ArJewTino

So long, Blogger, and thanks for all the fish

2007-03-05T15:34:00.000Z

“But now we must pick up every piece
Of the life we used to love,
Just to keep ourselves,
At least, enough to carry on.”

-- Neutral Milk Hotel, “Holland, 1945”

The above lyrics might sound a bit too dramatic for some random blogger’s move from Blogger to Wordpress, but I love the song and have been looking for a reason to quote it.

In any case, I am moving to Arjewtino.com. Please update your bookmarks, links, and feeds. I will no longer be posting here.

Robert DeNiro wouldn’t have tried to screw me

2007-03-01T15:20:00.000Z

I took a taxi cab home last night from Adams Morgan. I live in Takoma Park and asked the cabbie to drop me off at the Takoma Metro, located in DC just a few yards shy of the Maryland border. I knew the fare would be problematic after the cabbie, immediately after picking me up, told me I would save time if I took the Metro home.

Yeah, right, that makes sense.

Sure enough, the following conversation took place when we arrived at the Takoma Metro.

Cabbie: That’ll be $13.

Arjewtino: There’s no way that’s $13, I’ve taken a taxi here before and it was $8 or $9.

Cabbie: No, $13. I drove you to Maryland. This is Maryland.

Arjewtino: Where we’re at right now? This is DC.

Cabbie: No, this is Maryland, the border’s Eastern Ave.

Arjewtino: Eastern Ave is further north and the border starts at the church up the street. This is DC.

Cabbie: No, Maryland.

Arjewtino: Trust me, I live here, I know where Maryland is.

Cabbie: I drive you three zones, look at the map.

He took out a map that looked more complicated than a control tower approach diagram.

Arjewtino: How is anyone supposed to make sense of the zone map? No one knows what this means. Besides, looks to me like that’s two zones.

Cabbie: $13.

Arjewtino: You’re just pissed that I asked you to drive me to the Takoma Metro.

Cabbie: Ok, ok, $11.

Arjewtino: All right, I’ll give you $11 and walk into the 7-11 here and ask them if we’re in Maryland or DC. If he says Maryland, I’ll give you a tip.

Cabbie: …

I walked into 7-11 and asked the employee if we were standing in a state or a non-voting rights District. He handed me an old receipt with the store’s address. Triumphantly, I walked out with the evidence to find the cabbie had driven away.

So how is anyone supposed to know where the zones start and end? Are we supposed to carry map printouts whenever we need a cab to take us across state line? Should I store the local taxi commission’s phone number in my cell for moments like this? What is one to do other than bitch about it on one’s blog?

Like most of life’s problems, this one was solved by the Internets.

According to this handy zone map, the drive from Adams Morgan to Takoma Metro crosses TWO zones, a fare of $8.80. Not finished there, I searched the DC city site and found a taxi fare calculator. It’s not working today (it’s more of an online abacus) so I can’t show you the calculation, but when I did it last night it determined that my fare should have cost $11.40.

No wonder taxi customers get confused.

I’m not going to go into how meters are better or that the zones are outdated because that’s up to a citizen’s panel to work out with the city. But I will suggest that the next time you go out and plan on taking a taxi home, you might want to take some documentation with you.

The happiest of hours this Thursday

2007-02-27T14:55:00.000Z

Do you have a blog? Have you ever heard of a blog? Is there a blogger you read/stalk? Can you spell blog? If you answered yes to any of these questions, then you’re invited to this month’s Happy Hour this Thursday at 7pm at The Front Page.

I’ll be hosting along with KassyK, Virgle Kent, and Roosh, all upstanding individuals who will make you feel welcome, recommend a good drink, and may help you file your taxes.

If you’re thinking of reasons to come and just need a push, I’d like to point out the benefits of meeting me. First, I like to brainstorm idioms while drinking rum-and-cokes. Second, I’ll discuss passionately the etymology of the word “donut”. And, third, I’ll probably ask you how you pronounce “cauliflower”.

If my witty happy hour banter isn’t convincing you, let’s see if recent comments on the new Best DC Blog (the trouble-making Woody Woodpecker of the blogosphere) won’t sway you.

Thanks, Barry, your nugget of wisdom has really given me a lot to think about. I only wish all feedback was this illuminating.

Madeline seems to know a lot about my apprenticeship under Roosh, which makes me think she’s vying for one of his coveted summer internships. She’s obviously already got a leg up on the competition, thanks to her observations of other blogs. Too bad Roosh requires at least two (2) writing samples as part of the application.

Gender-assignment errors notwithstanding, this person is revealing that under his intricate rating system of DC blogs, I am currently overvalued. This is pure economics, people, and I appreciate So Not Over’s analysis, even if it does come in the form of a 4:31am online comment. This just shows how busy he must be during the day.

Now this comment hurts. Everyone knows Argentineans are better than Guatemalans, even El Guapo. Seven Years Strong must be a jealous Brazilian.

The list to which Nana refers is this week’s contest on Best DC Blog for Worst DC Blog, a challenge for which I am still in the running (cross your fingers). And while, yes, I am indeed an asshole, I’m not sure how someone named after most people’s grandmother would know that. Very astute, Nana.

There you have it, readers, five more reasons to come to this Thursday’s happy hour and meet me and the rest of the DC blogging “scene”. These happy hours are always fun and, at the very least, you’ll get to see what an asshole I am.

Chicago was right (the band, not the city)

2007-02-26T10:30:00.000Z

"Everybody needs a little time away, I heard her say, from each other."
-- Chicago, It's Hard for Me to Say I'm Sorry

After a week off from blogging and blog-related activity, I'm happy to say I'm recharged and ready to bore you with more of my trivial observations and embarrassing moments.

Most talented bloggers, after taking so much time off, would reward his/her loyal readers with a well-written and entertaining recap. I, however, am neither as talented or energetic, so will instead summarize my past week-and-a-half through photos.

The Princess and I had brunch at Z and S's place last weekend and got to hang out with Rayban, a happy baby who's growing faster than the Hulk on steroids. I'm pretty sure he'd beat me in arm-wrestling if he ever took his hand out of his mouth long enough to challenge me.

"You wouldn't like me when I'm angry, Mommy."

Rayban's girlfriend, Mirabella, is a gorgeous baby who likes male attention but shuns it when she gets it. She flirts with Rayban by ignoring him and cries when he touches her. This leaves Rayban confused and helpless. I'm glad he's learning about women early.

Went to see the Awakening in Hains Point with The Princess, my best friend Blue, and his girlfriend BK Broiler. This sculpture is easily my favorite in the entire city even when it's so icy you have to be real careful walking...

...a lesson Blue learned much too late. "Oh no, this is going on your blog!" he cried as I snapped this picture. Yes, it will be, my clumsy friend.

It snowed, in case anyone didn't notice.

Went duckpin bowling with Blue and BK. Some of you may remember my hit-and-run incident last time I was there, but good fortune was still shining on me this time. I beat Blue in overall points (106 average to his 102) but the highlight of the night was betting on whose girlfriend would win the last game.

Naturally, we didn't tell them about the bet but when BK Broiler gutter-balled in the 10th frame, Blue fell out of his chair (like I said, he's pretty clumsy) and got a stern warning from management that he was being cut off after one beer. The Princess came through for me, beating BK 77 to 68 despite a sore ankle.

This past weekend, I went ice skating with a bunch of friends in Pentagon Row. I raced Brewies Chewies from one end of the rink to the other, causing him to fall, smack his head on a friend's ice skate, and ram into the wall. This left a cartoon-sized bump on his head and caused management to call 911. A fire truck and eight paramedics showed up and, to test whether he got a concussion, asked him what date it was. He was off by three days.

Me doing the "shamu" on the ice.

"After all that we've been through, I will make it up to you. I promise you. And after all that's been said and done, you're just a part of me I can't let go." -- Chicago, It's Hard for Me to Say I'm Sorry

Bring back TV theme tunes

2007-02-16T10:00:00.000Z

During lunch earlier this week, I brought up the greatness of the classic TV show Knight Rider. My much younger co-worker MJ, much to my vocal dismay, said she had never heard of it.

MJ: “Isn’t the movie coming out soon?”

Arjewtino: “Yes, so you HAVE heard of Knight Rider?”

MJ: “Yeah, it’s the one with Nicolas Cage, right?”

Arjewtino: “No, that’s Ghost Rider.”

MJ: “Ghost Rider? Isn’t that when someone else authors your book?”

After slapping my forehead and briefly considering the confusing effects of “ghost writer” as a homophone, I inevitably started to sing the theme tune to Knight Rider in my head. Then I tried to remember all the great 80s TV show theme tunes and wondered, “Where did the art of ‘theme-tuning’ sitcoms and dramas go?”

My best friend Blue and I, when we were younger, used to challenge each other to remember a TV show based on the humming of its song (yes, we were nerds). All the great tunes –- Doogie Howser, M.D., Perfect Strangers, Golden Girls, A-Team -– were easily remembered and others -– Empty Nest, Voyagers!, Sledge Hammer –- were a bit tougher to recall.

So why don’t modern TV shows create great theme tunes anymore? The answer is, as it usually is, money. By cutting down the introduction segment of a show, networks can run at least one more ad. By axing a theme song altogether, the network can cash in even more.

Theme tunes used to set up a TV show for the viewers, like in Gilligan’s Island or Brady Bunch (which thankfully explained the shows’ complex plots). Nowadays, TV viewers are more savvy and less in need of elucidation. This concurrently allows networks to reap more advertising dollars, but at the expense of creating fun yet vapid songs.

Never again will people hear, “Well, the world don’t move to the beat of just one drum…” and instantly think of a show like Diff’rent Strokes, or get “Making your way in the world today takes everything you got” stuck in their heads and think of Cheers all day long. Seriously, can anyone think of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and NOT start humming, “Now this is a story all about how my life got flip turned upside-down…”

There is a musical hole left in today’s TV shows. Viewers are starving to sing along to a theme tune, and CSI’s The Who songs as well as Law & Order’s “dum-dum” just aren’t cutting it.

If only we could once again sing the intro to Perfect Strangers, like I often do in the shower:

“Sometimes the world looks perfect,
Nothing to rearrange.
Sometimes you get a feeling
Like you need some kind of change.
No matter what the odds are this time,
Nothing's going to stand in my way.
This flame in my heart,
And a long lost friend
Gives every dark street a light at the end.

Standing tall, on the wings of my dream.
Rise and fall, on the wings of my dream.

The rain and thunder
The wind and haze
I'm bound for better days.
It's my life and my dream,
Nothing's going to stop me now.”

Listening to an IPod finally pays off

2007-02-15T13:22:00.000Z

The Washington Post recently took a stab at the Pulitzer Prize by asking DC residents on the street what they were listening to on their IPods. One of the interviewees was Baby Bien, an oft-mentioned “blog character” here. He made it into the paper’s Sunday Source and has graciously allowed to me to post his picture and identity here, thereby revealing himself to the Webosphere.

As a former newspaper reporter, I got used to seeing my name in print, a fact which, despite many journalists’ assertions to the contrary, IS an ego trip. But though the Post has interviewed me a couple of times, once while I was talking with Hizzoner Tony Williams at a Starbucks in Dupont Circle, I have never had my picture in the paper. This is probably a good thing since the ramifications of such exposure would only over inflate my ego to unbearable proportions.

Congrats, Baby Bien, on your newfound fame. I think you should sign up for Date Lab now.

What happens in Vegas, goes on my blog

2007-02-13T13:31:00.000Z

After a weekend trip to Las Vegas for my friend’s bachelor party, I now believe two things:

(1) There IS a god.

and

(2) He hates me.

Between losing at nearly every game I played, fighting with the bachelor’s friends, and getting told off by strippers, I’m convinced god no longer wants me to go to Vegas. And he wasn’t subtle.

Here is a list of other things in Vegas that hate me:

1. Roulette. Every time I walked by a roulette wheel, at every casino I visited, the electronic display showed a 23. Sometimes more than once, and one time four times in a row. With 23 being The Princess’ birthday and me being superstitious about numbers, I decided that this was the number on which to bet my hard-earned cash. But when I sat down at a wheel, every number BUT 23 came up. I got up and walked to a different wheel, and 23 STILL didn’t come up. I went back to the original wheel, and 23 had come up twice while I was gone. 35-to-1 odds, and every person playing roulette EXCEPT me won. Damn you, 23, you’re dead to me.

2. Strippers. Telling a stripper that, no, you wouldn’t like a lap dance but thank you for the offer is like telling your Jewish mom you don’t want kids. Expect a lot of resentment and cursing.

3. The bachelor’s friends. GoPats once told me the key to a successful bachelor party is being with good people. But it’s kind of hard to have fun in Vegas when your friend’s friends are all dirtbags. One guy, Justin, decided it would be fun to stay up all night playing blackjack. He lost thousands of dollars ($1,800 in back-to-back hands with the dealer getting 21), picked up a couple of hookers, and got kicked out of his room by his roommate. Another one, Murphy, picked a fight with me during an expensive steak dinner ($467 for six people) over how much we should each pay. We nearly “took it outside” before cooling down for the bachelor’s sake.

4. Drunk girls. While walking back to my room at 3am one night, I had to pass three inebriated girls stumbling down the hallway. One of them said, “Let this gentleman walk by.” I turned and joked, “Gentleman? I’m only 31”, only to have them say in unison, “You’re old!”

5. My money. Never before has my money been so eager to leave me. $100 in craps? Gone in 10 minutes. $200 in Blackjack? So long, sucker. My money left my bank account, my wallet, and into the casino’s proverbial hands so quickly, you’d think I slept with its sister. I’ll be eating a lot of Ramen the next few weeks and begging my money to come back to me.

Ask a Late Night Shots member

2007-02-07T15:11:00.000Z

Whenever I need prudent counsel, I turn to the only people in DC who matter: Late Night Shots members. These sages of insight, these tour guides of good judgment, are the Sherpas of our time – only more privileged and with deeper pockets.

For those who don’t know, Late Night Shots is an exclusive social network whose members – most of who I assume are Republican, wannabe-Ivy League, Yankees fans who TOTALLY love their fraternities/sororities – must be invited by an existing member. Collectively, they have been a controversial group, angering Wonkette for their general douchebaggery and drawing Why I Hate DC’s ire for their stance on Take Back the Night.

But, every so often, LNSers show strokes of Solomonic reasoning that go beyond their smug self-satisfaction and lifelong sense of entitlement. They share nuggets of wisdom gathered by a lifetime of struggle (e.g., didn’t get a Lexus for 16th birthday) and personal growth (e.g., accepted to Georgetown thanks to daddy’s connections).

Here are a few questions I had recently. I turned to the LNS Forums for guidance:

Is it ok to keep old love letters and photos from ex-girlfriends?

“Yeah, there’s nothing wrong with a few love letters, maybe some old nail clippings, locks of pubic hair, nothing wrong with that at all.” -- Bob Wiley

“I hang on to all pictures and store them in a box in my closet. That is where they will remain until the day comes when my kid decides to talk sh-t to his old man. Then I’ll bring out the box and show him how awesome I was and tell him stories of my conquests.” -- man law

My girlfriend and I trust each other but share our computers. How do you balance trust with one’s right to privacy?

I don’t use my gf’s computer for that very reason. I trust her to not cheat on me, but I would never trust her to not snoop, and I couldn’t blame her if she did. With that said, if she ever touches my computer, she gets her hands chopped off.” -- bummer

How do I know if I’m drinking too much?

“My life would be horrible without drinking. None of my friends tell me to stop because they are all telling me to drink more. I haven’t ever missed work, but I have definitely thrown up at it.” -- 1

“When I was dating, I (somewhat successfully) tried to keep up the appearance that I wasn’t a raging alcoholic…My advice–don’t be afraid to go through two bottles of wine at dinner” -- Ken Noisewater

“I would rather drink myself into a coma at some dive bar, piss myself, possibly upchuck on my own loins and wake up while it’s still light out and do it again.” -- The Taquito Bandito

How should we handle the Middle East crisis?

“We should do a Berlin airlift of pornography over the Middle East. They should be exposed to the pleasure of banging it out, and seeing T&A in the streets, and at 'Good Guys Rhiyadd'. -- Curtis Lemay

“Why did Jesus put all our oil over there anyway?” -- Aggressive Nutmegger

Thanks, LNS. I look forward to your advice in the future.

Refashioning the workplace: six style choices on the comeback trail

2007-02-05T14:55:00.000Z

My new co-worker is a human affront to office fashion.

He mismatches his clothes, likes to wear every garment he owns AT THE SAME TIME, and has managed to scare off frightened interns. I’m not sure if it’s his pinstripe suit/plaid shirt combo, or perhaps his blue bowtie and blue/green argyle vest mishmash, but Burberry (named after his briefcase) is quickly popularizing old vestiges of workplace fashion best left in the graveyard of sartorial past.

I’m no clothing aficionado myself, as evidenced by my awesomely awful $18 thrift store coat, which The Princess would burn in a heartbeat. But Burberry’s wardrobe-challenged style has made me wonder if we shouldn’t bring back at least SOME of these once-common fashion relics.

Below are my top six pieces of men’s clothing I think could – and should -- make a comeback.

1. Tie clips. These things look sharp. Nothing says, “I work in a wind tunnel so I better fasten my tie to my shirt” more than this archaic piece. Tie clips can also be engraved with your fraternity letters, an obvious plus.

2. Suspenders. Who wants to bother with trying to slide your belt through every single pants loop? Try doing it in the morning when you’re rushing out the door. Belts also invite dorky cell phone clips and make matching the exact hue to your shoes a near impossible task. Suspenders, however, allow you to get as fat as you’d like without having to throw away your pants.

3. Ascots. My friend Luddite likes to wear these cravats whenever he’s feeling foppish. Luddite is NOT an English duke or Fred from Scooby-Doo, but if this 35-year-old long-haired metalhead thinks they’re hip, who am I to disagree?

4. Monocles. I have a slight stigmatism that requires me to wear eyeglasses when I drive, despite my left eye’s perfect vision. A perfect solution would be to wear this singular corrective lens AND look good doing so. The Monopoly guy and Mr. Peanut are big fans, and it garnered a following in the stylish lesbian circles of the mid-20th century.

5. Pocketwatches. In a society so taken over by modern technology that people only tell time on their cell phones or digital wristwatches, these timepieces are a perfect way to tell the world, “I know the difference between the big hand and little hand AND I remind you of your grandpa.” Extra plus: I’m pretty sure pocketwatches have the power to allow you to time travel like in Voyagers!, that 80s TV show I loved as a kid.

6. Work-issued ID badge. How do yuppies know WHO you are or WHAT you can do for them in DC unless they see WHERE you work? Or THAT you work? Unless you start pinning your resume to your lapel pin, the best option is wearing your work-issued ID tags out on the town. On your belt, around your neck, it doesn’t matter; just don’t take them off when you leave the office, smart guy. Don’t hold to this rule just during work week happy hours, either. Saturday nights are perfect for demonstrating your fashion expertise.

This is just the start, people. If we can incorporate these wardrobe choices into the workplace, there’s no telling where we might go. Top hats, petticoats, canes? We’ll have to wait and see.

Lincoln wants to know if I “Got Jesus”

2007-02-02T15:46:00.000Z

After buying a bag of Guatemalan coffee at Starbucks yesterday (I now have good standing in our work coffee club), the barista gave me back my change, which included this five dollar bill. Though I’m sure no one will see the artist in a gallery anytime soon, he/she made me laugh with the “Got Jesus” balloon.
The writing on the right (sorry, it got cut off while scanning) referenced “Philipians [sic] 4:19”. Philippians? I knew it had to be a Bible citation but I had never heard of that book. Must be New Testament stuff, I thought, or as the Jews call it, “Fiction”.

(To me, it’s all fiction, so I’m an equal opportunity Bible skeptic.)

I looked up Phillipians 4:19 online and found the following line: “And my God will supply all your needs according to His riches in glory in Christ Jesus.”

I flipped the bill over to find the artist hadn’t stopped at Lincoln when defacing my Federal Reserve Note. “TRUST GOD”, he had written in big block letters, letting it hover above the Lincoln Memorial. And to the side: “give to the poor!”

I think I’ll give this bill to the guy who plays his trumpet by the L’Enfant Plaza Metro. I don’t believe in god, Jeebus, fate, or monetary chain letters, but when our first gay president tells me to do something, I like to think that I listen.

I am such a vagina

2007-02-01T21:27:00.000Z

As I’ve aged, I have learned to edit my speech. But every so often, I’ll have a brain fart and my mouth will independently articulate what I was thinking.

Yesterday, during an all-hands staff meeting, I was joking with some co-workers that I had decided to start my own branch in our organization and that I was naming myself the manager. In a conference room full of colleagues, the following conversation took place.

Arjewtino: I’m starting my own branch. I’m the manager. Anyone who wants to join me must apply.

Co-worker #1: What are you going to call your branch?

Arjewtino: I don’t know yet. Something about tech writing.

Co-worker #1: How about the Technical Writing Information Team?

Arjewtino: TWIT?

-- laughter among staff ensues--

Co-worker #2: I got a better one.

Arjewtino: What is it?

Co-worker #2: Technical Writing Assessment Team.

-- this is where I probably should have said it in my head first --

Arjewtino: TWAT?

I shouldn’t be allowed to speak.

Freedom is a wheel in your sole

2007-01-31T18:26:00.000Z

For years, I have watched with raging envy kids skating on their sneakers. Like Transformers, these children would run around, doing whatever kids do, when suddenly and without warning, they would rear back on their heels and glide across the floor.

I soon learned that the footgear these kids were using were called Heelys. And all I could think of was, “I WANT A PAIR.”

I know I’m not 10 years old. I know I’m supposed to be thinking about adult things like financial planning, career advancement, and the housing market. My “kid time” expired long ago, and with it my inherent permission to talk with my mouth full, eat gobs of candy, and throw temper tantrums.

But I want a pair of Heelys. I NEED them. Like tech-geeks need an IPhone, like the desert needs the rain.

Look at these things. What otherwise rational person over the age of 17 can view them and NOT wish they had them when they were young? Of course, the only people you see in them are “children”, or as I like to call them, “ungrateful little snots”.

But why are they just for kids? Why can’t a 31-year-old professional in DC lace up a pair, head down to the Smithsonian museums, and skate down their long, smooth hallways? Why should I be punished for being 20 years older than Heelys’ target demographic?

Here are five reasons why I think I should buy Heelys

1. Our children are spoiled enough. Between Wiis, cell phones, and a premature sense of entitlement, our children are growing up thinking THEY are the ones who run the show. Frankly, these snotrags are getting too big for their britches and I need to knock them down a peg or four. Buying a pair of Heelys will show them that adults rule the world and we can take away their toys whenever we want.

2. The coolness factor. I am pretty much the coolest guy I know. I’m also the coolest guy you know. But I need an extra niche to prove just how cool I really am. Nothing says “cool” more than watching a man in his 30s shunning adult responsibilities and using a child’s toy in broad daylight. With one purchase, I’ll instantly become that aviator sunglasses-wearing, Tryst-patronizing, velvet blazer-wearing, soy latte-drinking hipster guy who hangs out at Wonderland on the weekends, sews No Blood for Oil patches on his raggedy backpack, and talks about the next show at the Black Cat. I know INSTANT coolness credentials.

3. Think of all the DC tourists I could scare. People visiting the nation’s capital already make the summers difficult for us. They clog up our Metro trains and escalators, mispronounce L’Enfant Plaza, and wear fanny packs. A local reminder to Jim Bo Bob and family to make room on the sidewalks for adult men flying past them on Heelys might keep them away the following year.

4. I’m an amazing skater. Rollerskating, rollerblading, skateboarding, or ice skating. What do these activities have in common? I’m amazingly gifted at them. I should be allowed to master another of the art forms of skating. I never want to hear anyone say, “Sure, Arjewtino can hockey-stop like Gretzky and play rollerhockey blindfolded, but can he Heely?” I'm also good at doing the Hokey-Pokey.

5. The Heelys’ inventor is older than me. Roger Adams invented these things when he was 45 after a divorce and a midlife crisis. If a man approaching 50 can take a spin around the block with them, I can, too.

Blogging in Buenos Aires

2007-01-30T22:31:00.000Z

Clarin, which is only the world's largest Spanish daily newspaper, published a piece about American ex-pats blogging in Buenos Aires. Congratulations to Ian Mount y familia and Yanqui Mike for their mentions.

In case you can't read Spanish but would like to peruse the article, I suggest copy-and-pasting the text into AltaVista's Babel Fish translating tool. Not because it translates words well, but because of the sheer joy one gets from reading a translation so literal that it makes one laugh out loud.

For example, here is one of Ian's quotes, courtesy of Babel Fish:

"We wanted to change itself outside the United States. We worked much and New York is very expensive. And we loved a baby ", says Ian. "In New York there is no place for the babies, but all they love", affirms them here Arch. For which Buenos Aires? "We were once of vacations and we liked."

Maybe it wasn't Babel Fish. Maybe that's just the way Ian talks.

Water, water everywhere, not a drop to drink -- A guest blog post by McHeeb

2007-01-30T16:05:00.000Z

Arjewtino asked me to write this guest blog entry. Well...I'm going to say he asked. It technically doesn't count as “asking” if the “request” doesn't end in a question mark, but rather is punctuated with the word “bitch!”

There is a veritable cornucopia of topics I could discuss here, but I decided to make this blog entry DC-centric as Arjewtino is a D-list weblebrity in the DC Blog circuit. So, here we go my droogies. Strap in and hang on.

