Tuesday, September 30, 2008

omfg, they're breakdance fighting!

Maybe it's the cooler, less deadly weather, but I'm loving DC these days. OK, "loving" might be a bit strong. It's more like I'm not as tempted go Exorcist on you all and throw myself down that big ass staircase in Georgetown to escape the evil and ugly slime-spewing monster that is this city. Yeah, that's more fitting.

But my decrescent dislike of DC (and apparent accretionary adoration of alliteration) did not creep up on me without reason. It crept up on me on Sunday in the form of -- ready? -- breakdance fighting! Even the staunchest critic would be a fool not to appreciate that!

And this wasn't just some run-of-the-mill mono-e-mono Zoolander-style breakdance fight either; this was an epic battle.

About a baker's dozen dance crews showed up, including one that featured a kid from my not-so-secret favorite show, So You Think You Can Dance?, and one that boasted a dancer from the movie Step Up 2, a film I'm sad to say that not only have I not seen, but never even heard of. And considering Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo is clearly superior to its prequel, Breakin', I can't help but think I'm missing out on a classic masterpiece by not having seen the sequel to Step Up. For shame, me. For shame.

Setting aside my now apparently poor knowledge of dance-themed movies (I thought I knew them all!), allow me to set the scene. The setting was Sunday afternoon in Adams Morgan at the City Paper-sponsored Crafty Bastards street fair, which unsurprisingly, as most craft fairs do, attracted swarms of dirty hippies. However, I wasn't about to let a bit lot of overgrown armpit hair, the putrid scent of patchouli and a whole lot of unnecessary shirtlessness ruin my time. After all, I had some goddamn BREAKDANCE FIGHTING to watch!

I just kind of wish I got to watch more adults breakdance fight. Trust me when I say more than one pre-teen was in the mix, which is both awe-inspiring and exceptionally messed up at the same time. Let's be honest, it's kind of depressing when the coolest kids around are literally 12-year-old children. Then again, my aging 29-year-old ass wasn't out there doing the worm, so I can't legitimately complain, I suppose.

Of course, if I did bust out with a little bit of worm, I'd have instantly gotten mocked for my wackness, I'm assuming. Yeah, "wackness." I just said that. These kids might be young, but they've progressed well beyond such provincial, elementary moves as the worm. These kids had what I'd describe, in all my glorified wackness, as mega tight skillz. Yeah, I just said that too. These children did it up hardcore, with crazy fast six steps, helicopters, air flares, kick-outs, side slides and freeze after freeze of awesomeness. The tiniest kid, probably an 11 year old, even did a head spin. On concrete, without a hat! Solid move, son. Um, hats off to you! (I couldn't help myself...)

Being a former student of dance as well as a very weak breakdancer, I get seriously amazed by people who breakdance well. That sh*t is not as easy as Hansel and Mugatu's nefarious DJ make it seem. (Note on the link: Whoa.) But one guy, probably in his late teens, stood out from the crowd, amazing everyone not only for his nonstop dance ability, but also for his flair. Meet Aaron, Sunday's sole representative of the Hidden Characters crew.

Every crew he battled had three people on it, meaning he was basically the breakdance version of Chuck Norris, taking out multiple bitches at the same time with his sweet moves. And while the larger crews eventually shut him down, this wunderkind made it to the semi-finals! In skinny jeans, no less! TIGHT! Literally!

Gorilla Fist (not joking about that name, by the way) on the left and his teammate look on in amazement at Aaron's tight-pants style freeze.

Mid-battle wardrobe change! Infinite style scene points!

Although it took the professionals of the Step Up 2 crew, the Resurrectors, to take him out, in my mind and heart Aaron was the winner. As the MC of the event described it, his rounds were like the 300 of b-boy battles. How fitting, really, because tonight I will be dining in hell. And by "hell" I mean DC, which if you recall, I compared to a demon-child in the first paragraph. Full circle!

Eh. That was a bit of a pathetic ending. In place of something more clever (or clever at all), allow me to revise this conclusion and end this steamy poo pile of a post with a video from Sunday's festivities. It's Goofball from SYTYCD? He's kind of totally awesome, n'est-ce pas?

Video lifted from YouTube user "psycokick." I hope he doesn't mind...

Monday, September 29, 2008

watch your faces


I couldn't open my refrigerator on Saturday without getting a bit emotional. See, I eat a lot of salads at home and on those salads I like to spritz on a little balsamic vinaigrette and on that bottle of spray-on balsamic vinaigrette is a portrait of Paul Newman looking very Shakespearean wearing a ruff. Philanthropist salad-dressing maker, Oscar-winning actor, race-car driver and all-around old-school hottie, I had a little crush on old pictures of Newman. Seriously. Look.

Those abs are tight.

I use the past tense because Paul Newman died on Friday after battling cancer. (Cancer can go f*ck itself, by the way.) I found out on Saturday when I discovered a New York Times alert in my Inbox around noon, just before I needed that delicious dressing; just before I lost my appetite. Goodbye, Hollywood legend, goodbye.

Bidding adieu to Cool Hand Luke made me think about how solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short life is. OK, so I guess bidding adieu to Butch Cassidy (thank God we still have the Sundance Kid) made me think of Thomas Hobbes's Leviathon, which then made me think about how solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short life is. It made me realize that I needed to start taking advantage of these few moments I have on Earth. I needed to stop staring longingly at that Elizabethan-era Newman and get out there and live. And so I ate my salad, sopping up every last drop of that scrumptious balsamic spray (only 2 calories per spritz!), hopped on my bicycle, Baguette, and headed out into the misty gray Saturday afternoon. And lo and behold, I discovered a secret DC gem, a reason to live, if you will (and I will, even without Fast Eddie Felson).

Surprisingly, I'm discovering that Washington, DC, has a pretty solid vintage and thrift shopping scene -- a scene of which I'm convinced I've barely scratched the surface. I've had luck down at the massive Indian Head Thrift in Anacostia, found a few good pieces in Unique in Virginia, procured a lovely little ensemble a couple weeks ago at the DC Goodwill fashion show and have seen the wide selection of vintage boutiques scattered around DC, Arlington and Bethesda. However, this weekend I may have [been the last to discover] the best -- Mercedes Bien, which has sat for the year-and-a-half I've lived in DC just a neighborhood away in Adams Morgan.

Only open on the weekends, Mercedes Bien, located on 18th above the Falafel Shop, doesn't have the widest selection of clothes, but it does have one of the best -- a stylized edit of the merchandise that I wish more secondhand-only boutiques would use to separate the good from the ghastly, or more importantly, the well-made from the tattered. If I hadn't blown through my rent money in New York City last weekend, I could've easily traded in all of that cash at MB for some lovely, one-of-a-kind finds, including a blue velvet Moroccan vest, a handmade brocade-and-bead cropped jacket and several pairs of vintage sunglasses that Jackie O. would adore.

And while we're at it, since I could've easily spent my rent money at Mercedes Bien, I'd have been remiss not to go ahead and bring my board money as well to drop on the fine finds of the newly permanent Listopad shop located in the rear of the store. I don't know how the Listopad trio does it, but those women have managed to collect three-plus jam-packed racks (and probably more) of some of the coolest vintage items I've seen. Ever. Sifting through their racks, I literally stumbled upon 20-some items that, again, if I didn't have those pesky needs of shelter and food, I would've scooped up in a heartbeat, of which my fair Newman reminded me we have so very few. The Missoni sweatervest (my love of the sweatervest is steadfast season-to-season); the cream-colored leather bomber jacket with the pleated shoulders; the velvet skimmer sneakers; the navy blue blouse with the bias lace detail...

And I could go on...and on...and on...

