It’s the coffee I spilled on my pants. In the first five minutes or so I was at work I spilled Sprite Zero on my desk and coffee on my pants. I went into the bathroom and was trying to clean up my pants leg with a wet paper towel—blotting and patting—and someone walked out of a stall and gave me a sympathetic look. I debated saying, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, “just peed on my leg,” but I didn’t, even though I sort of wish I had. (wish I had said it. not wish I had peed on my leg. Sometime I’ll tell you about the Bike Riding Incident in Fourth Grade. I know whereof I speak.)
Author Archive | Alison Rosen
More from the nostalgia vault?
Okay, only because you are begging (note: you aren’t begging). This one’s from the footnote period and for that I’m still sorry.
Thursday, November 2, 2000 – 12:00 am
The Cramps
Galaxy Concert Theatre
Friday, Oct. 27
It was a Goth meat market at the Galaxy on the night the Cramps played this sold-out show. It was impossible to squish your way past any group of people without feeling their unwelcome, eyeliner-rimmed glances. I hate sold-out shows. They’re great for the band, but they suck for the audience. And then I begin to hate everyone. Such as the drunk, PVC-wearing, Goth Bettie Page girl, who really, really, really wanted to talk to the guy seated at the table to my left and who communicated her burning need to talk to him by climbing over me and punching him. And then there was the guy that my roommate and I call—in all seriousness—Civilization Guy because two weekends ago he approached a friend of ours and used this suave1 pickup line: “Civilization—do you think it’s on the ascent or the decline?”2 Actually, Civilization Guy was more fun to watch than the Cramps because of the way he turned the White Man Shuffle into an aerobic activity. Kudos to Civilization Guy! But just when I’d start really getting into his small-windmills-plus-jerky-arrhythmic-leg-lifts, the icky Bettie Page girl would climb over me, and I would be yanked right out of the moment.
“Hey, who’s the sexy old blond?” Rebecca Schoenkopf, a.k.a. Commie Girl, asked me, nodding toward the stage. I told her it was Wally George, but I was lying. The Sexy Old Blond was really the Cramps’ bass player, who wasn’t sexy and whose wig was more pink than blond and who danced around the stage like a flower—if a flower could dance. Each Cramps member has a specific way of moving. Wally George dances like a flower. Guitar player Poison Ivy, who was wearing this bitty little dress that just barely grazed the top of her white, frilly underpants (which appeared to be stuffed with something), stalks the stage in a slow, sultry, deliberate way, which is probably all she can do in those high-heeled boots. And she glares at everyone in this way that is incredibly sexy and very cool and makes me wonder whether in the early days of the Cramps she had to deal with a bunch of well-wishers telling her she should smile and move around more and try to look like she’s having fun up there.3 Snarly singer Lux Interior struts from the back of the stage to the front and then back and then front again. Sometimes he lunges forward, and sometimes he deep-throats the microphone. Also, he throws the microphone stand forward but holds on to the cord, and sometimes he wraps the cord around his neck. He was wearing some kind of non-breathing, shiny, rubbery outfit, in case you’re wondering. As for the drummer, I don’t know; I couldn’t see him.
They opened with “Cramp Stomp” and then tore through a fairly long set of slow, snarly, inspired, groovy, bluesy hits with little patter in between songs. And despite the slow snarliness of it all, there was still a gaggle o’ dickheads in the crowd who moshed. Every now and then, they’d lift one of their own into the air and then pass the human offering forward, where he’d fall, eventually, into the arms of the security guards, who would toss him to the side, where he’d pick himself up, do a lap, and then run back into the pit. All hell briefly broke loose around 10:50 p.m., when the security guards were busy restraining someone. That diversion opened a space for a woman to run onstage and do some kind of menacing wavy arm thing in the direction of a nonplused Ivy. This went on for about three seconds before she was ambushed and carried offstage and more security guards were dispatched.
This was around the time Civilization Guy really began feelin’ it, though, so I couldn’t really tell you what happened onstage next. (Alison M. Rosen)
1. Pronounced “sua-VAY.”
2. She said ascent. I would say the same thing, although I’m a pessimist. Go figure.
3. Because I play in a band and people tell me that all the time, except for the people who say I remind them of Poison Ivy. I like them. I hate everyone else. Did I mention that sold-out shows make me hate everyone?
