Tag: chicago

It’s Time To Try Some Stuff

MY WORLD

Guys, it’s okay to look into your neighbor’s windows now.  (Deep gasp…. “Honey? Do you know where our binoculars are?”)  No, stop it.  I’m not talking like in the creepy Peeping Tom sense, I’m meaning like, if you can see into your neighbor’s apartment or house, it’s okay to just stare into there now.  It’s quarantine and there are only so many episodes of “Mad Men” you can watch while pretending that all you’re thinking about isn’t “Dear God, when can I look at MY FUCKING PHONE AGAIN?!?!”  (New nightly game in our household is watching the other one on the phone while “our” show is on and acting like you’re not super pissed and jealous about it.  Is there a more condescending question than, “Why do you need to look at your phone so much?”) 

Anyway, you can look into your neighbor’s window now.  As long as you’re sitting in your place, and you’re not using binoculars (“Forget it!  He said ‘no binoculars’. DAMNIT!”)  And the reason I know it’s okay is because that’s what I was doing for the 37 minutes prior to writing this.  What I did was, I sat down at my writing desk (it’s special because it’s white and…my laptop sits on it!) opened a blank word document, and then…stared out my window and into the apartments of ALL of my across-the-street neighbors!  Nothing too interesting, but there were a few instances where I’m sure this guy on the 3rd floor saw me, and I just didn’t try to hide that I was looking into his apartment.  Usually, I’d do the thing where I’d awkwardly look up at the ceiling and then leave the room, but not tonight…NOT IN QUARANTINE!  I’M LOOKING IN YOUR APARTMENT, BUB!  AND THERE AIN’T A GODDAMN THING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT!

So voyeurism is a new thing I’m trying, and that got me to thinking: What else would I do or try now that I am so obscenely quarantinoed (“torpedoed” with the quarantine blues = quarantinoed)

SMOKING CRACK

I would.  If a drug dealer was riding his bike up and down my block yelling, “I’m going to give free crack to someone in whichever apartment building I stop in front of tonight!” and that drug dealer stopped in front of my apartment, where I just so happened to be looking out the window, and we made eye-contact, and he was like “You!  You want some free crack?”  I’d be like “Yeah.”  Of course he’s wearing latex gloves, and I would insist that he simply leave it at the front door to my building because of contactless pick-up and all.  But yeah, as long as he did that, and was willing to explain to me from the sidewalk up to my 3rd floor apartment how to smoke crack, I would do it.

There are just so few opportunities in life to justify smoking crack in your apartment, that I feel like passing up the covid quarantine justification, is a disgusting waste of a perfect excuse.  Also, we’ve all watched all of the drug shows and documentaries and news stories, and I’m sure, like me, you’ve thought “I bet I wouldn’t get addicted if I tried it.”  And you know what? YOU WOULDN’T IN QUARANTINE!  Unless the generous drug dealer decides to bike down your block again, but chances are he won’t because he’s busy spreading cheer to surrounding neighborhoods.  Free crack is one thing.  Free crack TWICE?  Dream on, weirdo!

And if you do it just once, in the safety of your own apartment under the horrified supervision of your southern wife, what’s the worst that could happen?  (Not a serious question, do not send me google articles about the first, and last time people smoked crack.  DON’T RUIN MY DREAM!)  Would explaining why you felt compelled to do this to your wife be uncomfortable?  Of course!  But what is she going to do?  Leave?  Where?  It’s a quarantine babe, ain’t nowhere to go!

In fact, I’m pretty sure smoking crack suppresses hunger, so I would make a health-based argument to The VP that would go something like this: “VP?  Hi, it’s me Jimmy.  You know I want you to find me attractive, right?  Well I know that you’ve noticed me eating 8 meals a day and snacking in between, and I can tell that my turbo-charged weight gain is really bumming you out.  So!  What if I told you I could ingest something that would suppress my appetite and cause me to lose a few lbs?”  As the VP would pretend not to be supremely disgusted by my newly explosive waistline, she’d say something like, “Oh stop…but what?”  That’s when I’d show her the spoon with the crack on it.

Now, would she be excited?  No.  I can’t imagine any wife is excited when her husband announces that he’s going to smoke crack in front of her.  BUT!  There is a chance that A) She doesn’t know that it’s crack on the spoon, or B) That if it does end up causing you to lose weight, she’ll justify the means to the end of your waistline expansion.  Obviously, there is a ‘C’ option that could take place where she calls her mom crying that “Jimmy is smoking crack!” but I think that’s unlikely because this is my dream AND what woman wants anyone to know that their husband is a crack smoker?

So, I’d end up getting to smoke crack without most of all of the negative consequences associated with smoking crack NOT during a quarantine.  The positives include:

  • Getting to finally see what all the “buzz” is about with this crack thing!
  • Can’t get addicted when you only do it once and have no chance to get it again…anytime soon at least.
  • Can’t get arrested at a time when cops have much more important things to do than bust a pudgy 34 year-old looking to “just try something crazy, man!”
  • Can’t lose your wife because the government says she is not allowed to leave the house.  By the time all of these restrictions are lifted, she’ll be laughing about you smoking crack!
  • It has to be a pretty kick-ass high, right?

Am I asking for someone to send me crack and instructions how to do it from the spoon thing?  (Like, can you use any old spoon or…is a spoon even involved?  Wait, no…I’d just need a pipe wouldn’t I?!?!)  I am not looking for someone to send me crack and instructions on how to do it.  But, yes, if it were sent to me I would smoke it…and, I would probably try heroin too now that I realize that’s the one you use with the spoon.  Either one.

HACKING A WEBSITE 

In normal-times, hackers suck.  They sit in front of their computers all day and just fuck with websites because they can, while we’re all out being COOL PEOPLE doing things like drinking shots with people you don’t like that much, and hiking.  However, when EVERY PERSON is sitting in front of their computer all day, aren’t hackers the coolest?  By default, they become top of the human food chain.  Well, since I don’t want to be at the bottom of that food chain, because the bottom…uh…DIES!  I’d like the opportunity to prove my worth by hacking a website.

I wouldn’t want to be a hardcore, governmental website hacker that gets hauled away by The Punisher.  No, instead, I’d like to be that like friendly, harmless hacker guy.  Like, hack into the TJ Maxx website, rename it “TJ Min” and make it so the ONLY product available is a bandana that says “Born to Ride” on it.  Everyone’s aunt, having just recently learned how to e-shop on account of quarantine, would be so excited to check out what TJ Maxx has to offer until… “How come all I can buy is this very very cool bandana?”  Then they’d buy the “Born to Ride” bandanas even though they don’t even ride!  SUCKERS!!!!

Most of the reasons why I would try these things during quarantine come back to me being able to tell people that I did that thing once, and this is no exception.  I’m imagining some dumpy dinner party I’ll be invited to a few years down the road, where I don’t really know anyone and am giving The VP half-smiles from across the room that she knows mean, “can we get the fuck out of here now?”  As I’d guzzle WHATEVER alcohol was available in between menacing half-smiles, some blob would come up to me and say, “Hey, I’m Blobbington, what’s your name?”  It would be at this precise moment, that I would bypass the typical introductions: “Don’t worry about my name, Blobbington.  I’m a hacker.”

Blobbington would try to chuckle off the “I’m a hacker”-thing to ease the tension, but I’d lean into it and give him a menacing “I’m not fucking kidding”-chuckle.  Then it’s awkward, but I’d have the power position in this interaction that I never really wanted in the first place.  “I’ve hacked websites, and that’s all I’m going to say about that.”  Then I’d finish my drink, hold out the empty glass for Blobbington to take, and yell across the room, “I’m leaving now!”

And I’d be able to do all of that because I tried hacking a website during quarantine.

DM’ING CELEBRITIES

I want to DM celebrities because getting celebrities to personally respond to me would feel like a real victory and I know that’s sad, but it’s true.  How many boring ass stories about someone’s celebrity sighting have you sat through?  How many have you enjoyed?  The answers to those two questions are: a billion! And zero!

Buuuuuuuuut, if I told you a story about how I DM’d Robert from “Shark Tank” about “how proud I am of you for being an advocate for the very short businessman community,” and he responded with “Thx” and a praying hands emoji, wouldn’t you enjoy that?  I bet you would!

Which celebrities would I most like to DM, aside from “Shark Tank” Bob, and what would I say to them hoping to elicit ANY sort of response?  I’m glad you asked!

  • Adele: “Can you palm a basketball?”
    • I really want to know. I think she can.
  • Scottie Pippen: “Be honest, do you think you were better than Michael Jordan?”
    • How many nights do you think Pippen stayed up thinking, “If Phil would just let me take the last shot, I’d be the star!”
  • Just saying “I love you” to all of my celebrity crushes in the hopes that one of them would respond, “I love you too.” Then I could show off and tell everyone that “Don Draper’s mistress from Season 3, episode 7 of ‘Mad Men’ loves me too!”

 

PODCAST TO LISTEN TO: 

Season One of “Up and Vanished”.  I listened to it on a road trip a while ago and I don’t remember details, but I remember it was engrossing.

MUSIC TO LISTEN TO:

A bunch of musicians have been playing live concerts from their homes during this quarantine, and I watched some of Pete Yorn’s on Instagram live.  That was good.  But I also just found that Dave Matthews plays a solo show on Yahoo and it’s recorded and I can watch it whenever I want.  So…yeah, maybe I’ll check it out.   Whatever.  I do what I want.

Here’s the link…I don’t know if it’ll work because I suck with computers, BUT I’M TRYING MY BEST!

https://www.yahoo.com/entertainment/dave-matthews-livestream-concert-verizon-pay-it-forward-live-234734706.html

TV SHOW TO WATCH:

I’ve been having a really hard time focusing on television shows, so I’ve been leaning more towards shows that I can enjoy without paying THAT much attention to.  One of the best for this kind of viewing is “Shark Tank”.  I feel like it’s on 24/7 and I always kinda’ enjoy it without having to really try that hard.

MOVIE TO WATCH:

The VP and I watched “Sicario” a few days ago and it was smart, intense, and cool.  I like those things.

K, bye.

TV Shows vs. The Summer

OUR WORLD:

When it’s a beautiful day in the summer and your friends are asking you to play golf, ENJOY NATURE! (fuck off hippy) or meet up for drinks on a big, dumb patio and you pass that up to stay in to watch television, you know you’ve got an all-time show on your hands.  In normal-weather cities, like Chicago, standards for television shows go up in the summer.  With 2-3 months of not-jesus-christ-it’s-freezing temperatures, passing up those days to stay indoors brings on the type of guilt that results in involuntary “I’M NOT A LAZY PIECE OF SHIT!” scream sessions (especially unfortunate when these scream sessions take place inside your office.)  Incurring that type of guilt-complex outburst to watch some Michael Strahan gameshow is CLEARLY not worth it.  But have there been any shows this summer that are worth making your co-workers contemplate having you committed?

Let’s see….

BIG LITTLE LIES

Season 1 was fantastic with a capital FANTASTIC!  I was really getting into Season 2 when I listened to a Bill Simmons podcast that basically made fun of me for loving the show…SO I GOT CONFUSED!  How are you supposed to continue loving a show that your fave podcaster is kinda’ loving but also kinda’ making fun of?  (Here’s how…uh…don’t be such a windsock little bitch?)  I AM A GROWN MAN WHO IS TOUGH AND STRONG AND I….LIKED SEASON 2 OF ‘BIG LITTLE LIES’!!!! (Why are you crying then?)

There’s just no way to deny the acting performances in this show.  I’m always overeager to give all of the credit for a show or movie’s success to the writers, but with this cast, I think they could make the fine print of your electric bill entertaining.  (I never trusted that fucking meter!)  Early in the season, when Meryl Streep begins to make her presence known, I remember looking to the VP after each scene and saying “no, no SHE is the best actress on this show!”  Reese, Kidman, Streep, and Dern all took turns hoisting the “Best Actress on TV” trophy in between scenes of Shailene Woodley and Zoe Kravitz pretending to hold back tears because they’re tough, but not all the way because they’re DEALING WITH STUFF.  (If you want to see my best impression, ask me for my Zoe Kravitz in ‘Big Little Lies’ Season 2 face.  I’m incredibly proud of it.)

Now, if you haven’t finished it, I won’t lie, the ending doesn’t deliver in the way you’re hoping it will.  It’s not so disappointing that you should stop watching it now, but if you were thinking of skipping getting bombed outside with friends you feel comfortable splitting a check with, then I’d urge you to reconsider.  Season 2 is seven episodes, and episodes 3-5 pick up the kind of momentum that makes you say things like “I wanna be a big, little liar!”  But then you watch episodes 6 & 7, calm down, and explain to your wife that you’re not a liar.

Worth giving up big, dumb patio drinking time with friends? Almost, but not if that patio serves good margaritas with fat salt crystals lining the rim.

YELLOWSTONE

I’m not qualified to even really write about this show because (you’re a bad writer and nobody values your opinions) I’m basically a full season behind.  Think of this as more of a Public Service Announcement: if you have yet to start “Yellowstone,” you need to start watching it now before you’re a full two or three seasons behind and feel too intimidated to even start it.  I call this the “Breaking Bad Syndrome”–where you know a show is amazing, but get so far behind that you feel like you’ll never get caught up so…you just don’t, but you do lie to people and say “oh, yeah” when they ask if you’ve seen it.  Based on the first 6 episodes of Season One, “Yellowstone” is on the trajectory where in about a year and a half, most of the people you know will ask if you’ve seen it and judge you if you haven’t.  It’s not too late, guys.  Start now.