Thank Dionysus, though, that the Listopad crew provided mid-afternoon mimosas at their Saturday kick-off event so I could have something to distract me from looking at all the reasonably priced items that I'll have to return next week to buy after I hustle some bitches at street dice collect my paycheck that I earned legally. That is, if those items are still there. As a warning, though, I'll cut a bitch if I see someone wearing that leather coat. (But actually I won't. Not because I'm scared of a good old-fashioned knife-fight, but because I can't bear the thought of staining that jacket. And blood makes me squeamish. OK, so the shivving is out. I kick in the teeth, however, is still fair game. Watch your faces.)

Anypsychoticthoughts, it's a good day when you go to bed feeling like life is a little less solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short than you thought it was when you awoke. Well, maybe not. Cancer really is a bitch. But let's face it -- or maybe I'll just face it -- in DC, if you go to bed feeling this city is a little less ugly and a little more stylish, that'll do. :)


And tonight will be no different, thanks to the creative force that is Pandahead, whose highly skilled efforts have helped to expand DC's fashion/art world by exponential amounts. Check out the latest Pandahead magazine here! It's pretty tight.


Friday, September 26, 2008

i take it back

I once complained of price gouging at my local bike shop, City Bikes in Adams Morgan. I related a story about buying a bike lock there shortly after someone got capped. On a Sunday morning. Across the street from the store. Unknowingly at the time, the guy who "helped" me pick out a lock and seemed annoyed with me for asking him questions had just sutured the victim. I just thought he was being a jackass. My bad. But more importantly, I thought the $70 price tag on my lock was a little steep. And it was. I could've purchased the same lock online for $30 less. Needless to say, I vowed never to return. Of course, as with most promises I make, I failed. Except this time I'm glad.

I really didn't mean to go back, but my bike, Baguette, had left me with little choice. See, I was ridin' drizzly home yesterday night when my derailleur decided to f*ck up again, resulting in the chain popping off the chainstay and yadda, yadda, yadda (I've explained it all before). After cursing the world a little too loudly, I realized City Bikes was just a few yards away and since Baguette has made it a habit to continually fail me (she's such a bitch), I decided to walk her over to the shop. Plus, I didn't want to get all dirty messing with the chain. And I'm lazy. And mechanically retarded.

But thank gods for City Bikes. I thought I'd have to leave her overnight, but they fixed my sh*t up in about five minutes. And either I grossly overestimated Baguette's problems, or I got a sweet discount because whatever they did (they explained it and I immediately forgot) only cost $5. Or maybe the store's employees are magicians. You know, like David Blaine, but with tricks that don't suck. (Seriously, David, "Dive of Death"? You mean, Dive of Douche? ZING!)

Even more pleasing, the service at City Bikes all came with a nice nugget of attitude-filled honesty, which I love. Said the mechanic, "We adjusted your derailleurs and filled your tires with air, yadda, yadda, yadda, but, um, your bike is a piece of sh*t." OK, so he didn't really call ol' Baguette un petit morceau de merde, but he did give me some useful (although rather unsolicited) advice about what repairs I may want to think about in the future (i.e. total bike replacement). They're good mechanics and good salesmen.

Anysucker, City Bikes managed to brighten an otherwise very dreary day and for that The Very Discerning Anti DC Eagle of Freedom gives them two talons up. Baguette and I have never been happier.

He discerns hard for his money.

Thursday, September 25, 2008

my other life

I like to keep most aspects of my non-e-life offline, not because I find my life extraordinarily embarrassing at times (the very fact that this blog exists attests to the fact that I'm pretty much immune to embarrassment), but mostly because I don't want to piss those few people off, who put up with my relentless ridiculousness on a regular, face-to-face basis. Nor do I want to get fired from my job. Therefore, I keep talk about personal relationships, friendships and work to a minimum.

Wait, what? Bullsh*t you say? OK, so we all know I have no feelings or social graces. The real reason I don't blog about those things, as you may have noticed, is because I'm a bit of a megalomaniac with strong, mostly baseless opinions to share -- a feat that doesn't leave much room on this blog of unlimited space but limited time to delve into, you know, the sh*t that matters.

However, once in a perfect blue e-moon, my paid profession will coincide with my personal disgust for DC -- my stated anti-DCness, as it were -- to produce a rip in this blog's space/time continuum. Ta-da! And so, I invite you to exit this virtual space (not forever, I mean, but just for the moment...please come back...) and enter another. A news-y new site dubbed Culture11 was kind enough to allow (and pay) me to unleash my fury over there, but in a much less retardulous manner. Don't worry, though (just let me pretend you are), you can take the girl away from her retardulousness, but you can't make the girl no longer retardulous. Um...yeah. Even I'm going to close this window now. But like the ever-wondrous inexhaustible goblet, my e-tank will be refilled soon, meaning I'll be able to virtually whiz all over this blog again faster than you can say "ew." Yep, it's true -- ancient toilet metaphors never get tiresome. Now, if I may beg, please enter the The Anti DC rip in the space/time continuum: CLICK HERE (please)!

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

shambles p.i.: the explosive truck edition

Any good follower of this objectively retarded space on teh Webz should know by now that I bike commute to work every morning. If you're a really regular reader (I love you), you should even know my route, which brings me up and down Connecticut between Woodley Park and Van Ness almost every morning and night. What you may not know, however, is that I think I might be risking my life taking said route each day. Not because of the cars, which sometimes actively try to take me out. Nor because of my blatant disregard for the law. Not for the egregiously evident potholes, complete lack of bike-lane or even my blatant negligence of my own safety (I'm kind of an idiot).

Nope. I think I risk my life each day because every morning around 8:45, I am confronted by a bevy of police cars and two trucks labeled "explosives" barreling down Connecticut toward downtown.

Hey terrorists! Here comes your target!

Whoomp! There it is!

Thank gods you missed again this time, terrorists. Until tomorrow!

Seriously, what the eff is going on each day that two trucks full of explosives need to rush downtown so fast that it becomes just a blur on my low-budget camera? What is going on in this town?!

More importantly, if you're going to be sending explosives back and forth on a busy city thoroughfare, why in all hell would you draw so much attention to it? Loud sirens, flashing lights and a big yellow "EXPLOSIVES" label act as a virtual Evite to any semi-resourceful terrorist. I mean, who needs to strap explosives to themselves when you have two trucks whizzing down a busy road full of drivers, pedestrians and ME?!

I feel safe. Truly. Thanks, DC. Crack job.

And I know I'm not the only curious soul to notice this daily, trinitrotoluene fiasco. Christopher Orr over at The New Republic blog also wonders what the eff is going on:

On my morning commute today I was passed on Connecticut Avenue by a police motorcade accompanying a couple of pickup trucks carrying metal crates vividly marked "Caution: High Explosives." It was at least the dozenth time I've witnessed this exact sight -- the volatile caravan speeding downtown on Connecticut with sirens blazing -- in the last couple months, and the fifth or sixth time I've seen it in just the last two weeks.

What could account for such a bottomless appetite for TNT? Is someone planning another Gunpowder Plot? Anyone able to provide firsthand knowledge, informed speculation, or idle conjecture is invited to do so in comments. But until this mystery is unraveled, I'd strongly recommend staying away from the Capitol on November 5.

My rebuttal to Mr. Orr is, just stay away on Nov. 5? I suggest staying away from the Capitol everyday. Not just because of the truckloads of explosives that may or may not be destined for it, but because the Capitol is filled with jagbags. Speaking of, I need to haul ass down there (pity me). If those damn explosive trucks weren't definitely breaking the sound barrier, I'd think about grabbing onto one and letting it tow me and my bike down there. I mean, if al-Qaeda hasn't caught on by now, I don't foresee any problems. Right? Anyone? Bueller?

But flawless transportation plans (and overused 1980s movie references) aside, I ask again, what the eff is going on here? The commenters on Orr's blog understandably had no idea. Construction? A grand scheme to take this city out? New Republic commenter Andy Daglas probably postured the best guess: "Has there been a commiserate uptick in orders for rocket skates, anvils, and side-of-a-mountain black paint?" Meep! Meep!

