The bluebird of happiness has clearly flown past this poor girl. She’s left with the canary of structural instability, or possibly the finch of lassitude. But as April fades into May and May fades into six months of hellish summer in the South, I think we all feel a bit this way. We all feel a bit melted.

We’re clearly having one of those days where we feel more like a partially-set custard than a human. This is a good Monday statuette.

Lordy, the poor thing’s nose is starting to recede. I hope that doesn’t happen to me when I get older, life’s complicated enough. And I also hope I’m never desperate enough for hair color that I use a yellow highlighter to, well, add some highlights. It’s unattractive. But it does break the otherwise unrelenting brown monotony this individual brings to the table.

On closer inspection, though, not a canary. It may be a pet rock, or possibly a groundhog. It may be a small imp composed of fat which is siphoning away her life energy, which would explain her gentle, graceful collapse, and might even get us a bit closer to the answer of “why do her eyes spin in opposite directions like a chameleon?” Why, because of the fat-demon. Silly question, really.

Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin

Except of course I’m paid by the word, and I work HARD for my $.57/week.  I can only speculate that the sculptor’s intent was to show how excited the AIBO was to see its master coming home from school. And, in a sense, mission achieved, assuming you meant definition #3 of “excited.”

The boy, however, really doesn’t care. Despite the astonishing duplication of a dog’s behavior being exhibited by a machine (and I’m a little surprised they programmed in that particular behavior, but, hey, different strokes for different folks,) he really doesn’t care. This is the face of a deeply unimpressed child, one who’s leg is routinely violated by a robot dog every day after school. Must be hell on the fabric.

Though the posture is not indifference. The posture is religious ecstasy, as of St. Clare of Assisi bathed in celestial light as JHVH-1 says, “Pretty good job this week. Next week, a little less pious suffering, a little more humble servant, and I think you’ll have it.” Which, on the whole, clashes with being molested by an electric dog, but this being cheap resin sculpture imported from the Guangdong province, they probably already had the mold ready and just pasted on a backpack and baseball cap. And of course, the robot dog. No forgetting that.

Inappropriate behavior, Sparky. Don’t make me hit you with a rolled up “Huffington Post” column.

Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin

Because lord knows, babies hate to miss “pooh week.” They’re really all about pooh. He’s even wearing the team colors.

This assumes the team colors are jarring red, cheerful yellow, and “gently used spaghetti-os” brown, and that Pooh would have some of that action leaking down his chin. I’m willing to make this assumption, though, because the poor little guy’s obviously having a bad day. I’m not sure if I meant the baby or Pooh, though. The baby doesn’t seem to be having a bad day, he’s clearly crushed his enemies under his mighty, flannel-wrapped bottom, and that MUST make anyone’s day a little better. Perhaps that’s a scowl of rage, determination, and triumph. It only looks like gas.

All babies look a little like Winston Churchill. This one looks like Winston Churchill just ate a caterpillar, and then learned that he was severely allergic to lepidoptera in all their many and splendid forms, and had about three hours left to live. And badly needed a diaper change. Do I waste ten precious, precious minutes on clean nappies? Or do I give that impassioned and history-changing speech at Parliament? These are the times that try baby’s souls.

 Goodwill on Parmer and I35, Austin

I love how terrified infants look exactly like a walk-on cameo from Alfred Hitchcock’s House of the Young. Particularly if Hitchcock dressed in an adorable little pink number with a high Empire waist. No-one can look shocked, indeed fatally affronted, like a 60-year-old Southern woman or a baby. Or Hitchcock…but.

But something is obviously terrifying this little girl. What is it? What could possibly so disturb an infant that she won’t sit still for an “adorable baby” photo besides, of course, loud noises, soft noises, sudden shifts in the Dow-Jones index, the photographer, or Wednesdays?

Holy shit. It’s Easter.

For the love of god, little girl! Wiggle! Wiggle like you’ve never wiggled before! Easter’s cresting the pillow and there’s murder–or chocolate eggs–in its eyes!

I actually walked right by this until my partner said “you know, you missed the Easter bunny about to eat a little girl in the art bin.” And, yeah, there she was, and there Easter was. Frankly, I feel this way about any major holiday. Thanksgiving, in particular, likes to wait until you’re in a state of false security before leaping–”You thought I was celebrated on the weekend, didn’t you?!?”

