the pretty iffy fifty ain't so nifty and spiffy

Well, e-friends, it's that most glorious time of year again! Oh, don't pretend you don't know to which momentous annual feat I'm referring! Indeed, the local paper I've yet to read, The Hill, has named its 50 Most Beautiful People! FINALLY! Phew! We can all rest easy tonight.

And no, they didn't decide to peruse all of DC for their hottie list, but instead opted to limit themselves to the fugliest of DC's neighborhoods, the paper's eponymous District subsection -- Capitol Hill.

Now, finding 50 lookers on the Hill cannot be an easy task (trust me), so for that I must give a tip of the old e-hat to the poor reporters who were assigned this piece by their clearly sadistic editor. However, when reading through these selections, I must say, we're truly grasping at straws douches here. For instance, there are several cop-outs, including, two in the Top 10 alone:

No. 4 -- Elizabeth Kucinich, wife of Rep. Dennis Kucinch (D-Ohio)

Mrs. Kucinich surely is hot, but let's be honest, this tall glass of ginger milk ain't really of the Hill. She's just married to one. Thumbs down, The Hill!

No. 9 -- Rep. Gresham Barrett (R-S.C.)

Now, I admit Mr. Barrett is not bad looking, but COME ON! He's no goddamn Norm F*cking Coleman! My man was robbed, I tell ya! Robbed! (Although his wife wasn't!)

Also, I'm pretty upset that The Hill got lazy and only ranked the Top 10 in any sort of numerical order. In fact, I've barely pulled myself together enough to type the rest of this. See, the other 40 hotties are presented in random order under the simple title of "40 More." Downgrade!

But let's take a gander anyway and e-creep on some of these beautiful young men and women.

First, there's 26-year-old Aaron Gardner (pictured right), who "isn't afraid to wear seersucker pants and pink ties." (You go, girl!) He's a single Republican and mein eyes tell me he is indeed a pretty attractive man, however, someone at The Hill obviously hates him. They dubbed him "The Cat-Loving Sharp Dresser." What the mother-eff kind of caption is that?! Mrs. Kucinich got dubbed "The British Goddess." The guy pictured directly after Gardner got "A Reporter With a Chiseled Face." And Gardner likes cats? Well, I don't like cats.

But that's not the worst caption. My God, it's not the worst. Nope. The worst (but unintentionally funniest) of the captions goes to another Top 40 hottie, Rep. Betty Sutton (D-Ohio), whose photo (pictured left) is accompanied by the words, "Must Love Dogs." BURN! But it's kind of true, in this case. Arf! But don't get me wrong, Ms. Sutton is a good-looking woman at age 44, but what the eff is she wearing? That's some Filene's Basement clearance rack sh*t circa 1994. And that collar! Are we hang-gliding later?! Yet while her hideous suit is bark-worthy, her haircut is pretty tight. Seriously, her highlights are tight and I like her bangs.

Another zinger (and I'm using that term loosely, like The Hill apparently uses the term "beauty" -- OH SNAP!) goes to not just the caption attached to the photo of 23-year-old Carl Baloney, which reads "Not Your Average Piece of Meat," but also for the first sentence (and I am not making this up...): "Our beautiful baloney has a first name and it's C-A-R-L." Because I'm sure he's never gotten that clever ditty before! Oh, what's that reporter Betsy Rothstein? You asked him about people making fun of his name and he told you it was annoying? Yes? "People still crack jokes," said Baloney. "You'd be surprised how many adults make that joke." Including The Hill! You get an "F," intrepid reporter Betsy! An "F" for FUNNY, that is! ROFL! OMFG! LOL! Oh, and a solid "C" for your average Creativity. (And I get a "Z" for ZING!)

But then there's Otto Muckly, the 34-year-old "freedom-loving biker," whose picture has him perched on his motorcycle. Now, with a name like Otto and with a picture of him on a motorcycle, this is the perfect situation for a pithy pun caption. Might I suggest, "Otto-Mobile" or "Otto-Matic" or "Otto Insurance" or "Otto and His Stick Shift"? (That last one is gold chrome!) It writes itself, really, yet The Hill went with "Otto and His Motos." Total mega yawn.

Now let's get real. Who's hot and who's not (Otto, please rethink your facial hair)? Well, I have no idea how people end up on this list. I think they're nominated by their uglier friends or something. But as far as deciding the Top 10, I hear the process is similar to electing a new pope. Much like when the College of Cardinals holds conclave in the Sistine Chapel for their top-secret pope election, all The Hill's editors gather in the Capitol's Rotunda. Except instead of the smoke signal used by the Vatican's Scrutineers to announce a decision has been made, the editors have an 18-year-old intern run out to the awaiting crowd swathed in a seersucker unitard and armed with a Blackberry. The intern then uses the BlackBerry to text the President, who writes back "Ur a ham sandwich" to signal the decision is final.

But regardless of the logistics behind it, the list as a whole is pretty depressing. And it's not that I'm pissed that I wasn't nominated (I think I've made it quite clear I have no friends on the Hill, not to mention I'm Hill-hideous -- I don't wear polyester, after all), it's just that most of the people on the list look exactly like everyone else on the Hill. That is, I know at least a dozen 10 six three two people off-hand who are at least as hot as most of the interchangeable tools featured on this list. One of them even dresses impeccably, which I guess makes her Hill-hideous, as well. Eh, so nevermind. I guess they got it right. Ham sandwich.

But hold up. They didn't get it totally right. (And here's my "oh no she di-uhnt, oh yes I did" moment!) To close out my little review of what might be the most retarded concept since the unfortunately named Ayds diet plan, I present to you Miss Coty Wamp, the 19-year-old daughter of Rep. Zach Wamp (R-Tenn.). If you don't mind, I'd like to offer her a little one-on-one advice. Ahem. FOR THE LOVE OF MAYBELLINE, PLEASE LAY OFF THE EYELINER! Maybe she's born with it? Or maybe someone simply punched her in the face. Twice.

Hollywood we ain't.

NOTE: For additional lulz, please see DCeiver.

putting the "anaeen" in "mgmt"

After much ado and straight begging, getting a ticket to Monday night's MGMT show turned out to be cheap and easy, like a suburban hooker. And while I was willing to pay up to $30 for the $15 ticket, I'm extremely grateful and glad I didn't because the overall show was, um, let's just say underwhelming.

They started off on a very good note (literally) for me by playing my favorite track off their Oracular Spectacular album, Weekend Wars, but settled into what I'll describe as a swirling toilet of sound, meaning they were mesmerizing for a while, but then the toilet just kept running. It's not supposed to keep running. It wasn't bad, per se, just dull.

I was simultaneously lucky and unlucky enough to be about three people back off the end of stage right, which was a near-ideal location to see the band, but it also meant I was surrounded by high-schoolers who first encountered MGMT on Gossip Girl (not that there's anything inherently wrong with that, it just makes for some super annoying "fans"). I also happened to run into some hot chicks homely chicks with douchebags.

There was one 'chebag in particular that pissed more than just me off, although I was the instigator in the situation (natch). First, his presumable rhinoplasty-gone-malpractice-lawsuit-wrong girlfriend shoves in, pushing me out of the spot I had staked out for the past hour. She was drunk as all hell, her Juicy couture is stained with what I'm hoping was just beer all down the front (i.e. not vomit) and she's standing there texting like an asshole. So, me, not being one to shy away from picking a fight with a douchebaguette, tapped the bitch on the shoulder and informed her of her concert-floor faux pas. Of course the she-douche just looked at me retardedly because I spoke a whole sentence to her, rather than "liking" and "umming" my way through sentence fragments. Luckily for her, however, it was at that exact moment that her Jersey-style d-bag of a boyfriend rolled up and further crowded out more people who'd been staking out their spots.

"What's your problem?" asks the he-douche.

"My problem is your girlfriend and now you have come in last minute, shoved me out of the way and are expecting to stand here for the show. That's rude. You should either move somewhere else or move over."

"Maybe if you ask politely..."

"Please."

"That wasn't nice."

"You're a douchebag."

At this point, the ladies to the other side and in back of the double-douche couple started chiming in too about their doucheosity, which I took as my cue to step out. Why should I do the work when others can, after all? (I apply this philosophy to all aspects of my life, by the way. It works swimmingly.) And so Operation Douche-B-Gone began. There were f-bombs dropping, arms flailing, at one point the douche even tried to place his beer in a girl's bag. This kid was honestly one of the most ridiculous douches I've had the displeasure to meet in DC. (And I've met my fair share...).

But finally, after much cajoling from all sides, the obnoxious douchetastic duo got the hint and left. Probably for the bar. Operation D-B-G was a success.

Anyway, apart from the high-school contingent and the Shaming of the Douche, the crowd was actually pretty cool. Before the encores, I ventured upstairs to rejoin the crew that I knew and was pleased to see the crowd go absolutely ape-sh*t crazy during the song Kids, for which the drummer, lead guitarist and bassist cleared out, leaving just the two main guys, Ben Goldwasser and Andrew VanWyngarden, on the stage to sing along with the crowd. That was the proverbial jiggle of the handle that fixed the toilet that this show needed. Too bad it was the second to last song.

And like other concert experiences I've blogged about, I took along my camera and snapped some really sh*tty photographs. Voila!

Sweet baseball pants second from left!

A closer look at those tight pants please! TIGHT!

Best picture of the night, despite the lack of baseball trousers.

One-fourth of the crowd.

That's not fog or a dirty camera lens, them's ghosts! ZOINKS!

Just look at all them ghosts!

Neon ghosts!

`

Pretty colors! Yay! And that's all I got.

h.b., me, h.b.!

Ahem. I dedicate this post to myself. Why? 'Cause it's my golden birthday, that's why! Twenty-nine on the 29th. Ouch!

But surprisingly, it's not as painful as I thought it would be. Why? Because unlike when I was, say, 19 -- TEN YEARS AGO (good gracious...) -- I can now afford to buy myself nice birthday gifts. Being poor is for college kids. Suck it!

Anyway, since I've already dedicated this to myself, I might as well really feed my narcissistic, even megalomaniac, tendencies and post gratuitous photos of some recent outfits, which include my birthday purchases. I ♥ Capitalism (almost) as much as I ♥ myself and I ♥ myself just about as much as I h8 terrorists! Loving terrorism is for terrorists. Suck it!

Um, sucking it aside, though, let's get down to paying attention to me. My first rather completely unnecessary purchase is a pair of expensive sunglasses. Whoops?


Comparing them to my Target wayfarers, I can definitely see the difference in quality, however, plastic is plastic and my foot will bust a $150 pair of sunglasses just as well as a $15 pair. I do love the two-toned gold on black, though, which is what goaded me into buying these in the first place. Plus, they go great with Topsiders.

David Caruso-ing it!

As you can see, I keep toilet paper, random cords and dumbass facial expressions handy at all times. Tight. Anyway, I wore this yesterday to the MGMT concert (which, indeed, I found a last-minute face-value ticket for and will be blogging about later). It's very indicative of what I've been doing lately, which is mixing together colors that society says traditionally don't go together, like brown and black. Well, "society" can get in line to suck it with the college kids and terrorists -- I'll make that sh*t work like a child in Bangladesh. (WHOA! Child-labor joke! SCORE!)

And to go with my retardulously expensive shades, I had on a retardulously expensive piece of jewelry (a.k.a. yet another perfect item for me to lose and/or break!), a chunk of Lithuanian blue amber. I'm 100 percent 50/50 that a child crafted it, too. (J/K!...sort of...)

Hey, who remembers that band Split Enz? I love them. Clearly.

But beware literate thieves and criminals with refined taste (for blogs and jewelry), this pendant cost me 878 Lithuanian litas and a good deal of Eastern European haggling, so if you try to snatch it off my neck I will cut you with the dull plastic knife I carry in my bag. Not joking:



But alas, muggers and no-gooders, I'm not wearing that lovely chunk of hydrocarbon-filled fossilized tree resin today, so consider yourselves foiled. Today, I'm dressing on the cheap (save for the bag), which is a very fitting way for me to start off me 29th year of life on this here planet. Everything I'm wearing I got on sale...but, like, really on sale. I think it was Dostoevsky who said, "Clearance racks will save the world," if I'm not mistaken.

I'd be remiss, however, to attribute this outfit entirely to my frugality. Nope. This Happy Birthday outfit is at least 75 percent inspired by the famous lyrics of "White Pants," written by DLake, who composes 50 percent of the venerable Baltimore music duo, Claire Huxtable: "White pants, white pants make you wanna dance (x3)/Caucasian-colored fabrics, swim through drawers like Labyrinth/ I'm messin' with ya'll g-clean/ Hipsters, yuppies knowin' what I mean." Not only does that string of words make absolutely no sense and perfect sense at the same time, but it inspired me to swathe my ass in nothing but Caucasian-colored fabrics:

"Black skin, white skin, pink skin, light skin, Labor Day white -- still ain't dislikin'!" -- DLake.

Yes, but now I must make like Usher circa 2004 and make some confessssssions! Those pants you see there? They're actually a really light gray. I don't own white pants! However, as an apparent hipster-like yuppie, I know what DLake means. *wink!*

And while DLake never mentions open-back shirts or chunky-heeled gladiator sandals, I'm pretty sure that's also implicit in the meaning. Like a bass-thumping dance floor, DC's streets are hot, humid and filled with sh*t to bump into, except instead of other people, it's usually Bob Novak's douchemobile. Anyway, this means that you need to keep both cool and sturdy, hence, the open-back T-shirt and stalwart sandal. Yet while I am usually staunchly opposed to any sort of chunkiness in heel, something about these Nine West strappy shoes made me rethink my moratorium. Or maybe it was the $15 (!) price-tag:

"I can see them drawers that you're wearing/ White pants, white pants, white pants make you dance!" -- DLake.

And so, there it is. My megalomaniac tribute to myself on this very first day of my Year 29. Not bad. I believe I covered all the bases with the inclusion of not only a sweet shot of my ass, but also of my street knife. Now, clearly, it's time for me to imbibe some delicious liquor.

P.S. -- Happy Birthday to everyone else born on this fair day, including at least one of this blog's readers that I know of and, of course, Bryan Dattilo, who you might know as Lucas from Days of Our Lives. Good luck getting Sami back, buddy!

Outfit No. 1 details: Top, H&M; Pants, Express; Shoes, Sperry Topsiders; Sunglasses, Ray-Ban; Pendants, 1 vintage Tiffany, 1 handcrafted by my late grandpa, and 1 bought in Vilnius, Lithuania.

Outfit No. 2 details: Top, Forever 21; Pants, Urban Outfitters; Shoes, Nine West; Bag, Pietro Alessandro.

moon bounce math

A little Monday math? Let's go!

+


+


+


+


=

Celebrating the douching hour in a moon bounce!

But fret not, my e-friends, I assure you the douche-face and Blackberry-checking were done intentionally for the epic lolz. And after about six glasses of sangria, the lolz were easy to come by, especially in an effing MOON BOUNCE.

Now, who/what/when/where/why/how did I end up checking my E-mail in a moon bounce this weekend? Excellent questions. And although I know the answers to all of those, I'm going to opt instead to simply shrug and say, "Don't worry about it. What happens in the moon bounce, stays in the moon bounce." Well, unless, of course, you take photos.

OK, well, as you can see, nothing that exciting happened in the moon bounce. After I got done checking my E-mail, I proceeded to engage in an epic fail of a front flip and almost took a couple of children out. Whoops. Don't worry, no one was hurt, although when two kids bumped into each other and one ran out crying, I did instinctively scream out, "I didn't kick it!" which garnered me looks of scorn from random parents for: 1) Making the moon bounce crunk, and 2) Using the preposition "it" to describe a child. Again, whoops.

But, you know, besides all the crying and creeping that kids like to do (seriously, one kept creepin' up behind me and grabbing at my ass, although, really, can you blame it?!), I did learn something last Friday night: Kids are the best excuse ever to set up cool sh*t at your birthday party. Think about it, when's the last time you went to a party exclusively full of adults and jumped on a moon bounce? Exactly.

And as serendipity would have it, it just so happens to be my birthday tomorrow. Hmm, I'm thinking, perhaps, a giant moon bounce in the Rotunda? Yes please!

Mon dieu! This might be the most disturbing image I've ever created...

Outfit details: Shirt, Forever 21; Pants, 7 For All Mankind; Bag, Vintage.

shambles p.i. -- the vehicular edition

It's like Shambles P.I. mania this week! Yowza! However, while Shambles P.I. usually targets people, in today's installment -- the vehicular edition -- Shambles will be turning its keen laser eyes toward one of DC's hottest whips found on 14th Street somewhere between U Street and Columbia Heights. Check it:

Ridin' dirty shambley.

