to dpp or ppp? wtf is the question.

I've talked before about my attempts to decorate the barren white walls of my tiny apartment. And being the narcissist that I am, I ultimately decided on adorning my place with photographs I've taken, but that's just because I'm ridiculously talented. Just sayin'.

However, despite my forays into interior decorating, I still find I have quite a bit of wall space to cover. (The square footage of my place might be small, but the wall space is mighty.) I've thought about the obvious choice, commissioning my own life-size self-portrait, but unfortunately, I don't have the means to pay for that at the moment -- at least not in the Western Hemisphere. (As my friend "The Law's" living room wall can attest to, captivating self-portraits can be procured on the cheap in the Eastern Bloc. And as my mom's guest room closet can attest to, captivating self-portraits of you looking like a Russian peasant working on a kolkhoz can also be procured. TOO BAD the peasant woman drawn looks NOTHING LIKE ME. I will always hate you, sir, for wasting my time and my 500 rubles.)

But anyways, back to my present-day conundrum: What else can I put on my walls? The question has haunted me for weeks. But today -- O! This fateful day! -- I may have found the answer.

It was like any other day. I was strutting to work (yes, strutting) when I noticed something different about the frame shop window I pass each day. They had changed the display. I'm not sure what exactly the newly displayed merchandise had replaced, but I didn't care. My eye was caught. I stepped closer to the window and just stared. Probably for five minutes or so. What I was seeing was unbelievably ridiculous. I laughed because I thought it was a joke, but then as I noticed other people walking by and not laughing (some even seemed shocked that I was laughing) I began to realize that I might be the only person who found this display humorous. I understand people here take their politics seriously, but I mean who doesn't find this even the slightest bit amusing:



I mean it's a painting of Carter, Kennedy, Clinton, et al., playing cards! But what's even better about this apparently very serious DC art is the painting hanging directly above it (and I do apologize for the glare).


In my reflection, you can clearly make out Reagan, W. Bush and Eisenhower, again, playing cards. How is this not funny?! Is this not a brilliant play on C.M. Coolidge's perennial dogs-playing-poker paintings, which grace frat houses all across this great nation of ours???


I mean, do people in DC really take these DPP (acronym alert: dogs-playing-poker) presidential parody paintings seriously? Maybe if the presidents were playing street dice or something (you don't f*ck around with street dice), I'd understand people's earnestness, but, COME ON! Presidents playing poker (PPP!) is at least as amusing as dogs playing poker, no?

Anyway, if this "art" wasn't upwards of $300 (!), I'd think about buying one or both just to remind myself each and every day that if we don't have laughter, we have nothing. Well, that's not exactly true. We'd have bad paintings. Wow. That's deep.

lil' lord doucheington loves me

Valentine's Day is not my favorite holiday (although not for the single-woman-in-the-city-cliché reasons you might expect, mind you). However, my coworkers are slowly showing me the proverbial light. And what better way to pierce my cold metal heart than through gifts and cubicle decorations? They doubled my joy during Christmastime. First, they printed out Flock of Seaguls hair with which to decorate my Putin masquerade mask (who wouldn't get jolly over that?!). Then they gave me the gift of Norm Coleman (R-Minn.) a.k.a. the hottest man in the legislative branch (seriously, does it get better?!). And now they've done it again.

Except this time, in place of Russian presidents and sexy congressmen, they've presented me with English nobility. So, without further ado, please meet Lil' Lord Doucheington,* my Valentine.

"His stool is not loose."


In reality, however, his pants are not tighter than mine.


Not even close.


But he loves me so I'll forgive his trouser miscalculation.

May you all find your very own Lil' Lord Doucheington! Happy Valentine's Day!

Love,

The Anti DC

*Thank you, The Superficial, for introducing my coworkers and I to the venerable Lil' Lord. You've changed my life.

dc salons or butcher shops?

Of the gazillions of style-, fashion- and attractiveness-related criticisms I have offered up here on this glorious little blog, there is one issue I have let stew in my sick and twisted mind for quite some time -- the haircut. Well, my friends, the time has come for me to declare: Salons in DC suck a lot of ass. (It's called eloquence. Take notes.)

And, as with 85-90 percent of all the witty observations made here on The Anti DC, this post will also be based on my incredibly narrow experiences and on no way, shape or form on any sort of "scientific research." I mean, having only lived here since May, I've had the occasion to have my hair butchered by just two local salons. Anyway, let's just cut (get it?) to the chase.

