THE END

I guess whenever you write anything for public consumption, you can't help but think about who's actually reading it. Or, for that matter, if anyone's reading it. And while I suppose this thought also passes through the minds of print journalists (at least it did mine whenever I, you know, had a job), I think it's even more present in the minds of Web writers, you know, those narcissistic freaks called bloggers.

Speaking of, remember that party I organized in my honor? Well, people actually showed up! My ego is f*cking off the charts! Well, it was off the charts. After dealing with the day-after, which involved watching a few reruns of the A-Team, eating an entire pizza (it wasn't delivery, it was DiGiorno!) and imbibing copious amounts of Mountain Dew, my ego is a bit deflated. My thighs, on the other hand, have never been bigger...

But, sincerely, I want to thank everyone who could make it out on Wednesday for The Anti DC send-off, which I officially dubbed "I'll See You in Hell, DC." Not only did you sufficiently abet my narcissistic tendencies, but you allowed me to finally put a face to many of your names. And, my oh my, what a menagerie of faces there were!

Who knew bitching about DC would unite so many? Republicans, democrats, white-collar, blue-collar, no-collar, black, white, brown, blonds, brunettes, men, women, bloggers, non-bloggers. The only thing that was missing was another horse to keep my helper horse Sven company. Although, he was only there the first five minutes. He had to get to the casino. Something about a slot-machine tournament...

But seriously, I was impressed by the diversity in my, what I suppose I can even call, "readership." Truly, I guess my this blog touched a universal nerve among those possessing a keen wit. (And yes, I can feel my thighs shrinking and my ego getting bigger with that sentence because it takes one to know one.) In fact, it's too bad I waited until I was leaving DC to host one of these soirees because I'm pretty sure I could be real-life friends with everyone who showed up. Trust me, it helped that everyone seemed to enjoy my jean shorts, or as I prefer to call them my "jorts."

Also on the jorts tip, I learned my "audience" (Oh boy! My ego just spilled out of my right ear!) also possesses one other universal quality: They're an honest group. Not one but two people told me straight-up to stop reenacting the above video.

"Hey! Look what I can do in these awesome jorts!" I said as I took on an incredibly wide stance.

"Uh, you showed me that already."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah. Like twice."

"Really?!"

"Yeah."

*silence*

As I turn to the next person, "Hey, check out what I can do in these sweet jorts!"

Someone probably should've thrown a drink in my face.

But really, thanks for putting up with me. Thanks for the memories over on this here blog. And thanks to those of you who find something in my writing that will make you want to read my new stuff even if I'm not bitching about something DC-specific.

By the way, someone asked me what my favorite Anti DC post of all time was. I gotta say it's a toss-up between the one in which I realize I'm making $2.37 an hour at the sex shop and the one where I compare DC to asbestos. I really get a kick out of science humor.

And on that note, I'll proceed to officially retire The Anti DC (and I mean it this time) with this most entertaining and offensive montage I like to call "When Photos of Awkward Science Kids Meet Photoshop." Enjoy!

But remember, you can always find me at Marissa's Big Adventure. Have fun in DC, suckers! :)

so, will this blog ever really end?

I mean, enough is enough, right? I'm dragging this out longer than a Congressional hearing...

But I have good reason. I think.

I need to remind you one last time that tonight is the night! Let the awkward shambles begin!

It's the Come Punch The Anti DC in the Throat Gala! It starts around 8 p.m. at Chief Ike's (1725 Columbia Rd. in Adams Morgan) and ends down the street at McDonalds when I order a McGangBang. (Assuming I'm conscious, that is.)

Anyway, hope to see you there!

Oh yeah, because, um, promoting this new blog is a complete afterthought...I updated Marissa's Big Adventure again. This time I tell you that I'm terrified of Jimmy Fallon's stand-up routine among other things...

reminder!

I’ve been reminded to remind you that my e-send off (read: your time to come slap me in the face in person) is all set to go down this Wednesday, Sept. 23, upstairs at Chief Ike’s around 8 p.m. We shall indulge in caloric-laden alcoholic beverages after which I will probably go to McDonalds and get a McGangBang.

And speaking of a McGangBang, over at my new e-home Marissa's Big Adventure (bookmark that sh*t) I wrote a 1,000-word treatise on why I'll never be fat. I'll give you a hint: it's because I love delicious, delicious human meat.

F*CK.

