"chesapeake gay!"

It will probably come as no surprise to you that I don't get invited to many weddings. But, before you jump to what may seem like an obvious conclusion as to why (I'm the asshole who shows up without a gift then drinks my way through the entire open bar before streaking to the quad or whatever), I assure you it's simply because not many of my friends have gotten married. Yup, all two are still single. And for once I'm not just talking about the me and myself that go with my I. Nope, I have some real friends, too. Goshdarnit, people like me. Right? Right?!

Right! And I can prove it to you! Via one of these people who like me, I was invited to a wedding last weekend at the Chesapeake Bay Beach Resort, although I'm pretty sure that by "resort," this place actually meant "absolute sh*t show." For starters, I had to send a meal back to the kitchen -- AND IT WAS A SANDWICH. How do you f*ck up a sandwich? Not to mention, there was that other time when the waitress proceeded to spill a melted plate of oyster ice on my dinner companion before spilling the rest of it on me five minutes later. Oh! And let's not forget when I tried to order a Dark'n'Stormy from the 16-year-old bartender, he had to ask me what it was before telling me, "No, we don't have that." WHAT?! That's an effing beach staple! Then, that same 16-year-old bartender also had to ask several waitresses if they served any cocktails at all. (They served one.) And speaking of cocktails, later that night we overheard a rather "interesting" 40-something lady WITH A MULLET telling the bartender that she was only there because she "got kicked out of the bar down the street." Yes, the bar at the resort was the town's back-up bar. Then there was the gospel choir on the beach, the "Dairy Queeze," and the epic bingo f*ck-up, in which the staff failed the "being able to tell time" test by informing us bingo started at 11 p.m., when, in actuality, that's when it ended. And yes, bingo was all there was to do there.

Luckily, however, the wedding was really nice. The couple looked great, the wine was flowing, the food was delicious, and the company was fabulous. So fabulous, actually, that I've found myself e-stalking one of them for the past week. However, when you see this vlog he made last weekend, I'm sure you'll understand why:



Who doesn't like hot guys, well dressed, to fetch things for them? And, ew! There's formaldehyde in clothes?! The things this man has taught me... Anyway, congratulations, MikeysGayToday! Along with Coppercab, you've made my official list of sh*t I approve on YouTube!

And damn. I can't mention Coppercab and not post his latest masterpiece. He's just so hilariously angry! Give this man a sitcom!



HAPPY F*CKING MEMORIAL DAY! ON TO THE NEXT TOPIC!

tip of the helmet, wag of the moon

Mother of f*cking God, or maybe in this case, Lance Armstrong. Look at this: http://www.bhsi.org/dclaw.htm <--- That's a link to the District's rules regarding bike helmets. I don't expect you to read it because it's long and stupid. For example:

"Bicycle" means a human-powered vehicle with wheels designed to transport, by pedaling, one or more persons seated on one or more saddle seats on its frame. "Bicycle" also includes a human-powered vehicle, and any attachment to the vehicle designed to transport by pedaling when the vehicle is used on a public roadway, public bicycle path or other public right-of-way. The term "Bicycle" also includes a "tricycle," which is a 3-wheeled human-powered vehicle designed for use as a toy by a single child under 6 years of age, the seat of which is no more than 2 feet from ground level.

Jesus. But basically, the bottomline of this 1,600-plus-word manifesto is that kids 16 and under must wear a helmet by law. Sounds good to me. Kids are already really dumb and letting them get beaned on their helmetless heads certainly doesn't sound like it would help matters...

But what about old people? (And yes, if you're over 16 in America, you're kind of old -- Justin Bieber has exactly one year left before he's a washed up loser.) You can do whatever you want! Helmet or helmetless! The options are endless! limited to two!

I bring this up because of a WashCycle article that TBD.com's @abeaujon tweeted about yesterday. It questions whether the statistics floating around regarding the safety benefits of helmets are actually true:

Claim 1: Bicycle helmets have been shown to reduce the risk of head injuries by up to 88 percent

This is based on a 1989 study (repeated in the early 90's) of hospital admissions. The 88% figure comes from the first study and the second study put it at 69% to 74%. Still the "up to 88%" number prevails. But 69% to 74% is pretty good, right? Maybe. There are several problems with the studies.

