i really can't believe i'm posting this on the internet

So, I went to CityZen and I tried to review it. Keyword = tried.



Kids, that's what 31 looks like. Have a good weekend!

oops.

Unfortunately, while I may have the cold, dark heart of a robot, I apparently don't have the motor skills to perform simple tasks, such as uploading videos to YouTube. Damn you, Internet! And here I thought we were best friends after you qualified me as a Mensa-level genius the other day. And now? Now, I'm not sure what to believe...

Which is exactly how I feel about this Pennsylvania bike lane business. I went to check out the official "opening" of the lanes on Tuesday (even though they've been there for months now), and, well, I'm not quite sure what I think about them anymore. I'm also not quite sure what I think about this video I made about it. Honestly, I have no idea what was going through my mind. In the words of the Internet: "Unknown error detected."

Oh wait. I know what the error was -- me recording this yesterday, directly after watching the United States defeat Algeria to emerge FIRST in their World Cup bracket. Although I imbibed a brewkfast of champions, I'm pretty sure Miller Lite does not do a body good. Whoops.

But at least I did one thing right -- I wore that shirt. And all is forgiven!

a poorly videotaped bicycle jaunt

So, I haven’t been in DC since Wednesday. I’ve instituted a new policy that dictates I leave at least once a week. Next week, I’ll be going to New York. The week after, the West Coast from where I may never return. Just kidding. I’ll return for at least a week before I probably end up in New Hampshire. And then maybe somewhere in South America, where early retirement from not doing much of anything at all awaits. But since that’s still at least a month-and-a-half off, so there’s no use talking about it.

And on the subject of not worth talking about, I made another video blog. The setting is rural southern Virginia, and the subject matter is standard: bikes, my hair and my functional retardation.

Before today’s feature presentation begins, however, I’ll disclose that this is the first time I worked with my mobile medium, my Flip Mino Camcorder (someone should really pay me for that plug...), so excuse the extreme close-ups and shaky camera work. I'm still getting used to it. Also, considering I haven't been doing much of it on this blog lately, I'd like to remind you that I’m a writer (I hope…), not a videographer (which is really too bad).

Sigh.

But I guess there’s no need to prolong the inevitability of bringing more shame to my friends and family through this latest video experiment, so please all The Anti DC to present A Janky Bike, A Jankier Rider.

oh, you've created a vmonster

If you couldn't guess, the "v" stands for vlog. And the "monster," well, that stands for monster. Duh. Anyway, the bottom, retardulous line is this: You've created a vlogging monster out of me. It's like you gave me a knife and a gun and I made a knife-gun. And then both shot and stabbed myself with it.

Honestly, I truly thought last week's vlogtastical experiment was going to be a one-time thing, but since I got so much feedback that didn't involve the phrase "that was f*cking retarded," I decided to try it again. And on a rare serious note, this whole video thing has served as a much-needed break to rest the remaining molecule I call my brain that is now dedicated to writing a work of (gasp!) fiction. Not to be confused with fictional work.

Besides, vlogging offers a clearly demented person like myself an additional benefit: When I inevitably hit rock bottom (scheduled for sometime next month), I'll have both written and filmed documents of the downward spiral. This should make the diagnosis much easier for when I'm finally forcibly committed.

But mainly, I hope you all just like my hair better this time...



Sadly, that was an actual phone call. A real conversation. And if you're wondering, yes, I too am both bemused and disturbed by how often I seem to talk about David Caruso.

Also, did you notice the toilet paper perched gingerly on the top shelf? That's probably the best part of the video.

But let's not bid our weekend adieus on that note. Instead, let's renew our faith in the capabilities of humanity (instead of its mental insufficiencies), and peruse possibly the most informative article I've ever come across on the Internet forwarded to me by a friend: "Seven Ridiculously Over-the-Top Modifications to Deadly Weapons." Because when I mentioned that knife-gun in the opening paragraph, I wasn't kidding. That sh*t exists.

maybe in another dimension...

As a reward (or punishment, depending on how much you hate my face), I have a special treat for you today for not forgetting about me during my 6-day hiatus: A VLOG!

Actually, it's sort of the anti-vlog. (I'm good at being anti-stuff.)

See, over the weekend I received an email from a reader (who's not related to me!), who asked, "Marissa. I like your writing a lot. Funny stuff. Wondering if you've ever done stand-up or even a any vlogging or anything. You should try it!"

