magic in the northeast quadrant

DC is a lot bigger than I think many of us realize, or at least I realize. If you venture outside of the jagbag-quadrilateral that is the Northwest section of DC, there are several locales in Washington that fly under the proverbial douche-dar. While some of these spots, including the Waterfront, H Street and even Anacostia are now getting more attention, there's still a vast amount of space that several thousand have probably never even thought to explore. And, rather shamefully, I was one of those several thousand until last Saturday when my good friend Juice asked if I wanted to head out to the flagship Goodwill store located at 2200 South Dakota Avenue, NE.

Where the f*ck is that, you ask? Only 2.3 miles from DC's only Denny's, located at 4445 Benning Road, NE! Yes, e-friends, since we had access to a motorized vehicle, we decided to make a day out of exploring the Northeast quadrant, including a rather, um, lovely brunch at Denny's, which is just a shade classier than Hardees. And so, Juice and I collected the usual suspects, including The Cap'n, Canada and The Law and we drove. And drove. And drove some more. And while the Denny's is only 2.6 miles from where we began our journey in Adams Morgan, thanks to my keen sense of direction and knowledge of DC's retardulous layout, we at least trebled that distance. I'd venture to guess that, guided by the navigation system in my mind, we probably could've gone to Hawaii (save for that silly little Pacific Ocean). Yaaayyy!

But finally, after much motorized ado, we arrived at Denny's maybe an hour later, stomach's growling. However, when I tried to order the Lumberjack Slam, the waitress gave me a warning. Looking at my spindly, quite sickly looking arms, she noted, "Um, that's a big breakfast..." She was right, so I ended up downsizing to a Choose-Your-Own-Slam, which still was pretty frickin' big with eggs, pancakes, bacon and hashbrowns. And because I'm just that excellent of a journalist, I don't really remember what everyone else ordered except for The Cap'n, who pleased everyone when he proclaimed his decision to get the Moons Over My-Hammy, which, apparently, is quite delicious. Of course, as it goes after every oversized meal one consumes at an American chain restaurant, we all felt queasy upon paying the check. Sweet. Yet not being a group to let a little bit of vomit stop us from partaking in a rainy-day Northeast Odyssey, we continued onward to the Goodwill, hoping to outfit ourselves in some hot vintage sh*t. Or at least some lukewarm vintage sh*t, which still would've been warmer than my breakfast. Sorry Denny's...

Anybarf, sadly, only two-fifths of us, including myself, were able to find some legitimate hot vintage sh*t at the Goodwill. While the Cap'n scooped up a shirt, I wrangled up the best deal of the day, which made up for three-fifths of our hungover stunningly good-looking crew leaving empty-handed. I found a vintage fur and leather long coat, priced-to-sell at $26. I repeat, TWENTY-SIX DOLLARS. Wait, let me just reiterate and emphasize here -- TWENTY SIX F*CKING DOLLARS! This wasn't just the deal of the day; this was the deal of a lifetime. Check it:

I'm more P-I-M-P than Mr. Peanut.

Any children I may ever have are going to fight over this in my will. No, but seriously. This sh*t is tight. The front is cool, but the back is even better. Please notice the pattern, which so appropriately points toward my ass:

Seriously, this coat beats a monocle and a top hat -- suck on that Mr. Peanut!

I admit, however, I wasn't the first one to spot this lovely concoction of leather and dead something-or-other. That was Juice. However, she ultimately decided against it and we knew it was perfect for me when I tried it on and The Law noted, "You look more and more homeless with each passing day." Sold! I mean, who doesn't love hobos? They're usually quirky and entertaining. And so I went to the register, doled out my (allow me to just repeat it one last time) TWENTY-SIX INCREASING WORTHLESS U.S. AMERICAN DOLLARS and walked out the door, still feeling quite vomitous from that Denny's, but with one "Donné Original" in hand. Now, if only the weather would drop 20 more degrees...

I love you, Donné.

Oh, and Happy Halloween and stuff.

shambles p.i. -- the hickburger edition

I don't know quite how it turned into hamburger week here at The Anti DC, but I guess when it rains, it pours, or more appropriately, when it grills, it chars, which explains why, on the heels of the delicious shazzambles at Z Burger yesterday, my very own mother sent me this snapshot of some small-town burger shambles this morning.

Mmm...delicious "new little hickburgers."

I'm trusting the hickburgers at this Hayes, Va., Hardees are even tastier than their thickburgers. I bet they're covered with Velveeta, bean dip and Hidden Valley Ranch. If that sounds gnarly to you, then you only have your functional tastebuds to blame. If that sounds tasty to you, then I feel bad for you.

But vomit-inducing meaty treats aside, it's important to recognize where this sign was born. Hayes is a tiny speck of a town near Norfolk that features a movie theater, a 7-11 and, for some reason, several hundred tattoo parlors. Clearly, it's a classy place. But it's made even classier after recognizing that the hottest spot in town is definitely this Hardees, which also happens to be the fanciest restaurant within a 20 mile radius. But then again, how could it not be the best when it serves up cheese-product smothered hickburgers?

However, as much as I'd like to pretend there is such a thing as a "hickburger," I fear much like the chimerical "Shazam!" of Z Burger, this is just the work of the high school senior who manages this Hardees. While some may call him a simple prankster, I like to think of this mythical manager as a visionary. He's goin' places! At least on this blog.

Or maybe it was the wind. Eh.

P.S. -- Veering away from hamburgers, but sticking to stuff that deserves the label "Shazam," does anyone know where one can obtain a Captain's yacht hat by tomorrow at 3 p.m.? Um, if so, please send me an E-mail. Thanks!

shazzambles!

As it turns out, I guess I do believe in God, since the rumor was true -- Z Burger, indeed, doled out free delicious hamburgers today and I got a piece (uh, literally) of that action. Yet while Z Burger wasn't exactly the Promised Land, it was still pretty damn good. That is, despite the fact that I didn't walk into a room full of "Shazam!"-shouting patrons swimming around in burgers Uncle Scrooge style, I still liked it. Even with this Stalin-approved line.


But I wasn't that annoyed. The line just let me perfect how I would eventually drop the fricative-friendly password to the cashier. However, when I finally made it to the front of the line and dropped my sweet one-liner, the cashier just looked at me like I was legitimately retarded.

"I'll have the SHHHHHHHHHHAZAM!" I said.

"You mean a cheeseburger?" the cashier asked.

"Um. OK," I said shamefully, before muttering in one last ditch effort, "The shazam..."

