click here for moon's grievances (64 posts)
last post - "grievance: coffee cups in the media"
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rageful grievance: rude concert go-ers (a stars and moon collaboration)

This is a collaborative narration of an event to which both Moon and Stars were privy. Due to this shared experience, we felt it necessary to share the recount. Stars' words are in red; Moon's are in blue. Shall we begin...?

Once upon a chilly eve', Stars and Moon went to see a band. N.B.: others were present, but they don't matter, obviously. Stars and Moon also hate paying for things. A lot. But this show was important enough that they elected to break the bank on tickets. Also N.B.: Moon is still angry. Stupid headliner.

As is rote for all fairy tale classics, the glory of matching Newcastles (see photo below) was preceded by daunting dragons in matching baseball caps. And, of course, the obligatory midget.

(Why did I turn this into a fairy tale?)
(I'm not really sure. But the story does include some evil villains and we are pretty princess-like, so it works.) Agreed. Oh and I had traveled from a distant land, so that counts for a proper fairy tale requirement.

Alas, we begin our tale of turpitude: Enter stage left Moon and Stars. The show has already begun. A midget stands before them.

What is the politically correct term for midget, anyway? Little person?
I like wee one but that could get us in trouble with the fairy tale community. Well, I think you've done your part for the wee people actually with your Wee Me, no? That is somewhat exonerating. And you will find out later how I exonerate myself on behalf of the wee people. Absolutely. Well... I won't. I already know. But I can't wait for you to share it with the world.

In any event, Stars and Moon, are suddenly rushed by a group of three of the most ogre-ous/ogre-ful/ogre-ferous (I can't reconcile which word to make up) boys. They stampede over Princess Moon and Princess Stars. Their objective on the other side of the princesses is, obviously, to stand in front of them and act like complete and utter assholes.
They reek of vile stale beer and that putrid odor of fraternity castle meets the creature under the bridge. And perhaps they were from a team of jesters as two of these ogres were wearing the exact same hat. Indeed they were. They were undercover jesters. But I saw one of them juggling by the bar later. Juggling two wenches.

(Is this a pirate fairy tale now?)
Where's Orion, our resident pirate expert? We have finally found somewhere that his college degree can be put to use and he has gone the way of the buffalo. This may actually never happen again. Such is life.

Getting back to our glorious tale: said ogre-jesters proceed to accomplish their goal of irritating the hell out of the princesses, by pushing each other, ignoring the band and letting respect for others' space go by the wayside. The Princesses Moon and Stars complain to one another to the tune of "I'll fucking kill them. I've never been so angry in my life,"... as all princesses speak.

Well if you live in the kingdom Princesses Moon and Stars live in, you must speak that way to get by.
Princessing 101. Not entirely unlike English 101. Very similar in fact.

Just as Moon and Stars felt that these shenanigans could get no worse, they began pushing each other in such a way that they began banging into the Wee One, who had been doing a valiant job prior: protecting the princesses from the jesters.
Not to mention giving up her own view of the show despite all the dubloons she too had shelled out to bear witness to this event.

So Princess Stars took measures into her own dainty hands.
She bravely approached the most grotesque ogre of the three and demanded he leave the wee one alone at once. To which the response was his throwing his short ogre arms into the air and proposing a duel to the death. (This is real shit people; metaphor aside, this dude wanted to FIGHT Stars.) (Also on a very real note, had Stars actually had that goddamn sword in the stone, his ogre buddies would have had to carry his head home in a bag.) She had left the sword in the stone at home, unfortunately. No one really ever expects to run into ogre-ous riff raff at an event for the king's court. Surely not.

The princesses then regaled in a goblet of Newcastle.
A much deserved goblet.

The End.

Moral of the story: Ogres should stay the hell away from princesses with an attitude. Or perhaps they should just stay out of the kingdom entirely.

If you see this man behind Stars, everyone, punch him in the eye. He is the King ogre:

If you see these princesses... well... buy them a beverage:



grievance: silly idioms

Why must our society call people with orange-hued red hair "carrot tops"?

The top of a carrot is not in fact orange. It is green. In attempting to reconcile this, I can understand that the phrase "carrot top" may not be so precise an analogy that it compares the top of the carrot to the top of the human (which is weird anyway).

