Category: stress

Cody Parkey Shot Me In The Head With A Gun

OUR WORLD:

Remember when you were a little kid playing some dumb kid game, like soccer, and you’d get the wind knocked out of you?  All the air in your body was just forced out and before you know it, every one of your friends is looking at you wondering why you can’t talk or move or breathe.  Meanwhile, inside your head all you can think is “please don’t cry, please don’t cry, please don’t…am I going to die?!?!?!”  The cool kids in your grade can’t believe that you’ve been paralyzed by a half-inflated, rubber soccer ball, and the dorky kids in your grade aren’t defending you because they’re scared of the cool kids.  You’re fucked.  You can’t breathe and you can’t admit that you can’t breathe because not being able to breathe is SO LAME! (Don’t forget to pack your inhaler in your work bag today Jimmy!)  “Hey Jimmy, you okay?” was answered with the look you give yourself in the mirror right before you’re about to burst into tears.  Unfortunately, when I’d try to respond with an “I’m cool dude,” it sounded more like “Ibba cu–” followed by a cut-off dry heave.

And that is how every rational adult Bears fan felt after Sunday night’s game.  Laying on my back, after unsuccesfully trying to lean Parkey’s kick in, The VP asked if I was okay.  I wasn’t and I felt so fucking dumb that I wasn’t.  We’re talking your classic double not-okay here, folks.  Kids are allowed to cry after tough sports losses and be consoled by their parents without being made to feel like a silly asshole for caring so much about something they stand to gain nothing tangible from.  But rational adults with real relationships and bills and an ounce of self-awareness, know that crying on the ground and screaming at your spouse following a loss like that is socially frowned upon.  Instead, the rational lunatics (definitely not an oxymoron) go quiet, hiding the fact that we can’t breathe by making a constipated facial expression when asked “are you okay?”

The thing that makes sports heartbreak worse is the feeling that comes when trying to explain said heartbreak to a non-sports fan.  Even if you’re not a Bears fan, you could empathize with us on Sunday night because there has been a time in your life you remember some stranger ruining your day or night by not doing something you could never do (like kick a 43 yard field goal)  But when you live with someone who doesn’t care about sports, like the friggin’ VP, you’re left to lay on your back while trying to explain how 33 years hasn’t given you enough perspective to not have Cody Parkey ruin, at minimum, your next 48 hours.

The VP said nice stuff like “oh, I’m so sorry,” and she probably meant it, but it just made me feel even dumber.  Is she sorry that she married someone who wears sweatpants and asks their dog to sit near him during important plays because he thinks she is good luck?  Probably, right?  If a fellow true fan were in the apartment with me on Sunday night, there would have been no words for at least 4 minutes after that kick doinked.  Then, the next 4 hours would have been filled with loud exhales, slow motion head shakes, and the occasional “I just…man…ugh.”  What’s even better is the next day at work, when people YOU KNOW think sports are dumb (I call these people ‘dogs’) ask you how you’re doing.

“Hey Jimmy, the Bears, huh? How are you doing”-Gene

I want to drown myself in the lake but I see that little smirk peaking out of your mouth while asking that question so I’ll just hit you with a “tough game, Gene,” on my way to the bathroom stall where I can fill my mouth with toilet paper and scream without being heard.

I’m jealous of the fans I see who screamed and broke shit and were part any video that non-fans make fun of the day after.  I wish I could be momentarily blinded by rage or disgust to get it all out of my system at once.  Instead, I try to bottle most of it up, but there’s a leak and it slowly spreads to all of my organs the way a pinhole in a maple syrup bottle could ruin your entire refrigerator.  For adult fans like me, yesterday felt like being covered in Aunt Jemima’s, when you’re a devoted bacon & eggs breakfast man.

I write this in the “Our World” section of today’s Chair because those five paragraphs should act as a test of true fandom.  If you read laughed, EVEN ONCE!, during those paragraphs, you are not a true fan.  If, however, you cringed and shook your head and related, then congratulations, happy to have you alongside me in this Uber to the island of caring too much about things that shouldn’t matter.  (Wait…how can an Uber get to an island?  GET OUT!!! YOU’RE ALL GONNA DROWN!!!)  