Think of this show as the cowboy version of “Succession,” where you trade some witty sarcasm for good fight scenes in dive bars.  Kevin Costner is here to remind you that he’s still the man you want to become, and his kids in the show look really fucking cool in their ranchin’ clothes (wait, this show has ranchin’ clothes?!?!)  Yeah, we’re talking full-on dusty cowboy boots, flannel shirts in the heat (how is this possible?), and cowboy hats that look like they were born to wear them.  After watching a few episodes, you’ll think about adopting this look, and then quickly abandon the idea once you realize that the jeans they were aren’t stretchy (once you wear stretchy jeans, you can never return to NOT wearing stretchy jeans.)

Worth giving up big, dumb patio drinking time with friends?  Yes, unless you have friends who are from Montana and say things like “I reckon'” without sounding ridiculous.

SOUTHERN CHARM

I’m going to be honest with you guys…the show badly misses T-Rav.  BADLY.  Now, does it make me feel good that I’m lamenting the loss of a probable-rapist from a reality show on BRAVO?  No.  It actually makes me feel horrible that I even wrote that, so I’m immediately taking that back.  Folks, please disregard the opening two lines in this section; I’ve only had 1.7 cups of coffee thus far, and everyone knows that I’m not my true self until I’ve hit the 2.4 cup mark (he’s right, everyone knows this.)  

What I’m trying to say is that this season of “Southern Charm”, while still entertaining in the way that a bag of chips is satisfying, it’s causing me to feel as bad as I do after gorging on a bag of Salt ‘n Vins.  This season, more than any before, I’m finding myself saying “I think these guys are just kinda’ sad losers, though…”  (Is Jimmy finally criticizing people who drink too much?)  The episode where Austin breaks up with Madison over the phone and then gets hammered with Shep and Craig on like a Tuesday night, played like an exploding “WE’RE ADULT DO-NOTHINGS!” neon.  And I hate that I sound like that friend who gets off on criticizing reality TV, but Shep is close to 40 and looks like damp dishrag every episode.  Craig, while still lookin’ LIKE A GODDAMN SNACK, has permanent Lindsey Lohan-voice, and Kathryn feels the need to constantly remind everyone in her vicinity that, no matter how big her house is, she’s still the number one victim in the world.

Listen, it’s still worth watching to make fun of stuff with your VP of Ops (yeah, you can use it, as long as you give me proper credit every single time you do.)  But the older and more responsible I’m forced to get, the more I feel myself resenting people who are given life on a silver platter, yet still complain as much as often as they breathe.  I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO FEEL SO STRONGLY AGAINST REALITY TELEVISION AND IT’S MAKING ME UNCOMFORTABLE!

Worth giving up big, dumb patio drinking time with friends?  Not this season, but if T-Rav makes a comeback then…NOPE, NOPE, STOPPING NOW!

MY WORLD:

The VP and I moved into our new apartment over the weekend.  Clarification: when I say that “we” moved, what I really mean is that we watched three men move all of our stuff and almost die of heat exhaustion while we pretended to do things not near them because we felt so guilty.  I know what you’re thinking, “but Jimmy, did you show all the movers the scar on your leg and talk about the ankle surgery you had?”  Uh, duh guys, what do I look like?  You really think I’m going to be silent while being emasculated right in front of my wife?  THINK AGAIN, BUBBAS!  (It was still weird when you used a bright, red marker to draw a circle around your scar tho…)

Anyway, we’re in to our new, bigger apartment now and besides pretending like I’m the mayor of box city, I’ve been fantasizing about how I could configure what will soon-be my office.  Yeah guys, this will be the first apartment that I finally have an office in, and I feel like Tommy Boy after his Dad shows him the mini-fridge in his new office.  Right when we moved in, I walked into the office, opened the door to it’s closet and said “I could put coat–or jackets–or pants in here!”  To which the VP responded, “anything, you’d like to keep out of the way.”  Then I bear hugged her before barreling into the kitchen for a victory beer.  (What did you even win?)

Now, I have to play this cool and say things to the VP like, “hey, this isn’t JUST my office, this is OUR office.”  But, between you and me, it’s my goddamn office and I’m probably going to install a lock on it that I’m never going to give The VP a key to.  “Wait, really? A lock?  That’s so weird!” Will definitely be something I say to her many times before changing the subject as quickly as possible.

I’m finally going to be able to put up all of the cool pictures that the VP of Ops has had “qualms” with in past apartments (what do you mean you don’t want the picture of Michael Jordan’s last shot as a Chicago Bull above our couch?)  But what else should I do with the space?  Here are some options, I’m mulling:

  • Multiple TVs hung on the wall
  • A fancy office chair that I can see how many times I can spin around in without having my feet touch the ground
  • A mini fridge
  • A fish tank that I can put numerous really weird-looking fish in and name all of them “Erin”
  • A phone connected to the landline that I could call from my cell phone whenever The VP and I are having a “civil disagreement,’ so when it rings, I can say, “sorry, I have to take that.”

I’ll keep you updated on my office construction, but please don’t tell The VP that it’s not hers and that she’s never going to be welcome in that room.  Thanks guys.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Getting to the age where you no longer feel comfortable not updating the address on your Drivers License whenever you move.  So now, moving ALSO includes a trip to the DMV.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

JIMMY GAMBLES:

This section sucks right now and I know it.  Until football season arrives, I’ll try to come up with something better.

K bye.

 

Mindless Television and “The Chicago Reset”

OUR WORLD:

You know it’s an especially sad state of affairs when you find yourself searching for a television show and the number one quality you’re looking for is a show “that doesn’t require much effort.”  Usually, this comes after having eaten two mini-brownies, putting on the same pair of mesh shorts you’ve been wearing at night for the past two months and letting out sigh that really sounded more like “oooooof.”  (Was it even a ‘sigh’ then?!?!)  When the physicality of SITTING is too much if it also includes having to use your brain for more than four seconds at a time, things are GOING ON.  Over the past few months, I have found myself in this position.  (Sitting? Yeah, we know Jimmy.)  

This thing happens when you get back into snacking, baked goods and allowing yourself to go into “fuck it”-mode, where all you want out of a television show are some bright lights, gentle smiles and OBNOXIOUSLY SIMPLE STORYLINES.  I think this is why Food Network and HGTV exist, but I have found other shows that fit the bill.  Thus, I give you the Jimmyschair “I’m Too Lazy To Watch A Show That Makes Me Use My Brain Even A Little Bit”-Television Show Rankings:

5)  “The Voice”

It’s a show revolving around people singing, other people pushing a button that means “good singing” and a guy whose haircut changes every commercial break.  “The Voice” has a hypnotic quality to it that is kicked off with that person? woman? group of people? Proclaiming “This is…THE VOICE!” every time you go in and out of commercial.  It’s almost like they know they’re aiming for the people that have gotten too into baked goods recently and are going in and out of a carbohydrate daze.  Every seven minutes, when they find their eyes beginning to shutter, they’re SHOCKED with a “THIS IS THE VOICE!”  I’m pretty sure while watching this, I’ve turned to the person in the room with me and nodded after hearing this.  Like, “hey, this is The Voice, they’re right.”

