Well, let’s just say I don’t feel good about it.

Interestingly, I learned that this mournful gem (as performed in my head, that’s what it is. Like a sad emerald, or a doleful opal, or a dispirited topaz) is from Sondheim’s A Little Night Music. I thought it was from some musical about a circus. Is there a musical about a circus? Goodbye And Thanks For All the Rubber Shoes? It’s Always The Poodle? Honk is a Four-Letter Word? (that last one could also be a musical about traffic). Carnival?

I thought it was from Carnival, but I was wrong.

Unfortunately now I have that free credit report song in my head because that one sits in there ready to jump in whenever there’s a silent moment. It’s like mold. Or rust. Or pink eye (a germ which is apparently always around, waiting for a weakness in your immune system).

I would never try to replace you, loyal readers! I just want you to have more friends to play with.

Back in 2002 I spent a few days on Loon Mountain in New Hampshire interviewing teens for a story for Seventeen about Christian rock. I haven’t thought about it in awhile—about how fans of the band Skillet are called pan-heads, or about how I could count on a deformed baby’s more-than-ten fingers the number of times I heard about people who suffered from a “Jesus shaped hole in their heart” or about the kid who told me he tried to commit suicide after engaging in premarital sex. My original draft of the story actually led with him—I couldn’t shake the image—but, understandably, it wasn’t quite right for the magazine’s readership so I reworked the piece.

I also hadn’t given any thought to a striking and gregarious young singer I interviewed named Katy Hudson until I saw her on Gawker tonight as Katy Perry. Man she’s changed except kinda not at all.

Here’s what I wrote about her then:

Katy Hudson is a charming 18-year-old singer-songwriter with big blue eyes and messy hair dyed jet-black. She has an effortless star quality, but she’s also the kind of girl who makes you feel like her new best friend by whispering secrets in your ear and grabbing your arm to tell you something when she’s excited. Katy recently signed with the Island/Def Jam label (ironically, home to Jay-Z and Ja Rule), and she’ll be marketed in both the secular and Christian markets. She’s worldly and rebellious in a cool-kid kind of way: When some of the cute, tattooed roadie boys walk by backstage, she flirts with them. “Hey, Ethan,” she yells. “We’re talking about sex!” This gets Ethan’s attention. “I love boys,” Katy says. “Being 18, you gotta love boys.”

Katy has a steady boyfriend, but she doesn’t believe in sex before marriage. “I know what it does to people,” she says. “One night my boyfriend and I went a little too far and I felt like I’d fallen so far away from God. I doubted myself and my strength. I was so weak at the time in my relationship with Christ.”

If someone is going to have sex, however, Katy absolutely believes that person should use a condom: “Some Christians think that if you use a condom, it’s premeditated. So nobody uses a condom at all and they have sex and get pregnant the first time.”

The original piece isn’t online but I found it reprinted here.

I’m not sure how I feel about her image flip-flopping, I’d have to think about it more and the vigorous and less-than-honorable marketing of Christian music is a topic for another post, but I suspect I’m one of the few people who remembers this singer in her previous incarnation and/or has firsthand knowledge, hence this post.

Actually, you know what, I will talk about the marketing: I remember being frustrated by the way certain bands and their publicists got really slippery when you… wait, no, I’m actually not going to talk about this now. I’m too sleepy to hit all the points.

I don’t actually eat the food at Starbucks—I don’t have 500 calories to spare on a giant orange cookie shaped like a daisy—however I’m always interested to see the calorie counts on all the items because it makes waiting in line less boring. (In NYC restaurants with more than 15 outlets have to post the numbers.) That said, does anyone else wonder about the accuracy of those counts? I trust the high ones, but tucked in between a thumbprint scone (310) and a maple walnut swirly cluster frittata with ham and peas (I made that up) is some kind of tart thing which is huge but claims to have 190 or 120 or something.

Okay, so this post would have been better if I could actually remember names or counts, but I’m just saying I don’t trust those shifty coffee mongers.

“Alright, Twitch and Kerrington performed a moving Viennese waltz dedicated to their choreographer’s disabled daughter.”

I don’t mean to make light of what I’m sure is a poignant plot twist on So You Think You Can Dance, however that sentence, which I just heard on the TV Guide Channel’s Reality Chat, which, incidentally, I would like to host should they be looking for new hosts, is like something out of an S.J. Perelman essay.

The good thing about striking out bathroom wise at one starbucks (and by that I mean not finding the restroom fast enough to avoid drawing attention to the fact that you aren't buying anything) is that you can try again at the next starbucks which is sure to be a few doors down.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

The blurriness of the reel on youtube was bothering me so I uploaded it to Vimeo. Seeing if this is any better. The problem here though is that all my other videos are on youtube so I like the idea that if someone is watching on youtube and wants to see more they are like “oh, 45 more videos!” or whatever as opposed to here where there are three videos, each of which was, I think, a blurriness test. Plus, all the comments on youtube. My precious precious comments like “Rosen yid bitch hahaha.” You know?

Alison Rosen’s extended reel–now 33% more awesome! from Alison Rosen on Vimeo.

A good headline for an article about poisonous soup would be “From the ladle to the grave.”

Incidentally, what the hell is going on with me and puns today? Maybe this is some reaction to going freelance. Some kind of final pun flurry before my brain accepts that I no longer have to write headlines? Or maybe I’m actually slowly losing my mind?