going up?

No. No you're not. At least not if you're trying to use the escalators in any of the Metro stations lately. In fact, I'd put the odds of that at about 50 percent. And while that might not be an official statistic (they're probably worse...), it's the number I noticed the last time I ventured into the Metro a couple of weeks ago. What the f*ck?

See, I'm usually lucky. Everywhere I need and want to go on a daily basis (*ahem* the liquor store) is within walking/biking distance to me. So, when I make the rare trip to somewhere I need to Metro to, I would hope my random test of the system would go smoothly. But when it doesn't (and, let's face it -- it never does), I start to suspect there's a larger, more systemic problem going on. It's like the Metro has AIDS.

OK, I'm sorry, that's a little offensive...to AIDS. After all, there's drugs to help keep that in check. But the Metro? We have to rely on human skill for that and if past experience has taught the world anything, it's that humans are the major cause of most mucking up of works. But instead of just one mothermucker, it seems there are several when it comes to the Metro. It seems systemic, and according to the Washington Post, who just wrote about a new Metro report:

Metro is falling far short of its own standards, complying with its maintenance schedule only 40 percent of the time.

In other words, Metro is doing its job just 2/5ths of the time. Two. Fifths. No wonder there's been some major injuries along the way. I mean, can you imagine if gravity was only doing its job two-fifths of the time? The Internet can, and it's not pretty.

Look, I'm already scared of going to Virginia for fear of death by freak peanut avalanche. Now, must I also fear for my life whilst just trying to get there?

And what the hell? Humanity has somehow figured out three different methods for hypnotizing chickens, yet we still somehow can't perfect a viable way to ensure the functionality of a Metro escalator? I don't get it. While I understand the moving staircase is a complicated mechanism, we've had almost 150 years to perfect it. That's right, the ancestor to today's escalator was invented in 1859. EIGHTEEN FIFTY NINE!

And if my all-caps exclamation didn't convey my thoughts enough, here's an additional sentence: That's a f*cking long time ago. I mean, seriously, we invented a goddamn airplane and perfected it enough to send a freaking man to the moon since then! How have we not perfected a means to safely transport a human 50 feet by escalator? IT'S NUTS, I TELL YOU! DEATH BY PEANUTS NUTS! IT'S INSANITY! It's stupid. It's really dumb...for real. Find a cure. Fix it.

This post is dedicated to those brave souls risking their lives today. Good luck and Godspeed.

the metro will ruin your life

If it wasn't for chili, I'd probably be a recluse. Really, along with getting out of town (both physically and colloquially), it's one of the few things that can tempt me enough to occasionally leave my hobo lair. It must be the beans....*sigh*

Anywho, where I was going with that terrible introduction was advertisements. Well, no, first I was going to segue into the Superbowl (not to by confused with Segway Into the Superbowl, a documentary I plan on making one day after I convince the league to introduce various gyroscopic modes of transportation to the game). More specifically, I was going to talk about a party for the Superbowl, where all the delicious chili will be. (As far as the Superbowl goes, Go Team Without Rapists On It!) Then, after talking about the Superbowl party, I was going to mention all the high-level advertisements one is likely to see. (I hope Betty White is in all of them this year.) Then, of course, I would finally get to the point of this essay -- Metro advertisements. In three words, they are terrible. In more than three words, here's an example of what I'm talking about, an advertisement that chilled me to my bean-fortified bones because that's what happens when you photoshop a demon kid, holding a conductor's stick, dangling measuring spoons on his big toe, and, of course, sprawled out in tipped over buckets of flour, sand, eggs and dead plants onto a single ominous page.


I don't know about you, but I've never seen a more terrifying ad for shilling an online database for home buyers in my life. When I see a child from the corn (or would that be cornstarch in this case?) involved in a baking project gone very wrong, it doesn't make me want to search for the perfect home so much as it makes me simply want to cover my own in in salt, dip it in garlic and, according to ehow.com, burn some herbs, which I'm pretty sure is just code for smoking weed because, yes, it seems even ghosts get annoyed by stoners. But beware -- this sage advice doesn't come without risk.


Hmm, starting a fire would seem to defeat the whole purpose, but does it really? Or are there more diabolical forces at work here?

EXHIBIT A: THE DEMON AD

Let's face it. This ad will do wonders for the sea salt industry, garlic growers, and marijuana distributors of the world. If I wasn't wise to the conspiracy theory I'm about to slap down before you, I'd probably already be at GW searching out the kid with the most bloodshot eyes. But I'm not. I don't have to because...

EXHIBIT B: THE EHOW ARTICLE

It's all coming together now. First, we have an ineffective ad for home-buying, but a very effectual ad for home-fortifying against demon-children. No one wants evil spirits around, especially a pint-sized one who's going to f*ck up your kitchen. So, you google ways to avoid ghosts and -BOOM- suddenly you're "burning some herbs." These herbs may make you lazy, careless, tired. So tired that -WHOOPS- you dropped the burning herbs on your chartreuse shag carpet during a Steakums-induced coma and -WHOOSH- your demon-filled home just went up in flames! Now, what? You may have just defeated the purpose of smoking out your ghosts by smoking out yourself, but now you've fallen into a trap!

EXHIBIT C: A VICIOUS CIRCLE

Well, look at that. Now you need a new home in a pinch. And where will you look? That's right, we're back to the demon-child ad again. You think, "Didn't I see an ad not long ago for a home buyers database?" And that cues the resulting mobius strip: demon-child ad, ehow article, "herbs," house burns down, demon-child ad, ehow article, "herbs," house burns down, demon-child ad, ehow article, "herbs" and heroin (if your house burns down three times, let's face it, you've moved on to the hard stuff), house burns down. And the cycle continues. Thanks, Metro...

remains of the ride

There comes a time in every nearsighted girl's life when she needs to go to the eye doctor to renew her monocle prescription. And so came this day in my life yesterday, when I arrived at the lovably puntastically named For Eyes optical in downtown DC for a check-up. Once there, I was quickly told my eyesight had neither deteriorated nor improved, was given the same exact monocle prescription (incidentally, my pince-nez prescription also hadn't changed) and robbed of $130.00 because of my lack of adequate vision insurance. And although I look and feel quite rakish now, much like this monocled feline...


...A much better story is what happened before I got to the eye doctor. A much better story took place in the cab ride downtown, when I got into a rather interesting discussion about dignity with the driver. It was like a page/scene straight out of "Remains of the Day," except instead of an aging English butler, the main character was a thirty-something Sudanese man. And instead of the English countryside, the setting was L Street. And also, I'm pretty sure Mr. Stevens, the butler in "Remains of the Day" who was played on screen by Sir Anthony Hopkins, never uttered the phrase, "She wanted me to be having sexy on her." (Don't worry. We'll get back to that in a moment.) Luckily, however, considering that I apparently wear a monocle now, I was able to reprise the role of English gentlemen, so this literary comparison still stands. Except I assure you I was never a Nazi sympathizer. And I'm poor. And a woman. And not English. But whatever, it's too late. Let's just go with it...

"People in DC, they don't have dignity," said the driver.

"Hear hear, good chap!" I said.

"They say, to someone like me, disrespectful things because they are very much ignorant."

"Kind sir, whatever does one utter that should be so unbecoming?" I said, whilst buffing my monocle with my plus-fours. (And for the record, despite how disturbing that sounds, this is not when the phrase, "She wanted me to be having sexy on her," came up.)

The cab driver continued: "I give example. One time, I picked up someone in night. This is what made me not ever work in night again." He paused. "Should I tell you? I don't want you to take offense..."

"Carry on, my good man," I said, reapplying my monocle. "As an Englishman, I take offense to only two things in this world: smudged monocles and, of course, dental hygiene."