So parents: keep your children away from stealthy rainbow bunnies this Easter–or you’ll be paying for therapy 15 years later.

Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin

Jog to the world, and all that! It’s time to clean house, take down the lights, and get to the crucial business of 2012!

I think I’ve mentioned this before, but I have a weak spot for Balthazar. Traditionally, since he’s from Africa, he’s the only black member of the nativity. And therefore, the only one that I can put a name to.

So, I like it when he dresses up a bit.

Yes, this particular Balthazaar has weird little chicken feet, or possibly stiletto heels, and possibly has a parrot balancing precariously on top of his head, but he is, self-evidently, fabulous.

Not everybody can wear Aqua, red, purple, gold, and a parrot and have it come off right. But as a Wise Man, Balthazaar has clearly had special training in fashion, or watched a LOT of “Queer Eye for the Magi.” “Frankincense, darling. It’s the gift of AD1. You want to avoid regifts? Give frankincense. Not as tawdry and showy as gold, and myrrh is strictly for funerals.”

“Does this nativity scene have valet parking? Because you don’t want this elephant standing on the curb unless one of the shepherds brought a push-broom.”

Sticking with the “probably gay Balthazaar” just a bit longer–

Not only does this one seem a bit swishy, and it’s probably just the pink lining of the robe that does it…wherefore the pink feet? He looks a little puzzled by them too. Maybe Melchoir or Caspar wandered off with his body and he had to get a replacement, and they didn’t have it in his color…which is really, really dark. “Don’t judge me because someone painted my head after the fact. I’m still a magi. Aren’t we all magi, really?”

“It’s the most beautiful candy cane in the world, Santa.”

“But I was really hoping to have eyes for Christmas.”

Mrs. Claus, tired of being a Christmas Eve Widow for the last 2000 years, finally had Santa’s head scooped out, lined with holly, and turned into a decorative bowl. Frankly, looking at Santa, I’m not sure it was that big a change, he may have been mostly stuffed with holly anyway.

And now, getting ready to finally put Christmas behind us, we wrap it up with the big musical number:

All of Jesus’s friends turned up for his 15th birthday. The Magi were a bit surprised, but they’d learned not to judge a long time ago. Really, with that absentee father and all those crazy high expectations, and having been literally born in a barn, they were glad he turned out as normally as he did.

Happy new year, and thank you all for a lovely 2011!

Nativity Quinceañera from Goodwill near Stassney and Manchaca, Holly Cup from Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Giant Cane Angel from Savers on South Lamar, Fey Balthazaar from Goodwill on Metric and 183, Mismatched Balthazaar from Goodwill near Anderson Mill and 183.

Yet another Christmas decapitation. This is probably a DIRECT consequence of having the entire Yuletide police force made out of elves.

Friends don’t let friends be resin-cast. When you get into a car this Christmas, make sure you’re ceramic.

“Giant festive cookie-man” is actually a new category for me. I don’t think I’ll set up a tag for it, as this is the first one to grace my pages. But I think it’s highlighted my single biggest holiday regret this year:

I regret that I don’t travel with a fistful of fresh double-A batteries, because whatever little dance this fellow does, it would have been absolute magic on toast.

I’m thinking this next one is only funny in my head.

In part, it’s funny because I have never seen such a perfect, minimalist expression of a garden gnome. It transcends concerns of form and representation and goes straight to the essential gnomishness of the thing, the quiddity of lawn art, the basic gnomon.

But mostly it’s funny because I found a second-hand pyrex butt plug in this section once, and I’m having flashbacks. I don’t think the application that springs to mind was covered in “101 uses for a gnome.” Nor should it have been.

This shot represents one of a vast panorama of tiny figurines that magically appeared one morning at the Goodwill on Parmer. I took photos of all of them, but can’t for the life of me remember why, it seemed funny at the time…this one, though, seemed like a keeper.

“Forensic analysis showed the victim to be a blond girl, possibly in her early teens, possibly younger. A detailed examination showed no evidence of Hummel collectability. The press has already listed her as another victim of the snow-angel killer.”

Does YOUR Santa have a…problem moustache?

If your answer is “Yes,” or “God Yes,” consider having all his facial hair replaced with a thick layer of caulking! It’s durable, washable, and best of all, no cookie crumbs!