URBAN STYLE LAB

I should've effing known with this one. I mean, any salon with "Lab" in the title cannot be a good thing (as those of you in Moscow familiar with the mullet-tastic Persona Lab could testify), but I read a few online reviews and decided to give it a go. M-I-S-T-A-K-E. Those are the only seven letters that I think could even begin to describe the overall USL experience in one brief word.

The mistakes were twofold: It was my mistake not to trust my instincts about the whole "Lab" thing and it was several of my stylist's mistakes for not knowing how the hell not to make my hair look like a retarded squirrel taking a four-month nap on my scalp. Put simply, my hair was a serious gnarly mess after I left that place.

But let me break it down even more because I'm sure those of you who just LOVE my mentions of SHOES on this blog will equally love to hear about my hair type and texture and the corresponding instructions that make for a good cut. (You know who you are, ahem, TDF.)

Anyway, I keep my hair long. More importantly, I have a sh*t-ton (two eloquence points!) of it (ON MY FACE! LOL! J/K!), which means if there's one style my hair should never endure, it is a blunt cut (i.e. when all of your hair is one length -- think Supercuts). That is, if my hair isn't layered or chipped or razored or some other slightly advanced cutting technique, it will be huge, unwieldy and downright wig-like, especially with bangs, which I also have. To give you a visual, I left "Urban Style Lab" looking a bit like this, but blonder:

ANDRE CHREKY*

So, I pulled back my bangs for four months while I saved up enough money to get another haircut at a different place. (Oh, my bad, did I forget to mention I paid someone roughly $100 to f*ck up my hair? Yeah.) Having settled into Washington a bit more, I did some word-of-mouth research and found numerous recommendations for Andre Chreky's eponymous salon. What clinched my decision to give AC a go was my BFF Rose L, who gets her hair cut by Chreky himself. However, being the impatient (yet charming) bitch that I am, I couldn't wait the two-plus weeks to get an appointment with him so I settled for whatever bottom-of-the-barrel stylist was available. And that's exactly who I got. Worst. Haircut. Of. My. Life. What Urban Style Lab is to Supercuts, Andre Chreky is to hobo with a hacksaw.

Not only did I get a blunt cut, but I also got the other big no-no for long, naturally big-ass (three eloquence points!) hair -- a blow-out followed up by volumizing mousse. I had some serious helmet hair. We're talking Peggy Bundy (see above) times two. That sh*t was not tight. But what really gets me is that the woman (whose name for the life of me I can't remember) was so proud of herself. I (politely as possible) disagreed with this seemingly blind stylist, pleading with her to put in "at least a couple" of long layers. She failed.

After the trauma was over, I debated whether to actually pay the $90 (!) or just make like the victim I was and run. Alas, crime apparently does pay, as I settled the bill. And making the whole experience even more mortifying, nearly everyone in the salon told me my hair looked "amazing" or, worse yet, "divine" as I made my way to the door. I begrudgingly acknowledged their compliments, but refused to accept them as the women doling them out were all middle-aged lobbyist types with shorter versions of my new politically correct 'do. Ugh.

But Jebus! I get the aesthetic here, DC. I understand everyone actually wants to look like a tool and strives to become that middle-aged douche, but honestly, is it too much to ask to have just one go-to salon for those of us who don't enjoy looking like assholes? Seriously, are their any?? Anyone???

My hair situation has gotten so desperate that I decided to jet-set up to Boston to get my hair cut by a man who not only attended, but actually graduated from beauty school. (It seems some stylists in DC have yet to enroll.) Of course, I'm not so psychotic about getting a good haircut that that's the only reason I'm flying up there at the end of this month, but, hey, why not kill two birds with one stone? Or, more appropriately, why not pick up your Master's dilploma that's been sitting in the registrar's office for nearly a year (zoinks!) and get a haircut in one big ol' bitch of a trip? (Four eloquence points!)

*While the cut was ghastly, I also had my hair colored here. The colorist, Johannie (sp?), did a fabulous job (I say this with no sarcasm -- her sh*t seriously is tight), which made getting the horrible cut even worse. The cut did nothing to highlight the, well, highlights. Anyway, for serious, if you want an excellent colorist, call Johannie. For a cut, I'd steer clear unless you can go directly to Chreky himself, apparently.

don't make me slap you

The day has finally arrived! Radiohead announced the first leg of their U.S. tour today and they are indeed coming to DC! Well...sort of. They're actually coming to Virginia -- Bristow (WhereTF, right?) to be exact. So much for their eco-friendly tour as you need a car to get out to that kind of boondocks.