Once your set in knowing what you’re watching (thanks to the constant reminders) your lazy brain gets to scan Twitter and Instagram aimlessly while listening to contestants you’ll never see again, do their best “I’m more than a karaoke star”-rendition of “Shallow.”  You’ll catch yourself thinking for a second that it’s Lady Gaga, look up to see that it’s not, and then listen a teensy bit closer so you can make some insightful critique like “got pitchy there.”  (I don’t know what ‘pitchy’ means, but The VP of Ops says it and she did music stuff in high school.  So…yeah, I use it.)  

If you zone out while refreshing Instagram for the 856th time in the last nine minutes, and forget to listen long enough to decide whether Sally Soprano sang that Train song well enough to advance, just wait to hear the big “boooosh” sound the buttons make when the judges hit them.  Did the producers know that the audience would be paying as little attention as possible?  “Hey, just incase they don’t see the big buttons light up and the chairs turn around, let’s add a big, dumb sound effect!”  (Thank you producers.)  

If that’s not an easy enough show for you to follow, then just enjoy the hair stylings of Adam Levine.  Every time the show comes back from commercial break, turn to the person next to you and say “he change his hair every time they go to break?”  You’ll get a half chuckle and that’s all you’re really looking for.

4)  Local News

The local news knows you don’t go outside very much.  (Wait…do they have spies?  WHO’S THERE?!?!)    Why else do you think they make the entire show all about the weather segment?  A couple quick hits about some horrible things going on not-that-far-from-where-you-are-sitting are softened because the guy telling you these things is, for some reason, smiling while reading the teleprompter.  So you’re not sad, but more sure than ever that you’re in a legitimate sugar stupor (shooting is bad, but smiling is good…so….it’s okay?)  

But what every local newscast is REALLY about, is the weather segment.  The weather person has the most charisma of the anchors (that’s a low bar….OUCH!) and they know that the people watching have been looking out their window for hours, going “I think it’s gonna rain soon, better stay in.”  So every segment teases what everyone watching is really waiting for.  “Don’t worry, we’re going to tell you soon that it’s okay that you’ve stayed inside for the last 13 weeks!”  I also think that’s why in the forecasts, the Weatherperson always says “with a chance of rain.”  It traps the tubbos inside–fearful of even the slightest chance of being pierced with one of those water droplet things.  (I’M HIT!!!!)  

3)  House Hunters

You’re sitting in a house-like thing (does a one-bedroom apartment count as a house?) and you get to watch people looking at house-like things while making judgements like “I really don’t like this backsplash.”  Riveting and exactly what you’re looking for.  Impossibly easy to follow, featuring narration by a lady with a very soothing voice and starring two people where one is ALWAYS obnoxious.  (The casting director has to have so much fun telling that person, “hey, you’re the obnoxious one in this episode.  Make sure you scrunch your face up and critique a carpeted bedroom at least twice!”)

If you haven’t paid close attention throughout the show–because that’s the point of watching it–don’t even worry about it!  Why? Because this half-hour show includes A RECAP before the final segment.  They give you a “get out of confusion”-free card because they KNOW you haven’t really been watching!  “Okay people, we know you’ve gotten deep into your group text chain, so real quick, here are the 3 houses these dummies are deciding between.”  Haven’t been watching? BOOM, you’re back.  You get to toss out a you-can-tell-I’m-concentrating-because-my-eyes-are-squinting- “I like the one wif da pool,” before the couple you don’t like for no good reason picks the ONE WIF DA POOL!  Nothing like feeling accomplished while sitting.

2)  The Office

This goes for any show you’ve seen more than nine bajillion times.  For me, that show is “The Office,” thus, it’s why it is the current king of “I don’t know what to watch, let’s just put _____________ on.”  I don’t think I even really watch the episodes anymore while they’re on.  It’s more a cover for me to scan my phone.  If the TV is on and I’m able to toss out a chuckle here or there, then I can’t be accused of being addicted to my phone, right? You may not have sat down to totally dissect this phenomenon, but that’s what is happening.  Other shows that fall into this category are “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia”, “Seinfeld”, “Friends”, “Curb Your Enthusiasm”, and “Parks and Rec”.  These are the “If I was addicted to my phone, how would I know when to laugh?”-shows.  We’re not fooling anyone…(DID THAT JUST BLOW YOUR FRIGGIN MIND?!?!)

1)  Anything Guy Fieri

What is a more joyful sight than Guy’s face?  He’s never not on the verge of EXTREME happiness.  And what causes this EXTREME happiness?  Something that we all can get inside our refrigerator!!!  While a good amount of food and cooking shows, are trying to help you elevate your palate, Guy tells you that your palate is FINE AND IF YOU’RE TOO GOOD FOR A DINER, YOU CAN FUCK RIGHT OFF TO HELL!  But instead of saying those exact words, he communicates that with ENERGY and spikey hair.

If you’re not watching the show, it’s okay because his voice is so excited and happy that you are subconsciously convinced that you, too, are also excited and happy.  Again, you’re in a trance-like state, so when your brain processes a booming voice doling out the virtues of a trailer that serves waffle fries, it’s like you’re in that trailer with Guy and ABSOLUTELY LOVING EVERY SECOND OF IT.  (I’M SO LUCKY TO BE EATING FRIED THINGS INSIDE A TRAILER PARKED BEHIND THAT ABANDONED MOTEL!)

Tip your hat to the King of Modern-Day Hypnosis, Guy Fieri.

MY WORLD:

I went to a Cubs game and sat in the bleachers on Saturday.  If you’re not from Chicago, here is the literal translation for that first sentence: “I sat in the sun and drank 82 beers on Saturday.”  (Just 82?  Not foolin’ anyone Pal!)  Anyway, I came away convinced that no matter how old you are, if you live in Chicago and are feeling the need to hit the “reset” button, the bleachers at Wrigley are where you go.  (My how elaborate your drinking justifications have become, Jimmy…)

If you haven’t been to the bleachers, it’s not the same as just going to a Cubs game.  It’s another world.  A world where age doesn’t exist, beer is currency and the sun is that friend who keeps telling you to “just enjoy the moment!”  There was a guy in his 60s with really good hair, dancing during every inning break.  There were a few fights far enough away to feel safe while yelling “GET HIM!!!” There was a friend who masked sweating through his shorts by having our group douse him with water in between innings, and then feigning anger by yelling “not on my new shorts!”  And, of course, there were and obscene amount of Bud Lights.

Looking to hit “reset”? Spend a day sweating on a bench in the sun, high above Sheffield Ave.  You’ll wake up the next morning dehydrated, yes, but you’ll also be rid of whatever was inside you that pushed you to reach for that “reset” button.  After the age of 26, you can only do one Wrigley Bleacher day during the summer, but no matter your age or circumstance, I think we all need one “Chicago Reset.”

