the douchebags of our lives

Washington, DC, is known for many things, not least of which is its extremely high douchebag population. Yay!

Per capita, I'm pretty sure there are more douchebags in the District than there are in the entire state of California. And New York. Combined. Hell, I bet there are more douches in DC than there are probably in the entire continental United States. Wait, no, f*ck it. I'll even throw in Hawaii, Alaska, Puerto Rico, Guam and, let's just do it -- Canada. That says something.

And like anyone else who finds themselves either living in or visiting this douchebag-infested Capital of the Free World, chances are you either 1) are a douchebag yourself (in which case, get the hell outta here!), or 2) you've had at least one...hundred run-ins with said douchebags. I, for instance, run into douchebags so often that it's hardly a big deal anymore, and certainly not always blogworthy. (Although once in a while it still is.)

But if this high concentration of DC-area douchebags barely registers anymore on The Anti DC "Let Me Be A Smug Jackass and Mock You" scale, these douches certainly don't register on The Anti DC "Fine, I'll Let You Buy Me Dinner and, OK, Other Gifts, Too" scale, which is a damn shame because apparently 48.5 percent of DC's douchebags are single, according to CNN Money:

Our nation's capital is packed with singles, from business-minded urban professionals douchebags, government employees douchebags and future politicians douchebags to students douchebags at area universities including Georgetown, American University, Howard and George Washington University. And Washington, D.C., is known for bringing together young people douchebags eager for opportunity -- at work as well as within its vibrant social douchebag scene which includes numerous clubs, restaurants, bars, and other entertainment douchebag venues.

Yes, I took the liberty to edit that slightly, as I think CNN Money's research team failed to reach to the heart of the matter. Anyway, before we all I burst into tears, put Elliott Smith on loop and cry by myself in a cold bathroom stall while I continue to age, let's take a look at the other cities on the Top 10 list that might help put our my sh*t back into perspective.

• 1. Hoboken, NJ -- 57.7 percent single, but 100 percent in Hoboken, NJ.

• 2. Cambridge, Mass. -- 52.4 percent single, but, as someone who used to live there, let me tell you it is not unknown to see a microeconomics book on a bar counter. Now, had it been macro...I could work with that. (Eh, not really. I'm dumb.)

• 3. Somerville, Mass. -- 51.4 percent. I've been to some fun parties in Somerville, so miraculously I don't have much ridiculous sh*t to say about this one. RAZZY'S!

• 4. Berkeley, Calif. -- 51.2 percent single...hippies.

• 5. Boston, Mass. -- 50.3 percent single. Um, OK. We got it. Boston has a lot of college students. Great.

• 6. Burlington, Vt. -- 50 percent single, but, um, it's cold there!

• 8. Boulder, Colo. -- 48.2 percent single, but, um, it's cold there! (Yeah, I got nothin'.)

• 9. North Druid Hills, Ga. -- 47.6 percent single, but, um, it's hot there! (Yeah, I still got nothin'.)

• 10. Hermosa Beach, Calif. -- 47.2 percent single, but listen to this and I dare you to tell me you don't find it completely unappealing: "Hard bodies head to Hermosa Beach, known by some as the beach volleyball capital of the world. Free summer sunset concerts, the Annual Aloha Days Surf Festival and shops and boutiques are all within walking distance from its sandy shore." Gross. A bunch of good-looking, fit people enjoying the beach, the nice weather and various free concerts and festivals?! Heinous, I say! The horror is simply unimaginable! *UPDATE! THIS JUST IN! The best pick up line ever in Hermosa Beach?*

Until the next douching hour,

♥T.A.D.C.

look at the good i do

In lieu of a real post today, and, Lord of the Dance, you best believe I have a few doozies coming up, I've decided to share with you a viral video that has come up for some reason at least three baker's dozen times in the past two weeks.

I'll either quote it, someone else will quote it or it will simply come up in passing a la "Have you seen that Brenda Dickson Welcome to My Home parody?" to which I respond. "Get the hell outta here!"

Luckily, this sh*t does not get old. In fact, it gets funnier each and every time you watch it. I'd say, "I never met a viral video I didn't like, EXCEPT FOR THIS ONE!" but that simply wouldn't be true. I'd even venture to say I'm 100 percent 50/50 that this is the greatest parody voice-over of all time, so please, while I finish up a few freelance assignments, which I will explain more about in the very near future, enjoy what I've been enjoying, probably a little too much. (Keep in mind, however, the audio is, um, a bit NSFW.) Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go read some porn to the blind. Ta!

sunday morning mob justice!

It was a pretty typical Sunday morning. I ran some errands, bought a bike lock, ate some brunch and nearly missed being shot. Nothing special.

Shot?

Yeah. Thanks to a late-night of ruckus, I missed directly witnessing the 11:15 a.m. shooting on Columbia Road in Adams Morgan. I did, however, catch the aftermath around 12:15 p.m. and I think I might be in the background of a Channel 9 news report, or at least my head might.

Can you spot the local celebrity?

It's the most stylish man on DC's City Council, Jim Graham, dressed in head-to-toe white! Gutsy!

Channel 9...Unfortunately, Topper Shutt was not on the scene.

Neither was David Caruso. Or his sunglasses.

Welcome to DC, where, if you're lucky enough not to get shot, you'll inevitably witness a shooting crime scene. This is my second. Yay.

Apparently, after a short scuffle, a dude shot another dude in the leg, hitting an artery, in front of the Radio Shack. The gunman fled while the victim began to bleed profusely. Witnesses tried to call 9-1-1, but couldn't get through, so they physically ran to a nearby fire station and fetched the one police cruiser that sits on 18th Street watching for jaywalkers.

In the meantime, though, since DC's infrastructure failed, something quite amazing happened -- MOB JUSTICE!

According to people on the scene, as one witness tended to the man's wounds by making a tourniquet out of other witnesses' T-shirts, several other people with sticks (where they got those in Adams Morgan, I'm rather perplexed about) ran after the shooter, eventually stopping him on 18th a couple of blocks away.

That is f*cking solid!

Yet it is also f*cking sad.

I'm extremely pleased to know that DC's citizens are ballsy enough to take justice in their own hands and chase down a man wielding a gun (who is clearly not afraid to use it) with nothing but fricking sticks. That's solid.

However, the fact that mob justice is necessary to catch criminals here, rather than the presumed professionals who get a salary to solve such crimes, is extremely disheartening. I mean, don't get me wrong, mob justice is pretty sweet and all, but having a functional police force and a means to call them in case of an emergency (i.e. a working 9-1-1 infrastructure) would probably be a little sweeter. Just a thought...

Well, here's to one more day of not getting capped! Good luck!

*UPDATE! It turns out the dude who helped me pick out my bike lock at the bike shop, Tripp, was the good samaritan who triaged the shooting victim! (However, I'm going to return it because I found it online for about $25 less. Sorry City Bikes, but your mark-ups are unreasonable.)*

you'll break the law if you know what's good for you

One of the lamest things about DC is its enforcement of the goddamn law. Wait, actually, let me rephrase that: Its enforcement of selective goddamn laws. While I'm all for ticketing traffic violators (unless it's me) and arresting killers (unless it's me...um...LOL!), I'm staunchly against blanket carding in bars.

The problem with carding everyone -- 100 percent screening, if you will -- is that it not only wastes valuable time the bartender could be using to serve and, thus, increase his or her tips, but it puts the very un-American burden on me, the citizen, to carry around a government-issued identification with me at all times (because there's a good chance I may need to get a drink at any given time on any given day).

Carrying an ID on my person at all times is a lot of pressure. What if I lose it? What if someone steals it? Then when I need it for a legitimate purpose, like getting on a plane and getting the hell out of this sick bitch of a city, I might not have it. Why? Because I had to bring it to a bar in a country in which I've been legally able to drink for almost eight years. OUTRAGED!

OK, I'm not really that outraged. In fact, I recognize that last night when I was unable to get my sauce or check out all the bands at DC9, it was my own damn fault for having forgotten to conduct the all-important bag-to-bag ID transfer before I left. Dammit.

However, despite that I clearly sabotaged myself in this particular incident, I'm convinced that had I been anywhere else in America -- Boston, New York, Chicago, Minneapolis, or Grinnell, Iowa -- a state- or government-issued ID would not have been so strictly required. After all, everyone I was there with was well over 21, I am well over 21 (as much as I'd like to think I look 19, I'm pretty sure the youngest I can pass for at this point in time is maybe 24 on a good day), and I effing had one of the people playing that night vouch for me. Alas, however -- DENIED.

