today is the first day in 2 months that i have worn socks. i had a hard time remembering where i kept them. my feet are in distress however, as my heels are comfortably snug and warm and content to not have pebbles infiltrate their comfort zone, while my toes are screaming "HMMMPFFFFF! we can't breathe!" and the foot as a whole is just not really into the whole restriction by clogs. well feet, shut up and walk.
after having to change my outfit at least 5 times because uh, when i don't pay attention i get the ambush hickie which is so 1991, i exit my abode to realize that some literate bastard has stolen my washington post. is it because it's 10 am you think i have already left for work, that unlike every single fucking morning when i have a puppy's excitement about the surprise that awaits me on my stoop, this very day i decided to step over it and leave it for you? or did i not pay my bill? i looked in every bush and weed and now quite pissed for lack of style section and emptiness of the Express yellow distribution box. and because it's 10 am the dudes in yellow won't be handing them out at the metro. how am i going to get my horoscope?
i continue walking and see the familiar daperly dressed hatman on his new yellow bike and he says, "hey, love those pants!" and i look down and see them. my pants are fucking lavender. why the hell am i wearing purple pants? i distinctly remember buying these for their color - a slate grey to replace the wonderful slate grey pants i forgot were drying on the balcony of a Jamaican villa over a year ago. never managed to find the same neutral shade of khakis that so easily match everything.
a few months back i found myself at an old navy outlet, the kind that's in a huge Costo-like echoey warehouse with high-treble music and sickening fluorescent lights. i swear they were grey. but no, in the natural sunlight of an overcast august day, they're fucking lavender. and paired with a navy blue shirt i look nothing less than color blind. there should be a law against those fucking fluorescent lights. yet now, at my desk again, they're grey! were they never meant to be worn outside? is it a sign i should have never left my house. what does my horoscope say? i should just go back to bed.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
people who deserve a punch in the face
an interesting letter in today's "tell me about it" advice column:
Dear Carolyn:
I have a question about manners. I say on the Metro you should give your seat up for the disabled and the elderly. Last time I checked, women choose to have babies, therefore they aren't disabled. My friend says they should be afforded the courtesy. I think I'm already paying for them and their kids (i.e., school costs, time away from work). If you can't stand, don't get pregnant. Who's right?
D.C.
why even publish this garbage? i'm not sure what depresses me more, that this person exists, or that they exist in DC. if i had one bullet to spend today, i know where i would put it. sadly, Carolyn's answer ("try this, who's kind?") kind of sucked...so where do i start?
"if you can't stand, don't get pregnant." um, ok, so let's let this asshole get a seat on the metro, and let the human race comes to a standstill!
i'm sure if women had one choice, they would choose that men carry babies for 9 months in their abdomens. in fact, i would choose that macho asshole in particular be the one to gestate a fetus for 3/4 of a year. though wouldn't it be an interesting topic if this woman in question lived in South Dakota? not sure she'd have much of a choice to do anything.
when you consider such a perspective of inhumanity in today's context human suffering, it's really no surprise that every day is riddled with the digsuting events of another war. i'm going to go vomit now.
Dear Carolyn:
I have a question about manners. I say on the Metro you should give your seat up for the disabled and the elderly. Last time I checked, women choose to have babies, therefore they aren't disabled. My friend says they should be afforded the courtesy. I think I'm already paying for them and their kids (i.e., school costs, time away from work). If you can't stand, don't get pregnant. Who's right?
D.C.
why even publish this garbage? i'm not sure what depresses me more, that this person exists, or that they exist in DC. if i had one bullet to spend today, i know where i would put it. sadly, Carolyn's answer ("try this, who's kind?") kind of sucked...so where do i start?
"if you can't stand, don't get pregnant." um, ok, so let's let this asshole get a seat on the metro, and let the human race comes to a standstill!
i'm sure if women had one choice, they would choose that men carry babies for 9 months in their abdomens. in fact, i would choose that macho asshole in particular be the one to gestate a fetus for 3/4 of a year. though wouldn't it be an interesting topic if this woman in question lived in South Dakota? not sure she'd have much of a choice to do anything.
when you consider such a perspective of inhumanity in today's context human suffering, it's really no surprise that every day is riddled with the digsuting events of another war. i'm going to go vomit now.