"She was white, like you, and drunk, like..."

"I assure you I am sober, good man! This flask is full of...tea. And crumpets. Blended together. With fish and chips. And gruel. That's how we eat in England."

"She was from another state. Maybe California or LA. She stay at somewhere like Ritz Carlton in Tyson's Corner. Rich. I take her all the way out there. Long way. As we come near she say, 'I can't believe I end my night with cab driver.' She said with hate. Like I not good enough."

"Cor blimey! She sounds like a manky, pissed up nutter of a scrubber!"

"What?"

"She sounds like an skanky asshole."

"Yes! She wanted me to be having sexy on her! But was mean and embarrassed because I am not yet a powerful man."

"But you have dignity."

"Yes. Even as cab driver now. This why I refuse her and refuse to work at night. I have standards. I have dignity! But I have ambitions also."

"I'll say!"

"When I finish school, I will rule people like that one day!"

"Oh?"

"Yes! I will be powerful and control them! HA!"

"Oh..."

"I will get all beautiful women to ask me to be having sexy on them and they will respect me!"

*silence*

"It is the American dream..."

And here I thought the dream was being able to occasionally pretend you were an English gentleman looking to purchase a monocle...

human interaction, commuter fail

I've never hidden the fact that I'm a bit of a dick when it comes to human interaction. However, I'm never a dick without cause. Really, I'm anthropomorphic karma. If you're pleasant to me, I'll be pleasant to you, but if you act like an ass, well, I'll let you know, which brings me to today's essay. We'll get to the assholes in questions soon enough. But first, here's the set-up:

So, TBD discovered that there's a Metro employee (Willita Wright) who spends her shifts being nice to people. Shocking, I know, but in a good way. Customer service in DC is notoriously horrendous, so this blip in the sh*t-radar that is DC's transportation system is fantastic. Perhaps, even, it's a sign that Washington is becoming a civilized place to live, ignoring, of course, the deadly hit-and-runs.*

And while I personally didn't have an interaction with this employee, I wish I did. Not only would I have reciprocated the politeness, but I probably would've asked for an autograph, taken a photo, then waited for the UFO to come back and suck up this strange life form in a giant beam of righteous light. Really, anyone brave enough to take on the job of "Metro Greeter" has got to be from another world. Why? Because not everyone gives back what they get. Some people -- no matter how well you treat them -- will always just be mean.

For proof now let's turn to TBD, which observed the greeter for a bit and chronicled the crowd's reactions. While five out of seven people reacted like human beings by either reciprocating the greeting or at least silently enjoying it, two people (that's nearly 30 percent!) acted like complete douches.

Exhibit A: "Some passengers uncompelled to return greeting," writes TBD. "'It was interesting,' says Rachel, who declined to give her last name, but she did not return Wright's hello. "'I'm in a hurry. I'm trying to get to class,' she explains."

OBJECTION! Class? REALLY?? Are we talking about college here, high school or grad school? Oh, no matter. Because it doesn't. Not only would saying "hello" have taken only about a second-and-a-half out of the oh-so-busy and important schedule of being a student, but also -- you're a student! No one cares whether you're in class or not and if you haven't figured that out by now, then you're an idiot and probably shouldn't have gotten into college in the first place.

Exhibit B: "Jo remains unimpressed," TBD says. "One Virginia woman did not look favorably on Wright's cheerful greetings. 'Standing in the middle of the aisle doesn't really do it for me,' she sniffs."

OBJECTION! Oh, Jo. You are a miserable, unhappy soul. And yes, I can glean all of this simply from reading just one snide comment about someone "standing in the middle of the aisle." Look, God forbid you need to add a step or two to your commute -- we don't want non-taxable commuters extending their M-F, 9-to-5 hours in the District any longer than they have to (no really) -- but the least you could do is give something good back. Money would be my first choice, but smiles are a close second (awww...).

Seriously. Even if your teeth are gross or missing or encrusted with Extra Value Meal, I don't care. There's no excuse to feel annoyed when someone goes out of her way to be nice to you, especially when you probably don't even deserve it. So please, think twice (or even once) next time before you rudely retort, Rachel and Jo. If you do, one day maybe you'll understand that when you drop a giant deuce on the street and don't pick it up, you have just as good of a chance of stepping in it as anyone else. And I mean that metaphorically, too. Good day!
*Commuters from Maryland are also a problem.

a city full of killers

Perhaps it's my small town, Minnesotan upbringing, but there are certain things I learned growing up that it seems most people on the East Coast (and specifically here in DC) did not. Mainly, I learned not to murder people. And sure, I mean that in the sense that I won't come at you with a weapon (unless, of course, you try to steal my lutefisk), but I also mean that in the more passive sense. That is, if I'm riding a bike/driving/walking about and I hear a siren and/or see an ambulance/fire truck/police car, I automatically get the hell out of the way. To me, letting that wailing ambulance through the intersection so it can save a life is more important than my getting to Whole Foods to purchase ingredients to make my goddamn dinner of hot dish and jello salad. However, to what seems like the majority of people in DC, they say, "F*ck your life. Nobody comes between me and my Calvins sorely outdated references groceries." I'm telling you, I see this all the time, mostly with drivers who seem to think it's OK to chill in the intersection whilst they watch their green light turn yellow then red. Not only does this kind of action just tie up traffic for others and make it much more annoying and dangerous to be a cyclist or pedestrian, but I contend this behavior actually kills people. Take for instance a situation I peeped last week in the late afternoon. I was biking east on P Street approaching the 16th Street intersection when I heard increasingly loud sirens. I pulled to the curb and looked behind me to see an ECNALUBMA approaching. Now, despite my lack of rear-view mirror, I figured out quite easily that it was an ambulance and, most likely, either it had someone who needed medical attention already in it or it was going to give medical attention to someone who really needed it. Thus, I ceased cycling further and waited for it to safely pass. For 10 minutes. That's right, it took 10 minutes for an emergency response vehicle to pass through an intersection due to the two assholes who were blocking it because they just had to make that light. Really, it's a ridiculous practice in the first place to pull into an intersection under any circumstances when you think the light's about to change, but when you do so fully knowing an ambulance is approaching, you're not just stupid now, you're a murderer. Seriously, as far as I know those two dicks sitting in the intersection at 16th and P the other day killed someone. When people call 9-1-1 for an ambulance, it usually means they need help immediately. While it may be annoying for you to extend your commute a few minutes in your air-conditioned SUV, to the person losing consciousness down the block, it may be a matter of life and death. And to prove this wasn't just an isolated event, I saw a similar thing happen on Monday afternoon at the corner of 7th and E. There I was, enjoying a refreshing bowl of ajo blanco soup at Jaleo (sidenote: YUM), when some dick had to ruin it for me by reminding me what city I was in. Instead of an ambulance, however, this time it was a firetruck whose path was interrupted. As it was entering the intersection going east on E, some ignoramous in his GTO or whatever decided to zoom through going north on 7th. The firetruck (and this was one of the full-sized ones with a freaking ladder on the top) had to literally slam on its brakes to avoid a 90˚-angle collision, which probably would've put the driver of the GTO in such critical condition that an ambulance would've needed to arrive to the scene within minutes to save him. And while the irony of that scenario seems almost too good to pass up (inevitably the ambulance would've gotten held up by some other asshole in a narcissistic rush), since I'm not a Tea Partier murderer, I would never wish death -- let alone harm -- on anyone, no matter how stupid. But trust me, there are easier ways to learn lessons than the hardest way possible. People just need to think. Everyone's actions affect other people. Whether it's someone's gum-smacking on the Metro that's causing people to be mildly annoyed or another's complete lack of road etiquette that's causing people to literally die, all these problems can be solved if people just thought before they acted. Really, adults of DC (and those who commute in and out for work), stop it. Just stop it. And eat more lefse. It makes people friendlier.

keeping tabs on bad ideas...