A while back I got this pamphlet in the mail. It was kinda long and had lots of words. It didn't have any pictures or nothin'. The words were tiny, too. Reading it was gonna be work. But it might be important! What to do? After a bit of thought, I came up with an ingenious solution: I placed the pamphlet on my kitchen counter. “I'll read it later. It's probably not important,” I said to myself. Ingenious.

A while later, I eventually got around to reading it. Here's how it read:

“On September 23, tests showed an increase in coliform bacteria, resulting in a violation of a monthly federal drinking water standard – the first violation for DC WASA following 95 consecutive months of surpassing the standard.”

Ok.... so, I don't quite get what this means. I'm pretty sure that "Coliform bacteria" is bad for me. I mean, I'm not a fancy big city lawyer or nothin', but I've never heard a cereal commercial bragging, "Now with MORE Coliform bacteria!" Secondly, they violated a federal standard. And you know that "standard" wasn't that good to begin with. So here I am drinking water full of fucking bacteria, and I'm supposed to give these fucking douchebags a pat on the back because they haven't had a violation in the past 95 months? YOU ARE FUCKING NOT SUPPOSED TO HAVE FUCKING BACTERIA IN THE FUCKING WATER THAT PEOPLE FUCKING DRINK.

The pamphlet continues:

“This is Not a Health Emergency!”

Yeah. That superfluous exclamation mark makes me reeeaally inclined to believe you. Like I'm supposed to trust anything thing you say to me now. And if this isn't an emergency, like you say it isn't, if this coliform bacteria is possibly even good for me as you seem to be implying then why are you sending out a fucking emergency notice?

It goes on to say:

"The EPA, the DC Department of Health, and the Washington Aqueduct say that the increase in bacteria is probably caused by the addition of orthophosphate – a chemical added to the water by the Aqueduct to help with the problem of lead leaching from service pipes and fixtures containing lead, and the warm summer weather."

AND NOW THERE'S FUCKING LEAD IN THE WATER TOO?! OH, GREAT! JUST FUCKING GREAT!

The pamphlet concludes:

"We have successfully provided as much early notice as possible to customers, the general public, the media and local and federal government officials."

This part is actually true. They did give me plenty of notice to do the NOTHING that they suggested. No “boil the water”, no “buy bottled water”, no NOTHING. Just an "FYI – you've been drinking bacteria laden water. Cheers!"

You'll have to excuse me now. I'm thirsty. I'd like to drink something with less bacteria than water. Luckily, I've got a nice, hot cup of urine waiting for me.

My hips were lying all along

2007-01-29T15:15:00.000Z

There are two words you often won’t hear together.

Arjewtino. Dancing.

This is quite sad, actually. We Latins dance. We have rhythm. We shake our moneymakers in our sleep.

I, however, don’t.

I lead with my shoulders, I have cements blocks for feet, and the only rhythm I possess comes from my IPod.

So when some friends and I went to Habana Village Friday night for salsa dancing, I secretly wished Shakira would show up beforehand and give me personal instruction in shaking my hips. (I wish that anyway, but even more so this time.)

We eschewed the bar’s $10 two-hour lesson and met early for some liquid courage. I thought it might be a mistake. I flashed back to the first time I went snowboarding and opted out of the lessons because, in my words, it looked “easy” and “I used to skateboard when I was a teenager.” I ended up on my ass 95% of the time and it took me several hours to finally get down the slope.

We downed some beers and girly drinks and moved upstairs. DC’s smoking ban might have made the bar less hazy, but the combined scent of sweat, cheap cologne, and sexually aggressive middle-aged Latin men wafted in the air. Not too sure yet about that tradeoff.

Luckily, one of my friends, Mexican Liz, knew what she was doing and gave us all a crash course in salsa. She grabbed my hips, told me what steps to make, and warned me to keep my shoulders steady. Before long, in the comfort of an unlit corner, a magical thing happened: I started to pick it up.

My left foot-right foot combo was smooth, my hips moved to the music, and my hot Latinoness, long hidden in shame, emerged. I realized that salsa dancing is not a difficult dance to pick up – it’s all about timing. If you master the timing, you can do anything within the parameters of the dance steps.

Hot girls watched me, Guatemalan men envied me, and, I imagine, Shakira placed a phone call to Habana Village asking if I would appear in her next music video.

Now if I could just conquer snowboarding.

Wanna bet?

2007-01-26T14:31:00.000Z

I am not the savviest bettor (despite my obvious financial acumen).

Nearly six years ago, I bet Tits McGee that if he bought an Orange Julius from my hometown shopping mall (Fallbrook Mall in Woodland Hills) during his business trip to LA, I would jump in the C&O Canal.

I never anticipated I could lose the one-way bet. I also never anticipated that once Tits got to LA, his whole project would be cancelled and he would have two days to kill in a rented car. AND I never anticipated that he would make a hilarious video of himself driving around the Valley, asking people on the street if they knew me, and finally finding the very same Orange Julius I used to go to during my 15-minute breaks while working in Sears’s hardware department.

So I probably shouldn’t have made the bet I made with The Princess this week.

She told me she had been sort of irregular with her pill-taking lately, to which I responded, “How hard can it be to remember to take one pill a day?”

“Harder than you think,” she said.

“Right, I’m sure it’s tough.”

“You try it, you couldn’t do it.”

“I bet I could.”

Ah, there it was. The word “bet” leaving my mouth so effortlessly. The masculine need to prove to others that I am perfectly capable of performing any – ANY -- challenge. I “bet” I could bicycle down that steep ramp, I said when I was 8, moments before crashing. I “bet” I could drink more tequila than you, I told a friend at a college party, shortly before taking 13 straight shots (we tied).

In some ways, that confidence – no matter how misguided it might be – has served me well. It’s driven me to achieve so much in my life.

But sometimes, like the bet about the Orange Julius, I fail to see the irrational and often stupid ramifications of my ante.

But taking one measly pill every day for four weeks? Come on, it was cake. The Princess and I established that I would have to take one Vitamin C tablet every day. The stakes are private and unbloggable. I don’t see how I can’t win.

Oh, and the infamous C&O Canal outcome? Let’s just say I had to take three showers that night.

Burkina Faso is the new Nigeria

2007-01-24T14:39:00.000Z

I recently received an e-mail from a bank manager in Burkina Faso who wants to transfer $5.6 million to my U.S. bank account – get this – for nothing!

Now, I know what you’re all thinking. I’ve hit the motherload! And you’re right, I have. I’m going to be rich beyond my wildest dreams! I’ll be able to light cigars with $100 bills and light those $100 bills with $1,000 bills! I’ll be able to pay full price at JCPenney! I’ll be able to afford an IPhone!

I know, I know, I’ve heard about the Nigeria e-mail scam, but this e-mail was sent from a man named Mohamed Buba from Burkina Faso. There’s no way these things are related. First of all, I have a friend from Burkina Faso and he’s never tried to cheat me. And second, their country’s official language is French, so they HAVE to be legit. You say “specious reasoning”, I say “smart decision-making”.

Here’s how I know this e-mail is real.

1. I am an incredibly wise financial planner, so it’s no surprise Mr. Buba contacted me. I only apply for credit cards when they offer me free blankets or keychains, I always bet on red in roulette, and I use the password “password” for my online accounts because no one would ever guess it. I never went to B-school (that’s slang for “business school”, Blue), but this sounds like what we like to call “a sure thing”.

2. In the e-mail, Mr. Buba says he’s a “Foreign Remmittance Manager”. I don’t know what that is or why he misspelled the word “remittance”, so that must mean he’s a really smart guy.

3. He’s from Ouagadougou, which I looked up on Wikipedia and is correctly identified as the capital of Burkina Faso. If this e-mail were a scam, Mr. Buba wouldn’t have known that.

4. Mr. Buba explains that he’s “transfering the left over funds $5.6 million of one of my bank deceased client”. Despite misspelling the word “transferring”, separating the word “leftover”, and referring to his cash cow as a “bank deceased client”, he clearly made his point. These “errors” in spelling, syntax, and the entire laws of grammar may SEEM like the rantings of a madman, but they are part of a calculating ruse to throw off other investors not nearly as savvy as myself. Well done, Mr. Buba.

5. This financial windfall is mine for the taking thanks to the death of Mr. Buba’s “bank deceased client”, who, he explains, was killed when his “sharter plane” crashed “on mount kenyan in the kenyan city of sumburu on 21st july,2003”. I don’t know what a “sharter plane” is, but I think everyone’s been in the position where you’re farting and you accidentally take a shit, hence, sharting. Mr. Buba obviously empathizes with the plight of his fellow man, which I find attractive in a Foreign Remmittance Manager from West Africa.

This is how I imagine I will emerge from my "sharter plane" when I am wealthy

6. Mr. Buba goes so far as to provide a Web link to the CNN story of the “21st july,2003” crash, so I can, even if I’m doubting him for any strange reason at this point, verify his story for myself. He’s like the human equivalent of Progressive Auto Insurance, which gives you the quotes of other insurance companies as well as theirs so you can decide for yourself which company is the most affordable. That’s just good business sense.

7. Finally, Mr. Buba tells me he is “inviting [me] for a business deal where this money can be shared between us in the ratio 60/40 if you agree to my business proposal.” Brilliant, Mr. Buba, absolutely brilliant. He’s not only fair and forthcoming with his offer, he leaves it up to me to decide who will be the “60” and who will be the “40” in this partnership. I think I’ll take the “60”.

Do not despair that I received this business opportunity and you didn’t. Go back to your menial jobs where you actually have to “earn” money and know that I reaped the rewards of being a smart businessman.

Maybe someday I’ll fly you on my “sharter plane”.

Argentina vs. Guatemala: Not a fair fight

2007-01-22T14:34:00.000Z

During last Thursday night's blogger happy hour, Throwing Hammers came up to me and asked me if there was a bitter rivalry between myself and El Guapo in DC. Gringos often don't understand the subtle intricacies of Latino blogger relationships, so I explained to Hammer that Guatemalans are often envious of Argentineans for a variety of reasons.

To further explain, I decided to pit El Guapo’s country against mine by comparing nothing but the most objective of measures, as determined by myself. To make this fair and balanced, I decided not to ask for EG's input since everyone knows Guatemalans can't be trusted.

Test One: Futbol

Take a look at the following side-by-side images of our countries’ respective futbol jerseys. Admire the beauty and splendor of Argentina's sky-blue vertical stripes on the left. Be awed by the two gold stars above the team crest, indicating its glorious World Cup victories in 1978 and 1986.

Guatemala's jersey on the right looks like it belongs to the country's international bowling team. And it has never qualified for any World Cup.

Advantage: Argentina

Test Two: Facial Hair

My beard/'stache combo can become so wild if I don't trim it for a week that The Princess describes the long hairs as "face pubes". EG blogs often about his glorious moustache “that makes flowers grow” and is obviously very proud of his pushbroom. I have never met EG, but I imagine this photograph depicts what he might look like. Very cool.

Advantage: Guatemala

Side note: This month is Moustachuary, heralded as the "time of the moustache". During this celebratory month, all who are able to are to grow the most respectable moustache they can.

Test Three: Culture

Argentina is known for its European-like cities and architecture, tango music and dance, and amazing food and wine. Guatemala was named the "first cultural destination in the world". Ooh, too bad. The British, despite bringing us The Office, spotted dick, and imperialism, bombed the ARA General Belgrano Navy cruiser while it was IN RETREAT during the Guerra de las Malvinas in 1982. I wouldn’t want their devious endorsement.

Advantage: Argentina

Test Four: Religion

Guatemala's government protects its country's Mayan ruins by providing altars at each site and allowing traditional ceremonies to be performed. Argentina’s government protected Nazis at the end of World War II.

Advantage: Guatemala

Test Five: Vacation Spot

Argentina is a well traveled country that attracts thousands of tourists who, if they manage not to get mugged or killed, become lifelong Argy-philes. Between the beauty of Buenos Aires, the wine region of Mendoza, and the unique destination spots of Bariloche and Perito Moreno, Argentina is chock-full of places everyone wants to visit. Its 3-to-1 exchange rate also makes visiting very financially advantageous for Americans, provided they don't get robbed of their life savings.

No one ever says he or she just came back from Guatemala (except for The Princess, who loves it there). Tourists would much rather go to Belize, anyway.

Advantage: Argentina

Test Six: Independence

Argentina gained independence from Spain in 1810 during the historic May Revolution. The political and social events occurred in Buenos Aires and directly led to the liberation of Argentina AND three other countries. Guatemala didn't have the balls to copy-cat Argentina until 11 years later, and even then only as an annexation to the Mexican Empire.

Advantage: Argentina

Test Seven: Blogging

Guatemala produced El Guapo in DC, one of the most consistently funny, creative, and witty bloggers in DC. Argentina produced a vain moron who likes to make lists.

Advantage: Guatemala

Winner: Argentina, 4-3.

This impartial, dispassionate comparison makes it clear that Argentina is the better of the two countries, but not by much. We should all understand El Guapo’s jealousy and not make him feel any worse than he already does.

P.S. My planned trip to Guatemala this summer may influence future considerations.

Mi abuelita querida

2007-01-18T18:24:00.000Z

One night while visiting Buenos Aires nearly five years ago, my best friend Blue and I came home from a night of joda to find my 80-year-old abuelita missing.

It was 12:30 a.m. She wasn’t reading the paper or watching Benny Hill reruns on her little TV. She wasn’t watering her jungle of flowers or cooking knishes. Her small, two-bedroom apartment that she had lived in for nearly 30 years was empty. And I started to freak out.

I called my mom in LA.

“Guille’s not here!” I shouted into the phone. “Blue and I came home and she’s missing!”

“What? Wait,” my mom replied, “what time is it there?”

“It’s 12:30 in the morning!”

“Oh, she’s probably out.”

Out? My petite, sweet, widowed grandma? Out? At this time of night? I don’t think so. People MY age go “out”; my abuelita is supposed to be home when it’s dark and night has already started to creep into the next day.

I made some te con leche to calm my nerves, sat down at the kitchen table, and waited up like an anxious parent. At 1 a.m., I heard the keys rattling outside the apartment. The door opened and in walked my abuela, furtively stepping into the kitchen like a teenager sneaking in after prom night.

“Where have you been?” I asked her in Spanish, standing with my hands at my hips. “I was worried.”

She took one look at me, smiled, and in heavily accented English said, “Oh, oh! Busted!”

This, to me, is my grandma. Mi abuelita. Guille (an affectionate nickname her brother gave her when she was a little girl that stuck throughout her life). So full of life, energy, and silliness.

Guille and me, New Year's Eve 2006

When I saw her while visiting Argentina last month, she was still the same, fun grandma who let me stay up late watching TV with her when I was a boy, the same grandma who hugged me when I was sad and scolded me when I was being petulant.

Now 85, she’s smaller in stature and she can’t walk far without her legs feeling like they’re on fire. Walking down Avenida Cabildo one morning, I teased her that if she walked any slower she’d be going backwards. She laughed, squeezed my arm, and gave me a kiss.

On a different morning, we discussed the principle of marriage and family over medialunas.

“When are you going to give me great-grandchildren?”

“I don’t know, Guille, not for several more years.”

“When?”

“Let’s say five years.”

“Five years?” she replied while belting out a mocking laugh. “You think I’ll be around that long?”

“Yes, of course, you’ll only be 90.”

Only 90. I swear, if you knew my abuela, you know she could live to be 120 if she wanted. She’s obstinate and difficult to sway, a trait that has been passed down to my mom, my siblings, and myself. She likes things her way and no one’s going to change that.

“Guille, it’s so hot in here, can I turn on the air conditioner?” I asked her one day as I suffered through a record-breaking Buenos Aires heat wave.

“I don’t have an air conditioner.”

“What? Why not?”

“I don’t believe in it.”

My grandma can be so eccentric sometimes it defies logic. During my visit, she gave me a bag full of underwear Blue had left here accidentally during our last visit. She had washed, folded, and saved his underwear for nearly five years, waiting for the day I would visit to return it.

I asked her why she kept it and didn't just throw the underwear away, and she said, "Why would I throw underwear away?"

Hermano, abuelo, me, Guille, and Hermanita, 1982

A running joke with my grandma during this last visit was that she was constantly drunk. When she told me something irrational like “walk on the floor softer” or “don’t touch my plants”, I would tilt my hand to my mouth and mime the act of drinking. Once, she thought I was just thirsty and brought me water.

When Guille was a child, her parents fled Poland for Argentina, seeking to escape pogroms and anti-Semitism sweeping across Eastern Europe. She grew up in Buenos Aires and lived there her whole life. She was married to my grandpa Meir for 40 years before he died in 1983 of cancer. She smiles when I talk about him and has dozens of framed photos of him around the apartment.

A few years ago, thieves broke into her friend’s apartment while she was playing cards with her friends and stole her wedding ring at gunpoint. She pleaded with them to take anything but the ring, explaining that its only value was purely sentimental. They took it anyway.

“Why don’t you move to the U.S. and live with Mami?” I asked her once. “Argentina is so dangerous.”

“No,” she said. “I grew up here and I’m going to die here.”

No problem, abuela. But I’ll see you when you’re 120.

What is this, Sophie’s Choice?

2007-01-16T18:34:00.000Z

As I weighed the decision this weekend whether to keep smoking or go on the nicotine patch, I wondered: “Is it in my economic interest to quit?”

I know there are plenty of social and health incentives to quit. Smoking will kill me, it stinks up my clothes, and it’s newly banned in DC bars. But is there any economic incentive?

Having recently finished reading Freakonomics, I’ve started questioning the conventional wisdom of nearly everything. The book’s authors revealed that human beings tend to behave less because of social or morality pressures but because of financial incentives.

Yesterday, for instance, while at the Laundromat, I wondered if the facility’s owners had any incentive to cheat customers. By turning down the heat slightly on their dryers -- not too much for anyone to notice but enough to make customers pay extra to dry their clothes -– Laundromat owners theoretically could rake in several thousands of extra dollars per month. And if this were true, would this financial advantage be enough to outweigh the fear of being caught and the ethics involved in cheating loyal customers?

Roosh investigated this principle of incentives yesterday by examining how much each sexual partner was costing him and considering whether an escort service was a more financially desirable choice. He found his $187 CPN (cost per notch) was less than an escort’s rates and, therefore, enough of a difference to be advantageous.

If Roosh could figure out the economics of sex, I could certainly determine whether economics could help me quit smoking.

I spend, on average, $4.50 per pack and smoke about 12 cigarettes per day. With an average cost of 22.5 cents per smoke, I am spending $2.70 per day or $37.80 every two weeks.

The Nicorette 2-week patch package costs $44, about 16% more than the cost of smoking. This is hardly what I would call an economic incentive. Over the course of the six-week program, this would extrapolate to an extra expense of $18.60.

I’d have to spend nearly an extra $20 AND I’d have to suffer through smoking cessation? Not much of a push to cease the habit.

Luckily, everyone’s favorite dual-circled, red-and-white company came to the rescue, this time with a generic alternative.

Target’s Nicotine Transdermal System offered the same two-week package for $28, nearly 26% LESS than my cost of smoking. That’s a savings of almost $30 over six weeks. Good, right?

Maybe. I started to wonder if that thirty bucks was even WORTH the exchange of the pleasure smoking brings me? Perhaps the VALUE of that $30 savings isn’t actually enough to make me quit.

In the end, I bought the Target package and today is my first day on the patch. My wallet may get slightly bulgier in the coming weeks but whether it matters has yet to be seen.

I’m breaking up with Woody Allen

2007-01-11T20:12:00.000Z

Woody, we need to talk.

Things have gotten so bad lately. I don’t think I can do this anymore. When we first started out, there was so much promise. Remember when I first saw Annie Hall in college? It was immediate love. I thought, “Finally, I’ve met someone who understands me.” But I was so young and naïve. It was like some kind of whirlwind as we hurled through life and love in Manhattan, shared some stupid laughs in Take the Money and Run, and even got serious in Crimes and Misdemeanors.

Zelig cracked me up like no other and Love and Death still brings a smile to my face. You taught me so much, even making me watch Everyone Says I Love You despite my hatred of musicals.

But somewhere along the way, you changed. I guess it all started with Small Time Crooks. Not sure what that was all about. And The Curse of the Jade Scorpion? What the hell? I started to feel hurt and resentful that this was all you could give. I kept giving you a shot, but Hollywood Ending made me nearly walk out on you all together.

I saw some flashes of the old days, Woody, in Melinda and Melinda and even Match Point (I know now Scarlett Johannson was the reason).

But after watching Scoop last night, I know now that it’s over. We need to call it quits before things get worse. Scoop is NOT what I want out of this relationship and you just don’t seem to understand that. You used to care, really CARE about me. Your movies inspired me, made me talk about you to all my friends, and felt so carefree and easy.

Please, don’t be upset. This hurts me just as much as I’m sure it hurts you. But even Scarlett in a bathing suit wasn’t good enough to save the crapfest that was Scoop.

Don’t make this any harder than it is by reminding me of your upcoming Cassandra’s Dream, Woody. I want to think of the Woody who “lurved” Diane Keaton, who heard that Dissent and Commentary merged and formed Dissentary, and who talked about how even your worst orgasm “was right on the money”.

You may have said it best in Annie Hall: “A relationship, I think, is like a shark. You know? It has to constantly move forward or it dies. And I think what we got on our hands is a dead shark.”

We’ve got a dead shark, Woody.

So I wish you luck in the future but I don’t want you to think that we have one. I’m sure I’ll hear about you at Cannes and I may think of you from time to time. But I’ll think of the Woody who slipped on large banana peels in Sleeper and NOT the Woody who cast Jason Biggs in Anything Else.

You’ll always have a place in my heart, Woody. Just not at the box office.

P.S. The painting of Woody above was done by a friend of my brother’s named Preston, whose amazing artwork can be found at: http://www.pmsartwork.freeservers.com/

Skipping Wonkette's Grid

2007-01-10T15:07:00.000Z

My friend A Portable Snack may have seen his work poem blog picked up by Wonkette yesterday, but the travelbug in me is all happy thanks to a mention today in Gridskipper: The Urban Travel Guide. I can now claim to be a published travel writer. Sit on that, Walt Whitman!

There are more Argentina stories and photos to come, including about my abuelita, homeless children, and inflight magazines. Be patient, chicos.

I feel pretty, oh so pretty

2007-01-09T13:21:00.000Z

I’m not a Mac fan, but I’ll give it one thing – it sure takes funny photos.

Dickgirl and I used her IBook’s “photobooth” this weekend to twist, contort, skew, and flabbergast our faces into different ugly shapes and sizes. Think of it as the modern day equivalent of a fun house mirror without the whole, you know, having to leave your house part. Here are the results:

Arjewtino

Dickgirl

Baby Bien

GoPats

Good times, guys.

Also, the winner of Saturday night’s impromptu What Would Your Blog Be Called if You Had One contest goes to Luddite, who came up with http://blincolnblogs.blogspot.com.

A 12-Step Guide to Having Fun in Buenos Aires -- What Lonely Planet Won’t Tell You

2007-01-08T14:30:00.000Z

Every travel book to Buenos Aires tells the same story. Visit La Plaza de Mayo, walk through the city’s beautiful parks, and enjoy its sidewalk cafes. But if you hate acting like a tourist and want to experience the REAL Argentina, follow these steps. You might just get mistaken for a porteno.

1. U.S. dollars go a long way in Argentina, so exploiting the country’s fragile economic base is fairly easy. With a favorable exchange rate of 3 pesos to every dollar, pretend you’re the Bush twins and order the most expensive items in restaurants. A parillada mixta and bottle of Malbec wine will never taste so financially advantageous.

2. Visit your tee totaling 85-year-old grandma who doesn’t understand English well and accuse her of being drunk. When she tells you something irrational like “walk on the floor softer” or “don’t touch my plants”, tilt your hand to your mouth and humorously mime the act of drinking. She’ll think you’re thirsty and bring you water.

Note: My grandma could be the subject of an entire blog. No one register http://mycrazydrunkargentineangrandma.blogspot.com. It’s mine.

3. Take a 3am ride with a taxi driver who runs red lights, makes right turns three left lanes over, but crosses himself and kisses his crucifix whenever he drives past a church. Wonder if god would rather he just pay better attention to the road.

4. Pester your relatives to reveal a treasure trove of family secrets, ranging from the innocuous (mom wanted five kids instead of three) to the interesting (great-grandparents escaped pogroms in the Ukraine) to the disturbing (Argentine military agents paid a visit to Communist-minded dad and uncle at home in the 70s).

5. Live out your lifelong dream and take a 2-hour tour of your favorite soccer team’s stadium, River Plate’s Monumental. They’ll grant you an entire THREE MINUTES on the field where Argentina won its first World Cup in 1978. Ignore the tour guide when he hollers at you to leave by pretending you only understand English.

6. Visit family and friends you haven’t seen in years. You’ll get a headache from spending hours speaking in Spanish. They’ll also remind you every five minutes how small you were the last time they saw you.

7. Count how many mullets and rat tails you see men sporting in Buenos Aires. Consider growing one before your horrified girlfriend talks you out of it.

8. Watch “Los Simpson” dubbed in Spanish. Not funny.

9. On New Year’s Eve, take to the streets of Buenos Aires and try dodging an arsenal of fireworks, rockets, and fireballs. Walk in the middle of an empty Avenida Cabildo before nearly getting hit by a car you didn’t see coming.

10. Spend hours losing IQ points in Argentina’s cybercafé dungeons that play loud gay club music. Ask the attendant repeatedly to unlock the Internet porn block on your computer when you try to access such raunchy Web sites like Hotmail or DC Blogs.

11. Visit Buenos Aires during its most brutal heat wave since the 1950s. Stay with your grandma, who doesn’t “believe in air conditioning”.

12. Book your return flight home through Lan Chile. When they say you have a direct flight from Buenos Aires to BWI via Miami, what they ACTUALLY mean is you have a flight from Buenos Aires to Santiago, Chile, to Bogota, Colombia, to a delay in Miami, THEN to BWI, arriving at 2am.

Live From Buenos Aires, Vol. III

2006-12-29T20:36:00.000Z

The Argentinean dialect is a unique one, with its own cadence and manner of speaking that makes it quite recognizable in the Latin world. Still, one must be careful when speaking castellano here since even the locals might misinterpret something if you don’t speak it perfectly.

Yesterday afternoon, while strolling down Avenida Cabildo, I stopped into a peluqueria for a recorte (beard trim). She did a decent job, after which she asked me if I wanted anything else cut. I told her no, that I would finish shaving at home. Unfortunately, the word for home (casa) can also mean to get married.

She starts to beam and then says felicidades, congratulating me, and gives me a kiss. She then yelled something I couldn’t understand to the rest of the shop and several women congratulated me and came up to me, smiling and kissing my cheek.

I was a bit confused but didn’t want to seem COMPLETELY un-Argentinean, so I said gracias to everyone.

Only after I left did I realize they were wishing me luck on my impending marriage. Sorry, Princess, Buenos Aires has spoken.

Live From Buenos Aires, Vol. II

2006-12-28T16:17:00.000Z

"La gente vive en terror," my aunt told me last night during dinner. The people live in terror. She began to explain why Buenos Aires no longer is the safe city of my youth, but after my third day here, I think I realized my own reasons why BA should be feared:

1. Kamikaze Pigeons. While sightseeing in la Plaza de Mayo, we were bombarded by the craziest, low-flying pigeons I have ever seen. These flying bacteria traps would take off en masse, turn off whatever internal radar systems they used, and swoop past passers-by mere inches from our faces. At least they're not lazy like in the U.S.

2. Crazy Women. Argentinean women are known to be passionate. Piss one off, and you might end up being on the receiving end of a face smack so hard your head spins around. We saw one woman yesterday berating her boyfriend or husband, then pulled a Dynasty on him and slapped him clear across the face. Whatever it was he did to merit such violence, I don´t want to know.

3. Mullets. Seriously, mullets everywhere. Apparently, it´s all the rage. Our tour driver yesterday could have passed for Billy Ray Cyrus.

4. Exploited Children. This one´s kind of sad, actually. So many little children, barefoot and dirty, exploited by their parents to walk up to people and beg for change. It´s heartbreaking. But man, they are persistent. Gotta watch your wallet.

5. Mosquitoes. These insects love American blood but, luckily, don´t carry malaria. Otherwise, I wouldn´t be writing this right now.

Live From Buenos Aires

2006-12-26T17:10:00.000Z

This is my second day in Buenos Aires and so far, this is what I have learned about my native city:

There are lots of bats (murcielagos) in the city, which is why it´s good to shut the windows at night.

Pregnant women here like to show off their bellies by wearing short shirts, kind of like the fat, old Salvadorean men in Mount Pleasant do. Only not as gross.

My 85-year-old abuela saved all the underwear that my best friend Blue left here accidentally when we visited four years ago. In between my fits of laughter, I managed to ask her why she kept his underwear and didn't just throw them away, and she said, "Why would I throw them away?" My grandma is crazy.

According to my aunt and uncle, every person on the street is a drug-dealing, cracked-out immoral criminal who wants to rob you of your shoes in broad daylight. For this reason, everyone should be avoided. My entire family is crazy.

My accent is slowly coming back. Emphasis on SLOWLY.

There might be nothing better in the world than spending December in 85-degree weather and watching the sun set after 8pm. Not missing the Northern Hemisphere right now.

Going back to Argy-Town

2006-12-22T15:37:00.000Z

I’m going home to Buenos Aires this Sunday. I’ll be meeting my mom, sister, and brother, and staying with my 85-year-old grandma in her apartment in Belgrano for 10 days.

Last time I was in Argentina was more than 4 years ago when I went with Blue for nearly three weeks. We visited family and old friends I hadn’t seen in 13 years, bought boxes of alfajores, ate the most amazing meals, and even visited Patagonia for a few days to see the glaciers.

Not sure if I’ll be blogging from BA – depends on the Internet cafes’ capabilities -- so I’ll wish everyone a feliz ano nuevo.

P.S. I can’t bring you back tequila or sombreros, Tits McGee. We’re not Mexican.

P.S.S. You're not getting a Boca jersey, GoPats. Wear your River Plate one with pride.

P.S.S.S. El Guapo, I know you’re jealous. We can't all be Argentineans.

WTF, Credit Union?

2006-12-21T18:52:00.000Z

I am an amateur fan of advertising. I like to watch commercials, read print ads, and yell at the TV/comment intelligently on them.

When VW came out with those TV commercials where an in-car camera captures a real-live accident, I told The Princess, “That’s brilliant!” When I realized that the “Got Milk?” ads were lampooned by everyone, I blogged about it. And when I saw the new ad for a Lexus that parallel parks itself, I declared it to be “an abomination of emasculation”.

But despite my interest in deciphering the science behind advertising, I’m not quite sure what to do with this WTFCU ad, which I found in the Express this morning. Tell me you can’t read that top line and not think the words, “What the Fuck Credit Union”.

It doesn’t help that WTF is never spelled out anywhere in the ad, leading one to assume it stands for the ubiquitous phrase we’ve all seen in IMs and text messages.

Even their Web site is wtfcu.org. When I clicked on it, the home page made no mention of the acronym. Its “About Us” tab didn’t illuminate me, either. WTF, WTFCU? Are you purposely trying to be coy? Do you have a problem with spelling out acronyms? Or have you succumbed to the online habits of a 13-year-old girl?

I want answers, WTFCU, or, AFAIC, I won’t be opening any IRAs or conducting any EFTs or using your ATMs.

Update on K-Fed

2006-12-21T18:08:00.000Z

KFF (K-Fed's Friend Forever) told me Britney's ex bowled a 72.

I beat that score when I was 11.

BFF with K-Fed

2006-12-20T15:43:00.000Z

A buddy of mine is now Best Friends Forever with Kevin Federline. Doing shots of Patron together, pissing in adjoining urinals, and stealing from K-Fed’s tab can do that.

At Lucky Strike on Monday night, he found himself bowling side-by-side with everyone’s favorite Britney-banging, white trash “celebrity”, whose posse (“two big black bodyguards”) took up the lane next to my friend.

My friend, who I’m calling KFF for K-Fed Forever, said they bowled for several hours and ended up talking to K-Fed, who was in town for some WWE event at the Verizon Center I couldn’t care enough about to research for you. Look it up yourself if you care.

K-Fed, who apparently is actually called that by his friends, was a “a scrawny, skinny dude,” KFF said. Throughout the night, several young women gushed over him and took pictures with him. K-Fed even bought KFF and his friends some Patron tequila shots.

Ever the opportunist, KFF went up to the Lucky Strike bar, ordered a round of beers, and told the bartender, “Put it on K-Fed’s tab!” The bartender complied.

At one point, KFF found himself pissing in the urinal next to K-Fed (he wouldn’t say who violated MAN COMMANDMENT NUMBER ONE and sidled up next to who), but that, while urinating, he violated MAN COMMANDMENT NUMBER TWO and asked him, “So, do the paparazzi try to take pictures of your package when you’re taking a leak?”

“Yeah,” K-Fed replied. “Happens all the time.”

“Well,” KFF said, “you don’t have to worry about me.”

“Thanks.”

On his way out of the john, KFF turned back to K-Fed and said, “Thanks for the beers!” and took off.

Shameful plugs

2006-12-19T18:52:00.000Z

After writing that title, I realized how lucky I am that I will never go bald. And don’t ask me if my mom’s dad was bald (he was) because that myth has been debunked.

No, the shameful plugs of which I speak are some new blogs I think you should read, or at least click on so their Sitemeters give them the perception that Arjewtino is popular.

Penitent Yanks

A few of my friends have gone off the deep end and decided to enter the Plymouth to Banjul Challenge, a race of sorts developed by an Englishman who wanted to create a poor man's Paris to Dakar rally. Their team, the Penitent Yanks (their entry essay was about how Americans broke away from the colonies over 200 years ago and now, after six years of Bush, we want to go back), bought a crappy school bus and will travel 4,000 miles across Europe and Africa starting in late January.

Their trip is fraught with peril. Already, the bus broke down 50 miles after they bought it.

Part of the reason for entering this challenge, Tits McGee of Penitent Yanks told me, is the adventure. They’ll be traveling through the Chunnel, Paris to Madrid, to Gibraltar, over to Morocco, through the Western Sahara (including four days straight in the Sahara, no food/water/fuel) into Senegal and Gambia. They get back to the US late February.

In addition, they are trying to raise money for several charities before they leave. They will be filming the trip and then auctioning off the bus as well.

They will also be having a fundraiser tomorrow night at the Duplex Diner on 18th and U Sts. in Adams Morgan, starting at 7:30. The bus will (hopefully) be parked outside of the diner during the event.

So to all bloggers, non-bloggers, readers, and friends: join me and the Penitent Yanks tomorrow night You will have the opportunity to add your signature to the interior of the bus and pretend you're driving it while someone takes your picture.

A Portable Snack

Only five days into my friend KWest’s venture as a DC blogger and already he’s getting some good exposure on A Portable Snack. He wrote a piece on street cleaning in the District, a blog post which DC Blogs cited today on its front page.

You may think this is beginner’s luck, but KWest has a history of early blogging success. He guest-blogged for me in August and the post was picked up by Wonkette. When I noticed my site traffic spike because of it, I congratulated him, to which he responded:

“That’s great! Who’s Wonkette?”

Japan Like Me

I really shouldn’t advertise my friend Smats’ new blog since the Canadian-blogger-cum-Tokyo-resident hasn’t been updating it regularly. This is truly a shame since Smats, a good friend of The Princess’, is one of the funniest Canadians I know.

Pester her until she starts posting again.

A Hanukkah weekend in photos

2006-12-18T19:27:00.000Z

To celebrate the first night of Hanukkah, Shiftless Badger and Foxymoron invited The Princess and me and other friends and family to their place Friday night. Our hosts cooked an incredibly tasty leg of lamb, we drank lots of wine and port, and Foxymoron’s sister won all my gelt during a rousing dreidel game.

I love lamb.

I love port. And Picasa.

After a hearty brunch of dim sum in Wheaton Saturday, The Princess tricked me into going to a cookie-making party. While everyone used the typical cookie cutters – Easter Bunnies, Xmas trees, and gingerbread men – I made Stars of David, elephants, and my initials.

That evening, our friends Z and S came over with their three-month-old Rayban, who is pretty much the cutest baby ever born.

The Princess' uterus jumped when she saw this photo.

GoPats and I finally had our totally heterosexual photo-taking field trip. We went to the National Cathedral where we snapped a bunch of shots from the east tower. Unfortunately, services were in session and closed to the public, which I interpreted as the Cathedral’s way of saying, “Don’t even try it, Jews.”

Inside the tower.

Front of the Cathedral.

What came first? The colors or the flag?

2006-12-15T18:41:00.000Z

During a conversation with my gentile co-workers last week, I was asked, “Why is Judaism symbolized by the colors blue and white?” I got ready to provide an answer when I realized I had none.

“It’s because of the Israeli flag,” one of the goyim proffered.

“I don’t think so,” I replied. “It’s like the chicken-and-the-egg dilemma. Which came first? The colors or the flag?”

In other words, is the Israeli flag composed of blue and white because of some past tradition, or is Judaism associated with those colors because of the flag?

In honor of the first night of Hanukkah tonight, I decided to do a little research. And by “do a little research”, I mean “search on Wikipedia”.

As it turns out (and as is usually the case), there is not just one reason but a slew of complex factors for why blue and white are the colors of choice for the Chosen People.

My favorite answer is the easiest. According to a 19th-century Zionist poem, white symbolizes great faith; blue, the firmament. But it doesn’t really end there. Blue also symbolizes divinity, equilibrium, and truth.

So due to a combination of historical symbols, tradition, and the Israeli flag, blue has become the holy Jewish color.

Happy Hanukkah, goyim and tribe members!

P.S. For a very funny and demystifying examination of Jewish traditions, read bettyjoan’s post. Here’s a preview:

The Chalice of Immortality: In my family, we would traditionally bring this out on the first night of Hanukkah. My father would recite a prayer as we passed the chalice around, taking turns drinking the blood of Christians from it. Every Jewish family I know has one of these but for some reason they are not as commonly associated with Hanukkah as the menorah or those chocolate coins, which, if I’m not mistaken, also contain the blood of Christians. For confirmation on that last part, I’d suggest consulting a rabbi or chocolatier.

The inscrutable flower

2006-12-14T15:25:00.000Z

A poinsettia was mysteriously delivered to my previous apartment in Adams Morgan yesterday. No card. No information. Nothing.

I got six calls on my cell last night from the downstairs buzzer. Coincidentally, I was having dinner with my friend DJ Roo, who still lives in the building, and told him about the strange calls. He told me that someone had delivered a poinsettia to me.

Arjewtino: “A poinsettia? What is that? Chocolate?”

DJ Roo: “No, it’s a type of flower.”

Arjewtino: “I like chocolate.”

DJ Roo: “It’s not chocolate.”

Arjewtino: “Do you know what marzipan is?”

DJ Roo: “No.”

Arjewtino: “I think it’s a type of bread.”

After several minutes of discussing the possibilities of marzipan, I called the building’s Board President. She called me back later that night and left a message, telling me she had no idea who delivered the poinsettia.

“It’s starting to wilt, anyway,” she said.

Who would send me flowers? It’s not my birthday; I didn’t finish a grad program; I didn’t get a promotion. Who could feel comfortable enough with me to send me flowers yet NOT know I moved out in August? Let’s deduce the possibilities.

1. The Princess

She loves flowers, especially tulips. I bought her flowers in March for no reason and had them delivered to her work. She was so happy you would have thought I had asked her to move to Japan for a year. But I’m not big into flowers. She knows this because of the face I make every time she invites me to the Arboretum or Botanical Gardens. Also, she knows where I live – with her.

2. The ungrateful homeless man at 7-11

I once bought a homeless guy standing outside 7-11 a sandwich. When I came out to give it to him, he looked at it carefully and said, “What is this?” I told him it was a ham sandwich. “I don’t want it. Can you get me another one?” I told him I had to go and it was his if he wanted it. He said no and handed it back. Maybe he still feels bad and decided to make amends by sending me a poinsettia.

3. Joe Mathlete

After writing a post about some blogger who decided to emulate Joe Mathlete’s very funny Marmaduke Explained site, Joe posted a link to my blog, an action which last week resulted in a crazy spike in my readership. If I ever wondered how much traffic Joe got, I no longer have to wonder since nearly 2,000 fans clicked on my blog last Wednesday, giving me a false sense of instant popularity. Maybe the flower was Joe’s way of introducing himself. But where could he have gotten my old address?

4. Credit bureaus

After suffering through years of debt and bad credit in my early 20s, I have slowly but surely built up my credit the past few years. I am (mostly) debt free and I’m sure the companies who track my credit standing wanted to say, “Job well done.” Because credit bureaus are thoughtful like that.

5. My mailman

I once said hi to him in the lobby. Maybe he remembered me and wanted to say hi back. Then again, he HAS been delivering mail that’s being forwarded to my new address.

My powers of deduction, as you can see, may not be as fine tuned as when I was a reporter. So if anyone reads this and sent me the flowers that I’ll never see, I just want to say thank you.

Next time, get me tulips.

The hurtful ramifications of White Elephant (AKA Dirty Santa or Yankee Swap)

2006-12-12T13:22:00.000Z

You can call this barbaric game of unwanted gift exchange anything you want. But if you’re going to play it – either with your family or your office – just know that you may end up hurting someone’s feelings.

During my office’s holiday luncheon yesterday in Alexandria, we played a popular game that would have made Jesus himself weep: White Elephant. This game takes the very opposite elements you want to foster in a productive workplace -- deviousness, thieving, and mocking – and makes them crucial to the game’s “fun”.

And by “fun”, I mean hurting a co-worker’s feelings.

A white elephant, for those wondering, is usually something lying around the house that you no longer want and would rather pawn off to unsuspecting fools who are supposed to appreciate it.

This game is evil. It almost caused a family feud last Christmas at The Princess’ aunt’s house. It can turn brother on brother, cousin on cousin, and, as nearly happened today, co-worker on co-worker.

Our office set a limit of $10 per present. This penny-pinching standard resulted in a selection of the crappiest presents this side of the Potomac. Purple socks, candles, and coffee mugs were just some of the examples. The most sought-after gifts, by contrast, were a teddy bear, Starbucks gift cards, and a model airplane.

Not exactly what a 6-year-old would like under the tree on Christmas morning.

I selected sixth (out of 29), which turned out to be disadvantageous. Being the egoist that I am, I decided to pick the largest gift available. I unwrapped the heavy box only to find something so grotesque it would have made an angel’s head explode.

A large, ceramic Reindeer Pulling Sleigh from some crazy outfit called Living Quarters.

I was speechless. But since I use humor as a defense mechanism, I mocked it. To big laughs. As my co-workers continued to pick presents and avoid stealing mine, I continued to ridicule it.

“Hey, Fellow Co-Worker,” I shouted, “you sure you want that cool, electronic Sudoku gadget? Wouldn’t you rather like a large, ceramic Reindeer Pulling Sleigh? No? You’re good? Ok.”

When the Satan-spawned “game” was finished, I started to wonder if anyone would notice if I “accidentally” left the present at the restaurant, when Mr. Ceramic Reindeer Pulling Sleigh himself came up to me and told me it was his present.

“My wife bought it, she was very proud of it,” he told me.

“Oh really?” I replied.

“The picture on the box really doesn’t do it justice.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s very nice,” I said.

“You know how much that’s worth?” he asked.

“Yeah, I do,” I said. “Ten bucks.”

“It’s worth $60,” he retorted. “My wife got it on sale.”

“I can tell.”

At this point, Mr. Ceramic Reindeer Pulling Sleigh was visibly hurt. I tried to make him feel better, as if I really were part of the ceramic Reindeer Pulling Sleigh demographic.

“I’m just kidding, it really looks great. I’m sure my girlfriend will like it, too.”

Maybe she WOULD like it. Maybe it would be kitschy. Maybe it would be one of those cool conversation pieces we could have in our living room.

When I came home last night, I showed The Princess the gift.

“WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?” she said, horrified.

“I won it,” I said. “At the office holiday luncheon. Want to keep it?”

“I think you know the answer to that one.”

Well, maybe not. I’ll just hang on to it until next year’s office party.

La viveza portena outsmarts the Bush twins

2006-12-11T14:30:00.000Z

When Barbara Bush’s purse was snatched last month in a Buenos Aires restaurant while being guarded by a Secret Service detail, it became news and ridiculed by commenters.

When a Wonkette operative last week revealed that Jenna Bush was dating an unemployed porteno who makes $400 a month and was impressed that Jenna “has a salary from her own job and her own credit card,” it was ridiculed by commenters.

Looks like the Presidential twin Argentiphiles are falling for my country’s oldest story in the book: la viveza portena.

La viveza portena is the use of street smarts, cunning, and guile to get what you want. It is, as my Papi told me, the ability to sell a pedestrian a public phone. Using la viveza is a badge of pride for many portenos (people born in Buenos Aires). It is an act which, at its most innocuous, is used to fool your friends but, at its most dangerous, can be used to rob the naïve.

And being American, or even a powerful American, apparently is not a deterrent.

Jenna Bush seems to have fallen for some 25-year-old “marketing agency owner”, AKA, unemployed, who has been bragging to friends and the media about scoring with W’s daughter. (He’s also a fan of Boca Juniors, which sickens my River Plate allegiance.)

Barbara has also been prey to la viveza portena. Her purse was taken at a Buenos Aires restaurant right under the nose of a Secret Service guard and, perhaps as one commenter said, on a dare.

Now it is very easy to fall under the spell of la viveza portena. We Argentineans are great-looking, charming, and exotic. (Unless your family is also Jewish Eastern European and you lack the ability to tan; thanks a lot, Romanian DNA.) We are arrogant, proud, macho, and usually get what we want. We are, essentially, a nation of Spanish-speaking salesmen.

Buenos Aires is a beautiful city. It is, as Shiftless Badger put so aptly, “Paris, filled with Italians, speaking Spanish.”

But you have to be smart when visiting. Travel in packs, don’t speak to strangers and reveal your American accent, always call for a cab to minimize the risk of micro-kidnappings, and learn as much as you can about your neighborhood before leaving.

Once, when Blue and I were visiting Buenos Aires in 2002, we went to El Centro for some sightseeing and came upon an anti-American protest. Blue asked me what they were chanting and after listening for a few seconds, I translated it for him: “Yankees go home, the blood of Argentinean youth is on your hands.”

Blue wanted to leave the protest but I told him everything was fine and that he should not speak. I also told him zipping up his jacket and hiding his UCLA Bruins T-shirt might also be a good idea. We didn’t have a Secret Service detail and we managed to survive BA for nearly three weeks, including a four-day trip to Patagonia, with our wallets and physical well-being intact.

But not everyone is so lucky. My 85-year-old abuela has continually been mugged by purse snatchers in broad daylight.

Even being home doesn’t guarantee safety. Once, during a game of cards with her friends, thieves barged into her apartment, held all the women at knifepoint, and robbed my widowed abuela of her wedding ring. The ring wasn’t very expensive but it held for her tremendous sentimental value, reminding her everyday of my grandfather, who died in 1983.

Being quick and vivo is a typical porteno quality. Not getting cheated or robbed, outsmarting other people, using la viveza porteno, are all traits one needs to get by in Buenos Aires.

The Bush twins are just learning the hard way. Jenna Bush’s Argentinean boyfriend described her as "sencilla" (simple). If he keeps getting the attention and fame he wants, he’ll see he wasn’t too far off.

But where were the champagne and hookers?

2006-12-07T16:27:00.000Z

After a lifetime of traveling coach on commercial airliners, I pulled a “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous” yesterday and flew to Oklahoma City on my Alphabet Soup agency’s private jet.

No security checkpoints. No crying babies. No bitter flight attendants. Just a Citation Excel 550, six co-workers, and plenty of sky 40,000 feet above the U.S.

It was as close as I’ll ever get to feeling like a rock star (notwithstanding any growing Guitar Hero fame).

We met at 6:30am at National Airport’s Hangar 6 for preflight and took off shortly afterward as the sun started to rise. The pilot, one of my bosses, and his copilot allowed me to stand by the cockpit and watch our takeoff and subsequent landing in Oklahoma City. During the flight, we made the most of our glitzy surroundings as we drank champagne, smoked Cuban cigars, and hung out with hookers.*

I pretended to understand as Copilot explained all the different onboard computer systems, readings, and thingamabob doohickies.

“This is the flux capacitor,” Copilot might as well have told me. “It’s what makes time travel possible.”

“Oh sure, the flux capacitor,” I replied with as much faking of comprehension as I could muster. “Makes sense.”

The real highlight of the trip, however, was the return flight home. As the sun faded over the long horizon, the moon turned a fire color that captivated all of us. The city lights grew larger as we descended and soon enough we could see the Beltway jam-packed with red and white car lights.

The Citation trailed the Potomac River back to National and the earth became an illuminated playground of alternating black and white lights guiding us home. I stood during our entire approach, watched out the cockpit windshield, and fixed my eyes on the position indicator screen, which showed several jets streaking toward the airport.

We landed smoothly and disembarked, home early. I took the Metro back to Takoma and felt spoiled by the trip. I looked out the window of the Yellow Line as it crossed the river, chugging toward DC, and thought about how boring this once stirring view was.

Robin Leach would have been so sad.

* Replace champagne with Diet Coke, smoked Cuban cigars with took out our laptops, and hung out with hookers with discussed business.

P.S. Not much to report about Oklahoma except for one thing: what's with all the gaucho pants the chicks were wearing? Seriously, I saw a dozen women wearing these horrendous fashion statements. Can any Oklahomans explain this?

The guilt of pleasure

2006-12-05T14:11:00.000Z

Urban Dictionary defines a “guilty pleasure” as “Something that you shouldn't like, but like anyway.” It cites, as examples, lawn gnomes and Tara Reid. Not sure who’s getting any pleasure out of Tara Reid (perverted hedonists?), but the idea of guilty pleasures is, nevertheless, an interesting one.

For example, Talking Budgie wrote last month about her love of seeing Billy Joel in concert. I thought that took some big ovaries for her to admit, but she was proud of her affection. Blogging about your love of BJ is like telling people you find Scientology interesting: it makes them laugh and question your sanity.

But everyone has guilty pleasures, probably dozens. Most of them we confess to friends and strangers with a degree of irony so as not to be designated as social outcasts. Others we have trouble even admitting to ourselves, let alone to those whose opinions we value.

I am no stranger to internalized shame. As a Jew, and I think Kassy K would agree, we learn early on that guilt is not just part of life, it’s almost a requisite. But why should there be shame in the things we love or derive pleasure from? Why can’t I tell people that I love statistics to an insane degree, or that I secretly eat at McDonald’s despite my outward derision of fast food (thanks, Fast Food Nation, thanks a lot)?

Most guilty pleasures are related to pop culture, most notably music, movies, or TV shows. I know someone who absolutely loves the show “Reba” on the WB, another who is addicted to reality shows, and another who buys a bag of pork rinds at 7-11 every chance she gets.

Even sports allegiances can be a source of guilty pleasure. You love the Cowboys but grew up in DC? Think Derek Jeter is an exemplary player despite your love of the Red Sox? These are tough things to confess to anyone and can leave even the strongest people cowering in proverbial corners in the fetal position.

So what are some of your guilty pleasures? I will admit one to get it started: I LOVE the song “God Bless the USA” by Lee Greenwood. Yes, THAT one. The song popularized during the Gulf War and used by right wing, fascist nut jobs to espouse militaristic patriotism. The one the refrain of which goes:

And I’m proud to be an American, where at least I know I’m free/
And I won’t forget the men who died, who gave that right to me/
And I’d gladly stand up next to you and defend her still today/
‘Cause there ain’t no doubt I love this land, God bless the U.S.A.

I can’t get enough of this song. I sing it a capela in the shower. I get chills when I think of the tune. I’m pretty sure that I’ll have to turn in my Liberal card after this, but it’s true, and now that I’ve copped to it, my shame has lessened (a little bit).

So divest yourself of your guilty pleasures, let them go, take pride in them.

But please, for our sake, do it with a whisper.

No longer getting my hair “designed”

2006-12-04T14:16:00.000Z

“Hola, como estas?” said the Latina receptionist as I walked into Estela’s Hair Salon recently.

“Bien, y vos?” I replied. “Un – crap, what’s the word in Spanish for haircut? I thought. Crap, crap, crap – un... haircut, por favor.”

Dammit. It was corte de pelo. Now I sound like a gringo and...

“Everybody busy right now, please seat,” she said, reverting to English.

For many years, I got my hair cut at VSL Hair Design in Dupont, spending upwards of $30-35 for a wash, “design”, and tip. Aside from its geographically desirable location, I went to VSL because it was the salon equivalent of a nightclub: flashy, attractive, and popular. Hell, even the salon’s image is established within its own name: Hair Design. Really, they’re using protractors on people’s hair now?

But after going to Estela’s in Takoma Park a couple of weeks ago, I realized that the glitziness of having tattooed, pierced hipster women and gay, ostentatious men with spiked hair trim your mane is overrated.

The alternative, I learned, is eschewing style for substance. So I chose to go to Estela’s, a large, brightly lit place with predominantly Latino clienteles whose entertainment value is alone worth the price of admission.

I was assigned to Carmen, a short, Asian-Latina woman who draped a leopard-print protective coat around my neck. Embarrassed by my momentary lapse in Spanish, I resolved to speak to Carmen in English since it was easier and it would prevent any superfluous conversation.

This might have been a mistake.

I explained what I wanted: leave the front as long as possible, trim the sides and back short, and blend it together. Carmen took out the clippers and guards, pointed to the back of my head, and said, “Eh, number one?”

“No, no!” I said, images of my bald head scaring me back into my native tongue, “numero dos!”

Carmen went to town on my dome, taking such care with my locks that I thought she felt personally responsible for every single hair. She clipped the back perfectly, used her scissors to give me a seamless blend, and even used a razor to shear loose strands on my neck and sideburns.

At VSL, I was satisfied if my stylist – sorry, hair designer – didn’t look around the salon at other people. I don’t have a hairstyling license, but I’m pretty sure acting distracted isn’t part of any cosmetology school’s curriculum.

And though VSL may be known for attracting a slew of good-looking patrons, Estela’s had a much more compelling atmosphere. There was the 4-year-old boy crying as he got a haircut while sitting on his dad’s lap; the 8-year-old girl who dropped bubble gum on the floor, retrieved it, and put it in her mouth; and the singing/dancing sweeper who brushed up the loose hair on the floor.

Yup, for $11 (plus a $5 tip I gave Carmen), substance trumps style any day.

Funniest. Blog War. Ever.

2006-11-30T17:02:00.000Z

Many readers and bloggers have become huge fans of Joe Mathlete Explains Today’s Marmaduke (In 500 Words or Less) the past few months.

Maybe it’s his writing style, which takes a mocking yet sweet tone with the ridiculously trite and outdated comic strip. Maybe it’s his overly analytical synopses of the obviously simple subject matter. Or maybe it’s the originality of his blog’s conceit.

In any case, and looking back it seems inevitable, Joe Mathlete has been ripped off. By a cranky, less-funny blogger named Brian Liston who has taken Joe Mathlete’s idea and applied it to The Family Circus, an equally mawkish car crash of a strip.

And the blog war has started.

Liston e-mailed Mathlete praising his blog, alerting him to his own blog, and asking for mutual linkage. Mathlete yesterday posted the e-mail under the headline, “I Quit.” He also didn’t provide his daily dose of witticism of the Great Dane’s escapades.

Though it is unclear whether Mathlete is being serious – and I’d like to think he’s not – the shit has hit the fan at Liston’s site, with commenters reviling him for the death of Marmaduke Explained. One commenter called it “a complete and utter ripoff,” to which Liston responded with a clever “Fuck you” and said he won’t stop doing his blog because of “some asshole commenter.”

Other commenters thanked Liston sarcastically for “killing” Mathlete’s blog, to which he said:

“Well, this is an unfortunate turn of events. I never meant to kill Marmaduke Explained.

I can guess why he quit. He was probably tired of feeling like he HAD to update Marmaduke explained, tired of feeling like he owed the internet something. In shot, the joke got old for him. I understand, I’ve been through periods like that with this blog.

RIP Marmaduke Explained.”

I have enjoyed reading Marmaduke Explained for months now and look forward to Mathlete’s daily dose of tongue-in-cheek humor. Some of his blurbs have made me laugh out loud and envy his observations. I wondered if the same type of blog could be done with Family Circus but hoped it wouldn’t happen since it would just be stealing. That would be like some fat white kid stealing Virgle Kent’s persona for his own MySpace page so he could nail random chicks.

This is not to say that Family Circus doesn’t need lampooning. Along with Cathy or Garfield, which are just awful, awful comic strips. Actually, I wouldn’t mind someone explaining Zippy the Pinhead to me. Anyone who claims to get that strip is just trying to show off.

Hopefully, Mathlete will be back and he was just kidding when he claimed to quit. Because I will NOT have Family Circus mess with my life more than it already has.

Destined for a Mexican Wedding

2006-11-30T03:00:00.000Z

When The Princess’s friends invited us to their destination wedding in Playa del Carmen, Mexico, over Thanksgiving weekend, our only concern was how fast we could say “Si!” We bought our tickets, booked our hotel, and gladly forfeited turkey and pumpkin pie this year as we left behind the cold DC nights for the Mayan Riviera.

Here is my journal.

Day One
Thursday

An ominous beginning – while waiting to board our flight at BWI, we see a bird flying around inside the terminal. I feed it a granola bar.

We connect in Mexico City, where no one rushes for anything, magazines cost 70 pesos ($7), and you can smoke in the main terminal. We ate airline food that would have even embarrassed Taco Bell.

We land in Cancun after 6 hours of flying and catch a bus to Playa del Carmen. We soak in the Mayan sun and walk along the Caribbean beach as a startling fact dawns on the both of us -- this place is a tourist trap. Everything is overpriced, there are more gringos than Mexicans, and the main strip (5th Avenue) boasts such local “tiendas” as Burger King, Haagen Dazs, and 7-11, which they DON’T call Siete-Once. We decide the only way to escape this Disney-fied Mexican town is to get really drunk.

We grab dinner at an airy restaurant called Las Brisas. Antonio, our server, brings me the best shot of tequila I’ve ever had and I wonder how it can taste so awful in the U.S. Later that evening, we visit the bride and groom and their families, drink some cheap beer, and go to sleep early.

Day Two
Friday

We wake up early and take advantage of the Blue Parrot’s continental breakfast in a veranda on the beach. We decide to escape the confines of 5th Avenue and explore the grittier parts of Playa del Carmen, which, based on our limited field research, consists of a Wal-Mart and a huge supermarket store called Mega Pelican. At least, we think that’s what it’s called since the sign says Mega and has a drawing of a pelican.

After some walking, we grab some empanadas and tacos at a small lunch dive called Adrian’s. This $6 meal proves to be La Princesa’s favorite and quite the memorable one for me since they had Coke in a glass bottle, a reminder of my childhood in Argentina.

With the November sun high above and hotter than we expected, we hit the beach. Despite the MANY exposed boobies we see, it is NOT a topless beach, a detail which doesn’t seem to bother anyone with half a bikini on. I am, obviously, pleased by this fact until I realize that most of the women going topless really shouldn’t be. One woman” looks like a man and I almost call her senor.

The Caribbean Sea is a crystal aquamarine color that reminds me of my first car, a teal-colored, salvaged ’89 Hyundai Excel. The water is warm, the sand is soothing, and the breasts are flying. I buy La Princesa a Coco Loco, a coconut filled with rum, vodka, tequila, and dog’s blood. At least I THINK it was dog’s blood because it was pretty damn strong and lives up to its name of making us crazy drunk.

Day Three
Saturday

The sidewalks are crammed with turistas and incredibly aggressive vendors, many of whom mistake us for honeymooners. Some are outwardly surprised by my amazing Spanish-speaking skills and ask me where I learned it. Responses of “Soy Argentino” are greeted with laughter and well-meaning teasing.

We hit the beach again and negotiate a fair price to go snorkeling. La Princesa goes on the catamaran with me and a couple of newfound friends, Bo and Adam. We are led by Pancho, a seasoned and well-tanned guide who tells us he’s been taking tourists snorkeling for 10 years and often finds crates of Columbian cocaine ditched on the waters. The coral reefs are amazing but I am distracted by my desire to NOT be impaled on their sharp edges.

After a long afternoon siesta, we attend the main event Carmel and Emiliano’s beach wedding. The officiant reminds me of Latka from the 70s TV show Taxi as he repeatedly tells Jesus “Thank you very much”. He also asks the crowd if he can get a “whoop, whoop” for the couple and proves to everyone that marijuana is not hard to come by in Mexico.

The sun sets and we hit the open bar, downing Sol cerevezas and margaritas. We meet up with some acquaintances that La Princesa knows and befriend some new people. The reception starts in the early evening and after some more drinking and a buffet dinner, the dancing begins. Not sure what year we’re in, we dance the Electric Slide and the Macarena, the dance steps of which come back to me a little too easily. A toothless wedding crasher scares the maid of honor. The bride gets food poisoning and spends the next two days throwing up in her suite.

Day Four
Sunday

We wake up early and meet up with our new best friends Bo and Karen for a daytrip to see the Mayan ruins in Tulum and Coba. We rent a VW Pointer (yeah, we’d never heard of it, either) and make our way south. My excitement at the realization that I’m driving a manual car in Mexico quickly gives way to an amazing amount of concentration as every car flies by me despite the 100 KPH signs. The roadways are not exactly littered with information but there are signs everywhere telling cars to slow down because our “families await us” and that “after an accident nothing is the same”.

Instead of speed bumps, the Mexican highways are covered with well-hidden speed ropes and speed launching pads, one of which I saw too late and sent our little VW Pointer flying through the air like in the Dukes of Hazard.

Tulum is pretty cool but the ruins are in a well-manicured park swarming with tourists. We sightsee for some time and head down to the beach. After lunch, we drive west to Coba where the ruins are stunning. We hike through the forested area, find the imposing Pyramid of Nohoch Mul, and climb to the summit, where we have the most incredible view of the Yucatan Peninsula.

This is the moment I had been craving since getting to Mexico -- high above the forest, soaking in the sun stretching toward the horizon, I forget the annoying tourists, the job I’ll have to go back to in less than two days, the world below. I sit by the edge of the pyramid with my arm around La Princesa and can just feel the goodness of the moment.

Day Five
Monday

We pack our bags, now heavier because of La Princesa’s souvenirs. We check out, catch the bus, and make our way back to Cancun for our long flight home. “This is our last hot sun for a while,” La Princesa says as we walk into the airport, “soak it in.” We land in BWI at 11pm, where I replace my shorts with jeans, my short-sleeve linen shirt with a coat. The Customs officer stamps my passport and welcomes me home. “Gracias,” I say.

P.S. For more photos of our trip, check out my Flickr album.

Busted at work for playing Minesweeper

2006-11-22T16:38:00.000Z

Everyone’s been there: you’re bored at work, you’re not paying attention to a valuable training course on Microsoft Access, so you play Minesweeper on your computer, never thinking you could get caught.

Well, I got caught. In front of the whole training class. On a giant projection screen.

I hadn’t been this embarrassed since Mr. Jorjorian caught me cheating on a Geometry test in 10th grade. Algebra? I was a genius at it. Givens, hypotenuses, and obtuse angles? No clue.

Here’s what happened. During Day 2 of a three-day training course on Access yesterday, I had to leave for half an hour for a meeting. When I got back to training, I was a bit behind and had trouble catching up. We were close to breaking for the day so I thought, “Oh well, I’ll figure it out later. I hope this computer has Minesweeper!”

Sure enough, it did. Being positioned in the second-to-last row of the classroom, I opened the game and started playing. After a few minutes, my buddy Brewey’s Chewies, who was sitting next to me, asks the instructor a question. Meanwhile, I’m off in my own digital minefield world, completely oblivious to what’s going on.

The instructor, who was guiding the class on a giant screen, had trouble understanding Chewie so she decided to access his computer and project his screen for the whole class to see. She takes control of his computer. Only it wasn’t his computer. It was mine, so to speak.

I look up to find my Minesweeper game looming 20 times larger against the front screen. Panicking, I try to close the program but my mouse has no control over the cursor since the instructor mistakenly took over MY computer.

She looks at the screen and says, “What the…?”

Chewie, ever the great friend, says, “That’s not my screen,” at which point EVERY SINGLE STUDENT looks at me.

Timidly and unsure of what to do, I reply, “Yeah, um, that’s MY Minesweeper game.”

Everyone busts out laughing, especially Chewie, and I can feel blood flushing my face. Even the instructor was amused.

After finally getting control of my computer, I close out the program and cower into my seat as the final minutes of the class tick off. Chewie, unable to stifle his laughing for 10 minutes, turns to me and says, “At least it wasn’t porn.”

Chewie also decided to tell a couple of our co-workers, and the information of the Great Minesweeper Fiasco of 2006 spread through the office like it was Amway. So today I come into the office and my boss greets me, “Hey Minesweeper.”

I get to my cubicle, which is littered with screen shots of the controversial game on my computer, on the walls, on my phone. I check my e-mail to find that Stormin’ Norman has written the ENTIRE OFFICE the following missive:

“Let it be known to all across the land, [Arjewtino] shall be dubbed "Sir Minesweeper"!!! You may refer to him as "Minesweeper". If you have any questions regarding the origination of this order, see [Chewie] or the Microsoft Access instructor. If these folks are all unavailable, you can see Sir Minesweeper himself.”

Another co-worker sent an e-mail urging me to enter the 2006 Vienna International Minesweeper Meeting. And yet another is already talking about creating a shot called Minesweeper, which I will be required to drink at every office happy hour.

By the way, my best score in Minesweeper was 22 seconds.

The fantasy world no one cares about

2006-11-21T13:37:00.000Z

This is the time of year when I might hear the following statements from my friends:

“I’m not sure who to start at quarterback this week.”

“Portis is out for the season? Great, there goes my playoff hopes.”

“Nice touchdown! AND he’s on my fantasy team!”

Having a fantasy sports team is like asking a co-worker about his weekend: you really don’t care and you only asked because you want to talk about yours.

Every fantasy team owner I’ve ever known, and this includes me, loves to talk about his team. We love to talk about the keen insight we showed when setting our pre-draft player rankings, how many points we got last week because we were smart enough to start Player X instead of Player Y, and what our chances are to make the “playoffs”.

Whenever I hear someone talk about his team, all I can think is, “How long do I have to stand here and listen to him before I can start talking about MY team and how awesome it is? Is 30 seconds enough?” Realizing how boring it is to listen to someone rattle on about “his players” made me realize something: no one cares about MY team, either.

But how is this possible? Isn’t everyone interested in knowing that I’m 7-4 this season without having Shaun Alexander playing all year? Doesn’t everyone want to know why I started Romo instead of Delhomme last week even though he was inexperienced? How can no one care that I’m well-positioned for the playoffs but would like to pick up another solid running back before the trade deadline?

The truth is, your fantasy team is boring to everyone but you. Talking about it is like showing off your vacation photos, going on about your new MySpace template, or retelling that story about how wasted you were that one Saturday night.

So stop it. Please.

By the way, I went with Terrell Owens over Andre Johnson last week and he got me 17 points. Just saying.

P.S. Read Throwing Hammers' hilarious pre-season post about meeting Peyton Manning and practicing with him.

Snippets: Thanksgiving in Mexico and singing with David Bowie

2006-11-20T22:26:00.000Z

In three days, The Princess and I will be spending our Thanksgiving weekend at this hotel in Playa del Carmen, Mexico, for a friend’s destination wedding. We are looking forward to the traditional Mexican-Thanksgiving fare of turkey tacos, cranberry quesadillas, and pumpkin pie burritos. You may begin envying us now.
Had a great time at my end-of-the-season kickball party Saturday night at Rumor’s as Captain McDreamy and I debated who was better-looking and some kickballer asked me if The Princess and I have “an open relationship”. Later that night, celebrated Tits McGee’s birthday at Bedrock in Adams Morgan and I was reminded of how much fun it is to hang out with good friends.

I felt like a kid on Hanukkah morning this past Friday as I went home to find my new Canon XTi D-SLR waiting for me. I took some practice shots on Saturday while in Georgetown and can say two things: (1) the quality is WAY better than my old point-and-shoot Kodak Easyshare, and (2) I’m going to have to take a digital photography class. Now I just have to figure out a way for Sweet not to steal it.

Despite losing to Tampa yesterday (not a word, BK Broiler), the Redskins are definitely on the right track with Jason Campbell behind center.

Laughed my ass off at this guy’s post about a run-in with a turkey and the accompanying video.

You’ve never full experienced Labyrinth until you’ve watched it with The Princess. It’s like karaoke night as she sings the cheesiest songs along with David Bowie, who plays Jareth the Goblin King. Sorry, she wouldn’t let me take video.

Lazy Sundays are for the comics

2006-11-19T23:41:00.000Z

While watching football and reading the Sunday Post comic section:

The Princess: “Would you like some miso soup?”

Arjewtino: “If you’re making it already, yeah, thanks.”

--Three minutes later, after the water boils--

The Princess: “Can you come make the soup? I have to go the bathroom.”

Arjewtino: “I can’t, I’m busy.”

The Princess: “Doing what?”

Arjewtino: “Reading Hagar the Horrible.”

The Princess: “Come on.”

Arjewtino: “I don’t know how to make it, it sounds complicated.”

The Princess: “Yeah, instant soup is really complicated.”

Duckpin Bowling Plus Disco Night Minus Drunk Driving Equals Fun

2006-11-17T16:17:00.000Z

Hours before some drunk, hit-and-run douchebag sideswiped me while driving home, some friends and I drove out to Roosh’s hometown White Oak, MD, for some good, ol’ fashioned duckpin bowling. Superfun Disco duckpin bowling, to be exact.

Duckpin bowling, for those wondering, is a 100-year-old game started in Baltimore. The balls are smaller, weigh about 4 lbs., and have no finger holes. The pins are shorter and fatter, and tougher to knock down. For these reasons, breaking 100 is much tougher than in regular bowling and no one has EVER bowled a perfect 300 game.

We got there at 9pm, an hour early, so Baby Bien and I ate a late dinner of greasy fries and a cheeseburger, which tasted oddly like a Wendy’s Super Value Meal. We noticed a lot of teenagers, overdressed and giggly, and it took me back to being 15 when Blue and I would go to Woodlake Bowl in LA and we thought we were the coolest, which we know now was just a delusion.

We goofed around for a bit, and then the eight of us got a couple of lanes and started bowling. The thing about duckpin bowling is that the balls are light. Very light. You’re not going to strain your arm since it’s like tossing a cantaloupe. But you WILL, in all probably, see balls flying through the air as most bowlers forget their own strength.

We tried to keep our duckpin balls in our own lanes, but this was not as easy as you might think. It being Disco night, there were a lot of lights flashing, music blaring, and people dancing. The alley sold $2 Buds, proving what a class establishment it is and solidifying White Oak as the entertainment capital of Maryland (followed, of course, by Scaggsville, based purely on its name). Baby Bien showcased his through-the-legs bowling technique, which no one scoffed at after seeing him hit a strike.

After a couple of games, we decided to take our combined scores and use them to seed us in a bracket-style, single-elimination tournament.

I, of course, was seeded first (with a two-game total of 200), followed by Schneider, GoPats, Baby Bien, Agent J, Sparkplug, J-Vo, and Tits McGee, who was amazingly skilled at finding the gutters. Much like in March Madness, most of the favorites advanced to the second round except for one key upset, with #7 seed J-Vo knocking out #2 seed Schneider by one pin (82-81) in a controversial game marred by accusations of bad math.

I then beat J-Vo in the semifinals with a game-high 125, advancing to the final against GoPats. The Duckpin Bowling Championship of the Universe, however, was postponed since the alley closed at 1pm.

So I highly recommend you try duckpin bowling, at least once. If you like cheap beer, wholesome fun, low-impact exercise, and ridiculously unglamorous evenings, White Oak Bowling Lanes is for you.

Just be careful on the drive home.

Me. In South Park. Waiting for the bus.

2006-11-16T03:37:00.000Z

This is what I might look like if Tre Parker and Matt Stone were mad wizards.

And this is what The Princess would look like. She blinks in all her photos, too.

What would you look like? Credit goes to Sweet on this one.

An apology

2006-11-15T17:13:00.000Z

While waiting to start our kickball playoffs Saturday morning, my friend Horizontal and I were tossing a football around. We weren’t running any set patterns, just playing catch. Our teammate Five Cents came over and asked me to pass him the ol’ pigskin.

So I do.

He reached out with his left hand in what he would later say was an attempt to save the ball from hitting a teammate (though the ball was at least five feet away and in no danger of smacking her in the noggin). The ball made contact with his left hand, bounced off for an incomplete pass, and broke two of Five Cents' fingers.

Though wincing in obvious pain, Five Cents was able to play the kickball game (which we won; we later lost the quarterfinal game in which our opponents accused us of cheating. First of all, who cheats at kickball? Second, we’re too dumb to cheat). But he went to the hospital later that night and sent me a text photo seen here. He also wrote:

TWO BROKEN FINGERS ASSHOLE
YOU OWE ME

What I owe him is beyond me. I didn’t purposely break his fingers, I didn’t even wish the ball to do so. I merely threw it in a game of catch that carried a reasonable expectation of risk on our parts. But someone asked me, “Did you apologize to him?”

Apologize? For what? Despite my Jewish issues of shame, I know I didn't do anything wrong. But Five Cents IS a friend, so here it is:

I’m sorry, Five Cents. I’m sorry you can’t catch a football. I’m sorry your fingers are so brittle they crumble when struck by a relatively soft ball traveling at no faster than 50 MPH. I'm sorry you spent Saturday night at the hospital while I was out having fun. And I'm sorry going to the bathroom just became much tougher for you.

There. I feel much better.

This is Paddy, the arm-humping beagle

2006-11-14T21:37:00.000Z

Paddy will hump your arm to prove his dominance.

He likes to have orgies with Clifford and Snoopy.

He’ll stare at you while you sleep.

And, yes, he IS named after the whisky.

Thank you to GoPats for the superb pic.

Mancation, Part III: Sushi and Dirty Friends, Phoenix Style

2006-11-13T16:14:00.000Z

After a four-day Mancation full of dog-humping and Pats vs. Colts as well as Election Day working and Jesus hitting on me in the bathroom, I was ready to blow off some steam and reconnect with my old friends, Susie Q and Special K.

Q and K were really good friends of mine several years ago when we all lived in LA. Q and I worked as servers at an Argentinian restaurant called Gaucho Grill, where we quickly bonded over empanadas and chimichurri. Nearly every weekend, we all went dancing and drinking, spending our early 20s feeling like the indestructible team that we thought we were. Life was different then, when our biggest concerns revolved around how much we earned in tips or how crowded Maloney’s in Westwood would be.

Then we grew up.

I moved to DC in 1999 and Q and K moved to Scottsdale shortly thereafter. We spoke less often, we dated, got married, had a kid, got real jobs, moved on. Sure, we still felt some semblance of friendship as MySpace friends, but it wasn’t the same.

So I was pretty excited when GoPats assigned me to Arizona to work as a freelancer to cover the election. I e-mailed Q and told her I’d be staying with her and her 4-year-old son, Z.

After spending some time catching up Monday night over wine and beer, enjoying Arizona’s amazing 80-degree evenings, we went out Tuesday night with K to a Japanese restaurant/bar called Ra.

We ate excellent sushi and edamame, downed martinis and sake like it was our 21st birthdays, took photos, sang and danced, and shared stories racked up the past 7 years. It was like no time had gone by. Q and K were just as warm and beautiful as I remembered them, with deep memories and great wisdom learned over a lifetime of experiences. I realized that night that friendship is as friendship does and that the best ones are eternal. Q still had those powerful eyes and K’s giggling laughter made me recall great times.

We went home after several hours and I left the next morning, returning to DC on a long flight made easier because of my old friends. I only hope it doesn’t take another 7 years for me to remember why I love them.

Anyone see a drunk driver last night? He owes me $1,000

2006-11-12T19:05:00.000Z

After a fun night of duckpin bowling with friends Saturday night (more to come on that later), I was driving home from White Oak, MD, when some fuckwad in a white car swipes me on my right side. I take control of the wheel, honk for him to stop, and start thinking about exchanging insurance information.

Then the guy takes off. I don’t mean starts to drive fast. I mean Road Runner, bat out of hell, Aladdin on his magic carpet ride FAST.

I flash my brights and start chasing him down New Hampshire Ave at 1am but The Princess’ Honda Accord, practically powered by steroid-infused hamsters under the hood, gets left in the dust – even though I had a spoiler.

I pull over, call 911, and wait for Maryland’s finest to come. I wasn’t able to get the guy’s license plate number and so the officer had nothing to go on except my description of the car, which was white and had MD plates. I always told myself that if I was ever in such a situation to MEMORIZE THE PLATE NUMBERS. But I guess I was too concerned with saving my life. My bad.

Still, as I recreated the scene in my head over the next couple of hours, I realized that he had been in the left turn lane with me a minute before so he must have come out of the bowling alley himself. He was drunk, since there was no way he would have hit me on a straightaway, wide-laned road. He was swerving even after he hit me, but had the wherewithal to leave the scene of the crime.

It could have been worse. I was physically fine but the car’s right rear door was scratched and dented. Fixing it will probably cost $500-$1,000, but it’s drivable.

So if anyone sees a white car with MD plates and a dented left side (with dark-green scratches), do what I didn’t do. Get the plate number.

Mancation, Part II: Finding Jesus on Election Day

2006-11-10T15:00:00.000Z

So luckily, during my THREE HOUR LAYOVER at National Airport, The Princess Metro’d out to see me. Well, not me, but her friend Amanda who was visiting from Wisconsin and just happened to be flying in the same hour I was at he airport. We had lunch at the TGIF in the airport and I really got to know Amanda in the five minutes we met before I had to go catch my flight.

The reason I was going to Arizona was for a freelance assignment for a non-partisan Web site that tracks election policy nationwide. They sent me out to cover the elections in Florida four years ago and in Pittsburgh two years ago. I guess they like my work. Also, it helps that GoPats is one of the head honchos there and feels sorry for me.

The assignment ended up being fortuitous since my friends Susie Q and Special K live in Scottsdale. I hadn’t seen them in perhaps 7 years so I was really excited to spend some time with them. Susie Q said I could stay with her so I embarked for the Grand Canyon State looking forward to reuniting.

At the Phoenix airport, I rented a PT Cruiser and asked for the GPS navigation system, which I secretly love because of the woman’s sexy voice telling me what to do. “Turn right.” Yes, order me around, you sexy global positioning system.

I spent all day Tuesday driving around the Phoenix metro area, hitting such great spots like Scottsdale and Tempe. There’s really nothing to describe about Arizona you can’t learn about from watching Road Runner cartoons. A lot of open land, cacti, and heat. Oh, and strip malls. Lots and lots of strip malls. And more strip malls.

Though I was working as a non-partisan, impartial reporter, I listened all day to Air America hoping that what the prognosticators were saying would be true. I stopped at many polling places and asked elections workers and voters how voting was going (if you really care to read my report, go to Electionline.org Election Day blog), and called in to the DC office with occasional reports.

At the Tempe public library, I stopped to file a report and use their free Internets and was amazed at what I saw: EVERY KID WAS ON MYSPACE, or The ‘Space, as Tasha calls it (read her Thursday post on MySpace, very funny).

One of the issues I was looking for in particular was Arizona’s new law requiring ID at the polls. But reporting in mostly white areas wasn’t yielding me a lot of interesting reports. So, thanks to my trusty GPS woman, I drove to Guadalupe, AZ, a 1-sqaure-mile, mostly Latino community that, though poor, was spectacularly beautiful. There was an amazing church sitting at the edge of a dirt lot and many of the mostly poor residents I spoke to were warm and welcoming.

When I got to downtown Phoenix, I found Jesus. Literally.

I stopped into City Hall to use the bathroom and when I came out of the stall, a Latino bathroom attendant asked me, in Spanish, if I spoke Espanol. I don’t exactly look like a Latin, so I replied, “Si, como sabias?” (How did you know?). This is the conversation that followed:

“No se, queria ver. Como te llamas?” (I don’t know, just wanted to see if you did. What’s your name?)

“Arjewtino.”

“Jesus.”

“Mucho gusto.” (My pleasure.)

“El gusto es mio.” (The pleasure is all mine.)

“Ah. Che, sabes donde votas por aqui?” (Oh. Hey, do you know where one votes around here?)

“No se.”

“Ok, gracias.”

At this point, I started to leave the bathroom.

“Tan rapido te vas?” (You’re leaving so soon?)

“Eh, si, tengo que trabajar.” (Uh, yeah, I have to go work.)

“Que pena.” (What a shame.)

“Eh, ok, chau.” (Uh, ok, bye.)

“Adios.”

I got out of there wondering why he thought I would stay in the bathroom with him when I realized that, even in Phoenix, I am as attractive as I think I am.

I filed my last story of the night after the polls closed and got ready to go out with Susie Q and Special K.

To be continued: Mancation, Part III: Sushi and Dirty Friends, Phoenix Style

Mancation, Part I: Dog Orgies and Patriot Losses

2006-11-09T17:42:00.000Z

Two years after flying to Tempe to watch the Patriots slaughter the Arizona Cardinals, GoPats, Luddite, and I took another mancation this past weekend to watch the Pats take on Manning and the Colts in Foxboro Sunday night.

We probably should have stayed home.

Luddite picked me up Saturday morning and we drove to BWI. He brought along his wife’s lavender bag/purse as a carryon and, while in line at the gate, spotted a man holding the same bag his wife took with her to Richmond.

“I almost brought the same bag,” he said.

“That would have been embarrassing,” I replied.

Not exactly putting the “man” in “mancation”, we settled into our seats where Luddite proceeded to spank me in completing Southwest’s inflight magazine crossword. It was a pretty decent flight, much better than the one two years ago when we were delayed a few hours because there was A TORNADO NEAR THE RUNWAY.

We got to Providence, where Luddite’s parents live and were letting us spend the weekend, and I was immediately arm-raped by their dog Paddy (yes, named after the whiskey). The nymphomaniac canine kept humping my arm until he got tired, after which he sought out his stuffed animals on the ground and started to screw Clifford and Snoopy in some crazy dog orgy to prove he was in charge. Point taken, Paddy.

We took Luddite’s mom out to dinner for her birthday that night, hitting beautiful downtown Providence, which, I was assured, was a city built not on rock and roll but on the efforts of a corrupt mayor with ties to the mafia.

Did anyone ever watch the show “Providence”? Did it do for Providence what “Dallas” did for Dallas?

Anyway, we went to a really great restaurant called Cassarino’s in Federal Hill. Our waitress had the thickest Rhode Island accent and I made Luddite and GoPats – who are vegetarians cry by eating veal. In my defense, it was already dead and, therefore, recommended by the chef.

After dropping Mom off at home, we went to a downtown bar and Luddite insisted on wearing his ascot.

“My greatest shopping moment was when I found this ascot for my sister’s wedding,” he said. “It’s like having a massage around your neck.”

On Sunday, we went to TJ Maxx because my friends, worried about freezing to death at the game, wanted to buy some long underwear. I passed, but found an awesome black blazer for $35 recommended to me by the middle-age gay couple shopping for leather jackets.

On the drive home, Luddite and GoPats argued about whether Arby’s roast beef is reconstituted powder. It was perhaps the funniest, if not most inane, conversation we were to have all weekend. Luddite argued that Arby’s takes roast beef, processes it and pulverizes it into powder, which the restaurants then reconstitute with water, bake it as a loaf, and then slice it to make sandwiches.

“You’re thinking of The Jetsons,” GoPats said.

We watched the Redskins play the most amazing game I’ve ever seen against Dallas, then made our way to Foxboro. On the way, we stopped for some grinders at Tommy’s Pizza, which caused Luddite to sing, seemingly to himself, “Hot lettuce, how come you taste so good?”

When we got to Gillette Stadium, it was a madhouse. We parked on a car-logged patch of grass overcome by burning campfires, rabid, drunk Massholes, and cars parked too close together. Seriously, it looked like some post-apocalyptic zone reminiscent of Mad Max.

We tailgated for a couple of hours, met some cool people who let us watch the end of the Steelers-Broncos game on their TV, then went inside the stadium. We had SRO (standing room only) tickets and spent the whole night freezing and watch Tom Brady break GoPats’ heart and throw away the game to the Colts.

When we got home at 2am, tired and bleary-eyed, we stole some of Luddite’s dad’s best whiskey and walked to this “shmutz” creek near the house and drowned our sorrows. It was like we were teenagers again, whispering and stealing off into the night with some alcoholic contraband.

Luddite’s mom made us breakfast Monday morning and I took off for Phoenix, but not before enduring a THREE HOUR LAYOVER at National Airport…

To be continued: Mancation, Part II: Finding Jesus on Election Day

Mancations aren’t gay…right?

2006-11-03T21:37:00.000Z

Two years ago, I went to Phoenix, AZ, with my friends GoPats and Luddite to watch the Patriots take on the Cardinals. It was a great trip. We met Tom Brady and I showed him how to throw a tighter spiral. He asked me for some advice on how to read corner blitzes more accurately, but we had to go hiking in Sedona.

That mancation (I heard the term this week on a TV news promo) was so much fun we’re going to New England this weekend to watch the Pats take on the hated Colts. Peyton Manning called me this week to ask how his team can improve its awful run defense but, being loyal to my buddy GoPats, I told him to fuck off and die. “My fantasy team* totally kicked your ass when I played you two weeks ago!” I shouted at him as I hung up the phone, but not before I heard him break down and sob.

I’ll be mobile-blogging my incredible insights of the game from Foxborough Sunday night. I predict the Pats will win 34-17, Luddite will wear his Yankees shirt under his Pats jersey and piss off a Masshole, and GoPats will have a panic attack by kickoff.

I’m also traveling to Phoenix on Monday morning to cover Tuesday’s election as a freelancer for a non-profit at which I used to temp. While I’m there I’m staying with my great friend Susie Q who I haven’t seen in 7 years. Hilarity, I iron-clad guarantee, will ensue.

Attached are more photos from last weekend, when BFF Sarah was in town visiting from Japan. Thanks for finally lifting your “head out of the jet lag fog,” Sarah, and sending the pics. Great times were had at Jaleo (mmm, morcilla and sangria!), Bedrock Billiards, her first-ever trip to Target, and waking up at 7am Sunday after Saturday night’s Halloween extravaganza in the Atlas District.

BFF Sarah and The Princess at Jaleo

Superman as a DC Tourist, lost and reading a map on the Metro.

DC Katastrophe as a dead Audrey Hepburn come back to life.

Drew as the Ipod commercial dancing shadow guy.

Superman as a DC Tourist saves BFF Sarah from...something.

BFF Sarah and The Princess didn't dress up for Halloween. But their Cleavage Contest was pretty scary. And by scary, I mean hot.

A cranky Arjewtino and Foxymoron, dressed as a Congressional page, take the long, slow Metro ride home at 3am.

*For those who care, my fantasy team is 6-2 and in 3rd place.

Crazy Video Friday: Japanese man can make water dance

2006-11-03T14:12:00.000Z

In the Chinatown area of Kobe, Japan, there exists a magical man. A man who makes tourists gawk. A man who makes Americans take out their cameras and push past onlookers to get a better shot. A man who, using only his magical hands, can rub a metal bowl and make water dance.

This is that man.

I shot this in March during my visit to Japan with The Princess. Watch the Japanese businessman in the beginning of the video rub the bowl to try (unsuccessfully) to make the water shake; then watch how easily the magical man does it.

Bad costume idea

2006-11-01T21:38:00.000Z

Arjewtino: What are you going as for Halloween?

The Princess: I don’t know. Nothing. What about you?

Arjewtino: I was thinking of going as my blog.

The Princess: What do you mean?

Arjewtino: I was going to wear my Argentina flag as a cape and put a yarmulke on my head.

The Princess: ...

Arjewtino: I’m just kidding.

The Princess: Thank god.

Even Superman can be a DC tourist

2006-10-30T22:01:00.000Z

As I dressed up Saturday night as “The Man of Steel on Vacation in DC”, I thought of the following things: Would Superman stand on the left side of the Metro escalator? Would he visit the Smithsonian and use their crappy maps? Would he buy an I Heart DC T-shirt and FBI hat and keep all his stuff in a fanny pack?

My answer, as you can see in this photo, is yes.

My last-minute Halloween shopping spree at Value Village in Langley Park almost ended fruitlessly, until I found a children’s Superman outfit tucked behind some ragged hand-me-downs. If I had been a cartoon, you might have seen a light bulb comically spring to light above my head as I started to put together my costume idea.

I had to try the costume on first, however, since one should never spend $4 at a thrift store where its return policy is “Fuck Off: You Bought It, You Keep It”. Who’s got that kind of money? But the store didn’t have a dressing room. When I asked an employee where I might find one, she laughed and walked away.

Since there were so many shoppers trying on jackets, shoes, and underwear over their clothes out in the open, I considered doing the same with the Superman outfit. But I was a bit embarrassed putting on a child’s costume without some privacy.

So I walked toward the back, navigating aisles, trying to find some semblance of shelter. Finally, I settled behind the furniture aisle and started to slip on the leggings meant for an 8-year-old. A guy walked by me just then, smiled at me, and said,

“You know you’re not going to fit into that.”

“I know,” I said in the most dignified tone I could muster, “that’s kind of the point.”

I’m not even sure what that meant. In any case, it wasn’t working and I considered scrapping the idea of a Halloween costume all together. But then, a lady walked by and suggested I cut the outfit in half to make it fit. For $4, I decided to throw return-policy caution to the wind and try it out.

I won’t bore you with too many details of the night, but the outfit was a success. The Princess, her friend (my Canadian BFF) Sarah, who was visiting from Japan, and I met up with friends and went out to the Atlas District in search of revelry. We hit the Palace of Wonders and the Argonaut, drank many beers and shared many laughs, and met a bunch of costumed hipsters.

Shiftless Badger dressed up as the Pope and kept blessing everyone; DC Katastrophe (who kindly let me use her photos since BFF Sarah is slacking due to a 14-hour flight back to Japan) dressed up as Audrey Hepburn come back from the grave; her boyfriend went as K-Fed, Foxymoron as a Congressional page with handprints on his ass; and Drew as the shadow guy in the IPod commercials, by far my favorite costume of the night.

More photos to come when I get them.

I’m a Jar Townie: Anagramming for Fun

2006-10-27T18:54:00.000Z

Japan's former capital city (Kyoto) and present capital city (Tokyo) names are anagrams of each other. The word stifle is an anagram of itself. Camry, a car from Toyota, is an anagram of my car.

Because I’m a dork, and because I love language’s inherently beautiful malleability, I have spent most of my Friday making anagrams. Specifically, entering words into this anagram server and laughing at some of the results.

For example, an anagram of The Princess’ and my real names is Vagina Men. My siblings’ names make up an anagram of Algae Trier. An anagram of one of my favorite blogs is Shat Blessed Frig. And one of our capital city’s anagrams is Natch Gods Win.

Anagramming may sound like an exercise in futility. Maybe it’s because I was an English Lit major, but, to me, it’s a highly creative endeavor that is part science and part intuition. It taps into our collective love of words and the endless search for finding new meanings within them. And when we find a particularly apt anagram Clint Eastwood = Old West Action it can make us laugh.

So go ahead and try it out yourself. Post your best anagramming results in my comments section.

Crazy Video Fridays: Patches the Horse

2006-10-27T14:02:00.000Z

Since sometimes I have nothing to say, and because video-blogging is so much easier, I'm starting a new feature called Crazy Video Fridays, starting with this video of a cheeseburger-eating, beer-fetching, car-riding horse named Patches. Seriously, Patches, you should brush your teeth before tucking yourself into bed. Ever heard of gingivitis?

Thanks to B-Fo for the recommendation.

The Dark Side of Takoma Park: A Photo Essay

2006-10-26T15:33:00.000Z

I lived in DC for 7 ½ years before moving to the People’s Republic of Takoma Park. I now live on a nice street, in a nice neighborhood, surrounded by nice people who drive nice Hondas. When I walk around, people say “good morning”. When the mailman drops off his deliveries, he smiles and waves. There are no bars in town and every Sunday there is a nice Farmer’s Market.

I’m a stranger in a strange land.

I'm used to sirens wailing through Adams Morgan at 3am; muggings on 18th Street, and fires ripping through my building. It can be tough to get acquainted with a new city, especially when it doubles as a modern-day Pleasantville. So, in the spirit of adventure and thrill-seeking, I decided shortly after moving to TKPK to find the city's rougher side, to cast light on its seedy underbelly. There HAD to be more to this nuclear-free town, I thought, than uber-hippies treating their adorable children to ice cream and drivers actually stopping at a crosswalk for old ladies. Here is what I found:

This is where I wait every morning for the 12 or 13 bus to take me to the Metro. It can be pretty harrowing experience, much like riding the 42 bus up Connecticut Ave. at 5pm on a weekday. Last week, for instance, the bus driver yelled at me for running in front of her bus as she started to pull away. I told her that when I used to take the 42 bus, if I didn’t practically hurl muself in front of it the conductor would drive off because I wasn’t trying hard enough to catch it. She started to laugh but I think she was just concocting better ways to run me over in the future.

This is an old movie house that has been converted into a secret cult headquarters for Latinos. Every Sunday, it is filled with mind-altered, brain-washed cult members who believe in the crazy notion that their religion is the only way to salvation. At least they're not Jews for Jesus.

This lady was crazy. On the day I took this, she was wearing a top coat, wool cap, and long pants on an 85-degree day. She tried to glare at me menacingly but she had no idea how many crazy DC homeless people I’ve tangled with. I once bought a homeless dude a sandwich at 7-11 only to have him throw it at me. For some strange reason, he didn’t like pastrami from 7-11.

Drinking can be a problem in TKPK. This guy was sleeping one off by propping himself against the fence post. He was more considerate than your average DC wino, though, since he made a point of pissing on himself rather than the sidewalk. In DC, drunks piss on you.

People love their pupusas in Takoma Park. I'm still trying to figure out exactly why this vendor is so popular. Her service is as bad as Amsterdam Falafel's in Adams Morgan, her location can't be found by Google Earth, and she has the customer service skills of a CVS employee. She is pure evil, but her pupusas are amazing.

There is a major shopping cart population epidemic in this town. They are either abandoned or stolen. It is not uncommon to see them being used as baby strollers miles from the supermarket.

Playgrounds are pretty popular here. This one, however, is used to torture tiny children who can't reach the swing on the right.

This set of evil rings is also used to torture children. I haven't figured out how, though.

I’m pretty sure that a more thorough search through Takoma Park’s hidden creeks, like this one, will yield dead bodies. Maybe not as many as in Rock Creek Park, but I’ll bet dollars to donuts it has its fair share.

I took a great risk taking this shot on auto-timer. Luckily, I didn't get hassled by The Man. I tried taking a photo of myself in Mt. Pleasant once and almost got shot by Metro police. Well, not me, but someone I know. Well, not someone I know, but a stranger. Who I read about. In the newspaper. In New York. But still...

So, obviously, I survived my dangerous foray into Takoma Park's dark side. If you ever want to visit, do so at your own risk. Like any dangerous town, you just have to know which places to avoid and you'll be just fine.

But careful catching the bus.

Thanks to Express for another mention in today's online edition.

Why I’ll never watch What About Brian [sic]

2006-10-25T17:57:00.000Z

There is a show on TV I will never watch. It has nothing to do with the promos or the actors or the production values. I have nothing against the show’s perceived quality or the network it runs on (ABC). There’s really only one reason I won’t watch What About Brian [sic], and that’s because it’s missing a question mark.

What IS it about Brian? Why are we interested in all that he’s about? I don’t know, and I never will, because the laws of punctuation seem to not apply to his show title. When it comes to punctuation and grammar, I can be a horse’s ass. I correct people when they speak, I mentally edit anything I read, and shout out opinions on how to improve the syntax on billboards. (Still, I’m not as bad as this guy.)

I cringe when someone says his “head LITERALLY exploded” or when someone misuses “who” and “whom”. Ironically, I don’t always use grammar and punctuation correctly myself, which, I’m sure, makes it even more satisfying to others who point out my mistakes. (Several months ago I mixed up “whose” and “who’s” in an e-mail; I’m STILL kicking myself over that one.)

But, as a technical writer and a lover of (correctly used) language, I use it better than most. For this reason, imagine my pleasant surprise when I read a WaPo article Monday on how grammar is making a comeback in many area high schools. Grammar was never stressed too much in my junior high or high school. I learned how to use it correctly from reading a lot and taking a profound interest in how words flowed. This explains why I know when something reads correctly but couldn’t tell you why.

I laugh (and cry a little inside) when I see store signs advertising a “sale on apple’s” or when I receive an e-mail from a friend telling me “their has to be a better way”. Remember, Microsoft’s spelling and grammar checks will only catch so much.

These instances of grammar/punctuation bloopers are entertaining, if not disturbing. But I expect more from primetime TV shows. I expect copyeditors.

As an alcoholic, I’m offended by kickball: A satirical guest blog by Baby Bien

2006-10-24T15:39:00.000Z

I have spent the majority of this past decade slowly destroying my liver with copious amounts of alcohol. I have never discriminated against any beverage unless it brought harm to me. But as I have gotten older, I have been forced to move on from collegiate antics. I no longer drink 20 Busch Lights in one sitting, nor do I engage in epic beer pong tournaments. My taste in drinks has gotten more expensive (too bad my salary does not comply all of the time) and I can no longer binge drink like I used to. My drinking is now a marathon, not a sprint. I want to be the first one at the bar, and the last one to leave. I want to remember why I am drinking; not forget that I did. And this is why as an alcoholic, I am offended by kickball.

On the surface, joining the kickball league was great. I like to kick balls and run around. I also like to drink. After our first game, I arrived at the bar and I was completely overwhelmed. People in their 20s (and 30s, Arjewtino) getting their drink on. I saw endless pitchers of Coors Light supplying the required beer for flip-cup.

I gave up light beer years ago (probably when I gave up drinking games). These people were drinking crappy beer after crappy beer with some Car Bombs in between to class things up. They were drinking to have fun, bond with their teammates, and, maybe, if they were lucky, hook up with one of them.

Well, that's not for me. My drinking is self-medication. I need it to hide from my demons and make me dwell on things from my past that I wish that I had done if only I wasn't too drunk or hungover. Without alcohol, I would not remember these things. I would not be able to live my life in the past, if it were not for the sweet nectar of the adult beverage Gods.

I cannot believe that these kickballers are using beer and liquor for joy, pleasure, and happiness. Maybe I just matured faster than them. One day they will see things like I do.

I cannot wait until I turn 27.

Survival of the Fittest: Laundry Day

2006-10-23T13:28:00.000Z

In the struggle for life, the strongest groups – organisms, companies, DC tourists –survive. In the struggle for laundry, the most obnoxious get their wash done.

Herbert Spencer was on to something when he coined the well-known principle “survival of the fittest” (a variation of Darwin’s “natural selection” theory). He applied it not just to evolution, but to government bodies, the economic marketplace, and social institutions.

He probably should have considered public laundromats, too.

Anyone without easy access to a washer/dryer has had to use these social experiments in basic survival. Laundromats are full of cranky life forms competing for machines, jockeying for position, eyeing one another suspiciously. They transform considerate people into savages, decent individuals into self-seeking rivals, where the only adage is “might makes right”.

I’m speaking, of course, of myself.

The Princess and I did our laundry Sunday morning at Suds, a small laundromat near downtown Takoma Park. After several years of having laundry facilities in my basement, I am not enjoying packing our laundry every couple of weeks and trekking out to some remote location a five-minute drive away. But a man has to do what a man has to do, and that includes cleaning my clothes.

Yesterday, however, Suds had several dryers out of order and many people waiting to use it. So, like Spencer theorized, I adapted to my new environment and evolved into a primal seeker of machines. I noticed a dryer not in use but full of dry clothes no one was claiming. I threw them out of the machine and on to the table. Later, as some undeveloped, sentient creature gabbed on his cell phone while SLOWLY taking out his dry clothes, I practically hip-checked him to get to it and shoved my wet clothes inside, not caring if he was done or not.

“He wasn’t done checking the machine, babe,” The Princess told me.

“Too bad,” I replied, as Cell Phone Guy gave me a look and took off.

“Laundry brings out a side of you I’ve never seen before.”

“What side?”

“The mean, obnoxious side.”

“Does it turn you on?”

“Hmm…It’s like survival of the fittest.”

It WAS survival of the fittest. And I won.

Is Got Milk? the greatest ad campaign ever?

2006-10-20T15:29:00.000Z

Everyone remembers the very first commercial. A dorky librarian is listening to a radio call-in show and hears the following $10,000 trivia question: “Who shot Alexander Hamilton in that famous duel?” His eyes light up as the camera pans to a painting on the wall of Hamilton being shot by Aaron Burr. The man gets a call from the radio show but, his mouth stuffed with peanut butter, is unable to clearly state the answer. Out of milk, he looks at his empty glass on the table and, most likely, ponders his inability to use his semi-arcane knowledge of history for his own personal gain.

The screen goes black as two now-familiar words appear before viewers’ eyes: Got Milk?

Since the launch of this commercial in 1993 (holy crap, I was a senior in high school), the Got Milk? ad campaign has been parodied, mimicked, stolen, and become part of this country’s pop culture. You’ve see it on T-shirts, billboards, and magazines, transcending age, race, and social background. Every American not hiding out in a cabin the past 13 years understands the reference when you say those two words. According to the Got Milk? Web site, their tag line has 90 percent awareness in the U.S. Which makes me wonder: is it the greatest advertising campaign ever?

Most advertising is short-lived. But often, some ad campaign will come along that will stick. VW’s recent slew of commercials featuring people in accidents being shot from an in-car camera and those crazy Eastern Motors commercials come to mind. But there are few that not only last as long as Got Milk?, but have actually changed American vernacular and been ripped off by anyone trying to sell a product.

I pride myself on not being swayed by the power of advertising. My friend Sean despises TV commercials and will make fun of anyone who is amused by them (he is especially virulent during the Super Bowl). But frankly, usually without even noticing, I know I’m affected.

Several years ago, I noticed that I bought a six-pack of Michelob beer because a TV commercial had made it look good. Hell, I even convinced myself that it tasted good until I realized I was drinking FUCKING MICHELOB! A radio spot for In-N-Out Burger, voiced by John Goodman, made their Double-Doubles sound like the greatest burgers in the world. Which, by the way, they are.

And I’m pretty sure I started to enjoy the taste of milk more after the 1993 commercial, even though I only ever drank it with cereal.

So what about you? Can you remember any TV commercials or advertising campaigns that had a conscious effect on you?

Tuna: Help Me, Helper!

2006-10-19T13:03:00.000Z

I’m not much of a chef. But because I love The Princess, I try to cook us dinner every Wednesday night to give her a break at least one night a week from having to decide what we’ll eat.

Last night, for instance, I made Tuna Helper for the first time in my life. Creamy Roasted Garlic Tuna Helper, to be exact. I know, I know, it’s quite a feat and I’m probably spoiling my girlfriend, but I really like to show my culinary range in the kitchen. I truly take pride in being able to follow three-step Betty Crocker recipes.

But Tuna Helper proved a bit trickier than I expected.

I started strong by picking out a 10-inch skillet purely by sight. The recipe called for 2 ½ cups of water, so I took out the 1-cup measuring thing and measured out the first two cups. Then I turned to The Princess and said, “How do I get a half a cup? This says 1 cup.”

“Well, you could get the half-cup one.”

“I don’t want to. It’s just another thing to wash.”

“Ok.”

“So what should I do?”

“How about, fill it up halfway?”

“Hm.”

Next, I stirred in all the ingredients and brought them to a boil.

“This is so easy!” I bragged, “Even a retarded kid could do this!”

“Don’t count your chickens before they hatch,” The Princess said. I think she was talking about growing up on a Missouri farm, but who knows with those Midwesterners?

But just five seconds after my premature bravado, I started to pour out the Helper topping until The Princess stopped me. If I had read the monosyllabic instructions, I would have seen the topping did not go into the mixture until step 3.

Focusing back on “dinner,” I finished step 1 (boil) and moved on to step 2.

“All it says is to reduce heat and simmer for 13 minutes,” I said. “But it doesn’t say how much.”

“Simmer means low heat,” she replied.

“Really?”

“You didn’t know that?”

“No.”

After completing step 3 (“Oh, NOW I sprinkle the topping!”), we settled down for our banquet with a couple of beers and watched Peep Show. “This is really good!” I told The Princess, proud of the cuisine I had just finished preparing.

So thanks Tuna “helper,” you and your four-fingered hand mascot. Stupid anthropomorphic animated glove.

Thanks, YouTube, you overvalued whore

2006-10-18T20:30:00.000Z

If you’re ever in a rush to go to lunch, and YouTube asks you to import your ENTIRE ADDRESS BOOK from GMail, take your time and read the fine print. You might just learn what YouTube actually wants to do is send an invitation to every e-mail you’ve EVER used or that has been copied in ANY message you’ve sent or received on GMail.

This invite list WILL include your friends and family. It will also include bosses, ex-girlfriends, people you dated once or twice, enemies of your awesomeness, people you knew from high school but don’t talk to anymore, fellow bloggers, former and current co-workers, people you wish would fuck off and die, people who wish YOU would fuck off and die, people who are relieved you don’t contact them anymore, fantasy league owners you never met, MySpace and Friendster buddies, Web-based cell phones, and your grandma.

So thanks, YouTube. Thanks for contacting 492 of my best friends and asking them to check out my videos. Thanks for making me yell “Fuck!” at work. You’re a dick.

Ungodly Kickball Karaoke

2006-10-17T21:51:00.000Z

THIS is what happens when you combine kickball and cheap beer: my team drunkenly singing along to Livin' on a Prayer.

My question is this: why were we pointing so much? Who were we pointing at? At the rock gods who cowered in horror? At the imaginary stage where we presume Bon Jovi might have been performing? At each other in a twisted display of solidarity?

This should have never happened.

The guy handshake: how a seemingly innocuous ritual can doom a potential friendship

2006-10-17T13:03:00.000Z

Since starting my new job a few weeks ago, I’ve met some cool new people who have high potential for friendship. One guy in particular, Stormin’ Norman, was a promising friend free agent until recently, when he committed one of the most egregious social blunders in the guy code: he bungled the handshake.

Here is the chain of events that led to this awful, awkward moment:

As Norman approached me one morning, I was sitting in my cubicle chair with my left side turned to him. I reached out with my left hand to greet him, palm side facing up. This can be a tricky approach since you are hoping the guy will realize he should bring his right hand down and slap it. Unfortunately, some guys instinctively use their left hand to shake it in this type of situation. I realized this might present a problem, so I switched quickly to a fist, hoping he would see it and bump mine with his, kind of like a straight-man version of Jeter and A-Rod. Unfortunately, Norman started to bring his right hand down, and I punched the fleshy part of his palm. Stunned and suddenly frightened, I tried to correct this and opened my hand as he closed his into a fist, reversing the awkward moment we shared a split-second ago. This only exacerbated the social clumsiness. We both made an effort to get in synch, opening and closing our hands, but this degenerated into girly hand-slapping and embarrassment before Norman said, “Just forget it.”

Just forget it, indeed, I thought, as I started to mourn the loss of a potential friend. We fucked up the handshake; can’t be friends anymore. Damn that required social custom! It can be so tricky!! Luckily for Norman and me, since then we connected with a different, more important ritual of guy friendships: getting drunk at a happy hour and making our single guy friends dance with strange women.

When it comes to developing meaningful friendships, men don’t have it as easily as women. We don’t talk about our feelings or host Grey’s Anatomy parties; we don’t hug unless our arms keep our chests apart and even then, we only do the quick back slap.

But we DO have a select few yet extremely vital – rites that we must not – CANNOT – ruin lest we lose any chance at forging a strong bond.

One: The handshake

When shaking or slapping hands, two guys should clasp their hands strongly but with a minimal amount of skin-touching. This is quite the difficult feat, since the handshake intrinsically forces you to touch another man’s hand. The best way to solve this is to do the finger snap you see frat boys do. This may be a fraternity’s most important, if not only, contribution to society.

Two: The bachelor party

Don’t be that guy who gets thrown out of a strip club because you slapped a stripper’s ass while drunk in Montreal. Don’t be that guy who doesn’t want to chip in for a nice meal for the bachelor and makes your buddies pay more than their share. Don’t be that guy who won’t buy shots. And never be that guy who won’t sit down at the blackjack table and “just wants to watch.” This kind of behavior can ruin any potential for a friendship.

Three: Helping a guy move

If, as a guy, you’ve never been asked by a buddy to help you move, then let me set the record straight: you don’t have any guy friends. Helping a buddy move, like Seinfeld said, is the guy-equivalent of “going all the way.” Of course, there better be pizza and beer afterward.

Four: Ragging on a guy’s favorite sports team

If you’re going to say the Redskins suck or the Dodgers are a second-rate team, you better be able to back it up. Saying “Team X sucks, dude” is not a constructive argument to be pondered and may get you sucker-punched. If, however, you argue that the Redskins’ offensive line is too inconsistent and their secondary is hurting with Shawn Springs out of the lineup, it will earn you points for being intelligently thoughtful and may save your guy friendship.

Five: Hitting on a guy’s sister/mom/ex-girlfriend

There really is no defense for this. If you do any of the above, you better hope your friend is either dead or has joined the Peace Corps. Even then, you only have 2 years or so before he comes back and beats you to a bloody pulp.

The cool kids are all right

2006-10-16T13:22:00.000Z

During her first visit to LA several years ago, The Princess said she wanted to see one thing: a celebrity. A few days into the visit, we were hanging in 3rd Street Promenade, Santa Monica, when my Hermana told us Ted Danson was having dinner inside a restaurant. I told The Princess that we would walk by and get a better look if she “acted cool.”

“Don’t act starstruck,” I added. “That’s SO embarrassing.”

But as we walked past Ted Danson eating dinner with wife Mary Steenburgen and their kids, I was the one who got all excited. I squeezed The Princess’ hand tightly and not-so-softly whispered, “Oh my god, that’s Ted Danson!” If The Princess hadn’t been there to drag me out of the restaurant, I’m pretty sure I would have stopped to ask him all about Cheers and if he still talked to George Wendt.

That’s kind of what Friday night was like for me.

One month since writing about wussing out at last month’s blogger happy hour, I actually grew the cojones to attend this month’s “blogelebrity” event. Armed with social buffers The Princess, Shiftless Badger, and Baby Bien, I went to the Big Hunt and was, again, starstruck.

Ted Danson wasn’t there, but he might as well have been if you paid attention to the words that actually came out of my mouth that night.

“Oh my god, was that [My Life as an Alien...]?”

“Holy crap, that’s Circle V!”

“Virgle Kent! You totally tell it like it is!”

The happy hour was, as SB would say, a veritable Who’s Who of DC area bloggers. Seeing everyone hanging out, recognizing some of them from photos and meeting many whose blogs I’ve bookmarked and read regularly, I couldn’t help but think about that stupid “Celebrities Are Just Like Us” feature in US Weekly.

Bloggers drink beer! They hang out with their friends! They wear pants! They’re just like us!

All in all, it was a really fun night. My Life as an Alien was really friendly and engaging; Brunch Bird was very cool and funny; and Circle V used her clairvoyant powers to convince me I should start paying attention to my horoscope. Though I left early to go to a friend’s bachelor party, I was happy to meet so many interesting people and talk about blogging, life and love, and the power of the Zodiac (I’m pretty sure V is a witch).

At the next happy hour, I’ll act much cooler. That’s what Ted Danson would do.

P.S. For a really amusing mobile-blog post about my kickball league’s party bus excursion to Annapolis Saturday, read Shiftless Badger’s account.

Is this ironic? Let's ask Alanis (or GoPats)

2006-10-13T19:20:00.000Z

The fire that blazed through my old apartment building last weekend, that killed a cat and burned a firefighter, that displaced my uninsured neighbor and destroyed her not-backed-up dissertation, occurred TWO HOURS into National Fire Prevention Week.

I was an English Lit major, but that was years ago. Is that ironic? GoPats?

Why stop at Adult Kickball? Other childhood games easily played by adults

2006-10-12T20:23:00.000Z

While having a couple of drinks at The Science Club last night with some former and current kickball friends, we started to discuss if converting a kid’s game to an adult activity should be limited to kickball.

During a raucous brainstorming session, I posited that an Adult Tetherball league could be just as fun. There is minimal physical exertion, it reminds people in their 20s and 30s of childhood, and it’s another excuse to drink beer with friends.

People in DC already play kids’ games as recreation. There are numerous leagues featuring dodge ball, bocce ball (whatever the hell that is), Ultimate Frisbee, and, of course, softball. And as the embarrassing stigma of playing kickball starts to wear off, we need to bring back other relics from our collective childhood to convince ourselves we are not getting older.

Imagine having to tell your friends that you can’t make that new art exhibit because you’re playing Adult Freeze Tag. Imagine leaving work early so you can be on time for your Adult Four-Square match. Imagine meeting up with random people on the Mall to participate in Adult Red Rover (actually, THAT one would be a lot of fun).

The list of oxymoronic games is as endless as your imagination: Adult Hopscotch, Adult Hide and Seek, Adult Duck Duck Goose. But why limit it to outdoor games? Adult Heads Up, Seven Up, Adult Musical Chairs, and Adult I Spy could bide us over in the winter months.

Obviously, the idea of a 31-year-old man playing kickball every Tuesday night opens one up to ridicule. So why do I do it? Is it for the exercise? The games are an hour long and unless you’re the pitcher or catcher, you might touch the ball once or twice during a game. Is it for the social networking? I’m in my fourth kickball season and I couldn’t tell you what anyone I’ve met through kickball does for a living. Is it for the hooking up? I have a beautiful girlfriend who I love and talk about often in my blog.

So why do I play? The truth is, and it took some deep thinking to figure this out, is that kickball is the best reminder of a time when I didn’t have the stresses of an adult life. Running around like a kid, at least one night a week, FEELS good.

On Tuesday night, after winning 5-0 on the field, we went to the bar and had a bra-off, sang crappy songs, and learned how to play Ping-Pang-Pong (thanks Foxymoron!). And, as this picture will attest, a chicken drove me around in his car.

Who wouldn’t want to feel that young again?

UPDATE: Thanks to Wonkette for the online mention.

"Um, I missed everything"

2006-10-11T22:17:00.000Z

Because sometimes, mapmakers just HAVE to sing their lunch orders in the McDonald's drive-thru. This is great, very original and highly amusing. The best part is the end, when the McDonald's employee utters the above headline.

Looks like I moved out just in time

2006-10-10T13:17:00.000Z

Nearly two months after moving to Takoma Park, a fire ripped through the 7th floor of my old building in Adams Morgan early Sunday morning. The fire started in my former neighbor’s unit after she left a candle lit when she went to bed. It spread into my now-abandoned unit, engulfing the hallway along the way and leaving it charred and covered in soot.

Firefighters kicked down my door and busted out my windows to air out the smoke. They were able to contain the fire and put out the flames in 10 minutes, according to news sources. No one was injured except for the neighbor’s cat, who died, and a firefighter, who burned his hand.

The Princess and I drove down to DC last night to check on my friend DJ Roo, who lives in the unit below the one where the fire originated, and to see the extent of the fire damage.

We had to walk up seven flights since the elevator was out. The higher we climbed, the stronger the “camp-fire” smell got. We first met up with DJ Roo and saw the damage in his apartment, mostly caused by water. We then went to my old floor.

The scene looked like a haunted house. Blackened walls streaking to the ceiling. An ominous darkness caused by the electrical outage. A lone fire extinguisher hanging untouched, ironically, in its place.

We walked into my old apartment and found the walls dripping black. All the windows had been busted out by the firefighters to air out the hallway and my bathroom was entirely blanketed with dark filth. I’ve never kept my living spaces particularly clean so we joked that, really, it didn’t look much different. But all I kept thinking about was what it would have been like if I was still living there – WITHOUT renter’s insurance. Sunday morning around 2am? I might have been at Bedrock Billiards with my friends, waiting for last call. Or at The Princess’, spending a long weekend together. Or, just maybe, at home, staying up late to watch my latest Netflix DVDs or even sleeping.

“See?” The Princess told me. “It’s a good thing we moved in together. It was fate.” I’ve never been a believer in fate and destiny. I believe that things just happen and sometimes they make for some interesting coincidences for people to over-analyze. In any case, I was relieved I didn’t live there anymore and felt sorry for my neighbor who, from what I heard, didn’t even have insurance.

Tomorrow, I thought on the drive home, I’m calling Geico.

Watch what you say to me, it might end up here

2006-10-09T18:42:00.000Z

Arjewtino: Don’t take this the wrong way, but lately, you’ve seemed happier.

The Princess: Oh, that’s funny.

AJT: Why?

TP: Because I’m having an affair.

Hilarity ensues.

AJT: I have to write that down.

TP: Oh, babe, seriously.

Watch where you point that thing

2006-10-06T13:49:00.000Z

In celebrating our anniversary last month, The Princess and I got all dolled up and patronized Restaurant Eve, a high-end place in Alexandria where we feasted on wine, a dirty martini (for me) and Bloody Mary (for her), and an amazing five-course tasting menu (all to the tune of $305, including tip). The wine I ordered was served in the biggest glass I had ever seen so, natch, I decided to take a photo of it to illustrate the hilarity of its size. As I took out my digital camera, the following conversation took place:

The Princess: Careful taking pictures in here.
Arjewtino: Why?
TP: Because some restaurants don’t like you taking pictures inside.
AJT: Why?
TP: Because some chefs can be sensitive about people spying on their food or putting photos of the food online.
AJT: That’s bullshit.

I understand that some chefs feel their culinary creations are works of art, but since when does taking photos of this “art” become some sort of infringement and not what it is intended to be: a compliment?

The San Francisco Chronicle last week ran this story about the etiquette of snapping away in restaurants. Many restaurants will ask patrons who take photos to stop and may even kick them out. It is their private property and they can do as they wish, but why (1) alienate someone who will then dissuade friends to not eat there and (2) miss out on some free advertising?

The potential for espionage is too great, I suppose. Still, according to the SF Chronicle story, restaurant managers have little recourse to stopping shutterbugs unless they flat-out ban cameras from their premises.

A couple of years ago, Blue and I visited a fancy-shmancy NYC coffee shop in Union Square and the hostess asked me to stop taking photos of my friend Blue because it was against restaurant “policy”. When I questioned her logic, she said the chef was afraid people would steal his décor ideas. I was too hungry to leave so I stayed and ate; but I showed my disdain for their “policy” by whining about it to Blue.
At Restaurant Eve, I took just a few shots of the wine and food and our amazingly knowledgeable server even took a photo of us at the end of the evening. The general manager, who saw me taking photos, didn’t take me for a culinary spy or a food blogger. He was gracious and furtively slipped me a pass that would get us into their semi-secret speakeasy, which, if you know me at all, totally made my night.

So what are your thoughts on this? Is it inappropriate to photograph the food and décor inside a restaurant? Or is it a complimentary act that shouldn’t be banned?

UPDATE: Thanks to Express for the online mention.

No longer prohibited in Spanish

2006-10-04T21:09:00.000Z

Ever since I was embarrassed at The Princess’ birthday party in August by her Guatemalan friend over the pronunciation of the word prohibido, I’ve been thinking more often that it’s time my first language stop playing second fiddle to Ingles.

It’s been more than four years now since I visited my home country of Argentina. While I was there (Buenos Aires and Patagonia), I was excited that my Spanish language skills came back: I started dreaming again in Spanish, remembering words I hadn’t used in years, and my mom said I sounded like a porteno (sorry, no tilde available on blogger) when I talked to her on the phone.

But each day since then, my Castellano skills have been deteriorating. I am forgetting words. I have no sense of syntax. When I order pupusas from Salvadorians in Takoma Park, they respond in English. Basta! Enough. I needed a wake-up call, and incorrectly insisting to a roomful of my novia’s amigos that the Spanish word for “prohibited” is pronounced pro-HEE-bido was the last straw.

One of my first memories of coming to this country when I was 4 years old is sitting in my preschool class, unable to talk to anyone because I didn’t understand their crazy idioma, leafing through the book The Fox and the Hound and figuring out the story based on the Disney drawings alone (it was so heartbreaking; why couldn’t the fox and the hound be friends just because they were different?). But as I began to learn English, my native tongue slowly devolved and took a back seat as my inferior language.

Short history of my Arjewtiness: My family and I moved to LA when I was 4 because of La Guerra Sucia, a military-power that made political dissidents disappear (including some of my dad’s friends). We lived here for four years until democracy was restored in Argentina, after which we went back for two more years. When the economy tanked, we came back to the U.S. and I became a citizen when I was 15 years old. (Yes, Blue, I AM a U.S. citizen. )

Maybe because of the constant moving, or because of my desire to assimilate into America, my Spanish skills went down the toilet. I can still have a very simple conversation in Spanish with my padres but it can be taxing to constantly think in English and translate it to Spanish. And because of Argentina’s unique dialect and pronunciation (for example, pollo is pronounced PO-zho), the Mexican- and Central American-style Spanish I always heard in the states didn’t help much.

Children are like sponges when it comes to learning; I could have learned Korean two weeks after moving here. But I am no longer 4 years old and I have to regain my Castellano (we don’t really say Espanol). I am returning to Buenos Aires in December with my mom and siblings to visit my grandmother, who will be turning 85 that month. I hope my native tongue comes back like it did before and that, this time, I continue remembering.

After all, I’m still a porteno.

The Art of Fasting: A Secular Jew’s Five-Step Guide to Surviving Yom Kippur

2006-10-03T16:06:00.000Z

In my last hour of observing Yom Kippur yesterday, I got a massive headache, my lips were dry, my stomach grumbled, and I was pretty sure I could see tiny cartoon hamburgers tauntingly dancing in front of my eyes.

The Day of Atonement is never the most fun day of the year for me (and really, it shouldn’t be) but it IS one of the most rewarding. Still, getting through 24 hours of not eating anything or drinking water, all in the name of religion and pious repenting, can be a trying time for a secular Jew like myself.

Yom Kippur is considered the most solemn day of the year and involves atoning to God through prayer and absolving of your sins. Total abstention from food and drink are the big musts, and washing, cosmetics, wearing leather shoes, and sex are prohibited. Though I consider myself an atheist in the spiritual sense, I highly value Judaism in a cultural way, so this day was as important to me as many other, more religious Jewish friends I know. And after observing YK for the past 12 years, I’ve learned a trick or two on how to get through the day.

Step One: Eat a big meal at sundown

Unfortunately, this year the last food and drink I consumed came at around 4pm Sunday as I tailgated at the Redskins game, scarffing down some bratwursts, grilled chicken, and chips with guacamole. This is not an ideal start to fasting. What you want to do is eat a Burger King triple-decker cheeseburger, large fries, and a milkshake the VERY SECOND the sun goes down. This year, I ended up fasting for about 26 hours and I did NOT sign up for that.

Step Two: Sleep late

A couple of years ago, my friend GoPats went to YK services. Very noble, I thought, but waking up at 7am can add 5 hours of conscious fasting that you can easily avoid by sleeping until noon. Because I don’t believe in god, I don’t get too worried about what he might think of this and, seriously, you’re apt to get more guilt from your Jewish mom than any Higher Being.

Step Three: Stock up on Netflix DVDs

Timing your three-at-a-time Netflix subscription can be tough. When do you return them so you get one back before the weekend? Will Netflix actually send me a DVD on time or will I be stuck with just two DVDs? There surely is a science to getting the timing right and it’s even more important when you need them on YK. Watching enough hours of the latest Rome episode or laughing through Arrested Development’s final shortened season can be crucial to distracting you from the fact that your stomach has started to digest itself.

Step Four: Avoid gentiles

Though I enjoy educating non-Jews during the High Holidays, YK is not a good day to see them. They will eat in front of you, drink long, refreshing sips of cold water, discuss their favorite restaurants, ask you to accompany them on errands, or want to have sex. Innocuous at other times, this is just ignorant behavior that can be excruciating to experience. I am lucky that The Princess, my lapsed-Catholic shiksa, is always thoughtful during these times. Yesterday, she took her beans and cheese quesadilla out of sight and did all our laundry without asking me to help. Still, knowing that she is not suffering like I am can make me even crankier than usual. All in all, it is better to interact strictly with god’s Chosen People.

Step Five: Remember why you’re doing this

During a 24-hour fast, there is always temptation to cheat. "Who will know I ate a piece of fruit?" you might think. "What harm can one tiny glass of water do? If I don’t believe in a Supreme Being, then who will know? " Well, this is the biggest challenge, because it is at these times that you must remember why you’re fasting to begin with. I do it because of personal reasons. It is important to me to feel connected to Judaism, my people, our culture. It unites me with my family, most of who are 3,000 miles away in LA or in another continent in South America.

In the end yesterday, I broke fast (after 26 hours) with The Princess, who made me spaghetti with veggie meatballs, deliciously cooked brussel sprouts, and a mushroom salad. I took two Ibuprofen for my headache and moaned as my stomach rebelled against my antics. I reflected on the past year of my life, considering what went right and what went wrong, and vowed to improve this upcoming year.

Yesterday, for at least 24 hours, I was a real Jew.

Who’s this blog for, anyway?

2006-10-02T16:50:00.000Z

Someone once said, “Dance like no one’s watching.” Well, for me, I’m going to have to learn how to write like no one’s reading.

During a party Saturday night, while I drank sangrias on the rooftop of an Arlington high-rise, I discussed with Shiftless Badger the delicious irony that the realization of an increasing blog readership has actually made me feel LESS desirous to write. As much fun as doing the blog has been, we agreed, sometimes there are things that we just can’t express. There are SOMETHINGS that we would rather our parents, friends, lovers, and even strangers, NOT read or know.

Each of us has private thoughts, ranging from the banal to depraved, that we’d like to convey. Some of us use our words; others, perhaps painting or music. In any case, for most of us, that desire to free ourselves of our internal burdens needs to get out. For me, I started this blog as a way to keep an online journal of my life and share photos, personal stories, and embarrassing moments with a minimal amount of self-censorship. I open myself up to both readers I know well AND to random strangers in the great big ether that is this Interweb.

Is it healthy? I think so.

Sure, sometimes, and I hate to admit this, I’ve been brainstorming blog ideas or writing them up and the thought of what my “audience” would prefer to read has played a much larger role in shaping these posts.

This desire to please readers started with friends innocently telling me what subjects they’d like to read about. It continued with me reading what other bloggers were writing about and getting prominently featured in other publications. It followed with Sitemeter tracking, anonymous (often spiteful and unpublished) comments, and teasing from good friends about my choices for blog posts (seriously, what was wrong with having a baby photo contest?).

I am positive that the many bloggers who are not furtively guarding their identity have a private journal or, at least, a secret blog whose URL they have not distributed to friends and family. I am equally positive that the public bloggers who have no problem sharing, or at least cluing readers into, their identity wish they did.

The desire to write unencumbered by outside influence is universal. I’ve started and discontinued dozens of journals because I found myself veering from my intention for privacy and started imagining that someday, someone would discover them, read them, and I’ll be damned if they’re not written well!

Of course, with a blog, a writer can’t exist in a vacuum. There is always an audience, readers who you may not know but will devour your words. This creates a sometimes uneasy writer/reader relationship that can’t help but have a cause and effect on one’s words.

Still, there aren’t always great things about which to write. I did a lot this weekend, but does any ONE thing merit a write-up? Maybe I could have written about my experience at the Redskins game Sunday and the Clinton Portis-like Mohawk I sported (sorry, the photos haven’t been uploaded yet). Maybe I could have written about fasting for Yom Kippur, or how the Dodgers clinched a playoff spot, or about the new neighborhood The Princess and I discovered Friday night with friends. But some things, I think, are better left undocumented ‑ and merely remembered.

We can’t always be witty/funny/entertaining and those who are that way are most likely insane. We shouldn’t always pine for an Express mention or a random compliment. Sometimes, all we really need is to enjoy writing for its own sake.

Because there's always time for a baby photo poll

2006-09-27T17:34:00.000Z

Recently, two of The Princess’ friends gave birth to a boy and girl, one day apart. They are beautiful, healthy babies who we’re pretty sure are going to one day date each other and get married (both mothers are friends, too).

Looking at the pictures of Ray-Ban (I gave him this nickname even before he was born) and Mirabella led to The Princess and I looking through some of our own baby pictures and, of course, disagreeing over who was cuter when we were babies. She made fun of my landing strip for a forehead and I teased her about looking like Mr. Clean. So we decided to leave it up to you.

I can’t use the blogpoll I had planned on posting because the Web site that creates them is messed up. So, let’s do this the old-fashioned way: look at the photos below and answer in the comments section who you think is cuter, Baby 1 or Baby 2. I think we all know who’s going to win this one.

Baby 1

Baby 2

Ok, Heroes, you can be part of my TV-watching schedule

2006-09-26T13:12:00.000Z

Allowing a new television show into your life isn't easy. It's much like adding new friends: at this point in your life, you're just not taking any applications and you'd rather stick with the ones you know and trust. Unless, that is, one comes along that's pretty damn cool.

For me, between Prison Break, 24, and, yes, Grey's Anatomy, it's hard for a drama to get entrenched as "appointment TV" into my viewing habits. That said, Heroes may turn out to be my new favorite show of the season.

The show, which premiered last night, follows the lives of several photogenic characters who, on the day of a solar eclipse, are realizing they have some awesome powers. Though they all have different backgrounds and seemingly separate lives, they are somehow connected in obvious as well as undetermined ways. The "feel" of Heroes is, unsurprisingly, like that of a comic book: serialized, interwoven stories with conflicted characters who will share, it was hinted at, a common goal.

I also really liked the actors and their characters. There's that girl from Remember the Titans playing an adopted Texas high school cheerleader who can shove her hand into a running garbage disposal and jump off small town water towers and STILL heal faster than Wolverine.

There's a Japanese kid named Hiro (come on, writers, be a little more obvious with the naming) who, along with having the early lead as my favorite character, can bend the space-time continuum and take unannounced vacations to NYC. There's also the chick who played the defendant in Legally Blonde playing a hot yet tragically indebted-to-the-Mob Web-cam stripper who, aside from not having aged in real life, has an (evil?) alter ego playing hide and seek in the mirror.

There's the Precog Tortured Artist stereotype who paints images of scenes before they happen and ODs, yet survives, on vague drugs; the kid who thinks he can fly and (SPOILER ALERT) might need to take a few lessons from his brother running for Congress before jumping off a 20-story building; and a scientist/mathematician from India who comes to NYC to find out more about his scientist/cabdriver dad's death (I missed most of the setup for this one).

The show also features some minor characters who may not be so minor, like Web Stripper's probably genius son and Unbreakable Cheerleader's evil dad, who made a nice Matrix allusion when he confronted the cabbie/scientist ("It must be a common name. Like Smith. Or Anderson.")

As you can see, there are a lot of characters to track and, based on the preview for next week, more to come. I think it's going to be the "next big show", complete with viewing parties and cult status before it degenerates into a sinking-ratings, Desperate Housewives-like crapfest. For now, I'm going to keep watching the show and pretend I'm not a geek.

The Princess responds to The REAL Rules

2006-09-25T02:37:00.000Z

We’ve been living together for about a month now, and the rough patches seem to be over. But let me give you MY version of The Rules.

1. Cleaning is never finished.

Ok, does this mean there is always something to clean? Well, yes. But it doesn’t mean that I always do the cleaning, or that I think Piggicito (AKA Arjewtino) should do the cleaning, either.

The two of us have a real knack for making a disaster area out of a perfectly clean space, and our apartment had recently been a disgusting mess for a few weeks. I didn’t unpack from California for a week, and I regularly undress in the living room and leave my clothes there for several days. And don’t even get me started on what the Mini Office looks like when I’m doing homework. But here’s the thing: When you start cleaning, there is always something more to clean! I’m sorry, babe, but cleaning up part of the living room and leaving the dishes, the trash, the clothes, etc, in other parts of the apartment is NOT cleaning up! Mop the damn floors! Vacuum the freaking living room! Take my dishes to the kitchen when you take your own! Take out the trash without me asking you to!

2. Yes, you do have to tell me when you’re going out.

I don’t need to know details. I trust that you’re not going out and doing something totally stupid or illegal (because I would kill you if you were!), but I do want to know when you’re doing something. I’d like to know so I can make my own plans, and so I don’t worry that you’re dead in a ditch somewhere (Do they have ditches in the city? Hmmm...). I’m not your roommate, I’m your girlfriend, and we are in a relationship. We are so much in a relationship that we actually live together and have bought furniture together. Let me know what’s happening—I’d do the same for you.

3. I’m not your personal chef.

I like cooking, I really do, but please: cook something for me once in a while without me forcing you to. I don’t mean help me out in the kitchen. I mean all by yourself, surprise me and make me dinner. Look through a cookbook and pick out a nice, yummy vegetarian meal. Buying Chinese or pizza doesn’t count.

4. Quality time can be anything, but TV doesn’t always count.

I like when we do crossword puzzles together. I enjoy walking together to the farmer’s market on Sunday. I love when we travel together. I even think UNO is fun when we play it together (and I beat your ass!). And sitting in front of the TV can be fun sometimes, but not always. If we’re just staring mindlessly at the screen because we’re bored out of our minds? Not quality time. If we’re watching Grey’s Anatomy—which you love, admit it—and discussing if Izzy could have been certified insane when she CUT DENNY’S HEART THINGIE AND DOOMED HIM TO DEATH? That, my friend, is quality time.

P.S. Poor, dead Denny!

5. Sports are boring.

I hesitate to write this because it is so Stereotypical Woman, but really and truly, sports bore me to tears. My feelings about sports are as follows: No. I know there are women out there who would strongly disagree and bash me over the head with a lacrosse stick, or deliver a treatise on the merits of the pigskin. Don’t care! I don’t want to hear about the Dodgers and I really don’t want to hear about the Redskins. For your sake, I want to be interested in sports stats, but I can’t. I’m sorry. I will accept soccer, even on TV, as long as there aren’t too many dives. Dives ruin it for me and annoy me. I will sometimes go to a Nationals game, but that is where I draw the line. Love will only take me to so many stadiums.

Vajay-jay fest and Challah

2006-09-22T17:09:00.000Z

The biggest TV event in The Princess’ life was last night, as she invited a few friends, ordered pupusas, and made the tissues handy for the most highly anticipated McSeason McPremiere in Grey’s Anatomy history.

For those who care, here is my recap: everyone took a hit of acid and suffered some really well-lit and heavily airbrushed flashbacks, Izzie went all Miss Havisham on her roommates after Denny died, the hospital was locked down because of the plague (so lame; I feel like a douchebag even writing that last part), McDreamy realized he loves McDrunkySlut and not his wife, McVet proved himself a pussy but had great chemistry with Callie, and Cristina sat shiva for poor, dead Denny.

Next week, Cristina gives Burke a lap dance on his hospital bed while wearing hot red lingerie. I think there was some other stuff but I was distracted.

Though the episode itself was just OK (Yeah, it’s a flashback, I get it, I don’t need a ticking clock to pound me over the head every five minutes to remind me of that fact), it was fun hanging out with Josh, Kristin, DC “I’m sorry I keep crying” Katastrophe, and “I prefer ER” Tyler. We drank a lot of champagne and wine, debated the flaws and merits of the GA characters like they were real people, and realized how stupid the show sounds when you explain it out loud.

It was as close to “girls’ night” as I think I ever want to get.

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Shiftless Badger didn’t make it to the GA premiere party because he was busy cooking a goose and making challah for tonight’s Rosh Hashana dinner. Rosh Hashana, as you all probably know, commemorates both the creation of the world and the birth and binding of Isaac as well as the beginning of the ten “Days of Awe” before Yom Kippur. Duh.

Other than partying like it’s 5767, SB’s boyfriend Josh plans on blowing his shofar and regaling all of us with his amazing grasp of Yiddish. To me, these Jewish holidays are only meaningful in that they remind me of being with family and friends. If I wasn’t going to dinner tonight, I wouldn’t care. The only high holiday I DO care about is Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. I stay home, I fast, I think about the previous year, I forgive myself for my mistakes and move on. It’s a very healing day and I recommend it for the goyim as well.

So happy new year, everyone, have a great weekend, and Go Redskins!

Blogger groupies and the bloggers who love them

2006-09-20T17:48:00.000Z

I have my first blopie.

Arjewtino Note: Though many bloggers write about their own blog in a solipsistic, self-referential way, I try to avoid writing about my own because it makes for such self-indulgent postings. But today I’ll make an exception.

During last night’s kickball revelry at the bar, during our flip cup slaughter of the Red Team (I don’t remember team names, I remember colors, sorry), this girl Tron came up to me while I stood on a chair for a better view of the flip cup action and asked me, “Are you Arjewtino?” I had a fraction of a second to process whether I was being set up for blog ridicule and answered, “Um, yeah…”, demurely.

“Oh my god!” she said. “I love your blog!”
“Really?” I replied.
“Yeah, I love The Princess! And I read Shiftless Badger all the time.”
“Do you want to meet him?”
“Yeah!”

I yelled for SB, who was engrossed in either watching flip cup or scanning the room for hot guys, and pointed him out to Tron. She screamed and ran over to talk to him.

Later on that night, Tron came up to SB and me and talked about our blogs some more, even recalling a previous post I wrote about the new rules I learned from moving in with The Princess. She agreed with my newfound wisdom that, no, watching TV with your girlfriend does NOT count as “quality time”, as I had learned, and reminds her boyfriend of that fact constantly. At least that’s what I think she said since I was pretty inebriated after my team got five free pitchers of beer for reffing yesterday’s games.

On the walk to the Union Station Metro later that night, I told SB, “Dude. We have a blopie; a blog groupie.” “I know,” he said, “how funny is that?”

I’m pretty sure this places us into C-list blog celebrity status. Of course, this kind of attention IS self-indulgent and ridiculously ego-boosting in a nerdy kind of way. It reminds me of the satirical Craigslist posting in which someone was applying to be someone’s blopie. The “ad” is hysterical and mocks bloggers’ collective need for attention and acceptance:

Seeking Mediocre Blogger with 200+* Readership

Reply to: anon-61218431@craigslist.org
Date: 2005-02-24, 10:39PM EST
avid blog reader looking for blogger to worship.
at first i will read your blog daily, refreshing every hour or so. i will be sure to read all your friends' blogs and any links you may refer to. yes, even those in the margin.
i will then look you up on friendster and request that you become my friend. i will also be sure to click on all your friends' profiles to be sure all of them are either gay or involved and won't be an impediment to our budding relationship. i will then attend any and all rock shows/readings/comedy shows/cook-offs/scrabble-offs that you recommend and/or will be participating in.
i will ignore your incessant need to be admired and your neurotic self-obsession because in the world wide web you're a C grade celebrity and i hope to ride on your coattails happily ever after.
call me. or better yet, blog me. your flickr profile gets mine!

* = that's unique hits, not page views ;-)

Paranoia has its limits

2006-09-20T14:42:00.000Z

After receiving feedback from friends who I trust, I decided to take down yesterday’s post about my employer for the following reasons:

(1) I want to keep my job.

(2) See reason (1).

I recently read someone’s blog about how she got fired for writing about her work. What she wrote about her employer wasn’t negative, she didn’t reveal anything about where she worked, and she didn’t have a large readership, but they fired her anyway. A casual Google search of “fired because of blog” gave me a bevy of cases where people were canned for some reason or another because of their blog. Also, Blogger gives advice on how to avoid the sack when blogging and warns you to be careful.

I wish I could have kept yesterday’s post up because I liked it and The Princess thought it was funny. I may have a broken link now, but at least I still have my job.

Can’t Buy Me Blog Love

2006-09-18T13:13:00.000Z

Remember that scene in Can’t Buy Me Love when the future Dr. McDreamy* watches the popular kids of his high school eating lunch together and longs to be a part of their group? That was my Friday night.

The DC “blogger community” held a happy hour at Lucky Bar and invited anyone who has a blog, has thought of starting a blog, or who has ever heard of the word “blog”, to attend. Though my two blogger friends, Shiftless Badger and DC Katastrophe, couldn’t tag along, I decided to go anyway in the spirit of meeting new people and having fun. The Princess, when invited, gave me a look like I had just asked her to attend a Dodgers day-night doubleheader followed by a three-day camping trip. So I invited Baby Bien, who doesn’t have a blog but is naturally curious and viewed the happy hour as a sociological experiment. And he wanted to meet some hot chicks.

We got to Lucky Bar a little after 7pm and hung out near the pool table, having a couple of drinks and eating some REALLY bad bar food. Soon enough, I recognized the happy hour hostess from her blog photos and saw her sitting with a bunch of people at a table in the back.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” I asked Baby Bien as we looked at the table.
“Blog blog blog blog, blog blog blog blog.”
“Like the parents in Peanuts.”

But despite my eagerness, I could NOT bring myself to walk up to the table and introduce myself. Suddenly, I felt like I was back in high school, watching others have fun and paralyzed by my fear of making a fool of myself. I am typically an outgoing and gregarious person; but on this night, I just watched the proverbial table of “cool kids” laughing and talking, and felt like the biggest nerd in high school. I mean, even if I HAD approached them, what could I have said? “Hi, I’m Arjewtino! Let’s be friends!”

“I don’t want to make small talk,” I told Baby Bien, “and I’m not single, so I’m not going to hit on anyone.”
“So why’d you come?”
“I don’t know.”

After an hour or so, we left to meet our friends at our regular watering hole in Adams Morgan, where everybody knows my name. I was back in my element. I know, I know, it was pathetic. I felt like a failure as I left Lucky Bar and boarded the 42. I told myself that at the next blogger happy hour, I would definitely NOT be a wuss, that I would NOT be such chickenshit, that I would have the balls to talk to anyone. After all, as I told Baby Bien, “They’re not celebrities.”

Not even Ronald Miller would think so.

*The Princess, who spent yesterday watching a season 2 marathon of Grey’s Anatomy with her gal pal, would like everyone to know that the season premiere is this Thursday at 9pm on ABC.

All the cool kids are doing it

2006-09-15T17:38:00.000Z

When I die, I hope it happens under an avalanche of books. Not really, that would probably hurt, especially the hard covers. But I DO love books, so here is the book survey that seems to be making its way around the blogosphere. If you want to write one up, too, send it to me.

I can’t believe I wrote blogosphere. I’m a nerd.

1. A book that has changed your life: An American Tragedy

I read this coming-of-age tome when I was 16, spending most of one weekend holed up in my room to do so. Not so much because I wanted to read it but because I had no friends. The story about the rise and fall of an ordinary man resonated with me and made me look deep into myself and others to see what evil and kindness we are all capable of.

2. A book you have read more than once: Catcher in the Rye

Probably on most people’s top-10 list, I read it at 17 and again at 30; it’s interesting how I interpreted it at different stages of my life. As a teen, I felt like Holden was my hero who explained only what I kept inside myself; as an adult, I can’t help but think what a pompous little bitch he is.

3. A book you would want on a desert island: Don Quixote

Reading this book isn’t exactly like tilting at windmills (sorry, I had to), but it IS very readable, probably the only 17th Century novel that reads like a modern novel. Crazy guy reads too many stories about knights, believes he IS one, sets out to fight injustice in the name of his love: who CAN’T relate to that?

4. A book that made you laugh: Catch-22

Seriously, read the chapter on Doc Daneeka and his wife who presumes he is dead and try not to wet your pants.

5. A book that made you cry: Flowers for Algernon

If this story doesn't get to you, doesn't reach into your heart, doesn't pull hard at your soul, then you are dead inside. Poor retarded Charley. So retarded.

6. A book you wish you had written: A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius

Eggers single-handedly perfected the solipsistic genre of having his characters break down the fourth wall and have them recognize themselves within this memoir. The only superfluous chapter: when he tried to become a cast member on The Real World.

7. A book you wish had never been written: The Shipping News

Torture. Pure, unadulterated, unmitigating torture. Don’t ever read this. That’s two weeks of my life I’ll NEVER get back.

8. A book you are currently reading: The Worst Hard Time: The Untold Story of Those Who Survived the Great American Dust Bowl.

A really interesting story on the Dust Bowl of the 1930s, one of the most destructive weather phenomena to ever hit the U.S. The biggest tragedy, though, was knowing that it could have been prevented but was caused only by man’s hubris.

9. A book you have been meaning to read:. How Soccer Explains the World: An Unlikely Explanation of Globalization

I miss the World Cup. I STILL think Argentina would have won it all if they had beaten Germany. Damn Germans. I blame Jenny and Nathan.

Sorry, still bitter.

Random Act of Pizza

2006-09-14T22:09:00.000Z

It wasn’t exactly like Amelie’s crazy behavior or Haley Joel Osment teaching Kevin Spacey how to pay it forward, but Wednesday, a random woman came up to me and gave me half her chicken pizza.

I left work at 6:30pm and went to pick up my dry cleaning, only to find the shop closed. As I mentally cursed them for having the craziest hours (what cleaners close at 6pm on a weeknight?), I muttered “fuck” under my breath as a young woman walked by holding a paper bag from Vie de France. I started to turn around to walk to the L'Enfant Metro when the following conversation took place:

“Do you want half my pizza?”
“What?”
“Do you want half my pizza? I told the guy at Vie de France that if he charged me half the price I would share half my pizza with someone.”
“Um, sure. Thanks a lot.”
“No problem.”
“Yeah, I thought the dry cleaners would close later.”
“Do you need something for tomorrow?”
“Yeah, kind of. I’ll figure something out.”
“Well, good luck.”
“Thanks again for the pizza.”
“Sure.”

I know it wasn’t a kidney or anything. And I know I wasn’t exactly put out by my cleaners’ draconian hours. But this random act made me feel better and brought a smile to my face on an otherwise gray, dreary day. So, wherever you are, Random Pizza Giver, thank you for cheering me up. The pizza was pretty good, too.

And, yes, I got my dry cleaning yesterday.

Going back to Cali(fornia)

2006-09-11T21:48:00.000Z

Having grown up in Southern California, I have often been asked what LA is like. After visiting this past weekend, The Princess came up with a perfect synopsis: "California would be great to live in if you didn't have to work.”

True, SoCal has the beaches and weather; it is more laid back than DC. But, putting aside the famous Woody Allen quote about LA– “I don’t want to live in a place where the only cultural advantage is that you can make a right turn on a red light” – the only reason for me to visit anymore is to see the Arjewtine family.

I love flying westbound because of all the time you have when you land. It’s like going into the future. Or the past, I don’t know. Doc Brown should explain it to me. Sure enough, after waking at 6:30am Thursday, we took a direct flight out of BWI and landed in LA shortly before noon. As we walked to baggage claim, we had our first celebrity sighting: Flavor Flav! He was really short and a fan was hugging him as he waited for an elevator.

Hermano picked us up and took us to my mom’s condo in Northridge. I grew up in the Valley so my tolerance for 90- to 100-degree dry heat is pretty high; The Princess, however, actually got allergic to the desert weather and started what would be a four-day weekend of sniffling and sneezing.

We ate some empanadas for lunch and then went to the pool. The Princess was awed by the fact that the trees there grew fresh limes and I regaled her with stories of my siblings and me feasting on the fruit of an apricot tree that used to grow in our backyard. I swam a few laps while she sunbathed. When we went home, we played Guitar Hero on my brother’s PS2, a game which is kind of like Dance Dance Revolution but with a guitar. It is HIGHLY addicting, as I learned. We then went to dinner with Mami, Hermano, and Hermano’s novia at my favorite place, Buenos Aires Grill, where my brother and I gorged ourselves on sangria and a parillada of meat, meat, and more meat.

(Note: The Princess stopped eating meat three years ago after Hermano and I shared a parillada at Gaucho Grill and she watched me eat a morcilla. If you don’t know what it is, look it up. Caveat: you may stop eating meat.)

My mom took Friday off and we went to The Grove, a shopping complex downtown I had never visited and which looked like a glorified strip mall with expensive restaurants and corporate shops. We walked around for a while, window-shopped, then drove home by taking Sunset through Beverly Hills and Westwood to the 405. (I stopped calling the Capital Beltway THE 495 a few months after I moved to DC; I still say “stoked”, though.)

My mom took The Princess and I clothes-shopping that evening (I have no sartorial talent when alone) and then we treated her to dinner at, where else, Buenos Aires Grill. The next day, Papi picked us up and took us to his place in Santa Monica. We borrowed his cool green retro bikes and cycled to the Santa Monica Pier and then to Venice Beach, where we lunched on the BEST FISH TACOS ever and gawked at the freaks. We went swimming and the waves made for some awesome body surfing. No crappy six-inchers in LA, unlike in the OC, bitch.
That evening, we drove down to Laguna to visit my grandparents. I had asked my dad to invite my extended family, many of who I hadn’t seen in three years, and on the way we insisted on buying champagne. In retrospect, I can see why they were disappointed that we didn’t have a special announcement. Champagne+Family Gatherings, I guess, should = Marriage Announcement. “Donde esta el anillo?” my tia pleaded. Still, we feasted on Argentine food, looked at family vacation photos, and I wrestled with my nephews and niece.

Sunday morning, we shirked Coffee Bean and biked down to this independent coffee shop, which looked like the bastard child of Tryst and Asylum Bar. The organic coffee from El Salvador was decent but I was mostly amused by their instructions that you had to average $2 in expenditures per hour while patronizing, otherwise you were loitering. How do they monitor everyone? Is it on the honor system? I can’t imagine someone going up to the heavily pierced and tattooed barista and saying, “I’m sorry, I’ve only spent $6 in the last four hours while working on my screenplay. Get me a scone.”

My dad took us to an omelet parlor for brunch and then we walked around the farmer’s market. When I say “farmer’s market,” I don’t mean like what you find in Dupont, Mt. Pleasant, or Takoma every Sunday. This was unreal, a Hollywoodization of outdoor markets, where parents pushed their babies in $1,000 strollers and there was actually a limo parked in front. We didn’t see any celebrities but I must admit my first thought was that we would see Brittany Spears stuffing her face with organic corn.

Flavor Flav wouldn’t have done that.

All politics is local: why Marie Johns leaves Fenty and Cropp in the dust

2006-09-11T21:09:00.000Z

Fed up with the negative campaigning of Adrian Fenty and Linda Cropp, I asked my friend DJ Roo to guest blog his thoughts on why Marie Johns should be DC's next mayor:

Tip O'Neill coined the phrase, "All politics is local."

As DC Election Day approaches Tuesday, the quote attributed to Mr. O'Neill couldn't be truer when it comes to the Mayoral primary. Ever since Congress approved the Home Rule Charter in 1973, the District of Columbia has had its ups and downs (to say the least). There have been a grand total of four different mayors in that time frame (Walter Washington, Marion Barry, Sharon Pratt Dixon/Kelly, and Anthony Williams) and soon we'll have our fifth mayor. As is my habit, I start following these kinds of political processes way earlier than most people, which I attribute to my awful middle name of Barry (this progressive Democrat has carried the challenge of being named after ultra-conservative Barry Goldwater since the waning days of 1964...not an easy task, I tell you. Thanks, dad...I still love you). When all was said and done, I decided to give my support for DC Mayor to Marie Johns.

Mrs. Johns is a true American success story - first in her family to attend college, yet somebody who once lived in subsidized housing and worked as an administrative assistant. She eventually rose to become CEO of Verizon Washington, and I believe she's the epitome of what Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. spoke about when he talked about character.

A few weeks ago at the Ward One Mayoral Endorsement event, I had the pleasure to briefly meet Marie Johns, and everything I read about her is true. In just a few minutes, this warm woman made my night (and she let me know I helped to make her night as well). She isn't what one would call a "typical politician", and as she listened to me I understood what a fantastic Mayor she would be. Yes, she listens...and she thinks. She thinks this city can be better, as we all do.

