Sorry for not getting a post up of earlier. I'm sure I've ruined all your days. And if I haven't yet (we all know I haven't), I probably will later (now, that's a definite possibility). But first, I want to ruin the day of the Washington Post's very own advice columnist, Carolyn Hax.
As regular reader(s <--- wishful thinking) know by now, I'm vying for her job by taking the questions she publishes in her column and rewriting her answers, so that they're actually useful. Wait, I mean useless. And because my answers are so useless, I probably should be going for an opinion columnist position, however, I'm afraid @buttscratcher69 has already got dibs on that.
Anyway, back to Ms. Hax and her half-assed, yet regretfully useful advice. Today, she did a live advice column, during which desperate fools get to ask questions in real-time regarding their proverbial skeletons in their closet. Or, in the case of Washington, DC, the proverbial horrible outfits in their closet. Wait. That's all too real. If you don't believe me check out Carolyn's introduction: "I was wearing a Caps shirt, since I'm on to next year in spirit, but it got drooly at the dog park and I had to change." TOO SOON, HAX! TOO SOON!
OK. I took five minutes to sop up the tears and I'm ready to revisit some of the more poignant questions from this afternoon's live session. Oh, indeed! Welcome to another edition of The Anti DC's Advice Column (NOT!). (Speaking of, I'm pretty sure I need advice about renaming this weekly-ish feature. That name is terrible. But I digress...)
Minneapolis, MN: I hope you can find time to answer this. My fiance's father and stepmother (SM) are coming to visit us in a few weeks. The SM likes to drink a few beers every night and then becomes a little nasty to her husband and my fiance. My fiance and I drink rarely and don't keep beer in the house, so my question is whether we need to have beer ready for the SM or if we can politely ask her to not drink while she stays with us. Your thoughts are greatly appreciated.
I hope you can find time to answer this: What is your problem? Your SM sounds awesome! That said, Minneapolis, MN, I think you need to shut the f*ck up and let a bitch have her nightly brews. Nothing's worse than being a little nasty after some drinks than being a lot nasty because you can't get your drinks. Case in point, clearly, I haven't had my drinks yet today. Dick.
Undisclosed location.: Ugh. Cheated on my wife for the first time last week.
Fabulous!
Wait. How is that a question? Jesus. This live session sucks more than the regular column. And so does this blog post! Funny how things always come full circle around here, even if that circle is as long as a tapeworm and shaped like a giant middle finger.
*sigh*
Yep. I feel good about this one. And I feel good about it being Friday. Enjoy the weekend. :)
Luckily for all other area bloggers whose e-prose can't compare to mine in terms of making up words and barely making sense, I won't be stealing their page views with The Anti DC's unstoppable Internet prowess today (read: 'tardy nerdiness). That's right, you guys are safely out of the danger zone!
Oh, but who am I kidding? I get seven page views and suddenly I cop a 'tude. How embarrassing. And also, I should probably note that almost all other area bloggers have fulltime jobs. And I don't. Because I was fired. So, really, the fact that The Anti DC is what it is (that is, an amalgamation of made-up words and illogical phrases) is also embarrassing. As is, I suppose, bragging about my prose skills while using the phrase, "is what it is." Jesus. I am my own danger zone.
But, unlike every other day, I have a good excuse to be publishing non-sensical sludge today. Yep, I don't have to try to write anything more legitimate than a shmurpler (<--- made-up word!) over here because someone else published some of my legitimate prose over on The Smart Set! I won't tell you what this so-called "legitimate prose" is about exactly, but I will tell you I got to use the phrase, "Whoever the F*ckingdweedle." (And yes, the mark of prose legitimacy for me is using the word "F*ckingdweedle" instead of "shmurpler.")
I know I'm probably not the first one to write about proper Craigslist etiquette, but I hope to be the last, since I'm sure this blog will one day go viral and change the world. Or some sh*t like that.
So, as my growing readership of probably five of you now know (only 6,697,254,036 of you left to infect with The Anti DC's unique brand of moron!), my French bike, Junior, was kidnapped not long ago by some dick. While I have vowed to punch anyone I might see riding her on the city streets (that goes for children, too, of course) and free Junior, I also realize she's probably been stripped of all her awesomeness and melted down to make Blackberry parts. We are in DC after all. And so, I have started the search for a new velocipede, which has taken me into the dark world that is Craigslist. It's a world without spell-check, without grammar and, worst of all, without manners, which brings me back to today's subject: The Anti DC's Three-Step Guide to Craigslist Etiquette. 1) Don't write in all caps.
IT'S SUPER ANNOYING TO READ ENTIRE PARAGRAPHS WRITTEN IN ALL CAPITAL LETTERS AND IT ALSO MAKES YOU LOOK LIKE AN ILLITERATE ASSHOLE, WHO SOMEHOW CAN TYPE LETTERS IN WORD FORMATIONS, BUT CANNOT READ THE WORDS "CAPS LOCK" ON THE BUTTON LOCATED TO THE LEFT OF YOUR LEFT PINKY FINGER WELL ENOUGH TO REALIZE THAT THAT IS ALL YOU NEED TO TAP in order to return to typing like a civilized human being. Stop letting modern technology win, moron.
2) Don't answer my response to your ad about how much I would love to make a monetary transaction to purchase your bicycle if you're already planning to conduct a monetary transaction for said bicycle with someone else.
Seriously, say, for instance I answer an ad you put up about your dumbass, piece-of-sh*t Huffy by writing:
"Hi there. I'm really interested in the bike you listed for sale on Craigslist. I have a flexible schedule and can come check it out whenever you have time if it's still available. Thanks, Marissa."
The keywords there, of course, are "if it's still available." That is, if it's not, I don't expect -- or want -- to hear from you. Unfortunately, that doesn't stop people from answering you with things like this:
"Hi Marisa [note the spelling error], I am so happy your [sic] interested in the bike. However, I have someone coming to look at it that [sic] answered the ad before you. I'll let you know what happens. Jake"
Uh, what? You'll "let me know what happens?" How's about, I DON'T CARE WHAT HAPPENS! (Note the appropriate usage of all-capitals to emphasize irateness.) No really. I do not care what happens in any other transaction you are planning to make, except mine.
