District residents and suburban castaways, rejoice: it appears that Washington has finally arrived. Bust out those debutante gowns; this is the grand coming out party. After years of wallowing in obscurity and square-ness, D.C. has hit the big time. And to who do us simple, bucolic metropolitanites owe thanks for such an honor? American Apparel.
The wildly popular L.A.-based clothing manufacturer, which prides itself on its sweatshop-free policies (good), its comfortable yet decisively bland monochromatic attire (bad), and its spread-eagle allusions to child pornography that pass for an advertising campaign (simply disturbing), has been doing hefty business downtown since opening in December. Some of you might be aware of the existence of this bastion of cotton, but didn't know it was in your own town. Many of you probably have never heard of it, and to you, I apologize for even discussing it.
However, the rest of you, who know damn well what and where it is and more than likely mentioned the posting on District blog DCist, way back when it opened, to get that 10 percent discount on the five identical (albeit in different colors, I hope) t-shirts you decided you couldn't live without, must be rolling your eyes at my blatantly late and hardly topical reference ("This guy is an idiot, that was soooo two months ago...").
Regardless, now that I finally received the memo (if the FBI can be forgiven for neglecting to check those wonderful little tidbits of inter-office wisdom, I should be, too), two seemingly contradictory thoughts have entered my head. First, despite my lack of enthusiasm in regards to the opening, I nevertheless find it insulting that the city closest to my heart, the place where I devoted so much time to observing and troublemaking during my formative years, was so low on the list of potential store locations. Apparently Charlotte, N.C., Providence, R.I., and South Norwalk, Conn., are all way cooler than arguably the most powerful city in the world. Fortunately, we did beat our bastard stepchild to the south, Richmond, Va.
My second thought was decidedly more ominous: How soon will it be before the hordes of self-absorbed, unemployed (I can't quite categorize mindless blogging as a springboard to a rare yet coveted spot as a talking head on VH1, as a profession, even if you do get paid), trust fund-toting (there's nothing wrong with having one if you actually do something meaningful with your time), neo-urban implants runneth over the District's cup? Now that the final piece of the puzzle has been uncovered, is it Washington's inevitable destiny to become the next New York?
All moaning aside, there have been and will be more positive consequences to emerge as a result of this latest cultural revolution in the nation's capital. Avid music enthusiasts have already seen an influx of quality concert date notices pepper our e-mail inboxes and lift our spirits. Bands that might normally pass on a District pit stop are now gassing up with multiple-night stands. Sadly though, profiteering and scandal come with the territory, and with shows continuing to sell out in record time it doesn't seem like the shenanigans are going to slow down.
The same can be said for the urban renewal many Washington neighborhoods are experiencing. Renovating dilapidated housing in downtrodden areas will help beautify a city often in need of a facelift and a tummy tuck, but should not be done at the expense of D.C.'s substantially less affluent citizens. Historic districts like Shaw and Columbia Heights, long neglected after riots, drugs and poverty took hold, desperately need to be reinvigorated, so the once brightly colored residences can shine again. They certainly don't need tasteless and insipid luxury condos, callously pieced together with the kind of dull bricks your high school might have used.
Perhaps my trepidation is not completely warranted, though. It's not like the PBR hasn't been flowing freely in D.C. for years, or as if packed dance parties full of awkwardly flailing, head-nodding, all-too-stoic scenesters are something new.
D.C. still has soul, like Manhattan once did in the rough '80s and '90s, before Giuliani applied the whitewash; before expensive, trendy hangouts were crammed into otherwise decrepit tenements along Stanton and Ludlow, before ... the Strokes. And the District will continue to have it, as long as it remains the hard-working, underappreciated cultural gem that it is.
At least until the primordial sludge of lopsided mullets, skinny ties and prom outfits gone horribly wrong that so beautifully exemplify hipster trash leave the confines of the New York City subway and head due south.
