Wednesday, December 28, 2005

I swear to god, I love Margaret Cho. I'm sorry, I meant to pledge my allegiance, not to "god" but to a white bearded Cho-like deity in drag. I have constructed a makeshift altar for her that consists of soiled panties and calligraphic expletive carvings. Mmmmm, Cho...
Here are some choice cho-isms. Seriously, I would chug a gallon of Cho-nogg (nice segway from yesterday, huh?).

Margaret Cho: I didn't play violin. I didn't fuck Woody Allen.

Margaret: I was hanging out in the one gay bar in all of Scotland. They have *one* gay bar. It was called C.C. Bloom's. C.C. Bloom's is the name of the character that Bette Midler played in Beaches. That is the gayest thing I have heard in my entire life. That place should just be called Fuck Me In The Ass... Bar and Grill.

Her Mother: Mommy think everybody... little bit gay. You know how you have that friend, and you love that friend so much you don't know what to do? ...It's kind of gay.

Margaret: You have to be tough to be a drag queen. Drag queens have to fight everything. They have to fight homophobia. They have to fight sexism. They have to fight pink eye.

Margaret Cho: And I went through this whole thing, you know. I was like: Am I gay? Am I straight? And I realized I'm just slutty. (laughter) Where's my parade?

Margaret Cho: I ... am a fag hag. Fag hags are the backbone of the gay community. Without us, you're nothing. We have been there ... dragging your sorry ass through the Underground Railroad ... We went to the prom with you ...

Tuesday, December 27, 2005

I am still filled with bread pudding. It is seeping out of my pores in a trickle of rum soaked raisins and doughy chunks. Yes Virginia, there is a Mrs. Claus (me), and she's lactating eggnog all over the place. I'm sure that I will be a polar pariah if this keeps up. I'll never get to second base with Blitzen now, and I'm sure "Rudolph the red nosed coke-fiend" will disinvite me from his big blow party.
For anyone who cares, I spent Christmas with the usuals (my red leather clad grandma and tongue-pierced sister) as well as my two adopted Russian cousins. The whole time the lil' Ruskies played with noisy electronic devices while asking me what the colloquial expression"giving dome," means. Sheesh!

Saturday, December 24, 2005

I am on the Geriatric Peninsula, AKA: Hilton Head Island, AKA: The Land of a Thousand Wheezing Angela Lansburys. Everyone with a walker and a dream retires to Hilton Head, although exactly why they relocate here remains to be seen. Or does it...
It all started with the great Amish Exodus of 72'. Those cwazy, bonneted, milk-spurting butterheads strapped all their old folks to Shetland Ponies and sent them to South Carolina. It seemed preferable to their former solution for old age which was DEATH BY BARN-LOWERING. It was all a little too "Oz" for the friendly wheat-sniffers (can you tell that I know nothing of the Amish?).

Anyway, I don't see why old f**ks flock here, I mean everything is made of wood, there are lots of tandem bicyclists, and alligators often eat small dogs. The alligators should eat the aforementioned lame-ass bicycle toting tourists instead! (cymbal clash and forced, awkward audience laughter). Who the fuck rides a tandem bicycle nowadays? I mean, besides Jake Gyllenhal and Heath Ledger ! (cymbal clash reprised, band leader rolls his eyes).

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

So I dyed my hair "espresso." I think it might be a little too Morticia Adams-ish for me. I feel like I should be wielding chinese throwing stars or smoking some ornate opium pipe.
Maybe I'll interview as a gravedigger. Is that still a profession, or did that die in a wave of Dickensian glory? I should practice my grave-digging Dickenspeech, "Ello' gov'ner, would you like a shoe-shine or perhaps an impromptu gravesite? I kin' make a right nice shallow hole with me jagged teeth and frostbitten appendages! And for a tuppence, I'll hop in there wif im'!"

My subtle and tactful sister Andie said that I looked like Christina Ricci. She knows full well that I think Christina Ricci looks like a bloated alien baby. She is on my s**t list.

Sunday, December 18, 2005

It's really gross and gray in the decomposing carcass of a pigment-challenged smurf. Or the devilish insides of Dick Cheney's medulla oblongata. Or the wet french countryside in a noir film called, "Le Suck" (co-starring that ear-flapping cutie, Audrey Tatou!)
What the f@#$*?

I have no idea where that came from. I need to de-gore-ify myself so that I can be properly socialized. I'm like a fucking ape. Except not King-Kong, he's much heftier than I. It would be fun to terrorize cities though...Fitzilla!

Apparently, I have blogging tourettes syndrome (see above Smurf reference). Convulsing, I type happy face signs :) and "LOL" as my fingers begin to heave and foam. Then blood spurts everywhere. It's gooey too. Don't worry, it doesn't go to waste, I re-use it to stamp my many parchments and whatnot.

It's truly humiliating. Why have the gods damned me so????!!!!! Luckily they equipped me with a keen sense of irony and a delicate palette suited for cheese whiz and ramen. And Cheese Whiz Ramen, a delectable dish of my own invention.
Shit, President Monkeypants is on addressing the nation. I would never trust anyone with an upper lip that thin. It looks like a tapeworm for Christ's sake.

Friday, December 16, 2005

I am in Columbia now, enjoying sushi with my pretend-Japanese mother. She, like me, desires to renounce her repellant pasty complexion and embrace her inner ethnicity. Personally, I think I could be a very attractive Lebanese schoolmarm, or a headress-swathed militant Maya Angelou groupie. I read her poem "Phenomenal Woman" today in the tub and got a little misty-eyed (despite the mental accompaniment of Oprah squealing it loudly on her show). Oprah and Maya are friends. Big O makes that glaringly apparent every 2 seconds as she drops Maya's name. Ok, too bitter. I like Oprah. I don't think Steadman really exists though. Let's deconstruct her "lover's" name, shall we?
St=The beginning sound of a stutter, something one might say if one is uncertain... Ead=Celtic word signifying a primitive self-pleasure device shaped like a potato. Man=woman. This has been proven by our covert feminist intelligence agents. C'mon, Oprah IS Steadman! The logic is so glaringly transparent. I should be a philosopher to the stars.