Now, some of you may say this guy, "Jake," was simply being extra polite by keeping me abreast of all the goings-on surrounding his Huffy. However, I contend, under this second point of The Anti DC Three-Step Guide to CraigslistEtiquette, that he should've waited until the results of that first possible transaction were clear before writing me. That is, he should've only written me back if the bike was still available.
I mean, what is the point of telling me I'm next? Am I supposed to stop checking out other people's ads for their sh*tty used bicycles and wait to see if maybe I'll have a chance at yours, Jake? Psshah!
Anyway, with little precedent about how to handle someone who violates this CL point of etiquette, I decided to write back and simply say, "OK." Although, perhaps I should've said what I initially wanted to: "OK. Hope that deal falls through on you!"
This saga of stupid ended when Jake wrote back the next day: "Great news! She took it! sorry [sic] it didn't work out for you."
Jesus.
3) Don't murder people.Craigslist killers are the worst.
***
And there you have it! I hope we can all follow these three easy steps and make CL a land of easy, non-stick (ew) and murder-free transactions. Now, seriously, who has a bike for me?
I'm sure you can't tell this about me, but I'm a fairly talented sidler. That is, I make friends with people who have a lot more connections to cool sh*t than myself and then sidle up with them to get awesome free stuff.
And so this happened last night, and thank God, because I was getting a little more than depressed while watching the Capitals utterly fail to unleash the fury. Luckily, a sometimes-employer (uh, not for hooking) called and invited me out to sidle at Sei, where he was tasting the nectar of Japan's collective ass -- shochu. Good Lord, that sh*t was disgusting.
However, the food was not. Sashimi pizza on a scallion pancake! Kobe beef sushi! Japanese barbecue pork on sweet buns! And a whole lot of other junk that made up for me drinking Japanese (metaphorical) butt juice earlier.
Oh, and I also convinced my sidle-enabler to pay me to write about "The Room." Although, I'm not sure how that's gonna work out because I can't find a ticket to this Friday's New York City show, featuring a live appearance by writer/director/producer/actor/accidental genius Tommy Wiseau. Won't someone let me sidle?! In return, I'll buy you a moderately priced beverage and tiny meal of food at Sei's fairly decent looking happy hour:
Holy. Crap. Before I go into why I'm reacting to something in such a way that's caused me to split a two-word phrase into two sentences with proper capitalization and punctuation, I think you need to watch this:
Ladies and gentlemen of the e-world, what you just watched was the trailer for "The Room," or as the world is quickly coming to know it, "The Worst Movie in the History of Ever." Yeah... I'm not sure who compared it to any work of Tennessee Williams' (*cough* Tommy Wiseau *cough*), but uh, maybe if "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" was actually called "Crap by a Big Dumb Douche," instead, that comparison would be accurate.
Yet, still, "The Room" is worth seeing. Why? Because it's so bad, that it's become so, so incredibly good. Really, it's the "Citizen Kane" of the 21st century, except without any of the talent and artistic vision. Indeed, while "Citizen Kane" is a world-class cinematic hit, "The Room" is a world-class pile of sh*t. Like I said: Holy. Crap.
Where to even start...
Well, first of all, meet Polish visionary Tommy Wiseau, who thought himself talented enough to write, direct, produce and star in his own masterpiece, "The Room," which brings up the first of an infinite amount of questions that shall forever go unanswered: WHY IS IT CALLED "THE ROOM!?"
Transfixed by his lazy eye yet? Well, just wait until get a load (literally) of all the gratuitous shots of his wrinkly, white backside in several Skinemax-worthy love scenes set to truly horrendous R&B as interpreted by a creepy Pole.
And speaking of creepy, what the f*ck is up with the lead female character, Lisa, and her neck? It's as if her neck is a leather couch and she's hosting a nude Danny DeVito inside. That sickness is only topped by her fashion sense. Seriously, who had that hair-do in 2003? OMG! THIS MOVIE WAS MADE IN 2003! The costume designer should be slimed because, clearly, she doesn't have a clue.
And, actually, I don't really have a clue...as to who most of the characters are, that is! Seriously, who are the two people who have sex on Johnny's couch? Who is the random man who suddenly have, like, a legitimate speaking role at the end of the movie? Seriously, WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE?! Yes, you quickly become well-acquainted with the second question that shall forever go unanswered.
And while we're on a roll, meet Denny, the young bisexual orphan boy with the 1993 haircut. Oh and also, he someone gets tied up in the drug trade for a hot second. No really, he literally has a drug problem for about a second in this film because after the epic "WHERE'S MY F*CKIN' MONEY, DENNY?!" scene that entire subplot is dropped quicker than you can even ask the next question to forever go unanswered: WHAT THE F*CK IS GOING ON HERE?!
Which brings me to all the other subplots that are mentioned, yet never resolved: Lisa's fake pregnancy; Lisa's mom's breast cancer diagnosis; and, perhaps, most perplexing of them all, which happens to be the fourth and fifth questions to go forever unanswered: WHAT IS UP WITH JOHNNY'S DECISION TO PAIR AN ILL-FITTING BLAZER WITH ZIP-OFF CARGO PANTS?!; and, WHAT THE F*CK IS IN THE POCKETS OF THOSE CARGO PANTS?! (Could it be a pocketful of stupid comments, perhaps?!) And really, I'm only skimming the surface of "The Room's" near-infinite supply of plot holes. It'll tear you apart!
Wow. I love how I could write so much and say so little. I haven't even told you what this work of [f]art is all about! A LOVE TRIANGLE BETWEEN JOHNNY, LISA AND MARK!
Oh yeah. Meet Mark, portrayed by former model Greg "Sestosterone" Sestero, who is probably the one and only legitimate actor in the film. And by "legitimate actor," I mean, in a truly remarkable theatrical epiphany, Sestosterone really pulled off his character's inexplicable decision to shave his beard midway through the movie.
And of course, now you want to see more. I know I did after I first heard about this travesty, which is why I went to the E Street Theater at midnight on Saturday and watched the whole goddamn thing. And to my incredible delight, I found out that "The Room" has become more than just a bad movie. It's become an experience! Indeed, it's "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" of the new millennium, except again, without any of the talent of artistic vision.
But seriously, "The Room" is quickly becoming a cult classic, featuring all the live-screening shenanigans that go along with it. For instance, the subject the sixth question that shall forever go unanswered, a framed picture of a spoon that's prominently featured in almost every shot of Johnny's apartment (WHY?!), offers you a chance to exercise your throwing arm. Bring plastic spoons to throw at the screen whenever this enigma is displayed. Which is unsurprisingly very often.