However, I aver that all alleged to be "carrot tops" dye the tips of their hair green.

Stupid idioms.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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




raging out at... inappropriate ways of finding out information

Some information is difficult to take. Some information is painful to swallow. And some information is just plain weird to receive. Is it too much to ask that I just be informed of said news in a manner that's not out of control?

Last night was my very first class as a TA (teacher's assistant). (I will pause here for a moment so everyone can get a good snicker in about who it is that might be a less appropriate TA than I.) And honestly, if you can think of someone, you win the Random Rageouts Door Prize. To be determined at a later date.

As the students filed in, I handed out the syllabus and during this time finally bothered to take a look at it myself. In gigantic, how-in-the-hell-did-I-miss-this? letters, the name of an old gentleman friend of mine (who shall be referred to as "Mozart" from here on out) pops out at me: he is next week's guest-speaker. I literally choked. (And no, not a false usage of the word "literally." I most definitely choked on my French Vanilla coffee.)

Luckily "Mozart" and I are still on excellent terms. Whom else would I call when I can't figure out what to do with my extra candlewax? Or if I need someone to dance for me... to prove why "Umbrella" is a great pop song? Or count on to give me nightmares for a week over requests that I can't believe came out of a human's mouth? I keep him around strictly for those first two reasons... and sometimes hide from him for months because of the last one.

This particular instance wasn't a big deal, but this bitch "Mozart" knows where I work and that I would clearly be the TA on that class and yet I have to find out from a college course syllabus? And considering we are "friends" from back east, to have him guest speaking in my class on the west coast is information I would have preferred to come from him.

There have definitely been instances in my life where I have gotten pretty substantial information from the worst possible source. (Here comes Stars Being Angry at Technology again...)
Not so long ago, in a land not so far away, I was dating a gentleman who shall be referred to as "Pinehog." I don't know why. I just like the name "Pinehog." "Pinehog" went away for work and I discovered through the miracle of pictures on MySpace that "Pinehog" fell into someone else's girlie parts. That is certainly not information anyone ever wants to hear, but learning about it complete with visual aid was probably the worst way to be enlightened.

And in all fairness, a lot of the inappropriate gathering of information has been my own fault, as I am a licensed spy and computer hacker of boyfriends. It's true. They give out degrees for that. But that doesn't discount the innumerable amount of times, I've been broken up with on a text or been told of an engagement on an e-mail or even when I had to find out that a friend overdosed by Instant Message.

I really don't think it's too much to ask of anyone to give me a phone call or have (gasp!) a real conversation about unpleasant, or strange, topics. The whole thing makes me want to delete my MySpace, my e-mail, my AIM, get rid of text messages, and find a safe hiding place under a rock so I never find out anything the wrong way again.

Also, apropos of nothing and entirely off topic... I would like to have Michael Cera's awkwardly adorable babies. I don't care if that makes me a little creepy.



grievance: inconsiderate retailers and pharmacists

Do I think my own schedule is more important than anyone else'? Obviously.

No. Scratch that. I do however think that people should generally respect others' schedules. I feel I can make a considerable contribution to the (made-up) study of Serviceology, having worked in jobs that require me to hike my voice up several octaves to a level saccharinely offensive to all living beings excluding the canine variety and render my face wrought with (faux-)smile lines.

Wednesday Afternoon
During my lunch break, I went to Cosi to grab a salad. The lines for food during midday times on weekdays in midtown east are an exercise in starvation. I waited to order my Bombay Chicken Salad, ironically sans chicken, for fifteen minutes.

10 more minutes on a separate line to pay... broken computer system... angry asshole manager yelling at register-employees... me eating through the entire slab of bread which is supposed to accompany my salad... "we just opened the front register; you can go there." 10 more minutes in this line. Right before I pay, the women at the register LEAVES. I was going to walk out with a free salad. Sadly, I needed to get a fork and they hold them hostage behind the register.

Next journey: dropping off my father's prescriptions at Duane Reade. Lovely girl helped me. Asked if I'd like to wait for it for 20 minutes to which I responded that I had to run back to work but would pick it up at 4:15 on my way from work to class. (... you can see where this is headed.)

