good ol' google!

So there I am, checking my e-mail in my in our overly air-conditioned office (wearing fingerless gloves and an XXL denim company shirt that amazingly no one picked up at some conference many moons ago), when something catches my eye on the side of my Gmail: "Schwetty Balls -- Can You Handle Our Schwetty Balls? http://www.schwettyballs.com/." My gut reaction was to LOL, which I did. I almost ROFL'd, but I capped it at LMAO-ing.

Ridiculous acronyms aside, however, I hesitated before I clicked. I thought, "Why would Google generate an ad for something dirrrrty from my email, which was about trains?" Is there some sort of euphemism I haven't learned yet? "I love trains" -- could that possible mean something NSFW (I'm an acronym machine, my friends)? I had to find out.

In surprising twist, schwettyballs.com led me to Schwetty Balls golf balls.

It took me a while to decide whether I thought this was funny or not, but then I perused the site a little closer and found the testimonials:

"I just got a case of Schwetty Balls at my company's Christmas party. What an awesome product. I love your Web site, too. I'm ordering a bunch of Schwetty Balls. I'm gonna stuff my Schwetty Balls into stockings this Christmas!" —Victor, Glen Cove, NY

"I never knew how great it was playing with Schwetty Balls until a friend handed me his to whack around! Thanks for the balls, they're awesome!" —Jason B., Ontario, Canada

"I was excited to play with my Schwetty Balls and now I'm even more excited! They seem to straighten out my big bender." —Larry F., Watervliet, Mich.

It's funny like Mike Seaver's best friend Boner on Growing Pains. N'est-ce pas?

dc in ac -- an epic, epic journey

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Or, as I prefer, fool me twice, punch you in the face. While I and the Golden Touch Dice Revolution! crew (and so what if by "crew" I really mean one other person?) weren't fooled per se, we did leave the Tropicana's craps tables in Atlantic City feeling cheated out of a good time, not only because we lost there, but because we were flagged by its employees...while we were losing.

First, I understand it sucks to work. Second, I understand it sucks even more to work holidays. But please, don't crap (pun very much intended) on my parade, Tropicana craps table workers! We started off in the black, gaining about $100 each in the course of about 15 minutes. It really was downright amazing...until we started losing. However, instead of commiserating with us or offering encouraging words, one Tropicana employee decided to flag us. While on the surface this is a bit flattering, considering most of the time bring snitched on means you're some sort of magical player, in this situation, it was simply retarded. See, by the end of 30 minutes of gaming, the GTDR! crew was in the red. So, why did this asshat employee tell her coworkers to "watch those two"? Well, either she's really bad at math, or she was, as I alluded to exactly 24 words ago, a run-of-the-mill asshat. Not tight.

After we each lost a triple-digit chunk of change, we realized the Fiesta buffet and its mythical cornucopia of king crab legs was clearly beyond our budgets. So, instead, we veered left for our Thanksgiving feast and headed for Hooters, where incidentally, most of the waitresses sported beer guts (Hott). After drowning our sorrows in a pitcher of sangria and a lovely, surprisingly delicious grilled cheese (only $4.99!), we thirsted for revenge at the tables.

And vindication we would *almost* get! We moved up the boardwalk to the Trump Plaza, where we immediately found better craps tables. However, by "better," I simply mean the casino's employees were nice to us as we handed their employer our money. Even deeper in the red, we decided Thanksgiving in AC was dead to us and returned to the room poor and tired...but mainly just poor.

That must've struck a nerve with the heavens as we woke up the next morning after a lovely 3.5 hours of sleep with a wholly different attitude. And sure enough, the day after Thanksgiving was certainly not dead to us. Oh yes, it is very much alive! We wanted, nay, we needed to roll one last time. Now whether this change in mood was divine intervention or the onset of some sort of manic mental disorder, we did not care. It was time to take this bitch of a city down. We targeted the Taj Mahal.

Like the Plaza, the Taj Mahal's craps jockeys were much more personable than those at the Tropicana. However, unlike the Plaza where we came away as losers, setting foot in the TM proved the best decision we made in that fateful 36 hours (aside from dining at Hooters, that is -- that $4.99 grilled cheese was delicious). Through the magic of the GTDR! crew's collective right arm, we were able to triple our monies, allowing us to just about break even. And breaking even was good enough for us.

Now, you may be asking, "What does all this betting nonsense have to do with DC?" Absolutely nothing. However, of course, our trip did not fly by without at least one known run-in (as you will see shortly, that pun is also intended) with DC.

Just feet before we were going to turn into the Tropicana's parking lot and commence our holiday, a DC-area driver rammed into the side of our rental. 'Tis the season!

Alas, while I can't say Thanksgiving in AC was all I had imagined (mostly because my imagined version included winning stacks and stacks of cold hard cash), I can say that it was still kind of awesome -- minus getting rear-ended by some douchebag from Capitol Hill. But let's not dwell on the bad, let's instead review the good: I got out of DC, I spent it with the GTDR! crew and did I mention that $4.99 grilled cheese? Best deal of the night.

the anti dc thanksgiving

There seems to be a major disconnect between me and the general populаtion of DC. In fact, I'd venture to say this barrier may also extend between me and most of America. Let's see if you and I would make good friends.

Would you use the word "depressing" to describe spending Thanksgiving at a casino in Atlantic City?

If you answerd yes, skip to Section II.

If you answered "hell-to-the-no" and I'm now your hero then stick with me. We're tight.

You guessed it -- I'll be spending my holiday brushing up my Golden Touch Dice Revolution! skills at one or more craps tables in Atlantic City and, not only am I not depressed, but I'm ridiculously excited. This may just be the best Thanksgiving ever, possibly eclipsing my Christmas '05 at Foxwoods with dinner at the IHOP.

While Foxwoods may be a classier affair (and more appropriate for the Thanksgiving holiday, if you know what I mean) than anything found in New Jersey (um, no offense), the IHOP Christmas dinner was a stretch. Thanksgiving dinner '07, however, will most likely surpass the meal I would've eaten otherwise since I don't dig turkey. Tomorrow I'll be at the Tropicana's Fiesta buffet, where I'm hoping a festive layout will allow a literal cornucopia to be overflowing with king crab legs. Seriously, how ridiculously awesome would that be?! Oh man, wish you were coming! When I return after pillaging the casino's vault, we'll do brunch. My treat.

Section II

Hmm...I'm going to Atlantic City for Thanksgiving. Feeling sorry for me? There's really no need. Riddle me this: In what world is lining your pockets with hundreds of dollars cause for pity? That's what I thought. Although, I'm guessing that it's not the act of gambling that necessarily led you to initially feel sorry for me. It's probably because you instantly thought that either I don't have family to hang with for the holidays or that they didn't invite me to hang with them. Fortunately, neither of those situations are true. I do have family I could theoretically break bread with, however, they live nowhere near here. Weighing my options, I reasoned that I'd rather avoid airports and high ticket prices for the holiday weekend and just go see them all some other time -- a cheaper, less annoying time. (Um, love you, family!)

However, let me assure you that I won't be gambling alone. (Although in all honesty, I don't think solo gambling on a major holiday is necessarily depressing. Sitting alone and crying is depressing, but having a good time in a casino? That's tight!) The budding Golden Touch Dice Revolution! crew travels in packs of two or more.

If you're still not convinced, then maybe this will change your opinion. Although I heart the USA, I despise traditional American holiday food. Save for the delicious pumpkin pie, I don't like turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, greenbean casseroles or most of the other "fixins." I'd much prefer (and sorry for the repeat if you didn't follow the instructions and skip directly to Section II) a literal cornucopia chock full of king crab legs at the Tropicana's Fiesta Buffet. God bless it!

