It's days like this that make me want to walk off the job and do one thing and one thing only -- ride dirty on a Segway around DC. And before you LOL and attribute that last sentence to my biting sarcastic wit, let me assure you that I'm dead serious, like, Cheney serious.
Now doesn't he look happy? And we all know only two things make a Cheney smile -- secret Eastern European torture prisons and shooting people in the face. So, with happiness standards like that, riding a Segway around DC must be pretty epic. Luckily, DC is just douchetastic enough to have a company dedicated to such tours.
And you can bet your khaki-covered ass that I will be on one of those things sometime soon looking just as tool, er, I mean cool as these people in this unnessessarily long Segway advert. Hint: Skip to minute five when the freestylin' comes out. I can't wait to see this in the X-Games.
I can't believe it's already been three whole weeks since I (un)skillfully wrote the first Get Off the Internet Thursday. Have you been off the Internet? I haven't! I mean, I have...just probably not enough. It's hard being an über-dork sometimes. *sigh* But enough narcissistic yet endearingly self-deprecating tidbits about myself! It's time to talk about this week's guest blogger and it's Jon from one of DC's best music blogs -- The Vinyl District, on which I once guest blogged.
But lest you think my guest musings on TVD is what makes me say it's so awesome, let me wholeheartedly assure you that's not it. (Come on, I'm not *that* much of an asshole, am I?) No, the reason TVD is a must-read is because Jon knows his sh*t. Reading his blog will nudge your music street cred upwards, which, when accumulated, will garner you numerous scene points when you start talking about Fad Gadget's 1980 hit "Ricky's Hand" at the Foals show later this month at the Rock and Roll Hotel. And who doesn't like scene points?! So, in the words of Britney Spears, gimme more, Jon! (Whoops! And there went my scene points...)
Hey folks -- Jon from The Vinyl District here...and yep, it's my turn to sing the praises of five things I like about DC. And lest you think I'm some sort of fetishist (I mean, who knows what 'vinyl' could conjure up in this forum) [Ed. OMG! Patent leather shoes?!] I'm talking about records. Vinyl records. [Ed. Oh.] And five of the finest vinyl record stores in DC are all within walking distance of one another and each has its own unique personality. So, slide into those sweatpants and slap on the Crocs [Ed. Jon, how'd you know?!], because we're taking a walk...
First up at the corner of 14th and T Streets, NW -- 1843 14th Street NW -- to be exact is Som Records. (In a basement, natch.) Neal probably has the most diverse catalog of vinyl in his place among the five we'll visit. I mean, the guy's committed to bringing the best records he can lay his hands on into his store from all across the globe. (In fact, his last trip to Brazil will be chronicled at TVD very soon. [Ed. Nice plug, sir!]) Along with the classic rock and the new releases, he's also got soul, funk, disco, go-go, reggae, samba, salsa, folk, blues, punk, and electronica. Check out his 'Expensive Shit' section while you're there too. (You'll probably find my wallet in there.)
Second on our trek is Crooked Beat Records at 2318 18th St., NW in Adams Morgan. I'll credit Bill with being the first to invigorate the brick-and-mortar aesthetic in the area when he set up shop a few years back. Tons of old and spanking new vinyl line one wall, and CDs -- yes, CDs (just the good shit, thank you) -- line another. They've got T-shirts, posters, DVDs too...AND they're the only one of the five on our tour doing the old-fashioned free, in-store artist appearances.
I've been going to our third stop Smash! for years when it was located on M Street in Georgetown...but perhaps the douchebag quotient got too high [Ed. You took the words out of my larynx.], because last year they relocated a few doors down from Crooked Beat at 2314 18th St., NW, on the 2nd floor. They're stocking punk, metal, rock, jazz, and blues vinyl along with a fine selection of cool, vintage and original handmade clothing. Go for the records, stay for the clothes. It's that simple. [Ed. And it's that tight!]
The newest addition to what's becoming a true Northwest, DC vinyl corridor is Red Onion Records and Books at 1901 18th St., NW. What I like about Joshua's place is that it's so damn comfortable -- almost like being in a friend's cozy basement. [Ed. So, you're saying there's lots of weed smokin' going on?] There's even a sitting area if you're getting tired on our walk right about now [Ed. Are you kidding? Not in these Crocs!]. A diverse selection of books line one wall, CDs along another, and smack in the center are bins and bins of vinyl whose selection gets added to weekly. Sign up for his email blasts to keep on top of the variety of stuff that gets added consistently.
