Wednesday, November 30, 2016

Crazy Crafty: wacky tacky Tree Toppers Two Ways

Grandmas are so crafty, spending countless hours leading up to every holiday ping-ponging between their Pfaffs, tangles of yarn and crochet hooks, and shakers full of glitter.  The only thing more comforting than learning the myriad ways in which pom-poms and bits of felt can be transformed into everything from tree skirts to toilet-paper cozies was the warmth of being gathered into the suffocating succor of her bosomy embrace.

This Christmas' Crazy Crafty projects should prove every bit as comforting as granny crafts of yore; but just imagine, instead of a sweet old granny, a large man of equally heavy bosom slinging a glue gun as hot as a two-dollar pistol.  Struggling every year to find the tree topper of my dreams, it finally came time to make one - or two - of my own.

Early drafts of potential tree toppers were expected to follow the cone-shaped body of this
angelic Phyllis Diller lookalike.  But Phyllis' stick-straight lines just weren't going to cut
it for the more womanly angel that I had in mind. 

Inspiration struck in the curvy form of a bell!  As per usual, my craft-making ethos is, "If it ain't in the stash or it can't be found at the 99 Cents Store, then it's probably not going to happen."  So, I headed to the mecca of the impecunious crafter, finding among other sundries a set of three graduated, silver bells.  Gathering metallic rickrack, tinsel pipe cleaner, glitter tulle, and the disembodied doll parts that my brother and his wife found in a dark corner of their garage, I began to assemble my angel.

My supplies - if it doesn't include a toilet-paper roll, liquid-soap bottle, or
cottage cheese container then it doesn't really count as a granny craft, does it?



"If I were a bell, I'd be ringing!"

I covered the cardboard roll with colored paper and secured it inside the large bell base.
I shrouded a smaller bell in glitter tulle and finished it with a band of rickrack at the
bottom and at the neckline.

I "fleshed out" the upper arms with tinsel pipe cleaner. 

You little snow angel!

I fashioned the wings and the silver petal peplum out of a deconstructed Christmas flowers from the 99.
The skirt is several layers of the tulle, gathered and then trimmed in rickrack. 

I won't say that my mom was dismayed exactly; perhaps "confused" is a better word for her mental state when she discovered two of her thirty-something sons excitedly discussing the merits of DIY doll making and the results of such.

Maybe she couldn't appreciate it because she hadn't notice how liberally
I applied the half-used packet of sticky-backed rhinestones to the skirt.
Never one to leave tacky enough alone, I spied the one remaining unadorned figural lady lamp among the wacky tacky archives (you may recall from the Crazy Crafty post about "The Lady in the Tutti Frutti Lamp" that independently of one another, each of my brother's gave me the same sexy-lady lamp base).  Momentarily angry at myself for heretofore overlooking her obvious holiday charms, I quickly realized that it was not too late to explore her tree-topping potential.

"Merry Christmas, boys!"

Following similar steps to the snow angel tree topper, I made a teal under dress with a full circle skirt and an over dress of teal netting trimmed in iridescent rickrack and rhinestones.

Wanting to disguise the socket, I found among the christmas hoardings a fully-lit, flashing tree topper.
Remembering that there exists such a thing as a socket -to-outlet converter, I hid the wires and plugged it in.

I think the tinsel headdress transforms this snow girl into a full-on showgirl. 

Devil or angel?
I even made her stacks of rickrack-and-rhinestone bangles!
She's practically lit from within!

Here shine the two of the wacky-tacky-est tree toppers in all of their glittering, yuletide glory.

Do you ever get the feeling, like you've created a cherished family 
heirloom before you've even had time to share your project?
I do.

As you can kind of see, the snow angel was awarded pride of place rather
than our version of "the soft glow of electric sex gleaming in the window."
It's a good thing for the runner-up that we have erected two christmas trees this year! 

Have you made any Christmas crafts this year?  If you're not thrilled with who sits atop your tree year after year, remember that granny always said, "Idle hands are the devil's playground;" get those holiday hands busy and make your own wacky tacky tree topper!


Cheers!

Mr. Tiny

Tuesday, September 13, 2016

Holy Rollin': BOTS Invades Salvation Mountain

Salvation Mountain is Instagrammer's ecstasy.