But lack of any need-to-know secret password aside, I still enjoyed that burger, which will always be known as the most delicious, and, well, only "shazam" I ever ordered. I mean, look at it! It looks delicious, basking ever-so-peacefully in the autumnal afternoon sunshine.


But even better than this delicious shazam was the scrumptious milkshake I ordered to fatten myself up even more. Out of the 50 flavors Z Burger offers, I found the Chocolate Covered Banana flavor the most enticing.


My boss and coworker ordered the fries and onion rings, which, naturally, I macked on non-gratis I mean gratis (damn vocabulary...) like a the secret bum that I am and, unsurprisingly, those, too, were pretty good. It was like deep-fried freedom in a bag.


And then I took the longest bike ride home ever. But it was worth it.

shazam!

It's times like this that I really start believing in God. Apparently, some new hamburger place called Z Burger is giving out free burgers just for saying "Shazam!" It's the new "Amen!" Can I get a witness?!

On the other hand, mutes and those who've lost their voices today might as well be in hell, because it seems they're out of luck without their larynx capabilities. Unless, of course, Z Burger is respectful of disabilities and accepts a "Shazam!" scrawled out on a napkin just as readily as its verbal version. Hmm. This sounds like a Pulitzer prize winning investigative piece to me!

And luckily, I'm on it, as my boss just told the office he wants us all to pile into his Volvo, clown-car style, and jump on this deal this afternoon. If this actually happens, you can bet your Shazzasses! that I will photodocument this trip and blog the hell out of it. Actually, more apropos, I'll blog the delicious hamburger heaven out of it. So please stay tuned!

In the meantime, I invite you to kill some time in e-places other than this one with some or all of these tight Interweb links. And since I like what I did last week with popping in a bit of Russian for the numbering, let's relive that...but auf Deutch! Achtuny, fertig, los!

Eine! While I was choosing to call everyone a racist yesterday (zing!), some actual blog-worthy sh*t went down. Bloggers who didn't call everyone a racist yesterday offered some logical reactions here and here to the announcment that Metro would soon start conducting random, pointless and illogical bag checks on trains. Once again, I am ever-so-thankful to modern-day bicycle pioneers Pierre and Ernest Michaux, whose invention allows me to continue to see the Metro in hell (opposed to delicious hamburger heaven).

Zwei! Hat tip to my friend Peter for finding the Australian Mystery. His name is Alex Coulson and he can neither write nor form a thought that doesn't deserve inconspicuous ridicule! LOL! Excerpt: "Find a cool clothing store in a trendy (not too expensive) part of town and buy some interesting and captivating items. A suave velvet jacket, bracelets, necklaces, badges (which you can literally attach to any item of clothing)." Literally?! Superb! But what Mr. Coulson forgets to add is that when you literally pin a "badge" on yourself, you will metaphorically broadcast to the world how damn douchey you are. Good luck with the ladies, killer! But I'd let that "suave velvet jacket" speak for itself.

Drei! Speaking of ladykilling, meet Joro da Silva, international man of awesome. Willst de mit mir schlafen? he asks. He's also wondering, "Vai tu gribeetu ar mani parguleet?" and, of course, "Veux tu coucher avec moi?" Thanks to...damn! Alex Coulson needs to click on that to get schooled!

Vier! From (failed) pick-up artists to "The Term Paper Artist." Excerpt: "The secret to the gig is to amuse yourself. ... In business papers, I'd often cite Marxist sources. When given an open topic assignment on ethics, I'd write on the ethics of buying term papers, and even include the broker's Web site as a source. My own novels and short stories were the topic of many papers -- several [clients] rate me as their favorite author and they've never even read me, or anyone else. Whenever papers needed to refer to a client's own life experiences, I'd give the student various sexual hang-ups." Some say that business sounds shady, I think it sounds like party time!

Fünf! I dig animation/live action melds, which is why I believe Who Framed Roger Rabbit is the greatest damn movie of all time. But the below video kind of disturbed me. Can bike messengers, even animated ones, really see up to 15 seconds in the future?



Fünf continued! Thank God (who I will either come to terms with or not depending on whether I get a free delicious hamburger later), for Bike Snob NYC, whose daily commentary on life and bikes continues to amuse me. An excerpt from his take on the video and the stated clairvoyance of bike messengers:

"If you've worked either as a messenger or in an office in New York City, you know that messengers do not walk right into people's offices to deliver envelopes. Rather, they leave them in messenger centers or with receptionists. As such, when the messenger in this video walked right into someone's office I feared the door was going to shut and the white-collar worker's "dependence upon the blood and sweat of the bicycle messenger" was going to take a shockingly homoerotic turn. I was also puzzled by the narrator's assertion that messengers "can see up to 15 seconds into the future." This is a bizarre claim. I can only assume he means that they can anticipate traffic and pedestrian patterns, but if so then 15 seconds is an eternity. You'd also think that this clairvoyance would have prevented the male prostitute from getting doored."

Aww Shazam! He called that hooker out!

how's that racism workin' out for you?

For a town that is supposed to be so politically correct, it sure is strange that everybody seems to be a racist. The Law and I found this out the other night while walking from Adams Morgan to U Street to go send off our friend, The Cap'n, who's being shipped off to Iraq next month.

And because we're such good friends, in honor of The Cap'n, The Law busted out one of two T-shirts we had made a few years back for The Cap'n's birthday. Unfortunately, I don't have any digitized photos of these T-shirts, but it's fairly easy to describe: Imagine the I ♥ NY logo, but replace the "NY" with a black-and-white photo of Bryant Gumbel, who happens to be The Cap'n's doppelgänger. These shirts are tight. Sadly, we only had the one. I suspect the other, which had previously been in my possession, remains in a dank corner of a certain basement in Cambridge, Mass., but that is neither here nor there. Moving on...

So, The Law popped on the one remaining I ♥ Bryant Gumbel shirt and we walked out the door. Seconds later we hear:

White dude on the street: "Woo! I like Obama too!"

We paused before swigging out of the classy PBR cans we took along for the road and wondered what spurred him to bestow upon us his unsolicited political persuasions. Brushing it off as just another example of DC tooldom, we continued on our way. Until...

African-American woman from a car window: "All right! Go Obama!"

Okaaay...but then...

Three more hipster-y white dudes across the street: "I'm voting Obama, too! Yeah!"

After the third incident (we're quick like that), we began to think this wasn't just a simple case of DC political obsession. That is, these people weren't giving us metaphorical fist bumps for no reason whatsoever.

