You'd Think That Asking the Federal Government for Money Would Be Second Nature in Such a Democratic City

When I saw a headline stating that the "District Faces $300 Million Budget Shortfall," I'll admit that I was praying that it would be because of the stadium. If bad things are happening in DC, and they inevitably are, I at least want to be proven right.

No such luck here. DC Council incompetence doesn't appear to be the cause of this mess. Instead, it's DC Bureaucrat incompetence.

...two health-care agencies -- the Department of Mental Health and the Mental Retardation and Developmental Disabilities Administration -- routinely fail to submit the proper paperwork to receive federal reimbursement for Medicaid and Medicare services.

Washington has a reputation for being filled with bureaucrats. That reputation was mostly created from the presence of the federal government. Still, you'd hope some competent bureaucrats would trickle down to DC government.

The key word in that quote, of course, is "routinely." We keep forgetting to ask the federal government for the money that is rightfully ours? That seems like a pretty big "routine" mistake. Why hasn't this been fixed? We're talking about a lot of money here. And we're just leaving it on the table.

Of course, anytime the Mental Retardation and Developmental Disabilities Administration is in the news for something other than the death of one of their wards...that's got to be considered good press for them. Way to go Mental Retardation Administration! No one has died in your care for, like, five months. Keep up the good work!


Anyone Else Excited to be Back at Work?

Things I will miss about Cape Cod:

1. Friends and family. Duh.

2. Free meat. So much meat. Turkey, pork, and kielbasa. I love kielbasa so much that it's hard to explain within the confines of written language. I was so filled up on meats that I forgot to grill a steak. I will not repeat this mistake come Christmas time.

3. The Cape Cod Times. This paper has long been respected for its photography of ducks and for breaking important stories. For example, their exhaustive investigative reporting has revealed that The Mars Company won't print "Capt. Dick" on their M&Ms. Would you rather read about Captain Dick or about the resurgence of manners?

4. The Quarterdeck. Best bar on Cape Cod. Certainly better than anything that Washington has to offer. Owned by Frank Black's father, best jukebox within 100 miles, and it serves pints of PBR for $1.50. $1.50! If Washington bars followed The Quarterdeck's lead I could go out every night and be financially solvent. Forever. This is what happens when an area is devoid of hipsters. Cheap beer stays cheap. Down here I'm paying three dollars a can. That's absurd.

Four things may not seem like much, but they represent a welcome respite from the bumbling incompetence that surrounds me in Washington. Now, back to the grind.


One More Post Before My Flight!

Ok, I wrote my holiday send-off before reading today's Post. That was a mistake. Check this out. (Also, a hat tip to Read Express.)

I'm constantly disappointed by Americans' ignorance regarding the First Amendment. Here's a fun game: At the Thanksgiving table, ask your family members if they can name the five freedoms protected by the Amendment. I bet it takes them a while. The answer is of course speech, religion, press, petition, and assembly.

Apparently the MPD isn't so hot on assembly.

The D.C. police department agreed yesterday to pay $685,000 and take steps to protect protesters from police abuse and ensure their rights to settle a lawsuit over the treatment of demonstrators at President Bush's inauguration in 2001.

The lawsuit uncovered evidence that the department had suspended rules limiting the use of force during the protests, had pressed undercover officers to infiltrate protest groups and had sought to provoke protesters and uninvolved bystanders by attacking them with batons and pepper spray.

Good grief. The MPD decided to take away a Constitutional right. There's no way around that. They knew very well that people had the right to protest a questionably elected president and the police decided to take it away from us. This is beyond outrageous. They started fights as an excuse to arrest protesters! The police shouldn't do that!

The MPD also has some issues with the Fourth Amendment as well:

The settlement, which comes as Ramsey is preparing to leave his post, is the latest in a series of payments the city has made stemming from police conduct at demonstrations. In January 2005, the District government agreed to pay $425,000 to seven people caught up in a mass arrest at Pershing Park in September 2002. More than 400 people were rounded up at the downtown park during demonstrations against the World Bank and International Monetary Fund. Several investigations found that Assistant Chief Peter J. Newsham, after conferring with Ramsey, had ordered arrests without warning or evidence of a crime -- including of people who had nothing to do with the protests...

In January 2004, the city agreed to pay $7,000 to $10,000 to each of three Corcoran College of Art students who sued. The students had said that they were photographing the Pershing Park protests and were encouraged by police to enter the park and then arrested in the roundup.

(Emphasis is mine.)

