kaz: a restaurant week review

Oh, hot damn. It's Restaurant Week here in DC, which means fancy restaurants are suddenly much dumpier as they lower their prices in order to allow riff-raff like me to dine there. Really, it's a glorious week if you make less than a billion dollars a year because dinners (an appetizer, entree and dessert) that would normally cost $50 and above, are now available for the relatively low price of $35 (drinks not included). Sure it's no Applebee's Three-Course Classic®, but look on the bright side: Chances are after eating at one of the establishments eligible to participate in Restaurant Week, your arteries won't be hankering to smack you in your face like they do at Applebee's the second you choke down the last few bites of your $20 ticket to Diabetesville. What I'm saying is, after a proper RW meal, you hopefully won't feel like dying. Instead, you'll feel like you're lucky you have a tongue full of taste buds and a healthy appetite for reasonable portions.

And so to celebrate this week of culinary wonder, my helper tortoise's helper monkey Butternuts and I ventured down to Kaz Sushi Bistro last night, an upscale Japanese place at 19th and I. Approaching the establishment from the rainy environs of the desolate downtown sidewalk at 7:30 last night, I thought what a weird location for an upscale sushi place. Butternuts scratched his head and ate a gnat.

See, downtown DC is dead for the majority of the week. Save for Monday-Friday between the hours of 7 a.m. and 6, absolutely nothing goes on there. Not only do stores and newsstands close up shop when the white-collar workday is over, but so do the Starbucks, Subways and corner delis. In other words, when you think about going out for a nice dinner in DC, you don't turn to your helper tortoise's helper monkey and say, "Let's go to that concrete ghost town on I Street and depress ourselves." Unless, of course, it's Restaurant Week and you get a deal...

So yes, walking into Kaz, which is located in a storefront of a standard office building, is a bit depressing. The ceilings are low, the layout is cramped and ramshackle and the decor is about as creative and inspiring as the closed-up Cosi down the street. Kaz seems more like a lunch place than a dinner establishment, which may explain its lobbyist-friendly location (and lobbyist-friendly regular prices).

But getting over our initial disappointing impression, we made our way toward the host...who would immediately then give us our second disappointing impression. Oh joy. The man in charge of seating was a middle-aged gentleman who was either hard-of-hearing or blatantly not listening. It took more than a comfortable amount of time for him to find our reservation, even after telling him the name it was under multiple times and spelling it for him twice. ("That's 'Butter,' b-u-t-t-e-r as in 'stick of' and 'nuts,' n-u-t-s as in 'you're gonna love mine,' got it?") If we were paying full price, we honestly would've thought about calling it off. Dull confines buttressed by what seemed like very unnecessary hullabaloo is not a good way to welcome new patrons.

Luckily, things would turn around. While we didn't get a very good table, even after waiting several more minutes (we ended up at a two-top in a row of other closely aligned tables adjacent to the main aisle), we did get a prompt and friendly waitress, who got us water when we needed it and made sure our wine glasses were always full. She provided us with both the regular menu and the RW option, which was printed on a piece of highlighter yellow paper and resembled a multiple choice exam instructing us to pick anywhere from one to three options depending on the category.

The first category was the appetizer, under which we were presented five choices. I went with the scallop ceviché; Butternuts got endangered with it and went for the Chilean sea bass. Mine was meh, but his was worth the environmental consequences. The sea bass was cooked perfectly, causing me to remark, "I wish this was an entree option," and Butternuts to exclaim, "OOO-OOO-OOO-AH-AH-AH!" He liked it a lot.

The second and third categories composed the entree. We got to choose three kinds of sushi (to total six pieces) and two different rolls. While some options could wind up adding extra dollars to the bill (e.g., it was an extra $2 or something to order the sea urchin), most didn't, including everything we ordered. I ended up with the tuna with roasted almond, eel, and salmon with mango puree. Butternuts got the yellowtail, mackerel and something else I can't remember and which I cannot ask him now because he's too busy throwing some feces at a wall. But no matter, because I'm pretty sure my order was better. All the fish (on both mine and Butternuts's plate) was of high-quality, fresh and perfectly cut. However, the addition of the roasted almonds and mango puree, I thought, put my order in the "GOTDAMN!" category. This made up for the ho-hum ceviché. The rolls, while not shout-worthy delicious, were still pretty tasty. I chose salmon with cucumber and crunchy shrimp. Butternuts chose crunchy eel and salmon with avocado. They were all fairly standard in flavor profiles, but above average in quality, which, I think is the most important factor in determining whether sushi is worth paying a lot of money for. This was.

