This year, I’ve decided the easiest thing to dress up as for Halloween is a Papier–mâché art project. It’s a little conceptual. If someone asks what I am, I’ll say “it’s a work in progress.” And they’ll say “….and?” Then I’ll nod smugly. That’s the plan, anyway. Mostly I’ll just hope it doesn’t rain and my mask doesn’t melt onto my face like some extremely lame super-hero origin.
…a lame superhero with an awesome goatee, I guess. I’m not sure what “look” we’re going for here is, except “fun with hair.” If the mask got up and started scuttling around on its beard as if it was spider legs, I’d only be somewhat surprised. If it started eating the candles a few shelves over, that would just be awesome, and you could charge admission to that.
The overall look–well, it’s humanish, but the beard, the crazy straw moustache, the amazing “styled with an eggbeater” hair, it gives the entire thing a sort of feral, predatory glee. Some of that’s almost certainly the one leopard-print cheek.
Though I would like to take a moment to linger over that hair.
You could use that to catch small birds out of the air and drag them, fluttering and protesting, into your mouth. If you were a free-roaming predatory papier–mâché craft project. Which you probably aren’t. But if you are, have you thought of this as a hunting strategy? We are glad to be of service.
It’s always time for weird surrealistic vistas. Always. I’m not sure what time it actually is, it looks like five minutes until “K.” I spent quite some time trying to figure out which way was “up” on this one. I’m still not sure. I might have photographed the entire thing through a mirror. Or in a dream.
Regardless, this town has a problem with spiders. Very large spiders. And possibly giant, fiery crabs. I don’t want to live here.
Giant fire crabs! Towering over the church in main, the giant firecrab swept one burning claw down like the mighty fist of a sea-god, and shattered the building. The people screamed before the monster and fled. How do you fight a giant fire crab? Would it be immune to the giant steamer the coastal town had bought…just in case? Only time would tell. But there was precious little of it, and the last person to try to adjust the clock had gone mad.
This is why Tim Burton doesn’t design timepieces. It’s as if the moon itself suddenly sprouted a watch face and a sophisticated sense of humor. 15-o’clock? Sure! How about we meet at the mysterious swirling green garden, at the-artist-formarly-known-as-prince past five?
If anybody happens to like this clock as much as I do, here’s a monitor-aspected version.
Skeletal hands wrapped in eldritch runes have failed to banish the giant surrealist spider menace. All hope lost.
Taken out of context, this almost looks peaceful. You’d hardly know the town was draped in thick black webbing and slave to mad clocks and giant flaming crabs. This is probably the side with the better property values. Most people that could afford to move out of the giant flaming crab suburb moved East years ago.
Mask from Texas Thrift on I35 on the north side of San Antonio. Strange clock and spiderwebs from Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin.