shambles p.i.: the sunglasses politics retrospective edition

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.

shambles p.i.: the false positive edition

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.

shambles p.i.: the next generation

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.

shambles p.i: the get a f*cking haircut/shorts are not pants edition

If you watch the Internet at all, I'm sure you've seen him. This guy:


He shows up on just about every third YouTube video you attempt to watch. And while mostly, I'm just watching morbidly obese cats exercise in Japan, in this case, I was trying to brush up my John Wall-dancing skills by learning "The Dougie" (hat tip: DCist), which I will get to in a moment. First, however, can we discuss this guy's hair?



What the f*ck is going on here? I mean, really, who made this guy, who looks more suited for selling used rape vans, the spokesperson for a political campaign. Oh, you didn't know that? Me neither, until I decided to click through to find out how much a used rape van costs who in hell would hire this guy to be their official spokesmullet. (Surprisingly, his white-board doodles didn't make it clear). Well, it turns out, this is an ad for a group that opposes the bailout of some of America's biggest shipping companies. Being uninformed, as I am wont to be, I didn't even know there was a bailout of America's biggest shipping companies. And after having to view this guy's greased-up coif a million-and-a-half-times (there are a lot of videos of morbidly obese cats exercising in Japan on the Web), I wish I still didn't know. Not necessarily because I don't agree with what he's schilling for (I refuse to give that any deep thought) but because I ask, is being informed really worth the cost -- the cost, of course, being alerted that this guy's hair was deemed appropriate for mass viewing? No. In fact, I think it even had a counter-effect on me. Perhaps, we need more bailouts, and specifically, one for America's haircutting industry. Fantastic Sam's and Supercuts clearly aren't doing an adequate job...

And just when I thought I was over the most heinous shambley assault to my optical nerves, this guy pops up as my online Dougie instructor.


Now, I understand the sagging pants trend. I know about its origin and I even understand it as a fashion statement on occasion. But what we're seeing above is beyond that. This man has turned a pair of shorts into a pair of pants by situating them literally below his crotch. I mean, really, unless his body is twice the length of his legs and unless his femur is actually the shortest bone in his body, this whole look makes very little sense. Not only, I imagine, is it harder to keep pants up when you don't allow them even a smidgen of butt cheek to cling to, but wearing your pants that low makes you look shorter than the shortest oompa-loompa.


I mean, seriously, the fact that even that weird Brown Bailout dude's mullet looks longer than this guy's legs is a problem. In the words of President Obama, "Brothers should pull up their pants."



And before any tea partiers come here again to call me a racist (although they'd probably spell it more like "raysist") and/or tell me how much they wish I would die, let me be clear: If it was a black guy with the oily mullet or a white guy with the sagging pants, I would've said the same thing. Also, my general health is fine and I make it a habit to look both ways before crossing the street, so suck on that, death-wishers!

shambles p.i.: the 'georgetown dish' edition

Wouldn't it be convenient if criminals started telling the cops when and where they'd be committing crimes? I mean, really, you'd have no excuse to let even one mugging happen. It'd be all Minority Report up in this bitch but even better because instead of relying on Tom Cruise and a floating version of Microsoft Windows (seriously, really?), would-be criminals would just call up and basically ask to go to jail. What a brilliant world that would be, you know, with everyone in prison. (Like you've never been cited for jaywalking...)

All right, so maybe that's implausible. It's like asking the nerd to tape his own "Kick me" sign on the unreachable part of his back and then kick himself. We still need assholes to do that. And, likewise, we also still need other assholes to catch and punish those assholes. See, it's all a part of the delicately balanced Asshole Equilibrium that we've created for ourselves here in America. Being able to do what we want, when we want without taking into account how our actions might affect others is the backbone of our nation. Especially if our goal is to sell sh*t. Just look what that chalkboard lover Glenn Beck has done for dubious gold investments! Really, it's patriotism in action.

But capitalizing on fear is one thing. Some might even say that level of manipulation is a sign of immense talent. But what if you don't have those crying-on-cue skills? What if you don't have a chalkboard and a wild imagination? What if you objectively have no talent? I guess then you'd have to rely on even baser methods of earning your keep -- you'd have to steal. And if you're not ballsy enough just to go out and start heisting banks, the next best thing is stealing information, like the douches at the Georgetown Dish Beta blog did when they hijacked an e-list of other area bloggers' email addresses and started sending them their unsolicited newsletter each morning.

And here I thought my worst enemy was trying to seek revenge on me by signing me up to receive this wet fart of newsletters without my knowledge. But phew! That's probably not it, says TBD e-guru Jeff Sonderman, who told a bunch of area bloggers in a mass email yesterday that the Georgetown Dish had possibly signed me (and over 100 other people) up themselves. Sonderman wrote:

Several of you have told us today that you suddenly are receiving e-mail newsletters from The Georgetown Dish, which you did not sign up for. Some of you asked us if TBD provided those e-mails to the Dish. We want to let everyone know that we did not, at least not directly.

We looked back at some of the early informational e-mails we sent to all the network members, including the Dish, and realized that some of those inadvertently listed your e-mail addresses in the "To" field, which would be visible to the other recipients. It's possible that the Dish repurposed those addresses from the e-mail they received, but I don't know for sure. I have asked the publisher and managing editor about this and asked them to undo it, but have not received a response yet.

First of all, the "publisher"? The "managing editor"? I'm sorry, but aren't we talking about a blog here? How many helper animals does the Georgetown Dish keep? But that's besides the point. The point is that this is not a smart move on the Dish's part because sending their stupid, irrelevant newsletter to me each morning is basically like begging for a good haranguing. Really, the Dish is basically the idiot criminal calling up the cops and asking to be imprisoned. They're going directly to jail and, instead of passing "Go" and collecting $200, they're opting instead to collect a Kenny Powers quote -- "You're f*ckin' out!"

In fact, the Dish is so f*cking out that they're still apparently living in 2006 -- the year the rest of the world realized that Uggs made their legs look like they were a bear with gout. But no, according to the very important newsletter I received this morning from the Georgetown Dish, there's an Uggs store opening TODAY somewhere in that canker sore of a neighborhood:

DCers love their Uggs according to spokeswoman Barbara Martin. She says, "The region is a really strong market." Ugg chose Georgetown as a location for their fourth store in the U.S.

Seriously, who the f*ck thought it was a good idea to send me a press release like this? I am not GD's target market. I don't wear sweatpants with "JUICY" written across the ass; I don't wear more than one plaid pattern at a time; I don't wear anything made of terry-cloth that isn't worn in the bathroom (or the liquor store; hey, we all have emergencies); and no, I don't wear oversized sheaths of sheep hide on my podia. See, I like to keep myself off of my own worst-dressed list, my own Shambles P.I. list. But you, Georgetown Dish? Well, because of your moronic missteps and stories about bad fashion, you're the first non-person, the first entity to get on that list and no, to be clear it is not an honor...


But it's your own fault, GD. Your references to Eat Pray Love, Uggs and those irritating hoes from Georgetown Cupcake all in the same screenshot made you a shoe-in (or is that Ugg-in?). And in fact, it's so dishgustingly bad (see what I did there?) that it makes me think there should be a new category for you, an über-Shambles crown to commemorate this trifecta of 'tard you've presented to me this morning unsolicited. Kingsh*t shambles? Georgetown Dishambles? This one might require some thinking. But no matter because Dish please (ha, I did it again!), when I come up with it, I'll let you know. See, there's no need for you to willingly sign up for updates either.

dc fashion week -- a probably pretty accurate pre-review

Get ready, everyone, it's the most mediocre time of year again! That's right, it's time to pull your most fancy ill-fitting pants suit out of the closet and dust off your square-toe, box-heel shoes because it's DC Fashion Week! And this year the event is serving up just as many oxymorons as ever.

Before moving onto the "fashion," though, let's start with the sponsors. Move over, New York! Get out of the way, Paris! Suck on this, Milan! The only Fashion Week being sponsored by AARP this year is DC's!

No, really. AARP is a sponsor. Some of the others, who are equally as hip and fashion-forward, are über-hipster publication The Washington Times, an apartment complex in NE, and Roomorama, which Google tells me is some kind of Craigslist for finding short-term rentals. So yeah, New York, you can keep your sh*tty sponsors like Maybelline and Mercedes in your pocket! WE'RE DOING JUST FINE HERE! (For a city whose idea of haute couture is Brooks Brothers.)

And also, who needs the tents in Bryant Park when you have various embassies and the Doubletree Hotel (um, seriously) in Crystal City to host your events? In fact, since most of DC Fashion Week isn't even technically in DC, we should probably just change the name to World Fashion Week! TAKE THAT, EARTH!