So, I've decided to do a little bit of rogue reporting today by attending the "opening" of the seemingly ridiculous bike lanes that run down THE CENTER of Pennsylvania Avenue. While I really don't want to get hit by anyone in a car mistaking the center lane for, say, a CENTER LANE, I want to give Mayor Fenty, our elected stick of butter (hat tip to ListenToLeon), and the other brainchildren of this plan, District Department of Transportation Director Gabe Klein and U.S. Transportation Secretary Ray LaHood, a chance to explain. Personally, I think this is just a way for Fenty to get back in the taxi drivers' good graces before the election by creating a new sport for them -- bicycle bowling.

Trust me. About a month ago, I deigned to try out this "very special" lane (um, even though they were not "open") and thought to myself, if the world bean supply ever gets destroyed and I need to commit suicide, this is probably the most effective way to do it.

But alas, I'm going to pretend that something called "objective reporting" exists this afternoon and give our fair, backwards city a chance to talk itself out of this one. Indeed, I vow to open my mind to this horrible-sounding idea before I judge it as actually horrible, so look out for more later. And also, look out for imminent death if you happen to be riding on Pennsylvania today...

dmv stands for putin nursing baby elks, yes?

It's a rare weekday that I don't grace you all with my e-presence like bed bugs grace a crack denizen's bed at night. Yesterday, however, was one of those days. Lucky you. But I have a semi-fair excuse! I was watching America show off its French talent by watching on loop Haspop dance to Crystal Castles. And, of course, I was also dueling with the man. But first let's talk about Haspop. Holy f*cking la vache! That guy has rubber joints. If he doesn't win a million dollars I will weep the tears of a 3-year-old with Bieber fever. Seriously, what the hell do they put in baby formula these days to warrant that nonsense? I mean, it wasn't until I was four that I started dry humping television screens showing Michael Jackson's "Thriller." But enough about the oddities of childhood, let's talk about my gentle(wo)manly duel with the man. So, I just moved into a new apartment in a new neighborhood. The move went swimmingly due to my easy access to a car. However, the after-move has been less than stellar...due to my easy access to a car. Although as a vehicle owner I knew this day was coming, I never prepared myself for its sheer annoyingness. I need a residential parking permit. This may sound easy, but 1) remember I'm an idiot and 2) this is DC. Nothing is ever easy here, especially when all the street parking has a two-hour limit without a sticker. I challenge the city to answer this question: How is one supposed to get down to the DMV and get the proper permit within two hours of moving in? According to the DMV's site, I need:

• The original title
• A DC driver's license with your current address on it
• Proof of Valid Odometer Statement
• DC Vehicle Insurance
• DC Vehicle Inspection - Used Car only

My problem's even worse because before I can bring all that sh*t in, I have to change the address on my license so I can get the permit that I need. And yay for life, I don't have any proof of residency. I'm not on the lease. My name is also not on the electric bill, the water bill, the cable bill, or the gas bill. In layman's terms, I suppose I'm technically a squatter. So what's a glorified squatter to do with her vehicle? I stuck that note on my windshield and hoped for the best. And to my surprise, this actually worked...until yesterday. (I blame the emoticon.) I won't bore you with the details, but basically, it took me seven days to gather all the documents and inspections necessary and the whole time, my postered car remained ticket free. But then, just as I got almost everything I need to make my car its refugee papers, I woke up yesterday to find a parking ticket, issued to me for not having a proper parking permit. BALLS! (But rest easy, I plan on not paying it along with the rest of my unjustified parking non-offenses.) And the frosting on this poopcake is that by the time I got the (nearly) final document, it was too late to go to the DMV, so my car is now parked in a Virgina driveway, which is probably where it should've remained in the first place. And while right about now would be a good time to learn my lesson (i.e. having a motor vehicle in the District is far more trouble than it's worth), I feel like I'm way too far in to turn back now. Oh no! I will fight this good, freak gasoline fight until the end of days, which means, if you need me, I'll be at the Georgetown DMV watching Haspop dance on a Blackberry Storm2 for probably the entirety of the afternoon. *** So, it's been five minutes since I wrote this and I'm reluctant to post it because it's f*cking boring. I mean, really, who the hell cares about my parking woes? I barely care. Yet while I'm fine with torturing myself (I do choose to live in DC, after all), I hate the thought of torturing you. I really don't want to turn this blog into a "blahg," if you know what I mean. (Or am I way past that point?) Well, f*ck it. Here's something interesting and thought-provoking -- a riddle: Say you die (oh, this is starting well), and you arrive to a place where there are two identical doors guarded by two identical guards. One guard stands before the door to hell and the other to heaven. Or, if you're not religious, one stands before the doors to a bar in Georgetown filled with Late Night Shots kids and an ice luge and the other leads to a world populated only with Flock of Seagulls hair. So here's the challenge: You can ask one question to one guard to figure out which one is guarding which door. What do you ask? Think carefully, or you may end up taking Jager shots with annoying kids in madras for the rest of eternity opposed to watching multiple Putins lovingly nurse baby elks. *sigh*

tip of the helmet, wag of the moon

Mother of f*cking God, or maybe in this case, Lance Armstrong. Look at this: http://www.bhsi.org/dclaw.htm <--- That's a link to the District's rules regarding bike helmets. I don't expect you to read it because it's long and stupid. For example:

"Bicycle" means a human-powered vehicle with wheels designed to transport, by pedaling, one or more persons seated on one or more saddle seats on its frame. "Bicycle" also includes a human-powered vehicle, and any attachment to the vehicle designed to transport by pedaling when the vehicle is used on a public roadway, public bicycle path or other public right-of-way. The term "Bicycle" also includes a "tricycle," which is a 3-wheeled human-powered vehicle designed for use as a toy by a single child under 6 years of age, the seat of which is no more than 2 feet from ground level.

Jesus. But basically, the bottomline of this 1,600-plus-word manifesto is that kids 16 and under must wear a helmet by law. Sounds good to me. Kids are already really dumb and letting them get beaned on their helmetless heads certainly doesn't sound like it would help matters...

But what about old people? (And yes, if you're over 16 in America, you're kind of old -- Justin Bieber has exactly one year left before he's a washed up loser.) You can do whatever you want! Helmet or helmetless! The options are endless! limited to two!

I bring this up because of a WashCycle article that TBD.com's @abeaujon tweeted about yesterday. It questions whether the statistics floating around regarding the safety benefits of helmets are actually true:

Claim 1: Bicycle helmets have been shown to reduce the risk of head injuries by up to 88 percent

This is based on a 1989 study (repeated in the early 90's) of hospital admissions. The 88% figure comes from the first study and the second study put it at 69% to 74%. Still the "up to 88%" number prevails. But 69% to 74% is pretty good, right? Maybe. There are several problems with the studies.

What are the problems? Well, basically, WashCycle's argument is that the control group was not properly controlled so the comparison might be totally off. Not to mention, questions abound about what counts as a "head injury." But most interestingly, the article points out: "There is also a self-selection bias. Cyclists who choose to wear helmets are not the same as those who do not."

What that implies is that cyclists who seem to care about their safety by choosing to wear a helmet are less likely to put themselves in high-risk head situations, like this:



Holy sh*t, that is stupid. But getting back to words, I'm not sure I understood the purpose of this article. It's not like the WashCycle writer, who disclosed that he wears a helmet, is advocating that helmets should NOT be worn or, really, anything even slightly salacious. In fact, if my third-grade reading level is to be trusted (and that really is questionable), all this article says is that the benefits of bike helmets may be a bit exaggerated, but bike helmets are still beneficial.

