fate, you're funny, and yes, this is the real last post ever on The Anti DC

Well... after a series of false alarms, fate has finally decided that The Anti DC has come full circle. Or more like full scribble, in that it started at one point, went this way, then went that way, then waddled around itself a few times like an obese cat trying to keep up with a laser pointer, before finally ending in some indecipherable scribbles pretty far away from its original point. Yes, this blog has seen me through quite a few life phases. It helped me cut ties with a full-time job I hated. It served as my comedic platform for my tales about collecting unemployment whilst working part-time at a [classy] sex shop. And along the way, it became less like therapy and more like a hobby. I even wrote about Mike Daisey before it was cool to write about Mike Daisey. Finally, last summer, after four years of writing out of sheer passion for the English language, this humongous, somewhat coherent resumé of a portfolio culminated in helping me get a job that I not only enjoy, but absolutely love. And it was this job that provoked fate to provide the perfect conclusion to an imperfect blog.

This past Friday, when the Washington Post deemed me a "tastemaker," The Anti DC pretty much shrugged its binary shoulders and said. "Well, then. We had a good run."

There I am grinning smugly on the bottom-left corner of the cover of the Weekend section. While I'm a bit upset that I didn't get a full body shot like Thrillist's Leo Schmid (I'm not as handsome), I did get the coveted spot below Kojo Nnamdi's most-awesome-shirt-ever. More importantly, somehow I feel vindicated, like "The Man" has finally recognized all my glorious awesomeness. Like I was right all along and people have finally—finally—realized it. I am the supreme arbiter of dopeness, just below Kojo's shirt. Yes, the narcissist inside me is contorting to pat itself on the back right now.

But should it? Because while I'm flattered by this recognition, I'm fearful that I've become an unintentional parody of what The Anti DC would've endlessly mocked in 2007, the year this blog started. I mean, let's be honest about my "tastemaking" status here. Underneath all the bravado and cool beans (mostly pinto) exterior, I spend a good deal of my free time talking to my cat. And my cat isn't even one of my imaginary helper animals who answers in intellectually stimulating, snarky quips. No, my cat is a simple beast who only bothers to acknowledge me when he feels the wall he usually spends his time with starts ignoring him. In short, I'm lame as hell. If I'm "tastemaking" in DC, DC has some serious work to do, so please, take a moment to LOL at me at my expense.

However, before you laugh too hard, or I, as indicated two paragraphs up, become too proud, let me shart out some reasoned wisdom on your computer screen. I think maybe I was asked to participate in this article because two things finally came together—two things which explain why I'm still in DC and why I'm actually happy about that (or at least not miserable, let's not get carried away). DC has become a lot more tolerable and I've become a bit less of an asshole (although I'm still firmly on that spectrum). Here's the thing: DC is cool (certainly not because of me) but because of a whole host of people who are doing awesome sh*t here. At the same time, I've become a lot more serious about using the minority of my time, when I'm not sitting at home with my cat, to explore and write about said awesome sh*t. I'm not sure if maybe I was missing out before, or if stuff just didn't exist before. It's probably a little bit of both.

But isn't that life? Platitude alert: sh*t changes and stuff. And so have my goals when it comes to most of my writing about this city. While I still love a good rant, I'm more interested in hunting for things worth raving about. It's certainly proven to be much more challenging than most of my complaints, which honestly, pretty much wrote themselves (or my helper horse Sven would do it). Plus, now I have an ulterior motive. After watching a whole slew of my friends (and not just the imaginary ones!) move away, I aim to lure them back. Likewise, if I can compile a list full of enough decent reasons to live in DC, maybe the rest of you who've found joy in The Anti DC's hatery over the years will consider staying, too.

And to prove I haven't lost that "special" something—that I haven't sold out completely to fame (not really) and fortune (definitely not)—behold this image from the Post story, in which I manage to photo-bomb the picture I'm a subject in.

LOOK AT THAT IDIOTIC VISAGE! I mean, for God's sake, I'm touching my own butt. It's ridiculous. But, I think, it's a fitting final image. I am the girl with the stupid look on her face touching her own butt in the Post. As it should be.

