Tuesday, November 25, 2008

a visual descent into madness

I don't care that the current projections in the Minnesota Senate race between Al Franken and Norm Coleman are looking dimmer with each passing day for my Congressional squeeze. Norm Coleman will always have my heart.

And now, thanks to a reader who also knows how to win my heart, Norm Coleman's name can be stamped over it. Literally.

Nothing says true crazy love like Vintage Norm inexplicably floating in a slew of e-hearts, e-screaming through a megaphone that he hearts me.

Turns out, Norm also has my back. Or at least his name stamped on my back!

Gettin 'er done!

Speaking of gettin' 'er done, I'll have you know this shirt didn't become the sweet, retro-style, off-the-shoulder, embroidered mess as shown above on its own. Oh no, I, along with my trusty Janome sewing apparatus, helped it along. Sorta.

See, DIY and I have had only a semi-fruitful relationship. (For true DIY skills, I suggest you check out the craftastic Threadbanger.) That is, I often take T-shirts and shred them, not always to the betterment of the garment. In this case, however, I got things done for this fabric, as it were.

The shirt started as any regular T would -- a bit boring for my tastes, despite all the NORM text. So, I cut off the neck and the ends of the sleeves, set the zig-zag setting on J-Nozzle (my Janome's street name), and got down to business. After I took care of that business, I decided to try my hand at some remedial embroidery by outlining the letters and numerals in "NORM '08" with this sick barbed-wire looking stitch. However, due to a lack of resources (read: limited thread) I was only able to get two things done -- the "N" and the "M." But the final product, while flawed, is at least still wearable.

While the shirt changed ever so slightly, the sh*tty lighting did not.

So, Norm, er, Mr. Coleman, er, Sen. Coleman, er, ex-Sen. Coleman, or whatever. It doesn't matter to me as long as you remain as sexy as you want to be. Anyway, now that I think I've proven just how far I'll go to impress you (I'll craft for you, Coleman! I'll make creepy collages of you, Norm!), how about that grilled cheese and freedom fries at the most romantical table in the Senate cafeteria? Yes??? Don't worry, they'll let anyone in.

Outfit details: Norm Coleman '08 shirt -- courtesy of best reader ever; jeans -- Goldsign; boots -- Frye.

Oh, and, my apologies to my friend Juice for not giving her proper photo credit. She really captured my almost hysteric excitement to be wearing this Norm Coleman '08 shirt.


Logistical add-on: I'm going to put the proverbial lid on the jenkem jar that is The Anti DC for the rest of the week while I skip town for the holidays. My vacation won't be as classy as last year, unfortunately, but it will probably involve me getting hurt when I take to the slopes for the first time in several years. Wish me and my Norm-couture luck! Happy Thanksgiving!

Monday, November 24, 2008

is columbia heights the ghetto?!

But we have a Target! And a Best Buy! It's practically the goddamn suburbs, no?! At least that's how I feel.

Some DC cab drivers, though, apparently feel differently. I learned that on Friday night when I tried to get a cab back to Columbia Heights from around Metro Center.

"Hi! I'm going to Columbia Heights."

"I won't go there."


"I won't go to Columbia Heights."

"What? Is it too 'ghetto' for you?" (Clearly, I said that with much sarcasm because WE HAVE A TARGET!)


"What?! Are you serious? WE HAVE A TARGET!"

"Yes. I know."

And then he drove away.

Um. That's weird, right? But I'll be honest, for reasons I won't delve into, I don't remember if that's exactly how my exchange with this overcautious cabbie went down. However, I distinctly remember calling his reasoning ludicrous based solely on the fact that, to him, a neighborhood with a Target in it could still be considered too dangerous to drive into. I still stand behind my argument. WE HAVE AN EFFING TARGET!

And not only do I stand behind my own argument (that should be obvious), but so did the second cab driver who found my retelling of this conversation with the first cabbie ridiculously funny.

"Well, thanks for bringing me to Columbia Heights. Apparently, it's a pretty rough neighborhood. Some cab driver just refused to take me!"

"But there's a Target there!"

"I know!"

"And a Best Buy!"

"I know! You're reading my mind!"

Then much laughter ensued.

Although, I'll be honest again. I don't know if everyone in the cab was laughing or if it was just me snickering away in the backseat like an insane asshole. That's really not out of the realm of possibility. Neither is me getting home, almost setting some microwave popcorn on fire and falling asleep upright in a chair. But, you know, that's just how we roll in the ghetto. Deal with it.

Friday, November 21, 2008

tmi friday?! macgyver style.

A bunch of DC-area bloggers recently began engaging in what I believe LivitLuvit dubbed "TMI Thursdays." Since I'm not really all that anonymous, I've opted to keep my TMI-style stories to myself. Until now.

And although this hardly -- or at all -- delves into the body-fluid-centered stories of my e-compatriots (examples of which you can read here, here and, if you dare, here), the story I wrote recently for The Smart Set illuminates some dark, cold corners of my life before DC or "BDC," as it were.

To give you a preview, it starts off with me rolling out of a silver Mercedes in St. Petersburg in 2003. Did I mention it was moving? Because it was.

Anysweetsurvivalskills, to read my little tale of retardulousness, CLICK HERE!

And please do enjoy it; forward it to your friends and family; commission me to write an article for your publication; give me a book deal, or at least get another LOL at my expense.

From both of us (BDC and ADC -- that's after DC, of course),

We'll see you in hell. :)

the mechanics

I must admit I had a fairly tumultuous week filled with professional stress, personal disorganization and, to uphold the eloquence factor in this e-meadow where words grow and eventually die, a whole bunch of other stupid sh*t. Life is hard.

So it's a good thing e-life isn’t! Nope! E-life is filled with magical links and Web pages that can flip this emoticon -- :( -- one-hundred-and-eighty degrees into this emoticon -- :). Ain’t e-life grand?

Indeed, it is. So grand is e-life, in fact, that it brought several smiley emoticons to my screen this week, well, save for the debacle about which I wrote yesterday. (To update, for those of you, like myself, who are bored enough to keep following the e-drama, Foilwoman responded to the comments on DCBlogs by noting her willful ignorance to recognize the differences between the definitions of "edit" and "editorialize." To her I say there is also a difference between the words "retarded" and "retardant," despite that they have the same root word. And only one describes her misguided vocabulary.) But let's not dwell on any head-shaking moments of "I'm-embarrassed-for-you" past...for once. Instead, let's review all the fun retardulous fun and retardulous stuff on the Web! And since everything's sexier in foreign languages, let's do this up no português!

