Photo by staceyviera.

Following in the fine form of fellow New Yorker Jennifer 8. Lee, former D.C. resident and Gawker editor Alex Pareene took some time out of his busy schedule of posting items about Peggy Noonan’s supposed penchant for cheap vodka to remind Washingtonians that we’ll “never be cool.” To wit:

DC isn’t cool. It’s boring. The hip and cool new DC residents brought to town to work for the Obama administration? Uh, they’re “hip” and “cool” in a really, really relative sense. Like, cooler than 50-year-old Heritage Foundation senior research fellows.

Who possibly could argue with such solid rock solid generalizations? Well, let’s check out his arguments, just for kicks. It wouldn’t be a fair and accurate examination if one didn’t. According to Pareene, here’s the incredibly pressing issues with the District that have lead him to such a conclusion:

• There’s only 591,833 residents of D.C. proper. This figure is the genesis for our boring ways.
• Washington used to be the home to bands like Bad Brains and Minor Threat; without these two outfits — who formed almost thirty years ago — D.C. music is not up to snuff.
• “There’s no “creative class” of monied young jerks showing up in DC with the express purpose of wasting their funds making indie dance music, starting literary journals, or even buying researching jobs at Vanity Fair.”
• And most importantly, people can still purchase cocaine here.

Oh, and for the sprinkles on top, you Marylanders and northern Virginians “live in the least cool places in America.”

Certainly, some of these claims could never, say, be flipped around to criticize any other major metropolis in this country. No, of course not. (I’m still trying to wrap my head around the negativity found in D.C.’s lack of people wasting money making indie dance music.) To be fair, unlike Lee, Pareene did lay off commenting on our beloved Metro, so kudos, I guess. (Shockingly, the Gawker commentariat lacked such restraint; but I’d be upset too if I had to stand on platforms that leak water and sit on trains that smell like stale urine and Fritos, so I’m willing to cut them some slack.)

In a way, it’s cute: a transplanted New Yorker — at even the slightest sign of losing cool points — feels the need to dump on Washington, from whence he came, so much like a quarterback who acts rashly when the outsider lures their dream girl away from them in so many cliched high school dramas. For future reference: if you’re going to take broad swipes in the ever-so-tiresome D.C./New York tiff out of some sort of perceived jealousy (over what again? banking?), cogent arguments should likely be your utmost concern.

Or not. It’s certainly makes for a more laughable read on our end without them.