Madhatters

My Love Affair with a Tub of Hair Gel

noreply@blogger.com (Ian) — Thu, 31 Mar 2011 05:28:00 +0000

I could Kiehl's over and die.

So here's further proof that I'm definitely delusional: I can derive endless pleasure from the damnedest things. Like this tub of gel! Let's evaluate my love affair with this tub of gel, shall we?

About two weeks ago, at the top of Spring Break, my Mom and I ventured to the mall so that I could arm myself with some Spring Break necessities. You know, douchey v-necks, douchey black jeans, douchey black socks. After we paid for all of the Spring Break douche-weaponry, we bolted for the exited.

But sometimes I feel the impulse to impulse purchase something. Put differently, I feel an impulse to need to feel the need to purchase something impulsively. You following? Fortunately for my impulses, there happened to be a colossal Kiehl's display standing between the douche armory and the exit. Perfect, I totally need SPF and hair gel anyway.

So I start starring blankly at the mass of pleasantly bottled products until a sales lady approaches me. She asks me what I need like the champ she is. And I tell her in my Fine, I'll play the dumb customer sort of way that "I need something that will make my hair stay in certain positions." She immediately reaches for some standard tube of gel, but I immediately tell her it won't do because when I start sweating that particular gel seeps out of my hair and streams down my face. Somewhat disgusted, the sales lady reaches for the tub of gel shown above.

The sales lady tells me that the gel shown above, the malleable molding paste, if you will, isn't like normal gel. "It molds your hair, but the hold doesn't really stick, it sort of just guides your hair, but it isn't really gel." I immediately give the bitch the Are you trying to sell me mayonnaise look, so she immediately locates the tester and puts some on her hand to illustrate what malleable molding paste is really is. (Hint: After rigorous taste testings, we can confirm malleable molding paste isn't actually mayonnaise.)

Malleable molding paste has the weirdest viscosity ever: it separates like gum stuck to the bottom of your shoe, but then rolls off your finger and evaporates into thin air. Seriously! The sales lady didn't even wipe her hands after showing me the malleable molding paste. The thought of leaving gel on your hands normally makes me want to vomit. But not this time! Shit literally disappeared. It was cool.

Now that we are extremely off topic (trust, the reason I derive pleasure from malleable molding paste has nothing to do with its chemical makeup), I'll explain why I get such a kick out of this gel. The reason is quite simple: this tub of gel is designed so nicely! If you haven't already noticed, I'm a huge fan of black-on-white typeface. And I'm an even bigger fan of the sporadic use of highlighter yellow. It's like some psychotic hair gel student actually read what's on the label and highlighted the good parts. You know I'm always down for a good study guide!

So not only does Kiehl's malleable molding paste help me mold my hair in an Ew, I have mayonnaise in my hair type way, but it also gives me something that's totally pleasing to look at.

Literally I can't stop starring at it. I decided to unplug the alarm clock on my nightstand and replace it with this tub of gel. If anyone asks, I'll tell them I take the "bed head" look very seriously. But we all know it's just because this beautifully-designed tub makes living in a shit hole a bit more tolerable.

I Will Drop This Like It's Hot, Even If It's Room Temperature

noreply@blogger.com (Ian) — Tue, 08 Mar 2011 06:55:00 +0000

Oops.

A little-known character flaw of mine is my unwillingness to catch things when they fall. I'm of the school of thought that when something falls, it'll probably be better off if you just let it drop. That whole "I'm going to frantically grab this falling object" approach just puts you and the falling object at risk. Seriously!

I'm totally the person who lets the beach ball hit the ground at concerts.

So where'd this trait come from? I believe it developed as a response to my parents' tendency to freak out when things break. Like when I dropped my first Walkman. I was probably eight or something, and that stupid thing slipped out of my hands because I was eight or something and couldn't eat Oreos and listen to the Star Wars soundtrack at the same time. Multi-tasking is hard!

Regardless of the cause, I was still forced to watch my parents race towards me in a frantic attempt to save the $139.99 piece of equipment. And watching my parents' frustration as they watched my Walkman spill its guts all over the floor was totally scarring.

Because scars are permanent, I decided I needed a way to make situations like this one less frustrating for my parents and less scarring for me. And since there's no chance of me being more responsible with my possessions, I had to convince my parents that me breaking expensive electronics was nothing to get upset about. You know, because I like broken things! Follow my lead, parents! The only thing more fun than expensive electronics are expensive electronics that need replacing.