Monday, December 12, 2005

Ali go to visit Momma now. Ali leave tomorrow for South Cackalacki.

Should be tons of proto-confederate fun. What shall I do, you may ask? I dunno, visit Strom Thurmond's gravesite, eat non-packaged foodstuffs, let my momma lavish motherly attention on me (you know, awkward sponge baths and the like). Joking. They're never awkward!

I will keep up the blogging of course. In fact, my boredom might lead to some revelatory blog-writing. Still working on that army of androgynous lovers to make my life interesting. Pat from "It's Pat!" is totally in. Ta Ta.

Thursday, December 08, 2005

Just for clarification's sake, here is a Murray piece. Now someone please tell me why in god's name this is worthy of anything more than a coaster.

Wednesday, December 07, 2005

I love this quote from my favorite artcrush's blog:

"It's ok not to like [Elizabeth Murray], maybe we should start a support group for woman who feel guilty about not likeing her, though I wouldn't be in it cause I don't feel ONE IOTA of guilt for not likeing her work. Say NO to GIANT COFFEE CUP ART!"

Amen sistah. I'd like to squirt some serious macchiato on her shit. Make that a double. I'll even add some cinammon shavings and caramel flavored kerosene for effect.
Other artists that Ali feels are overrated (my scale is heavily weighted by such factors as: the asymmetry of a self-haircut, the ability to gyrate awkardly, the number of starry-eyed students seduced, and the brooding effectiveness of the furrowed brow.)
-Damien Hirst and Tracey Emin (most of those fucking YBA brats actually)
-Richard Tuttle
-Laura Owens
-Julie Meheretu
-Georg Baselitz. Upside down my ass.
-Robert Longo (only because he didn't say hi to me the other day.)
-Clay Aiken (not an artist....but perhaps an ALIEN.)
-Howard Hodgkin
-Eric Fischl
-Jim Dine
Whew, I feel better now. I just hope Damien doesn't read my blog. What am I saying? He can't read! He just plays with his slippery wee shark all day long.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Uhhhh....I am braindead. I gave a presentation in my feminism seminar today. I called it "Neo-Baroque Aesthetics and a Transmutable Gender." Wow, am I an intellectual or what? Bow down before me you plebian nightcrawlers. Go burrow your way through the dark, for lo, I am Ali: faker of smarts and orgasms. I give off my own light. It is a blacklight. Like the kind at a kinky Sadomasochist sex gathering. The one that comes equipped with an authentic 16th century Sicilian torture chamber. Yowza! Whips AND brains!
Anyway, I got to class and decided to make my presentation about something much more fun: MEEEEEEEEEE. Seriously, who cares about feminism when you can be flippant and self-loathing? I love me. No, I hate me. Both, tis' both. Sometimes I think I am eternally condemned to confusion. Don't let my strong opinions and brassy speeches fool you, I am a tender lil' amoeba, swirling around in the big vat of primordial goop that we call life. I think there's probably a better metaphor there, but like I said, I am braindead.

Sunday, December 04, 2005

Opening Fun!

Last night I went to "Shiny Object" for an opening that included the work of Robert Boland, Erin Cunningham, and Roberto Belllllllllllllllini Monteiro. I like saying Roberto's name, it makes me feel as though I am riding a Vespa through the hills of Portugal, flaming sambuca in tow. On a sidenote, I think the Portugese are an odd looking people. When I was there, it seemed as though the "unibrow" was the national facial trait. And they seemed to have an overabundance of saliva. Yes, I am being particularly ungenerous, but c'mon they deserve it, what with all their colonizin' and um....funny talkin'.

Later on, I drank delightfully spiked eggnog at Jill's and then did a weird balloon-rave-dance at an undergrad party. I tried out some new ballroom moves with Karri Paul, who dropped me unceremoniously on the dance floor. Me bum hurts today. Curse you Karri Paul, you clumsy OAF! Karri did inform me that our names "slant rhyme," but she went on to say that her jean jacket "slant-rhymed" with someone else's jean jacket. She is a slant rhyming slut.

Thursday, December 01, 2005

Apparently, I cannot paint hermaphroditic mer-people. A girl in the grad program is already doing that. What are the odds? I guess sexless, fishy mutants are tre popular right now. I smell a children's book....

It would be called, "Ariel the Little Mermaid Discovers her Blossoming Barnacle."
The next one in the series would deal with her OBVIOUS freudian Elektra complex with her daddy, king Tritan. Then, Sebastian gives her crabs. Maybe a future book details how she gets caught using electric eels for dirty, dirty, things.

I would feel more perverted if the cover of the aforementioned Disney Film did not look like a giant wang.

Monday, November 28, 2005

I was contemplating the future subject matter of my paintings when I thought, "Hermaphroditic mer-people...yes Ma'm!"
They swam towards me as if in a vision; their scaly fins caressing my inner ear as they emitted baritone moans and snorted baby hammerheads. Snorting baby sharks is like heroin for those mer-nare-do-wells. It is only surpassed in potency by Humpback Crack, which is a favorite among heat-packin octopi (and Whitney Houston).