A much-revered landmark for IG users, Salvation Mountain is a checklist destination perfectly prohibitive in its desert geography (close enough for social media sojourners to get there and back within a day, distant enough to give every picture pilgrim the appropriate amount of cool cred for making the otherwise desolate journey).  As evidenced by the thousands of carefully-filtered photos bearing the eponymous hashtag, Salvation Mountain is a place for disingenuous youth to affect the poses that have become so subconsciously familiar (those characterized by the subjects' well-studied stare as they regard the horizon with an expert combination of anguish and apathy).  A colorful, if slightly sun-blistered backdrop, Salvation Mountain's unqualified Judeo-Christian ethos can be tolerated in the name of post-ironic photo gathering.  A surefire "heart" magnet, Salvation Mountain elicits envy and scorn in equal measure.  In short, it is Instagram.  The veneer protecting my contempt for social media sociology may seem perilously thin, yet there we were excitedly making the trek to a destination every bit worthy of its celebrity.

video
Get a load of this!
Music and video by Mary

I refuse to insult anyone's intelligence by pretending that a profundity greater than the average mountain climber's motivated our visit.  Yes, the wacky tacky adventure team, in our quest to storm America's greatest trash castles, was there to document the divinely-inspired folk art of Leonard Knight...but not before procuring some ultra-hip photographic evidence of our own day trip.


Blazing our trail, we began to spitball a few ideas for heightening our experience at Salvation Mountain; as we flew past a discount store, I suggested that it might be fun to arrive in white sweatsuits and drugstore flip flops, giving the appearance of a cult pilgrimage.  Call it pretense, if you must, but I was looking for a way to add a layer of humor to our visit (after all, the ten sexiest Instagram poses lose something in translation when applied to a fat man on the cusp of middle age).  When the elusive white sweat suit became our proverbial white whale; we were forced to settle for the offerings of the paint aisle, leaving the hardware store in crisp, white coveralls and a trio of matching safety goggles.

Introducing BOTS (Brotherhood of Terrestrial Salvation)
Like a mess of meth-making Mike Teavees

Salvation Mountain is the lifework and ministry of Leonard Knight.  What started in the 1970s as a proselytizing mission via homemade hot air balloon (seriously) evolved into an '80s-era devotional of straw, clay, found objects, and countless coats of house paint.  It took two tries and many years for Knight to master his signature mountain-making technique; through it all, his faith, love, and generosity never wavered.  Expansion and maintenance of his passion project continued until his health began to fail in 2011.  In the years since his subsequent death, local volunteers have lovingly preserved Knight's masterpiece.

Love is all you need.  You may quote me.

This legacy of love is the true message of Salvation Mountain.  Christian and nonbeliever alike are reminded at every turn that the purpose of our existence is love.

Just in case anyone missed the literal writing on the wall,
these two BOTS brethren demonstrate how to get a heart on.

It was unclear whether other Knight devotees were feeling the love of the BOTS' presence.  Despite a woeful lack of purpose/planning on our part, many videos and photographs - surreptitious and otherwise - were taken as we silently marched our way up and over the mountain (with un-swinging arms for that authentic touch of cultish weirdness).

She's still wondering if the label on the coveralls was accurate - "One size saves all."

One confused Brit was brave enough to approach me and inquire after our presence; struggling for a clever response, I instead feigned a vow of silence, trying and failing to communicate with meaningless hand gestures.  When the BOTS did speak, it was a practice in improvisational call-and-response between Sister Siusiak's Polish and our semi-Slavic gibberish, punctuated liberally by the Polish slang for wiener.

Starting to question our own bizarre behavior, all we needed was to turn a corner for a loving affirmation.

Things reached a new pinnacle of strange when we formed a human triangle (facing inward with our hands on each other's shoulders) and began to vocalize in unison.  I'm willing to place a generous amount of accountability upon our choice of ensemble; with temperatures upwards of 110 degrees, the internal temperature of our space suits might very well have been delirium inducing.

You could say that we were getting carried away by the spirit of the Man Upstairs...

In the end, we couldn't decide if we were the lighthearted antidote to the hordes of picture pilgrims or ourselves symptomatic of the devolution of weird roadside in America.  As the conflict rages on, we are seriously considering making BOTS official.

We are mobilizing.

And Brother Cyrus says the reaping is nigh.

Resistance is futile.

If you don't want to get left behind, all you must do is "Jump in the Line."

video
"Jump in the Line" - Harry Belafonte (1961)
This video has been brought to you by Fartco, Inc.


Salvation Mountain
Beal Rd
Niland, CA



Cheers and Amen!

Mr. Tiny
(Brother Diminutata)

Monday, August 1, 2016

Sew What?! A Shimmering '60s Minidress???

How often does it happen that you start out with every intention of creating a shimmering, '60s minidress...


Only to end up - after hours of sewing and hand-finishing - with Jane Jetson's housecoat?

Sorry, George...

It probably didn't help that this Mr. Tiny Original was made out of a lightweight upholstery fabric featuring alternating stripes of purple and gold lamé (recognizable from Mary's red Happy Holiday Frock); the metallic fabric sewn into a Star Trekian v-shaped yoke only added to the mid-century, space-age sensibility. 

Yes, Mary was fated to look like a dress-extra from that lesser known sci-fi masterpiece, Mars Needs Matrons.  

I really should have seen this one coming.

As I don't often sew in shades of violet, I was devoid of an appropriate lining
material.  In typical cheapskate make-do fashion, I dove into my stash of remnants,
emerging with this piece of Marimekko's beautiful Tulipunainen print (1960). 

Brainstorming for a way to elevate the humble housecoatery of my creation, I returned to the sewing machine and made a matching pair of fully-lined dance pants.  

Dance pants or decorative diaper cover?  You be the judge.

It was only then I realized that, when paired with the brevity of the hemline, the briefs only served to make the dress look like a '60s babydoll nightie.  Undeterred, Mary took the dress out for its first spin last year at Jonathan Toubin's Soul Clap at Downtown LA's Regent Theater.  So busy dancing were we that, of course, we photo'd not a single op.

Fortunately, representatives from LA Weekly were on hand to catch Mary "Tighten Up."
(Source)

Truly, the only pictures we have come courtesy of the Weekly's Lena Lecaro.
(Source)

Languishing among the racks of barely-worn Mr. Tiny creations, this dress came to mind when Mary was deciding on potential outfits for the Brian Wilson "Pet Sounds" concert we attended over the weekend.  As the event was the highlight of California's Mid-State Fair (and the lives of these two California kids), we attempted to make the most of our surroundings by making our way to the midway! 

Armed with only our phones, we did our best to
capture the ambient light provided by the rides.

In honor of the wheel, we call this dress "Bueller."
(brought to you by Spacely's Space Sprockets).

Mary swings with...well, swings!

My favorite ride has always been the carnival swings.
I love the feeling of flying amongst the romantic portraits 
of all those lovely ladies painted on the canopy.

Details of the dress are few in these photos but one is certainly evident.
Like all women who wear dresses, Mary was particularly pleased with the pockets!!!

This dress marks the millionth time I have kidded Mary for rarely/never wearing the clothes I make for her.  After two nights out on the town, I tell myself that I am allowed to count this dress among my successes.  Without any resentment, I am satisfied if the future of this frock is relegated to becoming the futuristic housecoat it was always meant to be...I guess "[It] Just Wasn't Made for These Times."

"I Just Wasn't Made for These Times" - The Beach Boys (1966)


Cheers!

Mr. Tiny

Tuesday, July 19, 2016

Coming Home

I knew I had found my homeland when I began to recognize the heavy-browed people of generous proportion sweating through their clothing, their roughhewn features the genetic result of millennia of undiluted peasant stock.  Forever operating under the assumption that my hyperactive sweat glands were some cruel anomaly, I had finally discovered an entire creed of people whose evolutionary trajectory had set them on a path of perspiration profusion.  My people.  This primal cognition allowed me to overcome the self-consciousness induced by my sweat-stained shirt and freed me to pursue my more definitive anthropological work - comparing cankle size and structure.  I was home.

Tiny & Mary take Europe!

In my youth, I was nagged by a jealousy of the kids who spoke to their parents in Polish, Spanish, Portuguese.  I could never come to terms with the fact that, while many of my friends went to Japanese School, Chinese School, Hebrew School, the most exotic school I would ever attend was "public."

The Island of Rab, Croatia
How's that for exotic?

Where some children were stymied by the overabundance of colorful options, I always knew exactly what food I would bring to represent my heritage on Culture Day, a pristine loaf of plain, white bread (more than likely with the crusts removed).  With a surname of Slavic derivation, we practiced no language, no music, no culture that could substantiate the claims of our ancestry.  Certainly, I'm grateful to be American but I felt an urgency to connect with the land that gave me my name, my history, and my nose.

We weren't forty minutes into Croatia when we saw the sign!!

The Yugoslavian surname Simich (Simić/Šimić) puts the bearer pretty firmly in one of two camps, Serbian or Croatian (based almost entirely upon the presence/absence of the caron - that little "v" above the "S").  Knowing little about our paternal genealogy beyond its origins in the former Yugoslavia, the search for our roots was limited to Croatia by the strict policies of the car rental company; liability prohibited us from crossing the borders into Macedonia, Serbia, Montenegro, or Bosnia-Herzegovina.  This trip and the forbidden, albeit very minor, detour through Bosnia would have tickled the mischievous heart of my genealogy-loving dad to no end.

Treading the well-worn paths that many Simiches have surely trod.

We couldn't help but think of our dad throughout our Croatian sojourn.  He was with us.  In fact, so deluded by the fantasy of coming face-to-face with my father (or his Croatian doppelganger at least), I kept a watchful eye out for a happy, hulking brute entertaining crowds of people with tall tales and home cooking.  It wasn't to be.  The reality of his mother's Swiss heritage would have certainly played a role in his genetic makeup, making him not so solidly Slavic.  Nevertheless, the dominance of these Eastern European genes had me convinced that I saw a relative or two.

Are you my uncle?
Painting in panties with peacocks is a longstanding family tradition.

Too many viewings of The Parent Trap had me secretly wishing that I might even find a long lost twin whose very existence explained my face and the way it looks.  The satisfaction of such an encounter would have been profoundly tempered by the horror that there were two unfortunate souls wandering the earth with my ugly mug!

I was immeasurably comforted by my bus buddies.

There is an innocent disregard for time and law in coastal Croatia that felt organic to our independent spirits.  From the barefoot construction workers wearing naught but speedos so they could enjoy intermittent dips in the Adriatic to the bus driver who held us hostage during his break, it is clear that the acquaintance Croatians have with rules and regulations is decidedly casual.  Having long attributed our collective disposition to a carefree coastal upbringing, I began to consider the possibility that an affection for the sun and the sea, combined with a genuine mistrust of authority, might very well be hereditary.

Don't tell us what to do; we'd rather be boating!

After several wonderful days of sun-drenched swimming and stair climbing, wherein I earned plenty of blisters on both my feet and forehead, I came to realize that no matter how deeply I connected with the sights and sounds of Croatia, even on my best day I'm still only Yugoslavian-American.

I mean, in the most heinous of un-Croatian activities, I swam with a shirt on.
Let's make #swimshirtsareforheroes a thing, okay?

I probably shouldn't admit it but the American in me hates minding my own business.  From the one time I felt it my duty to firmly correct the behavior of an elderly woman for demeaning a cashier to the multitude of times I have been forcefully awoken out of a comatose-like trance whilst staring at a scene unfolding before me, I continue to insinuate myself into situations which I obviously do not belong.  As evidenced by the regular rivulet of drool coursing down my chin, the staring problem has indeed become pathological.

Some people call me a Croatian cowboy.

The American in me is silly.  If there are bubbles being blown, I will giddily chase them.  If there are fart noises to be made, I will make them fervently resound.  If there is music playing, I will dance (remind me to tell you about the time we spontaneously learned a folk dance and joined in the video of a Spanish tourist group in old Dubrovnik).

Post fiesta siesta...

The American in me is probably louder than necessary, overly smily, and unilingual.  My high school German might have helped a tiny bit in Germany, Austria, and Switzerland but crossing the border into Croatia left me dumbfounded.  I had no basis for understanding Croatian and still refuse to believe that an entire region can communicate everything it needs to say with merely a series of "sh" and "ch" noises.

"She chose to share her snowy charms
and showed her clothes were bleached."
I guessh I shouldn't casht the firsht shtone...

Genealogical research seems to be all the rage currently; I can't say that I'm really all that interested in searching out the historic celebrities with whom I might share a second-string strand of DNA.  Rather, my search was for a sense of knowing and a place of belonging.  I found it for a time in the ham-and-cheese fritters, the crinkle in the corner of the eye of the man who resembled my grandfather, the smooth limestone pathways of the old cities.  I found it in the slow pace, the love of family, and the connection to the land.

Heck, I even found it in seeing the granny panties sway on the line...

My blissful daydreams of what might have been had my great-grandparents remained in the old country were occasionally shadowed by darker images of communism and civil war.  Visiting Croatia left me torn between gratitude for my "American-ness" and wistful for a way of life that is uniquely European.  Like it or lump it, I am the sum total of each weighty branch of my family tree; the Yugoslavian branch had long felt like a stump.  My hope is that we nurtured it with plenty of Dalmatian sun and water (enriched by good, old-fashioned American dirt).

I'm going to choose it's a branch of bougainvillea.

I will still envy those childhood friends for knowing from their earliest days who they were and from whence they came.  I will probably complain (exclusively in English) about my contemptible lack of language skills - I am American after all.  I will always cherish my first trip to the land of my people; I will be equally grateful for a loving family to whom I can always return.  Croatia's sky and the sea will continue to call me but until my next adventure in the old country, I know that I am home.

Dubrovnik, Croatia (2016)

Cheers!

Mr. Tiny