After meeting Marie Johns, I wrote to her campaign (the above two paragraphs come directly from my e-mail and can be found on her Web site). The next day when I came home from work, there was a message from Marie on my voicemail, telling me how touched she was with what I wrote. Talk about all politics being local! She knew she had my vote, yet took the time to call me. This is somebody who not only can help fix our schools and provide more opportunity to those who live across the Anacostia River, but somebody who can also help fix that disaster known as the Department of Motor Vehicles.

I told Arjewtino this story, and he said, "Write something for my blog, and I'll give you a guest writer post." Once again, all politics is local.

Of course, local is a relative term too. When I told this story to my mom, who teaches Social Studies to 7th and 8th grade gifted students in Melbourne, Florida, she asked whether she could use it as part of an upcoming current events lesson. This weekend my mom wrote me:

We had an interesting current events day - I took in information from three out of five of the mayoral candidates for my students to read. I gave each of them one position statement, newspaper endorsement, or testimonial etc. from either Fenty, Cropp, or Johns. Of course, Johns has the best site so she had the most information including your testimonial and letter. You may be interested to know that she won in all five classes because the students felt she focused on the issues with more depth.

Local. Politics. True. Hopefully none of the kids has the middle name Barry, though.

Full disclosure time...Marie Johns is third in most polls, and that makes some people shy away from her. Tony Williams was third in the polls for most of his first campaign, yet on Election Day people voted for the candidate they wanted to win, even if some didn't think he'd actually win. In 1948, Harry Truman held up an early edition of the Chicago Daily Tribune with the blaring headline "Dewey Defeats Truman", and a few weeks prior to that Life magazine featured a picture of Thomas Dewey on the cover with the caption, "The Next President of the United States". Hmm...Harry Truman won. Few expected it to happen. Interesting, isn't it?

Take a moment and check out http://www.johnsformayor.com/ and see what you think of Mrs. Johns. This is a woman who could have easily enjoyed her retirement and her volunteer work, yet has decided to embark on a journey to make our Nation's Capital better...because, as her slogan states, she's real. In a world of divided politics and lack of representation, I believe Marie Johns is the type of intelligent and caring leader the District of Columbia needs.

Different. Real. Better. And Local, too.

When it's Prince vs Madonna, everybody wins

2006-09-06T21:26:00.000Z

There have been some classic faceoffs throughout history. Caesar vs. Pompey. Dodgers vs. Yankees. Law and Order vs. Law and Order: SVU. But never did I think the Prince vs. Madonna Dance Party at the Black Cat Sunday night would prove to be such a contested rivalry.

Though my first reaction to being invited to the P v. M party was to wince and flash back to 1987 when my sister would repeatedly play her "Like a Virgin" cassette single until my ears bled, I ended up going because I was in the mood for something unpredictable that night. And I hadn't been part of a cheesy musical rivalry since The Princess and I rented out a karaoke room in Japan last spring.

We met up with our friends Josh, Baby Bien, Shiftless Badger, British Guy, and DC Katastrophe at the Common Share, where we downed $2 beers and made fun of our parents' outgoing messages. Katastrophe's Spidey sense began to tingle after she gulped three straight girly drinks so we quickly chugged our pints and made our way to the Black Cat where, despite Katastrophe’s premonitions, there was no line and plenty of tickets. We hung out in the Red Room for a while, taking shots, playing Donkey Kong and Burgertime on the two-player arcade, and watching DC’s hipster doofuses interact among humans. Sufficiently lubricated, we hopped on upstairs and got the party started.

The main floor was empty when we got there but Josh and Katastrophe took care of that problem by skipping out to the dance floor and motivating the wallflowers to do the same. They shared space with a guy dressed all in white who not only danced like Prince, but must have thought he WAS Prince.He kicked his legs and gyrated to “1999”, and spun random people around. Everyone was in a good mood and having fun and we started to wonder what other dance parties would make for good rivalries. Pearl Jam vs. Nirvana? Debbie Gibson vs. Tiffany? Yanni vs. John Tesh?* Actually, I would pay good money to see that one.

We eventually nestled by the front stage as a large crowd filled in and pressed against us. British Guy, visiting from, well, England, and I stood on the stage and led the crowd in waving their hands to "Like a Prayer" before some burly security guy ran at us and knocked us to the floor. We danced, we smoked, we took photos. The night was long and the music thumped in our heads. Josh danced with a transvestite and Baby Bien flirted with a meth girl who HAD to have had a really good fake ID to get into the club. Some guy stroked The Princess' arm but disappeared into the mob before I could kick his ass.

At 2am we headed to Ben's Chili Bowl only to find it was closed. So we descended on a pizza place across the street for some really raunchy big floppies. The night ended and I went to sleep with "Little Red Corvette" in my head.

*Copyright, Baby Bien 2006

Don’t let the exit interview kick you on the way out

2006-08-31T21:08:00.000Z

After 3 ½ years as a contractor for the FAA, today is my last day as I move on next week to the glamorous, high-stakes world of Federal employment. Bankers’ hours, 17 daily coffee breaks, and counting down the days until retirement await me. I’ll still be technical writing, but this time for a new FAA organization that deals with air traffic safety oversight. (I could not have timed this any better, one week after the Kentucky crash over the weekend that killed 49 people.)

At my exit interview yesterday (I think HR called it a “termination outtake” or something Dilbertish like that), I expected my HR director to get down on her knees and beg me to stay. Perhaps an offer of doubling my salary or giving me the keys to some executive washroom. But no. Instead, she processed my “outtake”, had me sign some papers, and that was that. I have to say, though, I was highly amused by the inspirational Successories calendar tacked above her desk; August, by the way, was all about “Character”.

And if I thought I would have a nice, easy workday today, I had another think coming. Transferring everything you’ve worked on for the past few years to your successor is more taxing than you’d expect. Still, my desk is now a clean canvas and my co-workers did take me out to lunch to Fado, an Irish-style restaurant in Chinatown that I used to frequent on Thursday nights to watch live music. I ordered the Irish Breakfast and managed to ward off pleas of “Speech! Speech!”

I may be gregarious in social situations but I CANNOT stand in front of ANYONE and make a speech. My lips get dry, my tongue feels like it’s swelling, and I start to shake. Probably goes back to 10th grade when I gave an oral book report on The Natural and Mr. Sanchez, in front of the entire class, accused me of not reading the book. Maybe that’s because I hadn’t read it and my report was based on the movie, where Robert Redford DOESN’T strike out at the end.

Anyway, in a few hours I’m off to enjoy my four-day weekend of doing nothing before I start my career as a green-badger (Fed) on Tuesday. I’ll get to join the FAA gym for free; I’ll be able to look down my nose at contractors; and, perhaps most importantly, I’ll get to sit back and relax, content in the knowledge that all your tax dollars are paying my salary.

Arjewtino Notes:

My kickball team, Captain McDreamy and the Rainbow Coalition, won our first game of the season Tuesday evening, 7-2, wearing tie-dyed shirts and demoralizing our opponents at flip cup with a clean sweep. We have several cool, new players this season and we’re playing in the new NAKID league. The first night was a long, drunken one for many of us and there were many photos documenting the debauchery.

Still getting a lot of blog love due to my Wonkette mention this week. I feel like I’m becoming a part of the blogging community, which, as soon as I wrote that, realized how geeky it made me sound. I don’t care. This blog is my creative outlet, my writing habit, my break from editing technical directives on aviation safety.

Coming next week: Arjewtino and The Princess open a joint checking account! Hilarity ensues!!

My hollow victory on Wonkette; or, giving credit where credit's due

2006-08-30T17:35:00.000Z

If there is a proper analogy in this world for what it’s like to get honored for someone else’s work, then I’d like to hear it. Wonkette, one of my favorite blogs of all time, picked up my friend Kwest’s story about WaPo restaurant reviews. My Internet traffic spiked 700%; friends are e-mailing me their accolades; and yet, I know I'm basking in someone else’s glory.

I told The Princess when I first started this blog that getting featured in DC Blogs is cool; getting a mention in the Express is great; but getting picked up by Wonkette would be the Holy Grail. Now that it’s happened, though, I can’t help but feel like it’s undeserved. The only way to justify this to myself is to say that it was MY headline and MY vision to have Kwest guest blog. After all, I DID suggest it during one of our coffee breaks. I’m like the conductor of a symphony: I don’t actually PLAY the instruments, but the music doesn’t happen without me. As my friend Kevin Iaccocca told me this morning, “Get other people to do your work and take credit for it. That’s true leadership.”

If you missed it, you should go back and read Kwest’s post. It’s funny, interesting, and well-written (all attributes I look for in a guest blog). Of course, he’s now banned for life from ever guest-blogging again. I think the Wonkette mention is going to his head. He’s already asked me when he’s getting his royalties.

As long as I'm confessing, my friend Dennis helped me write the title of this posting.

Reviews are Written by Sociopaths or Restaurant Owners

2006-08-29T16:09:00.001Z

The following is a guest blog posting by Arjewtino’s friend Kwest:

There’s a strange phenomenon my wife and I noticed in DC. People are fanatically attached to their neighborhood restaurants, dives, bars, and clubs, never venturing out more than a few staggerable blocks from their homes when they go out in the evening. We lived on Capitol Hill for years, and we’re just as guilty of this as anyone else. The Hawk-n-Dove was usually as far as we got, unless the Belgian beer and moules frites drew us as far as Barrack’s Row. We knew all the great places on the Hill, and we wanted to share them with everyone. But if we ever asked our friends in Mount Pleasant to meet us for dinner on the Hill, they always had excuses and complaints, such as “that’s so far away” and “is there a metro there?” and “what city is that in again?”

To be honest, we did the same thing when they asked us to dinner in Adams Morgan; but, let’s be honest: Adams Morgan IS far away from the Hill, and there isn’t a Metro there (no matter what the signs at the Woodley Park station say). So our excuses were legitimate. Or, maybe we’re all just lazy. But the point is, when my wife and I recently moved to U Street, we didn’t know the neighborhood’s culinary scene very well. Except for our pilgrimages to Ben’s Chili Bowl and our required quarterly visits to Adams Morgan to reinforce our belief that Adams Morgan is far away and has no metro, we knew almost nothing about U Street.

So I turned to the Washington Post’s restaurant reviews to check out which were the best places. At first glance, it seemed like a good idea to read the “Reader Reviews”. Surely, they’d be honest and insightful, written by discerning diners like myself. My strategy was democratic: the more people that liked it, the better the restaurant. Right?

But like many other things in DC, this bastion of democracy, it ain’t so simple. I discovered that the reviews are written by one of two kinds of people: restaurant owners or sociopaths. And usually, those were the only two reviews. It goes like this: the owner of the establishment writes a glowing review of his own place that sounds as if it were cut and pasted from advertising copy. This prompts a sociopath, for reasons known only to his (or her) addled brain, to write a review trashing the restaurant. The review is often filled with vitriolic rage at anyone who would dare to charge such high prices, utter disdain at the poor service, and an overall hatred, it seems, of the very idea of going out in public to share a meal with friends. A good example are the reviews for Simply Home. The review at the bottom is obviously the owner’s, and the middle one is from the sociopath.

This is completely unhelpful. I can’t trust the owner of the restaurant to be fair, and while the old adage “just because I’m a sociopath doesn’t mean that I didn’t have a bad meal” may be true, I believe the sociopathic review rings true only for other sociopaths.

I didn’t know what to do. Bothering me more than my hunger and confusion was my sense of justice: these reviews ill-serve the very audience they are meant to help. So I decided to rectify the situation by writing my own review of the reviewer’s reviews (got that?), thinly veiled as a review of the restaurant. That’s right, the first review entitled “I’ve gotta try this place!” on the Simply Home page is mine. I figured two stars is good enough for a place I’ve never actually set foot in. I have to admit, my review is no more helpful than the other two reviews, but it sure does make the place seem like it is worth at least one visit. Keep an eye out for other reviews of reviews (or “meta-reviews,” as I fancy them, allowing me to believe I’m engaged in a broader epistemological discourse, as opposed to simple Arjewtino-like kvetching). I intend to right the wrongs of restaurant reviews everywhere, starting with the Washington Post.

Once again, we get fucked by the Republicans

2006-08-28T14:42:00.000Z

Banning gay marriage. Criminalizing flag burning. Giving tax breaks to society’s wealthiest citizens.

You can now add “pummeling our softball team” to the growing list of grievances I have with the GOP.

Ranked number two in the Congressional Softball League, my softball team, the Trust Funded Babies, faced off against the Republican National Committee Saturday afternoon in our first postseason tournament. And as Woody Allen might have paraphrased: the RNC did to us what they’ve been doing to this country for the past six years, thoroughly screwing us out of the tournament with an 18-5 drubbing.

The game started well, as we took a one-run lead in the first. Our defense looked tight, too, as I turned in a double play and Jeff had a great diving catch on a shallow pop-up in left field. But in the third inning, with the score tied 1-1, the wheels came off, as the team that had mounted an 11-2 regular season record began playing like the Bad News Bears, only not nearly as lovable. We gave up 17 runs – SEVENTEEN RUNS -- and were out on the field for 40 minutes, dropping fly balls, walking every other batter, and forgetting how many outs we had.

Maybe we didn’t have enough “comeback juice”. Maybe having an actual umpire calling balls and strikes rattled us. I don’t know. But despite having actual fans in the stands pulling for us and taunting the RNC, our bleeding hearts weren’t enough to take the game.

Mission accomplished.

The Rules I Never Even Saw Coming

2006-08-25T13:30:00.000Z

In the nearly two weeks that I have lived with The Princess, I have learned, at the very least, one thing: Women have rules that men never even knew existed. These are the secret rules that women don’t tell us about when we’re dating or when we spend a fun weekend at her place. These are the rules that NO ONE tells you about until it’s too late and you have to learn them on your own.

1. There is ALWAYS something more to clean.

“You’re such a man,” The Princess told me Wednesday night as I sat on my bed and watched TV after helping her clean up. I smiled and thought, “Damn straight.” But she didn’t mean it in a complimentary way. Although I felt we had cleaned our place up as much as humanly possible after her birthday party, there were still things left to be done. Don’t get me wrong. In no way was I trying to shirk my responsibilities. But as a “man” (i.e., freak genetic mutation), I was unable to detect the remaining chores that she so clearly perceived. “I don’t see what you see,” I told The Princess. “Oh, I know that,” she replied.

2. Watching TV together does not count as “quality time”.

This mystifies me. You’re sitting on the couch, watching the latest Prison Break after a long day at the office, hanging out with your best girl. You’re comfortable, you’re relaxed, maybe you’re even having a glass of wine. This, my friends, does not qualify as “spending time together” to The Princess. Though you can weaken the rule by giving her a foot rub or shoulder massage, don’t feel like you’ve logged in any good “us” time.

2(a): This rule doesn’t count when she wants to watch Grey’s Anatomy.

3. Cooking together is supposed to be fun.

When your kitchen is the size of your standard DC-issued cubicle, cooking a meal together can look like a Cirque du Soleil production. Lots of dancing around each other, yelling unintelligible commands, and a high risk of injury if one isn’t paying attention. Being Argentinian, I grew up in a household where the men sat and the women served us. But I also consider myself an enlightened, progressive feminist who believes in all that equality crap. So over the years, I have had to reconcile these two seemingly opposite facets. But at my basest level, I want to be served my dinner and I want to take a minimal role in helping prepare that meal. And by “minimal role” I mean “do nothing”. But it IS important to The Princess that I help out in the kitchen so I do what I can, which mostly means listening to whatever she tells me to do. Granted, it is fun to actually “eat” the meal together but no one will ever convince me that “cooking” it is an experience much higher than doing laundry.

4. The last one to wake up makes the bed.

Who the hell made up this rule? Was there some furtive Grand Council of Women who voted on this rule at their annual conference (which, I assume, includes workshops titled “Pillow Fights in Sexy Underwear” and “Braiding Each Other’s Hair: How Tight is Too Tight?”)? I think this rule should be amended to: First one who wants to go to sleep makes the bed.

5. Ten o’clock is late.

I remember pretty vividly being in my 20s and possessing the PHYSICAL ABILITY to stay up until 3am on a weeknight, drinking with my friends, eating at Ben’s Chili Bowl, and STILL getting up on time to go to work. But much like a superhero who has lost his superpowers, age has pulled a kryptonite on me and I can no longer stay up late without risking oversleeping. Still, though I may not be the powerful partier I once was, no matter how “early” you feel like you should go to bed, women always feel like it could be earlier. In my apartment, The Princess is usually yawning and fantasizing about her pillow at about 10pm. I’m usually thinking if it’s not too late to meet the guys for a beer.

For those of you who currently cohabitate, have cohabitated in the past, or are considering the possibility of someday cohabitating with someone, what are some unforeseen rules you’ve learned? Are there any rules women have learned about men that they didn’t know existed?

Welcome to the OC, Bitch

2006-08-23T13:30:00.000Z

Ocean City is not like Rehoboth or Dewey beaches. It’s not even like Malibu, Santa Monica, or Newport Beach (My OC). No, this East Coast-OC is much, much better. But not for the reasons you might expect.

The Princess, her sister, her 11-year-old-going-on-40-year-old cousin, and I hit Route 50 Saturday morning to spend the day in Ocean City, Md. We woke up at 7am to “beat the traffic” but managed to stretch a 3-hour trip into nearly five hours with stops at Starbucks, Dunkin Donuts, and Wal-Mart (god help me, I love that place; where else can you find work slacks for $11 AND stock up on shotgun ammunition?). We DID manage to avoid any significant traffic and learned that we didn’t even need Mapquest’s help on this trip since Route 50 pretty much ends in the OC. We found parking two blocks from the beach for $1/hour (score!), grabbed our gear, and made our way to the sand.

Walking on the OC boardwalk was more reminiscent of going to a county fair or entering a carnival: the freaks, the geeks, and cheap wares were all on display. I half expected to see the Bearded Lady shooting water into a clown’s mouth with the Elephant Man. They even had a roller coaster and Ferris wheel on the pier. We sneaked our bathing suits into the public bathroom (apparently, it’s illegal to change in a PUBLIC bathroom in the OC) and were soon on the beach.

It was a beautiful, hot sunny day, made all the more special since The Princess’s cousin had never seen the ocean. She wasn’t all that impressed. I think she gets more excited by downloading new songs onto her IPod than seeing the awe-inspiring marvel that is our interconnected global body of salt water. Whatever. We ate some cold pizza (is there such a thing as bad leftover pizza?), laid out for a while, and then ventured into the water. The great thing about the OC is that they sell or rent every conceivable thing you might need: beach towels, chairs, umbrellas, and boogie boards. Of course, like most things, you don’t need them. The waves were a towering ONE FOOT-HIGH cascade of ocean water, which made the lifeguards pretty gratuitous but still managed to knock The Princess’s bikini off at least four times that I saw. The shore was packed with people, enabling me to clothesline adults and children alike while bodysurfing.

After an existential discussion on what alternative to sand would be the ideal replacement for a beach (we decided on towel material), The Princess and I went for a walk. What we discovered during our jaunt was that the OC is a microcosm of society: on the north side of the pier, where we were, it was mostly white people. South of the pier, though, most of the beach-goers were black, Latino, and Asian. I also noticed that every other person had a tattoo; this plethora of ink devalued the whole art form and made me rethink if I truly want another one.
We wrapped it up in the afternoon and, while The Princess took her cousin to get a henna tattoo, The Princsister and I went to a hole in the wall for a couple of beers. We chose The Bearded Clam after much consideration that it looked like every other bar in the OC. Also, the name alone was funny. FYI: You really don’t know the meaning of the word “dive” until you go to The Bearded Clam. It was full of photos of racecar drivers I didn’t recognize, was showing some NASCAR race that was, apparently, a big deal, and was being patronized by people you would expect at one of these races. I paid $8 for four beers for both of us and got the hell out of there.

We all met up and walked the boardwalk, chomping on some fries and people watching. Along the side of the walkway, some talented Jesus-freak rendered a sand berm into his rendition of The Last Supper. Pretty impressive stuff and a perfect photo opportunity for out-of-towners like us. Because everybody loves a good Sand Jesus.

We considered stopping at one of those notorious OC All-You-Can-Eat crab shacks but they were out of our price range AND gave you a 70-minute time limit. So they’re not really All-You-Can-Eat as much as they are All-You-Can-Eat-In-The-Time-We-Allot-You. We eventually found a roof-deck restaurant with some great happy hour specials and were served by a waiter from Reston who tried to convince me that his town is considered a part of “the DC area.” I don’t think so. If you have to drive more than half an hour on I-66 to get to the city and you have to go PAST Dulles, you’re not in “the DC area.”

We scarfed down our dinners, picked up some ice cream, and made our way home, leaving the OC behind us. Can’t wait for next season.

If Satan and Eve had had this much trouble in Eden, we’d still be living in Paradise

2006-08-17T17:58:00.000Z

As many of you know, I recently moved in with The Princess. This arrangement is new to both of us and, as expected, has led to some strange communication experiences and “figuring each other out” moments. The following is a conversation we had Wednesday evening while The Princess was in the kitchen and my fat ass was on the couch watching TV:

The Princess: Are you going to eat this apple?
Ar-Jew-Tino: What apple?
The Princess: This apple on the counter.
Ar-Jew-Tino: It’s not mine.
The Princess: But do you want it?
Ar-Jew-Tino: I didn’t get the apple.
The Princess: I know, but are you going to eat it?
Ar-Jew-Tino: When? Now?
The Princess: Are you EVER going to eat it?
Ar-Jew-Tino: Maybe, but I didn’t even know we had apples.
The Princess: So do you want it?

— at this point, she comes to the couch to show me the apple —

Ar-Jew-Tino: That’s definitely not my apple.
The Princess: I don’t care if it’s your apple, DO YOU WANT IT?
Ar-Jew-Tino: I don’t want it.
The Princess: I’m throwing it away, then.
Ar-Jew-Tino: Why would you throw away an apple? Someone might eat it.
The Princess: Are you going to eat it?
Ar-Jew-Tino: No, it’s not mine.

I find this whole “Men are from Neptune, Women are from Jupiter” argument pretty trite and oversimplified; sometimes, though, we might as well be from different planets.

$30.06 for Gazpacho and Cotton Candy? Now THAT'S a deal!

2006-08-15T21:24:00.000Z

Don’t ever eat gazpacho.

I don’t care how nice the restaurant is where you buy it or if they throw lobster in it, gazpacho reminds me of what marinara sauce would look like if you scraped it off a leftover pizza box after three days, blended it on the “puree” setting, and served it in a fancy bowl.

This culinary judgment call comes courtesy of Monday night’s dining experience at Finn and Porter’s, where I met some of my friends for the beginning of Washington DC’s Restaurant Week (for those who do not live in DC, this is a week when “fancy” DC restaurants serve a reduced-price menu to attract new clientele; for $30.06, you get a three-course meal of food you otherwise would need to pay for by emptying out your 401(k)).

Thanks to my friend Ting’s mad forward-thinking, reservation-getting skillz, we got into F&P at 8pm. I was surprised not to see too many people dining there, until I realized we were by the new convention center on 10th St. Who the hell ever hangs out on 10th St. unless you’re a tourist? And how many tourists even know what, let alone when, DC’s Restaurant Week is? Even I often don’t remember until everyone I know starts talking about it.

The best thing about RW is going to a fancy place and paying less. The worst thing, though, is facing off with an undertipped, surly waitstaff. Thanks to F&P’s half-empty dining hall, though, we had a very pleasant staff that brought plenty of stale bread and tepid water.

Shortly after sitting down, we were accosted by an extremely eager sommelier who nearly bullied me into ordering a $200 bottle of wine for $160. He was so persuasive that it would have been the smartest financial decision I would ever make that I almost considered it. I have to give him points for tenacity, but, hello? We were there for the Restaurant Week deal! If we could afford a $200 Merlot we could have afforded to dine somewhere better. Mr. Hyper-Sommelier was very entertaining, though, and didn’t even grunt when we decided to share a $32 bottle of red. AND I learned a new word.

After making faces at the lobster gazpacho, I tasted A-Train's Vietnamese lettuce wraps (thanks for sharing, A-Train), which were delicious. My entrée, the Grilled Rockfish, was superb, even if it did come with creamy cannelini beans I could have bought at Whole Foods. The dessert was an espresso chocolate soufflé, followed by a complimentary bowl of white cotton candy and pirouettes. I never thought that carnival fare could be classed up just by taking out the pink coloring and setting it in a fancy bowl. But it can. What’s next? Cracker Jack on china? Giant lollipops in a champagne flute?

In the end, we left a generous tip. Not so much because we’re generous people, but because our table was so loud and we cackled about raunchy subjects that would make a whore blush, that it was the least we could do. If we didn’t have work the next day, I’m sure a game of flip cup with wine glasses would have broken out. As Traci said, “You can dress this up all you want, but it’s still just us.”

Ten ways I waste time at work.

2006-08-14T17:02:00.000Z

1. Analyze why my fantasy baseball team, Angela Bower, is mired in 8th place and won’t make the playoffs.

2. Think up witty messages for my GChat status bar.

3. Check my blog’s Site Meter statistics eight times a day.

4. Drink coffee with other G-men and count how many days left until retirement (12,359).

5. Update my Netflix queue and speculate as to whether I’m optimizing my DVD-ordering strategy.

6. Listen to Yahoo LaunchCast and debate whether last year's crappy Better Than Ezra album merits a 20 or 30 (out of 100) rating.

7. Cheat on my daily Express crossword puzzle by looking up information on Wikipedia.

8. Read Gene Weingarten’s online WaPo chat transcript and steal his jokes.

9. Search for the latest “cool/trendy” YouTube video to share with my friends and prove i'm "in the know."

10. Wonder what people did before the Internet.