"eye" hate life (LOL!)

Life is hard sometimes. At least it's hard when you give yourself food poisoning (last week!) or an eye infection (this week!). Basically, at 28 years old, I've very much proven in the past two weeks that I am unable to care for myself, which ultimately resulted in me once again ruining a perfectly fine weekend by f*cking up my health unnecessarily. Instead of broccoli, however, this time I blame some bad mascara*, which caused my eyes to become a red veiny mess midweek last week. Yet, instead of appropriately tending to what was probably just an allergic reaction, this dumbass decided to not only continue to wear my contact lenses, but also use the suspect mascara again. I really am an idiot.

Well, needless to say, my retardedness (and lack of glasses) got me into a bit of a sticky situation by Saturday morning (and, of course, that disgusting eye infection pun was intended!), which led me to seek a bit of medical attention. However, medical attention is harder to get than it would seem in this quaint little town of ours. Since it was around 8 a.m. on a Saturday, I couldn't simply prance off (yes, prance) to a regular doctor's office. I instead had to find one of those "Urgent Care" facilities that aren't quite clinics and not quite emergency rooms. Turns out, however, that the closest Urgent Care office is located in effing Arlington. What?!

Yep, short of going to the emergency room, DC proper does not boast an Urgent Care facility. First, I can't get a decent haircut, and now I can't even get prescription-strength eye-drops without skipping town. Seriously, how is this not only supposedly a "major city," but also the presumable Capital of the Goddamn Free World? Even more awesome, this out-of-state Urgent Care facility isn't even metro accessible, which means on top of my ridiculously high co-pay, I also had to shell out nearly $40 in cab fares! That's rich!

But even worse than nearly blinding myself and having a not-so-excellent adventure in Gnarlington (LOL!), I missed the Ghostland Observatory show at the 9:30 Club -- a concert I'd been looking forward to for months. At one point, I even considered donning an eye-patch (which I would've bedazzled to match my outfit, of course) and heading out. However, "seeing" (ha!) as though I'm not even a big enough bitch to actively spread pink eye just so I could experience a concert with no peripheral vision, I decided against it. Karma is a killer, after all.

Anyway, on a happier note, my eye is quickly rebounding and hopefully I've learned another lesson to add to last week's gem of "Don't eat spoiled food." -- "Don't ever repeatedly use a product that irritates your eyes." Oh, and, "Buy a f*cking pair of glasses." Or I guess, maybe, "Move to a city where medical treatment is accessible." Whichever.

*For those who care about mascara, I DO NOT recommend L'Oreal Telescopic. I don't know what ophthamologist tested this sh*t, but in my experience, this grouping of chemicals is lethal. And honestly, besides irritating the capital "F" out of my poor eyes, it applied horribly. Never again.

the feds hate love

Whenever I'm pressed for blog topics or just feeling a little uninspired from the normal hullaballoo that I come across each day, I turn to the Department of Homeland Security to mock. Really, you can't go wrong, especially when you narrow it down to its Customs and Border Protection unit. CBP's press releases are pure gold, if by "gold," of course, I actually mean "retarded," which you know I do.

Take for instance a press release from last week entitled, Philadelphia CBP Officers Seize 42 Bottles of 'Love Potion.' It's already hard not to LOL, if you will, at the title alone. But then...but then you read the text, which contains this gem of wisdom:

"It is illegal to bring unknown drugs into the country and this purported 'Love
Potion' is inadmissible," said Edward Moriarty, CBP Assistant Port Director for
Passenger Operations in Philadelphia. "I suppose this couple may have to find
another way to ignite their passion for each other."

This Moriarty fellow is one sassy bitch!

By the way, here's a photo of the heroin Love Potion. It's pretty sexy. I just wish instead of a dollar bill, they used a condom package as a means of size comparison. That'd have been funnier. Whoa. Is there a hidden pun there? I think so!

But it's under 4 ounces and in a ziploc bag!

get off the internet thursday: inauguratory edition

The world's greatest mega-mustachioed aphorist, Friedrich Nietzsche, once taught me, "Out of chaos comes order." And so, with that in mind, I present to you what I hope will become a regular feature: Get Off the Internet Thursday.

In this feature, The Anti DC will set aside its patented polemical essays in favor of making actual, possibly useful (*gasp!*) suggestions for you and yours to make life easier here in hell, er, DC. That is, instead of just complaining, albeit creatively, about sh*tty clubs or the prevalence of loose fitting pants in this town, this lil' blog will attempt to provide some solutions by suggesting a few spots and activities to check out that don't suck a lot of ass (you know I've gotta keep in eloquent here).

Anyway, while I understand my suggestions may get tiresome since I only have about five at the moment, I hope to jump on the proverbial blogwagon and invite others to provide a few suggestions of their own. That means, if you feel you've got the chops keyboard to type a few hilariously entertaining suggestions for public consumption, drop me an e-line and let's get this party guest blog feature started right.

But, because I didn't plan this new, super-tight feature until, um, right now, in place of someone else's insight, I'll just rehash for you my own. And so, without further explanation, I present to you the very first Get Off the Internet Thursday: The Anti DC Edition. (Bask in the history that's being made right effing now, my e-friends. Bask.)

Well, hello! It's Marissa here of The Anti DC (wow, this isn't lame at all). We all know DC is my own personal hell, but once in a tapered pant, I find something that I not only tolerate, but actually like. So, get off the goddamn interweb (after, of course, you read through all my archives and forward them to everyone you know) and check out some of these most un-DC of DC haunts that I've come to regard as my totes faves.

1. Saint-Ex. This is probably my favorite bar in DC, despite that I've been here maybe just four times or so. And yes, it's starting to attract a greater contingent of douchebags and tools on the weekends (as is everything on U Street), but this place still has a ton to offer, not least of which are their martinis. I swear they somehow manage to pack extra liquor in them. Bizarre. But in all honesty, the "scene," if I may, is laid-back, but not in that annoying Irish-pub way. It's a chillax bar with well-priced cocktails (or beer) and boasts a crowd that (mostly) won't hit on you by bragging about how they can get you free drinks at the "hottest club in Bethesda." Oh, and there's also dancing in the basement. I love dancing.

2. Electroganic. Keeping with the dance theme, a DJ friend of mine recently invited me to attend what is going to be a regular event in The District -- Electroganic. According to one of the organizers and DJs, v:shal kanwar, these events will be held every month or so at Bohemian Caverns (also near U Street) and other larger yet-to-be-named venues. At the first and most recent Electroganic party, they imported DJs and gathered some of the best local talent to spin actual electronic music. That is, some dumb bitch didn't just plug his iPod into the soundsystem and set his Prodigy collection to shuffle. Nope, these were legit DJs who not only cared about making sure the crowd (which was also cool) kept dancing but actually succeeded at it. In short, I almost felt like I was back in Moscow again, which for the purposes of a dance party, is a very, very good thing. The next one takes place on April 11, by the way (I'll share details as I get them). Be there or be a tool.

3. Mezè. OK, I understand (but will never really "get") that dancing isn't for everyone. But brunch is. And while there are a lot of crappy brunch spots in this town, Adams Morgan actually has a few decent options. I've singled out Rumba Cafe before for its awesomeness, but have yet to mention Mezè, which might actually be the best brunch I've had in this town. The service is quick, the food is delicious, the drinks are decent and the prices are right. (Dang, I'm hungry!) As an added bonus, this places serves Raki, an anise-based Turkish apératif that you mix with water (!). It tastes like black licorice. (Again, dang, I'm hungry!)

