shambles p.i. -- what am i in russia? edition

In the twisted logic that makes up the e-world that is The Anti DC, life is a game of heads or tails. However, in this game "heads" means I win and "tails" means you lose. What does this boil down to? Well, for one, it clearly indicates that I have the intellect of a clever grade school student. But more importantly, it means everyone but me is always a loser. At least when it comes to Shambles P.I.-ing what passes for fashion in this phenomenally fugly city of ours.

See, I usually take to posting photos of the unfabulously frumpy. Who could forget the stained sweatpants? The flip-flops and nylons? Or whatever the hell is going on here? You can try to wipe those ghastly images from your mind, but unless you're willing to undergo a lobotomy, chances are these fashion Pearl Harbors and 9/11's will never completely be erased from your mind. Like they say, never forget.

See? Heads, I win.

But like I said, this game of heads or tails is skewed in my favor, so when someone takes the opposite route when it comes to fashion and dresses to the nines, the proverbial "tails" of this story, they also lose. I mean, really?


I spotted this woman on my way to snatch up a $5 footlong sandwich from Subway (EAT FRESH!®), which apparently people are now asking the sandwich artists to chop into threes so they can eat it throughout the day. (Luckily, I'm only poor enough to have them chop it in two, which takes care of my lunch and dinner! Quick sidebar, though: Upside to the economic crisis -- we'll all slim down from malnutrition?)

Anystarvationdiet, what you're seeing here is a full-length fur coat of unknown origin with matching patent leather accessories. Now, I'm not one to shy away from patent leather (I own several pairs of patent leather shoes, after all), but when you combine patent leather, a stiletto heel, and a shiv-worthy pointed toe together on one boot, you look pretty much like a hooker. Or a Russian. Whichever.

The thing is, as I learned in the first half of this decade, hooker boots actually serve a purpose in the colder parts of the former Soviet Union, such as Moscow. The heel, much like an ice-pick, can be used to steady oneself on the unsalted streets, thus keeping you upright. So, in essence, in Moscow, those kind of boots are anti-hooker shoes as they prevented you from existing in a whore's natural horizontal state. But in DC? There's not enough ice to justify this kind of function over fashion, which renders these boots simply ugly.

Along the same lines, we must examine the coat. While much like a patent leather shoe, I can appreciate a fur coat, there is a time and place. Since scooping up my $25 version (or, as I now convert monetary amounts -- my five-$5-footlong version) at a Goodwill not long ago, I've actually never worn it. Why? Because DC just doesn't get that cold! In Russia, much like a pair of hooker boots (or anti-hooker boots, as it were), I would've worn my five-$5-footlong fur every day. But here? Sweat is not an attractive accessory.

But hey, in the end, despite that the woman pictured above is also a victim of Shambles P.I., I have to give her some credit for at least trying. Unlike the flip side of this shambley coin, her outfit didn't make me want to puke. However, when she side-stepped into the McDonalds a few seconds after this photo was taken, I did feel slightly nauseated. I mean, the Subway was just around the corner. For someone in such fresh threads, I was surprised she'd pass up eating fresh in favor of McGnarlys. But then again, if you're going to dress to sweat, you might as well ensure that your sweat smells less like standard B.O. and more like McNuggets, no?

See? Tails, you lose.

But outside of the world of Shambles P.I., we can all be winners, especially tonight and tomorrow.

For those of you lucky enough to live in Baltimore, you're probably aware of Aural States, a ridiculously awesome music blog. So successful is this young blog, that they're holding their first festival tonight starting at 7:30 p.m. (doors at 6:30 p.m.) at the Sonar/Talking Head Club. For a mere $10 (or two-$5-footlongs), you can catch Arbouretum, Wye Oak, Lo Moda, Pleasant Livers, HOLLYWOOD, Sri Aurobindo, Small Sur, Andy Abelow with Caleb Stine, Jamie Saltzman & Austin Stahl, Title Tracks (new John Davis ex Q and Not U, Georgie James), Imperial China, Caverns, and CANNOT BE STOPPED. Be there or be square (read: in DC).

If you are in DC this weekend though, you can also be a winner tomorrow because my favorite club act ever, Claire Hux, is finally coming to town! Performing with Lazerbitch (I like that name), they'll be at BeBar tomorrow around midnight. There's an $8 cover (or a 1.6-$5-footlong cover), but trust me when I say, for once paying a cover to gain access to a DC bar will be worth it because a Claire Hux performance is priceless. See you there!

being a tourist in dc is effing awesome

Well, I've finally figured it out. What sucks most about DC isn't the squat architecture, the apparently blind drivers, the shambley fashion, the annoying people, the sh*tty public transportation or the high lead content in the water. Nope, what sucks most about DC is working here. Why? The typical DC job is boring. It's dull to do and even duller to hear about (which is, unfortunately, the topic of 90 percent of conversations here). In fact, entertain this idea, if you will: Fulltime employees in DC allow for every other problem in this city to flourish. Think about it:

FACT: DC's squat architecture is directly related to the prevalence of the federal government, from which myriad boring jobs are born.

FACT: When you get up angry in the morning because you have to go to work and get into a two-ton killing machine, it's only logical that drivers here have road rage.

FACT: Boring jobs lead to boring (often fugly) fashion sense due to unfortunate dress codes.

FACT: Being stuck in a boring job for too long will turn even the best of us homos (as in homo sapiens, mind you -- I am reclaiming the word) into drab, annoying personalities.

FACT: People who are miserable while stuck in an office they hate 40-plus hours a week ensure public transportation remains sh*tty because, compared to the job that makes them want to cut themselves just to feel human again, waiting three hours for a DC bus seems like heaven.

FACT: People who devote the majority of their time to a boring job like -- perhaps even demand -- lead in their water. Um, or something.