Uns! Remember the GenderAnalyzer that determined this blog is only 72 percent female? Well, via Andrew Sullivan, I found a link that will now analyze what type I am, er, this blog is. It's the Typealyzer, and, according to its analysis, The Anti DC is "The Mechanics":
The independent and problem-solving type. They are especially attuned to the demands of the moment; are masters of responding to challenges that arise spontaneously. They generally prefer to think things out for themselves and often avoid inter-personal conflicts.
The Mechanics enjoy working together with other independent and highly skilled people and often like seeking fun and action both in their work and personal life. They enjoy adventure and risk such as in driving race cars or working as policemen and firefighters.
Well, this might be right on, since I've let it be known I do enjoy a bit of bike-dancing now and again.

Dois! Speaking of bicycling, via Freewheeling Spirit, I found this video, which outlines just how hard it is in DC to find a bike lane to bike-dance in. But apparently, it's getting better? Tell that to the taxi cab perpetually double-parked in the truncated bike lane on Columbia Road...

Três! Have you ever yearned to find a Web site that posted daily pics of long-forgotten Swedish pop bands? Me neither! But since my friend Peter introduced me to k-i-l-l-bill's livejournal page, I just can't get enough. Thur Erics! The Thorleifs! Tre Bla & en Gul! Oh my! And all of them have such silky-looking hair...

Quatro! And while I wasn't too busy peeping the coifs of 1970s Swedish musicians, I learned something about our own. Did you know that Prince, or the Artist Formally Known As, or whoever, wears sandals and socks?! WTF!? The Kid from Purple Rain would never have done that...

Cinco! Finally, during all of my other spare time, I turned to Clusterfck to watch Bruce Lee play ping-pong with nunchuks! Whoa...

By the way, the photo above is a piece called "45º 46' 48. 94" N 8º 02' 26. 11" W" by Carlo Ferraris. He likes apples.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

pardon me while i wax philosophical for a sec

If there's one thing about DC, or perhaps America, in general, that I could change (besides its overwhelmingly hideous fashion sense) it would be the way most people construe their political thoughts. And in this case, I'm not proposing everyone simply agree with me (although, clearly, that is the best option). Instead, I'm pleading with people to be careful with how they classify other people's opinions that don't coincide with their own.

I first got to thinking about this topic during what I do believe will go down in history as the longest election ever, but never thought it important enough to write about, especially in this forum, in which I've thus far kept a fairly stark line between my retardulous musings and any modicum of serious thought. But today, when I saw the descriptions of other people's blogs on DCBlogs, a site that, I confess, has been very kind to me in the past, I felt compelled to drop some personal life philosophy on your asses.

I am a relativist. That is, when it comes to right and wrong, I feel there are very few topics that fall completely into just one of those two categories. Injustice and random acts of violence are probably the only two unfortunate facts of life that I would always classify as "wrong." On the other extreme, justice and random acts of kindness are probably the only two fortunate facts of life I would always classify as "right." Everything else falls somewhere in between, in my opinion, and, depending on circumstance, some seemingly obvious wrongs can seem more right whereas some seemingly obvious rights can seem more wrong.

To borrow an example from one of my favorite all-time people, linguist and philosopher Steven Pinker, who penned a downright fantastic piece on morality for The New York Times in January, writes:

The gap between people's convictions and their justifications is also on display in the favorite new sandbox for moral psychologists, a thought experiment devised by the philosophers Philippa Foot and Judith Jarvis Thomson called the Trolley Problem. On your morning walk, you see a trolley car hurtling down the track, the conductor slumped over the controls. In the path of the trolley are five men working on the track, oblivious to the danger. You are standing at a fork in the track and can pull a lever that will divert the trolley onto a spur, saving the five men. Unfortunately, the trolley would then run over a single worker who is laboring on the spur. Is it permissible to throw the switch, killing one man to save five? Almost everyone says "yes."

Consider now a different scene. You are on a bridge overlooking the tracks and have spotted the runaway trolley bearing down on the five workers. Now the only way to stop the trolley is to throw a heavy object in its path. And the only heavy object within reach is a fat man standing next to you. Should you throw the man off the bridge? Both dilemmas present you with the option of sacrificing one life to save five, and so, by the utilitarian standard of what would result in the greatest good for the greatest number, the two dilemmas are morally equivalent. But most people don't see it that way: though they would pull the switch in the first dilemma, they would not heave the fat man in the second. When pressed for a reason, they can't come up with anything coherent, though moral philosophers haven't had an easy time coming up with a relevant difference, either.

I'll admit that my first instinct, too, was like most people's. I would have pulled the switch to save the five in the first scenario, but not have thrown the fat man over the rail to save the five in the second scenario. Apparently, deep down, I have something called emotions and knee-jerk reactions. And my answering the questions the same way thousands of other people around the world did shows that feelings and sh*t are often inescapable.

But as a bit of a secret hippie (don't tell anyone), I'm not necessarily against letting emotions influence your life choices and decisions, however, at some point rationalization and a strong wont for understanding different points of view without those knee-jerk, emotional reactions is also necessary. In other words, one man's life-saving decision can be another man's murder and vice versa.

Coming very circuitously back to the original point of this philosophical spewing, I wish more people would view politics through a metaphorical pair of relativist glasses, or pince-nez if you so prefer. Hell, put on a relativist monocle, if that's what you think is right, but don't criticize your fellow man (or woman) for choosing a pair of relativist horn-rimmed spectacles. So when DCBlogs editrix Foilwoman today took it upon herself to classify other people's political-themed blogs as "wacko," to me this seemed a bit unjust, and moreover, rather inappropriate in the DCBlogs forum, which I have come to understand as a simple directory of DC-related blogs, not as a platform for the editors' political opinion. That is, if I wanted to know Foilwoman's personal political leanings, I would look elsewhere, perhaps, to her own blog...

Instead, I didn't get that option. Today, I unwillingly learned from her on DCBlogs that, apparently, anyone who criticizes President-Elect Barack Obama or, more widely, the Democratic Party is crazy. More specifically, Foilwoman called out Sugar 'N Spice as "batsh*t insane" and asked, "What is it about the water in the U.S. that creates these conspiracy theorists?" and Melissa the Misanthrope, noting her opinion as "more on the wacko political belief blog-of-the-day."

We get it, Foilwoman. You're a democrat, I take it? Thanks for sharing on a forum that shouldn't serve as a platform for your opinion.

But that's not even the point. I don't care. Nor is this a defense of what Sugar or Melissa wrote. That is a whole other debate, although I do think Melissa, who was awesome enough to embed Charlie Chaplin's dancing globe scene from "The Great Dictator," got the shortest end of the toolish stick. In fact, this isn't even a treatise agaisnt Foilwoman, who is really just the unlucky woman whose random musings on an inappropriate forum acted as the proverbial pleat that broke the khakis' flat front.

What I'm trying and so failing to get at here is that this whole commonly accepted idea that there is a "right" and a "wrong" in politics is ludicrous. Absolutely nothing about politics is based on indisputable fact. If that were the case, there wouldn't even be an election. The state would be the much-talked-about "black box" and robots that are unable to get bogged down in silly little things like emotions and feelings would make important decisions for us. The fat man would be thrown from the bridge every single time.

But the world doesn't work like that. While it is completely just and, ergo, right to have your own political opinions (my friends know all too well that I have my own), it is unjust and, ergo, wrong to not let other people have their own without writing them off as crazy, wacko, insane, etc. Those words are filled with emotion, not logic.

Without the yearning to understand where those different than you are coming from, you will never be able to arrive to the destination you seek or currently think you seek. (Whoa...deep!) And if you think you're already there, you should think again. (Yowza...mega deep!) Opinions shouldn't be static. If you are unwilling to open your mind to the plausibility of other people's views, no matter how emotionally unattractive you think they are, then no longer are you willing to learn. I, for one, don't plan on ceasing to seek knowledge until I die. So, Republicans, Democrats, Libertarians, Socialists, Nationalists -- my ears are open. I may not agree with you, but I will certainly engage in a logical discussion with you if you are willing to do the same. But, then again, that's just my opinion...

But speaking of being open to radical ideas, according to the GenderAnalyzer, which I discovered via blog-God Bike Snob NYC, the The Anti DC is apparently just 72 percent female, meaning a full 28 percent of this blog is male. Hmm, I'm going to assume that 28 percent is a gay male. I dress too well. Right? RIGHT?!


Silhouette of a womanWe think http://theantidc.blogspot.com is written by a woman (72%).

Come on, you should know by now that while I may post something just 72 percent female, it most definitely will never be 100 percent serious.


Wednesday, November 19, 2008

guns just don't get old

Like many females these days, I carry a bag of such a size that I will probably have recurring back problems throughout my life. However, I need such a large pocketbook, as my grandma would say, because I have some essential possessions I must carry at all times, including, but certainly not limited to:
  • A sh*tty digital camera, which I sometimes use to capture grainy images of shambley activities going on around me (see below);
  • A Congressional press pass, which I will use inappropriately to go all English parliament on U.S. lawmakers' asses one day, or get double use out of for toolish blogging purposes (see below);
  • And a single die, which I use to aid me in important decision-making (see below). For instance, if I roll a one, two or three, I'll keep my pants on; a four, five or six and I'll pop those bad boys right off.
Turns out, yesterday I rolled a six, which meant it was a no-pants kind of day!

This trick is a great ice-breaker.

Oh, I forgot to mention the e-arsenal I carry around with me at all times, too. Unfortunately, I had to leave that in the ether yesterday afternoon when I went to what we call a "stakeout" in the reporting biz. Doesn't that sound cool? A stakeout?! Doesn't it?!

Well, it's not. Unlike what private investigators get to do, a journalistic stakeout doesn't involve stealthily observing mysterious people in the comfort of a '75 Ford Gran Torino. Instead, it involves waiting for elected officials in a frigid, overcrowded Capitol hallway with a gaggle of other tools reporters.

Secret: The smartest reporters (ahem, myself) put their recorders on the speaker's podium and gets the hell out of eye of the toolish storm, which gives them time to reflect on how to fill their blog quotas for the day.

That, e-friends, is called a hot mess. And I'm not just talking about Sen. Joe Lieberman's (I-Conn.) standing in the Democratic caucus! HIYO! (Although, actually, his standing is fine after he and Sen. Majority Leader Harry Reid (Nev.) thug-hugged it out yesterday.) No, I'm talking about the hot mess of proverbial little guys, like myself, trying to break the same news as everyone else. In other words, stakeouts are a gigantic waste of time. And they smell bad, as it usual goes with any situation that requires a mass of humans to cram into a tiny space. It's like a rock concert without the rock star, unless, of course, you're my mom, who for some unknown reason is in love with Joe Lieberman. Trust me, he ain't no Norm Coleman, who best be planning to bring sexy back to DC -- regardless of the outcome of his election results -- when the 111th Congress convenes in January, if not just to let me treat him to a grilled cheese and freedom fries in the Dirkson building. He's worth a two-and-a-half star lunch.

Wishful thinking aside, it's time to roll the single die again.


The pants are stayin' off.

Outfit details: Dress -- matty m; Cardigan -- Kenneth Cole; Tights -- Filene's Basement; Boots -- Steven by Steve Madden (and yes, I own the exact same boots in brown...don't judge, they're effing comfortable).

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

that dirty joke better make me puke

As far as workplaces go, mine is definitely awesomely abnormal. For one, the vast majority of my tiny office is 30 or under. In fact, save for our boss and our office manager, the entire office is squarely part of Generation Y. Yet while our birth certificates claim us as part of Generation Y, I'm pretty sure we come off as even more immature.

My office is a bit of an indoor playground from hell. There is A LOT of Nerf weaponry; a large poster of a former assistant secretary to something decorated with Flock of Seagulls hair, Kanye West glasses, a molester mustache and, of course, several shirtless Putins; and a whole slew of inter-office taglines, including, but not limited to:

"I'm not too good for that."


"I'll bite your ass!"

"Who's this dick?"

"Tease Me With Your Butt, The Sequel."

And of course, the very necessary, "That's what she said," which punctuates the end of far more inappropriate sentences than it does at Dunder Mifflin. Moreover, as to be expected, rape, butt cancer and any jokes that would be considered suitable material for a multi-million, possibly billion dollar sexual harassment lawsuit elsewhere abound. Once, my boss even asked me to Google "hot pants." Don't ask.

The point is, if my office suddenly shut down and we all had to get jobs elsewhere, we'd probably all be swiftly fired, or at least I would be, as having only previously worked in offices in Moscow, Russia, I've been completely conditioned to never get offended nor realize when I offend someone else. Although, I suppose, by "realize," I mainly mean "care." I just don't care.

Apparently, however, this would make me a most unsuitable candidate to work at Metro (as well as very poor as I'd be fending off at least a dozen lawsuits every few months), as The Examiner reports a Metro engineer of 16 years was fired recently for telling a dirty joke.

When I first heard about this story, I must admit I was very intrigued. I wanted to know what this controversial dirty joke was so I could tell it to my office! Luckily, the bloggers extraordinaire over at DCist did this legwork (or would it be buttwork, since we're talking about something naughty?) for me:

Uncle is drinking at a bar with his nephew.

Nephew says, "I finally got to give my girlfriend oral sex last night. But it wasn't like you said. Thanks for the tips, but it didn't taste at all like a peach. It tasted like sh*t."

Uncle says: "Well, you've got to flip her over."

What?! That's it?! A little cunnilingus allusion and a scatological reference?! That will get you fired in this town?! Are we sure it was because this joke was offensive? Because honestly, I'd be more likely to fire him for telling such a disappointingly unfunny dirty joke. I mean, if you're going to go for it, then GO FOR IT. Bestiality! Necrophilia! I mean, can I get a "What What (In the Butt)" for Samwell's sake?!

