Tag: chicago

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

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Help).

OUR WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I’m just going to lean into this one…

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

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

K bye.

 

I Live Above A Drug Dealer (6-19-18)

MY WORLD:

I think I live above a drug dealer.  In fact, it’s a couple, so I could very well be living above TWO drug dealers who are working in concert to avoid detection while maximizing ILLEGAL PROFITS!!! If you can’t tell yet, this goes deep.  While I’m sure many of you are saying to yourselves “Jimmy, just because a guy has neck tattoos, off-putting facial hair and a pit bull, it doesn’t mean he’s a drug dealer.”  (Time to dig my heels in and go into full-on Jimmy Law Mode…) WELL, THAT DOESN’T MEAN HE’S NOT A DRUG DEALER!  (Nailed it.)  

A couple weeks back (months? years? EVERYTHING IS BLURRING TOGETHER IN THIS FRANTIC WHIRLWIND WE CALL LIFE!!!)  ANYWAY!  A time ago, I was coming home late from work, for I am a “man of the night.”  When I parked my car on the street, I noticed the old, white Chevy Impala that is ALWAYS parked in the exact same spot.  I’m convinced this car was built on this corner and has never actually been driven and  the fact that it takes up the best parking spot near my building DRIVES ME BONKERS.  So I’m passing the car I hate the most on this fateful night when I notice a character in another raggedy car idling next to the Impala.  The senses honed while a Boy Scout for the 5 months before I told my Dad that I hated camping and being outdoors kicked in…SOMETHING WAS UP!

So I hurried up inside my building.  We live on the third floor of a six-unit building; two units per floor.  (Six flat? Three flat? IT’S NOT EVEN FLAT THOUGH SO WHAT THE FUCK?!?)  Once inside, I gave The VP of Ops that sweet baby smooch she’d, no doubt, been DAYDREAMING about all day and got my guard dog, Belly Psychopants, to head back outside for her nighttime dumperoo.  Little did Belle know that maintaining her digestive system wasn’t my main purpose for going outside; Detective Jimmy was ’bout to scope out this Impala situation.

Of course, we scurried across the street once outside.  The idling car was still idling right next to that fuggin’ Impala and this was purely a stake-out situation for me.  Time to hide on the side of the street without any lights!  (You think darkness is your ally?  I WAS BORN IN THE DARK!!!)  Shielded by the night sky, Belly Psychopants sniffed every single blade of grass while I squinted at the wasteful driver (idling in your car is no bueno for your engine FYI.  Read that on a little website called Google. EVER HEARD OF IT?!?!)  After about 4 minutes of Belle’s grass sniffing and my sleuthing, someone got out of the idling car.  He wasn’t a small man, but he wasn’t a big man…HE WAS A NORMAL-SIZED MAN!  (So, not really distinguishable from across the street at night.)  

Once outside the car, I noticed something VERY suspicious: he was on his phone.  Yeah! Yeah! AND! He left his car running with the door open.  I almost alerted him that this area is known for carjackings but his aura screamed “I DON’T GIVE A CARE!”  (You felt his aura?  Or were you just scared?  Answer the question, Jimmy.  We’ll wait…) Belle tugged on her leash either because she had to make a doody or because she was a frightened ‘lil beeyotch.  Unfortunately for Belle, Pomerantz’s never succumb to fear (dubious, at best).  While on the phone, NSM (normal-sized man), went up to the white impala’s gas tank.  He popped open the…uh….latch? You know, the little door-thing you open when putting gas in your car? (Car guy alert!) NSM opened the tiny gas-door thingy, looked like he took something out of there, then got back in his car and took off.

When he got back in his car, it’s not like he peeled off, but, in a way, isn’t that MORE suspicious?  He was probably like “just in case there’s a definitely-not-scared 32 year-old man with his labradoodle watching me from behind a tree across the street, I better not peel off and draw MORE attention to myself.”  I SEE THROUGH YOUR GAMES, PAL!!! I looked down at Belle to mutter “that was something” but she didn’t even care.  How interesting can the smells of grass really be?  Seriously?!?! We weren’t done snooping yet, though.  For, right as we were about to go about our dumpin’ ways, I heard the main door to MY apartment building open.  It’s a loud door because our landlord has never heard of WD-40, BUT THAT’S BESIDE THE POINT.  I heard our door, and went back into squint-mode.  Belle went back to sniffing and, like, totally not helping our cause.

Our well-lit entrance revealed a pale man with dark tattoos slither out the front door, down the steps, and over to…that goddamn Impala.  This guy owns the Impala!  While resisting my overwhelming urge to yell “WHY HAVE A CAR IF YOU’RE NEVER GONNA DRIVE IT?!?!” I noticed that slither-man was ALSO interested in the tiny gas-door thingy (hold on, I’m gonna google this…some are calling it a “fuel door”)  Slither-man opened the fuel door, grabbed something, and then went back to his slithering ways back inside our building.  I watched the windows of our building from outside and noticed that a light came on, on the floor below The VP and I right around the same time he entered the building.  What. Just. Happened.

I’ll tell ya’ what just happened!  That fuel door (car guy!) is the secret exchange place for drugs and money.  One guy drops drugs there, the other guy drops money in exchange for said drugs, then the first guy (drug guy!) gets the money.  That, ladies and gentlemen, is a guilty verdict with A FRIGGIN’ BOW ON IT!  I don’t need a silly hat and magnifying glass to solve the great crimes of the 21st Century.  All I need is my fluffy dog and the COVER OF DARKNESS!

Now, if you’re thinking that I’ve rushed to judgement, don’t worry, I’ve put together more pieces to the puzzle since this dark, scary, yet illuminating night.  Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I present to you, my findings:

-The outside of slither-man’s apartment door, the one facing to the hall, has a black feather wreath hanging on it.  I plan to call on a nationally renowned wreath-expert who will reveal that black feather wreaths signify one thing, and one thing only: drugs.

-Slither-man and his female companion have NEVER been seen during daylight.  While the VP and I have seen all of the other tenants of the building soaking up Vitamin D, we have yet to see Slither-man and Jane Doe bag ANY rays.  I know what you’re thinking: “But Jimmy, a lot of people work at night and sleep during the day!  Maybe they’re just bartenders or factory workers.”  That brings me to my next finding…

-Every single night when I take Belly Psychopants outside, there is a cloud of weed smoke billowing out from under Slither-man’s door and into the hallway.  Last I checked, it’s pretty tough to be at a factory and smoking weed inside your apartment AT THE SAME TIME! (This is the part where I shrug my shoulders and say something like “Not that I’m against weed or nuffin'” to get the jury on my side.  Lemme tellya’ though, as a certified weed-fearing person, walking through clouds of pot smoke, terrified of catching a contact-high and, subsequently, having a paranoia panic attack is NOT an enjoyable experience every time you have to take your dog out.  I feel like a scuba diver without an oxygen tank whenever I pass this apartment while it’s dark outside.)

-Slither-man and Jane Doe have a big, scary looking dog that is very calm.  Must be stoned.  No other possible explanation for it.  (Maybe they just paid attention to training it from a young age, unlike some people…) NOPE!

-And, just in case you weren’t paying attention during my opening argument, Slither-man’s white, Chevy Impala has not moved for a MINIMUM of 15 years.  MINIMUM!

For all you mathematicians out there, here’s the arithmetic:

Fuel door shenanigans + White Impala that has never moved + Black feather wreath + Clouds of pot smoke outside their door + Big, scary stoned dog + Night time sightings ONLY 

EQUALS

Drug Dealers

I rest my case.

Going forward, I may touch on potential best and worst-case scenarios involving The VP and I living about these drug kingpins.  For now, Belle and I will continue to sniff out grass smells of all kinds (see what I did there?  GOD, I’M GOOD!) 

OUR WORLD:

There is no formal review of this week’s “The Bachelorette” because I got home late last night and was so frustrated with everything surrounding my day that I just had to be alone to cook in the kitchen while the show aired (there may also have been a mondo Martini involved here).  Here is what I gathered from The VP yelling to me from the living room and getting to catch the last 11 minutes-ish of the show:

-Jordan did something: I don’t really know what.  The VP yelled some muffled thing about Jordan maybe winning something or doing something or…Look, this guy is the only thing keeping this season afloat.  Although, I’m starting to think he’s just too obvious of a producer-plant.  Like, is really dumb enough to say the things he’s saying? The whole “my face is my professionality” thing, etc.  He’s like an evil-Michael Scott who…may be in on the joke?  Is he?

-Cologne-guy got booted:  Uhhhhhhh, called it.  Dudes who are into cologne and “accoutrements” are BOZOS of the highest degree.  I feel ridiculous even writing the word “accoutrements”.  I can’t imagine bragging to a national television audience about how my self-worth is tied to the “accoutrements” and cologne I wear.  YAMMA MOMMA!

-My fave, stunt-guy Leo, got a rose!  This dude has no chance of winning, but I’m glad he’s still around.  He’s legitimately funny and still has the potential to steal the show by performing a death-defying stunt.  Whether it’s a car or building or…motorcycle?  Leo needs to jump out of something right as it explodes.  His awesome long hair will just miss the ball of flames behind him as he tucks into perfectly executed barrel roll.  Then he should get up, spit out the shards of glass that landed in his mouth from said explosion, and grab Becca like he’s never going to let her go.  If she still picks Garret or Colton after that, then she can go straight to hell.

-Weasel-face David has a bloody eye:  That’s all.  His eye looks gross and I still hate his weasel face.  He def would’ve been kicked off if he hadn’t just fallen off his bunkbed.  Bunkbed fall will buy him 1 more episode TOPS.

Those are my takeaways.  I’ll do my best to not require alone-in-the-kitchen-with-a-huge-martini-time next Monday night.

I did watch “The Proposal” afterwards and, oh baby, that show is DELICIOUSLY TRASHY!

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

There’s a new Death Cab for Cutie song!  While not their best of all-time, it’s new and they’re my favorite band so…EVERYTHING THEY DO I LIKE!  Also, VP dunked on the universe with her bday gift to me last week–tickets to these guys next time they’re in town.  Boomshakalaka:

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

It’s exhausting getting worked up about ALL of these horrifying Trump administration performances, isn’t it?  I legitimately think that the stress created by this ghoulish White House is having an impact on everyone’s mood.  Am I the only one a little more on edge than I should be?

WHAT CUTE OR FUNNY THING DID MY DOG DO THAT YOU PROBABLY HAD TO BE THERE FOR, BUT COULD MAYBE PUT US ALL IN A BETTER MOOD?

She sneezed right in The VPs face last night.  Legit drenched her.  I was proud of Belle.

K bye.

 

Sleeping W/Out AC and Chicago Renters Pt. II (5/2/2018)

MY WORLD:

If you are looking for a way to guarantee waking up in an AWFUL mood, I would suggest breaking your air conditioning unit on the first hot day of the year and trying to sleep when it’s 80 degrees in your apartment.  Thankfully, I, personally, don’t have to break my air conditioning unit because The VP and I are lucky enough to rent an apartment that SUPPLIES malfunctioning units without us even having to ask for it!  It’s almost as if the landlord read our minds when we signed our lease “I bet these two LOVE when the AC doesn’t work and they get to break a sweat while lying in a bed…oh, have I got a surprise for them!”  Well done on keeping that surprise a secret for 8 months!

Honestly, it’s hard to overcome a shitty night of tossing and turning in your own sweat.  I got up at like 3AM just to stand in front of my open refrigerator.  And you know what makes me feel even softer, is that it wasn’t THAT hot outside.  Unfortunately, we cooked last night (resourceful adults, whatever) and used our oven.  It was only after dinner when we realized that the AC wasn’t working.  So we basically hotboxed ourselves/turned our apartment into a makeshift sauna (hotbox is a weed smoking term that I have never done but it sounds SCARY!)  Let me be the first to warn you guys, cranking your oven up on a hot night and turning your 1 bedroom apartment into a homemade sauna is NOT going to relax your muscles.

Then, as if it wasn’t bad enough on us, our numba one pretty gurrrrllll was panting because she’s overdue for a summer cut because we’ve been lazy dog parents lately; so I felt hot AND guilty.  If Belle could read this, I feel like she’d roll her eyes and say something along the lines of “YOU were hot? Try wearing a full-body fur suit and only getting to cool of with room temperature water in a dirty bowl.  Pussy.”  (She would be correct.)  I will say that last night, I put some ice cubes in her water bowl and felt like the hero she deserved; she took sips and huffed out a very sarcastic sounding “woof.”  So now my dog and I are in a fight.

Then comes the part where I let my building know (are you bored with this yet? Yeah? I don’t care, this is somewhat cathartic for me so just leave.  You wanna leave?!?! WHO’S STOPPING YOU?!?!? GOD I’M IN A MOOD!)  Where was I?  (Thanks for interrupting!)  Right, so then comes the part where I let my building know and I get to hear back from like 7 different guys who must ALL have degrees in “Trying To Hide The Fact That I Have No Idea When The HVAC Guy Is Coming.”  Then.  THEN! When they do actually get here, I have to lock Belle in our bedroom and convince the HVAC repair people that she’s not able to bulldoze through the door to maul them because she sounds like a PSYCHOKILLER LUNATIC!  I’ll make some “doesn’t she sound sweet?” jokes, but they won’t really laugh because hearing what sounds like your maker on the other side of a thin bedroom door does not create a fun-loving atmosphere.  And you know they’re not going to be able to fix it the first time they’re hear, so The VP and I are looking at 2 more nights MINIMUM of trying to sleep in our own sweat.  Isn’t that just GREAT?!?!

Knowing me, I’m going to convince myself that this awful night sleep that I got is a valid excuse to eat something really shitty for lunch; an effort to make myself feel better in the short term.  This will, undoubtedly, lead to me feeling extra tight in my new J.Crew jeans and hating myself for the rest of the afternoon.  Optimism is at an all-time low in the Pomerantz household right now.  (If you can’t tell, one of my strong suits is staying composed in adverse situations.)

OUR WORLD:

Today’s Part II of “The Life of a Chicago Renter” may have a slight edge to it based on my current mental state (re: My World).  I just wanted to put that on the record because…nobody cares about the record and whenever anyone says that it’s basically an excuse to act however you want.  Right?  It’s the same as saying “That being said…” and along the same lines as “No offense, but…”

Wicker Park/Bucktown/Logan Square: (Age 28-32)

I like to refer to this as the “I’m not a hipster, but if I live near them I may get hit with some of their street-cred shrapnel”-phase.  You start to become more interested in drinking things other than beer and vodka sodas, and you’re DONE living in places with window-units and no dishwasher.  These west-side HOT SPOTS have exploded in popularity over the past decade, which means what? GRANITE COUNTERTOPS Y’ALL!!!  And in-unit washer/dryers, dishwashers and fancy modern sinks.  A big bowl sink feels like luxury when you’re used to decades worth of Heineken stains in your old-timey sink with the faucet that pops off.

There are more dog parks, so now is the PERFECT time to get a doogenstein and join the “I’m sorry, she was adopted”-crew.  Side note: whether you actually adopted your dog or not, the perfect excuse for a poorly behaved dog is to drop a “yeah, she was adopted” in there.  Immediately, you’re a selfless hero and your doogensteeglestein is a victim of a rough upbringing.  Once in Wicker/Buck/Logan, you’re surrounded by young families, dogs and people that aren’t quite done partying, but do it in a way that it’s not SO obviously destructive.   They’re professionals by this point, which is why brunch becomes SUCH deal.  Nothing like hiding binge drinking with eggs and toast; it’s not destructive or a “problem” if it’s done in the light at a breakfast table.  Remember that.

Then there’s the hipster versus bro civil war that has been simmering for the past 5 years as the bros have infiltrated hipster-land.  What’ll probably happen with you, is what happened with me; you’ll claim allegiance to the bro side of the war when you’re around your bro-ier friends, and then you’ll claim allegiance to the hipster side of the war when you’re around your hipster-ier friends.  No shame in playing both sides here because both sides kinda stink equally.  It’s also fun to sit in restaurants and bars and see the two sides glaring at each other from across the bar.  The hipsters say things like “wow, sweet khakis bro” and the bros say things like “wow, sweet fingerless gloves pal”.  It’s a duel totally devoid of actual wit, that’s easy to identify and fun to watch.

Ukrainian Village/River West/West Town/West Loop: (Age 32-DEATH)

I’m 32 now and I live in Ukrainian Village.  That’s really all the experience I have so…I assume I’ll just stay here till I die, right?

Good section, Jimmy!

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I need some good-times music to help make me feel better about the whole AC sitch.  SING TO ME STEVE!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Being in a bad mood for a reason so slight that anyone going through anything that’s ACTUALLY difficult would hate you.

MY BOVADA PICK OF THE DAY THAT I AM GENUINELY CONFIDENT IN BECAUSE I DESERVE GOOD THINGS TO HAPPEN TO ME AFTER GETTING REAR-ENDED BY A GUY WITHOUT A LICENSE:

I talked my gambling crew out of taking the Pelicans last night because I was POSITIVE the Warriors would blow them out with Steph Curry returning.  It seems, in the face of all the evidence I had, I have yet to crack the NBA code.  Back to the drawing board, but I’m like that little kid in the deep end who’s about to panic that they’re drowning.  Give me some fucking waterwings or something here!  The Jazz are 11 point underdogs tonight and, they have more pride than that.  Right?  So much pride to take them on the moneyline? YUP!

(My account currently at $88.07)

K bye.

The Life of a Chicago Renter (5/1/2018)

OUR WORLD:

A lot of people are moving.  Okay, end of blog! (Sorry, but someday I’m just going to write a one sentence blog and that sentence is going to be general and bland.  I will do it for the sole purpose of making myself laugh.  I look forward to that day.)  But I am seeing a lot of people in my apartment building and on Facebook who are moving, and it got me to thinking that the life of a Northside Chicago renter, is somewhat universal.  Obviously, these are gross generalizations, but there seems to be a neighborhood progression with age that most of my friends have gone through.  The Life of a Northside Chicago Renter, goes like this:

Wrigleyville:  (Age 22-24)

This is the “I’m out of college but not done acting like I’m still in college”-phase.  Wrigleyville is a mess of old apartment buildings with window units and wooden floors that have been ravaged by years of inadvertent beer spills.  When you’re in college, Wrigleyville is what you think of as “Chicago city living”, though.  Do you remember watching Cubs games growing up and thinking about how jealous you were that people actually got to LIVE by that stadium?!?!  You’re basically a Cubs player if you live there, is how young Chicagoans’ brains work.

Then you go to college, learn how to blackout on a regular basis and start telling people that you’re never going to change because you “like to have FUN!”  So when you graduate, moving to Wrigleyville is the only place you can continue the random Tuesday night blackout in a crowded bar (if you try to do this in a River North bar, you will be the only one there and the bartender will, most likely, ask “are you sure you want another? It’s Tuesday.”)  This coincides with prime serving and bartending ages and, as I can attest, restaurant worker “weekends” happen most every night.

Coming from dorm and college apartment life, these creaky Wrigleyville dungeons don’t seem half bad, and a lot of your friends are going to be close by so…again…you’re basically still in college.  As you get into the end of year 1, though, you’ll start to realize that living in Wrigleyville kinda’ stinks.  Parking is an ISSUE at all times.  The restaurants are equipped to feed an entire drunk baseball stadium spilling into the streets, so quality isn’t their first priority.  The heating units/radiators sound like they’re screaming in the winter (literally, imagine a high-pitched cat hiss) and it always gets WAY too hot, but it’s too cold to open a window so you’re just left in temperature no-mans land.  Thankfully, you’re probably drunk, so passing out isn’t too big of a problem.

Lakeview: (Age 24-25)

As you start to get a little more established in your job, or actually get your first 9-5 job, there comes a time when you need to prove to your family that you have move past the Wrigleyville phase of your life.  Honestly, it’s more symbolic than anything.  You’re still going to show up hungover to most weekend family functions, but at least this time you can say something like “I moved to Lakeview because I just couldn’t take the Wrigleyville crush anymore.”  What you don’t realize, though, is that your parents are WELL AWARE that Lakeview is basically one block south of Wrigleyville so….you’re basically still there.

