Hell's bells, it's been an interesting week over here. And to top it off, I'm trying to plan a hot non-date betwixt me, a pizza and Wii MarioKart. Oh, and a good friend who I haven't seen in weeks because I hate human contact.
Thankfully, though, all the time I spend avoiding humans of all colors, shapes and sizes (I an equal opportunity hater), I came across some pretty sweet sh*t on the Interweb. And as tradition here dictates, I'm forced to count off in some random language in order to share it. (Tradition also states all Anti DC traditions must be idiotic.) So, how about Turkish? After all, baklava is delicious.
Bir! (And yes, that's pronounced "beer.") City Paper published something worth reading! Of course it was on their blog first...but who reads blogs anyway? Oh yeah. But whatever. It's about my forté: RAPE JOKES!
Now, is it just me, or is it $9-scrunchie sad that grown-ups have to be reminded to treat each other like, well, grown-ups?
The best line, in my opinion, was about the handicap seats, for which the video reminds grown-ups that they should "give these seats up for the elderly or disabled." Fair enough. But then the video says this: "If you are unable ... to perform these functions, please find another seat." Uh, let's see. If you're unable to give up your handicapped seat for someone who's disabled, MAYBE IT MEANS YOU'RE ALSO DISABLED. So in effect, the video should really say, "If you are unable to perform these functions, then, um, remain seated, I guess..."
But seriously, is this necessary? Then again, considering the great majority of the human race is populated by legitimate morons, maybe I'm being too quick to judge this video as a waste of taxpayer money. Although judging from the animation, a dollarmenuaire could have paid for this production. However, those are dollars that could've been spent on a delicious and nutritious $5-footlongs from Subway®. I mean, we gotta stay fit for the city, right? And Subway is pretty much the best take-out so...
While we may be idiots, at least we're not fat?
I kid, I kid. There was a legitimate plus-side to this video -- it looked like it took place in Second Life (DCist noticed that too), which reminded me of good ol' Rep. Ed Markey (D-Mass.) and his foray into Second Life a couple of years ago. I really wish he'd have kept that creepy e-habit up.
Yep, those were the days...when we were fatter; when disabled grown-ups didn't have to be taught to give up their handicap-designated seats to other disabled grown-ups; and when Ed Markey lectured floating blue dragon furries about the environment...sigh...
So it seems I've been presented a challenge from my computer, a MacBook. As of last night at about 7 p.m., my "w," "2," "tab" and "esc" keys stopped responding to my gentle touch.
"But, Marissa, you just typed the letter double-u and the numero dos in that last sentence!"
That's because I copied and pasted those. I may be an idiot, but I'm fairly e-savvy.
Under normal circumstances, I might simply shrug my burdened shoulders and call it a day, but since I promised to blog after my horrendous stab at a vlog yesterday, I feel obligated to type an online essay using the gosh darn double-u or not.
And so here I go...sans the stupid double-u...
Although this is nothing not old, I nearly got ran over coming home from laboring at the sex shop a couple of nights ago. In a fissure of fate, though, I hadn't done anything to violate any traffic rules. That's right, I rode completely in the confines of everyone's road rights. I stuck near the curb in the righthand lane and had a flashing red bike light attached to my bag, so although the sun had set, my presence on the street could not be missed. And like I usually do to leave the douchiest neighborhood in DC that I'll simply refer to as "George," I rode dirty at a vigorous pace. In summary, there appeared to be no good reason to explain the activity that happened next.
Mid-ride on a surprisingly empty M Street (probably due to the inclement elements), a cab driver in a minivan decided to nearly snuff me out. He could have passed me in one of the duet of deserted left lanes beside me, but I guess it must have seemed more fun at the time to instead pass me IN MY LANE leaving less than a foot of space on my left side.
In short, the move made absolutely no sense. DC cab drivers are like a glass of $9 scrunchies -- that is, completely confounding, ruthlessly gnarly and, most of all, just plain stupid.
Speaking of a glass of $9 scrunchies, I'm quite surprised that my recent find in Club Monaco inspired just a duo of the comments yesterday. And one occurred only to insult my flyover country upbringing. Fair enough. I sported the hell out of a scrunchie in my day. That is, in 1990. My point is, it's nearly dos decades later. I get that fashion trends come and go and come again, but the scrunchie? Really? Am I the only one outraged by the idea of the scrunchie becoming a legitimate hair accessory again? Especially at $9 a pop?
I mean. This is shambles.
Let's not repeat our mistakes. Please feel my ire. Don't make me touch you again...
As a reward (or punishment, depending on how much you hate my face), I have a special treat for you today for not forgetting about me during my 6-day hiatus: A VLOG!
Actually, it's sort of the anti-vlog. (I'm good at being anti-stuff.)
See, over the weekend I received an email from a reader (who's not related to me!), who asked, "Marissa. I like your writing a lot. Funny stuff. Wondering if you've ever done stand-up or even a any vlogging or anything. You should try it!"
Well, reader, thanks for the compliments and your belief that I'm articulate enough to speak in full sentences. Unfortunately however, I don't think I'm suited to do anything oral [insert dirty joke here]. See, although I give off the image of being a legitimate moron, I'm smart enough to know what I'm good at and talking out loud isn't one of them.
That was my first thought, anyway. And then I forgot about that email entirely while I whittled away my weekend whittling. What? I'm good with a whittle [insert another dirty joke here].
