So, I’m giving myself permission to be a bit non-PC this week, because I’ve been saving up some fun finds for the week of the Lunar New Year, and this be it! I apologize in advance if I confuse China and Japan. In my defense, the original images were kind of confusing to begin with.

It was a mighty battle–a war between an ancient master and four tiny bald would-be assailants so terrible, so enormous in its martial arts bad-assitutude that Chuck Norris himself shaved his head, leaving only a small round tuft just over his left ear, to play ONE of the midget ninjas in the History Channel mini-series. They didn’t let Chuck play the ancient master because Chuck Norris isn’t hard-core enough for this kind of documentary.

It began peacefully enough–the completely kick-ass Level 36, Grand Master of Flowers ninja-god was peacefully strolling along on a piece of basalt floating in a pool of lava, when four weird little midget brigands attacked. He fought bravely, but not even a martial arts god is fierce enough to take on four ninjas in a volcano (though you can see why Norris wanted the part.)

The battle was going pretty bad for him until he used his extendable head maneuver.

“Boiiiing!!!”

Oh you weird little bandit bastards, you are going to get creamed. I’m going to teach you peace and serenity SO HARD, and I don’t even have any hands.

“Crappers! His head comes off! We are undone!”

Amidst the majestic backdrop of the great mason-jar mountains of Suzhou, the fierce battle raged for 67 weeks, until the master could no longer fight, so sore was his neck.

“Oh god, my ARM! He cut it off with his neck!”

Booiiing!!!

“Hah! No-one can face the wrath of my battle-kite!”

Boiiiing!!!

Ultimately, the diminutive assailants were only able to defeat the ancient master through their skillful use of egg noodles. Even so, they sustained heavy losses.

Boiiiing!!!

Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin

Those were the days. Do you remember them?
Like they were yesterday. I don’t think there were quite so many bunny-shaped candy dishes in the woods then.
Bunnies everywhere, these days. How times change.
I’d recognize our tree, though. Even if it was roots and a stump, I’d know the spot.
Don’t…don’t talk about stumps.
…Sorry. Even if there was just the little rock path, I could find my way here, where you carved our initials.
Yes. That was back when I had hands.

Was that really so long ago?
Yes, I think it was.
You know, I seem to remember you carving *our* initials in the tree. Not just yours.
The mind does play tricks, doesn’t it?

How did you lose your hand, anyway?
I was trying to carve our initials. With a chainsaw.
There’s a part of that that’s romantic.
Not half as romantic as the way you tied your handkerchief around my wrist. That was true love. Or blood loss-induced delirium.
It’s been over 40 years, and I still can’t tell the difference.
How about we get ourselves a chainsaw, and find out?

Goodwill on Parmer near I35, Austin

“Death Horse.” Booyah.

First, let’s set…the mood. Have the Death Horse experience. Picture the imagery. Death…riding…a horse. It’s eternal, timeless. It’d probably work on an album jacket.

Got it? Death on a horse? Can you see it, indeed, can you smell death, and horse? Good. Now you’re ready for the next stage of the journey.

Sadly, Kathy’s my fellow-author in the great literary circle that is the distinguished collegium of poets published in the International Library of Poetry. So my sister, I give you the reading your poem never received, because the International Library of Poetry really isn’t your first step toward appearing on page 37 of the New Yorker. If you’re lucky, you can appear on page 37 of the International Library of Poetry.

Are you finished with Phase 2 of your Death Horse journey? Good, good. Now, the B-side.

That…that is an AWESOME death horse. It’s actually kind of creeping me out. Except for the funny little pony-beads, I am utterly convinced of the unadulterated zombilousness of this horse. It took two steps out of the stable and keeled over with a thud. But you…well, you’ve read Death Horse, I know you have. You want to see what’s bursting, possibly oozing, from your imagination even as we speak. Here you go.

Horse, death. Except the horse is really life, except that it’s kind of rotting, because life is basically briefly arrested decay. Embrace the mystery. Then explain to me why Death is so hell-bent on escaping the giant eye in the background that he’s hit reentry speed? Oh Death, we have found your weakness, and it is a planet-sized eyeball. If we just had one of those, we would need not fear your sting.

Unfortunately, what with the burning up during reentry, Death got a little melty. Once he lands you can get him back into shape with a heat gun and maybe a little spackle. Poor Death.

Savers on South Lamar near 290, Austin

First dwarf:
Round about the tree stump go,
Ingredients within it stow!
Statuette of angel toss,
Without a hand, for it was lost,
A picture that was made of corks,
and rubber-banded, unmatched forks.

Second dwarf:
A picture of a former love,
in the tree stump try to shove–
with skin a most unnatural hue,
and eyes a jarring, neon blue,
A plaintive stare out of a scene
conceived by artist Margaret Keane
Add a rabbit, made of shell–
throw it in, then cook it well.

Third dwarf:
Thicken this unwholesome brine
With a harlequin, or mime.
ill-wrought plaster in the shape
of a clown without a jape–
White face, red nose, painted cheek,
there must be thirty-six this week.
Large of shoe and wide of ruff,
Grab a few, we’ve got enough.