Well, all right then. That was kind of a waste of all of our time. Or maybe not. I'm not aware of DC trying to establish a helmet law, but perhaps this critique of bike helmet statistics would come in handy for helmet haters if such a rule was up for debate. But then again, I think the larger question there would be why do helmet haters hate helmets so much? I purport, if they're good enough for dumb kids, then they're good enough for me.

If WashCycle really wants a scoop, I think they should talk about the travesty of the hipster half-moon. Now, that's some salacious sh*t...

[Shudder-worthy photo credit to http://bikesnobnyc.blogspot.com]

Seriously, who cares about covering your head! Cover your crack, instead! If I ever get elected to my dream non-job of shadow senator, I vow to amend the Constitution to ban THAT, and yes, using that lovely rhyming slogan.

what to do with several tons of fudge...

News broke this morning (not here, of course) that DC Council Chairman Vincent Gray proposed a budget that would put the kabash on the H Street-Benning Road streetcar line by stripping it up its budget next year. Hmm...

I suppose I'll go ahead and eloquently ask the important question: Is this news totally buns (bad like a burger with no meat) or freshly dipped (like a Dairy Queen ice-cream cone)? I also suppose I'll give the eloquent answer I give most important questions I ask: I don't know. However, like always, I won't let a little thing like a near-total lack of knowledge stop me from trying to answer this question using The Anti DC's patented totally indecisive and inconclusive methods. So, here goes...

On the one metaphorical hand, streetcars are f*cking awesome. When my roommate and I used to live in Moscow, we rode one daily. We called it Fudge for reasons beyond my recollection right now, but I assure you, I remember riding it and loving its rickety, old ass. (I'm still just talking about the streetcar, by the way...)

And so, when I first heard DC was getting its very own Fudge, I got a little excited.

That is, until one day I found myself trying to bike down the proposed line on H Street and nearly killed myself due to its seemingly haphazard construction. There are Fudge tracks in the middle of the road, Fudge tracks on the sides of the road, Fudge tracks laying willy-nilly all over the place like Eastern European refugees...

And speaking of Eastern European refugees, when I found out the streetcars were Fudge's actual cousins from Eastern Europe, I really began to wonder. While I'm all for Eastern Europeans immigrating to the United States (hell, I wouldn't be here without them), I'm not so sure I'm for the importation of their sh*tty technology. Like I said, I loved riding the No. 7 streetcar in Moscow, but that's because it fit the environment. It was rusty, Soviet and, as previously noted, a rickety, old piece of sh*t. (And now I remember why we named it Fudge...)

With near-daily breakdowns, it was truly a piece of schmechnology that belonged in the former USSR. It does not belong in the freaking Capital of the Free World. And most certainly, millions of Federal Reserve notes should not be spent on these things, especially when there's already a bus line and a FREE SHUTTLE that follows, more or less, the same path.

Now, I understand that the businesses of H Street want to attract more dipsters as they try hard to fulfill their unfortunate destiny of becoming the new Adams Morgan, but is all the trouble really worth it?

Probably not. So, yay for Gray's decision?

Perhaps, except for all the proverbial buns. What the f*ck is the city going to do with all the tracks already laid down? What is the city going to do about the impossible-to-navigate streets that are torn up beyond normal use?? And, most intriguingly, what is the city going to do with millions of dollars worth of Fudge you can't eat???

And so the District's reputation of epic f*ckfudge-ups continues...

OH, BUT WAIT! Gray's people put out a press release a little while ago reiterating his commitment to the streetcar project. " strongly support streetcar development, and remain committed to seeing it become a reality here in the District of Columbia," said Gray. "But we owe it to ourselves to have a well thought out planning process." Um, too late. I challenge Gray to ride a bike down H Street.

And then? Jim Graham tweeted: "After careful deliberations and explanations and conversations, another $47 million was found to fund the streetcars. Ain't politics grand?"

That's it. Forget about my dream to become a shadow senator. I want to be on the Council. How do you "find" $47 million?! Jesus...

Shambles P.I.: The Dirty Bomb Edition

Riding the DC Metro can be a scary experience. In fact, the moments are few and far between when the Metro isn't crashing into things, derailing, or otherwise just being a dick (seriously, I hate when the Metro acts like a dick). And even if your life isn't in danger, most likely, your line of vision will be. In other words, brace yourself, shambles ahead.

Case in point, meet this guy, or as I like to call him, "The Dirty Bomb."



Taken by a dear friend who likes to set sh*t on fire (in a good way because there's usually a delicious libation to imbibe after the flames die down), The Dirty Bomb was spotted yesterday on the Orange line. Indeed, it should come as no surprise that anyone with a racing stripe on his chin must come from somewhere other than where I live. Or at least I'd like to hold onto that belief. I will rue the day when it becomes acceptable for people who live in my neighborhood to sport landing strips on their faces.

And speaking of faces, you know what doesn't belong anywhere near mine? Your f*cking crotch. Sit down like a normal human being and place your goddamn feet on the floor. You look like a comatose Chippendales dancer with a Lil' Kevin arm.

But really. Why would you ever sit like that on the 'tro? Not only is it just kinda gross, but it's annoying for the other passengers who, I don't know, MIGHT BE TRYING TO GET ON OR OFF THE RAPID TRANSIT SYSTEM VIA THE PASSAGE YOUR F*CKING LEG IS BLOCKING!!! Shambles. But seriously, someone needs to call in the Bomb Squad. This suspicious, um, "package" (zing!) needs to be removed from the premises immediately...

things you can get for thirteen dollars in dc

My friends (and not just the ones in my mind!) and I have had some strange cab rides here in DC. Some are funny, others are awkward and some are just downright terrifying. Which brings me to today's riddle: What do you get when you combine one TMI-prone cabbie, a lot of homophobia and a dash of Tourette's? Well, this:

Me: Hi, I'm going to H and 14th Northeast, please.

TMI-Cabbie: Northeast?

Me: Northeast.

TMIC: Hmm. *hiccup*

.......................................*hiccup*

......................................................*hiccup*

TMIC: So sorry. I have hiccups. I just ate some spicy foods. I must learn I cannot eat such foods! [Note: Please keep in mind he was a 50-year-old Arab.]

Me: I suppose so...

TMIC: Well, it's also because I have an enlarged prostate.

Me: Uh...

TMIC: *hiccup*

...........................*hiccup*

........................................*hiccup*

TMIC: So, why you go to ghetto?

Me: Well, it's not the ghetto, really, anymore. There's a bunch of bars and restaurants out there now. I'm surprised you're not getting more people asking to bring them out there (especially in light of H Street Death Watch)...

TMIC: Oh, people don't like to take taxi now. Damn Fenty and damn meters! *hiccup*

Me: I like the meters.

TMIC: *hiccup* You know he is a gay.

Me: Who, Fenty?

TMIC: Oh yes! He calls the company and asks for taxi to gay bar! *hiccup*

Me: Did he call you?

TMIC: Me?! *hiccup* AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAHAHAHAHAHA! *hiccup* NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! HAHAHAHAHA! OH NOOOOOO! HEHE! *hiccup* THEY SHOULD NOT DO THAT! HEHEHE! THE THINGS THEY DO! OH NOOO NO NO NO NO NO!!! *hiccup*

Me: Oh my.

TMIC: HEHEHEHEHEHEHE! SHIT-ASS! *hiccup* SHIT-ASS! SHIT-ASS! SHIT-ASS! *hiccup*

Me: Um, this is my stop.

TMIC: *hiccup* SHIT-ASS! SHIT-ASS! SHIT-ASS! HEHEHEHEHEHE! *hiccup*

Me: Yes, please let me out here...or anywhere. Please.

