Msnbc.com posted an article today about New York City’s new legislation requiring city restaurants to post calorie counts in the same size and font as the food price.

New Yorkers have been in the throes of sticker shock since this spring when the Big Apple became the first city in the country to implement a law forcing chain restaurants to post the calorie count of each food in the same size and font as the price. … Many New Yorkers are finding that even the foods they thought were lower calorie really aren’t. … Outside the Forest Hills’ Dunkin’ Donuts, Juan Restrepo, the 45-year-old owner of a construction company, said he was quitting corn muffins — 510 calories! — this time for good. … Vicki Freedman, who lives in Manhattan, watches her weight and always tries to choose a light option when eating out. But the 26 year old just discovered that the Friday’s pecan-crusted chicken salad, served with mandarin oranges, dried cranberries and celery, has 1,360 calories.

I think this law is brilliant. Those three- or even four-digit numbers displayed next to innocent-looking cookies, frappaccinos, and even salads will surely bring accountability back to eating. Those who dread stepping on the scale may be most daunted by the new law, but I think it’ll do us good. This law may be a catalyst for restaurants to choose healthier ways of preparing dishes.

It might make some people upset to have their meals “ruined,” but that frustration would be short-lived. Eating healthy and giving up the fettuccine alfredo can be a drag, but it’s like exercise: you don’t want to do it, but you feel pretty good later for doing it.

The article mentions similar laws being implemented in Seattle, Santa Clara and San Francisco by the end of the year, which is absolutely fantastic. I think DC should follow suit. Plus, if we already had a law like that here, I probably wouldn’t have eaten (and now feel so sick from gorging on) a burger and milkshake for lunch.

I use the D.C. bike map a lot—I especially appreciate its ratings of streets’ respective suitability for riding. (E.g.: 14th Street NW north of Thomas Circle is splendid; south much, much less so. But wow, is Ride the City’s route tool for New York City awesome. Put in your starting and ending points, and it’ll calculate the safest route, a safe route, or the quickest route. Just thinking out loud (or as I like to call it, “blogging”) here, but what would it take to get something like this fired up for this area?

(Helmet tip: TheWashCycle)

Some people want to believe D.C.’s sneakers-with-stockings fashion days are over. Sure, this is a conservative town, goes the argument, but conservative can be classy, sophisticated, and innovative–and then, of course, there are some people that completely reject the traditional look. A few street fashion blogs have popped up to chronicle our evolution. Rachel Cothran, creator of Project Beltway, seems to be at the forefront of this trend. She not only runs her own site, but also posts on Washingtonian magazine’s website.

But, in the world of style blogs, there’s no one bigger than “The Sartorialist,” aka Scott Schuman, the granddaddy of American street fashion. His photos appear on Vogue’s website and in GQ’s pages. And now, they’re also heading for Adamson Gallery on 14th Street. The show runs from March 15 until April 26, according to Schuman’s blog. Perhaps this exhibit is some great nod to D.C.’s burgeoning fashion consciousness. The gallery owner must have believed a good number of people here would give a damn about the photos.

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The Post’s New York correspondent David Segal attacks bedbug hysteria today, pointing out the problem with reporters calling pest-control companies looking for evidence of a resurgence of the evil little critters. He makes a compelling case that the return of bedbugs has been overstated, to say the least, in the press, noting that the New York Times alone has done 12 bedbug stories in the past half-decade.

My last year in New York was 2002, a year before the media fever, but as usual I was on the cutting edge—our apartment in Brooklyn got infested by bedbugs. It happened after a trip to Richmond, and I’ve always figured the shabby hotel we stayed in there was to blame. The first thing we noticed was bites on our legs, then small blood stains on the sheets. Then we started seeing them.
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December is a month of “best ofs”: books, magazines, TV shows, the whole pop culture shebang. Frequently, these choices are predictable. But, this month’s GQ “Men of the Year” issue offered up (to me) at least one unfamiliar, interesting character: David Chang, the chef most worthy of praise and recognition, according to the magazine’s food writer Alan Richman. Chang is the creative force behind New York City’s Momofuku Noodle Bar, Momofuku Ssäm Bar, and the soon-to-open Momofuku Ko. This May, Chang was named “Rising Star Chef of the Year” by the James Beard Foundation for his work at Momofuku Noodle Bar. According to a May New York Times article, Chang grew up in Vienna, Va., the youngest of four boys. His father, a South Korean immigrant, owned two bistros and a golfing goods warehouse.

The best parts of Richman’s article are Chang’s quotes:

About the pork-heavy menus : “We do not serve vegetarian-friendly items.” Just to rub a little suet in the wound, Chang says, “Vegetarians are a pain in the ass as customers. It’s always ‘I want this’ or ‘I don’t want that.’ Jesus Christ, go cook at home.”

About his clientele: “When I worked at Café Boulud, I hated making food for East Siders. I hate their air of superiority. I hate investment bankers. I don’t want Momofuku Ko to come off as elitist or snobbish. I don’t want shithead bankers and the friends of dickhead traders who spend thousands.”

About servers vs. cooks: “I know nobody expects to make money as a cook, but cooks have to live, and they can’t live on $300 to $400 a week. It makes me mad that cooks are treated like shit and servers say, ‘Well, you choose your profession.’ Whatever you guys say, you don’t work as hard as cooks, so go fuck yourselves.”

Getting to New York City is a pain in the ass. Amtrak’s too expensive. Peter Pan buses are overpriced, and air circulation and clean seats don’t seem to be a company priority, in my experience. Reviews of all those Chinatown lines have been so mixed, I’m afraid try them.

But last summer, I thought I found my solution: Vamoose Express Bus Service. At $25 for a one-way ticket, the rides were cheaper than Peter Pan’s, the buses were cleaner, and service was pretty much on time. What a godsend.

This past Saturday morning, as I waited in Bethesda for my Vamoose bus to arrive, my good fortune seemed to be coming to an end. According to a company representative, Vamoose drivers had gone on strike. There were still buses running, but not as many. A few people had seats, and to everyone else: enjoy your weekend, and best of luck getting to NYC.

I got a spot. But I figured my future stress-free travels to Manhattan were over: Vamoose was joining the ranks of the unreliable.

Well, maybe not. When I called Vamoose today to inquire about said strike, I found out it never existed in the first place, according to company spokesperson Florence Bluzenstein. The company representative made up the strike to cover for a driver who simply forgot to make a second stop in Bethesda, she said.

Seriously? I asked. Bluzenstein’s response follows.

“I don’t understand it either. I was in Florida…This was an employee we hired just temporarily for the weekend. He messed it up. He thought it was very funny, he didn’t realize that it wasn’t funny. We had two buses, and a third was supposed to come from the other stop…instead of just telling people the truth, he thought it would be very funny to say the drivers were on strike. He thought it was a cute option. We found out about it when the e-mails started to come in. I was horrified because I had no internet connection in my hotel for a day. I called the office and said ‘what is going on? Why are people asking about a strike?’ That’s when I found out about it. There’s nothing to worry about. It was a mix-up on the dispatchers end…but instead of calling someone up, (the company representative) just took it upon himself to make that kind of a statement…But, there was no strike. No strike at all.”

New York photographer Richard Kern is coming to town, and he wants you to get naked for his camera. He’ll be speaking next week at the Modernist Society series at Bourbon on 18th St.

I’ve recently soured on Kern. Here’s why:

His first photo book of smutty alterna chicks, New York Girls, came out in 1995, the same year I enrolled at New York University. I had only applied to one school, mostly because I thought New York was really punk rock. I had a similar take on Kern’s girls. Their loosely tied bondage, black eye-liner and magenta lips (remember Wet ‘n Wild #508?) represented a rebellion that was a few steps sexier and more dangerous than my own. Naughty, but hardly shocking. Of course, back then I liked New York Girls because I thought it was shocking to everyone else.