And although I was quite full by this point, I still made room for dessert. I wouldn't have ordered it extra, but since it was included in the $35 pricetag, I would've been a veritable fool to turn it down. I got lychee panna cotta with mango sorbet. I inhaled it. It was light and fruity and really quite a perfect ending to a meal of food that could be summed up in three syllables -- nomnomnom. Butternuts ordered the liquor-laced dessert (of course) -- espresso-infused tapioca balls covered in bourbon ice cream. It was decent but far richer than I think most people (and helper monkeys) would prefer after a sushi dinner.

It's nice when you get up from a three-course meal and actually feel like you did something good for your body. I felt healthier walking out of Kaz, which may be the best way to enjoy this establishment any other week of the year; that is, I wouldn't go back for dinner, but I'd definitely go back send a helper animal to pick-up some takeout.

the salahis are a giant conspiracy theory!

There are few things in life that get my goat other than the obvious (goat-nappers) and people like Tareq and Michaele Salahi. The mere fact that I know who these people are makes my goat want to get got and me want to give myself a lobotomy. Sadly, though, there's nary a way to avoid these assholes anymore, regardless of whether you're in Bravo's Real Housewives demographic or not. Yes now, simply by default of being near a television, you're forced to encounter these clear f*ck-ups in evolution whether you want to or not. For example, here they are farting all over HBO's Real Sports w/ Bryant Gumbel yesterday.



My goat just ate a revolver and shot itself inside out. What a f*cking sh*tshow...

And while I grab my Shamwow to clean this mess up, riddle me this: Do the Salahis prove that the whole world is against us or does their dopey omnipresence demonstrate an inside job? That is, who's trying to keep us from being anything more than that old stereotype of Hollywood for ugly people? Because really, this time-machine version of Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt is doing more to make sure we remain just that but dumber than any Martha Washington-looking politician ever did, including even George Washington and his purported 30 dicks.

I mean, seriously, what is going on here? If it's all the Salahis' doing, I ask what happened to the days when being rich meant you built a compound named Xanadu and went crazy in opulent privacy? Why are people today so intent on putting their private shambles on a public stage, especially in DC where being famous for fame's sake has no obvious pay-off. In fact, save for the President and a few pre-selected others, more often than not, when people in DC become household names to America-at-large, it's usually a sign that you'll soon be cast off into obscurity. Larry Craig, Eric Massa, Mark Foley, Scooter Libby: Where are they now? (Answer: Consulting, Tickling, Florida, Unemployed.)

The only sure way to stave off that unfortunate fate is to have a talent. In other words, the Salahis are f*cked.

In fact, they're so f*cked that I think no mortal being would ever want to intentionally create such a hell-on-Earth for themselves. Which means the Salahis seem like an outsider's attempt to keep DC down. These outsiders wonder, "If DC were to ever get legitimately cool, then what would happen to the the status of cities like New York and L.A.?" Indeed, it's brilliant! What better way to make sure DC stays an uncool Hollywood for ugly people than by treating uncool ugly people like they're Hollywood?

Aha! I ask you, why did Bryant Gumbel invite the Salahis on his show? Clearly, it wasn't just to talk about polo! Yes, after exhausting myself trying to find out where Tareq stood in the world polo rankings and failing (I'm talking, like, five Google searches, people!), the Internet gave me the impression that Tareq is as influential in the game as a baby sloth is at not being cute. FAIL!

O! You sneaky bastards, other towns! You almost got us! But get this -- most of us here don't want it. We don't want to be New York or Hollywood. If we did, we'd move there. Proudly and defiantly, we are and shall always remain a place where the less attractive get the most TV time. (The Anti DC Show ain't gonna be a success 'cause it's easy on the eyes!) However, we beg you to let DC remain a place where we can forever be smarter than you. Slopping up the airwaves with the Salahis representing Washington is not only like throwing salt in our unattractive wounds, but it's like crashing the whole salt truck into our hideously deformed eye sockets. Now, we can't even see. And if we can't see, not only is DC f*cked, but the whole damn world is. It's like Hollywood's slipped us a mickey and now we're the company CEO at the office party with his shirt off and the lampshade on his head. As much as I hate our usual buttoned-up demeanor, it still beats being the formerly respected boss who wakes up the next day in a pile of his own vomit; he staggers over to the bathroom mirror only to find out he joined the PEN15 club via a magic-marker tattoo on his forehead. The whole thing's a disgrace.

So please, let's sober up and forget this notion that we, ourselves, or any outsiders can ever rid us of our image of being the NPR nerds. My friends, just like you cannot polish a turd, you also cannot tarnish it. A turd is a turd is a turd! Now, if you'll excuse me, I must see what that Real Housewife Diane Rehm is up to.

a winner, a loser and a clown named buster

When I woke up this morning for the fourth time, mainly because the slumber crusts that had developed during my 12-hour, Nyquil-induced coma had grown large enough to start forcing my eyes open (WELCOME!), I realized two things: 1) Eye biology is disgusting; and 2) It was all just a dream. Alas, I'm not a 17-year-old baseball phenom from Nevada who just signed a multimillion dollar contract with the Washington Nationals. That dream-turned-reality belongs to a boy named Bryce Harper. This accomplishment was only topped by him finally being able to see an R-rated movie without a parent or guardian present.

And speaking of R-rated, that perv Andre Chreky of DC's downtown eponymous salon is going to have to pay $7 million to a former employee for allegedly sexually harassing her at work. Jennifer Thong, whose ancestors I'm sure assure us no pun was intended, claims among other things that Chreky once Hansel'd her by ripping off her underpants through sheer force of will alone. That kind of sick perversion is only seconded by that haircut I once got at his salon that made me look like Peg Bundy, presidential hopeful, which in 2010, I suppose, would just be called "the Sarah Palin." I'll see Chreky in hell.

Lastly, in more uplifting news, the only thing that could make this movie better is more Buster the Clown.

*ahem*

Hey, I'm back! Where did I go? Well, besides taking a day off to go to King's Dominion to ride Volcano the Blast Coaster -- THE GREATEST ROLLERCOASTER OF ALL TIME! -- I also took a day off to recover from *Cough*Blargh-o* the Phlegm Sneezer -- THE GROSSEST COLD/FLU OF ALL SUMMER. Ironically, both resulted in the loss of my voice, which also explains why I failed to follow through with the lowly anticipated second episode of The Anti DC Show on Friday. And depending on your view of that project, allow me to either say, "I'm sorry," or, "You're welcome." However, if you're glad episode two didn't pan out last week, then clearly your tastes are far too high-brow not only to be reading this blog but to be living in a society where there exists a television series entitled, "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant." Good luck, everybody...

I'd also like to wish good luck upon the newly launched "hyperlocal" news site TBD.com, with which, as I'm sure you've noticed if you stop by here with any regularity, I've become affiliated. While I'm sure the vast majority of you don't give two sh*ts (or even a smidgen of just one sh*t, I suspect) who I team up with, I know at least a couple of you have noticed enough to ask whether this is a sign of me finally selling out.

First of all -- I wish. But the sad reality is that I'm still not getting paid to write. Now, if you're as appalled as I am about that and wish to remedy this situation by either advertising on this blog (which has enough readers to be worthwhile, I might add), giving me a book deal, developing a sitcom with me, or offering me my own humor/cultural criticism column in your magazine/newspaper because, ACK!, someone needs to fill the space Cathy left behind, then email me now. Please. (Theantidc at gmail dot com.)

Because as of now, the best I can monetarily hope for in the near future is that a lot of you are interested in calling federal prisons, buying a Speedo or clicking through to some such other randomly generated service offered up in my weird Google ad in the upper-righthand corner. If 1 million or more of you do, I might just be able to buy myself a beer in six months...

So, if cold hard cash isn't the appeal of joining TBD.com's community network then what is? I mean, there's gotta be some benefit, right? Certainly, I'm not just letting them link to my brilliant material out of the shear goodness of your heart...

Duh. Of course not. If there's anything we should learn from living in the United States of America, it's that knowing you're pregnant volunteering is for suckers. Yet, while I realize TBD.com is probably making more money off of me (if not directly, then certainly indirectly by using more unpaid bloggers instead of more paid reporters to create content), they're providing me more exposure than I'd be able to buy had they paid for the content they've used from me thus far, which has included two blog entries and an interview. In short, we're both ripping each other off. It's a wonderfully American thing.