In fact, if you're going to get fired, forget about words all together, because it's inappropriate actions that make for the best material for long-time laughs. Perhaps an inappropriate massage from your 60-something-year-old boss? Or maybe his hexagenarian endomorphic gut gets a little too close to you for comfort? Or hell, let's go ball's out (that pun is clearly intended) -- perhaps it's high time we all just pop our pants off in the workplace. Or maybe just me. My tight pants feel so constricting sometimes.

Yet even if I did do that, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't get fired because, as we've learned from the above story, I'm pretty sure there is no office more depraved than the one in which I work, meaning that, besides the part about having actual reponsibilities, my office is the tightest comedic environment I could ever ask for. Seriously, I bet I could literally run around this place naked setting sh*t on fire and I still wouldn't get fired. Although, I guess that would depend on what I burned. The point is, my office is a magical little place where the line is a dot and even then it's still invisible. It's perfect.

Except, seriously, can I get some staples up in this piece?! Honestly, who do I need to go sexually harass to fill my stapler?! "THAT'S. WHAT. SHE. SAID!"

Monday, November 17, 2008

so important i forgot the title...


It's no secret that I'm retarded. I meant to break this hot news this weekend, but I was too lazy not really doing anything at all, so it clearly slipped my mind.

But how?! I don't usually f*ck around when it comes to espousing my love for the world's best club act, Claire Hux.

One half of the group itself, DLake, was kind enough to inform me last week that the group plans on officially releasing its latest mixtape tomorrow, which means posting today, while still inexcusably late, is still breaking news. By a few hours, at least.

However, the real news would've been if he had told me Claire Hux was coming to DC. Unfortunately, I'm still anxiously awaiting that one. Or maybe I'll just have to make that happen because, they're funny, talented and they inadvertently featured me in the background of their latest promotional video. (Fortunately for me, as I look as I described myself above, I'm harder to find than Waldo.)

In the meantime, download the latest Claire Hux mixtape HERE and make sure to tell your e-friends, real friends and anyone else who likes to dance because if there's any justice in this world at all, these guys will be taking over the world soon! Or at least a nightclub or two a million and it's better to get in on the proverbial ground dance floor now. Just sayin'.


Just got word that Claire Hux may be planning an Inauguration Day event with several DC-based DJs!!! Mental note it, physical note it, digital note it -- JANUARY 20! More details to come...


move bitch, get out the way

I call upon Ludacris's classic "Move Bitch" today to dedicate it to several pedestrians who made me: 1) Slam on my bike's sh*tty, almost useless, brakes; 2) Swerve into a grassy knoll where, had I not possessed the reflexes of a young gazelle, I would have most definitely ran into a tree; and/or 3) Stop riding no-handed, which I was deftly doing to either position my coat's collar in front of my face to act like a scarf or change songs on my iPod.

Astute pedestrians may be asking a fair question right now: What the hell am I doing riding on the sidewalk in the first place? Well, my commute takes me up upper Connecticut Ave., where, unlike downtown, it's not illegal to ride on the sidewalk and also, the whole thing is almost entirely uphill, which means I average about 5 miles per hour. It's basic self-interest that leads me to get the hell off the street where drivers decide for themselves what the speed limit should be.

Even more astute pedestrians, though, may be asking an ever fairer question: Why didn't I just f*cking wear a scarf and make a decent playlist as to eliminate aforementioned complaint No. 3? OK, so that third numerical bullet is a bit of a stretch, but I never claimed to not be an idiot. Plus, riding no-handed is so much more fun because it frees up my hands to act like drumsticks so when I finally find the song I'm looking for on my iPod I can get to dancing-- and dancing mid-ride on a bicycle is seriously underrated. Trust me.

Which brings me to a question for errant pedestrians: If you see a cyclist in tight yellow pants, flailing her arms about and occasionally beating her own ass to a silent rhythm, why wouldn't you just get out the way? Does basic self-interest not apply to those on two legs? I mean, I can't imagine not getting out of the way because that sh*t probably looks crazy.

Which brings me to this point: A large number of pedestrians don't watch where they're going when they walk. The main culprit, I've noticed, is the ubiquitous BlackBerry. Now, I get it -- it's hard not to check your Gmail when it's right there in your hand. And when your friend Blair writes you about what Chuck Bass did to Little J, I get that you'll be compelled to respond ASAP, regardless of what is going on around you. But really, if it's a choice between someone less adroit than myself, which means some 95 percent of the population, running you down on a bicycle or forwarding that SMS to your catty friends, I have a hard time believing the latter is more important. After all, a swift bike wheel over your toe is bound to leave a mark on those several-seasons-ago UGGs you're still wearing, which, I suppose, can't make them any more hideous, but you get the point.

Or do you?

See, what I'm trying to say is that you're not that important. There is no business so important that it simply cannot wait for you to conduct when you're not walking. You are not a cop on Law & Order. You are not Ice-T. You're not even those rejects from Criminal Intent.

In fact, if you are that important that you're required to conduct business in transit then you probably wouldn't be walking to the Metro to commute to your job. Your job would commute to you in the form of a luxury vehicle or, more likely in this city, several luxury vehicles in the form of a motorcade. Trust me, your life will get a whole lot better if you just accept your non-significance. (Mine did!) For one, I won't nearly run you over on my bike. That's certainly a plus!

And now to close, not in full circle, mind you, but in an oval-like formation, I will return to the subject of bike-dancing and what may be the greatest (read: only) bike-dancing movie of all time: "Quicksilver," starring Kevin Bacon, who plays a financial whiz turned bike messenger/dancer. This sh*t is beyond what I can do, which begins and ends with mock drumming on my person, but in my mind I've been doing handstands on my handlebars for years. You may also notice a quick appearance by Louie Anderson in this clip. In what is surely a tell of how clever and original this movie is, his character's name is Tiny. Get it? A fat man named Tiny! Whodda thunk!?

And if you have another 9 minutes and 38 seconds of time to waste (and you do, considering I just established you're not that important), I suggest you click HERE for another couple of vignettes from "Quicksilver," which I plan on watching in full on the job soon because I'm really unimportant. The first part features Mr. Bacon, my apparent fashion inspiration considering he's sporting both a beret and fingerless gloves, and, uh, Laurence Fishburne (?!) with a rape whistle! Hmm, I think I might have to take back that sarcasm-adorned assessment I gave the film above because after watching these scenes, I think I may have e-stumbled upon the greatest piece of cinema ever made. No one runs Laurence Fishburne over and gets away with it, goddammit!