Friday, August 25, 2006
NYT: DC is dicey
so the NY times travel section has a little weekend in DC article on where/what to do for 39 hours in the capital. i always try to read guidebooks and stuff for my city to get some more outside perspective on my home town, or find new places to go. (sadly, there don't seem to be that many, DC often feels pretty small)
anyway, there are some good suggestions, drinks on the roof of the Washington Hotel, who knew? Al Crostino on U street that i've always wanted to try, though i suspect now it will be full of snooty new yorkers. the NYT has a knack for 'ruining' places like that. in my experience it happened in very rural france, seeing my quaint neighborhood joint get overrun by boisterous english speakers- it's a sure sign it passed in the Times.
but my main point here was that it was sorta depressing to read that the 9:30 club is stated to be in a "dicey" neighborhood. sad, but true. there was also a cold warning to watch your back when visiting the mall and monuments at night. is this really what our city has come to? alas, given the recent crime emergency and spate of muggings, it seems yes. it fills me with both disappointment and rage. i practice my roundhouse kicks to the solar plexus every time i i imagine some loser invading my personal space to steal my razr phone, which, you can totally get for free pretty much anywhere. why do thieves always steal old crappy cell phones? i had a broken old nokia once that disappeared from a bar. is there really a market for these? do they recycle the batteries into gems or send them to asia to finance a drug war? and uh, i'm going to cut off service pretty much immediately after i send it a few scathing text messages, and maybe trace the phone calls from my bill so it's really not much use to the criminal seeking to hide his steps. and doesn't everyone have a gazillion minutes these days, what's so valuable about stealing someone else's cell when you most likely have your own (seriously, who doesn't have a cell these days) or, as a last resort can probably just ask to borrow a phone for a quick call? it doesn't come with the threat of jail time, or my signature roundhouse kick to the solar plexus, either.
anyway, there are some good suggestions, drinks on the roof of the Washington Hotel, who knew? Al Crostino on U street that i've always wanted to try, though i suspect now it will be full of snooty new yorkers. the NYT has a knack for 'ruining' places like that. in my experience it happened in very rural france, seeing my quaint neighborhood joint get overrun by boisterous english speakers- it's a sure sign it passed in the Times.
but my main point here was that it was sorta depressing to read that the 9:30 club is stated to be in a "dicey" neighborhood. sad, but true. there was also a cold warning to watch your back when visiting the mall and monuments at night. is this really what our city has come to? alas, given the recent crime emergency and spate of muggings, it seems yes. it fills me with both disappointment and rage. i practice my roundhouse kicks to the solar plexus every time i i imagine some loser invading my personal space to steal my razr phone, which, you can totally get for free pretty much anywhere. why do thieves always steal old crappy cell phones? i had a broken old nokia once that disappeared from a bar. is there really a market for these? do they recycle the batteries into gems or send them to asia to finance a drug war? and uh, i'm going to cut off service pretty much immediately after i send it a few scathing text messages, and maybe trace the phone calls from my bill so it's really not much use to the criminal seeking to hide his steps. and doesn't everyone have a gazillion minutes these days, what's so valuable about stealing someone else's cell when you most likely have your own (seriously, who doesn't have a cell these days) or, as a last resort can probably just ask to borrow a phone for a quick call? it doesn't come with the threat of jail time, or my signature roundhouse kick to the solar plexus, either.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
the sound of one hand clapping...
ok, today i am sitting in my [piece of shit] cubicle [that i finally asked to be moved out of] and from deep inside me i had a thought. i should listen to paris hilton's new CD online. brain, stop it. stop clicking, put down the mouse. what do you think you are doing?
i've actually listened to the whole thing. some songs twice. um, there's a moral to this story somewhere...it likely has to do with coming to work still quite possibly drunk slightly before noon(asylum's 15th anniversary party. naughty nurses and stripper poles. kick yourself for missing it).
is this a sub-conscious self-flagellation? someone please tell me this is me, telling myself i shouldn't close bars on wednesday nights, drink sparks until sunrise and play frisbee in the street, have the police say "stop throwing that frisbee ma'am" over their megaphone [too lazy to get out of their car?], run to another street, lose the frisbee in the gutter and then open a manhole cover, order my boyfriend to reach in and grab it with his feet. he did.
so my favorite line so far is "if you think you're sexy clap your hands."
Monday, August 14, 2006
pizza the size of your face
the pizza available to adams morgan revelers never ceases to amaze me and this phenonemon is a favorite topic of discussion... 
i hear one slice packs like over 1,000 calories. but that's not why i won't touch the stuff. no, it's because on my first weekend in DC, when i had just moved in and experienced the late nite post-last call hunger pangs, i lined up at the place i like to call the "disco slice. it's the one that's lower down on the strip, across from kalorama that boasts loud techno music, sparkly walls, dancing billboard guy, strobe lights...enough to give you a seizure. we had exited pharmacy bar and my roommate from north carolina and i were in no way going to wait on this extraordinarily long line. we pooled our resources together: her big boobs and perfect smile and my 5 dollar bill. she approached our prey, an inebriated gentleman with not one, not two, but three huge slices of pepperoni pizza. the transaction was quick and effortless and as we cheered our achievement - yes, at the time buying a huge greasy slice of pizza for 3 times what it's worth, while degrading ourselves before someone likely from virginia was worthy of celebration. in our haste of jumping and hugging and wooooing i inadvertantly dropped the weighty slice and as luck would have it, fell right onto the sidewalk, cheese side down.
our smiles quickly faded to desperation, we don't have any more money! we're starving! the other patrons cum spectators quickly chanted "5 second rule!! 5 second rule!!" and without thinking, i picked up the slice, leaving a puddle of grease upon the mottled sidewalk, inspected it quickly for hypodermic needles and cigarette butts and to the raving shouts and applause from our adoring fans took a huge bite. it was unexpectedly smooth and sorta tasty, as opposed to crunchy with sand and glass shards, offering validity to the rule so many of food droppers live by. as we stumbled home my roommate and my conscience made me promise to never eat a slice of that pizza ever again. every time i walk by i feel a cringe of regret from that night, and to this day, i have abided.
i hear one slice packs like over 1,000 calories. but that's not why i won't touch the stuff. no, it's because on my first weekend in DC, when i had just moved in and experienced the late nite post-last call hunger pangs, i lined up at the place i like to call the "disco slice. it's the one that's lower down on the strip, across from kalorama that boasts loud techno music, sparkly walls, dancing billboard guy, strobe lights...enough to give you a seizure. we had exited pharmacy bar and my roommate from north carolina and i were in no way going to wait on this extraordinarily long line. we pooled our resources together: her big boobs and perfect smile and my 5 dollar bill. she approached our prey, an inebriated gentleman with not one, not two, but three huge slices of pepperoni pizza. the transaction was quick and effortless and as we cheered our achievement - yes, at the time buying a huge greasy slice of pizza for 3 times what it's worth, while degrading ourselves before someone likely from virginia was worthy of celebration. in our haste of jumping and hugging and wooooing i inadvertantly dropped the weighty slice and as luck would have it, fell right onto the sidewalk, cheese side down.our smiles quickly faded to desperation, we don't have any more money! we're starving! the other patrons cum spectators quickly chanted "5 second rule!! 5 second rule!!" and without thinking, i picked up the slice, leaving a puddle of grease upon the mottled sidewalk, inspected it quickly for hypodermic needles and cigarette butts and to the raving shouts and applause from our adoring fans took a huge bite. it was unexpectedly smooth and sorta tasty, as opposed to crunchy with sand and glass shards, offering validity to the rule so many of food droppers live by. as we stumbled home my roommate and my conscience made me promise to never eat a slice of that pizza ever again. every time i walk by i feel a cringe of regret from that night, and to this day, i have abided.
