"soooooo delicious!"

At the risk of sounding like the metaphorical broken record, I thought about not blogging about my experience last Saturday at 18th Street Lounge. But then I remembered that sounding like a broken record is this blog's charm, right? RIGHT?! And plus, over here at The Anti DC, the record always skips at the best part of any given song (i.e., at minute 2:56 in Radiohead's All I Need, at minute 3:30 in Rush's Tom Sawyer, at minute 1:01 in Corey Hart's Sunglasses at Night, at minute 11:50 in Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture, at minute 0:00 in Andrew W.K.'s Party Hard, at minutes 0:53, 1:47 and 2:21 in The Rocky Theme Song, and any other song ever composed).

However, while I was tempted to cut and paste most of my review of Play to write my review of ESL, save for the key insertion of phrases like "but with better music" and "but with a cooler interior," I decided to use my wordjockey (WJ?) skills and spin (LOL!) this a little differently. And with the help of everyone's my favorite procrastination timesuck, Craigslist's Missed Connections, I think I've come up with a little ditty you might enjoy. One, two, keyboard check. OK, here it is:

I Danced with You Last Night (Sat Night) at 18th Street Lounge - m4w

Reply to: pers-658063803@craigslist.org
Date: 2008-04-27, 10:35AM

I danced with you so intimately last night (Sat night), before your (sister?) came over and pulled you away. You felt soooooo delicious and natural. Can I ever get a second chance, just you and I?

Whoa. Now the effing record just skipped. Did pers-658063803 just say someone "felt soooooo [six o's, really?] delicious?" That is f*cking gnarly. Yet, at the same time, I can't say I'm entirely surprised. I mean, if you were there, you would've seen the shenanigans happening on ESL's poor dance floor that night. It just wasn't right. Look, "dancing so intimately" is to be expected at places like Play with their endless remixes of Color Me Badd's I Want to Sex You Up on loop, but at ESL, which is owned by Thievery Corporation and constantly hosts some of the best DJs on the scene today, I expected the level of dry-humpage to be lower. It wasn't.

It got so bad that, at one point, The Law was sandwiched in between a lumpy blond in a cut-off jean skirt who was making out with a a popped collar (I'm pretty sure there was a person behind the collar) and a bespectacled douche who was gettin' busy dry-humping something, er, I mean someone.

Yeah. It was all just a little too softcore for us. We ended up shifting out to the back patio (which is nice, by the way) and that's when we saw that everyone was wearing the same thing. The jean skirts, the sequined CVS flip-flops, the button-downs with jeans...If there was a country called Doucheistan, these would be its military uniforms.

But speaking of country's ending in -stan and the rest of the Soviet bloc, I would like to propose a system be instated in DC not unlike the Face Control system that persists in Moscow. This system used to irritate the borchsht out of me while I was actually living there because it seemed so ass-backwards. Clubs and lounges would routinely deny paying customers entry because they didn't look wealthy enough, slutty enough, tacky enough. On rare occasions, you may even be turned away for being *gasp* too drunk (in Russia, what?!). Luckily for me, since I apparently rolled like a tacky hussy, I never really experienced Face Control firsthand (um, at least that I remember, whoops!), but I've seen Face Control happen before my eyes on several occasions and it always seemed so arbitrary. However, looking back, I realize that it really wasn't. They wanted to upkeep that tackiness quota and that is exactly what they did! (Hmm...depending on how you look at it, I suppose, it is almost flattering to get turned away...)

So, what if we alter Face Control's Moscow criteria to fit a less golden, glittery Dolce & Gabbana aesthetic and begin utilizing it here? Perhaps this new American version of Face Control is the solution to making DC's nightlife more bearable, perhaps even cool. I mean, clearly, it wouldn't have to be as strict as Moscow Face Control, but at the very least it would require people to wear real shoes to a lounge. I mean, is it so wacky of me to want to be able to walk into a space and not have 50 crotches staring me in the face because every female bridging in from suburban Virginia thought it would be flattering to show off their bits in cut-off jean skirts that turned into belts when they sat down? If my wish not to see strange female ass is wrong, then I must say, I don't want to be right.

And to close this more vitriolic of Anti-DC rants, I'd like to post a video in honor of my home's apparent favorite pastime -- dry-humping. Enjoy!

true to the game (part 2)

Like a real hustler, my job is never done. And so continues True to the Game (Part 2) a.k.a. my trip to the Indian Head Highway Thrift Store. Yeah, I know my hustle is f*cking hardcore. Shoppin' ain't easy.

To recap, Part One highlighted not only my theory of finding decent vintage goods, but also my four well-worth-it purchases. Part Two, however, will cut more quickly to the proverbial chase: Basically, I've laid out here a low-resolution photo essay of sh*t I probably should've bought but found possibly even too ridiculous for the likes of my rather Euro-trashy, glovelets-and-skinny-yellow-jeans-wearing, I-love-posting-gratuitous-pictures-of-all-my-sweet-sweatervests aesthetic.

Brace yourselves because it's going to get sparkly and galactic!


You know, I came very, very close to purchasing this multi-colored, almost clownish tunic, but I passed it up to make sure I had enough flow to allow my procurement of True to the Game, i.e. THE GREATEST FABLE OF ALL TIME. (As we embark on this e-journey together, you will soon learn that on The Anti DC street dice will trump nearly everything, even clown gear). Anyway, before you stop believing in my style prowess (that is, if you ever somehow believed in it in the first place), I will tell you what exactly drew me to this shirt. Besides the sheer madness of the fabric's pattern (as well as the fabric itself -- classic '70s polyester), this blouse featured some quite interesting details, such as the button-cuffed sleeves, the square collar and the waist tie. I can see this looking good with a pair of slouchy boots and black city shorts. On second thought, I may need to find a $2 bill and go get this.


And here's where things got fabulously bad. Imagine a hooker...Wait, better yet, imagine you're in Moscow, Russia. Besides the snow, the Kremlin and the Putin, chances are you'll also see a few strumpet-fabulous footwear selections like this on the street. The toe is so sharp it could literally snuff a bitch out at one stab and the chain in the back, well, use your imagination. And to think! For just $5, you too could live the dream! It's a damn shame I'm not a size 9.


Uh huh. That is exactly what it looks like. That's a goddamn sequin vest patterned after not just a leopard, but a zebra too. This was pretty expensive at $10, but since it's a size XL, you know you'd be getting your money's worth. Seriously, I will buy this for somebody who will promise to actually wear it. I'll throw in a top hat for free.