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

me want pantsuit! me design pantsuit!

Something must have been in the water booze last week. I said some nutty things about being hopeful that DC might be experiencing a sea change in its fashion sense or some other such nonsense. It seemed I might have even been a tad -- wait for it -- optimistic. I know, I know...my circuitry and wires must have short-circuited or something. Thankfully for the sake of this blog's theme, however, another DC blogger gave me the electric shock I needed to get back to my normal, robotic, pessimistic realistic e-self. What jolted me back?

This NPR story, sent to me by A Spiced Life. The story outlines the "designs" of "lobbyist-turned-designer" Rochelle Behrens, whose stodgy, ill-fitting suits are apparently "livening up the office." Her claim to fame is designing a button-down that doesn't gape near the breastical region (that's totally the scientific name, by the way). Wow. Groundbreaking. And here I thought wearing a button-down that shows full-on nip (yeah, I just said that) would liven up the office! What the hell am I thinking?! More importantly, where the hell do I work? Clearly, I'm not on the same wavelength as NPR and Behrens:

The button-down filled a void, and the Rochelle Behrens Collection was born -- a cooler alternative to the likes of Sen. Hillary Clinton's pantsuits and a cheaper option than House Speaker Nancy Pelosi's Armani.

"I thought about the consummate Washington woman, running from her appointments in the morning, with her Starbucks in hand and her briefcase and her BlackBerry, juggling a whole bunch of things, and then easily, swiftly throwing off her jacket, transitioning to her evening activities and looking flawless all day. I've done that. Life in DC like that is not idealized -- that is legitimately how it works," Behrens says.

Funny how she describes a horrid scene and then calls it "idealized." Yes, I dream about running around town in a Clinton-esque pantsuit, juggling an overpriced coffee and a BlackBerry! I dream of becoming that ideal douche! She's done it! Why can't I?! Well, for one, I'm not a massive tool; I'm just a medium tool. My idea of an ideal life doesn't involve running into a Starbucks every morning so I can get the necessary caffeine jolt to stay awake during a job that, thanks to my BlackBerry, has me doing at all hours of the day. That sounds f*cking horrible. Wait. I have a BlackBerry. And it is f*cking horrible! Actually, I take that back. I like the Google Maps function. But I toolishly digress...because I like my job, which, apparently, has me contemplating baring boobage. (Just kidding, that'd be weird...)

But getting back to bizness, fashion, unlike career choices, is something I can't give into DC on. Washington, DC, truly is where all things stylish go to die. And style here doesn't die slowly. It dies in a fiery, hot mess of explosive button-down gnarliness. Honestly, what passes for "fashion" in mainstream DC wouldn't pass for fashion in the Kathie Lee Gifford section of Wal-Mart, the back of a dirty Maryland truck stop or, hell, let's throw it out there -- Janet Reno's closet.

Janet Reno? Yeah, I just said that. Janet Motherf*cking Reno wouldn't even wear the "collection" designed by 25-year-old Behrens. Observe:

Seriously, if you had to choose -- for reals now -- which suit would you rather wear if, say, "none of the above" was not an option? Tough one, yeah? Behrens is supposedly about 100 years younger than Reno, yet there's the ex-attorney general, bearing fire no less, looking roughly 10 years younger than our lobbyist-designer, meaning they both look to be in their mid-70s or 80s.

Clearly it's not the face or the body aging Behrens, although, good gods, that's an unfortunate camera angle. At 25, Behrens has the advantage over Reno in those categories scientifically (sorry, Janet), which means it's the clothes. Behrens' design looks pretty much exactly like a Clinton pantsuit, except instead of being "cooler," it's just uglier. The fit is not right. Is the top button supposed to fold over like that? Are the pants supposed to give you a camel toe? Is the look supposed to evoke drunken stewardess?

Reno, on the other hand, is kind of working it out a little. And by "working it out a little," I strictly mean that at least we can't see the outline of her goodies. So, I suppose, if I had to choose one of the above options, I'd go for Reno's, especially if the torch came with it. Then I could just set myself on fire and end it. Yes, I'm that serious.

But honestly, I don't know why 95 percent of Washington doesn't understand that you don't have to dress like an aging douche to look professional. In fact, this very subject was the focus of last week's Project Runway, during which Joe, who designed none other than a stodgy suit, got auf'd over the overtly ugly design of Suede. (Seriously, I don't know what Suede thought Suede was thinking.) And the judges made some good points. Guest judge Cynthia Rowley said to Joe, "It's just interesting that you feel...to be a professional it has to be a suit. I just think there are so many other options." She later described Joe's design as "out-of-touch."

Michael Kors, whose aesthetic also generally makes me want to self-immolate, explained it even better: "It's like a 60-year-old person's idea of, like, 'She's gotta look professional, so I'm gonna put her in pinstripes with a shirt and a pocket square'...Talk about a time capsule!"

But perhaps queen bitch Nina Garcia said it best: "The biggest problem that I have with this is that it's the total cliche of what a work outfit should be."

Garcia is right. It really is a cliche, especially compared to the winner, a lovely and professional skirt, blouse and cardigan ensemble designed by Jerell, who is quickly turning into my absolute favorite.

It's no coincidence that the girl in Joe's design on the left looks like she's holding in vomit.

And yes, despite making me want to puke a little, I'd choose Joe's losing outfit over one of Behrens' lobby-friendly, Cookie-Monster colored ensembles, which make me want to puke a lot, any day. That is, if self-immolation wasn't an option. Hot damn, I'm a cruel asshole fierce critic!

Monday, September 22, 2008

suspicious package

After a delightful and shambley weekend in New York City, where I caught up with Mr. Socrates Johnson of India Poop Blog fame, my old roomie and sizable credit card debt (the shopping is just too good...), I came home to find a suspicious package in my mailbox.

Was it anthrax? No. It was worse -- way worse.

It came in a plain manila envelope, folded in half and stapled to make smaller to ensure its terroristical (yeah, I definitely just made that up) contents sat snug through its travels about the United States Postal Service. Whoever sent it even went so far as to impersonate my mother, using her mailing labels and perfecting her handwriting. The final touch? The stamp was labeled as having come from the town in which she works. This terrorist was good. Damn good.

And so I naively opened it, not knowing what to expect, as my mother hadn't informed me she was sending anything. That's when I stumbled upon this worst case scenario. This terrorist posing as my mom had sent me a...a...


"WHY ME?!" I thought as I recoiled in horror. And then I noticed the malicious note attached. Scrawled out in ballpoint pen in all caps except for the last word, which was underlined, it read: "FOR YOUR FASHION Fierceness!"

Oh, cruelty, thy name is tiny Croc! What kind of monster would do this to me? While all the evidence points to my mommy dearest, I know she doesn't hate me that much. I mean, she would never waste $1.68 to terrorize me with this mini-Croc keychain. Or would she?! This is the same woman, after all, who once dragged a 12-year-old me to an event in a suburban Minnesota mall to see Richard Simmons sweat to the oldies. Did I mention I had the beginnings of strep throat and had also just come from the eye doctor's and was looking a bit like this? If there's a hell for 12-year-olds, that was it. And here I thought blood was thicker than short-shorts and Crocs...silly me.

Now the question is, did she act alone or did she have an accomplice? This incident has this guy written all over it. Where the hell is TIPS when you need it?!

Friday, September 19, 2008

have a good weekend!

(If it's taking a while to load, just click here for the funny rape joke.)

brace yourselves...

I'm about to type something wild. Something crazy. Something I never thought my fingers would tap out on this trusty keyboard. In short, something retarded (<---link to thought-provoking article alert!). Ready? (I'm not.) I went to Georgetown last night and had fun! WHAT?! I know! It's absolutely insane! It's nuts! But it's the truth.

But lest we think I completely lost my mind and GOP'd my way into The Rookery, I assure you I didn't trek out there for no good reason. In fact, I went out there for the only reasonable cause that could draw my lazy ass that far west -- the Goodwill Fashion Show.

