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

ooga chaka, ooga chaka!

It’s been a while since we had a nice, resin-cast child here, and I think I remember why.

Of all the forms resin can take when it glops and pools in the great resin-swamps east of Houston, the most obnoxious is the resin-cast child. At least, that’s what I thought. Turns out, I was right. I don’t know what tragic, dwindling tribe this little guy’s from, but I don’t doubt they’ll be happy to take their last swirl around the toilet basin of oblivion once they see how the great artists of resin have chosen to commemorate them.

The chicken…the chicken adds class.

If I was celebrating my heritage through interpretive dance, I’d totally want to have a chicken in the middle of my patch of weirdly-textured concrete. The affronted squawk will just heighten the dignity of the whole thing.

From this angle, I can’t tell if he’s playing a djembe, or trying to dig out all the filberts from a weird blue bowl of mixed nuts. My bet’s on the filberts. Filberts are awesome. A skirt made of blue leather and peacock feathers is kind of awesome, too, but not on him. Maybe on a member of Thunder Down Under, but not on this kid.

46 years later, washed up, broken, alcoholic and probably on his second loveless marriage, he’s still wearing the little skirt. “You should have seen me. God, those were the salad days. Big endorsements…women…all the damn filberts I could eat…it was paradise. Then I got…I don’t know, too old. My agent said it was the filberts what done it, but I knew…he didn’t come out and say it, but I could see him thinking ‘Dave…Dave, put down the funny felt hat. 26 is too old for that hat.’ But you’re never too old for peacock feathers, know what I’m saying? Now get the hell out of here, or pass me another can o’them mixed nuts.”

Savers on Burnet near 2222, Austin

I always feel a sense of vague guilt for these posts. Not a LOT of guilt. Perhaps I should lay the guilt at the feet of the crafters themselves, but I’m not sure it would stick.

Question: Why was this in the Christmas display? What part of this screams “santa” or “elf” or “good idea”? In her defense, I’ve definitely seen worse examples of Country Crafting. Like the doll whose body was a giant blue cube. If only someone had thought to add this head to a blue cube, I could have finally said “okay, thrift, I’m done, you win.” But, no.

The legs, the feet, are amazing.Massive engines of mobility, huge tree-trunks bearing their owner across the land, hearkening to an older, primal period where giant racial stereotypes roamed the earth in search of food and Vaudeville theaters. I do worry, though, that her head will roll off, bouncing away down the road. I think it already did, that hair is glued at an angle that could generally be described as “rakish,” or just “unfortunate.”

And another fun game of “guess the subtext!”

I’m a messy, messy cook. And at the end of a crazy night of spaghetti and olive oil and buffalo wing sauce, my stove looks like an imitation of a Jackson Pollock painting, and whatever the heck I had my spoons sitting on looks like a bib at a cherry pie eating contest. But, like, the loser’s bib, one who seriously overestimated his pie tolerance. So…do I really want to do that to a face? Even if she’s a happy face with a wide, spoon-holding grin? We’re out of the kitchen and into some very weird sauce-fetishism here.

Unlike most Mammies, this one is dishwasher-safe. So, that’s some relief. I’m still not comfortable with a piece of kitchen equipment that says “Sauce me, baby,” even if it looks like it would enjoy it.

Mammy spoon from Salvation Army on 183 and Metric, Round Head Doll from Goodwill on Brodie in South Austin

“Please buy my fine, pre-bagged children. You will never again, this side of home furnishings, find a collection of children quite this deliciously cooperative. Lay your feet upon them. They’re okay with this. Chopsticks? Chopsticks the size of railroad ties? Sure. That’s why they’re here. That’s why I’m selling them…to you.”

“You have that ‘thinking about the ethics of the situation’ look to you. Let me just say, don’t. Look at them. They WANT to be your ottoman. They’re enthusiastic about propping up whatever you’ve got. It’s going to be the highlight of their day, trust me.”

