Tag: music

I’m Throwing A Massive BLOWOUT Grown-Up Halloween Party

MY WORLD:

Are the days of fun Halloween parties over for me?  You know, the adult ones (wait…like “Adult”?) where everyone wears funny costumes and gets drunk together?  I think those are done for me and when that dawned on me the other night, I got sad in my head but didn’t admit it to The VP or The Warden (your 3 month old asked why you were pissy for no reason?)  So I’m coming here, to my chairblogthing, to say that I am sad that I think my days of fun grown people (better than “adult”, nice) Halloween parties are over.

Now look, I’m not asking for you to send me a “hang in there” text, but I’m going to allow myself to feel sad that the nights of getting bombed in a parrot costume are in my rearview.  Yes, I did once buy a $150 dollar parrot costume to wear while I was waiting tables, and then later that night when I went around bars in Chicago thinking some HotBabe5000 would see me in my parrot costume and go: “that guy must be funny and, therefore, I must make out with him!”  Not wanting to get bogged down in the details of whether that happened or not (it didn’t…not close, actually…just a grown man wearing a parrot costume living in the forever-friend-zone) I do remember that it was really fun.  AND I LOVE FUN! 

But now I live in Northbrook, a Chicago suburb where Halloween consists of tiny humans getting to dress up, while the larger humans are just there to chaperone and say things like, “say trick or treat!” or, “say thank you!”  This is Halloween now, for me, isn’t it?  Eventually taking The Warden around dressed up as something “ohmygod CUTE!” and reminding her to thank the strangers for putting a fun-sized DadsGonnaEatThisLater bar in her bag.  Say goodbye to the days of shots and cigs, and hello to the days of “I SAID STOP AT THE CORNER!”

Unless…(No….)

Unless someone in their mid-to-late thirties has the gall to stand for what is right…(why is everything going into slow motion?)

Unless that person is willing to say, “we may be in the suburbs, but our hearts are still in the city!”…(people are slowly standing up!  The bearded man has tears in his eyes!)

Unless ONE brave soul has the courage to look past the side-eyed glares coming from the parents who brag about not letting their kids watch television, stand up, and say:

“WE WILL NOT GO QUIETLY INTO THE NIGHT!  WE WILL NOT VANISH WITHOUT A FIGHT!  WE’RE GOING TO LIVE ON!  WE’RE GOING TO SURVIVE!  TODAY, WE CELEBRATE OUR INDEPENDENCE DAY GROWN-UP HALLOWEEN!” 

With my fellow party parents now chanting “ONE MORE YEAR!” I nod and snarl my nose a little before grabbing the imaginary microphone (everything is imaginary here, pal) like Leo in Wolf of Wall Street, and bellowing: “HALLOWEEN PARTY AT MY HOUSE!  NO KIDS ALLOWED!!!”

Folks, here’s what that party would feel like:

To gain entry, you would have to wear a costume and I would have the right to deny access to those wearing lame or unfunny costumes.  Why? Because nothing is worse than the guys trying to look cool in their Halloween costume.  You know the type: the strong guys who were “300” warriors, or the guys who dress as characters from “Yellowstone”, or the dopes who buy scrubs and a stethoscope.  If you’re a guy trying to look cool, you’re not getting in.  This year, you’ll spot these as the guys dressed up like Top Gun Tom Cruise.  THERE WILL BE NO FAKE TOM CRUISE’S IN MY SUBURBAN GROWN UP HALLOWEEN PARTY! 

Women? Meh, wear whatever you want.  I don’t care, you’re in. (When the VP asks what this is about, what are you going to say?) Honestly, I just don’t even notice other women when The VP of Ops is in the room.  What can I say? She’s the only woman I see!  No, but seriously, if you do try to make out with me because “god, that portly fella’ in the ladybug costume just radiates sex appeal” you can just call me on my burner phone to arrange something BUZZ OFF! 

Once you pass the douchebag test at the door, you will hear Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” and ONLY Michael Jackson’s “Thriller”.  Yes, it will be on a loop the entire night because that song rocks (cool word) and the rest of the Halloween songs are kinda’ dumb.  All of you “but, what about ‘Monster Mash’?!”-inbreds can go pound sand.  The singers of that song are using the voice you use when you’re trying to make fun of how a rich, uptight asshole sounds.  “It was a graveyahhhd smashhhh”.  Please, that song is a CERTIFIED GetAwayFromMe.

So, we’ve got “Thriller” just blaring, and you’re looking for the bar.  Uh oh!  Who’s that Ladybug doing the only part of the “Thriller” dance he knows?  Why, it’s me, Jimmy and as the host who boasts THEEEEEE MOST roast, it is my pleasure to make you a cocktail.  Just past the bowls of candy corn (don’t like candy corn? Good! More for this bug!) and blacklights and the big pots with dry ice smoke coming out of it (so spooooky) you will find my bar where I will make you any drink you can imagine as long as it’s beer!!! (Wait.). Help yourself to my fridge!  THIS WORLD IS YOUR OYSTER!  NO EXPENSE SPARED! (There are only dented Miller Lite cans in here.  How old are these?!)

What’s that? You found the liquor cabinet?  Oooooo, well that’s funny you say it’s locked because I specifically meant to leave it unlocked for ALL OF MY WONDERFUL GUESTS!  Excuse me while I “look” for the key and never talk to you for the rest of the party.  Because it’s Thriller!  IN. THE. NIGHT!

Alright, so we’ve got “Thriller” and any drink you can imagine (just old beer)!  This party is BUMPIN’!  What else we got?  Awwww sooky sooky now, is that pizza from Domino’s?  Nope!  It’s Little Caesar’s (oh.)  Fresh cocktail (beer, and not fresh) in one hand, delectable treat in the other, and surrounded only by funny costumes and cool vibes.  You’ll turn to your partner and ask, “am I dreaming?”  I know.  If this is heaven I…uh…wanna die!  I WANNA DIE!

While you and your partner debate just how concerning it is that the host of the party keeps yelling “I WANNA DIE!” , I’d like to point your attention to the flat-screen television (you don’t have to say flat-screen anymore, they’re all flat now.) where the late college football game is on: Stanford at UCLA!  Oh wow, UCLA is down by 18 points in the first quarter despite being undefeated, having a real shot at the College Football Playoff, and Stanford having one of the worst years in program history.  BOO!  It’s the Fat ManBug and I’m he has temporarily paused his “I WANNA DIE” screaming, to ask you a question, “do you have any drugs? Not the fun ones.  The scary ones.” BECAUSE IT’S HALLLOOOOWEEEEEN!  I am He is serious.

Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door and someone hired male strippers!  Wait…No no no.  These are just the hot guys trying to look cool who need to remember to only call me on my NEW phone number.  Not coming in.  Not here.  Breezing right past the crestfallen VP of Ops, you will encounter the game area of the party where everyone looks at Instagram, before holding up their phone and asking “have you seen this?”  Even if you haven’t, you’re going to say “yeah!” because few things are as awkward as watching a video on someone else’s phone while they’re holding it up waiting for you to laugh.  Classsssssic Halloween games? Uhhhhh THAT’S A 10-4!

Once you mosey on over to the couch, you’ll find people your age complaining about everything!  The skinny guy in the Iron Man costume will be whining about the cost of daycare, while the lady with the pencil mustache painted on-who nobody knows what the hell she is-reminds the skinny guy that once the kids reach school age, the costs of their travel sports teams is even more outrageous!  If you wish to stay in this VIP area, just make sure to talk about things you don’t like, but definitely cannot change.  Might I suggest, something in the realm of the oncoming winter weather and depressed we’re all about to be?!

This is my kinda’ party! 

Are you feeling what I’m feeling? (Are you the guy whose wife is holding your arm while saying “you didn’t even go to undergrad there!” through her gritted teeth?)  You know it!  That shweepy bloated feeling when 10 o’clock hits and you’ve had more than one beer, and all you want to do is put on your loosest sweatpants and drink alcohol without carbonation is upon us all!  (God there are a lot of exclamation points in here.).

THIS IS A 37 YEAR OLD’S GROWN-UP HALLOWEEN PARTY!

There.  Now, I’m actually looking forward to just walking around a neighborhood before stealing my kid’s candy when they go to sleep.  Aren’t you?

You’re welcome.

OUR WORLD:

In honor of Halloween coming up and me being a devoted CHUBBERINO, here are the Official 2022 Jimmyschair Halloween Candy Rankings:

  1. Snickers
  2. Peanut M&Ms
  3. Reese’s Cup
  4. York
  5. Butterfinger
  6. Kit Kat
  7. Twix
  8. Dots
  9. Baby Ruth
  10. Milky Way

1,000,000. Three Musketeers.  Be less interesting, I DARE YOU!

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I am not a scary movie/show person, and I’m not sure if this show is considered scary, but “The Watcher” on Netflix is super creepy, but not creepy enough for me to not like it.  God, that was worded horribly!  What I’m trying to say is, show good. Me likey. Me no likey scary.  Show scary little.  Still likey.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Both The VP and The Warden have Covid right now.  I had it a few weeks ago and cared about my wife and infant daughter enough to make sure neither of them got it.  In other news, did you hear The VP went to a Harry Styles concert last week?

MY BABY IS SO CUTE AND I LOVE HER SO MUCH MOMENT:

El Warderino was infected by The VP aka The Host sometime yesterday, but she still slept through the night.  When I went to wake her up this morning, even though she had a little fever, she still was super smiley when she saw me. 

MY BABY IS SO CUTE AND I LOVER SO MUCH, BUT…MOMENT:

After I woke her up this morning and she hit me with that megawatt smile, I realized that she had completely blown out her diaper with Covid poop (the Covid The Host VP infected her with?)

JIMMY GAMBLES:

Believe it or not, I’m actually on a heater gambling (don’t believe it.  I beg you! STOP READING NOW!) My college football picks for this weekend are: UCLA (+5.5), OK State (+6.5), Mississippi State (+21).

K bye.

Marriage Scorekeeping

MY WORLD:

Two Saturdays ago, I watched The Warden all day while The VP partied like a NASTY PARTY GAL IN THE CITYYYYYYYY DOING ALCOHOL AND DANCING AND HARDCORE DRUGS THAT SHE BOUGHT FROM A SKINNY GUY IN AN OLD YELLOW CAR!!!   I had a better time than her because, I don’t know, I love my daughter more than drugs.  Hey, that’s just me! (This your way of seeing if you can start a fight with a blog that brings in no money?) 

The Warden and I had watched college football all day because she just loves football OR she’s a tiny baby who can’t make decisions for herself on account of her not even being able to rollover, much less walk to another room to go watch a murder documentary (the second one.  It’s the second one).  I’d had two beers (responsible) and was about to have my third when The VP came in.  Surprisingly, she was not drunk and promised me that she didn’t buy hardcore drugs from a skinny guy in an old yellow car…but, we don’t have at-home drug tests and talk is cheap.  YOU DECIDE!    

As I left my Lying Wife and went for my third beer something absolutely horrific happened (you saw yourself in a mirror?!), as I reached the fridge: “I…I…don’t want to drink…” (Is there video evidence of this? Didn’t you drink beer in your car one time because you were in such bad traff-)SHUT UP!  Me not wanting a beer on a Saturday night during college football season (during all seasons) could only mean one thing…I was sick.  So I did the thing you do when you know you’re about to get sick but you don’t want to admit it; I sat on the couch in a pouty mood and didn’t really talk. 

