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'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


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.
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.


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).