Archive for the ‘DC’ Category

We were gathered here, this weekend, to celebrate the “union” of two of the internet-universe’s brightest stars, Maxie and LiLu.

From kingdoms far and wide — Texas, Toronto, Boston, Narnia, Philly, Florida, Virginia, and Neverland (just to name a few) — people descended upon DC by the dozens to witness two lovebirds take flight.

And I guess “epic” is used a lot.  So I’ll say it was sexy.  How sexy?  Not just “I’m not shy, so I asked for the digits” sexy.  No.  More like, this weekend was so sexy, it made you want to drop your pants and go at it right in front of everyone so badly that a few times you even caught yourself unbuttoning your fly, or tugging at the zipper, and had to decide right then and there just how important pride was when having fun.

I may have decided to ignore pride a few times.

Actually, I should pause here and apologize to Recessions, the bar we went to Friday night.  In a successful attempt at solving the world’s race relations crisis (yet again) with LiLu’s B — (read: performing a karaoke version of Ebony & Ivory) — I may have ended the set by yelling “Sexual Chocolate” à la

and then dropping the mic on the floor and walking away.

I am sorry, Recessions.  I did not mean to use your props as, well, props.  I got carried away in the moment.  B and I were doing the best Rat Pack impression1 we could, I was trying to make up for the fact that I chose to sing my half of the song in some sort of Kermit the frog + country twang and, yadda yadda yadda, out came Sexual Chocolate.

But enough about me.

The weekend was epic.2 I’m starting to become convinced that there isn’t a single scene from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia that we don’t have the personnel to recreate.  There was so much salt flying


this weekend that there’s still some in the coat I wore to work today.  Next Always Sunny mission: wine from a can.

I don’t even know how to tell a story in this post.  There was the almost-in-labor pregnant woman downing 32 oz beers on Friday night while getting dry humped and doing some dry humping of her own, all while getting her belly and ass spanked.  There was ultimate karaoke (with video to prove it), multiple brunches, rampant fondling, even more groping, goblets the size of your face, 80s style bling (i.e., gold) draped around necks, dance battles…

This weekend needs a few pages in the record books.


1Brought our drinks on stage with us; skipped lyrics to drink mid-song…

2Balls. I said it anyway.


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In your readers, there is a post about a neighbor of mine.

The post is a lighthearted joke about him finding a lady to spend some time with.   I wrote it Monday, a few days after having invited him into our home for a drink for the first time, after we had been talking, and talking and talking about doing so since we first moved in in mid-July.  I scheduled it to post at 12:01 this morning.

I took it down.

Outside this “old guy’s” house this morning there was a police car, a medical examiner’s van and a stretcher.  No ambulance.  No flashing lights.  No emergency.  Just response.

I don’t know what happened.  And may not know for a few days.  But the post didn’t seem as funny anymore.  This space was meant for better things.

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Gimme an F: “F!”
That’s right an R and then two E’s.
I need a Verse: “Verse!”
Just soul clap and sing with me:
“We want it Fri–

We now interrupt your regularly scheduled programming for a special announcement.

I am a ruh-tard.

And, well, I had never done karaoke before.  Until last Friday.  When LiLu made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

We were at this bar called Recessions where they serve beer at happy hour by the 32 oz. mug for $3 each.  That’s right: $1.50 per pound beers.

So we sang our hearts out.  There may have been some “dancing.”

Sorry for the poor lighting, but I think these three and a half minutes speak for themselves.

Just in case you don’t have video access, LiLu rickrolled the entire bar.  That’s like one hundred people, kids.  And I went along for the ride.  My entire strategy was to sound and dance as much like Rick Astley — one of history’s greatest human beings — as possible and to pay homage to a Family Guy episode.

To answer your question, if you watched the video, yes I do have a short-bus pass and I wouldn’t trade it in for anything in the world.

Happy Friday.

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Let’s say I don’t want to.  Let’s say that pedestrians have the privilege to survive crossing the street but not the right.  Let’s say that as the man behind the wheel of the vehicle, I have all the power that actually matters and I want to flex some muscle; that the only reason I Zipcar’d this pimpmobile Scion xB in the first place was so I could play a little game called “Just the Vehicular Tip” and I just wanna nudge a crosswalker with the grill of my ride.  What then?

Then we’re at an impasse, I guess.

Maybe it’s just DC.  Or maybe it’s just cities.  I don’t remember pedestrians being this bastardly in my small Jersey hometown.1 DC pedestrians need a little humbling or at least a refresher on how to cross the street.

Three hundred fifty days of the year, I’m a pedestrian, too.  But on those other fifteen days, the scenario usually plays out this way:

I’m driving — probably faster than the speed limit but not irresponsibly.  Then a pack of wild pubescents step out of the shadows into the middle of the street and start crossing.2 But they’re not rude about it.  Oh, god, no.  No; the appointed pubescent pack leader sticks up her hand and informs me that I am to stop so that they might make it across.  Like it’s 1995, I have basically just been told to talk to the hand.

Annoyed at their lack of consideration for my Zipcar, my driving record and my conscience and at the return of an inane gesture I hated at its inception, I curse unprotected sex for being such an easy skill to learn and mumble under my breath that I wish they’d never been conceived or at least that one day someone would teach them a lesson.

My question is simple: why not make that “someone” me?

The problem, to me, seems obvious.  These brats are just so sure that I won’t hit them.  They just know it (thanks to “driving laws”).  They look through my windshield and actually think they recognize weakness.

