brace yourselves...

I'm about to type something wild. Something crazy. Something I never thought my fingers would tap out on this trusty keyboard. In short, something retarded (<---link to thought-provoking article alert!). Ready? (I'm not.) I went to Georgetown last night and had fun! WHAT?! I know! It's absolutely insane! It's nuts! But it's the truth.

But lest we think I completely lost my mind and GOP'd my way into The Rookery, I assure you I didn't trek out there for no good reason. In fact, I went out there for the only reasonable cause that could draw my lazy ass that far west -- the Goodwill Fashion Show.

The event took place at the lovely French Embassy, where after a bus ride and a short cab ride, I arrived to be greeted by the two things I like most in the world -- baguettes and a heavy reliance on nuclear energy! Just kidding, France! You work that nuclear cycle OUT, girl! No, my two favorite things are free booze and vintage clothing.

Touted as the "Rodeo Drive of Washington, DC," Goodwill put on one hell of a good fashion show. For instance...THIS. DRESS. (I jacked the photos from one of my new favorite blogs The President Wears Prada, who by the way, has a nice recap and tons more good photos over on her site.)




Yeah. That sh*t is TIGHT. From what I was hearing after the show that dress was by far the most coveted piece of the night and with a price tag of $15.98 (um, seriously), I'm surprised people didn't start breaking champagne glasses and knife-fighting over it. While I would have LOVED to own this handmade beaded wonder (really, it is a wonder to see it up close), I'm glad to at least know the resourceful woman who nabbed it first -- Maria of Righteous(re)Style. (So, when can I borrow it?)

I didn't leave empty-handed, however. (I never do.) I coughed up $16 of my own to scoop up a very 3.1 Philip Lim-esque long-sleeved, navy blue belted dress with a pretty sweet pleated neckline. Did I mention it has pockets?! Yeah. Not a bad buy for under 20 bones, I must say.

Other highlights: Learning from Morgan of Pandahead that the new magazine is set to come out the end of September; experiencing a rather wacky cab ride home with the very stylish women of Listopad and our med school driver, Dilbert, whose off-color jokes about traumatic injury kept us entertained; and, of course, meeting Em, the the Goodwill Fashionista herself, who I might add knows how to apply a smokin' smokey eye. (I, on the other hand, somehow always end up looking like a crack whore in the rain when I break out the black eyeliner.)

And because I haven't talked about myself nearly enough in this post that's about the real good other people do, let's turn to a little of my own outfit amour-propre, shall we? Well, you don't have a choice...not sure why I asked...

Anyway, I didn't snap a photo of my outfit from last night because I'm an imbecile, but I can tell you it consisted of a pleated black chiffon sleevless halter blouse tucked into tight pants (surprise...) and a whole slew of vintage accessories. Yeah, that outfit wasn't bad. The point is, I recently got back into tucking my shirts into my pants a la Napolean Dynamite, which, is exactly what I'm doing again today, but minus the fancy accessories. So unfancy is my choice today, in fact, that I think I look like I just stepped out of the ladies section of a 1983 issue of the Sears catalogue. The outfit is a bit retro, but mainly I'm referring to the retardulous pose and idiotic facial expression. The only thing missing is some sort of barn or tractor in the background. I can't shake those damn Midwestern roots...


Shirt and tank -- Urban Outfitters; Jeans -- Goldsign; Belt -- Calvin Klein; Boots -- Penny Loves Kenny.

FW -- fashion washington or sofa king we todd ed?

I've gotten a few E-mails now requesting my humble thoughts on the latest addition to DC's underwhelming style scene -- FW, the newest publication from the Washington Post company. I actually wasn't planning to post about this because, well, I have a few mixed feelings about it, but ultimately, I think it's redeemable, at least as an idea. But before delving into a very uncharacteristic pro-DC defense of FW, let's first explore my requisite skepticism.

According to company press release FW, which stands for Fashion Washington, is " a high-end fashion magazine aimed at sophisticated shoppers in the Washington, DC-metro area." In addition, "FW will capture the hottest trends in fashion as well as the local designers, boutique owners and famous faces making up the increasingly stylish DC-scene."

Hmm...

"Hottest trends in fashion?" In Washington, DC? So, like, BlackBerry belts and stuff? I'm not sure I buy it. After all, the District and fashion do not have a healthy relationship. It's almost as if FW is wishing some fancy "stylish DC-scene" into existence. My very first thoughts, in fact, paralleled those of Media Bistro's FishbowlDC: "After looking it over, we're not saying that we're unimpressed, but we do have a hard time believing that FW -- given its small size, few articles and the fact that it is sized like a newspaper insert (how very unglamorous...) -- will really steal the lunch money of Capitol File, DC magazine, Washington Life and Washingtonian magazine."

But wait...the FW press release did rightly use the word "increasingly," so they must know what kind of nascent, possibly unborn "scene" they're dealing with. Or do they...? Take, for instance, this comment from WaPo Publisher Katherine Weymouth:

"I have always thought of Washington as a very glamorous place. With more and more high-end boutiques, emerging local designers and savvy shoppers, DC is proving once and for all that it is a fashion capital...FW is going to reflect that fact, and I believe we have assembled an incredible team to deliver all of this fashion news to our readers."

OK, "All of this fashion news"? Perhaps that's why there aren't very many articles...um, THERE IS NO FASHION NEWS!

Look, DC may or may not be "a very glamorous place," depending on your definition of the word (if it's newscaster hair and pearls, then DC is the most glamorous place on Earth...), but it most certainly is not a "fashion capital." That's laughable, quite frankly.