More importantly than my final image on this blog, though, are my final words. Firstly, I want to thank you all for your comments and general awesomeness over the years, and secondly, I want to redirect you to where you can still e-hang out with me. Yes, just 'cause I won't be writing here any more doesn't mean we have to e-break up. I still have my other blog (where I'm sure I'll come up with the occasional rant should something strike me like a sock full with quarters, although hopefully not literally). And, as hinted here, you can catch my writings every damn day on your phone via a free app or online thanks to this awesome company that believes in my skills. In conclusion, see you around, never forget, I will always love you, live free or die, oh, skeet skeet goddamn and this. What more can I say?

the anti dc's common sense solution

In case there's anyone who still has this here Web log on his or her Google readers, lucky you! Or lazy you. I haven't blogged here for MONTHS! But alas, your idleness when it comes to clearing out your e-house is about to pay off because I'm back! Well, at least for today. See, I absolutely cannot resist commenting on this Piratz Tavern controversy. Oh, you haven't heard? Because you have better things to do than worry about a bar that uses gratuitous z's in its name? Touché. But whatever, I will not let disinterest (either yours or my own) dissuade me from commentating on all this dramz (see what I did there?). Catch yourself up on the whole story here, or if you're short on time, allow my helper horse Sven explain it in the only way he knows how:

"NEEEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIIGGG-GGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!"

And while that pretty much sums it up, here's the short list of facts in grammatically correct human English:

• Piratz Tavern was a dirty sh*thole bar in Silver Spring with a ridiculous theme that was so bad it was good, as long as you didn't care about possibly picking up food poisoning or hepatitis or scurvy...
• It made no money because, well, see above. 
• A reality television program came in to revamp the bar, a la Kitchen Nightmares does with restaurants.
• The TV show turned the bar into an Office Space-themed "corporate bar," hoping its "witty" theme would attract the surrounding white-collar crowd.
• It didn't, so Piratz Tavern Corporate Bar turned into a slightly cleaner, more expensive sh*thole with a ridiculous theme that was just bad enough to remain bad.  
• Finally, the owners were all like, "ARR!" and so they're now returning to Square 1. Or maybe Plank 1. Whatever.

So, yes, as you can see, Sven's nonsensical proclamation of "NEEEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIIGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!" sums up this story pretty damn nicely because, as that story arc demonstrates, you can't polish a turd with an even stinkier turd. 

But you know what would've worked? Getting rid of all the turds and making a bar where the theme is simply reasonably priced, extremely tasty food and drink in an atmosphere that doesn't make you feel awkward if you're not dressed like an asshole or actually are an asshole (see Milton Waddams)...

Oh sh*t. I'm sorry. How closed minded of me. Obviously, people who dress like assholes and those who are actual assholes (I should know...) need places to drink too. In fact, maybe they need bars more than most of us do. And so, I say, go forth, Piratz Tavern, with your new corporate pirate bar theme. 

As you can see, I'm sure that'll work out swimmingly for everyone. 

here we go again...

I have a real problem with how this town's most famous newspaper represents us. Mainly, I don't think they represent us at all. And who is "us"? Sure, I'm including myself and my menagerie of four-legged helper animals on The Anti DC's staff, but I think it's safe to say I'm including you, too. See, I think we've all found a place over here not just to complain about what's wrong with this place, but to stand up to and against those DC stereotypes that keep this city off the world's map of righteous sh*t. I mean, how can we expect to compete with New York, Paris, Moscow, Hong Kong or, goddammit, even probably Iowa City, if this is what we think this city cares about the most?

OK, so I just linked to the Washington Post's 2011 Influential Tweeps poll. As benign as it seems, I'm not hating on the fact that a contest like this exists. After all, I'm on Twitter, you're probably on Twitter, hell, most of DC is on Twitter. Nor am I bitter I didn't make it. My last few tweets have had to do with my new Tumblr, A Million Pictures of My Cat: Lots of Pictures of the Same Cat. True, I may be a self-important, semi-creepy cat lady in training, but I have no delusions about where my tweeting ranks in the grand scheme of things (hint: rock bottom). Plus, I have friends on that list, so it's not a bad idea, nor bad in its iteration entirely.