And lastly, the pièce de résistance -- the velour jumpsuit. I don't know quite where to start with this ensemble. I mean, like I said, it's velour and it's a jumpsuit. The white satin patches on the shoulders and the detail at the cuffs add an extra spacey, almost galactic je ne sais quoi. I'm tempted to spend the $12 to buy this, sew "JUICY" across the ass, put it up on Ebay and watch the competing bids roll in from Georgetown. Like I said, I'm always hustling.

true to the game (part 1)

Just when you think you've had enough of this quaint little cess pool of douches, tools and ill-fitting pants, something will come along that not only gives you a reason to live, but a reason to fix up, look sharp (Dizzee Rascal, anyone?). And while some of those "reasons" may cost you more cash than you care to talk about, such as the amount I dropped on a pair of yellow skinny jeans I found quite serendipitously on Sunday (after all, you can't deny your destiny), other reasons practically get dropped in your lap for free, which is exactly what happened on Saturday when I went to the Indian Head Highway Thrift Store, located just outside of DC's Anacostia neighborhood in Maryland. (Unfortunately, I did not see the Big Chair or peruse America's furniture for a "big, fine couch.")

In my tiny peanut of a brain, there are four different venues in which to find sweet vintage clothing -- your grandparents' closet, garage sales, high-end secondhand stores and thrift stores. The first option was raided long ago and the second option is just plain hard to come by in DC proper. Once in a while there'll be a yard sale in the city, but mostly you'll end up perusing housewares and other assorted crap. In fact, during a quick jaunt down Columbia Rd. this weekend I came across what I think was a building-wide yard sale at which the cooler full of Bud Lights set aside for the sellers was the only item I could imagine in my home. Gotta keep hydrated.

Of the more street legal retail venues, the third option, the high-end secondhand store, is usually best for finding sh*t you want, however, the chance of finding sh*t you want that is sh*t you can actual afford is fairly low. Sh*t. But the last option, the thrift store (and I'm talking about those sprawling, takes-a-whole-day-to-rummage-through, bursting-at-the-seams-like-a-properly-fitting-pair-of-pants, so-ludicrously-cheap-it-makes-you-wonder-who-the-hell-runs-the-place kind of store), has the potential to offer the best of both worlds. (Just ask DC's own Goodwill Fashionista.)

And to take a proverbial page from The Anti DC "Book of Eloquence," allow me to state, DC and its surrounding environs has a buttload of 'em. Moreover, since I'm, 1) poor, 2) sleuthy and 3) sort of a shopping freak, I jumped at the chance to tag along with one of my coworkers and her roommates to check out Indian Head and, holy crap, am I damn glad I did because sh*t at at this mecca of wonderful hidden treasures is tight. (And sometimes ridiculous.)

For well under $20, I left the place with one new-to-me belt, two handbags and one very unique literary masterpiece. Take a look:

I don't know how this ended up in a thrift store hanging between a slew of multicolored pleather belts, but this beaded and silk cummerbund might be *the* best bargain I've ever found at a secondhand store. Check the detail:

Yep. It's in perfect condition. Not a single bead is missing! Price (brace yourselves): $7.98 -- the most expensive buy of the day.

Now, this wasn't as good of a deal as the above-pictured beaded strap of loveliness, but this chestnut-colored bag with woven detail was still a steal at $4.98, despite that it's not made of an actual dead animal. Hopefully the animal saved will make a delicious steak instead. (J/K vegetarians and vegans!)

Ahh yes! And this is probably the most fun of my purchases. It's a black patent leather shoulder bag with gold hardware. And despite the fact that I don't like cats, I kind of love the detail on the front, which is a lion's face. Or a cougar. Which is clearly my future. Badass. But there's more!

The bag has no clasp, zipper or magnetic closure. Instead, it uses some sort of wire and hinge system to allow the bag to open and close. Kinda awesome for -- ready for this? -- $1.98, right? Like I said, TIGHT. But wait, what's that I see in that fabulous bag? Is that...? Could it be...? HOLY CRAP IT IS!

An effing novel, ahem, fable about street dice! And as fate would have it, I found this item immediately and accidentally. It wasn't by the other books (hell, I barely know how to read), but by the housewares (hell, I barely have an apartment!). So what was it doing there? What was I doing there? Kismet, e-friends. It was meant to be...

And as if all this awesomeness weren't enough, there's a Part 2 to this excursion! Shambles P.I. says CLICK HERE to see it.

he's bringing HairyBack

Gosh, life is good when you can retool Justin Timberlake's SexyBack to mean exactly the opposite of the song's original meaning as well as utilize its obvious homonym to make a post title that's not just ironically clever, but grammatically clever, as well. Score!

And if you're functionally retarded and the above descriptive wasn't enough for you to figure out where I'm going with this, allow me to present to you a visual:

Goldilocks ain't havin' this.

Yep. Today's subject is the hairy back. And today's lesson is that hairy backs are not tight. In fact, dudes having hairy backs is equivalent to ladies having mustaches; in both cases, those gnarly tufts of hair make you unnecessarily ugly. But eureeka! In both cases there is an easy way to avoid disgusting others -- WAX THAT SH*T. Please.

And while this is a general Public Service Announcement for the world, I must hone in on how this affected my life in DC this weekend. There we were, The Law and I just walking down the street, minding our own business taking care of business, when we saw him. Like a couple of big game hunters, we immediately hunkered down and got our ammo ready. We realized this was a job for Shambles P.I. so we aimed and shot.

Unfortunately, the shot is not as clear as we had hoped and so you'll have to take my word for it: This man's back was hairy. Damn hairy. This man should not have had his shirt off. I don't care how hot or humid it is outside. How's about if you want to cool off, you shave off the layer of wool growing out of your back? Seriously. Unflattering. And yes, I think he's also scratching his butt in this pic. Seriously. Classy. And lastly, you know those are khakis. Seriously. Pleated.

Godspeed, e-friends. And good luck.

SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT!

A couple of friends and I were chatting this weekend and one of them came up with what is nothing short of a brilliant idea -- to turn Shambles P.I. into a more participatory Gawker Stalker-esque feature. That is, if you come across some exceptionally messed up sh*t you think DC needs to know about, send your photo to the royal us over here at The Anti DC and the royal we will compile it and publish it for you either publicly or anonymously. For instance, while The Law and I were hunting down Nasty McFurback this weekend, another friend of mine conducted a little investigation of her own:

Yes, you are witnessing knee-length WHITE LEGGINGS paired with FLIP-FLOPS on a MIDDLE-AGED woman. That sh*t just ain't right. Not only is it horribly age inappropriate, but it's f*cking see-through. No one wants to see the outline of your drawers. (And if you think I'm a bit harsher than usual today, blame it on the small case of SARS I'm currently undertaking germ warfare with at work.)