Now, maybe someone who knows more about motor vehicles than I do can help me out here. Is it just me or are the wheels on this Ford Taurus (or is that a Chevy Impala?) a tad too small? You can't see it, but on the driver's side back window thre's a sticker that says "DUB," in an ode to the eponymous magazine dedicated to dubs, rims and what I generally like to call hubcaps. Now, if you're going to put the proverbial wrong-sized shoe on your horse-powered foot, may I suggest you go for an all-out clown shoe? Kind of like what Ted Musson and his 1988 Chevy Caprice are doing here:

He won the Grand Prize Game!

Now those are some nice hubcaps, not to mention the Alien-like crazy engine spewing forth from the Caprice's chest cavity. Ah, the wonders of the world...

I'm going to do this to my bike. It will be righteous to roll on 22's 66's.

mob justice goes singular

For the second time in under two weeks, DC residents have been forced to take justice into their own hands. Whereas last time some brave fools with sticks chased down a gunman amid live fire and held him for police, yesterday it was a single cyclist who did good -- Mr. David Bono, the true king sh*t, served some fine justice.

See, Bono was just ridin' spiffy (seriously, this guy was in a full three-piece suit without a drop of sweat on his person...how the hell?!) at the intersection of 18th and K Streets when he saw newly crowned King Douche (relations to the Grand Duke of Doucheville and Lil' Lord Doucheington remain unconfirmed), columnist Robert Novak, hit a pedestrian in his black corvette and speed off. But Bono would be damned if he'd let Novak's douchemobile speed away untethered, so he peddled and peddled and peddled some more until he caught up with RoNo at the next intersection. He then used his body and his bicycle to form a one-man barricade until police could come and serve their own brand of justice...well, sort of (we'll get to the 5-oh-hell-no's shambles in a moment...). For now, let's return to the scene. According to a CBS.com news report:

Bono said that the pedestrian, who was crossing the street on a 'walk' signal and was in the crosswalk, rolled off the windshield and that Novak then made a right into the service lane of K Street. "The car is speeding away. What’s going through my mind is, you just can’t hit a pedestrian and drive away," Bono said.

And Bono is right! You can't just do that! Or, well, at least you shouldn't be able to do that...(but again, we'll get to that in a moment). In the meantime, let's explore Novak's apparent blindness:

"I didn’t know I hit him. I feel terrible," a shaken Novak told reporters from Politico and WJLA as he was returning to his car. "He's not dead, that's the main thing."

Well, tip of the hat to you, sir! "He's not dead!" "That is the main thing!" Real f*cking classy, Novak. That's rich.

Oh, but you know what else is rich? Novak is! Which may explain why the King didn't get charged with a hit'n'run, but instead got a $50 citation for "failing to yield the right-of-way."

You know what DC? F*CK THAT! That is some straight bullsh*t. Bitch hit a dude! HE HIT A 66-YEAR-OLD MAN WHO WAS WALKING IN A CROSSWALK WITH THE RIGHT-OF-WAY! Meanwhile, the unnamed "not dead" hexagenarian is now holed up in George Washington University Hospital in a neck brace. Isn't life sweet?

I'll bet my antique monocle that Novak did this on purpose. I mean, he's 77 so he probably saw this 66-year-young whipper-snapper strutting down the street and thought he'd teach him a lesson -- "Damn you, young man, for following the law! Look at me looking spritely and young in my sweet black corvette! Spritely and young, I say! Hey ladies! I'm a cliche!" *BOOM!*

You're the man, Novak! But seriously, how powerful is RoNo? I mean, clearly, he was in a pickle. HE HIT A 66-YEAR-OLD MAN WHO WAS WALKING IN A CROSSWALK WITH THE RIGHT-OF-WAY! (Wait, did I say that? Novak's apparent dementia is rubbing off on me.) So how the hell did he douche himself out of this one? Well, as someone who's dealt with some shady law enforcement employees in the past (albeit not in the United States), I know there's only two ways to get out of a legal snafu that fast: You either offer an attractive monetary bribe or an attractive, um, something else (luckily, I spent my time in Russia before our American dollars and cents became less valuable than the paper and metal on which they're printed...Recession Goulet!).

So, with that knowledge in my left frontal lobe, I'm tempted to believe Novak either bought his way out of this jam, or he made a new special friend, because seriously -- HE HIT A 66-YEAR-OLD MAN WHO WAS WALKING IN A CROSSWALK WITH THE RIGHT-OF-WAY (I know, cut'n'paste is so lazy, kind of like a hit'n'run...). AND ALL HE GOT WAS A $50 FINE? That justice sucks. Where's the mob with sticks at?

UPDATE: Turns out RoNo hit an 88-year-old homeless man. So much for my young whipper-snapper theory. Turns out RoNo is still the carefree hooligan, after all!

when bad english goes badder

I don't often blog about people I know, but when I opened my Inbox yesterday morning and read what I'm about to share with you, I knew this had to be blogged. I had no choice.

First, let me introduce you to my friend Peter, who currently lives in Kiev, Ukraine. Before I received this E-mail I really knew only a few things about Peter -- he's from Iowa, he used to live in Moscow and he once wore an eye-patch to a Stereo Total show just for lulz. But with the arrival of this historic E-mail yesterday, I learned so much more...[WARNING: "COLORFUL" LANGUAGE COMING UP!]

As some of you know, I indulge in a pretty geeky online game called Travian -- you've all heard me say, at one time or another, "I have to take care of my villages!" or something equally NERDLY.