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you wear sandals and are walking up the stairs, and your sandal catches the lip of a stair and you slam your shin into the front of the next stair.  I saw this happen to a friend in the bleachers and I wanted to hold him for the rest of the game.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

 

DOES JIMMY STILL GAMBLE?

Yes.

K, bye.

HOT CHICAGO RESTAURANT REVIEW #1

OUR WORLD: 

You know those restaurants that you hear about, for what seems like years, that you always tell yourself “I gotta check that place out!”?  I’ve gone to some of those recently and I want to tell you about them in a very honest, borderline dumb, way.  If, like me, you hate Yelp because you used to work in restaurants, I’m here to offer some guidance for the HOT Chicago Restaurant Scene.  Whenever I ask my friends about a restaurant, I’m not looking for a poetic, Bourdain-like breakdown of flavors and the social injustices that went into creating the circumstances necessary for said restaurant to thrive.  I’m basically looking for a caveman-esque answer to “Eat there? Should I?”    I give you the first Jimmyschair “Hot Chicago Restaurant Review for Cavemen”

Au Cheval:

You’re going to wait.  This is the number one issue I hear from people who have been here and want to be Johnny Contrarian by talking about something other than the show-stopper burger.  Why complain about something you KNOW is going to happen?  Do you complain about getting wet when you take a shower?  “I had to wait 3 hours!  For a burger!”  Okay…and hasn’t everyone you’ve EVER talked to about Au Cheval told you about the wait?  If the answer is ‘no’, you’re either lying or from planet ‘Yeah-Probably-Just-Lying’.  Either way, that excuse doesn’t fly anymore because I’m outing all of you “I had to wait!”-crybabies.  If you don’t want to wait, go to a shitty restaurant that nobody wants to go to.  Problem solved.  If you want to eat the best burger you’re ever going to have?  Grow up, shut up, and have a few pops after putting your name in at Au Cheval.

Here’s an overlooked positive to SURVIVING the wait at Au Cheval: you’ll get to tell your friends a dramatic tale of enduring hours spent sitting and drinking beers next door before getting in.  If you’re looking for a way to jump into your story of heroism, feel free to steal this starter: “Technically, I was never in the military, but…”  By the time you get that magical “your table is ready” text from the Au Cheval host, you’ll have a comfy buzz and a new chapter for your memoir, entitled: “Overcoming Adversity.”

Once inside, you’re in a comfortable diner that is more effortlessly cool.  The servers know their shit and are nicer than the gatekeeper hosts and hostesses–probably because they’re tipped more.  Also, when 94% of your customers are just going to order a burger, how hard is it?  (I say this as a former-server, which means I’m allowed to say this.  If you haven’t served before you are never allowed to critique servers.  EVER.)  It’s dark enough in there to hide how fat you’re going to feel after the meal, and lit in a way that will disguise your double chin with shadows.  It’s a magic trick that adds to the experience; a burger place that protects you from the shame associated with eating a burger and fries.  WHAT A CONCEPT!

Are there other things on the menu?  Sure, but who gives a shit?  You’re going here for the burger.  Oh, the drinks!  I heard they have craft beer!  Yeah, they do and I love beer, but that’s not why you’re here so don’t fill up on anything other than the burger.  (This is a concept I’m just coming around to in my early-30s.  Drinking beer fills you up and, therefore, takes away from the enjoyment of the meal itself.  CALL ME JIMMY COLUMBUS AFTER THAT DISCOVERY!) Get the single with the egg on it.  I think the double is too much, and the bacon distracts from how amazing the burger is by itself.  You’ve had good bacon before, you haven’t had a burger like this.  I don’t care about overhyping it or whatever excuse you want to find to sound different after eating here.  It’s the best burger I have ever had.    And the fries?  They come with a garlic aioli dipping sauce that you’ll think about leaving    your wife for.  “Honey, I’ve realized that you can never make me as happy as the garlicky dipping sauce at Au Cheval.  It’s okay, you can take the kids.”

I don’t remember or care if they have dessert.  Probably.  Whatever, you’re so euphoric after the burger and fries that you just want to go home so you can go to sleep and dream about the meal you just had.  The only thing that makes it better is when you see the check.  Look, it’s not cheap for a “burger place,” but not all burger place’s are created equal.  I compare the feeling after eating here to the impressed feeling I get after eating at a fancy steakhouse.   Unfortunately, that steakhouse feeling is quickly murdered by the   steakhouse check–“do you offer payment plans?”  Here, the check is manageable enough that you can pay for you and your wife without secretly hating her for the rest of the night.

CAVEMAN REVIEW = Food good.  Price good.  You happy.  Go.

MY WORLD:

So I’ve gotten fat again.  It has been a slow process, but I did it.  I’d like to credit my late-summer sprained ankle for giving me the excuse I needed to not work out.  When I did get back into “working out,” I made the decision that running is really hard and so I was gonna not do that.  The way I framed this decision, however, was more “I’m going to start lifting.”  My thinking was that if I could make my shoulders and arms big enough, it would make my growing stomach look smaller in relation.  What I didn’t account for, stupidly, is that bigger arms don’t mask a puffier face.  AND!  I’m not secure or rich enough to buy all new clothes.  Unfortunately, when you get bigger, your clothes get tighter.  It’s actually bullshit, if you ask me.

Now I’ve gotta do the thing where I run more and eat less.  IT’S NOT FAIR!  I hopped on the treadmill last night and wanted to stop after three seconds when I saw a fat dude next to me going into mile 6.  Not working for him!  Running sucks, no question.  But, you know what sucks more?  Worrying that your thighs are going to explode through the legs of your pants while at work.  (That was me, yesterday.)  Or, when you’re sitting with friends at a bar and you’re wondering if you can unbutton your pants without anyone noticing.  It’s a tricky maneuver that risks looking like you’re playing with yourself in public.  Have I pulled it off before?  Of course, but then I was faced with the fear of having to get up with the possibility that my pants could totally unzip and fall down.  Was this an event on “Fear Factor”?

Anyway, I’m gonna eat like a lame for a while now and get back into running.  Great, can’t wait for my legs to hurt every morning.  Shocked that I got fat after reading me write about about how I’ve thought about leaving my wife for garlic aioli?  ME TOO!  Last night I ran and didn’t have a beer, though, so I may be thin again.  I’ll keep you posted.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The first two episodes of the new “True Detective”!!!  Mahershala Ali is putting on an acting performance for the ages (if you’re watching it, you get that ‘pun’, right?  Yeah, I’m proud of it.)

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

“The Bachelor” and “Vanderpump Rules” are off to very ‘meh’ starts this year.  I’m still watching kinda’, but I’m close to bailing.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I zeroed out my account last weekend.  Betting against the Patriots at home was something that I regretted the second I made the bet.  It was also really fun that Andrew Luck showed up with a dead arm in Kansas City.  Thanks guys!

(My account is currently at $0.00)

K bye.