Now, if you still think celebrating Thanksgiving (um, or Christmas -- Foxwoods '05) at a craps table is depressing, then, well, I'm afraid we might not ever get over our disconnect. Hate to say it but, that's more your loss that mine as I will be fleecing the casino while you're getting fat. Zing!

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

hipsters: the least annoying people in dc?

I'm about to say something that some of you might find shocking.

Ready?

Hipsters are the least annoying people in DC.

That's right. The LEAST annoying. Let's take a trip through my brain to understand how I came up with this.

I began on an extremely superficial premise that the wide majority of DC dwellers fit into one or more stereotypes, of which hipster is one. The others I came up with rather hastily include:

• Diehard Republicans;
• Diehard Democrats;
• Tourists, specifically those who travel in groups larger than two (I really mean one);
• Hill interns;
• Lawyers who hate their jobs; and
• Loud teenagers on my commute.*

Let's start by taking a closer look at two of the most popular sterotypes in DC: diehard Republicans and Democrats.

First, it's impossible to hold a conversation with someone who has a unilateral vision of the world. If you're convinced the Bush-Cheney team is the greatest there is, then you're more annoying than a hipster. If you're convinced Hillary Clinton is the only way forward, then you're more annoying than a hipster. Deal with it.

Now, on to tourists, specifically those who travel in groups.

I don't think I need to explain this one. If you're a tourist in DC, chances are you are much more annoying than a hipster. Learn to read a map and stop standing like asshats on the left side of the metro escalators.

The category of Hill interns gets slightly more complicated.

Just because you are an intern doesn't necessarily make you more annoying than a hipster. However, because the only place I'd probably ever interact with you is on the Hill, you are by default an annoyance. You're presence also reminds me that its now necessary for me to use old-lady eye creme. Therefore, you're more annoying than a hipster. Sorry.

Next up? Miserable lawyers. Or anyone who hates their job so much that it's the only thing they can talk about.

The qualifier on this one is essential. If you're a lawyer who loves what you do, then you are not automatically more annoying than a hipster (although you may be a giant tool -- JK, lawyer friends!). However, if you're a lawyer who hates your job and you love to complain about it all the f*ing time, then you are most definitely more annoying than a hipster. If you hate your job, get a new one.

Lastly, I turn to the category of loud teenagers, more specifically, those on my bus every GD morning.

It's 8:30 a.m., isn't that past first period? Shouldn't you already be in school? And if you are late, why are all your friends late with you? Speaking of you and your friends, teenagers on my bus, can you simmer down? I don't feel comfortable knowing who did what to whom or how wasted you got last night or that you hate so-and-so because she's a hooker. And also aren't you 15 years old? Your sh*t is not tight. You are so much more annoying than a hipster. Shut the f*ck up.

So, there you have it. Hipsters are the least annoying people in DC. To any hipsters that may be reading this, let's do brunch and talk about your imported Romanian record collection and admire your Flock of Seaguls' haircut.

Hott.

improve your work day

There's no getting around it -- no matter how much you love your job, the idea of working still blows, especially in DC where everything is so dang serious all the dang time. Although, come to think of it, regardless of location, working blows. Actually, obliging long periods of your time to anything blows. Long flights? They blow. Long hours in school? That blows. Long-term relationships? They really blow. (Commitment problems? What?) Extended vacations? Those...well, OK, those don't blow. But you get the idea. Responsibility inherently kind of blows. Also, using the word blow so much also blows. Sorry.

Anyway, to lessen the burden of being a responsible adult, I give to you a Web site that can provide hours of joy at work, school, home, wherever. It's called Pandora Radio and what it does is amazing. (And it's free.)

Simply type in the name of a band or song you like (e.g. Color Me Badd's "I Wanna Sex You Up") and it automatically generates an infinite playlist of songs it guesses you'd enjoy based on your original suggestion. For instance, my Color Me Badd playlist generated songs from such artists as the great Milli Vanilli, the undeniable Tevin Campell and R Kelly (he doesn't even need an adjective).