Anyway, in this online game you can attack other players, which I do, because I'm a dick. Now, the game has a built in messaging system; you can send messages to any player in the little online world in which you are playing. The multinational, multicultural nature of the game has made for some pretty amusing English -- and given that the messages are usually angry missives demanding that I stop attacking the senders, the tone is usually pretty strident.

Anyway, I was attacking this one dude, who sent me what is DEFINITIVELY the best correspondence I have ever received from anyone, ever. I am pasting it below, in its entirety, for your enjoyment. Please feel free to pass it along, and ask yourselves -- what's a yancale? Ahem:

"Stop attacking me you fucking bitch your mother do gavoa gavoa and your father do in the hand and sister is a bitch in rehovot and your brother is a kaki (by shimonle) and you have a big yancale in your fucking Ass and your mother dohefet coks to her zain and your father lick her big tits and your sister to in the hand to your brother and your grenma is a bitch in tel-aviv and your a moher samim in Bankok,and you sister need to get back her braw from my room hahahahahahahahahahahahahahah your doing with me in the bad tomorrow soryy on the shgiot htiv

Another somting: your sister said that its very fun in my bed and she wunt to come agin evrey day tell her that i will be happy and your mom is bitch nun bet. ata kaki met"

Wow. Just wow. That is, perhaps, definitively the best missive ever. What the hell is a "yancale?" And while we're at it, what's a zain? And, I shudder to think, but what is the meaning of "by shimonle?" I'm soryy on the shgiot htiv, but I just don't have any answers!

I'm honestly not quite sure how this person's English got so awesomely bad. Perhaps he learned only through this nerdly computer game? And here I am trying to learn Russian through silly things like books and grammar. But you know what books and grammar get you? A grammatically correct lexicon! And where the ata kaki met is the fun in that?! Dohefet grammar and legit "words!" That's right, I said it! DOHEFET! Peter, where do I sign up for this nerd squad of yours? I already blog everyday and am learning more and more HTML code by the minute, so I'm pretty sure I could kick some gavoa gavoa at this Travian you speak of. Trust me, you wouldn't want to e-mess with this nun bet.

Who's with me?! Let's take care of some villages!

[Thanks Peter :) And another somting: Go moher samim yourself in Bankok. For realsies.]

:'(

A simple single-tear sad face emoticon cannot express the sorrow the world is feeling right now. Ms. Estelle Getty, whose portrayal of Sophia on the best sitcom of all time, The Golden Girls, has inspired at least one Anti DC blog post, has died. She was 84 and suffered from advanced dementia. She will be missed greatly on at least six of Earth's seven continents, according to her son, who spoke with the Associated Press.

"She was loved throughout the world in six continents, and if they loved sitcoms in Antarctica she would have been loved on seven continents," her son, Carl Gettleman, said. "She was one of the most talented comedic actresses who ever lived."

Carl is underestimating Estelle's prowess. As far as I'm concerned, she will be missed not only on all seven continents, but throughout the entire cosmos. Her status as my elder e-inspiration (enspiration?) knows no bounds and she will live on forever. RIP, Estelle, and thank you for being a friend.

bmore of a freak v1.0

So, after much rumination, I've come to the conclusion that Baltimore is effing weird. Why? Because of this:

The lobsters and fish are mechanical and were singing Queen. Street legal? I hope so!

This:

Oh man...just imagine how bad those hippies are going to smell after this gig...Air quality: Code Red.

And, of course, this:

Sadly, having seen perhaps more than my fair share of painted naked men in my life, the most shocking aspect of this photo is his choice of footwear. Tevas, really?

I snapped all of these images at Balitmore's Artscape festival on Saturday. And, simultaneously sadly and awesomely, these snapshots barely touch the tip of the proverbial freakish iceberg. Most of the time I was in such mouth-agape disbelief at the shambles going on around me that I forgot to take a photo. But, alas, many of the images I didn't capture have burned themselves into the dark recesses of my subconscious mind, so I might as well go ahead and write a review, the title of which I've borrowed from the one objectively glorious moments of the day -- Claire Huxtable's live performance and the distribution their mixtape, Bmore of a Hipster v2.0. It's pretty f*cking tight. (Download it free here!)

Anyway, we Zipcar'd up, I got schooled in the valet parking lot (no, literally, instead of doing his job and parking my car he taught me when to "cut it" to defy physics and fit in a spot smaller than the car I was driving -- a lesson I will always remember), and we learned it was OK to drink liquor on the street. Was Baltimore the coolest town ever? Possibly...but not really. As we neared the festival area the smell of hippies started affronting our senses.

Yes, like any self-respecting street festival, the dirty hippies came out en masse to celebrate not having jobs and smelling bad. (Deodorant isn't just for The Man, I swear!)

But as hard as it is not to just talk sh*t about hippies for a few more paragraphs, let me get into the actual festival. There was quite a bit of cool stuff going on there (clearly, did you see my photos?!). There were "fashion" shows at Gordan Plaza; a slightly twisted exhibit of people's notebook doodles at the Bunting Center (I wish I'd have known, I'd have submitted my own); and some rather sweet DJs and club acts at the "DJ Culture Stage." Besides Claire Huxtable, the highlight was probably Diplo, although, honestly by the time he took the stage around 9 p.m. the combined smells of hippy, deep-fried everything and general 90+ degree city made it hard to stay despite the amazing music.