Sunday, November 27, 2005

Carnie vs. Cassie

Mmmmmm, clean livin' feels good. I went to the gym today. To give you some context, the last time I worked out Nick and Jessica were still in newly nympho-ed marriage bliss. Now I am "Healthy Ali," purveyor of parsnips (what is a parsnip really? I actually have no idea....I am a SLAVE to alliteration I tell you...). I owe the brand new me to pilates, the Kabbalah, and the mellifluous vocal stylings of Carnie Wilson. Carnie was on 20/20 recently, she done plumped up again. She better watch out for those ham sammiches lest she meet the same fate as Mamma Cass. Cass was somehow cooler though right? She really had a handle on the whole morbidly obese "thang." Carnie is a much diluted version of that kind of self-loathing fueled eating. She is, ironically, "Cass Light." Fewer calories, but she can't rock the cellulite the same way. Anyway, I have not had a cigarette in almost 3 days. Mom, I know you're proud. We'll see how long my impulse control will last tomorrow in the mornin'time. To make up for my discipline in this arena, I will have to relinquish control in others. I guess I WILL get that fancy clavicle tattoo that I always wished for. It's going to say: "This is my clavicle. It's far enough above my chest to be classy. Heath Huxtable 4-EVA."

Friday, November 25, 2005

So, I spent a gravy-filled, potato packed Thanksgiving at my favorite fiery red-head's. That is the ever-irreverent Erin Smith for those of you who don't know her. She is a pistol. And not the kind that is capped off with a fake orange top, she is the real deal. Smith without the Wesson. The kind of pistol wielded by a hunch-backed Charlton Heston as he lunges awkwardly toward the nearest spittoon. What do you think Charlton and Tom Selleck do at their meetings? I'm thinking that there is some covert weapon-stroking that goes on in the secret man-sauna at the dude ranch. I'm sure the "Bareback Mountain" screening will go over well. Then there's the lil' Triggers in Training (TIT would be their inaccurate acronym.) Their only duty is to be well-oiled with big, long gun-cleaning instruments (which they shove convincingly into the barrels). Have I gone too far? Is Charton Heston going to smother me to death with his stringy neck skin? Stay tuned to find out....DA DA DUM.

Monday, November 21, 2005

I TA'd all day and then saw a really canine-a-licious performance by Indian Princess Amelia, Jules Buckstar Jones (amongst others, who I don't feel like giving glib monikers). Earlier in the day my lovely lil' students gave me cupcakes---and by doing so, stripped me of my dignity. I ate like 12.
Sooooooo, I'm now on a sugar low. I gots' the shakes real bad. But alas, one cannot rationally carry around an IV filled with creamy icing goodness. But if ONE were irrational, well, a whole world of confectionary fulfillment would be possible... Bearclaw belly-rings, creme brulee inhalers, cinammon bun syringes... I could go on, but don't worry I won't.
Other news: I am happy and I have a functioning DVD player. Life is gooood.

Saturday, November 19, 2005

The masked maurader blogger returns!

I'm baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack (insert spooky Chucky photo here.)

So I am done with mah shows, and I can now reclaim my life. I'm using the term "life" fairly liberally, seeing as how my days will now be spent watching Judge Judy's menopausal episodes in my underwear while consuming any cheese-related product available. That's just how I roll. My momma is in town now and fixing up my apartment for me. She is slightly disturbed by my lack of furniture and overall subhuman lifestyle. But she loves me anyways! Hoorah!
The opening last night at Art Palace was fab, lots of people. One weird dude kept telling me my paintings were like a peyote visionquest. I was very flattered until he exhaled pure whiskey onto my face. He was a strange, drunken man. And I was probably an equally drunk, strange woman. I get all gushy when I drink nowadays, like everyone becomes my "favorite." Perhaps this is to counteract my usually frigid Norwegian Ice Princess demeanor.

Wednesday, October 12, 2005

Hello friends. Obviously one cannot count on my bloggability. Indeed, I could be accused of blog neglect. If this is any indicator of my child-rearing skills, then I will probably be arrested for leaving lil' Suzy in a brothel broom-closet with a sippy-cup full of kerosene.
News: I am a hermit now. And I am fairly miserable and whiny about it. I figured that I wouldn't bore you fine people with my oppressive artspeak garbling. So that said, here is a fun art anecdote: I had a terrible critique the other day. This woman compared my paintings to movie posters and recommended that I draw pictures of trains. She can kiss my caboose. Or lick my rear cab (it's really up to her.)
I am working on a painting for a "New Texas Painting" show at Diverseworks in Houston. I have to finish it by next week. I am not a machine dammit! Everyone seems to think of me as "Ali the Assembly Line" artist. I am not flattered. Or mechanized.
And I have my orals (not as fun as it sounds) in 3 weeks. And then I have a show at "Art Palace" Nov. 18th. So, forgive me if I am not the upright blogging citizen that I should be. I will be that and all more, after all dis shit is behind me. I will rock your world. I'm going to assemble and army of androgynous lovers just so that I will have something to write about.

Sunday, October 02, 2005

Me= total weenie this weekend. Not even a weenie, more like a Tofurkey Dog or some other sort of lame meat-like substitute. Maybe even a saggy bag of South Beach Diet certified trail mix from the Wheatsville Co-Op. Not only would it cost you 97 dollars on the scale, but you would have to wade through the stench of pseudo-Hippie dreams that permeate that place. Stop acting so snooty Wheatsville Co-op, I'm an artist dammit! Yes, yes, I think the movie "Slacker" is great too.

Example: last night I was lulled to sleep by the mediocre comedy stylings of the new SNL cast. Tina Fey is preggers so she's not doing the weekend update anymore. Who gets pregnant nowadays? People who are intricately involved in black-market baby-snatching rings, that's who. Not to cast stones, but Ms. "Fey" has a googly eye and a mysterious scar. Obviously she's been through some shit. She was probably discovered cradling a Moroccan baby and a hooka full of hasheesh (which should be considered baby-trading currency as far as I'm concerned.)
Can't we all just get along? And by "just get along," I mean trade all babies for hasheesh. And by "trade all babies for Hasheesh," I mean get single and high. And by "single and high" I mean lose all romantic attachments and your sense of sanity. And by "lose all romantic attachments and sense of sanity" I mean be me.

