Using proper grammar is important. But there is a time and place for calling someone out on poor usage. Like in school. Or maybe at the dinner table with your children. (Go ahead, comment on my use of fragments.) There seems to be some strange correlation between people who love dining and people who hate bad grammar—to the point where they feel they must comment on it in a chat. This often happens in Tom Sietsema’s Wednesday dining chats. Here are some snippets from this past week’s chat:

Investing:”a debate between my husband and I”?
No, “my husband and me.”
Arrggghhh.

re: No, “my husband and me.” : thank you, that’s one of my pet peeves.

Washington, D.C.: Not necessariuly for the chat, more for you:
“one of my favorite places to whet my whistle…” You “wet” your whistle, i.e. lick your lips to make it possible to whistle. You “whet”, i.e. sharpen, a knife.

What the hell? (And, yes, there is a typo in that last one.) Why do people do this? Here’s my theory of about five minutes: Eating is a base act. It’s a necessity. It’s about survival. And no matter how much you dress it up, the whole physical process is pretty unattractive. Some people have an insecurity about this and feel they must overcompensate and prove they are not just animals. They must prove that they are thinking people. They must make catty grammar remarks. Am I way off on this? Any other theories?

In a story about Prince George’s County’s emergence as the top producer of basketball talent in the country — Kevin Durant, Michael Beasley, every worthy Hoya and scads of other blue chippers came out of PG — I called the county “Ward 9.”

That’s a nickname for the county I’d heard forever — it’s been showing up in City Paper stories for at least 13 years. But a reader going by “Mos82″ ranted in the comments section that nobody who actually lives there dares use “Ward 9,” and that referencing the county as another DC neighborhood is insulting.

I meant no disrespect. But, a simple Google search would have revealed that Mos82 ain’t the only one bothered: The Urban Dictionary calls “Ward 9″ a “derogatory reference” to PG.

I thought PG enjoyed being thought of as part of the city: I don’t remember hearing any county natives complaining about the Washington Redskins, Washington Capitals, Washington Bullets using the city’s name while calling PG home.

And even one of the top AAU teams mentioned in the story, the PG-based DC Assault, wears its ties to the city on its chest.

But it appears I was wrong. So, why so touchy, county people?

A young woman I’m acquainted with just started a Facebook group dedicated to outing her ex boyfriend as a lying cheating bastard. It’s called “I hate *** ***” and has five members so far. Now the scorned lady seems to have some good reasons for being upset with the guy in question, also an acquaintance of mine. He went on an exotic vacation with an ex, lied about it, reunited with the current girlfriend and then posted pics of the steamy trip (clear water, bikini, frolicking) on, you guessed it, Facebook.

She explains:

So, look I know this group is ridiculous and immature and really classless, but I just cannot get over how unfairly this ended. I am over ****, I’m just not over the disrespect, you know?

You don’t have to actually hate *** to join this group cause let’s face he is pretty adorable and he is pretty great to go to a party with.

The only intention of this group is that *** maybe has to endure a couple of awkward conversations. Like what if a bunch of people went up to *** and were like “You got [scorned lady] pregnant? What the fuck?” That would be a pretty fun conversation.

Anyway, yeah, I think there is beauty in the breakdown and I kinda’ just want to see what life is like if I live totally impulsively. Good things come from bad situations right? And, besides I am about as dramatic as it gets anyway. Me and Britney…

Yeah, well. I think only bad things can come from this situation. It isn’t very nice and it could lead to even less nice developments, for *** and the rest of us. If I were a lying, cheating bitch, I certainly wouldn’t want to be called out on the internet. What about false accusations? Maybe *** is really innocent. I think this is the bad ending I feared from another Facebook group scandal in Portland, Ore. My friend Beth wrote an awesome story about a group, called “Morgan Shaw-Fox is a Piece of Shit Rapist.” It concerned a student at Lewis & Clark college, who several people suspected of being a piece of shit rapist. Problem was, they didn’t go to the police first. Some of my friends thought the group was a good idea, a viable choice in a society where women’s claims of rape often don’t stand up in court. And that’s a good point. But I really, really think the whole rule of law thing is still more important. Right?

We learn from Philebrity - via Doree - that the National Main Streets Conference, in Philadelphia, will include a seminar entitled, “Understanding the Hipster.” To wit:

What is a “hipster,” precisely? We struggle to understand these peculiar sorts — with their deliberately-unkempt look, their ironic t-shirts, their embrace of dead beer brands, and their Elvis Costello-like glasses. But it is critically important that we do so, given their willingness to pioneer neighborhoods, their role in setting trends, and their importance to the “creative class” economy. In this fun and interactive seminar, the speaker, who counts many hipsters among his friends, demystifies this vital psychographic, describing how they think, what they want in a neighborhood, how they spend their money, and much more.

I wonder what “interactive” means. Maybe fun games like picking out the best Elvis Costello glasses. Or how to tell an ironic t-shirt from a cheesy t-shirt.

The seminar’s leader, Michael J. Berne, sells himself as an expert in “ethnic, socio-economic and psycho-graphic “niche” markets.” He seems to have specialized, in part, in bringing chain stores to low-income urban neighborhoods. I found this charming quote in a blog about citizen concerns about steamrolling development.

“Let’s not romanticize mom-and-pops; the honest truth is some of these businesses do not deserve protection.”

This little gadget has some DC gun ban opponents all giddy. I’m not particularly anti-gun, but this seems a bit on the retarded side.

This afternoon, Charlotte Allen came online to have a little chat about last week’s op-ed. (The Post also just posted this great rebuttal to Allen’s piece, penned by Post legal administrator Caitlin Gibson and actor/writer Rachel Manteuffel).

The obvious winner was this question, posited toward the end of the chat:

Anywhere: Hey, Charlotte. Nice tits. Sincerely, a guy.

Charlotte Allen: Hey, Washington Post forum moderators: I thought obscene comments were supposed to be filtered out of this forum? How did this one get in?

Read the rest of this entry »

Yesterday’s Post has an interesting op-ed piece by Charlotte Allen asking why women are so good at screaming, swooning, crying, raising children, and decorating homes, and so bad at doing math, driving, and running for president. So, how dumb are women? A better question: How dumb is Charlotte Allen?

(image via D.C. Fashion Week)

Today’s front page has a photo of two cute women and their cupcakes, teasing a main piece in Food about Georgetownn Cupcakes. People are lining up, of course, because cupcakes are just so fucking exciting.

Except they’re not. Anyone can make cupcakes, people, with the exception of Warren Brown. His CakeLove cakes are the worst ever, although I adore when he tries to defend that popular opinion, as he did in an Ask Tom chat in 2005:

I have seen on-line @ Ask Tom several comments that state CakeLove tastes like lard or is dry and is hard. To me, this suggests that people are eating the cakes, cupcakes, and other pastries at temperatures other than room temperature. We’ve seen similar comments in the past from customers who were eating the product straight from the fridge.

Supposedly, the reason his cakes are bland when cold is because of all the “fresh ingredients” he uses. Or they’re just bland and cold. My ingredients at home may be a few more days away from the farm than ol’ Warren’s, and damn if they don’t taste like cupcakes, rather than “like lard.”

Truly, it takes no special skill to throw some batter in a tin and slap on some frosting, but every time one of these cupcake joints open, people act like it’s the second coming of Julia Child. Worse, this “trend” in D.C. is more than a decade late. As the Post correctly points out, it started at Magnolia in New York in 1996.

One bright spot: with D.C. so far behind New York in the baked goods department, we should be able to get a decent bagel shop in a year or two. Now THAT is something worth getting in line for.

Daniel Johnston performed Saturday night at the Black Cat. He sang pretty songs with awesome lyrics. He screwed up a few times. His arms trembled most of the time. He was wonderful — but the audience sucked. They cheered him on like a slow kid at a t-ball game. Girls and boys alike cooed, “We love you Daniel!”

Just because this guy is not really checked in, it doesn’t mean he needs our help getting through a show. The whole thing felt patronizing.

