dc fashion blog jihad anyone?

I effing hate DC. I know my general dislike of this town is neither particularly interesting nor revelatory at this point since I pretty much type that every time I post, but dammit, I feel the need to do this city a service and at least attempt to point out some wrongs so that one day someone less lazy than I can right them.

And so, I shall continue to be nauseatingly repetitive and zero in on yet another reason why DC sucks: It's "fashion" blogs.

Now, I understand I write about DC style from time to time, but my purpose, unlike DC's fashion bloggers, is simply to underline my larger theme that, well, I effing hate this place. Let’s be honest here -- DC has no fashion sense. And, trying to change that is akin to trying to teach a special needs kid to stop acting retarded. Not easy.

But against those odds, others still try. And while I (sort of) respect their collective undertaking, I find the general outcome to be nearly as depressing as seeing DC's residents trade in their summer Crocs for their winter Uggs.

Exhibit A: Project Beltway

I first stumbled upon this Web site back in June, just after I moved here from the glorious fashion-loving streets of Lower Manhattan. "Hmm, this is interesting," I thought, as I perused through the man-on-the-street style photographic essays of DC's more "stylish" (and, yes, the word stylish must be in quotation marks here) residents. Back then, Project Beltway was DC's answer to The Sartorialist and Stil in Berlin. Rachel, Project Beltway's author (who I might add, despite what you're about to read, seems like a genuinely nice person), showcased photos of interesting people in interesting outfits against interesting backdrops. Interesting! At least it was...

But lately, the site has devolved into an ad campaign for various "Georgetown boutiques" with its photos replaced by poorly edited, doting interviews of DC "socialites," who have penchants for Juicy Couture sweats (ew), Uggs (double ew) and Mystic tanning (the immeasurable triple ew). This leaves the present state of Project Beltway drab at best and painful to read at worst.

Yet, for some unknown reason, Project Beltway is oft tagged as one of DC's best fashion blogs and it has led Rachel to become the go-to girl for a quote on DC style in major press outlets. Moreover, Project Beltway has also landed Rachel a gig as a style contributor to Washingtonian magazine. Congrats, I suppose, coming from the small part of me that is a nice human being, but the larger part of me -- the circuitry and wires -- says: WTF? Really?? Did Washingtonian’s editors peruse through Project Beltway thoroughly before making the decision to associate the publication with this rapidly deteriorating blog or do they simply not care about quality?

Moving on to Exhibit B: Panda Head

Like Project Beltway, Panda Head (I think) also aims to become a DC version of The Sartorialist. But unlike Project Beltway, Panda Head seems slightly more adept since it concentrates less on Georgetown and more on H Street. In my personal opinion, I'd rather ogle a photo of a hipster in front of The Rock'n'Roll Hotel than a Georgetown douchebag any day.

However, it seems the proportion of hipsters to douchebags is immensely unequal in DC, thus leaving Morgan, Panda Head's author, few options to give due diligence to the purpose of her blog. This means Panda Head features on-the-street style photos maybe three to four times per month. The rest of the blog is filled with random links and photos of stuff the author is interested in. Fair enough, I suppose. I mean, Morgan has taken on quite a feat. Her blog description claims Panda Head is a "Washington, DC, fashion/style blog ... intent on dispelling the myth that the District can't dress." A valiant effort indeed, but, as the old proverb goes, you can't shine a turd.

All right, if you're still with me, let's move on to Exhibit C: A Serious Job Is No Excuse

I came across this blog when its author, Johanna, commented on Project Beltway. I can't exactly remember the comment, but it was in line with hating on DC style so naturally I clicked her name which linked me to what has become the Mecca of DC fashion blogs. Unlike the aforementioned two, this blog attempts not to showcase but to give advice to DC's more dishabille dressers. It's a kind of Fashion 101 for the pleated khakis set all DC women.

Also unlike DC's other fashion blogs, A Serious Job is well written and often amusing, if not slightly overly Sex In the City-esque, which automatically makes it worth the read. However, the advice purported is absolutely mundane, offering such gems as "How to Clean Out Your Closet" and "If It’s Cold Outside, Wear Layers." (I'm still holding out for the mind-blowing "If Your Blouse is Sheer, Wear a Camisole Underneath It" post though.)

