datarocked!

Apart from the fine lines starting to show around my eyes when I smile (or smirk smugly), the prospect that jowls are only about 40 years away instead of 50 and the fact that I now refer to college kids as "kids" and literally mean it, there's only one other signifier of my actual age (28) that creeps up from time to time -- I can no longer metabolize liquor like I used to.

Probably like you, I was that kid in college who could go out on a Wednesday night, handle a pitcher of The Beast, subsequently pull an all-nighter and finish an "A"-grade midterm paper on the leit-motif of mirrors in Tolstoy's War and Peace by Thursday at noon, just in time to imbibe a healthful lunch of coffee and Mountain Dew during which we'd plan where and how we'd be drinking that night. And because of my science-defying healthy liver, this pattern pretty much went on for four years.

And things didn't slow up much for the first three years after college either when I lived in Moscow, Russia. I don't think I need to elaborate on that.

But now, as someone entering the end of their late-twenties, my body has decided to stop knowing how to properly process that unique combination of alcohol and caffeine into energetic hilarity and instead just processes it into a Sunday morning/afternoon intense hangover. Not tight.

The culprit last Saturday night was a little beverage known as Sparks -- a pre-canned Red Bull and vodka with twice the sugar. It tastes like liquid Smarties, well, if Smarties were chock full of booze. Anyway, the reason for this long, drawn-out explanation probably filled with a little too much information for my e-reputation is that my three cans of Sparks (they were only $1 a piece!) led me to take probably the worst photographs of my life at one of the best concerts I've been to in DC -- Datarock at the Rock & Roll Hotel. (Thanks to The Vinyl District for the tickets, by the way, although I hear Facebook was hooking people up, too. I am, however, eagerly awaiting my free swag, so again, thanks TVD!)

In honor of those three fateful cans of Sparks, I'm going to sum up the experience by choosing three words to describe the three key factors that made this show so enjoyable:

VENUE
Unpretentious
Design
Inexpensive

CROWD
Cool
Interesting
Diverse

DATAROCK
Loud
Norwegian
Sweaty

All in all, it was an awesome night. I hope you enjoy these blurs as much as I seemed to have enjoyed snapping them.

By the way, for more than a nine-word review, The Washington Post has a pretty good write-up here.

docks are optional

What's brown and white and douchey all over? (Wow...that certainly could go in several gnarly directions...)

Let's try this again: What's the opposite of low-centers?

Anyone?

OK. Fine. I see you're all stumped because, I mean, it's not like I'd buy Topsiders or anything!


Except I totally would! That's my dang foot! Yes, e-friends and newly encountered e-foes (I'm looking at you, "The Internet"), I am the proud owner of 100 percent authentic Sperry Topsiders, the original sailing shoe.

"Oh, Anti DC, I didn't know you were into sailing! Cool!"

Ha! Not cool. I'm totally not into sailing. Actually, I wouldn't be against it, but as of right now, I've never engaged in that activity.

"Well, you at least own a boat, right?"

Um, about that. No. No I don't.

"OK, then certainly you've stepped foot on one."

Booze cruises count, right?

"All right, then why the f*ck did you buy Topsiders?!"

Excellent question. And I'll gladly answer it. See, it all kind of started off as a bit of a joke, which, of course, I took to the next level. Having been in DC for over a year, I've noticed there is a fairly distinct style of doucheosity that persists around certain areas of town -- *cough* Georgetown *cough*. This style usually looks just so, so wrong. And not to beat the proverbial pair of pleated khaki pants to death when I reiterate that a fair share of DC's population never learned how to dress themselves, but it's true. Look around.

Now, DC's overall sad state of fashion can range from the blatantly dishabille on the Hill to the "I put thought into my outfit, just not good thought" trust-fund kids gone wrong in Georgetown. While the former group is usually just lazy, the latter group is just plain retardulous. See, they get so overexcited at the site of madras, polos, man capris (a.k.a., the manpri, if you will) and yes, Topsiders, that they just go nuts and put it all on at once. Where the former group puts in no thought, the latter puts in too much. In other words, they put all of their douche eggs in one J. Crew bag, as it were, and they end up looking like assholes. Take, for example, this poor male model who probably ruined his career on the Today show last August.

Oh, that is truly horrendous. I'm sorry I made you look at that, but, well, it had to be done for me to illustratively illustrate my illustrative point -- too many repetitive words single-genre trends do not a good sentence outfit make. But the preppy look isn't inherently vomit-inducing (except in Georgetown or on the Today show). See, any one of the pieces pictured above, well, save for those ludicrous manpris, has the potential to look good under certain conditions. But combine all items together and you have...well, outfit vomit. It just ain't right.

Let's take just the Topsiders, for example. Now, if the stylist sadist who invented the above-pictured outfit would've simply taken the Topsiders and paired them, say, with a nice pair of flatfront slim ("pardon the expression") trousers and maybe a cardigan, then we'd have a look I could work with (see Band of Outsiders, for example).

But lest you think Topsiders are only for the boys, you'd be wrong. I'm of the opinion that ladies can also rock 'em. And I'm not alone (for once!) with my thoughts (see the lovely and incredibly eloquent Dreamecho please). Yes, the classic Sperry Topsider is a bonafide dorktastic friend of fashion (it's too bad my ass right thigh/general hippage isn't -- I'll see you in hell delicious cupcakes!):

Come hither, Topsiders!

Seriously, that badonkadonk those sausage-y thighs look kind of, um, not tight? And also, why is my T-shirt laying so weird?! Now, ignoring all that and the fact that I'm kind of grabbing ma'butt here as well as (while we're at it) my humongous humidity hair and the fact that I snapped this on self-timer in my office bathroom roughly three seconds before someone else came in to use it (now that would've made for an awkward moment), I think what I've done with the Topsider here not half bad. I think I managed to make it look, well, not so much like a Topsider, or at least like a Topsider as you'd expect to see it. That is, I've managed to cop a bit of Georgetown steez (hold the skeez) and make it kinda tight. Take it.

And also, for the record, Topsiders are effing comfortable! Lesson be learned, Crocs-wearers! You have another, equally nerdy, but less ugly option -- Topsiders for everyone! Yay! Even (or, perhaps, especially) for men in hot pants! Thank you, Go Fug Yourself for this whimsical image!

Pictured (on me, not young Chuck Bass): Sperry Topsiders, Kova&T jeans, vintage T-shirt, H&M cami, Target wayfarer sunglasses.

as long as my ninja weaponry isn't affected...

Oooo yippee! What a glorious day! Not only was the salad bar at the Van Ness Giant grocery store relatively untouched when I went to fetch my lunch earlier today, but I found out that I could've gone and picked up a firearm too since the Supreme Court struck down DC's gun ban! Oh, fine day!

Or wait...

See, I have a bit of an affinity for the firearm, it's true. However, at the same time, I have a strong distrust of people. Because they're stupid.

While I trust myself with a weapon (um, I think) I'm not so sure I trust this guy to have one. But then again, it's not like criminals -- and stupid ones, at that -- don't already have handguns, so, really, why shouldn't I be able to pack a little heat for self-defense? After all, there are some extremely sleek-looking firearms out there (you know, to go with your 24-karat grenade) that would fit nicely in my handbag.