"Whoa. I think it's my shirt!" said The Law.

"But that's Bryant Gumbel on your shirt!" I said. "What does Bryant Gumbel have to do with Barack Obama?"

We paused for a second, before our other friend, Juice (I know -- these nicknames keep getting perpetually more awesome), noted, "It doesn't make sense. It's not like all black people look the same."

And then it dawned on me. "Well, I guess everyone in DC is a racist."

(I labeled them so all of DC's racists could tell them apart.)

Seriously, unless you're looking solely from the neck down, the above side-by-side shots of Gumbel and Obama prove these men look very little alike. I guess they're both smiling...

But honestly, if I -- a ghostly pale Minnesotan with Slavic roots -- can point out the differences between Gumbel's features and Obama's, I have a hard time accepting that people in DC -- white, black and pseudo-hipster alike -- cannot.

However, let us not err toward the other extreme. The above observation is not to say no African Americans resemble each other, as the homage on The Law's T-shirt was supposed to demonstrate. Just as I, a 29-year-old white woman, can resemble an 8-year-old white gay boy named Shannon, The Cap'n, a 28-year-old black West Point grad (who's lookin' for his soulmate, ladies!) can certainly resemble a 60-year-old black sportscaster named Bryant Gumbel.

The resemblance is truly quite uncanny.

Special e-note to The Cap'n: We will miss you, your Gumbel visage and your keen one-liners. I'll be checking my mailbox daily for cards featuring pop-up unicorns made by your underlings. Hoo-ah! (And of course, from all your friends and that one guy who said he'd die for you at Local 16 the other night, muwah!)

decidedly crazy

DC is chock full of crazy sons of bitches. And I'm not talking about bumbling hobo, "Where-are-your-pants?" and "Who let you out of the home?" crazy. No, I'm talking about put-together, secret psychopath serial killer crazy. On the outside these people look completely normal, even ordinary. But then they open their mouths. And that's when you know. These people will say things only clearly mentally unstable people would ever say.

Take, for instance, the other night. My friend, The Cap'n, rolled into town to visit friends and celebrate being shipped off to Iraq. Whoops! Did I type celebrate? I meant he came to visit friends and commiserate with them through heavy drinking because he was being shipped off to Iraq. Clearly, it made the perfect premise for a party...

The only problem was this party took place at Local 16, a spot on U Street that would be completely awesome (seriously, their patio is tight) if a portion of its clientele wasn't so stealthily nuts...and, quite frankly, tasteless...and blind...and probably functionally retarded.

I say this not because some non-descript jagbags tried to shiv me, The Cap'n or anyone else with a sharpened spork or anything, but because some non-descript jagbags f*cked up the outfit I helped create for my and The Cap'n's good friend, Canada, who you may remember from blogs past. Seriously, Canada was lookin' good...


And despite not resembling Putin with Flock of Seagulls hair in real life, Canada was working it out, that is, until some stupid, insane girls who looked, well, stupid and insane (there is such a thing as too many sequins...) harangued him for 30 minutes mocking his -- and, by association, my -- sartorial sensibilities. Come to think of it, it was probably just a ridiculous ploy to get him to pop his shirt off. Although, if it was, I have a hard time believing he wouldn't oblige. After all, like Dennis Reynolds of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia fame, Canada also believes there is nary a problem that popping his shirt off cannot solve. He's wonderfully entertaining. (And he's single, ladies!)

But back to the matter at hand. Now, truly, what on douche-free Earth is there to mock about Canada? Well, not so much about Canada as just his outfit (zing!). That ensemble is objectively good. In fact, it's more than good. That. Sh*t. Is. Tight. And if I hadn't been too busy trying to start a rave with the LED light attached to my bike-lock key on Local 16's pseudo-dancefloor and had actually heard these she-'chebags mocking dear Canada just for lookin' fine as hell (or, perhaps, simply wearing clothing on his upper body), I'd have been forced to go ahead and Chuck Norris-style roundhouse kick them in their collective teeth. Or at least ask them why they were being such bitches.

Now, I understand that accusing others of being bitches for mocking someone's outfit may sound is definitional of hypocritical coming from one who "Shambles P.I.'s" this city like it's her job, but trust me (and the craftsmanship of Hugo Boss) -- if you'd seen that jacket Canada's wearing in person, you'd have also been forced to Chuck Norris roundhouse kick these bitches in the teeth for mocking it. Seriously, that jacket is battery-and-assault-charge worthy and you're batsh*t insane if you don't agree with me. End of story.

But speaking of batsh*t insane (that wordsmithing will become totally awesome in exactly 30 words), remember my mentioning of "bumbling hobo, 'Where-are-your-pants?' and 'Who-let-you-out-of-the-home?' crazy?" Well, um, I don't know quite how to explain this, but...


I swear to you -- I was wearing pants! Just really short pants. And thankfully, you can even sorta see them in this sweet photo of me metaphorically roundhouse kicking that ball in its proverbial teeth as if it just insulted my sweatervest. Kind of. Moreover, my doorman let me out of my home, which I suppose by default, excludes me from the hobo category. But, yowza, I looked effing nuts showing up to bat in this get-up. In all fairness, though, I had no idea I would end up in the bowels of Arlington at the batting cages yesterday. In fact, I had no idea I would end up in the bowels of Arlington at the batting cages ever, but, then again, I also never thought I'd see the day when a jacket, a sweatervest, a tie and a button-down would be considered ocularly offensive to wear out on a Saturday night, especially in DC, the magical fairyland of the button-down. But mein Gott, was I wrong. This town is truly a sick and twisted beast that I will never understand.

On the other hand, the only words said about my objectively wacky batting cage ensemble were, "You're pretty good, despite those shoes," by an old man with an epic mustache. Although, I suppose to talk sh*t to the crazy-looking chic seemingly without pants, who just picked up a bat and started wildly swinging, one would need to be even more certifiably nuts than the crazy-looking chic seemingly without pants, who just picked up a bat and started wildly swinging. Fortunately for all involved, not everyone's as insane as those tasteless -- and clearly near-sighted -- bitches at Local 16.

I kid, though. I'd never go classic mafia on anyone's ass with a baseball bat, no matter how offensively idiotic a person is. I only hit balls. And, for once, any double entendre is not intended.

i'm a dude?