The event took place at the lovely French Embassy, where after a bus ride and a short cab ride, I arrived to be greeted by the two things I like most in the world -- baguettes and a heavy reliance on nuclear energy! Just kidding, France! You work that nuclear cycle OUT, girl! No, my two favorite things are free booze and vintage clothing.

Touted as the "Rodeo Drive of Washington, DC," Goodwill put on one hell of a good fashion show. For instance...THIS. DRESS. (I jacked the photos from one of my new favorite blogs The President Wears Prada, who by the way, has a nice recap and tons more good photos over on her site.)

Yeah. That sh*t is TIGHT. From what I was hearing after the show that dress was by far the most coveted piece of the night and with a price tag of $15.98 (um, seriously), I'm surprised people didn't start breaking champagne glasses and knife-fighting over it. While I would have LOVED to own this handmade beaded wonder (really, it is a wonder to see it up close), I'm glad to at least know the resourceful woman who nabbed it first -- Maria of Righteous(re)Style. (So, when can I borrow it?)

I didn't leave empty-handed, however. (I never do.) I coughed up $16 of my own to scoop up a very 3.1 Philip Lim-esque long-sleeved, navy blue belted dress with a pretty sweet pleated neckline. Did I mention it has pockets?! Yeah. Not a bad buy for under 20 bones, I must say.

Other highlights: Learning from Morgan of Pandahead that the new magazine is set to come out the end of September; experiencing a rather wacky cab ride home with the very stylish women of Listopad and our med school driver, Dilbert, whose off-color jokes about traumatic injury kept us entertained; and, of course, meeting Em, the the Goodwill Fashionista herself, who I might add knows how to apply a smokin' smokey eye. (I, on the other hand, somehow always end up looking like a crack whore in the rain when I break out the black eyeliner.)

And because I haven't talked about myself nearly enough in this post that's about the real good other people do, let's turn to a little of my own outfit amour-propre, shall we? Well, you don't have a choice...not sure why I asked...

Anyway, I didn't snap a photo of my outfit from last night because I'm an imbecile, but I can tell you it consisted of a pleated black chiffon sleevless halter blouse tucked into tight pants (surprise...) and a whole slew of vintage accessories. Yeah, that outfit wasn't bad. The point is, I recently got back into tucking my shirts into my pants a la Napolean Dynamite, which, is exactly what I'm doing again today, but minus the fancy accessories. So unfancy is my choice today, in fact, that I think I look like I just stepped out of the ladies section of a 1983 issue of the Sears catalogue. The outfit is a bit retro, but mainly I'm referring to the retardulous pose and idiotic facial expression. The only thing missing is some sort of barn or tractor in the background. I can't shake those damn Midwestern roots...

Shirt and tank -- Urban Outfitters; Jeans -- Goldsign; Belt -- Calvin Klein; Boots -- Penny Loves Kenny.

Thursday, September 18, 2008

FW -- fashion washington or sofa king we todd ed?

I've gotten a few E-mails now requesting my humble thoughts on the latest addition to DC's underwhelming style scene -- FW, the newest publication from the Washington Post company. I actually wasn't planning to post about this because, well, I have a few mixed feelings about it, but ultimately, I think it's redeemable, at least as an idea. But before delving into a very uncharacteristic pro-DC defense of FW, let's first explore my requisite skepticism.

According to company press release FW, which stands for Fashion Washington, is " a high-end fashion magazine aimed at sophisticated shoppers in the Washington, DC-metro area." In addition, "FW will capture the hottest trends in fashion as well as the local designers, boutique owners and famous faces making up the increasingly stylish DC-scene."


"Hottest trends in fashion?" In Washington, DC? So, like, BlackBerry belts and stuff? I'm not sure I buy it. After all, the District and fashion do not have a healthy relationship. It's almost as if FW is wishing some fancy "stylish DC-scene" into existence. My very first thoughts, in fact, paralleled those of Media Bistro's FishbowlDC: "After looking it over, we're not saying that we're unimpressed, but we do have a hard time believing that FW -- given its small size, few articles and the fact that it is sized like a newspaper insert (how very unglamorous...) -- will really steal the lunch money of Capitol File, DC magazine, Washington Life and Washingtonian magazine."

But wait...the FW press release did rightly use the word "increasingly," so they must know what kind of nascent, possibly unborn "scene" they're dealing with. Or do they...? Take, for instance, this comment from WaPo Publisher Katherine Weymouth:

"I have always thought of Washington as a very glamorous place. With more and more high-end boutiques, emerging local designers and savvy shoppers, DC is proving once and for all that it is a fashion capital...FW is going to reflect that fact, and I believe we have assembled an incredible team to deliver all of this fashion news to our readers."

OK, "All of this fashion news"? Perhaps that's why there aren't very many articles...um, THERE IS NO FASHION NEWS!

Look, DC may or may not be "a very glamorous place," depending on your definition of the word (if it's newscaster hair and pearls, then DC is the most glamorous place on Earth...), but it most certainly is not a "fashion capital." That's laughable, quite frankly.

Let's face it, there's wishful thinking and then there's spiral-of-delusional-thought and I'm pretty sure that Weymouth's words fall into the latter category. However, as wacky and unbelievable as it is to think Washington, DC, is presently "a fashion capital" because a few high-end stores recently opened up (all of which pretty much carry the same merchandise, I might add), perhaps it's not out of the realm of our current theories of physics that one day, probably far into the distant future, the District will catch up with, say, such "fashion capitals" as Omaha, Neb., Tijuana, Mexico, and the South Pole, but that's going to take more than a dream. It'll take at least three wishes, some sort of ancient tribal voodoo dance, a trip or two to hell and back and a tuft of Norm Coleman's chest hair to make that happen.
Yet despite the challenges that may make FW just another "flimsy insert," as Gawker put it, I can't fully knock this effort. Stripping away the rather preposterous and delusional untruths spread in FW's PR blitz, there are some redeeming qualities here. For example, there's an advice column, written by one of the few true fashionistas in DC, Betsy of Fashion Is Spinach. Much of DC would be wise to heed her advice. Perhaps if more people did, I wouldn't have LOL'd so hard at Weymouth's lofty declarations about the very glamorous fashion capital that is Washington, DC.

But all yuks aside, it's just kind of nice that DC is paying attention to fashion at all, even if it is just an afterthought of a newspaper not particularly known for its Style section. Something is better than nothing, right? Unless, of course, we're talking about a tumor. That's something no one wants. But unlike our ever-expanding U.S. government, FW isn't a tumor. It's a welcome addition, in my opinion, to a very glamorous drab scene. Well, at least until it inevitably devolves into a gag-worthy personal diary for the Lily Pulitzer-sporting ladiez in Georgetown. Then it'll be a tumor, benign probably, but an unwanted intrusion nonetheless. Gods, I hope that doesn't happen. I suppose, only time will tell.

Here's to hoping FW proves me wrong! LET'S F*CKING DO THIS, DC!

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

mainstream media to dc nightlife: suck it


Sometimes I wonder if it's me and not this city that has the problem. I always thought I was a realist, but could I be a pessimist? Do I want things here to suck? Do I will them to suck? I mean, let's be honest, the success of this blog depends on things sucking here. So, is it me? Do I make them suck?

Of course not.

Luckily for me these uncharacteristic bouts of self-doubt tend to last no more than 10-15 minutes seconds because my incredibly retardulous observations are almost always reinforced. Mostly it's by readers of this blog, but sometimes it's by the mainstream media. Now, being one with the media and also not being retarded, I know not to automatically believe everything I read, however, if what I read backs up something I've already said then I really have no choice in the matter. Plus, vindication is so sweet.

