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.

komi and get it

I wish I could say, "You probably know it's Valentine's Day, unless you were born in the USSR," but um...

Yeah. Unfortunately, nowadays it seems the entire world is making itself sick from overexposure to Red #40 and the ugliest shade of pink known to man.

Sike! Who am I kidding! I love this time of year! And not just because I get to send love notes to Vladimir Putin. I love it because this year I got to dine at Komi (the restaurant, not the Russian Republic), which is arguably the best fancy food venue in DC. And when I say "fancy food," I mean we're talking about a menu that comes in one variety -- tasting.

Tasting menus are great. Not only does this take the pressure off the customer from making a poor decision and ordering something he or she might regret when his or her companion orders something better (seriously, I'm the worst orderer known to man), but tasting menus leave you directly in the chef's hands and in the case of Komi, that's probably where you want to live.

I have nothing bad to say about this place. The service matched the phantasmagoria of the food. The waitstaff whizzed around explaining ingredients, keeping water glasses full, helping in wine selection. And when my napkin fell off my lap onto the ground one server swooped in to pick it up and a second flew by right after him to offer me a new one. It was a like a freaking Chagall painting in there. People were floating.

As far as the food, well, I touched on this initially -- it was fan-f*cking-tastic. I won't go into detail, as I think it's better to come here and be surprised (they don't tell you any details before a plate arrives), but I can say with almost 100 percent assurance that you won't be disappointed. Hands down, this was the best food experience of my life. And while I wouldn't want to eat this way every day (if that were the case, even Chagall wouldn't be able to make me look light), I plan to definitely come back again one day. Maybe in a year...Komi's also not cheap.

But alas, today my mind is still in a dream state. But don't worry. The second I bite into one of Taco Bell's 36 percent beef tacos I'll crash straight back into reality. I know where I usually live.

And speaking of lack of beef, it's nothing but love when it comes to my cat and his crush, Maru, the most famous cat in the world. Here's my Valentine's Day gift to the world in viral video form. Enjoy!



PS -- Arcade Fire won Album of the Year at the Grammys? Pigs must be flying to the tune of the fat lady in a very chilly hell today. Clearly, the world as we have come to know it is now over. Poor, poor Justin Bieber...but if 36 percent beef tacos can survive so can the modern American popstar's brand of 36 percent music. I'm a Belieber!

kick it

Oh boy! Just when you thought DC couldn't get more f*cked up (after all, most of the population thinks dognapping is pretty great), turns out there's a dude wandering around town kicking ladies in the shins! Splendid!

According to the woman who got kicked, "Jeannie," it's this man, but without the hobo-esque (or Jesus-like?) facial hair:

Kicking and screaming strutting.

I yanked this photo from another blog called Holla Back DC that someone linked to on Prince of Petworth, where this story first broke. As always, The Anti DC is third to know. Or fourth. Or last. Whatever.

I've got more important things to do over here. Like watch men's tennis and read The Onion. I guess maybe I'm sexist because I really don't like women's tennis and I laughed for hours over that Onion article.

This led to several hours of self-analysis. Can a woman be sexist against her own kind? Maybe. I mean, I also hate The View. And I don't much care for Lifetime. On the other hand, I love to bake. And I love The Tyra Banks Show. Needless, to say I was very confused -- so confused, in fact, that I vowed never to engage in any form of self-introspection again.

Instead, I decided to go buy a pineapple. And no, that's not an exciting euphemism for anything. I really mean, I got on my bicycle and went to the grocers to buy a pineapple. I lead a very exciting life.

After procuring the ripest, most delicious smelling pineapple in the bunch, I returned to my bike, unlocked it, shoved my wad of keys in my back pocket and rode off into the sunset. And by "sunset" I mean "soul-killing humidity." The ride was going all right, but the whole time I was hoping not to get kicked. So when a fellow cyclist passed me and my pineapple and said, "Your keys are falling out of your pocket," I nearly weaved those keys between my knuckles in an effort to defend my shins. Then something weird happened. While reaching for my makeshift brass knuckles, I noticed that my keys really were readying to fall out of my pocket! This wasn't a man trying to kick me! This was a man trying to help me! Moreover, he had a tennis racket! No wonder I prefer men's tennis to women's!