What are the problems? Well, basically, WashCycle's argument is that the control group was not properly controlled so the comparison might be totally off. Not to mention, questions abound about what counts as a "head injury." But most interestingly, the article points out: "There is also a self-selection bias. Cyclists who choose to wear helmets are not the same as those who do not."

What that implies is that cyclists who seem to care about their safety by choosing to wear a helmet are less likely to put themselves in high-risk head situations, like this:



Holy sh*t, that is stupid. But getting back to words, I'm not sure I understood the purpose of this article. It's not like the WashCycle writer, who disclosed that he wears a helmet, is advocating that helmets should NOT be worn or, really, anything even slightly salacious. In fact, if my third-grade reading level is to be trusted (and that really is questionable), all this article says is that the benefits of bike helmets may be a bit exaggerated, but bike helmets are still beneficial.

Well, all right then. That was kind of a waste of all of our time. Or maybe not. I'm not aware of DC trying to establish a helmet law, but perhaps this critique of bike helmet statistics would come in handy for helmet haters if such a rule was up for debate. But then again, I think the larger question there would be why do helmet haters hate helmets so much? I purport, if they're good enough for dumb kids, then they're good enough for me.

If WashCycle really wants a scoop, I think they should talk about the travesty of the hipster half-moon. Now, that's some salacious sh*t...

[Shudder-worthy photo credit to http://bikesnobnyc.blogspot.com]

Seriously, who cares about covering your head! Cover your crack, instead! If I ever get elected to my dream non-job of shadow senator, I vow to amend the Constitution to ban THAT, and yes, using that lovely rhyming slogan.

what to do with several tons of fudge...

News broke this morning (not here, of course) that DC Council Chairman Vincent Gray proposed a budget that would put the kabash on the H Street-Benning Road streetcar line by stripping it up its budget next year. Hmm...

I suppose I'll go ahead and eloquently ask the important question: Is this news totally buns (bad like a burger with no meat) or freshly dipped (like a Dairy Queen ice-cream cone)? I also suppose I'll give the eloquent answer I give most important questions I ask: I don't know. However, like always, I won't let a little thing like a near-total lack of knowledge stop me from trying to answer this question using The Anti DC's patented totally indecisive and inconclusive methods. So, here goes...

On the one metaphorical hand, streetcars are f*cking awesome. When my roommate and I used to live in Moscow, we rode one daily. We called it Fudge for reasons beyond my recollection right now, but I assure you, I remember riding it and loving its rickety, old ass. (I'm still just talking about the streetcar, by the way...)

And so, when I first heard DC was getting its very own Fudge, I got a little excited.

That is, until one day I found myself trying to bike down the proposed line on H Street and nearly killed myself due to its seemingly haphazard construction. There are Fudge tracks in the middle of the road, Fudge tracks on the sides of the road, Fudge tracks laying willy-nilly all over the place like Eastern European refugees...

And speaking of Eastern European refugees, when I found out the streetcars were Fudge's actual cousins from Eastern Europe, I really began to wonder. While I'm all for Eastern Europeans immigrating to the United States (hell, I wouldn't be here without them), I'm not so sure I'm for the importation of their sh*tty technology. Like I said, I loved riding the No. 7 streetcar in Moscow, but that's because it fit the environment. It was rusty, Soviet and, as previously noted, a rickety, old piece of sh*t. (And now I remember why we named it Fudge...)

With near-daily breakdowns, it was truly a piece of schmechnology that belonged in the former USSR. It does not belong in the freaking Capital of the Free World. And most certainly, millions of Federal Reserve notes should not be spent on these things, especially when there's already a bus line and a FREE SHUTTLE that follows, more or less, the same path.

Now, I understand that the businesses of H Street want to attract more dipsters as they try hard to fulfill their unfortunate destiny of becoming the new Adams Morgan, but is all the trouble really worth it?

Probably not. So, yay for Gray's decision?

Perhaps, except for all the proverbial buns. What the f*ck is the city going to do with all the tracks already laid down? What is the city going to do about the impossible-to-navigate streets that are torn up beyond normal use?? And, most intriguingly, what is the city going to do with millions of dollars worth of Fudge you can't eat???