Fourth dwarf:
Add a cat without a tail,
add a broken, useless scale,
jagged stem of broken glass,
art projects from a third-grade class,
lid without dish, purse without strap
(Why did they donate this crap?)

First Dwarf:
Flavored oil now, just a drop,
from a long-abandoned shop.
A clever blend of fruits and weeds,
maybe insects, maybe seeds,
carrots, fennel, apples, dill,
an ancient, long-expired swill.
lemon slices, bits of wood,
clearly labelled “not for food”
Made in China, and in haste,
chosen for color, not for taste.
for a flavor powerful queer,
add some, then stand o’er here.

Goodwill on 183 and Metric. Maybe this time it’ll return my call.

Hi, how’re you doing.

There was probably a turning point, a line someone crossed, where it became clear nothing could redeem this picture. Maybe it was late in life, where they realized there’s nothing you can do to turn baby-blue into a legitimate hair color. Maybe it was early, when someone asked “Is that a gap in her teeth, or a coin slot?”

Maybe “art therapy” isn’t the best option for treating dichromatic colorblindness.

Worse yet, maybe the artist is very, very good, and this is a picture from “life.” And by “life” we mean, “Oh look, George Romero brought a date.”

Kids! Find three things wrong with this picture! Or better yet, find one thing right with this picture! I was about to say “the jacket’s almost a normal color,” but then I noticed the glossy plastic-metallic highlights and thought, “no, that’s kind of effed up, too.” Like s/he/it’s shoving its head through a ruby red Christmas ornament, or a giant balloon, or someone grafted a zombie to a candy apple.

I was also kind of wondering if maybe this was some sort of clever photographic negative.

No.

That just makes it worse.

After scrubbing down my monitor with a well-deserved wash of baking soda and holy water, I really thought about the artist’s vision. Tried to get into the mindof the artist. Maybe his dad was Bozo the Clown. If my dad was Bozo, I’d have a lot of issues to work out. I’d paint pictures of clowns. I’d think a lot about clowns. I thought, maybe his mother was Vulcana, the crime-fighting descendant of the Athenean fire goddess. Which wasn’t actually that much of a stretch, my mom actually puts that on her résumé. With a background like that, you’d almost HAVE to draw clowns whose skulls are filled with yellow fire, so that it shines out of their nostrils. It really helps to put things in context.

Goodwill on 2222, along with about 15 other marvels. That was an AMAZING day. But this one…this one was special.

As promised, here is your stupid ceramic pig experience. If your monitor is starting to show an unusually large amount of pink, we offer no apologies, only the unadulterated pig truth. However, we do suggest this fun activity–stare at the pig. Really stare at the pig. Then, suddenly look away. Whatever you look at will be surrounded by a ghostly green porcine aura. Plus, you may have an entertaining nightmare later on.

When I first saw this, I thought “OMG, pig nipples! Look at them!” Then there was a bit of a let-down when I realized, “not nipples, pig buttons,” which took me down a few notches. But then, in a flash, I thought “Wait! Who says nipples have to come in evenly-matched pairs? Maybe they really could run down the center of the pig, like a majestic ellipsis implying something left off, or implied within, a pig? What could a pig imply? What couldn’t a pig imply?”

I think this one’s been huffing lipstick again. A neat little line of Apricot Frost, or maybe Mystical Penny (Really? Mystical Penny? That sounds more like a cover band than a shade of pink…) right down the center of the nose. Pigs really shouldn’t be allowed to do their own make-up. That should be left to skilled stunt-beauticians.

Happy little pig at Thrift Town, near Manchacha and Stassney. When St. Peter judges me at the pearly gates, and he will, I want the record to show that I did not make a Tammy Faye Bakker joke no matter how much it called to me.

This one marks the first time any of the native inhabitants of the Goodwill ecosystem have caught me observing their habitat. Whoops! I was taking pictures of this rare gem from a bunch of different angles, and there was an “ahem” behind me. Really, if I’m going to get into trouble, it should be for something a little more exciting. Anyway. Party juice.

I’m pretty sure that “party juice” is some strange innuendo. If it’s not, I’ve found a recipefor the stuff. I’m actually more interested in the recipe than in the bottle, though the bottle’s pretty darn interesting. The recipe’s ingredients: “a splash of grain alcohol, a splash of fruit juice, and some fruit for garnish.” The directions explain that by “a splash of grain alcohol” they mean “a gallon of everclear.” Which seems a bit…generous…for a splash. I think, after this kind of splash, gluing a bunch of sequins to an empty bottle of…what? Rum? Maple syrup? would seem like a GREAT idea. Frankly, I’m a strong advocate of drunk arts and crafts. Without things that seemed like a good idea after a few “splashes,” I’d actually have to work. No, no. Bring on the party juice.

I love it. It’s what would happen if you gave Captain Morgan puffy paint, glitter-glue, and, of course, a couple of cups of party juice.

“Oh, Captain Morgan, was that your bottle of party juice?”
“Why yes! I covered mine with thin strips of silver sequins, which do quite truly sparkle, and glitter glue, sirrah, is the shytte! But I’m Sir Henry Morgan, and let none be said that I stinge with my party juice. Raise a glass?”
“Oh, just a splash.”
“Good man!” thump. “I’ll get another bottle!”