Ahh, but then there's that tiny problem of conscience, I suppose. As cruel and heartless as I am, I'm not sure if I could ever shoot a human unless it was in one of those old-timey duels where we'd take 10 paces and draw on three to settle some sort of long-standing score that began with the exclamations of "Carpetbagger!" and "Rapscallion!" and ended with someone getting pansy-slapped in the face with a pair of fine leather gloves. In that case, it seems like a fair-and-square deal. However, when you're facing a criminal, it's a little different. I mean, I have no problem shooting skeet, or possibly even shooting an animal if I was going to eat it immediately afterwards, but just drawing a deadly weapon out of my bag within seconds and shooting a person? I'm much too calculating for that.

So, in short, I'm not exactly sure what I think of SCOTUS' ruling. I'm down with the Constitution, of course, but I'm not sure I'm down with even more idiots being able to legally carry weapons that could kill me if they mistook my reaching out for a hug as a call to arms (arms, hugs -- see what I did there?). Ha! Who am I kidding, I don't like human contact.

I just want to know one thing, can I still carry around a pair of Chicken Sickles? Or was that ever street legal? Forget I mentioned that. Carry on...

sushi sushi sushi

It's almost slightly embarassing (and gross) to admit, but the first time I tried sushi was while I was living squatting in Moscow, Russia, in 2002. Actually, it's not so surprising considering I grew up in the 1980s and 1990s in small-town Minnesota, where the addition of a Baker's Square in 1995 (or was it 1996?) was enough to set the town aflame (although, I'll admit, their French Silk Pie was near perfection). Anyway, in Moscow, we used to frequent a place called Yakitoria (um, worst name ever?), which was one of the few sushi places there that didn't utilize mayonnaise and dill as routine ingredients (trust me, that sh*t used to happen). Truthfully, it was pretty good even. Or at least it wasn't bad...

When I moved back to the States, I figured out that sushi was much better than I ever thought. I moved to Boston and was soon introduced to what apparently is called "Snappy Sushi" (which, before literally five minutes ago, I had always referred to it as the "hole-in-the-wall cheap-ass basement joint on Newbury"). Not only were the prices right and the food tasty, but it was super refreshing not to have to worry about Russia's national condiment and spice sneaking into my meal.

However, since moving to DC, my sushi-eating has curtailed greatly to my (and my ass's) dismay. For the longest time, I just couldn't find a good, affordable place. Once in a while I'd tap my local Giant grocery store for a quick lunch (it's not as bad as it may seem, actually), but after a bad experience with a couple pieces of unagi, I went cold turkey, er, eel? In other words, I gave it up...until Tuesday.

I don't know what it was. Perhaps it was that I was in Boston the weekend before, in such close proximity to Snappy Sushi, and failed to stop by. Or maybe it was simply because sushi is effing delicious, especially in warm, sunny weather. It's also a healthy alternative to just about every other dish offered up in U.S. restaurants. It's pretty perfect, actually.

But I had no idea where to go. Luckily, my friends are smarter than I am, so they pointed me in the direction of Sushi Taro. And thank Poseidon, because that sh*t fish was tight. I started off with the miso soup -- delicious. Next I split an order of soft-shell crab tempura with The Law -- delicious. Then I scarfed down an Alaska roll, two pieces of tuna, some eel and some scallops. I wasn't kidding when I said I had a craving...um, for everything on the menu.

But possibly even more awesome than the deliciousness of that meal of food, was the service. We showed up around 7:30 pm without a reservation, at which point we were told it would be a 30-minute wait. The Law, with her nimble thinking, gave the receptionist her number and we went next door for a libation. Well, about 10 minutes later, the receptionist called. Uh...what about our booze? We wanted, nay, we needed to finish that. So again, The Law, with her quick thinking, explained the situation and what happened? The receptionist said, "No problem. We'll call you back in 20 minutes. Do you think you'll be ready by then?" The Law answered in the affirmative, hung up the phone and we continued to get crunk.

What just happened?! DC is renowned (at least to me) for its poor customer service. What in the goddamn world just happened?! Is Sushi Taro embedded in some kink in the space-time continuum? Did we somehow pull an Ed Markey and teleport to another dimension? (Sadly, in DC, it often seems more plausible than not that some rule of physics has been broken when something actually goes your way.) However, when I looked to my right and saw that even the gays were dressed badly (which again, was pointed out to me later that night by a gay friend from Chicago), I realized that nope, this was indeed good ol' khaki-clad Washington, DC.

But at least I know I have found a little oasis in this dimension in the form of Sushi Taro. Also, they serve gigantic beers. Tiiiiiiight.

yellow pants are tight

I've been thinking quite a bit about feelings lately. You know, basically how I can offend the greatest amount of people with the least amount of effort. As it turns out, that's surprisingly easy to do. In fact, all I have to do is breath.

I pissed a cab driver off yesterday for getting into his cab. He tried to charge my friend and I separately to sit in his cab (which is total bullsh*t, by the way, so if some shady dumbass driver tries to pull that scheme on you, let him know you're willing to take it up with the police).

Then this morning, while commuting via Baguette to work, I nearly got clotheslined by a douchebag exiting his car. There was a bit of a scuffle, which may or may not have resulted in a scratch or two on his vehicle (I didn't stick around long enough to check and Baguette came out unscathed), but this bitch had the nerve to yell at me. Um, now I've found logic to be an elusive quality in the Capital of the Free World, but it seems to me that if someone HITS YOU, it should be on his back to apologize. Just sayin'.

And truthfully, I'm surprised he didn't see me coming out of the corner of his eye, as to compensate for the gloom and doom that is this week for me at work (thanks to the House and Senate both, um, doing their jobs and actually marking up a few bills -- trust me, I'm as surprised as you!), I decided to wear the brightest, sunniest, most cheery yellow tight pants I own:

Happy fun sunshine time, heyyy!

Yeah, those are zippers at the ankles, indeed! But let's move on to the footwear. Gladiator sandals are all the rage this season, and I'd been looking for metallic ones for quite some time, however, the only pair (until now) that I had truly liked were upwards of $330 (scroll down to see the Helena in graphite). Yeah.

Luckily, last Friday, when I was picking up a few last minute travel items at Bed, Bath and Beyond (their travel section is AMAZING), I decided to stop by the Marshall's located just beneath it in the DC USA shopping complex in Columbia Heights. Lo and behold, amid all the schlock and rows of flip-flops (ugh), I found the pair pictured here for just $25.

Note to self: Stop over-boozing. My shakes are not helping my photog skills, clearly.

They came in pewter (pictured, um, sorta) and bronze. (For a better image, check out them out here.) If you want a pair, I suggest you hit that sh*t up now, as this was the only decent-looking shoe in the bunch, I won't lie (I'm not a fan of that Marshalls...), and with a discount of over 50 percent, it's kind of an unbeatable deal. They run super big, however, so you're probably going to want to size down. And lastly, they actually seem pretty well made so when I have to kick a cab driver in the teeth for trying to rip me off or a driver in the throat for yelling at me after he hit me, I think these would hold up just fine. Afterall, the Goose of Justice can't always be around to help you out of a jam.

why yes i am retardulously self-absorbed! thanks for noticing!

What an effing weekend! If you're wondering why I'm writing this on a Tuesday, it's because my weekend didn't end until last night. I jet-setted up to Boston on Saturday, where I slept for a total of five hours between then and Monday night. I won't go into a lot of details here, but there was a brief brush with the cops, during which my stealth thinking and sharp forethought nearly got us arrested saved the day, er, night, followed by a never-ending trip to Foxwoods, where I learned that the Lord (who invented dinosaurs) bestowed upon me the lovely gift of the hustle. Let's just say I owned some bitches at the poker table.