The reason why fake fans piss me and the rest of my soon-to-drown brethren off so much is because WE KNOW that the fake fans never feel pain like this.  To get to participate in the euphoria of your team actually winning big, you better have been brought to your knees by that same team before.  It’s like being born rich versus being born poor and becoming rich.  When a fake fan posts pics or videos of them celebrating “their team’s” win, it induces the same feelings as when a rich kid posts a picture of the new BMW their daddy just bought them.  No struggle, no celebration.  Remember all of those kids crowding the streets following the Cubs World Series win?  Every single one of those snot-nosed pill poppers better have skinned their knees falling to the ground from Parkey’s double doink.

Thus, to avoid the wrath of REAL FANS LIKE US (adults with undiagnosed psychological problems), ask yourself the following questions before you post a celebratory pic or video following a big win:

  1. Have I ever cried alone in the bathroom following a sports team I care about losing?
  2. Have I ever called a radio station to advocate a coach with a family getting fired around Christmastime?
  3. Have I ever called off of work the day following a tough loss not because I was hungover, but just too sad?

If you answer “no” to all of those questions, then you are, henceforth, not allowed to post any celebratory pics or videos following a sports win.  As Judge for real sports fans everywhere, I declare this ruling final.

Oh, and finally, if you’re one of those softies who has said “I actually feel bad for Cody Parkey,” I would like you to know that, yesterday, he shot me in the head with a gun and it was totally unprovoked.  He just came up to me on the street while I was with my wife and my mom and my doggy and he shot me in the head.  Charges are pending.  Feel bad for him now?

MY WORLD:

I’m not exactly proud to admit this, but I thought about my dog killing herself this morning it made me feel…relieved…and a little…oh boy…excited?  (Whoa, Jimmy no.  This is where the world turns against you!)  LET ME EXPLAIN LET ME EXPLAIN!

I was taking my psychotic lab mix (it’s a labradoodle, Jimmy, just admit that) for a walk this morning when she went ABSOLUTELY BONKERS INSANE towards two nice dogs across the street.  The two dogs were doing NOTHING, which Belle, evidently, took as an immediate threat to all of mankind so she acted accordingly: growling, barking and pulling on the leash like she was trying to escape an active volcano.  Meanwhile, I’m in prime “it’s 7 in the morning, and I’m wearing sweatpants in public”-mode.  Needless to say, I was not prepared to play tug of war with a crazed beast.  And what can you do?  I can’t hit her because people that hit dogs are all-time assholes.  If I yank on her choke collar too hard, I’m reported to Animal Control.  If I scream at her, people start wondering how I treat my wife because you know they see my shiny gold ring.  BUT! BUT! If I’m completely unable to break my dog’s fury, then I get the “he obviously doesn’t know how to raise a dog”-looks from people with nicer cars than me.  It’s an absolute no-win situation.

So when PsychoMurdererFurryDogGirl and I got back home, I texted The VP that I just had a front-row seat to Belle’s worst walk ever.  I had slammed the door when we got back which caused Belle to run into our bedroom and under our bed.  So she’s the victim now?  JESUS CHRIST!  The VP texted back imploring me to “love on her” so she didn’t kill herself when I left today.  Which, got me to thinking…if I left for work and came back to find Belle had OD’d on the CBD that we got her last week, that has yet to change her behavior one iota, would I be sad or…not sad?

Honestly, I would be sad…and then a little happy that we’d be able to get a dog that wouldn’t send me into a near panic-attack anytime we have people over.  I’m not saying I want Belle to kill herself.  I am NOT saying that.  BUT!  If she happened to OD on a drug that made her feel maybe a little too amazing, I mean..there are worse ways to go.  And also…like, think of all the dogs and people that would be saved from Belle’s wrath?  I’m trying to think about this logically, is all.

Sure hope Belle doesn’t find that CBD…that I put right next to her food bowl…and wrapped in thick-cut, Boar’s Head bacon…

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Early favorite for “Best Commercial of 2019”

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Alshon Jeffery taunting Bears fans throughout that game the other night.  I’m sorry Alshon, what the hell did we do besides root for you while you were here and then have NOTHING to do with you not being re-signed?  I hope The Eagles cut you in the offseason and no other team signs you and you’re forced to become a dog walker to make ends meet and I hire you to walk Belle!!!

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I don’t want to talk about it right now.

(Account currently at: I said I don’t want to talk about it.)

K bye.

My Christmas List

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-I would like to never receive paper mail again.

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

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

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

JIMMY GAMBLES:

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

(My account is currently at $0.00)

K bye.

No…Not….WINTER!!!

OUR WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

YEAH, I KNOW!

