Not a bad opening act.

On a cold night that featured a ridiculous security line, overpriced hot dogs and undereducated vendors, and a blown save that made us rue the prospect of fighting the cold much longer, the last thing anyone expected was such a dramatic finish.

Unless you asked INPY.

“I called it, I called it!” he screamed for 10 straight minutes after Ryan Zimmerman drilled a walk-off homerun in the bottom of the 9th to win the first Nats game at the newly opened Nationals Park.

Yes, INPY called it. He had predicted that Zimmerman would hit the homerun with two outs, nobody on, and Nats’ pitcher Jon Rauch having just blown a save. But I think everyone could claim they called it. Because it was the perfect moment for a Hollywood finish. I thought it. The drunktards banging the metal railing with their beer bottles thought it. Even all the frozen kids huddling under their parents’ arms thought it.

And Zimmerman delivered, christening the new stadium and allowing spectators to revel in an opening night that, despite its many tiny imperfections, still managed to be a perfect one.

More than seven months after I sneaked into Nationals Park to take some photos of the stadium’s construction, I entered the $611 million baseball arena last night for the Nats’ first game of the season — legally, this time.

I went with INPY (who had gone online to get the tickets the second they went on sale weeks ago), Beth, and another friend. And it did not disappoint. We arrived for the 8pm game around 6pm and were greeted with a long security line that snaked down First Street, thanks to President Bush throwing out the first pitch. It took us one hour to get in and only because we “kinda” cut in line.

Once we did, though, we were like kids in a candy store. The stadium was absolutely beautiful, greater than anything I had expected. The field was manicured to perfection, the lights seemed to shine brighter, and there appeared to be no bad sight lines anywhere.

I walked around for a bit and strolled down to field level by the first base side. I beheld the field and decided I wanted a picture to capture the moment. I turned to a teenage girl seated nearby and had this conversation:

Arjewtino: “Hi, can you take my picture?”

Girl: “No thanks.”

Arjewtino: “No, I meant a picture of me.”

Girl: “Oh, sure!”

This was the picture she took:

I snapped some more shots and settled into our seats, Section 237, Row A. Row A! We sat in the very first row of the mezzanine near the right-field foul pole, an incredible view that allowed us to see every other area of the stadium with ease.

It being Opening Day Night, we had hot dogs, cold beers, and Cracker Jacks. Like INPY always says, the best hot dog you’ll ever have is at a ballgame. He had ordered Hebrew Nationals at the hot dog stand earlier in the evening, to a vendor who apparently didn’t understand something as complicated as English.

Finally, after realizing that INPY was ordering the kosher hot dogs with the distinctive name, he yelled back, “Four Heebs!”

Not the most culturally aware group of workers you’ll ever meet.

Bush threw out the first pitch to a mixture of boos and cheers. The Nats’ starting lineup were announced coming out of center field. The game started and I decided to keep score for the first time in years. I thought, if there would ever be ANY game to score, this would be it.

The Nats took an early lead, 2-1, and then their bats went dead. Despite strong pitching from starter and former Dodger Odalis Perez, and a strong bullpen, the Nats held onto that one-run lead for most of the game.

In the 9th, it looked like Jon Rauch would save the game, but with one out, Mark Teixeira smacked a double off the right-field wall that was just a foot away from being the game-tying homerun. Rauch got the second out with Texeira moving to third.

The fans got to their feet, elated in what we all knew would happen. Just one more out. We stomped and clapped and cheered, knowing Rauch would deliver. And then he threw it away. The Braves tied it at 2 and we were headed to the 9th. And with the way both teams were hitting, I suspected extra innings.

But Zimmerman, who had gone 0-3 up until his fourth at bat, came up with two outs and we all knew. We just knew it would happen. Zimmerman hit a rope that just barely cleared the left-field wall, sending everyone into hysterics. We celebrated, high-fived, hugged. We watched Zimmerman circle the bases and watched him celebrate on the huge HD screen in center.

For that moment, the Nats were undefeated and in first. And Nationals Park became the House That Ryan Built.

Here are some additional pics:

First-base side.

Stadium seats.

Crowded vendor area.

I wish I could claim this was Zimmerman’s homerun at-bat. But, alas, this is merely the first pitch ever thrown to Zimmerman at Nationals Park.

The Boston Red Sox beat the Hanshin Tigers — the Boston Red Sox of Japan — earlier this week, a game that reminded me of my trip to Osaka two years ago.

