raw!

I used to taut Columbia Heights as the greatest neighborhood in DC. Actually, wait. No. I never said that. And not because there's some other magical neighborhood in DC because, really, they're all on the same level of sucking, just for different reasons.

Columbia Heights, though, wasn't supposed to suck when it comes to shopping for basic clothing goods, such as undergarments. I mean, we have a Target and a Marshalls. If between those, you can't purchase your basic cotton drawers, well, Houston, we have a problem. Or more appropriate, I suppose, Ass Cheeks, we have a problem. This has happened to me before.

Which is why I probably shouldn't have been surprised yesterday when the need for a decent sports bras came up and I couldn't find one. Instead, I found myself at the gym holding my rather meager chestical region and crying. Even the bitsiest breasticles can suffer under high impact cardio.

That's right, for the next two weeks I traded my usual sweat-drenched outdoor cycling regimen for the air-conditioned surroundings of the Washington Sports Club. There's nothing like paying to suffer in a temperature-controlled environment while watching CNN "Town Hall Raw." Because apparently the health care bill is as hardcore as a WWE wrestling match.

But really, where can a girl find a decent sports brassiere in Columbia Heights besides on the Internet? I darest say this is an impossible mission. Unless I get this random super-pissed citizen on my side. This is RAW!



By the way, is it too much to ask that amid the Target, Marshals and Ruby Tuesdays that Columbia Heights also get a movie theater? After all, every suburb has one...

give me pancakes or give me death! or at least give me something else equally as high-brow

Whoops. I meant to blog yesterday, but I was too busy trying to find a retail outlet in the actual city of Washington, DC, that could sell me a legitimate sleeping bag (I'm talking compression sack, 20-degree North Face sh*t, not some bulky crap from Target). Turns out there isn't one! HOW IS THIS A REAL CITY?!?! What's next? They'll stop carrying Parmesan cheese at Harris Teeter?! Oh wait! According to a reliable source, that store's done that! Although, actually, apparently the Teet had the cheese in its possession; the employees just refused to cut it and hand it to the paying customer.

Now, I don't have a business degree (hell, I'm barely literate), but that just doesn't seem like a good business plan to me...at least in the First World.

It's sad. Sometimes I have flashbacks to the former Soviet bloc living here, except in these flashbacks, I miss out on the best parts of the Soviet bloc, namely foodstuffs from Georgia (the country, not the state).

But speaking of the state, why isn't there a Waffle House here? Those things are delicious. But that's probably too much to ask considering the IHOP per capita is just one in 591,833 (plus one helper horse named Sven).

F*ck this place.

Wait a second. What's this... Did I f*ck this place too soon? Mayhaps because, according to that DCist link, IHOP is in negotiations with my neighborhood suburban-like shopping complex to unleash its delicious caloric goodness on Columbia Heights!

This delights me. Nay, this tickles me. What's better than all you can eat pancakes starting at $4.99?!

Right. Maybe some neighborhood charm...

But charm shmarm! We're talking about Columbia Heights here! I'll head to Mt. Pleasant if I want charm (Burritos Fast is quite charming). Plus, I love pancakes, those buttermilk golden discs of wonder smothered in maple syrup served hot (or in IHOP's case, lukewarm) off the griddle...mmm...

Unfortunately, it looks like I'm rather alone in my intense love of mass-produced hotcakes, at least according to 14th and U, whose author did the dirty (read: dull) job of sifting through all the reactions on DCist, many of which seem to hate pancakes and, ergo, freedom, but somehow buy into the notion that Columbia Heights should remain free of such low-class chains. (Sidenote: I'm willing to bet these are the same people that go to Starbucks on the daily and hit up Target at least once a week to buy whatever mass-produced items made by children in Taiwan that they "need.")

"Kill me now."

"That is terrible news!"

"Ghetto…"

"IHOP has no business being in CH."

"if IHOP is uprooting Ellwoods, that would be a public health and urban planning disaster."

"There goes the neighborhood again!!! Just when we were coming up in the world!"

"IHOP is low brow in my opinion. It appeals to a wide range of people, including the lowest common denominator of consumer."

Um, all you haters can suck my syrup?


And, apparently, you can suck 14th and U's syrup as well. (Actually, I'd suggest you ask first...unsolicited syrup sucking doesn't sound street legal...) That blog makes a very good point:

It's really that last comment I want to focus on, because it was prefaced by this:

"For renters, (IHOP) increases the amenities for the hood. For the homeowners, I would think it decreases the trajectory a bit."

Translation: Homebuyers didn't pay $500,000 for a 2 bedroom luxury condo to live above a chain pancake shop, and they didn't pay that to have "the lowest common denominator" running around their neighborhood. (Although I'm willing to bet that if you took IHOP's menu and plastered it under the logo of some independent non-chain establishment with a name like "Syrup" and charged $4 more per item, the idea would go over like, um, hotcakes.)

First off, I enjoyed that hotcake pun, so kudos, e-friend. Second off, 14th and U's analysis is spot on. So spot on, in fact, that I'm going to rehash it here but with less analysis and more insults. People are stuck up bitches. May I also add, they're often quite hypocritical. Like I said above, I would bet my entire low-brow minimum wage that the people who complained of the "ghetto-ness" of said venture are the same people who help keep Target in business so they can buy bottled water in bulk, pack it up nicely in plastic bags and drive it home in their Prius (hitting a cyclist or two along the way) to their cookie-cutter condos where they lament about the environment. And pancakes.

Now, don't get me wrong. I like the idea of mom and pop ventures (Double shout out to Burritos Fast!), but Columbia Heights is not exactly that kind of neighborhood. In fact, it's arguable if Columbia Heights -- at least the part that hosts the DCUSA complex -- is even a neighborhood at all. To me, it looks more like a retail park one would find out in Fredricksburg, Va.

Look, the DCUSA complex is exactly that -- a complex. Complexes are not neighborhood-y; they're not high-brow. And like 14th & U pointed out, DCUSA already houses mom and pop haters like Target, Marshalls, Payless, Lane Bryant, Office Depot, Radio Shack, and a slew of other chains...so what would be the big deal if IHOP moved in? I mean, for processed food's sake, RUBY TUESDAYS is already ACROSS THE STREET. I've been to Ruby Tuesdays. While it might be the most exclusive joint in Russellville, Ark. (seriously, due to it being located in a dry county, they had to turn it into a "private club," which means you need a membership card to get it, and in case you're wondering, of course, I have the card because I'm cool...in Russellville, Ark.).

But the exclusivity of rural Ruby Tuesdays aside, the bottom line is this: Columbia Heights is already well on its way to suburban sprawl hell, despite that it's situated in the middle of a major city. Perhaps it shouldn't be this way. Perhaps it would be nicer to be able to go to some less "ghetto" independent diner to get your delicious pancake fix, but you know what? Beggars can't be choosers. Columbia Heights is already ruined. Would the installation of an IHOP really make it any less neighborhood-y? No. But what it will do is make it tastier.

Now, if only an effing REI would move into DCUSA...

what i do when i put on pants

Sorry about the lack of quality Web logging this week. As I alluded to earlier, my helper tortoise, Vladimir, and I were in a heated dispute about his salary, with him insisting on being paid in legal tender and me pushing leafy greens. Unfortunately, despite the fact that as you're reading this I'm probably interviewing to work at DC's classiest porno establishment just so I could afford to keep him, Vladimir walked out on me yesterday. He's so melodramatic. I wanted to discuss Grey's Anatomy, which he was cool with until he learned I was speaking of the picture box program and not the anatomy text book. So he suggested we discuss Foucault's Pendulum, which I was likewise cool with until I learned he was referring to the book and not the physics experiment. He knows I have a limited literacy level! After a heated argument, he was gone...about three hours later when he finally made it to the door.

Understandably, I was devastated and unable to function. I mean, without him around yesterday, I couldn't even master putting on pants, let alone master enough English to type a whole blog post. (That sentence alone took me over 12 hours to compose!) And while Vladimir isn't dead to me yet (I'm crossing my fingers he'll think better of taking his business to the streets and return), I'm a bit sick of his constant bitching and moaning. Now I know how you must feel about me.

Which is why I'm changing up my lovably annoying schtick today in favor of sharing some happy moments with you. That's right -- I'm not going to complain about anything today because, really, despite being rendered nearly helpless without my helper animal (if Vladimir doesn't come back I'm thinking of hiring a helper horse), I've had a pretty sweet couple of last days, even though I was wearing pants for a few hours.

See, I went to see The Presets at the 9:30 Club on Wednesday night and NOTHING WENT WRONG. I showed up at the EXACT RIGHT TIME, which allowed me to miss the opening band that, according to my friends (yes, apparently I somehow have some non-imaginary ones) who showed up before I did, decidedly sucked ass. Hooray! Moreover, despite my late showing, I secured a sweet spot on the balcony that not only allowed me to dance freely above the smelly masses on the main floor, but to enjoy a clear view of the stage, where I got to witness the glory that I will now share with you using my perfected method of sub-par photography and video. Behold!









And yes, you're welcome for the octet of snapshots of what is basically the same photograph.

Oh, what the hell. Let's make it a nonet with the following grainy video, in which the sound is just about as awesome as when a helper tortoise (very slowly) walks out on you in the middle of the night. Luckily, unlike Vladimir's ill-advised decision to leave, this video doesn't completely blow; it does a little bit of justice to the laser light show that nearly bedazzled me right into a seizure.



Yeah. That sh*t was epically -- or more apropos, I suppose, epileptically -- tight.

But that's not even all! April Fool's Day was pretty much the best day ever even before The Presets took the stage. Not only did I confirm some awesome plans for the fall (more to come on that, perhaps, some day in the future), but I dined out at a new neighborhood Vietnamese restaurant, Pho 14, that recently opened up about a block away from my hobo lair. And if Vladimir wasn't being such a melodramatic ass, I'd have him go pick us up some pho for dinner. And it would've been my treat!

Not so much because I care a lot about Vladimir's well-being (after all, he is the most psychologically abusive helper tortoise I've ever come across), but because Pho 14 is can-of-beans cheap! Basically, my dining partner and I got two meals for the price of one, although that's mostly due to the faulty computation of an apparently dysfunctional cash register. I say "mostly," because when we informed our waiter of the missing charge (yeah, we're flippin' honest), he simply said, "Oh, it's fine. Want a free iced Vietnamese coffee?" Yep. That's what I like to call the best customer service ever. I am so easily wooed by free stuff. (HINT.)

By the way, the iced Vietnamese coffee was delicious and, truly, the perfect sugar'n'caffeine-filled pick-me-up this side of powdered sugar-dusted crack-cocaine.

And for that, Pho 14, located on that hot-messiest block of Park Road about a block north of the Columbia Heights metro stop, gets two talons up from the coveted Very Discerning Anti DC Eagle of Freedom. Congratulations!