Seriously, it pretty much read my mind. It's weird. And it doesn't blow.

ground control to major douche

Throughout the course of an average person’s life, I’d venture to guess he or she makes maybe a dozen or so radical revelations. Some of the more universal of these include realizing money isn’t just magical paper or plastic that spontaneously sprouts in your parents’ pockets; realizing that your actions can and usually do affect those around you; and, realizing your carefree days of youth are gone and it’s all downhill from here (What? Is that one just me? Oh.).

These "big ideas," have the power to single-handedly alter the course of your life, helping to formulate you, "the person." However, unfortunately, some people either purposely deny these life-changing moments or stupidly misunderstand them, which, in my opinion, is how douchebags are born.

On the surface, my Theory of Douchebagism is already pretty tight. One need only superficially glance at the likes of functionally retarded Paris Hilton and greasy Brandon Davis for fairly solid conclusive evidence. They both used their heiress/heir status to gain fame, they clearly don’t realize most of their actions annoy and, in some cases, could harm those around them, and, well, while Hilton and Davis are not "old" meaning elderly, they are arguably too old to be acting like everyday is high school prom.

However, my Theory of Douchebagism does not apply solely to the rich and famous (or not-so-famous in the case of Davis). Oh no, my hypothesis suggests that this theory is universal, breaking through boundaries of age, sex and social/economic status.

Let me present for you Exhibit A:

Last week at a soiree to celebrate the golden anniversary of Sputnik (wow, I just made the grand revelation that I’m a huge dork), I met one of the creepiest, most douchey men I’ve ever come across not only in DC, but, fittingly for a space-related event, in the entire cosmos. His name? Rusty Cox. (Sadly, or awesomely, I am not making that up.)

He embodied every stereotype of "lecherous old man," however, in his mind I imagine he thought he was being "dapper older gentleman." Clearly, Rusty Cox has yet to self-realize that he is, indeed, a major douche. When you tell a joke to a girl 30 years your junior and she doesn’t laugh but gags instead because your breath smells like a cross between stale Pall Malls and general ass, the last thing you should think appropriate to do is grope her and ask her if she’s married.

Now, had Rusty Cox realized the extent of his douchiness, I assume he would have taken a step (or 10) back, assessed the situation, and left me the f*ck alone. However, my Theory of Douchebagism suggests that, like Hilton and Davis, Rusty Cox has continually failed to make the revelation that he is a douchebag of the highest order. And so Rusty Cox shall continue douching up DC and grossing out the ladies until one day, if there is a God, his douchebag status dawns on him.

***

In case you’re wondering, Rusty Cox did try to follow me out uninvited. I managed to ditch him by the coat check when I ran Forrest Gump-style straight out the front door and hid in the shadows of the bus stop until the 42 rolled up. I’d never been so happy to hop on an overcrowded public bus in my life.

the perfect secret santa gift idea, or unisex item of the day

Oh boy! It's that supremely awesome (read: awkward) time of year again when coworkers are forced by their bosses to become one with the holiday spirit and participate in the ritual of "Secret Santa" gift giving.

It's that time of year when you agonize over whether it's OK to re-gift the present you received in last year's festivities to someone else (duh, of course it is). Or in my case, it's when you accidently think out loud that some lucky fool is in for the gift of his or her life -- a super-high quality stapler I found tucked between the copier and the shelf in the supply closet. (Yep, I tend to keep it classy.)

However, I hate spoiling surprises. So, when my big mouth ruined my gift idea, I decided to come up with some (equally classy) alternatives. Here's what I found:



Unilke me, most of my coworkers live in Virginia and Maryland, where not only are they free to bear arms, but I think it might even be a requirement. In DC, on the other hand, the decision is still out on gun laws at least until Nov. 20, which is when the Supreme Court is supposed to take up the issue. But from what I understand, that brouhaha is all about tiny little handguns -- items much to puny to warrant the BackUp.