The apartments are a hair cheaper and a very thin hair nicer (yeah, like the one’s on the crown of my head…that hurt my feelings).  You’ve probably gone from living with 3 people, to living with 1 or 2 people and it’s no longer ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY to have a ping pong table room (don’t worry, you’ll still have a bunch of friends who feel differently). But you’ll start getting back into the gym and eating a little better during the week, and the weekday binge drinking will slow…a teeny tiny bit.

Then, near the end of your lease, you’ll leave a Mexican restaurant that just served you pre-packaged margs and lukewarm tacos and it’ll hit you: “Lakeview is purgatory!”  It’s the waiting room with dull art on the walls between college life and adulthood.  It’s removed from Wrigley so it’s not as fun as college, but it’s still riddled with dumpy apartment buildings and mediocre restaurants so it’s not a nice as real adulthood can be.  (Caviar! Diamonds! Hair Product!)  The older friends you have around the city NEVER come to Lakeview to meet up because “nah, just come here”, and your younger siblings think all the bars in Lakeview are bland…because they are.

Lincoln Park: (Age 25-27)

Lincoln Park is cool.  There’s a zoo and a college and good restaurants and a park.  For the first time since high school, you won’t be surrounded by dumpsters with window units.  It’s a lovely mix of UBER ritzy buildings, decent apartments for young professionals and a few dumpster units for the DePaul students who are too cool to stay in the dorms.  I think this is when most legitimate dating happens because there are actually decent restaurants in Lincoln Park too.  Hard to call chicken fingers and 19 beers at Sluggers a great way to start a long-lasting, trustworthy relationship.

I will warn you, however, that the zoo is a big draw to Lincoln Park, but if you actually go there, be prepared to be depressed.  Going to a zoo as an adult is one of the worst realizations of getting older.  THEY’RE SO DEPRESSING!  Who knew that standing with screaming toddlers and professional nose pickers while watching WILD ANIMALS pace a habitat smaller than your deck was going to make you sad?!?! SHOCKING!  Also, somehow, the ice cream that you were thrilled to get as a kid at the zoo is now…like, warm.  It’s still congealed, but when you bite into it, amazingly, it’s kinda warm.  One of the most off-putting experiences is eating warm ice cream that’s not dripping.  HOW DOES THAT HAPPEN!?!?!

Thankfully, the restaurants are good enough to help you forget how sad that gorilla sitting behind plate glass is.  (Am I the only one who hopes to hear about a story where a gorilla breaks through the glass, starts body slamming only the annoying little kids and starts an ape uprising? If that happens, I can point to this blog to prove my support and, therefore, be one of the few humans spared.  *Dunk sounds*)  Real quick, here are my favorite Lincoln Park restaurants:

  1. Cafe Ba Ba Reeba
  2. Chicago Pizza and Oven Grinders
  3. Geja’s
  4. Summer House
  5. The Athenian Room

*STAY TUNED FOR PART II OF “THE LIFE OF A CHICAGO RENTER” TOMORROW*

MY WORLD:

Today, I have a quick story about “A Time I Made Myself Laugh By Making The VP of Ops Mad or Uncomfortable.”  Well, it’s actually more an ongoing joke than a story.  You see, The VP of Ops went to Mississippi State University and talks about how it took her 5 years to graduate because she was such a good times gal (my kinda gal, na’m sayin’?)  She’ll retell stories about her 5th year, I think, in an effort to get ahead of anyone who may make some sort of “you’re an idiot”-joke in her direction.  Which I am all for because, guess what idiot, The VP is NOT an idiot and I know this because I have seen her read over 3 books! (Jimmy Fliparooski in the building y’all!)  

What I will say, though, is that I have never actually seen a physical copy of her Mississippi State diploma.  These two eyes have never even been treated to a picture of said diploma.  Does it exist? Probably? But, this game of diploma hide-and-seek has gone on for years now and, in the process, has left open the door for one of my favorite jokes.  Whenever the VP talks about graduating college, I’ll drop in a nonchalant “so you say,” or say the word “supposedly” while throwing up exaggerated air quotes, or I’ll just ask the person she’s talking to “have you seen her diploma? I haven’t.  I’m just curious if someone in the universe has.”  The VP of Ops has a difficult time finding the humor in these little jabs; much the way she has a difficult time finding the copy of her Mississippi State diploma.  (If I knew how to type out the emoji of the guy holding his hands up like “what?” I would insert that here.)

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Anyone with me and think that the frozen shot idea from Tom Schwartz in last night’s “Vanderpump” finale was actually a really good idea?  Is he a legit good bartender? I SAY YES!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

How did they not show any of the following in last night’s “Vanderpump Rules” finale:

  1. Scheana getting dumped by Rob.  NEED TO SEE THAT.
  2. Video evidence that James DID hook up with Kristen in Mexico.  That 100% happened.
  3. ANY VISUAL EVIDENCE OF LALA’S MAN.  Seriously, if you’re a producer on the show, how do you not say “if we can’t put him on air, you’re off the show”?

All in all, a lackluster finale.

MY BOVADA PICK OF THE DAY THAT I AM GENUINELY CONFIDENT IN BECAUSE I DESERVE GOOD THINGS TO HAPPEN TO ME AFTER GETTING REAR-ENDED BY A GUY WITHOUT A LICENSE:

I did not bet last night because I’m saving my strength.  My bud told me that the Bears over/under win total for next year, though is currently at 6.5.  IMMA HAMMER THAT OVER!

(Account currently at $108.14)

K bye.

Single Jimmy at His Worst and NFL Draft Scouting Reports (4/26/18)

MY WORLD:

A couple days ago I wrote about “Single Jimmy” and posted a blurry picture of myself on Instagram.  I would like to tell you the origin story of this picture.

I was working as a 21 year-old MANAGER! at an Italian-ish restaurant in a Northern suburb of Chicago.  I had been there for about a year and a half; quickly climbing the mom-and-pop-restaurant ladder going from carry out to server to manager in the blink of an eye!  To this day, many people still speak of how quick my ascension to MANAGEMENT was (they don’t?  Are we sure?  Well, how many people have you asked?) REGARDLESS!  Throughout these two years, I would work full time and go to college full time by scheduling all of my classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  On those days, classes would basically go from 9am to 10pm, which would allow me to work the other 5 days of the week at the restaurant.

–QUICK ASIDE, I’m going to call the restaurant “Casa’s House” because that’s an inside joke to the people that have worked there, but NOT the actual name of the restaurant (this Jimmy’s a real huckster, if you ask me.)—

I tell you about this schedule not to brag about my work ethic (even though you MUST be impressed) OR make you feel bad for me, but to illustrate that my ENTIRE social life was also wrapped up in this restaurant.  And that was a great thing!  It was the first place I felt part of a solid group of friends and it helped me regain some of the confidence that was lost during the “No really, I like eating lunch alone in the library!”-high school years.  By the time I became MANAGER! at “Casa’s House” I had even dated a waitress (a relationship that didn’t work out for some reason that I’m sure had nothing to do with my claims that her therapist was “out to get me.”)  With confidence now above negative 3 trillion (the High School low water mark), I had developed a crush on another co-worker, lets call her “Larry” so when the VP of Ops asks me about this story, I’ll laugh when she gets jealously scoffs “Who was this LARRY girl?!?!”.  LARRY was younger and better looking and more popular than me, BUT I tricked myself into thinking I had a chance with her because I was now a MANAGER! (Did I mention I was a manager?)

As anyone who has worked in restaurants knows, the best time to make a move on a work-crush is at a company get-together because it’s WAY TOO SCARY to just ask them out on a date.  So I spent the first few months of Larry’s employment trying to organize group outings after every shift we worked together.  “Guys, we are SO OVERDUE for a Tuesday-hang!”-would be something I said around this time.  Then, I’d turn to Larry and be like “Oh Larry, I forgot you were even working tonight.  Would you like to join us? Not like I care or anything, but like, ya know, whatever.”  (You could say, I knew how to play hard to get.)  Most of these NOT-OBVIOUS-AT-ALL attempts to hang with Larry ended with me going to a local dive bar with everyone but Larry, but there were a few times she’d come by and we’d flirt.  She was about to start college, so I could kinda’ play the cooler older guy role until she spoke to ANYONE who knew me in high school.  The idea was to impress her enough during the summer months that we’d become bf/gf and fall in love and everyone would be impressed AND WE’D BE TOGETHER FOREVER!

Unfortunately, Larry began to lose interest in Tuesday night bar hangs as the summer dragged on, before leaving for college in the fall.  My plan of impressing her by drinking SoCo and Limes while making restaurant jokes did not work probably because she was a HUMORLESS HEARTLESS WITCH!  Either way, I sulked my way through the fall, but I was plotting for ONE LAST DITCH EFFORT to woo Larry…when she returned home for winter break at the restaurant’s Holiday Party.

The owner’s of “Casa’s House” were/are/will-probably-always-be generous enough to throw their weirdo/borderline-alcoholic staff a really nice holiday party.  This year, they were taking us to a place called “Whirlyball” in Chicago: think bumper cars meets basketball meets lacrosse.  The activity itself is fun and they were also paying for an open bar.  That, my friends, is called DOUBLE FUN!  Plus, oh and this was my fave part, they invited Larry without me even asking them to.

So we got there and I figured that because I was a MANAGER! and 21 years old, that beginning the night with a Long-Island Iced Tea was a GREAT IDEA!  Nothing like carpet-bombing your nerves with 7 different liquors in a tall glass before trying to flirt with your crush (this NEVER backfires).  After a few rounds of whirlyball, where you get to drive a bumper car drunk while yelling at your teammates to “hit the net thing!”, Jimmy Good Times (‘member JGT?) was feeling LOOSE!  Larry was being flirty with me which was fun, and I was discovering that when the first Long Island goes down smooth, the next two go down EVEN SMOOTHER!

Feeling like French Toasty, the cool-kid group decided to go out front to smoke a cigarette because that’s what cool young adults do (consequences are for SUCKERS!)  While outside looking extra bad boy with cig in mouth, I decided that now was the time to THOROUGHLY IMPRESS Larry with a little something I like to call my brute strength and power.  And how else do you do that besides picking people up, throwing them over your shoulder and spinning around in the Whirlyball parking lot?  To borrow a phrase from my friend “Cash Out”, I’ve looked at it from all angles, and there was no other way to show off my strength.