4. Muléh. After brunch, the only natural thing to do is spend more money. However, sometimes that's hard in DC since there's so much ugly sh*t displayed in store windows here. There is one store, however, that I gladly throw my money at -- Muléh. Not only have I gotten a pretty fantastic dress here for 75 percent off, but my friend, The Law, has snagged some nice swag here, as well, including a 3.1 Phillip Lim belt. Like Urban Outfitters, Muléh carries women's and men's apparel as well as furniture. But unlike Urban Outfitters, it's not located in Georgetown. (Phew!) Oh, um, and it's also about ten 100 times more expensive. OK, Muléh is truly only Get Off the Internet-worthy during a sale.

5. Bull Run Shooting Center. It may not be in the District, but this Virginian treasure deserves a place in my Top 5. Why? Because you get to shoot guns! Duh.

All right, who's up next??? Let me know! (PS -- Non-bloggers welcome. I'm e-looking at you, The Law.)

spring is here! dc sheds its pants! ew.

Ah yes, spring is in the air! The cherry blossoms will soon bloom (so says everyone's favorite semi-literate weatherman Topper Shutt) and I can finally drop trou and start wearing my sweet, spandex, mid-calf leggings! Yay! Oh wait, I know how to dress myself, so I take that back...

Yes, e-friends, while the dawning of warmer weather may seem like a blessing, it actually is just the beginning of a new season of dishabille DC fashion. That is, along with the 60-plus-degree days, leggings will soon begin to fill DC's streets. It'll be like 1,000 Lindsay Lohans prancing around except in place or her sharp accessorizing will be the additions of Hoya sweatshirts and Uggs.

I can see your cellulite and that is not tight. (Literally! LOL!)

Why?! Why don't people realize that leggings are unflattering on 99 percent of the population?! Even pictured above on Ms. Lohan, who is pretty fit, the leggings make her look a little chubby. They're also slightly see-through, making it look like the bitch just forgot to put the lower half of her ensemble on.

But at least Drinky McNicotinePatch opts for full-length leggings, which (in certain situations on the right person model) can look very chic (see designers Rag & Bone, Alexander McQueen and Amanda Wakeley). Ankle-length leggings aside, the real problem here is the prevelance of capri-length leggings:

Barf. I should not be posting this just after lunch...

Honestly, it doesn't get much worse than what I so graciously posted above for you. And I wouldn't be shocked to see an ugly-patterned, probably baby-doll top, a pair of lace-embellished short leggings and some hideous platform strappy silver sandals on the streets of DC. This city cannot dress itself. I don't care what anybody tries to say otherwise. I believe what I see and what I see is unnecessarily ugly people.

So, please, for the love of all things full-length, please, please do not step out of your apartment in leggings, unless, of course, you're an ectomorphic underweight model, then not only can you get away with wearing the simulacrum of pants, but hell, you could probably get away with wearing no pants at all. But for the other 99 percent of the population, I don't care if you're just "on your way to the gym," "going to the grocery store," or "off to play a quick game of street dice," DO NOT REPLACE YOUR PANTS WITH LEGGINGS. THEY ARE NOT THE SAME!

Sure, go ahead and replace your tights with leggings in the warmer months. Fine. I'll give you that. But for all other purposes, just, um, KEEP YOUR PANTS ON. Thx :)

PS -- Someone at The Express loves me. I'm in their Blog Log again!

dc rents are ridiculous, or where is my big gulp?!

As my one-year anniversary of living in lovely, retardulous Washington, DC, quickly approaches, I'm faced with a fairly major decision. Should I move? Oh no! Of course I don't mean move to a different city (my work here is not even close to done), I mean should I move to a different apartment.

See, under DC law, my rent is slated to go up 5 percent come May, which means I'd be paying over $1,000 a month (plus utilities) to live in a studio the size of a Super 8 motel room. Zoinks!

And while I don't mind Super 8-sized rooms, it can get a little clausterphobic if that's the only room you've got. OK, I also have a bathroom, which, again matches that found in a Super 8. It's nothing special, but it's clean and I get decent water pressure. I'm wondering, however, am I getting ripped off? Can my $1,000+ per month stretch to pay for, say, the luxuries of a Holiday Inn Express in DC?

Sadly, after a quick perusal of Craigslist, it seems I may actually be getting a good deal. With keyword parameters limiting my search to my current neighborhood, Columbia Heights, and capping my price limit at $1,050, I found that my only choice if I want to move to a bigger place and still live alone is to move to a basement. Oh, I'm sorry, I mean "English basement." Now what's the difference between a regular American basement and a special English basement? Accomodations wise, I have no clue, but the former is clearly more patriotic than the latter, meaning I'll see "English basements" in hell (USA!). Moving on...

I tried to check the roommates section, but honestly, the idea of moving in with a stranger via Craigslist (even though I did it successfully in Manhattan) makes me a little nervous, especially after nearly a year of living alone. I mean, would I have to start wearing pants around the house again? That's just not for me.

And so, I think I'm resigned to keep my Super 8 lifestyle for at least another year, which I must say makes me a little angry. I mean, seriously, DC is not Manhattan. Hell, DC isn't even Boston. So when I see the rents here edging up closer to the rents in those cities, it quite honestly makes me angry. (For the record, a 2005 survey ranked Washington, DC, the ninth most expensive place to rent an apartment. It's more expensive than Chicago, Minneapolis, Miami, Austin and Seattle, which are all arguably objectively much cooler cities than DC.) Seriously, what the f*ck are we paying so much money for here? The hot nightlife? Um... The spectacular shopping? Uh... Well, then what about the convenience of a well-stocked corner store? I wish! Seriously, can someone please explain to me why it's so hard to find a goddamn Big Gulp on 16th Street? Is this a major city or not!?

So basically, we're paying ridiculous rents for sh*tty apartments so we can be near others also paying ridiculous rents for sh*tty apartments. (Conclusion: Whoever was in charge of zoning in DC was an idiot.)

The rental market here truly makes no sense. Unlike New York and Boston, there isn't a housing shortage here, so there is no excuse for prices to be going up. I should probably just buy. Oh, wait! Thanks to the Feds' meddling and George Bush's being "on top of" the economy, I can't! Several of the buildings I was thinking about purchasing into have now been reslated to become rental units. Yay! More apartments I can't afford!

I think the lesson to be learned here is that I need to start a pyramid scheme. Who's with me?

Anyway, on a very quick and very different note, my little McLaughlin Group post has been singled out for its awesomeness again, this time by Washington City Paper. Now if only I got paid for that. Dammit.

and now i shall infiltrate the print media

It really was inevitable. Not only are my sick and twisted thoughts creeping into other people's blogs, but now they're also slithering into legit print publications. Apparently, I'm quoted in today's Express, according to a friend of mine. Oh boy!

And since I'm pretty sure I have E. coli right now, thanks to the questionable status of some broccoli I consumed last night (it was the last edible solid in my fridge), I'm pretty much too busy curled up in the fetal position and crying to venture out to get a copy. I'm told, however, that the blurb is on Page 32 in the Blog Log section and pertains to my post about my Sunday morning obsession, The McLaughlin Group.

OK, I'm going to go back to crying now. And puking! (TMI? Deal with it.) I will see you in hell, broccoli!

accidental comic gold

One of my favorite Sunday morning rituals is watching The McLaughlin Group.* Not only is this show the ultimate circus in political discussions, featuring the half-retarded musings of Pat Buchanan, Eleanor Clift and, of course, the ringmaster himself, John McLaughlin, but the topics this motley crew often chooses to discuss are mindblowingly ridiculous. For instance, take this morning's first discussion topic: Who would Jesus vote for?

I'm dead serious. WWJVF? The panel couldn't answer so they moved on to the next logical question: Would Jesus support the death penalty? Again, I'm dead serious (pun intended!). WJSTDP? While McLaughlin argued no, Buchanan, who later in the program condemned some Catholic priests for being "involved in that gay stuff," said Jesus would 100 percent flip the switch. Um... (Pat Buchanan is nuts!)

