world class sidler

I'm sure you can't tell this about me, but I'm a fairly talented sidler. That is, I make friends with people who have a lot more connections to cool sh*t than myself and then sidle up with them to get awesome free stuff.

And so this happened last night, and thank God, because I was getting a little more than depressed while watching the Capitals utterly fail to unleash the fury. Luckily, a sometimes-employer (uh, not for hooking) called and invited me out to sidle at Sei, where he was tasting the nectar of Japan's collective ass -- shochu. Good Lord, that sh*t was disgusting.

However, the food was not. Sashimi pizza on a scallion pancake! Kobe beef sushi! Japanese barbecue pork on sweet buns! And a whole lot of other junk that made up for me drinking Japanese (metaphorical) butt juice earlier.

Oh, and I also convinced my sidle-enabler to pay me to write about "The Room." Although, I'm not sure how that's gonna work out because I can't find a ticket to this Friday's New York City show, featuring a live appearance by writer/director/producer/actor/accidental genius Tommy Wiseau. Won't someone let me sidle?! In return, I'll buy you a moderately priced beverage and tiny meal of food at Sei's fairly decent looking happy hour:


But enough advertising other people's ventures for free. That's why I'm not going to talk about the Waffle House ex-Redskin George Fred Smoot is planning to open in DC. Although I will try to sidle.

thin ice (lolz!)

I attended only my second ice hockey game ever yesterday, despite being from Minnesota, and color me surprised when I found out that I'm actually a hockey fan. I mean, what's better than encouraged obnoxiousness, noise and dry-humping? But the real reason that I guess this makes sense is that, considering I looked like this in a past ice-age life, I kind of fit in. See, that's what most hockey fans look like now, only they're fatter and whiter.

Uh, yeah. Not a good-looking crew, which shouldn't have surprised me, as I was told probably 75 percent of the crowd spends most of their time watching Sarah Palin make $12 million on Fox News out in Scuffleburg or some such area of "real" Virginia that I'm not familiar with, where a Double-Down from KFC is considered a food group.

And speaking of unhealthy foods, one of these suburbanites got all Orca on me yesterday when I paused for literally one second in front of the doorway, while someone handed me a bike-lock key.

"Yeah, stand in the f*ckin' doorway, idiot..." mumbled Jabba the Slut, under her breath. (Seriously, cover your tramp stamp. You're 40 now.)

That passive-aggressive bullsh*t is even more awesome if you take into account that, by the time she got to the end of it, I was already done pausing for that one second and walking out the door. I turned around and saw a Lego-block of a woman.

"That was really impolite," I said. "You need to calm down."

She didn't take to those instructions so well and began eloquently screaming at me about how my "skinny ass shouldn't have been in the doorway" and that I should "shut the hell up" while I "f*ck off," etc.

If I wasn't scared she'd eat me (even after Five Guys), I probably would've treated her like a DC cop and dropped some logic on her evidently sad life, but instead, I ran away like a little girl and cowered behind my French bike until her sonar shrieks found someone else to bitch at. She chose a guy that looked like her, but prettier.

So, I don't know. I'm not from a big city either, but I still know how to conduct myself when I'm in one. That is, I shut up and accept that sometimes people do things that I find annoying and I simply blog about it later. I mean, sure, it's annoying for anyone to pause in a doorway for a split-second if you're in a hurray to get out, but them's the breaks, kid. Plus, you're in Chinatown by the Verizon Center ice field during the first game of the hockey game playoff matches, which means the concentration of people is going to at least treble along with everyday urban annoyances. People will inevitably get in your way. CALM. DOWN.

But don't calm down as much as the Caps did on the ice because then you'll lose. :(

shambles p.i. -- what am i in russia? edition

In the twisted logic that makes up the e-world that is The Anti DC, life is a game of heads or tails. However, in this game "heads" means I win and "tails" means you lose. What does this boil down to? Well, for one, it clearly indicates that I have the intellect of a clever grade school student. But more importantly, it means everyone but me is always a loser. At least when it comes to Shambles P.I.-ing what passes for fashion in this phenomenally fugly city of ours.

See, I usually take to posting photos of the unfabulously frumpy. Who could forget the stained sweatpants? The flip-flops and nylons? Or whatever the hell is going on here? You can try to wipe those ghastly images from your mind, but unless you're willing to undergo a lobotomy, chances are these fashion Pearl Harbors and 9/11's will never completely be erased from your mind. Like they say, never forget.

