Mixed media is SUPPOSED to look like that.

Not too many people are bold enough to work in tinfoil, chewing gum, snot and industrial springs this decade. I understand gum and hardware was a major art movement in France in the 1940s, before the abstract expressionists ruined it by throwing great buckets of paint all over everything. It really destroyed the subtlety of the mucus. Tragic, really.

I understand this was loosely based on the artist’s relationship with his mother, and loosely based on Chernobyl, with just a little bit of inspiration from the amazing Lithuanian gold-medal discus throw at the Athens Olympics. Just look at that strong sense of motion. The athlete’s muscles bunching and coiling like…oh, never mind.

We are not ruling out the possibility that this is a deeply errant attempt to raise awareness for National Breast Cancer Prevention month, but we would ask that the artist strictly limit himself to little pink ribbons in the future.

The camera pauses for a moment, and zooms back to reveal the grandeur of…hmm. I think we’re back to Chernobyl again, or some other blasted, hellish wasteland, the conceptual opposite of a treasure map, roads that lead only to…pink.

Traveler, find another road.

Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin

But I am tending toward the latter.

This may be one of those strange pictures where you spend four or five minutes looking at it, and then suddenly you see that it’s actually a negative space image of talk show host Jimmy Fallon interviewing  a late Victorian era pants press, and you have an almost transcendent moment of not really caring

In fact, I hope that’s what it is. Otherwise, I have to assume that it’s a quick picture of Anubis, the jackal-headed Egyptian god of mummification, experiencing a painful, yet strangely contemplative, bowel movement. And I’m pretty sure I can’t handle that right now.

With a tricky color scheme like this, black, red halos, hovering in a minty-green void, the silvery dribbles could mean, well, anything. In this case, I believe they represent an abundance of icing drizzled forth upon this god of the underworld by a benevolent, if somewhat arbitrary, Horus. I want to think this because I’ve read Egyptian creation stories, and a generous helping of icing is better than any possible alternative.

Interpretation #2: A still from the opening credits of the new James Bond film, “Live and Let Shed,” where MI6 tells 007 that the nuclear weapon plans were stolen by a tribe of dog-headed people hiding in the far corners of the 1980′s. When thrift stores get all abstract-expressionist, it’s hard to tell exactly.

Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin

“Kid, I have been doing this for, like, 1900 years. Frankly, I don’t care if you’ve been naughty, or nice, or if Livejournal shut down your page because of their new obscenity laws. I’m dumping this crap here, and you’re going to get it. Whatever the hell it is, you better hope it’s one size fits all and unisex.”

“You wanted a conch, right? What kid doesn’t want a conch. The elves…the damned elves made 740,000 conchs this year, so you’re getting one. Oh, and a ‘betsy-no-face,’ very popular doll in 1893. Wouldn’t want to have any nonconformity, right? There’s your doll. Don’t bother opening the box, it’s empty, just wanted to have something there with some sparkle on it. Now, unless you have the REST of this sherry, get the hell upstairs and think about sugarplums or whatever.”

Sometimes, sometimes Christmas makes people do some crazy things. Particularly elves. “Don’t come any closer, Santa! Don’t do it, or I will fucking CUT this doll!”

“Don’t do it, Santa, he means it!”

“Now, just put down the lists, and tell the reindeer and all the little children that we are taking a BREAK this year, and that we do NOT make Nintendo DSs. Seriously, the other elves are going blind and not in a happy way. So…two weeks of vacation, and nobody gets hurt.”

Needless to say, when Santa’s union-busters came in, this particular elf was never seen again, except possibly as another half-inch of rustic on the reindeer’s stable floor.

I worked in a Christian bookshop for five or ten years, give or take. I don’t particularly like angels. The cute ones are insipid, the majestic ones are tedious. But no-one, not even a plump little angel in a tartan wrap holding a fluffy heart, deserved this.  “I just…I just wanted to give you my heart. I can handle rejection, but my hair was so beautiful…why?”