Anydouche, to my Tasti D-Lite, renowned fashion mag W confirmed what I wrote several blog years ago when I declared there is no such thing as a DC hipster. I observed:

There has yet to be a day during which DC logic makes sense to me. And by "logic," I mean retardedness. Apparently, your dear author here, is a hipster. I have only one three-word response to people in DC who've not only referred to me as a hipster online, but also in real life WHERE THEY CAN SEE AND SPEAK TO ME:

1. Only
2. In
3. DC.

Now, thanks to an article in last month's W (you know, the one with Kate Hudson looking one slicked-back chignon away from being in a Robert Palmer video) , I'm more assured than ever that my thoughts -- at least in this one instance -- were actually not baseless. W took a look at DC's nightlife (LOL!) and discovered that the word "hipster" in DC has been so warped from its original meaning, that not only does it barely encompass my tight-pants-loving ass, but it now includes anyone who's not voting for John "F*cking" McCain in November. Yep, leave it to DC to politicize a benign, nearly meaningless word. Dorks. Anyway, after scoffing a bit at the Late Night Shots crowd, W wrote:

Despite the social dominance of Republicans for nearly a decade, a liberal network also exists. Oddly, it's referred to as the "hipster scene" -- in DC, the term is synonymous with non-Republicans, not artsy types in tight pants and Converse sneakers -- and predictably it's much more low-key.

Case closed. DC is full of jagbags (they're the new douchebags). That's a fact.

But before I dismiss class today, I'd like to turn your attention to another part of W's quite depressing exposé. That is, DC is so jagbaggy that the two sides of the same ballot, if you will (and you will), refuse to get along because of their views on the economy or taxes or whatever. This results in an unwelcoming, elitist, self-segregated "scene." W writes:

During the Clinton administration, some U Street spots were decidedly Democratic. Jamal Simmons, the political analyst, remembers one Bush twin entering Stetsons in 2001 -- prompting his friend, who also worked in the Clinton White House, to declare, "They can have the Congress, they can have the White House, but they can never take Stetsons."

...Even now, some Republicans say the President's dismal poll numbers have clipped their social wings. "There's a lot of animosity," says one White House staffer. "You just want to go out with people who are like you, so you don't end up debating."

Now, maybe it's just me (wait, I demonstrated above that it's not), but this all seems rather ridiculous. Close-minded Republicans and close-minded Democrats have A LOT in common, actually. For example, can't they all just talk about their Ann Taylor Loft outfits? Or maybe wax poetic about their cats or something? Compare BlackBerrys? See! There are tons of things to kibbitz about.

Hmm...so where does all this leave me? Let's just say I'm really glad I don't have any qualms about boozing solo. Just kidding! I do have qualms about boozing solo. What I meant to say is it's a good thing my friends and I don't have any qualms about our sole common interest being booze! Alcoholism brings people together like no other -ism I know.


Hey, remember when I declared, "Close-minded Republicans and close-minded Democrats have A LOT in common" and that they're really just "two sides of the same ballot"? Well, I hope you remember that not only because that was just 2-5 paragraphs ago, but because a third party has reinforced my theory again! And this time, my buttress isn't just a fashion magazine, but actual, real-life science! Staunch Democrats and Republicans really are two sides of the same ballot! They both disguise their mutual superficiality and willful blindness to understand the "other team" with different views of morality! Thank you science! I owe you one! But seriously, this is a really interesting talk (found via Clusterfck).


Tuesday, September 16, 2008

bear with me...(LOL!)

DC doesn't often please me. In fact, more often than not it makes me question the very essence of humanity. I ponder such questions as "WHY GOD WHY?!" and "SERIOUSLY, IS THIS WHAT IT'S COME TO?!" But then something comes along so great, so monumental, so fantastical that it makes me stop in my proverbial e-tracks and type in boldface, "F*CK YES! THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKIN' ABOUT, ARNOLD!" Of course then DC nearly always makes like Triumph, though, and comes along to poop on it. Asses.

Take for instance, this photo, which I jacked probably illegally from DCist.

Does that look like the work of a terrorist to you? DC thinks so!

How apropos, however, as yesterday I mentioned the ridiculousness of the Secret Service thinking a terrorist would waste his (or her! -- I'm equal opportunity over here at The Anti DC) time disguising an improvised explosive device in something as mundane as a pile of dirty laundry. I called it remedial, in fact.

So how's about disguising your IED as a giant stuffed bear?! Now that is some goddamn gold-star terrorism! Except, not really...at all. DCist pointed out that the image captured above is not unlike those of artiste Mark Jenkins. His sh*t is, in fact, pretty tight. And, SURPRISE, it's not explosive!

Sadly this should not be a surprise. OF COURSE this isn't a bomb. It's a giant stuffed hobo bear that's attempting to scavenge from a garbage can. It's wacky! It's wonderful! IT'S A LIFESIZE HOBO BEAR! Seriously, the laundry idea was more plausible than this... But does logic stop the city of DC, or any American city for that matter (DCist rightfully points toward Boston's infamous, yet hilarious, Aqua Teen Hunger Force debacle), from getting their metaphorical granny panties in a bunch? Hell-to-the-retardulous-no.

According to DCist and NBC4, residents around the area spotted the bear as early as seven in the morning. Police, however, didn't spring into action, as they're too busy yelling at me for jay-biking in an EMPTY F*CKING INTERSECTION, until 10 a.m. when they decided to shut down the Columbia Heights station. Then they stood around staring at it for a while trying to figure out if there was a person in the costume or if it was stuffed. Finally deeming it stuffed, the bomb squad came in around noon to chop the bear in half and concluded what everyone else had concluded at fricking 7 o'clock. It might be da bomb, but it's certainly not a bomb. I feel as sorry for that poor stuffed bear as I do for myself for cracking that last joke.

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, PEOPLE! A RANDOM, LIFESIZE STUFFED HOBO BEAR SHOULD BE THE SOURCE OF WHIMSICAL WONDER AND MIRTHFUL MERRIMENT, NOT A CAUSE FOR UNNECESSARY ALARM. It's sh*t like this that makes me thing the terrorists really have won. They've made our society so paranoid that we've sucked the fun out of everything...EVEN LIFESIZE STUFFED HOBO BEARS! For shame...

Photo and, well, all the facts stolen from DCist. Irrefutable opinion courtesy of The Anti DC. You're welcome.

Monday, September 15, 2008

because terrorists are dumb?

The city of Washington, DC, needs to calm down. I've said this before and last week this blog inadvertently proved to you just how far some people may go to demonstrate this. Now not only am I convinced this blog's e-mission is needed more than ever, but The Anti DC is ready to take on much bigger, more powerful entities, like the U.S. Secret Service.

Yep, despite the Secret Service being armed with high-powered scopes and sniper rifles, this blog's about to come at them with two giant middle e-fingers displayed clearly in the ether:

nllm mlln (It kind of works, right? I-66 thinks so.).

The reason I'm e-flicking off the Secret Service is because of this incident, written by Too Much Skunk In Your Trunk. Basically, this woman's bike almost got snuffed out by the Secret Service for looking "suspicious" and being locked about half-a-block from the White House:

apparently i parked it a little too close to the white house (about a half block away), and my little basket in the back was filled with dirty clothes, which understandably looked bomb-like. by the time i got back to my bike after the too-short tour, some security guard warned me that my bike was very suspicious-looking and because a bomb threat had been called into the white house (which i assume is a common occurrence), they were about to cut my lock and blow up my bike. [All lowercase was TMSIYT's choice, btw.]

What the mothereffing what?! While I have no intention of fact-checking this story to learn if it's actually true, I'm going to err on the side laziness and just believe what I've read -- The United States Secret Service saw a bike with some laundry on it, mistook it for an improvised explosive device (IED) and decided to blow it up. Seriously, in what world (besides DC) is that not retardulous? Here are my qualms:

1) Isn't there technology to "sniff" out IEDs now? Actually, I know there is. They have robots to do this.

2) Also, terrorists probably know the best way to terrorize America is to keep G.W. Bush in power. (ZING!)

