Which is a little misleading. Because, at the end of the day, don’t we all live in pineapples? Metaphorically, of course, because pineapples are actually pretty small. But what is a pineapple, ultimately, if not a prickly, tart metaphor for our own uniqueness, the face we present the world. The exterior self–that is the real pineapple.

Unless you’re spongebob. Then things are a little less abstract.

I took this picture a few years ago, and now I wonder if I’d screwed up the gamma, or maybe the epsilon, on the shot. I’m pretty sure Spongebob is an annoying yellow color, but that was the old Spongebob. The new Spongebob is shot in stark black and white, and instead of a starfish, when he leaves each day he meets a different allegorical representation of a sin, and his best friend is an old, old man that keeps asking if he wants to play chess.

Ultimately, it turns out that Spongebob’s endless optimism is a coded reference to the denial of the essential futility of life, and the reason the entire series is under water is because he’s already dead.

The series has really taken a turn ever since Nickelodeon let Lars Von Trier direct. I like the new direction, but you really don’t want kids watching it.

Oh, here’s an octopus.

Hello!

He, she, or it was painted on a sort of medium-sized ceramic apparatus, like a chalice or a lamp, but without any obvious functionality, except to display an octopus. All things considered, that’s a lot more functionality than, say, a clown or another headless St. Joseph, but I still wonder about the artistic intent. “Take this octopus and drink from it. Whenever you do so, do this in remembrance of me.”

Years later, I’m going to look at this post and wonder what the hell I was thinking. Oh well, such is life.

Spongebob from the (defunct) Goodwill on Stassney and Manchacha, octopus object from Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin

It’s filler Friday again, and that means…NASCoco! And a particularly ugly painting that really should have gone out with the one-stream recycling, which now takes Mixed Media. But for now, the fastest cocoa evar.

What we have here is one of the weirder juxtapositions I’ve seen–homey winter comfort beverage, apparently dunkable cookies, and high-speed crash-prone racing. There is something here that clashes, just a bit. It’d be like NASCAR-brand ladyfingers, or the new line of base jumping long underwear. Which has probably been done, and I really shouldn’t be surprised about anybody slapping a brand on ANYTHING ever since Schreck’s “Donkey” started advertising my blood pressure medicine.

Even so, there’s something here that clashes. I don’t think NASCAR drivers even DRINK hot beverages. The odds of a spill at over 150 MPH would be rather high, and the results would be impressive.

“Oh, Dave Blaney’s window’s covered in a thin layer of brown again! Just like last year’s spectacular roobios incident, but with more–Hey, Bob, would you say those are marshmallows?”

“Definately marshmallows, Pete. Quite a lot of them. I’m guessing he takes his cocoa with extra marshmallows.”

“That would go well with his new ‘Nestle Marshmallow Madness’ sponsor decals wouldn’t it? I’m a little surprised he dropped Monster Energy Drink for cocoa.”

“Hot chocolate’s a pretty big NASCAR contributor, Pete.”

“Right you are, Bob.”

Then there’s this mess.

Terrible photo. I think my camera couldn’t focus on it. There’s a certain Jackson Pollock-like intensity to this work but none of, and I say this entirely non-ironically, but with none of Jackson Pollock’s usual restraint. Or color choice, because absolutely NOTHING goes with Lentil Green except pieces of ham and a church potluck.

This means something. It means “big blue tidal wave wipes out abstract expressionism.” But you can’t kill abstract expressionism, not even with a tsunami. It will only come back bigger, angrier, and with less concern for representational media.

On the one hand, I can definitely see why this was donated to Goodwill. On the other hand, I’m baffled as to why it was put on the shelf. It makes Spin-Art look kind of classy.

Nascoco from…you know, I don’t remember, it’s been four years! Probably the now-defunct Goodwill on Manchaca and Stassney. Splat-art from Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin.

“Slowly melting into a puddle of organic ooze as a lurid green slime creeps down from the ceiling and dissolves our cellular cohesion is what Tiggers do best!”

It’s nice that Tigger keeps a positive attitude. Even if he’s got all the charm and luster of a carrot painted with Hershey’s chocolate syrup, he keeps smiling. Even as the walls of reality slowly melt behind him, much like his nose and lower lip, he’s got a good attitude, a properly British approach that will get him through what must be a very trying day.