I didn’t see David Ortiz hit a mammoth homerun then. Nor did I see them play “Sweet Caroline” during the eighth inning. But I did see and have one of the oddest baseball experiences in my life.

The Princess, who lived in Osaka for nearly two years, scored a couple of tickets to a preseason game for the Hanshin Tigers. The team used to be called the Osaka Tigers before strangely changing its name to reflect its owner (Hankyu Hanshin Holdings, Inc.). That would be like the Seattle Mariners being named the Nintendo Mariners.

Actually, that would be pretty rad.

Now everyone knows Japan is cool. And most of the chicks are hot and submissive. But the place is weird. They sell beer on the street in vending machines. They cheer on half-naked fat dudes ramming each other. And they crap into the floor.

So I expected that watching a Japanese baseball game would not disappoint in its uniqueness. And I was right.

We arrived at the Osaka Dome (they now play in Kōshien Stadium) early and I decided to show my support for the Tigers by buying a hat. The best part about this process was that it made me feel huge.

I had already felt like a giant in Japan, towering over people everywhere I went (for once). This phenomenon continued when every hat I tried on wouldn’t fit. I have a freaking bowling ball cranium as it is, but realizing that Japanese headwear is too small for me was an ego boost.

I knew a little something about Japanese baseball from reading You Gotta Have Wa, but even I was unprepared to understand the different customs.

The game against the hated Yomiuri Giants of Tokyo started and almost immediately, we knew that this fan base was unlike any other. Everyone in the stands cheered like it was the fucking World Series of Hello Kitty, screaming out the names of players, applauding every swing, and singing fight songs — yes, fight songs — for every single player, complete with drums.

The fight songs were led by the team’s energetic and official fan club, which set up camp in center field and were as unrelenting as any boosters at a college football game. They sang NON-STOP throughout each at-bat until the batter would make an out, after which they would immediately stop.

About a third of the way through the game, I wondered what the fans would do during the 7th-inning stretch. Nah, I thought, they probably don’t even have a 7th-inning stretch. What are they going to do, sing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame”? Yeah, right.

I was wrong.

During the top of the 7th, The Princess and I watched as, without prompting or solicitation, EVERY single person in the stadium took out a balloon. Almost without even saying anything. And they started to blow. And blow.

These weren’t just any kind of balloons. They weren’t exactly what you would expect at a birthday party. No, these balloons were…uh…how do I put this? Phallic.

They were long, slender, girthy balloons with a swollen “head” at the end. And they were being blown by every man, woman, and child. The Japanese woman sitting behind us noticed we were awed by the balloon-fest but were, sadly, balloon-less. So she handed The Princess and I our own pair of penis balloons.

When in Rome.

We started to blow, completely unaware of why we were following this strange tradition, until they were these erect latex air pockets, pinched at the end.

When the Tigers retired the last batter of the inning, the entire stadium busted out into song, chanting and yelling and thrusting their dick balloons into the air with so much joy and pride I didn’t think it could get any weirder.

When the song was over, all the fans let go of their balloons simultaneously. The balloons flew through the air, blowing out air and creating an arena full of color and people’s spit. It was incredible.

And it looked a little something like this:

The Tigers, though, lost the game. Not enough penis balloons, I guess.

At precisely 5:12 and 28 seconds yesterday afternoon, exactly 388 days since my very first post on Arjewtino.com, a woman casually clicked on my blog and became the winner of the greatest contest that has ever been held anywhere.

Amy, a Northern Virginia mommy who blogs at Crazy Mokes, has been in porn, likes to keep things besides her breasts in her bra, and has two awesome kids. She is also the 100,000th visitor to my blog, an honor that bestows upon it a coveted autographed photograph of my butt AND a baseball card from my week at Dodgers fantasy camp.

Upon hearing about her victory, Amy had the following response:

“I won a MAJOR AWARD!”

Yes, you did, Amy. Yes you did.

Amy will receive the major award, er, photo of my butt, personalized and autographed, and has promised to in turn take a photo of her family doing something with it and send it to me. I suggested she take a photo of her kids eating cereal or napping with it, but the decision is really up to her. I’m assuming her husband is a really cool dude who won’t find out who I am and beat me up for traumatizing her family.

Seeing the joy Amy felt in winning the 100,000th visitor honor, I decided to give consolation prizes to visitors 99,999 and 100,001.

Visitor 99,999 is someone many of you may know, at least through her blog. Formerly known as Brunch Bird, Bridal Bird is a frequent commenter, reader, and was even a one-time guest blogger here. She clicked on my blog 33 seconds too early, making her the winner of a baseball card but no butt photo.

Bridal Bird’s pain, in an e-mail to me yesterday, was anguishing. She sent me this photo of herself clearly distraught. And she wrote me these words, which are just heartbreaking:

“I say with no amount of understatement that I’ve never been so glad in my life to lose a contest.”

Sniff. So sad.

Visitor 100,001 is someone I don’t know. Here is what I do know about him/her:

* He or she is from Valparaiso, Indiana
* Uses the Firefox Web browser
* Clicked on my blog at 5:13pm, and
* Subscribes to my blog using Google Reader.

He or she is probably unaware that he or she won this prestigious award. Sir, or madam, if you are reading this and would like to claim your consolation prize, contact me by clicking HERE.

For those of you who didn’t win and are hurting, let me just assuage you and tell you that the pain will pass. You tried your best and I am honored to have seen so many of you try so hard to win this.

Besides, there’s always the 200,000th visitor contest.

UPDATE: The 100,001st visitor and winner of the second consolation prize was none other than my blog crush The Maiden Metallurgist, who is by far my favorite metallurgist. She was traveling through a small town outside of Valpo yesterday and, according to Google Analytics, was my only visitor from Indiana yesterday. Fucking Hoosiers.

TMM will also receive a signed baseball card of me, once they actually, you know, arrive. Congrats, TMM, and stop kicking yourself for being 43 seconds too late for the grand prize.

Christian Lander has a publicist.

The man who writes the widely successful blog Stuff White People Like (close to 17 million hits) recently hired someone to handle eager reporters and bloggers looking for deeper meaning in his blog posts. This got Washington Post reporter Monica Hesse’s panties in a bunch when the publicist told her that Lander would be “taking a little breather from all media requests”.

But who are they kidding?” Hesse wrote on Friday in the Post. “With the (free) blogged list already at No. 90, the only things left to cover are Zipcar and Blelvis.

Stuff white people like: getting fat advances . . . and then clamming up.”

Look, Hesse, I can see why you might be resentful. After all, you are the one who went to J-school. You are the one who took crappy internships. You are the one who brought coffee to editors who only liked you for your tits. You are the one who made the brilliant move (like I did 9 years ago) to enter the lowest-paying career out of college. And this guy Lander starts some stupid blog after a discussion with a friend over “The Wire”, gets a fucking book deal, and has the gall to hire a freaking publicist whose job is merely to tell reporters to fuck off?

Like my friend said to me at the San Francisco modern art museum when I stood in front of a large black canvas and said, “I could have done that.”

“But you didn’t.”

Lander has been successful not just because of his simple concept that has made everyone say “Why didn’t I think of that?” but also because his writing style is hysterical. It is the reason copycat blogs haven’t been nearly as good. (Stuff Stick Figure People Like? Really?)

Lander’s decision to hire a publicist, I think, is brilliant. And it has made me realize that I need one, too.

Now, I know I don’t have too many e-mails begging me for an interview and Random House is not knocking down my door to sign me up for a book deal on what it’s like to be Argentinean, Jewish, and awesome. But given the responses I have received to my contest to award my 100,000th blog visitor with a signed photo of my ass, it might be time for some PR work.

I don’t want a picture of your butt actually. I just thought this was an amusing incentive,” wrote Jo.

I may have to stay away less I win this contest - my sons already have too much to talk about in therapy,” wrote Judy C.

I absolutely adore your blog and look forward to reading it, but I really, really, REALLY hope that I am not the 100,000th visitor,” wrote a commenter named Elizabeth.

Wow. Tough crowd.

In any case, visitor 100,000 and winner of a personalized, autographed photo of my butt AND a baseball card of me from Dodgers fantasy camp will arrive today.

As of 12pm, Tuesday, the count is at 99,865.

If you want to win this lucrative prize, click on my blog. Multiple times. After lunch. During your coffee break. Before dinner. Skip whatever happy hour you’re planning to go to. This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to win this obviously sought-after award.

Man. I really do need a publicist.

Roosh and Roissy are hosting a blogger happy hour tonight. I’m technically a co-host but that’s only because the happy hour needs more Jew.

It’s been more than three months since we hosted the last one so I’m looking forward to seeing old friends and meeting new bloggers. Anyone and everyone is invited though I wish these two bloggers weren’t so geographically challenged and could show up. Also, their blogs are great. Read them.

I’m thinking of wearing the suit. So if you want to see it, you might want to drop by and buy me a beer.

If not, I might just wear a sweater made of dead dog.

“When it comes time to bring their A game and dress it up, most guys are lost.” Virgle Kent

This is not my suit. At least, it wasn’t my suit.

It belonged to my dad. When he was my age. Or younger. When wearing a blue, multi-pinstriped rayon suit with narrow lapels was fashionable.

It has been mine for several years now, a gift from a man who once wore it with pride. Talle 49. Industria Argentina. It had been in the back of my closet for a long time. Languishing on a plastic hanger, collecting dust.

I took it out of my closet yesterday morning with purpose. Happy hour after work. Cocktails at the Chi Cha Lounge. A desire to look better. Like “Superman putting on his cape,” VK said.

Kind of tight around the shoulders, though. Too bad. Still feels good. Looks good. Makes me feel like the Incredible Hulk. The Incredible Hulk in 100% rayon.

The Princess hates it. Calls it ugly. Says it’s old-fashioned. “You look like you belong in the 70s,” she told me. “Especially when you had that mustache. You could have been either of our fathers.”

I wish I looked like my father at his age. Strong. Determined. Ambitious. Married to a beautiful woman. Raising three kids in a foreign country.

I take it as a compliment. The suit is a stylish artifact. I wear it to work.

“Hey, look at you!” my boss shouts across the cubicles. “You’re wearing a suit.”

Good eye, boss. How’d you figure that one out?

“What’s the deal, got a job interview today?”

No, I tell her, just wanted to wear a suit. It was my dad’s.

“That’s your dad’s suit? Ha ha ha!!!”

It’s a classic. From the 70s. Made in Argentina.

“Hey, everyone, Arjewtino is wearing his dad’s suit!”

It WAS my dad’s suit. He wore it when he was my age. When he was cool, cooler than anyone I know. When his friends were brave and disappearing for speaking out against our military government.

“Well, it’s a nice suit.”

Thanks.

I go to lunch. I stand taller. More confident. Women look at me. A man in cargo shorts and a red t-shirt holds the door open for me at Chipotle.

I order and sit down at a table. I take off the suit jacket to protect it from my burrito bowl, laying it on the edge of a booth.

An old lady in a white hat and her three grandkids sit down in the booth. The suit is somehow in the old lady’s way. She pushes the suit, slides it away from her. I’m reading my book, face down.

She pushes it again and it falls to the ground. I look at her. She stares back. And continues to stuff her face with soft tacos.

I guess not everyone likes the suit.

My suit. My dad’s suit.

Like Superman.

As of this very moment, even as I write this, my blog has received 98,418 visits.

Some of these visits have come from friends. Others from bloggers who have become friends. Many have come from stalkers. Or my mom. Even more have come from people who think I’m an asshole.

In any case, though, there have been close to 1/10th of a million visitors to this blog. I want to mark the impending milestone by rewarding whoever will soon become the 100,000th visitor to my blog. Or, as I like to call it, stealing Smash’s idea.

I actually was one of the winners of Smash’s 50,000th visitor contest and received a signed, personalized head-shot of Smash. I was planning on taking a photo of the Smash photo reading my blog on my laptop, but, being the responsible and organized man I am, I promptly lost it.

So now I’m having my own contest. In just a few days, maybe a week or so (I really can’t predict the site traffic, you guys are a fickle group), someone will become visitor number 100,000. I will use every metric I possibly can to identify that person and send him or her the grand prize.

What you have to do to win this momentous contest is visit this blog. Repeatedly. Everyday. And what will you win?

I racked my brain for several long minutes recently trying to figure out what I could possibly give someone. I don’t really know how to make anything and everything I own is, well, mine.

I considered giving away a bag of change but I like saving them in my jar until it overflows and I have to go to a Coin Star to redeem them. I also thought about giving away a dreidel but then how would I gamble during Hanukkah?

In the end, I turned to the smartest person I know not named Arjewtino for advice. Of course, The Princess knew exactly what fans of my blog would want:

“Why don’t you give them an autographed picture of your butt?”

Genius.

So there it is, blog readers. The 100,000th visitor will receive a photo of my butt, signed and personalized. You may hang it proudly in your home or donate it to Goodwill. You may also take a picture of you and the photo playing Hungry Hungry Hippos and send it to me, which I will then post on this blog.

In addition to receiving this one-of-a-kind (I hope) prize, the 100,000th visitor will also receive an authentic rookie baseball card of me from Dodgers fantasy camp. This baseball card is one of only 50 in existence, so it is already the most valuable thing I own.

Act now. We’re already at 98,545 visitors.

You know who’s a mad fucking genius?

Gary Portnoy.

Don’t know who he is? Actually, you do, you just don’t realize it. Portnoy is the dude who wrote the theme song to Cheers. He’s the guy who penned these lyrics:

Making your way in the world today takes everything you’ve got.
Taking a break from all your worries, sure would help a lot.
Wouldn’t you like to get away?”

And you know who could really use some advice from a TV theme tune these days? Ashley Dupre, the New York governor-banging rap video star who, like me, performed an illegal act at the Mayflower Hotel. Poor little rich girl has been getting blitzed by newspaper tabloids and blogs since last week, when news of Governor Eliot Spitzer’s pricey hooker habit hit the news.

I know when I am feeling down in the dumps with my latest hooker scandal, I like to turn to the only people on the planet who really understand me — my MySpace friends.

All 91 of you know who you are. You guys have been there for me through thick and thin, whether it’s to wish me a happy St. Patrick’s Day by posting an animated leprechaun in my comments section, or to call me a “fruitcake” when I haven’t written to you in a while, or to post pictures of two guys kissing me at a bar.

That is true friendship.

So, of course, I knew that Ashley, too, would turn to her 1,946 MySpace friends for support and validation. These true friends would remind her that despite her penchant for whoring and posing naked in what appears to be the New York Post’s stairwell, she still had a vagina heart of gold.

This is what they had to say:

Ooh, um, I’m not sure “diamond” is the right word to be using at this time, kevin, considering Spitzer picked Ashley based on the Emperor VIP Club’s diamond rating system. Might want to choose your words better in the future.

What’s with the passive-aggressive tone, Johanner? What are you, Jewish? You lost 5,000 friends just for supporting Ashley? I’ve never even met 5,000 people let alone lose that many friends for supporting a prostitute. This tells me you (a) are lying about your social standing, (b) have the worst friends in the world, or (c) are lying about your social standing. He is right, though, in that one should always “keep a Low Key” in these types of situations.

Mr. Ron K believes that most of life’s complex problems can be assuaged with a jpeg image of dozens of yellow smiley faces. I don’t know if it helped Ashley with her “madness”, but it sure as shit put me in a great mood!

I don’t remember a lot about what I learned in my “media class”. But I do remember that it wasn’t “free publicity is THE BEST”. Of course, Ashley’s infamy has resulted in thousands of people downloading her crappy song, so maybe MarLo-CON knows something I don’t. Like how to wear a tight red dress.

Wow, MARS, you sure know how to sell yourself to a depraved hooker. I know that many of my female friends embroiled in sex scandals love to be propositioned by a man using an photo of SOMEONE ELSE.

ALEON is a poet. Those words. That rhyming sequence. Such a controlled use of iambic pentameter. Fuck Shakespeare, this guys’ sonnet would cheer up the saddest of sad call girls. You should write for Hallmark. “Real talk”, man, you are so right. I hope you don’t mind me pilfering this poem for my own use.

So maybe MySpace isn’t the best place to find a support network of real friendship. Maybe its vapid existence (of which I am, I realize, a member) is not for those seeking someone to lean on in times of trouble. So here’s my advice for you, Ashley, because I care about as much about you as your friends:

“There’s always Facebook.”

…a scared little boy

I want my mommy! Where is she? She said we were going to the circus but I don’t see emephants or gowillas. This isn’t a circus. Why won’t these big boys leave me alone? I don’t want to slap your hand, you big dummies! You’re a poopie and you stink. I’m just going to hide down here where no one can see me. Mommy, where are you? Save me, pwease! I pwomise to clean up my room from now on, just make these mean boys leave me alone! Hey, a nickel!

