What a glorious time to be a Gen-X’er! Finally, and this is totally better than Kurt Cobain coming back from the dead, there’s a cultural meme we don’t have to learn from scratch: Hating the Rooskies! Georgia’s hardly the Rebel Alliance*, but whatever: Finally, I have someone to root against in the Olympics.

Let’s face it: Americans need an easily defined enemy. Terrorists don’t have a synchronized diving team, so they suck as an enemy. Or we can look at popular entertainment: The Cold War gave us movies like Red Dawn and Rocky IV. Bad guys in those: BAD! Terrorist movies either blow (Live Free or Die Hard) or tie themselves in knots making sure that all Muslims aren’t painted with broad strokes (The Siege). Or they’re plausibly terrifying (Flight 93), which is no fun at all.

So welcome back, you no-good vodka-snorting thugs, with your bad guys not even the liberalist liberal feels conflicted about hating. Tim Curry, brush up on your Slavic accent! Happy days are here again.

Photo by Flickr user jgarber

*Hat tip: Atom and His Package

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)

The black squirrel has spent the last century colonizing the District of Columbia—even earning its own Adams Morgan hotspot—and it’s made its rounds around the rest of the United States, too. Now, the black squirrel has popped up in England, and according to British tabloid the Daily Mail, it’s “left the grey squirrel population in fear.”

The black squirrel has done well in the District since its 1906 import from Canada. Despite its conspicuous coat, some scientists have hypothesized that the American black squirrel has survived through its dark fur’s superior solar retention. Cute.

But the Daily Mail has another explanation for the black squirrel’s newfound prominence in the UK: It cites a scientific study that claims the black squirrel is “testosterone-charged,” showing “higher levels of the male sex hormone testosterone—making them more aggressive and more successful.”

Throughout, the Daily Mail’s often-inflammatory tone turns this fluffy tale (get it!?) into a screed against the “aggressive” and “mutant” black squirrel—and it ends up reading like strange racial satire. The piece details the grey squirrel’s history of “driving its red cousin into the remotest corners of the country,” implies anti-miscegenation fears in noting that “female greys appear to prefer them [black squirrels] as mates,” and describes the black squirrel’s survival success as a “rampage.” It doesn’t help that throughout, the black squirrels are referred to simply as “blacks.”

I’m not talking about the housing bubble here (or this man’s rather bubble-shaped stomach). I’m referring to a red bubble on page 25 of this month’s issue of The Atlantic. The page holds a graphic showing the number of Immigration and Customs Enforcement arrests of MS-13 gang members in the United States from February 2005 to September 2007. The accompanying piece is entitled “How to Grow a Gang,” and it describes how MS-13 members deported from the U.S. are expanding their bases back in El Salvador, building their “coyote” immigrant transport businesses, and bringing more illegals back to the U.S. “Most ICE arrests have been for immigration related offenses, not criminal offenses. Suspected ‘associates’ are lumped in with gang members, which only reinforces gang ties,” writes author Matthew Quirk, who ultimately argues that the solution to this problem may be jailing MS-13 members here, not deporting them. (The article is not posted on the Atlantic’s website yet.)

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My buddy, Chad S., snapped this picture outside a fast-food joint in Sydney, Nova Scotia, home to the world’s largest fiddle. “I saw the sign,” Chad wrote me today via email, “pointed it out to everyone in the car (thankfully they shared my 4th grade appreciation of such humor), and I pulled the car over to record this historic event on film (well, digital).”

Chad denies personally removing the all-important “G” from the Harvey’s sign. Reason I even asked him is…well, Chad’s a vegan. He wouldn’t mind if the entire world thought Angus burgers tasted like a cow’s ass.

Nicholas Cassadine was sent to the Middle East to perform vulnerability assessment on U.S. military bases. He ended up designing an underwear line for gay men.

“I was in the mountains of Afghanistan and had a lot of time on my hands,” admits the 28-year-old naval officer. It was there, in Taliban country, that clothing company Disco Valante was born.

Cassadine says that Disco Valante’s model skivvies–like a skimpy brief with a star-shooting boom box printed on its ass–aren’t targeted exclusively toward gays. In a press release, Cassadine writes that the line aims to “speak to everyone’s sexiness,” but admits that “strength and interest would be more prevalent in the gay/metro-sexual community.”

With the catchprase “Style.Underwear.Lyfe,” it’s clear that Disco Valante aims to promote a lifestyle along with its underthings. The clothing line’s blog provides lifestyle tips including how to sculpt “killer biceps” to emulate tennis player Raphael Nadal, and “how to choose a great fitting T-shirt” (”if you have items not from Disco Valante, we recommend finding a local tailor and having him/her adjust your clothes to fit your body,” the website suggests). According to the blog profile, Disco Valente’s favorite music includes Michael Jackson, Sade, and George Michael.

The Village People’s “In The Navy” notwithstanding, the lifestyle isn’t one that typically jibes with military culture. But “there’s no conflict,” insists Cassadine, currently stationed in Qatar. “It’s just business.” Still, his mock-up underwear designs have raised some eyebrows around the base. “Some people in the office, they can’t help but look over my shoulder,” he says. “When they see me looking at a picture of a guy with his ass cheeks hanging out of the bottom of his shorts, yeah, they can wonder what’s going on.”

So far, nobody’s asking or telling. Cassadine says his own heterosexuality has not been questioned. “It’s just the oddity of a young guy starting a clothing label,” he says. “A clothing label that’s mostly underwear.”

Following his return to the District this summer, Cassadine hopes to debut his first pair of briefs as early as September, with t-shirts and other graphic apparel rolling out later. Cassadine plans on selling the underwear for 25 to 35 dollars a pair.

Update: I give you “Sex Panther,” a mock-up from Disco Valante’s underwear line-in-progress.

Arbroath, Scotland, is home of the Arbroath smokie. That’s what people in Edinburgh call ’em; in Arbroath they’re just called smokies! ANYWAY, enough about smoked fish snacks, because today Arbroath is home to a mystery worthy of Detective Inspector John Rebus! Some kids found a woman’s head on the beach in Arbroath, which prompted a local bigwig to give an amazing quote:

Patricia Millar, 54, chairwoman of the Royal Burgh of Arbroath community council, said: “This is the kind of thing you hear about in big cities. I never expected it to happen here.”

Yes, in cities we’ve grown inured to the near-parade of severed heads. Just this morning, I had to kick two out of the way just to get my recycling bucket out to the curb. Don’t get me started on what I exclaimed when I saw my kids playing Mongolian polo with the neighbors! Give me a home in the country, where severed heads make news again!

Photo by karen119

A shame, really, that the Post couldn’t get through the publicist to the author of the blog Stuff White People Like. But who really needs white people? In D.C., a multicultural city of the aughts if ever there was one, we’ve got the newly minted author of Desis 101, or What Desis Love, Hate, and Love to Hate. (To help out the white people, Desis are Indian-subcontinent people.)

Alka Kothari started the blog—which now includes entries on why Desi women store things between their breasts and why the Desis are “Loving to Be Using the Funny Grammar”—after reading Stuff White People Like. Sure, sure, there’s that whole immitation=flattery thing going on. But Kothari, 34, who is Desi, who grew up in the Chicago ‘burbs, and who now lives kind of in Shaw, off U Street, and not inconceivably in Logan Circle, takes a more anthropoligical approach. And it’s still funny. And educational:

When sitting down to a meal with Desis, one will often be asked earnestly and directly about the cut, color and clarity of one’s last bowel movement. Such questions are particularly common at the breakfast table as a means of gauging the dietary dos and don’ts for the coming day. After an initial assessment, a variety of pastes, spice mixtures, potions and pungent treats will be brought out in a special tin devoted to poop-regulation.

“I really want white people to read it,” says Kothari, who says she does bargain “crazy hard” like other Desis, but does not necessarily pull platters of fruit from her cleavage. “I’d love it if people here became more interested in India as a result….because there is this idea that Indians are going to take over. I mean there are a billion of ‘em, so it’s probably time the U.S. started learning a little more of the nuance.” And also, it’s way better than Stuff Asian People Like.

Some shots from Tuesday’s D.C. Fashion Week kick-off at the Ukrainian Embassy, from designer Aleksey Zalevskiy’s mutt-meets-drag-Jesus-inspired collection:

more after the jump.

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Last night, the Ukrainian Embassy hosted the opening of D.C. Fashion Week–or, in Ukrainian, “D.C. стиль тиждень” “вашингтонский тиждень стиля.” The kick-off runway show featured five designers from Ukraine, a host of towering, barely-teen models from Maryland, and plenty of chunky techno beats layered with Ukrainian chants and the occasional ABBA.

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In yesterday’s New York Times, an interesting spotlight on kimchi, a pungent, canned Korean fermented cabbage dish. Kimchi will soon make its debut in space, along with South Korean astronaut Ko San, who will reportedly consume the kimchi when he becomes hungry. Ko San and kimchi will set off to the International Space Station by way of a Russian aircraft on April 8.

The Times reports that the South Korean government “spent millions of dollars and several years” preparing the kimchi for space, including developing radiation that could replicate the fermented taste without involving bacteria, and reducing the strong odor “one-third or by half” in order to accomodate the delicate olfactory systems of non-Koreans on the spacecraft.

I’ve never heard of this dish before, which I imagine to be the Korean version of sauerkraut. South Koreans hear about it whever a flashbulb goes off. Apparently, “When Korean photographers try to organize the people they wish to take pictures of,” the Times reports, “they yell, ‘Kimchiiii.’”

