And lord knows, we’d hate that.

I like this pig. There’s a lot going on with this pig. I do, of course, admire it’s beafuituity. It is, really, quite beafuituific. But beyond that, it’s kind of the shared fiction anthology of ceramic pigs.

For one, how many pigs do you know that have ground effects and chaser lights? Not too many, huh? We thought so. No, this pig’s piggies are lit up like a movie marquee in dazzling reds and blues that lend a subtle grandeur to its understated grace. As the spider said, some pig.. Some pig with LED runners.

McEvoy’s: Teacher? Restauranteur? You be the judge. But at least you know, when you go to McEvoy’s, you’re in your happy (if somewhat ironic) place,

Actually, that’s a pretty nice flower. I like the veinwork on the leaves. Do pigs normally grow flowers? My estimation of them goes up significantly. I thought they just grew bacon. And LED chasers.

…which really is a curious sentiment to put, let’s face it, on a pig’s ass. In a way, it’s very ecumenical. “Peace throughout the world!! Which would obviously include the most war-torn, blighted, impoverished nations imaginable, because it already includes a pig’s ass. ‘Throughout the world’ holds all things, from the lowest to the highest. Never forget this.”

Goodwill on Metric and 183, Austin. A curiously pig-rich shopping experience, not sure why.

First a refreshing breath of copyright infringement.

Obviously, it doesn’t count as flagrant trademark violation if you mold the entire thing out of chewing gum, right? Right. This blobby little pustule of a bear seems to have been carved out of a solid, massive mountain of raw “Wrigley’s Chew” ore, and left to stand in his best “Lo, I am Ozymandius, and I love you” pose over the nearby village of lower Crapton. He may not make the town feel any safer, he’s unlikely to come to life when the neighboring countryside is threatened, but he does make your self-esteem a little stronger. Go, you.

Just hang in there, guy! You’ve got so much to live for!

Well, maybe not.

Once again, someone didn’t enjoy their crafts hour, and is going to have to sit in their room while the rest of the group gets to watch “Pleasant Bill and the Theraputic Riders.”

I’m imagining the artist–and I’m giggling a bit as I imagine him–stabbing at the creature’s eyes with a blue-stained, thumb-thick brush, screaming “Stare no more, ursine menace! Your sight I take from thee!!” Paint splatters the wall as the guy’s handlers drag him carefully from the room, hoping to debrush him before he defiles another piece of sculpture.

I’m glad the artist gave him fangs. They’re kind of a nice touch, a bit of menace just in case the bright blue alien face paint job didn’t creep you out enough. At least he could have cared enough to give the poor little guy differentiated toes.

“Charles, are you finished painting your bear?”

“Md’n.”

“What did you say, Charles?”

“I’m d’n.”

“Did you want to finish painting the rest of your bear, Charles? You didn’t finish painting all of him. Do you want to finish painting your bear, Charles?”

*splash*

“Okay, Charles, I guess it’s time to put the paints away.”

Not-so-Tenderheart from the Goodwill on 290 near Goodwill Computers, Old Blue-Eyes from the Salvation Army on 183 near Anderson Mill, 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.

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.

Greetings from Goodwill’s Blue Hanger, where even trash may die. This one, unfortunately, sank. I was able to fish it up from the bottom of a huge bin of misfit toys, where its life was being strangled out of it by an unusually tenacious Sargasso of beaded curtain and an unspooled ball of yarn, but I had to throw it back. It was too small.

“All I need is a tall ship and a star to sail her by.”

“No, I said tall. And I said ship. That is not a ship. That is remnants.”

The first voyage of the HMS “The Home Depot” was cut short when the entire thing was capsized by a river otter. It was, in the craft’s defense, a particularly big river otter.

There are days when I feel like I need to have a special tag for “why did they donate this?”  But that’d be like setting up a tag for “tacky” or “unfortunate” or “clowns,” I’d just be spamming it every single post.  And to be fair, there’s some real advances in boatmaking here. The The Home Depot can ever flood or take on water, because it’s made of planks. It’s unlikely to rust, either, or take damage from salt, because it’s made of planks. It might suffer from a broken mast, because of the aforementioned river otter, but really, the worst thing that’s likely to happen to this fine craft is that it might topple face forward into the water because it’s both top-heavy and front-loaded, but let’s be realistic. If you were using the The Home Depot for anything more involved than a short jaunt across the lake, you probably more into this for the whimsy than the seamanship.

It iahbh hnbin to you to! Another fine product of The Br Divit. Not only is Alonia a shipwright, carpenter, and designer, she also does children’s parties. Hire her for yours!

Goodwill Blue Hanger, regrettably closed, at McNeil and 183 North.

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

It’s good to get these silly myths out of your system early. That iconic image of an aging Native American warrior on a horse looking eastward, a single tear rolling down his cheek? Wrong. Based on 400+ year of a misapprehension.

Centuries of cultural war between Native Americans and European colonists were started entirely because the local New England tribes wore far, FAR too much make-up, big froofy earrings, and apparently died their hair in elaborate concentric circles. As staunch far-right religious conservatives kicked out of the country for being irritatingly non-British, the Puritan colonists were horrified (or secretly titillated) by their initial encounter with a tribe of shirtless, made-up men with large, full lips, and wrote up an extensive 200-year pogrom before the ink had dried on the Mayflower Compact.

It must be said, though –at the first Thanksgiving Dinner, Miantonomi’s turkey rissotto with cranberry and sweet wine remoulade was fabulous.

Little-known fact–members of the Haudenosaunee tribe traditionally adorned themselves with tattoos commemorating their first utterly failed hunt. This fellow was viciously trompled by a Great Dane, a particularly auspicious trompling.

Well, I thought it was a guy. I’m not sure, though, the pixie cut is kind of flattering, but looks more like a youngish Ellen Degeneres than any sort of noble savage. Those fake plaster indians, always breaking gender roles.

Goodwill on Parmer near I35, Austin

In all fairness to the artist and his/her vision—even if “vision” in this case was pulling a blank plaster unicorn off the shelf, and adding as much detail as the limited color selection and $5/hour fee would allow—I do scrounge the bric-a-brak shelves at the five-and-dim looking for things that aren’t actually suggestive. Unicorns, however, usually ARE suggestive and don’t need my help.

I think they use their image as innocent symbols of purity and nobility to sneak past our guard and rob us of childhood illusions. There’s a wonderful scene in “The Last Unicorn” where an angry, lived-a-hard-life woman–Molly Grue–finally sees her unicorn, and shouts “What good is it to me that you’re here now? Where were you twenty years ago? Ten years ago?” Seeing this guy getting to work, I’m thinking the answer is “well, you were probably too old.”

Never trust your child with a unicorn. Particularly THIS unicorn. He wants you to believe an herbivore couldn’t possibly be a predator. More importantly, the higher-ups in the unicorn chain of command don’t want you to believe that, so they turn a blind eye, hope that people remember the legend and not the string of broken lives he leaves behind.

Don’t struggle, Timmy, I’m probably a lot faster than you. Now come on, kid, you’re going to be in folk songs.

Texas Thrift near I35 and 51st, Austin

I’m not sure exactly what he is, but he’s sincere, and I do like his mustache and winning smile. And if that isn’t a ribbon for “Miss Congeniality 2011,” it sure as heck should be.

Is he a tiny little polyp with a heartwinning grin? Is he an ambulatory cerebral cortex stalking through a dungeon on little green tentacles, waiting to burrow through some dungeon-delver’s skull, tear out (possibly devour) their brain and replace it with its own mass? These are not exclusive concepts. Most things that want to practice a little freelance trepanning, burrow into your skull, and replace their intelligence with yours have a disarming smile. Like that guy I met last night at “Woody’s.”

Is it some sort of octopus with a skin condition? A tragic, yet resolutely cheerful, example of man’s inhumanity to the oceans, wrapped up in a twist-tie deathgrip of discarded plastic, the chemical deterioration of its mantel showing the mutated brain structure underneath…somehow much bigger, and more active, than any cephalopod has a right to?

Really, about the most we’re prepared to say right now, is that it’s Paco.

And frankly we’re lucky to know that much, we were afraid it might be Jeanette.

Paco from the Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin

The fact that this is obviously a bookend bothers me. That implies that there’s a second one somewhere.

Let’s talk color palate, could we? I’d like to. I’d particularly like to have this discussion with the artist, because words need to be had. I’ll accept that “pink elephants” is kind of a trope, sure. But did you have to go all crazy high saturation on the flowers? A nice, muted color scheme would have been just fine, really. A nice gentle green, an orange that didn’t come out of a highlighter.

On second thought, anything against that particular shade of pink is going to look a little jarring. If you colored “Whistler’s Mother” in that shade of pink, it’d look like an old-lady rave.

I’m not really sure what that bow is tied onto. It’d have to be either glued down, nailed in, or delicately tied around a lump of wrinkly pink skin. Only the glue option is really a pleasant thought, in that “gluing things to an elephant’s scalp” sense of the word “pleasant.”

Honestly, the more I stare at this, the less I think “elephant” and the more I think “mind flayer.” It’s the pink. And the huge soulful staring eyes, I’m pretty sure mind flayers have those. Pweeze? Pwetty pweeze can I flay your mind?

Anyway.

Savers on South Lamar, Austin