And while this is the first time I've experienced a technical face control in DC because I'm a disorganized jackass, this isn't the first time I've noticed the unusual amount of law-abiding carding that goes on here compared to other U.S. cities. I've seen people well into their thirties get carded in DC. Hell, I think my 61-year-old mother got carded once (although, in all fairness, she is aging extremely well, thank you genes). Bottom line -- it's a bit ridiculous.

Why is this? Does some horror story exist in DC's past where one person let one 19-year-old in one time and was sentenced to death or something? Is it an irrational fear of cops cracking down? That can't be it. Cops don't really like doing their jobs here. So what is it? I get carding bitches when it's not perfectly clear they're over 21, but when carding old folks like myself? Is it really all that necessary? Or is this The Man keeping me down sober? Damn you, The Man, damn you!

washington post, you make me sick!*

As an aspiring writer, hoping to one day make the New York Times bestseller list, I tend to envy those who are already at where I'd one day like to be. For instance I'm completely jealous of Michael Pollan. That asshole can write (and, of course, I mean "asshole" as a term of endearment in this case as I pretty much pour pore over anything that bitch has ever written (and, of course, I mean "bitch" as a term of endearment too as I not only pour pore over his work, but have several times written essays not for school but for myself about his innate ability to write so wonderfully about sh*t as mundane as foliage and corn (and, of course, I mean "foliage" and "corn" as f*cking foliage and corn because, um, that's what he writes about...anyway...))). Absolutely ridiculous parentheticals aside, however, Michael Pollan can seriously write like the dickens! (And due to the fact that I just wrote "write like the dickens," clearly, I'm still working on it...)

But enough with the complimentary hullabaloo; that's not my forté. (Although, Michael Mr. Pollan: If by the grace of Topsiders, you're somehow magically reading this, I beg you to E-mail me and, you know, take me under your proverbial wing and what not.) We all know my real talent is in the art -- yes, art -- of complaining.

And so, here we are. There will be no pictures of me today dressed up like an asshole. Nor will I be dropping subliminal messages suggesting that you should dump slime à la You Can't Do That On Television on anyone wearing madras or douche-denim. In fact, today I'm not even going to mention fashion and the dishabille doo-doo DC's denizens drop day-to-day. (D-lightful! See Mr. Pollan? I need help!)

Nope. Instead, I'm going to deride what quite possibly is the most retardulously written article I've ever read in the Post. In fact, this might be the worst written article I've read in any American newspaper...ever. Wait, I take that back. It might be the second worst. The first worst -- hands down -- goes to Gene Weingarten's "Pearls Before Breakfast," which somehow, quite mysteriously, in fact, won the Pulitzer Prize. In short, it's a nearly 7,400-word article on how DC is chock full of assholes because commuters failed to stop in their tracks flip-flops to listen to a concert violinist play in L'Enfant Plaza during rush hour.

[Necessary sidebar: First off, it's not rude nor is it a sign of the erosion of our collective humanity if people don't stop to listen to some bitch -- although arguably a bitch with more talent in his left eyebrow than I will ever have in my left eyebrow -- with a violin in L'Enfant Plaza, which is quite possibly the gnarliest place in DC. That sh*t is ugly. Bon Jovi could've been playing and I wouldn't have stopped. OK, I probably wouldn't stop for Bon Jovi anywhere. Billy Joel, Wang Chung, The Fat Boys (well, I'd stop for the Fat Boys). But you get the idea. In other words, the only thing Weingarten's article proved was that the metro smells, having a job sucks and the Pulitzer committee was getting paid off by someone.]

But getting back to takin' care of business: What could have almost topped Weingarten's drivel? Wil Haygood's drivel. And no, I neither misspelled nor made that name up.

Mr. Haygood penned an article called "Lonely, Dark and Deep," and while it sounds like the title of a personal ad you'd find on Craigslist's Casual Encounters (not that I'm looking or anything...), or, um, a stanza from a Robert Frost poem (but aren't those two things not at least a little similar?), it has nothing to do with either. It's about some killer (ooooo!). OK, it is creepy, and the actual story is a bit interesting (unlike the predictable Weingarten set-up), but the writing is -- and I'll aim to keep my criticism both constructive and professional here -- totally sh*tastic.

In fact, I have to take back what I said about the story. I actually don't know if it's interesting because I couldn't bear to read it from start to finish. I started to feel physically ill halfway through. At first I thought my nauseousness was due to the several ounces of brie I consumed instead of a real dinner. But then I remembered that brie is effing delicious and realized that my feeling of near-hurl was due to the choppy, cheesy chiché-filled writing style with which Will Wil seemingly tried so hard to make as, well, sh*tastic as he possibly could. He succeeded:

Haygood writes: "All manner of animals feast in the deep woods along this lovely stretch of mountains."

