Tag: Marriage

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

OUR WORLD:

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

“The First” (Netflix)

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

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

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

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

“The Voice” (NBC)

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

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

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

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

“Chopped” (Food Network)

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

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

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

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

MY WORLD:

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

LET’S LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

 

LET’S HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

That Cubs game last night.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

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

(My account is currently at: $0.00)

K bye.

The VP and I Go To Ireland – Part 2 of ? – (9/18/18)

-CONTINUED-

Rumbling.  The other tourists around me heard it too, but they carried on.  This church, it seemed, was worth ignoring looming threats from beyond it’s walls. Something was off.  Something was…coming…I sprung up out of the pew, blew a kiss to the rendering of our lord and savior Jesus Harry Christ and ripped my shirt off.  This was no time for restricted movements.  “Jimmy, what’s happening?!?!”–shrieked The VP from near the confessional.  The walls shivered, a baby cried.  Panic reigned as I reached The VP.  Stained glass shattered behind me; sprinting down aisles meant for solemn processionals.  The VP, slung over my shoulder (kettle bells), violently gasped “FASTER!  FASTER JIMMY!” Thankfully, quiet nights spent training on Planet Fitness stair masters back home gave me that extra gear.  Nearing the exit, I looked back, sweat stinging my eyes as the shadowy intruders rushed towards us.  “Not today,” I said, “not today.”

Then we got outside, I put my shirt back on and we walked over to Guinness.

Pic 1A

Having worked in beer for a while now, I was expecting a pretty routine tourist experience.  I know what you’re thinking “I thought you weren’t those Americans?”  Yeah, well I mean I just said I wasn’t even that excited about the Guinness tour, so we’re not.  So shut up.  The VP had yet to have a Guinness in Ireland yet and, even though she had tried a sip or two of mine back in the states, had no real feelings toward the product. Honestly, neither did I.  Outside of some St. Patrick’s day slamming, I rarely drank Guinness.  The VP did a great job of feigning excitement as we entered; an Oscar-worthy performance if I’m being completely hyperbolic (see what I did there? WINK!)

I’m telling you, though, as we started the self-guided tour it became a progression of shared looks that went from “hmmm….” to “well, I mean, that’s cool” to “holy shit!  Here, come check this out!”  I’ve heard people say that it’s a museum, but museums are static.  This place crackled.  It’s not a museum, it’s an adult amusement park (no…that sounds X-rated.  Try again).  The Guinness storehouse is a beer-fueled V12 engine that, amazingly, does not swerve.

The tour guides are natural performers, engaging as they walk you through how to pour a perfect pint and how to properly taste a beer that every idiot alive in Chicago takes for granted once a year.  If you think wine has the romance market cornered, try drinking a Guinness in their lounge as servers, without warning, transform into dancers and the lounge transforms into an experience.  Remember when I said I loved surprises?  One minute, this girl was clearing tables of empty pint glasses.  The next…

Guinness makes Irish step-dancing feel cool.  THAT is how cool Guinness is; it makes one of the easiest targets for ridicule feel POWERFUL.  After this performance, The VP and I gave each other a “should we…like…become Irish step dancers now?”  Following another pint sitting next to some dorks wearing backpacks and plenty of “well that was awesome”s, we made our way up to the FINAL DESTINATION of the Guinness tour.  Atop the building, they have a circular bar with 360 degrees of floor to ceiling windows.  Yeah, it’s crowded, but quit being a little bitch about it.  Trust, this is worth powering through a random arm graze.  Growing up in Chicago, skylines became synonymous with tall buildings.  You know what else is impressive?  A skyline where you can see the FUCKING SKY.  In the words of The VP: “What dat is?”  There are clouds and stuff serving as a pillowy background for the explosive green hills sprawling throughout every one of those 360 degrees.  Nature is beeeyuuful!

*Evidently, I went into a “yeah, I’ll just remember this”-haze and forgot to take pictures of these views.  GREAT JOB JIMMY!  So, here’s a video of a whistling oyster thing.

As nighttime descended, we stopped by a hip spot for a “hey, we’re cool young adults”-dinner of oysters and cheese.  (When did cheese and crackers go from the snack your grandma gave you as a kid to a staple on every hipstery restaurant menu?  I’m not complaining.)  I felt compelled to take a break from Guinness because my body has been conditioned to send “you’re getting fat” warning signs to my brain whenever I drink two beers.  This time, though, when I got the “cool it with the beer fatso!” warnings, I…couldn’t…stop.  Yeah, the Guinness is better over there and it’s also kinda light and CALORIES DON’T COUNT ON VACATION!!! So I gave my pants button a “good luck pal”-wink and ordered another Guinness and then another and then we had to go to another place to order more Guinness.

