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.

TEETH ON MY ASS.

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

TEETH ON MY FUCKING ASS.

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."

-moon

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.

-stars

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?

-moon

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.

-stars

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:
JD:
"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 ESPN.com. 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.
Stars:
"Oh Jesus, JD!"
Minor and brief panic attack ensue. Composure regained. Opens up phone.
Stars:
"Hi love, what's going on?"
JD:
"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."
JD:
"Stars? You there?"
Stars:
"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?

-stars

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...

THEY'RE FUUUUUUCKING EVERYWHERE.

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.

-moon

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.

-moon

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... 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.

-stars

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.)

-moon

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...

-stars

*whom

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.

-moon