MY version of “Moby Dick” is much shorter. In my version – a better version, it wraps up nicely and has a lot less ambiguity – Captain Ahab gets a phone call from Ishmael (“Call me, Ishmael!”) about the whale. It turns out that, all this time, it was at 3857 Chestnut Cove, Buda, Texas, in the children’s bathroom down the hall. It was full of socks. The whale, not the bathroom, though, maybe. I don’t know. They might have a lot of socks.

The real tension of the story is that Ishmael calls his boss AFTER the family has emptied out all the socks, and donated the poor critter to Thrift Town, because they couldn’t sell it at their garage sale. So Ahab goes to every secondhand store in South Austin, asking the clerk “Have ye seen the white whale? She’s about two feet tall, smells of old socks, and she has a fearsome big mouth that could SWALLOW A SHIP. A small ship. Very small.”

And then the clerk looks at him and says “I don’t know, maybe it’s in, like, home furnishings?” And Ahab peglegs it over there, stomp-clack-stomp-clack, but it’s the WRONG STORE. So for six whole hours he hits Goodwill, and Savers, but he can’t get to the Salvation Army because it’s closed Sundays, which really pisses him off. Until finally, he sails into the parking lot–which is AWESOME in the movie version, trust me–and he goes and buys it for $4.49, which totally makes his day because he gets his senior discount card, too. Plus, he buys Ishmael a really great Hawaiian shirt, which is nice, because he made Ishmael pay for his Strawberry-Limeade Chiller at Sonic.

Feed me socks!

Texas Thrift, Stassney and Manchacha, Austin

This post is going to be honest, brutally honest, about its contents. These are some owls with very scary eyes. Something went wrong in the ocular department. If Intelligent Design exists, God’s no opthalmologist, and he probably hates owls, too. Why? We don’t know. Maybe he’s really a mouse. Anyway, on to the owls, which is a phrase that, over 20+ years of writing, I haven’t used yet.

Ah, shell art. I keep coming back to you, like a dog to the cat litter box. Not only are we dealing with a very serious case of “Giant Spiral Eye Syndrome,” but we lost one of our eyes in the war. Plus, we are covered with ancient, drippy yellow glue, but that’s probably just an inevitable side effect of being a second-hand craft.

What is this little guy nesting in, though? Given his face, keep the receipt. No, wait. Given his face, particularly his beak, he’s clearly sitting in a pile of tiny bird faces. He’s the Ed Geinof elf owls. I’m hoping maybe I’m wrong, maybe those are its precious little owlings, but the horrible dripping glue tells me a more unpleasant story of an owl with a past, an owl mutilated and trying to shore up his ruined features with whatever he has at hand (feather?), and damned the cost in owl lives. Soon to be a major motion picture, Silence of the Owls.

Side view!

…And then we have this abomination of science.

Hmm…in retrospect, I’m not sure this is an owl. It may be a rare, South Austin Leopard-Print Penguin.

This is probably why Spotted Owls are endangered. They kept scaring the hell out of each other, and the cries of “Just…go away!” and “Why, sweet Jesus, why?” were interfering with their hunting.

*shudder*

Shell owl 2222 and Lamar Goodwill, hideous deformed pop-eyed penguin-owl Goodwill on Stassney and Manchacha, Austin.

I can get the basic “princess” concept here. If anyone’s American royalty, it’s Barbie. I mean, talk about an enchanted life–three story pink dreamhouse, more shoes than Imelda Marcos. And princesses, as everyone knows from watching the early Walt Disney cartoons, are surrounded by easily-amused woodland creatures. So, in that context, this makes sense. Except that it’s less “Snow White,” more “Cousin It.”

Whoops–sorry about the babyshot at right, that was totally not intentional. This is supposed to be a work-safe blog.

