Category: party

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.

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?!?!

 

 

 

 

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.

 

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.

The VP and I Go Canoeing-PART TWO-(7/19/18)

MY WORLD:

*Quick recap of Part One for those of you who are too fucking lazy to read it:  The VP of Ops and I went canoeing last weekend.  Part one was about the 3 hour drive up to Bumfuck, Wisconsin.  I left off when I got out of the car and was massacred by mosquitoes.  Want more details? GO READ IT!

By the time the VP actually got out of the car, I was but a shell of myself.  Weary from the beating my body had taken in the 47 seconds I had been outside, the thought of shielding myself with The VP’s body not only crossed my mind, it consumed me.  If I draped her over my shoulders like a fashionable shawl, and began to spin, the helicopter motion of her limbs would SURELY fend off these hungry fuckhead squitoes.  The VP had a solid defense mechanism, however, which consisted of her giving me the “I can’t believe you made me come here”-stare.  Imagine two razorblades made of un-meltable ice; that’s what The VP’s eyes looked like.  I may have let out an audible “yikes” after being caught with that frigid glare.  Back to the squitoes, everything is going great!

We had to load our stuff on the back of a school bus before it drove us to the launch off point.  The VP carried like a friggin’ pillow and left the cooler, firewood, tent, chairs, and backpacks for me; this is the definition of not-fair and if my Mom was there I def would’ve squealed a “Mom! This is unfair!”  Unfortch, my Mom was too busy not sacrificing her body to the Squitoe Squad, so I was left to exhale audibly and then just carry everything because WE’RE NOT GETTING IN A FIGHT!  By the time I loaded our entire life into the back of this dumb bus, most of the seats were taken.  When I got to the VP’s seat, I felt like young Forrest Gump.  While not exactly Jenny-ish, the VP did scoot over and make room for my swollen ass.  Want a perfect remedy for a tense situation with your significant other?  Just make a fart noise.  I’m not sure if I did that or I just said something along the lines of “thanks for letting me carry everything!” but it did lighten the mood.  The Squitoes, like most cool people, wouldn’t be caught dead in a big yellow school bus, so we were safe for the time being.  As the bus took off and our itchies began to subside, I felt The VP begin to soften.  Beers and sun and NATURE were on the docket.  We were about to live that H.O.C. life (Hot Outdoorsy Couple).

We got to the launch point and after a minor altercation with the canoe organizer lady, we loaded our canoe and set off into the great wide open!  Oh, the minor altercation?  You know that thing when someone acts like you don’t have a reservation when you really do, so you respond with a brief, albeit passionate, fury?  Did the words “well that’s something that YOU need to figure out” come out of my mouth?  Yes.  But listen, The VP and I didn’t drive 3 hours, and get in a few almost-fights before donating our bodies to the Squitoe Squad to be turned away by some idiot woman holding a clipboard and wearing a life vest ON LAND.  Hey Lady, hard to drown in grass, dontchathink?!?!  Thankfully, my very brief, very minor outburst didn’t result in any sort of incarceration.  Before we knew it, we were on the water, paddling towards enshrinement in the H.O.C. Hall of Fame.

The weather was perfect out on the water and the Squitoes weren’t too bad out there either.  The VP and I basically took deet showers before we got on the canoe, and that seemed to work.  Lite beers began to flow and cheesy country music blared from our friend Bonesaw’s cool waterproof speaker.  (Am I the only one still using the speakers I bought for my dorm room in 2004?  Yes? Oh.)  When you’re out on the water, cheesy country music or Dave Matthews is all that you can listen to.  If someone had put on like Two Chainz or N’Sync, I would’ve swam over to their canoe to strangle the life out of them.  (Aggressive).  Give me Florida Georgia Line or give me death on the open waters.  The VP and I were having a ball, guys.  No joke.  Was I doing most of the paddling? Yes, of course.  However, if I wanted to earn my H.O.G. badge, I was going to have to blast my delts and traps until they begged for mercy.  When they did beg for mercy after roughly 4.1 minutes of paddling, though, I was forced to yell at The VP to “feel free to paddle ANYTIME!”  Flinging guilt trips your wife’s way is part of the H.O.G. lifestyle, correct?

We (mostly me, but whatever) paddled for a while and then hooked up with a few other canoes for a solid, hang ‘n float sesh.  My jokes were not landing the way I was hoping they would, however, and The VP seemed to revel in that.  After a few “I think we forgot to pack our motor”-jokes didn’t connect, she looked back and said “you’re really on fire today!”  I can’t lie, it stung and I’m still kinda’ pissed about it.  Don’t wedding vows also encompass supporting your husband’s desperate attempts at canoe humor?  If they don’t, they should, and if they do, then The VP owes me a heartfelt apology.  (VP?  Care to comment?)  Eventually, the hang ‘n float group loosened up and sent some (courtesy?) laughs my way.  WAS THAT SO HARD?!?!  We ate sandwiches and drank some beehs and bagged many many rays.  Excuse the following brag, but I tan like a Greek God; going from translucent white to burnt gold in a matter of minutes.  I skip the lobster red phase altogether; it’s a gift.

After a little more paddling (yes, still mostly by me, thanks for inquiring) we set up camp at a little sandy beach.  Are these called dunes?  I don’t know and I don’t want to look it up, but it was like our group’s own private beach.  It was sweet.  Everyone went off to set up their tents while it was still light out.  I guess I missed the memo that good friend Bonesaw wasn’t going to do everything for me, as he did last year, though.  I pretended that this wasn’t a MAJOR problem, but my brain was beginning to swell with anxiety.  I had no fucking idea how to put this tent together.  We borrowed it from other friends, and now was the time that we were supposed to act like a real H.O.C.  The instruction packet was stuck together because it got wet, so we had to go into “we can figure this out”-mode.  Wanna hear a secret? Both of us knew we weren’t going to be able to figure it out.

After scrambling for a solid 37 minutes of minor fights and little progress, our tent resembled a deflated bouncy castle.  It was sad, and looked even more sad because it was surrounded by fully erect, gorgeous tent houses.  I swear to god some of these other tents looked bigger and nicer than the apartment we pay almost two grand a month to live in.  The rest of the group was hanging and drinking in the water for a long enough time that I’m sure they had to be talking about and laughing about our tent issues.  The case for me becoming a H.O.G. had hit QUITE the speed bump.  Some would say, the point where I snapped “well, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing” at The VP is where my H.O.G. case was forever lost.  (Members of the H.O.G. jury all nod.)  We awkwardly gave up after we got the tent erect enough to sleep in, and shuffled our way to the water.  Our body language must’ve SCREAMED “everything is fine! Please don’t ask us about our tent!”

Vodka with strawberry lemonade was the drink of choice as the day progressed and, lemme tellya, they were going down SMOOTH.  I’m also pretty sure that I told everyone around us just how smooth they were going down no less than 87 times.  (We get it Jimmy, you’re drinking a lot of vodka in the sun!)  Nobody said anything about our shitty tent, which was nice.  Instead, the group was more focused on laughing and smiling AND LAUGHING.  Hey! I like to laugh!  The water felt great and the weather was perfect as The Golden Hour approached.

golden

When the sun went down, an actual H.O.G. in the group put together a gorgeous fire.  Honestly, if the H.O.G. jury had asked me to build a fire, I probably would’ve just rubbed some sticks together until my hands bled before running off to my deflated tent while yelling “everything is impossible out here!”  I was good at sitting near the fire, though, and eating a hot dog that someone else cooked.  (God you’re impressive, Jimmy.)  But when the sun finally went into hiding, the mosquitoes came back out.  And they were angry, guys.  Very, very angry.  The VP and I looked at each other one last time.  The itchies were back.  The rest of the night consisted of people trying to laugh in between slapping the back of their necks and saying stuff like “these mosquitoes!”  Fun fact, it’s hard to function as a human being when mosquitoes are building apartment complexes on your face.

Everyone went to bed relatively early as a result.  Our bed did consist of, uh, the sand because our blow-up mattress refused to blow up even after I yelled at it to “just work!”  I know, I couldn’t believe it either.  So The VP and I slept on the ground, using our damp backpacks as pillows.  How come nobody ever puts those camping pictures on Instagram?  No videos of you telling your wife to “stop sighing, there’s nothing we can do” on their stories?  I would’ve recorded some of this for you but my phone was already dead because I went canoeing with my battery at 16%.  Planning, it appears, is not my strong suit.

The VP and I awoke covered in a thin film of sweat and sand.  Guys, it gets hot outside in the summer.  Did you know that?  I made a bunch of the same sounds your dad makes when he gets up from his seat at Thanksgiving dinner.  A lot of “urghs” and “wugffs” and “jesus christ, my back”s.  Needless to say, I will not be perusing the “Wisconsin Sand”-section next time I go to Mattress World.  The VP refused to get up because she knew that meant packing up the tent and cleaning and getting back on the canoe for more paddling.  The VP was going into full-on “But I don’t wanna”-mode.  Good thing that I can be INCREDIBLY annoying when I want to be.  She snapped out of her fake slumber after a few Jimmy fingers went up her nose.  (Surprisingly few boogs in there FYI.)  

Nobody talked much in the morning because we were all tired and covered in mosquito bites.  One guy in the group just looked like a human mosquito bite; I’m pretty sure King Squitoe swallowed him whole at some point in the night.  It’s not fun doing your best impression of an air traffic controller while trying to take your morning pee, either.  Hey mosquitoes, what don’t you get?  Pee is gross, back off for a minute.  By the time everyone loaded up their canoes again, we were all ready to have a magic current take us to the finish line.

That magic current never came, though, so we were forced to paddle much further than any of us anticipated.  Whoever said “we just have to get to the second bridge” can rot in hell.  Seriously, I don’t remember who that person was, but if you’re reading this, you better pray I don’t run into you in a dark alley.  We passed like a hundred bridges and  I don’t know if the magic current was actually working against us, but it did feel like you had to have the strength of Dwayne The Rock Johnson to get your canoe moving.  Did it help that The VP wasn’t helping at all because she felt “nauseous or something”?  No, that did not help.  At this point, I didn’t give a fuck about ever being labeled a H.O.G.  In fact, I began to think that H.O.G.s are really just tired, sweaty, miserable guys who are able to trick us by smiling for the one picture they put up on Instagram.  I looked around at the group on the water that morning, and there were no smiles.  ZERO. SMILES.  There were grimaces and bug bites and The VP with her head between her knees saying “I am not okay.”  THE OUTDOORS!

Now, because I really am a super nice and super strong guy, I didn’t make The VP feel bad about not paddling much on the way back.  But now that we’re alone here guys, holy shit was that hard.  Like, “am I going to have a heart attack and die in a canoe on the Wisconsin River?”-hard.  Every day since, I’ve checked out my arms and shoulders in the mirror expecting them to look more chiseled than your neighborhood bodybuilder’s.  Spoiler alert: they don’t look chiseled, and it’s fucking bullshit.  After, no joke, like 3 hours of paddling, we finally got back to where I had parked my car.  The VP scurried up to my Chevy’s air conditioning, while I dragged back every damp, smelly belonging we had.  Remember those times when you would be moving into a new apartment and you just started dragging stuff because you were tired and didn’t give a fuck anymore?  That was me here.  If some strong man would have offered to carry me back to my car, I would have divorced The VP on the spot and married my new burly hero.  I may have even tried looking helpless for a little while hoping that some strongman stranger was waiting to play hero.  Hey, can someone play a sad song while I have my “please help me” face on?  There was no strongman stranger, just a sandy hill and a wife bolted to the inside of my car.  I loaded all our shit in the trunk, didn’t say goodbye to anyone in the group and said “holy shit” 14 times before I pulled out of our parking space.

I’m never going to be hot outdoorsy guy.  I’m a chair man, through and through.

THAT WAS A LOT OF WORDS AND NOW I’M DONE.

K bye.

 

 

Common Drunk Mistakes and Not Going to the Gym (7/10/18)

OUR WORLD:

I didn’t drink yesterday!  I’m planning to not drink today too!!!  (Planning is an interesting word, Jimmy).  Sobriety is one slippery serpent around summer holidays (and stressful workweeks, and Fridays, and Saturdays, and winter holidays, and football Sundays, and…people I work with/for may be reading this so GIVE IT A REST, PAL!) but that mutant Wednesday holiday was a real jolt to my drinking equilibrium.  Is anyone REALLY mad if we just start celebrating Independence Day on the first Friday in July?  Lets give everyone a 3 day weekend and cool it with the midweek hangover.  Am I the only one who felt like last Wednesday was a test?  Paranoid-Jimmy sensed judgmental bitches out in FORCE on Thursday, taking stock of everyone wearing sunglasses and eating McDonald’s out of paper bags in their cars while parked outside suburban dialysis centers (you just got too specific there, Jimmy.  They know it’s you now).  I could almost hear these people saying “I guess SOMEBODY couldn’t control themselves on a midweek holiday.  REVOKE HIS ADULTHOOD CARD!”  Before I go off into a real tangent, I would like to propose that all McDonald’s drive-thru attendants begin each order by telling the person in the car that “everything is going to be okay.  Now, what can I get you?”  The amount of anxiety those simple words would help ease in the world could lead to the end of anti-depressants ALL TOGETHER.  Exaggeration? Well duh, but how many people going through the McDonald’s drive thru are really just searching for someone to tell them that “everything is going to be okay”?  My educated guess would be 100%.

Now, to the issue at hand.  Over the past week-ish, through observing and participating in some alcohol-fueled escapades, I’ve begun assembling a list of mistakes that all of us drinking folk make time after time after time.  We’ll tell ourselves that we’re going to make sure we do this or make sure we don’t do that, and then we have beers and shots and FUN and start thinking “EVERYONE LOVES EVERYTHING I DO!”  They don’t.  My initial goal of this piece was to help us to learn and better ourselves, but I’m no fool.  For the vast majority of us, this may simply be a therapeutic exercise in communal immaturity.  Here are the drunk-person mistakes that all us drinkers make and will continue to make because drinking impairs our decision-making abilities.  Or, as I like to call it, the first edition of the “Oh, I’m not the only who gets drunk and”-list of missteps.

Makes extravagant plans with friends about “finally putting a group trip together!” only to never talk about that trip until the next time you’re all very drunk.

I’ve agreed no less than 28 times to start planning a group trip to Michigan or Wisconsin or some other moderately priced, drive-able location while out drinking with friends.  It always happens when someone in the group just got back from a trip.  They have a tan and are happier/less stressed than normal because they just returned from “a relaxing few days.”  Everyone around them is jealous and saying things like “but I wanna!” to their significant others.  Natural progression includes the person who just returned from vacay proposing that the whole group goes to where they just were.  “Yay!” is usually what I think and ALWAYS what the VP actually says out loud.  Aside from the two friends at the bar thinking they’re taking “secret” shots even though everyone can see them, everyone agrees that this trip is something that MUST happen.

This is when trouble begins to arise.  Who is going to take the lead on planning this?  NOBODY in the entire universe wants that responsibility.  Hey Friendo, when you’re done with work and walking your dog and paying your bills and cooking your dinner and doing your laundry and parking on the street in the city and going to the gym and apologizing to your wife for losing the iPhone charger, would you mind corralling a group of functioning alcoholics to all agree on which weekend they should all spend more than really want to, to go to some place in Wisconsin they haven’t been since they were children?  TYSM!!!

So what ends up happening is…uh….nothing.  And most of the time, honestly, I’m relieved.  I have heard of people going on their phones while IN the bar and making reservations THAT NIGHT.  While I applaud the immediate follow-through, I’ve gotta admit that if I were part of that group I would IMMEDIATELY start thinking of potential excuses to drop a week before the actual trip.  Yes, friend trips are fun, but agreeing to spend a bunch of money while you’re already drunk and already spending a bunch of money at the bar?  Folks, that right there is the origin story of most panic attacks for 30 year olds (surprised you didn’t know that.  Also, if you’re over 30, like me, referring to yourself as a “30 year old” is a nice cheat-code to feel younger.)

Orders shots for all the people you’re with and immediately regrets having to pay $48 for 6 Fireball shots and a sure-fire hangover.

I love thinking about how shots must’ve been invented.  You know some drunk guy named Terry was out one night thinking “I love drinking beer, but I want to get drunk faster.  Liquor? Yeah, but I hate the taste.  What if…someone could like shoot something into my mouth REAL quick to get me drunk and I could go back to drinking beer?  SHOTS!”  Once Terry’s friend, Lorenzo, heard of this idea he joined in the fray and asked the bartender to just add a bunch of sugar to his “shot” to also help mask the taste.  Said bartender then, one late night, tired of feeling like candy dealer, put on a bowtie, grew a mustache and invented simple syrup.  “It’s actually not sugar, it’s a cocktail ingredient known as simple syrup,” said the first ever douchey Mixologist.  Boom, I just gave you the  evolution of alcohol.  (I have done no research into that, but I don’t want to know if it’s wrong.  I don’t care what anyone says.  No chance someone other than a dude named Terry invented shots. NOW GET BACK TO THE FUCKING POINT, JIMMY!)

The point is that now, age thirty tuoeiwe, shots are but an illicit daydream while out at the bar with friends.  No one is really going to ask the crew if they WANT shots because nobody wants to be met with the “you have a problem, don’t you?”-looks.  The way around this, however, is to just show up to the table with a tray of shots.  It’s a risky move because the majority of the table is going to be pseudo-pissed at you, but that’ll fade.  The people that are excited, though, will think of you as their Dark Knight of fireball for allowing them to use the “it would be rude NOT to take this”-excuse.  In the words of Chief Gordon, the Dark Knight of Fireball endures the ridicule “Because he can take it, because he’s not a hero.  He’s a silent guardian, a watchful protector, a Dark Knight.”

Are you, like me, one of these Dark Knights of Fireball?  Let’s talk.  Like me, I bet you told yourself before going out “no shots tonight.”  I bet once you got to the bar and had a few POPS you started laughing and having an absolute ball.  You’re doing some dance moves by yourself to the faint Top 40 songs playing on the speakers (excuse me DJ, can you please play some Steve Winwood?  Yeah, I’ll settle for Katy Perry.)  Next thing you know, you’re in the bathroom thinking to yourself “I’ve got my lady here, my friends here and just pulled off a killer flossing routine in the middle of the bar, how could this night get better?!?!”  That’s when you slowly look up from washing your hands and catch yourself in the mirror…”Shots.”  It’s exciting in the same way that the idea of smoking a cigarette is.  (Look cool and get a little extra buzz in the process!)  

You’re in full-on “ignoring consequences”-mode until directly after you put down the empty shot glass.  Fireball isn’t cheap, but you can’t close out your tab right this second because…uh…I STILL WANNA HAVE FUN!  So now you’re panicking as you run through all the times you bought fireball shots in the past trying to figure out how much it’s going to cost.  The “oh no”-face begins to take hold of you, but you have to play it off when your wife asks if everything is okay because NOBODY likes the “can we split that tray of shots?”-guy.  (Honestly, I’ve never seen one of the Dark Knights of Fireball ask to split the cost afterwards, but I’m POSITIVE they all think about asking.)  So you’re now stuck in the bar trying to do math (legally impossible after beer #7) while pretending that you’re still having a good time.  On top of that, you broke your “no shots” rule and you’re thinking about it now because panic spares no potential suitor.  When it begins, the panic zombie-goblins come back to life and begin feeding on any potential fear-inducing topic.  2 hours later, when you finally do close out your tab and sign your check, you nearly hyperventilate while thinking about your bank account, tomorrow’s hangover, and how your pants are going to feel after you DEMOLISH late-night pizza.  Everything is, most certainly, not okay.

Thinks that no matter where you are, walking home is a good idea.

I don’t care if I’m at a bar in the middle of the goddamn ocean, the second close out my tab I’m thinking “walkin’ time!”  There are so many reasons for this, but the top one has to be that walking home allows for the possibility of stopping at a late-night eatery for some delicious delicious treats.  (I’ve gotta do a list of “Best Late Night Eats” at some point.)  Asking an Uber to go through a drive-thru includes feeling ashamed for involving a stranger in your excess (this is our little secret!) AND ALSO risks the driver messing up your order when he asks what he should say into the drive-thru speaker.  If you’re walking, you get to play the “well, I mean, McDonald’s is right there” game of chicken with your spouse.  Saying ‘no’ to McDonald’s after midnight is the type of self-control that is written about in books that smarter people than me read.  Whenever I’m late-night walking with The VP and toss out the “McDonald’s?” she shrugs in an effort to mask how OVERWHELMINGLY EXCITED she is that I was the one to suggest it.  (The Dark Knight strikes again).

Unfortunately, when you live in a city like Chicago, with tons of stories about drunk idiots (me? are you talking about me?) getting mugged, walking home is NOT. SAFE.  When I’m going out without The VP, she actually makes me promise her that I won’t walk home.  Little does The VP of Ops know that my toes are crossed when I make this promise and YOU CAN’T GET MAD ABOUT CROSSIES!!! YOU CAN’T!  If I simply plan to speed-walk home while zig-zagging down the sidewalk, “tough to hit a moving target”-style, I should be fine (I’m legit V nervous that I just jinxed myself.)  When I’m descending into panic-mode following my OUTRAGEOUS bar spend, skipping the $13 Uber ride is going to make me feel just a little bit better.  And at that point of the night, every little bit counts!

Finally, I don’t care what kind of shape you’re in, everyone loves breaking into the “I just want to be home right this second”-drunksprint and we’re ALL convinced that our drunksprint is faster than any car ever put on this earth.  The next “Fast & The Furious” movie should really be about dueling drunksprinters.

MY WORLD:

I’ve taken the last week off from working out because during my last run I felt some crazy pulling on my hamstrings.  I told myself that I needed the rest, which I probably did, but I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t A BILLION PERCENT THRILLED to have a legitimate excuse to not go to the gym for a little while.  The downside of this MANDATORY vacation, however, is the guilt associated following every meal.  Some of the things I’ve considered to combat this fat-guilt I’ve been experiencing, include:

-Shaving my beard:  Shaving makes your face look thinner.  I’ve had a “beard” (stop laughing Dad!) for a few months now, so if I shaved it, I think people would be like “whoa, have you been losing weight?”  Tricked ya!

-Cutting my hair:  I need a haircut and have been wearing a hat for about 5 weeks straight now to hide this fact.  Along the same lines as the beard thing, if I get a haircut, it could distract people from my widening torso.  If I got a SUPER new haircut, like a buzz or one of those cool hipster/hitler-youth haircuts, people would def not notice that I’m wearing my “the diet is not going well”-jeans.

-Embracing being bigger:  I just don’t think I’m tall enough to pull off “big guy”.  It stinks because I feel like there are taller guys who are overweight, but they wear it well so they can just be “the big guy.”  I wanna be “the big guy”!  When I gain weight, I’m stocky and NOBODY wants to be “the stocky guy”.  Is there any other way I can embrace the inevitability of getting bigger?  I’m open to suggestions here.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

My Dad sent me the link to this song last week.  I remember when I told people that I hated country music.  I do not feel that way anymore.  This song is fabulous.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you bring your car in for an inspection and the body shop guy comes into the waiting room because he “needs to talk to you about something.”  GREAT!

JIMMY GAMBLES:

Been really up and down lately.  Hit big on some World Cup bets last week but also learned the hard lesson that betting the moneyline in soccer means your team has to win by the end of regulation.  I realized this while celebrating my Croatia “win” and assuring my gambling partners that Bovada must be malfunctioning because it hadn’t paid us out yet.  After about 19 page refreshes, The VP googled “soccer gambling” for me and broke my heart while reading the moneyline regulation rules.  If I would’ve known gambling involved reading and learning, I never would’ve gotten into it.  Today I’ve got Belgium because I bet on them before the tournament started and don’t want to start rooting against them now even though I’m TERRIFIED of that fast French dude MBappe.

(Current balance at $31.87)

K bye.

 

 

 

The 4th of July Stinks and My Dog is Making Me Feel Fat (7/3/18)

OUR WORLD:

One of the best things about this big, smelly country is a little thang called “freedom of speech,” mmmkay?  So check me out exercising this freedom when I say the following: the 4th of July stinks.  STINKS, FOLKS!  (Dear ICE, you know that Jimmyschair guy?  Can you chop his head off please?…Why not?)  A day during the hottest month of the year that we HAVE to spend outside in front of grills that are making the cheapest of grilled meats all leading up to sitting in long grass and getting mauled by Zika-ridden Mosquitoes to watch 8 minutes of fireworks.  Oh, and the best part?  It’s on a Wednesday this year, so you have the option of blowing a vacation day on Thursday or showing up to work in your best hangover disguise, holstered with the “my allergies are horrible!”-excuse as you try to stop dry-heaving in front of your boss.  You know why people call this holiday simply “the 4th”?  Because it’s the 4th best summer holiday (That’s not true, Jimmy.  SHUT UP MOM!)  Give me Memorial Day, Labor Day, and MY FRIGGIN’ BIRTHDAY AKA FLAG DAY, a trillion times out of a trillion over “the 4th”.  (Point Jimmyschair.)

Now, does the 4th stink compared to a typical day?  Do I look like a stupid idiot?  Of course it’s great compared to your typical July workday.  We’re talking compared to other holidays here, try to keep up JERKS!  (I didn’t mean that and feel bad about lashing out).  Lets go through why, compared to other holidays, the 4th STINKS:

Fireworks are overrated:  I can’t believe this is that hot of a take, but I’ve never been a big fireworks guy.  Even as a kid, I remember wondering when the whole “show” would end so I could go back home and play video games.  Before television, I’m sure I would’ve thought fireworks were cool, but now I’m supposed to bypass getting to watch 2-3 episodes of “Southern Charm” (The VP and I have been binging this and DADDY LIKEY!)  Colorful explosions in the sky < Did Craig take the bar yet?  (TeamCraig stand up!)  Even if you’re not in the midst of a “Southern Charm” binge, please do not even try to tell me that watching fireworks is preferable to watching a TV show of your choice while on a recliner in an air conditioned room.  Firework shows last 18 minutes tops?  And how long did it take you to get to your friends backyard or rooftop or local…uh…field?  Probably AT LEAST 20 minutes each way, but it’s not like you can just show up for the fireworks and toss up deuces (PEACE!) the second after the finale.  NO WAY JOSE!  You’re getting there early, bringing some mayo “salad” and you’re staying after for at least one “I’m too tired to drink this and then drive home”-beer.

*Quick breather:  I’m aware I sound like the ultimate Debbie Downer.  To play my own Devil’s Advocate for a second, it is ALWAYS fun to hang out with your best friends and get drunk.  However, with the 4th landing on a school night this year, this will be like the first NFL Sunday of the year where you get drunk with your friends and then silently freak out at night about how hungover you’re going to be at work the next day.  Whenever you’re playing the “I’m going to be hungover at work tomorrow”-game, you’re playing with fire and DEFINITELY worrying about it every time you open a new beer.  

BACK TO HATE-CITY!  I touched on this last week, but when you live in a big city, for the week leading up to and the week after the 4th, there are CONSTANT random fireworks going off throughout the night.  When you live with a wife who has been mugged and a dog who gets stressed at the sound of a sneeze, these sounds are not exactly comforting.  I took Numba One Pretty Gurrrrllll Belle out for a walk last night and felt like I was an extra on the set of “Saving Private Ryan 2: Escape from Chicago”.  This is why when I’m never sad when I hear stories about people blowing off their fingers setting off fireworks.  THAT’S WHAT YOU GET FOR SCARING ME AND MY PRETTY PRINCESS BABY BELLE!!!

It’s too hot to be in front of a grill or hanging outside all day:  The 4th is the number one day for making people feel guilty for wanting to stay inside.  As someone extremely sensitive to guilt-trips (are you mad at me?) this is my nightmare.  Why do we have to feel guilty for not wanting to spend the entire day in stifling heat and humidity?  Hard to get a beer buzz when you’re sweating through your friggin’ eyeballs!  If you told your friends or spouse, that you were planning to spend the 4th under a blanket in your air-conditioned coldbox of an apartment watching reality television all day, you’d immediately be slapped with the “it’s too nice to spend the day inside”-guilt trip.  Fuck. That.  I’m all for spending nice days outside, but the majority of my Independence Day memories include sticking to my chair and slapping at the mosquitoes treating my legs the way I treat corn on the cob.  (Not coming up for air until that corncob is raw!) 

How many times can I get excited about hot dogs and hamburgers?  I like grilling as much as the next Joe Blow (I don’t even know ONE Joe Blow, Jimmy!) but how many times can I get excited about cheap meats that are, most likely, poorly cooked by a half-drunk “grill master”?  If you’re blessed enough to go to a spot that’s cooking up steaks or fancy chicken then you win; but most of us are stuck with Uncle Larry and his technique of smashing burgers on the grate until they’re hockey puck tough.  “Have you seen my ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron, guys?” Is this dinner or a hack-job comedy routine where everyone pretends their dinner doesn’t SUCK?!?! (Can you drown in ketchup?)  

*Related, I can’t wait to buy a “Kiss the Cook” apron.  I plan to wear it every single night of the year just to make that joke to The VP so many times that she goes into therapy.  “The thing is, I don’t want to kiss the cook.  Matta’ o fack, I’ve developed a deep seeded hatred for the cook and his stupid fucking apron!”

Having to be around people who don’t work the next day when you do:  Every year there’s the group of your friends at the party who love reminding everyone that they don’t work the next day.  You’ll say stuff like “wow, I’m jealous” and then play it off like it’s not that big of a deal.  In reality, though, you want to go to the bathroom and cry while looking at yourself in the mirror.  (My life isn’t as good as their life!)  The impromptu “whose job has the most relaxed vacation day policy?”-competition is never fun for the losers.  So you’re left either sipping on a lukewarm Coors Light while your besties get blackout without a care in the world, or you throw caution to the wind and sign up to be MISERABLE at your desk the next morning.  What an option!  I love watching the person who does work the next day get progressively drunker and sadder as the night goes on.  The whole “I’m going to get drunk and not even think about the consequences” act is impossible after the age of 30.  It’s a game of chicken that, even after 30 beers, you know you’re losing.  (This person is usually me btw).

Can’t wait.

MY WORLD:

IMG_3649

My dog Belle got a real short haircut on Sunday because she had mats and it’s super hot outside for a big FLOOF dog.  She looks so much thinner!  I was calling her “Chubba Bubba” before this cut, but now she looks like the Nicole Kidman of dogs so I’ve re-nicknamed her “Nicole Belleman”  (not my best, but The VP chuckled).  Anyway, this haircut and the effect it has had on her looks has got me thinking…do I need to get a buzzcut?  It feels like Belle has a newfound skinny-dog confidence, and is kinda’ judging ME for not being as skinny as her.  I think that she thinks that she’s better than me!

I’m currently mired in the phase of hair-length where I wear a hat every single day because I’m too lazy to properly style it in the morning.  And maybe this length/lack of styling is making me appear fatter than I am?  (That’s what I’m going to tell myself, at least.  The fact that all my shorts feel outrageously tight MUST be tied to my hair and not my recent diet of cookies and craft beer!)  Like, I’d love to show up with a new haircut and have people think “wow! I had no idea Jimmy was that skinny!”  That could happen!  It happened for Belle!  In High School I got a buzz cut and looked a little nazi-ish, but that was like forever ago which means it wouldn’t be the same, right?  If I do get a buzzcut I would have to worry about my hair growing back AND if it would highlight me getting thin on top.  Plus, if I get a buzzcut, I can’t cover it up with a hat because bald guys with hats make EVERYONE uncomfortable.  (Seriously, I’d feel more comfortable next to a drooling tiger than a bald guy with a big loose hat sitting on his dumb head.)  As you can tell, I’m in a real pickle here folks.  I want to shock people with how thin I can suddenly appear, but do I risk being the Nazi-lookin’ bald guy who’s making everyone uncomfortable with his ill-fitting hat?  You’re never in a good place body-image-wise when you’re jealous of how skinny your dog looks.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Bet you didn’t think I’d like this song…

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Getting into your car when it’s super hot outside and feeling the life get sucked out of you  while waiting for your AC to actually get cold.  It’s a race against time that I’m convinced will be the death of me.

GAMBLING UPDATES ARE STILL ON HOLD.  I AM CURRENTLY WORKING ON A STRATEGY THAT WILL ALLOW ME TO NEVER LOSE AND ONLY WIN BETS.  BLUEPRINTS, REPORTS AND STACKS OF PROPOSALS ARE INVOLVED…

K bye.

 

Donald Trump and I Have The Same Birthday (6/14/18)

MY WORLD:

It’s my birthday and if you have yet to wish me a happy birthday, please know that I am aware of it and putting my relationship with you under evaluation.  While not a “birthday guy” it is a good excuse to do things that I normally wouldn’t do on a Thursday. This year?  I’m thinking of eating a big fancy donut and maybe having a Coke at lunch.  (A THRILL A MINUTE WITH THIS GUY!!!)  The VP of Ops is taking me out to dinner tonight and is very excited about the present she got me.  Unfortunately, The VP has cried on my birthday the past 3 years (not a joke) for reasons varying from “You think I’m a bad wife!” to “You weren’t THAT surprised!” Pairing that history with her excitement for this year’s present means I’m going to have to practice my “Oh my God, this is the best moment of my entire life!”-face for the rest of the day.  Odds are that we make it 4 straight years that she has cried.  If you have her number, try face timing with The VP around 9:18 tonight to see crocodile tears.

Before I get into a fun list that I felt like writing because IT’S MY GODDAMN BIRTHDAY!  I had to touch on one thing that’s driving me nuts.  Donald Trump has the same birthday as me.  I repeat: Donald Fucking Trump has the same birthday as yours truly.  If you’ve thought to yourself “Boy, he’s really ruining everything” lately, AT LEAST HE’S NOT RUINING THE ONE DAY A YEAR THAT’S ALL ABOUT YOU!

If you’re curious about my politics, here’s a hint: I hate our President with all of my heart.  An oozing wound with working vocal chords who keeps leaking through his bandages only to tell those surrounding him that it’s not puss, but liquid gold.  The fact that some people are mistaking this puss for currency is maddening.  Instead of trying to convince the “It’s gold because he told us it is!”-crowd of their shortcomings, I would just like to take a moment to highlight some differences between myself and my birthday twin (god that makes me want to puke).  

1)  I work out.

2)  Bill and Hilary Clinton didn’t come to my wedding.

3)  My Dad was not arrested during a KKK rally on Memorial Day in 1927 for fighting ALONGSIDE klansmen.  He wasn’t alive back then, guys!

4)  I would rather starve than eat a filet of fish from McDonald’s.  

5)  I’ve never cheated on my wife with a porn star.

6)  I think Robert DeNiro is awesome.

7)  I have a jawline.

8)  I own a dog who loves me.  

9)  I have not filed 6 of my businesses for Chapter 11 Bankruptcy and then bragged about my business acumen.

10)  If my wife was going into surgery and spending multiple days in the hospital, I would not simply “visit” her and then wait for applause when I announced my “visit” on Twitter.  I’d hold her hand on the gurney until the doctor told me “we’ll take it from here.”  Quick test: if your significant other is going into surgery and you aren’t there with him/her, you’re a bad person.  

To beat you over the head with the point of this exercise: supporting President GooGooGaGa is the same as advocating for the opposite of all of the statements above.  HAVE FUN WITH THAT!

LET’S GET TO A FUN LIST NOW!

Last night I sat outside, had a few Brewbabies and went through Spotify looking for my 10 Favorite songs.  Here’s what I’ve got in no particular order because that’s too hard and BIRTHDAY’S ARE DAYS WITHOUT HARD STUFF!  I will warn you that this is not the official JimmyGoodTime’s playlist–actually, a lot of these songs are kinda darker.  Let’s call this my “If this song comes on in the car, I’m not getting out until it’s over”-playlist.

*Yes, a lot of these videos have ads, but you can skip past them after 5 seconds so RELAX! I did my best to find cool live versions too.  SEE HOW HARD I WORK FOR YOU PEOPLE?!?!

Death Cab for Cutie “Transatlanticism” If the drums at the end don’t give you the chills, you might be dead.

Dave Matthews Band “All Along The Watchtower” Like it more than the Hendrix version…YEAH, I SAID IT!

Kanye West “Through The Wire” I hate that I love his music but Old Kanye was really fucking awesome.

Interpol “Rest My Chemistry” I miss this band.

 

Queens of the Stone Age “In The Fade” Sneaky good song to run to.

Steve Winwood “Valerie”  It’s not a joke how much I love this song.  If I ever am in DIRE need of a smile, this song puts one on my big round face.

The Joy Formidable “The Greatest Light Is The Greatest Shade”  Girls who sing lead for cool rock bands are, most definitely, the coolest humans on the planet.

Pearl Jam “Black” Unplugged Maybe the most intense acoustic performance of all-time?  So jealous that The VP gets to share her bday with my #1 ManCrush

Minus The Bear “Pachuca Sunrise”  Brought my brothers to a Minus The Bear concert and my youngest brother got us kicked out before the show even started.  This is my favorite song of theirs.

Radiohead “I Might Be Wrong”  Do you ever try to mimic the convulsion-like dance moves of Thom Yorke while alone and feel really cool while doing it?  Yeah, me too.

Since it’s all about me today, I’m not giving you an “Our World”.  OFF TO HAVE THAT DONUT!

K bye

 

 

 

THIS BACHELORETTE STINKS LIKE POOP-AND-WHY I’M NOW A CLUB GUY (6/12/18)

OUR WORLD:

I’m close to being out on this season of The Bachelorette, guys.  When the episode started last night, I was having too much fun cooking shrimp tacos and drinking a beer by myself in the kitchen that I just told The VP to let me know if anything crazy happened.  The tacos were actually done and I just kept stirring the shrimps while sipping my DEEEELISH beer and making “AHHHH!” sounds after ever sip.  After a few, “Oh my god”s coming from the living room, though, I felt it was my duty to soldier on through this episode (salute my sacrifice!)  Unfortunately, after toughing my way through that 2 hours of GUCK, I felt even closer to being out.  Let’s go over some reasons why:

1)  Becca is the definition of “Meh”:  The VP does not think she’s hot at all and I go back and forth on it.  She dresses like a dickhead, and when Jimmy Fashion is calling out your outfit choices, you KNOW there’s an issue.  We get it, you have a flat stomach.  Now, how ’bout you act like the near-30 year old you are and wear a full shirt.  (Grandpa Jimmy’s getting his gun! RUN!!!)  Aside from debating about her looks (Which I didn’t even want to do because that’s superficial and stuff.  The VP goes into mean-girl mode and drags me down with her.  SHE MAKES ME DO IT!)  She’s not interesting or funny or villainous or….ANYTHING EXCEPT “MEH”, though.  Has she said anything that has made you close to laughing?  She had the perfect opportunity to dunk on Jordan with a joke about his tinder stuff and, instead, she gave a super awkward, passive-aggressive high-five.  Look, Jordan is a tool (I actually don’t totally hate him FWIW) but maybe Becca could break out something better than her best ABC Family joke?  When she did that and then tried to calm Jordan down by saying “I was just trying to lighten the mood with a joke” I almost drove to the bazooka store to buy a bazooka5000 JUST to shoot my 11 year-old Vizio flat-screen to FUCKING BITS!   Next time you’re trying to lighten the mood, make one person in the entire world at least chuckle.

I also think that Becca took acting classes taught by a former construction worker recovering from the “look out for that huge steel beam!”-moment.  Are producers telling her to ham up every minor difficulty?  Sure, but that’s where anyone who ISN’T an AWFUL actress, just bites their lip and shakes their head while saying “I just don’t know…”  Becca, on the other hand, tries to force tears any chance she gets while saying things like “I have nothing left.”  She actually said “I have nothing left” when Clay told her he had to leave the show.  Really Becca?  Clay, while a nice enough dude, was about as charismatic as a used paper towel and had ZERO chance of actually winning this show.  Walgreens not having your favorite flavor of KIND Bars is more emotionally devastating than Clay leaving the show.  Meanwhile, Becca is clawing near her eyes to wipe away her nonexistent tears.  I’m no eye-makeup expert (please do not bring up my college emo phase thx!) but if a woman who wears GOBS of eye-makeup, like Becca, started crying, wouldn’t SOMETHING run down her cheek? IT’S LIKE SHE TAKES US FOR FOOLS!

2)  Who are we supposed to be rooting for?  I think the answer to this question is Colton, but how hard can you root for a virgin football player?  (Jesus, Jimmy’s banging on the virgin again….YOU BET I FUCKIN’ AM!)  Seriously, you’re one WHOPPER of a DOOF if you can’t parlay being in the N-F-FRIGGIN-L into one. sexual. encounter.  Lying about playing HIGH SCHOOL FOOTBALL got me laid; this dude has NFL YouTube highlights and can’t get past first base with Tia.  I’m sorry, but when you’re a guy who’s just a little too sweet and nice and cute…you enter into Creepsville.  Colton seems to be on a mission to Creepsville, USA.

So who else?  Garrett?  Oh, you mean the douche who supports the theory about David Hogg and the Parkland students being crisis actors? Yeah, I’m gonna pass on this Alex Jones fanboy.  If you haven’t read up on the tweets and instagram posts that Garrett liked, do yourself a favor and google it.  The VP had tried telling me about it throughout the first few episodes but I wanted to ignore it because trashy TV isn’t supposed to be political!  But…uh….this dude is just an asshole.  In a sick way, I’m hoping he wins and Becca has to spend the entire reunion show explaining how she doesn’t support making fun of the trans community, tossing immigrant children over a wall, and bullying high school kids who had their friends murdered in front of them.  Because Garrett, that fun-loving, gun-toting outdoorsman who just wants to show Becca a good time, enjoys all of those things.  Who else would love getting to see Chris Harrison squirm as he asks Becca what she thinks of Trump’s barbaric immigration policies?  (Here’s a link to the tweets/instagram posts that Garrett liked: https://twitter.com/AshleySpivey/status/999755526257954816/photo/1)

The one guy who is worthy of rooting for is the stuntman Leo (SWOON ALERT!).  The dude with the preposterous hair who makes me laugh in his 48 seconds of weekly screen time, however, has about the same chance of winning as my great great grandfather which is funny because HE’S DEAD!  (Yikes, that was dark.)  Barring another “he fell off the top bunk”-situation, the final 3 look to be Garrett, Colton, and Blake.  A triumvirate better known as “Who gives a shit?”

3)  The villains aren’t “villain-y” enough:  The VP does seem to genuinely hate Jordan, but how seriously can you hate a guy who talks the way he does?  His whole “my professionality is my personality” diatribe was just plain silly.  The guys around him were kinda laughing and that’s not what villains engender.  You remember Chad?  Guys were peeing their pants around him because he was so scary.  If one of them would’ve made the “I’m trying not to laugh”-face that all the dudes were making during Jordan’s spat, Chad would’ve torn their heads off their necks and snacked on their brains.  LITERALLY, GUYS!  And Jordan’s nemesis is weasel-faced David who isn’t coordinated enough to SLEEP without sending himself to the ICU.  Also, real quick real quick, in the history of “The Bachelor” and “The Bachelorette” has a tattle-tail ever won?  When David ran to tell Mom, I mean Becca, about Jordan’s tinder stuff he might as well have just left the house.  Is Jordan a tool? Of course.  But, David is a rich kid with that permanent “You obviously don’t know who my father is”-smirk.  Did you see any of the SNL skits this year where they’d have Don Jr. and Eric Trump acting like petulant, idiot babies?  DAVID IS THE SNL-EXAGGERATED VERSION OF ERIC TRUMP:

If you want me to hate a character, as ABC obviously does with Jordan, you’ve gotta give me a better adversary than the “where are the railings on the top bunk?”-guy.

MY WORLD:

I went to kind of a club place a couple weekends ago, and I think I’m a club-guy now! (Jimmy NOOOOO!!!!!)  Let me know explain.  The VP had some super cool Southern friends in town (Southern girls > Northern girls.  FACTS ONLY IN THIS BLOG!) and they wanted me to meet up with them after a work thing I had.  It wasn’t just me and the gals as there were some boyfriends there too (don’t hate the juicy goss I get to hear when it is just me and the gals TBH) but they were at some place in downtown Chicago I had never heard of.  Place I haven’t heard of PLUS downtown Chicago definitely means it was clubby.  Knowing this, I decided NOT to change my outfit following my work thang.  This meant that I showed up to a club in dirty shorts that are no less than 7 years old, high-socks, gym shoes, and a backwards hat.  The VP was mortified.  My entrance was a success.

Being the worst dressed male on the disastrously douchey rooftop, and making The VP incredibly uncomfortable in the process, turned into the most fun I’ve had in a club maybe ever?  Looking like a high school gym teacher in a sea of hair gel and vodka sodas wasn’t enough for me, though.  I would only be drinking canned beers and would NOT be shy about throwing out some painfully uncoordinated “sway-like” dance moves while standing next to The VP.  Whenever I’d feel her getting some separation from Coach Me, I’d throw my chin up in the air and belch out a thick Chicago-accented “hey babe, where you going?!?!” I never call her “babe” and I never talk in a thick Chicago accent.  I was on a mission to be THE COMPLETE OPPOSITE of every other guy on that rooftop.

While some may say this whole charade was simply a weak attempt to mask my insecurities, I would say…yeah, that’s probably right.  In all likelihood, I was in the bottom 11% of guys on that rooftop in terms of looks and bank accounts.  If I’m being completely SUPREMELY honest, there were some guys up there who I’m pretty sure were male models.  They were tools, but one of them danced with a friend of The VP and all I could think was “thank God, Captain Delicious didn’t ask The VP for a dance” because he was way bigger and better looking than me.  If, after a few “hey, I’m just casual”-canned beers, Captain Delicious would have hit on The VP, I would’ve said something like say “Hey…can you not do that?” while simultaneously praying that this dude didn’t feel like showing The VP how far he could throw me.  Thankfully, the adonis I referred to in my head as “Captain Delicious” danced with The VPs friend a few yards away from me; allowing me to whisper cutting remarks about his DUMB HAT in the VPs ear.  Yeah, I’m one tough hombre.

Following this near-death experience, though, I went back to making The VP uncomfortable while earning a beer buzz in a place known for low-cal libations.  The music was silly and thumpy, but different enough that me yelling “how about some Incubus?!?!” at the DJ  earned a few chuckles.  (Real talk: who wants to open an Incubus-only bar with me?  Incubus on the speakers, and a menu that only consists of nachos and cheap whiskey shots.  GET READY FOR FUN!)  Clubs are supremely uncomfortable for non-douchebags when they’re single.  However, 6 years later, when these non-douchebags are now married, clubs are a bastion of inadvertent comedy.  Now that I’m married and in my 30s, I’m a club guy.  CATCH ME ON THE DANCE FLOOR!

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Getting a chocolate chip cookie from Potbelly at lunch because it’s your birthday week and calories don’t count that week.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Getting sleepy at work 2 hours after you ate a massive sandwich and chocolate chip cookie from Potbelly during your birthday week.

K bye.

 

 

 

Rules When Sitting Alone At The Bar and Jimmy Fashion (6/8/18)

OUR WORLD:

Since sitting alone in bars is part of my job (professional Sad?) I’ve developed proven methods to give off “no, it’s okay, I’m not a sad person”-vibes.  It’s tricky, really, toeing the line between self-assured, creepy and sad while sitting alone at a bar, but when done properly, can make you feel like one of the cool movie guys who make you want to get into cigarettes again.  (Then you’ll probably go overboard and try rolling the pack in your short sleeve like James Dean until you catch your profile in a mirror and realize that your jawline is NOT chiseled.)  I’m planning for “The Rules of Being Alone At A Bar” to be recurring posts.  Let’s try these out first:

NEVER SIT DIRECTLY NEXT TO SOMEONE WHEN THERE ARE OTHER SPOTS OPEN:  What’s worse than sitting at a bar with a bunch of open seats, and some chode picks the seat right next to you?  Everyone knows that there should be one seat in between each party at the bar and if I owned a bar, I would actually mandate this by allowing my customers to place sharp metal spikes on the seats flanking their party at the bar.  Would there be some bloody butts? If it keeps the creeps fromma’ creepin’, then it’s well worth it.  Girls, wouldn’t you be much more likely to go to the Spikey Seat bar than risk having Hairy Jerry and his double vodkas sitting next to you and your friends on a Friday night?

If you are reading this and thinking “I like to sit next to strangers at the bar because I’m open to meeting new people!” just stop fibbing yourself.  The whole “meeting new people”-catchphrase was started by some hippy who wrote a book or something that confused affability with harassment.  What, you can’t talk to someone if your love-handle isn’t resting on their thigh?  (Side note: ever look at people seating at the bar from behind? NOBODY looks good.  It’s like a row of ziplock bags stuffed full of melting gelato with heads on top.  Oh, and the heads? Most have bald spots.)  

MAKE FRIENDS WITH THE BARTENDER WITHOUT A FULL-BLOWN CONVERSATION:  Not every bartender is an amateur psychiatrist thrilled to diagnose all the problems you’re dumping on their doorstep.  Remember especially if they’re over the age of 35, they’re doing a job that requires an explanation of “what went wrong” every time they speak to their grandfather.  When I bartended, I did not whistle while I worked.  Instead, I felt trapped between sads and their unprescribed medicines; I got to play the unlicensed doctor setting my patients up for a blip of relief before waking up with a stinging headache.  (I just don’t understand why Jimmy wasn’t a good bartender?!?!)  I was cordial with the alone-people at the bar, but I was overly cautious with them due to the fear of getting caught by a talkative one.  Ever wonder why the bartender acts super busy in a slow bar? He’s probably trying to avoid getting cornered by an alone-person sitting at his bar.  It must be a BILLION-TRILLION-GAJILLION times worse for female bartenders.  Give ’em all purple hearts and lifetime passes to every panic room ever constructed.

As an alone-person at the bar, simply play hard to get with the bartender.  You want to make friends with him because maybe he’ll give you a free drink and most bartenders have cool stories.  So order your bev, thank him or her without really looking at them, and go back to watching the television.  Play it cool, guys.  Keep an eye on what’s going on around the bar and, after a while, you’ll pick up on some of the politics surrounding your seat.  Maybe you’ll see a pouty server or a bitchy customer or an angry boss.  Once you spot this, wait for the bartender to come near you and flip a “I’m with you, brother”-comment the bartender’s way.  For instance, lets say you see a customer send back a drink more than once.  When the bartender nears you, say something like “they seem like fun.”  BOOM, you’re on the bartender’s side.  All most bartenders want to do is complain about their job, so once you open that possibility for them, they’re puddy in your hand.  And guess what?  Alone-you has just made friends with the most popular person in the place.  Congratulations.

DON’T TALK TO THE TELEVISIONS:  You’re not fooling anyone.  The entire bar knows that your running commentary on the muted news program is a signal: YOU’RE DYING FOR SOMEONE TO REACT TO YOU!  I’m not talking about the meatballs who yell at their teams during important sports games (how else would the players know they were fucking up?)  No, I’m talking about the nights at the bar where there aren’t sports on, but they left the TVs on, like, the news.  There’s no sound, but a picture of Trump will come on the screen and the alone-guy DYING FOR A REACTION will blurt out something like “You believe this guy?”  First off, no, I can’t fucking believe that guy.  But more importantly, I don’t want to be goaded into a political conversation with the alone-guy stranger at the bar.  Nobody does EXCEPT for maybe some of the other alone-guys at the bar.  This creates an absolute nightmare scenario where alone-guys are shouting conversation to each other from across the bar.  If you find yourself in one of these shouted convos, stop it right now.  You don’t want to be one of these people for even ONE SECOND of your life.

Now what if you hear one of these alone-people barking at the TV, but you didn’t know that was the situation?  You turned to your left and, all of a sudden, you’re making direct eye-contact with said alone-person right as they’re reaching the climax of their political monologue.  “Shit, alone-guy is gonna take this as a sign I want to engage in this” is what every sane person immediately thinks.  And guess what? Alone-guy DOES take that eye-contact as a sign that you’re in.  As you see television talker alone-guy misread your accidental eye-contact, he’ll shift slightly towards you covered in “let’s have a chat”-body language.  Before he completely turns in his chair, you need to get up and go to the bathroom.  That’s your only way out; straight bail move.  Act like you really need to go and you turning that way was just part of your exit-move.  Hop off your barstool and do a trot-waddle to the bathroom to really drive home the point.  We don’t want to make the alone-guys sad, but it’s every man and woman for themselves whenever the television talker starts acting up.

 

MY WORLD:

I’m in the midst of a sock crisis, and I’m close to just throwing in the towel.  The VP and I have gotten caught WAY behind with our laundry, so we’ve been employing the “lets rummage through the over-stuffed dryer every morning for our outfit”-plan of attack.  Unfortunately, the fruits of these dryer searches are limited to shirts only.  At this point, finding matching socks is about as likely as The VP becoming an ultra-marathoner (I think I’ve seen her run once…in an Ikea parking lot when she thought for a second she was gonna get hit by a car.)  Now, a normal, responsible adult would gather all the hamper socks and devote however long it takes to match socks.  Lest you forget, I am special and have chosen an alternative solution: embracing mismatched socks as “my new look”.  I, Jimmyschair, hereby announce that I am no longer a sheep in the matched sock flock.  Remember, fortune favors the bold.

socks

For those of you who thought Jimmy Fashion was dead: catch me on my yacht.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Dave Matthews Band came out with a new album and I think this is my favorite song on it.  I THINK!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Rainy Fridays in the summer.

WRITING ABOUT GAMBLING ON THE NBA FINALS IS BORING ME SO I’M GOING TO TAKE A BREAK FROM IT FOR A LITTLE BIT.  PLEASE DON’T CRY LIKE “BACHELORETTE” LINCOLN ABOUT THIS.

But real quick, I’m putting the balance of my Bovada account on the Warriors tonight. 

K bye.