I guess I'm not sexist, after all!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some dishes to wash, laundry to fold and a crazy man to go hunt down and kick.

Happy Fourth of July!

party in the eastern bloc!

Not to be forgotten in the wake of Western Jesus's resurrection, it turns out that, thanks to the "Old Calendar," it's Eastern Jesus's day to zombie-up today. That's right, it's Russian Orthodox Easter! I hope you saved some Peeps for Putin...

С Пасхой!

time managment

I don't have a lot of time to write a legitimate essay of discontent today, as I have very important things to do (like go see Adventureland then proceed to some daytime drinking before work...), but in honor of Tax Day, I felt I had to do something.

So, please to allow me to present to you the official Tax Day Anti DC Original E-Greeting Cards For Those Who Want To Simultaneously Impress and Alienate:


Don't forget: FREE ICE CREAM!

you're gonna love my nuts

Well, I'm back from my homeland where, don't you know, I managed to pick up my old accent. Oofta! Hot dish!

It's really a beautiful thing. Or at least beautifully irritating. Oh yah.

However, while I wasn't exaggerating my vowel sounds and talking about Jello casseroles, I was exaggerating my vowel sounds and going to some pretty sweet places and learning what I think most of us already knew -- Minneapolis is way more legit than DC, and not just because it hosts the Town Talk Diner, which serves its 40 ounces on ice and its PBR cans in cozies, although that is just about enough to make any city cool. But no, what I'm referring to is the general feel of the city. See, unlike DC, which is a soulless, concrete succubus, Minneapolis actually has an identity that doesn't begin and end in a chili restaurant. (No offense, Ben's Chili Bowl, but one longstanding establishment does not a legitimate city make.)

To illustrate this comparison I've formulated yet another example from my generic knowledge of both Minneapolis and DC: Purple Rain, starring Prince (!), was filmed in Minneapolis. St. Elmo's Fire, starring a bunch of has-been assholes, was filmed in DC. Let's see -- awesome rock star vs. a bunch of brats who need acting lessons. Rock star wins.

But I digress, this comparison is rather pointless as I'm pretty sure I can compare DC to any number of things and DC would always lose. Think about it: National Asbestos Awareness Week -- DC loses; the SlapChop infomercial ("You're gonna love my nuts.") -- DC clearly loses; a rabid raccoon -- DC loses; armed terrorists -- OK, this one is too close to call. But threats to our lives aside, I'm guessing if you're not profoundly retarded (that's the technical term, look it up!), you get what I'm saying. DC sucks. Duh.

More importantly for this post, however, I want to emphasize that Minneapolis pretty much rules. Besides the Town Talk Diner, there's Grumpy's (if you order an appetizer, note that you will not need to order a meal), First Ave. (featured in Purple Rain, mind you!), Pot O' Gold Bingo Hall (although, unfortunately, I missed this establishment this time around), Zantigo, the best little Mexican fast-food dirthole restaurant around, and even the Mall of America, which never fails to give me a headache, but mostly because I have to leave my pistol in the car.


Not having my gun handy became extraordinarily frustrating when I ran into several large Lego® dinosaurs because, naturally, I wanted to shoot them. Luckily, I quickly realized they weren't live big game, so I used my camera to shoot them instead. (Get it? Har har!)






Now that's some Lego® art! And speaking of art, we also made our way down to the Walker Art Center's sculpture garden, where I found this:


They popped the cherry off the spoon! Damn maintenance. But at least my footprint may be forever immortalized (well, until April) in the refreezing ices and snows of the North.


And if that's not enough to convince you of Minneapolis' superiority to DC, entertain this: You can get a 1 bedroom apartment (not a studio, mind you) in one of the coolest areas of town for UNDER $700. Oh yah, just think about that next time you find yourself getting shot while going home to your tiny basement apartment in the ghetto or the "group house" you share with 314 other people. Oofta, indeed.