I checked out Kern again when I noticed the ads for his coming visits. My appreciation for has work has fared about the same as my love for NYU. (The only proud alumni I know are dropouts.) In the 12 years since Taschen published his first collection, Kern has wormed his way into the art world—with gallery shows in New York, Paris etc—.—and still clings to his role as smutographer of the subculture. He shoots for Juggs and Penthouse and has filmed videos for Marilyn Manson and Sonic Youth.

It took me a second to figure out why I felt revolted when everyone else still thinks Kern is super cool. I’m no expert, but I don’t think anyone takes him seriously as an artist. So it comes down to the porn, which is just really boring. The muses featured in his recent books have none of the deviance of a Bettie Page, or even of the original New York girls. Reviews praise Kern for shooting “real women” because he includes blemishes, the occasional belly roll and doesn’t do any touch-ups. But his real women stare at the camera, usually with no expression or a vaguely stoned come-hither look. And they’re not doing anything. Bettie Page made faces, snapped her whip, and tied up her friends.

I’d be curious to hear what it’s like for any local ladies who decide to indulge him.

Nothing makes me feel more like a woman than getting my hair cut. Well, that’s not true. Nothing makes me feel more like my mother than getting my hair cut. My mom comes from Baltimore, the so-called hair capital of the world. Like me, she sports a gravity-defying halo of big, big hair. And, like me, she’s serious about hair care.

I learned my hair lessons early. When you have hair like ours, you have to be creative. You have to work hard. When we saw Dirty Dancing in 1987, my mom scoured the credits, tracked the film’s stylist down, and made appointments for both of us.

Then my mom met Tonnee. Tonnee worked at a salon at the Plaza Hotel. He was sarcastic, flamboyant, and fabulous. It was love at first snip, and before long, Tonnee was teasing both of our hair into matching bouffants. As he did so, I marveled at how intimate my mom and Tonnee were. When she insisted on drying her own hair, Tonnee scowled and said, “One of these days, I’m going to fire you.” But he didn’t. When Tonnee quit the Plaza, we quit with him, following him from apartment to apartment in the West Village and Chelsea.

At some point in my teens, however, I rebelled. I dyed my hair red. I went curly. I developed my own hair regimen and became faithful to my own set of products. But I always craved the kind of relationship my mom had with her hairdressers.

Then, after college, I came to Washington and found Patrick. Patrick works at Bang Salon & Spa. At first, he was businesslike, perfunctory, but I wooed him with TV gossip and tales of my love life. When Patrick moved from the U Street Bang to the Verizon Center location, I moved with him. And when I brought my own products to an appointment a couple weeks ago, he smiled and promised he wouldn’t fire me.

It was the best pick-up line I’d ever gotten. “You walk like a New Yorker,” he said as I stomped from Starbucks to my office a couple mornings ago.

A New Yorker? I was instantly charmed. After all, I’ve always aspired to be a New Yorker. In fact, when I first got to college, I pretended to be one.

“Where did you grow up?” My dorm mates asked.

“New York.”

“Oh, really? What part?”

“The New Jersey part.”

Like most self-respecting (or is it self-hating?) New Jerseyans, I’ve always been proud of growing up near The City. At the same time, I was always ashamed of growing up just outside its bounds. It’s a complicated psychological state, one that’s stuck with me even after three years as a Washingtonian.

Since 2004, I’ve made D.C. my home. And I love it here. The neighborhoods, the community politics. But I’ll always identify as an almost-New Yorker. I try not to smile when walking down the street, I sneak sodas onto the subway, and I wear black like it’s my uniform—a fact that wasn’t lost on my suitor the other day.

“You look like a New Yorker, too,” he said.

So thank you, suitor, for glimpsing the New Yorker I always wanted to be.