I don’t know, this seems like enabling behavior. If your delightful little child is so terribly round, so perfectly ovoid that she has lost the ability to use her legs, and has to be perambulated about in a basket, you probably shouldn’t encourage that.

“Georgette…I’m sorry, oh so sorry, but we went down to the Winn-Dixie, and they didn’t have any more dresses in your size. So we made you this out of a tablecloth. But a real pretty tablecloth. Do you like it?”

“Mu huh hah hah. Pi cho manji ko manki do chalo Han Solo tho ku ba le chale. Hah hah.”

“That seems broadly positive…”

Or maybe it’s a new product from Kentucky Fried Chicken? The Rosy-Cheeked Blonde Family Basket? Each one comes with a side of biscuits and gravy, and a family-sized cole slaw. Also comes with a crow-bar to lever her out of there. That’s the hard part.

…I feel safe in this basket. Serene and at peace. In this basket, the world is small, and within it, I am small–Ooh! It’s the Burger Barn!

Aaanyway…

Savers on South Lamar, which has been an endless bastion of perfectly round life forms, for some reason.

Bears are kind of the “Stairway to Heaven” of the craft world. Everybody tries it once, and there’s a big sign over the craft department at Wal-Mart that says “No Bears.” Which is insincere because they also have bear-making kits.

For the record, I’m like 90% confident that neither of these bears came from a kit. Because someone would have had to greenlight that kit, and I can’t imagine what busy craft department executive would throw himself under the bus like that.

Welcome! Pay no attention to that bear on your hat. It just wants you to know that you are welcome. So very welcome. And if you brought your friends in, they would also be welcome. Ignore the bears hanging from the ceiling…they’re just here to welcome you, too. It’s been a long time since we’ve welcomed anyone, and we’re oh so very lonely.

This really is a portrait in blond. The ribbons are little golden wisps, the bear has long gold hair–the BEAR, which strangely merges Goldilocks and the poor ursine family she practiced her breaking and entering skillz on. Now, add some pink, and you’ve got a hat fit for the most Shirley Templelest little tow-headed cherub that ever sat in a field of tossing daisies. The addition of the “welcome” sign…and the bear…does somewhat mar the effect. I don’t think hanging a “welcome” sign on an aspiring Heather O’Rourke or Abigail Breslin is appropriate. It might attract Disney merchandising teams.

Good lord. I’ve had this thing lurking in my photo bin since 2007, and never really looked at it. What the heck is it? Is this some sort of mascot from an alternate-universe Japanese Olympic games, which, all things considered, isn’t that big of a stretch. It’s a huge improvement over the current options.

Either we’re dealing with some sort of weird seal-bear-wombat hybrid, or it’s standing in a salad bowl. There’s a certain “teletubbies” element here, but the ‘Tubbies never had that manic, “love me! LOVE ME!!!” grin on their faces–from what I remember, they wore faces of bland passivity, the only expression allowed by their dreadful sun-god. This guy–this guy looks like he’s about to pounce.

And even knowing what the critter is–which, really, I do NOT–doesn’t change the fact that I have no idea what this artifact is. It’s not a purse, purses aren’t ceramic. It’s not a bank or a vase, those are both things you can put something in. No, this is a clay pouch, sealed, with a carrying strap, or a hanging-cord, or something of that dangly sort of nature. Without any context, I can only assume that it’s a ceremonial urn to contain and shield us from the dreaded seal-bear-wombat god of love, stars, and hoodies, trapped within this clay prison since time immemorial, the dread image traced with a mixture of paints and blood as a warning to all those who would find it on the third shelf of “Housewares.”

Terrible Bear Hat from Goodwill on Metric and 183. Enigmatic ceramic bear-purse from Savers on South Lamar and 290.

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

Please stand and say the pledge of allegiance to the shirt.

I have to assume this was yanked off some poor teacher. Oh how she must have struggled. “No! NO! It’s educational!” It was probably freaking out the third graders–the way Mrs. Klapham had Uncle Sam staring at them from over each boob, his tangled beard covering her ample breast in a cascade of wool. Setting up weird associations between Americana, Santa Claus, and mammaries that would, later, send many of them to a marriage therapist when their partners refused to wear the “lady liberty” to bed.

