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Last night's show, Playboy mansion, stuff I've written

On last night’s show, the very first Alison Rosen Is Your New Best Friend of the new  year, we started talking about the band Zebrahead for some reason which allowed me to remind everyone that I’ve been to the Playboy Mansion three times, which I like to work into as many conversations as possible. Here’s the story I mentioned writing about Zebrahead shooting their video at the mansion.

And while we’re discussing my Playboy oeuvre, which we may as well discuss, here are some other stories I wrote from that time: Sex Ed., Sex Court, this thing.

While trying to find the above stories I just stumbled onto this. I think I’m on wikileaks.

Oh and listen to me on Adam Carolla’s show this week!

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Dammit, stoners!

Naturally I  have a google alert set to my name. Usually I just receive news of my own blog posts and occasional bikini contests however today I learned my video with Michael Showalter about a ton of stuff but not including pot smoking has been included on a site called How To Smoke Weed. See the above alert. You can imagine the pride with which I am beaming.

Talk of pot seems to be sticking to me like resin ever since I jokingly mentioned the phrase “dank nugs” on my show on Sunday. You guys, I was joking. I’m far too boring to smoke pot these days, though I’m in favor of people being free to do what they wish, so long as I don’t have to try to converse with them after they’ve done it.

But my oeuvre is not without the occasional pot story. Here, love this. But keep in mind it’s from 2000 and not that great.

Also, took me like six tries to type oeuvre.

P.S. I can’t remember what’s actually in the video with Showalter. For all I know we did talk about pot but I don’t think so. But now I’m suddenly remembering that we did talk about drugs in a radio interview. But still.

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My gums looked fantastic

Today I went to the dentist and received confirmation of something I’ve long suspected: my gums look fantastic. “All that flapping’s paid off!” I didn’t say to the hygienist, as there were dental instruments in my mouth and plus, no one likes a smug gum show-off. Then the dentist himself came in, nodded in agreement over the fantasticness level of my gums and inquired as to whether I was still wearing my night guard and grinding my teeth. This struck me as odd, since I neither wear a night guard nor grind my teeth. Then he assured me if I get super famous he can do porcelain veneers. “Ah, probably won’t have to do that,” he said upon reflection. I’m hoping this was more a referendum on my teeth than my chances at achieving “super fame.”

The whole thing made me think of this story I wrote a million years ago. Incidentally I will be seeing said tooth whore, the subject of the story, tonight. People with fantastic teeth/gums must stick together.

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The Daily Alison (Wherein I play tag and then interview Anthony Pignataro)

Anthony Pignataro and I used to work at the OC Weekly. He always wore shorts, hence the invention of his alter ego, Tony LongPants, who wears pants. I think this amused the rest of us more than it amused Anthony, as you’ll see when I bring it up. Anthony lived in Maui for many years after Orange County and worked as the editor-in-chief of the Maui Time Weekly. He’s written a book called Remember The Technicolor Dreamboat: And Other Tales of Maui’s Misfits featuring some of those stories which you can buy here.

Related reading?

I briefly mentioned graffiti. This is the story I was referring to.

And the headache dance is referred to here.

And here’s Anthony’s account of the Rick Dees run-in.

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Photos I found on my mom's computer

More photos of me? If you insist. I was on my mom’s computer looking for porn (note: not looking for porn) when I found these photos that I must have put on there when they were emailed to me and I was using her computer and etcetera. Plus, since Anna David posted on the Activity Pit that she wasn’t afraid to trot out some Alison Rosen material and then Joe asked for some baby pictures I thought I might beat them to the punch. Not that they actually have access to my baby photos, but you know. So, shall we?


Here I am taking a nap before the dawn of color photography. This actually is a daguerreotype.


And here I am wearing a bandanna on my head after a hard day of child labor. Also, my older brothers enjoyed dressing me up in ridiculous get ups and I’m thinking this was one of them.


Here I am hanging out with my older brother Josh. He’s so totally imitating me here but that’s Josh, always trying to do what I do.


Here I am many years later playing in The Angoras. Yes, I know my legs look fat here.


Here I am being tuff with the band, hanging out on a car. That’s the kind of outlaw shit we did in OC. We didn’t even play instruments, just hung out on fully-hotrodded titz rides. In fact, I’m surprised there aren’t any flames on the side of this vehicle. There’s very unusual.


Here we are on tour after I’d clearly made some kind of hugely embarrassing admission.

See how tuff we were? By the way, if you own this cassette it’s totally worth the cost of a used cassette right now.


Here I am holding a baby. Come and get it quick men, I think I just ovulated. Oh and if you happen to click on this photo let me say right now that I don’t know what’s up with my eyebrow. I must have shaved it like that in prison. [update: maybe this isn’t the photo but there’s a photo of me like this where it looks like there’s a Vanilla Ice-style notch missing from my eyebrow, hence the explanation. The unnecessary explanation.]


And here’s my sister and me just hanging out. This was probably the last time I had a tan and wore a tank top. Actually, I’ll have you know that’s not just any tank top, it’s Wonder Woman Underoos.

