Usually when I watch awards show I think to myself, “my god, who writes this crap?”
This is no exception.
And Adam Duritz? With the dreadlocks? Still?
It's storming in NYC right now
I just literally jumped from the thunder. Then I did a double axel, since I was already in the air, and I landed in the splits. I held it for a few extra seconds, breathing hard but making sure to smile at the judges, particularly that hard-hearted Olga who, well, let’s just put it this way, she’s… no, I’m just going to say it: She’s a bitch. I met her once at a cocktail party for the Seoul Olympics and she just gave off bad vibes. Like, get over yourself, Olga. You think you’re so fancy because you invented the figure skate? You think you’re all that because you survived a horrible cartwheel accident that left your partner in a coma? You think you’re so high and mighty because Oprah featured your book “Skating with God; My Life on the Rocks” on her show? Well I don’t think so, Olga. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have freezer burn on my legs.
Possessing neither porch nor pitcher
I’m sorry, blog readers. I posed a question and then didn’t ever answer it. What kind of jerk am I? I’m a jerk who’s drunk on the power of you wanting to know the answer! Will I tell you? Well will I?
Yes. The answer is J. I do not make sun tea. But I’m touched that you would even think I might!
Some shots from last night's Red Eye
So as you know, I’ve been going through a public identity crisis. (I do all my living exclusively in public now. When the cameras are off I just sleep in a closet, Small Wonder-style). When I’m on TV I’m something in between funny and informative—I’m fun-formative—and I talk about all kinds of stuff on various shows, so I don’t really know how to “brand” myself. I mean, I get the iron really hot but then I let out this blood-curdling death moo and kick up my hooves and it just doesn’t happen. As I’ve said before, obviously I am a journalist, but don’t put me in your little box! (Unless your box is a roomy studio or one bedroom come August/September in a safe neighborhood in Manhattan or Brooklyn.) So I settled on pop culture expert—I’m taking it for a spin, I have seen every episode of Facts of Life after all—and the guys at Red Eye have been kind enough to refer to me as a “self-proclaimed pop culture expert.” So that’s what was going on in this first photo.
And also in this second.
But then I recovered because I am a pro.
And then here I’m talking about the Dems video ad where a woman almost sleeps with a nerd but then stops when she realizes he supports McCain. And speaking of apartments, I was kind of distracted by the fact that I think I used to live in the apartment this was filmed in. I mean, not really, but my old apartment had that exact layout. It’s a little something I call “The Murray Hill,” because almost all apartments in that neighborhood have the same layout. And, points for verisimilitude: McCain supporters would totally live there!
As for the viral video itself, I admit I think it’s pretty clever.
Now see, I was thinking that I might get asked if I’ve ever had this experience, seeing as my dating life or lack thereof is a fun topic. I’ve never run screaming from some guy’s apartment because I discovered that his politics are different than mine. I’m more the kind who would overlook that kind of stuff and then feel tortured about it later because I like him but How Can I Like Someone Who [odious belief/action/hobby/ political affiliation/insignia here]. And I’m not speaking theoretically, but that’s a story for another day.
That's between me and my underwear
Someone reached this blog by searching “how old is your underwear.” I don’t normally post about the search terms people are clicking on to get here since they’re all some combination of “alison rosen” and “hot,” however… okay fine, that’s a slight exaggeration. Sometimes they are “alison rosen” and “nude.” Once they were “alison rosen” and “rutabaga.” Also, once they were “alison rosen” and “pregnant” which gave me quite a scare, but then I remembered that there’s a famous fertility doctor who shares my name. Maybe people are wanting to see her hot and nude? And then sometimes people want to read about puppies or getting their wisdom teeth out without general anasthesia, which I do and don’t recommend.
But back to the underwear. Mine are a few hours old, thank you very much. I mean, probably they were born in a sweatshop in Vietnam ages ago, but to me they are a few hours old.
