La Rosa Knows

In what is perhaps the cutest thing you’ll see today, the official pug alphabet.

Have any of your friends said to you, “Hey, you should really try a Korean body scrub”?

No?

Well, that’s the kind of shit my friends say to me and, when they do, I immediately think, “OK, I need another way to procrastinate.”

I was told that a Korean body scrub was “amazing” and would give me baby smooth skin. Those things sounded nice! I had fantasies of a spa with scented beads, a large bathrobe to trot around in and endless green tea for the taking—as was typical of most spas I’ve been to.

So, I wasn’t really prepared for the Natura Spa Korean body scrub experience. I went there on the recommendation of a friend, but she didn’t warn me of a few things:

-This is a traditional Korean spa. Very, very traditional.

-It’s in the basement of a dilapidated mall.

-Everyone is naked. Like, you’ll see a lot of boobs.

(This is the actual front of the spa)

Had I been forewarned, I may not have gone. I didn’t grow up in a naked house, I still take off my bra under my shirt and there’s a volcano of Irish/Catholic guilt bubbling at the surface constantly. As it stood though I was blissfully unaware of what awaited me, and so made an appointment for a scrub in Koreatown.

My first red flag was at the reception desk where they asked, “Is this your first time?” And when I said “Yes,” was immediately greeted with a chorus of laughter from the staff. Hmm…

I was then led back to the locker room, which is really just the place where everyone gets naked and stays that way.

“You’ll need to shower first,” I was told.

Think about your own shower at home: it probably has a door or curtain and all the privacy required to get naked and go to town. Now, here’s what a Natura Spa shower means: Imagine an enormous room, in the middle is a pool, lining the walls are shower heads, no dividers or curtains, and a line of naked Asian ladies wash their hair, bodies, etc. under those shower heads. Against a far wall are tables where even more naked bodies lie flat while spa staff scrub them down. There are no dividers, no separate rooms, it’s like one big cattle call and I was about to be led to the proverbial slaughter.

I stood by my locker for five minutes, trying to decide if I should stay or leave. You could leave, you could run away right now and no one would be hurt, I kept thinking. Only, I had driven all that way and already fed the meter two bucks. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad?

I took in a deep breath, took off all my clothes, and walked into the spa with my T&A on display for all of Natura to see. I found an unoccupied shower head, which was sandwiched in between two naked middle aged women, and got to washing myself. As I looked around, I realized I was the only one who was clearly uncomfortable in this situation. People were there with friends, their mothers, people they likely had seen naked before at the spa. They were chatting and enjoying each others bare company. No one cared that they were naked, or that anyone else was naked. Except for me, of course.

I stared, shamelessly, at every woman in that place. I couldn’t believe this was a normal thing. Go have brunch with your girlfriends, come to the spa, get naked and walk around. I realized in that moment what a complete and utter prude I was. It wasn’t these women’s problem that I hadn’t been raised in a naked house. It was my problem and a very real one, as my number was called and I was led back to a table for scrubbing.

My masseuse and scrubber was a woman we’ll call Linda, who was in a lace black bra and matching panties—I’m still not sure why the spa staff wears underwear, but they all do and I guess I have to be thankful she wasn’t naked too. She too asked if it was my first time and proceeded to laugh when I answered yes.

She asked me to lay on my stomach, put on a pair of gloves that I can only describe as looking like horse hair brushes, and slapped on a layer of lotion that felt sharp and beaded.

You know how a cats tongue is rough and like sandpaper? This scrub felt like that; it was intense and she went over every inch of me (ass, boobs, you name it). Sometimes she told me to flip over, other times she’d turn me herself and then, like the piece of meat I was, rub another part of me down.

If I opened my eyes I was looking directly at the person across from me; also naked, also being scrubbed by a woman in lace underwear. Everyone around me seemed to keep their eyes closed, so I decided to do the same.