But then yesterday I rethought. I noticed I had been talking to myself. Or my whittle. Whichever. And what I was saying wasn't in gibberish, but in English. So I thought, "Hmm. Maybe I could be a video blogger!" After all, having never tried it, how could I possibly know I'd automatically suck at it?
And so I made a vlog.
And upon rewatching the footage, I learned never to doubt my first instincts ever again.
But despite its all-around sh*tiness, I've decided not let this well-intentioned, rather retardulous effort go to waste. Nope, instead I've decided to make it into a permanent reminder to myself that I should stick to writing.
So without further ado, allow me to present to you, my first and probably last vlog appropriately titled, "Why The Anti DC Will Never Be A Vlog."
And if you can get through the whole thing without punching your computer screen where my face is floating around, then I commend you. You are my true e-friend. Either that, or you like torture and your name is Dick Cheney* and/or you're just a dick.
Wow. I'll never get a fulltime job again. Meh.
My lifelong hobo pass aside, however, I promise I'll get back to what I'm good at (or less bad at) tomorrow. (And I don't just mean whittling!) Now, if you don't mind I have to go record myself watching The View. It's awkward because even I don't know if I'm kidding at this point! Although if that actually does happen, I've made the mental note to shoot from a different angle. Gratuitous up-the-nose shots aren't necessarily flattering. I will also brush my hair. Maybe.
But before I go, I must also share with you the shambles I spotted at Club Monaco in Georgetown this weekend. Behold...
And no, that's not an optical illusion. That, indeed, is a scrunchie. And not just any scrunchie, but a $9 scrunchie. Notice how carefully I'm touching it (I Purelled that whole arm after this encounter). Scrunchies are to me what holy water is to the devil. It burns.
On the other hand, this did provide a new insulting simile to insert into my lexicon -- "glass of $9 scrunchies." As in, Washington, DC, is a like a glass of $9 scrunchies. I will never understand it, yet someone must be buying...someone blind and ignorant, that is.
Wow. Suddenly, spending three minutes staring up my nose and watching me serenade legumes wasn't so bad now, is it!?
*Whoops! Amid trying to spot my boogers and trying to fathom who is actually going to buy a $9 scrunchie, I almost forgot about the asterisk I slapped on the end of Dick Cheney's name. But thankfully I remember my extra Cheney tidbit -- my Dickbit, if you will -- now: My friend almost got ran over by Cheney in the Salt Lake City airport on Friday. He was riding in the back of one of those airport senior-mobiles. Apparently, Dick "The New Old Man White Oprah" Cheney flies commercial now. Who knew!? I bet going from flying private to commercial is like a glass of $9 scrunchies.
In honor of the weather being mega ultra super pooper tight as well as my need to take mid-afternoon naps, I've decided to go on an official e-holiday. Well, that's not exactly true. I'll be on e-holiday only from this blog. I'll probably still be on Twitter and Facebook sharing my borderline retarded thoughts with anyone who cares, so if you can't live without me, I invite you to find me on either one of those.
In the meantime (before and after my naps), I'll be finding more perfectly fine bike trails to bitch about, trying to sober up my helper horse Sven and -- wait for it -- working. And this time I don't mean selling sex toys to the public...or gambling...or any other number of nefarious activities. I mean honest-to-goodness work. Sort of. I haven't gotten paid for it yet, but I'm hoping one day this work will pay off. And this time I don't mean with promises of a 50 percent discount on all the Vibro Dongs I want. At least I hope not...
But no need to go into a deep non-depression about my impending absence. The Anti DC will resume with regular updates next Monday Tuesday. (Sven just neighed it was Memorial Day on Monday.)
Until then, e-friends. I'll probably miss you more than you'll miss me...
As those of you who are friends with me in real life or even e-friends with me on Facebook or Twitter know, I'm not supposed to be blogging today. Nope. I'm supposed to be at Foxwoods doubling, nay, trebling my unemployment welfare cash at the craps table. However, thanks to a huge string of storms and a bunch of incompetence, my flight got canceled.
Actually, let me be a little more specific. My flight never even arrived to the airport. The plane was supposed to come in from Newark (ew, I know), but eventually that flight got canceled which, more importantly, led to my flight being canceled.
But of course, it'd have been nice if the United gate workers told us this. Instead, it was my mom who called and let me know. Did I mention this was all going down on a Saturday around midnight and we'd already been sitting there waiting for two hours longer than originally planned probably catching swine flu multiple times? We weren't exactly a crowd to be f*cked with. If the flight was canceled, we wanted to know.
So, being the go-getter and huge bitch that I am, I ended up sashaying (yes, sashaying) over to the counter and informing the employees.
"Excuse me. I think the flight's been canceled."
"Hmm...are you sure?"
"I don't know. Isn't that your job?"
"How did you find out."
"My mom called. She found out from the Internet."
At this point the worker called a coworker over. Some calls were made, some keyboards were typed on and voila! An announcement was made. Flight 7986 had, indeed, been canceled.
Why I found this out sooner than the gate workers I will never know (my mom should make that kind of minimum wage), but when it comes to air travel in this country, I'm hardly surprised. I remember when traveling used to be fun. A time when you didn't have to argue about the size of your travel bottles; when you didn't have to risk catching a foot fungus by removing your shoes; when you could actually board your planes without sitting around getting angry for hours before; when your plane could actually take off and when it didn't you got a bunch of free stuff to assuage your inconvenience.