Yet exposure is not the ultimate goal for me. Instead, like the flasher in the park, it's simply a means to an end. Except while that creeper wants to molest the world, I want to caress it...with ideas! Words! Near limitless unsettling similes and metaphors! O, dear world! You are the sun to my moon! (See?)

So, yes, while TBD.com isn't reaching out to slap my moon's big, white bottom, it's certainly turning a spotlight on it so that others, such as advertisers, literary agents, television developers and editors, may. Hey, the Washington Post's Howard Kurtz gave it a tap (UNSETTLING!), so this partnership must be doing something right! Now if only someone would grab it properly and hold on. And pay me. Like a prostitute. Like a hooker. Like a strumpet. Like a working gal. Like a whore. Like an escort. Like a streetwalker. Like a lady of the night. Like someone who performs sexual acts for reasonable amounts of money. (Hey, I said NEAR limitless...)

But seriously, TBD.com is a pretty cool new site. And I say this not just because they've been generous in linking to my page. I say this because they've tapped into something other local news media outlets often miss these days -- relevance. That, and it's nice knowing The Anti DC Show isn't the lone program on the meta-channel in all our minds known as Shamblesvision. FUEGO!

not quite an obit...

Disgraced-then-undisgraced coot-off runner-up Ted Stevens, the former Republican Alaskan senator who was indicted then unindicted on corruption charges, has died. And while it's always sad when someone dies, I'm sometimes a little skeptical of the public mourning surrounding the deaths of politicians. Why do we suddenly forget all the unscrupulous career moves deceased politicians (most of whom are probably psychopaths devoid of normal markers of humanity anyway) ever made and only remember the good? I mean really, when Hitler died, should the world have looked back and noted how "passionate" he was about Germany? Bitch please.

Now, clearly, besides being a politician, Stevens has absolutely nothing to do with Hitler (please, let's not get that twisted), but the comparison helps me underline a larger point -- it's unfair to the public for the news media to suddenly fawn over someone simply due to the fact that he died.

Luckily, we here in DC don't fall for such sentimentalities, especially when dealing with a man who, according to Mike DeBonis of the Washington Post, hated this city so much that he thought it was unfit for representation in the federal government. The reason? Apparently, because of the federal government.

"This is a company town," Stevens once said. "This is a federal government town."

Uh-huh. And because of that view, this blog exists. As long as people like Stevens spew that kind of drivel upon our city, DC will continue to be what Stevens, himself, once described as "gone to hell." Yes, it's people like Stevens (i.e., the federal government, which views DC as nothing more than a giant office building) who make DC suck, who make sure we're still being nationally taxed without having a national voice.

So, are people who think like Stevens just stupid or are they willfully ignorant? That is, do they understand that they are the reason why they hate DC so much? And if they do, then what the f*ck is their motivation? I mean, really, it blows my mind when someone working within the system they claim has made DC so horrible has the gall to say something like, "God forbid that someone should tell me that the city of Washington is my home. I can't think of a worse city to have as capital and I don't care who knows it." Stevens said that in 1982, after about a decade-and-a-half in Washington serving as a senator. Dead or alive, that's a f*cking douchey thing to say, especially when you were/are part of the motherf*cking problem.

And trust me, I understand the irony of criticizing Stevens's hatred of the city when I maintain a blog call The Anti DC, but there are several key differences between our views that make one of us completely out of his element and the other spot on in her witty, thought-provoking prose. And considering my purposeful use of distinctive possessive adjectives in that last sentence, I trust you can figure out to whom I'm saying what. (Hint: I'm not insulting myself.)

Not to mention, it doesn't hurt that with all my vitriol, there's also a heavy dose of affection for this little cess pool of a city. (I mean that lovingly, of course.) Indeed, I am the Hugh Honey to my own Vic Vinegar. In fact, I think it's my recognition that DC is under such a cloud of douche that makes me able to truly appreciate what little this city actually gets right. Those few things are like the couple of turtles who made it through the BP oil spill. They should be loved even more because of it.

And so, here we stand, hopefully with a better understanding of why everyone (that is, the natives, the feds and people like me who, "God forbid," have come to adopt the District as their home) hates DC. Recognizing the problem is always the first step.

