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

OUR WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

ONTO GRADING THE TRAILERS!

“A Star is Born”

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

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

Bradley: “Hey”

Lady: “What?” (as she turns around)

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

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

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

JIMMYSCHAIR FACE REVIEW:

GOOD

“The Old Man & The Gun”

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

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

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

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

JIMMYSCHAIR FACE REVIEW:

okay

“Life Itself”

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

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

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

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

JIMMYSCHAIR FACE REVIEW:

okay

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

JIMMY GAMBLES:

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

(Account currently at $11.42)

K bye.

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

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

The Second Dunk Attempt Story:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s how my ankle got hurt.

OUR WORLD:

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

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

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

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

Dave Chappelle
Amy Schumer
Dr. Phil
O.J. Simpson
Barack Obama

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Chris Harrison.

JIMMY GAMBLES…

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

K bye.

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:

For the next 3 weeks, whenever you are home, give the remote to your wife and say “I don’t care what we watch.”
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).
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!!!
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.

Reality Shows That Should Happen and Are We Going To Move? (7/31/18)

OUR WORLD:

“The Men Tell All” episode of “The Bachelorette” was on last night and, I’ll admit, Jordan was an electric factory. He got me laughing a few times and did make me ask The VP “is he in on the joke?” I kinda’ think that he is, which makes it funnier when he’s bragging about how he owns billboards in everyone’s head and should’ve been wearing a work vest to this episode. Bravo, Jordan, bravo (I’m making that aristocratic face rn while nodding and giving a very pompous round of applause.) But then the episode kept going and going and I remembered that I don’t give a shit about “The Bachelorette” this year. IS BECCA GONNA PICK THE LOW-KEY RACIST OR THAT SMILEY DUDE WHO HAS ZERO PERSONALITY?!?! I hate when my guy friends make fun of all of the shitty reality TV that I like, and I hate even more that I’m now one of those guys with this season of “The Bachelorette”. However, there is a silver lining! With the part of my brain normally devoted to this show now FREE, I have dedicated it to thinking of some reality shows that NEED to happen. Here are the first 3 that I’ve come up with:

“Serving Patricia: The Story of Michael Kelcourse”

I’m officially all caught up on “Southern Charm” and I’d like to thank all my supporters for sticking by me while I caught up. Took a lot of courage on your part to stand by a “reality fan” who had yet to watch the crown jewel of the south. (Are you crying? I am too!!! WE DID IT!!!) I’m sure there will be spin-offs from this show most likely revolving around Shep or Craig or Naomie or the T-Rav rape trial (yikes…) BUT there is only ONE spin-off of “Southern Charm” that is absolutely necessary: the story of Patricia’s old-man butler Michael. I’d like to call it “Serving Patricia: The Story of Michael Kelcourse”. (Wow, creative Jimmy.)

WARNING: this will not be your typical lite Bravo fare. I want this show on AMC or HBO or some other network that specializes in shaky, handheld camera documentary-style reality shows.

I want one cameraman following Michael Kelcourse (the fact that I spent time googling “Patricia Southern Charm Butler” is not something I’ll tell my grandkids about). I want this one cameraman to, essentially, become Michael’s only real friend in the world; allowing him to open up about all the things that Patricia makes him do that we DON’T see on “Southern Charm”. Patricia has “Michael, there is a body in the freezer outside that I’d like you take care of”-written ALL OVER HER. She’s been married like 19 times, you don’t think ONE of those former husbands “disappeared mysteriously”? GET YOUR DUMB HEAD OUT OF YOUR FAT BUTT! MICHAEL KNOWS WHERE THE BODIES ARE!

Maybe one night after returning to his chambers (does he have “chambers”? does he live in a cage in Patricia’s basement?) Michael pours a glass of bourbon for himself and his new best friend Cameraman Jack. About halfway through their first glass, but not yet talking, Michael lets out a deep exhale and brings his fingers to his tear-filled eyes. “I’ve done bad things, Jack. I’ve done bad things.” Jack would lean forward, pour a little more bourbon in Michael’s glass and say “we all have.” Michael would start gently shaking his head, though, and when he lifted it up we’d see his eyes were full-blown red from crying: “I was just following orders.” That’s when the camera would be set down, but not off, and we’d hear Michael cry and reveal where all of the holes are that he had to dig for Patricia’s ex-husbands.

OR…Is there a dark side to this seemingly permanently-chipper old man butler? I bet there is guys…I REALLY, REALLY BET THERE IS!!! There is no way that you can bring dirty martinis to some stuck up lady with a face doesn’t move all day, every day without retreating to some secret drug dungeon that allows you to put up with a life you can’t believe you’re living. I don’t actually think that Butler Michael is a closet opium addict, but look at the eyes, there’s something…something dark beneath….and, if there’s not, maybe he could teach all of us how to be happy living a life other than the one you dreamt of when you were 19.

michael kelcourse

“Backstage Pass”

I want to know what the backstage scene looks like for old bands that USED to be known for RAGING party scenes before and after shows. Think along the lines of: The Rolling Stones, The Who, and Aerosmith. Listen, I don’t actually know if these bands were known for being fucking party animals, but I just assume that older rock bands all did cool drugs and were skinny alcoholics during their heydays SO JUST GO WITH IT!

They’re probably a bunch of recovering addicts now, but doesn’t being backstage after a show trigger some “man, I’d love a fucking beer right now”-urges for these guys? How do they overcome that? If I’ve had a weekend of hard drinking, I’ll tell myself on Monday that I’m not going to drink for a few days. Then, I’ll go for a run, get home, open the fridge and think to myself “Sweet Baby Jesus a beer sounds AMAZING.” 3 beers later, I’m talking to The VP about how “I deserve these.” And that’s from the rush of running on a treadmill! Give me the rush of having 30 plus thousand people treating me like the coolest cult leader of all-time and I’d be doing keg stands on the hood of a convertible weaving down a congested highway!

Or maybe they’re not able to overcome those urges and the code of being backstage just shields them from having to publicly admit that they’re actually not sober. Like, maybe you have to sign a non-disclosure agreement that says “when you see Keith Richards drain his 6 pack of wine bottles, you are not allowed to text your high school friends that Keith’s new biography ‘Sober & Feeling Great!’ is a book of lies”? And if they’re not drinking or doing drugs or COOL STUFF LIKE THAT, what are these aging bands doing backstage? Are Keith and Mick sitting at opposite ends of a big open room just flicking each other off in between telling their young girlfriends why The Beatles are overrated? WE NEED TO KNOW THESE THINGS!