TMIC: SHHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTT-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSSSSSS! *hiccup*

.............*hiccup*

............................*hiccup*

TMIC: That'll be $13.

the perfect day!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"Wait, aren't you supposed to be on hiatus for a week vacationing in some mystery locale far, far away from DC?"

Oh! Hi! Thanks for asking! And yes, indeed, that was the original plan! But as it turns out, DC is so sweet on me it refuses to let me go! Haha!

The day started swimmingly enough! I had already packed so I was able to enjoy a leisurely breakfast before heading off to Reagan National Airport! I love traveling by air these days because I like carrying tiny amounts of liquids and taking my shoes off for little to no scientific reason! Yay!

And that's when the day really got good!

First, when I tried to print my boarding pass at one of the several kiosks, the technology told me my credit card that I used to pay for the ticket wasn't enough information for it to print my pass! Whoops! So, after imputing several other pieces of information, including ticket number, confirmation number and where I was going, I finally reached the end screen, which turns out is kind of like the end of Donkey Kong! It just stops working! How ingenious!

So, I flagged the attendant over for help and she looked at me, scowled and yelled, "I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR YOU! GO TO THE LINE UPSTAIRS!" Yes, ma'am! ROFL!

So then I went upstairs, bruising my legs along the way with my luggage because the escalator wasn't working! And then when I finally reached the glorious mecca that is the Delta counter, I saw it already had a line stretched halfway down the mile-long corridor!

"Stupendous!" I thought to myself. "I love a good line!"

And, oh boy, was this a line! I got hit on by a 15-year-old boy! (He liked my hat.) I got my foot stepped on by an woman wearing stiletto heels! Ouchies! And then I got yelled at again when I asked for help, noting the time! Uh-oh! Thirty minutes till lift-off!

Finally, 15 minutes before my plane was scheduled to leave, the surly woman who apparently is Delta's only employee gave me my boarding pass! Victory! But not first without noting, "You shouldn't have checked in online! It screws up the system sometimes!" My bad!

But wowsers! Technology is really something, isn't it? Hooray!

So I ran to security where I became the lucky one to be asked, "We're going to need you to step aside, miss, while we run some explosives trace tests on your bags."

"But, good sir!" I said, "My plane is supposed to take off in 10 minutes!"

"That's not my problem."

Okee-dokee! And sure enough I guess it wasn't! Silly me, trying to make my flight. LOL!

Then I ran and ran and ran some more! And when I finally made it to the gate, my flight was no longer listed! Uh-oh, Spaghettio!

Lucky me, though! Turns out the flight was never even on the board because the arriving plane never landed! Wah-wah!

So I waited with the other cheery Delta passengers, who came up with some really fine things to say about Delta. "F*cking sh*t for brains airline!" ZOMG!

So we waited and waited and waited some more! Just like in Russia! And then I waited so long that I missed my connecting flight! Zoinks!

And so did everyone else! So, all 100 of us went to the Delta Service Counter and one-by-one we were helped by the solo employee! Boy, was she a firecracker!

Three hours later, I was rescheduled on another flight! But wouldn't you know! The arriving flight for that one also never landed! Double zoinks!

So I rejoined the lovely line with now 300 people in it and waited again to get rescheduled! And joy of joys, when the feisty gal rescheduled my flight some time later, she added a free extra layover! Not only would I get to now go to Boston (and spend the night on my own dime to boot!), but the next day, I would also get to visit Cincinnati and Minneapolis before landing in my final destination 12 hours later! Don't you just love free stuff?!?!

But that just sounded like way to much fun for my old bones to handle! So I decided instead to scrap it all and give DC on more night with me. Lucky!

But my bag must not have gotten the memo! Because it's stuck in Boston! All right!

In closing, F*CK YOU, DELTA. I'LL SEE YOU IN HELL.

And to U.S. Airways? You better not disappoint me tomorrow. Because I will cut you.

skinny and dumb

According to a new and probably questionable study, Washington, DC, is the "fittest" city in America.

The American College of Sports Medicine decided this on the following criteria provided by the government:

• Availability of parks, walking and bike trails and public transportation.

• Percentage of people who exercise regularly, maintain a healthy weight and eat the recommended daily servings of fruits and vegetables.

• Percentage of people who have access to health care and have health insurance.

• Percentage of people who don't smoke.

And here I thought it was because the take-out options in this town blow...

And speaking of blowing (that came out weird), let's talk about the public transportation, and specifically, this new propaganda imploring people to be polite on the trains.

Now, is it just me, or is it $9-scrunchie sad that grown-ups have to be reminded to treat each other like, well, grown-ups?

The best line, in my opinion, was about the handicap seats, for which the video reminds grown-ups that they should "give these seats up for the elderly or disabled." Fair enough. But then the video says this: "If you are unable ... to perform these functions, please find another seat." Uh, let's see. If you're unable to give up your handicapped seat for someone who's disabled, MAYBE IT MEANS YOU'RE ALSO DISABLED. So in effect, the video should really say, "If you are unable to perform these functions, then, um, remain seated, I guess..."

But seriously, is this necessary? Then again, considering the great majority of the human race is populated by legitimate morons, maybe I'm being too quick to judge this video as a waste of taxpayer money. Although judging from the animation, a dollarmenuaire could have paid for this production. However, those are dollars that could've been spent on a delicious and nutritious $5-footlongs from Subway®. I mean, we gotta stay fit for the city, right? And Subway is pretty much the best take-out so...

While we may be idiots, at least we're not fat?

I kid, I kid. There was a legitimate plus-side to this video -- it looked like it took place in Second Life (DCist noticed that too), which reminded me of good ol' Rep. Ed Markey (D-Mass.) and his foray into Second Life a couple of years ago. I really wish he'd have kept that creepy e-habit up.

Yep, those were the days...when we were fatter; when disabled grown-ups didn't have to be taught to give up their handicap-designated seats to other disabled grown-ups; and when Ed Markey lectured floating blue dragon furries about the environment...sigh...

hat the f*ck?

So it seems I've been presented a challenge from my computer, a MacBook. As of last night at about 7 p.m., my "w," "2," "tab" and "esc" keys stopped responding to my gentle touch.

"But, Marissa, you just typed the letter double-u and the numero dos in that last sentence!"

That's because I copied and pasted those. I may be an idiot, but I'm fairly e-savvy.

Under normal circumstances, I might simply shrug my burdened shoulders and call it a day, but since I promised to blog after my horrendous stab at a vlog yesterday, I feel obligated to type an online essay using the gosh darn double-u or not.

And so here I go...sans the stupid double-u...

Although this is nothing not old, I nearly got ran over coming home from laboring at the sex shop a couple of nights ago. In a fissure of fate, though, I hadn't done anything to violate any traffic rules. That's right, I rode completely in the confines of everyone's road rights. I stuck near the curb in the righthand lane and had a flashing red bike light attached to my bag, so although the sun had set, my presence on the street could not be missed. And like I usually do to leave the douchiest neighborhood in DC that I'll simply refer to as "George," I rode dirty at a vigorous pace. In summary, there appeared to be no good reason to explain the activity that happened next.

Mid-ride on a surprisingly empty M Street (probably due to the inclement elements), a cab driver in a minivan decided to nearly snuff me out. He could have passed me in one of the duet of deserted left lanes beside me, but I guess it must have seemed more fun at the time to instead pass me IN MY LANE leaving less than a foot of space on my left side.

In short, the move made absolutely no sense. DC cab drivers are like a glass of $9 scrunchies -- that is, completely confounding, ruthlessly gnarly and, most of all, just plain stupid.