But honestly, who the hell knows what the f*ck Jesus would do (WTHKWTFJWD?), which is why The McLaughlin Group is so damn entertaining. It's like watching someone repeatedly step on a rake and having it rise up to slap him in the face over and over again. You know exactly what's coming, you've seen it before, but it doesn't stop being funny. Pure comic genius.

And as I just found out through a quick Interweb search, I'm not the only one inspired by this level of hilarity. So is "Party Hard" singer Andrew WK, who recently wrote a song inspired by actual dialogue from a previous McLaughlin Group discussion. I hope this is just the beginning of what will become an entire album inspired my McLaughlin Group dialogue.



*Yes, I am a dork. And Happy Easter.

taking over the world wide net one blog at a time

Considering what I wrote yesterday will probably lead to me being unemployed soon (whoops!), I think it's high time I start honing my freelance skills. And while I'll always strive to improve my hustle (as Ol' Dirty Bastard once advised, "You know my name, now give me my money!"), I'm usually up for lending my services in exchange for a compliment and a link. Yeah, I'm cheap.

And so, let the great collaborations commence!

That's right, e-friends, my reach now goes beyond The Anti DC and has infiltrated one of DC's best music blogs, The Vinyl District, where I was invited to be this week's guest deejay for Weekend Shots!


Yep, The Anti DC does The Vinyl District. Wow, that sounded way dirtier than I had intended. Anyhoo, click on over to discover just what kind of mixtape I created for you as well as a rather embarrassing (or awesome, depending on your point of view) tale from my past. Here's a hint: French Whore. Au revoir!

And in case you'd like to copy and paste: http://vinyldistrict.blogspot.com/2008/03/tvds-weekend-shots_21.html

and now i will very offensively explain why you hate your job

OK, so I've established that DC sucks on numerous levels -- the fashion, nightlife, architecture, and life at large, it all blows. But one thing I haven't fully bitched about yet is its workforce, which is by far the most depressed group I think I've ever collectively encountered. Think about it. How many DC residents do you know who absolutely *love* their jobs? I honestly don't know any. Sure, I know people who *like* their particular job or *love* what they do as a profession or craft, but most people are either tolerating their current professional positions or teetering on the edge of postal oblivion.

And because I'm a narcissist, I'll use myself as Exhibit A. I fall into two categories: I *love* my profession (writing is my cocaine), but I must admit I'm not in love with my particular position. In fact, there have been at least a set of fingers worth of times that I've wanted to stage a one-woman walkout. See, I may adore the written word, but I dislike writing about what my current professional beat has me covering. To keep it vague (ahem, for professional purposes, of course), I'll just say that I cover the shenanigans of what some say is a useless conglomerate of the U.S. government. (I'd give you a cookie if you guessed correctly to which department I'm referring, but I think I just made that too easy.) Anyway, the point is, like a lot of DC dwellers, I often find myself professionally frustrated.

At first, I thought maybe it was the subject matter that I hated. And, I admit, when I started writing about the brand of shambles churned out by this piece of the federal government, I loathed it. It had nothing to do with my academic background or my personal interests. In fact, I philosophically disagreed that this department ever should've been created. But while I still don't believe there is any value-add from this federal conglomerate, I have grown slightly more interested in the subject matter. It's kind of amazing (in the most depressing of ways, of course) to discover the kinds of programs over one-third of my paycheck has helped fund each month. So if it's not the actually work, per se, that makes me want to quit my job, then what is it?

That question is galactically easier to ask than it is to answer because, in all honesty, I don't think there is one single point besides my sheer ambition to become the most famous writer in the world (bwa-ha-ha!) that is the cause of my current professional strife. Instead, I think there are several sh*teous points. And by points, I mean other people (oh, you knew that was coming).

To accomplish anything that involves the government you have to deal with a lot of other people. For instance, just the other day I was pursuing a story about [REDACTED] because clearly this [REDACTED] piece of [REDACTED] is costing us [REDACTED] and the dumbass Secretary of [REDACTED] needs to realize that his bullsh*t [REDACTED] is probably actually making it easier for the terrorists whoops, I mean [REDACTED] to win. Anyway, in order to report on this story, I needed to contact the press office at the department I cover. And that's where my main qualms with my job begin and end.

Dealing with other people who hate their jobs (and I mean really, really hate their jobs) is a downer. I get that the U.S. government is not the most open these days when it comes to dealing with reporters, but seriously, you don't have to be purposely rude. And it would also help if you tried, you know, to do your job. Don't say you'll call me back right away with the information I need and then not do it. Don't promise to give me a scoop and then not do it. And for the love of your ill-fitting suits and rumpled dress shirts, please please don't make a face-to-face appointment with me and then mysteriously go off-the-grid for the two hours we were supposed to meet while I stand waiting in your lobby getting eyeballed by the security guard, who may or may not be ready to taze me just because he's bored. All that sh*t is not tight.

That kind of behavior is inexcusable to me. And, honestly, I think I'm giving salty government employees the benefit of the doubt here by portraying them as assholes rather than indolent incompetents. (Consider that a gift, government friends!) But for reals, I've conducted interviews, pursued stories and written extensively on various subjects in the past and never has it been so difficult to collect facts. While I'm sure there are exceptions, U.S. government employees for the most part are quarter- and mid-life curmudgeons. I don't get it.

OK, I do get it. Government employees are working for the U.S. government after all and, well, I know that amount of bureaucracy and protocol does not make for an enjoyable workplace (unless you're a major tool and you like that sort of thing), but their bad attitudes create such an unwelcoming environment that it makes me hate what I do. Not because I don't want to do it (like I said, I love to write), but because without adequate facts and information, I literally can't do my job and that's what makes it suck.

And while all my sh*teous experiences may sound specific just to the writing field, they're really not. In fact, I'm willing to bet good money (that I'd otherwise use to front a rousing game of street dice) that each and every one of you has had a similar experience, especially if you work in or with the U.S. government. But even outside of the U.S. government, other people's hatred of their jobs will make you hate yours too. Think about it. It doesn't matter if you work in the private or public sector. If those with whom you're forced to interact aren't pleasant, personable or, at least, entertaining, chances are it will affect how you view your job.

The biggest problem with DC, it seems, is that so much business revolves around the U.S. government that it creates this sort of succubus that violates nearly everything inside and even sometimes outside of the Beltway. And while it may seem harsh to equate DC's collective workforce with a she-demon who'll rape you in your sleep, that's kind of how it is. There's no easy way to escape it.

But, as they say, one man's rape is another one's good time (yep, that's a rape joke, my friends!) so I guess it's possible to look on the proverbial bright side. Besides, apart from diamonds, nothing lasts forever. Even your and my sh*tty jobs.

topper shutt's blog...written by a 5-year-old?

I'm hoping everyone that lives in or around Washington, DC, knows exactly who Topper Shutt is. Besides boasting the waspiest of waspy names, ol' Topper is DC's favorite weatherman. Wait...what? Topper Effing Shutt is DC's favorite weatherman? Favorite weathercreeper maybe, but legitimate weatherman? I don't buy it.

OK, so I don't have a problem necessarily with his weathercast. In fact, he's correctly told me on several occasions whether I'll need to rock one of my Dorothy Zbornak-style "homeless chic" cardigans or whether I'd be more comfortable with a little Blanche Deveraux "slutty chic" T-shirt couture. But informing me which Golden Girl I should dress like on any given day is still no excuse for the shenanigans of one Topper Shutt. No sir! Not when Topper Shutt has access to the Internetz!

Yes, I dislike Topper Shutt because of his blog.

