Though I thought it would happen as the starting shortstop for the Los Angeles Dodgers, being part of Sports Illustrated’s background noise at Belmont Park isn’t so bad either:

What? Can’t see me clearly? How about now?

Still can’t tell? Take a look at this, then:

I noticed this photo on Friday as I waited at BWI for my 3 1/2-hour delayed flight to Detroit. I turned to the guy next to me eating his Panda Express 3-piece combo and shouted proudly, “I’m in Sports Illustrated!”

He turned back to his egg roll without even asking me what I meant.

Never underestimate people’s ability to care solely about their Chinese takeout.

While walking around Manhattan last weekend, I noticed a few things about its restaurants. They don’t believe in vowels.

Not believing in vowels is sort of like not believing in air conditioning or unicorns. They exist despite your insane belief system.

But one year after I made countless jokes about a New York City bar called Manhatta, I realized that finding places to eat in the Big Apple is a perpetual exercise in searching for absent vowels, truncated letters, and nonsensical naming conventions.

For example. While walking back to Blue’s apartment in Union Square, we passed a place called Markt. Then we spotted another one called brgr. And though I didn’t see it, there is, apparently, a restaurant called STK.

No vowels? What the hell, New York? Do you realize what would happen if we didn’t showcase the essential a-e-i-o-u’s that make our language so…what’s the word I’m looking for…comprehensible? Scrabble would be impossible to play. LOL and ROTF would no longer be acceptable IMing terms. Human sacrifice. Dogs and cats living together. Mass hysteria!

Much like I refuse to do the Mexican Wave at ballgames or put my hands in the air at a concert just because Green Day told me to put my hands in the air, I refuse to patronize restaurants that don’t follow the basic tenets of language. They might as well be speaking Ubykh.

Wht f my blg psts hd n vwls? Wld thy mk sns?

I didn’t think so.

One day before watching the U.S. win a moral victory over my Argentina soccer team, Blue and I headed out to the Belmont Stakes for what was supposed to be a historic race.

Big Brown was supposed to win the first Triple Crown in 30 years. It was all but guaranteed.

You know what else was supposed to be guaranteed? My Little League team winning the championship in 1991. An Al Gore presidency in 2000. Finally learning whether Tony Danza or Angela Bower was the boss by 1992.

When your hopes of a baseball trophy or democratically run election are dashed, you learn to suck it up and move on. Even when Alyssa Milano won’t return your phone calls.

So, to me, it was no big deal watching Big Brown finish last in the Belmont Stakes. Because I learned two things that day:

(1) Picking seven of the winning horses in 11 races is, apparently, a great achievement, even when your wagering result is a net loss of $16.

(2) Befriending the sound guy of a major media organization just might result in him lending you his press pass.

Blue, his friend the Tao of Lou, his girlfriend, and I headed to Belmont Park bright and early, catching the 9:55 a.m. LIRR train out of New York City. This was my first horse race, a bonus to a weekend where we were going to the Meadowlands to watch Argentina play the U.S. national soccer team.

We found an ideal spot on the lawn directly in front of the track. We lay down our blankets, put on sunblock, and did what we came to do: gamble on some fast motherfucking horses.

Blue gave me a crash course on how to place wagers at the track, illuminating me on what the hell an Exacta Box was and showing me how to read the racing program.

I quickly became the Greatest Student Ever because I won seven of the first eight races, an astounding success rate that many gamblers, I’m sure, will want to replicate.

For those of you interested in winning at the track, here is my now-patented wagering system if you ever want to try it:

“I like the name of that horse Ventura because it reminds me of Ventura Blvd. in LA. I think I’ll bet on it. What? It’s 8-1? Who cares. Hey, look, I won!”

By the end of the eighth race, I was up $24.50, mostly due to the fact that I wasn’t wagering much money and the one loss cost me quite a bit.

But I lost the last three races (a combined $40) and I ended the day in the red. This included placing $12 on Big Brown to win (at 1-4 odds, it would have only paid out $3).

Didn’t win any money on that race, naturally.

But I did get to cover the race from the vantage point of a photojournalist. And that made it all worthwhile.

As the big race grew nearer, people started to cram into our little patch of lawn, hugging the fence and taking over the spot I had planned on taking to photograph the race.

Armed with my 75-300 mm lens, I had practiced photographing the earlier races and was excited to take “The Great Shot” of Big Brown making history.

Police and track officials manned the pit where only media were allowed, giving menacing looks to anyone who dared cross the gate. I started talking to a sound guy near the gate and asked him if it was OK to stand there during the race. He said sure and we started talking.

Though he let me stand near the fence, my shot was still blocked by dozens of credentialed photographers.

Still, the second that Big Brown et al shot from the gate, he took off the press pass hanging around his neck, handed it to me, and said, simply, “GO!”

I walked through the gate and found a spot next to the other photojournalists covering the race. I crouched down, checked my camera settings, and as the horses came around the turn, I started snapping.

No one could see Big Brown, of course, who by that time had been pulled back by the jockey. I tried concentrating on the horses still left in the field and gained a newfound respect for photogs who do this for a living. The horses stormed by and getting a good shot proved harder than I expected. The crowd, which had been cheering for Big Brown, realized they were not going to see a Triple Crown winner and started to boo.

I kept snapping shots and then watched as the other photographers ditched their area and ran toward the finish line. Hanging on to “my” press pass, I ran behind them, making my way to the Winner’s Circle.

There, I saw the winner Da’Tara, who ran at 38-1, stroll by as his jockey Alan Garcia beamed. His owner, trainer, and their family cheered, hugging and kissing each other, celebrating in front of an obviously dejected crowd.

Eventually, I walked in to the track along with the rest of the media. I remembered the adage that I should act like I belong, show confidence, and no one would realize I was just some spectator poser hoping no one would notice my crappy camera and 18-55mm lens.

Everyone kept taking photos as I acted the. Many of my shots weren’t good but I was too excited to be “part” of the media to care. Of course, THIS was the shot I would have liked to have gotten.

I asked a professional to take a photo of me on the track with my camera for my “employee file”. He said sure and took my camera. I asked if I could use his camera and HUGE zoom lens as a prop. he hesitated until I said, “I left my other camera back there,” pointing to where I had been standing.

He let me hold his camera as he snapped my “employee file” photo.

I took more pictures of Da’Tara’s entourage before finding myself next to Garcia. He looked so happy as reporters asked him, “How do you feel?” I just kept taking photos and pretending like I knew what I was doing.

I had been trying to get ahold of Blue on my cell to no avail. Reporters and photographers started to walk inside to attend the press conference. I considered going but had no idea if my group was still waiting or eager to go.

Reluctantly, I walked back.

I gave my media friend back his press pass and told him about the experience. He gave me a thumbs up. I excitedly told Blue, the Tao of Lou, and his girlfriend about what had happened. Blue told me I should have gone to the press conference.

As it turned out, Blue’s girlfriend’s brother Paul had sent him a text message asking him to put money on Da’Tara and Denis of Cork to finish first and second, which they did. Blue, for whatever reason, I think because of long lines at the betting windows, didn’t make the bet, which cost Paul $1,600.

Paul told him it was ok, adding, “Easy come, easy go.”

I told Blue we should make it a tradition and go to the Belmont Stakes every year.

I just hope my press pass is waiting.

I would love to explain how much it meant to me just to see the Argentine national team play. I would love to say it was a thrill to see so many wearing the Albiceleste with pride and honor. I would love to write how seeing both of my countries fight an intense exhibition match to a draw is symbolic of my national identity.

But, really, I’m just pissed.

In a game many predicted to be a blowout (including myself), played on a weekend that saw another heavy favorite lose, Argentina and the U.S. played to a draw in the swamps of New Jersey. The “friendly” match, which drew nearly 80,000 fans of both countries, showcased a lot of talent with no scoring.

Klein, myself, Blue

Under the heavy rain and amid the often unbearable heat, Blue and I watched number-one-ranked Argentina fail to tally even a single goal against the U.S. yet thrilling fans at the Meadowlands with an impressive level of soccer.

Seeing my forlorn face after the game, Blue asked me, “You’re saying that if the U.S. had won [and they could have], there wouldn’t be a small part of you that would have been happy?”

“Not even a little bit,” I replied.

I walked into section 113 of the Meadowlands and was overcome with national pride as I saw waves of blue and white. It was incredible seeing so many Argentine fans. They wore Maradona shirts, home and road jerseys, flags draped like capes. They painted their faces and brought their babies. They scuffled in the stands and ran onto the field at halftime. They cheered, clapped, and proudly sang our national anthem.

The American side was equally impressive as a sea of red unfurled a giant U.S. Soccer flag. U.S. fans were just as vociferous in their support as the Argentine fans and followed the game as closely and wisely as I expected.

The match itself can best be described by others. I am still in too much shock from the outcome to produce a cohesive game summary. I will say that the U.S. side impressed me. Though Argentina outplayed the Americans in the first half and created ample scoring opportunities, their game deteriorated as the U.S. subbed in fresher players in the second half. Goalkeeper Tim Howard played out of his mind, stopping countless Argentine shots on goal. The reffing was atrocious (despite my friend Klein’s assertion in the title of this blog post), Argentina can’t play in the rain, and the U.S. needs to figure out a way to speed up its attack.

I will leave the best analysis I have read about Argentina to “Dan”, whose profound comment on Goal.com was inspiring:

once again this proves argentina is the most over rated team in the world. how is a team who has not one trophy in over 20 YEARS consdiered the best team in the world? Greece has accomplished more then the argintines have. they are south americas england, good line-up but terrible as a team. OVERRATED”

Thanks, Dan, for your incisive wisdom.

More photos:

Two Argentines who were really into the game.

A dad with his two kids. They were so happy walking into the stands I had to capture it.

Maradona shirt signed by Diego himself.

Landon Donovan bitches again about something or other.

I didn’t want to write about this.

I wanted to write about my wild and crazy party weekend in New York City with my best friend Blue. I wanted to write about going to Shea to see the Mets and having a large drunk man fall on us in the stands. I wanted to write about beating Blue at Ping Pong for the first time in my life (bringing my career record against him to a blistering 1-73). I wanted to write about all the stupid jokes and funny stories that happen when you hang out with someone you’ve known for 26 years.

But then it happened.

Blue was taking me to a show. Not Broadway, as I had thought, but “off-off-off-off-Broadway”, according to him. He wouldn’t tell me what it was because he didn’t want me to go into it with any preconceived notions. So I didn’t know if we were attending a play featuring a naked Harry Potter or watching some bad street performance.

Turns out, it was a little of both.

The last time Blue and I went to dinner and a show was several years ago when we grabbed some pizza and attended “Taller Than a Dwarf” with Matthew Broderick and Parker Posey. The play was sort of interesting but not that memorable. The night, though, was.

During the play, my stomach started grumbling. So did Blue’s. As line after line was delivered and each act unfolded onto the next one, we began to realize that the $3 pizza slices might have been a bad idea.

When the lights came up, we bolted. For the bathrooms. We sat on those porcelain stalls like they were our lifelines, cursing the gods of baked dough and melted cheese and struggling to survive an embarrassing situation.

Eventually, a security guard came into the bathroom after the theater was empty and turned off the lights.

“We’re still in here!” I shouted.

“Hurry up!” he shouted back.

There was an awkward pause. Finally, I replied:

“We’re doing the best we can.”

Enough years have gone by that Blue and I can laugh about it now. This past Saturday’s incident, however, might take more time.

The mystery show turned out to be Fuerza Bruta, a surreal revolving stage performance featuring a lot of kinetic energy, wind, and water that looks like Circue d’ Soleil on LSD.

Blue and I had eaten at Arturo’s Pizza earlier, sharing the most incredible half-bacon, half-sausage pie (probably one of the best I have ever had). I finished a half-carafe of red wine on my own.

“Hmm,” Blue said, “pizza and a show in New York. Seem familiar?”

When we arrived at the Fuerza Bruta show, I was feeling a bit tipsy. We walked in and immediately I was wondering what the hell was going on. Everyone was forced to stand inside a circle in the center of a dark room. One guy took off his shirt. A bachelorette party came in with each drunk woman wearing a mask. I started to wonder if Blue had brought me to an orgy.

The show started with a man running on a treadmill above our heads. Strobe lights started to splinter the dark. Wind and water were sprayed everywhere. People started to jump, dance, and cheer. Everyone would move around in unison, pushing us around the “stage” into different formations.

I stared up and got dizzy. I lost my place. I lost myself. I looked for Blue and couldn’t find him.

And then my stomach started to hurt.

The ceiling above us became a see-through mylar swimming pool. Half naked women swam across it as we all watched and cheered.

I looked around for the emergency exits.

The swimming pool ceiling started to be lowered slowly. The wet women got closer and closer and soon they were claustrophobically on our heads. Everyone raised their hands to “touch” the swimming women.

I told Blue I had to get out of there.

Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the pizza. Maybe it was the Italian sausage and hot dog I had at Shea that afternoon. Maybe it was radically changing my diet after a week of observing Passover’s dietary restrictions. Maybe it was the heat in the Fuerza Bruta room. Maybe it was the strobe lights and the psychokinetic energy.

Maybe it was everything.

I buckled over and everything went dark. Blue pushed me to the red EXIT sign.

“Is he ok?” I could hear people ask.

I was catatonic. I couldn’t talk or walk. Blue somehow got me downstairs and to the bathroom. I sat on that toilet feeling like I was going to die. I sat there wishing I would die. This, I thought, is was being poisoned must feel like.

It took 30 minutes for me to open my eyes and stand up. The 70-minute show was still beating through the walls. I apologized to a sympathetic Blue and said, “Let’s catch the end of the show.”

We walked upstairs and entered the room. One minute later, the show ended.

Now, Blue says I didn’t ruin his birthday and that I shouldn’t feel bad for blowing the tickets he paid (discount price) for. But he did say that I shouldn’t sugar coat this story in my blog. That my best blogging is done not when I try to control my online image in a flattering way but when I’m honest to everyone about who I really am. Easy for him to say, he doesn’t have a blog.

So here’s my unflattering story, the one I didn’t want to write about, the one that doesn’t make me seem funny or witty or attractive to strangers. It’s very unflattering. Very honest.

And one more thing. On the way out of Fuerza Bruta, I heard a woman behind me sum up the show to her friend:

“This show would have been amazing if I was on psychodelic drugs.”

Really? I wanted to say to her, you should have had what I was on.

My friend GoPats asked me in today’s comments:

Why don’t you blog from the wired wifi super bus?”

Having known him 9 years, I knew he was due to come up with a good idea. So here I am, on my very first BoltBus trip, writing to a total of five readers who Sitemeter tells me are currently on my blog (it’s Friday night, go out). Our WiFi connection keeps going in and out so I can’t guarantee that I can stay online or that it will even be entertaining, but I’m nothing if not determined to make you laugh.

Like a clown.

6:27PM: The bus is about to leave and the very first thing I have noticed about BoltBus is the silly people with their silly laptops (I am NOT excluding myself). The first thing everyone did was look for seats with sockets in front of them. Not two minutes went by before everyone took out their laptops and checked their e-mails.

6:35PM: Arjewtino: “Excuse me, driver, do you have the network code to get online?”
Random girl who thinks I was talking to her: “You don’t need a network code.”
Bus driver who just became my new best friend: “Actually, yes you do.”
Arjewtino to random girl: “Suck it.”

7:36PM: We lost Internet pretty much when we started the drive. Everyone is freaking out. There’s pandemonium. If we can’t GChat while on a moving conductor we’ll just about die. I entertained myself by watching an episode from the first season of Perfect Strangers. Don’t judge me. It’s a great show. That Balki!! So foreign and stupid!

I’m taking the BoltBus to NYC tonight to see Blue. It’s his 33rd birthday and we’re going to par-tay like we’re 23 again. Which translates to Sega hockey, Chinese takeout, and a Broadway show. Hopefully, this time, with less racism.

Yesterday, while discussing with Blue all the par-taying we’re going to do, he mentioned my recent lack of blogging.

Blue: “You haven’t been blogging much lately. Are you thinking about ending it?”

Arjewtino: “I think about it sometimes. Maybe I’ll delete this blog, take a break, and then start a new, secret one. You know, where I can talk about my feelings.”

Blue: “You should call it Ar-Christian-tino.”

Arjewtino: “That’s a pretty good idea.”

Blue: “Think about everything you would write about and then write the opposite.”

Next week will be a better blogging week. I promise.

Fucking vultures.

If you’re anything like me, you spend most of your time mentally retaliating against those who have wronged you. CVS. Chinese pandas. That homeless guy you bought a sandwich for at 7-11 only to have him look at you suspiciously and ask you, “What is this, ham?” before asking you to go back into the store and get him something else.

I hope you’re not like me, though, because then that would mean being stalked by Gawker. Check it out:

This is getting out of control. It’s to the point where I can’t even walk through the streets of New York City or sing an obscenely patriotic song without being spotted and reported to the Web media. It’s starting to get embarrassing. As you can see from the Gawker Stalker I posted above, NYC-ites saw not only me during my latest trip to the City, but also magician David Blaine, that guy who plays Ryan in (and writes for) “The Office”, and something called Julian Casablancas.

The Google tells me Casablancas was born on the same day as The Princess and is the lead singer for something called The Strokes, which, given my recent invitation to join the AARP, I find an insensitive name choice.

Still, I’m sure Casablancas is entitled to point his finger at photographers just as much as I’m entitled to drink Heineken and awkwardly hold a microphone. Gawker has come under fire this year for this “Stalker” segment, which some celebrities compare to paparazzi-like harassment while the New York-based blog defends it as light-hearted, citizen journalism.

Since I can’t make my own decisions without doing something I call “research”, I watched a video yesterday of Jimmy Kimmel (who I hate for schtuping Sarah Silverman) lambasting Gawker co-editor Emily Gould on the YouTubes. I tried to balance both sides of the argument but I was distracted equally by Kimmel’s pompous attitude (did I mention he’s schtuping Jew goddess Sarah Silverman?) and Gould’s defiant good looks. I weighed the arguments and decided that Emily is prettier so I agree with her.

Nearly two years ago, The Princess and I spent a few days with my best friend Blue and his girlfriend BK Broiler in the City to celebrate the New Year. We were walking up Fifth Avenue (this one is an avenue, right Becca?) when we spotted Andrew McCarthy playing with his son.

We all looked at each other to confirm that, yes, this was the same dude who fell in love with a mannequin and acted like a dick toward Molly Ringwald. It was definitely him. I had my camera and my brazen attitude in tow, and was considering walking up to him and asking for some sort of affirmation and photographic evidence that WE SAW AN ACTOR!

I watched Andy (I feel like we’re on a first-name basis now) play with his son, happy with his privacy yet aware that four people were staring at him like vague fans often do. I realized he did not want to be disrupted. I imagined playing with my son, laughing, enjoying our time together, and having people invade my privacy. So we left him alone.

As we walked away, The Princess, sensing that I had wanted to approach him, turned to me and said, “It probably would have made his day.”

Maybe I should put Gawker on my speed dial.

It is our Thanksgiving tradition, to leave the city every year. Last year we went to Playa del Carmen, Mexico, for a friend’s wedding. The year before that, we went to New York City.

This year, The Princess and I decided to repeat Turkey 2005 and headed back to the City, the only City, to celebrate an apocryphal story that helps our children every year resupply the nation’s dwindling “turkey hand” epidemic.

