Partying in Maryland SUCKS

So, here’s the thing: I’m pretty upfront about the fact that I’m a huge snob.  I love dive bars and cheap deals, but when it comes down to the character of the people I hang out with, I’m a pretty harsh judge.  I’m just not the kind of person that likes to surround himself with people that lack integrity or charm, and I have no problem avoiding those who are missing key ingredients.  Last Thursday, however, was one for the record books.  My friend, who lives in Bethesda, had some people in from out of town, and invited me to come out with them.  I made the mistake of accepting instead of going out with people who actually live in the District.  I also falsely assumed we would be going out in the District and I could slink away if I caught wind of a shitty night on the horizon.  Unfortunately, he had no intentions of going into DC to drink.  He wanted to keep it local and show off his neighborhood, which is minutes away from Georgetown Prep.  I should have known that poor life decisions would follow.

We started at some epically trashy bar that was situated right next to GP, and had some of the saddest souls I have ever encountered.  I’m not even kidding when I say that I saw at least two patrons who were drinking while pregnant.  Most of the men were in t-shirts and gym shorts, and one openly bragged about having blood on his short (hopefully from some kind of organized sport that does not involve rules about keeping it secret).  I love going to dive bars, but this put even those to shame; I legitimately felt threatened by the other patrons’ hostile stares at my polo paired with Nantucket red shorts.  Needless to say, we polished off our pitcher pretty quickly and headed out for another place.

The majority of the bar resembled this man.

We drove further into Bethesda proper, and parked the car in some godforsaken parking garage.  As we wandered the streets of Maryland, I thought to myself how lucky I am to live in the fine city of Washington, D.C.  As depressed as I get here, I could never imagine my life after a few months in the sorry excuses for suburbs in our neighbor to the north.  A cop literally looked me up and down as if he could tell I was judging everyone and wanted to beat me with his billy club as punishment.  We ended up at BlackFinn, a desperate attempt to franchise McFadden’s even more that is has been.  The only real redeeming quality when we came in was the Jack and Coke I ordered was in a pint glass and triple the liquor of most bars; this, however, would not last.

95% of the bar, but not as ugly. Seriously, it was that bad.

Soon, the alcohol started to catch up with me and I no longer looked at this night as a bust, but as an adventure.  I could study the mating rituals of absolute losers (and I am talking extreme caliber here) while drinking on a couch in the corner.  It really was pretty awesome to rattle off observations to my friend about the marine in the Ed Hardy t-shirt hitting on the girl who hadn’t graduated from high school.  I was enthralled as I watched so many desperate souls aching to get some action on a Thursday night, screaming when Katy Perry/Pussycat Dolls/other shitty music came on the speakers.  It was like being at prom all over again, but the only people who were invited were the band nerds and the creepy people who would eventually drop out of community college.

I know I’m following up a post that chastised people for judging others based on stereotypes and prejudices, but this is different.  Mostly because I was judging people based on hours of their behavior and social interaction, and not a decision they made to be on TV.  Also, though, the situation is different because I can do whatever I want and you can’t give me shit about it.  Doesn’t that rule suck?

I Can’t Stand RWDC Haters

No, but seriously.  I lived here for over two years and grew accustomed to the strengths and weaknesses of this fine town.  Now I’m back this summer for a span of about three months and it seems like all anyone is talking about is The Real World filming here for the next five months.  What kills me, though, is all of the pretentious bastards who take the time to complain about it.  Honestly, is it really affecting you that negatively?  You whine and bitch and moan about these eight strangers, picked to live in a house, and have their lives taped.  Yet you can’t really come up with any concrete reasons why you’re so angry.

“They have bright lights outside their house and it bothers me.” I guess that’s legit.  Because, you know, we don’t live in a major metropolitan area with bright lights and loud noises.  Major movies never film here or disrupt our daily lives while blocking out scenes, altering traffic flow, or, you guessed it, setting up lights.  Besides – it’s Dupont Circle, people.  It’s not like their house is in Fox Hall or Woodley Park; Dupont is used to being pretty active and bustling at all times.  Some lights outside your house for a few months aren’t going to ruin your life.

“Sometimes when they’re walking, they take up the sidewalks.” You’re kidding me, right?  You live in DC.  Have you ever even seen a tourist family?  It’s a pretty solid bet that they’ll walk in clumps of four, completely abreast, in the middle of rush hour traffic.  Or maybe you just disappear for the entirety of intern season.  Quit your whining, twat.

“One of their camera guys pushed me.” Apparently we’re in the second grade, and someone’s a tattle tale.  You’re a grown up now – sometimes people are mean.  Sometimes you get pushed around a little.  Sometimes, when you get on the Metro, the people who are already on the car don’t shift toward the middle when the doors open.  Every now and then, people won’t even like you, and they might even call you names.  It’s pretty tough out there in the Real World, huh?

Let go of your bitter bullshit and just have some fun with it.

Then there’s THIS GUY.  What a piece of work.  You set up a blog with your friends to poop on the presence of the Real World cast, blogging obsessively about every tiny thing they do that pisses you off.  It kind of just makes you look like a douche. Not only the way this guy talks about scoring with Republican chicks but also the sheer glee he feels at the thought of judging people is beyond pitiful.  I mean, I am the first person to admit that I can be a snobbish prick and I judge people far too much.  But there is just something about this post that smacks of desperation.  Calling yourself a professional writer in DC is like calling yourself educated because you finished high school.  You’re the reason that people hate the exclusive and cliquish social scene of DC.  Plus, you lost all credibility with this conversation:

Ashley, from the RW Cast: “Well so many people do, I mean, I guess if I lived somewhere, and a reality tv show came to town and went to my bars and restaurants, I’d be a little pissed too, but we’re just normal people, like everyone else.”
Douchebag blogger: “But, you aren’t, because you are being followed by cameras…”
Ashley: “But before we were followed by cameras, we were just like anyone else.”
Douchebag blogger: “Well, yes and no, I mean, my friends and I wouldn’t ever have cameras follow us around and EVERY ONE of us works in media. By the way, can I buy you a drink?”

You.  Tool.  You not only dropped that you work in the media (which, again, could be any crappy periodical/website in this city.  Something tells me he isn’t on the Post’s payroll), but you sold out by trying to get in her pants.  You went out of your way to be hateful to these people for months without even so much as knowing what their names were beforehand.  Now you meet one and find out she’s actually a pretty decent human being, and you melt into a puddle of lame sauce.

Then you people have the audacity to get upset because people called you out on your whining?  You actually made an entire post about the fact that some people said some mean things when it turned out that you were complete and utter losers.  Not only is your website not funny, it’s borderline compulsive in its desperate attention-seeking behavior.  No, I didn’t expect you to be bullies or shout obscenities or, heaven forbid, hit her.  To be perfectly honest, if you even came close to hitting her, we would have a whole new problem on our hands.  Yet, claiming that you were trying to be a humor blog and lacking any kind of real comedy is pathetic.  One of your contributors clearly prides himself on his cynical view point of the world, and had no problem making fun of someone for putting some mainstream radio hits on the jukebox.  This coming from the same person who most likely thinks Kings of Leon are cutting edge indie rock.  The second that one of the cast member actually engages him in conversation, though, he melts like a fan boy.  He is the stereotypical outsider from high school who spent three years hating the popular crowd until that fateful day when he was assigned to a group project with the head cheerleader/quarterback/Hot Person Cliché and urinated himself with uncontainable glee.

Have fun at Wonderland tonight.

The RWDC haters assume that every person in the house is a total waste of space, a completely douchetastic stereotype that should be ridiculed non-stop.  Guess what?  The same could be said for the bulk of DC.  I mean, seriously, people, the hipsters hate the frat guys and the gays hate the hipsters and everyone hates the Republicans.  Who even cares any more?  I’m not saying I don’t fall prey to some of this petty middle school inanity every now and then, but what do you think you’re going to accomplish by vilifying some kids who wanted to go on MTV and learn about themselves?  Yes, they’re going to get drunk and fight and probably hook up once or twice, and I am the first to note that The Real World has significantly gone down in quality in years of late.  You know you’re just bitter because they’re doing the same exact thing you do every weekend without the national media attention.  Besides, and here’s a really revolutionary thought – let’s wait until we actually get to know these people before throwing them under the Metro bus.

Holy Shit, I SUCK

Obviously things have transpired over the last six weeks or so, and I would love to be able to fill everyone in.  I am back in the District for the summer, interning in the city, and enjoying every precious moment out of Tennessee that I can experience.   Since there is far too much to fill everyone in on, I am going to simply pass it off to some friends of mine, a la textsfromlastnight.com and share some witticisms of the past month or so with you.