Let's face it, there's wishful thinking and then there's spiral-of-delusional-thought and I'm pretty sure that Weymouth's words fall into the latter category. However, as wacky and unbelievable as it is to think Washington, DC, is presently "a fashion capital" because a few high-end stores recently opened up (all of which pretty much carry the same merchandise, I might add), perhaps it's not out of the realm of our current theories of physics that one day, probably far into the distant future, the District will catch up with, say, such "fashion capitals" as Omaha, Neb., Tijuana, Mexico, and the South Pole, but that's going to take more than a dream. It'll take at least three wishes, some sort of ancient tribal voodoo dance, a trip or two to hell and back and a tuft of Norm Coleman's chest hair to make that happen.

Yet despite the challenges that may make FW just another "flimsy insert," as Gawker put it, I can't fully knock this effort. Stripping away the rather preposterous and delusional untruths spread in FW's PR blitz, there are some redeeming qualities here. For example, there's an advice column, written by one of the few true fashionistas in DC, Betsy of Fashion Is Spinach. Much of DC would be wise to heed her advice. Perhaps if more people did, I wouldn't have LOL'd so hard at Weymouth's lofty declarations about the very glamorous fashion capital that is Washington, DC.

But all yuks aside, it's just kind of nice that DC is paying attention to fashion at all, even if it is just an afterthought of a newspaper not particularly known for its Style section. Something is better than nothing, right? Unless, of course, we're talking about a tumor. That's something no one wants. But unlike our ever-expanding U.S. government, FW isn't a tumor. It's a welcome addition, in my opinion, to a very glamorous drab scene. Well, at least until it inevitably devolves into a gag-worthy personal diary for the Lily Pulitzer-sporting ladiez in Georgetown. Then it'll be a tumor, benign probably, but an unwanted intrusion nonetheless. Gods, I hope that doesn't happen. I suppose, only time will tell.

Here's to hoping FW proves me wrong! LET'S F*CKING DO THIS, DC!

mainstream media to dc nightlife: suck it

***ATTENTION: "HOLY SH*T! I'M VINDICATED AGAIN!" ADDENDUM ATTACHED***

Sometimes I wonder if it's me and not this city that has the problem. I always thought I was a realist, but could I be a pessimist? Do I want things here to suck? Do I will them to suck? I mean, let's be honest, the success of this blog depends on things sucking here. So, is it me? Do I make them suck?

Of course not.

Luckily for me these uncharacteristic bouts of self-doubt tend to last no more than 10-15 minutes seconds because my incredibly retardulous observations are almost always reinforced. Mostly it's by readers of this blog, but sometimes it's by the mainstream media. Now, being one with the media and also not being retarded, I know not to automatically believe everything I read, however, if what I read backs up something I've already said then I really have no choice in the matter. Plus, vindication is so sweet.

Anydouche, to my Tasti D-Lite, renowned fashion mag W confirmed what I wrote several blog years ago when I declared there is no such thing as a DC hipster. I observed:

There has yet to be a day during which DC logic makes sense to me. And by "logic," I mean retardedness. Apparently, your dear author here, is a hipster. I have only one three-word response to people in DC who've not only referred to me as a hipster online, but also in real life WHERE THEY CAN SEE AND SPEAK TO ME:

1. Only
2. In
3. DC.

Now, thanks to an article in last month's W (you know, the one with Kate Hudson looking one slicked-back chignon away from being in a Robert Palmer video) , I'm more assured than ever that my thoughts -- at least in this one instance -- were actually not baseless. W took a look at DC's nightlife (LOL!) and discovered that the word "hipster" in DC has been so warped from its original meaning, that not only does it barely encompass my tight-pants-loving ass, but it now includes anyone who's not voting for John "F*cking" McCain in November. Yep, leave it to DC to politicize a benign, nearly meaningless word. Dorks. Anyway, after scoffing a bit at the Late Night Shots crowd, W wrote:

Despite the social dominance of Republicans for nearly a decade, a liberal network also exists. Oddly, it's referred to as the "hipster scene" -- in DC, the term is synonymous with non-Republicans, not artsy types in tight pants and Converse sneakers -- and predictably it's much more low-key.

Case closed. DC is full of jagbags (they're the new douchebags). That's a fact.

But before I dismiss class today, I'd like to turn your attention to another part of W's quite depressing exposé. That is, DC is so jagbaggy that the two sides of the same ballot, if you will (and you will), refuse to get along because of their views on the economy or taxes or whatever. This results in an unwelcoming, elitist, self-segregated "scene." W writes:

During the Clinton administration, some U Street spots were decidedly Democratic. Jamal Simmons, the political analyst, remembers one Bush twin entering Stetsons in 2001 -- prompting his friend, who also worked in the Clinton White House, to declare, "They can have the Congress, they can have the White House, but they can never take Stetsons."

...Even now, some Republicans say the President's dismal poll numbers have clipped their social wings. "There's a lot of animosity," says one White House staffer. "You just want to go out with people who are like you, so you don't end up debating."

Now, maybe it's just me (wait, I demonstrated above that it's not), but this all seems rather ridiculous. Close-minded Republicans and close-minded Democrats have A LOT in common, actually. For example, can't they all just talk about their Ann Taylor Loft outfits? Or maybe wax poetic about their cats or something? Compare BlackBerrys? See! There are tons of things to kibbitz about.