“Relax, baby, relax,” Linda kept trying to tell me as my body stiffened against her touch. I can’t Linda, I want you to be happy, I do, but please stop, I wanted to say.

After 45 minutes I could no longer feel my limbs and I was certain Linda had likely scrubbed all the way down to my nerves. I lay flat on my back and she began to wash my hair and pour buckets of warm water over me. It felt like that scene in The Hunger Games where Cinna’s team waxes and scrapes all of the fur and scars off of Katniss’ body. Only, I wasn’t about to go on TV, I would have to walk naked back into the locker room and drive myself home.

When the massage was over, I got dressed and looked in the mirror to see how pink and blushed my skin was from all it had endured. I stared for a long time. I kept remembering that someone who’s not my gynecologist, boyfriend, or photographer who promised to make me a “big star” had just seen every inch of me.

I paid my bill, left Linda a generous tip and walked out to my car. Once in my car I idled for a while, thinking I should turn on the engine and go home, but something was stopping me. I kept repeating, “It’s OK, it’s over now, you made it,” out loud, though I couldn’t help but still feel violated and somehow betrayed.

To be fair to Natura, my skin has never felt silkier than after I left their bathhouse spa. I’m sure it wasn’t a picnic to deal with the prude little redhead that day, trying to flip my stiff as a board body from side to side.

I guess this is just my warning to other unsuspecting ladies who hear the praises of a body scrub and plan on going: Soft skin comes at a price, like your dignity and any shred of anonymity your body once had.

You’re welcome.

It’s that time of year again: Justin Bieber’s new album is coming out!

Because you’re “in the know” and “hip as shit” you’re likely already aware that the album debuts on June 19 and is titled Believe.

I’ll be perfectly honest: To me, a jaded Belieber, this seems like less of an artistic endeavor and more like an opportunity for the Biebs to strut around and show off how cool he is. And he is cool.

There! I said it.

Don’t Belieb me? See below.

Reason: He’s Virile

Ever almost gotten an older woman pregnant backstage at one of your concerts?

No? Didn’t think so, losers.

Reason: Slimed, Slimed, Slimed

If you grew up watching Nickelodeon, like me, then deep down you’ve always wanted to get slimed.

God didn’t want you to have that kind of fulfillment, though, did he?. Know who he chose instead?

Biebs.

Reason: He Loves Basketball More Than People

I mean, do you see how passionate he is about this Lakers game? There’s nothing more important than this. Nothing.

That’s fucking cool!

Reason: He’s Secretly a Feminist

Name one other Prince de Pop who’s gone door-to-door selling cookies for the Girl Scouts of America. Try to name one, I dare you!

Reason: He’s Into S&M

Here’s the thing: You don’t just let people beat you up and take photos for nothing, amiright Rihanna?

Some of you may have heard of the Mr. Peepers screenplay that’s been floating around the Academy, Deadline and 10 a.m. breakfast meetings all over Hollywood. But for those of you who haven’t, might I introduce to you Peepers, a canticle by C.L. Kattan.

A copy of the screenplay was given to me by none other than Dr. Justin Becker Sr. who wrote the introduction and has subsequently passed away from ball cancer. (Though, he really hasn’t, it just says that in the screenplay.)

This tour de force is based off of the Saturday Night Live Chris Kattan character, Mr. Peepers- the half man/half monkey who loved apples and humping.

While I was told only 500 copies were printed, all of you are in luck because you can read a copy for free right here.

