The Anti DC

here we go again...

2011-12-08T14:39:00.002Z

I have a real problem with how this town's most famous newspaper represents us. Mainly, I don't think they represent us at all. And who is "us"? Sure, I'm including myself and my menagerie of four-legged helper animals on The Anti DC's staff, but I think it's safe to say I'm including you, too. See, I think we've all found a place over here not just to complain about what's wrong with this place, but to stand up to and against those DC stereotypes that keep this city off the world's map of righteous sh*t. I mean, how can we expect to compete with New York, Paris, Moscow, Hong Kong or, goddammit, even probably Iowa City, if this is what we think this city cares about the most?

OK, so I just linked to the Washington Post's 2011 Influential Tweeps poll. As benign as it seems, I'm not hating on the fact that a contest like this exists. After all, I'm on Twitter, you're probably on Twitter, hell, most of DC is on Twitter. Nor am I bitter I didn't make it. My last few tweets have had to do with my new Tumblr, A Million Pictures of My Cat: Lots of Pictures of the Same Cat. True, I may be a self-important, semi-creepy cat lady in training, but I have no delusions about where my tweeting ranks in the grand scheme of things (hint: rock bottom). Plus, I have friends on that list, so it's not a bad idea, nor bad in its iteration entirely.

What I'm complaining about, here, is the small cross-section of categories the Post seems to think describes DC and what this city cares about. If you'll notice, there are no categories for people who tweet about music, art (although there will be, supposedly, according to an update on their site) or theater... And no, if the argument is that it's bundled under "Nightlife," that's pretty damn lame. Really, the only saving graces are the food and fashion categories when it comes to cultural coverage in this poll. All said now, I can't help but read between the lines. Does the Post not give a sh*t about the stuff that makes life worth living? Or do they think their readers don't? I welcome explanations.

But what's most irritating here is that the Post made sure to include this category:

Yes, you read that correctly. It says, "Favorite government agency." Because who needs art and beauty in this world when you have the United States Department of Agriculture? Oy.

r.i.p. waxed santa

2011-11-29T11:18:00.001Z

It's regrettable what happened to Bruce Boudreau (he was fired), or as I will always know him, Waxed Santa. In fact, it wasn't that long ago that I timelined the evolution of that jolly former nickname whilst the Washington Capitals rose to glory. Alas, times have changed. And while Bruce still looks every bit a hairless St. Nick, he's overseen the devolution of this town's one winning team into what lately seems more like the Redskins on Ice. Plus, rumor has it this recently fired coach started directing his "sh*tbum" insults to the team's do-no-wrong, Alex Ovechkin. What a shame.

So what happened? Well, if you care about that, you should probably direct your browser to a source of shrewd sports analysis because, here, I'm mostly just interested in continuing to propagate amusing nicknames for hockey coaches. Which brings us to the new guy, Dale Hunter, or as he shall heretofore be known on this opposite-of-inspiring little corner of the Internet, Sober Boris Yeltsin. Behold!

Let's see how this one works out...

to the drivers it may concern

2011-09-28T15:31:00.001+01:00

Dear Assholes,

I'm going to try to keep this cordial. And don't think I already failed just because I used the word "assholes." See, in this case, it's a simple statement of fact. Yes, anyone who actively tries to murder another human is scientifically an asshole. And sure, you didn't come at me with a knife or a gun. Oh no, it was much more deadly! Instead you assholes came at me with several thousand pounds worth of vehicles. How very sporting of you to make it such a fair fight when 1) I didn't know I was going to have to defend myself, and 2) I'm a 125-pound female on a 30-pound bicycle.

It was also great that you were both men. Sure, regarding the first one of you sh*tfaces who tried to kill me last week, I probably would've been able to take you down with my spindly little limbs alone had we actually set up a time to rumble fairly. And not because you were smaller than me. Oh no, your driving habit and high-volume gut assured me that you were, indeed, HUGE. I'd beat you because of your cowardly nature. I mean, really, what adult man is so scared of a skinny bitch on a bike that he feels the need to cower in his bucket seat when politely confronted the same way a kitten does the first time it encounters a bucket of water? All I did when I inevitably caught up with your douchmobile BMW Z3 at that red light at 16th and Irving was ask why it was that you had just tried to murder me. It was a simple question. Maybe you should've just ran the red light and killed the other cyclist on the road, you know, the one who was legally crossing on Irving. Then you wouldn't have had to deal with my completely uncomplicated and straightforward inquiry, while just sitting there looking like such a doofus with your out-of-state plates.

I also asked why it is that you shouted to me, "GET ON THE SIDEWALK!" whilst you were running me dangerously into the curb. See, that's a more than fair question because not only was I fully within my rights as a cyclist to ride on the street, but IT IS AGAINST THE LAW FOR ME TO RIDE ON THE SIDEWALK.

Hmm. I guess I gave you too much credit. I thought maybe you'd understand. I mean, one look at the crowded sidewalk filled with pedestrians, strollers, small children and wolf-packs of teenagers getting out of school, should be enough to give even the dumbest idiot a clue. Alas, you simply said, "Er, uh, derp, duh," until, of course, the light changed. Then you yelled again, "I HOPE YOU GET WHAT YOU DESERVE." What? A billion dollars? A prize? A toned ass for cycling up hills on the reg? Uh, OK... I hope I get that, too. And I hope you considered my extended middle finger a partying gift.

And while I was mildly annoyed by your cowardly antics, what really concerns me is what your friend did today. Or maybe you're not friends. I'm assuming you are because, judging by the way this second jerkoff also tried to murder me (this time in a delivery truck, no less!), I'm guessing you guys might be in the same club, the Let's Get Deadly Close to Cyclists While They're Doing Absolutely Nothing Wrong Club. Sirs, may I suggest the Hair Club for Men instead? It would serve you both much better...

But I digress. Back to the issue at hand, this time I was on Massachusetts Ave., again doing nothing wrong, unless of course getting exercise while saving money on gas is a criminal offense. (Are you lazy morons just jealous?) I mean, it's obvious you both need therapy because murdering folks just because they lead a healthier and cleaner lifestyle than you is highly deviant. And also highly against the law. I mean, c'mon, you're a fat bald dude in a delivery truck who whizzed by me so close and so fast that the draft that came off your vehicle actually made me involuntarily swerve. Not only that, but your barking command to, "GET IN THE BIKE LANE!" was extra glorious because THERE IS NO BIKE LANE ON MASSACHUSETTS AVENUE. Is your eyesight as dim as your brain power? Because that's really scary then.

And just because there's no bike lane available to me (dear lord, I wish there was), that doesn't mean I don't belong on the road on my bike. What it means is you should be cautious of how you drive. I mean, really, must I remind you babydicks that you're not in Bumblefuck, Maryland anymore? (Both had Maryland plates.) You're in an urban area, a city, where the speed limit runs about 30 mph, and much slower during times of high traffic, like lunch hour, the exact time I happened to be on Mass Ave. today.

Of course, this is probably silly. Trying to talk rationally to you, a grown-up so irrational that you actually started SCREAMING at me at the top of your smoke-encrusted lungs after, again, I inevitably caught up with you at a red light and, again, inquired as to why you just tried to murder me is probably a pointless exercise. And so instead, I'll leave you with just this thought, which should be easier for you to grasp: "Go f*ck yourself." And that's when I fell off the cordial wagon.

Burn in hell assholes,

Marissa

not so rosy...

2011-08-17T11:09:00.002+01:00

Holy [proverbial] ball sweat, it's been a while since I've put my helper horse Sven to work hoofing out some words for this blog. BUT WE'RE BACK. Kind of. Not on the reg. See, I've been too busy whoring my grammatical prowess out for money (FINALLY!) to work for free over here like a sucker. But truth be told, I've missed The Anti DC. This is and will forever be my e-home, well, at least as long as I live in DC, which at this point seems like it might be forever. *GASP* *COUGH* *COUGH* *COUGH* Well, until the rampant smell of ass, which seems to permeate every breath I take these days here, kills me.

Come on, you know what I'm talking about. This stench in the air this summer... It's that smell that tends to usually come when you're walking outside and a garbage truck rolls by leaving the sent of Satan's butthole behind. The problem I've noticed lately, however, is that this exists randomly and often. Like, I could be biking down P Street, not a garbage truck in sight, when *BLARGH!* there it is. And it's so pungent that I fear the only cure is shoving a couple of pipe bomb up my nostrils to blow up my olfactory system. Either that or become a house cat...

we're hot!

2011-07-13T10:34:00.005+01:00

And it's official! DC is the sixth hottest city in the nation! Duh. JUST LOOK AT ALL THESE FINE PIECES OF ASS!

Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeoooooooooooooooowwwww!

"But wait. Marissa, hold up. Did you even click the link?"

What link?

"The link you embedded in the top of this blog."

Pffft, no. Why would I do that?

"Jesus.... MAYBE BECAUSE IT LINKS TO THE ARTICLE BEYOND THE HEADLINE, YOU IDIOT!"

Huh? Are you saying you want me to read something? Interesting... Well, there's a first time for everything so perhaps I will give that a whirl. Just give me a minute to get my helper llama Eugene to move the cursor and give it a little *click* and...

Ahh, OK. I get it now. We're not hot as in physically attractive, but hot as in I want to fashion a line of unfashionable clothing out of Mr. Freeze pops and commute to work in a giant hamster ball filled with dry ice, you know, so the Mr. Freeze pops don't melt. Delicious.

Incidentally, the other cities on the list, in order of fifth through first, include Medford, Ore., Wichita, Kan., Montgomery, Ala., Laredo, Texas, and Yuma, Ariz. To my surprise, Orlando, Fla., was left off the list. That motherf*cker is hot as balls, to use the schmientific term. I learned that the hard way this weekend when I decided to wear pants to the shuttle launch.

Oh, did I just say shuttle launch?! I did! I was there! And it was the most spectacular 24 or so ~~hours~~ seconds of my life. If you want to nerd out with me, please do so here, where I equate my relationship to the U.S. space program to an addiction to black-tar heroin. By the way, I'm in total withdrawal right now. But at least I'm in total withdrawal in the air-conditioned confines of my dry-ice filled hamster ball. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have several hundred Mr. Freeze pops to purchase and affix to my person.

lift-off!

2011-07-06T10:39:00.006+01:00

And speaking of shooting things into the air (I'm assuming you read yesterday's schmasterpiece), this will be my last blog post this week before I jetset off to Florida tomorrow to watch a bunch of astronauts shuttleset off to space on Friday. Indeed, to borrow a term from my newly blogging brother, the bounds of my nerdery are, um, out of this world...

Sorry. That was a galactically dumb joke...

What's even more dumb, though, is not just that I followed a dumb joke with an even dumber one, but that I was somehow left off the list of this "official NASA tweetup" ~~everyone~~ every dork is talking about. And yeah, while unlike @nasa I can't vouch for the scientific accuracy of the 140-character missives I'll be writing during this historical event, I can certainly guarantee you that they'll be entertaining, if not solely because I'll be "waking up" at 1 a.m. to get to the launch site, which means I'll surely be relying on a magical mixture of Jolt Cola, Pop Rocks and rocket-fuel fumes to keep me awake until Friday's 11:26 a.m. lift-off. I predict I'll be going full-Cornholio by 7 a.m.... So yeah, if you like space or simply have a thing for Beavis & Butthead like my cat, you might want to jump on this Twitter train[wreck]. #choicesiwillregret #choicesyouwillnotregret.

However, the space program isn't all fun and games and tweeting ridiculously and eating nauseating amounts of sugar. As you may have been reading from the Washington Post's Joel Achenbach, it's also kinda f*cked. This saddens me because space exploration is cool and unwinnable wars are not, which means we're doing it wrong. Seriously, look at this video:

Any entity that can make an epic clip out of putting a jigsaw puzzle together deserves at least a few billion of our dollars, no?

But politics aside, I'm pumped. Hope to catch you around the Twitterverse...

bang

2011-07-05T12:09:00.009+01:00

Congratulations, Virginia! You finally have something to be proud of. But of course I'm joking. I mean, just look at that sentence construction! It ends in a preposition! HILARIOUS! (Laugh, dammit.)

However, even if I did write, "Congratulations, Virginia! You finally have something of which to be proud," it'd still be funny. Not only because that second sentence sounds like it should be read by someone in a monocle and a top hat, but because of the joke I embedded in it -- that the only thing Virginia has to be proud of is the fact that the woman who can hold the most hotdogs in her stomach is from there.

And while, yes, that is quite an accomplishment, it is, in fact, a joke. Obviously, it's not the only thing Virginia has going for it. See, in addendum to being the breeding ground for women who can stuff their faces with five grills full of barbecued meats, Virginia is also noteworthy because it's a great place to explode things. And so, yes, I spent America's Birthday not in America's Capital, but across the river, in America's Weiner-Eaters Birthplace Capital setting off colorful explosives.

Except I nearly regurgitated my sausage when one firework I had purchased from a teenager on the side of a Pennsylvania highway shot not straight into the open air but at a diagonal directly into the power line. OOPS! Clearly, I should've purchased my explosives from Bang-Bang and Boom-Boom (and you're gonna wanna click on that link).

But this wasn't a normal, run-of-the-mill firework that just shoots up and explodes; it was a Sky Banger, which does exactly what it boasts. It sort of thrusts up and down for a bit before finally exploding in a shiny sea of ejaculating sparks. (Ew.) Under perfect conditions, the Sky Banger would do this all at about 30-to-50 feet. But here's the thing about power lines: they kind of f*ck up trajectories, meaning the whole sky-bang process ended up being more like 15-to-who-the-hell-knows-how-many-feet-because-we-were-all-flat-on-the-ground-hoping-we-weren't-'bout-to-die.

But I'm alive! The power lines remained intact and no one even sustained even minor burns. Full success. Kind of. And, hey, I see you're all alive, too, if you're able to read this blog right now, so USA! USA! USA! And most importantly, I'm happy to be back in the District where the power lines are underground.

the satire of real life

2011-06-30T13:07:00.004+01:00

I had a lovely view of these guys' armpits.

Well, I learned where the Federal Election Commission (aka, the FEC, aka "fecal," according to the automatic spellcheck on my phone) is located today. Incidentally, it's at the corner of E and 10th NW, should you ever decide to make a righteous mockery of the dumbest election financing law ever, like Stephen Colbert did this morning.

And it was awesome.

Of course, I'm talking about the SuperPAC Colbert applied for and got, which allows groups and corporations to raise unlimited campaign donations to make the most ridiculous political advertisements you can possibly imagine. "Give me your cash, bitch," indeed. It's exactly what our forefathers intended.

But I'm not here to comment on the politics of said event, but instead on the comedy that it spawned (although, undoubtedly they're intertwined). The main point here is Stephen Colbert did free stand-up outside the FEC[al] this morning! And like always (he's one of my comedy idols), he did not disappoint. The man's a genius and I really do believe he's the most exciting person, scratch that, corporation to happen to American comedy (and politics!) ever. He's amazing and I can truly say that I've never been more proud to live in the city he makes a living out of satirizing more than I am right now because by living here it means I get to see him satirizing this place once in a while in person...FOR FREE!

In closing, USA! USA! USA! Times infinity.

so about that manscaping...

2011-06-29T10:08:00.008+01:00

I expect that most readers of this blog are probably privy to the Urban Dictionary definition of just about everything (although I'm personally still struggling to figure out the correct definition of an Alabama crab dangle...), which means I'm sure you're all convinced from the title that I'm about to bloviate on a man's nether-regional body hair. Well, I'm not. (I'm sorry or you're welcome, depending on how much of a pervert you are.) What I am gonna do, however, is point out one woman's entirely inappropriate use of the term "manscaping," a term she used while giving image advice to new interns on the local news. Fast forward to about the four-minute mark to see what I'm talking about, and don't worry: contrary to all legitimate definitions of what "manscaping" means, this clip is safe for work.

So, yeah. I think the correct term she's looking for is "shaving." Although not as new-fashioned as the puntastical "manscaping," at least recommending an intern shave doesn't make me want to alert Chris Hansen. Just sayin'...

On the other hand, considering the recent endeavors of one high-profile former-Hill employee, perhaps definitional manscaping advice should be taken into account. I mean, from one woman's perspective, if I were to ever receive a dick pic (although please don't...), I'd certainly rather it be a dick glamour shot than, say, something closer to a fluorescently lit Walgreens passport photo of your ~~unquaffed~~ uncoiffed sh*t. Of course, best case scenario is that I wouldn't see that sh*t at all (~~quaffed~~ coiffed or ~~unquaffed~~ uncoiffed) because IT'S A PICTURE OF YOUR PENIS ON MY PHONE. Indeed, in a perfect world, manscaping would not be practical image advice to dole out to Hill employees, but I guess since we live in a newly erected post-Weiner world (ha!)...

But seriously, back to the interns -- it's simple. Don't dress like a teenage asshole. Of course the counterpoint is don't go the other direction and dress like a septuagenarian asshole, which means if you're doing most of your business-attire shopping (or most of your shopping, period) from the Delia's catalog or the Alfred Dunner section of Macy's, you're doing it wrong.

Other things to avoid: anything else that makes you look like you were drunk when you picked out your ensemble. For instance, as the manscaping enthusiast above points out, avoid Uggs (IT'S SUMMER and also, THEY'RE UGGS!), trade the bacteria-covered flip-flops in for a grown-up pair of shoes, making sure to take care that the shoes you trade them in for aren't the same pair you're planning to wear to your zumba workout at the gym later, and finally look in a full-length mirror after you're dressed and ask yourself, "Do I look like Ugly Betty?" If the answer is yes, then 1) congratulate yourself for fooling whoever hired you into thinking you were mentally capable enough to hold down a job/internship, despite that you're apparently not intelligent enough to dress yourself unlike an overgrown toddler; and 2) come punch me in the face because I lost. It's like I'm in a cave stuck with endless unmanscaped Gary Buseys...

lend me your toots

2011-06-28T11:45:00.005+01:00

It was a mind 'sploding weekend. First, taking into account my rudimentary non-knowledge of theoretical physics and a Woody Allen movie, I realized time travel might be plausible, then I learned it actually is!

...Well, at least in mind and spirit.

See, my constant companion Anti DC Creative Director Terry the Tourette's Turtle and I spent our Saturday evening feeling extremely mid-century beatnik tucked into the corner of the dimly lit Twins Jazz club with a bottle of cheap (but delicious) sauvignon blanc and tapping our feet to the sounds of the four-piece band on the cramped, low-ceilinged stage. It was like a scene straight outta Mo' Betta Blues.

Except not really because: 1) Wesley Snipes wasn't on sax 2) Denzel Washington wasn't on trumpet; 3) in fact, no one was on trumpet; 4) the most dramatic thing to happen was we had to wait about 20 minutes from when we ordered our bottle of cheap (but delicious!) wine until we got it; and 5) obviously, we weren't in New York, but right here in DC, which came as somewhat of a surprise considering this is the nightlife stereotype we're up against...Ye gods...

But moving on, I saw Jim Snidero, a New York-based, world-class sax player whose skill is second to none. Or at the least, only second to sexy sax man, whose leather suspenders, tight pants, and molester mustache obviously keep him in the lead. But for real, despite that I'm cracking jokes, Snidero's skills are no joke. And neither are the skills of the three other local musicians (a pianist, bassist and percussionist), who Snidero recruited to play with him at Twins.

And let's talk about Twins. Although it only opened a few years ago in its current location on U Street between 13th and 14th, it has the feeling of an old attic in someone's house that's been there for generations (and strangely endearingly, it sort of smelled that way, too). Situated on the second floor above the jumbo slice with the disco light in it (of course...), the single long, thin room's red walls are plastered with posters and paintings of jazz-inspired images, and the floor is lined with two rows of small, candlelit, table-clothed tables, many of which you have to either climb under or physically move in order to get to. And while a claustrophobe might feel cramped, I was relieved to spot this array of seating options that could accommodate singles, couples, and larger groups alike due to the Tetris-like changeability of the table arrangements.

And while sometimes it's still expected that the table arrangements would perhaps be more interesting than the crowd (I mean, you clicked on this link, right?), in the case of Twins, it definitely wasn't. This place attracted a cross-section of everyone, from the post-college circuit to my generation to older clientele. And in a town that, for reasons I won't attempt to cover now, tends to self-segregate in terms of what quadrant someone lives in (NW, NE, SW, SE), Twins had the feeling of attracting people from all of them. This didn't feel like DC. Or...or maybe this felt like how DC should feel. No nametags, no pretense, no networking, just a healthy love of good music, good libations and good damn times. Worlds collided and sh*t, like a Swedish hair band and Edvard Grieg. The result was mind-blowing.

And so, yeah, I'll be going back for more fan-sax-tootin'-tastic times, especially when Snidero returns, which he told me he does about four times a year since he's originally from here. And his thoughts on Twins? Well, he gave it his professional seal/sax-toot of approval. "This place is a real jazz club, I mean, look around," he said. I did, and I will again because Twins is a welcome, mellow alternative to the U Street dance club scene and, obviously, most everything on a weekend in Adams Morgan, where dodging piles of puke has become the norm there on a Saturday night.

And speaking of piles of puke, to change subjects and negate all the hope I just instilled in you about humanity, if you have yet to roll your eyes at recording [f]artist Michaele Salahi "singing" her [s]hit single "Bump It," then allow this to be your chance because this might be the most horrifying stab at performing to ever be recorded and subsequently broadcast to the world to mock. I mean, really, who is telling this stoned emu singing, "Like I'm so hot and, like, you're so not," that she's talented? And that poor UPS man they recruited to rap with her (seriously, peep his outfit.) This is not what they mean by "What can Brown do for you?"

SERIOUSLY. NOT OKAY.

this is what happens when i go to the movies

2011-06-24T17:09:00.004+01:00

I'm gonna be blunt, mostly because by the time we get to the end of this essay I'm sure you'll be assuming I've been smoking one. But before we go there, let me just flat out declare that E Street Cinema is by far my favorite movie theater in DC. Obviously that isn't that crazy of a statement, considering that not only is E Street usually the only cinema showing many of the films I most want to see (i.e., The Room), but it's also located underground, which means film-goers can be assured that their film experiences won't be interrupted by groups of petulant teenagers texting or worse, actually talking on their cell phones about sh*t they're probably way to young to even know exists yet anyway, let alone use their outside voices to chat about with someone actually outside. Hmph. But seriously, shut the f*ck up children and let me enjoy this film whilst quietly sipping on a theater-priced libation.

Oh? Did I forget to mention E Street serves liquor? Yeah, like I said, it's my favorite.

Anyway, the reason I'm bringing this up is because last night I went to see Midnight in Paris, the new Woody Allen movie starring a whole bunch of famous people, including Owen Wilson who got the most screen time. And let me tell you, that sh*t was tight. In fact, I think I'm pretty confident saying that this film has dislodged Terminator 2 from my list of Top 3 greatest films ever. (The Top 2, of course, shall now and forever remain Who Framed Roger Rabbit? and Pee-Wee's Big Adventure. I'm extremely high-brow.)

Now, without revealing too much about the plot, I will steal a one-liner from my date, Anti DC Creative Director Terry the Tourette's Turtle, who said, "It's basically the art-house version of Inception. Donkey balls!" Hell, it even starred Marion Cotillard as the love interest! However, instead of exploring deepening levels of someone's subconscious mind, Midnight in Paris explores time, among other things like love, literature and happiness. It's amazingly clever and is probably the only film I've seen that's been successful in the magical realism genre, which I tend to favor only in books. I mean come on, Lost (although not a film, it's still something to be watched) tried it and look how that turned out -- it was Hot Tub Time Machine without the laughs!

And so (and this is the part during which you'll start to suspect I've been indulging in the good sh*t), Midnight in Paris got me thinking again (yes, again) about theoretical physics. You know how scientists discovered that atoms only act like we'd logically suspect them to when we're actively observing them? And that in actuality all atoms might be everywhere at once? And that maybe, just maybe, everything really exists on an infinite two-dimensional plane, which means -- holy crap! -- we're living in a hologram that just seems 3D because of the mechanisms that make up our conscious senses allow us to see it that way? Or something! Well then... does this mean magical realism could potentially be really real for real?! Does time solely exist because of our conscious perception of it? If our purported 2D universe were to shift ever so slightly altering every atom, would time then warp, too? Would it stop completely? Most importantly, if we were to discover how to manipulate this theoretical 2D plane and alter our perceptions, would we then be able to travel through time and make all of our magical realist dreams come true?!

Wow. It really is embarrassing that I have these types of thoughts completely sober...

But, oh well. It's called #dorkswag and, judging from the fact that I apparently speak in hashtagese now, I've got it in indefinite aggregate amounts. Perceive:

But seriously, time travel would be freaking awesome, right? RIGHT?!

(Give me a break. It's the weekend. Enjoy yourselves.)

reverse haterism: defined, revealed, refuted

2011-06-23T13:39:00.007+01:00

There are a few surefire ways to wake the dragon of anger within me. And while that sounds terrifying, it's really not when you consider my anger-dragon is actually a puppy in dragon suit. It's adorable. But moving on, what's got my dragon-costumed-puppy of fury rearing its fearsome (use your imagination) but charming head? An article published yesterday via TBD.com, in which the author, Jeremy Binckes, attempts to counter hate with more hate:

New Yorkers: They still find D.C. wanting!

So says the Washington Post's Monica Hesse, who today wrote about a gathering of transplanted New Yorkers [TADC note: Actually, I very much enjoyed the WP article], who deliver tired criticisms of D.C. — or any city that's not New York, for that matter: you can't eat on Metro, there's sales tax on newspapers, the bagels, oh gosh, the bagels.

