grievance: thinking you can go to work after taking a red-eye l.a.-n.y. flight

What the fuck was I thinking? I must be absolutely insane to think that these events would or could lead to my being able to function this wonderful, rainy Monday morning:

9:15pm L.A.: Get to airport late for a 9:50pm flight;
10:30pm L.A.: Take off from LAX;
11:00pm L.A./2:00am N.Y.: Fall asleep;
11:00pm L.A./2:00am N.Y. - 2:00am L.A./5:00am N.Y.: Sleep really badly due to scary, scary turbulence;
2:15am L.A./5:15am N.Y.: Wake up in rainy, cold, grey New York;
4:15am L.A./7:15am N.Y.: Arrive home;
6:00am L.A./9:00am N.Y.: Get to work and make NO sense whatsoever, i.e. MAJOR SPEAKING FAIL.

So I fell asleep at 11:00pm, woke up after barely sleeping 3 hours and woke up at 5:15am in a different place? I don't know where I am or when I am and I feel like I may possibly be in an episode of Lost.

Help!

Judgment Fail.  Itinerary Fail.  Travel Fail.  Person fail.

-moon

raging out at... buying birthday gifts

Maybe it's just me, but why is it a million times more difficult to buy a man you're involved with a birthday present? Women are far simpler in at least this one respect. If you've been romantically involved for a long time, you're always safe with diamond earrings. If it's a relatively new relationship or she's a good friend you're hoping for more with, you can always order flowers or some gift basket of lotion and body products. Everywhere practically online delivers these things (in most cases, you can even pay extra if you wait until the actual day you need it). It requires no effort other than having an internet connection and a credit card number.

But not so much for men. Today I'm struggling because every single factor that could come into play to make gift-giving difficult has arisen. I know everyone is beyond excited for me to list all these factors, so please wait no more and allow me.

1. Confusing Ambiguous Relationship Status
I am sure at some point you've attempted to buy a gift for a person you're kinda sorta seeing but is definitely not your boyfriend/girlfriend but has seen you naked and still talks to you so you're not off the hook. Is that sentence confusing? Good, because that embodies exactly how confusing it is to buy this person something. You can't go overboard with the gift because then you look like you're reading more into things than are actually there. But if you're totally thoughtless, you may give off the vibe that you don't care. Fantastic. Does anyone know a website for thoughtful yet nonchalant and breezy gifts?

2. For The Guy/Gal Who Has Everything
It's been said time and again, but truly, what in the holy balls do you buy someone who has everything? Back in the day, it was always relatively simple to buy my broke ass part-time waiter college boyfriend something. There was always some video game or random item he desperately wanted but was too busy spending his 4 dollar paycheck on beer to buy. Not exactly romantic but always much appreciated when I picked it up for him. But as you get older and you start to date not-pothead-waiters, it's much more difficult. If you land yourself a good dude with a great job, you may have hit the life jackpot, but it's the whammy of gift giving - especially if you're anything like me and a good chunk of the American population and are broke as hell. I can see it now. "Hey rich boy, I reached into the depths of my brain and bank account and pulled out this Barnes and Noble gift card for $18.34. No need to thank me, you enjoying 2 and a half magazines is all the thanks I need." Ugh.

3. Not Knowing Someone Quite Well Enough
This actually is only a minor issue, but an issue none the less. Not knowing someone well enough eliminates gag gifts (who knows how they will react?) and tiny gifts that, while inexpensive, are something so perfect for the person that the cost is a non-issue.

4. Birthday On A Sunday
This really sets me off. Inevitably, when you wait until the last minute, you can still have something delivered. Unless, of course, the gift receiver in question's birthday lands on a Sunday. In that case, you're screwed. Nothing says "hey I hope maybe you and I turn into the real deal" better than a box of Snookie's Cookies that arrives a day too late. Outstanding, so now not only does my gift suck but it sucks belatedly.

Well, I should perhaps leave you all with that last one. It is Sunday, after all, and I still haven't bought a gift.

-stars

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.

-stars

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.

WORST.

EXPERIENCE.

OF MY LIFE.

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.

Still.

Freezing.

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...

-moon

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.

-stars

grievance: "things" disappearing into a technological abyss

I've never been one to hate on technology (Stars' domain). Nor have I ever been one to write blogs that are spurred by a hatred of something without the purpose of addressing it. This is solely me "bitching one out" because I am irrationally angry at two devices.

