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last post - "grievance: coffee cups in the media"
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last post - "raging out at... looking unassuming"


grievance: baby taxi accidents

Getting into baby taxi accidents is quite possibly one of the most awkward things ever.

"What are 'baby taxi accidents'?" one might ask... oneself.

"Are they accidents involving a taxi cab hitting a baby carriage?" one might continue to sub-question... oneself.

"... Maybe it involves two very small taxis (thus "babies" in the taxi cab "community") hitting one another."

Or maybe none of such self-interrogation will occur because this matter is of no interest to anyone else but me.

So, I shall tell you. "Baby taxi accidents" are accidents when you are in a taxi, as a passenger, and a small accident occurs in which absolutely no one is hurt and there is very minimal damage to anyone's vehicles. The reason I choose "baby" to modify the magnitude of the accident is solely because if I say "woah! I just got into a small accident!" people immediately think I am injured.

All right, now that I've made it exactly clear (with absolutely NO digressions into silliness) to what I'm referring, I think it best to explain why this deserves to be addressed.

When you are in the back seat of a cab and there is contact between that cab and another vehicle, immediately the cab driver goes inSANE and jumps out of the car and you are rendered incapable of making a decision. Do you stay in the cab with the meter running? Do you get out and get another cab? And if so, do you pay for the metered fare thus far? Do you get out and try to help?

It is entirely the most awkward situation in which a human can be. If you're in your car or a friend's car, it's pretty clear that you're not getting out and leaving your friend stranded. But with cabs, you do NOT know this human being.

The other night, I got into a cab and was exhausted from work and just really needed to be at home. And my cab driver was successful in permeating through my callous and cranky disposition with conversational pleasantries. So when a car hit him, I was paralyzed by indecision. Thank the Gods of the Taxi and Limousine Commission that he had the decency to ask me politely if it would be okay if he dealt with the situation and I took another cab and then wished me a Happy Holidays.

Can someone please let me know what the protocol is for how to deal with this awkwardness when the cab driver simply walks away and screams at the other driver? Man!

Geez, I really have a TON of beef with cabs ("grievance: taxitv")! Maybe I should use public transportation more frequently. Oh wait, I have a ton of beef with the MTA too ("grievance: the mta")!




grievance: gravity (part 2)

This is actually remarkable. Not THREE days after I fell down the stairs (and only ONE day after I wrote about it in "grievance: gravity") did my stupid ass fall AGAIN. And just to prove that my outline of reasons for falling was, in fact valid, I took the time to, after I'd picked my sorry ass up off the ground, take a picture.

Exhibit A: Converse sneakers.

Exhibit B: ICE! Look at the friggin' sidewalk. Okay. If I'd fallen on the icy snow on the right edge of the photo, fine. But the sidewalk just looks WET. How is this fair?! I thought we had salt for this purpose.

This one was bad too. I managed to somehow knee myself in the chest/stomach so I knocked the wind out of myself with my OWN body. And was light-headed for about an hour afterwards. But I was also so irate due to this being the second time in ONE solid week that I'd fallen that I started yelling and cursing as I got myself up "MOTHERFUCKER, COCKSUCKER! YOU'VE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME!!!!!!"
And yes. Of course. I was alone.
I need to start wearing a bubble.

-injured, angry, klutzy moon


grievance: asking for "no" or "little" ice

As you may know from one of my earlier blogs ("grievance: bar etiquette [silly cocktails]"), I spend some of my weekend nights slingin' drinks behind a bar. And I've already reprimanded some people for ordering particular (embarrassing) drinks. However, I think an entirely different aspect of cocktail-ordering needs to be addressed...

I swear to GOD if you ask me for "no" or "very little" ice, I will take the 1-inch long baby knife on my wine key intended for cutting foil off of the tops of wine bottles and slit your piece-of-shit throat.

Maybe you don't understand. Bartenders pour as they pour. End of story. And I actually happen to have a pretty heavy hand because... Well, let's call a spade a spade, I'm an alcoholic myself. But asking for this limiting of ice makes me so irate that I actually will end up giving you less liquor than I would, were I not assaulted by such a blasphemous insult.

Would you like to know why this SO pisses off bartenders and why you ought not ask for this? Because it says, very implicitly, "I'm CHEAP. I want as much alcohol as I can possible acquire based on the size of that glass." How does that translate into bartender-ese? "I will not be tipping you." Hence, you will not be obtaining any extra liquor at ALL. Not to mention, it's kind of an insult to a bartender's capacity to do his/her job. It's not your place. And you're going to end up with less that way.

I almost become UNCOMFORTABLE when people do that because I'm embarrassed for such fucking parsimony.

New rule (to the tune of Bill Maher's awesomeness): accept what a bartender has to pour. You'll get fucked over and embarrassed if you request otherwise.

New rule: Not tipping? Not acceptable. Oh wait. That's kind of an old rule. Ugh.



grievance: gravity

I'm pretty cool with gravity generally speaking, you know with its magical capacity to hold things down to the earth and not go flying through the air. And I'm pretty thankful for that. Especially because that means that I don't randomly go flying through the air.

Except that I apparently do.

Falling fucking BLOWS. And the only thing that could possibly make falling any worse is falling ALONE.

I have to admit that this really isn't much of gravity's fault but really more of my own assisted by one of the following:
1. Walking while typing on my Blackberry;
2. Stilettos (usually coupled with a flight of stairs);
3. Converse sneakers (NB: if you wear the same pair of sneakers since you were 16, you're likely to have no traction);
4. Wearing ill-suited foot attire for ill-fated weather (namely 2-inch platform Rocket Dog flipflops, with toe-socks);
5. Being an idiot;
6. Drinking three quarters of a bottle of Jameson.

I think number six will probably take the cake for likelihood of occurrence. However, the thing that really set me off happened Thursday morning. Running for the 4/5 downtown subway, I tumbled ("tumble" is a cute enough euphemism) down about 6 or 7 stairs, thanks to a pair of 23-inch stilettos. This particular incidence was markedly significant for two reasons: I managed to hurt so many different places that I have a new awareness of bones in my body existing; I was alone.

As if falling doesn't BLOW enough. You fall- OW- you have to pick yourself up- MORE OW- and then you have to look around at random pedestrians who saw this who are "concerned" and play it like you're as cool as Danny Zucco in Grease. I mean... at least if you are with someone, you can laugh it off and people don't rush in to be "concerned" because you have someone to "take care" of you should you so need care to be taken.

I was going to write this blog about a year ago when, wearing stupid Converse (#3) in wet weather (#4), I slipped and "tumbled" down an entire flight of stairs while my roommate watched and giggled. I didn't think it was enough fodder at the time for a rageout. But FUCK, did it hurt.

So with time, so other occurrences have... well... occurred (that's what occurrences do, no?). This spring, I was rushing to get to Penn Station wearing.... you betcha... stiletto boots. I jumped out of a cab at the intersection of 34th Street and 7th Avenue, which is a mangled mess of TWO four-laned streets, with 34th going both east and west. My cabby was stopped in the inside lane of 34th street. I was rushing for a train, so I jumped out, took two RUNNING steps toward the south side of 34th, i.e. into ONCOMING traffic and BOOM. Face-goddamned first. A lotta people rushing to my aid. And man, did it hurt. And no one to giggle with. But hey, I got the train.

About three months ago, I got drunk (#6). Very drunk. And was wandering from one Lower East Side shit hole to another. So, PERFECT time to start lookin' through my BlackBerry (#1) and start messaging people. And I was wearing REAL sneakers! Stepped of a curb. Fell. No explanation. No one with me. No skin on my left elbow. Pretty terrific, I'd say.

All I'm saying is that Isaac Newton can suck it.

And that I am an IDIOT (#5).


P.S. Please buy me some shoes that don't want to kill me.


grievance: 2008

What the fuck is going on with 2008? Not one fucking person I speak to claims to have had a "kickass" year by any value scale. Everyone's year seems to be plagued with job quitting, firings, hellacious break-ups, family sicknesses and deaths, financial problems, quarter- and mid-life crises and a general, lingering malaise. So, I'd like to know... what the FUCK is going on?

Okay... so we're in a recession. Well.. I'd say depression. Nonetheless, there is no way that that can procure ALL of the horrendous things that have happened. Really, that only explains the economic hardship in which some of us have been soaked.

Why is everyone I know fucking miserable? I mean, methinks I need not explain my own ennui as I have entire BLOG solely for the purpose of bitching things out: it's pretty clear that I'm pretty irritable and irritated. But I, myself, have been touched by essentially all of the tribulations I formerly enumerated.

I can't even have fucking fun anymore. "Hey friend whose face I have not seen in a year! How are you? Let's meet up for cocktails and a night of fun!" Yeah... that never happens. Instead, I end up in my apartment with a bottle of vino "bitching one out" as I so eloquently put it. Gosh! I remember the good ol' days of one of my friends having one problem and inviting them over to do that. But now it's like, ALL of my friends and the conversation's not just topic-dependent. One horrific turmoil segues to another without so much as a blink of an eye.

And oftentimes there's crying. A lot.

