Author Archive | Alison Rosen

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.

When I was a little kid my parents went away for a while and left my sister and me with a babysitter. I remember the whole weekend, or week (kids, like dogs, can’t really perceive duration of time, it’s all infinite and interminable) as being really sad and lonely. One night I walked into my parents room and saw all my dad’s junk on his nightstand and felt so relieved and comforted by it, as if suddenly remembering that if I sat among my parents’ things–in particular I’m remembering my dad’s stuffed koala with the dumb arms that velcroed into a “hug” around a coffee mug that was full of magic markers and pencils– it would be like they were there a little bit.

When my dad had a heart attack some years ago I drove to the hospital, following the ambulance, and my sister had a friend drive her down from school to meet us there. That night, when my dad was in the ICU, my mom stayed with him while my sister and I went home to take care of the dog and wait things out. Upon returning home I saw little puddles of wetness from where the paramedics had tried to start an IV and the wrappers and plastic caps from syringes near the chair where he’d been sitting when it happened. I think there was even one of those suction cup things they put on your chest. My mom called to say that she had been making hot chocolate for my dad and had left some milk in the microwave and could I remember to take it out. I remember thinking at the time that if my dad didn’t make it, the fucking milk from the hot chocolate that was left in the microwave would kill me.

Some years later we were all in Las Vegas and, included in the room service, was a tiny bottle of Tabasco. It was so cute that we decided to give it a name, as I’m wont to do with far too many inamimate objects. My dad chose Thad, short for Thaddeus. On the drive home he passed out from medication he was taking (referred to in the family as the Fake Heart Attack, or Fake HA, for short, as we thought he was having another heart attack.) He spent the night in the hospital in the desert and I spent the night thinking that you just can’t name a tiny bottle Thad and then die right away.

I’m really not ok with the way people can pass out of your life, or out of life in general, but their stuff remains. I could go on about pets and their collars and kennels and water bottles. About boyfriends and their phones and shirts and watches. About friends who died leaving whole houses of stuff behind.

People’s stuff makes them so human. And everything human seems to make me ache.

I was thinking about this in the subway station the other day. And I was thinking that I should write something about this someday, about the poetry of junk, and then I was thinking that in my current vocation there would never be a chance to do that, not even a little. And then the train came.

I think it’s time for this phrase to go away.

surprisingly pungent! less so in my hair and on my jacket and on my seat* and also on my keyboard. it’s like I gave myself a spastic little golden shower. but, you know, without the urine.

*my seat meaning my computer chair. not my seat meaning my butt.

my insatiable blog public was able to get some much deserved sleep this weekend. As for daylight savings, and I believe I announced this at nine-AM-but-it-feels-like-eight-AM yesterday: it can crawl up my ass and die. Also, Maggie Brown’s in Brooklyn is a really cute good restaurant but twice now I’ve sat in the same booth and twice it’s preceeded emotional fireworks. and not the good kind. the kind that snap at your feet and make you go running the other way into an oncoming car. or the kind that singe your eye. or the kind that scary teenagers play with in the park when you’re 3 or 4 and you’re both fascinated and scared except for the fascinated part. or maybe just arguments. regardless, I recommend the Tuna Nicoise salad followed by a round of going home alone or maybe a snifter of Not Talking About It or possibly just a stiff getting the fuck out of there.

the dumb expression I’m pretty sure I get on my face when I’m writing an email that strikes me as particularly clever.

My insatiable public demands more posts and who am I to disappoint? In the meantime, read this about male infertility but know that my very best joke (“frankly, your tighty-whiteys may be strangling your balls”) was cut. I should probably tell you about SXSW and how my left ear literally was bleeding when I got back, not from hearing so many bands or slamming drugs into my ear canal or doing anything hardcore and extreme, but from pushing an ear plug in too far I think, which is like hitting yourself in the head with a helmet or twisting your knee while putting on a knee pad or scratching the fuck out of yourself whilst putting on a straightjacket. The point though, is that I’m going to continue this dumb 8 ball conceit because actually I am one to disappoint.

Q: Are you a magic 8 ball?
A: Yes definitely.

Q: Am I a magic 8 ball?
A: Don’t count on it.

Frankly, I’m speechless.