And so the District's reputation of epic f*ckfudge-ups continues...

OH, BUT WAIT! Gray's people put out a press release a little while ago reiterating his commitment to the streetcar project. " strongly support streetcar development, and remain committed to seeing it become a reality here in the District of Columbia," said Gray. "But we owe it to ourselves to have a well thought out planning process." Um, too late. I challenge Gray to ride a bike down H Street.

And then? Jim Graham tweeted: "After careful deliberations and explanations and conversations, another $47 million was found to fund the streetcars. Ain't politics grand?"

That's it. Forget about my dream to become a shadow senator. I want to be on the Council. How do you "find" $47 million?! Jesus...

welcome to the neighborhood

So, I saw this YouTube video this morning, which has inspired me to begin a quest to find all the proverbial "flying fish" in DC. And that sentence will make a whole helluva lot more sense after you watch this:


Um. What? Well, thanks for nothing, YouTube. Anyway, basically a dude discovers the wonders of nature via "a fish that f*cking flies!" And he wants one.

I want one, too. And luckily, I've already found a few here in DC -- The Passenger, Proof's lunch special, bike polo (despite the may-or-may-not-be-rampant sexism even), midnight screenings of "The Room," the shooting range, the Rock 'n' Roll Synagogue, area cycling trails, and the list, at least judging from the longish one I've created using the label "reasons to live," goes on and on...

However, yesterday night, I did not find one, which shouldn't surprise me because for every one flying fish there are a couple dozen giant sharks around to say "F*ck you!" to. Case in point, the P Street Whole Foods and some of the people who live around it.

So, I'm moving to that neighborhood (Logan Circle) in about a week and have been spending a lot of time around there lately trying to get a feel for my soon-to-be-new home. And when I'm not paying a million dollars for five spears of asparagus (seriously, $200,000 per spear is a little ridiculous), I've been biking this food over to my hobo headquarters. Now, this should be an incredibly mundane task, however, when you throw one of Whole Foods' sh*tty five-cent paper bags from Sh*ttysacksville into the mix, all yuppie hell breaks loose.

First, the bottom will break out, causing your entire treasure chest of overpriced sundries to scatter across the road. Then, while you scramble to save your $150,000 quart of milk from an untimely death, an Audi driven by what must have been a man losing his sense of spatial relations due to some sort of gluten bender, nearly sideswipes you. Shortly thereafter, a piece of you dies when you reach out only to find $100,000 worth of milk has leaked out of this fully recyclable, yet dubious quality, container. And then, for the finale, as you pick your punctured carton up from the street, you look over to the neighboring sidewalk to find a half-dozen people staring at you and your mini Bundt cakes (they're also staring at your spilled groceries), yet not one of them offers to help. Even as you look desperately over to them, while dodging additional luxury vehicles featuring drivers alternatively high on soy and quinoa, you are shunned. They turn around in unison and walk their tiny dogs away leaving you bruised, scared, and holding your broken jug of milk like the skull of Yorick in your hands.

The only thing that would make this scene more dramatic is if an actual flying fish popped out of one of the 3 trillion manholes in this city and punched you in the eye.

/endscene

Or is it? As someone so kindly just reminded me, this was all compounded because the front brake pads on my bicycle FELL OFF yesterday WHILE I WAS RIDING. My bike's such a dick.

lost = bp

***If you really need to waste your time and watch the Lost finale, then don't read this 'til after that***

OK, so f*ck LOST. Let's just get that out of the way. I hope all television writers everywhere learned that if you're going to write a mystery show, you better damn well know what your ending is going to be when you start writing it.

Think of it this way: Television shows are like meals. Each ingredient should have a purpose. Throwing everything you have from aisles 4, 8, 15, 16, 23 and 42 does not a delicious dish make. In fact, it makes it pretty much inedible, which is exactly why it was so hard to digest last night's final episode of LOST. Who knew underneath all the polar bears, hatches, Dharma Initiatives, Richard Alpert's ageless, maybe it's Maybelline beauty, and smoke monster, the island was just about a giant buttplug in a fountain.

