Wednesday, June 30, 2010

justice is like a bowl of cereal...

It was a pretty normal early evening. I sat on the back deck, sipping some ice water through an ice straw, and listened to a man recite to me how many people had been killed by tigers on the Indian subcontinent as of 1900. He told me 300,000, a figure I thought enormously exorbitant. See, prior to that statistic, I had guessed 11, so when he told me it was at least two times that, according to my TI-81, I immediately responded with, "Get it, grr-r-l!" which, of course, I found hilarious. Unfortunately, though, I was the only one to find that hilarious, according to my TI-81...

"You do realize that joke relies entirely on a cartoon tiger, don't you?" asked the man reciting gory death statistics to me as I continued to laugh so hard my ice straw nearly dissolved then bubbled out of my nose.

"GET IT, GRR-R-L!" I repeated before laughing some more. But when I looked up to say, "Do you see what I did there? DO YOU?!?!" my deck companion had gone AWOL. Surely, he was eaten by a tiger.

Or not. Fortunately for us, there aren't many sharp-clawed beasts around DC who wish to eat us alive. Instead, we just have a bunch of suspected murderers justice obstructors who can go about their suspected murder justice obstruction business, knowing that they can fool the system real nice. But I guess that's to be expected when you don't have David Caruso working in your CSI...

Or maybe not. Maybe our suspicions are wrong. Maybe no one obstructed anything; maybe the police did everything right; maybe criminals from time-to-time are just that good, in which case I think I'd rather fear death-by-tiger because at least then we'd know who to blame and how to go about catching the culprit. We'd simply call in CSIs Sigfried & Roy.

Joking aside, however, in cases like that surrounding the brutal slaying of Robert Wone, in which all three defendants were found not guilty of conspiracy yesterday, as well as the hundreds -- if not thousands -- of other unsolved murders in DC, all we know is that, while we may have strong suspicions, we really don't know anything.

However, that doesn't mean we should just sit back, shut up and let justice go unserved. Recognizing that we don't know sh*t could actually lead us to justice because it means we realize there's a lot more sh*t out there for us to learn. Seriously, let's not Woodrow Wilson ourselves here. His stroke-induced anosognosia (the condition of not knowing you don't know sh*t) led his dimwitted wife to make some pretty poor, possibly World War II-causing decisions. Worse yet (well, maybe not, WWII was pretty bad...), let's not become this guy, who didn't have enough knowledge to realize that he didn't have the knowledge to succeed as a bank robber. (That sentences makes sense if you read it twice...) He thought squirting lemon juice on his visage would obscure his face on film.

Now, although I may have some suspicions, I don't know who's guilty or if the police work was shoddy or if the court just made a poor decision in the Wone trial. I do know other things, however. For instance, I know tigers are scary, jokes based on childhood cereal mascots are hilarious and squirting citric acid in your eye is bad, just to name a few. But most importantly, I know that I don't know a lot of things and I can name what a lot of those things are. In other words, I'm not ignorant about my own ignorance and I hope the police department, the prosecutors, the justice system and everyone else isn't either. Armed with the knowledge that we don't know much means we can start filling in these information gaps and serve justice up like a bowl of Frosted Flakes. God, that would be...GRR-...great. (See? I can hold back when necessary.)

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

tweeting accidents deliberately

Anyone out there use Twitter? (I'm looking at you, Dmitry Medvedev.)

Me too. I mean, we're not animals. We can communicate in more ways than simple barking.

We can tweet.

"You mean like a bird, Marissa?"

OK, so maybe we are animals. And not even cool ones like barking seals, but little scrawny ones like that group of annoying warblers outside your window that won't shut up when you're trying to sleep...tweet...TWEET...TWEEEEEET!

OK, so Twitter can get a bit stupid sometimes, maybe even a little irritating, but it's also what elevates us from the rest of the animal kingdom (except maybe for seals -- seals are awesome). I mean, think about it, we're the only animals who can use the qwerty keyboard, and I'll be damned if we can't turn that useful invention into something superfluous, such as a conduit on which to exchange ironic procrastination links. But I mean, what is this? The Industrial Revolution? F*ck that. Long live Twitter and long live on-the-job unproductivity!

"But Marissa, some people use Twitter because of work!"

That's a myth, I say!

"Is it, Marissa? If it's a myth then how do you explain why fellow DC blogger LivitLuvit (@livitluvit) is about to snag a job from MTV via Twitter or...or...or why @dcfireems exists? Really, Marissa, pull your head out of your incredibly firm, bicycling ass and get a clue..."

I do have a clue, you meanie! (Although, thanks for the butt compliment. *smiles*) LivitLuvit is going to get that gig because MTV knows she's the only one who can save the network now that Justin Bobby cut his hair! And...and...wait, what was that second thing you mentioned? AND DON'T ROLL YOUR EYES AT ME!

"*rolling eyes* I said @dcfireems, Marissa. It's the Twitter handle of DC Fire and EMS. Can't you read? Nevermind. Just go look at it."

Well, I'll be damned. I'm so glad the Internet argues with me from time to time, as seen above. I mean, if not for the Internet's ability to pistol-whip me with information over and over again against my lesser judgment, I'd still be the monkey feeling up the big metal slab wondering what it is, rather than just f*cking Googling it. Thank you, technology.

And honestly, thank you Twitter. The existence of
@dcfireems is, I think, the first time that Twitter (a.k.a. technology's 'tard-revealer) has proven useful for something other than keeping tabs on Iranian revolutions. (I call it "technology's 'tard-revealer" because I'm pretty sure you can tell how smart someone is by how stupid his or her tweets are; see: @ricksanchezcnn, whose tweets make him sound less like a CNN news anchor and more like an illiterate 12-year-old girl.)

But returning to the phenomenon that is @dcfireems, how awesome (albeit macabre) is it that in between receiving "party tips" from @AndrewWK, we can receive real-time alerts about how big of a-holes DC drivers are? (Really, pedestrians and cyclists are getting hit WAY too much in this city for it to be purely accidental...) Not only that, but I wonder if, over time, the log produced by the
@dcfireems Twitter account could somehow be further aggregated to produce for us a map of the most dangerous intersections or streets in DC. I, for one, would love to pull up a grid on my phone that could alert me to the street dangers of the city, or even better, use it as part of a route planner.