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The Girls Next Door; language

I kind of love The Girls Next Door. What can I say, guess I’m just a regular red-blooded American male.

Did I ever tell you about how I went to the Playboy Mansion not once but thrice*? I did? Like a zillion times?

Okay, never mind then.

*Incidentally, my friend Trevor and I decided that there was no good reason [whatever-they’re-calleds] should stop with once, twice, thrice so we’ve added quarce, quince… oh crap. I now forget the rest of them. This is what happens when you invent a language. Is this what the minds behind Esperanto experienced?

Update! I found them:

once, twice, thrice, quarce, quince, since, sense, doublequarce, nince, and tence.

we also considered dince or dunce and then decided to keep all three as a regional thing. For example, the North says tence, the South says dince and Canadians say dunce. Then we ate paste.

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At the gym; FAQ

At the gym again, toning my hexagons, perennials and robots and I really don’t feel like being here. I don’t want to feel the burn, I want to feel a snack and then a nap. So I’m going to do what I do when I am forcing myself to stay here: cry. Okay, now I’ll blog and I was thinking this might be a good time to answer all those questions FAQ style, except the formatting will likely be all messed up. Deal with it.

Do you really write those posts from the gym!
Yes.

Why are you always in the newsroom on Red Eye?
I get this one all the time and I’ve been in the studio, in both chairs at different times, however that was before I suffered a horrible accident and lost my left foot. In what can only be viewed as a horrible miscalculation on the part of the medical community and also the veterinary community, they grafted the foot of a duck onto what was left of my stump. Infection and deformity resulted, but I won the women’s freestyle and butterfly strokes in the olympic trials so it’s not without benefit.

Do you eat foie gras?
What am I, some kind of cannibal?

So then when people say “Is there a duck in here?” around you, is it actually a reference to your webbed foot!
Precisely!

When’s your band playing?
Never. Unless we reunite for a wedding of one of the members or a short west coast tour which I’m trying to beat the drum loudly for but likely won’t happen.

Beat the drum loudly? I thought you played guitar.
You’re awfully literal, you know that? I do or rather did play guitar, Amelia Bedelia, but since you ask, here is a fun fact: I was the drummer before we had one who was actually good.

Um, what else?
I don’t know, you’re the one asking the questions.

Right. Is your hair really black?
Yes. I used to lighten it actually.

Are you goth?
I prefer ‘realistic.’ I’m just kidding. I’m not goth, damnit, although I do remember that when I started working at the OC Weekly years ago someone told me that they thought I was just some ‘sullen intern.’ I promptly had them fired.

How long have you lived in New York?
Six years.

Where did you go to college?
Yeah, because I really get this one frequently! You are too much!

Thank you.
Pomona College. It’s a small liberal arts college in Claremont, California. It was also the facade of Eastland in the credits for Facts of Life, but that’s not why I went there, I swear.

Who’s your favorite Facts of Life girl?
Can’t choose, don’t make me.

Have you been listening to “Why Do You Let Me Stay Here” by She & Him on repeat for days?
Pretty much.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

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The morning after

Pitcher of appletinis (above)


Another pitcher, above, in case you didn’t get the joke and need me to beat it into the ground

appletinis being poured into the bottom of what appears to be a giant tennis shoe

appletinis for your car

So how do I feel about last night’s appletini, you are likely wondering? I deeply regret it. Not for physical reasons—I feel fine, if a little chagrined/horrified—but for matters of self-respect. Do I think I’m better than people who drink appletinis? Pretty much, yes. Appletinis are the drink equivalent of “okay dokey smokey” or “okeley dokely” or “easy peasy japanesey” (no offense to the Pacific Rim) or “right on” or maybe “sweeeeeet” in that you say them making fun of them and then one day you wake up and they’ve actually wormed their way into your vocabulary in earnest and also, you’re that asshole drinking an appletini—which started as a joke because it sounds funny—but man if it doesn’t go down easy peasy. [Note: no one actually adds “japanesey,” that was just for effect.]

Okay, I have to be honest: I never said “okay dokey smokey,” but I did have a problem with “okay dokey.” I think my sister the plant-name stealer did too. I’m reminded of one of my favorite stories, courtesy of one Steve Lowery, who had taken to saying “nighty night” to his kids and heard himself end an interview with a sports legend that way. I forget who the sports legend was of course, because I don’t know sports. Um, Mr. Pigskin? Sherman Bleachers? Doug Dugout? You see what’s happening don’t you? I’ve lost my sense of humor. This is kind of tragic actually, because I was counting on it for the weekend.

Also, I miss the big hair. It had kind of grown on me, literally! And without it I looked so smushed headed and dare I say fat-faced, because (shall I let you behind the curtain? okay then!) whilst in California I got my hair straightened (just the roots or the “regrowth” as it’s called in straightening circles), which is a little thing I do like having my personal assistants shot, for those of you reading all the posts, which results in flat hair (the straightening, not the assistant shooting). It’s why, I think, it poofed up so much the time before last (like poofed up in between when it was styled and when I went on air) and why, since they didn’t want it as big last night, it was kind of stuck to my head. That didn’t make much sense to you did it? My sense of humor along with ability to explain myself have been replaced with a swirling appletini. Let me try again: In its now unnatural natural state, my hair is quite flat. Because the texture is especially fine, it responded extremely well to the poofing last time, so much so that the walk to the newsroom kind of inflated it. Last night though, I think there was less poofing than usual, thus it was stuck to my head. Oh my God, who cares! I’m not even reading this anymore! I mean, seriously. Shall we take a look?