However, while I was up in Boston being totally awesome (but really, could I be any other way?), a discontent reader of this blog called me out twice and my friends and family out once. Yowza!

Now, under usual circumstances, I wouldn't mention this, because, you know, I just get tons and tons of comments, so it's just so hard to sort through them all, (Don't worry, it's sarcasm, which you will soon learn is "the lowest form of wit."), but these comments were just so thought-out, detailed and, indeed, ridiculous that I really want to share them with all of you.

The first came in response to my post regarding what I'm now going to call the "Sara Evans Incident" which was inspired by the Express last week. The basic gist was that I found the Express blurb on this new-to-me "star" funny and my newly found comment-nemesis, "jodeegroupie" (I'm going to assume "jodee" is code for "Marissa"), did not:

"Marrissa, Marrissa, Marrissa! There are people of all ages and backgrounds who moved to D.C. (and who ride the subway, the main audience of the Express paper) from all over the country. While sarcasm, often referred to as the lowest form of wit, can be funny, it doesn't necessarily have to involve putting people down. You also may not be familiar with the gay country dance club on Capitol Hill (Penn. Ave., near the Navy Yard Metro stop) called Remington's. Stray out of your Gossip Girl comfort zone and go and visit it sometime with your friends. On any Saturday night, there will be 100 men and women there who will know exactly who Sara Evans is! Variety is the Spice Girl of life!"

Now I'll be honest, besides the probably purposeful misspelling of my totally righteous name, I didn't find this paragraph all that offensive. For one, it takes a lot to offend me, but for two, embedded in this pithy little pun-filled gem is a recommendation -- "the gay country dance club" Remington's. And while I'm sure this is probably just an invitation for jodeegroupie to get me in some sketchy bar and shiv me, I'm quite intrigued. As a fellow friend and shambler of mine noted in a text message, "I've been looking for a reason to buy chaps!" So, jodeegroupie, I challenge you to a boot-scootin' boogie duel -- winner take chaps.

But clearly, I'd take the chaps -- not only am I incredibly talented at poker, a master at the "lowest form of wit," and pretty much the best at anything and everything that exists and has yet to be invented, but I also got an "A" in my junior high school line-dancing unit in gym class. So, if variety is the "Spice Girl" of life, then my "Gossip Girl lifestyle" is the magical unicorn of life. See, as much as I wish I could live the life of Blair Waldorf, unfortunately, I don't picture her sporting chaps and entering into a line-dancing duel. Simply put, like a magical unicorn, that sh*t ain't happening. Oh, and also, I'm not 17, nor am I ridiculously loaded (although with all of my natural-born talents, I'm sure karma will make it rain for me at some point soon).

And speaking of karma, this serves as the perfect segue into jodeegroupie's next priceless few words of wisdom offered to me in response to my post about God and dinosaurs. (Geez, what a perfect segue! It's as if my brain works too well sometimes! It's retardedly retardulous!):

"Messrissa, you like to use the words "retarded" and retardulous a lot. Because of your self-absorbed and negative karma, I foresee you or a friend or relative of yours giving birth to a baby with Down syndrome or autism!"

Oh, jodeegroupie, you sharp son of a bitch! First off, "Messrissa" -- touché, indeed! But yes, I do like to use the words retarded and retardulous a lot! It's sort of my thing. And yes, indeed I am self-absorbed! When you have so many talents, it'd be retarded of me not to be, right?!

Now, as for the "negative karma" you believe me to be exuding, allow me to just point out right quick that writing a blog is the most passive form of communication so far known to man. In fact, for all I know, no one but me is reading this (of course, that's not true, though, since it's scientifically impossible for anyone to resist the insightful blog droppings that are shat out of my keyboards proverbial glutes almost each and every day.), so if there's any karma being spread at all -- good or bad -- from this blog, well, it's not my fault! It's yours! Zoinks! See, you had to take some sort of action to find this slice of Internet pie, either by clicking, Googling or simply having the mystical urge to type in theantidc.blogspot.com in your browser's address bar. Therefore, if you believe this innocuous (but totally best thing ever) little blog is the harbinger of "negative karma," then really, it's your own damn fault for reading it.

Don't get me wrong though, I want you to keep reading (and I'm sure you will because, like I said, who can resist?!). And sure, I invite you to keep commenting, even keep up wishing I'd pop out mentally disabled babies. Hell, I'm slightly flattered you sense any sort of motherly instinct in me at all! But to wish ill-will on my friends and family (many of whom don't even know I write this pure genius of a blog yet) is just kind of rude uncalled for creepy and weird.

And so here is my request to all of my potential detractors and future e-nemeses out there -- bring it. But make sure your complaints are all about me. Remember, I'm retardulously self-absorbed.

xoxo,

Gossip Girl Marrissa Messrissa Marissa

*PHOTO CREDIT of the Goose of Justice goes out to the always hilarious Bike Snob NYC. This picture will never get old. Ever.*

stuff god people like

You know, to put the proverbial cherry on the metaphorical sundae of sketchy gun show week here at The Anti DC, I find it only fitting that I drop some red state crazy philosophy on you all. Behold, a clearly irrefutable theory about how so-called "science" is pure, ungodly bunk.



Thank you, "God Tube" for enlightening me. I'm sure Adam and Eve had a raucously good time barebacking dinosaurs. It'd be a lot more funny, if the God-Tube people weren't flippin' serious. Yikes.

And a special thanks to my good friend, Mr. (or Dr.?) Socrates Johnson, of the newly christened and truly eloquent India Poop Blog, to which I'm hoping this plug will goad him into updating more. This kid's got a keen eye for both the awesome and the retardulous. He also likes taking pictures with his shirt off and posting them on Facebook, but that's neither here nor there...

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to jet-set. I'm going-going, back-back, to Cali-Cali Boston (um, that was brought to you be The Notorious Retardulous A.D.C.). And of course, I'm leaving when the weather is extremely tight. *sigh* Anyway, e-friends, have fun in the District, and I'll e-see you Monday. Ciao!

shambles p.i. -- the HOLY SH*T edition

Today I present to you what might possibly be the first true sign that the Apocalypse is nigh. What I'm about to show you is so frightening, so sick, so wrong, that only Beelzebub himself could conjure it up. It's a triple threat of the worst kind -- a trifecta of ungodly elements coming together to form what can only be described as "HOLY SH*T! WHAT THE F*CK IS GOING ON THERE?!" Yes, everybody, courtesy of my new e-friend, Ashley, The Anti DC is both ashamed and proud to bring to you a 20-something female, sporting torn nylons, which she doctored by cutting out a space to place her big toe so she could wear flip-flops to work. Again, HOLY SH*T! WHAT THE F*CK IS GOING ON THERE?! (I warned you!)


Egad! Do you dare take a closer look? I will! (I'm a masochist, what can I say? Bring it!)


From this photo, you can clearly see the web-effect created by the hose, as well as the slightly darker color of the toes covered by the nylons and the big toe left bare. But, like I said, I wasn't the [un]lucky chosen one to witness this firsthand. Ashley was, and her recounting of this very bizarre "HS!WTFIGOT?!" incident reads a bit like a horror film:

I am walking, enjoying the beautiful weather, counting the number of women sporting Rainbows, Havianas, and Crocs when I notice the woman in front of me seems to have some sort of webbed toes. Naturally I speed up so I can see this freak of nature. As I get closer I realize that the webbing is actually pantyhose. With flip-flops. I am thinking, "How is that possible?" I mean, talk about toe wedgie. And then I see the horror. This 20-something woman is wearing pantyhose (with a sizable run in the leg, I might add) that she has altered so she can wear them with flip-flops. She had cut the big toe out of the pantyhose so she could navigate comfortably in her couture flip-flops. And obviously show off her 3-month-old grungy toe-nail polish that was half chipped off.