Okay... let me begin with the one that was completely NOT my fault (because let's face it... I am indirectly responsible for one of these):

1. My BlackBerry is an asshole. I kept getting messages that wouldn't disappear saying that I have a BlackBerry Messenger (hereto referred to as "BBM [I'm so cool]) message.")  So, instead of wiping the entire device, I decided to remove BBM. Lo and behold, when trying to reinstall it, I got messages saying that my device didn't support this conduit for installation. The douchebags at the Verizon store said I had to do a hard restart, and had to back up all my shit, but would lose all of my messages... so I've been putting it off, because I had e-mails, texts, etc. that contained information I needed to record.

Then, when I'd finally found the time to do that, I tried to actually sync it back (contacts, calendar, what have you). My computer decided it didn't recognize the stupid ShitBerry. So I MANUALLY updated everything back to my computer. Yeah... 'cause I have TIME for that. (Rolls eyes.) But still hadn't extracted any kind of information from the texts, e-mails, etc.

Then, the piece of shit decided one night to just delete all my messages. Great. And then consistently did that every night... and then last night... every SINGLE time I'd sent or received a message.

So... I texted one of my very good friends on Tuesday inquiring about her birthday plans on Thursday, to which there was no response. Then I called her Thursday morning. Then an irate MySpace message regarding her non-response. Then at 1:30AM on Thursday night, I received a phone call from a mutual friend who was with her, "where the FUCK are you?" Apparently she'd texted me with ALL of the information the night before and was expecting I'd be there. Awesome. Really. Awesome.

Oh... and all that time I spent (read: fucking WASTED) manually putting shit back on my computer... was entirely futile because...

2. My MacBook is a douchebag. (Well... okay... more like I'm a douchebag.) I spilled WINE on my MacBook... AGAIN... for the SECOND TIME... in TWO MONTHS. The first time "she" in some ways rehabilitated herself and was use-able. But this time... done. So I was depending on my PictureTrail to get my photos back... and my motherfucking asshole iPod for my music. Turns out, the asshole decided that about 2000 of my 10000 songs were corrupt and while their titles showed up, there was no MP3 to extract. And it's not as if there was ANY rhyme or reason for the target of said corruption. It wasn't a whole album here or a whole folder there. No. It was arbitrarily chosen songs from all over my library.

So after throwing down some cash for some recovery program or some crap (which crashed every 10 minutes, which was AWESOME) I got back most of my stuff. But turns out... a lot of the recovered files are PORTIONS of songs. What the hell am I supposed to do with THAT? They're also named "106, 107, 108," etc. So... this has been really fun and totally awesome.

This was also after spending about a month trying to reconstruct my playlists FROM the physical lists on my iPod manually because my other MacBook (that shit the bed) decided one day to delete my iTunes library.

In a last attempt to get back full goddamned files... I went back to an external hard drive that had been created from the hard drive from my PC (which lit into flames before it froze and died) which had been working JUST fine for a year and a half. Suddenly, it's decided that it will only allow me to drag ONE folder (if that) to my computer before it freezes and makes whirly, eddy-like noises.

So... essentially... trying to contact me is completely and utterly unreliable and my iTunes gives me a seizure just looking at it:



Anyone know whom "��w7o�w0o�w____��_00C - ��w7o�w0o�w____��_00C - 17152 - ��w7o�w0o�w____��_00C 1" is by? Oh... I didn't know that was the OTHER name for two minutes and twenty-one seconds of "Found Out About You" by The Gin Blossoms. Terrific.

(Side inquiry: what about this file made iTunes think it should be genre-d as "Blues"?) Hmmmmmm. You puzzle me so, iTunes. You enigma, you.

-moon

raging out at... being taped to a couch during a shootout

No, that wasn't a typo. Last night I was actually covered in stickers and packing-taped to a couch while a shootout went down outside. Before the two people who love me freak out, I should clarify that one event had nothing to do with the other.

I should rewind... and also state that my memory is dim on these events so I will be presenting the story from three different sources.