I'd apologize for the spoiler, but it's better you know now so you can save yourself two hours of time, most of which you'll just be wondering why you ever cared about a stupid smoke monster anyway.



And just when you think you're done with what COULD'VE been one of the best shows of all time (you know, had they not tried to milk it so shamelessly for revenue at the expense of the story these past two seasons), BP goes ahead and reveals that, much like the island, they want to fix their leaky oil fountain with a giant buttplug, thus keeping their very own smoke monster at bay.



Seriously, I hope the finale of this goes a lot better...

Of course, now they need to find a former cast member from Party of Five to go down there and get 'er done. I hear Jennifer Love Hewitt is newly free...

And since she's not a black man she's cleared to be featured in the finale. Seriously, LOST, where the hell was Mr. Eko, Michael and Walt? You bring back Michael and Walt's dog, but you can't swing a "sideways" world plot that mentions Michael and Walt, or at least a boy who looks like Walt when he was 12 (since the original actor is probably 18 by now)? Tsk.

"that looks dumb."

Ever heard of bike polo? If not, then I suspect either your pants are too roomy or your mustache isn't ironic enough.

Luckily, since my pants barely allow me to sit down and I'm taking irony to a new level by making it ironic not to have an ironic mustache (even for girls!), I'm in the know. And now that I've been officially maimed and wounded, I'm in this strange club of bike fools for life. Indeed, the gaping wound on my knuckle shows that the pavement, my delicious [beverage] and my left hand are now true blood brothers. Well, sisters actually, but considering word on the street and proof on the Web is that a certain fixie-oriented Internet site (a source that may or may not help to organize these polo nights) are a bunch of sexist, yet slightly effeminate weirdos, we'll just go with brothers. (Seriously! They REJECTED my plea to become a member of their apparently secret society, which I've unironically dubbed Skull and Scones, because, as I was told by a source that shall go unnamed, I'm a girl. Hmph.)

And so it seems, not unlike the Wu-Tang Clan (but also not really like them either), DC Bike Polo ain't nothin' to f*ck with. You will get hurt. You will fall down. You will be laughed at.

But then you'll also be asked to come again. And the head of Skull and Scones will apologize profusely to you for having rejected your previous membership application, blaming it instead on some other dick who used to handle those requests. And perhaps most importantly, you will meet a crazy little blipster named XXXXXXXX who will put down his giant can of [beverage] just long enough to ask if he can "see your phone" so he can very conspicuously call his own phone from it in order to steal your number. (Sidebar: Remind me to record all future conversations with Sherwood, as I'm sure he would make delightful blog fodder.)

All in all, as dumb as it seems (and those are the words of the 6-year-old girl standing at the fence telling her friend, "That looks dumb!" as she pointed to the game), bike polo really was a good time. Then again, any time you get to chillax out of doors in sunny weather is a good time...

But getting back to the actual sport, allow me to describe it. A bunch of dudes ride around in circles on their special no-gear, sometimes no-brake bicycles, whacking a rubber ball between giant orange traffic cones with modified ski poles. Jesus, that 6-year-old was frickin' observant...

But like I said, it's an opportunity for you to chillax out of doors in sunny weather. In fact, it's a whopportunity, which means I suppose there's a moral to this story: If you're a girl, don't be intimidated (or is that intimihated?!) by the Skull and Scones boy's club. There's a bike for everyone to ride around on like an idiot while you harm yourself and 6-year-old's mock you from afar. See you guys every XXXXXXX and XXXXXXXX at XXXX XXXX near the intersections of XXXX and XXXX!

---

"Laugh at yourself first before anyone else can." -- Elsa Maxwell

i'm sorry, no one cares about you

Because I slept in a little too late today, I decided to use some "enhanced interrogation techniques" to punish myself by checking in with Washington Post's gossip blog, Reliable Source.

And wow. What a form of torture... I became convinced that had someone else forced me to look at this (and had I been important enough for someone to force me to), I would've surely given up a variety of state secrets. But even more upsetting, I also became certain that DC is possibly more ridiculous than I thought.

