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.