Ahem...but anyway, eff carbon emissions! It. Is. On.

They'll be at the Nissan Pavilion on Sunday May 11. Tickets go on sale Thursday and you can bet I will not eff around and miss out on this purchase like I did with Wilco (who will be at the 9:30 Club Feb. 26 & 27 -- by the way, anyone want to give and/or sell me a ticket? is this thing on??), while "entrepreneurs" purchase tickets in bundles and sell them off for five-plus times their face value. I want to slap those assholes in the face, yet I also kind of want to be one. I like money.

Anyway, you heard it here first...OK, second...fine, third. Wait! Nope. I was second, just after the likes of Billboard and Pitchfork. I scooped DCist! In their faces. (J/K, -isties!)

In other news, did everyone see Kanye West and Daft Punk perform "Stronger" at the Grammy's? It is Tron-er-iffic tight. In case you missed it:

dude, where are my books? where are your books, dude?

Has The Anti DC ever wanted to punch someone in the face? Yes. Has The Anti DC ever wanted to punch a homeless man or a librarian in the face? Not until yesterday!

You see, yesterday I went on a not-so-excellent adventure to the downtown MLK Memorial Library. In short, that place is a hot mess for so many reasons. For one, it's probably the ugliest central library I've ever seen in a major city. But I have a feeling that's just indicative of the disparity between Washington, DC, "the city" and Washington, DC, "the nation's capital." (I have yet to go to the Library of Congress, but I'm assuming that it's less of a makeshift homeless shelter with two broken copiers and a illiterate librarian and more of a, say, place where people can actually come to conduct research.)

But, truth be told, I don't mind that the down-and-out congregate in public libraries. I mean, it makes sense. They're free, they're warm, they have bathrooms, they're quiet and there's unlimited entertainment. However, when a certain wild-eyed gentleman steals the eight books you just spent three hours poring over and book-marking while you run to multiple establishments in Chinatown trying desperately to buy a roll of quarters on a Sunday afternoon just so you can make copies using the the jankiest of two janky Xerox machines, which also happens to be surrounded by used Kleenex, a person can get a little angry. Just sayin'. Anyway, apparently, the millions of other books just weren't good enough for this guy. And it was also totally awesome to discover that he'd removed my bookmarks. Touché, sir, touché.

But before I say something about the homeless that will surely validate my ticket straight to hell, I must recognize the role of that illiterate librarian in all of this. Because, really, it's his fault.

Turns out the "shelf" this very special librarian told me to set my books on while I ran all over town looking for change like, um, a homeless person (irony!), actually turned out to be the reshelving cart. So, when the homeless man "stole" my books, there's a good chance he didn't know I was coming back for them, despite my vociferous complaints about the copiers' lack of working paper-money-accepting technology and the library's inability to make change, as well as my obnoxious declaration that I would be returning for my books after my "pilgrimage for quarters" that I'm sure the whole floor was able to hear.

Anyhow, the whole incident probably took place over the course of 20 minutes. And because I'm magical, I knew as soon as I set the books down that they probably wouldn't be there when I returned (and it wasn't because there was a "Reshelving Cart" sign around either because there wasn't -- that'd have made too much sense). So when I got back with my rolls of quarters, I wasn't surprised at all. I marched over to this moron librarian and told him fairly nonchalantly that my books had disappeared:

Me: So, looks like my books are gone from the shelf you told me to put them on 20 minutes ago.

Retarded Librarian: Are you sure?

Me: Yes.

RL: Hmm. That was the reshelving shelf. Are they on another shelf?

Me: Uh... do you mean one of the other gazillion shelves in the library? Um, probably, I guess?

RL: Hmm.

Me: Hmm?

RL: Hmm.

Me: OK, do you know where they could be?

[At this point the librarian looked around and walked over to the above-mentioned homeless man.]

RL: Excuse me. Those books belong to someone else.

Homeless Man: What? This is a public library. These books belong to everyone. [Ed.: Zing!]

RL: Well, someone else is using them now.

HM: But they were on the reshelving cart. [Ed.: This is when I realized the librarian was an idiot (duh, the reshelving cart!), so stepped in.]

