This is probably the best toy ever.

Now, I know what you’re thinking, because I’m thking it to: “My god, where did he get that fabulous shirt?” Because demi-mimes in skin-tight leopard print are so hot right now.

Or possibly you’re wondering why his hand is one weird, boneless flipper, and his other a massive-brick? Is he part seal and part masonry? If so, does he have a convincing origin story, and does he fight crime, with his mighty BRICKFIST and FLIP…uh…well, we’ll stick with the brickfist.

Maybe you’re looking at his flipper, and the eight-foot spike rammed through it. And you’re wondering, “did it hurt?”

Yes, it did, but it’s a small price to pay for whatever it is he achieved. Skin-tight green pants, maybe, or free lessons from master danceist, Ivan Doroschuk?

Or just maybe, “what is he standing on?”

So, I really never did figure out what the trick was here. The funny little man had a stake driven through his hand–maybe it was a flag? and he came on a little wedge which, for no clear reason, was removable. I assumed the entire thing was some sort of strange metacommentary on the modularity of the worker in an industrial society, not only is he a cog in a machine, but his body becomes more coglike. I was about to write a manifesto on the whole thing when I noticed a really hideous puppy statue and forgot about the entire thing until now.

Thrift Town on Stassney and Manchaca, Austin

This was $6.99.

I think my dog made something about half this size, but I didn’t put a $3.50 pricetag on it OR donate it to Goodwill, I threw mine away. In hindsight, it might have been the more ethical choice to donate it to Goodwill, but it would have been a whole extra trip, so…

Crafts drive people to do some terrible things. Crafts is a very cruel taskmaster, and the crimes it has forced people to commit would make even Martha Stewart put down her glue gun and say “…no more.” But this just makes no damned sense. It’s not scary enough for Halloween, not colorful enough for spring, and if you put a big shiny star on the top and covered it in lights it’d really just be a sort of “christmas poo” disaster.

What we learned from today’s lesson: when you epoxy moss onto pots, you get mossy pots.

“As I stacked the third pot on and tacked it firmly down with JB Weld, and set to applying decadent fistsfull of Spanish moss, I wondered, ‘Is this really what I took six years of classes for?’” And a voice answered me…

“Yes.”

Goodwill near 183 and Anderson Mill, Austin

If I knew what this was, I PROMISE I’d tell you. I have a suspicion that it was meant as either a jewelry tray or a way to serve onion rings. There’s a big gap there. But someone spent a lot of time on whatever the hell this is, so I assume they had a good reason.

In the Steven King version of this post, three people would have died when they tripped and fell delivering onion rings on the CURSED TRAY. I suspect the actual curse of the tray (if the onion ring theory is sound) is that it would make the bottom onion ring really cold. Not really Steven King material.

One of the stranger things about this–besides, well, just about everything–is how  pessimistic it is. “Gee, thanks, dad. Now my onion rings are cold AND depressing. How about you widen the spokes on the hot dog roller so that they fall through next, and then write a little haiku about the futility of life and hot dogs?”

If this was a map of a strange fantasy land (and I haven’t ruled THAT out, either) I don’t want to know why the two mountains run red with blood. It looks like the Eastern mountain’s really the place to have your summer home, much less blood. Although the gods saw fit to write CONSEQUENCES just to the north, which, again, probably something of a downer.

Oh…it’s from Geej. Well, that explains everything.

“Humans are horrible and selfish, just give up. Love and kisses, Dad and Geej.”

If anybody has a better idea than “onion rings” let me know.

Goodwill on Lake Austin Blvd, Austin

Imagine going to the gardening store–it’s spring, you’re going to find some nice spreading groundcover, maybe a shrub for that bare patch in front of the window–and then, right where you’d expect to find a dwarf magnolia, you find a single claw stretched up to grab the sun like the very mouth of Fenris, its roots sunk deep in a mound of freshly-churned memories and rich, fertile neural matter.

You’d probably take up a different hobby. Or at least hire a gardener.

If you go past the herbs and the greenhouse with one sad orchid in it, you get to the really weird stuff. Like the rose that screams, and oscillating figs. And what appears to be an Audrey Two, only this time the alien plant menace has apparently triumphed over mankind and stands victorious over all it surveys, the sun almost blocked out by a cloud of noxious herbicides and a strange, blood-tinged mist.

This…this is what happens when surrealists do landscapes.

Salvation Army near Metric and 183, Austin

It’s Mardi Gras. Everybody’s pretty darn liquored up, busy making decisions they’ll regret either tomorrow morning or for the next 18-25 years, depending. Swept away in the magic of the moment, a young swain meets the eye of a lady who catches his fancy. He, being the consummate gentleman, finds the choicest string of beads for her. She, being nothing if not appropriate, shows him that, under her blouse, is…more beads. In fact, her body is composed of beads. He screams. She adds another strand to her night’s count, makes a clattering sound with her strange mouthparts, and soars into the night sky.