3) It's a f*cking bike with some laundry shoved in the basket.

Now, I get how a bundle of dirty laundry could be used to disguise an IED, however, let's dip into the mind of an aspiring terrorist for a second. How amateur would it have been if that actually was a bomb? Check-minus, terrorist! How obvious!

Now, terrorists might not be the most sane of persons, at least as the word "sane" is defined in my very Western-World view, but they're also not the dumbest. They've done their research and I'm assuming they'd know not to just put a pipe bomb in a f*cking bike basket and cover it in dirty laundry. Terrorist school must teach them something, no? Or maybe not. I guess I wouldn't know since I'M NOT A TERRORIST (please take note of that, Department of Homeland Security).

Anyway, in the end, the Secret Service didn't blow up TMSIYT's bike because she came back just in time to claim it. However, let's assume for a moment that she didn't and they did blow it up. As those ridiculous commercials would say, "Now what?" Would they have left a note for TMSIYT telling her of their plans? Would they make it look like the bike was simply stolen? Would TMSIYT get reimbursed? If so, would it be out of the federal or District coffers? Or would TMSIYT simply be f*cked? Do we automatically give up the rights to our property if the Secret Service mistakes it for that of a terrorist?

There are so many unanswered questions that I vow never to get to the bottom of (I don't like legwork). And so, we shall assume the answers to the aforementioned queries are: Yes and it would read, Dear Suspected Terrorist, We have taken your bike and will blow it up in a controlled environment. Suck it, U.S. Secret Service; No, they'd make it look like it had never been there at all just to further f*ck with you; No and you'd be sent to Gitmo; What does it matter, you're in Gitmo; Yes, you'd simply have been f*cked (in Gitmo, remember?); Probably.

Anyway, watch your bikes!

Friday, September 12, 2008

shine on you crazy deer head!

There few things I like more than getting up in the morning knowing I have a job for which I can dress any damn way I please, especially during the summer months when Congress takes it's month-long vacation (because the 11 other months days it works during the year are just so dang strenuous...). Yes, the beauty of the telephone and Interbuttubez, allows writers to do their jobs in any attire. Draped in velvet? Why the eff not?! Wonderwoman underoos? If you really feel like it!

And while I've never sported legit underoos to the office, I did sport a semi-hookeriffic ensemble the other day.

Hookin' in the a.m.!

I'll give you a moment to recover from the blinding whiteness of my legs...

*You whistle and watch the moments tick by as you continue to see white spots in the shape of my legs as if a camera's flash just went off*

*Meanwhile, I Google "self-tanners"...*

And we're back. I recognize this outfit is a little ridiculous for work, perhaps even retardulous, and so I expect to get some sort of critical, but light-hearted comments from a couple of my coworkers. In this case, I got "little German boy in Lederhosen" and "why are you wearing hot pants?" It was all in good fun, till I cut them. Just kidding! No one was shanked.

I must add, though, I kind of want to shiv DC's heat index. After spending a number of days in lovely Las Vegas last week, I grew accustomed to dry heat. Sure it was hovering around 100 degrees (that's 40 degrees Celsius for you non-Amurricans), but it never felt as hot and sticky as it does here, even the other day when the thermometer hovered around 65 (18) when I got up. Effing humidity. Which is why I decided to mix my seasonal gear with my slightly Bavarian-inspired outfit the other day.

It's true, sweat still dripped down my proverbial balls (thank you Lil' Jon for that unforgettable, yet incredible apropos lyric) because of the humidity, but my buttocks was nice and air-conditioned as I rode my trusty bicycle, Baguette, up and down Connecticut Ave. that day, dodging the apparent plethora of blind drivers that seemed to be on the road.

But more important than the shorts, which, note to someone in my office, are definitely nowhere near as short as hot pants, is the T-shirt. I bought it recently in New York City at a store called Uniqlo (a.k.a. the Japanese Gap), which I've discussed before. The loose cut is kind of perfect for humid days and the design on the front is just plain tight.

And the deer's neck won't even turn green!

This shirt appeals to me on so many levels. First, I really enjoy venison (I'm from Minnesota, where roadkill is a seasonal staple). Second, I enjoy optical illusions, and this shirt does a find job with that. The detail in the "chain" is blog-worthy -- it's stitched in with gold thread -- and the "medallion" is gold-to-the-max screenprinting. Together, the whole thing almost looks real. Hmm...kinda like a modern version of Plato's allegory of the cave, no? A little? You know, without the shackles, fire, shadows and cave? Now do you see it? Whatever, I tried.

By the way, on a completely different note, besides Atomic Experiments for Boys, I'm also reading linguist Steven Pinker's latest work, The Stuff of Thought, which brings up Plato's allegory as a way to illustrate how we might understand the meanings of words. If you're interested in communication, language, writing, speaking, listening, human behavior, or anything of the sort and want a thought-provoking, witty read, I suggest either taking a trip to the library or jumping on Amazon.com to obtain a copy. Or, if you can wait another couple of weeks, you can borrow mine. It's both baffling and fascinating how little we know about how our minds work. Or well, perhaps, how little I know about how my mind works...

What does work, however, is the Rock & Roll Hotel, which is hosting a DC's own New Rock Church of Fire, a group that not only has christened itself with possibly the best name ever, but the band is also taking steps to carry on the tradition of the great Fugazi, one of the few reasons I heart DC, or at least the DC of yesteryear. Anyway, doors are at 9 p.m. tonight and it's $10 to get in, but there's probably $2 Sparks, so you can make up for the money you spend on a cab with giving you liver a workout. I'm the Richard Simmons of liver fitness.

Thursday, September 11, 2008

a real grudge match!

Putting aside the e-funnies of this morning and afternoon, I'd like to post something a little more serious this evening -- a true fight, if you will. Behold (image discovered via Clusterfck)!

To zoom in, click HERE!

Ah shucks. It ain't true? Dang. Think of how awesome this would be if it actually was real, especially that "Grudge Match" between Vova Putin and Hillary Clinton. Actually, scratch that. I'd rather see Putin in the main event. Wait, no. Putin vs. Putin would be ideal. Yeah. That's the stuff of legends! Move like a dictator, sting like a crazy bitch? Yes, please!

i challenge you to challenge me to not hate dc


I came across an interesting post yesterday on another blog while I was taking a respite from re-reading mine and impressing myself with my own genius over and over and over again (it's hard to tell if I'm joking, isn't it?). Anyway, the blog post, written by the dapper Restaurant Refugee complained about people who complain about Washington, DC. (Meta, right?) From what I understood, his basic premise went something like this: People who hate DC are ignorant of all the tight activities and cosmopolitan culture that the District has to offer and these assholes don't know what they're talking about so they should move. Um, OK.

Now maybe it's because I like healthy debate, or perhaps it's because I'm a self-proclaimed DC antagonist, but most likely it's because I just like making and ass out of myself being the center of attention, which is why I couldn't stop my fingers from typing vigorously to refute his theory.

Let's first explore RR's essay. Apparently he was out playing billiards with a crew of dudes who make bank. One of them, "James, a displaced New Yawker with a fancy law firm gig and the predictable attitude and intelligence of a Jets fan," decided to go off on how he hates specifically the women and dining choices in good ol' DC. In my opinion, if that's all he's complaining about, then, um, OK, let it ride.

But RR wasn't havin' it. In his mind he wished he had called his "friend" James a "khaki wearing carpet-bagger" and told him to move. In reality, though, RR said "something about [James] not knowing the restaurant scene at all and ensured that he never gets another invitation." Invitation to what, I have no idea, but if it's in DC, I get the feeling that James wouldn't give a sh*t. He hates DC, remember?!

Now, let's have a full disclosure moment: I've met RR in person once along with several other DC-area bloggers. My first impression was that he's a very nice guy, funny and, well, the man was wearing cuff links. What's there not to like? However, we differ on several very key levels, one of which is on our respective relationships with the city we both live in. Another is probably our bank accounts (mine's empty), but that's neither here nor there.

