This is embarrassing. Like, seriously, People-magazine-naming-Nick-Nolte-sexiest-man-alive embarrassing. (I'm still not over that unfortunate rediscovery.) Nicolas Sarkozy and Carla Bruni came to town and they CHOSE to dine at Ben's Chili Bowl. Really?! And from what I understand, they did so 100 percent sober. REALLY?! I don't get it. Ben's isn't bad when your tastebuds have been soaked for several hours in Grey Goose and Miller Lite (mixed together, naturally), but when you're wide awake during the day with all your wits about you? REALLY?! I mean, REALLY?!?! Wouldn't a baguette and some fresh Brie have done you better?!?!?! This is seriously giving me a heater. AHHH!!!!
Hold on, though. I'm guessing this must have been some sort of cultural curiosity thing. Kind of like eating guinea pig in Peru or dog in China or delicious human meat in Philadelphia.
Any excuse to slap up an Always Sunny clip...
But honestly, hearing this debacle of the First French Couple opting to eat the greasy, watery slop called chili at Ben's opposed to, say, actual food (or even a can of Hormel) makes me want to kill myself by shoving a cucumber up my butt. Wait, what?
But let's change the subject to something more appealing than foods that will mess up your colon, no matter which orifice you use, and talk about something just as disturbing, but far less disgusting (hopefully). Let's talk about me.
I'm currently in the Norfolk area interviewing new helper animals. So far, the lead contenders are a lemur named Geoff, a warthog named Emile and a newt named T-Bone (his government name is, ironically, Newt, however he was not amused so he's in the process of legally changing it). Anyway, I'm going to judge them on how fast each one can fetch me a refreshing sippy cup of apple juice while typing up this blog post, which I am currently dictating. Then tonight, I'm going to judge them on which one can rewrite the final season of LOST so it doesn't suck so hard. The helper animal results should be in about the same time as my latest round of tumor (that hopefully doesn't exist) blood test results, which is also why I'm down in Southern VA. Oops! I just made it disgusting! Sorry!
Can you believe what people do for fun on the Internet these days? Well, I never! Uh-oh. T-Bone just laughed so hard he bit off his lizard-like tongue and had to regenerate a new one. "Hey, while you're at it, T-Bone, can you regenerate more apple juice in this sippy cup?" *pause* "Fine. OK. Can you please regenerate more apple juice in this sippy cup?" *pause* Goddammit, T-Bone! You can take your smoke break later!" *sigh* "Emile are you typing this? What are you typing? EMILE! DON'T TYPE THIS PART! THIS IS NOT PART OF THE BLOG POST! DAMMIT! DON'T MAKE ME COME OVER THERE. NO, STAY OUT OF THIS, GEOFF! IT DOESN'T CONCERN YOU! OH GOD! IS THAT BEN'S CHILI BOWL I SMELL ON YOUR BREATH! GEOFF, I SAID STAY OUT OF THIS! T-BONE! WHERE'S MY JUICE! GODDAMMIT EMILE! STOP TYPING! OK, IT'S ON, HELPER ANIMALS. IT. IS. ONNNNNNNNN!!!!!!!kls@$jlk)(#*jwp0i@($%p2qpsaoif03-q05tpwgasa...............SEND HELPPP, SIGNED EMILE
The other day while I was waiting to alight my rigid airship to DC in Houston, I overheard an undergrad in Uggs say, "Oh. My. GAWD! Have you seen Eric's elbows? They are HAWT!" I immediately stopped desperately seeking a combination Taco Bell and Pizza Hut (so I could rap in it, not eat...gross) and reflected on that girl's thought. Hot elbows? Really?! Who notices something like that? It's a detail on a person that really shouldn't matter, unless, of course, Eric is into wearing old-man elbow patches and she was admiring the cloth and leather over his elbows. Or maybe...maybe this young lady has an elbow fetish, which upon reflection, is probably the case. Judging from her aforementioned Uggs (and I sure do like to judge), this is not a woman who would be interested in a guy who wears sweet elbow patches on his tweed sport coats. Wow. What a freak.
But I bring this incident up for a reason today (you know, other than to simply mock a person in Uggs). Nope, I bring it up also to mock a recent New York Times article, "Stimulus Programs That Roll at Night." First of all, that title is to headlines what Uggs are to footwear. It's f*cking dumb. But that only scratches the surface. If you read further, you'll find the article trying to accurately describe DC nightlife as "cool," as if it were a fully attractive person and not someone average with, say, just hot elbows.
"I don't associate these things with D.C.," Mr. [Shea] Van Horn [a promoter and DJ] said of the themed parties, which, over the last year or so have become an increasingly common evening activity in Washington. "I say 'It's so L.A.' or 'It's so New York' but it's also, now, so D.C."
Really, Mr. Van Horn, REALLY!? The hottest ventures in DC nightlife are "themed parties?" And somehow that's both "so L.A." and "so New York?" Isn't that also "so my Bozo-the-Clown-themed 30th 10th birthday party?" Because if "themed parties" are what makes a town's night life legit, then Mankato, Minn., has been ahead of the curve for years.
"At the dance hall Town, on U Street, Mr. Van Horn D.J.’d for an event where the crowd was packed with costumed characters: a dancing bear, a gaggle of drag queens, a go-go dancer in a low-cut rhinestone-studded Speedo. Mr. Van Horn, bewigged, appeared as his drag alter ego, Summer Camp."
Wow. That is wild. Or maybe that's Moscow. Last decade. No, seriously.
Excuse the absence of the dancing bear. He's off in the bathroom bumping rails off a gazelle's ass.
But really, let's think about this. DC is many things. We boast the most lawyers per capita. We're up there with the murders, too. Oh, and let's not forget we're also The Capital of the Free World. I mean isn't that enough? Can we just not accept the fact that no matter how many themed parties Van Horn throws, we'll never be as attractive in that sense as L.A. or New York. Or even Moscow circa last decade.
Let's just accept that we're not fully attractive in that sense. Let's just accept that we only have hot elbows. That is, we have tiny little pockets of cool that most people (perhaps, unfortunately) don't care to notice. We have a few really stellar DJs here, for example. Van Horn may even be one! He might be the hottest elbow I've never rubbed! (That came out wrong...)
Also adding to DC's elbow appeal are a few bars and restaurants. The Passenger comes to mind, as well as St. Ex (which I will stick up for despite the wide array of hatery I hear about this place). And let's not forget Burritos Fast. It may be dirty and possibly violate many-a-health code, but it is delicious and the beans are divine. Mmm...beans...
But I digest (ha!), I guess what I'm trying to blatantly hint at in a verbosely straightforward way is that DC is still not "cool" in the way New York or LA (or Moscow last decade) is. And, honestly, it probably never will be thanks to the prevalence of government sh*t here, which, if DC were a person, disallows it from being any more attractive than Nick Nolte in 1992. Unfortunately, the world is not People magazine, which means we'll never be the most appealing.
I still can't believe People did that. Ew.
But getting back to the point, DC isn't an entire wash. Like I said, we have hot elbows. And as long as we remember to moisturize (and drag out ridiculous metaphors for as long as possible), I think maybe we can shine these elbows up enough to get the freaks interested. Or something. I'll do my part by resurrecting my Bozo-the-Clown-themed birthday party this year. I'LL FASHION MY GRAND PRIZE GAME BUCKETS OUT OF CANS OF BEANS!!!
Is it possible that the coolest spot in DC is a synagogue? The answer is yes. The synagogue is cooler than Rhino Bar. But then again, a broken toilet is cooler than most bars in Georgetown. So, let me just put it this way: The Sixth & I Synagogue is to DC what something much better (i.e., any bar) is to New York City. And I'm not even of the Jewish persuasion!
Alas, when the local synagogue transforms itself into a rock'n'roll venue, it doesn't matter. It might seem strange to jam with a giant stained glass Star of David in the background (as it would also be with a Jesus slowly dying on the wall), the venue was absolutely perfect for the event, which just so happened to be The xx.
You may not know them, but I guarantee you know this advertisement (if you're a patriot and watched any of the Olympic games, that is), which features America's Top Soul Patch, Apolo Anton Ohno:
Yeah. Even though they don't correctly capitalize proper nouns, The xx's sh*t is most definitely tight, as they remained cool even with Ohno's horrific facial pubes in plain sight.
Anyway, I don't know how the Sixth and I Synagogue became the most awesome music venue in town (although I have plans to find out), but it is, even without any Manishevitz. I mean, seriously, it's weird, right?
But then again, I'm weird, so I suppose maybe that's why it worked so well for me. It also worked so well because of where I sat during the show. Yep. I placed both my left and right buttock in a little place I like to call the most awesomest seat in the joint! You know, besides all the other ones where you could see the entire stage, etc. (I arrived late because I was eating cookies with Butternuts' crew. "Girl, you silly, they ain't no clowns!")
But really, this seat was actually pretty cool as it gave me an over-the-shoulder view of the percussion section, which amounted to one skinny, white dude in an ear-flap hat and a couple of new-fangled technological wonders that reinvigorated my love of science.
I don't how this man was able to manipulate those machines (shown in the blur of shadows behind the two vocalists), but via a couple of stabs at those many buttons, the synagogue made like a Larry King in Snoop Dogg's low-rider and bounced.
Having not brought along any video capturing infrastructures, I'll instead steal the work of a third party, some French show that the band they performed on last November, to give you an idea about their sound. (Finally, France makes itself useful!)
Unfortunately, the sound quality of that video is about the quality of my photographs, which is perfect because both qualities put together equals about the quality of this blog post. Eh. At least, I had a good time and, come on, that's really all that's important here. And actually, if I didn't eat my helper llama Eugene last week, I'm sure he'd also have had a good time.
And speaking of good times, I blogged about my recent trip to Central America here. If you're jonesin' for good puns (because who isn't?!), that's the place to go. Oh, and howler monkeys!
Well, not really. It's only been a week. That is, a whole week since I last properly showered.
Just kidding. Sort of. Unless you count cold showers I've been taking with the rain water of Guatemala and fresh dips in the Caribbean Sea off the coast of Belize.
And because of my dirty hippie jet-setting, it's also been a week since I last blogged. Lo siento about that.
Wait. No. No, I'm not sorry about that because I got to see the above image in person instead.
But alas, I'm not a dirty hippie for life so regular programming will begin uninterrupted by random bouts of jet-setting to foreign locales starting Monday. Now if you'll excuse me, I've just been informed that there are delays with the rigid air ship I am supposed to alight and I must go tend to the ado. Good day then.
Also, I blogged about the deets of my trip on my other Web joint, Marissa's Big Adventure. Check it or go f*ck yourself. Ta!
Did you know today is Mojoday? Yeah. It is. At least to all the followers of the Discordian calendar out there. Anyone?
Me neither. But check this out: Sweetmorn, Boomtime, Pungenday, Prickle-Prickle, and Setting Orange -- THOSE ARE THE NAMES OF THE DAYS OF THE WEEK IF YOU'RE DISCORDIAN! Although, for me, it's Boomtime every day. Prickle-Prickle.
Anyway, I bring this not up to confuse anyone and certainly not to celebrate Dr. Van Van Mojo, for whom Mojoday, of course, is named. Nope. I bring this up simply to underline the point that we all see things differently.
I've had a lot of complaints lately that I'm not the same hater I used to be. Am I not? Perhaps you're thinking it's simply Friday. Other people see it as Mojoday. And me? I see it as Boomtime. (Because that's every day for me, remember? I said it, like, two sentences ago or something. Duh.)
