Two years

Yes, it's the why.i.hate.dc two-year "blogiversary."

(See what I did there? I took the word "anniversary" and incorporated the word "blog" into it. That's so smurftastic.)

By now, I'm a veritable Washington institution. But I still haven't been going as long as the D.C. arsonist, who started burning down houses in mostly poor neighborhoods a good three weeks before I started blogging, and still has managed to escape capture from a crack multi-jurisdictional team of investigators who almost somewhat care.

So I guess we're like kindred spirits now. God speed, D.C. arsonist. You know what they say... "Get busy living, or get busy burning down some shit."

Hey look, it's time for the latest edition of "James Visits Another City and Wishes He Could Stay"

Yeah, you know it, you love it. Guess where this time? You'll never guess:


Prediction: I'm going to catch hell for this. But it's true; once again I blunder into all sorts of cool stuff. (And I feel like I can at least tell you guys about my vacationw without wanting to stab myself to death.)

1. On Lower Broadway, there were a bunch of bars where country musicians play for tips, and even on a rainy Sunday evening there was a scene going on. I watched a band play a speedy bluegrass version of the Wallflowers' "Sixth Avenue Heartache". Where else does that happen? I don't even usually listen to country, but I had a great time. (LiAps: sorry about excitedly calling you while tipsy.)

2. There's an uncharted demarcation line, probably somewhere in Virginia, that modern mapmakers haven't been able to exactly pin down. North of this line, it is scientifically impossible to find decent barbeque. Fortunately, we found some pretty good stuff downtown as we watched the basketball go into double overtime. The food was no Fat Matt's, but then what is?

3. Two words: Pancake Pantry. This is apparently a Nashville breakfast institution; they have delicious sweet potato pancakes drenched in warm maple syrup. That's right: sweet potato pancakes. Clever, creative, unique. I'd never had them before, and they were delicious.

And I wasn't even there 24 hours. But that's what's supposed to happen when you're in a city: you find stuff you've never tried before and didn't know you loved. You find personality. You find uniqueness. You find crazy foods: sweet potato pancakes and fruit sushi and seitan skewers.

What do we have? Oh, right, the half-smoke. I'm going to say something now that I should have said long ago: What the fuck is a half-smoke? What's that you say? It's a sausage that's half beef and half pork? Oh, well, silly me. That's obviously brilliant. Dear lord... MUST EVEN OUR FOOD BE CREATED BY COMMITTEE?

(Oh, and Bill Cosby loves it, you say. You know what else he loves? Jell-O Pudding Pops.)

Anyway. Oh, and also, Nashville radio kicks D.C. radio's ass. Not just country, but all formats; they're on top of everything. I appreciate that, since I'm too cheap to buy an iPod or XM or whatever. I need people to tell me what's good without me having to pay them. Honestly, my music library these days basically consists of whatever Information Leafblower just posted.

So. Um... suck on that, Washington!


Sirhan Sirhan wins again

Oh no... they're not really selling the naming rights to RFK Stadium, are they? Dear God, they are.

This seems so very wrong. I always thought of the stadium as a de-facto monument... it's even in the same latitude line as Lincoln, Washington, and Congress, which is kind of cool.

And they're planning on keeping the RFK name in there, so it will be something like "[Product-placed] Field at RFK Stadium." I'm sure that won't be awkward at all. "Hey remember when Bobby Kennedy was killed? Yeah, that sucked. Also: drink Pepsi Vanilla."

Why do you hate freedom AND mercury?

When the Environmental Protection Agency unveiled a rule last week to limit mercury emissions from U.S. power plants, officials emphasized that the controls could not be more aggressive because the cost to industry already far exceeded the public health payoff.

What they did not reveal is that a Harvard University study paid for by the EPA, co-authored by an EPA scientist and peer-reviewed by two other EPA scientists had reached the opposite conclusion.

--Washington Post, last Tuesday
OK, EPA people. I have to ask: how do you do it?

Most people come home from work, and they can maybe find something positive in the work they've done. Like, you might be all, "Accounts Receiveable really depends on my accounting skillz." Or, if your work doesn't really have a positive effect, you can say, "Well, I didn't make anyone's life worse today. And I made some money."

But you EPA guys... y'all take the cake. It's basically your job to protect the environment, if I have my acronyms right. And you precious people... you choose to willfully ignore that duty. In fact, in some kind of Bizarro twist, you choose to do exactly the opposite. Incredible.

