B32? What the hell kind of boarding number is that, Southwest Airlines? That better not be a middle seat.

My flight to Portland today is going to last seven hours. There is no way I’m riding bitch the whole way.

At least this girl isn’t flashing “301″.

PHOTO CREDIT

I was in the food court of the Ballston Common Mall yesterday on my lunch break, reading my new book and eating a McDonald’s Double Cheeseburger I had promised The Princess I would never eat, when suddenly the lights dimmed.

The darkening was instant yet obvious -– at least it was to me. I looked up from the pages of my book toward the ceiling as if trying to hear an inaudible song, absorbing the now-noticeably darker cafeteria, wondering if a system-wide power outage was imminent.

And I noticed something. No one else had seemed to notice a thing.

Everyone around me, sitting in their metals chairs, talking about the election or their dry cleaning or whatever it is white collar workers talk about during their lunch breaks, kept right on eating their lunches.

Had I been the only one who had noticed this change in our surroundings? I thought. After all, not a single person had looked up or around them. Not a single person had flinched or made a bad joke about the mall’s generators. For a minute, I considered the very real fact that it might have all been in my head.

After leaving Argentina when I was 10 for the U.S. (E.E.U.U., in Spanish), I went through a phase where I thought my friends and classmates back in Buenos Aires could see what I saw. I don’t mean figuratively. I mean literally see what I saw. I believed they spent much of their time convening in a large room to watch my life, just as I saw it, on a large movie screen. Like the WOPR in War Games, except theirs didn’t try to start World War III by playing Tic-Tac-Toe.

For a long time — since to me this possibility seemed just as likely as me running away with my beautiful teacher Señorita Clarita — I went about my life thinking they could see everything I saw, even going so far as to never look down when I took a piss out of fear they would see my penis.

I eventually realized that nascent technology that could tap into my brain wasn’t possible (probably). But this solipsistic view of how we see and interpret the world around us isn’t much different from the truth.

Think about the people you see everyday. Do they see what you see?

The shoe shiner who reads his Bible when he’s not busy polishing men’s dress shoes for five dollars a pop. The hot dog cart vendor who sells soda cans and cigarettes near the Metro. The tall homeless guy who asks for change or a cup of hot coffee by the Starbucks. The people I share a building with in the elevator, who stare at the floor number and pretend you’re not stuck in a small space.

They go about their business only interested in what they know, watching only their own lives. No one else is secretly watching the same thing they do on a large movie screen.

The lights in the food court eventually came back up after a minute of gray darkness. People kept on eating and talking, their lives resuming, and no one acknowledged the temporary change in their lives.

I, too, continued to eat my cheeseburger and read my book, wondering about the next time the lights would dim.

I walked into work Monday morning like a zombie, bleary-eyed and read to devour anyone who deigned to speak to me.

My co-worker, before I had even out my bag down and settled into my chair, turned to me and started the following conversation:

Co-worker: “Did you [technical jargon] the [technical jargon] into the [technical jargon] yet?”

Arjewtino: “Huh? What?”

Co-worker: “Oh, I forgot, you haven’t had your Cosi coffee yet.”

Ah, Cosi, the oasis in my working life, serving me the elixir of life every morning. I prefer this coffee shop — formerly known as Xando (X and O?) — much more to that other, more popular, alternative. It wakes me up everyday, serves as the break room to get me through the work week, and was the scene of one of the strangest experiences I have ever had in my life.

About four years ago, when I lived in Adams Morgan, I was walking down to Dupont to met some friends to go see a movie. I was early, so I decided to walk into the Cosi on Connecticut Ave., north of the Circle.

It was a beautiful, warm day, so I bought my cup o’ joe, the Washington Post, and a chocolate chip cookie, and looked for a table in the outdoor patio.

Since everyone else had had the same idea, pickings were slim. I found one guy, wearing a gray suit and reading the paper, sitting at a table by himself. I walked up to him and asked if I could sit there, too, trying to indicate as politely as I could that there were no other open tables available.

He nodded and I sat down.