MY WORLD:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

JIMMY GAMBLES:

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

(My account is currently at $100.72)

K bye.

Work (11/1/18)

OUR WORLD:

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

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That felt good.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

JIMMY GAMBLES:

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

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

(My account is currently at $70ish)

K bye.

 

 

Jimmy Butler is Giving Jimmy’s a Bad Name and I Won’t Stand For It (10/11/18)

SPORTS WORLD:

*NEW SECION ALERT?!?! Sometimes I feel very passionate about sports and I want to go off on rants, but I haven’t here much because I don’t want to ostracize readers who don’t like sports.  But…sometimes, like today, I have to do it.  I promise, even if you don’t love sports, I’m going to do my best to make it relatable and still enjoyable.  We’ll see how that goes…

Imagine walking into work today and seeing a co-worker, lets call him Hector, who had been bitching non-stop about his salary for the last 4 months.  He would always start his bitch-a-thons with “I’m not going to make a big deal about this, but…” and then he would proceed to make a big deal out of every little action that management did or did not take.  “You see the way our Bubba Bossman just BCC’d me on that e-mail, but then says nothing to me? Yeah, he needs me, but doesn’t want to admit it,” is a thing Hector says a lot.  You hear these ramblings and pretend to seem interested while praying that a time machine is invented so you can go back to when you made your college choice without realizing you were signing up for a lifetime of student loan debt and, in turn, forcing yourself to work a job less inspiring than that horribly bruised banana that you’ve just been too lazy or depressed to throw out for the last 8 days. Will this soul-crushing student loan debt help you wrestle the “Most Depressed Family Member”-title away from your cousin Alex whose parents divorce sent him into a deep depression even though he was 38 when it happened?  You hope not, but if so, at least you get to root for that school’s football team!  IT’S NOT THAT BAD, ALEX, YOUR PARENTS ARE HAPPIER NOW!

So Hector comes in today and begins railing against you, the rest of the office and, without fear of repercussions, against the higher-ups.  He’s firing off e-mails with panache; hitting the button on his mouse hard with his fist and yelling “SENT ANOTHER ONE!” after each reply.  “How many have you sent Jimmy?” he asks loud enough for Bubba Bossman to hear, but you’re still working through why Hector needs a fucking mouse when he uses a laptop…

“Uh, I don’t know, probably like-”

“You don’t know is fuckin’ right!  YOU DON’T KNOW SHIT! YOU DON’T DO SHIT!” Hector snarls at your lackadaisical response to a question that’s not even that relevant because it’s not like you’re judged on how many e-mails you send, but whatever.  Hector is on fire and arguing with him would take the kind of effort reserved for a job you don’t kinda’ hate.  So you let him continue, and he does.  Stalking around the office like he built it; calling out Sara Ann for scrolling through Facebook “I didn’t know we were being paid by how many statuses we ‘liked’ Sara Ann!  You see this Bubba? You see me pull shit like this?”; ripping Larry’s leftover salmon out of his hand before he’s able to put it in the microwave, “Reheating fish, Larry?  EVERY GODDAMN DAY?” as he whips the tupperware container into the fat stomach of Phil, the guy in the office who people like but have no idea what he does and it just seems like he walks around to chat with everyone.

Is everything Hector is doing completely unwarranted?  Probably not, but he’s acting like such a cock you’ve got to be thinking “dude, just let me get through my day so I can get back to numbing my endless waterfall of personal dissatisfaction with alcohol, television and my dog who doesn’t get to play outside enough because I can only afford a 1-bedroom apartment in a neighborhood without a dog park.”

Do you know Jimmy Butler?  Well now you do.  Jimmy Butler was Hector yesterday in Timberwolves practice.  The look-at-me try-hard at work; the co-worker who loves to sigh at their desk and mutter, just loud enough for people to hear, “god, I’m so busy.”  It’s insecure and obnoxious and, we get it, you’re letting people know that you do your job.  The difference, though, between Jimmy Butler and YOUR insecure co-worker, is that Jimmy Butler is currently on a contract set to pay him over $18.4 million dollars this year.  But he’s not happy because he claims that his co-workers don’t try as hard as he does and his bosses, after offering him a 4 year, $110 million dollar contract over the summer, haven’t made him feel important enough.  Don’t believe me?  Here’s what Butler actually said to a reporter following his Hector-like outburst at practice yesterday: “It’s kinda like, I don’t know – a slap in the face? I don’t know how to put it but it made me think like maybe I’m not that important to your organization.”  HE ACTUALLY SAID THAT IN FRONT OF A CAMERA THAT WAS RECORDING TO BE PLAYED ON A SHOW WATCHED BY MILLIONS OF PEOPLE.