I write: Really? "All manner of animals?" Is he joking? Is that even proper English? And that's how you're going to start this series? REALLY?!

Haygood writes: "The man's eyes danced all over the fish."

I write: Again, really? Is this cheesed out personification really necessary? Ugh. It's cheap romance novel writing, is it not? Here, let's see. "As Lorenzo's silky pirate shirt buckled under the pressure of his throbbing pecs, the sun gently kissed his buttcheeks. Lorenzo was dressed as he always was -- in assless chaps." (Hmm...not bad, actually. Perhaps, that's how I can get on the NYT bestseller list...) But you know, if Wil was going to use this sort of eye-roll-inducing writing technique, at least he could have made it memorable. How's about, "The man's eyes krumped all over the fish." I could get behind that.

Haygood writes: "There was a gentle breeze, like feathers swirling."

I write: What? "Feathers swirling?" Do feathers "swirl?" Toilet water swirls, sure. But I don't think I've ever heard of feathers "swirling." Seriously, if you're going to use a non-sensical simile, at least choose something that you can picture like, "There was a gentle breeze, like angels hurling." Again, I could get behind that.

Haygood writes: "Just as darkness fully descended on this remote mountain like a dark blanket over the eyes..."

I write: You know what? I'm super glad Mr. Haygood used an adjective to describe the blanket as "dark" especially when comparing it to the concept of "darkness." Because imagining darkness coming on like a plain, nondescript blanket over one's eyes just flies over my head. Oh wait. No, no it doesn't. They're both stupid clichés. But not only is Haygood's version stupid, it's also redundant. And repetitive. And reiterative. But mostly it's just stupid.

That last one made me run to the bathroom and not even for something cool, like sniffing cocaine through a crisp 100 euro bill off the backside of a midget hooker. Wait, what? Forget I said that. What I mean is, sh*tty writing in renowned publications seriously makes me feel physically ill. I'm not kidding. It's like seeing a really sh*tty band like Good Charlotte on MTV exist. Somethin' just ain't right about it.

And I'm sure Mr. Haygood is talented. From what I was physically able to handle, the story arch was decent and the actual story seemed interesting enough, but the writing just ruined it. Perhaps it's the editor's fault then? Wait...no...I'm joking. The editor probably has some hiring power (and, you know, I freelance...just sayin'...), so let's just keep the blame squarely on Wil, who's getting an e-wag of the finger right now. Yet, here I am, still envious of him. *sigh*

OK, so, which major publication wants to hire me? Come on! I would make a tight ombudsman, no?

*Sick with the urge to write for you, Washington Post! E-mail me, editors!

outfit invention: from moscow with sunglasses

It's not often that I compare living in Washington, DC -- the supposed Capital of the Free World -- to living in Moscow, Russia -- the Capital of, um, this -- but to put some of the events that happened last Saturday night into perspective, that's exactly what I'm going to do. I know, apples-oranges, peas-carrots, crack-cocaine, etc. It's not the best comparison, but it's somethin' so let's just go with it for now.

One of my friends' and my main traditions back in our Moscow days -- during Putin's first term, mind you (hi, I'm old) -- was "outfit invention." This wasn't merely putting together a good-looking ensemble for an evening on the town. No. This was putting together an epic costume for an evening/night/early-to-mid morning on the town. To give you an idea, some of our top outfit inventions in Moscow included themes such as "Gay Hitler," "We're Wearing Wigs," "I Look Like a French Whore," "I ♥ Putin," "I ♥ the USA," "I Procured My Entire Outfit in an Underground Crosswalk*," "Young Turks" and "This Is What I'd Look Like if I Worked on a Collective Farm." More importantly, however, we topped off nearly every outfit we invented with the piece de resistance in Moscow circa 2003-2004 -- sunglasses at night.

Dressing to go out in Moscow really was an artform. Having not been there since 2006, I can only hope that it still is. Oh, slava bogu, it is!

Anyway, dressing to go out in DC has generally proven the opposite. If I decide to wear heels I feel like I get looks of scorn from people thinking I'm being pretentious by skirting DC's retarded nighttime shoe of choice, the ubiquitous flip-flop. (Certainly these said looks of scorn can't be attributable to my general aura, which is clearly effervescent and bubbly...)