Once in a while, Santa likes to escape from Mrs. Claus, go up to the northern lakes in Canada, take the fishing pole, and go a little feral. It’s in his nature. He comes back home with a half-pound of bracken stuck in his hair and smelling of caribou, but once he gets that out of his system, it’s back to the toymill.

…on the matter of elf rights. A lot of people say Santa’s abusing the elves, that he uses his status and reputation to get away with something that’s nearly slavery, paying his workers with no more than a fistful of cranberries and maybe some hot chocolate in return for over 64,200 tons of toys every year. And there’s some truth in that. But, really, have you ever actually looked at an elf?

Seriously, better that they stay at the north pole and as far away from civilization as possible. Anything that voluntarily wears those booties is NOT fit for life outside Santa’s Workshop.

Angel decapitation and “Death in the Snow” from Goodwill near Parmer and I35, Giant Festive Cookie Man from Savers on South Lamar, Insertable glass gnome and Frizzy Santa from Goodwill on 183 and Metric, Creepy Elf turned up on January 8 at the Goodwill on 2222. Seriously, January 8. Like I had a camera with me that day. Stupid elves.

The dangers of a heavily-seriffed font in the wrong hands! Let that be a warning. Or, maybe you WANTED to have a merth Christmas. To each their own, I suppose.

Santa and his impossibly narrow reindeer were part of a set of pencil-thin Christmas decorations–I don’t really have a better word than decorations. Sadly, both of them had been beaten down for their one salvageable part–their light bulb noses.

I don’t know why Santa had a light-bulb nose, unless he’s really been hitting the Christmas sherry. Actually, that, and then taking a sleigh ride through the sky at something like twice the speed of sound, would probably do it, so far as red noses go. Who needs Rudolph?

Don’t they make a cute pair? And Santa’s sporting some fine boots there! Those aren’t just platform shoes, they’re actual planks. I still think a good firm gust of wind would knock ‘em both down. Reindeers are notorious lightweights. On the plus side, Santa’s diet’s really paying off this year!

It’s a Precious Moments recursive nativity scene. If you can’t tell, the angel next to Jesus in the center is giving the baby Jesus a “my first nativity” set, still in box. You can actually open the box, too. But you probably shouldn’t, because fractal nativities really exist better in a potential state than an actualized one.

Clausbot 2.o is both modular and storeable. Each unit of Clausbot, which is over 50 feet tall and fully able to crush a forest of conifers and a small cottage, fits inside itself using our EZ-stack technology–well, except for his massive tank-tread base, we really don’t have a crate big enough for that. We assume this functionality will be useful in some alternate dimension where giant, military-grade Santas need convenient storage.

This is a somewhat “South Park” interpretation of Mrs. Claus, an obese monstrosity made of cut-outs, drifting and settling over a small city like a cloud of festive, gingerbread-scented nuclear fallout. She also really needs more vitamin C in her diet. I don’t like to think of Mrs. Claus as suffering from scurvy.

She seems to be built to grace the corner of a door or shelf or something, some sort of wooden ornament overhang thing. Like some lurking Christmas spider clinging to the wall, waiting to drop unexpectedly on the heads of the naughty. No thank you, Mrs. Claus! We’ll take our chances with Santa.

Um…Santa?

Santa creeps catlike through the snow, crouching catlike, waiting to strike. There’s a flash of movement, a blur of beard and red velvet, and then the sickening smell of torn elf and lightly-used eggnog. Santa…Santa feeds.

Another Santa that’s showing the ill effects of 1.3 million too many sherries as he flew over England this year. I want to be the kid at the end of his route, when he’s nicely sloshed and twice as jolly. “Idn’t care iff he’s naughty or nice. Fill it up. Just jam all kinds of stuff in there. Heeey, give him one of th’reindeer. Kids love reindeer.”

Unless Santa’s an angry drunk. I’m pretty sure the poem called him a “right jolly old lush,” but they could be sugar-coating things for the kids. Best to stay in your room if you hear anything downstairs on Christmas. Particularly a crash, the sound of broken ornaments, and swearing.

Where was I going with this? Oh, yeah, penguins.

Wait for it, wait for it, he’s near the hole…he doesn’t know that I’m Santa…okay, now! *bonk*

Well, Santa’s gotta eat, too. Though he shouldn’t have to travel to the South pole for dinner. I’m pretty sure the Russians fly Santa up a shipment of penguins every few months, just to make him a little  freer with the “nices.”

