Thursday, December 28, 2006

So now I'm at my grams' home in Aiken, South Carolina. Home to lots of gold-leafed equine art!!!! Black Beauty looking majestic underneath the glimmering confederate flag? Perfect.
Hootie-hoo.
And I'm off to D.C. for New Year's. Look out for me this weekend, I'll be the one wearing the humorously oversized diaper with a special champagne pouch. EMOTICON!

P.S. Alaina; Seriously gurrrrl, how many free drinks can you get in a night? It's a good thing nobody was spectin' nothin from you. Someone is hot shit.

Thursday, December 21, 2006

I am in Charlotte, North Carolina, home of the Panthers and Tammy Faye Bakker's "Heritage USA." It is also home to good barbeque. Much better than Texas-style. Vinegar makes the world go round. C'mon, what did you think the ferris wheel of life was oiled with?

Last night I:

Played beer pong with an opera singer, a Stephen King enthusiast, a reformed coke addict and my sister. No one really won.

Went to a sushi place overrun with frat boys and blonde asian women. The fratties really seemed to enjoy each others' artificial crab sticks.
"Dipping my tempura-fried eel log in your bowl rules man!"
"Tell me about it!"
(enthusiastic ponzu sauced high-five)

Got my b-day present from Alaina, which was a "Sextrology" book. We proceeded to read the book aloud in the sushi restaurant. Now, a lot more people know my Piscean love-making recipes. They involve lots of crying. Lots and lots of crying.

Made the opera singer do a wickedly on-point Aaron Neville impression all night. Like the "Family Guy" episode with the Neville megaphone. Damn that episode rules.

Smoked 817,001 cigarettes.

Was offered Vicodin by my sister's friend. I took it but cannot bring myself to actually "take" it. Mystery medicine makes me queasy for some reason. MYSTERY MEDICINE~!!!!

Accidentally became a part of some private Banker party. A lot of TPS reports in that room. Yup. Everyone looked the same. Kind of like "Taj" from Van Wilder. There was a lot of posturing, vodka tonics, and myspace discussions.

Lied about attending Austin City Limits.

Friday, December 15, 2006

Okay, okay, I'll start blogging again.
It's just difficult to navigate the hard ego-tripping waterfalls of this acerbic little diary. Imagine an animated Pocahantas singing about the "colors of the wind" or whatever, and then snagging her ass on some crags (*the crags symbolize my own psychotic attempts to sabotage the utopian musical that could be my life). That's how I feel. Like Vanessa Williams; washed up and slightly black. Is she still on ER? I am consistently amazed by her eyebrows. They are like 15 feet from her nose and seem alive in a way that the rest of her cadaverous person is not. She looks like a mannequin/zombie. Zombiquin!!!! Someone should make a movie about her....no, not you Mel Gibson....fucking crazyass...should've stopped at "Braveheart"...can't fucking believe I liked you in "Mad Max"....you fucking seriously deranged Christian cracker...go live in a fucking farm with your 80 wives...man, i thought Australian men were hot...hmmmph....you fucking ruined it.

So, I am reading this awesome book called "Pledged: the Secret Life of Sororities." It is so good. This reporter went undercover as a sorority girl and shone a light on all their dirty little rituals. It sounds like their Tiffany's EtaGam necklaces were corroded not only by demure tears, but also by chunky barf and catty hairballs. Seriously though, as a social/psychological study, it is really striking to read how much "groupthink" can influence some of these sisters.
One sorority chapter went and got their hoo-hoo's pierced just because an executive board member suggested it. Of course, they were following the old Mayan ritual of the "Sacrificial Cha-Cha," wherein a native priest makes a vaginal offering to "Clitorian" the ancient god of hedonist pleasure and pillowfights.
*This ritual has been immortalized by Missy Elliot whose Mayan roots prompted her to write the song "Work It."

She also cites an instance where 2 girls drowned in the ocean in Cali from a hazing ritual that forced them to face the waves blindfolded. Gross.

Mini-confession; I was in an "eating house" in college. which resembles a sorority in some ways. I didn't really participate after my freshman year, but still some of these stories remind me of that time. For instance, I had a "big sister." Her last name was "Hyman." Seriously.

In other news: I am done with school, done with teaching my class and am now working on a piece for ArtHouse in Jan. I am spending a lot of time in coffee shops. I wish I was one of those people who knew the names of the people who work at their favorite coffee-houses. I don't understand how that happens, but eventually I would like to be able to say "I'll take my regular, Frank!" And then Frank will wink at me knowingly, slide me a soy latte and give me an extra apple turnover. And I'll say, "Frankie, you da bomb." And then Frankie will slide his hand up my skirt as l shirk awkwardly in my seat. And then I'll never return because I just don't want to go there with Frankie. And every time someone suggests that coffee place, I'll be like, "I just don't like the waitstaff there." And then everyone will look at my weirdly, because everyone likes Frank. That's what I want.

Thursday, November 23, 2006











As promised, here is a random smattering of excerpts from my bookies. I know they don't make sense, just try to appreciate my innate absurdist brilliance (have been reading too much Beckett lately).

Wednesday, November 22, 2006

Thanksgiving is weird. Especially when you are alone watching the CW (what the fuck happened to the WB?) while eating frozen pudding. Sigh.
You know, I sigh but there's very little else that I would rather be doing. That sad proclamation actually does deserve a sigh. So, sigh. Well merited sigh.

Ghosts of Thanksgivings past!
My first year in grad school I had strep throat. I hated everything, including my unruly glands and those tarnished art school doorknobs. And I especially regretted the dirty makeout session I had in the weeks leading up to the holiday. Dirty Austin romancers with their dirty esophagi.
2nd year: Kidney disease....just kidneying around folks. I had a lovely thanksgiving as detailed in my Thanksgiving 05 blog entry.

I don't really remember any other Thanksgivings. Frankly, I think it's a borrrrring holiday.
Turkey: not as exciting as Salmon.
Cranberry: not as exotic as the Swedish lingonberries they serve at IHOP.
Presents: very few, and usually turkey-themed.
Colors: a diluted Autumnal sham-version of the orange and black Halloween hues.

Family: not as fun-loving as New Year's, yet not as fantastically catty as Christmas.

Artistic sidnote: In my spare time (of which I will have a lot of, as I have a dearth of friend-like people) I plan to scan my new bookies! Wooo! They are full of sex and murder and androgynous flight attendants and headless businessmen and sassy babies.
Sassy babies!

Best Thaksgiving movie scene:
Wednesday Adams playing Pocahantas in a summer camp production. "Addams Family Values." It is one historical revision I can get behind.

Best Thanksgiving memory:
Who the fuck cares?
Actor/actress who most resembles a turkey:
Steve Buscemi/Chloe Sevigny.

Saturday, November 18, 2006

My last entry, true to it's first declaration, was written whilst I was inebriated. I think someone peppered my earl grey tea with angel dust. Or maybe they spiked my Robitussin with....Robitussin. ROBO-TRIPPING...Lalalalalalalala.

Onlookers were surprised at my behavior considering my usually genteel, well-polished manner. I mean, normally I wouldn't be caught dead without a croquet stick and Tony Blair-shaped locket. Tooooonyyyyy Blaaiiiiir, you're sooooo dreamily aloof and eel-like, I bet you're a menace in the bedroom! All your shifting political loyalties and girly British intonations....mmmmmmmmm....I bet oral sex with those teeth is just fabulous. Just fabulous.

Last night I went to MASS gallery to see "House Painting," which is an installation by my birthday twin, leftist comrade, fellow robot enthusiast, and lover. Okay, the last thing is not true. Although when the lights go out, it's up to the robots to join motherboards, fuse antennae and create a spark. I don't know what that means exactly. But imagine it!

The show was fabulous (and not "fabulous" like Tony Blair oral-sex is "fabulous). Erin Curtis is one talented MoFo. It's an installation that mirrors our own twisted Americana fantasies. And they served pigs in a blanket.

*One time, Alaina and I tried to learn "Draconic" which is the language of Dragons. I would also like to learn a Robot language. And I would like to speak both of them while under the influence of Robitussin.

*Remember the sex scene in the "Coneheads" movie?

*Here are two games to play:
"Which Six Feet Under character are you?"
"Are you a geek, spazz, or a dork?"
No one can decide what character I am, or what I am from the geek, spazz, dork triumverate. Please send in your answers as I cannot have a truly fleshy identity until I know this information.
Peace.
Ali/Claire/Spazz/Dork/David

Sunday, November 12, 2006

Drunk.
Here's the real deal:
grad school is a steaming amalgam of shit. Don't do it. Seriously.
the HBO miniseries "Elizabeth" sucks balls.
I am convinced I have cancer on some part of my body.
I will never stop wearing orthopedic shoes.
I love me, but I find myself somewhat tiresome.
I wish I read more books. Secretly, I think I forgot how to do it. I used to read an entire book in one sitting.
I still love Margaret Cho (I watched a lil' bit of her recently on youtube).
My mom keeps me balanced.
I drink like 5 "emergen-C"s a day and I secretly don't think they do anything.
I love fantasizing about having sex with everyone. Fantasizing rules.
I also fantasize about singing alongside Gladys Knight. I'm no "Pip" or nuthin but chooknow.

Saturday, November 04, 2006

I've decided not to be neurotic anymore. I want to be less Woody Allen and more Woody Harrelson. More natural born killer than petite asian-o-phile.
That means no more cancerous growth scares or self-aggrandizing visions of my own death in a Dutch meat shredder or something.
Here are all the ways I picture myself dying, so that finally I can lay them to rest:
-aneuryrism
-urethra explosion
-wedged under 18-wheeler
-cancer
-kidney disease
-cirrhosis of liver
-possession by demon
-shattered glass through heart
-great white shark attack
-disembowelment
-alligator devouring me then stuffing my body in the mud to decay
-eye injury
-falling on pole and being impaled by said pole
-sudden heart failure for no apparent reason
-falling 30,000 feet from airplane to my fiery death (or landing in water and encountering shark or gator as mentioned above).
-ebola
-weird "28 Days Later" disease.
-blindsided by UT bus(not terribly unlikely)

Whew. I already feel 20 lbs lighter. Like I just barfed up a heaping pile of Freudian gumbo. Mmmm, those phobic defense mechanisms sure add a little grit!
I think part of my fascination with (slash acute fear of)dying stems from a love of horror movies and melodrama. Chucky, Jason and Carrie, oh my! These movies lead me to believe that life is comprised of a series of exciting, serendipitous (and sometimes deadly...) events. When, in reality, life is boring. Like a Mellville short story. Really, we're all just craggy-faced seamen searching for a big white dick.