Me: Hi. I didn't know that shelf was for reshelving since the librarian told me to set them there while I went to round up change for the copier, and there was no sign...

HM: Why'd he tell you to put them there? [Ed.: The librarian bailed at this point, hopefully feeling like a dumbass.]

Me: Excellent question. I have no idea. Anyway, if I could just borrow those for 10 minutes to make copies I'll bring them back to you.

HM: OK.

Me: OK. Thanks.

Alas, I made my copies and actually did something nice (gasp!). Like I promised, I brought the books back to this dude, who I can only hope enjoyed looking at Khrushchev loving Castro as much as I did.

What, what? Khrushchev's butt.


Is that a cigar in your pocket or are you just happy to see Khrushchev?


Khrushchev only wants you for your pimp juice.

the perfect hooker dress

It's no secret that much like pimpin', shopping in DC ain't easy. If in the event you actually find something that isn't khaki, it's generally pretty expensive (see Cusp, Barney's CO-OP, Nana, etc.), thus making shopping in the District -- again much like pimpin' -- pretty hard. I mean, you have your cheap hookers no one wants and you have your expensive, high-class hookers that no one can afford. What's a pimp to do?!

Hmm...something seems a bit off about my simile. I mean, shopping isn't really like pimpin' at all. Nope, clearly shopping is more like picking up hookers than pimping them out. I mean, like a john looking for a good-looking hooker for a reasonable price, all I really want is a good-looking piece of clothing that won't put me into debt, y'know?

Ahh yes. I'm much more satisfied with that. And so, in the spirit of my revised theme, I am pleased to tell you that today I got a really good deal on one helluva high-class hooker. And she is a beauty! Retail price: $415. Sale price: $100. My pimp: Muléh, located at 1841 14th St. NW just off of U Street. Seriously, feast your eyes on this bitch (as modeled by Russian President Vladimir Putin's visage on a tapestry I got for $10 in Moscow):

Tight.

This is a new brand of hooker for me made by a label called Zero by Maria Cornejo. It's hard to tell from the photo, but this hooker is navy blue and white grosgrain -- a fabric I don't usually go for because it tends to look a little apron-esque -- and cut to perfection. The wide straps come together in a V-formation in the front. Here's a close up of the straps on Vova:

Super tight.

Lastly, this hooker has a bubble hem, which, like the grosgrain, I don't often go for. But there's just something about this one. She's special -- and for once, I don't mean that in the remedial way. Pootie likes her too:

Ultra tight!

Yes! Not only do I own this grosgrain, V-strapped, bubble-hemmed lovely, but I also own a gold Putin bust to go with my Putin tapestry and, um, Putin t-shirt:

Putin-on-Putin-on-Putin tight!

Now, all I need is a pair of these and I can die happy. But dammit, where there's a will there's a way! I declare, Putin panties will be mine!

i'll see your work commuting shoes in hell

I was so happy to see the skies were grey this morning. Not only that, but when I stepped outside and felt a renewed chill in the air I almost broke out my jazz hands. Why, you ask? Because I hate seeing these:


Ahh yes. The ubiquitous flip-flop -- DC's premiere commuting shoe for 60-degree-plus days, which we got to had to experience earlier this week. And while I concede this ever-present digitoplantar disaster is at least a step up from its rubberized brethren, the flip-flop paired with DC business attire is as dangerous as it is dishabille. (Seriously, flip-flops are unsafe.)

But unlike Crocs, which I am wholeheartedly against being worn in all public situations, I actually do think there is a time and a place for flip-flops in public. It's called the beach. OK, and (only if I'm feeling extra nice) I'll let flip-flops slide in the case that you're doing laundry or running to the corner store to buy Schlitz, because chances are your other attire would gel well with this glorified slipper. But let's not go crazy! I firmly draw the line there.

What I'm saying is, if you're heading to work, effing just invest in footwear that both looks nice and is comfortable enough for you to at least hobble on and off the metro in.

As you might've been able to glean, I am not one that often puts "comfort" ahead of "not looking like an asshole," so I'm not necessarily the right person to advise on what is and isn't suitably comfortable for the weak-footed. But, I'm not so out there that I welcome foot pain on a daily basis, which means I know for a fact that being comfortable and not looking like a total tool are not mutually exclusive. Alas, you can have the best of both worlds!