Anyway, send your undercover Shambles P.I. work to theantidc@gmail.com and I'll be sure to not pay you. Awesome deal, I know, so I'll be expecting my inbox to be full by 5 pm.

my mid-blog crisis...help...me...

And, of course, my favorite belt came out again today. I just can't shake it! Nor, apparently, can I shake my love for sweatervests, in all shapes, forms and colors. Good thing I like 'em!

Sweatervest cardigan -- kimchi & blue; Pants -- Ben Sherman; Belt -- Betsey Johnson (but, judging from my ridiculous obsession with it, you already probably know that); Man hands -- I swear that's the camera angle...

Are you still reading? Maybe half of you? Hmmm...

OK, so you may have noticed The Anti DC has been a touch fashion-heavy this past couple of weeks. I suspect this is either totally awesome to you or utterly annoying depending on where your interests lie. I personally find it rather interesting, as I tend to enjoy personal style blogs (And talking about myself? Guilty.). I've contemplated about branching out and setting up a second blog, but in all fairness to myself and anyone who happens to read this, I don't think it'd end up a worthwhile venture. Put simply -- I just don't have the time to make it a proper project on my own.

On the same token, however, I don't want to veer too far from what this blog's original mission was -- to bitch, moan and joke about life in DC. I dunno...call it a mid-blog crisis, call it existential megalomania, or even call it caring about what this blog's astute group of readers thinks. I've heard from a few people via comments, E-mail or voicebox that they actually enjoy my amateurish, MySpace-esque, photography skills. And since I like talking about clothes, I've very much enjoyed this addition. However, would it be better elsewhere? Mayhaps...it's not always easy to connect a belt to a story about why DC blows. (Unless there's a BlackBerry on that belt, of course. In that case, this blog writes itself.) So, what's a blogger to do?

I guess until I either get the motivation, time and/or partners to get a real fashion blog online, which would hopefully include pictures not only of its contributors and their personal tastes, but also of well-dressed people on the street (there are a few, so rumor says...), my little haphazard forays into bathroom photography will have to suffice. (Hmm...was there a collaboration proposal stuffed in that complex sentence?) Ugh, I dunno. I guess, bloggin' ain't easy. And you know what? It's hard out here for a blogger. Also, Big bloggin', writin' words, big bloggin', on H.T.M.L.'s...*sigh* And lest I forget, they only want me for my Blogger Juice. Dammit, I'm a motherf*cking B.L.O.G.G.E.R.!

See? E-life is tough.

So, now that I've made all my black readers cringe and made all my white readers my mom confused with those last few sentences, I'm going to ask for some e-advice (evice?). Should I move my outfit amour-propre to another site? Or should I keep it all tangled up in the hot mess that has become The Anti DC?

In closing, zoinks.

Thank you for your attention.

foals me once, shame on me; foals me 5 times, yes please!

The Anti DC is clearly riddled with problems. However, once in a while something so awesome comes around that it makes this blog take a 180 degree e-turn. In other words, to (sorta) borrow from the great Jay Z, I've got 99 problems but Foals ain't one.

Baby horses, what? No sillies! I'm talking about Foals, the U.K.-based band that's now on its first full-length U.S. tour! They swung by DC last night, rocked the Rock & Roll Hotel and left this blogger happy to have been a part of it.

OK, so the show itself did not go without its problems. A bitch may not have been one, but the sound definitely was. At one point something faulty caused the whole system to implode just as my favorite song (Red Socks Pugie) from the group's debut album (Antidotes) was set to blow up with its epic and very shoutable chorus ("Oh hell no, these vessels/ Our heart swells up, these vessels/ Our heart swells up, which makes them explode!"). And making me almost want to cry, the group then replayed the song, but started midway through. (I later happened to meet the keyboardist, who apologized for that, like, sincerely, so I agreed to forgive -- but I'll never forget.) All right, fine. There were also a few other glitches, according to young (and I do mean young -- i.e., lead singer Yannis Philippakis just turned 22 last night) keyboardist Edwin Congreave. I, being an idiot, didn't catch on to the smaller glitches, but I didn't care. I was just so damn giddy to be at this show (and you'll see why a few inches down when I post some of their incredibly twitchy music videos). However, if you're interested (and you should be!), I'm sure Brightest Young Things writer/interviewer John Foster, who was also at the show, will fill you in on the rest of the story.

And of course crowds in DC never cease to be boring as hell. I danced. By myself. And discovered the old maxim still holds true: White people like standing still at concerts.

But rhythmless crowd aside, allow me to relive my glee and let's just sit back, forget the real purpose of this blog for a minute, forget about the fact that this is the second week I've failed to cajole a guest blogger into doing my unpaid work for me (ahem, is Get Off the Internet Thursday dead? Does anyone care?), and just behold the tightness that is (are?) Foals.

Cassius:


Balloons:


Mathletics:


Hummer*:


OK, I'm done fawning now. I swear.

I lied!

One more!

Last but not least, my fave performed live (without the technological snafus), Red Socks Pugie:


OK, now I really am done. Sorry. (But not really.)

PS -- And what the flip is with Rock & Roll Hotel's ink? This is after several washings and a 30-minute shower (sorry, environment, that's how I roll). I feel dirty.


*This video might be my personal fave, as it features the exact outfit I wore when I went as "Men's Tennis" for Halloween, 2004. It is also the outfit I will wear when my office throws down on the courts.

a belt for your thoughts

If there's one thing maintaining a self-centered blog is good for, it's learning about, well, oneself. For instance, through this particular self-centered blog, I've learned that I'm a much funnier bitch than I ever knew (toot toot -- that's my horn). I also learned that I like a good video montage (as long as it involves guns or David "Worst Best Actor Ever" Caruso). And most importantly, I've learned that I love unnecessary belts.

This self-realization once again falls in line with the anti-DC theme of this blog, as most belts I see around town serve either to hike up a person's britches or to lend a place to hang a person's *BARF* BlackBerry. (Don't worry, e-puke is easy to clean.)

I, on the other hand, don't find myself needing belts for either of those purposes. Regarding the former, I think I've made it quite well known that I wear my pants goddamn tight. And with pants so GD tight, you better believe my slacks stick to my rear like a fat kid sticks to the dessert bar at a buffet. And regarding the latter, well, I'm not retarded.