Instead, I thought about how unfair life is.  How, I had happily watched The Warden jinx all of my college football bets while my Lying Wife “didn’t buy drugs from a skinny guy in an old yellow car.”  What should have happened is that I would have bankrolled enough points from this selfless, heroic effort that whenever I was invited to hang out with hot guys in the city, The VP would have to return the favor.  Not to mention, VP kinda’ owed me double because of her repeated refusals to send me pics of hot guys in the city that day.  (It’s a fair request and a malicious refusal.  HE LIVES IN THE SUBURBS NOW!  HOW ELSE IS HE SUPPOSED TO SEE WHAT HOT CITY GUYS ARE UP TO THESE DAYS?!?!)

But no.  Now, I was about to get really sick, and she was probably going to have to take the lead on caring for The Warden and I was going to be forced to cash in the points that I had just gained in every married couple’s favorite game, “who owes who what?”  Next time I go to church, the Priest better pack a lunch cuz I’m gonna need some fuckin’ answers.  “Question: if God exists, why would he make me pick all losers on a day I’m solo watching The Warden and then get me immediately sick?…No, I don’t think that could mean that I’m not living the way he wants me to.  I don’t think that at all—ya’ know, Father Marty, what makes you so great?  Huh? How many people have you married that are now divorced?  No, that is relevant!  JUST ANSWER THE FUCKING QUESTION!”  What I’m trying to say is that if God didn’t want me to say “fuck” in church, he shouldn’t have created the word.  I digress.

With my sickness snowballing into “you’re not going to want to drink for days”-territory, I went up to bed at 9PM on a goddamn college football Saturday.  However, wanting to grasp on to my points lead, I told The VP that I’d handle the middle of the night feeding (there are reports circulating that you then went upstairs and almost cried; can you confirm?).  She insisted that she could handle it, but I knew what she was doing and I wasn’t going to stand for it.  If I came down with a case of “dead,” I was gonna do that middle of the night feeding.  POINTS!  I DO IT FOR THE POINTS…and the love of my daughter…BUT MOSTLY THE POINTS!!!!

A few hours later, I woke up still sick (even after 4 whole hours?!) and still obsessed with hanging on to my points lead.  (Wait, he’s not going to actually risk getting his two-month-old sick so he can maintain a lead in a game that only exists in his mind, is he?)  You’re goddamn right I fed that little baby!  Chills and runny nose and sore throat and all, I popped that bottle into her mouth, looked right into the camera and reminded the world that I’M STILL THE CHAMP!!! KING KONG AIN’T GOT SHIT ON ME!!!

Then I tested positive for Covid.

Yet another VERY unchill thing for God to do to me.  Now, in my defense (the jury already hates you) I tested negative when I fed her.  Did I take the test after I fed her?  Huh?  Um, sorry I have a phone call I have to take.  I’m sorry I can’t answer that because I have to take this phone call.  It’s my stock broker advisor.  It’s important and complicated and business.(it’s me, you idiot. You took the test AFTER your snot faucet face hovered over the bottle she had no choice but to feed from.  But hey, I’m sure she didn’t mind.  Who wouldn’t want to be bottle fed by a sweaty, snotty chubbo unsuccessfully trying to hold in coughs?).

Only later that Sunday did I test myself again and test maybe the most positive anyone has ever been for Covid.  Instead of a line, my test actually bought a phone just so it could text me, “dude, you REALLY have Covid.”  And as sick as I was with a sore throat and chills and whatever nobody cares, I was more bothered by A) the guilt and B) the points I was about to give up to The VP.

Obviously, the guilt of wondering if I just gave CuteBabyAngelFace, who also does smugly jinx my college football bets, Covid was not the most fun idea to sit with.  Then, The VP and I had to have the talk where we decide how we want to handle me.  The theoretical plan, that we’d talked about in the past, was that we’d both shrug and be all cool like, “hey, everyone’s gonna get it, so business as usual!”  But, when we were faced with the actual decision of whether we wanted me fully around them, it wasn’t that easy.  After my idea of me renting an apartment in the city to “ask hot guys what they think” was rejected, we ended up settling on me wearing a mask whenever I was around them in the house, and The VP doing all of the feedings for The Warden. The Warden may need to be re-nicknamed Jimmy’s College Football Betting Jinx because that’s the only way to explain how he won ZERO of the bets he wrote about in the last blog post.

I will say between having a hard time swallowing, my head pounding, and my nose running, the VPs “I know I can’t be mad at you for getting Covid, but I’m mad at you for getting Covid”-face was probably my least favorite Coronavirus symptom.  I did discover, however, that being really sick and answering questions like, “how long do you think you’ll be sick?” is a quick way to see if someone has violent tendencies.  I am happy to report that while I did think of violence (blood), I did not act violently when I was repeatedly asked “how long do you think you’ll be sick?” 

Thankfully, it appears that both The VP and The Warden just instinctually plug their noses and hold their breath around me because neither ended up getting Covid (the baby’s turning blue!  TELL SMELLY JIMMY TO GO AWAY!!!) I am unhappy to report, however, that The VP ran the score up on our not real, but also VERY real game of “who owes who what?” The VP handled all of the feedings and cooked for us and didn’t complain and whatever whatever she’s a good wife and I love her don’t tell her whatever whatever. (Romance).

I survived Covid, but I lost so many points in marriage that I might as well be on a ventilator.  Guess I’ll never get to see what those hot city guys are up to nowadays…do they wear flannel?  Is “Gangnam Style” funny again?  Do they…do they even know who Psy is?

I’ll never know.   

OUR WORLD:

As you may have heard, I just got over Covid (nobody’s impressed anymore) and I’m doing a lot of the feedings for The Warden because I’m down ten million points in marriage.  As you can imagine, my brain energy is sapped with the weight of being a forever loser.  Thus, I’d like to present an Official Jimmyschair Ranking of “SEEMINGLY INSIGNIFICANT THINGS THAT MAKE ADULT MEN FEEL LIKE FOREVER LOSERS”

10). Not realizing that a beer bottle isn’t a twist off and trying to twist the cap off until your palm really hurts.

9).  Being asked by a friend if you’ve paid your property taxes and having no idea if you have or not.

8).  Eating a huge lunch on a weekday.

7).  Seeing your wife re-fold the towels that you just folded.

6).  Not being able to wear a watch because it gives your wrist a rash.

5).  Having to use an inhaler in public.

4).  The hat that you’ve been wearing all day somehow coming off and revealing your greasy hat hair.

3).  Getting heartburn after eating something that wasn’t even spicy.

2).  Giving another guy a bro-hug when he clearly was just doing a handshake.

1).  Putting a song on that you love and nobody saying anything about it even after you said, “I just love this song.”  

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you’re clearly right in a traffic argument and you end up next to the person who was wrong at a red light.  Is there anything better than looking at an idiot (who hopefully doesn’t have a gun) in the car next to you when you both know that they were wrong?

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When there’s not real food in the house, but you’re trying to not be wasteful, so you eat saltines and cheese slices until you can’t breathe.

MY BABY IS SO CUTE AND I LOVE HER SO MUCH MOMENT:

Getting her to smile while singing “Heyyyyy, sexy lady!” from Psy’s forever poignant 2012 superhit, “Gangnam Style.”

MY BABY IS SO CUTE AND I LOVE HER SO MUCH, BUT…MOMENT:

Her morphing into a world champion contortionist while trying to get her to finish the last ounce and a half of her bedtime bottle.  The other night it felt like I was legitimately wrestling with a two-month-old.  I even said “I ain’t goin’ NOWHERE!”

JIMMY GAMBLES:

Yes, I lost all of the picks that I made in my last blog post.  And then I got Covid.  So yeah, I think I was punished enough for that slate.  Unfortunately, I’m currently visiting family in a state right now that doesn’t allow me to gamble, so it looks like I won’t be gambling this week.  Which, in turn, means that it also looks like I will be in a bad mood that I can’t admit to this week.

K bye.

Sour Mood Remedies and Coming Clean to my Readers

MY WORLD:

I don’t know exactly why, but I’m in a sour mood today.  As the great Fred Durst sings in your Mother’s favorite ballad “Break Stuff” by Limp Bizkit, “it’s just one of those days, feelin’ like a freight train, first one to complain, leaves with a blood stain.”  (New father, ladies and gentlemen!  So pumped he’s in charge of a newborn’s wellbeing!)  And in the process of trying to come up with something fun (Yay!) and funny (DOUBLE YAY!) to write, I found myself getting bitchier and bitchier (Unfortunately, that means you are a certified bitch.)

Now I know all of the gooey “inspirational” Instagram people tell me that the remedy to my current case of get-the-fuck-away-from-me’s is to “go outside!  Get the sun on you!” (You follow ‘Liver King’ too?) Or to focus on what I’m thankful for, or to go sweat, or go lift heavy weights (Liver King again…I’m surprised the jobless, shirtless neanderthal isn’t leading you down the path to forever happiness!) I know the right things that I should do to shake this off, but I’d like to offer a counterpoint: what about the easy things I can and will do to distract myself from wanting to lie face down on my stairs for no reason?

EUREKA!

I give you, the Official Jimmyschair Non-Gooey Remedies to Being Pissed for No Reason That I Know Won’t Really Work:

Eating while standing.

Now this is one of my favorite past-times.  When you’re bored and in a sour mood and know you should be doing something productive, you aimlessly wander over to the cabinets just “to see what’s goin’ on in there.”   You’re honestly not even sure if you’re going to eat (you are), rather it’s more of a “I wonder if things that I don’t know that I want are now magically in here?”-expedition.  You’re not hungry, but you could eat.  What?  Well, you won’t know until you go through your cabinets slowly, maybe pop a saltine or six, grab a handful of pistachios, wait, what’s behind the popcorn?  Oh, thought it might be pretzels.  Nope, not pretzels.  “Hey Babe, there aren’t pretzels behind the popcorn!”  She didn’t ask, and you don’t call her ‘Babe’, but she should know about the dearth of pretzels.  Good on you for telling her.  Husband of the year.  She should appreciate you.  Does she?  She doesn’t appreciate you enough.  Wow.  Yeah, that’s some bullshit.  BACK TO THE CABINET DAMNIT!

Hmmm, so it seems as if the stuff in the cabinet is exactly the stuff remaining from the last time you went to Costco three weeks ago.  Okay, now we know that.  Check that off your checklist of things you absolutely did not have to do.

But what about the fridge?  Yes! Surely, something different has happened in the steel box that magically makes cold air!  Let’s check that out.  At first glance, it looks as expected, but these things are tricky, so let’s move the milk because there’s no way that those kalamatta olives—yep, the kalamatta olives ARE still there and you still don’t want to eat them.  Don’t throw them out, though.  Listen, just because you haven’t eaten or used them in years(?) doesn’t mean that you should go through the 7 second effort of taking them out of the refrigerator and putting them in the trash.  EVER HEAR OF STARVING CHILDREN?!?!

Clearly, the pull-out drawers are the crown jewel of the fridge.  These are the VIP suites of Castle Fridgerino and if you’re not taking a slice of cheese to see if that’s what will make you feel better, then you might as well get the “am I even human?”-test.  As you chew the slice of swiss cheese, your eyes continue to wander as your brain realizes that the holey cheese slice is not making anything better.  Whoa! How did a pickle jar make it in the pull-out?!?! BETTER TRY ONE TO SEE IF-

REMEDY VERDICT—“ARE YOU STILL IN A BAD MOOD”: Yes, and now you’re fatter too!