Now, though, there's nary a thing more I hate than air travel, especially when it's not even guaranteed that I will get to leave this sh*thole of a city (which is the trump card that usually negates all the aforementioned annoyingness of air travel). Instead, I got to waste $60 on SuperShuttles to and from Dulles and a whole lot of time I could have spent playing MarioKart on my best friend's newly procured Wii (my Saturday nights are ragers).
On the bright side, at least I didn't have to sleep in the airport, like most of the other travelers had to do. It smelled like dirty socks in there. But that's another story.
If you e-know me at all, you know one of the only things that gets me to leave my hobo lair and engage with "the real world" (not to be confused with my helper horse Sven, who tried out for MTV's The Real World -- frankly, I'm surprised that manwhore equinewhore didn't make it...he'd make excellent TV), is my love of bicycling.
And sure, riding around DC can be annoying, dangerous and just plain stupid, but in between all the ridiculousness, there are some pretty sweet trails around here, some of which are smooth enough to compensate for my bike's general shoddiness. (My bike almost self-immolated in Rock Creek Park once when the terrain got a little rough. My bike's got a mean 'tude.)
In the last 48 hours I've ridden the Capital Crescent trail from Georgetown to Bethesda and the Mt. Vernon trail out to Old Town Alexandria. (And to make up for those extra calories burned, I ate four servings of potato chips in one sitting and now feel like I'm going to puke.) Both trails have their pluses and minuses (the main minus being that they are both located in DC), but there can be only one winner, which means it's time for The Official Anti DC Guide To Finding The Least Worst Riding Trails In and Around DC! Hooray!
Contender 1: The Capital Crescent Trail
Starting off in Georgetown, the popped collar capital of the free world and hence forth to be known as simply "hell," this trail goes up through Bethesda and possibly even further. I don't really know. (I never said this was going to be an accurate guide.) Anyway, it's paved the entire way and offers a pretty flat ride, so on a day like this past Tuesday when it was about 70 degrees, you don't have to worry about breaking a sweat, which means you can put off doing your laundry just a little longer.
The trail starts off decent enough. In fact, once you escape from hell, you'll find yourself surrounded by lush green scenery, chirping birds and what looks like racist signage.
While the trail was overall very pleasant and peaceful, I did come across a very disturbing scene -- a wayward stuffed animal perched creepily on a bench, a sign that clearly indicates someone was probably kidnapped here.
And what better place to nab a kid than in the dank, dark tunnel that composes a sliver of this trail's midsection?
And then when you're done committing crimes in the dark tunnel, you can discard any evidence or dead bodies in one of several smelly industrial sections of the trail.
Or maybe that's a prison...in which case, watch out, hooligan! But potential crime sights aside, I found the CC Trail only half decent and, weirdly, that decent half originates in hell and ends when you enter Maryland. From hell to Maryland, you get to ride (what feels like, at least) in nature. But once you hit Montgomery County, you're thrust into civilization again, and you know where The Anti DC stands on civilization. People are annoying. What's more annoying is the scenery. Not only are you suddenly surrounded by what could possibly be minimum-security prisons, but you're also forced to look at traffic.
On the bright side, at least you're not in the traffic, but this scenery in no way, shape or form beats the actual nature you get to see while riding alongside the C&O Canal.
Another downside is that this trail ends in Bethesda.
Bethesda sucks. It's kind of like hell, but without the historic buildings. The only plus is that if you ride into town a little there is a pretty excellent Subway and $5-footlongs have the power to improve everything, even Bethesda.
Contender 2: Mt. Vernon Trail to Old Town Alexandria
Originating somewhere near Jefferson's ass, the Mt. Vernon Trail will bring you all the way to, well, Mt. Vernon. However, if you're lazy, you can make your end goal Old Town Alexandria, which is clearly what I did.
Opposite the CCT, the MVT gets better the farther away you get from DC (as it should be). Specifically, it gets all nature-y when you pass National Airport. However, before you pass the airport, it's worth stopping at the park where you can chillax at a picnic table and wait for landing planes to graze your face.
And here's a still capture of the plane's nether-regions, you aero-pervs.
Once you've had your fill of hoping the airplane's toilet doesn't leak on your head, you continue on and you'll ride through bogs (not to be confused with blogs), forests, meadows and bizarre murals.
And before long, you'll come across a narrow, caged-in bridge that offers one of the most unsafe although enticing locales to stop and take a photo -- a convex safety mirror!
Look how small my bike looks! More importantly, look who ridiculous my head looks! While I would like to blame that on the mirror, my headgear looked pretty special all on its own with the helmet layered over the brimmed hat, but you know what? Safety and wrinkle-free face first.
Finally, after about eight or nine miles (I guess), you'll reach Old Town, which is a significantly bigger payoff than Bethesda. Not only are there sailboats and ducks to greet you at the waterfront, but the town's patrons also named a street after the Western European half of my lineage.
As dusted off my Internet machine today to map some sex offenders (I like to know my neighbors), I decided to check out today's local headlines. Most of them bored me, as important news usually does, but one string of boldface words caught my eye: Revised Budget Adopted In D.C.!
But why? Revised budget sounds boring. And it is, until you read a little further: The D.C. Council approved a $5.4 billion budget yesterday that cuts hundreds of city jobs and aims to raise millions in new revenue by issuing more than 200,000 additional parking tickets in the next fiscal year.
I had to read it twice: The D.C. Council approved a $5.4 billion budget yesterday that cuts hundreds of city jobs and aims to raise millions in new revenue by issuing more than 200,000 additional parking tickets in the next fiscal year.