Despite the fact that I don't need a belt, however, I've recently discovered that I kind of just want a belt. And not just any belt, but a noticeable belt, like the sparkly gold vintage piece I wore the other week or my current go-to belt, a wide patent leather gunmetal strip of leather found at well-under-retail a few months ago at the Off 5th outlet in Leesburg (it's Betsey Johnson, in case you're wondering).

Through the wonders of amateur self-photography and my ability to form a simple pattern in my mind (I know! That last part surprised me too!), I've realized that I effing wear this belt ALL THE TIME. Last time I blogged about it, it made me look like Luke Skywalker. Today, however, I'm pretty sure it didn't make me look like a man. Well, hopefully... My mustache takes care of that for me! J/K! Well, hopefully... But anyway, I wore it for the first time to Congress. Sadly, I was at a committee on which my main Congressional squeeze (in my mind) Norm Coleman unfortunately doesn't serve. *single tear*

A little low cut, right? I like to slut it up just in case I run into Norm. FYI: Shirt and cami, H&M; Pants, rag&bone (purchased at a deep, deep discount); Belt: Betsey Johnson.

And I think I found my summer color -- I heart yellow. Shoes, Urban Outfitters (bought online).

PS -- Anyone know where I can procure a pair of ultra-tight tapered yellow pants? Yeah, I said that. And I'm dead serious.

PPS -- Epic BlackBerry on belt photo courtesy of DCist, natch.

the anti dc's big adventure

Although I often purport myself as a crazed megolomanic, I do understand that this blog is not everyone's proverbial cup of tea. In fact, I get that some people probably can't even stand it. From what I can gather, some may think I waste too much energy complaining (I mean, for the love of pleated khakis, I find ways to complain about sunny, objectively awesome weather!). Others may hate my retardulous, yet incredibly clever turns of phrase (as well as my overusage of parentheticals). And still more may despise my ridiculously tight pants (both figuratively and literally -- behold that clever turn of phrase!). But if there's one aspect of life in DC that can transcend my sarcasm-backed cynicism and sick wordsmithing skills (and you can interpret "sick" as you please), it's this city's annoying public transportation system. Name me one person who hasn't had an adverse run-in with the DCPT, and I will seriously stop blogging. However, keep in mind that before you start pouring out your hateration -- that word will never die in my mind, thank you Mary J. -- by naming names, there's a high possibility that I simply won't believe you because DC's metro and buses objectively blow...hard.

So sick of the buses I am (wow, am I Yoda now?), that I recently began walking to and from work. And sadly, the 30-minute trek each way actually works out to encompass less time than it generally takes to wait for and then ride the bus that goes from Mt. Pleasant to Van Ness. For those of you wondering, that's exactly 2.1 miles, which according to Google maps (which we all know is the best -- true that, double true) should translate to exactly 6 minutes of driving time. Uh-huh.

But truthfully, I don't mind the walk. In fact, I actually like it. It makes me feel better about never utilizing that gym membership I've had attached to my key chain for, um, a year now. But sometimes, it does get long (that's what she said!). I mean, that's 60 minutes of my life each day spent walking to and from the office. That's valuable blogging time! (Read: I'm an enormous loser!) Or maybe 60 minutes during which I could spend trying to, you know, piece together at least a semblance of a real life. Or at a very minimum, take a nap.

And so, I've been brainstorming. I thought about investing in a scooter a while ago, but then I'd have to start going to the gym (I don't want to get scooter ass). Factoring in gym time, I think my commute would go well past one hour. So this leaves me with only one logical option -- hang-gliding bicycling.

That's right, e-friends, I've decided to buy a bike. Specifically, I'm looking to buy a secondhand road-bike, like this:


Or this:


Or this:

Tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight.*

I figure not only would this cut down on my commuting time, but it would also help me whip my literal and figurative ass into shape. I can already picture my sweatervests and I zipping around town, rolling to and from my office, ridin' dirty down to the Hill and impressing Norm Coleman, The Anti DC-appointed sexiest member of Congress, with my sweatiness fitness.

Oh yes, indeed, the time is nigh! I will put the pedal to the metal (dammit, just pretend that phrase has something to do with biking) seven days per week. I will cycle whether it's balmy and sunny or cool and rainy. And most importantly, I will ride dirty with my middle finger held high as I pass the 4,983 "Out of Service" buses and the suckers masses filing in and out of the underground. E-friends, it's time to ride or die.

But rest assured (I'm talking to you, Horace T), despite my newfound love of the 10-speed, I will not ride so dirty that I will flaunt any unnecessary ass-crack or love handles. I will not trade in my tight pants, for tight bike shorts. And most definitely, it will not end up in the basement of the Alamo...I hope. Who's with me?! Um, anyone???

*Bike shots courtesy of Bulldog Bike Restoration.

make it rain

I was a little disheartened this morning to wake up to no rain. (OMG! Is there anything she won't complain about?!) I feel a bit mentally under the weather, if you will (LOL!). See, I'm the kind of person who loves the elements -- rain, snow, hail, ice. I love 'em. They make the day more exciting. [Insert your own inference about how lame I am here.]

Being from Minnesota and having lived in cities like Boston and Moscow (where winter is up your proverbial butt nine months out of the year...wow, I'm also stunned at that turn of phrase), my love of inclement weather shouldn't really be a surprise to anyone. And while snow is probably my preferred element, rain comes in at a close second. It's romantical, isn't it? I mean, next to liking pina coladas, not doing yoga, having half-a-brain and making love at midnight in the dunes of the cape, getting caught in the rain is a criterion I always look for when I'm tired of my lady and put out a personal ad so I can cheat on her in a man.

Rupert Holmes' epic soft-rock classic aside, however, the main reason I'm upset is because today I had planned to parlay the stormy weather into an e-discussion of two songs entitled "Make It Rain." Clearly, I'm still heading in that direction, but now with a new, more awkward introduction! So, there you go. Even my blog adapts to changes in weather.

But back to the matter at hand -- "Make it Rain." The two very different renditions of the same title has confirmed to me the wonders of metaphor. And damn it all if The Anti DC doesn't enjoy a fine metaphor! Now on to the show.

The first iteration of "Make It Rain," written and performed by Tom Waits, starts off: She took all my money/And my best friend/ You know the story/ Here it comes again/ I have no pride/ I have no shame/ You gotta make it rain/ Make it rain!

The second "Make It Rain," written and performed by Fat Joe and Lil' Wayne, begins: Yeah I'm in this business of terror/ Got a handful of stacks better grab an umbrella/ I make it rain, (I make it rain)/ I make it rain, (I make it rain)/ I make it rain on them hoes/ I make it rain, (I make It rain)/ I make it rain on them hoes/ I make it rain, (I make it rain)/ I make it rain on them hoes/ I make it rain(I make it rain)/ I make it rain on them hoes.