I keep hoping that it's all just some kind of cruel practical joke that only you guys find funny. Like you're making some kind of metaphysical commentary on your job. You might turn to a colleague and say, "Really, what is 'the environment' exactly?" while making finger-quotes, and then you both start cracking up. Because, failing that, how do you live with the fact that the work you go will indirectly wind up killing some folks?

I'm trying to imagine what it's like when they get home from work. "What'd you do today, Dad?" "Well, Billy, today Daddy made the world safer for mercury and sent a bunch of people to their DOOOOOOMMMS. Umm... we're not having fish tonight, are we?"

Or, if they go out for dinner after work, do they avoid drinking tap water because their own lax standards might result in it being, you know, a bit lead-y? No, I know they're not worried at all, because they're drinking bottled spring water and they're more worried about where the valet parked the Hummer.

But still, it would be nice if the Environmental Protection Agency maybe actually fucking cared a little bit about protecting the environment. Seriously, I wish I knew who was responsible for these decisions, because it creeps me out that they're my neighbors. The next time I'm on a Metro train, if there's somebody from the EPA's Department of Ignoring Studies We've Commissioned riding in my car, I'd like to know who it is, so that I can kidnap him/her, and subsequently force him/her to roll around on the floor of the Cardozo High School science lab. "Soak up that mercury! It's good for you! If God didn't want you to touch it, he wouldn't have made it so shiny!"

(Oh man... if the government ever creates a Department of Ironic Punishment, I want that job.)

So anyway, EPA people... you suck. A lot. I get the sense that maybe you've lost sight of your assigned task. To put it in perspective: the guy who headed the EPA during the Nixon administration criticized you for instituting "polluter protection" policies.

Wow. That's gotta hurt.


I'm sick.

At least it's not as bad as the time I had the anthrax. (Funny story. I should save that one.)

The only upside to being sick: lying on the couch, watching The Price Is Right.


Nobody's life is safe in D.C.

We have a camel down, people. I repeat, CAMEL DOWN.

But hey, it's the first time the zoo's had an untimely death in at least a few weeks maybe. And it was in good health earlier this month, which has me thinking foul play. Some dromedary did it for the crack money, I'm guessing.

A public service announcement for mobs of angry parents looking for revenge

Here's how to get from Red Lake High School to the NRA's headquarters in Fairfax.

Yes, yes, I know. Sure, their school got shot up by a crazy kid, but it's a small price to pay so that Philip Van Cleave can double carry while walking around his subdivision at night. Why do I hate freedom, etc.

UPDATE! OK, fine, he was using his grandfather's police-issue pistol. I guess the NRA is off the hook. This time.


This is the stupidest thing ever

Did they really just pass a law ordering the Terry Schiavo case be transferred from state court to federal court?

OK, I'm no expert on Constitutional law or anything, but even I know that if you're in the U.S. Congress, and you're passing a law that affects exactly one person, and that one person is in a persistent vegetative state, you've officially crossed the line from "serving your constituents" and into "The Twilight Zone." I think Congress is getting all its ideas from Fox News. I'm expecting the "Michael Jackson/Martha Stewart Celebrity Incarceration Act of 2005" any minute now. That would make about as much sense.

Oh by the way, Congress, if you have time for this crap, can we maybe get a real political issue on the agenda, like sayyyyy... D.C. voting rights? What's that? No, no we can't? You still don't like black people? You still want them less enfranchised than the Iraqis? OK, just checking.

Three complaints, in order of ascending social importance

1) OK, I have this friend who bought a bunch of Nationals season tickets. Ten of them, in fact. For the full season. That's 810 tickets total. Really a lot. He plans to distribute them to clients, sell them on eBay, etc., which is all good and fine. We've known each other for a few years, and we've been to Caps and Redskins games together, so he knows I'm a fan.

I let him know I was willing to buy a multiple-game package from him at the single-game face value, which is still slightly more than he paid for them. It's a fair deal; he can unload some tickets easily, I avoid supporting (i.e. getting ripped off by) the Ticketmaster mafia.

But, no; no dice. He won't sell tickets to me at the single-game price, which is more than what he paid. He insists on a markup above even that.

So, this message is for my friend. I guess it's your prerogative; you can do what you want to do. The truth about Roni is she's a special kind of girl, etc. But really... what kind of friend charges a markup?

And, yes, they're going to be a hot ticket at first; everybody's going to be excited that baseball is back. But that will wear off after a couple months. And there's not likely to be a ticket shortage at any rate. RFK holds a lot of people for a baseball stadium. Last week I had no problem getting tickets for the July 4th game. Plus, the team is going to be awful. (This could be the slowest National League team ever assembled.)

And I was willing to go to 10-15 games or so and take some of those 810 upper-deck tickets off your hands. But not any more! Don't come crying to me when the Nats are 38.5 games out of first in the dead of August and you can't find anyone on eBay who wants to pay your stupid markup (plus $15 FedEx shipping!) to see them host Milwaukee on a Wednesday night.

2) I've been to three bars in the District in the past week: the Dubliner, the Hawk and Dove, and the Four Provinces. None of them carry my favorite beer: Bass.

So, at least now I know for sure that D.C. has it in for me.

3) I had never heard of Wanda Alston until last week. She sounded like a firecracker; probably the kind of person you would hate to have as an enemy. She appears to have been very active in trying to make her community a better place (as opposed to what I do, which is bitch constantly). That kind of person is a rare find in Washington.

And then she died at the hands of some criminal mastermind who apparently stabbed her, took her credit cards, and used them to buy gas for random passersby in exchange for cash, in order to support his crack habit.

This city completely sucks.


D.C. on Sunday: photo essay of a ghost town

Ahh, I've got to stop going to New York. It makes me too happy. Like how, right after we got there, we were hungry and basically blundered into a vegetarian restuarant called Gobo in Greenwich Village. I typically respond to vegetarians by throwing meatballs at them, but this stuff was really good. It almost made me think I could go vegetarian for a while (although I know I'd be gnawing at my own leg after a while).

And that's what living is a big city is supposed to offer: uniqueness and surprises. Experiences you never would have thought of having suddenly present themselves.

In Washington, not so much. Here, we try to suppress anything involving individuality or surprisery. I tried to explain Washington to my NYC friend this way: imagine if Manhattan was run entirely by people from Connecticut.

In order the join the ranks of the photobloggers, I took some pictures while walking from Georgetown to Chinatown over the course of a couple hours on a Sunday afternoon (I was going from a movie to a basketball game).

In Georgetown, of course, there were actually people walking around. Really, really rich people. Actually, it was kind of funny: it was a cold February day, but all the debutantes still want to look trendy, so they're wearing clothes made of thin material that aren't really warm enough for winter. And thus freezing their bony little asses off. Good fun to watch.

After ducking into an M Street CD store that was roughly the size of a broom closet (and where you're apparently not allowed to use cell phones, for some reason), I got bored and started walking east out of Georgetown. The number of people walking around on the streets dropped off sharply. First, I encountered one of my favorite things, a traffic circle:

Hard to believe that nobody wants to spend their leisure time sitting in the middle of a circle that cars are constantly driving around.

I kept walking east. On a Sunday, almost all of the shops, restaurants and businesses here are closed. Which begs the question: why are the streets still jammed with cars?

This is I Street. As you can see, there's absolutely nothing going on, no points of interest nearby, and nothing is even open. So what's with all the fucking cars? There's not an open parking space in sight. Not that I was driving that day, but still, this is infuriating if you're actually trying to go somewhere, and for no good reason there's absolutely no place to park. Where are all those people who drove their cars down here? There's nothing to fucking do here, people.

See that? "Marvelous Market!" Sounds good, like they might have sammiches or smoothies. Oh, too bad, it's closed. Nobody needs to eat on Sunday. But hey, at least the nearby branches of T.G.I. Friday's and Wendy's are open! Hooray for crap I can just get in suburbs anyway!

OK, I'm glad I saw this, because it illustrates what a pain in the ass it can be do try to drive into Washington. We're at the corner of M and 17th. If you're driving north on 17th, and look up at the street sign, you're going to be confused, because this makes it look like 17th might be the cross street, or maybe continues around as the cross street. If you're me, you probably turn left like an idiot, because you just don't know.

All because those idiots put the street sign on the wrong side. It's hard enough trying to get around with all the traffic circles, roads that dead-end, etc... do they really have to throw in the extra challenge of misleading people with incorrect signage? That's just cruel. I know I should be thankful there's a sign there at all, but still. That's diabolical.

This is the grass on the Cato Institute's front lawn. Is there any other city where people can actually make a living by advancing and promoting the libertarian ideal, without getting beaten up? No, and that's why D.C. needs a good sacking. Here I am stepping on the grass, in the interests of social Darwinism. Or perhaps the free market said it was OK, or something. At any rate, suck it, Cato Institute.

Ahh, I've almost arrived at my destination. At [Bernie Ebbers Memorial] Center, this a busy basketball day, so people are actually walking around and businesses are actually open. Including Chinese Hooters!

Yes, nothing says "authentic Chinatown" like Hooters. I believe the Chinese characters translate to "Owl women feed you chicken."

This is why I came all the way downtown, for sure. So that I can go to Chinese Hooters. (Come to think of it, "Chinese Hooters" is something of an oxymoron. Hmmm.) But if that's not your style, there are eleventy thousand other chain restaurants within two blocks.

Of course, Chinatown also has the cheap bus to NYC... and after walking through an empty city center on a Sunday afternoon, you're tempted to just jump on it and head for a city that doesn't blow.

OK! That's all for now. Time to go get crunk.


why.i.hate.dc FLASHBACK: John Thompson and His Howling Commandos

Mr. J, Mr. A, Mr. M-E-S, Mr. F., Mr. Hates D.C. I'm headed for the top, ain't never gonna stop; won't you please come hate with me?

Oh yeah, it's totally story time, bitch. I don't know why I never posted this story before, because it's a pretty good one. And it's matured with age, like a fine wine.

This happened almost exactly two years ago, during the run-up to us invading Iraq. A quick reminder of the political climate at the time (paraphrasing):

ME: Iraq? Uh, where did this come from? Why are we attacking them?
EVERYONE ELSE: Yay, spill the blood of the brown-skins! Doesn't matter which ones!

As you might expect, I became more and more confused and flabberghasted as the invasion date approached. When that day (March 19, 2003) arrived, I basically spent all day at work browsing around the news sites and blogs, maybe hoping for some signs of a delay or a peace accord or something. But no, it was clear that we were going to go bomb the shit out of them, and neither I nor anybody else could stop it.

So I left work a little early and headed home, depressed. In order to get away from all the war talk on the radio, I turned on the local sports station (980 WTEM). It happened to be John Thompson's show.

If you're unfamiliar with Thompson: he was a long-time basketball coach at Georgetown, and became the first black coach to win an NCAA title in 1984. He was a great recruiter and had some great teams in the '80s, finally retiring in 1999. At that point, he became a radio talk show host and occasional hoops analyst on TV.

The fact that his radio show has lasted for six years is a little mind-blowing. I keep wondering if there's some kind of parallel-universe affirmative action going on at Clear Channel... not race-based, but intelligence-based. Because I'm pretty sure John Thompson is, for all intents and purposes, retarded.

I know, I know, that's a terrible, insensitive thing to say, and I feel awful about it already (but now that I've typed it, and I can't very well "untype" it). Really, though... have you listened to him talk? He always seems to be using EVERY SCRAP OF BRAIN POWER just to put together a semi-coherent sentence. He talks in the same way that I imagine 50 Cent will talk in about 35 years.

Obviously, this makes for great radio. Half the time I find myself yelling at my radio, "What does that even MEAN?!"

When I listen to John Thompson, I can feel my IQ slowly dropping away. The synapses just shut right down. It's like I'm living out "Flowers for Algernon" right there in my car. My mind tries futilely to slog through Thompson's swamp of nonsensical cliches and unresearched analysis. It's a uniquely stupid experience. (Or maybe it's stupidly unique?) During March Madness, just listening to Thompson try to pronounce the word "tournament" practically makes me forget my own name. ("Toonamint!")

And, although his job title is supposedly "sports talk show host," he knows nothing about any sport other than college basketball. (Which, as you can imagine, makes the months of April through November especially mind-numbing.)

And so it was that on the afternoon of March 19, 2003 at 4:55 p.m., I figured John Thompson's show was just what I needed: it would induce complete cerebral shutdown, thus getting my mind off the impending war. I turned on 980 in time to hear Thompson close out that day's show.

Surprisingly, Thompson is something of a country music buff; his traditional closing music is "It's Five O'Clock Somewhere" by Alan Jackson. But on this day, it was slightly different. Mr. Thompson decided to get political, in his own way; he started playing "Have You Forgotten?" by Darryl Worley.