Hmm...so where does all this leave me? Let's just say I'm really glad I don't have any qualms about boozing solo. Just kidding! I do have qualms about boozing solo. What I meant to say is it's a good thing my friends and I don't have any qualms about our sole common interest being booze! Alcoholism brings people together like no other -ism I know.

***BEGIN "HOLY SH*T! I'M VINDICATED AGAIN!" ADDENDUM***

Hey, remember when I declared, "Close-minded Republicans and close-minded Democrats have A LOT in common" and that they're really just "two sides of the same ballot"? Well, I hope you remember that not only because that was just 2-5 paragraphs ago, but because a third party has reinforced my theory again! And this time, my buttress isn't just a fashion magazine, but actual, real-life science! Staunch Democrats and Republicans really are two sides of the same ballot! They both disguise their mutual superficiality and willful blindness to understand the "other team" with different views of morality! Thank you science! I owe you one! But seriously, this is a really interesting talk (found via Clusterfck).



***END "HOLY SH*T! I'M VINDICATED AGAIN!" ADDENDUM***

bear with me...(LOL!)

DC doesn't often please me. In fact, more often than not it makes me question the very essence of humanity. I ponder such questions as "WHY GOD WHY?!" and "SERIOUSLY, IS THIS WHAT IT'S COME TO?!" But then something comes along so great, so monumental, so fantastical that it makes me stop in my proverbial e-tracks and type in boldface, "F*CK YES! THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKIN' ABOUT, ARNOLD!" Of course then DC nearly always makes like Triumph, though, and comes along to poop on it. Asses.

Take for instance, this photo, which I jacked probably illegally from DCist.



Does that look like the work of a terrorist to you? DC thinks so!

How apropos, however, as yesterday I mentioned the ridiculousness of the Secret Service thinking a terrorist would waste his (or her! -- I'm equal opportunity over here at The Anti DC) time disguising an improvised explosive device in something as mundane as a pile of dirty laundry. I called it remedial, in fact.

So how's about disguising your IED as a giant stuffed bear?! Now that is some goddamn gold-star terrorism! Except, not really...at all. DCist pointed out that the image captured above is not unlike those of artiste Mark Jenkins. His sh*t is, in fact, pretty tight. And, SURPRISE, it's not explosive!

Sadly this should not be a surprise. OF COURSE this isn't a bomb. It's a giant stuffed hobo bear that's attempting to scavenge from a garbage can. It's wacky! It's wonderful! IT'S A LIFESIZE HOBO BEAR! Seriously, the laundry idea was more plausible than this... But does logic stop the city of DC, or any American city for that matter (DCist rightfully points toward Boston's infamous, yet hilarious, Aqua Teen Hunger Force debacle), from getting their metaphorical granny panties in a bunch? Hell-to-the-retardulous-no.

According to DCist and NBC4, residents around the area spotted the bear as early as seven in the morning. Police, however, didn't spring into action, as they're too busy yelling at me for jay-biking in an EMPTY F*CKING INTERSECTION, until 10 a.m. when they decided to shut down the Columbia Heights station. Then they stood around staring at it for a while trying to figure out if there was a person in the costume or if it was stuffed. Finally deeming it stuffed, the bomb squad came in around noon to chop the bear in half and concluded what everyone else had concluded at fricking 7 o'clock. It might be da bomb, but it's certainly not a bomb. I feel as sorry for that poor stuffed bear as I do for myself for cracking that last joke.

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, PEOPLE! A RANDOM, LIFESIZE STUFFED HOBO BEAR SHOULD BE THE SOURCE OF WHIMSICAL WONDER AND MIRTHFUL MERRIMENT, NOT A CAUSE FOR UNNECESSARY ALARM. It's sh*t like this that makes me thing the terrorists really have won. They've made our society so paranoid that we've sucked the fun out of everything...EVEN LIFESIZE STUFFED HOBO BEARS! For shame...

Photo and, well, all the facts stolen from DCist. Irrefutable opinion courtesy of The Anti DC. You're welcome.

because terrorists are dumb?

The city of Washington, DC, needs to calm down. I've said this before and last week this blog inadvertently proved to you just how far some people may go to demonstrate this. Now not only am I convinced this blog's e-mission is needed more than ever, but The Anti DC is ready to take on much bigger, more powerful entities, like the U.S. Secret Service.

Yep, despite the Secret Service being armed with high-powered scopes and sniper rifles, this blog's about to come at them with two giant middle e-fingers displayed clearly in the ether:

nllm mlln (It kind of works, right? I-66 thinks so.).

The reason I'm e-flicking off the Secret Service is because of this incident, written by Too Much Skunk In Your Trunk. Basically, this woman's bike almost got snuffed out by the Secret Service for looking "suspicious" and being locked about half-a-block from the White House:

apparently i parked it a little too close to the white house (about a half block away), and my little basket in the back was filled with dirty clothes, which understandably looked bomb-like. by the time i got back to my bike after the too-short tour, some security guard warned me that my bike was very suspicious-looking and because a bomb threat had been called into the white house (which i assume is a common occurrence), they were about to cut my lock and blow up my bike. [All lowercase was TMSIYT's choice, btw.]

What the mothereffing what?! While I have no intention of fact-checking this story to learn if it's actually true, I'm going to err on the side laziness and just believe what I've read -- The United States Secret Service saw a bike with some laundry on it, mistook it for an improvised explosive device (IED) and decided to blow it up. Seriously, in what world (besides DC) is that not retardulous? Here are my qualms:

1) Isn't there technology to "sniff" out IEDs now? Actually, I know there is. They have robots to do this.

