So, points to the artist for ambition. For the will toward greatness. Not so much for capturing the lifelike movement of dance, though, these look more like awkward, wobbly ballerina-shaped wooden tops…except for the faces.

Because the faces are where the artist reached too far.

Okay, to be fair, the artist reached too far when s/he was on the “paints” aisle at Michael’s, but on the faces we can really see where vision outstripped, maybe not skill, but certainly the limits of a 5/32″ flat soft-bristle brush. The faces were, basically, where things really went wrong. Maybe not at first, though. You have to build up to the wrong.

The bloom, as they say, is not yet off the rose. This dancer just broke free of the strange pink holding field, and still hasn’t metamorphosed into her final demonic form. Don’t worry, it’ll happen soon enough.

The change is starting, oh so slowly. And I’m sorry, I was wrong, this wasn’t La Bayadere, it was apparently an exciting experimental version of Cyrano de Bergerac that totally knocked down the gender rolls.

And that is one buff ballerina. I can understand dancers having strong legs, but this one’s been working on her biceps. Treasure her beauty, kids, because, my god, is it fleeting.

This was the last thing the male lead saw before that last, fatal, pas a deux. Then there was a horrible crunching sound, and a 15-minute intermezzo which wasn’t listed on the program. Then the understudy went on for the second half, and really, he wasn’t bad.

Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin

She really let herself go after her stage career fell apart. Frankly, not just anyone can wear gold body paint like that. And not just anyone should. But points for style. At least two points, maybe even three.

I’m digging on the strange ear-buds. They’re kind of like something I saw Martha Stewart make out of two walnut shells and a can of gold spray. But I don’t think she was suggesting they go on anybody’s ears. I guess better that than adding a few tassels and seeing if they can spin in opposite directions.

That’s how you can tell we’re classy people.

Somehow, this reminds me less of the big top or a ballet troup than an anti-gin campaign poster. Fair ladies, do not partake of the juice of the juniper berry, or you will end up most seriously blotto.

To be fair, she is something of a lightweight. After all, she’s made of papier-mâché. But I have to ask, how many bottles of Beefeater would it take for me to end up catatonic and splay-legged in the housewares section of Savers?  One? A martini? It’s a short, short road to degradation, my friend. You just turn left on Dean Keaton and Red River and drive a half mile, and hang a right when you pass Excess, you can’t miss it.

Savers on North Loop and Burnet, Austin

We’re clearly having one of those days where we feel more like a partially-set custard than a human. This is a good Monday statuette.

Lordy, the poor thing’s nose is starting to recede. I hope that doesn’t happen to me when I get older, life’s complicated enough. And I also hope I’m never desperate enough for hair color that I use a yellow highlighter to, well, add some highlights. It’s unattractive. But it does break the otherwise unrelenting brown monotony this individual brings to the table.

On closer inspection, though, not a canary. It may be a pet rock, or possibly a groundhog. It may be a small imp composed of fat which is siphoning away her life energy, which would explain her gentle, graceful collapse, and might even get us a bit closer to the answer of “why do her eyes spin in opposite directions like a chameleon?” Why, because of the fat-demon. Silly question, really.

Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin

Not to be too awfully reductionist, but wouldn’t your religious experience be that much better if it was more like an episode of Cheers? Warm and friendly, with a savior that waves at you and knows your drink order before you place it? Granted, serving a Captain Morgan and Coke in the Holy Grail lacks a certain gravitas, and is possibly even somewhat blasphemous, but it’s his cup after all. Take, drink, this is my cocktail, which I have mixed for you. Do this in remembrance of Happy Hour.

I’m sure I’ve brought this up before, because I’m a little crazy for saint statues, but what’s with the lipstick? I can handle Mary tarting it up with some blush and lip-liner–maybe not quite as much as she did on Wednesday–but I’ve never really been comfortable with the Jesuses, Josephs, and Christophers of the world wearing “passion pink.” That and the faux-velvet beadwork bar makes JC look a little like he’s mixing Appletinis at Aunt Charlie’s Lounge, which would be very ecumenical of him, but I’m not quite ready for Sixth Street Saturday Night Saviors quite yet.

Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin

In fact, it looks a bit like the late 80′s sneezed on her. How she can maintain her spiritual serenity while being attacked by day-glow jelly donuts, their sticky vital fluids leaking down her face to collect in adhesive pools in her once-white mantle, I have no idea. She must have taken a course.

Once again, I think someone at “You Paint It! Crafts Emporium” didn’t take mom’s rich gift of a $7/hour painting session with the gravitas it deserved, and ended up getting a little freaky with the neon and pastel palette. And, as always, isn’t it the mother of Christ that suffers?

She looks like she was attacked by an octopus in the arts-and-crafts section of Wal-Mart. It wallowed through the paints, wrapped its giant tentacles around her, and left a series of nasty sucker-hickies before it realized that you’re really not supposed to eat and/or grope major Western religious figures. Octopuses…they seldom learn.

Jesus, for the record, hated his mother’s “crafty” period, and went into carpentry purely out of rebellion–she really wanted him to be a designer. But that, unlike iridescent magenta, didn’t seem to run in the family.

Savers on Burnet and North Loop, Austin

Except of course I’m paid by the word, and I work HARD for my $.57/week.  I can only speculate that the sculptor’s intent was to show how excited the AIBO was to see its master coming home from school. And, in a sense, mission achieved, assuming you meant definition #3 of “excited.”

The boy, however, really doesn’t care. Despite the astonishing duplication of a dog’s behavior being exhibited by a machine (and I’m a little surprised they programmed in that particular behavior, but, hey, different strokes for different folks,) he really doesn’t care. This is the face of a deeply unimpressed child, one who’s leg is routinely violated by a robot dog every day after school. Must be hell on the fabric.

Though the posture is not indifference. The posture is religious ecstasy, as of St. Clare of Assisi bathed in celestial light as JHVH-1 says, “Pretty good job this week. Next week, a little less pious suffering, a little more humble servant, and I think you’ll have it.” Which, on the whole, clashes with being molested by an electric dog, but this being cheap resin sculpture imported from the Guangdong province, they probably already had the mold ready and just pasted on a backpack and baseball cap. And of course, the robot dog. No forgetting that.

Inappropriate behavior, Sparky. Don’t make me hit you with a rolled up “Huffington Post” column.

Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin

Sadly, there’s only one. My theory is that someone tried the other one on, and it stuck. They probably had to pull out the Shoehorn of Life to pry him out. If he ever came out. Maybe you’ll here him late at night in Goodwill…step…CLACK…step…CLACK…

I could be stretching a bit on the “Elf shoe” thing. But there’s a resemblance. If you made a shoe, presumably for an elf, out of clay…and he tried to take it off when it was still drying…and you covered it with a sort of lemon curd-based glaze…and you tried to sew it back together with a Frankenstein-crude running stitch…you’d get this. And you’d probably get rid of it, but a nice person would just throw the darn thing away rather than wasting Goodwill’s time on it. Basically, you’re kind of a jerk. And here’s you’re shoe.

Or possibly, the prow of a majestic leather ship, sewn together after its fateful encounter with a urineberg on the great Privy Sea. The terrible sound was unforgettable. The smell? Slightly worse.

Don’t jump up and down next to the kiln. Sad things happen. This once-proud candy dish dreamt of glory, of Werthers originals. Now? It might be good for bacon grease.

Actually, it’d be great for bacon grease. You could make a pork-scented lamp out of it. I wish I’d thought of that earlier. Before someone bought the silly thing.

Cheese: Not a valid construction material. Never build with cheese. We told the French navy this, but did they listen? Non.

I was actually saving this guy for my 4/20 annual “pots” post, but I hiatused right past it. Mea culpa. But we’re back, and we apologize for our grand return.

Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin

I’m pretty sure I saw this on Mystery Science theater—the Junk Drawer Organizer. But I never thought I’d see one of these magnificent creatures in the wild. And yet…and yet. Does your junk drawer have a “lip balm” slot? Mine does. And a convenient slot for notepads. No convenient slot for pens, I note, but efficiency sometimes takes primacy over functionality. Maybe he just had a lot of notepads laying around. And you certainly wouldn’t want dozens of lip balm tubes rattling around in your drawer.

I like this. It’s both well-prepared and honest. A nice little graveyard for batteries that no-one knows nor cares about, and a place for Mystery Keys to live out their long, pointless existence. I’m glad they have a home.

Although I do wonder, “how many tweezers does one person need?” Sixteen? Fifty? Corner the tweezer market? I guess you couldn’t just have a “grooming” drawer, that would be granular enough. And you might get lip balm on your clippers. In the new world order of the modern junk drawer, we’ll have none of that nonsense.

So, if we’re ever caught in some sort of disaster with only the contents of our meticulously organized junk drawer to bring us through the crisis, at least we’ll still have cards. But I think this is the sort of mind that carefully fold and hang each garment when playing Strip Poker. I think I know this person.

Okay, not a horror, it was just too quirky to leave unexplored…

Goodwill on 2222 and Lamar, Austin

Because lord knows, babies hate to miss “pooh week.” They’re really all about pooh. He’s even wearing the team colors.

This assumes the team colors are jarring red, cheerful yellow, and “gently used spaghetti-os” brown, and that Pooh would have some of that action leaking down his chin. I’m willing to make this assumption, though, because the poor little guy’s obviously having a bad day. I’m not sure if I meant the baby or Pooh, though. The baby doesn’t seem to be having a bad day, he’s clearly crushed his enemies under his mighty, flannel-wrapped bottom, and that MUST make anyone’s day a little better. Perhaps that’s a scowl of rage, determination, and triumph. It only looks like gas.

All babies look a little like Winston Churchill. This one looks like Winston Churchill just ate a caterpillar, and then learned that he was severely allergic to lepidoptera in all their many and splendid forms, and had about three hours left to live. And badly needed a diaper change. Do I waste ten precious, precious minutes on clean nappies? Or do I give that impassioned and history-changing speech at Parliament? These are the times that try baby’s souls.

 Goodwill on Parmer and I35, Austin