Oh and lest I forget it's St. Patrick's Day today, please accept this Anti DC Original E-Greeting Card For Those Who Want To Simultaneously Impress and Alienate as my welcome home e-gift to you. Greetings!

a day late, but nary a bullet short

Along with playing the sh*t out of some ponies as well as turning a quarter into $375 at Charles Town Races & Slots this Valentine's Day,* I also went to the range, where not only did I get to shoot a lot of stuff in its proverbial face, but I also learned that perhaps I should try my hand at the greeting card business.


Now, I realize this is a day late, but I just couldn't help myself. I e-love you all too much! Plus, if there's any picture of myself that I definitely want floating around the Internet, it's that one.

BECAUSE I SHOOT FROM THE HIP! HUZZAH!

*Blog post forthcoming.

confessions

One of my dreams came true yesterday. I saw Usher live and in person. Or at least pixelated on a slightly time-delayed Jumbotron. And while I was dismayed he didn't perform "Confessions" (or drop trou on stage), I'm elated that he was chosen to sing "Higher Ground" with Stevie Wonder. But then Shakira came on the stage and f*cked it all up. At the time, however, with my rather obstructed view, it was just "some blond girl with a shaky voice." Who knew? Oh. The people not watching the Jumbotron at an awkward angle.

So, alas, I'm not the savviest of large concert goers, but I am one of the most observant. Well, except when it comes to Shakira. In short, it was a really bizarre atmosphere. I've mentioned it before, but allow me to just go ahead and repeat myself -- the hysteria surrounding Obama seems very Soviet to me. At one point, while I was walking down 17th (I was forced to bequeath my bike at G Street), a scruffy young whippersnapper (yes, sometimes I talk like an octogenarian), came up to my friends and I and offered us gift certificates for a free "Obama tattoo."

My immediate reaction was, of course, to laugh in his face, however, as I type this now I wonder, "Is that a free tattoo of just the name 'Obama' or a full-out portrait of the man's visage?" If it's the latter, then I can assure you that my fears of a 21st-century, American version of a 20th-century, Soviet-style cult of personality are disturbingly accurate:


However, unlike the Soviet versions of cult of personality, which were largely propagated and controlled by the state, Obama's seems to come directly from the masses, who went nuts whenever the camera turned its attention from whatever celebrity (Usher) or C-lister (Tom Hanks) was on stage to Obama's toothy grin, even if it was for a split second. This means two things in my mind: 1) Obama is hopefully just as creeped out as I am by all this unnecessary and quite creepy attention, and 2) There's going to be a sh*tload of people in four (or maybe eight) years who will be in need of a tattoo removal service, lest they end up looking like that looker posted above. (Hello, business opportunity!)

But enough about that. I'm becoming a broken record regarding Obamysteria, which I'm afraid doesn't sound cool like an Usher record, but sounds fairly boring like a Josh Groban joint. So, let's move on...

It's Martin Luther King, Jr. day today and I would very much like to observe it, not just to honor Obama (in a non-creepy, but very reasonable way) for becoming our first black president (which is pretty damn cool in showing we've at least come a little ways since the civil rights movement), but also in honor of my beloved Usher, whose name is as fun to type as it is to say. Usher (Usher, Usher, Usher) is, hands-down, the best all-around performer since Michael Jackson. That's a scientific fact. And he's hot.



And in other news, since I suddenly have a ridiculous amount of time on my hands, I've signed up for "Twitter." Not that you all want to know what I'm eating for breakfast (beans), lunch (beans) or dinner (beans), but if you have brain damage and for some reason can't get enough of my daily retardedness here, feel free to "follow me" (wow, that sounds creepy) over there. You can "follow me" (seriously, who thought up the terms for this Web site, anyway?) there under the very creative username "theantidc," which you can find via my E-mail or my name maybe. I don't know. I'm functionally retarded.