If there's a true Rocky story among the five record stores we'll visit, it has to be the Phoenix rising from the ashes saga of Dupont Circle's DJ Hut located at 2010 P St., NW on the 2nd Floor. DJ Hut was shuttered by a fire not once but TWICE and has bounced back both times. As their Web site puts it, "DJ Hut aims to provide not only music, but also all of the needs a DJ may have; turntables, mixers, repair service, accessories, etc. Our primary goal is to support DJ culture and while vinyl lovers founded the store, we are committed to keeping up to date with new technology." DJ Hut has recently launched an online store too and after two fires, can you blame 'em? [Ed. No. Fire is not awesome.]
Since we find ourselves in Dupont Circle after our 5-store tour, I'll offer one extra credit recommendation because, well, I've developed a bit of a thirst. [Ed. Booze! Yes! Booze!] See ya out on the patio...and across town on April 19th!
So there you have it. Once again, Jon has proven that all good things always end in booze. And music. Really, it doesn't get much better. Anyway, do you have the balls, um, or keyboard to step up and tell me and this blog's incredibly smart and discerning readership to get the eff off the Internet and experience something non-douchetastic in DC? If so, take a proverbial stab shank at writing your own edition of Get Off the Internet Thursday! If interested (and I know you are), let me know: theantidc@gmail.com.
The Anti DC is currently in the middle of a "blogolution," if you will. Why? I've traded in my circa-2004 beta phone for a brand new, ice blue, LG camera phone.
Shambles detection rates have increased exponentially.
It feels good to trade up to alpha technology. Not only does it coordinate better with my outfit aesthetics, but it truly means I can now commence my next diabolical e-plan -- Shambles P.I.*! That's right, e-friends, with the addition of this new covert camera, my sweet ass can now snap candid on-the-street shots of the sick and twisted scenes this city presents to me each and every day (kind of like that which I posted yesterday).
And not being one to waste time (LOL!), I initiated Shambles P.I. on the bus this morning. Notice anything bizarre going on here?
No? Here, look again...
That crazy bitch with the arrows around her head is putting on makeup. On a bus. And not just some pressed powder either. We're talking mascara, eyeliner and OTHER THINGS THAT CAN POKE HER EYE OUT. I know this isn't that odd of a thing in DC to conduct what should be at-home bathroom activities on public transportation, however, while it's not much better to act like a hot mess on the metro, at least the ride is smooth. For those of you not familiar with city buses, let me tell you that that sh*t rides dirty. There are bumps, twists and turns to deal with. In fact, I could barely take a clear photo, which made me even more incredulous. I mean, how in hell is someone trying to kohl her upper eyelids in this situation?
Seriously, ladies, take care of your personal hygiene at home. As last week's guest bloggerShannon of Disaffected Scanner Jockey said not long ago, "nobody needs to know how you got to be so pretty. ...A little bit of lipstick or a swoop of powder across the nose? Fine. But if it involves both hands and touching up your eyeliner by the fluorescent light of your BlackBerry? No. Just, no."
But more importantly on the bus, nobody wants to watch your eye, which you just popped out of its socket thanks to an ill-timed pothole and an errant mascara wand, ricohet off the dusty seat and roll down the dirt-encrusted aisle only to be stopped by one of the ridiculously loud teenagers who steps on it with his Skechers. Not tight.
I apologize in advance for the sight I'm about to show you, but GOOD FREAKING GOD, people need to know. I've used words to get across my point in the past. Many, many words. But it's not often that I've used photographic evidence of the SENSELESS CRIMES that go down on the streets of DC to drive my point into this city's dense metaphorical skull. Well, e-friends, brace yourselves because here is your town in all of its STAINED SWEATPANTS and BLAZE ORANGE CROCS glory:
Welcome to hell.
One might expect to see this kind of TRAGEDY on the streets of, I don't know, maybe KABUL or BAGHDAD or SOME OTHER WARZONE, but no. No, e-friends, this kind of INHUMANE NONSENSE is happening right here on a busy downtown street in the Capital of the Free World. WHY?! WHHHYYYY?!
