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.