the day that h street died

Since I hate keeping big news a secret (because I'm sure every minute thing that happens to me is noteworthy to your own lives), I don't. Which is why I immediately Twittered the Web (ew) last week when I procured my new two-wheeled whip. I'm sure your lives changed forever when I dropped this Earth-shattering news. So, without further ado, meet Champagne, my brand new-to-me, gold-hued French velo:



Oh crap. I apologize, but as you can imagine, this golden, French High Life of Bikes doesn't take a photo unsexy enough for the work place. I mean for Armstrong's sake, her name's Champagne. She's clearly made for bike porn.

Yet despite my excitement at having this genuine piece of the early '80s rubbing on my rear everyday, I still have my old whip, Junior, on my mind. I will never stop looking for him. Nor will I ever forget.

Which brings me the opposite of that -- to something I pray I will forget. And hopefully pretty goddamn soon: Little Miss Whiskey's. What the f*ck happened to H Street in the last six months? I'm hoping I was just there on a horribly Ninth-Circle-of-Hellish night, but I'm not so sure that's the case. The crowd at the aforementioned establishment on Friday rivaled the annoyingness of any crowd in Georgetown on any given day (or night).

For instance, STOP STANDING STILL ON THE DANCE FLOOR, DOUCHE! Not that the music was good, but it was danceable, which means there was no excuse for the people on the dance floor to just stand there, holding on to their Blackberrys in one hand and adjusting their balls in the other because the pleats on their madras were rubbing the wrong way; that is, they were rubbing the opposite of how a bicycle named Champagne rubs one's junk.

And, more importantly, STOP BEING SO UPTIGHT AND BORING! You're not attractive enough just to look at (we're in DC, after all), so you better at least be interesting. And no, you sitting on a chair and staring at me blank-faced, as I relay a hilarious tale about my homophobic cabbie, his self-disclosed enlarged prostate and his repetition of the exclamation, "SH*T ASS!" on my ride over here is not interesting.

Seriously, I suppose we all knew it was only a matter of time before H Street became the new Georgetown, but this seems far too soon. U Street hasn't even fully morphed into the new Adams Morgan yet. And Adams Morgan, although on the fast track to hell, still has at least a year before its collar is fully popped.

So, what the hell is happening around here? Where the f*ck are we supposed to go now? They've almost reached the end of the Douche Line!


Or maybe, just maybe, or perhaps, just perhaps, or, maybe, just maybe and perhaps or, perhaps, just perhaps and maybe, the line is an illusion! Maybe and perhaps, this line is a circle! And perhaps and maybe we're all on it, meaning it's time we complete it and start going out in Georgetown!


Jorts will not optional.

But, alas, this is both dangerous and a shame. Regarding the former, the chances of going out right now in Georgetown and seeing a Juicy Couture terry-cloth, baby-doll dress are still so very regretfully high. And regarding the latter, this is a shame because Little Miss Whiskey's has one of the best bar layouts in town, including one helluva back deck for outdoor imbibing. And I'll be damned if I can't enjoy a moonllt late night shot without feeling like I'm gonna get mooned by Late Night Shots. This is totally unacceptable.

So unacceptable, in fact, that I need to change the subject altogether or I'm afraid my tipple point will progress into a tipping point and we'll initiate the end of days. And while I can handle a bit of blood on my hands, I sure as hell can't handle any Tory Burch logos near my person.

I'm going for a bike ride...

the key to suck-cess

A friend of mine came to town last weekend and surprised me. And not only because I found out he rides griffins in his spare time while playing World of Warcraft. (You're the man now, dog, Buckrod!) No. He surprised me because right before he left on Monday, after our $12 wine lunch at Proof and subsequent daytime drinking binge at Washington D.C.'s greatest dive bar, Harry's, he said, "I actually had fun in DC this time."

Dumbfounded, I comically stammered, "Wha-wha-wha-what?!"

I think it's because we didn't go to any bars at night and instead did our drinking on other people's decks."

It's true. DC can be fun, just as long as you make sure you're not out in public during the douching hour, which is that time of night when the douches come flying out by the pleats of their pants and party like it's 1999...in hell. Or talk about their madras. Jesus.

On a griffin.

But seriously, DC after dark can really blow, as I suppose it can during daylight hours, too, if you're not sucking up $10 pitchers at Harry's. But there's one thing for certain: When you shun strangers and instead stick with your insular little clan of like-minded Buckrods (minus the e-griffins), who will drink an entire box of wine then get on Chatroulette with you (we only saw one peen!), you can have a good time anywhere. Even in DC.

*sigh*

However, f*ck that noise now because I'm leaving DC.

Well, for the weekend...

That's right, I'm going to New York City to celebrate the fact that do NOT have a brain tumor! Yet. That is, my prolactin tests came back normal! Which is strange, because the fact that I'm even blogging about my prolactin levels is highly abnormal. And also incredibly awkward. However, not as awkward as this video will make you feel.



E-see you Monday! Jiz.

it's bean real

I went to the Georgetown Waterfront for the first time yesterday and I gotta say, surprisingly, I didn't hate it. Of course, I was there around 4 p.m., which, if you know anything about DC, you know is far from the "Douching Hour."

What's the Douching Hour, you ask? Well, it's that time of day, or night, rather, during which the dudes with popped collars and the girls who have yet to learn how to walk in their 4-inch heels come out to swap STDs. In addition, there is often a lot of hair product involved. On the men.

Getting back to what's important here though, ahem, my experience, I will tell you that it was enhanced by a scoop of pistachio ice cream and the fantastically unseasonable weather global warming may or may not have provided us yesterday.

As I sat and stared out at the sun shining so brilliantly over the river two things happened: 1) I almost went blind because, duh, it's not healthy to stare at the sun, and 2) I made some pretty major life-changing decisions. As I gingerly slurped my delightful dessert and blinked furiously having just looked at the sun, I realized pistachio really wasn't the flavor I was craving. I was craving beans. It was then and there that I decided to open a trendy new dessert shop in which every sweet has at least one type of bean as an ingredient. Bean doughnuts, bean scones, bean pies, bean cupcakes, bean cakes, bean pudding, bean brullé, beanklava, chocolate-covered frozen beananas, and several other bean-based sweets. (I told you this was life-changing.)

Let me know if you want to invest. It will be called Good Fiberations.

I'd invest myself, but unfortunately it looks like my government-supported unemployed checks are about to end. So it's either I keep my beansicle recipes to myself or I rely on your collective millions to make sure America's digestive tracts are healthier after dessert. It's up to you.

Speaking of you, a very bizarre but kind of awesome incident happened last week. A reader recognized me on the street. And I do mean that literally. We were both on our respective bicycles on the street when someone called out, "Hey! It's Marissa and Baguette!"

Although in my mind I'm just about as famous as a Michael Jackson impersonator, in reality I know that mostly no one cares about what I do on a day-to-day basis or even what I write about here. So, clearly, this caused a bit of shock. But then, before I could say anything cool, maybe a rape joke, the light changed and my mysterious e-friend was gone.

Looking back, I'm now not sure if I imagined it or not. Maybe my helper horse Sven had slipped some sort of hallucinogen into that morning's beantini. Perhaps I'll never know. Perhaps it's better that way.

Anyway, that might be the most exciting thing to have ever happened to me in DC. While riding my bike. Last week. During the afternoon. Between 2:30 and 3.

Clearly the most exciting thing to have ever happened to me was thinking up the idea for Good Fiberations. Seriously, who's in?