The thing was, it was going well!  I picked up a couple guys and girls and everyone was laughing but also probably like “Damn, I didn’t know Jimmy was so powerful.”  Which was really amazing because I wore tight t-shirts all the time. HOW COULD THEY NOT KNOW?!?!  (What an unbelievable douchebag I was).  After picking up and spinning with just about everyone, it was the moment of truth: time to pick up Larry.  In my hazy memory, I think she was actually kinda excited.  Everyone else seemed to enjoy it and, while I was in meathead-mode, it’s not like I was FORCING people to take these rides on my shoulders.

Unfortunately, after throwing Larry over my shoulder and beginning the spin part of the ride, JGT was overwhelmed with the dizzies.  Could there have been worse timing? NO TIMES A MILLION TRILLION!  So I fell down.  Although, when I say fall, you know I mean “crashed into the cement wall of the building while kinda-tossing Larry into a parked car,” right?  *Cue the theme song from “Gladiator”–ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?!?!

Aside from a bump on her head, Larry was fine.  I, on the other hand, needed to have another co-worker bandage my torn ear up while I laughed and profusely apologized and wanted to crawl into the sewer where people like Jimmy Meathead belong.  Larry assured me everything was okay and she was fine, but the image of a powerful, restaurant manager, I was going for had been shattered.

In an attempt to prove to everyone that I WAS FINE! EVERYTHING IS FINE! I went back into the Whirlyball bar and ordered tequila shots for myself, my good server friend and the owner of “Casa’s House”.  The owner was a big tequila guy, so what, was I NOT supposed to order shots for him and I?  That woulda’ been crazy.  So we took back to back tequila shots together because that’s what managers trying to impress owners do.  (You’re not a manager? Oh, then you just wouldn’t know.)  

Larry was back inside and laughing and I was making fun of myself and everyone was back to having a good time.  Then, as one does, I had to take a little break for a tinkle…And the next thing I know, I was eye-to-eye with the base of a toilet bowl:

Whirly

My good dear sweet friend Kyle took this picture and stayed with me as I inspected the base of the toilet with my eyes closed and drool coming out of my mouth (that’s how plumbers do it, guys.)  Eventually, I was taken out of Whirlyball by my friends like the dead guy in “Weekend At Bernie’s”.  *If you look close, you can see my bandaged up ear.  Isn’t that fun!?!?!

2 days later, the next time I saw Larry at work, I gave her a gift card I bought for a super expensive spa in the city and apologized profusely for maybe 48 straight minutes.  We never ended up dating.  The VP of Ops is so lucky.

OUR WORLD:

The NFL Draft is tonight and it’s one of my favorite days of the year.  Here are some quick Jimmy scouting reports on guys the Bears may take:

Roquan Smith:  Killer linebacker from Georgia who I know is good because I saw him play in 3 games and he made some big tackles.  Also, he was originally committed to go to UCLA, which means he’s basically a Bruin and we were basically classmates and so he’s going to be good.

Final Grade: I want.

Quenton Nelson:  Big fat guy who plays a boring position for a school that I HATE.  Was he good? Who cares.  All guards do is block and if you pay attention to blocking while watching football YOU ARE LYING THAT YOU DO THAT!  All the draft people say he’s “can’t miss”, but drafting a big ugly is the quickest way for your team to ruin the excitement of draft night.

Final Grade: I don’t want.

Minkah Fitzpatrick:  DB from Alabama so he’s probably good because Nick Saban only recruits studs and then is mean to them so they’re “well coached” by the time they reach the league.  I do keep hearing that he doesn’t really have a position, corner or safety, and since I don’t remember him when I watched Alabama last year; THAT’S A PROBLEM!  The Bears already have one Alabama safety.  That’s enough.

Final Grade: I don’t really want but I don’t totally not want.

Denzel Ward:  Fast, little corner from Ohio State.  I know nothing about him, but fast little corners sound fun!  I’ve heard draft experts describe him as “twitchy” like it’s a good thing.  Hope he doesn’t have tourettes and get in trouble for saying bad words in front of his coaches!

Final Grade: I kinda want.

Calvin Ridley:  Receiver who caught the game-winning touchdown in Alabama’s National Championship game.  This guy was talked about throughout the year as the best receiver in the country and I saw him play well in two games so…HE’S A STUD!  Also, receivers are fun to root for and we need a new young one to help us get past the sting of Kevin White flaming out (although…I haven’t totally given up on him…)

Final Grade: I want.

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Endless highlights with this guy…

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When your team takes an offensive lineman in the first round and if the Bears do it tonight I’M GONNA BE FURIOUS!

MY BOVADA PICK OF THE DAY THAT I AM GENUINELY CONFIDENT IN BECAUSE I DESERVE GOOD THINGS TO HAPPEN TO ME AFTER GETTING REAR-ENDED BY A GUY WITHOUT A LICENSE:

I went 3 for 5 last night because I threw in the Bruins on the moneyline too.  That’s a net positive, folks.  Tonight? Not gambling.  Too busy watching the NFL Draft.  Wait!  Can you gamble on the draft?  I’ll report back tomorrow.

(My account currently at $188.20)

K bye.

Inside My Dog’s Head and Miserable Live Sports Experiences (4/6/18)

MY WORLD:

Yesterday morning, after I did a little thang called WRITE THIS FUGGIN’ BLOG, I took Belle out for her morning dumperoo (she’s sah kewt).  Unfortunately, even though I did my best to avoid all possible human/dog/natural interaction for her, people ended up crossing our path and Belle went psychokiller nuts.  Nothing like feeling like a failure of a dog owner at 7 in the morning!

Basically, she after she pooped, I zoned out as I picked it up with my bag-hand (if you were a dog, wouldn’t watching your human clean up your shit be the highlight of your day?  Like, “yeah, pick up my shit. That’s what you get for giving me the same bland-ass kibble EVERY FUCKING DAY!”)  While zoned out on poop-bag island, a girl on her way to school and a woman walking her dog, walked behind us.  In the Pomerantz household, this is known as a “WAIT, NO!”-situation.  Belle lunged at the girl, who legit screamed and started running!  (If I saw her again I would apologize, but it was over-the-top and kinda’ hilarious.)  Then Belle saw the woman and a stranger doggo and IT. WAS. ON.  I had to grab Belle by the chest and squeeze her between my legs to keep her from doing Buffalo Bill things to that little stranger dog.  The woman walking the other doggo didn’t say anything, but she was judgey with her eyes, I could tell.

As I held my sweet lil baby psychokiller princess between my legs, though, she started to kinda’ pant/cry and it made me feel super sad.  It wasn’t a “ouch, your fantastically toned and powerful quads are hurting me, Jimmy”-cry, but more of a “god, life is stressful!”-pant.  She was out of breath and, like, just ground down by the stress of it all.  I get it!  Belle!  Dad gets it!  And it got me thinking about how her brain must work, and what she must think as we go outside of her safe space (the one-bedroom apartment that she doesn’t have to pay to live in) for a walk in the morning.  To help myself understand where Belle is coming from, I would like to ask you to indulge me in a little exercise where I will write as if I am Belle about to go out on a morning walk.  Did that sentence make sense? Below this line, Belle is narrating her morning routine (Belle writes in red):

How long do I have to pretend I’m sleeping in this dumpy “bed”?  DAD?!?  Fuck, thought he moved.  Nope, just another mattress-shaking fart from Mom; why Dad is with this sloppy bitch is beyond me.  They act like they’re doing me a favor by locking me with them in their bedroom for the night, but now I’m even more stressed because who’s patrolling the kitchen?  I bet that asshole dog from downstairs is having a garbage party right now!  DAD!?!?!

DAD!  Dad you’re up!  Hey! Hi! Howdy! Hola! Woo! Dad! Dad! Dad! Oh yeah, gimme dat booty scratch!  Oooooooo that’s the spot!  Dad! Dad! Dad!  What’s the plan today?  Breakfast time?!?!  Wait!  Let me check the kitchen real quick to make sure you’re safe (I sprint to kitchen right when the bedroom door is opened every morning because I care about my Dad and his safety!)  COAST IS CLEAR DAD! Oh, you wanna hang in the bathroom?  Oh…closing the door in my face.  Got it.  Makes sense, you need your privacy.  Hey, don’t worry about anyone coming in–I’m gonna lay right here to make sure that doesn’t happen.  You hear that Mom?!?! Don’t even think about barging in on Dad during his private time!  (Mom normally won’t get out of bed for another few hours and that is A-OKAY with me!  Maybe she should think about just moving out?  I don’t know, just a thought.) 

DAD! YOU’RE BACK! How was private time? Bet it was good!  You deserve it big guy!  Alright, let’s talk turkey–when we going on that walk?  It’s not that I have to go that bad, but stuff is happening out there and if I don’t get to bark at it, I’m gonna have a nervous friggin’ breakdown.  Dad!  RARK! RARK! (yeah, that’s how my “barks” sound; more like “rark!”.  I’ve found it’s a more menacing sound than your typical “B-ark” sound.)  Did you hear that?  Dad! A door opened in our building! RARK RARK RARK! There’s another one!  No, I’m not gonna “shush”!  Dad, if I “shush” then no one will be afraid to barge in here and steal you away from me.  I’d basically be inviting the Dadnappers in here!

Hug time?  Yes!  (Guys, every morning, Dad sits on the couch next to me and gives me hugs.  He doesn’t love when I kiss his pretty face, but I do it anyway.)  Yawn? Me too!  Dad, watch me yawn!  Look! YAWWWWWWN!  We have so much in common!  You ever think about that Dad?  Like…what if you were more than my Dad?  Like…what if Mom wasn’t even here?  Never mind, I’m silly.  Sometimes I say crazy things!

Up again?!  Oh, I know that look!  IT’S WALKIN’ TIME!!! Okay okay okay, watch this! Dad! Watch this!  Spin, spin, spin, spin.  Four spins Dad!  Not even dizzy!  (Yeah, I do use a lot of exclamation points.  EXCUSE ME for being excited! NOT! Classic Belle Burn right there)  Oh, you’re gonna put that big scary metal collar on me?  Okay.  Not my fave, but you’re the boss, Dad.  Hey, look!  You like my smile?  Yeah you do!  Putting your coat on? Smart.  Classic Dad, being smart!