Last night I was exhausted from a long week of "working hard" and "leading prayer groups," so I elected to head over to my local "Ginger"'s house and watch Arrested Development. My usual two large green goblets of wine later, I was fast asleep on Ginger's couch with a party going on around me. The next thing I remember is waking up unable to move, taped to a couch. So allow me to bring in my two very reliable (and terrible) friends to finish this post for me:

"Jen": You took me to new levels last night. New levels of appreciation. You have no idea how many one-liners you had last night.
Stars: Did I? I don't even know what I said half the time.
"Jen": When we were taping you, you kept moving and that would be so loud we would all stop, let you settle. Well, you woke up and you were like "MMM... I SEE WHAT'S GOING ON HERE... I'M JUST NOT DOING ANYTHING UNTIL THE MORNING." I DIED LAUGHING.


Stars: "Jen" just told me I woke up during the taping.
“Ginger”: You don't remember that?? You said, "I don't care... I'll deal with this in the morning."
Stars: I have zero memory of that. I'm an idiot even when I'm a zombie.
“Ginger”: Do you remember me cutting off the shit? I woke up to you moaning you were covered in blood. I was like "oh shit." Then I kept trying not to laugh, but the evil in me kept pulling the stickers on your skin, and you were like "OH GOD NO."
Stars: I just remember being like "put them on my clothes. Keep them off my skin. I'm bleeding,"
“Ginger”: And then you were like "eh, at least it's not loud anymore," when I had taken off a lot. Oh yeah... and you missed a shooting.
Stars: I miss everything when I pass out! There is no waking me up when I don't want to be.
“Ginger”: I can't believe you missed the shooting.
Stars: What happened??
“Ginger”: There was a shootout right outside. And we walked into it. And got yelled at to stay back. But we didn't stay back. I just wanted to make eye contact with the perp.
Stars: Did you do it??
“Ginger”: I might've been the perp. Just saying. There were shots between "the perp" and the cops I believe.
Stars: Did anyone emerge victorious?
“Ginger”: You didn't get shot did you? I'd say that's victorious.
Stars: You ran TO a shootout. I was safer taped to the couch. So you guys are really good friends. And I thank you.
“Ginger”: You do owe me a big thank you for that. We went through a shootout and then made it in time for last call.
Stars: You went to a bar after the shootout while I was taped to a couch??
“Ginger”: Yes. Fiesta and East/West.
Stars: I'm in love with you all.
“Ginger”: Two bars.


So, to summarize: I don't even know what to say. I'm bruised and bloody. Ginger and Jen are hungover. I need No-Doz whenever I am not alone. Oh, and my friends are a-holes.



-stars

raging out at... shots

I hate Christmas. I genuinely despise nearly everything about this stupid holiday. I don't know where the wonder and magic of December 25th went, but wherever it shipped off to, it certainly bought a one way ticket. The only reason I even still celebrate Christmas instead of converting to some religion where tradional Christmas is banned is, it's a great day to get drunk with my favorite family members. But as tonight ended with me letting loose a shrill war cry in the direction of my brother and his girlfriend banning them from speaking to me again for the remainder of the night, I seem to have lost what was left of my holiday joy.

Today I walked into a home filled with family I haven't seen in over 9 months, since I picked up and moved cross country. I was welcomed by my dearest cousins with whipped cream shots of 43. Right down the hatch they went and thus the drinking commenced. I attempted to slow my pace down with an only slightly pinkish cranberry and vodka, but my cousins were having none of that.

My internationally renowned champion drinker cousin Peg entered the Ring O' Christmas bearing shot glasses that were actually MADE of candy canes. Being that "no" is probably the least used word in my vocabulary, this was just catastrophe waiting to happen.

Now I would like to state for the record that I am NOT, in fact, raging out at the candy cane shot glasses. I am in fact applauding their very existence and brilliant power to make vodka taste much like a liquid Starburst of goodness. And it is not their fault that their variety of flavors caused me to throw back a shot from each glass; that would be my own stupidity. But, come on, look how cute they are. It would take will power of pure wrought iron to resist.



What I am angry at is shots in general. There has never been a time in my 10 years of drinking where I have woken up the next morning and been like, "Well, thank God we did those shots. The night surely would have been entirely doldrum without those Patron shots." Never. I would imagine no one ever has. Shots are without fail always a terrible and ungodly mistake, but again this very basic life truth has yet to stop anyone from partaking in a round or 12.