202: If all three of us lived in a house together, it would be the shit.  Like Full House style, but not toolish.
973: You can be Kimmi Gibler.

203:  I have an obsession with black toddlers.

703:  We just passed a store called Cigarettes and Guns.  That’s why I love Virginia.

202: I gave up all Anheuser-Busch products from July through Election Day of last year because I didn’t want to support McCain in any way.
757: I like Democrats.  I don’t like giving up my beer.

214:  My trip to jail is telling me not to go to the airport bar, but the alcohol is telling me to go.  If they pour it, I will come.

202:  Pregaming a wedding = always a good idea.

202:  Weddings are good because they get me drunk for free.  Frat is great because they get me absolutely housed for free.

202:  I think I just vomited on myself.
1-202:  Your jealousy knows no bounds.
202: My jealousy brings all the boys to the yard.

703:  I’m at a gay strip club with a bunch of cokeheads.  So much dick, none of it available.  Fuck my life.

303:  Just got a $243 speeding ticket.  Epic.

202: I drank to black out seven nights in a row.  I am physically dying right now.  I am entropy personified.
302:  You make me proud, Amy Winehouse.

202:  I’m wearing a pink oxford, madras shorts, wayfarers, and boat shoes.
1-202: Please don’t get hate crimed.

703:  Dayquil on an empty stomach = I am hiiiiiigh motherfucker.

757:  The guy next to me in Sticky Fingers is wearing an Alf t-shirt under a blazer.
202: That asshat deserves to be punched in the throat. He probably gets hard walking into Wonderland.

I Figured Out LOST. NBD.

Yes, it’s true.  I’m fucking brilliant.  For all of you insanely awesome people that watch LOST, I hope this doesn’t make your brain explode.  Or ruin anything.  Because I am the shit, I will share my thoughts with you.  Jacob’s enemy IS the Smoke Monster.

My mind is exploding right now.

Think about it – his loophole is that he had to wait for Locke to die so that he could manifest as Locke in order to come back to the island and convince Ben to kill Jacob.  Once he was Locke, he could tell Richard to tell the REAL Locke that he had to die, which is obviously crucial to his entire plan. He manifested as Eko’s brother.  He manifested as Christian to scare the shit out of Jack.  He manifested as Eko, Ana Lucia, Charlie, et cetera to Hurley.  THAT’S why Jacob knows Hurley isn’t crazy – he realizes that his enemy has been appearing to the Oceanic survivors.  For serious, the entire show comes down to Jacob versus Smokey/Black Shirt Guy.  You thought the war was Ben versus Widmore, but they just represent the greater struggle of Jacob and BSG.

You can worship me now.

Seriously, DMB Fans – Fuck. Off.

So I went to my first DMB concert a few weeks back.  I had always kind of listened to him in the background, and had a lot of his shit, but he was never really a priority for me, you know?  I mean, I love “Everyday” and “Crush” and all that shit, but if you looked at my top artists on last.fm, Dave Matthews wouldn’t be even close to the top.  The Weepies, Oasis, Patrick Park – yes.  Dave Matthews, not so much.

Regardless (SIDE NOTE – Yes, I only use “irregardless” as a joke, as it serves as a mini-reference to Mean Girls.  Not only do I know it’s not accepted by most people as a real word, I also know that its prevalence has made it practically admissible, if only nominally.), I knew I had to see them.  They’re just one of those bands you should see live before you die, like The Flaming Lips (absolutely incredible) or Ryan Adams (phenomenal).  So I bought myself a ticket, forgot about it for the most part, and moved on with my life.

What I expected from the concert.

Then the weekend actually got closer.  I made plans with Hannah, the love of my life, and we grabbed some McDougall’s and a case of beer, planning to tailgate that shit.  We realized quickly how intense everyone was being about it, so we rocked out about a mile from the venue then walked over.  Well, a more accurate description is that she walked while I crutched, since I was still healing from the surgery.  We finally get to the stadium, and they have all of like two entrances set up for over 25,000 people.  It took us a bit to get in there, but once we finally made it through all the bullshit security and total retards (calloused, I know, but it’s true), we made our way towards our seats.

Well, let’s be honest here, I was on fucking crutches.  Did you seriously expect me to hunt down my fucking seat?  Of course not, I’m a prick, and I’m ridiculously lazy.  We found our general area and just picked some seats.  Except that they apparently belonged to same angry, obese lesbians.  Who actually demanded that we leave.  We moved to another row.  A new couple made us leave.

Second side note – I’m sorry, I know I’m a huge dick and everything, and shouldn’t have taken their seats to begin with in this scenario, but come on.  COME ON.  I was on fucking crutches.  For the sixth straight week.  Throw me a fucking bone here, gayelles.

That’s when it really started to sink in.  DMB fans are the biggest fucking tools to ever exist.  They wear shirts from the band to the concert.  Seriously, people, this is just something you don’t do.  It’s like wearing a Princeton shirt when you go on your Dartmouth tour.  It’s a fucking dick move.  I looked around at the people in the stadium and realized that everyone was either a freshman in high school or pushing 45.  Practically everyone had a ponytail, love handles, graying temples, and a Hawaiian shirt.  It was shocking and appalling how lame everyone was in this stadium.  Save for the puffs of weed smoke you could see emanating from the crowd on the field, everyone was basically the epitome of a tool.

At one point, they started playing some Crowded House.  I shit you not, this guy behind me starts screaming the lyrics, then turns to his life partner.  The words that came out of his mouth made me cringe.  “This is the best shit ever!  I love this shit!”  I know I can’t capture the moment effectively through words alone, but suffice to say, this is the kind of guy who ate at the Olive Garden for prom.

Honestly, I’ve never been surrounded by so many shattered dreams in my life.

It was like this. But worse.

“Come What May”*

I know that it’s been awhile since I posted, save for the awesomeness that was Wet Hot American Chicken, and I apologize for that.  Last semester I wrote about a theme I had come up with for that hideously bad start to my graduate school career.  I had one lined up in January for this spring, and just never got around to posting it.  After the events that transpired over the past five months, it’s still apropos today.

I heard it when I was re-obsessed with the Rogue Wave cover of Buddy Holly’s song, “Everyday.”  I had loved it a year or so ago when I first found it, and truly started to appreciate it again once it was utilized in the Rachel Getting Married trailer.  It’s a pretty simple theme really, and I can’t imagine needing to write too much to explain it.  “Come What May” means just what it says – nothing is going to stop me, and I will be fine, come what may.

I may not be prepared, but I will do my damnedest to not be fazed by anything this piece of shit school throws at me.  I weathered many a storm this semester, and I’m looking forward to getting out of Tennessee for the next three months or so.  I get to head back to DC for a few months, spend some time in Virginia in the meantime, and even visit North Carolina for a week on the beach.  This past year has taught me a lot, not only about myself, but about what to expect from the world.  I will never assume that anyone around me is competent again.  This year’s experiences have been steeped in other people’s stupidity so much, that I know I can only rely on myself, come what may.  For now, though, I’m just happy to be done.

*Side note – this theme has nothing to do with Moulin Rouge.  I have always and will always hate that movie.

Wet Hot American Chicken

The other night, on a fluke, my friend and I decided to head to the grocery store, grab some stuff, and make a dinner.  Instead of looking up a recipe or making some weird, pre-made meal like Hamburger Helper, I decided to just invent a dinner from scratch, because, you know, laziness.

I wanted to start with a salad because it was nice and warm down here in Nashville.  I threw some baby spinach in a bowl, tossed in some dried blueberries, golden raisins, sunflower kernels, and a little bit of lemon juice and zest.  I made a honey vinaigrette and tossed the salad (no joke necessary), and then sprinkled some fresh mozzarella on top.

For the entree, I wanted to make a light chicken, since it would go well with the salad and the spring night.  I juiced a full lemon, grated some zest, and added salt, ground white pepper, rosemary, and thyme.  After scoring the chicken breasts, I soaked and lightly kneaded the meat to infuse the flavor.  I seared them in a pan for a few minutes before putting them in the oven to cook fully.  While they cooked, I made some long grain white rice with a quarter cup of butter to thicken the consistency.  Once the chicken finished, I poured some of the juice onto the rice.

All in all, it turned out pretty damn good.  Not too creative, but simple, easy, and ridiculously delicious.  I think if I made it in the future, I would add some asparagus to the entree, because what meal wouldn’t be better with asparagus?

One of the better meals I've had recently.

An Entire Month

Jesus, I really suck at blogging regularly.  How the hell has an entire month gone by without me so much as talking about a party or a trip?  What the fuck is wrong with me?  Two answers to that – far too much and nothing at all.  Let’s go with the latter.

The sad part is that a lot of stuff has happened in the past month and I can’t really figure out a way to talk about it.  Once I recover from the past week and get all of my shit done, maybe my brain will return.  For now, I sign off with a heavy heart and an apology to anyone who actually reads this.  I promise I will be back soon.

National Douchebag Day

“I just wanted to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day by embracing the inner nerd in all of us and taking the liberty of researching a short history of our good friend, St. Patrick!

St. Patrick was born in 340 A.D.  He is the official patron saint of 30 year old male douchebags who drink for fifteen hours straight; wear ugly, plastic, green hats; and go to college bars and try to sleep with innocent 21 year old girls who just want to be left alone.  You can find his complete history at wwwstpatricksdayfuckingsucksandonlyretardsactuallycelebrateit.com.

YAY FOR GREEN BEER!”

I sent that email out two years ago and my feelings on the holiday haven’t changed at all.  It’s still a fake holiday full of absolute tools getting wasted for no reason whatsoever and terrorizing the people who weren’t fucking dumb enough to throw some green on.  For as long as I can remember, I’ve worn orange and/or plaid to show how painfully WASP I am.  I know it’s crazy to say, but wearing green doesn’t make you Irish, it makes you retarded.

In short, my Bible.

1) All of you are American, regardless of your heritage.  Irish people are embarrassed of you for claiming to be Irish today.

2) I had an African-American coworker in college who wore green on SPD.  When I came to work in a purple oxford and a madras tie, she called me out on not wearing green, saying “Everyone is Irish on St. Patrick’s Day!”  I stared blankly at her.

My heritage is Scottish, Swedish, and German; in short, I couldn’t be more Protestant.  Catholics wear green and Protestants wear orange.  Not that I even identify with the Christian faith any more.  To be honest, it’s more a “fuck you” to American society.  You can not force me to wear green simply because of the impending threat of a fucking pinch.  How dare you kowtow children into wearing this color every year?  There is no designated color for Cinco de Mayo (which, coincidentally, doesn’t even matter in Mexico), nor for any other ethnic or racial holiday we have in America.  Why should the Irish be so fucking special?

To sum up, I have always and will always hate St. Patrick’s Day.  So go fuck yourselves.

How charming. Discuss.

Then There Was Surgery

So if you’ve been following along this semester (hello to my six faithful readers!), then you know that it hasn’t exactly been the best.  Hell, this year in general has been a bit of a slap in the face.  Shitty bosses, worse colleagues, a joke of a program, a school full of ass hats, and pretty much every problem you could think of to make my graduate school experience shitty.  Well, you can add another item to the list.  I’m having surgery in a week.

Sexy, kinda.

That’s right, friends, I have ripped my cartilage up.  What the septuagenarian male nurse thought was Lyme Disease two months ago was my articular cartilage yelling at me.  See, I have somehow ripped a piece of it off, which is now floating around my knee cap.  The swelling is intense, with my knee looking almost perfectly round at all times, and sometimes even ballooning out.  The shittiest part, though, is the unexpected pain.  Since the piece is still in there, sometimes it can catch on certain parts of the joint and it feels like there is literally a shred of plastic digging into my joint from under the skin.  Other times when I’m walking, particularly involving stairs, the bones will connect in just the right spot and grate against each other.  Turns out that articular cartilage serves a purpose after all.  Like not letting the tibia and the femur touch.

So a week from Monday I go under the knife, so to speak.  My med student friend is dropping me off at six in the morning for my 7.30 appointment, which is when they wanted me there.  Then they drug me to hell, cut open my knee, hopefully fix it, and release me to my [fun] bosses, who will inevitably point and laugh at me under the influence of anesthesia.  I will be on crutches for six weeks and won’t fully recover for another four months or so.  Not to mention the fact that the MRI alone cost $2700.  That’s right, the test I needed to prove that surgery was necessary was almost three grand; let’s hope that student insurance kicks in at some point.

Two other things before I sign off…Firstly, no, we don’t know what caused it.  Most likely it’s a mixture of bad genes, the wear and tear from two decades of running, and a more acute injury (drunken dancing, anyone?).  And secondly, you are so, so lucky I didn’t use other pictures I found in this post.  Shit, I’m still wincing just thinking about them.