I woke up sick as fuck on Wednesday morning. “Sick as fuck” has a particular meaning to me that might vary, to a certain degree, from what it would mean to you. To me, “sick as fuck” means a head cold that has melted my brain to the point that I act like a helpless, unwanted newborn.

The Princess, a middle school teacher whose Job-like patience might explain why she hasn’t systematically killed every one of her students yet, doted on me. Her doting, though, consisted of telling me to “suck it up”, “be a man”, and “sleep on the couch”. (While reading this excerpt, the Princess told me: “You’re a wimp when you’re sick.”)

I did sleep on the couch. And Thursday morning, despite hallucinations that Nicole Kidman and a polar bear were after my Golden Compass, I woke up at 7am to leave DC. A nearly five-hour trip can be pretty taxing when you can’t focus your eyes on the traffic on I-95. It can be even worse when your head cold makes you forget entire stretches of time. Luckily, The Princess’ cursed Honda Accord gave us a moment of unmitigated glee when its odometer surpassed the 190,000-mile mark. With this kind of excitement to entertain us, we just knew it was going to be a fun weekend.

Day One (Thanksgiving Day)

Lincoln Tunnel is traffic-free…the streets of New York are dirty after the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade…thanks to my friends Blue and BK Broiler, for letting us crash at your awesome pad in Union Square…damn it, Strand Bookstore is closed…hot chocolate from Max Brenner and an unseasonably warm afternoon of walking around…dinner in Chinatown…General Tso’s Chicken and eggplant with broccoli at Wo Hop…some old man sits down at our booth across from me while The Princess is in the bathroom…and he doesn’t say a word.

Day Two (Friday)

Brunch at Le Pain Quotidien…finally, two hours shopping at the Strand…not enough time, only buy five books…Black Friday on Broadway Ave. is not a pretty sight…late lunch at Katz’s Deli, where they filmed Meg Ryan faking an orgasm…we sit one table over from it and hear one “I’ll have what she’s having” joke too many…best matzo ball soup I have ever had…

…karaoke that night at Sing Sing…The Princess sings like a gifted lark…with my nasally head cold scraping my vocal chords, I sound like a wounded seagull…still manage to sing my guilty pleasure song, “God Bless the U.S.A.” by Lee Greenwood (click HERE to watch YouTube video of my awful singing and The Princess laughing maniacally at me)…Udon noodles for late dinner…mine is served with a raw egg.

Day Three (Saturday)

The Princess goes shopping down Broadway while I sleep in…she buys me bagel with lox and cream cheese for breakfast…we walk to Union Square Park and Greenwich Village…visit Porto Rico Importing Company (the best smelling coffee since I was in Costa Rica)…buy way too much cheese, sausage, and olive oil at Murray’s Cheese…The Princess tries to sneak into a guided tour of how they make cheese…share some Pinkberry frozen yogurt…watch Hogan Knows Best and eat amazing meal…call an audible and decided to beat Sunday’s traffic by leaving NYC that night…get home at 12:20am, great call.

Day Four (Sunday)

While thousands of people jam the tunnels out of NYC, the New Jersey Turnpike, and I-95, The Princess and I sleep in…spend the day relaxing, reading, watching DVDs, laughing, wrestling…go to sleep early…Nyquil knocks me out.

This trip, we decided, was not so much a vacation to New York, but more of a vacation from our lives in DC that just happened to be in NYC. We didn’t do anything too “touristy” like visit the State of Liberty or even walk through Central Park. We just enjoyed being together in a city we both love.

Instead of your typical New York photos (Statue of Liberty, Brooklyn Bridge), I took some different photos to better reflect parts of my weekend. Enjoy.

I paid $3.62 for this hot dog at the Greyhound bus station. Yummy.

While waiting for the bus, I played some Galaga. I kick The Princess’ ass at this game everytime we play while waiting at the laundromat.

Union Sqaure

My NYC synagogue.

This is my idea of beauty.

Some books sell for 49 cents. 49 CENTS!

I caught this at the Union Station Metro on my return home, letting the shutter stay open for five seconds. I’m a photography genius.