But I can't necessarily fault the author here for her subject matter choice. After all, I suppose she's writing for her audience, which apparently is huge...and retarded. Yes, perhaps unsurprisingly, there are a lot of idiots who don't seem to have a child's knowledge of basic things like HOW TO KEEP WARM. Take, for instance, "Jessica" who commented, "Tights under jeans? Never even thought about that...wunderbar!" Or "Intern in the City" who responded, "That’s something I wouldn't have thought to ask myself, actually, so thank you!" to Johanna's closet cleaning advice that states one should throw items out if she no longer looks forward to wearing them. Ugh.

But wait! Could it be this so-called Jessica and Intern are just super sarcastic? Sadly, probably not. My only hope is that A Serious Job's author is actually the sarcastic one. I'd like to assume she knows her "wunderbar" advice is simply just common sense, which makes her laugh if not aloud then at least secretly at the numerous readers who seem to find it innovative. What? I should dress to flatter my figure?! Who'd-a thunk?! And whoa! Fat people shouldn't wear ass-tight tapered jeans?! Well, I'll be damned! By Jove, it’s like a treasure trove of SH*T ANYONE WHO OWNS A MIRROR SHOULD KNOW.

And finally, since even I'm getting bored of my bitching by now, I'll end with Exhibit D: DC Style

I'll keep this one short since the oxymoronic (emphasis on the moronic) name pretty much sums it up. A Serious Job’s Johanna actually writes for DC Style, which at least says something about this blog's attention to grammar, I suppose. However, instead of cultivating any sort of remotely creative writing, DC Style edits and truncates all its articles as not to surpass a fifth-grade reading level. Total check-minus.

Plus, this blog advocates shoes that look like this. Snakeskin wedge sandals? Really?! I will see that shoe in hell. Nay, I will see all of DC in hell. Wait, I think I am in hell.

Have a pleasant day!

the ugly, the gnarly and the super tight

Like DC, one of the biggest problems with downtown Rome and, well, all of Venice is the presence of tourists. Really, if there’s any group of people to hate en masse, it is any sized group of tourists. Um, myself aside, they’re annoying, they walk slow, they don’t know where they’re going and, worst of all, they dress poorly -- like cargo pants tucked into slouch socks nestled into Rockports and don’t-forget-your-patchwork-pleather fannypack poorly. That sh*t simply isn’t tight.

And like DC, if you are then lucky enough to spy a real-life local in Italy, chances are you’ll be equally unimpressed, at least in his or her clothing choices. In Italy, the gaudiest, goldest and most bedazzled reign supreme, while in DC, the plainest, boxiest most Brooks-Brothersiest seems to gain the most esteem. This conundrum leaves one wondering, which is worse?

It’s kind of like the linear political scale, with fascism on the one side and communism on the other. Both suck enormously, but in very different ways. On the one hand there’s fascism, which seeks to unite and dually discriminate based on superficial institutions. In Italy, they have cultivated their gold obsession to great lengths. Not only is it used to accessorize, but it is used to compose entire outfits, which may not sound that horrifying until you see a Versace dress like this paired with Moschino shoes like these and Dolce&Gabbana and Roberto Cavalli accessories like this and this. Sadly, this effort to elevate only the shiny and gnarly übermensch of Italian fashion left few precious outlets for me, who prefers not to look like something that just popped out of Donatella Versace's anus (um, sorry, but sometimes things call for poop references), to drop some Euros.

Then, on the other proverbial hand, we have DC's fashion scene, which lowers fashion to the lowest common denominator -- ill-fitting pleated pants, Barbara Bush pearl necklaces and, well, haircuts like this. Like communism, DC "fashion" strives to de-class fashion, allowing everyone to look like an asshole regardless of which tax bracket a person resides. Those with liquid cash flows can head to the Brooks Brothers to drop hundreds on a hideous suit. Those with less can hop over to Filene’s Basement and Ann Taylor Loft for a two-fer. Either way, you’ll likely come out looking generic, uninteresting and dishabille.