But here's the thing, and I, a real New Yorker, want to be explicitly clear: These people are not real New Yorkers. They're Manhattanites. Even their name, Fellowship of Unassimilated Manhattan Exiles, admits that they're not New Yorkers. Yes, there's a difference between New Yorkers and Manhattanites; there's a huge difference. Real New Yorkers have lived some of their lives in the outer boroughs...

And I think you can see where this is going... The whole thing continues on for another couple of paragraphs doing exactly what Binckes accuses FUME, which by the way Hesse points out chose the word "Manhattanites" instead of "New Yorkers" for the catchy acronym (how very DC of them!), of doing -- generalizing and complaining. TBD is exhibiting a classic case of reverse haterism, which is never effective because of its inherent, unintentional irony.

While Binckes is upset that FUME rags on the lack of delicious bagels in the District (a legitimate complaint, actually, considering this eighth largest metropolitan area in the United States so far boasts just one bagel shop I've found of note and it's in Arlington), or that people talk about their jobs too much here, he has no problem ragging on "Manhattanites" for not being "real New Yorkers" and, worse, being all just a bunch of close-minded, rampant snobs. He writes:

Manhattanites have a tendency to stay sheltered on their little island and rarely venture across the East River, except to get out of town. Ask them where you can find a street littered with excellent South American steakhouses (Northern Boulevard in Astoria) or where to find some of the best Jewish bakeries (Avenue M in Brooklyn), and you'll get ice-cold stares...

While that may be true for some Manhattanites, I know for a fact that's not true for all. I know plenty of people from Manhattan, including my former roommate with whom I lived in an East Village walk-in closet, who is privy to a lot of what the boroughs have to offer. In fact, this particular woman does most of her shopping in Queens because she knows they boast the best and cheapest tailors. Then there's the couple I know who, despite being New York, I'm sorry, Manhattanite lawyers (I guess they must have taken the Manhattan Bar?), still manage to make it out to parties and shows and random warehouse raves in Brooklyn on the reg (and please pronounce that as Kenny Powers would, thank you). Then there's also one of my best friends who lives in Elmhurst, Queens, which is *gasp!* even farther away from Manhattan than Astoria and which also, I suppose, makes him the realest of the real New Yorkers that Binckes opines about. But guess what? This friend of mine complains about DC with a fervor that sometimes even irritates me when he visits!

Look, DC can be a difficult town to move to. Actually, scratch that, any town can be a difficult town to move to because, much like pimpin', change also ain't easy. When I moved from Moscow to Boston I became near-clinically depressed. I was complaining nonstop about all the Ugg footwear and Northface fleece. Then of course, having gone from Boston to New York, I complained incessantly about the high rents and trash-filled streets. And then came my move to DC and, well, you've read the title of this blog, right? Bitchin' and moanin' and droppin' metaphorical bags of flaming dog sh*t on things that are initially off-putting is the human way!

And here's the thing: complaining, whining or whatever you want to call it isn't necessarily even a bad or negative thing. Actually, it's quite enjoyable and often a positive signifier for the organization of a real community. As seen via FUME and this mind-blowingly awesome blog you find yourself reading right now, besides being entertaining (especially if it's combined with humor), kvetching also has the power to bring people together, not only to bitch, but to create community, to allow like-minded individuals in a town that sometimes feels wrong to come together. Now I ask you, is that such a horrible thing? In my mind, as long as no one's going around hurting people or dropping literal bags of dog sh*t on this city, I say it certainly is not. It's good! In fact, a lot of the best ideas are born out of complaints about the inadequacies of others. Take, for example, my post yesterday about horribly outdated, lame and otherwise totally inadequate DC tourism videos. I vow to make a better one. See? It works!

And so I say go for it FUME, as long as you're having fun doing it. And who knows? Maybe while you're at it, you'll all pool your resources together and remedy the dire bagel situation...

behold the three top DC tourism videos...

2011-06-22T18:47:00.003+01:00

I made the mistake of getting curious about tourism promotional videos about Washington, DC on Youtube. I call it a mistake because what I found was not only stupid, but entirely inadequate. I mean, look at this one:

First of all, I'm not sure the airport and Metro count as "fun and interesting places we've discovered" on anyone's list. The airport will obviously go without further comment, but the Metro? This isn't Moscow, where the Metro stations are filled with world-class Commie art. This is DC. If you're lucky you'll find an artfully stuck-on piece of wadded up gum plastered to the wall. Although, who the hell knows, maybe it's a Jeff Koons...

More importantly, however, can we take a still shot of the two ladies, Terri and Bonnie, who are telling us about all these insider secrets?

Oh dear me. I don't even know where to start. I guess I'll first refute the false assumption that when you become a "woman of a certain age" you have to start dressing like one of Hollis Green's more risqué wives. I would seriously punch my mom in the face if she dressed like this. In fact, from my mom's mouth to this blog, when I emailed her this screen capture asking for her very discerning and sophisticated opinion, she said, "what's wrong with them??? they look like tourists who are dressing for comfort." Uh...

Well, that didn't go as planned. (Remind me to make an appointment for my mom with an optometrist.) Or maybe it did. Perhaps, just like daughter, she was relying on dry sarcasm to get her point across and what she really means here is "What were those women thinking?! Lose the black nylon socks, lose the brown/black combo and for the love of handbags everywhere, lose the goddamn fanny-pack! It all an abomination." OK, that's more like it.

But returning to the content, WTF? Half of this video is about Alexandria, VA. While I understand that there's some sh*t to see there, especially at night if you're into douchebag-watching (and who isn't?), is it too much to ask that a video about DC actually be about DC?

Of course, what should we even expect from Delta Airlines? This is the same airline that apparently hated America up until a couple of days ago...

Moving on, here's the most-viewed video to pop up when typing "Washington DC" into Youtube's search engine.

Did you catch it? Apparently, we have an astounding amount of "patrionism" here in DC on account of all the, uh, patrionic symbols, I guess. And as if hearing the narrator totally make up a word wasn't bad enough, she took the time to also let us see it by misspelling it in the subtitles.

D'oh...

Last and least -- literally, as it has the least views out of the Top 3 most-viewed DC tourism videos on Youtube ("Patrionism" is No. 1 and Delta's Fannypack Party is No. 2) -- is one by the InterContinental Willard Hotel. However, despite its bronze-place finish in popularity, this video is actually the best, in my opinion. Of course, when we're working within a sea of outrageously horrible choices, I suppose that superlative really doesn't mean much. Really, let's be honest -- it's the least worst.

And maybe the Willard recognizes this, too, because for whatever reason they've disabled embedding. Now, if you really hate yourself and want to watch it, click here, although I assure you despite that the Willard narrator looks like a legitimately jolly guy with whom to enjoy one of the hotel bar's objectively exceptional mint juleps (on second thought, the video would have been a real winner had they just shot five minutes of delicious mint julep close-ups), like the others, this video only occasionally ventures into territory that anyone with the intelligence of a mentally impaired pigeon couldn't figure out on his or her own. (What?! Go to the Smithsonian? What a novel idea!) It's also really outdated, as it talks about cabs working on the old zone system when in fact we're now on the regular fare system. Although beware, the more dishonest cabbies still try to find ways to rip you off. Or they'll try to have sex with you.

And so, damn...

I guess the only remedy to this sad state of e-ffairs is to embark on a new project -- The Anti DC Promotional Tourism Video or, more likely, Videos. If you have any ideas about what I should include (don't worry, the lovely graffiti on the side of the Logan Circle hardware store that reads "Cat Aids" will definitely be included), email me...

we are ready

2011-06-21T10:57:00.010+01:00

Washington Color Schoolist, Alma Thomas.

I know a lot of creative writers in DC. And I'm not just talking about the menagerie of imaginary helper animals under my employ. I think I'm up to 10 now, counting my latest invention/hire, a camel named Timothy, who types by spitting very accurately at the keyboard. And while that's both disgusting and unbelievable, what's not anymore is the idea that DC actually has a creative community living within its borders (and outside, sometimes, if we go ahead and count places like Silver Spring and Arlington).

Anyway, one of these members of this emerging society of creatives is a music writer named Marcus Dowling, who's not only great at his craft, but still manages to look cool even when photographed next to a gigantic weiner [note: no Congressmen were involved in that link]. And I'm mentioning Marcus specifically not solely to reminisce about the most inoffensive weiner photograph I've ever taken (actually, the only weiner picture I've ever taken, thank god), but because he wrote something that piqued my interest yesterday on his blog, True Genius Requires Insanity. Specifically, it was this paragraph:

Washington, DC is now a city where it is possible to party in a multitude of world class venues with world class performers, seven days a week. It is also a city where people can make a living in the non-white or blue collar world, solely powered by their personal inventive impulses. Artists and writers share space with CEOs and electricians in increasingly greater percentages. When the convergence of independent, corporate and government economies becomes an even game of tug of war, in a never-ending multitude of historical examples has been a harbinger of positive development... DC needs permanent and accessible creative space because DC now has shown itself as adequately prepared for a place that welcomes diverse community...

I'm going to go ahead and step out of character for a minute here (i.e., give my helper camel Timothy a much-needed mouthwash break) and comment on this assertion myself -- I agree with him.

The evidence that Marcus gives in his essay points to the success of the month-long vitaminwater® uncapped LIVE event put on by, well, vitaminwater® (duh) and DC's very own creative culture pushers Brightest Young Things. While that evidence is fine enough, despite that it was part corporate marketing scheme, which actually in spite of my grunge-era coming-of-age instincts doesn't actually connote anything negative in this Facebookish time of our lives, I think the uncapped event was just one rather specific facet of the festering creative volcano that's been seeping its metaphorical lava slowly and steadily out all over this city.

Don't believe it? I didn't for a long time either, but now after working in and around the art world in DC, I know we have something here, albeit kinda still too damn small, especially because the rent is too damn high (shout out to Jimmy McMillan!), which means it's becoming too damn expensive for some really great galleries to operate in prime real estate. It's also important to note that creative types often still hold down more square day jobs. The owner of Industry Gallery, which has hosted several contemporary decorative arts exhibitions that even New York would be jealous of, is owned by a lawyer. I know another lawyer, an artistic photographer, who participates in Art-o-Matic, which will hopefully rear its awesome head again soon. (Seriously, where's it been?!)

Really, there are countless other right-brained folk in this city who use their left-brains to make a living. Economist-by-day, food writer-by-night, Hill staffer/contemporary dancer, non-profit fundraiser/designer and probably an incomprehensible number of other combinations. Judging from the turnout at the art exhibition I curated that opened last month, even if they're not a part of it, an astounding number of traditional DC professionals are still interested in this creative, less-buttoned up still-kinda-underground world. And if you still have your doubts that any of that exists at all, allow me to point to some exciting items that exist in and around our city, many of which have sprung up in the last couple of years:

Remaining on the art tip, there's a large scale art fair (the same type you usually have to go to New York City to attend) coming to DC this September.
There's tons of great theater here. Although not new, I believe we have the only Georgian-led (the country, not the state) movement-based theater company in the nation with Synetic, which awed me last year with its interpretation of my favorite novel in the history of ever, The Master and Margarita.
Also, if you party at the Black Cat or U Street Music Hall ever, you've probably heard that a DC-based DJ created a new genre, moombahton, that's poised to blow up worldwide. Hell, NPR even did a report on it!
We now have the wonderful 826DC space for aspiring writers.
And did you know there's a salon in DC (Immortal Beloved) outfitted with entirely home-crafted furniture, made by the owner? That's f*cking redonk-awesome!

Additionally, DC boasts talented novelists, photographers, graphic designers, shop owners, musicians, non-fiction writers (OH HAI!) and far too many other no-collar professionals to list concisely and specifically in this essay. (The linked people are just a few examples off the top of my head). The bottom line is people are interested. More importantly, people are creating.

However, people are fragmented. As Marcus pointed out in his essay, we don't have a Mission District or Wham City Collective or a Lower East Side, places where the virtual beating heart of the creative class resides in San Francisco, Baltimore and New York City, respectively. We're scattered. We have certain spots in Dupont, a few clubs on U Street, a writing center in Columbia Heights, a shrinking string of galleries in Logan Circle, a coffee shop in Adams Morgan, an amorphous conglomerate on H Street, and our individual homes, where I think the seeds of most creative endeavors are born and unfortunately mostly remain. It'd be great to have a common space in this city, where the sole purpose was to give amateurs and professionals alike a platform and, more importantly, a common place to exchange ideas.

~~Adult Kool-Aid®~~ vitaminwater® uncapped did that for a certain sect of this much wider population, but it still had the appeal of showcasing a series of events opposed to creating a culture all its own. Of course with just 30 days to work with, perhaps expecting more is a bit unfair.

That said, I think given more time and a motivated and wide-ranging set of organizers, we can do it. We can create and promote a culture that values more than what nametag you wear during the day. I mean, come on, lest we want to be known forever as the people who socialize like this, goddammit we owe it to ourselves. We owe it to the world. We have a lot to give.

If nothing else, my helper camel Timothy is prepared for a Coca-Cola® uncapped LIVE event...

So, who's on board?

yeah, it's about my cat

2011-06-18T11:53:00.005+01:00

You know what the Internet needs more of? Cats. Obviously. And this is coming from a person who doesn't really even like cats, except for my own, Humphrey, because 1) he isn't one of those sneaky, stare-you-down-and-steal-your-soul cats, and 2) his idea of a good time is being passed out in hilarious positions. So, while his lazy ass has proven rather dismal for my viral video aspirations (he refuses to give me human hugs, jump in and out of boxes like a fat little ninja, play the keyboard, fly off a ceiling fan for lolz, or really, even move), he's least has accidentally posed for some wonderfully hilarious photos, like this one:

Incidentally, I'm pretty sure this picture would not only serve as the cover of my cat's memoirs should he ever grow opposable thumbs and learn to write, but also its entire contents, which is awesome because it's cute.

And to think, at one point Lil' Humps was livin' on the mean streets. I KNOW! Luckily, however, somehow last January he ended up in the Humane Society out on New York Ave., where I saw him and thought, "Yup, today's a good day to save an animal's life." And while I'm convinced I obviously adopted the best one, there are surely (and sadly) some other abandoned, lazy, fat adult cats waiting for their shot at Internet fame.

Oh, and also a good home.

So, if you think you can handle the stress of owning a pet, which for me has mostly meant keeping his fat ass away from my dinner, I suggest you all visit a shelter near you. And why not today? In honor of Humphrey's third(ish) -- no one knows for sure -- birthday! That's right, it's apparently Lil' Humps' birthday, which I only remember because CityPaws pet clinic sent my cat a personalized e-card this morning. (By the way, if you need a vet, I highly recommend CP because, holy sh*t! They remembered my cat's birthday!) In response, my cat said, "Zzzzzzzzzzzz.

In closing, save lives, post funny cat-related material on the Internet and be merry, or hairy, as is the case with Humphrey. Have a sweltering hot weekend, snooze-filled weekend.

make it stop

2011-06-16T11:10:00.005+01:00

Have you ever felt like you were being watched? I do all the time. But that's probably because I practically beg for it (see all the episodes of The Anti DC Show...please, please, please!). However, if I'm going to be peeped upon, I like to make sure it's on my terms, so when it's not -- that is, when I get the feeling that someone's watching me who I haven't invited -- things just get awkward. Which is why I'm scared to read the Washington Post online today. I just can't after what I experienced yesterday...

Ahhh! Why is there a creepy Stepford wife watching me attempt to read the e-paper? And moreover, why does she think I probably own an oil company? Why does she smirk whilst asking such silly questions? Why is she dressed all in black like an undertaker? WHAT IS GOING ON???

I have no idea. In a case lesson in ineffective marketing, all this ad made me do was mix up a Molotov cocktail and throw it at the screen. Luckily, however, my cat with his, well, cat-like reflexes, was able to catch and extinguish the homemade weaponry before any personal property damage could be done. (He really doesn't want to lose his window to the e-world.)

Meanwhile, witnessing the kerfuffle, Anti DC Creative Director Terry the Tourette's Turtle exclaimed, "BIG SWEATY BALLS!" and shot me with a tranquilizer gun (this is why I didn't blog yesterday) before taking the above screen capture of this most disturbing ad for, um, something. Clearly, I didn't dare click on it.

While perhaps I overreacted in my trying to eradicate this ad from my life through violent weaponry, I'm apt to think others probably felt a bit violated by this ad, too. It's just weird. The woman looks like an alien abductress and she's staring at you from three angles! This is quite an untoward disturbance. Can't I read about "Bach-mania" in peace?!?! On second thought, perhaps this failure of an ad actually saved me. I mean, do I really want to read about "Bach-mania?"

But here's the scoop: I've come across creepy advertisements before. And every time not only am I confused about what's being advertised, but my belief in the goodness of humanity is tested. Why do such bad ads exist? Who are the idiots who come up with them? Who are the idiots who OK them? Most importantly, are there morons out there who've actually found these ads effective? If there are then I guess that explains why "Bach-mania" exists in the first place... In either case, it just doesn't make any sense. It's like telling a Dalai Lama joke to the actual Dalai Lama.

#FAIL

it really is a dream

2011-06-14T10:51:00.002+01:00

I woke up feeling great today because I have a new understanding of our reality thanks to quantum mechanics. For those of you not as nerdy as me, quantum theory suggests that reality only exists the way we see it because we can see it. It says, theoretically, once you get down to the n[minus-one]itty-gritty, sh*t basically disappears. Hmm.

And so really, our world is an illusion and everything is nothing. While ordinarily, this thought would be somewhat horrifying because it gives meme-y questions like, "THEN WHO WAS PHONE?" scientific gravitas, this thought becomes extraordinarily comforting after having subjected myself to the CNN-led Republican debates last night.

While it may have appeared like the debaters were saying a lot, the more you thought about it -- that is, the more you delved in deeper -- the less substance you realized was actually said. I mean, how else can you explain that ~~Tammy Faye Baker~~ Michelle Bachmann apparently won? For the sake of our remaining brain cells, sh*t better have been an illusion...

But enough about all those perceived holograms, can we instead look at the equally ridiculous illusory reality that is DC souvenir T-shirts? Why are they pretty much the equivalent of Rep. Bachmann's crusty fake eyelashes? In both cases, less would be much, much more. I mean, look at this:

Photo courtesy of Flickr user londondan.

These shirts look like the bottom of Rainbow Brite's toilet bowl after a hard night out. And they look even worse on. I really don't get why tourists buy this crap. I mean, I know for a fact you can tie-dye clothing in garrish colors anywhere in the world -- you don't need to purchase it in DC. Any child who's ever gone to summer camp knows that. *sigh* But again, all hope is not lost because if we divide these sartorial obscenities into small enough pieces, they'll disappear. Ahh, to be a quark...

And speaking of disappearing, it's Planck time for me to venture out of doors, so allow me to end this post with yet one more item that will make you thankful our perceived reality is only an illusion -- a new episode of The Anti DC Show! The still capture from the video should serve as an apt warning to you about the substance (or not-even-theoretically this time, lack thereof) of its contents. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some additional nerding to do.

dick 'n' dirk jokes!

2011-06-08T11:37:00.001+01:00

Although not necessarily related to Washington, DC, besides the fact that Rep. Anthony Weiner (D-NY) is tangentially involved, I wrote a fine essay about America's love of a good dick joke that I probably should've tried to sell for money to a real publication over at my other blog, my professional site, marissapayne.com.

If you're at all interested in humor and why we laugh at and embrace certain things (i.e., dicks) over others, then I invite you to click over there and enjoy the read. And a few dick jokes because you're a good citizen.

And if you don't give a sh*t about humor analysis (and for whatever reason hate dick jokes), then at least enjoy this humorous Dirk joke. It's a video dedicated to Dirk Nowitski aka German Moses. I hope I'm not the only one here who's been sucked into the NBA Finals...

shambles p.i.: the sunglasses politics retrospective edition

2011-06-07T11:51:00.004+01:00

You know, it's not often I feel lucky to live here. But after yesterday's performance by former mayoral candidate-turned Mayor Gray hypeman-turned unemployed douche Sulaimon Brown, I can't help but smile and say, "Good job, everyone." Why? Certainly not because of the contents of the hearing (nepotism). Nor because of its tone, which even managed to shock the likes of Marion Barry. No, I feel lucky to live here because Sulaimon Brown showed up and sat through the entire hearing dressed like a total asshole.

Photo courtesy of Washington Post

While it's possible Sulaimon is either a huge fan of Men in Black or stuck in the Matrix, it's more likely that he's just a weirdo. But I'm not here to analyze the reasons why Sulaimon chose to wear sunglasses indoors throughout an entire government hearing (we'll chock that up to pure crazy), I'm here to analyze the aesthetics of his choice in eyewear. I'm here to Shambles P.I.

Photo courtesy of Washington Post

Hmm. Not very flattering for his face shape. For one, the glasses don't sit flush on his face. Nor do I think they are large enough. While I appreciate a good reflective lens, I think a classic "What we have here is a failure to communicate" mirror-finish aviator would've been much more suitable, as would've that line...

Yet while Sulaimon might be the only DC-based political figure to wear sunglasses during official indoor business, he's not alone. Let's take a look at some of our other favorite shaded shady political figures and see how their indoor aesthetic choices compare.

Kim Jong-Il

Probably the most famous UV-safe bespectabled face to ever say and do some pretty stupid sh*t in the name of politics, Kim Jong-Il's futuristic sunglasses certainly beat out Sulaimon's in both form and function. With a head the shape of a beat-up orange and hair higher than Snooki's the square shape of the frame and ombre shade of the lenses serve two purposes -- they hide most of this guy's hideous face, while giving him ultimate retina protection from the sun's harmful rays. Verdict? He looks cool and crazy, opposed to Sulaimon's just straight crazy. Kim Jong-Il > Sulaimon Brown.

Muammar Al-Gaddafi

My, oh my. Not only do Muammar Al-Gaddafi's shades fit his fat, indented face perfectly, but the slight curvature of the single laser-cut rimless lens gives him a sleek enough finish that if he wasn't a heartless dictator, I'd think he was about to ask me to do the conga in Miami. Of course, I'd have to decline because his chocolate milk stubble of a mustache makes him look like a child molester. At least Sulaimon doesn't have that going for him. However, on a purely shades-based basis, Muammar Al-Gaddafi > Sulaimon Brown.

Um, and so ends our list of indoor-sunglass-wearing political figures because, as perhaps it tellingly turns out, the only fools foolish enough to wear tinted shades indoors (do they not have Transitions® lenses abroad?), are crazy cruel dictators. However, for the sake of ongoing sunglasses-related discussion, I'm going to now open the e-floor up to those political figures who choose only to wear their sunglasses in the actual sun.

Vladimir Putin

While in Russia sunglasses usually wear you, in Vladimir Putin's case, he wearing them and doing it well. Not only do these expensive-looking shades defend Putin from the penetrating gaze of the sun, but the mirror effect on these bad boys help to defend us from getting lost in the baby blues behind the lenses. Putin is a fine piece of autocratic ass. Vladimir Putin > Sulaimon Brown.

Nicolas Sarkozy

Ooh la f*cking la. C'est chic. C'est magnifique! Fin. Like I said, if Sulaimon wanted to look like a bad ass, the mirrored aviators would've been a fine choice. Nicolas Sarkozy > Sulaimon Brown.

Sarah Palin

Unsurprisingly, Palin went for the trashiest overpriced brand around, Juicy. Not only are these marketed more toward teenage girls who dress like prostitutes, but they're also just plain cheesy. Remember, this is the same brand that made its name by selling velveteen sweatsuits that spell J-U-I-C-Y across the ass. I can't help but think there's a metaphor in there for Palin's political ambitions... But despite her poor choice, at least she's keeping it real. A tasteless lady in tasteless shades, whereas Sulaimon's just confuse me. Sarah Palin > Sulaimon Brown.

Barack Obama

The penultimate member of our list of regular outdoor-wearing sunglasses wearers is our president. While the tie, pointer finger and smile all say, "Bow down to my coolness," the Ray-Ban sunglasses say, "Meh." While they're not bad, they're also nothing notable. I'd like to expect more from the leader of the Free World. However, at least they fit squarely on his face. Barack Obama > Sulaimon Brown.

Jackie Onassis

Last and greatest, we have Jackie O., who while not directly involved in governing our country, certainly had a hand in governing our sunglass style. Favoring dark-as-night lenses as big as half her face, Jackie knew how to make black and white photography look way cooler than color. Sulaimon, on the other hand, would still look just as silly. And in sepia, I'm sure he'd look downright moronic. Jackie Onassis > Sulaimon Brown.

And so, I hope we've learned something here. Sulaimon Brown's sunglasses suck. They're worse than most everyone else's. I mean really, if you're going to wear sunglasses indoors, you better be ready to make a bold fashion statement, for better or worse. Don't be stuck with ill-fitting, child-sized plastic lenses that look like they came from the discount bin at a Kum'n'Go along I-80 in Iowa. So, step it up next time, Sulaimon Brown. I think you have what it takes to be just like Kim Jong-Il.

wapo's lifestyle section strikes again...

2011-06-06T14:10:00.004+01:00

If you're not a total square whose life revolves around flag pins and campaign buttons, DC can be a rough place to live sometimes. But not because you're often surrounded by people who wear flag pins and campaign buttons. Hell, I haven't seen a flag pin up close and personal for months. No, the reason it's so hard for some of us is because we're constantly bombarded with the idea that everyone here is walking around wearing flag pins and campaign buttons.