“Overnight Pharmacist”

There are 24-hour pharmacies (right? Googling….yep! There are! Continue!) which means that there are pharmacists who have to work the 11PM to 7AM shift. And you know what that means?!?!?! Guys with panicked looks on their faces asking for “uh, the, uh, ya’ know that pill that…the no baby pill?” and people TWEAKING out on god knows what handing over “scripts” written in crayon that say: “Just whatever he asks for. Yours Truly, Doctor”. If I were a pharmacist asked to work the overnight shift, I would insist on wearing a full suit of armor and having a current Navy Seal Sniper Badass Killerguy as my personal bodyguard.

If you’re looking for a magic combination of elements to create drool-worthy reality television, mixing drugs, threats of violence, and darkness with a “person just trying to do their job” seems like a safe bet to me. As for the production costs, you really wouldn’t have any. All you’d have to do is outfit the CVS in rural Arkansas with higher grade security cameras and install some microphones and BOOM, get out of the way and let the night do nighttime things!

I will throw a bit of caution in here that this show does have the potential to be insanely sad and depressing and “this is making me feel horrible about everything.” How do we get around this? Simple, EDITING. The editor of this show will play a VITAL role in dumping the inevitably heartbreakingly sad moments that must occur in pharmacies overnight. Nobody in the world needs to see the stuff that I don’t even want to write about happening because i know that it does and I know that it would make me cry. So…you know what, let’s just make it easy: let’s just have it be the scenes of people being nervous trying to get Plan B pills or unsuccessfully trying to get other sexual-related drugs. An old guy coming in with a fake script for Viagra is comedy gold. GOLD! In fact, let’s just rename the show “Overnight Pharmacist: Only The Funny Sex Stuff and Not The Sad Other Drug Stuff”. THAT SHOW DEFINITELY DOESN’T SOUND DEPRESSING!

MY WORLD:

The VP and I went to Nashville this past weekend, and it made me think about whether or not I could move again. And if I can’t, what does that say about the rest of my life?

When I went to Los Angeles for grad school and student lo-(nobody wants to hear about your debt) I was VERY single and poor at an age where it was socially acceptable to be unable to afford clothes from somewhere other than Old Navy. When I moved back to Chicago it was for legitimate family and personal reasons and I was still VERY single (The VP is beginning to question all of the “ex-girlfriend” stories…”Was I your first girlfriend?”-VP to me tonight.) But now at the seasoned age of 33, with a WIFE!, stable job that pays some to most of our bills, and on the verge of maybe trying to become a parent (Am I having a seizure?) do I have the courage to move again?

While out with our BEST FRIENDS who moved to Nashville a couple years ago, and some other super awesome friends of ours, I was flattered to have been asked multiple times “so when are you guys moving down here?” My answers ranged from “oh, ha ha, we’ll see” to “when you find me a job where the pay is good and the uniform is a t-shirt and minimal effort.” The real answer is that I may be too scared to bet on being able to restart my life again at 33 when I’m not the only one that matters to me anymore. The idea of tossing our stuff in a truck and driving off to a new southern adventure is tantalizing, I won’t lie. But that means finding a new place to live and a new job and dealing with a new boss and what if I have to work for a mean lady?!?! WHAT IF SHE YELLS AT ME AND CALLS ME FARTFACE?!?!

Lately, thoughts of blinking and living the same life 10 years from now have been consistent and consistently terrifying. When you drive around alone all day, your mind can only stay focused on reality show butlers for so long. Wading into the murky “what just touched my leg?!?!”-waters of figuring out exactly what I want the VP and my future to be is fun and scary and constant. Is settling into the rest of our lives right now, not only safe, but the financially responsible thing to do? We have both have 401k’s! Or is swinging for something bigger and better than slightly above average, sooner rather than later a risk that we won’t be able to even think about in a few years? The clock is ticking! What type of life necessitates shaking it up with a move? Something worse than ours, right? There are no answers to these questions, I know.

Courage is what it comes down to. I mean, planning would be a major part of a potential move too, but it’s courage first and foremost. Instead of waiting to get suddenly brave or find some big, cool blanket that makes me feel secure enough to stay here, I’ve decided to start something VERY cheesy with The VP. Starting tomorrow, we are committing a half hour, each night to “Dream Time”: where we will put our phones down, put some music on and start writing down about things or places or (hopefully not people) we want to see and do. It’s cringeworthy and I’m sure that The VP will not fully appreciate me outing our lameness on an INTERNATIONALLY READ BLOG. While I may not yet have the courage to pull the trigger on a move or toss an immovable anchor where we currently are, I do have the courage to be honest. When will we move? Maybe sometime. Maybe never. I don’t know, but we are going to start dreaming with our eyes open.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

It’s an emo-Jimmy you’re getting today, so I’m going to lean into it and put up a song that reflects how where I’m at. The lyrics are insightful and if you don’t sway in your chair while listening to this then you’re dead.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Putting on a pair of pants that you’re sure are tight because they’re a 33 waist but then you take them off to look at the size tag and they’re a 34. Can someone please invent cookie-flavored diet pills? Tysm.

JIMMY GAMBLES

No lie, I’ve been taking big-time baths lately on baseball because betting baseball, apparently, IS FUCKING IMPOSSIBLE. Football is coming soon and with it will come the return of this section.

(My account currently at $4.71)

K bye.

Movie Remakes That Would Get You In The Theaters (7/24/18)

OUR WORLD:

What is the age where you stop going to the movies? All of a sudden, it’s some special occasion to go sit with strangers in the dark, overpay for soda in an embarrassingly huge cup, and order a small popcorn (watching that figure) that you have to be careful not to finish before the previews end. (Ever get to the start of the movie and look into your popcorn bag just to see seeds? Enjoy the next 120 minutes of feeling disgusted with yourself!) Going to the movie theaters used to be a thing I’d decide to do on a random Wednesday because…uh…I wanted to. It wasn’t a whole fucking production where I’d have to research the movie on 18 different websites to make sure I wasn’t about to waste 14 of my hard earned dollars. And finding a movie that your wife is ALSO into, so you don’t have to apologize forever if it sucks, is CRITICAL. Few things in life are worse than having to wear a bad movie pick. “Hey, remember that time you talked me into seeing ‘Suicide Squad’?”-is something I still say to a friend of mine 2+ years later. It’s a sharp knife that cuts deep.