I'm pretty sure had I not chosen to plaster my name and visage all over this epicenter of all things retardulous on the Interbuttz, most of you would think an 8-year-old gay boy named Shannon with a penchant for fabulous unicorns was the author of this blog. While that may be the situation in a world more perfect than the one in which we reside, last time I checked I wasn't a dude. However, to my inner 8-year-old gay boy surprise, some circles apparently still assume I'm a man.

But surprise is the wrong word, seeing as this "circle" I type of is the WaPo-owned Express, which mistook me for a massive tool earlier this month. Express is kind of e-notorious for misquoting or generally f*cking up their Blog Log section -- a feature in which Express editors supposedly highlight the best of local blogs each day. How mine gets included in there from time-to-time is baffling, and a bit embarrassing for the city of Washington, DC, I might add.

Anylastlaughs, what I'm circuitously getting at here pertains to this morning's edition of Blog Log, and particularly Blog Log's words about my e-ramblings of yesterday:

"Not only is the weather suitable for wearing shorts (with properly mixed seasonal attire, of course), but it's also near-perfect for bicycling." Theantidc.blogspot.com figured out something he likes about D.C., adding, "My lungs can intake greater amounts of oxygen than they did in August."

That'd be all fine and retarded, had I not included a giant photo of myself in said shorts as the centerpiece of that post. Or perhaps I just look like a dude? Or maybe it was a typo.

Regardless, it's a ridiculous error and whoever this "Clinton Yates" is who writes these entries for Express needs to learn to read because, besides mistaking me for a dude, Ms. oops, Mr. Yates also put words within quotation marks that certainly weren't my own.

Firstly, I called the weather "damn near-perfect" for bicycling, not simply "near-perfect." Although nuanced that difference is, it adds a certain staccato to the sentence that drives my point home, dammit.

Secondly, I never e-uttered the sentence, "My lungs can intake greater amounts of oxygen than they did in August," as the Express would lead any literate person to believe. While I did type several of those words in my post, I didn't use them in such a boring, unimaginative, nondescript, all-around remedial way. What I did say was, "Either my lungs can intake and process greater amounts of oxygen significantly more efficiently than they did in August, or it's just much easier to engage in physical activity when the weather isn't welding your sweet, shorts-adorned ass to a vintage bike seat."

To me, those sentences, are not only COMPLETELY DIFFERENT in tone, but in idea, as well. Express makes it sound like I'm making some sort of magical biological claim that my lungs somehow accept more oxygen in October than they did in August. For those of us who cannot only read but can also process complex sentences, what I was getting at was quite simple -- "Cooler weather makes for a more pleasant bicycling experience." Apparently, fifth-grade-level irony combined with a routine "either/or" sentence construction is too much for Yates to process...

But even if Express' staff is mostly composed of illiterate idiots, and by all accounts it certainly seems that way, the least the higher-ups could do is make sure to hire people who have the ability to recognize letters as simple shapes. That way, when deciding to use quotation marks or not, Blog Log editors can use the rules of contrast and compare to decipher whether a quote is accurate:

"My lungs can intake greater amounts of oxygen than they did in August."

"Either my lungs can intake and process greater amounts of oxygen significantly more efficiently than they did in August, or it's just much easier to engage in physical activity when the weather isn't welding your sweet, shorts-adorned ass to a vintage bike seat."

You know what? I take that whole contrast/compare rule back. One need only have a vague sense of sight to see that something is afoot here.

Seriously, Express, let's bone up on our journalistic integrity, shall we? DON'T USE QUOTATION MARKS AROUND A SENTENCE UNLESS -- brace yourself for a revelation here, Yates -- YOU'RE ACTUALLY QUOTING SOMEONE. For the love of vocab, it's really not that difficult.

Hell's bells.

And while I'd love to remain legitimately angry at getting free press, my ego doesn't allow it. So, thanks, Express...I guess.

But I can remain legitimately revolted by the way said free press is given. And perhaps it's because I use the ethics of journalism every day in my non e-life why such unnecessary f*ck-ups get me so riled up, however, more so, I think these repeated blunders irk me so because I expect more from a publication that has one of the remaining major players in newspapering (this word exists in the dictionary in my mind) behind it, The Washington Post. If this company can't get a simple quotation in a silly blog correct, how am I to trust it reports on anything else correctly? Is it truly time to bring in the monkeys on typewriters?

I kind of hope so. That is adorable!

lost an arm, found a gun

You know what I like about DC? The weather. I'm sure there's a few other things I can stand around here, but unlike the weather, those things (museums and...and...hmm...I'm drawing a blank here...) don't enable an outdoor atmosphere in which I am allowed to wear shorts deep into the month of October. The Midwest never let me do this. Or Russia. Or the Northeast. The weather beneath the Mason-Dixon line though? Perfect.

And not only is the weather (well, until today) suitable for shorts-wearin' (with properly mixed seasonal attire, of course), but it's also damn near-perfect for bicycling. Either my lungs can intake and process greater amounts of oxygen significantly more efficiently than they did in August, or it's just much easier to engage in physical activity when the weather isn't welding your sweet, shorts-adorned ass to a vintage bike seat.

To make a long story shortsss (HIYO!), I'm like, "this [weather] is smokin' balls tonight!" I love it.

I wasn't joking. I'm effing giddy.

In fact, this weather is smoking so many balls that it's goaded my zygomaticus, orbicularis oculi, levator labii superioris, and several other facial muscles into a big, dopey -- dare I say, legitimate -- grin, opposed to my usual patented smirk of smug disdain.

Or maybe it's the two-dimensional, transparent objects scattered around me that are making me giddy. See, along with autumnal temperatures, I also love booze, toilet paper, radioactive warning signs and the fact that my mental age is apparently 14, which allows me to still find things like booze, toilet paper and radioactive warning signs amusing. Thank you Photobucket for allowing me to express my inner, immature badass, albeit a badass who just visited Chernobyl, has a substance abuse problem and likes spicy foods (gross). But seriously, I look f*cking cool.

And by "f*cking cool," I clearly mean I look like I'm missing an arm. Honestly, I have no idea where my left arm disappeared to in this photo. I'm assuming it's behind my back. Doing what? I don't know, but I'm 100 percent 50/50 that my arm didn't just fall off and reattach itself between the time I took that photo and now, especially since I just used the digits on my left hand to type out the letters "e" "t" "r" and "s" in the word "letters." See?! I did it again! But I suppose, stranger things (may) have happened...

Speaking of strange, I also look like I suddenly have a pretty bad case of scoliosis in this photo. (Dammit! Who took this?!) Oops! I mean a pretty badass case, of course. That's right, because spine alignment issues, much like missing appendages, are badass. (Just go with it.)