But whether the above "facts" are "facts" in the Merriam-Webster sense or whether they're "facts" in the sense that these are simply conclusions I've come to in my mind with the help of the imaginary rainbow-regurgitating unicorns I live with who tell me it's all going to be OK, is not what's important here. What's important is that when you (or at least I) remove the sh*tty job from your (read: my) schedule, DC becomes infinitely cooler -- enjoyable even -- because being a tourist in DC rules. You get to sleep in, you don't have a schedule to keep to, and who knew? There's tons of daytime sh*t to do here! And lots of it is free!

And I'm not just talking about watching the Tyra Banks Show (although that is pretty awesome). Nope. Since I've been fired, I've peppered my daytime television and beans-for-every-meal schedules with doing touristy activities around the city, such as going to museums, biking randomly around town and, most recently, loitering on the Mall in the snow. And while I can go on and on about this kind of good old-fashioned fun using my extreme e-verbosity, I'd rather let my subpar photog skills speak (or at least mumble) for themselves. Enjoy!

Look to the left!

Look to the right!

Look at this giant slab of metal!

Most importantly, look at my badass, sheepskin earmuffs as I give employed people the stink-eye!

ZOMFG!@)(@#*%@)!%@#^&*@! it's snowing!

O! Proper winter, how I've missed thee! And while it doesn't compare to the snows I've seen in the previous twenty-some years of my life in the Midwest, the Northeast and, um, the goddamn Eastern Bloc, it's something!



I know it's not the fluffy goodness found in more Northern climates, but I don't care. I will make a snow angel anyway. I will name her St. Shambles, the goddess of wet and cold. Or, perhaps, moist and chilly. Or damp and frigid. Whichever.

But before I go get sodden and frosty, I just want to thank those of you who played and/or came out to Solly's last night. Sadly, there weren't many, but I've always been one for quality over quantity. Also, I hate humanity, so, you know, any bigger of a crowd would've freaked me out (which is why I will only make one St. Shambles today, opposed to a whole gang of soggy and shivery friends).

And speaking of friends (not that I have any not made out of snow), a big congratulations goes out to all the acts that played last night, including Sad Crocodile, John Thornley (of U.S. Royalty) and The Dustys, who apparently performed for the first time yesterday night -- a feat that blew my mind as these guys were definitional of awesome. They were loud, creative with the time signature and really fun to watch. In fact, The Dustys even gained a blinged out Claude the Sexy Traffic Cone's seal of approval.




De toute façon, I need to go take care of this snow angel business before it turns shades of dirt and urine. Au revoir!

truly shameless self promotion

***UPDATE BELOW!***

In an effort to expand my e-reach around the Interweb (hmm, something definitely doesn't sound right about that clause), I will be taking took my antics over to why.i.hate.dc later today with an easy three-step-guide on how to not end up on this blog by acting like an asshole at the 9:30 Club. And while it's already written, it won't go up until 3 p.m., or, as I now know that time, when the Dr. Phil show comes on. (I'm really, really good at being unemployed.)



In the meantime (and since we're on the topic of concerts), I invite everyone -- even Dr. Phil -- to come out to Solly's at 11th and U tonight to catch not only me at the turntables iPod for the best 30 minutes of your life, but also legitimately talented people, including my friend and BYT writer John Foster as Sad Crocodile, a rock'n'roll group called The Dustys and a solo set from U.S. Royalty's John Thornley.

The show starts at eight o'clock. And there's no cover! It's really a dream come true. Well, it will be until 10 p.m. rolls around and I muck up the legitimately talented vibe with my personal brand of retardulosity. Aww...but if I see you not dancing during my playlist, you better at least be drinking! Don't make me blog you. No, seriously.

***UPDATE HERE!***

Read that easy three-step guide to not being a dick at a concert HERE. And, just for good measure...

nautical themes make my butt glow

I'm feeling rather nautical today. Perhaps it's the 50-degree weather (thank you, DC!), or maybe it's my inner subconscious longing to sail around the world. But most likely, it's because I just wanted to pull out my beloved Topsiders again. Whatever the reason, though, I'm pretty jazzed about this Yacht Rock-themed outfit. Look! I'm under e-water!

E-sea monsters! Ahhhhhhhhoy!

What I'm not so jazzed about, however, is the stupid look on my face, my visible gut (trust me, this shirt is not meant to be midriff-baring) and my bike, Baguette, whose front reflector is making my ass glow. Wait, actually on second thought, I'm pretty pumped that it looks like my butt is glowing. Glowing buttock is tight. (Feel free to quote me on that.)

Why, then, with all this dissatisfaction (aside from the ass shine), did I post this shot? Well, allow me to let you in on a little behind-the-dork-scene secret -- this is roughly the 20th take on this shot. Turns out, catching a self-timed jumping shot while one is actually in the air is effing difficult. Most of the shots got either the before or after, which makes it look like I'm about gearing up to drop a deuce. Yeah, I said that.

Anypoo, I'd stick around to write more about, um, myself, my outfit and my retard photog skills, but like I said, it's 50 degrees outside and I've got ships to sail. (And really, I'm just not that interesting...)

Outfit details: Blazer -- Elie Tahari; Tank -- Authentic Russian Navy shirt; Jeans -- True Religion; Footwear -- Sperry Topsiders; Belt -- No clue, found it thrifting.

ac slater called, and he wants his hair back

Can someone please explain to me what Kanye West's hair is doing lately?


I'm getting my hair did today, which is possibly why I'm so concerned about Mr. West's coiffure. But really, the mullet? There's no doubt that Kanye has a sick (in a good way) sense of style, but, um, this may be where I -- and hopefully society -- draws the line. Like cover charges in DC bars, the mullet is not OK. I mean, let's face it. It didn't work for Albert Clifford Slater in 1989, meaning it's certainly not working for Mr. West in 2009. Time did not heal this tragedy.


So, Mr. West, in the words of Wesley Willis (RIP), "Get that crazy ass mullet off that skull/ Take your ass to the barber shop/ Tell the barber you're sick of looking like an asshole/ Cut the mullet." Just sayin'.

random bits of media

I'll be honest, I'm working on a couple of other projects right now that will put cash-money into my pocket. As such, this deranged crack baby of a blog will be slightly abandoned today and tomorrow, however, before devoting my e-attention somewhere slightly more fruitful (although, this Google AdSense nonsense has been quite good to me -- we're up to $7.19!), I feel it necessary to point out some ridiculous sh*t I've heard, seen and even spoken about to actual people in a non-virtual setting. 