So I haven’t been to New Orleans for Mardi Gras yet, but I’m pretty sure it goes something like that.

I’m pretty sure you stick pins in this thing’s leg to make Lady Gaga stumble during her next concert. But I looked it up, and as I understand it, these are given out at Carnivale to make the transition into delerium tremens a little easier. “Oh, is this what the postbrandial hallucinations are like? Okay…okay, I’m ready. I think.”

Point at the doll and show me where the Mardi Gras touched you.

Is this properly a horror? I would argue that yes, absolutely, it is. From the side, it’s just tawdry. If you made a supersaturated solution of tawdry and reduced it, this would, in fact, be the distillate. But it’s more than that. Meet its weirdly insectile gaze. Know fear.

This is the thing that drove Jesus into the desert for 40 days and 40 nights. This is the chittering, alien power that demands parades in its honor, the beast on whose altar the crowds pile doubloons and weirdly garish cakes.

This is the face of Carnivale. Behold it and despair.

Goodwill on South 1st and Slaughter, Austin

Full disclosure: this is now sitting by my front door, and I occasionally challenge guests to figure out what’s going on in the artist’s mind. I thought it was some sort of “science vs religion” thing, but now, I’m not so sure. There’s a certain relentless schizophrenia at work that elevates it into the realm of high weirdness. You be the judge.

The top exhibits distinctive daisyfication. That’s usually a bad sign. “Let’s begin with a bit of late victoriana before moving on to the spirograph.” (do they still sell Spirographs?)

So: art therapy, side one: the patient must confront his obsessive-compulsive disorder by leaving some of the spaces blank. Or maybe there’s a subtle pattern to the dotted vs. non-dotted spaces that’s beyond me. Maybe if I worked out a spreadsheet showing the combinatoric patterns between each of the dots…no, no, don’t engage the dots, that’s what they want you to do.

Okay. Whew. the dots are gone. Now we’re the logo for a children’s earth science and astronomy magazine. I can handle that.

“Jane! What have I told you about touching the microscope?”

“I had to adjust–”

“NO!!! Hands in pockets! Science is for observing, NOT touching!!”

“I’m so sorry. I won’t let it happen again.”

“See that you don’t. Now, what happens when you look at the close-up magnification of eleven grains of pepper?”

“I see…pepper?”

“Good. Mark that down in your copy book.”

Now, please turn to page 32 and throw away experiential reality as you’ve known it.

In the same way that in the fourth dimension a cube becomes a hypercube, or “cube of cubes,” a gazelle raised to the power of gazelle becomes a hypergazelle, which pay be perceived as an infinite, but recessed, series of gazelles.

And I find it sad that my spellchecker doesn’t recognize “hypergazelle” as a word. Lame.

You might be wondering why it is that a species as self-evidently perfectly evolved as the hypergazelle hasn’t totally overrun the hypersaranghetti. We have one word for you: Hyperlions.

Please do not attempt to meet its gaze, you WILL go insane.

Block of strange from the Goodwill near Parmer and I35, Austin

Because that was when the robot Santas began their attack. At first we thought they were some sort of strange new toy, the way they bobbled around the table, running into things, occasionally their heads falling off and rolling onto the floor. Then they brought out the tiny silver disintegration rays.

Which, surprisingly, wasn’t the weirdest part. And neither was the part when they leaned forward, exposing the missile launcher embedded in their backs, the one that launched two-inch payloads that blew up the tree, scared the hell out of the cat, and got silver and gold confetti all over the floor.

Although that was pretty weird.

No, the weirdest part was the way they never stopped saying “ho ho ho ho” the entire time.

On the plus side, it turned out they were just trying to find the plate full of cookies. I’m hoping that means none of us were on Santa’s “naughty” list this year, because if this is what the nice kids get, I’m not sure we could survive the alternative. And we still can’t find the cat. I think she may be up the chimney.

Bend over…here comes Christmas!

I am not entirely comfortable with filling Santa up with candies and eating from him. This is not “TIDINGS,” it’s just depraved. I’m also not familiar with the posture Santa’s taking. He seems to be too into the “living candy dish” thing, and I don’t want to deal with other people’s fetishes on Christmas, even Santa’s fetishes. And that’s a pretty weird one. Weirder than the elves.

In 2012, Santa started going meta.