Well, if nothing else, at least I'm wielding a sweet firearm. OK, a two-dimensional e-firearm, but admit it -- I had you fooled for a second, right? No? God, I'm retarded.

Outfit details: Sweater -- Kenneth Cole; Shorts -- DIY vintage cut-offs; Boots -- Steven by Steve Madden; Bag -- Pietro Alessandro. And to be clear, for the sake of my own ego, those are earphones I'm wearing and not a Bluetooth.

because i'm hustling...

I'm too busy trying to pay my bills to force my unqualified opinion on you regarding the utter stupidity of this $54 million pair of pants. Likewise, I'm also too busy wondering about C₆H₂(NO₂)₃CH₃ to guess why the explosives that used to be sherpa'd down Connecticut Avenue are now rolling down 16th Street every morning. Lastly, I'm too busy being creeped out to ponder why a fellow cyclist passed me the other day on Mt. Pleasant Street holding a camera over his shoulder, snapping pictures of the people behind him. A little strange...

In lieu of all that, here's a little mid-week regurgitation of sh*t on the Interweb that I found to be tight, bizarre or tight and bizarre. And because English bores me sometimes, давай пo-pyccкий! (At least for the numbering...)

Один! Washingtonian magazine always knows how to make me feel better. Apparently, I'm not the only one struggling to find content! Oh DC...

Два! This might be the best resignation letter ever. All it's missing is a Xerox copy of his middle finger. (I'm a tad bit in love...)

Три! Had I been paying more attention to the person's puke I stepped in last weekend in Baltimore, I'd have sold my boots on eBay. Bitches are about to go viral! Please enjoy this most addictive tribute to tight pants.

Четырe! These plates make me want to go on a diet...or lick 'em! That black bread and salami keeps looking more delicious the longer I stare at it.

Пять! The ending is a little awkward. And I like it! I need a drink...

BONUS ROUND! Because, like you, I'm also just dying to know who's dating whom among the Russian oligarch set. Finally, the truth is revealed. In pictures!

speaking of halloween(ies)...

Does anyone else find it absurd that this over-accessorized jagbag has his own television show about picking up ladiez?

This chump, who calls himself "Mystery" (I seriously cannot make this sh*t up), is the very definition of a "don't." He's also the definition of an asshat. In fact, I think that's a rarely seen actual asshat perched over Mystery's ever-so-douchingly manicured soul-patch and overly guy-lined eyes. And, don't get me started on the lady's locket, the binoculars and the (what is that, chenille?) boa floating below -- and I can't emphasize the wrongness of this enough -- his ever-so-douchingly manicured soul-patch and overly guy-lined eyes. I don't get it.

Don't get me wrong, most girls like a dude who knows how to properly accessorize. Maybe that involves a scarf (not a boa), a hat (not Pam Anderson-inspired) and even some jewelry (not a junior high school girl's locket), but I can tell you that it never -- I mean never -- involves a soul-patch or poor makeup application skills. I solved the Mystery -- he's the Hamburglar.

But behind the exterior that indicates Mystery's both blind and retarded (and quite possibly a thief of delicious hamburgers), he's developed an apparently effective method to pick up drunk skanks in bars, which makes up the premise of Mystery's show, The Pick Up Artist.

Currently airing on VH1, the channel where all brain cells go to die (which is probably why it's so addictive), the show takes a bunch of meek, female-fearing nerds, turns them into mini-Mysterys (-ies?) and then tests them each week to see who can pick up the most drunk skanks in some douchey club in Arizona. It really is reality teevee at it's best.

The most retardulous part of the show, though, is when these would-be manwhores get schooled skooled in Mystery's "lessons," which are based on going up to groups of drunk skanks ("sets" in douche-speak) and lying. That is, they're taught to make up some sort of story or a fake pressing question (i.e. "I need to know, would you ever date a guy named Herman?" -- I swear to you that is an actual line from the show) to capture a skank's booze-laden attention. If these "pick-up artists" are really advanced they can then pretend to have a form of mild Tourette's and approach drunk skanks using such winning lines as, "I like pickle juice." (Again, I wish could make this sh*t up.)

But behind all the idiotic accessorizing and incredibly ridiculous pick-up lines (You like pickle juice? Really? Do you also like drinks thrown in your face, creeper?), are a couple of nuggets of good advice -- be confident, be funny and be cool. Too bad Mystery and his jagbag hangers-on, including a dude who calls himself "Matador" (I seriously long to make this sh*t up...), also advise these jagbag proteges to hide any newfound confidence under the exterior of being a Grade A douche. I suppose, however, if the advice wasn't clad in ridiculous clothing, it wouldn't make for a good VH1 reality show.

Which brings me to DC. At least Mystery is interesting. Interesting to laugh at, that is. A subsection of DC men, however, fail to inspire even that. There's an overwhelming group of dudes in DC who make up the dullest subsection of men in America, nay, the world, in my not-so-humble opinion. And that wouldn't be so bad if they didn't so often combine their devastating dullness with an overwhelming penchant for popped collars, pleated khakis and orthopedic shoes. It's a situation more pathetic than some of the "befores" that plead for Mystery's expertise.

SIDEBAR: Except for a kid named Bryan Ly, the wannabe womanizer on The Pick Up Artist who is anything but pathetic. This kid has the best one-liners in the history of ever. In the last episode when talking about the other contestants, he describes them as "family" before using the non-sensical, yet somehow suitable simile: "They're like a hair on my butt." Why does this guy need Mystery's help again?

Anybutthair, the bottomline (Yes! Scene points for "butt" wordplay!) is that, while the DC dating scene largely bores me, I'm probably a bit underqualified to dissect it, as I in no way will ever even try to begin to understand the mating rituals that occur between two government employees in love. I imagine all the sweet nothings would probably be reduced to a confusing set of acronyms, though: "You had me at ILYPK,* Herman."

And so, from my proverbial soapbox Hatorade crate (Yes! Scene points for late-'9os reference!), I will rub in the last metaphorical dollop of Boudreaux's Butt Paste, my very own flawless pick-up method (how do I not have my own show?!), into this post by embedding a scene from The Pick Up Artist below -- a scene in which Bryan's infatuation with Mystery's "medallion necklace" leads him to make a keen observation. Enjoy!



*Can you guess what the acronym stands for? It's actually quite easy -- smokin' balls easy.

heyyy führer !