“Merth Christmas” pair from Goodwill near Goodwill Computers, 183 and I35. Recursive Nativity from Goodwill on Stassney and Manchacha, which, alas, closed recently (it moved a few miles away). Boxy Claus and Santa and the Penguin from Goodwill on 2222, wretched green-faced Mrs. Claus from Savers at South Lamar, weirdly kittenish Santa from Savers on North Loop and Burnet.

New Year’s Day, and we’ve finally gotten the dogs to come out from underneath the sofa. Hope everybody had their requisite amounts of pyrotechnics, champagne, and black-eyed peas last night! Or at least one out of three.  This little guy’s clearly had his fill of consumer-grade explosives for the year.

This WAS in the Christmas section. I feel confident that, somewhere, giving a waif a mid-sized explosive on the end of a string is traditional, though my google-fu is failing me on what culture might celebrate the solstice in this manner. He…he looks shocked.

“It’s okay, boy,” the nutcracker said, a not-altogether-unwarm hand on his shoulder. “Your first one’s always a little startling. Next Christmas, you’ll be a pro.”

Cake decorations? Flowers? Publicity still from the new Broadway production of “Priscilla, Queen of the Desert?”

I’m not ruling out “Priscilla,” but I’m still a bit lost on the actual-factual. I’m operating under the assumption that this is Christmas fare,  sort of a “three kings” riff, but the weirdly-placed regional pride is not helping me here.

Bueller? Bueller? I did some double-checking, and the flag is the flag of Puerto Rico. The hats, though, are not as far as I know the hats of Puerto Rico, unless Puerto Rico has an unusually high fabulosity level. Something, somewhere, is clearly lost in translation.

“And lo, there came three wise men from the East, bearing gifts of frankincense, and snails, and calla lilies. But just their heads came, that’s how wise they were, and Jesus wept.”

Angel, or bird? Which has the tiniest brain capacity? My bet’s on the bird. Did you know if you hold your ear up to an angel’s head, you can hear the ocean? It looks like both of them are going to break out into cheerful whistling noises any second.

“Did you invite him?”
“No…uh…I’ve never heard of him. But I think he brought better gifts. At least, better than myrrh.”
“Generally toys go over better at a baby’s first Christmas than funerary balms.”
“He only brought dolls. They’re kind of girly, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, but it’s still not myrrh.”

“I never got a doll…”

“I sold my hair to buy him a chain for his wristwatch, but by then, he’d already lost his hand in a bar bet. So…pretty typical Christmas, all told.”

Creepy little guy…”Would you like my other hand for Christmas? It’s yours, just say the word. My hand, your stocking. That…that should have sounded better than it did.”

This Christmas..
for the people you love…
give the gift of springs.

Boiiiiing!!!!

Boom! from Junior League of Austin on Burnet and 49th, enigmatic magi from Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, horrible vacant angel from Savers on South Lamar, “Boiing” and “How’d he get here?” from Goodwill on 183 and Metric, and distressing angel in blue from Salvation Army on 1325 in Round Rock.

Pity the man made entirely of fruitcake. Is it the bigger tragedy that he might be eaten, or that no-one will eat him?

I wonder if there’s a series of these, little dudes dressed up like all the major Christmas treats. Like Ciderman (a bit like the Kool-Aid Man, though instead of bursting through your wall and yelling “OH YEAH!!!” he knocks politely at the front door, then sings anachronistic songs about wanting a drink, and figgy pudding. Though, as we’ve established, no-one wants figgy pudding.) Or maybe there’s Mince Pie Guy, though the thought of that makes me a little ill. Mince Pie Guy and Fruitcake Man don’t sound like the most masculine pair. On the other hand, with those tights, we’re really not out to prove anything to the world at large.

Is this what happened after William Tell’s son and the thing with shooting an arrow off his head? Like it became some sort of strange fetish, where he wore ever more outlandish costumes, balanced fruit on his head, and demanded to be almost shot? I’d better ask Dan Savage, he’d know.

So, if you’re anything like me, you’ve probably stayed up at night for hours, wondering what would happen if Santa Claus and Rasputin, the Mad Monk of Russia, had a child. Maybe you’ve even written fanfic about it. Or maybe I’ve said too much. Anyway, wonder no longer–if, indeed, you were wondering.

