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

APOCAPLYPSE!!!!!YAHHHHH

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

Angrrrrrrylady.


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

RANT ALERT!

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

"DANKAKORN!"

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.