Friday, November 14, 2008

in which balls come up thrice point five times

I woke up extremely disappointed this morning when I realized that the reality my REM sleep cycle helped me create last night wasn't actually real. I don't remember all the glorious details, but I was definitely go-kart racing Vladimir Putin and David Caruso. I woke up before the end, so I don't know who won. Nor do I know how we all decided to take to the go-kart track in the first place. What I do know, however, is that we were all good friends. What does this have to do with anything, you ask? Those two grace this week's lazy blogger list, which has me linking to the tightest sh*t on the Web! And to continue my quest of learning how to count to five in various foreign languages, this week I'm using one of my personal favorites -- Finnish. This language sounds so f*cking cool, especially when sung by Eljan "Johnny" Liebkind, who may or may not be in prison on account of a couple of white collar crimes. Whoops! But I won't judge. This list is dedicated to Johnny. (May I also just add in, that Finland is home of 2006 Eurovision "song" contest winner Lordi, who unfortunately sing in English (or, um sing at all), but fortunately entitled a song "Bringing Back the Balls to Rock." Enjoy that one!)

Yksi! But back to Putin and Caruso. I got into a very serious argument last night with someone who tried to deny Caruso's awesomeness. It was ridiculous, since it's a simple fact of life that Caruso's sh*t is tight. So tight, in fact, is Caruso's sh*t that even Putin has taken to emulating him. Can't you just picture it? Putin and Sarkozy are in Miami. Putin cooly removes his sunglasses and says over his shoulder about the Georgian president, "I am going to hang Saakashvili by the balls." Cue The Who: YYYYYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Kaksi! Remember the DIPLO show I blogged in which we learned I'm apparently at least a smidgen sweet on DC? Well, here's some sweet photographic evidence that better explains why.

Kolme! OK, now let's move forward, well, numerically, that is, since I'm actually going to link to what the always hilarious Bike Snob NYC posted on Wednesday. He came up with the metaphorical perfectly tailored pair of tight pants of theories, and hot damn, I love a good theory! Excerpt: "Stupidity minus Anger equals Weirdness. In other words, when I observe something inexplicable and get angry about it, I've observed something stupid. But when I observe something inexplicable and don't get angry, I've simply observed something weird. And weirdness is much easier to live with than stupidity." Who knew BS was so full of truth? (See what I did there? HIYO!) He also discusses this bicycle wheel, which has clearly had it up to its spoke nipple with haters.

Neljä! This will be funny to maybe three people who read this blog, which is probably a healthy 50 percent of its readership, so I'll go ahead and post it. If you speak Russian, you'll be laughing your goddamn жёпа [zhopa] off at the phonetic subtitles in this video. If you don't, I'll just tell you those kids are singing about sluts -- shaggy sluts! (And now I'll wait for the Google searches to lead a whole new group of pervs here.)

Viisi! Last and definitlely least, I will leave you with this, which is how people without cable keep up with really important sh*t that happens in America. In place of talking about "smoking balls," though, this week Brian, my favorite dork from The Pickup Artist 2, talks about dressing up as Richard Simmons, grabbing "a boob" and running away. Slick!

Thursday, November 13, 2008

mind A LOT blown

Remember when I mused about Dan Deacon earlier this week and how the crowd miraculously didn't suck? Then remember the next day when things returned to normal at Conor Oberst & The Mystic Valley Band? Well, after last night's DIPLO show at the Black Cat, my mind is all in a tailspin again because:


I don't know what happened. Perhaps, a tear in the space-time continuum opened up and swallowed up all the douches, leaving just those who -- hold on to your skinny jeans -- like to actually dance at dance parties because that's exactly what happened.


In fact, when DIPLO would periodically give the occasional rhythmic shout-out to DC, it didn't even sound the least bit sarcastic. More unbelievably retardulous, I actually responded unsarcastically with a genuine WOOT! It was as if I had died and gone to Baltimore (which I'm still convinced, thanks to the likes of Dan Deacon, Claire Hux and a slew of other phenomenal acts that hail from there, is a little slice of heaven on Earth). And to save us all some time and unnecessary suspense, I'll just go ahead and say it:


I really did. And at times I even loved it, like when I saw a man dressed like a giant slice of pizza surf over the crowd, or when a hot dog came up and started dancing with my friends and I:

By the way, the one who's not a hot-dog is my new friend Marcus, who is awesome because he also believes Claire Hux to be the best club act of all time. You can't refute facts.

It was crazy, in general, and balls buns out insane for DC. In fact, the entire scene last night was just begging to be captured on film. However, considering one need stand still to take a proper picture, this is all my non-stop sweet-dancing ass could capture:

I honestly don't even know if this is upright.

I did manage, however, to have better luck with the video mode of my sh*tty technology, which sort of captures a bit of what was going on. It's short because I couldn't stop myself from casting the visual media concerns of this blog aside and concentrating solely on having a good time (did I mention it's pretty much damn near impossible not to dance when DIPLO spins?).

Thanks DC. I hate you less!

But before I blow out the last proverbial speaker on the single-cassette-deck ghetto-blaster that is The Anti DC Live Music Week, I want to discuss a theory that came up in the comments section the other day regarding the 9:30 Club. Commenter Chris advised:

If you want to enjoy a show, stop going to the 9:30 club. For some reason that place attracts everyone in D.C. who doesn't like music.

Black Cat, RnR, DC9, Velvet. I've always had much better times at those places.

Looking back at my past experiences, I think I agree with Chris. Is it too much to ask for an audience that chooses to show up at a concert to actually listen to the act that's playing? Or, you know, cover up gratuitous ass crack? 9:30, I just don't get it. I'd say I'd see you in hell, but really, I'll just see you in December when Ghostland Observatory graces your stage. I guess I just never learn...

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

yet somehow i'm still gainfully employed...

It's been a year since I first posted this, the original thesis statement of this silly little blogging endeavor. Have I stuck to it? Kind of. Do I care? Not really. Unlike Baskin Robbins circa 1996, I can't get fired from this job, since, well, it's not really a job. Phew. But much like a job, in the past year the metaphorical huffing glue that is The Anti DC has morphed from a random hobby into a daily obsession. Unfortunately, mastering the art of bitching with a generous dollop of retardedness, doesn't add any pennies to my McScrooge-style money vault. But what it lacks in cold hard cash, this blog makes up for in unhealthy ego inflation. Apparently, people read this sh*t. Who knew?! Well, Statcounter, I guess.

But while my spiffy Statcounter tells me how many people get here and from where they come (Googling "vladimir putin speedo" recently led someone here), no gadget of any kind will ever enlighten me as to why people actually stay. Is it my e-magnetism? My elegant wordsmithing? Or am I simply the e-village idiot? Whatever the reason, it's besides the point (although I suspect it's the latter) because it's time I extend a sincere thank you to all of you, the readers, who make writing each day all the more enjoyable. So, thank you. And merci, gracias, danke, 谢谢, kiitos, спасибо, شكر and so on and so forth to all the misguided Googlers around the world searching for "hookers in tight pants." Hey, wait a second...

But enough about you, let's get back to the real cause for celebration -- my unending dorkdom.

