Photocredit: Zo.

“Always keep a song in your heart; it’s like karaoke for the voices in your head.” — Robert Fulton Abernethy

My life is full of embarrassing singing moments. For example:

Driving with Blue and singing “Angel” by Sarah McLaughlan:

Arjewtino: “In the arms of the angel…”

Blue: “You sound really good.”

Arjewtino: “Really?”

Blue: “No, shut up.”

At an LA Kings-Winnipeg Jets hockey game, singing the Canadian National Anthem:

Arjewtino: “Oh Canada, our home and native land…”

Biker dude standing next to me: “Are you Canadian?”

Arjewtino: “No.”

Biker dude standing next to me: “Then shut up.”

While at a karaoke party at B-Fo’s and Dr. Vargas’ house, singing Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer”:

Arjewtino: “Whoah-oh! Living on a prayer…! Wow, I don’t think I hit that note.”

B-Fo: “No, you really didn’t.”

The truth is, I love to sing. In the shower, in the car, at work. Whenever I wash the dishes, I rock out extreme-karaoke-style (inspired by ) on The Princess’ IPod. This is usually followed by The Princess reminding me that her ears are bleeding.

So there really was no doubt about going to the last Friday night at Peyote Café. The only decision was choosing the right song. Did I want to bring the bar to tears with my soothing rendition of “Desperado”? Did I want to get all Jewey on everyone with a fun “Hava Nagila” performance? Or did I want to test my pipes by singing Pearl Jam’s guttural “Jeremy”? So many options.

Singing, much like dancing, is an activity that makes us all feel good. This act of creating harmonic sound relieves stress and has been shown to minimize physical pain.

When I visited Japan last year, I took advantage of its ubiquitous karaoke booths, where rentals were cheap, drinks were free, and privacy was ensured. Though Peyote Café didn’t provide any reserved rooms, the support of so many friends, bloggers, and blog fans Friday night ensured a fun time.

I ended up singing “Holiday” by Green Day and managed to stay in tune (I think) for most of the song. wept. etcetera nearly passed out. Of course, I have to thank Average Jane, , and Freckled K for being the first brave ones to get up on the mic, which inspired many more to follow.

Thanks for hosting, I-66, and for serenading us all with Young MC’s “Bust a Move” before heading off to retirement.

Next time try singing it to the extreme.

Men are weird.

We have , weird sports allegiances, and weird senses of humor. We are weird in ways that women are not.

We are so weird, in fact, that we actually joke about banging our friends’ moms. Banging. Our friends’. Moms.

A typical conversation between two guy friends might go like this:

Guy #1: I’m so tired.
Guy #2: That’s not what your mom said last night.

Since each of us is eternally a mama’s boy and takes offense to the slightest insult of our maternal makers, I find mom-bashing humor particularly mystifying. And though it might differ among cultures, it is typically acceptable to most men.

But women are different. Women will never say, “That’s not what your dad said last night” to each other nor call each other “fatherfuckers”. Women don’t have words like FILF and find even the smallest implication of their dads as sexual vomit-inducing.

I asked The Princess one night why this phenomenon exists for men and not for women and why she’s never joked to a female friend about banging her dad. She responded with one word: “Gross.”

I continued my research by e-mailing Gene Weingarten, the Washington Post humor columnist and self-described arbiter of all humor, whose returned this week after a long hiatus.

This was my question:

“Despite the prevalence of men joking through implication and innuendo that they’ve had sex with their friends’ moms, why don’t women equally (1) make the same kind of jokes and (2) find it gross that men do?”

Gene responded:

“Hm. I can’t help you. I am good friends with a twentysomething woman who regularly informs me that she has had sex with my mother. My mother is dead. This does not deter her.”

If even the mighty Gene Weingarten doesn’t know, there might not be an answer. Maybe women take these jokes too literally. Maybe the “Daddy’s little girl” icon is too embedded in their brains to be able to suggest — even humorously — their friends’ fathers are sexual beings. I don’t know.

I hope someone has an answer for me.

And no mom jokes. I’m looking at you, GoPats.

Jo’s and their inherent cuteness reminded me of this video. If you don’t laugh, you are a Communist who hates puppies. I hope you can live with yourself.

“I used to be with it, but then they changed what “it” was. Now, what I’m with isn’t “it”, and what’s “it” seems weird and scary to me.” — Grandpa Simpson

Do the kids still stay “keep it real” and “fo-shizzle”? Do people still watch Aqua Teen Hunger Force? Is anyone still listening to Ludacris?

These might sound like rhetorical questions, but they are, sadly, reflections of my growing ignorance with what is “in” these days. Honestly, I have no idea what “the kids” — those ubiquitous people who drive market value –- care about anymore. And the worst part might be that I’m ok with that.