I’m sorry, Tiger, my bad.

I don’t know if there’s a market for badly-painted, misspelled Disney knock-offs. But if you’ve heard of one, please send Tiger a note. He’s oh so lonely. You wouldn’t know it to look at him, but that’s how Tigers are. Crying on the inside, chocolate syrup stains on the outside. Good on you, Tiger.

Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin

One thing they learned after Christopher Robin’s tragic disappearance–never let a child play with a bear.

Particularly one that just ran out of honey.

When Pooh came for Roo, no-one said anything. When Pooh came for piglet, no-one said anything. When Pooh came for me, there was no-one left to say anything.

Okay, not a horror per se, but what the pooh, it’s Friday.

It’s Friday, and dammit, I’m sharing my ill-formed gummilump with you. I’m having a hard time figuring exactly what it is about this little guy that I find unsettling. The head that comes to a misshapen point, that’s odd, not normal even for bears. The weirdly predatory eyes, a little creepy, but not a deal-breaker.

I think it’s that he’s rising out of the honny pot like some sort of clodlike honny elemental, terrible and adhesive. That’s probably it. At any rate.

I think someone got too close to him. There’s still blood on his face. Blood…and honny.

Greetings, I am Winnie, the one who is Pooh, whose eyes are the star-filled void. Sit upon me, and tremble.

This particular pooh is a very complicated organism. He has feetknees, weird boney protrusions from what might normally, in a universe that made more sense, be called a lap. In the meantime, you may sit upon him, if you wish, but we are not recommending the experience, as he’s still pretty manky after all the honny.

Winnie the Chair from the Oak Hill Goodwill, Snow-Globe Pooh from Texas Thrift on I35 near 51st, DIY Pooh from GW on 2222 and Lamar, 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

I just took a little vacation, and came back to find a huge pile of pooh. It really builds up if you don’t clean it up.

Oh…bother. I guess this skirts around being a copyright case by secretly being a mouse in a tan body suit. Or perhaps an automaton made of tasty tasty bread. Mmmm, breadbear. Pass me the honey. The crunching will be glorious.

Is that a shirt, or partial body armor? That can’t possibly be comfortable, it’d be like wearing thick clay shoulder pads. Who’s your tailor? Klaus Nomi?

Next inmate of Bizarro 100-Acre Woods: Boarlet.

If you found the piglet of your youth to be wishy-washy, meek, a weird little guy in a pudding-sack, you’d be right—and you’re ready for Boarlet. Fear him, the manliest tiny pig. A mighty lumberjack of the swine world. A fine, fine hunk of pork.

And ladies, he’s single!

Brought to you by Pepsico. Proudly not dumping owl-mutating defoliants into trickling woodland streams for over 30 days.

The 100-Acre Woods is as much a place of the imagination as it is a real time, a real place. It is the woodland a five-year-old boy wanders through, it is what he sees. He has not, we understand, studied Euclidean geometry, topology, or drafting. Sometimes, Boarlet likes to go out on his front porch, stretch his legs and walk up the side of his tree in defiance of gravity and sanity, until his old friend Pooh slides weirdly along the ground like a sidewinder snake.

It’s probably those mushrooms they’ve been eating.

Texas Thrift on I35 near 51st, Austin

First a refreshing breath of copyright infringement.

Obviously, it doesn’t count as flagrant trademark violation if you mold the entire thing out of chewing gum, right? Right. This blobby little pustule of a bear seems to have been carved out of a solid, massive mountain of raw “Wrigley’s Chew” ore, and left to stand in his best “Lo, I am Ozymandius, and I love you” pose over the nearby village of lower Crapton. He may not make the town feel any safer, he’s unlikely to come to life when the neighboring countryside is threatened, but he does make your self-esteem a little stronger. Go, you.

Just hang in there, guy! You’ve got so much to live for!

Well, maybe not.

Once again, someone didn’t enjoy their crafts hour, and is going to have to sit in their room while the rest of the group gets to watch “Pleasant Bill and the Theraputic Riders.”