Now I’m sure that some of his teammates, like some of your co-workers, don’t try as hard as they can all the time.  I’m sure there are days when Karl Anthony-Towns shows up late and hungover and rolls his eyes whenever Coach Thibs tells him to “PICK UP THE PACE!” Fine.  But if your idea of leading, as it is Jimmy Butler’s, is to embarrass you in front of said-boss while also putting on a “look how hard I try!”-show, welcome to the world of the delusional because you aren’t leading as much as you are making everyone around you hate your fucking guts.  (In other news, I really have to go poop right now and have been waiting for The VP to leave for work to do so and her Uber keeps canceling and I’M ABOUT TO LOSE IT!)  

A while back, it became easy to poke holes and make fun of fan arguments that began with “when you make that much money…”  And maybe that’s because those arguments were coming out of mouths stuffed full of half-eaten bratwurst spewing their thick Chicago accent and scrambled thought progression onto sports radio airwaves.  But, if we’re being totally honest, wouldn’t you react to your co-worker the same way?  Wouldn’t you want to tell Hector to go fuck right off if you were the one he was calling out or you were the boss who had just offered him a hefty raise within a brand-new 4 year contract?  And isn’t it very very understandable that these “go fuck right off”-emotions are amplified by the fact that the person acting like this will make more money this year than your entire 23andMe roster will ever make in all of their lifetimes combined?  Jimmy Butler is very good at basketball, but he’s very bad at making fans want to root for him.  And if Jimmy wants to really examine his whole fall-back of an excuse-mantra of “this is about business,”  you know what he would find?  He would find that an organization trying to attract new fans by signing HIM would be making a BAD business decision.  To hell with Jimmy Butler, he can fuck right off.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I saw my favorite band Death Cab for Cutie over the weekend and they were amazing and I can’t wait to write about it.  Here’s a live version of my favorite song off their new album? I may have posted this before but I don’t care.

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

It’s pretty cold outside today.  It’s cold enough to make you remember that winter is around the corner and that means: snow, and slush, and salt stains on your wood floor that you may not be able to ever get out and then you’re gonna have to pay some sort of penalty when your lease is up and FUCK!!!! WINTER IS COMING!!!

JIMMY GAMBLES:

For me, I’ve lost a lot of money recently and if you can’t tell from the rest of today’s blog, it has not put me in a good mood.

K bye.

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

OUR WORLD:

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

“The First” (Netflix)

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

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

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

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

“The Voice” (NBC)

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

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

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

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

“Chopped” (Food Network)

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

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

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

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

MY WORLD:

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

LET’S LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

 

LET’S HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

That Cubs game last night.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

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

(My account is currently at: $0.00)

K bye.

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

MY WORLD: 

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

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

How to hang a picture:

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

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

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

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

mirror

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

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

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

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

How to change a tire:

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

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

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

OUR WORLD:  

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

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

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

I hate this shit.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

JIMMY GAMBLES:

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

(My account currently sits at $43.18)

K bye.

 

Movie Trailer Reviews (Pt. 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.

My Farewell to Planet Fitness and Your Remote Control (8/2/18)

MY WORLD:

The past few weeks have included a lot of introspection for me.  Quiet times and deep exhales and staring off into distances while silently wrapped up in my brain.  What has caused this?  God, I can’t believe I’m going to admit this, but this blog is nothing if it’s not honest; the cause of this introspection has been Planet Fitness.  (I knew it.)  When I was at a red light and an old woman wearing a cape was crossing the street, I was thinking “is she on her way to my Planet Fitness?”  When in a dirty gas station bathroom while out on the road, I was thinking “does this Shell station outsource their bathroom cleaning jobs to Planet Fitness?”    When dreaming about running into Anna Kendrick on a quiet street, working up the courage to ask her out and as she’s about to say “I’d love to” she spots the Planet Fitness tag on my keychain and starts vomitting violently while screaming “I NEVER TOOK YOU FOR ONE OF THEM!!!”  Well Anna, your sweet baby Jimmy has some news for ya: I am no longer a Planet Fitness man.  That’s right, I told the judgment free zone to kick rocks and maybe LEARN HOW TO USE A FUCKING MOP! 