Really? Something about raising money by simply issuing more parking tickets doesn't make sense to me.
First of all, it seems to indicate that DC's metermaids aren't adequately doing their jobs now. This probably shouldn't come as a surprise since DC is all sorts of f*cked up. Plus, judging from the standard set by Marion Berry, it doesn't seem so unsafe to assume DC's metermaids aren't doing their jobs too well. I don't get it, though. You see a car parked illegally, you give it a ticket. It's not rocket science. Or even gay marriage. I mean, there's a parking sign. It lists times. (Now, stay with me.) There are also things called clocks, cell phones and calculator watches, which indicate the time. If your clock, cell phone or calculator watch reads 4:15 p.m. and the parking sign says parking is prohibited after 4 p.m., then a ticket should be issued, no? It seems rather simple to me, and I'm functionally retarded and possibly drunk!
Of course, I suppose DC's metermaids could be exceptionally retarded and definitely drunk, which could explain this new decree, but considering the very first time I ventured into DC to interview for the job for which e-rants like this would eventually get me fired, my rental car got ticketed for a parking violation, I can't possibly stand by any assumption that would suggest any given DC metermaid is either more retarded or drunker than myself. He or she clearly did his or her job. So what's the deal, Washington Post?
The city will equip 12 street sweepers with cameras to photograph the license plates of vehicles that are not moved for routine street cleanings, and violators will be mailed $40 tickets. According to budget documents, the city estimates the 'sweeper cams' will generate about 237,500 tickets and about $7.1 million in the fiscal year that starts Oct. 1.
Hmm...maybe this plan isn't so stupid after all. What dare you do next City Council???
[Ward 1 Councilman and dandy Jim] Graham also blocked [Mayor Adrian] Fenty from eliminating 65 parking control positions, about half of which are unfilled. The additional officers will enable the city to expand enforcement in residential parking zones.
"Graham, who noted that 70 percent of citations are issued to nonresidents, said the stepped-up enforcement will result in an additional $12 million for the city."
LOL! This plan is brilliant! No longer am I responsible for paying for the upkeep of the city in which I choose to reside, but tourists are! Suckers!
Lon Anderson, spokesman for AAA Mid-Atlantic, said the council action will solidify the District's reputation as the "most motorist-unfriendly city in the country."
"They make so much money off traffic enforcement . . . red light camera program, speed cameras, now these street sweeper cameras," Anderson said. "They never found a motorist whose pockets they were not willing to pick for revenue."
You know what? I'm no longer skeptical. This might be the best plan ever. Not only will it hopefully raise much-needed funds to wipe the proverbial sh*t off the ass that is this city, but (or butt, perhaps) it will hopefully simultaneously deter cars and ergopeople from coming into town! That's less cars to hit me when my bicycle decides to randomly fail, and less people to watch me as I embarrassingly tumble to the ground! If that's not a win-win, then it's at least a draw-draw because chances are with the karma I've built up over the years, any time I dare decide to operate an automobile, I will probably be ticketed. Or somehow manage to run myself and my bike over. Meh.
It's a small price to pay if it means solving some of the fundamental problems that face this city.
The council restored funding for the Office on Aging and the Office of Asian and Pacific Islander Affairs, agencies that Fenty sought to eliminate.
Wait. What? The money is going to go to the Office of Aging and the Office of Asian and Pacific Islander Affairs? Really? Really?! All's I know then is I better see more bingo and decent Chinese restaurants around town come Oct. 1.
I fell off my bike yesterday. I understand this may not come as a surprise to some, as I believe I give the e-impression here that I'm 1) functionally retarded and 2) drunk all the time. However, for those who've seen me cycle, I'm hoping you're at least a little bit shocked.
"But Marissa, you're all dexterous and sh*t! You dangerously weave in and out of traffic with such a cool, nonchalant, devil-may-care demeanor! In fact, you're kind of like this guy!"
I know, I know. So when I mounted my bicycle yesterday and readied for the first pedal, I was as surprised as you were that just seconds later I was sprawled out like a chalk outline with my bike resting on top of me as if it just Ram Jam'd me (I watched The Wrestler yesterday -- it was so good it affected my similes). I was pinned, confused and, most of all, stunned.
But not stunned about the fall. As soon as the pedal didn't cooperate and I heard a snap, I knew I was about to bite it. Although that moment lasted a mere nanosecond, it occurred in my mind in slo-motion. I saw myself tip over and knew I could do nothing to stop it. I was going down.
When I thumped to the ground and realized I hadn't seriously injured myself, save for a couple of superficial scrapes and a gnarly elbow bruise, I immediately became concerned with my bicycle. The chain was completely disembodied from the gears. It was no longer circular, but in the shape of a long metal snake. It was dead.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" I screamed (really), as I realized this was pretty much the worst timing ever for something like this to happen. I had just 10 minutes to get to the sex shop, where I planned to risk getting fired by ignoring customers and instead reading I Was A Teenage Dominatrix, one of the lovely pieces of literature we sell.
Onlookers, however, heard a scream of pain and to my visible shock, not one but TWO people rushed over to -- wait for it -- HELP.
"Are you OK?" asked a woman waiting outside for a delivery. She came over and lifted the bike off of my akimbo limbs.
Seconds later I heard, "Are you all right?" The words uttered from the larynx of a young guy cycling by who stopped mid-pedal to check up on the situation. "Are you hurt?"
I had no idea how to respond. I mean, I'm pretty sure these people were being nice. And since when are residents of Washington, DC, nice? All I could think was, "What the...?"