First, we've probably all seen this about 18,000 times now via the Huffington Post and Wonkette, but I first heard about it from a friend in Texas last night. However, I invite you to watch it again, as the naivete provided by the woman analyzing the Obamas' intimate life (and, might I add, why the hell she is analyzing that in the first place is fairly disturbing), is priceless. And AWKWARD! But maybe this is why he's so popular?



And what else is awkward? How about how Wolf Blitzer practically fisted proposed to our new president by expressing his undying, creeptastic devotion to Obama not through an unintentional discussion of, um, private matters (see above), but by tripping over his words discussing the man's penmanship. HIS PENMANSHIP. Seriously. I first heard about this at a bar on Tuesday night, but wasn't quite sure to what extent Blitzer's apparent retardation situation (room) went until I found exactly what he said on an independent media-watchdog's blog, Fairness and Accuracy in Reporting (FAIR):

BLITZER: And if you've ever seen Barack Obama's signature, he is very precise when he writes, and it's -- and if he writes, he scribbles some words before he signs an autograph, for example. His penmanship, I must say -- and I've seen it -- is really excellent.

[DAVID] GERGEN: He's got a little flourish to that signature.

BLITZER: He has a great flourish. And it's very impressive.

I'm pretty convinced Blitzer would legitimately sh*t his pants had Obama lent his signature to a piece of "art," as "new artist" Vladimir Putin did yesterday allowing his "work" to fetch $1.1 million (or 37 million rubles).

Honestly, I'd pay someone not to display this painting.

What else is ridiculous? This year's Oscar nominations, which came out this morning. Now, I'll admit, the only Oscar-nominated film I've seen this year was The Dark Knight (which, I believe was one of maybe three movies I saw in the theater in '08), but I don't believe that disqualifies me from critiquing the selections considering The Curious Case of Benjamin Button topped the list with 13 nominations. Does this seem a bit strange to anyone else? Because if I remember the trailer correctly, it's about Brad Pitt aging backwards, with some sort of love story in the middle. Maybe I'm just too tiny-minded to understand this film's appeal (besides simply having Brad Pitt in it), but that plotline sounds idiotic to me, and I'm a known idiot. Am I missing something here?

Probably. But that's besides the point. Whatever I'm missing, I'll allow Usher to fill in (um, that's what she said!), via this playlist in particular, that features his greatest hits. My obsession runs wide and deep (that's what she said, again!) when it comes to Usher. Basically, Usher is to me what Obama is to Blitzer, which means God help us all if I get my hands on Usher's signature. THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID, THRICE! Wait. What? Whatever. "Signature" has got to be a euphemism for something... 

dc is nothing like new york

Since joining Twitter two days ago, I've learned several interesting facts. Mostly about MC Hammer, who I'm following, and CNN's Rick Sanchez, who is FOLLOWING ME! But aside from learning Hammer spent the night at the Mid-Atlantic Ball and Sanchez was taking a short respite from broadcasting, I've also engaged in some interesting (albeit truncated) conversations on there:

@theantidc Apparently DC is the new NY. Can you vouch for this?

@fakebook The only thing 'New York' about DC right now is the fact that bars suddenly think a $15-$20 cover is OK.

Which brings me to today's point of contention with this city -- bar covers without the promise of a rock band or a sweet DJ are not OK. In fact, a $15-$20 cover to get into a bar ANYWHERE without the promise of decent entertainment is not OK. I wouldn't pay that to get into a sh*tty bar in New York City and, for the love of my quickly slimming wallet, I wouldn't pay that in DC for any bar (most of which are sh*tty). If DC had forgotten, allow me to remind it: Nightlife here sucks. Hard.

And while I'm at it, taking a cue from one of the greatest philosopher's of our time, Aqua Teen Hunger Force's Meatwad, whoever DJ'd at Local 16 last night needs "to check himself lest he wreck himself." Not only did he fail to play Three 6 Mafia's "Stay Fly" when I requested it last night, but he tried to reason with me about how playing it at the moment of request would "mess up the flow."

"Balderdash!" I responded, noting that any "flow" that begins and ends with House of Pain could only be helped by these Oscar-winning artists. "Indubitably!" I added for effect.

Then he looked at me like I was a retarded kid on the long bus as if to say, "Why are you here?" (This happens to me a lot). So, I bid him adieu with a "Tootles," adjusted my monocle and spats, and walked away defeated in my efforts to control someone else's playlist, despite the clear need for my self-centered help in this situation.

And speaking of needing help and DJing (although hopefully not a DJ who needs help), I would appreciate a little e-spreading of the news that I will be DJing a short set at Solly's next Monday starting at 10 p.m. It will be the most aurally exhilarating 30 minutes of your life. Or, at least not a 30 minutes during which you'll keep praying that I'll play something else. Hopefully. And, guess what?! It's completely free!

because we may all need a break from inauguration madness...

Today I'm posting one of two pieces I wrote yesterday as part of a job application to work as a comedy writer for a well-known cable show/blog. I won't tell you exactly which one for fear of getting my hopes up (and we all know I'm anti-hope), but I will tell you that if I do get this job, I will be the happiest bitch on the planet. However, considering I missed the deadline to apply by a good week because I was too busy watching The Tyra Banks Show (that sh*t is tight), at this point the proverbial jury's still out on if the lovely and hilarious folk over at Viacom (hint!) will even glance at my rather stellar application. (Hot damn! There I go tooting my own horn blowing my own rape whistle again!)

Anyway, I invite you to take a short break from inaugurating new presidents by reading whatever e-drivel I e-spewed below. (And if you don't mind, keep your finger's crossed that the Viacom gods bless me with one of my best weeks ever (hmm...) and hire my ass!) Onward, ye!