But enough about the stale bread of this puke sandwich, let's take a look at the head cheese, Fluff® and rat droppings that make up the meat! Unfortunately, most DC Fashion Week designers are smart enough not to post their work on the Web (I imagine because it makes it a lot harder for assholes like me and legitimate fashion critics to critique), so short descriptions will have to suffice:

• Ukraine will once again grace us with its top tastemaker, Aleksey.
• Awkward acronym-lovers APOSOL (Aspiring People Overcoming Situations of Life) and Descai (Distinctive, Elegant, Style, Class, Attitude and Intrigue) will show their very sophisticated collections of sweatshirts and booty shorts.
  
• Compound noun makers Divanista (Diva + Fashionista, duh!) and Glamfurs will do whatever it is they do -- they could not be Googled.
  
• Alliteration specialist Glamorous Gowns by Glynn will show Glynn's glamorous gowns.
• Brazillian swimwear designer Carioca will show a lot of speedos with words on the crotch.
• Heydari will bring her best C-game (the "C" stands for "curtain") to DC.
• Leona Edmiston will come all the way from New Zealand to show her RTWTAT (Ready To Wear to Ann Taylor) collection.
  
• L-Shandi will bring all the things she's sewn from McCalls patterns to the runway.
• Chicos called Samira Atash. They want their designs back. However, what's good enough for Chicos is good enough for DC!
• Silva Designs will make their models look like clown hookers.
• And Victor Hou will make his models look like regular hookers.

But alas, not every designer of the week seems to have been inspired by some combination of Forever 21, Talbots and a basement full of taffeta scraps. Andrew Nowell, Konstantina Mittas, Liliya Poustovit and Knaf Couture all have a point of view that, while perhaps not totally my taste (although some of it is actually very nice), at least shows something interesting and new. I guess the bigger question for them is, why are they here?

An even bigger question, though, is where do you think the DCFW after party will go down? I'm guessing either the Pentagon City Mall or the Motel 6 in Alexandria. They'll leave the light on for you. Although you might want to turn it off if you're dressed in most of the clothes from Fashion Week...

And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to sit back and wait for my VIP invite to roll in.

shambles p.i.: the glenn beck edition

Don't worry. This isn't a political blog. Although after going down to gawk at this weekend's Glenn Beck "Restoring Honor" Rally, in which I learned hundreds of thousands of Americans don't seem to understand the irony of their own religious extremism (Jesus belongs in the government just about as much as Mohammed, get it?), I'm hard-pressed not to make it one.

Because the 9/12 Kool-Aid is being consumed by a few more hundreds of thousands of people than I'm comfortable with.

"But why so serious, Marissa?" you ask.

Because this happened: After a-little-too-loudly asking my friend (you don't go into such events alone, after all) to remind me which part of the Constitution was penned by Jesus, I got an unsolicited talkin'-to from one of these forefatherf*ckers, who insisted "all of it" was. He said the Constitution had less to do with establishing the rule of the people and more to do with "establishing our country's ultimate belief in our Lord and Savior." He added, despite those silly little things called facts, it wasn't Jefferson or Madison who wanted the Church to be separated from the State but the "War Courts." Uh, what? I don't think even the clown who told me this knew what he was referring to. And our forefathers? Well, I'm pretty sure Jefferson not only just rolled in his grave, but he also probably punched the lid off his coffin pretending it was this guy's face. I, on the other hand, just wanted to give this guy an elementary American History book...and some fashion advice because, besides his warped version of history, this man's abomination of an outfit was also most definitely treading on me. Did anyone invest in pleated-front khaki Dockers this weekend? Because I'm pretty sure you just made a fortune...

Even worse than the khakis, though, were those NOT in khakis and mainly this woman, who dared to show her love of Amurrica by sporting the Canadian tuxedo. Gasp! And here I thought all these people loved Jesus. Don't they know he turned Canadian tuxedos into wine? Right? RIGHT?! THAT'S WHAT THE CONSTITUTION SAYS! (See? I can make sh*t up too.) Chanel, Chapter 1, Verse 1: "Thou shalt not wear jean-on-jean xoxo God."

Eh.

Now, not everyone there committed such sartorial sins. In fact, one guy dressed overwhelmingly appropriate for the occasion, showing his support for shooting things (it's how the Lord intended it!) by wearing his camouflage gun vest layered over his Sunday button-down.

Lock and load!

Finally, while the Church of Glenn Beck Jamboree largely lacked what I went there to mock (wacky T-shirts and misspelled political posters), I did find one outfit that adequately summarized the day, both in terms of fashion and politics.

R.I.P.