However, even if you're not the rifle-toting type, the BackUp could still prove useful. While it's tailor made to snuggle your long-barreled pistol just so, the BackUp could probably be used to store a host of emergency items. Perhaps a baseball bat for midnight clubbing? Or a baguette for midnight snacking! Or, maybe even some sticks for kindling in case you need to get a fire going on the quick. And if you get a second BackUp for the opposite side of the bed (more and more people are doing it, after all. Get with the program!), you can fill it with skewers to roast marshmallows, which clearly are already stashed for emergency purposes in your nightstand. Nothing thwarts crime better than delicious Smores.

Wow. I really should get into marketing.

taDC unisex item of the day

I just spent about an hour (yes, of my work day) trying to come up with the perfect explanation for why I chose Golden Touch Dice Control Revolution! by Frank Scoblete and "Dominator" as The Anti DC Item of the Day, but I'll be damned if words have failed me.

I could tell you that it will teach you how to use a controlled throw to win at the casino game of craps. I could tell you that it might help you if you decide to join my underground DC c-lo parlor.* I could even tell you that it might help you control your throws in Monopoly, if that's how you roll, so to speak.

But even more than simply teaching you how to "throw them bones" just so, this book is a literary masterpiece. I'll let Scoblete and Domintor illustrate that with their adept storytelling:

The great Golden Touch dice controller, Dominator, was getting the dice. There was a huge crowd, maybe 40 people around the table, 12 playing, and the others watching.

...

Oh, yes, I was nervous. I was nervous for Dominator and for Golden Touch. I wanted the people to see what we could do but I was fearful that after a long day and with the natural fluctuations in any skillful activity, we could quite frankly bomb. ...Even Babe Ruth didn't always
hit a homer on each at bat.

Was Dominator nervous? He never appears nervous. His saying about his dice control ability is simple: "Any time, any place!"

...

As the dice were passed to me for my Come-Out roll, I said one of my meaningful prayers, Please God, just let me roll a few numbers. Please, God, don't let me seven out right after establishing a point. Please, God, just don't let me make a fool of myself.

I hear a small voice in the crowd, "That's Frank Scoblete, the writer."

God, please, I just don't want to make a fool of myself.

I lofted the dice, thanking God I couldn't seven out on the Come-Out roll. And then I rolled.

Like R Kelly in his addictive Trapped in the Closet series, Scobete and Dominator also understand the intricacies the power cliffhanger. Best $11.53 I ever spent.

*And here's where I connect this post to the "DC theme" of this blog. Seriously, don't you think this city could use some good old-fashioned street gaming? Although, come to think of it, in my opinion, all cities could use a sizable dose of ad hoc underground gambling parlors.

words of wisdom

I’ve said this before (possibly in at least half of my posts) and I really can’t say it enough. The Blackberry does not belong on your belt.

But don’t take my word for it, take Arash Shirazi’s.

Who?

You know, Arash, A-Shir, Shirazizzle. He’s apparently in the music biz (yes, in DC) and one of this city’s 10 best-dressed men, according to Washingtonian magazine. He’s "classic but remixed with a little edge." What kind of edge? "I’ll wear a nice shirt and blazer with Adidas shoes." Work it, Arash!

But Mr. Shirazi hasn’t always been so gifted style-wise. He’s been through tough times, learning the hard way -- as an example for all of us -- what might be the key to not only his but also society's fashion success:

I was told to never ever wear my Blackberry on my belt. It was stolen when I was in Milan, and I thought that since it’s a city that takes fashion seriously, maybe it was deliberate. I went to the police station, and the first question everyone asked was, "Why would you wear your Blackberry on your belt?"

Be still my heart, Italians! Thank you. And see you in December.

a broken city?

