Human caricatures Snooki and The Situation appeared on The Tonight Show with Conan O’Brien last night and oh my god, do you see how fucking short this woman is?  They have to give her a goddamn footstool just to make her look like she has normal human proportions (see highlighted area)!

Also, notice how the color of her skin perfectly matches the chair.  I didn’t know that Neutrogina spray-on tan came in “armchair”.

I tried to start this off by saying,”there was a time when Ed Hardy was cool”, but I honestly don’t even think I could even go that far.  Ed Hardy is barely tolerable when its worn on T-shirts and trucker hats.  So why in the hell did Christian Audigier decide to take this tacky-ass “lifestyle brand” and brand just about anything he could?  I have zero desire to look at some ugly-ass punk-wannabe tattoo shit while I’m drinking bottled water (which for all intents and purposes, could just be shitty tap water that gets put into a fancy bottle), or while I’m staring at your fucking car air freshener.  He’s even crossed over into vodka (see above), which just begs the question of “why???”

I currently associate Ed Hardy, a “luxury lifestyle brand” with three things: skanks, guidos, and Jon Gosselin.  When you wear Ed Hardy, or own pieces of the collection, no matter if you can actually wear it or not, you look like cheap trash.  Period.  And if Mr. Audigier knew any better, he’d stop whoring his name out to every single fucking tangible object he could find.

I mean, at the rate things are going, I’m pretty sure we’ll soon be seeing Ed Hardy brand tampons.  Menstruating has never been so classy!

[pic via luxurylaunches.com]

Dude, I had a hard enough time getting to the gym as is.  I’m normally pretty good about getting in my workouts but with finals and exams and fighting a mini-cold, it’s been difficult to motivate myself to go lift some weights so I don’t look like a fat slob over the holidays.  It’s hard enough that I’m surrounded by a bunch of gym rats in pec-hugging underarmor and showing off arms that are bigger than my head.  I get it, you guys have more discipline and better eating habits than me.

But I’m not talking about you guys, I’m talking about you, fratboy meathead who’s curling way more than he should on the fucking bicep curl MACHINE (freeweights, brah, that’s the way to go) who is not only grunting as loud as possible but OH MY GOD DID YOU REALLY JUST ANSWER YOUR CELLPHONE?  Like the last thing I wanna hear while I’m doing tricep pushdowns is about what a sick party you’re gonna have later, or the two chicks you rufied last week.  Or the “no way, brah, she totally consented!”

Look dude, I’m not one to judge about your personal life or what you engage in outside the weight room, but if you’re going to come into the campus gym to pump some iron and keep your testosterone-and-protein fueled body in shape, then have some fucking common courtesy and put your cellphone away.  Really, we know you’re popular and we know you’re such a brah, but please just shut the fuck up while the rest of us are breaking a sweat and save your phone call for when you leave the gym.

After spending the majority of yesterday hungover, then cleaning up the mess from the party I had to bartend/be sober at, and attempting to do work (but thwarted thanks to YouTube and Hulu), I finally decided that maybe it would be a good idea to hop into the shower and get ready for semi-formal.  So by seven o’ clock I illegally park in front of CIT’s house to pick her up and shortly after we drive over to the event.

It’s a pretty damn elegant affair for a semi-formal, but I’m so used to these kinds of things that after a few moments of polite conversation with the other guests and their dates, CIT and I make our way downstairs to get booze.  We find the infamous red solo cups and gigantic handles of Seagrams Gin and start making G&Ts.  As we head back upstairs to join the rest of the party, I start sipping my drink.  Bad idea.

“You can’t drink yet, we have to toast to something!” CIT reminds me.

“Ok,” I reply.  I raise my solo cup.

“To wherever the night may take us,” I say

“And being classy while doing it!” adds CIT.  We clink cups and drink.

As we later sit down and put our red solo cups next to the custom-embossed stemware and silver, we get into a discussion about what it is to be classy.  Moreover, the general rules about staying classy and how not to be “trashy”.  It’s a conversation that goes out through the whole night, and I can’t exactly remember when it was that we laid down the rules, but I know at the beginning of dinner we definitely went over them.  We started out with five rules of classy:

1. Don’t fall down
2. Keep all of your clothes on
3. Don’t hook up with someone else’s date (a.k.a the “date swap”)
4. Don’t spill on your date.
5. Don’t vomit on your date.

Somewhere in the second course, we start sharing the rules with one my friends and his date who are sitting right next to us.  After going down the list, he suggests we add a sixth rule: don’t fall asleep at the table.  I couldn’t figure out why he was suggesting that, but then he starts motioning towards the opposite end of our table.

One of my other friend’s dates is asleep.  Like, her eyes are closed and she is just sitting there, wearing her boyfriends jacket, looking like she’s about to face plant into the curried pumpkin soup in front of her at any moment.  This is funny to watch for about two minutes, then we realize how incredibly uncomfortable it is.  CIT is the most concerned of any of us.  She bonded with this girl over a potentially life-changing opportunity following graduation, and now her contact is nearly passed out completely at the dinner table.  It’s embarrassing, not classy, and ultimately we decide to take action.  By dessert, CIT is comforting her, trying not to let this poor girl embarrass herself further while I run downstairs and make her a strong cup of coffee to keep her awake.

After the very long dinner, we decide to skip the dancing downstairs and instead head back to Collegetown.  Russian Doll was having an ugly sweater party, plus there was another party CIT wanted to make a stop at.  I think that if I didn’t stay at semi-formal so late, like until 1130, I would have stayed for a little bit, but we had other friends to see.  So I drove CIT back home and I went back to my apartment and changed into my “ugly” sweater (which according to popular opinion, wasn’t that ugly, I later agreed).  After meeting up at at party down the street, CIT, Curly, and I walked up to College, then headed over to the first party (it’s at this point CIT decides we can no longer be classy since she broke rule #1 upon returning home).

We head up the narrow “I can’t believe people carry their books and groceries up these stairs” stairway into the top apartment which is definitely way past full at this point.  There is no breathing room and the three of us are way too sober to be enjoying ourselves.  I run into someone else I know, who is beyond drunk at this point and telling me about someone else’s blog, but that it’s horribly censored (true) and that she gets the dirty, unedited version in private facebook messages (hey author of said censored blog, I WANT DIRTY DEETZ!). Realizing that a) I have no idea where the Natty Light is and b) we have other people to visit, the three of us ditch and head over to The Mansion.

We walk inside and everyone is leaving.  Why?  Oh because it’s 12:15 and someone wanted to go to Dinos (or Ruloffs, or most likely Las Palmas).  The three of us trek upstairs to find Russian Doll, Freedom Poof (formerly Big J, and yes, I got bitched out for using that name to begin with, but the moral of the story is: do not put me on the spot with names or you will get crappy ones.  Period.) and some dude.  There are baked goods all over the counter and the room smells like warm ketchup, which means I am starting to get a little bit queasy.  We all start talking about the night and recapping Jersey Shore, when Freedom Poof realizes that CIT and I are sober (Curly has ditched at this point to go back to the Videofire party).  So what exactly does she do to get us drunk?  Pour us solo cups full of Bartons & Cran, duh.  It was so bitter to go down at first, but three cups later, I’m hurling plastic cups at the sink and moving onto Key Light.  This was a BLD, by far.

It was BLD not for the fact that I just voluntarily (or involuntarily, depending on how you look at it) chugged Bartons, but that it was 12:40 and it was waaaay too late to just start getting drunk.  All of the house parties were winding down and the bars were closing, so by the time we finished the drink and we stumbled our way up to 215 College for the “huge house party”, almost everyone had left except some of the residents and their groupies.  Kinda lame, and definitely not our thing.  We ditch and head down the hill to Videofire (called so because they had a burning Yule log fire thing on a TV).  I stay for a little bit, drunk dancing with the crew when I realize that I do have to wake up the next morning to get to the library so I can finish up two research papers.  And I’m drunk.  So I call it a night and head home.