But getting back to the reason I wrote this in the first place, I hope wherever Stevens is now suits him better than the place he chose to spend nearly half his life. R.I.P.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

arcade fire just slapped some sense into me

It'll probably come as a surprise to you that I was once cool. And once you stop laughing, I'll explain why.

Ready? Good.

I used to spin indie-rock tunes at my college radio station; I wrote for all its indie-rock publications and even edited one; and I was friends with a bunch of kids in bands. I, myself, even ended up joining a band after I graduated and moved to Russia. Of course, that band wasn't so much "cool" as it was "a total joke." (Although, once they kicked me out for what I can only assume was me being too professional, they improved exponentially and even released an album. Hmph.)

Anyway, what I'm getting at here is that when it came to music, I was that asshole snob in 2001. And if I wasn't a liberal arts kid who wore her pajamas to morning classes or, later in Moscow, a dabbler in Euro-trash who wore "outfit inventions" to parties that started at 2 a.m., I probably would've been one of those new-school dipster types who wore ironic T-shirts on their torsos and "Don't you just want to punch me?" expressions on their faces.

But that was then. Upon returning from Moscow in 2004, I had become more of a bona fide nerd. I went from hanging out with MTV VJs (albeit the Russian versions) and meeting bands like Blur to hanging out with graduate advisers and meeting things like research deadlines. The change of pace was shocking and traumatic and I went into a deep depression.

Just kidding. I didn't really go into a deep depression, but I did exhibit some disturbing signs, such as losing touch with everything that I used to care about to concentrate solely on school and work. I stopped listening to music that wasn't on the radio; I ceased reading books that weren't on a required list; and I put a moratorium on watching things that didn't involve VH1's Celebreality. My 2001 self would've hated my 2004 self.

So, when indie-rock darlings Arcade Fire released Funeral around that time, I didn't even notice despite that it would wind up being ranked by many as one of the top albums of the decade.

By the time I did emerge from my post-Russian dark years (read: when I finally finished my MA), I directed my browser to Pitchfork just in time to see a glowing review of Arcade Fire's second LP, Neon Bible. I promptly gave it a listen before just-as-promptly shutting it off. I thought it sounded less like a rock band and more like a bunch of hippies who found an organ in the woods, confused about what to do with it.

I didn't like it.

And after that, I never gave it much thought until one day not long ago, my apartment buddy got ahold of Arcade Fire's new album, The Suburbs, and decided to blast it nightly from the stereo's speakers. I was less than impressed. I thought, "Great, these hippies found a drum machine..."

However, despite my skepticism (and mostly because of a free ticket), I decided to venture out to the Merriweather Post Pavilion on Friday to catch Arcade Fire's live set. I arrived with low expectations. I expected to just sway back and forth, probably checking my Twitter updates most of the time. But then the show started...



I forgot everything bad I had ever thought about Arcade Fire. I forgot about my Twitter account. I was awestruck. Arcade Fire was a rock band. And not just any run-of-the-mill rock band, but one with heart, sweat, and TWO DRUMMERS! The above video, which I found on YouTube, doesn't do the explosions of sight and sound Arcade Fire provided for its audience any justice at all. It was so much more fantastic than what can be captured on someone's shaky digital camera.

Really, it's not often you find a band whose live shows put their records to shame, but in the case of Arcade Fire, that's exactly what happened. Their live set made me feel like I was discovering them for the first time on Friday and I was impressed.

Now, as I sit here typing this review, I find myself poring over their discography with a new appreciation. I finally get what all the fuss was about and I take back every bad quip I ever said about them. Arcade Fire is a band worthy of praise, not only for their musical ability (seven out of Friday's eight members traded instruments throughout the show and, save for one f*ck-up -- ironically, because of a drum machine -- they did so flawlessly), but also for their authenticity. In a world filled with so many other staged theatrics, Arcade Fire's love of their craft seemed so real, so untouched by their growing popularity (they sold out Merriweather's 19,000-plus venue, a venue that I might add, is near-perfect in its layout, especially compared to the Nissan Jiffy Lube Pavilion, which may forever burn in hell).

From my view, which was pretty sweet as you can see from the picture that follows this paragraph, they seemed to realize that anything less than truly spectacular would not only be a failure to the audience, but also to themselves.