You have to side with the Parent Teacher Association on this one though. Really, there’s such a thing as too much weirdly-placed patriotism. This one was worse than the “Old Glory” sarong.

Not that I’m really a part of that particular subculture, because they never hold late-night, throbbing-techno dances in “Salvation Army,” and if they would I would be there in a heartbeat, but this doesn’t really speak “rave” to me.

But, there you go. As the raver generation ages and buys minivans, this…THIS is what you get. Dreadful.

…and bunnies. USA and bunnies. If there was an angel of America, yeah, she’d have that hair. She’d have bag-lady hair, and a D-ring suspension point embedded in her chest, because she’d be totally pro-bondage and anti-conditioner. But she’d have a soft spot for cute, fluffy things. And nice hips, but no feet. Because that would symbolize…something. Probably victory. Or determination. Or shopping. I don’t know, one of those.

Hi, George!

Awesome pants, by the way! I can see you’ve got your entire life wrapped up in this one iconic image. You’re probably holding the Declaration of Independence, there. And an apple, because you discovered gravity. I didn’t know that, but it was on Wikipedia. I’m not sure about the leg-warmers, though they’re a very forward-looking fashion statement, and would have been a great boon when crossing the Patomac. Maybe this is actually BOY George, but I don’t think he’d be caught dead in a dusty blue muumuu. And the make-up’s a little too subdued.

If there’s anything more patriotic than a furry holding a lot of fruit, I am not currently aware of it. Those are truly awesome pants. Not everybody could pull those off. Most people wouldn’t try, I’m guessing. I’m not sure about the hat, though. Maybe you should give that to George, he needs a little more color in his life.

Uncle Sam Rave Shirt from Salvation Army on South Congress near Ben White; American Angel-Peg from Goodwill on 183 near 620; “George” and Patriot Bear from Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar. Happy 4th, y’all!

Angels! They come in swarms of thousands around Christmas, drifting in clumps through card shops, idling in Wal-Mart like flocks of chickens, and, of course, hanging out on the most celestial shelves in Goodwill. I’ve seen more headless Santas than any one man should, but there’s something whimsically tragic about a maimed angel that never ceases to make me smile.

Particularly when they start getting into weird Christmas fetish behavior.

I have never, ever seen an angel with pierced nipples before. But I have to say, she completely made my day when I did. That sweet, innocent little face, you’d never imagine that she’d be combining gingham and bondage in one celestial package. “Hi! My name is Beatrice! When I’m not baking cupcakes for disadvantaged children or reorganizing my embroidery floss, I like to go down to The Chain Gang wearing nothing but a star and a smile! Oh, and this cute little bow that I made to go with my favorite skirt, but if black goes well with everything, it’ll go well with pain and 40-gauge wire.”

Ouch.

The back of this one says “Merry Christmas for a Wonderful Friend, for Stephanie from Paula and Harold.” One wonders about their relationship. If it involved angel bondage, I think I want to know more about their church social club.

Who thought this was a good idea? Really. When does gluing sequins add to the majesty and grandeur of…anything? If you were trying to recreate that somewhat unsettling final Liberace Christmas Special, maybe you’re on your way there, but giving an angel glittery, 80s-style wrist and headbands is not a value-add. Yes, they were naked and creepy before, but you’re just calling attention to the fact. Next, you’re going to give them to a friend, and there we have to stop you, because this is the fast track to friendlessness. Signed, your holiday common sense consultant.

Yes, the terrible angel plague of aught-three had claimed her eye, most of her face, and her right wing, but she just kept strumming!

I like this girl. Something about her suffering has given her a wry, knowing glance that’s a step above the average angel–on the whole, a vacuous breed given to vague, wistful stares. She’s just about to write a satirical ballad, and is trying to figure out what rhymes with “Gethsemane”.

Angel? Choirboy? Bowling pin? Therapeutic medical device? You be the judge.

I don’t know what this is, but it was definitely in the Christmas section, so you get to deal with it now. The thick, avuncular eyebrows and “two pints of stout” cheeks really put me more in the mind of “Norm from Cheers” than a member of a chorus, either heavenly or earthly.