I think the age when going to the movies changes is 26. Now, the advent of Netflix and On Demand and all the other shit is not what I’m talking about because that’s a bigger discussion that I DON’T WANT TO WRITE ABOUT! 26 is when you look in the mirror and go “hmmm, I should probably start to prove to people that I’m not a selfish piece of shit.” You start dating another human being; begin thinking about “career path” and actually trying at work, and maybe even buy a dog. You trade “hey bro, wanna go see that cop movie?” for “hey babe, did Belle make a big poop or a little poop on her walk?…NO POOP!?!?!” By the time you get to 33 (guys! That’s my age!) and you’re consumed with work and saving money and talking to your friends about how lame you are now that you’re over 30, going to the movies becomes a long shot. (I’m aware I don’t have kids yet, and I’m sure my friends who are parents are rolling their eyes like “he doesn’t know the first thing about responsibility.” Yeah, you’re right. But I’m writing this blog, so you can back the fuck off.)

In trying to figure out ways to get all of us 30-somethings back into theaters, I would like to propose some remakes of films that let us all down just a little bit. Obviously, we don’t want to see remakes of films that were FUCKING AMAZING because…uh…they can only get worse. But what about those movies that were sooooooo close to being amazing? You know that feeling where you look to the person next to you after 20 minutes and go “holy shit!” but then leave the theater talking about how it JUST missed? Looking back on our pre-26 free wheeling, movie going days, here are the films that JUST missed being great, but would immediately get all our whiny asses back in the theater. Ladies and gentlemen, the “Almost Great Movie Re-Do”:

WAR OF THE WORLDS (2005):

IMDB PLOT SUMMARY FOR THE DUMMIES THAT DON’T REMEMBER THIS MOVIE: Ray Ferrier (Cruise) is a divorced dockworker and less-than-perfect father. When his ex-wife and her new husband drop off his teenage son Robbie and young daughter Rachel for a rare weekend visit, a strange and powerful lightning storm suddenly touches down. What follows is the extraordinary battle for the future of humankind through the eyes of one American family fighting to survive it in this contemporary retelling of H.G. Wells seminal classic sci-fi thriller.

Look, I get that it’s easy to stamp Tom Cruise as a certified WEIRDO, but his IMDB page is a list of “Oh, I loved that”s and if you disagree then you, muchacho, have a big dump in your pants. “War of the Worlds” stands out to me because I remember sitting in the theater after the initial alien invasion, about 20 minutes through the movie, thinking “I cannot wait to watch this every time I see it on TNT for the rest of my life.” And then the last two thirds of the movie didn’t live up to the first act (movie term, UCLA film school nbd…the debt from UCLA film school, however, is a VERY big deal. Shit.) Alien invasion survival movies are in my wheelhouse, though, and the story of a divorced dad trying to save his family, while proving that he’s not the dirtbag everyone thought he was, has JIMMY LIKEY written all over it. (Jimmy relating to a dirtbag divorcee…interesting…) 13 years later, let’s take a shot at recasting:

Ray Ferrier (Originally Tom Cruise): Bradley Cooper–In the 4 years since “American Sniper” he hasn’t been in anything that matters. Time for B. Coop to take on a movie that allows him to be the bright shining star that he is. Combine the cocky dickbag he played in “The Hangover” with the quiet, tough guy he was in “American Sniper” and you have the EXACT divorced dad I wanna watch trying to save his family.

Rachel Ferrier (Ray’s daughter, originally Dakota Fanning): Millie Bobbie Brown–the lead girl in “Stranger Things”. Millie is this decade’s Dakota Fanning; the only teen girl actress that adult men know. That’s why I picked her…I legit couldn’t think of another name and if you can, then congrats, you’re creepy!

Robbie Ferrier (Ray’s son, you’ve never heard of the original actor): Lucas Hedges–the kid from “Manchester By The Sea”. You need a dude who’s almost a full-blown adult (Lucas is 21) so he can rebel against Ray throughout the movie while building up to the scene at the end where we see Ray hug his crying son for the first time in years. Lucas has a great cry-face too, which is VITAL for that climactic “I love you Dad” scene at the end.

Mary Ann Otto (Ray’s ex-wife, you’ve never heard of the original actress): Vera Farmiga–the psychiatrist from “The Departed”. Did I pick her because I have an all-time crush on her? Very much YES. However, when you need someone who isn’t overwhelmingly beautiful (realism, folks) and can also toss a cutting “you were never home!” towards the Ray character, you take the lady who tricked Clooney into falling in love with her like Vera did in “Up In The Air.”

MIAMI VICE (2006):

IMDB PLOT SUMMARY FOR THE DUMMIES THAT DON’T REMEMBER THIS MOVIE: Ricardo Tubbs is urbane and dead smart. He lives with Bronx-born Intel analyst Trudy, as they work undercover transporting drug loads into South Florida to identify a group responsible for three murders. Sonny Crockett [to the untrained eye, his presentation may seem unorthodox, but procedurally, he is sound] is charismatic and flirtatious until – while undercover working with the supplier of the South Florida group – he gets romantically entangled with Isabella, the Chinese-Cuban wife of an arms and drugs trafficker. The best undercover identity is oneself with the volume turned up and restraint unplugged. The intensity of the case pushes Crockett and Tubbs out onto the edge where identity and fabrication become blurred, where cop and player become one – especially for Crockett in his romance with Isabella and for Tubbs in the provocation of an assault on those he loves.

If you told me the director of “Heat” was making a movie about drug-running undercover cops, but the only way I could see it is if I PROVED that I could fly, I would immediately start jumping off buildings. So…I’d essentially kill myself to see Michael Mann direct this kind of movie. I remember seeing it when it first came out and thinking it was too long and too boring and too artsy. There aren’t specific scenes or lines that I remember, and that sucks because this is the kind of movie that you should be quoting to your buddies ten years later. Real, dead serious question for everyone: who doesn’t like movies about potentially dirty cops with personal issues? “Training Day”, “Heat”, “American Gangster”, “Serpico”, and “The Departed” ALL feature these characters and ALL are “I’m not changing the channel until this is over”-classics. Therefore, whenever a movie with potentially dirty cops who have personal issues doesn’t become a “I’m not changing the channel until this is over”-classic they should just keep remaking it until they find the right balance.