I hate to be so morose, but I just think it ought to be addressed at the advent of the end of the year. Even the holidays... I look at my Facebook status updates and it's all like "Magellan is Fuck off turkeys! I hope you die in hell!" "Christopher Columbus is I hate holidays!" "Amerigo Vespucci is I'd rather eat my own arm and swallow a bottle of aspirin and vodka than spend time with my family!" (I insisted on using random explorers' names so I wouldn't incriminate any of my friends to their sheer misery but felt it necessary to include the inanity of the "is" in status updates.)

My only hope is that in reading this blog, some of you saturnine messes will embrace the feeling of a synergy with all the other miserable people in the world. Smile! You are not alone! Here's to 2009 being just as horrific.



raging out at... passwords

Well, well, well.. welcome back to my own blog, ladies and gentlemen! My deepest apologies for the prolonged absence. My time away from you all had nothing to do with a lack of things to rage about (I can always find something!), but rather with the launching of a new site. So of course, the self-promoter that I am, I urge you to go check out Ladies' Locker Room when you're done absorbing everything over here.

The reason I bring up my other site and how terribly busy and important I am (besides the face that I am shameless) is that it led me to today's topic: Passwords. I understand the importance and need for passwords, I do. But sometimes they make my life just a little more difficult.

It all started simply enough. About 12 years ago, when my family first got America Online (saying I didn't have internet 'til I was a teenager is going to age me badly one day). I used the same password for everything. As the years passed, I began to accumulate more and more sites and programs that required a password. Eventually this led to everyone on the planet knowing the information to access virtually anything of mine. My mom, my brother, my friends, random people I've met once... even now I am sure 9 out of 10 people who have ever met me could tell you how to log onto my Facebook. This is not in my best interest.

So over the last year or two, I have been using a variety of passwords. It still amounts to about 3 different passwords, which equals out to about 7 out of 10 people who know me can log on to everything I have. Still no problem there. Perhaps I should stop giving people my account information.

The problem now becomes my inability to remember what passwords I used where and if I invented a new one for any specific reason. This problem is made exponentially worse by the wonderful browser feature that allows your computer to remember your passwords. Of course, I use this function, regardless of the fact that I will let anyone in the world use my computer... my brand spanking new pink laptop, that comes to me courtesy of one of my favorite people on earth.

This weekend, as I decided that the Internet Explorer that the computer comes pre-programmed with is a low-class piece of shit, I decided to download Firefox. Fantastic. All my passwords are stored in IE. I decide to log on and write a rageout about Betty White (I will treat you all to that later). Turns out I have virtually no idea what my password is. I hadn't typed it in so long thanks to these password memory programs that it took me SEVENTEEN TRIES to log in. SEVENTEEN.


You would think I learned my lesson but as soon as Firefox asked me if I would like them to remember the password, I of course accepted their assistance. Some things never change.



grievance: my appliances

Dear Shower,

Stop arbitrarily choosing a time to raise your temperature 10 fold. Unfortunately, you oft do it while I am washing my face and it really, really hurts.

I don't know what I did to you to receive this kind of bipolar treatment. I also have to file a complaint regarding your desire to drop the temperature 10 fold as well.

I think you should be punched in the face immediately.

Scalded Moon


Dear Refrigerator/Freezer,

I'm at a loss for words. All summer long when I desired chilled drinks and the capability to make frozen cocktails, you refused to make ice and, instead, gave me crunchy water.

Now it is winter time and I have no such desire. And not only do you engender ice for me quite willingly but you also freeze bottles of soda and cartons of juice in my refrigerator.

Furthermore, a couple weeks ago you randomly started to leak and now my white tiled floor looks like crap no matter how often I mop it. What's the effin' deal?

I hope you rot in hell.

Parched Moon


Dear Cable Box,

I understand that you are all kinds of high-tech but we've had you replaced once already and you continue to manifest severely pixelated images and act weird when I use your DVR functions.

Why won't you let me watch Intervention, asshole?

Aggravated Moon


Dear Stove,

When you making clicking noises to let me know to turn you down, the frequency connects in some way with my stereo in my room and makes a reverberating clicking noise all over my room through 8 speakers.

Stop fucking doing that!!!! It makes me feel weird!

Aurally-Freaked-Out Moon


Dear Shower Drain,

I DO understand that two women produce a lot of hair. But I find it surreptitious that I need to use an entire BOTTLE of Drain-O on you once a month.
Why are you doing this to me? It makes my shower so gross and I think the cashiers at Duane Reade think I'm cooking some kind of weird drugs.

Dead Moon ('Cause She Slipped On Soap Scum Due To Improper Draining)


Ugh. Why can't life be easier?



grievance: starbucks

At the risk of sounding like Jerry Seinfeld, what is the deal with Starbucks?!

Every single time I go in there, there is some kind of hassle that makes me irate... And I used to really rely on Starbucks to be consistent and take care of shit. But 'tis not so these days, unfortunately. Shame on you, overpriced coffee chain.

Therein lies my biggest problem. Everything is so gratuitously overpriced that none of my grievances should hold any water because there ought not be anything about which to have such. But lemme tell ya. Starbucks blows.

1. Why do they never have soy milk when I want it?

2. How do you not have sleeves for hot drinks? Every time they are out of sleeves, they "double-cup." So I understand that if you run out an hour before closing, you make do with what you have. But there are some stores that go DAYS without sleeves. What a fucking waste! Shouldn't somebody be looking after inventory?

3. (Somewhat connected to number 3) STOP making baristas with tattoos on their wrists wear SLEEVES.
A. You are wasting sleeves;
B. They don't even properly cover anything as they slide around;
C. It looks fucking ridiculous. How can wearing cardboard around your wrists look more professional than a picture of a star?
i. I paraphrase and repeat: cardboard! Wrists! Professional?! Ah!

4. How are you "out of" venti? How is ANY retailer ever OUT of a size of CUP? I had to order a grande and a tall. And they didn't even charge me venti price. It was like 45 dollars for my morning coffee. Fuck that shit.

5. Stop selling that "food." Pastries are fine. But egg sandwiches? Really? Go to Dunkin Donuts. That shit is gross and arrives in boxes. Bleh.

6. Stop selling gift cards when it's always too busy to actually be able to buy one. I just saw the new Starbucks Gold card which actually rewards you for purchasing (yick! This economy is bad) by giving you 10% off. And I actually want to buy that. But the people at the registers are so flummoxed when you ask for one that I actually would feel guilty doing so.

7. Stop trying to sell me music. And newspapers. Coffee shop. Not mall.

I hate you Starbucks! I wish you didn't have such wonderful coffee cocktails and soul-warming drinks like chai lattes and eggnog lattes. Go back to Seattle.



raging out at... my own arrogance

Driving to work today, I was a bigger hazard to the road than usual thanks to my uber-strained biceps, bruised left hand and scraped up fingers. And why, might you ask, do I currently have the upper body of a refugee? Simply put, I refuse to concede defeat.

When I was younger, like most people with brothers and sisters, I engaged in what was generally normal sibling rivalry. However in the Stars household, instead of this causing world war level fights, it created something much different. It caused both my brother and I to become completely convinced we were absolutely awesome at everything. And I mean EVERYTHING.

I remember being a kid and the America's Cup being on T.V. After a brief discussion, Brother Stars and I figured we could man a boat just the two of us and victory would be inevitable. Papa Stars tried to explain the concept of teamwork and how we would need a team. We were not having any of that. Why would we need a lesser boat racing talent to bring us down? Keep in mind, neither of us had ever even been on a sailboat. That apparently made no difference. It still doesn't. I remain firmly rooted in the belief that, even now, if there's something I'm not good at, it's because I haven't tried. The instant I have even one attempt, I will become the greatest golfer/comedian/cross-stitcher the world has ever seen.

Which brings me to the reason for today’s debilitating injury. It was brought on by stupidity times 3 – sprinkled with equal parts Arrogance, Ineptitude, and Stars Loves JD. My Googled God was around last week for 4 days of amazingness. It was a week filled with dinners and movies and hand holding and all sorts of wonderful "gheyness" that still has Stars in a good mood. (No simple feat considering how easily enraged I am!) It was a pile of whipped perfection, minus one small argument that has now escalated to epic proportions.

I think I can hit a JD fastball. Even writing this now, after standing in the batters' box against him for hours and not hitting so much as a foul ball, I am still positive I can rope him right over the fence. Major league regulation distance. Despite my not only not being able to hit the ball, but it being an accomplishment when I would even remain in the batters' box, JD has agreed to a rematch. He feels pretty certain that my method of swinging the bat as I run away will pretty much assure I never make contact with the ball.

So I spent waaaaayyy too much time at the batting cages yesterday perfecting my swing. The gentlemen at the cages thought I was insane when I asked to be put in a cage against 90 MPH baseball throws. But I did it. And I only ran away a few (hundred) times. And of course in the process, I managed to greatly injure myself between sore muscles from holding the bat too long, bruises from getting hit by the ball, and a bunch of scrapes from running into the fence as I scampered away from pitch after pitch.