Of course, then we'd lose the element of surprise. And I suppose, when it comes to bodily harm, there's nary a worse feeling than realizing impending doom is about to befall you.

Speaking of...I'm going for a bike ride.

Also, read this and if you haven't been tested, get tested.

And lastly:

Monday, June 28, 2010

farewell to liber-tay

Oh man. It's a sad day over here at The Anti DC Headquarters (read: the gutter). Senator Robert Byrd's wheelchair has ceased to roll. His shouts of "Barbaric!" now only echo in the cavernous chambers of my craw...and the Internet. Indeed, Ol' Byrd (D-W.Va.) will be missed, and not just because he was a main contender in nearly all of Congress's key coot-offs, but because he also had a rare quality that doesn't usually afflict politicians: He actually seemed to care.

In my old fulltime job (yes, at one point in my life before I cooted myself on the Web, I was actually capable of being employed), I used to write about Congressional budgets, meaning I used to experience Byrd and his lovable Southern drawl in person. I'll never forget the time he wheeled into an appropriations hearing shouting "Make way for liber-tay!" I'll also never forget that he was THE only person in that room who seemed to have a square head on his shoulders (not literally, of course, his head was actually quite round). Yes, Sen. Robert Byrd always got down to business, but at the same time, he never lost his keen wit.

And sure, we made fun of him for being light-years old, but we always knew deep down that we really respected him. Hell, to get so many West Virginian schools, libraries and public buildings to be named after him instead of Mountain Dew, the man must've been doing something right. When he said to the federal government "Give Big Daddy his money!", the federal government sure as hell gave Big Daddy his money.

Of course, Byrd also had his faults, not least of which was that filibuster of the Civil Rights Act of 1964. That wasn't right. Nor was joining the Ku Klux Klan. That was just gross.

The thing about Byrd, though, is that he was as disgusted about his past as we are. He never tried to justify it. Instead, he did what anyone should do after having been aligned with an organization too heinous to categorize even as scum -- he called it "the greatest mistake" he ever made and apologized profusely and repeatedly: "I know now I was wrong. Intolerance had no place in America. I apologized a thousand times... and I don't mind apologizing over and over again. I can't erase what happened," he said in 2005.

And we can't erase you, Robert Byrd, and, save for the first third of your life, we don't really want to. Indeed, you have made way for liber-tay in the halls of Congress. And the time is nigh for you to make way for liber-tay in the afterlife.


Friday, June 25, 2010

that's not good stuff...

So, you probably heard the Kremlin has a Twitter account now. I don't know about you, but I'm incredibly relieved. I've been waiting with bated [read: vodka] breath forever to receive 140-character updates about the state of both dill and mayonnaise in the Motherland* and now my prayers have finally been answered! Hooray!

And what an opportune time for the Kremlin to set up a Twitter account -- the day before President Obama continued the tradition of bringing important heads of state to fastfood restaurants. Indeed, following his attempt to further ruin French-American relations by bringing President Sarkozy to that slop house known as Ben's Chili Bowl in March, yesterday Obama brought Russian President Putin Medvedev to Ray's Hell Burger. And, in what I now believe to be a silent protest, Medvedev uncharacteristically held the mayo.

Seriously, what is Obama trying to prove with this habit? Sure, the burgers at Ray's might be what we can scientifically categorize as "f*cking delicious," but still! Ray's wouldn't be my first choice of place to bring a Russian head of state to. I mean, it's a HAMBURGER. And furthermore, I DON'T SEE ANY DILL OR MAYONNAISE ON THAT F*CKING TABLE!

Not to mention, Barack, but didn't your wife declare war on childhood obesity not long ago?

I say take Medvedev to Sweetgreen! They totes have a really good hun-cal fro-yo there and, dammit, EVERY GUY SHOULD HAVE A KNOWLEDGE OF IT!

Then again, Medvedev, whose lifeblood depends on the consumption of cured fat and sour cream, probably considered the burger a healthy change of pace...

Meh, whatever. Healthy role models are for pansies anyway. (I, for one, look up to Lindsay Lohan's liver.)

Health-shmealth aside, though, what really bugs me about this jaunt out to Ray's is that it's located in Virginia. Honestly, that truly gets my goat. (Seriously, my pet goat is super pissed over here.) Look Read, we already get screwed in DC by having taxation without representation, so the least the President of the United States could do is make sure to reinvest as much as he can -- even the cost of a cheap meal -- into the town where he now resides. I mean, if Obama and Medvedev truly had their minds set on hamburgers, why not just go to Good Stuff Eatery? Those burgers are equally as unhealthy and, ergo, just as f*cking delicious, scientifically speaking, of course.

Or hell, I have a grill! Call me up next time, Barry! I have enough mayonnaise in my fridge to keep even the most Yakov Smirnoff-iest of Russians happy. I'll even get commie with it and throw in some extra dill for free. I look forward to hearing from you, comrade.


*Why are references to dill and mayonnaise funny? Because Russians love dill and mayonnaise. I've seen them use both to top a pizza and fill a sushi roll. Indeed, my ancestors were a sick people.

[Photo credits: The Kremlin]

Thursday, June 24, 2010


Unfortunately, while I may have the cold, dark heart of a robot, I apparently don't have the motor skills to perform simple tasks, such as uploading videos to YouTube. Damn you, Internet! And here I thought we were best friends after you qualified me as a Mensa-level genius the other day. And now? Now, I'm not sure what to believe...

Which is exactly how I feel about this Pennsylvania bike lane business. I went to check out the official "opening" of the lanes on Tuesday (even though they've been there for months now), and, well, I'm not quite sure what I think about them anymore. I'm also not quite sure what I think about this video I made about it. Honestly, I have no idea what was going through my mind. In the words of the Internet: "Unknown error detected."