Well, reader, thanks for the compliments and your belief that I'm articulate enough to speak in full sentences. Unfortunately however, I don't think I'm suited to do anything oral [insert dirty joke here]. See, although I give off the image of being a legitimate moron, I'm smart enough to know what I'm good at and talking out loud isn't one of them.

That was my first thought, anyway. And then I forgot about that email entirely while I whittled away my weekend whittling. What? I'm good with a whittle [insert another dirty joke here].

But then yesterday I rethought. I noticed I had been talking to myself. Or my whittle. Whichever. And what I was saying wasn't in gibberish, but in English. So I thought, "Hmm. Maybe I could be a video blogger!" After all, having never tried it, how could I possibly know I'd automatically suck at it?

And so I made a vlog.

And upon rewatching the footage, I learned never to doubt my first instincts ever again.

But despite its all-around sh*tiness, I've decided not let this well-intentioned, rather retardulous effort go to waste. Nope, instead I've decided to make it into a permanent reminder to myself that I should stick to writing.

So without further ado, allow me to present to you, my first and probably last vlog appropriately titled, "Why The Anti DC Will Never Be A Vlog."

And if you can get through the whole thing without punching your computer screen where my face is floating around, then I commend you. You are my true e-friend. Either that, or you like torture and your name is Dick Cheney* and/or you're just a dick.



Wow. I'll never get a fulltime job again. Meh.

My lifelong hobo pass aside, however, I promise I'll get back to what I'm good at (or less bad at) tomorrow. (And I don't just mean whittling!) Now, if you don't mind I have to go record myself watching The View. It's awkward because even I don't know if I'm kidding at this point! Although if that actually does happen, I've made the mental note to shoot from a different angle. Gratuitous up-the-nose shots aren't necessarily flattering. I will also brush my hair. Maybe.

But before I go, I must also share with you the shambles I spotted at Club Monaco in Georgetown this weekend. Behold...


And no, that's not an optical illusion. That, indeed, is a scrunchie. And not just any scrunchie, but a $9 scrunchie. Notice how carefully I'm touching it (I Purelled that whole arm after this encounter). Scrunchies are to me what holy water is to the devil. It burns.

On the other hand, this did provide a new insulting simile to insert into my lexicon -- "glass of $9 scrunchies." As in, Washington, DC, is a like a glass of $9 scrunchies. I will never understand it, yet someone must be buying...someone blind and ignorant, that is.

Wow. Suddenly, spending three minutes staring up my nose and watching me serenade legumes wasn't so bad now, is it!?

*Whoops! Amid trying to spot my boogers and trying to fathom who is actually going to buy a $9 scrunchie, I almost forgot about the asterisk I slapped on the end of Dick Cheney's name. But thankfully I remember my extra Cheney tidbit -- my Dickbit, if you will -- now: My friend almost got ran over by Cheney in the Salt Lake City airport on Friday. He was riding in the back of one of those airport senior-mobiles. Apparently, Dick "The New Old Man White Oprah" Cheney flies commercial now. Who knew!? I bet going from flying private to commercial is like a glass of $9 scrunchies.

movies really are like real life...in europe

As some of you are aware, Eurovision, the premiere song contest of all the universe...or at least of all of Europe...and Russia...and Eurasia...took place this weekend. This sh*t is foreign to the max. And of course by "foreign," I mean "extremely awesome." It's like the Lord of Sh*tty music opened up the heavens and let his sh*tty music-infused bile cover an entire continent plus some. Then, after the heavenly sh*tty music storm, the special brand of sh*tty music seeds that only flourish in Europe and its immediate surroundings sprouted and became ripe with bad synthesizers, broken English and non-ironic This Is Spinal Tap-esque showmanship. It is all very, very epic -- Stonehenge epic. And to give you an idea of just how non-sarcastically I just used the word "epic," please take a look-see at a few selections from this year's contest.

Among 2008's finest entrants, which hailed from sea to shining barren tundra, was a Latvian group called Pirate's of the Sea. Please enjoy their appropriately named ditty, "Wolves of the Sea," which not only made it to the final round, but placed 11th overall out of 25 finalists.



Even more ridiculous (and yes, it is possible) was Azerbaijan's entry, a duo called "Elner & Samir," who sang screeched and grunted respectively a little song called "Day After Day." They placed 8th. I'm not kidding.