After several seconds of confusion, I answered them. "I'm OK. Thank you for your help, though. I really appreciate it. I mean, it's not often that people reach out here and your concern is really touching and..."
As I stammered on in shock, both individuals slowly backed away, probably thinking I was legitimately insane, especially when I started giddily laughing. But I couldn't help it! I just couldn't believe what was happening. PEOPLE WERE BEING NICE! This was revelatory! In my two years slumming here I've noticed most people won't help you unless there's something in it for them, such as the promise beating someone with a stick once you catch them. But in this situation, no one was about to beat my bike with a stick, at least that I noticed. More importantly, no one wanted to beat me with a stick. Although, since I reacted in a such a crazy, borderline psychotic way, I'm wondering now if these nice folks feared I was going to beat them with a stick...hmm...that would be a shame...
But beating anybody or thing with a stick aside, it's important to note that this was a simple act of kindness -- a simple act of kindness IN DC. This is a big deal.
In the end, I gathered my bike's pieces and walked it to City Bikes in Adams Morgan where they were able to fix 'er up right while I waited. I arrived to work just 30 minutes late, which left me just enough time to follow through with my plan to read I Was A Teenage Dominatrix cover-to-cover by 10 p.m. (By the way, if you ever find yourself working in a sex shop for 4.5 hours with nary a thing to do except ignore customers, I highly recommend this book.)
In all, not a bad day. I learned a lesson (if you want people to be nice to you, hurt yourself) and I made $10.66. Wait a second...d'oh!
Regular readers (all three of you) may have noticed I've curtailed my Shambles P.I. posts lately. It's not because I haven't seen any shambles to investigate privately, er, publicly, rather, it's just that I haven't had a camera on me for the last few weeks. I suspect my old helper tortoise Vladimir took it to spite me when he walked out on me last month. Stupid testudinidaen bastard...
Anyway, despite my lack of photographic evidence, some things people choose to wear in DC are still pretty laughable. For instance, the shambles I saw on the Russian couple who stopped by the sex shop last week and argued about whether making penis-shaped pasta for a dinner party as a joke would be too offensive (the answer is no, however, the dyevochka thought otherwise as her droog pouted at the thought of a penis-free dinner). While the argument was hilarious enough to witness, this spectacle was infinitely enhanced by the couple's appearance. The man had a euro-mullet like I'd never seen before. It was Ivan Drago in the front, Dog the Bounty Hunter in the back. It was epic to the WTF degree. The woman, well, I didn't check my watch, but suffice it to say, it must have been VremyaMolotka, or as we'd say in English, Hammer Time. Words can't touch the volume of her tie-dyed Hammer pants...
Now, I would venture to guess that this couple thought they were on the edge of fashion...and perhaps in Novosibirsk they are. But here? In the sex shop? It was a shambles show.
But why? Why did I find this couple so funny? Am I just an asshole or does my judgment illustrate a deeper problem in our society?
A moving picture called "The Story of Stuff" came to my attention this morning in a NY Times article. In this moving picture (and, yes, I will keep calling it that), the narrator, environmental activist Annie Leonard, explains (rather convincingly at most times) why our consumer-culture is unsustainable. While I thought it was a bit too socialist at times (roughly two minutes into the narration she notes it's the government's job to "take care of us"), the overall message is pretty intense and worth the watch because I, for one, think we value meaningless stuff -- stuff we intend to use for six months then throw away -- too much in today's America.
But I did have one major problem with her argument, specifically the section about 14 minutes in when she talks about fashion. In this clip, she tries to reason that fashion trends change every year because of some manufactured concept of "perceived obsolescence," or as Leonard explains it, the idea "that convinces us to throw away stuff that is perfectly useful" when companies "change the way stuff looks" because in our culture, which ranks the ability to have new stuff as a value to aim for, not having the latest-looking item "could be embarrassing."
For her example, she uses shoes. "Fashion is [a] prime example of this. Have you ever wondered why women's shoe heels go from fat one year to skinny the next to fat to skinny? It's not because there's some debate about which heel structure is the most healthy for women's feet. It's because wearing fat heels in a skinny-heel year shows everybody that you haven't [been consuming] as recently so you're not as valuable as that person in skinny heels next to you or, more likely, in some ad. It's to keep us buying new shoes."
OK, right here I'm going to have to call bullsh*t. In Leonard's view, fashion doesn't exist and clothing should be valued for function and not form. Suggesting that fashion trends change solely to create an environment of "perceived obsolescence" completely negates the idea that clothes can also be a form of art. Now, I agree some people -- many, in fact -- buy (literally) into this idea of perceived obsolescence when it comes to fashion. These are the people that blindly follow trends found in mainstream magazines or Gossip Girl and redo their wardrobes every season by scooping up whatever shoddy, made-in-China duds they can find at Forever 21 or Urban Outfitters. They don't care about what they're wearing as much as whether they "fit in" or not. These people are also known as "high school students" if they're under 18 and "idiots" if they're over.
However, as we age, most of us dress ourselves with some form of thought. For the dishabille, that thought could simply be about function. If it's cold, they'll wear long pants. They don't care what those pants look like or how many pleats they have, they just want their legs covered. Fair enough. But I say those people are missing out. Clothing is one of the most tangible forms of art we have as humans. We are the canvases. It's really remarkable when you think about it. Clothes allow you to create an image, the same as you would a painting. Colors, shapes and textures elicit moods. Fashion is, indeed, art.