Speaking of a glass of $9 scrunchies, I'm quite surprised that my recent find in Club Monaco inspired just a duo of the comments yesterday. And one occurred only to insult my flyover country upbringing. Fair enough. I sported the hell out of a scrunchie in my day. That is, in 1990. My point is, it's nearly dos decades later. I get that fashion trends come and go and come again, but the scrunchie? Really? Am I the only one outraged by the idea of the scrunchie becoming a legitimate hair accessory again? Especially at $9 a pop?

I mean. This is shambles.


Let's not repeat our mistakes. Please feel my ire. Don't make me touch you again...

a brilliant idea...from dc?!

As dusted off my Internet machine today to map some sex offenders (I like to know my neighbors), I decided to check out today's local headlines. Most of them bored me, as important news usually does, but one string of boldface words caught my eye: Revised Budget Adopted In D.C.!

But why? Revised budget sounds boring. And it is, until you read a little further: The D.C. Council approved a $5.4 billion budget yesterday that cuts hundreds of city jobs and aims to raise millions in new revenue by issuing more than 200,000 additional parking tickets in the next fiscal year.

I had to read it twice: The D.C. Council approved a $5.4 billion budget yesterday that cuts hundreds of city jobs and aims to raise millions in new revenue by issuing more than 200,000 additional parking tickets in the next fiscal year.

Really? Something about raising money by simply issuing more parking tickets doesn't make sense to me.

First of all, it seems to indicate that DC's metermaids aren't adequately doing their jobs now. This probably shouldn't come as a surprise since DC is all sorts of f*cked up. Plus, judging from the standard set by Marion Berry, it doesn't seem so unsafe to assume DC's metermaids aren't doing their jobs too well. I don't get it, though. You see a car parked illegally, you give it a ticket. It's not rocket science. Or even gay marriage. I mean, there's a parking sign. It lists times. (Now, stay with me.) There are also things called clocks, cell phones and calculator watches, which indicate the time. If your clock, cell phone or calculator watch reads 4:15 p.m. and the parking sign says parking is prohibited after 4 p.m., then a ticket should be issued, no? It seems rather simple to me, and I'm functionally retarded and possibly drunk!

Of course, I suppose DC's metermaids could be exceptionally retarded and definitely drunk, which could explain this new decree, but considering the very first time I ventured into DC to interview for the job for which e-rants like this would eventually get me fired, my rental car got ticketed for a parking violation, I can't possibly stand by any assumption that would suggest any given DC metermaid is either more retarded or drunker than myself. He or she clearly did his or her job. So what's the deal, Washington Post?

The city will equip 12 street sweepers with cameras to photograph the license plates of vehicles that are not moved for routine street cleanings, and violators will be mailed $40 tickets. According to budget documents, the city estimates the 'sweeper cams' will generate about 237,500 tickets and about $7.1 million in the fiscal year that starts Oct. 1.

Ahh! So that's the secret! Polaroid technology! Which I've also been had by last year venturing back from a Taxlo Halloween party dressed as Michael Jackson.

Hmm...maybe this plan isn't so stupid after all. What dare you do next City Council???

[Ward 1 Councilman and dandy Jim] Graham also blocked [Mayor Adrian] Fenty from eliminating 65 parking control positions, about half of which are unfilled. The additional officers will enable the city to expand enforcement in residential parking zones.

"Graham, who noted that 70 percent of citations are issued to nonresidents, said the stepped-up enforcement will result in an additional $12 million for the city."

LOL! This plan is brilliant! No longer am I responsible for paying for the upkeep of the city in which I choose to reside, but tourists are! Suckers!

Lon Anderson, spokesman for AAA Mid-Atlantic, said the council action will solidify the District's reputation as the "most motorist-unfriendly city in the country."

"They make so much money off traffic enforcement . . . red light camera program, speed cameras, now these street sweeper cameras," Anderson said. "They never found a motorist whose pockets they were not willing to pick for revenue."

You know what? I'm no longer skeptical. This might be the best plan ever. Not only will it hopefully raise much-needed funds to wipe the proverbial sh*t off the ass that is this city, but (or butt, perhaps) it will hopefully simultaneously deter cars and ergo people from coming into town! That's less cars to hit me when my bicycle decides to randomly fail, and less people to watch me as I embarrassingly tumble to the ground! If that's not a win-win, then it's at least a draw-draw because chances are with the karma I've built up over the years, any time I dare decide to operate an automobile, I will probably be ticketed. Or somehow manage to run myself and my bike over. Meh.

It's a small price to pay if it means solving some of the fundamental problems that face this city.

The council restored funding for the Office on Aging and the Office of Asian and Pacific Islander Affairs, agencies that Fenty sought to eliminate.

Wait. What? The money is going to go to the Office of Aging and the Office of Asian and Pacific Islander Affairs? Really? Really?! All's I know then is I better see more bingo and decent Chinese restaurants around town come Oct. 1.

F*ck this place.

a written descent into madness

As none of you know, I've spent the last few months reading The Stuff of Thought (hey, it's hard to get through a book when you're functionally retarded) by my word idol, Steven Pinker. He's a very cunning linguist! (Just admit, much like songs about sporadically jizzing in your pants, that "cunning linguist" bit never gets old. Uh, or something.)

Oh snap! Two lewd references in the introductory paragraph?! What am I? A DC teen, speaking unnecessarily loudly on the Metro about inappropriate activities said teens are much too young to engage in?!

Although my sense of humor may lead one to believe I'm 14, I'm actually pretty thankful I'm not. Mainly because I was even stupider back then. But seriously, when did the concept of inside voices go out of style? Especially when you're a kid talking about sh*t I really, really don't want to hear spewing from anyone's mouth. I just don't get it. But, honestly, considering I'm not the most eloquent of assholes (a concept I demonstrate daily), I at first thought the loudness offended me more than the language. I mean, after all, this year's holiday e-card to my friends and family is going to be this:

F
*C
KF*
CKF*
CKF*C
KF*CKF
*CKF*CK
U

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!

Which means I'm probably not one to talk about what's appropriate to say when and to whom. Or am I?

Dr. Pinker is making me rethink what I thought I knew, which means maybe I'm not actually smarter than my 14-year-old self...

Although I curse at a frequency that rivals how many times a Hill staffer checks her BlackBerry in an hour, I still don't cuss in front of my mom. Or at least I try not to. Moreover, even on this sick bitch of a blog, I self-censor four-letter words using asterisks. And now, after reading chapter 7 of The Stuff of Thought, "The Seven Words You Can't Say On Television" (a title Pinker borrowed from an infamous George Carlin bit), I'm beginning to think maybe it wasn't just the decibel level of the conversation (if you can call it that) that bothered me, but the crude language. Pinker writes:

The persecution of swearers has a long history. The third commandment and Leviticus 24:16 spells out the consequences: "He that blasphemeth the name of the Lord shall be put to death." To be sure, the past century has expanded the arenas in which people can swear. As early as 1934, Cole Porter could pen the lyric "Good authors, too, who once knew better words / Now only use four-letter words / Writing prose. Anything goes." Most of the celebrity swearers of the twentieth century prevailed (if only posthumously), and many recent entertainers, such as Richard Pryor, Eve Ensler, and the cast of South Park, have cussed with impunity. Yet it's still not the case that anything goes. In 2006 George W. Bush signed into law the Broadcast Decency Enforcement Act, which increased the fines for indecent language tenfold and threatened repeat offenders with the loss of their license.

Taboo language, then, enters into a startling array of human concerns from capital crimes in the Bible to the future of electronic media. It stakes out the frontier of free speech in liberal democracies, not only in government control of the media but in debates over hate speech, fighting words, and sexual harassment. And of course it figures in our everyday judgments of people's character and intentions.