Let's be honest, Mellville was really more of a "Rainbow Trout" than a swordfish, right? I mean, scouring the world for a sleek sea mammal with an overactive blowhole? Puh-lease.
Unneccessary factoid: there is a gay master's swim team (AKA old folks) called the "Rainbow Trout." They are based in Atlanta. Don't ask me how I kow this, I just do.
Okay, okay. I'm actually a 56 year-old interior designer specializing in "Canine Feng Shui." I live in uptown ATL with my roommate Gary. He cries a lot.
I've decided not to be neurotic anymore. I want to be less Woody Allen and more Woody Harrelson. More natural born killer than petite asian-o-phile.
That means no more cancerous growth scares or self-aggrandizing visions of my own death in a Dutch meat shredder or something.
Here are all the ways I picture myself dying, so that finally I can lay them to rest:
-aneuryrism
-urethra explosion
-wedged under 18-wheeler
-cancer
-kidney disease
-cirrhosis of liver
-possession by demon
-shattered glass through heart
-great white shark attack
-disembowelment
-alligator devouring me then stuffing my body in the mud to decay
-eye injury
-falling on pole and being impaled by said pole
-sudden heart failure for no apparent reason
-falling 30,000 feet from airplane to my fiery death (or landing in water and encountering shark or gator as mentioned above).
-ebola
-weird "28 Days Later" disease.
-blindsided by UT bus(not terribly unlikely)

Whew. I already feel 20 lbs lighter. Like I just barfed up a heaping pile of Freudian gumbo. Mmmm, those phobic defense mechanisms sure add a little grit!
I think part of my fascination with (slash acute fear of)dying stems from a love of horror movies and melodrama. Chucky, Jason and Carrie, oh my! These movies lead me to believe that life is comprised of a series of exciting, serendipitous (and sometimes deadly...) events. When, in reality, life is boring. Like a Mellville short story. Really, we're all just craggy-faced seamen searching for a big white dick.

Let's be honest, Mellville was really more of a "Rainbow Trout" than a swordfish, right? I mean, scouring the world for a sleek sea mammal with an overactive blowhole? Puh-lease.
Unneccessary factoid: there is a gay master's swim team (AKA old folks) called the "Rainbow Trout." They are based in Atlanta. Don't ask me how I kow this, I just do.
Okay, okay. I'm actually a 56 year-old interior designer specializing in "Canine Feng Shui." I live in uptown ATL with my roommate Gary. He cries a lot.

Friday, October 13, 2006

My goodness but it's been a long time!
Almost a month I fear, (imagine me saying this as a Angela Landsbury tongued teapot, it's much better that way, I promise).
I have so much to tell you! Well...not really, because otherwise I would have written wouldn't I?
I have been very busy, my hairy-palmed little masterbloggers. I went to an art fair in Portland for 5 days. I am convinced that the Pacific Northwest is still in the tight flanneled grip of Kurt Cobain. It is so 90's grunge there.
Except in Portland, no one seems on the edged of a heroin overdose, rather, everyone acts like some canadian mountie, uber-concerned with his fellow pedestrian. It was very upsetting to be permitted to walk in front of cars with no fear.
Even the street thugs in Portland are polite. Becca, Arturo and I were crossing the interstate and ran into the Portland gang equivalent of the "crips." The gang-leader was frightening with his hair product and Antigone Rising t-shirt. Just when I thought he was going to pop a cap in our ass, he tipped his tri-cornered hat and galloped away on his steed (skateboard).
I have some kind of stomach flu now, so forgive me my lame, bed-ridden attempts at humor.
P.S. I am writing a graphic novel/travelogue of sorts. I am going to try to scan and post it. It is all about sex and death. It stars a traveling headless trench coat.
I am watching "Hard Candy" right now. That movie is fucked.

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

Here is my addiction, hot or not? list.

-I am addicted again to Six Feet Under. I just can't stop caring about that cwazy, dysfunctional Fisher family who live in a funeral home. I heart hearses. And don't get me started on embalming fluid; mmm rigormortis-licious. I'm sorry for making a necrophilliac joke, it's just that I think necrophillia is cool.
-I really am somewhat un-addicted to cigarettes. For the past 2 months I have just been bumming off people at parties. I think that officially makes me a non-smoker (as well as a whorish, mooching moocher whore). It's hard though, smoking is cool like necrophillia. All the popular kids are doing it down at the harbor. Smokin' doobies and doin' it with dead people. Okay I'm stopping now.
-I am still a little addicted to eye-liner, although I decided to quit the stuff after another freak eye scare. Don't worry, I still rock the goth, sunken-eyes look, only now with eye SHADOW. See, it's okay, shhhhh, calm down.
-I am addicted to vanilla soy milk. It tastes like a creamsicle paradise. It makes me feel nice.
-I am addicted to my ipod. Yes, for those who know me, I finally got the lil' fucker. And me loves it. Some things I've been listening to:
The Arcade Fire, Queen, RIlo Kiley, Neko Case, Kanye West, The Flaming Lips, Michael Jackson.
-I am not addicted to cleaning, nor have I ever been. Yet recently, I was forced to clean my studio. I can hear your cries of outrage traveling through my motherboard and straight to my heart! I feel that it will be harder for me to work in the long run, but whatever. I suppose it was more of a "fire hazard" than the wood-laden and turpentine-doused studios of others.
But don't worry, the man hasn't gotten me down.
If anything, I am going to rise up Che Guevara style and slash those beuracratic by-laws! It's an artolution people. Down with plein air painters and equine portraitists!

Monday, September 11, 2006

I wish I had some stunning, elaborately fabricated news headline to deliver to you people. How's this:

"Cantankerous Art Student Gives Birth to Eight-Tongued Fleshy Cyborg Resembling Rosie O'Donnell circa 2002; Birth Has Ghastly End as Baby's Brain Implodes Under the Weight of Her Self-Importance and Lopsided Dykealicious Hair-Cut."

"Music Capital of the World, Austin, Texas, is the First State to Initiate Dual Cattle Branding-Circumsicions Thanks to New Jew Governor Kinky Friendman. The Resulting Hybrid Tradition Shall be Performed With a Branding Iron and Some Fancy Rodeo-Type Noose Thing. Kinky Has Alternately Called It the "Bluebonnet Briss," and the "Yee-Haw-Foreskin-Yank.""

"Austin City Limits is cancelled after a truckload of Diesel Jeans and vintage headbands derails in El Paso causing a mass hipster exodus across the state."

"Elizabeth Peyton and Tracy Emin disclose mild retardation and basic motor-skill impairment."

"Antony and the Johnsons confesses to fraudalent music-making! All tunes secretly sample the high-pitched emissions of "Cory," a hermaphroditic blue whale."

"Local art student stops shaving her legs in protest of the recent bombings by the Hezbollah terrorist group. No one notices. Sigh."

I got tired of capitalizing every word about half-way through there. Capitalization is rough yo. Yeeeeeeeahhhhh, you know what I'm talking about. We all can bond over the horrors of capitalization.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

It's my blogiversary! Well, it was around this time last year when I put down the poison-dipped paintbrush with accompanying asp, and picked up some salvation in the shape of a computer key.
I decided at that minute to unleash the very worst of me onto the world wide web. Let that fucker deal with it. Fucking AOL ticker, always mocking me with his infernal ticking and whatnot. Listen AOl, I don't want to know why men fall asleep after sex. Actually, yes, yes I do. It's because of muscle mass? You're so smart AOL! :):):):)
Anyhow, now I am a blog princess with a wee little throne and many handsome Malyasian online suitors. At least they claim that they're handsome...Zoinks!

**I don't know what "zoinks" really connotes, but I insert it into uncomfortable conversations all the time. For example:

"Ali, why don't you clean your studio?"
A: "Zoinks!"

"Ali, are you STILL watching Oprah?"
A: "Zizzzoinks!"

"Ali, are those your hands down your pants?"
A: "Zoinks!"

You get the point.
School has begun again. I am a pseudo-professor now with my own pseudo-class. I give them pseudo advice in hopes that they will pass (note the rhyming please; I also wear a striped top hat to class and make silly faces while we all play Jumanji).
On the painting front: I am making a rather heavenly piece about artistic impotence. It stars a group of chess-playing-Viagrans and some rather virile male performers. I also threw in a fairly naughty lioness with a penchant for sniffing out...the um...male spirit. Interestingly enough, this painting has cured my own artistic penile-paralysis. Yay.
**How many times have I mentioned the male member in this blog entry? Apparently my blog's anniversary is also a celebration of everyone's johnson. Geez. Hmmm...sounds like jizz.

**I am a gutter rat swaddled in my own dirty habits. Forgive me.

Friday, August 25, 2006

On account a' tha' fancified Yankee newspaper.

Hello adoring Bloglic. See, I spliced "blog" and "public." I know, I think it's incredibly catchy too! It's mellifluous; like Stephen Hawking wheezing bits of Esperanto as his wheelchair pirouettes in some cosmic lunchline. What a sweet, sweet, mechanical lullaby that would be.
I posted pictures of myself and my shiznit because of a brief mention in the NYTimes Mag this Sun. (loud throat-clearing and ball adjustment). Enjoy!
*But don't enjoy too much; woe be the man who pleasures himself whilst looking at my art. He/she has more to worry about than just hairy palms.










Here's Arturo and I exhaling Maker's Mark in one sexily smooth, synchronized breath. We delighted everyone around us with our gaseous telekinetic powers and ability to shatter anything glass-like. I told him that he was not only my gallerist, but my flaskmate as well. He might also be my enabler.
X-treme Narcissism: I think I look pretty fucking hot in that picture. In fact, I just creamed myself looking at myself. I feel like Huckbert Janglethorp; a confused Carolina twin who suddenly ended up with stroganoff in his pants after watching his sibling nibble invitingly on a wheat shaft. Ok, that was a little much, I know. I was going to make a joke about tri-headed sperm here, but I think that's just callous. And perhaps offensive to our thin-blooded Appalachian neighbors.






Most of the following pics are from the installation I did at "The Donkey Show" in April. Check my past posts to gain entry into this visual world of beastiality and balloons....okay there are no balloons. Only sex with animals. Sigh. And not balloon animals neitha'.



"Ali FitzHitchcock!"