See? Heads, I win.

But like I said, this game of heads or tails is skewed in my favor, so when someone takes the opposite route when it comes to fashion and dresses to the nines, the proverbial "tails" of this story, they also lose. I mean, really?


I spotted this woman on my way to snatch up a $5 footlong sandwich from Subway (EAT FRESH!®), which apparently people are now asking the sandwich artists to chop into threes so they can eat it throughout the day. (Luckily, I'm only poor enough to have them chop it in two, which takes care of my lunch and dinner! Quick sidebar, though: Upside to the economic crisis -- we'll all slim down from malnutrition?)

Anystarvationdiet, what you're seeing here is a full-length fur coat of unknown origin with matching patent leather accessories. Now, I'm not one to shy away from patent leather (I own several pairs of patent leather shoes, after all), but when you combine patent leather, a stiletto heel, and a shiv-worthy pointed toe together on one boot, you look pretty much like a hooker. Or a Russian. Whichever.

The thing is, as I learned in the first half of this decade, hooker boots actually serve a purpose in the colder parts of the former Soviet Union, such as Moscow. The heel, much like an ice-pick, can be used to steady oneself on the unsalted streets, thus keeping you upright. So, in essence, in Moscow, those kind of boots are anti-hooker shoes as they prevented you from existing in a whore's natural horizontal state. But in DC? There's not enough ice to justify this kind of function over fashion, which renders these boots simply ugly.

Along the same lines, we must examine the coat. While much like a patent leather shoe, I can appreciate a fur coat, there is a time and place. Since scooping up my $25 version (or, as I now convert monetary amounts -- my five-$5-footlong version) at a Goodwill not long ago, I've actually never worn it. Why? Because DC just doesn't get that cold! In Russia, much like a pair of hooker boots (or anti-hooker boots, as it were), I would've worn my five-$5-footlong fur every day. But here? Sweat is not an attractive accessory.

But hey, in the end, despite that the woman pictured above is also a victim of Shambles P.I., I have to give her some credit for at least trying. Unlike the flip side of this shambley coin, her outfit didn't make me want to puke. However, when she side-stepped into the McDonalds a few seconds after this photo was taken, I did feel slightly nauseated. I mean, the Subway was just around the corner. For someone in such fresh threads, I was surprised she'd pass up eating fresh in favor of McGnarlys. But then again, if you're going to dress to sweat, you might as well ensure that your sweat smells less like standard B.O. and more like McNuggets, no?

See? Tails, you lose.

But outside of the world of Shambles P.I., we can all be winners, especially tonight and tomorrow.

For those of you lucky enough to live in Baltimore, you're probably aware of Aural States, a ridiculously awesome music blog. So successful is this young blog, that they're holding their first festival tonight starting at 7:30 p.m. (doors at 6:30 p.m.) at the Sonar/Talking Head Club. For a mere $10 (or two-$5-footlongs), you can catch Arbouretum, Wye Oak, Lo Moda, Pleasant Livers, HOLLYWOOD, Sri Aurobindo, Small Sur, Andy Abelow with Caleb Stine, Jamie Saltzman & Austin Stahl, Title Tracks (new John Davis ex Q and Not U, Georgie James), Imperial China, Caverns, and CANNOT BE STOPPED. Be there or be square (read: in DC).

If you are in DC this weekend though, you can also be a winner tomorrow because my favorite club act ever, Claire Hux, is finally coming to town! Performing with Lazerbitch (I like that name), they'll be at BeBar tomorrow around midnight. There's an $8 cover (or a 1.6-$5-footlong cover), but trust me when I say, for once paying a cover to gain access to a DC bar will be worth it because a Claire Hux performance is priceless. See you there!

what the hell have i done today?

Honestly, I don't know what the hell I've done today, but somehow it's already nine in the evening. I went to work. I think. Yes. Yes, I did. I spent some time on the great Interweb checking out the wonderous and wonky CQPolitics.com. I can't get enough of those election maps!*

Then I went to lunch. For two hours.

Then I returned and did some manual labor around the office, before settling in for some sweet Olympic games viewing. Hot damn, I love those games...