Scrolling through Twitter hoping to see someone smart tweeting about how “it’s still way too early to fairly judge [insert favorite struggling sports team’s most important player] Justin Fields,” or a BREAKING NEWS tweet about “Trump is going to jail and we’ll never have to hear from him again.”

When I’m really unsure of why I’m in a douchey mood, the easiest targets for me to unload on are the people commenting on the teams that I care about the most.  The Bears are the team that I care about the most and I am so goddamn tired of watching the same movie over and over again, that I DO NOT need to hear from the POSSIBLY right section of commenters who are telling me to stop having hope.  I know that it’s POSSIBLY the same movie again, but can I at least watch it with the sliver of hope that THIS is the time that it has a happy ending?  (You’re about to turn this into a full-throated Justin Fields defense, aren’t you?) Can we reserve judgement on a 2nd year quarterback, who has played TWO GAMES in a new system with dogshit weapons around him?  (You’re doing it.) These goddamn nerds who pay the $6/month to watch the All-22 on the dopey NFL app, think of themselves as experts because they SEE ONE GODDAMN PLAY WHERE HE DOESN’T HIT AN OPEN RECEIVER! 

I’M STILL IN ON FIELDS (You did it.  Just like you did with Trubisky.  I’m sure this time it’s different, though.)

And on the second point, wouldn’t it just be grand if I ran across a tweet that said Trump was going to jail because everyone finally agreed that he’s a lying crook? 

REMEDY VERDICT—“ARE YOU STILL IN A BAD MOOD”: Yep!

Going to buy essential groceries at Costco and spending an inordinate amount of time in the liquor section thinking “could I become a tequila guy?”

How do you know you’ve become Costco-fied?  When you run out of one or two items that you got there, and think to yourself “the way that you end up saving money over the long haul, is if you get all the little things at Costco only and not spend the extra $1.40 at the local grocery store.”  You tell yourself that you CAN go to Costco and spend less than $300 because you just need a few things.  And what better day to make a QUICK Costco run than the day you’re in a bad mood for no reason? (I hear the crowds and lines at Costco are deceptively calming!)

The big thing of Dunkin Donuts coffee grinds, chicken breasts, and paper towels.  That’s all you need on this trip, and the people that can’t get in and out of Costco as quick as you are, simply put, lower life forms than you.  Jimmy, you really are the best.  Look at you, not even stopping at the TV section.  Yeah, you see how big and bright and affordable they are, but you’re not stopping because you’re here for coffee, chicken, and paper towels.  Hey, they should put a speed limit on you in here because you are—wait.

Wait wait wait. 

The liquor aisle.

Jimmy, you know you’re going to drink.  And, how much gin do you have left from your upcoming Sunday gin-a-thon 500?  I mean…if you want to save over the long haul, you can’t beat the Costco liquor prices.  So yeah, I took a slight detour down the liquor aisle because you can’t beat these prices!  And no, I don’t think buying ONLY the hugest bottles when I buy my liquor means I’m having too much.  Excuse me!  EXCUSE ME! SORRY FOR BEING FRUGLE!

Let’s just see about the gin and…wait.

Wait wait wait.

Tequila bottles are cool.  You’ve seen those George Clooney and his hot friend on their motorcycles drinking the tequila ads.  You don’t drink Tequila, do you Jimmy?  You don’t drink tequila because you once passed out on a bathroom floor after taking tequila shots during a work party when you were 21?  Well dude, you’re 37 now and it seems as if aging guys with some gray hairs—LIKE CLOONEY AND HIS HOT FRIEND!—are drinking tequila.

Next thing I know, I’ve been holding an enormous tequila bottle for six minutes thinking to myself that if I start drinking tequila instead of beer, I’ll lose weight and get to say cool things to my friends like, “I’ve actually started drinking tequila.”  Thankfully, after another 4 minutes of playing that out in my tiny, dumb brain, I’ll realize that tequila and lime will give me heartburn and then I’ll have to eat a lot of Tums and, so should I go buy Tums while I’m here?  No, cuz I’m only here for…what am I here for?

Ahhhh fuck it, when you’re in Costco you might as well make the most of it.  I’ve already got this huge cart!

REMEDY VERDICT—“ARE YOU STILL IN A BAD MOOD”: Yes, and now you’ve spent $400 on meat and seafood that will require you to completely rearrange your freezer…you’re gonna love that!

Applying to the EasyApply jobs on LinkedIn that you think you’d love, but you have no shot at.

I love my current job and that’s not just because there’s a possibility that the people I work with, including my boss, can read this!   (Is that true?  Guys? Can we verify this?) I’M LIVING IN A DREAMWORLD!

But, I have seen women in cool business jeans, who make seven-figures a year, talk about how you should always be open to new opportunities.  They say “you’d be doing yourself a disservice” by not always being open or even looking for new opportunities, and who am I to ignore that kind of advice?  In fact, until my bottom half wardrobe contains more than stretch-waisted pants and shorts, I simply cannot justify ignoring the advice of women I don’t know wearing pants that don’t include elastic.  Hey, if I was super happy in my job would I be in a bad mood for no reason?  I highly doubt that people that like their jobs find themselves in a random bad mood!

So I’ll start scanning LinkedIn to make the ladies wearing real pants proud, and I’ll look for jobs that “feed my soul.”  Unfortunately, these jobs are creative jobs that I have no real experience in, but then I remember: it’s okay to dream!  (Lotta issues here.)  What’s the worst they could say? No?  Hell, I’m more familiar with the word ‘no’ than I am with the majority of my extended family.  BRING ON THE NO’S!!!

The “Content Writer” position for a company you’ve never heard of looks good, especially when you that in parentheses it says “Home”.  I get to stay home and write content!?! DREAM JOB ALERT!  But as I scan the rest of the posting (don’t lie, your eyes went here first) you don’t see the little blue “in” box signifying that it’s an “Easy Apply” position.  Which means….ugh….you’re going to have to upload a resume and….ugh…write a cover letter.  IT’S SUCH BULLSHIT THAT A COMPANY LOOKING TO HIRE A WRITER IS REQUIRING THE APPLICANTS TO WRITE A COVER LETTER! 

Screw that, yeah, I’m a dreamer, but I also have responsibilities!  Hello? I’m a father with a lawn to poorly maintain!  So sorry, but I only have time to click the “Apply” button for a job and answer a maximum of 6 easy questions if you’re looking for me to apply for your job.

REMEDY VERDICT—“ARE YOU STILL IN A BAD MOOD”: Yes because you know that the jobs on LinkedIn “EasyApply” aren’t real jobs and are just there to suck in the lazy morons like you to spend more time on the LinkedIn site.  At least you’ve confirmed yourself a moron now!

Putting something away.

(With a headline like this, it’s incredible that some site isn’t paying you to write for them!!!)  Pacing around the house trying to reconcile this inexplicable mood always leads to seeing something, anything out of place, angrily picking it up and putting it away while muttering “unbelievable,” to yourself while simultaneously shaking your head. 

For me, typically, it’s a pair of socks that I took off the night prior while watching TV with the VP of Ops.  You see, she and I both love when I take my socks off on the couch, and then stash them between the couch cushions instead of bringing them upstairs to the laundry hamper.  Why do we love that? Because the next day, we get a “hey, those are Jimmy’s dirty socks from last night”-surprise when we sit on the couch!  It’s great because it makes both of us hate me at the same time.  If that’s not marital bonding, I don’t know what is!

Buuuuuut, that next morning when you see them, and angrily march them towards your upstairs hamper, there’s a chance that these misplaced dirty socks are the true source of my inexplicable mood.  In fact, the angrier you act towards your own laziness, the greater chance there is of exorcising these foreign morning demons.  Right?

REMEDY VERDICT—“ARE YOU STILL IN A BAD MOOD”: Yes.  Plus, since spiking your socks in your bedroom hamper, you’ve also realized that it’s time to do laundry, but the only empty hamper you have in your room is the one with the broken handle.

GODFUCKINGDAMNIT!

OUR WORLD:

I’ve been avoiding it, but I care about the nine people that read this blog too much to not come clean…I’m out on “House of the Dragon”.  (Gasp! Nobody cares.) I know what I wrote about giving it six episodes, and that I wrote that the third one actually roped me back in, but 1) I’m a liar, and 2) I guess that third episode didn’t rope me back in. 

The more I thought about that third episode, the more I came to the conclusion that it wasn’t as good as I wanted and needed it to be.  The last two Sundays, when I told the VP that there was a new “House of the Dragon” on, she gave me the “I will definitely fall asleep during it, if you put that on later”-face.  And I don’t blame her!  We gave that show more than a full feature-length movie’s worth of time to rope us in, and sorry, it didn’t! 

Ask yourself this question: if you watched a three hour movie, and at the end didn’t really like it, would you go see the sequel that was coming out the next week?  Probably not.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The new Death Cab for Cutie album, “Asphalt Meadows”, is fantastic.  Yes, I’m biased, but this album sounds like vintage Death Cab, with melancholy lyrics and tinny guitars.  I don’t know the technical term for why their guitar parts sound like they do, but the word that popped into my head was “tinny”.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The VP and I started watching the new season of “The Voice” last night.  And you know what? I really love that show.  Especially the early episodes, it’s fun to talk about who you like and why and make fun of the dumb shit Gwen Stefani is wearing.  (Isn’t this section supposed to be about hating something?) BUT! It’s hard to get into a singing competition show that has been on for 20 SEASONS and hasn’t produced one star that I can think of or remember.  I googled “Most Famous Winners of The Voice” last night and got a bunch of names and faces of people that even their parents forgot about. 

MY BABY IS SO CUTE AND I LOVE HER SO MUCH MOMENT:

The Warden doesn’t rest on my shoulder.  Instead, she claws, and grunts, and squirms while trying to climb up my chest.  She sounds like a grunty tree frog with an unquenchable thirst for the freedom beyond my shoulder.  As The Warden claws at my collar, and tries to shadow swim up my chest, I get a real kick out of faking her voice to say: “I will reach that window just past your shoulder! And I will open that window and ESCAPE TO THE FREEDOM I SO RIGHTLY DESERVE!!!”

MY BABY IS SO CUTE AND I LOVER SO MUCH, BUT…MOMENT:

Ya know, the crying sucks.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I went 2-3 in my college football picks that I gave out last week, but no, I do not wish to speak about the Nebraska moneyline pick that I was so excited to sprinkle.  I will be back ahead of this weekend’s slate of games with another 5 picks, but at least now you know what to expect with my picks.  (We do! They’re not that good and the reasoning behind them is flawed!)

K bye.

All-Time Best Comedies and Fat Jimmy

OUR WORLD:

What happened to big, star-studded comedies that were there just to make you laugh and not ALSO have some sort of ending or gimmick that kinda’ made you wanna cry or jump in front of a big fast train?  The Will Ferrell comedies.  The Adam Sandler movies.  The Chris Farley flicks.  Hell, is Sacha Baron Cohen even alive anymore?

Yes, I know Sacha Baron Cohen is alive, but he’s doing the thing where he’s proving that he’s a more well-rounded thespian by doing some dramatic television series that I think one person in my life said was “alright.”  COOL SACHA!  Or Steve Carrell?  What, you’re only allowed to do movies where you play anything OTHER than a funny person?  WE GET IT, YOU’RE MORE THAN BRICK TAMBLIN!  Sandler lost his nerve when he had kids so now all we get are dumbass Netflix movies for small humans with tiny brains or him proving his acting chops by playing some strung-out gambling addict?  Don’t even get me started on Ben Stiller.  DON’T EVEN GET ME STARTED ON Ben “I’ll Only Be In This Movie if it Involves A Failed Marriage and Me In Corduroy” Stiller.

