TV Shows vs. The Summer

OUR WORLD:

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

Let’s see….

BIG LITTLE LIES

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

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

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

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

YELLOWSTONE

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

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

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

SOUTHERN CHARM

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

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

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

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

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

JIMMY GAMBLES:

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

K bye.

The “Are You An Adult?” Test

OUR WORLD:

There aren’t many things more annoying than hearing someone younger than you say, “OMG, I’m so old!” I know this, and I want you to know that before reading the following…If you’re older than I am, this ‘Our World’ has the potential to make you hate me (are you a fucking agist, Jimmy?!?!) Don’t worry, I’m not an agist (unless…you’re younger than me). But, after some exhaustive research over the past 34 years, I have come up with the Top 3 “whoa, I’m really an adult now”-moments.

Working Out in the Hotel Gym on a Trip

(Wait, isn’t this just your way of telling us that you just did this on your trip to Portland, Maine?) Did I mention I worked out in the hotel gym MULTIPLE TIMES during my trip to Portland? (SONOFABITCH!!!) Remember when hotel stays, whether for work or vacation, meant that calories didn’t count and exercise wasn’t even an option? Everyone under the age of 32 abides by the rule where if you’re out of town, you don’t have to work out. It’s my favorite kind of rule; clean, with little room for confusion–like “if you’re standing while eating, it doesn’t count.”

But then you reach a certain age (let me guess, 34?) and a lot of your pants are getting REALLY FUCKING TIGHT FOR NO GOOD REASON OTHER THAN YOU’VE BEEN EATING LIKE SHIT AND NOT WORKING OUT LATELY, and you go “shit, I think calories count even when I’m out of town.” Hotel gyms are depressing little rooms with way too many mirrors, and only a few machines, so you’re going to feel like you’re on a shame stage. It’s as if the hotel gym architects were like, “how can we instill as much shame as possible on people who are, otherwise, in the middle of treating their bodies like a dumpster? I know! More mirrors and less machines!”

There is a silver lining, here, though. The hotel workout counts for 2.7 times more than a workout at home. (Seriously?) I’m not even fucking exaggerating, guys. Thus, if you walk 2 miles on a treadmill at a hotel gym, it’s the same as running 5.4 miles (did he just do that math in his head?!?!) Screw a silver lining, that line is gold babayyyy!!! Why? Because the more viable excuses there are to not work out, the more calories are burned. And fighting through excuses is the top qualification for “being an adult.” So after that uphill walk on the treadmill (can’t run because of the ankle/knee/hip) make sure you walk through the lobby showing off your sweaty t-shirt to all the children.

Being more excited about morning coffee than night drinks on the weekends

You still won’t admit it, but I know. You’re not “just tired.” The reason you’re not ordering another drink with your now-more-fun-than-you friend is because you know that drink puts your Saturday morning coffee trip into jeopardy. All you’re thinking about is “jesus, the next drink guarantees a meaningful hangover, doesn’t it? DOES IT? WILL SOMEBODY TELL ME IF THIS DRINK IS THE ONE THAT CAUSES THE DIZZYING HEADACHE TOMORROW MORNING?!?!” Next thing you know, your friends are asking why you’re holding your arms out and screaming “GIMME A SIGN!” into the cool, night sky.

What you’re doing, though, is trying to make sure that you squeeze every second of I’m-off-work enjoyment out of your weekend, though. THAT is adult; knowing that all a crippling hangover does is ruin precious not-at-work time that is meant to be spent doing things other than asking your wife “why didn’t we get Gatorades last night?”

What you should be doing is getting up and taking the doggo to the coffee place with the baked TREATS! and people wearing cooler clothes than you. Eventually, you’ll be one of the people showing up in workout gear, having just got out of some class taught by a woman in her 50s who is FUCKING RIPPED, but let’s just take it step by step. First step is being there not hungover, and wearing something other than sweatpants and the t-shirt you slept in. Guess what? You’re wearing jeans AND A NOT-THAT-WRINKLED GOLF SHIRT!!! (Standing applause?!?! Y’all are too much!!!)