What I'm complaining about, here, is the small cross-section of categories the Post seems to think describes DC and what this city cares about. If you'll notice, there are no categories for people who tweet about music, art (although there will be, supposedly, according to an update on their site) or theater... And no, if the argument is that it's bundled under "Nightlife," that's pretty damn lame. Really, the only saving graces are the food and fashion categories when it comes to cultural coverage in this poll. All said now, I can't help but read between the lines. Does the Post not give a sh*t about the stuff that makes life worth living? Or do they think their readers don't? I welcome explanations.

But what's most irritating here is that the Post made sure to include this category:

Yes, you read that correctly. It says, "Favorite government agency." Because who needs art and beauty in this world when you have the United States Department of Agriculture? Oy.

r.i.p. waxed santa

It's regrettable what happened to Bruce Boudreau (he was fired), or as I will always know him, Waxed Santa. In fact, it wasn't that long ago that I timelined the evolution of that jolly former nickname whilst the Washington Capitals rose to glory. Alas, times have changed. And while Bruce still looks every bit a hairless St. Nick, he's overseen the devolution of this town's one winning team into what lately seems more like the Redskins on Ice. Plus, rumor has it this recently fired coach started directing his "sh*tbum" insults to the team's do-no-wrong, Alex Ovechkin. What a shame.

So what happened? Well, if you care about that, you should probably direct your browser to a source of shrewd sports analysis because, here, I'm mostly just interested in continuing to propagate amusing nicknames for hockey coaches. Which brings us to the new guy, Dale Hunter, or as he shall heretofore be known on this opposite-of-inspiring little corner of the Internet, Sober Boris Yeltsin. Behold!

Let's see how this one works out...

to the drivers it may concern

Dear Assholes,

I'm going to try to keep this cordial. And don't think I already failed just because I used the word "assholes." See, in this case, it's a simple statement of fact. Yes, anyone who actively tries to murder another human is scientifically an asshole. And sure, you didn't come at me with a knife or a gun. Oh no, it was much more deadly! Instead you assholes came at me with several thousand pounds worth of vehicles. How very sporting of you to make it such a fair fight when 1) I didn't know I was going to have to defend myself, and 2) I'm a 125-pound female on a 30-pound bicycle.

It was also great that you were both men. Sure, regarding the first one of you sh*tfaces who tried to kill me last week, I probably would've been able to take you down with my spindly little limbs alone had we actually set up a time to rumble fairly. And not because you were smaller than me. Oh no, your driving habit and high-volume gut assured me that you were, indeed, HUGE. I'd beat you because of your cowardly nature. I mean, really, what adult man is so scared of a skinny bitch on a bike that he feels the need to cower in his bucket seat when politely confronted the same way a kitten does the first time it encounters a bucket of water? All I did when I inevitably caught up with your douchmobile BMW Z3 at that red light at 16th and Irving was ask why it was that you had just tried to murder me. It was a simple question. Maybe you should've just ran the red light and killed the other cyclist on the road, you know, the one who was legally crossing on Irving. Then you wouldn't have had to deal with my completely uncomplicated and straightforward inquiry, while just sitting there looking like such a doofus with your out-of-state plates.

I also asked why it is that you shouted to me, "GET ON THE SIDEWALK!" whilst you were running me dangerously into the curb. See, that's a more than fair question because not only was I fully within my rights as a cyclist to ride on the street, but IT IS AGAINST THE LAW FOR ME TO RIDE ON THE SIDEWALK.

Hmm. I guess I gave you too much credit. I thought maybe you'd understand. I mean, one look at the crowded sidewalk filled with pedestrians, strollers, small children and wolf-packs of teenagers getting out of school, should be enough to give even the dumbest idiot a clue. Alas, you simply said, "Er, uh, derp, duh," until, of course, the light changed. Then you yelled again, "I HOPE YOU GET WHAT YOU DESERVE." What? A billion dollars? A prize? A toned ass for cycling up hills on the reg? Uh, OK... I hope I get that, too. And I hope you considered my extended middle finger a partying gift.