Wednesday, August 9, 2006
chip off the ole block
cruising around for somewhere to ditch my car this am, i run into a friend who points to a tight spot she saw down the street. "knowing you, you'll make it fit!" she said. and that's how my most super awesome morning began, with this totally sweet rockstar parrallel parking job: 
now sure, you buzzkills out there will tell me that i'm just gonna get bumped by either car when they leave. well i tell you, that's what bumpers are for. on my way to my office tho, i saw the asshole who yesterday took the last two spaces on the street, right in front of me as i waited for one of them. i told him he needs a serious lesson in parking from my dad, as well as some extra good karma to prevent the next angry person from keying his piece of shit camry.
i get it from my dad. last time he came to visit he barely listened to a thing i said all during dinner, he had this wide grin on his face and any response to my relationship troubles, job stories would be met with his explanation on how he bypassed the laws of physics (which he knows quite a bit about) and shoved his rented chevy malibu between two massive suvs. finally, after dinner i agreed to the detour to view how incredible his parking feat was. and holy shit, i was pretty impressed. told all my friends about it too. we were both bummed when the car behind him left, erasing his greatest achievement and making him look like an asshole for hugging the car in front.
i'll always remember it tho. because kick-ass parking runs in our genes!
Saturday, August 5, 2006
grand theft cello
Where to start: chronologically, or by level of insanity? Or the order in which this all gets diffused from my sleep deprived, alcohol infused brain:
Let’s set the scene:
It was 2 pm, on the hassidic jewish version of the chinatown NY-DC bus which was idling outside Penn station, midtown. As the Jeff Spicoli wannabe who had made everyone roll their eyes at his loud cell phone calls to his “bros and babes,” and wore the impossibly ironic shirt bearing the slogan: “yes, I’m THAT guy” later attested:
it was a friendly bus.
Indeed.
In fact, I had befriended most of the passengers on the way up to NYC on Friday, a side-effect of being stuck on large immobile object for more than 7 hours. Well, most everybody, THAT guy, later renamed as “bro-ski” remained on my hate list well into the weekend. When the bus re-fueled somewhere in New Jersey after nearly depleting its reserves in the 4 hours it took us to reach i-95, we were all on a first name basis. There was my cute seat neighbor, whom I ended up exchanging texts with all weekend, not as much for his cutey phD student puzzling-solving intelligence (I got him hooked on samurai sodoku in Delaware) but for his confidence, which he oozed – which I can now identify as the all-time most important thing I look for in people. Plainly put, I realized that its confidence that will protect me from seething jealousy, people who read my email or accuse me of egregious immoral behaviour, etc…and its that small thing we take for granted that was sorely lacking in my last relationship, but I digress…
the reason why everyone approach me to make conversation was not because of my stunning good looks or affable personality, nay, it was because I was travelling with my monstrous stringed instrument, “the big guitar?” they always ask. No, it’s my cello, securely stored in a big bright taxicab-yellow case, the reason for which I always tell people who ask, “why a yellow cello case?” is because it rhymes, and because if someone were ever to run off with it, I could see them a mile away, laugh, because as if that would ever happen.
So there I was, rather content to leave new york, after a drama packed weekend worthy of a WB sitcom (specific stories to follow). I tried to relax into my seat as our bus driver simoultaneously scolded us for “keeping a big black man from his sunday night collard greens” if we were to mess up his bus, and professing his love for Reese Witherspoon – the absence of votes for a movie prompted a dictatorial decision to watch “Just Like Heaven.” Groan. But I found satisfaction in that my weekend trip was successful in its mission to procure two simple things: bagels and shoes. The smell of a dozen fresh sesame and egg bagels emanated from my bag and I was admiring my feet perched in their new 4 inch platform shoes that put me among the tall people whenever I so desire. And let us not forget my new Nicole Richie gigornous sunglasses which are begging to go out to brunch.
As the bus filled up, I was joined by a familiar pal from the trip up (though I did call him and his friend dicks for getting a cab before I did on Friday), we eagerly exchanged our stories: my 911 call to help an epileptic stalkerazzi fan at my gig for his bachelor party bachanalia. As my new friend’s stories grew tiresome, not helped by his obviously hungover drawl, I just happened to notice that the baggage door had been opened on the street side of the bus. Odd. A man, seemingly dressed as a bus driver rustled through the luggage contents, moving things, supposedly securing them for our trip. I then peered down at the familiar edge of my adorable yello cello, who served me so well the night before.
As the man went out of view, I quickly turned to the reflection of the bus in a clean-windowed building across the street, and noticed this man was walking away with my cello. Clearly, he was putting it in a safer compartment, perhaps bringing it onboard as I had asked when I made my reservation? But wait, this man was neither a hassidic jew, nor our bus driver, who is here in front of me telling us how much he likes Popeyes but despises Bojangles as much as loud passengers. I glanced furtively into the rearview mirror of the bus: this man was running away with my $18,000 instrument.
I don’t recall how I exited, I really think I went through the walls of the bus, just like Reese did all throughout that really shitty movie, but my feet were no longer wearing delicate tall heels, these were rocket shoes that weren’t even hitting the ground, I wasn’t breathing, I wasn't hearing anything, I was sprinting waaay faster than Carrie Bradshaw in her manolos running after Big, I was fucking flying at this guy like I was crouching tiger, or hidden dragon.
It could have been the incessant slur of obscenities which deserve never to be written or repeated ever, or the look of maternal rage of a mother bear without her cub on my face that literally made this guy drop everything on his person put his hands up and start crying, I will not know. Within seconds bachelor boy was holding this obviously mentally disturbed man as he started apologizing and cowering in fear, as my own silly (what if he had a gun?) adrenaline-rush turned similarly to tears and whimpers.
And soon the hassidic busmen surrounded us as we tried to make light of this situation. Someone told me I needed to call the cops. I didn’t even have to dial 911- all I had to do was hit fucking re-dial from the night before and once again, I was surrounded by law enforcement within seconds, love that nyc response time.
there was snot, oh the familiar snot from this fall, teeming from my nose as I tried to explain...this guy, took my baby, and holy shit, I just stole my fucking cello back...I stole my cello back.
When I took my baby back into my arms at the Mcpherson square dropoff, I saw a couple point to me and whispher:
“that’s the infamous cello.”
Let’s set the scene:
It was 2 pm, on the hassidic jewish version of the chinatown NY-DC bus which was idling outside Penn station, midtown. As the Jeff Spicoli wannabe who had made everyone roll their eyes at his loud cell phone calls to his “bros and babes,” and wore the impossibly ironic shirt bearing the slogan: “yes, I’m THAT guy” later attested:
it was a friendly bus.
Indeed.
In fact, I had befriended most of the passengers on the way up to NYC on Friday, a side-effect of being stuck on large immobile object for more than 7 hours. Well, most everybody, THAT guy, later renamed as “bro-ski” remained on my hate list well into the weekend. When the bus re-fueled somewhere in New Jersey after nearly depleting its reserves in the 4 hours it took us to reach i-95, we were all on a first name basis. There was my cute seat neighbor, whom I ended up exchanging texts with all weekend, not as much for his cutey phD student puzzling-solving intelligence (I got him hooked on samurai sodoku in Delaware) but for his confidence, which he oozed – which I can now identify as the all-time most important thing I look for in people. Plainly put, I realized that its confidence that will protect me from seething jealousy, people who read my email or accuse me of egregious immoral behaviour, etc…and its that small thing we take for granted that was sorely lacking in my last relationship, but I digress…
the reason why everyone approach me to make conversation was not because of my stunning good looks or affable personality, nay, it was because I was travelling with my monstrous stringed instrument, “the big guitar?” they always ask. No, it’s my cello, securely stored in a big bright taxicab-yellow case, the reason for which I always tell people who ask, “why a yellow cello case?” is because it rhymes, and because if someone were ever to run off with it, I could see them a mile away, laugh, because as if that would ever happen.
So there I was, rather content to leave new york, after a drama packed weekend worthy of a WB sitcom (specific stories to follow). I tried to relax into my seat as our bus driver simoultaneously scolded us for “keeping a big black man from his sunday night collard greens” if we were to mess up his bus, and professing his love for Reese Witherspoon – the absence of votes for a movie prompted a dictatorial decision to watch “Just Like Heaven.” Groan. But I found satisfaction in that my weekend trip was successful in its mission to procure two simple things: bagels and shoes. The smell of a dozen fresh sesame and egg bagels emanated from my bag and I was admiring my feet perched in their new 4 inch platform shoes that put me among the tall people whenever I so desire. And let us not forget my new Nicole Richie gigornous sunglasses which are begging to go out to brunch.
As the bus filled up, I was joined by a familiar pal from the trip up (though I did call him and his friend dicks for getting a cab before I did on Friday), we eagerly exchanged our stories: my 911 call to help an epileptic stalkerazzi fan at my gig for his bachelor party bachanalia. As my new friend’s stories grew tiresome, not helped by his obviously hungover drawl, I just happened to notice that the baggage door had been opened on the street side of the bus. Odd. A man, seemingly dressed as a bus driver rustled through the luggage contents, moving things, supposedly securing them for our trip. I then peered down at the familiar edge of my adorable yello cello, who served me so well the night before.
As the man went out of view, I quickly turned to the reflection of the bus in a clean-windowed building across the street, and noticed this man was walking away with my cello. Clearly, he was putting it in a safer compartment, perhaps bringing it onboard as I had asked when I made my reservation? But wait, this man was neither a hassidic jew, nor our bus driver, who is here in front of me telling us how much he likes Popeyes but despises Bojangles as much as loud passengers. I glanced furtively into the rearview mirror of the bus: this man was running away with my $18,000 instrument.
I don’t recall how I exited, I really think I went through the walls of the bus, just like Reese did all throughout that really shitty movie, but my feet were no longer wearing delicate tall heels, these were rocket shoes that weren’t even hitting the ground, I wasn’t breathing, I wasn't hearing anything, I was sprinting waaay faster than Carrie Bradshaw in her manolos running after Big, I was fucking flying at this guy like I was crouching tiger, or hidden dragon.
It could have been the incessant slur of obscenities which deserve never to be written or repeated ever, or the look of maternal rage of a mother bear without her cub on my face that literally made this guy drop everything on his person put his hands up and start crying, I will not know. Within seconds bachelor boy was holding this obviously mentally disturbed man as he started apologizing and cowering in fear, as my own silly (what if he had a gun?) adrenaline-rush turned similarly to tears and whimpers.
And soon the hassidic busmen surrounded us as we tried to make light of this situation. Someone told me I needed to call the cops. I didn’t even have to dial 911- all I had to do was hit fucking re-dial from the night before and once again, I was surrounded by law enforcement within seconds, love that nyc response time.
there was snot, oh the familiar snot from this fall, teeming from my nose as I tried to explain...this guy, took my baby, and holy shit, I just stole my fucking cello back...I stole my cello back.
When I took my baby back into my arms at the Mcpherson square dropoff, I saw a couple point to me and whispher:
“that’s the infamous cello.”
if you can't get laid at whole foods...
...you need to see a doctor."
such was professed at the p street whole paycheck at the sunday afternoon peak shopping/cruising time, when my brother and i stopped in for lemonade. he doesn't get out much on his one day off and this is how i acquiesced in his request to "go outside, see and be around people, maybe ogle some trim."
seriously, i bet you at least a dozen new couples form every month right near the olive bar. or maybe your hand brushes against someone else's as you dive your toothpick in for a fifth stabbing of goat gouda. i tell anyone who is single that they should spend at least an hour there each week, helping people discern what isn't organic - have you noticed all the lemons now are labelled "conventional?" yeah, that means it's not organic, people. read: pesticides; same ole shit you buy at safeway. neither are the avocados or potatoes. yet yer still paying organic prices. pretty clever. they have organic onions tho. ooooh, wow, onions.
so in the end i guess what you really pay for then is the chance to fall in love. if even briefly with the godlike creature who's buying bulk cashews. yum.
such was professed at the p street whole paycheck at the sunday afternoon peak shopping/cruising time, when my brother and i stopped in for lemonade. he doesn't get out much on his one day off and this is how i acquiesced in his request to "go outside, see and be around people, maybe ogle some trim."
seriously, i bet you at least a dozen new couples form every month right near the olive bar. or maybe your hand brushes against someone else's as you dive your toothpick in for a fifth stabbing of goat gouda. i tell anyone who is single that they should spend at least an hour there each week, helping people discern what isn't organic - have you noticed all the lemons now are labelled "conventional?" yeah, that means it's not organic, people. read: pesticides; same ole shit you buy at safeway. neither are the avocados or potatoes. yet yer still paying organic prices. pretty clever. they have organic onions tho. ooooh, wow, onions.
so in the end i guess what you really pay for then is the chance to fall in love. if even briefly with the godlike creature who's buying bulk cashews. yum.
Thursday, August 3, 2006
i suck at arm wrestling
first of all, i'd like to preface this by saying that arm wrestling in french is called "bras de fer" which translates to "arm of iron." awesome.
so, for some strange reason, i have been doing a lot of arm wrestling lately. the first competition was inspired by the roller ladies at asylum who were hosting an arm wrestling fundraiser one saturday. i was out with my new roommate who, interestingly enough, is a fitter version of me...thin, curly hair, jewish looking. on the first eve of her new residency, it seemed approrpriate that an arm wrestle would set the stage for the house, who's more kick ass, who's gonna empty the fucking dishwasher. the back of my hand was in a sticky puddle of bourbon in about 10 seconds (actually, a vodka-bourbon concoction we were testing that came out of a friend's nose). out of nowhere these pulsating python bicpes humiliated me in front of all my friends as she sheepishly said, well, i work out a lot. the skinny ass waitress came to console me and someone convinced her to step up. no problem. even after tiring a bit from my first competition there's no way this girl has the arms. alas, she refused to go lefty (not fair!) and just as quickly if not quicker, thrashed my hopes of victory. after people tried to buck me up, i ambled home with my stronger apartment mate, shoulders sore, vowing to never let that happen to me again.
i've since been hitting the gym at lunch, pumping iron, doing pushups with "eye of the tiger" in my headphones. and it just so happens that last tuesday i was drinking at the red and the black on H street and this busty sword swallower walked in and recruited me for their female arm wresling tournament at the new palace of wonders. you're on. i quickly downed my drink and my posse of trainers eagerly escorted me next door. we entered with whoops and hollers and my pals quickly massaged my shoulders and dispensed valuable advice wrist-breaking advice they had gleaned from a recent viewing of over the top.
i was up against red sonia. a nice blondie obviously hailing from somewhere in upper NW, her sleeveless t showed no apparent threat. and it was on. i put up a damn good fight. i squeezed her palms, tried to spin her elbow, even snarled at her and as i hassled for a good 3 or 4 minutes while bar patrons screamed and hooted, i slowly lost energy and felt my inevitable defeat overcome me. and that's when it hit me. i have never won at arm wrestling. red sonia ended up winning the prize, so i didn't feel that bad. the emcee offered a lefty rematch for losers which i eagerly threw in 10 bucks for, but no one stepped up. were they scared? and that's when i realized...to this day i still have never lost a lefty arm wrestle. and if i do, well...i'll just start punching people in the face. lefty.
so, for some strange reason, i have been doing a lot of arm wrestling lately. the first competition was inspired by the roller ladies at asylum who were hosting an arm wrestling fundraiser one saturday. i was out with my new roommate who, interestingly enough, is a fitter version of me...thin, curly hair, jewish looking. on the first eve of her new residency, it seemed approrpriate that an arm wrestle would set the stage for the house, who's more kick ass, who's gonna empty the fucking dishwasher. the back of my hand was in a sticky puddle of bourbon in about 10 seconds (actually, a vodka-bourbon concoction we were testing that came out of a friend's nose). out of nowhere these pulsating python bicpes humiliated me in front of all my friends as she sheepishly said, well, i work out a lot. the skinny ass waitress came to console me and someone convinced her to step up. no problem. even after tiring a bit from my first competition there's no way this girl has the arms. alas, she refused to go lefty (not fair!) and just as quickly if not quicker, thrashed my hopes of victory. after people tried to buck me up, i ambled home with my stronger apartment mate, shoulders sore, vowing to never let that happen to me again.