'Cause it died a little bit on 8/28...And, honestly, so did my unwavering optimism in humanity. I learned that it's impossible to even try reasoning with the clearly unreasonable -- with people who rely solely on words (that, apparently, they don't find in books) to define themselves instead of actions; with the certifiably insane who have no other explanation for what their self-proclaimed "restoring honor process" entails other than exalting some strange fondness for an era in which leeches were used for medicine and women couldn't vote; and mainly, with people who think access to fanny packs is guaranteed in the Bill of Rights. But all hope is not lost: The enlightened among us fought and won the struggle to abolish slavery in the past, so I hope we can abolish this Glenn Beck f*ckery now. Good luck and fashion Godspeed...

shambles p.i.: the use your imagination speedo edition

While I consider myself quite fashion-conscious, one sartorial sh*tshow I haven't kept up on is men's swimwear. I bring this up now -- balls deep into swimming season (pun intended) -- because of a recent Sunday jaunt to DC's public Francis swimming pool. Located in what the Internet apparently refers to as the "West End" of DC, the Francis pool is situated just up the street from Trader Joe's at 25th and N NW.

And while the pool seems to attract a nice cross-section of upwardly mobile DC residents (present company excluded -- I'm very much downwardly mobile), including gays, straights, blacks, whites, Latinos, Europeans, young, middle-aged and old, there was a surprisingly high concentration of extremely small men's swimming trunks. We're talking Speedo central, my friends.

Sure, it's just as logical as it is stereotypical to assume that perhaps it was just the foreigners and gays donning these water-ready panties, but my gaydar was holding steady at seven out of 10 as it would anywhere in and around the Dupont area and I overheard most of the wearers speaking English with an American accent. Indeed, I was perplexed.

More befuddling, though, is that this strange instance was preceded a few weeks ago at the beach by yet another when a straight, married friend of mine boasted about his love of the Speedo, surely to the chagrin of his wife. In fact, as a favor to her, he kept the Speedo in his suitcase, opting instead for, well, let's just say shorter-than-normal, yet acceptable trunks.

But seriously, what is going on? Are the days of longer, surfer-style men's swimming trunks gone? And if so, why? Is it for the fear of farmer's tan? A need for extended leg movement? Or simply because today's man has extreme pride in his manscape?

My time at the pool last Sunday answered no questions for me, but instead compounded the riddle. Not only does the small swimsuit seem to be the new rage among the general male population, but so does the small swimsuit featuring vanity padding. I think you get what I'm saying here and if you don't, I dare you to click here (NSFW).

And while that's so borderline obscene that it's probably not safe for work, it's apparently safe for the public pool, where not only children are present (although, luckily, not that many), but so are a wide variety of other people with the gift of sight. You don't see us women trying on bikini bottoms that purposely enhance our camel toes...ick. Although, now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure that without padding, the Speedo has the potential to become much, much more interesting obscene...

But really, I don't care how good of a body you have, unless you're engaged in competitive swimming, you probably don't look good in that casual Speedo, at least to women. For example, that's Justin Timberlake pictured above. He has instantly gone from bringing sexy back to bringing creepy back.

On the other hand, if all the guys at the Francis pool stopped wearing Speedos, people watching would become much less amusing. And then what would I blog about? I would just be forced to give you useful information, like the Francis pool has three sections -- shallow (for kids), standard (for swimming laps), and deep (for whatever). It's open everyday but Tuesday from 1 p.m.-8 p.m. on weekdays and noon-6 p.m. on weekends. It's free for DC residents or $4 for guests. They don't sell water so bring your own. Snacks and other beverages, however, are not permitted and, yes, they seem pretty vigilant about it. Wow -- what a boring blog that would be...