And speaking of retarded, I've been asked to DJ a short set next Monday (Jan. 26) at Solly's near U Street. I can guarantee you that I will throw some Usher up in the mix, which I will sandwich between stuff Usher's probably never heard of, or if he has, probably doesn't like. Anyway, bring your family, friends, e-friends, girlfriends, boyfriends, frienemies, archenemies, nemeses, hobos, hookers and whoever else you can wrangle up and be sure to say "Hello!" or "F*ck you!" or "See you in hell!" or whatever. I don't yet have an exact time for my set, but when it comes up I'll be sure to let you all know through at least one of the 7,983 means I have to e-communicate (read: self=promote) these days.

Until then, Happy Martin Luther King, Jr. Day!

happy preemptive new year!

I truly hope everyone thoroughly enjoyed their celebrations of Christmahanakwanzakuh this year. I know I did! Except for the part when my mom and I decided to break tradition of not doing anything Christmas-y (or Hanakwanzakuh-y) on Christmas and instead opted to make a home-cooked meal. Apparently, Santa brought me kitchen skillz this year. And this time I didn't unnecessarily harm myself. In fact, I didn't even necessarily harm myself, which I suppose, means I did thoroughly enjoy that experience.

What I really didn't enjoy was when my mom and I went to see Seven Pounds and for the first time in my life, Will Smith did not make me simply miss DJ Jazzy Jeff, which means I guess this was a really good movie. However, the character Smith played made me feel like a 17th-century sufferer of melancholia, meaning when we returned to my mom's house later I naturally treated the condition by making a broth of laurel, white hellebore, bugloss, marigold and pennyroyal, and, of course, I let a little blood with horse leeches. Then, seeing as it was Christmas, I thought what better time for a bit of transubstantiation in reverse than now? But, on second thought, that seemed like a really bad and quite revolting idea (Jesus would, in fact, not do that), so I decided to watch a whole lot of cable television instead.

Indeed, it was a grand holiday.

But I must admit, as New Year's dawns, I'm not that sorry to see 2008 go, as I'm absolutely certain 2009 will punch 2008 in its proverbial face. For example, I started off 2008 sitting in my apartment feeling sick and missed my flight to New York City. Juxtapose that to this year when I'll be in effing Nicaragua hopefully not getting framed for murder. I'll also be learning how to surf! So, unlike my past cooking fiascoes of 2008, when I hurt myself in 2009, it will be well-worth it.

Unfortunately, while I'll be scouting out the best medical treatments in Central America for the next week and a half, I won't be blogging. That is, I won't be available to make you feel slightly better about your own life by oversharing the shambles of my own. But, hey, nothing makes the heart grow fonder than a little distance, especially e-distance.

So, with that in mind, allow me to preemptively wish you a Happy New Year! I'll e-see you next year (possibly in a full-body cast). Ciao!

finally a sensible reason to vote

It seems like every other person on the Facebook is "donating their status update to vote for Barack Obama" or whatever. I'm sure Barack appreciates that. However, I've refrained from doing any such thing because 1) I live in DC so, thanks to the electoral college, my vote doesn't really matter, and 2) I'm much more excited for a different election, which, of course, is just as much of a ruse.

For those of you registered in DC, you may have noticed something a bit odd in your voter registration materials. Can you spot it?


While I'm sure most people might know where I'm going with this, allow me to obnoxiously point it out anyway, emphasizing this oddity with a menagerie of random objects.


What the hell is this?! I get to vote for someone to represent me in the legislative branch of the federal government -- the branch that creates many of the laws that allow the Internal Revenue Service to take my money?! IT'S ABOUT DAMN TIME!*

*Except that it's not, thanks to those ominous floating asterisks.

Unlike every other person outside of this khaki-clad cess-pool of nametag-wearing jagbags, according to the asterisk-y addendum, "U.S. Senator and U.S. Representative are local D.C. offices which have the same title as the federal offices that will be created if the District becomes a state."

So, what I'm getting out of this is that these positions are elected to...do nothing? That is, unless the District becomes a state, which will happen in exactly never years, DC's two faux-Senators and one pseudo-representative get to just sit back and wait for a call that will never come from Congress? Do they get paid for this?! Because, if so, I'm so in. That sounds like the perfect job for me, actually.

Seriously, had I known about this sooner, I'd have launched a campaign and gotten my e-friends to donate their Facebook statuses to me. And maybe a few coins to pay for some sweet television spots that highlight just how skilled I am at collecting money for doing nothing.

And although I'm pretty patient, I'm one that likes to get the proverbial heads rolling. So while I could've just sat back and waited around for nothing to happen, I would've had a key plan of action. That is, I'd have earned my money not solely for loafing, but for lurking, as well. See, I'm a pretty damn fine loiterer. In fact, I'd even venture to say that I've perfected the art of chillaxing. While that may seem like another variation of doing nothing, I'm pretty sure I could add a little harassment to the mix and really take care of bizness. Eventually, the whole of Congress would all be so sick of me, that they'd grant DC statehood just to get me my own office and get me out of their geriatric faces.

If that's not a solid plan for change or a Maverick-like move, then my friend Peter isn't the most creative visionary of Halloween costume design you've ever seen.

He's a Ukrainian black-and-white television!

Unfortunately, just as it's too late for me to cop Peter's Halloween steez, if you will, it's also a bit too late for my campaign to really take off. As such, let's review some of the candidates who were smart enough to jump on what might be the best job ever in time to get their names on the ballot.

Alas, though, by "some," I really mean "one," since most everyone on the ballot nearly put me to sleep with their statements filled with talk of "experience" and "policies" and sh*t. The only one to stand out and truly make an impression on me was Damien Lincoln Ober. This guy didn't mention his qualifications even once, which makes me think he's probably best suited for the job since, apparently, you don't really need any skills anyway. But what convinced me more than his seeming total lack of experience was the style of his statement. He put together a whole narrative!

"1999: two homeless men sit outside a computer lab pouring champagne they buy every New Year's Eve. Together, they watch a room full of computer programmers, corporate executives and politicians sweating the approach of midnight. Eyes bounce from clocks to computer screens and back. The last second drops off ... and nothing happens. A short breath and the people in the room totally loose [sic] it. They're screaming, crying, praying, kissing, fainting. Outside, one of the homeless men sips champagne, says, "I wonder if they're going to act like this all millennium?"

I have no idea what in hell Ober's talking about, but I appreciate his efforts, even with an obvious typo. I also appreciate that he's dubbed himself the "Shadow Senator" and maintains a Web site called www.shadow08.com. Oh, and he's made a sweet campaign ad!



There are so many references to Plato's cave allegory in that video that I can barely contain myself! In fact, I'm about to do something unprecedented here on The Anti DC and make an official endorsement. That shady bitch has got my vote! Now if only it mattered...

h.b., me, h.b.!

Ahem. I dedicate this post to myself. Why? 'Cause it's my golden birthday, that's why! Twenty-nine on the 29th. Ouch!

But surprisingly, it's not as painful as I thought it would be. Why? Because unlike when I was, say, 19 -- TEN YEARS AGO (good gracious...) -- I can now afford to buy myself nice birthday gifts. Being poor is for college kids. Suck it!

Anyway, since I've already dedicated this to myself, I might as well really feed my narcissistic, even megalomaniac, tendencies and post gratuitous photos of some recent outfits, which include my birthday purchases. I ♥ Capitalism (almost) as much as I ♥ myself and I ♥ myself just about as much as I h8 terrorists! Loving terrorism is for terrorists. Suck it!

Um, sucking it aside, though, let's get down to paying attention to me. My first rather completely unnecessary purchase is a pair of expensive sunglasses. Whoops?


Comparing them to my Target wayfarers, I can definitely see the difference in quality, however, plastic is plastic and my foot will bust a $150 pair of sunglasses just as well as a $15 pair. I do love the two-toned gold on black, though, which is what goaded me into buying these in the first place. Plus, they go great with Topsiders.

David Caruso-ing it!

As you can see, I keep toilet paper, random cords and dumbass facial expressions handy at all times. Tight. Anyway, I wore this yesterday to the MGMT concert (which, indeed, I found a last-minute face-value ticket for and will be blogging about later). It's very indicative of what I've been doing lately, which is mixing together colors that society says traditionally don't go together, like brown and black. Well, "society" can get in line to suck it with the college kids and terrorists -- I'll make that sh*t work like a child in Bangladesh. (WHOA! Child-labor joke! SCORE!)

And to go with my retardulously expensive shades, I had on a retardulously expensive piece of jewelry (a.k.a. yet another perfect item for me to lose and/or break!), a chunk of Lithuanian blue amber. I'm 100 percent 50/50 that a child crafted it, too. (J/K!...sort of...)

Hey, who remembers that band Split Enz? I love them. Clearly.

But beware literate thieves and criminals with refined taste (for blogs and jewelry), this pendant cost me 878 Lithuanian litas and a good deal of Eastern European haggling, so if you try to snatch it off my neck I will cut you with the dull plastic knife I carry in my bag. Not joking:



But alas, muggers and no-gooders, I'm not wearing that lovely chunk of hydrocarbon-filled fossilized tree resin today, so consider yourselves foiled. Today, I'm dressing on the cheap (save for the bag), which is a very fitting way for me to start off me 29th year of life on this here planet. Everything I'm wearing I got on sale...but, like, really on sale. I think it was Dostoevsky who said, "Clearance racks will save the world," if I'm not mistaken.

I'd be remiss, however, to attribute this outfit entirely to my frugality. Nope. This Happy Birthday outfit is at least 75 percent inspired by the famous lyrics of "White Pants," written by DLake, who composes 50 percent of the venerable Baltimore music duo, Claire Huxtable: "White pants, white pants make you wanna dance (x3)/Caucasian-colored fabrics, swim through drawers like Labyrinth/ I'm messin' with ya'll g-clean/ Hipsters, yuppies knowin' what I mean." Not only does that string of words make absolutely no sense and perfect sense at the same time, but it inspired me to swathe my ass in nothing but Caucasian-colored fabrics:

"Black skin, white skin, pink skin, light skin, Labor Day white -- still ain't dislikin'!" -- DLake.

Yes, but now I must make like Usher circa 2004 and make some confessssssions! Those pants you see there? They're actually a really light gray. I don't own white pants! However, as an apparent hipster-like yuppie, I know what DLake means. *wink!*

And while DLake never mentions open-back shirts or chunky-heeled gladiator sandals, I'm pretty sure that's also implicit in the meaning. Like a bass-thumping dance floor, DC's streets are hot, humid and filled with sh*t to bump into, except instead of other people, it's usually Bob Novak's douchemobile. Anyway, this means that you need to keep both cool and sturdy, hence, the open-back T-shirt and stalwart sandal. Yet while I am usually staunchly opposed to any sort of chunkiness in heel, something about these Nine West strappy shoes made me rethink my moratorium. Or maybe it was the $15 (!) price-tag:

"I can see them drawers that you're wearing/ White pants, white pants, white pants make you dance!" -- DLake.

And so, there it is. My megalomaniac tribute to myself on this very first day of my Year 29. Not bad. I believe I covered all the bases with the inclusion of not only a sweet shot of my ass, but also of my street knife. Now, clearly, it's time for me to imbibe some delicious liquor.

P.S. -- Happy Birthday to everyone else born on this fair day, including at least one of this blog's readers that I know of and, of course, Bryan Dattilo, who you might know as Lucas from Days of Our Lives. Good luck getting Sami back, buddy!

Outfit No. 1 details: Top, H&M; Pants, Express; Shoes, Sperry Topsiders; Sunglasses, Ray-Ban; Pendants, 1 vintage Tiffany, 1 handcrafted by my late grandpa, and 1 bought in Vilnius, Lithuania.