2) Also, terrorists probably know the best way to terrorize America is to keep G.W. Bush in power. (ZING!)

3) It's a f*cking bike with some laundry shoved in the basket.

Now, I get how a bundle of dirty laundry could be used to disguise an IED, however, let's dip into the mind of an aspiring terrorist for a second. How amateur would it have been if that actually was a bomb? Check-minus, terrorist! How obvious!

Now, terrorists might not be the most sane of persons, at least as the word "sane" is defined in my very Western-World view, but they're also not the dumbest. They've done their research and I'm assuming they'd know not to just put a pipe bomb in a f*cking bike basket and cover it in dirty laundry. Terrorist school must teach them something, no? Or maybe not. I guess I wouldn't know since I'M NOT A TERRORIST (please take note of that, Department of Homeland Security).

Anyway, in the end, the Secret Service didn't blow up TMSIYT's bike because she came back just in time to claim it. However, let's assume for a moment that she didn't and they did blow it up. As those ridiculous commercials would say, "Now what?" Would they have left a note for TMSIYT telling her of their plans? Would they make it look like the bike was simply stolen? Would TMSIYT get reimbursed? If so, would it be out of the federal or District coffers? Or would TMSIYT simply be f*cked? Do we automatically give up the rights to our property if the Secret Service mistakes it for that of a terrorist?

There are so many unanswered questions that I vow never to get to the bottom of (I don't like legwork). And so, we shall assume the answers to the aforementioned queries are: Yes and it would read, Dear Suspected Terrorist, We have taken your bike and will blow it up in a controlled environment. Suck it, U.S. Secret Service; No, they'd make it look like it had never been there at all just to further f*ck with you; No and you'd be sent to Gitmo; What does it matter, you're in Gitmo; Yes, you'd simply have been f*cked (in Gitmo, remember?); Probably.

Anyway, watch your bikes!

shine on you crazy deer head!

There few things I like more than getting up in the morning knowing I have a job for which I can dress any damn way I please, especially during the summer months when Congress takes it's month-long vacation (because the 11 other months days it works during the year are just so dang strenuous...). Yes, the beauty of the telephone and Interbuttubez, allows writers to do their jobs in any attire. Draped in velvet? Why the eff not?! Wonderwoman underoos? If you really feel like it!

And while I've never sported legit underoos to the office, I did sport a semi-hookeriffic ensemble the other day.

Hookin' in the a.m.!

I'll give you a moment to recover from the blinding whiteness of my legs...

*You whistle and watch the moments tick by as you continue to see white spots in the shape of my legs as if a camera's flash just went off*

*Meanwhile, I Google "self-tanners"...*

And we're back. I recognize this outfit is a little ridiculous for work, perhaps even retardulous, and so I expect to get some sort of critical, but light-hearted comments from a couple of my coworkers. In this case, I got "little German boy in Lederhosen" and "why are you wearing hot pants?" It was all in good fun, till I cut them. Just kidding! No one was shanked.

I must add, though, I kind of want to shiv DC's heat index. After spending a number of days in lovely Las Vegas last week, I grew accustomed to dry heat. Sure it was hovering around 100 degrees (that's 40 degrees Celsius for you non-Amurricans), but it never felt as hot and sticky as it does here, even the other day when the thermometer hovered around 65 (18) when I got up. Effing humidity. Which is why I decided to mix my seasonal gear with my slightly Bavarian-inspired outfit the other day.

It's true, sweat still dripped down my proverbial balls (thank you Lil' Jon for that unforgettable, yet incredible apropos lyric) because of the humidity, but my buttocks was nice and air-conditioned as I rode my trusty bicycle, Baguette, up and down Connecticut Ave. that day, dodging the apparent plethora of blind drivers that seemed to be on the road.

But more important than the shorts, which, note to someone in my office, are definitely nowhere near as short as hot pants, is the T-shirt. I bought it recently in New York City at a store called Uniqlo (a.k.a. the Japanese Gap), which I've discussed before. The loose cut is kind of perfect for humid days and the design on the front is just plain tight.

And the deer's neck won't even turn green!

This shirt appeals to me on so many levels. First, I really enjoy venison (I'm from Minnesota, where roadkill is a seasonal staple). Second, I enjoy optical illusions, and this shirt does a find job with that. The detail in the "chain" is blog-worthy -- it's stitched in with gold thread -- and the "medallion" is gold-to-the-max screenprinting. Together, the whole thing almost looks real. Hmm...kinda like a modern version of Plato's allegory of the cave, no? A little? You know, without the shackles, fire, shadows and cave? Now do you see it? Whatever, I tried.

By the way, on a completely different note, besides Atomic Experiments for Boys, I'm also reading linguist Steven Pinker's latest work, The Stuff of Thought, which brings up Plato's allegory as a way to illustrate how we might understand the meanings of words. If you're interested in communication, language, writing, speaking, listening, human behavior, or anything of the sort and want a thought-provoking, witty read, I suggest either taking a trip to the library or jumping on Amazon.com to obtain a copy. Or, if you can wait another couple of weeks, you can borrow mine. It's both baffling and fascinating how little we know about how our minds work. Or well, perhaps, how little I know about how my mind works...