So how to achieve this? Simple! Just act as nonchalant as possible every time something valuable slips from your grip. Your Razr cell phone? Watch it collide into the driveway. The new Tamagotchi? Ignore its five-story descent. Your first laptop? Assume its waterproof.

If you don't react to falling electronics, then chances are your parents won't either.

Today I Watched Other People Do Things

noreply@blogger.com (Ian) — Tue, 22 Feb 2011 21:45:00 +0000

Dramatic Reenactment

Today, Bonnie the cleaning superstar made an appearance in 4C. She came because we have guests coming this weekend, and even though they know we are slobs, we want them to at least know we are slobs willing to throw down to give off the image that we are not slobs.

So, yeah. I didn't exactly watch Bonnie clean because that would involve me getting out of bed. But I did eventually get out of bed because the blimey fire alarm went off! That thing is LOUD! And kinda sounds like the beat to most Rihanna songs. What's my name! WHAT'S MY NAME!

So I sprung out of bed to find that Bonnie had accidentally lit our placemats on fire. I would have assumed she was merely sanitizing those gross things, but she fessed up to going all pyromaniac. Oh well. (Aside: When faced with the possibility that my apartment is burning down, I only grab my study guide. My study guide! Study. Guide. Farewell laptop! Farewell beloved objects! I'll be studying with or without you!)

First thing I watched today: People start kitchen fires!

Unfortunately for Bonnie and me, the fire alarm in my apartment is really cheap, and refused to stop ringing even after I got out of bed to open the windows. So I called Jeff because I assumed - like an ass - that the fire alarm would somehow communicate to firemen that my building was on fire. What was I thinking! No way - not in 407!

Sadly, Jeff still came by to check on things and remind me that the fire alarm doesn't communicate emergencies to anyone else besides the people who can hear it. Anyway, I don't know where I'm going with this, so I will instead bring up the time there was actually a fire in 407, and a group of girls dressed up as sexy firefighters for Halloween started posing with the truck parked outside. That was funny.

Second thing I watched today: People be landlords...

So Here's Proof I'm Definitely Delusional

noreply@blogger.com (Ian) — Tue, 22 Feb 2011 03:59:00 +0000

Given a merit scholarship application with a fast-approaching deadline, a complex housing application, and a Business Law exam, I should have no problem keeping myself productive. But noooo!

My obsession with like apartments and shelter in general (there's definitely a subconscious motivation to my wearing a hood) always gets in the way of productivity. And this time, it's manifested itself in an unyielding desire to find an apartment for any and every set of circumstances.

And since the likelihood that any of these circumstances actually play out is slim (although the chances are fat), I might as well share my findings here so they don't go to waste.

#1. The Sale-Leaseback
After working my parents down, I finally convince them that it'd be more lucrative for them to buy a rundown apartment in Greenwich Village or the West Village, let me spearhead a masterful renovation, and then rent it to me during my second and third years of law school. But finding an apartment suited to this context is tricky! One-bedroom apartments will be worth more everything said and done, but can I really justify the extra imaginary expense? And does the imaginary me really want the imaginary burden of having to regularly entertain my imaginary New York friends because I have more imaginary space than they all have in their real-life, mentally-sound apartments? DEFINITELY NOT. NEXT!

#2. The Obvious Choice
Doing what everybody else does is oftentimes a logical option because everybody else wouldn't be doing it if it was illogical. But now I'm faced with the totally inhospitable downtown rental market. This set of circumstances instantly makes me picture cat, rat, and squatter poop. Oh, and Murray Hill. But careful investigation indicates that perfectly amazing apartments are available for rent, and even at decent prices. So now I'm forced to deal with the whole "To roommate or not to roommate?" question, and I'm not happy about it. I didn't see The Roommate, but i know a roommate can be bad. Especially if I'm trying to study and my roommate is trying to juggle bowling balls over a pile of metal sheet pans. And once I lose my roommate, do I really want to learn how to use Craigslist? NEXT!

