

So, what we have here is, well, there’s a certain degree of inspiration. Spotted shell, spotted cat. Brilliant. I can’t see anything wrong with the concept.

Except…except that it calls to mind images of huge cat heads that, independent of their bodies, scuttle around on the ground on crablike legs. When someone brushes them aside they land on their backs, mewing pitifully and rocking from side to side, IF they’re lucky enough to have the extra long tail that reaches the ground. Most aren’t that lucky, end up kicked aside, where they land under the sofa and gather thick balls of dust bunnies, in the vain hope that a fur coat will make them cute enough that they’ll be put back on the display rack.

The weird looking little orange tongue is a nice touch, too. It’s kind of like he’s eating a huge chunk of pumpkin. I’m not sure why someone glued a spider to the poor little thing’s face, though, it didn’t deserve that.

Actually, yes it did. Cowries are horrible little creatures. They probably mug other smaller snails, kick them over, take their lunch money, write rude messages on their shells.

Number two on the Minimal Effort Kitten Parade, and just in time for the holidays–another refugee from Planet Space Cat, where tiny catlings with vast, all-knowing blue eyes STARE INTO YOUR SOUL and EAT YOUR SOULMICE. This one’s a little more sinister-looking than its more benevolent, all-seeing cousin. This one…this one has plans.

Okay, maybe these plans involve finding some glowing green milk to slowly drink, yawn a tritium yawn, and curling up in a small black ball with two tiny blue moons peering over its tail, but they’re calculating moons that are counting the moments until you turn your back. Then, then…the kitten will probably go to sleep. Really, it’s a kitten, even the most long-term plans they have don’t extend past their whiskers.

Shell Kitten found at Savers on Burnet near 2222, Black Kitten with Blue Eyes…ah…I forget. Its mind control powers are terrifying.

It’s not their BEST-known animal, but the pouched cat of Australia had a long and proud history. They were a strange, stiff-necked breed, not actually related to the housecat at all, except in a sort of “read about it in a magazine, tried the same haircut” way. Unlike most marsupials, they could carry up to three offspring, one in its pouch, and two in its round, round cheeks.  The species is extinct now, accidents did happen.

Or, maybe, it’s some sort of strange cat-shaped gavel. Or a cleverly cat-shaped storage device that holds a single, precious green pea, or more likely three toothpicks. Except…except it doesn’t really. You stand it up, give it a single, beautiful legume, the cat throws itself to the side, the pea rolls out, the world basically ends. All this because someone forgot to give him a left foot.

Well, they probably did. It was huge, remiped sort of thing, a great flapping monstrosity of an appendage longer than the poor thing is wide. But with just the one, it topples left, rolls about, flings itself from the shelf like a tiny, inexpensive lemming. No wonder its nose is red.

This is TOTALLY the front cover of my next album. The one with sixteen songs about clowns.

Our producer, Dr. Chance, asserts that this is not actually a cat, but it is, in fact, a mudkip. To Dr. Chance I say, Fah! Of course it’s a cat! It’s made of wood and has one foot, just like my inaccurately named cat, Nibbles, who doesn’t. Please keep these weird theories to yourself, sir.

Mudkip found at Salvation Army on 1325 near Round Rock

After this, it can only get better, kitten-wise.

In ancient Egypt, cats were mummified and entombed with the dead–with great pomp and circumstance, or just included in a shared crypt. Why? No-one knows. Or at least Wikipedia doesn’t know. Maybe it kept away mice. Maybe the beast that ate the judged souls was allergic to cat dander.

Why ramble about this? Why indeed?

This poor little guy looks like he was embalmed by crazed quiltmakers in the 1960s, during the peak of the Margaret Keane art-clone wars–by a troupe of grandmothers after a quilting bee. “Oh, won’t your little kitten look cute when we’ve shellacked an entire remainders bin of gingham scraps to him? No? Add some more gingham, dear, you’ll come around once the acetate fumes build up a bit.”

It’s the muzzle that does it. It’s bony, attenuated, really adds a grim, deathlike cast to an otherwise delightfully camp-retro-schlock piece.

This way, Muffins will last well into the next millennium, where we will have finally figured out to resurrect beloved house pets–as long as their corporeal forms have been carefully preserved with decoupage. Until then, well, we’ll pick some really timeless patterns to keep her looking as fresh as possible. Bring me those pinking shears, I feel a fit of paisley coming on.

Not dead enough for you? Try Church here, I’m sure he’s sufficiently half-past dead. He’ll be appearing in a new cat zombie film shortly. It’s not very scary, you just run a can opener and they forget all about the brains.

Sorry, rambling. Here’s the cat.

The jury…the jury is out here. Once again, we are in the realm of “high school rebellion against prefabricated art,” but there’s a certain love her, too–the cat looks far too well-realized. Was this someone’s art therapy after losing a favorite cat? Did their sister have a stuffed moggie with similar markings?

So many mysteries.

Gingham cat found at Savers South. Yellow cat of death found in 2008, provenance unknown.

Meet Sad Bear.

Once upon a time, there was a carpenter who, more than anything else, wanted to have a pet bear. Please don’t ask why, he just did. Maybe he really liked bears. But of course local livestock ordinances and restrictions wouldn’t let him keep a pet bear, even a small one, and they’re really expensive anyway ever since they shut down that chain of mall wildlife stores.

Being a clever woodcarver, he made himself a bear out of wood. Cheap, cheap wood. And when the Blue Fairy came round and brought that bear to life, he regretted using pine from the throw-away bin. He also regretted the termites, and leaning too hard on the critter when using the belt sander. In fact, he regretted a lot of things about that crazy week, but really, not as much as Sad Bear did.

As these stories go, Sad Bear himself got very lonely, too, because when he went to play with the children, they would throw heavy things at him, or in some cases, get restraining orders, and even little yappy dogs like cocker spaniels thought he was pretty messed up and there is NOTHING going on upstairs in a cocker spaniel. So the woodcarver, who hadn’t really learned his lesson, made Ball Dog.

Ball Dog wasn’t exactly the height of craftsmanship, but after the carpenter tried to throw Sad Bear into a wood chipper, they didn’t let him have tools anymore.

The Blue Fairy DID learn her lesson, and did not bring Ball Dog to life. No, no, no. This made Sad Bear even sadder.

So Sad Bear would take Ball Dog for walks around the lake, to the dog park, even dress him up in little dog sweaters, because hey, if the Blue Fairy wouldn’t put out, maybe the Nursery Magic Fairy would throw him some kind of bone.  But bringing a toy’s toy to life was just way too meta.

It’d be nice if this story had a happy ending, but really, it doesn’t. Once they got donated to Goodwill, someone bought Ball Dog and used him for putting practice, and Sad Bear eventually ended up at the Goodwill Outlet, where he either sold for $1.40 a pound or got crushed under a dubious microwave oven. I’m sorry, it’s a crap story, but there you go.

(Actually, I was cropping and sharpening a bunch of photos from the Goodwill near 620 and 183, and looked up from a bunch of cuts and edits and such to see this sad little image in Photoshop. It was too tragic to let go of, so now I share it with you, and you can make up your own stories. Give Sad Bear a happy ending. He probably deserves it.)

Shell art is a dominant thread in the world of Thrift Horror. We do not know what drives elderly craftsmiths and pre-schoolers, jaded high schoolers and tourist trap hucksters, to glue pipe cleaners and cowries together and call it art. But we thank them for their contributions. Unfortunately, or perhaps magically, shell art is “done.” It’s over, there is no more shell art. We have had a shell art epiphany, we have seen the glory of shell art and it is, truly, glorious.

It is not, technically, a “horror.” It is pure magic.

Oh, hey, you can see my pants in this picture. I’m glad I didn’t wet myself then, that’s a small favor. On entering the glorious gates of the Salvation Army, it was clear that this was no ordinary thrift shop. It had become a shell art museum. The front corner display–coffee tables entirely encrusted in shells, mirrors studded with starfish, mer-madonnas. Amazing! And the shellcraft? Sublime!

It would take an entire school district of disenfranchised youth, all the street vendors in Port Aransas, and a couple of senior centers on the side, working overtime for a year to create these shell masterpieces. Swirls, ornaments, flowers, all of them crazily baroque. Truly, we had come home.

Do you like my hair? It’s cowrie. The vase is very small snails. Now, normally, you’d expect a few well-placed clam shells, but no, they chafe so. Take a photograph of the sarong, it’ll last longer, because it will probably shatter when I sit down. That, also, will chafe.

I think I may have started crying here, it was THAT GOOD. the lotus blossom made of little clams? I had to go outside for a cigarette. But it got better. No, really!

I had to move on, even though I just wanted to put some small votive offerings at the foot of Our Lady of Shell Hair and devote my life to her service. This was like shell Nirvana, but it had to end. Except…it didn’t. The glass display cases greeted me with INFINITELY RECEEDING SHELL BABES.

You may think that these are identical, but each one is a precious, precious flower. Made of shells. And they are utterly unashamed of their nudity, because they know…you’re looking at their shell wigs.

And just so you know, this isn’t a shallow depiction of naked, shell-wrapped flesh. This is a scene drawn straight from domestic life, where shell-wrapped servants would draw slightly crunchy baths for the lady of the house. “Bring me a loofah. It, too, should be made out of shells. The exfoliation shall be…decadent.”

I’m not really sure what’s going on here, the little eye-like shells around her skirt kind of make her look like a villian from “The Little Mermaid.” I’m not really sure what she’s holding in her hands–some sort of bathmat? A roll of fabric? It’s not going to be any more comfortable than anything else in this display, I’m pretty sure of that.

The story, as I understand it–and for once I had to break my vow of keeping a low profile and asking for permission, there was just too much to take pictures on the sly today!–is that a small business went under, or the owner retired, and they donated their vast stock of shelly wonderment to the Salvation Army. I really think they should have just opened some strange museum or something. It would have been…amazing. And apparently there was more in their back room? Good lord. The sea is bounteous indeed.

I know, I’m just posting pictures of things with shells on them, I really don’t have anything to say today. This was just so AMAZING I wanted to share with my friends :) If you’re in North Austin, this is the Salvation Army on 1325 just north of Round Rock. It’s absolutely worth the visit!