Now listen close, how do you tell that you’re in the right kind of coffee shop to maximize Saturday morning enjoyment? The more unwelcome you feel, the better the coffee and TREATS! are going to be. The air inside the shop smells not just like coffee and bread, but THE BEST COFFEE AND BREAD. The trade off is that the people who work there aren’t going to like you. Big stinking deal is what I say! I wouldn’t like a decently dressed adult getting to enjoy a lovely, not-hungover Saturday morning while I was busy getting berated by my boss for not perfecting my “flower design thingy” on top of the lattes I was serving.

Listening to the music your parents listened to and saying things like, “I can’t believe I used to complain when they’d put this on.”

It doesn’t make much sense that at the same age you realize that you were a dick as a kid, that you’re simultaneously making the decision that you would like a kid of your own. 34 is right about the age where you start really listening to the music your parents played when you were a snot-nosed little bitch in the backseat of their car. In between eating your boogers, you’d barf out “this song stinks!” or “ughhhhhh, no more country!” while your parents just shook their heads. How my parents never barked something back like, “until you stop shitting your pants on a semi-regular basis, shut the fuck up!” is amazing to me. But kids are dicks, and the time when you realize this THE MOST is when you’re 34, sitting in the backseat of a car and a song from The Eagles comes on and you think, “this song is fucking awesome, and I can’t believe I ever criticized my parents for liking it.” (To everyone saying “the Eagles suck,” I’d ask you to really examine if you actually think that…or, if you just love “The Big Lebowski” so much that you feel compelled to say that whenever hearing The Eagles.)

I remember hating The Eagles, country music, Jackson Browne, Fleetwood Mac, and, GOD I WAS SUCH A DICK AS A KID! That music is so good! Maybe all kids are just undercover hipsters who think that saying they don’t like something that those closest to them like will make them seem “different”? Or, maybe kids are just selfish people who think that their decisions are better than people who have been making decisions for far longer than they have because…their brains are small? Whatever the reason, they’re just not nice! And the time that this really crystalizes comes around the same time you’re telling you’re wife that you “think it’s time”. “Now that I know for a fact that kids are a-holes, I’d like to add another to the population.” HOW DOES THAT MAKE SENSE?!?!

But maybe that’s just it: the time you know that you’re ready for a kid comes at the exact time that you’re adult enough to realize that you were a jerk as a kid for not liking your parents’ music. So, try this: if you’re thinking that you may be ready to bring a tiny jerk into the world, put on that band/artist that your parents used to listen to ALL THE TIME when you were young. If you put it on, and you still think the music sucks, guess what? Still not ready for a kid. But, if you put it on and immediately feel guilty for heckling the people who paid for your entire life, then you’re ready to be a parent. We’ll call this the “Jimmyschair Parent Test” and I would patent it if I knew how to do that and thought it could actually end up becoming profitable.

MY WORLD:

The VP and I are moving tomorrow and…well, things are stressful in Casa De La Chair. Last night we got mad at each other for no real good reason, but we’re still kinda’ not talking to each other because neither of us want to give in and admit that they were wrong. Do I think I was wrong? Yeah, duh, I know I was wrong. BUT! I’ve been taking a lot of “L’s” lately and so, I’m just not in the mood to willfully accept another right now.

What will probably happen is I’ll get home after work tonight, pretend like we’re totally fine and then notice that The VP isn’t making eye contact with me. She won’t give me the TOTAL silent treatment, but her answers will be short and the jokes will be forced. If I make a joke, she’ll pretend not to hear it because laughing = saying we’re “okay”. So it’ll get tense, but I’ll tell myself to hold off just a bit longer until SHE’S the one to break. But then I’ll make a FAT cocktail (fancy boiiiiii) get deep into it and really start to miss feeling like the person I live with doesn’t hate me.