Also, get your chant phrases down because certain parts of the movie call for audience participation: "F*CK THAT BELLYBUTTON!" (Because, um, he's doing her abdomen.); "HI, DENNY!" (Because everybody loves Denny!); "WHO ARE YOU?" (Because seriously, who the hell is that?); "THAT'S NOT A ROOM!" (Because it's not.); "BECAUSE YOU'RE A WOMAN!" (Because she's a woman.) "HI, DOGGIE!" (Because that's what you say to portly pugs in flower shops.); and, of course, "F*CK THAT DRESS!" (Because, naturally, he humps a dress.)
But don't feel restricted by just those phrases. The whole movie offers you chances to make up your own quips, which the audience is encouraged to shout-out during the screening. My most well-received shout-out was, "SHUT UP! APPLES ARE FULL OF FIBER!" (Because they are.)
But spoons and shouting aren't the only forms of mocking suitable for this film. Feel free to move about the theater. Bring a football to participate in the only form of male bonding that occurs in the world of "The Room." Bring a rose because it's sexy. Wear a tuxedo, a red dress, or dress up like you forgot what decade it is. Hell, get up and dry hump a railing if you need to. Anything goes!
And so, in a first here at The Anti DC, we shall raise our proverbial glasses containing a tipple of scotchka (you'll come to know it well) and give proper accolades to the awesome horrendousness that is "The Room."
What do Joel Achenbach, Anne Applebaum, David Broder, Jonathan Capehart, Richard Cohen, Petula Dvorak, Jackson Diehl, E.J. Dionne, Michael Gerson, Fred Hiatt, Kevin Huffman, David Ignatius, Robert Kagan, Al Kamen, Colbert King, Ezra Klein, Charles Krauthammer, William Kristol, Ruth Marcus, Robert McCartney, Harold Meyerson, Dana Milbank, Matt Miller, Courtland Milloy, Kathleen Parker, Steven Pearlstein, Eugene Robinson, Robert Samuelson, Marc Thiessen, Katrina vanden Heuvel, George Will, Jonathan Yardley and Fareed Zakaria all have in common?
They're all opinion columnists at The Washington Post. Hmm.
Now, perhaps it's just my cynicism as an underemployed journalist, but doesn't it seem a bit suspicious that the opinion section of the paper has 33 employees/regular contributors (most of whom aren't original and/or worth the read anyway), while meanwhile, the paper has fired actual news reporters from its other, arguably more important sections? I mean, it's called a newspaper, not a dick-with-an-opinionpaper, right? Right.
Seriously, when I go to the local section to read about a man getting sentenced to jail for tossing a lizard or ferrets being found in the mail, I expect in-depth, original reporting. But instead, all I get is a blurb and a footnote that the Post jacked those stories from NBC4 and The Roanoke Times, respectively. What?! That's ass-backwards! Shouldn't it be the other way around? (Um, backwards-ass?) Especially with broadcast news! How embarrassing to bite stories from television news, especially since broadcasters now have no qualms about acknowledging that they get most of their reportage from Twitter.
Yeah, Rick. I'm sure most of us are more apt to trust @buttscratcher69 over you. Well, actually, um, maybe that's true. Rick Sanchez is an idiot, so yes, actually, I guess I'm with @buttscratcher69 on that one. But are we willing to trust @buttscratcher69 over the Post?
Maybe. I suppose as long as the Post keeps propping up its editorial columnists, often at the expense, it seems, of on-the-ground reporters, I don't see any reason why Michael Gerson's or Dana Milbank's version of "the news" should be any more trustworthy than @buttscratcher69's, or hell, even Rick Sanchez's. They're all opinions, after all.
Of course, this is not to say the Post is a total rag. In fact, calling it "a rag" at all is kind of ridiculous. While it may fail in its often yawn-and/or-cringe-worthy opinion pieces, the Post's investigative unit is one of the best in the nation. I'm not sure if that's solely because Dana Priest's sh*t is tight as hell or because Post management actually gives that section a workable budget. Maybe it's a combination of the two. But whatever the cause, as long as the Post keeps breaking news (the CIA 'black site' story of 2005) and publishing Pulitzer-worthy sagas (the Walter Reed story of 2007), I'll continue to read it every day. Also, it doesn't hurt that the Post's Sunday crossword rivals the New York Times' in its level of difficulty, both of which I am capable of crushing, by the way, because I'm an idiot savant.
But getting back to my original complaint: Why the f*ck does the Post need 33 opinionators? Are five right-wing voices better than one? Or five left-wingers? Jesus. Maybe if they expanded their voice pool, you know, by hiring a sassy, local blogger who kowtows to no side (ahem, just sayin'), they could justify having more than, say, 10...
But no. I'm afraid @buttscratcher69 is probably the next in line. He'll be hired next year when the Post and all other news outlets decide to publish pieces that are no more than 140 characters in length:
Alas, I guess that's just the way of the world. Maybe people aren't as interested as they used to be in muckraking reporting and understanding issues from the inside out. Maybe people really do want just headlines, snippets and the 140-character opinions of the @buttscratcher69's of the world. If that's the case, then I fear my outrage is misdirected. If it's not the news organizations that are at fault for killing news reporting (whether it's print, broadcast or otherwise), it must be us. Or maybe it's some sort of symbiosis of suck between we, the people, and the major news outlets.
Who knows. And, really, who cares? Because the chances of newspapers returning to what they could have been are about as good as the chances of your computer self-immolating after you finish reading this sentence.
See? Nothing happened, which I guess means it's time to say farewell to the news and hello to @buttscratcher69. Can't wait to hear what he says about the Goldman Sachs debacle.
I like to lie about my occupation whenever I'm meeting a new crew of lawyers, which happens almost everyday in DC, as this city boasts (regretfully?) the highest per capita rate of attorneys in the entire United States. And, no, I don't lie because I'm ashamed of my hobo employment tendencies. I lie because it's f*cking hilarious.
"So, are you guys all at the same firm?" I ask.
"No. I'm an associate at Douche & Tool and he's with Doucheson & Toolson. What about you?"
"Me? Oh, I'm with the Cochran Firm. I get settlements for people's made-up neck injuries."