This is no surprise. Considering DC is home to all three branches of government, by moving here, you're pretty much condemned to this stereotype from outsiders: DC was, is, and will probably always be viewed as a political town. While that reality sucks, it becomes even suckier knowing that this city's flagship publication seems not only to thrive on this stereotype, but to actively perpetuate it, and not just within our own community, but to the world. Behold this sh*t, via, of course, the Washington Post:

Here, on a red-brick block of Capitol Hill, are the people who want to steer the country after their bosses have worn out the clutch. Here are the people who let their livers and libidos lead them to the like-minded, who pursue connections that become coalitions that become movements that become presidencies. (After a mini-pitcher of sangria, anything seems possible.)

Separated by a salon, a sushi place and an ideological chasm are the dueling happy hours. One conservative, one progressive. One long-standing, the other brand-new. One in a hey-bro, populist pub, the other in a mod, sunken lounge.

Leave your prejudices at the door.

Find new ones inside.

Overheard at the conservative happy hour First Friday at Union Pub: “I’ll be over at the Faith and Freedom conference tomorrow. . . . They beat Notre Dame this year. . . . When Snowmageddon happened two years ago, I had a reservation at Minibar. . . . The Weiner jokes are overwhelming me right now.”

Overheard at the progressive happy hour First Thursday at Lounge 201 the night before: “I’m also a PhD student. . . . I’m a lawyer by day but . . . We lost the message war! . . . Libertarianism doesn’t make sense. How can you abolish everything? . . . How drunk do I have to be to say, ‘Hey, Ron Paul intern’?”

What the f*ck is this? Is it news? Certainly not. It's widely known (and easily Googled) that political and partisan bars exist around DC. Is it funny? Kind of, but only because of the cherry-picked Onion-style quotations chosen by the article's author Dan Zak. But it wasn't written for laughs, it was written to be somehow insightful about DC culture! Is it? Hell no, which is probably why this article made such easy fodder for Gawker, the New York City-based blog that easily concluded from the combination of the above article and this previously published one that DC's social scene sucks.

And Gawker's right! I mean, who am I to disagree with their analysis when the serious Post articles written by serious Post reporters already make it sound so stupid? For the love of God, in this latest debacle, the Post not only wrote about the party habits of a guy named "Rich Counts," an aptly named Republican, but they also attached an accompanying photo essay, featuring a liberal thinking this is a good time:

Look, I'm not one to defend DC -- especially its bar scene, which I think usually sucks a fair amount of balls. And so, I guess, if Zak's editor asked him to do a story on drinking in DC, perhaps the above was the only straw he could grasp. Even so, this is no excuse because, really, what the hell kind of purpose does this article serve? Well, besides making it easy for outsiders to mock us, that is.

I, for one, can't see any. Sure, perhaps it illuminates another hair in the crusty buttcrack that is DC's social scene, but do we really need to see it? All the ass hairs the Post seems to spot seem to look the same so far, so until they find one of those hairs that grows really long for whatever reason, I suggest everyone just stop writing about how political DC's culture is. It's not f*cking news. Maybe the real news story should be how DC's most famous paper has about as large a scope of interest in and understanding of this city as a tourist from Idaho.

there's hope!

2011-06-03T20:29:00.003+01:00

I got a most delightful email the other day from an editor at a local magazine. I won't say which one exactly, but the title includes the letters "inaasgwntiohn" (damn, that's a good-lookin' word scramble). Anywhatevers, the letter came not because they want me to be a contributor (shocking, I know, but I'm sure one of those letters will come one day when hell freezes over), but because they want to use a photograph that's been published on this blog before as part of my Shambles P.I. series. What's that you ask? Well, it's an extremely bitchy public service, in which I and camera-equipped readers take to stealth photographing people on the street who don't yet know how to dress themselves.

And the our re-education efforts are finally working, it seems, as evidenced by the editor of said gianemza (another fine word scramble!), who revealed that she wished to use the photo in an article directed toward incoming interns. The title? Well, I don't know, but I hope it's something along the lines of How to Dress Yourself Without Looking Like an Asshole, Asshole.

Rejoice, indeed fellow P.I.'s! The word is finally spreading!

"But, wait, didn't you once wear sandals and socks...together?"

Um...that was a dark and lonely time...

"It was last month."

Oh.

"Yeah and remember when you bought that pimp coat? That was awkward."

Awkward?

"Yeah. 'Cause you looked like an asshole. Yup, and then there was that time when you decided to tight-roll your pants..."

OK, OK. I get it! Who am I to ever tell anyone they're dressing like an asshole? But at least I never wore nylons with flip-flops! Yet.

so, you know you can't dance...

2011-06-01T15:53:00.008+01:00

Skeptic.

I've refrained thus far from commenting on the Jefferson Memorial dancing bullsh*t story because, well, I think it's a bullsh*t story. Really, I'm not sure what the big f*cking deal is except it reveals that there are a few douches who misinterpreted the meaning of a simple and reasonable regulation on the First Amendment via their fundamental misunderstanding of the very purpose of the First Amendment.

Now, for those of you lucky enough not to know what the hell I'm referring to, here's the shortish version: Last weekend, a handful of jagoffs seemingly suspended in arrested (pun intended!) intellectual development thought they'd demonstrate on the Jefferson Memorial against a recently upheld court decision that bans demonstrations on the Jefferson Memorial. More specifically, they did this by dancing (badly, I might add), which is what also caused the original issue.

But f*ck it, we're not talking about Footloose here, Adam Kokesh, this latest demonstration's Head Douche In Charge, certainly isn't Kevin Bacon and standing up for dance rights wasn't even this crew's point, as I it's been made clear. No, instead it was to make sure "the Man" would step up off our First Amendment rights and let the people demonstrate, whether it be dancing or protesting, wherever the hell they please. Well, that's just stupid, but I'll get to that in a couple paragraphs.

Returning to the summary, here's the rest: Eventually the park police approached the dancers and warned them repeatedly to stop or face arrest. So what did HDIC and crew do? (And yes, that'll be pronounced h-dick, thankyouverymuch.) They starting talking sh*t to the cops. Never a good plan. And so the police arrested them. But of course the dancing demonstrators couldn't let that happen either without putting up a fair share of childish drama. Instead of following Civil Disobedience 101, these idiots resisted, meaning the police then had to subdue the demonstrators to get the cuffs on. You can see the whole thing here spliced together to make it look worse than it was for the aptly juvenilely named "Adam vs. The Man" program that airs on -- wait for it -- Russia Today television.

OK, important sidebar: I was living in Moscow when Russia Today became an actual thing opposed to a rumored hilarity. I, along with several English-speaking friends, were tapped to work for it, some as writers, others as anchors and a few as show hosts for programs similar to HDIC's. All of us declined because we considered working for RT, despite a well-to-do promised salary, an embarrassment, especially if you considered yourself a journalist, as it's pretty widely known that the Kremlin runs RT and, therefore, would control all programming on it. Needless to say, it's slanted heavily against the West. Basically, it's the Russian Fox News. Undisclosed but clearly evident bias -- it haz it.

And so, already, considering the RT co-signature of the organizers of this event, HDIC and his friends' motives should be viewed with at least one Prince-inspired skeptical side-eye:

Actually, maybe two:

But questionable motives aside, let's break down the reality behind the First Amendment and why knowing more about what this amendment actually means makes HDIC's quest to legalize demonstrations on the Memorial even more idiotic. Let's start with a legal definition:

The First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution guarantees Freedom of Speech. This guarantee generally safeguards the right of individuals to express themselves without governmental restraint. Nevertheless, the Free Speech Clause of the First Amendment is not absolute. It has never been interpreted to guarantee all forms of speech without any restraint whatsoever. Instead, the U.S. Supreme Court has repeatedly ruled that state and federal governments may place reasonable restrictions on the time, place, and manner of individual expression. Time, place, and manner (TPM) restrictions accommodate public convenience and promote order by regulating traffic flow, preserving property interests, conserving the environment, and protecting the administration of justice.

The emphasis is mine as I think the emboldened sections clearly spell out why depending on the time, place and manner it's sometimes appropriate to outlaw the right to demonstrate -- either via spoken language or body language.

See, there are two types of public space in question here: public forums and non-public forums. On the former, which makes up the majority of public space in America, including most any street corner or sidewalk, you can do whatever the f*ck you want, from dancing to being a member of the terribly misguided Westboro Baptist Church. On the latter, however, which includes the Jefferson Memorial, neither is welcome. And thank God because think about the consequences if they were...

Sure, perhaps a few intellectually limited people dancing on the Jefferson Memorial isn't a big deal, but look at that in the larger scope of this law. The First Amendment doesn't discriminate, so if we allow the Running Man as a form of demonstration in nonpublic forums, what's then to stop gay-bashers from rallying at these places? Or the KKK? What's to stop someone from simply getting on a soapbox and repeatedly screaming the word "FUCK" to protest censorship law or whatever? Not only would this make visiting the Jefferson Memorial -- and all other nonpublic forums -- exceedingly unpleasant, but it would reassign the entire purpose of why the Jefferson Memorial exists in the first place. It's not a demonstration space or a stage for morons to reenact their high school proms to make a illogical point -- it's a memorial, a place to reflect in peace and tranquility.

And thankfully, the courts are filled with enough people to want to preserve that environment for those of us who possess the ability to act like grownups. The irony here is that it's people like HDIC and his friends who make it necessary to make stipulations like the "time, place and manner" one attached to the First Amendment in the first place. Either all demonstrations are OK or none of them are. I'd rather not be allowed to dance if it also means I don't have to dodge ugly women and brainwashed children holding up "Thank God For Dead Soldiers" signs, while I'm trying to imbibe the life and legacy of Thomas Jefferson at his memorial

And no, banning demonstrations (again, even if it's just a few people dancing) in designated nonpublic forums does not signify that the United States is turning into a "police state," an idea that some have incredulously floated in the discussion attached to this post on the We Love DC blog, which was also critical of the demonstrators. (God, it makes you wonder whether some people even understand what the term "police-state" means...) Nor does it mean this is the beginning of the court and government stamping out the First Amendment altogether. It's quite the opposite, actually: By continuing to ban demonstrations in nonpublic forums, the courts are upholding the First Amendment as it was originally intended, not how some short-sighted disillusionist on the Russian government's payroll thinks it should be. You're still free to dance in the street, HDIC and buddies! No one's trying to take that away. Hell, make yourself useful and dance so wildly it disturbs the Westboro crew!

And although I'm ready to be done with this post (I'm on something like my 18th Prince skeptical side-eye and it's starting to strain), I need to touch on all the unfair hype about the park police's reaction to the demonstrators as shown via Russia Today. Look, I'm no fan of authority, but even through HDIC's RT lens, I don't see how the park police acted inappropriately. They gave fair warning and when the kids didn't listen the police followed through on their promises -- they started arresting the demonstrators, who of course, resorted to acting like children through whining (and that's what repeatedly asking "WHYYYY? in a bratty voice is) and flailing around.

Now, if HDIC & Co. were smarter and more learned about what their demonstration would result in, 1) they'd have realized that this would end in arrest, and 2) they would know better than to resist. All resisting arrest ever does is get you thrown on the ground because they have to get the cuffs on you somehow, which is what happened here, not police brutality. You put your own lips 2 da floor.

I mean, how dumb are these demonstrators? Had they done any research at all before their little outing you'd think they'd have at least gleaned a cursory knowledge of civil disobedience guidelines, which clearly state DON'T RESIST ARREST. In fact, it might be the biggest (hence, the caps lock), most powerful tool one has when it comes to presenting your civil disobedient cause to outsiders. I mean, look at the empathy Rosa Parks created when she didn't resist arrest when she knowingly broke the law to sit in the front of the bus. Had she started backtalking to the cops or had a friend try to pull her away, I doubt she'd be as legendary as she is today. Silent, non-violence is a powerful thing.

Of course, Ms. Parks was also fighting a law that desperately needed changing since it was based in racism opposed to reason, so if she had smacked a cop upside the head, I wouldn't have blame her. And so I kinda take back mentioning Rosa Parks' name at all in this post since there's no comparing the civil disobedience associated with civil rights that she stood for in the 1960s and the stupid disobedience associated with the dancing demonstration on the Jefferson Memorial that HDIC stood for last weekend. Hell, I wouldn't even compare HDIC to Mayor Gray when he got arrested for defending DC self governance. Not only did Gray not resist arrest, but he was disobeying the law for a damn good cause.

Which brings me back to my original point. This whole dancing on the Jefferson Memorial story is dumb. And if you're planning to go to the dancing demonstration on the Jefferson Memorial scheduled for Saturday to demonstrate against HDIC's arrest for demonstrating against the original dancing arrest (this is just getting into rabbit hole territory now), go get a real cause.

dover down with that

2011-05-31T11:19:00.000+01:00

Since 2007, when I almost missed my brother's wedding reception in Las Vegas because I was too busy winning at craps (true story), I don't think I've had a casino experience as splendid as that which I had yesterday at Dover Downs. And not just because I won, which I did, but because compared to my last experience at Charles Town Races and Slots and Table Games and Diabetes, the casino floor at Dover was a refreshing change. For one, I didn't see any oxygen tanks and it wasn't depressing. The table limits were normal ($10 minimums) and the dealers, well one of them, was the best Spanish 21 dealer of all time -- Bill.

Imagine a white-haired octogenarian with a slight build, a face like Clint Eastwood and a penchant for complimenting your smile. That's Bill! And lest I forget, the clincher: Upon recounting how he snagged his younger, Filipino wife, he very romantically recounted, "She raped me on our first date!" Zing?

But here's the thing: Not only did Bill spit strangely hilarious date-rape jokes, he also nurtured and maintained a really great vibe among the entire table. When people were doing well, you'd see high-fives, say all kinds of wOots! and hear several "Suck my bawls!" Of course, the latter only came from my gambling partner of choice, Anti DC Creative Director Terry the Tourette's Turtle, who was betting -- and winning -- $200 per hand. Indeed, suck his bawls.

But here's the more important thing: Even when you lost you still had fun because the atmosphere Bill created was so damn cool. Now that is motherf*cking genius. I hope Dover pays Bill well because that man has the ability to make you lose thousands and still come back for more. He's kind of like the personification of this blog, except instead of money, the only thing lost here that makes you come back for more is brain cells. So, I'll e-see you guys tomorrow then, right? Because this is how I feel about you, creepy rainforest sound effects and all.

he'll eat anything

2011-05-26T14:07:00.004+01:00

I didn't have a rough night last night, but apparently my cat did:

As you can see, this raucous punk is still wearing his club bracelet. He went to the vitaminwater uncapped live/Brightest Young Things temporary party space last night and O.D.'d on corporate visions of urbanity. Sneakers on the wall! Graffiti on the stairs! Lots of art that looked a whole lot like someone asked WWTMD (What Would Takashi Murakami Do)? And of course, fridges upon fridges of all the vitaminwater a cat could ever want. Incidentally, he now probably has diabetes, which makes total sense because diabetes is also super urban! At least in Chennai...

But all jokes aside, for some free sh*t to do in DC at night, the vitaminwater uncapped live events are fine enough, especially if you like artificial flavoring, watching 18-year-olds take "artsy" photographs to put on Facebook and other things you're probably too old for if you're over the age of 25. But for real, my cat is really enjoying eating his entrance bracelet. It's weird that they let in a 3-year-old though. I mean even for something like this, that seems a little young...

In other news that will make you feel young again, click here...

how the post made "hip Moscow" totally un-hip

2011-05-23T18:29:00.005+01:00

"I've been hip since 1969, you fool!"

The Washington Post has a way of angering me like nothing else, which reveals two things: 1) I absolutely hate it; and 2) I obviously hate myself, too, as I keep reading it. I don't know, I guess it's my metaphorical form of "cutting." (For more information on that very serious psychological disorder, please to see this very informative and dramatic episode of the incredibly well acted Seventh Heaven.)

And while I usually concentrate my vim, vigor, and vicious vulgar verse (say that three times fast) on the Post's totally inept local and opinion sections (seriously, this is just factually wrong), today it's on their usually inconsequential Style section. Poor thing...

I just can't get over this article, which seeks to "uncover" Moscow's hip side through the kinds of "duh"-inducing observations that anyone under the age of 50 had already made 10 years ago. It's this kind of decade-late corny sh*t that makes DC seem like a city full of unsophisticated suburbanites to the rest of the world.

The problem is, that's exactly the audience that the Post always seems to be going for. (ZOMG, DID THEY EVER FIND THAT GOAT?!?!) But serious question: when was the last time an article in the Post's Style section related to anything going on in the life of a 20- or 30-something living in the actual city (or even in the more denser populated areas of Arlington)? I can't think of anything off the top of my head.

That's sad. A paper with all those resources can't seem to hire a few writers who can do more than state the obvious... But let's return to the article about Moscow for a minute to see what's going on here:

[Moscow's] an amazing, intriguing and rewarding place -- I never tire of urging friends to visit -- and I thought I knew it pretty well, until I discovered another Moscow, nearly hidden somewhere between excess and deficiency, a very cool city with cutting-edge galleries, cafes and clubs, all informed by an urbane sensibility and designed on an intimate scale. Call it hip Moscow.

I will not call it "hip Moscow" because that sounds like just about the most un-hip way to describe anything, especially something that's pretty obvious. Moscow is cool. It is cutting edge. And it has been for quite some time. And what's weird is, ironically, this writer seems to have actually known that. She pointed out the underground art in Soviet Russia in the 1920's, rightfully calling it hip. However, then she makes a pretty obvious mistake in saying that that was the last time Moscow offered anything neither drab nor decadent, and indicated that the years between 1930 and 2011 were nothing but lame.

And with that, any leftover miniscule modicum of credence I may have given this writer to actually tell me something new and relevant to my life and interests instantly vanished. Some of the world's coolest, most hip art sprung out from underneath the most crushing years of Communism in the 1930s and beyond. Take literature for example. If Mikhail Bulgakov, who wrote what I believe is still one of the most cutting-edge novels of all time, The Master and Margarita, in the 1930's, which was banned but published anyway in the underground press in the 1960's, wasn't/isn't f*cking hip, then that word means absolutely nothing.

But I get it. Moscow is also filled with all kinds of tacky, definitional "un-hip" sh*t. Walk down any street and you're sure to see a slew of taller, blonder, skinnier Snooki's waiting in line to purchase more lace, leopard print and lip plumper than most people can imagine. However, unless Moscow's actually become less hip in recent years, I can't believe someone who lives and works there today can have such a hard time seeing past that veneer. When I was living there ~~almost 10~~ about eight years ago now (although the last time I visited was in 2006), it wasn't hard to find the cool, artsy spots and the cool, artsy kids. (To give you perspective, it was a lot easier to find cutting edge places and people there than cutting edge places and people here.) And anybody who has visited and gone out there, or perhaps hasn't but has just seen one of the many kids in Williamsburg, Brooklyn or even a local party here in DC sponsored by Brightest Young Things (and Vitamin Water) wearing a CCCP shirt, most people realize that Moscow -- and actually, just the very idea of Russia -- has been hip for a while.

But of course, the Post failed to note that because they're writing for people, I guess, who still seriously think of Russia as a place where you're either poor peeling potatoes or rich with so much opulence to haz. Which explains this ridiculous paragraph that came after the above-quoted last one:

Moscow, hip? Hip, after all, speaks to the individual, the personal, the idiosyncratic, and it should involve some fun, a word that doesn't even translate well into Russian. [Anti DC note: This actually makes the Russian version of Rebecca Black's Friday better.] I'd lived here some years ago and returned last fall to report from The Post's Moscow bureau. I thought I knew Moscow 2011, but it took visitors from Washington to help me discover hip Moscow. You know how it is -- you can walk past the Smithsonian every day for years but never know that the Hope Diamond lies sparkling inside until a cousin comes to stay.

I don't even know where to start with this. Is she calling the Smithsonian hip? The f*cking hope diamond is cutting edge? I suppose if she means that literally... (HAR!) But seriously, it took people from Washington to show you "hip Moscow"? Really? Right there should tell you how the rest of the article goes. It turns out the hippest parts of "hip Moscow" are a well-known photography museum, a design and architecture institute run by oligarchs, a gallery owned by an oligarch's wife, an art museum that's been around for over a century, and a handful of other things that are worth going to, for sure, but probably don't deserve the moniker "hip," nor to be categorized under the headline "Moscow's hidden secret." That's like calling American Apparel and Urban Outfitters secret shopping spots. They're fine, cool even in the non cutting-edge sense, but they're certainly not "hip."

See, using the Post writer's own definition of "hip" -- "individual, the personal, the idiosyncratic" -- just like American Apparel and Urban Outfitters, which are ubiquitous in any mall, I'm not sure this list of major Moscow art spaces that any given travel book would include on their city maps qualifies. The definition of "hip" to me means something must be somewhat underground, cutting edge, not yet mainstream. That's why we make fun of the word "hipsters" now. With the popularization of stores like American Apparel and Urban Outfitters, what people used to think of as cutting edge is now the mainstream. Every kid these days dresses like the lovechild of Roger Rabbit and Tom Cruise in Risky Business. (God, you should see my outfit today, p-b-b-b-blease!)

But look, despite my critique, this article wasn't actually horrible. Beneath the rather misguided conceit and totally wrong headline, there's actually a lot of good, basic information in there. And really, had the article just been titled, "Some worthwhile art spaces to visit in Moscow," I wouldn't be writing this right now. But alas, once again, with the promise of telling me something I already don't know the Post came up short for my demographic...

This is hip Moscow. Sorta. What's really hip wouldn't be on the Web yet.

there's a goat on the loose!

2011-05-20T10:15:00.008+01:00

Attention, everyone! Attention! There's a goat on the loose!

And in case you didn't just process that headline and sentence, I'll make like the Washington Post and repeat it a third time on the same Web page: THERE'S A MOTHERF*CKING GOAT ON THE LAM!


Mention No. 1

And mentions 2 and 3. Thanks for the overkill about something that's only mildly interesting the first time...

But seriously, Post, we get it and repeating it multiple times doesn't make it any more interesting. I mean, let's look at the material for a minute: there's a goat running around and it's in Gaithersburg. Don't correct me if I'm wrong, but is this actually newsworthy? I mean, isn't Gaithersburg surrounded by farmland and, ergo, several hundred goats? Surely, this can't be the first time one has jumped the fence...

Yep, OK. I've decided this is definitely not newsworthy. It's nothing against goats, but c'mon, it's not like we're talking about a rabid tiger here. Or a regular tiger. Or even a baby tiger.

Awww...

No, not that one, this one!

Terrifying.

Now that'd be a story worth repeating. That motherf*cker looks ferocious!

But whatever, I guess the Post has decided to take whatever scraps it can get and call it news. And since I'm insatiably curious and a little too self-masochating, I guess I'll give one of these headlines about this goat a click through. Maybe I've underestimated the importance of this bovid. *click*

Um...seriously? That's it? Not even a story about why or how the goat got loose, or more interestingly, why the goat didn't run in the opposite direction of Gaithersburg (let's face it, that 'burb looks about as human-friendly as it does goat-friendly)? Wow. This is actually less interesting than I figured it'd be and, to think, it took three headlines... Three headlines just to link to a video. But hell, I'm in too deep now to turn back, so I'll watch. This better be f*cking good...

Hmm. I suppose that was mildly amusing, although I think some Benny Hill-style music would've helped it greatly, but I definitely do not think this is worth three headlines. And, in fact, for a publication like the Post, it's hardly worth one...

Here's the thing: I think this aforementioned Gaithersburg goat-chasing was a good get for the Montgomery Village Patch site that captured and originally posted the video. That's what Patch's job is -- to get "hyperlocal" and cover things that only six people care about -- so kudos to them. But the Washington Post? What the f*ck? Sure, I suppose this "story" is a funny afterthought, appropriate and localish enough to link to in a blog post, but in no way is this worthy of three headlines. It's barely worthy of one. I mean, seriously, in a metro-area (and I'm including the suburbs here, since the Post seems to cater to them anyway) that's composed of 8,440,617 people, there must be some other sh*t worth highlighting than a silly goat video...

But whatever. Goats are fainting in Florida. Goats are fainting in Florida. Goats are fainting in Florida.

slc vs. dc and other letters and acronyms

2011-05-18T11:25:00.007+01:00

Salt Lake City is a bizarre amalgamation of all that is right and wrong in the world. Really, it's a city of extremes. From the tops of majestic mountains to the depths of the smelly salt lake, from the awesome bars to the bizarre alcohol policy, Salt Lake City is either f*cking cool or f*cked up. And after just 72 hours in the city, I blame the Church-State, run by the Mormons, for both.

Now, 72 hours might seem like a short amount of time to make a sweeping judgement about a society, but coming from someone who usually makes these types of judgements within seconds, 72 hours is practically a lifetime of study and analysis. And so here's the thing about Salt Lake City, a place where the tallest building is the Church of Latter Day Saints corporate headquarters (not joking): without the hypocritical, rather f*cked up wackness that is the LDS, a group that shuns coffee due to caffeine but eats enough caffeine-saturated chocolate to make a fat kid sick, I don't believe the non-Mormon residents of SLC, who are actually the slight majority within the city limits (although definitely not in the state at large), could've created what I think is the f*cking coolest dive bar scene in America...

Or perhaps I mean it's just better than what exists (or doesn't exist) here in DC. Seriously. Forget about the oppressiveness of the LDS or the fact that in Salt Lake City bartenders must pour their drinks through specially designed mechanical spouts, which meticulously measure out half-shots, meaning to get a full-strength drink you have to order "an extra shot for your friend," the fact that any place in Utah has a better dive bar culture than DC is what's truly f*cked up.

