When I was a single guy in my 20s, I came up with what I considered the perfect answer to the inevitable DC question of “What do you do?”

“I drive a DC Duck Tour.”

Not only did this response delay most women from running away from me, it created the illusion that I was an interesting person. After repeating this fantasy job enough times and elaborating on what it entails, I started to believe I could be a DC Duck Tour driver and even looked into filling out an application.

I never did, but that might have been a good thing since my pre-adult employment years are littered with short, random, and bewildering jobs I have taken on. For example:

1. Target salesman, domestics section. I worked for ONE DAY at Target, assisting customers guests in selecting pillows, bed sheets, and towels. After a middle-aged woman argued with me over the price of our toothbrush holders, I knew it was time to q. I quit over the phone but still went to HR the Friday after for my $22 paycheck.

2. Petition canvasser. I worked several hours one afternoon asking registered voters to sign a petition for I-don’t-remember-what-referendum. People thought I was either a shyster selling them something or a communist calling for the destruction of the U.S. The worst part was at the end of the day when my signature supervisor told me he thought we had a special connection and tried to hug me. I never went back.

3. Pyramid schemer. During a particularly cashless stretch, I tried a get-rich-quick pyramid scheme and mailed several unsolicited letters to unsuspecting people asking them to send me one dollar and to send a similar letter to other people. Though technically not a “job, I’m pretty sure this way of earning money has reserved for me a special place in hell. Oh, and I netted a grand total of $2.

4. Vacuum salesman. Armed with the revolutionary technology of some vacuum cleaner not good enough to be sold in stores, I went to a woman’s home and demonstrated why she should buy the product I was peddling. I spilled soil on her carpet, read from a script, then cleaned it up before she kicked me out and told me she was happy with her home-cleaning needs.

5. LA Sports Club nursery employee. I spent an entire morning, starting at 6am, burping, feeding, and taking care of several babies whose parents dropped them off so they could go do yoga. After managing my entire shift to avoid changing any diapers, my boss asked me if I really wanted to work here. I called in sick the next day and never went back.

6. Door-to-door video store discount card seller. I spent an entire evening soliciting homeowners to purchase discount cards for video rentals. It was exhausting since I was pretty sure I hated myself for interrupting dozens of hard-working taxpayers’ dinner times. My boss forgot about picking me up at the end of the night (this was in an era before the prevalence of cell phones) and I wandered around some strange neighborhood for hours until he found me at midnight.

My best friend Blue says I have had SO many random jobs I’ve probably forgotten about half of them, and he may be right. What’s the most random job you’ve ever had?

P.S. This post is dedicated to The Princess, who last night told me, “No lists, please no more lists.” Love you!

“Umpires would be natural Republicans — dead to human feelings.” - George Will

When I was 15, I took a job as an umpire with my Little League, working mostly 5-10 year-olds. I remember thinking this was a great way to save money for the car I was planning on buying in a year. Little did I know that I would witness some of the most evil, barbaric, and incomprehensible human behavior in the history of mankind.

Angry parents, foaming at the mouth, yelled, cursed, nearly shoved, and intimidated me during games intended to teach teamwork and sportsmanship. I lasted two games before I quit, succumbing to not only despicable adult behavior but my own incompetence at calling a game.

I called kids who beat out throws to first by a mile out, forgot the rules of the infield fly, and mixed up pitch counts. I even embarrassed my then-8-year-old brother, whose game I umpired, by making the worst calls against his team (perhaps subconsciously to avert any thoughts of bias).

So when The Princess last week sent me the following Craigslist job posting…

Baseball Umpires Make $25/hour!
You can realistically make $400.00 per weekend!
No experience necessary!

…I didn’t exactly jump at the chance. Could it be that I was still distressed from these 16-year-old memories? I looked over the job application and the training. Looked thorough, maybe I could pull it off and finally put these demons to rest. But no, not even the prospect of earning an extra $1,600 a month could shake my trauma.

Umpiring is a necessary evil of baseball. Someone’s got to do the job for the game to be played; it just won’t be me.

If anyone would like to be reviled and hated for judging the placement of a baseball, go to: http://umpires.org.

Wedding season has started early this year.

The Princess and I went to one of my oldest friends’ weddings this weekend in –- wait for it -– Tampa, Florida. This is a friend who I have known since second grade but whose was marred by the presence of his jackhole buddies, aggressive strippers, and roulette tables that hated me.

Needless to say, I wasn’t looking forward to Round II of Big I’s wedding extravaganza.

But, as it turned out, we had an amazing time. I caught up with another old friend, Scotty, and his family (including his 5-year-old son Seth who won the weekend’s unofficial popularity contest), met Big I’s wife, a sweet woman who converted to Judaism, drank LOTS of free alcohol, and ate at a Waffle House!

We also met the Ecuadorian National World Cup soccer team, which was staying at our hotel and lost to the U.S. 3-1 on Sunday in an international friendly. It wasn’t like seeing the Argentine national team, but at least it wasn’t .

Here is a photo essay of the weekend.

Here is our view from our hotel room, overlooking Tampa’s beautiful 60 freeway. We spent a lot of time gazing at this magnificent vision.

The Princess poses with midfielder Luis Saritama, who I’m pretty sure goosed her while I wasn’t looking. His nickname on the team is the Roadrunner, probably because he likes to paint murals of three-dimensional tunnels on the sides of large rocks. Or because he’s fast.

This Kremlin-like building facing the life-size relief of John F. Kennedy made me think uncomfortably about the Bay of Pigs crisis. Until I realized it was some botanical garden-type place.

The Princess and I at the wedding. The arrow points to a boat of drunk guys fishing nearby who decided to jeer the ceremony. All was forgiven when they yelled “Mazel Tov!” when Big I stomped on the wine glass.

Here I am posing with Scotty’s son, Seth, who was not only the ring-bearer, but also the scene stealer as he break-danced during the reception and, overall, acted cute as hell.

I think Seth has a future as a photographer. He took this phenomenal picture of Big I and his wife with my camera, the little bastard.

Seth also channeled Casanova and asked the bride’s little sister to dance, which she did reluctantly. Reminds me of me.

Big I and his bride really love cake. No need to be so aggressive, though.

At the after-party, after knocking back a few too many over cigars, Scotty decided to throw me into the hotel pool. I was able to not only fright him off, but push him in first fully clothed, much to the delight of dozens of spectators. This, of course, didn’t stop him from coming after me and pushing me in – but not before I got rid of my coat, wallet, and cell phone. Scotty wasn’t so lucky.

Mmm, Waffle House.

Some of you may remember in January when a Burkina Faso banker man promised me $5.6 million after a client crashed his “sharter plane” into “mount kenyan”. My economic shrewdness has since continued as another e-mail has landed in my inbox telling me I have apparently won 1 million Euro in the “Lottoria Spanish”, a contest — get this — I didn’t even enter!

While the African banker, Mr. Buba, has not delieverd yet on his promise to send me his dead client’s riches, I am certain that Raul Peters’s assurance will happen. Let’s examine the reasons:

1. Mr. Buba claimed to be a “Foreign Remmittance Manager”. Raul Peters, however, is an “International Remittance Officer”, a title that is not only spelled correctly but also looks better on business cards.

2. Raul sent a personal e-mail to me but wrote “Dear Winner” in the subject heading. At first glance, this might look like a depersonalized way of mass e-mailing a phishing scheme. But Raul KNOWS I’m a winner and knew it was the proper way to address me.

3. A Google search of “Lottoria Spanish” yields several hits suggesting this is a “hoax” or “scam”. This is a clever ruse set up by the Lottoria to dissuade the dimwitted and gullible from cashing in on their winnings. Suckers.

4. While “lottoria” is not a Spanish word, Raul smartly disguised the promotion as Italian to throw off less intelligent lottery winners. Using the correct language would have just been too suspicious.

5. “After this automated computer ballot, your e-mail address attached to serial number 25-6565 drew the lucky numbers 6-13-18-24-33-39 which consequently emerged you as one of first fifty (10) lucky winners in this category.”

Raul might have confused “fifty” with “10”, but he totally nailed my lucky numbers. Six is my birth month, 13 is the age when I started stealing porn magazines from convenience stores, 18 is the numerical value of chai, the Hebrew word for life, 24 is my birthday, 33 was the number of my favorite baseball player growing up, Jose Canseco, and 39 is the atomic number of yttrium, by far my favorite element of the periodic table. Does this guy know me or what?

6. “Your fund is now deposited in an offshore bank with a hardcover insurance.”

I don’t know what that means, Raul, but it sounds smart and, therefore, legitimate.

7. “Due to the mix up of some numbers and names, we advice that you keep this award from public notice until your claim has been processed and your money remitted to you as this is part of our security protocol to avoid double claiming or unwarranted taking advantage of this program by the general public.”

This is the final piece that clears up any doubts one might have of its authenticity. Aside from his horrendous syntax, Raul is making it clear that people want to ruin my chances to be a millionaire so I better keep this quiet. Thanks for looking out for me, Raul.

Between the Lottoria Spanish and the Burkina Faso claim, I am well on my way to collecting more than $6 million. I suggest you try to befriend me now before it becomes clear you only like me for my money.

And my sharter plane.

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.

I should have known what my weekend in New York was going to be like when I settled into my Greyhound bus Friday afternoon.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” announced the driver over the bus intercom, “welcome to Greyhound. There is no smoking, no drinking, and no drug use in coach. This includes the bathroom.”

No drug use in the bus bathroom? Is this enough of a problem to warrant an official warning from a Greyhound representative? Do drivers find sufficient pipes and dime bags to necessitate a company-wide policy?

Aside from the 6 ½ hour drive on ice-coated highways, the trip was uneventful. I read, napped, and watched the hilariously awful Legend of Zorro. I think my favorite part of the movie was when Antonio Banderas tried to play Zorro. Hys. Terical. Still, I was able to enjoy a double seat most likely resulting from people too afraid to ride a bus during a predicted snowstorm. .

My trip was a last-minute decision to see my best friend Blue, a fellow Los Angeles transplant I’ve known since 3rd grade who lives with his girlfriend BK Broiler in Union Square. He is known on this blog for .

I arrived at the Port Authority at 7:30pm Friday and struggled to find the right subway train (thanks for the bad advice, Community Service Policeman, and lack of subway maps). Once aboard the train, I stood against a wall and saw a small, old man sit down across from me.

“Man, I gotta get out of this city,” he declared, seemingly to me.

This is great, I thought. I’ll enjoy this 10-minute subway ride by engaging a real, live New Yorker. We’ll discuss local politics, culture, and the weather.

“I gotta go to Canada,” he continued.

“Oh yeah?” I replied. “What’s up in Canada?”

“Canada doesn’t have any chinks, wops, or spics.”

Uh…oh.

“We’re going to all be speaking Spanish soon because of all the Mexicans in this city,” he continued.

Oh, God, I know I don’t believe in you, but if you exist, you must strike down this racist, deranged douchebag right now.

“We’re all going to be Communist, too, thanks to all the Chinese.”

Please, please, please, let this ride finish. Oh, god, everyone’s looking at me. Do they think I’m with this insane, xenophobic fucker? That guy standing next to me just moved to the other side of the train. Should I follow him? Why won’t this nut stop talking?

A l o o o n g subway ride later, I arrived at Union Square and met up with Blue. We headed to Duke’s, a casual bar/restaurant with several TVs showing March Madness games. We ordered some beers, ate some ribs, and bragged about our masterful skill at picking out our brackets.

At one point, I went outside and stood next to a couple arguing. The girlfriend went back inside after being unable to convince her boyfriend he was wrong about something. The guy, named Ali, turned to me and said, “Man, my girl is driving me crazy!” Then he offered me some pot.

“I love New York,” I told Blue when I went back inside Duke’s. “Where else can you hear a racist tirade and be offered drugs within an hour?”

Saturday was spent walking around the city, going to The Strand (of course), and watching basketball games all day. Sports-watching often results in some pretty inane guy commentary, and Blue and I were no exception.

“How many NCAA champs have been number one seeds?” I asked Blue. “I think 60%.”

“No way, more like 50%,” he said. We looked it up. He was right. Fourteen of the 28 champs (since seeding began) have been number one seeds, exactly 50%.

This was followed by more mindless questions.

“How many players are in the tournament?” Blue asked.

“768,” I calculated.

“Of those 768, how many do you think you could beat up?”

I thought about it for several seconds. “Two.”