But before I get to the reasons why we cut out a but early, let me review some of the fashion events at Artscape, mainly the "supa sexy, supa sophisticated, supa Full-Figure Diva Academy!" Now, I'm all about fashion for all, no matter what your size, but some of the outfits chosen for these models was enough to make even a K-Mart shopper gasp in disbelief. Witness:


And that's just the back. The front was a hot mess of too-much-fabric, visible bra and, if memory serves, a barfable array of sequins. Had I not been in complete shock at the shambles of this outfit, I'd have been able to capture the front, but alas, I wasn't so quick to the draw and only got the back. Consider yourselves lucky. Seriously.

But aside from the ill-fitting attire provided by Crystal's Bridal (which I imagine might be out of business now, that is if there's any justice in the world), the emcee for the Full-Figured Diva Academy was, hands bedazzlers down, the highlight of the show. I'm not sure I can even accurately render into words her skills, but she was kind of a cross between a pimp and a phone-sex operator, who we imagined to look like Mo'Nique, a full-figured diva. However, when it came time for her to reveal herself at the end, she looked more like Naomi Campbell. She was a total skinny bitch! Seriously, she weighed about 99 pounds. I have the feeling this is one of those classic "you had to be there" moments, which work horribly in blog posts, but the irony was ridiculous.

So, after that we wandered about, saw a dude street performing in a pair of fishnets, under a leotard under a fluorescent green thong (my camera must have taken the liberty of just deleting that from its own memory...traumatic...), smelled some more hippies, and finally landed at the DJ stage, where we learned of the glory of Claire Huxtable, rocked out to Rye-Rye and Diplo and saw this, the grand shambles of the day:

Although the pic is bad enough, let me add a few details to let you really get a feel for the shambles that is happening in this photo. First, aside from the overalls, which, by the way, she later unclipped one side of to wear like Bel Biv Devoe, and the scrunchie, this woman was about 50 years old. Now, I'm not saying dishabille 50-year-olds shouldn't be attending makeshift street festival raves (do work, ma'am!), but this particular 50-year-old was 1) completely wasted and/or high, and 2) painfully hitting on a 20-year-old boy who I'm pretty sure was more interested in hitting on the 20-year-old girl pictured standing in front of him. The whole thing was so awkward. I felt bad witnessing it, like, someone should have told her. Coo-coo-cachoo, he ain't interested in you! But I didn't. INSTEAD, I DECIDED TO BLOG ABOUT IT! ZOINKS!

And so, when the sun finally set and the hippies got smellier, we made our exit. Would I do it all again? Of course. I love freaks! But next time with a video camera because I do believe words may have finally failed me...

shambles p.i. -- hidden hipster edition

I have a fairly epic and detailed post in the works regarding my experience (and mon Dieu was it an experience...) at Baltimore's ArtScape street festival on Saturday afternoon and night, but like I said, it's epic, so I still need at least another night to process those shambles. In the meantime, however, I'll give you a little taste of what's to come by channeling the ever-popular Where's Waldo? series. Let's play, Where's the Ironic Hipster?

Did you spot him? (That's a hint. It's a boy!)

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There he is!

But what's so ironic, you ask? No, not the fluorescent green baseball cap, or his matching belt and wayfarer shades (hipsters now where this stuff in all seriousness); not the amorphous hipster shuffle he's positioned himself into (he's rocking out to Claire Huxtable, again, in all seriousness because, as I can personally attest to, Claire Huxtable's sh*t is tight); and certainly not the fitted T-shirt, which just barely meets the tight-clothing requirement of any decent hipster (and with those baggy khaki shorts, I'm almost tempted to drop him from hipster categorization altogether, but for the sake of the game, I won't). Nope. What's ironic about this particular hipster is his choice of footwear. If you wouldn't mind taking a closer look...


Yep, THOSE ARE EFFING CROCS! Now, ironic boat shoes, I can handle (obviously). Objectively kind of hideous TOMS slip-ons, I can handle (and kind of heart). But ironic Crocs? That sh*t just ain't right and I cannot handle that. I don't care how avant-garde you are or are trying to be. In no world are Crocs OK to wear in public. In fact, even if you're just picking tomatoes in your backyard, I'd suggest a more eye-pleasing shoe, unless, of course, you want the terrorists to win, commie...

Seriously, I, along with reason and logic, cannont stress this point enough. If dishabille hot messes can't sport Crocs, any self-respecting hipster (*insert obvious hipster/self-respect joke here*) certainly cannot wear Crocs -- IT IS NOT OK! My retinas are still burning...

Plus, if you don't believe me, believe fate. Bad fashion karma is not to be messed with and this particular shuffling hipster got what he deserved when one of his Crocs slipped off midway through Claire Huxtable's hot-track of the moment forever "Holy Ghost on the Dance Floor" (of which I'm privy not just to the original version, but three different remixes including an acapella iteration, as well (it's OK to be jealous)). Thankfully, however, no one was hurt, and hopefully lessons were learned -- I repeat threepeat: DO NOT wear Crocs under any circumstances in public! They will make you look like an asshole.

In the spirit of Claire Huxtable, however, I will not write this hipster off as just another statistic. I'll pray for him to the Holy Ghost in the Shoe Store to save his soles! LOL! (C'mon, you knew that pun was coming! And you're welcome.)

and now for something totally different

I will not be mentioning the d-word on today's blog. I've already mentioned it far too many times this week (for instance, here, here and here). In fact, I'm starting to bore even myself. So, on a completely different note, let's take a look at something awesome currently going down in in the DC-area. Well, OK, it's not in DC (of course). It's in Baltimore. If you haven't guessed already, I'm talking about Artscape, touted as "America's largest free public arts festival."

In short, this sh*t looks tight.

