Okay, file this one under “not a horror.” But it was a quirky journey into someone’s devotional space, and I was glad to have the ride! Unfortunately the pictures just…didn’t turn out, I was snapping photos of a tiny piece of art under a thick smudgy bottle and my camera’s the Cannon budget special, so…please use the power of your imagination and come with me :)

Someone, somewhere, has managed to bottle the Jesus experience. If only we could uncork it and smell the heady vapors of Christ’s last days, we’d be whisked in a single breath to ancient Israel, a land of…well, mostly balsa and popsicle sticks. But it’s still heady. But…don’t uncork it. No, save the Jesus for paying customers. You’ll let all the Messiah out. Just trust that it smells a bit like myrrh and a bit like Elmer’s wood glue.

I dunno, I always want to be impressed by angels. I’d like it if they gnashed their teeth and wailed a bit, showed a sense of occasion. No, the artist picked those darn beatific cherubs, they get all the spotlight. They’re so, eh, “no, no, wait, this is going to be GREAT, everybody’s going to think he’s dead, but…*snrk* just wait. Oh God, you’re going to love the look on Peter’s face! He’ll be all, ‘oh no you didn’t, Jesus!’” Show some sense of occasion, guys. Girls. Androgynes.

The thing in the foreground isn’t a Mario gold question mark box, BTW, it’s a playing card. Because of the dice. And Jesus’s cloak and all. Really, it’s the entire moment in a bottle. It’s all there!

See? Oh, someone rolled a one. Is that good? Dibs on Jesus’s…uh…yeah, he traveled kind of light. Anybody got any cards?

This entire area is overrun by soggy peat moss, for some reason. I’m not really sure why. It’s a bit of a subtropical sort of desert. Maybe it’s soaked up all the myrrh, that stuff was all over the place.

I’m guessing we’re riffing on the “hanged between two criminals” part of the story here. They were, for the record, really tiny criminals. Actually they were lawn gnomes sentenced to a slow, painful death. Probably for stealing acorns, or very small heresies.

Best…crucifixion…ever. They were talking about the decorations for months. The pink flower bouquets and the little green flags? Adorable! And who brought the mynah bird? Who taught it to sing ‘Nearer My God to Thee’? Priceless!”

So…I know the story pretty well, I understand the rooster, the dice, the horrid little cherubs. I don’t understand the egg whisks. Were they part of the story? On the third day, he made a meringue? I don’t know.

Anyway, those of you that are still speaking to me on Friday, we’ll see you then :)

Goodwill on 183 and Burnet, Austin

There is nothing in this that surprises. I sincerely doubt that nature would have ever coughed up these materials…but it wishes it had.

I think it’s pretty obvious that these are the most awesome shoes in the world. When Pope Benedict slips on a pair of red brogans, he’s wishing he had these shoes. They’re just that amazing. And they would really show off his calves. If popes have calves, it’s hard to tell under the robes, but even popes have to go out dancing every once in a while. And when they do, why not trip the rite fantastic in sharp-toed lace-ups with a three-inch transparent heel? Eat your heart out, XVI.

Go ahead…walk all over me. To hell with it.

I’d be a little worried about shoes with wispy, vaguely shocked zaftigs on them. But frankly, it’s not the worst crime committed by cobblers. Certainly not tonight. With the full moon in the background, it’s like she’s fleeing a werewolf, or maybe Zeus. All on your shoe. How should one feel about that? I felt a bit like a party to the crime. Not that I wore these, mind, they’re about two sizes too snug. Oh, but in my dreams…

Is it possible to achieve “worldly” simply by the advent of sufficiently graphic-intensive footwear? You’d have to wear them completely unironically. You’d need to pull them on, lace them, without a trace of self-effacement, shove your paramour to the bed, hold him down firmly but lovingly, and say, in a husky voice, “You’re going to see Ephesus tonight.” A classically-educated dominatrix is a threatening dominatrix.

So…I really love this shot. The sense of motion, antiquity, and shoeness is so compelling I want to unzip her to see if she escapes her bound universe and runs free, her life unbound by shoes, barefoot through a field of daffodils and scraps of sonnets on curled parchment. Run free, nymph of the mid heel.

But don’t think that life in these shoes is all Romanesque beauties and midnight dalliances. These shoes are fraught with danger, too. Like a Harryhausen film, they may contain beautiful women and Greek ruins, but they also hold stop-motion plesiosaurs.

There’s really a lot going on here. But basically, if you wanted a pair of stilettos that presented a reasonably accurate history of the Roman empire and allegorically portrayed the collapse of civilization following the ascent to the throne of Constantine and the assumption of Christianity as a state religion, there you go.