And so, allow me to shove you down memory lane, or, for those of you who are relative newcomers, allow me to introduce you to some of my past "work" by composing a masturbatory timeline highlighting the milestones that led to this blog's current state of degeneration. Break out the virtual guns and super-sized bottles of booze and gather 'round your loved ones because it's e-party time!

11/12/07: wait, wait ... you're how old again? I consider this my first respectable post, but has DC met my plea to "remove the proverbial stick swiftly and permanently wedged in its collective ass?" The jury in my mind is still out on that. But more importantly, I still can't detect any permanent wrinkles!

11/19/07: ground control to major douche In what would later become a full-scale theory, this post marks my first attempts to understand "douchebaggism" through the actions of a man named Rusty Cox. I wonder who he's making feel uncomfortable with his unwanted sexual advances this year?

12/12/07: i'll see your bleached jeans and pleather go-go boots in hell The Anti DC Theory of Fashion, which I still believe to be valid today, came to fruition in this post, thanks to the mind-reader that is Miss Cleo, as well as the genius of Pee-Wee Herman and the cartoon phlegm made famous in Mucinex ads. Yeah, it's a solid theory.

12/20/07: i'll see dc's public transportation system in hell Continuing a series of DC-related things I nonchalantly announced I would "see in hell," this post marked my first usage of my most favorite non-word, "retardulous." Re-reading this post makes me so happy that I'm now a bicycle commuter. Not only do I no longer have to see DC's retardulous public transportation system in hell, but I don't have to see it at all.

1/4/08: dc fashion blog jihad anyone? Thanks to a shout-out by A Serious Job Is No Excuse's Johanna, who will hopefully win an editorial position at Elle as part of that show Stylista, which I can't even watch because I'm poor and only get four channels (sigh), this post is probably in the Top 3 as far as how many human eyes have seen it. (And that sentence is in the Top 3 as far as how many clauses I can pack in.) It was also my first post that had repercussions, since I targeted specific blogs run by actual human beings, rather than dumb generalizations that no one cares about. Whoops. And so the next day I issued my first and only clarification, i.e. I'm not a complete asshole (i've got some 'splainin to do!).

2/26/08: home on the range... A whole new world of awesome opened up for me regarding the activity about which I composed this post -- skeet-shooting. I loved it so much that I decided to try my hand at video-montage making. Did it work out? I guess, in a remedial sort of way. This post also contains the first of a now far-too-regular feature, outfit amour-propre, that has me HTML-ing ridiculous photos of myself that will surely come back to haunt me in the future. On the other hand, I've got a mega tight firearm in this picture, which might haunt your dreams.

3/14/08: where there's smoke, there's hitchhiking Accurate reporting and ethics have never really been important on this blog, so I have no way of verifying the purported truth most of the time, unless, of course, something happens directly to me (and even then, it's probably still a little sketchy). However, I had to take this guy's word for it regarding the day DC became helpful and friendly. It's too good not to believe. However, the next day the city returned to business douching as usual.

3/17/08: party like it's 1999 ... in hell Once again, as I continue to astound myself on this e-trip down memory lane, I was spot on in my analysis. As far as nightlife in DC goes, I'm still convinced there are excellent nights and then nights that make you want to do something illegal just to get arrested. Yes, even prison sounds more pleasant than some supposed "clubs" in DC.

3/20/08: and now i will offensively explain why you hate your job I'm sensing that the more I blogged, the more creative my titles got, if, of course, by "creative" I mean I could've saved everyone from reading something excessively long by just stopping at an 11-word headline. And, surprisingly, this post did not get me fired. Although there's always still time for that, I suppose...

4/9/08: shambles p.i.: dc better watch its proverbial back In my never-ending quest to expand my offensive reach, this day marked the first of what has become almost as regular a feature as me blogging my own outfits (see above). Judging from reader feedback, Shambles P.I. might be the most popular and interactive aspect of this entire blog. See? That's what The Anti DC is all about -- bringing people together ... to collectively mock others. You're welcome.

4/17/08: uh-oh! people don't like me! If you've read this blog for any period of time, chances are you've realized The Anti DC does it's fair share of courting e-trouble, whatever that means. In turn, it seems not everyone loves me. It's weird. But to those people, I continue to say, "I'll see you in hell."

5/6/08: i will see your motor vehicle in hell Marking one of the most glorious days since I've moved to DC, this post outlines my purchase of my bicycle, Baguette. Vive le liberté!

5/31/08: p-a-r-t-y? 'cuz we got to! I try my hand at fiction using all the winning words from the Scripps National Spelling Bee, which I was cool enough to watch on TV when it aired...on a Saturday night. If I'm in DC for next year's bee, though, I am 100 percent attending this sh*t live. I'll be sure to wear nacarat and cause an esclandre.

6/16/08: i bought tickets to the gun show My fascination with guns continued throughout the summer when The Law and I attended our very first, quite probably illegal gun show. This sh*t was hardcore in that I almost got lynched for taking a photo. On the other hand, I learned how to put a booby-trap in a chocolate bar.

8/11/08: you're a dick, ma'am This post records what probably is my most ridiculous effort to throw down a gauntlet of justice on a driver's ass. To this day, I don't understand what happened...sir.

9/8/08: inevitable questions Coming off an employer-funded bender in Vegas is never easy. However, avoiding conversations with uninteresting people is. Clutch advice, no? Don't answer that...

10/3/08 death threats! hooray! And to close this megalomaniacal review of my megalomaniacal e-personality disorder, I'll conclude with a post about an incident that proved to me that I had finally e-made it -- my first threat of bodily harm. Thank you, anonymous would-be maimer, thank you. You made my year!

Here's to another?


Tuesday, November 11, 2008

another concert in hell was craptastic

To truly enjoy the good, I'm convinced that one must also experience the bad. And so it goes, from the triumphant Dan Deacon show on Friday, I now write about the disappointing Conor Oberst show last night. Let me count the ways...

1) Conor Oberst & The Mystic Valley Band are not Bright Eyes.

I know I should have realized this more clearly coming in, but need I remind you I'm a bit of an idiot? I don't know what I expected, but I certainly did not expect to see a Wilco cover band. OK, that's a bit harsh. While Oberst seemed to be impersonating Jeff Tweedy at times (and in hat), there's no impersonation in his voice. Oberst has one of the most unique voices I've ever heard. It's instantly recognizable whether he's surrounded by cellos and synthesizers or, uh, Wilco redux. In fact, the best parts of the show, in my obnoxious opinion, were when it was just Oberst and his guitar (i.e. "Milkthistle") or when the band wasn't in full alt-country rock mode (i.e. "Cape Canaveral"). Sorry, MVB, you're good, but I'm just not that in to you...

2) I'm no longer 19.

