Author Archive | Alison Rosen

Also, I like the show. But it’s more about the dog. In fact, I wanted not to like the show after New York did their “Best. Show. Ever.” cover story, because I’m contrarian and also because I HATE. PERIODS. AFTER. EACH. WORD. It’s up there with announcing the number of words you’re going to use before using them such as “Two words: mechanical pencils”
(no relevance, mind you, it just happens to be my writing implement of choice, which may surprise you because most people I know prefer some kind of rollerball bullshit, but not I, unless I’m filling out forms or writing checks or something. ANYWAY) This was going to be a post of TV shows I like, however I’m going to cut myself off at the pass because I’m procrastinating, and because you are enabling me with your codependence and your cohabitation and your copayments and your comb overs and your codeine binges and your cones and rods (you have excellent eyesight) and your enmeshment and your herring. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to. See, I am on deadline(s) again and so there’s no time for us to talk about The Hills, which I’d probably rather talk about than Gossip Girl.

Also, my dad is having a small procedure today (all over lipo and he’s getting a new face grafted onto his face) so I am slightly distracted, although I’m sure he will be totally fine.

These ones above makes me think of Race for Your Life, Charlie Brown, but that’s probably because most things make me think of Race for Your Life, Charlie Brown, Emmett Otter’s Jug Band Christmas or Facts of Life.

Check out my banging red 4-runner rental in the bottom of this shot. “You have fun in that thing, now!” said the security guard as I drove off the lot and then got totally lost and ended up somehow going the wrong way down a one-way street trying to exit the airport. I’m an adult, I should be able to do this! I told myself. Sadly I had to repeat that shameful mantra the following day when a quick coffee run went disastrously awry. Apparently “take a right at the light” short circuits my mental faculties and results in my going about 40 minutes in the wrong direction. But it’s not a clean “in the wrong direction.” It’s muddled by self-doubt which causes u-turns and then thinking I had it right the first time and then thinking, no, I didn’t, it’s the other way and ultimately the kind of defeat that makes me call my mom to ask for help. But she was at the movies, forgetting our unspoken arrangement that for the entire time I’m in possession of a rental car she’ll sit by the computer in case I need to call for directions.

This, which was posted on The Activity Pit, is pretty awesome. Clearly I have the most creative fans ever. I bet you guys can fashion a birdcage out of popsicle sticks and bee spit. I bet you can make a lanyard in your sleep. I bet your doilies are unstained and your china unchipped. Okay, those last two things have less to do with being creative than just being old and fastidious which none of you are unless you have kleenex wadded up and tucked into your sleeve in which case you might be an old lady, which is cool. I might be one too.

And since many of you asked: I ended up working until about three in the morning last night and then I got up earlier than I wanted to and finished the story. I’d kind of forgotten about this aspect of being fully freelance (I’m now freelance and am writing for Page Six as well as a bunch of other magazines). Actually, I think I’d forgotten about this aspect of writing—the necessary day of procrastination which isn’t really procrastinating at all but taking in an synthesizing all the info you can via research and thinking about the transcription before putting it on the page.

Whoa! Look who’s all fancy and hoity-toity and writerly. Did I tell you’ve I’ve taken to writing my stories with a quill dipped in ink? It’s damaging my computer screen though. Not sure how I’m going to deal with that going forward. Also, I’ve been carrying around very tiny notebooks so I can jot down important observations like earlier today I wrote “this notebook is too sma”. Unfortunately the rest just got on my hand.

Also, in the elevator there was a sign that said that someone has taken to putting a padlock on the “sauna” room and using it as storage and if they don’t phone the office immediately it will be cut and emptied and my response to this is: We have a sauna room? Also, what’s a sauna room? I find it hard to believe, since this building barely has heat. It’s like that dream where you discover there’s a secret room you never knew about in your house only this happens to be a room I don’t care about. Like if I found a room filled with TVs broadcasting sports. Or a room full of vitamins.

If I fuck around after every paragraph that I write, I will never ever ever ever ever (fighting the urge to write an infinity numbers of evers just to avoid doing real work) get this story done. It’s like I’ve never done this before, when I’ve done it a million times before! I am a bad writer. BAD! It’s 9:40pm and I can feel an all-nighter of my own creation coming on. Ugh. So not happy with my work habits right now.

Great, now it’s 9:42. I just stared at a blinking cursor for two minutes. Hooray for me!

…that shitake mushrooms smell like socks.

I forgot how much I hated Kinko's!
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Whenever I arrive in cute pictaresque little town I always think 'I would love to live in a place like this. I can breathe here, I can relax here, I can wear a hula skirt and eat poi balls or shoot them at people or pack my winter coats with them, whatever onw does with poi balls. (This last thought only applies to hawaii.)' And then after a few days or weeks of breathing and relaxing in the adorable sleepy place I realize that actually I could never live there and why does everything smell like mackeral? The only places I've ever been and thought 'I could really see myself living here' and that thought only intensified the more time I spent there were san francisco and new york. I almost moved to SF after college actually, but that's a story for another airport. I was interviewing a couple yesterday who are from the east coast, went to grad school together back there but always had a plan to escape to wyoming, montana or idaho. I told them that I, too, am starting to think about my escape from new york, but …oh, screening time!

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Of course you do, you 4/20 observing weirdo. This one’s from the vault. Incidentally, I find pot and pot smokers boring at my advanced age. Unless you happen to be one in which case, I take it back.

Perhaps I’ll write more—not about pot—from the airport.