Oh wait. I know what the error was -- me recording this yesterday, directly after watching the United States defeat Algeria to emerge FIRST in their World Cup bracket. Although I imbibed a brewkfast of champions, I'm pretty sure Miller Lite does not do a body good. Whoops.

But at least I did one thing right -- I wore that shirt. And all is forgiven!

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

i'm a genius and other unbelievables

So, who knew? Apparently, I'm eligible for Mensa because my IQ is a whopping 138, at least according to, which I'm sure is as reliable an intelligence estimation as I am reliable to look very special in any picture I take.


Mayor Fenty and I are armpit sweat brothers.

Which reminds me, I have an equally very special video log (vlog) about Fenty's Pennsylvania bike lane project set to premiere later this afternoon right here on this writing log (wrlog <--- indeed, the workings of a mind of very superior intelligence). But if you'll excuse me, right now -- at 9 a.m. -- I must go to the bar to engage in a few USA! chants to cheer on our national soccer team as it triumphantly climbs one step closer to emerging victorious in the World Cup. Onward ho, global domination!

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

keeping tabs on bad ideas...

So, I've decided to do a little bit of rogue reporting today by attending the "opening" of the seemingly ridiculous bike lanes that run down THE CENTER of Pennsylvania Avenue. While I really don't want to get hit by anyone in a car mistaking the center lane for, say, a CENTER LANE, I want to give Mayor Fenty, our elected stick of butter (hat tip to ListenToLeon), and the other brainchildren of this plan, District Department of Transportation Director Gabe Klein and U.S. Transportation Secretary Ray LaHood, a chance to explain. Personally, I think this is just a way for Fenty to get back in the taxi drivers' good graces before the election by creating a new sport for them -- bicycle bowling.

Trust me. About a month ago, I deigned to try out this "very special" lane (um, even though they were not "open") and thought to myself, if the world bean supply ever gets destroyed and I need to commit suicide, this is probably the most effective way to do it.

But alas, I'm going to pretend that something called "objective reporting" exists this afternoon and give our fair, backwards city a chance to talk itself out of this one. Indeed, I vow to open my mind to this horrible-sounding idea before I judge it as actually horrible, so look out for more later. And also, look out for imminent death if you happen to be riding on Pennsylvania today...

Monday, June 21, 2010

clyde's, you're all right

When the sh*t hits the fan, so to speak, it's nice to know there's a place in DC that's roomy enough to accommodate a party that not only plans to throw its proverbial poo at the fan, but one that seemingly had been collecting it for years in order to stick it in a cannon then blast it all on in one single, explosive half-hour period.

Clyde's of Chinatown, you're an admirable friend in this world. You handle other people's shambles like a champ.

Moreover, you also handle my technology shambles like an honest, law-abiding citizen. Despite that your innards are large enough to house a staff of probably 100, when I left my phone on the table in a quick effort to skip out on the sh*tshow inside, you could've easily taken it. But no, you stuck it in the lost and found and when I identified it the next day as "the one with the background picture of several cans of beans," you didn't even laugh at me. (Which, actually, now that I think about it, is kind of weird. I mean, beans. Seriously.) But instead, you said to me, "Well, that certainly makes it easier for us to identify it for you!" and smiled.

Clyde's you're like Lennie from Of Mice and Men, except without all the accidental murdering. Nope, you're just a big, ol' softie trying to make it in this world. And that's A-OK with me.

Also, it doesn't hurt that your jerk chicken wrap is delicious and economical.

Clyde's, I'll say it again -- you're all right. So all right, in fact, that you're about to receive the Anti DC Official Least Worst Award! Enjoy this Blithering Eagle of Freedom because you've [accidentally] earned it!

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

shambles p.i.: i can see your ass edition

Last weekend brought us Soccer in the Circle, Capital Pride, and 90-degree weather with 100 percent chance of seeing someone's sweaty ass cheeks in a pair of sporty, flamboyant hot-pants.


Yes, it was a glorious day in the District last Saturday, a veritable perfect storm of shambles. *sigh* And while I'd love to sit here and bask gloriously in the light being reflected off that dude's taint, I can't because: 1) ew, and 2) I have a couple of programming notes to get to.

Firstly, I probably won't be posting anything substantial here until next Monday because I've got business brewing up in Boston. And by "Boston," I mean "the craps tables at Foxwoods."

However, just because I'm going to perfect the Golden Touch Dice Revolution, doesn't mean we have to completely e-part ways for the next four days. In case you're not privy to the most annoying way to keep in touch on the Web -- Twitter -- I invite you to join me there if you'd like to periodically interrupt your life with several 140-character snippets of Anti DC idiot-savantisms. I promise I won't tweet about meals, when I get up or go to bed, the weather, or any bowel movements. Unless, of course, I happen to wake up in an outhouse during a thunderstorm eating chicken wings. In that case, anything's fair game.

And, unfortunately, I wouldn't discount that as a possibility because, after the dice have stopped rolling, I will be road-tripping lightening-fast back to the District in what I've already dubbed the Shamblesmobile. Move over, above-pictured proud and sweaty ass-cheeks, you're probably gonna have some competition.

And speaking of competition, CHI-CHI-CHI! LE-LE-LE! VIVA CHILE! #worldcup

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

take responsibility for something you're actually responsible for, fenty

I'm not sure how someone or a group of someones was able to steal two bikes out of Mayor Adrian Fenty's garage at his home in Adams Morgan, which was supposedly guarded by armed cops, but I do know that that's not the most important question here. The most important question is why? And more specifically, why the mayor (or, as my friend Leon of Listen to Leon deftly called him on Twitter, "this stick of butter") took "full responsibility" for the thefts.

The Washington Post reports:

"Mayor Adrian M. Fenty (D) and his family took 'full responsibility' for the theft of two bicycles from his open garage earlier this month and said Monday that the police officer guarding their Crestwood home followed protocol."

I'm sorry, but WHAAAAAAAA?! Maybe Stick of Butter (or S.O.B., if you will) doesn't realize this because he's too busy being a, well, stick of butter (and an S.O.B.), but by taking "fulls responsibility" for SOMEONE ELSE stealing his bikes -- no matter if he leaves his garage door open or not -- is TOTALLY F*CKED UP. To me, it sounds like he's blessing bike thieving, or thieving of any kind actually, as an act not only to be accepted in the District, but something that's the victim's fault. That's like blaming women in short skirts for rape. Not cool.