But I guess what I'm getting at is that blogs have a cycle just like everything else. Moons, seasons, beans. (The bean cycle is tremendous, by the way.) And so, I suppose, so does The Anti DC. While you're in waiting for old-school Hatorade, I'm providing you with a refreshing glass of chlorinated DC tap water over ice made from toilet water.
Why won't you drink it?! IT'S DELICIOUS!
So, on this Mojoday -- this Boomtime, as it were -- I invite you to raise a glass with me and toast to getting on the same cycle. You know, like when a group of women live together and their menstrual cycles are start lining up...er...
Actually, nevermind. Keep on sending me your complaints and let's just continue to agree to disagree about my current level of hatery. In the meantime, I hope we can at least agree to agree on the awesomeness that is teaching an alpaca how to surf.
I apologize for the lack of blog post yesterday. I'm sure you all cursed the e-gods that be and then proceeded to cry all day wondering about the fart jokes that could've been. Or maybe you were drunk all day because you think St. Patrick's Day is a holiday worth celebrating. Xenophobes. I don't see anyone celebrating the existence of Belarus with me!
Anyvay (said like an ex-Soviet), I've got a really good excuse this time and it's not because I'm sick or lazy. It's because I needed my jorts. I drove about 300 miles round-trip yesterday to pick up a f*cking pair of cut-offs. I rule. So do my jorts.
But before I went to retrieve my awesomely frayed cropped pantaloons, I met up with my friend Libby aka Lazerbitch, whose music career is about to skyrocket because she's the f*cking T-I-T-S! I mean, how can you not love this?
ICE CREAM IN YOUR FACE!
Also, did you notice the Claire Hux cameo at the end when she steals the mic??? I did. *sigh* I really should move to Baltimore...
Or maybe not. DC has demonstrated in the past that it has the potential to be a leading producer of awesomeness for the ears. I mean, this city produced the likes of Fugazi, Wale, The Dismemberment Plan, The Thievery Corporation and John Philip Sousa (!), so there must be something good in the water here (lead), right? RIGHT!
So what the hell? Why isn't all that lead in the water working its magic here? For the answer, I'll turn to DC's premiere music journalist and DC-ite born-and-raised, Marcus Dowling, who posted this note on his Facebook a couple of weeks ago:
So, I recently moved back to Washington, DC. The less said about the seven years where I didn't live in DC proper the better, but, I'm here, back to my city of birth, and I couldn't be happier. Yes, as always, if you read the page you'll read where I have rather extremely pointed things to say about the nature of the development of culture here, so, with that being said, I've decided to do my part to bring some DC cultural folklore back to the table. See, I love DC [editor's note: wait, give him a chance], and I think there's depth and worth here on a musical level on the level of, or comparably better than other cities in the US, and let's even extrapolate that to worldwide. But I think the city's lost its way. I'll posit this theory here. DC has become completely a city based around satiating the desires of a transient population. I think we've finally hit the tipping point, to the destruction of a unique DC culture.Yes, there are bands, acts, food, artists, etc., but none of it feels truly and uniquely organic as go-go, hardcore or even on another level, Cool Disco Dan felt 30 years ago. If people come and people go with alarming regularity, where's the need for creating concepts, styles, sounds and ideas that have any permanence, roots or truly soulful reality? I argue that there isn't one.
All the emphasisesses (that's the correct plural form) were added by me to, well, emphasize certain points where I think Mr. Dowling has hit nail on the head punched the jugular on the neck.
I mean, look what happened when I left last September. Everything turned to sh*t!
"Um, Marissa. That's complete balderdash. Everything stayed the same and, in fact, some new stuff opened that doesn't suck so hard."
OK. Fine. Whatever. Which brings me to my new point. Is DC changing now? Have the people who have remained here noticed this "tipping point" of suckage and grown sick of it? Are the collective "we" who've lived here more than two years going to start demanding a community again instead of passively letting crap be the password to pass for passable while we all wait to move somewhere else? I think maybe we are.
There are new bars opening up (The Passenger) that are making DC look like they know what they're doing liquor-wise. There are new music venues opening up (U Street Music Hall), which will hopefully encourage local acts to sharpen up and play more. And, most of all, I'm back.
"Seriously, Marissa. Your narcissism knows no bounds, you asshole."
OK. Fine. Whatever. But to borrow the words of Starship (not from DC), before we start building this city on rock'n'roll (save for a local band I've never seen but can't get enough of the name, Animal Genital, who will be playing Wednesday, March 24 at Velvet Lounge), we'll let Lazerbitch do it. Libby and her band are rolling in for a gig at The Hotel on Friday, April 9! Be there or be, uh, not there. It really is your choice. However, there is a right one and a wrong one.
I went to the Rock & Roll Hotel the other night to see The Very Best. And while one can argue whether, indeed, they were the very best that night, I can safely say that the crowd was the very best I've ever seen in DC.
But don't soil your pants over that statement because it doesn't take much to impress me at this point when it comes crowds in this city. Oh, theshamblesI'veseen.......
And honestly, let's not even pretend that crowd was anything close to awesome. Save for myself (naturally) and my companion, Butternuts, what made The Very Best's crowd the very best in DC was a group of joke-cracking high school kids, one of whom carried around an empty pipe. And while my current bout with the vapors disallows me from remembering the jokes except that one of them had to do with Pantera (I'm so high on Nyquil right now), I can tell you that I lol'ed a little bit with them opposed to at them (well, until I noticed the empty pipe), which is a pretty big deal around here. So kudos to you, high school kids. You did good.
And speaking of doing good (and now I mean the opposite of good but not in the Michael Jackson way), this blog entry is terrible! Don't blame me. Blame my the vapors and the Nyquil, which I've been taking liberally throughout the conscious parts of my day. There haven't been many. And even in those short spats of upright awakeness, all I've been doing is watching then re-watching this, which proves to me that high school kids are my favorite unintentional stand-up comedians in the history of ever:
Oh, and if you haven't heard of The Very Best and now you're like, "Duh. Of course I haven't because apparently The Very Best is a group that high school students who carry empty pipes around like to listen to and I'm a grown-up," I invite you to ignore your instincts and check them out now. Unlike porn, they're not just for kids. Wait, what? Nevermind. (Nyquil.) Listen to this:
And if you don't like it then in the words of Copper Cab (whose above-posted video I assume you've already watched thrice-thousand times), "CLICK THE F*CKING X, OKAY? GET THE F*CK OUT!" Just kidding! Stay. Keep me warm. Like Nyquil. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go back to having cold-medicine dreams about hanging out with someone named Butternuts and impregnating people's hands with my skillful dry hump. Wait, what? Nevermind. (That totally happens in real life.) NYQUIL! It's what's for dinner.
Fine. I'll ask myself: "Hey Marissa, what'd you do yesterday?"
"Oh, why thank you for asking, Marissa. You look good, by the way."
"Thanks!"
"No problem. You always look good. But to answer your question, I was standing in line yesterday."
"Why? This is the USA, which stands for the United States of America, not Usually Standing Aroundinline!"
"Lolz! That 'joke' wasn't forced or corny at all! Gosh, first you're lookin' good and then you're clever? Marissa, you're the Apis Mellifera's patellas!" [Google it.]
"Thanks, Marissa. And you're not so bad yourself and your jorts? They're FAAAABULOUS!"
"Hey, I learn from the best! But as I was saying, I was standing around in line."
"Boo! That is totally buns."
"Totally. It's like the opposite of freshly dipped. But yeah, I'm going to be volunteering with underprivileged foster children and I have to go through all these police checks and stuff to verify that I'm not some sort of creepy molester. Or some sort of uncreepy molester. Or, I guess, any type of molester at all."
"Well, that makes sense. And might I add, wow, Marissa! You really have surpassed my expectations with this good Samaritan stuff. You're like Mother Theresa, but not really because, well, you know...*wink.* But getting back to the matter at hand, why, pray tell, were you in line all day just to prove you are neither a creepy, uncreepy nor any other type of molester? That should be obvious as you don't sport a pedophile beard or wear rapist glasses!"
"You mean I don't sport a pedophile beard or wear rapist glasses anymore. *sigh* Those were the days...But regardless of my non-rapey spectacles and hairless visage, that's just how the system works, so I had to wait in line. The funny thing is, I was the ONLY one in the line! Check it out!" *whips out a cellular phone to show a photo*
"Well, I'll be damned, Marissa, and correct me if I'm wrong, but that office looks completely empty!"
"Once again, Marissa, you're 100 percent, undeniably right -- just like you always are. But let me try to explain: The second office, where I needed to take the receipt I got from the window on the third floor that the man in the room across the hall told me to get then bring here then bring back up to the window so that I can fill out the form that the original man from across the hall had the entire time, was abandoned!"
"What?! I'm having a hard time keeping up with all that!"
"I know! That's because you're not a Communist."
"Of course not! I can't even look at the color red without dry-heaving! *pets bald eagle* Ahem, but moving on: Tell me, then what happened? You're such a good storyteller!"
"I waited for 20 minutes."
"Well, that's not that bad of a wait...and, by the way, did you not hear me? I just said you were a good storyteller, so, like pony up, bitch. That story sucked."
"Marissa, stop being a dick. If you were there then you'd know that 20 minutes is bad, especially when you add that to the other 40 minutes I waited at the other rooms and windows, despite that NO ONE ELSE WAS THERE. All the rooms and windows were just inexplicably empty in the middle of a workday! Plus the fact that apparently the DC authorities that be, (smokin' crack) randomly moved the fingerprinting office for the foster kid program to some other building that meanwhile had closed for the day, meaning I'll have to wait in these same lines again in the future! And to think, all's I want to do is change an underprivileged kid's life...!"
"Oh, Marissa. You are such a good person, you know, when you're not being a dick and stuff..."
"What?"
"Nothing. I was saying it's too bad DC can't get their sh*t together so you can put your good-personess into action."
"I know. It's as if the city of DC hates children."
"Indeed. That's exactly what it is. But thank DC's slew of unsolved crimes for you, though. You're the best. Trying to turn this city around. I like your gumption, kid."
"Aww, shucks. But you wanna know what I think, Marissa? I think, you're the best. You're so understanding and reliable. I love you."
"I love you, too."
"Let's embrace, Marissa."
"Agreed. Let's celebrate the Siamese twinness that could've been."
*the two Marissas embrace tenderly then turn to the crowd, which as alluded to earlier is made up entirely of crickets with flatulence problems*
During my "break" from DC, I probably lost about 75 percent of my readership, which means instead of four readers, I now have one. Although, I guess that is still an assumption. Perhaps this lone holdout also doesn't read, but instead spends his time searching for places for me to live on Craigslist. Scratch that. I mean he spends his time searching for ridiculous places for me to live on Craigslist. Last week, before I revealed that I was back and had managed to already move into and predictably lock myself out of Fort Kickass, he forwarded me this. I've been sitting on it because, well, I think you'll see why after you look at it. It's a bit of a mindf*ck.
And because I'm told by those who can read that it's impossible to read the words from that screenshot, here they are. Make sure whatever helper animal you're using doesn't have any kibble or bits in its mouth, because it just might gag:
$770 1 Bedroom in a 6Br, 3 story Bro Palace- America (Mt. Pleasant) WARNING: If you are not a complete Brohemouth, do not read this ad. The awesome of this house will make your face melt like Raiders of the Lost Ark.
We've had this Temple to Broseidon under our control since W. went Ameri-bro and Mission Accomplished the shit out of Iraq and it has seen some of the greatest bros of the last decade pass through its hallowed halls: 2 direct descendants of the A-Team, they guy who came up with Under Armour's "We must protect this house" campaign, Nicholas Cage, and a surfer bro (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n-5F_7DwPpo) that made Keanu Reeves in Point Break look like Lionel Richie. After coming to America to learn the ways of the brah, our recent international brotege (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LlWNg4k0MLY) has flown by the seat of his pants back Down Under, most likely to bang as many foreign chicks as possible. We're looking for a bro of epic broportions, talent and exploits to fill his spot in the brahacracy.