Now, I may be a pretentious jackass, but I'm no Pitchfork writer (you guys aren't hiring, are you?), so I will keep my oft-elitist comparisons to a minimum and just say that I'm pretty sure Mr. Waits is not singing about the same thing as Mr. Joe and Mr. Wayne and vice versa...or are they? Who knows! And herein lies the beauty of metaphor. Perhaps, Waits is simply envisioning himself a proverbial stripper on the world's stage, waiting for God -- the wealthy nudie bar patron -- to, indeed, make it rain on him with cold hard cash. And mayhaps, Fat and Lil' are simply offering "them hoes," as it were, a chance to start a new life as if they were wild but delicate hyrdrangias waiting to bloom after spring's first showers. *sigh*

See! What does any of it really mean? It can go either way, thanks to the wonders of literary devices, which is why I can't decide which version of "Make It Rain" I prefer. I guess I like the impassioned delivery of Waits. However, at the same time, I like the idea of stacks of bills just falling on my head. Seriously, can someone make that happen (you know, without me becoming a stripper)? Kthnxbye!

two douches, one sweatervest

As of late, I don't have very many unfavorable things to say about DC (I know...what has become of me?!). Sure, there was that douche in the blazer and pink polo sipping champagne and lipsyncing the words to Kanye's West's "Gold Digger" on Reef's patio on Saturday. And sure, he might have come up to yours truly at the end of the night to start drunkenly spewing game. And sure, the dialogue may have went exactly like this:

Douche: Hey.
Me: Uh, hi.
Douche: Do you live around here?
Me: Um...
Douche: Am I creeping you out right now?
Me: Yes.

But on the bright side, at least he was a quick learner. A short while later, however, entering from stage left came Predator Douche, who just may have created some of the most uncomfortable moments of my life. At some point in PD's 394 years of life, he lost his mind because this guy decided it was an excellent M.O. to try to pick up the ladies by following them home in his car, driving the exact same speed as they walk. Yeah, that's totally not creepy at all! But what was even more telling that this paunchy, bald asshat lost his goddamn marbles was his decision to GET OUT of his car and start harassing me on foot. Really, asshole? Because getting out of your car and making me seriously contemplate punching you in the face with knuckles full of house keys is not the way I'd go about trying to get someone's phone number. People seriously blow my mind with their idiocy sometimes. F*cking creeper...

So, OK, upon second look, it seems I still have some adverse thoughts about this place, although the latter of my two Saturday night douche encounters could have very well happened anywhere (that guy was far more pathological international predator than simple DC douche). But before all this sh*t went down, I was thoroughly enjoying this hell hole. I was in a douche-free zone at a friend's house doing some major work with some meat and beer at a warm-weather barbeque. The conversation was, of course, majorly classy as my friend, The Canadian, began brainstorming blog ideas for me:

"So, how about you only eat corn for a week straight..."

"Would you ever blog anything sexual?"

"Should I just take my shirt off?"

"But seriously, what do I have to do to get in your blog? Don't you realize how much ridiculous sh*t I say all the time?"

Yes, Canada! Yes I do! Congratulations, my friend, you have arrived! (And he's single, ladies!)

But really, besides the high-level of doucheosity that infected my late night (of course, this is mainly my fault for having voluntarily chosen to hang in Adams Morgan on a Saturday -- I mean, when you go scuba diving, should you really be surprised to see fish?), the weekend was good. Damn good. Warm weather + BBQ + good friends (yes, even Canadian friends) = fine summer. Whoops, I mean, warm weather + BBQ + good friends + gratuitous (and possibly annoying) outfit amour-propre = fine summer. Sweatervest!

Dangly yarn balls!

OMG! Pleats!

hipsters really are taking over the world

Remember all the retarded hullabaloo that went down yesterday? The e-drama queen that I apparently am certainly does! But I also remember that it was I who noted that hipsters were, indeed, taking over the world and you know how I'm rarely wrong? (LOL!) Well, I'm upholding that tradition once again. Check out this announcement I received in my inbox earlier this week from our lovely Department of Defense:

American Apparel ... is being awarded a maximum $19,963,861 modification to a firm fixed price, indefinite quantity contract for Marine Corps combat utility uniforms. ...This proposal was originally Web solicited with 10 responses. Contract funds will not expire at the end of the current fiscal year. Date of performance completion is Apr. 18, 2009. The contracting activity is Defense Supply Center Philadelphia.

Zing! Our Marine Corp is going to look sharp! Mayhaps they will opt even to add a pink mélange scarf or a pair of big ol' plastic sunglasses to the official get-up?

Yes, e-friends, for those of you unfamiliar with current hipster fashion, American Apparel is *the* go-to place for all your super-tight basics, such as those shiny stir-up tights you've been coveting (um, or that you I may have bought last week) or that velour sweatshirt you've had your eye on since 1988 (you know I have!). But who knew that American Apparel and its "anti-establishment" resident creeper Dov Charney were such besties with Bob Gates & Co.? Not I!

I can only hope that when we attack Iran (because you know our wacky government will!), our Marines will be able to make up for all the misinformation that leads us into another needless war and instead successfully shock and awe Ahmadinejad by greeting him in a hot lil' zip-up vest and a pair of zippy lil' hot pants. Semper Fi!*

*And before the U.S. government firmly places me on a terrorist watchlist for disrespecting the troops or whatever, let me reiterate that this is satire. My real-life friends in the military (two of which will be heading to Iraq shortly :(, btw) know it and I'm assuming most of you know it, as well. If not, well, now you do! But, seriously, just think how streamlined a soldier would be in these! Ooo-Rah-Tight!

uh-oh! people don't like me!

I was going to blog about something completely different than what I'm about to post, but I will save that for either later or, more likely tomorrow. It can wait. What I'm about to type, however, cannot.

I randomly came across a blog post this morning via DC Blogs and could not resist adding my two obnoxious cents to the comment pool. My main problem was not that this blog's author clearly hates tight pants (this is DC, I'm used to that). No, my main problem was that he and many of his readers made ridiculous assumptions about the subject of the blog, a typical Brooklyn hipster. Now, I can handle routine mockings of hipsterdom. In fact, I endure it nearly daily and find it quite often amusing. However, when the superficial mocking goes beyond that and begins to allude to someone's degree of manliness, in this particular case, or sexuality, as several of this blog's readers found necessary to chime in on, it legitimately pisses me off. It's not funny. It's just mean.