Then I’ll break, admit that I was wrong, have to nod through her reliving the blow by blow account of EXACTLY when I went wrong, and then…get kinda’ mad but stifle it and remind her of the things that “weren’t the best.” This whole “trying to save face” exercise for the both of us will go on for no less than 16 minutes.

Happy Friday!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Moving. It’s the fucking worst.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The post-move drink. It’s a top 5er.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I think I’m done until football season…WHICH IS FAST APPROACHING!

I’m Moving to Maine

MY WORLD:

Over the past few years, whenever I go out of town, I start a conversation with myself about whether or not I could see myself living wherever I’m going. Do you do this too? When did vacations or work trips turn into scouting expeditions featuring Zillow searches and me saying things to an Oyster shucker I just met, like, “I keep thinking I should move to Maine.” He responded with a “yeah, you should,” but what he probably meant was, “dude, I don’t know you or care.” I went to Maine this weekend and told a lot of people that moving there was on my mind, and now I’m doing the thing where I return to normal life and talk myself out of doing something drastic. But why?

I’m sure that part of the reason I think about moving as much as I do is because I know, deep down, that the VP and I probably won’t. What’s the risk of thinking about jumping off the high-dive, when you don’t even know where a pool with a high-dive exists? The process of moving to a new state is so daunting that considering it ‘basically impossible’ feels like an instinctual reaction. Yeah, I’m in a better mood on vacation or when on a work trip that feels more like a vacation than sitting behind my desk does, but am I drunk? (You? I mean, probably.)

I’d never been to Portland, Maine before and I thought it was beautiful (HOT TAKES ON A MONDAY, Y’ALL!!!) “It feels like I’m in a postcard,” is a line I think I said to 42 different people over the span of my three days in the Northeast. (Yeah, I’m sure it’s been used before, but I still DIG that line. SO BACK OFF!) It smelled like the ocean with seagulls providing the soundtrack to hipster coffee shops, oysters, and people who seemed in better shape and more relaxed than me.

I’ve never been awed by the ocean, but I was this time…fuckin’ lighthouses are cool to look at from a distance and not go in! (I did that!) We drove to a more rural area one day, through woods and fields with little creeks and houses with decks where cell phone reception wasn’t very good. Thankfully, though, it was good enough for me to run a Zillow search that revealed houses near creeks in Maine go for less than apartments with creeks in Chicago. (See what I did there? With the creeks thing?) So I went into “well, could we actually figure out a way to live here?”-mode.

This consists of me telling the people around me “I think I wanna move to Maine”; me texting The VP that “I think I wanna move to Maine”; and me asking the guy who just rang me up for my first Maine bagel if I “should move to Maine?” It’s a scientific and thorough fact-finding mission, one that has been honed over the past two years of being annoyed with Chicago rent prices along with OTHER PERSONAL ISSUES THAT I DON’T FEEL LIKE DISSECTING RIGHT THIS SECOND!

Usually, the people around me will toss a “I think I’m supposed to laugh here”-chuckle my way; The VP will say something along the lines of, “yeah? Do you think I could open a wine and cheese shop there?”; and the bagel man will pretend not to be annoyed with yet another out-of-towner idealizing a place where he works as a cashier for a local bagel chain. (Does YOUR paradise include clocking in at a place called “Mister Bagel”?) I’ll push back on the courtesy laughs from those around me. I’ll remind The VP that just because she eating cheese and drinking wine doesn’t necessarily qualify you to open a wine and cheese shop. And I’ll take to heart when Bagel Man says, “yeah, you should come here.” (He’s definitely not saying that because it’s just the easiest thing to say in that moment. HE REALLY KNOWS THAT I SHOULD BE IN MAINE!!!)