About the house itself: • The house, as any true Brotel should, has its own brah-niker: Sparta, because what's more brah than being the most cock diesel fighters of all the ancient world? Slaying mad bitches that’s what, which were pretty sure the Spartans did too. if these guys were around today they'd wear Affliction Tees for sure bro • Kitchen equipped with multiple blenders for protein shakes • if you need to know more, then you’re no bro, and your face will start melting any minute now
The bros in this house like to party hard and bang chicks even harder. If you hate China and Russia winning any Olympic medal and shed a bro-tear when Phelps won his 8th gold medal, join the club. However, only real Teddy Brosevelts know the true tragedy was that the IOC (also known as Vichy France) didn’t let Phelps compete in every event.
Moving on, owning some container capable of holding more than 4 beers at once is an absolute requirement. Having recently banged a chick born in the 90's is a plus. If it was doggy and you didn't call her ever again…BRO-FIVE!
If you think you're brah enough to enter the kingdom of brah, respond to this ad. Our response will either come in the form of an email or by means of bald eagle courier. RamBros love America.
Brahsta La Vista.
Bro. My. Gawd. While I can understand why people refuse to keep up with fashion trends here (90 percent of this city's population is composed of disheveled tools), I cannot understand why DC's douchebags can't keep up with douche trends (90 PERCENT OF THIS CITY'S POPULATION IS COMPOSED OF DISHEVELED TOOLS!). I mean, COME ON! If we're going to be on the cutting edge of anything, being a tool should really be high up there. Like, we should be telling Brody Jenner what slang to use, not the other way around, and definitely not three years later. I'm guessing while Mr. Jenner was perfecting his bronunciation, these tools were still debating which band was cooler: Limp Bizkit or Crazy Town (um, don't pretend like you've never heard their one hit blunder).
Anysugarbaby, before I go ahead and judge the brahsiers who wrote the above ad, I'm going to postulate the theory that perhaps they're just joking. Maybe they're just f*cking with me like the way People magazine did in 1992 when it named its sexiest man alive:
Nick Nolte?! Really?! Did the editors see the picture? Were they still coming off their coke benders from the '80s? Because that is a brotastrophy of epic broportions. (What's worse? He also won a Golden Globe that year for The Prince of Tides. *shudder*)
So yeah, that happened. (I'll give you a moment to really let that sink in.)
Seriously. Jesuz. We live in a world where Nick Nolte was considered the sexiest man alive. *dry heave*
But the fact that Nick Nolte, at one point, was not only considered attractive, but THE SEXIEST MAN ALIVE (I will never come to terms with that), we cannot control. What we can control, though, is the world directly around us today and I am thankful to be living in (and subsequently locking myself out of) Fort Kickass opposed to DC's very own "Sparta," where I'm sure the bros look more like Nick Nolte than Gerard Butler.
Now if only I can swing an invite to this Bro Palace for a dinner party sometime so I can say, "Tonight, we dine in hell!" and truly mean it. That, e-friends is my one and bronly dream.
Blogging has never been hard for me until now. Maybe it's because I just ate the helper animal I've been relying on lately. But can you blame me? Llama meat is delicious! (R.I.P. Eugene the Helper Llama).
And so I'm going at it alone over here at The Anti DC Headquarters, until I can lure one of my previous two helper animals (Sven, my helper horse, or Vladimir, my helper tortoise) back by bribing them with a delicious meal of, um, llama meat and a fresh bottle of Hendrick's (only the best!). But I promise I won't dine on you guys!
Ahem. Anyways, as I was saying, I'm having a bit of a rough time getting back into the daily swing of things over here after being in retirement so dang long. I don't know how Jay-Z has done this so many times...and clearly this blog is comparable to his music career.
So, while I sit and wonder why creatures without opposable thumbs aren't texting me back, I invite you to read the first edition of The Anti DC's Advice Column (NOT!) <--- Do you see? That's the cleverest title I could think of without the help of an animal who doesn't possess the ability to speak or understand human language. And with that in mind, let's get to the advice.
Dear Carolyn Anti DC:
I've been dating my boyfriend for 5 1/2 years now, and we've been living together most of that time. He moved across the country to be with me, and a year ago I returned the favor. I realized I had been taking some frustrations out on him lately, so I wrote him a letter apologizing and telling him I'd be more supportive.
This led to a conversation that surprised me: He feels like at our age (25) he should know if he wants to marry me, and he's still not sure. Also he wants to live independently, which he feels he hasn't done yet because we've been sharing responsibilities.
He's not ready to break up, but he's pessimistic about our long-term chances. But he loves me and wants to give it a chance because I'm willing to work on things. We are thinking about having him move out but continuing to date. Is this a good idea, or am I kidding myself that this relationship has a chance?>
S.
Dear "S.,"
First of all, I understand why you only used an initial. That sh*tty situation you described above is totally embarrassing. I mean, one of the first things you said you did was "return a favor" by moving across the country to be with your boyfriend. First of all, the idea of reciprocating something nice that someone does for you is already absurd in my book on my blog. Hell, that's almost as absurd as doing a good deed in the first place!
"Hi Marissa, can I help you carry your groceries?"
"Oh really, you want to 'help'?" I'd ask. "SO YOU CAN STEAL MY BEANS?!"
"YES!" this would-be assailant would say. "YOU SAW THROUGH MY ACT! I WAS GOING TO STEAL YOUR BEANS!"
"AHA! I KNEW IT!" I'd say. "NOW, SCRAM, YOU DIRTY RAT BASTARD, SCRAM!"