I put down my cookie, my newspaper, and my coffee and settled into my chair. I took in the sun and wondered if Garden State would be half as good as it was supposed to be or if Zach Braff would overshadow the gorgeous Natalie Portman.

I picked up the Post and started reading.

After a few minutes, I noticed out of the corner of my eye, the man in the suit reaching toward the table. I involuntarily looked over and clearly saw him pick up my chocolate chip cookie, break off a piece, and put it in his mouth.

I. Was. Stunned.

Had I just seen what I thought I saw? Did this dude just eat my cookie? What was the proper protocol in this situation? I mean, really, no one tells you what to do when someone eats your food without warning.

I waited a couple of minutes, unsure what to do or if I should even say anything. I decided after much internal deliberation to mark my territory and establish myself as the sole and rightful owner of this cookie. I reached over, broke off a piece of the cookie like he had, and popped it in my mouth.

The guy looked at me like I was crazy.

I could feel his eyes boring in on me as I pretended to read the Sports section. What the fuck are you looking at, I thought, you ate my cookie. What did you think would happen? That by the transitive properties of table sharing it would become yours? I don’t think so.

I analyzed the baseball standings and wondered if I would ever again see the Dodgers in the World Series. My thoughts, though, kept going back to this guy in the suit. He had eaten part of my cookie. But I felt like I had responded pretty well, planting my flag and showing him what’s what. This guy, I felt, would now leave me alone.

A few more minutes passed. He reached over, broke off another piece of the cookie, and ate it.

What. The. Fuck.

What game was this fucking guy up to? Who did he think he was? This guy was slowly eating away my delicious chocolate chip cookie and I suddenly felt powerless to stop him. Was I on some special Washington, DC edition of Punk’d? Would Ashton Kutcher come running down R Street at any moment with a camera crew laughing maniacally?

There was only one thing to do. I took another bite of the cookie.

At this point, the tension was mounting. The guy in the suit was visibly uncomfortable. He shuffled his newspaper and adjusted his tie. I could sense that he was growing more upset with every passing second. But what did he have to be tense about? He was stealing my cookie. The one I had paid for. The one I had been looking forward to eating since walking into that Cosi and eyeing the delicious prize. Did he think that allowing me to sit down at his table granted him immunity from acting like a jackass?

Still, my self-righteousness could not make me say anything. I was rendered mute by the insanity of his actions. I was paralyzed by the surrealness of the moment. Little did I know that it was not the end of it.

This time, the guy didn’t even wait. He reached right over and took another piece. I reacted, breaking off my own piece. Then he did again. Then me. This kept going on until the cookie was gone. Without saying a word, I had just shared food with a complete stranger, someone I had never seen and expected to not even live on in my memory.

After several strange minutes, as the reality of the experience settled in for both of us, the guy in the suit got up, picked up his things, and walked away silently. I watched him leave and wondered how what had just happened could have just happened. What kind of city did I live in, I thought, where guys in suits eat your food without saying a word and then walk away? What kind of a world was this?

I waited for him to leave. I finished reading, checked my watch, and started to pack up. The movie would start soon and I had to walk down to meet my friends.

I grabbed the now empty cup of coffee, threw away the trash, and then picked up the rest of my newspaper.

That’s when I saw it. There, hidden, beneath the Washington Post, sitting out of sight on the table, was MY COOKIE. The one I had bought. The one I had, apparently, placed under the newspaper without thinking about it.

The realization of what I had done dawned on me faster than anything had ever had before:

I had eaten someone else’s cookie.

Epilogue: I never ate that second cookie. I think I gave it to a homeless guy or threw it away in shame, I don’t remember. I walked away in a daze, incredulous at what had happened. I met my friends, watched the movie, and told them the story. To this day, I still think about that guy, how he must have the most incredible story to tell people at parties. It probably goes something like this:

“So I was at Cosi this one time, minding my own business, when some dude sat down at the table with me and ate my cookie. I couldn’t believe it. He actually ate my cookie that was on my table. What kind of city did we live in where guys eat your food without saying a word? What kind of a world is this?”

Sorry, guy in a suit, I owe you one.

NOTE: I am aware that a version of this story has been written about in Douglas Adams’ book A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, which I have read. This actually happened, though, and I didn’t read Adams’ book — and the entire trilogy — until after this happened.

PHOTO CREDIT

While absolutely dominating at shuffleboard at Bedrock Billiards on Friday night, I kept referring to a guy friend of mine as Brenda.

Apparently, beer makes me think it’s funny to call a boy by a girl’s name.

My new friend Clete, standing on the other side of the board, and I then had the following conversation:

Clete: “What was that show where they had a brother and sister called Brandon and Brenda?”

Arjewtino: “Beverly Hills, 90210.”

Clete: “Right. Who would actually give their kids names that sound similar like that?”

Arjewtino: “Remember, Brandon and Brenda Walsh weren’t originally from LA. They moved from Minneapolis. People in Minneapolis are weird. They would totally give their kids similar names.”

At this point, a large, angry drunk man who had been eavesdropping got all up in our grill.

Large, angry drunk man: “Hey! I’M from Minneapolis! What are you fuckers saying about my city?”

Arjewtino: “Oh, um, just that people from Minneapolis would give their children similar names, like Brandon and Brenda from 90210.”

Large, angry drunk man: “That’s not fucking true.”

Arjewtino: “Really? What’s your name?”

Large, angry drunk man: “Charlie.”

Arjewtino: “What’s your sister’s name, Charlie?

Large, angry drunk man: “I don’t have a sister.”

Arjewtino: “If you did have a sister, do you know what your parents would have named her?”

Large, angry drunk man: “Yeah.”

Arjewtino: “What?”

Large, angry drunk man: “Charlene.”

Turns out, though, Charlie didn’t even grow up in Minneapolis. He grew up “near Minneapolis”. In other words, Wisconsin.

PHOTO CREDIT

Lindsay Lohan’s freckles nearly killed the Internet this week.

Obama took command in the race for his party’s nomination. Fidel Castro resigned as head of Cuba. Something good — or bad — happened in Kosovo. A lunar eclipse even threatened to alert the rebel alliance to our Earthly location.

But the biggest news, especially for those men who remembered what it was like to be teenage boys and smartly invested their life savings into shares of Kleenex, was Lindsay’s homage to “The Last Sitting”, Marilyn Monroe’s final photo shoot before her death.

New York Magazine released these photos online on Tuesday, making all naked images that have ever been published of anyone anywhere completely irrelevant. In the photos, which have since been right-click-save-image-as’d faster than anything ever, Lohan is wearing a blond wig and is covered by a thinly veiled sheet.

Many responded positively to the photos. WWTDD called their online release “the greatest day for nerds since the creation of Spider Man.” Others weren’t so kind.

Monica Corcoran wondered why Lohan needed to channel Monroe, asking rhetorically, “…why are you bouncing in and out of rehab and re-creating a photo shoot that precisely mimics a suicidal woman’s last flirtation with fame?”

In any case, these photos, the publication of which at one point crashed the New York Magazine’s servers, have since taken a once-hot celebrity with questionable self-control yet above-average acting ability and thrust her back into the public conscience and masturbatory fantasies.

But lost amid the teenage-boy-crushing and the spiteful-woman-hating was this — a complete and utter contempt of Lindsay’s freckles.

“She looks harsh, contrived, and is much too freckly to convey the soft artistry that she is aiming for,” wrote a commenter on a Washington Post live chat yesterday.

Too freckly? Too freckly? Since when does a genetically predisposed body’s ability to produce melanin in clusters a sign of imperfection?

The Superficial (fittingly) wrote:

“I don’t want to say Lindsay Lohan has a lot of freckles, but I don’t remember Marilyn Monroe having a topographical map across her chest.”

And some Einstein, on some online forum I now can’t remember, wrote:

“she realy gots a lot of frackels…that’s really ugly man… all over her body”

Growing up, I had freckles. A lot of freckles. And “frackels”. All across my face. I was what one might call “too freckly”.

My sister, who looked like my twin until later in life, always loved her freckles and even bragged about how many she had. I, however, tried to hide from them and felt deeply insecure about the way I looked. I would ask my mom if they would ever go away, but she would tell me she hoped they never did. Of course, moms have to say that.

I know a lot of people who do and did have freckles. The Princess’s freckles return every summer when the sun kisses her face across her nose, like a warm, brown strip that hugs her cheeks. When I asked her if she was ever insecure about having freckles as a child, she says she wasn’t — of course, she didn’t have too many.

My freckles did eventually fade, though their presence traumatized me enough that I still see them on my face whenever I look in the mirror.

But why are freckles considered ugly? I know I am not alone here since most people have had some amount of freckling at some point in their lives. And not everyone has had Pippi Longstocking’s overinflated self-esteem.

The lasting effect Lindsay’s naked body may have on our culture, after the zeitgeist moves on to the latest celebrity nude photos and these images fade from public consumption, is a return to hating freckles.

Or maybe there will be a reverse effect and people freckles will make a comeback. Maybe people will start painting or tattooing them on their faces and bodies. Maybe it will become the next “in” thing. That would be great.

Just don’t make them too freckly.

When I was in junior high, the predecessor to today’s middle school, there were three ways you could be cool.

The first way was to be vaguely connected to the TV industry. We had one girl named Carrie whose sister played Heather in the show “Mr. Belvedere”. Another dude named Mason starred in some toy commercial, which for some reason automatically made him popular.

The second way was to wear the right shoes. I once was teased by my very own friends because I was wearing non-brand name sneakers with Velcro across the top that my dad perpetually bought me for $10 from Target. I told my dad how I needed $100 Nike sneakers because the Target shoes weren’t cool and that I was being ridiculed by my friends, to which he responded:

“If they make fun of you because of your shoes then they’re not really your friends.”

Makes perfect sense when you’re an adult. But when you’re 12-years-old and trying to hide your boners behind your schoolbooks every time a girl walked by, these shoes were the difference between being popular and being that guy who wore $10 shoes from Target.

The third way to be cool, from what I could tell since I wasn’t, was to be able to make signs with your hands. By that age, a bunch of upper-middle-class white kids running around flashing the “BLOOD” sign was totally rad and copied by everyone.

I could barely contort my fingers to spell – let alone the ubiquitous gang sign, though I did learn how later on in high school. To this day, it takes me a few seconds to get it right as I struggle to fold my fingers and thumbs into the right letters.

Declaring to who or what someone belongs through hand gestures continues to be a pretty common practice, even outside of suburban Los Angeles. But unless you’re trying to stake your claim to gang territory, it’s probably best not to do so once you’re old enough to vote.

I recently came across a friend’s photo on Facebook that showed him and his pals flashing a sign I had never seen before or even knew existed. This is the “301″ sign, meant to affirm one’s devotion to that area code which denotes part of Maryland, particularly Montgomery and Prince George’s counties.

The sign is formed by curling your forefinger down and tucking it into the fold of your skin between that finger and your thumb. This leaves your middle, ring, and pinky fingers showing (3), the forefinger tucked into a circle (0), and your thumb idly sticking out (1).

Cool? I don’t know. I’m too old to decide if these things are cool or not. I pretty much rely on other people to tell me whether something is cool or reviled. Though I hear this Soulja Boy dance is going to be huge.

But the problem with this 301 sign is that many people in the photo, which I won’t show out of deference to my friend and his buddies’ privacy, were doing it wrong. Out of 13 people in the picture, only four flashed 301 correctly.

Many had it backwards (like the guy in this photo, who apparently lives in the non-existent 103 area code), which would make sense if they were Hebrew. Others showed the sign sideways, which made it look like they were flashing the letter “B” in ASL.

As a Takoma Park resident since 2006 (though I lived for 7 years in the 202), I am proud of the 301. It’s way better than being from, say, 703.

Still, throwing signs, whether you’re a tiny kid from the San Fernando Valley or a University of Maryland alum with a real job, should probably not be at the top of your “party tricks” list (unless you’re trying to entertain a fussy kid by casting animal shadows against the wall).

Like I said, I’m no judge on what’s cool anymore. But I will always be a judge when it comes to doing things the proper way.

Especially if I catch you wearing $10 Velcro shoes from Target.

I love this planet as much as the next guy.

Sure, I’ve never landed on an Earth-bound meteor with a ragtag group bent on nuking the flaming rock to save the world from Armageddon. But I try to do my part.

For example, every Thursday evening, I manage to take out the trash and recycling bin without mixing them up. That takes a lot of effort since I’m usually drunk off my ass after watching 30 Rock and downing an entire bottle of Mad Dog 20/20.

I also watched the entire Planet Earth series and told people about cool it was. I even blogged on Blog Action Day about offsetting both my carbon and asshole footprints.

See? I care about Global Something and the Ozone Whatever. Like my new favorite blog recently wrote, I like “saving the earth without having to do that much”.

Which is why I just don’t understand how someone could organize an environmental protest against the Discovery Channel.

A man named Lee, who from what I can tell likes wearing hats and taking out full-page ads in the newspaper, has organized a protest against the Discovery Channel’s environmental programs, which he deems “are causing more harm than good”.

Lee said that he has been protesting outside the channel’s Silver Spring building since last Friday and plans to continue it until this Saturday, or until they start airing shows that “actually work”, whichever comes first. I went to Silver Spring last night for some Baja Fresh and walked by the Discovery building. Lee was not there. This means he either (1) gave up, (2) was hiding, or (3) was arrested by the environmental police.

UPDATE: I saw Lee’s rambling, full-page ad in The Onion on Monday. I wrote this post that evening but didn’t publish it until today. Turns out, DCist wrote yesterday that Lee has been paying homeless guys to join his protest. This one-man protest (not including homeless guys) just got much, much sadder.

Now, I am no stranger to political protests and believe they can, under the right circumstances, bring about real democratic change. They’re also great ways to meet chicks and get out of work.

And while I applaud Lee’s determination to do something, I’m not sure he understands a principle fact lost in his hubris -– he is coming across as a whack job.

For example, on his Web site, Lee declares:

If their ‘environmental’ shows are actually working, then why is the news about the environment getting worse? It should be getting better if they were doing their job and we should be seeing that reflected on the nightly news. But NO! The Discovery Channel is actually not about saving the planet, they are just another ‘green’ corporation whose real interests lies in MONEY! Products! Junk! Trash!”

Excessive exclamation points and uppercase lettering aside, his rhetorical questions are, at best, slightly misguided. Why is the news getting worse despite the Discovery Channel’s efforts? Maybe because we live on an overpopulated planet that has yet to turn the corner on its destructive actions from the past 100 years.

To say Discovery is at fault for its inability to reverse our collective destruction is like blaming ESPN for not creating better athletes. Or NBC for making people fat.

As a result, MySpace commenters are mocking Lee on his MySpace page. The ridicule reminds me of the disdain the smug dog in Duckhunt would show you if you missed a shot.

I might feel compassion for Lee if he didn’t show such hypocritical disregard for his own cause. When one MySpace commenter said she would support him but couldn’t attend the protest because she lives across the country and has two kids, Lee replied, “It’s pretty cheap to get here. It’s ONLY about $250-$400. A bargain.”

Another MySpace commenter instantly flamed him for advocating the use of jet fuel to support an environmental protest.

Lee’s typical replies to the criticism aren’t too coarse. But they do show why people aren’t taking him seriously:

Yes, I tried to be reasonable. But like most planet-destroyers, they would not even listen. I actually went through the submission process with a modified version of Quinn just to give them the benefit of the doubt.

Now, the ‘nice-talking’ is over and the demanding is on!”

And…

We’ll see who laughs last when I succeed at this.”

I have no idea if Lee has been out there everyday as he has claimed but I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. I’ll keep recycling and unplugging unused lights and turning off the faucets when not using them. I’ll keep buying cage-free eggs and shopping for local produce. I’ll even not buy an SUV.

But I won’t protest the Discovery Channel. Because Planet Earth was really cool.

UPDATE: This guy took a photo of Lee at his protest. Man, he really likes that hat.

One of the first voters of the day, a neighbor who serves on my community’s condominium board of directors, asked me why she had two ballots. “Is one for practice?” she asked. I took one of them and apologized for the error. Then another voter asked the same question. Apparently, the first batch was sticking together, or else the paper ballot clerks just weren’t noticing. Either way, I hope we followed the “one person, one vote” rule, but I wouldn’t stake my life on it. — My friend 2 Jeters 1 Cup, on his experience at his polling place during last Tuesday’s DC primary

Hello, Wisconsin.

Yes, Wisconsin, I’m talking to you. I know you can read this. I know this because thanks to Google Analytics, I can see that you have visited my blog 392 times in the past five months. I know that’s not too many (a little more than two visits a day) but that’s almost as many as Oregon has and I have a sister who lives there.

So put down your cheese hats and irrational love for the Packers and listen up. You have a primary today. Obama and Clinton are practically wetting themselves for your 74 Democratic delegates. You have a responsibility to get to the polls — unlike some people — and cast your vote.

But you might want to consider happened in DC last week during its primary.

My friend 2 Jeters 1 Cup, also known as GoPats to regular readers of this blog, volunteered at his local polling place in Mount Pleasant last Tuesday. Though DC is not exactly world-renowned for being the most efficient government entity, what happened there should scare just about every American who believes in the near-sacred right to vote.

Despite 7 years of active election reform, the act of voting in this country works about as well as a DMV in Los Angeles. There are still moments of madness when it comes to voting — disenfranchised voters, uneducated election officials, and incomprehensible voting laws. To say that elections are improving in the U.S. is like saying Argentina knows how to pay off its national debt — you want to believe that statement but you know it’s just not true.

2 Jeters 1 Cup wrote an article about his experience at his polling place, an article he submitted to the DC Council, and which he said I could quote in my blog. Here are some of my favorite parts of what he wrote:

• A Spanish-language ballot on the direct-recording electronic machine was less than half programmed. A voter who chose the Spanish language option saw the election name, “presidential preference primary” and the date in Spanish. However, all other controls on the DRE, “next,” “review,” “previous” and “touch here to cast ballot” were in English, causing confusion among a number of voters, including one who accused me of telling her she “made a mistake” when I told her the review button was used if she wanted to make any changes or corrections on her choices.

• The instructions for visually-impaired voters confused the one man who used the audio system. When I listened along to see if I could offer assistance, I heard the slow-talking male voice instruct me to “touch the yellow triangle.” I wondered aloud whether District officials and Sequoia technicians realized that people who can’t see also can’t see colors.

• We ran out of ballots again in the mid-afternoon. This time, the city delivered another small batch, but said “this would be the last time,” sounding somewhat punitive. (I guess we should have discouraged people from voting?)

• As we started to run low on ballots, a voter came over after making a mistake marking her choice. Another ballot clerk, who was growing concerned over the dwindling pile of ballots, admonished the voter for “not paying attention.”

• Just before 6 p.m., at the height of the evening rush, we ran out of Democratic ballots for the third and last time. Voters started lining up behind the one method alternative for voting – using the DRE machine. About every third voter expressed concern that the machine would not count their vote. Comments reviews ranged from “cool” to “evil.” As the touch-screen clerk, I was the gatekeeper, and when tempers started to flare, they tended to flare in my direction. At the worst of the line, voters waited approximately 90 minutes to cast a ballot – after waiting 15-20 minutes to check in.

• Throughout the day, we were short on the blue index cards (for Democrats) that are handed to ballot clerks to make sure the number of voters who check in does not exceed the number of ballots cast. We resorted to using scraps of paper. At the end of the day, when we performed our counts, the scraps of paper were either bundled together with the index cards or rewritten if we had the time to do it. If the election is audited, good luck to the examiners working their way through the scraps and ripped white paper that is supposed to represent each Democratic Party voter.

• The District closes registration rolls nearly one month before elections. Voters and poll workers alike marveled at the Board of Election’s miscalculation of ballot distribution. The media, the voters and poll workers all knew a competitive primary in a politically active city with an overwhelming number of Democrats would draw a huge turnout. Yet, we ran out of ballots three times, while the same happened elsewhere in the city. Whatever formula was used to allocate ballots for the primary has to be reconsidered. It was an utter failure on Tuesday.