I've said this before. Several times, actually. DC may do politics well, but it does not do life and style well. So the fact that a "Styles" section even exists in the Post is pretty f*cking dumb. No, I don't care what the latest Ann Taylor Loft pantsuits look like. Nor do I care about how many khaki pleats Rep. Hoof Harted (I-Buttsville) is sporting. And most certainly, I don't care about the White House Chief of Protocol's accidental mishap on some stairs yesterday.



I plan to forget the name Capricia Marshall the second I push the "PUBLISH" button on this here Web log, just as much as you plan to forget the name of this here Web log as soon as you click the red button to close it. Hell, that's how I roll. But not the Post. According to them, the name Capricia Marshall is as hallowed as that of someone the general population actually knows exists. From this morning's Reliable Source:

Here's how you can tell that Chief of Protocol Capricia Marshall has been working White House state dinners for quite some time now -- her exquisite posture, her savvy gown choice (neither clashing with nor copying the first lady's colors)... and her demand, after she slipped and fell, that journalists "Don't use that!!!" Hey, that might have been possible back when she was a Clinton-era social secretary -- but you can't hide anything in the YouTube era. (This has already been everywhere.)

Uh, reality check. I found one copy of this clip on YouTube and, at the time of writing, it had all of 41 views. Now if that count's as "everywhere" then my sad, little vlogs (that have maybe a combined total of a thousand views or so) have circled the world a good baker's dozen times. Yet, still here I sit -- in a bathrobe -- watching The View. Jesus...

But wait! There's more. (And luckily, not about me sitting in a bathrobe watching The View.) The "Reliable Source" goes on to write:

Capricia, remember -- it's the cover-up not the crime. But give her credit for a graceful recovery: Unclear whether the fall was caused by the slippery marble steps or her dress, but she stood back up quickly, seemingly uninjured -- and stepped more carefully the rest of the way down.

Really?! We're going into detail about WHY she accidentally tripped on a stair? Was it the dress!? Was it the marble?! Here's an idea: WHO THE F*CK CARES?! The only way this would be worthwhile to report is if an Al Qaeda operative popped out with some Wile E. Coyote ACME© technology and painted a hole on the ground into which Ms. Marshall could fall.

Look, I'm sure Ms. Marshall has a very important job, but trying to spin her stair snafu as a legitimate f*cking news event is insulting. Capricia Marshall is not Beyoncé. She's not Rihanna. She's not even Bob Dole. (Now that was a fall suitable for reporting in DC.) She's just some chick with a boring job title who gets paid to wear fancy dresses. Yawn, DC. YAWN!

Shambles P.I.: The Dirty Bomb Edition

Riding the DC Metro can be a scary experience. In fact, the moments are few and far between when the Metro isn't crashing into things, derailing, or otherwise just being a dick (seriously, I hate when the Metro acts like a dick). And even if your life isn't in danger, most likely, your line of vision will be. In other words, brace yourself, shambles ahead.

Case in point, meet this guy, or as I like to call him, "The Dirty Bomb."



Taken by a dear friend who likes to set sh*t on fire (in a good way because there's usually a delicious libation to imbibe after the flames die down), The Dirty Bomb was spotted yesterday on the Orange line. Indeed, it should come as no surprise that anyone with a racing stripe on his chin must come from somewhere other than where I live. Or at least I'd like to hold onto that belief. I will rue the day when it becomes acceptable for people who live in my neighborhood to sport landing strips on their faces.

And speaking of faces, you know what doesn't belong anywhere near mine? Your f*cking crotch. Sit down like a normal human being and place your goddamn feet on the floor. You look like a comatose Chippendales dancer with a Lil' Kevin arm.

But really. Why would you ever sit like that on the 'tro? Not only is it just kinda gross, but it's annoying for the other passengers who, I don't know, MIGHT BE TRYING TO GET ON OR OFF THE RAPID TRANSIT SYSTEM VIA THE PASSAGE YOUR F*CKING LEG IS BLOCKING!!! Shambles. But seriously, someone needs to call in the Bomb Squad. This suspicious, um, "package" (zing!) needs to be removed from the premises immediately...

respect to the man in the ice-cream van

Uh-oh. I received this comment yesterday to my post equating the weight of two dumpster babies to a bushel of baked beans: "...[T]ry to make some sense in the future. I know it's your weblog and all, but I just think that a modicum of coherence can be nice."

