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. 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:

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.