He discern you long time.

i did NOT jizz in my pants

I decided to go for a jog for the first time in a couple of days weeks months OK goddammit, years on Friday, which turned out to be simultaneously one of the most refreshing and disgusting experiences I've had in quite a while. It was refreshing, of course, because it's nice to be able to work off a few bean calories to make room for more moonshine; but disgusting, I say, because when my jog took me down to Meridian Hill Park between Columbia Heights and U Street, I had to alter my straight lines of movement into a cha-cha-like jump when I confronted not one, not two, but COUNTLESS used condoms.

Now many of you may remember one of my very early complaints about DC, which was about the plethora of Band-Aids on the sidewalks around town. That was gross, of course, but it was understandable. People get blisters. People then cover those blisters with Band-Aids. Said Band-Aids cannot withstand the conditions of sweaty feet. Ergo, Band-Aids find their ways onto a sidewalk more often than probably necessary, especially since most of the shoes I see people wearing around here don't seem to warrant sacrificing comfort for aesthetics. SHAMBLES!

But let's not get sidetracked by inappropriate city footwear. Let's return to people apparently having lots of dirty sex in a public park. (Giggity giggity!)

I get it (sorta). I mean, times are tough. Maybe your bank foreclosed on your house. Maybe you couldn't make that car payment. Maybe you're not Eliot Spitzer and couldn't afford to take your hooker to a nice hotel. Maybe you couldn't even afford a room at the HoJo. Like I said, I get it.

But only sorta. See, all of these used prophylactics were found in open spaces, often smack in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing me to do a jig around the jizz. Now, if it was me gettin' busy in the park, I'd choose a more private locale. Maybe a grassy knoll behind a bush, or at least a non-paved path somewhere in the depths of the park, opposed to the concrete and tar sidewalk on the perimeter. That just can't be pleasant. (Ouch.)

But despite my confusion and disgust, I am somewhat pleased because at least these freaks in the park are being safe. It's called the bright side, e-friends, and I'm trying desperately to look at it right now to suppress my urge to vomit. Although, if I just vomited after imbibing my delicious bean recipes, perhaps I wouldn't have to go jogging in the first place, let alone jogging through random dudes' spunk. What a novel idea!

But joking about serious eating disorders aside, I'm most upset about this sticky situation (har-har!) because I hate litter. In a country full of public garbage cans, littering is highly unnecessary. And clearly, I'm not the first one to say this. Our government has said this for quite sometime! And so dramatically at that!

I, too, just shed a single tear. Now, please, do DC a favor and clean up after your splooge. Thanks.

if i wanted to live in the third world...

I'd move back there. Instead, it seems the Third World has moved to me in the form of my neighborhood Target store, whose shelves are more barren than the empty hole where my heart should be.


That's where the knickers should be! But as you've noticed by now. THERE'S NARY A PAIR OF DRAWERS THERE! Even when I lived in the former U.S.S.R., I never had this much trouble trying to buy things. Especially undergarments, which were so ubiquitously available that I could pick up a couple of pairs on the street next to the neighborhood vodka stand on my way home from doing whatever sketchy activities I had engaged in the night before that may or may not have resulted in me rolling out of a moving vehicle, breaking into a historical cemetery or otherwise losing my unmentionables at the Kremlin (*wink* Putin!). Although, apparently, since Russia is still "developing," as it were, it can still be a bit dangerous when buying said underwear, but the point is, AT LEAST I CAN BUY IT.

Which is more than I can say for my local Target located in the so-called Capital of the Free World. And while I may not fear being pipe-bombed while I'm shopping like I may have in Moscow, my neighborhood Target does not make me want to chant "USA! USA! USA!" which really says something, as those of you who know me personally know that nearly everything makes me want to chant "USA! USA! USA!"

A cheeseburger? "USA! USA! USA!"

A milkshake? "USA! USA! USA!"

A firearm? "USA! USA! USA!"

Roadkill? "USA! USA! USA!"

Train robbery? "USA! USA! USA!"

Obesity epidemic? "USA! USA! USA!"

But the Columbia Heights Target? Hmm...

And the dearth of underoos wasn't the only problem at this establishment. The good salsa was also gone. And don't even get me started on the bean aisle. In fact, THERE WASN'T EVEN A BEAN AISLE! What kind of Communist Target is this?!

It's stupid. That's what.

What's even more stupid? I then went to the neighborhood grocer and found this:


DISCONTINUED?! NOOOOOO! NOT MY NEWMAN'S OWN BALSAMIC MIST SALAD SPRITZER! O! THE HUMANITY! What will my neighborhood strip from me next? Besides my will to live, I mean, because clearly that's already gone.

is columbia heights the ghetto?!

But we have a Target! And a Best Buy! It's practically the goddamn suburbs, no?! At least that's how I feel.

Some DC cab drivers, though, apparently feel differently. I learned that on Friday night when I tried to get a cab back to Columbia Heights from around Metro Center.

"Hi! I'm going to Columbia Heights."

"I won't go there."

"What?"

"I won't go to Columbia Heights."

"What? Is it too 'ghetto' for you?" (Clearly, I said that with much sarcasm because WE HAVE A TARGET!)

"Yes."

"What?! Are you serious? WE HAVE A TARGET!"

"Yes. I know."

And then he drove away.

Um. That's weird, right? But I'll be honest, for reasons I won't delve into, I don't remember if that's exactly how my exchange with this overcautious cabbie went down. However, I distinctly remember calling his reasoning ludicrous based solely on the fact that, to him, a neighborhood with a Target in it could still be considered too dangerous to drive into. I still stand behind my argument. WE HAVE AN EFFING TARGET!

And not only do I stand behind my own argument (that should be obvious), but so did the second cab driver who found my retelling of this conversation with the first cabbie ridiculously funny.

"Well, thanks for bringing me to Columbia Heights. Apparently, it's a pretty rough neighborhood. Some cab driver just refused to take me!"

"But there's a Target there!"

"I know!"

"And a Best Buy!"

"I know! You're reading my mind!"

Then much laughter ensued.

Although, I'll be honest again. I don't know if everyone in the cab was laughing or if it was just me snickering away in the backseat like an insane asshole. That's really not out of the realm of possibility. Neither is me getting home, almost setting some microwave popcorn on fire and falling asleep upright in a chair. But, you know, that's just how we roll in the ghetto. Deal with it.

achoo!

I apologize for being e-negligent yesterday, but I was busy voting, recovering from what seemed to be either early stage SARS or H5N1 and, of course, falling asleep really, really early, until, in a surprising move, people took to the streets third-world style screaming, honking and wooting the victory of Barack Obama. Seriously, while I love the enthusiasm shown in a country that so often errs on the side of apathy, were the airhorns really necessary?

YES!

Heralding in the end of eight years of whatever the hell we just let happen, as well as an entirely awesome moment in history, is worthy of not just airhorns, but pyrotechnics, too, which I'm pleased to note, my neighbors apparently had on hand!



And although they're all chanting "O-bam-a!" in the very grainy, mostly unfocused video I shot all hopped up on Nyquil last night, I'm going to go ahead and make a safe assumption and allow myself to think they're also celebrating Damien Lincoln Ober's win as one of DC's two shadow senators. If you have facts to say otherwise, I will not believe them.

USA! USA! USA!

Ah, but in the midst of all this lovely, extremely refreshing chaos, my longish stint atop an exceedingly comfortable memory foam mattress pad, wrapped in a faux-down comforter has allowed me to scout out some sweet stuff on the Interweb -- stuff that has nothing to do with the election, which is finally OVER!

USA! USA! USA!

Anyway, I'll tell you that my sweet finds include something very dear to my heart circuitry and wires -- an extremely long Russian-made miniseries of what will probably go down in the history of ever as the greatest book written by a human, Mikhail Bulgakov's Master and Margarita (Мастер и Маргарита). And, perhaps, it's even no coincidence that I found this 10-part series just as I began to work through this book again in its native language. Contrasting and comparing has never been so much fun! Drat, I am a dork...

But enough self-deprecating confessions (as if you didn't know...) aided by my recent intake of CVS-brand pseudoephedrine! Let's take a look at this week's roster of tight sh*t on the Webrary! And because I love counting in different languages (must I repeat how much of a dork I really am?), let's sound off en français! Ooh la la!

Un! Like I mentioned, Master and Margarita is objectively the best book of all time, ergo any 5-plus-hour miniseries made based on it, is not only worth my time, but hopefully worth yours, Norm Coleman's, who may of may not be the former hottest man in the legislative branch (single sexy tear), and anyone else's who appreciates fantastic tales of awesomeness. And yes, it's subtitled!

Deux! OK, I lied about all these links having nothing to do with the election, but I can't quietly sit back without noting that, of course, the District gets the sh*ttiest sticker to show off we voted. Tell me, where is the essence of freedom in our sticker?! Maryland and Virginia all get hints of Old Glory. We get an X in a box. Shouldn't it be a line connecting a bar and an arrow? If we're going to brag about how much we hate technology and love No. 2 pencils, we might as well make it accurate, n'est-ce pas? Argh.

Trois! I sometimes wear glasses that look a little bit like Andrew Sullivan's. We also both blog. In fact, not only do Andrew Sullivan and I both blog, but we also both make sure that whatever point we intend to make, we make with gusto, if by "gusto" I mean we put into 2,000 words what could've been stated in 300. It's like we're the same person, except in place of real words like Sullivan uses, I use made-up works like "retardulous." Tight-tastic! But even if you don't sport spectacles and e-spew all over the Web each day, Sullivan's justification of why he blogs is still worth the (very un-blog-like) read.

Quatre! Boozey "beverage" Zima might have died late last month, but several other "malternatives" live on, including my personal favorite, Sparks (this dork is open for sponsorships!), which is probably more lethal to me because of its caffeine content rather than it's alcohol proof. What I'll never understand, though, is how Sparks ranked last on this tasting panel's list. Am I the only one who finds libations that taste like Smarties shat out of a unicorn's ass delicious? Bullsh*t!

Cinq! And if nothin' else about the last 24 hours has inspired you (although, whatever your political persuasion, how could it not?!), at least enjoy the genius upon which I based my Halloween costume this year. Except it didn't involve any scary cats or any of the other creepy sh*t in that clip. Let me tell you, though, those dance steps are no joke! I tried... And since we're on the topic of music icons, what the hell ever happened to Wang Chung?! Stuff like this makes me want to pull a modern-day Marty McFly and go be a teenager in the 1980s.

And thanks to Alistairh for unknowingly allowing me to grab his "snot" art and post it as if it were my own over here...trust me, I have enough Kleenex for it...

bear with me...(LOL!)