Moreover, as an apparent DC hipster, I feel it is my duty to stand up for those who veer from the almost Nazi-like view here that people should conform in their attire to what is bought and sold at Sears or J.C. Penneys. While I definitely have my style preferences, including glovelets in April, I certainly don't advocate or subscribe to the view that *everyone* should be into the same sh*t I am. In fact, I would absolutely detest if everyone began dressing the exact same way I do. A world in which everyone dresses the same is boring. All I am contending here is that people put in an *effort* to make themselves look good no matter what their personal style preferences are (i.e., do not wear stained sweatpants and f*cking house shoes in public -- that takes zero effort).

Oh, these are the times when I miss A Serious Job Is No Excuse.

hiatus schmiatus

I am seriously the biggest e-dork I know. I can't not blog. Like, I just can't. It's sick. But awesomely so because, my-oh-my, do I have a special treat for you! I'll be damned if I didn't conduct some crack Shambles P.I. work on the Hill yesterday!

There I was, just sleeping doing my job, playing BrickBreaker being a diligent reporter at a House hearing, when I looked up from my game notes and saw it -- the car accident of lady blazers.

Holy sh*t!

Dayyyyyyyyyyyyum! That sh*t is tragic. Yet, yet...I can't look away! It's kind of mesmerizing in its own freakish manner (um, kind of like this blog, no?). As I stared at this apparent aberration, I began to feel a little dizzy. I mean, I didn't know what to look at! I could look at the scribbles on the right shoulder. Or I could stare at the, uh, the skyline? Is that a skyline emerging from the olive green and black checkerboard pattern above her right ass cheek?! But zoinks! I can't forget about the other side of the jacket! Those pink and black diamonds are just...just...phenomenal! And what's that?! That sleeve! Is that a target? Like, is that an invitation of sorts???

Oh man...sensory overload!

It's simply horrifying! Or...or is it?

The more I think about it, the less I'm horrified by it and the more, dare I say, intrigued I am. I'm not sure when the switch from strong disgust to mild admiration occurred, but it definitely took a few moments. Here, let's test my theory. Let's see if I, myself, am simply just bat-sh*t crazy or if I'm onto something here. We'll let the memory of this garment marinate in our minds for a few moments and then we'll look again. Don't worry, I'll wait.

.....

.....

.....So how about that Facebook? I finally joined (during my, um, one-day hiatus) and I'm so confused by it. It's hard being functionally retarded sometimes...

.....

.....

.....Yeah, I'm also thinking about launching a second blog -- a blog geared specifically toward personal style/street fashion, to be exact. I know, as if I needed to lose more sleep...

.....

.....

.....Oh right! Sorry, back to the blazer at hand. Here, take a second look and see what you think now:

Blazer, blazer, blazer, can't you see? Sometimes your patterns just hypnotize me.

It's...it's strangely...still ugly satisfying, right? I mean, at least it's interesting, especially in comparison to, you know, the usual Capitol Hill fare. In fact, the more I look at it and think about its retro Saved by the Bell-esque qualities, the more I begin to think that I might actually be into it -- or at least the idea of it.

See, as objectively gnarly as that blazer is, it takes serious guts to attempt to wear something like that. And I, the girl who according to her coworkers was "dressed like Luke Skywalker"* the other day, have to respect this woman for at least trying (as well as entertaining me throughout an otherwise very dull Congressional hearing).

So, to the woman in the very, very, very, VERY jazzy blazer, this Shambles P.I. applauds you. Bravo to the max!

*Which, of course, I took as a compliment, especially since they were, um, right...

spring breakin' it

Before I get into this one, I want to first point out that I. Am. Exhausted. So please forgive the shoddy sentence construction and lack of jazzy puns, which I've made annoyingly ubiquitous on this here blog.

Anyway, there's a reason for my current state of exhaustion. As it turns out, obsessively attending to The Anti DC each and every day -- and often several times per day -- has led to a fairly self-destructive lifestyle. I can no longer sleep for more than five hours at a time. I've stopped eating dinner because I'm too busy typing. Standing awkwardly on a stool and staring into my dirty bathroom mirror, I see how my current wild nerdy lifestyle has affected my physical appearance; the dark shadows beneath my eyes have become more prevalent and my signature ridiculously tight pants are now beginning to sag (the horror!).

But more equally important, my mental state is on the decline (and I think I've made it quite evident that my mental capacity is already on the low side...). As I sat reclined on my second-hand La-Z-Boy last night, eyes half-closed and stomach growling, I realized that I've begun almost exclusively to experience life through blog-tinted glasses. That is, the mantra of "how should I blog this?!" is almost constantly running through my head as I walk to work, do my job, ride the bus, go out, travel, shop, go to the grocery store, fill a (street legal) prescription, dance, play dice, shoot things, ride dirty...and the list goes on (check the archives). It's almost as if I'm a drug addict, but in place of mind-altering substances, I get my fix through writing mind-blowing (um, or mind-numbing...) rants.

The Anti DC is an obsession, albeit, a rather entertaining (hopefully) and somewhat productive one, but an obsession nonetheless. And too much of anything usually ends in shambles. So, to avoid the pitfalls of writing while on the verge of passing out all the time, I'm going to be taking a short hiatus. I need a nap. I need a meal of food. I need to crack my knuckles and just chillax without thinking for once (like our government). But don't fret over (or, um, get too comfortable with) my e-absence because, as with most addicts, I'll probably fall off the wagon in a couple of days...max...with some stories to tell and some exceptionally messed up sh*t to mock.

So, until we e-meet again (soon),

Marissa

the anti dc sheds her pants!

Phew! This was one salacious weekend. Mainly, because I went out without my signature tight pants on Saturday. BUTT (wordplay Goulet!), lest we get all hot and bothered about the prospect of me dropping trou (um, anyone? *sigh*), let me ASSure you (double wordplay Goulet!) that I didn't just de-pants and roll out. No, I did in fact cover my non-proverbial, actual ass. However, instead of spandex-heavy denim, I opted instead to go with a dress. This is quite monumental for me as my tapered pants and I have had a long and fruitful relationship. So monumental, in fact, that I decided to photo-document my experience without them by posting an array of low-resolution self-portraits.

But, before we get to me, me, me and even more me in a dress (that is, if you didn't just stop reading after the first, second, third or -- I'm even embarrassed now -- fourth mention of "me"), I want to preface with a short story these photos of what quite honestly I consider a nice, but hardly groundbreaking ensemble -- especially in comparison to real style bloggers, whose outfit invention skills trump mine by millions (i.e., Dreamecho, The Clothes Horse and, of course, DC's very own Ms. Spinach).