I like the blood-wax candle with the red flame. Just in case the blind, dead eyes weren’t creepy enough.

Okay, not only is this particular Santa clearly a Russian zombie, he’s also wearing a robe made of meat, and the totally achromatic bundle of gifts on his back suggest that, besides eating kids’ brains, he’s going to take all the color out of Happytown. I can’t get behind this Santa. Though that would probably be better than being in FRONT of this Santa.

Another one from the “Kids…we’re not going to sit on Santa’s lap this year” files, comes Santa the Strung-Out Folk Singer. No child I have the smallest amount of authority over will sit on this Santa’s lap.

Although I might.

Many of you might not have been aware that, among Santa’s many skills, he’s a talented mandolin player. You probably don’t want to know what he uses those skills for. Kids today, so innocent, so eager to fall under the sway of a folk musician.

That…that is one strung out Santa.  You can almost hear him singing. “Look out little Nestor, you’ve got ears that reach the ground…” I don’t know what Santa’s been taking. Probably the same stuff all those elves are on.

On the count of three, scream it…one, two, SANTAAAAAAAA!

Enough of that singie happy hippy folk music BS, this Santa is out to kick some naughty ass and bring a world of hurt to ANYONE who doesn’t believe in him. Maybe you missed the part of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” where Santa tears off his shirt and beats a few heads with his wreath shield. It’s in there somewhere. Right after “He’s making a list and checking it twice, laying out hurt for the kids who aren’t nice.”

Still with the creepy eyes, though. Santa really needs to get to an ophthalmologist.

…You know, you’d think she would have learned.

Really, after the grackles took her LAST hand, she’d be a little less trusting, but no, you can’t teach an angel anything.

Unless, of course, you’re trying to teach an angel how to lay someone flat with a roundhouse punch, like “The Million Dollar Angel.” That, they’re all about learning. Angels will seriously mess you up in a fight. Don’t let the jingling fool you, those fists are full of pain. And jingles.

I have this strange feeling that these two angels are going to start invoking Mothra, like, any second now. It happens all the time.

The sound effect, which you can’t hear, is something like “pbfblfbth.” Or, possibly, the Mothra song. I don’t know.

And this poor girl appears to be endlessly beating her hand against a small cake. Apparently, both of them were deeply traumatized by having straw hair, but the more strong-willed of the two, and sought to fill the hole inside her with a small wooden spool. I’m glad she’s happy. We should all be so lucky.

Aaand then back to horrible, staring Santa. Oh Santa of beatings yet to come, I fear you most of all.

Is that a sap? Seriously, is it? Either he’s got a leather club or a turkey drumstick. And given the stitchmarks, I’m guessing the former.

Thump. “Another one into the sack for Santa! Ho ho ho!”

It’s a Dadaist Christmas–Santa shuffles around with only half a foot, menacing children with a club. The nice ones get to escape. The naughty ones…into the sack. The kind of so-so inbetween ones, they get individually-wrapped rectangular prisms, and go to sleep kind of relieved, kind of puzzled. Then there’s a musical number involving dancing representations of Quaternion numbers and hope.

Mr. Plum Pudding from Goodwill near 620 and 183. and scary blood-santa at the Salvation Army next door, on the same day in May no less. Creepy kohl-eyed bard Santa from the Savers on South Lamar, Santa of WAAAAR and straw angels from Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, and scary shuffling Santa from Goodwill on 183 and Metric.

None of these are really worth an entire post, so I’ll just throw in a few captions and call it a day…

“Neither rain, nor sleet, nor snow, nor hail could stop the daily mail–but nobody was expecting Rex and Sparky’s rutherfordium-powered particle cannon.”

“After we discovered Dr. Hfuhruhurr‘s new book on screw-top, zip-lock child care, little Timmy’s been sooo much quieter.”

…really, it’s just as well that Batman could never find a nice girl, settle down, and have a kid.

The poor little thing’s therapy bills would be through the roof. Though I’m not sure any therapists answer Bruce Wayne’s phonecalls anymore…

Dog lamp from Savers on Burnet and North Loop; acerebrated toddler cup from Savers on South Lamar and 290; beeboy from Goodwill on Metric and 183, Austin