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.

poopin' on groupon

Rarely does groupthink produce anything good. Nazism was probably the worst thing that ever happened due to this phenomenon, but Groupon, and specifically the Washington, DC, iteration, is probably a close second. Yes, I am a hater.

For those of you who haven't heard, Groupon "is an online social network that uses the buying power of its members to negotiate dramatically deep discounts for all kinds of goods and services." And yes, I stole that description from the Washington Post's latest article on this sham because it was a much more neutral description than what I'm able to come up with right now. Seriously, I just compared Groupon to the Third Reich.

But let's get real. While Groupon isn't engaged in the mass murder of people, it is calling for the mass murder of awesomeness. And also, unlike Fascism, I actually used to be a fan of Groupon...until they decided to suck. (For clarification purposes, fascism has always sucked.)

Now, not only is Groupon seemingly in the business of ripping people off (see the above-linked Post article), but the deals with which they are trying to run their con are just plain stupid.

For instance, take today's "deal," for example. It's offering $10 worth of chicken for $5. While that sounds pretty sweet (and delicious), a closer look reveals that there's nowhere I can even redeem this so-called Washington, DC, Groupon in f*cking Washington, DC. To get to "Chicken Out" (which, by the way, is just a dumb name for a restaurant), I have to travel to Maryland or Virginia and that there's only one location in DC and it's at 4866 Massachussetts Ave., NW, meaning if I want to actually use this coupon in DC, I'd have to rent a car and pretend I was going to Maryland. THIS IS BULLSH*T!

Why? Because the Washington, DC, iteration of Groupon has three subcategories -- the District, Northern Virginia and Montgomery County. Keep Chicken Out where it belongs, and that is OUT of the goddamn District of Columbia category.

But that's not all. Not only are Groupon's "DC deals" increasingly geographically irrelevant to the people at which they're supposedly directed, but the deals themselves are just dumb. Gone, it seems, are the glory days of mid-to-high priced, non-chain, DC restaurants offering $50 worth of food for $25 and arrived are the days of $9 tickets to Madame f*cking Tussaud's. I don't know who the hell Groupon's staff hangs out with, but I don't know one person in DC who would pay money to go there. Amazingly, however, 5,832 people did.

This begs the question: Who are you people buying this sh*t? Are you the people that the Post article talks about? You know, those people who impulsively buy something just for the sake of getting a discount, even if you have no plans of cashing in on it? Are you basically, as the Post says, "throwing your money away?" You idiots! You've ruined Groupon for everyone by making it profitable for them to offer sh*tty deals!

And sadly, this same fate seems to be coming to LivingSocial, a competitor site that offers similar discounts. Today, that site is offering a deal they're calling shootin' and drinkin', which sure, sounds awesome (I mean, that's a winning combo, right?), but I'm telling you from personal experience that it doesn't need to cost $80 and that's with the discount, mind you. In reality, it should cost no more than $25 for a couple of rounds of skeet and gun rental and another $30 tops to "taste" some scotch at a suburban bar. Trust me, I've done both on my own, and while the scotch may have been moonshine drunk out of a bottle in a paper bag, I can tell you $80 is a rip-off.

Alas, there are some other sites popping up that are hopefully going to stick to what made Groupon and LivingSocial so intriguing in the first place -- discounts at local restaurants. I just bought one the other day for Kaz Sushi Bistro and I am sufficiently pleased. And while I'm reluctant to talk about it lest it starts to suck because a bunch of idiots are willing to impulsively buy anything and everything, thus lowering the quality and applicability of the deals, Groupon and their cohorts need to know. There is competition and your customers are starting to take note. If you don't want to end up being the Friendster of the group discount world, I suggest you reassess your business plan.

Photo courtesy of Flickriver user Javierdoren.

you know the economy's bad when...

Stores are offering no interest to people who pay for their $2.79 cans of baked beanz (Heinz's spelling, not mine) within 18 months.

EIGHTEEN MONTHS. If my erudite helper newt T-Bone's math is to be trusted, that calculates to about 15 cents a month. Or, roughly .003 cents per bean. (Although that's just a shmestimate). But seriously, if you're opening up a credit card to purchase a product that a beggar can pay for with his pocket change, then perhaps you need to rethink whether you should be shopping in the first place and simply learn to beg better.

That said, I suppose this no interest offer would be useful if you were to buy several pallets of beanz, which is what I would've done if I didn't need to pinch my pennies to pay for a Maggie Moo's smoothie, which cost seven f*cking dollars.

I don't know about you, but that seems a bit exorbitant to me, especially considering that they make their "fruit" smoothies with sorbet and milk. At least the sorbet was mango flavored. But Jesus, or Nikkal rather (The Phoenician Goddess of Fruit! Duh!), seven bones for a milkshake (let's not try to health if up by calling it a fruit smoothie, okay?) just ain't right. Especially when I could've gone next door and purchased enough beanz to create an equillibrium on a old-time scale weighing two dumpster babies.


And speaking of dumpster babies, if ever there was something that needed to be discarded so carelessly and left to die (wow, I'm depressed now...), I would have to vote for IKEA. If I ever have to go back there I will pack a steak knife in my handbag and stab myself repeatedly with it because at least the physical pain would alleviate some of the mental strain of being there, which, according to cultural fart "7th Heaven" and, in particular, the seminal "Cutters" episode, cutting oneself is a mildly dramatic and easily solved way to deal with stressful and/or irritating events, such as watching an episode of "7th Heaven."

However, when I leave IKEA, this tidy, labyrinthine realm of prefabricated Swedish hell, remind me to remove said steak knife from my handbag lest I stab myself accidentally.

Oops. Too late. Ouch. And I would cut myself again to relieve the stress of being stupid enough to carry around a steak knife in my purse, but I'm afraid self-mutilation is only a hilariously ridiculous problem (opposed to a seriously unfunny problem that should be treated by certified professional) if Reverend Eric Camdem is there to give me snappy, yet wholesome, advice.

