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.
-moon
11.21.2008
7.22.2008
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.
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
7.21.2008
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
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
7.18.2008
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.
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
7.15.2008
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
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
7.11.2008
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
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
7.08.2008
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
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
6.10.2008
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
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
5.31.2008
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
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
5.29.2008
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
5.28.2008
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
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
5.14.2008
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
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
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