Actually, it's not even his blog, which has some interesting information stuck in it, that I hate. It's his writing style. It sucks. Honestly, not to toot my own horn (f*ck it, toot toot!), but I think I wrote more complex sentences when I was in second grade than Topper Shutt does at the ripe old age of 45 (that age is a complete guess by the way -- Google can't do it all). But regardless of Topper Shutt's exact age, the fact that he presumably passed through elementary school should allow him to form more interesting sentences than, well, these:

The Vernal Equinox occurs tonight at 1:48 in the morning. This marks the beginning of astronomical spring. The sun is directly over the equator making it equal day and night for each hemisphere. We go into spring while the southern hemisphere heads into fall.

Seriously, is it too much to ask that Topper Shutt, who is in the news profession for Christ's sake, be a more interesting writer? Or at least use the correct verb tense? I mean, it's not that hard! Topper Shutt, if you're out there, just take a look at what I did here:

The Vernal Equinox, which marks the beginning of astronomical spring, will occur tonight at 1:48 in the morning. At this time, the sun will be directly over the equator and will cast equal amounts of day and night on each hemisphere. However, while we'll head into spring, the southern hemisphere will head into fall.

Did you see what I did there, Topper Shutt? Did you? I took your writing skill from a first-grade level to a solid sixth-grade level. Live and learn, Shutt, live and learn. See you tonight at 11!

oh...my...god...not the deadly knitting grannies!

Thank goodness for the Department of Homeland Security! I mean, these clowns save us on planes every day by making us take off our shoes and only carry four ounces or less of shampoo and conditioner. They save us by building crappy expensive fences to keep out those wily Mexicans who keep stealing our jobs that we refuse to take! And, of course, I'd be remiss not to point out how they're saving us from ourselves each and every day by pushing through with the shambles that is the REAL ID program, a project that pretty much does nothing but raise our taxes, oh, and sets up the perfect storm for mass identity theft. (But who needs tax money to fund such piddly things such as our international intelligence services that may actually *help* defend against "the terrorists." Oh wait, to do that they'd have to actually gather correct information. Eh.)

And today, my e-friends, Big Brother the government has taken yet another glorious step to save us from the biggest threat of all. Al-Queda? No. North Korea? Not it. Iranian nuclear ambitions? Of course not. No, my fellow comrades citizens, they're saving us from the "Granny Peace Brigade Knit-in!"

According to a DHS press release circulated today, these so-called "Grannies" (read: Terrorists) are planning a (*gasp*) sit-in tomorrow at noon outside the Veterans Affairs office at 810 Vermont Ave., NW. And although 80-year-old ladies armed with yarn and a couple of knitting needles certainly leads me to assume a bit of Clockwork Orange-style ultra violence will ensue, DHS wants you all to breath slightly easier: "Violence is not likely and there should be minimal disruptions to routine activities." Violence is not likely my ass!

Interestingly, of the other nine terrorist organizations protest groups slated to do their thing tomorrow, which happens to be the 5-Year Anniversary of the start of the Iraq War [*cue streamers and balloons!*], DHS attached the word "violence" to only one other group -- "Disrupt the War Profiteers," a student group that rallies against large corporations like ExxonMobil, Halliburton, and Lockheed Martin.

My money's on the Grannies for throwing the first punch. Take 'em down! And, if it's not too much trouble, I could use another pair of fingerless gloves. Thx!

they're just pants, why not give 'em a chance?!

Once upon a time there was a girl. She wore pants. But not just any pants. These were magical, mirthful pants made of the exotic matierals of, um, cotton (oooh!) and spandex (ahhh!).

Wow!

And when she wore them, they caused quite the stir amongst the townsfolk. The masses couldn't wrap their minds around how such lovely pants came to be! Most just watched in awe (or horror). Others decided to inquire about them with the pants' owner ("Are those leggings? What are those?!"). And some even tried to become one with the pants to understand them better.

"Um, can I help you?" asked the owner of the pants.

"Oh. Sorry, I didn't meant to grab your ankle. I was just trying to touch
your pants," said the woman to her right.

"What?"

"I just wanted to touch your pants."

Creepy? Yes. Understandable? Also yes. I mean, they are pretty sharp pants, after all. However, unlike the above-quoted creeper, not everyone appreciated this girl's lower half. In fact, some attempted to sass her and her lovely pants.

"Excuse me, I didn't mean to trip over you or your New York-style pants," snapped the boy in the Bad Brains T-shirt.

"Actually, I bought these in DC, believe it or not," said the girl.

"Yeah, but they're fancy New York-style pants. Not the kind of
pants we see around here."

"Well, son, consider this a gift then."

But he didn't. He continued to go about his business in his dull-colored, baggy-ankled, droopy khakis. So did the rest of the crowd. And then the girl left the frat party...in Virginia. The End.

DISCLAIMER

This story was based on true events. During the course of one night at a house-party featuring the sophisticated activities of Beer Pong, Quarters and something called "Spin the Fan," my pants got singled out for comment three times, felt-up once and outright sassed once. To make the story even more absurd, I will reveal that the pants in question (pictured above) were nothing but totally un-exotic. I purchased them at Urban Outfitters in Georgetown not more than three weeks ago. (Can you even get more un-"New York" than that?) Oh Virginia, open your minds to my pants! What did my pants ever do to you? I mean, besides being so deadly awesome that they quite possible gave you an arrythmia. But other than that, what? WHAT?!

party like it's 1999...in hell.

DC's nightlife "scene" rarely varies from barely tolerable to predictably mediocre. However, once in a while you'll come across an outlier, meaning you'll either have an exceptionally good night or an exceptionally bad. And while I have experienced a handful of the former, the latter seems to be much more common in DC. That is, at a DC "club," you're more likely to find yourself stuck in an overcrowded cess pool featuring the deadly universal clubbing trifecta of cheesy '90s R&B, bottles of Depp styling gel and sequined baby-doll tops on women who've been hittin' the Nutter Butters a little too hard. Well, my e-friends, mein eyes hath seen that dark side at a little lame lounge called Play.

To put it bluntly (and you should know I'd put it no other way), if there is a hell on Earth, Play is it.

Imagine a club you'd see on Beverly Hills 90210 back in the day. Now, exchange David Silver for an even bigger douche and clone him. Then clone his clones. Then clone his clones' clones. Then douse them all in Axe body spray. Then have these clones in all their Axe Effect glory think the key to a lady's heart is to sneak up behind her and attempt to paw her crotch.

Sadly, in Play, the majority of the females didn't respond with a resounding, "Hands off the goods, greasers!" Instead, they happily accepted these douches' dry humps as suitable methods of introduction. But then again, to make a snap superficial judgment (and you should know I'd judge in no other way), perhaps there's no more appropriate way for Sir Hairgel McAquanet to introduce himself to Lady Pushupbra Von Stripperpoll than by simply going for the goodies straight away. Especially when those sweet gestures are backdropped by the sounds of Color Me Badd amateurly spliced with five-second snippets of Prince's "1999," The Jackson Five's "ABC" and Will Smith's "Gettin' Jiggy With It."

And while I think my above description is pretty spot on as far as allowing you to imagine the supreme lameness that is Play, the club's Web site does an even better job. For the full effect, please have your sound up.

Now, I hope you're asking yourself why of all the hells that exist in DC did I choose to waste my Saturday night at this one. Well, I will gladly inform you that this was NOT my idea, nor was it one of my friends' ideas. Without getting too specific, I'll just say a friend and I got suckered into paying $10 each to experience this brand of shambles by some friends of friends. (Oh yeah, did I forget to mention that you have to pay a cover to experience all the bridge'n'tunnel retardulousness that is Play? Not tight.)

But even worse than the crotch-pawing and cover, was the ubiquitous presence of cameras at Play -- a sure signifier of the lameness factor of any club. I'm not even exaggerating when I say one out of every three people at Play had a digital camera in hand, meaning either Play attracts a huge contingent of tourists or it was everyone's "big night out" for the year. Regardless of the reason (since both are equally sucky), it was hard to avoid the flashes. I can only hope to Dylan McCay that if by ill chance my visage somehow was captured in megapixels, I'm in the background doing the Roger Rabbit, the Cabbage Patch or the Robot. Yeah, I boast some pretty tight moves when I'm forced to dance to sh*tty remixes of "Living in the '90s" Vols. 1 and 2.