I’m imagining the artist–and I’m giggling a bit as I imagine him–stabbing at the creature’s eyes with a blue-stained, thumb-thick brush, screaming “Stare no more, ursine menace! Your sight I take from thee!!” Paint splatters the wall as the guy’s handlers drag him carefully from the room, hoping to debrush him before he defiles another piece of sculpture.

I’m glad the artist gave him fangs. They’re kind of a nice touch, a bit of menace just in case the bright blue alien face paint job didn’t creep you out enough. At least he could have cared enough to give the poor little guy differentiated toes.

“Charles, are you finished painting your bear?”

“Md’n.”

“What did you say, Charles?”

“I’m d’n.”

“Did you want to finish painting the rest of your bear, Charles? You didn’t finish painting all of him. Do you want to finish painting your bear, Charles?”

*splash*

“Okay, Charles, I guess it’s time to put the paints away.”

Not-so-Tenderheart from the Goodwill on 290 near Goodwill Computers, Old Blue-Eyes from the Salvation Army on 183 near Anderson Mill, Austin

I don’t know what’s sadder–the tragedy that befell America’s favorite mouse, or the fact that I COULD have lined up a shot of Mickey with a poodle head and utterly failed to. I think the latter.

14, huh? Is that the number of ladies that have fallen for Pluto’s sweet lines, the number of angry, spike-collared husbands he’s left in his wake? The number of broken hearts? Or does that just mean he’s 84 in dog years?

Sadly, I may never know what Mickey was holding. I’m guessing it was somehow related to dogs, or something he yanked out of his luggage in a fit of rage. “I TOLD you never to bring that cocker spaniel slut here again! You could have had everything. You could have had it all, fellah! The bed, the ottoman, I would have even forgiven you for the time you brought my newspaper back covered in mud. But this…oh no, not this.”

All of which would have been substantially funnier if I’d lined the shot up so that he had a poodle head, that’s all I’m saying.

Let Mickey hold your giant soap. Mickey loves soap. And he’s here to help you wash. Wash and scrub. Scrub away the dirt and sin. Keep scrubbing until you, too, have no face. Mickey would prefer it if you were faceless. Perhaps torso-less as well. Mickey’s somewhat demanding.

Mickey sans head from Goodwill in Oak Hill on the “Y,” Mickey Ashtray from Goodwill on 183 and Metric, Austin

In honor of the new “Smurfs” movie, and what a great honor it is, we proudly present…whatever the hell these things are.

Which are probably smurfs. Or at least “inspired by” smurfs, in the sort of loose, Hollywood sense of “inspired by” which gave us “The Cat and the Hat: The Movie: The Video Game.” Oh, and what pseudosmurfs these are! Distorted by a ham-fisted sculptor and the terror of the Peyo Estate’s mighty army of copyright lawyers, these poor little blue guys are weird, must un-smurfy mutations of their original selves. I think I’ll call them Smiirfs, to distinguish them from a childhood memory I still have some love for.

The poor guy on the left has had it the worst. They stole his knees. THEY STOLE HIS KNEES!! The ubiquitous smurf tight-fitting speedo briefs, rather than being the sexy figure-hugging weapon of seduction that they are, now become something more like a diaper wrapped around some sort of overweight fungus in an ageplay-mycophilia smashup so unpleasant there isn’t a fetish group about it, even in Japan.

And yet, he’s still happy. Thumbs up, squashed, bloated blue truffle thing. Go put on some clothes now. You’re past your smurfkini days, sir. Plus, your chain is clashing with your mascara, we can’t have that.

Then there’s Papa Smiirf.

Who’s in a commanding, “Paul Bunyan” sort of pose, and has graduated from the smurfkini to some sort of smurfy red overalls. But there’s something wrong, so wrong, with his head. it’s about as head-shaped as an ice cream cone, a weird blue wedge suggesting a container from which smurf-type products, like smurfpaste and Preparation S, can be squeezed. Just get a grip on him and remove the red cap.

We are officially creeped out by his plumage, facial and otherwise. The beard is very strange–more like a thin paste spread evenly over his neck and chin, maybe to baste on some flavor, maybe he just wants a shave (just don’t touch the chest, it’s 70′s night at Studio 54.)

Oh…and call Boris Karloff. Someone’s stolen his hair.

Goodwill on Metric and 183, and they were there for WEEKS.

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