Stemming from that, for those of us who subscribe to that belief and dress ourselves as such, we invite judgment and criticism, as does a painter when he paints. The thing is, a talented painter is a talented painter no matter what style he or she chooses to paint in. Likewise, with fashion, the best of us can wear a fat heel in a skinny-heel year and make it look fashion-forward. Done right, it won't say sh*t about our value on the consumption scale or worth.
What it does say, though, is something about the worth of our styling skills and if those styling skills are worth nothing, then expect to be Shambles P.I.'d. For example, if you're wearing tie-dyed Hammer pants with a visible thong, you will get judged and not because I don't think you're a valuable member of our consumer-based culture, but because you look like you let a near-sighted monkey on ecstasy pick out your outfit.
Fashion existed long before our culture became obsessed with consumption and I'm pretty sure it will continue to exist even after we (hopefully) learn to -- or are forced to -- change our destructive ways. Done right, fashion can be sustainable and, well, fashionable. (For more on that, visit local enviro-fashion blog Righteous ReStyle.)
In the meantime, I will continue to giggle at bad outfits I see around town, not because I'm a superficial consumer, but because I'm a superficial asshole, although I prefer the term critic.
And while I don't usually invite people to comment (I usually let the retardulous musings speak for themselves), I'm interested (for once) in other people's opinions on this matter. Let's get smart on this blog finally without adding the suffix of "-assed" to that word. Actually, nevermind. We can be smart and smart-assed simultaneously. And for your convenience, I've posted the full moving picture, "The Story of Stuff," below. Like I said, it's worth the watch.
I know my mom reads this blog. And I know she's probably ashamed of me (even more) for it. So, why not utilize Mother's Day to exercise synergy and finally publicly acknowledge the two with a lovely Anti DC Original E-Greeting Card For Those Who Want To Simultaneously Impress and Alienate?!
And while I won't be spending the day with my mother due to distance, we will be meeting up next week to celebrate the only way we know how -- at the casino. Seriously. And mom? I'm gonna take you to the finest comped buffet at Foxwoods. You're welcome. Hell, maybe we'll even go halfsies on a $5-footlong. My treat.
Sincerely,
Your Unemployed Offspring
P.S. -- You'll lend me some seed money for the tables, right? Or at least the $5 needed to purchase that footlong...
Wow. It's been quite a while since I blogged every single weekday. It's as if some aspect of DC I truly loved vanished in the last week and now I have a lot more time on my hands. Hmm...
But anyway, as I sit here looking out my window at the sun while Sven continues to build his arc (he says, don't worry, this sunshine you're seeing will disappear by evening), I wait for the Internet to entertain me. Thankfully, it always comes through and for that, I owe it my life. Or at least my e-life. But I'm not greedy. I would never fathom keeping all this awesome sh*t the Internet throws my way just to myself. Nope. I'll share it. Of course this would all be oodles more generous if this wasn't already free or already seen, but, you know, I do what I can...in Latin!
Unus! Wow that sounds a lot like anus...or Uranus! My goodness, that pronunciation will never stop being funny.
Duo! Returning to DC from, ahem, Uranus, I found something surprisingly and incredibly entertaining in the Washington Post. Meat cards. I want. Nay, I need.
Tres! Almost as cool as carrying laser-inscribed beef jerky in your bacon wallet, someone composed Paranoid Android on MarioPaint, a Super Nintendo game that I've never even heard of. There goes my nerd cred!
Quartuor! And don't get me started on not being a nerd because if it's nerdy to hate that every Top 20 song uses autotune these days, then I don't ever want to be cool. That sh*t is ridiculous...in a bad way. But thank God these guys make it funny. (Uh, I may or may not have posted this before. I don't care. It's funny.)
Quinque!Finally, this cartoon was forwarded to me by an e-friend on Twitter of all things. It is a sweet-ass link, or maybe a sweet ass-link, just like Uranus is a sweet ass-planet. Who doesn't love linguistic-based jokes?!
If anyone is bored enough at work (or life, in my case) to spend a whole lot of time online, you've probably heard of a little bloggy phenomenon known as TMI Thursday. Started by DC blogger extraordinaire LiLu over at Live It Love It earlier this year, bloggers around the country (and maybe even abroad) have taken to the concept, which invites e-people to overshare their most tumultuous and/or embarrassing moments.
Now, I've never participated because, really, stories such as those about incontinence aren't so uncommon that they'd warrant a whole blog post over here. In fact, my helper horse Sven just shat through his giant horse diaper as I typed that sentence. And I'm peeing right now. It's an everyday thing, really.
And so as I rack my brain in order to whore myself out to catch this cresting TMI wave, I feel forced to go in a different direction -- one without bodily functions, awkward sexual encounters or tampons. Nope. For this possibly one and only edition of TMI Thursday on The Anti DC, I bring to you a story of sentimentality and emotion. Now, that's TMI.
Here goes: I'm a sensitive person. Underneath all the circuitry and wires (as well as my sweatervests and tight pants), I tend to cry like a baby at the drop of a hat. In fact, I'm crying right now just for using two cliches in one sentence.
I cry after almost every episode of Grey's Anatomy (yes, I watch that).
I cry during nearly every movie that even tries to pull at my heartstrings heartwires. Into the Wild? Tears. Terminator 2? Puddles of tears. Zoolander? Pass the Kleenex®. When Zoolander and Hansel finally team up against Mugatu, I can't help but get a bit choked up. Male models coming together to fight evil...sigh.
