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!

I’ve likened my parent’s house to a tar pit before in that when I’m here I find it hard to get out and also I smell vaguely like gasoline and feathers stick to me, but usually that only applies to my relationship with the outside world. I get stuck in the house. As if there’s an electric fence surrounding it. An electric fence surrounding a tar pit. Today though I’m noticing an inability to go into the other room to get my portable hard drive which would allow me to edit a couple videos. Without it? Videos will not be happening, at least not at this computer. So then what’s stopping me from lifting my ass off this chair and using my legs to go into the other room and then sitting down and opening my laptop and ejecting the hard drive and then using those same legs to walk back into this room and diving behind this computer (over the pen jar and wastebasket and careful not to knock off the post it notes stuck to this computer) and plugging it in and then sitting back down in this chair? I fell asleep just thinking about it. Plus the other room is really sunny. Like too sunny to have to endure this early, which incidentally isn’t very early. It’s as if I’m hungover though I haven’t had a drink since August 8 or August 1. I can’t remember but it was after a show and it was one beer. Before that I hadn’t had a drink since months before. I make a beeline for fun and then I take a left turn right as I get there. So what I’m saying is I’m not hungover, I’m just lazy. But it’s not true laziness, it’s paralysis. This house paralyzes me and whereas previously it only kept me inside but free to move about, overnight it’s acting like insecticide, or maybe it’s nerve gas, in that I take a movement and then get stuck. Dammit, that would have been a somewhat decent metaphor if I remembered the science behind insecticide and nerve gas.

See, part if it is that I’m currently at my mom’s computer which is big and nice and orthopedically correct and has a nice big chair and though she’s left handed and I’m right handed which means I have to move the mouse when I sit here, I’m ok with that. This is juxtaposed to me sitting on the couch in the family room with my feet up on the coffee table and my laptop in my lap, squinting because the sun is beating the left side of my face through the picture windows and then trying to concentrate even though the TV is on, loud, and people are in the room talking or possibly arguing. Usually I get about as far as checking twitter and then I decide I’m done with whatever I’m doing, or maybe I sit like that for awhile and then I stand up and everything hurts. And then I realize I’m far too young for everything to hurt but I’m pretty sure the coffee table is at the exact wrong height to not create some kind of lumbar chaos. And while we’re on the topic, pretty much everyone in my family has orthopedic problems but I don’t. I have some kind of disc problem which I’ve had forever, ever since getting thrown from a horse when I was 9 or possibly I was born with it, we don’t know, but it very rarely if ever gives me problems. And I like to pride myself on being someone who isn’t complaining about physical ailments all the time, with the exception of that left eye twitch a year ago which I just had to talk about. It’s not that I don’t complain, I just like to only complain about superficial things or feelings/thoughts.

What was I saying? Oh yes, I’m squatting at this computer. Not literally. I’m in a chair. But I’m a squatter. I’ve done a land grab. I’ve annexed it. I’ve absconded with it except I’m pretty sure I’m using that word incorrectly. Let’s check. Yes, that’s not at all what I mean.

And if I get up to get my hard drive? I will quite possible lose this computer. So my plan is to sit here until plate techtonics cause the family room to move closer to the computer room. It’s unfortunate that I already need to pee.

And now I’m overhearing some bickering over which parent I’ll be driving where later. I’m like a yo-yo, only my parents aren’t divorced. They’re just irritable.

You guys, remember when I used to be fun and funny? I miss that!

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.

There are loads of photos that have been sitting on my phone or computer that I’ve been meaning to put on this blog and I think the time is now.

Here’s my mom and Tobey from when I was in California for Thanksgiving. Isn’t he cute? There is only one answer.

Here’s the beach. Isn’t it beachy? There is only one answer.

This is also the beach. My sister taught me that when it comes to photography a good rule of thumb is to make sure I’m not the one taking the picture. But I took this one so she can suck it.

Okay actually what she said is to look at the light and the way the light is hitting things. She’s a pretty good photographer, by the way, whereas I’m not. I’m good at twittering though. I mean, she WISHES she could be half the twitterer I am. For the record, the person in the below photo isn’t my sister. That’s Yami. She and I used to be in the band together. And behind her is her Christmas tree which is leaning against the wall, Charlie Brown-style because the stand had broken.

More beach. That beach stuff is everywhere in CA, especially near the water.

Wait, location change! The following is a recent NY photo.

Here I am at the second party on Friday night  just marching to beat of my own drum. They say zig, I zag.This is the party where I dropped a meatball, by the way.

And here I am on Hannity about to say something amazing.

Here I am looking incredulous and or distraught. Both GREAT for live TV.

Here’s where I smoked pot.

And then I was all, “Hey you guys, I’m going to whistle!”

And then I got bored with that.

So I just reverted to my old standby, lookin’ hot. (But also, judging from the shadows on my neck, lookin’ like a cyborg)

It’s as if Santa blew Christmas chunks all over a garden design center. But festive!

