Oh, but we had a special day in late June. Some nice person had unloaded something like a dozen of finger-painted, crazy-coat ceramic masterpieces on the 2222 Goodwill. Each of them was a special flower. But some of them…some of them were just specialer.

Take Cujo here.

It’s like the titular character from Blue’s Clues finally gave up on teaching kids to count and solve simple problems, and went forth to end it all in a storm of blood and glory. Obviously, Nickelodean is a much edgier network than I ever gave them credit for.

Say hello, Blue!

…good…dog.

Aaand, Blue has a friend! A cousin, maybe even, in that uniquely DIY ceramic sense of the word, a brother. Or a sister. Or whatever strange gender arrangements they practice on a planet populated entirely by blood-spattered canines with glowing blue eyes.

Gaze upon it with care. The last person to meet the creature’s eyes is now distributed in small piles across the back yard.

Really, my day would have been made with just the wonder twins there, but it only got weirder.

If you took a frog, and threw him, as hard as you could, at Jackson Pollack when he was painting, this is what you’d get. That, and a confusing series of dots and splatters with a frog-shaped smudge halfway down the canvas, and a really pissed-off abstract-expressionist. But the frog? He doesn’t mind. He’s mellow, at peace. He would like a chance to wash the black paint off his face generally and out of his eyes in particular, but he’s easy, whatever.

But these creatures were mere stepping stones, guardians on the path, to the thing that was waiting at the end of the aisle.

Because combat boots with THAT dress is clearly the sign of a mind far past the madness horizon and accelerating.

In honor of the new “Smurfs” movie, and what a great honor it is, we proudly present…whatever the hell these things are.

Which are probably smurfs. Or at least “inspired by” smurfs, in the sort of loose, Hollywood sense of “inspired by” which gave us “The Cat and the Hat: The Movie: The Video Game.” Oh, and what pseudosmurfs these are! Distorted by a ham-fisted sculptor and the terror of the Peyo Estate’s mighty army of copyright lawyers, these poor little blue guys are weird, must un-smurfy mutations of their original selves. I think I’ll call them Smiirfs, to distinguish them from a childhood memory I still have some love for.

The poor guy on the left has had it the worst. They stole his knees. THEY STOLE HIS KNEES!! The ubiquitous smurf tight-fitting speedo briefs, rather than being the sexy figure-hugging weapon of seduction that they are, now become something more like a diaper wrapped around some sort of overweight fungus in an ageplay-mycophilia smashup so unpleasant there isn’t a fetish group about it, even in Japan.

And yet, he’s still happy. Thumbs up, squashed, bloated blue truffle thing. Go put on some clothes now. You’re past your smurfkini days, sir. Plus, your chain is clashing with your mascara, we can’t have that.

Then there’s Papa Smiirf.

Who’s in a commanding, “Paul Bunyan” sort of pose, and has graduated from the smurfkini to some sort of smurfy red overalls. But there’s something wrong, so wrong, with his head. it’s about as head-shaped as an ice cream cone, a weird blue wedge suggesting a container from which smurf-type products, like smurfpaste and Preparation S, can be squeezed. Just get a grip on him and remove the red cap.

We are officially creeped out by his plumage, facial and otherwise. The beard is very strange–more like a thin paste spread evenly over his neck and chin, maybe to baste on some flavor, maybe he just wants a shave (just don’t touch the chest, it’s 70′s night at Studio 54.)

Oh…and call Boris Karloff. Someone’s stolen his hair.

Goodwill on Metric and 183, and they were there for WEEKS.

Here’s the sad, sad story of the cats at the lav.

When I saw this picture, I HAD to have it. It had drama. It had joy, it had anger. It had kilts. But mostly, it had cat people who really had to pee, and that, friends, is art.

As it happens, my mother lives about a block from a huge thrift store. In fact, it’s probably the only reason she ever sees me, that and when she has to post bail. And this…masterpiece…was on glorious display at that store for about two months.

If you’re anything like me, you’re saying, “It’s so beautiful.” And you are RIGHT. Images of a far-away land, a land with anthropomorphic cats, and a urinal in every driveway. I’m sure the owner of the bijou little restaurant under the stripy pavilion might prefer that the urinal was not in his or her driveway, but these things happen. A land with very, very tiny cars, cars so small that rather than instead of driving them, the cat-people sit on top of them and steer them with their toes.

And yet, the $30 pricetag seemed a little on the batshit crazy side, so I said…no.

And then, there was the Thanksgiving sale. The entire store, 1/3 off. “Oh mother,” I said, “I have been ever such a good boy this year, and if Santa Claus happened to pop by Thrift Town during the Thanksgiving Madness sale and buy me the picture of the cats peeing, I would be so very pleased.”

Christmas came, but this year was, obviously, the Christmas that Santa forgot. But at least I have memories. And magnification x10 photos.

So, I can handle outdoor urinals, sure, that’s fine. But I can’t handle that part of this tradition is that the next person in line gets to stare at you over the door. That seems a little invasive somehow. “Are you finished?” “I don’t know, you tell me.”

Am I misinterpreting? Probably. Hey, is that a mouse at the left? I bet she’s going to be finding a different stall.

I love the stall artwork. Sort of a “The great cavorting blond goddess Shirley Temple mocks the pathetic, full-bladdered catlings” thing.

“Dark master Cat-Satan says, ‘Did YOU bring exact change?’” The mouse, his strange court jester, nods frantically, lest she be devoured. It does no good, Cat-Satan devours all…but he devours mice first.

But really, it’s all about this. This is the rascal dog tugging at his master’s bikini, this is the “two bits” after the shave and a haircut.

He might want to see a doctor about that, though, that’s not a healthy color, and I’m not sure what to make about the naked fleshy legs. Cats shouldn’t shave their legs. He’s too young for such vanity.

Thrift Town near Stassney and Manchacha, and mom’s house, Austin

Late night, in  the thrift store, they tell stories–stories like the headless horseman, or like the headless horse, or the headless, armless football player, who was technically a headless armless football-less football player, and might have actually been playing a different game entirely.

Sometimes, they say, if you listen real close, you can still hear them being marked down.

But no story is told with the same amount of shiver, the same don’t-look-over-your-shoulder dread, as the story of the weeping scarecrow of Aisle 13.

Do what the bear does.  Keep your head down, find something else to do, move slowly away, and if at all possible, avoid eye contact.

I’m not sure if she’s a doll, a decoration, or a public service announcement promoting compassion for paraplegics. I’m leaning toward the latter. She’s got that “brother can you spare an arm?” look that I haven’t seen since the ill-fated multiple-amputee walkathon. Which, admittedly, seemed like a pretty good idea on paper, but the hilly San Francisco district was not the best choice, and these things are all about location.

I really want to talk to the artist about “artistic vision.” Why the tear-filled, sorrowful expression? Is she pining for the hug, the words, the nursery magic that would one day make her into a real frizzy-haired, moon-faced, ham-armed tragedy? Because if so, this entire project is just ill-thought-out. I don’t know, it just looks like she’s trying to make me feel guilty for something I did. Like I accidentally misplaced her arms and replaced them with sacks of flour. Like she’s accusing the world. The world needs to tell her “no, we didn’t do it, and we don’t know where your arms are. Please go away now.” Take a stand, people!

 
Texas Thrift on 51st and I35, Austin