DC doesn't often please me. In fact, more often than not it makes me question the very essence of humanity. I ponder such questions as "WHY GOD WHY?!" and "SERIOUSLY, IS THIS WHAT IT'S COME TO?!" But then something comes along so great, so monumental, so fantastical that it makes me stop in my proverbial e-tracks and type in boldface, "F*CK YES! THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKIN' ABOUT, ARNOLD!" Of course then DC nearly always makes like Triumph, though, and comes along to poop on it. Asses.

Take for instance, this photo, which I jacked probably illegally from DCist.



Does that look like the work of a terrorist to you? DC thinks so!

How apropos, however, as yesterday I mentioned the ridiculousness of the Secret Service thinking a terrorist would waste his (or her! -- I'm equal opportunity over here at The Anti DC) time disguising an improvised explosive device in something as mundane as a pile of dirty laundry. I called it remedial, in fact.

So how's about disguising your IED as a giant stuffed bear?! Now that is some goddamn gold-star terrorism! Except, not really...at all. DCist pointed out that the image captured above is not unlike those of artiste Mark Jenkins. His sh*t is, in fact, pretty tight. And, SURPRISE, it's not explosive!

Sadly this should not be a surprise. OF COURSE this isn't a bomb. It's a giant stuffed hobo bear that's attempting to scavenge from a garbage can. It's wacky! It's wonderful! IT'S A LIFESIZE HOBO BEAR! Seriously, the laundry idea was more plausible than this... But does logic stop the city of DC, or any American city for that matter (DCist rightfully points toward Boston's infamous, yet hilarious, Aqua Teen Hunger Force debacle), from getting their metaphorical granny panties in a bunch? Hell-to-the-retardulous-no.

According to DCist and NBC4, residents around the area spotted the bear as early as seven in the morning. Police, however, didn't spring into action, as they're too busy yelling at me for jay-biking in an EMPTY F*CKING INTERSECTION, until 10 a.m. when they decided to shut down the Columbia Heights station. Then they stood around staring at it for a while trying to figure out if there was a person in the costume or if it was stuffed. Finally deeming it stuffed, the bomb squad came in around noon to chop the bear in half and concluded what everyone else had concluded at fricking 7 o'clock. It might be da bomb, but it's certainly not a bomb. I feel as sorry for that poor stuffed bear as I do for myself for cracking that last joke.

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, PEOPLE! A RANDOM, LIFESIZE STUFFED HOBO BEAR SHOULD BE THE SOURCE OF WHIMSICAL WONDER AND MIRTHFUL MERRIMENT, NOT A CAUSE FOR UNNECESSARY ALARM. It's sh*t like this that makes me thing the terrorists really have won. They've made our society so paranoid that we've sucked the fun out of everything...EVEN LIFESIZE STUFFED HOBO BEARS! For shame...

Photo and, well, all the facts stolen from DCist. Irrefutable opinion courtesy of The Anti DC. You're welcome.

shambles p.i. -- the vehicular edition

It's like Shambles P.I. mania this week! Yowza! However, while Shambles P.I. usually targets people, in today's installment -- the vehicular edition -- Shambles will be turning its keen laser eyes toward one of DC's hottest whips found on 14th Street somewhere between U Street and Columbia Heights. Check it:

Ridin' dirty shambley.

Now, maybe someone who knows more about motor vehicles than I do can help me out here. Is it just me or are the wheels on this Ford Taurus (or is that a Chevy Impala?) a tad too small? You can't see it, but on the driver's side back window thre's a sticker that says "DUB," in an ode to the eponymous magazine dedicated to dubs, rims and what I generally like to call hubcaps. Now, if you're going to put the proverbial wrong-sized shoe on your horse-powered foot, may I suggest you go for an all-out clown shoe? Kind of like what Ted Musson and his 1988 Chevy Caprice are doing here:

He won the Grand Prize Game!

Now those are some nice hubcaps, not to mention the Alien-like crazy engine spewing forth from the Caprice's chest cavity. Ah, the wonders of the world...

I'm going to do this to my bike. It will be righteous to roll on 22's 66's.

dear commuters and your cars

Suck it. I don't mean to be crass here (OK, I do), but I can't help myself after reading this article from Saturday's Washington Post, in which dumbass commuters complain about the city of DC finally trying to make its streets more pedestrian and bike-friendly for -- wait for it -- THE PEOPLE WHO LIVE HERE.

The District is escalating what some suburban commuters are calling its war against workers who drive into the city. The city has changed parts of Constitution Avenue NE from a reversible commuter artery back to a quiet side street and is considering removing the reversible lane on 16th Street NW, a key commuting route from Montgomery County.

That idea sounds awesome. Listen, I live on 16th Street. It's loud. Sure, the noise is sometimes attributable to the occasional shout/firework/gun shot (not necessarily all at the same time), but most of the time it's from traffic. Trust me, when you live a 15-minute bike ride from work, suffer from a slight case of insomnia and don't need to be in the office until 9 a.m. 10 a.m., it sucks to be awoken by a trillion suburbanites injecting themselves into the city to get to their sh*tty jobs at 7 a.m. 6 a.m. by utilizing that reversible lane on 16th Street.

The District is moving toward becoming "the most anti-car city in the country," said John Townsend, a spokesman for AAA Mid-Atlantic. "They see commuters as the enemy."

While I think commuting is a big waste of time personally (I'd rather pay more for the luxury of being able to walk/bike anywhere I need to go than pay less and live in, say, Dale City), I don't see commuters as the enemy, per se. Their cars -- perhaps. But commuters themselves? Not if they're doing what most people do in the rest of the world, such as riding the damn commuter trains THAT WERE CONSTRUCTED ESPECIALLY FOR THEM with the other plebes.