Halloween has never been one of my favorite holidays. I mean I like candy and all, but I'd rather have a day off (I'm looking forward to you, Veteran's Day!). And the dressing up like an asshole bit? While I can invent the hell out of an outfit, creating a costume has always inexplicably been a bit tougher for me. See, I can conjure up an idea without a problem, but the execution is where the difficulties begin.

There was that time when I decided to be a soldier, but as I pieced together the costume I ended up becoming Gay Hitler. Heyyy! (Actually, on second thought, that costume was pretty tight.) Or last year when some friends and I decided to dress up like robots. The liquor store was kind enough to donate some boxes to the cause and we procured a few thousand feet of aluminum foil to adorn ourselves with. Then we added a couple of Hershey's Kisses robot nipples for the girls and a cod piece or two (don't ask) for the boys and we thought we were ready to roll. Turns out we didn't so much look like robots as we did Special Needs Kids Dressing Up Like Robots. (Come to think of it, that costume was also pretty tight.)

OK, so maybe I do have expert complex costume-making skills (although completely inadvertent), which is why I feel competent throwing out my Top 5 ideas for costumes to sport around DC this Halloween. And Sarah Palin is not on my list. Sorry, every-other-person.

FIVE -- DC Councilmember Jim Graham (D-Ward 1)

With his evergreen bow-tie, the sweet spectacles and his dutifully finger-waved hair, a Graham costume would be instantly recognizable in the DC metro area, without being unoriginal (see: Sarah Palin.) Plus, he knows how to party. And lift boxes.

FOUR -- Harriette Walter, DC government employee embezzler extraordinaire!

Walter's ill-fitting suit and equally ill-fitting weave are probably more infamous than the millions of dollars she embezzled from the city. Sure, her claim to fame is a little dated, but her recognizable look is literally burned into our collective retinas for 25 to life, making Walter's image a fine choice this Halloween.

THREE -- Robert Novak in a black Corvette.

This one's a bit more complicated than sporting a bow-tie or a horrendous wig. It may even require molding plastic to your ass in the shape of a vehicle bought to compensate for one's lack of masculinity and general decrepit state. But all that work has a pay-off as there is an acting element involved here -- hitting people. It's a trick and a treat! For you, not anyone else.

TWO -- Derek McGinty, WUSA9 Anchorman

McGinty may seem underwhelming as far as costume choices go, but have a closer look. That big bald head so perfectly caked with stage makeup is All Hallow's Eve perfection! Even more, however, McGinty isn't just hairless -- he's a genius! For proof, one need look no further than his blog, "What the Heck Was That?!" which McGinty describes as a "slightly snide tribute to a certain sports anchor from another network who uttered a very unfortunate word when she (mistakenly) thought the microphones were off. The word in question wasn't 'heck' but it did end with a 'c' and 'k.' I will use this platform to reveal the dark underbelly of what really happens on our newscasts when we really hope nobody can hear, and of course offer my own comments when the news gets too bizarre to ignore." Wow. I seriously couldn't make this sh*t up. Also, that above-posted pic is from his blog. I know! I think I might be in love with him, too!

ONE -- Mr. Peanut!

While Mr. Peanut may have nothing to do directly with the Capital of the Free World, his visage has much to do with freedom. Save for dressing up like Gay Hitler or A Special Needs Kid Dressing Up Like a Robot, nothing says "I ♥ Freedom" more than fashioning oneself after a classic character of Americana created solely to advance capitalism. Or, as an old college friend of mine recently noted, like an "anthropomorphic, foppish legume." Plus, you get to wear a monocle, a top hat and spats simultaneously. F*ck Halloween, I'm dressing up like Mr. Peanut tomorrow right now.

so it's come to this...

I'm about to give you (and me) the creeps, and all because I lack 20/20 vision. Boom!


Damn...sometimes I really do scare myself. And by "sometimes," I mean on a daily basis, specifically every time I conjure up a bit of nonsense to fill the endless space on this inexhaustible goblet of a Web log.

But scaring myself and others aside, I'm trying to relay to you here that I bought new spectacles a couple of weeks ago. Groundbreaking blog material, indeed! And lest I leave you wanting more, let me expound on this topic until there's nothing left to post but a picture of my bespectacled self thinking about playing craps with Putin! So without further ado about nothing, allow me to present to you a little essay I so originally entitled "Marissa blogs about her new glasses."

I really like my new spectacles, which is probably why I've been wearing them more often than my contacts. However, there are several other reasons for sporting this new near-daily facial accessory:

1) I'm lazy. Glasses are so much easier to shove on your face than contacts are to shove in your eyes;

2) This is probably the first pair of glasses not of the sun variety that I (possibly mistakenly) don't think make me look like Grade A asshole (maybe Grade B);

3) I really enjoy whipping them on and off CSI: Miami style (a la David Caruso) during random conversations with my boss; and

4) I paid an embarrassing amount of money for them, hence I feel the pressing need to actually wear them.

(Still reading? I love you...)

Anyway, I bought these bad boys at Georgetown Opticians in Dupont Circle. I have no idea what brand they are, as I didn't think to ask at the time of purchase and because the only marking these spectacles have on them is "Handmade Frame AV-8." And while that may seem extremely retarded (and it is), I attribute my brand ignorance to the friendly and helpful staff at GO. See (LOL!), I came in with a certain idea in mind: I wanted a big ol' pair of geek glasses -- the kind that graced the Fall '08 runway shows. However, upon learning of my almost-blindness (OD: -6.00; OS: -3.00 + astigmatism), the shopkeeper told me it'd be damn near impossible to fit my genuine nerd prescription lenses into faux-nerd frames (something about the concavity of the lens or whatever...science).

And so, dismayed and wayward, I had no idea what to do. After all, I had already invented outfits to work around the massive geek glasses I thought I was going to purchase. And so I let the shopkeeper pick out what he thought worked best considering my unfortunate lack of sight as well as my rather intriguing (or hideous) taste level and we settled on the above. I like to call it the Sleek Geek. I can live with it...


And yes, as promised, that is, indeed, a thought bubble gingerly perched above my head filled with a doctored shot of Putin (with Flock of Seagulls hair, natch) playing craps. A girl can dream...

dice gulag, how sweet it could be

If I was a septuagenarian or above I'd be in love with a man named William "Whitey" Roberts. Not only does this 75-year-old (pictured at left courtesy of the Washington Post) collect old-school slot machines in his basement (!), but he's all no-nonsense, like a pair of decent, well-priced nylons. That is, there ain't no rips in his logic.