I’ve been perusing Craigslist hoping to find some affordable Radiohead tickets. I know, but I’m trying to be optimistic. And what I’ve found is exactly what you’d expect: Selfish assholes who are creating angry assholes. Here’s a couple of my favorites:

Selling 2 Radiohead Pit tickets. The only shot you have at being front row. Asking 300 a ticket OBO
NICE AD U FCKIN IDIOT THESE ARE 61 DOLLAR TICKETS GET A LIFE U FCKIN MORON

and

i just want to say that each and every one of you jerks trying to make a huge profit on radiohead tickets deserve whatever bad karma you have coming to you.
i truly hate you, scalpers.

and

I have two tickets to the spice girls section 121 row M on Thursday. I am willing to sell just 1 for $150 or both for $299. These seats are right near the stage! I am also willing to swap these (1 or 2) for equally good seats for Bon Jovi or Radiohead pit.

OK, there’s nothing asshole-ish about that last one. But it’s just amazing that the Spice Girls and Radiohead are in the same post. So, in conclusion, stop hogging all the tickets and get a fucking job, assholes. Hmm, maybe blogging makes you an asshole, too.

Dear everyone taking time to enjoy the outdoors today:

What a beautiful day! No better time to dust off that exercise gear and hit the Rock Creek Trail. Just one teensy request: Could those of you walking in groups please move to the right when you hear the polite “ding” that signals a cyclist’s desire to pass you? That way, those of us who use the trail all year long won’t find themselves cursing good weather.

Thanks,
The Truly Hard-Freaking-Core

These new citywide ads for Tylenol, which suggest ways to “Feel Better”–without Tylenol–are, on the surface, helpful hints to avoid the pill-popping lifestyle.

Instead of taking Tylenol, the ads suggest, lift some weights! Take a sick day at work! Lose just one pound–somehow, it will take four pounds of pressure off your knees! One ad, I cannot recall why, suggests sucking on a popsicle.

Whenever I pass by one of these ads, I can’t help but see the subtext suggested by the Feel Better: Tylenol branding in the corner. Go ahead, the ad whispers. Lift some weights. I dare you.

It would appear that these Tylenol ads assume that we lack basic information on how to function as human beings. Really, the ads assume that we do know these things, but that we’re too lazy/weak/stupid/old/shortsighted to follow them. When Tylenol tells us to lose a pound of weight instead of taking Tylenol, what they really mean is, Try to lose a pound. Just one. I. Bet. You. Can’t.

Thankfully, Tylenol’s bright red insignia is there to remind us of the easy way out. Why even try? I feel better already.

Here’s a rule that’s true most of the time: truffles and other varieties of stuffed chocolates taste gross. Especially when they come in heart-shaped boxes. Usually, more effort is put into concocting some strange filling (barf) than finding quality chocolate. The pineapple creams and gluey pralines come wrapped in waxy, flavorless shells of brown sugar. Yuck! Good chocolate tastes like something! This stuff, which I’m pretty sure Whole Foods sells, is damned good. One exception to the truffle rule is the salty/buttery caramel chocolate from Sahagun in Portland.

Not that I care about Valentine’s Day.

Spotted on Calvert Street NW this morning: Some rocket scientist riding a Vespa sans helmet. Normally I cheer on attempts to lighten the gene pool of IQs like his, but, seriously, Einstein—how about giving some thought to those of us who may be collateral damage when you have the inevitable accident on your fancy green moped?

I want a sweet picture of the members of Congress pointing and laughing at the people who live in the capital of a nation that denies them one of the very rights this country was founded on. The rest of the country probably won’t get it, so you might as well add the old “Taxation Without Representation” line on there. (Yeah, I know we’ve got license plates that say that, but think nationally, dude!) If you want to work Blelvis, a bald eagle with a tear running down its beak, or some bullshit cherry blossoms in there, that’s cool with me, too. Fuck yeah!

While we’re at it, the D.C. quarter should be missing a chunk equal to about 1/5 the size of a regular quarter to symbolize how much of that quarter the federal government is taking out of our pockets without adequate representation. I’d say drill a hole in the center of the damn thing, but I think it’d be better just to have a pie-slice-shaped piece cut out—and make sure that the edges are sharp, so that people slice their fingers open and bleed all over themselves whenever they try to use it.

Thanks for the fucking quarter, douchebags. Now, about that $257.17 you took out of my check this week…