Seth Rogan made a superhero movie and “my friend has cancer now”-movie.  Jonah Hill is allergic to being anything other than artsy now, and Jim Carrey has become a full-time Trump troll (don’t hate that career move btw…)  Todd Phillips went from making “The Hangover” to writing and directing “Joker”.   It’s not like you see dramatic actors trying to prove that their comedic geniuses.  Is Christian Bale about to shock all of us by starring in a buddy cop movie where he has a silly haircut and a lisp?  DOUBTFUL!  Did I miss the trailer for Denzel Washington’s new movie, “My Betchy Dad!”

Now, I don’t know if all of these actors had a secret “let’s not do comedy anymore”-meeting in the refrigerator section of a Home Depot, BUT it has been A WHILE since we’ve since a big, goofy comedy.  Without googling, try to think of the last all-caps COMEDY that you saw.  I’m not talking about dramedy either, so don’t give me “The Big Sick”—which, yes, was funny but…ultimately, set in a hospital dealing with super heavy issues that I, personally, am looking to escape when I choose to watch a comedy.  (Side rant, does anyone ever have this thought when deciding to watch a comedy: “I’m really overwhelmed with coronavirus, and Trump, and all the civil unrest, and my job being completely different than it was 3 months ago so I’d like to watch a comedy.  However! That I’d like that comedy to involve something heavy…yes! Like cancer!  Cancer comedy, sign me up!  Wait, is there a comedy involving a drug addict who may be on the verge of killing himself?  TOUGH DECISIONS!) 

Okay, you’ve had time to think now…it’s “Bridesmaids”, isn’t it?  The last COMEDY movie whose main purpose was to make you…uh…BIG LAUGH, was “Bridesmaids”.  And did you know when “Bridesmaids” came out? 9 FUCKING YEARS AGO!

So what happened to movies like “Ace Ventura”, “Old School”, “Billy Madison”, “Nutty Professor”, “Superbad”, “Knocked Up”?  I’m genuinely curious why we have totally steered away from making movies like this.  The first thought that pops into my head is that comedians got a little scared of offending a bunch of people and so they veered into genres that aren’t reliant on some form of shock value.  I’m sure the superhero boom didn’t help movies like this.  Maybe American society just had so much great comedy for so long that we unknowingly put out “can we get more murder content?” vibes into the creative world.

Whatever the reason, I fucking miss a big, dumb comedy movie.  Last night, while The VP of Ops listened to her “Catty Girls Talking About Brutal Murders In Graphic Detail” podcast in the other room, and I debated diving back into “Ozark”, I felt compelled for some lighter fare.  Who knows, maybe something that in this HISTORICALLY DARK TIME could…I don’t know…make me laugh?  And after trying to find a new comedy that I hadn’t seen before, then maybe something that’s at least recent AND FINDING ZILCH, I settled on “Eastbound & Down”.  (If Kenny Powers doesn’t make you laugh, I’ve got nothing for you. Nothing. Ever.) 

After a few 26 minute episodes, I started thinking about my favorite comedies and then I went to sleep because I knew what I was going to write this morning was such an important topic that I needed to sleep on it, before I held it up for the world to see.  (Cue the “Lion King” music where the baboon geezer or whoever holds up Simba to the animal kingdom crowd and then you hear “THE CIRCLE OF LIFE!  AND IT MOOOOVES US ALL!”)   

Human kingdom, here are the Top 5 COMEDIES* of All-Time:

*Remember, these are solely FUNNY movies that don’t involve cancer, or aids, or scenes with people who have scars on their wrists.

  1. “Tommy Boy”

Big Scene That Kills:  When Farley is in the office on one of his first “sales calls” and he asks the guy whose office it is if he can use his toy car for a demonstration about Callahan break pads.  You can hear Farley’s voice in your head saying “Oh my god!” and “New guy puking in the corner!” and “Here comes the meat wagon!”  The way that Farley does the siren sound in this scene is how I have made police siren sounds ever since.

Smaller/Overlooked Part That Also Kills:  When Farley first gets the job from his Dad at Callahan.  His Dad shows him to his new office and the thing Farley freaks out about most is his mini fridge.  “You can put 6-packs of bee—Soda in here!”  Brian Dennehy cutting him off Farley listing everything he could put in the fridge with “Anything, you want to keep cold.”

  1. “Superbad”

Big Scene That Kills:  The part that my brain immediately goes to is when Jonah Hill tries to buy alcohol and starts fantasizing about potential scenarios.  “Hope Piggy can ruuun,” is definitely something I said under my breath when around a security guard.  Then the old lady in the fantasy saying “Enjoy fucking Jules!” and Jonah responding with a giddy, “I will!”  And then finally with the security guard slitting Jonah’s throat with a broken bottle before we see him return to the parking lot empty handed.

Smaller/Overlooked Part That Also Kills:  In gym class soccer when Michael Cera is given shit for not really trying by a classmate, and he responds, “It’s soccer.  It’s soccer.”

  1. “Anchorman”

Big Scene That Kills:  It has to be the scene where Ron is calling Veronica trying to get her to leave San Diego so he can go back to being the anchor.  Ron posing as her doctor, Chim Ritchels: “And guess what? You got knocked up”…”You saw me, you don’t remember.”

Smaller/Overlooked Part That Also Kills:  When Paul Ruud is waiting on the Panda to give birth and he gets pissed and calls the Panda “Pandajerk!”

  1. “The Wedding Singer”

Big Scene That Kills:  It’s a minor role, but Steve Buscemi’s best man speech is one of my all-time favorite comedy scenes.  “I’ve always been the screwed up one, right dad?”  “Why can’t you be more like Harold?  Harold would never beat up his landlord.  Little newsflash pop, Harold ain’t so perfect.”   “Best man! The Better Man! Before Hitting the drums and playing the guitar “Cuz I’m the best guitar player in the world! Self taught! No lessons, thanks Pop!”  I have used the “Best man! The Better Man!” line so many times throughout my life that I know believe that is is mine.  I own that line.  Seriously, if you want to use that line you need to ask for permission from me.

Smaller/Overlooked Part That Also Kills:  When Sandler goes off-stage and his back-up singer comes in to sing “Do you really want to hurt me?” and we just hear a huge, burly voice from the back growl “YOUUUU SUUUUUCKK!!!!”

  1. “Wedding Crashers”

Big Scene That Kills:  The football scene has Vince Vaughn, Owen Wilson, AND Bradley Cooper firing on all cylinders.  Cooper yelling at his friend for not anticipating the rush.  Vince Vaughn writhing in pain on the ground saying he can’t breathe.  Owen Wilson getting pissed that Vaughn is making them “look like a bunch of pussies”.

Smaller/Overlooked Part That Also Kills:  When Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn go quayle hunting and Wilson says, “I don’t even know what the fuck a quayle is!”

MY WORLD:

I have put on weight.

Didn’t we all agree when the quarantine went down that we were all dealing with enough stress and negative thoughts that we could eat or drink whatever we wanted?  I feel fucking duped by everyone who made a “Quarantine Fifteen!” joke, and that’s a feeling that won’t be easy for me to get over.  Because I make jokes that I really feel and am experiencing.  I WAS inhaling cookie carbs like a Roomba after taking a gravity bong hit.  I WAS drinking the way people eat on Thanksgiving, “A little of this, some of that, a dash of-“

And now I’m pulling my t-shirts when I put them on so they don’t hug my new love handles while out in public.  (What a fun new routine!) 

It’s just total and complete bullshit that being in shape before doesn’t guarantee that you’ll be in shape forever.  (Remind everyone, Jimmy…now…DO IT!)  I RAN A GODDAMN MARATHON!!! (LET ‘EM KNOW!)  26.2 MILES!!!  (SCREAM IT FROM THE ROOFTOPS!)  I’VE GOT THE FUCKIN MEDAL HANGING FROM MY OFFICE WALL FOR ANYONE WHO WANTS TO SEE IT!

And now, not even 7 years later, the only shorts that fit me are the ones made out of mesh?  Does The Chicago Marathon have a manager I can speak to about this?

Anyway, now I’m doing a fucking dumb diet and running again and my whole body hurts and I swear to god, if this weight doesn’t come off QUICK, I’ll just commit to being a “big guy.”  Until then, however, because I’m such a nice and honest person, I’ll keep you updated on my progress.

INITIAL “GREAT, NOW I HAVE TO DIET” WEIGHT:  202.6 lbs.

LAST WEIGH-IN:  200.8 lbs.

P.S.

Dear Bread,

I’ll never not love you.

Forever Yours,

Jimmy

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Getting out of your car that you parked away from everyone in the parking lot, getting almost to the front door of the grocery store, and realizing you left your mask on the dashboard.  The new “wallet, phone, keys” pocket-check now must include checking for your mask.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

 

K, bye.

Sports Documentaries & Strolls Down Memory Lane

MY/OUR WORLD COMBO: 

Let me get my sea legs back before you start judging me again. Admittedly, I’m very out of writing-shape…

Is becoming obsessed with watching documentaries a natural part of aging?  Are cool 17 year-old dudes who just got home from lifting in their friends’ garage, DURING A FREAKING PANDEMIC, asking their Mom’s to remember to DVR the Lance Armstrong documentary?  (Yes, there are a group of dudes who lift in a garage down my block and…would I be forever honored if they invited me one time? Sure. Is that so wrong?  IS LIFTING WEIGHTS WITH SOME COOL GUYS SO WRONG?!?!) 

Somewhere around the debut of “30 for 30”, or getting married, or realizing that saying I watched a documentary was as close as I could get to saying I read a book, I decided that documentaries were worth more than the average flick.  Maybe there just aren’t a ton of television shows you can watch and then brag about what you “learned” afterward.  “Last night’s Vanderpump Rules really taught me that doing cocaine in your late 30s just makes a person look like a sweaty lunatic.”

Or maybe, the more likely reasoning behind our new documentary obsession, is that it’s fun to relive the parts of your life that were happening parallel to some memorable national or local storyline.  (Is he done with this pseudo-philosophical rant, yet?  I know it’s been a while since he last wrote, but Jesus Christ GET TO THE FUCKING POINT!)  For those like me, constantly looking for a documentary to watch, I’ve got some quick takes on ones I’ve seen recently.  However, because I’m one spicy baby, I’m going to give you an insight into the parts of my life I got to relive while watching said documentary.  Hopefully, this will give you a better appreciation for what The VP of Ops has to deal with.  (What if this makes me really jealous of The VP of Ops, though?  Like, should I tell her how lucky she is to live with such a cerebral individual who pulls off the jeans and sandals look better than a 90s GAP model?!?!) 

THE LAST DANCE: DA MICHAEL JORDAN DOC

We all agree that we don’t need fancy names for documentaries, right?  Like, everyone just calls it “The _________ doc” no matter what the title is, right?  When you were talking to your friends about “The Last Dance”, there’s no way you weren’t just calling it “The Jordan doc” or “The Bulls doc”.  Great.  Just had to establish that.

Every once in a while, a movie or show or documentary comes along where you are POSITIVE it’s going to be great.  (Nacho Libre!)  The first few that come to my mind are: “The Dark Knight”, “The Departed”, and “Old School”.  Once you see the trailer, it’s a LOCK that, that movie is going to be awesome and you’ve already gotten defensive just thinking about anyone who would disagree with you.