And yes, I just called you all plebes. I'm a plebe. You're a plebe. Everyone's a plebe-plebe. Get over it. I don't care whether you drive a broke-down hatchback or a Bentley. If you're driving yourself in a motor vehicle and not commuting via helicopter, hovercraft or some other legitimately cool, non-traditional mode of transportation, you're a plebe and you need to learn to just deal with it. And therein lies the problem.

It seems so many of the people who commute via personal motor vehicle think they're entitled to drive like assholes on my roads. I realize I don't literally own 16th Street, but metaphorically, I do. I live here. You don't. I should be able to ride my damn bike up and down that bitch as much as I want to without worrying about some SUV with Maryland plates honking like an asshole while creeping up dangerously close to my sweet ass when I'm as far to the right as I can possibly get without physically peddling in the gutter and subsequently curbing myself. Not tight.

Improving pedestrian safety is a priority for the city. The District has higher pedestrian death rates than New York, Boston, Seattle, Chicago and Los Angeles, with 2.7 deaths per 100,000 people, according to the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration. Pedestrian injuries rose from 586 in 2000 to 725 in 2006. District officials said the city's broad avenues create wide expanses of asphalt that make it difficult or intimidating for pedestrians to cross.

Seriously. You, automobile commuter, need to step off ma'jock. Or get a job in Maryland. But let me ride dirty in peace on a road that doesn't double as a major highway every weekday at dawn and on one that doesn't cause me to fear for my slightly precious life while I'm out and about enjoying all the sites, establishments and violent crime that my inner city neighborhood has to offer.

Part of the city's new pedestrian plan would eliminate the reversible middle lane on 16th Street NW through Mount Pleasant and Columbia Heights, pedestrian-heavy sections of the city. The city wants to turn the lane into a landscaped island that would serve as a refuge for pedestrians trying to cross the street.

Thank you, I would love a landscaped island. After failing in so many uniquely retarded ways, DC is finally doing something right, so please, you, your car and your silly "taxation with representation," shut the f*ck up.

U.S. Rep. James P. Moran Jr. (D-Va.) said the city should be careful not to chase people away. Like the District, Old Town Alexandria would be a nicer place without all the cars, he said. But there is an economic component to be considered, he said, and people in cars represent customers for restaurants and shops.

"Because of the limitations of our rail and bus system, there are an awful lot of suburbanites who don't have access but are willing to spend lots of money in the District," Moran said. "They are dependent on suburban spending for their tax base."

He added: "DC could wind up as an island isolating themselves with these policies. Don't pray too hard for fear that all your prayers will be answered."

Uh-huh, right...The next time I see a rush of suburbanites trying to kick it at Burritos Fast or Don Juan's, maybe I'll indulge Moran in his opinion that it's self-important douches in SUVs from Maryland and Virginia who keep this city afloat. Until that day, however, I'm forced to just keep it real and end this exactly as I started it: Suck it. Or better yet, I'm going to organize a mass Segway tour around Old Town Alexandria. With babies. In double-wide strollers. Reciprocity is a bitch!

:)

yellow pants are tight

I've been thinking quite a bit about feelings lately. You know, basically how I can offend the greatest amount of people with the least amount of effort. As it turns out, that's surprisingly easy to do. In fact, all I have to do is breath.

I pissed a cab driver off yesterday for getting into his cab. He tried to charge my friend and I separately to sit in his cab (which is total bullsh*t, by the way, so if some shady dumbass driver tries to pull that scheme on you, let him know you're willing to take it up with the police).

Then this morning, while commuting via Baguette to work, I nearly got clotheslined by a douchebag exiting his car. There was a bit of a scuffle, which may or may not have resulted in a scratch or two on his vehicle (I didn't stick around long enough to check and Baguette came out unscathed), but this bitch had the nerve to yell at me. Um, now I've found logic to be an elusive quality in the Capital of the Free World, but it seems to me that if someone HITS YOU, it should be on his back to apologize. Just sayin'.

And truthfully, I'm surprised he didn't see me coming out of the corner of his eye, as to compensate for the gloom and doom that is this week for me at work (thanks to the House and Senate both, um, doing their jobs and actually marking up a few bills -- trust me, I'm as surprised as you!), I decided to wear the brightest, sunniest, most cheery yellow tight pants I own:

Happy fun sunshine time, heyyy!

Yeah, those are zippers at the ankles, indeed! But let's move on to the footwear. Gladiator sandals are all the rage this season, and I'd been looking for metallic ones for quite some time, however, the only pair (until now) that I had truly liked were upwards of $330 (scroll down to see the Helena in graphite). Yeah.

Luckily, last Friday, when I was picking up a few last minute travel items at Bed, Bath and Beyond (their travel section is AMAZING), I decided to stop by the Marshall's located just beneath it in the DC USA shopping complex in Columbia Heights. Lo and behold, amid all the schlock and rows of flip-flops (ugh), I found the pair pictured here for just $25.

Note to self: Stop over-boozing. My shakes are not helping my photog skills, clearly.