Now Dad, you gotta let me go first down the stairs okay?  We don’t know what’s ahead…(am I kinda’ choking my way down the stairs? Yes, but I sacrifice for my Dad.)  Did you hear that?  DAD!  HURRY!  COME ON!  WE GOTTA RUN DOWN THE STAIRS AND GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!  I HEARD A SOUND THING THAT I DON’T KNOW!  COME ON!  HURRRRRYYYYYYY!!!!!!! 

That was a close one, right?  Phew.  Hey, it feels great outside!  I’m gonna pee now (Dad is always super respectful here, he turns away while I make a tee tee.  Dad, the consummate gentleman!)  Was that a squirrel?  What’s that smell?  Who was here?  Dad, you smell that?!?! Dad! Dogs were here!  Let me investigate…no, I don’t want to keep walking…but, Dad if I don’t smell every one of those blades of grass then….DAD!  Ugh, fine.  I’m walking. I’m walking.

Pretty quiet out here this morning, just the way I like it.  Hold up, I’m gonna do a little pee here so they know this is OUR turf.  Dad!  Wait!  I swear, you don’t understand so many things about turf wars.  If it weren’t for me, you’d probably be in a gutter somewhere.  Just kidding Dad.  Obviously, no one could push around my big strong Dad.  

Hey! This is where we cross the street, right? Yep, knew it!  Dad!  I knew it!  Yeah, I’m gonna poop.  Dad, I really don’t need you telling me to “go poop” every morning.  I get it, you want me to poop.  It’s coming, okay?  You know what happens when you force a poop, Dad?  Bad stuff! Real bad stuff!  Speak of the devil, here it comes!

Come on Dad, I gotta be as close to the parked cars as possible.  Come on!  Okay, here I go.  (per usual, Gentleman Dad not looking at me.)  All done!  Hey Dad, I pooped!  Just let me kick up this grass so everyone knows what I did and we’ll be all set.  Oh, you’re picking it up?  Yeah, that’s nice I guess.  Maybe we leave it though?  It’s just, I feel bad that you have to-WAIT!  DAD!  DON’T WORRY I GOT THIS!!!! 

RARK RARK RARK RARK GRRRRRRR SHRARK!!!! STAY AWAY FROM MY DAD YOU BACKPACK BITCH!!!!  THIS IS OUR FUCKING TURF!  OHHHHHH, WHAT?!!?! ANOTHER DOG?!!?  SEE WHAT HAPPENS IF HE LETS ME OFF THIS LEASH!!! OH I FUCKING DARE YOU!!!! MAKE A MOVE!

DAD!  LET ME GET THEM!  DAD, YOU DON’T KNOW THE STREETS LIKE I KNOW THE STREETS!  RARK RARK RARK RARK!  (He always holds me back, but if he could see me fight…I don’t know, maybe he’d look at me differently?  Like, as more than a dog?  I don’t know.  Oh, silly me!)  

Then I walk Belle back through our alley because there is less of a chance of running into  any living things.  She’s panting the entire way back, like she just finished a marathon.  I feel bad and kinda mad and kinda sad that her brain seems to be an absolute stress-bomb of matter.  By the time we get back up to our door, though, she seems to be smiling again, having forgotten the stressful nightmare that just occurred.  At least that’s what I tell myself…

Hey Dad, I bet Mom isn’t even out of bed yet!  You sure she’s “the one”?  Asking for a friend…

OUR WORLD:

Yesterday was the White Sox home opener, and if you voluntarily went to that game you should be start lining your walls with pillows cuz you, my friend, are NUTS.  Sitting out in the cold for April baseball is a billion percent miserable experience, and it got me thinking…what are some of the most miserable live sports experiences:

–Early-season (so the game is essentially meaningless), freezing baseball game.

–The Kentucky Derby.  I have no idea why this appeals to people.  Watching horses run for a minute while you’re dressed like an asshole sounds about as fun as going to a little kid’s birthday party.  HARD PASS.

–Any regular season college basketball game.  Seriously, if it’s not March and you’re not a current student, who cares?

–Any little kids baseball game ever.  Even when I was a kid I felt bad for my parents having to watch that dreck sitting on shitty bleachers.  Parents should be encouraged to stay home.

–Early season NBA game sitting in the 300 level.  You can’t see anything, so you end up watching the jumbotron the whole game.  All you’re thinking about is how the seat you’re in is less comfortable than your recliner at home, and the drinks you’re drinking are WEAK and super expensive.  What a great time!

–Late season NFL game when your team’s season is already over.  When the Bears are 3-9 and people sit outside in a blizzard to watch them play the 4-8 New York Jets, I’m all like “but why?”

That’s all I’ve got for now.  It’s still super cold outside, but at least it’s Friday.  GO FRIDAY!

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I know I’m a little late with this posting, but Sean Penn is cool.  I don’t care if he’s messed up on Ambien.  He’s still cool.

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you shake your bottle of hair conditioner for like five minutes in the shower only to have the last .2 ounces spill out onto your shower wall.  NOW MY HAIR’S NOT GONNA BE CONDITIONED!!!

MY BOVADA PICK OF THE DAY THAT I AM GENUINELY CONFIDENT IN BECAUSE I DESERVE GOOD THINGS TO HAPPEN TO ME AFTER GETTING REAR-ENDED BY A GUY WITHOUT A LICENSE:

Nobody I bet on for the Masters had an absolute blow up day yesterday, so I’m still feeling good.  Honestly, I am so due to win something big, so I’m pretty sure one of my guys is gonna win.  Like, almost positive.  PRAY FOR ME!

(My account currently at $0.00)

K bye.

The Early 30s St. Patrick’s Day

OUR WORLD:

St. Patrick’s Day is tomorrow, Saturday, and Chicagoans in their early 30s have decided, unanimously, that they are okay with watching the world pass them by.  Miller Lite sunglasses that you got for free 6 years ago, your only green shirt that’s kinda too tight, a group e-mail chain organizing a trolley and arguing over who is paying who for the 19 handles of Fireball?  We’re too old for this shit, guys.  Green beer? Kids.  Wrigleyville? Bros? UH, NO THANKS!  Maybe we’ll go grab a beer, but we’re past the days of car-bomb breakfasts.  How about us, huh? We just don’t need it.  Sure, we’re old.  Hey, now that we’re 32, we have other interests that bring me more joy and no hangover.  Hey bros, try a game night while sipping a few well made sessionable pale ales!  Hops? No, I’m not talking about “What Lebron’s still got”.  Idiots.

Now go to your tiny bathroom, look in the mirror and ask yourself the following question: but, what if?  Let it linger.  What if you, not just you, what if WE let go of our defense mechanisms, ignored how self conscience and jaded we have become and tried to smile again? Go ahead and smile in the mirror.  YOU KNOW I’M SUCH A FOOL FOR YOU.  YOU’VE GOT ME WRAPPED AROUND YOUR FINGERRRR A-UH-UH. DO YOU HAVE TO LET IT LINGER? DO YOU HAVE TO? DO YOU HAVE TO? DO YOU HAVE TO LET IT LINGER?  Guys, lets grab that kinda-too-small green tee for one last dance.

Send out a text to your friends asking what everyone is doing for St. Patty’s tomorrow.  It’s okay, you can cut it with a little joke like “don’t worry, I’ll get the Fireball handle.  Lol.”  Haha…but you’re kinda hoping they don’t laugh.  And maybe, just maybe, they won’t.  Maybe they’ll chuckle at first and send something back like “Omg. Can you even imagine?”  But that’s the thing, you can imagine.  And they can too.  That’s when someone, YOU! needs to send the “I mean, why not?”-text.  (EXPLOSION SOUNDS)

“Honey, Jimmy, you know that friend of mine who can wear anything because he makes everything look good?”

“Oh, I like him.  He’s fun.”

“Yeah, well he just texted ‘why not?”

“About…no! Not about-”

“St. Patrick’s Day.  Yeah.”

In our story, you can be Jimmy.  You can be the person to send the text that causes couples to look at each other in silence for 8 seconds before the fun one says “I mean, it’s not like we have anything else to do.”  And so it begins.  You don’t have plans on Sunday, so hangover recovery will take precedence and the weather is supposed to be shitty Sunday anyways, so it’s not like you’re wasting a day.  And look, even if the hangover lasts into Monday, I mean, it’s Monday! You’ll be back up to speed by Tuesday at the latest.  “Why not?” turns to “what if?” turns to “I’ll make green jello shots.”  Guards begin to lower their rifles and friends start tossing out their favorite St. Patrick’s Day “remember when?”-texts.  Momentum has built and the only turning back that’s happening now is happening to your clocks.  (Did you get that? Like a “turn back the clocks” joke.  It sounded good in my head, but I’m not sure it translated.  Is explaining it helping?)

It’s too late to get a trolley and, honestly, that’s for the best (wait, you know about a last-minute deal?)  Trolley’s are too risky on St. Pat’s because it may be cold and you don’t wanna have to cover up that hot tee with a puffy coat all day (GET OFF ME PUFF!)  What we, you?…no, we, what we should do is meet at a the friend’s place who has the nicest outdoor area.  If it is warm, you’re gonna wanna bag those early spring rays.  So you meet at Davey Big Deck’s place around 11am.  Not too early, but day drinking is fun and this may be your last dance so…MAY I HAVE THIS DANCE?

Start off with some smiles and “it’s really happening!”-embraces.  The excitement of this unexpected gathering will intoxicate most guests immediately upon arrival.  Pour yourself a bloody in a red plastic cup, and you know what? I’ll have one too!  Someone probably brought candied bacon for the bloody’s (perks of being over 30 is that people put effort into things like bacon!)  Tunes are playing on Davey Big Deck’s nice speakers and, wait! What’s that sound?!?!  THAT’S NELLY Y’ALL!  HOT SHIT!!!  YOU CAN FIND ME IN ST. LOUIS ROLLIN’ ON DUBS!