***

Holy crap. We might not exist. Well, not true. We exist, but we might not exist as we know it. According to an article in this week’s New Scientist magazine, we might just be tiny specks of matter stuck on the edge of the universe. So, what does this mean? In the words of the great Gob Bluth, "It's an illusion, Michael!" OK, I lied again. Our world is not an illusion, per se, as much as just A GIANT HOLOGRAM!

Seriously, this is some freaky sh*t. Freaky science sh*t, which means it’s freaky like Beaker, Spock and Chewbacca getting together and having an alien Vulcan Muppet baby. So, like, Gonzo, and for those of us who fancy ourselves alien Vulcan Muppet baby scholars, Gonzo was pretty damn groundbreaking.

See, according to this so-called "science" I speak of, some crazy machine called the GEO6000 has detected something called "noise" coming from the edges of our universe, which, combined with our current knowledge of black hole rims (which I only wish was as dirty as it sounds), means that…uh…

Damn you, science! You've fooled me once again! I have no idea what it means in the grand scheme of things if this hologram hypothesis is true! (Clearly, I have no business trying to read New Scientist magazine.) I can only hope this new information finally makes it official to Jem that we are all, indeed, a part of her band, The Holograms.



Wait! I just figured out what it would mean if we really are living as holograms. It simply means that we're truly outrageous. Truly, truly, truly outrageous. Take that, science!

***

To peep my other sample post for what sounds like the best job ever, CLICK HERE!

confessions

One of my dreams came true yesterday. I saw Usher live and in person. Or at least pixelated on a slightly time-delayed Jumbotron. And while I was dismayed he didn't perform "Confessions" (or drop trou on stage), I'm elated that he was chosen to sing "Higher Ground" with Stevie Wonder. But then Shakira came on the stage and f*cked it all up. At the time, however, with my rather obstructed view, it was just "some blond girl with a shaky voice." Who knew? Oh. The people not watching the Jumbotron at an awkward angle.

So, alas, I'm not the savviest of large concert goers, but I am one of the most observant. Well, except when it comes to Shakira. In short, it was a really bizarre atmosphere. I've mentioned it before, but allow me to just go ahead and repeat myself -- the hysteria surrounding Obama seems very Soviet to me. At one point, while I was walking down 17th (I was forced to bequeath my bike at G Street), a scruffy young whippersnapper (yes, sometimes I talk like an octogenarian), came up to my friends and I and offered us gift certificates for a free "Obama tattoo."

My immediate reaction was, of course, to laugh in his face, however, as I type this now I wonder, "Is that a free tattoo of just the name 'Obama' or a full-out portrait of the man's visage?" If it's the latter, then I can assure you that my fears of a 21st-century, American version of a 20th-century, Soviet-style cult of personality are disturbingly accurate:


However, unlike the Soviet versions of cult of personality, which were largely propagated and controlled by the state, Obama's seems to come directly from the masses, who went nuts whenever the camera turned its attention from whatever celebrity (Usher) or C-lister (Tom Hanks) was on stage to Obama's toothy grin, even if it was for a split second. This means two things in my mind: 1) Obama is hopefully just as creeped out as I am by all this unnecessary and quite creepy attention, and 2) There's going to be a sh*tload of people in four (or maybe eight) years who will be in need of a tattoo removal service, lest they end up looking like that looker posted above. (Hello, business opportunity!)

But enough about that. I'm becoming a broken record regarding Obamysteria, which I'm afraid doesn't sound cool like an Usher record, but sounds fairly boring like a Josh Groban joint. So, let's move on...

It's Martin Luther King, Jr. day today and I would very much like to observe it, not just to honor Obama (in a non-creepy, but very reasonable way) for becoming our first black president (which is pretty damn cool in showing we've at least come a little ways since the civil rights movement), but also in honor of my beloved Usher, whose name is as fun to type as it is to say. Usher (Usher, Usher, Usher) is, hands-down, the best all-around performer since Michael Jackson. That's a scientific fact. And he's hot.



And in other news, since I suddenly have a ridiculous amount of time on my hands, I've signed up for "Twitter." Not that you all want to know what I'm eating for breakfast (beans), lunch (beans) or dinner (beans), but if you have brain damage and for some reason can't get enough of my daily retardedness here, feel free to "follow me" (wow, that sounds creepy) over there. You can "follow me" (seriously, who thought up the terms for this Web site, anyway?) there under the very creative username "theantidc," which you can find via my E-mail or my name maybe. I don't know. I'm functionally retarded.

And speaking of retarded, I've been asked to DJ a short set next Monday (Jan. 26) at Solly's near U Street. I can guarantee you that I will throw some Usher up in the mix, which I will sandwich between stuff Usher's probably never heard of, or if he has, probably doesn't like. Anyway, bring your family, friends, e-friends, girlfriends, boyfriends, frienemies, archenemies, nemeses, hobos, hookers and whoever else you can wrangle up and be sure to say "Hello!" or "F*ck you!" or "See you in hell!" or whatever. I don't yet have an exact time for my set, but when it comes up I'll be sure to let you all know through at least one of the 7,983 means I have to e-communicate (read: self=promote) these days.

Until then, Happy Martin Luther King, Jr. Day!

think before you buy that collector's coin

Parents are useful for many things. Love, support, guidance, the perennial birthday check and, in my case, useful information:

ha ha, your google thing took me to the crocs site today ! for real!!

Now, there are two disturbing things about the above E-mail from my mother. The first, clearly, is the fact that she comes across as a 12-year-old girl ("for real!!"). The second disturbing feature has to do with the E-mail's content. A Crocs ad? To quote my mom and millions of 12-year-olds, FOR REAL!? Sure enough!

• Loading...

Crocs at Shoes.com
Huge Selection Of New Crocs Styles 110% Price Guarantee. Free S/H!

www.Shoes.com/Crocs

I was utterly appalled at first. I mean, I stand staunchly against the Croc. I loathe the Croc. I rue the day that the weather gets nicer and I have to once again see the Croc. But then I thought about how ironic it was that I'm making money off of the Croc. Soon (and we're talking within seconds here because my conscience is about the size of a Planck length) the idea even began to appeal to me. I mean, hell, if it's out there and marketable, why shouldn't I get a piece of that proverbial (albeit hideous) pie? It might be tacky and it pains me to think that I am advertising something blindly that I definitely don't endorse, but the thought of making another $0.67? Well, that's, like, a whole can of beans (on sale).