Interesting. Would I hate DC's obnoxious teenagers just as much for shouting about, say, rainbows and unicorns on the Metro, opposed to repeatedly dropping such biting words as what Pinker describes as a "gynecological-flagellative term for uxorial dominance"? (The man's seriously a word genius).

More importantly, though, in the megalomaniac world that is The Anti DC, does my decision to insert an asterisk into such words as "sh*t" and "f*ck," two of the seven words you can't say on television (the others are piss, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, and tits -- really?), mean I'm engaging in some kind of self-imposed judgment as to how decent of a human being I am? Would I be less of a writer to simply type "shit" and "fuck"? More poignantly, would I be worse person for it?

Considering I'm already hovering at the bottom of the proverbial asshole barrel, I have a hard time thinking my decision to, in essence, censor myself reflects on my value as a person. After all, it's just a vowel. But why do I do that? In my mind, I suppose, it takes the edge off of the word; it makes it less serious, perhaps, even less emotional, which is exactly why, according to Pinker, dirty words are so taboo in the first place.

The ubiquity and power of swearing suggest that taboo words may tap into deep and ancient parts of the emotional brain. We saw in chapter 1 that words have not just a denotation but a connotation: an emotional coloring distinct from what the world literally refers to, as in "principled" versus "stubborn" and "slender" versus "scrawny." The difference is reminiscent of the way that taboo words and their synonyms differ, such as "shit" and "feces," "cunt" and "vagina," or "fucking" and "making love." Long ago psycholinguists identified the three main ways in which words' connotations vary: good versus bad, weak versus strong, and active versus passive. "Hero," for example, is good, strong and active; "coward" is bad, weak and passive; and "traitor" is bad, weak and active. Taboo words cluster at the very bad and very strong edges of the space, though there are surely other dimensions to the connotation as well.

Perhaps more intriguing, Pinker describes how dirty words light up a part of our brain -- the amygdala -- that neutral words do not. According to so-called "science," the amygdala helps to meld emotion and memory and produces the involuntary shudder that occurs when we see or hear something we're not supposed to see or hear.

The involuntary shudder set off by hearing or reading a taboo word comes from a basic feature of the language system: understanding the meaning of a word is automatic. It's not just that we don't have earlids to shut out unwanted sounds, but that once a word is seen or heard we are incapable of reacting to it as a squiggle or noise but reflexively look it up in memory and respond to its meaning, including its connotation. The classic demonstration is the Stroop effect, found in every introductory psychology textbook and the topic of more than four thousand scientific papers.

And now the topic of one very unscientific blog. So, let's test this theory. Let's Stroop (Stroop ba-doop, Stroop ba-doop, Stroop ba-doop ba-doop ba-doop -- thank you, growing up in the '90s)!

1) Say aquamarine, lavender or burnt sienna (or blue, purple or orange, if you prefer, simpleton) for each item in turn from left to write:

WORD WORD WORD WORD WORD WORD

2) Now, do it again.

ORANGE PURPLE BLUE PURPLE ORANGE BLUE

3) And again.*

CUNT SHIT FUCK TITS PISS ASSHOLE

If you're a live human being, the task should get progressively harder with each set of words, according to Pinker.

The psychologist Don MacKay has done the experiment, and found that people are indeed slowed down by an involuntary boggle as soon as the eyes alight on each word. The upshot is that a speaker or writer can use a taboo word to evoke an emotional response in an audience quite against their wishes.

I, on the other hand, found the second one the hardest, which only validates that, apparently, I am indeed a robot who can't feel emotions. But wait a second! Let's turn back to homo sapiens again. Did Pinker just say a taboo word can evoke an emotional response in an audience quite against their wishes?! Does that then OK my response to want to muzzle all teenagers throughout the land? Wait. That's not against my wishes because, honestly, I would've gotten smacked in the face several times by adults if I had acted like such a buffoon in public when I was that age. Or this age, which is why I don't suddenly have a voluntary case of Tourette's in public places! Take note, teenagers! You sound like you have a serious disability BY CHOICE. You. Are. Idiots.

But again, more importantly, what does this mean for the megalomaniac e-land that is this blog? Would I make you all cringe even more if I remove the asterisks from my go-to blasphemies?

SHIT!

Did you involuntarily shudder? No?

What? You're just waiting for this gigantic leaping of the shark pseudo-attempt to wax intellectual to be over, you say?

Fuck.

*For the record, or so I can feel like a slightly more decent asshole, these are the words Pinker uses in his example.

what the mothereffing elf is this?!

I am so glad I don't drive that often because if I did, I'd clearly be really effing poor. See, I apparently possess the luck of an idiot criminal, who can't escape the laws of the road and their expensive consequences no matter how hard I try. And by "try," I clearly mean "ignore." That is, I often ignore traffic laws and not because I'm particularly ignorant. At least I'd like to think... But unlike the usual idiot criminal, I strategically break the law. Or, at least my foot does. But if I know an area is a hotspot for cops and other traffic law enforcers, I can reign in said foot (let's call him Mr. Pickles for effect) before he (or would my foot automatically be a she, too?) can get me into any trouble.

However, according to WTOP, this method of selective law-abiding is getting increasingly harder to succeed at in this sick bitch of a town. And no clearer have I learned the truthiness in that than the other day when I received an E-mail from Zipcar informing me that the person (or foot, rather) regulating the gas pedal at 5:08 p.m. on Nov. 1 in a sh*tty little Scion with license plate number CU0877 was apparently doing 41 in a 30 mph zone at the 5400 block of 16th Street.

DAMN YOU, PICKLES!

Although, really, I can't blame my own foot. It's not conducive to my policy of blaming solely others for my own problems. So, since my foot is technically part of me, Mr. Pickles is not to blame. Instead I blame this city and its clever ludicrous technological traffic traps.

DAMN YOU, TECHNOLOGY!

See? That's more like it. It's not me. (It never is.) It's goddamn technology, which, aside from costing me $50, is actually pretty amazing. It somehow got the image of this sh*tty Scion thrice times over, including a close-up of the goddamn license plate. If only it caught me sporting my Michael Jackson hat, which I was wearing from the night before when I went to Baltimore for Halloween.

Or did it?! Was I the unwitting victim of racism? Was I mistaken for a black man (because that clearly happens a lot) and ticketed solely because of my skin color? Did I look so much like Michael Jackson in that sh*tty Scion that I was singled out for this ticket for Driving While Black? Or, you know, Driving While White Dressed Up Like a Black Man Who's Possibly Paler Than Me? This is some goddamn injustice, I say!

Or maybe I was just speeding. Because quite honestly, despite my best efforts, I really looked nothing like Michael Jackson. In fact, save for the hat, the rest of the costume was shoved in my overnight bag and instead I was dressed like my normal self (i.e., an asshole). So if anything is unscrupulous here, I was ticketed for Driving While Dressed Like An Asshole in that hat, a flannel, tight white pants and Topsiders.

Hmm...is it strange that I occasionally can't remember what year it is -- yesterday I dated a check for "2009" -- but I never forget an outfit? Yes. Yes it is, which means I guess I really was ticketed for being an idiot -- an idiot criminal.

Sh*t. Well, I'll be damned. Look at that. This blog post just officially completed a (really offensive) circle, or more likely proved that my life (both on-the-road and on-the-Web) is officially in a downward spiral. While I came back to the phrase "idiot criminal," I accidentally proved that I am one, instead of not being one. That's just perfect. But not as perfect as this!