After dinner we made our way to an area called “Temple Bar”.  It’s a bar-heavy area but there’s also a bar called “Temple Bar” that we didn’t go in, but I’m curious if that bar was so great that the mayor of Dublin one day was just like “yeah, let’s just call the whole area ‘Temple Bar'”.  (I don’t hate the idea of renaming neighborhoods every 4 years after the best bar/restaurant in the neighborhood.  I’m sure suburbanites would have an issue being renamed “Marianos’ Rotisserie Chicken Counter,” but that’s an issue they can take up with their city council.)  Continuing our “We’re not those Americans”-efforts, we skipped the actual Temple Bar for a spot our taxi driver recommended called “Palace Bar.”  It was Saturday night and it was friggin’ packed.  I know what you’re thinking, “but did they have Guinness?”

Pic 1 9:18.jpg

A packed bar in Ireland is also very different than a packed bar in Chicago.  In Chicago, it seems that every dude in a packed bar is DYING for someone to bump into him so he can drop a “got a problem?” in front of a girl he’s trying to impress.  (Single Jimmy LOVED acting tough in bars).  Now, there are some nights where The VP and I get to a crowded bar and I go into painful Yoga poses in order to not touch all the Johnny GotAProblem?s.  In Ireland, though, maybe because the drink of choice is a low abv beer and not a Red Bull Vodka, but the people seem almost happy to feel crowded.  Making my way to the bar at “Palace Bar” consisted of making the “I’m so sorry”-face while also saying “I’m so sorry” about 9 thousand times.  And every time, I was met with a smile and a “cheers”.  There wasn’t one accidental elbow that was met with a snarl.  The crowd was like one big hug.  Reason #736 that the Ireland bar scene is better than America’s: I never had to come even close to acting not scared in front of The VP about a potential fight.  It’s hard to enjoy a beer while lying to The VP that “I have no problem going outside with that guy.”  Yeah, it’s more like “No, I’m not enjoying my beer because I may start crying if that dude I accidentally grazed actually takes me up on my offer to ‘take it outside’.”  HEY GUY, I WAS JUST KIDDING ABOUT THE OUTSIDE THING!  IT’S SCARY OUT THERE!

After a severe case of hiccups ruined my “it’s impossible to drown me in Guinness” demonstration, we made our way back to the hotel.  These memories are fuzzy in the best sort of way.  A trip to Subway was included because we’re so secure in not being those Americans that we felt comfortable ordering a late night sandy.  Gah fuhbid!  We woke up the next morning with zero “oh my god, what do I have to apologize for?” fears. When you wake up with a minor hangover AND a faint smile, you know it was a good night.  Now, me breaking the shower door with my ass that morning did not help calm my body image insecurities, but The VP did seem to buy my “the door just like fell off”-cover.  My big, destructive ass was my little secret for at least another day.

Then it was time to go back to the airport to pick up our rental car to REALLY begin our trip.  The idea of driving on the other side of the road in a country you’ve never been to is nerve-wracking, but not exactly paralyzing while booking through Enterprise on my big comfy chair.  When you’re in a taxi on the way to pick up the car, though, that fear not only seeped in, it wrapped it’s talons around my throat while growling “it’s NOT going to be okay, Jimmy” into my ear.  The VP must have said “you’re going to do great,” no less than 92 times in that cab ride.  My response of choice was a chuckle-cough; a classic way to cover up a little cry at the end of a forced laugh.  By the time we got to the car rental drop-off, I had made the executive decision that the only way for me to get out of driving for the rest of the trip was to attach myself to our taxi driver’s leg while scream-crying “I’m not the man my father thinks I am!”  As the driver opened my door, I zeroed in on his bulky right ankle, before looking back The VP and saying, “I have no other options.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

K bye.

*Yes, I know the videos are playing sideways.  I don’t know how to fix it yet.  ISN’T THIS BLOG CHARMING?!?!

 

 

 

 

The VP and I Go To Ireland – Part 1 of ? – (9/13/18)

IRELAND (PART ONE OF MANY):

*Hey friends!  I haven’t written in a little bit because I got crushed by work before going to Ireland for 11 days.  I’m back and it feels great!  I meant to write this as one long piece, but that’s not possible.  I don’t know how many “parts” there will be to this Ireland series, but I don’t want to shortchange any of it, so excuse the next few entries on Jimmyschair.  It will be Ireland heavy for I don’t know how long.  I hope you like it. 