I was with myself against JD and again in the batting cages. I saw the extent of my non-accomplishments and yet I am still convinced I am going to crush pitch after pitch the next time he throws to me. I have no problem with self-assuredness and a great confidence, but perhaps it becomes a problem when it starts getting you hurt. One day I am going to try to race in America’s Cup by myself and end up awash on a deserted island. And I will still think I am the best sailer this world has ever seen.



grievance: ass-biting

I feel like this is probably something that would happen to Stars... or maybe even that Stars would do... but for what it's worth, when this happened, Stars was present. I'm assuming that her being there is the reason that this happened. It must be.

After a lovely dinner and a few pitchers of margaritas, Stars and I ventured to a bar on the Lower East Side, for the purposes of getting (more) hammered and playing Skee-Ball, because really, who doesn't love a good game of drunk Skee-Ball?

After securing BOTH of the two lanes and getting some cocktails, our drunk asses (I'd like to shout out the bartender at MaryAnn's for making the bad judgment call to think Stars and I to be good candidates for free shots) decided to have a Skee-Ball competition:

Moon: What's your best Skee-Ball score of all time?
Stars: I don't know... Probably perfect, I would imagine.

Okay, so that quotation has little-to-no significance for this story. Nothing to do with the story actually. Nothing at all. It was just funny. But what does have to do with the story which I've failed to mention is that I'd decided to wear some pretty ridiculous "pants" that evening (the word pants being in quotations because they look like they're painted on):

Thanks, Stars, by the way, for being too lazy to upload photos from a couple of months ago, so I have to pull a picture of some random bitch off of American Apparel's website. You're lucky you had a funny moment that night so I'm not so mad at you.

In any event, back to Stars and my Olivia-Newton-John-At-The-End-Of-Grease-looking self at this bar, "tell me about it, stud." I'm very intensely competing with Stars in Skee-Ball, when my ass gets slapped. I turn around and see a gentleman (a.k.a. douchebag) and ask him if he had, in fact, slapped my ass. He said "your friend made me do it," which is, let's call a spade a spade, something which I (or any reasonable person) would believe could be true of Stars. So I snarled and continued my game.

A few moments later, all of a sudden, I feel teeth on my ass.


"I'm sorry... what did you just say?"


So I turn around and ask this fine, young chap if he had, in fact, BITTEN MY ASS. His response? "It had to be done." Okay... what? WHAT! I don't even know what kind of a defense that is supposed to be. I looked at him, looked at his friend, looked at Stars and then said "ummm, no it really didn't."

So, for the first time in my entire life, I went to the bouncer and actually had someone ejected from a bar. The only problem was that by the time I had explained (several times, because the concept of a stranger biting me on the ass was so outlandish that it didn't really get through to the bouncer) what had happened and brought the bouncer back to the Skee-Ball area to get him, I'd entirely forgotten what the douchebag looked like. Thank goodness for Stars who pointed him out. As a result of the whole ordeal, we got more free shots. Never a good idea.

When I asked Stars later if she had in fact told the young man to slap me on the ass, like he'd said she'd done, she said "fuck no! I told him to give you money for Skee-Ball."

I think it's pretty safe to say the message of this post is "if you're NOT already biting people on the ass in bars, keep doin' what you're doing. If you are... ummmmmmm... uhhhhhhh... you should probably be locked in a room forever."



raging out at... obligations

Do you remember when you were in high school and you HAD to read Great Expectations? And you hated it because it was obligatory? But you picked it up on your own later and realized it was a beautiful story that you unfairly judged then started to sob hysterically in fear that you would turn into Miss Havisham except you probably wouldn't even have an Estella to take care of you and you'd rot to pieces in that old, never-used-for-its-purpose wedding dress? Okay, maybe the last part is just me, but I think it's a universal truth that no one likes doing something because they have to. Obligations suck and can ruin what should otherwise be a good thing.

Case in point: my new side project promoting a night at a bar in Hollywood. How can I possibly make this bad? Well I can and I have. Promoting requires creative night planning, going out to meet new people and begging your friends to come hang out. I'm a self-ordained creative girl who enjoys new people and her current friends (usually). So my job is essentially to get people out, having a good time, to drink for free and to get paid for it. And I hate doing it. Telling me I have to go out multiple nights a week and I have to be in party mode every Monday night is tantamount to torture for me. The second you tell me I have to go out and have a good time, the only thing in the world I want to do is stay home and be miserable. (And maybe watch cheesy movies but that's another issue altogether.)

There's nothing like being obligated to do something to assure that it's the last thing in the world you'd ever want to do. I think if I were Ryan Gosling's personal masseuse, I would still dread going to work every day. That's just not okay. Why is it that I can't separate the actual body of work/event/fill-in-the-blank from the fact that it's a requirement?

And now that I know I have to finish writing this blog, I don't wanna.



grievance: lottery tickets

I'm not even that pissed at the lottery.

If someone is going to throw money away in the hopes of some fantastical amount of cash coming his or her way, by all means, Lottery (or anyone else for that matter), take that shit. (Indeed, I just apostrophized "the Lottery," because surely the blatant scarcity of poetic devices à la John Donne on this blog is utterly blasphemous. O Fortuna! O Romeo! O Lottery! I am clearly among the genius ranks of Carl Orff and William Shakespeare. Actually... I don't even really like Carl Orff.)

Ok, so now that I've apparently and inadvertantly set the stage for a play... the plot of which consists of a poor peasant buying lottery tickets, losing and thus, in desperation, evoking the great dieties:

O Nickel, you loathsome God of Scratch-Off Tickets!
O Ping-Pong-Looking-Ball, you are filled with avarice, you God of Pick-10!
O Giant Machine Which Takes Up A Large Portion of Counters At Newspaper Stores, you shall rue the day you... you... umm... did something, God of Weird Vending Machines at Bars!

Somewhere along the way... it's pretty clear that my hatred for lottery tickets has spun me into another plane of rage. But it's not even the lottery tickets themselves (as I've made blatantly clear). It's that every SINGLE time, every goddamned SINGLE time I'm in a rush, there is always an asshole in front of me buying LOTTO tickets. And it's hardly even a contest... there is a disparity as widely gaping as a temporal Grand Canyon between how much time I need to hand the kind gentleman my money and receive change and goods in return, and how long it takes YOU, yes YOU MOTHERFUCKER, to pick out what kinds of crappy, shiney, bullshit pipe-dream you're going to gamble on today. Just hurry it up.

I'm just saying, have some etiquette about it. If you know I'm gonna be in and out of there, there's no reason to give me dirty looks when I start to look like a child who is going to pee in her pants. I'm not allowed to smoke anywhere anymore. And now you're ruining the process of purchasing cigarettes for me too? Your vice is allowed to annoy me and I have to curtail my "vice" around you LOTTO-fiends? You know what? New rule: if I can't smoke, you can't buy LOTTO tickets.

And what's with the stupid grey stuff on scratch-offs? What the hell is that stuff made out of?



raging out at... drunken behavior

If you've been paying attention, it is pretty apparent that I enjoy a good cocktail. I even enjoy a mediocre cocktail that's a little watered down from the ice melting in it. Hell, I doubt I would turn down a bad cocktail if the mood struck and it was the only thing available. I don't mind when others drink around me if I'm not drinking, but factor in ridiculous drunken behavior and I'm fit to be tied.

Now ridiculous drunken behavior doesn't encompass being silly or getting a little rowdy or even when your vocals get above a decibel I care to listen to them at. That's par for the course and while I don't necessarily enjoy all that behavior, I can live with it. What does burn me up is the "Did you actually just do/say/think about that" kind of behavior. And I apparently am just surrounded by friends who have the most deplorable conduct imaginable when their BAC rises just the slightest; people whom it would serve well to maybe lay off the sauce for a bit.

So if you want to spend any time around me and grab a drink with me, may I present to you "Stars DOs and ABSOLUTELY FUCKING DO NOTs of Drinking."

DO... Be mindful of your own tolerance. No one who is above the average American college age should be throwing up in the street or blacking out or falling all over themselves. I accept this behavior early on in your drinking years, but come on. How many times do you have to vomit on the club's bouncer before it clicks that maybe 16 gin and tonics is more than you can handle?

ABSOLUTELY FUCKING DO NOT... Ask me for money when you are drunk. It is not my responsibility to fund your extracurricular activities. Unless I choose to buy you a drink or I owe you money, my cash stays in my wallet. You are not entitled to it because you are drunk and out of cash. Not my problem. And ESPECIALLY do not ask me for money if:
1)You paid for parking when I said I would walk: too bad for your lazy butt; or
2) You need it to buy marijuana which I am not going to smoke: just don't ask.

DO... Put your cell phone away before you do something you will regret with it. It's your life and for the most part, what you choose to do with it does not affect me. However, when you drunkenly call your ex-boyfriend or text a friend to tell her off, I have to hear about it all day the next day. I am not interested. Don't be stupid. Perhaps this DO should be amended to: If you're going to use your cell phone while inebriated, ABSOLUTELY FUCKING DO NOT talk to me about what you did the next day. I will never in life have any sympathy for it. Suck my non-existent balls.

ABSOLUTELY FUCKING DO NOT... Tell people things I have told you in confidence and then either attribute it to your intoxication or claim to not remember. You did it to be "funny and cool" at the time. So being disloyal and a shitty friend makes you cool... hope whomever you told likes you now, because I don't anymore.