And while I was mildly annoyed by your cowardly antics, what really concerns me is what your friend did today. Or maybe you're not friends. I'm assuming you are because, judging by the way this second jerkoff also tried to murder me (this time in a delivery truck, no less!), I'm guessing you guys might be in the same club, the Let's Get Deadly Close to Cyclists While They're Doing Absolutely Nothing Wrong Club. Sirs, may I suggest the Hair Club for Men instead? It would serve you both much better...

But I digress. Back to the issue at hand, this time I was on Massachusetts Ave., again doing nothing wrong, unless of course getting exercise while saving money on gas is a criminal offense. (Are you lazy morons just jealous?) I mean, it's obvious you both need therapy because murdering folks just because they lead a healthier and cleaner lifestyle than you is highly deviant. And also highly against the law. I mean, c'mon, you're a fat bald dude in a delivery truck who whizzed by me so close and so fast that the draft that came off your vehicle actually made me involuntarily swerve. Not only that, but your barking command to, "GET IN THE BIKE LANE!" was extra glorious because THERE IS NO BIKE LANE ON MASSACHUSETTS AVENUE. Is your eyesight as dim as your brain power? Because that's really scary then.

And just because there's no bike lane available to me (dear lord, I wish there was), that doesn't mean I don't belong on the road on my bike. What it means is you should be cautious of how you drive. I mean, really, must I remind you babydicks that you're not in Bumblefuck, Maryland anymore? (Both had Maryland plates.) You're in an urban area, a city, where the speed limit runs about 30 mph, and much slower during times of high traffic, like lunch hour, the exact time I happened to be on Mass Ave. today.

Of course, this is probably silly. Trying to talk rationally to you, a grown-up so irrational that you actually started SCREAMING at me at the top of your smoke-encrusted lungs after, again, I inevitably caught up with you at a red light and, again, inquired as to why you just tried to murder me is probably a pointless exercise. And so instead, I'll leave you with just this thought, which should be easier for you to grasp: "Go f*ck yourself." And that's when I fell off the cordial wagon.

Burn in hell assholes,

Marissa

not so rosy...

Holy [proverbial] ball sweat, it's been a while since I've put my helper horse Sven to work hoofing out some words for this blog. BUT WE'RE BACK. Kind of. Not on the reg. See, I've been too busy whoring my grammatical prowess out for money (FINALLY!) to work for free over here like a sucker. But truth be told, I've missed The Anti DC. This is and will forever be my e-home, well, at least as long as I live in DC, which at this point seems like it might be forever. *GASP* *COUGH* *COUGH* *COUGH* Well, until the rampant smell of ass, which seems to permeate every breath I take these days here, kills me.

Come on, you know what I'm talking about. This stench in the air this summer... It's that smell that tends to usually come when you're walking outside and a garbage truck rolls by leaving the sent of Satan's butthole behind. The problem I've noticed lately, however, is that this exists randomly and often. Like, I could be biking down P Street, not a garbage truck in sight, when *BLARGH!* there it is. And it's so pungent that I fear the only cure is shoving a couple of pipe bomb up my nostrils to blow up my olfactory system. Either that or become a house cat...

we're hot!

And it's official! DC is the sixth hottest city in the nation! Duh. JUST LOOK AT ALL THESE FINE PIECES OF ASS!

Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeoooooooooooooooowwwww!

"But wait. Marissa, hold up. Did you even click the link?"

What link?

"The link you embedded in the top of this blog."

Pffft, no. Why would I do that?

"Jesus.... MAYBE BECAUSE IT LINKS TO THE ARTICLE BEYOND THE HEADLINE, YOU IDIOT!"

Huh? Are you saying you want me to read something? Interesting... Well, there's a first time for everything so perhaps I will give that a whirl. Just give me a minute to get my helper llama Eugene to move the cursor and give it a little *click* and...

Ahh, OK. I get it now. We're not hot as in physically attractive, but hot as in I want to fashion a line of unfashionable clothing out of Mr. Freeze pops and commute to work in a giant hamster ball filled with dry ice, you know, so the Mr. Freeze pops don't melt. Delicious.