I apologize. I think the correct ratio would be the weight of three or four dumpster babies to one bushel of beans. My bad.

But while I can easily explain my nonsense away with, well, more nonsense (it's a downward spiral over here), I'm not sure how the Goethe Institute can logically explain why they would invite me to a blogger PR event knowing full well that in all likelihood I'm just going to use them as a non-sensical segue to talk about more beans and more dumpster babies!

And might I add, "Mein Leiblingshobby ist essen Bohnen! Ja!"

Holy Scheiße! I speak German. That is, I speak German if the only thing I need to ever say is: "My favorite hobby is eating beans. Yes!" Which, actually, would probably get me at least a meal or two on Munich's aptly named Schittgablerstrasse.

But seriously, the Goethe Institute must have no idea what brand of shambles they're dealing with here. I mean, I'm the chick who started a party conversation the other night with, "When do you guys think the Hitler mustache will come back into fashion?" (After a long discussion the consensus was that besides cats, the only people ridiculous enough to try to sport "der Hitlerbärtchen" will be a crew of 18-year-old dipsters in 2050.) It'll probably (ironically) go something like this:



Oh boy. The Goethe Institute is probably soiling their Lederhosen right now wondering why they laid out their very best Charles Shaw chardonnay for me last night...



OMGOMGOMGOMG! Germans (when they're not Hitler) are hilarious! Can you blame me, Goethe Institute?! CAN YOU?!



Oh, Augustus Gloop...! That's a classic!

*sigh*

But fine. Enough tee-hee-ing at the culture that continues to bring the world the technotards of Scooter.



Wow. Okay. Even I have my limits about how much nonsense one person should have to take and, fahrvergnügen, if I didn't just hit my proverbial Berlin Wall. Which means, let's discuss something that may actually add to your life! Whaaaa? Ja! Let's discuss the Goethe Institute's upcoming EuroAsiaShorts film screenings, an event that starts June 2 and will go six nights. Hey, it's free! And also, might I add, quite entertaining.

They screened a sneak-peak of one of these films, "Formic," by German film students Roman Kaelin and Florian Wittmann last night, but apparently, the film school they attend, which allowed them to make the film, is a bit, um, Nazi (zing!) about allowing them to show it on the Internet...



But if you trust my opinion at all (which, of course, I've given you absolutely no reason to), I can tell you that it was really good and I look forward to seeing the rest. Thanks for not sucking anymore, Germany!

you know the economy's bad when...

Stores are offering no interest to people who pay for their $2.79 cans of baked beanz (Heinz's spelling, not mine) within 18 months.

EIGHTEEN MONTHS. If my erudite helper newt T-Bone's math is to be trusted, that calculates to about 15 cents a month. Or, roughly .003 cents per bean. (Although that's just a shmestimate). But seriously, if you're opening up a credit card to purchase a product that a beggar can pay for with his pocket change, then perhaps you need to rethink whether you should be shopping in the first place and simply learn to beg better.

That said, I suppose this no interest offer would be useful if you were to buy several pallets of beanz, which is what I would've done if I didn't need to pinch my pennies to pay for a Maggie Moo's smoothie, which cost seven f*cking dollars.

I don't know about you, but that seems a bit exorbitant to me, especially considering that they make their "fruit" smoothies with sorbet and milk. At least the sorbet was mango flavored. But Jesus, or Nikkal rather (The Phoenician Goddess of Fruit! Duh!), seven bones for a milkshake (let's not try to health if up by calling it a fruit smoothie, okay?) just ain't right. Especially when I could've gone next door and purchased enough beanz to create an equillibrium on a old-time scale weighing two dumpster babies.


And speaking of dumpster babies, if ever there was something that needed to be discarded so carelessly and left to die (wow, I'm depressed now...), I would have to vote for IKEA. If I ever have to go back there I will pack a steak knife in my handbag and stab myself repeatedly with it because at least the physical pain would alleviate some of the mental strain of being there, which, according to cultural fart "7th Heaven" and, in particular, the seminal "Cutters" episode, cutting oneself is a mildly dramatic and easily solved way to deal with stressful and/or irritating events, such as watching an episode of "7th Heaven."