Outfit No. 2 details: Top, Forever 21; Pants, Urban Outfitters; Shoes, Nine West; Bag, Pietro Alessandro.

we're letting the annoying tourists win

I visited DC for the third time in my life in August 2004 with a friend of mine from Dagestan, Russia, a rugged little oblast' next to war-torn Chechnya. My friend, who came to be known as Salty due to his ornery yet endearing personality (and not due to anything unmentionable, sickos), had come here to take the cushy position of "Russian Language Assistant" at my alma mater in Grinnell, Iowa, a town of 10,000 that rests on a methy little section of Interstate-80 equidistant from Iowa City and Des Moines. But before jetting off to Iowa, where Salty would eventually ruin my reputation (not angry, not angry, not angry...), we decided to travel up the East Coast on an epic little road trip adventure (you know, before gas was $100 per gallon).

Our first stop was Virginia Beach, where I was temporarily living with my mom (ahem, and before you judge, I'll let you know that I had just gotten back from three years in hell Moscow and was readying myself to move to Boston the next month). Salty loved it. Compared to Dagestan, which is, um, kinda ridiculously gnarly (no offense, D-friends!), and compared to Moscow, which is, um, kinda ridiculously gnarly (albeit in a much different way than Dagestan, where my paleface friends and I actually had to fear being kidnapped by Wahhabists and held for ransom), southern Virginia was the cleanest, sunniest, safest, most heavenly place on Earth. It also helped that we frolicked around in the Atlantic Ocean, rather than the Caspian Sea where all things go to die.

Our next stop was DC. We spent the day walking around downtown before grabbing a meal of food and a couple of libations at some place in Dupont, where my friend revealed his true feelings about the Capital of the Free World. "I don't like it here," I distinctly remember him, the guy from the Kidnap Capital of the Unfree World, telling me. "Everyone's labeled with their nametags and they all dress the same and they all seem really unfriendly." We were going to spend the night there, but after a full day of government, douches and tools (oh my!), we left. We ended up in Philadelphia and then New York for the rest of the week, where my friend got a much better impression of this quaint little nation of ours.

As I look back at the past year I've spent in DC, Salty's first impressions of this city as a total outsider (both figuratively and literally speaking) continue to haunt me. It's impossible to walk down the street on a weekday and not see at least a dozen people in the course of a few minutes with their names and titles on display. (Why people can't simply wait until they get to their offices to don their nametags, I will never understand.) There are a few more dozen wearing DC's fashion pièce de résistance, the unavoidable pleated khaki, and even a few dozen more who can't walk a block without checking their Blackberrys (I admit, I've even been guilty of that last one a couple of times, but unlike most DCers, I am ashamed...). To put it bluntly, the District is hard to crack as an individual visitor.

Perhaps because of that, as well as the overall closed nature of this city, tourists travel in such large, obnoxious packs with their matching T-shirts and umbrella-wielding guides. Perhaps it is our fault that these schools of oblivious out-of-towners stand on the left side of the escalators or take 15 minutes to buy a Metro card at the one machine that can be used to fill your SmartTrip card. Perhaps it is us and our rabid self-absorbtion that allows these gaggles of hapless assholes to walk five-across, arms-linked on the sidewalk when you're running 10 minutes late to an appointment. Perhaps it is because of us that these ginormous groups of tourists take over our city in the summer. Perhaps there's no other way to visit this city.

The good news is that, while there is no proverbial silver bullet quick fix available, the problem of annoying groups of tourists can be ameliorated if we, DC's less douchey residents, take a moment to stop being so mean to those few visitors who come here solo. To be clear, I'm not advocating not being rude to the large groups of tourists that objectively need to be admonished for their collective stupidity -- hell, punch them all in their faces if necessary. (And, yes, like no panties with jeans,* it's so necessary.) No, what I'm talking about is being nicer to those few individual visitors, even the hippies, who might have stumbled upon our fair city by whim or chance.