Sonny Crockett (Originally Colin Farrell): Tom Hardy–if Tom Hardy isn’t the first name to come to mind when trying to think of a badass with good hair and underlying personal demons, then you need to get some electroshock therapy cuz your mind is BUSTED. Listen, Tom Hardy could be in a movie about birdwatching and I’d stand in line to go see it, but him getting to play a coked out cop who falls in love with the wrong girl is what he was born to do. Who else is excited for the scene where he kills a bad guy with his bare hands and then flips his hair back and looks at the camera like a dog with rabies trying to catch his breath? I SEE IT IN MY DREAMS!!!

Ricardo Tubbs (Originally Jamie Foxx): Chiwetel Ejiofor–We need a smart looking guy (check!) who also isn’t a total pushover. Combine the character he played in “The Martian” (smart, kinda nerdy dude) with the “whoa, this is a little too realistic”-performance he gave in “12 Years A Slave” and you have someone who can tell coked out Tom Hardy to “JUST CALM THE FUCK DOWN!” Will there be a scene where Chiwetel shoves Hardy against the wall after Hardy got a little too physical with a potential witness? You fucking bet there will be!

Isabella (Sonny’s romantic interest, originally Li Gong): Rooney Mara–Let’s think of a girl who we could see married to a drug kingpin. She’s going to have to look a little scary, but also be able to pull off a little “girl next door” so that Tom Hardy can save her with his cool hair and reckless behavior. Rooney proved her scary chops in “Girl with the Dragon Tattoo” where I remember thinking “I would rather date Michael Myers than this girl.” AND! She proved her “girl next door” chops as the Mark Zuckerberg’s opening-scene girlfriend in “The Social Network.” Her signature scene in this will be when she’s next to her drug kingpin bad guy but giving the “we shouldn’t do this”-eyes to Tom Hardy. FORBIDDEN LOVE IS ALIVE AND WELL!

BATMAN BEGINS (2005):

IMDB PLOT SUMMARY FOR THE DUMMIES THAT DON’T REMEMBER THIS MOVIE: When his parents are killed, billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne relocates to Asia where he is mentored by Henri Ducard and Ra’s Al Ghul in how to fight evil. When learning about the plan to wipe out evil in Gotham City by Ducard, Bruce prevents this plan from getting any further and heads back to his home. Back in his original surroundings, Bruce adopts the image of a bat to strike fear into the criminals and the corrupt as the icon known as ‘Batman’. But it doesn’t stay quiet for long.

Maybe in hindsight this movie looks worse than it really is, but “The Dark Knight” and “Dark Knight Rises” were so much better than the first in this trilogy that I’m dying for Chris Nolan to ask for a do-over. It’s a Nolan Batman movie so it’s still watchable, but tell me one scene that you actually remember from this movie and I’ll be your butler for the rest of my life. You can’t do it. Meanwhile, we can all basically remember EVERY. SINGLE. SCENE. from “The Dark Knight” and most of Tom Hardy’s scenes from “Dark Knight Rises”. What do I think went wrong? I think it wasn’t dark enough and Liam Neeson just isn’t THAT captivating of a villain. Tough to go up against Ledger’s “Joker” and Hardy’s “Bane”, but the most memorable part of Neeson’s “Ducard” is his weird facial hair. Whenever some dummy asks you “well, what sequel was EVER better than the original?” you should start with this.

Bruce Wayne/Batman (Originally Christian Bale): Michael B. Jordan–Trying to think of who should play Batman next is always a fun game. This time, I just kept going back to MBJ. Yes, him being the first black Batman would cause a social media meltdown in both good and bad ways, but he checks ALL of the boxes we need for a Batman. Young enough to kick off a franchise that could span the next decade? Check. A big enough star that people would be excited to see him don the cape? Check. Ability to look great in a tux, built enough to kick many many asses, and acting chops to carry a love story? Proved his love story chops in “Friday Night Lights” and this dude is built like a shit brickhouse in “Creed”. Try this exercise: Look at the IMDB picture of MBJ. He’s in a tux and smiling. Now close your eyes and imagine if you had to name that person any name in the world, what would you name him? Bruce. Fucking. Wayne.

Ducard (Originally Liam Neeson): Joaquin Phoenix–We need an older guy, who can pull off weird facial hair and go to creepy enough places to create a memorable villain. You don’t get much more enigmatic than Joaquin, folks. The only reason I hesitated casting him in this role is because whenever they inevitably remake “The Dark Knight,” I think Joaquin would make the PERFECT Joker. Too bad, I got him for this first! One of the most underrated actors ever, Joaquin has a nice enough smile to kinda’ trust, with eyes that scream “something DARK is going on behind those!”

Rachel Dawes (Originally Katie Holmes): Elizabeth Olsen–The lesser known, but super beautiful Olsen sister. Katie Holmes was a weird casting decision because she’s not beautiful enough to reel in Batman. Point blank, NOT HOT ENOUGH. It’s friggin’ Batman for chrissake. So we need a KNOCKOUT ROCKET who can pull off the “Bruce! Help!” scream in a not-cheesy way. Check out Olsen in “Wind River”. Stunningly beautiful who can knock the wind out of you with her “I’m about to cry cuz I’m scared”-face.

Jim Gordon (Originally Gary Oldman): Kyle Chandler–This guy was meant to play Jim Gordon and I will not hear any arguments that say otherwise.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

A guy I’m kinda’ friends with on Facebook posted this and I almost fainted.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you have to pick up your wife from the airport at 10PM on a Sunday while making sure to pretend that you’re not SUPER SALTY that she ruined your martini and HBO weekend sendoff.

K bye.

When Do We Get To Stop Lying? (7/11/18)

MY WORLD:

Last night The VP and I didn’t know what to do for dinner so we walked around the corner to some Mexican joint we’ve walked pass no less than ten hundred trillion times. It’s on a busy, shitty street and neither of us had ever heard of anyone who had tried it before so it had been easy to overlook. But whatever, we couldn’t make a decision so we chose the path of least resistance, figuring, how bad could it be?

And then we ate there and it was bad (what a story, Jimmy!!! Keep up this writing thing! Riveting stuff!) The server was not good at her job; giving The VP an “I don’t know” when asked whether the enchiladas were spicy. As a former server myself, I’m allowed to pick on them now, and this lady was awful. If you went to a doctor and asked what your treatment would entail, and she responded “I don’t know,” you’d find another doctor. So, off the bat, I was pissed that this woman couldn’t even fake pretending to be competent at her job. Then the food came.