In a stream of consciousness that I won't repeat here, this idea of a Crocs ad on this blog led me to think about what I see as the growing Soviet-style cult of personality around President-elect Barack Obama. I mean, there is some crazy sh*t for sale out their featuring his visage. Commemorative plate sets, collector's coins, Metro cards, posters, paintings, T-shirts, bags, jackets...and I could go on. Even Pepsi® is cashing in.

This is ridiculous. I mean, the man hasn't done anything yet but get elected. And that was more on account of voters than him, which means wouldn't it make more sense to make Metro cards with faces of random Democrats on them opposed to his? I say, before we all go ape-sh*t over him, at least give the man a chance to do something; give him a chance to prove he will stand for all the "change" and "hope" he campaigned for. In fact, I can't help but think Obama, himself, is probably pretty disturbed by all this unwarranted positive attention. He seems like a reasonable man. Just imagine the pressure he's now under thanks to so many people falsely assuming he's some sort of magical demigod. He's just a human being, an extraordinary human being, perhaps, but give him a chance to prove it first.

Trust me, I know firsthand the havoc that the idea of a cult of personality can wreak. My Southern grandparents bought my brother and I Ronald Reagan collector's coins for Christmas in 1987. I was 8 years old. My brother was 10. I was expecting a new Barbie®; my brother probably wanted some Legos®. (Notice the elegant product placement, advertisers!) Ronald Reagan's cult of personality ruined our Christmas.

So, please learn from my family's mistakes. Don't let useless Obama chotchke propagating his cult of personality ruin any of your future holidays. And if you are convinced Obama is the new Christ and feel you must "own a piece of history" (read: make important historical events a tacky commodity), ask yourself "What Would Obama Do?"

Wait.

WE DON'T EFFING KNOW. (Although, I think it's safe to assume he wouldn't buy a commemorative plate set...I'll give him that.)

But, if you simply can't help yourself (you moron), allow me to suggest purchasing the Obama Commemorative Paper Plate, which I was alerted to via a commenter over at why.i.hate.dc. At least it's unique...and if you buy it for a kid they can use it for a future art project. That's something!

®

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unemployment yields the best non-benefits

What's up, e-friends! While I was fashioning outfits out of plastic bags and toilet paper (I'm beginning to get a little stir-crazy and I'm only four official days into unemployment!), I've been weeding through the offers...to write for free!

Goddamnit...

But it's not all stupid. Being the word-whore that I am, I couldn't pass up the chance to join the team over at why.i.hate.dc. If for nothing else, this new endeavor will hopefully drive some more traffic over here that will lead more people to click on that sweet ad I slapped onto the upper righthand corner! Just kidding! Google has told me not to ask people to do that, so I totally mean that as a joke. Sorta. (Not really.) Click that ad.

Anydownwardspiral, I posted a doozy over there about, well, why I hate DC (surprise!). But I must say type, I was a little sad not to post it over here. However, since it doesn't involve any of my new 100 percent recyclable design efforts, I figured I'd let this new well-adjusted foster kid (why.i.hate.dc) have it, opposed to my natural born dumpster baby (The Anti DC). We'll reserve this sweet, retarded baby for greater forays into idiocy.

Yet don't think I'll neglect this wacky, beautiful, Garbage Pail Kid® of a blog project just because I have a password to hack into another site. It's not like I have anything else to do except, of course, to watch Dr. Phil and The Tyra Banks Show. Oh, and find paying work.

Plus, one can only sew together squares of Charmin® for so long before realizing that toilet paper is not an actual fabric, and thus cannot be sewn. Paper towels, though, now there's a quality material.

On that note, maybe you ought to just forget about my latest shamblings and just click on over there because there's clearly nothing to see here...EXCEPT FOR MUGGED MARCUS!

is that greenman on the beach?

Getting fired is kind of awesome. For one, unlike with voluntary quitting, when you get fired, you get a severance, which means I get paid to look for other work. Or drink. Whichever. Moreover, when you obnoxiously blog about getting fired (because of your blog...whoa, meta...), you also get job offers. Hooray! Now, I won't go into the details of said job offers quite yet, but let me just whet your palette with a little teaser -- part-time retail!

Wait. That blows. But, it does involve a 40 percent discount and possibly not having to live on the street!

But before I jump back into working for the man, albeit a very well-organized one (the offer was for The Container Store, which was pointed out to me by a friend that, indeed, were I to end up on the street, I'd have one hell of a nice box to live in), for now I'll be working on my writing angles, taking daytime naps and MEETING GREENMAN!


No, seriously! He jumped into the Chesapeake Bay outside of Annapolis, Md., as part of the Polar Plunge on Saturday, which involved a lot of hippies diving into ice-cold water to save the environment to raise money for the Special Olympics. Or something. After they took a dip, they'd then get out and fill paper cups full of hot coffee. The irony writes itself. Unfortunately, however, due to lack of my own technology, the irony didn't photo-document itself, so all I have is part one of this most ironic statement.

Hippies in water!

But regardless of any irony or my own forgetfulness, this was still a pretty sweet event to perceive. I mean, how often does one get to see Greenman in swim trunks chillin' (literally, it was effing cold) with a polar bear?

Apparently, he's modest.

In my mind, however, it all went a little bit like this:



Wait, why did I get fired again?

And let's go ahead and obnoxiously keep talking about that. You may have noticed something a little different about the upper righthand corner of this blog. Since my source of income is going to be a bit spotty for a while, I'm in the process of adding ads to this priceless (read: worthless) site in the hopes of shoring up my bean situation. While my account processes, Google has slapped up some not-for-profit placeholder, but in 1-2 days (they tell me), I will have some sort of "relevant" ad that people can click on, which will accrue me some cash money. Like, 10 cents. What can I say? I'm an entrepreneur. Well, in 1-2 days, that is. Uh, tight?

i can't believe i ever had writer's block...

Who thinks of these things? I mean, honestly, that video is supposed to grab the attention of constituents or whoever and make them interested in what goes on in Congress?

Wow. I can't believe I was ever struggling for material. Between this and my blog-induced firing, this sh*t is writing itself. I mean, goddamit, Pelosi, your Botox-robot-face is hard enough to look at 12 feet away on a television screen. Now you expect me to watch it 12 inches away from my retinas on the Interweb? Really?!

And Reid, honestly, your staged hand movements are the the Pelosi-Botox-robot-face of gesticulations. Perhaps if most members of Congress didn't come across as shoddily animated cardboard cutouts, this would be slightly more bearable.

And really, McConnell, are you even alive?

The only thing that (mildly) piqued my interest in this video was Boehner's Mystic Tan and his mentioning that, "Some of us have been posting original video content there for years now." Midget porn, perchance? OF COURSE NOT! By "original content," he really means "lifted clips from CSPAN2." Thrilling.

Yeah, I'll be sure to tune in. (Actually, I just might. Like I said, this writes itself.) Not to mention the sweet soundtrack. I wonder which lucky intern got to compose that on Mac GarageBand? Or did they just lift it from the background of Brenda Dickson's "Welcome to My Home." (For the highlights of this 1987 classic, fast forward to 2:00 and enjoy.) Ostrich feathers, anyone?

Have fun working, e-friends. I'm going ice-skating!

canned!

What's wickedly offensive, mildly retarded and gets you fired from your job?

THIS BLOG!

It's funny because it's true. Actually, it might be more accurate to describe this blog as mildly offensive and wickedly retarded, but regardless of which adverb goes where, the entire notion of said action is completely absurd. I mean, I can think of at least 100, nay, one million more valid reasons they could've canned me for, but my blog? Really?? Don't get me wrong, I can see firing someone for keeping a blog about something truly controversial, such as "The Pro Jihad" or something, but this is "The Anti DC." I mock Crocs here. And while it may be all retardulous all the time, it's hardly controversial. In fact, it's definitional of benign, in my opinion, which makes this first drama of '09 so dang absurd. But, really, isn't that what makes life worth living? The ridiculously absurd? It certainly makes it more entertaining, especially when you're retardulously benign!

Weirdly, however, while jet-setting in the Third World the other week (a.k.a., possibly my last paid vacation ever) I had decided to more or less quit this blog on account that in the past few months, as I have hinted at now and again, e-barfing all over this space has become more of a stress than a joy. But now, after finding out that, indeed, a part of Washington, DC, still can't take a joke and truly hates laughter ("If you ever want to work in this town again, you better shut that bog* down!"), I think fate decided to punch me in the face on this one. Let's just say this is probably the proverbial kick in the tight pants that I needed to get out of not only a blogging rut (which really doesn't matter), but the rut that has become a life of routine (which does matter, at least to me).

As you may have guessed, I've never been a big fan of "stability," as it were. But shambling, on the other hand...well, hello lover!

And now that I know this little endeavor is apparently not as benign as I had originally thought (although it is certainly as retardulous) and important enough to warrant a good old-fashioned pink-slipping, I am newly reinvigorated to reclaim the shambles-ridden, unstable, hobo lifestyle I was meant to have, as well as to rediscover the joy of no-holds-barred blogging (which would be totally badass, except it's, um, blogging, so it's really just dorky). Oh, and maybe get paid for something I'm possibly talented at (and I'm not referring to hooking). But we'll get to that in a bit.

What's really important here is that this almost unbelievable situation I find myself in is the ultimate validation of this blog's very existence; it proves every single one of my theories about DC correct. Mainly, Washington needs to learn how to take a joke, loosen up, laugh at itself, and at the very least understand the concept of satire. And after having several discussions with people in cities all over the globe regarding my fun Friday afternoon, I've come to the conclusion that this situation is uniquely DC, as most people living and working outside of this tooltastic, uptight world of Washington have reacted with just about as much incredulity as I did ("But you blog about Crocs!"), while my friends in DC have noted, "I could see that. It's symptomatic of DC's douche culture, which requires you to present yourself as a two-dimensional douche-bot whose sole priority is to network with other two-dimensional douche-bots to get ahead. And you're a three-dimensional asshole and a poor thespian, so...yeah. Makes sense in this warped world that something as seemingly silly as a blog that mocks Crocs could matter."

Of course it was other three-dimensional assholes (although better thespians) who told me this, which isn't surprising because it seems 3D-assholes often have the most realistic outlooks on life. It comes down to this -- many of us here (or at least a handful) are all just people, not workaholic douche-bots. The difference between me and, say, a person (read: 3D asshole) who succeeds in and can actually enjoy typical DC is probably just our interests, which doesn't make me better or worse than a legitimately content DC employee, but simply different. I'm just not that into DC. I can't stand bureaucracy, I fail at "networking" and I have an extremely low threshold for self-imposed stress. Moreover, I can't pretend to enjoy something or someone that I feel indifferent toward -- a skill that I never found necessary to excel at until I moved here. (But maybe I've just been lucky?)

Whatever it is, this incident has confirmed my suspicion that DC's douche culture looks down upon those of us who dare to publicly espouse our opinions on life that may not be politically correct, which probably explains why bloggers who are evidently more intelligent than I have made sure to remain anonymous.

So why didn't I? Well, not to toot my own horn rape whistle, but I'm proud of the essays I've accumulated on this blog (or at least not completely ashamed of them). As an aspiring writer with few connections in the business, this isn't just a hobby to me, but a gigantic resume (hence my decision to attach my name and visage to this project). It's also somewhat of a running time capsule of my life and, perhaps most importantly, a means to keep me sane in a community I feel largely alien in. And as long as I'm here (although for how long that will be is currently very much up in the proverbial air), I plan on bringing my patented brand of retardulosity to the e-table, unsensored. Think of me as the Thinking Man's Asshole. Hmm. That sounded better in my head...anyway...