After that, the day is a bit of a blur. I apparently rode around on my bicycle for a while, did some laundry, cleaned my apartment, made some dinner and currently find myself settled in for some more Olympic games viewing, which, after spending last night at Poste getting introdouched** to the hip downtown lawyers-gone-wild scene, is well deserved. Hey, don't judge me because I reward myself every now and again with a night of sitting on my ass, eating nachos and watching Usain Bolt win more gold medals just by showing up. (That man is miraculous. And so is this ridiculously awesome panoramic view of the Bird's Nest Stadium.)

Anyway, I'll have more retardulous sh*t to write about next week after my current reason to live, the XXVIV Olympiad (it's OK to pity me), goes off-the-air. To whet your e-appetite, though, I'll reveal that I'll be composing a nice little tale about Boudreaux's Butt Paste. Never heard of Butt Paste? Don't worry. I'll 'splain more details later. For now just know it has a pleasant smell and it really came in handy during a recent trip to Brooklyn. Butt (LOL!), would Butt Paste prove just as handy in DC? You and I will just have to await the end of the weekend to find out...

Whoa! I just pulled an R Kelly! Oh, not the peeing on a teenager thing, I'm referring to the Trapped In the Closet "cliffhanger" thing, just in case anyone was wondering. Pervs.

*Sarcasm points!

**Term courtesy of The Law -- she's one sick freak of a genius.

shambles p.i. -- endearing geriatric edition

You know when a hamster poops and he has to remove it with his teeth? It's totally sick and gross, isn't it? Yes. However, at the same time, it's a hamster, so on some level it's also still inherently kind of cute, right? Right. Well, that's how I feel about this old couple, snapped by a very sly reader near the National Portrait Gallery last summer.

If only they were running in a wheel...

See, their outfits are objectively offensive to anyone who's not colorblind. The matching red capris are kind of like Gorbachev's eyes -- they're blinding like a laser.

Actually, wait. I take that back. Their outfits are offensive to anyone who possesses any sort of sight at all. Basically, capris are never a good idea. They make short people look shorter and tall people look like assholes. And don't even get me started on manpris. If you want fabric below the knee, be ready to commit to a f*cking pair of pants. If you don't, be warned you're going to look sick and gross, not unlike hamster doo-doo.

Luckily for this old couple, however, they're also cute like a couple of hamsters, which makes their very turd-like outfits endearingly sick and gross. I mean, are they snapping their fingers? Dancing in the streets? Wetting their Depends? Perhaps, all of the above? Who knows?! All I know for sure is that they're neither wearing Crocs nor flip-flops, which makes me happy, and they're clearly ready to party. I bet they're drunk. I hope they're drunk. I wish I was drunk. Am I drunk? It is the mid-afternoon...

gory crime scene photographs

I apologize in advance for the sight I'm about to show you, but GOOD FREAKING GOD, people need to know. I've used words to get across my point in the past. Many, many words. But it's not often that I've used photographic evidence of the SENSELESS CRIMES that go down on the streets of DC to drive my point into this city's dense metaphorical skull. Well, e-friends, brace yourselves because here is your town in all of its STAINED SWEATPANTS and BLAZE ORANGE CROCS glory:

Welcome to hell.

One might expect to see this kind of TRAGEDY on the streets of, I don't know, maybe KABUL or BAGHDAD or SOME OTHER WARZONE, but no. No, e-friends, this kind of INHUMANE NONSENSE is happening right here on a busy downtown street in the Capital of the Free World. WHY?! WHHHYYYY?!

No really, why? What is the deal here? Either these women are straight up bat-sh*t crazy or they need to be schooled. And by "schooled," I mean publicly humiliated. (Dammit, I wish more people read this.) Seriously, I don't get how these two women ended up like this. If I had a heart, it would be breaking right now. I just feel sorry for them. Either they: 1) Can't afford a mirror; 2) Don't know how to use a mirror; or 3) Have no friends to tell them they look like complete assholes. Any way you look at it, it's sad.

With the dishabille scale tipped to its very limit, I also can't help but wonder what these two women were going to do that evening in Chinatown dressed like that. This crime occured around 5:30 pm on a Sunday. Were they planning to catch an early dinner somewhere? Were they going to a friend's house? Planning to do some late afternoon gardening? Doing some sort of street performance? Going to rob a liquor store? Getting out of jail? If I wasn't so ghastly horrified, I probably would've asked. However, unable to speak, all I could do was borrow my friend's camera, zoom in, and snap a photo from our rented Scion's passenger side window. At least I could spread the word that way.

