Category: drinking

House of the Dragon Review & A Gassy Preview

MY WORLD:

The more I look into my one-month-old daughter’s eyes, the more I catch myself exhaling, looking up to the sky while gently shaking my bulbous head, only to return to her innocent gaze and say, “Dude, are you fucking kidding me?”  She’s not, though.  She’s not kidding because she doesn’t know how to kid, yet.  The Warden IS NOT kidding, she’s just there…like a lump.  This big eyed, lumpy Prison Dictator bats her eyes at me because that’s just what her body does, yet I’m supposed to wax poetic about it every time a stranger or older person or some random gooey parent who wears big, flowy shirts asks me how being a new Dad is.  I’m a good enough writer to tell them the things that will trigger their tear ducts, but I’d rather (do anything else in the world?) tell them about the aspects of early parenting that are PRACTICALLY and TANGIBLY AWESOME. 

The Farting.

We’re not reinventing the wheel here, folks.  When your little baby starts ripping audible farts, it’s not only funny, but it opens up your world of fart comedy (yes, we’ve all felt confined in our fart comedy worlds). 

The other night, as I sadly went to bed before I was drunker than I wanted to be (when’s the candlelight vigil for your buzz?) I exacted the only revenge I’m able to exact on The Warden, by putting her down in what has to be a very uncomfortable bassinet.  You see, it’s kind of the only way I can get her back at her for terrorizing my ability to sleep.  “Oh, so you’re going to get me so tired that I can’t even get a proper buzz?  Well, hope you like sleeping on this paper-thin pad resting on WICKER!” 

As I snickered at her inability to secure a more comfortable sleeping situation, I scrolled Twitter because that’s what you do when you’re INSANELY tired, not buzzed enough, and need sleep.  The VP was doing face stuff in the bathroom (putting on war paint?) and we weren’t talking because it’s the time of day where stories are over.  Nothing is interesting.  Nothing is exciting.  Everything sounds like the static you get when your TV’s signal goes off and you don’t know where the remote is and why has the volume gone up to level one trillion and we’re staying calm, we’re all staying calm because this is nobody’s fault, BUT WHO STOLE AND HID THE FUCKING REMOTE?!?!

What I’m trying to say is, we were ready to go to sleep.  But then…The Warden farted so violently, that there was no possible way to stop ourselves from laughing hysterically.  This fart should have a Vegas residency, that’s how funny it was!  This fart, made us forget how tired we were, how disappointed I was in not being to stay up long enough to secure a proper buzz, how deeply annoyed The VP as to be with my insistence that we not use a pacifier because “then whenever it falls out of her mouth, she just freaks out again”.  (Isn’t a break in the freak out symphony better than no-break in the freak out symphony? WHY IS A CONSTANT FREAKOUT BETTER THAN ONE WITH BREAKS?!?!)

The Warden’s fart healed us.

In our laughter, we are one.

You can eat whatever you want, whenever you want.

New parents enter a judgement-free zone (like Planet Fitness!) that protects them from questions like, “aren’t those chocolate chips meant for baking cookies and not you eating them straight out of the bag at 3:07 PM on a Tuesday?” Or, “isn’t the idea of those low-calorie ice cream bars to substitute your full-on dessert and not act as a dessert appetizer?”  Or, “are you sure that tortilla chips are considered ‘good carbs’ because they’re made from corn?”

Who doesn’t like a fat Dad? (You.  You see yourself getting fatter and hate your-) NOBODY!  EVERYONE LIKES A FAT DAD. 

What’s next?

Parental Leave.

Not working is sweet.  Do I need to explain this? (You wrote it, dude.  At least TRY to make it interesting?)

Taking care of a small human cry-machine isn’t a tropical vacation, but let me offer you this “would you rather?”-scenario:

Would you rather get a call from your boss asking you about some work thing that you’ve put off because it sucks/you hate it

-OR-

Would you rather deal with your Warden scream-crying a mere 19 minutes after drinking a full bottle? 

You take the screamer because you can put the screamer in a rocking swing and say, “just gotta let her cry it out,” and sound like a seasoned parent when saying that.  Try ignoring your boss and telling your spouse that you’re “just gonna let her call it out,” and eventually you’ll be lying to your Dad that you were laid off because of “complicated company stock stuff” when you were actually fired for “ignoring your boss.”

OUR WORLD:

Since today is the day of “this may be a recurring segment on Jimmyschair if I…uh…feel like it later,” let’s start another one in this section, entitled “48 Hours Later Without Looking Stuff Up on Google”-Review.  Why the no looking stuff up on Google thing, you ask? (We didn’t, you just feel the need to justify your laziness).  Because when you’re having a conversation with someone and talking about whether you loved or hated a show/character/storyline, etc. you’re going to remember the aspects that MATTER.  Think of it as a test for these shows or movies.  If something is great, we’re going to remember it 48 hours later without having to go to Google and type “Wait, what was that thing I liked in the show I watched the other night?” (You sure you want the title to be that short?  Why not “48 Hours Later Without Looking Stuff Up on Google While Your Kid Scream Cries in the Background and You Pray That ‘Crying It Out’ is a ”-Review?)

For my first “48 Hours Later Without Looking Stuff Up on Google”-Review, let’s talk about HBO’s first episode of “House of the Dragon”.  If you’re worried about spoilers or a review that leaves you wanting more, yeah, stop reading (lowering expectations really is your go-to, isn’t it?)

“Game of Thrones”, especially in the early seasons, was so intoxicatingly good that it’s fair to compare the early episodes of it’s first spinoff series to the original.  I remember watching the pilot episode for “Game of Thrones,” and sharing a “holy shit, did you see that?” look with my then roommates after the INTRODUCTION.  That’s what I was looking for with this pilot episode.  And you know what? I wanted it within the first five minutes because that’s what “Game of Thrones” did and that’s what almost all  good new shows have to do now.  There’s so much goddamn content out there, that if a show doesn’t shove you up against a wall and scream “LOVE ME!” within the first five minutes, you’re going back to the streaming well. 

48 hours later, I don’t remember the opening of this episode.  (See a doctor?)

What I do remember is a horrifically graphic pregnancy scene that I hate watched through my fingers.  Is that really the kind of scene we need in the first episode of the most widely anticipated series debut of the past few years?  That’s the kind of scene that belongs in the middle of season two, when the show has given you enough “holy shit, did you see that?!”-scenes, that you allow it to torture you with the occasional “holy shit, I wish I never saw that!”-scene.  “House of the Dragon” gave us a scene I wish I could forget as THE climactic scene in the series debut.

I also thought that the two male leads were lacking gravitas.  Sean Bean was the male lead in the original, and is the kind of actor, with the kind of jawline and cool weathered face that you bought him as a legitimate warrior.  These two actors who I couldn’t pick out of a lineup, playing the white-haired leads were about as memorable as the first time I ate a cracker.  “I guess I liked it.  I have had crackers since…”  I can’t remember seeing them in anything else, they both lack any sort of on-screen charisma that makes me excited to see what they’ll do next, and I didn’t really buy that they were the ones leading soldiers during a time period where soldiers were so scary barbaric, I’m pretty sure I’m not the same species as them.  (Correct Jimmy, they were ‘men’ and you are a human who wears floral colored crocs in public).

Isn’t it also confusing that the young girl who is now being groomed to take over the Iron Throne definitely looks EXACTLY like a younger version of the last main girl in “Game of Thrones”?  What was her name?  Pretty dragon-riding girl who slept with Drago?  Danerius? (No chance you spelled that right.)  You know who I’m talking about, and this girl looks like a younger her, and does things the younger her would’ve done, but…guess what….it’s not her!  So, that’s not confusing at all. 

And the dragons.  What about the dragons?!?!  The fucking show is about their house and the coolest thing we see them do in the first episode is cremate a dead mom and her dead newborn?  Who drew that up? 

“Hello ‘House of the Dragon’ writing team.  What do you plan to have the dragons do in the first episode?”—HBO Executive

“We were thinking we could show a team of people hold a screaming woman down while a ‘doctor’ kills her by cutting open her stomach and ripping out her kid who, also dies, but like, a little later.”—House of the Dragon Writer

“Uh, what about the dragons, though?”

“Yeah, we’ll have one of them blow fire on them at the funeral.”

“On who?”

“The dead Mom and baby.”

“But, they’re already dead.”

And that is precisely the moment the writers should have looked at each other and said, “maybe the coolest thing we have our dragons do, in the first ever episode of our show called ‘House of the Dragon’, is not act as a match at a cremation ceremony.”

We’re all going to stick with this show for a while (we are?) because we are in this together and “Game of Thrones” was an incredible series, and so they’ve earned at least us watching 6 episodes of their first spinoff.  But maybe next episode, we could get a dragon dunking a basketball?  SOMETHING?!?!

LETS ALL LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

It’s my favorite time of the year for beer because it’s OKTOBERFEST (Octoberfest?) season!!! Now, there are a billion at the store, but here are some Jimmyschair tips and recos for what to do with these (he’s a professional, folks! Well…was. Wait, yeah, didn’t you quit your job in beer? Yeah, you did! So now you’re just a…drunk!)

Tip: Buy a bunch of them now and let them hang in your beer fridge, or if you don’t have room it’s not the end of the world if these sit at room temp. These kinds of beers will last a good 3-4 months minimum (some, you can stretch to 6) AND their quality doesn’t totally hinge on them being kept cold the whole time. Now, if you can keep beer cold, do it. But, if you’re stuck on space then don’t worry about having these chill in the corner of your basement.

Recos:

-Paulaner “Fest Bier”–they’re “marzen” is good too, but I prefer the one that says “Fest Bier”

-New Glarus “Staghorn”–you can only get this in Wisconsin. If you’re near, it’s worth the drive and do it soon because these usually sell out FAST.

-Half Acre “Lagertown”–best brewery in Chicago and it’s the founder’s favorite beer they make. Convinced yet?

-Sam Adams “Octoberfest”–I’m not even sure I love this beer, but my Dad does so that counts for a bunch of beer points.

-Sierra Nevada “Oktoberfest”–They used to switch up this beer every year where they’d brew it with another VERY OLD German brewery. Now? I’m honestly not sure what they’re doing, but Sierra is a beast and doesn’t miss on this style.

LETS ALL HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

People over 60 who post political memes on Facebook. Hey, Rey, we all know which side of the aisle you’re on and NOBODY wants to join you.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

The PGA Tour championship is this weekend and there’s a staggered scoring system.  What does that mean? That the longer shots you pick, have an even LESS likelihood of breaking through.  (Does that mean you’re finally going to just pick the people you think are ACTUALLY going to win the tournament?) BUT LETS PICK SOME LONGSHOTS ANYWAY!!!  Feed my fat butt Tony Finau, Cameron Young, and Jon Rahm.  (*Disclaimer: Jimmy has not won a golf bet in so long that he literally cannot even remember the last time he did win one.  He keeps saying he enjoys betting on the sport, though, because his guys have been close a few times and ‘close’ to a losers like Jimmy act as reasons to keep picking the same way every single time).

K bye.