Goodwill on I35 near Parmer, Austin

Turn your head. Turn your head lest his glory blind you, and melt your face like nazis staring into the Ark of the Covenant. No-one can look upon the full majesty of Pooh without coming away from it changed, transformed, or even…destroyed.

Perhaps it’s for the best that he’s in a boat, otherwise his mere presence might be overwhelming.

Is he on the horizon? I can’t tell. Maybe? If so, he’s the size of his Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade blimp, and I don’t know where they’d find a boat that large. I’d imagine there are some indigenous tribes that have legends of a great bear in a boat, bringing them the dawn each day. This is that bear.

Hide your eyes!

He’s a proud captain, and ruthless brigand. They called him Captain Yellowbody, scourge of the seas. Specifically, those portions of the seas containing ships containing honey. Mostly he kept his scourging to the British Honey Company. So, it was a fairly finite reign of terror overall, unless you were trying to make ham or something.

Is that the SS Prak? File that one under Regrettable Ship Names. Try again, Pooh.

Salvation Army on 183 near Anderson Mill, Austin

So, this is one of those times where I really don’t have anything to add, because my work has been done for me.

I was visiting Treasure City Thrift yesterday to poke around and chat with some of the people there, and discovered their Therapy Shoes.

Now, the back story here, this group works with several local nonprofits, including “Inside Books,” a prison book group. So they have a lot of books. Apparently, they recently moved the books to the far side of the store, leaving an empty bookshelf, sad and lonely. It’s a fact universally acknowledged that an empty bookshelf must be in want of filling, so…they filled it.

And yet there are, shall we say, lingering traces of the shelf’s former life. Signs, if you will.

Frankly, the ones on the left just scream “third trimester pregnancy” to me. So far as the right ones go…yeah, maybe rosy pink expectations for the first child, but after a few years of that the glow will wear off and you’ll be reaching for the fifth-year sneakers and possibly the Jack Daniels. Still, the optimism is appreciated.

Here, you can see the exact moment where I got my camera out. The only thing that would have made this better would have been a pair of sixteen-hole gougers. They actually DID have a flogger for sale, but it was in the Valentine’s Day section. Priceless.

…because there are days when you can’t bend over to tie your shoes, because that would be bending upward. Which is not, as far as I know, topologically possible. I’ll ask one of my yoga friends.

I can’t tell if this is very bad marketing or very good marketing. You be the judge. But I would, to be on the safe side, bring a bottle of Lysol with you when you do.

At some point in time, things took a turn for the absurd. The Treasure City staff was free-associating in a lofty and exalted headspace that, clearly, I wasn’t wearing the right shoes for. But there was still these young ladies to come.

A high-resolution version of this one is now in my “art photography” directory, it was a nearly spiritual experience I had to savor. This brightened my afternoon on levels. There wasn’t a men’s health section, unfortunately, I guess they hadn’t gotten a pair of “Coors” brand flip-flops that week.

Treasure City Thrift, east 7th near Chicon

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

Don’t ever let anyone else set your limits. Live the dream. Want to be a model? Awesome. Want to be a model after that unfortunate wood chipper accident? Great, cool. May cut down a bit on some of your engagements, but artists and photographers may occasionally need to get a reference for the “Venus de Milo” in real life. Stranger things have happened.

Want to be a professional model after having your arm replaced with a foot-long industrial spring? Well…okay, whatever floats your boat. Look at the time, I gotta run.

I was so happy when they released a series of internet meme-based artist’s mannequins. My partner was so happy to finally get a decent ref for the “numa numa” guy, most of the little wooden stick dudes are just too thin. I’m guessing this one came out for “Talk like a Pirate” day? Maybe? I didn’t think you could a full-arm hook. I’m not sure how helpful it would be. But you’d never need a crowbar.

For the record, I am a thrift reporter, I don’t artistically rearrange or cleverly pose. This thing of beauty spontaneously arose from the natural forces of the thrift shop, and I feel truly blessed to have captured it in its natural habitat.

Zooom! A missing arm’s not going to stop me from winning the 500-meter dash. Or, apparently, from escaping the pull of earth’s gravity and flying. Excelsior, sir!

Artist’s reference dummies are great for action shots. In some strange way, they were almost made for it.

Fair flying, friend. You are an inspiration to us all!

Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin

Just so you know.

Texas Thrift on 51st and I35

BAM! Take that, blahs! Angst? Get out of here. Suicidal depression? This is your $4.99 ticket to sweet thrift shop therapy.

This is a completely awesome HAPPINESS CONCENTRATOR. Check out the science.

See the mirror on the left, and the mirror on the right? Happiness is attracted to the sunflowers and glitter–not a LOT of happiness, small doses. On its own, the glitter itself is able to generate small traces of happiness, but it’d take ages to build up a charge using that kind of slow-but-steady stuff, you’d never reach capacity. Still, if you’re in an area that’s got a naturally low happiness level–let’s say you work at Dell, for example–you take what you can get.