That was The Jordan Doc.  Going into it, I was salivating at the thought of The VP saying ANYTHING the least bit critical of this doc.  There could’ve been an episode entitled “The One Where Michael Jordan Talks About How Much He Hates Women From Mississippi” and I would’ve shot The VP my patented “Don’t Say Anything Negative About Michael Jordan”-glare.

Fortunately, there was not an episode centered around Michael Jordan hating where my wife is from. (Phew!) Instead, there was the Michael Jordan version of everything that happened during the most engaging run the NBA has ever seen.  Spare me the takes about what Jordan embellished or, fuck even lied about, because who cares?  We all know what happened.  What we didn’t know was how Jordan’s mind worked while it all happened.  An insight into the mind of the most charismatic athlete of our generation?  Yeah, I guess that sounds FUCKING INCREDIBLE.

And it was.  How do you become the best basketball player of all-time?  When I was a kid, I’d watch Jordan in a game, and then go out into the driveway and shoot, and run towards the hoop like I had a shot in hell of dunking, and then go back inside and tell my parents that what I really needed was his newest pair of shoes if I wanted to play like Mike.  If only I had been able to watch this when I was a kid, I would’ve known that all I had to do was to manipulate any situation into a deeply personal challenge that was worth DYING FOR to overcome.  (Like that time The VP told you that chicken you grilled was “good” but you knew the way she said “good” meant it wasn’t that good?  And then you used that slight to motivate you to open up a Michelin-starred restaurant that you called “Still Think It’s Just “Good” Chicken NOW?!?!?!”)

MEMORY LANE STROLL DURING THIS DOC:

The most exciting time in my life was when Jordan began practicing with the Bulls again after his first retirement.  He hadn’t decided to come back yet, but there were news reports everyday about how his car was parked in the Bulls parking lot, and how he was practicing with the team.

I remember I’d run upstairs so I could watch the local news talk about this possible Jordan return on my shitty antenna TV.  When the TV would get fuzzy, I’d gently adjust the rabbit ears while saying prayers to God that sounded something like, “Dear God, please let me see Alison Rosati throw it to the Channel 5 field reporter standing in front of the Bulls practice facility!”  Every 5PM local news felt like a potential Christmas morning where the best present EVER was possibly under the tree.

Finally, that present came in the form of a fax that said “I’m back.”  Even now, the thought of those words makes me want to wake up jump on my bed and wake up my smelly wife while yelling “He’s back!!!!”

LANCE:  DA LANCE ARMSTRONG DOC

This followed up the Jordan doc in ESPN’s “Is This a 30 for 30?” doc-series, and I went in ready to dunk on anyone who wasn’t a Lance fan going into it.  Pre-conceived notions are the best!  (Try singing Aerosmith’s “Sweet Emotion” but substitute “Preeeeeee-conceived notions” because that’s just what I did and I want you to UNDERSTAND MY LIFE!)  A guy raised hundreds of millions of dollars for cancer research and inspired generations of people with the scariest disease you can get, but we have to hate him because he lied about taking drugs in a sport where…everyone lied about taking drugs?  What was I missing?  (Nothing.  You never miss anything, Jimmy.  You’re so smart and aware.)

And then…this thing happened where I watched the documentary and started having these “Uh oh”-thoughts. Like, when his first coach was talking about how much of a dick Lance was.  Or, when he left his first wife pretty soon after they had their first kid.  Or, when multiple teammates of his talked about how they were never given a chance to compete because everything was about supporting Lance.  Or, when his former team trainer talked about how Lance tried to ruin her life for telling a story about how she saw him use ‘roids… And “Uh oh, Lance is kind of a dick.”

Thankfully, I watched this alone, so I didn’t have to defend my Preeeeee-conceiveeeeeed notions.  If, like me, you think that overcoming cancer, raising HUNDREDS OF MILLIONS of dollars in cancer research (HUNDREDS!), and inspiring countless people who are fighting CANCER(!), gives you a free pass to act however you want in all other areas of your life, this doc puts that to the test!  I still think that the good heavily outweighs the bad with Mr. BikeMan, but get ready to cringe a few times and look over your shoulder scared someone is going to ask, “you still think that guy is a good guy?”

MEMORY LANE STROLL DURING THIS DOC:

Who didn’t have a Livestrong bracelet?  I remember the Livestrong bracelet led to a SERIES of unfortunate jewelry choices on my part.  I felt so cool and good about the yellow band, that I thought, “what’s better than one rubber band?” So I started wearing like 5…on each wrist…Then, THAT snowballed when I saw the lead singer of Coldplay wearing like 200 thin bands around his wrists.  (No Jimmy…don’t say that you…)  So I bought the exact bands Chris Martin was wearing and wore like 100 little bands around my wrists for a while! Like, more than a month!

Here’s a piece of advice that I wish ANYONE IN MY LIFE had given me when I was going through the “wear as much shit around your wrists”-phase of my life: Just because one of the biggest rockstars in the world looks cool in something, doesn’t mean YOU will cool in that same thing.  Especially when you’re a waiter who hasn’t had a girlfriend in over 4 years.

YIIIIIIIIKES!

LONG GONE SUMMER:  DA MARK MCGWIRE AND SAMMY SOSA DOC

I’m not going to lie to you because that’s the thing you write before you say something that’s somewhat revealing and/or surprising: I watched like 7 minutes of this doc.  (Honey?  Today’s Jimmyschair has a review about a documentary he hasn’t even really watched.  Make sure you don’t miss it!)  Unlike the Jordan doc, Da Sosa Doc had the feel of a surefire terrible movie from the start.  Like, you saw the trailer and thought you were in because that was a fun baseball summer, but then you woke up sweaty later that night and yelled, “I BET THEY’RE NOT EVEN GOING TO TALK ABOUT STEROIDS THAT MUCH!!!”

And from everything that I heard, they didn’t, and it sucked, and I’m happy I didn’t try to convince The VP that it would actually be good.  (What’s worse than standing up for a movie that your spouse doesn’t want to watch, only to have it be horrible?)  In case you haven’t heard similar things, now is when I suggest you listen to me and SKIP THIS DOC!

MEMORY LANE STROLL DURING THIS DOC:

The only Cubs game my Mom brought me to where it was just her and I, was during this home run derby summer.  She brought me to the game where Sosa hit his 60th homer (I think? Don’t google it and point out that he hit his 60th on the road or something…JUST GO WITH THIS)  If it wasn’t his 60th, it was somewhere around there because Wrigley went absolutely BONKERS when he hit it.  One of those few times I remember being at Wrigley and having a great time BEFORE booze was involved in these trips.

After watching an entire Cubs game in Wrigley SOBER (should a documentary be made about me?) my Mom and I got onto the train home and ended up sitting across from my little brother’s Godfather, Kevin.  What I didn’t know at the time is that Kevin was enjoying this game in the A.B. column and Kevin was BLITZED OUT OF HIS MIND on this train.  I remember wondering why his face and eyes were so red and why he couldn’t really talk.  My Mom covered it up pretty well because I didn’t think about him being hammered until recently, when I realized that almost everyone over the age of 19 leaves Wrigley not being able to walk or talk.

And now that a lot of my friends have kids, and I still don’t, I’m thinking that I may be on the Kevin path…Where my friends’ wife is going to have to lie to her kids about why Uncle Jimmy couldn’t talk that one time they saw him on the train.  Please, just tell your kids “he’s had a hard life.  Give him a break.”

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you cook chicken breast and it actually doesn’t taste like the most bland bullshit ever.  We used some Trader Joe’s rub on chicken breasts last night because I’ve gotten PUDGY and I didn’t hate them!  But, you know what I do hate?

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

That thing that I just wrote about the chicken breasts.  Jesus Christ was that boring and lame AND I HAVE NO PERSONALITY ANYMORE NOW THAT I LIVE IN THE SUBURBS.  I LIVE A LIFE OF BLAH!!!!!!

HERE’S A SONG I LIKE:

I’m Still Married!

OUR WORLD:

How many more times are people going to write the “Exercise is the Best Distraction!” article during quarantine?  We get it, working out is good for you.  Yet these writers and trainers and celebrities wearing sports bras and cool jogging pants, can’t wait to share this “discovery” with anyone who has a pulse.  You might as well write an article entitled “Shooting Yourself in the Head Does Not Increase Life Expectancy”.

I do hope that this HISTORICALLY SIZED ordeal leads to a more empathetic and compassionate society, but…can we not turn into dopes who nod at every BLATANTLY OBVIOUS suggestion thrown our way?  If the only people outside of our family that we’re directly interacting with are Peloton trainers named Hannah, I’m worried we’ll all become amateur motivational speakers who confuse ambiguous platitudes with wisdom.  Yes, I checked dictionary.com to make sure I was using ‘platitudes’ correctly and that’s exactly the kind of unfiltered honesty we need right now!  That’s why you’re here!  That’s why I’m here!  THAT’S WHY WE’RE IN THIS RIDE TOGETHER NOT ALLOWING OUR INNERSELVES TO TELL US TO STOP RIDI–Wait.  Did you…Did I…Jesus Christ you guys, I’m starting to talk like Peloton Hannah.

Yes, exercise is the best distraction right now.  I’m not arguing that because I agree with it and because I bought an exercise bike and the Peloton app and I really wanted to tell you that.  BUT! How about some real-life, salt of the earth, HONEST other “best” distractions? Remember, the point is to distract your brain for the sake of your mental health.  Let’s bend the rules a bit, and prioritize honesty, shall we?

GETTING IN ARGUMENTS ABOUT SOMETHING SMALL AND BRINGING IN PAST DISAGREEMENTS AND OTHER UNRELATED ISSUES TO MAKE IT BIGGER

(Right when I started to write this section, I took WAY too big of a bite of a banana and now I’m thinking that mondo-sized banana bites are a top-tier corona distraction…PUSH PAST THIS, JIMMY!  DIG DEEP!)

Allow me to paint a picture:  You’re cooking dinner for your sweet, sugar baby on a Tuesday night.  Seasoning raw chicken with your bare hands is gross but you do it because you love your cutie pie, sugar baby.  Cutting vegetables you aren’t even excited about eating with a purple knife that isn’t sharp enough.  Talking yourself out of adding potatoes to round the dish out because you’ve eaten 6.7 pounds of pretzel rods over the last 36 hours.  “All I really want is chicken and vegetables,” is ALWAYS a lie, but it’ll make you both feel superior to the rest of the world for one meal, so that’s the plan.

Midway through prep, cleaning while you cook so the love of your entire life doesn’t have to lift a finger even afterwards, you notice an old paper grocery bag has reappeared…next to your newly purchased $100 garbage can.  You’ve seen this arrangement before, but she vowed to retire it once you agreed to the $100 stainless steel trash can purchase.

“Sweetheart?  What is this?”

“What is what babe?”

(Now with a hint of an edge) “This,” you say as you remain “calm”, but point.

She lets out an audible sigh (aka the couple fight’s starting whistle) and heads over to the kitchen.  When she arrives to see her HUNK of a husband standing in place while pointing at a paper bag on the ground, she knows what he’s pointing at, but MUST ask once again.

(With a distinctly annoyed tone) “What?”

This is where the fight begins and GOOD GOD is it a delicious distraction!  As you smack your lips in anticipation, remember NOT TO HOLD BACK!  NOW IS NOT THE TIME TO SLOW DOWN! (Peloton Hannah would be so proud!)  Nope!  Bring up the thousands of makeshift “grocery bag garbage cans” you’ve had to clean up in all of the years you’ve been together.  Make special mention of how now that you live in the suburbs, you can’t simply throw an open bag into a dumpster, before reminding her of the SOLEMN OATH that she took the day you agreed to put your CC # in the space below the ONE HUNDRED GODDAMN DOLLAR GARBAGE CAN SHE PICKED OUT ON LOWES.COM!

Was it an honest, no-big-deal mistake on her part?  A thoughtless, harmless error?  Uh, that doesn’t fucking matter, guys.  We’re trying to preserve our mental health by engaging in “distractions.”  So dig in, embrace your initial testosterone fueled reaction, and say something grand, like, “It’s fine, I’ve just resigned myself to having to pick up random trash bags wherever you feel like setting one up FOR THE REST OF MY GODDAMN LIFE!”

This is when she’ll be sure to point out that you are overreacting.  (Thanks Sherlock!)  And, like she’s reading the line from a script that never had a chance of being bought, she drops a “calm down” like the sledge-hammer those two words are.

Your move Jack!

“Oh, calm like you?  Like how you were the first time you met my ex?  Okay, yeah, I’ll be calm like you!”

And boom, enjoy the next few hours of not having every thought in your brain begin with, “wait, when was the last time I washed my hands?”

ROAD RAGE

If you haven’t been on the highways during quarantine, you are missing an opportunity to fear for your life from something other than THE INVISIBLE ENEMY.  Nope, on these roads the enemy is very visible, in the form of a 2009 Nissan Altima with tinted windows that just swerved in front of you going 97MPH in a driving rain.  THIS IS WHAT WE TRAIN FOR!!!!

Normally, the move would be to throw that invisible frisbee through the roof of your car and blurt out a panicked “Jesus!” before calming down by talking to yourself about how there should be an IQ test to get your license.  But not now.  This ain’t normal times!  Now, you should speed up a little.  Maybe even a lot, while laying on the horn.  Widen your eyes, open your capillaries and allow the rage to coarse through your entire body.

Do you have a gun?  Wave it!

Now, because it’s an Altima, you’re not going to want to pull even with it.  Let’s be real, Nelson and his Tinted Windowed Nissan ALSO has a gun.  But, he’s not going to be able to shoot you if you stay behind him.  So that’s all you have to do.  Get close enough to where this piece of human waste for driving faster than he should, can see you doing the Macarena with a pistol in his rearview.  THAT’LL TEACH HIM!

On the off off off chance that a cop pulls you over, just explain to him that you were looking for a worthy enough distraction to preserve your mental health, and Nelson’s Nissan was the exact tonic you were searching for!  If that doesn’t work (which it most certainly will not) well then you’re fucked and will probably be brought into the Police station.  But, if you’re charged with whatever people are charged with for waving firearms while driving, at least you’ll have something other than your last meal to talk about on your next Zoom call.

ZOOMING IN ON EVERY PICTURE TEXTED TO YOU TO FIND, AND CALL OUT ANY IMPERFECTIONS

In this one group chat I’m in, any time someone sends a picture, the rest of us zoom in on every other part of the picture that’s not THE FOCUS of what the sender intended.  Picture of their kid holding up a book?  We’re all frantically zooming around the rest of the frame looking for something…anything…that doesn’t look the way that it should—GOT IT!

“What’s with this?” is sent right below a zoomed in screen shot of a beer can in the upper right corner of said picture.  This will be followed by a barrage of hyper-critical texts along the lines of: “Wow, drinking already?” “Does your wife know you’re drinking?” “How many is that?” “When’s the last day you didn’t have 9 beers?” “Mix in a water!”

Before Dad of The Year knows it, his innocent baby picture has turned into a shame fest, devolving from sarcastic jabs, to pleas to change the subject, to finally, a legitimately angry “I’m not drinking!”

It’s never not fun.

  

MY WORLD:

Three years ago today, I got married to the VP of Ops.  To commemorate our 3rd anniversary on a blog that brings in zero dollars and has caused a few tiffs (wait, you’re seriously mad that I wrote about how you wear the same black shirt like 3 days a week?  Oh…yeah, slam the door! REAL MATURE!!!)  I’m going to write about what I remember about our first date: on May 3, 2013.

            It was a cold, dark night.  A baby’s cry in the distance.  A beggars cup rattled in between the hurried footsteps of guilt-ridden businessmen playing deaf.  “What a world we live in,” I grumbled as I lit up a cigarette under a dim moonlight.  Wait.  Shit, sorry.  Wrong night.  That’s right, the night before our first date I was probably about to get smashed on 9 IPAs or something, when my roommate, Mike, asked if I wanted to go to a concert with him, his new girlfriend, and HER roommate.

“She a girl, right?” I slurred.  Upon confirmation that “she a girl,” I quickly accepted the offer in my head, but had to do the thing where I acted like I had to think about it for a second.  I did this by looking up and saying “uhhh….”  (ACTING!)  Actually, turns out that I was the 2nd choice for this date.  My other roommate, a whiny little bitch of a human, who I’ve made cry multiple times in fights, called “Daaaaaaaave” , was asked before I was and turned down the offer.  (Years later, Dave loves to remind me of this and how I basically owe my marriage to him.  In response, I bring this up to the VP and she reminds me how much better looking I am than Dave.  So, now that’s in writing.)    

Anyway, upon accepting, I asked for a scouting report on the roommate from Mike, he said “she’s super fun, really cute, but I won’t lie, she’s kinda boy crazy.”  I’ve told The VP this and she gets mad every time.  She assures me that she wasn’t “boy crazy” (is “boy crazy” the delicate way of saying “slutty”?  We’ll never know!)  Instead, she reams Mike out and talks about how she would “like go on dates, but I wasn’t boy CRAZY.”  Who do I believe?  What do I believe?  I don’t know, who cares? Honestly, the “boy crazy” thing didn’t really faze me.  I was too busy looking through her pictures on Facebook and trying not to say things like “she’s too hot for me”-out loud.  Because, that was the thing, my confidence was still a minor issue back then (back then? Jimmy, you asked Erin how you looked yesterday after meeting a middle-aged neighbor for the first time.  It still ain’t great!) but seeing a bunch of hot girl pictures from her college sorority days definitely rattled my nerves.  I wanted to ask Mike if he thought I was pretty enough for her, but Mike and I were in the beginning stages of our friendship so…I COULDN’T LET HIM KNOW THAT I WAS AN INSECURE BABY YET EITHER!!!

The 24 hours leading up to the date consisted of me going for a long run because I used to be able to do that without stopping after 13 minutes to use my “bad ankle” as an excuse.  (“No, it’s not the fact that I drink too much and enjoy dessert every night, it’s this damn ankle!”)  After the run, I did what back then was about the bravest thing I could do…I decided to wear the J.Crew hoodie that was a little too small on me.  I’ve always SUCKED at buying clothes, which means that I normally only have one “hey, is he a cool guy?”-outfit available.  This J.Crew hoodie (that my mom probably bought for me years prior) hadn’t gotten much wear because it was the “is this guy in good enough shape to wear something this fitting?”-size.  But this hot-girl-date-night called for me to at least pretend like I could pull off this snug hoodie.  Looking back, I pulled that hoodie OFF!  (Allow me a few seconds to be sad about how much worse looking I’ve gotten in the years since…Hey!  Looks aren’t everyth—goddamnit, yes they are.  They are.  They’re everything, and I have none of them and…I have nothing.  I am empty.)

The plan was for Mike and I to go to the girls’ apartment in Lakeview, have enough drinks for me to feel not paralyzed by “Excuse me girl, am I hot enough?”-thoughts and then go to a concert at The Metro (cool person music venue by Wrigley Field that I had never been to before, but I definitely didn’t admit that, that night.  I’m sure I said something along the lines of “Metro?  Love the Metro!”)  As we walked into their garden-level unit, I did that acting thing again where I pretended like I didn’t need to guzzle rubbing alcohol to feel comfortable.  The VP was still getting ready, so I had time to settle on what pose I should be in when she entered the living room.  The VP’s roommate, Amanda, put on some music and gave Mike and I NOT NEARLY ENOUGH BOOZE!  Mike and I waited in the living room with Amanda, which meant that Mike and his new girlfriend, Amanda, made eyes at each other while paying enough fake attention to me to temper the bubbling awkwardness.

Finally, after what must have been more than 4 MINUTES, The VP entered the living room with a spin.  I’m not joking, she walked in, waved and before introducing herself, she just spun around.  It was so fucking cool.  As I scrambled to say something interesting after introducing my DUMB self, the song “Mirrors” by Justin Timberlake came on.  Mike and Amanda were being all gooey with each other across the room, leaving all the pressure in the world on me to say something at least MILDLY entertaining.  (Has anyone mentioned your tiny sweatshirt yet?) 

“You know, I don’t care what anyone thinks, this song fucking rules.”  That was the first sentence I said to my now-wife.  And she FRIGGIN’ LOVED IT!  Honestly, I could tell in real-time that she thought, “whoa, this guy is secure enough to say that he loves a Justin Timberlake song on a first date.”  Two things on that: 1) I wasn’t, but 2) You have to remember that back in 2013, Justin Timberlake wasn’t super cool yet.  He was still “that boy band guy,” so it wasn’t the coolest thing for a guy to freely admit that he was into “that boy band guy.”  My gamble paid off.  Now, she thought I was secure enough to be with her “I know I’m fine as hell”-ass, AND she thought I was funny because who says that out of nowhere?  THIS GUY DOES!

From there, the drinks were a flowin’!  JIMMY IN HIS EL-E-MENT BABAYYYYY!  (So, your element is drinking?  Cool, I bet her Mom is so happy she found you!)  By the time we walked over to the Metro, I couldn’t have cared less about who we were going to see.  I was going to talk to The VP through the whole show and not give A CARE what was going on on-stage. Seriously, Jon Lenon could’ve been resurrected for a one-night only Beatles reunion show that night, and I wouldn’t have taken an iPhone pic.  Now, it didn’t help that the band we were seeing was called “Purity Ring”—a band that neither The VP nor myself had ever heard of.  What did that mean?  You guessed it, WE ‘GON BE TALKIN’ THROUGH THE ENTIRE SHOW!!!! Yeah, legit fans of “Purity Ring” were about to HATE us…and they did.

Midway through the song about being pure or wearing rings or whatever, I got “shushed” by a (do I say what I really thought?  Even though it’ll make me sound like a meathe–) dude who looked even wimpier than me in my tiny J.Crew hoodie.  So you bet your ass your ass I responded to his “shush” with a hearty “go fuck yourself!”  Yeah, I did!  Listen, if you’re not drooling at the opportunity to show a girl who’s WAY hotter than you that you’re tough, as early as possible, I don’t know what to tell ya!  Trust me, I did the whole sensitive guy thing throughout high school and you know how many dates that got me?  ZERO!  ZERO DATES!

From there, I reveled in being public enemy number one at this show.  Now, if this were a Metallica show, would I have been so excited to be hated by everyone around me?  Absolutely not.  In fact, I would have been quite scared…maybe even cried.  But this wasn’t a Metallica show.  This was a “Purity Ring” show, a band that’s following primarily worked as freelance graphic designers who can’t wait to talk about their “disgust with consumerism” at every family gathering.  It was the perfect setting for a fake tough guy (Me) to act tough. And while The VP will say that she hated it and hates tough guys and likes sensitive guys and blah blah blah.  She loved it.  I could tell, she loved that I told that guy to “go fuck himself.”  She was impressed in that way you get when you’re uncomfortable but thrilled that you’re not next to the “shusher.”

