Barack Obama is President now, which means that everyone can stop posting pathetic Craigslist ads seeking inaugural dates for watching him become President, right? Wrong. In the grand tradition of the post-election sex phenomenon, ambitious locals are still invoking Obama's name in the pursuit of hookin'-up, awww yeah! So far, this guy is my favorite:

Are we really committed to change?—39 (NWDC)

Today we celebrate the inauguration of our first black president yet it amazes me how much many guys on here have closed minds and a lot of racial hangups.

Are there any white guys on here that that don't have an issue with hooking up with blk or mixed race guys?

Me: 5'11, 198, vry masc, normal, DDF, exec prof, 39 y/o. workout regularly, decent shape, intelligent, respectful, fun.

You: White or mixed race, 21-35, normal, VGL, intelligent, fun, well mannered, ddf, vry masculine.

Respond with a face pic and I'll reply with mine if it looks like a match.

Serious reply's only please.

The line outside Ben's Chili Bowl still stretched around the block this afternoon to accommodate tourists interested in consuming a half-smoke in the establishment where President Barack Obama famously consumed a half-smoke just days earlier. Also, keeping in the grand tradition of celebrating things by making things out of other things, there's a sweet ice sculpture outside dedicated to out new neighbor. Can somebody tell me what this is supposed to make out? O-B-A-M-A? Whatever, I can't make any sense of it.

The Huffington Post points us to this video of members of the Westboro Baptist Church of Topeka, Kansas protesting Obama's inauguration yesterday on Pennsylvania Ave. From HuffPo:

NomadsLand provides a nice video of the Westboro clan getting worked over by the more well-adjusted crowd and giving their typical bizarre answers to everything. I especially love the part where one church member explains the crypto-zoology behind the size of various mythical beasts' horns.

My favorite is when they all chant "Anti-Christ! Anti-Christ!"

[youtube:v=T-pzlZPRvx8]

Also there are a lot of words for Jesus, but listing them still comes off as strangely exclusively Christian, no?

UPDATE: The full text of Warren's invocation, after the jump.

Let us pray.

Almighty God, our father, everything we see and everything we can't see exists because of you alone. It all comes from you, it all belongs to you. It all exists for your glory. History is your story.

The Scripture tells us Hear, oh Israel, the Lord is our God; the Lord is one. And you are the compassionate and merciful one. And you are loving to everyone you have made.

Now today we rejoice not only in America's peaceful transfer of power for the 44th time. We celebrate a hinge-point of history with the inauguration of our first African-American president of the United States.

We are so grateful to live in this land, a land of unequaled possibility, where the son of an African immigrant can rise to the highest level of our leadership.

And we know today that Dr. King and a great cloud of witnesses are shouting in Heaven.

Give to our new president, Barack Obama, the wisdom to lead us with humility, the courage to lead us with integrity, the compassion to lead us with generosity. Bless and protect him, his family, Vice President Biden, the Cabinet, and every one of our freely elected leaders.

Help us, oh God, to remember that we are Americans, united not by race or religion or blood, but to our commitment to freedom and justice for all.

When we focus on ourselves, when we fight each other, when we forget you, forgive us. When we presume that our greatness and our prosperity is ours alone, forgive us. When we fail to treat our fellow human beings and all the Earth with the respect that they deserve, forgive us.

And as we face these difficult days ahead, may we have a new birth of clarity in our aims, responsibility in our actions, humility in our approaches, and civility in our attitudes, even when we differ.

Help us to share, to serve and to seek the common good of all.

May all people of good will today join together to work for a more just, a more healthy and a more prosperous nation and a peaceful planet. And may we never forget that one day all nations and all people will stand accountable before you.

We now commit our new president and his wife, Michelle, and his daughters, Malia and Sasha, into your loving care.

I humbly ask this in the name of the one who changed my life, Yeshua, Isa, Jesus, Jesus (hay-SOOS), who taught us to pray, Our Father who art in heaven hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done on Earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, for thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever.

Amen.

Inaugural balls! We all wish to participate in them without paying. Last night, City Paper's Ted Scheinman and I entered the $350-per-head Kentucky Bluegrass Ball with naught but a press pass and a dream, and emerged with tummies full of bison burgers, commemorative bottles of Maker's Mark tucked beneath our coats, and valuable ball-crashing lessons learned. Now, we impart them to you. Click here for a list of tonight's inaugural events, then get to crashing.

CHOOSE YOUR BALL BY LOCATION. The easiest balls to crash are at huge, multi-use facilities with several points of access. That means you should hit the hotel balls before the ones at society houses, art facilities, theaters, or clubs. The Kentucky Ball was held at the Marriott Wardman hotel, which was also hosting a North Carolina inaugural ball and an inaugural conference of sorts—a perfect storm of crashing potential. With all these events raging well into the night, access was hard to control.

There are a couple clear advantages to hitting up a hotel hosting more than one event. First, if you strike out at one ball, you can stage an older, wiser assault on the hotel's other fête. Second, if you get caught draining the open bar at one ball and are asked to show a ticket stub, you've got an easy drunk-guy excuse: "Oh, I didn't realize this was [NAME OF BALL YOU ARE CRASHING]. I thought I was at the [NAME OF BALL YOU WILL BE CRASHING SHORTLY], to which I hold tickets."

LOOK GOOD. Wear a dress or a suit. Bring an attractive date. Don't be the dude who's hangin' solo in a baseball hat, trying to scam on the tray of passed mini quiches. If you are that dude, please, take of the hat, and bring a woman with you. If you're a woman, bring a man or a woman with you—it doesn't matter. At these sorts of events, there is strength in numbers—if you appear to be chatting pleasantly with a date instead of nervously waiting for our chance to slip into the ball, you may very well pass unnoticed.

Once inside, coordinate your stories. Decide whether you have a fancy job or a father with a fancy job who secured you a ticket to this ball. Also, it helps if your date is from the state which the ball is celebrating—or knows enough about the locale to fake it.

Amanda toasts to free bourbon.

WAIT IT OUT. The best way to get into a ball without paying is to secure a press pass (sometimes, printed-up self-made "credentials" will do), or enlist the help of a friend who has tickets. If you're lucky enough to know a sucker who actually paid to get into one of tonight's balls, ask if he'll smuggle his ticket out to you after he's already gained access. If he's too much of a pansy to attempt that, press him for details on alternate entrances, service stations, and bathroom routes.

Even if you don't have a man inside, don't give up just yet. Ball access is sometimes simply a matter of arriving at the event and waiting for the right opportunity—when you see it, sieze it. While it was more difficult to get to the Kentucky ball's opening "bourbon trail" reception without a ticket or a press pass, entrance to the dinner was made easier by the unregulated flow from the dinner hall to the public bathroom. That's a basic rule to all these events: Access gets more lax as the event continues, organizers begin concerning themselves with the ceremony of bequeathing Muhammed Ali a bust of Abraham Lincoln in a show of century-spanning Kentucky pride, and event guests all become drunker and more scattered.

Muhammad Ali hangs with bust of Abraham Lincoln

SECURE A PRESS PASS—THEN HIDE IT. We were lucky enough to secure press passes to the Kentucky Bluegrass Ball, but the golden tickets only afforded us access to the opening reception, not the dinner and post-meal dancing. At some point in the evening, dejected journos were asked to congregate on a cramped balcony to photograph goings-on from above. At this crucial moment, tuck your tell-tale press pass in your purse, clutch your bourbon close, and avoid the press handler who signed you in at all costs. At the Bluegrass Ball, our media wrangler was bedecked in a fabulous, Makers'-Mark-red ball gown, making her easy to duck.

If confronted by inaugural ball brass while clearly attempting to chow down free fancy food, make a judgment call. Either a) insist that your significant other, who is waiting patiently for you over at table 96, has stashed your ticket in his/her clutch/tuxedo pocket; or, b) flash the press pass again and insist that [NAME OF MEDIA HANDLER] has granted you access to the floor to do some close-up coverage. Know full well that both of these tactics could backfire, so keep this one Ace in the hole—you can always rely on an organizer's desire to not make a scene at their biggest event of the decade.

Once you've hidden your press pass, don't hesitate to flash it when you think it can take your ball crashing experience further. At cash bars, an official-looking badge (press or otherwise) may confuse servers into thinking that you don't need the $8 ticket all the other attendees are handing over for a watered-down whiskey. Remember that hundreds of hired help are working these events, many of them volunteers. Most of them will have no idea what's going on. Exploit that by adopting a false sense of confidence/entitlement.

STAY FOR DINNER. Those who did not have seated tickets to the Kentucky Bluegrass Ball missed out while invitees hung with Evander Holyfield and Ashley Judd, sang along as the Temptations serenaded Muhammed Ali with "Happy Birthday" and "My Girl," and munched on Kentucky delicacies like bison burgers, grits, bib salad, and pound cake a la mode with cherries on top. Fuck that. If you're going to crash a ball, crash it fully. Getting kicked out is preferable to giving up, and the nervous rush of bucking the rules means you're having a better time than everyone else there.

Crashing the dinner portion is a more difficult task than the reception because seats are limited and tables are assigned on official tickets. Your best bet is to mingle casually on the dinner floor until event organizers call for the second or third time for everyone to be seated. There will be several tables with empty chairs, but choose wisely. I'd hunker down at a table that's one-third or half full, and where attendees don't appear to be waiting on dates or holding chairs for other parties. Beware the completely empty table, which may be reserved for groups of late-arriving A-Listers. Don't be the guy who gets caught munching on the Temptations' salad.

SCHMOOZE. Once we found our perfect Goldilocks table—not-too-crowded, not-too-empty, but just right—we got to talking with table-mate Adrienne, who works in legislative affairs for a neurological surgeon association. Adrienne was enamored with my date's Kentucky heritage and his resemblance to acclaimed Hollywood actor Jake Gyllenhaal, and that came in handy. Remember that the people you're sitting with, unlike yourself, are important people who paid a lot of money to have a perfect evening at this event. Make these people like you, and you'll have made a great ally for when an event organizer tries to hassle you for your tickets later on. If a lobbyist, donor, or local news anchor enjoys your company, an attack on your reputation will be an attack on theirs, too.

Mid-way through the dinner program at the Kentucky Bluegrass Ball, my companion and I had a close call—a woman who had been speaking with Adrienne earlier approached to inform us that we'd need to surrender our tickets. "I don't think you have the right tickets," she said. "You're going to need to switch yours with these." Panic began to well in me—of course we don't have the right tickets, I thought; we don't have tickets at all. Before I could engineer an excuse—my father, who is occupied in the bathroom indefinitely, has my ticket in his tuxedo pocket!—the woman handed us two official tickets to the ball we were already attending. She flipped them over and winked; the tickets were inscribed with a special star on the back.

The woman left us and presented the same ticket to Evander Holyfield, who was seated a couple tables away. We learned later that the star on the back of the ticket earned us free special bottles of Maker's Mark in our gift bags when we exited the ball. Not only did we hold official tickets to the ball we never paid for—we now had tickets that gave us gift baggs for the ball we never paid for, and gift bags that had more free shit in them than most. Plus, we used the ticket to get another non-ticketed guy inside! And it was all because Adrienne's friend saw that she had taken a liking to us.

11:20 a.m. ... Jimmy Carter! George H.W. Bush! Bill Clinton! Trivia question—what is the unifying trait of all these old white men?

11:25 a.m. ... Now they trot all the kids out.

11:26 a.m. ... MALIA AND SASHA

11:27 a.m. ... Laura Bush, the patron saint of putting up with a historic amount of bullshit and still appearing to be a really nice lady.

11:27 a.m. ... Malia Obama's blue-and-black belted coat is fierce.

11:30 a.m. ... If I were George W. Bush I would cry all the time. I would be so sad.

11:33 a.m. ... I would give an ovary to meet Michelle Obama.

11:34 a.m. ... Sick of these Audi ads on my MSNBC live feed.

11:35 a.m. ... This funny white man is president, what the, since when?

11:36 a.m. ... In the grand tradition of only photographing Vice President cave monster Dick Cheney lurking behind other things, Cheney appears behind glass screen.

11:37 a.m. ... Vice President Elect of my heart Joe Biden with his trademark smile!

11:39 a.m. ... television reveals tons of people outside this thing

11:40 a.m. ... D.C. might explode. BARACK H!

11:42 a.m. ... "He's like the biggest baller in history" —an observer

11:43 a.m. ... okay everybody sit down the president is becoming the president now.

11:44 a.m. ... D.C. unrecognizable sea of humans

11:45 a.m. ... why is Dianne Feinstein indicating that America usually passes power through military coup?

11:46 a.m. ... Barack Obama first President elected in United States history

11:47 a.m. ... RICK WARREN time! Sweet inaugural goatee dude

11:48 a.m. ... God something something

11:46 a.m. ... why is it that everybody chosen to speak before the inauguration makes sure to make it the weirdest most awkward event in American history

11:47 a.m. ... so Rick Warren isn't being offensive just kind of not making sense

11:49 a.m. ... everyone is being totally morbid and negative all of a sudden after two years of the sexy Obama hope train

11:50 a.m. ... Rick Warren: "Sassshhha"! Tight.

11:52 a.m. ... Aretha is wearing the sweetest inauguration hat

11:53 a.m. ... Look at that bow!

11:54 a.m. ... I love how Barack Obama solemly observes all of this with the same facial expression

11:55 a.m. ... Apparently channel 7 is inserting random photos of "America" in case you forgot what it looks like ... the Golden Gate bridge!

11:56 a.m. ... Biden takes over for Cheney before Obama takes over for Bush ... Bush/Biden '09

11:57 a.m. ... Augh, they have to get Obama in before the clock strikes President!

11:58 a.m. ... They should really have gotten the long-haired blue tuxedo dude from the Kentucky Inaugural Ball covering Jimmy Buffett to perform this

11:59  a.m. ... I guess he was busy

12 noon. ... MSNBC CNN identifies all the musicians and lists their ID as simply "musician."  Thanks.

12:01 p.m. ... Yo Yo Ma happy!

12:02 p.m. ... Yo Yo Ma inaugural fantasy: "it would be awesome if 3 of his strings broke, and he just shrugged and then played the whole thing perfectly on one ... or on his own hair."

12:03 p.m. ... George Bush appoints John Roberts who administers oath to Bush replacement ... will the circle be unbroken?

12:04 p.m. ... these dudes are totally choking!

12:05 p.m. ... CANNONS

12:06 p.m. ... Oh my god you guys I didn't prepare a speech oh okay well I guess I can say a few words.

12:08 p.m. ... Obama is being kind of a bummer.

12:09 p.m. ... popping champagne in the coffee shop

12:10 p.m. ... just got a Washington Post News Alert: Barack Obama Sworn in as U.S. President.

12:11 p.m. ... Sound of crowd shakes television

12:13 p.m. ... dreams of Obama's father

12:17 p.m. ... Obama frozen on my CNN feed.

12:18 p.m. ... "slaughtering innocents" finally unacceptable under Obama administration

12:19 p.m. ... Big ups to the nonbelievers

12:20 p.m. ... Obama values builders over destroyers ... better than uniter, not divider

12:21 p.m. ... a bunch of national guard dudes hanging out outside my corner liquor store, 5-6 of them ... waiting for what?

12:24 p.m. ... First act as president pretty good.

12:25 p.m. ... Okay, inaugural feed cut off at Big Bear Cafe, replaced by Beyonce's "Crazy in Love" & champagne.

"I want to be in the City Paper!" announced the tuxedoed man. He, several other tuxedoed men, accompanied by several gowned women, were enjoying cocktails at the Marriott Wardman hotel on the occasion of the 2009 Kentucky Bluegrass Ball. "I am D.C.'s most successful hotel developer," he explained.

"Do you know of some sort of scandal I might report?" I asked D.C.'s most successful hotel developer.

D.C.'s most successful hotel developer considered the question. "Here's a scandal," he posited. "My wife"—indicating a lovely woman in a black ball gown—"will grab her breast"—indicating another lovely woman in a black ball gown. "You can take a picture of this," he added.

I agreed that this display might very well gain D.C.'s most successful hotel developer access to the City Paper's pages. Or at the very least, to www.washingtoncitypaper.com, I considered privately.

"What sort of subjects do you write about for the City Paper?" asked D.C.'s most successful hotel developer.

"I write a sex column," I explained.

The tuxedoed man appeared amused. "Let me ask you this," he said, lobbying hard now to appear in the pages of the City Paper. "My wife"—indicating the decollage of a lovely woman in a black ball gown—"is considering buying her breasts"—indicating the decollage of another lovely women in a black ball gown. "Do you think that's a good idea? As a sex columnist," queried D.C.'s most successful hotel developer.

"May I have your business card?" I asked the man, now eager to place his name in the pages of the City Paper, or at the very least, www.washingtoncitypaper.com.

"No, no. I cannot do that," he replied. "Sex is the one thing I will not talk about."

I gotta jump in here and offer my official support for the Labradoodle. Yeah, the whole designer breed thing is kinda chintzy; yeah, the name is really dumb. But check out this little 'Doodle who hangs out outside my neighborhood coffee shop, tethered outdoors so all may drink in its cuteness:

Awww! Look at that little Labradoodle face! Who'd rather be staring at a monstrous Portuguese Water Dog's mug right now? Gross!

Awww! Watch how the Labradoodle gets its little legs suck in its leash, in a display of cuteness completely unknown to the Portuguese Water Dog Owning community!

Awww! The Labradoodle thinks it's people, unlike the Portuguese Water Dog, which has no friends and rarely graciously poses for photographs! What does this Portuguese Water Dog look like anyway? It sounds very gross and ugly to me!

AWWW! Foiled again by the notoriously sneaky Portuguese Water Dog, far superior in surprise cuteness to the pedestrian—in fact mousy—Labradoodle breed.

Who needs the cast of the "Hills" when you have these famous figures of history and fantasy?

I ate one of these!

This nice lady did not know why dudes under 23 were not allowed in this bar, but she fed me shrimp!

Wolverine loves the camera!

... and this lady!

Wow!!!!

Where have you been during all this, Weezy? T.I.'s here. Jay-Z's here. Young Jeezy' s here. Diddy's here. But whither Weezy? And don't say "I've been hustlin'"!

Wojahn's partner, Dave Kolesar, says he was wary of the false party economy that sprung up after the inauguration, allowing any old institution to charge upwards of $100 for entrance. But after Wojahn dragged him to the party (which, yep, cost $100 a head), Kolesar says he was "pleasantly surprised" at the outcome. "It's great to be able to be part of the event," says Kolesar. "We wanted to do something gay, and we couldn't afford any of the other ones," added Wojahn. "If I want to see Rufus Wainwright, I'll pay 40 bucks to see him at the 9:30 Club."

In preperation for playing the clarinet in tomorrow's parade, Sirtosky said she underwent an extensive "Secret Service background check" and was provided with specialized credentials. While marching, Sirtosky says she was given a host of very specifica instructions to follow on the parade route—including to "never put our hands in our pockets," she says.

"Even if a reed breaks, we can't put our hands in our pockets to grab an extra," she told me. "Even if we have an asthma attack, we can't put our hands in our pockets to get our inhaler." Waving in the air to signal an emergency is also off-limits. In the case that something goes wrong, band members are told to remove themselves from the parade route and approach an official on the side.

Besides being part of the "exciting historic event," Sirtosky says she'll benefit from one high-security precaution—she and her bandmantes will be escorted by the military down to the parade route, so unlike eager lookers-on who will begin to file in much earlier in the morning, she'll get to show up as late as 7 a.m.

I just escaped from newly minted Town Tavern's "Bi-Costal 'Ball,'" a $125-per-ticket party that top-billed special guests from MTV's "The Hills." Whither Lauren, whither Brody, whither Audrina and Speidi? (At this point, I'd even take a JustinBobby). As if they'd be showing in this Adams Morgan den of defrosted-shrimp-appetizers before 10 p.m. But that's okay—in its first two days of operation, Town Tavern has proven that it doesn't need to deliver the C-list reality show starpower to trade in some pretty serious hype. The Town Tavern is the same bar that's blown up a bit recently for claiming to turn away men younger than 23, require collared shirts, and deny "unaccompanied" groups of men entrance.

Tonight, the hype stakes were raised significantly. Take a look at the $125 price tag on the ball tickets. Of the two-dozen party guests I surveyed, nobody paid anywhere near that much. In fact, nobody paid anything at all. Nobody! Take this guy, for example:

His name is Romero, and he's been drinking on the Town Tavern's dime since 6 p.m.! He indicates that he did not pay anything to get in by forming a "zero" with his fingers! I do the same!

Or how about these guys?

These men, too, paid nothing, despite the $125 price indicated on the tickets they do not hold! They won't even agree to show their faces at Town Tavern, but they'll come in and not party with the cast of the "Hills," who is not present! For free!

How about these guys?

These men are not displaying their hands, but if they did, they might be forming them into "zero" signs, indicating that they did not pay anything! Early on, I asked the rightermost gentlemen in this photo how they managed to gain access to this Very Exclusive Club Event without paying any money. They indicated that the man on the left had the "connections" to get them in for free.

"I hear you're the guy with connections," I said to the man on the left.

"If by 'connections,' you mean 12-inch cock, then yeah," the man on the left said.

This exchange was totally free and cost me no money!

Entering Town Tavern: Free. Eating a chocolate-covered pineapple at Town Tavern: Free. Partying with this lady (shirtless): Priceless. Someone's blushing!

These dudes gained free access to this exclusive club by agreeing to wear ridiculous promotional costumes! They sacrificed more than all of us.

These nice people from New York City were invited on Facebook!

Despite the inflated price tag which nobody—and I mean nobody—actually paid, this club was not without its exclusive touches. "Skewers" of chocolate-covered fruits and mozzarella cheeses circled the darkened pub! A professional photographer shot my friends and I three times before giving up with a snide "not so much"! Scantily clad women employed by the club danced to Journey! Dudes in Superhero costumes danced with these women, to Journey! Behold:

One party-goer (who got in totally free, knows the brother of a manager) said that all of this—the strict door rules, the strange dress code, the $125 tickets—was all part of a plan to make this "the classiest bar in Adams Morgan." He's not sure it's working. "I hate to say this, but I think they just want a reason to turn people away at the door if they want to," he told me. "I'm not sure the whole 'exclusive' thing is working, though."

The inaugural event bubble is bursting everywhere, but nowhere as much as Adams Morgan, a neighborhood that's high on party hype and low on political spirit. Before I left, I asked a couple of girls waiting at the coat check if they would text me if a cast member from the "Hills" actually arrived at Town Tavern that night. Less than a half an hour later, I received this text from one: "so i'm heading out but word on the street is that doug is on his way. Goodluck!"

Doug? Who the fuck is Doug?

Confirmed: Common!

UPDATE: Common was busy speaking on his cell phone when the person in his presence ended his cell phone call with the person who was in my presence. The person in the presence of Common stated his intentions to secure a photograph with Common when he got off the phone.

* No.

I entered Cafe Milano. Too cheap to check my jacket—knowing that I was possibly surrendering my one chance to have my outerwear mingle with that of celebrities such as George Clooney—I fumbled immediately toward the bar. The cramped space was gloriously packed with patrons who were not George Clooney. There, dining on salad green in the corner—a man who could be Joe Biden, but was not! There, sidling up to the bar—a pony-tailed man who could be a haggard Tim Robbins, but was not! Nestled next to him—a droppy blonde who could be Tara Reid, but was not! There, coming through the door—a red-jacketed cougar who could have been Cindy McCain, but was not, followed by a handsome young couple that could have been Rihanna and Chris Brown, but . . . wait! . . . nope.

I situate myself closer to the social nexus of the pseudo-celebrity crowd, leaning in to Cafe Milano's bar like so many lone, desperate women searching for their own George Clooney to rescue them from their luxurious, yet empty, social situations. I catch the attention of the bartender but do not order a drink. "Have you seen George Clooney?" I ask him. He ignores me.

"Have you seen George Clooney?" I ask a pair of high-heeled women. They clutch their drinks to their chests when I speak his name. "George Clooney is here?" they parrot back to me, excitedly. "Where?" I ask.

Depressed, I settle on conversation with a man who has been making eyes at me—a could-be-but-isn't John Cougar Mellencamp. He hasn't seen George Clooney either. I don't need George Clooney, he tells me.

How could he be so wrong? I retreat to the women's bathroom, where I sit atop a toilet and attempt to relay information about where George Clooney isn't via an abbreviated social networking/micro-blogging client. A woman knocks on the door but I don't want to go back out there—back to that miserable meat-market of non-Clooneys. For out there, there is not even an is-not-but-could-be-Clooney; none possess that easy charm, coupled with that rugged salt-and-pepper stubble, off-set by the cashmere of an expensive-yet-casual-crew-kneck-sweater, multiplied by a just-clinked martini.

The woman knocks again. Pull youself together, I think. Would George Clooney be holed up in the women's restroom, hiding there to avoid coming terms withe the fact that he may never, in fact, locate George Clooney?

I may never know for sure.

At left are images from an e-mail put out by a homosexual sadomasochistic group—showing what it plans to have available at the Doubletree Hotel Washington (1515 Rhode Island Ave. NW, just blocks from the White House) this weekend for a “pig sex” orgy scheduled to begin late Saturday night. At top are “slings” to assist sodomitic acts; in the middle are “rim chairs” to facilitate a “gay” perversion known as “rimming” (oral-anal sodomy: one man lies on the floor with his face pointing up into the other man’s rear); at bottom are large wood crosses for flogging and other sadistic punishments. A Doubletree Washington staffer said he was unaware that the conference rooms rented to the homosexual group were to be used for sexual orgies.

I'm still not sure where the "pig" comes in, but whatever, it's been cancelled. Writes Jones:

Because of the pressure that callers placed on the Doubletree Hotel, the event was cancelled.  "Americans for Truth about Homosexuality" had the following to say on their website about this issue: "Folks, we are ecstatic to report that the vile homosexual ‘pig sex’ orgy that Doubletree Hotel Washington staffers were denying was even scheduled to occur at their hotel—and which AFTAH exposed to the world—has now been cancelled by its perverted organizers." For those of you who called the Doubletree Hotel in D.C. because of the article; I say thank you!

—

"Hey, baby girl," he remarked to the woman sitting across from him.

—

"I'm half-Cuban, half-Cherokee, half-brother," he informed her.

"Wow, three halves," she replied. The half-Cuban, half-Cherokee, half-brother inquired as to whether she would like to party with him that evening. The Baby Girl declined. She and her male companion disembarked at the next stop.

—

"Everyone on this bus," he announced. "I apologize for my inflammatory statements and for the tone of my voice. I am sorry. I am. It was bad. It was not right."

—

"I apologized," he continued, speaking now only to himself. "I made a public speech. I said I was sorry."

In a stunning reprise of last year's "possible cougar" sighting on the UMD campus, a man who may or may not be John "Cougar" Mellencamp was sighted at the National Portrait Gallery today. Is this man, who is not facing the camera and could in fact be anyone, the Cougar in the flesh? Twitter tweeter Flyandmighty says yes.

Deleo's full account of her Nealon experience follows. Remember to tweet your own celeb sightings to @TheSexist, or e-mail them to ahess@washcp.com!

The Kevin Nealon Spotting was at Lucky Bar last night, midnightish. One of my coworkers spotted him and we devised a plan to get over there and talk to him without annoying him or making a scene.

He was already getting forced into taking pictures with a pretty sizable group of girls at this point. So, we decided that I would go up casually, not be interested in pictures, just him. And my coworker would sneakily take pictures of it all going down. So I went up to him and said, "Hi, you're Kevin Nealon." And he goes, "oh, you want a picture...?" I told him I wasn't interested, that I just wanted the pleasure of shaking his hand.

Now he was intrigued. He shook my hand, asked my name, and told me he was Kevin Nealon. I said that I was aware. We got to talking but I'm not quite sure what about (this was post-office holiday party—lots of shots were involved). But it ended with him asking me (and he called me by my name) if he could buy me a drink. I told him I could never turn down the opportunity and he could get me a Bud Lite, something cheap, nothing fancy. He end up buying me a Budweiser and we cheersed. The end.

Clandestine Nealon shot courtesy of Anna Deleo

In addition to my Sexist duties, I'll be covering the stars & bars on this long inauguration weekend. I'll be busy chasing after the Ritz's finest and Cafe Milano's worst starting tomorrow—party reports concerning cast members of MTV's The Hills are absolutely guaranteed—but I need your help! Catch Oprah re-living Obama and Fenty's Chili Bowl moment? Spy Clooney delicately sanding the elaborate sex toy he constructed in his basement? Catch SNL alum Kevin Nealon downing drinks at Lucky Bar*? LET ME KNOW.

Send all celebrity sightings to ahess@washcp.com, or tweet your tips to @TheSexist.

* coming soon!

Photo by Joe Crimmings Photography.

For this week's special inauguration issue, I profiled three locals whose hopes and dreams were nearly shattered even as audacious hope enthusiast Barack Obama prepared to assume the presidency. Read all about it—The housing bubble that would not burst fast enough! The Irish Obama novelty song the bridge closers didn't want you to hear! The birthday girl whose day was overshadowed by that other guy!

Photo of Irish American Democrats ball organizer Patrick Lewis, by Darrow Montgomery.

Perhaps I spoke too soon on the Baltimore Washington Black McDonald's Operators Association Inaugural Ball. On Monday, I posted the invitation (the only ball invite I received on this historic occasion), marking the event's $200 price tag with a snarky "Hamburgler" reference. Today, I received a follow-up e-mail from the association with a "sneak-peek" at the ball's guest list, which includes Washington Wizard Gilbert Arenas, Redskins player Jason Campbell, DJ "Big Tigger," scholar Michael Eric Dyson, and Mayor Adrian Fenty.

Nevermind that the Black McDonald's Owners Associations ranks somebody called "Big Tigger" higher than both Dyson and Fenty. Nevermind that I, too, appear on the ball's guest list. Agent Zero, D.C.'s most adorable and incomprehensible basketball-playing eccentric might be there!

I'm getting closer to believing that anyone would be convinced to pay $200 for this, but questions remain. Prithee BMOA: will the buffet include a Filet-O-Fish option?

Photo by Yogi.

* This 49-year-old local man would "love to have the pleasure of your company over weekend, Monday or Tuesday," ladies. Rest assured that this blond-haired, blue-eyed man about town "knows the dining and club/bar scene, museums, galleries, monuments, etc. pretty well." His "full-disclosure," however, requires bullet points:

- I do not have tickets to the inauguration or the parade.
- Ditto for inaugural ball tickets.

* Hey, this 24-year-old woman doesn't have tickets either. The difference? She's a 24-year-old woman. And she says she's hot!S: "oh and for those who worry that i might be some form of jabba the hut's reincarnate or something like that – i'm a fit, petite? (5'5"ish) brunette. and i don't have any slave girls."

* This "attractive, petite, social, college educated, female tourist from Manhattan" is sick of whatever punk keeps flagging her post for removal. Jealous? "Idk who keeps flagging/removing my post or why," she writes. "Perhaps its someone I chose not to go with. There is no reason to flag this post because there is nothing inappropriate in my add. I'm just going to keep posting it and eventually whomever is flagging it, is going to move on with his life.

* Well, someone's excited! "FREE JANUARY 19,20," writes a 54-year-old ALEXANDRIA VA woman. WOULD LOVE TO HANG OUT FOR SOME CLEAN FUN. AND SEE WHERE IT GO FROM THERE SBF, GOODLOOKING. LOOKING FOR LTR RELATIONSHIP WITH THE RIGHT GUY. BETWEEN THE AGE OF 50-58. LETS PARK OUR CARS AND HAVE FUN FIGURING OUT HOW TO GET AROUND THE CITY ON THIS VERY IMPORTANT DAY IN HISTORY."

* This 23-year-old woman needs a date to a party. A lot of her friends are going to be there, including her ex-boyfriend! Help her show him what he's been missing—if you are "Smart," a "Conversationalist," "Progressive," "prefferably attractive," and are "able to dress appropriately for a party," you could be the Craigslist stranger who goes home alone when she decides she's not over him.

Photo by Woody1778a.

Archie Battles, 24, was just getting started on the 18th Street strip at 2:30 a.m., well after Adams Morgan bars had dried up. "I get off late, and I like to go out at a fashionable time," says Battles. With last call called, he and two friends stand in position on the sidewalk, respectfully hollering at women who pass by.

Come inauguration week, those women-along with other drunken decisions concerning District sex lives-will be lubricated by two extra hours of bar time. To mark the occasion of Barack Obama's ascension to the presidency, the D.C. Council passed emergency legislation allowing bars to sell liquor until 4 a.m. from Jan. 17 to Jan. 21 (although some still have to adhere to their neighborhood voluntary agreements). You and an estimated 2 million to 4 million of your closest fellow Americans can now share in this historic event by becoming monumentally inebriated and attempting fumbling, ill-advised sex with each other. And if 4 a.m. rolls around and you have yet to zero-in on any promising prospects, never fear. Bars are free to stay open 24 hours for food sales during this magical time-meaning that you don't have to go home, and you can stay here.

So, how will D.C.'s single men spend their two extra hours with legal booze? That's an easy question for Battles, who aims to consume "more drinks," facilitating his pursuit of "partying like a rock star," a lifestyle that inevitably leads Battles and his buddies to "hit on women."

"Oh, I'll still be here," says Robert Thomason, a Washington Post news researcher who was nursing a pint and feeding the jukebox after Angles' last call on Saturday. Thomason predicts that with "crush level" crowds hitting Washington, area bars will be filled to capacity, and drunken hook-ups will follow. "We're talking the density of animals," says Thomason. "Any time you put that many animals together, they're going to get in each other's way." But the idea of being sidled up to several hundred drunken strangers won't deter him from hitting his favorite Adams Morgan bar-which is more than he can say for the U Street corridor. "It's better than being stabbed," he says.

Marc Engels, a 23-year-old UDC student who, at 2 a.m. on Saturday, was busy offering his girlfriend half-hearted Las Vegas wedding proposals, predicts that he'll spend the additional two hours "drinking more," he says. Engels, who hails from Germany, is more prepared for the inaugural bar hours than most. "Two a.m.? That's cute. In Germany, you can stay out until 7 a.m.," he says. Even a two-hour extension would be nothing more than a quaint attempt at a reasonable drinking policy by German standards. "In America, you say, 'Oh, we're drunk. Let's go to IHOP.'" In Germany, "it's not about getting really drunk," he says. "It's about looking to score."

One late-night Adams Morgan reveler, who identified himself as a secret service agent, was logging some off-duty sidewalk hours outside a Jumbo Slice (his friend was inside). Come inauguration, the 4 a.m. cutoff will allow him to "continue to drink, some more. Continue to get plowed." Although he says he will be busy on the job during inaugural daytime hours, he hopes the after-hours drinking will lead to extended hook-up opportunities. "I'm trying to hook one up tonight, shit," he says, before testing out a pickup line. "Feel my back pocket. Feel it," he says. "That's called a badge."

Though some bar-goers are hoping that extended drinking hours will aid them in inaugurating some new sex partners, the city's bartenders-those sober watchmen of the nightlife scene-aren't convinced more drinking will help their chances. Becca Schmidt, a bartender at Columbia Heights' Wonderland, says there are always those drinkers seeking late-night couplings who will exhaust their options. Some singles "hang out and hang out and hang out until our doorman kicks them out, finally, and they try somehow to get back in," she says. "When the bar clears out and it's just the people working there, it can be kind of intimidating [to try] to hit on the bartender. You're suddenly way outnumbered." But there's always the chance that late-night sex-seekers will find equally desperate hangers-on come last call. "There were a few nights when there were girls lined up along one side, boys on another...just like seventh grade," says Schmidt.

But though the booze will flow until 4 a.m., no emergency legislation will guarantee that the girls will follow. "I think it will actually be harder," says Roosh Valizadeh, local blogger and pickup expert. "With more time to drink, packs of guys are going to hit on girls with such bad drunk game that by 4 a.m., most girls are going to be completely unreceptive."

Photo by Darrow Montgomery.

In this batch of inaugural-obsessed Craigslisters, we find strange terminology and catty put-downs employed in the pursuit of the historic hook-up. Let's try to decipher today's postings, shall we?

* This 56-year-old, who is "in town for the most incredible event of my lifetime," is surfing Craigslist for "a woman to spend some time with during inauguration week." He has "no tickets yet," but is "working on it," whatever that means. More puzzling, however, are the man's stats: he describes himself as "SJM, 6', 195, fit, left of center." Who would cap a list of physical descriptors with the term "left of center"? Is this reference political, social, or, uh, more intimate? One lucky lady could find out!

* This 49-year-old "in town for the inauguration" [posting deleted by its author] is looking for a woman who is "5'4" or better." Wait—does "better" mean taller or shorter than 5'4"? All I know is that at 5 feet 4 inches, my height is at the outer limit of accessibility for desperate Craigslist daters. Score one for me!

* Somebody claiming to hail from "Dreamland" [posting has been flagged for removal] is none too pleased with this 44-year-old Dupont man seeking a "youthful, intelligent, energetic, interesting, skinny" male date for the inauguration. "I guess it was just a matter of time before some guys would whore out the Obama inauguration for sex," writes a poster in response. "Just didn't think it would happen so quickly. This is pathetic and SAD. This posting has been forwarded to Senator Reid's office."

* In turn, this 31-year-old poster is none too pleased with the critical poster from "Dreamland." "So you are mad because someone wants a date for the inauguration?" writes the poster, whose diatribe has, in turn, been flagged for removal. "What's wrong with that? did you send it to Senator Reid's office in case he needs a date? You are lame and stupid. Go back to your lonely bitter corner and stay there LOSER!"

Photo by BL1961

Photo via the Centaur Motorcycle Club.

Want to get into an inaugural ball, but not interested in this guy? Or this guy? How about these guys? No? That special lady looking to feast on inaugural spoils without playing arm candy to male unknowns can instead use her thinky parts to pen an essay "of any length" about "what the inauguration means to you." Awww!

Ten lucky winners will receive "[f]ree plane tickets for you and a guest, free hotel, plus tickets to the swearing-in ceremony for Barack Obama, the parade and one of the official balls," reports Michael E. Ruane for the Washington Post's "Inauguration Watch" blog.

Winners can, in turn, advertise their inaugural ball tickets on Craigslist in the hopes of securing a random stranger to invite along on the fanciest awkward social situation of the year!

Photo by by and by.

As the inauguration nears, Craigslist has been a-flutter with the romantic overtures of dudes looking for inauguration ball arm-candy and other dudes looking for inauguration week couch-surfing-with-benefits. Your best bets:

* This man-seeking-man inauguration ticket offerer has a range of interests, including "hiking, backpacking, mountain biking, snowboarding, reading, writing, cooking, dining out, watching movies, dancing, exploring the city and good conversation." Could you be his other interest? "I tend to like younger, or at least youthful, intelligent, energetic, interesting, skinny/lean guys who look at the world differently," he writes. Interested parties could get more than just a dance: "I'm also well-endowed and pretty damn good in bed."