However, when I leave IKEA, this tidy, labyrinthine realm of prefabricated Swedish hell, remind me to remove said steak knife from my handbag lest I stab myself accidentally.

Oops. Too late. Ouch. And I would cut myself again to relieve the stress of being stupid enough to carry around a steak knife in my purse, but I'm afraid self-mutilation is only a hilariously ridiculous problem (opposed to a seriously unfunny problem that should be treated by certified professional) if Reverend Eric Camdem is there to give me snappy, yet wholesome, advice.

But alas, next to actually having to watch a "7th Heaven" marathon sober, shopping for home goods in Northern Virginia is a virtual instruction book on how *not* to spend a Saturday afternoon. Unless, of course, you need several giant cans of discounted beanz.

ticket to chide

Anyone remember that Herman Melville story Bartleby the Scrivener? I certainly didn't (mostly because modern society has lowered my literacy level to US magazine). But luckily, my erudite helper newt T-Bone did, and since he's helping me out by typing this (What up, bitches? T-Bone here all up in yer grillz!), I've OK'd him to use the book's catchphrase as a fitting retort to how I feel about paying ridiculous, unfounded, dare-I-say unconstitutional parking tickets:


No, really. Take your stupid paper slips of incomprehensible "law," roll them up, shove some of that newly legalized medical marijuana in there, take a few puffs, chillax the f*ck out and stop slapping my windshield with made-up violations!

Did you know you can get ticketed for not having DC plates even if you have a legal visitor's permit? While I contend that if a "visitor's" car is sitting in the same spot, unmoved for a month or something, perhaps this violation could be considered legitimate, I refuse to see how this violation can be doled out on a vehicle that's moved regularly, and every time outside of the District. Especially if that vehicle is mine!

I get it. If you live here, you're supposed to register your vehicle here. However, what if you don't live here? Hmm? However, I never signed a lease! So technically, I don't live here! I'm a goddamn visitor! Does DC have a law against how many times a visitor can visit? Or even how long he or she can stay? Sure it may be annoying when visitors overstay their welcome, but please, DC, show me the law that says being that homeless bitch crashing on your proverbial couch is illegal! GO AHEAD! CITE A STATUTE ABOUT BEING ANNOYING AND THEN WE'LL TALK!

But until then, when you lay a ticket on my car for ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS for PARKING LEGALLY as a VISITOR, I will continue to refuse to pay. Put simply, I would prefer not to.

Instead, I prefer to waste the traffic court's time and money. Indeed, you messed with the wrong visitor, DC. And the wrong erudite helper Newt, too! T-Bone's got my back! No, literally -- T-Bone's an excellent masseuse.

the least worst

So, after thinking long and hard (hmm...) about ways to amp up the awesome over here at this here Web log, I've settled on simply adding a new feature called The Least Worst, in which I point out the least bad things to do, to see, to eat, to buy and, of course, to take a pee on. Which brings me to installment Number 1 (and I do mean that quite literally) -- the bathrooms at Proof.

Holy, um, sh*t? Proof's bathrooms are pee-lightful. Despite being a sloshy wine bar, the toilet seats are clean and the flush is powerful. Indeed, the urination experience is both sanitary and satisfying.

But that's not all! (Although, thankfully, that's all I'll talk about bodily functions.) Once you leave the stall for your ritual seven OCD hand-washes, you will be pleased to find a modern sink with a fine, pressurized spot, a pile of lush paper towels and a well-lit decor that doesn't involve flourecent bulbs that don't make you look like a dead zombie from hell, or even a regular, undead zombie from Hollywood.



Yes, believe it or not, The Night of the Living Dead was filmed entirely without make-up or special effects in the bathrooms at The Big Hunt (ew). Had it been filmed in Proof's bathroom, the cast would've looked like this:



That's right. Proof's bathroom is so f*cking tight that the mirrors will make all women look like Janet Leigh and all men like Vladimir Putin.

Or yeah. Maybe that's just what one perceives after eating delicious duck confit and imbibing a refreshing glass of wine for $12 during their lunch special. Whatever. Proof is one of the least worst in DC and that, e-friends, garners them The Anti DC Official Least Worst Award -- The Blithering Eagle of Freedom!



Congratulations, Proof!