It's like the cute boy in school finally talked to me and he went from being a douche to dreamy. I'm f*cking cool again. But not as cool as Arcade Fire. If you weren't there on Friday, check out what you missed here:


Video via YouTube user "Paciorka."

ta-dumb!

Remember that project I referred to in the past? I'd Google my past references to it for you, but I trust you'll just take my word for it. I'm lazy.

Anyway, it's arrived. And it's much sh*ttier than I had envisioned it. So, sorry about that.

But then again, with such a low bar, we can all look forward to upcoming iterations of The Anti DC Show to be very much improved. For now, though, enjoy this metaphorical flaming bag of dog doo-doo that I just left on your e-front door. You're welcome!

ready your pants, more dc schmreality is here...

In my non-anticipation for tonight's premiere of The Real Housewives of DC McLean and Bethesda, which I confess I will not be watching because, quite frankly, I have better things to do, I came across this article this morning from the Washington City Paper. It very aptly, albeit a little too über-loquaciously (for the record, I think the word "schadenfreude" should only be allowed once per article; on another note -- this time to myself -- I think the word "über-loquaciously" probably shouldn't be used at all...), explains why I'm not excited: "In an ordinary season, the exposed social climbing would make for some nice reality world schadenfreude, the stuff Real Housewives always trades in. But the problem for the D.C. version is that the reality humiliations wind up trashing the show’s basic promise. In that single, drunken hair-care exchange, [Mary Schmidt] Amons—neither a D.C. resident nor a friend of the Obamas nor a particularly powerful person—utterly undercuts the show's D.C.-centric opening monologue, in which a fellow housewife purrs, 'The currency here is proximity to power.' By the time she's done, it's clear that the buskers in Farragut Square are closer to 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. than is Amons. Welcome to reality TV's Washington: Wealthy women with Newsweek-grade opinions waxing soporific on the existential significance of a black president on Real Housewives; House Speaker Nancy Pelosi dicing things up on Top Chef; twentysomethings pining progressive on the Real World. And absolutely everyone—except maybe Tareq and Michaele Salahi [the White House crashers set to be on Real Housewives]—boring the pants off their viewers." And while my pants might already be off for reasons other than boredom (exposed butt is natural air-conditioning!), I agree that if they weren't, the Real Housewives would certainly drive them to come off... Wait. That doesn't sound right. In what backwards world did that overused saying "to bore the pants off someone" start? Because in my experience pants usually get removed when something really f*cking exciting is happening, not the other way around. When I'm bored, I actually put pants on, which is what I did at the beginning of last night's episode of Top Chef. However, when José Andrés came out I quickly removed them. Bare ass = I likes it. What I don't like, though, is exactly what Mike Riggs, the author of the above-quoted article, points out, and that is that for some reason television producers actually think government bureaucracy is the most interesting part of this city. He writes: "Sometime in those heady days of fall, 2008, TV producers decided that the buzz surrounding the cool young president-elect meant our pokey old nation's capital was getting hipper and more cosmopolitan. There's some truth to that generalization, though the connection to Obama is tenuous at best. But now, two years and two high-profile reality flops later, it's clear that there's another local truth that the burgeoning population of D.C.-oriented reality producers have yet to figure out: Washington, D.C., is actually Washington and D.C. The latter features a lifestyle similar to that of other reality-worthy cities. But the former—with its white marble and its mysterious corridors of powers—is what these shows try to present. It's a classic bait-and-switch. In reality D.C., everyone who steps into a Cadillac Escalade might wind up sharing canapés with Al Franken at a reception for the Finnish finance minister. In real D.C., even Kal Penn-caliber celebs find themselves balanced out by slack-jawed number crunchers, dumpy lobbyists, and disillusioned activists hustling opaque, fine-print agendas. In other words, despite the establishing shots of the Capitol and the increasingly pathetic cameos from attention-seeking federal-city figures, what reality TV producers have chosen as their locale is not a nexus of power and celebrity, but a nest of normalcy. And as one reality TV producer recently told Esquire when asked about the increase in scripted reality TV shows, 'Normal people don’t make good television.'" And neither do annoying people, as I accidently saw on TLC's dry-heave of the year, DC Cupcakes. Do you know how many pairs of pants I ended up having on at the end of that half-hour of "signature swirl" hell? Two-hundred and fifteen. It took 215 minutes of watching José Andrés talk about his sausage just to get all those boring pants off again... And so I don't have much hope for The Real Housewives of DC McLean and Bethesda. Not only is the show completely ridiculous considering that only one of the five "real housewives" lives in DC, but it's also completely ridiculous in that only one of them is black. In case Bravo didn't realize, about 55 percent of DC's residents are black and, of course, 100 percent of DC's residents don't live in Maryland or Virginia... But actually, I'm kind of relieved that the sh*tshows on this sh*tshow don't live in DC or correctly represent it. If they did, we might really have something to be embarrassed about. As it stands now, the only people who should be hanging their heads in shame are the cast. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some proud streaking to do.