However, last weekend, when one of my old Moscow buddies came down for a visit, we decided it was time to get back on our retardulous loshad' and return to our outfit invention roots. Luckily, I had an idea in mind -- "I'm a Monochromatic Asshole."

Privyet! Monochromatic Asshole!

As it just so happens, another tradition of ours in Moscow that we decided to bring back Saturday was to flip the good ol' American bird to any camera lens pointed our way, which means most of our photographic footage is unusable at worst and in need of creative cropping at best. It also means we're jackasses. But alas, those self-fulfilling circumstances aside, what we have here is the reincarnation of my Forever 21 romper, paired with my oft-talked-about American Apparel metallic gray stirrup tights. The accoutrements are pretty basic -- Boutique9 black suede open-toe mary-janes and a 1980s-inspired black pleather shoulder bag bought somewhere in Amsterdam in 2004.

The shiny shot!

I ended up wearing this O.I. out to what has become in the last two weeks my favorite haunt in DC, the Rock & Roll Hotel. Not only do a lot of sweet bands play here, but the upstairs bar is pretty tight with its own DJ booth and dance floor, well-priced beverage station and lots of little side rooms to sit and chat. I must say, however, the bathrooms are a tight squeeze, especially when trying to get in and out of a romper. Too much information? Deal with it.

But whatever. A contorted 15 minutes spent making sure no part of that silky romper touched anything with fecal matter on it (yep, I just said that) as well as three attempts to re-button the whole damn thing up in the dim lighting is a small price to pay to chillax (yep, I just said that too) at a place where people not only recognize a good outfit invention when they see one, but they even appreciate it. It also helped that at least half of the patrons that night were gay men. They're always so encouraging.

And, of course, to top off our Moscow throw-back night, we resurrected Moscow's super-trend from the dead. No, not drinking until we woke up in an undisclosed location in Butovo, but wearing sunglasses at night, sillies!

Risky business'ing it (Wayfarers from Target; bought last summer). To keep with the monochromatic theme I put this in black & white. And, um, also, I wanted to mask my bright orange Sparks lips. They're kind of embarrassing. As is drinking Sparks when you're 28. Two weeks in a row. I'm not a quick learner.

*Also known as Viktor Perekhod.

shambles P.I.: madras of love

A lot of people complain about dating in DC. They claim it's hard to meet people with whom they have a real, true, undeniable connection. However, I'm a believer in love and I know -- I just really, really know -- that there's someone out there for everyone. And when you see true love blossom before your eyes, it really is a beautiful thing. Well, unless there are madras involved. Then it's just gross. Can I get a witness?!

Tell your madras to get with my madras and we can be madras.

No, e-friends, your eyes are not deceiving you. What you're viewing above is, indeed, the deadly his and hers madras/flip-flops combo. And sadly (although always thankfully) we weren't in Georgetown when we witnessed this (kudos to B.A.D. for snapping such a great photo, by the way). Nope, we were at Local 16 on U Street. Proof that this area of town is the new Adams Morgan, which makes Adams Morgan the new Georgetown, which means DC now boasts two douche-to-the-max neighborhoods with U Street breathing down their proverbial necks (that are undoubtedly encased in several popped collars).

Welcome to hell, e-friends. Welcome to goddamn hell. Ironically, it's not hot. But it is shambley!

Have you done some Shambles P.I. work and want to see it online but are too lazy/nice to start your own blog dedicated to mocking others? No prob. Send your sly photographs to theantidc@gmail.com and we'll do work.

will blog for tickets, or why i fail at life

In a rare moment, I'm questioning the status of my genius today. While I usually surprise and delight even myself with my pithy quips and observations based on total assumptions and snap judgments, I found out this weekend that my chosen modus operandi for living life -- getting by on vague generalizations while waxing prophetic as if I'm onto something -- has finally failed me. See, I'm in a pickle (metaphorical, not literal...gross).

When I first found out MGMT was going to play the 9:30 Club on July 28 -- just one day before my birthday -- I got all giddy with excitement. I thought about buying tickets ahead of time, but being a destitute journalist, I didn't want to get burned by the service charges. Plus, the show is scheduled for a Monday night. And this is DC, after all, so I figured I'd just buy them at the door. Plus, do enough people even listen to MGMT in this city to fill the venue? DC really is more of a Dave Matthews town, no? Well, yes. Yes it is. However, despite that, it seems my other asshole assumptions went horribly awry.