The following afternoon, CIT tells me about another rule, rule #7: No speeches.  I could only imagine what transpired after I left.  But I’ll add another rule of my own.  Rule #8: don’t ditch if the party’s still going.  Sure, I wanted to sleep, but I really should have stayed and danced and drank a little more, considering there was a serious amount of Bartons to burn in my system.  Also considering that I tried falling asleep back at my place and couldn’t do it, wasting time alone watching more Hulu and playing online games when I could’ve been socializing and making happy college memories.  What a waste.

On the flip side my huge 20 something page paper is almost done!

There are some great moments in TV history: The Miniseries “Roots”, Who shot JR?, The season finale of “Joe Millionaire”.  But none of these, ABSOLUTELY NONE OF THESE, compare to how brilliant the season premiere of “Jersey Shore” was.  It confirms every single stereotype about juiced up, sexed up, poofed up young Italian-Americans from the Northeast.  And the best part is that every single one of the castmates relishes in the fact that they are proving the stereotype.  They are so unaware of the ridicule that surrounds their existence.  Props to the MTV geniuses who thought this up.

I had a small get-together at my apartment to watch the show.  First Lobster shows up, then Russian Doll, Big J, and one of Russian Doll’s Housemates.  Dressed in their trashiest Jersey Girl finest (sparkly leggings, tank tops, and bumpits), they clearly had the most Jersey Shore spirit.  Then Guido came by, followed by a couple of kids from The Funny Bunch, and then one of Guido’s other friends.  We were pounding Heinekens at first, then when that ran out, some regular beers and Peach Passion Andre.  At the last minute before the show started, I came up with a drinking game that would no doubt get us completely obliterated.  There were a lot of rules.  Among the ones I remember:

• Drink once when someone says “Guido”
• Drink once when someone does their hair
• Drink once when someone reps their state or town
• Drink once when someone hooks up
• Drink twice when someone is wearing Ed Hardy clothing
• Drink twice when someone takes off their clothes
• Drink twice when someone mentions what exit they are off the Garden State Parkway
• Drink twice when someone says “Lets do shots!”
• Chug when someone says something intelligent
• Chug when anyone’s parent gets involved in a fight
• Chug when someone starts hating on Long Island

Needless to say, by 1130, we were gone.  It was just too much.  We were laughing at all the choice lines like, “I’m a bartender. I do like, great things”, and “That girl’s a slut, she deserves to be abused” and “I will cut your hair while you’re sleeping”.

I’d also like to point out some other things from the show that no doubt make it brilliant and will keep me watching it week after week:

• Angelina brought all of her stuff to the shore house IN FREAKING GARBAGE BAGS.
• Snooki.  Holy shit, she is a real life person who exists.
• Ronnie must have an allergy to shirts because I don’t think he was clothed the entire episode
• Vinny.  We love him.  Clearly the most level-headed in the house.  Best part is after Ronnie arrives and he screams out “Fuck!  I’m the smallest guy in the house!”
• OMFG DJ PAULY D’S HAIR!!!!!

There’s so much more but it’d probably be better if you watched the show yourself and drew your own conclusions. It’s just too fucking brilliant to put into words.

After the show wrapped up, we all decided to get out and head to the bars. Lobster alone drank five Heinekens and still wanted to go to Level B, but the consensus was clearly Dunbars (because after nearly killing our livers at my apartment drinking to Jersey Shore, who could resist $3 LITs?).  So Lobster, Big J, Russian Doll, the Housemate, and myself walk on over and of course, we stick out like sore thumbs among the other Cornell kids.  Big trashy New Jersey style thumbs.

Every guy is going up to Big J and Russian Doll, trying to find the bumpit lodged in their hair, and every time a song comes on, the group gets me to fist pump (I’m wearing a tight grey T-shirt with some kind of Eurotrashy gold shit on the chest and dark jeans).  Then we run into Drunk Dial and Latin Lover, who are over on the other side of the bar at first, but then come over towards us.  Drunk Dial decides that we need SoCo and lime shots, so he orders a round for the group.  Bad idea.  I can barely make it through mine.  Then, some guy who knows Big J and Russian Doll hands me a glass and starts pouring me beer.  I cant drink anymore by this point.  I am starting to get really sick.  But I look at my watch and it’s 12:40.  We know what this means.