Now, I don't expect most Washingtonians to take it (and definitely not to embrace it), but I'll be damned to an eternal life of wearing badly tailored discount polyester suits before I quit this due to someone telling me it's a "bad career move." In my world, which I won't expect anyone outside my head to understand, this is the best career move I could make. This sh*t is just too legit (at least in my twisted, tiny mind), ergo, I shan't quit.

It also helps now that I have 40 more hours a week to make sure whatever I do decide to post here is worth your time to read and, more importantly in the narcissistic world of blogging, worth my time to write.

But I confess, I won't be spending the entirety of those 40 additional hours each week blogging. And not just because that would be extremely pathetic. I also need to make some money (for booze), which is why I'll be starting my word hustle, hard. See, I'd like to get paid to craft words together that don't have to do with things like "the government," "Congress," or some acronym I'll never memorize. Not that I can't, it's just that I'd rather use my hippocampus to memorize more relevant things, such as all the words to Hall & Oates' "Private Eyes" so I can attack that in future karaoke endeavors, which, incidentally, I now have more than enough free time to actually attend!

And speaking of finding other sources of income, I'll pretty much write for food (and booze) at the moment, so if you read this still benign (and retardulous), but apparently rather controversial e-rag on the daily (I'm talking to you Washington Post and Washingtonian, at least according to my brilliant StatCounter) and need someone to wordsmith an article or two together for you, feel more than free to write to me at theantidc@gmail.com. We can discuss potential projects over a can of hobo beans that I will cook over a garbage-can fire that I light just outside of the double-wide cardboard box that will surely be my home in a couple of months. It'll be like a Parisian sidewalk cafe, except, you know, in the dumpster.

Yet while the economy blows and the chances of me gaining fulltime employment that actually means something to me are slim in the near-term (as is the prospect of me being able to get sick and afford to go to the doctor now), my spirit is surprisingly and rather disturbingly high. It's because I'm still in shock free now. Poor, perhaps, but free from the constraints of a secondhand, neutral-colored cubicle writing about things I have absolutely no passion for and "networking" with people who find me "bitter and frustrated" because I don't fit their description of "serious DC professional." But honestly, if publicly sharing your sense of humor, penchant for creative writing and an opinion outside of the workplace precludes one from that category, then I'll probably never be a serious DC professional. Perhaps, I'll never even work in this town again. Like two ships passing in the night (one outfitted with pleated khaki sails and the other tricked out in Norm Coleman paraphernalia, which is probably even easier to find now considering he was also canned recently -- serendipitous, n'est-ce pas?), I just don't think it was ever really meant to be. And I'm OK with that. In fact, I'm more than OK with that. I'll jump on the Norm Coleman-clad ship, pop on a copy of Christopher Cross's Sailing and keep it Yacht Rock smooth. After all, I already own a pair of Topsiders.

But where the S.S. Norm Coleman will eventually end up is as mysterious as to why not everyone sees the value of having on the payroll an employee whose main talent is cracking rape jokes. However, perhaps the former mystery is better left unsolved because if I did know exactly where the S.S. Norm Coleman would dock, coasting aimlessly through this metaphorical sea of life wouldn't be nearly as exciting. Or as shambley, and we all know how I feel about life's little shambles. (♥♥♥♥♥)

But eff it. Let it be known that this will be the most personal entry I will ever type into this space, meaning anyone who doubted my claims to be composed entirely out of circuitry and wires was right. To my great dismay, I am a real person. A very strange person with a, perhaps, very peculiar set of professional and life goals, but a homo sapien nonetheless. Indeed, I am so homo. But this endeavor was never meant to be a vehicle for this kind of personal discussion, so allow me to continue to do what I apparently do most effectively and alienate humanity.

In fact, to kick off this new era of exciting unknowns and my newly recognized ability to offend to the point of necessary firing, allow me to break open a cheap bottle of e-champagne on the sail-ready dingy that is this blog by serving up my very special brand of humor to my most beloved District of Columbia. I'm sure you'll all just love it.

Knock, knock.

Who's there?

9/11.

9/11 who?

*Insert awesomely long pause while I morph the expression on my visage into a warped look of horror, or as my buddy Socrates Johnson dubbed it last week, "gang-bang face."*



But you said you'd never forget!

LOL!

What? Not funny, you say? Hmm...

Watch list for what was that again?

Oh...

Well, then maybe my company, oops, former company was right. Having an employee on a terrorist watch list probably really is a liability. Well, I'll be damned...

P.S. -- God bless the USA. Take that, terrorist watch list! WHAAAAAT!

*And yes, during the course of my canning, it really was called a "bog." More than once. And that's not hatin', that's appreciatin'. While I certainly won't miss the work, I will definitely miss my coworkers. And the free lunches on Fridays.

¡Ay!

While I was off tearing up my rib cartilage (seriously) trying to surf (on water, not a volcano), I missed a whole bunch of e-sh*t going down up here. But thank heavens for two days of office-based work because that has given me ample time to catch up on all things virtual. And in honor of my remedial Spanish, which I'm pretty sure became even more remedial in Nicaragua when I pronounced "al ajillo" (with garlic) in a similar manner as Napolean Dynamite pronounced "quesadilla" in his eponymous film, we're going to review the last few days of Internet action by using a bit of Spanish. ¡Vámonos!

Uno! I've gushed about how much I adore DC-area music blog Half A Person before (not to mention how in awe I am that the young woman behind it, Nina, is only 16, or as they say in Spanish, dieciséis, which I probably would pronounce "dicey-says" like a common jackass), so I will refrain from re-typing my words of praise. However, I must extend my e-kudos to her new Brightest Young Things column, in which she defends the virtues of Top 40 hits. In her latest foray, she takes on Lady GaGa's No. 1 2 hit, "Just Dance." Nina's review of the lyrics strangely made me be able to stand this song, which is musically super-sh*tty. (I believe that is the technical term, anyway.) The point is, after reading her analysis, I'm now excited to bring my rape whistle to the club tonight!