Obviously, this was and is an infuriating song for me to hear, because the song's pro-war argument hinged on the incorrect notion that a Saddam-Al Queda connection existed, while also questioning whether I remembered the hijacked airliner that crashed into our country's military headquarters, killing a hundred people less than five miles from my apartment. YEAH, I THINK I FUCKING REMEMBER. Silly me. I didn't want war with Iraq over 9/11; I wanted us TO MAYBE ACTUALLY GO AFTER THE GROUP THAT ACTUALLY DID IT. But here was Darryl Worley on my radio, trying to convince me that invading Iraq was a good idea, through song. So much for trying to get away from the war.

Ah, but the fun didn't stop there. Because John Thompson wasn't just playing "Have You Forgotten." He was also... oh, God... he was talk-singing along with it, in his inimitable mouth-breathing way. This was maybe the most surreal thing I've ever experienced. It went kind of like this:

SONG: Have you forgotten how it felt that day?
THOMPSON (speaking): Have you forgotten.
SONG: To see your homeland under fire
And her people blown away?

THOMPSON: Homeland under fire.
SONG:Have you forgotten when those towers fell?
We had neighbors still inside going through a living hell.

THOMPSON: Neighbors still inside.
SONG: And you say we shouldn't worry 'bout bin Laden.
Have you forgotten?

THOMPSON: Have you forgotten.
My God. I probably would have driven off the road laughing if the subject wasn't such a sore spot with me.

Yeah, I've got to say that, in retrospect, this is the Funniest Thing I Have Ever Heard On Radio. Former Georgetown coach John Thompson retardedly talk-singing along with Darryl Worley's "Have You Forgotten?" Congratulations, you win first prize.

Perhaps not coincidentally, I created this blog a few days later out of general frustration.

And now you know... the rest of the story.

The Examiner: when "free" is still too costly

Funny story here about the extreme measures people are having to take in order to have the Examiner not delivered to their homes.

Come on, people! How do you get along without your daily dose of Too Tough For TV, a daily compendium of jokes rejected by the late-night comics?

The world's oldest known lobster, Bubba, has died at the age of 80. Rather than have the body cremated, it will be steamed.
Just look at what you're throwing away. That is gold.


These are the people in my neighborhood

And now, an open letter to Creepy Cheerleader Guy.

Dear Creepy Cheerleader Guy:

How's it going? We've passed by in the street several times since I moved to Arlington's Fort Strong area in aught-one. You live in one of the apartment buildings on my street. Sometimes, you're dressed normally, maybe carrying a newspaper and a coffee, as you were this past Sunday.

Other times, you're wearing a cheerleader outfit and a long-haired wig.

Now, far be it from me to judge. (Ha.) I've encountered public transvestism in cities before, so it doesn't really faze me. I'm sure it gives you great sexual gratification to be able to do this. It's kind of funny, of course; my wife and I reserve the right to point and laugh from our living room when we see you out our window, dressed in all the trappings of a high school cheerleader, including the pleated skirt, always looking somewhat dour.

However, I'm going to have to ask you to not leer at my wife, as you did when we walked by you on the aforementioned Sunday. I believe the sequence of events went like this:

- We smiled and said "hi" as we passed by.
- You stared creepily at my wife the whole time, saying nothing.

And, apparently, this is standard protocol for you when encountering my wife in public. The creepy staring.

I'm not a big fan.

Yeah, you need to stop. The cheerleader thing was cute for a while, and I somewhat admired your bravado. But now, you're basically pleading for me to kick your ass, which kind of sounds like fun. I probably would yell out, "I've got spirit, how about you, BITCH?!" or something like that. And, since I'm bigger and in a lot better shape than you (that cheerleader outfit is NOT flattering), I would recommend you heed my advice. Otherwise, I'll beat you down bad enough that Hillary Swank will be playing you in the movie.

Violently yours...


James, the angry American

I went to a bar in D.C. Yes, D.C.! Yes, at night. (OK, it was a Wednesday night. But still.)

Actually, it was Wonderland Ballroom/Bar/Grille in Columbia Heights. And it was good. I found parking there on the street (maybe because it was Wednesday), so we didn't have cut the night short to catch the last train home. It wasn't crowded (there were only a few other people there); nobody was standing at the door to make sure I was wearing something trendy. Old Seattle SuperSonics jacket good enough. They let me in and served me some Stella. I watched a musician friend of mine perform some songs. It was... all good. Strange.

OK, there is one thing you should know. And you know how much I hate personal attacks, unless they're against libertarian men pretending to be libertarian women, or the people in those Sunday Source TV spots. But there was this one dude there who is apparently also a musician, and we got to talking. He gave us a free CD of his band, which was nice. And then started talking about his politics. His very, very conservative politics. He kept talking and talking about them.