So, yeah, Barbie. I’m thinking, freak accident in a tumble-dryer, or maybe the monkey’s her hairdresser, and that never works out. Or maybe that weird little bud thing in front of her was wired to a big cartoon detonator, and this shot was just after the explosion. Bend over, smell an exotic jungle orchid, bam, bad hair day. I’m thinking it was the fox that planned it, he’s got a guilty smirk.

But probably, what happened was a four-year-old.

What’s the verdict, kids?

Bery pretty!

So Barbie, really–is a set of permanent sharpees really the best pick for your dream make-over? I’m not remembering that one in “Cosmo–”  “For a long-lasting blush in the summer sun, and eyeliner that will outlast the rush hour commute, put away that Avon, say “Estee Later!” and move from Mary Kay to Office Depot, because what’s in in 2010 is thick point felt tip permanent marker!”

It’s probably the destiny of every “beautifully brushable” children’s product to end up used, violated, abandoned, and utterly junked. And a testament to the optimism and-or desperation of St. Vincent De Paul’s to try to sell her. Amazingly, she was off the shelf in two weeks. Good luck, Barbie. May your next lucky owner have a bottle of really good conditioner.

St. Vincent De Paul’s in Round Rock, near I35 and 620. Bery Pretty, Goodwill on 183 and Research.

Oh, DP, what will we learn at your feet? Quite a bit, actually. We understand DP’s been studying basic forces.

Firktion stops ears. Stackfirk!

Not to pick apart a second-grader’s science homework, really, that’s almost cheating. But for the low price of 45 (cents? I hope so) you can have a piece of America’s political history.

Meet Borko Boma.

Borko has MY vote. A Democrat with fists like that? Crappers! He’s the Mexican Masked Wrestler of Pennsylvania Avenue! And check out that shiny, shiny dome. For people that want their nation AND their president indivisible, Borko’s one smooth unit.

And the capri pants really work for him!

The tie AND the little carnation is a nice touch, but I don’t think I’ve seen the president in a cute little short sleeve body-and-head stocking. It’s kind of scary–like he’s going to crush you with his mighty Right Fist, and then possibly noogie you to death. I’ve had dreams like that.

Opinion–is that a big happy smile, or a “Kilroy Was Here” style hanging nose? You be the judge.

And as long as we’re overanalyzing–fetching designer necktie, or infinity sign? Do people look eastward and point, and say “Look! It’s a flash of lightning from the left! Stronger than an economic crash, within acceptably broad parameters defining recovery! It is…Borko Boma!!!”

I think if the Dems floated someone in a head-concealing unitard with a lump of chewing gum on his chest, spinning around swinging his fists, they may actually finally win the overwhelming “crazy Americans” vote. That’d be a fun election.

“Mr. Boma, There are new economic realities out there that everyone in this hall and across this country understands that there are going to have to be some choices made. Health policies, energy policies, and entitlement reform, what are going to be your priorities in what order?”

“WHEEEEeeeee!!!!” *wooshwooshwooshCRASH (tinkle)*

“Dammit, somebody catch him before he scares the caterers…”

Texas Thrift on Nacogdoches, San Antonio

Update! Check out this Borko Boma sighting!

I’ve watched the Wizard of Ozsubstantially more than once. I read the book a few times, and the Cowardly Lion has never struck me as particularly “gangster.” Even if you catch The Wiz, where the action starts in Harlem, the Emerald City is superimposed over the Big Apple, the lion appears outside a library, breaking free from a big concrete lion to menace the travellers. So…street, no. Mean, possibly, cowardly, definitely. Gangster? No sir.

But he can’t help trying.

It’s actually IMPOSSIBLE to look street when you’re sitting in a big pile of stuffed animals. Scientific tests have been done. Very respected members of the rap community, urban luminaries, were asked to hang, or possibly chill, while nestling ET-style in a pile of stuffed bunnies and amiable teddy bears. Results showed a startling loss of over 75% of street credibility, and most subjects experienced a strong desire to bury themselves further in the pile while making happy burbling noises.