“I wouldn’t sell you these pre-bagged children if I didn’t BELIEVE in these pre-bagged children. I’ve tested each one myself, they also make excellent sawhorses. Don’t believe me? Get a couple of two-by-fours and and one of the little guys. Look, he’s practically ASKING for it.”

On another direction entirely, I’m going to say that, as a very, very white person, I’m a little mystified by the colorful Buddhist pantheon. But I’ve never been quite so bemused as by this little fellow, who’s making me want to fall out of my chair out of sympathy. Which is a pretty neat god-power, and must make the celebrations at the temple loads of fun, what with everybody gently toppling to the right.

You’ll recognize his special temple because of the way the strings of bells and colored cords hang at an awkward 25 degree angle from the building itself. It’s a trick, they probably do it with egg white.

May I have this dance?

ALL ORGANIZED RELIGION would be exactly 40% more awesome if priests, imams, rabbis, nuns, alterboys, monks, celebrants of every sort, would all stand at an oblique angle. Every sunday at church would be like a trip to the mystery spot..

My neck’s sore just typing this.

Strangely angled god from the Goodwill on Huebner and south I10, San Antonio. “Please Buy My Shrinkwrapped Children” from Salvation Army on 183, near Metric, Austin.

…And that was when the amusement park was finally shut down.

There’s a lot about this piece that I don’t quite get. I’m really not sure why the elephant has to drag a large log across an endless plain, and given that he DOES have to perform this thankless task, why is the log so perfectly sculpted for dragging. Was it a bad elephant? Did Zeus punish him with this utterly thankless task after he saw Hera naked? Why would Hera particularly care? Is this some strange legend from Thailand that I am not currently aware of?

What are the little brass sockets? I’m thinking that probably you put something in them, and then beat them with the log on a chain. That’s why the chain broke. And why the elephant looks surprised.

“Trust me, you should have heard it last week. It was like angels farting.”

I think I saw this guy in an all-male off-off-OFF Broadway production of Mozart’s “The Magic Flute.” It wasn’t the sort of thing you’d bring your mother to, though. In fact, I’m not really sure Mozart figured too much in it, and I think they added a few characters, because when I saw it in eighth grade I’m pretty sure there wasn’t a hot pizza delivery guy OR a Buddhist monk about to take a vow of celibacy. I may be thinking of something else altogether.

Awesome boots, though.

Both of these rare gems found in Savers on South Lamar

So, I’m giving myself permission to be a bit non-PC this week, because I’ve been saving up some fun finds for the week of the Lunar New Year, and this be it! I apologize in advance if I confuse China and Japan. In my defense, the original images were kind of confusing to begin with.

It was a mighty battle–a war between an ancient master and four tiny bald would-be assailants so terrible, so enormous in its martial arts bad-assitutude that Chuck Norris himself shaved his head, leaving only a small round tuft just over his left ear, to play ONE of the midget ninjas in the History Channel mini-series. They didn’t let Chuck play the ancient master because Chuck Norris isn’t hard-core enough for this kind of documentary.

It began peacefully enough–the completely kick-ass Level 36, Grand Master of Flowers ninja-god was peacefully strolling along on a piece of basalt floating in a pool of lava, when four weird little midget brigands attacked. He fought bravely, but not even a martial arts god is fierce enough to take on four ninjas in a volcano (though you can see why Norris wanted the part.)

The battle was going pretty bad for him until he used his extendable head maneuver.

“Boiiiing!!!”

Oh you weird little bandit bastards, you are going to get creamed. I’m going to teach you peace and serenity SO HARD, and I don’t even have any hands.

“Crappers! His head comes off! We are undone!”

Amidst the majestic backdrop of the great mason-jar mountains of Suzhou, the fierce battle raged for 67 weeks, until the master could no longer fight, so sore was his neck.

“Oh god, my ARM! He cut it off with his neck!”

Booiiing!!!

“Hah! No-one can face the wrath of my battle-kite!”

Boiiiing!!!