Dos! But speaking of rape (because, it seems, that's what Lady GaGa's song is about), my friend Socrates Johnson of India Poop Blog fame and I coined a new phrase this week...on Facebook -- "gang rape face." We got the idea from a rather perplexing public sign he stumbled upon somewhere in India. Seriously, the look on that chimp's face is rather unsettling, no? Behold, gang bang face.


Tres! And while I've taken to making sure I am sporting "gang rape face" in response to nearly everything I find unsettling (which, in DC, means I'm making that face nearly 98 percent of my waking hours), a group of new advertisements begging teenagers to stop saying the phrase, "That's so gay," has me making more of a confused scowl, or what I like to think of as the, "Wait, there's actually a campaign out there that thinks they can stop teenagers from saying mildly offensive, idiotic sh*t?" face. So, let me get this straight (pun intended), someone's actually spending cash-money on this? Have we forgotten that teenagers (save for Nina) are by default obnoxious assholes? I predict this campaign to change teenage slang will go over just about as well as Lady GaGa releasing a successful single that's not about date rape. In other words, MASSIVE FAIL. Although, I must admit, I, too, am ready to have "That's so gay" dropped from common lexicon. I much prefer the phrase, "That's so homo." It's got a better ring to it and it's a nice catchall, as "homo" could very well refer to all homo sapiens, not just homosexuals or really happy people. "That's so homo" is so multipurpose, in fact, that it can denote both good and bad because there are both good and bad people. For example, Hitler is so homo (bad, but not in the Michael Jackson way). On the other hand, Samwell is so homo (good, but also in a homosexual way). I can only pray that you people think this blog is at least slightly homo, in a good, possibly even Samwell kind of way. What what!

Quatro! Speaking of "What What In the Butt" (see "Samwell" link above), I've been lucky enough to stay out of the downtown DC area for nearly three weeks now since I've been spending the majority of my time thinking up new groups of people to offend on The Anti DC as I begin to slowly and painfully dismantle the leftover landmine that is this blog. (It's only a matter of time before this e-space either ends up on a terrorist watch list or simply disappears as if nothing was ever here.) But it turns out that there's some kind of "inauguration" happening in the coming weeks. It sounds horrible, at least to why.i.hate.dc, which has morphed into a pretty sweet blog in the last couple of weeks.

Cinqo! Last and certainly least, as this has nothing to do with anything I found on the Interbuttz, I want to share with you virtually what I was lucky enough to experience in real life last week and I'm not referring to torn rib cartilage. Despite the lack of serious pain that let's you know you did good, I'm certain that you will still find what I have to share "so homo," perhaps even "so super homo." Beirut's "Postcards from Italy" is the perfect song to listen to while watching the sun set over the Pacific on the Nicaraguan coast with an ice cold brew in hand (and torn rib cartilage).



Have a homo weekend, everyone!

the perfect metaphor

Vacationing in a developing country can teach you a lot about yourself. Seeing how other people live really makes you reflect on your current situation, especially as a citizen of what many consider the greatest country in the world, the United States of America. While I'm still undecided about how I would rank the United States in a scale of greatness compared to other places (I have a soft spot for Djibouti), I must admit I feel lucky to have the freedom bestowed upon me that this country provides just for being born here. Part of that freedom means I can travel to most any other country, save for Cuba, that I so desire. (Even Djibouti!) But really, this silly reflective mumbo-jumbo is also neither here nor there. (I'll save those philosophical musings for a publication that pays.)

More apropos for this e-venue, I want to share with you the most important thing I learned while vacationing in Nicaragua -- the perfect metaphor for DC.

It all went down in the sulfur pit (of course it did) of a volcanic crater on Cerro Negro, which last erupted in 1999 and is currently six years past due for another eruption. With a volcano like Cerro, which is currently active, science has it set up so that at any given time in any of its craters the innards of the Earth puff out clouds of sulfur gas. And for those of you unlucky enough to have never spent any time in a Russian spa town (actually, I mean lucky enough), sulfur smells like rotten eggs. Nay, it smells like the outcome of a hobo who just ate three dozen rotten eggs. From a chicken with bird flu. In short, it smells real gnarly.

The thing is, these clouds of sulfur look so cool from afar.


So you venture closer.


Until you're right up in it.


And that's when you realize it's all a facade. Like DC, sulfur pits look all cool and interesting from the outside, but once you set foot in one, you realize that it's really just a hot mess (literally, in the case of an actual sulfur pit) of activity that makes you feel nauseated. So you get the f*ck out. Or prance, if you're me.


See? It really is the perfect metaphor! DC is a sulfur-spewing volcanic crater! Hooray!

But let's take it one more obnoxious (or maybe just noxious) step forward. Look at what I'm wearing. It's so horrific that not only am I compelled to Shambles P.I. myself, but I feel it is my civic duty as a citizen of perhaps the greatest country on Earth (although I still haven't been to Djibouti) to point out the fashion crimes I'm committing.

I look like a DC commuter.


Take note commuters who opt for white sneakers -- that is how big of an asshole you look like. At least I was in a sulfur pit. You're just on the Metro. And while the two are figuratively similar, in reality, the two terrains are quite different. I needed those kicks to hike around this volcano. You need nothing more than an elegant ballerina flat to ride the 'tro. But I won't repeat myself. I have much cooler (or stupider, depending on your view) things to e-kibbitz about, like...

VOLCANO SURFING! (Which is exactly as ludicrous as it sounds.)

Step 1 -- Cut a hole in the box. Hike up the volcano.


Step 2 -- Strap on the snowboard sandboard lavaboard (and, of course, pop on a pair of fake Adidas, baggy-crotched track pants that you bought at a Nicaraguan street market for $4.00).


Step 3 -- Do work.


Step 4 -- Celebrate by drinking lots of rum because you didn't die.


If I make it out of DC alive, I will have to celebrate even more intensely. Cocaine? Meth? Heroin? Jenkem? Catnip? An array of T.G.I. Friday's Ultimate cocktails?! Or maybe I'll just jump for goddamn joy.


But not in commuter shoes.

:)