Wednesday Evening
RUNNING from my office to class is hard enough during rush hour. And of course the prescription was not ready. But they didn't simply TELL me this. They disappeared into the back for ten minutes. And I had to send another person back there. She spoke with the original Inconsiderate Pharmacist, and then on her way back, stopped to check for another person's prescription before telling me that it wasn't ready. Sure. Take your time, lady.

"What time do you close?" asked I.


Rushing through my one-credit Astronomy winter-session lab, I ran huffing and puffing in stilettos from 41st and Lexington to 43rd and 3rd.

6:58 P.M.

"What time do you close?"


... And then I blew up a Duane Reade.

Thursday Morning
Dunkin Donuts man ignores me and continues texting on his cell phone. Looks up at me. Then cleans off a coffee machine. Then gives me an attitude when I order something. Soorrrrryyyy for bothering you while you're getting paid.

Thursday Evening
Bookstore to pick up stupid Astronomy lab book. Guy ignores me for so long that after saying "Excuse me?" several times, I end up having to hit the BELL to get his attention. Was I at a hotel concierge desk in the 1980s?

Friday Morning
At this point, I was already brewing from social interactions of this variety. I decided to treat myself to a Frappuccino Lite. My request was met by "Ah... we OUT of 'Lite' today."

And then a little angel dressed in a green Starbucks smock (the Official Away Uniform of Team Heaven) appeared from a cloud made of real fairy dust and offered to look in the back.

Ta-da! The first time someone goes out of her way to do her job, customer satisfaction (and in this case, restoration of faith in the merits serviceology) is achieved.

And then I tried a sampling of a new lemon/cherry/cake extravaganza, which complemented my Frappuccino Lite beautifully.

Parable: Wait. There is none. This is just me being cranky.

Also currently cranky about: "Doughnuts" being spelled "Donuts" and "Light" being spelled "Lite," and the fact that their having been "published" as such compels me to reproduce them in their stupid forms.


shit that sucks: anti-malaria medication

I recently took a trip to the Dominican Republic. Lots of people go there for vacation. A lot of those people are pretty stupid, so I figured there were not real risks involved. I like to think that if stupid people can do it often it's a pretty safe bet. Like getting a learner's permit. Look around you. The people passing basically have trouble remembering to inhale and exhale regularly, so you figure that you'll be fine. So I thought nothing of going to a third-world country for a five day vacation.

Then my girlfriend began asking me if it was safe to take the cab from the airport to the resort, terrified that some rogue cab driver would kidnap two good-looking Americans and hold them for ransom (1 US Dollar = 38 Dominican Pesos). So I'm Google-ing "Punta Cana" and all of a sudden I see the CDC Website telling travelers to take anti-Malaria pills and be vaccinated for Hepatitis A. This is all well and good, except that this was all being found out 24 hours before my plane was to take off.

So my girlfriend managed to get ahold of her doctor (I don't really have one; I have a fear of them) who told her that she had to take them, as did I. So, I take the pill. You take one the day you leave for your trip, and then one per week for the next three weeks after your return.

What no one mentioned to me was that the pills screw with your sleep. You wake up almost every hour and have the strangest dreams. I mean weird shit. First I had a dream that I was in Malaysia being chased by cannibals who wanted to roast me and stuff me inside of a pig's intestines. Then I was unable to graduate college because I failed an advanced course on the quadratic equation (which is interesting because I have graduated college, and never once took a math course). What is weirder is that I've woken up unable to decipher the dream world from the real world. I rarely, if ever, actually remember my dreams, let alone waking up thinking they are real. Last night I dreamt that I was being forced to spend the day at Roseland Ballroom at a DVD authoring convention, and then woke up in a panic that I was running late for it, and couldn't believe that I would have to spend my whole day there.

I have two and a half more weeks of this awesomeness, and it sucks.

-orion's belt buckle

raging out at... "i'm dealing with a lot"

I believe firmly in the golden rule: If you "do unto others...," sure, you'll make mistakes but overall you'll be doing better than most. And we are all selfish. We do things for selfish reasons. What I have no respect for is people who make excuses. Like that whole "it isn't you; it's me," or the current idiocy I just got on text, "I'm going through a lot. It isn't intentional."

