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.