So this brings me back to my question -- which is worse?

I honestly don't know. But, I have the feeling that in a pinch, I'd have to give DC the honors for being the worst. At least Italians -- minus the gold accoutrements and bedazzlings -- seem to still love their ass-tight tapered pants as much as I do (see Diesel jeans ad above).*

*And to make myself perfectly clear here (given my highly inappropriate metaphor), this is in no way an endorsement of fascism. In fact, in a fashion showdown, I think Stalin would win over Hitler. I mean, that red arm band is hideous and don't get me started on Hitler's hairdo and mustache. Stalin at least wore that pretty sweet double-breasted Soviet military coat in the winter. So suave!

buon anno, if you must

Auguri! I am back (regrettably) from Europe!

I know, I can barely believe it either, but against my better judgment, I decided to actually board my plane in Venice, succumb to my insensibilities and return to my "full-time job" and "life" in this wasteland of pleated pants, windbreaker fleeces and bad footwear we call Our Nation's Capital.

And, after a harrowing journey comprised of 24 sleepless hours, a 30-minute pre-dawn water taxi ride, a two-hour early morning flight, a four-hour wait in what must be the worst airport on Earth (the honor goes to you, Frankfurt, Germany), two inappropriate concentration camp jokes, a nine-hour flight in the cheap seats, two bad airline meals and one flat tire, I missed my final connection to New York City last night. So instead of two girls and a gay donning the three Venetian masquerade masks I brought back and gallivanting around Manhattan, I ushered in the New Year in my DC apartment -- alone and unconscious.

But don't feel bad. I love sleeping and hate people so I had a fine time and am now well rested and ready to blog. So brace yourself for some upcoming ultra-tight Italy-DC contrast-and-compare compositions, which may will simultaneously blow your mind and confuse you.

Yet what would such a breezy 24 hours be without one last snafu? It seems I am without the cord needed to upload photos from the digital camera to the computer, which means unfortunately you will have to wait to see some of my epic photog skills. Anyway, until then miei amori, stay gold like a Venice hotel room.

my office loves me, they really really love me!

Those of you who know me personally realize that I am not one that necessarily is full of holiday cheer. I'm no Scrooge, but I tend to think the best kind of gifts are those that come in a particular shade of green. As in cash money green. Yeah, that's how I roll. Deal with it. But once in a while, a gift will come along that manages to top the appeal of cold hard cash. And that gift is now safely in my home, prominently displayed on my massive bookshelf.

Isn't it great? No, it's not the gold Putin bust. Or the vodka. Or the wine. (Although, again, those of you who know me realize next to cash, booze and Putin-related presents go a long way with me.) No, no, no. It's this:

Yes, that's the hottest man in the legislative branch, Sen. Norm Coleman (R-Minn.). And (sadly?) this is one of the few times I'm not being sarcastic. Whereas Ed Markey (D-Mass.) is the most entertaining member of Congress, Coleman takes the prize in the sexy-time category. (Don't ask me why. If you don't see it then you haven't seen all the other members of Congress are blind.) So, while I'm unsure whether I'll crack open Shared Vision: Norm Coleman and the Remarkable Revitalization of St. Paul, you can bet that Coleman's da Vinci Veneers™ grin will remain displayed on my top shelf, snuggled up in the vines of my pothos plant as if they were my arms. Um, OK, that was creepy. Sorry.

Also, on a logistical note, I won't be able to update this hilarioualy entertaining and newly creepy blog next week. Why? It's time to jet-set again. I'll be in Rome and Venice taking in all the history and culture shopping for the week, which will leave very little time for nerding out online. But, chillax all, I'll be back before you know it. Unless, of course, I come to my senses and decide to leave DC behind for good and stay in Europe. Ciao!

best use of work time ever...the experiment

My office is retardulous.* And of course, I mean that in the most awesome of ways. As it turns out, in a rather pathetic twist of fate, the only two reporters not engaged or married in my office are female (I know, I better start collecting cats and freezing my eggs -- TMI! -- now, right?).