a sticky situation

Let's get this straight, DC: When I said you need to get more creative yesterday, I didn't mean with your pointless crimes.


According to the Washington Post:

"On July 15 at a Giant Food store in Gaithersburg, police said, a man discharged fluid from a small bottle similar to those used to hold hand sanitizer and then snapped a photo of the act with his cellphone... Michael Wayne Edwards Jr., 28, has been charged in that incident and in another at a Michaels craft store, also in Gaithersburg. Police said that after questioning Edwards, they are looking for at least two more victims."

First off -- ew. Secondly -- still ew. Thirdly, though, why the f*ck would someone do this? Mr. Edwards, this is not the way to pick up the ladies. Especially the ladies who shop at Michaels. Try a line about scrapbooking next time. At the very least, don't make a lady pull out her Tide-to-Go stick the very first time you meet.

In other batsh*t crazy news, incumbent councilman Jim Graham's still hoping to squirt his proverbial jizz bottles all over Ward 1. First off -- ew. Secondly -- still ew. Thirdly, how does this asshole still have supporters? The man can't even sit through a telephone interview these days because he's too shifty. According to a Post profile on this dick:

"...Graham zealously guards his image. He declined to be interviewed for this article, but kept close tabs on the reporting -- telephoning and sending e-mails to Washington Post editors to complain that a reporter's questions to others suggested a negative bias. He eventually agreed to answer written questions."

It doesn't take a genius to conclude that when someone's that scared and paranoid, they're usually hiding something unbecoming. But why? If there's anything a DC politician should know by now it's that being corrupt doesn't hurt your image -- it helps! Just ask Marion Berry! At least he has the gonads to admit he's a total jackass. Graham, on the other bow-tie, still seems to be living in some tortoise-shell rimmed fantasyland where local politicians are still expected to be pretending to serve their constituents. Well, wake up, Graham, and smell the spunk in the squirt bottle! The jig is up!

Vote Weaver on 9/14. While I think he'll probably go the same route as his predecessors once he learns the secret to reelection (bribes!), for now at least you can trust him enough to make a cool campaign ad. That's big.

just imagine this was written with a quill pen

OK, so I guess that was actually four parts. But whatever, the point is Twitter has eliminated my need to blog...at least about particular instances. What Twitter hasn't done, however (and will never do), is eliminate my need to write extensively about concepts and ideas. One-hundred and forty characters be damned!

So, here's the idea: There are people who aren't complete assholes living in DC. I know it's shocking; I know it's wild, but hear me out because I think I know why...

Here's a fact: I'm a jerk. (I mean, really, this blog is built around me being an asshole, come on.) Here's another fact: But I'm not a miserable bitch every second of every day. Why? Because of this blog -- it's my creative outlet through which I vent to the world why I loathe it so much. It keeps me from being hooked on drugs. (Huffing doesn't count.) And more importantly, it keeps me from acting like a total dick to everyone I know, total strangers, and probably small children and puppies. (I'm still quite a dick to large children and kittens, however.)

What I'm saying, I guess, is that I think that woman who gave me her reusable green bag either has a blog or is engaged in some other form of creative expression that allows her to air her grievances elsewhere other than at individuals she happens to encounter. The guy who then tried to run down two pedestrians because he really didn't want to wait at the red light to turn right, probably does not. Ass.

I mean, think about it. DC is such a stuffy town. A lot of people come here solely to pad their resumes. Like a reality show, they're not here to make friends. They treat DC like a giant office, keeping personal thoughts and feelings to themselves and staying stapled securely to the straight and narrow. Really, it's like being surrounded by a half-a-million Dexters, except the only people they're murdering is themselves. Slowly.