Just when I'm leaving town and closing up shop over here, I finally find a logo for Shambles P.I.:


Meet "Shambo," a name apparently this woman, a contestant on Survivor: Samoa, has held since 1986 "because she wears the same bandana as Rambo."

If she doesn't win, her mullet better.

party over here.

Get ready to party like it's 2005:



Because I think I'm throwing a party. For people! For real-life people! This is so unlike me because, you know, I hate people.

But anyway, at this point I'm thinking I might as well throw an awkward shindig that will gather a bunch of people who don't know each other together for no other reason than to celebrate the fact this level of awkwardness may never be reached again. Although I plan to be awkward forever.

Anyway, here are the details:

WHEN: Wednesday, Sept. 23 at 8 p.m. until whenever you leave.

WHERE: (And this is where you must open your mind a bit.) Upstairs at Chief Ike's on Columbia Road in Adams Morgan. Yeah, I realize no one's probably ever been there and probably definitely may have even laughed at the thought of going there. Moreover, the guy who offered the upstairs venue who works there may have even called it "gnarly," but he also said this: "We serve cheap hipster-approved cans of PBR and Natty Bo (!!) (the pride of B-More) for the cost-conscious." He also said I could blast my iPod over the sound system. So, yeah, just deal with the gnarliness.

I don't believe there's a need to RSVP because I'll show up even if no one else does as I've been promised free booze. If need be, I'll drown my sorrows. Yes, if nothing else, at least I always have a Plan B (and I'm not just talking about the abortion pill).

Also, I managed to write a blog yesterday over at the new home, Marissa's Big Adventure, that is pretty much 800 words all about pants. Sadly, this wasn't my first treatise on the issue. In fact, a similar essay actually got me into a "top liberal arts college" back in *gasp* 1997. Apparently, nothin' caught the attention of admissions agents in the nineties better than turning a story about buying a pair of ratty slacks in a Minnesota thrift store into a philosophy-drenched allegory about finding the right path in life. And that, my friends, is why I'm unemployed. Anyway, you can read that by clicking here if you're so inclined. (Please be inclined.)

See you a next week? Anyone?

i got a venue? and maybe a straightjacket!

Remember when I said I was going to start a new blog and it would have sort of a freer range of topics? Well, I was serious. The Anti DC was written by a bitchy but well-dressed robot. My new Web log is written by an actual person with blood, bones, a wondrous gastrointestinal tract and *gasp!* feelings. Although, she might, indeed, be f*cking nuts...

Check it out at Marissa's Big Adventure!

Oh, and as far as a "get-together" -- I've been offered a venue by a reader for a week from Wednesday in Adams Morgan. They serve cans of Natty Bo and PBR. Let me know if that night works for anyone. And, apparently, there's a DJ set-up if anyone feels like making this legit. Perhaps even 2 Legit 2 Quit. Hey! Hey!

fire sale!

For those of you who missed yesterday's very predictable announcement regarding my retirement as The Anti DC, I'll fill you in real quick: I quit.

But that's because I got a new gig over at marissapayne.wordpress.com.

Click over there, bookmark it, put it in some sort of reader or feed and more importantly, peep my latest vlog. It's called "Fire Sale!" and its about exactly what it's called. Well, except for the fire part.

In the meantime, I'm going to throw this out there. It seems like there are actual real-life people (as in more than one) who want to buy me libations before I switch hemispheres. That is 1) fantastic, but also 2) it gives me an idea. I'm thinking if you read this blog, you probably have a certain sense of humor and philosophy on life. Which means, perhaps various readers may want to meet each other. Is this theory true? Would anyone be interested in perhaps setting up a group rendezvous during which not only can I get sh*t-faced for free, but all of you could maybe meet each other too. That way when you meet me and realize I'm really not all that interesting, I won't feel as awkward when you say, "Yeah, so...I'm just gonna go over there now..."

Let me know!

But first, buy my furniture and stuff!

adios! and hola...