Then at night, I’ll have a few drinks, try to think of what I’d do to…ya know, make money in Maine, and come up with something attainable, like “writing something that sells for hundreds of thousands of dollars.” (This blog ain’t it, buddy!) BUT MAYBE, for a few minutes, it feels like something that could happen and then I get to imagine my new Maine life. Living in a house by a creek with a deck means I could sit on a rocking chair in the morning and LOOK OUT AT A CREEK WHILE EXFOLIATING MY FACE WITH THE STEAM COMING FROM MY HOT CUP OF COFFEE!!! From there, I could write for a few hours, before bringing my dog on a long walk into town to get a sandwich that, somehow, doesn’t make me as fat as a sandwich in Chicago would. Oh, and my dog Belle? She gets it, “can’t be a psycho in Quaintville, USA,” so she lets kids touch her snout without sending them to the emergency room.

After leaving the “sandwiches that are good for you”-store, Belle and I swing over to The VP’s wine and cheese shop to sample the new cheese (Kraft singles?!?!) she brought in and congratulate her on being named Trip Advisor’s “Best Place to Spend Too Much Money And Then Brag to People That You Love Supporting Local Business.” When doggo and I return, it’s time for me to put my big, brown, comfy boots on to do my afternoon hike workout that leaves me sweaty and with, somehow, a perfectly full and manicured beard. (That’s what happens when you get into hiking, right?) We cook a dinner with wooden utensils and eat outside after telling all the bugs and mosquitoes to politely “leave us alone” because in Maine, the bugs listen.

There are people that live lives like this. Do I know any? No, but I’ve seen it in the movies and I’m not being facetious when I say that I’m beginning to fully realize that stuff in movies is inspired by stuff seen by real people in real life. People have seen lives like this and written them onto screens. And I have watched those screens before. I’VE SEENT IT!

So why will I do what I always do after a trip, and spend the next few days talking myself out of what I just saw and felt and thought? I have no problem with getting whiskey-drunk, but hopes-and-dreams-and-fantasies-drunk is a line I just can’t cross. I’m aware this has been a rambling entry, but sometimes that’s what a blog should be. And since this has already been all over the place, how about I just stop before talking myself back into the sobriety that includes whiskey but not the other more fun stuff?

OUR WORLD:

Heat wave > Polar vortex.

LETS HATE THIS AT THE SAME TIME TOGETHER:

When you make a can of chicken noodle soup that has been in your cabinet for a year and, after eating, you start wondering how the chicken in that can was still safe to eat…Is it actually chicken? Yeah? Then how is it okay after sitting in a room temperature can for a year?

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Tom Cruise doing Tom Cruise things will always be one of my favorite things.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

Yeah, I lost all my bets on The British Open and got to watch them lose while on a plane back from Maine. The guy sitting next to me was wearing sunglasses the whole flight and, I swear, he was doing it so he could watch me rolling my eyes at Shane Lowry ruining my picks.

K, bye.

COMMERCIALS ARE THREATENING OUR LIVES!!!

OUR WORLD:

When did television decide that 98.91% of all commercials should serve to scare the ever-loving shit out of the viewers? I was watching the boob tube (cool guy term for “television”) with my Dad last night and a commercial came on featuring a home video of a guy singing karaoke. Immediately, I knew this guy died. How did I know that? (Because…YOU KILLED HIM AND HAVE BEEN CARRYING A HEAVY CONSCIENCE EVER SINCE BUT IT’S TOO LATE TO CONFESS NOW, SO YOU’VE DECIDED YOU WILL BE BURIED WITH THIS SECRET!!!) No, I knew this guy died because the stakes in so many commercials have been raised so high that if you don’t do the thing that said-company wants you to do, then the penalty is death.