My Christmas List

MY WORLD:

I remember as a kid how excited I would get around Christmas.  As Thanksgiving would pass and all attention would turn to Christmas, my imagination would turn me into one greedy sonofabitch.  It was like all I could see were things possible for me to get at Christmas, and the only thing holding back my expectations were…nothing.  NOTHING HELD BACK MY EXPECTATIONS.  Throw in the two week vacation from school, and all I had was time to dream up what items, my parents surely couldn’t afford, I should receive on Jesus’ bday.  (Jimmy the Kid sounds like a bit off a pee-hole…)  

Then!  THEN!  Whenever I was with my parents and around something that I may have wanted for Christmas, I would pretend that I didn’t want it because EVERYTHING had to be a surprise.  Like, if I was around a pair of Jordans that I desperately wanted, and my Mom asked me “would you like those for Christmas?” I would just shrug because if I told her, it would ruin the surprise and make her work easier.  I didn’t act like this when I was like 6 either, this lasted into my teens.  In fact, when I was like 15, I was sure that my parents were getting me a car for Christmas because every 15 year old deserves to learn how to drive on a brand new car.  In bed that night, I remember thinking anytime I’d hear a car pass by our house that it may be my new car pulling into the driveway.  Mind you, I could see our driveway from my bedroom window, but I refused to look out and ruin the surprise.  (So that’s why Jimmy’s parents got him a 1984 Ford Escort Hatchback and his Mom smashed into it with her suburban the first week he had it.  EVERYTHING IS COMING TOGETHER!)

When I was a younger person, I would act like an absolute asshole about gifts and what I wanted around Christmas.  Imagine going wine shopping with your snooty Aunt Rebecca, who has been on bike trips to Napa with her book club over 4 times (so, 5 times?)  Whenever you pick up a bottle and ask if it’s good enough to be included in the wine dinner you’re throwing her, she would suck her lips in and mumble “I don’t know, up to you” in that way where it’s not really up to you, but more of a test to prove how stupid you are.  So you just end up picking the second least expensive bottle of a few different styles because…I mean, that’s how you pick wine.  You look at the cheapest and go “well, I’m better than that” so you pick up the second cheapest.  At the dinner, Aunt Rebecca has a permanent snarl on her face and can’t stop from audibly whispering to anyone sitting around her, what a simpleton you are.  That was me.  (Time to go look in the mirror and ask yourself “do you like what you see here?”  You shouldn’t.)

Therefore, in an effort to never be Aunt Rebecca again, here is what I actually want for Christmas (whoa! How big of Jimmy to just tell people what he wants!  THIS IS GROWTH, PEOPLE!!!):

-I would like to not feel the need to have “one more beer” after I get home from being out with friends all night.

Is that beer ever enjoyable?  Have you ever woken up and thought “god, I’m really happy I opened that expensive Double IPA and had 4 sips at 12:43 last night!”  Few things cause more introspection than picking up three-quarters full Double IPAs the morning after a night out.  It’s like finding charred cash just littered around your apartment.

-I would either like The VP of Ops’ birthday to be moved from December 23 to a date in February, or, I would like The VP of Ops to become one of those awesome “I legitimately don’t care about my birthday”-people.  

Seriously, either one will do.  I would be happy with either (how easy is new Jimmy to buy for?!?!)  The stress that comes from being an adult around the holidays is exacerbated when your wife’s bday is 2 days before Christmas and she treats her birthday like the bar exam for how much you love her.  She’s open about it too.  She’ll say things like “my birthday is really important to me” and “Yes, I am seriously angry that you didn’t call me at 12:01 and wish me a happy 31st birthday.”  The reason we have a dog is because I got in trouble for momentarily (MOMENTARILY!) forgetting it was her birthday a few years ago.  The only way back into her good graces was to get her a dog…so now we have Belle.

-I would love my apartment building to install one of those electric chair things that I could sit in, press a button and it would take me up and down from my 3rd floor apartment.

You see the growth here?  I’m not asking for an elevator or an escalator–those would be unreasonable!  But those chairs mostly used for old people and sold through infomercials?  No way my building couldn’t afford one of those.  Now, I will say that I would also like there to be a rule where I’m the only person in the building that’s allowed to use it.  While that may be selfish, that is what I want and asking DIRECTLY for what you want is part of being an adult.  So, maybe that shows how mature I’ve become.  (That’s a classic Jimmy-switcheroo right there).  When we moved into this apartment, I remember thinking and probably saying “we’re young and walking up a few stairs never killed anyone.”  A year-plus into carrying groceries up 3 floors of stairs makes me want to find the Jimmy of 15 months ago just so I could spit in his face.

-I would like to never receive paper mail again.

I cannot remember the last time I got something in the snail-mail (cool, funny term, Jimmy!) that was good.  It’s either a bill, a “what is this? I’m not going to open it because I’m scared what’s inside”-thing, or a bill masquerading as an “invitation” to something that will take me away from my chair.  I check my mail like once a week now because it now takes me a full week of saving up courage to open up and see what’s waiting for me in that checking-account-decimating little metal box.

-I would like someone to take Belle out for walks and bring her back when I’m not looking.  Then, when I start getting ready to take her for a walk, The VP says “oh, she was already taken” and I can be surprised that I don’t have to do it every time.

There aren’t many better feelings than when The VP surprises me and says “I’ll take her out this time.”  She does take her out sometimes, but it is normally me first thing in the morning and last thing at night.  Dog walks in the winter are about as enjoyable as chewing on tinfoil.  So, instead of asking for The VP to take Belle out on all walks, I would just like someone I never meet to sneak in and take Belle out and bring her back without me seeing.  I’d feel guilty and like a sack of shit if The VP was the one taking her out everytime.  BUT! If it was some person I never had to see or pay or thank, then I wouldn’t feel guilty.  AND!  The feeling I’d get from The VP telling me “oh, she was already taken out” would power me through the darkest, coldest winter nights.  Is there a feeling better than grabbing the leash and going to put on your snow boots only to hear that you don’t have to?  I THINK NOT!

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I really like this band and I really like this song.  It’s a little slow, but perfect for winter.  Why?  I don’t know, just feels wintery.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you make chili and see that people have frozen it before so you do that and then a week later you look in your freezer and your chili is covered in mold and you’re like “but, food network said…”

JIMMY GAMBLES:

Not good.  Like really guys, not good at all.

(My account is currently at $0.00)

K bye.

No…Not….WINTER!!!

OUR WORLD:

Whoever came up with the term “Winter Wonderland” never lived full-time in a cold-weather city.  (Did you look that up?  So, you don’t know.  Please don’t lie to your readers, Jimmy.)  Winter in a cold-weather city is a nightmare filled lined with salt stains, dry skin and wet socks that is only mitigated by the fact that it becomes socially acceptable to eat more.  For my Chicago brethren, this morning is the first time this year where I woke up cold, saw a bunch of bare tree branches and started tremble-crying that “it’s puffy coat time….”  Then the VP woke up and asked why I was crying but I was just welling up, which is different than crying and she just doesn’t understand because her winter coat doesn’t make her look like a Michelin Man EVEN WHEN I’M DOING WELL WITH DIET AND EXERCISE!  YEAH, I COULD BUY A DIFFERENT COAT, BUT I’D RATHER SAVE MY MONEY FOR ALCOHOL AND GAMBLING AND GOING OUT TO DINNERS!!!!  No, none of this happened, but the point is that it could because the older I get, the worse I get at containing my emotions re: winter.  Here are the top 3 worst things people in Chicago are dreading about winter:

Walking through slush while wearing your sporty no-show lil’ baby socks.

You wake up in early December and it snowed a little bit last night.  Nothing crazy.  In fact, when you look out your window you say something “oh, not that bad.”  So you’re in that “this sucks, but it could suck harder”-winter-purgatory that feels almost like happiness.  You get ready for your day and pack your gym bag.  But when you get to the sock portion of ready-time, an option presents itself: do I wear my big, hot, winter socks AND pack my no-show lil’ baby socks for the gym? OR! Do I just wear my I-don’t-have-cankles-and-these-lil-socks-prove-it socks for the day so I get to the gym ready to go and I don’t add to my mounting laundry pile with another pair of socks?  You go with one pair of socks because it’s “not that bad” out and if you’re forced to add 2 more socks to that laundry pile, it may tip over and bury you alive before your wife realizes that she hasn’t been asked “can I put sports on?” for over 18 minutes.  Yeah, you just died in a pile of dirty clothes and now your wife is going to jail because how could she not know?

So you put your no-show socks on slide into those cool boots that your Mom got you last Christmas.  It’s not that bad, you’re fine.  By the time you hit the bottom of the stairs on your way out, you’ve totally forgotten that whole excruciating sock decision you just had to make.  The podcast you’re going to listen to is queued up on your phone for the drive to work, and you’re damn near excited to hear if Bill Simmons will ask Jonah Hill the deal with his weight fluctuations.  You toss your gym bag in the passenger seat and…fuck.  Right as you step off the curb, your foot is wet.  The snow didn’t look that bad because it melted, and your body weight caused a splash when it landed on the street.  Tiny-brain you didn’t tie your boots that tight so the splash fell inside your boot and found its resting place all over your tiny-sock-covered foot.  Cool.  Now you’re Wally Wetfoot and you better tie that boot tight because you know the thing about wet feet?  They STINK.  Good luck trying to hide that stank foot in an office surrounded by people who don’t have a villainous pile of laundry forcing them into bad decisions.

Bundling up before taking your dog out and catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror by your door.

You’re lying if you tell me there’s not one second every winter, while getting yourself and your dog ready to go outside, that you don’t remember when you didn’t have a dog and think “that was a happier time.”  Don’t even try to tell me that when it’s negative 9 and you hear the wind howling, you’re not mean-squinting at your dog hoping he’ll be like “you know what, I can hold it.”  But whatever, dogs rule so you when you’re done putting their booties on to protect from the salt, you bundle up like you may get locked out and have to sleep in the snow.  Puffy coat, itchy scarf, old Bears hat, and the camouflage gloves you bought with your brothers at a gas station in Michigan.  Originally, you bought those gloves as a joke, but now they’re just your gloves and your wife can’t believe that she picked you.

When you’re done tucking your loose sweatpants into your boots, you grab the leash and march towards the tundra.  Unfortunately, your wife likes hanging mirrors near doors.  At first you thought it was just coincidence, but now you’re wondering if these mirror placements were part of a more sinister plan to prey on your insecurities.  Said mirror grabs the corner of your eye and you take a quick glance to see how you lo—JESUS, I’M UGLY!  Aside from the winter fat suit, the parts of your face that you can see are white pale mixed with little dry patches (thanks freezing wind!).  Moisturizing is a way of life that you must commit to, and it’s never been more obvious.  Like being hit with a wave from the ocean, you’re forced to go through every part of your last 6 meals.  When was the last time you went to the gym?  Yeah, you went, but did you even try that hard?  Or did you just go to say you went?  And, shit, you’ve been digging those dark beers lately.  And the outfit?  You’re not better than the Jordan Brand Cincinnati sweatpants you bought in High School?  You’re really not better than that?

“I’m better than this,” you say to your wife as you head out.  She smiles.  You’re gonna change.

Once you’re outside, she calls her Mom. “I’m coming home.”

