If I had a sugar daddy...

T-shirt with soldier print by Maria Bonita Extra

$58 at activeendeavors.com

Since I don't (yet)

'I love my Glock' tee by The Right to Bear Arms

$17.50 at cafepress.com

Whoops.

It's been brought to my attention there are more than a few technical kinks that still need to be worked out with the new URL, so until someone more capable than I am diagnoses and fixes them, I strongly encourage you to continue to use the dot-blogspot address.

To make this disappointing news go down a little more easily, here's a very intense Maggie Q brandishing a semi-automatic machine gun:

Stick to wearing dresses, Lohan.

Lindsay Lohan seems to like guns.

And while I'm normally pretty cool with hot chicks who like to spend time at the range, I can't help but look at this picture of LiLo with her half saucy, half I-have-no-clue-how-this-thing-works expression against a peach satin bridal suite backdrop and think this girl is making things worse for those of us with NRA memberships waiting with bated breath and crossed fingers for the day when we can legally transfer our guns from the Heartland to the District.

The more I think about this, though, the more convinced I am that this kind of not-thought-through behavior might benefit us in 2008. If she continues to wield guns and wear gun accessories, engage in 20-lines-a-night bathroom stall behavior and then, as they all do, endorse whatever democrat takes the early lead, this very well may work to our advantage.

With "us" and "our," of course, referring to those vigilant among us who actually hate terrorism and still cry at night because John Ashcroft and Paul Wolfowitz are no longer leading the good fight.

Taking the spy game to Happy Hour

If you hadn't noticed, I've been quite mum on the progress of my heels-and-marital-status study over the past few weeks.

My silence is not tantamount to project abandonment or even due to your author's waning interest in the topic. Hardly. No, the main problem - the only problem - is that it is damn difficult to gather the evidence I need (i.e. heel-height, heel-thickness, ring-or-no-ring?) when women are walking by me at a relatively quick clip. Compounding this is that I too am often on-foot while slurping down my midday protein shake.

What? Like you don't spend your 20 minute lunch walking in perfect squares around your office in 4-inch heels? Please. How else on earth is a girl supposed to earn her even-all-over Spring base-tan when the weekends are always rainy and/or 10 degrees colder than the weekdays?

But I digress.

The point is, without quite literally stalking and staring at women beyond the universally-accepted just-takin'-a-look time limit (for women, this runs about five seconds; for men, even if you're Cheney-hot, no more than three), I can't accurately and with confidence collect my three pieces of data.

My solution, then, is to tack onto the end of my original operational definition of "DC" - "a four-block radius of the ConnAve/M St. intersection" the addendum "and any right-after-work (i.e. between 5-7pm) happy hours within DC proper."

This way, sitting down, relaxed with a Heineken Light or an altered Kir Royale (sue me, I prefer getting my ounce of color with Chambord, not crème de cassis), I can sip, speak and get my sexy spy on all at the same time.


Starting now at Panache.

If I had a sugar daddy...

Gun necklace by Campise
$600 at ronherman.com

Since I don't (yet)

Gun studs by Campise
$88 at ronherman.com

Lindsay Lohan('s stylist) reads my blog

How else do you explain the guns and black lace look she debuted two nights ago while most likely - judging from the fact she decided to finally wear a bra - out for a family dinner and a screening of Meet the Robinsons?

True, hers is a Heckler & Koch USP necklace, not a Glock 19 lapel pin, and granted, I've only written about wearing black lace unmentionables while Magic Eraser-ing the bathtub or watching late-night news programs, but still, it seems pretty obvious that even though it in no way applies to her, somewhere during the commute from Whore Island to Wonderland, LiLo('s stylist) has been exploring exactly why a serious job is no excuse.

Behold the power of the Glock 19 lapel pin

And I thought the cupcake suitcase was the ultimate you're-my-dream-woman gaze-getting accessory.

Apparently not. Apparently, an inch-long miniature of the greatest, sleekest handgun ever made pricked into the lapel of my Elevenses' trench not only elicits the aforementioned looks but also initiates more than a few "I just have to ask you, darlin'..." conversations, the tones of which really do make it seem as if the askers just plumb did have no choice but to inquire about the origins of and meaning behind my unusual brooch.

Ladies, I more than encourage you to go out and get your own, but like the lead prostitute laying down the law on Hollywood Boulevard, I'm declaring a no-pin-zone within a four block radius of the ConnAve/M Street intersection. This here's my territory -- find your own.

You know, they say guns kill people and people with guns kill people, but I have a feeling, if I were any less Republican, this gun of mine would more likely have led to lunch-time babymakin' than anything else. And if I'm not mistak'n, babymakin' is the opposite of life-takin'. Uh-huh, put down your Luna Bar and chew on that, gun control lobby.

The gun show

In terms of fashion, the spectrum at today's gun show was about as narrow as the bola ties that rested atop a vast majority of the vendors' puckering-at-the-buttons short-sleeve dress shirts.

There were orange/brown/yellow camo jumpsuits, leather vests paired with denim button-ups, polyester dress pants with elastic waistbands, too-tight fringed halter tops with the NRA logo, and tapered balloon-seat khakis with "Shoot 'em first, dial 9-1-1 second" t-shirts complete with cartoon characters and faux blood spatters.

There were mullets, buzzcuts, knicked shaved heads and beards as long as Manson's.

Let me be clear, these clothes, these hair "styles" -- I'm not talking solely about the men.

The first picture, shown above, is probably my favorite of the day. One of my companions explained to me no, it wasn't a joke, and no, I shouldn't - really, I shouldn't - ask the rather menacing, rather humorless merchant in Chinese for a pricelist for display case four.

Once I put on my glasses and realized this man wasn't flanked by a pair of Mickey Mouse Club flags but rather two commemorative Nazi banners, the sass on the tip of my tongue crept back into my throat and I quickly aborted playing the will-my-looks-get-me-out-of-any-situation? game.


Of all the thousands of firearms at the show, I was most drawn to this four-barreled beauty. Not for its functionality (it only holds four cartridges, after all), but for its inevitable "holy shit, does that thing shoot four bullets at once??" elicitation. For the record, it doesn't, and if it did, it wouldn't be a very reliable nor accurate piece. It's not very sexy after the explanation, but if I had the $795 necessary to acquire it, rest assured I would make up one hell of a good story to go with it.

Oh, and yes, I did take off my black polish this morning. Not for long - I'm in between first and second coats as I type, in fact - but I just couldn't bring myself to disrespect the Nation's Gun Show with half-chipped 'Black Ceramic' fingernails. What would Big Dan at the Ammo Shack have thought when he clearly put in the effort to bring his A game with the "Huntin' Terrorists is my hobby" suspenders?

This is my second favorite picture. As hard as both C and R tried to convince me these were not "creepy ex-boyfriend stalker guides" but training manuals for bail bondsmen and repo-men, I found them all too conveniently located next to the only table of geek catnip (i.e. novelty Star Trek and Marvel Comics' weapons).

A way to bring the beauty of machine guns into the boardroom or to your couch for the Sunday morning talk shows. I have the "classics" mug (given to me by R as a gift) and even though I can't prove it with metrics, I know for a fact getting to look at an original, drawn-to-scale Izhevsk Mechanical Works-manufactured AK47 first thing in the morning has made me a more productive, more intuitive analyst.

And finally, my only purchase of the day: a Glock 19 lapel pin. Since I can't afford and can't legally have in the District a real version of my dream pistol quite yet, I thought I might as well get the accessory equivalent thereof.

As I told a friend of mine whose texted response to my pin purchase was, "Did you get a real Glock to go with it?":

"Darling, if I had $950 to blow on an accessory, it would go toward my YSL Tribute Pump fund, not another gun."

Qiutian jian, gun show!

Gun show chic

Twice a year the Dulles expo opens its doors to hundreds of vendors and thousands of patrons who love nothing more than gettin' their guns-n-ammo on at the Nation's Gun Show in pure, unadulterated red state style.

And tomorrow, I will join their ranks. Again.

Assuming I don't get a cross-bow in the thigh or .22 in the ass for throwing one too many "you're not really wearing that, are you?" stares, expect a full fashion rundown tomorrow afternoon.