Between the $20 million we're going to have to pay the Rosenbaum family and the million dollars we're spending because of blatant Constitutional violations, I would say that the incompetence of Washington officials is costing the taxpayers (like myself) quite a pretty penny. Now do you see why Bethesda is the Holy Land?

I shouldn't overreact. It's only $21 million dollars being wasted. Not too much in the grand scheme of things. It's not like Washington would be dumb enough to spend, oh, I don't know, $686,000,000.00 on a doomed "public works" project. I mean, that would be crazy!

(It was only ten minutes ago that I published a post where I promised to try to not write about the stadium so damn much. My promises are worthless.)

The silver lining in all this mess is that Chief Charles Ramsey is finally gone. Maybe now I can start a petition without the fear of incarceration hanging over my head. I like how the progress that America made 215 years ago is just now coming into vogue here in Washington. It's like The Village, but without that dreamy Joaquin Phoenix.

Holiday Navel Gazing

I'll be flying into Boston this afternoon as I prepare to give thanks for friends, family, and Massachusetts on this glorious holiday. I most look forward to not spending nine dollars everyday for lunch. That's going to rule. I have no preference for white meat or dark meat as long as it's free meat.

This break will be good for you readers since the quality of the blog has been decreasing a bit over the last few weeks. I do love getting comments about how much I'm sucking. As if I'm not aware of my own writing quality and its pertaining suckage. Thanks for the constructive criticism anyways. Things will be slower in the office around the holidays so I expect to do a little more creative brainstorming instead of depending on Metro and stadium posts.

I'll be back Sunday afternoon in time for the conclusion of the Bears-Patriots game. I may post once from Cape Cod if I'm feeling especially bored. Maybe complaining about how I can't buy alcohol in grocery stores or something like that. In the meantime, travel safely and enjoy the turkey and pumpkin pie.


Oakland > Washington

Oakland, like Washington, wants a new baseball stadium. Makes sense. Both RFK and the Oakland Coliseum are dinosaurs. Their accommodating confines generates little in the way of offense (offense attracts stupid fans) and very little in terms of income generating luxury boxes. Both teams needed out.

We all know what happened to Washington. $686,000,000.00 of public funds are going down the toilet for what even Linda Cropp admitted would be a merely above average stadium. For the most expensive stadium ever, I want the most awesomest stadium ever. Fuck you, Linda Cropp.

Let's see what they're doing in Oakland. Oh my. They're making us look stupid.

While Washington is shelling out enough baseball cash to start an Army (which would be an interesting solution to our lack of federal representation problem), Oakland is building a stadium without the use of public funds. The Oakland Athletics bought some land in Fremont from Cisco Systems at a heavily discounted price in exchange for stadium naming rights. The money for construction is being raised in exchange for land around the stadium. That land is sure to increase in value next to a baseball park, so it's win-win for everyone.

Obviously I'm comparing apples and oranges. The Athletics had all the time in the world to come up with this ingenious plan. Washington was a bit under the gun in terms of getting a stadium built since Major League Baseball was threatening to move the team. Of course, that would have never happened. If anything, the team would have moved to Northern Virginia.

The Oakland Athletics are building in Fremont. That's 28 miles from Oakland. McLean is only 11 miles from Washington. Has it never occurred to anyone that saving the $686,000,000.00 was worth traveling the extra 11 miles? It certainly never occurred to Mayor Williams or Councilman Evans.

While our bond ratings are being jeopardized by this stadium madness, another city is showing us the easiest way to create a money-generating stadium that improves the land around it. It's exactly what we wanted at almost no cost. I honestly think that the new ballpark on the Anacostia (you know, the one surrounded by the above-ground parking garages) will end up being the shame of the city. Go Nats!

If You're Going to Get Mugged and Beaten, Try to Do It in Bethesda

Anyone remember this nightmare post? Well, I'm glad to report, with a hat tip to DCist, that the children of David Rosenbaum are suing the bejesus out of Washington. Of course, it's impossible to put a price on human life, but twenty million dollars seems like a fair place to start. Especially when there is no doubt that Washington killed Rosenbaum about as much as those two muggers did.

Rosenbaum's brother admits the suit is more for attention than for money. Good. I assume a twenty million dollar lawsuit will draw more attention to the Rosenbaum fiasco than my bitching and moaning on Blogspot. People need to know that Washington's "apathy, indifference, and complacency" could very well kill you.