“LETS GO TO LAS PAAAALMAAAAASSS!!!”

So against our better judgement and at the expense of free beer, Lobster, Russian Doll and myself walk up the hill from Dunbars to get on the line for Las Palmas, with Big J following behind.  We wait on line for about 10 minutes when the bouncer decides to cut off the line.  Seeing an opportunity, Lobster suggests we just bum-rush the door and try to sneak our way in, but that wasn’t such a great idea.  The bouncer catches Lobster trying to enter and throws him out of the way, ejecting our group and kicking us to the curb.  Maybe we just weren’t Jersey enough to start a fight.  So we have to resort to plan b: Ruloffs.

We get to Ruloffs right at closing time and it takes them forever to notice I want a shot, so long that they can’t serve me because now it’s after 1.  I’m bummed.  The four of us sit there for a little while after, enjoying the warmth of the bar and still laughing about Jersey Shore, when finally we decide to call it a night.  I’m on my way out when some kid grabs my attention and tries to talk to me.  As it turns out he went to my high school, but I had no idea he was at Cornell.  After about a 5 minute “reunion” catching up and talking shit about other kids from our high school at Cornell, we leave.  I say bye to the gang and head home.  I pass out in bed, ignoring the fact that there are empty bottles strewn all over my living room.

I wake up the next morning and feel like shit.  My plan to get work done in the morning is foiled.  I literally just lie in bed, watching videos in YouTube while in my Cornell sweatshirt and pajamas.  But it was worth it.  The drunk season premiere party for Jersey Shore may have been small, but it was a success.  It’s going to make watching this show sober pretty awful though.

LONG LIVE NU JOISY!

[image via New York Daily News]

Grrrrrr….popped collar makes my blood boil…..

I get it.  I know why you bought a peacoat.  You got tired of looking like a lost little fourth grader when you’re trying to get from class to class in your bright red ski jacket and wanted something that was a little more “grown-up”.  You didn’t want people to look at you and say, “who is that immature loser?” but “who is that sophisticated urbane young gentleman crossing the quad?”  I know.  I ditched my Columbia parka for a peacoat two years ago.

But please, if you’re going to wear it around in public or to job interview or to your country club’s Winter Solstice party, have the decency to wear the collar DOWN, and don’t pop it up like a douchebag.  You’ve already made it a habit to pop the collar of every Lacoste polo and Abercrombie button-down that you own.  Isn’t that enough for you?  Do you really have to extend that kind of behavior to every single collared item you own?  I mean, isn’t it enough that you own a peacoat that you’re telling the world “Hey, look at me, I’m trying to look like I have some kind of fashion sense and class!”?  Don’t fuss up your outerwear by treating it the same way you would your polo that you wear under the one you pop the collar on.

You might set a bad example for the kids.

UPDATE 2 DECEMBER: Style Habits took down that douche-tastic stock photo of the pseudo-douche in all his popped-collar glory.  Thank god I got that picture last night to show y’alls an example.

Because you can’t sell money without bringing up the Jews…

But seriously…what the fuck?

[via Regretsy]

I tried to find some cheesy stock image of a pilgrim or a child or someone giving thanks to headline this post but…google images can suck it, so no dice.

Anyway, I had a wonderful four or so days at home/running around NYC during the Thanksgiving holiday, starting with driving home a carful of my friends and ending with Crack Pie.  But regardless, I got a good preview of what I should expect when I leave Ithaca in 3 weeks to spend Winter Break in the NYC area.

The actual holiday itself was pretty good: I spent it with my family and about 20 other people.  1/3 of them were young children, which tried my patience for a little while.  But when my parents suggested I crack open the bottles of wine and I finally got the vino flowing, everything seemed to be a lot more enjoyable, particularly when I was chowing down on “organic, farm-raised, grain-fed Berkshire County turkey” and giving college advice to my soon-to-be-college-bound cousin, who applied ED to thirteenth grade and so desperately wants to join a brothel.  See, her situation is that she is currently dating “one of the shyest, nicest guys” at her high school (who just so happens to be captain of the Football and Lacrosse teams), and she’s convinced they’re gonna stay together after they graduate high school and go off to their respective schools.