 

We Know Why All Of You Are Moving Away From Us

MY WORLD:

You got a problem with me?  No?  So you must have a problem with The VP then, right?  No?  Or, maybe ‘yes’, but you don’t want to admit that out loud because she’s more sensitive than I am and could start crying in public? (Bragging about being less sensitive than a southern sorority girl is interesting…)  Let me put this out there, loud and clear: THE VP AND I ARE SICK AND GODDAMN TIRED OF PEOPLE MOVING OUT OF CHICAGO TO GET AWAY FROM US!  Matta’ fack, The VP of Ops and I are OFFICIALLY sick and goddamn tired of people moving away from Chicago without admitting that it’s because of us.  Jobs, kids, family, blah, blah, blah.  Cut the fucking shit.  If you’re close to The VP and I, and you decide to move away from Chicago, guess what?  WE’RE TAKING IT PERSONALLY!

Lately, a lot of people that The VP and I consider VERY CLOSE have decided to move across the country and, being the reasonable adults that we are (reasonable, narcissistic, whatever) we have dealt with all these moves with the required forced smiles and fake enthusiasm.  “Disappointed that I’m only going to get to see you once a year and have to compete with the rest of the people who want to see you while you’re in town for 7 hours? NOT AT ALL!  We couldn’t be more excited for you!”  Being a reasonable adult requires an insane amount of lying.

First it was both of our best friends (like, they’re married to each other…it’s dumb), then it was her best Chicago friend, and now some people very close to me (secret people) have decided to get the hell away from us. Yeah, we said all the right things like “we’re happy for you,” and “that’ll give us a reason to visit ________-town!” but you better KNOW that’s NOT where our mind first went.  Instead, when we said “we’re happy for you,” we were thinking “we know it’s because of us”; and “that’ll give us a reason to visit,” when put through the truth-machine would translate to “we’re gonna get you!”

In an effort to get out in front of this growing “We Gotta Ditch Jimmy and The VP”-movement, I would like to address the issues those we are close to MUST be having with us.

The VP does wear that black fake-silk shirt too often.

I’m risking my marriage by writing about this.  While trying to think of what material The VP’s go-to shirt is, I messed up BAD and just asked her “hey, you know that black shirt you wear all the time?  What’s that material called?”  Blouse material questions are not commonplace in Casa De Pomerantz, so Sherlock VP’s suspicions were raised.  After investigating further, by looking at me grinning from behind my laptop, The VP knew what was at stake if by answering.  “Are you going to write about that?  Please don’t.”  She plead with me.  It wasn’t a “please don’t” with a smirk or followed by a “I’m so happy I married someone who keeps me grounded”-chuckle.  Not at all, actually.  She made the scared face, furrowing her brow and not breaking eye-contact with me while she repeated “please don’t” at least 4 times before leaving for work.

What The VP must remember, however, is that she married a genuine bad boy who was born to accumulate student loan debt AND test limits.  Therefore, I must stay true to myself.  My truth today is that The VP wears her fake silk black blouse too much and that must have something to do with people close to us (closies) moving out of Chicago.  There’s no way around it, this has to be the main reason you moved or are moving away.  Before I go on, please take a moment to take in how brave that was of me.  Wait!  I think you need one more moment to really get it.  She’s gonna be like super-pissed, guys.  Really think about my sacrifice…my courage…my truth….

To the issue at hand, we know you’re moving away because you’re tired of setting up double dates with us and having The VP show up in the same fake-silk blouse every single time.  While I am thoughtful enough to rotate through my four hot-dad quarter-zips, The VP bitches about how I never buy her anything before settling on the same fake-silk blouse that, her words here, “I wear so much.”  Looking back, I realize that the looks on your faces as we met you at the restaurants said it all: “Jesus, the fake-silk black AGAIN?!?! Does she even own another shirt?”

The hostesses and servers must have been talking about it as well, which would explain the whispering they do behind the bar and the looks I get for loudly asking “ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT WHAT WE’RE WEARING?”  I used to think that you just didn’t like that I was trying to forcibly eavesdrop on the restaurant staff, but now I know it’s because you were trying to hide that they too were talking about The VP’s fake-silk black blouse (I’m tired of writing that out, so let’s call it the FSBB).  Had the staff, just once, responded to my question about whether they were whispering about what we were wearing, we would have unearthed the whole cover-up.  Everyone knew The VP was wearing the FSBB too much, but was too embarrassed to say so.  The servers I aggressively questioned gave me the “you’re a creep”-eyes, and you moved to Nashville.  Two different ways of responding to the same issue: that goddamn FSBB.

Getting this out in the open feels good.  For me, for you, for those hostesses and servers.  Probably not for The VP, but that’s the price I’m willing to pay.  And here’s a deal I’m willing to make: I will kidnap the FSBB and film me giving it a proper Viking funeral if you agree to move back.  Just think, the FSBB in a tiny boat set aflame drifting atop Lake Michigan, never to be seen in a Wicker Park or Bucktown restaurant again.  Think about it.

It’s true, I don’t truly know how to shave.

The issue is the part where my jaw meets my neck and how I tried to shave at a 90 degree angle going from neck into jawline.  We all know it.  You especially, it appears.  Being Mr. Accountability, I’m not going to blame my dad for not showing me how to properly edge my beard when I was young enough to learn new things.  Instead, I’m going to say that no, I do not feel confident as a face shaver.  Further, I know that my lack of skills created many a time sitting next to me where, upon investigating my profile, aggravation at my decision to go for a 90 degree cut had to ruin the rest of your night.  “WHY WOULDN’T HE JUST ROUND IT OFF?!?!”

Better yet, why would a grown man grow a beard if he KNEW he couldn’t properly care for it?  It’s a question I struggle with daily, trust me.  While I looked good when I was clean shaven in my wedding pictures (good? Jimmy, you looked like an undiscovered runway model in those pics) I have put some face-weight on since and, therefore, have leaned on my beard to give me the jawline that my jaw can no longer give me.  (No joke, by writing that, I just hurt my own feelings.)  So I’m forced to ask myself this question: who am I without a jawline?  Not the man I want to be, that’s who.

Instead of devoting myself to avoiding York peppermint patties and bread, I have gone the beard route.  This route, however, requires learned shaving techniques and tools such as a proper trimmer.  I possess none of these.  My shaving technique revolves around sharp angles, and my trimmer is from the bottom shelf of CVS–proper, it certainly is not.  That left you with a choice to either have an awkward “what’s the deal with the right angle in your beard?”-confrontation with me, or simply move pack up all your things, find new jobs, and move across the country.  Who am I kidding? You had no choice, you had to move.  If I go to Bed, Bath & Beyond, buy a top of the line trimmer, and sign up for “how to shave like a grown man”-classes at my local YMCA, will you move back?

We could keep our place cleaner.