But most epic of all the entrants, of course, was Mr. Dima Bilan, the contestant from southern Russia who took home this year's top prize for his English-language masterpiece, "Believe."



Did you tear up? Were you crying like a baby? I was. I love that Dima Bilan, regardless of how heavily and ridiculously accented his English is. Not only is he objectively one of the hottest men in Russia, but that bitch cajoled the "White Comet" himself, Olympic gold-medalist Evgeny Plushenko, into flailing around like a graceful little spaz on a slice of ice about the size of my apartment! One word: TIGHT. Wait, no, two words: ULTRA TIGHT.

The bad news, however, is that now we have to wait an entire year to see these types of non-ironic retardulous performances again. Here's to hoping someone gets stuck in a giant pod. Or uses miniature props.



Oh wait, nevermind. Spain took care of the miniature props front. And Lord of Sh*tty Music only knows what the hell happened here, ahem, France. Although on second thought (which I do indeed have from time to time), I actually think I kind of loved that last one: "He'll be coming on in a golf cart!" And I will be damned if that French man did not come on in a golf cart. C'est épique! C'est très, très épique!

jeff tweedy is not a douche magnet!

I am relieved to report that my second concert in DC was much, much less craptastic than the first. (Of course, at the last concert I attended my friends and I broke cardinal rule No. 67. Our bad.).

But honestly, my second go at DC's live music scene -- from procuring the tickets to being at the show --was an all-around damn fine experience. But seeing Wilco should always induce good times...well, except if it's 1999 and your best friend gets a concussion during the show from some gorilla-suit-clad asshole, who kicked her in the head while crowd-surfing; we can forgive, but we will never forget (and also, who crowd-surfs at a Wilco concert? Oh, liberal arts kids...).

But obnoxious asshole aside, I want to tell you about what was almost more exciting for The Anti DC than seeing long-time rock-star crush Jeff Tweedy and crew live on stage taking care of business -- the crowd. Yes, I can't believe what I'm typing. Save for a few outliers, who I'll get to in a moment, the crowd at large did not suck. In fact, the four guys standing on my left even managed to successfully start a slow-clap during the short intermission between the last song of the set and the first encore (there were two).

I know I must not be the only one who finds this phenomenal. I mean, I've never seen the slow-clap succeed in real life. Every time I've tried it it failed miserably, so I always thought it was a myth. But no! Turns out my timing is just bad, unlike these four undergrads, who not only pulled off the slow-clap, but did it with incredible grace!

It started with just one, then the other three joined in. I looked at The Law (my old shooting buddy) to see if she was hearing and seeing what I was and, indeed, she was. We laughed a bit at their try but knew (or thought we knew) their fate. But then we heard similar rhythmic clapping on our right. Whoa. It was happening. Like puppies and butterflies dancing under a rainbow made of unicorns and fairy dust, we were witnessing something rare and beautiful. The floor suddenly burst forth with the magical sounds of hundreds of hands bouncing off each other at the same time, slower at first then gradually growing until the rhythm was lost in the roar of the entire club erupting into applause! I was awed. If I was 10 years younger I'd have fallen in love right then and there.

But I'm old. So I simply gave a congratulatory nod to the one standing closest to me and turned my attention back to the stage...or tried to. See, while most of the crowd at the Wilco show may have been acceptable or, in the case of the four aforementioned boys, ultra tight, there's always a "That Guy" that inevitably pisses you off. Whether he's giving your friend a concussion or, as in last night's case, falling into you drunk, spilling his beer and blocking most of your photo ops (the photo above is courtesy of the Interweb), That Guy is always there. And while That Guy usually tends to be younger than you, this one was definitely pushing 50. Seriously, you'd think by the time you hit middle-age someone would have had the courtesy to clue you in on your "That Guy" status so you could've checked yourself before you wrecked yourself turned into "That Old Guy." Friends don't let friends remain douches.

Anyway, despite That Old Guy's attempts to eff up every single one of my shots (camera, not gun), I managed to get a little snippet of passable video just to give you an idea of how awesome Wilco is. The song's called "Can't Stand It" off of their 1999 Summerteeth album. Unfortunately, my low quality recording doesn't do it justice. And some of That Old Guy's antics come into play around 1:10. Eh, I'll see him in hell.

home on the range...

The shooting range, that is! Yes, World Wide Web, I am an official sharpshooting badass. Evidence!

Taking care of business.