But alas, next to actually having to watch a "7th Heaven" marathon sober, shopping for home goods in Northern Virginia is a virtual instruction book on how *not* to spend a Saturday afternoon. Unless, of course, you need several giant cans of discounted beanz.

the anti dc's 3-Step guide to craigslist etiquette

I know I'm probably not the first one to write about proper Craigslist etiquette, but I hope to be the last, since I'm sure this blog will one day go viral and change the world. Or some sh*t like that. So, as my growing readership of probably five of you now know (only 6,697,254,036 of you left to infect with The Anti DC's unique brand of moron!), my French bike, Junior, was kidnapped not long ago by some dick. While I have vowed to punch anyone I might see riding her on the city streets (that goes for children, too, of course) and free Junior, I also realize she's probably been stripped of all her awesomeness and melted down to make Blackberry parts. We are in DC after all. And so, I have started the search for a new velocipede, which has taken me into the dark world that is Craigslist. It's a world without spell-check, without grammar and, worst of all, without manners, which brings me back to today's subject: The Anti DC's Three-Step Guide to Craigslist Etiquette. 1) Don't write in all caps. IT'S SUPER ANNOYING TO READ ENTIRE PARAGRAPHS WRITTEN IN ALL CAPITAL LETTERS AND IT ALSO MAKES YOU LOOK LIKE AN ILLITERATE ASSHOLE, WHO SOMEHOW CAN TYPE LETTERS IN WORD FORMATIONS, BUT CANNOT READ THE WORDS "CAPS LOCK" ON THE BUTTON LOCATED TO THE LEFT OF YOUR LEFT PINKY FINGER WELL ENOUGH TO REALIZE THAT THAT IS ALL YOU NEED TO TAP in order to return to typing like a civilized human being. Stop letting modern technology win, moron. 2) Don't answer my response to your ad about how much I would love to make a monetary transaction to purchase your bicycle if you're already planning to conduct a monetary transaction for said bicycle with someone else. Seriously, say, for instance I answer an ad you put up about your dumbass, piece-of-sh*t Huffy by writing: "Hi there. I'm really interested in the bike you listed for sale on Craigslist. I have a flexible schedule and can come check it out whenever you have time if it's still available. Thanks, Marissa." The keywords there, of course, are "if it's still available." That is, if it's not, I don't expect -- or want -- to hear from you. Unfortunately, that doesn't stop people from answering you with things like this: "Hi Marisa [note the spelling error], I am so happy your [sic] interested in the bike. However, I have someone coming to look at it that [sic] answered the ad before you. I'll let you know what happens. Jake" Uh, what? You'll "let me know what happens?" How's about, I DON'T CARE WHAT HAPPENS! (Note the appropriate usage of all-capitals to emphasize irateness.) No really. I do not care what happens in any other transaction you are planning to make, except mine. Now, some of you may say this guy, "Jake," was simply being extra polite by keeping me abreast of all the goings-on surrounding his Huffy. However, I contend, under this second point of The Anti DC Three-Step Guide to Craigslist Etiquette, that he should've waited until the results of that first possible transaction were clear before writing me. That is, he should've only written me back if the bike was still available. I mean, what is the point of telling me I'm next? Am I supposed to stop checking out other people's ads for their sh*tty used bicycles and wait to see if maybe I'll have a chance at yours, Jake? Psshah! Anyway, with little precedent about how to handle someone who violates this CL point of etiquette, I decided to write back and simply say, "OK." Although, perhaps I should've said what I initially wanted to: "OK. Hope that deal falls through on you!" This saga of stupid ended when Jake wrote back the next day: "Great news! She took it! sorry [sic] it didn't work out for you." Jesus. 3) Don't murder people. Craigslist killers are the worst. *** And there you have it! I hope we can all follow these three easy steps and make CL a land of easy, non-stick (ew) and murder-free transactions. Now, seriously, who has a bike for me?

house me

I hate responsibility, which is probably one of the reasons why I am so good at being unemployed. I'm really good at taking naps. I'm an excellent bad television watcher. And I am exceptionally talented at going to museums and making friends with prehistoric creatures:

Hi, friend!

Doesn't he look like a gentle soul? I met him in New York this weekend. You don't find these kinds of gentle souls while being a reporter on the Hill, I tell you what! Anyway, this giant tortoise skeleton's name is Dewey, which also happens to be the name of my niece. And wouldn't you know it, my niece also happens to be a tortoise! Of course, she's not related to me by blood, as I don't believe any of my kin carries the tortoise gene (to our shame); instead, she's adopted, but I don't think my brother or sister-in-law have told her. Anyway, here she is, doing what most babies (and tortoises) do best -- chewing on random sh*t:

Yum?

And speaking of family, Dewey's parents recently went to Florida where my sister-in-law bought what might be the coolest, or more appropriately (wait 'til you see it), "most boss" item to be found in a Goodwill store in the history of ever:


However, owning a jacket this boss could be tough, as I can only imagine, much like raising a tortoise (and having a fulltime job), wearing this much freedom on your back entails a great deal of responsibility. You can't just pop this on and walk out the door. I imagine to sport this properly, one need also don a trucker hat, a gun holster and a belt buckle large (and boss) enough to depict a trucker in a hat holding a gun. Moreover, I'm pretty sure wearing something as boss as this also requires you sleep each night naked wrapped in an American flag, which means, despite my lack of those other boss accessories, my sleeping habits allow me to be at least boss enough to view such a boss item. That reminds me, it's time I put away my winter flannel flag in exchange for a much more spring-appropriate cotton one. No one likes waking up in a cold sweat. That's not boss.

Unless you're a tortoise. Apparently, they can be stored for months in the fridge. Now, that's boss. And maybe I'd look into adopting my own tortoises to live in the vacant spaces of my refrigerator, but, unfortunately, it looks like I may not have my own fridge for much longer. See, I need to move out of my studio apartment, which shouldn't be that hard considering I will have no tortoises to transport or much bedding to move (just the two flags).

And while eventually I'll type "I need to move" followed by the phrase "out of this hell hole," right now I simply mean I'm looking to move into a cheaper DC abode...with (gasp!) roommates. Which, I suppose, could be boss. And don't get me wrong, it's not that I can't afford my hobo lair anymore, but with big plans coming up this fall, which may or may not involve an around-the-world trek in search of my very own boss Signature Marine Co. windbreaker and finding good homes for wayward tortoises, it's time for me to start tucking away some cash between the folds of my mattress and Old Glory (the cotton one). The $25 stimulus bonus I'm getting each week courtesy of President Obama just isn't cutting it. So now I'm looking for a new spot under $700 starting in May. So, if you know of anyone with a room cheap enough to house an unemployed rogue blogger with dreams of becoming a badass jacket-wearing, tortoise-rescuing bike messenger, drop me a line. That'd be super boss.