And before you really do click on the upper-righthand corner and close this blog again for veering way, way off of its original course, my decision to post a few photos of an outfit I really enjoyed wearing is in slight retaliation to a DC douchetastic comment I endured on Friday night about a quite different fashion choice. I decided on a whim to pair some little grey glovelets with my outfit of tight pants (duh) and an oversized sweater-vest cardigan. (I had to though; I mean, anything that's good enough for Karl Lagerfeld is certainly good enough for me.)

But in short, get over it DC -- not everyone is happy in khakis and Crocs. Or at least if you're gonna bitch about someone's outfit choices, start a narcissistic blog about it featuring equal parts hilarious condescension, outlandish sarcasm and endearing self-deprecation (sounds so awesomely familiar somehow...). And to the Friday Night Douche: I know fingerless glovelets on a 70-degree night are "unnecessary." Thanks for informing me in such an asstastic, humorless way.

But anyway, on to Saturday's gloveless outfit. Quite ironically, I had a wedding to attend that afternoon so, out of what originally was obligation, I donned a dress. However, after a quick change of accessories and hair style later that evening, I decided I liked the look so much that I would run with it all night. And strangely, making up for the Friday Night Douche, DC actually seemed to like it (which, um, I guess could be a veiled insult come to think of it -- BURN!). Yeah, I'm not really used to fashion kudos around these parts.

Anyway, now that I've sufficiently built up this admitedly unexciting ensemble, allow me to further disappoint you by showing you four times over what I've decided is the first of many dress-centric outfits I'm going to start scraping together for the spring/summer seasons. And, one more thing, please do cut me some slack on the quality of the photos as I currently do not own a full-length mirror (I know, blasphemy, right?) or a workable digital camera (thank the Lord of Street Dice, though, for cell phone upgrades).

Looking past the awkwardness of my sad puppy facial expression, I'd like to give special notice to this dress's pockets -- so handy. I bought the dress at Anthropolgie, by the way, on Boylston Street in Boston in 2006. This is the third time I've worn it.

Ahhh, the belt -- quite possibly my favorite piece of this entire outfit. It was a gift from my southern grandma, who bought it sometime in the 1960s. Thanks g-ma!

And these are the tights, which surprisingly enough, I found at CVS (!) last week. I enjoy patterned hosiery. Please, however, forgive the elfish wedding shoe choice. I was in a bind as the heels I wanted to wear were tucked away at the cobbler's...

And here's where the real genius kicked in -- not only did I discover that I can get a full outfit shot in my bathroom mirror by precariously balancing on an unsteady IKEA stool (oh, the things I'll do for this blog), but I decided to transition the outfit to nighttime by adding boots (Steven by Steve Madden) and a Dorothy Zbornak-esque cardigan (Benetton, although bought in Rome, natch -- equal parts condescension, remember?) It is too bad there isn't a head shot with this one, though, as I managed to somehow put my hot mess of hair in a rather impressive bouffanty ponytail. Note to self: BUY A GODDAMN FULL-LENGTH MIRROR.

XO

dc advertising takes toolish turn...

When I think of the word "marriage," the one thing that comes to mind is money, er, love. That is, when I attend weddings, see people getting engaged or think about the possibility myself (I think I've thought about it exactly five times now, which happens to correlate exactly to the amount of times my southern grandma has brought it up on the phone with me in the past few months), I like to at least pretend most people are signing away their independence getting married because they love their mates and can't fathom life without them.

And I think for the most part (at least in the United States), that is actually the case. You know, until the love wears off and these former newlyweds start proposing separations and divorces instead of honeymoons and babies (hey, those are statistics talking, not me!). But leave it to DC to skip the metaphorical fluffy bunnies, cotton candy and bright daffodils that compose love and instead turn what should be a tear-inducing event (even for robots like myself) into a douchey business deal. Check out the billboard I snapped yesterday on my walk home to the bar from work:

In case the resolution on my 1.3 megapixel cellphone camera doesn't lend itself to clear text, this gem reads, "Married people earn more money" and "Marriage Works." Really? This is what life has come to? Advertising marriage as if it were an equity fund? Now that's romance!

The geniuses behind this "Marriage Works USA" campaign (and may I underline here these are the geniuses that thought the rather unattractive and badly dressed couple made marriage actually look desirable) work for the "Campaign For Our Children," an organization "to address the high teen birth rate in Maryland through a comprehensive, hands-on program to educate children, parents and the general public."

So, they're "educating" me by taking a statistic way out of context and plastering it on the side of a bus stop using ugly models in bad clothes? I think they have some additional learning to do themselves about the advertising business. Ugly doesn't sell. Oh snap!

To illustrate my point even further, check out this photo from their Web site:

I don't know what makes me want to get married more -- her vaguely pissed off expression or the fact that the blank stare in her eyes makes her look only semi-conscious. Sign me up, Marriage Works USA! Your slick advertising campaign has convinced me to forgo looking for a so-called "soulmate" (psshaw!) and instead just go for the next middle-income chubby man in a polyester suit that comes my way, i.e., like the next guy I see on the street. (Oh yeah! I just said that!)

ridin' dirty

It's days like this that make me want to walk off the job and do one thing and one thing only -- ride dirty on a Segway around DC. And before you LOL and attribute that last sentence to my biting sarcastic wit, let me assure you that I'm dead serious, like, Cheney serious.

Now doesn't he look happy? And we all know only two things make a Cheney smile -- secret Eastern European torture prisons and shooting people in the face. So, with happiness standards like that, riding a Segway around DC must be pretty epic. Luckily, DC is just douchetastic enough to have a company dedicated to such tours.

And you can bet your khaki-covered ass that I will be on one of those things sometime soon looking just as tool, er, I mean cool as these people in this unnessessarily long Segway advert. Hint: Skip to minute five when the freestylin' comes out. I can't wait to see this in the X-Games.

get off the internet thursday: the vinyl district

I can't believe it's already been three whole weeks since I (un)skillfully wrote the first Get Off the Internet Thursday. Have you been off the Internet? I haven't! I mean, I have...just probably not enough. It's hard being an über-dork sometimes. *sigh* But enough narcissistic yet endearingly self-deprecating tidbits about myself! It's time to talk about this week's guest blogger and it's Jon from one of DC's best music blogs -- The Vinyl District, on which I once guest blogged.