i've since been hitting the gym at lunch, pumping iron, doing pushups with "eye of the tiger" in my headphones. and it just so happens that last tuesday i was drinking at the red and the black on H street and this busty sword swallower walked in and recruited me for their female arm wresling tournament at the new palace of wonders. you're on. i quickly downed my drink and my posse of trainers eagerly escorted me next door. we entered with whoops and hollers and my pals quickly massaged my shoulders and dispensed valuable advice wrist-breaking advice they had gleaned from a recent viewing of over the top.
i was up against red sonia. a nice blondie obviously hailing from somewhere in upper NW, her sleeveless t showed no apparent threat. and it was on. i put up a damn good fight. i squeezed her palms, tried to spin her elbow, even snarled at her and as i hassled for a good 3 or 4 minutes while bar patrons screamed and hooted, i slowly lost energy and felt my inevitable defeat overcome me. and that's when it hit me. i have never won at arm wrestling. red sonia ended up winning the prize, so i didn't feel that bad. the emcee offered a lefty rematch for losers which i eagerly threw in 10 bucks for, but no one stepped up. were they scared? and that's when i realized...to this day i still have never lost a lefty arm wrestle. and if i do, well...i'll just start punching people in the face. lefty.
Wednesday, August 2, 2006
on crime, temperature
dc crime and temperatures are soaring. i have the following things to say.
on crime: it's pretty obvious...it's not more cops, just less cops sitting in their air conditioned cars accumulating powdered sugar in the creases of their uniforms and holding conference calls with their girlfriends. put them on foot. really, get them to mingle with the dudes on their porch who see everything go down, know everyone. get them to chat up the mango and empenada vendors, you know. if you need some mobility then fine, put them on bikes, i'll take bikes. but no segways. confine those to malls and airports because i'm sorry no one is getting any respect out of the ghetto when you're on a segway.
on temperature: ok, so it's pretty hot. yeah, i sweat and get a wee bit lightheaded if i walk too fast. but it's not crazy unbearably hot. i like the free bottles of the water at the silver spring metro, especially when handed out by those handsome uniformed gentlemen. rreow.
but have you ever been to africa? southeast asia? the caribbean? florida? those places are hot. damn hot. i reckon any given year there are a lot more people sweating and complaining around the world than in DC. have you ever had to go to work in Panama? in a long sleeved dress shirt? and you flag down a taxi but then he wants to charge you 5 times the going rate so you try to get another one, but he has three leering construction workers in the back and no a/c so then you give up and catch the bus, which is an old school bus packed to the gills with people, and only half the windows open and the back of your legs are stuck to the fake leather seat and the sides of your thighs are stuck to the lady next to you? you haven't?
well shut the hell up then.
on crime: it's pretty obvious...it's not more cops, just less cops sitting in their air conditioned cars accumulating powdered sugar in the creases of their uniforms and holding conference calls with their girlfriends. put them on foot. really, get them to mingle with the dudes on their porch who see everything go down, know everyone. get them to chat up the mango and empenada vendors, you know. if you need some mobility then fine, put them on bikes, i'll take bikes. but no segways. confine those to malls and airports because i'm sorry no one is getting any respect out of the ghetto when you're on a segway.
on temperature: ok, so it's pretty hot. yeah, i sweat and get a wee bit lightheaded if i walk too fast. but it's not crazy unbearably hot. i like the free bottles of the water at the silver spring metro, especially when handed out by those handsome uniformed gentlemen. rreow.
but have you ever been to africa? southeast asia? the caribbean? florida? those places are hot. damn hot. i reckon any given year there are a lot more people sweating and complaining around the world than in DC. have you ever had to go to work in Panama? in a long sleeved dress shirt? and you flag down a taxi but then he wants to charge you 5 times the going rate so you try to get another one, but he has three leering construction workers in the back and no a/c so then you give up and catch the bus, which is an old school bus packed to the gills with people, and only half the windows open and the back of your legs are stuck to the fake leather seat and the sides of your thighs are stuck to the lady next to you? you haven't?
well shut the hell up then.
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