In the meantime, I'll be spending my days scouring Craigslist, where I will continue to be disappointed because of all the un-boss ads like this:


$600 ******Beautiful room for rent******* affordable

Reply to: [redacted]
Date: 2009-03-26, 11:54AM EDT

Don't spend Inauguration week commuting for hours! I offer a suite on Capitol Hill, FOUR BLOCKS FROM THE CAPITOL BUILDING and Obama's swearing-in ceremony, 4 blocks from the metro, and two blocks from historic Capitol Hill bars!!! No cars, buses, train tickets needed -- just wake up and go to all the events and trendy bars/restaurants at your leisure. This beautiful, fully-furnished 2 br suite at 4th and E. Capitol SE is available...

Let's see here. This ad was put up just before noon today. Now, I never claimed to be the most punctual of people, but I do believe this ad is a good TWO MONTHS TOO LATE. So, yeah. Like I said, if you know of any rooms for rent IN THE PRESENT TIME, I'd greatly appreciate a head's up.

In closing, I would like to add that I was just giving you the business about me not being responsible. I love paying bills on time, paying rent on time and cleaning up after myself. Seriously. I'm boss like that.

if i wanted to live in the third world...

I'd move back there. Instead, it seems the Third World has moved to me in the form of my neighborhood Target store, whose shelves are more barren than the empty hole where my heart should be.


That's where the knickers should be! But as you've noticed by now. THERE'S NARY A PAIR OF DRAWERS THERE! Even when I lived in the former U.S.S.R., I never had this much trouble trying to buy things. Especially undergarments, which were so ubiquitously available that I could pick up a couple of pairs on the street next to the neighborhood vodka stand on my way home from doing whatever sketchy activities I had engaged in the night before that may or may not have resulted in me rolling out of a moving vehicle, breaking into a historical cemetery or otherwise losing my unmentionables at the Kremlin (*wink* Putin!). Although, apparently, since Russia is still "developing," as it were, it can still be a bit dangerous when buying said underwear, but the point is, AT LEAST I CAN BUY IT.

Which is more than I can say for my local Target located in the so-called Capital of the Free World. And while I may not fear being pipe-bombed while I'm shopping like I may have in Moscow, my neighborhood Target does not make me want to chant "USA! USA! USA!" which really says something, as those of you who know me personally know that nearly everything makes me want to chant "USA! USA! USA!"

A cheeseburger? "USA! USA! USA!"

A milkshake? "USA! USA! USA!"

A firearm? "USA! USA! USA!"

Roadkill? "USA! USA! USA!"

Train robbery? "USA! USA! USA!"

Obesity epidemic? "USA! USA! USA!"

But the Columbia Heights Target? Hmm...

And the dearth of underoos wasn't the only problem at this establishment. The good salsa was also gone. And don't even get me started on the bean aisle. In fact, THERE WASN'T EVEN A BEAN AISLE! What kind of Communist Target is this?!

It's stupid. That's what.

What's even more stupid? I then went to the neighborhood grocer and found this:


DISCONTINUED?! NOOOOOO! NOT MY NEWMAN'S OWN BALSAMIC MIST SALAD SPRITZER! O! THE HUMANITY! What will my neighborhood strip from me next? Besides my will to live, I mean, because clearly that's already gone.

the anti dc rules for tight gift-giving

As evidenced by my post yesterday in which I channeled A Nightmare Before Christmas's Jack Skellington and revealed that the first gift I received of the season was a rape whistle from my aunt and uncle, I am clearly in the holiday spirit over here. As such, I think it's only fitting that I try something new. That is, instead of complaining about stupid gifts (i.e., not rape whistles), I will try to advise on some Anti DC-approved gifts that will not only delight the recipient, but make your sh*t look tighter by setting up a few easy-to-follow guidelines. It's a win-win, really.

Rule 1. Give something useful.

There's nothing worse than a receiving a gift the receiver has absolutely no use for. For instance, if someone doesn't have a television with more than four channels and will lose even those channels in a month because he or she is too poor resourceful to shell out for cable, do not get that person some sort of Tivo device. That's just stupid.

In its place, may I suggest a gun rack? Even if there are no guns in the house, having a gun rack on your wall still looks bad ass and you can always tell people that the gun is not on said rack because you prefer to keep it close to your heart under your bed, or, better yet, easily accessible to children attached to the side of your bed. Meet "The Back Up." It's the rape whistle of bedside gun racks.

Rule 2. Give something awesome.

The Back Up is pretty useful, but it's not as awesome as, say, the Fish Pen. It may look like an ordinary pen, but watch it transform! And of course it fits in your briefcase! Because everyone knows that when you have a job that requires a briefcase, you probably definitely have time to make your way to a decent body of water on your lunch hour (which you may or may not even get, depending on how fancy of a briefcase you own) to catch a meal of food.

And although, I must say, while the Fish Pen may be convenient, the detachable reel and all the tackle and worms that you'll probably need to, you know, fish with it, pretty much negates the marketing message. You can't put worms in your pocket! However, how awesome would it be to feel like you could go fishing anytime, anywhere? Better yet, combine the fish pen with the Hawaii Chair and fish for goldfish in your office while getting a "workout" or, at the very least, while looking like an asshole. That's pretty awesome.

Rule 3. Give something meaningful.

There's nothing better than giving gifts that show you actually care. Like, when your relatives give you a rape whistle to ensure your safety when you travel to foreign lands like Nicaragua (Dec. 30-Jan. 7!), where not only rapin', but muggin', kidnappin' and gettin' framed for murder are all other tangible dangers. But thanks to my family, I'll whistle my way out of all those dangers. They clearly care.

But rape whistles aren't the only meaningful gifts people can give to each other (I know! This news surprised me too!); people can also give the Facial Flex. Nothing says you care more than giving a gift that says, "You need to start working out. Your face." Without words, you can say, "Your face is so meaningful to me, I can't possibly bear to let you go on without tightening up those jowls of yours." You care.

May I also suggest giving someone the Easy Toothbrush. It shows you care about that person's dental hygiene, while noting that you also care about his or her safety. Your regular old Oral B may look benign, but watch out! Apparently, you could hurt yourself. If you're an idiot. But the ability to not harm yourself through the use of a tool that kids as young as probably three use safely aside, giving the Easy Toothbrush shows you care so much that you're willing to seek out a toothbrush with a built-in equivalent to a rape whistle for your loved one. It's like saying, "Your Oral B will never hurt you again! Not on my watch! Moron."

'Tis the season! May all your (tight gifting) dreams come true! Like this one! It's a major award!

shambles p.i. -- the hickburger edition

I don't know quite how it turned into hamburger week here at The Anti DC, but I guess when it rains, it pours, or more appropriately, when it grills, it chars, which explains why, on the heels of the delicious shazzambles at Z Burger yesterday, my very own mother sent me this snapshot of some small-town burger shambles this morning.

Mmm...delicious "new little hickburgers."

I'm trusting the hickburgers at this Hayes, Va., Hardees are even tastier than their thickburgers. I bet they're covered with Velveeta, bean dip and Hidden Valley Ranch. If that sounds gnarly to you, then you only have your functional tastebuds to blame. If that sounds tasty to you, then I feel bad for you.

But vomit-inducing meaty treats aside, it's important to recognize where this sign was born. Hayes is a tiny speck of a town near Norfolk that features a movie theater, a 7-11 and, for some reason, several hundred tattoo parlors. Clearly, it's a classy place. But it's made even classier after recognizing that the hottest spot in town is definitely this Hardees, which also happens to be the fanciest restaurant within a 20 mile radius. But then again, how could it not be the best when it serves up cheese-product smothered hickburgers?

However, as much as I'd like to pretend there is such a thing as a "hickburger," I fear much like the chimerical "Shazam!" of Z Burger, this is just the work of the high school senior who manages this Hardees. While some may call him a simple prankster, I like to think of this mythical manager as a visionary. He's goin' places! At least on this blog.

Or maybe it was the wind. Eh.

P.S. -- Veering away from hamburgers, but sticking to stuff that deserves the label "Shazam," does anyone know where one can obtain a Captain's yacht hat by tomorrow at 3 p.m.? Um, if so, please send me an E-mail. Thanks!

so it's come to this...

I'm about to give you (and me) the creeps, and all because I lack 20/20 vision. Boom!


Damn...sometimes I really do scare myself. And by "sometimes," I mean on a daily basis, specifically every time I conjure up a bit of nonsense to fill the endless space on this inexhaustible goblet of a Web log.

But scaring myself and others aside, I'm trying to relay to you here that I bought new spectacles a couple of weeks ago. Groundbreaking blog material, indeed! And lest I leave you wanting more, let me expound on this topic until there's nothing left to post but a picture of my bespectacled self thinking about playing craps with Putin! So without further ado about nothing, allow me to present to you a little essay I so originally entitled "Marissa blogs about her new glasses."

I really like my new spectacles, which is probably why I've been wearing them more often than my contacts. However, there are several other reasons for sporting this new near-daily facial accessory:

1) I'm lazy. Glasses are so much easier to shove on your face than contacts are to shove in your eyes;

2) This is probably the first pair of glasses not of the sun variety that I (possibly mistakenly) don't think make me look like Grade A asshole (maybe Grade B);

3) I really enjoy whipping them on and off CSI: Miami style (a la David Caruso) during random conversations with my boss; and

4) I paid an embarrassing amount of money for them, hence I feel the pressing need to actually wear them.

(Still reading? I love you...)

Anyway, I bought these bad boys at Georgetown Opticians in Dupont Circle. I have no idea what brand they are, as I didn't think to ask at the time of purchase and because the only marking these spectacles have on them is "Handmade Frame AV-8." And while that may seem extremely retarded (and it is), I attribute my brand ignorance to the friendly and helpful staff at GO. See (LOL!), I came in with a certain idea in mind: I wanted a big ol' pair of geek glasses -- the kind that graced the Fall '08 runway shows. However, upon learning of my almost-blindness (OD: -6.00; OS: -3.00 + astigmatism), the shopkeeper told me it'd be damn near impossible to fit my genuine nerd prescription lenses into faux-nerd frames (something about the concavity of the lens or whatever...science).

And so, dismayed and wayward, I had no idea what to do. After all, I had already invented outfits to work around the massive geek glasses I thought I was going to purchase. And so I let the shopkeeper pick out what he thought worked best considering my unfortunate lack of sight as well as my rather intriguing (or hideous) taste level and we settled on the above. I like to call it the Sleek Geek. I can live with it...


And yes, as promised, that is, indeed, a thought bubble gingerly perched above my head filled with a doctored shot of Putin (with Flock of Seagulls hair, natch) playing craps. A girl can dream...

shopping with dudes

I realized this weekend that I was living under the false premise that dudes have it a lot easier when it comes to the important things in life, like getting due pay for the work they do on the job, gaining respect for their minds in the classroom and, most importantly, finding clothes that fit them in the shopping mall. Man (ha!), was I wrong. Well, about that last one, at least. That is, shopping sucks for guys, too.

I never really thought of men having a body type that they needed to dress, like women do. For instance, women are apple-shaped, pear-shaped, long-torso'd, short-torso'd, hourglass, flat-chested, bosomy, long-necked, short-necked, etc. I'd even go so far as to say such details like the circumference of a woman's ankles play into style choice. After all, nary a shoe do cankles compliment.

But men? I've never seen a dude with cankles. Not only that, but since the Sears and JCPenney's catalogues started coming to my family's house when I was a kid, I always thought guys fit into three simple categories -- slim, regular or husky. And save for the far extremes of "slim" and "husky," I figured dudes could wear whatever they wanted without worrying about downplaying or enhancing pesky things like hips, breastesses and overall proportion if they just bought the right size.

But good effing guh-od, was I wrong -- wronger than I've been since that one time I thought it was a good idea to hop into a strange Mercedes in St. Petersburg, Russia, at 4 a.m. thinking it was a cab. (Consequently, that was the first time I ever had to test my rolling-out-of-a-moving-vehicle skills. I nailed it.).

Horrible decisions aside, I'm sure every dude who doesn't dress like a tool is scoffing at my ignorance, but for some reason this concept of men having proportion issues never crossed my mind. That is, until last Saturday when a male friend, a Canadian, asked my friend The Law and me to help him "de-douche" himself and make him look like he "listens to indie rock," which, single ladies if your interested (wink!), he actually does.

It seemed easy enough. We'd just outfit him in some American Apparel type gear, layer a raggy-looking cardigan over a flannel or something, add some skinny cords and some Chucks and voila! Instant indie caché. We started off at Filene's Basement to git 'er 'im done. However, it turns out, our friend has the best worst body issue a guy could ever deal with -- he's too in shape. He lacks the skinny lankiness that compliments the intentionally disheveled aesthetic he was going for, so the items we chose either made him look like a lumberjack or a jock dressing up for Halloween. FAIL.

So we moved on to get some professional advice from the pros at Saks Fifth Avenue. We told him what we originally were going for, at which point the Canadian noted, "I basically want to be the male version of her," pointing at me, which was apparently comic gold because the sales associate helping us started cackling. Not sure whether I should've been insulted (was my outfit that ridiculous?), I explained that we had tried a series of cardigans that didn't work and were looking to see some sweatervests (YES!).

Apparently not listening, the clerk fetched zero sweatervests and a cardigan, which happened to boast a price of -- ready? -- $1,200.00. Seriously. I'm not sure what the $1,200.00 price tag was all about. Sure, it was Ermenegildo Zegna and, yes, it was nice, but $1,200? Unless that sh*t was woven from the pubes of actual angels, I'm not sure any cardigan is worth that many bones. (Wow, I think I just discovered a new level of blasphemy.) This Canadian did, however, find a nice Hugo Boss military-inspired wool coat for a decent price, which both The Law and I approved of.

With that fine purchase in hand and a look formulating in our collective minds, we finally shuffled over to J.Crew, which to everyone's slight surprise offered an array of good-looking men's sweatervests from which to choose. While the J.Crew label will hardly de-douche a fellow, at least our Canadian friend wouldn't be known as "cardigan guy," as he had feared when seriously contemplating purchasing that $1,200 cardigan: "If I buy this, I'd have to wear it every day. I'd be cardigan guy..."

And strangely, standing in J.Crew surrounded by argyle sweaters, corduroy blazers and button-down shirts, it finally dawned on us. Our friend would de-douche and represent his musical leanings by becoming "Vampire Weekend Professor," a look not only suited for his listening pleasure, but also for his broad-shoulder, narrow-hipped frame.

What the hell is "Vampire Weekend Professor," you ask? It's sweatervests (DOUBLE YES!), elbow-patch jackets, textured fabrics, scarves and Topsiders! It's basically Band of Outsiders (see right), but with a bit more testosterone.

Sadly, finding Band of Outsiders looks around here didn't prove easy. Of course, that may be because we only had two hours and were in Bethesda (I know...). But still. If shopping for men in DC is anything like shopping for women here, then it's probably a safe assumption to say it might be hard achieving this look at an affordable price in these parts. (Although, apparently some store in Georgetown called "Lost Boys" sells actual Band of Outsiders gear. Who knew!?)

But perhaps shopping on a slightly tighter budget is not a total loss. Again, like women's shopping, maybe finding decent men's clothing is a matter of turning to DC-area vintage and thrift stores, which I in the past and The Law very recently have had some damn fine luck with. (In fact, on that same Saturday, The Law snapped up a vintage YSL casual coat from Listopad's permanent pop-up shop in Mercedes Bien. It looks like Members Only circa 1982 but for millionaires, yet it was still only like $40 or something. Definitely blog-worthy.)

But back to the topic at hand: As e-fate would have it, according to the DC Goodwill Fashionista, men's vintage shopping is the way to go! I love it when sh*t works out like that.

Anyway, in closing, for lack of something more wordy, here is Brad Pitt in Band of Outsiders. I told you it's a damn good look.

If nothing else, at least notice the slim fit of his slacks.

watch your faces

***ATTENTION: "I'LL SLEEP BETTER TONIGHT, TOO!" ADDENDUM ATTACHED***

I couldn't open my refrigerator on Saturday without getting a bit emotional. See, I eat a lot of salads at home and on those salads I like to spritz on a little balsamic vinaigrette and on that bottle of spray-on balsamic vinaigrette is a portrait of Paul Newman looking very Shakespearean wearing a ruff. Philanthropist salad-dressing maker, Oscar-winning actor, race-car driver and all-around old-school hottie, I had a little crush on old pictures of Newman. Seriously. Look.

Those abs are tight.

I use the past tense because Paul Newman died on Friday after battling cancer. (Cancer can go f*ck itself, by the way.) I found out on Saturday when I discovered a New York Times alert in my Inbox around noon, just before I needed that delicious dressing; just before I lost my appetite. Goodbye, Hollywood legend, goodbye.

Bidding adieu to Cool Hand Luke made me think about how solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short life is. OK, so I guess bidding adieu to Butch Cassidy (thank God we still have the Sundance Kid) made me think of Thomas Hobbes's Leviathon, which then made me think about how solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short life is. It made me realize that I needed to start taking advantage of these few moments I have on Earth. I needed to stop staring longingly at that Elizabethan-era Newman and get out there and live. And so I ate my salad, sopping up every last drop of that scrumptious balsamic spray (only 2 calories per spritz!), hopped on my bicycle, Baguette, and headed out into the misty gray Saturday afternoon. And lo and behold, I discovered a secret DC gem, a reason to live, if you will (and I will, even without Fast Eddie Felson).

Surprisingly, I'm discovering that Washington, DC, has a pretty solid vintage and thrift shopping scene -- a scene of which I'm convinced I've barely scratched the surface. I've had luck down at the massive Indian Head Thrift in Anacostia, found a few good pieces in Unique in Virginia, procured a lovely little ensemble a couple weeks ago at the DC Goodwill fashion show and have seen the wide selection of vintage boutiques scattered around DC, Arlington and Bethesda. However, this weekend I may have [been the last to discover] the best -- Mercedes Bien, which has sat for the year-and-a-half I've lived in DC just a neighborhood away in Adams Morgan.

Only open on the weekends, Mercedes Bien, located on 18th above the Falafel Shop, doesn't have the widest selection of clothes, but it does have one of the best -- a stylized edit of the merchandise that I wish more secondhand-only boutiques would use to separate the good from the ghastly, or more importantly, the well-made from the tattered. If I hadn't blown through my rent money in New York City last weekend, I could've easily traded in all of that cash at MB for some lovely, one-of-a-kind finds, including a blue velvet Moroccan vest, a handmade brocade-and-bead cropped jacket and several pairs of vintage sunglasses that Jackie O. would adore.

And while we're at it, since I could've easily spent my rent money at Mercedes Bien, I'd have been remiss not to go ahead and bring my board money as well to drop on the fine finds of the newly permanent Listopad shop located in the rear of the store. I don't know how the Listopad trio does it, but those women have managed to collect three-plus jam-packed racks (and probably more) of some of the coolest vintage items I've seen. Ever. Sifting through their racks, I literally stumbled upon 20-some items that, again, if I didn't have those pesky needs of shelter and food, I would've scooped up in a heartbeat, of which my fair Newman reminded me we have so very few. The Missoni sweatervest (my love of the sweatervest is steadfast season-to-season); the cream-colored leather bomber jacket with the pleated shoulders; the velvet skimmer sneakers; the navy blue blouse with the bias lace detail...

And I could go on...and on...and on...

Thank Dionysus, though, that the Listopad crew provided mid-afternoon mimosas at their Saturday kick-off event so I could have something to distract me from looking at all the reasonably priced items that I'll have to return next week to buy after I hustle some bitches at street dice collect my paycheck that I earned legally. That is, if those items are still there. As a warning, though, I'll cut a bitch if I see someone wearing that leather coat. (But actually I won't. Not because I'm scared of a good old-fashioned knife-fight, but because I can't bear the thought of staining that jacket. And blood makes me squeamish. OK, so the shivving is out. I kick in the teeth, however, is still fair game. Watch your faces.)

Anypsychoticthoughts, it's a good day when you go to bed feeling like life is a little less solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short than you thought it was when you awoke. Well, maybe not. Cancer really is a bitch. But let's face it -- or maybe I'll just face it -- in DC, if you go to bed feeling this city is a little less ugly and a little more stylish, that'll do. :)

***BEGIN "I'LL SLEEP BETTER TONIGHT, TOO!" ADDENDUM***

And tonight will be no different, thanks to the creative force that is Pandahead, whose highly skilled efforts have helped to expand DC's fashion/art world by exponential amounts. Check out the latest Pandahead magazine here! It's pretty tight.

***END "I'LL SLEEP BETTER TONIGHT, TOO!" ADDENDUM***

f*ck dc, it's nyc week!

So, after I teared up during the closing montage of the XXVIV Olympiad, I realized two things: 1) My life is truly empty, and 2) I really do miss NYC. Now what do the 2008 Beijing Olympics have to do with my missing New York? I'm not entirely sure, but considering I never cried because a sports event ended before now makes me believe that DC has affected me (read: driven me batsh*t crazy). In New York City, I think (or at least I'd like to) that I'd be too busy doing fun and exciting things to care. In DC, I have nothing else to care about. My life is empty, remember?

But you know what's not empty? My fulfilling memories of my times in Manhattan and Brooklyn a few weekends ago. And so, I dedicate this e-week to those two magical boroughs where the khakis are kept to a minimum and the people can actually stand me. I ♥ NY.

To kick off this week of NYC love, I'll start with something to which DC pales in comparison -- the shopping. There are more stores on one SoHo block that match my aesthetic than there are in the entire District. Actually, let's even throw in Bethesda and all the malls in Northern Virginia, as well. DC and its surrounding environs can keep its Caché, Talbots and Ann Taylor Lofts. In fact, it can even keep its H&M's, Urban Outfitters and Barneys CO-OPs, the stores I find myself most often perusing in the District. Of course I could shop (or stare at longingly in the case of the CO-OP) at those outlets in New York, as well, but I don't have to. Instead, New York offers an array of decently priced wares, and often better made, from stores like Uniqlo and Muji, two Japanese brands whose only North American locations are located in Manhattan.

Both stores balk most trends and instead offer stylized basics, paying great attention to fabric and silhouette. Take for instance these looks from Uniqlo. Notice the absense of both pleated khakis and Crocs (shocking, I know):




And here's a Japanese dance crew wearing Uniqlo and doing my favorite dance and hopefully yours, too -- the Robot. Indeed, much like their style, their sh*t is tight.



Muji keeps it even more simple, opting for mostly neutral colors and 100 percent cotton. My favorite item of clothing in Muji was their crinkley T-shirt, which comes in a vacuum-packed cube about the size of a Rubik's Cube. Although, I'm and idiot and failed to photograph my own purchase in the package, Flicker users Colin and Mitch did:


And even though I bought one of these cubes about three weeks ago now, I didn't open it till this morning after I woke up from a sleepless night of Olympic mourning. Capitalism always makes me feel better.


Capitalism, however, does little for my bird's nest-like hair in the morning. Speaking of bird's nest, I'm now thinking this is my coiffure's inadvertent tribute to Beijing's Bird's Nest Stadium where Usain Bolt won three gold medals and broke the same amount of records. Dammit...I'm tearing up again.

But eulogistic top-knots aside, I invite you to take a closer look at this permanently wrinkled shirt. It is quite phenomenal. (Again, my life is empty.)


Domo arigato, Japanese crinkley shirt!

And xie xie, Chinese Olympic games. *single tear* I'll miss you.

yellow pants are tight

I've been thinking quite a bit about feelings lately. You know, basically how I can offend the greatest amount of people with the least amount of effort. As it turns out, that's surprisingly easy to do. In fact, all I have to do is breath.

I pissed a cab driver off yesterday for getting into his cab. He tried to charge my friend and I separately to sit in his cab (which is total bullsh*t, by the way, so if some shady dumbass driver tries to pull that scheme on you, let him know you're willing to take it up with the police).

Then this morning, while commuting via Baguette to work, I nearly got clotheslined by a douchebag exiting his car. There was a bit of a scuffle, which may or may not have resulted in a scratch or two on his vehicle (I didn't stick around long enough to check and Baguette came out unscathed), but this bitch had the nerve to yell at me. Um, now I've found logic to be an elusive quality in the Capital of the Free World, but it seems to me that if someone HITS YOU, it should be on his back to apologize. Just sayin'.

And truthfully, I'm surprised he didn't see me coming out of the corner of his eye, as to compensate for the gloom and doom that is this week for me at work (thanks to the House and Senate both, um, doing their jobs and actually marking up a few bills -- trust me, I'm as surprised as you!), I decided to wear the brightest, sunniest, most cheery yellow tight pants I own:

Happy fun sunshine time, heyyy!

Yeah, those are zippers at the ankles, indeed! But let's move on to the footwear. Gladiator sandals are all the rage this season, and I'd been looking for metallic ones for quite some time, however, the only pair (until now) that I had truly liked were upwards of $330 (scroll down to see the Helena in graphite). Yeah.

Luckily, last Friday, when I was picking up a few last minute travel items at Bed, Bath and Beyond (their travel section is AMAZING), I decided to stop by the Marshall's located just beneath it in the DC USA shopping complex in Columbia Heights. Lo and behold, amid all the schlock and rows of flip-flops (ugh), I found the pair pictured here for just $25.

Note to self: Stop over-boozing. My shakes are not helping my photog skills, clearly.

They came in pewter (pictured, um, sorta) and bronze. (For a better image, check out them out here.) If you want a pair, I suggest you hit that sh*t up now, as this was the only decent-looking shoe in the bunch, I won't lie (I'm not a fan of that Marshalls...), and with a discount of over 50 percent, it's kind of an unbeatable deal. They run super big, however, so you're probably going to want to size down. And lastly, they actually seem pretty well made so when I have to kick a cab driver in the teeth for trying to rip me off or a driver in the throat for yelling at me after he hit me, I think these would hold up just fine. Afterall, the Goose of Justice can't always be around to help you out of a jam.

potomac mills: a wtf?! review and a romper

I hate to bid adieu to my wardrobe trademarks -- tight pants and sweatervests -- but the heat in DC kills me. Must... think... of... alternative.

But luckily, that alternative thought of me. I had spent the morning with The Law at the sketchy gun show learning about boobytrapping (theme week!), followed by an early afternoon taking in the sights of Dale City and a mid-afternoon ultimately failing to find a blaze orange ammo belt at Grangers Ganders. But then fate intervened.

The original plan was to find our sweet shooting gear then hit up the range, however, by the time the shambles of last Saturday morning/afternoon were over, as well as by the time we were done with our classy Denny's brunch (pancakes, eggs, sausage and hashbrowns for $4.99?!), the Bull Run Shooting Center -- our range of choice -- was about to close. So we did the only logical thing people do when they can't shoot guns -- we spent money. More specifically, we went to Potomac Mills shopping center, which happens to be right next to Dale City.

Potomac Mills is a strange, strange place. It's a bit like L'Enfant Plaza in that the whole thing seems a bit foreign. That is, like the Soviet-style architecture featured in and around L'Enfant Plaza, the stores that compose Potomac Mills remind me a bit of the stores one would find in pre-Putin Russia or parts of South America. First, the clothes in these stores feature more sequins than one of Johnny Weir's ice-skating ensembles and, second, many of the stores have ridiculous names.

Some boast conspicuous designer names that have nothing to do with said designer, such as "Glory & Dior." Trust me, Dior has nothing to do with that. Others feature names with obvious nods to certain areas of the world, a practice done quite regularly in places like Kyrgyzstan (Where? Exactly.), hoping to cash in on the cachet of another country's fashion sense. Potomac Mills has "Group USA" and "Istanbul." (Yeah, I couldn't even Google that last one...) And still others seem to just pick random words in hopes that they sound hip, like "Urban Behavior," "Papaya," "LVL X Direct," and my personal favorite, "E-Paris." (Again, all three are un-Googleable.) All of this is reminiscent of a little store I spotted a couple of years ago while vacationing in Punta del Este, Uruguay.

You can't see it, but a store called Peen was on the right. (If only...)

Ridiculous store names aside, however, the strangest thing about Potomac Mills is that it's home to a JC Penney's Outlet. Now, call me uppity, call me a snob, call me stuck-up, perhaps even call me bitchy, but, um, isn't JC Penney's already kind of an outlet? I don't see Marshalls or TJ Maxx outlets. Why? It just doesn't make sense. Logic and Virginia, however, never necessarily seem to go hand-in-hand, so I'll let that one slide.

But let's get real. Let's get to the good stuff -- the awesome sh*t I found (natch!). Luckily, Potomac Mills isn't all made up of mid-1990s Russian-style stores and JC Penney's Outlets. They also have an Off 5th Saks outlet, a BCBG Max Azaria outlet and, of course, staples like Forever 21, which you'd find in any old mall.

At BCBG I managed to procure a really nice (even work appropriate) dress for $110, marked down from $286; at Off 5th I found a pair of bright turquoise skinny jeans by Joe's Jeans for $26.98 (!), marked down from $158, and an Elie Tahari velvet blazer for just $68.97 (!!), marked down from *gasp!* $478. But perhaps the find of the day season -- my new pièce de résistance, if you will -- was this SILK ROMPER bought at, um, Forever 21.

"F" for self-photog skills; "A" for romper-wearing.

Now, I'm slightly embarrassed about where I found it (as a 28-year-old, I always find it a bit uncomfortable to be waiting in the fitting-room line with a 13-year-old holding the same item), but I'm not embarrassed about the price -- $27. Tight. Looking at this photo, however, I'm not exactly excited about how I styled this outfit. Mid-calf boots + romper = Stumpy McNoLegs. And I'm 5'9"...and the doughnut I just ate isn't helping. Dammit.

Anyway, let me put it this way: The romper is my new sweatervest. And although I'm pretty sure DC-at-large will not look favorably upon my summer jumpsuit, I don't really care. What I do care about is not sweating profusely when the heat index hits 100. And really, eff it -- I've never shied away from looking like a jackass before, so why start now? Plus, it's an effing romper! And because I want to spread the romper-love, I'm in the midst of gathering up a few romper e-finds for those of you who might be interested in jumping the shark into a sea of onesie wonder with me. It's a magical world...and surprisingly comfortable. Not wearing pants is the best...

"pardon the expression -- socks"

While taking in all the ridiculousness (and quite frightening) displays at the street-illegal gun show, the Law and I were perplexed, confused, confounded and several other synonyms to find a near-total lack of shooting accessories. Sure, I could pick up a Berretta semi-aut for around $500 and yes I could definitely find myself that grenade launcher every American household so desperately needs, but what about all those sweet blaze orange accessories to go with my new firearms?

Surprisingly, despite that 99 percent of those in attendance at this event probably buy most of their goods from market giants like Wal-Mart, the shady gun show itself is not a one-stop shop. There was nary a blaze orange ammo belt to be found! What the hell kind of gun show was this?! A goddamn book fair?!

Anyway, shoveling aside our disappointment, we decided to ask one of the vendors, a man whose facial hair was so bizarre, so wacky that I'm not even sure words can describe it. It was as if a Hostess Snowball got stuck directly in the middle of this guy's chin. I'm not sure if it was an oversized soul patch or just a misplaced goatee, but whatever the hell it was, that sh*t was super ultra mega supremely gnarly. In fact, I think I'll call it a goat-patch, since not only does it linguistically marry "soul patch" and "goatee," but I'm fairly sure a goat would love to nosh on that. Sick.

But puffy, white goat-patch aside, this man looked like the only person in attendance not ready to snipe The Law and I out. (After all, I did take a photograph, which, as you might recall from Part 1 of this saga, "Is the quickest way to get kicked out and arrested!" And by "kicked out and arrested," I'm pretty sure the man who drawled that meant "shot in the face." Bang. "Several times." Bang, bang.) However, apparently Goat-Patch, the most non-threatening man at the gun show, also ended up being the most retarded.

Me: Excuse me, sir? Do you know where we could find some shooting outerwear?

Goat-Patch: What? Outerwear? You mean like clothing?

The Law: Like a vest, for instance.

G-P: Oh. Well, you're not going to find any in here. But there's a store, "Grangers," where you can get all kinds of shooting clothing: hats, shirts, boots and, pardon the expression, socks.

Time out. Did this man just excuse himself for saying "socks"? The Law and I both held back our laughter (remember, this guy was surrouned by a bunch of guns) and wondered to ourselves if socks was some sort of perverted euphemism in the illegal gun-show world. We would soon find out, however, that (luckily) it's not.

Me: Um...Grangers? Where is this? That sounds pretty much like exactly what we're looking for.

G-P: Oh it ain't too far. Just down 95. You get off at Route 3. It's across from BJs, but if you see the Chick-Fil-A, you need to turn around. That Chick-Fil-A means you went too dang far then.

The Law: Do you know how long it takes to get there?

G-P: Oh, not long. Maybe 10 minutes. You can't miss it. Just make sure you don't pass that Chick-Fil-A. Grangers is great! You can get vests, jackets, coats and, pardon the expression, trousers.

Time out again. He seriously just said it again; he unnecessarily excused himself for the second time for saying a very benign word -- trousers!

This time I couldn't hold in my laughter. I did one of those snorty giggles that happen when you try hard but fail to control yourself from busting out in a full-out LOL. Luckily, ol' Goat-Patch was not so quick on the uptake, so he was oblivious to what was going on. Instead, he drew us a map to "Grangers," which consisted of a curved line. Totally useful. Not. (Yeah, I just took my jokes old school.)

But you know what would've been useful? If he had given us the goddamn correct name of the store. It's called Ganders, not Grangers. Luckily though, Goat-Patch's broken-record-esque fascination with repeating the name "Chick-Fil-A" let us know to turn around.

The Law: Um, so he definitely must have meant Ganders.

Me: Pardon the expression, probably.

And to put the icing processed coconut on the cake Hostess Snowball, Ganders didn't even carry ammo belts and only had a couple of coats in blaze orange. Foiled!

However, lest you think our 10 minute one-hour trip out to Ganders was a total loss, let me show you next spring's hottest accessory -- thigh-high waders.

Lookin' good, The Law, lookin' good.

Stay tuned for Part III -- "Marissa Re-Discovers Rompers; Looks Even More Like a Jackass."

i'm over here, no, i'm over there!

It's happening again, e-friends. Your trusty purveyor of all things sweatervest is making headway in her quest to take over the Internetz. Last time, you may remember, I lent my brand of shambles to The Vinyl District to post up some of my all-time favorite songs. This time, however, I'm lending my brand of style shambles to one of DC's best fashion blogs, The Goodwill Fashionista.

• Find out what the first clothing item I truly remember loving was as a child! (Hint: It's really predictable!)

• Find out where I like to bargain hunt in DC and beyond!

• Find out which designer's wares (wears, perhaps?) I'm currently coveting!

• Find out just how unnaturally obsessed I am with outgoing Russian President Vova Putin! (Hint: It's disturbing!)

• And much, (too) much more!

• CLICK IT!

• Grip it 'n flip it!

i'll see u.v. in hell!

I had a pretty exciting week so far. First off, my right pointer finger is finally starting to turn back to its normal color after I drunkenly accidentally poured a pot of boiling water over it Saturday evening. Your ingenious author here is too lazy to buy a colander and instead opts even to this day to drain her spaghetti using the pour-water-out-of-the-pot-while-holding-said-noodles-back-with-a-fork-method. Why? I live on the edge.

Kitchen shambles aside, though, the other monumental event to happen to The Anti DC this week occurred via E-mail. (Of course it did...*sigh*) I've mentioned that I get E-mail from readers every once in a while. Most of it is either to compliment my efforts (natch!) or to suggest blog ideas (all of which are always appreciated, btw). However, this week, I received a request for -- ready? -- fashion advice!

I'm not sure how this happened as I don't know if I'd really ever even ask myself for fashion advice seeing as though I pretty much always err on the side of ridiculousness ("Of course you should buy a neon yellow sweatervest!" -- "Those pants cut off your circulation? Sweet. Buy them." -- "No, you can never have enough patent leather accessories."), but it did.

Also, when it comes down to it, I'm kind of an asshole (although I prefer to call myself honest). For instance, during grad school, I worked part-time at a popular clothing store. I guess it was my bad for lying and telling the hiring manager that I had something called "customer service skills," but it was his fault for actually hiring me. Anyway, short story shorter, it didn't take long before management realized my skills were better suited for solving Sudokus in the breakroom rather than, you know, being out on the sales floor "doing my job."

But I digress. Apparently, despite all my good-natured mocking and unnatural love for retardulous clothing items, someone still dared to ask my opinion. The topic? Sunglasses. What looks good on girls? What looks good on guys? Well, allow me to force my opinion on you.

For the ladies, I'm still a fan of oversized frames, especially vintage or vintage-inspired frames, like these:

Vintage Cazel 852 oversized shades, $233.93 @ Vintage Sunglasses Shop

Esquire Sunglasses; $60 @ American Apparel

F6745 Sunglasses (nice name, right?); $5.80 (nice price, RIGHT?) @ Forever 21 (I know...right.)

Some may find my choices in sunglasses recommendations ridiculous, and to that I say, you're probably right. Remember, this advice is coming from the girl whose sunglasses elicit her coworkers to proclaim "Jesus walks!" as she slips them on.

I personally think we have a lot in common, starting with the jackass facial expression.

Wow. And that officially marks the second instance in which my coworkers have compared me to a man. I know I should probably be insulted because, you know, I'm, like, not a man and stuff, but you know what? I'm sick and twisted enough to take it as a compliment (of course I would!). After all, Kanye West has impeccable taste...as does Luke Skywalker...and...moving on...

So speaking of men, let me move on to Part 2 of my first reader fashion question -- what looks good on men? Well, I think men, much like ladies, can go various directions with their sunglasses choices. However, the best of the best (in my opinion) to enhance any man's appearance is either the classic wayfarer or the old-school aviator. Brad Pitt wears 'em!

"Hi Brad!"

"Oh, hi Marissa!"

And 1980s Tom Cruise wears 'em!

"I miss you 1980s Tom."

"I miss you too, Marissa. I miss you too."