#3. The Overextension

I don't know too much about the loan market these days, but I hear banks are willing to lend out millions on toothy smiles alone. (Remember: delusional!) So the final possibility involves me taking out a sizable loan and then buying a classic seven uptown. Of course, there's the imaginary commute to think about, but my imaginary driver is aggressive and willing to be on-call outside my imaginary lofty office at all times. So that's settled. The real problem with this set of circumstances is the impact my classic seven will have on my reputation. People already accuse me of trying to reroute their flight from Punta Cana to Palm Beach. And also for planning to do work in Punta Cana. I need to show everybody how wild I am, and I hear wild is mostly just available below 59th Street. Update: Wild 75-year-old Philanthropist Passes out After Single Glass of Wine at Antonucci! Looks like I have no choice but to overextend myself!

Observations from Second Semester, Senior Year

noreply@blogger.com (Ian) — Mon, 21 Feb 2011 03:52:00 +0000

About three months before your first day of freshman year, your laziness culminates. You've come down with a case of senioritis so extreme that just thinking about how lazy you've become is incapacitating. But then you're thrown into the academic trenches, and all the carelessness you once knew evaporates into a musty fog hanging above some overcrowded fraternity party.

Unless you actually become a homeless person, will you ever get to live like a bum again?

Yes! Yes you will! It's called second semester, senior year. And though it sounds hard to believe, after three-and-one-half years of pre-test testiness and unemployment upset, senioritis will find a way to tackle your intellectual immune system once again.

Here are some telltale signs that senioritis has spread among the senior class with a vigor swine flu would be jealous of.

First, my peers and I have started to notice that the weekend has a very distinct second wind. In fact, the bipartite week we used to know is now totally irrelevant. In our minds, there's the work week, which runs Monday through Wednesday afternoon, the weekend, which kicks off Wednesday night, and then the Oh Shit! It's only Friday? period of flux, which starts Friday morning and lasts until Trivia Night on Sunday. As far as we're concerned, the week lasts five days, and those two extra days are merely fortuitous glitches in the time-space continuum.

Second, my peers and I have started to complain about the most absurd things. Like one time, I heard a friend say, "I feel like all I do is put on outfits. I'm so sick of putting on outfits." And then another time, a different friend complained, "I do want to go to the movies, but I don't feel like moving." Oh, and then there was the time yet another friend growled that her "damn spa treatment" was "running late," and would "totally get in the way of dinner plans." Keep in mind, during the zenith of my academic intensity, frivolities like dinner were usually optional.

I could think of more anecdotes - "I think I'm going to Aspen next week"; "I haven't been outside in two days" - but I'm too goddamn lazy.

Dear Santa,

noreply@blogger.com (Ian) — Mon, 14 Feb 2011 05:38:00 +0000

For Christmas, I would like your career.

I Mostly Just Need to Unpack My Suitcases

noreply@blogger.com (Ian) — Thu, 20 Jan 2011 00:59:00 +0000

I can transport things, but also get in the way.

Rush Week is a pleasant week. Nothing about this week is really, really life or death. It's sort of like being on a reality tv show for a week. (Both because it's bad for my liver, and because it's like MTV's The Gauntlet.)

The only real problem with Rush Week is my inability to perform normal life tasks. Like unpacking my luggage, for example. And this problem is compounded by my room's small size. It's not like living out of a suitcase - it's like living in a suitcase. Now I know how dead bodies feel! (Pay no attention to this graph's factual inconsistencies.)

Sometimes, when I stumble in at night time, I trip and fall into my suitcases. But don't get nervous: my suitcases are basically just receptacles of black hooded sweatshirts, so falling into them is sort of enjoyable. As a matter of fact, I'm now thinking about trading in my mattress for a bed of black sweatshirts. It'd be so comfortable! And fashionable! And probably something American Apparel would stand behind.

I'm Pretty Sure the Golden Globes are in Poor Taste, Not Ricky Gervais

noreply@blogger.com (Ian) — Mon, 17 Jan 2011 19:57:00 +0000

While perusing the blogs, I keep coming across stories about Ricky Gervais and the Golden Globes. Everyone seems to be talking about whether Mr. Ricky "crossed the line" and stuff. I don't think he really crossed the line.

Mr. Ricky was hired to host a televised award show. What else should a host do besides make fun of the people winning awards? Compliment them? Hell no! Winning the award should be compliment enough. Knowing that millions of Americans would watch you put on lip gloss should be compliment enough. America gives you three more hours of screen time on top of the time we gave you to prance around on television and film. Us Americans give you actors so much! It's only fitting that we let a Brit take something back from you. We earned the right to have a laugh at you.

Charlie Sheen: Keep up the good work!

