gory crime scene photographs

I apologize in advance for the sight I'm about to show you, but GOOD FREAKING GOD, people need to know. I've used words to get across my point in the past. Many, many words. But it's not often that I've used photographic evidence of the SENSELESS CRIMES that go down on the streets of DC to drive my point into this city's dense metaphorical skull. Well, e-friends, brace yourselves because here is your town in all of its STAINED SWEATPANTS and BLAZE ORANGE CROCS glory:

Welcome to hell.

One might expect to see this kind of TRAGEDY on the streets of, I don't know, maybe KABUL or BAGHDAD or SOME OTHER WARZONE, but no. No, e-friends, this kind of INHUMANE NONSENSE is happening right here on a busy downtown street in the Capital of the Free World. WHY?! WHHHYYYY?!

No really, why? What is the deal here? Either these women are straight up bat-sh*t crazy or they need to be schooled. And by "schooled," I mean publicly humiliated. (Dammit, I wish more people read this.) Seriously, I don't get how these two women ended up like this. If I had a heart, it would be breaking right now. I just feel sorry for them. Either they: 1) Can't afford a mirror; 2) Don't know how to use a mirror; or 3) Have no friends to tell them they look like complete assholes. Any way you look at it, it's sad.

With the dishabille scale tipped to its very limit, I also can't help but wonder what these two women were going to do that evening in Chinatown dressed like that. This crime occured around 5:30 pm on a Sunday. Were they planning to catch an early dinner somewhere? Were they going to a friend's house? Planning to do some late afternoon gardening? Doing some sort of street performance? Going to rob a liquor store? Getting out of jail? If I wasn't so ghastly horrified, I probably would've asked. However, unable to speak, all I could do was borrow my friend's camera, zoom in, and snap a photo from our rented Scion's passenger side window. At least I could spread the word that way.

Take note sloppy offendors, your crimes will no longer go unnoticed! We will take back the streets and we will prevail! Or at least, we will keep mocking you. Eh, probably the latter.

"dc isn't *that* bad"

Hell has frozen over. Or melted, I suppose, depending on how much you dig the idea of Dante's Divine Comedy. But regardless, "weather" (LOL!) extremely cold or ridiculously hot, some f*cked up sh*t has occurred. Mainly, my out-of-town friends let it slip yesterday that this cess pool of a town is "not that bad."

Yes, despite that the last image one of them had of DC was, ahem, two women in blaze orange Crocs and sweatpants splattered with pimpjuice paint (photo forthcoming), my friends actually uttered those five magical words: "DC is not that bad." And while, I'd love to say it was me who opened their eyes, one quick perusal through this masterpiece of an online hobby would reveal otherwise.

Nope, the collective change of heart came after a Saturday in the ghetto. And by, "in the ghetto," which I hope you read in your mind as Cartman would sing it, I mean we were in a warehouse in Northeast. To be even more exact, we were here (thanks to a hot tip from one lovely reader):

To give you an idea of the good fun had at this NE warehouse on Saturday, I was able to track down a couple of photos here. Not pictured, unfortunately, is one of my friends who invented the piano key necktie* best dance move ever, the Faux Flash. All you need is a trench coat, a creepy leer and excellent timing. Boom. Faux Flash. If you're lucky, maybe one day you'll see it in action.

Anyway, this sh*t was tight. And maybe this is the work of Bizarro World again, or maybe (just maybe) The Anti DC is finally getting her comeuppance (but, like, in a good way).

But seriously, enough of this "DC isn't that bad" crap. I'm losing my touch! Ahh! But, wait, before we panic and think this blog has jumped the big ol' shark, let's once again turn to DC's No. 1 douche institution, the Federal Government, for some unintentional comic relief. In this clip, "Bob" of the Transportation Security Administration does some serious investigating over at TSA's blog (yes, it is as retarded as it sounds!) to find out that the Macbook Air does, indeed, "look different" from other laptops. Rocket science!

*Zoolander reference anyone?

sh*t you should know

I have a couple of friends in town this weekend from New York City. Needless to say, I get a bit nervous when people come in from out of town to be entertained. I mean, DC's nightlife largely fails. And judging from one friend's reaction last night, DC remained true to its roots.

"Marissa, DC sucks. You really weren't lying about the nametags and phones on belts."

"First thing, don't let them catch you mistaking their Blackberrys for regular mobiles. They'll shank you. Second, I'm sorry."

Yep. Good times! But you know what's too bad? That my friends decided to come this weekend rather than next when an actual, bonafide, truly awesome event is going down. That's right, electroganic is back on Friday 4/11 at Bohemian Caverns! And I suggest that all of you who can't stand DC's standard scene of Blackberrys, Now! That's What I Call Music Vols. 1-27, and popped collars, check out this event. (And yes, I realize I've been promoting this event as if I'm getting paid for it, but, trust me, I'm not, which reminds me that I really need to work on my hustle...)


Advance tickets are $10 and available here: http://going.com/electroganic002.

And if you are hip to social networking (unlike myself) and have a Facebook account, you can check out the main event page here: http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=9718107998.

so this is bizarro world...

Holy Mother of Tight Pants. Hell hath frozen over. Anyone remember the 137th Seinfeld episode, The Bizarro Jerry? You know, the third episode in the eighth season? The one that originally aired on October 3, 1996? (Thank you, Wikipedia.)

Well, I certainly do, even without the help of everyone's favorite Encyclopedia for Retards. It's the one where Elaine befriends a group of three guys, who mirror Jerry, Kramer and George, but are their perfect opposites. For example, Kevin, the Bizarro Jerry, is described as reliable and kind, the opposite of Jerry, who is objectively kind of a jackass (which is why the show is comic gold!). The same concept applies to Gene, the Bizarro George, and Feldman, the Bizarro Kramer.

Anyway, I'm assuming if you're literate, you get the point. Sh*t in Bizarro World, a concept originally depicted in the Superman comic series, is f*cked up.

Well, e-friends, I think I entered my very own Bizarro World today: Two (2!) government employees not only returned my calls for comment on a couple articles I've been working on, but they actually said useful things and (...wait for it...) they were nice to me!

That's right, it seems the government collectively pulled the proverbial stick that is usually stuck deep within its endless anus out of its wide, oversized office ass! WTF?!

Usually I'm forced to borderline harass Fed-bitches on Thursday nights only to have to hurriedly scribble, "[INSERT ASSHAT DEPARTMENT] could not be reached for comment" minutes before press time. But today was different. Today, I was able to complete my articles with actual statements. Words! Retarded words, yes, but words nonetheless, and without the usual air of condescendence and disdain!

Gawd. It was amazing. But not as amazing as this: Meet Bizarro Samwell. His name is Butters.* This is a fabulous day. Me love.

And OMG! The Real Samwell has a new song!

*Click on the link if the embedded clip ain't workin'!

get off the internet thursday: disaffected scanner jockey

When I initiated Get Off the Internet Thursday way back, um, last week, I never imagined the response I'd get. That is, I never imagined how dismal it would be. Only four people expressed interest, meaning that I will have to do a better job at e-stalking some of you kids until you all comply with my wishes. Luckily, however, the four expressions of interest I did receive were solid, including this week's honorary guest Anti DC blogger -- Shannon of Disaffected Scanner Jockey.

This bitch is verbose. Perhaps even more verbose than I am. But luckily she can write! She can also come up with brilliant arbitrary themes and I respect that. So, without further praise and glory, allow Shannon to recommend for you the best and least-dank basement haunts in DC:

Many people ask me the same question: So, do you really have a boyfriend or did you make him up to scare off the Internet stalkers? [Ed. Wait, you have Internet stalkers to scare off? I'm jealous.]

But today, I’m going to answer that other common question: How did I manage to fall in love with DC, when so many people dislike it so profoundly? Easy. Grow up in a crappy outer suburb and move into the city as an adult, so you'll learn to appreciate our neoclassical tourist-driven hicktown. (Every morning, I wake up to a chorus of little birdies and woodland creatures frolicking and singing a tune called, "You're Not in Woodbridge!") [Ed. What's Woodbridge?]

But there’s another answer. The answer is to become an authentic sort of Washingtonian. And how does one do that? [Ed. By becoming a douche?] By living in an unregulated illegal English basement studio apartment, of course!

Not willing to live as a basement troll? Well, you can still get your fill of cave-dwelling with the following "Basement Tour of Washington." Here are my suggestions for spending an entire day underground:

Start on the National Mall. See that big doughnut-shaped art museum on the Mall at 7th Street? [Ed. Mmmm...doughnuts...] Unlike the myriad National Museums of Screaming Toddlers, the Hirshhorn caters to people who actually want to look at stuff. Head straight to the basement for the temporary exhibits. These range from a squiggly arty video reinterpretation of Rambo: First Blood to…really, Rambo at a fancy art museum. What else do you need? [Ed. Doughnuts?]

You can also do your shopping underground. Try the Filene's Basement at 14th and F (the dress selection is excellent, although the suits are fair-to-middling [Ed. And by "fair-to-middling," I'm going to assume Shannon really means "sh*tty-to-sh*ttier." Just a guess...]). Or, if you’re feeling the urge to redo your high-rent Bastille in mid-century modern, try Millennium Decorative Arts on U Street. There's also an awesome (basement!) gay porn store a few doors down, if you're so inclined [Ed. Git 'er done!].

Hungry? D.C. has a wide range of basement dinner options. Malaysia Kopitiam is on M Street, sprinkled in among the nudie bars and frat-boy lounges. Good old MK has cheap food, a menu with disturbingly pornographic [Ed. Again, with the porn, Shannon? I'm sensing a guest blog Part Deux here...] representations of their entrees, and the sort of servers that look at you like you're crazy if you ask any questions.

Or, if it's payday, you can have your meal at The Little Fountain Café in Adams Morgan. It's an oasis in a desert of suburbanite popped collars and annoying drunk chicks, complete with so-cute-you-could-die little tables, good food, and a romantic atmosphere (but let's ignore the fact that the last guy who took me there dumped me a week later). [Ed. Hey, a free meal's a free meal.]

Do you have room for dessert? [Ed. Always!] Try Larry’s Ice Cream on Connecticut Avenue in Dupont! It’s in a basement, sure, but this place does more than fit my arbitrary theme. It's also non-chain, tasty, and quirky. Larry's is run by the sort of people you wish ran Metro: quick, efficient, and impatient with slow-moving idiots who can't make up their minds.

If you'd like to get your dive bar on [Ed. Finally, to the important stuff -- booze.], there are multiple basement options for that. I like Polly's Café at 14th and U. You can also visit Atomic in Cleveland Park, or swing by Karaoke Night at Recessions. Recessions is advanced-level basement trolling. Look for Mackey's, then look for a hotel next to it, then go down the stairs, through the hall, past the sales and catering office, and through a double door. You're at Recessions! Cheap beer, cheap mozzarella sticks, and blissfully awful karaoke every Friday. Best of all, cell reception is spotty at best, so you're free to ignore your Blackberry. But, then again, if you're the sort of person who has a Blackberry, you're not the sort who will swoon at the idea of discount Miller Lites served in jumbo steins [Ed. Um, or *are* you?]. In that case, head to the basement of Saint-Ex to rub elbows with the rest of the cool kids. You're beyond my help.

Wow. And with that last line, my first Get Off The Internet Thursday guest blogger basically called me a giant douche. (If you'll recall, Saint-Ex is one of my Top 5 favorite spots in DC.) Yeah, this guest blogging feature was a magnificent idea...just effing magnificent. Anyway, do you too want to inadvertently (um, or quite deliberately) call me a douche? Wait, let me rephrase that. Do you want to write your very own installment of Get Off The Internet Thursday? Yes? Great! Drop me a line and we'll become e-friends or, um, e-frenemies. Whichever!

no really, am i taking crazy pills?!

Gaaawwwd. Two days in a row on Capitol Hill is enough to push someone off the wagon. Not that I was ever on the wagon. But if I was, I'd definitely be off right now. Lord, I need a cocktail...

Sure the Hill sucks because it's a hub for federal government tools to interact and ask such utterly useless questions like, "What keeps you up at night?" as a means of deciding how to spend upwards of $50 billion of our hard-earned income. (And PS -- Why is it always terrorists and jihadists that keep these people up at night? The goddamn noise on 16th Street keeps me up at night. Can they do something about that? Of course not.)

But I digress. Turning The Anti DC's keen eye back to the Hill, what I really want to explore is the fashion. Yes, again. Hill fashion is to me what terrorism is to the U.S. government -- an excuse to wax ridiculous over and over and over.

Ahem, so here we go. The fashion on the Hill often makes me physically recoil. It's like finding a rattle snake in your luggage. It makes no sense, but it happens.

And when something happens that you don't understand, naturally you begin to question the universe. Like Mugatu, you may even ask yourself, "Am I taking crazy pills?" Sadly, however, you're not. No drug is that twisted to make you hallucinate various versions of this:

O, the humanity!

And for those of you not from DC, yes, it really is that bad. But honestly, not dressing like a dishabille asshat is not that hard. However, in case you're having trouble, I've come up with three easy steps for you to follow to ensure you don't offend my senses again:

Step 1: BUY CLOTHES THAT FIT. If it doesn't fit, you must acquit change your goddamn outfit.

Step 2: USE A MIRROR. If you look ridiculous, change your goddamn outfit.

Step 3: STOP LOOKING LIKE AN ASSHOLE. Just. Stop. And change your goddamn outfit.

Hope this helps!

:)

and lest i forget...

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

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

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

doodle me this...

Something horrible happened today. No, it wasn't the Hill staffer whose suit fit so poorly that I had to hold myself back not to run out, buy a needle and thread and literally tailor that sh*t on her person. And no, it wasn't the fact that I attended a full day of hearings, from which only about 20 minutes proved useful. The rest of the time, I doodled stuff like this:

Enchantingly creepy, no?

And no, it wasn't the very fact that I was on the Hill in the first place, although, that is pretty damn horrible.

Nope. The most horrible of horrible happenings to occur today was that one of my crafty coworkers discovered my blog. Zoinks!

And while I love the sick bitch whose deft Googling led her to my little cess pool of an e-hobby, I'm a bit worried now that as word gets out around the office about my online retardulousness, I may be forced to resign Spitzer style (except without the whole "hooker incident"). I mean, I have a reputation to uphold in my office, where I'm known for two things: Loving Norm Coleman and wearing tight pants.

Wait. On second thought, that's pretty much how I come off on the Web, as well. Hmm...come to think of it, what will probably lead to me getting fired is the fact that I just boasted about doodling all day when I probably should have been "listening" or "taking notes" or (*gasp!*) "doing my job." But damn! My doodles are just so tight!

My name in Cyrillic. Hyphenated. In a lopsided, art deco diamond. Yep.

And, of course, we have sad dog in a suit.

meet horace t.

Hard as it is to believe, The Anti DC has somehow managed to gain and maintain an actual audience...of people. Once in a while, some of these people even take a few moments of their time to write me to let me know they've enjoyed a post or two. And while I'm always happy to get such e-letters (as I am an attention whore), not until this weekend when a brilliantly worded missive from one Mr. Horace T arrived in my inbox did a single E-mail get re-read in full to my trusty BFF, The Law, via telephone.

And as much as I would've loved a paragraph full of complimentary words about my brilliance (let's just forget about the fact that I'm a simple idiot in disguise), alas, the reason for the telephone recitation of these bits of text was because Horace T. might be even more adept than I am at describing why DC sucks so much. So hilarious, in fact, are Horace's deep thoughts about, um, kickball, that I begged him to let me post the E-mail online. Luckily, Horace T. is a brilliant man, so he agreed. So, let 'er rip, Horace!*

I adore your blog...[Ed. I *had* to keep that bit in.] I identify with your resentment towards this Los Angeles for Ugly People. I relocated to this degenerate place at the end of 2005 after lifeguarding on the beach all summer cause I had some friends here: dreadful mistake. The area's full of pretentious, narcissistic insecure strokejobs scared to express themselves so they have to find dates on e-Harmony, but anyway...

I had a blog idea you: Ever notice the dynamic of the kickball culture? It's basically a club for dopey, uncoordinated cubicle jockeys to meet together outside of the bar & prey on young women... clumsily at that. But strangely enough, a number of the women who signup for kickball are fresh faces to DC just looking to meet some nice, athletic guys outside of the bar culture...they just so happened to receive Bush Administration quality intel. These sloppy losers don't know how to interact with the opposite sex so they flirt by pegging the socially adjusted transient women in the head to demonstrate their faux dominance. And these fawns who are wounded and vulnerable then get guilt-tripped to "drink off that headache" at the "TEAM BAR" for "TEAM FLIPCUP" where -- after a couple of rounds of flipcup and listening to these unlovable losers talk about the time at the office when they pranked their buddy Rick by putting a post-it on his optical mouse -- it sets in that the fawns have pranced into a bear trap. Slowly the cute girls start dwindling from the roster until "Uncle Ned's Parakeets" either start to a) forfeit b) recruit desperate chubby high school girls or c) start going tranny so they can fill the 4 girl league minimum.

Ha... so that's my 2 cent observation about Beltway Kickball. Thanks for keeping my cynical ass laughing with your blog.

No, no, Horace T., thank you for keeping my cynical ass laughing. That line about Rick and the optical mouse literally had me on the floor. Poor Rick. And Horace, feel free to become a regular. For serious.