They came in pewter (pictured, um, sorta) and bronze. (For a better image, check out them out here.) If you want a pair, I suggest you hit that sh*t up now, as this was the only decent-looking shoe in the bunch, I won't lie (I'm not a fan of that Marshalls...), and with a discount of over 50 percent, it's kind of an unbeatable deal. They run super big, however, so you're probably going to want to size down. And lastly, they actually seem pretty well made so when I have to kick a cab driver in the teeth for trying to rip me off or a driver in the throat for yelling at me after he hit me, I think these would hold up just fine. Afterall, the Goose of Justice can't always be around to help you out of a jam.

where there's smoke, there's hitchhiking

While walking home from the salaried job Wednesday evening, I came across a crime scene. I approached the yellow police tape after stopping by Target to pick up a few items (twice in one week!) and asked what happened. The policeman guarding the scene didn't say much besides telling me that, my 12-pack of toilet paper and laundry soap were to go nowhere.

"How long will the wait be?" I asked.

"As long as it takes," he replied.

Well, at least if I needed to take a whiz, I was well prepared. (Yeah, I totally just said that.)

So, I waited. As others approached, though, I began to find out what was going on. Apparently, someone got shot in the face on a bus in broad daylight. Not tight. However, when I tried to research crimes going on in Columbia Heights around 5 p.m. on March 12, I couldn't find anything about a shooting...so I don't know how accurate this is. Regardless, though, it was nice of the cop to just let us think someone got shot in the face on a bus in broad daylight. Ace work, buddy!

Anyway, thinking that would be my sole encounter with police tape this week, I went home, made a toilet paper nest and curled up for a nap. (Um, just kidding about that toilet paper nest...or am I?! I got the quilted!)

But, as with most things in life, I would soon find out I was wrong.

My Thursday morning started at 4 a.m. when a slew of sirens disturbed my sweet, sweet slumber (in that toilet-paper nest). And while I hear sirens quite often in my head due to living on one of Washington's main streets, something about these sirens was different. Mainly, they didn't stop. So, I peeked out my window. There were hoses and a couple of firetrucks strewn about the street.

"Is my building on fire?" I thought. But having not seen a flood of people on the street, I decided it probably wasn't and went back to bed. Sleep first, safety second.

Luckily for me, I was right. It wasn't my building that hosted the zillion-alarm fire, but a building about 2 blocks away*, which is where I ran into the second coming of the yellow police tape.

"I guess I won't be taking the bus today," I thought, as I began to walk.

When I finally reached the edge of Rock Creek Park, where the residences end and a vast, bus-stopless stretch of road begins, I ran into the mob. There were about 30 or so people waiting for an alternate bus. Some tried to flag down cabs, but this being DC, the cabs just kept going. (God forbid they do their job.) I waited for a few minutes before remembering I had workable legs, so I decided to just walk another 25 minutes to get to my office. Little did I know, however, that I would miss all the action -- all the Third World action, that is!

Apparently, after a while, when the bus didn't come (of course it didn't!), people started getting restless. And with no cabs, people began to get desperate -- so desperate, in fact, that their eyes must have exuded despair and desperation. Then something magical began to happen. According to a man I met while waiting for the bus to come home later that day, people began to hitchhike!

He relayed that he got a ride across Rock Creek Park that morning by some HVAC repairmen in a rusty white van! He told me one woman hopped into a random Toyota, another got into a shiny Saturn, and even more people piled into other vehicles! In this time of crisis, DC dropped its uptight, First-World distrust of others, and started hopping into gypsy cabs, a practice that's standard in the developing world!

"It was kind of cool," the man at the bus stop told me later that day. "Actually, it was really cool."

Indeed, my bus-stop friend, indeed. I can't believe I missed it. I love a good gypsy cab ride. Now, if only we could make it last forever. However, short of rampant arson, I don't think it will. I mean, even I'm not crazy enough to start burning down homes to make DC cooler. Maybe if I just hop in unlocked cars as they stop at stoplights? That could work. Well, until I get pistol-whipped by someone who didn't readily give up their illegal firearms to the cops...dammit.

*By the way, to donate goods, clothes, food, etc., to those who lost their homes in the blaze, you can drop stuff off at Pfeiffer's Hardware located at 3219 Mount Pleasant St.

stop ruining our gentrification process, tv news!

As those of you who live in DC probably already know, the Target store opened today in Columbia Heights' new mini-mall. Yay! After a few months of delays, the gentrification process is finally back on track! Well, that is, it was back on track until every local television newscaster began their quest earlier today to keep sh*tting on all of our parades. I swear, every teaser for the 11 p.m. newscast is warning that, along with those new mod accent lamps and that Isaac Mizrahi for Target blouse you bought, Target customers will also get at least one free mugging.

Seriously?

Now I'm no criminal (well, at least I don't break laws that affect other people), but if I were to mug someone, I'd prefer to jack handfuls of cash rather than well-priced yuppie paraphernalia. I mean, I don't think there's that large of a shadow economy for chenille throw pillows. Is there?

Anyway, I want to address the remainder of this post to Maureen Bunyan, Leon Harris, Todd McDermott, Doreen Gentzler and all the other fear-mongers masquerading as serious journalists: SHUT THE F*CK UP!

XO,

The Anti DC

(Call me if you're hiring!)

you had me at bow tie

Since I've already proclaimed my undying devotion to whom I believe to be the hottest man in the legislative branch, allow me now to introduce to you the hottest most stylish man in DC's local government -- Councilmember Jim Graham (D). Behold!

"Make it work!"

The orange cat-eye spectacles! The multi-colored, polka-dot bow tie! The dramatic side part in his sandy-blond hair! For reals, Mr. Graham has got it going on.

And to my delight, Jim "The Hotness" Graham represents my very own neighborhood, the venerable Columbia Heights/Mt. Pleasant! And, apparently, he's not half bad! He's trying to keep my rent low!