Going to a Mexican restaurant and ordering a margarita to play pretend summertime only to come crashing back to reality the second you look out the window and see the look of pure terror on the driver that has lost control of their car while skidding on the ice.

Once late-January hits, you’re about to snap.  Two-plus months of frigid temperatures and short days have taken their toll, so you excitedly make a plan to go to a Mexican restaurant for a little “Let’s pretend it’s hot outside!”-meal.  It’s different than the norm and your spouse is like “he’s full of surprises!”  You’re proud of your ingenuity.  It’s cute, guys.  So cute.  You know what’ll make it even cuter?  Toss a hawaiian shirt and sunglasses on!  Can you say “Summer in January”?!?!?!

At the restaurant, the servers are kinda’ annoyed with how cute of a couple they’re waiting on, which makes you even more proud of your SAH KEWT plan.  You order drinks and not just drinks; we’re talking margaritas with extra salt baby.  Nothing spells summer like salt, tequila and limey sugary shit!  While you wait for Señor AnnoyedWithYourCuteness to get your drinks, it’s time to start reminiscing about awesome summer stories.  Remember that time you went on the boat and jammed out to pre-nutso Kanye jams?  Oh oh oh, how ’bout the time you had a picnic at the beach and made fun of the uncoordinated volleyball player ruining it for the rest of his team?!?!  And, guys, ‘member the time you grilled those burgs and made everyone address you as General Grillmaster for the rest of the night?  You’re laughing.  Reminiscing.  Dreaming, perhaps.  The margaritas arrive and it looks like each crystal of salt was placed by hand around the rim of your glass.  You do a cheers but don’t actually touch glasses because you want ALL the salt.  Then you hear a screech.

Your eyes dart to the window and see that the snow has picked up and a 1993 Dodge Neon is skidding past the stop sign right outside.  It’s not an emergency, but you lock eyes with the driver and share the “shit, there’s nothing you can do”-look.  The Neon hits the curb and is fine; it’s a piece of shit anyway, so another dent on the bumper will blend.  But it snapped you out of your summer fantasy.  Your spouse knows it too.  Now it’s a waiting game to see who’s going to ask the question you’re both thinking first…”You know we still have like 3 months of this shit?”

YEAH, I KNOW!

MY WORLD:

When I’m not writing this blog in the morning, I’m trying to work on a script and it’s really difficult guys!  In film school, I was only able to write shitty scripts AND I COULD WORK ON THOSE ALL DAY, EVERYDAY.  Now, I’m writing before work and…oooooo momma, I’m having trouble.  Turns out that coming up with a totally original movie idea is not something you can do just because you…uh…want to do it.  The first “assignment” I have due with my writing comrade is due tomorrow and I’m about 20% of the way done with it, so yeah, I’m stressed.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Realizing that the reason political ads are the way they are, is because THEY WORK.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Saw her perform on SNL and, ladies and gentlemen, we have a NEW CRUSH ALERT!!!!

JIMMY GAMBLES:

As you know, I had been on an epic losing streak.  We’re talking the kind that you would tell your grandchildren about when they ask why you live in such a shitty part of town 45 years from now.  Then, Sunday happened.  Guys…I hit a 4-team parlay and it felt like I, personally, defeated ISIS and saved humanity from their reign of terror.  The VP did not share my level of excitement, but she did hit me with a semi-genuine “oh, yay!”  So that was nice.  Did I squander some of my winnings by then betting on the Packers moneyline because my friend is a Packers fan and I’m a great great great friend?  Yes, I did, but I also cemented my status as a “great great great friend” in the process.  So, as far as I can tell, that’s pretty much breaking even.  I told a few people yesterday to bet on the Titans moneyline and then forgot to place that bet myself, so…that was fucking annoying.  Probably gonna take tonight off to watch voting results while praying the Republicans takes that much deserved L.

(My account is currently at $100.72)

K bye.

Work (11/1/18)

OUR WORLD:

Meh, I’ve been wrapped up in my own world lately.  Go see “A Star Is Born” if you haven’t.

MY WORLD:

You know what is one of the coolest feelings I get to feel in life?  It’s when someone says that I should get back to writing this blog because they miss reading it.  There’s nothing deep or poetic coming, it’s just a cool fucking feeling.

I don’t want this blog to devolve into one post every three weeks that basically explains why I haven’t been writing it (uh oh, I feel that’s what’s about to come here though…)  BUT (no!  He’s gonna do it!) that’s what’s about to come here.  The reason I haven’t been as active on Jimmyschair is because I think I’ve been going through some sort of third-life crisis (planning to live till you’re 99?  Sure, pal.  Those drinking habits will NEVER catch up with you!) AND because I’m trying to write a script that will someday win a competition and me a bunch of money…But mostly, because I’m fucking awesome at making excuses.  That’s the truth.

When I got back back from Ireland, I felt kinda’ changed.  When I told my Dad that it was a “life-changing experience”, he did what I would’ve done before I left if someone told me that: gently rolled his eyes in a “I’m not being openly”-rude, but “I’m not not being openly”-rude kind of way.  When he did it, I wasn’t offended, but felt more certain of it.  Like, “oh, you don’t believe me? watch this”….So I proceed to get kind of depressed about my place in life for the next 6 weeks. See Dad!  Before I left, I was relatively happy.  Now, I’m relatively sad.  HAPPY TO SAD SOUNDS LIKE A LIFE CHANGE TO ME!!!

Let’s not go overboard here, either.  Using the “D” word (depressed? oh, yikes) is something I did by accident in the paragraph above.  I still use that word lighter than most, and it’s because that’s how I was raised.  I get that joking about depression is a big no-no today, but…just, come on.  I’ve been kinda’ down lately and I wanted to use that word so get over it.  Have I been clinically depressed?  (What are you a fuckin’ doctor?)  No, I haven’t (HE DOESN’T KNOW THAT FOR SURE, GUYS!)  There are just times when it feels like, “fuck, am I too far behind to catch up?”

How does this happen?  I’ll tell you!  You go on the trip of a lifetime.  You see the world for, literally, the first time, and you come back home feeling invigorated and like you’re going to change a few things to live that fuller life that’s possible.  But first you have to rest and be lazy for a few days because you’re tired from the trip.  Then after you rest, you’re like, “wait, what was that thing I was gonna do?”  By then, your body and brain has reacclimated to being that chair person that’s on every episode of trashy daytime television crying about how they’ve “tried every diet and NOTHING works!”

I wasn’t eating that well and had started to convince myself that gaining a few pounds is a thing that most adult males do, so fuck it.  I got back into snacks and scrolling through instagram for hours on end!  HOW COULD ANYTHING GO WRONG?  Maybe, JUST MAYBE, scanning the internet for everyone’s best picture of them living their best life for hours on end, isn’t the healthiest habit.  Maybe it hypnotized me into forgetting about how manicured people’s Instagram lives are.  Actually, not ‘maybe’, that’s what happened.  Instagram started feeling like a window into the lives of those around me and those lives looked way better than mine.  Where’s the window showing someone have a near panic-attack when trading in their leased 2016 Chevy Equinox?  “So like, how close do they inspect all the dents and dings?  Do they use a magnifying glass?  Or, just like run around the car real fast and not look closely at all?”

So then it’s time to play the age game, right?  The “I’m 33 years old so I shouldn’t be dealing with”-whatever game.  Mine version of the age game went something like “I’m 33 years old so I shouldn’t be panicking about how I’d pay for moderate car repairs.”  (I’m still kinda’ panicking about that btw, but I’m gaining perspective.)  Then, instead of going to the gym to make my brain feel better, I’d jump into the pity party steam-room and inhale only excuses.  “It is dark out and you’re sad about not being a millionaire so it’s okay to skip the gym.”  AGAIN, WHAT COULD GO WRONG?

Shit gains momentum when you let it.  All of a sudden, I’m kinda quiet and getting angry about things that shouldn’t make me angry.  You know how you get annoyed when you hear someone unwrapping a little piece of candy?  They crinkle the wrapper for two seconds and you feel a rush of “JUST THROW IT THE FUCK OUT!”  But once second number three hits, you’re fine and you totally forgot about it.  I was more of the “I still remember you and that fucking wrapper AND I WILL EXACT UNMERCIFUL REVENGE!” like a day later.  You ever tell your spouse or someone you’re super close with “I’m not mad at you, I’m just mad at everything” through clenched teeth?  The VP may have heard that once or twice.

Then I’d sit down in front of my computer, stare at the blank screen and try to write Jimmyschair.  Except now, the feeling I get looking at the blank word document had seeped into the rest of my life.  It wasn’t a challenge, it was standing over me celebrating it’s knockout.  And, guess what? The canvas is comfy!  I think that’s how it happens.  The first few times you’re lazy and stop trying and have a few beers and some pizza, it’s really enjoyable!  And if it’s not really enjoyable, it is really easy.  You’re like “wait, not trying is definitely easier than trying.  This is great!”

The canvas was comfy at first.  Not writing this blog was easier than writing this blog, so I did that.  But my tricky tricky brain did this thing where it convinced me that the reason I wasn’t writing this blog was also because it’s kind of a waste of time.  If I’m overtaken with stress about paying for a dented bumper and rent and our flights for that wedding and student loans and shit, we’ve gotta have a kid soon, right?  If I’m consumed with money-related stress, then I should only spend time on things that can make me money, right?  And, spoiler alert, I don’t earn money from this blog.  Thus, waste of time.  My mind jiu-jitsued my laziness into an acceptable response to stress.

So I stopped writing my blog for a while and spent time trying to figure out a way to make money writing.  But writing is like going to the gym, which I was also NOT doing, in that the longer you go without doing it, the harder it is to get back into it.  The next logical step to take, once out of proper writing shape, was to make the decision that writing a script was where my efforts should go.  Writing a blog was too hard, but writing my first script in 6 years and making it a good enough one to win a competition and provoke a Hollywood bidding war was reasonable.  YIKES!  Try taking a year off from running then convincing yourself a week before the Boston Marathon, that you could win it.  It should not have come as a surprise that the following mornings were spent, yet again, staring at a blank page, unable to muster a fuckin’ thing.

I forced myself to the gym again.  My ankle hurt and all my workout shirts were a little tighter than they used to be, but I went and forced the treadmill.  And it felt good.  My legs hurt like “should I go to a leg doctor person?” but it felt good.  And then I did it again and again and took a little break and then again and again.  I’m getting there.

I texted two old screenwriting friends for the first time in years and asked if it was still possible to do the whole write-a-movie-thing.  I knew they’d respond “yes,” but I needed to see it.  They didn’t respond “yes” though, they responded “FUCK YES!”  So now I created a writing schedule with one of them to hold each other accountable as we write our next script.

With the script work and the gym and my job, I just didn’t have time for Jimmyschair.  Right?  Right.  Until I did.

That felt good.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Yeah, I got really into this movie and soundtrack.  I’m sure it had nothing to do with my moods…

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When people drive down alleys behind your apartment like they’re actual roads and almost smash into you and your numbah one pretty girl dogga.  Even if they’re not that close to actually hitting you, it wouldn’t be the worst thing if Michael Myers stumbled upon those drivers alone at night.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

It should come as no surprise that my bout with laziness and being kinda’ blue coincided with a DASTARDLY gambling run.  Does it also then come as no surprise that I didn’t start writing this blog again until I won my first parlay in weeks on Monday night and that’s the last bet I made?  Yeah, I’ve taken two days off to bask in the glory of my Monday night parlay, and you know what?