First, apparently not everyone is as destitute as I am.

Second, apparently Monday night is not as big a deterrent to as many people as I thought.

And third, apparently there are enough people into MGMT here that the venue will be filled.

I found this out this weekend while doing my weekly perusal of 9:30's site, trolling for new shows to add to The Anti DC schedule, when I noticed the seven sh*ttiest letters I'd ever seen: SOLD OUT.

Son of a goddamn bitch. Perhaps I underestimated the drawing power of MGMT, or perhaps I underestimated the amount of people with good enough taste to want to go to this show. Or perhaps (most likely), I'm just retarded. Did I mention that this would've all occurred just a day before my birthday, too? I did? Well, it's true.

So, if you have tickets and you go, make sure to do a little robot dance for me. I'll be at home. Crying. Alone. In the dark. Listening to Weekend Wars on my sh*tty laptop speakers. Blowing out a single candle on a stale cupcake. And wishing I was you. *sigh*

Is The Anti DC pulling at your heartstrings yet? Do you feel compelled to give up your tickets yet? No?

Well, then I'll see you in hell.

(But seriously, if you know of any extra tickets floating around, let your e-friend know and let's take care of busine$$.)

dear commuters and your cars

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

:)

creepy dudes and deadly pants -- a tale of one bike ride

Yesterday was a pretty harrowing day and I blame the ferocious Goose of Justice.

There I was cruising along on Baguette down Connecticut Ave. when mid-gear shift, Baguette's derailleur failed and her chain slipped off the chainring, wedging itself between the chainstay and the cassette. (And yes I did just Google a bike anatomy map to figure that out...)

Anyway, as I went to retrieve the chain and reposition it in place, the Goose of Justice rained its terror down upon me. With its talons out (I imagine the GoJ is some sort of hybrid super goose with claws), I cut my left index finger -- my F*ck You! finger, if you will -- on my bike's pie plate. Now, without going into gratuitous detail, as I'm sure I might have just lost about 90 percent -- roughly two individuals -- of the readers of my meandering drivel by now, I'll point you to my favorite bike blog's explanation of what the pie plate is if you're so inclined. But to summarize, the pie plate is apparently the pocket protector of the cycling world. Ridin' nerdy!

Alas, however, with blood starting to drip down the backside of my hand, two helpful gentlemen ran to my aid to save me from this vicious GoJ attack. (That, in and of itself, is pretty miraculous, as DC is often quite rude.) Not only did one of them give me all of his napkins he had in his Chinese takeout bag to tend to my wounds, but they both got down on their knees and fixed my sh*t up right. I thanked both men profusely, offering them back the napkins that I didn't sully with Baguette's grease and my own blood and apologized for getting their hands dirty. And here's where (of course) things got creepy: "It's OK," said one of the men. "Now my hands match my mind." Did I mention he was definitely wearing rapist glasses? 'Cause he was.

And so I continued with Baguette, leaving rapist glasses in the proverbial dust. But then incident deux happened. I was ridin' nerdy and dirty (um, literally) down through Woodley Park when I almost died. This time, at fault wasn't a dorky bike accoutrement, but instead my very own pants, which got caught up in the greasy teeth of Baguette's chainring.

"But your pants are always so tight (literally and figuratively!), how in the world did that happen?"

Almost regrettably now, I purchased a pair of loose-legged trouser jeans not long ago during a trip out to Potomac Mills. With DC's sticky summers, I thought I'd give a different style jean a whirl, which worked out well on my ride to work, but completely failed on my way home. In an instance of sweet justice, however, my theory on why tight pants are better than loose pants was proven, albeit through a near-death experience. That is, had I been wearing tight pants, or, um, no pants (chafe!), this second harrowing incident never would've happened.

When the gratuitous fabric surrounding my ankle got caught up in the hot mess of greasy chain, I swerved dangerously into an intersection, before miraculously stopping myself on the curb with my left leg, my free leg, once again damning the GoJ. I negotiated my stupid loose pants out of danger using the pie-plate approved tight-roll method and continued on...this time a bit scared. But finally, I made it home, visibly shaken, but with pants and spirit (mostly) intact.

Traumatized. Still wearing the deadly pants in question. Baguette cowers in the hallway, hiding her pie plate of shame. (Unnecessary Explanation Sidebar: My place is messy because I'm cleaning house so my fabulous friend from NYC coming down this weekend will have a nice place to store his Helmut Lang "winter sky, bitch" windbreaker.)