Now, I have no problem making friends with people whose political beliefs are different from mine, but seriously... shut up already. We can maybe talk about something else. I really don't need to get into an argument about how great the "Reagan revolution" was or why there should be a flat tax or why you think abortion is murder. I did not come to a divey bar in the middle of blue territory for that. That's what I'm trying to get away from. (Of course, he lives in Ballston... so apparently the badness follows me around.)

Plus, let's face it: conservatives make shitty musicians. Sorry, but it's obvious. I have all these memories from my childhood of flipping past a Kennedy Center special on TV and watching George H.W. and Barbara Bush futilely trying to clap along with whatever African rhythmic performance they were watching. And take a look at this list of artists: Ted Nugent. Toby Keith. John Ashcroft. Not good times. Bad times.

So anyway, not to hurt your feelings, conservative-musician-dude-who's-name-I-can't-remember, but my wife threw away your CD without listening to it, simply because you were so annoying.

(That's why I love her. We're nothing if not petty.)

Oh, one more thing. It's about Thomas Circle. Could somebody maybe put up a street sign on any of the roads that branch off of it? Really, just one would work. Just so that I have some fucking idea where I'm going. Thanks, that'd be great.

Waiting for Metrot

Oh, Bus 38B. We tried our best to be good citizens. We took you to Georgetown a couple Sundays ago to see a movie. We checked the schedule, and, even though you only run once per hour on Sunday, it said you would arrive at Wisconsin and M at 2:41. Alas, you showed up more than 15 minutes late. On a Sunday. When there's no traffic to blame.

And my wife was amused by the woman who, pointing to her schedule in-hand, complained to the driver about his lateitude. This woman, as you might expect, was summarily ignored.

Sorry, Bus 38B. Looks like you're fired.

Sloppiness = expensive

Only the District would sell off a building that had been seized, and then later accidentally demolish it. And, instead of just owning up to the mistake, the city is fighting it out in a costly legal battle which is sure to cost more in the long run.

Bum-bump-a-nahhhhh; waaaaaaaaa.


Bad sports

Remember when the Redskins issued that bitchy press release about the Post, because the team sold seats that turned out to have obstructed views and the newspaper committed the heinous crime of, you know, reporting that? Good times.

Well, the team officially shot the messenger. All of the Post's 279 season tickets, which they've held for decades, are being cut off by the team.

(The team's excuse: the tickets are being scalped. Um, hello? Do you know how many bazillion tickets are available through scalpers or eBay each week? It's a lot.)

I used to think Danny Snyder was like a 12-year-old trying to play fantasy football. Now he seems like a 6-year-old throwing a temper tantrum.

Meanwhile... the Nationals are in spring training, and everyone's looking forward to the start of the season at RFK. "You know what might be nice," the team asked? "Fireworks on opening night!" Seems reasonable enough. Everybody likes fireworks... and it's appropriate, since baseball will finally be back in town for the first time in eleventy thousand years.


Veronica E. Raglin, advisory neighborhood commissioner in nearby Kingman Park, fired back with a letter to city leaders: Fireworks, she wrote, were totally unacceptable.

"Fireworks are something that lower the standard of living," she said in an interview yesterday. "It's not just the noise, but the smoke and fumes and the trash. . . . I want people to enjoy baseball. But I do not think we should be put at a disadvantage and have our quality of life reduced."

Sorry, but... come on. We're talking fireworks here. They go off way up in the sky, they go bang. Also, you live next to a motherfucking baseball stadium. It's going to occasionally, this summer, be noisy and/or trashy. Also also, you live adjacent to the skankiest, stankiest river on the Eastern seaboard: the Anacostia. (Now only 42% feces!) The fireworks can't even hope to dampen the stench of that body of "water."


Everybody's sick of winter... time to start a-killing

Snow madness leads to area murders. But we still need a punchy lede...

March roared in like a lion with six shootings and at least four deaths in District and the Maryland suburbs in just over 72 hours.
Um... wow. That's... somehow both cliched and offensive at the same time.

(James has advice to give. On how to be. Insensitive.)

But this is interesting:

In Prince George's County, where two of the deaths occurred, residents are disgusted with the bloodshed that has left 29 people dead since the year began.
So PG County is out of the gates and way ahead of D.C. already! This is unprecedented... we could have a race on our hands.