DO... feel free to go home when you've had enough. I would never look down on you for not making it out to last call. I only look down on you when you act like a Grade-A Jackass.

ABSOLUTELY FUCKING DO NOT... ever come near me if you're one of THOSE drunk people.

Writing this blog has made me realize my new found respect for straight edge folks... and not for their willpower to not get themselves tanked, but for their remarkable ability to put up with the rest of us stupid drunk idiots whilst sober. Hats off to you, Straight Edgers of America - I am contemplating moving over to your ranks.



raging out at... internet findings

So I'm in love. Again. Just for this week. Or for all time. I have no idea. The only thing I truly know is that Google is severely impairing my ability to have any semblance of a "normal" relationship with "normal" progression. Not that normalcy has been my strong suit historically. I'm babbling. Allow me to rewind.

So being single and with the nonsense of past relationships behind me for now, I've been fully ready to move on and perhaps find that elusive nice guy for once. So bored one night and admittedly on a MySpace binge, I happen upon the older brother of my adorable buddy Pierre (names have been changed to protect the innocent who don't want their business on blast on the internet.) JD, Pierre's brother, is, not to mince words, smoking hot. In the immortal words of Moon, he is just "holy bananas." So being the crazed, freshly recovered single gal that I am, I shoot him a message to the super smooth and charming effect of “Hey, I’m a buddy of Pierre’s so I thought I would shoot you a message. Sweet pictures.” Yeah, I’m good, I know. What man wouldn’t be falling at his feet with such delicately placed words?

So, many exchanged e-mails, texts, and a few phone calls later, I am fully hooked on JD… despite having never met him. Ahh, the age of the internet, where love matches are made based on a few pictures taken at our best angles and a handful of well-worded emails that frankly could have been penned by the entire writing staff of 30 Rock for all we know. But we want to believe and so we do. And sometimes everything we hope for turns out to be true. But none of that risk-taking with potential for meeting a frog you thought was a Prince Charming bothers me. What I am pissed at is my ability to Google anyone.

Now JD is a special case as he is probably a little more publicly profiled than your average internet love affair. He certainly isn't some giant celebrity, but suffice it to say when you're a professional athlete, even one of the lowest common denominator, there's a lot of information about you on the internet. So now only mere days into the beginnings of my new found love and never having met the boy, what do I know about him? I could tell you his height, his weight, how much money he makes, what the inside of his apartment looks like, his Guitar Hero ranking (I am completely mortified about knowing that one), and most importantly, what he looks like shirtless.

Okay, what?? How in the hell am I supposed to progress normally and slowly when I already have a good 4 months of relationship information in my head? Some of my best friends I have known for YEARS probably couldn't tell you all that information about me. I certainly don't know Moon's Guitar Hero ranking. Or if she even has one. But once I set off on an innocent Google of JD, I couldn't stop myself. And now I know too much. And now it's making things awkward.

Example 1:
"Man, I had a rough day. You would win the day if you came to give me a massage."
Stars Internal Monologue Dilemma:
"Poor baby, his team lost today. He did have a trying day. Wait, shit, how do I answer that? If I acknowledge I know why he had a bad day, am I a stalker for checking box scores? I can pretend I didn't go to But then do I look like I don't care enough to even see how his team did? Or like I'm not a sports fan and maybe that's a turn-off. Dear God, help me!!!"
Stars' Final Answer:
"Aww, honey. I wish you weren't so far or I would. Too bad phone massage doesn't have quite the same effect as phone sex."
Crisis averted. Stars' sanity moves just out of her range of vision.

Example 2:
Stars is sitting around, eating leftover pancakes and singing loudly to AFI. Phone rings.
"Oh Jesus, JD!"
Minor and brief panic attack ensue. Composure regained. Opens up phone.
"Hi love, what's going on?"
"Hi beautiful girl. Are you listening to AFI?"
Major panic attack sets in.
Stars Internal Monologue Dilemma:
"Crap, fuck, crap, fuck hell! (My internal monologue indeed does have Tourette's.) Shit!!! I know one of his favorite bands is AFI. Did he tell me that or did I read that? I most likely read it. Is he going to think I'm listening to it because he likes it? Is the jig up? He's going to know I Googled him! This is a nightmare. Why, oh why, did I have to be listening to AFI? I do like other bands! This is so not a big deal, who cares, right? Oh no, it's been way too long since I've said anything."
"Stars? You there?"
"Yeah, sorry. Was turning the music down. Having an iPod Shuffle of a night."
Crisis again averted, although why couldn't I just acknowledge I was listening to one of my favorite bands? He doesn't own them. Now I'm mad at JD for my own stupidity. Calm down, crazy girl.

Example 3:
This is not so much an example as my deep burning desire to point something out. JD has pictures of himself on the internet where he is deeply and meaningfully shirtless. Some dudes should never go without a shirt and some guys I don't mind if they do. JD, in his professional athlete glory, does the world a great injustice when he puts a shirt on. To put it in perspective... we all know my love of Sawyer from Lost. If I could only enjoy one shirtless man for the rest of my life, I wouldn't hesitate to choose JD over Sawyer every day of the week. It's that good.
Actually now that I think about it, this is an example. Knowing the hotness that lurks there, I am infinitely more nervous talking to him than I would be without that information. Generally, I'm not ogling a man I am dating in all his shirtless glory until he is allowed to see me shirtless as well. And usually by the time that happens, I am largely past the point of being fully nervous around him. This is simply not fair.

Example 4:
Google search? Check!
YouTube search? Check!
Scouring through MySpace comments? Check!
Drooling over shirtless pictures? Check, check, and dear God, check again!

So, in conclusion (and thanks to all of you for trudging through this post and making it this far with me... Stars in love is a crazy Stars indeed!), I am never ever looking anything up on the internet again. I don't need that much information until it is presented to me. I don't need to make myself more nervous and more psycho than I obviously already am. Hopefully, I can meditate on this and reach an inner peace and calm before I screw this whole thing up. If not, I wonder if I can sue the entire internet for destroying my relationship?



grievance: pomegranates

Never thought you'd see ire aimed at pomegranates, or any fruit for that matter... I know. And certainly not expressed in writing, but pomegranates are pissing me off in so many different ways.

For starters, I really, really, really, really hate when people pronounce the word "pom-ie-granate." I'm not even sure why because people mispronounce things all over the damned place and it doesn't infuriate me so much. I have an inkling that it's because "pomiegranates" sounds fucking awful and actually makes me feel uncomfortable. It's creepy. Like you're talking to me in "mother-ease" like I'm a baby. "Does my little muffin want a pomiegranate"? Ick, ick, ick. I want to wipe the ick off. And I can't, because of the second reason I want to punch pomegranates in the face...


And not of their own volition. It's not like there was a big pomegranate meeting and they decided to branch out and try new things so to speak. (Although I suppose I can't rule that out... Milk did some pretty serious marketing for itself with the "Got Milk?" Campaigns. I'm still not really clear on that.)

I was fine with POM juice. See, the thing that really pisses me off is that I actually like pomegranates. But do I feel it should be conquering the globe? Certainly not. It's a fruit. And as soon as you slap on the idea of high antioxidants onto something, it's like the elixir of life. Maybe we should stop putting... errr... oxidants... into our bodies. What's wrong with oxidants anyway? It would seem to have oxygen in it... n'est-ce pas? I could be wrong. And I don't care to put in the time researching it.

But what I did put time into "researching" was these wily little fruits themselves. So while I do like the taste of pomegranates, I do not want these things which a Google "shopping" search yielded this ridiculous array of what I will call POMEGRANIA (golf claps: aren't I so clever?):

I do not want... to smell like pomegranates.

I do not want... to read about pomegranates. (Yes. If you'll note, this link is purple, because I actually went there because even my disenchanted-by-pomegranates-ass couldn't believe that there was a novel named "Pomegranate Seeds" so I needed to check it out.)

I do not want... to replenish my lips with the oil of pomegranates. They never seemed like particularly oily fruits to begin with. Is Burt's Bees torturing pomegranates?

I do not want... my apartment to smell like pomegranates. Nor do I need pink candles. Or candles that have no flames.

I do not want... to take PILLS OF POMEGRANATE-NESS. What the fuck?

I do not want... to listen to songs about pomegranates (or their seeds). Again, a purple link because I couldn't believe this. Plus, the cover art is kind of creepy.

I do not want... to eat things which taste like pomegranates but are, in fact, not pomegranates.

I do not want... "pomegranate" to be considered a color.

I do not want... pomegranate-themed/flavored/hued things to exist which I don't even understand. What the fuck is this?

I do not want... to succor a cold with pomegranate-flavoring.

I do not want... I repeat... to smell like fucking pomegranates.

I do not want... to drink pomegranate cocktails.

I do not want... pomegranates anywhere near my wine.

I do not want... even a little bit... to hang pomegranates in a wreath anywhere my eyes will float. And if I did... faux pomegranates?? Really?

I do not want... to eat pomegranates at this point. Their ubiquity has simply inundated me with these asshole fruits everywhere I go and I'm sick and tired of it.

The only plus side to this...? Grapefruits have been neglected so now I can enjoy them.