Anyway, in summary, NEVER AGAIN.

On the other hand, Friday night was awesome. DC needs more things like this.

where there's smoke, there's hitchhiking

While walking home from the salaried job Wednesday evening, I came across a crime scene. I approached the yellow police tape after stopping by Target to pick up a few items (twice in one week!) and asked what happened. The policeman guarding the scene didn't say much besides telling me that, my 12-pack of toilet paper and laundry soap were to go nowhere.

"How long will the wait be?" I asked.

"As long as it takes," he replied.

Well, at least if I needed to take a whiz, I was well prepared. (Yeah, I totally just said that.)

So, I waited. As others approached, though, I began to find out what was going on. Apparently, someone got shot in the face on a bus in broad daylight. Not tight. However, when I tried to research crimes going on in Columbia Heights around 5 p.m. on March 12, I couldn't find anything about a shooting...so I don't know how accurate this is. Regardless, though, it was nice of the cop to just let us think someone got shot in the face on a bus in broad daylight. Ace work, buddy!

Anyway, thinking that would be my sole encounter with police tape this week, I went home, made a toilet paper nest and curled up for a nap. (Um, just kidding about that toilet paper nest...or am I?! I got the quilted!)

But, as with most things in life, I would soon find out I was wrong.

My Thursday morning started at 4 a.m. when a slew of sirens disturbed my sweet, sweet slumber (in that toilet-paper nest). And while I hear sirens quite often in my head due to living on one of Washington's main streets, something about these sirens was different. Mainly, they didn't stop. So, I peeked out my window. There were hoses and a couple of firetrucks strewn about the street.

"Is my building on fire?" I thought. But having not seen a flood of people on the street, I decided it probably wasn't and went back to bed. Sleep first, safety second.

Luckily for me, I was right. It wasn't my building that hosted the zillion-alarm fire, but a building about 2 blocks away*, which is where I ran into the second coming of the yellow police tape.

"I guess I won't be taking the bus today," I thought, as I began to walk.

When I finally reached the edge of Rock Creek Park, where the residences end and a vast, bus-stopless stretch of road begins, I ran into the mob. There were about 30 or so people waiting for an alternate bus. Some tried to flag down cabs, but this being DC, the cabs just kept going. (God forbid they do their job.) I waited for a few minutes before remembering I had workable legs, so I decided to just walk another 25 minutes to get to my office. Little did I know, however, that I would miss all the action -- all the Third World action, that is!

Apparently, after a while, when the bus didn't come (of course it didn't!), people started getting restless. And with no cabs, people began to get desperate -- so desperate, in fact, that their eyes must have exuded despair and desperation. Then something magical began to happen. According to a man I met while waiting for the bus to come home later that day, people began to hitchhike!

He relayed that he got a ride across Rock Creek Park that morning by some HVAC repairmen in a rusty white van! He told me one woman hopped into a random Toyota, another got into a shiny Saturn, and even more people piled into other vehicles! In this time of crisis, DC dropped its uptight, First-World distrust of others, and started hopping into gypsy cabs, a practice that's standard in the developing world!

"It was kind of cool," the man at the bus stop told me later that day. "Actually, it was really cool."

Indeed, my bus-stop friend, indeed. I can't believe I missed it. I love a good gypsy cab ride. Now, if only we could make it last forever. However, short of rampant arson, I don't think it will. I mean, even I'm not crazy enough to start burning down homes to make DC cooler. Maybe if I just hop in unlocked cars as they stop at stoplights? That could work. Well, until I get pistol-whipped by someone who didn't readily give up their illegal firearms to the cops...dammit.

*By the way, to donate goods, clothes, food, etc., to those who lost their homes in the blaze, you can drop stuff off at Pfeiffer's Hardware located at 3219 Mount Pleasant St.

tonite DC's female population will cry itself to sleep

I'm sorry ecstatic to be the bearer of bad awesome news, but, um, I have something to tell you, DC's female population. Oh, this is so hard easy for me to say:

The value of Ann Taylor stocks is dropping quicker than Elliot Spitzer's pants at the Mayflower (wah, waaaah!).

According to a Bloomberg article, the company, "geared toward [dishabille] women 25 (LOL!) to 55," experienced a net loss of $6.67 million or 11 cents a share in its fourth-quarter after announcing 13 percent of head-office positions would be cut and 117 stores would close (hallelujah!).

"AnnTaylor is in the most competitive sector of retail,'' David Abella, some rich investor betting on your bad taste, told Bloomberg. He added, it "also happens to be the weakest.'' This rich bitch then proceded to sell his AnnTaylor shares. Snap!

So what does this all mean? Well, for one, it means if you own Ann Taylor stock, your investment portfolio is suffering. (Although, really, if you own any stock, it means your investment portfolio is suffering. Need I remind you that the once dominant currency of the Free World fell to a RECORD LOW yesterday against the sexier, more stylish Euro. *cue electronic music*) And two, it hopefully means more Ann Taylor stores will close as their profits continue to plummet.

In conclusion, I'm sorry glad, DC women, that your go-to store for gnarly apparel is on the brink of destruction. But perhaps this is just the proverbial kick-in-the-ass many young DC females need to stop dressing like middle-aged assholes. Just a thought...

are you not entertained?!

The word "hooker" is no stranger to this blog. In fact, a cursory glance at some of my past entries reveals that I've dropped the H-bomb on at least half-a-dozen occasions. So, when I didn't immediately blog about the Elliot Spitzer debacle, some one of you began to question my adherence to what apparently is one of the ongoing leit motifs, if you will, of The Anti DC -- strumpets.

So here I am, forced by the masses my friend Tom to give you my opinion on Spitzer's downfall. I could write something about him being a hypocrite of epic proportions; I could write about how he alienated his friends and family; I could write about his poor wife who has chosen to stand idiotically by his side instead of filing for divorce, kicking him out of their deluxe apartment in the sky and fleecing him for all he's worth; or I could even write about the fact that the infamous night in question went down in DC's most hooker-friendly hotel, the historic Mayflower. But all of that doesn't really interest me.

What I find most interesting about this whole Spitzer affair is the fact that he dropped thousands of dollars on this woman, Ashley Alexandra Dupre. Now, I'm not sexually attracted to women, so maybe I'm simply not seeing something that straight men and lesbians see, but, um, if I was to pay $4,300 for a prostitute, let's just say I'd expect the girl to look a little less Jersey and a little more Manhattan (um, no offense?).

However, like I said, I'm not a straight man or a lesbian and I'm certainly no Elliot Spitzer (I don't look nearly enough like the human version of Grover to relate), so maybe my man-loving eye is missing the thousand-dollar appeal here.

H is for Hooker!

But aside from Client No. 9's bridge'n'tunnel tastes, I admit the only other aspect of this whole situation that I feel necessary to comment on is the fact that Spitzer's replacement, Lt. Gov. David Paterson, is legally blind, which means the looks of his thousand-dollar hookers will really be something to talk about. (Oh no she didn't! Oh yes I did!)

UPDATE: Wonkette scooped me, comparing Spitzer to a slightly different breed of puppet -- a muppet. Touche, Wonkette. Touche.

yes, cops, please search and seize my property!

I'm no genius. If I was, I'd have figured out a way to make money off of the ridiculous amount of time I devote to this blog. Or, I'd remember to put my frozen goods into the freezer when I return from the grocery store instead of letting them sit overnight on the counter. I also wouldn't have splattered candle wax all over my wall just now (don't ask). Basically, I'm an idiot.