No really, why? What is the deal here? Either these women are straight up bat-sh*t crazy or they need to be schooled. And by "schooled," I mean publicly humiliated. (Dammit, I wish more people read this.) Seriously, I don't get how these two women ended up like this. If I had a heart, it would be breaking right now. I just feel sorry for them. Either they: 1) Can't afford a mirror; 2) Don't know how to use a mirror; or 3) Have no friends to tell them they look like complete assholes. Any way you look at it, it's sad.
With the dishabille scale tipped to its very limit, I also can't help but wonder what these two women were going to do that evening in Chinatown dressed like that. This crime occured around 5:30 pm on a Sunday. Were they planning to catch an early dinner somewhere? Were they going to a friend's house? Planning to do some late afternoon gardening? Doing some sort of street performance? Going to rob a liquor store? Getting out of jail? If I wasn't so ghastly horrified, I probably would've asked. However, unable to speak, all I could do was borrow my friend's camera, zoom in, and snap a photo from our rented Scion's passenger side window. At least I could spread the word that way.
Take note sloppy offendors, your crimes will no longer go unnoticed! We will take back the streets and we will prevail! Or at least, we will keep mocking you. Eh, probably the latter.
Hell has frozen over. Or melted, I suppose, depending on how much you dig the idea of Dante's Divine Comedy. But regardless, "weather" (LOL!) extremely cold or ridiculously hot, some f*cked up sh*t has occurred. Mainly, my out-of-town friends let it slip yesterday that this cess pool of a town is "not that bad."
Yes, despite that the last image one of them had of DC was, ahem, two women in blaze orange Crocs and sweatpants splattered with pimpjuice paint (photo forthcoming), my friends actually uttered those five magical words: "DC is not that bad." And while, I'd love to say it was me who opened their eyes, onequickperusalthroughthismasterpieceofanonlinehobbywouldrevealotherwise.
Nope, the collective change of heart came after a Saturday in the ghetto. And by, "in the ghetto," which I hope you read in your mind as Cartman would sing it, I mean we were in a warehouse in Northeast. To be even more exact, we were here (thanks to a hot tip from one lovely reader):
To give you an idea of the good fun had at this NE warehouse on Saturday, I was able to track down a couple of photos here. Not pictured, unfortunately, is one of my friends who invented the piano key necktie* best dance move ever, the Faux Flash. All you need is a trench coat, a creepy leer and excellent timing. Boom. Faux Flash. If you're lucky, maybe one day you'll see it in action.
Anyway, this sh*t was tight. And maybe this is the work of Bizarro World again, or maybe (just maybe) The Anti DC is finally getting her comeuppance (but, like, in a good way).
But seriously, enough of this "DC isn't that bad" crap. I'm losing my touch! Ahh! But, wait, before we panic and think this blog has jumped the big ol' shark, let's once again turn to DC's No. 1 douche institution, the Federal Government, for some unintentional comic relief. In this clip, "Bob" of the Transportation Security Administration does some serious investigating over at TSA's blog (yes, it is as retarded as it sounds!) to find out that the Macbook Air does, indeed, "look different" from other laptops. Rocket science!
I have a couple of friends in town this weekend from New York City. Needless to say, I get a bit nervous when people come in from out of town to be entertained. I mean, DC's nightlife largely fails. And judging from one friend's reaction last night, DC remained true to its roots.
"Marissa, DC sucks. You really weren't lying about the nametags and phones on belts."
"First thing, don't let them catch you mistaking their Blackberrys for regular mobiles. They'll shank you. Second, I'm sorry."
Yep. Good times! But you know what's too bad? That my friends decided to come this weekend rather than next when an actual, bonafide, truly awesome event is going down. That's right, electroganic is back on Friday 4/11 at Bohemian Caverns! And I suggest that all of you who can't stand DC's standard scene of Blackberrys, Now! That's What I Call Music Vols. 1-27, and popped collars, check out this event. (And yes, I realize I've been promoting this event as if I'm getting paid for it, but, trust me, I'm not, which reminds me that I really need to work on my hustle...)
Holy Mother of Tight Pants. Hell hath frozen over. Anyone remember the 137th Seinfeld episode, The Bizarro Jerry? You know, the third episode in the eighth season? The one that originally aired on October 3, 1996? (Thank you, Wikipedia.)