I'm still undecided whether to go with...

outfit #1: orange Britney "Dream Within a Dream Tour" tee, denim cutoffs (with exposed pockets a-la Miss Spears) and a pair of cowgirl boots straight from Tener's, my childhood home away from home

OR

outfit #2: purple Britney "Onyx Hotel Tour" muscle tee (self-cut sleeves), Army Special Forces tapered sweatpants and laceless high-tops

Whichever I go with, to be true to the trailer hick I like to pretend I was growing up in the OK - like the OC but poorer, fatter and more polite - I'll be sure to paint my face with frosted pastels, pin my hair back with a couple of plastic Hello Kitty barrettes and ignore entirely the concept of verb conjugation.

Yee-haw, y'all!

If I had a sugar daddy...

Bad ass mama tee by PGE Los Angeles
$52 at pgelosangeles.com

Since I don't (yet)

Weapons n' music tee
$23.97 at palmercash.com

What if we all wore this to the range?

Would that convince Mayor Fenty not to challenge the Court's decision to allow firearms in the District?

Even the most strident anti-gun politician - male politician (and Hillary, of course) - has to admit these Brigitte-Nielsen-circa-Rocky-IV-esque photos from last September's issue of Vogue Italia are smokin' hot.

And a legitimate reason to think twice before denying all the pretty girls with strong legs, kohled eyes and a penchant for spiked heels their desire to rapid fire a few boxes off in a licensed shooting-range.

(scanned photos courtesy of L's boy R)

Now that we can FINALLY bear arms

In case you didn't hear, Friday was a big day for gun lovers in DC.

The US Court of Appeals for the DC Circuit struck down the District's strict gun control law on Second Amendment grounds, and as a result, I'm now allowed to not only liberate my Israeli-made holster from a fire-proof safety deposit box in Michigan but my best-graduation-present-ever Walther PPK as well.

I wasn't going to muse about this legislation, but well, Goldfinger is on right now on the Encore-Action channel, and I just can't help myself.

Before all of you clipboard-toting Obama-ites get on my case for mingling politics with fashion critique, I'll have you know there are no two-legged, opposably-thumbed children in my place of residence, nor will there be any live ammunition. My old-school James Bond gun may be, as a crusty old Marine with whom I work told me, "a fu**in' good piece to kill a motherfu**er with at close range," but were I to actually bring my handed-down darling to the District, it would solely be for those Sunday afternoons when I piled myself into an SUV stacked with fresh-off-the-Iraq reservation contractors itching for a few hours in rural Virginia with a briefcase full of (licensed) semi-automatics and a stack of $.20 Bin Laden targets.

The obvious question that begs to be asked and answered, then, is this: "what does a fashionable girl wear when she's off to the range?"

Do I break my iron-clad no-jeans-and-sneakers rule?

Do I go for the Angie a-la Tombraider look?

Do I opt for the extended clip even though loading the extra bullets almost always ruins my cuticles?

In my view, the shooting range, whether indoor or outdoor, is a venue that falls outside my urban fashion guidelines. In other words, when I'm spending upwards of $50 on ammunition alone, my time better be spent getting better, not looking better.

I recommend jeans, of course, but not skinny jeans, not straight-leg jeans, and not anything nicer or pricier than your sole pair of wouldn't-mind-getting-'em-irreparably-soiled jeans.

As for footwear, it's a coin-toss between sneakers and boots, though I tend to favor the former because I find my taking-it-from-the-hip timing to be considerably faster when I have a less restrictive, more cushioned foundation.

Up top, depending on the weather (remember, the deeper into Virginia red country you go, the colder it gets), I'd either wear my thinnest, faded-to-gray purple MTV tee on its own or coupled with my children's size alma mater sweatshirt. More so than below the belt, a shooter's upper body needs to be agile and unrestricted, a tougher-than-you'd-think equilibrium achieved only through a not-too-tight and not-too-loose upper body garment.

As for how to wear your hair, if you're serious about hitting Bin Laden in the larynx at 10 meters with a body pistol, you'd better ponytail it like a Marine: high and tight.

And just because you're in the sticks doesn't excuse you from the makeup basics of mascara, concealer and bronzer. There's no need for foundation, cream-based shadow or eyeliner, but just because you're packing a PPK and not a briefcase doesn't change the fact that you're still a woman and you're still leaving your front door.

Once you've got the gun, the ammo, the look, and your own bevy of private mercenary instructors at your disposal, you're almost there.

The last steps are getting that NRA membership card and a custom pair of Lara Croft thigh-holsters or Bandidas-esque high-waisted ass-less chaps.

Or both.