shambles p.i.: the federal gov't edition

It's so silly that we here in Washington, DC, don't have voting rights and not just because, at this point, it's become unconstitutional. No, it's because the f*cking Capitol and all the Congressional buildings are on our turf. It's like having an awesome moonbounce on your property but only allowing guests to use it. The occupants of the place just have to sit there and watch. Oh, and pay for it, too. We deserve to use our f*cking moonbounce, dammit! We also deserve to wear a goddamn pair of shorts if the heat index calls for dying if you don't. However, some of us here in the District can't even control that thanks to the feds, at least according to this Washington Post article, which says when it comes to National Park rangers, federal code for DC dictates that they must where wool PANTS regardless of what time of year it is: "Individual park superintendents decide whether rangers wear long wool pants or shorts, depending on geography, the time of year and the location. In the District, park rangers on the Mall must wear long wool pants at all times, regardless of the climate." Of course, thanks to the Washington Post's shoddy reporting, we never find out who exactly the park superintendent is who made this decision, but I'm sure he probably lives in Virginia and is also against us getting in the moonbounce. The Post does, however, provide a quote from the National Park Service press person, David Barna, who basically sums up all the reasons I hate DC in one tiny sentence: "This is the nation’s capital, it's a solemn place. We like to convey that very professional look here in the District of Columbia." Even if that so-called "professional look" results in an increased chance of heatstroke and death. Wow. Solemn to the max! But seriously, has Mr. Barna ever even been to DC in the summer? Commuting in from your air-conditioned condo in McLean in your air-conditioned Range Rover into an air-conditioned parking lot to your air-conditioned office doesn't count. But I don't know. Maybe it's not like that. Unlike Jared Cohen and Alec Ross, I couldn't find Barna's Facebook page. For all I know, he does live in DC, runs to work each day and gets his jollies from letting his junk sweat in his wool pants at the FDR memorial. Yeah. I'm sure it's the latter. But really, this moronic misconception in DC that says one must look like a sweaty dork to look professional is what makes this city so easy to unleash Shambles P.I. in. Unless we're talking about Daisy Duke jorts, shorts not only can look just as professional as pants, but in DC when 98 is considered a cool summer day, shorts make you look, well, not dumb.

Law Enforcement Cheetah = So Necessary

Of course, I joke. Not because I don't think Lt. Dangle looks professional, but because I just don't think short-shorts are flattering on the average American now that footlong cheeseburgers can be bought and sold in the open... The point is, I understand the benefits of having a dress code for any sort of law enforcement figure. It makes them easy to spot, it gives them an air of authority and, yes, it looks professional. What I don't understand, though, is this outdated notion the DC superintendent seems to have that says to look respectable you have to be uncomfortable.

Whomp, whomp...

In closing, I'd like to recite a poem using the eloquent lyrics of Lil' John, ahem:

3,6,9 damn she fine Hopin' she can sock it to me one mo' time Get low, Get low Get low, Get low To the window, to the wall To the sweat drop down my balls My balls.

so many wrongs do not make a right, but they will make me wonder

I don't hate to do two posts in a row on Tommy Wiseau, the wizard behind the sh*t-curtain that is "The Room," but I certainly don't love it. I wish I could blab on instead about old people screaming on the Metro or a bunch of snobs discriminating against two-wheeled access to their hoity-toity club or even how DC has managed to make helping homeless people a puke-worthy event. (Thankfully, though, regarding that last one, someone else already made fun of that for me. Phew.)

But alas, I have a duty to do over here at The Anti DC and that duty is Shambles P.I. That is, when I or a reader, our collective Shambles P.I., spots a shambles extraordinaire, I can't not publicize it here at The Anti DC. And Wiseau's fug is too bold to hide. I mean, look at this sh*t:

Indeed, what you're seeing is a grown man dressed like a business clown. Really, this outfit is suited less for purporting yourself as a director of movies and more for screaming "I'm a fan of The Matrix! If it were made in 1992..."

Honestly, Tommy looks like a confused teen, one of those creepy Twilight-obsessed teenwolves, but also colorblind. Whatever is going on, like so many plot points in Wiseau's movies, we'll probably never know. (Why is Johnny seemingly cool with strangers breaking into his house and having sex on his couch? Why is Tommy wearing so many belts at one time? How is it that Mark is Johnny's "best friend," yet he doesn't know how he and Lisa met? Why is Wiseau wearing sunglasses in the basement of a movie theater? What is in Lisa's neck? A neon yellow tie, really Tommy?)

Indeed, Tommy's fashion choices join the ranks of the world's greatest mysteries along with the pyramids, crop circles and the question, who farted? We might never know.

And speaking of unanswerable questions, on a totally different shambles, since when is it OK to where water-shoes on dry land, and more specifically, in a city? After listening to the Diane Rehm show yesterday, I now know I'm not the only one who's been noticing the following fugliness fitted on the feet of a few fools as of late.


Goddammit. I never thought I'd have to say this but, "Vibram Fivefingers," supposedly a running shoe, are the new Crocs. And surprise! People love this ugly sh*t in DC. In the last week alone, I've seen pairs at the DMV and Whole Foods. I've seen pairs walking dogs and commuting to work. I've even seen a pair on a Segway. (As if that person needed any more reason to look like an asshole...)