You noticed the clothes pile leaking out of the laundry closet, didn’t you?  The top of the ceiling fan in our bedroom?!?! No, don’t tell me you saw the surge protector under our TV stand too!!!  I’m out of excuses.  We’re out of excuses.  Cleaning, dusting especially, is an issue that has plagued us (mostly The VP, but I’m not gonna say that because I’m Mr. Accountability) since we moved in together.  The 87 seconds spent in front of our door, where we’d explain why our place was in the shape that it was in, was as hard on you as it was us.  We knew you didn’t believe that “it’s really never like this.”

Lying to closies is unacceptable and we lied.  Our place is like that.  NOT ALL THE TIME! NOT ALL THE TIME! But, like, almost most of the time it’s not in peak condition, with respect to cleanliness.  As Mr. Accountability, I will not make excuses like “it’s tough to put anything away when you live in a place without much storage and The VP refuses to throw away seven years worth of ‘Southern Living’ magazines.”  I repeat, I will NOT make excuses like “when the VP’s idea of ‘doing the dishes’ means putting dishes in the sink and ‘soaking’ them instead of simply putting them in the dishwasher, like a normal human, it makes our place look more cluttered than it should.”  Not going to make those type of excuses because the buck stops with me, Mr. Accountability.

Much to your surprise, I’m sure, we do own a vacuum AND a duster-thing.  With those tools in hand, I promise to have our place ready for your arrival if you ever decide to move back.  I’ll even let you check the surge protector under the TV stand in the living room–I’ve got a disinfectant wipe with “surge protector” written all over it.  Protecting my closies from surges is not enough, I know that now and vow to also protect my closies from sneeze-inducing dust.  God bless you, no more.

Belle

Here’s where we’re at with Mrs. PsychoKillerFluffyFace: there’s a chance the other dogs in our apartment building drive her to do something drastic…like overdose on CBD.  If that doesn’t happen, all you have to do is give me “the look” next time you’re in town.  Once you give me the “we’ll move back if Belle disappears”-look, I’ll know to put a key under my boot outside my front door.  From there, whether or not someone finds that key, brings Belle to a farm out in the country, and robs our place of things such as a stack of “Southern Living” magazines in the closet off the living room, is beyond my control.  I simply left a key…

OUR WORLD:

Cody Parkey is on “The Today Show” this morning and that makes me want to puke.  Misplaced sympathy is DISGUSTING.  DISGUSTING!  HOW ABOUT THE KIDS AT THE BORDER?!?! THE ELDERLY IN PUERTO RICO?!?! THE PEOPLE LEFT BEHIND BY CLOSIES WHO MOVE AWAY FROM CHICAGO FOR REASONS THAT WERE FIXABLE?!?!?!

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The Chicago skyline is tough to see from Nashville, and Austin, and Arizona, isn’t it?

skyline

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Having to watch the Eagles play this weekend.  I’m still not over this.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I’m going huge on the Saints, then probably taking Chargers, Rams, and Colts.  I’m sure I’ll go 0 for 4 and start yelling about how “if Parkey made a GODDAMN KICK, we’d be playing the Rams right now!” at some point.

(My account is currently at: $40.19)

K bye.

I’m Not Exercising, but It’s Not My Fault

*Quick disclaimer: Remember when I wrote about how I was shot in the head by the Chicago Bears starting kicker?  That was like so so long ago that I can’t even remember it! Tehehehehe!  I just want you to know that I’m okay.  Unfortunately, due to doctor-patient legalese that I don’t want to bore you with, I can’t get into specifics like if I was actually shot in the head with a gun by Cody Parkey.  Just know that I’m going to be okay and I WOULD get into it, but I don’t want to be tied up in court cases for the foreseeable future.  Lawyers, amirite?!?!  

OUR WORLD:

For most of you, now is the time of year you’re getting back into shape, looking in the mirror and saying things like “this year’s gonna be different”, getting more serious about your career, and showing off all the new clothes you got for Christmas.  What a hopeful time!  But then, there are people like…well, me.  The kind of people who went to the gym yesterday, realized they forgot to pack gym shorts, and used that as a very very acceptable excuse to then go home without working out.  Do you live 2 blocks from the gym too?  Did you also then drink a beer while watching “The Bachelor” on DVR?!?! MY PEOPLE!

In an effort to help all of my fellow Chairmen out there (whoa, who wants to start a “Chairmen” fan club?!?!) I wanted to help you out with things you can watch and listen to while you’re at home and not at the gym but only because you forgot to pack your shorts.    Don’t worry, we all know had you packed your shorts, you’d be pounding that treadmill like all those try-hards clogging your Facebook feed with their #NewYearNewMe selifes.

THE JIMMYSCHAIR “DAMN, I FORGOT TO PACK MY GYM SHORTS, AND I CAN’T WORKOUT IN WORK PANTS, SO I’M HEARTBROKEN TO BE FORCED TO JUST GO HOME AND DO THIS INSTEAD” LIST 

WATCH THIS:  “Bodyguard” (Netflix Show)

The first half of the first episode of this show is, quite possibly, the most exciting first half of an episode of television I have ever seen.  Quite?  You know what, I’m gonna upgrade that to ‘VERY quite’.  Aside from looking to your significant other and saying things like “holy fucking butt!” you will find yourself wondering where the main dude is from.  He has one of those “I know you”-faces and it’ll take a minute.  Then your wife will look it up on IMDB, even though you ask her to “let me think about it,” and tell you that it’s the Game of Thrones guy!  The one that….?! YEAH! THAT ONE!

I know how hard it is to get into a new show these days, with all of the options out there, but this one has an easy litmus test.  If you watch the first 15 minutes and aren’t into it, then pull the ripcord because you’re A LOON WHO COULDN’T RECOGNIZE GREAT TELEVISION IF IT SHOT YOU IN THE HEAD LIKE CODY PARKEY SHO—(REDACTED BY JIMMY’S LEGAL TEAM)—and now people are feeling bad for him?!?!?!  Sorry, I lost control for a second.  Just watch the first 15 minutes of the first episode and judge for yourself.

Oh yeah, quickly, I would like to officially announce that I have flipped my long held belief that watching a show with subtitles STINKS.  There’s an exception to that rule: if the main characters have thick accents, subtitles do not stink.  In fact, they enhance the viewing experience because you’ll no longer have to rewind every 3.7 seconds when your wife goes “wait, what did he just say?”  Trust me, aside from being able to know exactly what Andy Accent just said, you’re also going to avoid many “well maybe if you’d just pay attention and stop looking at your phone, you’d know what he said”-fights with your significant other.

What is the show actually about?  Look it up on IMDB.  It doesn’t matter, though, I’m telling you it’s good.

LISTEN TO THIS:  “Bag Man” (Podcast)

If you’re looking to not think about sports because the kicker for your favorite team recently missed a kick, forcing your favorite team out of the playoffs before they were supposed to be out, and then ended up shooting yo–(REDACTED BY JIMMY’S LEGAL TEAM)–and you’re like, how do people still feel bad for this guy?!?! Then I am BEGGING you to listen to this podcast hosted by Rachel Maddow.  Not a fan of Rachel Maddow?  First off, that’s a red flag that you’re a red jag (I’m really proud of that line and am going to take a lap around the apartment to celebrate it) but, also, you don’t have to be a fan of hers to enjoy this.  However you feel politically, there’s no argument that she has a nice voice.  It’s soothing and smart without being too NPR-ish (why does everyone on NPR whisper-talk?!?!)  