So I may not have been wearing any blaze orange or camouflage (where does one get that stuff in DC, anyway?), but I had all the necessary elements, including:

• Shooting-approved shades;
• Sh*t-kicking boots;
• Gun-approved bum gloves;
  
• A not-to-be-f*cked-with serious expression; and, last but not least,
  
• A 20-gauge semi-automatic shotgun. Yay!
  

Seriously, have I ever looked more street illegal in my life? No. No, I haven't. But, despite my awesomely delinquent appearance, the above-pictured shiny wood-and-metal accessory (a Beretta AL391 Urika, to be exact) is not only 100 percent street legal in Virginia, but I'm pretty sure it's practically requisite for residents to own. God bless Virginia and its love of freedom and using that freedom to shoot skeet.


And you know what? I love freedom too.

Sharp shooting. Nice ass!

And so does The Law!

Locked and loaded. Nice ass!

We may look like super tough (in The Outsiders sense) experts, but, um, what you're seeing here is The Law and I shooting live firearms for the first time...ever. As such newcomers to what is unquestionably the best activity of all time, you'd think we'd have sucked our first time around. And, well, you'd be right. However, by the time we got the chance to shoot a second round -- roughly three minutes later -- we had become bonafide sharpshooters. No joke. We were sniping out clay disks left, right, over, under, high, low, near and far. It was on.

Was this natural talent? Duh. Of course -- at least in part. But before you start to worship us for the sharpshooting deities we clearly are, I'm going to tell you something: Shooting is not hard, like, for anyone. If you're not blind and have arms, you're pretty much set. See, there's not a lot of skill involved, in the classical sense. You don't have to worry about aiming, using a scope or judging wind speeds really. The only thing I found to worry about was how my ass looked from behind.

Nice ass! David, our shooting instructor, is working those khakis out! (By the way, that sea of blaze orange you see in the field out there is a hot mess of broken clay targets. There is A LOT of shooting going on out in Centreville, Va., a.k.a. the tightest place on Earth.)

In fact, the only real skill you need to become a good shooter is the ability to chillax and just go with it, at least according to our shooting guru David: "It's like taking a swing -- sometimes you hit it, sometimes you don't." That's called wisdom, my friends.

Of course instead of a golf club or baseball bat, you're "swinging" a semi-automatic or 12-gauge double barrel. But, then again, in Virginia golf clubs and firearms are pretty much the same.

The Law took to David's wisdom like it was her job and was sniping out clay like a pro. I -- although still an excellent shooter, mind you -- was a little more hit-and-miss (literally) with the targets. I either need a bit more practice or I need to start toting in a Kalashnikov AK-47 assault rifle and just start spraying those damn clay disks out. Of course, for some reason I don't think Virginia's fine police force -- freedom loving they may be -- would appreciate my efforts to truly master this sport. But, I guess with the complimentary gun rental tickets The Law and I received upon successfully completing our Learn to Shoot course, I'll just take whatever Weapon of Clay Destruction I can get when I go back. And trust that I will go back because the Bull Run Shooting Center just might be the best thing to ever happen to the DC area.

But enough reading and typing! My burgeoning love for the glory of skeet shooting deserves a whole new medium -- video montage!* (And you're going to want to crank the volume up to 11 because the soundtrack is tight.)



*By the way, I am so ridiculously attached to this blog that I spent about five hours mastering this two-minute video montage...and by "mastering," of course, I mean barely piecing it together. Included in this many hours of unpaid work were several technical inability issues, mainly stemming from my need to rotate the video. See, The Law and I shot the low quality footage with my Nikon S1 digital camera and instead of holding the camera upright, we held it sideways like a couple of assholes. At the time, it seemed to produce a better shot (of course that pun was intended!)...or so we thought. Turns out, when I went to rotate the video 90 degrees, my computer wouldn't allow me (or more like, I couldn't figure out how) to reconfigure the dimensions. So, everything looks a little short and squat in the live video shots. I should probably just go ahead and shoot my my computer in the face, er, motherboard. Whatever.

Oh, and also, I realize my hair looks super gnarly. That's partly because I got up just 20 minutes before I had to meet The Law at the metro to head out to National Airport to pick up our cobalt blue rental Dodge Avenger, and partly because DC salons butchered it for me (thanks). But don't worry (um, because I'm sure my hair situation has caused many to fret...), I'm getting it cut this Friday. In Boston. Problem solved. Ciao, e-friends!