It feels good…and it’s going to feel even better when the Raiders cover tonight against the 49ers.  Yes, the Raiders blow, but betting on CJ Beathard as a favorite makes me wanna puke.

(My account is currently at $70ish)

K bye.

 

 

The Current State of (like, some) Television (10-3-18)

OUR WORLD:

When all you do for a couple weeks is go to work, hang at home with a recovering VP (remember El Lumperoni?  Yeah, that’s gone now), sleep and eat and okay, there was some other stuff too….(stay focused Jimmy, this is what writing takes!) THE POINT IS WE’VE DONE A LOT OF EATING AND WATCHING TELEVISION LATELY BECAUSE SURGERY IS A PERFECT EXCUSE TO DO JUST THAT AND NOT FEEL TOO GUILTY ABOUT IT!  One of the few cool things about helping your wife recover from a surgery is that you kinda’ get to act like you’re recovering too and that means eating whatever you want and not going out and watching as much television as you want WITHOUT GUILT!!!  I have descended into full-on “it’s okay if we don’t do that”-mode.  So, in an effort to take a break from being completely useless in the name of solidarity (no, my ankle is still not fully whole, but I’m not a look-at-me-guy) I would like to provide some quick reviews for tv shows that you can watch when your mother in law is staying with you as your wife recovers from lumperoni surgery:

“The First” (Netflix)

Hand up, it was going to be nearly impossible for me not to love this show.  It’s about space and Sean Penn is the star?  Even if it turned out to be a rap-musical with Penn doing an Arnold Schwarzenneger voice, I would probably talk myself into loving it because “Sean Penn takes chances!”  Fortunately, SEAN PENN USED HIS NORMAL VOICE AND IT’S NOT A RAP-MUSICAL!  (For a second, I thought about just leaving my review for this show at that.  Can you even imagine?!?! Aren’t I a GOOF?!?!?!)

This show is about Sean Penn trying to be a part of the first mission to Mars while repairing a fractured relationship with a college-aged daughter who likes doing the scary drugs sometimes.  I know what you’re thinking: “Didn’t Sean Penn also play father to a college-aged daughter in ‘Mystic River’?” Uh, you bet your fucking ass he did!  CAN YOU SAY WHEELHOUSE?!?!  If you weren’t convinced yet that Sean Penn isn’t the best “I love my daughter, but I have personal demons”-actor in the game, this show settles that.  Nobody walks the tightrope of love and struggle better than Penn, and that’s on display again in “The First”.  Remember the “is that my daughter?!?!” scene in “Mystic River”?  There are a couple of those scenes throughout the first season of this show, and they are not overacted, or overdramatic.  They give you goosebumps as you shake your head and say “nobody is a better actor than Sean Penn.”

So like, have I driven home the fact that I love Sean Penn enough yet?  K, got it.  Aside from King Sean, this show is deliberate with it’s storylines and relationships.  Nothing feels forced or manipulated or not completely realistic.  For a show about going to mars 20ish years in the future, that’s not a minor accomplishment.  The technological advances they show in society feel attainable and not silly.  There are no flying cars, but there are self-driven cars and…uh…Jimmy likey (dude, 3rd person, really?)  This is the kind of show that comes on five years ago and everyone is blown away by how well-done it is.  TV is so crowded with fantastic shows now that the top tier don’t get the sort of adulation that they used to.  “The First” belongs on that top tier.

Final Jimmyschair Verdict:  Watch it and please don’t try to enlighten me about Sean Penn’s potentially sketchy personal life because I don’t care about that.

“The Voice” (NBC)

I used to be very ready to jump to the defense of this show whenever the HATERS would start to get lippy.  “But Blake and Adam have real chemistry!” is definitely a sentence I have said in the past.  Unfortunately, my muscles are tired from not working them out (isn’t that called atrophy? I SAID THEY’RE TIRED!) so I don’t have it in me to defend this show like I used to.  Kelly Clarkson and Jennifer Hudson now sit in between Adam and Blake and everything in this show just feels kinda’ played out and pointless.

Blake and Adam pretend to talk shit to each other, but it’s hard to replicate genuine shit talk when you’re on NBC and can’t say things that real guy friends say to each other, like “oh yeah? How about you go fuck yourself?”  I know these dudes have that in them too because Blake drinks a lot and Adam has been on Howard Stern.  You know they’re dying to tell each other to “suck on deez nuts,” but they can’t because of the government so instead they gently make fun of their manicured wardrobes.  Oh, and that’s another thing, can Adam cool it with the sweatpants?  He’s gotta be almost 40 and is still not in a cool enough rock band to wear whatever he wants without consequences.  He’s wearing sweatpants and Jordans and I, for one, have had enough.

The real weak spot of the show though is that neither myself or The VP or The VP’s mom or your mom or anyone you know can think of one actual star that this show has produced.  Quick, who is the biggest star to ever come from the contestant pool of “The Voice”?  That, my friends, is what we in the biz like to call “a problem.”  If you connect with a contestant and are rooting for them to become the next Kelly Clarkson, then there are stakes and a real pot of gold at the end of their rainbow.  But when you’re rooting for someone to be as famous as that country guy who sang rock songs a few years back and no one has heard from since, it feels less critical.  And speaking of Kelly Clarkson, who knew she was unbelievably annoying?  She thinks everything she says is hilarious, she gets up and walks around on stage way too much and makes everything about her.  Hey Kelly, please stick to singing songs that nobody I know actually likes that much and GET OUT OF MY FACE!

Final Jimmyschair Verdict:  Welcome to Skipville, USA.  This show has run its course and Adam Levine is beginning to realize it’s happening right before his band becomes the most unpopular pick to ever play the Super Bowl Halftime Show.

“Chopped” (Food Network)

This show is perfect background noise while you scroll Twitter and Instagram and Snapchat and your group chat and  GMail and espn.com and WE’RE ALL ADDICTED TO OUR PHONES!  Did background noise shows like this exist before we were all more interested in staring at our phones? Or, did they come about because some twisted Hollywood genius was like “maybe we should create shows that are non-offensive and don’t take much attention so people can Instagram-stalk their co-workers overweight aunt with the weird hair.”  Chicken or the egg, am I right?

Non-offensive background noise is a new category of television show that I believe is VASTLY under appreciated.  Most of the time, when I ask The VP what she wants to watch, I’m hit with a “I don’t care” as she continues to not look at me, transfixed by her phone screen.  I’m not throwing shade at that answer, either, because I know I do the same thing sometimes.  When either of us are in that mode, we can’t put on a new cool show that takes concentration because we’ll get annoyed that one of us is constantly asking “wait, who’s that guy?”  So instead, it’s easier to put on some non-offensive, minimum concentration required type of show that masks our new most glaring addiction.  These types of shows are especially valuable when your mother in law is in town and staying at your place.  (Real talk, I like when my mother in law stays with us.  No snappy zinger coming, I just do like it.)

Oh, so “Chopped”?  You know it.  The show does what it’s supposed to do.  So instead of evaluating specific aspects of a show that you’re watching to avoid needing to monitor specifics, here are some other shows that fall into the “Non-offensive Background Noise” category:  All of Food Network, “The Office” reruns, “Parks and Rec” reruns, “Seinfeld” reruns, “Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee”, and regular season baseball games.

Final Jimmyschair Verdict:  Put this on and get back to what you really want to do–watching videos of kids getting hurt on Instagram.  Seriously, check out @kidsgettinghurt on Insta.  It’s gold.

MY WORLD:

So I still need to finish my Ireland recaps, but I was starting to get self-conscious that the 7 readers of this blog were like “we get it, you went to Ireland!”  Hitting the pause button on those for now.  As I alluded to in the above section, the VP had surgery last week to get that lump out of her booby.  It went well and our friends are amazing and I want to write about it but my writing muscles, like the rest of my body, are out of shape right now.  Gimme a couple of days back in the gym (aka on my dining room table chair sitting and writing) and I’ll turn out a decent “my world”.  If this section is reading like an excuse today, that’s because it is.  Honestly only here.

LET’S LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The new album from Metric is AMAZING.  Here’s a live version of my favorite song off of it…

 

LET’S HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

That Cubs game last night.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I have been an absolute fiend gambling on everything since I got back from Ireland.  I got up over $400, so I pulled $300 out (a check I have yet to receive yet btw but I’m not even worried about it…not even one little bit that I haven’t received a check I asked for 11 days ago now).  Feeling especially hot, I bet almost every college football game last weekend and lost every single bet I made.  Not kidding.  Every single bet.  So, I made another deposit for NFL Sunday and, again, lost every single bet I made.  Then I made another deposit last night before the Cubs game because the year they won the World Series I bet on them every game so it was really for luck’s sake.  And the Cubs lost last night.  In short, things have been going less than ideal.

(My account is currently at: $0.00)

K bye.

The VP and I Go To Ireland – Part 2 of ? – (9/18/18)

-CONTINUED-

Rumbling.  The other tourists around me heard it too, but they carried on.  This church, it seemed, was worth ignoring looming threats from beyond it’s walls. Something was off.  Something was…coming…I sprung up out of the pew, blew a kiss to the rendering of our lord and savior Jesus Harry Christ and ripped my shirt off.  This was no time for restricted movements.  “Jimmy, what’s happening?!?!”–shrieked The VP from near the confessional.  The walls shivered, a baby cried.  Panic reigned as I reached The VP.  Stained glass shattered behind me; sprinting down aisles meant for solemn processionals.  The VP, slung over my shoulder (kettle bells), violently gasped “FASTER!  FASTER JIMMY!” Thankfully, quiet nights spent training on Planet Fitness stair masters back home gave me that extra gear.  Nearing the exit, I looked back, sweat stinging my eyes as the shadowy intruders rushed towards us.  “Not today,” I said, “not today.”

Then we got outside, I put my shirt back on and we walked over to Guinness.

Pic 1A

Having worked in beer for a while now, I was expecting a pretty routine tourist experience.  I know what you’re thinking “I thought you weren’t those Americans?”  Yeah, well I mean I just said I wasn’t even that excited about the Guinness tour, so we’re not.  So shut up.  The VP had yet to have a Guinness in Ireland yet and, even though she had tried a sip or two of mine back in the states, had no real feelings toward the product. Honestly, neither did I.  Outside of some St. Patrick’s day slamming, I rarely drank Guinness.  The VP did a great job of feigning excitement as we entered; an Oscar-worthy performance if I’m being completely hyperbolic (see what I did there? WINK!)

I’m telling you, though, as we started the self-guided tour it became a progression of shared looks that went from “hmmm….” to “well, I mean, that’s cool” to “holy shit!  Here, come check this out!”  I’ve heard people say that it’s a museum, but museums are static.  This place crackled.  It’s not a museum, it’s an adult amusement park (no…that sounds X-rated.  Try again).  The Guinness storehouse is a beer-fueled V12 engine that, amazingly, does not swerve.