What does work, however, is the Rock & Roll Hotel, which is hosting a DC's own New Rock Church of Fire, a group that not only has christened itself with possibly the best name ever, but the band is also taking steps to carry on the tradition of the great Fugazi, one of the few reasons I heart DC, or at least the DC of yesteryear. Anyway, doors are at 9 p.m. tonight and it's $10 to get in, but there's probably $2 Sparks, so you can make up for the money you spend on a cab with giving you liver a workout. I'm the Richard Simmons of liver fitness.

a real grudge match!

Putting aside the e-funnies of this morning and afternoon, I'd like to post something a little more serious this evening -- a true fight, if you will. Behold (image discovered via Clusterfck)!

To zoom in, click HERE!

Ah shucks. It ain't true? Dang. Think of how awesome this would be if it actually was real, especially that "Grudge Match" between Vova Putin and Hillary Clinton. Actually, scratch that. I'd rather see Putin in the main event. Wait, no. Putin vs. Putin would be ideal. Yeah. That's the stuff of legends! Move like a dictator, sting like a crazy bitch? Yes, please!

i challenge you to challenge me to not hate dc

***ATTENTION: "BITCH PLEASE" ADDENDUM ATTACHED***

I came across an interesting post yesterday on another blog while I was taking a respite from re-reading mine and impressing myself with my own genius over and over and over again (it's hard to tell if I'm joking, isn't it?). Anyway, the blog post, written by the dapper Restaurant Refugee complained about people who complain about Washington, DC. (Meta, right?) From what I understood, his basic premise went something like this: People who hate DC are ignorant of all the tight activities and cosmopolitan culture that the District has to offer and these assholes don't know what they're talking about so they should move. Um, OK.

Now maybe it's because I like healthy debate, or perhaps it's because I'm a self-proclaimed DC antagonist, but most likely it's because I just like making and ass out of myself being the center of attention, which is why I couldn't stop my fingers from typing vigorously to refute his theory.

Let's first explore RR's essay. Apparently he was out playing billiards with a crew of dudes who make bank. One of them, "James, a displaced New Yawker with a fancy law firm gig and the predictable attitude and intelligence of a Jets fan," decided to go off on how he hates specifically the women and dining choices in good ol' DC. In my opinion, if that's all he's complaining about, then, um, OK, let it ride.

But RR wasn't havin' it. In his mind he wished he had called his "friend" James a "khaki wearing carpet-bagger" and told him to move. In reality, though, RR said "something about [James] not knowing the restaurant scene at all and ensured that he never gets another invitation." Invitation to what, I have no idea, but if it's in DC, I get the feeling that James wouldn't give a sh*t. He hates DC, remember?!

Now, let's have a full disclosure moment: I've met RR in person once along with several other DC-area bloggers. My first impression was that he's a very nice guy, funny and, well, the man was wearing cuff links. What's there not to like? However, we differ on several very key levels, one of which is on our respective relationships with the city we both live in. Another is probably our bank accounts (mine's empty), but that's neither here nor there.

The point is, I disagree 100 percent with the underlying assumption accompanying this well written recount. Not everyone who doesn't adore DC is an ignorant asshole unwilling to give DC a fair shot. And unfortunately, several commenters on his blog, some of them fellow bloggers who I've met in person once or twice and whose company I've enjoyed (although I can't vouch for them feeling the same...), seemed to wholeheartedly agree with RR. A couple even added another twist-- not only are people who dislike DC ignorant assholes, but they're also somehow hankering to be "hip" by jumping on some invisible trendy bandwagon.

Dang, where to even start refuting that theory? Oh wait, this is easy, I'll just cut and paste what I already wrote in the comments section of RR's blog. I began with a breakdown of the Top 3 DC hater categories:

There is the “I hate myself, ergo I hate DC (and anywhere)” hater. Not cool. There is the “I’m used to such-and-such and hold that up as the gold standard for everywhere else” hater. Not cool. And then there are those of us who have lived here for a good while (comparatively to how long we’ve lived other places), who have done a lot of sh*t in this town and have come to the conclusion that it is rather lackluster. Sure, there are tons of museums. There are also tons of tourists. Sure, there is R’n'R Hotel. But is it really all that stellar that there’s *one* decent bar in this town? Sure, there’s Eastern Market, some decent restaurants and a nice park (to get raped in! ZING!). But is it worth sifting through the sea of backward doucheiness (and really, there is no more perfect way to generically describe so much of the population)? After a while it really tests one’s persistence. Luckily, I’m persistent. I also have such low expectations that if I see a pair of flat-front pants I f*cking write a blog about it. My opinion — DC is not that cool. Sorry. You hate me because I dislike where you (and I) live and have an opinion about it? Who’s really the jackass in this situation now?

And of course, me being the master debater (hee-hee) that I am, I continued:

Example: People think it’s "hip" to hate DC? Thanks for devaluing my opinion, which is different than yours by classifying it as a “hip” trend. My opinion is not a pair of skinny jeans. Classifying someone’s opinion as “hip” is uppity and demeaning and when uppity and demeaning isn’t done in a funny and entertaining manner it’s really annoying. I’ve talked to a wide variety of people and have found that DC (in general, probably not anyone on this forum) does not do well with differences of opinion. People shun reason for polemical arguments or just walk away in a huff. It’s quite entertaining actually, but can get old. Perhaps the partisanship is all due to the government, which is probably a root cause of why so much sh*t sucks here. Or maybe it’s a case of rampant close-mindedness. Or political correctness. Or fear of the other. Or a giant stick placed firmly up the ass.

Whatever. I have my forum where I’m free to hate all I want, which I hope I do with more hilarious observation and less bitter vitriol than I’m revealing here, so I’ll leave it at that. I just felt the need to stick up for the haters because not all of us are as uninformed as many, apparently, like to think.