The extra fabric at fault. It got what it deserved, I suppose.

Deadly outfit details: Pants -- Theory (bought at Potomac Mills Off 5th Saks Outlet); Blue tank -- H&M; Gray tank: Forever 21; Shoes -- NYLA (bought at Marshalls in Columbia Heights).

And super P.S. -- This is my 201st post...I missed the 200th-post narcissistic celebration yesterday. So, without further delay, congratulations, Marissa. Love, Marissa.

And freedom-loving P.P.S. -- Happy Fourth of July. I'll e-see you Monday! (By the way, anyone know where I can get a captain's hat? No reason...)

winter sky, bitch

There are a few things in life that I'm fairly clueless about -- the meaning of life, the names of different cuts of beef, why David Hasselhoff is still on TV without Kitt, and men's fashion. While I can perhaps bullsh*t my way through the first few items on that list, with the last, all I can do is offer my personal preferences. That is, I know what I think looks good on a man, but I don't really know anything about the fashion behind it (i.e. where to shop, how to make sure what you buy fits well and general trends).

Actually, I can't even say I know what I think looks good on a man, since I'm pretty convinced a guy who looks something like Johnny Depp can wear, well, whatever it is that Johnny Depp wears and still look mighty fine (see right, is he sporting the Canadian tuxedo under the tweed?!).

So, with that in mind, when I got a rather uniquely worded, but eloquent E-mail from a new e-friend the other day asking for men's fashion advice, I naturally handled it the only way I know how -- I asked my main fashion gay for some wise words. But before we get into what ma'gay thinks about men's denim, let's first take a look at this E-mail, which truly is a work of art (if I had a payroll, this guy would be hired for sure):

Dear AntiDC-

I write to alert you to a concern that you may or may not be privy to, but I would be remiss and unkind to my gender to fail to bring it to your attention. I have the hope that you may sound the alarm with greater volume and urgency than I am able to. This matter is very close to my, er, special area. You've no doubt deduced that I'm talking about a serious dearth of solid men's jeans for sale in the world.

I've just now returned from H&M and Zara, hoping to scoot out quickly to replenish this staple of the modern wardrobe. Not to go into detail, it will suffice to say that I was rebuffed at every turn. Each jean which appeared promising from afar would, upon closer inspection, reveal floral stitching, pre-fade patterns that would make a Backstreet Boy blush, unnecessary (and often oversized) elements like zippers or peeking-pockets-within-peeking-pockets-within-pockets. Of probably 24 styles perused, each would have greatly enhanced the probability of my being snapped and posted to a douchebag-hunting site.

Granted, I did not comb far for said jeans, but in my defense I have perused the selections at Macy's, Denim Bar, and others. Every once in a while I can find a strong, sober pair (e.g., http://www.denimbaronline.com/store/item.asp?ITEM_ID=510), but I wonder if you share my distaste for the vast majority of manpants on offer in America in this age? If jeans were cars, our options would be Pontiac Aztecs, Smartcars and DeLoreans -- scarce be the classy but understated Accord.

I think it must go without saying how important the availability of solid jeans are to our generation. It is truly a crime that the situation has devolved so far.

If you could see fit to post on this topic, your male readers would find it of great value. Perhaps simply to include douche-jeans in the sights of your sizable verbal weaponry? Also, advice and tips as to how we might escape from this sub-beltline Iditarod would be received with the utmost gratitude.

With great regard,

[name redacted]

First off, I've never seen a better use of "Iditarod" in my life. Second, I must concurwith this man's antipathy toward so-called douche-jeans. They are far too common in this city, ranging from tool-approved pleated varieties to overpriced Georgetown denim with "pre-fade patterns that would make a Backstreet Boy blush" (paired, of course, with an Abercrombie T-shirt and a sport jacket). Unless you literally are Johnny Depp, these types of douche-jeans will do nothing -- I repeat, NOTHING -- for your "special area," as it were. In fact, even if you are Johnny Depp, I do believe donning a pair of douche-jeans may officially make you not hot anymore. OK, maybe not "not hot," (that's a little drastic), but not hot in that je ne sais quoi way that is definitional of Monsieur Depp. *sigh*

So, what's a stylish man to do?