Oh, if I had a nominal amount paid to me in metal monetary units for every time I've had to ward off a bean burglar...
But where was I. Oh yes, back to "S." You're 25 and you've been with this guy for 5 1/2 years? If my calculations are correct, that means you've been with him since you were 12 1/2 and, I'll tell ya, as someone older and wiser, I think that is much too young to jump into a serious relationship. I think you should dump this man (that is, um, if he hasn't dumped you first by the time I get done writing this) and go at the world by yourself for a while, because in just 5 1/2 years you'll be 103, according to the calculator in my mind, and you don't want to let life pass you by while you spend all your time worrying about some dude who's about to break up with you in slow motion. NEXT!
Dear Carolyn Anti DC:
A friend asked me to be her bridesmaid, and I am pleased and honored. The problem is that I have been out of work for four months and barely have enough money to pay my bills and buy food. I don't know how I will pay for the plane ticket, hotel room, dress, etc. My friend knows I have not been working but doesn't seem to realize just how critical my financial situation is. I'm afraid I will have to tell her that I just can't afford to be her bridesmaid, but I don't want to hurt her feelings. What should I do?
Broke Bridesmaid
Dear Broke Bridesmaid,
I gotta admit, even though I'm also a hobo (the first step is admitting it to yourself, BB -- say it with me: I'm a hobo...), I can't really relate to your "problem." Mainly because I don't have overindulgent, asshole friends who would demand that I throw hundreds or even thousands of dollars of my own money toward a generic taffeta dress and a room at the Ramada in Toad Suck, Arkansas. Nope, I'm lucky. See, my friends simply wouldn't invite me to their wedding! So, clearly, what you need to do here is get rid of all your friends and voila! Problem solved! But don't worry, you can still be my friend! We'll do fun things like light fires in garbage cans and fashion bindles out of plungers and tablecloths! Hooray! (I'll just be waiting here for you to email me as soon as you read this. TTYL, BB! You're in my club now!)
After an exhaustive search on Craigslist, I found a freaking TIGHT new spot to stash my hobo bindle for a few months. I won't reveal the locale, but I'll tell you that it is, indeed, in Washington, DC. Yes, I'm f*cking back. Deal with it.
Anyway, the reason I bring up that I'm off the streets is because, in a move that pretty much tells me God is punishing me for all my hobo jokes of late, I actually found myself back on the streets this weekend when I decided to take to the out-of-doors and go for a jog. Clad in a pair of very sexy Nicaraguan track pants (size XL) and armed with only a $20 bill in my pocket, I left the house at noon and planned to jog around the neighborhood until I passed the burrito shop where I thought I'd undo all the good that moving at a brisk pace may have had on my weak organism by eating enough refried beans to finally fit into these Nicaraguan track pants.
Unfortunately, nary a burrito would that $20 see. Instead, it would end up in two pieces in the pocket of a nonplussed Iranian and I would end up contemplating pulling a Jewel and living in my car. (On the brightside, though, finally that car would serve a purpose!)
Oh, where to begin... I know! Let's begin by blaming everyone else for my problems except for me. Sure, it might have been me who left my house keys in the house while I watched the door lock automatically behind me. And sure, maybe it was me who thought of everything from scaling a 10-foot fence in an attempt to break in through a window to seriously contemplating paying a locksmith $200-plus to break down my door, but wouldn't you do the same rather than think, "Hey, I suppose I could just call my housemate and find out if there's an extra key anywhere..."
Exactly. And so began Operation You're-Only-Making-This-Worse-Because-The-Neighbors-Watched-And-Laughed-When-Your-Oversized-Nicaraguan-Track-Pants-Got-Caught-On-The-Pointy-Accoutrements-Of-The-Gate-And-Oh-They-Also-Saw-You-Bribe-A-Locksmith-With-That-Burrito-Twenty-That-You-Accidentally-Ripped-In-Half-Because-It-Got-Caught-On-The-Zipper-Of-The-Pocket-On-Your-Nicaraguan-Track-Pants-(Which-Surprisingly-He-Still-Took)-So-Did-You-Really-Expect-One-Of-These-Fine-Upstanding-Citizens-To-Let-Your-Shambley-Ass-Into-Their-Home-To-Use-The-Internet-Then-Use-Their-Phone-To-Obtain-Then-Call-Your-New-Housemate-Respectively-To-Finally-Find-Out-Where-She-Had-Said-She-Hid-The-Extra-Key-When-You-Finally-Thought-"Hey-Maybe-I-Should've-Just-Tried-To-Contact-Her-In-The-First-Place-And-Save-All-This-Time-And-Embarrassment?"
And the answer to Operation YOMTWBTNWALWYONTPGCOTPAOTGAOTASYBALWTBTTYARIHBIGCOTZOTPO-YNTP(WSHST)SDYREOOTFUCTLYSAITHTUTITUTPTOTCYNHRTFFOWSHSSHTEKWYFT"HMISJTTCHITFPA-SATTAE?" is, of course, yes. You'd think, especially, after seeing my struggle with these large pants on that fence and my bribing of a clearly irate man with a two-piece $20 bill that my neighbors would be offering up their computers and phones to contact my housemate. But no. Instead, they acted all concerned, but avoided succumbing to my savvy attempts to enter their homes for three minutes to check my email and call my housemate.
"What I need to do is call my housemate, but my phone is in the house along with her number, so I need to check my Email on someone's computer real quick then borrow a phone and give her a ring. She's out of town and won't be home for another week."
"Well, that sounds like a plan!"
"Um...yeah. What I need to do is call my housemate, but my phone is in the house along with her number, so I need to check my Email on someone's computer real quick then borrow a phone and give her a ring. She's out of town and won't be home for another week."
"Yep! A fine plan, indeed! Good luck!"
