Is it just me or could the governor from Alaska be straight out of Buffalo? I was dropping off last night and imagining that among her talk of impending victory in Iraq (Eye-Raaayk), Sarah Palin was talking about going to the Tops or maybe to the Wegmans to pick up some pop and a jar of that Weber’s hot mustard and then stopping over to get some rolls at the Schwebel’s to go with the fine Redlinski polish sausage (grandma’s recipe) in the freezer. But then, geez, she’d have to get on the Scajaquada Espressway and it’s always backed up this time’a day. Guess I’m not the only one who noticed:

I’m neither young enough nor blond enough. If you are, private dancer, your life is calling from the Cleveland Park Listserv:

I am planning my 5-year old’s birthday party and thinking of trying to have a Hannah Montana impersonator. I don’t want to pay for a fortune for a professional. Are there any local teens or college students who either happen to look like HM or have a wig etc and are willing to lip synch and dance to entertain a handful of star-struck 5-year olds?

Katherine R.
Idaho Ave.

Yesterday, the WaTi reported, was not a day for political speeches, which is too bad, really, for McCain’s faithful, who got Laura and Cindy instead of George and Dick because of a little ol’ Category 2.

Oh, but there was news. Sarah Palin’s daughter, Bristol, is not yet able to vote but is preggers and gettin’ hitched. Must be all that beefy funding for abstinence programs didn’t get up there to the 49th state. Don’t worry. The 2008 GOP presidential platform calls for throwing even more money at them, according to the L.A. Times’ blog.

What could be more shocking than Palin’s imperfect family? A. Line. At. Wonderland. W. T. F.? The Heights Life is aghast. First Target and now this. Hopefully the guy known only as “the hot bartender” there will pick up and move on to some less-discovered home for the Chucks-wearing masses.

In Shaw outs “Derrick,” the guy hitting up for beers our poor Post essayist, a lifelong New Yorker who finds D.C.’s rental market daunting. I.S. thinks Derrick is really the Derrick from Truxton Circle (Duh!) who is always hitting people up for beer. Or maybe not. Turns out this trick is not all that original—unlike lifelong New Yorkers who find the D.C. rental market daunting.

Over at DC Foodies it’s Komi, Komi, Komi. Everyone’s who’s anyone is talking about how much better it is now than when it opened 10 four years ago. Still, it’s at No. 3 in the predictable rankings: Washingtonian doesn’t think it’s good enough to knock Citronelle and CityZen off their perches. Yet.

So where was Mr. T in DC when Jason from DC Foodies was at Komi, Komi, Komi? He was where everyone else is: Nando’s Peri Peri. That’s his pic of the butternut squash and couscous salad above. Even at 8 a.m., that looks like a taste treat.

Huck, a golden-retriever mix, recently jumped into Broad Branch, the small stream that runs along the Melvin Hazen trail, which is near the zoo in Rock Creek Park. Huck always jumps in Broad Branch. It’s part of his daily routine. What wasn’t part of his routine was coming home sick and lethargic because of something he swallowed in the water.

Huck’s owner, Tracy Sacks of Cleveland Park, describes the something as “oil/gasoline/petroleum stuff” and says Huck came home covered in it and was sick all night. So she made a few calls to the District Dept. of Environment, the National Park Service, and D.C. Fire & EMS describing the spill. To Sacks’ surprise, someone from the DOE called her back and even went down to the creek to check it out.

“He assessed that someone had dumped a couple gallons of turpentine, maybe five or six, and that it would wash away,” says Sacks.

So, thanks, to the fine citizen dumping chemicals into Rock Creek and its tributaries. Next time try the Benning Road Trash Transfer Station. It’s open every Saturday from 8 a.m. to 3 p.m. to take your hazardous, non-dog-friendly materials.

Finally an ad campaign that both the brightest young things and the geezers can get behind: A YouTube viral commercial that evokes global warming and is modeled after the “duck and cover” reels from our parents’ youth. And, oh yeah, it also promotes Ocean City, Md., using its mayor as the straight man.

The commercial, which aired in the D.C. and Baltimore markets in June (notably during the NBA playoffs) has since filled about 66,000 computer screens. It was produced by Alexandria-based MRB Films. Senior Producer there Tracy Sacks says that before filming, OC Mayor Rick Meehan watched an STD-warning spot from the ’40s or ’50s (”Men: Be careful when you go out”…) so that he could strike the right tone. It also aired on radio, where it took on a War of the Worlds feel. Seriously, though. The oceans are still evaporating. Labor Day approaches. Let’s all go and leave this mess.

Tim Carman, our food critic, usually gives me copy. He sometimes gives me hairy Asian fruits to try. Occasionally he will bring by his dog, Coltrane Meatsack, to wag his tail in my direction. But this week Tim Carman gave me the koobface worm. I’ll be honest, I prefer the hairy fruits.

The koobface worm is a virus that spreads through Facebook and MySpace. I thought it somewhat odd that Tim, my Facebook friend, sent me a video message that said I’d been caught “making love” and that I really needed to see that video and, oh, also: “LOL.” Didn’t seem like Tim (especially that “LOL” part), but there was his little Facebook picture of the Biscuitville sign and I thought, well, maybe this is some sort of super funny joke.

The joke is that Tim had no control over this thing, it went to all or most of the people on his list and if you clicked on the video and followed some instructions on downloading the latest Flash player, you got wormed. The worm shut down my Facebook account because it sent spam to all or most of the people on my list. It also infected the Google search on my home PC so that clicking on any of the entries will redirect you to wherever the wormers want you to go.

This thing is not exactly new. Yesterday’s New York Times “Bits” column has it beginning in late July. Kaspersky lab has apparently found 27 variants of it, all of them directed toward the two most populated social networking sites. Facebook released a statement that it has “detected and contained” the worm and that “these efforts have limited the affected users to a small percentage of those on Facebook.”

Facebook also e-mailed me that my Facebook account has been restored, although when I login I’m told I’m still an evil spammer. Several messages to them have not been returned. Facebook has a phone number, which instructs you to send them e-mail.

Based on my old-person skills and some limited research, here’s how to protect yourself: Run a virus scan. According to an article on CNET, the best free one for this particular virus is Malwarebytes Anti-Maleware 1.25, which can be downloaded here. If you’ve already got the virus, my understanding is this might detect it and repair it. There is also a list of files that can be deleted if you disable system restore, which McAfee sort of explains here.

If anyone knows of other solutions, please fire away. I miss all those friends I haven’t talked to in 15 years.

The word from Denver is 3:1—journalists to delegates. If you count the bloggers, it’s closer to 4:1. We’re going to count bloggers, including Soul Voice who declares Michelle Obama “one tough sister-girl” and found D.C. superdelegate Christine Warnke on the floor, who was seeing stains: “I think, if given the chance to serve as America’s First Lady, she will work tirelessly to break that stained glass ceiling for minorities and for women.”

MoCo is saying evidence from Saturday’s murder of Catherine Brown, the cousin of Maryland Lt. Gov Anthony Brown, shows the teacher from Beauvoir National Cathedral Elementary School in D.C. was killed by her ex-boyfriend and not the cops when “shots were fired” in the standoff. Cops killed the killer, according to what officials told the Baltimore Sun. Anthony Brown says in a statement: “I leave my fellow delegates with a heavy heart” as he flies back from Denver.

HOT lanes are coming for all you D.C. richies, but here’s a shocker via WTOP: They may get crowded and you may be shut out, thereby reducing that smug feeling you’ll get for paying about $40 a day to commute.

Good news, H Streeters and fans of Northern California cuisine with a French flair: Frozen Tropics reports that Napa 1015, which closed when a car rammed into it last month, will reopen tomorrow Wednesday, Sept. 3, and, even better, with a new tapas menu! Let the healing and grilled calamari begin.

More good news, Petworthians and fans of al fresco pizza: Our new favorite None-Dare-Call-It-PoP blog, Petworth News, reports new outside seating at Moroni and Brothers. Watch out for stray cars!

Photo of Park Road row houses by our friend in D.C., Mr. T.

Upset the Setup is upset about the setup even one Red Bull gives him. Too bad the bro boost makes your blood go sticky, a condition not unlike that of stroke victims. But thanks, Mom, for letting us know!

The AP, via WTOP, reports the inevitable: The Phelpstival. He’s coming home! He’s coming home! The greatest human being alive is coming home!

In other Olympics news, 18-year-old all-around champ Nastia Liukin was denied—denied—the gold in uneven bars because of gymnastics math, leaving Elfi Schlegel and Tim Daggett apoplectic. Better luck in four years, Nastia, when China’s golden pixie, He Kexin, will no longer be 14.

Over at Endless Simmer, we can all breathe a sigh of… crostini. Dr. Matt passed his Ph.D. proposal exam, thanks in no small part to all the power snacks with which he plied the reveiw committee. Phew!

Who needs PoP and his lawn art? We can get all our Petworth news from Petworth News. PN has been mining the listserv and dug up this tasty bit about a pushy rep from Pinnacle Security.

He continued to disrespect me and insult me, going so far as to call me a “horrible mother,” “a basketcase,” and “crazy.” I ordered him off my property, at which point he taunted me and told me, “Go ahead and call the police.” …The sales rep headed down the street, then turned back around and approached the house again, this time telling me I was lucky I was a lady, or…

We’ll leave you to fill in the rest.

(photo from Mr T. in DC’s photostream, swallowtail at Dumbarton Oaks.)

This weekend, my true love and I got Paul’d. Again. Getting Paul’d is what happens when you try and follow Paul Elliott’s convoluted directions, along with his purple prose, in his infamous (in some circles, anyway) 60 Hikes Within 60 Miles: Washington, DC. We’ve done about half the hikes in the book, which has its gems. But this is typical:

Touch not the electrified anti-deer fence….Look around. In the warm-weather months, deep in the sunny thickets, dragonflies seemingly hang like blue threads in the still air.

Instead of a simple trail map or enumerated directions, Elliott goes on and on in loping, interminable paragraphs, often starting hikes anywhere but where they should start. Go to parking lot A, walk around it thrice, then proceed to parking lot B where you will find charming cracks in the curb. Observe, then walk purposefully toward the trailhead… (I jest, but not by much.) The thing is, the guy’s got D.C. hikers by their SmartWools. The wonderful books and maps put out by the Potomac Appalacian Trail Club just don’t cover all the parks and hikes in our region. And, well, Sugarloaf and Rock Creek and Great Falls are nice and all, but sometimes you need variety. Sometimes, apparently, you need to get Paul’d.

For example: Elliott’s book is the only one I know of with a trail guide to Piscataway Park, an interesting spot in PGC, across from Mount Vernon on the Potomac. It’s full of marshy critters, farms, and people in colonial garb picking gourds. (I’m not kidding. We saw them do it yesterday.) But instead of taking the obvious trails, he has his intrepid readers going through open fields and following roads that curve to the right that don’t actually curve to the right. They dead-end. And I love this sentence: “Instead, turn right and walk about 50 yards uphill—to a sixth junction.”

Aaaaaarrrrgghh!!! Who wants to count “junctions” when you’re trying to take a walk in the woods??

Quick! Bring your dogs to Marie Reed to poop all over the kickballers’ field! Bring them to romp and dig into the baselines where kids from the learning center play! Clearly, this park belongs to dogs and their owners. Never mind there’s only a single coat of paint over “NO” and “AT ANYTIME.” No one paid any attention to the original sign anyway. Never mind there’s an actual dog run up the hill at Walter Pierce. I get it. It’s too far to walk. That would be, like, giving you and your dog way too much exercise. Maybe you’ve heard this all before. I know I have.

Dino in Cleveland Park (3435 Connecticut Ave., NW) is, like, the Michael Phelps of Restaurant Week, truly unbelievable and smoking the competition. Really, you say? Can Dino be that good? Can Dino be completely and utterly peerless?

Tell me about the menu: Everything’s on it, Phelps Phans, not just three paltry dishes for each course. The only up-charge is for some ridiculously large steak. If you want some ridiculously large steak, why are you at a “rustic Italian” joint in Cleveland Park? Why are you not home watching Michael Phelps listen to his iPod?

Rather stay home and watch Michael Phelps listen to his iPod while Rowdy Gaines endlessly oogles him? Restaurant Week at Dino is Restaurant Month, through the end of August. Phew! Phelps!

How about the booze? Wine list is large. It’s on a clipboard. There’s another edited, annotated version for non-sommeliers. It includes clues like “explosive” and “bracing.” So does Rowdy Gaines when he’s oogling Michael Phelps. Go with wine, which comes in a 5 oz. or 8 oz. pour. I started with a G&T while waiting for a friend and it was just shy of $11. It was “bracing” and all, but not worth $11 and not worth missing Michael Phelps swim a 200 IM heat, winning while still conserving energy.

What if I like cheese as much as I like Michael Phelps? You’re totally in luck. Instead of the graham-nut apple crumble topped with black peppercorn gelato, you can get a selection of cheeses for your third course. But why would you want to? Only Frenchies do that and did you see the way Michael Phelps‘ relay team SMASHED the Frenchies in the 4 by 100? Because Rowdy Gaines did and he thought it was AWESOME. U-S-A!!! U-S-A!!!

Can I have some more booze please? Yes, yes you can and—get this—it’s free! Dino, in an unprecedented RW move, offers a complimentary pour of dessert wine, grappa, or (for the non-boozer) limoncello. Michael Phelps would order the limoncello, Rowdy Gaines? Total grappa guy. You decide.

So how’s the food? O-M-G!!! O-M-G!! It was like Michael Phelps did a flipturn in my mouth! Get the caprese salad. The heirloom tomatoes are gold-medal contenders right now. By next week, they may be only bronze, but next week Michael Phelps will be the greatest human being of all time and you can again leave the house.

Roosh V, no longer the blogger known as the DC Bachelor (he’s moved on over to Rooshv.com), finds that since he quit his job as a microbiologist to, among other things, self-publish a book about how to get laid, is still getting laid. It’s just by another type of girl. One who doesn’t care about money and doesn’t hang out at, say, Lima, Park, or Indebleu. A girl Roosh V will, for lack of a better turn of phrase, call a “down-to-earth hippie girl who likes hummus and art.” These girls, according to Roosh V, hang out at, say, Bossa, Marvin, and the Reef. Just FYI.

Also FYI: Roosh V is following his bang-up book Bang (no subtitle by intention so that dudes can read it in coffee shops without everyone knowing they’re losers looking for advice on how to get laid) with another as-yet-untitled book about how to get laid in South America. Roosh V—a 29-year-old U of M grad now living in his dad’s basement in Silver Spring—took an extended trip there upon leaving the soul-sucking existence some call a job. Brazillian “game” will be interspersed with some travel writing, he says.

“Brazillian girls, they’re completely different,” says Roosh V. “They’re warmer. They’re more sensual. They don’t expect you to do anything but show up.”

He’s still deciding if he should self-publish the sequel or try and go for it within the soul-sucking existence some call legitimate publishing. In the meantime, he is chronicling the “14 Problems With Americans in One Picture.” No. 2: Bad Hair—”Men who dip their heads in buckets of pomade wax. Women who don’t let their hair grow out to proper feminine length (small of back).”

(photo courtesy of bangfieldguid.com)

Holly Hughes, editor of the much-loved Best Food Writing anthologies, has discovered what we here at City Paper have known for some time: Tim Carman is doing great work when it comes to telling food stories.

We also have to agree with Hughes that Carman’s Young & Hungry column in defense of fat and the processed food he dares to love is among his best. “Fat’s What I’m Talking About,” which ran in the March 28 edition, will appear in Best Food Writing 2008.

Here’s a sample:

Ever since that Crisco cookie, I’ve reconnected with some of the foods, or some of the places, I used to like before I felt the need to squirrel away my pedestrian eating habits. You know what? I still really like the Burrito Supreme at Taco Bell, particularly when the pimply kid pumps the sour cream evenly across the beans, shredded lettuce, cheddar cheese, ground beef, and diced tomatoes. I also can’t believe how much I drool over the crumbly biscuits at Popeyes; they’re even tastier after you slather them with strawberry jam squeezed from a packet. And I swear that some days the cracker-crust pizza at Stained Glass Pub in Silver Spring tastes better than any of those boutique pies—especially when you can play Buzztime trivia while eating.

The book, out in the fall, compiles the best writing from newspapers, magazines, and, in recent years, blogs. Past editions have included well-known food writers Ruth Reichl, Jeffrey Steingarten, R.W. Apple, Calvin Trillin, and Todd Kliman (former columnist at City Paper and current dining editor at Washingtonian), among others. We’re delighted that Carman, who has been writing the Y&H column since March 2006, is in their deserving company.

…I thought the movie theater’s manager was toast. Toast, I tell ya. He was swarmed—swarmed!—by middle-aged ladies who had to wait in line to enter a documentary screening because they had pre-purchased their tickets online. Meanwhile, people who just walked right up to the ticket booth were able to then walk right in. It was scandalous! They wanted answers! The manager told them that the Internet tickets guaranteed them a seat, but the staff still had to scan in their printouts. The scanning part was the reason for the line.

“That’s not the way it’s supposed to work!”

“What’s the point of pre-purchasing!”

“This isn’t what happens with Fandango!”

“I want to talk to a manager!”

The best part? The ladies made all this ruckus entering a documentary about the Chilean judge who, after investigating the murder and disappearance of thousands and the god-awful torture of thousands more, indicted Augusto Pinochet. The General and the Judge was a moving, courageous film that proves living in or near Chevy Chase, D.C., is not all that bad.

The judge (Juan Guzman) was there, as was the filmmaker, Elizabeth Farnsworth, former senior correspondent and fill-in anchor at the NewsHour with Jim Lehrer. The post-film panel was moderated by Lehrer. Margaret Warner was there, too. In other words: Way to klass up the joint ladies!

Truly, though, see the film. It airs as part of the P.O.V. series on PBS. WETA will show it Wednesday, Aug. 20, at 10 p.m.

FlexPetz, the dog-sharing company I wrote about yesterday, does still plan to come to D.C. following its expansion to Boston, despite the modern-day “witch hunt” set off in Massachusetts (which passed legislation this week banning pet rental companies). This comes by way of a spokesperson named Simon who would not give his last name, says he does not actually work for the company (he’s helping out a friend), but did return my call.

My hunch is the “spokesperson” who called me is Simon Brodie, listed as CEO of a company that—at least at one point—owned FlexPetz, although when I called Simon back he denied this and also declined, again, to provide his last name. Simon Brodie, from Britain (the Simon who called me had a British accent, which I’m sure is a coincidence), pleaded guilty and served time there on false accounting charges. He later moved to San Diego, where he founded Allerca, a company that sets up franchisees to sell controversial, specially-bred hypoallergenic cats for as much as $6,000 each. The company was evicted from its headquarters (also Brodie’s home, according to the San Diego Union Tribune) and has been sued by its landlords for failure to pay rent and by Orange County for loan default.

In addtion, the Union Tribune dug up a few more tidbits in October 2006:

Brodie and two other Brodie-affiliated companies, Cerentis and IntegraAssociates, also defaulted on a $72,280 promissory note, according to Los Angeles County court records. Last year, Brodie tried to raise $500,000 to fund an Allerca subsidiary, animal diagnostics firm GeneSentinel, of which he was chairman, president and chief executive. At the time, GeneSentinel listed assets of $3,000 and debts of $200,000.

This year, Brodie laid off some of the GeneSentinel employees; three former employees allege GeneSentinel owes them thousands of dollars in unpaid wages. Brodie acknowledges wages are owed to an unspecified number of former employees. GeneSentinel has since changed its name to Cyntegra.

Brodie’s connection to PetFlex was originally put together by the blog Itchmo: News for Cats and Dogs, which found his name in an SEC listing for Tetros, Inc. FlexPetz states it is “wholly a subsidiary of Tetros, Inc.” Tetros has since been sold to another company, ColdStar Capital.

Oh, and if FlexPetz does come to D.C., Simon acknowledges it will cost members about $280 a month for four doggy days. The dogs, which Simon says are donated to FlexPetz, are made available for adoption by members who want to be sole owners. All of the dogs in the New York office have been adopted while FlexPetz regroups and rethinks its expansion.

“It’s really a novel concept,” says Simon No-Last-Name. “In D.C., alone, we have two or three people every day who want to sign up.”