Also, tonight I am on Red Eye with Greg Proops, whom I interviewed about nine years ago when he was hosting this shortlived game show called VS. I interviewed him for the “Random Notes” section of Rolling Stone because Jani Lane of Warrant was on the show as was Terri Nunn of Berlin. The show used to pit something against something and I think it was hair bands vs… I forget. But sort of like Lewis Black’s Root of All Evil. But a game show. Anyway, I thought he was funny then and I think he’s funny now. I want to tell him about how I actually met him years ago however he’ll be on remote and I’ll be in the studio and I bet I won’t have time. Sort of like how if he and I were in a production of H.M.S. Pinafore and we were in a bunch of scenes together it might appear that we interacted but really we might not get a chance to catch up because we’d be too busy, um, battening hatches and singing. Granted there would be rehearsals, but this isn’t like that. It’s more like a spontaneous Gilbert & Sullivan musical without the singing. So I guess what I’m trying to say is Greg Proops, if you happen to read this, perhaps by searching your name or “Alison Rosen” and “H.M.S. Pinafore,” I totally met you once a billion years ago.
An Open Letter to The Bug On My Wall
Dear Bug,
I’m sorry I felt the need to stand on a step stool and spray you directly with Raid Ant & Roach killer in “country fresh” scent. You were neither an ant nor roach, in fact I don’t know what you were, but you were disgusting-looking and uninvited basically, and NYC is a cutthroat place. Perhaps you were one of those “good bugs” that harness their insect powers for good—eating bad bugs, donating your time to very small soup kitchens and building tiny homes for larva? If so I feel terrible, however how am I supposed to know? It’s not like you spoke up when I came for you. You just sat there, stuck to the wall with some kind of tentacle/antenna thing. And by the way, bug, perhaps antennae have served you well over the million years you and your kind have persisted, but they aren’t serving you well in my bedroom. I suggest something cuter. Like a very tiny set of rabbit ears. Or a wee Groucho Marx nose-and-glasses getup. Everyone loves a bug with a sense of humor!
I’m sorry too that when I sprayed you, you became affixed to the wall surrounded by a puddle of bug spray. You were like the head of a moose on the wall of a log cabin, only you were an entire bug on the wall of a New York apartment. I’m more sorry, though, that I thought it wise to walk away after watching you for a time, so sure was I that you were a permanent wall ornament, because when I came back you were missing. The truth is that I have no idea where you went and it’s not for lack of looking. I even considered trying to stick something roughly bug size where you sat on the wall and then make that thing fall to see where it would go. But I didn’t because I can’t reach that spot on the wall which is how we got into this mess to begin with.
And finally, I’m sorry the makers of Raid Ant & Roach spray in “country fresh” scent were forced spend time in a country that smelled so strongly of insecticide.
Alison
Screen cap? Sure, why not
(courtesy of Joe who posted this on The Activity Pit)
A weird thing happened at Starbs
A weird thing happened to me at my local family-owned mom-and-pop coffeeshop, Starbucks. I ordered my usual drink, a skinny whipped mocha tazoberry blueberry chai fribble served in an ankle boot, and the guy who took my order asked my name. I told him. “I’m just going to tell them it’s for Alice,” he said. “Um, okay,” I responded because Alice is agreeable. “One grande iced coffee for Alice,” he yelled to a guy who was about four feet from him, making implausible the notion that perhaps wherever he was sending this drink order was so far away that the last syllable of my name would never survive the journey, falling off or somehow getting mangled on its little trip from idea to refreshing beverage. Maybe it would just sound like a touch tone. Like “iced grande for Alis#” So then my brain settled on the next logical explanation: he must have some kind of speech impediment which interferes with the word “son.” Obviously! But before I had a chance to test this theory by asking him a pointed question involving that very word, he handed me my receipt and said, “Here you go, Alison.” I never did find out but I bet it’s that someone in the drink making station had their heart broken by an Alison and thus the mere mention of that name—my name—is too painful. Or maybe in this heat three syllables is just pushing it?
Link to Fox & Friends clip courtesy of Malone/Activity Pit
Some delightful mayhem at the beginning.
Fun game: Things I like to do in the heat
Okay, folks! All the following are true except one. See if you can figure it out:
Things I Like to Do In The Heat (I suppose this could also be called 9 Truths and a Lie)
a) sleep
b) complain
c) nap
d) bitch
e) think about snow
f) watch TV
g) sigh
h) talk loudly about how I equate heat with death
i) talk loudly about how I equate walking around in heat like this to walking around in some kind of thick translucent soup—and not in a good way
j) make sun tea