But despite my apparent need for adult supervision at the age of 28, I still manage to be smarter (and more ethical) than DC's city government. Take, for instance, this ingenious new anti-gun'n'drug plan, which seems to have been pulled directly out of the butts of Mayor Adrian Fenty and Police Chief Cathy Lanier. It's just that fresh.

Anyway, in this threefold plan, first police will go door-to-door asking to search people's homes. If someone actually agrees and the cops find guns'n'drugs, the police will take 'em. Lastly, once the police steal any found guns'n'drugs, the owners of said criminal items won't be arrested.

"If we come across illegal contraband, we will confiscate it," Lanier told the Washington Post. "But amnesty means amnesty. We're trying to get guns and drugs off the street."

Now, I'm not exactly sure how people who keep illegal guns'n'drugs feel about having the 5-o ransack their houses voluntarily, but allow me to postulate a scenario:

*knock-knock*

"Who's there?"

"The cops."

"The cops, who?"

"The cops who are here to look through your sh*t and take it."

"LOL! Good one!"

Seriously, what armed drug dealer in his or her right mind would actually invite the cops in as if it were some kind of f*cking tea party? I get that "amnesty" is supposed to be the bargaining chip in this situation, but it seems highly unlikely that on a random whim, keepers of illegal guns'n'drugs would interrupt their Days of Our Lives viewing schedules (because I'm sure they all care that Rolf is back) to give up their most prized and addictive criminal possessions. I mean, if those "no questions asked" guns-for-money programs don't seem to work, what makes the DC city government think this retardulous guns-for-nothing program will work? Just sayin'...

Meanwhile, I think my oven's been on for two days.

the circle of asshatness

Believe it or not, beneath all of the spectacular circuitry and wires that make up The Anti DC, there is a trace of humanity. So when I read this, this, this and, most poignantly, this in Sunday's, yesterday's and today's Washington Post, I began to question my decision to buy one of the many so fresh and so clean condos popping up in some of DC's not-so-fresh, nor-so-clean areas.

I'd love to buy, say, in Dupont or in the booming U Street area, but since I'm poor (relatively), I'm looking more toward the eastern edge of Shaw and Bloomingdale -- both areas, which I'm betting on, will be less drug-peddling and more overpriced latte-peddling in five-to-10 years when I'd be ready to turn my own profit. (Yay capitalism!)

And while I don't think one can nor should stop progress, there is a correct way to go about it. But according to the Post, DC has got it all wrong and now my guilty conscience is getting in the way of my plans to gentrify. (Boo incompetent city agencies!)

If you had the chance to read the series, which I highly recommend, you'd know that the Department of Consumer and Regulatory Affairs, the DC-city entity that's supposed to safeguard renters' rights, has basically been f*cking up in every imaginable way. According to the Post:

• DCRA's goal is to investigate emergency complaints about shoddy buildings within 48 hours, but only about half are inspected that quickly. Dozens of investigations for utility outages, infestations, broken pipes and sewer backups have stalled for weeks or even months.
  


• Agency leaders acknowledge that inspectors only sporadically made return visits to ensure repairs were completed, so it is impossible to know how many infractions have gone uncorrected. Last October, 1,900 reinspections were past due for all residential properties.
  


• DCRA took nearly 1,000 housing code cases to court in the past three years, but nearly half of the completed cases were dismissed, often because of agency failures. More than 30 cases died when officials for DCRA didn't show up for hearings.
  


• Even when judges have found owners liable and levied fines, DCRA often didn't try to collect the money. Of $572,000 in fines imposed during the past three years, landlords paid less than $112,000, court records show. DCRA can place liens on properties with outstanding fines, but a review of unpaid fines from 2005 shows that it often doesn't happen.
  

All that laziness and failure to DO THE JOB that MY TAXES ARE PAYING these absolutely INCOMPETENT BITCHES to do, has resulted in many legitimately poor people getting pushed out of their homes unlawfully so slumlords can sell their buildings to condo developers also unlawfully.

Now, as inductive logic reveals, this cycle of retardedness not only affects those getting kicked out onto the streets, but it affects me (albeit in a much more superficial way) because my buying one of these places actually makes me an aider and abettor to this exceptionally messed up system.

So now I'm questioning my decision to own, despite that the market is primed for first-time buyers right now. I just don't think I could handle knowing that my hard-earned money is contributing to this sick and twisted circle of KICKING CHILDREN OUT ONTO THE STREET. And while I tend to be a bit Nietzschean in my moral compass, I don't think there's any type of excuse for the DCRA, the slumlords or the developers that partake in this kind of "business."

Seriously, suck it, DCRA, et al. I hope you can't sleep at night.

But before I drop my plans to buy a home in this hell hole all-together, I think I need to do more research on my own. That is, I need to step up my real-estate game. Clearly, not every landlord or developer is taking advantage of DC's remedial DCRA. So, before even looking at a place, I think I'll put my David Caruso-style interrogation skills to work to make sure the property was procured fairly and ethically. And, of course, if I find out anything good or bad, I'll make sure to pass it along here. Now, back to my regular posts about me making fun of popped collars...

shooting warm weather in the proverbial face

This post was supposed to be about shooting guns. See, my mom and aunt came to visit this weekend and ever since The Anti DC Shooting Extravaganza, I had vowed that anyone who comes to visit must come shoot skeet with me. Unfortunately, my family and I don't necessarily see eye to eye, or gun to gun, if you will, when it comes to weekend fun. So, in place of shooting, we did the next best thing that starts with "sho" -- shopping. And although my cheek does long each day to nuzzle the stock a 20-gauge semi-automatic shotgun, I'm never one to shy away from aiming my sights (LOL!) at a damn fine deal. And that's exactly what I did last weekend at one of the Tysons Corner Macy's (I forget which one, deal with it.): I procured a $305 coat for $75. And if you'll allow me to wax mathematical real quick, that's over 75 percent off. Tight!

Meet my new winter coat, which I suppose, save for a trip to the Arctic Circle or something, I won't debut in public for at least another eight months or so. (Um, is it wrong to wish for just one sub-zero day?) It's made by Canadian brand Soia & Kyo, which is known for its vintage-inspired designs. Anyway, enough words! Let's move on to some mediocre photos and me smiling with my eyes!

Flip-flops (my makeshift slippers) and fur hood. I personally love the irony.

Notice the toggles below that sweet ass. I have them tightened (um, the toggles, not the ass) in the first photo to create a bubble-hem effect and loosened here to create a more A-line hem.

And you bet those are elbow patches! They go quite swimmingly with the oval cut-out pockets, n'est-ce pas?

Last but most certainly not least -- the price tag. I found this lovely on the "Take an extra 50 percent off rack" at Macy's. I almost fainted.

your high school mascot is the bomb...literally

Remember your high school mascot? It was probably the Knights, the Huskies, the Tigers, the Eagles or some other such boring animal and/or old-timey warrior. My high school's, however, was the Scarlets. That's right. We were named after a color. Or a fever. Same difference. Honestly, it doesn't matter why we came to be known as "the Scarlets." It's retardulous any way you look at it, especially considering our "mascot" in 1995 was a skinny senior who used to dress up in head-to-toe red spandex and run around the football field like a rabid mini horse. But then he graduated and no one filled his place for the remaining two years I was there.

However, there was a time when my school tried to create a tangible mascot, but when the most popular student-submitted choice was "The Scarlet Sasquatches," the administration quickly sniped out that idea. And so I graduated a Scarlet, minus the Sasquatch and minus the ersatz Scarlet man.

When I went to college, I lucked out slightly better. I mean, at least there was an image that came to mind whenever someone shouted it out at a sporting event. Although, at the same time, hearing hundreds of kids shouting "Go Pioneers!" didn't have the same ring as, say, "Go Bears!" or whatever. But when you're at a Division III liberal arts school, you take what you can get.