George Michael is Never Gonna Dance Again

One of the few perks about living in Washington, DC is the surplus of great sports personalities the city has to offer. I'm not talking about the players (although the city is lucky to have both Clinton Portis and Gilbert Arenas). I'm talking about the journalists. Sally Jenkins and Thomas Boswell doth do good work at The Washington Post. Jenkins isn't my favorite and Boswell is a bit too old-fashioned, but, to deny the quality of the work they've done throughout their careers would be unfair. We also have Tony Kornheiser who has been terrible as a Monday Night Football commentator. Don't let that distract you from his years of great work on ESPN, the Post, and on radio.

Michael Wilbon is such a great sports writer that he gets his own paragraph. He's so good that I kind of want to hug him. Once I ran into him at a McDonald's and he ordered a burger with no onions so I know he's my type of guy. He let me cut him in line too! How courteous! In short, I have a massive man-crush on Michael Wilbon.

Of course, the local sports television scene is dominated by one man, and only one man. He has revolutionized the way sports are covered on television. That man is WRC's own George Michael. And he is stepping down from his Sports Machine and his regular weekday sports anchor duties.

Let me be the first to say "good riddance."

George Michael is responsible for the worst kind of sports journalism. The kind where an old dude screams at you and makes snide little remarks about the opposing team. The kind of anchor that wishes he could laugh at his own lame jokes. The kind of journalism where you achieve access to Redskins Park by giving ridiculously softball interviews that make a mockery of the term "sports journalism." The kind of journalism where you show highlights of a dog show and refer to the poodle as an "AU Princess."

Ok, that last one is kind of funny, but you still can't say that.

Michael's on-air personality, that of the pompous jackass, was grating. It was like he was trying to ruin sports for me. Some of the better ESPN anchors are self-deprecating. George Michael was the opposite. Someone whose opinion of himself was more important than whatever the Nationals were doing on a July evening. This quote solidifies my opinion of him:

Michael said he made the decision after NBC, which owns WRC, announced significant layoffs and staff cuts.

"I told them, that if I have to lay anyone off, if I have to get rid of any of my staff, then I'm going to take the first bullet," Michael said.

Yeah, George, you're the man. Fighting for the little guy. I'm sure this decision had nothing to do with your advanced age and the fact that your body was broken a year ago when you fell off your motherfucking horse.

The way the AP is fawning over Michael makes me think that I'm a bit out of the loop. Apparently, George Michael was an incredible trailblazer. I've only been watching him since 2001. Those five years were unbearable. I used to watch the local news just for sports. With Michael it was the exact opposite. As soon as I saw him, the television went dark.


The Future!

I was on one of these Monday evening. The train wasn't close to full so I can't tell you how it handles under the pressure of a ridiculously busy commute. I must say that I was pleasantly surprised with these newfangled "6000 Series" trains. There was a ton of standing room and the same number of seats. Well played, Metro. Well played.

Of course, when I'm the guy standing in the middle of that ring with nothing to hold on to, my opinion could very well change.


Two Notes

You people who think I complain too much about bars and the Metro...you're not going to like this post. Sorry.

1. Another great DC bar bites the dust. Townhouse Tavern on 17th and R was one of the best spots for weekend drinking. People had been telling me about the excellent Townhouse jukebox months before I made my first appearance there. Hell, it's even mentioned in the Post's write-up. Although I wouldn't call it "the best jukebox in DC," it's certainly top-5. The bar was augmented by a great clientele, good cold bottles of Miller High Life, and a smoking hot bartender who also had the distinction of being one of the friendliest bartenders I had run across in the city.

The bartender is gone. That sucks, but I can work my way through it. Her replacement was super-friendly. Not as hot because he was a dude, but I can deal.

The jukebox is gone too. Replaced by an Internet jukebox. Although I'm against Internet jukeboxes on principle, I'll admit that there are some good ones out there. DC9 and Big Hunt come to mind. Unfortunately, Townhouse purchased one of those evil jukeboxes. The same jukebox featured at Asylum and Buffalo Billiards. The ones that only carry the big hits. If you want to play an obscure song, you're shit out of luck.

This drives me up the wall. The Townhouse jukebox was the bar's biggest draw. Now it's gone. I can't imagine how that makes any business sense. Townhouse isn't a bad bar now, but is it worth the effort when there are a plethora of establishments scattered around the Dupont Metro? Probably not. Way to destroy the thing that made you unique, Townhouse.

2. I mentioned earlier that my morning trains were coming every three minutes instead of every two minutes. Not the end of the world. Now it's every four minutes. It's so bad that I can't get on the train at Friendship Heights since the trains are so full. I feel sorry for the chumps waiting at Tenleytown, Van Ness, Cleveland Park, or, God forbid, Woodley Park. You guys must be sick of this crap.

A common criticism of the Metro is that it runs for work and not for play. Well, it's not even getting the work part right anymore. Maybe I should jog to Bethesda every morning. I'd get a good cardio workout and be able to fit into a train. Win-win.


Sad Story, Stupid Article

Anyone here have Veteran's Day off? Well, not me. Stupid veterans.

I was thumbing through the Metro section of The Washington Post during my morning commute when an unintentionally hilarious headline caught my eye.

Thieves Victimize Mother Nature.

I love it. Just reading the headline makes it seem like that some hooligans illegally obtained the power of wind. Or maybe one of the Captain Planet kids got mugged and lost their element rings. How can Captain Planet "bring pollution down to zero" without the power of the five element rings!?

(Two notes on Captain Planet:

1. "Heart" is a bullshit elemental power. Wind, fire, earth, water...those are the four major elements. Why couldn't the fifth power be "radiation"? That would have been awesome.

2. The vocal talent on this show is surprisingly strong. Some names popped out at me going through the Captain Planet wiki article. I mean, Jeff Goldblum!? The Reading Rainbow Dude!? Awesome.)

So, anyways, nature was mugged by some eco-bandits who stole a tree that was lovingly planted 25 years ago by kindly Arlington resident Peter Jones. It was donated to the city a week ago. It was almost immediately stolen. It's a weird combination of human interest and grand larceny. My favorite paragraph? Why, I'm glad you asked!

And so it was that Jones and Ike Sneed, facility manager at the recreation center, were left feeling like saps, angry with themselves for not chaining the tree into the ground. Such is the society: Even nature must be shackled, lest it be seized.

When I read the "feeling like saps" line on the train, I audibly groaned. That's a joke my dad would make before awkwardly chuckling and winking. Like, good one, Dad.

As for the "such is society" line, I double-checked the byline to see who wrote this article. Jamie Stockwell, you are not Henry David Thoreau. So save the prose for the book deal. "Nature must be shackled, lest it be seized"? Christ. Even the Style section essays avoid that crap.


Too Tired to Write Well

First and foremost, let's get this out of the way:


I am absolutely exhausted from the late night (and the 3.5 mile walk from Smith Point to my house), so I'll make this short and sweet.

My trip to Smith Point was a disaster. The LateNightShots people were really nice to me. Like, they went out of their way. God damn it, how can I complain about them now? My biggest complaint would be that the beer selection there is an absolute travesty. No beers on tap and the best beer they had there was, honest-to-God, bottled Budweiser. What the eff kind of rich-kid bar doesn't have top shelf beer?

Also, it was weird seeing people so dressed up for the purpose of getting drunk. I stuck out like a sore thumb in my blue-plaid "Mr. Fantastic" shirt. I looked ridiculous. At least it made it easy for people to spot me. In retrospect, I should have worn a suit.

I had a good time. Smith Point isn't as much fun as those dirty hipster bars that people complain about on the LNS boards, but I made due. It says a lot that I was able to show up looking like an idiot and still make small talk with everyone. Considering how socially awkward I am, that's amazing. People avoid eye contact with me at DC9 if I'm wearing something out of place (like my precious sweater vests), so, score one point for the rich-kids.

Of course, some people were still suspicious of me. I just picked this up from the LateNightShots forum:

Who was the guy in the cowboy-type flannel who showed up at 8 pm sharp and was standing around awkwardly. Was that wonkette? He looked like he was up to something.

I would attack this if it weren't kind of, you know, accurate.


The Big Day

Who has two thumbs and is wicked excited about the midterm elections? This Guy!!

Ok, so that joke doesn't work on the Internet unless I become one of those newfangled video bloggers, but, nevertheless, I hope you can feel the excitement through whatever Internet tubes you're reading this on. Excitement!

If you're lucky enough to be outside the city and blessed with Congressional representation, you know what to do. Vote. More specifically, vote Democrat. This especially goes for Maryland and Virginia. These states feature three elections that, according to polls, are statistically tied. I especially want to see Senator George Allen (R-VA) out of a job. He's a racist bully. He represents the Virginia that I hate. The Virginia featured in "Borat." The Virginia that wants the powerful warlord George Bush to drink the blood of every man, woman, and child in Iraq.

Virginia voters also need to get out and strike down the anti-civil union voting initiative on the ballots. Northern Virginia will be instrumental in protecting the rights of gay couples in the state. Don't let the tobacco chewing yahoos in Southwest Virginia tell you that gay relationships have no legal protections.

For the first time in my life, I actually want to live in Virginia. The voting there is so extremely important...please Northern Virginians, don't blow it by not showing up at the polls. Vote for Webb and vote against any legislation that would have gay couples pushed to the outer fringes of society.

On to other matters:

I'd love to hear what you guys think. I'm guessing that Dems take 16 or 17 House races. I'm a but more bullish on the Senate where I think the Dems will take Republican held seats in Montana, Pennsylvania, Ohio. I think we'll take Rhode Island and Virginia too, but I'm feeling a little bit of doubt. I'm also very, very nervous about the Cardin-Steele race in Maryland. I think Cardin will inch it out though.

Election Night Party:
I keep asking my friends and roommates if they would be interested in going to the Late Night Shots party at Smith Point. The reactions I've been getting range from tepid to aggressively negative. Come on, guys!? What are you so afraid of?

I'm really hoping that my feelings get hurt by a drunk blue-blood who doesn't like my "Mr. Fantastic" shirt. That's the best case scenario. Worst case scenario is that everyone is really nice and gets along. That would be so disappointing. Worse yet, it would make me one of "them." Disaster.

(I read somewhere that Smith Point has a policy of not letting the uncool kids into their establishment. This is total bullshit. If they pull that crap on me I am going straight to my friends' apartment. I am a very important blogger, lines shouldn't apply to me.)

Anyways, Smith Point, Wisconsin and O, 8pm. No cover. I do not plan on being fashionably late. Late Night Shots is promising that they'll be playing their usual weekend dance mix. I assume that means lots of Journey (yay!) and Bon Jovi (boo!). If you can't find me, I'll be the awkward guy avoiding eye contact with the cool kids. Just like high school! But with beer!

Totally Random:
If I start blogging less, it's because Guitar Hero II finally came out. I have been doing finger practices to get ready. This is going to eat up every second of my life for the next few weeks. You've been warned.


How Do You Boycott a Free Newspaper?

The Washington City Paper has always walked the fine line between relevant news and asinine observation. I'll miss that line. Yesterday's print edition took that line and absolutely destroyed it.

The City Paper's cover story, "Your Unfinished Basement or Mine?," by Franklin Schneider, is one healthy dose of stupid and one totally inappropriate dose of misogyny. It's more embarrassing than "Dear Penthouse" letters. The disrespect thrown towards women is mind-altering. I have no choice other than to copy-and-paste the Hell out of it to illustrate how beyond the pale this piece of crap article is.

Last summer, I found myself coming off a crippling breakup. Somehow, things had gone horribly wrong between me and the love of my life. There was a time we'd talked seriously about "together forever," but by the end of our two-year run I was scared to use the shampoo in the bathroom for fear she'd spiked it with Nair...

Oh man, that sucks. No, wait. It doesn't suck. You know why it doesn't suck, Franklin? Because almost every single person reading The Washington City Paper has been through a terrible break-up. Every. Single. Person. Franklin Schneider, you are not unique.

By the way, every paragraph of this "story" makes it clearer and clearer that Franklin's ex-girlfriend was 100% not at fault for this failed relationship.

We were both aggressive people, and at the end it was all-out emotional terrorism. She made a concerted effort during our protracted breakup to undermine me in the most vicious way. I wasn't a man, she informed me, which was why we hadn't had sex for months. I have to admit, it got to me. And the more I thought about it, the more I thought she might be right. After all, I'd spy a sweaty woman with a cleft palate on the Metro and go into a reverie of lust, while my hot, naked girlfriend at home left me cold and flaccid. Perhaps I really was less than a man.

If only there were some medium of communication that could express Franklin's feelings without inconveniencing the many City Paper readers who just don't give a shit. Oh, I know! Get a blog, Franklin. That way, you will only bother people who volunteer to give a shit about your pathetic love life.

This crisis simmered for a few months after our split until I lost my job. With a decent financial cushion, a steady flow of unemployment checks, and no obligations whatsoever, my life essentially became a stage on which I had unlimited license to work out all of my ego crises and psychodramas. I immediately plunged into what all my friends assured me was just the Darwinian social cauldron I needed - the D.C. bar scene. This turned out to be less therapeutic than it sounds.

You motherfucker. Woe is me! The government is paying my way and all I have to do is to go to bars and hit on women every single night. Of course it isn't therapeutic. You're a pile of shit for a human being. Work on that first. Ladies come second. Or in your case, not at all. *Rimshot*

She asked me for a light - this was at the Black Cat. She was beautiful and scathingly intelligent, the very reason I'd started sitting in bars every night. It was her birthday, she explained, and she was looking to have fun. At the end of the night, we drove to her apartment in Glover Park. Her roommate was home, so we went to my place instead.

At the time, I was staying in a friend's unheated, unfinished basement. My ex-girlfriend had recently kicked me out of our apartment. My new, temporary room had a 6-foot ceiling, no electricity, and such a bad infestation of silverfish that I had to sleep under head-to-toe mosquito netting. My bed was foam padding on a sheet of plywood laid out on concrete blocks, and the only light came from a naked, yellowed bulb hanging overhead. Lucky for me, she found the whole setup transgressive and, thus, arousing. Or at least exotic...

I would love to hear from ladies on the romanticism of silverfish and mosquito netting. Please tell me this Glover Park lady is some kind of horrible exception to the rule that women find bugs gross.

When we were about to get down to it, she stopped and said she had a confession to make. "It's that time of month," she told me. Did I mind? No, I did not mind.

As I showered in the morning, careful to breathe through my mouth as the red water swirled around the drain, I realized with equal parts relief and trepidation that there was nothing I wouldn't do in service to my libido...

The Washington City Paper, ladies and gentlemen. Telling the best "crime scene sex" stories that DC has to offer.

I admit to not having very much experience in this matter, but I don't think having the intercourse with a menustrating woman would cover you in enough (or any) blood to warrant red shower water. Maybe a little, teeny bit. But Franklin is making it sound like he was swimming in the stuff. I sense some dishonesty here.

The "do anything to service my libido" philosophy is also horrible. That's right, women. You are nothing but a warm place to come for some jackass with ex-girlfriend issues. And people wonder why the DC bar scene isn't therapeutic.

Franklin goes on to talk about his partner-in-crime; his, dare I say it, "wingman." His name is John. John, according to the author, is a good guy. Here's a typical exchange between John and Frank:

John had his blind spots, though. Every once in a while, when it was a slow night at the bar, I'd turn to John and ask, "Why are you out here all the time, prowling around? I mean, I know why I'm out here, but what's your purpose?"

I knew exactly what he was going to say. His answer was always the same and always delivered with the same straight-faced gravity. "I guess I'm looking for that special someone. I'm looking for a wife."

This never failed to make me laugh...

Yeah, John, you sucker. Trying to create a long term relationship? What are you, stupid? Man, girls at bars are for one thing only: penis-in-vagina. Oh yeah.

Wander U Street and Adams Morgan long enough, and you'll realize that what your mother told you is true: You can't judge a book by its cover. People who appear to be cool turn out to be lame, and people who appear to be merely lame turn out to be downright despicable...

Ok, I appear merely lame. Does that make me "downright despicable"? What about people who appear lame but are actually smart, funny, attractive people. I'm not even saying I belong in that category. But that category exists, right? Franklin, it seems, refuses to be pleasantly surprised by people. I'm amazed he hasn't killed himself yet. I mean, what's the point of interacting with people if they're only going to let you down? To John, the point appears to be ejaculating in them or on them.

Another night at the same bar, three giggling girls burst into the crowded men's restroom. "There's a long line for the girls' room - y'all mind if we use yours?" As they noisily piled into a stall and closed the door, most of the guys were grinning in dumb delight - "look, real live gurls!" - but I saw one guy staring after them with unalloyed hate on his face. I imagine he'd just been rejected by one of the girls in the stall, or one like them, or a series of them. To a sexually frustrated man in a bar, female behavior like this - can you imagine three guys piling into a women's stall? - might seem constructed specifically to rub your face in your own inadequacies. I was trying to think of some comment that might defuse the guy's anger when he noticed me looking at him...

It's bad enough that our faithful narrator has all but admitted that he uses women as sex toys. Now he takes it a step further by accusing women of rubbing his face in his own inadequacies. His point regarding women jumping into a men's room bathroom giggling isn't necessarily wrong. But I certainly wouldn't let it bother me. Franklin, on the other hand, seems to genuinely despise women. That's why this article is so offensive to me.

Going out was like a job; John and I would punch in and punch out, whether we felt like it or not. Eventually, we gained momentum. It became clear that if you had decent hygiene, passable banter, and the endurance and nerve to make the rounds on a consistent basis, you'd be fine. You'd be better than fine. John developed some near-foolproof techniques; one, a nonverbal trick that I'd rather not disclose, was so effective that it induced women to pick him up.

Yeah, women are easy. They'll sleep with any dude that brushes their teeth! You can trick them into bed without even talking to them. Jesus Christ, Franklin Schneider is an asshole.

We were soon mingling with all kinds of women. We met older single mothers. (When they get a sitter, they're determined to take full advantage.) We met government contractors. (Their nighttime personae were the polar opposite of their buttoned-up daytime ones.) And we met 18-year-olds. (Each had told her parents that she was spending the night at the other's house.)

Sluts, all of them. Right, Frank?

But as we met more and more women, we realized that we couldn't fucking stand at least 95 percent of them. Maybe 99 percent. This was fine with me. In fact, when I did meet one of the elusive 1 percenters that I actually liked and respected and had something in common with, I did everything I could to piss all over our chemistry. I'd been down the relationship path, and it had ended in a blood bath. Now, all I wanted were disposable encounters. After my 35th consecutive conversation about American Idol, though, I realized this probably worked better in theory than in practice.


The author is at least honest enough to admit that he hates 99% of women. Even better, he can do without the other 1%. Relationships just end in misery, man. That leaves him hating 100% of women and being proud enough to flaunt it to all of Washington, DC. I'm torn between truly hating this man with every fiber of my being or just feeling sorry for him. He's clearly miserable and needs help.

So many nights I'dd be standing there on autopilot, drink in hand, inwardly aghast. What in God's name is she talking about? I haven't the slightest idea, but worst of all - what is this fucking nonsense coming out of my mouth? Yes, I, too, love the Stars: They're Just Like Us! feature in Us Weekly!" What is wrong with me? I'm sitting here nodding and smiling like a fucking bobblehead doll. Have I no integrity? Must I demean myself for even the tiniest measure of relief?

Hating on women is one thing, but how dare you defame "Stars: They're Just Like Us!" Reese Witherspoon pumps her own gas! Kate Winslett double-fists her coffee!

I'm not being funny, I genuinely enjoy "Stars: They're Just Like Us!"

As John put it once, during the course of an especially discouraging night, "It's depressing when every girl you talk to is dumb or obsessed with money or has no sense of humor or won't shut up about herself or prattles on about some stupid TV show. It's depressing when you find out that everyone is dull and stupid, but it's even worse when you realize - so are you."

Bingo, John.

Franklin spends the next few paragraphs talking about some bizarre sexual experience in Seattle that featured handguns. Since the main point of the article seems to be that flirting in DC bars sucks, I have no idea why the author wasted valuable space on hooking up with a girl 2,769 miles away.

Last fall, a girl I had briefly worked with in the past suddenly took an inexplicable interest in me. She had a luscious, pert ass, and she knew that I liked it. We met up for drinks at the Black Cat, and afterwards, we went to her house in Georgetown.

During the walk there, she casually mentioned that she had a chronic back problem and that she needed frequent massages. In fact, her back was acting up at that very moment. Taking my cue, I offered to give her a massage as soon as we got to her house. She hesitated; actually, she had a very specific and somewhat unusual back condition. The only thing that gave her relief was direct stimulation of the sciatic nerve. Did Ididn'tw where the sciatic nerve was? Of course I did, I said. I didn't have the slightest idea.

So far, so good. Still a dumb hook-up story that belongs in a blog or in Laura Sessions Stepp's nightmares, but you haven't abused or embarassed her yet, so, job well done, Franklin!

When I went to her room, I found her lying on the bed. She was face down, wearing lacy underwear, with pillows stacked underneath her stomach. Her ass protruded into the air. When she heard me enter the room, she reached around behind her to grasp her ass with both hands. "So the nerve runs down through here; you'll have to really press down hard."

I sat behind her on the bed and started to knead her ass. Lust descended on me like a sickness; I almost felt like vomiting. As the massage went on, though, I began to appreciate it on its own merits. I'd never been able to admire a girl's ass without the simultaneous distraction of being hilt-deep in it. On a purely aesthetic level, it was spectacular. Before long, my erection had gotten so painfully intense that it felt like it was going to explode.

But as I was about to ease her underwear down, she turned and said, "Lie down here and let"s just talk for a while"

I was shocked. Talk? We'd been talking all night. The only thing I wanted to do even less than talk was to pretend that I wanted to talk. Her request was almost certainly one of token resistance - perhaps something to make her feel like she hadn't given it all up at once - but it was one hoop too many.

Well, it didn't take long for the other shoe to drop in this weirdly pornographic tale. How dare some girl not have sex with you, Franklin? I don't get it either.