Pomegranate is the new black. Literally. It's a fucking color. Fucking bullshit, pomegranates.



grievance: young, drunk girls in murray hill

Premise A: "I am a girl."
Premise B: "I live in Murray Hill."

Conclusion A: "I am an annoying slutface hobag who gets hammered and screams nonsense on the streets."

Introducing... Premise C: "I have a brain."

Conclusion B: (The obvious is "I am not marked by attributes described in Conclusion A due to the having-a-brain-ness," but instead, I will use this time to aver an emphatic: "GO FUCK YOURSELVES MURRAY HILL SLUTS."

For those of you who don't know, Murray Hill is a section of Manhattan, the exact boundaries of which I do not even know but will approximate to be around 25th to 40th streets on the East Side. It's probably the most reasonably priced area of Manhattan below 120th street, so it'd be expected that a lot of young people would live in that area, but when I moved there from a really, REALLY quiet area of Manhattan, I had no idea what I'd find.

Young, annoying girls. Trendy restaurants. Young, annoying girls. Men in business suits. Young, annoying girls. Bars. Young, annoying girls. Young, annoying girls. Young, annoying girls. Ahhhhhhhhh!!!!!!

Every single night (not just weekends) hoards of women in their 20s prance around in their best people-tell-me-I'm-like-Carrie-Bradshaw outfits in packs of 3s, 4s, whatever, on the prowl for... Love.

Scratch that.

... On the prowl for... SEX.

And a free meal.

By all means, people are allowed to do whatever they'd like with themselves (despite the fact that I'll STILL definitely be judging them [ya can't win 'em all]) but these women are offensive to the quality of life of those around whom they prey on men.

This is how: they get fucking hammered sloppyfaced drunk and then spill out of the bars looking like a blonde celebrity (they all do it at this point; take your pick) emerging from a vehicle, i.e. clothes falling off, hair tattered, make-up smudged.

So now they're on the street, sloshed, at 4, 5, 6 A.M.; I am in no way exaggerating either. And they look like SHIT, and the 30 Cosmopolitans they've had have apparently rendered them incapable of assessing the brilliant volume at which they are speaking... And saying the most dumbing shit I've ever heard in my life...

"Oh my GAD! Do you think he'll call?! I gave him my number!"... Said she as she fell into the tree potter/walked into oncoming traffic/walked down the sidewalk barefoot with her stilettos in her hands/dropped her Louis Vuitton bag/walked into a wall/puked on her friend/self/phone/hair/fill in any inane drunk-girl activity here. (Note, "she" is of course the universal "she." I did not in fact see one idiot perform all of these behaviors simultaneously. If I saw THAT, I'd actually be kind of impressed.)

But seriously: (directed to the lovely ladies) WHY ARE YOU YELLING? ALL THE TIME? Don't you have a home?

I just don't want these shitbags doing this anymore because
A. It's really putrid noise pollution to me personally; and
B. It's embarrassing to women in general.

Somebody put a fuckin' leash on these predators.

And an alcohol-moderating ankle-bracelet.

And for fuck's sake, a chastity belt.



grievance: bamboozle edition

Maybe I should subsume Orion's shit that sucks: nightclub clusterfuck sxsw edition, Stars' raging out at... the coachella edition and this into "A Shitty Rageout Grievance: Outdoor Concert Festivals," n'est-ce pas? Seriously... when has anyone enjoyed him/herself at one of these? I'd have to say never.

Historically speaking, Bamboozle blows. Its predecessor, Skate and Surf, also... blew.

Viz... Skate and Surf 2003:

(Yeah... that's me IN a merch box, trying to hide/sleep due to severe unhappiness. Also... I do understand that black hair does not look good on me. Ohhhhhh to be 18 again.)

Skate and Surf 2004:

(The middle finger = always a telling sign that one is having fun. Also a telling sign? Stars eating pull-and-peel Twizzlers AT a show.)

Bamboozle 2005:

(In short: what a miserable-looking group of people.)

Bamboozle 2006/2007:
(Absent picture. Why? Because I didn't go. After those three years... no thanks.)

Okay... so this year, my friend asked me if I would "sell merch" for a band with whom she is friends, thinking she would be in L.A. So I agreed. Why not? I'd spent two years away from this abomination. Plus... my favorite band since I was 14 years old, Jimmy Eat World, was playing.




The way the "merch" was set up was under this tent against the periphery of the concert "dwelling" (if you will). The weather: freezing, raining.

"Merch" check-in spot was a vast distance from the actual booth, so I had to wait alone, in the freezing rain for about an hour trying to get a freakin' golf cart to bring my shit over to the place I'd be spending the next 9 hours shivering. Not to mention, this began at 9:00 A.M., after having bartended until 5:30 A.M. the night before.

Back to my whole periphery-based merch. The day was cold... I was wearing the following:
1. A tube top;
2. A wool turtle-neck;
3. A cardigan;
4. A blazer;
5. A jacket with a hood.



As the day warmed up, the only thing which did NOT warm up was the "merch" area, because the wind was coming from behind us and we (my dumb ass and the other "merch"-purveyors) were the "things" blocking the wind from the rest of the concert area. So I realized that there was legitimately a 7 degree difference between the merch area and 3 steps forward from it. I spent the day shivering with a hood on, stapled to this table, starving, exhausted and cranky.

And then I had to watch Sebastian Bach's flabby armpit fat flap around as he relived his glory-days.

I did however get to redeem this atrocious work by getting to see Jimmy Eat World from backstage. And I did get a picture with the lead singer, Jim, which essentially made me pee my pants. But of course as soon as J.E.W. started playing, it started raining. So my picture with Jim looks like a picture of Jim and a swollen, pissed off, wet rat:

Don't even get me started on Warped Tour...



raging out at... un-hilarious money

Ok, Ok, I know this blog is supposed to about things we are mad at, but today I discovered something so beautiful and joyous that I had to share the glory that is... "chucklebucks."

It all began with this...


An assault on Abe Lincoln. You may remember from a previous post that I wish to kick Abe in his long deceased gonads. So that was a victorious beginning for "chucklebucks," which are simply, as the name states, currency that makes me laugh.

So I then began to hunt around for other most hilarious bills. Here is what I found:


Now this isn't really that funny minus the fact that not only did some idiot give my old friend AJ (I am cool with him as opposed to Abe) Romanesque gear but felt the need to label it Sparta. The artist made certain I couldn't pretend it's Andrew Jackson masquerading as Mr. T so now I hate him. (You knew I had to put a wee bit o' rage somewhere in here.)


I used to think origami people were taking part in a useless hobby until today when I saw that majestic dollar bill folded into a stingray. Winner.


Classic Schrute buck. 'Nuff said.


I have no idea who this jerk on this bill is but he is actually so horrifying to me that his mere existence qualifies him as a "chucklebuck."


Ok, I know there's no funny drawing or clever saying and this is a run of the mill 50 dollar bill. Just wanted to point out Ulysses' beard. I hate it.


Apparently the marketing for the new Batman movie has run so rampant that they've even managed to reissue Joker Washington dollar bills. (My joke was not funny. I do not care. In your face, reader.)

And finally...


Just pointing out that when one googles hilarious drawings on money, you are treated to this old classic friend.

Feel free to submit your favorite "chucklebucks" in the comments.



grievance: television-advertised cd compilations

I was just watching True Life: I'm Addicted to OxyContin (why do people insist on pronouncing this drug "Oxy Cotton"?) and a commercial came on which depressed me even more than the episode. It was for a CD compilation (early-90s style) called "BuzzCuts." I'm not really sure why it's called BuzzCuts. I think it's supposed to be some kind of clever pun, but I can't quite make the leap from music to hair.

It claimed to be a compilation of the "biggest and best alternative rock hits"... "OF ALL TIME." So I'd like to share with you the songs (and my bitchy commentary on such) considered to be the best... of ALL TIME. Because I can't quite understand how someone allowed this to go to press:

Disc 1
"Kryptonite," by Three Doors Down: how can a song be considered one of the best of all time when the lead singer is that annoying? Especially when they had a single which directly followed this ("Loser") which absolutely ruled. This song just blows. Wasn't there like a dude dressed as Superman in the video? Tackity tack tacky.

"Fat Lip," by Sum 41: I love when bands rip off Green Day. (Rolls eyes.)

"I Miss You," by Blink 182: I may be biased by the fact that this is the worst live band I've ever seen. I saw them at Irving Plaza and then again unwillingly at Claus Fest a couple of years ago and had to hide in the bathroom with my fingers in my ears. With that said, pretty stellar studio band. But "of all time"? Really?

"Blurry," by Puddle of Mudd: the gratuitous "d" vexed me so much that this had no chance.

"I'd Do Anything," by Simple Plan: not only is the lead singer Pierre the whiniest bitch ever, but he's also a huge asshole. Annnnnnnnd... this song says NOTHING.

"Celebrity Skin," by Hole: this is a real rock song. It's shirking in embarrassment to be on this compilation. I think they needed it for some street cred and edginess points.

"Sour Girl," by Stone Temple Pilots: my favorite thing about this is how the video clip looked ridiculously awful next to the other songs, quality-wise. If Scott Weiland were sober enough, I think he'd be pretty embarrassed that this is on here too... hmmm... same goes for Courtney Love.