Take note sloppy offendors, your crimes will no longer go unnoticed! We will take back the streets and we will prevail! Or at least, we will keep mocking you. Eh, probably the latter.

dude, where are my books? where are your books, dude?

Has The Anti DC ever wanted to punch someone in the face? Yes. Has The Anti DC ever wanted to punch a homeless man or a librarian in the face? Not until yesterday!

You see, yesterday I went on a not-so-excellent adventure to the downtown MLK Memorial Library. In short, that place is a hot mess for so many reasons. For one, it's probably the ugliest central library I've ever seen in a major city. But I have a feeling that's just indicative of the disparity between Washington, DC, "the city" and Washington, DC, "the nation's capital." (I have yet to go to the Library of Congress, but I'm assuming that it's less of a makeshift homeless shelter with two broken copiers and a illiterate librarian and more of a, say, place where people can actually come to conduct research.)

But, truth be told, I don't mind that the down-and-out congregate in public libraries. I mean, it makes sense. They're free, they're warm, they have bathrooms, they're quiet and there's unlimited entertainment. However, when a certain wild-eyed gentleman steals the eight books you just spent three hours poring over and book-marking while you run to multiple establishments in Chinatown trying desperately to buy a roll of quarters on a Sunday afternoon just so you can make copies using the the jankiest of two janky Xerox machines, which also happens to be surrounded by used Kleenex, a person can get a little angry. Just sayin'. Anyway, apparently, the millions of other books just weren't good enough for this guy. And it was also totally awesome to discover that he'd removed my bookmarks. Touché, sir, touché.

But before I say something about the homeless that will surely validate my ticket straight to hell, I must recognize the role of that illiterate librarian in all of this. Because, really, it's his fault.

Turns out the "shelf" this very special librarian told me to set my books on while I ran all over town looking for change like, um, a homeless person (irony!), actually turned out to be the reshelving cart. So, when the homeless man "stole" my books, there's a good chance he didn't know I was coming back for them, despite my vociferous complaints about the copiers' lack of working paper-money-accepting technology and the library's inability to make change, as well as my obnoxious declaration that I would be returning for my books after my "pilgrimage for quarters" that I'm sure the whole floor was able to hear.

Anyhow, the whole incident probably took place over the course of 20 minutes. And because I'm magical, I knew as soon as I set the books down that they probably wouldn't be there when I returned (and it wasn't because there was a "Reshelving Cart" sign around either because there wasn't -- that'd have made too much sense). So when I got back with my rolls of quarters, I wasn't surprised at all. I marched over to this moron librarian and told him fairly nonchalantly that my books had disappeared:

Me: So, looks like my books are gone from the shelf you told me to put them on 20 minutes ago.

Retarded Librarian: Are you sure?

Me: Yes.

RL: Hmm. That was the reshelving shelf. Are they on another shelf?

Me: Uh... do you mean one of the other gazillion shelves in the library? Um, probably, I guess?

RL: Hmm.

Me: Hmm?

RL: Hmm.

Me: OK, do you know where they could be?

[At this point the librarian looked around and walked over to the above-mentioned homeless man.]

RL: Excuse me. Those books belong to someone else.

Homeless Man: What? This is a public library. These books belong to everyone. [Ed.: Zing!]

RL: Well, someone else is using them now.

HM: But they were on the reshelving cart. [Ed.: This is when I realized the librarian was an idiot (duh, the reshelving cart!), so stepped in.]

Me: Hi. I didn't know that shelf was for reshelving since the librarian told me to set them there while I went to round up change for the copier, and there was no sign...

HM: Why'd he tell you to put them there? [Ed.: The librarian bailed at this point, hopefully feeling like a dumbass.]

Me: Excellent question. I have no idea. Anyway, if I could just borrow those for 10 minutes to make copies I'll bring them back to you.

HM: OK.

Me: OK. Thanks.

Alas, I made my copies and actually did something nice (gasp!). Like I promised, I brought the books back to this dude, who I can only hope enjoyed looking at Khrushchev loving Castro as much as I did.

What, what? Khrushchev's butt.


Is that a cigar in your pocket or are you just happy to see Khrushchev?


Khrushchev only wants you for your pimp juice.