In the 60s, Jerry Rubin said, “Don’t trust anyone over 30”. Well, now at 31, I realize why. We don’t know shit. There IS nothing to trust.

Ludacris lyrics? Don’t recognize them. That Fergie video? Haven’t seen it. Aqua Teen Hunger Force? Didn’t know it was out.

More and more, I am slipping away from what the mainstream consider popular and hip. Hell, I don’t even know if people still say “hip”. I still listen to Pearl Jam, still think Wayne’s World quips are funny, and think “ooh…‘moted!” is a great comeback.

I imagine this is what happened to my parents’ generation and each before it. When I was a teen and my peers set guidelines for what is cool, I never imagined that someday I wouldn’t be part of that driving force. I also never thought I’d be SO out of the loop of what is considered cool.

So go ahead, you “in crowd”, keep your YouTubes and MySpaces and trucker hats. I’m over 30 now.

Typically, I don’t write happy hour recaps. I prefer to leave them to the experts who can actually internalize memories while drinking. But Friday night was a particularly satisfying and successful event that I couldn’t let pass without mention.

It was a beautifully warm evening that afforded me an opportunity to wear my Jewcy T-shirt bought for me last Hanukkah by Foxymoron and . Thanks to a combination of the shirt’s Heeb-font and Mezza Luna’s strong martinis, most people thought it said Jewey.

Many bloggers, commenters, and blog fans wrestled past the “boycotters’ picket line” — which seemed to be made up of 78% nitrogen and 20% oxygen — and showed up early or on time. I was a few minutes late since I was still eating sushi at Singapore Bistro next door, which prompted INPY to call me and say, “You can’t even show up on time to your own happy hour.” Perhaps he was surly because he knew his Yankees would blow the game that night.

My co-hosts showed up soon after, with KassyK drawing the eyes of my friends and smartly wearing an all-black suit. Happy hour consultant Roosh looked like he was going skiing but managed to be friendly and prove the skeptics wrong.

After repeated inquiries in past happy hours about the whereabouts of The Princess, she finally made a rare appearance and proved to NOT be the proverbial “Canadian girlfriend who I met at summer camp”.

It was a lot of fun catching up with friends, meeting new people, watching a great baseball game, introducing the girlfriend, dancing badly, taking Polaroids, having some great drinks, and, most importantly, forgetting all the Blog War drama and enjoying life.

Thanks to ALL who came out and made it a great night to welcome back warm weather and blogger friendliness.

Thanks to and “Why don’t you call me Gen?” for the photos.

For a brief, three-word recap on most happy hour attendees, visit Roosh. More early recaps found here and here. I’ll add more today as they go up. Recaps. Recaps.

A MAJOR thank you to Pat from DC Blogs for his measured words of wisdom and for coming Friday night. You continually remind us all of your class and what DC blogging should be all about.

Everyone loves photos:

Gen and The Princess

Roosh, VK, and me

LMNtal, Natasha, Michelle, Gen

Me, Mandy

INPY, Jozaff, LMNTal

VK, KassyK, Heather B.

When I was unemployed several years ago for a stretch of 10 months, I had to minimize many of my expenses. I cut out buying new CDs, going out drinking with friends, and exotic trips to Tryst Café.

But one thing I couldn’t eliminate was eating. Since my body stubbornly continued to demand a certain amount of sustenance without any regard for my financial portfolio, I came up with some creative methods to eat for less and, sometimes, for free.

If you are unemployed, cheap, or are tired of eating Top Ramen, here are 10 cost-saving ways to eat frugally:

1. Attend luncheons at the Hilton. The Hinkley Hilton often hosts business conferences. It also feeds the businessmen who have paid tax-deductible money to attend them. While unemployed, I used to dress up in my suit, pretend to be part of whatever conference was going on, and attend these luncheons. Once, a conference attendee asked me what I thought about that morning’s session on biotechnology. I told him I thought we had a long way to go in “our” field and escaped with my free ham sandwich.

2. Visit the . Since The Princess and I are really into Swedish furniture and carpentry, I visit this retail behemoth as often as I can to take advantage of its cheap cafeteria menu. Swedish meatballs, gravlax, and hot dogs for less than $3! I recommend staying away from the macaroni and cheese, though.

3. Go to Lauriol Plaza on busy evenings. My friend B-Fo and I used to go to the now-overrated LP all the time. Once, when the wait was particularly long, we went to the bar, ordered a free basket of tortilla chips and salsa, and ate outside. When we were finished with our “meal”, we returned the buzzer and left with full stomachs and heavy wallets.

4. Search for samples at Whole Foods. This popular, specialized supermarket loves to give out free samples of breads, cheeses, and Jewish apple cake. GoPats and I used to walk around the store like a couple of panicked search-and-rescue EMTs, scavenging for free morsels and devouring anything in our paths.

5. Get a girlfriend who likes to bake cupcakes — a lot. The Princess is a cupcake queen. She’s made margarita cupcakes, Boston cream cupcakes, Kahlua chocolate cupcakes, and many more, all for the bargain price of free back rubs.

6. Go to Dunkin Donuts at closing. I used to work at a pizza place when I was in college as a delivery boy. Next to our store was a Dunkin Donuts, where we would trade food items at closing. They throw out all their same-day donuts at the end of the night anyway, so if you ask nicely they’ll give them to you.

7. Work in an Argentinean restaurant. I waited tables at an Argentinean restaurant where we were given a free meal of chicken and a 20% discount off the entire menu. The best part, though, was that you could take home all the bread you want. Once, I filled up a garbage bag with bread and took it home to my best friend Blue. When he quizzically asked me why I had a garbage bag full of bread, I reminded him it was free.

8. Look forward to . An entire day dedicated to atoning AND saving money on food? Awesome. Too bad it only comes once a year, which at least narrows down your search for food to 364 days a year.

9. Eat Steal from Target. My friend Scotty works in loss prevention. According to his interpretation of the law (at least in California), you can open a bag of chips or bottle of water inside Target and, as long as you consume it on store property, they can’t bust you for shoplifting. He proved this once by drinking a Snapple while at Target and leaving the empty bottle on a shelf in Electronics.

10. Live like Charles Bukowski. The man, who some consider a genius while others deride as a misogynist, used to subsist on beer and hard-boiled eggs. I tried this while unemployed and found the meal surprisingly satisfying, if not completely unhealthy. Sure, you might end up devolving into a disgusting, dirty old man, but that’s a small price to pay for eating like a literary giant.

Photo credit: switchkid

There is cheap or free food out there; you just have to have some imagination.

Thanks Wonkette, for today’s mention.

When I was 18, I went out “cruising” with some friends on Halloween night. Cruising is what kids in LA do when they have a car, little money, and less imagination.

We drove by Lucky Supermarkets and spotted a lone employee in the parking lot collecting shopping carts. As we drove by, my friend threw an egg that smacked him square between the eyes. I turned to look, and the guy had the same expression as Kenneth when Dr. McDreamy threw shit at his house in Can’t Buy Me Love.

Though I didn’t throw the egg and chastised my friend for doing so, I feel guilty about that moment every time I think about the poor kid’s face. I put myself in his shoes and imagine working on Halloween night at a crappy job, dragging those carts around, only to get splattered by a flying egg as a car full of obnoxious fuckwads speeds off, laughing at my humiliation.

But why does this guilt last?

I’ve done a lot of bad things in my life of which I’m ashamed. But this small, perhaps trivial moment, seems to stand out from most of the others. If this were a movie, I’d probably die but find myself wallowing in Purgatory until I was able to make amends with the guy. If it were Greek mythology, I’d be Sisyphus, carrying my burdensome memory up the proverbial hill.

My friend Cagey has a similar story about stealing a rock from an old lady’s rock collection when she was younger.

“I used to deliver the newspaper to her house every Sunday and would always be tempted to touch the black shiny rocks she had lined up on her porch,” Cagey told me recently. “One Sunday, I couldn’t resist and instead of just touching it, I quickly took one and shoved it in my pocket.

“I always imagined her crying over her missing rock, but never had the courage to return it. Silly thing to feel guilty over, but it still eats me up inside.”

I suppose it’s empathy that causes us such deep emotions over these “silly things”. We feel what our victims felt, we remember their pain, we understand their hurt. This, in turn, is the source of our anguish.

*The title is a reference to Ayn Rand, who said, “Guilt is a rope that wears thin.”

How do bloggers make amends? How do we forget weeks and months of “he said, she said” accusations and learn to bury our proverbial hatchets? How do we drown away the ugliness of “blog wars” and turn to the one thing we can all agree on?

By staging another Blogger Happy Hour.

I believe it was the lyricists of Who’s the Boss? who said:

“There’s a time for love and a time for living.
You take a chance and face the wind.
An open road and a road that’s hidden
A brand new life around the bend.”

Wise words, Tony Danza, wise words.

After the last wildly successful happy hour, I am once again hosting with KassyK and , with a very special guest consulting appearance by Roosh V.

Friday, April 20th

1140 19th ST NW (between Science Club and Rumors)
7pm — ???