"Running Away," by Hoobastank: how can you put an Incubus-rip off band on here and not Incubus?

"Hanging Around," Counting Crows: what?!

"Lakini's Juice," by Live: how do you not put something from "Throwing Copper" on here?!

"Hanging By A Moment," by Lifehouse: this band just confuses me. They're the predecessors to Nickelback in their ability to make all of their songs sound exactly, drearily the same.

"The Way," by Fastball: "alternative"??? Great tune, though.

"What It Is To Burn," by Finch: you're telling me anyone else in the WORLD knows this song but me? Ugh. Now I hate it.

"The Chemicals Between Us," by Bush: I don't even know this song. Probably because despite his hotness, Gavin Rossdale hasn't put out anything mildly resembling influence since... well... hmmm... "Machine Head" was decent.

"Smooth Criminal," by Alien Ant Farm: a band I absolutely adore, and also a band whose drummer peed on my foot in a hotel room in Texas. But c'mon! A Michael Jackson cover gets on the list for best of all time?

Disc 2
"Higher," by Creed: Oh. My. God. I'm gagging.

"Meant to Live," by Switchfoot: apparently "alternative" means "pop" now.

"Butterfly," by Crazytown: I love that a song by a castmember of Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew is a one-hit wonder considered to be one of the best "of all time." (I can't get past the superlativity [yeah... that's not a word] of "of all time. Like, at all.)

"Hemorrhage (In My Hands)," by Fuel: I like this song. But the lyrics kind of scare the shit out of me.

"My Own Worst Enemy," by Lit: oh c'mon! You can't put the song with the video of a giant Pamela Anderson and a tiny band playing on her ass? That's way more rock 'n' roll. Also: from what I remember, this guy has some pretty intense sideburns. Kudos, sideburn man.

"I Will Buy You A New Life," by Everclear: another band whose songs all sound EXACTLY the same. But hey... unlike Nickelback, the one song is pretty good.

"Amber," by 311: oh lord. I love 311. And I love "Amber." But how typical.

"Somewhere Out There," by Our Lady Peace: good-band-does-rock-ballad-silliness. Blah!

"I Hate Everything About You," by Three Days Grace: ew, ew, ew, ew, ew. Ew.

... ew!

"Inside Out," Eve 6: was this commercial from 1999? I'm confused. Eve 6 is awesome, but... are we in a time-warp?

"Send the Pain Below," by Chevelle: see "I Hate Everything About You," by Three Days Grace. (Fine... just one more: "ew!")

"Wherever You Will Go," by The Calling: he's very blonde.

"Fly," by Sugar Ray: dude hosts Access Hollywood or one of those absurdist gossip shows. How "alternative" is that.

In summation, this CD sucks beyond measure. And I have no idea why anyone would buy this. Especially since anyone who is watching MTV2 at 1:00 Ante Meridiem probably downloaded all of these songs on Napster on dial-up at age 14.

... pshh. I know I did. (Hides from the hypocrisy.)



raging out at... the coachella edition

Before I begin my usual rant on the finer points of suckage, I will first concede that Coachella is amazing. People are friendly; they just invite you to crash in their giant mansions upon meeting you. There are so many amazing and really strange things to see (and I'm not even talking about the bands). There's great music and tasty snacks. What's not to love? Well, you can always count on your old pal stars to find something to be pissed about. Or truth be told, some things.

1) The Impossibility of Finding Anyone
I haven't seen my friend Chris in over a year. He's back on the east coast and we seem to keep missing each other every time I'm back. We spent an entire weekend just a few hundred yards from each other and still couldn't manage to hook up. And it actually took nearly a full 24 hours for me to find my friend Erica who* I was STAYING with. Although I did get the consolation prize of the century with a David Hasselhoff sighting.

2) Shoddy Cell Phone Service
I am absolutely one of those people that is useless as a human when I'm without a cell phone. Seeing the evil "X" or no bars on my phone makes me want to spit venom especially when I am trying to meet up with someone, a la point numero uno. But the cell phone service at Coachella has an even more annoying factor to it. All weekend, my phone lied to me and told me I had full coverage but somehow just couldn't send or receive texts without some absurd multi-hour delay.

3) Pass "Situations" and Rude Security Guards
Much like Orion hates security guards who wield power just because they can, I too have a vendetta against evil, power-hungry security. Can someone explain to me why my sidestage pass that would allow me to actually go onstage would not let me into the VIP tent where approximately 2,500 people were allowed? Yeah, I can't either. According to the good folks at Coachella, I had permission to go backup dance during Prince's set, but could not share in the VIP beer? Height of rudeness.

4) Annoying Security Gripe Part Deux
They like to make you walk certain paths where there is all sorts of human pileup. Why? I don't know. Allowing people to use the whole road instead of a fenced in dustbowl would probably create less congestion. But what do I know?

5) VIP Parking
In an attempt to not come off as elitist, preferred parking is hard to come by unless you are actually handicapped. My lovely and wonderful Amanda took care of special parking for me. However, this special parking was actually farther away than the general public parking. I saw press people carrying 25 pound cameras and crazy amounts of equipment the half mile to the venue. I appreciate the idea of being able to park close when you are physically incapable of walking far (although if you are incapable of walking that far to the venue, you honestly probably shouldn't be at Coachella where everything is a solid quarter mile away from everything else in the first place) and I do understand that maybe I am a spoiled brat about being able to park where I want, but these press people were seriously fucked. So much for being VIP.

6) My Pink Hair
Okay, this is perhaps not a Coachella problem, but it certainly came to light in the drug-friendly environment that Coachella has come to be. My hair is currently a shockingly bright shade of pink and this somehow apparently screams to crazies that I am a drug dealer. For the record... I do NOT have ecstasy on me nor can I sell you some meth. And honestly wouldn't any drug dealer at a festival like that try to carry themselves with a little more discretion and maybe not have glow-in-the-dark hair? Just a thought.

7) Prince
He is overrated and garbage.

Sorry, Coachella, for making you the subject of my rageout. I truly had a lovely time and fully appreciate the tan you provided me! Until next year...




grievance: excessive air conditioning

I will preface this by saying that I am always cold. Or at least on the cold side of the spectrum. As a result, I am angry and sullen during New York winters, which are pretty intolerable with wind tunnels through the streets because of buildings. I acknowledge that I probably like the climate to be a bit warmer than most (I tend to sit out in blaring heat and sun because it feels nice [I think I'm a cat] and have no problem with humidity [I was blessed with good hair]), however I assume that most people in New York welcome spring and summer when they come.

Apparently I'm fucking wrong.

The entire motherfuckin' city apparently desires it to be 39 degrees at all times. From where do I make this deduction? From the fact that the temperature of every fucking place a human being can control is pumped senseless with air conditioning.

Today is the first really warm day (76 degrees... girls wearing dresses and everything) and sure enough, I get on the bus, and the A/C is on so high that I'm shivering and I'm having difficulty hearing myself think from the "rrrrrrrrrrrr" of the system. Listen, on a 95 degree day, I'm as happy to enjoy a little conditioned air as much as the next guy, but 76 degrees? And the first day of nice weather? Aren't we jumping the gun a little bit?

Furthermore, everywhere I look, people are trying to invest in green campaigns to try to use the least amount of... well... anything we used to use. So why are we bangin' the A/C control up to the thick blue line, all the time? I don't need to feel a gust of FREEZING air every time I walk by a shop and someone is walking out of it. Seriously? We're using so much air conditioning that we're conditioning the air out-of-doors?

It's summer. I want to wear summer clothes. I don't want to carry around a fucking PARKA with me all day so I can wear it when I go inside these places. Enough is enough.

Plus, air conditioning feels weird. It feels creepy. I don't like it. Get a fan. And go fuck yourself.



raging out at... the puppy store

Rewind: Christmas Eve 2005 (Or: My Sweetest Mistake).

At about noon on Christmas Eve, a little over two and a half years ago, my brother and I decided it was probably due time for us to begin (and finish) our holiday shopping. My mother wasn't what you would call. pleased with us, as our day of marathon shopping meant we wouldn't be around to help her with, or really get in the way of, Christmas preparations. Matt and I swore up and down that we had made a finely. tuned list as to what we needed and where we needed to procure it. After my brother swore he wouldn't again let me punch anyone whilst. fighting through an overly packed crowd of last minute shoppers, my. mother had no choice but to relent.

So off we went.

Our first stop was at the pet store to pick up gifts for all the extended family pets. (The Stars Family has a tendency to overdo it. Shocking.. While picking out a variety of toys, I spied the rowdiest Jack Russell Terrier with the sweetest face. Way too much money later, we had an addition to the Stars Family and a debacle of a Christmas shopping nightmare. All worth it.

Fast Forward: Yesterday.

I was strolling along Melrose in L.A. with a few of my favorite boys. (If there's anyone reading who has yet to check out Lights Resolve, do it). We stopped in The Puppy Store before the fantastic fun of haircut appointments was to begin. I spotted an amazing miniature French Bulldog and felt that another Christmas '05 moment was upon me.
I can't resist a sweet puppy face. I asked the Dr. Spock lookalike if I could please see the pup. Well, ladies and gentlemen, apparently Pretty Woman was based on fact and I was Julia Roberts. "Spock" gave me the attitude of the century and told me he would only take the dog out for customers who were serious.