“That many?”

Later that night, Blue and I met up with some of his friends at a bar/club called Manhatta. That is NOT a typo. It’s Manhattan without the “n”.

“I cannot go to a place called Manhatta,” I told Blue futilely. “It sounds so pretentious. Besides, I’ve already been to a club called Washington D.”

Not having anticipated that we’d go “out”, I only brought sneakers, which meant I had to borrow a pair of Blue’s size 12 shoes.

We waited nearly half an hour for a cab, walking around city streets, me complaining about my clown shoes pinching me, and competing with other taxi hopefuls for the few empty caps on duty on a Saturday night. Finally, we found one and headed to Manhatta (turned out, it was within walking distance, on Bleeker and Bowery).

Though our names had been on a list, we arrived a few minutes too late and had to pay a $10 cover. We walked in Manhatta and I immediately was reminded of Bright Lights, Big City, especially Michael J. Fox’s drug-fueled nights out clubbing. This place had the red mood lighting going, men wearing expensive, chest-bearing shirts not buttoned high enough, and women with heels so tall I half-expected them to tip over at any moment.

I was forced to check my coat by some burly dude and we headed downstairs, a small basement playing the loudest dance music I’ve ever heard and featuring several drunken women dancing around the very poles holding up the ceiling. Yup, I thought sarcastically, this is totally my scene.

Blue bought me some liquid courage in the form of white tequila shots and we met up with his friends. Soon enough, some guy brushed up against my crotch and then offered one of Blue’s friends Laura some cocaine out of his hand.

We danced and drank until nearly 5am and then walked home, staggering into Taco Bell for some Double Decker tacos and passing out at home watching SportsCenter.

I awoke Sunday at 1:30pm and we ordered Chinese food. “You can get anything delivered in New York,” Blue told me.

“Yeah, in DC, too.”

We watched the afternoon games and posed more “interesting” questions to each other.

“If you laid down every street in New York end-to-end, how far across the country do you think it would go?” Blue asked me.

“Probably to the West Coast,” I guessed.

“The answer, apparently, is all the way to Japan. But I don’t see how that’s possible.”

Thanks for the shabby nobility of a great weekend, Blue. It’s too bad you were too scared to face me in ping pong.

PHOTOS TOMORROW.

Man, there sure were a lot of fire trucks last night at the Dupont Metro, hope there’s no residual delay this morning. Nah, Metro’s always on top of this. Everything will be fine.

The Takoma Metro platform is packed. This doesn’t look good.

Why won’t these train doors close? Better start working on the Express crossword.

Twenty minute delay on the Red Line? Groan. Wow, everyone on the train groaned simultaneously. They must love going to work.

Switch to the Green Line, yeah, that’s smart, NO ONE else will think to do the same thing.

Ok, the train’s coming, just elbow your way past the other passengers. Sorry, old lady, this is Metro warfare. Gotta get through.

Sweet! I found a seat! I’m going to settle in here and enjoy the .

Ah, the Express Blog Log. Hey look, my friend got a mention. And Tori Spelling had a baby. That’s going to be one butt-ugly kid.

This woman standing next to me looks pregnant. Is she? I better do the right thing here and give up my seat.

You’re welcome, pregnant lady. What, no “thank you”? Bitch.

Thanks, fellow passenger, I would love to hear more about your landscaping project but I’m busy reading Pooch Café.

Come on, Green Line, get a move on, I’m already late. I want to leave early tomorrow for New York.

Is that an elbow on my leg? How is that possible?

Don’t look at me like that, dude, my personal space is just as important as yours.

I hope I filled out all my March Madness brackets. UCLA is SO going to win it this year.

Fifteen minutes late, not bad. Could have been worse.

What the hell am I going to blog about today? Oh, I know…

My friend MJ received a Missed Connection on Craigslist earlier this month. She showed it to all her friends, she talked about how flattering it was, and she saved it in her e-mail.

One thing she DIDN’T do is respond.

This boggled my mind. Why wouldn’t she respond? It made her feel beautiful and was a boost to her ego. When I received an MC a couple of years ago, I showed it to my friends and wrote back the same day. But for MJ, the posting stopped at the Internet.

“Really, I don’t think most girls would respond to that,” she wrote me in an IM. “There are a lot of crazies in DC.”