Yes, they’re normally for good causes. It’s not like “Hey, if you don’t use these Clorox Anti-Bacterial wipes, we’re going to have you put on our secret serial killer’s ‘who’s next?’ list.” It’s ads like this one where Joe BlueCollar is singing karaoke until the screen goes black and we read that “This is Joe B.”—more singing, then black again, “And he was struck by a car and killed in a work zone.” I think it was like the Illinois Department of Transportation trying to get people to drive more cautiously around work zones. Listen, I, too, am against innocent road construction guys getting murdered by cars but…does that mean I was pro-car-murder before seeing this ad? And that’s not even the point, I know, because it raises awareness subconsciously and blah blah blah. I KNOW! But, I’m trying to make a joke about how fat I’ve gotten to my Dad, in between innings of a Cubs game, and now I feel like a dick for using this poor guy’s eulogy as the soundtrack to my “boy, is my tummy big”-bit.

Now, if this were some rogue “let’s make the viewers think about death in a jarringly real manner”-ad, then maybe I’d have more tolerance. But no, it was followed by a commercial starring a smoker in a hospital bed, with a hole in her neck talking about how she regrets ever starting smoking. After that, while praying for some lightness with one of those fucking “can you hear me now?” spots, you’re uppercut with a ‘Cancer Centers for America’ commercial telling you that they’re “here for you” when that stupid fucking disease knocks on your door. WHAT THE FUCK EVER HAPPENED TO THE BOWLING CAVEMEN TALKING ABOUT INSURANCE?!?!

Again, these are all great causes; that is impossible to dispute. But, are we not allowed to just…I don’t know, escape the real world for a couple hours at the end of the day? It’s not like I was tuned in to the “Get Ready To Be Freaked-The-Fuck-Out About Everything In The World”-channel (GRTBFTFOAEITW isn’t quite as catchy as NBC). Can there be an option put into our televisions that allow us to opt-out of these incredibly heavy commercials that make us think about the very things we’re trying to forget for a few hours before we go to sleep? (Hey Zenith, want to become a relevant television company again? INVENT THIS!)

You know where I don’t see all of these “careful, an invisible murderer with a big, sharp knife is under your bed”-commercials? Instagram. Facebook. Twitter. Maybe that’s why we all find ourselves staring at those screens instead of our televisions? Sure, it’s easy to make fun of Big Brother and those personalized ads, but wouldn’t you prefer seeing an ad for a watch you were talking about 6 seconds prior to seeing an ad reminding you that jumping off a tall building without a parachute usually results in death? Tapping into my phone’s microphone > Tapping into my worst fears.

MY WORLD:

The VP and I are moving for the six-bajillionth time in a couple weeks and I’m already regretting it. A few months back, it rained really hard in Chicago and the window frame in our living room started leaking like crazy. Brown water came through and ruined some shit we really don’t care about, but, when it happened, we both acted like that water landed on our life savings and then burst into flames. We sent picture texts to each other of stained curtains and lamp shades and side tables like “HOW WILL WE EVER PROCEED WITHOUT OUR BLUE CURTAINS?!?!” It was all dramatic and we probably got wrapped up in the moment because it’s really exciting when you’re presented with a legitimate opportunity to get mad at someone other than yourself.

So I got really mad at our buildings management company. I demanded being reimbursed for damages and when they pushed back in the slightest, I lost my brain and threatened legal action. (The only thing I know about legal action is that you “threaten” it when you’re really, really pissed off and don’t know what else you can say to back up your argument.) At the time, I’m sure our 39 year old building manager read my e-mails like “do they think I ordered God to send the worst rainstorm in Chicago history? They’re aware they rent a dumpy apartment in a mediocre neighborhood, right?”

The VP and I continued along with our misdirected-anger rampage until we reached the very measured, logical conclusion that the best way to exact revenge on our management company was to move out at the end of our lease in July. (Good luck finding tenants who never clean the inside of the oven and have a dog that tries to bite neighbors!!! THAT’LL SHOW EM!) Our management company probably held a company-wide champagne toast when we notified them we were bailing. While mid-level employees that we’ve never met were getting champagne-drunk on some random Tuesday, The VP and I were busy patting ourselves on the back for standing on principle and volunteering to do one of the most stressful things someone can do: move.

