From "Strange Days Edition"

Morning Roundup: Strange Days Edition

It's about time the GOP showed that the Democrats don't have a monopoly on womanizing alcoholic plutocrats.

Vote Quimby.

[The Post has become a shell of its former self.] Quit knocking the Post! What other paper is going to deliver 90% of its pages full of ads for cars and suburban real estate, two things that this region desperately needs more of? Somebody has to live in Prince William County! And just because they're illiterate is no excuse. There's still plenty to look at, like those delightful Mark Trail cartoons and those wonderful photographs of Obama looking thoughtful.

[Overwhelmed DC Service Centers] Isn't it about time Fenty appointed a Human Services "czar" to handle these perennial public aid problems? Someone who knows the plight of the destitute firsthand? Someone with a history of delivering the kind of "customer service" that DC residents have come to expect from their government? There can be only one candidate that meets these criteria, and he's right under our noses.

I believe a cabinet level designation of "Incontinent Hobo-in-Chief" is merited here. Along with a diaper or whatever equivalent DC's conflict-of-interest laws dictate. I suggest Marion Barry's desk drawer.

From "Man Up, Gray Edition"

Morning Roundup: Man Up, Gray Edition

Ted Loza should run for Mayor. Life in DC was much simpler, predictable, and entertaining with a convicted felon in the Mayor's office. As it is now, a bunch of frat boys get 90 option-year contracts to do absolutely nothing for a billion dollars, and the whole mess gets rubberstamped by a wishy-washy vampire and his aberrant coterie of cannibals, necrophiles, light pollution fetishists, and Blame-Jumbo-Slice-Firsters. I'm ashamed to be an American today. It must be Tuesday.

So if at some later date, it's determined that those $1 billion in contracts actually went to Peaceaholics to purchase ambulances, child porn, roundtrip air fare to the Dominican Republic, gold lamé Luis Vuitton handbags, and peaceahol, who gets the blame? Fenty? Gray? Nickles? Or will it be conveniently placed on the head of a certain hirsute illegal immigrant who has taste for bamboo and public sex? Because I'm pretty sure Marion Barry has an alibi.

From "Progressively Scarier Edition"

Morning Roundup: Progressively Scarier Edition

I miss H20 and Platinum. Where do all the cool, skanky, hair-trees go to wait in line for table service? Because I can't get past the stench of Drakkar Noir and hooker heel failure at Park at 14th. Actually, they should call the place Double-park at 14th because it's practically a Eurotrash roadblock on Friday nights. But at least it's good to know that the Aryans don't have a monopoly on LNS douchey behavior. Vive le Douché!

Who remembers jello wrestling on 14th street?

I remember the tranny hookers on 14th, but not jello wrestling. Are you talking about the strip clubs along NY Avenue? Near where the old Greyhound Station used to be? The ones a certain baby-gobbling ex-mayor used to frequent? If so, my lawyer told me not to comment on the grounds it might incriminate myself.

The history of 14th Street NW is the history of migratory disease patterns and deviant sexual practices. In the late '80s-early '90s, the hookers that worked 14th north of Massachusetts were crackheads and occasionally junkies. Further south, closer to the "gentlemen's clubs," you had a broader range that would include trannies who would proceed to isolated areas like the Old Children's Hospital Site on W to tear off a quick one.

As for jello wrestling, you are probably correct. Drove past This Is It many a time in the 1970s, but we spent most of our time in Dr. Johnson's Marital Products Emporium on 9th, where the Spy Museum is now. Staring at the dildos was something of a traditional time-waster before shows at the old 9:30, and prepared me for club life in the 1990s.