True. I’ve heard some horror stories. But how much harm can one e-mail, from a made-up e-mail address, really cause?

Here is what the guy wrote on Craigslist. Judge for yourself:

From the Yellow Line to [redacted] (Lady in black skirt) - m4w
I normally would not post this, but… WOW! You have the best walk I’ve seen in a while. Very sexy and confident. Not arrogant or standoffish. Just “woman going to work”. I almost knocked over two old ladies to get a better view. You were wearing a dark coat (grey? black?) with a skirt with something on it (florals I think). Anyway, you made my morning. I have a smile on my face just remembering you walk in those heels. I hope your boyfriend/husband/FWB knows that he is one lucky hombre. Have a wonderful day, you beautiful WOMAN you.

Ladies, would you really not write back to this? At least out of curiosity? Or is MJ right in that the double-edged sword of an MC – flattering yet creepy – outweighs your need to know who it is?

I told MJ if she wasn’t going to write back that I would. She agreed. But I don’t know what to say. So I’m letting the blogosphere decide. I will copy-and-paste the best response you leave in my comments, reply to MJ’s suitor, and let you know how it goes.

Have at it.

I didn’t get to interview the Jewish, LA-based, celebrity disk jockey/ex-boyfriend of Nicole Richie at Shamrock Fest this weekend like I had planned. But if I HAD interviewed him, THIS is how I imagine it would have gone:

Arjewtino: Why did you agree to play Shamrock Fest 2007?

DJ AM: I get paid anywhere from $20,000 to $25,000 per gig and spinning to a VIP tent made up of drunk, mostly Irish Catholics, is like doing bar mitzvahs, only Jewishless-er.

Arjewtino: Do you feel weird being Jewish at a predominantly gentile event?

DJ AM: Why? Because people are acting like idiots, running around trying to kick women off unicycles, knocking powdered sugar into the air, and exposing their breasts?

Arjewtino: Yeah.

DJ AM: No, didn’t you hear how much I’m getting paid?

Arjewtino: Why do your songs play for only 1 minute before segueing into a different song?

DJ AM: When you’re drunk, your attention span is shorter than a three-day-old goldfish’s, so you need some variation and diversity in music to stay captivated. You didn’t seem to mind, though, as you “danced” to just about every song I played.

Arjewtino: Really? You saw me out there? How’d I do?

DJ AM: You DID see your friends were leaving you as you danced, right?

Arjewtino: I thought they were just giving me room to bust a move.

DJ AM: Don’t say bust a move.

Arjewtino: Gotcha. So everyone wants to know about you and Nicole Richie, but I’m too classy a blogger to bring up such a personal time in your life.

DJ AM: Thanks, I appreciate it, you get so tired of talking ab…

Arjewtino: So why did you and Nicole Richie break up? Was she too goyish for you?

DJ AM: No, as you can see from the recent sightings of Mandy Moore and me, I like schtupping the shiksas.

Arjewtino: Don’t we all?

DJ AM: I know, why is that?

Arjewtino: No clue. Probably because they don’t remind us of our mothers.

DJ AM: You’re a wise man, Arjewtino.

Arjewtino: Yeah, I know, DJ AM. Can I call you Djam, just make it one word?

DJ AM: No.

Arjewtino: How about Adam?

DJ AM: No.

Arjewtino: Mr. G?

DJ AM: Maybe, I’ll think about it.

Arjewtino: Cool, well thanks for being too busy to have this interview, Djam.

DJ AM: I’m going to have Travis Barker kick your ass.

The rest of Shamrock Fest was more fun than expected. I met up with some cool bloggers and kickball friends, listened to some decent music, won a stuffed pig by shooting water into a clown’s mouth faster than anyone else, and drank lost of free Bud Light without puking.

Below are photos from the Fest interlaced with my favorite quotes.

Myself and Baby Bien wearing girly sunglasses

“I thought you were taller.” — Joe Logon

The Shamrock Fest brought out the classiest women

“We all want attention; some of us are just more deserving than others.” — Freckled K

K, Kassy K,

“Why don’t y’all talk Jew?” — Heather Barmore

Wish I could take credit for this one. Don’t know where it came from but it’s cool.