Author Archive | Alison Rosen

unrelated of course. anyone else have this stomach flu thing that’s apparently going around. it’s the type that makes it so you can’t sit still and you can’t stand and you can’t lie down unless you’re asleep because you feel all tingly/nauseated and your skin hurts. actually, I compared it to the world’s worst hangover except I haven’t been drinking and then it was suggested to me that perhaps it’s DTs. So anyway though, I was also on the news talking about summer concerts and CBS put it up on their web site. See it here

is waking up half a year later feeling like you’ve been on an episode of Shipmates where someone forgot to yell “cut!”

In honor of my being 30–the only benefit of which I’ve noticed thus far being that I can blithely refer to “my twenties”–I decided to turn once more for guidance to the sticky black orb sitting on my kitchen counter near piles of stupid mail. Did I explain that the ball is sticky? It is. It’s a strange kind of only-in-new-york grime. Maybe it’s more tacky than sticky. I mean, it’s tacky, but you know. Maybe it’s some kind of prophetic slime. Anyone touched a soothsayer? Are they sticky?

Q: should I?
A: It is decidedly so

Q: will I?
A: It is certain

Hm.

but I can’t figure out which I care less about, this new pope hoo-ha or sports. It’s a draw. Also, I bet if you were to say “new pope hoo-ha” over and over eventually you’d say “new poop” or even “no poop.” A less mature person might laugh about that.

is the turnstile’s way of calling you a douchebag.

ok, survey time!

You are going to the movies, or collecting food stamps, or buying expensive lingerie. You arrive and there’s a whole bunch of people already there! Do you

a) get IN line
b) get ON line

please respond and include whether you’re from the east or west coast if you feel so inclined. thank you!

What cowpies and malarkey!* Except this article, by Nick Sylvester, whom I do not know, about the fascism** of the current 80s revival, is great. I wish I had written it.

*this is a joke. must I explain everything to you?
** not his words

I’m sorry I said that thing about how you should just crawl up my ass and die. I was angry and you were caught in the cross hairs. The truth is that you aren’t so bad and actually, I DO appreciate the extra hour to play hop scotch and catch rainbows in mason jars. So, guess you do know me better than I know myself! What say we hold hands and skip past the sun-dappled bums snoozing near the port authority area? ok then!

heart,
A

On the way to work I pass by a number of butcher shops on a little stretch of 9th I like to call “meat alley.” (not to be confused with a stretch of 38th b/w 9th and 10th that, as of this morning, I like to call “soiled underwear just sitting on the sidewalk alley”). Anyway, there was a sign in the window of one of the shops for “Frenched Rack of Kangaroo.”

you could say that my prose is a delightful blend of innocent, wide-eyed jouissance and joie de vivre, and cool timeworn wisdom/maturity. you could and you should. but maybe lay off the Frenchy crap, eh? but regardless, you may be wondering how old I am, and so you may be interested to know that in one month I will be 30. And how am I feeling about that? let’s ask the magic 8 ball:

q: how am I feeling about that?
a: most likely

pretty much sums it up.

also: kind of old-ish.