Next time, back to your usually scheduled crapola :)

I’m not sure what the true meaning of Columbus Day is. It seems to involve lots of discounts at the local auto lots. But I’ve been hoarding some very special pieces to celebrate the occasion.

We’ll start with what must be the single gayest attempt at “American Indian” ever. It’s like Mr. Humphries trying out for a part in Last of the Mohicans. Or maybe some sort of strange camp act, maybe “A Boy Named Sioux.” Seriously! Who accessorizes their rifle?

Although he HAS clearly been working out. It hasn’t helped all that much, except maybe on costume night at The Hitching Post perhaps. Could use a little upper arm work, those biceps are a little stringy, but this isn’t about the gift, it’s about the giftwrap.

Oof. Showing his age a bit here.

“But do admire the absolutely fabulous headdress and earrings, the former was lifted from a Lawrence of Arabia Broadway production, but with a little bit of color its own mother wouldn’t know it. The earrings? Home Depot, isle seven, assorted nuts, which sounds like either an hors d’oeuvre or my last family reunion.

“All of which accents both the Zuni fetish necklace…and the less said about Zuni fetishes, the better, to my mind–and these smashing armbands and matching barrettes. Who says danishes are just for Alderaan princesses anymore? Any princess can wear these!

“And take a look at this rifle–no, in my hand, dear. It was, I don’t know, on the dull side a bit, so I spruced it up with some red velvet and gold trimming. Of course I did hot-glue the trigger in place, but, small sacrifices, you know!

“But while you’ve got the camera down there, love, the real show’s off to your left a bit.

“Pocahantes, eat your heart out. Take one denim skirt, trim it down just a bit, but not too much, don’t want to scare off the missionaries! A couple lovely felt patches, your flint knife, just in case a gentleman has to defend himself–or as near as we might be–add fringe, and, this sort of greenish thing, I think it might have been a snake once, but but of the two of us I think I pull it off quite well. I’d demonstrate but modesty forbids.

“Still searching for the perfect boots, but these will have to do–if anyone’s looking at your feet, dears, you’ve made some sort of tactical error. Try adding a few more feathers, they draw the eye.”

Ahem.

What next…what next…Oh! This poor girl pretty much hits all the important non-PC notes, AND she’s apparently been trepanned.

*shudder*

She’s one of a few pieces that I didn’t get around to posting from our San Antonio Road Trip.

Unfortunately, not a lot of depth to her character. She looks a bit like a kappa from Santa Fe.

Okay, that’s enough, please go away now.

(Why is her dress screwed together?)

And then there’s him.

I have to say, I really do live for this kind of moment. The “Dear sweet Jesus, what were they thinking? Was any sort of cognition going on at all? Hello, earth to artist, are we finished having a ‘moment’? Could you please get back to your day job at the asylum for the criminally embarrassing?”

I think this may actually be a sincere effort. It’s hard to tell, because the source material is so…very…bad. We’re clearly operating on some sort of “Noble Savage” base here, one of the standard plaster-cast models painted up by the family for like $8 an hour. But…something went wrong.

How wrong? This wrong.

Mmm, flesh-tone eyes, strange cat-like pupils–very blue. Deep, deep wrinkles in “corpse gray.” Blond hair, nice touch, we wouldn’t want anyone to think this was ethnic. It’s about as Native American as a hair band riffing on Cherokee Nation, which was, to be fair, pretty frikking white to begin with.

If I could figure out some way to apologize for this, I would. After centuries of indignities and exploitation, so wound into the history of the United States that it’s still a work in process, this makes things, like, .03% sadder.

Let’s bump that up to .04% and call it a day.

The Gayest Indian Ever and … I don’t know, I don’t have a word for him… from Savers on Burnet in Austin, and the bottle from the decade political correctness forgot from the Goodwill on Heubner, San Antonio.

“Mommy said you were going to work, Daddy.”

“Um…yeah. Yes, Jake, Daddy’s getting ready to go out the door. Oh…I see you got all dressed up. That’s…nice.”

“You said I could come with you some day. I could come with you and see your desk and where you work all day, and we could have lunch in the cafeteria together. Can I come with you, daddy? Please?

“Oh. Um…today’s pretty bad…meetings all day.”

“But I got a tie! I bet I look just like you, daddy.”

“Yeah. You look…really good, tiger.”

“Just like your daddy. Like a stockbroker, or a big lawyer.”

“Are you crying, daddy?”

“Just got something in my eye. Um.”

“Do you want a hug?”

“Ohgodno–Ah–yeah, sure, tiger.”

“When I’m big like you I’m going to go to a big office downtown and tell lots of people what they do, and we can do lots of things together! Just like before.”

“Before…”

“Don’t be sad, daddy! Mommy says that when you’re sad is why you don’t come home sometimes.”

“I’ve just got a lot of stuff at the office…lots of…meetings. I’ll be home early tonight. We’ll get pizza, maybe see the new Disney movie.”

“Is it pretty, Daddy?”

“It sure is, tiger.”

Salvation Army on 1325 near Round Rock