A funny thing happened to me this weekend. I was sitting Saturday afternoon in the park on 16th right in front of the White House when a group of squirrels approached me, apparently, trying to love my nuts. We all looked at each other and had a moment not unlike this one: Those stupid, morbidly obese and Johnny-Depp-like squirrels made me realize something. I think maybe I will miss DC. Or at least it's magical film reenacting wildlife. Which brings me to the big announcement I've been hinting at lately -- I'm leaving DC. In fact, this is probably my last post as The Anti DC. (I say "probably" because, really, who ever knows anything for sure.) Which brings me to my other big announcement: I've started a new blog! While it'll be different from The Anti DC in several respects, my writing, occasional vlogging and this narcissistic personality of mine will remain consistent. This isn't a break-up; this is actually taking things to the next level. So, if you're willing, please e-join me over at Marissa's Big Adventure, "like Pee-Wee's, but dumber" Especially if you care to find out why I'm leaving DC, where I plan to go and what I plan to do. (Ahh, I know that's a cheap ploy to get people to click over to my new e-home, but, hey, by this point if you expect me to do anything with class, we might as well just e-part ways now...) Before you go, though, I want to get serious for a second. (Just a second, I swear) I want to thank you. Thanks for reading, commenting and laughing with me about DC's numerous, yet often hilarious shortcomings over the past almost two years. Perhaps pathetically, your e-friendship have sometimes been the only thing to keep me sane in this hot mess of a city. So, again, thank you, from the bottom of the spot where my heart should be. OK, that was longer than a second, but, hey, at least I didn't cry. Oh...God...I spoke too soon! But before we jump to conclusions about The Anti DC having emotions, I'll tell you that I'm really crying because I'm not leaving until October. Which means if you have a moment and want to buy me a farewell drink this month, either get on my Facebook and message me or E-mail me at theantidc@gmail.com. (While I won't be tending to this blog so often anymore, I will still check my mail.) And by "buy me a farewell drink," I mean "and also buy me a meal of food." Just kidding! I don't eat. At this point, I'm just curious to meet some of the people who have made this blogging experience more than just a hobby, but a very strange and important part of my real life. Wow. I don't think I've ever felt more like a dork (read: myself). Seriously, don't make me miss you. Come over to marissapayne.wordpress.com! Love, Marissa

dear wsc...

I love you. No, I mean it this time. I really, really love you.

I love your treadmills, your ellipticals, your recumbent stationary bikes, your air-conditioning. Oh yes, Washington Sports Club, I love being inside of you.

Whoa. Slow down...

Well, that almost took a turn for the worst. But you know what? I can't help it. After spending years scoffing at the idea of a gym, I learned in this past two weeks thanks to a $20 trial deal, just how lovely the gym is. Especially in DC, where save for the last few days, the summer humidity makes it nearly impossible to be physically active out of doors.

But even if the weather is fantastical, like it's been this week, I still would go to the gym. In fact, I wish it were a can of beans so I can eat it up and have it inside of me, well, at least for a day or so until my awesome and now more physically fit digestive tract took care of business.

And although I really do think going to the gym (and actually working out) 14 days in a row has done incredible things to my physique (I've somehow dropped almost 7 pounds and feel like I could beat Usain Bolt in a road race), I think the real reason I fell so hard, so fast for the gym is because it doesn't feel like DC -- it's the physical manifestation of The Anti DC.

The gym is a place where you won't see a suit and tie. There are no hidden agendas. The gym serves a blatant purpose -- to challenge its patrons; to push them to their limits; to tear their muscle tissue only for it to grow back stronger, fitter, happier; to quote Radiohead lyrics together. Or maybe that last one is just me...

Regardless of that, though, the gym is a place where people get down and dirty, or at least get limber and sweaty. It's a place to go when you need a reminder that we're all just human beings doing what we can to get by. That jag-bag with the "important job"? He's just a middle-aged guy trying to get rid of his middle-aged paunch so he can justify being such a creep. That waitress at Marvin who's a total bitch? She's trying to get hot so she can justify being such a wretched wench. Me? I just get a sick high when I run so hard that feel like I'm going to puke afterward. I also need reason to justify being such a wretched wench-creep.

But alas, my two-week trial period is over and today is the first day I will not be setting foot in the bright open space that has become my morning and sometimes afternoon spot in which to watch cable. And almost puke.

Why don't I just join, you ask? Well, for one, like I mentioned above, the weather has taken an unusual turn for the lovely so I can start bicycling longer distances and running around like a lunatic outside again. As for the weights, I'll go with the obvious choice of strapping cans of beans around my ankles.

But there's also another reason I'm not joining -- I can't get down with a one-year contract. (<--- OMG! A clue to the cliffhanger I alluded to Wednesday!)