So anyway, the topic last week was "Let’s get Marissa and her female coworker, Juice, to bring dates to the company holiday party." We thought about it, but then quickly rethought -- neither one of us knows anyone we hate enough to subject to the kind of torment that only an office that decks its halls with Putins in Flock-of-Seagulls hair can dole out.

And so, as visions of "Valentine for Perfect Strangers" danced in our heads, we initiated The Grand Sub-Par Blind Date Experiment of 2007.

Step 1: Put an ad up on Craigslist:

Do you like vodka and Polish sausage?

Two 20-something attractive females looking for dates to company Polish-themed holiday party this Friday afternoon.

Must be able to initiate awkward, possibly offensive conversations, that may end in drinks being thrown in people's faces. Bonus points for real or feigned physical ticks or mild Tourette syndrome to make our coworkers uncomfortable.

Alcoholics and native Eastern-Europeans welcome. Trendy Euro mullets or Flock-of-Seagulls haircuts appreciated. If you're gay, that's OK.

Please send a picture so we may judge you on your physical appearance. 'Tis the season!

Step 2: Wait for the replies to come pouring in.

And, man alive!, did they pour in. We received 14 within the span of 36 hours, 13 of which were accompanied by photographs and not all ugly! And I must say, while some of the responses scared the sh*t out of me, there were a couple that actually made me pause for a (split) second before deciding not to reply. Also, in a city so racially divided physically, it was kind of amazing to see the multicultural response our little ad elicited. We received responses from:

• 2 black men (one American and the other from Africa);
• 1 Hispanic guy;
• 1 dude from "the Mediterranean region;"
• 1 "fellow Euro trash" guy;
• 1 man who gave no information other than the fact that he goes by the name of "Kingmast;"
• 7 various white dudes; and
• 1 Middle Eastern fellow.

But on to the best part! In no particular order, here is a random sampling of some of our more entertaining responses and, of course, my feedback. And, while we're at it, let's just go ahead and preface all the italicized paragraphs with a giant SIC:

I love vodka, I love sausage, and I will dance to polkas. My mom even played the accordian. I have the bona fides! I don't actually have Tourette's, but I admired Andy Kaufman's alter ego Tony Clifton, and I have improvisational comedy experience. ... Please advise! Patrick

Dear Patrick: Your resume sounds quite impressive, as is the photo you attached of yourself dressed up like the Cure's Robert Smith. Thank you also for informing that your "skin is not naturally that pale."

I'm 24 and live in Fairfax, Va. I don't have trouble meeting women, it just most of my opportunities to meet new women our at bars, and those aren't the type of people I want to potentially date. And thats why I decided to check out craigslist. --Mike

Dear Mike: Wait, so let me get this straight. You're above meeting chicks you meet at bars but cool with going out with two sick freaks who posted an ad requesting their dates have Tourette syndrome? Yes? Oh, OK cool. Just wanted to make sure. PS -- Your command of English grammar and punctuation is superb.

Well hello there fellow Euro trash, the polska party sounds like it'll be a blast... feed me a few drinks and I can be as much of 'that guy' as you can handle... have you kids seen the tourettes boy before? Wow I almost peed my pants. I am home for the holidays and am definitely looking to break back into the sophisticated DC scene... this looks like the perfect opportunity... Tim

Dear Tim: I like that you're Eurotrash. That sh*t is tight. Your incontinence, however, could prove to be a party foul. Yet I am impressed with your ironic sense of humor -- "sophisticated DC scene." LOL! Good one, son. One last question -- this "Tourette's boy" you speak of, is he free?

I love vodka! -- Zach

Dear Zach: I am stoked you love vodka. I love vodka too. But I am concerned that you may not be old enough to imbibe this libation we both so very much adore. But call me in three years.

Hi, gails.
I actually do not like Vodca, I am a scotch man. OK, Here is the deal, if one of you need a date and/or if you would like to hook me up with one beautiful girl, I will come. And after the party in the evening the drinks will be on me. Sounds Like fun... Asrat

Dear Asrat: Actually, that sounds like the opposite of fun. No.

Nothing like a big buck ni**er hanging out, clogging arteries and getting drunk with a couple of pollacks. -- Edward

Dear Edward: You are clearly a very elegant and eloquent man. Move the f*ck over Robert Frost, Edward's sh*t is so much tighter. But for serious, Edward, I'm guessing maybe you actually do have Tourette's? If so, then you, sir, are invited.

Asshole! --Tariq

Dear Tariq: You had me at "ass." Your addition of "hole" shows me you care. You, sir, are hilarious on so many different levels. I mean, am I the asshole? Is that the Tourette's? You really got me thinking. And LOLing! Will you marry me?

Step 3: The Conclusion

As tempted as I was to actually write Tariq back, I decided against it. Now, before you get all riled up about my lack of follow-through, let me assure you that I came one click away from letting the proverbial Polish gowno hit the fan. But then something happened. Juice jumped across her cubicle, somersaulted over the five-foot periwinkle wall and windmill kicked the mouse out of my hand to stop me.

"Do you want to get fired?" Juice asked.

"Um....no. Not at the moment."

"Then we have to end this madness!"

"But Tariq...asshole...he's probably totally hilarious and awesome all the time and--"

"GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF!"

Yeah, it went something like that. But to be brief like my new hero Tariq, we decided against bringing any of these assholes with us. And so we shall enjoy our vodka and Polish sausage alone, before we jet to the fertility clinic to freeze our eggs and later to Petco to buy cats.

*My made-up short version of "ridculously retarded." Merry Christmas. That's my gift to you.

i'll see dc public transportation in hell

The District's public transportation (PT) system is dead to me. Well, actually, it would be dead to me if I wasn't so damn poor. But, regardless, it's dead to me in my mind.

Like many others, I've become jaded, disenchanted and just plain pissed off at nearly every aspect of the Washington Metropolitan Area Transit Authority. I've had to wait up to 20 minutes for a train...during rush hour. (I mean, come the f*ck on! ) I've been on a bus that went the wrong f*cking way by turning right instead of left. ("No, ma'am, your other left.") And more than that, I've nearly been run down by errant (high) drivers at least three times. (Sadly, I'm one of the lucky ones.)

But the most ridiculously retarded -- retardulous, if you will -- aspect about DC's PT system is the idea of a bus schedule. Again, I'm not the first one to comment on this, but I feel the need to add my pithy remarks on the subject, especially against the backdrop of impending fare hikes and schedule changes.

And to begin my retardulous tale, allow me to allude to one of the great philosophical thinkers of our time -- The Golden Girls' Estelle Getty as Sophia Petrillo, "Picture it..." Washington, DC. 2007. A seasonably cold, dark day. I'm walking down Connecticut Avenue toward Porter around 5:15 pm. As I near the intersection I see the H4 pulling out of the stop. Damn. Just missed it. But, lo and behold, creeping up right behind it was the H3. Sweet. Perfect timing. Well, it would've been perfect timing if the bus driver didn't then gun the gas pedal and speed up to run the red light, nearly causing an accident. I mean, God forbid, buses try to stick to their schedules. Oh no, it's much, much better to make sure each bus is directly up another one's proverbial butt. I mean if this isn't the model of efficiency, what the f*ck is?! Unnecessary packs of buses that come only once an hour...DURING RUSH HOUR! Brilliant!

It really seems that DC strives to suck more than it already naturally does.

At this rate of suckage growth, I'm expecting that by the close of 2008 not only will the entire fleet of DC buses start traveling in one, singular pack one time per day, but in order to board, passengers will either have to endure getting bitch-slapped by the driver or offer their foot to get run over. Not tight.

markey teleports himself "over the internet"

One of my favorite politicians (OK, someone shoot me for saying that) is Rep. Ed Markey (D-Mass.). Regardless of whether I agree with his politics or not (a subject I won't touch on this blog), the man is unquestionably entertaining. Whether he's ranting about cargo security (with props!) or composing poetry to the Boston Red Sox, Markey is my go-to politician for comic relief.

Now, once again, Markey has outdone himself. He's taken his act off the House floor and has transferred it to the virtual world, according to a House press release:

"Confronted with a need to be both in Washington, DC, to push a clean energy bill through Congress and halfway around the world in Bali, Indonesia to address the United Nations climate summit, Chairman [of the Select Committee on Energy Independence and Global Warming] Edward Markey turned to the virtual reality community called Second Life. Creating a 3-D version of himself (also known as an avatar) he was able to travel online to OneClimate Islands Virtual Bali conference center where he delivered the first international speech by a Member of Congress in a virtual world."

The best parts of the speech occur within the first minute when Markey declares that he is "the first member the United States Congress to be introduced by someone with a blue dragon on her shoulder." But I digress, virtual Markey is something to be seen not described, so here he is in all his "teleported over the Internet" glory...



Now I’m no expert on virtual communities considering my knowledge of "Second Life" begins and ends with a very special episode of Law & Order SVU, but from what I gathered, I can tell you that for each virtual green zombie, goth butterfly and floating Darth Vader, there is one real-life nerd trying to take a byte (LOL!) out of global warming.

In other words, we're doomed! See you guys in hell!

al gore dissed...again.*

Yay! Time magazine finally named its "Person of the Year" and guess who it is? Well, it’s not tree-hugging Al Gore! He got edged out...again! And this time not even by an American politician. Nope! He lost out to Russian President Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin! F*ck carbon emissions! Путин увидит их в аду. Yay!

Hott.

And "Putin is no vegetable," according to the accompanying article written by Adi Ignatius, who just may have gotten himself on V.V.P.’s hit list. Yes, it seems Putin grew to hate poor Adi over their 3.5 hours together.

But it didn't have to be like that. It started off delightfully enough with "an elaborate dinner of lobster-and-shiitake-mushroom salad, ‘crab fingers with hot sauce’ [Editor's note: I’m pretty sure this means imitation crab sticks and ketchup in Russia] and impressive vintages of Puligny-Montrachet and a Chilean Cabernet."

However, by the end of the evening, the proverbial stoliki seemed to have turned:

"Putin has been irritable throughout, a grudging host. Suddenly, at 10 o'clock, he stands and abruptly ends the evening. 'We’ve finished eating, there’s nothing more on the table, so let’s call it a day,' he declares. Actually, the main course (choice of sturgeon or veal) and dessert ('bird's milk' cake [Editor's note: This cake is not tight.]) -- lovingly printed in gold ink on the prepared menu cards -- haven't yet been served. The Russian President's brusqueness is jarring. Have our questions angered him? Bored him? Does he have another appointment? It's not clear. 'Bye bye,' says Putin -- in English -- as he walks briskly out of the room."

Ooooo burn!

But what can really be expected in this situation? Putin’s made it pretty clear that he hates journalists -- even more than he hates democracy!

Luckily for the readers of Adi's otherwise mundane, rehashed, not-really-informative-at-all article, Ignatius did not censor his awkward moments with Vova. And to the delight of this reader who values uncomfortable moments, Adi lights a Molotov cocktail in the lead paragraph:

"No one is born with a stare like Vladimir Putin's. The Russian President's pale
blue eyes are so cool, so devoid of emotion that the stare must have begun as an
affect, the gesture of someone who understood that power might be achieved by
the suppression of ordinary needs, like blinking. The affect is now seamless,
which makes talking to the Russian President not just exhausting but often
chilling. It's a gaze that says, I'm in charge."

And if I didn’t know better, I might start thinking Adi is looking to have sexy time with Putin (I know -- who isn’t?!), but Putin ain't having it: "Putin himself is sardonic but humorless. In our hours together, he didn't attempt a joke, and he misread several of our attempts at playfulness."

Ouch!

Wrong, Ignatius! Putin’s not only funny, he's downright hilarious, cracking jokes on everything from war to rape! Tee-hee!

But even if Ignatius thinks Putin is a fussy old Dima Downer, he made sure to show Time's audience that he, himself, is a resevoir of one-liners -- at least when it comes to alluding to Putin as a dictator:

"Putin and Bush are fishing on the Volga River. After half an hour Bush complains, 'Vladimir, I'm getting bitten like crazy by mosquitoes, but I haven't seen a single one bothering you.' Putin: 'They know better than that.'" Zing!

"Stalin's ghost appears to Putin in a dream, and Putin asks for him help running the country. Stalin says, 'Round up and shoot all the democrats, and then paint the inside of the Kremlin blue.' 'Why blue?' Putin asks. 'Ha!' says Stalin. 'I knew you wouldn't ask me about the first part.'" Double zing!

"Putin goes to a restaurant with Medvedev and orders a steak. The waiter asks, 'And what about the vegetable?' Putin answers, 'The vegetable will have steak too.'" Triple zing!

Maybe next year, Gore, maybe next year.

*Thanks to my good friend, Brown, for providing me with the headline.

the holidays just got better

In the words of a good friend for whom I previewed the following holiday cheer sent to my office from a Russian Federal Atomic Energy Agency employee: "Best. Christmas card. Ever."


What can we glean from this besides copious amounts of holiday cheer? Well, for one, Sasha Chudin is clearly skilled at Photoshop. This is a goddamn work of art. From the magical, astronomically incorrect universe nestled in the branches of a sitka spruce, to the astute southwest-northeast corner juxtaposition of the father-son snowman team and Santa's sleigh, Chudin is clearly a master of the electronic-collage genre. In fact, I think he might have just created it.

But even more than Chudin's crackerjack skills is the man, himself. I mean look at him, just chillaxing on the surface of the moon. "No atmosphere? No problem!" He's like a little gift, adorned with a bow and, of course, a fannypack.

And now I will sing to you, Sasha. Shhh...just listen:

Очи чёрные, очи жгучие;
Очи страстные и прекрасные!
Как люблю я вас! Как боюсь я вас;
Знать увидел вас я не в добрый час!

sneak peaks and homosexual unicorns!

Lest you all (all three of you) think I've been neglecting my blogging duties, allow me to relieve your anguish by telling you that no, no I did not. In fact, I'm currently conducting a top secret Anti DC experiment and the proverbial petri dish is looking pretty damn gnarly. Regrettably, I can't tell you any more about this ongoing investigation, but don't worry -- all will be unveiled on Friday when I make the results public. Right here on this blog. But for now, I'll give you a small hint: It involves technology, Polish sausage and the holiday season. Stay tuned. (Although also check in before then, because since I barely have a life, I'm sure to be blogging Tuesday-Thursday, as well. Bah.)

However, to make up for my missing status this afternoon, I invite you to check out my new favorite Internet series called Planet Unicorn. I found it via another DC blog, the name of which unfortunately I did not keep a record, but if and when I find it, I'll make sure to redact and add a link to this guy's online musings just to give credit where credit is due. I'm honest like that. But for now, enjoy the antics of three unicorns -- Feathers, Cadillac and Tom Cruise -- and the 8-year-old gay boy named Shannon who wished them into existence.

Episode 1

Episode 2

Episode 3

Episode 4*

Episode 5

*This one's my most favorite.

can you pick out all the creepy sexual undertones?

One of my favorite books of all-time is The Fountainhead, by commie-hater Ayn Rand. Although some people take issue with the book's unconventional protagonist, commie-hater Howard Roark, and the overall moral that most human beings are mindless morons, I happen to love the Objectivist message. In a society so bogged down in political correctness and "don't-hurt-my-precious-feelings"-type attitudes, I find self-proclaimed jackasses like Roark incredibly refreshing. In fact, I, too, have found myself striving to increase my "f*ck-you"-o-meter by at least a factor of 10 each day. Soon, I'll be walking down the street and randomly punching people in the face as they pass.

But, more than Roark's cognizant self-righteous attitude, I really like his design aesthetics. Like me, he's a minimalist. He eschews gaudy baubles and stone adornments for the sleek lines and natural strength of steel. At first he is condemned by the commie-loving masses for his sensibilities, but he triumphs (of course) in the end, standing atop his Wynward skyscraper, his ginger-locks wafting in the wind. He created the fictional version of this:

*sigh*

I've always loved a good skyscraper, but after reading The Fountainhead for the first time in 1998, my love for overbearing, sun-blocking, nature-crushing, sky-high structures only multiplied. However, ironically, I find myself now living in a city adorned not with steel towers, but with granite chodes, save for Washington's outstanding, er, monument.

*sad sigh* (Way to be, law.)

O! How I do miss a good skyline! But, truth be told, despite my love of skyscrapers, I've never lived long-term in a city with a truly magnificent skyline. New York City and I crossed paths for just five months. Chicago and I lasted just shy of 90 days. I suppose Boston and I worked out OK, for two years, but its soaring girder-and-steel structures pale in comparison to the aforementioned two. My longest effort to live in one city occurred in Moscow. But my three years there left me surrounded by very un-Roarkian structures:

Sure it's pretty from afar, but up close and personal, you learn it's all smoke and mirrors. (However, word on the ulitsa, is that my dear Moskva is becoming more Roark-friendly as I type. Spasibo, Comrade Putin!)

So alas, I've been forced to satisfy my skyscraper cravings through short-term trysts, including a 24-hour trip back up to New York, a three-day jaunt to San Francisco and a lovely weekend visit to Minneapolis. But mainly, I get my fix through sheer imagination.

i'll see your bleached jeans and pleather go-go boots in hell

In a prophetic and awesomely twisted coincidence, my Gmail-user-generated Dictionary.com Word of the Day this evening was "dishabille" (pronounced dis-uh-BEEL), which means "the state of being carelessly or partially dressed."

I immediately chuckled and thought to myself, "Oh, Gmail, your ability to use complex algorithms to snoop around my private E-mails and generate advertising based on some random words I just used has once again left me amaz..."

I paused. Something wasn't right. And then I remembered:

"Wait. Wait just a goddamn minute! I didn't type any Gmails today! In fact, I was out of the office and away from my computer all day! WTF?! Gmail's read my mind! Just like that she-demon Miss Cleo!"

But don't worry. I quickly calmed down after reminding myself that I'm probably just too dumb to understand the mechanics of the said algorithms that I usually find so magical. Eh...whatevs.

But even if Miss Cleo isn't involved, this fortuitous encounter with this unknown fantastic English word has changed my life, er, well, at least it's changed my theory on what the hell is wrong with DC style.

With that in mind, I realized my original Anti DC Theory of Fashion was no longer applicable. The beautiful Venn diagram graphic failed to describe accurately the gnarliness I confront each and every day. No longer is it important to recognize if something is ugly, boring, or ugly and boring. Why? Because it’s all dishabille!

And moreover, the use of circles also now seemed inappropriate. Circles are too careful, too whole. DC requires something much more disheveled and blob-like, such as... well, just hold onto your pleats and behold:

Yes, DCers, for the most part, you’re all collectively a bunch of carelessly and/or partially dressed people. And, as if you needed more proof, here’s a partial list of some of the said style slip-ups I chanced upon today:

• Ill-fitting jeans, featuring high-contrast bleached white stripes up the front and back;
• Crocs (Duh, of course. What would a day be like in DC without at least one sighting?!);
• Black pleather go-go boots with white racing stripes up the front and back;
• Multiple visible panty lines;
• Unintentional ankle-skimming jeans, which also happened to be about 4 to 6 sizes too small on the woman wearing them (Seriously, if those somehow managed not to split at the seams at some point today, some fabric scientist needs to get the Nobel next year. That is some serious science.);
• Multiple pairs of 2.5-inch, block-heeled orthopedic shoes, most of which were stuck on the feet of women younger than me. I'm 28.

And to put the cherry on top of the dishabille sundae that is DC, I also encountered quite a few non-clothing-related blunders today, including last decade's popular zig-zag hair part and multiple cases of Pee-Wee Herman face (sans bowtie, unfortunately) on the District’s men. (Wow, come to think of it, perhaps the multiple false P.W. Herman-visage sightings were portents that, just like at Pee-Wee’s Playhouse, I, too, would find myself with a computer-generated word of the day. Dishabille! Ahhhhhhh!) Oh, DC, you sassy, foreshadowing bastard!