The little snowman on the coffee mug I hadn’t noticed before. Someone should spray for those.

It’s Edvard Munch’s “The Angel.” He? She? It? Does not seem to be at all happy about being slowly strangled by vines, and having a messiah-like crown of thorns (okay, crown of weeds, which is much less hardcore) stuck to its bald, bald head. I’m thinking this isn’t so much a pretty little angel, but rather some sort of sick, ritualistic play, like a sequel to the movie “Se7en” where Kevin Spacey’s character tortures people to death going through the entire year of holidays, and let me tell you, the Guy Fawkes Day scene was both chilling and a spectacular pyrotechnic display. “We’ve found the victim. He’s bolted rusty wings to her and wrapped her in straw. I have no idea what this means…but there’s a note…oh god, it says ‘Merry Christmas’ on it. What’s next, Epiphany? I can’t handle this holiday madness anymore, it’s got to stop!!!”

…So, Heaven. After 10 years of church, I’ve heard a lot of good things about the music up there. The music of the spheres is well-regarded, the heavenly cantillating of “Hosanna” is supposed to be very good, they’ve practiced it enough. However, little is said about the musical accompaniment, the background score to the Laudate Domino, and frankly I’m a little appalled. If this is Heaven, I’m going to Newark.

Welcome to Hell. Here’s you’re accordion.

Oh, this is a brilliant, well-thought-out plan. Martha Stewart would almost certainly say “No, no, that’s a bad thing.”

So, once in a while, apparently, you just have to craft. It’s gotta happen. Maybe you haven’t crafted in a few weeks or something, see a necktie, and before you know it, you’ve turned it into a mop-headed angel clasping its arms together. But there’s got to be a better way. This is the poster-child for craft abstinence.

There are good things to be said about recycling, but this poor thing looks like it was taken off the neck of that fat, fat guy that smells of very cheap tobacco, and then made into an angel while he was struggling to get it back. It’s got that special discoloration of motel furniture. The saddest thing about that is that there weren’t 20 of them lined up together in a dreadful, faceless choir. That would have been pure necktie magic.

Fear not, for I have been sent by Our Lady of the Hardware Shop to bid you glad tidings and give you good news of a great sale in the east! Home Depot gives the gifts of Christmas this year with a 15% discount on all name-brand mulchers, and a free poinsettia with every purchase! Hosanna, hosanna in the highest!”

I’m not sure if this is a “handicraft” or not, the wings and stuff are actually pretty well-made, but that face screams “Senior Activity Center.” It’s the pipecleaner that does it. And the glue, glitter, paint pen, peat moss hair, and vacant, empty gaze. Any one of those, really. Maybe there’s a kit–20 mesh angel skirts and a blank head to decorate to your heart’s content. Slap some lips and moss on it, call it $9.75. I know how these things work.

“Be not afraid!”

Aiigh! Zombie angel!

It would be awesome to be able to pack yourself up into your own body for easy storage, wouldn’t it? Just pop the top, tuck in the arms, wings, and so on. Maybe even the head would fit in there somehow, and suddenly you’ve gone from being an awkward flying thing with limbs everywhere to an angel that’s conveniently giftwrappable. Give the gift of angel!” It’s just a pity about that eye. God, you should do something about that eye. You’ll give the shepherds the fantods.

Braiiins…

Hoboy…ah…Hardware Mesh Angel, “Merry Christmas” Country Craft Angle and Pierced Nipple Angel from Goodwill on 183 and Metric, and again, Goodwill at 183 and Metric, there’ll be a plate of cookies waiting for you tonight, just wear the Santa Claus suit. Tawdry glitter angel and red zombie angels, Savers on South Lamar near 290. Accordion Angel and small, clever-looking one-eyed angel from Salvation Army on 1325, bowling pin angel (?) from Goodwill on 2222, and Necktie Angel from San Antonio’s Texas Thrift, on South Flores.

This piece is overall improved by the price tag.

We are still wandering around the vast junk shelves of the SVDP’s near 620 and I35. You will never find a more wretched hive of scraps and millinery. The heart above was one more piece that sat, gathering more dust, for three or four months before finally disappearing. Maybe Sassy Little Cube Girl picked it up to give to a friend, just to weird them out a bit. Maybe the boll weevils took it away.