*And now, cue the drum roll for my paltry attempt to give advice to the mentally challenged...*

Ladies, if you can't handle heels, go with flats -- and I DO NOT mean a Reebok cross-trainer. And boys, I'm guessing this "advice" doesn't apply to you, but if it does then, well, you also should, um, switch from heels to flats...

Yet underneath all of this lies the crux of my frustration -- the very idea of a commuting shoe. Maybe it's just me, having not spent very much of my adult working life in the United States, but is the "commuting shoe" particularly rampant in DC? I feel like the concentration of suits'n'flip-flops, suits'n'Reeboks and suits'n'(gasp!)Crocs is astronomically higher here than it is in other U.S. American cities I've lived in, mainly Chicago, Boston and New York. And what makes it even worse is that people walk just as much if not more in all three of those cities than I think most people do here. So for serious, what the hell is wrong with people's feet here that they can't handle even the comfiest of non-tool, office-suitable footwear?

Sadly, as with most of my questions pertaining to this enigma of a city, that last one was very much rhetorical. I already know the answer and it has nothing to do with people's feet. Instead, it has to do with DC's overall aestheic. In other words, people here actively TRY to look ugly. And by god they are succeeding. Way to go!

And on that note, have a fabulous, retardulous, commuter-shoe-free weekend!

you had me at bow tie

Since I've already proclaimed my undying devotion to whom I believe to be the hottest man in the legislative branch, allow me now to introduce to you the hottest most stylish man in DC's local government -- Councilmember Jim Graham (D). Behold!

"Make it work!"

The orange cat-eye spectacles! The multi-colored, polka-dot bow tie! The dramatic side part in his sandy-blond hair! For reals, Mr. Graham has got it going on.

And to my delight, Jim "The Hotness" Graham represents my very own neighborhood, the venerable Columbia Heights/Mt. Pleasant! And, apparently, he's not half bad! He's trying to keep my rent low!

But slim pocketbook aside, what's clearly more important here is this man's eye for detail.

A "bee"-jeweled broach! (Get it? LOL!)

And let's not overlook his love of luxury!

Chinchilla, fox, mink? Oh my!

But lest you get the wrong idea, let me take a page from the respectable US Weekly and tell you that the stars council members are just like us, as exhibited by Graham, this man among boys.

He loves animals!

He lifts boxes!

He rides the metro (with the mayor)!

And he does it all while keeping his sh*t tight. No Crocs shall sully his fine linen metro attire. Nary a fleece shall besmirch his shoulders! And may he sooner see a polyester novelty tie in hell before one defaces his finely tailored collar! Eff Clinton, Obama, McCain, et al.! Graham Graham's Bow Tie 2008!

breaking point vs. point break

Dear Reader(s?):

I'm writing to inform you that my blog is going to suck (yes, more so than it usually does) for probably the rest of the week. The reasons for this suckage saturation are threefold: 1) I'm on deadline this week for my salaried job; 2) I have a pretty tight freelance gig (which I will reveal in the near future) in the works; and, 3) It's (dear God, forgive me for the wonking I'm about to do) reveal week of the Fiscal Year 2009 budget in the federal government. (Hail Mary.)

The latter reason for my increased blog suckage this week is by far the most infuriating because as all of you who either work directly for or somehow with the U.S. government know, in only three of the last 26 years has this whole "yearly budget process" meant anything. That is, in only three of the last 26 years was Congress and the Administration able to get their sh*t together to actually make it through the entire appropriations process. So, not only is this whole process a "colossal waste of time" as one former Hill staffer G-chatted to me on Monday, but it's also a ginormous waste of financial resources, which this government and this country can hardly afford right now. Way to be, U.S. government.

But common sense ranting aside, I'll de-suck this shoddy entry ever-so-slightly by posting an epic little clip I found last night that I used as a reply to a comment in yesterday's post. It doesn't have too-terribly much to do with DC, but Ronald Reagan's visage is featured front-and-center. A dog is also drop-kicked (but not harmed, so it's OK). Enjoy!

new circle of hell found in neighborhood grocery store

Sunday was a trying day for me here in the District. Not only was I wholly not into the U.S. American Super Cup football match that was to take place that day, but I had a bit of a hangover (damn my 28-year-old metabolism!) and was terribly hungry as my food intake during the preceding 24 hours included roughly three vodka-soaked olives.