Delightfully big!

Robust!

pequeno

Did I mention I like to lapse into Spanish when talking about my hair?

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The nostalgia vault runneth over

Need to read another story I wrote a long time ago? I thought so. This was from my dating column “Come Here Often,” a title which my parents hated with the hate of a million hate-filled parents. The truth is that when I thought it up, I really was envisioning someone saying it at a bar—the double entendre didn’t occur to me, I swear!—but upon reflection I suppose they had a point. Anyway, the column itself wasn’t racy. And those aren’t my lips.

Flawed Beauty

By Alison M. Rosen
Thursday, December 21, 2000 – 12:00 am

Have you ever gone out with someone who has horrible taste in the opposite sex and yet finds you attractive? It really does a number on the self-esteem.

One night, I jokingly asked my date —we’ll call him Horton—if the bruises on my legs (which I got from being clumsy, not from what you’re thinking, Mr. Pervypants) made me look sexy. “Well, see,” Horton began, “I like flawed beauty.”

I’m familiar with this notion of flawed beauty. Cindy Crawford’s mole. Jewel’s crooked Alaskan teeth. Kate Hudson’s overly wide-set eyes. Christie Brinkley’s marriage to Billy Joel. This is what men usually mean when they say they like “flawed beauty.”

“Yeah, flaws that aren’t really flaws,” said a co-worker matter-of-factly.

But Horton meant something different.

“I like girls in digital watches,” he offered one night on the phone, as I eyed with dismay my shiny, silver, clunky, bracelet-link, girly, analog watch. “I like lazy eyes. I like prosthetic limbs,” he continued. My stomach flipped in many-limbed non-digital-watch-wearing horror.

Digital watches? Lazy eyes? Prosthetic limbs? And he likes me? I’m supposed to feel good about this?

Perv Boy has been trying to backpedal ever since. “No, but I didn’t mean,” he’ll begin; or “Yeah, but you don’t understand,” he’ll try; or “But wait, what I meant was . . .” But it’s of no use. His words begin to blend together into an indecipherable buzzing drone, and all I can think about is that I feel inadequate because I have too many limbs. What I hear is this: “But wait, I’D LIKE YOU BETTER IF YOU HAD FEWER ARMS” and “No, but I didn’t mean I’D LIKE YOU BETTER IF YOU HAD A CLEVELAND EYE, YOU KNOW, ONE EYE LOOKING AT ME AND ONE EYE LOOKING AT CLEVELAND.” And “But wait, what I meant was YOU HAVE TOO MANY LIMBS.”

Not too many limbs like more than is normal, which would probably turn him on, but too many like the regular amount. Would it have been too much to ask for my mom to have had German measles?

It’s inescapable. No matter which way I look, there they are: both my arms, both my legs, all 10 fingers and 10 toes. It’s all there. My symmetry mocks me.

“Come, love, let’s frolic atop this combine,” I fully expect him to say someday, as I try in vain to stuff my arm into my shirtsleeve. “Come, dear, another bottle of cough syrup for the road?” I curse thee, right leg, keeper of balance, impediment to true love!

“But that’s not how I meant it. You don’t understand. It’s that I . . .” he begins to say—again—and again I tune out because it’s going in one normal ear and out the other normal ear. Damn these normal ears!

“That’s not flawed beauty! That’s mangled beauty!” shouted an incredulous friend when I told him the situation.

“Oh, fiddlesticks! You’re just jealous,” I told him dreamily, as I absent-mindedly scribbled, “Alison + Horton 4-ever and ever” all over my spiral notebook and then cut off my thumb.

Now that some time has passed, I’ve learned to have fun with dear Horton’s unbelievably horrible taste. It’s like a game.

“Okay, do you like it better when a girl has long or short nails?” I ask, already sure of the answer.

“Short,” he says.

“Painted or not?”

“I like short, painted nails,” he says. “But you know what I like better than short, painted nails?”

“Let me guess,” I say. “Short, painted nails that are chipped?”

“Um . . . yeah,” he says, dumbfounded. “How did you—oh, wait, because that’s what you have?”

“No,” I say as I run my fingernails along a cheese grater. “It’s just obvious.”

The other night, my roommate told me I looked like shit. “Oh, thank you, thank you!” I squealed, hugging her and quickly racing over to Horton’s house before I started looking good again.

It was all for naught, though.

“You look nice,” Horton said as I walked through the door.

“What?” I demanded.

“You look . . . um . . . nice?” he said again, beginning to twitch.

“Nice?” I thundered. “Nice! That bitch—she told me I looked like shit!”

Horton stared at me like I was crazy. Of course, for him, that was a turn-on.

I think I’m going to have to call it off, though. I just don’t have the time. You think it’s easy to look this bad?

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