Ok, what? I do not look like a homeless vagabond nor do the boys whom I was there with. despite their "rock band" status; I would gladly let any one of them babysit my child (if I had one). They look clean and respectable. And I have never once received money for sexual favors. (And NO, jerk, if you're reading this... cab fare and a t-shirt does not count.) So why the attitude?

I'm sorry that this blog has to again come crashing down on servicelology(thanks for the term, moon), but this was pure and total garbage. We
live in a world where "new money" is rampant. People like the dudes
from Jackass and thugged out looking rappers and porn stars can buy most of us out ten times over, so who is some Star Trek lookalike to assume
I'm not serious about a purchase? And, I live in LOS ANGELES where
there's an exponentially greater chance that any random on the street is some big-time movie producer's kid than in, say, Kenosha, Wisconsin.

Point is, though I'm none of those things, everyone deserves to be treated with a little bit of respect and not have assumptions made based on physical appearance. And I know if that was me wielding the very minimal power of being able to TAKE PUPPIES OUT OF THE CAGE (cool job, by the way, "Spock"), every time I busted an attitude, I'd be afraid I was pissing off Spielberg's daughter.



grievance: the worst airplane ride ever

Okay. I admit that part of the cause for what culminated in "the worst flight" in aviation history had something to do with me. I realized, the day before I was supposed to go to Puerto Rico for a much-needed respite from the world, that the looming paper deadline on the horizon was actually due the day after we were supposed to get back to NYC... at 9:45 A.M. And our flight was getting in at 1 A.M. So, I'd spent a bunch of "beach time" reading JSTOR articles about fallacious, semicompetitive village elections in China. (And had to spend FORTY THREE dollars on printing some of these out at the business center of our hotel. Meh.)

So... When I got on the plane to come back home, I was all kinds of prepared to just bang out this paper. And then the flight-from-hell began. The young man in front of me felt it was acceptable and appropriate to wail his arms about and yell in my face to get my attention (I was on my computer and had earplugs in so as to preempt any kind of vexing behavior by other jetBlue patrons).

"Yo, you gots a credit card?"

Bewildered and bemused, I told him that I did, in fact, have one.

"My buddy ain't got one and they not takin' cash and he wants-a get a drink. You put it on your card and he cu pay you back?"

Okay. This dude had already banged the hell out of his seat (which slammed into my computer on the tray table every time) and had been yelling like he was in a bar. But I thought "hey, this would be a nice thing to do." So I did.

Then the entire thing caused such a commotion that all of the flight attendants were in the aisle, trying to figure out this stupid situation. When I asked her for another tomato juice, she smiled and said "would you like some vodka with that?" I really would have. But the fuckin' China democratization paper. Ugh.

Then these fucking bastards essentially start jumping up and down like monkeys, laughing, banging seats. Acting like real classy characters. So I went to sit by the window.

Still fucking distracted as hell by the three d-bags, now there was also a woman in front of me sitting on her knees somewhat turned to her boyfriend, massaging him, and essentially staring at me. At first it was annoying. Then it was severely disturbing and creepy.

So, after all of these frustrations and only 2 pages of writing done, even with earplugs, I decided to take a mini nap and finish up later.

I woke up when they made the announcement that we'd be making our descent into New York.

The three d-bags were still acting like d-bags, so THAT was awesome.

I looked out the window and tried to calm down. After all, I'd just had an amazing and relaxing vacation: so relaxing a vacation was it that the only complaints I could think of (and I tried hard) were:
1. Grievance: The Terribly Annoying Noise of the Ocean Waves Crashing on the Beach
2. Grievance: Warm, Beautiful 85 Degree Weather in March
3. Grievance: Pina Coladas Melting Too Quickly in the Sun
4. Grievance: Having a Balcony
5. Grievance: Outlet Stores Closing Too Early
6. Grievance: Accidentally Falling Asleep Because You're Too Relaxed
So that's just a few. Not my best work, I concede. It's hard to be prickly in paradise.

In any event, just when I'm starting to calm down from the annoyance, there's some turbulence. I love turbulence. It's like a rollercoaster. I've never had a bad flying experience in my life, so I don't take it too seriously. But this went on for about 3 minutes and then got worse. And then it got really bad. And I looked over at one of the d-bags and he was praying. And I laughed. And then it got REALLY bad. And REALLY scary. And then I looked out at the wing and it looked like it was battling a fucking enemy. And it was pouring. I actually seriously thought the plane was going down and we were going to die.

I was sweating and shaking and about to start crying. When we finally landed, I was unbelievably nauseated. But I was also in some weird shock and was so anxiety-ridden that I couldn't even speak or look at lights. It was horrifying.

I was still in shock when we got home. So I started drinking Bacardi out of the bottle to loosen up to write the rest of the damned paper. I got myself to bed at 5A.M.

I have no recollection of what I put into the second part of that paper, so that should be interesting to say the least.

I regret I do not have pictures or video of the three d-bags, because I was so stunned by the experience I couldn't make it happen. I do however have a picture that will make you all, including myself now that I'm back in dreary New York, quite jealous.

From now on, I think I'm going to have to be one of those CRAZY bitches who pop a Xanax before they fly. Here's to unnecessary pharmaceuticals!

-caribbean moon


grievance: "you'll see me again!"

My response: "what if I don't want to see you again? What if I never wanted to see you in the first place? What if you're not talented enough to be 'seen again'? What if you're as ugly as the lead singer of New Found Glory and the idea of seeing your face again makes me nauseated?"

Rewind. To what is this my hypothetical response? Mother effin' people on reality TV shows who get voted off and say "You'll see me again!"/"This isn't the last you'll be seein' of me, America!"/"This is only the beginning for me; I'll be seein' you, America!" Enough. When has anyone EVER been voted off of a reality TV contest and been seen again EVER? For that matter, when has anyone who's ever WON a reality TV contest ever been seen again? Rephrase: ...ever gone on to do respectable things in their career? Join in with me, everyone, "NEVER!"

I was originally put off by this whole practice (it's become the reality TV show version of "I'd like to thank Jesus") when I saw David Hernandez get kicked off of American Idol last week. (Go to 2:45 to see this hubris-filled declaration.)

Okay. Great. You're consoling yourself on national television by giving false hope to yourself that this ain't the end of the journey (despite the atrocious The-End-Has-Cometh music Ruben Studdard has recorded for this season [note: Ruben Studdard: perfect example of NEVER SEEING SOMEONE AGAIN]). We will NEVER see you again. I will not even know your name in a week. Sorry.

Another wondrous consolation to the American people that we shall not be forgetting the visage of yet another "loser": go to 4:45 to watch Rami lose on Project Runway.

Apparently this has truly become protocol for "how to lose a worthless television show": promise to come back! Dude, you were nothing before this show. You will be nothing after. It's almost like a line from the Great Gatsby. Except the dude from Survivor is NOT Gatsby. And America is NOT Daisy. And it doesn't even matter, 'cause Daisy ends up killing someone and being a miserable fuck. And Gatsby dies. Actually... you know what, reality loser? Be Gatsby. Die. Or no. Don't die. Just shut the fuck up and lose gracefully.

The most astounding thing, however, is that now reality WINNERS are actually promising to show their faces again. Go to 6:20 to see Christian win Project Runway. WHY are you promising to be around again? You WON. Isn't that enough?




raging out at... the shape of teeth

I don't think dentists should hang up giant teeth replicas in their offices. They resemble too greatly the ghosts from PacMan and the receptionists have too great an attitude when you inquire as to why they would hang up Inky. Then a bigger attitude when you apologize and say, "or perhaps it is Clyde."


grievance: annoying humans

I have been taciturn with respect to this issue, because honestly, how do you broach as large a complaint as essentially "Grievance: The Human Race"? Plus, it makes me sound incredibly prickly and cranky to be hating on everyone in the world.

But after having stood on line at Duane Reade a few days ago with 6 of the most obnoxious teenaged girls in the world, screaming about what candy they were buying to one another, and walking away from the experience wanting to punch a baby in the ear, I've decided that I generally don't like human beings.

This is a blog. I like to write. But there is nothing better to sum up my irritation with the general public than this video by Jed Davis' band, the Hanslick Rebellion. It happens to be hysterical and a great song, but it is also informational. It is called "You Are Boring the Shit Out Of Me" and truthfully, people, you most likely are boring the shit out of me. As Chris Rock asks in his "Bigger and Blacker" comedy special, [paraphrase] "why don't ya go out and have somethin' happen to ya? Why don't ya get kidnapped or some shit?"

"You Are Boring The Shit Out Of Me"

Jesus fucking Christ. Fuck off.

Truth be told, I probably bore the shit out of you too.



shit that sucks: nightclub clusterfuck sxsw edition

Born and raised in New York, I was taught that there is nothing cool enough to wait on line for. Thus I learned the ability to talk my way "in" anywhere at anytime. And in New York you can do that.