There's art (duh), fashion, crafts, food, music, theater, dance, DJs and so much more, according to the agenda. In fact, the schedule is so jam-packed that I honestly don't know if one afternoon will suffice, but, well, that's all I got. I'll be there Saturday and hope to see it all, but I think I'll be lucky to see a tenth of it.

Right now, I'm excited to check out DIPLO on the turntables, a fashion show or two at Gordan Plaza, the Paul Taylor Dance Company and, of course, Dru Hill and Sisqo (thong-thong-thong-thong-thong!).

But actually, I'm most excited to just get the hell out of Dodge hell, even if it is just for a day. I have reached the outer limits of my douchebag quot-- OH SH*T! I said I wasn't going to say it! Ahh, hell's bells! My d-bag quotient has been met for the week forever, so I need a break. And while I promise to take photos for a little e-show'n'tell, I strongly urge you to check it out for yourself. It's just a 45-minute train ride or drive away. And the seafood there is delicious. It's a different kind of crabs than you're likely to get in DC (ba-dum-ching!).

In the meantime, check this sh*t out. It's pretty effing unbelievable.


That's not a photograph; that's a drawing! She did that with her hands!! That's freakin' amazing!!! Wow. Anyway, the artist's name is Molly Springfield and, apparently, she currently lives and works in the District. Who knew?! She's a finalist in the Janet & Walter Sondheim Prize, a $25,000 award that will be given out at the festival on Sunday night. If there's any justice in the world, she'll win. To see the other finalists, click here.

And to see something ridiculous, click here (that will be a choice you do not regret).

and because it's all true...

So it seems yours truly has made it in the douche world, which is disgusting because I think it means I have e-crabs now. Um, ick. Anyway, my post about what just might be the most tired reality show idea of all time was linked on e-douche central, Late Night Shots. Naturally, I went over to check it out (yes, it's that easy to infiltrate), but I highly recommend you stay away. I feel dirty...in a bad way.

And while it's true I know none of the girls who volunteered to be shamelessly typecast on "So You Think You Can Douche?" (on third thought, let's go with that name), I know for certain that the Late Night Shots crowd as a general whole seems like a truly gnarly bunch of townfolk. I've been in that sh*t, e-friends, and what I've e-seen ain't pretty. But it is pretty f*cking hilarious! (Don't believe me? Peep the incredibly clever caption in the above photo courtesy of LNS...hardy har! Although, at least they tried...)

The thing is, I just wish LNS knew how big of a non-ironic joke it is, then maybe it'd be tolerable. I mean, if I -- a girl 100 percent disconnected from the Smith's Point scene (do you kids even still go there anymore?) -- can find a means to log into this "members only" site, you know you've been had. I have neither the power of Wonkette, nor the cachet of someone who can stand to be friends with you, yet there I was, Web-surfing in a sea of tool and douche, when I stumbled upon LNS's infamous "forum," a virtual meeting place where the great minds of our day come to philosophize about topics even Socrates dared not to contemplate. And what I found illustrates every point I made in my previous point:

Herpes or A Baby: What is Worse?

Guys: would you rather contract the herp or get a girl pregnant that refuses to abort and plans on having it?

Girls: Same question, but you have to have the baby.

Thoughts?

Thoughts indeed! This is truly a topic for the ages if I've ever seen one! And knowing that a future President of the United States of America probably wrote it makes it even better! Three cheers for American politics -- is there any moron you can't make president? But enough about the question; the real evidence of LNS's true douchebaggery (mixed with a few heaping dashes of idiot) are found in the responses:

Fairly tough call. A baby sucks, but it's at least normal and not frowned upon. Herpes, although there's a lot of stigma attached to it, is quite common. Something like 20-25% of people in the US have it.

And something like 100 percent of the LNS crowd has it. No judgment!

i would much prefer having herpes to having a baby. i'd rather take valtrex for the rest of my life than have to deal with having an abortion or a child.

I honestly don't feel the need to comment on that doozy...

I'd take the baby all the way, hope that it's not retarded, feral or a fatty boom batty and fulfill my biological imperative. Nothing says I have to raise him/her, right? Just slip the check under the door each month: "18 years, 18 years, She got one of yo kids got you for 18 years."

Interesting that he uses the conjunctive "or" instead of "and" when describing his offspring fears -- retarded, feral or fatty boom batty (15 eloquence points to you, sir!) -- as if each is independent of the other. Son, in your case, I'm sure they're not. Indeed, however, this young man is on the right track by asking, "What Would Kanye Do?"

I'm a girl in my mid-20's, low number of sexual partners, and I'd take herpes in a New York Minute. Everyone has heard the stats that most adults have the herp or will get it, so you will likely end up with someone else who has it or who doesn't care. Plus even though you can't cure it you can treat it. My brother takes Valtrex for cold sores and they go away in like 3 days. No babies, no thank you!

Yowza! You'd take "the herp" in a "New York Minute?!" Well, I'm 100 percent 50/50 that there's several LNS douchebags who'd be willing to take you up on that offer. By the way, your brother sounds like a real catch! No Herpes Simplex 1, no thank you!

And between herpes or a baby I would take a baby any day. So long as it wasn't with a prostitute.

Ah yes, the ol' prostitute baby. Soooo much worse than the ol' prostitute herpes...

I would rather have the herp. Like it has been said before, It's easier to lie about herpes than to hide a baby.

Yes! "Like it has been said before!" I love that proverb. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think it was Confucius who said, "Our greatest glory is not in never lying about your herpes but in hiding your baby."

I don't understand all of this talk about herpes being easier to hide than a baby. Herpes is permanently in your body and if it's on your junk it likely mainifests [sic] itself every couple of months. Any night when you're out it could potentially pop up. A baby is actually quite easy to hide. If you have one you can leave it at home with the baby momma on weekends and go out and crush chicks. How will they know you have a baby?