Yeesh. Poor thing! It set out to be a messenger of Christmas goodwill, and ended up looking like George Costanza. Really, how’s that fair? What about Christmas is fair? But to come down to earth from your fluffy pink cloud and then face off with a three-year-old with his mommy’s Fiskars? That’s beyond the pale.

We could wish that, in Heaven at least, there is no male pattern baldness.

From the “Angel Seconds” bin, a “Precious Moments” angel sheds a single tear, and takes off his halo.

The demotion from “Angel” to “Choirboy” must have stung a little bit, but probably not as much as when they yanked his wings off. Poor thing–if it weren’t a “precious moments” figurine, I might feel something for you. Besides a certain dark glee.

I think this deserves a wry grin. Schadenfreude pumpkin, will you help me on this one?

Thank you, pumpkin.

So…on this one, I’m left with a few options–assuming that the brick-a-brak shelf at Savers is factually and hagiographically accurate, which I always assume–one is that Santa was originally a pair of conjoined twins, and either had some very clever operation or else the mall Santas are deceptively non-conjoined and a conspiracy has lied to us for over a hundred years to keep us from the TRUTH. Another: that Santa reproduces by budding, or that he’s attempting to clone himself, and the results of this blasphemous nativity are of mixed success. Regardless…behold the truth of Santa

On the plus side, he still seems jolly, and that’s important when you’re a mockery of the human form and a sign that God has largely left humanity and its genetics to sort it out on their own.

What I wonder is…how does he fit through the chimney?

Before you settle in for a left-over turkey sandwich and maybe some nearly-expired eggnog, think about the people that don’t have what you have. This christmas…think about people without heads.

Another senseless nutcracker tragedy. Nutcracking must be hazardous work!

The tragedy of angel pattern baldness from Goodwill near Anderson Mill and 183, Conjoined Twin Santa, “…or I’ll kill this doll,” and “Bitter Santa Empties his Sack” from Savers on North Loop and Burnet, Tragic Nutcracker Killing from Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Finally, Justice comes to Precious Moments Angels from Goodwill on Metric and 183 and I do thank you Goodwill on Metric, come over for some wassail tonight..

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.

First off, and off-topic–for those of you that are jealous of eight days of Hanukkah, the 12 days of Christmas begins December 25! And we have 12 bazillion santas, snowmen and nativities that we have been saving for the occasion. So if you have an office mate who enjoys Christmas Crapola, the “12 days” tag below should link to the festivities. For a limited time only, here’s last year’s link, which will be subsumed into the broader category of “Christmas” soon. Anyway, enough rambling. Here’s…uh…more rambling.

Clearly, this is a candle, or at least candle-related phenomena. After all, it’s covered with a thick layer of old wax. Of course, by that extension, my oven, which has not been cleaned since short shorts were cool, is clearly food.. But while this was definitely in Goodwill’s “candle” section, I rather think it’s some sort of pink and frothy altar to the god of slaughter and coffee. Look, there’s even bits of gore plastered to its sides. Another way in which it resembles my stove.

Why do these presumably master craftsmen insist on keeping “intestinal pink” in their color palates? It’s not a nice color. The effect is like someone decided to use an antique coffee mill to make tasty lamb sausages. It’s a mess of coffee beans and a greasy pink froth. Yum!

The jury is still somewhat unclear on the concept. We see wax. We see coffee beans. We see…drainage holes. Not very good drainage holes, as whatever basin might be tucked underneath the terracotta platform would fill up after two or three (select one: [A] candle burnings, [B] tasty lamb sausages, [C] small, fussy offerings to the god of caffeinated carnage). Plus, it’s round, so candles would fall over. I suppose it might be an incense burner–and the category of things which might be incense-burners is pretty inclusive–but that seems like kind of a stretch.

“I made you a foamy pink latte incense burner! You don’t have to thank me!”

“Well, that prevents a possible conflict of interests, good.”