When I read this E-mail for the first time, my mouth dropped open. I literally went into shock for a hot second. All of this unnecessary ugliness is so avoidable, which is why it makes it so ridiculously infuriating. Although I've broken it down in the general sense already regarding its total retardulousness, allow me to remedy this situation in detail, in the slim chance that the definition of dishabille pictured above stumbles upon this bitchfest of a blog post:

1) It's effing hot. If you're under 40 and aren't currently broken out in hives, nude-colored pantyhose are incredibly unnecessary. Not only do they age you, but they often just look retarded. Especially when they're ripped.

2) Now, if you can't live without your flesh-toned nylons, say, you are broken out in hives, then here's what you do: DON'T WEAR OPEN-TOE SHOES. Now, this is not to discourage opaque tights and open-toe shoes. That sh*t can look tight. But old-lady nylons and open-toe shoes look wack together -- so wack, in fact, it's wacker than me using the word wack and that's pretty f*cking wack. Moreover, to choose a flip-flop as your open-toe shoe of choice? Words can barely explain how wrong that is.

3) But you're smart. You wanted to avoid the toe-wedgie, so you thought up a little trick to doctor your gnarly nylons. Smart. Real smart. Perhaps, you're even a genius. -- a blind genius, it would seem, but a genius nonetheless. Oh, eff it. You're insane, I tell ya! INSANE!

thank you dairy lobbyists!

Something pretty damn awesome happened just now. No, it wasn't the fact that during a budget mark-up in the Senate, Old Man Time Sen. Robert Byrd (D-W.Va.) shouted "Make way for liber-tay!" multiple times as a staffer wheeled him over to his spot at the head of the appropriations table. Nor was it the fact that this was possibly the shortest approps bill mark-up in the history of time. Nope. It was this:

Neal Perry, Todd Anderson, Knox Overstreet and Nuwanda hold their meeting at the toppings table.

That's a free ice cream social on the Hill! Why? No reason! The International Dairy Foods Association just wanted to bribe throw a party for "Congress, their staffs and families and special invited guests." Well, luckily for me, security was pretty lax so I, along with several new homeless friends, were able to walk right in (to the unguarded open public space) and grab our free ice cream.

Zoinks! Watch those cuffs!

Invited or not, this event was solid. And the ice cream was delicious. The International Dairy Foods Association does not skimp. This wasn't your supermarket-bought vanilla. This was something fancy, with flavors like Blackberry Chocolate Chip, Triple Fudge Brownie, and my flavor of choice, Mango. Likewise, this wasn't just one free scoop of ice cream. It wasn't even two free scoops. Nope. It was three free scoops of ice cream! TIGHT. Not to mention, root beer floats and sundaes. Did I mention this was free?! I've never been so happy to be on the Hill in my life.

Make way for liber-tay? If this isn't liber-tay, I don't know what is. Can't wait to see how many federal subsidies and earmarked monies the dairy industry receives next year!

potomac mills: a wtf?! review and a romper

I hate to bid adieu to my wardrobe trademarks -- tight pants and sweatervests -- but the heat in DC kills me. Must... think... of... alternative.

But luckily, that alternative thought of me. I had spent the morning with The Law at the sketchy gun show learning about boobytrapping (theme week!), followed by an early afternoon taking in the sights of Dale City and a mid-afternoon ultimately failing to find a blaze orange ammo belt at Grangers Ganders. But then fate intervened.

The original plan was to find our sweet shooting gear then hit up the range, however, by the time the shambles of last Saturday morning/afternoon were over, as well as by the time we were done with our classy Denny's brunch (pancakes, eggs, sausage and hashbrowns for $4.99?!), the Bull Run Shooting Center -- our range of choice -- was about to close. So we did the only logical thing people do when they can't shoot guns -- we spent money. More specifically, we went to Potomac Mills shopping center, which happens to be right next to Dale City.

Potomac Mills is a strange, strange place. It's a bit like L'Enfant Plaza in that the whole thing seems a bit foreign. That is, like the Soviet-style architecture featured in and around L'Enfant Plaza, the stores that compose Potomac Mills remind me a bit of the stores one would find in pre-Putin Russia or parts of South America. First, the clothes in these stores feature more sequins than one of Johnny Weir's ice-skating ensembles and, second, many of the stores have ridiculous names.

Some boast conspicuous designer names that have nothing to do with said designer, such as "Glory & Dior." Trust me, Dior has nothing to do with that. Others feature names with obvious nods to certain areas of the world, a practice done quite regularly in places like Kyrgyzstan (Where? Exactly.), hoping to cash in on the cachet of another country's fashion sense. Potomac Mills has "Group USA" and "Istanbul." (Yeah, I couldn't even Google that last one...) And still others seem to just pick random words in hopes that they sound hip, like "Urban Behavior," "Papaya," "LVL X Direct," and my personal favorite, "E-Paris." (Again, all three are un-Googleable.) All of this is reminiscent of a little store I spotted a couple of years ago while vacationing in Punta del Este, Uruguay.

You can't see it, but a store called Peen was on the right. (If only...)

Ridiculous store names aside, however, the strangest thing about Potomac Mills is that it's home to a JC Penney's Outlet. Now, call me uppity, call me a snob, call me stuck-up, perhaps even call me bitchy, but, um, isn't JC Penney's already kind of an outlet? I don't see Marshalls or TJ Maxx outlets. Why? It just doesn't make sense. Logic and Virginia, however, never necessarily seem to go hand-in-hand, so I'll let that one slide.

But let's get real. Let's get to the good stuff -- the awesome sh*t I found (natch!). Luckily, Potomac Mills isn't all made up of mid-1990s Russian-style stores and JC Penney's Outlets. They also have an Off 5th Saks outlet, a BCBG Max Azaria outlet and, of course, staples like Forever 21, which you'd find in any old mall.

At BCBG I managed to procure a really nice (even work appropriate) dress for $110, marked down from $286; at Off 5th I found a pair of bright turquoise skinny jeans by Joe's Jeans for $26.98 (!), marked down from $158, and an Elie Tahari velvet blazer for just $68.97 (!!), marked down from *gasp!* $478. But perhaps the find of the day season -- my new pièce de résistance, if you will -- was this SILK ROMPER bought at, um, Forever 21.

"F" for self-photog skills; "A" for romper-wearing.

Now, I'm slightly embarrassed about where I found it (as a 28-year-old, I always find it a bit uncomfortable to be waiting in the fitting-room line with a 13-year-old holding the same item), but I'm not embarrassed about the price -- $27. Tight. Looking at this photo, however, I'm not exactly excited about how I styled this outfit. Mid-calf boots + romper = Stumpy McNoLegs. And I'm 5'9"...and the doughnut I just ate isn't helping. Dammit.

Anyway, let me put it this way: The romper is my new sweatervest. And although I'm pretty sure DC-at-large will not look favorably upon my summer jumpsuit, I don't really care. What I do care about is not sweating profusely when the heat index hits 100. And really, eff it -- I've never shied away from looking like a jackass before, so why start now? Plus, it's an effing romper! And because I want to spread the romper-love, I'm in the midst of gathering up a few romper e-finds for those of you who might be interested in jumping the shark into a sea of onesie wonder with me. It's a magical world...and surprisingly comfortable. Not wearing pants is the best...

express -- i love you

Today, I shall take a break from (amusingly) hating everything around me and instead dole out a little love. And I'm not talking about the tough variety either. I'm talking about pure, unsarcastic, unadulterated love. Today, I want to tell the Express, the Washington Post's free daily, that I love it. And, apparently, it loves me (again...and again...and...)!


Damn photograph machine. Anyway, that's a shout out to my Monday gun show post. (Thanks, by the way, to whomever is in charge of their Blog Log feature, keep readin'!). And yes, while giving me copious amounts of attention is indeed the way to my black heart, the Express' love for me is not the only reason why I love it back. Nope. I love Express because the staff seems to have a sense of humor. The good men and women of Express don't seem to take sh*t too seriously. And sometimes, they're even assholes, and you assholes should know by now that I love a funny asshole!

For instance, check out the Express blurb on the wedding of country music star Sara Evans and former University of Alabama quarterback Jay Barker, also in yesterday's edition:


GODDAMN PHOTOGRAPH MACHINE! Since my technology fails and you may not be able to read this on the screen, I'll highlight the best part, which is located underneath the photo of the happy couple: "Someone we don't recognize has married someone else we don't recognize." Effing gold!

However, not everyone in DC is amused. Afterall, the Express is not for the weak tool at heart. Check out the letter to the editor published in today's paper, from one Marc LeGoff, who claims to be from the city:


SERIOUSLY TECHNOLOGY, WHY DO YOU HATE ME?! Again since, I suck at photographing newspaper clips, allow me to type for you Marc's letter:

Did your snarky editors really need to refer to country music star Sara Evans as "someone we've never heard of" in Tuesday's People section? ...Believe it or not, DC, Maryland and Virginia are home to thousands of country music fans. How about a little more balanced and descriptive headlines and photo captions, and a little less editorializing and child's play? I'm sure there are many Metro riders who are not familiar with Missy Elliott or Coldplay either.

Oh LeGoff. Where to start with you. For one, I will agree that there are probably "thousands of country music fans" in Maryland and Virginia. But in DC? I'm not sure if "DC resident" LeGoff gets here much, and if he does, I'm assuming he either stays within the comfounds of whatever dreary government office building he works in or checks out Adams Morgan on a weekend night. I'm sure if he dared venture out of where all the commuters from Virginia and Maryland work and go to where people live such as U Street, Columbia Heights, or -- country-music-star heaven forbid -- Anacostia, Jeff might find it difficult to wrangle up 100 people who knew who Sara Evans or what's his name is (See? I already forgot.), let alone thousands. And as for the people who've never heard of Missy Elliott or Coldplay? They don't live here. They live in Southern Virginia and they're named my mom. (Hi mom!)

But factual disputes aside, what I'm more concerned about (and perhaps what is more telling of why I hate DC -- oh, whoops, I take that thing I said in the first paragraph about not hating on DC back...), is LeGoff's apparent total lack humor. This "child's play" he speaks of? It's called sarcasm. And it's funny. The editorializing? Well, let's take a step back and examine what is being editorialized -- IT'S THE "PEOPLE" SECTION. We're not talking about goddamn peace in the Middle East, Darfur or, hell, even Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. We're talking about some C-list celebrity and her D-list husband. Dang. I feel bad for Jeff if he takes everything in life as seriously as he does country music stars' weddings. Must be rough.

And now, if I may address this paragraph to Mr. LeGoff personally, as I'm sure he may come across this one day tonight when he Googles himself, I want to thank you for doing your part to douche up DC. I need the blog fodder! But you know, "Jeff," if that is your real name, I'm beginning to think the douchiness of your letter is just a little too douchey. It almost seems...fake. In fact, to make my megalomaniac self a little more comfortable with having chosen to live in this region of the country, I'm going to imagine that it is and you planted that letter in hopes of seeing it on this blog. (I mean, I'm sure you must know about me with all of the Express' mentions of me *woot!*) Come on, no one's that big of a tool, right? Right, Jeff? *wink wink* (Keep up the good work!)

"pardon the expression -- socks"

While taking in all the ridiculousness (and quite frightening) displays at the street-illegal gun show, the Law and I were perplexed, confused, confounded and several other synonyms to find a near-total lack of shooting accessories. Sure, I could pick up a Berretta semi-aut for around $500 and yes I could definitely find myself that grenade launcher every American household so desperately needs, but what about all those sweet blaze orange accessories to go with my new firearms?

Surprisingly, despite that 99 percent of those in attendance at this event probably buy most of their goods from market giants like Wal-Mart, the shady gun show itself is not a one-stop shop. There was nary a blaze orange ammo belt to be found! What the hell kind of gun show was this?! A goddamn book fair?!

Anyway, shoveling aside our disappointment, we decided to ask one of the vendors, a man whose facial hair was so bizarre, so wacky that I'm not even sure words can describe it. It was as if a Hostess Snowball got stuck directly in the middle of this guy's chin. I'm not sure if it was an oversized soul patch or just a misplaced goatee, but whatever the hell it was, that sh*t was super ultra mega supremely gnarly. In fact, I think I'll call it a goat-patch, since not only does it linguistically marry "soul patch" and "goatee," but I'm fairly sure a goat would love to nosh on that. Sick.

But puffy, white goat-patch aside, this man looked like the only person in attendance not ready to snipe The Law and I out. (After all, I did take a photograph, which, as you might recall from Part 1 of this saga, "Is the quickest way to get kicked out and arrested!" And by "kicked out and arrested," I'm pretty sure the man who drawled that meant "shot in the face." Bang. "Several times." Bang, bang.) However, apparently Goat-Patch, the most non-threatening man at the gun show, also ended up being the most retarded.

Me: Excuse me, sir? Do you know where we could find some shooting outerwear?

Goat-Patch: What? Outerwear? You mean like clothing?

The Law: Like a vest, for instance.

G-P: Oh. Well, you're not going to find any in here. But there's a store, "Grangers," where you can get all kinds of shooting clothing: hats, shirts, boots and, pardon the expression, socks.

Time out. Did this man just excuse himself for saying "socks"? The Law and I both held back our laughter (remember, this guy was surrouned by a bunch of guns) and wondered to ourselves if socks was some sort of perverted euphemism in the illegal gun-show world. We would soon find out, however, that (luckily) it's not.

Me: Um...Grangers? Where is this? That sounds pretty much like exactly what we're looking for.

G-P: Oh it ain't too far. Just down 95. You get off at Route 3. It's across from BJs, but if you see the Chick-Fil-A, you need to turn around. That Chick-Fil-A means you went too dang far then.

The Law: Do you know how long it takes to get there?

G-P: Oh, not long. Maybe 10 minutes. You can't miss it. Just make sure you don't pass that Chick-Fil-A. Grangers is great! You can get vests, jackets, coats and, pardon the expression, trousers.

Time out again. He seriously just said it again; he unnecessarily excused himself for the second time for saying a very benign word -- trousers!

This time I couldn't hold in my laughter. I did one of those snorty giggles that happen when you try hard but fail to control yourself from busting out in a full-out LOL. Luckily, ol' Goat-Patch was not so quick on the uptake, so he was oblivious to what was going on. Instead, he drew us a map to "Grangers," which consisted of a curved line. Totally useful. Not. (Yeah, I just took my jokes old school.)

But you know what would've been useful? If he had given us the goddamn correct name of the store. It's called Ganders, not Grangers. Luckily though, Goat-Patch's broken-record-esque fascination with repeating the name "Chick-Fil-A" let us know to turn around.

The Law: Um, so he definitely must have meant Ganders.

Me: Pardon the expression, probably.

And to put the icing processed coconut on the cake Hostess Snowball, Ganders didn't even carry ammo belts and only had a couple of coats in blaze orange. Foiled!

However, lest you think our 10 minute one-hour trip out to Ganders was a total loss, let me show you next spring's hottest accessory -- thigh-high waders.

Lookin' good, The Law, lookin' good.

Stay tuned for Part III -- "Marissa Re-Discovers Rompers; Looks Even More Like a Jackass."

putin and i are mokrye

That's right, Putin and I are flippin' soaking wet.

I made the ridiculous decision to ride my bike, Baguette, to work today without listening to the weather report. It looked nice enough. It was even a little hot and definitely sunny. A damn fine day to ride a bike to work, or so I thought.

However, while the "look-out-the-window" principle may work in other parts of these United States, I should know better that it never works in Washington, DC.

Not only did the sky turn black in a matter of minutes just as I was getting off of work today, but the temperature dropped about 20 degrees -- literally, it went from 88 to 68 in a matter of minutes. WTF?!

Anyway, I thought about leaving Baguette in the office, but I love that bitch too much to leave her there so I decided to just brave the rain with Putin, whose fair visage I donned today on the most awesome T-shirt ever. I love my Putin shirt. I bought it on the Arbat in Moscow for a performance with my old band (before they kicked me out for being too awesome) Babette the French Whore. Not only is it navy blue, one of my favorite colors, and DIY custom cut, but Putin's expression is priceless and so suitable when talking about the succubus that is DC's weather. Seriously, it'll get you when you least expect it.

Anyhow, I tried to replicate it below, but apparently (and perhaps surprisingly), I have yet to perfect that delicate balance of equal parts smug asshole and heartless robot. I look more like I'm just pissed off because I'm f*cking soaking wet. I'm also pissed at the drivers on Columbia Road who 1) almost hit me, 2) idled their jalopies in the bike lane, and/or 3) probably didn't appreciate the Putin.


And in case you're wondering, we're looking at our newly procured copy of Boobytrapping and wondering if, indeed, it is boobytrapped. And just in case you're wondering what you're looking at, you're clearly looking at someone who has lost her mind. This is what happens when I post THREE TIMES IN ONE DAY! WHAT?!

dale city: takin' in the [swisher] sweet sights

On our way to the shady gun show, The Law and I took in the sights of Dale City from the windows of our little red ZipCar Volvo (unfortunately, all the pick-ups had been scooped up). We saw the bank, the gas station, the other gas station and, of course, all the finest dining establishments Dale City, "The Friendliest Little Town Around," has to offer.

We saw the Taco Bell, the McDonalds, the Burger King, the Subway (EAT FRESH!), the Pizza Hut and, indeed, the other Pizza Hut. That second Pizza Hut (because one is not enough!) is such a hot spot, it seems, that it received its own square from the city. Behold! Forestdale Square!


Sure, most town squares have things like the mayor's office or city hall or, at the very least, a mini-mall. But not Dale City. Dale City makes no apologies: Pizza Hut is Forestdale Square; Forestdale Square is Pizza Hut. And everything else can go f*ck itself, says Forestdale Square's Pizza Hut.

By the way, Forestdale Square is located just off Smoketown Road, which I'm assuming is just around the corner from Swisher Sweet Lane.

And on the topic of Swisher Sweets (you know, those epitome-of-trashy flavored plastic-tipped "cigarellos" favored by your my high school prom date) -- are these the new late-night smoke of choice? Now, I don't smoke, so I don't really keep up with the hottest trends in tobacco, but on Saturday I spotted not one, but two separate instances of people puffing away in their cars on Swisher Sweets. Both were women. One black, one white. One was driving on (ironically enough) Smoketown Road, and the other was at 14th and U Street in the city. Of course, she was in a car with Virginia plates, though. I'm going to go with logic here and simply deduce that the second woman actually lives in Dale City. And works at the Forestdale Square Pizza Hut.

Swish! Sweet. Keep it classy, Dale City! Keep it as classy as Crystal City, if that's even possible. And stay gold!

i bought tickets to the gun show

No really -- I bought a ticket to the gun show on Saturday for $6. Sure, it was out in the nether regions of Northern Virginia's suburban sprawl (Big up Dale City!). And sure, the Nazi memorabilia and racist/sexist bumper stickers were flying off the makeshift booths as quickly as the Russian-made semi-automatics and German-made pistols (Hilary's place is in the house...just not the White House! Zing!). And sure, the whole shebang may or may not have been street legal (it definitely was not). But one thing's for certain -- I bought a goddamn ticket.


You know, there are very few times I feel awkward in situations. In fact, in the case that a rare awkward moment does arise, I quite enjoy that small moment of tension, mostly because I like to observe how others react to this type of meaningless distress (you can learn a lot about people this way). But until Saturday, never in my life have I felt so out-of-place, so awkward in any environment. Ever.

That says a lot because I've been in some pretty dang awkward situations. I've cried at work (awkward!); I've been caught talking sh*t about someone who ended up being within earshot just feet behind me (really awkward!); and, of course, I once got mistook for a Eastern European streetwalker by whom I thought was a regular gypsy cab driver, which resulted in me having to roll out of the moving vehicle (super-MacGyver-style awkward!).

But speaking typing of MacGyver, while at this shady gun show being gawked at not only as one of the few females in attendance, but as one of only two females with all of her teeth in attendance (the other one being my bestie The Law, of course), the illegal gun show wasn't a total loss. I did manage to find what might be the greatest book -- even perhaps better than True to the Game -- I've ever laid my dead, empty eyes on: the U.S. Army's "Boobytraps," published in 1965.

To quote from this prolific piece of literature: "Manufactured boobytraps are dirty trick devices...Certain basic principles, as old as warfare itself, must be followed to get optimum benefit from boobytraps. Knowledge of these principles will aid the soldier, not only in placing boobytraps expertly, but in detecting and avoiding those of the enemy." Whoa.

But more than the this work of literary importance's philosophical phraseology, are the detailed and informative diagrams, including:

The tricky boobytrap under bricks:

The classic boobytrap concealed in a book:



The ever-clever boobytrap in a pipe:



And, perhaps the dirtiest trick (literally) of them all, a boobytrap in your German chocolate (just think how much of a fudgey mess that would cause!):


This information is invaluable to me, as not only am I already quite familiar with explosive devices (wow, I think I can hear the government pen scrawling down my name on a terrorist watch list now...), but I write about such devices on a near-daily basis. We modern-day folk now refer to them as IEDs (improvised explosive devices), but you can count on the fact that I will now exclusively refer to them as boobytraps in any given professional situation. That is, the next time I pose a question to, say, some under secretary of science and technology, I will phrase it as follows:

"I understand there's been quite a bit of overlap between the Department of Homeland Security's explosives program and the Department of Defense's. How can you assure us that we --the taxpayer-at-large -- aren't paying for the same counter-boobytrapping technologies twice? How are the DHS and DoD counter boobytrapping programs working together to ensure money is flowing into different but cooperative counter-boobytrapping progams to help defeat boobytrapping both for use in the United States and overseas, where boobytrapping has really proven to be a problem? Boobytrap."

