The Night I Gelled My Hair (PART 1 of 2)

*Prologue: Much like "The Fucking Milford Cunt" article, this one has been eating away at me, day and night, until I finally sat down and got it on paper. It is unquestionably the most bizarre night of my life. I have a few more stories that are having the same effect on me, so as much as I try and suppress them, I may end up caving to them as well. This is going to be a long one, but it's worth it. Part II coming soon. Enjoy.*

I have never really been one to focus too hard on my appearance. I'm naturally very beautiful, so I figure doing anything earthly to my body is like slapping God in the face.

I do laundry about as often as the Ryder Cup. My showering habits some might call "infrequent". My motto on showering is if I can't smell myself, neither can you. But I'm often wrong about this.

One time me and Grahambo were on a quest to buy new hats at Ocean State Job Lot. Have you ever been there? It's fucking sweet man. You never know what you're gonna find. In terms of variety of headwear, it's the most awesome assortment of antiquated hats imaginable.

It's a little like being an African child watching as the Peace Corpse dumps all the hats America doesn't want out of their helicopter and onto your mughandubaduoa (house) .

There are hats celebrating every minor achievement in sports, from an '06 NFC Wildcard hat to the 2003 NCAA Midwest Regional champs commemorative hat. Sure it's dated and esoteric but it's got some vintage, niche value. We each bought hats for $2 that we still wear to this day.

On the ride home Grahambo politely lamented, "I'm just telling you this for your own self-preservation...you fucking smell man".

But when I do go out I shower I get ready and I like to look good. Who doesn't? But if I'm sitting around in my house all day I'm letting my beard grow man. I'll put it this way: If my daily itinerary consists of rolling out of bed, packing a lip, firing up the 360 and throwing on the Stern Show, who the fuck am I trying to impress? KingSean69 can't smell me. I'm not that vain.

Just a side note on hats: I have more hats than Emelda Marcos has shoes. And I think they all suck. At one point I must have liked them enough to buy them but they all look like shit on me. I actually get envious when I see a guy wearing the shit out of a throwback 5950.

When it comes to hats, the honeymoon usually ends quickly, and then I'm on to new headwear. Substitute the word hat for cocaine and pornstars, and I'm very much like Charlie Sheen.

One weekend up here in Orono I felt like walking down to The Dime to check it out. I called up my buddies but they wanted no part. It's impossible to get anyone to go there. It's not an ideal college bar by any means, but considering my financial situation and the location, The Dime was a good option, and I had no problem going it alone.


My pregame routine is simple, and effective. I drink as much as I can in the last 10 minutes before leaving. That way, my buzz hits me just about the time I get to wherever I'm going. It's like taking a shot of steroids that kicks in just as you get to the gym.

So I showered up, musked up with some Polo Black, or as I call it, Sex Panther, and put on a nice oxford shit and jeans. Then I started drinking. Heavily. There is something about the prospect of not driving that allows my brain to send the proper drinking signals to my body. These signals were heard loud and clear.

Obviously, none of my fucking hats looked good with this shirt so after playing hat-roulette for a fucking half hour, I decided I'd gel my hair. I greased myself up real good and then spiked it up in the front. I even used a blowdryer for good measure. I'd never done this before, but I felt like a wily veteran. I remember thinking if AC Slater was there he would have been like "Nice hair preppy".

I took the footmobile down to The Dime, which is about a mile down the hill at a not-so-busy intersection. It basically connects civilization to the distant regions of presumably unexplored Indian territory. Literally the edge of the world.

The sidewalk was wet, sandy and black like a Gulf Coast seagull. Cars were passing me to my left and I felt like they were all staring at me, judging me for walking alone. Fuck, that's what I do.

My Masshole buddies and I torture pedestrians. It's our favorite roadtrip past time. We do everything from the classic honking and cursing, to throwing sandwiches at guys mowing their lawn, and eventually graduating to the gold standard "Go masterbate to men you fag" and "Nice baby you pedophile". That feeling of paranoia was fleeting however, because when I stumbled to the end of the street, there were no more cars.

I could hear the unmistakable sound of Jason Derulo playing upstairs. As I turned the corner for the entrance, I was aghast at how many people were outside smoking. There must have been a dozen people ripping butts outside. So I wafted away the smoke from my eyes, held the door open for a guy in a wheelchair, and got out my I.D. for the bouncer.

Christ dude, I talked about the eclectic assortment of hats at the Job Lot, you should have seen this Dime crowd. It was a fucking American melting pot. Young college kids, homeless drug addicts, old towney couples, and the local Penobscot Indian Tribe all came together to bond over the one thing they all have in common...their love for Taio Cruz and $2 well drinks.

You think your townies are bad? Please. They have nothing on Orono townies. From the unintelligent hick accent, to the faded Wal-Mart camouflage, to the underlying feeling of unfulfillment, jealousy and disdain from having to live in a college town, these guys are unpredictable and sometimes scary. They all work at the same mill, they all talk about their truck, and they are all cut from the same mold. The only thing that really varies is the amount of teeth.

I went up to the bar and immediately recognized the bartender from one of my classes. It was good to see a familiar face among the crowd.

Me: I didn't know you worked here.
Bartender: Hey whats up! I haven't seen you in class in a while!
Me: I've been...sick.
Bartender: What can I get for you?
Me: Two well vodka tonics.
Bartender: You want me to leave the tab open?
Me: No close it.

I did this for two reasons. First, whenever I'm this drunk I always leave my debit card at the bar. Always. And secondly, I trust my body. I am about two drinks away from what I call Prime Form.

Prime Form is the perfect amount of alcohol. It allows you to become God's gift to the world. Everything you say is gold, and everything you do is memorable.

However, that alcoholic sweet spot is very elusive and can sometimes be tricky to find, not unlike a salamander. Some nights you drink too slow, or you drink too much too fast, and can never attain the glorious state of mind where you become self-conscious of nothing. You feel like Mario after you get one of those flashing stars...just fucking invincible.

And with gel in my hair, no one could stop me. I grabbed my drinks and debit card, signed my check, and bid the bartender adieu, ready to start my solo adventure.

Upstairs there was a DJ, dance floor and another bar, so I wondered around talking to random people, until it finally hit.

I was talking to some guy, he was in mid-sentence when I just blurted out, "BORINGGGGG" and walked away.

I had no idea why, it was an impulse that I couldn't ignore. And if you know me, while I'm in this state of mind I am my own biggest fan. I need not an audience. That's what makes it so fun. It's not an act or a show to get attention and make my friends laugh. It's just me.

Back downstairs I went to find some fresh faces to mock. There was still a lot of people there, most were playing pool and standing around like idiots. I went up to this one townie woman, really uninspired looking with yellowish skin, not unlike a salamander.

I talked to her for a few minutes but my brain was telling me to push it farther and farther.

"You look like you could suck a meaaannn dick". That was the last thing I ever said at that bar.

She threw her glass of beer at me, and it shattered on the wall behind me.

She then started closed-fist wailing on my face.

I put my hands behind my back, so no one would wrongly interpret my defense as offense, and literally stuck out my jaw. It was as if I enjoyed it.

Getting reactions out of people is like a drug for me. And getting punched in the face repeatedly by some old chick I pissed off was strangely satisfying.

Before I knew it the bouncers were all over me and threw me out. Not her. Me. It was fucking ridiculous and it legitimately pissed me off. I took a beating like the late Arturo Gatti and they have the fucking nerve to throw me out?

But I honestly forgot about the whole thing when I saw the guy in the wheelchair...