Ill-timed email from my former boss in CA
Only ill-timed considering the nostalgia problem:
“Damn, I miss you. CZ is good–in Austin at the moment. Evidence you’re a great writer: doubt you’re a great writer. You’ve always been–both doubtful and a great writer. Now come home and help us.”
I love being helpful! Damnit!
(Mom and Dad, if you’re reading this, don’t get your hopes up. Perhaps I’ll come visit though)
Were you at the Apple Soho Store?
And did you get any pictures? They said there weren’t going to be any photos allowed which I figured was just as well since my chest was looking kinda blotchy and my non-TV makeup likely wasn’t doing me any favors under those harsher than I expected lights but then there were a zillion flashbulbs happening during the Q&A and I kind of wished I’d gotten a photo with Ross Schwimmer. So if you got some, let me know.
As for how the whole thingamajigiepoo went, it was fun. DSchwim kinda took the reins himself at certain points, leaving me there to fiddle with the microphone and fidget in my seat and strike that fine balance between voicing the jokes going through my head and holding them in—it was about HIM after all—but so much of performing/hosting, and especially TV which this wasn’t so just bear with me while I let this pour out of my head—is about taking control of situations and being the most dominant/dynamic force in the viewfinder and so I quickly realized that the control was being wrested from me and had to then quickly calculate whether to try to get it back. I didn’t, because it wasn’t my TV show, it was just a live Q&A I was asked to moderate and I was providing a service.
My sister thinks it would have looked really bad if I’d grabbed the controls. I think there are people who can do it so effortlessly and instantly that you don’t even really notice.
But still, I think it was a fun time.
Reminder!
I’ll be moderating a live Q&A with David Schwimmer at the Apple Store in Soho at 6:30pm on Tuesday, March 18. We’ll be talking about the movie he directed, Run, Fatboy, Run, and then giving out free iPods.*
*Note: no free iPods.
But come on down anyway!
The Angoras tracks—now embedded!
Thanks to Kim from The Activity Pit for the tips on how to do this.
The bottomless nostalgia vault
Okay so I went through this very obnoxious phase where I peppered my prose with footnotes. I apologize in advance. Anyway, I found another OC tale involving Clowny Hands and Toilet Duck, though they aren’t referred to as such in this one:
Thursday, November 9, 2000 – 12:00 am
Slippers
Bamboo Terrace, Costa Mesa
Friday, Nov. 3
“C’mon! They’re the most talentedest1 musicians I know!” said my friend, who knows a lot of musicians and who records bands at his recording studio and who recorded Slippers. He was trying to cajole me into going to see them play at 7:30 p.m. on Friday night. Now, look: I’m just as much a sucker for talentedest bands as the next ravishingly beautiful music critic, but 7:30 p.m.? That’s nap time! That’s get-ready-for-Friday-night time! That’s oh-God-I-hope-he-calls-me time!2 That’s take-a-leisurely-shower-and-apply-makeup-time!3 That’s check-my-e-mail-and-avoid-phone-calls- from-my-mom- who’s-going-to-make-me-feel-guilty-for -not-coming-over-for-dinner time! Hey, that’s dinnertime!
“That early? Why are they playing that early?” asked my roommate, busily flipping back and forth between Jeopardy and Friends.
“It’s like a dinner thing,” said my friend.
“Oh,” said we.
And so it was that all three of us went to a Chinese restaurant called Bamboo Terrace to see Slippers, who were not only very talented but also, one might infer from their generally contented appearance and heavy lids, very stoned.
“We are Slippers from Long Beach,” announced the guitar player, whose beard rivals both Jeremy from Lit and all three members of ZZ Top.4 The five Slippers (guitar, bass, drums, congas and keyboard) wear shiny, satiny, Chinese pajama-looking outfits. “They are wearing authentic Chinese courtship suits,” said my roommate, but I’m pretty sure she pulled that out of her ass. Plus, she’s never been squired by an authentic Chinese man.
Slippers play progressive jazz that’s very noir-ish and atmospheric and moody and full of dynamics and vaguely Eastern-influenced. I’d almost say it’s experimental, but that makes it sound like there are big huge yawning gaps of sound involving nothing more than a rainstick or didjeridu or, even worse, someone rubbing a pick against a guitar string to make that squeaking sound or tapping their guitar pickups or doing weird things with rubber hosing. Slippers don’t even have a rainstick or didjeridu! Plus, they’re more frenetic than that, but in a mellow way. “They’re very yang,” said the aforementioned roommate. Yang, indeed!
The incredible drummer played with bundlesticks, which is always cool, and the incredible keyboard player, at one point, played this keyboard thing you blow into.
“By God, he’s taking bong rips onstage!” I proclaimed to my friends, but I was mostly just crapping around to distract myself from the Happy Hibachi Couple seated behind us, who were furiously making out only inches from their flaming tabletop grill. Then I suggested it might be funny if my friend lit his cigarette on their hibachi, but that’s just because I would appreciate it if no one was in love around me and it’s not like he did it, anyway.
Sometimes, apparently, Slippers have vocals; not tonight. They were entirely instrumental save for the “Woo!” that kept emanating from the stage. I never did figure out who was wooing. Also, their latest CD consists of two songs, one of which is about 20 minutes long and has 15 or so parts. They played this song, but I think they only included about 13 of the parts.
“Since when do you have all this noise?” a little old lady asked the restaurant’s owner at one point. From the back, the little old lady looked frighteningly like my grandmother, but I think my grandma would have liked Slippers. Which is not to say they’re grandma music because they’re not, but rather that they possess amazing, incredible, exhilarating talent, which is something with multigenerational appeal.
Even if the Happy Hibachi Couple didn’t seem to notice. (Alison M. Rosen)
1. Yes, he actually said, “talentedest.” Just like that: talentedest.
2. Now, see, that horrible book The Rules says you should never accept a weekend date after Wednesday, but it also says you should never stay on the phone with a guy for longer than 10 minutes and, to that end, you should keep an egg timer by the phone, to which I respond: Isn’t an egg timer only good for three minutes, and also, what the hell good is a guy who’s all hot for me if I don’t even know whether I like him because I never talk to him for long enough to find out because I’m always getting off the phone?
3. I’m high-maintenance, okay?
4. ZZ Top make me physically ill. Yes, their earlier stuff is good but when I think of them, all I think about is THAT HORRIBLE SLEEPING BAG SONG. I HATE THAT SONG!
Warning: cheese ahead
The following is going to be a big ol’ hunk of cheese however my friend Yami, the one whose wedding I just attended, put this quote on her myspace page which has been fucking with my head all day. (and yes, the previous sentence is sad for a number of reasons but there’s no time now to dwell.) Here’s the quote:
“love is life. and if you miss love, you miss life. – Buscaglia
Do I agree with this? I remember thinking Buscaglia was vaguely douchey when I first encountered him in high school psych, but the sentiment is kind of chilling. I mean, not to you who are all happily connected to fellow human beings but to someone who spent the last year or so avoiding messy human relationships, it’s got me in a twist.
I could say more, but if I don’t blow dry my hair right now catastrophe is going to happen on my head. To be continued. Maybe.
"Hey, your Vegas is showing…"
Is this really the best the Nevada tourism council could come up with? I’m suddenly seeing a bunch of commercials with it again and it sounds more like an unfortunate medical condition than an enticement to come to Las Vegas. Actually, it makes the also kinda lame “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” sound like poetry. Also, it sounds like something someone would say before going on air. In fact, I’m going to drop it into my litany of self-consciousness next time:
How’m I doing? Is my hair okay? Is my jacket okay? Anything weird going on in this section? (waving hands over entire torso). Any muffin top action? Is my Vegas showing? What about my third nipple?
Can you see my goiter? I tried to hide it with goiter-off but I think it’s just making it show more. What about the giant scar I have running from my extra toe to my vestigial tail. Is it showing? Can you see where I had to have that thing frozen off? Correction, things.
Are you sure my Vegas isn’t showing? Okay phew.
More from the nostalgia vault
I had a long talk with Toilet Duck on the phone last night and I told him that I’d been thinking about our OC adventures and posted about the night he lamented the limitations of my gender vis a vis showing me his crap. He was kind of surprised that I’d chosen that particular night to commemorate, but then he told me that he thought “blog” should be a euphemism for crap, and I was taken with the imminent sense of his argument. Anyway, I wanted to post a few more adventures but now I’m having trouble finding ones which specifically involved him—though I know there are tons—so instead I’m putting up this one. It was about a week after 9/11, hence the flag pursuit.
While in California recently I actually referred to this particular night a couple times because it’s seared into my memory and tangentially involves the aforementioned friend. He called me as I was on my way out the door to go to this show with other friends—which was rare for me/us. I rushed him off the phone in this haughty kind of “I have other friends and other plans la la la,” kind of way. Anyway, when I got back from the show he showed up at my apartment, or maybe called first, but anyway it turned out that it had been his birthday and I’d completely forgotten in my rush to assert my independence. I felt like an asshole. Then again, whatever Molly Ringwald in 16 Candles.
Hair Band Moments
By Alison M. Rosen
Thursday, September 20, 2001 – 12:00 am
The Donnas
The Glass House
Saturday, Sept. 15
It’s damn near impossible to find a flag these days. I know because I’ve watched my roommate sit on the phone for hours trying to locate a store that isn’t sold out. Unable to turn a blind eye to her frustrated patriotism, I suggested that in lieu of a real flag, she just fly a pair of American Flag boxers out her window. But it’s not as if she has a pair of those lying around (or so she claims). Then I suggested she paint her nails red, white and blue. She went for it, resulting in a little something I like to call “clowny hands.” Unfortunately, when she tries to give someone the finger (perhaps for, say, calling her “clowny hands”), they just start laughing. It’s not all clowny hands and ridicule, though; an eight-year-old asked her if she was a rock star.
But that’s all beside the point. The point is that it’s impossible to find a flag unless you’re the Donnas, whose stage show at the Glass House on Saturday was simply bursting with flags, if by bursting you mean four. There was a big-ass flag affixed to the curtain behind the bass player. There was a flag stuffed into the drummer’s drum set, and there were another two flags stuck to the guitarist’s amp head. Singer Brett Anderson, a.k.a. Donna A (note to self: Or should it be vice versa?), was flagless, unless one of the flags on the amp belonged to her. Is that how it works? Is it like one flag per person? Because I’ll have you know that if you’re hoarding flags, I think Clowny Hands would like to have a word with you.
“Hey, we just wanted to take a second to say we’re really sorry about all the tragedies that have been happening, and if you have anything to donate, we have a Red Cross box next to our merch table,” said the singer before going into “Rock & Roll Machine.”
The Donnas, who played a few songs from their new album, The Donnas Turn 21, but spent more time on songs from their previous albums Get Skintight and American Teenage Rock ’N’ Roll Machine, have come a long way. There was a time when they all wore matching T-shirts and barely moved around onstage. Now they all wear different clothes and move around a lot! And the guitarist, bass player and drummer all whip their hair around really well in this way that might be an unconscious nod to hair metal bands. Or maybe it’s conscious; they talk openly of their love for Poison and Kiss and Mötley Crüe.
Other hair band moments? The guitar player’s constant pouty snarl and the way the bass player would ask the audience in this odd squealing voice, “Can you feel it? Yeahhhh?” and then make this weird yelping noise. It didn’t go over too well. The audience looked kind of confused or uncomfortable, and the band themselves seemed to wish they could get back to having the singer, the elected spokesperson for the band, do all the talking. It wasn’t a big deal, though, just a few split seconds of awkwardness. As for the guitarist’s pout, she can do whatever the hell she wants because she’s one of the best female guitar players I’ve seen; she effortlessly shreds™ and rips ™.
Not that the assholes in the pit would have noticed. Before we went into the club, the owner said to me, “Hey, be careful in there.” I thought he was kidding. I had no idea I was moments away from almost taking an adolescent elbow in the side. It was like watching a bunch of human ninja throwing stars. To come within six feet of one of them would be to take your life in your hands. The scary thing is that you wouldn’t know ahead of time what your downfall would be. It could be an elbow. It could be a foot. It could be a knee. It could be a fist. You wouldn’t see it until it happened. All you’d see is a blur of limbs and some sort of funky streetwear. Oh, the terror!
“Hey, if you include me in this story, can my name be Lola?” asked my friend, uh, Lola, as we stood in the back of the club in an effort to both watch the guitar player and avoid the pitting buttmunches. Pretty soon, a few more friends reinvented themselves (including Clowny Hands), and before long, I was hanging out with Lola, Jonzy and Preston, concert veterans one and all.
When the Donnas played their last song and walked offstage and the lights didn’t come up, we knew they weren’t really finished. Before long, the bass player and drummer took the stage again and began playing this funky cowbell-drenched jam thing. I like a smidge of funk from time to time, I must say.
“This song’s called ‘40 Boys in 40 Nights,’” the singer announced. Then Lola, Jonzy, Preston and I began talking about our own touring ratios, none of which has been quite so, well, robust. Go, Donnas, with the robust tour ratios! Now give a flag to Clowny Hands.