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.

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:

When we suffer a relatively minor injury.
When we are hungover.
When we scroll through Instagram and mention how many pictures of babies are in our feeds.
When we cook at home.
When we choose to stay in on a Friday night and text apologies to our friends because “we’re so lame lol”
When we talk about buying a Costco. membership.
When we go to any college sporting event at any college.
When we tell everyone with ears how busy we are at work.
When we find the one gray hair on our heads and then proudly talk about how you’re not going to pull it out.
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. 2) & I May Have to Retire from Sports (8/17/18)

OUR WORLD:

I get panic sweats from not being in my movie theater seat 5 minutes before showtime. Getting The VP anywhere on time is a struggle I fully realize will plague me the rest of my life, but getting to the movie theater and airport with plenty of time to spare is something I will never be rational about. We will be at the airport two hours before our flight. We will be at the movie theater 20 minutes before showtime. In the words of every U.S. Government Official in every action movie with terrorists: “this is not a negotiation.” Unfortunately, forceful military analogies don’t work as well as ones involving fried food when it comes to connecting with The VP of “I’m Almost Done With My Make-Up”. Along those lines, here is what I plan to tell her the next time I’m about to sweat through my shirt at the thought of missing the trailers.

Jimmy: “Can we go ye-”

VP: “I’ll be done in two minutes thank you very much.”

Jimmy: “This theater has mozzarella sticks.”

That’ll work. She may chuckle and act like that’s not going to work, but the make-up brush will go down and there will be newfound urgency to her movements. Mind you, I won’t look into whether the theater does or does not, in fact, have mozzarella sticks, but I can deal with that meltdown once we’re in the building. Yes, we’re going to see a movie, but passing up trailers is like…how can I put this in a way that The VP would understand: Trailers are mozzarella sticks; meant to be a tasty treat before the main course, but so overwhelmingly delicious that they ALWAYS overshadow the entree. Are you passing on free mozza sticks? I didn’t think so. Let’s get into Part 2…

“First Man”:

Ryan Gosling has officially entered the “if he’s in it, I’m probably going to want to go see it” tier of movie stardom. Obviously, we’re going to be interested because space movies are sweet, but seeing Ryan Gosling and…WAIT, IS THAT COACH TAYLOR?!?! DID HE TRADE IN HIS FOOTBALL COACHIN’ WHISTLE FOR AN ASTRONAUT COACHIN’…WHISTLE?!?! YOU BET YOUR FUCKIN’ ASS HE DID!

If you’re not already in on a movie featuring space, Gosdaddy, and Coach CoolDad, may I interest you in a scary sounding soundtrack? The music in the background of this trailer makes me look out of the sides of my eyes before walking slowly to the window with an inquisitive expression on my face. I may whisper something like “what in the…” before turning back to the camera before CUT!

WHAT DID I SEE IN THE WINDOW?!?! Space, guys. I saw’d space stuffs.

I do understand hesitation in buying a ticket to see a movie where you already know the ending; we land on the moon and are all like “suck it Russia!” That’s a valid argument against this movie, and the same one I use when explaining why I don’t go to Bond movies: we know he’s never gonna die. HOWEVA! The movie “Patriots Day” changed my mind on historically-based movies: there is drama involved in the details of missions we only saw the final results of. “Patriots Day” is about the Boston Marathon bombers. Yes, I knew the good guys got the bad guys, but I did NOT know what it took and it was ABSOLUTELY fascinating to see that. “First Man” is about landing on the moon. Yes, I know Neil Armstrong makes it, but I did NOT know that a certain former Texas high school football coach with a smile that could melt an iceberg was the one pulling the strings backstage. Clear eyes, full space-shuttle-gas-tank, can’t lose.

JIMMYSCHAIR FACE REVIEW:

GOOD

“Widows”:

Pairing the writer of “Gone Girl” with the Viola Davis cry-face is a deadly combination, but I’d be lying if I told you that I wasn’t leery of an action movie led by a 53 year-old woman who appears to be in just decent shape. Is that fair? Yes, Tom Cruise is older than Viola Davis in Mission Impossible, but he’s cut from stone and is the best movie runner of all time. Have you ever seen Viola sprint down a dock with a boat burning in the background? Me neither. I know Viola Davis from being a mayor in an action movie I can’t remember and for delivering all-time cheesy lines in promos for “How To Get Away With Murder”.

I did, however, start to buy in once I saw that Michelle Rodriguez was part of the “let’s kill the guys who killed our husbands”-crew. Alright, if we have Viola Davis delivering dramatic lines with no facial expressions and Michelle Rodriguez doing Michelle Rodriguez things, you have my attention. Rodriguez has “don’t fuck with me” written all over her face and is in the kind of shape where I’d be nervous about pissing her off in a dark alley. Okay, starting to buy in, starting to buy in…then, hey! There’s another one in the crew with a shaved head and arms bigger than Bruce Willis’ in “Die Hard”! Now we’re cooking with gas!

As the tense music nears the crescendo and I start remembering how much I love Colin Farrell in everything he has been in, I begin to slowly turn my head towards The VP to give her the “let’s see this”-look when…Oh, Viola no….PLEASE!…DON’T SAY IT!

Viola: “No one thinks we have the balls to pull this off.”

She did it. I can’t believe it except I totally can because I am now convinced that Viola Davis has a clause in every contract that reads “Viola will give at least 18 dead-eye stares into the camera, and must be the one to deliver the most cringe-worthy dramatic line in the movie.” I get that women are leading action movies now and I support that, but if there’s going to be a wink-like line that the female lead has to say in every one of these movies COUNT. ME. OUT.

JIMMYSCHAIR FACE REVIEW:

BAD

“Little Stranger”:

-Somehow, in the midst of our trailer binge, The VP of Ops stole the remote when I wasn’t looking and went straight for the British-y looking trailer. British accents and big old houses are catnip for the VP, AND SHE’S NOT EVEN A CAT, GUYS! SHE’S A WOMAN! Meanwhile, I take British accents and fancy clothes and big old houses as an affront to my Chicago sensibilities. So yes, I did spend most of this trailer giving the VP my unmistakable “you got a lotta fuckin’ nerve”-stare.

I didn’t intend to turn this trailer review into an examination into my marriage, but the fact that she picked this one is the type of selfish move that MUST BE CALLED OUT. The VP’s thought process had to have gone something like this: “Jimmy hates scary movies, and british accents, and big old houses, but mayb—Oh wait! It ALSO has no one either of us have ever heard of in it?” So then there must have been only one thing she could have said to herself, “FUCK JIMMY!” There’s no way around it, this was a stone-cold “Fuck Jimmy”-decision.

In the trailers picked thus far, have you seen anything along the lines of a documentary about Greg Norman’s 1996 collapse at The Masters? Or, wait, remember that trailer I reviewed about the 2001 NBA Draft where the Bulls took Tyson Chandler AND traded up for Eddy Curry and I was convinced that the Bulls were about to start a new dynasty? No, you haven’t heard of either of those trailers because a) they don’t exist and b) even if they did, I have enough COMMON DECENCY to not force my less-decent-than-me wife to sit through them. It would be like your allergist diagnosing you with a peanut allergy while eating a delicious Dark Chocolate and Peanut Butter Kind Bar. I don’t mean to exaggerate too much, but…it’s the way a serial killer thinks, right? Guys? I’m right. The serial killer is like “hmmm, I really enjoy murdering people, but I know this woman won’t enjoy being murdered so…ahhh, fuck her!” Tell me how that’s different than what The VP did here. I’ll wait. (Pssst, it’s not different.)

As far as “Little Stranger” goes; who sees these movies? Ooooooh a bunch of rich brits with weird facial hair are tormented by bells in their house that are ringing when they shouldn’t be. Here’s an idea guys, buy a new house without bells!

JIMMYSCHAIR FACE REVIEW:

BAD

MY WORLD:

An update on my dead ankle? Sure, thanks for asking. It still hurts, but the brace the doctor gave me has gotten me some sympathy and gotten me out of some tasks around the house, so that’s nice. Honestly, what this injury really signals is that I’m never not going to be terrified to play any sport again for the rest of my life.

The few times I’ve played basketball over the last 5 years, I was constantly thinking about tearing my ACL because two of my friends did it. “Hey guys, can I just be the guy who makes all the inbound passes? That’s a position, right? Inbound passing guy?” But now, after destroying my ankle by WALKING, there’s no way I’m going to be able to enjoy playing any sport ever again without thinking about some catastrophic leg injury. (Catastrophic? You turned your ankle Jimmy. Fuckin’ relax.) BUT WHAT IF I CAN’T RELAX?!?! WHAT IF I NEVER RECOVER?!?!

I remember when I was in my 20s and I would hear people in their 30s talk about how old they were and how their bodies changed and blah blah fuckin’ blah. They were all drama queens who didn’t know how to work out properly. And then this shitty thing happened where I turned 33, rolled my ankle in a goddamn pothole and now I’m POSITIVE I’m never going to be able to run without my ankle exploding again. Did I have to contemplate this new reality after being invited to play soccer by a group of teenagers by my apartment last evening? No, they didn’t invite me and…well, they don’t even exist, but I have created this situation in my brain. And if this situation ever does present itself, I will be compelled to tell these teens to relish the years between 13 and 19 before dramatically lifting my right pant leg to reveal my never-to-be-whole-again 33 year-old ankle.

“And that’s why I can’t play soccer with you guys. Ever.”-I’ll say as I embellish a limp back towards my dumpy apartment building.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

GUYS! GUYS!! HEY GUYS!!!! THE NEW DEATH CAB FOR CUTIE ALBUM IS OUT!!!! I’ve had it on in the background as I wrote this, this morning, but haven’t focused on it yet. No matter, I’m sure it’s earth-shatteringly delicious. Here’s a sure-to-be hot hot track of the new album that I found a live version of!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When your dog hangs her head off the side of the couch in an undoubtable effort to make you feel guilty for not providing a yard for her to frolic and play in like all the dogs got to in the movies she saw as a puppy. Hey Belle, who’s stopping you from getting a job and contributing?

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I’m back at $0 in my account after only betting parlays for the last week. Confidence is at an all-time low. Not joking when I say that I cannot remember the last time I won a bet. I could look it up because it’s probably been about 3 weeks, but that’s a warning….THAT I’M DUE TO GO ON A REAL HEATER!!!!

(My Bovada account is currently at $0)

K bye.

My Dog is Scared of a Dead Fly

MY WORLD:

So Belle, aka “Numbah One Pretty Gurrrr” aka “BOB” aka “BOOF” aka “I Kinda Blame You For Ruining My Ankle The Other Night When I Stepped In A Pothole While Walking You”, has started this NEW thing where she’s scared of a dead fly. This is no exaggeration. Yesterday, when The VP got back from work (I was still out working because of an ethic instilled by my parents at a young age, but that’s neither here nor there) she noticed that Belle was acting a little weirder than normal. After a few minutes, VP realized that there were one/MAYBE TWO flies in our apartment. (Does Jimmy live in a dumpster that he calls an “apartment”? Who has seen this “apartment”?) The VP reported that, quoting from her actual text, “Belle heard a fly and now she legit won’t move. Just standing completely still.” By the time I got home, The VP had yet to kill the fly because her hand eye coordination rivals that of a blind amputee, and Belle was in our bedroom, hiding under our bed. Totally normal behavior for a 56 pound dog to be TERRIFIED of a housefly. WE REALLY LUCKED OUT WITH OUR FIRST DOG GUYS!

After some tense negotiations between myself and Señorita Dog, I got her to come out from under the bed for a proper pet sesh. For whatever reason though, me telling her to “stop being a weirdo baby” did not stop her from being a weirdo baby once she spotted the fly land on The VP’s purse. Belle backed up the way you would if you walked in on Michael Myers sharpening his favorite stabbin’ knife. Going into hero-mode, I grabbed The VP’s “Shape” magazine and ended this insect’s life with the snap of my wrist. To remind Belle what kind of man her Daddy is, I grabbed the dead fly’s rotting corpse, smashed it against my forehead, and smeared it’s blood down my face while growling like a PREHISTORIC BEASTMONSTER!!!!!! This did not calm her down. Instead, she went right back into our bedroom and under our bed and has basically been theres since (as of 6:37AM this morning).

Therefore, since my barbaric display did nothing to soothe her newfound fear of flies, maybe Belle would appreciate hearing some of my irrational fears and how I deal with them. As a dogfather, I must be able to relate to Belle whenever possible. Belle, you are not alone, here are my most irrational fears:

Old Southern Men: Show me an old guy with a southern drawl who mumble-talks and you can find me locked in the nearest bathroom texting my mom to “just come get me now.” I’m not sure if they all have monster hands and a permanent limp too, but THEY DEFINITELY DO and it only adds to my crippling anxiety around them. Why? Because, like, they just seem murdery or mad or I’m not a real man or did he just ask me if I chew wood on a grass boat? WHAT’S A GRASS BOAT?!?!? Dealing with this fear consists of me either giving hearty courtesy laughs anytime they open their mouth, or just going full-on “bear survival mode” and sitting as still as possible while not making a sound. (If LeRoy can’t see me, then he can’t kill me and hide my body in that grass boat thing where he chews wood.) This fear has caused serious mental issues anytime I walk into a living room and an Alabama game is on the television. A flood of “oh jesus, there’s an old southern man nearby”-scaries takes over my brain as I collapse into the fetal position under the nearest coffee table.

“Jimmy, why are you under the coffee tabl-”

“I’m not Jimmy.”

The “Unsolved Mysteries” Theme Music: Do you remember that show about ghosts and scary stuff that was hosted by the dude in the trench coat? My parents would watch it when I was a kid and I’d get so scared by it that eventually I would run out of the room crying whenever I heard the opening theme music. I used to think that they kept doing this because they were SICK PEOPLE who thought a scared kid was funny (crying kids running is hilarious and needs to be an instagram account), but now I think it was a way for them to get me out of the room. Like, maybe my Dad really wanted to watch some sweet new Rated R movie that just came on HBO, but I was busy being all “hey Dad, let’s watch some lame bullshit show TOGETHER!” Quick-thinking Dad brain probably loved having the “Unsolved Mysteries” theme music trick in his back-pocket. He’d put that on and I’d be out of his hair; makes perfect sense. What’s even sadder, though, is that at 33 I still haven’t grown out of this. The VP thinks it’s funny and I know I should think it’s funny, but I don’t. When I told her of this fear she got her friends to send me audio texts and snapchats featuring that theme song. The VP would laugh like an idiot and I would try to chuckle but mostly think about “maybe I’m not falling in love with this evil beast woman.” And no, I won’t post a video with that song in it because I’M NOT IN THE MOOD TO FEEL LIKE A HELPLESS CHILD BEFORE I GO TO WORK!

Shopping Carts Behind Me: Whenever I hear that horrific rattling of old shopping cart wheels closing in on me from behind, I am POSITIVE that a serial achilles-clipper is pushing that cart and my achilles is next on his clip-list. Yes, a huge fear of mine is something happening to my achilles tendon, but has anyone in the history of grocery stores had theirs demolished by the bottom shelf of a shopping cart? If the answer to that is “yes,” I do NOT want to see the YouTube videos. If the answer to that is “no,” it may actually be worse because that means it’s DUE to happen sometime soon. The shopping cart record of not cutting an achilles is the DiMaggio hit-streak of grocery store records; and someday, some especially vicious cart pusher is going to make history. I’m gonna be the victim unless I start wearing my chain-link pants whenever we run out of paper towels.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Heard this song at my dentist’s office yesterday (clean teeth club) and I couldn’t wait to tell people about a hipstery sounding song that I liked. SO THAT’S WHAT I’M DOING! Wait…I’m not watching the video and it suc—-IT’S ABOUT THE MUSIC! JUST CLOSE YOUR EYES AND LISTEN!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The people who are saying that they’re ready for summer to be over. If you are one of these people who makes the argument that you’d rather have it be 10 degrees than 95 degrees outside, then you should wear a helmet around me because I will hit you in the head with a metal baseball bat for being a DUMB.

AM I ACTUALLY A BAD GAMBLER? OR, IS MY LUCK ABOUT TO TURN AND QUITTING NOW WOULD BE LIKE SELLING APPLE RIGHT BEFORE THEY CAME OUT WITH THE iPOD?

Fresh new deposit into my account and IMMEDIATELY on the following golfers for the PGA Championship: Tiger Woods, Patrick Cantlay, Jon Rahm, Jason Day, Marc Leishman, Daniel Berger, Aaron Wise, Thorbjorn Olesen, Joaquin Niemann. I’ve never heard of Niemann or Wise, but that’s the sign of a good gambler…you trust the odds. Oh also, real quick, my gambling-confidence is at an all-time low and I’m positive I’m going to lose every bet I make for the rest of my life and I still won’t stop. I’M NOT ADDICTED. (My Bovada account is currently at $12.60)

K bye.