Incidentally, the other cities on the list, in order of fifth through first, include Medford, Ore., Wichita, Kan., Montgomery, Ala., Laredo, Texas, and Yuma, Ariz. To my surprise, Orlando, Fla., was left off the list. That motherf*cker is hot as balls, to use the schmientific term. I learned that the hard way this weekend when I decided to wear pants to the shuttle launch.

Oh, did I just say shuttle launch?! I did! I was there! And it was the most spectacular 24 or so hours seconds of my life. If you want to nerd out with me, please do so here, where I equate my relationship to the U.S. space program to an addiction to black-tar heroin. By the way, I'm in total withdrawal right now. But at least I'm in total withdrawal in the air-conditioned confines of my dry-ice filled hamster ball. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have several hundred Mr. Freeze pops to purchase and affix to my person.

lift-off!

And speaking of shooting things into the air (I'm assuming you read yesterday's schmasterpiece), this will be my last blog post this week before I jetset off to Florida tomorrow to watch a bunch of astronauts shuttleset off to space on Friday. Indeed, to borrow a term from my newly blogging brother, the bounds of my nerdery are, um, out of this world...

Sorry. That was a galactically dumb joke...

What's even more dumb, though, is not just that I followed a dumb joke with an even dumber one, but that I was somehow left off the list of this "official NASA tweetup" everyone every dork is talking about. And yeah, while unlike @nasa I can't vouch for the scientific accuracy of the 140-character missives I'll be writing during this historical event, I can certainly guarantee you that they'll be entertaining, if not solely because I'll be "waking up" at 1 a.m. to get to the launch site, which means I'll surely be relying on a magical mixture of Jolt Cola, Pop Rocks and rocket-fuel fumes to keep me awake until Friday's 11:26 a.m. lift-off. I predict I'll be going full-Cornholio by 7 a.m.... So yeah, if you like space or simply have a thing for Beavis & Butthead like my cat, you might want to jump on this Twitter train[wreck]. #choicesiwillregret #choicesyouwillnotregret.

However, the space program isn't all fun and games and tweeting ridiculously and eating nauseating amounts of sugar. As you may have been reading from the Washington Post's Joel Achenbach, it's also kinda f*cked. This saddens me because space exploration is cool and unwinnable wars are not, which means we're doing it wrong. Seriously, look at this video:



Any entity that can make an epic clip out of putting a jigsaw puzzle together deserves at least a few billion of our dollars, no?

But politics aside, I'm pumped. Hope to catch you around the Twitterverse...

bang

Congratulations, Virginia! You finally have something to be proud of. But of course I'm joking. I mean, just look at that sentence construction! It ends in a preposition! HILARIOUS! (Laugh, dammit.)

However, even if I did write, "Congratulations, Virginia! You finally have something of which to be proud," it'd still be funny. Not only because that second sentence sounds like it should be read by someone in a monocle and a top hat, but because of the joke I embedded in it -- that the only thing Virginia has to be proud of is the fact that the woman who can hold the most hotdogs in her stomach is from there.

And while, yes, that is quite an accomplishment, it is, in fact, a joke. Obviously, it's not the only thing Virginia has going for it. See, in addendum to being the breeding ground for women who can stuff their faces with five grills full of barbecued meats, Virginia is also noteworthy because it's a great place to explode things. And so, yes, I spent America's Birthday not in America's Capital, but across the river, in America's Weiner-Eaters Birthplace Capital setting off colorful explosives.

Except I nearly regurgitated my sausage when one firework I had purchased from a teenager on the side of a Pennsylvania highway shot not straight into the open air but at a diagonal directly into the power line. OOPS! Clearly, I should've purchased my explosives from Bang-Bang and Boom-Boom (and you're gonna wanna click on that link).

But this wasn't a normal, run-of-the-mill firework that just shoots up and explodes; it was a Sky Banger, which does exactly what it boasts. It sort of thrusts up and down for a bit before finally exploding in a shiny sea of ejaculating sparks. (Ew.) Under perfect conditions, the Sky Banger would do this all at about 30-to-50 feet. But here's the thing about power lines: they kind of f*ck up trajectories, meaning the whole sky-bang process ended up being more like 15-to-who-the-hell-knows-how-many-feet-because-we-were-all-flat-on-the-ground-hoping-we-weren't-'bout-to-die.