When I was 15, I couldn’t go to sleep on Christmas Eve night because I was so excited about the possibility of being a gifted a car on Christmas.  My parents had told me over and over and over again that I was ABSOLUTELY NOT getting a car, but I had convinced myself that these assurances were all part of their planned rouse.  “He won’t be as excited if he KNOWS he’s getting a car,” they had to be saying to each other as they continued arguing over whether I was more of a Benz or Bentley kid.  Turns out, I was more of a HEAVILY used 1988 White Ford Escort hatchback 6 months later kid.  But I didn’t know that on Christmas Eve; so I lied in my bed with eyes popping out of my face anytime I heard a car passing by our house.  I wouldn’t look out my bedroom window because I love surprises (YOU READING THIS, VP?!?!) and I didn’t want to ruin what my parents must have been planning for months.  This is not a story of a petulant 15 year old  treating Christmas morning like a funeral for hopes and dreams (I mean, that’s what it became, but…) Instead, it’s the last time I can remember being incoherently excited for something.  Drunk without a having had a drink excited.  My life was about to change forever excited.  That was the last time I felt THAT kind of unmitigated excitement.  (Yes, I was excited for my wedding, but that was definitely MITIGATED by the nerves associated with standing in front of a couple hundred people.)  Then, 18 years later, the VP and I flew to Ireland on the night of August 30th with a plan to sleep on the 7 hour flight and wake up refreshed for our first Irish morning.  I should’ve known.  There was no fucking way I was sleeping on that plane.

The VP and I landed in Dublin exhausted, but pretending not to be because what’s lamer than kicking off the trip of a lifetime with yawns?  So we trudged through our baggage claim and customs with glassy eyes while assuring each other that “yeah, no, I am so excited!”  The taxi driver was the first hint that we were somewhere foreign because he…was professional and not mean.  Did you know that taxi drivers who don’t snarl from the front seat while you ask if he can pop the trunk actually exist?  Better yet, there are even taxi drivers who GET OUT AND HELP YOU with your luggage.  Unbelievable, I know, but I was there.  As the older gentleman helped load the VPs Gajillion pound suitcase into the trunk, I kept telling The VP to film what was happening on her phone.  “No one will believe us!  BUT NO ONE WILL BELIEVE US!!!!”

We got to our hotel before our room was ready, which was totally fine because we were SO NOT TIRED.  Matta’ ah Fack, before the front desk lady even checked the status of our room, I was all like “I don’t even care if it’s ready cuz I’m not even tired so like whatever.”  Her face changed as she looked back up at me.  “Whoa, didn’t know Americans could be so chill and masculine at the same time,” is what she wanted to say, but spotting the ring on my finger, opted to avoid a confrontation with The VP and instead said something like “Your room is not ready because you’re here 6 hours before check-in time.”  Her words were meaningless, her face told the story.  These Americans were different.

The VP and I left our baggage and went out to explore a Dublin morning.  When you’re NOT tired and your phones aren’t allowing you to Google “Uh, what do we do now that we’re actually here?” you just end up wandering and saying things like “I’m pretty sure…wait…no, maybe this way.”  It was vacation morning, which meant breakfast, which also meant drinking so…..PUB TIME!  And, living up to our reputation as “not your typical Americans,” we picked one where we didn’t see nerdy tourists.  We aren’t THOSE people!  (It was one kinda’ close to an H+M that The VP told me multiple times that she wanted to just “check out”.  Uh, yeah fuckin’ right VP, and ruin the movie being written about us called “Not Your Average Americans”?  OVER MY DEAD BODY).  Continuing the theme of rebellion, The VP ordered a Bloody Mary at the bar.  I ordered a Guinness, but I ordered it in that nonchalant, chill-like “this is just a beer that I love to normally drink and am not drinking just because everyone else here is drinking it and I want to feel included in the very community that my ancestors originated from.”  Youda’ thought we were born in this bar.

Pic 1 (ireland post)

The first meal was fine and it didn’t matter; which is something that I came to realize throughout our stay in Ireland.  Don’t get me wrong, Jimmy EatFace looooooves a good meal, but when you’re in Ireland you’re so anxious to see more, drink more, talk to others more, and go elsewhere…uh, more, that food becomes an afterthought.  It takes time away from seeing other things.  It takes up space meant for Guinness.  It occupies your mouth from–okay, we get how eating food works.  We finished our fist meal, a traditional Irish breakfast that we split because we weren’t that hungry and “no, I do kinda’ like this blood sausage thing. It’s interesting!”  Was it more off-putting than interesting? HEY! Haven’t you heard? WE’RE NOT THOSE AMERICANS.

Pic 2 (Ireland post)

After a couple more pints of Guinness (we were on vacation!) and some aimless wandering (uh, it’s called “exploring”) where we didn’t look at the map because, let’s all say it together, “we’re not those Americans,” we headed back to our hotel.  Oh, our room was ready a couple hours early?  Cool, whatever, not a big deal, guess we should check it out.  The VP and I then crumpled on the bed like those spiders you spray with whatever aerosol can is closest so you don’t have to almost touch kill them with your hand.  (I sprayed a spider in my car yesterday using a bottle of dog pee cleaner I found in my trunk). We slept for a few hours, dreaming of things I don’t know about because I can’t remember my dreams and never listen when The VP tells me what she was dreaming of. I just hope the hotel workers didn’t come in our room while we were asleep and uncovered my lie about not being tired.  Yeah, we locked the door, but I don’t know how hotel nap time is treated in Ireland.

When we woke up around 6, we made a plan to go to the place Anthony Bourdain loved the most on his show about Dublin, “Kavanagh’s” aka “Gravediggers”.  It’s an old pub next to a cemetery about 14 minutes outside the crush of the Dublin bar scene.  By the time we got there, it was the perfect kind of busy, like they were waiting for us.  And, based on how kind the bartenders were, maybe they were? We ordered pints on pints on pints of Guinness, chatted up the distinguished bartender who made us feel like we had finally gotten to where we always should have been going.  It wasn’t this type of “let’s milk these tourists for all they got with cheap smiles and too much conversation” type of welcoming, but more of an easy conversation with someone who almost instantly went from stranger to relative.

I think the thing I had heard most about Ireland was that the people are what you go for.  And while I like people, there was a part of me that was worried about being bombarded with strangers inserting themselves in every conversation I would try to have.  I’m happy to report back that I was an idiot for thinking that.  The people are the highlight not because they cheers every beer you get, but because, somehow, they already know you and you already know them.  Those increasingly rare nights at home when all of your friends are able to make it out to the same bar and you can talk or not talk to any of them because you’re all comfortable; THAT is an Irish Pub.  I signed the guestbook like an absolute dolt because I saw it and instinctively grabbed it before realizing I didn’t know what to write because I didn’t feel like a guest.  Imagine going home for Thanksgiving and your Uncle Rick putting a “guestbook” in front of you.

We ended up getting pleasantly drunk; nowhere near the “my brain is broken now”-blackout that ends most fun nights at home.  We took a Taxi back to the hotel and walked to a nearby Subway because we weren’t there for the food.

The next day was for walking once we actually got up and out of our room, which became more difficult than anticipated once The VP discovered a British dating show with cooking called “Dinner Date”.  There was no hangover, just reality television.  Remember the show “Next” on MTV?  It’s like that but the person being wooed comes over to 3 people’s houses for a home cooked meal.  I hated that I kinda’ enjoyed the show too because we didn’t come to Ireland to sit in our room and watch daytime dating shows…but…like, it was good.  FUCK!

After a few episodes, and a few “hey, can we go now?”s from yours truly, we finally made it out of our hotel.  The plan was to walk and walk and walk until we saw Temple Bar and Guinness and nice Irish men in cool little hats telling us stories about places that sound magical.  “Excuse me, Ms. Concierge? Where’s do wrinkly faced storytellers hang out?”

Our self-guided walking tour through Dublin worked like the strongest coffee I could ever drink.  If I owned a Go-Pro I would’ve strapped it to my rotund head and never pressed “stop” to capture every single thing I was seeing.  Look, maybe it’s because I had never been out of the country before, but walking in a city an ocean away from home is battery power for humans.  Look, a river! Look, an old building! Look, a guy I don’t know with really tight pants!  No wonder little kids always seem to be so happy, it’s amazing seeing anything for the first time.

We set out to make our way to the Guinness storehouse, making sure to hit Temple Bar along the way.  Little did we know that we’d stop at some pub here, an immaculate church from 900 years ago there, and countless other “this looks like a postcard” places along the way.  We took a tour of Christ Cathedral Church and I got to see a meticulously artistic structure coated with CENTURIES of stories.

I’ll admit, even raised as an Irish Catholic, I always found church impossibly boring.  When my Mom used to tell me how impactful a Priest’s sermon was, I’d almost crack my skull with the effort it took me NOT to roll my eyes.  But this house of history wasn’t that.  I could’ve sat on one of those pews, in silence for hours, and been riveted every second of the way.  Your brain does amazing things when you’re enveloped in stained glass and moldings that could not have been made without modern technology.  I was thankful there my internet wasn’t working; this was all about the wonderment of pre-technology.  A trophy on the human brain’s mantle.

CAN’T WAIT TO TELL YOU MORE NEXT TIME!

K bye.

 

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

MY WORLD: 

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

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

How to hang a picture:

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

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

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

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

mirror

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

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

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

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

How to change a tire:

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

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

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

OUR WORLD:  

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

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

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

I hate this shit.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

JIMMY GAMBLES:

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

(My account currently sits at $43.18)

K bye.