Since we made this principled decision, in between shaking hands at the rallies held in honor of our courageous stance, we’ve found other “back up” reasons for why we had to move. These included things like: needing to be walking distance to a Dunkin Donuts; needing to have an office that allows us to escape each other under the guise of having to “work”; and, cuz. A comprehensive list it was, tough to argue with the logic there.

So I picked out all of the other neighborhoods we’d prefer living in, looked at Zillow and Craigslist on my phone until my eyes stung, and….quickly realized that we couldn’t afford to live in any of those other neighborhoods. (Um….management company? ‘Member all that stuff I was threatening? That was just like a goofy laugh-joke. Hahahahahahahahaha help me I’m in too deep now.) It was too late, so I checked out an apartment about 6 blocks from our current place, walked through it one time without paying all that much attention and said “clean wall! shiny floor! sign lease!” (Master Negotiator Jimmy up to his old tricks!)

Two nights ago, we got the keys to our new place and walked through it with our still-not-calm dog. It’s a fine apartment, that’s bigger than our current spot, but I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t go home after, think about the reality of moving, look into the mirror and dramatically whisper “what have we done?” Since maybe sharing my anxiety will help me cope with it, here is what I’m MOST not looking forward to with regards to this move:

Talking to Comcast for no less than 9 hours and, somehow, ending up with a cable/internet package that costs exactly the same as the one we have now.
Doing the whole “I know I’m never going to wear this again, but I’m still going to pack it because this moving box is closer than my garbage”-thing.
The VP sending me an endless stream of texts about new couches that she wants to get and then ignoring my texts asking her “have you Venmo’d me your share of next month’s rent, yet?”
Having Belle snap at our new downstairs neighbors and me trying to laugh it off while saying “she’s such a fake tough-guy!”
Trying to assuage the guilt I’ll feel watching movers by offering them Gatorade…then realizing that the Gatorade I just bought for them was off the shelf, and not from a cooler, so I’m handing them room temperature Gatorade and they’re pretending to be grateful.

I can’t wait.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Still, the “Most Annoying Commercial of All-Time” GOAT

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

My all-time favorite commercial

WAIT, SO YOU DO STILL GAMBLE, RIGHT?

Yes, and I need to pick out my British Open winners soon SO LAY OFF!

K, bye.

We Know Why All Of You Are Moving Away From Us

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We could keep our place cleaner.

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

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

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

Belle

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

OUR WORLD:

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

skyline

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

JIMMY GAMBLES:

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

(My account is currently at: $40.19)

K bye.

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.

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

OUR WORLD:

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

Wrigleyville: (Age 22-24)

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

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

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

Lakeview: (Age 24-25)

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

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

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

Lincoln Park: (Age 25-27)

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

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

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

Cafe Ba Ba Reeba
Chicago Pizza and Oven Grinders
Geja’s
Summer House
The Athenian Room

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

MY WORLD:

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

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

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

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

All in all, a lackluster finale.

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

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

(Account currently at $108.14)

K bye.

At Least You Don’t Have These Jobs and Tommy Boy Lines (4/9/18)

OUR WORLD:

It seems that I’m running into a bit of a traffic jam on jimmyschair. It being Monday, I’m ready to continue the “At Least I Don’t Have To Do That”-Job List–that I started last week. However, I also had delayed the “Vanderpump Rules” induction into the jimmyschair Reality TV Show Hall of Fame. PLANNING JIMMY, TRY IT SOMETIME!!! (Readers must be getting restless. Are they beginning to think about NOT reading this blog?! ARE THEY GONNA GO BACK TO SCROLLING THROUGH FACEBOOK WHILE ON THE TOILET?!?!?) Fear not–people who probably were not fearing cuz they don’t really care! I have decided that today’s “Our World” will be the second edition of the “At Least I Don’t Have To Do That”-Job List. Tomorrow, after what’s sure to be an electric episode tonight, “Vanderpump Rules” heads to the hall of fame.