Mean mugs and shoulder shrugs are aplenty as we move from Bloody’s to Lite’s to Guinness to…MARK BROUGHT FIREBALL!  NCAA tourney games play on Davey Big Deck’s dope ass big tv that’s way better than yours but today isn’t a day for jealousy but FUCK I’M JEALOUS.  I ADMIT IT, I’M JEALOUS!  You’ll get together with a few buds and determine that the only way to win a 6 team moneyline parlay is to place the bet four solo-cup drinks deep and pick the teams on “gut feelings”-only.  Making money is easy, guys.

I won’t lie, there will be some adversity.  A couple will have a not-as-muted-as-they-think fight in a corner.  Bill will appoint himself DJ a few hours in to play his favorite Doo-Wop songs and everyone will wonder who has the stones to tell him Doo-Wop STINKS AND IS KILLING THE FUCKING MOOD!  You’ll probably need to order the food yourself and, jeez, that’s always scary trying to Venmo-collect from everyone afterwards, but today is a day of risk taking so let ‘er rip!

When you get the pizza from the delivery driver, you should announce to the room “DID SOMEBODY SAY PIZZA?!?!”  They didn’t, but they’ll cheer and you’ll get slapped on the back.  It’s nicer than expected outside, guys!  I don’t have to wear my coat! (you’ll get cold pretty quick, but this is the time you pretend it’s not that cold).  

I will leave you there because this is not just my story…this is our story and we can all write our own endings to that simple question you’re gonna ask yourself in tomorrow’s morning mirror: “What if?”

MY WORLD:

I’m in a really good mood right now because I listened to “Linger” by The Cranberries and “Country Grammar” by Nellie on repeat for the past couple hours.  LET’S HAVE A FUCKING FRIDAY PEOPLE!!!

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

MY BOVADA PICK OF THE DAY THAT I AM GENUINELY CONFIDENT IN BECAUSE I DESERVE GOOD THINGS TO HAPPEN TO ME AFTER GETTING REAR-ENDED BY A GUY WITHOUT A LICENSE: 

Yesterday was a dark, dark day where I went 1-10 on games I put money on.  I’m not here to talk about the past.  However, I am staying dark due to me thinking that this blog is cursing my gambling….AW SCREW IT, LET’S HAMMER PROVIDENCE!

(My account currently at $55.17)

K bye.

Life Predictions and Top Ten Chip List (3/14/2018)

MY WORLD: 

 

Have you been noticing something about this blog?  (This is a great lead in for a sick, deep burn at my expense.  BRING IT ON!)  Jimmy’s Chair is a stone-cold curse maker.  If I write about rules for the gym, the next time I go to the gym there will be a guy shadowboxing on the treadmill next to me (this happened last night.  I glared at him 3 times and then reminded myself that a guy who shadowboxes on a treadmill at Planet Fitness probably also carries a sharp knife in case he “gets stepped to.”  I ain’t steppin!)  If I pick a team to win, they will lose (UCLA lost to a made up school last night even though I used my lucky vape pen ON A SCHOOLNIGHT!)  If I write about the impending arrival of spring, there will be a snowstorm (I had to pull over for 20 minutes yesterday because it was snowing so hard that I couldn’t see 50 feet in front of me.)  With this in mind, I would like to make a few life predictions that I feel confident in and are in no way an attempt at a reverse jinx (everyone act normal.  No sudden movements. Shut up shut up shut up shut up)

My dog Belle will never calm down and be nice to anyone aside from The VP of Ops and I.  Great!  Grand!  Wonderful!  The VP of Ops texted me about Belle’s latest psycho-freak-out while I was at the gym last night (working out, it’s a thing I do.  Running mostly, but that’s because I have kind of a natural muscle tone.  Thanks for asking.)  

*Here’s the actual text exchange…I don’t know how to make the image smaller, back off.

IMG_3426

I’ve come to peace with the fact that Belle will never get better.  Dogs are supposed to be cuddly and nice especially when they look like a stuffed animal, but you know what?  Even Jeffrey Dahmer’s parents loved him and I wuv my wittle cannibal doggy!  I completely accept the fact that bringing her to my parents house is not in the cards.  I look forward to the complications that will arise when The VP and I plan a vacation, only to realize that the ONE COUPLE that Belle actually gets along with, is out of town that week.  Then, when we ask my brother to housesit, as a last resort, I understand and accept that he will make up an excuse because the one time he did watch her, she growl-barked at him into a corner for over 4 hours (this happened.  He called me in Memphis and told me “she’s not calming down”.  I responded “you’re breaking up! I can’t hear you!”)  Guys, guess who is looking forward to the next time we have to bring Belle to a kennel only to have The VP cry the whole car ride after dropping her off?  I AM, GUYS! ME!  And when we have kids with psycho-killer-cannibal-dog?  Let’s just say, SIGN ME UP!  This is going to be great.

The VP of Ops and I will continue to rent one bedroom apartments in Chicago for the next 20 years minimum.  Uhhhhhhh “yes, please!”  Guys, when you get a chance to live on the third floor of a walk-up in a neighborhood known for carjackings and the occasional drive-by shooting, you find the nearest pen cuz that lease ain’t gonna sign itself!  (If my parents or the VP’s parents are reading this, I would like to point out that I once got in a fight in Los Angeles and I didn’t even cry.  So…yeah, you could say I’m pretty tough.)  Maybe I want my money to go to the pockets of a landlord I’ve never met, who thinks fixing the heat in December is “optional”.  Is that so bad?  Last I checked, being different is what sets the great ones apart.  I’m different, okay?  I bet you REGULARS enjoy having bathrooms larger than an “Anorexic” port-a-potty too, huh?  Yeah, that’s what I thought.  Not me!  I’m unique! And beautiful!  Look, I can touch both walls in here! And no, I’m not at all bummed at the prospect of having to park at night on Carjack Boulevard for the rest of my adult life.  EXCUUUUUUSE ME for marching to the beat of a different drummer!

A hiring person at a major online publication will never read this blog and offer me a well-paying writing job in a warm weather city.  Getting up at 6AM to write hundreds of words is something I do because I love the act of writing and, hopefully, making someone having a rough day laugh a little bit.  That’s what it’s all about, guys.  I’m not here to somehow miraculously, against all odds, build a big audience that could gain the attention of someone at a website like The Ringer, who would then reach out to me with an e-mail with the subject line “Your writing has caught our attention and we have a ton of money to spend on new hires!”  I’m not here for that.  I’m here because this is a hobby that makes me feel good AND THAT’S IT!  Money just doesn’t move my needle, if you catch my drift.  Now, I don’t judge you if money is your primary motivation, but that’s just not me.  I’m a “for-the-love-of-the-game”-guy.  I’m the 38 year minor league catcher content with never making “the show” because I’m here for the guys, for the fans, for the love of the game.  If you’re having a rough day at work, boss is really busting your hump, I hope this blog can maybe make you smile…even for just a second.  If I can put one smile, on one strangers face, then I’ve done my job here.

Guys, you smell that?  That’s the smell of STONE. COLD. LEAD. PIPE. LOCKS.  Take these to your bookie and empty all of your accounts with money in them on these predictions.  No way in God’s green, beautiful earth these don’t happen.  (Don’t move…don’t!  Shut up shut up shut up.  Act normal!)

OUR WORLD:  

WARNING: I’m about to delve into some pretty personal and, frankly, heavy issues.  If you’re not okay with possibly crying at your desk, then you may want to re-think reading this section…

It’s National Chip Day.  I know this because I love chips (and also because a friend of mine texted me “It’s National Chip Day”).  In honor, of these salty, crispy, edible shapes, I would like to present you with my TOP TEN CHIP LIST.  Now, I actually compiled a list like this a few weeks back when my friends and I got into a very heated, very prolonged argument about Flamin’ Hot Cheetos (some of these friends are raising kids.  I’m excited about the next generation.)  Unfortunately, my original TOP TEN CHIP LIST is lost in the sea of this group text, so I’m going to do my best to recreate it here.  Oh, and Flamin’ Hot Cheeto-lovers need to get over themselves, you’re not impressing ANYBODY by pretending to like a mediocre/obscure chip.  These are the same people that swear they love the taste of Malort.  Get da fuck outta here!

JIMMYSCHAIR TOP TEN CHIPS

  1. Kettle “Salt and Vinegar”:  The undisputed king chip flavor and Kettle does it best.
  2. Dorito “Nacho Cheese”:  The “I haven’t had these in a while”-chip that ALWAYS blows you away.
  3. Lays “Original Salted”:  Classic and perfect.  You don’t like these? Leave.
  4. Cheddar & Sour Cream Ruffles:  The VP intro’d me to these and OH MOMMA JOMMA deez iz good.
  5. Frito Scoops:  Yeah, I said it!  Fritos are amazing, and guess what? Frito Scoops are just BIGGER Fritos.  Bigger = better…everyone knows this.
  6. BBQ Pringles:  Pringles always sneak up on you and their BBQ flavor is ON POINT.
  7. Jimmy John’s Jalapeno:  They’re spicy, but not too spicy, and go great inside their sandy’s.  Beach Club with these smashed in.  Goodnight nurse.
  8. Cool Ranch Doritos:  Doritos know what they’re doing mmmmkay?
  9. BBQ Lays:  A close second to regular Lays.  Guess what these go great with? A barbecue.  Nailed it.
  10. Cape Cod Salted:  These will punish the roof of your mouth, but they’re totally worth it because CHIPS!

Feel free to debate me on these rankings, but know that I am positive that this is the definitive list.  If yours is different IN ANY WAY, you obviously don’t know chips.  Happy National Chip Day!

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

All Hail King Chip!

      Kettle.jpg

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Worst chip of all time.

Bugles

MY BOVADA PICK OF THE DAY THAT I AM GENUINELY CONFIDENT IN BECAUSE I DESERVE GOOD THINGS TO HAPPEN TO ME AFTER GETTING REAR-ENDED BY A GUY WITHOUT A LICENSE: 

UCLA losing to St. Bonaventure last night was completely ridiculous for so many reasons that I can’t believe Bovada is actually accepting that it happened.  UCLA acting like they’ve never seen a zone defense before is something beyond anyone’s control (except our coach, Steve Alford, who should be FIRED IMMEDIATELY BECAUSE I’M MAD!)  That one’s not my fault, plain and simple.  Not my fault.  Tonight?  Listen, I don’t want to lie to you guys, here’s what’s going to happen:  I’m going to wait until the last minute and then probably empty my Bovada account on Syracuse over Arizona State because Syracuse has a coach who people think is a good coach.