Well, I certainly do, even without the help of everyone's favorite Encyclopedia for Retards. It's the one where Elaine befriends a group of three guys, who mirror Jerry, Kramer and George, but are their perfect opposites. For example, Kevin, the Bizarro Jerry, is described as reliable and kind, the opposite of Jerry, who is objectively kind of a jackass (which is why the show is comic gold!). The same concept applies to Gene, the Bizarro George, and Feldman, the Bizarro Kramer.
Anyway, I'm assuming if you're literate, you get the point. Sh*t in Bizarro World, a concept originally depicted in the Superman comic series, is f*cked up.
Well, e-friends, I think I entered my very own Bizarro World today: Two (2!) government employees not only returned my calls for comment on a couple articles I've been working on, but they actually said useful things and (...wait for it...) they were nice to me!
That's right, it seems the government collectively pulled the proverbial stick that is usually stuck deep within its endless anus out of its wide, oversized office ass! WTF?!
Usually I'm forced to borderline harass Fed-bitches on Thursday nights only to have to hurriedly scribble, "[INSERT ASSHAT DEPARTMENT] could not be reached for comment" minutes before press time. But today was different. Today, I was able to complete my articles with actual statements. Words! Retarded words, yes, but words nonetheless, and without the usual air of condescendence and disdain!
Gawd. It was amazing. But not as amazing as this: Meet Bizarro Samwell. His name is Butters.* This is a fabulous day. Me love.
When I initiated Get Off the Internet Thursday way back, um, last week, I never imagined the response I'd get. That is, I never imagined how dismal it would be. Only four people expressed interest, meaning that I will have to do a better job at e-stalking some of you kids until you all comply with my wishes. Luckily, however, the four expressions of interest I did receive were solid, including this week's honorary guest Anti DC blogger -- Shannon of Disaffected Scanner Jockey.
This bitch is verbose. Perhaps even more verbose than I am. But luckily she can write! She can also come up with brilliant arbitrary themes and I respect that. So, without further praise and glory, allow Shannon to recommend for you the best and least-dank basement haunts in DC:
Many people ask me the same question: So, do you really have a boyfriend or did you make him up to scare off the Internet stalkers? [Ed. Wait, you have Internet stalkers to scare off? I'm jealous.]
But today, I’m going to answer that other common question: How did I manage to fall in love with DC, when so many people dislike it so profoundly? Easy. Grow up in a crappy outer suburb and move into the city as an adult, so you'll learn to appreciate our neoclassical tourist-driven hicktown. (Every morning, I wake up to a chorus of little birdies and woodland creatures frolicking and singing a tune called, "You're Not in Woodbridge!") [Ed. What's Woodbridge?]
But there’s another answer. The answer is to become an authentic sort of Washingtonian. And how does one do that? [Ed. By becoming a douche?] By living in an unregulated illegal English basement studio apartment, of course!
Not willing to live as a basement troll? Well, you can still get your fill of cave-dwelling with the following "Basement Tour of Washington." Here are my suggestions for spending an entire day underground:
Start on the National Mall. See that big doughnut-shaped art museum on the Mall at 7th Street? [Ed. Mmmm...doughnuts...] Unlike the myriad National Museums of Screaming Toddlers, the Hirshhorn caters to people who actually want to look at stuff. Head straight to the basement for the temporary exhibits. These range from a squiggly arty video reinterpretation of Rambo: First Blood to…really, Rambo at a fancy art museum. What else do you need? [Ed. Doughnuts?]
You can also do your shopping underground. Try the Filene's Basement at 14th and F (the dress selection is excellent, although the suits are fair-to-middling [Ed. And by "fair-to-middling," I'm going to assume Shannon really means "sh*tty-to-sh*ttier." Just a guess...]). Or, if you’re feeling the urge to redo your high-rent Bastille in mid-century modern, try Millennium Decorative Arts on U Street. There's also an awesome (basement!) gay porn store a few doors down, if you're so inclined [Ed. Git 'er done!].
Hungry? D.C. has a wide range of basement dinner options. Malaysia Kopitiam is on M Street, sprinkled in among the nudie bars and frat-boy lounges. Good old MK has cheap food, a menu with disturbingly pornographic [Ed. Again, with the porn, Shannon? I'm sensing a guest blog Part Deux here...] representations of their entrees, and the sort of servers that look at you like you're crazy if you ask any questions.
Or, if it's payday, you can have your meal at The Little Fountain Café in Adams Morgan. It's an oasis in a desert of suburbanite popped collars and annoying drunk chicks, complete with so-cute-you-could-die little tables, good food, and a romantic atmosphere (but let's ignore the fact that the last guy who took me there dumped me a week later). [Ed. Hey, a free meal's a free meal.]