Wednesday, September 28, 2005

hottt. Not Paris Hilton Hot.

My A/C broke. It was 108 degrees in Austin yesterday. I feel like a buttah basted bastard. Besides that, I have nothing to say. The heat hath ripped my tongue out with its slithering tenctacles of steaminess.

Here is a pic of one of my new paintings. It is called "Heyra Hankshaw, Tommy Faye Buffalo and the Cowering Cowboy Castrati." It is twelve feet. I wish I had twelve air conditioning units.
I don't even care if that's stupid. You're stupid.

Monday, September 26, 2005

So I went to this weird "Jane Magazine" party the other night. It was HipsterCity. Dolce and Gabbana-Rama. The United Stella of McCartney. Umm...Calvin Kleinlund? Everyone there was so fashionable. Like Nicole Ritchie only slightly thinner and more talented at coke concealment. Dat shit was reserved for the second floor, which was whiter than Conan OBrien's lil in between places.

Comparatively speaking, I felt sort of like a mud and blood stained rugby player, gnawing on someone's severed ear. Probably one of my many unworthy opponents. I think I would be good at Rugby, I am filled with rage and a sense of inadequacy. Plus, I feel as though I could really give a girl a good plowin'! (stop.)

That's all. Yanni stole me a T-shirt off a manequin. Yanni plug!

Thursday, September 22, 2005


So Hurricane Rita huh?
Is it the end of days or what?
Here are some bullet points that would seem to indicate that it is indeed Apocalpyse-a-rama.
-Everbody Loves Raymond got a shitton of Emmys. I do wish someone would seriously tell me what is entertaining about a maladjusted manboy and his cantakerous folks. If I speak in a baritone voice, will I be as funny as his closetedly homosexual He-Hulk sibling Robert?
-I wore pastels today.
-Tammy Faye Baker is making a comeback. I am expecting a string of reality shows a la Martha to follow. Some ideas: "America's Top Mascara; Smear Factor" (drippage earns extra points), "Girls Gone God: Crying on camera," and "Televangelist hot-tubbing! (let's just say, there's a lot of swimming around in diverted fund money-piles.)
-Marissa and Ryan finally did the nasty on the O.C.!!!! I am so deeply ashamed at knowing this. Deeply. Hairy palms be damned, this is the real reason I'm going to hell.
-Eric Clapton is doing a commercial. I'm crying Tears in Heaven Eric, really I am.

Monday, September 19, 2005

Salem Witch Trials meets the O.C.

Mmmmm, my painting shirt smells funny. Like Barry White after a marathon love-making session. Like a greased up Tennesse hog-swiller who just ran out of Old Spice. Like my mom's shitzsu after a good shit sniffing.

Indeed, it is a time for a change o' clothes in the ole studio. What do I wear when I paint, you might ask? Honestly, if I had a door, I would go commando-style. Sans underwear. With a strategically placed paintbrush. Kidding. I use a palette knife. Oooh, the mere implication there hurt.

I do wish there were doors in our studios though. Not that I don't appreciate the comraderie that accompanies sharing airspace with 10 other people. I really love that. Our lil' commune is like a hothouse of disease. It is like "Outbreak" all the time. Right now I have some sort of 18th century-ish Whooping Cough inherited from "Typhoid Erin." I am "Bubonic Ali," for those of you who weren't invited to our "fever" themed partay this summer.
Ok, done ranting for the day. One more:
I do not love "Everybody Loves Raymond." Discuss. Seriously, why do they get all those awards? IT'S JUST NOT THAT FUNNY.

P.S.---How AWESOME is that picture? It's looks like the O.C. meets the Salem Witch Trials. Burn Marissa, you skeeeny bitch. Burrrrrn.

Saturday, September 17, 2005

Today was a UT football game...and the stadium is right next to my studio. I think I actually heard the murmurs of man-slaps and smelt the mimosa breath of a sorority girl as she's getting groped near the snack shak. Awww, the aroma of the buttah machine still make me think of under the bra action. I don't want to tell you what stale bratwurst makes me do!!!!!
Anyway, the cartoon at left is one done by my anarchist idol, Berke Breathed. I thought it was appropriate.

I don't even know.

Last night I went to Art Palace for Nathan's Green opening, then to 2nd street for Erin/Jarod/Eric/Aaron/Abe's opening. Then went to a bar and had more Irish car bombs. Yes, after the worst hang-over in the history of Irish alcoholism, I went back and gots me some more. Obviously I crave the sickeningly viscous Guinness. Me likey. When I nurse my future children, I will ween them on this particular ambrosia. They will grow up to be little red-nosed Dubliner wannabes who start fights over baked potatoes and chikies. They will be proud of their irridescent Irish skin, relishing in the fact that their mother gave them the power to repell the SUN. It's nice not worrying about tans.

Wednesday, September 14, 2005


I am sooooo tired right now. I stayed up all night writing a paper for my "Feminism and Visual Politics" class and am currently operating on 2 hours sleep, an inumerable amount of cigarettes and an unquenchable Texas bloodlust.

Current mooooood: I am crankier than a sex-deprived Dick Cheney. Ew. Do you think Dick Cheney has sex? Or does he just derive sexual pleasure from devouring small children and herds of oxen?
So I did this cover for a Univeristy publication and found out today that many "controversies" have sprung up because of it. And that was me at my most subdued. Everyone was clothed for god's sake. Fuck these backwards-ass Texas yokels. I actually can't decide whether to be happy or not about it.

Apparently, images still carry some weight. I mean people on "Fear Factor" eat like 1,000 year old antelope cadavers and shit. What's so bad about the nude anyway? Oh well, I guess the people here in Bush country are easily unnerved. My response: I'm making a 20 ft. painting of hell. Yes, there will be some disemboweling. God, I am gross, aren't I?

I have been v. enraged lately. See above pic. That was taken right before I wrote this post. My head becomes large and styrofoamy when I am angered. In some circles, I am known as "Styro-Ho."

Monday, September 12, 2005


Ok, there are some things I need to get off my chest:

1.) I heart my chest. Cumbersome and unwieldy though they are, I love my lil' Patsy (left) and Edina (right.) I love them despite the fact that I cannot wear clever tee shirts, because the logo inevitably gets warped. I was wearing a Michael Bolton t-shirt the other day and I swear it ended up looking like Corky from "Facts of Life." I guess I don't need to explain further, just know that his face was very compressed. All thanks to the twins.
I guess that part of my body will never be as irreverent as the rest of me. Although don't get me started on my shins, they are just too damned snappy!

2.) I hate pets. Some kid brought in a hairless rat to class today and I thought I was going to projectile vomit my mango smoothie all over the room. It was so fucking unnatural, I can't even tell you. I felt like its little black eyes were boring into my skull. Those things belong on a 14th century rowboat with the rest of the bubonic-plague carriers.

3.) I google everyone. Seriously, EVERYONE. If you're reading this, I googled you. Yes, you.
I really shocked this professor today by mauling her in the mail room. She had no idea who I was, and I feel that I revealed my penchant for online stalking. Sara said that she was probably "in the zone," because she was making copies. But I think Sara is full of shit.

4.) I hate it when people talk about their dreams. Unless I'm in it. And on the back of some flying saucer getting probed or something. But mostly, if it didn't happen, I don't give a fuck.

Sunday, September 11, 2005

Dankakorn and Nikki Hilton

Am hungover. Last night was cwaaaazy. The chilli-off was a huge success, and no one could top our regurgitating papier mache unicorn creature. We couldn't come up with a name for her though. I did insist that it be a female however. No man would have such an anal chilli-shooting capacity. And without complaint! She should be canonized or some such shit. I think her name shall be "Freeeetoleigh." Like most Texans she loves da fritos. Maybe she could be "unicorny," because of her proclivity for corn chips and also as a shout-out to my artcrush, "corny." Swoon.

Afterwards, Arturo Palacios force-fed me
"Irish car bombs" and honestly, I think I'm pissing Guinness and Bailey's Irish cream today.
Its a lovely concoction really. Call me if you want a quick cocktail.

Being bloated and crampy makes me feel a little like this guy. Oblivious to his own grotesque-itude. God he makes me sick.

***The above picture is of a similarly drunken night at Skowtown. Sarah and I were the Hilton sisters. We look pretty similar right? Except she is the really, really, really ridiculously GOOD-looking one. I secretly wish she would turn into that sunscreen guy. Gawd, he makes me SICK.
We spilled drinks on people all night, it was great. Sarah had a fake chihahua in her purse, but I couldn't find one so I carried around a stuffed cockroach I bought at the thrift.

Saturday, September 10, 2005


Here's a fictional conversation I had with Oprah today:
Oprah: Ali, you look fabulous!
Me: I owe it all to Pilates, clean living, and an intense Kabbalah awakening Oprah. (My dream doppleganger is not only fit in mind, but in SOUUUUUL as well).
Oprah: Well, guurrrl here's a new Nissan. Now let's go out and get some hash and falafels.
Me: I love you.

I don't think Oprah likes falafels or hash, but if she did I think we would be bestest friends. Not that she isn't already the daytime television woman in my life... but with a buzz and some questionable "meat," I know we'd get along swimmingly.
Speaking of questionable meat, I have been enlisted to be on a team for the Glasstire Chilli Cook-off today. Out team is called "DankaKorn" and features a donkey/unicorn mutt who shoots chilli out of her ASS. I am off to make the banner now. Ciao peeeepel.

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

Hello Bloggalicious Bloggy McBloggertons,
Tomorrow I have an opening at the new, uber-fantastic, ultra-orgasmic Gallery 3! (disclaimer: there is no "artgasm" guarantee.)
The show is called "No Place like Home," and stars myself, Erick "I copulate with Caribou" Michaud (he is a cannuck after all), Jarred "Mormon-Monster" Steffensen, and Dave "No nickname needed" WOODY. His name is WOODY. Like "wood."
And what's funnier than a Fir tree? What elicits more cackles than a cactus flower? Plus, his name makes one think of a certain body part...That's right, the lower intestine! (disclaimer number 2: stop reading after disclaimer number 1.)
Seriously, what causes canker sores? Why do they target me? Do I have Dirty Mouth Syndrome? Is my mother right when she says that I talk like two sailors combined...who happen to be Richard Pryor and John Macenroe...on a cocaine bender together...with speech impediments and minor rage problems...who just watched the "Sopranos" for 24 hours straight?
Fuck no. I'm a mutha fuckin' saint and that assface should be feeling that. (disclaimer number 3: my mother is not an "assface." Her face is quite lovely in fact. It does not resemble an ass. Although at dusk she does look a little like Dustin Hoffman.
From "Tootsie," not "Rainman.")
I'm sorry mommy. THE CANKER MADE ME DO IT.

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

Can't blog right now. Have canker sore.
Here's a photo: Now have an old-timey western romp through history!

Saturday, September 03, 2005

What I'm doing: Watching the U.S Open (options are limited without cable), and makin' some graphite drawings for the Portland Art Fair in Oct.
Where I'm going: Nowheres. Except on a sushi/TP run. Which is more life-sustaining I wonder?

So, Austin is going to accept about 4,000 refugees from the gulf coast in the Frank Erwin Center and our hospital. Way to step it up Austin. You are now forgiven for the "Real World" debaucle.
On a less philanthropic note, our fair city is now swamped with froshies.
Confucius ask: If an inebriated 18 year-old falls on 6th street, does she make a noise?
Answer: The stumbling whipper-snapper will make a clanking sound as her new GAP capris are torn to shreds by the shrapnel-like remains of discarded beer cans. For all you environmentalists out there, here’s an interesting way to dispose of the aluminum menace: Martha Stewart recently told her former roommate ‘Spark Plug’ that beer cans make dandy hummingbird feeders. (On a completely unrelated note, there was a catastrophic increase in hummingbird mating this year). *Martha also says license plates make festive placemats!

P.M.S---I am TOTALLY going to watch Martha's new show. Bitch always rises to the top.

Thursday, September 01, 2005

My day su-uhhhhcked.
No need to go into it. Just know that it sucked more than a Hanson infomercial for boy-braces and clean livin'.

Yeah...even I don't really know what that comparision was about. Boy bands are fodder for low-brow humorists like myself. All I know is that attractive people hit on me at coffee shops when I wear my "Hanson" brand T-shirt. Of course, it is a sheer fabric. And I do wear it with a fairly sluttastic red velvet bra. Oh yeah, and I hit on them...and they usually insist that I put the shirt back on. But not before making sweeeeet albino adolescent love set to the ambient whirring sounds of the cappuccino machine. Mmmmm foamy.
I was referring to the coffee drink! Shame on you pervert.

Wednesday, August 31, 2005


I was just watching this coverage of the New Orleans disaster, and got all weepy. And not just because I'm on MENSIES! Gawd, so many people are homeless and jobless now. It's such a magnificent city too. Jesus Christ, what mother nature hath wrought.
Ok, I didn't want this blog to be a buzzkill. I just thought I would drop my sardonic uber-bitchy persona for one moment.

Anyway, all that sadness gots me to thinkin' about what I should be grateful for. This is what I came up with:

--Old "MASH" reruns. I really have a crush on Alan Alda. I think I need to seek help.
--The freshman 15 (now that I'm watching everyone else gain it)
--But most of all, I am thankful for my best friend and platonic lifemate Alaina. See photomontage at left.
Also, pirate parties. Seriously, that was the best night of my life. The swordplay was almost too enjoyable. "Swordgasm."

Tuesday, August 30, 2005

Well, tomorrow I have to wake up before noon. Arggggggggh (slight Charlie Brown intonation). I am TAing two drawrin' classes on Mon. and Wed: we shall see how dat shit goes down. I like UT students in general, but there's always the sorority booty-shorters and the frattastic duuuuudes who have perma-keg imprints on their glutes. Jesus, why can't everyone just be a freak? Wouldn't life be more interesting if we encountered a roller-skating troupe of Abba impersonators on our way to work? Or if we saw some hula-hooping geriatric headcase at our local fast-stop? (that actually happened to me here in Austin).
I don't know, all those innocent freshman are moving in right now for orientation. Their shiny newness reminds me of just how tarnished I am. Here's an apt metaphor that I used when I wrote as a jaded senior in college:
"Freshman are like greyhounds: bony, beautifully groomed and ready to chase some stupid carrot in circles forever. Seniors (such as myself), are more like three-legged ferrets bred on moonshine who seek to spread rabies whenever possible."

Monday, August 29, 2005

Me on a bidet!

I have little to offer my dear bloggonians. School is starting on Wed. so I am just doing stupid preparatory shiznit to get ready.
Ok, actually I've just been eating a lot of cottage cheese in my undies. But I can't do that once school starts!
Unless I assist/teach for a nudist dairy-luvah. They should bring someone in to fill that position. Add some more diversity. I can picture her now: A thick Wisconsin accent and an overpowering muenster scent. Lactating as she dry-heaves mozzarella.

In the meantime dear readers, enjoy this uber-sexy picture of me on a tiny toilet in Spain. I was actually discussing the "history" of the bidet with some of my friends this weekend, if anyone knows anything please chime in. I'm sure it has a colorful and distinguished past.

Sunday, August 28, 2005

OOf, had a rager last night at Marianne's. Met all the new lil' froshies, although my 2nd year peers didn't want me to "haze" anyone. I guess a hearty ass-paddling and a gauntlet full of diseased crickets is just too free-thinking for some. There is a new guy named Jani, but it is pronounced "Yanni." Like my FAVORITE make-believe musical genius. He has that whole "windswept Grecian whisperer" vibe going for him too. Yanni--the man with the perfect pitch. I asked him to perform some impromptu piano-fused chants, but he just looked at me funny. Although it could have been the crickets I put in his pocket. Hee hee.

In this har' blog I will only mention those new students whose names I approve of . My new studiomate is "Jules Jones." Upon seeing the cheery double-J above our door, I assumed I was getting some June-Cleaver clone whose hairspray would spontaneously combust when she entered my paint-fume filled studio. But Jules is no 70's mom icon. He is very punck rock and has a fu-man-chu. And he is a bit of a liguistic anomaly, with a Julespeak that is all his own. He says "dope" a lot.
Ok, one more thing I hate: the car commercial that goes "Zoom, Zoom, Zoom." It's just so fucking stupid.

This is the Linda Blair Excorcist photo I tried to put on earlier. Spooky, no? She needs some chapstick, baaaaaaaad.

Saturday, August 27, 2005

Old comicccccccs

Well, I am off to meet and greet the new graddies. Ah, I remember my first few weeks in Austin; cloaked in self-pity, my banshee-like wailing silenced only by "King of the Hill" reruns. Missing my dysfunctional Maine art commune family and my drunken Davidson sistahs. Sigh, now I am just another contented Texas cowgirl. Here are a couple comics. They got cut off. Like you care, you naiive amateur critic.