Between “the people” and “the smells” and “the facilities” and “the employees”, I feel like I’ve been withstanding a slow waterboarding at the hands of Planet Fitness since I joined.  “ARE YOU SURE YOU’RE OKAY WORKING OUT NEXT TO A MAN WEARING JEANS AND A COWBOY HAT WHILE ON A PURPLE TREADMILL?!?!”-Said the Planet Fitness manager as he slowly dripped water into the towel covering my squirming face.  For all of you out there who are thinking that $10 per month is too good of a deal to pass up, take heed: you get what you pay for, and 10 dollars gets you a gym that smells like a 2 day old Chipotle burrito bowl.

With Green Day’s “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)” playing in the background, I’d like to take a trip down my Planet Fitness memory lane.  I promise you, all of the following mini-stories, while maybe slightly exaggerated, are true.–TAKE IT, BILLIE JOE! “It’s something unpredictable, but in the end it’s right, I hope you had the time of your life.”  (*I did not.)

SO TAKE THE PHOTOGRAPHS AND STILL FRAMES IN YOUR MIND

Now that I’ve escaped the purple hellscape that is Planet Fitness, there are certain images, still frames if you will, that come to mind when I think of my time there.  Some of these include:

–The walls on the inside of the changing room:  After a while, I realized that changing into my gym clothes in the locker room was a daily test of whether or not I suffer from claustrophobia.  The locker room was small and overcrowded and dusty.  However, this being a “judgement free zone”, I discovered that there were private changing rooms that nobody seemed to notice or use.  I could go in there, change at my leisure and not accidentally brush up against 8 dudes who live a “showering is optional”-lifestyle.  For a while, my private changing room time was nice and vital to my sanity in this gym.  I’d escape the crush of the locker room, change in peace and prepare myself to power through the workout I was about to embark on.  It was therapeutic, really.  Then one day, I walked into MY private changing room, closed the door, and…”holy fucking shit, there are black hair shavings all over the white wall.”  It was as if Planet Fitness had caught on to my changing room bliss and called a meeting to address the situation. “This fuggin’ guy is only paying $10 a month, we can’t let him enjoy the cleanly solitude of that changing room.  Who has any ideas?”  That’s when a close relative of Sasquatch himself, must have walked into the meeting room with an electric razor and a smirk.  I’m not kidding, it looked like they shaved a gorilla and then came in with a fan to make sure all the shavings stuck to the white walls.  So my private changing room time was ruined forever because all I could think of when I went in there after that was that there HAD to be little hairs still all over that place.

–The unfinished woodworking station that sat in the corner of the “stretching area”.  Nothing says “take a deep breath!” than a pile of uncut wood and stacked cans of paint!  Don’t believe me? Here’s a screenshot from an insta post I made about this corner months ago.

pfit

–The handicap bathroom stall door on the ground.  For as big as this Planet Fitness is, they only one men’s room that had only 3 bathroom stalls.  Now listen, public pooping isn’t fun for anyone, but it’s a necessary evil that all adults must come to terms with; ESPECIALLY, at the gym.  When solo rooms with locks and one toilet don’t exist, then we have to rely on stalls and…lets be honest, we’re all hoping to sneak into the handicap stall when no one is looking.  Yeah, that’s me slithering in and out of the handicap stall when I don’t hear any footsteps in my immediate surroundings.  So, obviously, I would try to do this here as well.  BUT, yet again, the Planet Fitness Fairies must have caught on to my sneaky sneaky plan because basically every week the door to the handicap stall was somehow broken and just left on the ground.  Seriously, just laying on the ground.  After about 4 straight days of seeing this door on the ground, I asked an employee if they were going to fix it and the employee said “yeah, like, I think we have the door on order.”  Who knew Planet Fitness imported their bathroom stall doors from Egypt?!?!?  Then, whenever it would arrive, via crawling camel from Egypt, the door would be up about 14 minutes before some neanderthal asshole would break it again and put it on the floor.

IT’S NOT A QUESTION BUT A LESSON LEARNED IN TIME

–When you walk into most gyms, the front desk people will grab your keycard, swipe and give you a “thank you!” or a hearty “have a good workout!”  It’s nice.  At Planet Fitness? You walk up to the front desk, hold up your keycard and are met with mouth-open, eye rolls from staff members eating pizza while reclining on computer chairs.  After an awkward few seconds, one of these very hungry staff members will flay open their hand towards the scanner.  This, in lazy person speak, translates to “scan your card yourself.”  After a while, I knew that reactions like this were coming, but I’d still try to force my card towards them as my form of protest (when’s the march?)  I DON’T WANT TO SCAN MY FUCKING CARD!  YOU DO IT!  Seriously, why are they there?  They’re not cleaning the private changing rooms, fixing the handicap bathroom doors OR scanning membership cards.  Are they actually getting paid to wear a purple sweatshirt and eat Little Caesar’s near a bunch of smelly people sweating?

–As the calendar turned to summer months, I started noticing that my Planet Fitness was doing its best surface of the sun impression.  A box with a wall of windows facing west is an issue when those windows have no issues and, you know, THE SUN SETS IN THE WEST.  This means that every day during sunset, also known as the most popular time in the day to go to the gym, this PFit was SCORCHING hot and you were staring at the sun while on your dumb purple fucking treadmill.  Okay, they may not have shades, but they have AC, right Jimmy?  THANK YOU FOR SEEKING CLARIFICATION!  That’s what I thought because I saw thermostats and big AC looking units on their roof when I’d drive by.  Then, one day I went for a normal run at a normal pace on one of those purple treadys.  About two miles in I felt like I was sweating like Patrick Ewing in his prime (look that reference up.  It’s funny, I swear.)  Being the stubborn bitch that I am, I forced myself to finish the run; bypassing all of the warning signs of heat stroke along the way.  Tough boys like me don’t have heat strokes so…I was in the clear.  When I got off the treadmill, I checked the thermostat and it read 86.  So I went to the front desk, asked for the GM and asked if there was an issue with the AC or if this is just how it is in Planet Fitness.  His response? “Hmmm, I don’t know.”  And that was it.  He smiled like “I gave your question thought, gave you an answer, and I am now completely satisfied with how this interaction went.”  As all of the muscles in my body tensed (so many muscles guys…so many!) I ran some mental math: hairy walls + broken bathrooms + rude employees + no air-conditioning = $10.  Essentially, I was paying to be EXTRA miserable while working out.  You know why most people at Planet Fitness aren’t in good shape?  Because it’s already hard enough to go to a nice gym and force yourself through a workout.  Imagine trying to get through a productive workout in your Uncle Larry’s “secret woodshed”.

That day, I decided that not only was I done at Planet Fitness, but that I was going to DEDICATE THE REST OF MY LIFE TO EDUCATING POTENTIAL CUSTOMERS OF THE HELLHOLE THEY ARE ABOUT TO SIGN UP FOR.  If I can spare one young soul the horror of those purple fucking machines, my plight will have been worth it.

FOR WHAT IT’S WORTH, IT WAS WORTH ALL THE WHILE

It most certainly was not.

OUR WORLD:

Football is back and so is negotiating for television time with your wife.  If you, like me, had kind of forgotten that football was right around the corner, you still have time to ensure that football is on your main television ALL SATURDAY AND ALL SUNDAY starting at the end of the month, when the real games begin.  It will take sacrifice and strength and CHUCKLING AT THINGS YOU MAY NOT FIND FUNNY.  Here are the steps fellas:

  1.  For the next 3 weeks, whenever you are home, give the remote to your wife and say “I don’t care what we watch.”
  2. She will be caught off-guard and start suggesting shows.  This is a test.  Don’t say “yes” to every show.  Instead, wait until about the 4th show she suggests and act SUPER EXCITED about that show (whether you are or not).
  3. Project genuine interest in this show that she has picked for every episode you watch.  Ask questions, laugh at her insights, point out plot holes.  THIS MUST SEEM LEGIT GUYS!  THERE’S NOT ENOUGH TIME TO PLAY AROUND!!!
  4. In 3 weeks, when college and pro football start, grab the remote first thing Saturday morning to put on Gameday.  When your spouse says something that The VP would say, like, “how long are we going to watch this?” You need to respond by gently reminding her that you have watched HER SHOW for the past 3 weeks.  After like two weekends of 48 straight hours of football on television, she’ll give up and probably go to her friends or maybe cheat on you and end your relationship BUT AT LEAST YOU’LL GET TO SEE IF MITCH TRUBISKY HAS TURNED THE CORNER!!!

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

FOOTBALL HYPE VIDEO SEASON!!!!

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Dear Planet Fitness,

 

JIMMY GAMBLES

Am I betting on the Bears in the Hall of Fame game tonight? YOU BET YOUR ASS I AM!!!

k bye.