But I'm alive! The power lines remained intact and no one even sustained even minor burns. Full success. Kind of. And, hey, I see you're all alive, too, if you're able to read this blog right now, so USA! USA! USA! And most importantly, I'm happy to be back in the District where the power lines are underground.

the satire of real life

I had a lovely view of these guys' armpits.

Well, I learned where the Federal Election Commission (aka, the FEC, aka "fecal," according to the automatic spellcheck on my phone) is located today. Incidentally, it's at the corner of E and 10th NW, should you ever decide to make a righteous mockery of the dumbest election financing law ever, like Stephen Colbert did this morning.

And it was awesome.

Of course, I'm talking about the SuperPAC Colbert applied for and got, which allows groups and corporations to raise unlimited campaign donations to make the most ridiculous political advertisements you can possibly imagine. "Give me your cash, bitch," indeed. It's exactly what our forefathers intended.

But I'm not here to comment on the politics of said event, but instead on the comedy that it spawned (although, undoubtedly they're intertwined). The main point here is Stephen Colbert did free stand-up outside the FEC[al] this morning! And like always (he's one of my comedy idols), he did not disappoint. The man's a genius and I really do believe he's the most exciting person, scratch that, corporation to happen to American comedy (and politics!) ever. He's amazing and I can truly say that I've never been more proud to live in the city he makes a living out of satirizing more than I am right now because by living here it means I get to see him satirizing this place once in a while in person...FOR FREE!

In closing, USA! USA! USA! Times infinity.

so about that manscaping...

I expect that most readers of this blog are probably privy to the Urban Dictionary definition of just about everything (although I'm personally still struggling to figure out the correct definition of an Alabama crab dangle...), which means I'm sure you're all convinced from the title that I'm about to bloviate on a man's nether-regional body hair. Well, I'm not. (I'm sorry or you're welcome, depending on how much of a pervert you are.) What I am gonna do, however, is point out one woman's entirely inappropriate use of the term "manscaping," a term she used while giving image advice to new interns on the local news. Fast forward to about the four-minute mark to see what I'm talking about, and don't worry: contrary to all legitimate definitions of what "manscaping" means, this clip is safe for work.



So, yeah. I think the correct term she's looking for is "shaving." Although not as new-fashioned as the puntastical "manscaping," at least recommending an intern shave doesn't make me want to alert Chris Hansen. Just sayin'...

On the other hand, considering the recent endeavors of one high-profile former-Hill employee, perhaps definitional manscaping advice should be taken into account. I mean, from one woman's perspective, if I were to ever receive a dick pic (although please don't...), I'd certainly rather it be a dick glamour shot than, say, something closer to a fluorescently lit Walgreens passport photo of your unquaffed uncoiffed sh*t. Of course, best case scenario is that I wouldn't see that sh*t at all (quaffed coiffed or unquaffed uncoiffed) because IT'S A PICTURE OF YOUR PENIS ON MY PHONE. Indeed, in a perfect world, manscaping would not be practical image advice to dole out to Hill employees, but I guess since we live in a newly erected post-Weiner world (ha!)...

But seriously, back to the interns -- it's simple. Don't dress like a teenage asshole. Of course the counterpoint is don't go the other direction and dress like a septuagenarian asshole, which means if you're doing most of your business-attire shopping (or most of your shopping, period) from the Delia's catalog or the Alfred Dunner section of Macy's, you're doing it wrong.

Other things to avoid: anything else that makes you look like you were drunk when you picked out your ensemble. For instance, as the manscaping enthusiast above points out, avoid Uggs (IT'S SUMMER and also, THEY'RE UGGS!), trade the bacteria-covered flip-flops in for a grown-up pair of shoes, making sure to take care that the shoes you trade them in for aren't the same pair you're planning to wear to your zumba workout at the gym later, and finally look in a full-length mirror after you're dressed and ask yourself, "Do I look like Ugly Betty?" If the answer is yes, then 1) congratulate yourself for fooling whoever hired you into thinking you were mentally capable enough to hold down a job/internship, despite that you're apparently not intelligent enough to dress yourself unlike an overgrown toddler; and 2) come punch me in the face because I lost. It's like I'm in a cave stuck with endless unmanscaped Gary Buseys...

lend me your toots

It was a mind 'sploding weekend. First, taking into account my rudimentary non-knowledge of theoretical physics and a Woody Allen movie, I realized time travel might be plausible, then I learned it actually is!