If you can find me someone who isn't going through "a lot," you've probably found the equivalent of the fountain of youth. This kind of phrase isn't an excuse; it is a cop out. I'm going through "a lot." You're going through "a lot." That guy you passed on the street is going through "a lot." And guess what? We all don't act like a-holes.

I guess what I'm really raging out at is people's lack of self-awareness. I'm insane. I'm aware. I'm overly emotional and dramatic and I know it. I know it every second of every day. Now this isn't an excuse for my idiocy but it somehow makes it less horrifying when someone is aware. If you are a religious sort (and I'm not, really), then you believe in the right of free choice. So it isn't acceptable to choose to do the wrong thing, but it is almost sad when you're that ignorant in a sociological sense that you aren't even aware of who (and why) you are.

And yes, you're reading the post of the scorned and the hurt. But I'm not so insecure that I can't admit that. And I'm happy to be hurt. It means I still feel and maybe I'm capable of feeling for someone who isn't a frog. But I keep kissing frogs.

But that's okay. I'm okay with that. And I think I've learned my lesson that people who make points of themselves with a snap and a wink, and are caricatures of themselves, are those who will never deliver anyone anything more than temporary happiness. I'm never going to make an excuse for feeling too much or too little. I hope I always feel too much.

All that being said.. Tonight I have a renewed faith in those who have proven themselves time and again, and a belief that I will never again fall for the wink.

Take a gander into the comments and say petty things about your least favorite wink-er. Or even rage out at people whose favorite bands are those we've told them they should love. Or rage at me for being petty.



grievance: people speaking too loudly in foreign languages

I grew up in New York City, so I'm obviously okay with loudness, generally speaking. Why, then, would I find it necessary to buy in-ear headphones for my iPod? Screaming foreigners.

Moving about the city by foot and public transportation is already a harrowing experience. Simply put, New York is filled with annoying people. Typical offenses include (but are of course not limited to):

- GENERAL WALKING ACTS OF OBLIVIOUSNESS, i.e. walking too damn slowly for no reason (the most vexing variant of which being the slow saunter-down-the-stairs-to-a-subway-platform-with-a-train-pulling-
into-the-"station"-because-he-or-she-needs-a-different-train-line so you end up standing on the platform watching the train leave you behind)

- GENERAL STANDING ACTS OF OBLIVIOUSNESS, such as stopping short in the middle of Times Square to take a picture of an entirely uninspiring fire hydrant (the most vexing variant of which being the standing-with-another-member-of-your-party-on-the-escalator-so-
that-no-one-can-pass, and then copping an attitude with people who politely ask to pass)

- OBLIVIOUS SPATIAL ACTS OF INDECENCY (Please don't touch me or violate my personal space.)

- INTENDED SPATIAL ACTS OF INDECENCY (Don't fucking touch me. I'll cut your face.)

This brings me to the last category...

See Also: "Why the fuck are you screaming?"
See Also: "Why do you insist on keeping the volume on your phone while playing a game?"
See Also: "Can you not wait until you get home to decide on an obnoxious ringtone for your new phone? ("No"? Oh. Well it is an important decision: the horrifying version of the Fourth Movement of Mozart's Fortieth Symphony in G minor "orchestrated" for a MIDI ringtone most likely in C major versus some crappy pseudo-jazz bullshit. And it is also certainly essential that you make this decision by playing them back and forth in public.)

Alas, we come to the main point of this outline of offenses against social propriety. Why must people (in America, at least) who are speaking a foreign language YELL? I will safely err on the side of this being a behavior that only takes place in public... not only to avoid a sweeping over-generalization. But also because if people spoke at that decibel in their homes, they would all be evicted and no longer live in New York.

Is there something inherent to the structure of EVERY other language in the world that REQUIRES that absurd kind of volume? Other theories: a strange disease that deteriorates hearing, to which only Americans are immune? All non-native English speakers were forced by their parents all their lives to use their "inside voices" and have developed deep-seated psychological damage to which they are responding by lashing out against... well... me?

I suppose I'll have to start hanging out in libraries.

Or travel abroad. And when asked to moved aside on the escalator, whisper "no."