On top of this city's penchant for khakis and its annoying Blackberry addiction (unfortunately, I may have to include myself in the latter category...), one of the gnarliest aspects of DC is the pavement. It’s not that the sidewalks are littered so heavily with garbage or excrement, dog or otherwise (ahh, I miss the East Village), nor are they so buckled and uneven that the surfaces are nearly impossible to walk on (ahh, I miss hobbling through Red Square in heels). No, no...none of that. At first glance the streets and sidewalks are quite clean and flat here. Perhaps, even pristine at times. But don't let superficial appearances fool you. Next time you’re out, take a closer look...it’s horrifying.


Ew. Gross. Sick. And most of all, gnarly.

There are Band-Aids plastered all over the streets here, have you noticed? I really don’t understand how and why this happens. Does some federal regulation mandate Band-Aid adhesive be less sticky in DC than elsewhere in the world? Do people not have the patience to take a careful few seconds to properly affix it to their person? Maybe the rate of Band-Aids per capita is much higher here than in other cities, making it mere statistics as to why so many adorn DC's streets?

I mean....it is really, really weird. I counted five the other day while walking from my office on the upper blocks of Connecticut Ave:

1. Outside of Gold’s gym;
2. Outside of the Subway;
3. On the stairs near the Giant;
4. A block south of Van Ness/UDC metro; and
5. On the corner of Conn. Ave and Porter St. by the 7-11.
   

Yet, lest you think these tiny strips of possibly (um, probably) diseased plastic are found only on the upper blocks of Conn. Ave, let me be the downer to inform you that, oh no my friend, the repulsiveness does not stop there. They...are...EVERYWHERE!

There was one on Mt. Pleasant St. just past what may end up being my favorite DC restaurant (not that I really want to associate this post with food of any kind) Burritos Fast. Another one on 14th Street near the CVS in Columbia Heights. One across from Union Station, heading toward the Capitol. And countless others just waiting to be spotted in Adams Morgan, Dupont Circle, and probably even Georgetown (although I can’t really say I’ve been there enough times to verify).

I'm sorry that I probably just ruined your life and that you will now be furiously searching for this most unhealthy street graffitti every step you take...every move you make...every breath you take. But these Band-Aids are probably watching you. (Hot damn! I love the Police.)

I, too, at first thought these flesh-colored stickies were just the consequence of bad summer footwear and and even worse bandage application. But, I have a newsflash for you, Walter Cronkite! (Super hot damn! I love Zoolander.) Summer’s over! SO WHAT COULD IT BE???

Perhaps this isn’t just a disgusting coincidence. Perhaps, yes, indeed, these Band-Aids are watching you. Maybe, just maybe, this Band-Aid-gate, if you will, is some kind of bizarre government experiment! Or a clever means of dispatching bugging devices around the city! Is this the Patriot Act gone Band-Aid?!

Maybe, probably, and definitely. God Bless America!

the anti dc unisex item of the day

The Old School Cell Phone a.k.a. "The Brick" a.k.a. Zack Morris' cell phone!

It's so much more awesome than the Blackberry. Just look how f*ing happy this guy is. Free of all those extra keys!

That could be you. That could be me. That could be us.

wait, wait ... you're how old again?

About three weeks ago a stranger made my day. He mistook me for a college junior. I'm 28.

"Victory!" I thought to myself (OK...and aloud). "Botox is still decades away!" (That last thought remained strictly in my head.)

For the rest of the night I was beaming from ear-to-ear just thinking about how damn youthful I must've looked all college-coed like in my weekend uniform of skinny jeans, ankle boots and T-shirt couture.*

Then I went home.

As I cleansed my mouth of the aftertaste of the night's beverages (the burn of Listerine never felt so refreshing), I looked up to admire my newly noticed youthful features. Uh...what is that...what the hell is that? A wrinkle?! I took a closer look and realized for the first time the lines that are only visible when I smile will soon be permanent. Damn it all to hell. Nascent they may be, but wrinkles they still are. Not very college-coed-like.

It was then that I realized I am probably often mistaken for being younger than I am because of my general attitude toward life, rather than my appearance. While (hopefully) I look slightly younger than "almost 30," it was probably my staunch refusal to act "almost 30" or almost 40 or 50 or 60 that led to my delightful, yet so very imaginary return to college earlier that evening.