As this is the SXSW edition of my occasional contribution to the now officialy domained site, I am in Austin, Texas at a festival where everyone is of the same thought process as I and thus everyone feels entitled to walk right in everywhere. Even the Playboy party.

Yes that's right readers of my-occasional-posts - I know I should blog more but I watched "The Secret" and am trying to be more positive -- I attended my first Playboy party.

"Rock the Rabbit" occurred on the second night of the festival and turnout was absurd. The party was set up to hold 800 people and the list was comprised of over 3,000 names. Catch is: I actually belonged there, as an artist I worked with was playing... No one seemed to care though.

After insisitng over and over that I hadn't the time to wait online and was needed inside I was told that the artist could "still play the instruments without my being present" and thus again was told to wait on line.

After arguing some more, the door guy who looked like Real World/Road Rules Challenge frat boy reject told me he knew what he was doing as he'd been doing it for the last five years.

Really?? Is that so?? You are so good at your dead-end job that after five years you know how to deny people entry to a place they need to be? Awesome.

I explained that it was clearly the first time in his five years of emploie that he had gotten to work an event that anyone would care to attend and thus got to have his first occupational powertrip. A proverbial rush of blood to his head.

Long story short, I got in, and aforementioned artist killed it. I didn't mind seeing Pete Townsend either, or the numerous Playboy Bunnies in attendance.

Signing off for this year's SXSW.

-orion's belt buckle


grievance: the mta

FUCK the MTA. Yes, the Metropolitan Transportation Authority. Seriously. I suppose that I have to address the "fare hike" here despite the fact that this isn't why I'm raging out at the MTA. The problem I have with the fare hike isn't that I can't deal with paying 5 more dollars on a monthly unlimited MetroCard. The problem is in that if you do NOT buy a monthly and get a 20- or 40-dollar card, you end up with a random-ass balance on your card which you need to put extra money on to validate its existence. You get less of a discount. So you end up with 10 rides, and a dollar-fifty left or something like that. (Details of inanities be not my forte.) Fuck off. I'm not loading 50 goddamned cents onto my card. Bunch of bullshit.

I'm not going to delve into an intricate explanation and divertissement of the fact that this fare hike is a bunch of bullshit because it's going to maintain the current debt situation of the MTA, not to help ameliorate the transit system. Because that's a whole different can o' worms. Although, come to think of it, if you paid your "staff" better, MTA, my problem never would have happened...

On the way to work Saturday eve', I was on the M15 which, for those of you who do not live in New York City, or are of the breed who "doesn't do buses" despite using subways, runs up First and down Second Avenues. Directly after the bus left the Delancey Street "station," I hit the "button." (I like using quotation marks.) And the stupid asshole voice came on saying "Stop Requested," akin in ennui level to "Stand Clear of the Closing Doors Please." A block before Grand Street, I got up to get off the bus, and saw a co-worker, who I did not know was on the bus as well, getting up too. And then all of a sudden, I see him hit the strip again.

And we go zooming past Grand Street. We're on the CUSP of being late for work, so when we stop at the next light, which is before the next stop, i.e. Canal Street, I go up to the bus driver and explain that I had IN FACT hit the strip, and asked politely if we could get off while we were stopped since we were trying to get to work on time.

We were STOPPED. It's not as if I was asking him to do me a favor. He NEGLECTED to stop after I had requested the stop. And I was just asking him to OPEN the doors where we were. Also, important: NOT ONE OTHER SOUL ON THE BUS besides my coworker and me.

That was just MEAN.

Furthermore, yesterday I waited for the very same bus line up on 67th Street and Second Avenue for TWENTY-TWO MINUTES. The bus panel said "every 6 or 7 minutes" for my time arena. It was freezing. I finally, after waiting in the cold, had to pay 10 bucks for a cab ride in a straight line along the bus route.

And with what was I greeted? STUPID TAXITV.



raging out at... "appointments"

As I sit here fanning the flames of someone else's rage, I'm finding myself getting increasingly worked up over an issue that hasn't presented itself to me in quite some time. This particular issue, however, is so infuriating that even if it's been 12 years since you've encountered it, it is likely to cause a surge of anger so great that you render yourself immobile.

I'm talking of course about doctors' office "appointments." Right now (and probably for the next 17 days), my friend Riana is sitting in the doctors' office waiting for an appointment that was scheduled for approximately last Tuesday. Why is it that the concept of appointments is just a far-fetched ideal for doctors? And has anyone ever been taken in at the time they were scheduled for? I've even gone so far as to make the first brutal 7am appointment of the day and somehow they're still backed up. How?? I'm the only one in the office!

I'm so pissed. Post your thoughts and prayers for Riana in the comments section.



raging out at... "fix-it" tickets

Somehow it seems whenever I am minding my own business and trying to have a nice day, the police take that as a sign to bust me for absolutely no reason. It's rude. I don't interfere with them trying to enjoy a nice time and I would really appreciate the same respect.

The other day I was driving back from my old boss, and current business partner, Laura's house in Santa Monica. The weather was L.A.-perfect. We held our meetings as we walked along the beach in early March. I, being a born and bred Northeasterner, still can't get over mid-January ocean romps and walking to the store in shorts mid-winter. I love everything about it.

So yeah, the day was bright and beautiful. I was filled with good news and fresh hope on new plans. So why wouldn't the stupid Los Angeles 5-0 pull me over to burst my shiny little bubble? And so the fiasco begins...

Enter Officer Yu and his flashing lights. It took me about 3 blocks to even pull over because as I was doing NOTHING wrong, I assumed they were trying to get around me. I finally pull to the side of the road after their loudspeaker blares out, "Miss, in the silver Nissan, we are flashing at you. Stop driving like we are going to forget. Pull over!" I, of course, glanced around for other women in silver Nissans and when I found none, pulled my car to the side of the road.

Par for the Stars course, I don't have my license, registration or non-existent insurance in my car. So Officer Yu takes pity on me and doesn't impound my car but gives me 3 different "fix-it" tickets.

"Fix-it" tickets are total trash. He sat there in his stupid little squad ensuring that I did in fact have a valid driver's license and a valid registration. But now I have to go to court and show them the actual paperwork and the tickets will be considered null and void. Now, if the state isn't going to make any money on these tickets once I can prove I'm valid, why waste the taxpayers' money and my time by sending me to court? I'm so mad.



shit that sucks: lost addiction

This blog is often used to vent and complain and discuss frivolous everyday miscellany. Tonight, however, I would like to do a very special episode. An after-school special if you will, and discuss something serious.

For years I've been hearing how great Lost is. A while back, on a shitty rainy night, I went out and bought season one on DVD. I watched the first two discs, and liked it, but for some reason never finished.

So, all of a sudden, as a result of the writers' strike, there is nothing on television other than painful reality shows. Shit that sucks: the Real Housewives of New York edition coming tomorrow - so I decide I need to take up a new series.

ABC, unlike every other network, got the right idea, and put the COMPLETE series up for streaming in HD for free on their site. Put it this way: I started watching about five days ago, and I've just finished season 2. That's forty four episodes. Forty four hours of television in five days watched on a laptop.

I would write more about how much this addiction is taking over my life, but I have to begin season 3 now.

-orion's belt buckle


raging out at... 5am

5AM can officially blow my ass. It is never a pleasant experience, no matter from which side I hit it. 5 AM either means I'm exhausted or a few short hours away from a fierce hangover.

Today's 5AM is particularly evil. What's so particularly vile about this early morning terror? Well, let's take into account the fact that I moved 2 days ago so my sleep has been infrequent at best. (Especially when you add the facts that I consistently interrupted my packing to get drunk, go to shows, and watch Season 2 of Dexter [a little disappointing] into the equation.)

But getting up at 5AM to drive 4 hours to Las Vegas to attend a high tea... I have no words. I don't even know what high tea means, but I have no doubts it's nearly as intoxicating as it sounds.

Also currently rageful that Moon saw Hillary last night and Stars did not.



grievance: american idol's boys looking like women

I will admit that there is no point to this stream of thought; nonetheless, I felt obligated to ask of someone, anyone, this politically-incorrect, socially-unprincipled, consciously-unbridled question:

Why do all of the boys on American Idol look like/"want" to look like women? Furthermore, they all essentially SING like women. Their ranges are super high and they are constantly using lofty, diva-like vibrato.

I have no problem with individual inclinations toward femininity amongst men, make no mistake please. I am just curious about the cause of, and totally baffled by, this bizarre social phenomenon.

Truth be told, I wasn't following this season. (I've been lackadaisical with my television-watching because I watch about 5 shows on television, of which most are not of the reality type and have thus been dormant. [Note: this is not a direct result of my having "good" taste in television. I like shitty, shitty TV. I just don't particularly love reality shows. I'm not a snob about it. I just hate stupid people.])

In any event, I happened upon last night's "boys' performance round" on American Idol, having missed most of the performances. At the end of the show, when they give a quick, 10-second playback of each performance, I was entirely caught off guard to see what I thought to be actual women. I take serious issue with this because American Idol's stylists, wardrobe people, etc. are making these dudes look like chicks:

Yes, that is the same guy. Has metrosexuality taken over the media in such a tempest that I, a native Manhattanite, am unable to identify gender? Pish posh.