(My account currently at $34.11)

K bye.

Spring is Coming and Gym Rules (3-13-2018)

OUR WORLD:

Now that daylight savings time has arrived (or left? What’s the difference?) I have started my official countdown to Spring activities!  ACTIVITIES!  Yes, it’s 31 degrees outside today, but it’s sunny and it’s March 13 and GODDAMNIT I CAN’T TAKE THE WINTER ANYMORE!!!  People who live in cold weather cities turn into fatter, sadder, angrier versions of themselves from November through whenever it’s 55+ degrees for three days in a row.  This past February, I got so fed up with everything that I bit my steering wheel. And when I say “bit”, I mean I kinda screamed and definitely chomped down on it.  You could see teeth marks in my steering wheel for a few hours.  There’s bitter cold, shoveling, salt stains on everything, darkness, you have to put those fuckin booties on your dog every time you go outside, and wear that jacket that makes you look puffy AND I’M BITING MY STEERING WHEEL!!!! That’s what a Chicago winter is like; you bite your steering wheel.

So, once March hits, you start thinking about the activities you’re going to get to do that will signify making it through the wars of winter.  It’s a time of hope, that lasts until…god, we’re gonna have another snowstorm I know it…

Drinking a beer outside:  You’re toasting right in the face of winter once you’re able to do this.  “Hey Winter, have fun with the dumb penguins in Antarctica!”  It’ll probably still be a little chilly when you have your first outside beer of the season, but you’ll pretend that you’re not shivering and don’t need a jacket.  (I said I’m done with jackets!)  It will always be my favorite Chicago sight to walk around the blocks of bars in mid-March when it’s 53 degrees and EVERYBODY is sitting outside pretending they’re not cold.  It’s such a meatball/hardo-move, but the entire city takes part in it.  We are all meatballs.

Pretending you’re excited at a Cubs game before mid-May:  Going to Wrigley is straight fantastic, but April/Early-May games are BRUTAL and you’ll never admit that to your friends.  Every year, you’ll get invited to a game where the weather won’t be great, and you’ll have to fake that you’re blown-away-excited about going.  While there, however, all you’re thinking is “Jesus baseball is slow, this beer stinks and I. AM. FREEZING!” Then you’ll smile at your friends and talk about how glad you are that “baseball is back!”

Buying a new pair of shoes that look AWESOME only when wearing shorts:  I bought a pair of light tan leather slipper shoes (don’t know what those are called) that had little pineapple-bombs on them last year.  It was a pretty hipster purchase for me, but I was blinded by my early-March excitement and convinced myself that, with shorts, I’d look like one sexy papa in ’em.  The next 40 days of wearing mostly pants (and not the pineapple-bomb shoes because they look no bueno with pants) definitely cooled my excitement about these shoes, but the act of buying them is a tradition that is not worth abandoning.  This year, I’m thinking, wait for it, about boat shoes.  It’s been a while since I rocked the boat shoes and shorts look, but I’m thinking since my wife is southern and Jimmy Good Times LIVES for the summer months, that boat shoes are a due for a Jimmy comeback.  (I will be nervous about what people at work say about me wearing boat shoes, but I’m a brave boy.  Dad? YOUR SON IS A BRAVE LITTLE BOY!)

I’m aware that full-on warm weather is a ways out, but just shut up and let me dream for once in my miserable life.  This is the time of the year for hope.  I hope that I’m going to gamble myself into millions during March Madness.  I hope that I get to drink a beer outside in the next 2 weeks.  I hope that I don’t have to shovel my car out of a parking spot and then get in my car only to get cut off by a guy wearing a skull cap before 7:45 AM.  I hope I don’t have to bite my steering wheel again.

MY WORLD:

There are people that go to the gym, that have no right to be there and I feel it is my duty to stand up and say “GET OUT!”  While the majority of my time inside the greasy purple walls of Planet Fitness is spent trying to not look at the clock, the remaining time is spent convincing myself not to say anything to the mutant next to me.  It’s rush hour traffic with body odor and no laws, I’m amazed there hasn’t been a real life “The Purge: Planet Fitness”.  (No, I have not seen any of “The Purge” movies because they’re scary and “Unsolved Mysteries” gave me nightmares as a kid.)

Now, I am aware that some people get nervous about going to the gym.  I have friends like this (I call them “Slobs”).  I think I understand the fear of being a gym beginner.  Nervous about not knowing what to do, not knowing how machines work, being judged for getting gassed after 4 minutes.  I get it.  I feel like that when I go to the weights section now, after not lifting for like 5 years.  (Do what I do when you get gassed super quick; grimace and grab your arm.  Try “working it out” by stretching your arm and then shake your head all disappointed like “damn, when will these war injuries heal?!?”  Boom, sympathetic character.)  

I’m not talking to my “Slobbo” friends (it’s making me laugh, but I don’t mean it).  I don’t want to ban beginners.  I simply want to institute some rules for the roads.  This is what I propose:

1)  If you are “the smelly guy/girl” who can’t seem to shake B.O., then you either have to wrap your pits with industrial saran wrap, or wear a MINIMUM of 6 thick sweatshirts to hide the stink.  Look, thankfully I have not been cursed with chronic B.O. and while I’m sympathetic to those who have been, there MUST be more awareness.  When I’m on the treadmill and Shteve (not “Steve,” his name is “Shteve”), the data miner/amateur gamer, gets on the one next to me with his nerd B.O. I have to stop myself EVERY TIME from stopping my treadmill just to glare at him while shaking my head.  (Instead, I’ll normally do cool passive aggressive things like audibly sighing or coughing.)  I don’t know if B.O. is like a medical issue without a cure (probably? right?) but you can’t dare people to offend you by pretending it’s not there.  (Did you say I stink?  YOU’RE A STINKIST!)  Listen, I get some gnarly looking rashes on the backs of my knees sometimes, and you know what I do?  I WRAP THEM UP BECAUSE I AM SELF-CONSCIOUS AND DO NOT WISH TO SUBJECT THE PUBLIC TO THIS HORRIFIC SIGHT!  In short, if you stink, get out.

2)  When getting dressed in the locker room, pants go on as soon as humanely possible.  What childhood trauma happened to these people who put their shirts on first?  If you put your shirt on first when getting dressed, your credit score should be docked 800 points because it’s time you leave this society.  Now, I don’t know about ladies locker rooms (because I don’t go in there, but I do have certain dreams about it and I do not wish to hear about your stories that do not align EXACTLY with my dreams.  Thanks for understanding,) BUT, men’s locker rooms in gyms that have men over the age of 50 are an absolute horror show.  I think something snaps with guys who have been married for 20+ years where the only way they can remind themselves that their balls actually do exist is by parading around their gym’s locker room in a shirt and no pants.  “Look everyone!  My testicles ARE here!  All of these mirrors and your horrified faces are proof!”

Ladies, this is a common thing in Men’s locker rooms.  An older dude will shower, come out of the shower and put the towel around his shoulders as he SLOWLY saunters his fat ass back to his locker.  Once there, he’ll sit down (BARE-ASS!) on the bench in front of the lockers for a not-so-quick breather.  Men like me (sane people) gasp at each other, in a whispered panic, to remind each other that this is not okay.  Old Balls McGee then, FINALLY, begins to get dressed only to disappoint EVERYONE IN THE HISTORY OF SOCIETY when he puts a shirt on and hits pause on the dressing process.  (Wait? You’re done?  NO!!! SIR!!! THE PANTS!!! THE PANTS!!!)  He’ll then take a lap around the locker room to make us all feel bad for his wife before using the hair dryer on the 8 hairs still in his dome…AND THEN HE USES THE SAME HAIR DRYER ON HIS BALLS IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR!

If the FBI hasn’t already begun forming a task force, I have lost faith in my government.

3)  If you are walking on a treadmill next to your companion and carrying on a conversation the entire time, you might as well be at home.  I’m not saying you can’t talk to someone, but the gym is a stop-and-chat-zone ONLY!  When I can’t fully hear my Bill Simmons Podcast because you’re too busy recounting why your boss sucks to your friend for 45 minutes, I should be allowed to chop both your heads off with an axe (I have thought of the appropriate punishment for this offense for years, and there’s no way around it, the loppin’ off the head with an axe move makes the most sense.)  Listen, I’m not a fan of treadmill walkers to begin with, but if you’re able to carry on a full conversation throughout a “workout”…YOU’RE NOT WORKING OUT!  You’re supposed to be panting, or at least focusing on how to breathe normally so you don’t pass out, fall down and get shot back into the wall by the belt of your treadmill.  (One time, I closed my eyes while on a treadmill, took a wrong step and got catapulted into the wall behind me by the treadmill.  Unrelated, I did not get laid in High School.)  

What these walker talkers must understand is that everyone else in the gym is trying to distract themselves from the fact that they are in the gym.  That’s why there are televisions and podcasts and music.  It allows you to zone out, and forget that you’re doing something that’s not that fun.  However, once that zone-out-zone is penetrated by your shrill voice and dull stories, the illusion disappears and we remember that we’re in fucking Planet Fitness and not eating Salt & Vinegar chips while watching Sportscenter.  The way you would never wake a sleepwalker, do not disrupt the workout zone-out.

That’s it, guys.  Those are the 3 main rules:  No stink, no balls, no talk.  There are many other things at the gym that annoy the shit out of me, but I will keep those to myself like a proper Irish-Catholic rage bottler that I am.  If you are a gym newbie and you follow these rules…I don’t know, I’ll probably find something else you there that’ll annoy me because I LIKE TO COMPLAIN ABOUT PEOPLE I WILL PROBABLY NEVER GET TO KNOW!

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Almost warm = spring = baseball = fathers and sons making grown men strangers cry with sweet moments like this

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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MY BOVADA PICK OF THE DAY THAT I AM GENUINELY CONFIDENT IN BECAUSE I DESERVE GOOD THINGS TO HAPPEN TO ME AFTER GETTING REAR-ENDED BY A GUY WITHOUT A LICENSE: 

UCLA’s play-in game is tonight against St. Bonaventure and I’m going to bet on UCLA (-3.5) because I went there and I have never seen St. Bonaventure play basketball.  Do I think UCLA is any good this year? Not really.  BUT! When you’re dumb and don’t know anything about one of the teams playing, but you like to gamble, you put money on the team you want to root for.  Classic Jimmy move here.