In fact, in the words of Philip Roth, "F*ck that noise." While perhaps Fenty made it more enticing for the thieves to steal his property by leaving his garage door open, for once Fenty isn't to blame. The responsibility sits solely with the dicks who stole his sh*t.

Full disclosure: I've had a bike stolen in the District. It sucked. It still sucks. And while, I left it locked up with a metallic pipe cleaner, I do not and will never blame myself for someone else's immoral choice. If anyone's getting punched in the face in that situation, you can bet my fists won't be aimed inward.

Listen Read, I grew up in a town where it wasn't necessary to lock anything. Hell, you could leave your safety deposit box full of treasure maps open and still no one would steal your stuff. And that isn't because rural Minnesota has a more effective police force than DC (although I'm sure it does), it's because people respect other people and their things. I swear on all the cornfields in the world, that people wouldn't blame the victim and the victim would sure as hell not go around taking responsibility for some disrespectful idiot's sh*tty actions. Instead, your neighbor would send his cow over with a shotgun strapped to his back for you to borrow. Duh. Things stay so orderly in the Midwest due to respect and cow assassins.

But unfortunately, that method only prevails in flyover country. The last thing we need in DC is a group of armed bovine. After all, we already have too many armed jackasses... But what we do need here is a new culture -- a culture that's based on mutual respect, honesty, and most of all, a condemnation of bad behavior, not an exaltation of it through the creation of a precedent that dictates the victim take the blame over the criminal. That's just f*cking stupid. But I guess that's what you get for electing a stick of butter to public office...

And while I'm certainly not ignorant enough to believe other major urban areas aren't riddled with crime and problems, I can't fathom any other mayor handling criminal incidents in quite same way. I mean, really, could you imagine Giuliani back in the day blaming the World Trade Center's height for 9/11 instead of the terrorists?

Think about it. And then don't vote for Fenty.

Monday, June 14, 2010

mob justice prevailed at soccer in the circle

I've never *not* been in love with freedom. In fact, as I sit here on the back deck, my pants 100 percent not on, with the e-world at my fingertips, it feels so natural to lean back in this reclining lawn chair, which was made in China, and simply bask in it. Goddamn, this is a great country.

And if a person can fall in love with freedom just because he or she can engage in a little indecent exposure while spending hours searching the Web to find things like a soundboard dedicated to the best worst movie of all time, The Room, imagine how someone could feel about it when you add a pinch of team sports, a couple of vuvuzelas and a whole lot of making fun of England. Not only do I love freedom then, but I kind of want to give it a rape whistle because, oh my, it's so alluring that I almost want to touch it in its special place.

Did you notice the middle finger displayed just southwest of Old Glory? I'm pretty sure that finger's directed at David Beckham, whose larger-than-life face periodically graced the screens of Soccer in the Circle on Saturday afternoon to show his nonplussed expressions. And while (surprisingly) I didn't *act* like much of an asshole (my middle fingers were too busy helping me grasp onto whatever makeshift hand-fans I could find), I was (unsurprisingly) dressed like one.

Yet, so was everyone else and, really, I'm glad we all did because when England fumbled and we scored to tie, it made this moment all the more sweet.


O! What an amazing moment in DC history! Everyone came together to celebrate a common goal (literally), with nary an obnoxious idiot who sought to ruin everyone's time by climbing up a tree to enhance his own view while blocking those of the hundreds of people behind him in site.

Or maybe that did happen. But you know what else happened? Some freaking mob justice, that's what! And if there's one thing DC does well (that is, besides producing the type of person who would sacrifice the fun of all for the benefit of one), it's mob justice. And the evidence in this aptly titled "" incident is no exception. So, without further ado, mob, I present to you the highly uncoveted Anti DC Bald Eagle of Freedom award!

Congratulations, mob. You've earned it.


Also, in case you missed it (because you started waving your flag a early in the morning on Saturday), I did a rare weekend post, in which I (shoddily) recapped the events of the World Cup Opening Party at the South African Embassy on Friday morning. You can witness the shambles by clicking here.

Saturday, June 12, 2010

it's afternoon in south africa, right?

Of all the places I've imbibed for free in DC, I don't think there's been any place more raucous than the South African Embassy. Even more impressive, it was all done in the early-to-mid hours of the morning, while South Africa celebrated the opening of the World Cup on its home turf yesterday.

And according to the facts in my mind, there's nothing that indicates the presence of good will in the world more than unscrewing a bottle of rum and watching a group of people from all around the world finish it off in mere minutes. At 9 a.m.

There's also nothing like watching a bartender unscrew a bottle of scotch, mix it with Coke and hand it to someone after she ordered a rum and Coke. Another fact in my mind says, you know it's an event to [not] remember when even the bartenders are too crunk to mix a rail drink right. At 10 a.m.

Damn, that party was a good time!

And I learned something to boot: I entered this event yesterday a soccer novice and, I can proudly say that now I know what offsides means, what a yellow card is, and that eight out of 10 dudes who play soccer are ridiculously good-looking. Indeed, soccer is a fine sport.

This woman, one of the Mexicans who attended the party to congratulate South Africa on this historic occasion and cheer on (albeit very quietly) their team in the opening game, agreed:

But then again, judging from her footwork skills, which she showed off after the match while playing with what I assume were her grandsons just moments before this picture was taken, she's known that for a long time. Wow.

And because I hate to leave you with something as impressive as an octogenarian's age-defying foot-eye coordination skills, allow me to present to you this short, poorly edited video log of yesterday morning's events. It's accompanied by horrendous audio. Enjoy!

Happy World Cup Fun Time! Remember to check back Monday for a round-up of the events in Dupont this weekend because I have my vuvuzela ready to go and my pipes warmed up -- USA! USA! USA!

Friday, June 11, 2010

dc is tasty. sorta.

I'm so nonplussed by the District today. So nonplussed, in fact, that I'm off to South Africa, well, technically anyway. Yes, possibly as you read this, I am imbibing morning brews (of the beer variety, not the coffee -- duh) at the South African embassy in honor of the World Cup, which I hear is some sort of foot game match. But just because I'm not technically blogging today (I am writing wrote this between So You Think You Can Dance segments tonight last night -- GO ADÉCHIKÉ!), doesn't mean I can't dole out my unfair share of obligatory f*ck yous to our fair city. And of course, I pronounced the word "city" using the unnecessary fricative popularized in old-timey noir films.

And speaking of sh*tty (shee?), that brings me to today's subject -- Ben's Chili Bowl cupcakes.

Now, before you barf (or is it too late?), let me explain. There's not actually chili in the cupcakes. (Phew! Close one!) Instead, Dupont Circle's Hello Cupcake, which is f*cking delicious, by the way, held a decorate-a-DC-themed-cupcake contest last week, and three of the 23 entries were odes to Ben's Chili Bowl.

So what, you ask? Well, if you're a regular reader/peruser/creeper on this blog, you probably know that I'm not a fan of B's.C.B. In fact, as a bean connoisseur and, ergo, a chili aficionado, I can officially say I'd rather crack a can of Hormel turkey chili than eat the watery slop at Ben's...unless I'm drunk, in which case, I'd probably mistake gasoline for tabasco and say that tasted good, too.

But sadly, I'm mostly sober (surprise!), so Ben's usually just grosses me out. And no, although I'm fairly ignorant in general (blame my choosing to watch So You Think You Can Dance over reading a word book), I'm not ignorant to the fact that B's.C.B. has been anointed a DC landmark more for its history than for the consumables it serves. And, of course, I'll give it that. Regardless of the Alpo they sell, it's pretty impressive that any place could survive the riots of the 1960s.

BUT STILL! According to all the photos taken by Metrocurean, these clichéd cakes are a kind of a bore, even if some of them are pretty impressively rendered.



YARF! This one looks WAY too real...

But moving on (I can only talk about chili cupcakes for so long until I start to get really depressed), for some reason, there were also two inspired by Chinatown, or as it actually exists in DC, Chinathreestorefronts. Seriously, once businesses like Urban Outfitters and Fuddruckers start making up the bulk of "Chinatown," I'm not sure the name really means anything anymore.

That's not a fortune!

I used to garnish everything with raman in college, too.

That noodle one was the winner, by the way. But whatever. Winner-schminner. At least those Chinese cupcakes don't look like a hamster ate something a little too greasy and mistook dessert for a toilet. And speaking of toilets...the requisite Larry Craig spoof!

I'd mock this one, but, quite frankly, we all mocked this three years ago. It's time for some new ideas! For instance, had I known about this contest (I was probably too busy watching episodes of So You Think You Can Dance), I would've made a cupcake that looked like a red, white and blue flaming ode to freedom with the words "Bite Me" written across the top. Ah yes, it'd incorporate that very special (you catch my drift) thing about DC we all love to hate to love -- an overexaggerated sense of self-importance! Long live it and you can be sure I'll try to do my duty to uphold that maxim over here. Did I mention I would make it taste horrible, too? Just for the irony!

My other idea is to make one that looks like a suspicious package. Those are quickly becoming DC landmarks, right?

But alas, I missed the contest bus and failed to enter this year, which sucks for me because the fan favorite on Facebook wins a KitchenAid mixer. And on that note, I'm gonna go vote for statehood via cupcake. Anything to help the cause!

Come on, Congress. We f*cking deserve it. Look what you made us do with our desserts...

Thursday, June 10, 2010

dmv stands for putin nursing baby elks, yes?

It's a rare weekday that I don't grace you all with my e-presence like bed bugs grace a crack denizen's bed at night. Yesterday, however, was one of those days. Lucky you. But I have a semi-fair excuse! I was watching America show off its French talent by watching on loop Haspop dance to Crystal Castles. And, of course, I was also dueling with the man.

But first let's talk about Haspop. Holy f*cking la vache! That guy has rubber joints. If he doesn't win a million dollars I will weep the tears of a 3-year-old with Bieber fever. Seriously, what the hell do they put in baby formula these days to warrant that nonsense? I mean, it wasn't until I was four that I started dry humping television screens showing Michael Jackson's "Thriller."

But enough about the oddities of childhood, let's talk about my gentle(wo)manly duel with the man. So, I just moved into a new apartment in a new neighborhood. The move went swimmingly due to my easy access to a car. However, the after-move has been less than stellar...due to my easy access to a car. Although as a vehicle owner I knew this day was coming, I never prepared myself for its sheer annoyingness. I need a residential parking permit.

This may sound easy, but 1) remember I'm retarded, and 2) this is DC. Nothing is ever easy here, especially when all the street parking has a two-hour limit without a sticker. I challenge the city to answer this question: How is one supposed to get down to the DMV and get the proper permit within two hours of moving in?

According to the DMV's site, I need:
  • The original title
  • A DC driver's license with your current address on it
  • Proof of Valid Odometer Statement
  • DC Vehicle Insurance
  • DC Vehicle Inspection - Used Car only
My problem's even worse because before I can bring all that sh*t in, I have to change the address on my license so I can get the permit that I need. And yay for life, I don't have any proof of residency. I'm not on the lease. My name is also not on the electric bill, the water bill, the cable bill, or the gas bill. In layman's terms, I suppose I'm technically a squatter. So what's a glorified squatter to do with her vehicle?

I stuck that note on my windshield and hoped for the best. And to my surprise, this actually worked...until yesterday. (I blame the emoticon.) I won't bore you with the details, but basically, it took me seven days to gather all the documents and inspections necessary and the whole time, my postered car remained ticket free. But then, just as I got almost everything I need to make my car its refugee papers, I woke up yesterday to find a parking ticket, issued to me for not having a proper parking permit. BALLS! (But rest easy, I plan on not paying it along with the rest of my unjustified parking non-offenses.)

And the frosting on this poopcake is that by the time I got the (nearly) final document, it was too late to go to the DMV, so my car is now parked in a Virgina driveway, which is probably where it should've remained in the first place.

And while right about now would be a good time to learn my lesson (i.e. having a motor vehicle in the District is far more trouble than it's worth), I feel like I'm way too far in to turn back now. Oh no! I will fight this good, freak gasoline fight until the end of days, which means, if you need me, I'll be at the Georgetown DMV watching Haspop dance on a Blackberry Storm2 for probably the entirety of the afternoon.


So, it's been five minutes since I wrote this and I'm reluctant to post it because it's f*cking boring. I mean, really, who the hell cares about my parking woes? I barely care. Yet while I'm fine with torturing myself (I do choose to live in DC, after all), I hate the thought of torturing you. I really don't want to turn this blog into a "blahg," if you know what I mean. (Or am I way past that point?)

Well, f*ck it. Here's something interesting and thought-provoking -- a riddle:

Say you die (oh, this is starting well), and you arrive to a place where there are two identical doors guarded by two identical guards. One guard stands before the door to hell and the other to heaven. Or, if you're not religious, one stands before the doors to a bar in Georgetown filled with Late Night Shots kids and an ice luge and the other leads to a world populated only with Flock of Seagulls hair.

So here's the challenge: You can ask one question to one guard to figure out which one is guarding which door. What do you ask? Think carefully, or you may end up taking Jager shots with annoying kids in madras for the rest of eternity opposed to watching multiple Putins lovingly nurse baby elks. *sigh*

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

stop spreading schminformation, new york times!

It's not often that I have time to mock any other newspaper besides The Washington Post, but today I'm making an exception. Did anyone see Sunday's New York Times? If so, did you see the article in the travel section entitled, "In Washington D.C., K Street Steps Out of Its Suit"? And by "article," of course, I mean "completely ridiculous, not even factually correct group of words." And that's being nice.

Now, I'm lucky enough not to have to spend a lot of time on K Street, or really, wear a suit (or pants) ever, but that doesn't mean that after three years of living here (Jesus...) I don't know a thing or two about what the hell goes down there. Oh, and unlike Sarah Wildman, the reporter-schmeporter who somehow got paid to check out eating establishments "on and around the K Street strip," I know where the K Street strip is.

The "strip" refers just to the sections with the highest concentration of douches -- the part that stretches from 13th St. to Georgetown. Yet, in this piece of sludge, not one of the establishments Ms. Wildman points out goes west of New York Ave., which I think is the last street east of 13th that falls into the "around K Street" category. None of the restaurants she mentions fall on the strip.

But besides this geographical misnomer, the real problem with this article is the assertion that whatever strip Wildman's talking about is somehow shedding its douchetastical image because of some "new entrants" focusing on "inventive and ethnic" dining options.

And that would be totally awesome ... if it were true, but, um, last time I checked, FIVE YEARS AGO wasn't new and CORNED BEEF is neither inventive nor ethnic. Not to mention, DC is still chock full of douches, but that's a given...

Turning back to the food and Ms. Wildman's article, Rasika, while, perhaps, an inventive and ethnic restaurant, is not new. It opened in 2005. Oh, and it's also on D St. at 6th. And Againn? Sure, it's new (it opened earlier this year), but is English and Irish pub food really all that inventive or ethnic in a city (or country) where Russians, Italians, and Somalis alike all celebrate St. Patrick's Day together? I don't think so. I mean, really, what the f*ck does "ethnic food" even mean to you, Sarah?

"The executive chef, Wes Morton, a Louisiana native, has created what is essentially corner-pub fare, with some haute twists: shepherd’s pie, bangers and mash, house-made corned beef."

Um, where are these "haute twists" you're talking about, Sarah? For Lucky the Leprechaun's sake, Duffy's, the Irish dive across from the 9:30, has more haute twists than that. Tell me when Againn starts serving an Irish burrito and we'll talk.

Along the same lines, of the four establishments Ms. Wildman declares as new, inventive and ethnic, the last is Taylor Gourmet, a freaking sandwich shop:

"For less than $10 each, Taylor proves a proper K Street meal no longer has to be a white-tablecloth affair."

It's located at K and 5th. And it's a f*cking deli. I mentioned that, right? Subway serves a meatball marinara. Is that ethnic, too, Sarah? Is it?? IS IT?!?!

Ugh. I need a drink. Almost as much as this toddler. And this toddler. Hmm. Who knew toddlers were so hardcore? They're probably also a better source of information about DC than the Times... Then again, so is this blog. Now, that says A LOT. Take note of the state of journalism, New York Times, take note.

Monday, June 7, 2010

did helen thomas just coot herself?

Since I like to make it a policy to never break any news on this blog, I will surely not be the first one to tell you that Helen Thomas announced today that she'd be retiring from her job as a White House reporter for Hearst. In short, she cooted herself. That is, she went beyond rogue and, instead, ventured into coot territory. And if she's not careful, she'll probably end up in a good ol' fashioned Coot Off, such as this one, aired many years ago on The Daily Show.

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Can't you just picture Helen T. all up in your face saying things she'll later have to apologize for through a spittle of saliva spackled with a salmony shade of lipstick?

You sure can now! And while I'm sure different people with different viewpoints could debate for hours about what she said, I think the larger story here is the technological one. YouTube just ruined this old coot's career. Of course, after decades upon decades upon decades (we can go on here), perhaps this is a hidden godsend for Thomas, who at age 89, should probably start enjoying her twilight years before they're sucked away by the cold, clammy, wrinkly hands that come with being a coot.

Had Ms. Helen uttered those words 50 years ago, surely her career wouldn't have been so ferkakdeh. In fact, Thomas probably did utter those words 50 years ago and probably a whole bunch of other cooty sh*t too because 1) she's been alive since the beginning of time and 2) that's what people do. They have opinions. The problem here, though, is that this human being has been masqueraded under the guise of being a "reporter," which means it's part of your job to show no bias, at least in the public eye. And now that we've entered an era in which everything is public (How many assholes did you see tweet about what they had for lunch today?), some random guy's camcorder counts.

Reporters pretty much can't say anything that isn't a known fact in public anymore, lest they risk their jobs. Hell, my blogging a few fart jokes got me canned. But, really, that's all pretty ironic given that the highest rated media outlets in today's America are because of pre-coots, like Rick Sanchez, Glenn Beck and other people who say coot things without having the age or Alzheimer's needed to officially be considered a coot. Instead, they're just nutjobs with Nazi Tourette's who don't know what the f*ck they are ever talking about.

Now, because my fart joke snafu has taught me better, I won't comment on my personal views about Palestine and Israel, but I will note that I'm morose about the way Helen Thomas went out. That bitch was one tough cookie in the White House pressroom, and when it came to her job, she did it well. And in a less technologically advanced world, I'm sure she would've gone out at a different time under more positive circumstances, like having an illicit affair with Rahm Emanuel or something. But alas, like fiber and the average American diet (at least according all those lunch tweets) coot and technology just don't mix and now we are left with only the butt imprint of one of the greatest beat reporters in American history.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go eat lunch. I'm having a bean and avocado quesadilla with mango-peach salsa. Blogger's different than Twitter, right?

Friday, June 4, 2010

at least i just made this delicious egg salad for lunch

What a goddamn week. That's really all I have to say, especially since I only have a few minutes to compose today's edition of The Anti DC, which, if you don't know, I've started describing as "A Satirical Look at Life in DC," opposed to the previous catchphrase of, "The Internet's Dumpster Baby." Although, now that I mention that last one again, I'm wont to change it back. Or maybe like that movie "Splice," which I will never see because I'm as scared of horror movies as I am of my own exterior melting off and exposing my circuitry and wires, I'll squish those two catch phrases together to create a hideous monster: "The Anti DC: A Satirical Look at Life in a Dumpster Baby." Done.

And keeping with this 'tardy stream-of-(barely)-consciousness, let's remain on the topic of film. Anyone seen any good ones lately, you know, besides Hubble 3D and The Room? I've got the inkling to cut off my arm and leg and see a movie in the theater again today. I hear Sex and the City 2 is a riot. Or at least this review of it is.

Ahh, look at me linking to week-and-a-half old news! That's adorable. But not as adorable as THESE BABY SLOTHS!

Wow. So, now I'm linking to one-year-old sh*t. In Internet years, that's more like 102 years old. Just like Joad Cressbeckler, who I find hilarious, even when he says racist things. Or maybe because he says racist things...but he's old, and a product of The Onion, so clearly, it's OK.

But you know what's not OK? Probably this race-based question I'm about to pose: Why is it that I only get compliments on my clothing choices from black people? Are white people in DC just meaner, less fashion-forward, or are they simply more shy? I want all races of all ages and of all class levels to appreciate my outfit invention skills! Just like I appreciated this week's outfit invented (or re-invented, actually) by Lady GaGa:

Lady Gaga as Larry King! Brilliant!

And speaking of brilliance, it's National Spelling Bee season, which I'm proud to say is apparently considered a "sport" in DC, at least according to the Washington Post.

Hey, watch me spell! R.I.P. Ding! But a sad "ding" because it means another Golden Girl left us this week. And while I'm not taking Blanche's death as hard as I took Sophia's, I'm still pretty bummed.

Ha! I just linked to something *I* wrote *two* years ago! Alas, we've come full dodecahedron, which I'll have you know, is really hard to spell, unless, of course, you're this kid:


Thursday, June 3, 2010

i won't sit on it, but i'll stand behind it

If there's one thing I could do well besides blog (God, that is so sad...), I wish it was art. Yes, art's been on my mind lately, as I try relentlessly to track down a giclée print of Arkhip Kuinji's "Moonlight Night on Dnieper." (By the way, it's f*cking impossible to find.)

And while my skills at finding Internet things to have shipped into my life are failing miserably, my skills at finding random Internet contests that I wish I could enter are tremendous. In particular, I'm talking about this competition, sponsored by the Washington Post.

While I suspected at first that the "Real Art D.C." contest would probably just feature a group of performance artists in popped collars stepping on the glass of Marion Berry's broken crack pipes whilst wearing Crocs on the Mall, I was pleasantly surprised to find first finalist, Joel D'Orazio, and his work, instead.

"D'Orazio transforms -- 'violates' might be a better term -- vintage furnishings into artworks. His pieces don't participate in the (let's admit it) too-hot furniture market and, in many cases, no longer even function as seats."

Hot damn! What a coincidence! Just when I was trying to unload an extra, functioning and, actually, very comfortable couch (email me, if interested!), this idea of buying something totally unusable to replace it came along! But why? Why would someone turn a usable chair into a totally unusual objet d'art? What the hell is the point?

"For D'Orazio, making chairs and making paintings (which he turns out in droves) is instinctual stuff; he considers them open-ended experiments in form and color. There's no big idea here."

And that, e-friends, is why I think I love this contest so much. It lets non-visionary visionaries like D'Orazio in. I say this because I've been making my living lately editing post-modern Russian art catalogues, in which every other artist has some "big idea" that usually boils down to something along the lines of this, "Blah blah political oppression blah blah consumerism blah blah [insert other grand idea] blah blah and that's why I covered myself in honey and rolled around naked in bees to the beat of one hand clapping." Jesus.

People (myself included) often complain about the lack of creativity in DC. We say it's too utilitarian, it's too square, some people even complain about it being too clean (now that's just kind of silly). But you know what? Sometimes utilitarianism, while kinda boring, seems a lot more hip and a whole helluva lot less cliché than honey-covered art school students trying to feed the starving kids in Africa by wasting so many precious calories that the starving kids in Africa could be eating. And let's be honest, I'm also not really one who wants to have anything having to do with live bees in my house. (That's why I surround myself with cell phones.)

And while I also probably won't purchase a D'Orazio original anytime soon, at least they're fun to look at.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

not eye-ight...

This is just a schmeducated guess, but I'm pretty sure most people who have the Internet no longer turn to broadcast news to get their information. Which may explain why local broadcast outlets even attempt to keep Web sites these days. The only problem is that, instead of featuring clips of what they're good OK at (broadcasting), they choose to feature clips of what they're really, really bad at -- written news.

Remember when I postulated that WUSA9 weatherman Topper Shutt's blog was written by a 5-year-old? Well, that was being nice. After all, some 3-year-olds in Asia can solve Rubik's cubes in under 2 minutes. So, really, telling someone they have the writing skills of a kindergartner isn't necessarily an insult. If we were in China, it might even be a compliment!

However, we're firmly in America where kids are only good at one thing -- posting photos of themselves on Flickr taking shots of vodka THROUGH THEIR EYES. But at least that's original, unlike WUSA9's Web reporting, much of which is simply regurgitated national news stories. And their report on the aforementioned subject of "eyeballing" is no exception. (Very similar stories were reported days earlier, including on WTOP and in a Washington Post blog, both of which also failed to put a true local spin on things.)

The really sad thing, though, is that WUSA9 (or WTOP) could've used this as a starting point to do an original, perhaps even interesting story. For instance, duh, I dunno, how's about reporting on how this "fad" (WUSA9's word) affects local teens? Seriously, sometimes I wonder how some local news affiliates stay in business, while I remain a reporter without a steady place to report, at least when it comes to hard news. But honestly, I think even to non-reporters, putting a local spin on a national story seems like the obvious choice for a LOCAL news outlet.

And, for the record, I want to point out to WUSA9 that including a paragraph full of incomplete local statistics (they only "reported" on Virginia) doesn't count as local reporting to people who haven't severely damaged their brains by pouring liquor into their oculi. Sure, 76 percent of Virginia's high school seniors may drink, but what percentage imbibes their drinks through their eyes?

Oh, but wait. That would require WUSA9 to do its job properly and actually report, which as evidenced by the sh*t they try to pass off as news items, could be a difficult task. For instance, setting aside that WUSA9 told us absolutely nothing new in their article, take a look at this particular line:

"[Dr. Stephen] Glasser says the damage can be done in one sitting, if the person does it enough times to cause damage."

OK, let me see if I got this right: Causing damage causes damage? Is that what you're saying, WUSA9? IS IT?! Because in a world where brevity can earn you millions of dollars (see: Twitter), wasting 84 characters on that line is just f*cking stupid. Either that, or this Dr. Glasser the article references specializes in obvious. "Why yes, Mr. Smith. It seems your cancer is causing your cancer!" Uh-huh. Yeah... For some reason, I'm apt to think that line isn't the doctor's fault...

But, like I said, who cares? Knit-picking over failed use of quotations and retarded redundancy is just the poo-flavored icing on the asscake that is local broadcast news' presence on the Web.

The only excuse, I think, for even posting something so pointless would be that whoever wrote cut and pasted and [shchm]edited that article was just wasted. I hear you get a wicked high from "eyeballing." (And no, I didn't learn that by trying it. I appreciate vision.) Although, considering WUSA9 seems to lag behind other local news outlets, I'm guessing they're still reeling over there about 2008's big idiot fad, anal beer bong...

And yes, that show, The Doctors, is aired on WUSA9. Surprise!

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

space, freedom and a Ray-J off

Sorry I'm posting so late today. I had something ready to go about theoretical physics, but then Al and Tipper announced their separation and the single tears began to flow so hard from my and my bevy of helper animals' eyes that our technology melted down. No, really. We were using a computer made entirely out of cotton candy.

But just because no one will ever know how I solved the unsolvable problem of chronology projection conjecture, doesn't mean we can't still at least scratch the time-warped surface of multi-dimensional space. In short, I love NASA. It is probably the only federally funded organization that I can get behind without feeling the urge to stick a Post-it note on it that says "KICK ME."

In fact, just thinking about the accomplishments of the American space program makes me fall in love with freedom all over again. *sigh* And so it was a no-brainer (the only kind of decision I'm capable of making) to go see Hubble 3D at the IMAX at the Air & Space Museum this weekend, despite the fact that it's narrated by Leonardo "I peaked playing Arnie Grape" DiCaprio...

First of all, I learned that all astonauts have sweet nicknames. There's Scott "Scooter" Altman, Gregory "Ray-J" Johnson, Michael "Bueno" Good, Michael "Mass" Massimino, Andrew "Drew" Feustal...wait, that's not that cool...John Grunsfeld...uh...and Katherine McArthur. OK, so some astronauts have sweet nicknames. For the record, if I ever take to space, I will go by the call name of "Frijole."

Secondly, it's about this:

But shown on a screen that's six stories high and in 3D!

Oh man. I'm lucky it's really hot today because all I'm cloaked in is a tattered Old Glory. Seriously, just thinking about Hubble 3D is more than enough to make me forget about Al and Tipper. Then again, so does thinking about a McDonald's cheeseburger. Yes, unless it has to do with former Minnesota senator Norm Coleman and his beautiful DaVinci veneers, I officially don't care about the downfall of political marriages.

Going back to nicknames, I think the biggest news in this post was learning that a VH1 reality "star" and an astronaut have the same one.

Which means it's time for a Ray-J off, where our Ray-Js will compete in three categories to see who is the superior Ray-J.

Category 1 -- Facial Expression

I think we gotta give a point to Astronaut Ray-J and those Coleman-esque choppers. *purrrrr* VH1 Ray-J just looks like he doesn't like the way I'm looking at him. Point to Astronaut Ray-J.

Category 2 -- Accessories

This is a tough one. On our left, we see astronaut Ray-J decked out like an intergalactic boyscout. However, on the right, VH1 Ray-J is sporting at least threes sets of lady hands. Hmm. Lady hands are pretty unique. Point to VH1 Ray-J.

Category 3 -- Background

Finally, we reach the tie-breaker round, and sadly for reality TV stars everywhere, it doesn't look good for VH1 Ray-J. While the several sets of lady hands made him the big winner in the accessories round, the actual ladies do little to get him ahead of his competition now, especially when that competition is perched in front of my outfit du jour. Freedom always wins. Point to Astronaut Ray-J.

And with a score of 2-1, it's safe to call Astronaut Ray-J the winner of this Ray-J off. My work here is done.