Behold: A Santa made up of other, smaller santas. It’s not like the clever Russian nesting dolls, where Santa merely contains other Santas–no, the santas have joined together to form Mecha-Kyojin-Yokina Santa. Of course, he was like 30 feet tall and couldn’t fit into the sleigh anymore, but that’s a small price…for progress.

Gaze upon me and tremble! For even my legs are also Santas! There is no part of me that is not Santa, and I contain ALL SANTAS. Instead of a saint, you shall have a queen! Not plump, but jolly and terrible as the morn! All shall love me and…

Ah. Sorry. Onto the squid-santa.

I imagine this fellow slowly floating through the seas near the north pole, occasionally drifting down from the surface of the ocean to settle, gently, upon a harp seal, and burrow into his flesh to devour him from the inside, out. Perhaps that’s how the larval form of santa spreads, inside its otarine hosts.

It’s the beard I would be only mildly worried about the floating head of Santa, but lord knows, I’ve seen my share of Santa heads at Goodwill. No, this is the first one I’ve seen that looks like an octopus, dragging its way across the sea floor with its beardy tendrils.

I’ve heard that octopus santa can squeeze down a chimney 1/10 his size. Amazing.

>Robot Santas from Goodwill on 2222, Somewhat Indecent Candy Bowl Santa from Oak Hill Goodwill, Santa of Other Santas from Texas Thrift in San Antonio off Ingram, octo-santa from my favorite thrift store, the christmastacular Goodwill on 183 and Lamar. Oh, 183 Goodwill…I’m standing under the mistletoe!

We seem to be in the realm of therapy projects. I’m not sure if we’re going up the road to self-actualization or downward toward a clash with internal demons and another evening with Michael Bolton. Or perhaps we’re exorcising some demons that have been bothering us since the late Fonda administration. But at least we’re sparkly.

Remember, the journey toward weirdly Barbie-esque statuosity is a long, long bicycle ride up hill. You may pass by the discarded shards of the Disco Era. You may even brave a forest made out of your own angry hair. It will hurt, oh yes.

Particularly if you cut yourself on the mirrors, be careful, they have sharp edges. But once you’ve climbed the hairy hill, which really sounds worse than it is, you’re there, you’re ready, you’re in the spotlight, you’re ready for elective surgery, ninja stars, and a golden bikini.

Normally I’m content to marvel at the weirdness of the Goodwill art section, but I really want to know what was going on in the artist’s headspace. I think the Barbie world made her very mad, pissed off to the point of committing art, but I’m not quite sure. Homage or protest? You be the judge.

Goodwill on South Lamar and Manchacha, Austin

Part cheerleader, part tentacular monster from beyond space. Nothing struts the team colors like a shambling eldritch horror. And what better sports victory than to see your enemies flee the field, gibbering and soiling themselves with terror? Yes, granted, you have to  sacrifice a referee to them on the quarters and cross-quarters, but only during football season, and it’s only a referee anyway. There’s more.

I like her. She’s got elephant legs and no head. Stumpy, headless and putty-like are all very valuable traits in a cheerleader. But it’s the way she works that writhing mass of tentacles that really sets her apart from the lesser, headed, members of the cheer squad. She’s not afraid to grab that ball of flailing strips of cartilage in her oarlike appendages and really show some team spirit. Or perhaps she’ll raise the knot of twisted tendrils and place it on top of the void between her shoulder blades and stand in the middle of the field and just howl for like an hour, maybe two.

Underneath that somewhat conformist team color exterior, beats a heart…and other internal organs…of solidified grape pudding. Go, team. Go.

I’m not sure what it is, but at least it looks happy.

Although there’s a small chance that whatever it is, it eats coins, and I’m not sure that a coinophagous life form is going to do well in the new economy. Quarters are, like, expensive. You can’t just go around feeding random sock-dogs your pocket change anymore, it’s not 1987. The days of wine and nickles are over. And yet, we have the optimism, the mad belief that there’s a nickle out there with a dog’s name on it. Presumably in very small print.

Now, what weird medieval bestiary coughed up the foot-dog? This weird, monopod canine, leaping and jingling around–I’m right, right? This thing holds coins? Because it’s too cute for cigarette butts. Bottle caps, maybe? For preschool teachers to pop back a cold one after work? That makes a weird sense, but the sock connection seems a bit of a stretch.

Poor, limp, pre-stretched sock. The pig weeps beside you, and a choir of angels sings your distended seams to their final resting place.

No, don’t hide. Be proud of what you are, though we are not, at this time, sure of what that is, except “housewares,” a bit of a catch-all. If housewares includes distended small-parts-eating dogsocks, clearly, anything goes in Housewares.

Brought to you by the letters D, and S, and possibly B or P, I don’t know, the jury’s out.

Savers on North Loop and Burnet, Austin