I cry while reading certain books, such as The Road by Cormac McCarthy. I cry when listening to certain songs written by Phil Collins called "In the Air Tonight," even if sung by The Chipmunks. Hell, I've even been known to cry for no reason at all. Perhaps I've simply just had something stuck in my eye for the past 29 years.
Or maybe I'm just melodramatic. Whatever it is, it can be a bit ridiculous, especially if I start getting choked up in public, although that's still better than simply getting choked in public, unless, of course, you're into that sort of thing...creep.
Anyway, the point is, I'm a big old sap. I donate what I can to charities on the regular. I give money to beggars. I don't even hate children anymore, although I'm still scared of them. I help people in wheelchairs reach for stuff on the top shelf. I help old people cross the street. And most TMI-y of all, I suppose, I'm not a total bitch, at least in real life.
Online, however, is another story. I am nothing short of an e-asshole. In fact, I might even be the biggest e-asshole you know. But I do it for a good cause. DC needs its junk punched every now and again (or daily) and no one punches DC's junk better than me.*
Which brings me to my inspiration for writing this post. This made me cry. The fact that Lauriol Plaza is apparently "the best" Washington, DC, can do as far as getting a decent taco is incredibly depressing. Don't get me wrong, it's not like I've been there to judge for myself, so like most things I rant about, I possess no firsthand knowledge that would allow me a legitimate opinion, but I've heard things -- things that have kept me away. Basically, I've heard from several reliable sources that it's terrible. Horrible, in fact; hardly even worthy of the adjective "edible," let alone "best." Also, whenever I ride by that place after selling butt plugs to old men, the crowd always looks so douchey, although in DC that's pretty much a given, so it's hard to hold it against Lauriol specifically. But still.
O decent fish tacos, fish tacos! Wherefore art thou, decent fish tacos!?
There's not enough handkerchiefs (or diapers! or tampons!) in the world to sop up these tears...
*Actually, I'm not the only one that mocks DC on the regular so effectively. The DC Universe does its fair share of excellent DC junk-punches, as well.
Well, at least two of them are bonafide homosexuals. Most of the others, thankfully, are at least good friends of bonafide homosexuals because, according to the Washington Post, "the DC Council overwhelmingly approved a bill yesterday to recognize same-sex marriages performed elsewhere."
The vote passed 12 to 1. Who's the outlier, you ask? Well none other than everyone's favorite cokehead/tax evader Marion Barry, of course! Hooray! (Seriously, what would we do without him?)
Unfortunately, Barry had some support, says the Post: "After the vote, enraged African American ministers stormed the hallway outside the council chambers and vowed that they will work to oust the members who supported the bill..."
Um. Really? So let me get this straight (uh, pun intended?). First it was the white man trying to keep the black man down. Now the black man is trying to keep the gay man down? Or at least keep him from walking down the aisle?
I don't get it. If any group would be tolerant of others' civil rights, I would think African American ministers would be it. Not only have they fought (and continue to fight) for their own civil rights, but from what I've learned about Jesus, he (or He) was supposedly a pretty nice guy, so when Barry said the following after the vote, I was left understandably confused:
"All hell is going to break lose," Barry said. "We may have a civil war. The black community is just adamant against this."
Hell? Jesus? Maybe I'm stupid, but I never associate those two things -- Jesus and hell -- with each other.
Moreover, I think Barry is going a bit too far by lumping in the entire "black community" with "African American ministers." Now, I'm not black (surprise!) so it's possible I don't know what I'm talking about, but I do happen to know a few black people and I hardly think they'd start a civil war over the topic of gay marriage. In fact, like most people who respect freedom, my black friends subscribe more or less to the philosophy of "do what you like as long as it doesn't infringe upon my rights."
In cases like this, I like to ask What Would Robert Nozick Do?
Or, at least, What Would Any Given Person With The Abilty To Reason Do?
He or she probably wouldn't spend so much effort and mind trying to keep two dudes (or gals) from finding happiness by partaking in a consensual civil union when there are things like murder, rape, poverty and several other legitimate societal ills to cure. I, for one, would much rather attend a lovely dinner party hosted by the McGaysters down the street than get shot in the face. And like I said, I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure most people I know -- white, black, or any shade of gray (or brown, I suppose) -- would agree. Gays are way cooler than guns shooting you in the face.
Unless you're a right-wing Congressman. See, when it comes to the District, the feds have ultimate control. According to the Post, "The council's action puts the matter before Congress, which under the Home Rule Charter has 30 days to review District legislation. The bill could present the House and Senate with their biggest test on the same-sex marriage issue since Congress approved the Defense of Marriage Act in 1996."
And in an ironic twist, it seems the white man is holding the black man up in this case. Actually, I must specify here: A very gay looking white man is holding Barry's black minister friends up. According to the Post:
At least one GOP member said yesterday that he will try to block the bill from becoming law. "Some things are worth fighting for, and this is one of them," said Rep. Jason Chaffetz (Utah), the ranking Republican on a House Oversight and Government Reform subcommittee that oversees the District. "It's not something I can let go softly into the night. . . . I recognize the Democrats are in the majority, but I represent the majority of Americans on this issue."
First off, "softly into the night?" That is gay. Secondly, like I noted above -- GET YOUR PRIORITIES STRAIGHT (pun still intended?). The District of Columbia has far bigger problems than whether to recognize Bill and Ted's marriage (that would be a radical union, by the way). Did I mention the violent crime rate is the highest in the country? Because it is and something tells me -- I think it's called common sense -- that protesting gay marriage isn't going to do much to bring that statistic down.