However, just as I never saw anyone gardening in Crocs (their only halfway suitable scene), I've yet to see someone jogging in Vibram Fivefingers. And, really, why would you? THIS IS CLEARLY A WATER SHOE. So, unless you're planning on wading into the Potomac (ew), this trend is not OK. Please stop it before it stops you...from ever looking cool again. Don't Wiseau yourself. Good day.

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

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

HAPPY HUMP DAY!

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

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

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

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

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

F*CK.

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


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

If she doesn't win, her mullet better.

shambles p.i.: khaki love

Despite my general lack of emotion due to running on an operating system largely composed of circuitry, wires and a couple cans of pinto beans, I love love. In fact, I love love so much that I hope not only that everyone finds it one day, but is able to maintain it. (For a post on this subject written by someone with feelings, see here.)

That is, I want us all and our respective significant others (hopefully not all of whom are imaginary) to grow old and gray and khaki together. Like these two, spotted by a reader, holding hands and strolling around what looks to be Logan Circle.


Hot damn! That is A LOT of khaki. But perhaps that's what keeps the love alive, at least that's what the Olde English® (not to be confused with Old English) poet and playwright William Shamblespeare wrote:

Khaki, o khaki!
'Tis thine bland beauty that shalt save the world!
Though thou art a curious chroma,
Thou art also a manila miracle!
A shambly sensation!
Whence wrought by an ecru idol ere time commenced!
But durst I cloth mein mortal parts in neck-to-toe khaki?
And prithee to follow suit to ensure love everlast?
Aye! Aye! O, e'erlasting aye!
For thine bland appearance dost allow us to see thine soul, thine heart, thine true, sanguine guts of love!

Now if that's not pure poetry, then khaki isn't really the true key to finding and maintaining everlasting love. Hmm, methinks I may invest mein shillings in Gap stock.

artomatic, shambles and death by tiny birds

Sorry for the lack of bloggage yesterday. I was busy tending to my helper horse Sven. He got a little carried away with the roman candles on Saturday and set his fine mane aflame. Then when I threw a few shots of rum over to him to put it out, it really only made matters worse. Finally, he stopped, dropped and rolled. Like the wise, albeit cliched, Native American taught me on GI Joe.



Well, Sven, now we know.

And when I wasn't alternately killing then helping Sven not self-immolate, I was actually out doing sh*t. Mainly, I finally went to Artomatic! And, boy, was it arty! And a little big retardy...but we'll get to that later.

First up -- my favorites (from the small amount I was able to see in two hours. Oh and my camera ran out of batteries after the first 30 minutes. And also, I forgot to write down anyone's name. This is why I plan never ever to go back into journalism. I hate necessary information.)

I don't know who made this, but it looked like a giant piece of candy. Sweet.

Connor Glenn's sh*t is tight.

The fanciest toilet I've ever had the pleasure to poop on. Just kidding. It's not functional. And, yes, that somehow stopped me.


The most macabre Peeps diorama I've ever, well, peeped.


The District used to be cool. I guess. At least compared to now. Never mind the ill-fitting white pants you see before you...


And speaking of ill-fitting pants, this guy clearly didn't get the District-wide memo! First off, he's not even wearing pants! In fact, as you can see through the art of this blurry photograph by The Anti DC, who forgot to enter this year's Artomatic, he's barely wearing shorts. Yet, still, they are perfect. The Perfect Shambles. (I'll be selling prints for $0.99, discount for bulk buys.)

And now, I present to you the bad:

This just seems like a terrible waste of a bike to me...


And this kind of barf proved all too prevalent. Just because you own a glue gun, doesn't make you a talented artist. And just because you glue random, creepy sh*t to a tutu, does not make you a visionary. Sorry. I'm a harsh critic.

And now for the most thought provoking:

Joseph Hale certainly piqued my interest with this one and not just because this dog looks uncannily like Steve, the name I plan to give one of the huskies I plan to own in the future that will pull me on a sled along the Iditarod. And not just because it got me thinking about how short and precious life can be lest we get attacked by a small swarm of tiny birds. (What the f*ck are those, canaries?) No, this got me thinking because I'm confused. First off, speaking of those canaries, they really don't look like carnivores. Why are they eating Steve? And secondly, there certainly seems to be a lack of blood streaming out of that giant, gaping, possibly tiny-bird induced wound. Where's the science? I guess that's what artistic license is for. Welcome to my mind. It's a warm and fuzzy place. :)

But luckily, that's pretty much the hardest I was forced to think the entire weekend. Life really is precious.

maybe in another dimension...