In DC, however, I often find myself thinking people are older than they are. I've run into 20-somethings who act (and dress) middle-aged. Whether it's the old-man Dockers on 25-year-olds or the misconception that "being a grown-up" means you have to give up anything remotely non-serious in your life, including sense of humor, spontaneity and general personality, DC has found itself with a giant proverbial stick embedded in its collective ass. It's like the entire city is set in a permanent up-do upheld by two bottles of AquaNet. That sh*t won't budge.

Yet all hope is not lost. To stick with my unfortunate metaphor for one last tortured statement, hair can always be fixed (OK, I'll stop...). But seriously, there seems to be enough people in DC (and the blogs to match) that recognize the shortcomings in DC. So what the hell? Why not work together to remove the stick swiftly and permanently?

Let's start by leaving our Blackberrys at home when we go out. And if you simply must have it on your person in your free time, for the love of all things sacred, please, please, please do not adorn it to your belt unless you really are a card-carrying AARP member.

Second, let's lighten up, please. I'll freely admit I have a ragingly immature sense of humor, which falls somewhere in-between South Park and Pee-wee's Big Adventure. While I usually err on the side of inappropriate, DC can stand to laugh at itself little more. And I'm not talking only about having a chuckle about a New Yorker cartoon (although many of them are quite hilarious). No, no, let's regress a little and laugh when someone says "poop" or gets kicked in the nuts.

Lastly, let's all make DC a more liveable place by not being so ridiculous about politics. I get it, you're either red state or blue state and never the two shall meet. Well, I don't care. If you can't see that Pee-wee's antics or Mr. Hanky the Christmas Poo have the power to negate party lines, then you probably need to sit yourself down and really think about the direction your life is headed.

Let's do this, DC. Let's really do this...together.


*A term that first originated on travels through Southeast Asia, referring to any stylish item made out of cotton jersey.

the anti dc womanly item of the day

Winter-friendly velvet, perhaps? I promise, you will not miss your poly-blend slacks one bit. Or, well, I guess I won't miss having to look at your poly-blend slacks one bit.


These very un-DC velvet straight leg pants by very DC-friendly brand Lauren Ralph Lauren are $89.50 at macys.com. Not bad. Not bad at all.

the anti dc manly item of the day

FLAT FRONT pants! Seriously, it will be a whole new world for you ... and me.


These snappy trousers by Ted Baker will set you back $237 from revolveclothing.com, however, isn't worth it not to look like an a**hole?

a dc antidote.

For seven months I've kept my mouth shut about DC's more unfortunate shortcomings. For seven months I've said nothing of this city's unofficial dress code, or the fact that work ID badges are considered accessories, or even the ridiculousness that is this.

To shorten my thoughts on DC in three letters: WTF?!

Is Washington, DC, a real city? Besides the total dearth of towering architecture that composes most other American city skylines, DC also lacks a certain hipness that characterizes various neighborhoods in America's more typical urban environments. New York has Soho, the Lower East Side and Nolita; Chicago has Wicker Park and Lincoln Park; San Francisco has Haight-Ashbury and Mission.

And population is no excuse. Even smaller cities have their hotspots. For example, Minneapolis (pop. 372,811) has Uptown and Dinkytown. So, DC, with your population of 581,530, what are your stylish hoods? Dupont? Adams Morgan? Or (*gasp*) Georgetown?

A short stroll through any of the above will likely prove otherwise on the whole. However, there are certain spots in each of the aforementioned neighborhoods (well, except for Georgetown) that are passable.

Yet for each decent bar, brunch spot or boutique I find in DC, there still exists that not-so-small problem of finding a well-dressed, witty crowd to fill it. Seriously, DC, un-pop the collar, try on some flat-front pants and, for the love of God, take off your work ID when you're not f*ing working.

Help me help you, Washington. Welcome to The Anti DC.