Okay, so, this isn’t really a horror, I do find it more than a little bit tragic. The little gold ribbon that’s trying to escape its incarceration; a tiny, gem-encrusted starfish; a single, lone, gem…all of them apparently glued down to granny’s underthings. Glue turns an unfortunate yellow over time, which, combined with the “grandma’s drawers” effect, makes a sad little linen mess. Give this to the one you love, just to toy with them. Will they give it back? In what tone of voice will they thank you? Did they already have one?

I’m still a little rusty on the symbolism of the whole thing. The little dead flower looks an awful lot like an owl pellet, and the star thing seems whimsically beach-side. The single pink gem…that just throws the entire thing cattywampus. It’s the touch of class that a fake beauty mark adds to a tawdry cabaret dancer years past her prime, the single tear painted on a porcelain clown’s cheek. Don’t believe it. Just ask yourself whose bedspread liner this was cut from, and what events had it seen. It looks pretty worn out, even if you glue a string of pearls to it.

Love, straight from our dustbin to your dustbin, and only $1. Thank you, SVDP.

What is she thinking, that sassy little cube girl? She’s planning something delightfully mischievous. She’s thinking about stealing green apples from the farmer’s tree, maybe knocking on some doors and hiding, possibly about selling junk bonds in a leveraged buyout. Good, old-fashioned country fun.

Straw hat, impish grin, peat moss hair–the girl’s made of country. Give her a glass of sasparilla–or just maybe an icy coke–and a jar full of lightning bugs, and you’ve made her summer night. Except…except for her arms. Her puffy, puffy arms.

Really, I don’t know how many hi-jinks you could get into, or how high they would be if you could even access them, if your arms were two gingham-wrapped bolsters, and your legs were basically the same, but longer and with more lace, could you really even successfully manage a single shenanigan? She’s optimistic, I’ll give her that, particularly from someone that’s 70% platonic solids, and a couple of floral print tubes.

A girl like that, she’ll break your heart, and leave you smiling. Or, her head will roll off and end up under the cabinet. Either way.

Likewise, a country-fresh find from the St. Vincent De Paul’s near 620 and I35, Austin. She was there for…months. Edging on to a year. I wonder if someone finally took pity on her, or if they just gave up. On the one hand, it seems kind of tragic if they threw her away, she’s got a certain spirit that deserves more than the dustbin. On the other hand, we’re deep into the realm of minimal effort country kitsch here, maybe we should turn back.

Country “chic” has a special place in my heart. Twice a year we’d go up to the Dallas wholesale trade mart for their handmade crafts show–tons of woodwork, calligraphy, and…country. It was like someone went postal in a Cracker Barrel with a lace gun, and then a team of art school dropouts swept through with a box of paint pens to finish the job.  Not a pretty sight, unless you really like doilies, and things glued onto things. So, it brings me a warm fuzzy feeling, not unlike heartburn, to see something like this.

I think that wearing a dress made out of dyed corn husks is a fashion don’t. If those shoulder pads weren’t so 1750s, they’d be almost 80′s–Ming the Merciless could totally sport them. Or maybe they aren’t shoulder pads…maybe she’s a poor, twisted wretch of a woman with a dreadful spinal condition, and tiny, sad little vestigial limbs, in which case she’s probably not carrying those flowers to church, but like a Dickensian waif, is selling them for pennies on the street corner. “Buy a daffodilly, your lordship? So’s my mother can make me a real dress, and I don’t have to wear cornhusks and broom? These rushes chafe so, but I can’t do even the smallest thing about it because of my tiny vestigial limbs. Oh, thank you, governor! And a very festive St. Wilgefortis’s day to you to, sir!”

No, no, that’s totally not it at all. You only THINK she’s a Dickensian waif, because your mind can’t handle the truth, which is much more horrible and possibly a tad bit weirder. So, turn back or risk plunging into madness. Mind, if you’re reading this with a maximized window, it’s probably too late.

There you go. Witness the true face of crafts, and despair.

St. Vincent De Paul near 620 and I35, Round Rock