Granted, there is some cockteasiness here. The girl set herself up to be in a situation where there is an expectation for sex. That's not necessarily fair and can be dangerous if some guy decides he doesn't want to take "no" for an answer. Still, any guy worth his weight would understand that this girl still likes him and that maybe they can go out again in the future. In other words, handle the situation maturely.

So, what does Franklin do?

I refused. There was a moment of silence, and then she asked, "What?"

"I don't want to talk. I have no interest in talking right now."

She seemed to consider this. "Then you can't stay in bed with me," she said.

I rolled off the bed and lay on the floor. It was childish and petty, but I didn't see any alternative. What was I supposed to do, lie there and talk about the weather until she deigned to open the gates? I suppose the hard-boiled thing to do would have been to put my shoes on and walk out. But it was late, I was tired and drunk, and I'm ashamed to admit that I still clung to some shred of hope that she'd drop her bluff.

No such luck. I lay on the floor as she lay on the bed. She gave me a couple more chances to repent, but I refused.

Finally, she got up in a huff, brushed her teeth, gargled, and took her contacts out, signaling an end to the night. As I watched her pad barefoot around the room in her underwear, her ass jiggling with each step, I genuinely felt like weeping...

Can you imagine this actually happening? My jaw dropped when I read this. Franklin is clearly a 13-year-old.

At some point, I realized: It always costs a little more than it's worth. I was always feigning interest, fake-laughing, or pretending I didn't hate some shitty band. And after a short while, I hated myself for it. I - the essential I, the I whose interests extended beyond sodomy - had relinquished control.

It's cute how Franklin thinks the "essential I" hasn't merged with the "sodomy I." There is no "essential I." Franklin doesn't have a job, lives off the government, and spends all of his time lying to women in exchange for 10 minutes of physcial pleasure. His soul is dead.

I figured I was marked for karmic payback. I became convinced I was going to die of AIDS. When the test came back negative, I settled on cancer. I stopped leaving the house altogether, cut off human contact, and spent most of my hours on the sofa reading Dostoevski, waiting for the other shoe to drop.


That paragraph made me sick to my stomach. This man is a monster.

As it turned out, it dropped on John. A girl he'd been intermittently sleeping with for a while started calling him. He didn't take her calls or call her back, even though she left messages saying she needed to talk to him. Finally, after a week of stonewalling, she e-mailed him - she was pregnant. He called me and asked what to do.

"Abort it," I said.

She was rabidly Catholic, he said. She'd never go for that. Besides, it was already too far along.

I thought about it. "I guess you could always pull a Scott Peterson..."

This is incredibly sad because John was presented as the nice guy. He got corrupted and ended up in a no-win situation. Some friend Franklin is.

And killing your one-night-stand and her fetus? HILARIOUS! Humor gold mine, that Scott Peterson is.

A few months later, she had the baby, and they gave it up for adoption. In person, John is now distant and slightly punch-drunk, perpetually preoccupied. I don't ask with what.

I keep telling him he needs to get back out there with a vengeance - hair of the dog that bit you, that type of thing - but he refuses.

That's the end of the article. Doesn't matter that your lives are ruined, keep plugging away, John. I'm glad John sees through Franklin's bullshit.

So, honestly, have you ever seen anything so aggrsssively anti-woman? I certainly hadn't.

So, this is the last time I am going to write about the City Paper. They don't deserve the attention until they publicly apologize to every woman who was subjected to this garbage. I have one copy in my attache. I'm going to write down a bunch of their sponsors and contact them asking for their thoughts on this article. I am a silly powerless blogger, but I will do everything I can to make sure the Paper takes a hit in the pocketbook for this trash.

Just commenting on this trash makes me want to take a hot shower.


I Need to Download a Drudge Siren







Waiting for my Cash to Trickle

The cover of the most recent Washingtonian features a blonde middle-aged woman and a middle-aged dude in a blazer (or a blue suit jacket) in an immaculately designed room. Here's the text:

How Washington Got Really Rich...And How It's Changed Us

What an inappropriate cover. Guess what Washingtonian editors, your two middle-aged blue-blood models do not represent the Washington that I'm living in. I'm willing to bet that most of Washington is not raking it in. Last I checked, large swaths of DC still had some discouraging problems with poverty, unemployment, and homelessness.

Wikipedia features the following graph documenting unemployment rates by ward:

Well, God damn. Once you get rid of everything east of the Capitol, Washington is doing great!

Seriously. 16.3%!? Holy shit.

Washingtonian sure has a lot of nerve. I guess they didn't get the memo that most real Washingtonians aren't wealthy Georgetowners. Half of Washington is startlingly poor. But it's easier to ignore the other half, isn't it?