The point is, I disagree 100 percent with the underlying assumption accompanying this well written recount. Not everyone who doesn't adore DC is an ignorant asshole unwilling to give DC a fair shot. And unfortunately, several commenters on his blog, some of them fellow bloggers who I've met in person once or twice and whose company I've enjoyed (although I can't vouch for them feeling the same...), seemed to wholeheartedly agree with RR. A couple even added another twist-- not only are people who dislike DC ignorant assholes, but they're also somehow hankering to be "hip" by jumping on some invisible trendy bandwagon.

Dang, where to even start refuting that theory? Oh wait, this is easy, I'll just cut and paste what I already wrote in the comments section of RR's blog. I began with a breakdown of the Top 3 DC hater categories:

There is the “I hate myself, ergo I hate DC (and anywhere)” hater. Not cool. There is the “I’m used to such-and-such and hold that up as the gold standard for everywhere else” hater. Not cool. And then there are those of us who have lived here for a good while (comparatively to how long we’ve lived other places), who have done a lot of sh*t in this town and have come to the conclusion that it is rather lackluster. Sure, there are tons of museums. There are also tons of tourists. Sure, there is R’n'R Hotel. But is it really all that stellar that there’s *one* decent bar in this town? Sure, there’s Eastern Market, some decent restaurants and a nice park (to get raped in! ZING!). But is it worth sifting through the sea of backward doucheiness (and really, there is no more perfect way to generically describe so much of the population)? After a while it really tests one’s persistence. Luckily, I’m persistent. I also have such low expectations that if I see a pair of flat-front pants I f*cking write a blog about it. My opinion — DC is not that cool. Sorry. You hate me because I dislike where you (and I) live and have an opinion about it? Who’s really the jackass in this situation now?

And of course, me being the master debater (hee-hee) that I am, I continued:

Example: People think it’s "hip" to hate DC? Thanks for devaluing my opinion, which is different than yours by classifying it as a “hip” trend. My opinion is not a pair of skinny jeans. Classifying someone’s opinion as “hip” is uppity and demeaning and when uppity and demeaning isn’t done in a funny and entertaining manner it’s really annoying. I’ve talked to a wide variety of people and have found that DC (in general, probably not anyone on this forum) does not do well with differences of opinion. People shun reason for polemical arguments or just walk away in a huff. It’s quite entertaining actually, but can get old. Perhaps the partisanship is all due to the government, which is probably a root cause of why so much sh*t sucks here. Or maybe it’s a case of rampant close-mindedness. Or political correctness. Or fear of the other. Or a giant stick placed firmly up the ass.

Whatever. I have my forum where I’m free to hate all I want, which I hope I do with more hilarious observation and less bitter vitriol than I’m revealing here, so I’ll leave it at that. I just felt the need to stick up for the haters because not all of us are as uninformed as many, apparently, like to think.

Not bad, right? Maybe? Anyway, so far, only one person has counterpointed my counterpoint, saying that hating DC really is "hip" because there's more than one blog on that topic. There's also more than one person wearing goddamn Crocs and I'll be damned if that sh*t is considered "hip." Wow, look at that, I found another reason to hate DC -- the over- and wrongful usage of the word "hip." (See? It really is that easy...)

But again, this is all just my opinion, which means that, although I'd like to think my thoughts beget instant facts, I'm reasonable enough to know that (regrettably) that isn't true. What is true, however, is that I enjoy hearing the other side of the story. It's the only way I can learn. Perhaps if RR had simply offered up some suggestions about the dining scene or spoke up about the virtues of DC women instead of cutting his friend off, James would've changed his mind or at least gained the knowledge he needed to form a more complete judgment. Or maybe James is just too "hip" to care. After all, hating on DC is apparently trendy and just like a pair of high-waisted trouser jeans, he'll change his opinion when hating DC goes out of style. Yeah. That makes sense.

Anyway, when it comes down to it, I'd like to think that I don't blog blindly about sh*t in DC I find exceptionally messed up. Nor do I believe that I'm so close-minded that if I did come across something I enjoyed that I'd be too stupid to admit it. In fact, I've blogged about reasons to live several times before.

So, is there something I'm missing? While I enjoy commiserating with those who hold similar views to myself, I would very much enjoy hearing from those who have found some secret DC nooks and crannies that I'm apparently too ignorant to know about. Or, we can all stick to the standard format where I'll mock DC's inability to use a mirror and DC can collectively assume I'm a small-minded, unenlightened jackass. I'm fine with either, really.

And actually, allow me to take this one step further. I want DC adorers to challenge me. Tell me about some place, activity or aspect of DC you think I've misjudged or overlooked and I'll take that task on and blog about my experiences, good and, of course, bad. Bring it, good sirs and madams! I say, bring it!


Apparently, my snap judgments about a city are wrong and his snap judgments about me are right. Excellent logic! Of course I love that a whole blog post on someone else's blog is dedicated to me on the Internets (indeed, my e-persona's narcissism really does know no bounds!) , but I really do wish it was more humorous... Oh...wait. Writing humorously is so cliche...kind of like using the term "lowest hanging fruit," n'est-ce pas? But in all honesty, this did give me a chuckle as do most things in life. However, I didn't laugh as robustly as I usually do about a good ol' fashioned rape joke. Too bad everything can't be that funny.


Wednesday, September 10, 2008

shambles p.i.: the mysterious man belt edition

If you're an average-looking man in relatively good shape, you can become at least a somewhat attractive man by dressing well. (The same goes for women, as well, in my opinion.) That is, trade in your Dockers and mandals (or Ann Taylor Loft suit sets and Danskos, if you're a dishabille dame) for a nice pair of slim-cut pants and respectable footwear. I'm not saying you all need to dress like Lil' Lord Doucheington (or Lil' Lady of Toolshire?) to be attractive...wait...scratch that. The real Lil' Lord Doucheington and the mythical Lil' Lady of Toolshire probably aren't the best style icons. But what I'm saying is simple: You don't have to be a gay to pay attention to fashion on a runway.

It's true, if you dress like a tool, chances are you will be viewed as a tool and that is sh*t ain't tight...wait...scratch that. In DC, apparently tools are the bee's knees to at least 75 percent of the population, a statistic I just made up after several seconds of thoughtless analysis. However, that still leaves one-quarter of DC's residents having to look at you. Don't be cruel.

The reason I bring this all up is because 1) I'm extremely superficial and 2) a reader Shambles P.I.'d the following last week:

Let's be honest, that ass ain't bad. In fact, this man's ass appears to be top notch. I don't detect any hint of love handles at all! And although I have no information on the status of this guy's face, for the purposes of this post let's assume he's a not hideous. Hell, let's pretend he's Senator Norm F*cking Coleman of Minnesota, the sexiest member of Congress. (Hubba hubba, dontcha know!)

Oh man, I'm losing it. However, taking a quick gander at this guy's shirt and pants, I might even say that, although his ensemble is quite boring, it doesn't necessarily detract from his attractiveness, or at least his ass's attractiveness. Both items at least fit him, which is a far cry from several hundred DC tools I see in oversized polyester suits every day.

But given all that (and by referring to a man's clothes fitting him properly as "all that," I clearly just revealed how low my standards have sunk), this guy still manages to f*ck everything up. In the words of the reader, a man, who sent me this photo: "I just don't get the belt..."

And neither do I. I get the first belt. I like belts. Belts add a finishing touch to an outfit. But what the hell is with the second, canvas belt? It looks like it could be one of those pointless travel belts. Since I stared at this man's butt cheeks for several seconds minutes and didn't detect the outline of a wallet, I think I might -- unfortunately but not surprisingly -- be on the right track with the fannypack redux theory. If so, that's f*cking dumb.