It wasn’t the kind of bad where you can’t touch it, but more the type where you’re really hungry so you keep eating and saying “it’s fine,” to each other. If you ever want to feel like a dog willing to eat whatever is put in your bowl, try going to a mediocre Mexican restaurant where the only dinner conversation that’s allowed are the words “it’s fine.” (Does Belle say “it’s fine” every morning while eating that stale kibble from the giant plastic bag? Well, that’s because she can’t talk because she is a dog.)

When we finished, I went up to pay and our server asked how everything was. And this is what sparked what I wanted to write about this morning (finally! You sure you don’t want to blather on for another 3 paragraphs?!?!) I told the server that “it was good!” I even put an emphasis on the word “good” where I made myself sound excited when I said it. She smiled and I tipped her over 20% because of 33 year-old guilt complexes ONLY. But it made me feel like a dirty fucking liar. Why did I owe it to this stranger who couldn’t have been trying less at her job to make her feel like she and her place of employment earned my money? It’s like letting your dog up on the bed when she whines, or giving a kid a cookie when he starts to cry; simply reinforcing bad behavior.

I think there are a lot of sanctimonious people who love telling anyone with ears that they “never lie.” Well, I’d like to call that bluff. If these people “never lie,” then are they telling their 16 year-old waiter at the local Italian restaurant that their meatballs sucked ass? Because if you tell him they were good, you’re a liar. I don’t support conflating “being nice” with lying; these are mutually exclusive terms. The manner in which your honesty reveals itself, is when we can determine whether you’re nice or not. If I would’ve said “the food sucked. I hated the way you performed your job, and your hair is dumb” it would’ve been honest, but not nice. However, who is arguing that I’m a dick if I would’ve said “the enchiladas were cold, and the service could’ve been more helpful”? (Uh, I’m arguing that.) Isn’t that constructive criticism that could, ultimately, help this restaurant? (Please support Dickhead Jimmy’s crusade to save the shitty restaurants of the world!!!)

As we walked home, The VP could probably feel me stewing (were you grinding? Well then how could she feel you?) I definitely said “you know what? That was not good” a few times, as if to atone for my recent LIE. The VP, sensing that I was on the verge of some rant that she didn’t feel like placating, simply agreed and changed the subject quickly (which explains why you’re dumping it on the readers today. Thanks Jimmy!) But, I’m tired of the white lies. I’M SICK OF EM! Am I also sick of my cowardice taking over too many times in order to avoid a somewhat awkward, albeit honest, interaction with a stranger? Yeah, that too. Here are some other “white lie” situations that leave me feeling like a dirty fucking liar afterwards:

Whenever I thank and tip an Uber driver whose car smells like a lumberjack’s armpit and drives like he’s auditioning to be “Car Crash Victim #7” in the next “Mission Impossible” movie.

Is there a worse feeling in the entire universe than getting into an Uber, closing the door and then having your nostrils flare as you realize “oh no, I’m in a smelly car”? (There are worse feelings, but g’head make your point!) If your car is your livelihood and you work in a tip-based industry, wouldn’t you want to make sure that your car doesn’t make your customers want to vomit? I used to chalk it up to a “who gives a fuck?”-attitude on the part of the driver, but now I’m convinced that they just don’t know that their car smells like ass because NOBODY has the stones to tell them. The driver has simply become immune to the chronic B.O. smell of their car and is none the wiser thanks to cowardly passengers such as myself.

Then there are the drivers who dart in and out of lanes while mixing in the occasional seatbelt check of a slam on the brakes. Here’s a deal: if I have bruises across my chest from the hard stops of an Uber driver, the ride is free. Do drivers like this end up saving any meaningful amount of time? I’m convinced that they simply raise the blood pressure of every driver around them while saving POSSIBLY 9 seconds on total drive time. Traffic is death: there’s no escaping it. (Wow, deep.)

Whenever I’m in either of these types of Ubers-or both at the same time!-I end up just grumbling to myself or The VP the entire ride, only to thank the driver on my way out of the car and give him/her the standard “I’m not looking at my phone” Uber tip. This is why these drivers drive like this, guys! THAT’S WHAT I’M SAYING! If I would take the time to tell the Uber driver that the smell of his car reminded me of a high-school mathematician convention (Nerd B.O. is the most pungent), he/she may think “oh, maybe I should get my car cleaned or, at least, make sure I drive with the windows open.” Even if I left a bad review under the “stanky car, cranky driver” reason, that would surely help. If we all band together we can put an end to this epidemic! FOLLOW ME! FOLLOW ME TO FREEDOM!

Whenever I talk about how my life is going to my grandfather.

I’m sure Grandpa Irv doesn’t want to hear about my struggles with staying away from sugar and drinking too much, but telling him everything is “really good” is depriving him the chance to impart some wisdom of his. (Is that sarcastic?) No, that’s not sarcasm. I’ve been thinking about how every time I’m around my grandpa, I answer every question he asks about my life by starting with “it’s really good, actually.” Uh, that’s a lie. Everything isn’t bad, but isn’t everyone creeped out with the person in their life who ALWAYS says that EVERYTHING is going GREAT? Does that mean my grandpa is secretly creeped out by me? (Yes!) I’m imagining him going home with his girlfriend-yeah, he has a girlfriend-and being like “isn’t it creepy how Jimmy says that everything in his life is ‘really good’? He must be doing drugs or just plain stupid.” I bet his girlfriend nods along in agreement and they go to sleep thinking I’m some sort of simpleton. THIS IS AN UNMITIGATED DISASTER!

If I were my grandpa, I’d go into these grandkid hang sessions somewhat excited about getting to share some of the knowledge I’d gained from being around for so long. The way I can try to steer my younger brothers from mistakes I made, he could steer me away from potential adulthood missteps that he took. But you can’t give advice to someone who only insists that everything is “really good, actually.” He could press me on it, but what a waste of energy that is. He’s probably like, “fine, you don’t want my advice, I don’t need to give it. Have fun in that one bedroom apartment on the west side!” Maybe if I was honest and told him that I’m worried about providing for a family while trying to pay off some preposterous student loans, he’d enlighten me with some comforting words. Maybe he was in his 30s when he founded his carpet business that ended up paving the way for the comfortable life he has been able to lead? Maybe he could light the spark for me to take some risks that I’m too afraid to take now? But no, I’m content with little white lies about my life so as not to burden him with problems that aren’t his own.