Do you have room for dessert? [Ed. Always!] Try Larry’s Ice Cream on Connecticut Avenue in Dupont! It’s in a basement, sure, but this place does more than fit my arbitrary theme. It's also non-chain, tasty, and quirky. Larry's is run by the sort of people you wish ran Metro: quick, efficient, and impatient with slow-moving idiots who can't make up their minds.
If you'd like to get your dive bar on [Ed. Finally, to the important stuff -- booze.], there are multiple basement options for that. I like Polly's Café at 14th and U. You can also visit Atomic in Cleveland Park, or swing by Karaoke Night at Recessions. Recessions is advanced-level basement trolling. Look for Mackey's, then look for a hotel next to it, then go down the stairs, through the hall, past the sales and catering office, and through a double door. You're at Recessions! Cheap beer, cheap mozzarella sticks, and blissfully awful karaoke every Friday. Best of all, cell reception is spotty at best, so you're free to ignore your Blackberry. But, then again, if you're the sort of person who has a Blackberry, you're not the sort who will swoon at the idea of discount Miller Lites served in jumbo steins [Ed. Um, or *are* you?]. In that case, head to the basement of Saint-Ex to rub elbows with the rest of the cool kids. You're beyond my help.
Wow. And with that last line, my first Get Off The Internet Thursday guest blogger basically called me a giant douche. (If you'll recall, Saint-Ex is one of my Top 5 favorite spots in DC.) Yeah, this guest blogging feature was a magnificent idea...just effing magnificent. Anyway, do you too want to inadvertently (um, or quite deliberately) call me a douche? Wait, let me rephrase that. Do you want to write your very own installment of Get Off The Internet Thursday? Yes? Great! Drop me a line and we'll become e-friends or, um, e-frenemies. Whichever!
Gaaawwwd. Two days in a row on Capitol Hill is enough to push someone off the wagon. Not that I was ever on the wagon. But if I was, I'd definitely be off right now. Lord, I need a cocktail...
Sure the Hill sucks because it's a hub for federal government tools to interact and ask such utterly useless questions like, "What keeps you up at night?" as a means of deciding how to spend upwards of $50 billion of our hard-earned income. (And PS -- Why is it always terrorists and jihadists that keep these people up at night? The goddamn noise on 16th Street keeps me up at night. Can they do something about that? Of course not.)
But I digress. Turning The Anti DC's keen eye back to the Hill, what I really want to explore is the fashion. Yes, again. Hill fashion is to me what terrorism is to the U.S. government -- an excuse to wax ridiculous over and over and over.
Ahem, so here we go. The fashion on the Hill often makes me physically recoil. It's like finding a rattle snake in your luggage. It makes no sense, but it happens.
And when something happens that you don't understand, naturally you begin to question the universe. Like Mugatu, you may even ask yourself, "Am I taking crazy pills?" Sadly, however, you're not. No drug is that twisted to make you hallucinate various versions of this:
O, the humanity!
And for those of you not from DC, yes, it really is that bad. But honestly, not dressing like a dishabille asshat is not that hard. However, in case you're having trouble, I've come up with three easy steps for you to follow to ensure you don't offend my senses again:
Step 1: BUY CLOTHES THAT FIT. If it doesn't fit, you must acquit change your goddamn outfit.
Step 2: USE A MIRROR. If you look ridiculous, change your goddamn outfit.
Step 3: STOP LOOKING LIKE AN ASSHOLE. Just. Stop. And change your goddamn outfit.
I just bought a pair of boot-cut jeans. From Ann Taylor Loft of all places! You like?
April fools! (LOL! LMAO! ROTFL! LLAHOCWJGFFHDJ!*)
*Anyone who can read my sick and twisted mind and can figure out what this ridiculously long acronym I just made up stands for will not only receive my undying praise, but will also get a free Golden Touch Dice Revolution lesson taught by me in one of DC's sketchiest back alleys. Now if that's not incentive to offer an answer, I don't know what is...
Something horrible happened today. No, it wasn't the Hill staffer whose suit fit so poorly that I had to hold myself back not to run out, buy a needle and thread and literally tailor that sh*t on her person. And no, it wasn't the fact that I attended a full day of hearings, from which only about 20 minutes proved useful. The rest of the time, I doodled stuff like this:
Enchantingly creepy, no?