If it wasn't evident in my snippet on Oberst in yesterday's post, Oberst used to top my list of indie rock crushes. Well, I'm sad to say that proverbial ship has sailed. Back in the day (hmm...how many cliches can I type in a row?), Oberst was a brooding, shaggy-haired emo kid who sang about his mythical brother drowning in the bathtub. Here he is at my alma mater circa 1999 doing just that:

Today, Oberst no longer seems depressed. It's abominable, I know! Instead, he dances around on stage like he's having a good time. He smiles. And in place of any bathtub incidents, he sings about not dying in a hospital. Apparently, he's happy and that's just dandy for him, but what about me and my memories?! I don't get crushes on happy! Does he not owe me anything?! At least he still has shaggy hair. And that voice...

3) The crowd.

While the above two complaints stem from my own immaturity and inability to accept that a person can change, grow or otherwise develop artisticly in the span of 10 years, my last complaint is definitely not my own damn fault. Not to allude to my first concert in hell again, but for comparative purposes, I need to. That concert with its sucktastic crowd has nothing on the sh*t The Law and I endured last night.

a) The douche.

Of course, a loudmouthed DC douche showed up, but it was our luck that he stood right behind us. Then he said this to us mid-conversation with some other girl:

Douche: I suppose you two are here to see Conor, too.

Me: Uh...yeah.

Douche: I knew it! Every girl is!

Me: Well, you do know he's headlining, right? Aren't you here to see him, too?

Douche: Um. Yeah.

After that we turned around and he started chanting "Ben's Chili Bowl" for no reason. Not even joking.

b) Two sorority girls.

And speaking of food, some ignorant asshole Beta Kappa Gammas or whatever decided during a very quiet part of one of the few songs I truly enjoyed ("Cape Canaveral") that they'd chat about if they'd eaten a meal of food that day.

Gamma Lamda Alpha #1: Like, I haven't eaten alllllllll, like, day. Like, seriously.

Kappa Retard Dumbass # 2: OMG! Like, I totally haven't eaten, like, all day either! OMFG! We, like, should go get some food or something, right?

#1: Like, totally. But where? Like, what's around here and stuff?

#2: Like, IDK. Maybe like a sandwich or like a burritto. I, like, don't really know anything around here. Gaaaaaawd.

Seconds later I snapped, as any sane person would.

Me (whispering, as not to disturb others, although they were already disturbed): Excuse me, can you take this conversation elsewhere? It's hard to hear over your banter.

#2: WHAT? We're, like, talking.

Me: I realize that. That's the problem. There's a show going on here. No one cares where you're going to eat later. Please be quiet.

#1: Why don't you, like, just move forward! Gawd!

Let me just say here that this stupid bitch was lucky that Oberst's voice is so damn enthralling because at the exact moment I was contemplating actually punching this asshole in the face, he bellowed out something so wonderful sounding that I was compelled despite my will to turn my attention back to the stage. By the time I remembered these insolent brats needed to be taught a lesson, they had vanished. I guess they were smarter than I thought.

c) Ass crack.

Question: When did half-shirts come back in? Girl, pull your pants up! Those things are dangerously low!

4) My photos.

Unlike Dan Deacon's show, I was unable to get close enough to the stage to snap a decent photo, other than the one of some random girl's unfortunate low-riding jeans, so here's what I got. They're embarrassingly bad (although still not as embarrassing as those pants above), but so was my overall experience last night, so, I suppose, it's all serendipitous. It also means DC is back to normal!

After a hat swap with the keyboardist, even Oberst was driven to drink.

Monday, November 10, 2008

mind a little bit blown

Whenever I check out live music in DC, the one thing I never expect is the crowd to be cool, fun, interactive or otherwise interesting. After all, this is the city where some friends and I once got yelled at for dancing at a concert during which the singer begged the audience to dance. But Washington surprised me on Friday during Dan Deacon's set at the Hirshhorn. Not only was the crowd dancing and having evident fun, but it was composed of f*cking cool, laid-back people. Trust me, I'm just as shocked as you are.

Collective fist pump action!

Crowdsurfing?! Well, I'll be damned!

But the highlight, of course, as with any musician worthy of my time and money, was the music. To try to explain what kind of music Dan Deacon composes and plays would be like asking a idiot -- and not even of the savant variety -- to explain the theory of relativity using only interpretive dance. Since I'm an idiot, I certainly couldn't do that, and, likewise, I definitely can't describe Deacon's musical stylings using words. All I really can say is the man has mega tight skills, as it were.

And along with his music, Deacon puts on quite the show. Opposed to setting up on a stage, he prefers to be in the crowd, which he explained to Brightest Young Things last week.

That's his head near the bottom righthand corner.

That's his head again.

And again.

See? I wasn't joking. But the beauty of Deacon's set-up is that you can watch him from any angle, which is awesome for photographers, even sh*tty ones like myself, because it allows us not just to digitally capture the back of his head (as exhibited above), but to capture his bearded visage, as well.

Why, hello there!

I dig your electronic gadgets!

Thanks! I dig giant heads f*cking up photographs.

And if you really want a taste of the live experience, check out this extra sh*teous video clip I shot while dancing, as to make it even more shaky and unwatchable! Hooray!

One thing I will say in defense of the low quality of that video, is that the weak sound wasn't necessarily my fault. A couple of the speakers kept blowing out, which was super annoying since the Hirshhorn is open-air with fairly poor acoustics. Out of 11, I'd say the overall loudness of the whole show was maybe a six, which is a shame considering Deacon's songs are best heard when your ear drums yearn to magically pop out of your head and start beating you.

Overall, though, I really did enjoy this show. In fact, save for the technical glitches, it was probably the best show I've seen in DC and definitely one of the most unique ones I've been to anywhere in the world. To illustrate, at one point Deacon requested everyone take off running around the perimeter of the Hirshhorn and I'd say at least 200 of us got our jog on. It was definitely nuts, but in such a good way.

And speaking of nuts, I just Google-blog-searched "dan deacon dc" and got schooled by a 16-year-old girl named Nina whose excellent review of Friday's show makes mine seem straight remedial. Kudos, young e-friend. I just got e-served.

Alas, however, the live-show fun this week will not end here! Tonight, Conor Oberst of Bright Eyes fame is taking the stage at the 9:30 Club. Oberst holds a special nostalgic place in my mechanical heart -- he was the unwitting subject of my first musician interview back in 1999 (or was it '98?) when I wrote for one of my alma mater's now-defunct music magazines, The Creature. I've Googled the hell out of the Interweb trying to track down a link to this first interview, but to no avail, which is probably for the best as it demonstrates just how much of a stupid groupie I used to be back then. (Um, yeah, totally in the past, uh, totally.) If I remember correctly, my first question had something to do with how Oberst and I both studied Russian, which immediately affirmed my stalker status and established an overall creeptastic tone for the rest of the interview. I bet Nina would never have done that. Seriously, how is she so talented at 16?!?!? I wuz stil lurnin 2 reed @ dat age, let aloan rite paragrafz. Sigh.