* A recent widow based in Old Town Alexandria is hungry for French cuisine—and historic dancing. "I'm thinking about meeting at the nice French Restaurant La Gaulois in Old Towne, one of my favorite places. Wine, dinner, dessert on me," he writes. "I also have passes to inaugural balls—we can talk about—if that is something you would be interested in accompanying me to." For those with discerning dinner date standards, this Virginian comes highly recommended. He is a "very nice man, no children, upscale professional, nice house in Old Towne, former military leadership position, great job with job security, 6'3'', well cultured and well traveled."

* This inauguration invite is strictly local—this ticket-holder seeks "an attractive woman who would like to go with me to the ball and maybe even the inauguration itself"—as long as she keeps it in the neighborhood. "Please live in DC near GW (like FB, Dupont, Georgetown, Logan, etc)," he writes. "I have heard that traffic is going to be horrible and don't feel like getting stood up because some bridge is closed."

* This 48-year-old inauguration week visitor seeks three days of "clean and bug free" housing for "sleeping and rejuvenating for the next day." Interested renters net $150—and perhaps "a little fun."

"One of my goals will be to pass out business cards foldable but I am trying to create. www.stopthemurders.org your picture gets mine," he writes, adding: "I am 420 friendly but cannot participate."

* This 56-year-old unemployed Philadelphian "will pay $25.00 to you, for the privilege of sleeping on your sofa for one night, Inauguration Eve." The remainder of the post bears repeating:

I will provide my own food, probably take out.

All I require is a sofa, some blankets, and a sink for shaving, brushing teeth, and washing up.

I am quiet, will not disturb your routine. I will read or watch tv with you.

I will be gone first thing in the morning and will not need to return to your home after that.

Having said that, I am not crazy about long distance relationships. but I can return the favor if you travel to Philly and perhaps a friendship could develop.

Any race, any age, any religion.

If required, I can provide a photo ID (uploaded to email) in advance of completing the arrangement.

Thanks.

Photo by soundfromwayout.

Out of the responses that have included photographic evidence, Harris says he's narrowed his choice down to 10 possible dates. "[Four] of them are flying in to meet with me from out of the area," he writes. "The 6 remaining happen to be within a radius of the DC metro area give a take of 100 miles." One submission in particular, though, has caught Harris' eye. "I must await the return of what I think is a special person to return from Italy on the 30th," he writes. "An Italian TV station wants to document the whole thing."

The Italian beauty notwithstanding, women in search of Harris' spare ticket still have a chance to get on his dance card, but he reiterates they must include a photo of themselves. "some young ladies write a 2 and 3 page thesis on themselves," writes Harris. "However, they forgot to attach a photo."

* Hot on the heels of G. Keith Harris: Another guy claiming to have inauguration tickets wants you to be his date. This 46-year-old writes, "I got the call today from a Senator that I have a relationship with for over 10 years that told me I made “The A List”. So far at my table is Ben Affleck and Mary J and I will know more as the time nears."

* Local GLBT groups are planning their own inaugural ball at the Mayflower Hotel, Metro Weekly reports.

*  Slate's Dear Prudence doles out advice on dads who cross-dress. Hide it:

If your husband lounges around at home every night in a bustier, palazzo pants, and a wig, then I'm voting for repression. It's time for your husband to limit his dressing up to times when he's not with the baby. As your child gets older and mobile, your husband will have to take more steps to separate his fetish from your family life. Perhaps he will need to check into a motel occasionally when he just can't stifle the need to dress up as Madonna.

* File under "busted": Did Elizabeth Frisinger really accidentally text her dad on the occasion of losing her virginity? Follow-up: Did her friend really leak her photo and iphone screen capture to a radio station? Do you really text anyone on the occasion of losing your virginity? Doesn't Lizzy's dad seem kind of cool, under the circumstances? He texts!

Photo via trialsanderrors.

* Something for everybody! While Barack Obama gets his inauguration on, D.C. will also play host to annual pro-life Roe v. Wade protest the March for Life and the Mid-Atlantic Leather Weekend.

* In case this inauguration date isn't up your alley: Check out the other dudes seeking dates on Craigslist.

* Via the Washington Blade: Lou Chibbaro Jr. on last Thursday's apparent hate crime inside Southeast's Hong Kong Delite Carry Out.

* Pam's House Blend has videos and photos from this weekend's Gay and Lesbian Leadership Conference.

* In yesterday's Washington Post Magazine "XX Files": Wanda E. Fleming writes about surrendering to her surgeon after a cancer diagnosis and having her thyroid—and bra—removed:

She leads me to the operating table then suddenly whispers in a perfectly audible voice, "Oh, no! Why do you still have your bra on?" The attendants laugh, all three of them. Clueless, I join in. . . . She unhooks the back with the ease of a seasoned lingerie fitter. The confiscated item is pink with white lace, frilly and hopeful like something one might wear the night of a milestone anniversary. I clutch the back of my hospital gown and lie atop the table.

Photo via trialsanderrors.

Last week's Daily Beast feature which asked former Project Runway contestants to design a Michelle Obama inauguration gown—using only ridiculous materials and some pluck—accidentally asked the wrong Jay McCarroll to design the dress. According to Jezebel, The Beast actually contacted one Jay McCarrol, who has but one "L" in his last name, is not a well-known clothing designer, and has won no national reality television contests. McCarrol proved up to the challenge, however, taking the Beast at their word and asking a friend to sketch up a design for Michelle. McCarrol's buddy, a 20-year-old student, came up with this pretty okay design, above, considering that the anonymous designer could only use burlap sacks and American flags as material. Tina Brown's new Web-first outfit recieves a warning, while the fake McCarrol's young friend establishes herself as a front-runner for the next season of Project Runway.

UPDATE: I'd like to just comment here to clarify the headline of this post, because there's been some confusion in the comments. I'm not calling the lovely Michelle Obama nor the talented Jay McCarroll ugly. I'm calling the dress design ugly. Proceed to rip me apart for my misguided fashion criticism.