...Well, at least in mind and spirit.

See, my constant companion Anti DC Creative Director Terry the Tourette's Turtle and I spent our Saturday evening feeling extremely mid-century beatnik tucked into the corner of the dimly lit Twins Jazz club with a bottle of cheap (but delicious) sauvignon blanc and tapping our feet to the sounds of the four-piece band on the cramped, low-ceilinged stage. It was like a scene straight outta Mo' Betta Blues.

Except not really because: 1) Wesley Snipes wasn't on sax 2) Denzel Washington wasn't on trumpet; 3) in fact, no one was on trumpet; 4) the most dramatic thing to happen was we had to wait about 20 minutes from when we ordered our bottle of cheap (but delicious!) wine until we got it; and 5) obviously, we weren't in New York, but right here in DC, which came as somewhat of a surprise considering this is the nightlife stereotype we're up against...Ye gods...

But moving on, I saw Jim Snidero, a New York-based, world-class sax player whose skill is second to none. Or at the least, only second to sexy sax man, whose leather suspenders, tight pants, and molester mustache obviously keep him in the lead. But for real, despite that I'm cracking jokes, Snidero's skills are no joke. And neither are the skills of the three other local musicians (a pianist, bassist and percussionist), who Snidero recruited to play with him at Twins.

And let's talk about Twins. Although it only opened a few years ago in its current location on U Street between 13th and 14th, it has the feeling of an old attic in someone's house that's been there for generations (and strangely endearingly, it sort of smelled that way, too). Situated on the second floor above the jumbo slice with the disco light in it (of course...), the single long, thin room's red walls are plastered with posters and paintings of jazz-inspired images, and the floor is lined with two rows of small, candlelit, table-clothed tables, many of which you have to either climb under or physically move in order to get to. And while a claustrophobe might feel cramped, I was relieved to spot this array of seating options that could accommodate singles, couples, and larger groups alike due to the Tetris-like changeability of the table arrangements.

And while sometimes it's still expected that the table arrangements would perhaps be more interesting than the crowd (I mean, you clicked on this link, right?), in the case of Twins, it definitely wasn't. This place attracted a cross-section of everyone, from the post-college circuit to my generation to older clientele. And in a town that, for reasons I won't attempt to cover now, tends to self-segregate in terms of what quadrant someone lives in (NW, NE, SW, SE), Twins had the feeling of attracting people from all of them. This didn't feel like DC. Or...or maybe this felt like how DC should feel. No nametags, no pretense, no networking, just a healthy love of good music, good libations and good damn times. Worlds collided and sh*t, like a Swedish hair band and Edvard Grieg. The result was mind-blowing.

And so, yeah, I'll be going back for more fan-sax-tootin'-tastic times, especially when Snidero returns, which he told me he does about four times a year since he's originally from here. And his thoughts on Twins? Well, he gave it his professional seal/sax-toot of approval. "This place is a real jazz club, I mean, look around," he said. I did, and I will again because Twins is a welcome, mellow alternative to the U Street dance club scene and, obviously, most everything on a weekend in Adams Morgan, where dodging piles of puke has become the norm there on a Saturday night.

And speaking of piles of puke, to change subjects and negate all the hope I just instilled in you about humanity, if you have yet to roll your eyes at recording [f]artist Michaele Salahi "singing" her [s]hit single "Bump It," then allow this to be your chance because this might be the most horrifying stab at performing to ever be recorded and subsequently broadcast to the world to mock. I mean, really, who is telling this stoned emu singing, "Like I'm so hot and, like, you're so not," that she's talented? And that poor UPS man they recruited to rap with her (seriously, peep his outfit.) This is not what they mean by "What can Brown do for you?"



SERIOUSLY. NOT OKAY.