Saturday, August 12, 2006

I started a mural at UT. It is a redux of Masaccio's whole "expulsion from Eden" thang. But the main characters have changed: mine stars a black Steve Buscemi and an overly pinkified Margaret Cho. After being expelled from a paradise that consists of cocaine snowstorms and costant coitus, the two find themselves in an antiseptic wasteland. This new world is full of overwrought art projects and desks that pinch their tweeners. It is a cruel reality that is governed by longhorn slave-traders and dry librarians with vericose vein faces who say "C'mere Sweetie" as they baptize people with reptillian spittle (Notice: Edith at the circulation desk, I don't like you like that).

With the help of a very special kitty, Busci-Adam and Cho-Eve outrun their captors and jump aboard a pirate ship. There they stow away until a one-eyed sociopath named James Stymie of the Bay area, catches them. After a mildly awkward threesome (who knew a peg-leg could do that...) they reclaim their freedom and their ability to git booty. Unfortunately they have wood rot and splinters in their baby-making places. Therefore they can't procreate and the whole world goes to shit.

The nihilistic and excessively sexual end.

Ahem. To create the aforemetioned mural, I have to use scaffolding, which is terrifying and piss-inducing and makes me cringe every time I am forced to waddle noisily across it. To make matters worse, I had to help build it. I have never fucking heard of "Do it Yourself Scaffolding." That's like a "Do it Yourself Amputation Extravagaza." Everyone bring their own stenciled, monogrammed tourniquette! What's in the party bag? Why it's Gangrene! It's the best, yellowest party favor an extremity could ask for! Limbs all around!

But the scaffolding is very cool-looking and I feel like a bad-ass of sorts. Becca is going to help me paint the top of the wall because I refuse to ascend to the next level.
In other news, I have an opening tonight at the CRL. Blah, blah, I know you're sick of me, so what? Ok, truth time: I am weeping right now. Undereath my cool exterior I am really quite tender. Like a very hard but sweet melon. I am a Honeydew at heart. And I am part of your recommended daily breakfast. So eat me.

Monday, July 31, 2006

So, everyone's all up in my apathetic art-girl shit about not blogging. I am a deadbeat blogdaddy; sue me. That's right bitch, see if you can squeeze a cent out of my tight ass. I'm going to Vegas with my girlfriend Tina and you can tell lil' Jimmy that I'll bring him back a nice nipple tassel.

*Actually, if any litigious person out there really does want to bring me to court, please contact Judge Judy, as I would very much like to hear her sassy take on any legal matter. Unnecessary description: There is a soft swooning sound as Ali clasps her hands and conjures up the severe countenance of Ms. Judy Sheinlin. All of this is encased in a precious thought bubble that is shaped like a heart. Awwwwwww.

I have had a lot of craaaaaaaaazy nights lately. I'm talking "Rick James Cracktastic" beeeeeatch. Rick James and I are karmically linked. We are eerily similar. Why if Rick were a little white girl who wore wristcuffs and was terrified of hard drugs, then we would be twins. To enhance this effect visually, I am getting corn-rows, a punchy epitaph (just in case) and a harem of ho-like womins.'

Here are some highlights of my recent misadventures (much like my battle wounds, the bloody memories all seep together).

-Wrasslin' with Josh and Becca amid dog shit and probably lots of other disease-inducing goodies.
-Getting fake tattoos of lightning bolts just because they are SO FIERCE.
-A makeout circle orchestrated by some big-haired theater geek. Trust me, you don't even want to know about this one...
-Sweating my balls off in San Antonio again. It.is. my. hell. Sidenote: what does hell smell like? I said hipster sweat and styrofoam. Arturo said Mayo and classical music (smell?) His underworld is full of white people apparently.
-hitchhiking home from El Chilito with a bald man named Luke. Don't worry, it turns out he was at the same party. Three cheers for not dying in a ditch!
-Near-puking at Hoover's sunday brunch. They were going to need a hoover after I was done with them! (cymbal classssssshhh).
-Sexy ice fights! They are not only sexy but efficient in bring down body temperature and self-respect!
-Smoking 3 year old schwag then freaking out because I thought it might be laced with PCP.
-Freaking out a few nights later (possible confirmation about PCP usage?) about demonic possession after watching "The Exorcism of Emily Rose." Seriously, that shit is frightening and I (surprisingly) don't want anyone to dwell within me. Only evil breakfast tacos and naughty Tecate.
Whew, there's much more, so if you want to hear about it contact me at my new number:
555-Supahdupahfreak.

Thursday, July 13, 2006

Yesterday I took part in a photo shoot for the NY Times. For the Fashion and Style section no less! In many circles I am known for my keen fashion sense. Very few people can rock paint-spattered homeade skirts and Sears brand button-downs the way I can. Why, someone was enjoying my ensemble just the other day, pointing and laughing with her friend in unabashed admiration. She was sweet, she even gave me a dollar, no doubt as a sign of clothing-respect.
And you know coveralls paired with dirty wristcuffs are making a comeback. I saw Cate Blanchett wearing the combo the other day.

The photoshoot was very awkward as I was unceremoniously wedged in between two people's asses (the asses shall remain nameless...ok, one of them was Arturo's). I was sitting on the floor in what can only be described as an odalesque-cum-mannequin-pose. I am secretly terrified that they got a crotch shot. "Look mom, my hoo-hoo is in the New York Times, now she's really made it!" You laugh, but mah girl's gonna be in pictures someday, I just know it. She's got the magic.

Also, they made us pose in the alley behind Chapala Taqueria. I can't do justice to this encounter in print. Let's just say that a Metrosexual Brit was shouting at us to "Work for it" as we pretended to root through the fucking garbage for "installation objects." Because everyone knows that taco wrappers and vomit remnants make for the best art.

On the whole, it was a very interesting adventure. Hello fame, farewell anonymity. You can now call me Alison Greta FitzG, cuz everyone knows that fancy people use 3 names.

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

Went to Nohegan. Very fun.
Here are the things that distinguish it from real Skowhegan:
-Mary Jane did not make an appearance. I thought I smelled her but it turns out it was just some Chinese herbal medicine smoking sticks. I accidentally singed some of my arm hair off with them. Their restorative powers escape me.
-People actually made art. For shame.
-There was no cook. Waneeta was the cook at Skow, and I still worship at her greasy pan-fried shrine.
-No orgies. I blame this on the division of cabins. I mean c'mon, let's all sleep in one cabin, eh? In the dark, don't nobody know who's bunk is whose. Sorry Hana, I really thought you were my special rubbery swedish pillow.
-It was far far hotter than Maine. It was like, "my innards are turning into weiner snitzel" hot.
-There was skinny dipping, thank god. Otherwise I would have to strip it of the spoof name and start calling it "Camp Everyonewearsclothesnshit."

Monday, July 03, 2006

Hmmmm....Bungalow Project in San Antonio was delighful. Except for the installation, when it was ungodly hot (sans a/c mind you). I started to hallucinate towards the end there. I think I saw god. And she looked a lot like Judd Nelson from the Breakfast Club. Her black mop was flowing in the breeze and she had a sour renegade smile that said, "I'm playing hookie and there ain't shit you can do bout it." She also had cankles, but hey, throne-sitting while a very deifying activity, isn't exactly cardio kick-boxing, you know what I mean?
My throat hurts.
I'm going to Nohegan this weekend, it should be fun and hot and fun and HOT. I'm going to bring a pashmina and wear it the whole time. Why? Because then I'll be the mysterious girl who is impervious to heat and wears a fucking pashmina. I'll be the Liz Taylor of Cabin C or whatever. I want to climb trees while I'm there. And maybe find a little bird friend who will awaken me with his sparrow song. Maybe I'll discover a troupe of squirrels that will do my bidding and form a small squirrel army. I will be commander in chief. And I will instruct them to nibble off the extraneous parts of my enemies. Watch your balls, boys, Ali's evil squirrel brigade is looking for loose skin. I think I have a fever and I should stop writing now.

Thursday, June 22, 2006

Yesterday I met with Cathy Horyn who is the fashion editor of the New York Mutha' fuckin' Times. Seriously. She is my new obsession. I invited her over to the Donkey Show to drink 40's on the porch, and she, surprisingly, was into the idea. Then, after our psychic connection (yes, we had one...in fact I think we should combine our names and become "AlleyCat") she didn't show. So, in my malt-liquor induced stupor, I left her a message that said something like,
"What up Cathy, I'm just hanging out on the porch like I said. We bought you a forty. Let's all go to a strip club."
*she said she likes the strip clubs
Those were my chosen words for a New York Times writer. An invitation to have a sloppily drunk lap-dance. Oh man, I am a douchebag.

I'm going to San Antone tomorrow night. Why, you might ask, would I return to a city so full of Alamo-influenced bad parties? Because I have ABSOULUTELY nothing better to do. Guess who else is going to be in SA that night? CATHY HORYN. I kow there's some licka joints and nekkid ladies there too. Watch out NYT lady. Watch out.

Thursday, June 15, 2006

I am going to be mute from now on. In the words of Miss Mary J. Blige, "No mo' Draaaaaa-ma."
Plug: Come to Art Palace on Saturday to see the show I curated. It's called, "Summer Fling." 8-11, 2109 E. Cesar Chavez.

Tuesday, June 13, 2006

People always say I look like the following four people:
Christina Ricci
Jeanine Garafolo
Punky Brewster (AKA Soleil Moon Frye)
Ally Sheedy

I'm getting a total face-change. I want to look like Abe Lincoln. That man had dignity in his countenance. He had style, he had flair, he was there, that's how he became the president. What do you think he was hiding underneath that big top hat? I think he was afraid that if he ever removed his headpiece that a Civil War zombie would devour his brain. I share his phobia, that's why I wear doo-rags. Everyone knows zombies don't like doo-rags.
I wonder what Brangelina's child will look like? I think it'll be some Quasimodo monstrosity that oozes out collagen and pheremones. Two people that good-looking should not procreate. I really believe this. That kid is going to be fugly, take my word for it. And plus, what kind of fucked up freudian complex are you going to have if your parents are Brad and Angelina? I bet Angelina are brother and sister anyways. You know how Angie likes sibling-sex (see awkward Oscar kiss with big-lipped bro).

Saturday, June 10, 2006

Went to an Artlies! launch party last night. Worst. Party. Ever.
It was feux-swanky with television monitors playing arttastic videos of jellyfish swimming. It looked like something you would see before you die a watery death off the coast "Areyoufuckingkiddingmeland."
There was a cellist in back who looked like a serial killing robot. I couldn't stop looking at him. I started crying for no apparent reason but I think it was because of his music. Apparently, big scary musical men melt my frosty lil' heart.
Everyone was old or had giant fake breasts with scar tissue peeking out. There was free vodka though, which was the only redeeming thing about it.
All I want to do is go swimming and eat breakfast tacos. What is wrong with me?
I think I'm just going to make paintings of big men playing the cello. It's a great metaphor for life really. We all are...um....like cellos? Big and wooden and easily manipulated. Fuck you, I know that doesn't make any sense.