The tour guides are natural performers, engaging as they walk you through how to pour a perfect pint and how to properly taste a beer that every idiot alive in Chicago takes for granted once a year.  If you think wine has the romance market cornered, try drinking a Guinness in their lounge as servers, without warning, transform into dancers and the lounge transforms into an experience.  Remember when I said I loved surprises?  One minute, this girl was clearing tables of empty pint glasses.  The next…

Guinness makes Irish step-dancing feel cool.  THAT is how cool Guinness is; it makes one of the easiest targets for ridicule feel POWERFUL.  After this performance, The VP and I gave each other a “should we…like…become Irish step dancers now?”  Following another pint sitting next to some dorks wearing backpacks and plenty of “well that was awesome”s, we made our way up to the FINAL DESTINATION of the Guinness tour.  Atop the building, they have a circular bar with 360 degrees of floor to ceiling windows.  Yeah, it’s crowded, but quit being a little bitch about it.  Trust, this is worth powering through a random arm graze.  Growing up in Chicago, skylines became synonymous with tall buildings.  You know what else is impressive?  A skyline where you can see the FUCKING SKY.  In the words of The VP: “What dat is?”  There are clouds and stuff serving as a pillowy background for the explosive green hills sprawling throughout every one of those 360 degrees.  Nature is beeeyuuful!

*Evidently, I went into a “yeah, I’ll just remember this”-haze and forgot to take pictures of these views.  GREAT JOB JIMMY!  So, here’s a video of a whistling oyster thing.

As nighttime descended, we stopped by a hip spot for a “hey, we’re cool young adults”-dinner of oysters and cheese.  (When did cheese and crackers go from the snack your grandma gave you as a kid to a staple on every hipstery restaurant menu?  I’m not complaining.)  I felt compelled to take a break from Guinness because my body has been conditioned to send “you’re getting fat” warning signs to my brain whenever I drink two beers.  This time, though, when I got the “cool it with the beer fatso!” warnings, I…couldn’t…stop.  Yeah, the Guinness is better over there and it’s also kinda light and CALORIES DON’T COUNT ON VACATION!!! So I gave my pants button a “good luck pal”-wink and ordered another Guinness and then another and then we had to go to another place to order more Guinness.

After dinner we made our way to an area called “Temple Bar”.  It’s a bar-heavy area but there’s also a bar called “Temple Bar” that we didn’t go in, but I’m curious if that bar was so great that the mayor of Dublin one day was just like “yeah, let’s just call the whole area ‘Temple Bar'”.  (I don’t hate the idea of renaming neighborhoods every 4 years after the best bar/restaurant in the neighborhood.  I’m sure suburbanites would have an issue being renamed “Marianos’ Rotisserie Chicken Counter,” but that’s an issue they can take up with their city council.)  Continuing our “We’re not those Americans”-efforts, we skipped the actual Temple Bar for a spot our taxi driver recommended called “Palace Bar.”  It was Saturday night and it was friggin’ packed.  I know what you’re thinking, “but did they have Guinness?”

Pic 1 9:18.jpg

A packed bar in Ireland is also very different than a packed bar in Chicago.  In Chicago, it seems that every dude in a packed bar is DYING for someone to bump into him so he can drop a “got a problem?” in front of a girl he’s trying to impress.  (Single Jimmy LOVED acting tough in bars).  Now, there are some nights where The VP and I get to a crowded bar and I go into painful Yoga poses in order to not touch all the Johnny GotAProblem?s.  In Ireland, though, maybe because the drink of choice is a low abv beer and not a Red Bull Vodka, but the people seem almost happy to feel crowded.  Making my way to the bar at “Palace Bar” consisted of making the “I’m so sorry”-face while also saying “I’m so sorry” about 9 thousand times.  And every time, I was met with a smile and a “cheers”.  There wasn’t one accidental elbow that was met with a snarl.  The crowd was like one big hug.  Reason #736 that the Ireland bar scene is better than America’s: I never had to come even close to acting not scared in front of The VP about a potential fight.  It’s hard to enjoy a beer while lying to The VP that “I have no problem going outside with that guy.”  Yeah, it’s more like “No, I’m not enjoying my beer because I may start crying if that dude I accidentally grazed actually takes me up on my offer to ‘take it outside’.”  HEY GUY, I WAS JUST KIDDING ABOUT THE OUTSIDE THING!  IT’S SCARY OUT THERE!

After a severe case of hiccups ruined my “it’s impossible to drown me in Guinness” demonstration, we made our way back to the hotel.  These memories are fuzzy in the best sort of way.  A trip to Subway was included because we’re so secure in not being those Americans that we felt comfortable ordering a late night sandy.  Gah fuhbid!  We woke up the next morning with zero “oh my god, what do I have to apologize for?” fears. When you wake up with a minor hangover AND a faint smile, you know it was a good night.  Now, me breaking the shower door with my ass that morning did not help calm my body image insecurities, but The VP did seem to buy my “the door just like fell off”-cover.  My big, destructive ass was my little secret for at least another day.

Then it was time to go back to the airport to pick up our rental car to REALLY begin our trip.  The idea of driving on the other side of the road in a country you’ve never been to is nerve-wracking, but not exactly paralyzing while booking through Enterprise on my big comfy chair.  When you’re in a taxi on the way to pick up the car, though, that fear not only seeped in, it wrapped it’s talons around my throat while growling “it’s NOT going to be okay, Jimmy” into my ear.  The VP must have said “you’re going to do great,” no less than 92 times in that cab ride.  My response of choice was a chuckle-cough; a classic way to cover up a little cry at the end of a forced laugh.  By the time we got to the car rental drop-off, I had made the executive decision that the only way for me to get out of driving for the rest of the trip was to attach myself to our taxi driver’s leg while scream-crying “I’m not the man my father thinks I am!”  As the driver opened my door, I zeroed in on his bulky right ankle, before looking back The VP and saying, “I have no other options.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

K bye.

*Yes, I know the videos are playing sideways.  I don’t know how to fix it yet.  ISN’T THIS BLOG CHARMING?!?!

 

 

 

 

The VP and I Go To Ireland – Part 1 of ? – (9/13/18)

IRELAND (PART ONE OF MANY):

*Hey friends!  I haven’t written in a little bit because I got crushed by work before going to Ireland for 11 days.  I’m back and it feels great!  I meant to write this as one long piece, but that’s not possible.  I don’t know how many “parts” there will be to this Ireland series, but I don’t want to shortchange any of it, so excuse the next few entries on Jimmyschair.  It will be Ireland heavy for I don’t know how long.  I hope you like it. 

When I was 15, I couldn’t go to sleep on Christmas Eve night because I was so excited about the possibility of being a gifted a car on Christmas.  My parents had told me over and over and over again that I was ABSOLUTELY NOT getting a car, but I had convinced myself that these assurances were all part of their planned rouse.  “He won’t be as excited if he KNOWS he’s getting a car,” they had to be saying to each other as they continued arguing over whether I was more of a Benz or Bentley kid.  Turns out, I was more of a HEAVILY used 1988 White Ford Escort hatchback 6 months later kid.  But I didn’t know that on Christmas Eve; so I lied in my bed with eyes popping out of my face anytime I heard a car passing by our house.  I wouldn’t look out my bedroom window because I love surprises (YOU READING THIS, VP?!?!) and I didn’t want to ruin what my parents must have been planning for months.  This is not a story of a petulant 15 year old  treating Christmas morning like a funeral for hopes and dreams (I mean, that’s what it became, but…) Instead, it’s the last time I can remember being incoherently excited for something.  Drunk without a having had a drink excited.  My life was about to change forever excited.  That was the last time I felt THAT kind of unmitigated excitement.  (Yes, I was excited for my wedding, but that was definitely MITIGATED by the nerves associated with standing in front of a couple hundred people.)  Then, 18 years later, the VP and I flew to Ireland on the night of August 30th with a plan to sleep on the 7 hour flight and wake up refreshed for our first Irish morning.  I should’ve known.  There was no fucking way I was sleeping on that plane.

The VP and I landed in Dublin exhausted, but pretending not to be because what’s lamer than kicking off the trip of a lifetime with yawns?  So we trudged through our baggage claim and customs with glassy eyes while assuring each other that “yeah, no, I am so excited!”  The taxi driver was the first hint that we were somewhere foreign because he…was professional and not mean.  Did you know that taxi drivers who don’t snarl from the front seat while you ask if he can pop the trunk actually exist?  Better yet, there are even taxi drivers who GET OUT AND HELP YOU with your luggage.  Unbelievable, I know, but I was there.  As the older gentleman helped load the VPs Gajillion pound suitcase into the trunk, I kept telling The VP to film what was happening on her phone.  “No one will believe us!  BUT NO ONE WILL BELIEVE US!!!!”

We got to our hotel before our room was ready, which was totally fine because we were SO NOT TIRED.  Matta’ ah Fack, before the front desk lady even checked the status of our room, I was all like “I don’t even care if it’s ready cuz I’m not even tired so like whatever.”  Her face changed as she looked back up at me.  “Whoa, didn’t know Americans could be so chill and masculine at the same time,” is what she wanted to say, but spotting the ring on my finger, opted to avoid a confrontation with The VP and instead said something like “Your room is not ready because you’re here 6 hours before check-in time.”  Her words were meaningless, her face told the story.  These Americans were different.

The VP and I left our baggage and went out to explore a Dublin morning.  When you’re NOT tired and your phones aren’t allowing you to Google “Uh, what do we do now that we’re actually here?” you just end up wandering and saying things like “I’m pretty sure…wait…no, maybe this way.”  It was vacation morning, which meant breakfast, which also meant drinking so…..PUB TIME!  And, living up to our reputation as “not your typical Americans,” we picked one where we didn’t see nerdy tourists.  We aren’t THOSE people!  (It was one kinda’ close to an H+M that The VP told me multiple times that she wanted to just “check out”.  Uh, yeah fuckin’ right VP, and ruin the movie being written about us called “Not Your Average Americans”?  OVER MY DEAD BODY).  Continuing the theme of rebellion, The VP ordered a Bloody Mary at the bar.  I ordered a Guinness, but I ordered it in that nonchalant, chill-like “this is just a beer that I love to normally drink and am not drinking just because everyone else here is drinking it and I want to feel included in the very community that my ancestors originated from.”  Youda’ thought we were born in this bar.

Pic 1 (ireland post)

The first meal was fine and it didn’t matter; which is something that I came to realize throughout our stay in Ireland.  Don’t get me wrong, Jimmy EatFace looooooves a good meal, but when you’re in Ireland you’re so anxious to see more, drink more, talk to others more, and go elsewhere…uh, more, that food becomes an afterthought.  It takes time away from seeing other things.  It takes up space meant for Guinness.  It occupies your mouth from–okay, we get how eating food works.  We finished our fist meal, a traditional Irish breakfast that we split because we weren’t that hungry and “no, I do kinda’ like this blood sausage thing. It’s interesting!”  Was it more off-putting than interesting? HEY! Haven’t you heard? WE’RE NOT THOSE AMERICANS.