Ultimately, the diminutive assailants were only able to defeat the ancient master through their skillful use of egg noodles. Even so, they sustained heavy losses.

Boiiiing!!!

Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin

I’m not sure what the true meaning of Columbus Day is. It seems to involve lots of discounts at the local auto lots. But I’ve been hoarding some very special pieces to celebrate the occasion.

We’ll start with what must be the single gayest attempt at “American Indian” ever. It’s like Mr. Humphries trying out for a part in Last of the Mohicans. Or maybe some sort of strange camp act, maybe “A Boy Named Sioux.” Seriously! Who accessorizes their rifle?

Although he HAS clearly been working out. It hasn’t helped all that much, except maybe on costume night at The Hitching Post perhaps. Could use a little upper arm work, those biceps are a little stringy, but this isn’t about the gift, it’s about the giftwrap.

Oof. Showing his age a bit here.

“But do admire the absolutely fabulous headdress and earrings, the former was lifted from a Lawrence of Arabia Broadway production, but with a little bit of color its own mother wouldn’t know it. The earrings? Home Depot, isle seven, assorted nuts, which sounds like either an hors d’oeuvre or my last family reunion.

“All of which accents both the Zuni fetish necklace…and the less said about Zuni fetishes, the better, to my mind–and these smashing armbands and matching barrettes. Who says danishes are just for Alderaan princesses anymore? Any princess can wear these!

“And take a look at this rifle–no, in my hand, dear. It was, I don’t know, on the dull side a bit, so I spruced it up with some red velvet and gold trimming. Of course I did hot-glue the trigger in place, but, small sacrifices, you know!

“But while you’ve got the camera down there, love, the real show’s off to your left a bit.

“Pocahantes, eat your heart out. Take one denim skirt, trim it down just a bit, but not too much, don’t want to scare off the missionaries! A couple lovely felt patches, your flint knife, just in case a gentleman has to defend himself–or as near as we might be–add fringe, and, this sort of greenish thing, I think it might have been a snake once, but but of the two of us I think I pull it off quite well. I’d demonstrate but modesty forbids.

“Still searching for the perfect boots, but these will have to do–if anyone’s looking at your feet, dears, you’ve made some sort of tactical error. Try adding a few more feathers, they draw the eye.”

Ahem.

What next…what next…Oh! This poor girl pretty much hits all the important non-PC notes, AND she’s apparently been trepanned.

*shudder*

She’s one of a few pieces that I didn’t get around to posting from our San Antonio Road Trip.

Unfortunately, not a lot of depth to her character. She looks a bit like a kappa from Santa Fe.

Okay, that’s enough, please go away now.

(Why is her dress screwed together?)

And then there’s him.

I have to say, I really do live for this kind of moment. The “Dear sweet Jesus, what were they thinking? Was any sort of cognition going on at all? Hello, earth to artist, are we finished having a ‘moment’? Could you please get back to your day job at the asylum for the criminally embarrassing?”

I think this may actually be a sincere effort. It’s hard to tell, because the source material is so…very…bad. We’re clearly operating on some sort of “Noble Savage” base here, one of the standard plaster-cast models painted up by the family for like $8 an hour. But…something went wrong.

How wrong? This wrong.

Mmm, flesh-tone eyes, strange cat-like pupils–very blue. Deep, deep wrinkles in “corpse gray.” Blond hair, nice touch, we wouldn’t want anyone to think this was ethnic. It’s about as Native American as a hair band riffing on Cherokee Nation, which was, to be fair, pretty frikking white to begin with.

If I could figure out some way to apologize for this, I would. After centuries of indignities and exploitation, so wound into the history of the United States that it’s still a work in process, this makes things, like, .03% sadder.

Let’s bump that up to .04% and call it a day.

The Gayest Indian Ever and … I don’t know, I don’t have a word for him… from Savers on Burnet in Austin, and the bottle from the decade political correctness forgot from the Goodwill on Heubner, San Antonio.