It’s also VERY hard to display any real attitude or adopt an urban posture while being naked in a thrift store, or, alternatively, dressed in a lion costume. Can’t be done.

But we forgive him for trying.

Lion: “You don’t have any courage for me in that bag, do you?”
Wizard: “Many men, and indeed, some lions, go forth into the world with little more courage than you do. But they DO have street cred. Therefore, by the authority vested in me by the Street and Urban Development Society of Oz, or ‘SUDSO,’ I give you this bling.”
Hangs a large gold “OZ” logo around Lion’s neck.
Lion: “Shucks, folks, I’m speechless.”

Somewhere over the rainbow, Stassney and Manchaca, Austin

This photo was taken just moments before the carnage began. It was a happy community. When we were first baked, we really came together. Yeah, your roller skates got kind of tangled up in the cheese, and maybe there were…mushrooms…on the north side of the neighborhood, but it was an affordable place to live, and if that meant sharing the wedge with some mushrooms, maybe that’s okay.

Don’t look at me like that. We’re a tolerant slice. I mean, when Onion shacked up with Pepperoni, we were there for them. The rest of the world would judge, but if you can’t count on your neighbors, well, pizza’s not worth living. I don’t exactly know what she saw in him–he was a meat product, after all–maybe she just fell for a young musician. It happens. And he played a good balalaika.

I’d say we were probably too tolerant, if anything. But hindsight’s always 20-20, isn’t it? Bell Pepper seemed like a nice enough guy. He was…kind of special, in a Saturday Weekend Special way. If you gave him $5, he’d water your lawn, pick out all those damned olives that kept sprouting up during the summer, maybe he’d even edge your crust a bit if you were nice to him and if he remembered.

Nobody knows where he got the slicer.

St. Vincent De Paul’s Thrift Shop near 620 and I35, Austin/Round Rock

Stand back, they may be hungry.

With Bad Art, you really have to ask yourself, “What was the artist’s vision?” What was he, she, or in the case of the Thai Elephant Orchestrapossibly it, trying to achieve? In the case of our friends the Raggedies, the artist’s intent must have been punitive. Someone, somewhere was having too much fun, so they get…the Raggedies.

How do you build a rag doll? First you find a bare pink torso, preferably one with the eyes already sewn on. Eyes that come to sharp little points, eyes that cut. Then you give it a serrated mouth, like unto some sort of lizard, or demon, or lizard-demon. Or Steve Buscemi, which is possibly redundant.

If you still hate the world as much as you did when you started, give them strange baggy circles around their edges. Huge, puffy, sunken orbs. Don’t think “cute little manniken,” think “bubble-eye goldfish.” And then, to express your deep, primal hatred of the recipient of this masterpiece, climb to the top of an oak tree, pull down every piece of ball moss you can reach, and spray-paint them orange. Against all logic, glue them to the poor, benighted thing’s head.

Then, dress them in yellow. See if they scream.

Actually, they look strangely happy. They’re doing little jigs of delight, indeed, they’re practically capering. One could imagine them stepping off the wall in a merry, slightly awkward dance. Probably the last dance of the night, since they have an unfortunate resemblance to a bizarre hybrid of rag doll, a navel orange, and a cheerful piranha. In a best-case scenario, your jacket is savaged beyond rescue.

Then, give them to your favorite child. Count how long it takes for all the joy to drain from their lives. See them cringe before going into their playroom at night. You know that bit in the story where the toys come to life?

That’s the worst part.

…Oh. Since I’m never going to find a better use for it, here’s another Raggedy. This one politely demands the heart of Snow White.

All raggedies found at the Goodwill on Metric and 183. Every time I go there I want a cigarette afterward, it’s that good.

You do have to step back and say “Just what message are we trying to send here?” Kids are young, impressionable things. Are we trying to tell them, “Love me, love my pig?” “You can never have too many hats?” “Just laugh it off, the skin condition will fade over time?” I don’t know. All I know is that even a five-year-old could call out this things deep, unconvincing wrongness. Don’t sit on it, the stain might linger.