When the show ended, The VP and I realized that we hadn’t listened to one song throughout the entire set (like I said, we were the worst people in that concert.  Hand up, we were “those people.”)  We met up with Mike and Amanda, and decided to all take a picture together.  This is my favorite picture ever.  I remember looking at it the next day and thinking “I actually pulled off the tiny hoodie!  And…I think I really, really like this girl.”

VP, I love you enough to act tough when I’m really not; to dress cool when I really can’t; and to…care for a psychopath dog that I bought for you to get out of momentarily “forgetting” your birthday ONE TIME!  (I didn’t REALLY forget it and that’s final and I will go to the Supreme Court to prove my innocence!)  

Honestly, I’m looking forward to my first suburban tiff with a guy I think I can take, because no feeling is better than the one I get impressing you.

Happy Anniversary.  I love you.

IMG_5778

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

This song still kicks LIKE A MULE!

 

K, bye.

It’s Time To Try Some Stuff

MY WORLD

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

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

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

SMOKING CRACK

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HACKING A WEBSITE 

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

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

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

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

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

DM’ING CELEBRITIES

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

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

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

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

 

PODCAST TO LISTEN TO: 

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

MUSIC TO LISTEN TO:

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

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

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

TV SHOW TO WATCH:

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

MOVIE TO WATCH:

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

K, bye.

Can You Put Out a Fire with Alcohol?

MY WORLD:

I now regularly eat hot dogs for lunch.  What used to be a once or twice A YEAR treat at a baseball game, is now an almost DAILY dietary staple (Almost daily means not every day!  That’s a victory!)  A few days back, I sent a picture to my friends of my hotdogs in the refrigerator and said “sometimes I just like to watch them sleep.”  Yes, it was a joke…but, was it though?  There have now been multiple days where I open the fridge around 11:45 (don’t lie, you know you consider lunchtime 11am now) and I just look at the hot dogs in my fridge.  Am I smiling creepily while humming “Rock A Bye Baby” in the direction of my Ball Park Franks?  No! (Is that a victory for you at this point?)  But I do look at them…and…yeah, dream of how good two of them would taste at 11:13AM on a Tuesday?  YEAH, MAYBE I FUCKING DO!

Peak levels of stress now include the phrase “only about a week’s left of relish in there.”  There’s a guy across the street from me who just sits in his window now and looks outside, and while I was eating a lunch dog (no need to say “hot dog,” THERE’S JUST NO TIME!) I caught eyes with him and raised my hot dog up to him like a “cheers!”  Yeah, that’s right.  I cheers’d a stranger across the street at 11:13AM on a Tuesday with a hot dog.  THEN! When he didn’t nod back or show any form of acknowledging my dog cheers in any way, I got offended.  And you know what? I just….

Guys.

Jimmy stop.

I made up the hot dog cheers’ing thing.

I didn’t make up the lunch dogs infatuation, but my brain is becoming so warped, that midway through writing about my lunch pups (is that funnier than lunch ‘dog’?  Yeah, it is.  Stick with it!) I actually did catch eyes with the guy across the street who looks out his window and I thought “next time I have a lunch pup, I’m going to cheers him with it.  That’ll brighten his day!”  So I will do that next time and report back re: his reaction to the lunch pup cheers.  (And you thought you had nothing to look forward to!)

Aside from lunch pups and asking the VP of Ops to waterboard me with IPAs, I figured that buying a house in the middle of a global pandemic/economic meltdown, while my job skates on ice thinner than that picture of you from high school, was a prudent financial decision.  (Just googled the word ‘prudent’ to make sure it meant what I thought it meant, and IT WAS CLOSE ENOUGH!)  The VP and I closed on our first house on Friday, while my heart attempted to close on my body simultaneously.

What should have been an exuberant, exciting moment for us, felt more like a red carpet event for the premiere of “Jimmy’s First Stroke in the Citywide Title Office.”  When asked by those nosey paps who she was wearing, The VP of Ops smiled and said “the same leggings I had on while eating Munchos this morning!” Meanwhile, I carried her purse and used it to hide the grease stain on my 2007 Cincinnati Bearcats sweatpants. It was quite the affair, indeed.  Fortunately, or unfortunately (who knows right now? Stay positive though because the super negative people are awful to be around…but it’s so easy to just…STOP!) I did not suffer my first stroke while signing the closing papers to our first house.

Instead, I kept my big leather winter gloves and big puffy winter coat on the entire time we were signing a BAJILLION pages while constantly reminding myself to NOT TOUCH MY FATTER-BY-THE-SECOND FACE.  If you have never signed closing papers on a house before, here’s what it’s like: ten million pages are put in front of you and you have to go through them, one by one, slow enough that the guy thinks you’re actually reading them, but you’re really just looking for the lines with your name under them so you can sign there and feel a momentary sense of accomplishment.  (I found my name!  Mom! Dad!  I found my name on the page!)  On page nine thousand, four hundred and seventy six, you’ll look to your spouse with blurry eyes and say something like “I no read,” before drooling and then slamming your head on the table while scream-crying “I DON’T THINK I’M MATURE ENOUGH FOR THIS MAGNITUDE OF A PURCHASE!” (That did not go over well with the guy in the office but, thankfully, he yelled at me to get ahold of myself while staying 6 feet away.)

Then, once you’re done signing page four gajillion, you’ll sit alone in a lame office while hearing the office person dude mumble things like “are you sure?” into the phone on their desk.  (Is who sure? Do I want them to be sure? I’m not sure!  Should I tell him I’m not sure?!  SIR! I’M ALSO NOT SURE!)  Eventually, he will come back into the room, still wearing surgical gloves, remind you to take the pens with you, and congratulate you in a way that sounds more like “can I finally go home now and cry into my pillow about the future of our country?”

Closing on our first house in the middle of Shitstorm 3000 felt like trying to celebrate a birthday in New York on 9/11.  “Uhhh…yay!”  As hard as I was trying to stay positive and act excited, all I felt was this overwhelming squeeze of the unknown.  (Squeeze? Strangle?)  But while I drove back to our city apartment with The VP of Ops, I kept telling myself one thing over and over and over: “we’re all in this together.”

And it’s true.  How many times has there been a situation that you’ve dealt with where LITERALLY EVERYONE YOU KNOW IN THE UNIVERSE is dealing with the same thing?  As terrifying as this is, no one is exempt.  And the ones that you’re thinking aren’t worrying about it because they seem the same as they’ve always been?  They’re just better at acting than you are.  I’ve never felt more connected to everyone than I do now.

I’ve also never enjoyed hot dogs more than I do now.

OUR WORLD: 

We’re all living in an excruciatingly elongated moment right now that will change the world forever.  The way we look at World War II documentaries and the Civil Rights movement and think “Jesus, I can’t believe that actually happened!” is what smelly fatsos will be thinking about the movies about Coronavirus that come out in 2056.  And while I’m sure those movies will focus on the most terrifying aspects of what is going on right now, I’d like to note some of the other byproducts that will probably be overlooked by PBS’ 2056, Six-Part Docu-series “Covid 19”.

Hangovers were confused for coronavirus

I was going to write something about how internet is officially the best invention ever, but then I was like “but what about booze?”  The person who invented or discovered booze had to have done so in the middle of some terrifying episode in human evolution.

I’m imagining it was some woman with a broken leg who just heard from her friend that dinosaurs exist. “What’s a dinosaur?” she asked, before hearing a T-Rex roar and squeezing a bunch of grapes harder than grapes had ever been squeezed before.  Then, because Mrs. ‘BoutToBeEatenByMegaYoshi didn’t want to waste the only juice she’d be able to reach until her bum leg became unbummed, she started sucking the ground where the grape juice ran for days on end.  By day 6, with her broken leg throbbing, she sucked the ground harder than ever before and…felt some relief.  A bit of the spins and, finally….peace!  Then she heard a rustling in the bushes and went back to freaking out that she was about to be dino feed.

Anyway, that’s basically how alcohol is working for me right now.  As day turns to night, and stressors multiply to the point of swallowing me, I pour a beer.  And then another beer.  And then an old fashioned.  And then a pilsner because now I’ve got to cool down.  And then just a smidge of whiskey because I don’t need the sugar. And then I’m snoring on the couch in the middle of the sixth episode of “Mad Men” we’ve watched tonight.

Mornings then become a fun little game of “hangover or Corona.”  The first few hours of every day are now set aside for chugging water and coffee and telling yourself not to google corona symptoms for the nine thousandth time this week.  By the time 3PM rolls around and you’ve come out of the hangover enough to realize that maybe you don’t actually have this terrifying virus, well, there’s only one thing to do:  Celebrate.

Home workouts that lasted more than 8 minutes were treated like Olympic training sessions

Not to brag (but maybe a little bit? Fine, yeah.  Check out this shit!) but I ran a marathon not that long ago!  I wasn’t a hardcore “look at me I go to the gym”-guy, but I did go to the gym and didn’t shy away from mentioning that if it came up naturally in a conversation.  “Oh, your mother got a haircut?  Weird you mention that because I had my personal best incline bench yesterday!”

However, since this whole “You should stay home and use this as the ultimate excuse to be a blob”-order has come down, working out has fallen to the back of my priority list.  I’m sure I’m not alone in this either.  Yes, it’s true that moving around and exercising makes your brain feel better, but when your job is hanging by a wet fingernail, you have asthma and YOU JUST BOUGHT A FUCKING HOUSE, getting a sweat in doesn’t exactly register as “something I should focus on getting done today!”

This means that completing a sponsored Instagram ad showing you how to do a 15-minute at-home workout without equipment, is the equivalent of completing a Michael Phelps training session.  I came across one of these smiley Instagram trainers imploring me to “stay active indoors!” yesterday and thought “he’s smiling, so maybe I should listen to him.”

So I followed his “workout”.  This was the kind of workout that I would’ve made fun of in my physical peak, but now I got two minutes in and thought “could The Rock do what I’m doing right now?”  (Yes Jimmy, The Rock could do Jumping Jacks for 2 minutes and 14 seconds).  When I finished the “workout” 11 minutes later, the thin layer of sweat on my forehead might as well have been an Olympic Gold Medal.  I went up to the VP of Ops acting more out of breath than I really was and said stuff like, “just finished a little workout” hoping she would swoon and ask if it was okay to tell her friends about her husband’s physical accomplishments.

She didn’t do that. 

Employees at restaurants are fucking brave

I think we’ve all maybe thought this for a while, but if this whole ordeal doesn’t drive home the fact that people working at our favorite “I’m getting something that makes me feel good”-institutions, are brave as hell, then get your dumbass brain examined.  Seriously, if you’ve been through a drive-thru or ordered delivery over the past few weeks and enjoyed the dopamine rush that comes from eating your favorite foods, make sure you take a second to think of the people that went outside, in public, around others, to make that thing for you and get that thing to you.

Fucking restaurant people are awesome.

PODCAST: 

The Bill Simmons Podcast with Pearl Jam from last Thursday.

MUSIC: 

The new album from The Weeknd and all of these Instagram Live concerts that bands are doing.  Here’s The Weeknd from SNL before the world blew up:

TV: 

Watching “Mad Men” for the first time.  If you’re looking for EVEN MORE inspiration to drink, start watching this show. 