My job just got exponentially more awesome. Thank you possibly probably illegal gun show!

Now, why am I convinced this gun show may have been a little underground, you ask? Because when I tried to document my experience at the gun show, one of the many men with unusually bushy facial hair threatened to lynch me: "No photos in here! That's the quickest way to get kicked out and arrested!" Oh Dale City, Virginia! It's the only place I've ever been where shooting a gun is totally fine, but shooting a camera will get your "arrested." How fitting. But luckily, the man who looked like a scruffier Dog the Bounty Hunter, didn't wrestle wrastle the camera away from me and I was able to escape unscathed with one photo, which happens to sum up the gist of the shady-gun-show experience:


Yep. What's going on in this photo is exactly what it looks like. That dude is nonchalantly carrying a rifle in his right hand and is about to pick up a handgun with his left. However, this was not the most retardulous man to attend the gun show. Nope, it got much, much more retardulous, and, well, straight up retarded even, as the 30 or so minutes we were there wore on. But that incident, which I will call "Pardon the Expression: Socks," deserves its very own blog post. In fact, this whole week is going to be themed around this gun show, including posts on what to wear to the illegal gun show and what to do in and around Dale City after to the illegal gun show, including where to buy a tight romper. Yeah, I just said that. Romper. It's going to be one wild summer! Stay tuned...

But before I put the metaphorical bullet hole through the proverbial heart of this first gun-show-themed post, here's a photo I snapped of some the typical artwork being displayed on people's car windows in the gun show's parking lot:


That is some serious freedom painted all over the rear window of some guy's pick-up. Let that sh*t ring.

all hell's broken loose

You know, despite The Anti DC's steely cool demeanor and general pessimistic outlook on life, there are still a few things I look forward to on a near-daily basis. For instance, I look forward to not paying my taxes, going off the the grid, and fortifying myself in a compound in a remote locale one day. However, that pipe dream lives in the distant future, like, 2010 or something. So, for the present time, I find myself looking forward to the littler things in life like not having to ride the metro.

Seriously, DC's metro is a hot mess. It's definitional actually. I've seen a lot of metros in my time -- third-world metros -- and, while those metros suffer from the occasional suicide bombing (psshah!) or skinhead riot (double psshah!), not one of those metros has broken down because of ridiculously poor infrastructure.

For those of you lucky enough not to live in DC, the metro self-immolated twice today, jumped its tracks on Monday and died via electrocution last Wednesday, resulting in hundreds of thousands -- perhaps even millions -- of stranded douchebags and tools unable to get to their boring day jobs. However, scattered among the white-collar nightmare were a few objectively awesome readers of this smug little blog.

In fact, while I was enjoying watching some dude made of rubber dance and not working this morning, an E-mail popped up in my Inbox alerting me to these first-world-cum-fourth-world goings-on. And word on the information superhighway is that people were forced to exit the trains MacGyver-style in pitch darkness.

"I got off at Farragut West in pitch blackness and had to use my cellphone to see," wrote my new e-friend. "I was expecting to come out of the metro and see the Cloverfield monster wreaking havoc on medium-sized gray concrete buildings."

Man, if only the Cloverfield monster hated life more, then maybe he'd move here, but alas DC's gnarliest architecture is still standing. Also, I must add that I was delighted that my new e-friend did not say he used his BlackBerry to escape the madness. That's how I know he's good people.

Anyhoo, what the f*ck is happening to this place? The apocolypse? The rapture? Judgement day? Doomsday? Armageddon? Or, perhaps, since I'm just about out of synonyms for the biblical last day on Earth, maybe DC's public transportation system just plain sucks.

That's right, I've said it before, I'll say it now and I'm sure I'll say it again (lucky you!) -- I'll see DC public transportation in hell.

Have a good weekend and Godspeed.

OH AND THIS JUST IN: R KELLY IS A GODDAMN FREE MAN! I will add Trapped in the Closet Part III to my list of sh*t I'm looking forward to.

And, on a sad note, RIP Tim Russert. :(

why are you making this so hard?!

I tried. I really did. But I can't stay away. It's not that I'm addicted to blogging, although I've been accused of that. It's that you people, my lovely e-friends, keep forwarding me things that I want, nay, need to share. This latest goes out to all my e-friends who work for Sen. Jim DeMint (R-N.C.), if indeed you're out there.

Speaking of, are you there e-friends? It's me, Marissa. I fear with all my chalked up talk about my second non-hiatus I may have driven you away. Come back! If not for me, then at least for my ego. And if not for my ego, then at least for the ridiculous Senatorial floor debate offered by Mr. DeMint[y Fresh] recently.

In the following clip, funnyman Jim gives Rep. Ed Markey (D-Mass.), The Anti DC's proclaimed most entertaining man in Congress, a proverbial run for his money retardulousness with a pretty sweet reference to seminal 1990s sitcom Family Matters. It's even more awesome when DeMint pauses in the middle of his monologue and waits for someone to insert the laugh-track. Unfortunately, Congress isn't that high-tech. Well, at least he made himself chuckle!


P.S. -- Thanks to my e-friend over at Jam Band Fan or Taliban? for the head's up.

P.P.S -- My non-hiatus hiatus will be over on Monday, at which point I plan to blog like I've never blogged before...wow, I need to get out more...

i'm a liar, but for damn good reason

I hate myself for blogging right now after promising to give myself a much-needed break just two days ago, but it really would be wrong to keep this gem from you, my faithful e-friends. From a English-language (well, Renglish-language, at least) Russian press release:

The director general of Rosatom State Nuclear Energy Corporation Sergey Kiriyenko took part in the Clean Nature ecological action that took part in Sosnovy Bor on June 8. Together with 70 divers from different clubs of St. Petersburg and Leningrad region, Kiriyenko inspected the bottom of the Gulf of Finland near Leningrad Nuclear Power Plant.

After diving Kiriyenko said: "You have quite clean bottom."

To which I hope to God Putin Medvedev Finnish officials replied, "That's what she said!"

*rimshot!*

OK, that is all. I shall continue my e-break now. For really real.

"When I said that I was king of forwards, you got to understand that I don't come up with this stuff. I just forward it along. You wouldn't arrest a guy who was just passing drugs from one guy to another."
-- Michael Scott

do svidanya

Remember the last time I announced a hiatus and it lasted for all of 36 hours? Well, I've hopefully learned from that mistake and will never lie to you again. See, there are several retarded events going on over at The Anti DC headquarters this week, so the royal we is going to take a true break from the blogosphere. Like, for reals.

And lest you think The Anti DC isn't serious this time, my people in my head at my headquarters assure me that it is all a'shambles over there. Total chaos. Yep, so The Anti DC is taking some time off to reorganize. Well, not really reorganize, per se. I mean, The Anti DC shall remain as retardulous as it was since the day of its inception (a.k.a. the luckiest day in the history of humanity.) when makes it's grand e-return next week, but trust that it'll come back with its sh*t tighter that ever. That's a promise, um, and possibly a threat, I suppose.

In the meantime, I invite you to relive some of The Anti DC's most steaming piles of tight sh*t by perusing through the archives. I'm especially fond of this, this and, of course, the couplet of this'n'this. Um...and this...and this...and this. OK, I'm done now.