At that point, the record skips (I carry a record player around with me to make sure this happens), while these lawyers stare in shock, awe, and for once, silence. Unfortunately, though, I have a terrible p-p-p-poker face, so I can't keep this façade for long. Then eventually one will accuse me of fibbing, at which point I'll fess up and tell them my real occupation: shadow President of the United States. After that, they all walk away from me for some reason.
However, since sustaining a neck injury, I've realized that whiplash is not made up. This sh*t f*cking hurts. So now, not only do I have a new respect for ambulance chasers like the Cochran Firm, but I even respect lawyers who think "The Hammer" is their middle name.
But seriously, neck injuries blow. Not only because I feel amounts of pain I didn't know existed, but also because the Vicodin supply the doctor prescribed that I was planning to save then sell to kids on school grounds is quickly dwindling. At this rate, I won't be able to get even one kid hooked on prescription narcotics because I'm too busy breaking Crack Commandment No. 4: Never get high on your own supply!
And so while I enjoy another lunch of hydrocodone, please to click on the following links because there's nothing more depressing than reading the rants of a newly addled opiate fiend...
I think it's only fitting that immediately before my 500th post I found out that I, apparently, have a hole in my brain. Finally, the voice behind this blog makes sense!
"There is a vague area of decreased attenuation present within the left basal ganglia."
That's what she said! No, literally, that's what she said. What she meant, however, is that there's apparently not a lot of density in the part of my brain that is associated with, according to Wikipedia, "a variety of functions, including motor control and learning." Hmm. This might finally explain why I choose to live in DC despite the fact that I've now written 500 posts (!) outlining why I probably shouldn't live here...
And it might also explain the actions that led me to find this out about my brain in the first place...
On Friday, I tried to crack someone's back via the bear hug method, which resulted in a rather epic fall that led my head to slam hard into a hardwood floor. This poorly executed move, which I tried to perform on a man nearly twice my size after imbibing probably an entire bottle of wine, resulted in a mild concussion and yelps akin to the grape lady and Stewie's interpretation of the grape lady. Two days later, I started having suspicious headaches. And on day three (yesterday), I found myself getting a CT scan in the hospital.
Luckily, there were no obvious signs of brain damage, such as bleeding or a cracked skull. Instead, the doctors decided I had sustained severe neck strain, a.k.a. whiplash. Oh, and, "By the way, we also found a vague irregularity in your basal ganglia." Um, okay...?
"The basal ganglia play a central role in a number of neurological conditions, including several movement disorders. The most notable are Parkinson's disease, which involves degeneration of the dopamine-producing cells in the substantia nigra, and Huntington's disease, which primarily involves damage to the striatum. Basal ganglia disfunction is also implicated in some other disorders of behavior control such as Tourette's syndrome and obsessive-compulsive disorder..."
F*CK POOP SH*T TURD! (Notice how I alphabetized those expletives?) Those are some scary things to think about. However, considering I have no physical symptoms of any of those diseases (DONKEY DICK!) and all my motor skills seem to be in order, the doctor said, "There's nothing to immediately worry about. Maybe you were even born with it." Thanks, mom. "Or maybe it was simply a CT scan error. It really is hard to tell." Yay! Modern medical technology!
Yet, still, she gave me a number for a neurologist to call "in case I want to follow-up." Meh. That fell to the wayside quickly when we started talking about what painkillers she wanted to give me. Hello, Vicodin!
But, man, what irony! After all, it was only a month ago that we were worried about the possibility of a brain tumor, when it turns out it's actually the opposite. I'm the freaking Wizard of Oz scarecrow, techno-fun edition!
But who needs a left basal ganglia when you can dance and sing like that? Well, I mean if you're not debilitated from a bit of chiropracty gone horribly, horribly wrong. Yet, still, I'll probably go ahead and attempt it again. Learning, apparently, isn't my strong suit. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go look at a book and wonder what it's for.
Just when you think nearly giving yourself a concussion whilst trying to lift a 200-pound man named Delicious was the worst thing to happen to you this weekend, some dick had to go ahead and steal my bicycle.
:(
Serious sad face. However, considering I model my life after scenes from great cinematic classics like Pee-Wee's Big Adventure (yes, that's pretty much my typical morning), I vow to track down my trusty velo, Junior, even if it means trekking to the basement of the Alamo. Or maybe just the bicycle sales ads on Craigslist.
For those of you without 20/20,000 vision, allow me to describe that image. It's my bike with a different seat and handlebar tape. Or maybe not. Maybe it's just another two-wheeled awesome-mobile that looks like mine. Goddamit, I knew I should've let my helper newt T-Bone spray-paint my ride red, white and blue, like he suggested! SONOFABITCH! DAMNDAMNDAMNDAMNDAMN! AHHHHHHHH! I'm having a serious heater over here...
But the good news is that the above-pictured bike is still up for sale, at least according to the text message I received from the weird, probable murderer who put up that ad (he does live in Woodbridge, after all...), which means I can flag down a zombie trucker named Large Marge and go see if it is, actually, my kidnapped bicycle! Or I could just drive myself. Regardless, however, if it turns out this is my bicycle, then you can bet I will steal it back. And then get murdered. ZING!
But if it's not, then I guess maybe I'll just purchase a replica of Junior and weep every time I ride it. And then apologize to this poor, unsuspecting salesperson for accusing him or her of being a thief and/or probable murderer on the 'net.
In the meantime, e-friends, consider this a lesson learned. Never lock a bike up in a major city using a lock apparently made of metallic pipecleaners.
Pee-wee: Come on, Dottie. Let's go.
Dottie: Let's go? Don't you wanna see the rest of the movie blog?
Pee-wee: I don't have to see it, Dottie. I lived it.
I attended only my second ice hockey game ever yesterday, despite being from Minnesota, and color me surprised when I found out that I'm actually a hockey fan. I mean, what's better than encouraged obnoxiousness, noise and dry-humping? But the real reason that I guess this makes sense is that, considering I looked like this in a past ice-age life, I kind of fit in. See, that's what most hockey fans look like now, only they're fatter and whiter.
Uh, yeah. Not a good-looking crew, which shouldn't have surprised me, as I was told probably 75 percent of the crowd spends most of their time watching Sarah Palin make $12 million on Fox News out in Scuffleburg or some such area of "real" Virginia that I'm not familiar with, where a Double-Down from KFC is considered a food group.
And speaking of unhealthy foods, one of these suburbanites got all Orca on me yesterday when I paused for literally one second in front of the doorway, while someone handed me a bike-lock key.
"Yeah, stand in the f*ckin' doorway, idiot..." mumbled Jabba the Slut, under her breath. (Seriously, cover your tramp stamp. You're 40 now.)
That passive-aggressive bullsh*t is even more awesome if you take into account that, by the time she got to the end of it, I was already done pausing for that one second and walking out the door. I turned around and saw a Lego-block of a woman.
"That was really impolite," I said. "You need to calm down."
She didn't take to those instructions so well and began eloquently screaming at me about how my "skinny ass shouldn't have been in the doorway" and that I should "shut the hell up" while I "f*ck off," etc.
If I wasn't scared she'd eat me (even after Five Guys), I probably would've treated her like a DC cop and dropped some logic on her evidently sad life, but instead, I ran away like a little girl and cowered behind my French bike until her sonar shrieks found someone else to bitch at. She chose a guy that looked like her, but prettier.
So, I don't know. I'm not from a big city either, but I still know how to conduct myself when I'm in one. That is, I shut up and accept that sometimes people do things that I find annoying and I simply blog about it later. I mean, sure, it's annoying for anyone to pause in a doorway for a split-second if you're in a hurray to get out, but them's the breaks, kid. Plus, you're in Chinatown by the Verizon Center ice field during the first game of the hockey game playoff matches, which means the concentration of people is going to at least treble along with everyday urban annoyances. People will inevitably get in your way. CALM. DOWN.
But don't calm down as much as the Caps did on the ice because then you'll lose. :(
I am a natural born blogger. I know this. I'm f*cking really good at it, which is kind of depressing because of all the skills I could have been given, doling out cleverly written anecdotes sprinkled with fart jokes unfortunately has yet to earn me a billion dollars. It is days like today when I wish I could do basic math. But then again, that's what helper animals are for.
However, I don't bring this up simply to depress myself. No, I bring this up because someone brought up a similar point to me yesterday.
"I'm really surprised you haven't been getting more comments. Your posts are really good."
And while I would've been flattered in the past, yesterday I just shrugged. "Duh. I know. I'm an idiot savant on the Web. (I'm a plain, old idiot offline, however.)"
The conversation continued: "I think it's because Obama, our Lord and Savior, has become president and people are in better spirits here now and they might not be able to relate to your hilarious hatery as much."
At that point, I regurgitated in my oral cavity just a bit, making me thankful I always have my pimp cupemesis basin on hand when people say such ridiculous things to me. "Really? You think one man can lift the veil of blarg off a city like DC, where the blarg flows deep and strong into the very roots of this big village's half-assed concept of community? For the love of everything outside of this cess pool, the new 'hot spot' in DC is The Cereal Bowl! Because everyone needs to drop $4 on a bowl of Lucky Charms served up to you by a douche in footie pajamas! WHAT?! CAN I GET A WITNESS?! CAN I?!?!"
Cowering in fear, my conversation partner quickly hid his Cereal Bowl receipt behind his back and stammered, "W-w-w-well, then what do you think it is? Why haven't people been commenting on your totally engaging, irreverent and thought-provoking posts?"
"Because they all moved! Duh! Do I need to have a helper animal come over here and spell it out for you?!?!" I added a retro Howard Dean scream at the end because I'm bat-sh*t insane.
But besides proving that there should be a lot more padding in this room I'm in right now, this exchange brings up another point: DC is a transitional city, which means the sense of community will always lag behind that of other cities, which means DC still sucks.
While, I admit I too have sensed a change for the slight better with the opening of ventures like The Passenger and U Street Music Hall, one still can't ignore ventures like The Cereal Bowl. (By the way, I call dibs on a canned fruit stand and a Capri-Sun bar. I'll make tens of dollars!)
I've also sensed a slight change among the people. Perhaps, I'm progressively going blind, but people seem to be dressing slightly better here these days. I purchased a smartphone with a camera on it in hopes of engaging in a little spontaneous Shambles P.I., and I haven't found one outfit worthy. Sure, if you go to the Hill, you're going to see bad Ann Taylor and Men's Warehouse on display, but no longer do a handful of people (which is better than none) seem to be keeping this aesthetic on the weekends. For example, I know for a fact I'm not the only kid on the block with a pair of jorts anymore.
But, unlike my aforementioned conversation partner, I don't think Obama deserves all the credit. If he starts wearing jorts then we'll talk. But guess who does wear jorts? TAKE A WILD GUESS AT WHAT EGOTIST WEARS JORTS! COME ON! Indeed, my mockage of douche and love of jorts came so hard last year that when I left to travel, this city scrambled to better itself before my imminent and predictable return. Or maybe not. Maybe it was a natural evolution. I mean, let's not go carried away; after all, the other pair of jorts I mentioned didn't even have awesome fray on them, which technically means they're not even jorts, but simply denim shorts. Yawn.
So, you see? Obama or not, there's still a whole lot to bitch about in DC. Unfortunately, when you leave for six months, most of your longterm readers inevitably leave, too, meaning people stop commenting. And while I'd like to think they all left because they couldn't bear living here without my knowledge being dropped on them like proverbial bird turds from a sickly pigeon, I think the real reason a bunch of them left was because it was in their plans all along. Like I said, DC is a transitional place.
And so The Anti DC, the one thing I'm naturally good at, is fatefully left to wiggle like a fish out of water, forgotten about in your grandpa's rickety old fishing boat. Will anybody find it before it inevitably dies a painful, suffocating death? And if so, will they eat it or throw it back? Or will they simply use it for decoration then exploit it in an annoying McDonald's ad? I'm hoping for the latter. I want a billion dollars and a lifetime supply of milkshakes.
I really don't get why it's so hard for bureaucratic institutions to operate (or at least pretend to operate) under the guise of common sense. First of all, the idea of having a conference these days not in Second Life (with Ed Markey officiating, of course) is a waste of time and money. Seriously, holding this world nuke-u-lar summit or whatever at the Washington Convention Center for most every major leader on Earth completely and utterly (although not literally) blows my mind. Why? Because having a conference of this caliber in a major city's downtown area is threefold dumb.
1) It shuts down capitalism. (Which cuts into my boozing schedule; even The Passenger was closed down!)
2) It wastes tax payer money. (Did you know federal employees were told NOT to come into work? Although that's assuming that they actually do stuff at work to begin with.)
3) And it draws cops away from solving real crimes (again, assuming that they actually do stuff at work to begin with) so they can stop assumed assassins from pulling off their nefarious crimes.
The only problem with that last point (besides the fact that it leaves the entire rest of the city open for perps to rape, maim and murder freely), is that assuming most people are assassins only makes an ass to the third power out of both them and me. To put this a bit more precisely, I believe I was unlawfully profiled and harassed yesterday, which brings me to a story I like to call "How I Almost Got Arrested for Using Too Much Logic."
There I was, riding clean (that is, with no dirty bombs) toward downtown to hand in some forms so I can mentor a foster kid (really!) when I ran (metaphorically) into a soldier blocking off the road.
"You can't get through here," he said. "You need to go another four blocks west."
Fair enough, I thought. These things happen and four blocks isn't outrageous so I rode west. Four blocks later, I turned to head south when I ran into a cop.
"Oh, no you don't!" said a surly lady in blue, sticking her chubby, little hand in my face.
Meanwhile, a cyclist whizzed by through the intersection on my left.
"Really? I was told I could pass through this intersection. That guy just did." While I pointed to the first cyclist, I saw another ride by in the other direction.
"Well, you're not those people. You can't go through."
A group of pedestrians passed by on my right.
"Wait. Why then? How come those people can go through? This system doesn't make sense. Can you just let me through with these other people? I'm just trying to deliver some papers so I can start mentoring a foster kid."
"WHAT PART OF WHAT I'M SAYING TO YOU DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND!" She had quickly escalated to a full-blown shout.
Uh-oh, I thought. Bitch just pushed my buttons, yet I decided to remain purposefully calm. "Well, for starters, I don't get the part where all those people can go through this intersection and only I can't, especially when I probably have the best reason, you know, saving kids and what not?"
"YOU WON'T BE ABLE TO GO THROUGH ANYTHING IF YOU KEEP THIS UP AND I LOCK YOU UP!"
And then I snapped. Oh, hell nah! I thought, as I decided to match her rage in my own voice. I said, "Really? REALLY?! You're really threatening to WASTE my -- A TAXPAYING CITIZEN'S -- money on arresting ME for wanting to HELP SAVE THE F*CKING CHILDREN of this CESS POOL of a city?!?!? Hmm, I don't know, it seems to me those dollars would be better spent on, say, SOLVING LEGITIMATE CRIMES! COMMON SENSE, MA'AM, IS AMAZING, ISN'T IT?!?!?!!"
I've never seen real fire shoot out of someone's eyes before, but I imagine if I stuck around to look at this surly woman's face for much longer, I'd have been burned. And arrested. So, instead, I quickly turned my ninja-like bicycle, Junior, around and pedaled like I'd never pedaled before.
After all, I only look good in blaze orange when I'm big game hunting:
Not big game hunting.
BIG GAME HUNTING! IN A WHEELCHAIR!
In a wheelchair? Why not?! Which very offensively brings me back to my point. There I was on my two wheels (albeit vertically aligned, rather than horizontally), riding away from what was sure to morph from verbal fisticuffs to actual handcuffs because the DCPD act irate and irrational 80 percent of the time. Oh, and they apparently hate children and want to see them suffer. Deductive logic. Or maybe just schmeductive. Whatever.
But speaking of the kids, there's still about 100 (out of 130 or so), who are looking for reliable and fun mentors to take them to the zoo, make art projects, play sports, visit amusement parks and just talk to. For God's sake, right now all they have to rely on is the DC government. If that doesn't goad you into taking action, then I don't know what will. Perhaps, I'll find that mean lady cop and come have her arrest you for not doing anything...literally! ZING! So, truly, if you want to mentor a kid in need, email me at theantidc at gmail dot com.
***SERIOUS ADDENDUM***
As most of you who live in DC have probably heard by now, a 68-year-old female cyclist was actually killed yesterday by one of the military vehicles brought in to guard the nuclear conference. This hits me particularly hard as an avid cyclist myself and my sincere condolences go out to the woman's family and friends.
If anyone is familiar with the drawbacks of DC, I'd say it's me. And you. And, well, anyone who's ever lived, visited, heard about or even read the letters D and C together.
But mostly *I* know, and a quick perusal of the witty, thoughtful, creative and nothing-short-of-genius-proving posts that I've compiled on this here Web log offers all the scientific and schmientific proof you'll ever need of DC's sh*t not being that tight.
I also love when my opinions (mostly the schmientific ones) are validated. And so, when I hear dirty hipsters outside of DC (say, while I'm enjoying a lovely jar of beer at the Radegast Hall & Biergarten in Williamsburg, Brooklyn) complain about how they hate DC, I tend to put aside my disrespect for people who think brakes and gears aren't necessary on city bicycles and give them my awkward nod of approval. And if their critiques are really excellent, maybe I'll even offer up salutations via a delicious, ice-cold jar of beer.
"Dear dirty hipsters and your appetite for flannel in warm weather, to you I raise this delicious, ice-cold jar of beer in mutual respect! You, my gritty, Buddy-Holly-bespectacled friend with the $200 pair of pants on that's made to look like you ripped them off a homeless man on a non-gentrified corner of this burrough in 1983, are my new best friend. And I predict that this instant bond -- this bond based on mutual hatery of our nation's capital -- is as unbreakable as that bond you've made with smelling bad! (Um, seriously, though. Take a shower.)"
And in turn, these wild-haired, ironic T-shirt-clad masses would offer up their delicious jars of beer in response:
"Yes! DC sucks so hard! There's no sense of community there! The so-called 'scenes' are so piecemeal and put-on that they seem nonexistent at best and like cheap xerox copies of the butt of some other city at worst. And you know what else? We hate DC because it's too damn clean!"
"YEEEEAAAAHHHhhhh...wait, what? You hate DC because it's too clean?"
"INDUBITABLY! THE STREETS ARE TOO CLEAN!"
And that's when I would redirect my lovely jar of beer from being raised toward the sky in respectful agreement (and to loving the word indubitably) to being thrown in someone's face. Not only would this liquid have grabbed the attention of this misguided crew, but surely it would have also been the first liquid (of non-human origin, at least) to touch their fair visages in over fortnight or two.