Pic 2 (Ireland post)

After a couple more pints of Guinness (we were on vacation!) and some aimless wandering (uh, it’s called “exploring”) where we didn’t look at the map because, let’s all say it together, “we’re not those Americans,” we headed back to our hotel.  Oh, our room was ready a couple hours early?  Cool, whatever, not a big deal, guess we should check it out.  The VP and I then crumpled on the bed like those spiders you spray with whatever aerosol can is closest so you don’t have to almost touch kill them with your hand.  (I sprayed a spider in my car yesterday using a bottle of dog pee cleaner I found in my trunk). We slept for a few hours, dreaming of things I don’t know about because I can’t remember my dreams and never listen when The VP tells me what she was dreaming of. I just hope the hotel workers didn’t come in our room while we were asleep and uncovered my lie about not being tired.  Yeah, we locked the door, but I don’t know how hotel nap time is treated in Ireland.

When we woke up around 6, we made a plan to go to the place Anthony Bourdain loved the most on his show about Dublin, “Kavanagh’s” aka “Gravediggers”.  It’s an old pub next to a cemetery about 14 minutes outside the crush of the Dublin bar scene.  By the time we got there, it was the perfect kind of busy, like they were waiting for us.  And, based on how kind the bartenders were, maybe they were? We ordered pints on pints on pints of Guinness, chatted up the distinguished bartender who made us feel like we had finally gotten to where we always should have been going.  It wasn’t this type of “let’s milk these tourists for all they got with cheap smiles and too much conversation” type of welcoming, but more of an easy conversation with someone who almost instantly went from stranger to relative.

I think the thing I had heard most about Ireland was that the people are what you go for.  And while I like people, there was a part of me that was worried about being bombarded with strangers inserting themselves in every conversation I would try to have.  I’m happy to report back that I was an idiot for thinking that.  The people are the highlight not because they cheers every beer you get, but because, somehow, they already know you and you already know them.  Those increasingly rare nights at home when all of your friends are able to make it out to the same bar and you can talk or not talk to any of them because you’re all comfortable; THAT is an Irish Pub.  I signed the guestbook like an absolute dolt because I saw it and instinctively grabbed it before realizing I didn’t know what to write because I didn’t feel like a guest.  Imagine going home for Thanksgiving and your Uncle Rick putting a “guestbook” in front of you.

We ended up getting pleasantly drunk; nowhere near the “my brain is broken now”-blackout that ends most fun nights at home.  We took a Taxi back to the hotel and walked to a nearby Subway because we weren’t there for the food.

The next day was for walking once we actually got up and out of our room, which became more difficult than anticipated once The VP discovered a British dating show with cooking called “Dinner Date”.  There was no hangover, just reality television.  Remember the show “Next” on MTV?  It’s like that but the person being wooed comes over to 3 people’s houses for a home cooked meal.  I hated that I kinda’ enjoyed the show too because we didn’t come to Ireland to sit in our room and watch daytime dating shows…but…like, it was good.  FUCK!

After a few episodes, and a few “hey, can we go now?”s from yours truly, we finally made it out of our hotel.  The plan was to walk and walk and walk until we saw Temple Bar and Guinness and nice Irish men in cool little hats telling us stories about places that sound magical.  “Excuse me, Ms. Concierge? Where’s do wrinkly faced storytellers hang out?”

Our self-guided walking tour through Dublin worked like the strongest coffee I could ever drink.  If I owned a Go-Pro I would’ve strapped it to my rotund head and never pressed “stop” to capture every single thing I was seeing.  Look, maybe it’s because I had never been out of the country before, but walking in a city an ocean away from home is battery power for humans.  Look, a river! Look, an old building! Look, a guy I don’t know with really tight pants!  No wonder little kids always seem to be so happy, it’s amazing seeing anything for the first time.

We set out to make our way to the Guinness storehouse, making sure to hit Temple Bar along the way.  Little did we know that we’d stop at some pub here, an immaculate church from 900 years ago there, and countless other “this looks like a postcard” places along the way.  We took a tour of Christ Cathedral Church and I got to see a meticulously artistic structure coated with CENTURIES of stories.

I’ll admit, even raised as an Irish Catholic, I always found church impossibly boring.  When my Mom used to tell me how impactful a Priest’s sermon was, I’d almost crack my skull with the effort it took me NOT to roll my eyes.  But this house of history wasn’t that.  I could’ve sat on one of those pews, in silence for hours, and been riveted every second of the way.  Your brain does amazing things when you’re enveloped in stained glass and moldings that could not have been made without modern technology.  I was thankful there my internet wasn’t working; this was all about the wonderment of pre-technology.  A trophy on the human brain’s mantle.

CAN’T WAIT TO TELL YOU MORE NEXT TIME!

K bye.

 

I Don’t Know How to Do Many Simple Things (8/21/18)

MY WORLD: 

A few days ago, I got out of the shower, grabbed the towel hanging on the towel hangy thing (hook!) and brought it to my nose.  The classic “as long as this towel doesn’t smell like dinosaur B.O., it’s clean”-check.  I know what you’re thinking, “but Jimmy, did you also look at the towel to see if there were any obvious stains?”  Do I look like an animal?  Of course I did.  So that means it’s clean, right?  As long as there are no obvious stains and it doesn’t stink, a towel is clean no matter how many consecutive days you have used said towel.

When I was a kid, I used to marvel at how my parents just knew stuff.  They knew how to get to the mall.  They knew how to check my toothbrush to see if I had actually brushed my teeth.  They knew how to make sandwiches!  THEY KNEW EVERYTHING!  And while they passed on enough survival skills for me to make it 33 years, they did not pass on some skills that seem relatively meaningless, but have become gaping holes in my progress as an adult.  Oh, and when I say “they did not pass on,” I mean “I pretended to listen when they taught me about _______.”  Aside from not knowing how to tell if a towel is dirty or not, here are some other adult-things that I should know, but definitely do not…and probably never will.

How to hang a picture:

It was much easier to hide this deficiency when I was living alone or with roommates.  There’s always one roommate with a fancy toolbox who can’t wait to show off the ruler-thing with the water bubble in the middle.  (Yes, I know it’s called a leveler, but ruler-thing with water bubble in the middle just felt right.)  Whenever we’d move in and got to the point where it was time to hang all our “sweet sports posters” around the apartment, I’d pretend that I was busy doing something else until THAT roommate broke out the power drill and started asking “how’s this look here?”  Whenever I’d hear that question, my body would finally relax, for my secret was safe another day.  “Looks great! I’ll start putting away the silverware!”  Little did they know that the silverware was already jammed into a drawer that I could no longer open.  No matter, Jimmy NoHang was out of the line of fire.

When I lived alone, and there was no one to inspect or judge what I did to the wall, I would only hang stuff with wires in the back.  My process?  Nail in the wall, wire on the nail.  BOOM! JIMMY HANGS IS IN THE BUILDING!  Did I find the stud? Pretty hard to find the stud when you have no idea what that is so…uh…no, I did not find El Stud.  An anchor?  Those are only for boats!  Was the frame level?  Take five steps back, squint and you tell me if it looks “pretty level.”  Better yet, let me save you those five steps, it’s fine.  Was it centered?  Did you not just hear me re: the picture being level?  I TOOK FIVE STEPS BACK, LOOKED AT IT AND SAID “IT’S PRETTY GOOD.”  WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!?!?

Unfortunately, using the caveman method of hanging stuff on walls (nail, slam, hang!) is a secret not meant to see the light of an apartment shared with a significant other.  The friggin’ VP of Ops sniffed out this deficiency of mine the way a dog smells another dog on your jeans.  When we first moved in together she handed me a super heavy mirror to “just hang over the dresser.”  You got it babe!  That mirror rested on top of our dresser for the 2 years we were in that apartment and was the subject of multiple “wait! don’t hit the mirror!”-warnings.  Mirrors that lean against a wall, instead of being hung on a wall, were very in at the time.

Since then, we have moved to a new place where I actually DID hang said mirror on the wall…by putting a wire on the back of it and slamming multiple nails into a wall.  Quick tip on nails and walls: if you hit the nail with a hammer and it doesn’t go any further, just hit the nail harder.  If the nail still doesn’t budge, then take it out and move it a little to the side and try the exact same process.  The mirror now hides about 8 false starts for me and the nails, but it’s up!  And no, I am not worry-free when I sit directly in front of it.  Have you ever played the “I hope this big, heavy mirror doesn’t fall on me!”game?  It’s a rush!

mirror

How to know when it’s time for a new razor:

When I used the Gillette Mach Whatever that had the moisturizer strip on the top, I would know I needed a new razor when that strip went bare.  But then, I grew up and realized that, that dumb fuckin’ strip was probably just a devious ploy by evil Johnny Gillette to sell more razors.  Not so fast!  I can use this razor until…shit…when?

My dad used to use the disposable razors when I was a kid, which made the whole process easy: use it, toss it.  But I saw commercials about the Mach 3 that looked really cool and my friends were using it so, what? I’m supposed to be the lame kid who uses the cheap bic razors?  NOT ON MY WATCH!  And it’s not like I’m Beardy McThickBeard ova’ here, so I can probably get away with using the same Gillette for….shit….I still have no idea.  Worse yet, the Gillette’s are kinda’ expensive AND the razor refills are locked behind glass at most stores.  This is me every time I’m in a store looking at the razors behind the glass, “I’ve gotta go ALL THE WAY up to the front and ask someone to come unlock these?  Meh, I’m sure I’ll be fine for another week.”  I do that for like a hundred weeks in a row.

The breaking point usually comes  that once or twice a year when I pump myself up about finally, truly becoming a cool adult man.  It’s usually the same time of the year where I’ll go to a decent store, buy 8 of the same shirts in different colors and a new pair of pants because “this is what real men do.”  On the way home from the outlet mall (leave that part out!) I’ll pass a Walgreens and be like “you know what? I’m going to buy a nice razor because that’s what real men do.”  Yeah!  I want the best a man can get!  Then, as I wait for Angry Paulette to come and unlock the razor treasure chest on aisle 4, I’ll stare at my phone and start to panic as I type in the password for my Chase Mobile Account.  By the time Angry Paulette arrives with the tiny key, I 100% do not want to spend $17.99 on this razor anymore, but she’s already here and it would be weird if I didn’t after putting her through the enormous trouble of walking from aisle 4 to the register and back.  So, I smile through all her huffing and puffing as I follow her back to the register with my overpriced Gillette while going over how long I can go without paying my cable bill before they shut it off.  It’s cool guys, you’ve got a whole ‘nother month.

How to change a tire:

Tough day for my masculinity on today’s chair, but these are deeply held secrets that must be brought out into the open because I couldn’t think of anything else to write about today!  The fact that I don’t know how to change a tire is something I really really really did not want to write about because I’m positive that it will lead to me blowing out a tire in the very near future.  It’s called jinxing yourself, and if you don’t believe in that stuff then I’m jealous of your rational thought patterns.

This is an instance where my dad definitely taught me how to change a tire multiple times, but I just pretended like I was listening every time and never actually learned how to do it.  The advent of internet phones has soothed my fears of this deficiency since I can just google “how to change my tire,” if it happens, but still.  If The VP and I are driving to Mississippi and I blow out a tire in the middle of “who the fuck lives in a place without cell service”-Arkansas we are officially screwed.