Happy Thanksgiving everyone! I’m sitting at the kitchen table of my parents’ house sweating my lady balls off. Everyone says there aren’t any seasons in CA however there are seasons in this house. It’s nuclear winter in my old bedroom and Dante’s Inferno in the kitchen. Those are some of the seasons right? My understanding is that these are the seasons:

Spring
Summer
Fall
August
Autumn
Winter
Winter Squash
Tennis
Cricket
Racketball
Blue
Seven
Dante’s Inferno
Gary’s Inferno
Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride
Nuclear Winter
Nukuler Winter
Fred Winter
Shelly Winters
Indian Summer

So last night I shivered into bed wearing sweatpants, socks, a nightgown and sweatshirt and then slept under a duvet and three blankets. I’m not even making this up. Now I’m in another room sweating. And I’d adjust the air/thermostat/air conditioning/what have you but my parents bedroom is not only another season but another time period entirely (Paris before The War, if you must) (basically the problem is that the whole house is set up so their bedroom is a toasty 70 or whatever they like it at, the rest of the house be damned) and I’m afraid I’ll broil them or flash freeze them or whatever if I adjust anything.

In other news, there is no other news.

Oh wait, well there is this. Remember when I took up biking over the summer? And then I got back to New York and borrowed Dustin’s bike and named it Ernesto and it’s currently sitting in my kitchen and I don’t ride it because it doesn’t fit me well? Well my sister’s bike which fits me better is here in CA and yesterday my mom’s handy man who is 6′5″ or maybe 6′8″ and helps put up holiday lights and remodels cabinets and removes dead rats and is like family to us told me yesterday he enjoyed watching me on TV to which I responded that I simply CANNOT live like this, having to interact with fans in my own home. Then I stormed into my room, put on a parka and began shrieking.

Anyway, he got the bike down from the hooks where it normally hangs and so perhaps I’ll ride it as a way to offset the junk I fear I’ll be smuggling in my trunk this holiday season. Tusks mostly. And those tiny turtles which are illegal but so adorable.

And thanks to everyone who joined in the live Ustream show last night. That was fun!

A bunch of you have been asking to see video from when I played in The Angoras so here you go. A few songs from a show we played at The Garage in Hollywood in 2001. I’m playing the sparkly silver Gretsch. Paula is in the middle and Yami is on bass. Tim was on drums. Paula and Tim still play music in bands. All three of my former band mates have been on my show. I miss them.

Here’s my friend Yami and me on July 4.

Here’s Mike and me on July 4.

Here’s Mike pretending to be passed out on the sidewalk while Brian takes a photo of him. (This is an ongoing photo series.)

Here’s Bret playing a rusty trombone. (Get it?)

Here’s me wearing a hat and glasses because when I see hats and glasses I have to put them on.

Here’s me at the beach looking like I totally belong.

Here’s my friend Brian wearing a stylish sweater.

Here’s the Nagel poster that Mike hung on the outside of his recording studio.

And here’s the Nagel when Mike and Brian attempted to set it on fire with firecrackers. I tried to stay inside but they made me come out and take a photo. (This whole adventure is recounted in this episode of The Daily Alison.)

Don’t tell my parents but I think I’m a little sunburned!

So I’m back in NY and I haven’t unpacked yet but there’s something I need to say before I do that and also I’ll probably need to sit around for awhile and possibly I’ll never unpack. I just don’t like unpacking. I don’t really like packing either. I’ve got a problem with things. I never quite know what to do with them and I have trouble getting rid of them. Over the vacation I was hanging out with the friend I dubbed Phil in the last post, although I could totally tell you it was the friend I dubbed Collins because seriously, how would you know? He had this bank of very small drawers with tiny things inside them. Tiny Tabasco bottles and those runts candies and teacup poodles and thimbles. Actually they were thimble poodles. They’re so cute but I can’t help but feel sorry for them.

Actually, none of those things were in the drawers. I don’t really know what was in the drawers, probably nails of various sizes and washers and thumb tacks and twist ties and earring backings and paper clips and Q-tips and cotton balls and perfume samples and ribbons and very small scarves and packets of Splenda.

Oh! Speaking of, my landlords who are the best landlords ever got me a Facts of Life DVD and a book of recipes featuring Splenda for my bday! Aren’t those the best gifts ever? They are!

So back to the small drawers. I looked at this bank of drawers and felt so calm and relaxed looking at it. It was like a waterfall screen saver or nature sounds. It was the organizational equivalent of a rainstick, except rainsticks are cheesy and make me think of didgeridoos, which are noisy.

I was so profoundly affected by the small drawers that I thought to myself, “Self, take note of this and do the equivalent in your New York apartment.”

As I write this I’m sitting inside a small drawer and to my left is my sleeping drawer and to my right is my showering drawer. The only thing is that it’s kind of difficult to use the bathroom in the middle of the night because it’s hard to open the drawers from the inside and once you manage to get the thing open you have to throw yourself over the edge and then cling to the whole bank of drawers and then, because they all look the same from the outside it’s easy to forget which is which. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea.

Wait, none of that was what I meant to say. Damn!

What I meant to say was that there’s this young whippersnapper with whom I worked at Time Out New York by the name of Drew Toal who has informed me that he wants to challenge my media empire. “It’s lonely in the upper quadrant of the lower middle,” I warned him, but there was no getting through to him. He has a blog and I’m remiss in not linking to it so go there and get to know him.