But even more dumb is that despite the possible pouch, this man is definitely sporting the all-too-common cell-phone belt pack. Way to f*ck up your first, perfectly fine belt, sir. Clearly, this man is a mega tool. His poor ass.

But whaddya say, if Sarah Palin can "pray away the gay," can we "woosh away the douche" or "school away the tool?" I will run for political office if I have to.

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

the name game

I don't often delve into the topic of politics on this blog, partly because I like to keep my biases to myself, but mostly because I'm an idiot and have no idea what I'm talking about. (I still mistake Freddie Mac for Bernie Mac -- RIP -- and the name Fannie Mae just makes me think of delicious chocolates. Mmmm...) But with this whole Sarah Palin phenomenon going on, I cannot just idly sit back without putting in my two cents, which are apparently being borrowed from Asia and now under the stewardship of the U.S. government. I'm confused.

Anyway, what I want to comment on is this woman's [in]ability to lead. I mean, let's say McCain wins, then stops breathing. Palin would be in charge. I just don't know if I can trust her with that kind of power. And I'm not even talking about her "record" (or lack thereof), her attempts to "pray away the gay" or her racist tendencies ("Arctic Arab," seriously?). No, I'm talking about something much more telling -- what she named her kids: Piper, Willow, Bristol, Track and Trig. Clearly, there was an abuse of power there.

While I can accept (albeit not like) what she chose to name her daughters (Piper, Willow and Bristol -- it's nearly impossible to sex-differentiate here), I cannot accept the words she chose to call her sons. Can I really trust her to be one old man away from the presidency? Allow me to break it down:


Poor kid. Not only is the name Track just stupid...track and field, track radar, track marks...but imagine it being said with Palin's annoying, nasal Fargoesque accent: "Traaaaaaaaaack, do your homework!" "Traaaaaaaaaack, hand me my rifle!" "Traaaaaaaaaack, watch mama club a baby seal!" (Oh, wait, only Arctic Arabs are allowed to do that.) And just when you think it can't get worse...


Trigga what?! Poor boy. He has it way worse than big brother Track. Not only does he have Down Syndrome, but his mom went ahead and named him Trig, which I'm assuming, is short for trigger -- a device Palin is all too familiar with (anyone wanna shoot a wolf...from a helicopter?!). It's also the device attached to the literal and metaphorical gun that America's post-WWII foreign policy decisions have aimed at our own proverbial feet. Seriously, how f*cking embarrassing would it be for America to condone the "Republican" Party by electing McCain and Palin after the objective debacle of the last eight years? (I put "Repubican" in quotes, because what the party has morphed into today pretty much stands in exact opposition to the principles upon which it was founded. Can I get a witness, crazy religious right? Idiots. Don't blame me; Jesus told me to type that.)

And sure, all that e-jabbering I just spewed about foreign policy or whatever is a bit important, but I'm pleading with America to look at this through a longer-range lens. The kid who's currently growing in the womb of Palin's kid is probably going to be named Tool if it's a boy. And if we're not collectively smart enough to learn from our mistakes now, Tool will probably be president in 40 years. That is, if America hasn't flushed itself down the inexhaustable goblet by then. Seriously, Tool '48? We're f*cked.

But let's not end on that note. Can we all take another look at the photo of McCain and Obama posted above courtesy of a banner ad from NYtimes.com? Is it just me, or does it look like McCain and Obama are about to have their first kiss. Nervous Anticipation '08! Awww...

By the way, my disdain for the McCain-Palin ticket should not be read as an endorsement of the Obama-Biden ticket. Bob Barr '08, perhaps? Cynthia McKinney '08, maybe? Frank Moore '08, possibly definitely? Or how's about Charles Jay, Chuck Baldwin, Frank McEnulty, Gloria La Riva, Gene Admondson, Brian Moore, Jackson Kirk Grimes, Alan Keyes, Ralph Nader or Kelcey Wilson? Wha?! We have more than two choices?!?!?!? Eh...not really. Anyway, I will never tell. Although if you've read this blog for any period of days, you can probably guess with a fair amount of accuracy my candidate of choice. I'm pretty transparent. And I love freedom.

Monday, September 8, 2008

inevitable questions

If you've managed to escape from this big, retarded village called Washington, DC, even for just a weekend, it's inevitable that you'll face this most confounding question: "What's it like to live in DC?"

There are several different ways to answer that question. For instance, you can qualify the "DC experience" using adjectives like "horrendous," "soul-sucking," "douchey," and if you're insane, "great." However, if you answer in the first three ways, be prepared to face an additional inevitable follow-up query: "Well, then why do you live there?" Now, unless you hate yourself, you will most likely answer "work," the only sensible answer, which will then invite your unwanted interviewer to ask you yet a third inevitable question: "What do you do?" Yawn. Unless your occupation is ice road trucker, having a conversation that entails the phrase, "What do you do?"* within the first five sentences usually ends in at least one party (again, if one or both of you are not ice road truckers) falling into a near-comatose state. For that reason, I cannot condone a 100 percent truthful answer to "What's it like to live in DC?"

At the same time, however, I can't condone a 100 percent false answer, such as "great," "awesome," or the most cringe-worthy of responses, "amazing."** I myself have never done this because I save lying to people's faces for important matters (i.e., "No, I didn't drink the whole bottle," "I don't know how the entire first season of Gossip Girl ended up on my iPod," "I wasn't fired, I quit," "What? No, I don' t have a gambling problem.). However, if you do decide to lie in the hopes of coming off as less of a miserable bitch than you I actually are am, be prepared to then answer the question, "Why's it so great?" To be believable and quickly get the hell out of this uncomfortable conversation, I suggest you go with the following: "It's socially awkward there and I'm socially awkward, so I get along swimmingly." Or, you can always just pretend you're getting a very important phone call (after all, you're from DC, douche!) and bail.

However, while running away from your problems works the majority of the time, it doesn't solve everything. The world isn't perfect. *sigh* There is one catch-all response, though, that can get you out of the sourest of proverbial pickles, including questions about life in DC: "It is what it is."

This answer is neither too depressing, nor unbelievably optimistic. It doesn't invite further inquiry, nor will it alienate your conversation partner (unless that's your goal -- it's usually mine). If you want to end the conversation, don't say anything else. If you want to continue it, "It is what it is" offers the perfect segue for you to change subjects. Observe, an actual conversation I had in Las Vegas last week:

"How do you like living in DC?"

"It is what it is. Say, what's the haps with the craps?"

"Shake 'em up, shake 'em up, shake 'em up, shake 'em. Roll 'em in a circle of homies and watch me break 'em. With the seven, seven-eleven, seven-eleven. Seven even back do' Little Joe. I picked up the cash flow."

OK, so that last bit of the conversation may have been between me and Ice Cube in my mind, but the first half actually happened. Not only did I successfully deter any further questions about DC, my job and several other subjects only the douchiest of douches would want to talk about while in Las Vegas, but "It is what it is" allowed me to then find out that the craps tables in the hotel I was staying at were three feet longer than normal. That casino tried to hustle me! Asses.

So I guess in a way, I'm thankful for that most annoying of inevitable questions, "How do you like DC?" Had I lived in Chicago or some other town where I'd freely be able to state my opinion without sounding like a bitter jaded jackass (although, that is kind of a key element of my personality), I might not have gleaned that valuable craps tidbit. And since I suffered for that betting information, and subsequently just made you suffer through reading how I suffered, I'll go ahead and pay this tip forward for the other compulsive gamblers in the e-house (I mean, "What? No, I don't have a gambling problem.") -- If you ever find yourself at the JW Marriott Spa and Resort, steer clear of the epic 15-foot-long tables. That sh*t is for suckers, or compulsive gamblers like myself who just had to play anyway (I mean, "What? No, I don't have a gambling problem.") Don't judge me!

*Incidentally, "What do you do?" is the most popular conversation starter in DC. Coincidence? No. Douchey? Yes.

**If you're not lying then you're a douche. What do you do?