And I don't know why I even opened my pint-size fridge -- I knew what was coming. As I peered into the chilly white cube I felt tears well up in my glassy eyes. When I needed the chips'n'salsa gods the most, they had abandoned me, leaving in their place half-a-carton of week-old blueberries, half a bottle of syrup and a jar of reduced-fat mayo (I clearly don't cook.).

I probably stared at those three items for three minutes willing them to become a bag of Tostitos restaurant-style white corn tortilla chips, a jar of Newman’s Own medium chunky salsa and a Cherry Coke Zero (if only I was getting paid for this product placement), but deep down I knew all the willing in the world wouldn't save me from my fate. I couldn't put it off any longer; I had to go to my neighborhood Giant supermarket.

NOOOOOOOOOOO! The humanity!

Of all the hells I've seen (and I've seen many here in DC), the Columbia Heights Giant on a Sunday is one of the worst. And with the U.S. American Super Cup football match about to begin, I could only imagine that this Giant on this Sunday would by far surpass Dante's ninth circle. Honestly, the devil himself is not even stupid enough to step foot in this hell that the creator of hells one through nine never dared to imagine. But my fate was already sealed. It was either moldy blueberries au syrup and mayo or I would absolutely have to travel to the darkest of darksides. And so began Canto XXXV.

I waited until 7:30 pm, trying to avoid the football match rush, to begin my epic journey. I sensed something strange on the streets as I made my way toward 14th Street. It was surreally empty, quiet and even less smelly than normal. I smiled to myself thinking I had pulled a proverbial fast one on the Prince of Darkness.

But I should've known the Monarch of Hell would have the last LOL. As soon as I entered the second set of sliding glass doors, I looked to my right and saw what no shopper should ever have to see -- an endless sea of like-minded individuals who probably went through the same exact thought process that I had in trying to avoid the earlier big-football-match-going crowd.

But I'm no quitter, so I stuck to my plan. I was not going to let Beelzebub win -- at least not without a fight. I made my way to the ransacked chips'n'salsa'n'soda aisle. It was on. I grabbed my Tostitos, my Newman's Own and the very last Cherry Coke Zero and headed for one of only two open express checkout lanes. The lines extended nearly halfway down the length of an aisle; there must have been 20 people in front of me. I trembled slightly. Was it from lack of food or sleep? Or was it the devil's icy clutches nearing my neck?!? Eh...probably the first reason.

I jumped out of the express line and into a shorter non-express line toward the exit. Despite the four overflowing carts in front of me, I figured there was no way this line would be slower than the, um, hellishly long express lines. And so I waited...and waited...and waited...

Ten minutes must have passed yet no one moved forward. I looked toward the front of the line. It was an elderly couple sorting through their coupons. The checkout lady looked confused as she took roughly 30 seconds of her my time to stare at each one as if it were a half-naked photo of Johnny Depp (ladies and gays, you’re going to want to click on those). But if only the hold-ups ended there...

After nearly drawing blood from digging my own nails into the palms of my hands trying hard not to punch the two elderly people in their faces (was this my very own Giant stigmata?!), I breathed a huge sigh of relief as I finally saw the two penny-pinching old people grab their items and go. Hallelujah! The line pressed forward. But almost as soon as I moved those three precious feet, the next 10-minute hold-up began only to be followed up three times with other issues.

If it wasn't a coupon issue, it was a debit card issue. (Sidebar: How do you not know your own damn PIN?!) If it wasn't a debit card issue, it was a bagging issue. (Sidebar: Plastic in paper in plastic, really?) And if it wasn't a bagging issue, it was an all-around incompetence issue. (Sidebar: Must you stop doing your goddamn job of scanning and packing my three effing items to have a five minute conversation about nothing with another checker?!)

Honestly, the Columbia Heights Giant blows my mind in its backwardness. I don't have a business degree or anything but I think that when effing Kyrgyz grocery stores are cleaner, better stocked and more efficiently run than one of the largest chain grocery stores in the Capital of the Free World, it might be time to reconfigure your operation or at least make my shopping experience less burdensome and scary than a place where Judas, Brutus and Cassius are getting eternally chewed by a triple-faced Lucifer. Just sayin’...

By the way, when I finally made it home (nearly an hour-and-a-half later!) from this epic odyssey, I was too tired to eat. The devil may have won this time, but I will get the last three words: "Suck it, Giant."

sometimes it's just *too* easy

When I decided a couple of months ago to start up a DC-related blog, I had no idea how damn easy it would be. Seriously, it's almost as if this sh*t writes itself sometimes, especially when it comes to style in this oh-so-dishabille city of ours.