I'm not sure what it is about upper-class white people in DC (or, actually, probably upper class people of any race, which I would be able to say for certain if DC wasn't so segregated), but they either don't pick up on hints very well, or they're just kind of mean. I know for a fact, that despite me being a complete jackass online, in real life, had I seen someone shambling the way I was shambling, I would've offered them up my classy new den to use the Web for a minute after hearing one of my killer hints.
But here's the real conundrum. I don't think conclusion two is correct. Although DC is full of dicks, these people were actually being nice, it seems, just as long as I stayed away from the inside of their homes. When I said I needed a locksmith, they went into their houses and emerged with a Yellow Pages and a house phone.
"I hope it works out here," said the lady with the blond bob.
I turned it on. "It's a little static-y, actually."
"Well, get a little closer to the house then."
I think I saw her wince when I attempted to alight the front porch so I stopped on the second step. "I guess I can sort of hear it from here."
"Do you want any water, dear?" asked the woman with the brown bob. "I can go fetch you a bottle."
"Oh, thanks, actually, yes," I answered.
Hot damn! These neighbors are the tits outside! Phones, water, yellow pages, delightful small talk!
The thing is, I've concluded, is don't ever try to get an invite in. Suddenly, you're a vampire -- and not the dreamy kind teenagers like to fantasize about having sexual relations with. (Sidebar: That's a trend I will seriously never understand.) Nope. You're the straight up Nosferatu kind in jumbo Nicaraguan track pants.
But for real, I'm extremely confused by this weekend's interactions. Clearly, these are a group of very nice, very understanding people. They seemed genuinely concerned about me not being able to get in my house. They gave me fancy water, for God's sake! Yet, at the same time, no one offered for me to step inside, even after HOURS of watching me struggle and come to the conclusion that what I really needed (besides fancy water) was someone's Web for three minutes.
But wait. Could Operation YOMTWBTNWALWYONTPGCOTPAOTGAOTASYBALWTBTTYARIHBIGCOTZ-OTPOYNTP(WSHST)SDYREOOTFUCTLYSAITHTUTITUTPTOTCYNHRTFFOWSHSSHTEKWYFT"HM-ISJTTCHITFPASATTAE?" have failed because of me? After all, I never asked anyone directly if I could compute in their home. Instead, I relied on what I thought was protocol in these types of communities and that's heavy, obvious hinting. ("Gee, if only I had access to my Email, I could just call my housemate and find out where she hides the extra key...") Maybe they just didn't get it? I mean, it wouldn't be the first timeI ran intoa group of idiotsin DC...
But no. The man with the grey beard was reading The New Yorker! These snobs are my people! They must've known! So, what the hell? Did I smell?
Yeah, that's a possibility...
But even emitting a ripe, post-jog odor, I do declare that, in this case, someone still should've offered up their Firefox to me. In other words and acronyms, Operation YOMTWBTNWALWYONTPGCOTPAOTGAOTASYBALWTBTTYARIHB-IGCOTZOTPOYNTP(WSHST)SDYREOOTFUCTLYSAITHTUTITUTPTOTCYNH-RTFFOWSHSSHTEKWYFT"HMISJTTCHITFPASATTAE?" should have been a rousing success just like everything else in my life, like my job, my health...this blog post...oh...sh*t.
And so, after several unsuccessful attempts to use my neighbors' computers, I finally decided to seek out the Internet of those friends who were silly enough to give me their addresses. Jumping from one house to, uh, the only other one I know (aww...), I finally got online, called my housemate and got in my damn house. Sure, this is probably what I should've done in the first place, but then I'd still be a stranger to my neighbors, instead of "that degenerate who lives across the street." And, thus, the moral of this story is that you should never exercise because it will get you into trouble. Or something.
Hey, here's a picture of a hamster lifting weights.
Blog post saved!
And if that's not enough for you, here's some Russian humor in English, which I hope you'll find as priceless as I do.
Hey, you know why I hate DC? Because everyone who lives here is an asshole. That's right. You're all a bunch of dicks. (Well, except for you.)
And I have concrete proof: I didn't get an old-timey ticker tape parade when I got back. Nope. Instead, all I got were a few emails and comments telling me I've somehow failed them by gracing this city with my exceptionally dressed presence again. But one comment really gave me a heater, probably because it was the most blunt. It's from someone who calls himself (or herself, who knows?) "i formerly loved you."
You're back in DC?! After all that build-up and the ultimate climax of actually getting out? Ugh. M@ deserves more respect at this point.
So here I am. Again. I am the proverbial second-time offender, except my only crime this time around was getting sick. That's right, assholes, I'm here because I might have a motherf*cking brain tumor.
OH SNAP!
I bet you didn't see that one coming! (See? I told you you're all a bunch of dicks! Who "formerly loves" someone who might be hosting strange cells on her pituitary gland? An asshole! That's who!)
Uh, but I'm serious. Unlike my jabs at having a tapeworm and rickets (although I am truly Vitamin D deficient), for once, I'm not just joking about disease. Yep. I may, indeed, be growing a second head. But don't you worry your wired little screen-face, Internet, because 1) nothing is confirmed, which I will explain in a moment, and 2) even if I am tumorized, it neither means it's fatal nor cancerous, which I will explain after I return to explain point No. 1. God, you're all going to feel so awkward after this. This is my dream post...
OK, so let me underline that I have not yet been diagnosed with a brain tumor and hopefully I never will be. According to medical professionals with legitimate degrees, a medication I was on (not the crack, which is back, in case you didn't know) may just be making it seem like I have a brain tumor. How the hell does that work? I don't freaking know. I can't even tie my own shoes yet. All's I know is that I had a bunch of blood drawn and my endocrine system is completely out of whack, which could indicate a lesion on the ol' pituitary gland and/or a tumor in the section of the brizain that controls the pit-gland (ew). OR, and this is my preferred outcome, my wacky blood work could just be the fault of a lady pill I was on (AWKWARD!). And so while I continue to allude to using ironic street drugs and anti-baby pills, I'm stuck here in DC until said medical professionals can get "clean" blood tests to decide whether I really do need to get an MRI to find a brain lump or if I simply need some other sort of medication. (More crack?) So yeah, f*ck you for yelling at me for being back.