(My account currently at $59.11)

K bye.

Oscars Predictions and an Ideal Friday (3/2/2018)

MY WORLD:

Happy Friday y’all!  (I can say y’all cuz the VP of Ops is from the South and I’m  married to her so I get to do what she gets to do because marriage is fair and that’s fair and shut up).  The excitement I feel when I wake up Friday morning is the closest I now get to the excitement of childhood Christmas morning.  Instead of running down the stairs to see presents, I’m running down the clock to get to drink many many alcohols.  As a functional (FUNCTIONAL!) alcoholic, weekends are when I get to introduce the public to JIMMY GOOD TIMES aka JGT.  I rid myself of the crippling fear of hangovers-which has ruined weeknight drinking for me forever-and am an overall much nicer, funnier, relaxed, better looking person (the better looking part of JGT abruptly ends when I wake up Sunday morning and morph into JIMMY SWEATPANTS; an overwhelmed, disheveled manager of hangovers and Sunday scaries who ONLY wears the pair of black Jordan Brand sweatpants that he bought in high school using his parents money.)

Every Friday seems to get away from me before it even starts, though.  Like, I’ll get so excited that I’ll have a beer or two at lunch (BREAKING NEWS: Jimmy Good Times is at the gas station filling up that tank!)  After an afternoon of e-mails, Steve Winwood tunes and some V suave, yet subtle seated dance moves, I basically run out to my car, forget any plans that I had for the night and lose myself in a “whatever, as long as I have a beer”-mindset.  Think of how your dog acts when you ask if he wants a treat, then multiply that by FIFTY HUNDRED MILLION THOUSAND!

In an effort to plan ahead like uhhhhhh an adult, I would like to set forth my ideal Friday.  Now look guys, while this is ideal, I also want it to be at least potentially realistic, so it won’t include deep-tissue massages from the girl in “Peaky Blinders” or Eddie Vedder introducing me to Wrigleyville bartenders as his “inspiration”.  Let’s get real, here’s my IDEAL Friday.

EARLY MORNING:  I get up at 6:30 feeling like a crisp bill of fucking money.  The VP of Ops takes Belle out for her morning walk (already beginning to feel unrealistic…)  I put on my cool-guy gym outfit, go to my Planet Fitness (can’t hear your snide remarks in this purple judgment-free zone).  Bang out a killer sweat sesh to alleviate any guilt that may try to slow down JGT later in the night.  Take a shower, and go to work with hair day that deserves its own series on AMC.

MID MORNING:  Get to work and am greeted with coworkers feeling awkward around me because they were just talking about how much they enjoy my social media presence (don’t feel awkward guys, I’m a regular human being person just like you).  The song on the office stereo changes to “Valerie” by Steve Winwood.  I barely notice how great of a job I’m doing at my desk because I’m lost in chair dancing.  People pretend not to notice, but they can’t help but secretly envy my effortless rhythm in the seated position.

LUNCH:  We go to Big Star for margs and tacos and sit outside cuz it’s a sunny 76 degrees and my skin tans to the perfect shade of “did you go on vacation?”  I’ll eat 3 tacos cuz 4 makes my stum hurt and I don’t want to get too full to enjoy their supes refreshing margy’s.  Oh, and they better salt the ever-loving shit outta’ that glass, cuz JGT is a Salt Boi 4 Lyfe!  Tablemates ask why I haven’t eaten many chips, I lie to them and say “I didn’t even notice them on the table” when it’s really because I have tremendous self-control and am planning to overdose on chips tomorrow.  2 margs, 3 tacos and a solid base tan later and I’m ready to polish off the last 4 hours of this workweek (UPDATE:  Jimmy Good Times has crossed state lines into Illinois! “I’m comin’ home, I’m comin’ home, tell the world cuz I’m comin’ home”-JGT)

AFTERNOON:  Well worded e-mails come pouring out of my fingers with Queens of the Stone Age’s “Rated R” album playing in the background.  The office is beginning to empty, but I’ll wait because I’m a hard worker…and I brought a mid-afternoon beer back to my desk to sip on.  What beer you ask? Let’s go with a hoppy MONSTER that you’ve never heard of but has V cool artwork on the can (I will pour it in a glass though cuz I like to show off how I’m not chugging yet).   I finish that first beer right as 4:20 strikes and I make a funny, but like cool-funny weed joke to a co-worker who wears marijuana leaf socks.  After he recovers from his laughing fit, we decide that since we’re in the last 20% of people left in the office, it’s time to leave and get a beer downstairs (I work at a V hot and sexy brewery and my office is above the taproom. BRAGGY BOY!) 

DUSK:  Polish off a beer in the taproom and go outside just as the VP of Ops pulls up to drive us back (responsible).  VPOps parallel parks perfectly and takes Belle out for her dinner-time walk, while I crack an easy drinker and place my bets for the night.  I feel great about all the teams I picked, and my Bovada account shows that I’ve been hot for a while now.  The VP returns, Belle leaps into my arms and we twirl like we’re the last two beings on ear—(I just love her so much).  Time to meet only our most fun friendos at my fave bar, Sheffields, and Belle understands.  As we leave she sits, nods and smiles at us as if to say “you two deserve this.”  Thanks Belle.

NIGHT:  Sheffields is playing a mix of 90s alternative (JGT’S WHEELHOUSE!) along with the occasional pop BANGER that drunk 32 year-olds aren’t embarrassed to sing along to (anything by Sia or Rihanna and I. Am. In!)  We’re drinking beers and laughing.  My teams are up by enough that I just glance at the TV when I feel like smiling extra big.  My friends talk about how good I am at gambling.  VP of Ops is paying for everything because she is “so lucky”.  The bartender points to the ring on my finger so all the other girls around know I’m taken (I didn’t even notice those girls).  My main cool-guy bros and I hide from our spouses so we can take lemon drop shots without being judged.  JIMMY GOOD TIMES BARREL ROLLS THROUGH THE WALL!!! WHAT AN ENTRANCE!!!

It’s simple, really, but I’m a simple man with simple pleasures and a simple brain (wait…)  The rest of the night would mos def include late night food at Fatso’s (real place with the best late-night burger in the game) and that final at-home drink that I don’t need, but still enjoyed.  For the sake of certain readers, I will leave the rest of my ideal Friday up to your imagination…but…let’s…just…say….R. KELLY IS A BLASTIN’!

OUR WORLD:

Okay, real talk, I want to make Oscars predictions but aside from like five categories, they’re pretty boring and I haven’t seen all the movies yet.  Here’s what I got:

-“3 Billboards” for Best Picture because fuck this newfound backlash, this movie is bright, shiny gold.

-Frances McDormand for Best Actress is such a slam dunk that if I were her, I’d wear an “I Won” t-shirt on the red carpet.

-Gary Oldman for Best Actor because everyone says that’s going to happen and I won’t ever watch that movie cuz it looks boring and I ain’t into dat’ shiz.

-Sam Rockwell for Best Supporting Actor because he played a character that you can’t decide whether you hate or not and when you admit that to people you get nervous because you don’t know how they’re going to react to that.

-Chris Nolan for Best Director over Guillermo Del Toro because “Dunkirk” was an absolute two hour long heart-attack and “Shape of Water” made the VP of Ops and I feel weird about lonely people and their alone time.

-Jimmy Kimmel straddles lines like an expert line straddle and nails his job.  Crushes the NRA; reminds everyone that Woody Allen is King of Creep Castle and the #MeToo crew should tell their snipers “shoot to kill; pats Donny T. on his bald head, but stops before Alec Baldwin carries him off on his shoulders; and makes everyone feel moderately uncomfortable when he reminds the audience that “Moonlight” won best picture last year even though more than half of the crowd will never see it.

-Jennifer Lawrence looks great, but gets even closer to the “okay, you’re not that funny so just chill”-line.  I fully expect to look at the VP of Ops at some point to and say “do we not really like her anymore?”

-Quentin Tarantino shows up and I defend him because I love his movies, but deep down definitely think he does weird stuff.  DAMNIT!

-VP of Ops and I agree that JoolyAnna RanSICK was born in the “Men In Black” world and, thus, is an alien.

-John Legend and Chrissy Teigen kill the red carpet, but the VP of Ops kinda’ ruins it when she refuses to stop showing me Chrissy Teigen Instagram posts that I don’t think are as funny as she does.  Look, she’s funny, but the VP of Ops treats her Instagram like it never misses the mark.  Meh.  It’s fine.  (VPOps will 100% send me an angry text about this).

-Whoever wins Best Actress will slowly walk up to the stage and then, out of nowhere, deliver their speech totally out of breath.  This happens every time and it drives me nuts.  Why are you out of breath when we JUST saw you WALK up to the stage?

-Incubus, unfortunately, will not be invited to perform “Pardon Me” as the rest of the “Best Song” nominees get to perform theirs even though “Pardon Me” should probably always be nominated for “Best Song” at every award show.

-Colin Firth will be shown in the audience and I will remind VP of Ops that I will never see a movie he’s in.

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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BOVADA PICK OF THE DAY THAT PROBABLY WON’T WIN:

I did not plan to bottom out as quickly as I did in front of an audience, but that’s exactly what has happened.  Cleveland lost last night, but Lebron smiled throughout the entire game and gave high-fives to EVERY PHILADELPHIA SEVENTY-SIXER WHO HAS EVER PLAYED FOR THE TEAM AND IT MAKES ME SO ANGRY BECAUSE IT’S LIKE HE DIDN’T EVEN CARE THAT I NOW HAVE TO MAKE A DEPOSIT TO GAMBLE AGAIN!  Seriously, this losing streak has gotten more than a little re-goddamn-diculous.  I will make a deposit probably after beer number 4 tonight when I’m itchin’ for a little action.  Tonight? Yeah, no friggin duh.  I am ready to be so fucking back with Golden State (-13) over Atlanta.

(My account is currently at $0.00)

K bye.