As a reward (or punishment, depending on how much you hate my face), I have a special treat for you today for not forgetting about me during my 6-day hiatus: A VLOG!

Actually, it's sort of the anti-vlog. (I'm good at being anti-stuff.)

See, over the weekend I received an email from a reader (who's not related to me!), who asked, "Marissa. I like your writing a lot. Funny stuff. Wondering if you've ever done stand-up or even a any vlogging or anything. You should try it!"

Well, reader, thanks for the compliments and your belief that I'm articulate enough to speak in full sentences. Unfortunately however, I don't think I'm suited to do anything oral [insert dirty joke here]. See, although I give off the image of being a legitimate moron, I'm smart enough to know what I'm good at and talking out loud isn't one of them.

That was my first thought, anyway. And then I forgot about that email entirely while I whittled away my weekend whittling. What? I'm good with a whittle [insert another dirty joke here].

But then yesterday I rethought. I noticed I had been talking to myself. Or my whittle. Whichever. And what I was saying wasn't in gibberish, but in English. So I thought, "Hmm. Maybe I could be a video blogger!" After all, having never tried it, how could I possibly know I'd automatically suck at it?

And so I made a vlog.

And upon rewatching the footage, I learned never to doubt my first instincts ever again.

But despite its all-around sh*tiness, I've decided not let this well-intentioned, rather retardulous effort go to waste. Nope, instead I've decided to make it into a permanent reminder to myself that I should stick to writing.

So without further ado, allow me to present to you, my first and probably last vlog appropriately titled, "Why The Anti DC Will Never Be A Vlog."

And if you can get through the whole thing without punching your computer screen where my face is floating around, then I commend you. You are my true e-friend. Either that, or you like torture and your name is Dick Cheney* and/or you're just a dick.



Wow. I'll never get a fulltime job again. Meh.

My lifelong hobo pass aside, however, I promise I'll get back to what I'm good at (or less bad at) tomorrow. (And I don't just mean whittling!) Now, if you don't mind I have to go record myself watching The View. It's awkward because even I don't know if I'm kidding at this point! Although if that actually does happen, I've made the mental note to shoot from a different angle. Gratuitous up-the-nose shots aren't necessarily flattering. I will also brush my hair. Maybe.

But before I go, I must also share with you the shambles I spotted at Club Monaco in Georgetown this weekend. Behold...


And no, that's not an optical illusion. That, indeed, is a scrunchie. And not just any scrunchie, but a $9 scrunchie. Notice how carefully I'm touching it (I Purelled that whole arm after this encounter). Scrunchies are to me what holy water is to the devil. It burns.

On the other hand, this did provide a new insulting simile to insert into my lexicon -- "glass of $9 scrunchies." As in, Washington, DC, is a like a glass of $9 scrunchies. I will never understand it, yet someone must be buying...someone blind and ignorant, that is.

Wow. Suddenly, spending three minutes staring up my nose and watching me serenade legumes wasn't so bad now, is it!?

*Whoops! Amid trying to spot my boogers and trying to fathom who is actually going to buy a $9 scrunchie, I almost forgot about the asterisk I slapped on the end of Dick Cheney's name. But thankfully I remember my extra Cheney tidbit -- my Dickbit, if you will -- now: My friend almost got ran over by Cheney in the Salt Lake City airport on Friday. He was riding in the back of one of those airport senior-mobiles. Apparently, Dick "The New Old Man White Oprah" Cheney flies commercial now. Who knew!? I bet going from flying private to commercial is like a glass of $9 scrunchies.

the story of stuff

Regular readers (all three of you) may have noticed I've curtailed my Shambles P.I. posts lately. It's not because I haven't seen any shambles to investigate privately, er, publicly, rather, it's just that I haven't had a camera on me for the last few weeks. I suspect my old helper tortoise Vladimir took it to spite me when he walked out on me last month. Stupid testudinidaen bastard...

Anyway, despite my lack of photographic evidence, some things people choose to wear in DC are still pretty laughable. For instance, the shambles I saw on the Russian couple who stopped by the sex shop last week and argued about whether making penis-shaped pasta for a dinner party as a joke would be too offensive (the answer is no, however, the dyevochka thought otherwise as her droog pouted at the thought of a penis-free dinner). While the argument was hilarious enough to witness, this spectacle was infinitely enhanced by the couple's appearance. The man had a euro-mullet like I'd never seen before. It was Ivan Drago in the front, Dog the Bounty Hunter in the back. It was epic to the WTF degree. The woman, well, I didn't check my watch, but suffice it to say, it must have been Vremya Molotka, or as we'd say in English, Hammer Time. Words can't touch the volume of her tie-dyed Hammer pants...