Not bad, right? Maybe? Anyway, so far, only one person has counterpointed my counterpoint, saying that hating DC really is "hip" because there's more than one blog on that topic. There's also more than one person wearing goddamn Crocs and I'll be damned if that sh*t is considered "hip." Wow, look at that, I found another reason to hate DC -- the over- and wrongful usage of the word "hip." (See? It really is that easy...)

But again, this is all just my opinion, which means that, although I'd like to think my thoughts beget instant facts, I'm reasonable enough to know that (regrettably) that isn't true. What is true, however, is that I enjoy hearing the other side of the story. It's the only way I can learn. Perhaps if RR had simply offered up some suggestions about the dining scene or spoke up about the virtues of DC women instead of cutting his friend off, James would've changed his mind or at least gained the knowledge he needed to form a more complete judgment. Or maybe James is just too "hip" to care. After all, hating on DC is apparently trendy and just like a pair of high-waisted trouser jeans, he'll change his opinion when hating DC goes out of style. Yeah. That makes sense.

Anyway, when it comes down to it, I'd like to think that I don't blog blindly about sh*t in DC I find exceptionally messed up. Nor do I believe that I'm so close-minded that if I did come across something I enjoyed that I'd be too stupid to admit it. In fact, I've blogged about reasons to live several times before.

So, is there something I'm missing? While I enjoy commiserating with those who hold similar views to myself, I would very much enjoy hearing from those who have found some secret DC nooks and crannies that I'm apparently too ignorant to know about. Or, we can all stick to the standard format where I'll mock DC's inability to use a mirror and DC can collectively assume I'm a small-minded, unenlightened jackass. I'm fine with either, really.

And actually, allow me to take this one step further. I want DC adorers to challenge me. Tell me about some place, activity or aspect of DC you think I've misjudged or overlooked and I'll take that task on and blog about my experiences, good and, of course, bad. Bring it, good sirs and madams! I say, bring it!

***BEGIN "BITCH PLEASE" UPDATE: UNWARRANTED PERSONAL ATTACKS, BIZARRE ACCUSATIONS OF HOMOPHOBIA AND MORE REASONS TO HATE DC, OH MY!***

Apparently, my snap judgments about a city are wrong and his snap judgments about me are right. Excellent logic! Of course I love that a whole blog post on someone else's blog is dedicated to me on the Internets (indeed, my e-persona's narcissism really does know no bounds!) , but I really do wish it was more humorous... Oh...wait. Writing humorously is so cliche...kind of like using the term "lowest hanging fruit," n'est-ce pas? But in all honesty, this did give me a chuckle as do most things in life. However, I didn't laugh as robustly as I usually do about a good ol' fashioned rape joke. Too bad everything can't be that funny.

***END "BITCH PLEASE" UPDATE***

shambles p.i.: the mysterious man belt edition

If you're an average-looking man in relatively good shape, you can become at least a somewhat attractive man by dressing well. (The same goes for women, as well, in my opinion.) That is, trade in your Dockers and mandals (or Ann Taylor Loft suit sets and Danskos, if you're a dishabille dame) for a nice pair of slim-cut pants and respectable footwear. I'm not saying you all need to dress like Lil' Lord Doucheington (or Lil' Lady of Toolshire?) to be attractive...wait...scratch that. The real Lil' Lord Doucheington and the mythical Lil' Lady of Toolshire probably aren't the best style icons. But what I'm saying is simple: You don't have to be a gay to pay attention to fashion on a runway.

It's true, if you dress like a tool, chances are you will be viewed as a tool and that is sh*t ain't tight...wait...scratch that. In DC, apparently tools are the bee's knees to at least 75 percent of the population, a statistic I just made up after several seconds of thoughtless analysis. However, that still leaves one-quarter of DC's residents having to look at you. Don't be cruel.

The reason I bring this all up is because 1) I'm extremely superficial and 2) a reader Shambles P.I.'d the following last week:


Let's be honest, that ass ain't bad. In fact, this man's ass appears to be top notch. I don't detect any hint of love handles at all! And although I have no information on the status of this guy's face, for the purposes of this post let's assume he's a not hideous. Hell, let's pretend he's Senator Norm F*cking Coleman of Minnesota, the sexiest member of Congress. (Hubba hubba, dontcha know!)

Oh man, I'm losing it. However, taking a quick gander at this guy's shirt and pants, I might even say that, although his ensemble is quite boring, it doesn't necessarily detract from his attractiveness, or at least his ass's attractiveness. Both items at least fit him, which is a far cry from several hundred DC tools I see in oversized polyester suits every day.

But given all that (and by referring to a man's clothes fitting him properly as "all that," I clearly just revealed how low my standards have sunk), this guy still manages to f*ck everything up. In the words of the reader, a man, who sent me this photo: "I just don't get the belt..."

And neither do I. I get the first belt. I like belts. Belts add a finishing touch to an outfit. But what the hell is with the second, canvas belt? It looks like it could be one of those pointless travel belts. Since I stared at this man's butt cheeks for several seconds minutes and didn't detect the outline of a wallet, I think I might -- unfortunately but not surprisingly -- be on the right track with the fannypack redux theory. If so, that's f*cking dumb.

But even more dumb is that despite the possible pouch, this man is definitely sporting the all-too-common cell-phone belt pack. Way to f*ck up your first, perfectly fine belt, sir. Clearly, this man is a mega tool. His poor ass.