What I know is that the introduction to this screenplay has changed my life and I have no doubt it will change yours. If nothing else, please be sure to read the first few pages. As incentive, here’s a little excerpt for you to enjoy:

Peepers, a canticle is a work sui generis, but that is not to say it is without literary antecedents. Mr. Peepers’ oft-repeated “Bah” owes no small debt to Bartleby, the Scrivener’s invocation “I would prefer not to,” his rise to the heights of power through misconstrued impassivity reminiscent of The Good Soldier Švejk, but it is from the greatest story ever told that Kattan draws most heavily: the Bible. The character of Eve and the centrality of apple as metaphor for knowledge are but the most obvious of biblical allusions throughout a canticle, itself a liturgical term. No doubt an enterprising theologian could make great hay of the dying man whom Peepers redeems– Eleazar, from the Hebrew name for “Lazarus.” There is a treatise in even his license plate, “ELEZ 11.” A reference to the resurrection of Lazarus from John 11 or a sly nod to Chapter 11 bankruptcy and the moral deprivation of the financial sector that Eleazar represents? It is a fertile vein, which I plan to mine further in a future exegesis concerning Mr. Peepers as progenitor of the Occupy Movement.

Also, Dr. Becker’s tumblr is pretty fantastic.

Since Chevy Chase has been in the news recently for his rants on Dan Harmon and Community in general, I’d like to contribute to the discussion with a rant of my own!

That Time Chevy Chase Performed in ASSSSCAT and Picked My Suggestion

Well, sort of picked my suggestion.

When I lived in New York (circa 2007-2008), every Sunday I went to this UCB show called ASSSSCAT. It’s a fantastic improv show where they have a guest monologist, in this case Chevy, and a group of performers who create scenes based off of the story that the guest tells.

Now, because the monologist’s story is supposed to be completely new, they start the show off by asking the audience for a one word suggestion.

That night I was feeling frisky and decided to offer up a word: Grasshopper.

In the flurry of shouts that followed my word, for whatever reason, it grabbed the attention of Amy Poehler. She was performing, as she regularly did because there was yet to be a Parks and Rec, and she latched onto my word like a cat onto a bowl of milk. Amy then hurled “Grasshopper” at Chevy so that he had something to base his story off of. As the audience clapped their encouragement for him, I smiled securely in the knowledge that I, Erin La Rosa, had just provided my idol with material for his show.

Only…he didn’t seem all that excited. There I was, clapping like a seal awaiting a treat, and there he was, snarling at me. Or, perhaps grimaced is a better word for the twist his mouth made in my direction? Whatever the case I could sense that he wasn’t pleased and that, in turn, made the backs of my knees start to sweat.

Holy shit, is Chevy Chase pissed at me? Did I just ruin the original “Weekend Update” man’s night?!? Can he smell that I forgot to wear deodorant?

The man was wearing designer jeans and fumbling through an almost completely nonsensical tale of how he hates the quiet and could never live on a farm. I felt mortified for him. There were funny moments, he is Chevy Chase after all, but for the most part he was wringing his hands, repeating words and occasionally shooting me scornful sideways glances.

After 7 or so minutes of this, his time was finally up and the talented UCB performers took to the stage to make comical sense of what was essentially an unfunny story.

I felt horrible. I still kind of feel like I’m to blame for that night. Had he gotten some other word, say “Cantaloupe” or “Dan Harmon” I’m sure he could’ve gone on and on for hours and had the crowd roaring. But alas, he got stuck with my shitty little word and was forced to try and tap dance for the peanuts we as a crowd could throw to him like loving life jackets.

I don’t know, maybe he was excited to be there and his resting face is just naturally old man grumpy, but for the most part it seemed apparent that he was less than thrilled to be at UCB. Which, as an audience member and lifelong Three Amigos! fan, was a huge let down.

I’ll never forget that night and the guilt I felt from all of those snarls Chevy gave me. Interestingly enough though, when news started to surface about his general dickishness, my guilt began to wane. Perhaps it wasn’t just my mere word ineptitude that had set him off, but rather his attitude toward life.

Through dating and loving comedians it has come to my attention that they are often some of the saddest lot in the world. While they may shine on stage, in their private life they can be nothing short of horrible beasts.

Perhaps Mr. Chase is part of this sad sack camp. It’s not that he’s mad at me or Dan Harmon or whoever else, it’s just that he’s completely inconsolable and so his constant state is one of miserableness.