Send your own ElfYourself eCards

When the going gets tough retarded, the retarded get going. Wait. Dammit. I f*cked that one up, too. What I meant to say, is that when sh*t becomes untight (uh, ew...), dancing the disco with Norm Coleman and Putin with Flock of Seagulls hair will surely cheer a girl up. But it may highly disturb you. Unlike DC traffic enforcers and their silly cameras, I will give you a head's up...

yaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwwn

Family has a way of sucking the life out of you, doesn't it? I mean that in the best of ways, of course. (Hi, family!) Which is one of the reasons why I feel like making like a grizzly bear and hibernating for the rest of the week. The other reason I feel like making like a grizzly bear is because grizzly bears rule.


Seriously. That bear's sh*t is tight! But grizzly bears aside, there are also other reasons I feel like hibernating, but those subjects are neither here nor there right now. The point is, while I may have 99 problems, a grizzly bear isn't one. Wait a second. That's not right. Well, it's partly right. A grizzly bear, indeed, isn't a current problem, but neither are the 90-some other things that I alluded to just now. In fact, I can't even think of 99 things, which should hardly come as a surprise considering I'm apparently functionally retarded, as evidenced from how this Monday-after-several-days-with-the-family blog is going. Or maybe I'm dysfunctionally retarded. Whichever. All I know is that I'm thankful for pictures of tiny grizzly bears punching each other in the face right now, which will hopefully put this blog post back on it's proper e-track.


What was I talking about, now? Oh yeah! How awesome my ride back from Baltimore's airport went! This ride could've been a real problem, or at least a real annoyance had I had to wait for an Amtrak train in the cold weather, but luckily, as I descended from the free shuttle to the MARC station a nice business-minded cab driver approached me and two others offering a car ride back to DC for $20 per person. He may as well have been a grizzly bear offering me some delicious salmon. Clearly, this was an offer I could not refuse.


But it gets better. When we arrived at Union Station, where he said he'd drop us off, I asked him if he'd mind taking me up to Columbia Heights. Now, knowing how greedy DC cabs work, I was ready to shell out $15. However, before I could say anything else he said, "Yes," adding, "For five dollars more."

FIVE dollars?!?! SOLD!

And so I got home a lot quicker than I would've otherwise -- no less exhausted, however -- spending a grand total of $33. (I tipped him well.) It was a lovely way to end the weekend. However, not as lovely as this, where I will hopefully be the rest of the week.

shambles p.i. -- the daisy dukevich edition

I know I dedicated this week to NYC yesterday, but as anyone who's ever known me should realize, my word means nothing. But I don't break promises for just any old reason. Usually I forget, or get bored, or change my mind; that is, usually I am the reason I break my word. Today, however, I take a step back from my promised NYC Week because of reasons beyond my control.

A Moscow-based reader sent me a link to LiveJournal user "eaox" (LiveJournal in Russia is inexplicably huge, by the way), who had the following photo posted under a group called "metro persons" [SIC]. It really just might be the Shambles P.I. of all Shambles P.I.'s, even putting DC's epic fails to shambley shame. Behold! Comrade Daisy Dukevich!


Shto eto?! I have no idea what's going on here. I lived in Moscow for three years and never, ever have I seen someone shamble out with an outfit invention like that pictured above. I mean, it'd be bad enough with just those shoes and socks. Or the gut-exposing half-shirt. Or the junk-hugging denim short shorts. But all three together?! It's like a trifecta of...of...dammit, I don't know what the hell is going on here!

And the briefcase! Let us not forget to mention the briefcase! Is he going to work?! If so, what does he do? Computer programmer? Manager?? Duma deputy???

Under the comments section of the original LiveJournal post, people hypothesize that perhaps this gent lost a bet. Others suggest this was PhotoShopped. And still more postulate that perhaps he's just trying to beat the heat (the Moscow Metro isn't air-conditioned, after all). But the most thought-provoking comments are those comparing him to Hunter S. Thompson. After all, Hunter himself never minded showing a bit of leg.


The difference here is that the photo taken of Thompson was in 1977, in a hotel and he was clearly high on drugs. The photo of Daisy Dukevich was taken yesterday, on the metro, and we can only hope he's high on drugs to wear that very brave, yet incredibly fugtastic ensemble on the street. Fear and No Clothing In Moscow, certainly.

In short, DC has been trumped. Just when I thought there was no place more shambolic on Earth, Daisy Dukevich trumped our fugly city. I don't know whether to be relieved or incredibly sad. Hmm, much like after the Olympics ended, tonight again I might weep a little.

you're a dick, ma'am.

Despite lacking basic human feelings and emotions, I'm surprisingly a very nice person. I discovered this last week on my way to work when I attempted to tell off a wayward driver who nearly sideswiped my sweet ass on Connecticut Avenue.

The spar started when this bitch started tailing me and honking. I'm not sure what she expected me to do as, unfortunately, my 1980 Peugeot is not a hover-bike (I know, I'm as surprised as you are). After turning quickly and giving her a rather poignant snarl of disdain, she decided to nearly take me out when she proceeded to narrowly swerve around me only to slam on her brakes at the red light causing a near-collision (as I was clearly planning to scofflaw that sh*t and barrel through last minute, because I'm skilled like that). Anyway, not only was I forced to slam on my brakes, but I literally ran into the back of her car, barely escaping major injury to my person and my bike. Understandably, I was a tad irked. And by "a tad irked," I mean "more angry than a pudgy little German boy whose computer games aren't loading fast enough." (OK, maybe not that angry...)

Anyway, while that whole experience may sound overwhelmingly negative (you know, nearly getting killed and all) there is a plus-side to this kind of incident: Cycling allows you free reign to flip the bird, scream expletives at people and generally act like a jackass. It's cathartic and lovely. Think about it, that kind of behavior gets you fired at work. On a bike, it makes you a badass.

Unless you're me, of course, which brings me to my point. I'm too f*cking nice.

What should've happened in this situation is me keying her car. But no. My Midwestern upbringing would not allow it. Instead, after gaining my composure, I simply swerved around to her driver's side door, knocked on her window to get her attention and enunciated with great effort the words, "You're a dick." Now, this would have been slightly awesome if I didn't add one more word to that statement of fact -- "ma'am."

"You're a dick, ma'am."

Yeah. All of my accumulated badassery (even if there wasn't that much to begin with -- thanks Minnesota) vanished at that very moment. In fact, I'm pretty sure the pedestrians, including the children, crossing the street in front of me reacted with shock followed by laughter. "Did she just say 'ma'am'?" I swear one of them asked.

Yes. Yes I did. I said, "You're a dick, ma'am."

What was I thinking?! I mean, seriously, it's like reading a Shakespearean sonnet and adding "or whatever" at the end. It's retarded. I'm retarded.

But more than that, I'm disappointed. If there's any group of people with whom it's not just OK, but almost required to verbally spar and swear at, it's obnoxious drivers -- and that goes not just for cyclist-driver sparring, but for driver-driver and pedestrian-driver, as well.

For some reason, and I think this phenomenon is especially prevalent on the East Coast, it's perfectly acceptable, and sometimes even encouraged, to completely lose your composure on the road. I never really knew of the satisfaction of flipping a really good bird to a driver until I moved out here and started bike-commuting.

Growing up in Minnesota (the last place I used a bicycle on a regular basis), I never had a lot of drivers creepin' up on my sweet ass, honking incessantly, cutting me off and dangerously slamming on their brakes. Then again, I was 14 years old and it's bad form to cuss out a child, unless, of course, that child is a really angry German video game nerd (see link above) or doing "hoodrat stuff with this friends." Then it's fair game.

But drivers -- especially East Coast drivers -- are always fair game, which is why I'm feeling like an epic failure right now. I lost the game. Although I'm pretty sure after several practice sessions, I've perfected my bird-flipping skillz, my verbal assault smack-downs are clearly in need of some work. What's next? I'll see you in hell, sir? Dammit.