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I took some pictures of the office so I could show everyone but I don’t know how to put them up on this thing. Also, I’m getting my wisdom teeth out on Wednesday. I’m unexcited. Maybe a little scared but not really because I am not given to human weakness.

Hello darlings. I’m sorry I’ve been so abusive boyfriend/absentee parent who always says they’re going to take you somewhere fun to make up for all the shit but then disappears again, it’s just that I’ve started my new job as music staff writer at Time Out New York which leaves little time for anything other than pondering the best way to get across town. Seriously, I can’t figure it out. The bus is frustratingly slow. The walk is do-able but a little daunting if I’m carrying anything which at this point I am each day. I also, I dropped the M. For now. And finally, now that I have a job, all these other jobs are materializing. It’s both flattering and incredibly maddening since I’ve been basically nervously pacing back and forth in my apartment for two and half years wondering if moving to New York was a mistake and feeling like a sham and now suddenly it’s all coalesced. Where were you, jobs? But lest my description of my first 2.5 years in New York shatters your impression of my glamorous New York City lifestyle know that while pacing nervously my lip gloss looked incredible and oh, my hair!

because I’m so anti-slang. And I may be guilty of using these every now and again because for some reason they sort of crack me up but I’m also pretty sick and tired of every hipster using “killed it” and “slayed” to mean “played a show and were good.” And I’m super tired of “threw up in my mouth just a little” which threatened to catch on like wildfire but instead just had a sudden painful flare up and then a gradual decay. I’d prefer my slang to follow a relapse-remit course rather than a terminal progression one but if I really had my way there’d be a vaccine.

I’ve been remiss in posting because when I’m not getting paid for my words I just clam the fuck up. That’s a total lie actually, as anyone who’s wished I would shut up could attest. I’ve been posting more frequently on Myspace which, when I read that, makes me sound like a 14 year old. Mood: giggly! Anyway, I saw I [Heart] Huckabees yesterday. Am I the only one who thought the black bowler hat sitting on a hat stand in the existential detective’s office was an allusion to Kundera’s Unbearable Lightness of Being? It seemed too deliberate not to have been. Actually, I think the movie was probably littered with little references and allusions to existentialists and philosophers. Like the thing with the melon? I don’t know what that was but I wondered at the time if I should have. (except there’s that joke q: “how many surrealists does it take to screw in a lightbulb?” a: “cantaloupe” … but I think that’s too far-fetched). The scenes where Schwartzman and Wahlberg were holding the big red ball reminded me of The Red Balloon, though, which I only saw as a kid but now that I’m thinking back on the story, or film strip (was it a film strip?) it seems it could have been about more than what it appeared to be.

I totally wrote this whole post with links and shit and also jokes and wit and maybe a little smarm but not a lot and then I tried to post it and blogger ate it and then I was frustrated but I wrote the whole damn thing again and then tried to post it once more and again it went to seed. how sad are you? I know!

I met follicularly blessed musician Paul Layton Mellencamp years ago and have been covering his various incarnations ever since. Here’s a story about his recent reinvention which may be a little hard to follow. Is it? If so, you should let me know. I used to have a link to my email address but they my blog crawled up its own ass and I lost all the frippery. So use the comments section, won’t you? And here’s a story about his previous. You should go buy his album. I’m listening to it right now. And enjoying it! (how livejournal of me).

So I have this stupid M. in my name which stands for Michelle. I could explain why I suddenly started using it in my byline but that’s a longer story for another day. At some point, like oh, say, immediately after I started using it, I began to regret it, because frankly I would have made fun of myself behind my back, if I weren’t me, because come on! And also, when I sign my name or say who I am I never know whether to include the M. or not (in work-related correspondence) because the fear that keeps me up at night (not to be confused with the construction across the street that keeps me up at night) is that a potential employer would google search my name and find a handful of stories I wrote years ago, before the M., instead of the assload of ones I’ve written since. And also, there are quite few other Alison Rosens, some of them, it seems, involved in music, and they’re not me! BUT: I recently dropped the M. in a few magazines which signals my move towards unburdening myself of the albatross that is my middle initial. Also: me me me me me me me me me me me me me me me interesting to me me.

So I noticed that the woman who leads the cardio-kickboxing class I go to at the gym looked a little more put together this morning than usual. She had on full makeup and her hair was down and styled. Even her exercise outfit looked tighter and newer. “Ok, I cannot sweat this morning! I can’t get sweaty!” she told us before starting. “Because after class I have to go do a TV interview.” She strapped on her little microphone. “Oh, it’s nothing big,” she explained. “Just this thing for the reality show I’m in.” This amused me for a good 12 minutes. I’m lying! It’s still amusing me!

Originally I didn’t want to post my Beastie Boys story here, because it was just supposed to be a little review that ended up on the cover and I was afraid of the ceaseless mocking or perhaps hatred that might barrel my way, but a surprising number of people have applauded the story, though I’m not ruling out a surprising silent majority of people who hate it, and did you know I’m so like this? And really, if I’m going to publish my opinions in public where do I get off hiding out from the reaction? I, too, wonder. Or you could just read this.

My heart goes out to the fictional husband in the “My Guy Uses Levitra” commercials. If I were married to that perky, conspiratorial, aw-shucks, Levitra-pushing harpie I’d suffer erectile dysfuction too.