 

Movie Trailer Reviews (Pt. 2) & I May Have to Retire from Sports (8/17/18)

OUR WORLD:

I get panic sweats from not being in my movie theater seat 5 minutes before showtime.  Getting The VP anywhere on time is a struggle I fully realize will plague me the rest of my life, but getting to the movie theater and airport with plenty of time to spare is something I will never be rational about.  We will be at the airport two hours before our flight.  We will be at the movie theater 20 minutes before showtime.  In the words of every U.S. Government Official in every action movie with terrorists: “this is not a negotiation.”  Unfortunately, forceful military analogies don’t work as well as ones involving fried food when it comes to connecting with The VP of “I’m Almost Done With My Make-Up”.  Along those lines, here is what I plan to tell her the next time I’m about to sweat through my shirt at the thought of missing the trailers.

Jimmy:  “Can we go ye-”

VP: “I’ll be done in two minutes thank you very much.”

Jimmy:  “This theater has mozzarella sticks.”

That’ll work.  She may chuckle and act like that’s not going to work, but the make-up brush will go down and there will be newfound urgency to her movements.  Mind you,  I won’t look into whether the theater does or does not, in fact, have mozzarella sticks, but I can deal with that meltdown once we’re in the building.  Yes, we’re going to see a movie, but passing up trailers is like…how can I put this in a way that The VP would understand:  Trailers are mozzarella sticks; meant to be a tasty treat before the main course, but so overwhelmingly delicious that they ALWAYS overshadow the entree.  Are you passing on free mozza sticks?  I didn’t think so.  Let’s get into Part 2…

“First Man”:

Ryan Gosling has officially entered the “if he’s in it, I’m probably going to want to go see it” tier of movie stardom.  Obviously, we’re going to be interested because space movies are sweet, but seeing Ryan Gosling and…WAIT, IS THAT COACH TAYLOR?!?! DID HE TRADE IN HIS FOOTBALL COACHIN’ WHISTLE FOR AN ASTRONAUT COACHIN’…WHISTLE?!?! YOU BET YOUR FUCKIN’ ASS HE DID!

If you’re not already in on a movie featuring space, Gosdaddy, and Coach CoolDad, may I interest you in a scary sounding soundtrack?  The music in the background of this trailer makes me look out of the sides of my eyes before walking slowly to the window with an inquisitive expression on my face.  I may whisper something like “what in the…” before turning back to the camera before CUT!

WHAT DID I SEE IN THE WINDOW?!?!  Space, guys.  I saw’d space stuffs.

I do understand hesitation in buying a ticket to see a movie where you already know the ending; we land on the moon and are all like “suck it Russia!”  That’s a valid argument against this movie, and the same one I use when explaining why I don’t go to Bond movies: we know he’s never gonna die.  HOWEVA!  The movie “Patriots Day” changed my mind on historically-based movies: there is drama involved in the details of missions we only saw the final results of.  “Patriots Day” is about the Boston Marathon bombers.  Yes, I knew the good guys got the bad guys, but I did NOT know what it took and it was ABSOLUTELY fascinating to see that.  “First Man” is about landing on the moon.  Yes, I know Neil Armstrong makes it, but I did NOT know that a certain former Texas high school football coach with a smile that could melt an iceberg was the one pulling the strings backstage.  Clear eyes, full space-shuttle-gas-tank, can’t lose.

JIMMYSCHAIR FACE REVIEW:

GOOD

“Widows”:

Pairing the writer of “Gone Girl” with the Viola Davis cry-face is a deadly combination, but I’d be lying if I told you that I wasn’t leery of an action movie led by a 53 year-old woman who appears to be in just decent shape.  Is that fair?  Yes, Tom Cruise is older than Viola Davis in Mission Impossible, but he’s cut from stone and is the best movie runner of all time.  Have you ever seen Viola sprint down a dock with a boat burning in the background?  Me neither. I know Viola Davis from being a mayor in an action movie I can’t remember and for delivering all-time cheesy lines in promos for “How To Get Away With Murder”.

I did, however, start to buy in once I saw that Michelle Rodriguez was part of the “let’s kill the guys who killed our husbands”-crew.  Alright, if we have Viola Davis delivering dramatic lines with no facial expressions and Michelle Rodriguez doing Michelle Rodriguez things, you have my attention.  Rodriguez has “don’t fuck with me” written all over her face and is in the kind of shape where I’d be nervous about pissing her off in a dark alley.  Okay, starting to buy in, starting to buy in…then, hey! There’s another one in the crew with a shaved head and arms bigger than Bruce Willis’ in “Die Hard”!  Now we’re cooking with gas!

As the tense music nears the crescendo and I start remembering how much I love Colin Farrell in everything he has been in, I begin to slowly turn my head towards The VP to give her the “let’s see this”-look when…Oh, Viola no….PLEASE!…DON’T SAY IT!

Viola:  “No one thinks we have the balls to pull this off.”

She did it.  I can’t believe it except I totally can because I am now convinced that Viola Davis has a clause in every contract that reads “Viola will give at least 18 dead-eye stares into the camera, and must be the one to deliver the most cringe-worthy dramatic line in the movie.”  I get that women are leading action movies now and I support that, but if there’s going to be a wink-like line that the female lead has to say in every one of these movies COUNT. ME. OUT.

JIMMYSCHAIR FACE REVIEW:

BAD

“Little Stranger”:

-Somehow, in the midst of our trailer binge, The VP of Ops stole the remote when I wasn’t looking and went straight for the British-y looking trailer.  British accents and big old houses are catnip for the VP, AND SHE’S NOT EVEN A CAT, GUYS!  SHE’S A WOMAN!  Meanwhile, I take British accents and fancy clothes and big old houses as an affront to my Chicago sensibilities.  So yes, I did spend most of this trailer giving the VP my unmistakable “you got a lotta fuckin’ nerve”-stare.

I didn’t intend to turn this trailer review into an examination into my marriage, but the fact that she picked this one is the type of selfish move that MUST BE CALLED OUT.  The VP’s thought process had to have gone something like this:  “Jimmy hates scary movies, and british accents, and big old houses, but mayb—Oh wait! It ALSO has no one either of us have ever heard of in it?”  So then there must have been only one thing she could have said to herself, “FUCK JIMMY!”  There’s no way around it, this was a stone-cold “Fuck Jimmy”-decision.

In the trailers picked thus far, have you seen anything along the lines of a documentary about Greg Norman’s 1996 collapse at The Masters?  Or, wait, remember that trailer I reviewed about the 2001 NBA Draft where the Bulls took Tyson Chandler AND traded up for Eddy Curry and I was convinced that the Bulls were about to start a new dynasty?  No, you haven’t heard of either of those trailers because a) they don’t exist and b) even if they did, I have enough COMMON DECENCY to not force my less-decent-than-me wife to sit through them.  It would be like your allergist diagnosing you with a peanut allergy while eating a delicious Dark Chocolate and Peanut Butter Kind Bar.  I don’t mean to exaggerate too much, but…it’s the way a serial killer thinks, right?  Guys? I’m right.  The serial killer is like “hmmm, I really enjoy murdering people, but I know this woman won’t enjoy being murdered so…ahhh, fuck her!”  Tell me how that’s different than what The VP did here.  I’ll wait.  (Pssst, it’s not different.)

As far as “Little Stranger” goes; who sees these movies?  Ooooooh a bunch of rich brits with weird facial hair are tormented by bells in their house that are ringing when they shouldn’t be.  Here’s an idea guys, buy a new house without bells!

JIMMYSCHAIR FACE REVIEW:

BAD

MY WORLD:

An update on my dead ankle?  Sure, thanks for asking.  It still hurts, but the brace the doctor gave me has gotten me some sympathy and gotten me out of some tasks around the house, so that’s nice.  Honestly, what this injury really signals is that I’m never not going to be terrified to play any sport again for the rest of my life.

The few times I’ve played basketball over the last 5 years, I was constantly thinking about tearing my ACL because two of my friends did it.  “Hey guys, can I just be the guy who makes all the inbound passes?  That’s a position, right? Inbound passing guy?”  But now, after destroying my ankle by WALKING, there’s no way I’m going to be able to enjoy playing any sport ever again without thinking about some catastrophic leg injury.  (Catastrophic?  You turned your ankle Jimmy.  Fuckin’ relax.)  BUT WHAT IF I CAN’T RELAX?!?! WHAT IF I NEVER RECOVER?!?!

I remember when I was in my 20s and I would hear people in their 30s talk about how old they were and how their bodies changed and blah blah fuckin’ blah.  They were all drama queens who didn’t know how to work out properly.  And then this shitty thing happened where I turned 33, rolled my ankle in a goddamn pothole and now I’m POSITIVE I’m never going to be able to run without my ankle exploding again.   Did I have to contemplate this new reality after being invited to play soccer by a group of teenagers by my apartment last evening? No, they didn’t invite me and…well, they don’t even exist, but I have created this situation in my brain.  And if this situation ever does present itself, I will be compelled to tell these teens to relish the years between 13 and 19 before dramatically lifting my right pant leg to reveal my never-to-be-whole-again 33 year-old ankle.

