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?”

DC Blogs is hosting a and asked for submissions of photos that inspire you. There are many things that inspire me in this world: catching a great baseball game; listening to my girlfriend recite entire passages from her favorite books; saving ungrateful baby birds.

But if I had to choose two things — and photos — that reflect my inspirations, I’d have to go with traveling and writing.

I took this photo of the pier in San Marcos, Guatemala, during my trip to El Pais de la Eterna Primavera this summer. We stayed for three days in Lago Atitlan, a truly amazing place where we rode horses, stayed in an apartment built into the side of a mountain, and kayaked in this beautifully clear and stoic lake.

I took this photo while visiting my girlfriend’s parents during Easter. Her dad owns this old, barely functional typewriter that sparked memories of my favorite Hemingway stories. I still type on my laptop like I did when I was 7 and my uncle taught me how to type on his old typewriter, one that looked much like this one, pounding away loudly at the keys and infuriating my co-workers.

It is our Thanksgiving tradition, to leave the city every 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’ 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 song, “God Bless the U.S.A.” by Lee Greenwood (click 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.

I don’t have time for a long, explanatory blog post on Movember, our team’s valiant effort to fight ass cancer, or the state of our mustaches. Suffice it to say, our facial hair has helped us frighten off our girlfriends, wives, boyfriends, fuck buddies, family members, and pigeons.

We met last Tuesday evening for happy hour beers at Madhatter. We ridiculed one another, took some photos of the absurd state of our faces, and we then kicked ass at trivia, winning a $25 gift certificate off our tab. Booyah.

Foxymoron, Nickels, and INPY wax the ends of their ’staches as they plot their evil plan:

and I plot a much less evil plan to foil the above-mentioned evil plan:

Shiftless Badger is agog at the awful state of our mustaches:

Nickels thanks INPY for growing the hairiest ’stache by giving him the manliest kiss I have ever wished I hadn’t seen:

Trivia night, shmivia night, that’s what I say:

Nickels tried to kiss INPY again after this photo was taken but INPY slugged him. I’m not sure what hospital Nickels went to:

With the month (thank you, God almighty, thank you!) nearly over, we will have some Movember party announcements coming soon. Thanks to everyone who donated, you guys have made a huge difference, trust me. And for those who promised you would but haven’t “gotten around to it yet”, well, I can’t be much clearer than this: DONATE HERE. CLICK ON THESE WORDS THAT YOU ARE READING. THE ONES YOU ARE LOOKING AT RIGHT NOW. THAT’S IT, MOVE YOUR CURSOR RIGHT HERE AND CLICK THE MOUSE BUTTON.

Thank you.

When the Nats open up the 2008 baseball season, they’ll be playing in a stadium that looks something like this:

Eight months before this artist’s rendition becomes a reality, though, I decided on Saturday to stop by the stadium construction site for a sneak peak. And I got to see more than I expected.

Walking down Half St, south of M St in Southeast, I saw the purple-blue seats of the Nats’ new 41,000-seat arena. I approached the stadium and saw backhoes lining the street and trash littering the gutted sidewalks.

I spotted some construction workers milling about and could hear the hum of machinery coming from the hollowed center of the stadium. I walked around the left-field stands with my camera, slightly disappointed with the lack of exciting images.

The thought of trespassing entered my mind. There aren’t any signs telling me not to enter, I rationalized. So, armed with the courage of knowing my chances of getting arrested were slim, I walked across the sandy gutters and into the stadium.

I was surprised by how easy it was. No one saw me and the few workers who were at the site were too far away – and busy with construction – to see me.

I hid behind a pickup truck and approached the lip of the field opening. I snapped some quick photos and watched two workers stroll by without seeing me. I found a hard hat and considered wearing it in case I was spotted and needed to blend in. Riiiiight,, I thought, I’m sure there are plenty of people who walk around the stadium wearing a T-shirt from Guatemala and cargo shorts, furtively taking photos.

Fearing a charge of theft on top of the trespassing one I imagined I could still get, I left the hard hat in the truck bed and continued my unauthorized tour.

Steel beams provided a mental preview of what the stadium will look like when finished. Though most of the ground under the stands and in the passageways is still dirt, much of the field is already covered with concrete. The outfield looked to be taking shape and when I peered to the right-field foul area, I saw the first-base dugout carved out of the ground and the foul pole standing stoically down the line.

I continued to walk under the stands and found what I thought might turn out to be the steel skeleton of the future club suites. I pretended to be someone important enough to afford one of these suites and shuffled in.

After snapping more shots, I was thinking about walking around to the right-field side of the stadium or even finding a way to climb up a level, when I heard footsteps.

Be cool Arjewtino, I assured myself, doing my best impression of a cat burglar. I tiptoed to one of the other suites when a construction worker stumbled into my path.