So, on Saturday after a three-week lull I went out and of course was confronted with many a Northface fleece and ill-fated footwear option on both DC's men and women. However, toward the end of the night at Saint Ex, I saw these two girls out of the corner of my eye. One was convincingly pulling off a red, possibly velvet jumper and the other was somehow making gold lamé look good. It might have been the three vodka martinis or the fact that it was nearly 3 a.m. (or both), but I could not let myself leave without mentioning how refreshing their outfit invention skills were in this private, comfort-first hell of mine. Moreover, perhaps this was my chance to increase my small circle of mirror-using friends in the District.

Me: Hey, I just want to tell you that I love your outfits. It's so nice to see well-dressed people in this city.

Girls: Thanks! Tell us about it! We've been getting weird looks all night and we have no idea why.

Me: Seriously? Welcome to my world. Don't take it personally. This city often can't handle anything other than khakis and nametags. Do you guys live around here?

Girls: Oh, hell no. We're just visiting from LA.

Ouch. My frozen mechanical heart grew even colder. Of course those girls weren't from here. It seems God/Allah/Buddha/Zeus would have it no other way. And so my plans to make new DC friends failed and my brief glimmer of hope that this city knew something about fashion passed barely even noticed.

*sigh*

But lest I end on a sour and depressing note, I invite you to view this sad tale from the proverbial bright side. You get to read this blog! HOORAY! THREE CHEERS FOR OBNOXIOUS NARCISSISM! Seriously, it's just *too* easy.

sam champion sucks, but these links rule

You know what's awesome? Waking up at 5:30 am to the sound of blaring car horns, a garbage truck and a crazy man ranting about something in Spanish. Thumbs up!

What's even more awesome? Not being able to fall back asleep and staring at the ceiling listening to how shiteous the weather is outside. Woot!

And the most awesome? Being awake when the alarm finally goes off at 6:30 and it's still pitch black outside. Yay!

But wait, it gets better! After peeling yourself from the bed, you go to take a shower and suddenly your hot water is out (what is this? Russia?). Hooray!

So you turn on the television to catch the morning's headlines while you eat your Fiber One (shut up about that!), and that asshat Sam Champion, Good Morning America's ridiculously annoying weather-douche (pictured creepily above), is in the midst of explaining through his cheestastic grin that it's going to rain all day! All right!

And this is super f*cking duper when you know you'll be spending a good majority of the day going from Point A to Point B to Point C talking wonk all day. "You'll want an umbrella!" Damn you, Champion. Damn you and your penchant for the B'n'T blazer and jeans look! LOL!

But while my day is most likely going to end with me in jail, those of you who are actually lucky enough to chillax in an office all day (I know, I can't believe I just said that either...) can peruse other people's blogs that I actually do find awesome. However, since I get the feeling most of you are probably aware of and already read many of the DC-based sites to which I've chosen to link, I won't bother summarizing their strengths. Instead, I'll take the next few sentences to summarize and/or introduce for you (are you even still reading at this point?) my favorites outside of this bitch of a Beltway.

MOSCOW DOESN'T BELIEVE IN TEARS -- This is the best blog about Moscow I've ever seen because it's so damn accurate. Welcome to my former world. (Note: Sometimes NSFW.)

BLOGISTAN -- Did you ever wonder what kinds of shenanigans can occur while traveling around Central Asia? Shenanigans you wouldn't believe, according to a couple of friends of mine.

STIL IN BERLIN -- Street style in Berlin is the scheisse!

DREAMECHO -- I really wish I was friends with this girl while I was in Boston. Her outfit invention skills are sick.

THE CLOTHES HORSE -- The same goes for this 20-year-old located somewhere in Pennsylvania. Her sh*t is tight.

BROOKLYN VEGAN -- Don't worry, this site has nothing to do with veganism or even vegetarianism. It's about music news and happenings, although mostly in NYC.

TEETH -- This San Francisco-via-Boston blog authored by a friend of mine is a grab-bag of awesomeness, covering everything from motorcycles to music to his mom's cooking skills. Check it.

So, in closing, whoomp there it is! (Did I really just type that? Apparently lack of sleep makes me think of early-'90s rap duo Tag Team, um, in Spanish?) And who knows, if I make bail, perhaps I'll have another retardulous story to tell sooner rather than later. Ciao!