But even greater than the high-tech toilet that is The Anti DC, are several other blogs and Interweb sites that I've come across in my sordid past, including:

Monk-E-Mail -- The most effective means to harass your coworkers, friends and strangers. (Also, the best way to propose marriage.)

FFFFOUND! -- Ooooo! Pretty pictures!

MapSexOffenders.com -- Ooooo! Catch a predator!

Sleddoggin.com -- If you heart huskies.

The Museum of Online Museums -- An edumucational time-suck!

Yacht Rock -- Possibly the most enlightening take on the 1970s and 1980s ever, as well as the best e-series next to Planet Unicorn (heyyy!).

And last but not least, CNN's Rick Sanchez getting tasered and his colleagues then enjoying a nice chuckle at his expense. Oh that Sanchez! Next thing you know he'll be jumping off a the SS Verne Troyer to simulate a cruise ship emergency!



Seriously, is there anything Sanchez can't do? *sigh*

Until we e-meet again, see you in hell!

:)

word to your e-mother

I make it no secret that I'm a dork. In fact, I kind of pride myself on my dorktastic tendencies. (I do live in DC, after all.) For instance, my latest FaceBook status message is "Marissa just wrote the words 'solid-state neutron detectors.' Clearly it's a wild Friday night," which reminds me, I should update that (more proof that I'm a dork). So, with that in mind, imagine my excitement when I found the following on FFFFOUND! tonight during a break between writing about alpha particles and terahertz spectroscopy (seriously, I'm not kidding about how much of a dork I am):


I'll admit that I don't necessarily "get" all the above (what the hell is MoveableType?), but it still made me e-chuckle.

And on the topic of hands, I also came across the picture below via FFFFOUND! (this Web site really is a goldmine, by the way). I think it would make a tight mural in my sh*tty little apartment. Now, who's a painter? *wink! wink!*

department of face control

It's unheard of in DC to enter any type of "official" building without first showing some form of identification and then going through some type of technology that scans you and your bags for weapons/underwire bras. I get it. We can't have random nutjobs shanking Norm Coleman, the hottest man in the legislative branch, or taking out schools of annoying tourists in the Rotunda. But while they're at it, can we add a fashion detector too? That is, if you're wearing flip-flops, an inside-out shirt or a BlackBerry holster, you would be barred entrance.

I say this not because I'm a style Nazi (it's called standards, haters), but because those three fashion no-no's are objectively offensive to both the wearer and and the viewer. Just as no human being should fear getting snuffed out on the House floor, no human being should 1) have to wear such ridiculous and/or inappropriate items, or 2) be the unfortunate witness to them.

And while I've always been staunchly against DC's dishabille tendencies and confronted quite a few in my time, it wasn't until yesterday that the aforementioned deadly trifecta of fashion faux-pas reared its proverbial gnarly head in one locale at one time. It was a nightmare.

Unfortunately, due to technological "issues," I was unable to properly Shambles P.I. these incidents, so in place of visuals, I will have to try to use the English language to describe these travesties. (I'm sorry, English language, for the sentences I'm about to construct with you. This sh*t's gonna get ugly.)

DEADLY DISHABILLE DEBACLE NO. 1 -- The flipflop fallout.

It all happened so painfully fast looking back. But at the time those 30 seconds of near death, seemed like 30 hours. It was 8 a.m. and I was getting off the Metro at Federal Triangle, which I would soon find out -- possibly even worse than the Hill -- is where all fashion goes to die. I made my way past all of the ill-fitting power suits and stepped onto the escalator. About five ascending steps up, I noticed those on the left began merging with those on the right, while others tried to push through at the top. The lady in front of me stepped back, assing me with her grape polyester A-line skirt, causing me to grab the moving banister to prevent falling back myself. As we inched closer to the top, it only got worse as I caught sight of the five-now-six-now-seven-douche pile-up at the escalator's apex. The cause? A goddamn motherf*cking flip-flop.

Turns out, escalators also hate inappropriate footwear. This machine literally tried to confiscate it by holding this footwear simulacrum's sequined fluorescent green (of course) rubber in its hungry clutches. Meanwhile, the flip-flop's rightfully embarrassed owner stood half-shod, crouched over trying to rescue the very cause of her distress. I don't know if she ever retrieved her gnarled hot mess of a "shoe" (I actually hope she didn't), but I hope she learned a lesson. DON'T EFFING WEAR FLIP-FLOPS IN A CITY. Save that sh*t for the beach. Or California.

DEADLY DISHABILLE DEBACLE NO. 2 -- "Ma'am your shirt's on inside out."

You know, I try not to make fun of the mentally impaired (especially being functionally retarded, myself), but there's a time and place. But wait, on second thought, considering the woman in question was a speaker at a technology conference, there's a chance that she wasn't even retarded at all. In fact, I'm pretty sure IQ-wise, she'd have me beat. Actually, she's probably a member of Mensa. But anyway, book smarts aside, the woman apparently failed to learn how to dress herself. Not only did she opt to wear a white long-sleeve T-shirt under her (ill-fitting) suit jacket, but she wore said T-shirt inside out, which became painfully apparent when she removed the jacket and let the tag flap like Old Glory at the nape of her neck.

At first I recoiled in horror. Not only did she opt for a poly-cotton blend, rather than silk or some other more appropriate material under a business suit, but she failed to even wear it right-side-out. As I stared in disbelief at "Machine wash with like colors," something strange happened in my mechanical heart -- I began to feel bad for this woman. Clearly, she wasn't single-handedly trying to revive a popular grunge trend of the mid-1990s. No. This woman just didn't care enough both about herself or the world around her to make an effort not to look like an asshole. For shame.

DEADLY DISHABILLE DEBACLE NO. 3 -- The bogus BlackBerry.

Last night it really hit me that everyone -- seriously, everyone -- in DC has a BlackBerry or a BlackBerry-like equivalent. (And if you don't, then please be my friend.) I was over at The Law's house collecting a dog with a mean uppercut that I will help dog-sit for the weekend when another friend looked at the coffee table and observed, "Whoa. There are so many BlackBerry's here right now." There were four -- one per person (not to mention several additional personal cell-phones, one of which -- featuring a huge-ass retro antenna -- will soon be mine). However, between all the douchetastic technology, there was one commonality: Not one of us hauled around that sh*t in a holster.

BlackBerry holsters and cell-phone holsters, in general, should only be for those who work with their hands. And I mean really work, like electricians, plumbers, construction workers and, um, goat farmers, and not for those who wile away their nine-to-fives typing and surfing the Web. And while the holster offense seems to be overwhelmingly favored by DC's male population, once in a while I'll observe a female committing this crime, as well. Yesterday was one of those days.

I saw a woman who had her BlackBerry in a holster attached to THE FRONT OF HER SUIT JACKET. Specifically, she had the holster clipped onto the outside of the right-hand pocket of her maroon poly-blend jacket. Why for the love of all that isn't the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen did she not just forego the entire holster and just slip that sh*t in her pocket I will never know, nor will I ever understand it. What I do know, however, is that she will live on in infamy in my mind as the Shambles P.I. who got away. Seriously, I have never seen anything more ass-backwards in my life. Tragic.

So this brings me back to my original point: Can we please create a Department of Face Control to secure our office buildings from these fashion terrorists? Because, seriously, while bad clothing can't shoot me in the face, it certainly inflicts a great deal of psychological trauma. It's un-American.