Well, according to my most fashionable gay friend, the first thing to do is "never shop at H&M again." Pressed further, le gay said overall poor quality does not a decent jean make. (Truthfully, while I love H&M for T-shirt couture and the occasional accessory, I must second him in warning against purchasing wardrobe staples at this establishment, unless of course you plan on never washing whatever it is that you buy. If you do, it will disintegrate.)

According to ma'gay, however, men should try Acne jeans or even American Apparel, which "has some good jeans now." (That last tidbit is news to me, too. My last purchase in AA was some metallic gray stirrup tights (yes, you read that right -- metallic gray stirrup tights) at the beginning of the year and I do not remember seeing pants at the downtown DC store...I am intrigued now...)

And although this Brooklyn-based style maven didn't mention it, I can wholeheartedly attest that online shopping is clutch in the District. In fact, it's kind of clutch everywhere...even New York, as el gay recently proved. Along with his advice, he sent along a hot lil' pic of himself craftily using the camera to protect his identity as not to get mobbed in the streets by millions hundreds tens of readers of this blog. In it he's wearing his latest online purchase, a Helmut Lang windbreaker he found on an online sample sale site called Gilt Groupe (to which I can send you an invite if you're at all interested).


And just to be sure, let me ingrain in you how serious that this here gay is about his fashion by giving you a glimpse of our back-and-forth text messages about said windbreaker:

gay: Just made my first Gilt Groupe purchase.
me: Sweet! What did you get?
gay: Helmut Lang windbreaker
me: Oh nice! I'm going to look it up.
me: Is it the gray one?
gay: Bitch, please. The color is winter sky.

And there you have it. Bitch(es), please, don't you dare buy douche-jeans.

um...ew...LOL...wait...oh.

"A Metro station manager and a Metro custodian were arrested on prostitution charges after an undercover transit police investigation found they arranged sexual trysts for money from inside the Dupont Circle Metro station."

Uh...

"At one point the employees used the Metro loudspeaker system to facilitate an illicit sexual arrangement, according to police who arrested the pair last week."

Um...

"Sharon Waters, a Red Line station manager, told an undercover police officer at the Dupont Circle station June 4 that she could arrange meetings with local prostitutes for him, according to court documents. ... The officer returned to the station at 11:45 p.m. June 11 and met with Waters, who told him she was organizing a 'sex' party in the Washington area for a $100 cover charge, court records show. ... Waters said she also could arrange for another, unidentified Metro station manager to meet the officer for sex, but that she couldn't find her at that time, according to the affidavit. "

Ew...

"Waters then used the Metro loudspeaker system to page Pam Goins, a Metro custodian who Waters said would be interested, and the officer and Waters went to the Farragut North Metro station to meet her, according to the documents."

Bwahahahahahahahahaha!

Oh, people are idiots. And this story is so idiotic that I'm not even sure how I should go about mocking this. I mean, Sharon and Pam do a pretty good job on their own with their sordid tale of prostitute custodians, cop crotch-grabbing, threesomes, Brazilian sex trips, stolen panties and several other shambley misadventures.

I'm kind of amazed at how this type of business starts. OK, I'm not amazed at how regular prostitution rings start (that's kind of obvious *wink!*). What I'm confused about, however, is how prosititution rings start in places like...um...the effing metro! Seriously, save for Congress, there is nary an unsexier place I can think of that exists in this city than the barfy-colored metro with its incredibly unflattering lighting. Even the crosstown bus is sexier with its fancy fabric-covered seats. So plush. But the metro, seriously? It smells weird. But I get the feeling that Sharon and Pam might smell weird too. Different strokes smells for different folks nasty freaks, perhaps?

Well, whatever, I guess I won't judge too harshly. After all this city is pretty pricey and rents can get high, so when I found out Sharon only made $56,647 in 2006, I began to underst...wait...hold up a minute...wow. Yeah, that certainly does say $56,647, which is definitely more money than I or most other writers probably make in this squat-toilet of a "city." Seriously, if anyone has the right to start a goddamn ring of hookers, I believe it's me -- the destitute journalist. I gotta make my ends meet somehow and if it means pimping, then it f*cking means pimping!

But now there's the question of from where to run my strumpet circle. Hmm...

[10 minutes later]

Yeah...I still don't know. I guess I'm partial to the old-school variety of good ol' fashioned street-walking. Ahh, that's good times.

---

Read the full article via The Examiner and thanks to "A" for bringing this retardulous matter to my attention.

And lastly, welcome new pervy Googlers!