Seriously, how many politicians do you think aren't psychopaths? Most seem to care little about the people they claim to serve, which they show so often by engaging in risky scandals and unethical behavior.

Then again, not everyone here wants to be a politician. Some people here want to be lobbyists [insert exact same psychopath analogy here, I guess], others want to be lawyers, humanitarians, consultants, restaurant owners, reporters, writers, hairdressers, bartenders, engineers, and the list goes on. What this list shows is that not everyone in DC is a born psychopath (just the people in power are). So why does it seem this city's residents (and the surrounding area's residents, as well) are so often completely devoid of emotion or empathy? Why do so many people here seem to be on the dick spectrum?

I really do believe it has something to do with a lack of creativity. Like fashion, it seems having anything to do with the world of arts and letters is frowned upon here as frivolous. That really is a shame. Not only does it prevent DC from ever becoming a true community, but it so often makes it generally unpleasant to live here.

Creativity is an aggression valve. It keeps people who are capable of feeling feelings from imploding and/or exploding. It makes people more pleasant and places more beautiful. Spic and span concrete certainly has it's place, but so do street murals. And I mean that both literally and metaphorically. I mean, just think of what DC could be if it one day decided to loosen its tie and undo the top button -- just for a few hours a day. I think it would have the potential to be one of the most unique, hospitable, greatest city's of the world.

I urge everybody to paint something, sing something, write something, photograph something, rhyme something, play something, act something, or maybe just give someone your extra grocery bag and think of it as performance art. In other words, make friends, you assholes. :)

in a tube, down in the river!

I've been hearing all these great stories about tubing over in Harper's Ferry, W.Va., lately so I figured it might be the perfect way to finally scratch "Float Down a Lazy River in an Inflatable Torus with a Raft Full of Bud Light Lime Mini-Beers" off my bucket list. Unfortunately, none of that actually got accomplished.

Yet, I did go tubing. The problem was that the river wasn't lazy -- it was dead. And honestly, because of that, I've never been so tired in my life.

The trip, which was supposed to take about three hours, turned into six because instead of floating, we were forced to swim. Note to anyone planning to make the trip: The river level last Saturday was 2.5 feet. If I ever want to gamble with an otherwise perfectly relaxing Saturday again, I'd make sure the river was at least three feet higher before I'd consider tubing again.

And as far as the mini-beers go, well, outside of St. Mary's, Md., where I spent last weekend hanging out on a dock surrounded by 7 oz. Bud Light Limes and mobile Internet, it's hard to find a baby brew, let alone a delicious and refreshing mini bottle of Bud Light Lime.

But I digress. Not having artificial citrus flavoring in a little libation was really the least of my worries. I was more concerned about the fact that I paid $32 to work this hard. I woke up on Sunday with my shoulders throbbing. (I mean, you see my upper body strength, right? It's sad.) The tops of my legs were blazing red. (You also see how pasty I am. That's as equally sad as my upper body strength.) And my hair was basically one big rat's nest. (Really, who decided to post this picture on the Web, anyway?)

And some of the low-lights that didn't involve my scrawny, pale physical structure included: Getting stuck in a buggy marsh; getting stuck on several rocks and/or logs; hitting my feet on several rocks and/or logs; swimming for miles while dragging my tube; and dodging several hundred other assholes on the river.

Really, I felt like I was in Honey, I Shrunk the Kids, floating around in a bowel (that's a typo, but I'm going to leave it) of Froot Loops tainted with 2-methylnaphthalene. In short, it was not the best of times.

Luckily, however, I was able to later reclaim my day by heading to Charles Town Races and Slots and Table Games, where I learned that, while it still largely sucks because of its ridiculously high table minimums for craps (seriously, $50?), they have at least installed some $25 blackjack tables.

And, get this, I won! I put down $100 and left with twice that. Of course, even that was a hassle considering the dealer COULDN'T COUNT. I saw him give a pay-out to a man who showed a 15 to his 17 then later the dealer tried not to pay someone with 21 to his 19. Shortly after that, he then paused for several seconds to calculate the sum of seven, eight and nine. Yes, you f*cking moron, that is a bust.

Needless to say, the only tip he got from me was the sentence, "You should really go back to school." Unfortunately, I bet you $100 he will not take my advice.