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

On Mon. night I went to the Critic's Table Award-thingies. It was so boring that I wanted to smother myself to death with the MC's armflab. And I'm not just saying it was boring because I didn't win. I'm a better sport than that; I am CLASSY (*disclaimer: I have a condition where I confuse the word "classy" with the word "assy." Which I showed a lot of that night).

After the awards I went to this girl's apt for drunken swimming. We chicken-fought for hours. It was too lovely. But, my nameless, faceless partner was absolutely horrible and I blame him for everything. See what a good sport I am? Anyways, I am still very sore from chicken-fighting.

Friday, June 02, 2006

I decided three things recently:
1. El Chilito's is far superior to Mi Madre's.
2. The lady bartender at the Peacock is my favorite bartender in Austin. Her voice is very sandpapery and she has nice tats.
3. My spirit animal is a Babboon.

What's everyone else's spirit animal? Speak muthafuckas. I don't care if it's anonymous, I'm just tired of blog solitude.

Wednesday, May 31, 2006

P.S. My eye is healing nicely according to Dr. Tai ("Tai," by the way, was the name of my dog...I did not tell the kind doctor this factoid).
P.P.S. What is in the air? Everyone I know is in looooooooove and acting like a pre-weight gain Leonardo DiCaprio. Along similar lines, here is the press release for a show I am curating at Art Palace.

Ah Summer romance; sweaty palms gripping a sno-cone, a musty cabin and a shared case of mono. In "Summer Fling," three young artists harness these first flickering moments of desire with works that investigate the delicate zone between seduction and repulsion, innocence and a newfound impurity. With large-scale beastial mutations, gender-bending portraits, and horrifying depictions of a skewed sexual dynamic, Randy Muniz, Christa Palazzolo, and Senalka McDonald show us not love lost, but love adulterated. "Summer Fling," is not your easily idealized Summer tryst, but rather a record of the complications that occur when one finally leaves the campground.
678 people have viewed my profile. I find this frightening. I like to pretend that no one's reading so that I can divulge things like the sewage moment noted below. Shit. I truly can't figure out who the fuck is reading this besides my 3 friends and my mother in E-disguise. She is "minimonk," shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. She likes the show "Monk," and often finds herself sympathizing with OCD sufferers. I'm sorry I outed you big momma, I know I swore a secret blood oath not to reveal your true identity. Please don't carve a giant "M" on my face with your whip.
Other news:
I switched coffee places. Now I like the coffee house that looks like a white-collar prison. Or a dilapidated resort area after a monsoon. Yes, I'm talking about the new Quacks. I've noticed that a lot of their customers have googly eyes that face in different directions (seriously, I noticed this). Also, no one tries to hit on anyone else (perhaps because of eye issues). They are my brethren now.
DBerman has an opening tomorrow called "Heat." Would have been cooler if it had been called "In Heat." Sidenote: I tried to convince Hana to call her show at W&TW "Cunt." She said "Why?" and I responded "Why not?"
I love the word cunt. It has a potency that few other expletives have. In Spain the word "cunt" is used much more coloquially. Everyone is a "cuno" until proven otherwise. * I can't do a tilda on the computer, but please visually insert one over the "n."
I am co-curating a show at Art Palace called "Summer Fling," I think it'll be phat. *I also wanted to call that show "Cunt."

Besides a few minor slip-ups I am still a non-smoker. My eye doctor today told me that I should stop hanging out with people that smoke. So now I am going to go to the Jesuit Convention Center to gather a new group of sparkly clean peers. We'll watch animated specials about the barnyard animals present at Jesus' birth and laugh and laugh. That crazy sheep! Doesn't he know that only humans have souls? Mmmmm. Now I want Lamb Curry.

Sunday, May 28, 2006

Update on my cop-hating series: I am doing sequential paintings based on the exploits of Chuck Tracy, Dick Tracy's effete and inept cousin. He is not the stand-up, square-jawed law enforcer we've grown accustomed to. Rather, he is an avid MySpace searcher (he likes little Taiwanese twinks) and quite craven. He also enjoys the View and dressing up as Twiggy. His sidekick is a Tyra lookalike who is forever relegated to the token-sassy-black-Jackie Brown-1970's-scene.
His boss is police chief Gluck, who has a minor coke addiction and a flatulence/halitosis problem. He is big and Irish-looking and carries a billy club. Whew, gotta love the Irish cop stereotype. Tis' an oldie but a goodie, and beseeedes ever'one knows that Dublin is full o' crimefightin' lowbrow addicts. And soap. What's up Irish Spring?

Also, there might be a little homoerotic subtext happening between burly Gluck and doe-eyed Chuck. Tune in to find out...or just keep reading my blog I guess.

Oooh, the villains. Well, there's Crazy Eye Ali, which if you've been reading is self-explanatory. I'm also going to have stringy neck skin that morphs into some vaginal recess at will. I stole that from Charles Burns, who is a fabulous comic artist. Then there's the 50 foot spinster who is able to release a torrent of unused breast-milk onto female-phobic Chuck Tracy. Also, there will be Brainspill Billy, who is loosely based on Bill Gates. He can freeze time by tipping his head and coating everything with his cerebellum goo. Then there's amateur sleuth Nancy Acne! She's so cute, but watch out, the Acutane left her with pock-marks and a psychotic streak! Rounding out the evildoers (all relative you see...) will be Herman Haf (Half man, half hermaphrodite), and Frigid Bridget (Who is the more attractive sibling of the 50 ft. spinster).

Who will triumph? Who the fuck cares? Will my vagina-neck retain it's ability to orgasm? Will Chuck Tracy be arrested on child pornography charges before this adventure ever begins? What really happened in Lietenant Gluck's office with a vibrating revolver, some confiscated crackrock and a pint of slimy barrel-cleaning fluid? Will Nancy Acne solve the case before her Acutane-inspired voices instruct her to kill everyone with her crazy machete skillz? Will Frigid Bridget finally tell the 50 ft. Spinster that she doesn't really like Canasta? Will Ali's eye go back to normal so she can once again re-enter the public sphere and stop writing fucked up shit on blogger?

Saturday, May 27, 2006

I have constructed a homemade eyepatch that consists of wet cottonballs attached to a pink striped thong. I'm SO not kidding, if I had a digital camera, I would insert a pic here. I even made myself LOL.
My eye fucking hurts. Not only do I have pink eye, but I have something called a "Chalazion" (sounds very exotic, no? Like the name of a special breast massage by a well-oiled hawaiian). In truth, a Chalazion is a stye inside my eyelid. Waaaaaaaaah, I'm a baby. Frankly, I cannot feel too bad for myself seeing as how I haven't removed my eye makeup in about 5 years.
I should really be like cartoon Rasputin, with a drooping removable eyeball and hollow sockets. If I got a glass eye, I think it would have tiger striped patterns on it. Or it would be some kind of disco ball that whirls around in my head whenever a BeeGees song plays. Or I could get a mechanical eye thingy like the pseudo-nazis had in "City of Lost Children." Or I could get a sqaure eye that also fuctions as a dice game for rockin' cocktail parties.
I am bored and watching Kill Bill volume 2 (or half-watching rather). Alaina, I still hate you. I'm going to buy you some fucking crack and watch you hook for money.

Friday, May 26, 2006

Today I am going to list many, many embarassing secrets. Secrets I have clung to with all the tenacity of a badger on PCP. Why? Because perhaps I will be cleansed. Freed of all this badger-baggage nipping at my thighs, devouring my insides as it claws it's way to my conscience...I dunno, I'm just bored.

- I picked my nose incessantly as a child. And yes, I ate it.
- I would always sing, "She's a Prick Housssse," not knowing until my late teens what the word "prick" really meant.
- I put rotten eggs down my sister's shirt one Easter.
- Once a week I would put gum in my bully/nemesis Tracy's mailbox.
- I went through a phase where I would only wear Bob Marley T-shirts. I owned all sorts of pot-related products. Then, someone offered me a joint and I ran away like the lil poseur-pussy that I am.
- My best friend Kelly and I built a boat. On the day we put it in the water I sat on a nail and it went right into my ass. Then someone threw our boat away.
- Kelly and I would feign kissing to be sure we knew how to do it. We also bathed together for far too long.
- I didn't become a "woman" in the physical sense until my sophomore year in high school. I felt very inadequate (see shower scene in "Carrie").
- I had a bully, her name was Tracy (see gum reference above). One time our two clans arranged a fight. I didn't show up. Again, I was quite the pussy.
- I was painfully shy during much of high school. Soooooooo self-aware.
- I've never been a good dresser. I used to wear my grandfather's green trouser socks like they were knee-highs. I also went through a "grunge" phase. Shocking, eh?!
- Kelly and I locked ourselves in my room when Kurt Cobain died (see grunge phase).
- No one asked me to prom. But I didn't want to go anyway, so there.
- I made out with 30 odd people when I was in Spain. We had a bet about how many nationalities we could hook up with. There was a point system and I won. I was a global ho.'
- I made out with someone on the steps of the Alhambra.
- My first week in Austin I made out with someone in front of the capitol.
- In college, I was involved in a very embarassing girl clique called "The Super Six." Think Mean Girls. It got so out of hand that a different girl clique dressed up as us for Halloween.
- One Halloween I dressed up as Richard Simmons. My friend Alex was a fat person. I whipped people with my jumprope. Twas the best of times.
- I used to tell people I was related to Ella Fitzgerald and F. Scott Fitzgerald. Just for kicks. And because I wanted to be related to someone famous.
- In high school, most people called me "Alison." Then I went away to art camp and decided I wanted people to refer to me as "Ali," which was my father's name for me.
- After my first college party I threw up blue punch. All over my roommate's bed.
- My friends and I were having a "shower fight" and I ran out with my towel, then slipped and lay naked, incapacitated on the floor. There was a group of guys at te end of the hall, laughing. Shit, that really was mortifying.
- I broke my foot drunkenly prancing around after finals. I really think it was a stress fracture caused by my fat-assed freshman 15 weight gain.
- During the first week of TAing my button-down shirt popped open, exposing my bra. Something tells me that Hana didn't care, but I was embarassed.
- The first time I smoked, I blew really hard instead of inhaling it. The sparks caused a small fire in a nearby bush.
- My friend and I were playing hacky-sack and I fell into a shallow sewer hole. Most of my body was covered in shit.