So, please, it seems most of this city has its dicks ducks in a row, so why is it always the religious zealots (of any given race) and the extreme right-wing assholes (of any given race) that hold out? I can only think of one answer. They hate freedom and love getting shot in the face.
There are certain conversations that you will inevitably be forced to partake in if you work in a sex shop. "Have you used this?" asked by a middle-aged female who looks disturbingly like my mom referring to the "Romping Rabbit." "Could you tell us which one of these is better?" said by the tall Scandinavian couple trying to decide which vibrating cock ring to buy. "Which one of these do you recommend?" asked by the older gent in a suit holding up a couple of penis pumps.
For these types of questions, there are several go-to answers any sex shop employee who would much rather be watching Netflix than talking to seemingly normal people with pervy questions must have ready. "No." "It depends on the individual." And blank stare. (That last one comes in handy a lot.)
After a while, you get used to these kinds of questions and sooner than you'd think, you're expounding in Spanish upon the differences between ingredients in erection cream or "el flan erecto," as it were.
But one thing about conversing in a sex shop that remains awkward is when a customer tries to make small talk about everyday activities, such as reading a book.
"What are you reading?" asked the older man buying an extremely large blue butt plug.
"Uh. Russian Debutante's Handbook."
"Oh. Is it new?"
"Um, no. It came out before Absurdistan."
"Yes, I've heard of that. What's the author's name?"
"Gary Shteyngart."
"Shteyngart, you say."
"Yes."
"Well, very good. It looks like you're enjoying it. Has the action been resolved yet? I see you're toward the end." [Ed. note: That's what she said!]
"Nope. I don't think it will be resolved til the last page."
"That's the best kind of book -- the kind that keeps you interested til the very end."
"Uh, yep...so just this butt plug for you?"
Welcome to my twisted, retardulous world.
And speaking of twisted and retardulous and porn (although we weren't really speaking about porn, I suppose), this might be the perfect segue during which I can introduce a Web site forwarded to me by a good friend in honor of my hilariously awkward job -- hilariously awkward SFW porn!
Yum! Breakfast in bed!
It's a downward spiral, e-friends. Hold on to your croissants.
You may have noticed I'm not the kind of blogger who writes too much about my social life. There are several reasons for this. For one, I'm surprisingly a very private person when it comes down to it, as are my closest friends (surprisingly I do have some). And secondly, I mostly refrain from talking about my social life because it would sound a little something like this: I acquired Netflix this weekend and watched five films back-to-back. (I didn't say most of my friends weren't streamed movies online.)
But don't worry. It's not as pathetic as it sounds. See, I'm not so much of a recluse that I completely decided to shut myself off from humanity this weekend. Nope, I twittered about it! Wait. So that is as pathetic as it sounds. Actually it's more pathetic because it sounded like this: "Joined Netflix ergo will be watching movies all day between naps. Stay tuned for several 140-word film reviews..."
And just like a can of beans to a hobo (or, um, me), I didn't disappoint. Of course, considering I fell asleep through large chunks of almost all the movies I watched, the reviews went something like this: "No Country for Old Men -- Not as good as the book. On the bright side, I only fell asleep during it once! Next up : Bottle Rocket." Or this: "Not sure why Bottle Rocket is supposedly a cult classic. There were a few good 1-liners, but overall=yawn. Next up a docu called Jesus Camp."
And that's when I woke up. See, not that I would ever presume to know for sure, but I think it's safe to deduce that Jesus Camp would scare Jesus. It certainly scared me.
But I'm not even most scared of the fact that these people believe we're in some sort of "God War." I'm mostly just freaked out by the length and width of that kid Levi's rat-tail. Now that's battle-worthy.
And speaking of battle-worthy, it's probably time I declare a half-hearted war on my self-created image of a wayward loner who spends her weekends loafing around pantsless covered in graham crackers crumbs, chocolate bar wrappers and microwaved marshmallow remnants, which, by the way, is not a good idea if you want to be able to ever wash your dish again. That sh*t stuck to the plate tighter than Sea-Bond to your grandma's dentures. But at least I didn't get any on my pants (marshmallow, not Sea-Bond). Although my adult bib is a mess (with both marshmallow and, inexplicably, Sea-Bond -- who's been using my adult bib?! SVEN?!).
Anyway, I chose to let Sunday pass me by while I watched slept through not only No Country For Old Men, Bottle Rocket and Jesus Camp, but also Transsiberian and The King of Kong (which is really good, by the way) because I was exhausted from the previous few days, which I split between hanging out in and around beautiful Charlottesville, Va., and working at the sex shop in douchey DC.
Clearly, one of those activities was superior to the other and since this blog is called The Anti DC, I won't even bother going into which activities I preferred more.
The best part of my sojourn out to Virginia though occurred on Thursday morning when I happened upon Wonder Nut Farms.
Which is located just west of BumpASS.
God bless this country.
Uh, or not. Wait. Nevermind. Harry Potter, Public God Enemy No. 1, is British. This country is still safe.
Wait. No. We're f*cked. And I'm not even talking about the total rejection of science so much as that kid's rat-tail again. Yikes, in Jesus' name...
Hell's bells, it's been an interesting week over here. And to top it off, I'm trying to plan a hot non-date betwixt me, a pizza and Wii MarioKart. Oh, and a good friend who I haven't seen in weeks because I hate human contact.