Shots have been the cause of a good chunk of the pie chart of my life's tribulations. Because of shots, I have endured headaches sent straight from hell. Because of shots, I have kissed boys whose hairlines receded to nearly the back of their necks and ignored boys who may have been Prince Charming. Because of shots, half the pictures of me in existence look like the one above.

Oh, and of course, every year there is the Christmas tradition of the picture of all the cousins to be framed and displayed for the next year. Here is what this year's looks like. I'd like to thank the many, many candy cane shots for ensuring my classiness and low alcohol tolerance be one for the books. [Note: Stars is the drunken pile passed out in the corner.]



Which reminds me... Orion, you and I have a special shot to take that's been years in planning. I have not learned my lesson yet.

-stars

raging out at... drunken camera work

Wouldn't this have been a much better video if the Camera Ginger hadn't had 90 drinks of assorted varieties?


-stars

raging out at... unacceptable locking doors

So I suppose there comes a time in every blogger's life where you have to give up a little too much personal information in order to properly make your point. And I suppose that time for me has come now.

Being back home in New York for the holidays should be a time for friends, family, warmth, love and giving. For me, it is a time to be trapped on a rooftop in TriBeCa at 4:30 in the morning. I'm slowly developing hypothermia as I write this, and drinking the half a beer that I had to pretty much channel my inner Jet Li to obtain, so please excuse my normally impeccable rationality as it slowly spirals into psychosis. God, I feel like the guy from The Mist slowly writing his way towards his impending doom. If the last of my memoirs is this tale, I suppose it is only appropriate that this be the legacy I leave.

One of my very favorite people in the whole world (although he is losing points by the minute as he taunts me with his full beer and the other one I KNOW he's got in his pocket; Either that or I chose the absolute right person to be trapped with) lives in this beautiful apartment in downtown Manhattan. I decided to bundle up like an Appalachian hunter and trek in to spend the night playing cards and drinking beers with this lovely man. Fast forward to a few hours later, we are both long past a light buzz and someone is wearing a feather boa and someone else has donned both elbow and knee pads. I will leave it up to you to determine which one is my outfit of choice. Both are very good guesses.

So in our not at all inebriated states of mind, we decide that we should go have a few drinks on the roof to enjoy the view. Now packing for the roof was an episode in and of itself. We could (and should) have gone to Tahiti for a week with what we took up here. We made sure we were plentiful on brews, blankets, Tostitos and for reasons I'm still unclear on, a laptop. Someone's a workaholic and if you guess me, well then you haven't been paying attention.

So let's fast forward to a little later. More drinks in the hole and we're downing them cuddled under a fuzzy blanket. It's sort of sweet, actually. But then comes the Stars catastrophe. Being that my quitting smoking went swimmingly, I panic when my lighter falls over the edge of the roof (even more so than I panicked when a hoodie I lived in for a while went down). I get up and walk over to the stairwell where my purse had dumped over on our way up, praying some matches went renegade and were laying abandoned on a stair somewhere. No luck, of course. On my way back up, I successfully drop my cigarettes behind me and go to pick them up without moving my legs. Why? I don't know. I truly wish I did but I do not and am sure I shall regret it for a long time to come. On my super graceful return, the door slams shut and locks on its own by virtue of nothing I've done wrong whatsoever. (Popular retelling of this tale will tell you that I kicked the door shut then slammed against it and laughed uncontrollably for 10 minutes, but this is why I'm clearing it up now.)

So after 20 MORE minutes, the doormen arrive to rescue my drunken companion and me. But now the door is jammed. So I sit here writing my blog, nursing what may be my last beer ever and I'm still laughing through my rage.

Why do the doors have to lock from the outside? We are a million damn flights up. If someone's spidey skills have enabled them to make it on top of this building, let them on in, I say. They earned it. And to be perfectly frank, I'm sure If they can scale 26-story Manhattan buildings to land on the rooftop, I have no doubt in their skills to pick a lock to get into the building. Have you ever known a criminal to concoct a lever and pulley system to soar through the air and perform professional level acrobatics to land unharmed upon a rooftop to then look at a door and be like, "Oh crap, it's locked. F this." Yeah, neither have I.

Please use the comments section to send prayers for my blue extremities and to share tales of your own follies with things that lock when they aren't supposed to. Fingers crossed that someone has a chastity belt story.

-stars