That being said, there is the off-chance that I’m totally honest with him the next time we’re together and it causes him to back away from the table making “yuck” sounds before saying “good luck with all of that!” It’s a risk I am simply too insecure to take. But like, hey Grandpa, if you’re reading this and want to send me an inspirational e-mail, that’d be VV chill of you.

Whenever I talk to or about little babies…to anyone.

I’m just lying the entire time I’m talking about little babies. I’m talking like when they’re real new babies, I don’t know how to talk about them. They all look basically the same, aside from some have hair and some don’t, and all they do is cry and poop and move some of their fingers sometimes. Which parent does he/she look like? I never have any idea and yet, usually, just lie and make some lame joke about he looks like the local mailman. (Those jokes are never not funny FYI.) I’ll “talk” to the baby in a higher pitched voice and talk about how cute it is, but like, can we be real? They can’t understand me and I don’t know if it’s cute. It looks like every other baby I’ve ever seen. I’m sure some parents are reading this and labeling me a dick, but why am I supposed to be excited to interact with a thing that has no discernible look or personality? It’s like getting mad at someone for not being excited to meet and speak with a new floor. “Oh wow! It’s wood and kinda smooth!”

This doesn’t mean that I’m not proud of friends of mine who have had little babies. (Oh, is this the part where you protect yourself?) When I’m around friends of mine or The VPs who have had kids, I am instantly impressed that they have the maturity and stability to ensure the survival of a helpless creature. These parent-friends of mine LITERALLY have to save their babies’ lives multiple times a day, and I’m writing a blogpost complaining about mediocre enchiladas. Yeah, you’re more advanced than me!

However, when these life-saving heroes ask me about their 3 week-old’s personality, I wanna be like “uh, to be honest, your baby reminds me of my fingernail. Like, I know it’s a living thing, but I’m not getting much in the way of a relationship. I hope I don’t break it.” While that may be an instance of being honest without being nice, this is really a no-win situation. If I were to say “it has no discernible personality and looks like every baby I’ve ever seen,” the parents aren’t going to regale me with praise for my honesty. So I’m forced to lie and walk away feeling like complicit in society’s rouse to make every kid feel more special than they really are. (That got dark and kinda’ heavy there, bud. Maybe tone it down a notch next time?)

OUR WORLD:

It’s Wednesday and today’s “My World” section ran long. See ya’ out there.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

If you know me well, you know that I can’t handle scary movies because I’m a baby and they give me nightmares and I don’t like being scared. BUT! Every once in a blue moon, I kinda’ want to see one. The trailer for the newest Halloween movie looks prettttayyyyy pretttttayyyyy sweet. May have to man up and check this out.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The Little League World Series is starting soon and that means that I won’t want to watch ESPN for like 3 weeks.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

Cool, guys. I let you know who I was betting on yesterday for the first time in weeks and you all jinx me. As if I need another reason to hate France, now they’ve actually taken money out of my pocket by beating Belgium yesterday. I guess I’m going to bet on England today because…I don’t know where Croatia actually is. That seems like sound reasoning. WHAT COULD GO WRONG?!?!

(My account is currently at $31.44)

K bye.

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

OUR WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

JIMMY GAMBLES:

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

(Current balance at $31.87)

K bye.

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

OUR WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Can’t wait.

MY WORLD:

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

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

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

K bye.

Has My Wife Taken Me Prisoner? (6/28/18)

MY WORLD:

The VP and I finished watching “The Staircase” the other night (hold your applause! PLEASE! Standing ovation? CONTROL YOURSELVES!!!) During the second to last episode, I started thinking that I just wanted this show to be over. It’s dark and depressing and sad and scary and why was I watching this? When your “escape” revolves around stories about murder and the terrors of our legal system, it should not come as a surprise when your daily stresses don’t melt away. What happened to having a plop on the couch and sharing but a smile? Perhaps a chuckle or two before bedtime? Up until I was seduced by an older lady, now known as The VP of Ops, at the vulnerable age of 27, I was into happy, and, potentially, emotionally uplifting television. “The Office”, “Parks and Rec” and “Friday Night Lights” were more my speed. Laugh at Andy Dwyer, shed a tear for QB 1 and his decimated spinal chord, and root for Jim to finally tell Pam how he feels. (Sidenote: how many awkward “but I only like you as a friend” confrontations did the Jim/Pam story cause around the country? You know friend-zone guys everywhere were like “if it worked for Jim, it’ll work for me!”) But that all came to an end when my Mrs. Robinson came into the picture…

I remember The VP of Ops telling me that she was into murder when we started dating. It wasn’t concerning in the way of like “Hey Jimmy, I’m into murder because I enjoy murdering people and I’m thinking of murdering you.” It was more in the vein of “I like sitting on a couch with a devious smile on my face while good looking detectives battle personal demons and sexual tension with their co-workers throughout missions for justice.” She didn’t exactly spell it out like that, but when a hot chick is on a date with you, there are NO red flags. ZERO, FOLKS! Seriously, she could’ve pulled out a rusty knife and told me she was into amateur surgery and I would’ve been like “cool, totally!”

Anyway, long story short, unable to resist her wily seduction techniques, The VP roped me in to her world of heavy cream dips and depressing television. Somehow, my television viewing habits have gone from sitcoms and serialized dramas to trashy reality television and murder documentaries. Monday through Thursday over the past few months have consisted of: “The Bachelorette”, “Vanderpump Rules”, “Southern Charm”, “Evil Genius”, “The Staircase”, and “The Keepers”. We spend our weeknights either cackling at functioning alcoholics with undiagnosed personality disorders or silently watching strangers try to cope with the most horrific event of their lives. The VP has turned me into your Aunt Paula. Do you realize I’ve written more about “The Bachelorette” than I have about the Bears? I’M A MAN FOR CHRISSAKE! When does the Netflix doc about The VP murdering my masculinity come out? “Did We Record The Bachelor?”: The true story of a once proud Chicago man’s descent into madness.