With snow falling, and me dealing with having had a martini probably a little too late last night, I need this list more than ever (Sunday ‘tini time is fun because you’re playing with fire after 8PM. Sunday “‘Tini Time” Jimmy is undefeated versus Monday “Get Ready for Work” Jimmy. Monday Jimmy is weak and fragile like an old lightbulb.) Last week, meter maids, construction workers and Starbucks barista’s were the jobs that made me feel better about starting the week off. This week, I’ve got some real gems:

–Entry-Level Personal Trainers: There have got to be no less than fifteen thousand trillion people who like working out and watching “American Ninja Warrior” in college and think “I should be a trainer!” I understand thinking that getting paid to work out is a decent gig, and being named to star in the “Rambo” remake probably isn’t in the cards, so becoming a trainer sounds logical. I believe these college kids, like most college kids, are forgetting about what the lower rungs of this profession entail. (How is there not a college course called “entry level jobs are ACTUALLY like this…”?)

Now I don’t know this because I don’t want to look it up or ask someone, but I imagine getting into the personal training game includes passing out resumes at local gyms. Do they include what they lift on their resume? Or, is it all looks based? I’m sure there are certifications that they need, but what differentiates Joey Triceps from Danny Deltoids when they both have the same certifications? I’m thinking it has to be A) Looks B) Looks C) Looks. Anyway, the gyms that these newbies are getting into have to be like the Planet Fitness’s of the world (IF YOU JUDGE, YOU’RE OUT!)

So they get hired either by Planet Fitness or like a suburban community center and they get paid BUPKISS to motivate creepy older people and high school kids to work out harder. The older people are definitely just looking for someone to talk to and look at for the hour of the day they’re outside of their house, and the high school kids are probably being made to go by their shithead parents. Next thing Danny Deltoids knows, he’s spending half his day apologizing to Esther about the treadmill buttons not having larger print. Or, he’s trying to get High School Ryan to stop checking his snapchat but he can’t get too mad about it because Ryan was bullied at school last week. “Hey Ryan, bud? Maybe put the phone down and hop on the elliptical? No, my tone wasn’t aggressive. Actually, is that a new filter? Oh cool bud! You’re doing great!” Then Ryan’s Dad comes in and is all like “why is my son still fat?” and Danny has to lie and not say “cuz he’s a lazy piece of shit.” Ryan’s Dad doesn’t buy any more sessions with you because he doesn’t believe in the “excuse business” and then it’s back to Esther’s bad eyes and wandering hands. If there’s a sequel to “Get Out”, I propose Danny Deltoids play the lead.

-Beer Delivery Drivers: Remember the last huge party you had when you lived with roommates? You guys bought a keg and then realized that you live on the third floor of a walk up…so….SHIT. It probably took you like an hour and a half, using 3 guys to move the keg up one stair at a time. By the time you got it into your dirty, ice-filled bathtub you couldn’t wait to tell your girlfriend how much your hands hurt. Now, imagine adding snow, a pissed off bar owner and rickety stairs to that equation…OH! AND IT’S ALL YOU DO ALL DAY EVERY DAY!

I’ve worked with these dudes and they’re basically superheroes in my eyes. Ever think about how a keg gets to the basement of your favorite dive bar? That staircase that you’d like a harness to just walk down? Yeah, beer delivery drivers finnagel a dolly like friggin’ wizards as they trek down a basically-verticle group of splintering stairs. I worked at a place like this and always had a new, genuine, tears-in-my-eyes apology ready for the driver when he was done delivering the kegs. Would he have just preferred me slipping him a five dollar bill? Doubtful. These apologies were guttural, the type you see at the end of rehab shows when their family comes to visit. “I just want you to know that I’m sorry and I value everything you do for me.”

