Dumser’s has been a part of the history of the Ocean City Boardwalk since 1939 ~ Dolle’s Candyland specializes in homemade salt water taffy Since 1910, originally uploaded by Robert Lz.

As a kid I loved Ocean City, MD. I remember scarfing down buckets of Fisher’s popcorn, Dumsers ice cream, chocolate strawberries from Candy Kitchen (what can I say, I was a hungry kid), then immediately racing off into the waves only to return 5 minutes later with a massive stomachache, and a craving for more popcorn. We’d run around all day and stop by the Gocart track on the way home to race off any excess energy before the long, slow trek home bumper to bumper with the other day-trippers who were too stingy to stay in a beachside hotel.

Yet I can’t stand the place now. Not to offend OC fans, I think the beach is a poor option for DCers to trek to when in need of sun. I went a little while ago to reminisce over my younger days face-first in a bucket of Fishers, and instead got a different taste of Ocean City – that tasted a little like brine. The boardwalk, which when I was a kid seemed like the yellow brick road, is now overrun by obese children. The beach is sardine-like crowded and filled with discarded Big Gulp cups and taffy wrappers, and just when you think you found an OK spot to squeeze into, you realize your neighbors are apparently into blasting Garth Brooks and not having a full set of teeth and screaming things like ‘WADE GIT YOR CIGARUT BUTTS AWF MAH TOWEL OR AH WEAL STICK THIS HERE UMBRELLU STRAIGHT UP UR…’

Also the attendants of the Ocean City rides really need to ease up on the Drakkar Noir.

Maybe there are hidden gems of the city that I haven’t experienced? But for now I’d pick Rehoboth, Assateague, hell even Dewey, over OC. What am I missing out on?

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miniature Capital Teas, originally uploaded by Expectation Maximization.

When I tell people I

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Joe’s Real BBQ, originally uploaded by Joshua Mauldin.

When I was a kid I hated BBQs. Once a month we piled into my family

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Sunrise And Old Rag, originally uploaded by kerch.

Robyn last wrote about Virginia’s Vineyards

Hike Old Rag Mountain

You know when you’re handed a finish-by-5pm-or-die project at work, and when you’re handed it you’re getting eyed by the overenthusiastic entry level 22 year old who wants your job, and you know if you don’t finish it the fate of the company will be in question and your nemesis may win? So you work your butt off and race to plop project down on boss’s desk and they say ‘good job, would you like a tissue for your forehead,’ and you did it.

Hiking Old Rag is a little like that.

Old Rag Mountain hike is one of Shenandoah National Park’s most popular hikes, because it combines rock scrambling, climbing through cracks, and nine view points. Hiking it takes over 5 hours, a lot of hand eye coordination, and hiking boots – which as an amateur, lackadaisical athlete I did not bring and instead wore my Sauconys from high school. Despite falling every couple of steps, I saw some very pretty scenery that made DC feel more than just a couple hours away. Now I’m not the type that gets emotional about nature, but when you I got to the summit and saw incredible views across Virginia, the Sound of Music soundtrack played in my head for a second. And then I realized I had to go down steep rocks in my Saucony sneakers, and the tune changed to something much more brooding.

What’s your favorite hike in Shenandoah?

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Robyn last wrote about drinking with pirates.

You know when you order wine at a fancier restaurant and they bring it to you to taste before they pour a glass? Sure I’ll swirl it around, maybe do that slurp thing, but it’s pretty obvious I have no idea what I’m doing. I always choose the one that’s one step up from the least expensive one and hope for the best, and if it tastes like jug wine I probably won’t be able to tell the difference anyway. I personally think that restaurants probably have a box of wine in the back they serve to those that cannot pronounce what wine their ordering.

So a Napa Valley transplant friend of mine suggested we go to the vineyards in Virginia for some wine 101. There are over 37 wineries in Northern Virginia alone, most within an hour’s drive or less from DC. Perfect for a Sideways adventure or just to sip the stuff and hang out in the country. How do you tackle it? Choose couple vineyards from http://www.virginiawine.org/wineries/browse/. Then, if you’re like me, visit each one, go up to the counter and look like a deer in headlights until they offer you a sample. Nod in agreement when they say that what you are drinking has hints of applewood and oak and pear and its dry (huh?). Try not to eat all their cheese and crackers, order a glass of the one you liked the best, and peruse their property which usually has a gazebo, gnomes, fields of green, lazy cats and in some cases a fly fisherman. Drive to the next one and repeat.

Did I retain enough knowledge to become a sommelier? Probably not. But the next time I order at a restaurant I’ll look for hints of the many terms used nowadays to describe wine (herbaceous, smoky, supple, tannin, toasty), and describe it as such. I still have much love for good old Carlo Rossi though.

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Piratz Tavern, Silver Spring, MD, originally uploaded by Michael Saffle.

Robyn returns with a new series, Random DC Summer Outings. If you have any suggestions please email princeofpetworth(at)gmail(dot)com

What’s in grog?

“It’ll git yer drunk!” my waitress piped with a post Renaissance-by-way-of-Baltimore accent.

When at Piratz Tavern, a place themed after all things piratey (the Johnny Depp kind, not the Somalian tween kind), do as Pirates do. I ordered, took a sip, and figured out exactly what was in grog: dark rum mixed with more rum, splash of ginger beer, maybe cough syrup/WD40, topped off with rum.

I heard about this place through a random rumor (“supposedly there’s this bar in Maryland where you can drink grog and sing about it at the same time”), but didn’t actually believe it existed. I mean, are Pirates still cool enough to sustain a restaurant? Are they the pioneers behind the next genre of food? Will it be worked into our food vernacular as in on a lazy Friday night when deciding where to eat I will turn to my friend and say something like “where do you want to eat tonight? There’s the Italian joint, I could go for Indian, or what do you think about Pirate?”

I hope so. Because Piratz Tavern is shamelessly cool. A mishmash of unburied treasure line the walls and the bartenders have tattoos, nicotine teeth, dangly earrings and scowls. What makes them cool is that these people really are pirates. The waitress – who I was amazed could breathe or see above her hoisted chest in that corset – is part of a pirate troupe that plays music on the back patio. By music I mean wonderfully raunchy songs that delve deep into pirate vulgarity. And if you don’t raise your grog glass when they tell you to, they put you as the butt of the joke in their next song about an unfortunately impotent pirate or unfortunate looking wench.

As for the moderately-priced seafaring menu –thai mussels are good, as is jerk chicken sandwich. Don’t drink more than 1 mug of grog if you want to be able to stand up, though they’ll encourage you to keep ordering to develop a tolerance only a real Pirate could have.

Piratz Tavern
8402 Georgia Ave
Silver Spring, MD 20910

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Barack Obama’s dog BO, originally uploaded by LeStudio1.com.

Tired of playing defense, Robyn goes on the offensive.

I was one of the many Americans who opened up their newspaper (browsers) today to see DC’s newest DCelebrity Bo, the new White House Dog. But I was NOT one of the many Americans who cooed at the photos of the 6-month-old pup romping around the White House lawns with a stiff-suited Obama running after him. Why? Because I don’t like Bo.

First of all, a Portuguese Water Dog? While I’m no Westminster judge, I do watch the Puppy Bowl on Animal Planet and count the film Best in Show as my all-time favorites, and I’ve never heard of such an animal. Why does the White House need a Portuguese Water Dog? Someone please show me where DC’s sandy beaches are. And wouldn’t you think the Obamas would have gotten a Lassie lookalike, or goofy Chesapeake Water Dog, or even a slightly-stupid but always happy Labrador retriever (my childhood lab liked to take naps in the middle of the road those things are NOT smart). Or what about a super-smart Border Collie that can double as an advisor of some sort? Hasn’t Obama ever seen Babe?

Secondly, Bo is just plain ugly. You can’t even see his eyes due to his retro hairstyle, he’s got two pointless white front paws, and he has a ratty tail. My parents’ overweight three-legged mutt, Sammy, is cuter. He wouldn’t even shake Bo’s paw, partly because he can’t, but also because Bo is downright offensive.

I’m in offense of Bo.

Do you think Bo is a proper presidential pup?

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photo by Sanjay Suchak

Ed. Note: This is a slightly different take on Robyn’s “in defense of” series. I certainly don’t think homelessness is a trivial matter but I do believe that some of the characters in the neighborhood most definitely add to the beautiful life. When I lived in Woodley Park, there was a great guy named Stoney who would light up my day nearly every morning saying/singing some impromptu rap/poetry. There are characters and there are trouble makers. I hope we don’t mix the two together. Do you have any characters that add to the beautiful life in your neighborhood?

Meet L. She’s been on the block for 45 years, and she’ll tell you that within seconds of meeting you. Well actually…L doesn’t necessarily ‘meet’ people. She prefers to walk up to you uninvited, size you up, and if she deems you fit, proceeds to tell you some news, then asks for either a cigarette, change, or a job offer to clean your stairs. L spends most of her time occupying a neighbor’s front porch, fence, or stairs, and walking up and down my block gathering the day’s gossip. Then at night you can find her spreading the news and otherwise being an uncouth, slightly jarring staple of Monroe Street. While I don’t know her complete story, L’s weathered the years. Her voice sounds like she swallowed granite, and her sobriety is always in question. Once she crashed party I threw and started her own dance party (remember, Prince?). When I first met her, I must admit I was a little dismissive. I’d put my head down and pick up pace as soon as I heard her charismatic baritone. But L caught onto me. It started slow, with a simple “What’s up deeeeva?” whenever I would pass. I’d nod back (who doesn’t like being called a diva?) and move on, but this wasn’t enough for L . One day she parked herself in the middle of the sidewalk not leaving room for any awkward maneuvering. Then she proceeded to give me the most bizarre interaction I’ve had in a while (besides for any I’ve had at Charlestown Races and Slots).

L: “DIVA!”

Me: “Oh, hey L.”

L: “Can I get my face back?”

Me: “Ermm…I don’t think I have your face? Maybe you lent it to someone else? Also, it appears that you have your face on right now.”

L: “No. I got YOUR face.”

After a few seconds of confusion, it was clear I wasn’t allowed passage in this Monty Python-esque challenge. I decided the best response was to play L at her own game.

Me: “Well, then L, can I have my face back please?”

She smiled, winked and said, “When I let it go (snap)!”

I didn’t get it, but it made me laugh for a good day and a half. When I see her today, we exchange our metaphorical faces, wink, and go on our separate ways. Now and then I’ll see new neighbors in their first L encounter. Not realizing she’s harmless, they clutch their belongings and look for the nearest cop car. I’m defending L. Sure, she’s loud not entirely trustworthy, and can be a bit of a nuisance when in a hurry. But she’s a staple of the block, and even though the neighborhood’s changing, I hope she remains for a while. Because eventually I would actually like my face back.

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group house living, originally uploaded by emilygoodstein.

Group houses come in 3 different categories. There’s the group of bestest friends who’ve moved here from college and assumed they’ll be bestest roommates (OMG! We can have wine and cheese parties and iron together and have Top Chef marathons YAY!) only to have it turn into Catfight 2009 because someone keeps LEAVING THEIR F*$#@#G COFFEE CUPS IN THE DINING ROOM. There’s also the random Craigslist house, where everyone keeps to themselves and has a mutual hatred for the one gaseous housemate that has a blatant disregard for wearing anything besides boxers and hogs the TV with endless hours of Family Guy. Until they all decide to throw a house party in which they are best friends for the night, and back to double checking their bedroom door locks the next. The third type of group house is the one where everyone is actually friends (however randomly they met) and generally enjoy living together under one roof. And if someone forgot leaves their clothes in the dryer for a bit too long…it’s ok, man, just get ‘em out when you can and we’ll go for pizza.

Thankfully my group house experiences have fallen into the last category. But I know people who consider group housing just another version of frat house living, sans the Delta Chi chants. Maybe I’ve just been blessed to have good experiences…except my old roommate while living in Germany – Helga (actually Sasha, but she looked so hefty-operatic it was my code name for her while bitching about her over the phone). Helga the Horrible who considered the apartment her own private nudist colony, screamed at me auf Deutsch for changing the channel away from Celebrity Big Brother, and who played into every typical German stereotype right down to blasting David Hasselhoff in the shower (resulting in me unwillingly memorizing two of his albums) while getting every single lyric wrong with her glass-breaking singing. Helga, and subsequently Baywatch, still makes me shudder to this day.

What are your best/worst group living experiences? At what age are you too old to live in a group housing environment? What is the best male/female ratio for a group home? And most importantly are there any closeted David Hasselhoff fans out there?

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Big Buck Hunter video game, originally uploaded by susansimon.

A friend came into town, and we were planning where to grab drinks.

Me: Red derby?

Him: Nah…no Big Buck Hunter there.

Me: Somewhere on H Street?

Him: I don’t think they have Big Buck Hunter around there, either.

Me: So, you only want to go to a bar where you can shoot at Bambi’s parents?

Him: Exactly.

Why has Big Buck Hunter become trendy? Personally, I wasn’t a fan, primarily because I suck at any and all video games. My Tetris pieces have died a cruel death being crushed against each other. Every time Mrs. Pac Man ventured into her maze, she was gobbled by ghosts/blobs/amoebas (whatever those gelatinous villains are). And poor Luigi always got confused and go the wrong way on his go-cart, then shamefully scooted into last place 15 minutes after everyone else. When Big Buck Hunter reemerged on the bar scene, I did not want another video game infiltrating my life, especially at a bar when I just want to shoot the shit, not deer. But, late one night I decided to give it a go, and even though the digital deer were almost as cute as the real ones, I really liked killing them. Even though my success rate was 1 deer out of every dozen, it was undeniably fun. While I still don’t understand why the hunting game has become the cool thing, I’ll defend it. I just wish I didn’t suck at it so much.

Where can you find BBH in DC? All I know is the one at the Big Hunt. The irony.

Ed. Note: I’m a huge Big Buck Hunter fan and know for sure there is one at Solly’s at 11th and U. But I’d like to add a question to this In Defense of – do you think there should be video games in bars? Or do you think the only diversion in bars should be a juke box or maybe pool table? I think of two types of bars – Solly’s and the Saloon. Both are fun but very different. Saloon has a no standing rule and certainly no video games (though they do have board games). What is your preferred bar experience?

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Vegan with a Vengeance, originally uploaded by massdistraction.

There’s a type of person out there that really get under my skin. A “verbal vegan.” They’re different than your average crunchy-granola, mild-mannered vegan. The verbal vegans stare at your steak in horror, as if you’re eating an endangered species (like the adorable, overlooked red panda bear), and then remind you that if that steak were, say, a mound of grass, everyone third world countries could eat like kings. They never miss an opportunity to whip out an album of slaughterhouse pictures in an attempt to convert carnivores, and they protest honey because it’s “bee slavery.” A burger-loving friend once found a very cheap room in a vegan co-op. The roommates bought into his fabricated passion for PETA and organic exotic fruit (it helped that he’s an actor). That is, until about a month later when he snuck off to Five Guys. They caught him red-handed (he attempted to sneak his dinner up to his room), and after an infuriated tirade of lectures on how meat-eaters are the scum of the earth, promptly kicked him out. Look, I have vegan friends, and I wholeheartedly respect and appreciate their cause. It’s just the judgmental vegans that give endless sermons on demonic butter, cheese and egg lovers that are like fingernails on chalkboards. For the sake of agreeing to disagree, don’t judge my food and I won’t judge yours.

Well, admittedly, I used to judge vegan food, quite harshly. I thought when vegans tried to replicate meat recipes with a tofu and soy cheese concoction, it not only looked like snot but has most likely tasted like cumin-flavored Jello. But, thanks to the kind souls of veggie friends who took my stubbornness against their food for ignorance, I’ve been introduced to vegan eats around DC that make me consider abandoning meat. Until I pass by the Peruvian chicken place on Park Road and can’t resist.

My picks for the best vegan food carnivores are, in no particular order: the tofu curry at Everlasting Life, Cookies n’ Cake cupcake and Bacon Lettuce Tempeh at Sticky Fingers, Vegan ‘buffalo wings’ at Asylum, veggie sushi at Sticky Rice and Uni. Both Red Rocks and Moroni Brothers serve vegan cheese upon request. And who knew you could make a vegan sandwich at Amsterdam Falafel?

Any other vegan favorites? Verbal vegans, feel free to chime in, just please don’t post links to videos of crated chickens, please.

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Red Panda, Smithsonian National Zoological Park, originally uploaded by Steve W Lee.

In early February, the National Zoo welcomed the arrival of Tate, the red panda bear sent in from the Cape May Zoo in New Jersey. And no one cared. I mean, it was reported on by DCist and a few local news channels, and given a blurb in WaPo, but the majority of the public still had stars in their eyes from the Zoo’s glamour days with the red-carpet entrance of Tai Shan the baby panda bear. Poor Tate. Most people don’t even notice the red panda habitat at the zoo, bypassing it entirely while bee-lining for the giant pandas. The giant pandas that, if they ever venture to come out, don’t DO anything but eat and stare at their bellies. One time I was there and a kid who was racing to see Tai Shan stopped momentarily beside the red bears just to point at them and call them “boring pandas,” leaving them feeling dejected and undoubtedly depressed. I’m encouraging all to boycott the gluttonous, overrated, Star Jones’s of the Zoo celebrity creatures and instead consider the adorable, livelier, and severely overlooked red panda bears. Tate and his friend Shama are attention seekers. Unlike the apathetic Mei Xiang and Tian Tian, the more colorful duo WANT to be watched. They’re cute and move around more, and play for the (lack of) camera, and deserve more ‘ooohhhs’ and ‘awwwws.’ If you’re ever feeling underappreciated, pay a visit to Tate and Shama and feel their pain.

Also underappreciated – the mouse with the gigantic teeth. Those guys are terrifying.

What other zoo creature gets unmerited neglect? What’s your goto spot at the zoo?

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Emmm banana and chocolate cake, originally uploaded by pjaol.
Ed. Note: The following was written by Robyn. I’d also like to make this the FQoTD – Do you take advantage of restaurant week? If so, how are your experiences? Any restaurants you’d recommend that really do it right?

First course: Caramelized Gnocchi. Followed by Crab Cakes with house-made tartar sauce. And for desert: Dark Chocolate Soufflé. All enjoyed in a mod, architecturally-lit main room at a fine dining establishment frequented by DC political powerhouses and socialites alike. Sounds exquisite, right? Well not if the gnocchi came out cold, you have to eat around the shells in the crab cakes, and it’s all washed down with a glass of mediocre chardonnay – just one because your lethargic waiter never notices your empty glass to ask for a refill. Welcome to DC Restaurant Week, a week of lunch and dinner specials that lures you in with enticing bargains at fine dining establishments….then chews you up and spits you out feeling unsatisfied with a lighter wallet. For someone who’s admittedly gullible, Restaurant Week gets me every time. Lunch is just over 20 dollars, dinner just over 35 – a steal when most restaurants can charge double that 50 weeks out of the year. So twice annually, I pack my week with at least two Famous Chef restaurants, one Pretentious place, one C-List Celebrity Visited Here During Inauguration, and at least one who claims that Obama has visited or expressed interest in visiting (however mildly). A flurry of texts are exchanged (HAVE ONE SPOT OPEN CEIBA 8PM HEAR BRAISED PORK GOOD) and I look forward to a week of very good eats at places I couldn’t normally afford. Except for the most part, the service and the ambiance is…well, bad. And as a self-confessed Ruby Tuesday fan, I don’t expect much.

Because I’m younger, I don’t own Gucci heels (actually I don’t own a single pair of heels – I think 5 foot 9 is tall enough), and I tend to have a my wide-eyed why-are-there-so-many-forks nature, it’s obvious that I’m there for the specials. Due to this, I feel subject to what I call Restaurant Week Discrimination (RWD). It’s that rushed, indifferent demeanor of the wait staff, the unapologetic plate auctioning (Who got the scallops? Anyone? No one? Sigh…), and the general mechanical nature of the staff as they quite visibly just want to get over catering to us common folk. Sometimes I want to play the part, put on my best Southern twang and exclaim “Oh mah gawd Bernie! Sayz here they serve thar tuna rawr! It ain’t cooked!”

Except I don’t have a friend named Bernie. Any Bernie’s out there want to be my friend?

I get it. It’s a week that attracts us 5-figured salary types and I shouldn’t expect to be treated as royalty. But Restaurants, can you at least humor me? You don’t have to treat me as if I was the First Lady, but maybe like one of her aides? Now I won’t name names, except the most extreme exception to RWD (Rasika), but in general, I’m not a fan.

Now if you excuse me I have reservations at a place where apparently Obama will be taking Malia for her report card. Or so I’ve been told. I said I was gullible.

Any Restaurant Weekers feel my pain? Or want to add to it? Bernie, you out there?

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doorway to my heart, originally uploaded by stinkypony.

Ed. Note: Robyn ’s post on the defense of Ruby Tuesday’s Salad Bar, Adams Morgan nightlife, kickball, and Apple computers got a really interesting debate going and has sparked a new series to debunk some of the automatic negative stereotypes about certain things in DC.

