I met follicularly blessed musician Paul Layton Mellencamp years ago and have been covering his various incarnations ever since. Here’s a story about his recent reinvention which may be a little hard to follow. Is it? If so, you should let me know. I used to have a link to my email address but they my blog crawled up its own ass and I lost all the frippery. So use the comments section, won’t you? And here’s a story about his previous. You should go buy his album. I’m listening to it right now. And enjoying it! (how livejournal of me).

So I have this stupid M. in my name which stands for Michelle. I could explain why I suddenly started using it in my byline but that’s a longer story for another day. At some point, like oh, say, immediately after I started using it, I began to regret it, because frankly I would have made fun of myself behind my back, if I weren’t me, because come on! And also, when I sign my name or say who I am I never know whether to include the M. or not (in work-related correspondence) because the fear that keeps me up at night (not to be confused with the construction across the street that keeps me up at night) is that a potential employer would google search my name and find a handful of stories I wrote years ago, before the M., instead of the assload of ones I’ve written since. And also, there are quite few other Alison Rosens, some of them, it seems, involved in music, and they’re not me! BUT: I recently dropped the M. in a few magazines which signals my move towards unburdening myself of the albatross that is my middle initial. Also: me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me interesting to me me.

So I noticed that the woman who leads the cardio-kickboxing class I go to at the gym looked a little more put together this morning than usual. She had on full makeup and her hair was down and styled. Even her exercise outfit looked tighter and newer. “Ok, I cannot sweat this morning! I can’t get sweaty!” she told us before starting. “Because after class I have to go do a TV interview.” She strapped on her little microphone. “Oh, it’s nothing big,” she explained. “Just this thing for the reality show I’m in.” This amused me for a good 12 minutes. I’m lying! It’s still amusing me!

Originally I didn’t want to post my Beastie Boys story here, because it was just supposed to be a little review that ended up on the cover and I was afraid of the ceaseless mocking or perhaps hatred that might barrel my way, but a surprising number of people have applauded the story, though I’m not ruling out a surprising silent majority of people who hate it, and did you know I’m so like this? And really, if I’m going to publish my opinions in public where do I get off hiding out from the reaction? I, too, wonder. Or you could just read this.

My heart goes out to the fictional husband in the “My Guy Uses Levitra” commercials. If I were married to that perky, conspiratorial, aw-shucks, Levitra-pushing harpie I’d suffer erectile dysfuction too.

because here’s an even newer peeve: Irresponsible operation of umbrellas on crowded rain-slicked city streets. You people are urban snowboarders. I fear for my eyes.

photos referred to as “snaps”… not as bad as a celebrity’s pregnant belly referred to as a “bump” which should only be used to describe that which sits on a log or goes up your nose, but irksome nonetheless.

This is you: Have you written anything lately? This is me: yes.

annoys me.

No, you don’t really.