Not sure if anyone's been following this (I certainly haven't!), but apparently Maryland is trying to re-introduce slot machines as an avenue to collect additional state revenues to pay for education, or so the government says.

On the surface, that sounds like a win-win: People can get their gamble on while the state collects much-needed money to help children or whatever. But check it, Whitey, as quoted in the Washington Post, don't play that (literally):

"I love slots, but it has to be honest," he says. "This is a farce. To take the money from slots and just spread it around the state government isn't being straight. They say the money goes for schools, but it's also going for everything else the state does, and a whole lot of it is going to the horse industry. If horse racing can't sustain itself, it should be gone. If I had a shoe shop here and I was failing, they wouldn't carve out a piece of the slots for me."

Bless his freedom-loving heart. But Whitey longs for more than just free markets. He longs for the good old days when gangsters and mobs ran Maryland's gambling outlets; the good old days before those hypocritical government fat cats shut 'em down in 1969.

"As soon as all that was gone," Roberts says, "the government went into the numbers racket. They started with the lottery, and now there's the scratch-off cards and the keno. The government now controls everything the mob used to control. Everything that was so bad for us -- the numbers, the slot machines -- everything that they shut down because they said it was hurting the poor people, is now perfectly okay because it's run by the government. Sorry, I'm not buying it."

Stick it to today's man, for real, my elderly friend. You are correct. If anyone should profit off of poor people, it should be mobsters and gangs like they did in golden ages of yesteryear. That, indeed, is the American dream. And while it seems that I'm being a bit facetious here, I'm actually not. OK, I am a little, but I see Whitey's point: Gambling is dirrrrrty, in a good way. Or, at least it should be in its truest form. (Hello, street dice!)

Not only that, but it's pretty much a proven fact that state-run lotteries (and, by association, slots) are a huge sham, luring basically those who don't make minimum wage to invest their welfare or social security checks in a couple of scratch-off tickets hoping to get lucky, only to be taxed again if they actually win. Glorious!

Slots are only slightly different than playing the numbers, in that both take very little talent and skill. And even more so than scratch-offs, which can really only be bought at gas stations or where there's an actual person working to sell them, slots, being self-contained and mechanized, have the potential to pop up just about anywhere -- the Metro, the lobby of your office building, the mall, your neighborhood bar, the park, the alley around the corner, the lobby of your apartment building, the bathroom and anywhere else someone with a quarter is likely to stroll by. And while I'm the last person to condemn a gambler (after all, I am the person that spent last Thanksgiving in Atlantic City and will probably spend this Thanksgiving in Foxwoods), the computerized sounds of a slot machine should not coincide with waiting for the bus. Seriously, where's the fun, mystique and moderately criminal leit motif in that?

Gambling without the flashing lights, crazy themed interior, cigar-puffing high-rollers and free liquor is basically Moscow, Russia -- the gross part of it.

Moscow had the most unfortunate problem of having slot machines everywhere. And while it made for some timeless comic relief seeing that slots is pronounced more like sluts in Russian (i.e. imagine the lulz an establishment called Super-Slots can induce from a person with the humor of a 14-year-old boy), it did not make for a pleasant atmosphere. Not only were these corner establishments ugly and annoying, but the clientele they attracted -- the drunkest of the homeless -- certainly did not benefit, unless losing valuable money for legit booze and instead having to turn to shoe polish is considered a plus.

Speaking of not benefiting, even the Kremlin noticed how gnarly wayward slot machines are to Russia's image, which is why Russian President Prime Minister Putin proposed in 2006 to exile all slot machines to a couple of cities in the Far East. I like to think of it as a gulag for dice; a kind of Russian Las Vegas, as it were, but several times an oil oligarch's salary more crazy + one Putin! Holy sh*t. My brain just melted.

No seriously. My brain just flinched or something at the thought of throwing down at the craps table with Putin. It might have been the best image ever to flutter across my largely blank mind. Bitch better not act like McCain does at the tables, though. That kind of poor sportsmanship just wouldn't cut it at the Dice Gulag.

because i just got off the phone with Medieval Times, thus completing today's to-do list...

If there’s anything I’m not above, it’s stealing other people’s ideas. As such, the The Anti DC Board of Trustees (all of whom are conveniently located in my mind) have decided to embark on a new (but old), tried-and-true web-log endeavor -- the weekly link round-up!

However, like all things I touch, I’ll make sure to add a twist of retardulosity to it in the form of sweet, delicious, unnecessary commentary. I mean, it’s hard enough for my ego to point out things on the Web that may possibly be even more worthwhile to view than my own e-scribblings, so, as it goes, you'll just have to deal with this blog’s patented megalomaniac tendencies.

So without further ado, please accept this first edition of “Mid-Week, Mid-Afternoon Web Link Extravaganza!” (I’ll come up with a better name in the future.) where I pick out the most awesome things I’ve seen on the Internetz in the last whenever, but have been too lazy to incorporate more creatively into the public, padded e-room that is this blog. Onward (with color)!

First up: I got to give it to John “Sad Crocodile” Foster for writing the hell out of TV On the Radio’s new album over at Brightest Young Things, even if he forgot to mention Love Dog, which happens to be my favorite song on “Dear Science.” What an asshole. :)

Second tier: DCist goes vigilante justice all over drivers' asses and I like it! Of course, this argument of cars vs. bikes is old, but nothin’ says tight blog topic like the business end of U-Lock in a Toyota Camry’s taillight.

Third on the roster: MC Pee Pants! This probably should’ve been first.

Fourth place: Scrumptious squirrel melt sandwiches! "Cute!" (Via perennial favorite Clusterfck, natch.)

And last (but, holy sh*t, certainly not least) on the podium: Wal-Mart finally does something respectable, via Best Week Ever. Meet the the Ultra Douche!

shambles p.i. -- the messed up in more ways than one edition

I like to live life with no regrets, which is why I think a lot. Perhaps too much. But making a bad choice can really put a damper on your life. Some decisions are much easier to make than others. For instance, let's say you're at a party and someone hands you that dangerous third can of Sparks. Do you pop it open, chug it down and probably then proceed to get pregnant/arrested/pregnant & arrested? Or do you put it down, kindly say "No thank you!" and go about your business of not being pregnant/arrested/pregnant & arrested? Easy choice.

But nothing makes for an easier choice than passing by a nightclub with a most questionable name to decide what's best for your future. Meet Club Choices:

If ever there was an easier choice to be made, I have yet to meet it.