What would probably happen is I would pretend to be calm about the whole situation while leafing through the car manual held in my glove compartment.  When I’d get to the part about putting the car up on the jack though, my insecurities would get the best of me and I would convince The VP that “shit, I’m missing a tool.”  I’d act all mad about not being able to do it myself, but like “whoever put this tool kit together just forgot the…” I’d have to quickly come up with something that sounds like the name of the tool I’m missing.  Okay okay, “whoever put this tool kit together just left out the tire iron.”  THAT’S DEFINITELY A THING THAT SOUNDS NECESSARY!!!  The VP would buy my book of lies and then we’d either have to wait for a not-scary older man to stop and help OR until the town put up a cell tower so I could google “how to find a not-scary older man who can come out here and change my tire for me, but tell my wife that the reason I couldn’t do it was because I was missing a tire iron.”

OUR WORLD:  

The VMAs were on last night and The VP and I had absolutely zero interest in watching it.  Instead, she went through Instagram and showed me pictures of the artists that were winning awards and we played the “oh my god, we’re so old!”-game.  From afar, I hate this game, when people over 30 but under 45 laugh to each other about how old they feel because they can’t play video games all day or know the top-rated show on MTV anymore.  Hey, lets chat about something super mundane that I did and then laugh because I followed it with a “oh my god, I’m so old” punchline! HAHAHAHAHA! Pass the barf bag.

But when you’re alone in your apartment, and feeling older than you’ve ever felt because that’s the truth, you kinda…laugh to yourself about how old you are.  And guess what I am right now?  I’m alone in my apartment.  DAMNIT!  Let’s go through the Top 10 list of things that make people over 30 feel old even though we’re not and it’s actually kinda’ obnoxious when we say stuff like this:

  1. When we suffer a relatively minor injury.
  2. When we are hungover.
  3. When we scroll through Instagram and mention how many pictures of babies are in our feeds.
  4. When we cook at home.
  5. When we choose to stay in on a Friday night and text apologies to our friends because “we’re so lame lol”
  6. When we talk about buying a Costco. membership.
  7. When we go to any college sporting event at any college.
  8. When we tell everyone with ears how busy we are at work.
  9. When we find the one gray hair on our heads and then proudly talk about how you’re not going to pull it out.
  10. When we get up early.

I hate this shit.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

From time to time, I’ll go on kicks where I get super back into 90s bands.  Currently, I’m in a anything-Chris-Cornell sings on phase.  Enjoy the best rock voice of all-time.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you eat leftovers in the morning and then lunchtime hits and you’re like “well, am I allowed to even eat lunch after smashing through that whole plate of leftovers at 9:07 this morning?”  So you just get a small bag of almonds and look forward to dinner.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I bet on preseason football over the weekend and went 1 for 2.  Overall, I lost $7 this weekend but that’s because of baseball.  By the way, FUCK BETTING ON BASEBALL!  I mean, I’m still gonna do it, but I’ve decided I hate it. HATE.

(My account currently sits at $43.18)

K bye.

 

Movie Trailer Reviews (Pt. 1) and I’m Getting Fat (8/15/18)

OUR WORLD:  

Every few months, on a random lazy night, The VP and I will go full-on short-attention span Millennial and choose to watch a bunch of 2 minute movie trailers instead of diving into a new show.  (So watching a show has become too hard for you?  Says a lot.)  For the sake of all of my devoted readers, The VP and I did the thing at the end of each trailer where we look at each other and either raise our eye-brows and purse our lips together, crunch up our nose and furrow our brows, or something in-between.  It’s a complicated grading scale, I know, but here’s the breakdown:

GOOD  = “Even though we’ll eventually talk ourselves out of it, we should DEFINITELY see that movie when it comes out!”

okay = “It’s going to take someone I trust freaking out about how good this movie is, but I’m not shutting the door.”

BAD = “That movie is going to stink worse than a VP taco fart.”

Before I get into the trailers we watched, I would like to point out that the pictures of me above were taken this morning at roughly 6:45 AM.  Why did I use those?  Well, you know in the swimsuit issue when they have pictures of “curvier” women to show that there are women of all different shapes and sizes?  And then those women are hailed for being brave?  Well, I used these pictures to show that there are men out there with bad morning hair and large foreheads that shouldn’t be afraid to SHOW IT OFF!  WE’RE JUST AS VALUABLE AS HOT GUYS!  If this inspires even just one guy with bad morning hair and a big forehead to head out into public without running a comb through his hair, then I’ve done my job.  We can’t all be Johnny Hotbod AND THAT’S OKAY!  IT’S NOT OUR FAULT!

ONTO GRADING THE TRAILERS!

“A Star is Born”

Bradley Cooper could not look cooler and is definitely making me think about trying to grow my hair out AGAIN because “maybe this is the time it looks like movie star hair!”  I know this is a remake because my dad told me (Dads!) but let’s be real, none of us are going to watch the original because nobody my age cares about Barbara Streisand or Kris Kristofferson.  You know who we do care about? Dave Chappelle playing a gravely-voiced wisdom-doling friend to Bradley HotHair.  We should all try to find a friend who smokes, wears an old tank and tells us when our “social” drinking has become an issue.

Best line in this trailer is HANDS DOWN when Cooper drops this heater on Lady GaGa as she walks away from him:

Bradley: “Hey”

Lady: “What?” (as she turns around)

Bradley: “I just want to take another look at ya.”

MELT-ALERT! If you’re single, I would HIGHLY suggest using this line on some unsuspecting philly who may have self-esteem issues (I used it on my dog Belle this morning and it didn’t land.  She just kept walking…Fuckin’ bitch.)  

As far as Lady GaGa goes, here’s the deal: VP loves her and I’m iffy.  She does seem like a bit of a try-hard who too easily vacillates between “elegant, sparkly dress singer lady with Tony Bennett” and “dirty shirt, dive bar every-woman”.  It usually bugs me, but I’m buying her in this preview.  Matta a’ Fack, this feels like PERFECT casting.  When she starts singing towards the end of the trailer, The VP started crying and my body was RAVAGED by goosebumps.  If you’re not tingling at the 2:06 mark, check yourself into the nearest morgue because you, my friend, are a dead person.

JIMMYSCHAIR FACE REVIEW:

GOOD

“The Old Man & The Gun”

I want to be more excited about this than I am.  When we first watched it, I def gave the “gotta see this”-face because I was trying to convince myself.  Robert Redford is my Mom’s all-time crush and makes a wrinkly face look cool.  He’s also a forever-star and this feels like the last time he’s going to be in a movie that allows him to be the star (felt bad writing that).  Then they drop the “it’s a true story” bomb right on our big, dumb heads and we’re thinking “oh triple-fuck-yeah!”

But how interesting can a movie about an old, polite bank robber be?  I love bank robbin’ movies as much as any other genre, but the best parts of those movies are the guns, chase scenes, and fiery “we’re going down in a blaze of glory!” speeches that the leader ALWAYS gives to the rest of the crew towards the end.  Redford giving soft smiles and cute shoulder shrugs takes away from the “he could die!”-tension.  Casey Affleck playing the cop who’s hunting Redford is a solid choice because Casey knocked that role out of the park in “Gone Baby Gone,” but even he seems charmed by Redford’s cute antics.  Give me Jon Hamm getting pissed about the “not fuckin’ around crew” in “The Town” ALL DAY over Casey blushing about the note Redford left on a stolen dollar bill for him.

Redford does deliver a patented cool-guy line when he talking to Sissy Spacek about life metaphors, and says:  “You know what I do when the door closes? I jump out the window.”  Can anyone pull a line like that off in real life?  There has to be a documentary somewhere about a real-life bank robber who tries to talk like that, but it just comes off as cringeworthy, right?

Oh, real quick, Tom Waits is in the movie and when I hear his voice all I can think about is how Heath Ledger based his “Joker”-voice off of Tom Waits.  Sorry Tom, but you’re the Joker forever now.

JIMMYSCHAIR FACE REVIEW:

okay

“Life Itself”

This movie CAN’T WAIT to make you pretend not to be crying while sitting next to your weeping wife.  One hundred percent chance that you’ll look down at your feet at some point in this movie while telling yourself to “fucking get it together, you’re an adult in public.”

First off, is the “Hola”-guy fat Channing Tatum with a mustache?  Once that guy hit the screen, all I could think about was “what the hell happened, Channing?”  Anyway, I’m torn on this trailer because I think I’m falling madly, deeply in love with Olivia Wilde, but I can’t remember anything she has been in that’s actually good.  She’s stunningly gorgeous, and ALWAYS comes off as “down to earth” because she has weird haircuts and wears college-girlfriend clothes, but is she a good actress?  If she was, I’d be able to think of ONE role where I thought she was good, right?  (Hey Olivia, welcome to Jimmy’s attempt to play hard-to-get.  I assure you, however, that he is not hard to get at all.)  

Meanwhile, Oscar Isaac has officially wrestled the “that guy who’s in everything I hear is good but don’t see”-trophy from Viggo Mortensen.  He’s a good actor because he looks actory and I say “Oh, I like this guy” when I’m around other people, but I’m not positive I’ve actually seen anything he has been in.  This casting is feeling like some sort of magic trick.  Like, at the end of the trailer, I’m half-expecting David Blaine to just show up dangling a pocket watch in front of me while whispering “you DO want to see this movie.”  I do? I DO! Wait…do I?

The voiceover dialogue is heavy handed but well-written.  The song playing in the background makes me feel…emotions…and makes me want to…probably wait to watch this on demand.  The dead parents joke towards the end is solid, but then immediately feels off-putting when we see beardy Oscar Isaac having a MOMENT with a Starbucks in his hand.  This is the movie that your parents see and your Dad stays completely silent while your Mom assures you that it’s “INCREDIBLE!”

JIMMYSCHAIR FACE REVIEW:

okay

MY WORLD:  

Should I just get fat?  I have a fantastic excuse of my badly sprained ankle to put some weight on AND get sympathy at the same time.  In fact, I think if I put weight on it’ll only draw attention to my horrible, horrible, “he’s tougher than me for walking on it”-ankle injury.  How would that happen?  Thanks for asking; people would see me, immediately think to themselves that “wow, he has let himself go,” only to be smacked right in their dumb, judgmental face with me lifting my right pant leg to reveal A FREAKING ANKLE BRACE!  I’d plunge the dagger deeper with a line like, “killing me not being able to workout.”  And you better believe the only shirt I’ll be wearing is my 2013 Chicago Marathon shirt that has gotten VERY TIGHT.  Get ready to feel bad about your inner thoughts re: my weight.

Real talk, I have felt a little bit bigger since this horrific, horrific injury and I am getting self-conscious about it.  You ever put a pair of pants on that feel tighter than they usually do, but then quickly tell yourself “I mean, they did just come out of the dryer”?  Because that was me yesterday–blaming the dryer and not the fact that I’ve eaten maybe 37 mini-York peppermint patties over the past…uh…one day.  Why was it hard to get to the third notch of the belt?  I mean, I probably just tried to fasten the belt lower on my hips than normal.  Hips are wider than waist.  Obviously.  I definitely pulled my pants up a few times yesterday and sucked in to be like “yeah, they’re still loose!”  They weren’t loose though, guys.  I repeat, not loose.