And no, it wasn't the very fact that I was on the Hill in the first place, although, that is pretty damn horrible.
Nope. The most horrible of horrible happenings to occur today was that one of my crafty coworkers discovered my blog. Zoinks!
And while I love the sick bitch whose deft Googling led her to my little cess pool of an e-hobby, I'm a bit worried now that as word gets out around the office about my online retardulousness, I may be forced to resign Spitzer style (except without the whole "hooker incident"). I mean, I have a reputation to uphold in my office, where I'm known for two things: Loving Norm Coleman and wearing tight pants.
Wait. On second thought, that's pretty much how I come off on the Web, as well. Hmm...come to think of it, what will probably lead to me getting fired is the fact that I just boasted about doodling all day when I probably should have been "listening" or "taking notes" or (*gasp!*) "doing my job." But damn! My doodles are just so tight!
My name in Cyrillic. Hyphenated. In a lopsided, art deco diamond. Yep.
Hard as it is to believe, The Anti DC has somehow managed to gain and maintain an actual audience...of people. Once in a while, some of these people even take a few moments of their time to write me to let me know they've enjoyed a post or two. And while I'm always happy to get such e-letters (as I am an attention whore), not until this weekend when a brilliantly worded missive from one Mr. Horace T arrived in my inbox did a single E-mail get re-read in full to my trusty BFF, The Law, via telephone.
And as much as I would've loved a paragraph full of complimentary words about my brilliance (let's just forget about the fact that I'm a simple idiot in disguise), alas, the reason for the telephone recitation of these bits of text was because Horace T. might be even more adept than I am at describing why DC sucks so much. So hilarious, in fact, are Horace's deep thoughts about, um, kickball, that I begged him to let me post the E-mail online. Luckily, Horace T. is a brilliant man, so he agreed. So, let 'er rip, Horace!*
I adore your blog...[Ed. I *had* to keep that bit in.] I identify with your resentment towards this Los Angeles for Ugly People. I relocated to this degenerate place at the end of 2005 after lifeguarding on the beach all summer cause I had some friends here: dreadful mistake. The area's full of pretentious, narcissistic insecure strokejobs scared to express themselves so they have to find dates on e-Harmony, but anyway...
I had a blog idea you: Ever notice the dynamic of the kickball culture? It's basically a club for dopey, uncoordinated cubicle jockeys to meet together outside of the bar & prey on young women... clumsily at that. But strangely enough, a number of the women who signup for kickball are fresh faces to DC just looking to meet some nice, athletic guys outside of the bar culture...they just so happened to receive Bush Administration quality intel. These sloppy losers don't know how to interact with the opposite sex so they flirt by pegging the socially adjusted transient women in the head to demonstrate their faux dominance. And these fawns who are wounded and vulnerable then get guilt-tripped to "drink off that headache" at the "TEAM BAR" for "TEAM FLIPCUP" where -- after a couple of rounds of flipcup and listening to these unlovable losers talk about the time at the office when they pranked their buddy Rick by putting a post-it on his optical mouse -- it sets in that the fawns have pranced into a bear trap. Slowly the cute girls start dwindling from the roster until "Uncle Ned's Parakeets" either start to a) forfeit b) recruit desperate chubby high school girls or c) start going tranny so they can fill the 4 girl league minimum.
Ha... so that's my 2 cent observation about Beltway Kickball. Thanks for keeping my cynical ass laughing with your blog.
No, no, Horace T., thank you for keeping my cynical ass laughing. That line about Rick and the optical mouse literally had me on the floor. Poor Rick. And Horace, feel free to become a regular. For serious.
*Oh, and in an attempt to avoid angry DC-based kickball players from unleashing their Horace T.-accused douchey anger on me, let me restate that the views expressed in the above-indented paragraphs are strictly Horace's. As a matter of fact, while I haven't played kickball since I was 12 and don't know anyone who partakes in this activity in DC, I do know people who play kickball in Boston as well as New York and it doesn't seem to be as douchetastic there. But, then again, I've been to bars in both Boston and New York that also aren't so heavily douche-infested. So, basically, I'll just put it out there that almost everything in DC is slightly incredibly more douchey than the rest of America. The kickball scene (is there a scene there?) is probably no exception. Just a little inductive logic to start your day...