What is happening to me? I used to think it was a lame joke when I’d hear older guys talk about how their “wives run the show.” My Dad’s friends would say shit like that and I’d toss a courtesy laugh their way while thinking A) I’m sure that’s not actually true, and B) has anybody actually laughed at that joke? Thing is, I’m beginning to think it wasn’t a joke! The VP doesn’t totally run the show (I’M MY OWN MAN!) but…like…maybe she does, actually. Shit.

Let’s take a look at the last 4 days: I have cooked three of the nights and brought home dinner the third. I then hand washed the pots and pans used for those meals, unloaded and re-loaded the dishwasher. I have run two loads of laundry, bought her a heating pad, and taken out the trash. We have watched episodes “Southern Charm”, “The Bachelorette”, and “The Staircase”. ESPN has not been on our television for one second. I broke the sunglasses that she got for me last week, but haven’t worn my back-up pair because The VP says they’re “disgusting”. So I’ve just been squinting for the past week. Oh, and I gave her an alarmingly asexual back massage last night. (Realization hits as a look of panic washes over Jimmy’s face…) WHAT HAVE I BECOME?!?!

If my Dad’s friends knew what they were saying wasn’t a joke, why were they chuckling?!?! Why weren’t they grabbing me by the shoulders and telling me to save myself before it was too late?!?! “You don’t understand!!!” should’ve been how all of my Dad’s friends greeted me while I was still dating The VP. Folks, I didn’t plan on writing this blog today. What you are reading is a real-time discovery that I may not be the person I thought I was. Stay calm, Jimmy. Stay calm. EVERYBODY STAY CALM!!! Quickly, what are the things I believe I enjoy now that I wasn’t into before The VP plunged her talons into my testosterone supply:

-Oysters: Never even tried an oyster before The VP came into the picture. Now, I get excited when I’m at a place with good oysters. What are in some oysters? Pearls. Who likes pearls? Girls. Shit.

-English muffins: I have a multi-grain english muffin every morning for breakfast now. I used to eat bagels. Close your eyes and imagine Clint Eastwood walking into a dusty diner. When the waitress asks what he’d with his bacon and eggs, what do you think he orders? Without hesitation, it’s a bagel every single time. ENGLISH MUFFIN PROBABLY ISN’T EVEN AN OPTION IN CLINT’S DINER!

-Rolling up my jeans: The VP says it’s “cute”. My brothers and father make fun of me.

-Puppies: Not to say that I used to not like puppies, but I remember a time when I wouldn’t stop EVERYTHING I was doing whenever a puppy came into my field of vision. Now, it’s like a fire drill where I alert everyone around me that there’s a puppy and pray that I’m able to get to it in time to ask for a casual pet. That’s weird.

-Thinking about crying when I’m alone: I’m aware this sounds supremely depressing, but this blog is, if nothing else, honest. Whether it’s job stress or money stress or thinking about murder documentaries or wondering what Belle does all day while I’m gone, I have begun to think about crying when I’m alone. The strangest thing? I kinda’ like it! I never actually cry, but I’ll think to myself “should I pull over and have a quick weep sesh in that Office Depot parking lot?”

These trends are concerning and worth revisiting. (Now Jimmy, anticipate the call you will receive from The VP once she reads this. You’re playing checkers while she’s playing chess!) I’m not a prisoner, guys. Ha. Ha. (Blink twice). To the people who have not seen me in a while, and believe that I am being held captive by my wife, I have a message for you: The VP of Ops is not holding me captive as her prisoner. (Blink twice). She is a sweet and pretty lady that I love very much who deserves the entire whole wide world. (Blink twice). And yes, I am listening to “Keeping Score”, the new Dan + Shay single featuring Kelly Clarkson. It’s a lovely little tune!

(Help).

OUR WORLD:

The reason that city driving is so much more difficult is because everyone who lives in the city, and therefore drive in the city, is so stressed out by EVERYTHING that the slightest ANYTHING can set you off. I feel like a Velociraptor (that’s one word! Who knew?!?) while driving around my neighborhood–ready to plunge through the driver’s side window of my Chevy Equinox and go fangs-first into the next car that leaks into my lane of traffic. Combine the sounds of a constipated toddler with the aggression of a blackout-drunk Crossfit trainer who was just put in the friend zone by his Tinder date; that’s me driving in the city. That’s all of us driving in the city because Chicago, and I imagine all other large cities, is a garbage can overflowing with annoyances. What are some of the other PRIME City annoyances? Let’s take a look:

-The “was that a gunshot?”-sounds: Whenever I’m near the VP of Ops when one of these sounds happens, I immediately say “fireworks.” I play it cool and nonchalant so that she doesn’t worry, but (close your eyes VP) it’s probably gunshots sometimes, right? Who is setting off fireworks on a random Tuesday night in June? Also, you have to go to Wisconsin or Indiana to get fireworks, so what the hell are these sounds? That’s part of living in the city that I’ll never get used to. When I’m walking Belle at night, I say “what was that?” to a not-too-distant sound a minimum of 6 times. When these walks are immediately following a murder documentary, you better believe I contemplate breaking into a full sprint back towards my apartment.

-Walking up to street-parked car in the morning and seeing shards of glass in the distance: If you park on the street in the city your car, sooner or later, will be broken into. There is ZERO chance that it won’t. Trust me, I’ve run the numbers. On the day it is, you’ll be walking down the block your car is on when you’ll notice a pile of shattered turquoise pebbles. Those aren’t exotic city pebbles, though, those are what remains of your passenger-side window. I’ve had this happen twice which means that now, whenever I’m heading down the block my car is on, I have a near heart attack whenever I see a pile of turquoise in the distance. That color, btw, STINKS.

-City dogs and the dog-walkers: Don’t get me wrong, I luh me some doggies (see my puppy love in today’s “My World”). BUT! City dogs, including my own, are much more likely to be hairy psychopaths with crippling anxiety disorders. I don’t blame them, this is what comes with living in the city. However, when you’re having to zig zag across streets to make sure your dog doesn’t get within 500 feet of another hairy LUNATIC, your nerves begin to fray. This morning I took Belle on a 4 block walk and crossed the street no less than 18,000 times to avoid other dogs. Oh, and if you see a “professional” dog walker heading your way, be aware that they think of themselves as the top of the sidewalk food chain and will NEVER cross the street first. Am I just being constantly alpha’d by other dog owners in the game of “who’s going to cross the street first?” Do I call their bluff and play a game of chicken? If you knew Belle, you wouldn’t either.