Friday, August 26, 2005

Martian Doing Beer-Bong!!!!!!!!!!

"That's why her hair is so big, it's full of secrets..."
Mean Girls

I always wanted a big, bushy fro. I wish there was some sort of Macy Gray serum that lil' discontent white girls like me could inject into their fine, weak hair shafts. We could call it like "Queen Latifahization." My new hair-happy name would be Ali-Fah.
But there is seriously something alluring about a full, lustrous head of "herrr" (I like Nelly-style spelling).
Actually, it was so fucking hot yesterday that I thought about shaving my head. I would be more tempted to do it if my friends hadn't voted me "the person who would look worst with a shaved head." I'm not making that up. I guess I have an abnormally bumpy head. My scalp dips and rises like the deep Nordic fjords.
Ok. Now onto razorburn! Just kidddddddding.
Above is a picture of me dressed as a Martian doing a beer-bong. Note the planets on my shirt and the over-abundance of tin foil skirts. Those lasted about half an intergalactic second.

Thursday, August 25, 2005

Texas Heat

Hmmmmm, I am far too braindead to be funny today. It is hot outside. Like, really ridiculously hot. Like "I'm hiking up the giant, mountainous, sweaty balls of Paul Bunyan" hot. Ew, I sort of made myself wretch there. No, not really. Bunyan's balls are bun-yummy.
See! I did make a funny. Ok, so I know people (my friends) are reading this, but are not posting comments. What's that about? Post some shit weirdos. I'm self-involved, but need some more catalysts in order for my self-absorption to really shine.
Dave Woody sent me some awesome comics yesterday: early zippy the pinhead, flaming carrot thingy, and some by Adrian Tomine. Woody is goody. He may even be greaty.
Also, my mother, who may actually be the only person reading mah blog, wants me to rescind an earlier proclammation that she was "butch." In reality, she braided my locks until they looked like spun gold, made fondue every night, and NEVER, NEVER challenged me to a fight. Happy mom? Please don't pummel me to death with your genteel waifish fingers. They were made only for skinny cigarette holders and removing coral lipstick stains.
Pictured above is a Texas teen who was upset to learn that his school's cross-dressing day had been OUTLAWED. Oh, for shame! Some backward-ass gap-toothed illiterate apparently thought is was unhealthy for boys to dress like girls. He is awesome though isn't he? I think we all feel like that dude sometimes.

Monday, August 22, 2005

limericks and hate.

Prepare to be enthralled dear readers, (vaudevillian jig-dancing and man-whistles commence...), for tonight you will hear things that will alcoholate, barbituate and titillate you (Yes I realize those words are used incorrectly, stop being a gramma-hater.)
Firstly, I am going to write down a list of things/people I hate! Pessimistic? You're calling me pessimistic? A pox on your house.
Whatever, we're all going to be dismembered and ritually devoured when the aliens come anyway. Thanks Tom! Scientology makes so much sense! And post-partum depression CAN certainly be cured with some good old-fashioned missionary sex and Flintstone vitamins!
-I hate it when:
-----people ask me to rub sunscreen on their backs. So does Eliza Wright, in fact, I stole that "hate" from her. Sorry Eliza, I just am too sunny in my disposition to really hate things! (insert annoying LOL symbol thingy here.) :):):):0
-----people use stupid web lingo like LOL and TTYL. Don't tell me to "laugh out loud," mutha fucker. Go play Snood. Or google image Carmen Elektra some more, I'm sure the first 120000 attempts were "grainy."
Whew, too many hates to talk about. I feel a little like Linda Blair when she projectile vomits split pea soup. Too much or not enough? Ahhhhhh, just right.
Ok, I wanted to insert a photo of the veggie-spewing delight here. Alas, my computer is like a fucking petulant stepchild. If only I had some method of insuring mechanical pain. I'll learn you somethin' laptop! So you think you're better than me, do you? Well, your mother was a whore! She shared files all around town. Um, her hard drive was floppy? Ok, I really don't know computer terms well enough to make this a funny scenario. But I do really want to whack the bejeezus out of this thing.
Sooooooooo, I added an old work of mine above. It's an installation at Skowhegan. Painting on the walls and yada, yada.

Sunday, August 21, 2005

"I'll join this conversation on the proviso that we stop bitching about people, talking about wigs, dresses, bust sizes, penises, drugs, nightclubs, and bloody Abba!"
"Doesn't give us much to talk about then, does it?"
From Priscilla, Queen of the Desert

My favorite Abba song: Waterloo. It just makes you want to get up and spear someone with your Napoleonic bayonet. Maybe a Swede. Nice and blonde like Agnetha or any of the other Abba-lonians. Now if only I could locate my yellow velvet 85 lb. pantsuit (sequined sexiness is heavy, my friends.)
I am currently moving into my old/new apt. By "moving" I mean sitting on a stool (not much furniture yet...) in my bra and watching "Evita." Moving is difficult and this is the sabbath after all. I believe in apatheticism. Idleness is next to godliness. Kill everyone! Condone first degree murder! (That last bit is from the John Waters staple "Pink Flamingos")
This week I need to get in the studio (for the love of Apathy!). Because next week I will be back working for the "man." TAing, while fairly easy and fun, results in some sort of brain atrophy for me. Over the course of the semester, it becomes increasingly difficult to expell the ringing complaints of 40 students.

Sidestory: My roommate and I had a little cucaracha problem. Here is a picture of me with some of my "friends."