And here's a thought, HFP: If you don't like a crude emcee, or if you can't find a way to make continually praising and awarding actors and stuff entertaining, then don't televise the damn award show. Then this shit can be as boring and effusive as you want, and you won't have to worry about ratings and broadcasting deals. Hell, you won't even have to worry about renting out the Beverly Hilton Hotel because nobody will end up showing up! People only come to drink and get screen time anyway.

So basically, I have no pity for the Hollywood Foreign Press because if it didn't feel the need to broadcast the award ceremony, then it wouldn't need an entertaining emcee. So this agony is all self-inflicted. And one time I saw Ricky Gervais at a restaurant, so him and I are basically blood brothers. You have to defend your blood brother.

Why It's Always Best to Just Laugh Politely Instead

noreply@blogger.com (Ian) — Sat, 15 Jan 2011 21:13:00 +0000

The following conversation transpired while Nino, a barber, cut my hair at some typical salon place in Woodbury.

Nino: Maybe I should shave your initials into the side of your head!

Nino: HAHAHAHAHA!!!

Me: Ha...

[Nino stops cutting my hair and looks at me blankly]

Me: HAHAHAHAHA!!!

[Nino resumes cutting my hair]

Martha Stewart Controls Some Things, but Not Everything

noreply@blogger.com (Ian) — Fri, 14 Jan 2011 19:42:00 +0000

Have you seen that sad picture of Martha Stewart with nine stitches across her upper lip? Apparently, one of her many fancy lady dogs came at her when she went to bid the dog adieu.

I find this situation surprising. For my professional blogging career (HAHAHA), I keep tabs on Martha Stewart and all of her domestic doings. She keeps a home in East Hampton, and usually publishes photographs of it on her own blog. Well, her "Social Medial Assistant" publishes all of these photographs, but that's besides the point. The essence of Martha Stewart publishes photographs of her East Hampton home, and how well-kept it is, and also of her Katonah farm, and how organized and well-kept it is, and of her farm animals, and how organized and well-kept they are.

Like this one time, Martha's Social Media Assistant posted photographs of a Holiday party Martha's Holiday Party Assistant threw at the Katonah farm. To add punch to the table settings, Martha had life-size ducks and geese and other barn animals all posing and stuff. Martha's party guests assumed these were fake animals, but I'm nearly certain they were real animals that Martha trained to hold fanciful poses for extended periods of time. Martha gives the animals insider trading tips, and these animals listen! Martha's good at controlling animals and situations that way.

So to review, Martha's able to lead this perfectly civilized and orderly life in some ways, but when it comes to the actual bitches in her life (not the ones she hires), she's just like the rest of us! Well, except that her Social Media Assistant had to photograph and document the entire ordeal for Martha's fans. (Oh, and then Tweet at TMZ for illegally using those photographs.)

Today at Work I Made a Social Media Rap

noreply@blogger.com (Ian) — Thu, 13 Jan 2011 22:56:00 +0000

This is a transcript from a Gchat conversation* between me and Emmy. It pretty much sums up how we spent our summer internships.

Ian: p,.s. i just tweeted

lol

AHAHHAHAH

i was reading some article about ti and it inspired me to

get my T on

2:19 PM me: i get my tweet on

all day long

haha

Ian: haha

i feel liek we have a new rap song in the making

me: it's huge in my possee

Ian: " i get my tweet on while carrying my carry-on"

"i get my tweet on at the hair salon"

"i get my tweet on while eating wong tongs"

2:20 PM me: i get my tweet on with don juan

Ian: i get my tweet on when the lights go on

i get my tweet on while watching billy boy thorTON

me: i get my tweet on in jamaica, mon

Ian: AHAH yessss

2:21 PM bill bob* btw

me: i get my tweet on makin lists of pro and con

Ian: ig et my tweet on while sleeping on a futton

me: i get my tweet on sipping that bopurbon

2:22 PM Ian: hahahahah

in addition to don perrion

me: one of my bosses jsut called me over and i got kind of nervous that she was watching me gchat rampantly, but it was actually because she had desserts

haha

Ian: ahahahahah

2:23 PM i get my tweet on when my boss is long gone

me: i get my tweet on while monitoring enron

Ian: AAAAHaah

2:24 PM me: i get my tweet on pencilin in scantron

Ian: we must record these some where

me: thank god gchats never disappear

Ian: the end can be

"you don't get your tweet on bc u is just a moron"

