Trick-or-Treat vs. Shoot-or-Stab

I can't imagine growing up in DC. I cannot relate at all. There are so few middle to lower-middle class families living in the city, and most of them are childless young professionals who happen to fit the tax bracket description. So as a kid, you're probably either setup in a nice neighborhood like Cleveland Park or Wisconsin Avenue, or condemned to living in crapsville which is... well... most everywhere else. Now think about what its like to go Trick-or-Treating, door to door, as a kid in Washington, DC.

The other day the Washington Post reported that a 15-year old boy shot a 13 year old girl in Northeast. She survived, thank God, but does anyone believe the streets of NE will be safer tonight than any other night?

Last night my apartment building distributed flyers warning residents not to answer their doors for anyone wearing a costume or face mask. I know, I know... nobody goes trick-or-treating in a rent controlled building in Southwest, so fair warning. But that's not going to stop me from blaming DC for ruining Halloween.

If you go party hoping tonight, start out someplace like Woodly. Then later take a quick drive down North Capitol. Just don't leave your car. You won't see ornate pumpkin carvings or cutesy politically themed costumes (btw this year I almost went as the girl who scratched the backwards "B" on her face but I figured that will be done to death tonight just like Joe the Plumber).

No, the difference is that the guy dressed like an old homeless man, well, he's really an old homeless man. The young lady dressed like a hooker? She's trickin' allright. Those screams coming from a dimly lit house? Domestic violence. The dead body in the front yard? Not plastic.

To close on a completely different topic, I got a parking ticket the other day. It was signed by meter-maid "K. Hunt" (for real). Heh.


Drag Queens Have Far More Class

Near the top of my long list of "things I've done in DC but see no reason to do twice" is the annual High Heel Race in Dupont. Don't get me wrong, it's fun, and funny, and chock-full of G-A-Y. Good times had by all.

Basically, a bunch of dudes dressed like drag queens race down 17th Street wearing heels. The outfits and characters are as entertaining as the anticipation of seeing someone eat asphalt. I'd recommend going except the race was held last night, and if you missed it, you'll have to wait until next October to catch it again. Loser.

The only reason why I wouldn't go a second time is because of the crowd. The race doesn't start until 9pm, but spectators start lining up along the sidewalk by 6pm. I don't like crowds in the first place. But I especially don't like crowds full of stupid drunk girls. And let me tell you, the High Heel Race attracts a ton of stupid drunk chicks. I'm not talking the Shouts "Wooooo!" at Everything drunk girl. They're okay. I'm talkin' Stumbles Everywhere and Starts Fights with Grown Men drunk girl.

The DC night scene is filled to the brim with this particular sub-species of drunk girl. And they always travel in packs of four or five. They're pretty looking, but its the kind of pretty that when she speaks you know instantly that personality plays no role in her boyfriend's decision to date her.

Case in point. When I went everyone was on the sidewalk smooshed together, shoulder to shoulder, ass to crotch. You couldn't sneeze without toppling the people around you. But here comes drunk girl and her skunked friends... forcing their way from the back of the line to the sidewalk front. She held up to her face a small camcorder, and slurred as loud as she could, "Moooooove! We need to seeeeee! I'm a cameraman for PBS!!!"

Drunk Girl clearly wasn't with the Public Broadcasting Service. But for reasons I don't fully understand, people stood aside and let her through anyway. It worked until she came up behind the rather tall and large feller standing right behind me who wasn't having any of it.

He refused to budge. Words were exchanged. She clocked him over the head with the camcorder (ouch!). Fists started flying. He grabbed her by the hair and yanked out a patch (double ouch!). Her friends went ballistic.

This would have been fun to watch, except me, my friends, and the people around me had to absorb the force of these dumbasses thrashing about. Being the nearest guy, I stepped in between the two, grabbed dude by the arm and pulled him back with the help of his buddy. Yay me. I mean, the girl was a total bitch but still. Dude calmed down right away, but Drunk Girl, classy as ever, regained her composure and she and her friends scurried away like cockroaches after dropping a few more f-bombs.

Alas, this wouldn't be the last time yours truly saves Drunk Girl despite her best efforts to get herself killed. But that's a story for another day.


File Under: The Point is Moot

Fearful that a terrorist could hijack a metro train and run it better than they can, WMATA announced it may begin conducting random bag searches for weapons and explosives at indiscriminate stations.

I don't really have an opinion on this since I largely swore off using Metro a year ago. I guess my only beef is that Metro seems to be emphasizing prevention because they're incapable of MANAGING emergencies in the first place. They can't even manage their own disaster simulations without fucking up. Unless perhaps their failed simulations are just practice for fucking up in real life? Wrap your head around that next time you wait for a train.

The sad reality is that if shit ever goes down in this city, we're all gonna die. Metro riders especially. Imagine if something were to actually happen (Xenu forbid) on a crowded platform during rush hour. Do you think the guy in the booth is going to do anything? In all likelihood he won't even be in there. Your only hope for survival is a blast that kills enough people to lessen the violent stampede up the non-functioning escalators. Oh and lets not forget that when your train is stuck in a tunnel and the nerve gas starts seeping through the vents, only Verizon customers will be able to call their loved ones to say goodbye. The rest of us can return to our soduko puzzles apparently.

Yeah, it's all very FUBAR. On a happier note, the holidays are around the corner! I put the number of train jumpers at 3 this winter. Anyone?


Are YOU a Washingtonian?

So the Washington Post is running a 300-word essay contest called “What Does It Mean to Be a Washingtonian?” It goes like this:

“We hope you will put your finger on the essential qualities and characteristics that define this region, from a ward in D.C. to a farm in Loudoun, and everywhere else in the area. We're not looking for simple descriptions of your neighborhood, for Christ’s sake shut up about your community garden already, but rather what you might say to someone who isn't from here about what living in the nation's capital means.”
Here’s the irony: Answer the way the Washington Post would like (all prim and proper) and you could win $100. *disco*

But answer the way YOU KNOW YOU SHOULD and you’ll get jack. At best they'll post your essay online with the other entries. And that just means some dickhead from a blog like “I Grow a Chub for DC,” cluttered with pics of row houses and urban scenery, will read it and respond with a post about how it’s absolutely inconceivable that anyone could hate Washington, D.C. (By the way, for bloggers who think themselves clever by asking why would someone who hates DC choose to stay and blog about it? I’ll deal with you retards another day).

Entries aren’t due until December 31st, so in the meantime The Post's website is featuring sample essays. As you can imagine, they're full of glowing praise for the city. Enough to make you puke. So far my favorite (in a creepy sort of way) is from columnist
John Kelly:
“You’re a Washingtonian if you are affected by the gravitational pull of the capital, if your routine or your mind-set is influenced by the unique rhythms and practices of the federal government.”
The gravitational pull of the capitol? The rhythms of the federal government? I do beleive Mr. Kelly means to be boned by the Washington Monument. Hard.

No srsly. Like, really hard.

Here’s another sample entry:
“There are a million little things that I love about this city, beginning with my daughters, who are Washingtonians. They were raised on puree I made from vegetables bought at the Sunday farmers' market at Dupont Circle.
For cryin’ out loud. I don’t even know where to begin with that one. Here’s another:
“Washingtonians have generous hearts.”
Take a moment to reflect on that statement. Okay, let's continue…
“Washingtonians have generous hearts. Everyone here is committed to social causes, either working for a nonprofit organization or giving a considerable amount of themselves or their wallets to doing good. Making a difference in the world seems to be our main preoccupation.”
Right. Everyone is committed to social causes, especially the good people at Child Protective Services or the DC Department of Disabilities.
"And let me pause to thank the originators of this contest for using the term "Washingtonians." We were raised to describe ourselves that way. "District of Columbia," "D.C.," "The District" - those phrases never passed our lips."
Whatever man. What. Ever. You may call yourself a Washingtonian, but everyone else thinks you're a jackass.