• The District’s closed primary – in which only registered party members can cast ballots in the election – left many confused and more than a few disappointed. A few Republicans said they wanted to vote for Sen. Barack Obama (D). Statehood/Green Party members said they weren’t expecting the ballot that they received and independents wanted to be able to vote at all.

• While the District has no requirement for voter identification, the vast majority of voters presented their drivers’ licenses or voter registration cards twice without being asked; once when checking in and again to receive their ballot.

There were some bright spots, however, 2 Jeters 1 Cup said.

When things were calm, the sense of community in the precinct was overwhelming. While some voters were understandably upset at the long lines, most said they were pleased to see the high level of interest. Some first-time voters said they really enjoyed the experience – even though many said they were disappointed they wouldn’t get to use paper ballots.”

Good luck, Wisconsin. Exercise your right to vote. Vote what’s in your heart.

Just make sure you vote.

PHOTO CREDIT

TAKOMA PARK, MD — Though Barack Obama used his soaring campaign momentum to sweep the three regional primaries on Tuesday, the Democratic candidate that has inspired a nation and solicited comparisons to the Lord Almighty failed to win a key primary — the one in Arjewtino’s apartment.

Obama secured more than 60% of the votes in Maryland and Virginia and won 75% of the votes in the District. But despite these landmark victories, the man who is seeking to become the first African American president in U.S. history failed to garner a single vote in this blogger’s household.

According to this comprehensive chart, Obama won 0% of the popular vote in Arjewtino’s one-bedroom converted attic, with 100% of registered voters not voting for the Senator from Illinois.

With 100% precincts reporting late Tuesday, none of the delegates where Arjewtino calls home went to Obama as his camp tried to figure out what went wrong. Arjewtino, having previously declared himself a “superdelegate” because he completed a crossword puzzle, was left speechless trying to explain what happened.

An analysis of the results shows that Arjewtino, who had decided merely two weeks ago to support Obama after months of anguish, was unaware of Maryland voter registration deadlines and was unable to exercise his franchise.

In an election season when his vote would have actually meant something, Arjewtino idiotically waited until the last minute to register in the Old Line State, even though he had plenty of time to do so since moving from D.C. more than 18 months ago.

“Man, that was really stupid of me,” Arjewtino was overheard telling The Princess on Tuesday.

“Yeah, it really was,” she reportedly replied.

In his shame, Arjewtino dodged text messages and e-mails from friends and family over whether he had voted. His dad’s Monday night text, “Are you voting for Obama tomorrow?” went unanswered. Arjewtino managed to reply, however, to his dad’s Tuesday night follow-up text of “Did you or didn’t you?” with this sad, pathetic missive: “I would have but I didn’t register in time.”

Accusations of voter irregularity hounded Arjewtino’s apartment Tuesday night, even as extended poll hours closed and Obama’s resounding victory was proclaimed on the evening TV news. It is unclear at this time who The Princess voted for as she failed to disclose her choice, citing confidentiality and privacy laws, declaring only, “That’s none of your business!”

Arjewtino considered late Tuesday afternoon commuting to his former polling place in Adams Morgan to cast what he knew was an improper vote, just to get the oval-shaped “I Voted/Yo Vote” sticker, the sight of which haunted him throughout the day.

In the end, however, he knew it was illegal to vote in a state where one no longer lives. Also, it would have been a pain in the ass to go there and then get back on the Red Line to go home.

Arjewtino has promised himself, his girlfriend, and Obama to be registered in time for the November general election.

I finished yesterday’s Express crossword at exactly 9:35 a.m. I am a superdelegate!

I don’t think I’m using that term right.

Still, this is a new record for a puzzle I usually don’t finish until the afternoon or early evening. It is probably a testament to my growing intelligence. (Come on. 17 across? “Lupine come-on?” Wolf whistle, duh.) Or maybe crossword editor Timothy E. Parker had a hangover the day he wrote this puzzle.