But lest you think my guest musings on TVD is what makes me say it's so awesome, let me wholeheartedly assure you that's not it. (Come on, I'm not *that* much of an asshole, am I?) No, the reason TVD is a must-read is because Jon knows his sh*t. Reading his blog will nudge your music street cred upwards, which, when accumulated, will garner you numerous scene points when you start talking about Fad Gadget's 1980 hit "Ricky's Hand" at the Foals show later this month at the Rock and Roll Hotel. And who doesn't like scene points?! So, in the words of Britney Spears, gimme more, Jon! (Whoops! And there went my scene points...)

Hey folks -- Jon from The Vinyl District here...and yep, it's my turn to sing the praises of five things I like about DC. And lest you think I'm some sort of fetishist (I mean, who knows what 'vinyl' could conjure up in this forum) [Ed. OMG! Patent leather shoes?!] I'm talking about records. Vinyl records. [Ed. Oh.] And five of the finest vinyl record stores in DC are all within walking distance of one another and each has its own unique personality. So, slide into those sweatpants and slap on the Crocs [Ed. Jon, how'd you know?!], because we're taking a walk...

First up at the corner of 14th and T Streets, NW -- 1843 14th Street NW -- to be exact is Som Records. (In a basement, natch.) Neal probably has the most diverse catalog of vinyl in his place among the five we'll visit. I mean, the guy's committed to bringing the best records he can lay his hands on into his store from all across the globe. (In fact, his last trip to Brazil will be chronicled at TVD very soon. [Ed. Nice plug, sir!]) Along with the classic rock and the new releases, he's also got soul, funk, disco, go-go, reggae, samba, salsa, folk, blues, punk, and electronica. Check out his 'Expensive Shit' section while you're there too. (You'll probably find my wallet in there.)

Second on our trek is Crooked Beat Records at 2318 18th St., NW in Adams Morgan. I'll credit Bill with being the first to invigorate the brick-and-mortar aesthetic in the area when he set up shop a few years back. Tons of old and spanking new vinyl line one wall, and CDs -- yes, CDs (just the good shit, thank you) -- line another. They've got T-shirts, posters, DVDs too...AND they're the only one of the five on our tour doing the old-fashioned free, in-store artist appearances.

I've been going to our third stop Smash! for years when it was located on M Street in Georgetown...but perhaps the douchebag quotient got too high [Ed. You took the words out of my larynx.], because last year they relocated a few doors down from Crooked Beat at 2314 18th St., NW, on the 2nd floor. They're stocking punk, metal, rock, jazz, and blues vinyl along with a fine selection of cool, vintage and original handmade clothing. Go for the records, stay for the clothes. It's that simple. [Ed. And it's that tight!]

The newest addition to what's becoming a true Northwest, DC vinyl corridor is Red Onion Records and Books at 1901 18th St., NW. What I like about Joshua's place is that it's so damn comfortable -- almost like being in a friend's cozy basement. [Ed. So, you're saying there's lots of weed smokin' going on?] There's even a sitting area if you're getting tired on our walk right about now [Ed. Are you kidding? Not in these Crocs!]. A diverse selection of books line one wall, CDs along another, and smack in the center are bins and bins of vinyl whose selection gets added to weekly. Sign up for his email blasts to keep on top of the variety of stuff that gets added consistently.

If there's a true Rocky story among the five record stores we'll visit, it has to be the Phoenix rising from the ashes saga of Dupont Circle's DJ Hut located at 2010 P St., NW on the 2nd Floor. DJ Hut was shuttered by a fire not once but TWICE and has bounced back both times. As their Web site puts it, "DJ Hut aims to provide not only music, but also all of the needs a DJ may have; turntables, mixers, repair service, accessories, etc. Our primary goal is to support DJ culture and while vinyl lovers founded the store, we are committed to keeping up to date with new technology." DJ Hut has recently launched an online store too and after two fires, can you blame 'em? [Ed. No. Fire is not awesome.]

Since we find ourselves in Dupont Circle after our 5-store tour, I'll offer one extra credit recommendation because, well, I've developed a bit of a thirst. [Ed. Booze! Yes! Booze!] See ya out on the patio...and across town on April 19th!

So there you have it. Once again, Jon has proven that all good things always end in booze. And music. Really, it doesn't get much better. Anyway, do you have the balls, um, or keyboard to step up and tell me and this blog's incredibly smart and discerning readership to get the eff off the Internet and experience something non-douchetastic in DC? If so, take a proverbial stab shank at writing your own edition of Get Off the Internet Thursday! If interested (and I know you are), let me know: theantidc@gmail.com.

Shambles P.I.: dc better watch its proverbial back

The Anti DC is currently in the middle of a "blogolution," if you will. Why? I've traded in my circa-2004 beta phone for a brand new, ice blue, LG camera phone.

Shambles detection rates have increased exponentially.

It feels good to trade up to alpha technology. Not only does it coordinate better with my outfit aesthetics, but it truly means I can now commence my next diabolical e-plan -- Shambles P.I.*! That's right, e-friends, with the addition of this new covert camera, my sweet ass can now snap candid on-the-street shots of the sick and twisted scenes this city presents to me each and every day (kind of like that which I posted yesterday).

And not being one to waste time (LOL!), I initiated Shambles P.I. on the bus this morning. Notice anything bizarre going on here?


No? Here, look again...



That crazy bitch with the arrows around her head is putting on makeup. On a bus. And not just some pressed powder either. We're talking mascara, eyeliner and OTHER THINGS THAT CAN POKE HER EYE OUT. I know this isn't that odd of a thing in DC to conduct what should be at-home bathroom activities on public transportation, however, while it's not much better to act like a hot mess on the metro, at least the ride is smooth. For those of you not familiar with city buses, let me tell you that that sh*t rides dirty. There are bumps, twists and turns to deal with. In fact, I could barely take a clear photo, which made me even more incredulous. I mean, how in hell is someone trying to kohl her upper eyelids in this situation?

Seriously, ladies, take care of your personal hygiene at home. As last week's guest blogger Shannon of Disaffected Scanner Jockey said not long ago, "nobody needs to know how you got to be so pretty. ...A little bit of lipstick or a swoop of powder across the nose? Fine. But if it involves both hands and touching up your eyeliner by the fluorescent light of your BlackBerry? No. Just, no."

But more importantly on the bus, nobody wants to watch your eye, which you just popped out of its socket thanks to an ill-timed pothole and an errant mascara wand, ricohet off the dusty seat and roll down the dirt-encrusted aisle only to be stopped by one of the ridiculously loud teenagers who steps on it with his Skechers. Not tight.

*Otherwise known as, Operation Let's Get Sued!