If you see a guy holding a map and staring up and down the street, go up to him and help. Tell him you've got his back like the Jansport he's undoubtedly carrying. Even whip out the Blackberry and Google-map something for him if you want to give him a true DC experience. But whatever you do, don't scoff, roll your eyes or otherwise grumble at him for being lost, even if he is wearing a hemp necklace. He was nice enough to travel without 100 of his closest friends, so the least we can do is thank him for that by treating him like a real person. Let's start giving these individual practioners of wanderlust some good memories, instead of bad, and for the love of Charles L'Enfant, can we please stop letting the annoying tourists win. Especially on Memorial Day.

*Get your minds out of the gutters, e-friends, it's just a link to Jay-Z!

**Also, the photo posted above is of a sculpture (!) by an artist named Duane Hanson. Apparently, he specializes in "making startlingly lifelike sculptures of middle America accomplished through a complex process of casting from live models, recreated in bronze or fiberglass resin," according to a write-up by the Saatchi Gallery.

peanut butter jelly time

There is some bizarre sh*t going down on the streets of DC. Although if you think about it, that's not really anything new. I mean, last fall was the season of the wayward Band-Aids (gnarly, I know), which I thought for sure would be the strangest collection of street debris I'd see. However, today on my walk home from the office I noticed something else, something even more inexplicable -- a string of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

I was literally following a bread-crumb trail home, as I walked over, around and, unfortunately in one case, on five PB&J on white bread sandwiches. I spotted the first one on Connecticut Ave. toward Van Ness, the second on Connecticut near Cleveland Park, two more on Klingle passing over Rock Creek Park and at last (at least that I saw) one on Park Road heading into Mt. Pleasant.

While squished sandwiches are definitely a step up from used bandages (yeah, it never stops being gnarly), it strikes me as slightly more strange. I mean, who would discard so many simple yet tasty sandwiches? Certainly, this couldn't have been an accident. No one is that careless to drop not one, but five scrumptious sandwiches. So, what is it? What kind of beast would just throw five sandwiches out on the street like...like, well, Band-Aids?!

Terrorists. They hate freedom and delicious sandwiches. Really, it's the only logical conclusion.

Yeah, I got nothin'! Have a lovely weekend, e-friends. I'm going to make a sandwich.

and lest i forget...

I just bought a pair of boot-cut jeans. From Ann Taylor Loft of all places! You like?

April fools! (LOL! LMAO! ROTFL! LLAHOCWJGFFHDJ!*)

*Anyone who can read my sick and twisted mind and can figure out what this ridiculously long acronym I just made up stands for will not only receive my undying praise, but will also get a free Golden Touch Dice Revolution lesson taught by me in one of DC's sketchiest back alleys. Now if that's not incentive to offer an answer, I don't know what is...

lil' lord doucheington loves me

Valentine's Day is not my favorite holiday (although not for the single-woman-in-the-city-cliché reasons you might expect, mind you). However, my coworkers are slowly showing me the proverbial light. And what better way to pierce my cold metal heart than through gifts and cubicle decorations? They doubled my joy during Christmastime. First, they printed out Flock of Seaguls hair with which to decorate my Putin masquerade mask (who wouldn't get jolly over that?!). Then they gave me the gift of Norm Coleman (R-Minn.) a.k.a. the hottest man in the legislative branch (seriously, does it get better?!). And now they've done it again.

Except this time, in place of Russian presidents and sexy congressmen, they've presented me with English nobility. So, without further ado, please meet Lil' Lord Doucheington,* my Valentine.

"His stool is not loose."


In reality, however, his pants are not tighter than mine.


Not even close.


But he loves me so I'll forgive his trouser miscalculation.

May you all find your very own Lil' Lord Doucheington! Happy Valentine's Day!

Love,

The Anti DC

*Thank you, The Superficial, for introducing my coworkers and I to the venerable Lil' Lord. You've changed my life.

in addendum to the preceding post

You know who else knew the power of a good suit?

Martin Luther King, Jr.



He proved that one need not choose between message and visage. And while clearly, King's wise words would remain just as relevant had he not exhibited a sophisticated penchant for slim-fitting suits and cuff links (the best kind of jewellery a man can wear, in my opinion), his attire certainly underlined his eloquence.

"Nothing in all the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity."

-- Martin Luther King, Jr.