-Movers: Hear this warning first; once you hire movers, you can never NOT hire movers again. So if you’re still in the post-college “pizza and beers?” phase of moving, then stay there. But, if you’re nearing 30, moving in with a spouse and your friends are no longer impressed by shitty pizza and cheap beer, hiring movers is a GAMECHANGER. The first time I hired movers, I literally filmed them on my phone like a DOUCHE because I was so amazed by what they could do. They had a dude who was like 130lbs, put our couch–OUR FUGGIIN’ COUCH GUYS!–on his back and trucked up the three flights of stairs like it was nothing. UN-FUCKING-BELIEVABLE.

Then, there was the second time I hired movers and they showed up to our apartment, looked around at all of The VP of Ops’ bullshit, and said “oh wow…all of this?” I so badly wanted to be the cool guy and say “nah, I’m lighting all her stuff on fire later cuz boys rule and girls drool, right?!?!” We’d all laugh and high-five and they’d be relieved and I’d probably save money but…ya know…The VP needs her hideous silver spray-painted side tables! Ha ha ha. (Veering off for a second, I dream of throwing like half of our furniture out when the VP is out of town and then convincing her that we got robbed and I was so so scared.)

But the movers don’t get to say they’re not carrying that. AND! They don’t get to show up to a place, realize that first floor is a STEEP first floor, that may as well be a 5th floor, and just turn around to leave. As a mover, aside from the sheer physical exhaustion associated with lugging shit up and down stairs, you have to be terrified every time you get to a place about what “surprises” you’re about to encounter. They’re never going to be happy surprises. More along the lines of “I swear that’s a wine stain on the mattress”-type surprises…and then they have to laugh a little and be like “yeah, wine is that bright red color, and I’m positive it’s not blood!” THEN! At the end of moving the murderers out of their walk-up, they’re given a lukewarm blue Gatorade that the murderers bought and then forgot to put in the refrigerator. “Oh thanks guys, I prefer my gatorade room temperature when it’s 97 degrees outside!”

Who’s feeling better about what they do? MONDAY’S GONNA BE GREAT!

MY WORLD:

Out of the blue, my sister texted our family chain asking for everyone’s favorite line from “Tommy Boy”. If you don’t really know me (like really really know me…and my deepest darkest secrets…) then you may not know that “Tommy Boy” is my all-time favorite movie. Hands down, not-a-joke, it’s number one. So now my day is gonna be kinda ruined because all I’m going to think about are my favorite lines from that movie. From the top of my head, here’s what I’ve got so far (DON’T HOLD ME TO THESE PLEASE! DEAR GOD, PLEASE! I’M TRYING MY BEST!):

“Hm, surprised you didn’t know that.”-Chris Farley to David Spade in the car about the “thin candy shell”.
“These shoes are Italian, they cost more than your life!”-Rob Lowe to Chris Farley after the cow-tipping escapades.
“I can put six packs of be–soda in here!”-Chris Farley freaking out to his dad about the mini-fridge in his office.
“Richard? Who’s your favorite little rascal? Mine’s SPANKY!”-Chris Farley after walking in on David Spade during that special time.
“I’ll just have a sugar packet or two.”-Chris Farley’s restaurant order after they refuse to make wings for him.

I’m going to need to work on this harder. I promise to report back in good time.

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

How I feel most Mondays…

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I was happy Patrick Reed won yesterday, but his shirt was all kinds of AWFUL…

Reed

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

So you saw the 5 guys who I picked in the blog last Thursday for the Masters…what you didn’t see is that I had $4.29 left in my account and my friend told me to bet on Jason Dufner and Patrick Reed. Thing is…I ONLY BET ON PATRICK REED! BOOM BABY! $4.29 last second bet on Reed scored me like $250. I am so stinking rich right now, guys. Does he have a punchable face? Yes. But, I wanted to kiss that face like a romance guy when he made that putt on 18. Remember when you all thought I was definitely not back? UHHHHH…..WRONGO, LOSERS! I. AM. BACK.

(My account currently at $256.83)

K bye.