Goodwill on Manchaca and Stassney, Austin

Honestly, the whole world of “high school art” generally just makes me a little bit sad, rarely does it ever actually frighten me. But I think we’re edging there now.

Mainly because I’m feeling like this might actually be some strange religious icon–”rapture of the dead pigeon,” or Pigiata. And if that’s the case the artist may have actually out-weirded the Unitarian Universalists, and that takes some effort.

Not sure what it is. But pretty sure you’re not supposed to feed it after midnight. Or really ever, feeding it might just encourage it. It’s bad enough that it’s a nightmarish bastard crossbreed of a care bear, Ross Perot, and a necrotic penguin, you don’t want to feel vaguely responsible for it somehow.

After the bird apocalypse, the last thing the starving, desperate members of the human race saw was this thing drifting over the horizon in a silent, still mockery of flight. The  particularly superstitious or foolish or Unitarian Universalist among them tried to placate it with worship. There is no more terrible way to die than a 700-gallon bird poopie.

Bird? Fly? Mouse?

Birdflymouse?

We don’t know either, but we think we saw this on “Ren and Stimpy” when we were much, much younger. Saturday morning cartoons were far, far too dark for us, and we longed for the blessed silence of televised golf.

Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin. 

The main reason the puritans journeyed to the New World wasn’t to celebrate their religious freedoms in an open country, without fear. No, they were forced to leave because they were damned creepy.

Creepy, and frankly more than a little bit pungent. Looking beyond the fact that every single one of them wore the same bouffant hairstyle and crushed felt hat, it was the way, from the waist down, they were giant garlic cloves.

“Oh look, here come the garlic cloves,” the Wapanoag would say. “And they’re bringing turkeys. Again.”

“Did you mean they’re bringing turkey?”

“No, turkeys. Plural, and alive. Next time, we should ask them to bring the canned cranberry sauce.  At least that way there wouldn’t be so much garlic.”

Sorting out all the strings and limbs on this little guy…girl…androgyne…was a trick. But well worth the effort.

I think we have our next presidential candidate. Able to go left and right at the same time, and absolutely no distinguishing characteristics. We have a winner!

I think this is a cultural referent I’m just lacking–some sort of mezoamerican night-and-day deity, perhaps, or the four-armed faceless Hindu god/dess of baguettes. Who did his hair, though? It’s sort of like Carrot Top, but funnier.

Got your finger! Wait, got MY finger. That’s not how that joke works. Darn it, how am I going to hold my fourth baguette?

For his final miracle before ascending into heaven, he mystically fit the hot dog into the hoagie bun without a knife. Dozens of people in hundreds of towns saw the vision and were most impressed. Now ensconced in the clouds he symbolizes the sun setting in the evening sky, which, as we all know, is time for hot dogs.

Goodwill on Riverside near Mo-Pac, Austin

I like the fact that, after this thing escaped from Edward Gorey’s bedside endtable, it took the time to get its nails done. That’s how you know it’s a classy knob. Thing. Possibly fandangle. It’s certainly elegant, it’s got the curves of a 1940s Hollywood musical starlette. Particularly if her upper half was made out of lime “jolly ranchers” and fractured in a freak pas de deux accident.

On the other hand, it may actually be a lounge singer from the Mos Eisley Cantina. And maybe she wasn’t made of jolly ranchers. Maybe that’s her only functioning eye, and I’m judging her. If so, I’m sorry, and George Lucas  did a terrible thing to you. To all of us.

Does it make any more sense from this angle? No? Okay.

One thing that really bugs me about this is that the green nub is like 3 degrees off of symmetric. It’s…really empissing. Why? WHY?

That, dear, is probably an end.

I know that macro photography is kind of a “thing,” you can get any number of things blown up to hideously large scale with the click of a search button. But the fleshy pinkness of the balloon, the twisted little umbilicus knot, it looks like some strange pro-life advertisement. “Think before you pop…choose inflation.”

Uh…thingie…from Texas Thrift near I35 and 51st, balloon butt from Salvation Army on 1325 near Round Rock