And let's look at that for a second, before returning to the symbiotic relationship between the LDS and the normals in Salt Lake City and how that enhances their bar culture. Why is it that DC's dive bar scene sucks so hard? For one, it's pretty much non-existent. There aren't neighborhood bars here in the same way there are in most other cities. Sure, we have the Red Derby, the Raven and maybe a handful of other dimly lit, well-priced bars with a decent background playlist, but these places are few and far between here. Instead, most every bar in DC relies on some sort of scene or gimmick. Craft beers, fancy cocktails, the bar where all the lawyers go, the lobbyist place, etc. Unlike the dive bar scene in most cities, a bar's clientele in DC doesn't usually have anything to do with the neighborhood in which it exists. Take Stoney's, for example, in Logan Circle. This is probably the closest thing I have to a neighborhood dive bar, although I actually think of it as more of a restaurant. Personal experience shows that I'm as likely to meet someone who lives in Arlington there as I am from around the corner.

Which brings me to the other problem when it comes to dive bar culture in DC -- the people. And it's not that I think everyone is horrendous or someone I wouldn't want to befriend (although it's questionable whether they'd want to befriend me), it's that people don't seem to go out to bars here to do that without some sort of pretense, prereq, or status-seeking motive. Think networking crews, coworker happy hours, kickball teams, etc. It's hard to go out individually here because when you do, it's rare that you'll meet anyone else doing the same. Save for a few exceptions, there are just no "regulars" here to become regulars with. So unless drinking in silence in the corner is your thing...

And incidentally, that was actually becoming my thing until I visited Salt Lake City to see a recently re-located friend last weekend and realized what exactly we're all missing here -- unpretentious, laid-back, genuinely friendly (read: not necessarily sexually motivated), neighborhood-y interactions. And here's where I think the Mormon Church becomes important when it comes to formulating Salt Lake City's awesome dive bar scene: While the LDS will strong-arm you from entering many of their buildings if you enjoy a tipple now and again (or, I guess, even a cup of tea), the bars there welcome anyone with open arms, albeit half-open, carefully measured bottles. In fact, if you're not religious (read: not Mormon), the bars are where you bond. That's where you'll meet your non-LDS neighbors you can later grab coffee with, your future friends you'll not only party with, but be able to have decent conversations with. I suppose this could just mean everyone's a lot friendlier out West, but I can't help but think that this welcoming attitude among Salt Lake City's non-LDSers is extra prevalent because of the domination of the Mormon Church. Hell, I'd probably bond more with my like-minded neighbors if half of the population thought I was seriously going to spend my afterlife trapped alone in a vacuum of outer darkness simply because I don't think Joseph Smith actually talked to God.

Now, I'm not saying everyone who isn't Mormon is going to automatically be besties, although it seemed that way in the three days I was there, nor am I saying anyone who is Mormon isn't worth pursuing a friendship with, although locals tell me it is much harder. What I'm saying is that the very fact that one goes to a bar in Utah means you already have an important life-defining commonality with the person sitting next to you at the counter. In a way, I suppose there's no metaphorical ice to break, which means the moment you step into any given dive bar in Salt Lake City, chances are you'll see a very different situation than you'd see in DC. That is, you'll actually have fun.

And so where does this leave DC? Do we need an overly conservative and religious "other" to come to power in order ~~for me to find a few people withing spitting distance to play Settlers of Catan with~~ to make it easier for us to bond with our neighbors? Are the douches not enough anymore? Do we have to do something more drastic, like recruit an über-douche leader? If so, I think we should write in Glenn Beck's name in the next mayoral election. I really don't want to have to do that, but right now it seems DC is leaving me very little choice. I mean, damn. I have the expansion pack for Settlers of Catan and I want to f*cking use it!

Unfortunately for that plan, though, Prophet Beck is already all tied up in building his compound in the Middle East (sorry, guys...), so it looks like we'll have to think of a plan B. For now, I guess, I'll just embark on an obnoxious crusade of my own. I vow to make a goddamn friend randomly in a Logan Circle bar. I'm sure I'll probably creep a whole crapload of people out with my non-sexual come-ons, but I imagine for me, that'll just be part of the fun. And really, think of the alternative. I'm sure most people would rather have me interrupting their networking happy hours with offers to play nerd games than deal with Mayor Beck and his offers to do amateur porn.

at least buy us dinner first...

2011-05-11T17:46:00.002+01:00

As it turns out, DC was robbed of the dishonor of being named one of the Top 10 worst states for women. I suspect that's because we're not a state. D'oh! Of course, of all the things to be good at, being hostile toward women is definitely not the most desirable. But still, I'm pretty pissed about this exclusion because DC women -- specifically the least wealthy and of reproductive age -- are getting the shaft from Congress, who due to our lack of statehood oversee DC law. This is extra screwy because we here in DC don't even know where that shaft's been since we don't have representation in the body that's ultimately in charge of our local code! And, really, the fact that most of the nation seems OK with this (as loosely and unscientifically, although schmientifically, evidenced by DC's exclusion from the aforementioned list) is infuriating because, unlike Mississippi's local officials (the worst state on the list, by the way) who make Mississippi's local policy, those faraway assholes are also making ours. So, when they band together and proceed to penetrate us with their God-knows-where-its-been shaft, we have no choice but to take it. It's Congressional date rape, I say, and afterwards we're left without the power to even use our own city taxes to take care of our own city's sexual health.* And you'll see I mean that literally if you click on those links

And I'm sorry that I'm using such a crass metaphor (please direct all complaints to The Anti DC's creative director, Terry the Tourette's Turtle), but I'm trying to get a point across here. We're treated like convicted felons even though we're the ones getting our rights trampled on. And what's our crime? As far as I can tell, for most of us it's simply choosing to live within a reasonable distance to our employers. Stupid.

But actually, many convicted felons have it better, as once they've served their time in certain states, they can vote again. So, yeah, someone who holds up your grandma with a gun in New Hampshire ("Live Free or Die!"), will sooner get to have a representative in the government -- and, ergo, in DC's local policy -- than the hundreds of thousands of non-grandma threatening masses here in DC who want nothing more than your grandma to be safe -- and looked after when it comes to her female parts should she live in the District.

But lest the vision of octogenarian lady parts start to formulate in your mind, turn your attention real quick to this:

O[bama]MG!

As per usual, The Daily What slays me with its ability to wrangle the most ridiculous sh*t on the Internet so I can easily find it and repost. That's right I just went Tumblr on all y'all's asses. But it was for a good cause -- to get octogenarian lady parts out of your mind. Remember? Oh sh*t.

Well, then let's try this again. Here's a lovely 15-minute cooking show featuring a recipe for pad thai.

*And just to clarify, I'm not "pro-abortion," I'm pro-choice. And while I hope people use abortion as a last resort (the first is hopefully avoiding pregnancy either via abstinence or reliable birth control), the ability to get one safely in a clinic opposed to dangerously in a back alley should always be an option in a free country, no matter what income range into which a woman falls.

important life lessons

2011-05-10T10:00:00.002+01:00

Have you ever hung your head like a shamed elephant and walked down a DC street? While it's not the most comfortable walking position, it may in fact be a life-saving one, lest, of course, you actually want to step on some pretty deadly objects. In that case, you should be even more ashamed, elephant, because that's gross. I won't go into some of the objects I found on DC's streets, nor will I say why I was so concerned right now, because that's what I do during this never-awaited next episode of The Anti DC. Please, enjoy at my expense!

oh, holy irony

2011-05-06T10:32:00.000+01:00

T minus 15, y'all. T minus 15. And if you don't know what I'm talking about then you're missing out on a hilarious story and also, you're going to hell. See, the world is coming to an end everybody! There's proof, says Harold Camping. He knows because he's the 89-year-old Christian fundamentalist radio host with a T-89 who calculated the exact date of the Rapture! Says the Washington Post:

Camping, an engineer by training, says he came up with the very precise date of May 21 through a mathematical calculation that would probably crash Google's computers. It involves, among other things, the dates of floods, the signals of numbers in the Bible, multiplication, addition and subtraction thereof.

Yet, while that reporter, Michael S. Rosenwald, thinks these calculations are hard to understand because they're complicated enough to crash one of the most sophisticated computer networks in the world, I think it's probably a safer guess to assume no one can understands them because they most likely look like the scribbles of Always Sunny in Philadelphia's resident paint huffer, Charlie Kelly.

But seriously. People have left their jobs based on the ranting of this bat-sh*t octogenarian. And not just people with job descriptions like "conspiracy theorist," "village idiot," or "Tea Party organizer." No, these are people who might be your coworkers. The Post talked to one who worked in an insurance office in Maryland, and another at the Department of Homeland Security. Yes, apparently while yours truly was once denied a government security clearance (albeit from another, more classified organization) because I lived abroad for more than half of the last seven years at the time (which you'd think would've been an asset for this organization), some idiot named Gary Vollmer who thinks he's going to be "instantly transformed into [a] glorified spiritual body" in 15 days is in charge of making sure the terrorists don't get in. Um...

And speaking of terrorists, isn't this whole belief that Jesus is going to return (if not now, but some other time in the future) and rain fire upon the Earth just reducing the guy to a terrorist? Really, in this view, the Lord is basically Osama bin Laden, but with a much better hideout.

I mean, seriously. Come on. I'm not an atheist (I'm one of those dippy agnostics), but I just can't get behind any religion that calls for the mass destruction and eternal suffering of non-believers (especially if said non-believers are good people, living their lives in accordance with the rules of logic and optimizing happiness for all) via acts of divine terrorism. That's just evil. I can see the bumper stickers now: The Rapture -- Never Forget.

Anyway, kudos to the Post for alerting me to what is surely going to be the most anti-climactic weekend in this old man's life. I'm looking forward to the follow-up interview on May 22.

nu site

2011-05-05T12:10:00.002+01:00

Did you see it yet? I revamped my "professional site." Weirdly, I made it radically less professional. But I also started a new blog over there, one that relies less on poop jokes and gratuitous swearing (F*CK!) and more on actual ideas. Keep in mind, however, I say that fully knowing that today I incorporated the term "dry hump" into an essay about the ideas of fairness and impartiality in the growingly digital world of journalism.

So, what are you waiting for? Go ahead and get over there! (Please.) And keep it in mind in the future, too, because if you come here and don't see anything new there's a good chance that's because I decided to write something entirely too long over there. Either that or I was too busy scouring YouTube to find more videos like this one:

Decidedly, that is something Jesus would never do. BUT HE WOULD CHECK OUT MY NEW SITE!

that's the way you do it

2011-05-02T12:12:00.005+01:00

Wow. Some big things happened this weekend. First, what I think has got to be one of the coolest art openings in DC occurred at Irvine Contemporary. Second, as part of the Sweetlife Festival, one of the greatest American rock bands rocked DC at Merriweather Pavilion. And third, United States special forces rooted Osama bin Laden out of his ~~cave~~ mansion and killed the motherf*cker. And although at first I felt a bit conflicted about people celebrating a man's death, after watching this video posted as part of The Daily Beast's Daily Dish written by Andrew Sullivan, I remembered (which means, oh no, I forgot!) that bin Laden is was actually a monster. And, well, as the song goes, ding dong...

But enough of that. I know you don't come here for international political analysis. You don't want to hear me blab on about how bin Laden's death, while not a bookend to the "War on Terror," will hopefully act as the motivational reminder we need to start wrapping this bad boy up. You don't want me to say that hopefully, the fact that bin Laden wasn't living like some sufferer for the cause in a cave, but instead like some rich old bastard in a mansion will disallow him from becoming a modern-day martyr. And I know no one wants me to analyze how this makes President Obama nearly untouchable in the next election. (I'm assuming Donald Trump reads my blog.)

And so I'll shut the f*ck up about that now and move on to the art and music I mentioned. This is America, after all, and thanks to 25 Navy Seals and the Joint Special Operations Command, I continue to have the freedom necessary to randomly change subjects. Or something.

So yeah, I went to Irvine Contemporary at 14th and P St. on Saturday night for the opening of Dataklysmos, a new exhibition by an artist named [dNASAb], which by some strange power is pronounced like Disney. And like his aural homonym, dNASAb's creations compose a magic kingdom of their own.

My first impression? "Holy Seamonster McGee!" Hanging from the ceiling of Irvine's stark interior were just under 10 chandeliers composed of LCD screens, fiberoptics, melted plastic, glass rods, crystal balls and lightbulbs. For someone who prefers the often minimalist lines of Bauhaus in her three-dimensional objects, I was initially a little turned off by what seemed like the excessive use of (and brace yourself for a real technical term here) do-dads. I like the idea of infusing modern technology -- and specifically embedding video like you'd do on a blog, for example -- with a classical genre like sculpture, but I didn't get the artistic decision to almost totally disguise it with so many proverbial bells and whistles. I thought it would have made a stronger impact had it all been simpler.

But then I spoke to the artist, whose beard was styled not unlike the protruding light rods on his work. Talking faster than most people think, he said something along the lines of the growing importance of interoperability between technologies and that it wasn't a neat subject; he said technology was messy and everywhere and constantly changing and moving. His gesticulations echoed his words.

I took another look at these bizarro chandeliers. The idea behind it now made more sense. It wasn't about aesthetics and showcasing technology as a building material, as much as it was about the evocation of a feeling that technology is a living organism. Alas, "Holy, Seamonster McGee!" was more right on than not. This very inorganic material looked very much alive. And while it may still not be my specific taste as far as what I'd want to look at in my home, it certainly made me think about technology and its effect on us in new ways. And sh*t, how often do you get to watch TV like this? See it for yourself through June 4.

So, we went from killing terrorists to contemporary art. Obviously, the next subject I want to talk about is your butt cheeks. OK, well, not your butt cheeks (hopefully), but the butt cheeks of several young twenty-somethings at this year's Sweetlife Festival, which happened yesterday. Look, I'm not a hater. If it's hot, by all means, air out your ass the best you can. But yesterday it was cold and rainy. I was even a bit chilly in jeans, boots, a sweater, a jacket, a scarf and gloves, so I can't imagine the amount of liquor necessary to keep warm the lady in a tube top, booty shorts, and flipflops, or the young woman wearing a miniskirt, gladiator sandals and a one-shoulder top. I mean, are the kids these days a whole helluva lot tougher than we were at 21 or just a lot dumber? If any young ladies read this blog, please, I'd love to know what the reasoning is behind such weather-inappropriate ensembles. YOU'LL CATCH A COLD!

But perhaps, I should take a break from talking about butt cheeks and explain what the Sweetlife Festival is to people who either don't live in DC or hate doing fun things. It's a day-long music fest run by the entrepreneurs at Sweetgreen, a company I fully endorse and frequent quite often because I love eating food that doesn't want to slowly kill me. These people also have incredible taste in music, having invited two of my favorite groups, Crystal Castles and The Strokes, to perform, as well as Cold War Kids, Lupe Fiasco and everyone's favorite wedding DJ, Girl Talk. And despite the rain and not because of the beer, I -- even in my now official old-fart status -- had a really good time. I was slightly peeved with the sound mixing of Crystal Castles and that their set was all of six songs long, but the others made up for it, especially The Strokes. What a motherf*cking great American rock band. God, the USA ruled this weekend.

do not touch

2011-04-29T10:18:00.004+01:00

Of course, Kardashian and Van Sustren. What a scoop.

As a former reporter (although still-aspiring long-form journalist), who has never been even close to attaining an invitation to a soiree like the White House Correspondents Dinner, I feel good about the scathing critique of such events that Washington Post columnist Dana Milbank published this morning. He says he won't be attending this weekend because these black-tie events have gotten "out of control."

And it's true, although I argue, were they ever really in control? Sure, the influx of what Milbank calls the "cool kids," which he understandably describes as Hollywood actors and musicians before oddly adding Bristol Palin to that list, makes absolutely no sense. It's like inviting remedial kids to the Mensa soiree (or probably, actually, the other way around). These "cool kids" have nothing directly to do with politics or the news media, so why is Charles Krauthammer getting a handie under the table from Paula Abdul? (Hypothetically, I think.) The only celebrity Krauthammer should let caress his balls is Donald Trump.* Why? Because he's different than Abdul. Although both often act like meth addicts, Trump at least has something (unfortunately, yet laughably) to do with what a political reporter or columnist might talk about.

But here's where I really have a problem with these dinners and, yes, I'm going to keep talking about Krauthammer's junk. He shouldn't be getting touched by anybody -- celebrity or politician -- so why is there a special event that not only makes this possible but practically encourages it? See, here's the thing about these dinners: they're pretty unethical. They're meant to be bonding nights between the reporters and the subjects they are supposedly impartially covering. As a news consumer, I don't want these people becoming friends. That goes against what the news media is supposed to be doing, which is covering the actions of these people through a critical, unattached eye.

Yup. Love-Hewitt and Powell. This makes sense.

And really, what a missed opportunity for the smart reporter. I mean, think about it: these lucky journalists aren't just getting these politicians together in one room, they're also getting them plied with liquor! You'd have to be an idiot to choose "bonding" -- a Trump handjob, as it were -- over YOUR JOB, especially in this scenario because when people start getting tipsy, they also start saying dumb things (although Trump does that sober). These dinners are where state secrets should be vomited all over the world!

But instead everyone will get distracted by Cee-Lo, who'll hopefully serenade these people with the uncensored version of "Forget You." They'll spend the entire night trying to decipher what Steven Tyler just said to them. They'll tweet that they just met Courtney Cox...

And maybe that's for the best, because if it's a choice between the reporters we depend on losing their credibility because they got a little too personal (or biblical, in the case of Trump and Krauthammer) with their subject matter or the reporters and politicians, alike, just ogling celebrities, I'd rather they choose the latter. Unfortunately, though, for both the news industry and us readers, they'll probably choose all of the above.

*To Krauthammer's credit (something he doesn't earn very often, in my opinion), he's actually been a pretty big critic of Trump's new political ambitions. It'll be interesting to see if anything changes after tomorrow's ~~handie~~ dinner.

math to make you rage

2011-04-27T11:44:00.001+01:00

I voted yesterday in the city council special election. Why? I have no idea. I guess it's because as a registered independent, I don't really get to vote for mayor. (For those of you who don't live in DC, this city swings 90-plus percent democratic, so the mayor is always decided in the Democratic primary, in which I'm not allowed to vote.) Of course, though, just as I feared would happen, my and Washington City Paper's choice didn't win. Instead, in true DC fashion, we got a guy who used to be on the Council, quit to take a job with one of the region's most controversial companies, Pepco, then decided to come back because, well, who knows. Is it the fame, the glory, the prospect of being the second most powerful Vincent in DC? (Our mayor is Vincent Gray.) Maybe. That sounds status quo enough to be true, and if there's any words to describe Orange's run, "status" and "quo" definitely come to mind.

What's even more disappointing, though, is realizing how Orange won. He won with just 28 percent of the vote, meaning of the roughly 43,000 votes cast (which by the way, equals a whopping 9.5 percent of residents, says the Washington Post), he won with just over 12,000 supporters. Now, to put this shockingly low number into perspective, consider this: DC's population hovers around 600,000 -- 12,000 equates to just 2 percent of that. And yes, you read that correctly: TWO PERCENT of this city just managed to elect this guy.

Not that it seems like such a big deal, I guess, considering the overall dismal voter turnout, but now consider this: the second through fifth place candidates of the total field of nine, garnered a combined 66.1 percent of the total vote (26 percent for the sole Republican candidate, Patrick Mara, 20 percent for Sekou Biddle, 13 percent for my pick, Bryan Weaver, and 7.1 percent for Josh Lopez). In other words -- and numbers -- that's approximately 28,423 combined votes for candidates other than Orange. That means at least 4.7 percent of this city's residents oppose Orange, which is over twice as many as those who support him!

Honestly, if over 90 percent of Washingtonians didn't give a sh*t, I think this city would be outraged right now because how is this in any way just? Even in Russia, candidates must win with a real majority (over 50 percent), meaning in a case like the above, there'd be a runoff election between the top two or three candidates. And judging from the numbers, I'm guessing Orange probably wouldn't be as victorious under a fairer system, where a true majority would be needed to win. I, for one, know if I got to vote again and the choices were narrowed down to just Orange, Mara and Biddle, Orange would still not be my first pick. Nor, I bet would he probably be the pick for most of the other voters, most of whom didn't vote for Orange in the first place.

Whatever. I'm just going to start writing in Sexy Saxman Saxagram from now on. All he does is win.

i'm longwinded, but at least i'm not racist

2011-04-25T11:54:00.001+01:00

I'm not sure if I've ever written anything about how seemingly baseless some of Washington Post columnist Courtland Milloy's arguments usually are, but a bunch of other people have. See, Milloy occasionally writes about race and when he does he almost always insinuates how racist white people are. And no, he's never talking about a particular white person, but all white people. We're all racist, apparently, and if you think you're not, using Milloy's logic, it probably means you're actually even more racist.

Really, the only thing this brand of Milloy writing proves is that he isn't a particularly insightful columnist. And no, just to be clear, I'm not asserting that because Milloy is black, I'm asserting that because he sometimes sounds like a reactionary moron.

Which brings me to his latest piece of "work," which supposedly is based on a recent talk given by Charles Murray called "The State of White America." OK, so at first, that sounds like something kinda racist to write about. But if you actually click the link to watch Murray's talk, the first thing said is, "Despite the title of this evening's lecture, those expecting to hear a discourse on race, are not going to hear it." (Which begs a question for Murray, why the f*ck did you pick such a race-baiting name?)

Instead, here's Murray's argument, which I actually have a whole set of problems with that I'll get to later (and yes, I watched the whole damn 90 minutes). Basically, Murray says he decided to study "non-Latino whites" because this group is usually the reference point for sociologists/politicians/wonks when they study American societal trends. He says: "When you read about the latest poverty statistics, for example, what you read is usually like, 'Here's the black poverty rate compared to the white poverty rate,' 'Here's the latino poverty rate compared to the white poverty rate, and here are the implications for how America is doing.'" The problem here, he says, is that it's easy to lose sight of what that reference point actually means -- who are these pale people we're comparing everyone else to? And so he decided to study white people for the sake of illuminating the depth of the larger cultural trends that "are tearing America apart at her seams" that "cannot be remedied by eliminating racism or resticting immigration policy." The conclusion, of course, is white people have problems, too.

Well, duh, says anyone who's ever seen an episode of Cops/Jerry Springer/The Real World/Bad Girls Club or any other reality-based programming featuring white people acting like rodeo clowns without the rodeo.

But for Milloy, this seems to have been revelatory news, causing him to utter a Nelsonesque "ha-ha!" and write this sentence of pure vitriol, describing all whites as "a group that has long managed to deny the extent of its character flaws by projecting the worst of them onto black people."

I'm not about to deny that some members of this "group" definitely do that. Those people are called racists and they should be described as a subpopulation of a group. But to categorize all white people as racist is inappropriate, shortsighted and destructive because had Milloy made his argument more accurate, it could've been great. Instead, it's just kind of stupid -- as dumb as, say, those idiotic white people who blame everything bad about America on black people.

But because I'm bored with Milloy's easily argued-away thesis (and extra shame on him for not taking advantage of the material Murray really gave him), I'd rather go back to some of the things Murray said in his lecture. Like I said, there's a lot to contend with here. But unlike Milloy, whose argument is based on inaccurate assumption, Murray's arguments are actually based on facts and statistics, meaning it's not the rationale I don't agree with, but Murray's basic worldview. (Again, Milloy, why did you choose to skip the main course for the garnish?)

Murray's study compares statistics from 1960 and 2010 among the top 20 percent of rich white Americans to the bottom 30 percent of the poor white Americans. Then, with the addition of some de Tocqueville quotes he makes a basic moral argument, which is not dissimilar to that of the religious right. He thinks marriage, heterosexual two-parent homes, greater industriousness and religion will save the United States from becoming a big un-American blob. Lo and behold, the average rates of those things have declined slightly among rich folk and greatly among the poor, leading Murray to conclude sh*t be funky now.

OK, well he didn't word it like that, but he did say the decline in the number of marriages, the rise of single-parent households, and a whole new slew of lazy-ass white working-class secularist hobos, who refuse to coach the local Little League team are changing us for the worse -- they're evidence of the "unraveling of our civic culture."

Hmm, fine, I suppose, if Murray's only point is to point out possible causes for why everyone's bowling alone these days then sure, maybe. (Incidentally, Murray did mention Bowling Alone author Robert Putnam.) What was missing, however, at least from this 90-minute talk, was evidence that the above and this perceived civic unraveling are definitely connected. That is, I don't buy, at least with the evidence Murray provides, that the decline of traditional values necessarily correlates to a worse-off nation.

Times change, people's minds change, their lifestyles and attitudes change. This is the natural course of events, which is why when it comes to very morally conservative folk, I tend to find their almost worshipful devotion to eras past wholly unrealistic and a little bit creepy. Let's not forget, in 1960 segregation still existed (and prior to the aptly named Loving vs. Virginia, interracial couples still couldn't marry in some states under the law!), most homosexuals were forced to suffer in the closet, women were largely discouraged from working outside of the home, and this would have been my hairstyle:

Let's just say the 1960s weren't necessarily pretty. And because of that, I have a hard time finding practical value in studies like Murray's. While I admit civic involvement is important to a nation like ours (and probably to sustainable nations around the world), and yes, there was higher participation in it when more people happened to be married or going to church in 1960, saying those were the reasons why and then advocating either of those things today as a solution (or, as Murray puts it, "the right track") seems suspect. Should we start forcing poor people to get married? Do we send them unwillingly to mass on Sundays? One, that's not even possible; and two, even if it was, that's inhumane. Really, It seems the only solution for reachieving life as it was in the past is a time machine, preferably of the Hot Tub variety.

And so maybe a more feasible and useful question to ask would be what can civic groups and communities do to attract more participating members in 2011? Obviously, if a group is unwelcoming to thirty-something single moms, those single moms (who are growing in numbers, say statistics) will not participate.

Perhaps, what we need to study is a way to start purporting a different set of values to get people engaged (and not necessarily to be married) again -- a more evolved set that emphasizes personal responsibility and education. And I'm not just talking about formal or public education, but the ideas of knowledge, inquisitiveness and, most importantly, critical thinking, which is something I think, unfortunately for their survival, organized religions often discourage. (For the record, like Murray, I'm also a self-described agnostic, but I strongly believe in living my life as it intersects with others' in a secular humanist manner.) With increased personal engagement with our own brains, it seems industriousness -- the one point I agree completely with Murray on -- might improve on its own.

In short, while I don't have any empirical evidence to support my loosely crafted theories, which I admit need a ton of tons more work than what I have time for on this blog, I believe I've at least touched on a few counterpoints worth exploring. At the very least, I didn't just pull a Milloy. (I hope.)

the evolution of Bruce Boudreau

2011-04-22T11:07:00.000+01:00

For those of you who know who Bruce Boudreau is, congratulations. He's awesome. But for those of you who don't, allow me to ask: Where have you been, sh*tbums?! Because, like I said, Bruce Boudreau is awesome. He coined the term sh*tbum! He also looks like a waxed Santa. Oh, and he coaches the Capitals, who are arguably the best team in the NHL. (Finally, a sport Washington doesn't suck at!) In short, Bruce Boudreau is the opposite of sh*tbum. But in the words of the immortal Levar Burton (or mortal, is he still alive?), you don't have to take my word for it...

Actually, I meant don't take my f*ckin' word for it.

And because I love Bruce Boudreau more than I love making money doing my job, I decided to take some time to find out a little more about him and, luckily, thanks to Wikipedia and a Google image search, it wasn't that hard. I can haz biography and employment.

So, without further ado, look at this hair!

Before he was waxed Santa, he was bowl cut Jerry O'Connell. He was also a pretty good hockey player. Who knew? (Answer: Wikipedia, probably any real hockey fan, Google, etc.)

And sure, that's Boudreau skating above, but that isn't a regulation game. Nope! That's Bruce, as bowl cut Jerry O'Connell, in the 1977 film (or rather, f*ckin' film) Slapshot. It starred, um, well whoever. All that matters is Bruce Boudreau was in it as an extra and even in his short three seconds on film, he managed to prove himself a better actor than Leonardo DiCaprio. Then again, so does just that hockey stick he's holding. And the ice. And the skates. Well, you get the idea; you've all seen Blood Diamond...

Hey, friend! Bruce Boudreau has some bad-ass friends (not to be confused with bad ass-friends). There he is with Alex Ovechkin, above. Perhaps, he's telling a joke about a bald Canadian and a toothless Russia walking into a bar (ow!), or maybe he's just saying something like, "Holy f*ck, my friend, you are the greatest f*ckin' hockey player alive and I am the must lively f*ckin' coach. Together, we've finally f*ckin' made a f*ckin' sport that's actually f*ckin' fun and f*ckin' interesting to f*ckin' watch for The F*ckin' Anti DC!" That's definitely probably what's happening there.

And so, thank you, Bruce Boudreau, for piquing my interest in local sports. I chose to watch the playoff game over American Idol the other night, which is not the biggest of deals, actually because it's not like American Idol is Extreme Couponing (shut up, those OCD hoarders are fascinating!), but hey, it's something.

But speaking of Extreme F*ckin' Couponing...someone needs to body check these assholes in the pasta aisle. Bruce?

it's not the tourists...

2011-04-20T10:39:00.002+01:00

Duane Hansen, Tourists II, 1988

I'm not sure what's more annoying: tourists not understanding Metro etiquette or the people who keep complaining about it. (Of course the worst is this blogger complaining about the complainers.) My advice, though? Just give up. Tourists are like the socks to DC's sandals. It will never be OK, no matter how much we may wish it to be.

And so, with that in mind, articles like this one published by The Examiner come across as pretty pointless to me as far as their general scope goes. However, there was one minor detail that piqued my interest.

"On the Metro, when I'm coming here to work, everybody knows, ' right side, you stand, left hand you walk up.' You say 'excuse me,' but they just don't move," said the man, who declined to give his name because he's not allowed to speak with the media." (Emphasis mine.)

Ooo! I love a good scandal! Who could this mystery man be who's "not allowed to speak with the media" even to say something totally innocuous? His employer must be some sort of secret government agency or someone close to the President or, well it's gotta be something.

And maybe I'd have wondered that if I hadn't have just read the previous sentence: "One vendor selling ice cream and drinks near the Lincoln Memorial also offered advice about tourists using Metro escalators." (Again, emphasis mine.)

Yes, it seems this mystery man is actually the ice cream man -- the ice cream man! It's the seller of frozen treats to children who's been slapped with a "no media" policy! What the f*ck?

Is DC just that lame that the overlords of the ice cream cart industry are so paranoid their vendors are going to give out some sort of trade secret that they must use a blanket policy to silence them? Are there even any trade secrets to reveal about selling pre-packaged ice cream? Have the Push-Pops been tampered with?!

Whatever the issue, something seems totally wrong/unjust/illegal with all of this, and judging from this article I wrote some years ago about the semi-criminal racket behind DC's hot dog carts, there probably is. Of course, not having the time right now to investigate myself, anyone who wants to take this as a news tip, please do.

However, considering this is DC, the place where people get fired from their jobs because they have an entertaining hobby, even if said entertaining hobby doesn't have sh*t to do with their jobs (never forget), I wouldn't be surprised if the ice cream overlords are just a bunch of controlling a-holes.

Like I said, tourists aren't DC's main problem. A pair of Tevas will look like crap whether you wear them with socks or not.

shambles p.i.: the false positive edition

2011-04-18T10:33:00.002+01:00

It can all change in a passing sentence. You wake up feeling great. But then you flip on the radio and learn Melissa Joan Heart a.k.a. Sabrina the Teenage Witch, is thirty-f*cking-five years old today. Thanks, NPR, for making me feel old as hell. And I know it will only get worse when I make it to the bathroom, and God forbid, flip on the light while I wipe the anti-aging wrinkle cream from around my eyes, which, by the way, I've been using since I was twenty-four because my passive viewing of roughly 50 kajillion air-brushed beauty ads has effectively scared me into forking over $45 dollars per half-ounce bottle twice a year to this $40 billion industry in a desperate attempt to defy physics.

Yup, welcome to the life and mind of a 31-year-old woman. (See also, "Babies, babies, babies, babies...") I found my first gray hairs last week, too. Which means I'm pretty sure I've reached the peak and it's all downhill from here. I should probably just give up. And with that in mind, this weekend I decided to wear this:

At first glance it all looks fine, if not a little boring (it is, after all, just a pair of jeans and a Hanes T-shirt, which actually, I did cut-up and re-tailor together, although you can't see this handiwork under the blue Member's Only-style jacket that I picked up in Latvia in 2002). But take a closer look:

I think maybe you see where this is going... If not, let me give you a hint -- I'M WEARING SANDALS AND SOCKS!

Yes, for all intents and purposes, it seems I've already given up. Either that, or all the toxic chemicals I've been applying near my mucus membranes for the past seven years have affected my judgment... Whatever the case, it's clear the shambles have set in. It's almost like I have fashion Alzheimer's. There'll be a popped collar here, a pair of pleated khakis there... All I ask is that if anyone ever sees me trying to wear a pair of Crocs, please first whap me hard upside the head with a rolled up Women's Wear Daily then employ the Ludovico technique using alternating images of Junderpants and Paris fashion week.

Oh wait, what's that? Sandals and socks in certain combinations are in? HA! SUCK IT, HATERS! And also, cancel that re-education procedure. I'm back in it!

Also, you know you're old when...

...This is actually the first thing that comes to mind when I hear the name Melissa Joan Hart.

yes.thatcan.be/my/next/tweet

2011-04-15T09:51:00.002+01:00

I've finally figured out a way (two days later than everybody else) to make sure I have 38,000 tweets by tomorrow -- Yes.ThatCan.Be/My/Next/Tweet. It's brilliant, at least if your pool of original tweets from which this tweet generator pulls the words is decent. Turns out, mine was prime for this tool. It even gave me some future blog topics! Anyway, here are my "next tweets" in the order the Internet generated them for me. If you laugh even an eighth as much as I did, then this cop-out post about nothing was worth it. Have a fine weekend.

Got what.

I'm literal.

I think I mean "holy sh*t."

This one seems within the realm of reality.

I've been told I'm a great day starter, actually.

Good work, tweet generator!

NO WATER IS MY BALLS!

This might be the greatest tweet ever written.

I wish!

Um, now this sounds like a tweet I once posted word for word...

This better not be my subconscious speaking via a random tweet generator.

I CAN'T BE MY BALLS!

I've prayed for puffin to come out my house.

Now with front and back near death experiences!

...

arrested but still not expected to get respected

2011-04-12T11:17:00.002+01:00

You know, I hate to be the party-pooper when it comes to yesterday night's mayor-getting-arrested-sticking-up-for-DC-budget-autonomy thing, otherwise known as derp-derp-derpa, but I just can't help myself. DC's local government is like a laxative to me. I just have to plop this out.

So, like you, I'm sure, I was initially fascinated by the mayor's seemingly bold stance on DC's right to control it's own tax revenues. "Wow," I thought, "He's actually taking to the streets, fighting for the rights of all of us unfortunate, stupid, or self-loathing enough to live here! You're the man now, dog!" Then, when one-liners started seeping out on Twitter from news organizations about "DC Mayor being arrested!" and such, I even felt a second of respect for our elected crew. Hell, I even took to the Twitter myself, expressing my pride in 140-characters or less.

A few hours later and I'm sure a self-congratulatory pat on the back, he was free. So, now what?

Probably nothing, but does that matter? Shouldn't this seemingly ballsy move stand on its own? Shouldn't it show that Vince Gray and his political pals actually care about this city and not just pillaging it for SUVs and six-figure salaries? (Incidentally, that is why I figured the Mayor would've been arrested.) Shouldn't this move demonstrate that we finally have someone in office who is truly looking out for our basic rights as citizens of the United States of America?

It should, but after reading some analyses about the reasons why the Mayor attended yesterday's rally, my cynic bells are ringing in my ear as loud as a DC teenager on a bus. According to DCist, who spoke with mayoral staffers, Vince Gray had no intention of joining the rally until he was told there were a lot of people there. This makes me think that it wasn't so much the actual issue that attracted Gray to the event that eventually led to his arrest, but instead, simply a matter of seizing on our emotions as a city and finally doing something his constituents could applaud him for rather than hiss.

Courtesy of the AP or some such thing.

See, our newly elected mayor doesn't have the most immaculate of records. There's Sulaimon Brown (for which the FBI is now involved), SUVgate, the chief-of-staff thing... Really, in the last three-and-a-half months or so since he's been in office, he's just been kind of a douche. His less-than-stellar antics even got him booed at a recent baseball game. So excuse me for thinking that maybe just maybe this whole getting arrested thing was just a high-profile publicity stunt to either try to dissipate the past indiscretions of this Marion-Berry-like administration, or even worse, a means to distract us about whatever shady sh*t we don't even know yet that's going on right now. I won't get into the individual records of the City Council members who also got arrested, but I'm sure if I did, I'd probably discover similar reasons to be cynical about them.

So, yeah. I apologize for the giant turd I just left in the middle of this protest party, but I just can't feel overly celebratory about this right now. Maybe that will change if Gray and his cohorts keep pressing. After all, while it may be legal, it's highly unjust for Congress to dictate how DC is allowed to spend our own tax money. I just hope that Gray's ultimate goal isn't just to gain control of the funds to do something stupid with them...

---

Despite all the above, though, I'm glad that Gray and the Council went to the protest, no matter what their reasons. Doing something right for the wrong reasons is still better than not doing anything at all or, well duh, doing something wrong for the wrong reasons. However, I really think it's sad that we can't get a local leader in office here who we can fully trust to do the right thing for the right reasons. Trust me, although sometimes it feels great to poop all over a party, it doesn't win you any friends... Eventually, I'd like to stop.

thanks for the scraps, stupid

2011-04-11T09:46:00.000+01:00

The United States Congress is like the nasty-ass honeybadger. When it comes to DC, it just doesn't give a sh*t. Instead, it takes what it wants and we're a snake in a tree. Indeed, honeybadger don't care. And so, color me unsurprised (which is the exact same color as yellow-tinted cat vomit, by the way), when I heard other states' elected officials reached a budget deal on Friday that leaves Washington, DC, with only a few scraps of autonomy. Basically, we're like the special kids on the short bus and Congress is our abusive caretaker. Apparently, we're incapable of independence. Then again, after the early signs of idiocy Mayor Vince Gray has displayed, maybe they're right...

And so, really, the only reasonable response here is anarchy. It's high time we, individual second-class citizens of DC who have the ability to wipe our own asses, all become our own nasty-ass honeybadger rulers and tell both Congress and our own inept elected officials (by the way, who the f*ck are you people electing these fools?!) to keep away from our delicious bee larvae. All our own hive are belong to us! And sure, we may get stung, but as we already know, honeybadger don't care! Honeybadger doesn't give a sh*t. WE TAKES WHAT WE WANTS.

By the way, the above argument will make much more sense after you watch the below clip. Although unless you're a time traveler from the past and don't know about the Internet (which doesn't even make any sense), or you haven't had the displeasure of reading this blog before (because I'm pretty sure this is something like the 8th post in a row I've mentioned the nasty-ass honeybadger), you've probably seen this clip and, more importantly, love it already.

Moving on (because the scraps in this post's title also refers to the scrappy kind of content I'm providing today), news broke, or actually, more like trickled down like a tear on the overtanned cheek of John Boehner that Bravo schmreality program Real Housewives of DC will not get a second season. May I be the first to say, who cares? That show sucked balls. The only good parts were the Salahis, whose 15 minutes have already expired since it seems they've become an iota bit self-aware. No one wants to watch crazy and delusional people pretend to act reserved and sane. No one wants to watch people conform to the boring conventions of "DC society," which is ruled by a pleated pair of Dockers and Terry Burch flats. If I wanted to see that, I'd just go outside...

Finally, I want to end this post with the best scrap of all -- what I overheard at Q and 17th Streets on Friday evening. A man walking toward me on the phone said, "I need to get some money again." *pause* "That's right," he continued. "In my butt." WHAT?! This brought up so many questions in my mind that I almost turned around to follow him just to hear more. Was this money to be inserted in his butt? Was something going to be inserted in his butt for money? Or was this an entirely different conversation he was now embarking upon? If you're out there, sir, please, fill me in! Honeybadger does care!

gettin' hobo with it

2011-04-08T13:24:00.000+01:00

With all this government shutdown sh*t hitting the khaki-colored fan, I've come to a bit of a bizarre revelation -- I don't really know very many people who work for the Feds. In fact, I think I know only one, maybe two of you douches (I say that with love). And while I think that's because ~~I have no friends~~ hang almost exclusively with a menagerie of imaginary helper animals and, um, lawyers (embarrassing, I know), I think this is a sure sign that I should probably get out more. At the very least I should probably get to know the side of Washington, DC, I so love to mock.

So, in an attempt to broaden my horizons, I want to invite all of you Federal furloughers to come experience my world, or at least the part of my world that involves day-time drinking, a worthwhile past-time I engage in every Monday, all Monday. And while I'd offer to buy, I think actually you guys should, considering you're the ones eligible for the sweet discounts.

So, in conclusion, this is what I'm offering: You, federal employee, may purchase me, your awesome e-friend (and probably a helper animal or two), several libations during the afternoon of Monday, April 11, 2011. In exchange, I can offer FUN FUN FUN FUN!

i actually hope to see you all in hell

2011-04-07T12:40:00.001+01:00

I must admit, I'm actually excited to be back in DC. I blame Spring. See, while I miss Iceland and all of its hipster-coiffed horses, I must say, the end of March isn't exactly the best month for tourism there.

In fact, in many places it's still pretty much winter there, which means half the roads are either marked "IMPASSABLE" or they're not, which will lead you to wind up the side of an icy mountain where your non-automatic rental car with over 100,000 miles on it will start slipping toward the 70-foot cliff with no guard rail that forms the edge before you think to yourself, "Yep, this seems like a great time to execute a 15-point turn." But I digress...

Besides certain death, the worst part about the icy road conditions means you can't go to Hell. Ironic, no? Hell is actually frozen over. However, just because it's too cold to drive there, doesn't mean you should stop telling people to go there. In fact, I recommend you all go straight to Hell. It looks awesome. Even DC's fake Congresswoman Eleanor Holmes Norton wishes Congress to go there!

And with their imminent self-imposed time off, surely they'll have time to try...

But for real, let me just proclaim my sincere love for fake-Rep. Holmes Norton. What's even better than her telling Congress "to go straight to hell," is her visibly disturbed shoulder shrugs and adamant scowl of discontent. In fact, I wouldn't have been surprised if this interview ended in a ~~HULK~~ ELEANOR HOLMES NORTON SMASH! Actually, I wished for that to happen. But, like actually getting to Hell in March, not everything is possible, so instead I had to settle for this interview ending with the angriest rendition of "my pleasure" that I ever heard. Not a bad compromise. It's good to be back.

zzzzzzzzzzzzz

2011-03-24T15:31:00.000Z

Sorry for the tardy post today (and for once I actually mean tardy opposed to my usual 'tardy), but I just woke up.

No, not for the first time today. See, I got up, went to work, and then just dozed off. I'm sure you can understand a woman's need every now and again to take a nap at work, right?

"RIGHT ON, SISTER!" yells the National Airport air traffic controller, who coincidentally also just woke up. "NAPPING RULEZ!"

It sure does, my man. I surrrre does. But wait a second. I can nap at my job because no one's life depends on it. You, on the other hand, air traffic control guy, you're kind of in a different situation, no? I mean, one of your main responsibilities -- actually, you're only responsibility -- is to keep human beings alive by making sure the rigid airships that contain them don't collide with each other. Right?

"Yes."

Yeah, so actually napping doesn't rule for you at all. In fact, let me go a bit further and suggest that this week would also be a great time to for you to quit sniffin' glue...

And I'm not just saying that because I, myself, am getting on a plane tomorrow; I'm saying that because glue is definitely not the right drug for an air traffic controller to be hooked on. May I suggest an upper, like crack cocaine? Ask a local elementary school kid about it...

But let's get back to my favorite subject and not yours -- me. I'm sure you're all literally not dying to know where I'm going tomorrow. Well, I'll end the suspense I wish there was and tell you. I'm going to Iceland! Why? Because I just don't want winter to be over yet. Also, they have bare butts in their official tourism ads, that's why.

stuff on stage: Mike Daisey's The Agony and Ecstasy of Steve Jobs

2011-03-23T15:35:00.002Z

I had my doubts going in. The thought of seeing one guy talk about Steve Jobs for two hours sounded about as fun as having a cold sore. Do not want. But Anti DC Creative Director Terry the Tourette's Turtle insisted. "Mike Daisey is the sh-sh-sh-shit!" he said, adding "Donkey balls!" just for good measure.

Well, if my foul-mouthed helper turtle says so...

I decided to attend the Pay-What-You-Can preview performance last night at the Woolly Mammoth Theatre Company. Surprisingly, though, when I tried to pay what I could with a can of beans and a copy of an October 2007 Cat Fancy, they still asked for money of the legal tender variety. Fine. I'll call your bluff. Moments later, I was in the highest seat in the house. Back row balcony!

But that really didn't matter because the theater isn't exactly big. Mike Daisey, on the other hand...

Dude's big. Also, dude's sweaty. Five minutes in I was wondering whether we were going to have a heart attack situation on the stage. But in fact, the only heart that was attacked was my own. (Haha, I just made you read that.)

But seriously, this man was good. For a woman who still often thinks the phrase "killer app" simply means "I'm hungry," the fact that I didn't just enjoy The Agony and the Ecstasy of Steve Jobs, but vociferously loved it, says something about Mike Daisey's skill. Part humorist, part journalist and part storyteller extraordinaire, Daisey's performance hooked me from the beginning like a DC elementary school kid on crack.

I mean, this man made me care about technology. He made me care about why I use it, how I use it, how I'd feel if I didn't have it, how I feel because I do have it. This man made me care about how I feel about technology that doesn't even exist yet, technology that I don't even know I'll need (or at least feel like I need). Most importantly, he made me feel something about how it's made. (Surprise! It's all handmade by 12-year-old kids and not machines in Shenzhen, China.)

And while Daisey ended on a note of activism, handing out single sheets of paper containing Steve Jobs's email address among other things, his monologue never came across as naive. Clearly, he doesn't expect us to boycott Apple or any other technology firm (all of which, by the way, manufacture most of their products in the same way as Apple with kids in Shenzhen), but he does expect you now to think about this part of your life and become a more aware ~~consumer~~ human being.

Unlike the college students with clipboards in front of Whole Foods, however, Daisey's activism is actually enjoyable to listen to. He's funny. He's a natural storyteller. He has the performance quality I aspire to have, minus about 300 pounds and a penis. *sigh* One day...

However, until I put the finishing touches on my two-hour epic called The Vladimir and the Putin of Vladimir Putin, you should count on Daisey for enlightened entertainment and I strongly recommend you attend. He'll be performing The Agony and the Ecstasy of Steve Jobes at the Woolly through April 10, on Wednesdays through Saturdays at 8 pm and Saturdays and Sundays at 3 pm. Mondays and Tuesdays are obviously for logging into the ol' Macbook and watching funny YouTube clips.

And speaking of the Internet, here's a clip of one of Daisey's previous performances, called Invincible Summer. Well, actually, it's sort of a clip of that. It's more a clip of him expertly handling a massive disruption during one of his performances of Invincible Summer at the American Repertory Theater in Cambridge, Mass. (Amazingly, I guess people in Boston suck more than they do in DC...)

And here's a clip of one of of his previous shows called How Theater Failed America, uninterrupted.

high hopes

2011-03-22T15:41:00.006Z

Just as I once had high hopes that this blog wouldn't look like it was designed by a precocious second grader who just discovered geometry and the magic of primary colors, so too I once had hope that anything on HBO wouldn't have a worse ending than Lost, which I think we all now realize was inspired directly by Hot Tub Time Machine and a giant butt plug. In fact, looking back, kudos to ABC for going there. Not many people do (unless you live in Alexyss K. Tyler's world...crystal snack.)

But whatever. Let's not relive that gigantic disappointment. Let's relive last Sunday's, instead, when Big Love ended in what can only be described as, "Wait, who is that and...nevermind, this whole season was ridiculous anyway considering, like Lost, it had no regard for the physics of the space-time continuum."

And here is where you may want to stop reading this and just go watch the rest of Alexysss K. Tyler's YouTube clips because, yes, there are spoilers here. So, if you plan to waste precious hours of your life watching this show even after I warned you, e-see ya later. Likewise, if you just don't give a sh*t about Big Love and don't care to read about why its last season was stupid, then leave, you honey badgers, because this blog ain't no snake in a tree for you.

Now, for those of you who remain, I'm going to assume you watched the show and saw Sunday's series finale. Great. Perhaps you can help me out here then: Besides Barb's storyline, how in hell did any of this season make sense? Specifically, what the hell was going on with the whole Margine, statutory rape thing? Didn't we learn from previous seasons that: 1) Margine worked at Home Plus for a number of years or at least a number of months before she met Bill, and 2) after she met Bill, didn't she then become his babysitter for another couple of years? That being said, if they got around to getting polygamist married to each other when she was only 16, wouldn't that have made her, um, 13 or so when she worked at Home Plus? Not to mention, there was one episode in which that curly-haired sad sack, son-of-a-dick annoying son of Bill's was at Home Plus and ran into some 35-year-old sleazeball who bragged to him about having made sex on Margine when she was an employee there. This means either everyone at Home Plus is a pervert or Home Plus doesn't comply with child labor laws. I mean, was she hired off the books? How is it even remotely possible that Bill didn't know her age? Did Margine have a fake ID the entire time? Or was he just a sick old pedophile? I guess maybe either of those are possibilitities, but I doubt it, which means under normal, presumed space-time conditions, Margine had to be at least 16 when she started at Home Plus, which would've made her probably 17 or 18 when she became the babysitter, and even older than that when they got polygamist married. That storyline just don't make nooooo sense. (Please intone that last sentence with the diction of Forrest Gump for full effect.)

So, I'll admit. When this Margine being underage thing first surfaced, I kind of knew this show was going to end badly. Considering the complete disregard for logic, I thought perhaps I was looking at yet another Hot Tub Time Machine-inspired ending, but instead we got something that was probably even worse -- the neighbor, who we've seen, what, all of six or seven times in the whole series, shoots Bill dead. OVER AN ARGUMENT STARTED ABOUT HIS LAWN. Uh...

The worst part is is that it wasn't even shocking. As soon as you see the neighbor approach Bill, you automatically think, "Yep, so he's probably just gonna shoot him." We hear, "Blah, blah, why you touchin' my lawn? Blah, blah and bang."

The wives come running out of the house, Bill suddenly radically changes his mind about everything he apparently ever stood for in his religion and dies. I'll admit I was relieved. For one, Bill was a huge dick and for another, this poor excuse for an HBO drama was about to end, meaning I would have more time now to get excited about another show that will inevitably end terribly, like [FILL IN ANY OTHER CURRENT AMERICAN TELEVISION SHOW].

But wait, I'm not done. So there we are, the wives are all hovering over Bill as he bleeds out. I guess the other 20 people in his houses didn't hear the series of gun shots, so they stayed inside. Doing what? Who knows. Meanwhile, not one of the wives thought, "Hey, maybe one of us should call 911," which, I guess, either means: 1) they're all complete idiots, or 2) they all secretly wanted him to die. I'm hoping for the latter.

Cut to "11 months later" (why not just make it an even year?) -- we see Margine with a horrible haircut for her face shape come in to announce she'd be leaving to go on volunteer overseas for a few months. Yay. Dreams. Meanwhile, we get the idea that Barb is now the spiritual leader of the family and even runs Bill's church, which also, for whatever inexplicable reason, somehow managed to gain the allegiance of all the compound people when their prophet Albie (the fifth best character in the show after Roman, Bill's mom, crazy compound Rhonda, and Very Truly Yours Hollis Green) went to prison (which, by the way, we learn not from any could've-been-so-great dramatic scene but from a casual mention of it from Bill to one of his wives or whoever). And what the f*ck? Why is anyone still associating with that stone-cold sociopathic bitch Nicki, let alone still "married" to her? Besides the best one-liners in the show, her character was horrible. I don't get it.

Not to worry, though, the two creators of the show recently let us in on the secret to understanding it all: it's all about feminism! Duh! Maybe if I wasn't just a dumb girl, I'd have understood. Or maybe I just preferred the first three seasons when the storyline actually made some sense, before the writers found an easy way to stop writing good lines for Bill's mom and gave her dementia, before the ridiculously fascinating Rhonda was downgraded to "single mom stripper," before the eldest daughter, Sara (the voice of reason on the show), left because the actress who played her was smart enough to get out before the show's two feminist male creators first jumped the shark, and then simply fed the show to it. Seriously, this season finale was about as fun as running into a piece of selachimorpha feces while you're snorkeling.

And while I'm pretty sure, my mind is made up where Big Love falls on my television scale of watchability (probably right between The Little Chocolatiers and Animal Hoarders), I'd invite arguments from the other side. Specifically, I'm looking for someone who thinks he or she can justify the Margine storyline. If you can and you're convincing, I'll promise never to mention Animal Hoarders again. Hell, I'll even move Big Love up in my rankings and put it between Facts of Life reruns and Geico commercials. So, what'dya say? Did you watch?

look away...

2011-03-21T09:46:00.007Z

"I'm hideous!"

What? No you're not!

"Yes I am! I'm ugly!"

No! Don't say that! I think you're beautiful.

"But you're my mom! You HAVE to say that! Everyone else probably thinks I'm disgusting."

First of all, that's not true. And if anyone tells you differently, they can go f*ck themselves because, Blog, I think your new look is gorgeous.

"No! It's dumb! I look like I was designed by the same drunk toddlers who redid the Post."

YOU SHUT YOUR ANTHROPOMORPHIC MOUTH, YOUNG BLOG!

"But it's true! This new logo is childish. I mean, seriously, A stick figure middle finger? Really?"

WHAT?! THAT'S A TWIG! That is a twig that person is holding.

"Why would someone be holding a twig?"

DON'T YOU TALK BACK TO ME!

"The arm also seems to be coming out of that person's ear..."

I'M WARNING YOU, BLOG...

"Or what? You'll delete me?"

*smack*

DON'T YOU EVER SAY THAT AGAIN! Blog, I love you! Don't you realize that? I would never delete you. Ever! I thought you'd like this new design. I made the logo up especially for you with my own two hands! (And Mac Paintbrush...) I mean, don't you see the badass font I created? The eagle I cut'n'pasted? The middle finger/twig I drew? Not to mention, the entire redesign of the color palette. It's so much easier on the eyes! The lines are so much cleaner. One day you'll appreciate what I've done for you.

"I miss the muppet."

Blog, we will all miss the muppet. But you're not a baby anymore. You're almost four years old!

"Which is exactly what begs the question of why you deemed a child's refrigerator art a suitable logo..."

That's it, Blog. You're grounded. There will be no more writing on you at least until tomorrow.

"But mom!"

Nope. No buts! (Or butts!) Whining will not help. Now, pack up all your pixels and HTML and go to your room. And while you're reading your archives, I want you to remember what's really important here. It's not what's on the outside that matters as much as what's on the inside and that hasn't changed.

"You're right. I think I overreacted. I don't look that bad. Actually, I look kinda cool.

Aww, there's my sweet blog. Now can you give me an e-hug in the form of a painfully awkward, yet hilarious YouTube clip?

"I can't think of anything I'd rather do more. I love you."

I love you too, Blog. I love you too.

party hard

2011-03-18T09:39:00.005Z

Not since this toddler trashed a bar in Las Palmas (and then proceeded to redesign the Washington Post's Web site) did a group of children get as wasted as they did yesterday, right here in DC, when four 8-year-olds decided to bump some rails through a rolled up report card in the little boys' room.

Yes, Washington, DC, is a wonderful place to live...if you love crack/cocaine. (You can even be a city councilman or the mayor!)

But take heart, it's Friday today, and we all know what that means -- FUN FUN FUN FUN!

brought to you by dan steinberg's floating head

2011-03-17T11:05:00.003Z

Actual screenshot. Amazing.

Also brought to you by the THE EMPTY SET OF QUOTATION MARKS. What. The. F*ck??? The Washington Post's Endlessly Awful Web Redesign

It's only a matter of time now before Mayor Vince Gray develops a crack addiction and starts yelling at a bitch for setting him up, right? TBD/ABC7

Rebecca Black's 13-year-old friend must have been driving. Either way, FUN FUN FUN FUN! DCist

I read the Post this morning---"pause for murmurings of sympathy!"---and the only thing worse than the awful Web redesign (SEE ABOVE!) is that this passed as a column fit to publish. Washington Post

So, let me get this straight: Russia can petition for, plan and host the Winter Olympics by 2014, yet DC and Virginia can't figure out how to build a railway to our largest airport? DERP. Washington Examiner

Then I guess I don't feel guilty for wanting to convert the Chinese Food-Subs-Fried Chicken-Fish-Carry-Out establishment across the street into a millinery specializing in top hats. Washington City Paper

Marina Abramovic's performance art is pretty interesting, but in my heart, I think I'll always appreciate Roman Abromovich's taste in yachts more. Hirshhorn

Get ready to elbow college kids in the face! Sweetlife Festival tickets go on sale tomorrow! WeLoveDC

Actually, they went on sale yesterday. Sweetgreen

Mistakes were made. AFP

design for dummies

2011-03-15T18:29:00.003Z

There are horrible things going on in this world. Nuclear meltdown horrible. And that's not a metaphor...

But this isn't a blog about that. And that's OK. As fellow DC blogger/writer Lemmonex wrote recently, "Give the finger to that ass that cuts you off and mutter at the woman holding you up at the grocery store. It doesn't mean that you don't care about all the pain and suffering in the world, it just means that you are dealing with your world as best you can on a daily basis."

That's right, I'm coping. And I must thank The Washington Post for helping me along. See, they recently redesigned their Web site and it's helping me completely avoid so many of the terrible atrocities going on in the world. See?

Web designer 1: You like picture? The drunk toddler who's clearly in charge : DERP!

OK, so there's one tragedy I couldn't avoid. But think of all the ones I did! Libya who? Riots in Bahrain what? Yes, it seems the Post is the honey badger of the newspaper world -- it don't give a sh*t! One picture and a big-ass advertisement (not to be confused with a big ass-advertisement) for George Washington University School of Business and voila! F*ck everything else!

And it just gets worse... HOW MANY FONT VARIATIONS DOES ONE PAPER NEED?! As one commenter noted:

There are about a dozen conflicting font/size combinations on the front page alone, and they don't make any kind of intuitive sense. Sometimes section headings are in a serif old-school news font (e.g. "Featured Galleries"), where other headings are in a sans serif font (e.g. "Featured Videos"). Some headlines are in serif, while others aren't, and there appears to be no rhyme or reason for the differences. This very comment box uses a serif font of unique size to request that I "Weigh In," while I can count at least seven different sans serif text sizes in my view, not to mention varietals of bolded text, underlined text, all caps, no caps and grayed out text...

...I've been frustrated with certain aspects of the Post in the last few years, especially your op-ed contributors. But still I've relied on this site as my main news portal. The redesign is making me reconsider."

I couldn't have said it better myself. In fact, I suppose I didn't. Well complained, sir. Well complained.

a very scatological essay

2011-03-14T11:14:00.002Z

If anyone reads this blog with any regularity, you probably have heard about my hatred of the slop served at Ben's Chili Bowl. With that in mind, perhaps I should've said if you read this blog with any irregularity...

Poop.

But for real, cultural institution aside, just thinking about the actual chili at Ben's makes my bowels go into a twister of agony that can only be relieved via a hurricane's force worth of winds. Yes, we're talking Category 5 farts, my friends. Sh*t ain't pretty...literally.

And just think of the environmental consequences! If every man, woman and child on earth dined on a bowl of Ben's, the resulting amount of methane released into the air would certainly kill everything on earth. It would be an explosion to put the Big Bang to shame! We'd bring about another ice age! The world would effectively end.

So, color me ~~doo-doo brown~~ surprised when I read this weekend that Ben's Chili Bowl received an award for environmental stewardship. Um...

I'm going to go ahead and call false advertising on the name of this "award." Now, if Ben's had decided to upgrade it's U.S.D.A Grade WTF meat to some sort of locally farmed and grazed variety, perhaps then we could talk. But this is an award simply for recycling cooking oil. And since, it seems, Ben's Clogged Toilet Bowl probably uses more than most -- 2,629 gallons to be exact -- they won. Or so I'm guessing.

But who cares. I know I'm in the minority when it comes to my opinion on whether Ben's is a food establishment or an enema factory, so it's not worth arguing about any longer. And who knows? Maybe one day, when I'm super pissed at my bowels, I'll even dine at Ben's again.

And speaking of local food, the Fojol Bros of Merlindia made a Top 20 list of American food trucks! Who knew mystery-restaurant Indian delivery food speckled with fake mustache hairs would be such a hit? Congratulations! Yes, these are the forefathers of the food truck bonanza currently happening in DC and I must thank them from the bottom of my black heart because they really paved the way for my own personal ambition -- Associated Smoothie Solutions. Instead of fake mustaches and wigs, however, my gimmick will be assless chaps (it'll make my decision to ever eat at Ben's that much easier). Despite my ingenious idea, though, I'm afraid to say the investors have not been filling up my inbox. I bet you they'd be into this idea in Portland...especially if I let them put a bird on it. (And yes, I'm still talking about my butt.)

Which brings me to Mike Tyson, well, the mention of the bird, not the butt. Has anyone seen his new show about pigeons on Animal Planet? It's amazing. It's the opposite of Ben's Chili Bowl.

Phew! I did it! I wasn't sure how I would get this blog to go ~~full retard~~ full circle, but I somehow managed, and just in time to watch The View, too. (Shut up.) And with that, I'll bid you a happy Monday. Remember, it's only five days till Friday!

oh dear lord god...

2011-03-10T12:55:00.002Z

First thing this morning, I see this:

DC Ranks First in Lawyers Per Capita

Second thing I see? This:

DC Ranks No. 1 in Twitter Usage

Now I'm left to wonder, why is DC always best at the lamest stuff? More importantly, why am I reading the Avery Index and Men's Health?

The second question is actually quite easy to answer: Twitter. But wait a second...

O god of the e-heavens above, the irony! It's so blatantly exemplified in how I came across these two surveys! This can only me one thing: I am the reason DC is best at the lamest stuff! It's me, @theantidc! And judging from our No. 1 spot in "Twitter Towns, USA," (Jesus, that sounds so dumb) it's also @you and @everyoneelse in this town! We're all Tweet-tards!

But at least I'm not the worst offender; I'm not a @lawyer (or would that be an @lawyer?)...

But hey, being the best at embarrassing things is still better than being the best at nothing at all, right? Right. So, suck our @balls, middling cities with better things to do than tweet and litigate! You guys can keep your healthy human interactions in your pocket. We're doing just fine here and you can ~~quote~~ tweet me on that.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go tweet that I just blogged. But of course, you already know that because that's how @you probably just got here! @@@@hhhh! Mind 'splode.

grab on!

2011-03-09T16:03:00.000Z

Remember how I wrote about how awesome Baltimore-based electronic/rap duo Claire Hux was live? Well, that was already over two years ago now. *sigh* Back when we were all young sprites. But just because time has passed, doesn't mean any of us have lost our cool. OK, so I may have lost my cool, but really, it's debatable whether I ever possessed any to begin with. But Claire Hux? Well, all I can do is thank them for making me at least feel less lame whenever I listen to them. Check out their new video, follow them on Twitter, and cross your fingers that they'll come to DC sometime soon!

dmv vs. dmv as determined by a very elegant cat lady

2011-03-07T12:35:00.003Z

Sometimes people ask me how it is that I compose a typical blog post. Do I plan it ahead of time? Do I compose an outline? Do I have a list of one-liners and Internet allusions by my side while I watch my helper tortoise Vladimir type away? No. No. No. And no. Everything that happens on The Anti DC, stays on The Anti DC. Really, save for the occasional Shambles P.I. event, which my new hire, a cephalopod named Nicodemus (duh, winning!), photographs by shapeshifting himself into a camera (no, for real!) and snaps days before the post goes up, most everything else that gets posted here is a last minute decision, or in today's case, totally by accident.

See, I was going to amaze you all with a vlog about my cat. Unfortunately, however, not everyone involved wanted to participate. In other words, my cat's an asshole. While the video started off nicely enough, by 30 seconds in, it had devolved into him attempting to scratch my face off. All this left me with was a set of comical stills and a new Facebook and Twitter profile picture that makes me look like a very elegant cat lady.

So elegant.

So stupid.

Not winning.

And so, we had to scratch that idea. (Get it?! SCRATCH? Ha!) and come up with something else. We'll go with the equally violent DMV Awards.

Well, I gotta say, violence at the DMV Awards comes as no surprise to me. Really, this news just reinforces all the stereotypes I already have. I mean, just thinking about these people makes me scared. I would really hate to meet one of these people on the street. They're vicious! Have you ever had to talk to one? It's bone-chilling! It also takes sooooo much time. It's like these people don't even understand what it's like to have responsibilities. All they do is just collect tax payer money -- my money -- and carry on like nothing's wrong. It's like they think that's how the world's supposed to work. It's sickening. Seriously, I hate having to go get my license renewed...

Wait, what? I sounded like a racist for a minute?! Um, you're the one assuming all Department of Motor Vehicles employees are black! Wait, what? Are you telling me DMV stands for something else? You're saying I should have researched a little before writing something? Well, that's an issue you should be taking up with Emilio, but fine, let me Google that for ~~you~~ myself...

Ohhhh, I see. My bad. DMV stands for DC-Maryland-Virginia and the DMV Awards was a ceremony honoring the local urban music scene. Did Wale win everything?!?! No? OK, fine. I'll stick to cat videos...

*Thanks in advance for the hair compliments. (I BETTER GET SOME!) Defying how it probably should look, this elegant cat lady style is called, "grow your highlights out for two years and cut your own bangs too short." It's what happens when your stylist skips town to go to business school (only in DC...). In other news, I should apparently start doing hair...

news that will make your children weep over your exploded body

2011-03-03T11:36:00.003Z

Well, dip me in tiger blood and call me a winner, the attention whore White House party crasher sociopaths known as Michaele and Tariq Salahi are headed to Celebrity Rehab with Doctor Drew. He'll join the likes of other "stars" like David Hassellhoff's TV son on Baywatch, that Asian chick who guest starred on that one Lost episode that one time and Lindsay Lohan's dad. Yes, it's a group sure to amaze and astound, or at the very least confuse you because 1) Who are most of these people? and 2) What the f*ck has gone so wrong in my life that I seem to care?

Yeah, sadly, I'll probably watch this sh*t. I'll hate every minute of it and probably feel like doing all kinds of illegal substances just to mask the shame. Irony. Oh, TV, why must you be so cruel to us?! And I say "us," because I know with the Salahis on, you'll probably be sucked into this spiral of shame, too. See, sociopaths are fascinating...as long as they're presented to you via bad reality shows and not in real life. That's why working on Capitol Hill is so terrifying! ZING!

In other news, Washington City Paper underwent a redesign. I'm sure Dan Snyder will sue for that too.

Twitter and Facebook are more tool-infested than ever.

Why the f*ck is the demand for Type II Diabetes so high in DC?

Lastly, thank high priest Vatican assassin warlocks that this gif exists: SURPRISE!

oscar, party of one

2011-02-28T11:11:00.000Z

Was I the only area resident who actually enjoyed the Oscars last night? If I am to believe what 400 strangers were telling me on Twitter last night, then yes...

You haters! How can you not enjoy the mere presence of James Franco's likely high, ceaseless squint? He looks like a guy I used to date who, when he met my mother and I for dinner once insisted on ordering nothing but hard liquor -- flaming kamikaze shots, to be exact. But he was Russian and we were in Moscow, so this was totally acceptable and, more importantly, loads of hilarious and awkward fun -- the best kind to have. Oh, what lovely vague early-twenties memories... *sigh*

And so maybe that's why I was able to enjoy last night's Oscars; I wasn't thinking about the show that much. However, in the rare moments I was, Anne Hathaway's ridiculously awesome wardrobe and Randy Newman's acceptance speech satisfied those fleeting moments of attention. The latter item also inspired one of my only two tweets of the evening (the key is moderation) -- "The only way Randy Newman's acceptance speech could've been better is if he shortened it to "Award show speeches can suck my balls." Thank you, I'll be here all ~~night~~ forever, or at least until the next future of technology comes along and we all move on to that one. (In either case, I hope Franco keeps his current avatar, as pictured above.)

But the real treat of the night came after the Oscars, or #oscars, as it were, when WJLA's Arch Campbell popped onto the picture box looking like a total dick...

You know, like a 1940s private eye from a noir film! Like some sort of Philip Marlowe in his detective's fedora! That guy was a dick through and through! But still not nearly as big of a dick as Campbell... For example, last night Arch boasted that he's been able to predict the big winners for two years in a row! TWO WHOLE YEARS! That must be some kind of record! Oh wait, I've been able to do it for ~~three~~, ~~four~~ every year since the Internet was born. I guess that makes me the biggest dick of all. I EVEN HAVE THE HAT!

And please, just ignore the fact that Arch's breasts are bigger than mine. Neither of us like to talk about it...

But getting back to WJLA's coverage of the Oscars -- lol. That sh*t was hilarious. Campbell somehow deduced that Black Swan was geared toward women (did he see it?), which caused Cynee Simpson, who went in costume as a beauty pageant contestant from 1998, to pause then recover with something like, "Sure. I guess there was a lot of ballet in it." I mean, really, what the hell else can you even say to that?

More importantly, how much more of that can one person watch? Or worse, read about? And so I'll save you the rest (as I saved myself last night by flipping off network television, both with the remote and my finger), and end this post by punctuating it with an YouTube video, which I found through one of my daily must-clicks, whatevs.net. This should be a contender for best documentary film next year.

maths. it's hard

2011-02-25T10:48:00.002Z

You know how people around here love to talk about surveys and things that say things like we're the smartest city in America? Well, that's some bullsh*t. Maybe it's true that we hold more degrees per capita than the rest of the country, but I certainly don't think that makes us smarter. For one, look at me. I'm a huge moron. The only way I'm even able to go about my day-to-day business is with, like, six helper animals. One does the reading, one writes, one handles the finances (which means finding change in the couch), one answers the phone, and two play Settlers of Catan with me. In fact, right now, as one of them writes this, I'm actually asleep in a hyperbaric chamber resting the few functional bits of my mind that are smart enough to know I'm more successful when I outsource my work to a menagerie of farm animals.

But still, I'm not the dumbest. The dumbest person in DC, I'm pretty sure was in front of me in line at the Subway vittles establishment in Dupont Circle attempting to eat fresh on Wednesday. (I was there in a rare public outing being towed in a child's red wagon by my helper horse Sven.) Here's what went down:

Idiot: "Can I get a 24-inch meatball marinara on wheat please?"

Sandwich Artist: "What?"

Idiot: "A 24-inch meatball."

Sandwich Artist: "We don't have 24 inches."

Idiot: "What's that one?"

Sandwich Artist: "Twelve."

Idiot: "I thought it was six."

Sandwich Artist: "It's 12."

Idiot: "So you don't have 24 inch subs?"

Sandwich: "You can get two 12 inches."

Idiot: "What do you mean?"

And no, this wasn't a kid playing a joke, a foreigner getting weened off the metric system, or a drunk and confused hobo. This was a mid-twenties, probable college graduate in a suit. Thank God my helper horse Sven (incidentally, besides wagon-tower, he's also the one in charge of the finances) was able to use a series of neighs and hoof stomps to explain to this fool that 12 + 12 = 24. Hell, even I knew that...

So yeah. We're definitely not the smartest...

No, the smartest, I think, are in Philadelphia. Or at least the smartest vampires.

Eeek! How suspenseful! Don't tell me I was the only one waiting in fear that this would happen. Now time for the weather. Tiffany!

so, that tbd thing? well...

2011-02-24T11:08:00.027Z

***UPDATE F*CKING FOUR: This is the blog that never ends, yes it goes on and on my friends. Some people started writing it not knowing what it was, and they'll continue writing it forever just because...

***UPDATE TRES: The second Wemple Wesponse is now up for your eyes to gravitate toward. Read, scroll, whatever. You know the drill.

***UPDATE DEUX: I responded to Wemple's Wesponse. If you've read this whole thing, then scroll down and I trust your literacy will be able to tell you when. If you haven't read any of this, then I suggest you just keep reading and forget the scroll. You'll get there...eventually. Good luck.

***UPDATE: TBD Editor Erik Wemple wrote me a long email in response to my original essay on the current happenings at TBD. He said it wasn't off the record, so I cut and paste the whole thing below because it's pretty interesting, at least if you're following this topic. I also labeled it "Wemple Wesponse" because I cannot resist any opportunity to alliterate. But first, here's my original essay:

News broke yesterday, or rather, was squeezed out on Twitter like a kid who has yet to learn how to use the toothpaste tube properly (SO MUCH TWEETING!) that local media start-up TBD.com was re-appropriating itself into a "niche site on arts and entertainment." Oh, fantastic. And because we're talking about TBD, I might as well do what they do/did best and use Twitter as a primary news source:

Lovely butt joke, Marcus of awesome local music blog True Genius Requires Insanity! Although, sorry, I doubt they're hiring...

See, unfortunately, one of the main components of this change is widespread layoffs, meaning only about eight of the original maybe two dozen-plus employees will probably remain. (Sidenote: that totally sucks.) And judging from the rapidity of the site's devolution from supposed leader of the new media to, um, let's be honest, poorly designed blog (I'm sorry, the epilepsy-inducing Belfort furniture ads they've had up the last few weeks killed me), my prediction is that probably within the next eight weeks, TBD will be gone entirely. #realist

But, really, as much as I hate to say it because I have friends over there, can we really say we're shocked? Disappointed, sure. But shocked? I don't know. My suspicions that this would end rather unhappily began even before the project launched last August. Why? Allow me to explain...

After speaking last summer with former TBD exec Jim Brady, who left the operation in November over creative differences, I was seriously pumped up about this experiment. I believed in his vision of an interactive local news source that understood the way a lot of people get their news these days (via blogs, Twitter, Facebook, etc.). I was so excited about this new idea that I even applied for a job there. Brady emphasized they were looking for writers with "voices" who could bring something unique and new to the project. Perfect, I thought. I'd been blogging everyday at that time, my readership was at a high, no one else really does what I do in DC. Well, save for Terry the Tourette's Turtle. He does what I do the best, which is why he's The Anti DC's creative director. But the point is, it seemed natural that finally someone would want to pay me (and ergo Terry) for being the asshole editorialist everyone loves to hate to love (I hope it ends there) on the Web.

However, as soon as I sat down in front of TBD editor Erik Wemple and several members of the staff, I learned quickly that that may not have actually been what it was all about.

"What do you see yourself doing here at TBD?" one of them asked. (Forgive me for not remembering who or exact words here.)

"I'd like to do here what I have proven to do best on a daily basis -- really funny features and editorials. Probably some longer form stories, as well."

"Hmm. We're not focusing on features or long-form. We're looking for a transportation reporter. Do you see yourself covering the Metro? "

"Uh..."

And that's when my personal expectations for TBD dropped dramatically. What I thought Brady had relayed to me at one of TBD's pre-launch blogger happy hours wasn't matching what I was actually hearing from what seemed like half the editorial staff. Brady wanted innovation, something different; TBD wanted what sounded to me like a standard beat reporter. I was confused and, despite that I got along with everyone (Wemple is hilarious and the other people seemed nice), I left that interview wondering a little bit why I had been called in. I don't want to be a beat reporter. And not to toot my own horn (TOOOOOOOT! Don't worry, that was just Terry's butt.), but knowing what I can do -- the voice and ideas that ~~Terry~~ I could, or at least, I thought I could bring to this brand new proverbial table -- the revelation that they brought me in to interview for a standard beat reporting position seemed silly.

Which is maybe why they didn't hire me. I'm sure I came across as less than enthusiastic. And I'm pretty sure my salary requirements were also probably hilarious to them. And while I admit it stung because, well, who likes rejection? By the time they called back, I had already decided I wasn't going to take it even if it was offered. I mean, honestly, reporting about Metro issues sounds like a Guantanamo form of torture to me.

But they found someone to do it. In fact, they scooped up a lot of talented local reporters, a few of whom I know for a fact were getting paid maybe only half of what they're worth. Later, when a member of TBD's staff pitched their community network to me, I even signed on, joining the likes of other good blogs like WeLoveDC and Borderstan. Despite my doubts, I still had some hope. Maybe I had just gotten a weird impression and Brady's view of things was actually how it would be done. Also, what kind of idiot turns down an offer for free links to ~~Terry's~~ my work? And, indeed, the Web traffic on this masterpiece before you went up. But then...

Well, I don't know what happened. Judging from just the sheer size of the staff, TBD definitely had a lot to work with, but it seems TBD always lacked one very important thing -- a clear, unified vision that would make it truly new, different, innovative. But it just...wasn't.

Obviously, I'm sure naming their brand after an uncertain term didn't really help, but I'm also sure parties outside of TBD, like WJLA and Allbritton, had something to do with the confusion, as well. But no matter the specific reasons, the fact remained that TBD always came off as a sort of dumpster baby love child of DCist and PostLocal. I didn't get it. Actually, no one I knew -- both journalism friends and others -- really got it. It was like a tabloid, wrapped in weather reporting, draped with film reviews, dunked in sports stories, sprinkled with random lists and topped with Amanda Hess. And from what I understand, it seems this confusing (lack of?) identity wasn't just sensed by those of us on the outside...

And so maybe it will be good for TBD (the venture, that is, and clearly not the newly unemployed reporters, for whom I sincerely feel) to narrow it down. Maybe now, with a clearer vision, TBD can finally dump that horribly uncertain name and choose what it wants to be -- a pretty standard A & E outlet. I just hope for the remaining eight it's not just another hole in DC's ass, *ahem*, as it were. I guess time will tell...

And speaking of time, don't you believe it's high time you "like" this blog, The Anti DC, upon which your eyes have fallen? YES! To do so, please, go to this Facebook page and just push the "like" button, hell, even share it with your other e-friends!. Along with updates about posts, you'll also find an array of inappropriate but hilarious links to things I find on the Internet that have yet to weave their way into the prose here. As a sneak peak, here's one I posted just last night, in honor of Paula Deen's appearance on Top Chef. Enjoy!

***Wemple Wesponse, sent via email on 2/24/2011***

Hey Marissa: Read your evaluation of TBD last night. Have no idea why you might think that your take was unpopular [NOTE: When I Tweeted my essay last night, I described my view as one that would likely be unpopular -- M]; it already has many fans here at the offices of TBD.

What I particularly enjoyed was your critique of our mission, our purpose. It probably wouldn't surprise you that this very topic was the source of much soul-searching in these offices. Consider that we started out as a local news operation with a robust staffing level and a TV news operation with a wide reach. So it made sense that TBD.com would seek to cover the entire region. As the Washington Post and other outlets have discovered, that's a really hard thing to do with any degree of granularity across such a wide expanse of jurisdictions and people.

That's why we had to make choices---choices about which beats our approximately 12 reporters would cover, choices about how they would cover them, and choices about which areas we'd ignore. Based on your excellent post, you've concluded that we chose poorly. Fair enough. No one here would say that all of the choices were smart, forward-looking, whatever. What I will say is that we worked really hard to survey the local newscape in search of soft spots, places where we could make an impact. The results were varied, but what I will defend till the end is the work we put in toward refining the mission. We tried everything we could in the time we had.

Now to your point about transportation coverage. I don't quite know why you have such an aversion to this topic, but it just happens to be a place where we had considerable success. Don't know if you'd ever read our OnFoot blog, but it has been a big success both in terms of traffic but also in terms of positive feedback from others who cover this area. You also seem to look down on transportation coverage as some lame and boring beat, a take that makes me wonder what news universe you've been living in. Metro, pedestrian issues, buses, commutageddon---all of this stuff is huge these days and will get only huger as the region grows and our infrastructure struggles to get funded. Drama hovers in these corridors, too; we're talking about failing escalators that throw people around, fights on Metro platforms, shouting matches between motorists and pedestrians, and a lot more.

It's just so important. I mean, there's a reason that Greater Greater Washington is moving from a cult forum for smart growth people to something that everyone is catching on to. Even if you sit at home and blog all day, you eventually have to go somewhere. And as environmental consciousness grows, your mode of transportation increasingly becomes an element of your identity. Transportation is about as sexy as it gets in terms of local beats these days. Those are just a few of the reasons why the smaller TBD will stick with this beat.

Anyhow, thanks for coming in and talking to us and thanks very much for taking the time to read TBD. That you wrote such a thoughtful critique of the site can mean only that you read it on occasion, and as editor, I appreciate that.

Feel free to print any or all of this.

/WempleWesponse

For those of you who are still interested in this topic (and if you just took the time to read all of this, then I suspect you are), stay tuned. I will have a full response to the wesponse up later. Right now, however, I have things to do that I get paid for. And no, I don't mean prostitution. It's not nightfall yet.

*five hours later*

Why, hello. I'm back to push this blog post to just about 3,000 words. Good Lord. Anyway, here's the thing about transportation reporting. I generally don't give a sh*t. Why? My commute to basically anywhere I need to get in any given day is a 20 minute walk/10 minute bike ride. I'm lucky. That said, I understand many people do give a sh*t, perhaps even two sh*ts. Hell, if you live out in Falls Church, maybe you give infinity sh*ts. Ergo, I understand the importance of day-to-day transportation reporting or "the transpo beat," as it were (although, is it? I just heard that...). It's necessary in a city with a subway, highways, downtown traffic, etc. And let's not forget cycling. If there's a sector of this beat that is the recipient of my sh*ts, cycling is it. Congratulations, cycling.

Now, on to the specific criticism that I somehow derided not just transportation reporting as a general occupation, but on TBD specifically. I did not. I noted that TBD scooped up a talented bunch of reporters, your transportation guy is included. The OnFoot blog (which I do read on occasion, as I do with the rest of TBD) is good. And I know that if I cared to know, I could always turn to TBD to find out which roads were flooded, where all the goriest accidents occurred, how many people Metro's escalator's killed yesterday, all the "sexy" transportation stories.

But those transportation stories will still more or less be simple inverted pyramid daily journalism stories, which are divine for relaying information, but not so glorious if you're a writer looking for a job doing long-form features, opinion columns and humor essays. Hence, my griping. It wasn't about the job of transportation reporter itself, it was about me unknowingly interviewing for said job. I don't believe I would be professionally fulfilled doing that. Likewise, I also wouldn't be professionally fulfilled as an aerospace engineer, which doesn't mean I think it's stupid -- SPACESHIPS ARE AWESOME! -- but that it's not my rum-spiked cup of tea. So, if in my aforementioned essay, I was unclear and I inadvertently offended any transportation reporters, aspiring transportation reporters, or simple transportation reporter lovers (Erik), I apologize.

Also, I get what you mean about making choices. For instance, there are a lot more things I'd like to complain about in DC than what you simply see on this blog, but alas, I'm only one idiot savant. I can't write a diatribe about every crooked politician or douche in Georgetown, especially now that I have a cat. He's precious and if I'm to learn anything from the Internet it's that people love a good cat video...

But getting back to the point: Since I seem to quite surprisingly have your ear, I'd like to talk about some of TBD's choices. I understand that your resources were not unlimited. What I don't get was why TBD didn't have more meaty, exclusive stories. Certainly, I assume, your reporters could've handled that. I know they could've. So why this inexplicable dearth? I have a theory -- and this will probably be unpopular for real...

There's been a lot of talk around your organization about the "future of journalism." From what I've observed, to the people who like to talk about it the most, one of the main components of this meme is trying to figure out how to use Twitter as a primary source and convincing others they should accept it, you know, because it's the inevitable future or whatever. I don't buy it.

As I'm sure you know, especially since your career has been far more illustrious than mine thus far, what makes good journalism hasn't really changed since the days of storytelling. You need good sources, context, relevant details. Journalists are paid to find out things the average citizen shouldn't be able to just log on to Twitter and follow. That's why I really didn't get things like TBDNight or why one of the main duties of what seemed like half the staff (and, yikes, I think I mean that literally) was making sure everyone knew TBD was on Twitter. And Foursquare. And Facebook. And whatever else is brand new and totally futuristic these days. Maybe I'm oversimplifying things here, perhaps underlying TBD's efforts to ring in journalism's mysterious future was some big master plan that hadn't yet had time to roll out. But I gotta say, to many (and believe me, it's not just me), it just looked like a waste of good resources -- resources that could've been used to give reporters more time to develop their sources and stories or, um, make a more attractive site. I guess my opinion boils down to this: What makes good and readable journalism is more or less the same, it's just the medium that's changed. Hooray, you can publish on the Web now!

Which is exactly what brought us all here. And what I'm about to do so I can wrap this up and go get something to eat. But before I go, I want to say thank you, Erik, for your comments. I can't emphasize how surprised I was that you would choose to speak out on a blog whose mascot is a nonplussed muppet opposed to, say, a media source that people actually read. And to those few of you who have come over here and have stuck through these last one million words, please, feel free to add some of your own. I'm curious of what people think about this whole future of journalism thing. Is it bullsh*t or am I full of bullsh*t?

---

And then before I knew it, Wemple went berserk and sent me 8 million links to TBD features and scoops and meaty bits (ew), oh my!

Wow, more powerful and piercing criticism of TBD. How can I not reply in kind?

On transpo, I understand. My bad for making such an issue of that. De gustibus non disputandum est. So let's close that discussion.

On the social networking front, you seem annoyed that we worked hard on Twitter and 4SQ and other such platforms. Yeah, guilty. We wanted to have a site that wasn't just on the web, but of the web, in the words of former General Manager Jim Brady. To a great extent, I think, it worked, considering that we'd find people on Twitter frequently reaching out to us with questions. Like, "Hey, TBD, why are there 20 police cars in such and such a place right now?" But I'll leave a more complete answer to the social media gripe to Steve Buttry.

Now to the heart of your latest post: To quote you: "What I don't get was why TBD didn't have more meaty, exclusive stories."

Perhaps you weren't reading quite as closely as I thought you were. Let's call in the links.

*From the site's very early days, we did tons of meaty-exclusive stuff. Just sample this rural-crime classic by Molly Ball about a spasm of violence in Virginia.

*Or this heavily reported arts piece by Maura Judkis on how they make Mary Poppins fly. Talking about exclusives: Judkis, as you may know, also broke and then prosecuted like mad the National Portrait Gallery censorship story of late last year. Judkis also did a killer exclusive on a cell phone that went off in a theater, which forced a performer to flub her lines.
More exclusivity, this time on an opera lyricist.

*And while we're talking about reported and original arts coverage, take a look at this Ryan Kearney piece on how Gawker handled a gory photograph. Here's one of my favorites from Kearney, a big story on a Leesburg firm that polices film piracy.

*Think, too, about arts writer Sarah Godfrey. If this piece on the Gray Goose Mansion in Adams Morgan isn't exclusive, what is? Godfrey also did a number of interviews with the families of victims of the P.G. County homicide rash---I think they'd meet your criteria.

*Now we're on the topic of crime and death, so I turn to TBD reporter Sarah Larimer. To me, meaty and exclusive mean weeks of shoe-leather reporting, which is exactly what Larimer poured into this piece about how a Latino man lost his life working at a car wash. That wasn't our most-trafficked story ever; it just happens to be an example of a reporter who cared enough to find out about someone that the rest of the media did a few short sentences on and then moved onto other stories. Let's do some more Larimer here, like this story, in which she managed to get in the apartment of the man who held up a Takoma Park bank and was shot dead by police.

*More on crime, this time with a transpo twist: Will you ever find a meatier, more exclusive take on life, crime, and public transportation than Dave Jamieson's enormous investigation on iPhone robberies? Here. And speaking of following up and developing sources, feast your narrative-starved brain on this more recent piece on the cops nabbing said robbers.

*Sorry, gotta keep going here. If you care about College Park, you probably knew of Turtle, which TBDer Kevin Robillard captured in one (very exclusive) retrospective. For more awesome local biz coverage, try this one by Jennifer Rogers, on a Safeway in Southwest that started checking customers' receipts upon exit. And then there was the TBD investigation of a farm in Virginia that got cited by state authorities for animal cruelty violations (namely, starving its animals). The farm was supplying D.C.-area businesses.

*Care about the intersection of biz and arts? Ally Schweitzer, who does our listings, did an investigative story on how Busboys & Poets compensates its affiliated namesakes (poets, that is).

*On a roll now, I gotta hype Daniel Victor's amazing story on pickup artists [Note: I actually used this story as a jumping off point for my own essay, "Every douche can be undone" -- TheAntiDC] plus Nathasha Lim's great one on why restaurant websites are so often terrible, Sommer Mathis did killer coverage of every little tick and tock of the DC9 story, Rebecca Cooper nailed the definitive, FOIA-assisted series on towing in Arlington, and Elahe Izadi did the exclusive on a raid on the home of a former National Archives employee.

When we weren't producing these exclusives, we were often banging away at breaking news. That's the turf of a fabulous ABC7 assignment desk, headed by dyed-in-the-wool newsies like Dan Patrick and Markham Evans, and TBD news editor Julie Westfall, who kept the fast-moving stories readable and up to date. Those folks worked closely with ace ABC7 reporters---Brad Bell, Sam Ford, Julie Parker, Suzanne Kennedy, just to name a few---to produce all manner of exclusives on local sports figures, the Fenty-Gray race, and on and on.

The recounting here may read as an exhaustive inventory, but it's not. There are many more, even though we've been around only six months.

But here's the thing: Your criticism that we didn't do enough exclusive, original content is by no means yours alone. I see it all the time in comments threads---people hammering us for taking, aggregating, the content of other outlets and not producing our own. Paul Farhi of the Washington Post wrote the same thing---that we do "some" original reporting but our big thing is aggregation.

Maddening, all of it. I am not blaming you of Farhi or all those commenters for somehow failing to notice how much original stuff we did. At some point you can't blame the people. Yet it's still confounding, because TBD stories were widely consumed. Judkis' big piece on the National Portrait Gallery has more than 700 Facebook shares; Victor's dating piece had hundreds; a piece by Jamieson on a Metro fight had nearly 6,000.

Maybe we should have fiddled with our homepage design to give our exclusives longer resting places; maybe we should have pushed stuff on Twitter more, though you suggest we did too much social networking; maybe we should have launched with a companion print edition that would have carried our exclusives to the street---given them more staying power, a la City Paper.

Maybe we just waded into a local news scene that was already saturated to the point that people couldn't really digest any more news, no matter how compelling or original it may have been. Another possibility is that people just like to dump on us because we got all that over-the-top media attention when we launched.

Whatever the case, I just want to point out to you that we did all this stuff and it's there for you, always. Today's enterprise story is right here.

/WempleWespose2

This is the blog that never ends yes it goes on and on my friends....

Being a savant of the idiotic variety, I've had to get good at admitting when I've made an error. This is and isn't that case. Why? Because sure, Erik, you proved with your bajillion links that there's hefty content there, but do I want to read it?

Sadly, the answer is no. And while the answer to why that is may be partly because I don't really care about what happens in College Park, as you introduced one of your above links, that's not the biggest reason. If Malcolm Gladwell can make an article about ketchup interesting, anything can be interesting. The thing about Gladwell, though, is that he always approaches subjects with a cool angle. Unfortunately for me, TBD's longer articles often didn't. To be more specific, I'm a sucker for the sociological, human angle. I want to be able to picture the people, the settings, the soul. I want to feel something when I invest in a longer piece. While that happened with some longer TBD pieces (Daniel Victor's pick-up artist article, Ryan Kearney's Gawker piece), it didn't with many others...

I'm not going to pick out individual stories to pick on, especially since many TBDers are looking for jobs now and Google lasts forever, but more than one lacked not only that angle I love. Even more so, several also lacked a certain flow I look for in long-form features. That, I think, is what I was implying when I noted TBD's lack of "meat." Of course, comparing the New Yorker to TBD is pretty unfair of me.

For one, TBD is primarily a daily news organization (I think, although we'll get to that in a moment). The New Yorker is not. Also, having known a New Yorker writer, I know each article is tweaked and edited for months before it sees the light of day or ether. Assuming first that the reporters at TBD have the goods for feature writing, they certainly do not have the luxury of time. From what I'm told, they're responsible for churning out roughly six stories a day. In my opinion, just getting anything out that goes deeper than a dateline and a couple of facts is commendable and if any of those reporters happen to be reading this right now, allow me to pause, allude to impresario of life Charlie Sheen, and say, you're all winners.

But content aside (which, by the way, is totally subjective), there's probably a bigger issue all the links you've brought up present. The bizarre design of TBD's Web site. Not only is it fugly, but judging from the fact that so many of the links you listed were new to me, a daily reader of TBD, I must conclude something was wrong with it. (Either that or I'm stupider than I thought, which believe me, I still have not discounted.) Were all these stories buried past the scroll? Did I need to click through 10 pages to find what I didn't even know I was looking for? I don't know. All I know is that more often than not, the lead story on TBD's front page would scream tabloid and I'd leave. Really, there's only so many days in a row a person can read about someone's horrific death. (Today's occurred in a tunnel.) It's numbing.

Worse than that, after clicking on some of the above stories, I've noticed that no matter how interesting the actual story, the headline is usually not. It's usually an SEO-heavy mess. (Although I imagine most people who are reading this know what SEO means, in case you're lucky and you don't, it stands for Search Engine Optimized, meaning you write inane, uninteresting headlines so people can easily find you via Google. Gene Weingarten, who's grown on my like an awesome cocaine pinky nail, has a pretty funny take on SEO headlines.) So, maybe these stories weren't buried after all, but they were just disguised with the most ugly SEO masks around.

Now, as far as the social networking ideas at TBD go, it's not that you're working hard on Twitter, but it seems like you're working hard chasing it, as if it's a viable source for stories other than revolution. (I've mentioned this before.) This article about the Oscars, well, I don't mean to be rude, but it was totally worthless. If I cared what strangers tweeted about the Oscars, I would've read my own Twitter feed. Also, although I'm sure the reporter has a good excuse (like having to write 18 gazillion stories in a 12-hour block), not watching the very thing she was charged to write about was probably not the best idea... And, no, this assessment doesn't mean I think Maura Judkis is a bad writer. Quite the contrary, actually, her flying Mary Poppins article that you linked to by her was fantastic, but this Oscars piece? Perhaps it's suitable for a random personal blog, but TBD? This is where I get confused about the vision of the entire operation. Is TBD a news organization (in which case, shouldn't you make sure every one of your articles includes some actual reporting -- cutting and pasting tweets doesn't count) or are you a supersized blog? Like, are you competing with the Post or me?

shambles p.i.: the next generation

2011-02-23T11:14:00.004Z

Unlike the 1980s, kids have it hard these days, at least when it comes to fashion. To be cool they have to dress like blind 1920s hobos or even whip their hair back-and-forth while looking like tiny rodeo clowns. Gone are the days of kids fighting for their right to wear sweatsuits to church or no pants everywhere else. And yes, gone it seems are the days of kids being able to wear homemade jorts, paired with pirate shirts and denim vests inherited from their older brothers who got it in 1979. Farewell we must say to those Peter Pan moccasins we procured in our kindergarten play when a random drawing earned us the lead over other people's acting skills. Indeed, let us hold hands, sing Wang Chung's "Dance Hall Days" together and mourn these times...

But wait. What's that? A bird, a plane, a tiny Village Person? Me in 1985?!?!?!

Oh...my... THERE IT IS! MY DREAM OUTFIT OF 1985! Complete with a stance that says, "Hey mom and dad, if you don't get me a boombox for my birthday this summer so I can listen to this awesome Wang Chung tape on repeat [I really had a thing for Wang Chung...], I swear to Oliver North I'll shart my pants right here, in public, in front of all your jazzercise friends!"

It's like H&M read my mind 26 years ago (Sidenote: Holy sh*t...) and sharted this right into their store windows. Really, it's the Wang Chung of outfits. My Holy Get-Up Grail. My Perfect Denim Storm. I would totally dress a kid in this. And that kid would hate me.

See, judging from the likes of what one sees on television and magazines today, it seems most kids these days wouldn't be caught dead (or at least listening to Justin Bieber) in my dream 1985 ensemble. Take these kids, for example:

Arlo Weiner, 9, GQ's "Most Stylish Kid in America"

Willow Smith, 10, pop star

Arguably, these are the prototypes of today's youth, the Corey Feldmans or their generation. These are the kids other fashionable kids aspire to be like, meaning if my 6-year-old 1985 self showed up today in my little denim ensemble, I'd be cast out immediately. Or perhaps, it wouldn't be the outfit so much as my rolling up with a purple boombox blasting "Everybody Wang Chung Tonight." No, Wang Chung doesn't make you friends like it used to...

But enough about these generational differences. After all, kids are kids, no matter how they dress, right? Don't believe me? Take another look at the three photos and I'm sure you'll see a similarity. That's right, whether they choose to look like the coolest 6-year-old in 1985 or one of today's more fashion-forward children (dressed either like a midget newsie or gay MC Hammer) they're all doing the shart stance. It works like a charm. I still have that boombox.

the men at wapo are beliebers

2011-02-17T11:38:00.008Z

While it may be just fine for Taco Bell to use only 36 percent beef in their delicious wares, or for American pop artists to survive on just 36 percent music (although don't expect to win a Grammy. WHOISARCADEFIRE?!), I'm still having trouble wrapping my mind around the Washington Post's 36 percent news policy.

OK, that may be a little harsh. As an avid reader of the Post, I have actually come to depend on it for very important international news, like this:

Yeah, I was being #sarcastic. But for the record, at least that link goes to Ezra Klein's blog, which is better than, say, a legitimate article that would have a danger of showing up in the print edition. But still... The fact that Mr. Klein, one of the most recognizable names at the Post saw it fit to even mention this Bieber nonsense can only mean one thing -- THE POST'S BEEN INFECTED WITH THE BIEBER FEVER!

And perhaps, if Mr. Klein lived in Canada, he'd have been able to cure his case without having to be up to his Bieber-bowl cut in debt. But instead, it seems he did nothing... AND THE FEVER SPREAD! OH MY GOD, POST EDITORIAL WRITER JONATHAN CAPEHART HAS IT TOO! He writes:

"Just the sight of Justin Bieber elicits an eye roll from me. I mean, what's up with that hair? And he has a 3-D movie about his life? He's only 16! But it's his political comments in the latest Rolling Stone that have my eyes rolling so hard I can hear my mother saying, "Keep it up. Your eyes are going to stay that way."

OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMG! EVERYONE PUT YOUR SARS MASKS ON! THE END IS NIGH!

Or maybe not. Perhaps, instead, it's just the beginning -- the beginning of the Post's inevitable transformation into The Onion. (Side note: That would be AWESOME!)

See, besides the original Rolling Stone article where Justin Bieber, political wonk, first appeared (I imagine the reporter asked these questions in the first place in an attempt to relive "the kid who doesn't even know what German is" moment), the only other outlets latching on to Bieber's bungles (now there's an SEO term!), are gossip sites such as the always funny Dlisted, which appropriately sandwiched it between O.J. Did Not Get the Beat Down in Prison and Halle Berry and Gabriel Aubry Have Put Down Their Shanks.

The Washington Post, though? Come on, you're supposed to be a news generator, not a non-news re-reporter!

The New York Times didn't comment. The Boston Globe remained hush. I couldn't even find a reference to it in the freaking L.A. Times. Now, I don't mean to call up NAMBLA and have them send the male editorialists at the Post applications to join their organization, but I find it a bit odd that not just one but two adults at what was once a news institution have found the rather baseless and innocuous political quips of what seems like a rather dimwitted teenage boy not only important enough to mention in passing, but in the case of Capehart, important enough to actually analyze. ("Surely all that Oh, Canada flag waving and talk of Americans being 'evil' will enrage the conservative parents of Bieber's screaming teen girl (and more than a few gay teen boys) base...")

But take heart, future members of the National American Man/Bieber Love Assocation, at least you have each other and, hopefully, a sense of humor.*

*That is to say, don't sue me! I don't really think you have a thing for young boys! (Hey, after the Snyder situation, you can never be too careful...)

komi and get it

2011-02-14T11:22:00.002Z

I wish I could say, "You probably know it's Valentine's Day, unless you were born in the USSR," but um...

Yeah. Unfortunately, nowadays it seems the entire world is making itself sick from overexposure to Red #40 and the ugliest shade of pink known to man.

Sike! Who am I kidding! I love this time of year! And not just because I get to send love notes to Vladimir Putin. I love it because this year I got to dine at Komi (the restaurant, not the Russian Republic), which is arguably the best fancy food venue in DC. And when I say "fancy food," I mean we're talking about a menu that comes in one variety -- tasting.

Tasting menus are great. Not only does this take the pressure off the customer from making a poor decision and ordering something he or she might regret when his or her companion orders something better (seriously, I'm the worst orderer known to man), but tasting menus leave you directly in the chef's hands and in the case of Komi, that's probably where you want to live.

I have nothing bad to say about this place. The service matched the phantasmagoria of the food. The waitstaff whizzed around explaining ingredients, keeping water glasses full, helping in wine selection. And when my napkin fell off my lap onto the ground one server swooped in to pick it up and a second flew by right after him to offer me a new one. It was a like a freaking Chagall painting in there. People were floating.

As far as the food, well, I touched on this initially -- it was fan-f*cking-tastic. I won't go into detail, as I think it's better to come here and be surprised (they don't tell you any details before a plate arrives), but I can say with almost 100 percent assurance that you won't be disappointed. Hands down, this was the best food experience of my life. And while I wouldn't want to eat this way every day (if that were the case, even Chagall wouldn't be able to make me look light), I plan to definitely come back again one day. Maybe in a year...Komi's also not cheap.

But alas, today my mind is still in a dream state. But don't worry. The second I bite into one of Taco Bell's 36 percent beef tacos I'll crash straight back into reality. I know where I usually live.

And speaking of lack of beef, it's nothing but love when it comes to my cat and his crush, Maru, the most famous cat in the world. Here's my Valentine's Day gift to the world in viral video form. Enjoy!

PS -- Arcade Fire won Album of the Year at the Grammys? Pigs must be flying to the tune of the fat lady in a very chilly hell today. Clearly, the world as we have come to know it is now over. Poor, poor Justin Bieber...but if 36 percent beef tacos can survive so can the modern American popstar's brand of 36 percent music. I'm a Belieber!

predicting dan snyder's future

2011-02-11T11:45:00.002Z

YES! Hearing (and reading) the season of spring is going to pop in this weekend makes me feel like this:

...Says the woman who just booked a ticket to Iceland in March. What can I say? I'm an idiot. Or maybe I'm just adventurous. Lord knows I love a good volcano.

But like I said, that's not until March, which means talking about all the Bjorking fun I'm gonna have is a bit premature. Instead, let's talk about something a little more current, and also a little more idiotic. Let's talk about Dan Snyder, whose recent decision to sue the Washington City Paper over a three-month old slightly amusing niche article, has not only made him an even bigger laughing stock to football fans, but a new source of ridicule for those of us who never heard of the guy until now.

The Washington Post did a pretty good job today explaining how with this lawsuit Dan Snyder sh*t his pants then instead of changing them decided to keep sh*tting them over and over again. In fact, at this point it seems there's probably so much No. 2 in Dan Snyder's slacks, it's hard to imagine he's even able to move. And actually, maybe he can't. Not only must the load be too heavy to maneuver, but now it's started to drip down his leg. Ick. (Isn't this blog just a pleasure to read around lunch time?!) There's not a Shamwow big enough in the world to clean that mess up...

But enough with the poop allusions (you're welcome). Now, I wish to speak directly to Mr. Snyder about his rather dismal-looking future. *ahem*

Dan, are you there? It's me, ~~Marissa~~ another future defendant. I just want to give you some helpful advice. First off, don't pull a Hosni here. Go out with grace, and for you we'll define "grace" as "anything, as long as you just go away." See, just like Egypt doesn't want Mubarek anymore, Washington doesn't want you. You're smelly. And before you sue me for "general damages," let me be clear: Until we meet and I can confirm you deodorize on the reg, I mean that you solely give off a pungent and unplesasant odor metaphorically. Because, seriously, I'm getting the bad vapors from all that proverbial poo in your pantaloons, sir...

Of course, this is all wishful thinking. For one, judging from your latest 'tard-fueled antics, it seems you'd probably be the type to "forget" to put on deodorant. And also, lest we forget, we live in a crazy, mixed up world, a world where, I must remind you, this once happened:

In other words, sh*t be f*cked up.

Dan, I hate to be the millionth one to break it to you, but you're heading straight for Noltedom, or -- and this is very hard to say to a stranger -- even worse. At least Nolte had Prince of Tides. What will you have? Go ahead, I'll give you a moment to let the ugly truth sink in...

Has it sunk yet? OK, let's just save some time here and spit it out -- YOU'RE GOING TO BE A BUSEY!

Good luck, asshole.

going up?

2011-02-09T11:39:00.011Z

No. No you're not. At least not if you're trying to use the escalators in any of the Metro stations lately. In fact, I'd put the odds of that at about 50 percent. And while that might not be an official statistic (they're probably worse...), it's the number I noticed the last time I ventured into the Metro a couple of weeks ago. What the f*ck?

See, I'm usually lucky. Everywhere I need and want to go on a daily basis (*ahem* the liquor store) is within walking/biking distance to me. So, when I make the rare trip to somewhere I need to Metro to, I would hope my random test of the system would go smoothly. But when it doesn't (and, let's face it -- it never does), I start to suspect there's a larger, more systemic problem going on. It's like the Metro has AIDS.

OK, I'm sorry, that's a little offensive...to AIDS. After all, there's drugs to help keep that in check. But the Metro? We have to rely on human skill for that and if past experience has taught the world anything, it's that humans are the major cause of most mucking up of works. But instead of just one mothermucker, it seems there are several when it comes to the Metro. It seems systemic, and according to the Washington Post, who just wrote about a new Metro report:

Metro is falling far short of its own standards, complying with its maintenance schedule only 40 percent of the time.

In other words, Metro is doing its job just 2/5ths of the time. Two. Fifths. No wonder there's been some major injuries along the way. I mean, can you imagine if gravity was only doing its job two-fifths of the time? The Internet can, and it's not pretty.

Look, I'm already scared of going to Virginia for fear of death by freak peanut avalanche. Now, must I also fear for my life whilst just trying to get there?

And what the hell? Humanity has somehow figured out three different methods for hypnotizing chickens, yet we still somehow can't perfect a viable way to ensure the functionality of a Metro escalator? I don't get it. While I understand the moving staircase is a complicated mechanism, we've had almost 150 years to perfect it. That's right, the ancestor to today's escalator was invented in 1859. EIGHTEEN FIFTY NINE!

And if my all-caps exclamation didn't convey my thoughts enough, here's an additional sentence: That's a f*cking long time ago. I mean, seriously, we invented a goddamn airplane and perfected it enough to send a freaking man to the moon since then! How have we not perfected a means to safely transport a human 50 feet by escalator? IT'S NUTS, I TELL YOU! DEATH BY PEANUTS NUTS! IT'S INSANITY! It's stupid. It's really dumb...for real. Find a cure. Fix it.

This post is dedicated to those brave souls risking their lives today. Good luck and Godspeed.

every douche can be undone

2011-02-03T11:48:00.004Z

Not to keep harping on bad advertisements I've spotted around town, but this morning I found this one:

Now, I'm not sure about you, but I personally don't see the connection between a buxom, bosomy blonde bouncing on a breadmill (just let me have my alliteration!) and home refinancing. Do you? Maybe I'm missing something.

Or maybe I'm just not the target audience. See, I saw this seemingly ineffective advertisement this morning floating next to an article on TBD.com about a pick-up artist seminar taught by boys with stupid nicknames. (I'm regretfully e-looking at you, "Maven.") Taking that into account, I think this ad may actually be incredibly effective if its specific aim is at horny dudes who spend their money on stupid things. In that case, kudos to the marketers at TBD.

But on the other hand, ew. Who are these dudes? It amazes me that corny pick-up artists can make a living off of charging desperate men $300 a pop to learn how to now be both desperate and creepy. This is truly a disservice to society, and to women in particular. And while I could probably now charge $300 for the counter-advise I'm about to dole out, after reading about the "technique" offered up by some weirdo named "Speer," I feel like it's my civic duty to do the world a favor and correct the errors of their ways for free. So, let's remove those rape-goggles, shall we? (And judging from the typical fashion sense of one of these PUAs, I'm sure I mean that literally.)

1) NEVER try to pick-up a woman while she's shopping for underwear. There is no way for that NOT to come off as creepy. Especially if she's 16.

2) NEVER be that old guy in the college bar. You're already weird for being 49 and thinking you can date 22-year-olds.

3) NEVER try to guess a woman's bra size. Do I really need to explain this one?

4) NEVER stick your tongue through your fingers pretending it's a vagina when introducing yourself. For an example, see Vince (if you dare).

5) NEVER...mind...

This isn't even worth it. If you're dumb enough to think any of the above is seductive, let alone acceptable behavior, you probably have Asperger's or, worse, you really are a rapist. Honestly, the D.E.N.N.I.S. System is probably more effective than what these a-holes are teaching...

But I guess it's one thing to follow these rules if you're just trying to have one-time short sex with the kind of woman who likes one-time short sex. It's another, however, to boast that these PUA rules can actually help these poor dudes get girlfriends. I mean, really, think about your friends who are in successful and meaningful relationships. Is there ever a guy named "Cuisine"? Does he wear a sparkly silk scarf and obnoxious chunky jewelry? Does he have a bikini wax on his face? Does he get weird in a bad way on a regular basis? Is he listed or does he seem like he'd be listed on a sex offenders database? Or are your male friends with cool girlfriends all well-adjusted, funny, socially capable guys, with compatible interests to their significant others? More importantly, have these guys displayed genuine sincerity in their actions? I would venture to guess yes.

One of the most disturbing things about the sausagefest of the pick-up scene is the idea that dudes need to put on some sort of act to impress women. ~~Look~~ Read, women are not idiots. We're not stupid and unless you're Ed Norton, James Franco or someone else with a penchant for method acting, we will not believe you. That is, when you roll up to a group of girls at, say, Lucky Bar and randomly ask them, as it was suggested, "Why is this place called Lucky Bar?" we will ALWAYS recognize that as a stupid come-on because it's not sincere. Worse yet, you're probably interrupting a decent conversation. Worst yet, you're at Lucky Bar...

But don't let your poor choice of bars deter you. You're in DC, after all, you must make do. However, allow me to ask, what the f*ck ever happened to lingering eye contact? You know, you're at one side of the bar, that potential special someone is at the other. You're both giving each other googley eyes. Done deal! And if one party isn't interested, all she needs to do is look away. It's so simple! Why is it commonplace these days for weirdos to think it's necessary to approach an entire group of women and engage in so much unsolicited awkwardness?

Or what happened to asking a woman to dance? Asking to buy her a drink?

And if you're not in a bar (and definitely not in a women's lingerie shop), there's a possibility to be just as straightforward. What happened to striking up a conversation about something apropos to the situation? Something you notice you both have a common interest in. You notice a woman reading the same book as you on the Metro. Strike up a conversation about that! (If you're on the red line, chances are you're gonna be sitting there for the next two days anyway!) Hey, there's a girl ordering banana peppers on her sandwich! You love banana peppers, too! Seriously, "come here often?" is a better way to go about things than "clever," bullsh*t "openers."

And I could go on. Unfortunately, I don't have the time. However, I could have the time for the low, low price of $300. I'll include a trip to the mall and the barber's for a makeunder and un-teach you all the ways tools have taught you to be a tool over the years. Don't you worry, the motto here at The Anti DC is every douche can be undone. You can too. Just believe.

the metro will ruin your life

2011-02-01T10:52:00.005Z

If it wasn't for chili, I'd probably be a recluse. Really, along with getting out of town (both physically and colloquially), it's one of the few things that can tempt me enough to occasionally leave my hobo lair. It must be the beans....*sigh*

Anywho, where I was going with that terrible introduction was advertisements. Well, no, first I was going to segue into the Superbowl (not to by confused with Segway Into the Superbowl, a documentary I plan on making one day after I convince the league to introduce various gyroscopic modes of transportation to the game). More specifically, I was going to talk about a party for the Superbowl, where all the delicious chili will be. (As far as the Superbowl goes, Go Team Without Rapists On It!) Then, after talking about the Superbowl party, I was going to mention all the high-level advertisements one is likely to see. (I hope Betty White is in all of them this year.) Then, of course, I would finally get to the point of this essay -- Metro advertisements. In three words, they are terrible. In more than three words, here's an example of what I'm talking about, an advertisement that chilled me to my bean-fortified bones because that's what happens when you photoshop a demon kid, holding a conductor's stick, dangling measuring spoons on his big toe, and, of course, sprawled out in tipped over buckets of flour, sand, eggs and dead plants onto a single ominous page.

I don't know about you, but I've never seen a more terrifying ad for shilling an online database for home buyers in my life. When I see a child from the corn (or would that be cornstarch in this case?) involved in a baking project gone very wrong, it doesn't make me want to search for the perfect home so much as it makes me simply want to cover my own in in salt, dip it in garlic and, according to ehow.com, burn some herbs, which I'm pretty sure is just code for smoking weed because, yes, it seems even ghosts get annoyed by stoners. But beware -- this sage advice doesn't come without risk.

Hmm, starting a fire would seem to defeat the whole purpose, but does it really? Or are there more diabolical forces at work here?

EXHIBIT A: THE DEMON AD

Let's face it. This ad will do wonders for the sea salt industry, garlic growers, and marijuana distributors of the world. If I wasn't wise to the conspiracy theory I'm about to slap down before you, I'd probably already be at GW searching out the kid with the most bloodshot eyes. But I'm not. I don't have to because...

EXHIBIT B: THE EHOW ARTICLE

It's all coming together now. First, we have an ineffective ad for home-buying, but a very effectual ad for home-fortifying against demon-children. No one wants evil spirits around, especially a pint-sized one who's going to f*ck up your kitchen. So, you google ways to avoid ghosts and -BOOM- suddenly you're "burning some herbs." These herbs may make you lazy, careless, tired. So tired that -WHOOPS- you dropped the burning herbs on your chartreuse shag carpet during a Steakums-induced coma and -WHOOSH- your demon-filled home just went up in flames! Now, what? You may have just defeated the purpose of smoking out your ghosts by smoking out yourself, but now you've fallen into a trap!

EXHIBIT C: A VICIOUS CIRCLE

Well, look at that. Now you need a new home in a pinch. And where will you look? That's right, we're back to the demon-child ad again. You think, "Didn't I see an ad not long ago for a home buyers database?" And that cues the resulting mobius strip: demon-child ad, ehow article, "herbs," house burns down, demon-child ad, ehow article, "herbs," house burns down, demon-child ad, ehow article, "herbs" and heroin (if your house burns down three times, let's face it, you've moved on to the hard stuff), house burns down. And the cycle continues. Thanks, Metro...

fat cat and dismemberment plans

2011-01-24T09:54:00.003Z

Not that I need to beg you to excuse my long absence from the Web (I'm sure my lack of any standards lately when thinking of subjects about which to blog have driven all but the most masochist of you away), but this time I really have a good excuse for not Internetting for over two weeks. I've been taking care of this asshole.

Yes, I've taken one more step into the inevitable spiral of crazy by procuring this cat. But really, I'm just hedging my bets against going directly to hell, as I extended my goodwill to rescue this little nightmare from the shelter.

"But Marissa, how can this lil' cutie patootie be such a nightmare when he's so cuuuuuute?"

Well, let me count the ways: 1) He's had to go to the vet twice (come this Wednesday, it'll be three times), costing me precious dollars that could've been spent on something more appropriate (*ahem* offtrack betting *ahem*); 2) He broke a glass by knocking it off a shelf thinking it was a toy; 3) He's lost all his actual toys (seriously, where are they?!), costing me additional, all-important off-track betting funds; 4) He's a cat.

It turns out, I'm not really a cat person. In fact, I'm quite afraid of them overall. I used to have a theory that they had no souls (much like gingers) and, thus, were destined to steal humans' by staring them down with their demon yellow eyes.

Stop laughing. On a less insane note, cats have sharp claws and sizable incisors. When I play with animals I don't generally like to fear that I'm going to lose large slivers of my skin. I understand love hurts (thank you, Nazareth), but I'm pretty sure that's only supposed to be metaphorical.

And so I'm depending on Humphrey (yes, as in Bogart; yes, as in long for Humps), to grow the Garfield gene. I want his only duties to include: 1) Being fat; 2) Being lazy; 3) Adding witty commentary to my thirtysomething life because life without Garfield is just sad.

Ha! I love other people's cartoon misery.

And speaking of misery, or should I say the opposite of misery (give me a break -- not blogging for a fortnight left my segue skills a little rusty; although my Segway skills are still stellar), I saw the Dismemberment Plan on Saturday night and it was the best live show I've seen in DC. Here's why: There were very few teenagers there and the band was good. Remember when I had the most horrible time at MGMT? Well, Saturday was the exact opposite of that. The musicians were as seasoned as the crowd. Everyone knew what their role was. The band played their hearts out (not literally, ew), and the crowd, mostly full of people who came of age when Emergency & I was released in 1999, reciprocated kindly. People knew the material. People cared about the material. People felt the material. And so did the band. For once, DC rocked. And in case you missed it, here's a subpar photograph I took:

And in case you have no idea who I'm talking about, here's a video from when they performed on Jimmy Fallon on Thursday:

For real, that song is from 1999, yet it still sounds fresher than 90 percent of what's released today. And yes, on that note, your dear author has reached Official Curmudgeon Status, although one with most excellent taste. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go yell at some kids to get off my lawn. Enjoy your Monday.

repeater

2011-01-07T10:19:00.008Z

Either not everyone got the ~~memo~~ Snooki ball that it's now 2011, or some DC publications simply like reporting last year's news. And by "some publications," I unfortunately mean The Washington Post, which for whatever reason, people still seem to think is useful for more than just lining the pooping corner of your helper animal's living quarters. (Although, in my experience, Anti DC Creative Director Terry the Tourette's Turtle prefers to defecate on higher quality publications, like US Weekly and Highlights.)

But let's be fair. Maybe I'm being a bit too harsh. Maybe if I wasn't so busy aggregating my #suitablepublicationstopoopon thread on Twitter, I'd have more time to write about those (few) things the Post does well, such as...

*crickets*

Wow. That's way too much effort. Not to mention, that would be both boring to write about and excruciatingly mundane to read, as I wouldn't have been able to so seamlessly weave the words "ass apples," "bum fudge" and "doodly squat" into my intro, like I just did now. (You're welcome.)

And so we shall talk about the dumbest, most untimely sh*t -- excuse me, I mean "fecal brownies" -- I found in the Post this week.

1) Talk of the mysterious numbers from ~~Hot Tub Time Machine~~ Lost on the Post's "Hot Topics" bar (whatever the hell that is) at the top of the homepage.

First of all, yawn. Who cares? Second of all, didn't this stupid clusterf*ck of a show end months ago? Why is it only now a Washington Post "hot topic?" And while we're at it, why hasn't The Washington Post replaced the word "hot" with "trending?" Who are they? ~~Starr Jones~~ ~~Rosie O'Donnell~~ Barbara Walters on The View in 2002? KEEP UP.

But that's nothing compared to this next scat-worthy error:

2) Reporting on an art exhibit set to CLOSE next week. Uh, now maybe it's just me, but I like to read articles about art exhibits that are opening, rather than shutting down and moving on. And while I understand with art writer Blake Gopnik's departure the art editors might now be struggling to fill space while they look for a suitable replacement, reporting on something that's literally last year's news is just f*cking dopey. The New York Times first reported on the Arcimboldo exhibit at the National Gallery in September; I wrote about it in October, the Wall Street Journal even got to it, along with The Washington Post. Wait, what? The Post wrote about it in September 2010 (when appropriate, I might add) then proceeded to re-report on it in January 2011? Really?

Really. Jesus Christ (clearly said, with the accent of South Park's Big Gay Al)... A different writer and slight variations in the introduction and conceit are no excuse for this rookie mistake. Actually, scratch that. Even rookies don't make errors in judgement this egregious, especially in the era of electronic archiving. If you're unsure, Google it to make sure it hasn't been done. More so, just know that reporting on an art exhibit five days before it closes is just a stupid idea in the first place, you f*cking morons.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go put on the soundtrack to Inception and dream up more synonyms for the word "sh*t." I suspect that since the Post is in the habit of repeating itself, it's highly likely that I'll have to write about this again, and toilet pickles forbid, I make a similar mistake and use the phrase "rectal feedback" more than once...

greetings and solicitations

2011-01-05T09:15:00.003Z

You know what DC needs more of? Food trucks. And I'm not even being ironic. I mean it. There are definitely not enough mobile meal options in the area, which is why I'm coming up with a plan: Affordable Smoothie Solutions.

Now, since I don't know sh*t about obtaining a license to serve meals on wheels to those who can afford to pay a few dollars for a delicious and healthful smoothie/juice beverage, I'm on the hunt for those who do. In other words, would you like to be the Hugh Honey to my Vic Vinegar and help me spread the delicious taste of A.S.S. all around town this summer? If so, contact me here, here or here, as I am quite serious about capitalizing on this trend and making all kinds of money when the disgustingly hot swamp summer rolls around.

In other business-related news (although certainly not the A.S.S. juice business), an artistic friend of mine is selling a book of flowery photos over here. Although too late for the December gift-giving holidays, it's arrived just in time for National Bean Day. YOU ONLY HAVE ONE DAY LEFT TO PREPARE! Luckily, there's no better way to show that special garbanzo how much you care than by purchasing a book full of photos of his or her distant cousins.

Speaking of special garbanzos, I have to give a nod to new Mayor Vince Gray, who proved yesterday that next to Baby Preacher, he's the No. 1 motivational speaker in the Free World for DC voting rights.

YES! I want to go leave a flaming bag of dog excrement on the stoop of the Capitol! Who's with me??? Vince?

*crickets*

Uh, Vince? Mr. Gray?

*crickets*

Where the f*ck did Big Baby Preacher go?

"After the speeches, Gray, at the last second, declined to join the activists, who were going to lobby the office of incoming House Speaker John Boehner," reports WAMU 88.5 FM. "The mayor says he talked it over with [DC's fake representative/all-around baller Eleanor Holmes] Norton and the two will instead call and make an appointment to speak with Boehner in person."

Exquisite! Because there's no better way to "fight" the powers that be than by calling their receptionist and scheduling an appointment for two weeks from never. Ugh.

But let's not get ourselves feeling too hopeless already. Along with our extensive preparations for the A.S.S. truck, National Bean Day, and listening to rousing speeches about fighting the powers that be before deciding instead to do lunch with the powers that be, we must also make time to have fun during the last 715 days we have left before the Dec. 21, 2012 fake apocolypse sets in. (Are you really ready for nothing to happen?)

Anyway, I think I'll start off my fun day by drawing a full-size bath for my bear, if you know what I mean. In case you don't know what I mean, allow me to tell you: I'm going to procure a tub, fill it full with refreshing water, then wait for a baby mini bear to look cute in it. Alternatively, I can piss a bear off by giving it a tiny bucket of water, laugh at its struggle to fit in, then threaten to put it on YouTube.

Yeah. What a bunch of assholes. And let's be honest, I'm not sure this was the best plan... If this grizzly remembers this time of frustration, these people better be prepared to live without faces because this bear will rip into it like Daniel Day Lewis did a milkshake. DO NOT PLAY WITH A BEAR'S EMOTIONS!

*Photo "Archimboldo's Kindergarten" unknowingly provided by Flickr user erix. Thanks!

remains of the ride

2010-12-15T09:59:00.001Z

There comes a time in every nearsighted girl's life when she needs to go to the eye doctor to renew her monocle prescription. And so came this day in my life yesterday, when I arrived at the lovably puntastically named For Eyes optical in downtown DC for a check-up. Once there, I was quickly told my eyesight had neither deteriorated nor improved, was given the same exact monocle prescription (incidentally, my pince-nez prescription also hadn't changed) and robbed of $130.00 because of my lack of adequate vision insurance. And although I look and feel quite rakish now, much like this monocled feline...

...A much better story is what happened before I got to the eye doctor. A much better story took place in the cab ride downtown, when I got into a rather interesting discussion about dignity with the driver. It was like a page/scene straight out of "Remains of the Day," except instead of an aging English butler, the main character was a thirty-something Sudanese man. And instead of the English countryside, the setting was L Street. And also, I'm pretty sure Mr. Stevens, the butler in "Remains of the Day" who was played on screen by Sir Anthony Hopkins, never uttered the phrase, "She wanted me to be having sexy on her." (~~Don't~~ worry. We'll get back to that in a moment.) Luckily, however, considering that I apparently wear a monocle now, I was able to reprise the role of English gentlemen, so this literary comparison still stands. Except I assure you I was never a Nazi sympathizer. And I'm poor. And a woman. And not English. But whatever, it's too late. Let's just go with it...

"People in DC, they don't have dignity," said the driver.

"Hear hear, good chap!" I said.

"They say, to someone like me, disrespectful things because they are very much ignorant."

"Kind sir, whatever does one utter that should be so unbecoming?" I said, whilst buffing my monocle with my plus-fours. (And for the record, despite how disturbing that sounds, this is not when the phrase, "She wanted me to be having sexy on her," came up.)

The cab driver continued: "I give example. One time, I picked up someone in night. This is what made me not ever work in night again." He paused. "Should I tell you? I don't want you to take offense..."

"Carry on, my good man," I said, reapplying my monocle. "As an Englishman, I take offense to only two things in this world: smudged monocles and, of course, dental hygiene."

"She was white, like you, and drunk, like..."

"I assure you I am sober, good man! This flask is full of...tea. And crumpets. Blended together. With fish and chips. And gruel. That's how we eat in England."

"She was from another state. Maybe California or LA. She stay at somewhere like Ritz Carlton in Tyson's Corner. Rich. I take her all the way out there. Long way. As we come near she say, 'I can't believe I end my night with cab driver.' She said with hate. Like I not good enough."

"Cor blimey! She sounds like a manky, pissed up nutter of a scrubber!"

"What?"

"She sounds like an skanky asshole."

"Yes! She wanted me to be having sexy on her! But was mean and embarrassed because I am not yet a powerful man."

"But you have dignity."

"Yes. Even as cab driver now. This why I refuse her and refuse to work at night. I have standards. I have dignity! But I have ambitions also."

"I'll say!"

"When I finish school, I will rule people like that one day!"

"Oh?"

"Yes! I will be powerful and control them! HA!"

"Oh..."

"I will get all beautiful women to ask me to be having sexy on them and they will respect me!"

*silence*

"It is the American dream..."

And here I thought the dream was being able to occasionally pretend you were an English gentleman looking to purchase a monocle...

SO MUCH OPULENCE TO HAZ!

2010-12-11T16:14:00.001Z

When is the next train to Bloo-beery Xkhill??? Treel, I want to haz it.