In either case, my morning accomplishment meant I had nothing to do in the bathroom for 20 minutes. Reading the contents of my wallet for the 27th time was not an option. Neither was feeling guilty over using the large handicap stall. So I flipped through the pages of the Express and examined the ads.

A former journalist, I don’t have the first clue what goes into writing or soliciting advertising copy. You see, there’s supposed to be this “wall” in journalism that separates advertising from editorial, not that Fox News has ever heard of it. As a reporter, my job was to write something that would “keep the ads from touching,” as a former editor of mine once told me.

But what I noticed about the Express’s ads in yesterday’s edition was this: there sure a lot of people in DC with health problems.

I counted 25 health-related advertisements, ranging from depression to hemorrhoids to living with an STD, and that’s not including the classifieds section. My favorite one was the ad on page 11 offering clinical trials for people suffering from herpes, which proclaimed that “Living With Genital Herpes Can Be A Hassle!” Tell me about it. The ad asked if you (the reader, I presume) were “African American and/or considered black…”

Now, I’m neither African American nor “considered black” by any means, but I do plan on voting for Obama for class president. Still, is there a difference? VK? Leon? Anything?

Most of the ads were obviously geared toward people who want to lose weight, which, from my personal observations, amounts to everyone. All I hear these days is whiners saying “I need to lose 10 pounds” or “I’m going to the gym after work” or “Stop staring at my fat ass, Arjewtino”.

It’s pretty obvious that weight is an issue that most people think about. Women, I have noticed, seem to care much more about the number itself, while men just echo Kevin Spacey’s line in American Beauty: “I want to look good naked.”

I find these conversations exhausting and boring. Though The Princess calls me “Tubs” and “Fatso” in a loving, “you-look-good-now-but-don’t-gain-any-more-weight” kind of way, you don’t hear me whine about my bubble butt. Would I love to shed a few pounds? Sure. Would I like to have a six-pack again? Of course. Do I truly enjoy asking myself questions and answering them? Obviously.

I’m surprised that blogging, which I have been doing now for more than 18 months, hasn’t caused any weight loss. It’s worked for some people, apparently. Check out Lynn Bering, a blogger who somehow gained 100 pounds over the course of four years but lost it thanks to her habit of keeping an online journal.

But Bering said the one thing that’s helped her most is her blog.

Writing down her thoughts and feelings about why she ate helped Bering do the inner work, which she believes is necessary before anyone can do the outer work and lose the weight for good.”

Awful sentence structure aside, this article shows what bloggers can do if they want to lose weight. And if they have vaginas.

There is no way a male blogger would — or could — lose weight by sharing his feelings to the online world. Like Lozo said:

I can write down all the thoughts and feelings I have in the world about not having sex with Heidi Klum. Heck, I do. But unless I actually go out and do the work of getting a serious tan, rubbing poop under my eyes and becoming a monster, the dream is never going to happen.”

Men lose weight when they get rejected sexually. That’s it. That is our sole motivation. We are the perpetual Charles Atlases of the world, making a personal change only when we’ve had sand thrown in our face by a much tougher, fitter douchebag.

But this motivation is not something we find online. Keeping a blog about how I feel about my love handles won’t make them any less muffin-top-ish. (That line comes thanks to my 30 Rock marathon.)

There is, though, perhaps one online force that could make me lose weight. Jillian Michaels. This chick hosts “The Biggest Loser” and is quite possibly the toughest broad on TV. Not only could she out-bench-press me, she could probably bench press me.

After watching an episode a few weeks ago and wetting my pants just watching Jillian yell at some fat slob who couldn’t do another stomach crunch, I decided to look her up online. Not because I, too, wanted to lose weight but because I’m a guy and I wanted to see pictures of her naked.

As it turns out, Jillian’s Web site is just as tough as she is and I found myself giving it my e-mail address. Jillian (or maybe a computer) sent me an e-mail shortly afterward offering me a “Weight Loss Plan”. I scoured the e-mail for pictures of Jillian naked. When I didn’t find any, I deleted it. But I felt proud of myself for taking the first step to sustaining a positive body image by merely submitting my e-mail. I felt slimmer and healthier. More fit.

I’m ready to tackle another crossword puzzle.