Much of the trulyscrewed-up stuff at our local thrift stores is literally home-made–made by someone’s grandma, made at school, made by a surly teenager. This, I don’t think so. It’s too intentionally hideous. It tells a story of faux whimsy, of discounted, mass-produced pseudo-playfulness.

The recipient was not convinced, I think.

Let’s just dissect this for meaning. The hats…the pig…the hat on the pig…I’m not feeling it. The green fedora is kind of sinister, like sublimated gun-rage. “If you sit on me, the pig gets it.” The pig itself seems to be infected with green fungal growths, but perhaps it’s more surprised by suddenly wearing a bonnet, caught between a skin condition and an unexpected courtship. Life is cruel, when you’re a pig.

The multiplicity of hats is also a bit of a puzzle.

Ignore the fact that someone tried to macho up this one with a World Wrestling Federation sticker, it didn’t help.

Straw hat, stovepipe hat, green “hipster, please!” fedora, and then, as far as I can see, Ash Ketchum’s hat from Pokemon. Spotpig, I choose you! And the face–we’ve got some serious chemicals going on. We’re talking “Higher than Carrie Fisher on Life Day” here. We’re on a “six hats, paint the pig green” trip, and there’s no coming down off that sort of thing gently. The last time–the time we beat the living shit out of an Abraham Lincoln impersonator, lost two teeth, and got a “Moe Howard” haircut, that time we didn’t come down until we’d painted racing stripes on the goat. And we’d do it again, hell yes. We’re painting the livestock teal, motherfucker.

On the back, birds play innocent, and think about eating grass. They are still their natural color, but like the protagonist of a Tom Waits song, are howling at the heavens and are missing at least one eye. At least they haven’t got hats.

Savers on South Lamar near 290, Austin

The concept is, you’ve just taken your infant out of the bathtub, and want to wrap him, or her, or possibly it (this IS the South, after all) in something warm and snuggly-soft, keep their little heads cozy, and so forth. And it really should be cute, right? Otherwise, what’s the point of HAVING a baby blanket?

So, making one in the shape of a puppy dog, you really can’t go to wrong there. It’s got all the right stuff. Plus, dogs are incredibly warm, like little hot water bottles that lick themselves. So, overall a good choice, except for the licking part.

I can’t think where the artist went wrong.

Years later, your child will be in therapy, trying to explain WHY blank-eyed corpse dogs wrap themselves around him at night, breathing carrion breath down his neck as they dab water from his body with their pancake-like faces.

He will not know why beagles with eyes like cave fish stunned by an oncoming 18-wheeler stare at him from the towel rack. He won’t know why the feeling of terrycloth makes him shudder. All he will know is “yep, it’s time for another rock-bath.”

Found at Thrift Town, Stassney and Manchacha

Okay, there’s nothing terribly upsetting about this guy, right?

The eyebrows are a little bit creepy, and he looks altogether too eager to make your acquaintance–and he’s nearly a foot long, at that stage you really should think of making the transition from “plastic miniature” to “stuffed animal,” but maybe he was made for a child with a delicate digestive system, easily rinsed off to hide his shame. His eyebrows are weirdly dark and glossy, and the same color as his nose, and overall he looks a bit like someone you’d expect to encounter sneaking furtively out of the $.25 peepshow arcade.

Oh, no, Nothing so innocemt as that.

This is the bear you’ve been warned about–eager to corrupt innocent young kewpie dolls to service his base physical needs. No doubt he has a harem of PVC-headed, tousel-haired sex slaves. You can see it in his smirk.

“You look young, unbroken, and you have a plastic head. Let’s see if you can do anything about…this.” (Zzzzip! thump.)

I’m sure he’d be even happier if he was anatomically correct. On my limited honor, I did not set up this shot. They were that way when I found them.

Found at Texas Thrift, near I35 and 51st by the Famous Christmas Store, Austin, 9/05.