Author Archive | Alison Rosen

First prize for the reader who can identify the factoid I culled from a Red Eye episode (one I watched, not one I was on.) Okay fine, there isn’t any prize. But perhaps you’d care to read and guess anyway? Here’s the interview.

The thing about death that gets me is the things and the way the things remain unchanged. I’ve written about my relationship to stuff and death in various places, maybe I’ll try to link if I have the energy, but basically it’s walking into the person’s apartment and seeing all their stuff there, specifically the stuff at the end of their life, the medicine bottles, the two pairs of glasses, the box of latex gloves for I don’t know what, the sticker with hospice and a phone number in giant letters stuck on the phone, the magazines that arrived after she died and the chair she used to sit in, that makes me tear up. It’s the more prosaic aspects of death that make it crushingly real.

I don’t mean to make this a blog about death, and I promise I”ll lighten it up soon.

Speaking of, I’m tired of funny people who disavow jokes. I get it, you’re a comedian. You’re deep and you do “bits” and your humor is “observational” and culled from “reality.” Me? I like jokes. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go bum myself out.

Today I’m going to the funeral. I only hope on the way some stranger says “Smile! You look like someone died!”

We may have disagreed about Best Week Ever, we may have wanted different things from our imaginary pet dogs, we may have had near knockdown drag out fights over ampersands, the role of criticism in culture and something referred to as “yelling at the duckling,” but when I put forth a recent plea for links to “We Need a Little Christmas,” you not only found one, but you found the best one. Thank you.

I feel weird coming here to write about this, and even more weird since I’m kind of half asleep which goes against my no blogging while asleep rule, but I found out a little while ago that my grandmother died tonight. She was 98, so not exactly ripped from the prime of life by death’s bony claws, but death kind of blows regardless, except not to the little bugs I find in my kitchen which I kill indiscriminantly. Except sometimes I just squish them and I don’t think those chitenous little things are damaged. They just hitch a ride on a paper towel to the trash can. So I guess what I wanted to say is that I think it’s weird that my brain felt like a big bag of jet puffed marshmallows left in the backseat of a car while my grandmother meanwhile was dying. That’s all. Now I’m going to go toss and turn for a few hours. I figure if I time it right I can drift off to sleep right as my alarm is set to go off. I’ve been waking up to the “calypso” pre-set ring on my new phone. It’s very peppy. Like there’s a very peppy, very tiny steel drum band banging me awake. That’s not a double entendre. Not intentional, that is.

Did I have a stroke or something? Because I’m trying to write an introduction to a story and it’s as if English is my second language. (And jibberish and clumsy metaphors and clunky other things are my first. See? And what’s worse, I’m trying to articulate something delicate, so this bull in the china shop of language approach isn’t going to work. Maybe I’ll just spell out what I’m trying to say with cups.) And I don’t even think “delicate” is the right word. This is bad. My head is filled with cotton. Illiterate cotton. And marshmallows. It’s basically squishy. My thoughts are squishy. Also imagine meaning as a dartboard and I’m throwing darts but they’re hitting other parts of the bar. Like dart boomerangs. (See?????)

Are Zamboni operators the fluffers of the ice skating rink world?