Shouldn’t my body realize that I’m not able to workout and compensate accordingly?  Hey body, I’m not lying on my back while eating an entire bag of Goldfish because my ankle DOESN’T hurt!  How ’bout a little help, metabolism?  Maybe Mr. Metabolism could pick up some slack one fucking time.

Since Mr. Metabolism and my dumb body are too lazy to help me out and keep my waistline in check, I’m thinking I just lean into this to prove what assholes my body and my metabolism are.  “Wait, so they clearly know your injured, and they’re not doing anything to help you out?  And yeah, you deserve to eat chip products on your back with an ankle like that!”  THAT’S WHAT I’M SAYING!

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

This song came on this morning and I stopped what I was doing to just smile and bop my head around to the beat.  Try it.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The street we live on is closed through the weekend for a children’s carnival.  Great.  I can’t wait to see how calm Belle is about getting walked next to screaming kids who think they’re allowed to pet anything that comes near them.  Hey kids, if you like your fingers, I suggest keeping them away from my anxiety-ridden doggo.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I got a “bonus” from Bovada yesterday because THEY LOVE ME! and definitely not because I’ve been losing at an alarming pace and Bovada has nicknamed me “The ATM”.  I’m not kidding, I can’t remember the last win I had.  I am in full-on, betting only parlays mode because I need a big win to make up for recent losses.  This strategy, thus far, has proved fruitless.  Its gotten so bad that I have begged for picks from a guy I work while referring to him as “Baseball Guy” because he talks about baseball sometimes.  Talk about baseball once in my presence?  Guy MUST know how to pick games.  I lost the first parlay he gave me.

(Account currently at $11.42)

K bye.

How I Actually Hurt My Ankle & “The Bachelorette” Finally Ended!

MY WORLD:

Do you remember when you were younger and the rough-housing you were doing with your siblings or friends came to an abrupt end when one of you got ACTUALLY hurt?  No one questioned how you got hurt because you were always surrounded by people who saw you smash your face into a hammock pole while running a post route in your friend’s front yard.  One second you’re all laughing, the next, you’re flat on your back with a panicked look, while saying “help, help, help, help.”  Reminiscing about those “help, help, help, help” moments is hysterical, until you find yourself on your back again.  Only this time, it’s in a Chicago alley at 11:30 PM and you’re saying those words to your dog; who’s more interested in that bag under the dumpster next to you.  As I have come to find out since late Saturday night, when I took my numbah one pretty gurl for what should have been a nondescript walk, the difference between childhood and adulthood injuries is stark;  childhood injuries are funny, adulthood injuries are suspicious.

I took Belle for a walk on Saturday night, stepped in a pothole in the middle of an alley we were walking down, and destroyed my ankle.  That’s it!  That’s the story!  (I’ve never trusted these “pothole” stories).  I crumpled to the ground, not knowing exactly what happened, aside from the fact that my right ankle felt like it exploded, and laid on my back trying not to cry.  (If anyone has video of this, I’m sure it would go viral.  “ManBaby almost cries alone on back in alley.”)  Belle was sweet and kinda sniffed my face while also being like “dang that sucks ’bout yo leg, but lemme check out what’s under this dumpster!”  I get it, dumpster searches and barking at minorities are Belle’s top priorities.

After hobbling up to my apartment, three flights of stairs that felt like ten billion flights of nail-crusted stairs, I told The VP that my ankle was dead.  DEAD. DONEZO. FINISHED!  She helped lay me down on our stupid, shitty couch that we took from our friend’s trash pile 2 years ago (not a joke) and got me long socks to wrap my grapefruit of an ankle with.  Why socks?  BECAUSE WE’RE THE ONLY ADULTS IN THE WORLD WHO DIDN’T HAVE A GODDAMN ACE BANDAGE IN THEIR HOUSE.  Anyway, with my ankle wrapped in my V fashionable Nike knee socks, I started contemplating what the next few days were going to entail: constant leg pain, an obnoxious trip to a nearby x-ray room, and, most importantly, having to convince everyone that this wasn’t a “Jimmy was hammered drunk and did this”-incident.  I could already hear the people in my head responding to the pothole story with “yeah, but what really happened?” I STEPPED IN A POTHOLE.  THAT’S IT! (Pretty defensive IMVHO)

Now, I won’t lie, was I totally, completely sober?  No, I was not.  GOD FOR-FUCKING-BID I ENJOY AN OFF-DAY WITH A FEW ADULT BEVERAGES!!!  I was a few beers deep when I took Belle on this fateful walk, but it’s not like I was challenging people to race me down a fire escape after my 14th shot of “whatever’s cheapest”-Tequila.  First off, I don’t even really like tequila, so that’s hole number one in your “you had to be smashed argument”. (I do like margaritas, but we’re talking shot-wise here, folks.  STAY FOCUSED!)  Second!  Wouldn’t you think I could come up with a cooler sounding story than “I stepped in a pothole” if I was actually trying to hide the fact that it was a drunken escapade gone wrong?  I’m a writer (amateur) for chrissake!   But still, the first two friends I texted about my injury replied with, essentially, the same responses: “how drunk were you?”  There wasn’t a “oh, that sucks, I’m sorry,” or “ouch!” or “let me know if I can help while you’re UNABLE TO WALK AND PERFORM BASIC HUMAN FUNCTIONS.”  NOPE!  JUST BLATANT DISTRUST OF THE BACKGROUND SURROUNDING MY INJURY.  BLATANT. DISTRUST.

Therfore, since it has become apparent that my “friends” will not believe the “ACTUAL STORY” regardless, I would like to put forth another scenario in which my ankle may have gotten injured…I will leave it up to the reader to decide how my ankle actually became the size of a grapefruit:

The Second Dunk Attempt Story:

So The VP and I were walking back home following a lovely meal we had just enjoyed at a local Italian eatery.  Naturally, I had a salad and water because I don’t eat food for enjoyment, I simply eat for sustenance.  You don’t put unleaded into a diesel engine, nah’mean?  During our stroll, we encountered some local ruffians whistling and hooting and hollering at my lovely wife.  Being the secure, masculine man that I am, I simply smiled and waved, as if to say “thank you, I agree.”  Unfortunately, however, a member of said ruffian group, named Burt, misinterpreted my gratitude and decided to confront me.

“Think you’re better than me?” Asked the menacing Burt.

“Sir, what is your name? I would like to address you properly,” I responded as The VP attempted to pull me and my huge torso muscles in the opposite direction.

“My name is Burt,” he said–which is when I knew “this guy’s name is Burt.”

“Hi Burt, my name is Jimmy, I’m not sure if I’m better than you.  However, I certainly was not meaning to imply that with my wave and toothy, picturesque smile.  To be honest, I might be better than you at some things, but worse than you at others.  If we spend the time tallying up everything, well, Burt, that would take days.”

“I’m talking about that,” Burt said as he pointed to the nearby basketball court.

Following some negotiation, Burt and I decided that we would decide who was better at dunking a basketball.  The VP, never having seen me dunk before because I’m humble and don’t like to show off, pleaded with me to “just let it go.”  But I couldn’t let it go; not with my wife’s honor at stake.  So I tied my casual, yet fashionable Levi’s loafers extra tight and followed Burt to the basketball court.

Using the manners that my parents taught me when I was a young boy, I allowed Burt to go first.  Burt grabbed the ball from one of his ruffian friends, pounded it twice on the ground to show that he was strong and ran towards to hoop.  As he took off, he put the ball in his right hand and began a tomahawk-like motion as he neared the rim.  His legs splaying through the air, he whipped the ball forward and…right into the front of the rim.  Failure washed over Burt’s face as he landed.  He missed his dunk and, even worse, pulled away from me when I tried to console him.

Now it was my turn.  Unfortunately for you, the reader, I don’t want to get into too many details regarding my dunk because I’m so humble, but let’s just say it was a 360 windmill between the legs that left the ruffians stunned and my wife so proud that she immediately called her Mom to revel in what an amazing athlete she had married.  But I don’t want to get into it further than that.

“Beginners luck!” Burt snarled as he whipped the basketball into my chest.  “Do it again, or I won’t admit that you’re better than me at dunking!”

Not wanting to highlight Burt’s lack of intelligence by dispelling the faulty notion of “beginner’s luck,” I obliged his infantile request.  However this time, while gliding through the air like a Peregrine Falcon approaching his unsuspecting prey, I noticed Burt sticking his leg under the basket, directly where my right foot would land post-awe-inspiring-dunk numero dos.  Thankfully, my eye-body coordination is so stunningly fast, that I was able to adjust my landing immediately after throwing down yet another rim-rattling 360 windmill between the legs dunk.

Once landed, with my right foot narrowly missing Burt’s maliciously placed leg, I didn’t say anything to his now despondent-looking face.  Instead, I simply winked at him and then blew a kiss to my adoring wife.  That’s when Burt took the handgun out from his waistband and pistol-whipped my right ankle.

And that’s how my ankle got hurt.

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OUR WORLD:

Last night, this season of “The Bachelorette” came to a merciful end after a 3 hour show that included about 6 minutes of interesting television: when Blake almost had a heat stroke while getting dumped, and when Garrett tried to explain that Instagram’s “Like” feature is too complicated for him to grasp.  We can all agree that this season sucked because Becca has the personality of a plastic spork, and the only guy with charisma, Jordan, was probably a paid actor.  So we move on and hope that next season they make Chad “The Bachelor”.  But there is one thing that stuck with me throughout last night’s episode, that I just can’t shake…Chris Harrison SUCKS.

How is it that someone with no discernible talent becomes the face of the most popular television franchise on ABC?  I understand the need to cast a “straight man” opposite some outlandish character in a buddy comedy, but why cast one to host an ultimately, mean-spirited reality dating show?  When Blake came out last night and everyone was watching how sad he was about getting dumped in front of a gajillion people, Chris could’ve cut the tension with a little joke, or asked an insightful question about where he goes from here, or….ANYTHING OTHER THAN ASK “HOW DOES WATCHING THAT MAKE YOU FEEL?”  That’s the question that people without functioning brains are wondering.  “Hey Blake, when you watch that time you got kicked in the nuts while wearing a suit in 120 degree heat, does that make you feel good?”

Remember too, that this episode is Chris Harrison’s chance to shine.  It’s the Super Bowl of his season where he is one of the main characters in the show and he comes to the table with the “how did that make you feel?”-question?!?! An ABC executive should have come out on stage at that very moment and stapled an oversized dunce cap to his dumb head while informing him that he has been sentenced to life in prison for “being a horribly stupid dating show host.”  NO POSSIBILITY FOR PAROLE!

Quickly, here are my top 5 suggestions for people to replace Chris Harrison:

  1.  Dave Chappelle
  2.  Amy Schumer
  3.  Dr. Phil
  4.  O.J. Simpson
  5.  Barack Obama

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

My Mom posted a video about this dog on Facebook a few days ago and he’s now my second (maybe even first) favorite dog in the world.

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Chris Harrison.

JIMMY GAMBLES…

I’M AT $0 AFTER THE CUBS WON BY 2 LAST NIGHT EVEN THOUGH I BET THEM TO WIN BY 3-4.  COOL GUYS!

K bye.