At Rolling Knolls elementary school, Valentines was a big deal. Everyone placed bags on the back of their chairs during recess in hopes that upon return, it would be overflowing with Snoopy-themed cards, heart-adorned pencils and pens, and the occasional amorous Almond Joy. My cards were in the form of personalized V day “checks.” As forced by my mother, I had to address the check s to all the kids in the class, even flatulence-prone Bart – you can guess the nickname. Unfortunately these pink checks had no monetary value, but if a classmate signed the line and “cashed” it, they could draw from the funds of my unadulterated love and devotion for each and every one of them.

Fast forward to my twenties, when Valentines Day is no longer about receiving lovingly-fraudulent checks, but about shelving out cash at expensive restaurants, on Belgian chocolates, or ingredients from Whole Paycheck for a romantic meal at home. It’s easy to hate on Hallmark-created holiday, for obvious reasons. If you’re ½ of a couple, you have to plan or attend something elaborate just to prove that you still like your counterpart enough. If you’re not, you’re forced to go out anyway as if to say “Who needs a significant other? Look how much fun I’m having!” while trying to mask any hint of desperation on your face with copious amounts of booze.

Call me a romantic, but I like Valentines Day. I especially like it in DC where there are plenty of options to celebrate love, or lack of love, or love for oneself. It’s the one day a year where you can revel in your love for just about anything. So if you hate St. Valentines, do what I did and…(cue Lifetime Movie soundtrack music)….and make DC your Valentine. Shameless Segway guy riding down 16th street (Bart, is that you)? I love you. I am in love with the Grouper fish at Oohs and Aahs, and even more in love with the Chinatown Exercise dude and his midday workouts. I have a love triangle between the jukebox at the Raven and the one at Wonderland. Even though I haven’t seen Blelvis and the “Black Cat Black Cat” guy for a while, I still love both of them very, very much and hope they know that wherever they are, they have a piece of my heart with them. The new love of my life is a magnificently deformed tree I discovered in Meridian Hill Park. The tree twists and turns amidst the stone sculptures of the park. It just wants to be art like them, too.

Go on Valentines Day haters, give DC a big ol’ hug.

P.S. I think we should auction off the Prince for Valentines. I’m starting the bid at $100.

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Apple Macbook – Late 2008 Glass MB466, originally uploaded by SileNceR_RH.

When I heard Apple might come to Georgetown, it brought up a recent memory of shopping with my brother. I had to pop in to the Apple store, and by ‘pop in,’ I mean navigate through the mass of loud teenagers poking at Iphone samples and befuddled old women walking .1 miles an hour while squinting at product descriptions, then standing in line for 20 minutes while the cashier tries to sell said old woman a neon-pink, overpriced Macbook cover. Then, if your retinas aren’t scarred from the blindingly-white, sterile design of the store, try and make it through the swarm of store employees (isn’t this a recession?) who’s only job is to bid you adieu while blocking the door. Let’s just say I’m not a fan of Apple stores.

However, I couldn’t go in, because my brother absolutely refused to set foot into the store. He actively rejects all things Apple. He choose a wonky Zune over the Ipod, is holding onto his beloved Dell laptop until it goes vintage, and rolls his eyes at the landscape of white MacBooks blanketing DC coffee shops like snow. I can understand his dismissal of all fruit-emblemed tech. Originally purchased out of necessity, Apple has now become the Urban Outfitters of the computer/electronics world. I recently went to a music swap where we all hooked our computers together and judged each other quietly while trading the latest Animal Collective album. When it came time to swap, everyone pulled out their shiny MacBooks, looked at each other, giggled in unison, and nodded slightly as if to say “Yeah, we’re Mac users.”

I didn’t buy my Mac because I needed it. While I’m not completely computer illiterate, I still have yet to grasp what makes a Mac so different than a PC (something about viruses, maybe?). I bought it because I dug the clean, simple way it looked, and the portly guy who plays PC in those annoying commercials is undeniably much less hip than Justin Long.

My argument is this – is it wrong to buy into Apple’s cool campaign? I did, and frankly I haven’t had many problems except for when my sunscreen exploded on my Ipod. Sure, PCs seem cheaper, and I’m sure they have redeeming qualities, but they’re just so square. What can I say, my name is Robyn and I’m a gullible consumer (hi, Robyn). And I’m in defense of Apple.

Who’s taken a sinful bite of Apple?

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