So, in the meantime while I weep, I'll be listening to Steve Winwood on my iPod.



Indeed, "Higher Love" is a classic.

i've bean busy

I apologize for using the same pun twice in a row. But see, I just can't help myself. Despite being so unemployed, for some reason, I haven't had much time to think of any new fresh ways to play on the word bean and the rest of the English language. What has become of me? Well, you'll all soon find out. OMG! CLIFFHANGER! I'm just like the last episode of Season 1 of The Wire. What's Omar gonna do?! But don't tell me. I just started Season 2 the other day. Which, at another time, may explain why I haven't had the time to create new bean puns. But no. In fact, I've only had the time to watch one episode. It's sad, really. But despite my lack of time to wordsmith and watch TV, I've still been able to scope out a few things on the Interweb. While in the past I've usually chosen a different language to present this Web regurgitation, today I'll be sticking to English. And instead of presenting five links, I've only got three. (Hey, I had to give myself time to sneak in at least that one episode...) And so without further, stupid ado, let's get down to business. One! DC really gets my goat. For those of you who don't live here, some controversy is brewing regarding the city's decision to remove a "Ghost Bike" memorial to a cyclist who was struck and killed by a garbage truck last year while riding within the law. My expert opinion: That's f*cked up. However, not everyone feels this way. There's some interesting discussion over at the Prince of Petworth. Two! After a heated discussion of whether men prefer butts or boobs, or as I like to say buttflaps to breasticles, the parties involved were forced to turn to the Internet. And we found this. Apparently, I was right and, also, there's a show on the air called Manswers. I don't know about you, but I feel like I want nothing more right now than to tune into Lifetime Television for women and watch a couple episodes of the Golden Girls. Three! "I'm just a prom night dumpster baby!" Because teen pregnancy/murder is hilarious, somehow?

it's bean real

I went to the Georgetown Waterfront for the first time yesterday and I gotta say, surprisingly, I didn't hate it. Of course, I was there around 4 p.m., which, if you know anything about DC, you know is far from the "Douching Hour."

What's the Douching Hour, you ask? Well, it's that time of day, or night, rather, during which the dudes with popped collars and the girls who have yet to learn how to walk in their 4-inch heels come out to swap STDs. In addition, there is often a lot of hair product involved. On the men.

Getting back to what's important here though, ahem, my experience, I will tell you that it was enhanced by a scoop of pistachio ice cream and the fantastically unseasonable weather global warming may or may not have provided us yesterday.

As I sat and stared out at the sun shining so brilliantly over the river two things happened: 1) I almost went blind because, duh, it's not healthy to stare at the sun, and 2) I made some pretty major life-changing decisions. As I gingerly slurped my delightful dessert and blinked furiously having just looked at the sun, I realized pistachio really wasn't the flavor I was craving. I was craving beans. It was then and there that I decided to open a trendy new dessert shop in which every sweet has at least one type of bean as an ingredient. Bean doughnuts, bean scones, bean pies, bean cupcakes, bean cakes, bean pudding, bean brullé, beanklava, chocolate-covered frozen beananas, and several other bean-based sweets. (I told you this was life-changing.)

Let me know if you want to invest. It will be called Good Fiberations.

I'd invest myself, but unfortunately it looks like my government-supported unemployed checks are about to end. So it's either I keep my beansicle recipes to myself or I rely on your collective millions to make sure America's digestive tracts are healthier after dessert. It's up to you.

Speaking of you, a very bizarre but kind of awesome incident happened last week. A reader recognized me on the street. And I do mean that literally. We were both on our respective bicycles on the street when someone called out, "Hey! It's Marissa and Baguette!"

Although in my mind I'm just about as famous as a Michael Jackson impersonator, in reality I know that mostly no one cares about what I do on a day-to-day basis or even what I write about here. So, clearly, this caused a bit of shock. But then, before I could say anything cool, maybe a rape joke, the light changed and my mysterious e-friend was gone.

Looking back, I'm now not sure if I imagined it or not. Maybe my helper horse Sven had slipped some sort of hallucinogen into that morning's beantini. Perhaps I'll never know. Perhaps it's better that way.

Anyway, that might be the most exciting thing to have ever happened to me in DC. While riding my bike. Last week. During the afternoon. Between 2:30 and 3.

Clearly the most exciting thing to have ever happened to me was thinking up the idea for Good Fiberations. Seriously, who's in?