Sort through all the bullshit accolades for the city, and there’s only one guy, ONE GUY, who gets close:
"Washington, writes poet Kenneth Carroll, is a place where "hope and disappointment live uneasily on the same block, like natives and gentrifiers."
Kenneth Carroll FTW.


Where's My Bourbon!

You know what I hate about DC? The weed here sucks. You'd think given the crime ridden reputation of this city that the quality/price/quantity ratio would be decent, right? But no, it's not, and you wind up having to drive allllll they way to suburb-tastic Annandale which VDOT never makes easy.

Unless your hookup lives in, say, Anacostia or certain parts of NE, you're smoking yuppie swag.


So there you go, folks. A post. The blog lives.

I'm sure you have lots of questions. Hell, I have lots of questions. What's up with Rusty? Who's running the blog?

I miss Rusty too. He's a cool cat, smart, and we all loved him or at least loved to hate him which is really just another form of love. I haven't spoken to him directly. I only know he's alive because he sent me a blogger invite. In Why I Hate DC land, Rusty's like an omnipresent unseen Christ figure, constantly watching us from above and acting in mysterious ways. We shouldn't question HIS plan, but instead have faith and pray that he may return to us one day. There you go Russ. I just equated you to Jesus, you bastard.

As for Shiva the Destroyer (aka Liz)? I haven't the foggiest bottom. For now we'll have to accept that Liz is basically like Dr. Beverly Crusher in season two of Star Trek the Next Generation. For those of you who grew up watching 90210 or some other myopic teenage shit-drama, Dr. Crusher was the Enterprise's chief medical officer and the mother of the ship's sixteen-year-old helmsman, Wesley Crusher. Without any warning, explanation, or plot development, she disappeared from the show inexplicably abandoning her fatherless teenage son, Wesley, leaving him to fly the ship and be raised by Klingons. So that's where we're at. I'm Wesley.

(Try to guess whether or not I have a life.)

Look, what I'm trying to say is we'll play this banjo by ear. I know some of you submitted essays and wanted to contribute to the blog in a group setting and perhaps that's where we'll go. Stay tuned.


Ok, That's Enough

Hello. Rusty here.

I tried e-mailing Liz to see what was up and I got no response. Which really was no surprise since she obviously gave up on this blog.

Just because I'm in a weird city like Columbus doesn't mean that I still don't hate DC. In fact, for some reason, mail being sent to me from the District isn't getting to my apartment in Columbus. And what kind of mail should I be getting from DC? Why security deposits and paychecks of course! It might not be DC's fault, but, come on, DC has always been a good scapegoat. Why stop now?

Well, as you probably have noticed, Liz didn't work out. It was my mistake to select a writer instead of a blogger. Writers are awesome, but don't necessarily want to write three times a week. We don't need writers. We need bloggers.

(Which is not to say I condone the way some people treated Liz. Some of you were total assholes. I liked her posts. I liked some of them an awful lot. The transition from writer to reader was almost seamless. I looked forward to her posts. Then they stopped.

Liz is going to check this site or try to post and see that she got her privs revoked and that probably isn't fair. But it's October 1st and her last post was September 13th. I had to do this.

Liz, I am sorry. You probably deserve better. I thought you were great until you disappeared.)

So, what to do? To be honest, I don't know. I am incredibly disappointed that this site is floundering. I very much want it to succeed. There is so much to complain about and my predecessor's work (James F, duh) is going to waste. He created a popular site and, according to SiteMeter anyway, I helped it grow. I want that growth to continue.

I get the feeling that I may not be very good at assigning successors. If you'd like to write here, send me an e-mail to the old address (whyihatedc@gmail.com) and state your case. Obviously, I would prefer it if you already have a blog. I need to know you can update more than twice a month. Design skills would also be appreciated since -- and I didn't think this was possible -- the site looks shittier now than it did under my watch.

Before I could offer potential bloggers a built-in audience. I don't know if that audience is still here. I hope it is. If you have faith, send me that e-mail.