Drawn by the sunflowers, the happiness drifts toward the concentrator in the slow, aimless manner of Congress making progress. But once it wafts in, it’s STUCK. The crystals hold the happiness in place, the mirrors direct the happiness inward, confusing it with an infinite field of glittery sunflowers, and the box EXPLODES with happiness.

I’m not ruling out the ever-so-faint possibility that the science here is wrong, and that happiness can’t really get stuck behind fobs from a 1960s lamp. But I’m pretty sure the basic idea is sound. Unfortunately, when I bought it, a terrifyingly plain man in a black suit with dark glasses came out of the Half Price Books next door, told me I’d found stolen military secrets. Then he sprayed me with some sort of knock-out gas. I really don’t remember much after that.

Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin

So, this prematurely exciting! So, thrift store blogging is highly competitive and cutthroat. The field’s nightmarishly crowded with like SIX blogs and…well, it’s rough. So, naturally when I saw a big old jug of FREE BLOOD PRESSURE MEDICATION samples, they HAD to come home with me.

Initial exploration of the giant plastic heart was interrupted by a small attack of rats, which was fended off by space priests. Unpacking the contents of this treasure chest was immediately complicated by the armies waging war on my living room table. I continued, undaunted.

A few small skirmishes around the faceplate left the sample case blood-spattered, but not much worse for wear.

Some initial research revealed the following interesting facts about amlodipine beysylate:

There are several side effects that can be happen when you use
amlodipine besylate, since it’s not familiar with the function,
and then you need to introduce and describe what you got when
you got a hypertension. You will need to stop consume the medicine
immediately when you fee a massive heart beat, cool sweat rash,
itchy, hard to breath and also any, serious hurtful symptoms that
might be appear at the first time when you consume amlodipine
besylate , you should stop consume this medicine and go back and
see the doctor to change the medicine for your hypertension therapy.

We learn ever so much from the internets. Remember, if you fee a massive heart beat, you should definitely stop consume.

 At some point, someone told me that I probably had spent $3 on individual pre-wrapped tongue depressors. “Don’t be absurd,” I said. “They wouldn’t be labelled amlodipine besylate if they were tongue depressors. That’d just be silly.

However, I had the sinking feeling that I was wrong…tongue depressor wrong.

The invading rat army was quite irritated when they managed to take the central chamber and found out how wrong I was, and how right my naysayers were. Curse their correct eyes.

“God damn it, we lost 230 rat people to take these things, and they’re TONGUE DEPRESSORS? What were we THINKING?”

Between the endless complaining of both the rat men AND the space priests, I decided “screw it, I’ll just take the tongue depressors. Maybe they’ll help.”

No luck. Night settled. The rat men established camp, illuminating the medical sampler with their strange issue. At some point, I heard the screams of a very small sacrifice. That, and the weird red glow, lent a surreal cast to the dinner table. Eventually I left the rat men to their dark task.

Eventually, the sun rose, and the fruits of their labors were revealed. From their far-off camp, even the space priests were obliged to cheer a little, because say what you will about their hygiene, they were definitely good on the follow-through.

Aaanyway, happy valentine’s day!

Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin

Somehow, this week has gotten away from me.  I think it was the bears that did it. Okay, let’s just take this and run with it, as far as it will go. Will it go all the way to nipplepots? I think it might.

This is, as it were, the tip of the iceberg.

I haven’t seen much in the way of suggestive pottery, not this year anyway. In fact, I think this might be the only piece I’ve seen, but…it’s a doozy.

I’m having a hard time faulting the artistry of this piece. It’s bounteous and round, with a lovely coppery-brown dollop that gives it that quality you so rarely see in glazed ceramics–this pot is pert. And is it abundant? Yes, yes it is.

But I’ll be hornswoggled if I know exactly what it is. The little ribbony tendrils add a fanciful, feminine touch, just in case the overall effect wasn’t fanciful or feminine enough. Maybe it’s a special pot that you use to store wiles and charms in, and it was just so overfull that it BURST into bosoms.

This breathtaking boobscape simulates the experience of crash-landing on the set of Heavy Metal. Or a very very large bowl of strawberry ice cream and magic shell.

These things drift through our lives, and we step back and say “Artist…oh, artist. Where did you go astray? Was this what you intended all this time? Is this the culmination of your dream, the product of three years in art school?” And the artist responds, saying “Don’t you like my boobpot?” And you have to say “Well, yes. But that’s not really the point, and please stop waving that at me. You’re distracting me from a very reasonable conversation.”

This…weird little thing from the Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin