Little antique mall of horrors

A day in the country. I could write for hours about it--what all I saw, what all I did--but I'm still trying to finish posts I started last month. Why delay, dear readers, the wit, insights, and perverse takes on reality you have come to know, expect, and flinch from?

So here we go--especially for you, the SmartBlogtucky, the iBlogtucky, the GoogleBlogtucky, simplified for quick sale and abbreviated for the ADHD Generation, I present you with . . . Little Antique Mall of Horrors. Not many words, just mainly pictures taken with a medium-quality, 3-year-old Motorola flip-phone.

Enter--if you dare!

We'll get to the lead frightening image in a moment, but first, let's have a chat about PeeWee's Glen or Glenda doppelganger cousin. Why, it's none other than Marilyn Monroe! And Marilyn again! And even more Marilyn! All painted (or something) onto the most lurid-colored Fiestaware you could probably not even imagine, not even with the aid of hallucinogens. Colors so Timothy Lear-ish, acid-is-groovy, that it isn't so much the case that they do not exist in nature but, in fact, do not even exist in synthetic form.

Sort of Phoenix lawn green with an antifreeze chaser. Or maybe a Texas bluebonnet blue in desperate need of a gall bladder operation. Hard to describe. Even harder to fathom. And, unfortunately, its essence not fully captured through the lens of a flip-phone. Alas.

Now at the risk of offending the artist as well as members of my very own homo queerectus tribe--and trust me, I'm about to--I just have to ask: What was this queen thinking? I mean, Marilyn Monroe?! On Fiestaware?!?! Isn't that some kind of a double whammy of limp-wristed nancy-ness? Doesn't that kind of double-gilding the calla lily cancel out the previous gilding--plus run the danger of tilting the world off its axis and sending it spinning uncontrollably into a David Gest-like face-sucking blackhole filled with glitter, sequins, and showtunes?

All I can say is, I sure hope you know what forces you're messin' with, Princess.

Let's take a moment: Of course, it's me writing this, so everything has to have a gay angle. If you were expecting something other than fruited tropical rum drinks, sodomy, and the eyelash, I'm so sorry to disappoint you, but really, you should have charged a clue or two on your AmEx when I led this post with references to PeeWee Herman and Marilyn Monroe.

For you see, observing the "gay thing" and its bizarro incarnations on our semi-fabulous planet--well, it's what I bring to the rather impeccably decorated table, if I do say. As long as there is breath in my body and evangelical ministers with rentboys on speed dial, I'll be there, deskchair quarterbacking life's more homo subtextual moments. And I suspect to have a long and happy career at this, as the wowser populace, despite recent political upsets, lives on and will forever need something to rail against, as well as someone to go to when their straight-laced lives get them down--or it's time for their roots to be colored. Whichever comes first.

So, a tip of the appletini to Mr. Romney. A waft of smoke from the Gitane for Mr. Huckabee. Kisses, darlings. You need me as much as I need you. Let's don't call the whole thing off, chitlins, for I'd be left with nothing to write about.

Perhaps, though, I jab this particular stiletto of innuendo a little too early, a little too often, although, admittedly, not very deeply (and of course when I say "stiletto," I'm referring to the high heel not the weapon, dollface). Still, there's truth lying in the grooves of the surface scratches I inflict on the linoleum of life. For just a case or two down from the Housewares Department's shrine to Marilyn, I found another photo op--G.I. Joe (or a reasonable facsimile thereof) in all fetish gear.

Once again, the photo doesn't quite bring the scene to life, as it were. So let moi offer vous the haute couture reportage: Joe here is wearing a black leather zip-up jacket and matching black leather trousers. Always a classic, masculine look, one sure never to go wrong with the ladies--and a fair number of the fellas as well. Strut, pout, put it out, Joe!

But, oh dear, he is, as you say, sans shoes. A fashion faux-pas, Monsieur Joe!

However, this can be explained: If I remember correctly, Joe was missing a foot as well.

Stepping away from the catwalk for a moment, I can honestly say that I don't quite get the point of dressing up one's doll in last season's leftovers from the Folsom Street Fair. Still, perhaps I am misreading the visuals. Is this a rare example of the line of failed action figures from Al Pacino's 1980 gay-baiting celluloid fiasco, Cruising? Or perhaps plucky props are in order to some seamy seamstress out there. She/he seems to say, gals, why go out and plop down a wad of pesos on one of those expensive Billy, Carlos, or Tyson dolls when you can run up one of your very own with the remnants of an old Naugahide sofa and a remaindered Butterick pattern?

Regardless, Barbie's main squeeze Ken is cowering in the corner, I'm sure.

Or maybe not . . . because in the same case, a shelf or two above, I found this disturbing image--naked Ken. Or maybe naked G.I. Joe. Or perhaps even naked Big Jim. Naked somebody. With a price tag affixed to his rather ripped torso. Oh, if only it were that simple, that all men came with price tags attached to their chests . . . .

This Jim did at least have both feet, but his head didn't match his body, as the body was tanned and the face pasty white--although this does sort of reflect an odd Pennsylvania reality, given the obsession with the tanning bed in these here parts. Personally, I love how Jim's legs have been crossed discreetly at the ankles. Nothing whispers modesty more.

The more I explored, the more this little antique shop of horrors continued Flickring its depravity to me (and now from me to you). Look at this scene--as best as I can figure, it's some sort of dismembered ceramic naked body, just splayed on the floor, alongside of a cooking pot. A nice touch in window-dressing, I'll give you that, but next time, a tip for my friends in store-merchandising--do go the extra dimension, remove the pot lid, and put a spare leg in it for optimum ghoulish effect.

And, finally, there's our lead photo--PeeWee Herman stuffed in the bottom of a basket. Ah, too many words, too many images. So I'll give it to you in one sentence: It's like a scene from some weird porno as directed by Charlie McCarthy.

Oh, the humanity . . . .