Saturday, January 27, 2007


At Risa's.
Doing laundry.
Watching "Unfaithful."
Which is very hot.
In a dirty shirt.
With a dead phone.
And some kinda pink eye.
Hungry after eating at Azul.
I even got a cookie.
Jesus I love their pork sandwiches.
And their Coca-Cola lattes.
But I do not love Richard Gere.
Who is in "Unfaithful."
He looks like a rat.
which I'm sure he shoves up his ass.
Like that hamster they caught him with.
And I'm all out of cigarettes, and I'm too lazy, poor, and stubborn to buy more.

Sunday, January 21, 2007

REALLY fucking preachy blog.

Ok, here is my serious (only somewhat self-effacing) pontification for the month:

I think we all spend our lives trying to align our insides with our outsides; to make sure that the freckly curvy thing in the mirror matches up with our freckly, curvy soul. In the past, I've felt so incredibly disconnected from my own visage. I remember looking in my mother's bathroom mirror and thinking "jesus, that's me?" The truth is, sometimes I wake up feeling like Aretha Franklin, and other days I feel like Woody Allen. Then other days, I feel like their monstrous spawn (Star Jones-Reynolds?). But lately, I've found solace in the acceptance of my fluctuating self-image and person. I am a little speck of ali mercury, bouncing around the anal thermometer we call life.

I'm being pretty vague here, but I think I finally realized that everyone's confused as well as confusing. And I'm not alone in this constant question of my identity and how I choose to present (slash conceal) it. Maybe I'm becoming less of an egomaniac or at least slightly less self-conscious. Or more self-conscious, who the fuck knows.

So my piece at Arthouse includes a book about a traveling phantom trenchcoat. The Trenchcoat has no head and because of that the reader can't pinpoint race, gender, or class. I say class, because trench coats are worn both in high fashion and by flashers. And I'm summarizing because I really liked that I could fuck with a character's identity enough to make it less visible. That would be nice in real life. Not being able to discern so much at first glance. A Tabula Rasa. Yes please, that's what I want to see and what I want to be seen. A blank slate. A headless, nameless person judged by something other than breast size, skin tone and footwear.

This post was prompted by thinking about a former student of mine who is actually attempting to figure himself out. I think it's great for a number of reasons but one of them is that complacency of self often makes it hard and scary to really investigate who we are. So many people live in some foreign body because it's too fucking difficult to actually do some serious psychological sleuthing.

Ok, my high priestess collar is strangling me now. Let's just say that self-hatred sucks and everybody should give their inner Aretha a big, sloppy kiss (or at least a brief acknowledgment).

Friday, January 19, 2007

Cum to my opening Blogbitches.

Arthouse. 7th and Congress.
Tonight (Friday)

It shall be fun. You might even catch a glimpse of the elusive Trenton Doyle Hancock.

Thursday, January 11, 2007

Ali's F****KED up Reading Corner, A.K.A "What I read over my Christmas vacation in between reruns of Frasier."

-"Step Right Up," A loverly carnie-centric short story romp. Includes some of my faves: Angie Carter, Katherine Dunn, Flannery, Bradbury and Kafka.

-"I am Not Myself These Days," My sister clued me into this novel that chronicles the alcoholic adventures of a New York Drag Queen named "Aquadisiac." Her gimmick? Live goldfish swimming around in a waterbra. I will one up her with my new Kimono Dragon bikini bottoms.

-"Footfalls," An interesting short (very short) play by Beckett about the mother-daughter dynamic. Haunting, surreal and absurd. So very Absurd. Beckett, you are one crazy apple. *See, I bet he's in his grave right now going, "interesting, she's sulimating her hatred for disorderly emotional thought in the form of a common fruit." And then he would answer, "Knockity-knock, send out the feet and their sweaty height." This could (and would, I'm sure) go on forever. That's why only the absurd die young.

-"Vitamin D," I got this book as a very thoughtful Christmas present. It was probably one of the best gifts I've ever received, because I so pined for it in the months preceeding J.C.'s big day. It is a great survey of contemporary drawing and it comes highly recommended by me. Ahem, and J.C. The guy with the smokin' toga and heavenly body really enjoys the way Pettibon renders monkeys. Outrageous rant: Okay, if we do believe Dan Brown that Jesus had a lover or two, couldn't it then be argued that he might have been called "L.L. Cool J." for short? "Ladies Love Cool Jesus?" Yes, yes I think so too.

-"The Berlin Stories," This is a two in one novel written by Christopher Isherwood about his time in morally deviant pre-WWII Berlin. I keep trying to get into it, but it's not quite as seedy as I was hoping. Apparently, "Cabaret" was based on the second novel, but I think I prefer Liza to Isherwood's lame(far less sequined) protagonist.

Sunday, January 07, 2007

New Year's Rezzzzzzzolutions:

Stop smoking. I swear that I will accomplish this even if it takes dumpster loads of codeine and nicotine lollipops to calm me down.

Stop caring so deeply what people think (yes, underneath my thick-leather-stitched-silence-of-the-lambs-people-suit-veneer I really do care).

Exercise, exercise, JAZZERCISE!

Actually take the time to respond to people on email/the phone. I am ever so bad at this, and I just now realized that it hurts peoples' feelings. I am sorry index finger is unruly and defiant. It barely picks my nose anymore.

Wear more suspenders. Annie Hall and Bette Porter look hot in them, so why shouldn't I?

Write many more graphic novellish bookies. I am already working on one called, "All the People I've Ever Made Out With." It is very Tracy Emin. I must say, you'd be surprised at both the number and breadth of the people I've locked lips with. Quite the teaser eh?

Stop complaining about the tedium of applying to teaching jobs/residencies/bullshit. I just need to do it, like a good girl should.

Go to every art opening I can. I have been somewhat lazidelic lately.

Stop making up stupid words. See above.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaand, I am banning my evil mistress (cable) from my life. Hello, Joyce, goodbye "Punk'd."

Stop talking so morbidly about serial killers and things of that nature. Sometimes I forget that the macabre can be frightening to people. Especially the little girl scouts that I lure into my Aileen Wuornos murder shrine.

Start cleaning up my fucking house/studio/car/life. It looks like the inside of a dog.

Be an excellent, caring TA for the little people.

Build a statue of my character "Marina Walker the 18-Wheeler," out of papier mache and love.

Eat healthy non-frozen items. I am also banning my second mistress: frozen dumplings.

Relive my Spain days when I stayed out until 6 and tongued everyone (see book on people I've made out with---there are many chapters devoted to this particular time in my life---oh Ignacio!).

Live life to the fullest every day!

Less sarcasm. See above.

Thursday, January 04, 2007

Back in A-town.

I'm bored at the studio waiting for a pickup. Annnnnnd instead of painting I'm going to write a little.
Here's the thing:
half a Tecate makes me feel real nice. Not "Britney Spears upskirt" nice, but nice nonetheless. I wish I was this nice (slash felt this nice) all the time. It makes me feel like shining star Gary Coleman after a few key bumps behind the set.
Tomorrow I am meeting with Harmony Hammond, who is hot feminist shit apparently. That's all.
Also, Arturo got a rocking new van which I am going to adorn with an Aztec warrior princess (she will only distantly be related to Xena, also of warrior princess fame).
That's all.
I sat next to a Mormon on my flight.