But somehow, I did learn how to write paragraphs. So many paragraphs, in fact, that, including this post, I've now accumulated a grand total of 300 posts. Which means Nina probably has 1,000...Oh, kids these days. They're apparently geniuses.

Friday, November 7, 2008

dc's khakis in bunch again

One of my first impressions of DC was that many of its staunchest supporters have a giant chip on their shoulders; a monkey on their backs, if you will. Or at least a Cheney on their asses. The point is, I often find that when anyone attempts to criticize, generalize or otherwise allude to anything that might suggest DC is chock full of federally employed tools, this group gets unduly defensive.

After living here for a longish bit of time as well as meeting a handful of people that have avoided joining the ranks of the Capitol Hill stereotype, I can see why people find articles like this one, published yesterday in the New York Times (which I'm thinking probably bunches these pro-DCers' khakis even more), annoying.

To save you from reading the entire article (if you haven't already), it's a cutesy, largely throw-away political piece about how the personality of the President influences general trends and the overall feeling of Washington. Just how cutesy and throw-away? Here's the first line:

Bill Clinton brought jazz, Rhodes scholars, a slice of Arkansas and all-night pizza policy sessions. When George W. Bush arrived, Texans took over the town. Blue jeans were out; coats and ties and cowboy boots were in.

Surely, Ms. Sheryl Gay Stolberg, is aiming for satire here (although rather non-sensical, as I'm pretty sure cowboys love jeans), but you get the idea. Apparently Obama, who is "young, hip and multicultural, with a Harvard law degree, a writer’s sensibility and a smooth left-handed jump shot," will oust the Texans and bring back denim. Or whatever. The point is, sh*t just won't change politically on Capitol Hill (although that remains to be seen...), but culturally, as well. Fair enough.

So why are people, particularly over at DCist, so TO'd? For one, I suppose the article fails to send the proverbial full body shot of what DC really looks like. Clearly, with 93 percent of DC's electorate voting in favor of Obama while Bush is in the White House, no less, suggests that the city has not, in fact, been overrun by Texans in cowboy boots and 10-gallon hats. If that were so, wouldn't it seem more likely that McCain would have won 93 percent of the electorate? I ♥ my logic.

But for anyone with a slightly deeper knowledge of DC, we realize most of the city is far removed from what goes down in the White House. Rather than worrying about this policy or that appropriation, we worry about walking home late at night and not getting shot in the face. Or, perhaps more telling, heading to Sunday brunch and not getting capped. Then again, I guess it's not out of the realm of possibility that Cheney is the one wielding the gun...

But who's targeting whom is not the point. The point is, the New York Times article spoke to the image of DC as the Capital of the Free World, not to DC as the city with the highest per capita crime rate. Or to DC, a town that, despite the overwhelming clusterf*ck of government activity, still has a pretty respectable scene if you do some digging. After all, Dan Deacon's playing the Hirshhorn tonight and I'm sure Bush has never even heard of him. And who knows, maybe he'll wear jeans! CRAZY!

Now maybe it's just me, but I don't have a problem with articles, like Ms. Stolberg's, that purport the DC stereotype that everything revolves around politics here, including the city's very identity. Why? Because it's largely true. If your job doesn't involve the government in some way, shape or form, then you, my e-friend (and really, if your job doesn't involve the government, I would like to be your friend), are the exception. If you don't find yourself out networking with an array of tools at least a couple of times per year, then you, again, my hopeful future friend, are the exception. Like it or not, that's life in DC -- Northwest, Northeast, Southwest and Southeast.

This town only exists because of the government. Think about it, DC was never a port city or major business center (save for government contracting). People don't travel here to check out the fabulous fashion or music scene (because it barely exists); instead, they come to see the various monuments, meet their representatives and tour the Capitol. Sure the Smithsonians are must-sees, but judging from firsthand experience of my own, whenever I came to DC as a tourist when I was a kid, it was government first, museums second. And, if I was lucky, hotel swimming pool third, which, obviously, would've been my No. 1 pick.

It's time people in DC just accept the city's fate. As long as the government sits itself on the metaphorical toilet that is Capitol Hill, this town will now and forever be thought of as just that -- a giant government-owned and operated inexhaustible goblet. One that no plumber, not even Joe (one last shout out!), can fix if it breaks. And it breaks a lot. And smells weird.

Thursday, November 6, 2008

rock'n'roll posters and half-a-dozen guns

Two of my most favorite things in life are rock'n'roll and art. So when I get a chance to meet'n'greet with a person who combines them both, I jump on it. Well, not literally. Although I hear people may not think that's out of the realm of possibilities anymore, as I'll admit I'm a bit of a wild card (bitches). But alas, still contending with a touch of the plague, I only metaphorically jumped on John Foster's art exhibition, which took place at Dahlak last night and featured a wall full plus-some of his most awesome rock'n'roll posters.

Seriously, the man's got talent (as if he needs to hear, or rather, see that again):

I now own this last one (thx JF)!

However, never one to be outdone and always one to hook for attention, I decided to draw upon Mr. Foster as inspiration and create my own rock'n'roll poster. Or at least a retardulous image of myself juggling half a dozen guns in a sweet vintage dress.

If that doesn't e-scream rock'n'roll and art to you, then -- clearly -- you haven't been huffing enough glue indulging in large enough doses of a hot pharmaceutical mix I like to call ZiZi -- dangerous amounts of Zinc supplements and a whole lot o' Zicam. Seriously, I've had so many Zinc lozenges in the past two days that I'm pretty sure I'm magnetic (and not just proverbially). Which, I suppose, explains why and how I've managed to suspend six real life e-guns in mid-ether.

Anyhighonoverthecountermeds, let's get to the real magic in this sweet rock'n'roll poster. Did you peep my dress? It's the very same one I alluded to having scooped up for $16 a couple of months ago at the surprisingly sophisticated and quite enjoyable Goodwill Fashion show. Not only is it one of the most comfortable and functional items I've ever found for under $20 (it has pockets!), but it also moves magnificently, which makes biking in it (even in heels) at least as fun as twirling around in my apartment like an acid-tripping hippie juggling guns in it.

But alas, as hard as I tried (and trust me, that kind of virtual hand-eye coordination I'm e-exhibiting does not come easy), my single remedial rock'n'roll poster can't compete with John's works of actual awesomeness. In fact, if you're into 'em, John's work is currently available for purchase. Mine? Well, I prefer to just give it all away; donate it to the well-being of world, as it were. Because when you see the twisted e-sh*t that comes forth from the dank bowels of my mind, you always know there's at least one human-type person out there who's a little worse off than you. You're welcome. Now, pass the Zinc.

Outfit details: Dress -- vintage, unknown designer; Plum tights -- Filene's Basement; Patent ankle boots -- Steve Madden.