Can’t Stop the Bleeding calls this “[p]ossibly the greatest video of all time.” I’m not sure there’s an argument to be made to the contrary.

The Library of Congress could have saved itself a heap of trouble by designating Scottish, English, and Welsh literature (I’m sure there’s Welsh literature) as simply “British”; calling it all “English” was boneheadedness of the first order. But it’s boneheadedness with a precedent; I’ve heard many educated Americans refer to the entirety of Great Britain (that’s England, Scotland, and Wales) as “England.”

The English, the Welsh, and the Scots are all properly “British,” and many people in Northern Ireland (the term “United Kingdom” refers to Great Britain and Northern Ireland) consider themselves to be British as well. Let’s use this opportunity to get this right going forward.

Incidentally, I can’t help wondering whether the Post’s headline for this story is an intentional reference to “Flower of Scotland,” the unofficial national anthem for Scotland, which refers to sending “proud Edward’s armies” home “tae think again.”

Yesterday evening, I ate Finnish fish and drank Finnish vodka in a transparent Finnish building. I sat with three Americans. One worked for the world’s largest newspaper. Another practiced architecture. A third was acquainted with my co-worker. One of the three disliked fish. Two of the three were affiliated with a club which provided them free tacos on Friday evenings with the purchase of a $1.25 $2.50 Corona. I am not affiliated with this club.

The American who disliked fish left the table momentarily to acquire more non-fish Finnish food. An older man sat down. The man hailed from Finland.

“What is reality television like in Finland?” I asked the man. I had previously declined the opportunity to ask the man from Finland about reality television, and since then, had become preternaturally interested in the topic.

“Reality television is the same in Finland as it is in America,” the man from Finland reported. “I do not like reality television,” he added, “as the morals seem to come from–“ he paused strangely–“Somewhere else.” I suspected the man from Finland was referencing the questionable morals of reality television produced in the United States. I sipped from my Finnish vodka. I was satisfied.

Earlier, the man from Finland had given a speech pertaining to Finland. He had stood at a podium and had spoken to a crowd of dozens. “The javelin throw is a classic Finnish sport,” the man had explained. “This house is a transparent house,” he had added. A slide-show had run, featuring scenes from Finland. The man had referenced popular American late-night talk show host Conan O’Brien. He had then fielded questions on Finland.

The American who worked for the world’s largest newspaper had leaned toward me. “Ask him what reality television is like in Finland,” the man had suggested. Though the topic had interested me, I had declined.

The American who disliked fish returned to find his seat occupied by the Finnish man. The American stood with his plate of non-fish Finnish food until a tuxedoed man procured him a new chair. The American who disliked fish practiced architecture, and appreciated the transparent building in which he was re-seated.

“We do have one reality television program that I enjoy,” the man from Finland continued. “It is based on survival.”

“Is it like Survivor?” I asked him.

“No,” replied the man from Finland.

Shortly, a man (also from Finland) approached the podium and informed the crowd of dozens that we would all be receiving a medium-sized bag of Finnish tokens upon our departure. The tokens included men’s facial lotion and a modest bottle of Finnish vodka. “I have not tried the lotion, but I hear it works,” said the man. “I have tried the vodka,” he added. “It works.” The bag also included two pamphlets pertaining to Finland. “When you report back on this event tomorrow, please reference this literature,” the man finished.

I am perhaps the only person who will report on this event, I thought.

As we left, the American who was acquainted with my coworker bid me farewell. “When you next see your coworker,” she said, “Please trip him for me.”

“I will not trip him, but I will tell him that you said hello,” I replied.

I glanced back at the Embassy of Finland. Somewhere inside, the Ambassador of Finland remained, though I could no longer see him. The building was not so transparent after all.

Washington is becoming part of a big family. The nation’s capital now has 10 sister cities—Bangkok, Thailand; Dakar, Senegal; Beijing; Brussels, Belgium; Tshwane, South Africa; Paris; Athens, Greece; Seoul, South Korea; Accra, Ghana; and Sunderland, United Kingdom. And it may be adding one more: Rome. Attorney and D.C. voting rights activist Joseph N. Grano says he’s attended two meetings organized by the Office of the Secretary to lay the groundwork for bringing Italy’s capital into the fold. Roughly 30 people showed up for a June meeting, and 25 or so came to a meeting last week, he says. Grano says he’s been pushing the idea for four years. Before moving to Washington some 30 years ago, he traveled to Rome. Despite the obvious differences—the quality of pizza being one—the similarities in architecture in the two cities floored him.

But what will D.C. get out of the deal? Previous alliances have yielded a nebulous bounty. Take Accra: The 2006 agreement between D.C. and Ghana’s capital gives vague promises of support and says the sisters will “exchange information and know-how in the field of urban (city) administration.”

When asked what we’d get from Italy, Grano says, “I’d like to see a greater appreciation of what D.C. has gotten from Roman civilization—and maybe an exchanging of people.”