*Oh, and in an attempt to avoid angry DC-based kickball players from unleashing their Horace T.-accused douchey anger on me, let me restate that the views expressed in the above-indented paragraphs are strictly Horace's. As a matter of fact, while I haven't played kickball since I was 12 and don't know anyone who partakes in this activity in DC, I do know people who play kickball in Boston as well as New York and it doesn't seem to be as douchetastic there. But, then again, I've been to bars in both Boston and New York that also aren't so heavily douche-infested. So, basically, I'll just put it out there that almost everything in DC is slightly incredibly more douchey than the rest of America. The kickball scene (is there a scene there?) is probably no exception. Just a little inductive logic to start your day...

"eye" hate life (LOL!)

Life is hard sometimes. At least it's hard when you give yourself food poisoning (last week!) or an eye infection (this week!). Basically, at 28 years old, I've very much proven in the past two weeks that I am unable to care for myself, which ultimately resulted in me once again ruining a perfectly fine weekend by f*cking up my health unnecessarily. Instead of broccoli, however, this time I blame some bad mascara*, which caused my eyes to become a red veiny mess midweek last week. Yet, instead of appropriately tending to what was probably just an allergic reaction, this dumbass decided to not only continue to wear my contact lenses, but also use the suspect mascara again. I really am an idiot.

Well, needless to say, my retardedness (and lack of glasses) got me into a bit of a sticky situation by Saturday morning (and, of course, that disgusting eye infection pun was intended!), which led me to seek a bit of medical attention. However, medical attention is harder to get than it would seem in this quaint little town of ours. Since it was around 8 a.m. on a Saturday, I couldn't simply prance off (yes, prance) to a regular doctor's office. I instead had to find one of those "Urgent Care" facilities that aren't quite clinics and not quite emergency rooms. Turns out, however, that the closest Urgent Care office is located in effing Arlington. What?!

Yep, short of going to the emergency room, DC proper does not boast an Urgent Care facility. First, I can't get a decent haircut, and now I can't even get prescription-strength eye-drops without skipping town. Seriously, how is this not only supposedly a "major city," but also the presumable Capital of the Goddamn Free World? Even more awesome, this out-of-state Urgent Care facility isn't even metro accessible, which means on top of my ridiculously high co-pay, I also had to shell out nearly $40 in cab fares! That's rich!

But even worse than nearly blinding myself and having a not-so-excellent adventure in Gnarlington (LOL!), I missed the Ghostland Observatory show at the 9:30 Club -- a concert I'd been looking forward to for months. At one point, I even considered donning an eye-patch (which I would've bedazzled to match my outfit, of course) and heading out. However, "seeing" (ha!) as though I'm not even a big enough bitch to actively spread pink eye just so I could experience a concert with no peripheral vision, I decided against it. Karma is a killer, after all.

Anyway, on a happier note, my eye is quickly rebounding and hopefully I've learned another lesson to add to last week's gem of "Don't eat spoiled food." -- "Don't ever repeatedly use a product that irritates your eyes." Oh, and, "Buy a f*cking pair of glasses." Or I guess, maybe, "Move to a city where medical treatment is accessible." Whichever.

*For those who care about mascara, I DO NOT recommend L'Oreal Telescopic. I don't know what ophthamologist tested this sh*t, but in my experience, this grouping of chemicals is lethal. And honestly, besides irritating the capital "F" out of my poor eyes, it applied horribly. Never again.

the feds hate love

Whenever I'm pressed for blog topics or just feeling a little uninspired from the normal hullaballoo that I come across each day, I turn to the Department of Homeland Security to mock. Really, you can't go wrong, especially when you narrow it down to its Customs and Border Protection unit. CBP's press releases are pure gold, if by "gold," of course, I actually mean "retarded," which you know I do.

Take for instance a press release from last week entitled, Philadelphia CBP Officers Seize 42 Bottles of 'Love Potion.' It's already hard not to LOL, if you will, at the title alone. But then...but then you read the text, which contains this gem of wisdom:

"It is illegal to bring unknown drugs into the country and this purported 'Love
Potion' is inadmissible," said Edward Moriarty, CBP Assistant Port Director for
Passenger Operations in Philadelphia. "I suppose this couple may have to find
another way to ignite their passion for each other."

This Moriarty fellow is one sassy bitch!

By the way, here's a photo of the heroin Love Potion. It's pretty sexy. I just wish instead of a dollar bill, they used a condom package as a means of size comparison. That'd have been funnier. Whoa. Is there a hidden pun there? I think so!

But it's under 4 ounces and in a ziploc bag!

get off the internet thursday: inauguratory edition

The world's greatest mega-mustachioed aphorist, Friedrich Nietzsche, once taught me, "Out of chaos comes order." And so, with that in mind, I present to you what I hope will become a regular feature: Get Off the Internet Thursday.