Finding a good mascot is tough. You don't want it to be boring (How many Spartans or Panthers are out there?) and you certainly don't want to be, well, retarded (see above three paragraphs). Unfortunately, coming up with a good mascot is harder than it seems, but one intrepid high school has beaten the odds: The Richland (Washington State) High School Bombers.

F*CK. YES.

Is that really not the best logo you've ever seen? Their mascot is a goddamn mushroom cloud! Tight! But don't think it doesn't get any better either because, e-friends, it most certainly does. Their motto is "Proud of the Cloud!" Radioactively tight!

How funky is your chicken WMD?

In light of the awesomeness that is the Richand High School mascot, I want to initiate a new mascot for the city of DC. Maybe the DC Napalm Clouds?

keep it classy, late night readers

What do "cheap prostitutes in DC," "strippers Crystal City, Va.," "DC strippers" and "best looking bitch," have in common? Well, besides referring to naked ladies (and/or good-looking female dogs, perhaps, in the case of the latter), those are all terms some of my classiest late-night readers used to stumble upon The Anti DC yesterday, er, today. Tight!

Now, despite my stat counter, which helps me track the number of readers this blog (read: my sheer, unadulterated genius) attracts each day, as well as where my readers come from, it doesn't tell me much about my demographic. That is, I have no idea whether most people who find themselves at this loveable URL are old, young, male, female, rich, poor, short, tall, ugly, attractive, well, you get the idea.

But despite this janky stat counter's inability to truly infringe upon your privacy, one feature it does have is the ability to track how people find me. That is, if you click over here from a link on someone else's blog, for instance, I'll know it. Or, in the case of the above-mentioned four readers (albeit misled readers), if a Googled set of terms leads you here, I'll know that too. And while the majority of those who inadvertantly Google their way over here use some variation of the terms "DC," "hipster," "fashion" or "Flock of Seagulls hair" (no, really, you'd be surprised how many people are interested in that reverse mullet), there are a few readers who navigate their way here by using some of the classier terms listed in the first paragraph.

Now, I'm guessing those who use variations on the lady-of-the-night theme to find my blog wind up sorely disappointed when they learn I've only used those terms sarcastically and/or metaphorically and that all I really have to offer them is clothed wit. That makes me sad because I want each and every reader who accidentally finds him- or herself on one of the fabulous pages that make up The Anti DC to not just visit once, but to come back. So, in honor of the myriad of men (and women?) searching for hookers, strippers and bitches (the human kind, not the canine variety) in DC and beyond, I dedicate this post to you.

And because I really want you to visit again, I'll give you a link to some hot bitches. Seriously, these hookers TURN IT OUT! Enjoy!

Click it! Just click it good! dc hookers prostitutes crystal city strippers best bitches sweet ass cheap strumpets

first there was the wheel, then the nuclear bomb...and now...

Some sort of magical laptop bag that would allow airline passengers to keep their sh*t in their carry-ons! How novel! Well, let's hope science catches up to those wild ideas! If only Mr. Wizard was still with us...*sigh*

Anyway, according to a Mar. 3 announcement:

TSA is seeking prototype laptop computer bags and designs that would reduce, if not eliminate altogether, the unloading and repacking time of laptops at security checkpoints in airports. Specifically, TSA would like industry to create bag designs that would allow passengers to not remove their laptops from carry-on bags for security screening.

Um, or, if I may interject here, maybe we just need to invent some sort of X-ray machine that can f*cking see through goddamn leather. Or nylon. Or ziploc. Or whatever the hell bags are made out of today. Just a logical thought...

But, hold up! Before I start thinking logically here (I'm probably so on a watchlist right now. Next stop Guantanamo!), let's examine the ingenious reasoning behind this new-fangled bag of the future! (Brace yourself for more rocket science!)

By allowing passengers to keep their laptops in their computer or carry-on bags, TSA can further reduce wait times at the checkpoint and improve the overall passenger security experience.

How fantastical! Because not having to take a large piece of technology out of an easily accessible bag is certainly going to save us oodles of time! Fabulous! Now we'll have those extra 2.2 seconds to drain and separate our benign liquids, bag them up in regular old-fashioned bags, remove our shoes, coats, jewelry, belts, pants (What? You don't have to take off your pants? Dammit!), and watch as the INCREDIBLY COMPETENT security personnel checks their cell phones or scopes out your ass while they should be looking at the machines though which all of your now awkwardly separated goods are traveling. Brilliant, folks! Just. Effing. Brilliant.

And because it never gets old to make fun of the U.S. government, I invite you to watch SNL's take on some other retardulous TSA regulations. Turkey sandwich!

P.S. -- This was my 100th post!

stop ruining our gentrification process, tv news!

As those of you who live in DC probably already know, the Target store opened today in Columbia Heights' new mini-mall. Yay! After a few months of delays, the gentrification process is finally back on track! Well, that is, it was back on track until every local television newscaster began their quest earlier today to keep sh*tting on all of our parades. I swear, every teaser for the 11 p.m. newscast is warning that, along with those new mod accent lamps and that Isaac Mizrahi for Target blouse you bought, Target customers will also get at least one free mugging.

Seriously?

Now I'm no criminal (well, at least I don't break laws that affect other people), but if I were to mug someone, I'd prefer to jack handfuls of cash rather than well-priced yuppie paraphernalia. I mean, I don't think there's that large of a shadow economy for chenille throw pillows. Is there?

Anyway, I want to address the remainder of this post to Maureen Bunyan, Leon Harris, Todd McDermott, Doreen Gentzler and all the other fear-mongers masquerading as serious journalists: SHUT THE F*CK UP!

XO,

The Anti DC

(Call me if you're hiring!)

the best looking bitch in georgetown leads to the ugliest store window

Besides the Sephora and the brunch at Martin's Tavern (post forthcoming), Georgetown offers me very little. And by "very little," of course, I really mean "nothing." But despite my recorded disdain for this Late Night Shots, popped collar disaster of a neighborhood, I found myself there last Sunday afternoon looking for bitches. That's right. Bitches.

But it wasn't my idea. Blame my friend, The Law. I'd have been happy scoping out bitches in my own neighborhood, but she insisted that the best bitches would be hanging near a van on Wisconsin Avenue. She read it online. And so we went to try to find the best looking bitch in Georgetown.

And I'll be damned if we didn't find her! She was standing right there in front of the van. I swear she saw us coming as I stared into her big green eyes. And when I touched her hair I was wishing this bitch would be mine. But, alas, my shoebox of an apartment doesn't allow bitches. And so this bitch was to go to The Law. Ahh, just look at her!

Etymology of bitch: The Old English term bicce, probably evolved from Old Norse bikkjuna -- "female of the dog" (also fox, wolf, and occasionally other beasts).

However, just because fine-ass bitches like Lota a.k.a. Beretta hang in Georgetown, doesn't mean I've changed my mind about the place. In fact, to the contrary, after spending a near-entire afternoon in this area of town, I feel resolved to never ever go back again. OK, well maybe for the Sephora and Marvin's brunch... But as for the other offerings, specifically the shopping, I feel comfortable telling it that I will see it in hell.

Proof: The Gap

Magenta, collars and cropped cardigans, oh my the horror!

Now, save for one oversized navy blue V-neck sweater (and my experience buying it wasn't unlike this), I'm not really a "Gap person." For one, I don't wear loose pants or brand-emblazoned sweatshirts. But also, I used to work part-time for one of Gap's more expensive sister stores, where I saw firsthand the sh*teous quality of the peddled wares. So, with images of out-of-box tears and elusive buttons prancing (yes, prancing) through my head, it's hard for me to justify dropping any bones at the Gap when I know it will probably fall apart within a few months (the pilling on my oversized navy-blue V-neck sweater is testament).