“And that’s why I can’t play soccer with you guys.  Ever.”-I’ll say as I embellish a limp back towards my dumpy apartment building.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

GUYS! GUYS!! HEY GUYS!!!! THE NEW DEATH CAB FOR CUTIE ALBUM IS OUT!!!! I’ve had it on in the background as I wrote this, this morning, but haven’t focused on it yet.  No matter, I’m sure it’s earth-shatteringly delicious.  Here’s a sure-to-be hot hot track of the new album that I found a live version of!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When your dog hangs her head off the side of the couch in an undoubtable effort to make you feel guilty for not providing a yard for her to frolic and play in like all the dogs got to in the movies she saw as a puppy.  Hey Belle, who’s stopping you from getting a job and contributing?

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I’m back at $0 in my account after only betting parlays for the last week.  Confidence is at an all-time low.  Not joking when I say that I cannot remember the last time I won a bet.  I could look it up because it’s probably been about 3 weeks, but that’s a warning….THAT I’M DUE TO GO ON A REAL HEATER!!!!

(My Bovada account is currently at $0)

K bye.

 

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

OUR WORLD:  

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

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

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

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

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

ONTO GRADING THE TRAILERS!

“A Star is Born”

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

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

Bradley: “Hey”

Lady: “What?” (as she turns around)

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

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

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

JIMMYSCHAIR FACE REVIEW:

GOOD

“The Old Man & The Gun”

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

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

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

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

JIMMYSCHAIR FACE REVIEW:

okay

“Life Itself”

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

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

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

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

JIMMYSCHAIR FACE REVIEW:

okay

MY WORLD:  

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

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

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

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

JIMMY GAMBLES:

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

(Account currently at $11.42)

K bye.

My Dog is Scared of a Dead Fly

MY WORLD:  

So Belle, aka “Numbah One Pretty Gurrrr” aka “BOB” aka “BOOF” aka “I Kinda Blame You For Ruining My Ankle The Other Night When I Stepped In A Pothole While Walking You”, has started this NEW thing where she’s scared of a dead fly.  This is no exaggeration.  Yesterday, when The VP got back from work (I was still out working because of an ethic instilled by my parents at a young age, but that’s neither here nor there) she noticed that Belle was acting a little weirder than normal.  After a few minutes, VP realized that there were one/MAYBE TWO flies in our apartment.  (Does Jimmy live in a dumpster that he calls an “apartment”?  Who has seen this “apartment”?)  The VP reported that, quoting from her actual text, “Belle heard a fly and now she legit won’t move.  Just standing completely still.”  By the time I got home, The VP had yet to kill the fly because her hand eye coordination rivals that of a blind amputee, and Belle was in our bedroom, hiding under our bed.  Totally normal behavior for a 56 pound dog to be TERRIFIED of a housefly.  WE REALLY LUCKED OUT WITH OUR FIRST DOG GUYS!

After some tense negotiations between myself and Señorita Dog, I got her to come out from under the bed for a proper pet sesh.  For whatever reason though, me telling her to “stop being a weirdo baby” did not stop her from being a weirdo baby once she spotted the fly land on The VP’s purse.  Belle backed up the way you would if you walked in on Michael Myers sharpening his favorite stabbin’ knife.  Going into hero-mode, I grabbed The VP’s “Shape” magazine and ended this insect’s life with the snap of my wrist.  To remind Belle what kind of man her Daddy is, I grabbed the dead fly’s rotting corpse, smashed it against my forehead, and smeared it’s blood down my face while growling like a PREHISTORIC BEASTMONSTER!!!!!! This did not calm her down.  Instead, she went right back into our bedroom and under our bed and has basically been theres since (as of 6:37AM this morning).

Therefore, since my barbaric display did nothing to soothe her newfound fear of flies, maybe Belle would appreciate hearing some of my irrational fears and how I deal with them.  As a dogfather, I must be able to relate to Belle whenever possible.  Belle, you are not alone, here are my most irrational fears:

Old Southern Men:  Show me an old guy with a southern drawl who mumble-talks and you can find me locked in the nearest bathroom texting my mom to “just come get me now.”  I’m not sure if they all have monster hands and a permanent limp too, but THEY DEFINITELY DO and it only adds to my crippling anxiety around them.  Why? Because, like, they just seem murdery or mad or I’m not a real man or did he just ask me if I chew wood on a grass boat?  WHAT’S A GRASS BOAT?!?!?  Dealing with this fear consists of me either giving hearty courtesy laughs anytime they open their mouth, or just going full-on “bear survival mode” and sitting as still as possible while not making a sound.  (If LeRoy can’t see me, then he can’t kill me and hide my body in that grass boat thing where he chews wood.)  This fear has caused serious mental issues anytime I walk into a living room and an Alabama game is on the television.  A flood of “oh jesus, there’s an old southern man nearby”-scaries takes over my brain as I collapse into the fetal position under the nearest coffee table.

“Jimmy, why are you under the coffee tabl-”

“I’m not Jimmy.”

The “Unsolved Mysteries” Theme Music:  Do you remember that show about ghosts and scary stuff that was hosted by the dude in the trench coat?  My parents would watch it when I was a kid and I’d get so scared by it that eventually I would run out of the room crying whenever I heard the opening theme music.  I used to think that they kept doing this because they were SICK PEOPLE who thought a scared kid was funny (crying kids running is hilarious and needs to be an instagram account), but now I think it was a way for them to get me out of the room.  Like, maybe my Dad really wanted to watch some sweet new Rated R movie that just came on HBO, but I was busy being all “hey Dad, let’s watch some lame bullshit show TOGETHER!”  Quick-thinking Dad brain probably loved having the “Unsolved Mysteries” theme music trick in his back-pocket.  He’d put that on and I’d be out of his hair; makes perfect sense.  What’s even sadder, though, is that at 33 I still haven’t grown out of this.  The VP thinks it’s funny and I know I should think it’s funny, but I don’t.  When I told her of this fear she got her friends to send me audio texts and snapchats featuring that theme song.  The VP would laugh like an idiot and I would try to chuckle but mostly think about “maybe I’m not falling in love with this evil beast woman.”  And no, I won’t post a video with that song in it because I’M NOT IN THE MOOD TO FEEL LIKE A HELPLESS CHILD BEFORE I GO TO WORK!

 Shopping Carts Behind Me:  Whenever I hear that horrific rattling of old shopping cart wheels closing in on me from behind, I am POSITIVE that a serial achilles-clipper is pushing that cart and my achilles is next on his clip-list.  Yes, a huge fear of mine is something happening to my achilles tendon, but has anyone in the history of grocery stores had theirs demolished by the bottom shelf of a shopping cart?  If the answer to that is “yes,” I do NOT want to see the YouTube videos.    If the answer to that is “no,” it may actually be worse because that means it’s DUE to happen sometime soon.  The shopping cart record of not cutting an achilles is the DiMaggio hit-streak of grocery store records; and someday, some especially vicious cart pusher is going to make history.  I’m gonna be the victim unless I start wearing my chain-link pants whenever we run out of paper towels.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Heard this song at my dentist’s office yesterday (clean teeth club) and I couldn’t wait to tell people about a hipstery sounding song that I liked.  SO THAT’S WHAT I’M DOING!  Wait…I’m not watching the video and it suc—-IT’S ABOUT THE MUSIC!  JUST CLOSE YOUR EYES AND LISTEN!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The people who are saying that they’re ready for summer to be over.  If you are one of these people who makes the argument that you’d rather have it be 10 degrees than 95 degrees outside, then you should wear a helmet around me because I will hit you in the head with a metal baseball bat for being a DUMB.

AM I ACTUALLY A BAD GAMBLER? OR, IS MY LUCK ABOUT TO TURN AND QUITTING NOW WOULD BE LIKE SELLING APPLE RIGHT BEFORE THEY CAME OUT WITH THE iPOD?  

Fresh new deposit into my account and IMMEDIATELY on the following golfers for the PGA Championship:  Tiger Woods, Patrick Cantlay, Jon Rahm, Jason Day, Marc Leishman, Daniel Berger, Aaron Wise, Thorbjorn Olesen, Joaquin Niemann.  I’ve never heard of Niemann or Wise, but that’s the sign of a good gambler…you trust the odds.  Oh also, real quick, my gambling-confidence is at an all-time low and I’m positive I’m going to lose every bet I make for the rest of my life and I still won’t stop.  I’M NOT ADDICTED.  (My Bovada account is currently at $12.60)

K bye.

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

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

The Second Dunk Attempt Story:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s how my ankle got hurt.

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OUR WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Chris Harrison.

JIMMY GAMBLES…

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

K bye.

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

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

SO TAKE THE PHOTOGRAPHS AND STILL FRAMES IN YOUR MIND

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

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

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

pfit

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

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

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

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

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

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

It most certainly was not.

OUR WORLD:

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

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

FOOTBALL HYPE VIDEO SEASON!!!!

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Dear Planet Fitness,

 

JIMMY GAMBLES

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

k bye.

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

OUR WORLD:

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

“Serving Patricia: The Story of Michael Kelcourse”

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

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

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

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

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

michael kelcourse

 

“Backstage Pass” 

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

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

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

“Overnight Pharmacist”

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

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

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

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

JIMMY GAMBLES

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

(My account currently at $4.71)

K bye.