Now here's a real thinker! True, when "crushing chicks" it is hard to hide anything that "mainifests" on "your junk." Indeed, you do not want that to "pop up." But this living, breathing "it," this real-life fruit of your loins? Why even bother with the "baby momma" at all? Just tie it to a tree, give it some water and it'll be fine for a few hours days. Party on, douche!

Yeah, this reality show is going to be pure gold...

attention all douchebaguettes!

Are you a fan of the Mystic tan? Are you a blond that still favors the "Rachel from Friends" haircut? Are you a giant female douchebag, a douchebaguette,* if you will? If you answered, "yah," "like, totally" and "you know it, bitches!" to any or all of those questions then you, my douchey e-friend, could end up on teh teevee like these fine ladiezzz! Holla!

"I think I just impregnated myself!"

These classy might-as-well-be-bebe-clad females (seriously, is that a lavender fur bolero vest on the right?) are Katherine Kennedy, Krista Johnson and Sophie Pyle (possibly pictured above in that order, possibly not, but does it honestly really matter?), the three Georgetown "DC socialites," who have signed on to do a Hills-esque reality show here in the Capital of the Free World. (Apparently, we're letting the terrorists win now...)

To give you a bit more perspective about the shambles that will compose this yet-to-be-named show (although, may I suggest calling it "So You Think You Can Douche?" -- wait, on second thought, scratch that), these three girls apparently have dubbed themselves the (and I am not joking) "Blond Charity Mafia." And, not surprisingly, they were found via DC's one and only "members only" social network for douchebags, Late Night Shots, where hungover assholes discuss who got whom pregnant and where they can "take care of it" (again, I am not joking).

Now, whether or not the majority of this show will take place in offshore abortion clinics, I have my doubts, but one thing is for sure -- this show is guaranteed to be even more irritating than the actual version of The Hills. At least The Hills has Justin Bobby! What the hell does DC have? Oh yeah. This guy:

Lil' Lord Doucheington has nothing on the Grand Duke of Doucheville, pictured above courtesy of Project Beltway.

Honestly, I have no idea how they're going to keep this show interesting. I mean, you can only film bitches barfing outside of Smith's Point so many times before that sh*t gets old. And word on the proverbial street Valtrex prescription says several popular Georgetown establishments have already refused to allow the show to film on their property, including the Gryphon Room, whatever the hell that is.

Now, before you get jealous that you're not on the show (because I know you're all dying to be portrayed as vapid, spoiled attention whores), let me give you a reason to live: They're apparently still casting two or three more douchebaguettes! Tip top!

Unfortunately, save for impregnating yourself in Georgetown and writing about it the next day on LNS, I'm not sure what the best route is for you to get on the show. I know it seems to help, though, if you have really rich parents, are from the South and are completely delusional. What do I mean by delusional? I mean this:

"It's all going to be about our real lives," said Johnson, who is a partner at the Georgetown boutique We One You Two. "It's going to be in the same vein of MTV's The Hills but ours is going to be more realistic."

More realistic? Really?! So there will be scenes filmed at offshore abortion clinics! (SCORE! Another abortion joke in this post and it's not even noon! Shouldn't I get a medal or something?)

But alas, as much as I love mocking this uniquely DC type of douchebag(uette), I must admit I really am a bit jealous, as I know for a fact that a reality show based on my life would not only entertain the nation, but I'm pretty sure it would save our economy, end the war in Iraq and allow for the second coming of Jesus. However, it will not save me from getting capped (handgun ban officially lifted today!) by some douche in madras if I dare show my face in Georgetown ever again after implying that everyone there is a badly dressed whore. Whoops! Well, at least I'm right about one thing. (I'll let you guess.) Hey, if you can't laugh at rich people, you can't laugh at anything.

Anyway, here's to not getting [late night] shot! And yes, production company, if you want to cast me as the much-need reality show arch-nemesis, I will do it! Clearly, I too am an attention whore, who is extremely easy to typecast. Come on, the cynical, antisocial, blogger, who thinks she's smarter than everyone else, often to her own detriment? It's so easy... E-mail me! ♥

*A special thanks to BAD for coming up with "douchebaguette." You are truly a brilliant man.

shambles p.i. -- endearing geriatric edition

You know when a hamster poops and he has to remove it with his teeth? It's totally sick and gross, isn't it? Yes. However, at the same time, it's a hamster, so on some level it's also still inherently kind of cute, right? Right. Well, that's how I feel about this old couple, snapped by a very sly reader near the National Portrait Gallery last summer.

If only they were running in a wheel...

See, their outfits are objectively offensive to anyone who's not colorblind. The matching red capris are kind of like Gorbachev's eyes -- they're blinding like a laser.

Actually, wait. I take that back. Their outfits are offensive to anyone who possesses any sort of sight at all. Basically, capris are never a good idea. They make short people look shorter and tall people look like assholes. And don't even get me started on manpris. If you want fabric below the knee, be ready to commit to a f*cking pair of pants. If you don't, be warned you're going to look sick and gross, not unlike hamster doo-doo.

Luckily for this old couple, however, they're also cute like a couple of hamsters, which makes their very turd-like outfits endearingly sick and gross. I mean, are they snapping their fingers? Dancing in the streets? Wetting their Depends? Perhaps, all of the above? Who knows?! All I know for sure is that they're neither wearing Crocs nor flip-flops, which makes me happy, and they're clearly ready to party. I bet they're drunk. I hope they're drunk. I wish I was drunk. Am I drunk? It is the mid-afternoon...