marvin is an overrated sh*thole

There are so many things to hate about DC that, really, it's hard to narrow down one point to write about. But sometimes -- once in a douche moon -- something comes along that is so horrendous, so unnecessarily retarded, that a mere double flip of the bird just doesn't suffice. Sometimes, just sometimes, it's necessary to make a complaint known to the whole world...wide web.

This is one of those times.

Marvin is a pretentious, overrated sh*thole with wack food and even wacker waitstaff.

Actually, the food is pretty decent (unless you're a vegetarian [sidebar: sucker!], in which case the French toast is the only item on the brunch menu you can eat).

The waitstaff, though? I'll see them in hell. OK, well, not all the waitstaff. But one. I will see one of them in hell, the one that is apparently known throughout the land as "the WORST waitress ever." And by "throughout the land," I mean by another friend of mine who happened to dine at Marvin last week. If only I'd've known...

Now this is the time where I debate whether to out this particular waitress, but after thinking about it for a second literally just one second ago, I decided not to. And it's not because I don't remember her name. Trust me, I do. It was noted on the receipt. No, the reason I'm refraining from outing "the WORST waitress ever" is because, really, it would probably be a reward for her to get fired, after which she'd discover what she really wanted to do with her life and then do it. Instead, I'd like to know that she's continuing to toil miserably at a low-paying job she clearly hates. I am a cruel and heartless human being.

Anyway, the event in question happened yesterday around 1 p.m., prime brunch time. Luckily, Marvin wasn't that crowded so I and my two friends (equally cruel and heartless) were seated right away. And after passing several four-person tables, which I would quickly learn are called "four-tops" in restaurant lingo, we were seated at a "five-top." And in case you didn't pay much attention to that last sentence and your deductive reasoning skills equal that of a brain-damaged platypus, that means a table for five.

The waitress came, took our orders then disappeared. All was good. But then about two minutes later she came back. To yell at us. Well, to yell at me in particular, the one who ordered a $4 fruit bowl and a glass of water in place of something more expensive.

"Just so you know, there's a minimum tab of $10 per person," she sneered.

"Oh. I had no idea. That's not written anywhere," I said.

"Well, FYI," she noted with a ridiculous dollop of sarcasm rivaling my own patented variety, "That's the policy. Especially when you're at a five-top."

"A what?"

"A five-top. This table is for a larger party. It's a five-top and you're only three."

After that, she went into a tirade during which she inexplicably said "five-top" about 18 more times.

After she was done, my friend noted, "You know, we didn't seat ourselves..."

Looking around, "the WORST waitress ever" must've noticed the numerous empty, smaller tables the hostess passed by when she chose to seat us at the mythical "five-top" because she looked at us and said, "Well, I'll let you keep your original order this time, but you can't do this again."

After she walked away, all three of us collectively noted that we definitely won't be doing that again because not one of us ever plans to return, unless of course, we ever get a craving to be treated like second-class citizens...

Now, don't get me wrong, I understand why the waitress might be upset about my small order and having a trio sit at a table for five. Less tip. But 1) this $10 minimum "policy" was never conveyed to me; 2) like I said, we didn't seat ourselves at that ginormous table and, in actuality, would've preferred a smaller table, which would've made talking to one another easier; and 3) in order to get a tip, you have to actually do your job well, which doesn't involve unnecessarily bitching out paying customers.

Moreover, it's not like there was a crowd of people storming the place to eat there, which means my business, as measly as it was, should've been at least a little appreciated. I mean, maybe it's because I'm not a communist and/or terrorist, but isn't a paying customer who's willing to order $4 worth of items better than a quintet of could-be people with could-be money? Then again, although the answer to that question seems obvious, this is DC, a city that appreciates common sense about as much as a normal human being would appreciate contracting herpes.

But seriously, Marvin. You've made one angry hobo out of me. Albeit, a hobo now with an extra $4 to spend. All I need is one more dollar and it's off to DC's most reliable establishment for a $5 footlong. Now that's a brunch I can get behind.

a poorly videotaped bicycle jaunt

So, I haven’t been in DC since Wednesday. I’ve instituted a new policy that dictates I leave at least once a week. Next week, I’ll be going to New York. The week after, the West Coast from where I may never return. Just kidding. I’ll return for at least a week before I probably end up in New Hampshire. And then maybe somewhere in South America, where early retirement from not doing much of anything at all awaits. But since that’s still at least a month-and-a-half off, so there’s no use talking about it.

And on the subject of not worth talking about, I made another video blog. The setting is rural southern Virginia, and the subject matter is standard: bikes, my hair and my functional retardation.

Before today’s feature presentation begins, however, I’ll disclose that this is the first time I worked with my mobile medium, my Flip Mino Camcorder (someone should really pay me for that plug...), so excuse the extreme close-ups and shaky camera work. I'm still getting used to it. Also, considering I haven't been doing much of it on this blog lately, I'd like to remind you that I’m a writer (I hope…), not a videographer (which is really too bad).

Sigh.

But I guess there’s no need to prolong the inevitability of bringing more shame to my friends and family through this latest video experiment, so please all The Anti DC to present A Janky Bike, A Jankier Rider.

this isn't really the elusive same-day 2nd post...

This is just more of an addendum to my previous post, in which I made a somewhat valid excuse why I've seemingly been slacking on the blogging front.

I think other bloggers call this a blog maintenance post.

Anyway, per a comment and a single E-mail I received regarding my last post, I want to remind everyone (read: the imaginary third reader and all those who don't care) that, although I may not bitch in paragraphs on The Anti DC as often as I used to, I bitch in short sentences on Twitter pretty regularly. Ergo, if you want to keep feeling better about your life by having me remind you each day that you're not living mine, feel free to "follow me" there.

Also, I have a very lax Facebook policy, which means I pretty much e-befriend anyone who expresses even a slight toleration of my writing. I have very little e-dignity. So, please, feel free to add me on there, especially if you would like a picture of David Hasselhoff humping a giant bottle of Pepsi posted to your page. I make dreams come true.

mixed emotions

Sometimes I read a story and I'm not sure whether I should be sad or joyful. This happened to me this morning when I read this, a column by WaPo metro columnist John Kelley.

And I don't just have these mixed emotions about Kelley's hat, which is so retardedly and/or awesomely displayed for our amusement each week in his picture.

Nope. This time I felt mixed emotions about the actual content, which profiles a dude named Jon Urban, who's quitting his day job to move to Vegas and become a fulltime poker player.

At first I was like, "Oh, awesome! This guy has the guts to follow his dreams!" But then I was like, "Oh, no! But his dream is to move to Vegas and play poker. How sad."

He's basically trading in one douchey activity (you know, having a legitimate job...or something) for another. Now, if he was moving to Vegas to play craps, that'd be a different story...

But who am I to judge a man and his dreams? Like I said, at least he's chasing his instead of continuing to rot in a job that clearly doesn't make him happy. That takes a lot of guts and, so regardless of how douchey his dream is, I gotta respect Mr. Urban.

"I'm the age, and this is the time to do it," said Jon, 28. "I'm not married. No kids. . . . Everybody at work was impressed that at least I was trying to live my dream."

It's too bad those people who are so impressed with Jon will probably never allow themselves to follow their own dreams...

Me, on the other hand, well, my dream isn't exactly like Jon's, but it's still a gamble. And although I find myself pursuing it out of default (Jon quit his steady, boring job; I got fired from mine, although with a good deal of self-sabotage), I am compelled these days to pursue it.

I'm writing a book. A fiction book, to be exact. Unfortunately, the work I'm putting into it is cutting into the amount of time I devote to blogging. For anyone (of you three people) who check in regularly, you've probably noticed in the past couple of months my posts have been hardly regular. In fact, The Anti DC has the blog version of irritable bowel syndrome. Except instead of eating too much cheese, the lack of regular e-droppings on here is due to writing too much elsewhere.

While I don't want to say too much about the project before I have the chance to pitch it to an agent or two, I will tell you that I am greatly enjoying it. So, even if that agent or two hates my work and tells me I should probably try a little harder to get a day job to go complain about again, at least I know I have the guts (albeit a bit by default) to follow my dream (as silly and cliche as it may be).

But if this doesn't work out, perhaps I'll move to Vegas and pursue that craps fantasy.

In the meantime, I'm sorry to report, the regularity of my blog posts will remain random. Or, who knows, maybe I'll start posting excerpts from the manuscript. Or short stories. Or flash fiction.

Or maybe I'll just post videos reminding you of the dangers of dolphin rape.



You're welcome, although I have this nagging feeling that I've posted this video before...good thing it's worth watching twice. I'll e-see you tomorrow! Or maybe not...

Credit to above artwork: It's a panel in the graphic novel adaptation of probably the greatest book ever, Mikhail Bulgakov's Master and Margarita, by Andrzej Klimowski and Danusia Schejbal.

biggest idiot of all time

May I present to you the Rep. Patrick McHenry (R-N.C.), whose views on bicycles and energy are so retarded that they've earned him elusive, special, same-day, second-post status. Behold!



And to punctuate this elusive, special, same-day, second post, I want to end with a sentiment only a chimpanzee about to get touched inappropriately can emote. Congratulations, Mr. McHenry, your near total lack of common sense has managed to elicited my most skeptical look -- Gang Bang Face -- because, no sir, I don't like what's going on here. You both scare and simultaneously disgust me.


*Special thanks to Family On Bikes for Twatting the McHenry link.

artomatic, shambles and death by tiny birds

Sorry for the lack of bloggage yesterday. I was busy tending to my helper horse Sven. He got a little carried away with the roman candles on Saturday and set his fine mane aflame. Then when I threw a few shots of rum over to him to put it out, it really only made matters worse. Finally, he stopped, dropped and rolled. Like the wise, albeit cliched, Native American taught me on GI Joe.



Well, Sven, now we know.

And when I wasn't alternately killing then helping Sven not self-immolate, I was actually out doing sh*t. Mainly, I finally went to Artomatic! And, boy, was it arty! And a little big retardy...but we'll get to that later.

First up -- my favorites (from the small amount I was able to see in two hours. Oh and my camera ran out of batteries after the first 30 minutes. And also, I forgot to write down anyone's name. This is why I plan never ever to go back into journalism. I hate necessary information.)

I don't know who made this, but it looked like a giant piece of candy. Sweet.

Connor Glenn's sh*t is tight.

The fanciest toilet I've ever had the pleasure to poop on. Just kidding. It's not functional. And, yes, that somehow stopped me.


The most macabre Peeps diorama I've ever, well, peeped.


The District used to be cool. I guess. At least compared to now. Never mind the ill-fitting white pants you see before you...


And speaking of ill-fitting pants, this guy clearly didn't get the District-wide memo! First off, he's not even wearing pants! In fact, as you can see through the art of this blurry photograph by The Anti DC, who forgot to enter this year's Artomatic, he's barely wearing shorts. Yet, still, they are perfect. The Perfect Shambles. (I'll be selling prints for $0.99, discount for bulk buys.)

And now, I present to you the bad:

This just seems like a terrible waste of a bike to me...


And this kind of barf proved all too prevalent. Just because you own a glue gun, doesn't make you a talented artist. And just because you glue random, creepy sh*t to a tutu, does not make you a visionary. Sorry. I'm a harsh critic.

And now for the most thought provoking:

Joseph Hale certainly piqued my interest with this one and not just because this dog looks uncannily like Steve, the name I plan to give one of the huskies I plan to own in the future that will pull me on a sled along the Iditarod. And not just because it got me thinking about how short and precious life can be lest we get attacked by a small swarm of tiny birds. (What the f*ck are those, canaries?) No, this got me thinking because I'm confused. First off, speaking of those canaries, they really don't look like carnivores. Why are they eating Steve? And secondly, there certainly seems to be a lack of blood streaming out of that giant, gaping, possibly tiny-bird induced wound. Where's the science? I guess that's what artistic license is for. Welcome to my mind. It's a warm and fuzzy place. :)

But luckily, that's pretty much the hardest I was forced to think the entire weekend. Life really is precious.

kick it

Oh boy! Just when you thought DC couldn't get more f*cked up (after all, most of the population thinks dognapping is pretty great), turns out there's a dude wandering around town kicking ladies in the shins! Splendid!

According to the woman who got kicked, "Jeannie," it's this man, but without the hobo-esque (or Jesus-like?) facial hair:

Kicking and screaming strutting.

I yanked this photo from another blog called Holla Back DC that someone linked to on Prince of Petworth, where this story first broke. As always, The Anti DC is third to know. Or fourth. Or last. Whatever.

I've got more important things to do over here. Like watch men's tennis and read The Onion. I guess maybe I'm sexist because I really don't like women's tennis and I laughed for hours over that Onion article.

This led to several hours of self-analysis. Can a woman be sexist against her own kind? Maybe. I mean, I also hate The View. And I don't much care for Lifetime. On the other hand, I love to bake. And I love The Tyra Banks Show. Needless, to say I was very confused -- so confused, in fact, that I vowed never to engage in any form of self-introspection again.

Instead, I decided to go buy a pineapple. And no, that's not an exciting euphemism for anything. I really mean, I got on my bicycle and went to the grocers to buy a pineapple. I lead a very exciting life.

After procuring the ripest, most delicious smelling pineapple in the bunch, I returned to my bike, unlocked it, shoved my wad of keys in my back pocket and rode off into the sunset. And by "sunset" I mean "soul-killing humidity." The ride was going all right, but the whole time I was hoping not to get kicked. So when a fellow cyclist passed me and my pineapple and said, "Your keys are falling out of your pocket," I nearly weaved those keys between my knuckles in an effort to defend my shins. Then something weird happened. While reaching for my makeshift brass knuckles, I noticed that my keys really were readying to fall out of my pocket! This wasn't a man trying to kick me! This was a man trying to help me! Moreover, he had a tennis racket! No wonder I prefer men's tennis to women's!

I guess I'm not sexist, after all!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some dishes to wash, laundry to fold and a crazy man to go hunt down and kick.

Happy Fourth of July!

dc okays dognapping

Clearly, lots of sh*t in DC makes me wish I had the power to projectile vomit on cue, like a one-woman slime-machine a la Nickelodeon's You Can't Do That On Television. I'd slime the hell out of just about everything: the bus driver who seemingly has no peripheral vision or possibly just likes grazing bicyclists; the manager at Giant who thinks it's a good idea to keep only one of four self-checkouts open on a weekend afternoon; on most peoples' outfits; on the whole of the government; and, really, so many other nouns around town.

Luckily for us all (maybe save for my thighs), however, on-cue regurgitation kind of grosses me out, which means all I have is this here blog to e-projectile vomit on all the things that irk me about this town.

And what's irking me now is dognapping. When I first read about Molly's disappearance on DCist, I felt a feeling that doesn't come around often -- empathy. I hoped Molly would turn up all right and the sick asshole who stole her would stumble into justice.

Apparently, however, I'm all but alone in that opinion. Turns out, the majority of residents in DC, or at least those who comment on DCist, think it's perfectly okay to kidnap someone's dog if they leave it tied up for three minutes while they run into the store.

typemouse wrote: "As awful as having your dog stolen is, these people were just asking for something to happen. What if she'd slipped her leash and gotten hit by a car? What if she bit someone? Got in a fight? I'm surprised Animal Control doesn't roll right up and toss these seemingly abandoned dogs in the back of their truck."

engineergirl wrote: "I agree-- I would be so nervous if my dog was left unattended in a public area for even a minute. I know someone who had his dog stolen from his (fenced-in) backyard, so why wouldn't someone just pluck one off the street? Aside from theft, I'd be afraid of some crazy person hurting the dog, and what if the dog were to bite someone?"

volite wrote: "In DC, I have seen dogs tied up to the bike rack, telephone poles, fences... even a cinder block outside the Safeway at 13th and Kentucky SE. If you are doing this, you care more for your personal convenience than you do for your dog- it's as simple as that...I hope you find your dog and I hope this blog post will help. Quite frankly, I'm surprised it doesn't happen more often."

Drunga, dodgecitydave, deesee, and countless other jerks had similar sentiments.

Then SydPT said it best: Man you guys are a bunch of dicks. Stop lecturing people and go look for that fucking dog!

Although as eloquent and accurate as SydPT's assessment is, I wish to expand. Ahem.

F*ck this place. The fact that we, as a community, should not only expect this kind of sick sh*t to happen but should accept it, speaks volumes to how messed up DC is. Maybe it's because I grew up in a small town, but, um, doesn't it seem twisted to expect your damn dog to be kidnapped? What the hell kind of city is this? I mean, I understand leaving your dog abandoned for hours in the sun tied to a tree is a bad thing, however, these people hopped in a store for a few mere minutes! That's hardly abuse. That's not neglectful. And most of all, that's not outrageous behavior. That's NORMAL behavior. What's outrageous is all the reactionary asshole accusations being made by all the dicks that populate DC.

And to all those who compared leaving your dog tied to a tree for three minutes to not locking your bike or, uh, leaving your kid tied to a tree for three minutes, this is what I have to say: While I think it is perfectly sad that you need a frickin' Manhattan lock to protect even the sh*ttiest of bikes from getting stolen in DC, it makes logistical sense. When it comes down to it, bicycles, while some of us may treat them like pets, are tools. They're inanimate objects. They don't need to be fed or watered. And unless you're a magician, they don't sit, come or sick on demand. While you may know your bicycle, your bicycle will never know you.

Now, as far as equating a dog to a child, I'm not even sure where to start. This is just retarded. I feel the people who make that connection are the ones who abuse their pets by dressing them up like human beings in sweaters, dresses and pigtails. To those idiots, I say, "Your dog is not a baby." But you're right, no, you would not leave a baby tied up to a tree. You also don't walk it on a leash (although, perhaps this wouldn't be a bad idea). And most importantly, babies don't wash themselves by licking their own butts. If yours does, you might want to see someone about that...

And to those who ridiculously assert, "But was live in a major urban area! Sh*t happens!" this is what I have to say: I've seen many-a-dog tied up while their owners run short errands in New York City, Chicago and even Moscow. DC is far less urban than those places, meaning that excuse is total bullsh*t. DC is really nothing but extremely wack.

There! I said it! DC IS WACK!

In closing, I hope these people find their dog.

insomnia

I've been having trouble sleeping lately. And not just because my mind refuses to rest until I've watched Michael Jackson's greatest video hits nightly before bed. (R.I.P., King of Pop, you will always be my first crush. Hey, it was 1983 and I was four.)

Nor is it because apparently I'm only the fourth funniest blogger of all time. (Wait, how am I on that list at all? I'm honestly flattered.)

And nor is it because I've recently discovered the best show on television, Dexter, which is physically impossible to stop watching. (A likable sociopath? There's hope for me, after all! Just kidding, like MJ, I will only murder you on the dance floor.)

But speaking of homicide, the reason I can't sleep lately is because DC's murder rates are down. Actually, I suppose that's good news. At least it would seem to be. According to the Post:

"With 2009 half over, the number of homicides reported by police in the District -- 66 -- is 20 percent below last year's figure and is on pace to be the lowest yearly total in decades."

Well, that certainly does sound promising. Tell me more!

"If the homicide rate continued through December, the total for 2009 would be 134. That would be 52 fewer slayings than last year and 47 fewer than in 2007. It would be 35 fewer than in 2006."

Hey, this sounds great actually! I want to learn about more statistics that might make me not hate this city as much as I do now!

"The number of homicides in any given jurisdiction has been linked to so many factors that it is almost impossible to predict the rate in any given month based on the rate in the month before."

Wait, what?

"In addition, criminologists say that the rate of killings often rises during the summer months. Reasons include longer days, which send more people outdoors. Summer's heat also has been linked to an upsurge in violence."

Oh. So, basically, the Post is saying, there will be blood? But without the awesomeness of Daniel Day-Lewis' epic early-twentieth-century mustache?

How am I supposed to fall asleep with that in mind? And not just the mustache part, but the murder part! Dexter needs to move to DC. Just kidding! Murder is wrong. Which is precisely why that show (and book, which I'm almost halfway through) is so damn great. Like Nietzsche, it makes you question your own morality compass and your views on right and wrong.

However, there's nothing questionable about DC. This place is clearly just wrong. Not only do I still need to worry about being murdered this summer, but I'm saddened to know that people in DC are still getting fired for telling jokes online. The latest victim according to the Post, David Le, was canned by the DC Department of Employment Services for his activity on Twitter. This story hits close to e-home for obvious reasons. However, instead of erring on the side of rape jokes a la moi, Le opted to call Anacostia "ghetto." Specifically, he twatted, "In america's ghetto anacostia... If I get scared i will just yell chinese carry out! They will not shoot me."

Hmm. Suddenly I could really go for some Kung Pao Chicken.

Well, turns out Le might be able to fulfill his dream (and my order) by becoming a Chinese deliveryman, after all. Either that, or he'll just waltz over to DC's Office of Unemployment Services and collect $384 a week from the government, meaning little will probably change in his work ethic. Because, according to a June 15 twat, he wasn't doing much at his job anyway: "thank goodness my boss is making things easy, he told me to pretend to do work so he can mark me down for hours."

Come again? Forget about Le not doing his job. It seems it was his boss who told him not to do it in the first place. Big surprise, right? Rampant incompetence in the DC city government apparently extends beyond the little guys. We'd probably even have hard evidence of this if Le's boss had his own Twitter account. Unfortunately, he doesn't. But I doubt that's because he's smart enough to realize that sh*t will get you fired. Instead, I simply imagine he's not smart enough to use a computer.

Moreover, I'm sure Le's boss's boss is also probably watching porn in the office rather than doing his job. Or maybe he's too busy not paying his taxes. Maybe that's why Anacostia is still so damn ghetto! Just sayin'. And I'm looking at you, Marion Barry.

It takes a competent village, people!

Meanwhile, Barry, who inexplicably labeled Le a "racist" (of course), has probably put a hit out on me. Maybe I can yell borscht delivery and he won't shoot...

i'm still tired

I drew this picture this weekend:

Not only does it reveal I have the artistic talent of a 5-year-old, but my frustration at life is also evident in its large swirly lines and chaotic loops. Unfortunately, this e-penned frustration isn't simply metaphorical. Oh no, it's a fairly accurate representation of the route my SuperShuttle driver took to get from Baltimore International Airport to my freaking house, represented in my art as a delicious can of beans, on Friday.

I kid you not, I was in that cherry-scented blue van for THREE HOURS. Of course, I understand SuperShuttle works as a shared taxi, so I would have to wait for the driver to drop off those people whose homes or hotels may logically come before mine on the route. However, that's assuming the route isn't retarded.

And this route was, indeed, exceptionally retarded. I mean, look at it!

The first stop was in Petworth on Georgia Avenue.

The next stop, My Hobo Lair in Columbia Heights, should've been mine. But it wasn't. To my surprise, the driver turned around and went back up toward Maryland -- Silver Spring, Rockville, Bethesda, some other suburban sh*t that all blended together.

Did I mention after a series of delays and cancellations, my flight didn't land until 12:30 a.m., so this ridiculous escapade was all happening in the middle of the night. I was tired. But imagine how excited I was when there was only one couple and me left in the van. Alas! I would get home soon! Until the driver said this:

"Miss! Do you mind if I drop you off last?"

Mind you, while he asked my that he had already turned onto 495 headed toward Virginia.

"Uh. Are we heading to Virginia?"

"Yes. Next stop Dulles."

"Dulles?! Seriously? You do realize I should've been dropped off second when you were in Petworth."

"Yes. I see that now."

"Now," however, was way too late as we headed toward Dulles, where we ended up driving around the long-term lot to find this couple's car (apparently, their flight got diverted into BWI). Finally, at 3:15 a.m. we were back on I-66.

Oh wait, no. That would be too logical. Instead, he went back on 495 into Maryland again. Then decided to take the George Washington Parkway down through Virginia. That's when I started to feel like this SuperShuttle had turned into a SuperRapeVan. This made no sense whatsoever.

Luckily, possibly because I had been traveling since 6 a.m. and smelled of my own BO and had an "I'm not afraid to murder you in self defense" look in my eye, no crimes were committed. Unless, of course, charging me $37 for a three-hour kidnapping is a crime. I'd file charges if I could.

Finally, after the driver/no-longer-potential-rapist ignored my directions to take 15th Street, which is the only street in DC with timed lights, we made it to My Hobo Lair roughly 30 minutes later. It was about 4 in the morning.

He didn't get a tip.

But I'm back! At least long enough for me to plan my next escape. But don't worry, I'll let you all know the travel dates so you can avoid shared van rides and flights those days. Because if you don't, you'll either be stuck in a shady vehicle with a shady and/or simply idiotic driver, or your flight will be canceled repeatedly. Yet still, that might be better than being in DC...