…a discarded beer bottle

I’m not even supposed to be here today. Can’t these drunk fuckwads read the sign? NO OUTSIDE DRINKS OR BOTTLES ALLOWED! Do I look like a plastic cup to you? You guys really don’t appreciate the containers that help you get drunk. What would you do without me? Hold your beer in the palm of your hands? I don’t think so. I am supposed to be recycled, damn it! But no, I’m on the fucking ground fucking getting kicked around like a Guatemalan hooker. I hope you drunk idiots are happy with your VIP passes and your loud music and your…, watch it! That fucking hurts! I want to be re-incarnated!

…two drunk people making out

Drunk Dude: I love this girl. Look how cool she is. She’s making out with me at Shamrock Fest. She must really love me. I think I’m going to introduce her to my mom. Five minutes ago, my buddy Travis was introducing me as some chick he works with. Now, she’s all over me. Awesome. I am so awesome. Wait, what’s her name again? Who cares! I’m totally over Jessica anyway, that bitch. Breaking up with me the day before Shamrock Fest. Saying I’m immature. Whatever. Who’s immature NOW, Jessica? I’m on top of the world! Well, actually, on the ground in a parking lot, but whatever. I win, Jessica, I win!

Drunk Chick: If this doesn’t make Travis jealous I don’t know what will.

…a pyramid of beer cups

Dude, I know what you’re thinking: I am so getting laid! Look at what I made. A pyramid of beer cups. I am so industrious. Well let me fill you in on something, Imhotep, nobody cares. All you have done is created within people an inexplicable urge to knock me down. Look at everyone eyeballing me. A minute ago they were chugging and tossing dozens of little me’s on the ground. Now they’re looking at me like they’re in Giza and I’m…shit, here comes some drunk fuck…easy, easy, no, don’t! Fuck.

…Foxymoron’s squished face

Who came up with this brilliant idea? Probably Arjewtino. Hey, Culinary Couture, he probably said, let’s squish Foxymoron’s face in between our chests! And why did I agree to this, exactly? It hurts more than I thought it would. Whatever, it’s Shamrock Fest and I’m a VIP drinking for free. Could be worse. It could be Arjewtino and Baby Bien.

Photo credits: A couple of Flickr users I don’t remember and my sweet ass friends who came to Shamrock Fest 2008 with me.

Nothing elicits more vitriol from people than telling them your favorite anything — movies, TV shows, music, books, etc. One “wrong” choice can cause outrage and castigation and can even brand you a social outcast.

For example, when someone tells me they loved the movie Crash and adored the book The Kite Runner, he might as well tell me he loves the Brazilian soccer team, votes Republican, and likes to club baby seals.

This theory holds especially true when it comes to music.

Everyone has an opinion on what kind of music you should like. My friend GoPats once burned me a CD when he found out I liked Billy Joel. INPY responded to my assertion that Pearl Jam is my favorite band by calling me “a fucking poseur”.

Even Yahoo’s Launchcast Radio recently played me this song despite thousands of ratings that should have affected its algorithm differently.

But by the same token, people are usually open to learning about new types of music, unless you hang out at Wonderland and are into a band that hasn’t even been created yet.

We tend to take the advice of friends and critics who either know their shit or at least share a common love for the same kinds of music. My friend J-Vo is the reason I became a fan of Band of Horses, for instance, since she burned me their CD for my birthday last year.

That’s why I’m looking forward to attending Shamrock Fest this Saturday at RFK, where roughly 1 billion bands will be playing. I don’t know all of them and I certainly haven’t even heard of most of them. But knowing that Carbon Leaf, Scythian, and Army of Me will be playing, along with other groups who I’m excited to hear (Love Seed Mama Jump, Mr. Greengenes) is exciting.

I went to Shamrock Fest last year mainly for the free beer and to interview DJ AM. Though that tête-à-tête never materialized (that is the first and possibly last time I will ever write the term tête-à-tête, by the way), I wrote it up like it had.

Some of my hard-hitting questions included:

Arjewtino: Can I call you Djam, just make it one word?

DJ AM: No.

Arjewtino: How about Adam?

DJ AM: No.

Shamrock Fest isn’t just great for music. The blitzed-out-of-their-fucking-minds hordes of people alone can be worth the price of admission. Check out this chick, for example:

I’ll report back next week when I’m fully recovered, which might be about Thursday. I only have 73GBs left in my new 80GB iPod, so even if I fall in love with a new band, I’ll have to be picky about how many songs I download.

UPDATE:

Of all the thousands of songs that could have come up first for me today on Launchcast, look at what song Yahoo! decided to play: