UPDATE: Someone found this blog post today by performing the following search:

Eleven days removed from Movember and the namesake of our mustache-growing/ass cancer-beating team — Alex Trebek — has had a heart attack.

The longtime host of Jeopardy! was admitted to an LA hospital on Monday night with a “minor” heart attack. I know there is a medical explanation for suffering a heart attack of varying degrees, but saying he had a “minor” one is like saying he only got punched in the nutsack by a 10-year-old. Still sucks, man.

There are many reasons why this 67-year-old man might have a heart attack. Bad diet? History of heart disease? when you think the cameras aren’t rolling? I don’t know. To me, though, there’s only one reason why Alex’s ticker “minorly” gave out:

My Movember team members prematurely shaved their mustaches.

I apologize, Alex. I’m truly sorry. I’m sorry the Committee for the Restoration of Trebek’s Upper Lip Hair let you down. I’m sorry we got rid of these annoying soup-straining mouth slugs the very moment we could.

I know what people will say. That I’m a superstitious moron who seemingly hasn’t realized that you no longer have a mustache. That apologizing to you for not having one is like apologizing to Jesus for me being Jewish.

I know you no longer have a mustache. But my Movember bros and I named our team after your legacy. We raised $4,100 to fight prostate cancer while taking a chance of not getting laid for a month. By turning our backs on our month-long effort, though, we showed only our severe callousness. We should have kept these ’staches growing.

I hope you recover soon, Alex. I hope you continue being the pretentious quiz show host I watch every night when I don’t have to stay late at work. If it makes you feel any better, my mustache has been growing back. Sure, I also have a goatee and it doesn’t look half as great as yours once did, but I’m doing my best, Giorgi Suka-Alex Trebek.

If you don’t do it for us, do it for Ken Jennings. That millionaire bastard needs something to live for.

Photo credit

If there is one thing in this world that I love it is eating bread in a restaurant.

A couple of weekends ago, I went to an Italian restaurant for dinner with some friends. The first thing I asked for, even before the menus, was a basket of bread. I had eye-scanned the joint upon sitting down and noticed other tables had bread. Free bread. On their tables. So I wanted a basket. Then I wanted another one. And another.

I asked the waiter for – and received – five bread baskets during dinner. The thing is, why do I love bread so much when I go out to eat? It’s not like I don’t have bread at home. I have plenty of bread. Bagels, pita bread, wheat bread, pumpernickel.

But when I go out, I turn into Teen Wolf hooked on bread.

“Bread? They have bread? Give me some bread! You have any more bread? Give me five motherfucking baskets of bread!”

The Princess, though, always gives me the “Don’t fill up on bread” speech. Why shouldn’t I have as much bread as I want? It’s free. And I’ll still eat my dinner. I’m paying for it, after all. Maybe they don’t eat restaurant bread in her home state of Missouri, I don’t know. But that is a fundamental difference between me and my Midwestern girlfriend.

You know what else is a fundamental difference? Sports. Specifically, college football. She couldn’t care less about it. When her alma mater Mizzou reached the number one ranking in the nation recently, I was more excited than she was. Hell, had a shit freak about it (and deservedly so).

“Do you understand how big this is?” I asked her.

Princess: “No.”

Arjewtino: “It’s huge. They haven’t been number one since 1960.”

Princess: “I don’t care.”

Arjewtino: “How can you not care? I would kill for UCLA to be number one and have a shot at the national championship. It upsets me that you don’t appreciate it.”

Princess: “Is Project Runway on?”

One of the first conversations The Princess and I had when we first met was about Mizzou. She told me she graduated from there and I instantly launched into my proud diatribe of UCLA guard Tyus Edney going coast-to-coast against her school in the 1995 March Madness tournament.

She looked at me like I had bragged about my ability to do simple arithmetic at the speed of light.

But some people, I suppose, just don’t care about sports. I don’t know who these people are and for the most part I don’t want to know. As long as they don’t stop me from watching/following/caring/obsessing about my sports teams, they can live their own warped and empty lives.

But the reason we as people love sports and root for our teams – teams to which we don’t even belong — is a very interesting one when you think about it.

From a psychological standpoint, it is in our nature to need an enemy, an opponent which a group or team can all rally against. We need a clear battle between a perceived good and evil. From an evolutionary standpoint, we cheer and wear our team’s colors because we needed to band together as if we were going to defeat woolly mammoths and saber tooth tigers.

Sports fans understand the joy of a triumph and the heartbreak of defeat like it’s a matter of life and death. We do so because for our ancestors, it really was about life and death. The closer we bond together against an enemy, the more likely we are to survive and pass on our genes.

So I suppose I understand why to The Princess it’s not important, but that bonding with her friends over a nesting activity – like her book club or pillow fighting league – is.

Yes, I suppose I do understand. Still, it was pretty awesome when after shaking my head at her for not getting the full extent of Mizzou’s number one ranking, she turned to me and asked me this:

Princess: “We beat KU, though, right?”

Arjewtino: “Uh, yeah.”

Princess: “Good. I hate KU.”

There’s hope for her yet.

My friend MJ sent me an e-mail last week in which she lambasted her favorite show, Grey’s Anatomy, for the disappointing season finale:

I think i am going to strike against the writers’ strike by watching more TV than ever now. Some people just shouldn’t be allowed to strike and the Grey’s Anatomy writers are included. Not to mention maybe they would be getting paid more if they wrote better episodes instead of the crap ones of this season…

Disappointing season finales seem to have been the norm this year. Last Friday night’s blogger happy hour season finale, though, lived up to the hype. As always, we met up with old blog friends and were introduced to several cool newbies (I’m looking at you, and ).

I started the night by reuniting at the Sculpture Garden with friends from my last job for our Second Annual Ice Skating trip. Last year, Brewies Chewies and I raced from one side of the rink to the other. I think I won, but we’ll never know since BC tripped 10 feet from the finish line and took a header into our friend Chosang’s ice skate. He split his head open, suffered a mild concussion, and started to ask why some leprechaun was after his lucky charms.

This time, there were no ambulances called but we were reprimanded by rink personnel for doing a conga line, taking photos on the ice, and generally having too much fun, which is apparently against the rules.

Afterward, we all went to the Four Fields (it’ll always be the 4 P’s to me) and had a bloggety time. Thanks to my awesome co-hosts for an outstanding night out, which was capped with me staying up until 3am schooling Baby Bien at Wii.

Front row: , Me, , Kassy K;
Back row: INPY, Roissy.

Also, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, I redesigned my blog theme. I loved my previous theme (thanks, Chris Pearson) but I felt it was time for a change. Hope you guys like it, because even if you don’t, I’m not changing it. Here’s one last look at my old theme:

UPDATE:

Fixed my theme problems. Sorry, Roosh, the alphabetical listing remains. Thanks to all who wrote me for your help troubleshooting. In the end, it was something stupidly small. Figures.

I was surfing a series of tubes last night and came across something called the Urban Dictionary. Has anyone ever heard of this? It’s incredible. It’s a virtual dictionary of, get this, slang words. I know, right? Million dollar idea. Kind of like the guy who created this:

Anyway, I came across a whole bevy of new slang words and terms I had never heard before, like “hobosexual” and “Gary Coleman dolls”. But some words were so old I wondered how they could only now have made it into the UD, like “sike” and “dine and dash”. These aren’t new slang terms. They’ve been around since the 80s. I should know since my friend Scotty and I once dined and dashed at our local Denny’s.

We didn’t do it because we were short on money. We didn’t do it because we thought the waiter was a prick. We did it because neither of us had ever done it before and we thought it should be one of those things teenagers do. This was before I became a waiter myself and knew we had to pay out of our own pockets for any checks people skipped out on.

We hatched a plan. Scotty would leave first and go get the car and drive it up near the front door. I would wait two minutes, then casually stroll out the door. I waited those 120 seconds scared I would get caught and go to Denny’s jail, which is probably a place where you have to serve French Slams all night to ungrateful customers like us. (Yes, I used to eat the French Slam all the time.)

I then got up, made for the door, and told myself if I were stopped, I would act indignant and claim unfair oppression, kind of like the time a 7-11 manager accused me of shoplifting a bag of chips. Man, that pissed me off. It was a Twix bar.

I made for the door and as I walked outside, I heard, or thought I heard, a noise. It could have been anything. But to me, it might as well have been the po po. I panicked and ran for the Scotty’s Corvette. Scotty panicked as well and hit the accelerator. I yelled at him, “Open the door, asshole” and the passenger-side door swung open with the car still in motion.

I Dukes of Hazzarded into the car and we took off. He asked me why I ran and I asked him why he started to drive. We laughed and bonded over acting like pussies. I still feel guilty about screwing the poor waiter out of $15 or so, but I’m sure it didn’t bankrupt him.

In any case, dining and dashing is too old a term to be in the UD. Still, the web site does have a lot of other words and terms I haven’t heard of. Since it’s only a matter before these words hit the mainstream, I decided to memorize as many as possible and get a head start on being hip and cool. Like I need it.

The first word I came across was “manther”. This is the male equivalent of a “cougar”. This word was added a week ago and is defined as:

“Single, usually divorced, and at a minimum 10 years older than a cougar.”

I don’t think this word will catch on because there are already words for manthers. They’re “dirty old men”, “Peter Pan complex cases”, and “male bloggers”. Besides, a manther sounds more like some half-man/half-panther genetic freak you’d find in He-Man and the Masters of the Universe. Wait, that might have been Panthor.

A cougar, though, is not a lazy portmanteau but rather a real animal. And a real person: an older woman who goes after younger men. I dated a cougar once. I was 29 and she bought me a beer at a bar while I was playing pool with Baby Bien and my dad.

I don’t remember her exact age, but it was definitely older than 35 and younger than 40. I remember, more than her age, the fact that she had a kid. A son. Whose photo she showed me that night. It didn’t bother me, really. Probably because she was hot and she bought me a beer at a bar. I’m pretty easy when you buy me a beer at a bar. That’s how Foxymoron got me to participate in Movember.

Some people look down on cougars, though, or say unilaterally they would never date one. Why? I have no idea. One of the most attractive women at my last job was this older woman in her 50s I used to see during smoke breaks.

And recently I learned that Jennifer Tilly is 49 years old. Look at her. Does this woman look like a woman nearly half a century old? Hell, I hope I look this good when I’m 49 and I’m a guy.

In the end, though, I think the age difference would have been an issue since I wouldn’t be able to relate to watching the moon landing and she wouldn’t understand what it means to be “rolling deep”.

Hey, that should be an Urban Dictionary word!

Speaking of season finales, The Princess and I last night cooked some dinner, got into our PJs, and watched our third favorite non-writers’-strike-affected TV show, Beauty and the Geek.

This is what living with a woman will do to you. As a bachelor with my own (dirty) apartment in Adams Morgan, I used to do my best Charles Bukowski impression every night, staying up all night, drinking myself into a coma, and watching all the free porn I could find online.

But moving in with the love of your life has a way of changing you.

When we first started watching Beauty and the Geek this season (accidentally, I still maintain), I would roll my eyes and ridicule the saturation of reality TV. Now, I care about these people, these reality stars named Dave, Jasmine, Sam, and Nicole, as if they were my friends and their beauty and/or geekiness were more important than the fate of the world itself.

Some may consider this sweet — a couple indulging in some trash TV and bonding on the couch. On the surface, it probably seems that way. But you have to understand just how deep this rabbit hole goes.

I not only watch Beauty and the Geek, last week I voted online for the Beauty and the Geek winner.

Have those words sunk in yet?

After the penultimate episode last Tuesday, the show told us to text our vote (99 cents? Yeah, right) for who should win this “social experiment” OR go to the to vote there.

I voted for Dave and Jasmine, who were crowned the winners last night during a cheesy episode that looked more like a Mad TV skit. I used absolutely no rational thought or logic behind my vote except for the fact that Dave’s skills as a LARPer made me feel exceptionally cooler by comparison.

The online vote form asked me for my home address, though, which I was not about to give them. So I e-mailed Baby Bien:

Arjewtino: “What’s your address?”

Baby Bien: “I’m scared. Should I be scared? I guess I’ll tell you anyway.”

–provides address–

Arjewtino: “You probably should have been. You just voted for the winner of Beauty and the Geek. Well, technically, I voted using your name and address. I didn’t want any junk mail sent to me. Sucker.”

Baby Bien: “Screw you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

This means I have become one of “them”. I am one of those people who cares about a reality show and knows what a is. This is more embarrassing than singing Lee Grenwood’s “God Bless the U.S.A.” in a New York City karaoke bar (I’m actually kind of proud of that one).

You think my devolution ends there? You are sadly mistaken.

I also have started watching Season 2 of Project Runway on DVD. The Princess asked me to Netflix the series with the promise that I would see Heidi Klum naked, which has so far failed to materialize (though I did enjoy watching her with her knockers).

We have watched eight episodes so far. I know who Santino is now. I have opinions on backless dresses. And I think Michael Kors has good taste.

This means I have learned more about fashion since I started watching this show than I have ever gathered in a lifetime of shopping for clothes at the Salvation Army.

might be proud of me for this enlightenment, considering the night I met her I told her I don’t know anything about “fashion and shit”. But to me, it just means I’m in dire need of a total guy makeover (see?).

I need to read more Bukowski, or get into a fistfight at a bar, or spend a whole day watching old Bruce Lee movies. Maybe I should pin up posters of Scarlett Johansson in my room, or drink nothing but 15-year old malt scotch for a month. Watch a boxing match (live), attend a monster truck rally, do a keg stand, buy a gun.

Nevermind. The next Project Runway DVD is coming any day now.

While catching up with a certain TV show on Netflix a few weeks ago, I told a friend who was a fan of the show that I had one episode to watch. And not just any episode. The season finale. He looked me right in the eye with excitement and asked, “Oh, so you already know that Rosebud was the name of his sled?”

Now, he didn’t really say that. But what he did say was the end-of-the-season twist ending to a show I had invested a lot of time in. (I don’t want to mention which show it was in case some douchetard finds it funny to ruin it for readers who might want to see the awesome show.)

“Uh, no, I didn’t know that,” I told him incredulously.

“Oh,” he replied.

“I can’t believe you just ruined it for me.”

“I thought, I mean, um…sorry.”

People love season finales because they are fraught with hope, expectation, cliffhangers, and surprise twists. Even people born in the 1980s understand the implications of uttering the phrase, “Who shot J.R.?”, perhaps the symbolic archetype of the pop culture phenomenon known as the “season finale”.

Season finales carry with them the weight of anticipation built up often over the course of many months. They often end with landmark events that mirror everyday life, such as a wedding, a birth, or the killing off of a beloved character. No one that I have ever read has analyzed season finales as a concept in American culture, but I think someone should (I’m looking at you, ).

The Blogger Happy Hour crew is throwing its own season finale but hopefully with less bloodshed or gestational expulsion. This happy hour is not only the last of 2007, but may be the last for a while as bloggers flock home to their families for the holidays. The plan: Friday, December 7, at 8pm, at the Four Fields (it’ll always be the “4 Ps” to me) in Cleveland Park.

The usual cast (INPY, Kassy K, , and ) is hosting, with a special guest host cameo by Roissy, who is vowing his own brand of controversy.

After the amazing turnout of the last happy hour at Chi Cha Lounge, this one promises to be one spectacular finish to an outstanding season, one whose finale may be discussed during the summer break.

Aside from this happy hour, here are my top five season finales of all time:

1. Kirk Gibson, 1988.

Gibby caps off his 1988 season by doing his best Roy Hobbs impression and belting a homerun off the best closer in the game, creating the greatest moment in Dodgers history and spiraling Big Blue into a 19-year spell in which they don’t win one playoff series.

2. Cheers, Season 5, 1987.

Diane leaves Cheers in the final episode of the show’s seminal season as Shelley Long wisely moves on to other illustrious projects like “Troop Beverly Hills” and “Don’t Tell Her It’s Me”. Never heard of those movies? Exactly.

3. Myself, Karate, 1987. At the age of 12, I cap off my final season as a karate student by successfully testing for the Tang Soo Do green belt. I abandon a prominent career in karate and the promise of many cheap, plastic trophies. Last time I tried a flying leg kick I broke a hip.

4. End of Spring, every year.

Is there any better time in the year than the end of spring, which harkens the beginning of summer, warm weather, the beach, and, most importantly, my birthday? Nope, didn’t think so.

5. Oregano.

What? This is a seasoning? Not a season? Oh well, it’s my favorite seasoning and should be added to everything. I love putting it in Ramen noodles with a fried egg on top, Frosted Mini Wheats, and my hand. I think I’ll have some tonight when I eat some pancakes.

Heroes is over, The Office is no more, and summer is a looooong way away. So come join us for this season finale.

Because the next day, everyone will be talking about it.

If the journey of a thousand steps starts with just one, then the voyage of a mustache starts with just a lonely whisker. And it ends with a team of men who briefly tasted the awesome, if not hyperbolic, majesty of the mustache.

(Watch to the end for a cameo by Baby Bien explaining victory is his.)

Hundreds of whiskers and thousands of dollars later, Movember is finished. Our team raised $4,100 to fight ass cancer, with friends, family, and ever strangers chipping in $1,403 to my individual effort. Considering I was hoping to raise $200 and our initial team goal was $1,000 TOTAL, these fundraising amounts far exceeded our expectations. What does this prove? That you guys are ass cancer-kicking rock stars. And we thank you.

Our participation in Movember began as the brainchild of team captain and evil mastermind Foxymoron, who convinced five men to flout social norms and fulfill their genetic imperative to grow facial hair. Driven by my desire to not die of prostate cancer and to save my future erections, I agreed to do it.

And in the past 30 days, I learned a lot about my friends, facial hair, society, and myself — not bad for letting an obnoxious soup strainer grow above your upper lip.

Among these lessons:

1. Everyone should have a mustache idol.

My ’stache idol is my dad, who had the very first mustache I ever saw. As a child, I used to draw pictures of him with crayons and alway started on a blank sheet of paper with one feature: his mustache. I would give him these drawings and always beamed when he told me how proud he was of me.

Zorro is also a pretty cool idol. He fought against oppression, for the love of hot Mexican women, and the right to carve zees on the sides of tree trunks.

2. A mustache makes you a rebel.

The truth is, the mustache fell out of favor in the modern U.S. shortly after the cancellation of Magnum P.I. Since then, growing one has been considered taboo in social situations unless you do porn or consider yourself a gunslinger. It took guts for us to do this all month, risking standing at work, being shunned by our lovers, and facing those hard stares every day on the Metro.

The Wall Street Journal wrote a piece about men taking this risk. And a private school across even came under fire for threatening to bar a student who was participating in Movember of he didn’t shave off what they called his “bum fluff”.

3. Mustachioed people bond.

As my pushbroom grew everyday, I noticed more often men with their own mustaches and felt an instant kinship. Sure, they weren’t always doing it for charity, such as the guy who looked like Rollie Fingers who I saw at Atomic Billiards and asked if he was “doing Movember”, but we still were brothers in a way. I went from being a mustache apologist to embracing the very thing I thought I would never see on my face.

Also, my teammates — Foxymoron, , Nickels, INPY, Rory, and Fraim — all met up at least once a week to celebrate our ’staches over some beers. We ridiculed each other for our common plight, drank lots of cheap beers, and even won a trivia night at Madhatters together. My Mo Bros will always be my bros.

4. A mustache is your passport to an awesome party.

The Alcohol and Razors party was held on Friday, the last day of Movember. Though we couldn’t attend the official Movember Gala in NYC despite the fact that each one of us qualified (minimum $200 in fundraising), we hosted the official Mo Town party for DC at INPY’s house and Wonderland. So many friends and donors came to enjoy the open bar of kegs and liquor, laugh at the ceremonial shaving, and watch that outstanding Movember DVD put together by Rory and which you can see at the top of this post or by clicking .

Of course, what blog post of mine is complete without some photos from the party? Enjoy:

MJ, HC, Baby Bien and Brewies Chewies loved touching my mustache:

Brewies Chewies takes one last, long, aching, passionate look at my bigotes:

The Princess reacts to Shiftless Badger’s face manipulation:

Nickels and Foxymoron ponder the end of the Mo road:

INPY, J-Vo, and Rory:

Using my Redskins mug to hide face from public view:

MJ, Cagey, and The Princess before the pillow fight started:

Tits McGee and J-Vo loved the idea of having a mustache without having to, you know, grow one:

Hanna Montana and I compare biceps after I whooped her in arm wrestling. The only thing we proved is that I’m the whitest man alive:

The Princess was not a fan of the mustache, which made her role in shaving mine off all the more poignant:

She needs to practice lathering shaving cream on my face, though:

The shaving begins:

“You look weird,” she said:

Check out Shiftless Badger’s look of abject horror as I haphazardly wave the razor across his neck:

His fear gave way to calm as he realized how gentle I would be:

INPY started the night filming a Got Milk? commercial:

Starting Today goes to town on INPY’s face:

Mel makes her husband Fraim pay for participating in Movember:

Then Foxymoron shows her how it’s done:

Satan took over Rory’s body shortly before being shaved:

It didn’t stop Cagey, though, from shearing that thing off his face:

Cagey feels up Rory’s post-shave upper lip:

To read more about our month-long Movember journey, click HERE. I leave you with this exchange between The Princess and myself a few days ago:

AJT: “I think I’m going to move right along into Beardember and grow a beard in December.”

The Princess: “Why can’t you be normal?”