But slim pocketbook aside, what's clearly more important here is this man's eye for detail.

A "bee"-jeweled broach! (Get it? LOL!)

And let's not overlook his love of luxury!

Chinchilla, fox, mink? Oh my!

But lest you get the wrong idea, let me take a page from the respectable US Weekly and tell you that the stars council members are just like us, as exhibited by Graham, this man among boys.

He loves animals!

He lifts boxes!

He rides the metro (with the mayor)!

And he does it all while keeping his sh*t tight. No Crocs shall sully his fine linen metro attire. Nary a fleece shall besmirch his shoulders! And may he sooner see a polyester novelty tie in hell before one defaces his finely tailored collar! Eff Clinton, Obama, McCain, et al.! Graham Graham's Bow Tie 2008!

new circle of hell found in neighborhood grocery store

Sunday was a trying day for me here in the District. Not only was I wholly not into the U.S. American Super Cup football match that was to take place that day, but I had a bit of a hangover (damn my 28-year-old metabolism!) and was terribly hungry as my food intake during the preceding 24 hours included roughly three vodka-soaked olives.

And I don't know why I even opened my pint-size fridge -- I knew what was coming. As I peered into the chilly white cube I felt tears well up in my glassy eyes. When I needed the chips'n'salsa gods the most, they had abandoned me, leaving in their place half-a-carton of week-old blueberries, half a bottle of syrup and a jar of reduced-fat mayo (I clearly don't cook.).

I probably stared at those three items for three minutes willing them to become a bag of Tostitos restaurant-style white corn tortilla chips, a jar of Newman’s Own medium chunky salsa and a Cherry Coke Zero (if only I was getting paid for this product placement), but deep down I knew all the willing in the world wouldn't save me from my fate. I couldn't put it off any longer; I had to go to my neighborhood Giant supermarket.

NOOOOOOOOOOO! The humanity!

Of all the hells I've seen (and I've seen many here in DC), the Columbia Heights Giant on a Sunday is one of the worst. And with the U.S. American Super Cup football match about to begin, I could only imagine that this Giant on this Sunday would by far surpass Dante's ninth circle. Honestly, the devil himself is not even stupid enough to step foot in this hell that the creator of hells one through nine never dared to imagine. But my fate was already sealed. It was either moldy blueberries au syrup and mayo or I would absolutely have to travel to the darkest of darksides. And so began Canto XXXV.

I waited until 7:30 pm, trying to avoid the football match rush, to begin my epic journey. I sensed something strange on the streets as I made my way toward 14th Street. It was surreally empty, quiet and even less smelly than normal. I smiled to myself thinking I had pulled a proverbial fast one on the Prince of Darkness.

But I should've known the Monarch of Hell would have the last LOL. As soon as I entered the second set of sliding glass doors, I looked to my right and saw what no shopper should ever have to see -- an endless sea of like-minded individuals who probably went through the same exact thought process that I had in trying to avoid the earlier big-football-match-going crowd.

But I'm no quitter, so I stuck to my plan. I was not going to let Beelzebub win -- at least not without a fight. I made my way to the ransacked chips'n'salsa'n'soda aisle. It was on. I grabbed my Tostitos, my Newman's Own and the very last Cherry Coke Zero and headed for one of only two open express checkout lanes. The lines extended nearly halfway down the length of an aisle; there must have been 20 people in front of me. I trembled slightly. Was it from lack of food or sleep? Or was it the devil's icy clutches nearing my neck?!? Eh...probably the first reason.

I jumped out of the express line and into a shorter non-express line toward the exit. Despite the four overflowing carts in front of me, I figured there was no way this line would be slower than the, um, hellishly long express lines. And so I waited...and waited...and waited...

Ten minutes must have passed yet no one moved forward. I looked toward the front of the line. It was an elderly couple sorting through their coupons. The checkout lady looked confused as she took roughly 30 seconds of her my time to stare at each one as if it were a half-naked photo of Johnny Depp (ladies and gays, you’re going to want to click on those). But if only the hold-ups ended there...

After nearly drawing blood from digging my own nails into the palms of my hands trying hard not to punch the two elderly people in their faces (was this my very own Giant stigmata?!), I breathed a huge sigh of relief as I finally saw the two penny-pinching old people grab their items and go. Hallelujah! The line pressed forward. But almost as soon as I moved those three precious feet, the next 10-minute hold-up began only to be followed up three times with other issues.

If it wasn't a coupon issue, it was a debit card issue. (Sidebar: How do you not know your own damn PIN?!) If it wasn't a debit card issue, it was a bagging issue. (Sidebar: Plastic in paper in plastic, really?) And if it wasn't a bagging issue, it was an all-around incompetence issue. (Sidebar: Must you stop doing your goddamn job of scanning and packing my three effing items to have a five minute conversation about nothing with another checker?!)

Honestly, the Columbia Heights Giant blows my mind in its backwardness. I don't have a business degree or anything but I think that when effing Kyrgyz grocery stores are cleaner, better stocked and more efficiently run than one of the largest chain grocery stores in the Capital of the Free World, it might be time to reconfigure your operation or at least make my shopping experience less burdensome and scary than a place where Judas, Brutus and Cassius are getting eternally chewed by a triple-faced Lucifer. Just sayin’...

By the way, when I finally made it home (nearly an hour-and-a-half later!) from this epic odyssey, I was too tired to eat. The devil may have won this time, but I will get the last three words: "Suck it, Giant."