No excuses of having to work the next day this time. Everyone is welcome. See you there.

Photo credit: matt p

We see them every spring and summer, walking around aimlessly, wearing fanny packs and holding Metro maps, clogging up our escalators and showing that familiar fear in their eyes.

As residents of the 202, 301, and (I guess) the 703, we xenophobically dread this time of year when we’ll have to share space with these foreign aliens. But, as it turns out, it’s not the tourists themselves we have to worry about. It’s their kids.

I was standing on the Red Line yesterday evening, reading the newly issued Onion newspaper, when I spotted one of “them”. A tourist mom and her little boy were riding the train and breathing the same air as me, an 8-year resident.

I tried to ignore them, as the DC Chamber of Commerce advises us every year, but I couldn’t avoid them. The boy drew attention as he ADD-ishly started to swing his arms around like a helicopter and jump around.

“Timmy,” his mom said pathetically. “Sit down, please.”

“I just want to read the map,” this miniature snot-nosed punk replied.

But as he walked past me to get a better look at our Metro system, still imitating a rotating airfoil, he cemented his role as “DC’s Greatest Plague” since the cicadas:

He smacked me in the balls.

Oh god, I thought, the pain. Don’t flinch, don’t grab your precious testicles. Just act…like nothing…is wrong.

“Sorry sir,” the spawn’s former host said. “Timmy, say you’re sorry.”

Timmy, you little shit face, do you have any idea what this pain is like? Have you lived long enough to understand the brutal anguish that comes from even flicking such a tender spot? Of course not. Kids who are named Timmy by their parents don’t care about anyone but Timmy.

“That’s ok,” I replied, committed to not revealing this bodily torture. But it wasn’t ok, and one day, Timmy, you’ll know that.

I’m already looking forward to Labor Day.

Passover, also known as “Pesach” in Hebrew, or “The Jewish Easter” by some of my goy friends, finishes tonight. It is an eight-day celebration that includes never-ending stories at dinner and eating cardboard. Passover is kind of a big deal to my Chosen Peeps, and aside from Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah, is the most guilt-inducing important holiday of the year.

Passover, to me, always meant one thing: family. So in years when I don’t see them, I tend not to celebrate it or attend any seders. Also, remembering all of Passover’s rituals is harder than memorizing the Periodic Table of Elements, so I usually lack the motivation.

This year, though, I decided to celebrate Passover in the most special way I could think of that would honor my people and venerate tradition: by celebrating Easter.

I flew to St. Joseph, Missouri, with The Princess this weekend under the pretense of surprising her dad on his 60th birthday, but really I wanted to Jew it up in the Midwest on the day Jeebus pulled off a Houdini and hightailed it to Heaven.

Since this would be my first Easter, and since I would be representing the whole of Judaism in a town that is roughly 100% Christian, I planned accordingly.

I started by meeting up with a fellow Jew, Foxymoron. If there is one thing Jews are good at, the stereotype goes, is making money. I resent that generalization because it is steeped in anti-Semitism and hatred. But it is also true. So Foxymoron and I sat on the Metro platform and conjured up some cash, as all Jews are capable of doing.

My next step in celebrating Easter was to eat lots of marshmallow Peeps. My friend H informed me that the company that makes them is Jewish, which is ironic since they’re made specifically to eat on the day Jeebus saved us all.

“I want me some dreidel peeps. Or Star of David peeps,” she wrote me. Don’t we all, H, don’t we all?

When I got to St. Jo, Easter weekend was in full swing. I decided to assimilate by helping hide the Easter eggs. Soon, The Princess’ ginormous family came over for supper. Children ate chocolate bunnies and found nearly all the eggs.

I had gone shopping earlier for matzo at the local Hy-Vee, which, for those of you not from the Midwest, is like Giant only not dirty. To my surprise, they carried matzo. When I inspected closer, though, it had these words printed in the corner: NOT FOR PASSOVER.

What? Unkoshered matzo? What the cock was that shit?

“Oh well,” I said. “No one will know the difference.”

I was right. After the Christians were nearly all Eastered out, I hid the non-Passover matzo and explained to everyone that the kids had to search for it and that whomever found it could then ask adults for money. They tore apart The Princess’ parents’ house looking for something they had never seen.

When one of the kids found it, I gave her a dollar. I told her she could eat it, too, to which she replied, “Is it chocolate?”

“No, it’s unleavened bread.”

As I watched that little girl drop the matzo on the floor in disgust, I couldn’t help but think of how proud I was that I could Jewify someone’s Easter. I had succeeded where Moses had failed.

It was a Passover/Easter miracle.