House of the Dragon Review & A Gassy Preview

MY WORLD:

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

The Farting.

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

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

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

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

The Warden’s fart healed us.

In our laughter, we are one.

You can eat whatever you want, whenever you want.

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

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

What’s next?

Parental Leave.

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

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

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

-OR-

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

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

OUR WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh, what about the dragons, though?”

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

“On who?”

“The dead Mom and baby.”

“But, they’re already dead.”

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

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

LETS ALL LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

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

Recos:

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

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

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

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

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

LETS ALL HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

JIMMY GAMBLES:

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

K bye.

My Christmas List

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-I would like to never receive paper mail again.

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

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

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

JIMMY GAMBLES:

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

(My account is currently at $0.00)

K bye.

No…Not….WINTER!!!

OUR WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

YEAH, I KNOW!

MY WORLD:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

JIMMY GAMBLES:

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

(My account is currently at $100.72)

K bye.

Work (11/1/18)

OUR WORLD:

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

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That felt good.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

JIMMY GAMBLES:

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

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

(My account is currently at $70ish)

K bye.