God, there's so much more. This might have to be a 2-parter.

Wednesday, May 24, 2006

I have pink eye. Ew. I knew that my eyeliner-centric way of life would someday hurt me. I have been karmically impaled by the very instruments that I loved.
Curse you Maybelline and your seductive charcoaly sticks! And go to hell Liz Taylor, for being so sexily Egyptian in "Cleopatra." I think that by applying thick black goo, I secretly believed that I could be purple-eyed Liz and rule all of mankind from my throne of catty badassitude.

I was talking to a certain British Art Historian the other day and she mentioned that we (meaning me and the Brit) were the only two females in the Art and Art History Dept. that use makeup on a regular basis. I did not realize this. It calls into question the validity of my career choice. Do I want to be in a program that condones dowdiness? On the other hand, do I truly seek some kind of eye/lip kinship with Ms. Tammy Faye Baker? I need some time to think/treat my eye infection.

But seriously, I do feel kind of naked without my smudgy lil' ocular companion marks.

I have not applied eyeliner nor smoked in 3 days. My whole artist mythos is disintegrating. Without smoky eyes and a smokier smell, who will pay attention? I'll just be another Punky Brewster lookalike with a bad haircut and an oversized lollipop. Maybe I'll take up tap! Yeah, that's the ticket! And I'll wear lots of blush so that I appear charmingly self-conscious and red. I'm gonna be in pictures!

Tuesday, May 23, 2006

Today I am going to begin a new painting about the Po-Po, whom I inherently distrust. Yes, I am going to skewer their blue suits with my paintbrush and serve them up on my palette of justice (with a summery donut/coffee marinade). Ooh the "fuzz." As I say this, I feel I should be stroking my flattop head and planning Dick Tracy's demise. I love Dick Tracy comics because the villains in them are so fucking weird. There was "Half and Half," "Pruneface," "The Brow," "Mamma," "Flat Top," "Mumbles" and even this dyke-villain who had a buzz cut and wore bow ties. I can't remember her name although it was probably something like "Butchy McKillerbutchski," or "Rosie O'Donnell."

I wonder why I hate cops so much? They behave admirably in buddy comedies like "Turner and Hooch," or "Rush Hour." But life isn't one long Jackie Chan monologue (if only!), and no one's perfect. Having said that, the police sometimes purport to be infallible. And I guess that's why I don't like them, because we're all human (except for alien Clay Aiken), and I'd like us to acknowledge our mistake making. Wow, I need to go sit in my makeshift Red Tent because apparently I am hormonal and Emo.

Ok, I am going to go work out (second time in a week, watch out Lance Armstrong, I shall be your replacement as gym spokesperson). I also quit smoking. Yes, for the eighth time this year. But this time it's going to stick! Somehow it sounds even more pathetic when I type that phrase. Sigh.

Saturday, May 20, 2006

Is anybody still reading this pulsating mound of putrid rant-flavored gruel? If there are, then I'm sorry for neglecting you my little carpal-tunnel stricken gloworms. I've been moving into a new place. Where, you might ask? I won't divulge, because I secretly fear that there's an albino Opus Dei chronic masturbator who reads my blog and wants to purify me with his spiky metal phallus. Secret alert! I kind of liked "The DaVinci Code" (book not movie, I loathe Tom Hanks).
Something inside of me dies every time I acknowledge that I enjoyed the aforementioned book. Fuck you Dan Brown for making me question Catholicism and my naughty desires for the holy trinity. How cool would the orgiastic raves be in heaven? Those togas they wear certainly allow for easy access. And if one were so inclined, one could find some creative uses for a harp...it's not just for music no mo.

Tonight I went to a dinner party where they served cucumber soup! I wore my white polo and pranced around very affectedly with a croquet stick. Then I shoved it up my own ass so that I would really blend in. No, it was a very lovely meal with some of my favorite art historians. It was a nice break from my PBJ and tofurkey dog diet.

Last night I went to the 5x7. Then I went to a bar. Then I went to another bar. Then I went home. Surely something happened in between there of interest? No. Nothing. Boredom. I was very boring and not at all witty that night. I was "harshing everyone's mellow." I think I'm secretly a cantakerous bald man at heart. With one eye and plastic dentures that glow in the dark. See, I'm ending with more "glow" imagery. What a fantastically balanced writer I am.
Also, I was nominated for Best Female Artist of the Year. What that means exactly, I'm not sure. Of course, if I win, I will be following in the illustrious (and gargantuan) footsteps of my femulleted Czech mistress, Hana Hillerova. Swoon.

Monday, May 08, 2006

My Summer is completely living up to expectations. I've had cigarette laden Spiderhouse adventures every day. Yesterday there was a "bubble party," it was so "Austin" that I nearly hacked up my bearclaw. I think the party would have been more successful sans their pointy incense sticks. Other than that, I'm re-re-re-reading Flannery and watching the final episode of "7th Heaven" (saccharine tear falls down and crystallizes on my face). Pretty soon I am going to return to the studio and start making papier mache junk and working on my graphic novel. I've been going out like a madwoman lately to make up for my prior penchant for hermithood. No more reclusive bun-wearing Ali (until I'm confirmed as a priestess of sexiness). Man, I am going to be this town's Tara Reid. Tit mishaps, tangueray spilling, and breaking my pelvis from dancing too dirty. Just kidding. My bones are sturdy. I come from hearty potato-peeling stock. I am going to see "Brick" tonight. I have no idea what it's about. But, let's guess shall we?

A child is born with a curve-deficiency that manifests itself as a squarish blockheadiness. He is made fun of relentlessly, until finally, shamed, he throws himself through a store window. Then he is taken in by Bashir, who runs the FoodMart. They have a torrid love affair until Blocky bashes his head in during a moment of passion. Using some cement, and his own brick-like cerebellum, he crafts Bashir a grave for eternity. Now that's love.

Saturday, May 06, 2006

Last 2 po-eeehms.

IV Hollow Top: Alice Wilson


Lone pockmarks and hands,
His smile a snarl,
I met him on Vaudeville,
Where he directed me.

Met him on Vaudeville,
Drinking Laughing Water
Which is what he called Whiskey.
Smoking proudly, shoving cards
Underneath a sick brown belt
That snaked across a bone tight frame.
C’mere Alice, he would smirk,
Seething like some fast loose bobcat,
Burning sour fumes under his collar,
Arching his back in my direction.

Whimpering softly at first, then louder.
All at once, his claws would protract
And ache to lick my wounds.

Blacklisted from everywhere in 1924,
Blood-brown eyes that just stopped seeing,
Sinking in the levee couch,
Cursing with his singed blue lip,
I stroked him goodbye as he just bristled,
Never thinking beyond the bite,
Beyond his sandpaper fleece and stiffening ears.
Beyond his booming voice and roar.
I left him for a year
And hoped he would shed it all away.




V. Hollow Top: The Death Scene


White tile searing bright and charring,
A clean, pure clamp around Tod’s throat,
Mute and sick and finally cooling,
The searing Southern dirt distilled.

He tries to perform, to raise, to act,
But finds his legs have been cropped from the frame.
A freak at last. A death truncated by freedom!
A silent bathroom,
Cancerous as his face,
With dimples and holes like cut paper.
His crumpled form a return
To the damp nights of muddy sex
And fists of gluttony.
Back to polluted faith and dark loyalties.
To the aching taste of acrid metal,
As it twists around his young body,
Twinging with choices and cigarettes.

His first taste at sixteen,
In a tent with “Gypsy Paula”
Who was a grimy rose,
Decaying in his hand.
That’s when he left home.
That’s when the organ music started to sting him.

Tod Browning was an illusionist, aerialist, acrobat.
Killed two women, maybe another.
Was Vaudeville, when it was, what it was.

He kisses the faucet,
A metallic urge, so overwhelming.
The mercury skids down as his locomotive sputters.

Friday, May 05, 2006

III Hollow Top: Freaks


Combing clammy, peopled tents
For the disfigured
And maimed,
For the murdering,
For my Cleopatra,
Has left me with lesions,
And my straight arms
Begin to warp and buckle
And gather the ashen blue mold
That grows between the recesses
Of World Fairs and erect skyscrapers.

The actress!

A tall bluish Russian,
With broad teeth and fast sinewy lines
That thicken when the dwarves and giants
Begin to chafe her with their droning,
A high pitched whinny only I can hear.
A hushed noise that signals nothing but the shoveling
Of more ground. Stunted.

Only in her final form,
All deviant feathers and dripping eyelids,
Is she herself. Dingy and stamped
With the fermented anger of the others,
On her long white train,
Which drags in the sandy, peopled rings behind her. My Cleopatra, my America.

Thursday, May 04, 2006

Another day, another poem about the life of Charles/Tod Browning.

II Hollow Top: Uncle Pete Browning


A swelling mass of showman, that’s Charles.
Always swinging, just like me.
They call me “Gladiator”
Because I hit the ball just like it’s a woman.
Wanton and sideways, with a smack.
Every family with river silt
in their blood knows my name.
And Charles, he’s cut
not for singing
in the Christ Church Cathedral,
but below it,
with the worms and shadows.
He’s more gambling boat
and race track than stiff, waxy pew.
More acid, wet cunt than petticoat.
More dirt-lipped Gypsy than acolyte.
Just like me.

He sings for pennies in our backyard
and performs for a Sideshow Queen
Who lives near the river,
in an encampment where the Gypsies bark.
he turned a penny into a dime at the races,
and with it bartered his way below.

Wednesday, May 03, 2006

More poems!

Here is another poem based on my favorite operatic punk band, "The Dresden Dolls." But not really, I guess. I just like their name.



What the Cabaret Wants


A Dresden doll shifts onstage,
Arms unhinged and torso a tangle
Of traversing black,
A fleshy fishnet, a fine silken
Body fused by someone’s heat,
No, a body fused by ice.

Infertile tundra, a white man’s freezer.
A father carves a Dresden doll
Out of jagged ice and empty hulls.
An antiseptic body shrinking
From the warmth of a thousand tiny hands.
As they board her body,
A sinking, rotting yacht,
Cold from the still water.
As they begin roasting her
From within the cracked topography
Of a porcelain pelvis, cold.
Hands clenched in concert,
Lusty digits.
Big and round as oily barrels,
Fat and dripping.
A Dresden doll becomes black
And bobs onstage.

Elbows splitting,
Her plastic tightens as she
Fingers her father, the man with the freezer,
Telling him desperately that,
The frame within her frame is rotting.
Wood and rotting, stiff and silken,
She stops and sings:

Coin operated boy
Sitting on the shelf he is just a toy.
Made of plastic and elastic
He is rugged and long-lasting.