“Oh, hey,” I said as nonchalantly as possible, hoping he’d mistake me for a Nationals’ press officer. “Just taking some pictures.”

“How did you get in here?” he asked, not fooled by my acting ability, but not showing anger, either.

“Oh, I just walked in from down the street,” I replied. It’s open.”

Talk fast, I thought, don’t act like you know it’s illegal to trespass.

“This stadium looks like it’s coming along,” I continued. “Think you’ll be finished by spring of next year?”

The worker, a silver-bearded man who carried the air of a foreman, eyed me without saying a word. I nodded my head and looked up at the rafters, trying to appear like an architect impressed that his vision of a major league stadium is finally being realized. I could tell he wasn’t buying any of this and I wondered if I could beat him in a foot race.

“You can’t be here,” he said. “You’re not wearing a hard hat and there’s work being done. This is dangerous.”

I narrowed my eyes and looked at him like he was an appetizer I didn’t order.

“Oh?” I said. “Ok, I’ll go.”

The man walked me out and didn’t participate in my awkward efforts at small talk. He didn’t care how excited I was about the Nats’ chances next year nor about my attendance at the DC United-Beckham game at RFK last week.

I neared the exit and he said, “Watch your step on your way out,” and disappeared.

I could still turn around, undetected, and do some more snooping, I thought.

Realizing a charge of trespassing could also carry a lifetime ban from the new stadium, I walked out into the sunlight.

Wait ‘til next year, I thought, wait ‘til next year.

My favorite photo was this full-sized one, which, as it turned out, I took from the same angle the artist’s rendition was drawn from:

The Princess and I went to Chicago this past weekend for her college friend’s wedding and to celebrate my 32nd birthday.

Because I’m starting my awesome new job today and don’t want my bosses to figure out so soon what a lazy goofball I am, I can’t write a real post. So enjoy the slideshow I made of my favorite pics from the weekend.

And then get back to work.

I don’t regret that someone took this photo of my friend and me in a swimming pool:

I don’t regret that I posted it on my blog when recapping my friend’s wedding in Tampa in March.

I don’t regret that Roosh described it as “so hot”.

I don’t regret that someone found the photo using Windows Live search.

I don’t regret that the photo showed up on Windows Live when someone searched for the term “wedding pool”.

I don’t regret that the person who searched for “wedding pool” not only saw this photo of two guys drunk in a hotel swimming pool but decided to click on it.

I don’t regret that this photo was cached or techno-saved or whatever it’s called when a photo turns up on some search engine.

But for the love of Christ…

Who doesn’t use Google?

Click to enlarge.

I am now ranked first in Google searches for .

Also, I am ranked third for .

Strangely, I only rank 20th for the search , even though it was only the title of my original blog post.

I hope that whoever did these searches found what they were looking for (aside from some photos of a very angry — and very retarded — baby bird).

When I was 11-years-old, a newborn baby bird fell out of its nest and onto the pavement leading up to my house’s front door. I picked him up, put him in a shoebox, and watched him die.

I buried him in my front yard and placed a Star of David, fashioned out of colored pipe cleaners, on his “grave”.

Twenty years later, I tried to save another one. Only this bird was somewhat…how can I put this…”special”.

During a barbecue on Sunday to celebrate The Princess’ graduation from the University of Maryland, we found a baby bird lying in our side yard. Fearing he might become the neighboring cat’s lunch, some friends and I kept an eye on the little fuzz ball. We were happy to see when Mama Bird came back every so often to feed him a worm.

While we were distracted, though, the idiot bird walked onto a window grate and fell through into the window well about 6 feet below. What kind of moron mistakes a grate for a nest? In any case, I strapped on The Princess’ garden gloves and lowered myself into the well to help him.

I never saw a more ungrateful bipedal, warm-blooded, egg-laying vertebrate animal.

Despite an obvious fractured leg, this little turd-eater kept scampering about, chirping and crying like I was trying to eat him.

Eventually, I was able to snag him in a plastic bag and bring him back up to solid ground.

We put him back where we found him, but the avian moron found his way to the front of the house, where he tried to cross the street. We guided the IQ reject back to the front yard and near his nest, where we assumed he would be safe.

But instead of taking shelter, the little fucker made his way back out and started to get attacked by a couple of cardinals. We realized at that moment he was a bit slow, so we named him Special Ed.

We put Special Ed in a cardboard crate and made him our mascot. Still, instead of thanking us for our generosity, he kept trying to jump out. As you can see, he was not a happy -– or grateful -– baby bird.

We called the Humane Society and they told us to take him to an animal rehabilitation center called Second Chance. A couple of The Princess’ friends drove Special Ed there before he could imprint himself on me any further. Second Chance promised to treat Special Ed, make sure he regains his strength, and then release him to the wild.

Good luck. Special Ed. You’re going to need it.

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.