Urbzen

When I was in Washington DC last week, I happened across this gem on a table at everybody’s favorite pile of kindling, Cap Lounge, which I actually kind of hate, but what do you do. As a person who is, in fact, looking for both “enjoyment” and “life enrichment” I have to say I was intrigued, but the three-star promise of “much more” seemed kind of menacing.

The real art, though, is the circa-1985 stock photography. I mean, if they actually had dudes like that in DC, I would never have left.

or, How to Not be a Complete Jerk at the Dog Park

One of the highlights of my day is taking Henry (seen below at Capehart Dog Park in San Diego) to our local doggy park. The sun is setting, the breeze is blowing, and the air is fresh with the scent of… well, nevermind. But even though the dogs at our park are wonderfully sweet, silly and downright bizarre, some of their people can be a bit much at the end of a long day.

Of course, everyone knows the official rules: Be current on vaccinations, fill any holes your dog digs and pick up any “presents” he leaves behind. Great. But there’s also unwritten, and often violated, dog park etiquette that helps keep the park a fun, safe and reasonably sane place for everybody to unwind and get their wiggles out. So sit, stay and read on for Urbzen’s five things you should never bring to the dog park:

Food: This applies to both the human and canine variety. Whether it’s Fido’s favorite treat or a quick lunch for you, bringing food into the dog park is one of the best ways to go from zero to anarchy in seconds. And don’t think you can hide those morsels in your pocket; With a sense of smell that is 100,000 times greater than that of a human, they’ll find it every time. After all, they don’t have bomb-sniffing humans, do they?

Your own toys: Of course, bringing your dog’s personal toys to the dog park is fine–as long as neither of you wants to see them again. The beauty of the dog park is the communal atmosphere, so expect to see plenty of sharing, but don’t expect to see Rover politely return Fluffy’s ball when it’s time for her to go home.

Small kids: A dog park may seem like an ideal place to let your two-legged charges run loose as well, but even the friendliest medium- to large-sized dog can knock a toddler to the ground with so much as an enthusiastic greeting, causing inevitable conflict between parent and pet owner. Kid parks outnumber dog parks by at least 100 to 1, so for everyone’s safety and peace of mind, keep at least one hand  (or better yet, a leash) on your tots when they’re in canine territory.

A leash: Though a must in most situations, a leash should never enter the dog park attached to a dog. Rather than keeping your pooch safe, being tethered to a leash can make your furry friend a sitting duck, unable to get away from dominant or aggressive dogs. Last year in San Diego, a Chihuahua/Yorkie mix was killed at Dusty Rhodes Dog Park when its leash kept it from evading an aggressive Husky. While the leash was obviously not to blame for the incident, it left the small dog open to attack.

An attitude: Your love for Lassie may be unconditional, but that doesn’t mean she can do no wrong. Always keep an eye on your pup and be ready to intervene if playtime gets out of hand.

By following the rules–both written and implied–the dog park can be a great place for everyone who is lucky enough to be owned by a dog. Let the butt-sniffing begin!

Because Your Editor is both a masochist and an idiot, I booked a flight out of Washington “Reagan” National Airport the day after the biggest event in the history of the world ever and only arrived four hours before my scheduled flight (which takes me to Los Angeles via Boston, but that is another matter) thinking I’d have plenty of time to check in, check my bag and proceed through security. Evidently our friends at US Airways had other ideas; The wait to check in was more than five hours and quite possibly was just one big circle.

Which is all to say that you’ll get your Urbzen Inauguration photos when I’m goddamned ready to give them to you, which will not be today. In the meantime, you can catch up on Urbzen’s thrilling Inauguration coverage here, here and here.

Hey, wow, this is kind of awkward. How long has it been since I packed up my car and left you? Two years? Feels like forever. It really is good to see you again; you look great. We had some good times in the three years we were together.

But listen, DC, I need to be honest with you; Whatever happens this weekend I don’t want you to think it means we’re getting back together. I know you too well, DC. I know you want me to think you’re all Smithsonian and Washington Monument and Cherry Blossoms, but we were together for a long time. I know what you mean when you say “Dupont adjacent” and I’ve seen what’s on the other side of the river. You always found little ways to ruin my day, like when the towering Woodly Park escalator is out and I have to trudge up the metal steps with the 20-degree wind whipping through my coat, or when you promise I’ll have no problem parking in Georgetown. Every time it’s a lie.

You always say it’s going to be different. Like that time when some crackhead broke down my front door with an ax and the next day you were all, I’m sorry, baby, I love you baby, but I knew you were never going to change.

Anyway, I met somebody new. He’s warm, healthy, laid-back…. nothing like you. I think he’s really good for me, although just between us, he is a bit of a narcissist and can be kind of shallow. But I don’t mind. We’re great together.

Man, DC, you and I pulled some crazy shit back in our day. We were legendary. If I had a nickel for every Red Line train, every Tortilla Coast margarita, every trip to the Unsafeway… but that’s in the past.

I’m really looking forward to spending this weekend with you, DC. It’s been way too long. But I don’t want to get your hopes up. I’ve moved on. I swear.

Love,

Stephanie

Welcome to the nation’s capital! We’re glad you’re here. To ensure this weekend is a great time for everyone, we’ve put together some friendly pointers to help you navigate the city.

• Stand right, walk left. I cannot overstate this point. The entire city is going to be on edge this week, and blocking everyone’s progress is enough to get you shoved down the escalator.
• Once you’re in the station, have your Metro card ready to avoid rummaging through your Spy Museum gift bag while everyone waiting behind you thinks about throwing you on the tracks. You knew you were going into a Metro station, right? This isn’t a surprise.
• Should you make it all the way down the escalator and onto the train, your work still isn’t done. Please do not plant yourself directly in front of the door and then wonder, aloud, why everybody is pushing you. Grab your fannypack and get the hell out of the way.
• Similarly, don’t walk three wide down the sidewalk at a pace slower than Robert Byrd on a bad day. Move it or lose it. Seriously.
• When you’re eating out, if you don’t know what it is, you probably shouldn’t order it. You can try a kay-suh-dill-uh some other time.
• Be advised that while your waiter probably will ask you where you are from, this is not your cue to recite the entire 300-year history of Texarkana. He’s only asking to be polite, and because he probably can’t think of one single other thing to chat you up about.
• Despite the fact that you’re on vacation, this isn’t Disney Land. DC is an actual city where actual people work at their actual jobs. You might get lucky and find somebody who wants to stop and explain the difference between the 14 Smithsonian museums, but don’t count on it.
• Nobody wants to know that this isn’t the way they do things in Toledo. God willing you’ll be back there soon enough, so shut the hell up already.

The last time I arrived in DC the city was also gearing up for an inauguration, but the similarities pretty much end there.

It was late 2004, and I pulled into the District fresh off Sen. Tom Daschle’s losing re-election campaign in South Dakota with all of my worldly possessions crammed into my dingy little Sentra. I was 22 and broke, with no job and no prospects, but I had found an apartment—a rowhouse with barred windows and unreliable plumbing at 6th and G NE that I shared with my college roommate and somebody else we’d gone to school with.

Nobody was hiring Democrats then. The GOP had strong majorities in both the House and the Senate, and Dubya had just defeated wooden dildo John Kerry to win another four years in the White House. Dems had so little political currency then that you couldn’t even get an interview in the District with names like Daschle and Edwards on your resume.

So, I did what any enterprising young lady would do in my situation–I got a job as a sales clerk at Victoria’s Secret in Union Station, helping Senate staffers whose jobs I desperately wanted figure out if we had the black one in their cup size, and biting my tongue to avoid telling the more amply-built women from the neighborhoods north and east of us who asked if we carried anything in 44-GGG that for the kind of support they were looking for they’d probably have more luck at Home Depot than Victoria’s Secret.

Now it’s 2009, and I’m arriving in DC in a decidedly different style. I still have the Sentra, bless it’s little heart, but it’s parked behind my house in Santa Monica and I’m on a plane, flying in to DCA to attend Barack Obama’s Inauguration as the 44th President of the United States. I’m a million miles away from where I was in 2004, and yet I’m coming back to the exact same place.

I’m a little bit apprehensive that once I get off the plane I’ll realize I made a huge mistake leaving DC. The city certainly feels a lot different when your party controls the House, Senate and White House and you’re in a position financially to rent an apartment where water doesn’t come pouring through the bathroom ceiling every time it rains. On the other hand, the weather is still crap, everyone still works way too hard, and Georgetown is still full of collar-popping douchbags and overpriced, watery martinis.

I have a wonderful life in LA, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. But coming back to DC in another year, for another inauguration, it’s hard not to wonder what might have been.