But whaddya say, if Sarah Palin can "pray away the gay," can we "woosh away the douche" or "school away the tool?" I will run for political office if I have to.

the name game

I don't often delve into the topic of politics on this blog, partly because I like to keep my biases to myself, but mostly because I'm an idiot and have no idea what I'm talking about. (I still mistake Freddie Mac for Bernie Mac -- RIP -- and the name Fannie Mae just makes me think of delicious chocolates. Mmmm...) But with this whole Sarah Palin phenomenon going on, I cannot just idly sit back without putting in my two cents, which are apparently being borrowed from Asia and now under the stewardship of the U.S. government. I'm confused.

Anyway, what I want to comment on is this woman's [in]ability to lead. I mean, let's say McCain wins, then stops breathing. Palin would be in charge. I just don't know if I can trust her with that kind of power. And I'm not even talking about her "record" (or lack thereof), her attempts to "pray away the gay" or her racist tendencies ("Arctic Arab," seriously?). No, I'm talking about something much more telling -- what she named her kids: Piper, Willow, Bristol, Track and Trig. Clearly, there was an abuse of power there.

While I can accept (albeit not like) what she chose to name her daughters (Piper, Willow and Bristol -- it's nearly impossible to sex-differentiate here), I cannot accept the words she chose to call her sons. Can I really trust her to be one old man away from the presidency? Allow me to break it down:

Track

Poor kid. Not only is the name Track just stupid...track and field, track radar, track marks...but imagine it being said with Palin's annoying, nasal Fargoesque accent: "Traaaaaaaaaack, do your homework!" "Traaaaaaaaaack, hand me my rifle!" "Traaaaaaaaaack, watch mama club a baby seal!" (Oh, wait, only Arctic Arabs are allowed to do that.) And just when you think it can't get worse...

Trig

Trigga what?! Poor boy. He has it way worse than big brother Track. Not only does he have Down Syndrome, but his mom went ahead and named him Trig, which I'm assuming, is short for trigger -- a device Palin is all too familiar with (anyone wanna shoot a wolf...from a helicopter?!). It's also the device attached to the literal and metaphorical gun that America's post-WWII foreign policy decisions have aimed at our own proverbial feet. Seriously, how f*cking embarrassing would it be for America to condone the "Republican" Party by electing McCain and Palin after the objective debacle of the last eight years? (I put "Repubican" in quotes, because what the party has morphed into today pretty much stands in exact opposition to the principles upon which it was founded. Can I get a witness, crazy religious right? Idiots. Don't blame me; Jesus told me to type that.)

And sure, all that e-jabbering I just spewed about foreign policy or whatever is a bit important, but I'm pleading with America to look at this through a longer-range lens. The kid who's currently growing in the womb of Palin's kid is probably going to be named Tool if it's a boy. And if we're not collectively smart enough to learn from our mistakes now, Tool will probably be president in 40 years. That is, if America hasn't flushed itself down the inexhaustable goblet by then. Seriously, Tool '48? We're f*cked.

But let's not end on that note. Can we all take another look at the photo of McCain and Obama posted above courtesy of a banner ad from NYtimes.com? Is it just me, or does it look like McCain and Obama are about to have their first kiss. Nervous Anticipation '08! Awww...

By the way, my disdain for the McCain-Palin ticket should not be read as an endorsement of the Obama-Biden ticket. Bob Barr '08, perhaps? Cynthia McKinney '08, maybe? Frank Moore '08, possibly definitely? Or how's about Charles Jay, Chuck Baldwin, Frank McEnulty, Gloria La Riva, Gene Admondson, Brian Moore, Jackson Kirk Grimes, Alan Keyes, Ralph Nader or Kelcey Wilson? Wha?! We have more than two choices?!?!?!? Eh...not really. Anyway, I will never tell. Although if you've read this blog for any period of days, you can probably guess with a fair amount of accuracy my candidate of choice. I'm pretty transparent. And I love freedom.

inevitable questions

If you've managed to escape from this big, retarded village called Washington, DC, even for just a weekend, it's inevitable that you'll face this most confounding question: "What's it like to live in DC?"

There are several different ways to answer that question. For instance, you can qualify the "DC experience" using adjectives like "horrendous," "soul-sucking," "douchey," and if you're insane, "great." However, if you answer in the first three ways, be prepared to face an additional inevitable follow-up query: "Well, then why do you live there?" Now, unless you hate yourself, you will most likely answer "work," the only sensible answer, which will then invite your unwanted interviewer to ask you yet a third inevitable question: "What do you do?" Yawn. Unless your occupation is ice road trucker, having a conversation that entails the phrase, "What do you do?"* within the first five sentences usually ends in at least one party (again, if one or both of you are not ice road truckers) falling into a near-comatose state. For that reason, I cannot condone a 100 percent truthful answer to "What's it like to live in DC?"

At the same time, however, I can't condone a 100 percent false answer, such as "great," "awesome," or the most cringe-worthy of responses, "amazing."** I myself have never done this because I save lying to people's faces for important matters (i.e., "No, I didn't drink the whole bottle," "I don't know how the entire first season of Gossip Girl ended up on my iPod," "I wasn't fired, I quit," "What? No, I don' t have a gambling problem.). However, if you do decide to lie in the hopes of coming off as less of a miserable bitch than you I actually are am, be prepared to then answer the question, "Why's it so great?" To be believable and quickly get the hell out of this uncomfortable conversation, I suggest you go with the following: "It's socially awkward there and I'm socially awkward, so I get along swimmingly." Or, you can always just pretend you're getting a very important phone call (after all, you're from DC, douche!) and bail.