Tuesday, May 02, 2006

Poooooeemmmms!

Hollow Top


Vagabond dirt streaming solid,
Erasing all the Louisville hymns
And lucid verses and bleeding sermons
That are emblazoned
On the corners of his mouth,
Caught between his dusty mustache
And his tinted teeth, blotted yellow.
Underground,
His faith becomes
Gangrenous and sallow,
As the coffin lid closes shut for the crowd.

Once named Charles, now named Tod.
Once the choirboy, now the gin-laced orphan.
With no name but
“The Hypnotic Living Corpse”
Who eats malt balls in a coffin for money.
48 hours underground,
In a new Steel shell,
Glossy against the thrashing dust.
Flickering silver, then brown.
He grips the sides
And listens to the cackling fairground
As it pulses with the weighty steps of the limbless.
Tod knows that the forgotten tread louder than the rest.
He’s seen albinos and dwarves and giants.
He’s known
Gypsies and geeks and even
A wild man from Borneo.

Tod Browning
Will be an acrobat, aerialist, illusionist.
Will be Vaudeville.
Performing with makeup caked over his frayed mane,
Over his mottled skin and his smoking laugh,
He will kill two starlets
Speeding from The Vernon Country Club
Only he won’t free himself from his tomb in time.

Unearthed.

It’s a miracle!
Resurrected for the sake of sound,
For the whinnies and squeals of
Scandalized children, who drop their peppermints
And stare as Lazarus forges his way
Into a burnished new America
Full of Moving Pictures
And dirt.



I wrote a series of poems based on the life of former carnie and raging alcoholic Tod Browning, who wrote/directed "Freaks." I thought I would share now that I am not giving shits anymore.

Monday, May 01, 2006

I didn't end up going to the Blanton. The line was so fucking long. It was more daunting than a Tyra Banks "give yourself your own Papsmear" special. It was more intimidating than an Art History professor asking about my feelings and looking at me like I'm a bipolar alien nympho. It was scarier than a leering, methmouth trucker in a deserted Whataburger bathroom (don't begrudge me my dramatic tangents, I am an arteeeest after all).
I ended up going to a fun Korean Karaoke place instead. It was one of the more amusing things I've seen lately. I refused to sing, because I have a karaokinferiority complex. I always try to imagine what I would look like up there: Bedraggled and waddling, squealing Pat Benatar and trying not to fall out of my shirt. I think I make too many jokes about drunken secretaries going crazy on Margarita Night Tuesdays. One day I shall wake up and discover that my name is Patty and I that I type bank statements for Wachovia. AGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH! And I wear dress skirts every day! AGGGH! And I have to don stockings in the summertime!!!!!! And I have a boyfriend named Ted who makes me trim his neck hair! And my co-worker Amy is having her baby shower today in a hotel lobby! And Ted thinks we should buy a vibrating massage chair from Brookstone! Agh. Ok, that last one was not so bad. I would need said chair if I was dating "Ted."

I think the problem is that I DO attempt to envision this. Others, I'm convinced, either do not wonder what they look like onstage, or simply do not give a shit. I am impressed with these people (there was a certain Transmedia prof. who gave the greatest rendition of "Kung-Fu Fighting" that I have ever seen. He is my new hero). I am going to work on giving shits, i.e. I no longer want to give them. It's a new shit-free day (Star Spangled Banner begins to play as I weep silently with shitless joy).

Friday, April 28, 2006

Today I met with one of my art heroes: Peter Saul (loud swooning and release of artgasmic energy). He wore a whiteish t-shirt with costumed cats on it. Some had sombreros, others berets. Obviously, his taste in feline kitsch made me like him immediately. The best part was that he wasn't wearing it to be ironic (see my previous 800 diatribes about hipsters and their precious, precious insincerity). As I try to recollect my conversation with him, a few things stand out: He praised Christina Ricci for her subdued performance in "Monster," he talked about his next couple of paintings (which include a picture of Hitler blowing his brains out and Mickey Mouse imitating Pollock), and he asked me if I thought he looked like a woman. His t-shirt, which resembled something my grams' mah jong circle would like, did not help to assert his masculinity. In turn, I asked him if I looked like a man. I don't know why I did that---it was a nervous response to his strangely direct question. He gave me the big thumbs up on my ladyhood though. Sigh, still not androgynous enough apparently. Anyways, I'm going to the BIG Blanton opening tomorrow. Their list of events frighten me. 24 hours of yoga workshops and sundae-topping-fun. I'm sure there's an event that combines both: tantric sex and sprinkles.

Saturday, April 22, 2006

Donkey Show is over (it went well I think). Scholarship day is over (it probably did not go well as all my new work was at the aforementioned space). Only my poetry portfolio remains. And c'mon poetry is just verbal vomit--you know I can churn out some mellifluous bile. After that it will be all mindless drinking, skinny-dipping and latte-sipping (see, that's a poem right thar). I cannot wait to feel free. Also, I just drove Sara's car home and was pulled over for not having my lights on. I sat there fumbling with all her SUV gadgety whatnot for like 30 minutes. I swear to god it was like decoding a KGB plan for a topsecret pin-sized nuclear reactor. I still have residual anxiety from it. The policeman was very nice though (probably because he thinks I have a myriad of mental handicaps). Gawd, this is the month that won't die. Fuck you April! I hate your showers and bluebird fuck sessions. I hate your oak pollen and your day of fools. I hate your sundresses and your tandem bikes. I hate you. Come to me, sweet May, and swaddle me in your unbearable heat and boredom. I am going to love all up on May. I'm serious.

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

The Curse of the Donkey People

Stu, Stan, Harry and Marty form a roving band of socially impotent businessmen, fused together by their mutual love of Internet porn and escapist fiction. They travel to a border town in pursuit of something intangible, something only recognizable in the recesses of their pasty veneers and pleated pants. They seek a power dynamic that does not exist in their own alka-seltzer riddled reality. But perhaps they could pay someone to fake it.
After a particularly emasculating run in with a resentful (yet sexily unavailable) CVS employee, Stu waxes his station wagon, buys a pricey tub of hair product and heads south. He leads the lonely group to a dark place that, (unbeknownst to them) has been plagued by a terrible affliction.
Once there, they stay at a dingy, yellowing, gangrenous hotel room and order in. An “exotic” woman arrives, cloaked in nothing but brilliant red underwear. They become entranced with the seductive cadence of her voice (somewhat similar to a “whinny”) and her brutish sexual demeanor. However, upon arousal she is at once transformed into a monstrous hybrid of donkey and woman. She is simultaneously the cause of their fear and the product of it.
Come see the “Andrea: the Mutating, Terrorizing, Unidimensional Donkeywoman!” Don’t forget to see the twisted B-Movie director, Ali Hitchcock as she grapples with her own role in producing this sick psychodrama.

Sunday, April 16, 2006



I'm boring. Ali FitzBoring.

Saturday, April 15, 2006

Yesterday was a long day. I am installing at the Donkey Show now and I think it's going to be assarific. At some point, we went to Home Depot where Risa feigned a geriatric gimp to nab a motorized cart. To describe her wheeling slowly around the corner, hair billowing in the 3mph wind, would not do justice to it. It was so fucking funny, I felt like I was in middle school again (minus my queen of the nerds tiara and my hordes of debate team devotees). I even snorted a little, which is indeed a return to my middle school social trauma. I am going to call on that image every time I have to sit through a clip-art laden lecture about the glory of geometry in art. Chuckle.
Well, I'm off to paint some more hybridized, objectified, agency-reclaiming donkeys.

Shit, someone is at my door. I bet its a well-dressed Mormony man who never blinks. It reminds me of "Good Country People" everytime they come. I am always afraid they are going to take my false leg and leave me at the top of a barn.

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

I can't wait until school is over. I mean I really can't wait. I am doing mental kegel exercises to keep myself from bursting with school-induced bitterness. This Summer I am going to live at the coffee shop and smoke cigarettes and marvel of people with dreadlocks and/or femullets. I am also going to take the time to really fight "the man." Maybe I'll spit on a hotel parking attendant or something. Mmmmm, Spiderhouse is quite nice for emo-spotting, I think I'll camp out there for the Summer. I'm very excited about not TAing. I think I need to detach myself from UT. I am like a barnacle that is clinging to some sickly whale's chum. I'm also feeling incredibly guilty lately (what is up with me actually exploring my "feelings" on this blog? I never thought I would be one of those people). One of "those people," sigh, what a snob am I. Back to my latent Catholic guilt...I should have marched in the immigration rally, I should have gone to a bunch of art shows by my students, I should not paint a person finger-fucking a donkey.

Monday, April 10, 2006

Um, I deleted the last post. I put up a poem but decided it seemed a little too "poetry class" for my taste. I don't know what that means exactly, but it made me feel very exposed somehow. I hate my poetry class. And, here's something you should know faithful readers, I detest talking in class. Especially if I feel pressured to talk. I hate knowing that people are watching me speak ineloquently in response to something the professor said. Anyhoo, I'm like Nell in that class because I know nothing of syntactical bullshite and I don't have the impulse to contribute. It blows and it makes my social anxiety like 10 times worse. In other news, I am finally having fun in the studio again. Ali gots her groove back. And it didn't take a Jamaican sexperience to do it. Although, let's be honest, I would be making some good shit if I had a Caribbean tryst and a sassy tag-a-long friend like Whoopi Goldberg. Caribbean tryst with Whoopi Goldberg? No, that would be too perfect.

Sunday, April 09, 2006

Went to Art Palace last night, but was so congested that I sounded like the swollen-nasal-pale complected sister of Missy Elliot (minus the bedazzling garbage bag jumpsuit and throng of gyrating little girls). Coupled with my dripping nose junk and squintiness, I was DEAD SEXY.

(Juicy sneeze and awkard sleeve swipe). I hate allergies.

I used to wipe my snot on my sleeves as a child. I always lived in fear that someone would notice that my jacket was always coated with a thin reflective veneer. Maybe they thought I wore pleather. Or maybe they thought I was an overly cautious biker. Or maybe they thought I was a superheroine that could morph into shiny plastic with a single drip. Or maybe, just maybe, my snottiness was the least pressing of my many embarassing habits.

Art Palace hosted a silent auction of art, some of it was quite nice. Especially the one I bought: a masturbating robotwoman! Fuck yes. It is beautiful. I asked myself what was more important, paying off my insurmountable collegiate debt or buying a picture of a mechanical self-pleasuring cyborg? The second, tis' the second. She's looks like Barbarella too, which makes it even sweeter.

Thursday, April 06, 2006

Ok, I lied.
I love da blogging. My mom also told me that this buzzing hunk of cyberspace shiznit is my stand-in therapist. So, needless to say that without it I've been a pantless, muttering mess. Why pantless? I dunno, crazy people seem to have a problem with pants. But I don't have a problem with pant-hating crazies. Actually I really like Tom Cruise. Get out of that closet, Tom Cruise you secret homonude! Tom was only truly happy when he was skidding in his skivvies in "Risky Business." Belt loops are like nooses for him! I don't like pants either. Only gaucho/oyster shucking boyshorts for this girl.
Donkey Show update: Here is the website---www.thedonkeyshow.org . The show is April 21st I think the address is on there. Also, people keep emailing me on myspace about having threesomes with them. Is that normal? They were like specific requests from people in Austin. So, I put up a picture of barf as my icon in a passive-agressive protest. See below. I feel durrrty.

My girlfriend and I would like to meet you and if you have a friend, bring him/her along as well. I am trying to set up a gift for her this Thursday.....a fantasy of hers. Would you have any interest?

Barf.

Also, Meredith Viera is replacing Katie Couric on the Today Show. That is like replacing an annoying puppy with a rabid ferret...who has a penchant for flesh-tearing and disease-spreading. Meredith Viera is the second most ingratiating person ever. First? Dr. Phil. Get the fuck out of my TV Dr. Phil.

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

My blogging has cum to a geyser-like end. Like an embittered Old Faithful, I have been spurting jizzumy nonsense in the face of the internet for too long. I need to spurt elsewhere...or...um....find other things to...um...spurt. Jesus, I wish there was a better verb there. Spew? Whoosh? So, after months of "spewing" it is time for me to button my britches and awkwardly grope the nightable for a hanky. Also, I reread a lot of my old entries and realized that I talk about the same 5 things all the time: cheese, bitchy profs, hangovers, my fictitious army of androgynous lovers and my chest. I guess we all know what's important to me: things I consume, people I would hypothetically have sex with, and mammory glands. Don't worry, I will resume in May but right now I really need to paint and the temptation to write about my life ad nauseum is overwhelming. Ok? In the meantime, feel free to email me about how much the information highway sucks without this angry lady: alfitz04@aol.com

Monday, March 20, 2006

I'm back from San Francisco . It was supah dupah fly. What did I do you might ask? Well, I walked a lot. I walked more than that whacked out bibleman in the desert who walked for 40 days. I mean sheeeet, he didn't have to hike up Lombard St. just to see the place from "Full House." *(Legend has it that the old mansion is still inhabited by Uncle Joey's decaying and ghastly acting career) Thank god I made up for all this...shudder...exercise by causing a metabolic catastrophe and eating everything in sight (or sound..I swear I heard a pesto pizza last night). EVERYTHING. Chowder and crepes and Pad Thai, oh my. I also ate lotsa sushi, mmmmm. That's something I miss here on the "third coast that's not really a coast at all but really a giant cow paddy." Anyways, enough about me! What about you? How was your Spring Break? Don't worry about it until you really know its infected. Who knew you would contract any diseases from Cancun's largest under 30 jacuzzi? Just wear mesh shorts.

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

If you're going to San Francisco, you're gonna need some flowers in your hair,
If you're going to San Francisco, Ali's gonna be crunk and in drag with a green beer,

Bye. I'm going to San Francisco to see my tall athletic friends Alex and Flowerree. I hope they don't make me do the stairmaster, or walk up those damn windy streets (their legs are GIANT! Sidenote: When we were in Spain I used to ride Alex like I was a crazed matador, she's that tall. Also, she used to jokingly push me in front of vespas because she doesn't know her own strength. Freak.) I bet all their furniture is comically oversized. I guess I'll sleep in a mouthwash cap.

Actually, I think I'll just plant myself in Chinatown and buy ginseng hypodermic needles and questionable rotating meats. Also, I desperately want to spit off the Golden Gate, and gorge myself with Ghiradelli chocolates. But not rice. I don't want any of their fancypants Caleee-fornnn-eeeea rice. Uncle Ben would have my head.

Sunday, March 12, 2006

So I just took this E-quiz that gives you names for your breasts (too lazy to paste link dot com.) Anyway, apparently my glandular gals are "Tonya Harding and Nancy Kerrigan." I guess this explains why my top half has always found the siren song of the ice rink irresistible. And my left one (the evil Ms. Harding) can really wield a femur-shattering stick between our collective cleavage. Actually, here is an honest anecdotal boob-naming story: my best friend Melly and I (all names have been changed to protect the innocent aeriolas in question) thought that if we massaged and named our breasts that they would grow and so would our popularity. Hers did. Mine suffered from some performance anxiety issues. One false move and I was Ali "Inverted Chest"-Gerald. Although I do remember their names : Patsy (L) and Edina (R) from "Absolutely Fabulous." I still refer to them thusly. I'm dead serious.

Saturday, March 11, 2006

I think I can definitively say that Le Jackelope is my favorite bar in Austin. Velvety silicone tit-pics, blaring cock-rock, mysterious fire-spewing wall sculpture: Ali likey. Also, I met Andy Dick last night at an ATM outside of Oilcan Harry's. I learned two things: Andy is indeed a Dick, and Any does indeed like the dick. He had like 5 burly lycra sporting men massaging his (relatively oily) head. It was supercool. No one else knew who he was, but I was excited enough for all of us. Gawd I love me some D-list comedians. Next week: Ali spots Kathy Griffin purchasing high-end laxatives at her local Walgreen's.

Thursday, March 09, 2006

I am seriously addicted to the computer. I have googled everything. I have myspaced everyone. There is nothing left but death. And in my coffin I will be clutching my fucked up lil' laptop. I will arrive at the pearly gates and really freak St. who-the-fuck-ever out because I will have already discovered his secret double life (angelic S&M). Life is boring without surprises, maybe I should stop this thang. Naw, check me out on myspace!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Jesus, I need a life.
P.S.---Arturo has a really interesting show up at the Dougherty Art Center. It is all work by African American women, there's some good stuff. PPS---my students said that my class with Troy is one of the best and closest classes they have ever taken. I really almost cried. It was that cute.

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

So, I'm doing a show in April with the herculean curatorial superheroine Ms. Risa Puleo at her new gallery, which shall be called "The Donkey Show." Cruz Ortiz will also be in it (whose work I really like.) We agreed that I should do something with this idea of the Donkey Show, seeing as how it incorporates some of my interests painting-wise. I am currently researching donkey shows and am getting very disturbed by the first person accounts of attending said bestiality sessions (surprising? Yes, I can still be disturbed). For those not in the "know," a Donkey Show consists of several women (often prostitutes) who perform sexual acts on/with donkeys. Apparently, it is still happening in Nuevo Laredo among other places...I am actually quite sickened by this and am tempted to steal these poor women and molesting (molested?) mules away from all that dumb shitty exploitation. Perhaps I will fly down in a magical margarita-shaped weather balloon and scoop them up with my powerfully massive glutes. Then we will fly away to a tequila waterfall and watch the movie "Cocktail" and laugh. Sigh.

Sunday, March 05, 2006

I have been trying to clean my apartment all day, and I swear to god that it is only getting messier. The dustballs are copulating en force. It is the Studio 54 of dirt. It is like my dirt-pile consists of a couple of Chai-O whores tonguing each other on a pool table. The crowd just keeps getting bigger and bigger no matter how wrong and awkward it is. And the Chai-O dirt pile just shrieks "Woo" as it downs another apple-peach-pineapple-guava fusion martini.....
Hmmm....All my metaphors are the same aren't they? I need to work on being edgy without utilizing strange yet obvious sexual euphemisms. I mean really, this blog could be a lot more family friendly. So, that said, I am going to rewrite my previous analogy (concerning my messiness) using a pack of rascally kids we all know and love: the Peanuts gang!

I feel as though I am preordained to be that little kid on Peanuts who always has a shitcloud following him. Shit...I said shit. Well, on second thought, I'm much more "Lucy" anyway. We are both sassy and love to kick pianos. Although neuroses-wise I think I am Charlie Brown. Remind me to shave my head and get a Cosby-esque zig-zag patterned sweater vest. I would also like to sleep on top of a doghouse a la Snoopy (did Snoops ever have a chiropractor? He slept on top of shingles for Chrissakes). Or I could be the token black kid who was bused in during the topsy-turvy seventies. What was his name? Oh yeah, no one gave a shit because he was so poorly developed as a character. Curse you Shulz. And what was with the faceless, nameless piece of meat, "the little red-headed girl." I bet Charlie was a klanmember. And I think he probably was a bobble-headed doll fetishist. Ew Chuck.

Saturday, March 04, 2006

Well, I went out to the bar on thurs. night and paid dearly for it. I had to sit through hours of orals trauma and then I waddled home and fell asleep at 4 in the afternoon. I am one crocheted pair of Depends away from being an alligator-esque Bea Arthur. Incontinence aside, it was a good sleep and I so needed it. However I had planned to go to Jackelope last night, so it was too bad that I had to stay home and polish the walker with my reptillian spit. Tonight, I think I'm going to some fancypants party. As usual, I will feel out of sync with the rest of the world. I dunno though, a variety of hearty cheeses sounds kinda awesome right now.

Tuesday, February 28, 2006

Well, after 2 years at UT I am about as worthless as Janet’s sunburst nipple-armor, I don’t do (or cover) anything, I just look purty. I’m actually taking some liberty with the whole “pretty” characterization as hygiene is an archaic exercise in um…doing stuff. You know with the heaving and shoving of the soap, hair product and whatnot (whatnot=delicious, delicious water pressure). Today I went across the street to the library and I think the attendant thought I was a diabetes riddled mental patient. I was sweating profusely (on account of my out-of shape-itude as mentioned above) and on the verge of crying---of course that was because I had acrued $1171 in library fines. No that is not a joke. No, that is not an exaggeration. Apparently, my effort to renew my 12 books online did not go through. However, I escaped my cruel, unfair fate as she succombed to my natural charisma and eyeliner, encrusted overly mascara-ed glare. This bitch ain't payin' shit. Specially not for no fancy, la-dee-da wordbooks. Anyway, the point of my earlier rant was that I think I should be more active, you know SEXUALLY. No, that takes stamina, abdomen muscles and a very specccccial Yankee brand candle (desperation scented!) No, I should really take some kung-fu classes or something. Plus, then I could kill people too. First on my list: Ellen Pompeo of "Grey's Anatomy." You are one annoying lil' pussy Dr. Grey. P.S.---On Thurs. there is going to be some sort of rant-fest at the New Gallery. I shall be there with a very long scroll and a trumpet. Although trumpets really suck don't they? Orchestral rant!

Monday, February 27, 2006

I am really melancholy. I'm not sure why. My mother claims it is "the birthday blues," but I think it is more like "my life sucks-stock." It's like Woodstock, only with zoloft instead of reefer, and crying instead of crowd-surfing. And the music consists of a constant whiny droning that is less like Jimi Hendrix and more like the buzzing of impending insanity. Hmmmm, this analogy is getting awkward. But let's continue, shall we? I kind of feel like my brain is one giant, muddy intersection of gross, naked 1960's bodies. Like I am being suffocated by the flabby tattoed shank of an intoxicated lady named Rainy Racoon MoonBlossom. Whatever, I am going to move to Berlin and become a popular bar wench with colorful stories of the old country. And no one is going to judge me. Because, as we all know, the Germans are a very tolerant people. Everyday will be like "Cabaret." Perhaps if I summon the spirit of good ole' Liza Minnelli, it will catapult me into a better mood. What am I saying? She is a spooky, Jacko fellating-mess.

Friday, February 24, 2006

FEAR OF THE FEMALE ROBOT. Tis' the name of a party I am co-throwing with my birthday doppleganger Erin Curtis. Here is a copy of the party invite (because I am too boring and frazzled to generate any new thoughts): The Piscean extravaganzaz have begun.Join us as female robots once again roam the earth. Bring us your poorly crafted light-sabers, your deceptively deadly breast weapons, your tin-foil appendages, your mercurial lust for human blood.*If gender-bending mechanical maylay is not your 'thang' then you may also dress as a frightened Japanese male tourist (or caveman/housewife)FEAR OF THE FEMALE ROBOT (926 E. 53rd 1/2 st. between airport and 35) The invasion takes place after the dry, dry, (robot-less) opening at the CRL on Sat. the 25th.Love,Erin "I have Ginsu knives where my hands should be!" Curtis and Ali "I can crack a walnut with my battery-operated pelvis!" Fitzgerald............I have just finished my costume. My robot name is "BAD THUNDER SEX ROBOCOCK-BOT." Use your imagination, because I am far too lazy to post a picture of me. Plus, my robotic sensuality would certainly overpower the blogger mainframe. It would be terrrrrrible. Chaos would ensue as I am google-searched by millions of horny bot-fetishists. Nobody wants that. Not even Bad Thunder Sex Robocock-Bot.

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

Here is a game I used to play at my beloved crazypants Maine commune: Quirky likes and dislikes.....I like eating applesauce in front of the mirror (it is a natural outgrowth of the whole spoon-feeding yourself doctor game, which is only slightly less fun than the 'let's exlplore our blossoming crotches' doctor's game)... I like watching people's jaws grind as they chew gum (but not when they are chin-impaired and have stringy neck skin)...I like the way it feels when I push my eyebrows back and forth....I like Keaunu Reeves in "Dracula."...I dislike....M. Night Shamylan, styrofoam coolers and the cadence of Star Jones' (of the View) speech. I also dislike when people talk about their dreams, and the word 'placenta.'

Sunday, February 12, 2006

Went to a delightful Drag King show at Elysium, a lovely Nina/Steph opening, and a strange circus-themed party at a lil' commune in West campus. There was a kid dressed as a lion, who looked more like Boy George's understudy for "Tabboo" than an untamed king of the jungle. Perhaps he was the crowned prince of the jungle-patterned chiffon.
I think I finally gots me some semblance of a life! Hoorah! Netflix be damned, I am ALIVE. I decided to revert back to my teen years when all that mattered was skittle flavored Zima and a shared, sweaty-palmed burrito. I want Guinness, ciggies and everything else that is bad for me. Give me liberty or give me death! Maybe not death...I think a light flogging or some lukewarm lasagna would be appropriate.

Thursday, February 02, 2006

Hmmmm....I realized that my last few posts have had a freakish "sociopath in training" feel to them. Yes, sometimes I hate UT, but sometimes it swaddles me with filthy paint rags and lulls me to sleep with mellifluous artspeak buzzwords like "didactic." Sometimes I am comforted (and aroused!) by the beautiful noxious paint fumes that envelop me. Yes, sometimes I grapple with my obligatory art-school angst, but at other times (vicodin induced times) everything is as pleasant and smooth as a Stevie Wonder Ballad. Sometimes I love UT like I love "America's Next Top Model." Ok, that's a dirty lie. I love no one like I love Janice Dickinson. She is my uber-bitchy, bullimic earth mother. I shall drink only her shriveled cocaine infused breastmilk. Sidenote: I was reading a blog about someone named "Fellatia." No joke. That is almost as bad as "Cunnilingita," which is what I plan to name my firstborn child.

Tuesday, January 31, 2006

I love peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches. Truly, madly, deeply...and nuttily? In other news, I gave myself a lopsided art school self-haircut and I am still quite weird. I think I am a frighteningly stalkerish TA. I ramble like a maniac and barely let them paint. I am surprised my students can get anything from my Anna Nicole Smith-esque garbling. I talk fast and try to be very glib like the Gilmore Girls, but alas, I am not emaciated nor do I have fabulous gay male screenwriters working for me. How are you so cool Lauralai? How? Karri Paul (future Italianina) is going to take me to a poetry par-tay on Thurs. It will be ever so much fun! They're calling it, "Iambic Penta-kegger." Like "Iambic Pentameter!" Get it!!!! Wow. I am losing it. I almost started a painting today about an androgynous spacewoman named "Aeon Fucks." Help.

Friday, January 27, 2006

I have deleted previous post. Apparently vicodin and cheap Shiraz do not a happy Ali make. What a weird post that was. So sorry if you missed it. I confessed every dirty secret I have been harboring since my arrival at UT....example: my body is covered in scales! Hence my lack of ass-getting ability. I would slice you in half with my razor-sharp gills if I ever made "the love" with you. And don't even get me started on my sexy exoskeletal calves.


I am currently watching the movie "Jack," starring the unnaturally hairy Robin Williams. How is he convincing as a prematurely aged 10 year-old child? He has fucking muttonchops for chrissakes. I mean, the man's follicles should be donated to science immediately. He needs to get in a fucking glass case in the natural history museum already. I mean c'mon, have you seen "Cadillac Man," it's freakish. Really.

Cosby is in it too. I know this is supposed to be a tear-jerker but I just keep thinking about Robin Williams humping everything because he has the body of a 30 year old virgin. Including his little "friends" tommy and timmy and tiny or whatever. He also has a crush on his teacher....Jennifer Lopez!!! This movie is a gem. I would recommend to anyone who ever thought pedophillia could tug at the heartstrings.

Thursday, January 26, 2006

Guess what? I hate Texas again. Some prick-ass cop but a muthafuckin' boot on my car. Could I use more expletives? Perhaps not.
He/she (probably HE) did it for no reason. I was parked in my normal space. But HE claims that I stole a permit. Like I am the fucking "A" parking pass bandit or something. Because everyone knows parking passes are the 'bees' knees!' I hate UT. If it weren't for my glorious, glorious vicodin, I would go all Margaret Cho on their asses. Sassy Ali has returned. Bless me earth mother, for my temperment will hurt others...soon.

Wednesday, January 25, 2006

I done gots my toof taken out! It hurt like a motherfucker. Seriously.
The dentist (much to my chagrin) made smart-ass remarks the whole time. He said things like, "Wow, I really need some gatorade!" Or, "That tooth is a real bear!" And the hygenist was a 33 year-old woman with braces and a voice like Fran Drescher. I thought she was funny in an annoyingly nasal sorta way. The dentist tried to bribe me to get his daughter into some art classes at UT. Apparently, they fill up right fast. I told him I would in exchange for a elephantine basket full of vicodin. He assented. Life is like a norah jones song.

Sunday, January 22, 2006

I like this lil' pro-choice speech from my favorite angry black bitch. Enjoy!


Ready...set...go!
Roe v. Wade is 33 years old today…only a month to the day older than this AngryBlackBitch. A bitch has always lived in an America where reproductive freedom was a constitutionally protected right. And a bitch has always lived in an America where those same rights have been under attack.33 years of choice.33 years of debate.33 years empowered with an education about my body, my rights, my options and my responsibilities.33 years of Roe.Within my lifetime a bitch has been grateful for the protection of choice…that broad protective quilt that encompasses far more than what anti-choice activists would like us to believe.Oh yes…this bitch has been blessed by choice.When a bitch rolled over and felt a lump in my abdomen a few years back…this bitch had choices.When a bitch desperately ran out to the local Planned Parenthood office to seek medical advice within hours of feeling that lump…a bitch had choices.When my ass received efficient medical advice and care…when they told me that it was most likely fibroids…when a bitch was given so many options that my head was spinning…oh yeah, this bitch felt the power of choice.And when a bitch sat down for my first consultation with my surgeon…when she asked me…fucking asked me…whether my ass planned to have children…what my fucking intentions for my motherfucking body where…this bitch experienced choice in action.A bitch was able to make medical decisions regarding my reproductive future with my doctor. Wow! And the heavens didn’t fall. The oceans didn’t part and frogs didn’t rain out over the land like water.This bitch knows that what was so simple for me would have been revolutionary before.And when a bitch counted down from 100 in that operating room and slipped into dreamland it was with the knowledge that my doctor was making decisions with my medical health in mind…not the government, not the President and not some sanctified asshole pontificating from a pulpit. My body, my doctor…my motherfucking choice.There is a war underway. A war that is being fought in our schools, pharmacies and doctor’s offices. Women are being denied reproductive health education, prescriptions are not being filled and doctors are being told what to do or not do…and we need to ask why and who benefits from this. Not me and not you…so who? Who benefits from young women with four children before they reach the age of 21? Who benefits from young men and women not knowing how babies are conceived, how disease gets spread and how they can be empowered through planned parenthood as an applied action? Who benefits from the rise in STD’s among women of color? Who benefits from women not knowing that they can prevent a pregnancy after rape, not being told that they have choices after they have been assaulted?Some motherfucker is pleased by this bullshit and it sure as hell isn’t me.Do you understand that your right to make decisions is under attack…that choice encompasses abortion rights…and…so…much…more…?Are you with me? Or are you so blessed by freedom that you can’t work up the fucking passion to defend it?The revolution has come. The war is already underway and it is beyond time for Generation pro-choice to stand up and defend this shit!Ready?Set.Go!