Now, if she asked for my advice while I was sober, I probably would have given her some encouragement, or at least have lied to her so as not to make her terribly upset.  But three glasses of Riesling and a glass of Pinot Noir into the night, I tell her that he is going to cheat on her so fast and that they should probably break up right after the prom, which causes her to get this “I can’t believe you just said that to my face” look on her face and at which point her sister immediately changes the subject.  I think I cut myself off after that point.

The next day was Black Friday, and just like the rest of this country, our family woke up at the crack of dawn (aka 8 in the fucking morning) to pile into the car and head over to the world’s ugliest mall.  It wasn’t too terrible; I got a decent amount of clothes and other goodies all at pretty good prices.  Later that day we drove to yet another mall (because not all malls are created equal, and that’s where they get you) where I got even more goodies, and then some other shopping destinations around the area until we got back home around 3 where I immediately took a nap.  Then I woke up and went out to dinner with my family, followed by high-tailing it into Manhattan for a night of drinking and debauchery.  After hitting a couple bars, I went to some classy dance party one of my friends had recommended.  The music was loud, the crowd was bumping, there was flirting and drinking and soft tender kisses.  I was definitely in no condition to hop in a cab back uptown all by myself.

So I woke up the next morning in a strange but extremely comfortable bed,l still spooning with my hookup from last night, and much to our surprise, we still kind of liked each other in the morning light.  I suggested breakfast, but no dice: family was due in to visit in less than an hour.  I put on my clothes, we exchanged numbers, and a kiss goodbye.  I should have felt shame during the walk/ride of shame home that morning, with my bedhead hair and clothes smelling like cologne, but I didn’t.  I felt really, really good.  I was happy.

I got home and did some work and went over to Columbus Cirlce around 3:45 to meet up with one of my friends visiting from out of town.  We walked around the park, catching up on life and each other’s business and what not.  We hadn’t seen each other since the summer and it was good to reconnect with old friends. The rest of the day was just as relaxing: chillin out and watching crappy TV and making bad jokes, with one break to head out for cheap delicious ramen.  After getting sick of staying in and being home bodies, we headed downtown for some dessert at the famous Momofuku Milk Bar.  My only regret was not getting the Crack Pie, not only for the name, but literally, it tasted like crack (the owners describe the pie as having a “gooey butter filling”, so take it as you like).  On a side note, the restaurant next door, owned by the same owners, sells a whole butt for $200.  Just saying…

The next morning I headed home at first to do some laundry, then drove right back up to school and eventually to the library where I am sitting right now.  In the four or so days I was home and in the city, I guess I should have spent some time thinking about what I’m thankful for.  But after having a conversation with CIT after getting back into Ithaca this evening in which someone from the Cornell Daily Sun assaulted her for comments that I made about that paper on MY blog, I found out what I am most thankful for: blogs.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, as self-aggrandizing as that sounds, I am thankful that I have created my own platform for me to address my views about whatever and whomever the fuck I want to.  And I stick by my opinions and thoughts.  100%  I do so based upon personal interactions, observations, and thoughts on life in general.  Never, except in one instance where I have explicitly linked to a person’s article, do I mention anyone’s name in particular when speaking my mind about the content or staff of the Cornell Daily Sun, and I find in that way, by keeping all figures and names anonymous, I in no way jeopardize the careers, lives, and reputations of any of the staff or people associated with the publication.  And furthermore, if you have a problem, contact ME, and not my friends.

I should probably wrap this up as I have a paper or two to write.  Aside from the one I just wrote now while procrastinating to do the other two.

Forget Lady GaGa and Adam Lambert.  This is hands down the gayest thing I’ve seen this year.  From featuring a key cast member of The Golden Girls to her “OMFG are those fucking BEDAZZLED??” pajamas (sorry Gawker!), one viewing of this video and you will be straight no more.

Well…this and this.