Author Archive | Alison Rosen

If so, please stop making out on the street.

P.S. I’m back and the airplane trip was without incident except ever since I’ve gotten off the plane I’ve felt like I’m on a ship. Everything’s kinda wavy. Am I the only one who gets this? I used to feel this way after pulling an all-nighter in college. At the time, I would describe the next day feeling as “like a hologram.” Not to be cliche, but it makes me think of that old saying: “Out of the airplane, onto the ship, makes you feel like a hologram.”

feel a little mournful before I fly. The whole process seems violent somehow, the rushing and the crowds and the jostling, the carrying heavy bags, the putting your trust in something that’s inherently kind of scary. Maybe that’s what it is for me, deep down being separated from people that care about me and from those I care about makes me feel like I’m pushing my luck. Or maybe I just feel especially mortal right now (except I’ve always felt the mournful feeling before I fly). I remember…. I was about to go off on a really sad tangent but my eyes filled with tears so I think I won’t. See what the pre-flying does to me? I’m always fairly fine once I’m on the plane though. So there’s that.

On a lighter note, Gale Harold and Ken Marino kind of look vaguely similar.

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.