2:25 PM me: YES

let's keep brainstorming now

Ian: this has youtube hit written all overi t

me: and then when i have an awakward window of free time

i will make i rain

Ian: ahahahahh

i get my tweet on with boy genuius jimmy neutron

2:26 PM i get my tweet on when i feel negative and need some protons

(etc)

haha

2:28 PM me: i get my tweet on at bistro citron

2:29 PM Ian: idk why we r so alcoholic but...i get my tweet on..hey lil' jon pass the patron

2:30 PM i get my tweet on when my allergies act up and i take clarion

me: i get my tweet on in alcoholic anon

Ian: HAbahba

me: i get my tweet on in au bon pain

2:31 PM cuz in A-B-P we go tweeetweeet

Ian: i get my tweet on at group dinners at hunan

i get my tweet on because three yr olds have never used CD-ROMs

2:33 PM me: i get my tweet on eating mexican flan

2:34 PM Ian: opening line: "i get my tweet on and here's why i made this song"

25 minutes

3:00 PM me: i get my tweet on eating a bon bon

3:02 PM Ian: omg its pourrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrring

me: the clouds hur look ominous

3:07 PM Ian: last day of worrkr tmrwww

me: fo serious?

Ian: yayayayag

yayah*

me: i end next friday

the 7th

3:08 PM Ian: haha iw ant to get out asap

*Because I don't know how to recall old Gchats, Emmy sent this to me. So "me" is really Emmy, and Ian is obviously me. Confused yet?

Song Titles Can Also Make Conversations

noreply@blogger.com (Ian) — Thu, 13 Jan 2011 22:34:00 +0000

I don't know if this applies to your music library, but in my music library, clusters of song titles can make silly little conversations. This really only works when my music is sorted alphabetically. Here are some fun ones:

Me: This stuff goes Right Round.
You: No, it goes Right Above It.
Me: No, you're wrong too. It actually goes Right Through You.
You: Well, if you really want to think of it that way, it does go Right Through Me.

Artists involved: Flo Rida, Lil Wayne ft. Drake, Alanis Morissette, Nicki Minaj

Me: Here's the thing: Your Love. I can't stop thinking about it.
Me: Like, Your Love's a Drug.
Me: Better yet, Your Love's My Drug.

Artists involved: Nicki Minaj, Leighton Meester (ew!), Ke$ha

Me: So like, Who Will Survive in America?
Me: But like, Who am I Living For?
You: It depends, Who Do You Think You Are?
Me: Does it matter? Who Wants to Be Alone?
Me: Gosh, you're filled with questions. Who Knew?

Artists involved: Kanye West, Katy Perry, Spice Girls, Tiesto ft. Nelly Furtado, P!nk

Me: What's Ur Name?
Me: What's My Name?
Me: Welcome to The 60's.

Artists involved: Janet, Rihanna ft. Drake, Hairspray

Me: I'm going for a Ride.
You: Can I Ride It, too?
Me: Nah, I'm Ridin' Solo.
You: But I really need a Ride to California.
Me: So go get a Rental Car.

Artists involved: Ciara ft. Ludacris, Geri Halliwell, Jason Derulo, Paper Tongues, Beck

Well Now I Know the Plot of 'Swan Lake'

noreply@blogger.com (Ian) — Wed, 12 Jan 2011 04:50:00 +0000

Sitting through the Black Swan with A and J was a real trip.

I'd like to give you a taste of how jumpy these two girls were. Remember the scene where Nina's mom cuts her nails? My two viewing buddies FLIPPED out. Don't you girls get your nails done on the reg? Haven't you used scissors before? Why is this scene producing so much anxiety? Good hygiene is apparently a touchy subject.

I'd like to provide more similar anecdotes, but I can't. You see, once the movie really took off (took off, like took flight, like what birds do, like what swans do) none of us really watched it. We took my scarf, unraveled it, and then draped it across all of our faces. We essentially paid $11.50 a pop to watch the backside of my musty old scarf for 35+ minutes.

Anyway, the picture was truly moving, and Ms. Natalie deserves all the bread crumbs in the world. And Mila deserves an award for Most Likely to Play Herself in Any Film or Television Production (that is, if she can beat out Jennifer Aniston).

Oh, and also, while driving home, I wrote the lyrics to a remix of Firework:

Baby you're a Black Swan,
Go on put your crown on.
Gotta make 'em appla-a-aud,
As you swim across the po-po-ond.