As of late, little to report.
Working at the thrift shop a bunch of neck massagers come in, they're all thrown out without testing.
I pick one up, take it home.
And it doesn't work.
Which intrigues me, the power light goes on - what could be wrong? And so I give it a little detour before throwing it into the garbage. Taking it apart I find - that there is NO massager inside whatsoever - and that it's claims of being a "Neck Massager" are greatly exaggerated.
It's a funny ole world...
Today, putting out someone's lifetime collection of Owls.
I mean, my eyes were bleeding by the time I was done. How does this happen? I mean, probably at one point this person found an Owl knick-knack, picked it up, liked it, took it home. Maybe she was a schoolteacher - probably, in fact, owls are generally regarded as wise, and teachers are generally regarded as wiser than their pupils.
SO the first one could have been a gift.
From there, someone spotted it on her shelf, word got out, and for the rest of her life people gave her owls 'for her collection'. She probably didn't even like owls, but, under the increasing weight and presumption of others just bit the bullet and was condemned to a lifetime of Owl Collecting.
Bloody hell there's a tragedy.
There's a pattern with these collections - usually they're owned by women, and they usually fall into a few motifs. Butterflies - which are transformation, mermaids - sexual repression, Unicorns, symbolizing purity and innocence, ...
You get the idea. But when the shit comes in My God it fills boxes.
Even just looking at this photo is making my eyes bleed again.
***
A couple of other shelves full of kitsch so you can wash your eyes...
Note the Norman Rockwell sculpture of a kid reaching into an Old Man's Pocket. That shit doesn't fly anymore Grandpa...
And the heinous resin bears..."Collectable". Nothing that says collectable on it - whether it be a plate, figurine, whatever - ever is.
***
Following, somebody dropping off donations. I'm going through what he's got on offer when M*** shows up - he interrupts my rummaging to greet M*** and then, explaining to me that he's his "Back Door Buddy". I know what he meant but I still take it as my cue to leave.
I'm not making this shit up...
And M***, when he comes to the back just shakes his head, he knows what I'm thinking - and, goddamned this politically correct world because...if he were Ken...
Well, you know.