Saturday, August 20, 2005

Last night I went to the Austin Museum of Art for their "22 To Watch" exhibit, and then to the home of a Fe-mulleted Czech Giant (AKA Hana). Everyone smelled like whiskey (or did I smell like whiskey? chicken or the egg I guess). Plus, there was venision chilli that apparently was "incredibly tender." Who makes venision chilli? Hana Hillerova, Eastern European amazon and omnipotent Austin scenester. But regardless of the gamey meat (and gamier cocktails), I had fun. Now I am going to curl up and watch "Coal Miner's Daughter." Sissy Spacek: yes please. Although nothing could really ever top her telekinetic shitstorm in "Carrie." I have referenced that movie like 5 times in the past week, and received very unsatisfactory responses. Most of the people I talked to hadn't even seen "Carrie." That can't be normal can it? How can they go on living? I wish I had Carrie's cwazy eyes so I could impale them with a cantaloupe spoon. Those are really pointy, I bet it would HURT.
Reading material for the day:

Friday, August 19, 2005

When I was but a small lass (in the wee hills o' Virginia Beach ), I wanted desperately to join the girls scouts. I would have even joined the Brownies (with more than a little disdain but still). Seriously, don't be fooled by those tricky "Brownies." Contrary to their spongy, nutty-sounding name, they ain't got no confectionary nuthin'. Oh, so I'm too old to go to the meetings now? Get something besides soggy carrot sticks you cunts in training.
Whew. I just. Hate. Those. Bitches. But alas, my mother was a naval commander (and frankly, a little butch) and would not allow me to frolic amongst my saccharine sisters. Sooooo, she made me join Tae-Kwon-Do instead. Here is what I learned: how to do a really offensive feaux Korean accent (think the Karate Kid meets Rainman), how to "booby-punch" my sister until her lil' mammary glands swelled up like bath toys, and who could forget the classic, "how to kick tiny anglo boys in their freshly formed biscuits."
Yes, I learned a lot from that asian shopping center in VA. But if I was in the Girl Scouts or a part of some other "let's commune with hedgehogs" type of naturey shiznit, I am convinced that I would have learned this:

P.S. Am going to AMOA for 22 to watch. Should be loverly. Had to beg for tickets. Don't they know that I'm integral to the arts scene? Who else is going to dribble merlot on themselves while garbling about reality t.v.? No one, that's who.

Thursday, August 18, 2005

Last night I went over to this phat house that Caitlin Haskell (her aliases: the evil cupcake, the equally evil art historian and demonic tennis player) is housesitting. It was tres swanky. There was a lot of biz-nass talk, which made me feel a little like the fuck-up artist that I am. Yes, I felt as though I was adorned with multiple berets and an array of body odors(complete with cigarette stench and anarchist factoids!). Hell, I even felt French. Or like a tight-wearing Corey Feldman amongst the Royal Shakespeare Company.
Oh readers, surely you will tire of my pop trivia, much as the public grew weary of the high-pitched whinny of our dear, departed friend Corey Feldman. Do you really think that he and Jacko were just friends?
Sidenote: what's the difference between Michael Jackson and an art historian? One's a balmy pedophile and the other is a peevish bibliophile. That's not funny is it? I'm am so groggy.
Today I am going to:
----Find a bed (Just a full, there seems to be a dearth of male models around so I will not be needing a queen anytime soon. Unless I get a lot fatter...hmmm)
-----Work out
------Quit fucking smoking 800 ciggies a day (this resolution probably should go in front of the "working out" one, seeing as I cannot work out with the lung capacity of an asthmatic dwarf.)

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

So I just got back from Julio's Cafe where I enjoyed a nice, albeit "lite" breakfast with J-Rod and my fashionista roommate Erin Curtis. She is so damned glamorous. Next to her I think I look like that picture of Saddam Hussein right after he was captured:
Ladies, you can be fascist-fab too, just google “dictator shopping online” or go straight to (you need to read it aloud to get the full effect). Don’t bother IM’ing Saddam though (his name is 2cuteforU.S.) he’s been really bummed lately. On top of missing the Lifetime special entitled “Tyranny of the Heart” (about a love affair between a Britney look-a-like and a grumpy ole’ despot), he missed a bid for a weapon of mass destruction on Ebay.
Saddam is such a mischievious lil' imp. Ok, I must go paint in the studio today, I am still working on this piece based on Tom Robbins "Even Cowgirls Get the Blues." The main character has some pretty great thumbs that bring to mind another appendage.... Plus, I spliced the reverend Jim Bakker with a Buffalo. I am calling him "Tommy Faye Buffalo." There's also some cowering three-headed cowboy castrati and a few scorpions issueing from the crotches of others. Hmmmmm, maybe I should put up a pic, it is a little hard to describe.
On another note, my mother is letting a Korean grad student (in linguistics) stay in my room at home. Imagining her, my mother and my tongue-pierced sister living under one roof is pretty amusing. I smell a sitcom!

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

So I finally gots me a blog.
Many people heard me lamenting the fact that I was not a part of the wonderously dysfunctional blog family. But someody just popped me out! Full of placenta, cynicism and sweeeet liiiiiiiiiiiife. Placenta is a beautiful and misunderstood word I think. See, I can rant about things like that now that I have a blog. It doesn't matter that no one is reading it (save for sticky-fingered Huckbert Janglethorp, an Iowa farmer who needs some release between turnip juicing.)
So, my life in a nutshell: I live in Austin Texas, where you can hear the sound of a thousand tiny penises rising softly every few minutes. Like marble rye bread in a hot-ass Texas oven.
I am a painter of big dykey cowgirls and I think Tammy Faye Bakker is the last living grotesque. She's making a comeback you know...Swoon.
I won't bother you (my fictional public) with the banal aspects of my daily life. It's probably proof enough of my summertime mental state that I'm starting this blog at all. I love you. Oh Adoring fans o' mine.