In this feature, The Anti DC will set aside its patented polemical essays in favor of making actual, possibly useful (*gasp!*) suggestions for you and yours to make life easier here in hell, er, DC. That is, instead of just complaining, albeit creatively, about sh*tty clubs or the prevalence of loose fitting pants in this town, this lil' blog will attempt to provide some solutions by suggesting a few spots and activities to check out that don't suck a lot of ass (you know I've gotta keep in eloquent here).

Anyway, while I understand my suggestions may get tiresome since I only have about five at the moment, I hope to jump on the proverbial blogwagon and invite others to provide a few suggestions of their own. That means, if you feel you've got the chops keyboard to type a few hilariously entertaining suggestions for public consumption, drop me an e-line and let's get this party guest blog feature started right.

But, because I didn't plan this new, super-tight feature until, um, right now, in place of someone else's insight, I'll just rehash for you my own. And so, without further explanation, I present to you the very first Get Off the Internet Thursday: The Anti DC Edition. (Bask in the history that's being made right effing now, my e-friends. Bask.)

Well, hello! It's Marissa here of The Anti DC (wow, this isn't lame at all). We all know DC is my own personal hell, but once in a tapered pant, I find something that I not only tolerate, but actually like. So, get off the goddamn interweb (after, of course, you read through all my archives and forward them to everyone you know) and check out some of these most un-DC of DC haunts that I've come to regard as my totes faves.

1. Saint-Ex. This is probably my favorite bar in DC, despite that I've been here maybe just four times or so. And yes, it's starting to attract a greater contingent of douchebags and tools on the weekends (as is everything on U Street), but this place still has a ton to offer, not least of which are their martinis. I swear they somehow manage to pack extra liquor in them. Bizarre. But in all honesty, the "scene," if I may, is laid-back, but not in that annoying Irish-pub way. It's a chillax bar with well-priced cocktails (or beer) and boasts a crowd that (mostly) won't hit on you by bragging about how they can get you free drinks at the "hottest club in Bethesda." Oh, and there's also dancing in the basement. I love dancing.

2. Electroganic. Keeping with the dance theme, a DJ friend of mine recently invited me to attend what is going to be a regular event in The District -- Electroganic. According to one of the organizers and DJs, v:shal kanwar, these events will be held every month or so at Bohemian Caverns (also near U Street) and other larger yet-to-be-named venues. At the first and most recent Electroganic party, they imported DJs and gathered some of the best local talent to spin actual electronic music. That is, some dumb bitch didn't just plug his iPod into the soundsystem and set his Prodigy collection to shuffle. Nope, these were legit DJs who not only cared about making sure the crowd (which was also cool) kept dancing but actually succeeded at it. In short, I almost felt like I was back in Moscow again, which for the purposes of a dance party, is a very, very good thing. The next one takes place on April 11, by the way (I'll share details as I get them). Be there or be a tool.

3. Mezè. OK, I understand (but will never really "get") that dancing isn't for everyone. But brunch is. And while there are a lot of crappy brunch spots in this town, Adams Morgan actually has a few decent options. I've singled out Rumba Cafe before for its awesomeness, but have yet to mention Mezè, which might actually be the best brunch I've had in this town. The service is quick, the food is delicious, the drinks are decent and the prices are right. (Dang, I'm hungry!) As an added bonus, this places serves Raki, an anise-based Turkish apératif that you mix with water (!). It tastes like black licorice. (Again, dang, I'm hungry!)

4. Muléh. After brunch, the only natural thing to do is spend more money. However, sometimes that's hard in DC since there's so much ugly sh*t displayed in store windows here. There is one store, however, that I gladly throw my money at -- Muléh. Not only have I gotten a pretty fantastic dress here for 75 percent off, but my friend, The Law, has snagged some nice swag here, as well, including a 3.1 Phillip Lim belt. Like Urban Outfitters, Muléh carries women's and men's apparel as well as furniture. But unlike Urban Outfitters, it's not located in Georgetown. (Phew!) Oh, um, and it's also about ten 100 times more expensive. OK, Muléh is truly only Get Off the Internet-worthy during a sale.

5. Bull Run Shooting Center. It may not be in the District, but this Virginian treasure deserves a place in my Top 5. Why? Because you get to shoot guns! Duh.

All right, who's up next??? Let me know! (PS -- Non-bloggers welcome. I'm e-looking at you, The Law.)