The Law and I noticed Choices while walking past it on our way to the Claire Hux after party. Not only did we immediately burst into boozey laughter, but so did a friend of ours who lives in Baltimore. I believe he immediately followed with, "Yeah, you don't ever want to go there."

Seriously, I don't think I've ever run across a worse name for a bar in my life and I used to frequent a bar in Moscow called The Modest Charm of the Bourgeoisie (Skromnoye Oboyaniye Burzhuazi). That's a terribly sh*tty name, but it doesn't come close to that of "Choices."

I mean, really, what the hell kind of name is that? It reminds me of abortion, which doesn't seem like a term one would associate with getting the party started. However, I guess if you do make that bad decision to crack open that third, fourth or, heart-exploding fifth can of Sparks, perhaps this is the club for you. (Mid-morning abortion joke! You're welcome.)

But speaking of exceptionally messed up sh*t, a reader spotted the following scary signage (scarier than Choices, even) on the corner of 14th and Independence around 10:15 this morning.


You know, I don't so much FEAR GOD as I, say, FEAR THE PSYCHO who tacked this incredibly ridiculous sign up in his vehicle for actual other human beings to see. Bad choice, sir (or ma'am). And I'm not even solely just talking about the ideas put forth in this very bland looking sign, but also the grammar.

The first sentence is fine -- non-sensical, of course, but grammatically correct. The second sentence, though? Someone's not smarter than a fifth grader (nor as artistic as a kintergartener, I might add). "THE ABOMINATION OF DESOLATION IN THE HOLY PLACE." This sentence fragment is quite possibly more confounding than naming a club Choices. I mean, where's the verb? And what in hell does "ABOMINATION OF DESOLATION" mean? Like to ruin something that's already kind of ruined? I don't get it. Like, does this ugly sign count as "abomination of desolation" if "desolation" means his sh*tty sedan? And this "IN THE HOLY PLACE" business. That unintentionally sounds kind of sexy, no? (Yes!)

Someone get this "God-fearing" man (or lady) a six-pack of Sparks and bring him (or her) to Choices. Someone's getting pregnant/arrested/pregnant & arrested!

funny. that doesn't smell like gasoline...

There are very few things about politics in America that I find interesting. We here in Amurrica lack the fist fights that go down in Russia, India or Kenya (um, holy sh*t); we lack the gentlemanly hooing and hawing of Great Britain; and, most importantly, we lack the Aquanet of North Korean leader and fashionista Kim Jong Il.

In America, on the other hand, politics is mainly just a bunch of mild-mannered, moderate, flat-haired jagbags spouting off false promises sprinkled with key fear words like "recession" "terrorism," or the granddaddy of them all, "9/11." However, once in a while, something truly worthy of my attention will come along. That is, some kind of utterly ridiculous campaign television advertisement.

The latest in these retarded[ly awesome] spots comes from Jim Slattery, a Democrat running against Republican incumbent Pat Roberts for a Kansas Senate seat. I'd provide a few words to introduce introdouche the concept and explain why this ad is so damn hilarious, but there's really no need...

R Kelly-approved!

But as great as that is -- and I know if I lived in Kansas I'd vote Slattery on account of that campaign ad alone (I'm easily swayed by allusions to urination) -- his creative team does not top that of Paul R. Nelson, who gave the world the following fine piece of politically motivated work in 2006 while running for Congress in Wisconsin on the Republican ticket against Democratic incumbent Ron Kind.

I can't think of a caption that could possibly top the unintentional humor of the original ad...

Somehow, however, Nelson still lost. I'm not sure if it was the complete absurdness of his allegations or the fact that his voice sounds like Sarah Palin's on steroids, but Wisconsin's third Congressional district said "yes" to sex and "no" to soldiers. Or maybe it was yes to sex with soldiers. And bisexual eskimos. I didn't really get that ad. Anyway, my point is, not everyone is apparently as easily swayed by inadvertently, or perhaps purposefully, funny political ads as I am, which is why that lovable Pillsbury doughboy-esque Mike Huckabee didn't win the Republican presidential nomination, despite gaining a rousing endorsement from the infallible Chuck Norris.

You Republicans are kicking yourselves now, huh? Huh?! Chuck Norris could've been VP, which would've brought more know-how to the office than is currently being pitched. Yeah. Think about that one...

Alas, besides Slattery's aforementioned work of art, it seems political campaign commercials of late have hit a creative wall. What's next? Will politicians start addressing actual issues in their ads?! Preposterous! This is the goddamn U.S. of f*cking A., after all! Is a little spin and word manipulation against a backdrop of references to bodily functions too much to ask for? Do C-list celebrity endorsements no longer provide the political cachet to rule the Free World? I mean, who the hell is Chuck Norris backing now?!?!? For shame, U.S. politicians. For shame.

lookin' ridiculously good, or perhaps just ridiculous

Since I put in the effort to explain most of the trouble I may or may not have gotten into during my weekend jaunt to Baltimore earlier today, I may as well also metaphorically hit you in the face with what I wore during said events. It'll just sting a little...

Channeling my junior high-school grunge days, I traveled back in time to the early-to-mid-1990s and donned a whole helluva lot of flannel. I paired that with an unduly bright shade of yellow tights, some gray knee-high suede boots and a vacant, yet rather bemused expression that says, "I know Rayanne Graf called and asked for her outfit back, but I told her to suck it."


But alas, assholes don't travel solo, which is why The Law also attended this weekend's festivities in Baltimore. Taking cues from both the Olsen Twins and the Holy Roman Empire, she opted for a layered look consisting of leggings, T-shirt couture, a cardigan and a duo of fluorescent plastic crucifixes, one of which she later kindly lent to me in order to more adequately dance to Claire Hux's "Holy Ghost in the Club." I'm sure we've both just made our parents very proud.


And yes, that is Putin donning Mike Score's Flock of Seagulls hair circa 1982 you see super-imposed over The Law's visage. She's apparently not as much of an attention hooker as I am. Or perhaps she's just smarter. Or both. Whatever. Point is, Putin with Flock of Seagulls hair isn't just for admiring any longer, it's also for fulfilling requests for anonymity. Is there anything Putin with Flock of Seagulls hair can't do?

Outfit details--

On moi: Flanned shirt dress, Uniqlo; Yellow tights, Filene's Basement; Braided rope belt, vintage; Boots, Penny Loves Kenny.

On The Law: Leggings and T-shirt dress, Forever 21; Cardigan, Calvin Klein; Shoes, Kenneth Cole ; Fluorescent plastic crucifixes, Claires.