Comedy is meant to cheer people up, obviously, but because of that as fans I think we often forget that these performers are not constantly laughing and rather spend a decent amount of time filled with hate and self doubt.

Look, I don’t really know where I was going with this rant, much like Chevy likely had no idea that his voice mails would be saved and played for whoever the fuck would listen. But in closing, I’d like to end in the now infamous words of Mr. Chase to Mr. Harmon:

I hope you [???] medicine, you fat fuck. You didn’t give us a script to begin with, so nobody knew what the fuck was going on during the week. Second of all, your goddamn bad writing, shit stinko fuck, was an abomination; and your writing is getting worse, so suck my cock. I don’t get talked to like that by anybody certainly not in front of my wife and daughter, you goddamn asshole; alcoholic, fat shit.

You’re gonna live to be about 57, if you’re lucky, the way you eat. I have nothing to say to you except you can suck my cock. Is that clear?

I found these photos by photographer Joel Robinson to be so interesting and fun.

They’re all about the whimsy of books and trying to capture what you feel when you’re reading.

He has an Etsy shop and I’m thinking of investing, plus the prints are super inexpensive!

I selfishly wish he wasn’t in each and every photo, but I still think they’re really beautiful.

These are the ladies of Mad Men: Joan, Peggy and Betty. They each represent the home, office and love life that was present in the 1960s.

You know what else was around during that time? My grandmother. And you know what she was doing? Working as a secretary in Manhattan.

Thanks to Matt Weiner I’ve now realized that the woman who I thought was sweet and angelic is actually quite more complex than I ever gave her credit for. Here’s what I now know:

1. I may have illegitimate Aunts and/or Uncles

Sure, I’ve got an uncle and an aunt that I know about. But what of all those illicit affairs that led to children out of wedlock?

My G-ma’s whoring around could actually be a blessing in disguise, as I’ve always dreamed that Julianne Moore and I might share the same gene pool. Auntie Julie, call me!

2. She used to be a model in Italy

I mean, my grandma was a total Betty back in the day and she married my grandfather who is 100% Eye-talian.

I don’t have the photos to prove it but yes, I come from a long lineage of Giselle-esque models.

3. She Knows What Masturbation Is

I’ve seen my grandmother do laundry, a lot of it.

As horrifying as that sounds, a la Betty Draper, she could very well know what it means to saddle up to a washing machine and rub her parts against it.

Grandma, no :(

4. Slut Tendencies

Sure, my grandma eloped with my grandpa when they were both 18-years-old and they’ve been happily married since. But if I’ve learned anything from watching the mischief at Sterling Draper Cooper Pryce, it’s that everyone in the 60s slutted it up.

Big time sluts.

5. She Could Kill Me At Any Moment

Remember when Betty snapped, grabbed a gun and shot a bunch of innocent pigeons minding their own business, all the while never dropping that damn cigarette in her mouth?

Apparently that’s what the 1960s did to our grandmothers: it made them smoke and become psychopathic, pigeon killing snipers.

6. She’s a pothead

This one really shouldn’t come as a total shock, the 60s were a “crazy” time, or whatever, and I’m sure that while my G-ma worked as a secretary in New York some party favors were passed her way.

Next time I’m home, I’ll be checking the freezer for edibles. Guard those with your life, grandma.

7. She’s had drunk sex, too

You know how the thought of our parents having sex is enough to induce night terrors?

Now think of our grandparents and their shriveled outsides having a go round like we’ve never seen.

I’ve only ever witnessed Grandma La Rosa having a sip of wine at dinner, but that’s because she apparently wanted to keep my virginal ears pure of her former life as a drunken hookah housewife.

Grandma, is there something you’d like to share?

These photos of Jessica Chastain for Vogue Italia are making me question whether or not there may be something to the idea of redheads being real life goddesses.

Oh, wait, that’s not a real thing? Well now it is!