And now to point No. 2, which I'd like to add since I dropped the words "brain" and "tumor" in a menacing kind of way and don't want to start receiving Evites to my own funeral. Although I would love to partake in a Make-A-Wish Foundation sponsored activity, I don't want anyone thinking there's something more wrong with me (well, at least physically) than there actually is. That would be a dick move, and clearly, like you, lovely non-hating reader, I, too, am an exception to DC's dick rule.
So, here are the facts: Apparently, the type of brain tumor I'm a candidate for (OMG! I'm just so excited to be qualified for something!) is actually pretty common, meaning up to 10 percent of you may have this sh*t, too. The thing is, a lot of people don't realize it because your second head doesn't cause any symptoms that affect your daily life, or because you're drunk all the time and have no idea what's going on around you. But whatever. Getting back to me, this narcissistic egomaniac is not dying. Duh. I'm immortal. So yeah. Suck on that poached egg of knowledge, haters!
Hi there. How are we all doing? Good? Are we all googling brain tumors right now? Aw, that's great. Anything I can do to spread mass panic awareness. I'll give you a moment and then I'll propose we never blog about brain tumors again. Agreed? Good. Now, where were we...
Oh yeah. I'm back in DC. Hey, you know what's even more f*cked up than me disclosing my medical problems to the entire Web just to make a couple people I don't even know feel like complete assholes? I'm actually glad I'm back. That's right. The last two weeks here in DC have been great. In fact, I think I've smiled more than I've grimaced, which is weird because the grimace is to me what sturgeon face is to Bill Clinton. That is, I'm a damn natural at looking simultaneously confounded and perturbed and DC presents so many opportunities for this signature look.
But don't worry, those of you who don't just formerly love me but love me (or at least e-love me) unconditionally and still want to read this blog -- I won't ever write about the things that have been making me smile, although I assure you, it's not the tumor. (Oops! I dropped the T-bomb again!) That would all be highly inappropriate, kind of like joking about your possible brain tumors. Plus, after all, this blog is still called The Anti DC. And if my helper llama Eugene's calculations are correct (I picked him up in Peru), no matter how much good stuff is going down in your life, if you live in DC, experience shows there will be more than enough exceptionally messed up sh*t to complain about here to keep up a daily blog.
So, buckle up lovers and haters, I'm back and even more unemployed so I'm going to start blogging like there's nothing else to do because there is nothing else to do. Well, except wait with bated breath for jorts season to begin. Razzle dazzle!
And I'll keep saying it because in the last 48 hours since I first heard that epic sentence, it's penetrated my vocabulary in just about every imaginable instance.
For example, say I'm at Chipotle gettin' my beans on. And then, in a move that I'm pretty sure only exists in the legume vortex of the Columbia Heights location, the cashier politely gives me my change and says, "Thank you!" I say, "No problem. A cab ain't nothin' but a ho on wheels."
Or maybe I'm over at The Passenger retrieving the phone I left there the night before in a fit of mind-blowing shambles having found out there's actually a better place in DC to drink than the isolation of my panic room. The bartender gives me some delicious cucumber martini and says, "Tell me what you think." I sip then answer, "A cab ain't nothin' but a ho on wheels."
Perhaps, I win a game of chess. "A cab ain't nothin' but a ho on wheels!"
I eat a salad. "A cab ain't nothin' but a ho on wheels!"
I take out the garbage. "A cab ain't nothin' but a ho on wheels."
I alight a bus. "A cab ain't nothin' but a ho on wheels."
I watch this video:
"ZOMFG! A CAB AIN'T NOTHIN' BUT A HO ON WHEELS!" And, "Holy sh*t-twizzle! That Russian sure knows how to work a battle-axe on ice!" (Yeah, you're gonna want to watch that video.)
So, basically, what I'm getting at is, "A cab ain't nothin' but a ho on wheels," is possibly the most perfect phrase in the English language.
But, of course, there's a story behind it. Unfortunately, it's not mine. But it is a close friend's, which means it might as well be mine to tell. However, because I'm so eager to get back to saying, "A ho ain't nothin' but a cab on wheels," I'm going to condense the greatness of her recounting of the events into a paraphrased mini-play.
Cabbie: "What you doing out so late, girl?"
Friend: "Just getting out of work, actually."
Cabbie: "I see. I was hoping you'd be a little tipsy."
Friend: "Um..."
Cabbie: "You know, so something more exciting could go on in this cab."
Friend: "Uh, like date rape?"
Cabbie: "You pick up a girl on a weekend night. She just got out the party. That's when things go down! All the other taxi drivers know what I'm talking about." [wink]
Friend: "Seriously? How often does this go down?"
Cabbie: "More often than you'd think."
Friend: "Well, I'll be damned."
Cabbie: "A cab ain't nothin' but a ho on wheels!"
End scene.
And this, e-friends, is why it's worthwhile to talk to strangers. It's also a reason to learn how to roll out of a moving vehicle because...A CAB AIN'T NOTHIN' BUT A HO ON WHEELS!
This is embarrassing. Like, seriously, People-magazine-naming-Nick-Nolte-sexiest-man-alive embarrassing. (I'm still not over that unfortunate rediscovery.) Nicolas Sarkozy and Carla Bruni came to town and they CHOSE to dine at Ben's Chili Bowl. Really?! And from what I understand, they did so 100 percent sober. REALLY?! I don't get it. Ben's isn't bad when your tastebuds have been soaked for several hours in Grey Goose and Miller Lite (mixed together, naturally), but when you're wide awake during the day with all your wits about you? REALLY?! I mean, REALLY?!?! Wouldn't a baguette and some fresh Brie have done you better?!?!?! This is seriously giving me a heater. AHHH!!!!