So you settle in with a smart, soothing voice to help you forget the third workout in a row you’ve missed because you forgot to pack those damn shorts again!!! From there, it’s an incredibly fascinating deep dive into the story surrounding Richard Nixon’s VP (not his wife), Spiro Agnew.  Have you heard of this dude before?  Oh…you have? Yeah, me too.  Totally.  Spiro? I thought you said ‘Steven’!  Yeah, I know Spiro.  It was confusing cuz I was all like “I definitely know a Spiro Agnew, but I don’t know a Steven Agnew.”

Anyway, as we all know, Spiro Agnew, was Nixon’s VP throughout his first term and up until right before the Watergate shit REALLY hit the fan.  He ended up resigning because of…well, people weren’t really sure but it seemed like it was kinda related to some minor tax evasion issue.  The real story of why he actually resigned was lost in the glut of history, and that’s what this podcast delves into.  Why was Spiro Agnew the first VP to ever resign while in office?  And, folks, it was not just because of some minor tax evasion charge.  We’re talking conspiracy, “I can’t believe this happened in real life”-type shit.  It’s intoxicating.

The VP and I listened to this entire series while driving down to Mississippi for Christmas and it made me love sitting in my car for hours on end.  Since listening to this podcast, I have been obsessed with everything related to Watergate and Nixon.  History repeats itself y’all, and I can’t wait to write a review 20 years from now about “Bag Man 2: Trump Did Bad Stuff!”

COOK THIS:  Gorgonzola-Stuffed Steak Roll-Ups

Every year when The VP and I head down to her family’s in Mississippi, I cook a meal for everybody one night.  It makes me feel like less of a piece of shit for eating all their food for a week, and The VP gets to offer to help me in front of her Mom (I decline this help because I don’t need help.  Ever.)  Last year I made Chicken Parmesan and spaghetti, but this year I wanted to step it up a notch; a last ditch effort to get everyone to be impressed with me despite my wardrobe.

So I looked up a fancy recipe and this one was the perfect combination of looking like it took a TON of skill and effort, while not actually taking that much skill or effort.  BINGO! Here’s what you do:

–Get a flank steak that’s butterflied.  If you get one that’s not butterflied already, GOOD LUCK PAL!

–Sprinkle kosher salt and ground black pepper all over the steak.  The higher you hold your hand while sprinkling, the cooler you look.

–Across the middle, line the steak with gorgonzola cheese, fire-roasted chopped red peppers, and arugula.  You’re going to roll this shit up, so don’t go nuts with how much of each you put in.

–Time to roll that steak over the cheese, peppers and arugula.  This is kinda gross as you really have to manhandle the meat to do this properly, but that’s what badass professional chefs do.  Word to the wise; once rolled, you’re going to need to tie this bad boy.  Have 6-8 long pieces of kitchen twine cut before you start to roll the steak.

–Once rolled, tie it up with the kitchen twine.  Think one tie every 1.5 inches along the length of the steak roll.  Tie it especially at the ends of the steak.  You’re trying to keep all the gooey cheesiness inside.

–Cut this steak roll into like 4 equal pieces.  Make sure not to cut too close to the ties, so as not to undo all the cool badass chef stuff you’ve done already.  You’re going to sear these.

–Once cut, get a cast iron skillet SCORCHING hot with olive oil.  I’m talking the kind of hot that sets off the smoke alarm in your Ukrainian Village, one-bedroom apartment (just me?)  You’re going to sear these steak pinwheels, cut-side down, for about 2 minutes each side.  Once done. Pop the skillet with the steak pinwheels into the oven (350 degrees) for about 10 more minutes.

–Take out of the oven, cover with foil on a plate, and let rest for 5 minutes before cutting the twine and serving.

–Serve and act all nonchalant about what you just did.

MY WORLD:

With my head recovering from–(REDACTED BY JIMMY’S LEGAL TEAM)–I wanted to talk about something a little lighter today.  And by lighter, I mean food that makes you heavier!  I give you the Official 2019 Jimmyschair Fast Food Chain Restaurants Ranking (Pizza not allowed):

  1.  McDonald’s:  Best chemicals in the game.  I’m not debating this.
  2.  Chick Fil A:  There’s no denying those biscuits.  Also, the service is just delightful!
  3.  Newks:  Southern sandwich/pizza chain.  The Newks Q is all I want to eat when I’m visiting the VPs fam.  Like, every meal.  I’m not exaggerating that I suggest it for every meal.
  4.  In-N-Out:  I was a hater for no good reason for way too long.  The cheeseburger is so good, it doesn’t matter that the fries suck.
  5.  Potbelly:  Chicken salad sandwich with bacon. FOGETTABOUDIT!
  6.  Starbucks: their sandwiches are tremendous.  Also, don’t sleep on their chocolate chip cookies.
  7. Taco Bell: Had it for the first time last year.  What a revelation.  The taco with the Dorito shell is a game-changer.
  8. Kane’s Chicken:  Best sauce in the entire universe.
  9. Auntie Anne’s:  Limited menu? Yes.  But is there a better smell in the world than those pretzels?
  10. Jimmy John’s:  Their bread is incredible and has become my go-to sandwich spot when I’m hungover.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The VP and I watched “The Bachelor” last night and it was just okay, which is why I didn’t write a full-on review.  This season is all about how the bachelor, Colton, is a virgin.  It’s weird.  There was a part that made me laugh really hard though, and so I recorded it.  Chris Harrison, the host, was talking to Colton about how people have reacted to him being a virgin.  As Colton went through some insults hurled his way, Chris Harrison forced his way in with a “that you’re not a man!” and it got me REAL GOOD.  Enjoy.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you wake up with a crick in your neck and you have to do weird neck stretches all day that make you look like the bad guy from “Men In Black”.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I made a bet with a friend of mine that the Cody Parkey will not be on the Bears opening day roster next year.  This means that he now has to root for the Bears to keep the person who just ruined the most fun season of the past 10 years.  HAVE FUN WITH THAT PAL!

K bye.

 

Cody Parkey Shot Me In The Head With A Gun

OUR WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Early favorite for “Best Commercial of 2019”

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

JIMMY GAMBLES:

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

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

K bye.

My Christmas List

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-I would like to never receive paper mail again.

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

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

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

JIMMY GAMBLES:

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

(My account is currently at $0.00)

K bye.

No…Not….WINTER!!!

OUR WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

YEAH, I KNOW!

MY WORLD:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

JIMMY GAMBLES:

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

(My account is currently at $100.72)

K bye.

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.

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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:

  1.  Dave Chappelle
  2.  Amy Schumer
  3.  Dr. Phil
  4.  O.J. Simpson
  5.  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.