However, while running away from your problems works the majority of the time, it doesn't solve everything. The world isn't perfect. *sigh* There is one catch-all response, though, that can get you out of the sourest of proverbial pickles, including questions about life in DC: "It is what it is."

This answer is neither too depressing, nor unbelievably optimistic. It doesn't invite further inquiry, nor will it alienate your conversation partner (unless that's your goal -- it's usually mine). If you want to end the conversation, don't say anything else. If you want to continue it, "It is what it is" offers the perfect segue for you to change subjects. Observe, an actual conversation I had in Las Vegas last week:

"How do you like living in DC?"

"It is what it is. Say, what's the haps with the craps?"

"Shake 'em up, shake 'em up, shake 'em up, shake 'em. Roll 'em in a circle of homies and watch me break 'em. With the seven, seven-eleven, seven-eleven. Seven even back do' Little Joe. I picked up the cash flow."

OK, so that last bit of the conversation may have been between me and Ice Cube in my mind, but the first half actually happened. Not only did I successfully deter any further questions about DC, my job and several other subjects only the douchiest of douches would want to talk about while in Las Vegas, but "It is what it is" allowed me to then find out that the craps tables in the hotel I was staying at were three feet longer than normal. That casino tried to hustle me! Asses.

So I guess in a way, I'm thankful for that most annoying of inevitable questions, "How do you like DC?" Had I lived in Chicago or some other town where I'd freely be able to state my opinion without sounding like a bitter jaded jackass (although, that is kind of a key element of my personality), I might not have gleaned that valuable craps tidbit. And since I suffered for that betting information, and subsequently just made you suffer through reading how I suffered, I'll go ahead and pay this tip forward for the other compulsive gamblers in the e-house (I mean, "What? No, I don't have a gambling problem.") -- If you ever find yourself at the JW Marriott Spa and Resort, steer clear of the epic 15-foot-long tables. That sh*t is for suckers, or compulsive gamblers like myself who just had to play anyway (I mean, "What? No, I don't have a gambling problem.") Don't judge me!

*Incidentally, "What do you do?" is the most popular conversation starter in DC. Coincidence? No. Douchey? Yes.

**If you're not lying then you're a douche. What do you do?

way too much information...?

Don't worry. Hell hasn't gotten icy. I haven't found a new hobby, or, you know, gotten some sort of real life. Instead, I've been gambling. It's just how I roll (LOL!).

But for real, this weekend I was Indian gaming in Oklahoma. (Honestly, though, Cherokee Nation gambling doesn't have anything on Minnesota's Mdewakanton Sioux Community. Mystic Lake!)

Oh, I also visited my grandmother down in the sticks of Arkansas, where I learned that if I'd been alive during WWII and possessed a different lineage, I would've had a big ol' crush on my grandpa. Yowza! What a looker!

My family has loved freedom for a long time.

Yeah... Something is so not right about what I just revealed... So. Not. Right.

But, um, moving on, my grandma also showed me some of my dad's old childhood books from the 1950s and, my-oh-sexism-my, did one of them catch my eye.

Cyclotron!

Brought to you by the one-and-only Raymond F. Yates -- the renowned author of such works as A Boy and a Battery, A Boy and a Motor, The Boys' Book of Communications, The Boys' Book of Magnetism, The Boys' Book of Model Railroading, The Boys' Book of Rockets and Model Jets and Rockets for Boys -- the above-posted book, Atomic Experiments for Boys, offers a nice overview of such fun and masculine things as geiger counters, nuclear power, the H-Bomb and, of course, "Miracle in a Pickle Jar." Apparently, a simple at-home experiment involving a pickle jar, two pieces of black velvet and a felt weather strip, which is "obtainable at any five-and-ten-cent store," allows you to witness "the paths of atomic and cosmic ray particles." Sounds sweet. I'm going to buy a jar of pickles this weekend.

But besides deciding my grandpa was dreamy in the 1940s (hmm...it's still not sounding any less creepy...) and discovering I have the interests of an 11-year-old boy circa 1954 (well, except for the being attracted to your own family part...oh man, I'm calling my therapist now...), I also found out my grandmother's uncle was a master furrier. (Ahem, not a furry, mind you, but a furrier.)

Back in the 1930s when he was in business in San Francisco, he made my grandma a mink stole, which apparently was the hot sh*t back in the day. The thing about this stole, though, compared to some of the more polished and finished items he used to make, was its deconstructed details, like, you know, keeping the heads and paws (with tiny claws!) on.

Dear PETA, I'm vintage. Don't throw paint on me. Toodles!

My mother's response to this item was something like, "Ew. That's the ugliest thing I've ever seen. Get it away from me. Now."

My reaction was more along the lines of, "Holy effing sh*t. This is the coolest thing I've ever seen. Let me wear it. Now."

Eat your heart out, Diddy.

Thanks to the awesomeness that is my grandma, I now own this. I can't wait to hand out Butt Paste while wearing this.

Unfortunately, my Butt Paste'n'fur escapade will have to wait as I am in Las Vegas for the week. I'm going for "work" (shady!), but will hopefully be spending most of my time practicing Golden Touch Dice Control. Anyway, long story short less long, my blog droppings might be a little scarce this week, but I'll try. After all, next to DC, Las Vegas might be the Shambles P.I. capital of the world. It's like an extra-strength blog laxative.

Wish me luck!