But then I would have wasted a perfectly fine jar of beer and that's just dumb.
And so, instead, I just sat there and listened to them complain about one of DC's few, legitimately good points -- the lack of city litter.
"I like to feel the grit of a place under my feet," they said. "I like when garbage flies into my face. I like the odor of human manure in my nostrils! I like the suspense of rolling around on used hypodermic needles!!!"
OK, so while I may have just exaggerated *why* these transplanted suburban Williamsburgers hate being around anything that's been washed in the past year, I hope I was able to at least establish the ridiculousness of their particular claim of hate. I mean, seriously, there's a metric ass-ton (which is to regular ass-ton as a baker's dozen is to regular dozen) of reasons to complain about DC. The city being "too clean" is not one of them.
Maybe I should start a welcoming service for hipster tourists who visit, involving a bucket of urine, a fistful of broken crack pipes and a bucket of dirt that I would use to antique them as they cross the city border. And if that weren't gritty enough for them, I could also have a hose on hand connected to a the septic system at Ben's Chili Bowl. You're smellcome, dirtbag. I'm sorry the proverbial hot-tub's too hot.
Well, as I carve out my place in the world of douche that is DC, I find myself and my fat thumbs trying to type this message into a BlackBerry. Seriisly, my thumbs are like f*cking lobster claws. And by "seriisly," I mean "I really should have gotten T-Bone, my helper newt, to type this with his slim amphibian digits."
But anyway, alas I am doing my own touchscreen typing. Wack.
But you know what's not wack? The fact that Baltimore's Lazerbitch will be in town tomorrow night performing at the Rock'n'Roll Hotel! Go to there!
I would but I've been called away on business to New York. Word on the street is that there's a sewer rat there who can type 160 words per minute. Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry
A friend of mine came to town last weekend and surprised me. And not only because I found out he rides griffins in his spare time while playing World of Warcraft. (You're the man now, dog, Buckrod!) No. He surprised me because right before he left on Monday, after our $12 wine lunch at Proof and subsequent daytime drinking binge at Washington D.C.'s greatest dive bar, Harry's, he said, "I actually had fun in DC this time."
Dumbfounded, I comically stammered, "Wha-wha-wha-what?!"
I think it's because we didn't go to any bars at night and instead did our drinking on other people's decks."
It's true. DC can be fun, just as long as you make sure you're not out in public during the douching hour, which is that time of night when the douches come flying out by the pleats of their pants and party like it's 1999...in hell. Or talk about their madras. Jesus.
On a griffin.
But seriously, DC after dark can really blow, as I suppose it can during daylight hours, too, if you're not sucking up $10 pitchers at Harry's. But there's one thing for certain: When you shun strangers and instead stick with your insular little clan of like-minded Buckrods (minus the e-griffins), who will drink an entire box of wine then get on Chatroulette with you (we only saw one peen!), you can have a good time anywhere. Even in DC.
That's right, I'm going to New York City to celebrate the fact that do NOT have a brain tumor! Yet. That is, my prolactin tests came back normal! Which is strange, because the fact that I'm even blogging about my prolactin levels is highly abnormal. And also incredibly awkward. However, not as awkward as this video will make you feel.
As a sometimes-driver, myself, in DC, it's come to my attention that other drivers in this town do not understand when and when not to act like complete dicks behind the wheel. For instance, while ridin' my new bicycle, Junior, quite dirty yesterday (literally, as the record high got me so un-fresh and so un-clean), I almost got rammed off the road by an elderly couple in a minivan.
Without exaggeration, the old man driving sped by so close to me that my arm hairs reacted to the proximity, dropping their proverbial pants on the ground (i.e. my sweaty arm) in absolute terror. Luckily, I was able to catch up to these assholes at a red light and, to my delight, I found their window open.
"You know, you're supposed to give cyclists three feet," I said. "You almost rammed me off the road there. And also, I think the speed limit is about 30 downtown, here. Not 50."
As you can see, I was quite civil, polite even. Although, in the end, it wouldn't matter as these people clearly didn't speak English. But still: It's the principle. People make mistakes, especially old, stupid people with really thick glasses on while they're driving. Yet rather than revert to my go-to standby, Thine Ye Olde Bird Flip, I approached these dicks in a non-dick demeanor because I, e-friends, no know (oops!) when and when not to be a dick, whether I'm behind the wheel or not. Sure, with the language barrier and all, maybe a hyper-extended middle finger stretched out toward the hot sun would have been more effective, but then what lesson would have been taught? Nothing. Instead, it probably would've validated their dick mistake in the first place and maybe I would have even turned these foreigners against American bicyclists. Worse yet, perhaps, they would have then actually hit the next one they saw out of spite.
And maybe they'll still do that, however, not out of spite, but simply because my lesson fell on deaf ears (perhaps literally, as I'd say I was dealing with octogenarians here). But whatever. Like I said, it's the principle. However, if I see this van again and it assaults my arm hairs (or actual limbs) in such a way once more, I may have to ready my digitus medius, and if that fails, go to a method that solves most things in life -- violence.
Kidding!
Really old people are like kids; they're more fun to feel weird inappropriately swearing in front of than beating. In fact, I'm not really into beating anyone at all, unless we're talking about intellectual matters, foot races or eggs. Just like ramming cyclists off the road (due to negligence, spite, or just being a dick), violence is wrong. That is, unless it's accompanied by funny music!
Indeed, the first two weeks of spring is the only time of year worth being in DC. The blossom's are bloomin', the weather's nice and, most importantly, the grills are lit. However, it's also the time of year during which those of us who actually live here must be extra careful. *sneeze*tools of tourists*sneeze* Oh, and it's also prime allergy season. But those are small drawbacks -- drawbacks I dare say you will not think about -- when you're shoving delicious meats in your mouth on your and your friends' decks, patios, loggias and other such curtilages. Or even around a hobo fire in a steel garbage can that you started behind Bobby Van's Steakhouse. Really, any open space with scraps of meat around will do.
But unfortunately, this season lasts only about two weeks before the non-fire-related heat rolls in and makes everyone feel, look and smell like they just took a sulphur bath between the rolls of a fat tourist's back. It gets gross here.
But you know what's not gross? Well, besides delicious meats in your mouth, that is? MINI GOLF!
So un-gross is mini-golf, that I brought out my very best velvet blazer to inaugurate the season. And yes, I paired it with jorts (duh) and a Vladimir Putin shirt (unfortunately, not pictured).
Luckily, however, I was able to photograph the creepiness of Woody's Mini-Golf's guardian android, whose faux-flesh is already literally melting off (which begs the question, how does he ever survive summer?!):
I'm sure Woody grilled and ate those endangered animals that are so gracefully tacked up behind him in his shack, but meat's (finally) not the focus here. Instead, let me get down to critiquing the sh*t out of this course, which is apparently ranked as one of the Top 5 in the nation, according to Newsweek magazine, according to Woody's Web site. Or whatever.
Um...
Let's just say I'm skeptical. The "Perils of the Lost Jungle"-themed scenery was pretty fantastic, but the actual holes? Yawn. All the drunk monkeys and drunk monkeys with dynamite were simply sitting in trees, not interacting with the you and the holes in any way, shape or form.
And I don't know about you, but when I'm knocking around balls, I want monkeys with dynamite to interact with my holes as much as possible. But then again, who doesn't?
So I don't know...I was a little disappointed. However, haters gonna hate and whether Woody's belongs in the Top 5, or whether it's just 18 office-greens with a bunch of tacky sh*t thrown up in the trees, I suppose, really doesn't matter. Eh. I guess it was still pretty fun (despite that it was in Dranesville, Va., which is a name so proper unto itself that I'll let you all just make your own toilet jokes about it).
I totally had something funny and clever lined up for today, but then I took an unemployment nap and completely forgot what it was. All I know is that it referenced Philip Roth's Portnoy's Complaint and the part where Alex and "The Monkey" are driving through upstate New York and she turns off the radio and says, "Ah, f*ck that noise," like a gangsta, except that this book was written in 1969 or something, so it's probably not that gangsta. But whatever. I have no idea what that was supposed to be a sequitur to because what I really want to complain about is the fact that there isn't a bike lane on the crucial uphills between U Street and Columbia Heights on either 18th, 16th or 14th Streets.
Instead, DC chose to install not one, but TWO on 15th Street, which just so happens to be the steepest and most "ess"-curved (not to be confused with "ass"-curved) hill that nary-a-velocipeder would ever choose to ride up casually, say, when coming home from a night of sippin' on some sizzurp, which is the gangsta way of saying, "Enjoying some tip-top libations at Commissary."
I say, F*CK THAT NOISE. I mean, what was the city council thinking? Well, I mean while they weren't going on coke benders, embezzling tax dollars or accepting bribes. Or do they never take a break from that? Which I guess would explain why they accidentally painted two bike lanes on one barely bikeable stretch of road. Actually, come to think of it, that's pretty gangsta. Indeed, totally illogical, but very, very gangsta. However, I'll one-up that gangsta-ness by once again referencing an old, skinny, Jewish writer and counterpoint with, "F*CK THAT NOISE!" and "GIVE ME A WORKABLE BIKE LANE FOR MY FOOT CYCLE!" Yup. One hundred percent hardcore gangsta.
Ahem. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go find an ice cube to add to my tea. Word to all of your mothers and/or legal guardians.
I have been dating someone for a year. We are very close and 95 percent of the time have a wonderful relationship, lots of fun, lots of cooking, lots of joint "projects" and plans, and we both get along very very well with each other's families.
I am interested in different kinds of politics than he is. He is a debater and can get really aggressive with me when discussing politics. He wants to move in and I want that, too, but I really am scared that the political arguments will strain our relationship. How do you know when someone is the one, or when the tides are just pulling you together?
--202
Dear 202,
Dating a master debater (oldie but goodie!) can be difficult. Well, unless of course, you recognize that violence could solve all your problems. Seriously, you're boyfriend sounds like a cliché, annoying DC douche, who is convinced he knows everything there is to know about the world and, therefore, how it should be governed. You know the type: The kind that only seeks out friends in his own political party so he can master debate in front of this friends, who cheer him on until he finishes. (Ew.) In short, he needs to be punched in the face. Several times. With the brass knuckles on.
But as far as knowing if he's "the one," well, I suggest that if you are so desperate for positive reinforcement that you have to write me (via "Two-Bit" Hax, of course) for advice, then you should probably cut this douche loose and stop letting him master debate in front of you. (Huzzah!)
Hi, Carolyn Anti DC:
How long should one wait for a commitment? I've been dating "Bill" for a year and a half. Bill knows I am apprehensive about marriage because, several years ago, my ex-fiance was pushing marriage and I had reluctantly said yes.
Bill's ex cheated on him, so he is having a hard time trusting that it won't happen again (regardless of who the girl is). I don't like bringing up the M-word. I do not want to pressure him, but it's not like I'm going to be there forever without some sort of commitment.
Signed, Fish or cut bait
First of all, FoCB, that acronym blows and I advise you to think up a new one immediately. Like maybe, Fish or Crap Killer Erudite Rats, which, sure, has no logical meaning, but your acronym would be FoCKER, which is much funnier. I'll give you this one for free this time, FoCKER, but next time, I expect more from you.
And while I'm critiquing what you did (or didn't do) properly in your question for Carolyn me, why did you say you're dating "Bill." Clearly, using the quotation marks around the name means you chose a fake name to protect your boyfriend's identity. But why did you choose such a boring one? I mean, "Bill," really? That's the best you can do? I can think of, like, a million cooler names than Bill to use if your goal is to use a pseudonym: "Seymour Butts," "Harry Assinfeis," "Dick Cole," "Frazzles," or my personal favorite, "Stanky Too-Tight." Seriously, FoCKER, get with the program.
And now for the long-awaited advice. I think you should find the real Stanky Too-Tight and marry him. You're welcome.
***
Do you have any advice you want answered in a non-helpful way? If so, feel free to write Carolyn Hax. However, if you want some truly, good and healthy advice that will improve your life, then write The Anti DC at theantidc at gmail dot com. My helper animal trainees look forward to helping you.
Sorry for not getting a post up of earlier. I'm sure I've ruined all your days. And if I haven't yet (we all know I haven't), I probably will later (now, that's a definite possibility). But first, I want to ruin the day of the Washington Post's very own advice columnist, Carolyn Hax.