Now, I would venture to guess that this couple thought they were on the edge of fashion...and perhaps in Novosibirsk they are. But here? In the sex shop? It was a shambles show.

But why? Why did I find this couple so funny? Am I just an asshole or does my judgment illustrate a deeper problem in our society?

A moving picture called "The Story of Stuff" came to my attention this morning in a NY Times article. In this moving picture (and, yes, I will keep calling it that), the narrator, environmental activist Annie Leonard, explains (rather convincingly at most times) why our consumer-culture is unsustainable. While I thought it was a bit too socialist at times (roughly two minutes into the narration she notes it's the government's job to "take care of us"), the overall message is pretty intense and worth the watch because I, for one, think we value meaningless stuff -- stuff we intend to use for six months then throw away -- too much in today's America.

But I did have one major problem with her argument, specifically the section about 14 minutes in when she talks about fashion. In this clip, she tries to reason that fashion trends change every year because of some manufactured concept of "perceived obsolescence," or as Leonard explains it, the idea "that convinces us to throw away stuff that is perfectly useful" when companies "change the way stuff looks" because in our culture, which ranks the ability to have new stuff as a value to aim for, not having the latest-looking item "could be embarrassing."

For her example, she uses shoes. "Fashion is [a] prime example of this. Have you ever wondered why women's shoe heels go from fat one year to skinny the next to fat to skinny? It's not because there's some debate about which heel structure is the most healthy for women's feet. It's because wearing fat heels in a skinny-heel year shows everybody that you haven't [been consuming] as recently so you're not as valuable as that person in skinny heels next to you or, more likely, in some ad. It's to keep us buying new shoes."

OK, right here I'm going to have to call bullsh*t. In Leonard's view, fashion doesn't exist and clothing should be valued for function and not form. Suggesting that fashion trends change solely to create an environment of "perceived obsolescence" completely negates the idea that clothes can also be a form of art. Now, I agree some people -- many, in fact -- buy (literally) into this idea of perceived obsolescence when it comes to fashion. These are the people that blindly follow trends found in mainstream magazines or Gossip Girl and redo their wardrobes every season by scooping up whatever shoddy, made-in-China duds they can find at Forever 21 or Urban Outfitters. They don't care about what they're wearing as much as whether they "fit in" or not. These people are also known as "high school students" if they're under 18 and "idiots" if they're over.

However, as we age, most of us dress ourselves with some form of thought. For the dishabille, that thought could simply be about function. If it's cold, they'll wear long pants. They don't care what those pants look like or how many pleats they have, they just want their legs covered. Fair enough. But I say those people are missing out. Clothing is one of the most tangible forms of art we have as humans. We are the canvases. It's really remarkable when you think about it. Clothes allow you to create an image, the same as you would a painting. Colors, shapes and textures elicit moods. Fashion is, indeed, art.

Stemming from that, for those of us who subscribe to that belief and dress ourselves as such, we invite judgment and criticism, as does a painter when he paints. The thing is, a talented painter is a talented painter no matter what style he or she chooses to paint in. Likewise, with fashion, the best of us can wear a fat heel in a skinny-heel year and make it look fashion-forward. Done right, it won't say sh*t about our value on the consumption scale or worth.

What it does say, though, is something about the worth of our styling skills and if those styling skills are worth nothing, then expect to be Shambles P.I.'d. For example, if you're wearing tie-dyed Hammer pants with a visible thong, you will get judged and not because I don't think you're a valuable member of our consumer-based culture, but because you look like you let a near-sighted monkey on ecstasy pick out your outfit.

Fashion existed long before our culture became obsessed with consumption and I'm pretty sure it will continue to exist even after we (hopefully) learn to -- or are forced to -- change our destructive ways. Done right, fashion can be sustainable and, well, fashionable. (For more on that, visit local enviro-fashion blog Righteous ReStyle.)

In the meantime, I will continue to giggle at bad outfits I see around town, not because I'm a superficial consumer, but because I'm a superficial asshole, although I prefer the term critic.

And while I don't usually invite people to comment (I usually let the retardulous musings speak for themselves), I'm interested (for once) in other people's opinions on this matter. Let's get smart on this blog finally without adding the suffix of "-assed" to that word. Actually, nevermind. We can be smart and smart-assed simultaneously. And for your convenience, I've posted the full moving picture, "The Story of Stuff," below. Like I said, it's worth the watch.