Goodwill’s Blue Hanger near 183 north. Big brother is watching you.

Call this a little bit of spring cleaning, a few weeks ahead of time. I’ve been collecting these girls for years. It’s time to let them go.

2006 was not a good year, but the years have been MUCH harder to the poor girl on the right. Our friend in yellow looks more like a jowelly Alfred Hitchcock making a walk-on cameo in a tense psychodrama version of “Muppet Babies” than any sort of bonny wee lass…but at least she didn’t suffer the cruel fate of the poor old crone on the right, who shows what years of hard living, chain smoking and too much sun could do to Patricia Routledge.

And then…they kept coming. I saw them leering at me from every shelf, macrocephalic little cabbages limply dragging bags of flowers. Their dresses covered in blisters, or sucker-marks from some horrid octopus hellbent on cleansing DIY ceramics of a terrible blight. This one seems to know something of her fate, of her destiny, and carries her knowledge with a world-weary candor. Or, she got too near the radiator and is starting to rise. One of the two.

This one lost her flowers…but not her pain. Or the weird sucker marks. Poor haggard thing. Would you just pull that bonnet down a little bit? It’s big enough. Yes, completely over the head. That’s good. Now, into the pot with you.

“Then there was a beautiful, beautiful light, and I don’t remember anything after that…have you seen my mommy or daddy? Please? I’m so alone.”

“I brought you this flower…it’s a magical flower that will keep you from running away…like all the others…

Whew. I’m glad to get that off my chest. Some of those things had been staring at me for five years! Thank god. Next week, something stupid with a pig, or a weird skeleton horse. No more big-headed staring little cabbage-headed damsels, I’ve had enough of those for the decade.

Blue-grey flower girl and staring, staring eyes flower girl from Goodwill on 183 and Metric; the others predate any organized record-keeping on my part. Wow. I’ve got to clean house more.

I hope the artist that made this majestic footwear is out there because, really, nice boots. I want to know the person that made these. I kind of want to know if they’re single, because whoever they are, they are magic.

YES! Tattoopunk galoshes, and they’re hot pink! These boots really sing! Lordy, if those notes weren’t actually painted on, they’d be the loudest footwear EVER.

If I owned these, I would not come out of the house unless it was raining. Because 1) I would never take them off, and 2) you wouldn’t want to wear galoshes if it wasn’t raining, that would be silly.

…There are some kinds of inner pain you can only express…through galoshes.. The pain of a broken heart. The loss of a loved one. Not getting the third number on “Powerball.” Daytime TV. These…these are galoshes wounds.

Not sure about that arrow, though. There’s a message here that says “look up. No, keep looking up. My eyes are up here. Actually, my eyes are also on my galoshes, but there may well be another pair three to six feet upward. But I can understand it if you just look at my galoshes. Many do.”

The danger here is that these shoes are so AWESOME that, to properly let the world see their full glory, you’d have to learn to walk on your hands and wave your gloriously-shod feet in the air, which is probably a great workout, but you’d get completely and ridiculously soaked in some unusual places, which would defeat the purpose of raingear.

Or maybe…maybe you just lie back in bed on five yards of red velvet, glass of cognac in one hand, smouldering clove cigarette in the other, and say “Come in…I’m wearing my galoshes.”

Found in the Goodwill on Manchacha and Stassney, and to my eternal regret, I did not buy them :(

Really, your guess is as good as mine. This gem is from “Next to New” on Burnet, a high-end thrift/consignment store which in general has impeccable taste–except for a glaring lack of anything resembling common sense when it comes to their “art” section. Their selection is frequently bizarre and their pricing is whimsical, to say the least. For a few weeks they had a large–like three feet high, two feet wide–panel of what seemed like a piece of gently adhesive spackle, in a gold frame. The weirdest part was they wanted $30 for it. I wouldn’t pay over $20. For this, though, they were only asking $10. Sign me up!

…Hmm…should I salute this? It’s kind of got a stars-and-stripes thing happening. It’s also kind of the side panel of a huge bag of sugar, which…well, there’s no good reason for that. Sometimes I try to get into the mind of the people who commit this kind of artrocity. But I’m at a loss here. Options:

1) “Oh, honey, it’s our first bag of sugar! You should frame this.”
2) “Yeah, I ate that. Ate it, and framed it.”
3) “Yeah, when it fell off the ledge and killed my ex-husband, I knew this was a special bag of sugar.”
4) “Well, you should have seen the one that got away.”
5) “This came to me in a dream. I don’t sleep very often, because of the chemicals. And the sugar.”

(Okay, really, I doget this. After years of trying to winkle the tiniest amount of humor from pretty barren material, someone has clearly said, “Oh, sugar. Ingredients, sugar. That’s funny.” And, yes, it is in its own limited way. But I’m not sure I want to meet the kind of person that would surround it with stars like the Virgin Mary and frame it. I’m guessing the kind of loosy-goosy edges on the crop job is because they only let some people hold safety scissors, and there is the occasional second thought even then.)