To you, pubescent pedestrians, I say, “Call my bluff.”

Maybe I’m having a really bad day.  Maybe I just got fired at work.  Maybe I don’t like the looks on your faces.  Hell: maybe it’s Tuesday, I’m bored and this is one of those “might as well” moments.

The point is that you know less than you think you do.  So maybe I don’t hit the gas and roll through you like a rack of bowling pins.  But maybe — just maybe — I’m a little, you know, slow getting to the brake and I put bumper-like wrinkles in your skinny jeans.

And yeah: I’m likely to end up with a scheduled court appearance for it.  But maybe — and again, this is only a “maybe” — I pay my fine and walk out of court wearing a smirk anyway because satisfaction is priceless and $250 was a bargain for the humility on your faces.


1Other cities and towns, feel free to chime in.

2How closely they cross in front of me is, of course, relative to how fast I’m moving: the faster I’m going, the closer they’re crossing.

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Metro commute #345,671

People continually over-scent themselves and then jam into crowded train cars.  Today was no different.  A woman on the train had gotten slaphappy with her fragrance of choice.

Our actual conversation went like this.

me: *manly sneeze*

lady: *unaware of surroundings*

And then it ended.  Without recourse.  Like many before it.  I should’ve a) let her know about it, b) made my friends proud by being able to report a story of witty proportions and c) made myself feel like a winner, but instead forgot my abc’s and said nothing.

In a more perfect world, the conversation would’ve gone like this.

me: *manly sneeze*

lady: *unaware of surroundings*

me: Yes, it’s your fault.

lady: Excuse me?

me: The reason I sneezed.

lady: What?  I don’t —

me: Your perfume.  Too much.  It’s like you’re trying to cover up sin or something.

lady: Who do you —

me: I’m the guy whose nostrils your “aura” just ravaged.

lady: You should know, this “aura” costs $100 a bottle.

me: Then you should make a trip to small claims court and file for damages.  Because it also smells like it has real bits of panther in it.

lady: And just what are you wearing?

me: [name of cologne]

lady: Ha.  Never heard of it.

me: You also can barely smell it because I didn’t rig my shower to spray it rather than water.

lady: It has to last the day.  *attempts to ignore and return to paper*

me: Ma’am, that would last until the end of days.

lady: *folds paper*  So. What?

me: So, to be fair, you should sniff that guy’s pit.  *nodding to the crotch-rubber sweating from the everywhere, on this 50 degrees-morning, like it’s a part-time job*

lady: You’re a rude little —

me:  Oh!  My stop.  There is a god and he can smell you, too.

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Hater tots: I eat ’em; with melted cheese and ketchup.  And when my plate is empty, I’m Oliver Twist.  I can’t help it, really.  It’s a disease.  But I don’t want a cure.

Case in point: I hate the DC sports market.  I have had to suffer through more Wizards and Redskins games than I can remember.  Every. single. year, I listen to pundits ignore logic, empirical evidence and reasonable limits on hope and imagination as they insist that this is their year.  Not only has this mythical year not happened while I’ve been here (a decade), it hasn’t happened since 1991.

But they keep promising that it’s coming.  I find balance by enjoying their losses and shortcomings.  Such is the essence of hating.

Yesterday, like every Sunday this time of year, was devoted to football.  And because networks tailor their broadcasts to viewing markets, I had to watch — you guessed it — the Redskins.  But this time, it was different.  This time, it was fun.

The Redskins lost to the Detroit Lions.  The Lions hadn’t won a game yet this year.  They didn’t win a single game last year (the first team in history to lose all 16).  Actually, the Lions hadn’t won a game since 2007.

Be still, my hating heart.  It was glorious.

My first instinct was to turn to the local Redskins coverage channel, CSN.  This is what I do every time the Redskins lose.  I revel in the dismay of their fans.  After any loss, I’m guaranteed a solid hour of “How could this be?” and “Where did it all go wrong?” But on a day when the home team had lost to the worst team in sports history, fan reaction such as “we need new everything” and “worst day of my life” made this cold heart lukewarm.

The only reason it wasn’t the highlight of my hating weekend is because on Saturday night, America’s favorite golden boy, Tim Tebow — University of Florida quarterback and appointed center of the all-that-is-moral-compass — got rocked.  I mean, he got hit like a blindfolded piñata.  That’s right: a blindfolded piñata.  It was a great moment.  But don’t just take my word for it.  Reactions from all kinds of sources have been streaming in, like this one, for example:

It was the best thing since sliced bread.

spokesperson, Wonder Bread

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i can’t believe it’s not Thursday

Yesterday was, um, not the greatest of days.  Might as well just admit it.  It meant I didn’t read nearly as many of your posts as I would want to; that I suffered a long absence on GChat;¹ that I missed a happy hour I really needed.  Once home, I set the rhythm, 2nd guitar and chorus for this bluesy rock song I’m working on, but I didn’t finish enough to share something.  Hence, no Free Verse Friday.

But I’m not a Cranberries song, so I don’t have to let it linger.  Moving forward.

With no time to write for today, I give you my disappointing attempts to use my iPhone video camera for the first time.

Oh.  I almost forgot.  It’s a poorly-kept secret that I enjoy a lyrical parody every once in a while.²  So you should go here.  No, really.  It’s lyrical parody/WMATA drama Suburban Sweetheart style.

Happy Friday.


¹Though I’ve heard it was spotty anyway.

²You can find a couple examples here and here.

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