-The smell of weed EVERYWHERE: I know this makes me sound like a total narc, but it really does smell like weed everywhere in the city. Like, every. single. place. When you’re afraid of weed like I am, this smell immediately triggers a response of panicked breath holding. Remember when you were a kid and your go-to tantrum move was holding your breath until you passed out? That’s me here.

-People: There are so many. Literally, millions and most of them do not abide by my personal code of conduct. It’s infuriating.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I’m just going to lean into this one…

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Cabbies who drive Uber. I get that they have to adapt, but I feel tricked whenever I get in an Uber and am immediately hit with that “professional cabbie”-smell.

I HAVEN’T GAMBLED YET THIS WEEK. MANY PEOPLE ARE TALKING ABOUT HOW INSPIRING MY SELF-CONTROL IS.

K bye.

Becca is RUINING “The Bachelorette” (6/26/18)

OUR WORLD:

I’m doing my best to hold out for the many many MANY readers who are waiting on baited breath for my takes on reality television, but I have to come clean: I’m about to bail on this season of “The Bachelorette”. Why? (Solid question, thanks for asking) Because Becca stinks. Excuse me, Becca doesn’t stink, she STINKS LIKE DIRTY RAT PIG! “The Bachelorette” is meant to have a somewhat likable, pretty lady make a bunch of douchey guys look silly while we kinda’ root for her to find the one normal-ish dude in the bunch (it’s like a game of pin the tail on the non-douche!) This whole equation goes right down the crapper when we’re forced to watch an overdramatic Ice Queen play the victim 24/7/365. With the popularity of this blog soaring to new heights EVERY. GODDAMN. SECOND. I’m thinking that this reaches Becca, herself. Therefore, Becca, I’m going to write directly to you.

What’s the deal with the sparkle dresses? The VP of Ops said last night that you “dress like a dickhead” and, being a fashion icon myself (Jimmy Fashion, ever heard of him?), I must say that I agree. You dress like a dickhead. Nobody wears sparkles as often as you do. After a while, it’s like “we get that we’re supposed to look at you, you’re THE bachelorette on ‘The Bachelorette!” Insecure much? (Girrrrrrrlllllll!!!!) And, trust me, I’ve done my best to defend you and your “look at me” sparkles to the VP, but when you turn around and wear some ridiculous crop top on the next group date it amounts to a slap in my face. Aren’t you 30? Do you know what it’s like to defend your dumb sparkles for an entire solo date and then have The VP give me the “told ya'” eyes when in THE NEXT SCENE you’re wearing a t-shirt that’s too small for a baby? BABY’S WEAR LONGER SHIRTS THAN YOU! Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, and you best believe Imma write a blog about how I’m FINISHED with you. BELIE ‘DAT! (We get it Jimmy, we’re reading the blog.)

Now let’s get into last night’s episode. There was no part of you that thought “you know, Chris really went all in on that stupid Danke Scheoen performance, I’m going to make sure I talk to him!” Nope. After performing a Wayne Newton cover in front of Waxy Wayne HIMSELF, national television cameras, and a crowd of strangers ALL FOR YOU, you still thought to yourself “I’m only going to believe Chris likes me if he seeks me out later during the group date!” THAT’S LOONEY TOONS!!! If I buy one roll of paper towels for our apartment and The VP doesn’t give me a sincere “thank you so much,” I’m holding a grudge for the rest of the night. And Becca, we have a happy marriage! But nope, you saw a sliver of an opportunity to make yourself into the victim again and BOOM, you took it! When Chris tucked his balls away later and offered that “apology” I almost threw up. He should’ve told you that he was Team Arie and gone back to the Wayne Newton show to see about scooping up the one groupie under the age of 72.

Speaking of Arie, how long are we supposed to feel bad for you? Forever? It’s not like you were in a 7 year relationship that ended on the altar in front of a nationwide audience. You “fell” for an obvious tool who you went on like 4 dates with in a 6 week span. He gave you a ring and then said “nah, never mind I like the blonde more” a couple weeks later. Was it nice of him? Of course not, but he also didn’t tie an anchor to your foot and invite you to go scuba diving. I’ve had rougher break-ups with toothbrushes (but I don’t wanna spend $7 at CVS!!!) Yet, every chance you get, you toss out the “remember, I’m the forever victim”-eyes. You will get no more sympathy from me, you ordered up a big plate of Arie. When The VP orders sushi on a hungover Sunday, I don’t feel bad for her. Just like I tell The VP, “It’s your decision, but we all know it’s going to end horribly.”

Finally Becca, lets talk about Lincoln. We’re getting into the heart of this season and you just picked him over a dude who built the Venmo app. Seriously? You think some mumble-mouth muppet, who cried about a wet picture frame, is more husband material than a guy who LITERALLY built the app that gives you money? Every psychiatrist in the universe who watched that just diagnosed you as a certified IDIOT. I’m sure you have a therapist, so here’s a spoiler for your next session: they’ve labeled you a “lost cause” and are going to drop you as a patient. If this is a ploy to get on Dr. Drew’s new show “Celebrity Idiots,” then congratulations, you just locked up a spot on the inaugural season.

I tried defending you, Becca. But, between the sparkles and the crop tops and the Lincoln stuff and the death glares, I have officially decided that I am out on you. While I doubt I will watch ALL of the rest of the season, I am now rooting for an epic finale. In my dream scenario, you pick someone, Colton probably, and he gets down on a knee. With your heart about to explode with happiness, Colton opens a ring-sized box and says…SIIIIIKKKKKEEE!!!! Then, Arie’s new wife, Lauren, runs out and slaps you in the face right before making out with Colton right in front of you as Arie laughs in the background. Either that, or you pick Garrett without realizing he’s the head of the KKK’s Minnesota chapter.

MY WORLD:

I’m stressed.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I’ve always thought I should like Weezer than I should, but I really do LOVE this cover. I can’t tell if they’re trying to be funny or if this is a cheesy song, but it gets the coveted Jimmyschair “Stamp of Like”!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

This whole Pete Davidson/Ariana Grande relationship is making everyone uncomfortable. Can you guys just stop?

I’M TAKING A MINI-BREAK FROM GAMBLING THAT MAY LAST AS LONG AS 4 DAYS BECAUSE I HAVE BEEN ON A DREADFUL LOSING STREAK AND BETTING ON BASEBALL AND SOCCER IS REALLY STARTING TO PISS ME OFF. GIVE ME FOOTBALL NOW.

K bye.