But when I saw the above-pictured Gap window display, I must say my low expectations regarding Gap became even lower. Those are hands-down, the ugliest three outfits I've seen in a while. If I saw anyone at any age in any of those outfits, I would be forced to literally slap some sense into her. I mean, I get it. It's the Gap. It's not meant to be stylish or high-fashion. But while it usually just errs on the side of boringness, at least two of these three outfits sit clearly in the hideous'n'heinous category.

There is a such thing as too much pink. And the ensemble on our far right just confuses me. Hey, I like mixing and matching colors too, but at some point one must at least attempt to coordinate them. Honestly, unless the Gap employee that put that look together is both retarded and blind, that outfit has no place in a store display, let alone on a human being. It's aesthetically cruel.

Seriously, shopping in Georgetown is truly simulacrum. I mean, you can physically buy things, yes, but the experience is surreal. Even regarding stores I generally love elsewhere -- Barney's CO-OP, for example -- the Georgetown versions are just a bit off.

To the Georgetown CO-OP buyer: If I wanted to wear Nicole Richie's wardrobe circa 2003, I would've bought it then. I didn't.

Anyway, Georgetown is what it is, I suppose -- except when it's not, like in the instance of this H Street-appropriate outfit I saw featured in the window of Reiss. It made me want to become an auto-mechanic. But with a price upwards of $300 (if I remember correctly), I'd restrict my business to cars that cost more than double my annual salary, which means I wouldn't touch anything crappier than an '87 Buick LeSabre.

Is it wrong that I want this in blaze orange?

and because i have a fulltime job...

I'm going to opt out of my regularly scheduled programming, which was set to be a post entitled "The Best Looking Bitch in Georgetown Leads to the Ugliest Store Window...Ever" (look for it tomorrow and blame its delay on the incredible time-suck of congressional hearings, not me!), and instead, post a pictorial addendum to yesterday's essay, "Silent Party Busted for Being Too Loud."

And before feasting your eyes on what every house party in DC and beyond should aspire to (um, save for the cops, of course), I want to give proper credit to Flickr user timotheee1, whose excellent photos are posted below, and fellow Boston friend and blogger Sam for sending them to me.

Now, without further ado, take a look at the rowdy no-goodniks the Somerville Police Department decided to kick out into the cold, despite that we were just tryin' to "Anne Frank it," as one clever partygoer put it, in the upstairs secret porch. Oh, zoinks!

DJ and turntables? Check!

Wireless headphones? Check!


Feather tiaras? Check!


Metallic mandanas? Check!


Cool hats and mustaches? Check and check!


And I just heart this photo. Thanks Sam and Timotheee1!

silent party busted for being too loud

The police in DC take a lot of slack. Sure, there's the occasional drug or sex scandal (who doesn't have a few of those every now and again?!), but most of the time -- save for a little megaphone scold for jaywalking in Adam's Morgan once -- they leave me, Miss Whitey McPaleface, the hell alone. Now maybe that's because DC's men and women in blue are attempting to solve at least a few of the centillions of crimes here; maybe it's because I never break the law; or, well, maybe it's because I'm, um, Whitey McPaleface...

But gross social injustices aside, I'm glad DC cops have at least had the courtesy to keep their needless Soviet-style harassment here to a minimum and instead spend most of their time dining on Krispy Kremes or crabcakes or whatever the hell cops should stereotypically eat around here.

In other U.S. locales, however, needless Soviet-style harassment runs rampant. One such place is Boston. Now, maybe it's because most Dunkin Donuts outlets close late at night or maybe it's because that city's lucky enough not to boast as high a murder per capita statistic as we unfortunately do, but Boston-area cops tend to piss me off more often than their other U.S. counterparts.

And while their harassment has never taken a violent form with me, they have ruined a few potentially excellent evenings, including one just a few nights ago on Leap Day when the Somerville Police Department busted up what might just have been the best party to have happened to the Boston area in the last four years:

The invitation is even the coolest I've seen Boston churn out.

"But Marissa, the partygoers were probably just too rowdy!" some nerds might say. Or, "But Marissa, the party was probably just too loud and the neighbors couldn't go to sleep ridiculously early on a weekend in what is largely known as America's most college-y of college towns!" some freedom-hating terrorists might say. Well, I have news for nerds and terrorists, alike: Your theories are idiotic.

Now, I'm not sure if you can read the text on the above-pictured lovely invite, but the crux of this party rested in its very quiet gimmick -- "Silent Disco." For those of you who don't know (and I admit I didn't know until a friend filled me in), Silent Disco means that all party attendees wishing to dance are handed wireless headphones through which they hear the music spun by whichever DJ is manning the tables. That is, if someone isn't wearing headphones, they just see a crowd of people dancing to the same beat in complete silence. It's effing brilliant! Well, at least to me, my friends and the plethora of like-minded attendees. The concept is apparently not-so-brilliant to the Somerville PD, however.

But having only consumed one libation (um, a Bud Light, to be specific), I know for a fact that the party was not "wild" in the sense that frat parties usually are. There wasn't any spillover of party guests in the yard, there wasn't any Blink 182 blaring out the windows and there definitely wasn't a large contingent of underagers in attendance (if any at all). In short, there was no reason the cops should have been called in at midnight to break up this historic event.

With those facts (yes, facts) in mind, the only reason I can think of why three police cruisers rolled up was because the Somerville force must be filled with nerds and haters of freedom. Again, I'm not sure if you can read the text on the attractive invite, but it notes "Dress like you mean it," and in a rare Boston moment, the kids peeled off their Northface and Patagonia fleeces, kicked off their Dansko's and Tevas and instead donned jumpsuits, moonboots and sparkly accessories. The crowd was tight. But what does innovative outfit inventing have to do with cops not letting the kids P-A-R-T-Y? 'cuz they got to, you ask? Everything.

And in the spirit of the newly procured hard copy of my graduate diploma (which will shortly be framed and hanging over my toilet) that I picked up during this weekend jaunt, let's turn to academia for the answer. Specifically, let's call upon famed sociologist Emile Durkheim's theory of social deviance for an answer, which I will explain using academic doublespeak, including heavy doses of redundant adjectives, passive voice and needless clauses! Ahem, here goes (disclaimer: this might get ugly):

Social deviance was defined by Durkheim, who noted that when a single individual and/or a non-majority minority group infringes upon one or more established social norms, mores and/or laws that were originally presented and upheld by the behemoth that is the general population, over which several individuals or persons have elevated powers to punish those single individual and/or the non-majority minority group, the single individual and/or non-majority minority group is seen as "deviant;" that is, this non-majority minority group has been perceived by the powers that be as going against the societal, majority-established accepted norms, mores and/or laws. To combat said social deviance, as defined my the elevated power or powers and upheld by the majority of the general population, over which the power or powers have established rule, those perceived to be of the socially deviant frame of mind are punished for violating and disobeying the set norm, more and/or law, which the overseeing powers and majority-at-large deemed the perceived deviant individual or non-majority minority group as breaking.

Phew! (Ahh yes, that Master's degree soon-to-be over my toilet was well-deserved, don't you think?) But considering the above two sentences (that's right, e-friends, that was just two sentences...) probably either caused a few brain aneurysms or just made you want to never read this blog again, I'll quickly wrap this post up: The near-total dearth of typical Boston attire (fleece and Danskos) caused the powers-that-be (in this case, the Somerville police) to freak out and use their rudeness and flashlights to punish the perceived social deviants (the partygoers) by making them disperse. Even more to-the-point: The Somerville cops hate fun. I'll see them in hell.

Anyway, on a more upbeat note, while leaving Boston's best party in the last four years, we ran into a lovely bit of irony. One of the cop cars had a traffic ticket on the windshield, undoubtedly placed there by one of the kicked-out party attendees. (I told you the kids in attendance at this party were awesome!)


PS -- Sorry for the sh*teous quality of the photos above. We were working solely with a cellphone cam in the dark.