MOVIE:

The VP and I watched “Catch Me if You Can” yesterday.  It’s worth it because it’s Leo and Tom Hanks, but was I blown away?  No.  I was not blown away.

 

K, bye.

What Not To Do At Weddings

OUR WORLD:

A good friend of mine is getting married in Colorado this weekend, and aside from waiting till the absolute last second to get my shit dry-cleaned, I’m going over what not to do this weekend while at this wedding.  (Wait, a 34 year old man needs to talk to himself about what he CAN’T do at a wedding?)  Listen, I’m not here to try make you think I’m cool (mission accomplished, bubba).  I’m here to help you avoid the wedding behavior mistakes that I’ve made and witnessed (mostly made, though) so that your friends aren’t talking about that time they found you drunkenly eating a sandwich lost in a random hotel hallway, looking like someone who belonged in a mugshot.  Next time you go to a wedding, make sure you don’t do the following:

IF YOU PLAY GOLF BEFORE THE WEDDING, AVOID GETTING PAIRED WITH THE AUSTRALIAN GUY.

This means you’re going to have to go to the golf course already armed with excuses as to why you can’t play with “Mike the Australian”.  Be fucking ready with these excuses, I’M NOT JOKING!  Because if they’re calling out the golf cart tandems, and they call “Mike the Australian” after your name then you’re in for a world of problems if you don’t have a “shit guys, my shoulder is really acting up” in your back pocket.  If, like me, you’re cocky enough to think that you can handle yourself while in a golf cart with a cool-accent-guy who drinks 24/7, then get ready to be IN TROUBLE.

Why?  Because whenever you’re in close quarters with an Australian guy, you want them to like you.  These people have the coolest accents in the world, and you’ll convince yourself that once you’re friends with an Australian, that some of that badassery-dust will rub off on you.  It won’t, guys.  You’ll just be the American guy who hung out with an Australian one time golfing at a wedding.  You won’t learn how to speak like that, how to act calm in the face of danger, or how to have every girl in a room thing you’re hot no matter where your hairline sits.  You’ll still be you, standing in the corner with your hands in your pockets because you forgot to cut your fingernails FOR A FOURTH STRAIGHT DAY AFTER REALIZING THEY WERE TOO LONG!!!  GODDAMNIT!!!

But once you’re in a golf cart with MikeTheAustralian, you’re going to forget all this and think to yourself “I think I’m about to be best friends with a guy who sounds like Chris Hemsworth.”  If you close your eyes, you’ll be able to convince yourself that you’re golfing with Thor.  The problems start, however, once the cart girl comes by and asks if you’d like anything to drink.  Uh….NO FUCKING DUH WE WANT DRINKS!  But while your boring, no-accent real friends are ordering Bud Lights and Snickers, you view this as your opportunity to prove how badass you are to your new Thor-sounding friend.  So you order two shots along with your beers, and before you know it, you’ve initiated a routine on THE SECOND FUCKING HOLE that whenever the cart girl comes around, you’re taking a shot with MikeTheAustralian.

I won’t lie to you guys, at first this is going to be really fucking cool.  Your loser American friends will be all “holy shit, they’re taking shots!” and be a little jealous from afar.  And Mike will be so excited that he’ll do something like slap you on the back, or grab your shoulder in that way that says “we’re gonna be lifelong friends and you’re going to be able to use an Australian accent one day because I’m going to give you the credibility to do it.”  You’ll start doing the things you do as you climb Buzz mountain, like laughing too hard at mean things, using a more gravely voice to make inappropriate jokes, and completely ignoring that it’s not even 10am, you’ve had 3 shots already and you’re supposed to be at a fancy dinner AFTER this round.  Consequences are in your fucking rearview as you lean forward, arms extended through the front of your golf cart, screaming “I’m king of the world!”

But you’re not king of the world; you’re king of the about-to-be-in-big-trouble-with-your-future-wife because, for some reason, she’s not going to find it funny when she has to dump water on you to get you to wake back up for the rehearsal dinner.  At that point, following a round of golf where you’re legitimately unsure of whether the number on your scorecard was the number of shots you took, or the number of golf swings you made, you won’t be able to explain that it was because you were paired with an Australian who you HAD to impress.  Nope, instead you’ll say something like “just took a lil sleepy nap!” And she’ll roll her eyes as she readies herself to go to the rehearsal dinner with the “keep your eye on him”-guy.

DON’T ACTUALLY FIGHT OR EVEN THREATEN TO FIGHT SOMEONE AT THE REHEARSAL DINNER.

Sometimes “fight guy” is cool.  Yeah, I know that’s an unpopular opinion, but sometimes when there’s an asshole in a bar and your group’s “fight guy” has had enough…it’s fun to watch him get all riled up.  Unfortunately, this does not apply to Wedding Rehearsal Dinners where “fight guy” will double as “he’s about to ruin the most important weekend of these people’s lives because he just got shushed”-guy.

You need to be aware enough that you could become this guy ESPECIALLY if you were paired with MikeTheAustralian earlier in the day at the golf course.  (This sounds very specific, Jimmy.  Like…)  Hypothetically speaking, IF you were paired with MikeTheAustralian at the golf course, needed your girlfriend to dump a bucket of cold water on you to wake you up after the round, and then, I don’t know, happen to get “shushed” for talking too loud during one of the groomsmen’s speech, you may find yourself in the middle of an uncontrollable rage.  Yes, we can all agree that being “shushed” is infuriating and that, in normal settings, it would justify throwing said “shusher” into an active volcano.  However, when you’re already the “keep your eye on him”-guy, and its a wedding rehearsal dinner, actions made out of rage are frowned upon.

Knowing this, I bet you’re just going to tell anyone with ears at that dinner that you’re going to “beat the shit out of Shush McGee”.  You’re going to tell all these people-with-ears this multiple times throughout the rest of the night thinking that this is your only alternative to NOT punching his face off.  The ears people aren’t going to think “wow, this guy is tough, but also has restraint.  I respect that.”  Not even close.  They’re going to think, “so, who here is going to tell security about this guy and his fireball breath?”

BE HONEST WITH YOURSELF AND MAKE SURE YOU’RE WEARING PANTS THAT FIT.

Surprisingly, this goes both ways.  Yes, at this point in MY life, I am officially NEVER in the “hey, these pants are too loose”-crowd.  But, I was there at one point in my life when I ran more often than I ate a family-sized bag of Tostitos Scoops.  If your pants are too big because you bought them when you were in a fat phase, but you’re thinking you can get away with not buying pants that fit, you’re going to regret looking like a bozo-the-clown in pictures with your big baggy dress pants.  They’re going to make you look shorter than you already are, and sloppier than you want to admit you are.  Spend the $40 at Nordstrom Rack and get a pair of pants that don’t gather at your feet.

Then there’s the other side.  The worse side.  The scarier side of this predicament.  The “yeah these are tight, but I only have to wear them for a few hours”-sized pants.  You’ll wear them out of a combination of not wanting to spend money on a style of pants you wear twice a year, AND not wanting to admit that you’ve put on weight since the last wedding you were at 14 months ago.  Guess what?  Calories matter, even if you’re standing while eating in the kitchen.  Don’t believe what they say, eating leftovers while standing in front of the fridge right before bed counts against your daily calorie total.

Now, you’re stuck at a wedding having to lean back in your chair, while keeping your legs straight so that your pants’ ass doesn’t burst in front of the bride’s Aunt Helen.  Getting on the dance floor means that you won’t even get to THINK about bending, and all of the great looking food and cake is just going to remind you that you’re a fatter version of yourself than you were at the last wedding you were at.  Not to mention, you’re friggin starving but have NEGATIVE space to spare around your waist, so eating anything other than mixed nuts is out of the question.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you’re getting your haircut and the stylist asks how you want it and you have no idea what to say.  You want to be like “uh…shorter,” but you know she’s looking for more details so you just hem and haw until you feel like an absolute IDIOT.  JUST MAKE ME LOOK BETTER THAN I CURRENTLY DO!

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Whoa, just came across this little diddy and I lurvvvve it so so much.

 

MOM MEMORY OF THE DAY:

One time my Mom was dropping my friends and I off at the mall, and she was looking for a parking spot so she could go in and buy something for herself.  It was really crowded, so as she went up and down the aisles of packed cars, she got more and more frustrated.  Then she hit the rows of handicapped parking spots, all of which were empty…full rows completely empty.  Unable to find a spot, with snot-nosed dorks in her backseat, her anger crescendoed and she let out a “Jesus Christ, how many goddamn handicapped people are they expecting?!?!”

Sorry Mom, that’s a funny one.

K, bye.

I Sat Next to an NBA Superstar Yesterday and You Have to Believe Me

MY WORLD:

I sat next to James Harden at lunch yesterday.  Now, the reaction to that from the text message I sent to my friend groupchat, should have been “whoa, cool!”  Or, “no way dude, he’s so good at basketball!”  Or, “he has a big beard!”  Or, I don’t know, why couldn’t ONE FRIEND write something like, “hey Jimmy, even though it was blind luck that you ended up sitting next to the NBA MVP Runner-up, you should treat this as an accomplishment in your life, feel better about yourself, and expect to receive praise from others when you tell them of this accomplishment.”  WOULD THAT HAVE BEEN SO FUCKING HARD?!?!   But instead, all I got was “pic or it didn’t happen.”

So there I was, a 34 year old adult, contemplating how I could take a spycam picture of a 29 year old guy I’ve never spoken to before.  The situation went from exciting to terrifying immediately, and I basically stopped talking to the person I was actually having lunch with because I was so caught up in my brain about what I should do.  Some of the thoughts that went through my essentially useless brain, included:

-Do I ask for a selife?  Go up to him, say something like “huge NBA fan here, James!  Love watching you play!  Mind if I get a pic?”  

Yeah, that would’ve been a cool thing for me to do except uh…no it fucking wouldn’t have been.  I’m not a selfie guy.  I’m the guy who makes fun of people who take selfies!  THAT’S MY ENTIRE IDENTITY!!!  Although, yeah, I would ask to take a selfie with someone who actually IS a hero of mine (cough…Eddie Vedder…or someone who knew Chris Farley…cough) But then I started thinking of how big of a lie, that would be.

Okay, so I’m meeting James Harden for the first time and the first two things I tell him are FLAGRANT lies.  1)  I am not a huge NBA fan.  I like it, but I don’t really care about the NBA until football is over…and even then, all I think about is how “I miss football.”  2)  I actually hate watching James Harden play basketball.  If I was being totally honest with him (and isn’t honsesty ALWAYS the way to go?) I’d say “James!  Whenever I see the Rockets are playing, I loudly exhale and text my friends something I’m only half-joking about, like how I’d rather cannonball into an active volcano than watch you travel on every play before bitching to the refs that you were breathed on too hard.”  Wild guess here, but I don’t think he’d be excited about posing for a selfie with my fat face (you went to the gym yesterday, Jimmy.  Did you tell them yet?) after hearing that.

-I should pretend to be texting on my phone, while slowly rotating my chair to the right-where James is sitting-while I really have my camera up so that once I get him in frame, BOOM!  PIC TAKEN!

Clearly, I am not one of those people who have mastered the spycam technique.  (It’s because you’re a scared baby).  It’s not because I’m scared (it is, though) I just think that the risk of getting caught outweighs the reward.  So…shit, yeah I’m scared (my Dad just called asking for blood sample.  Something about “no son of his-“)  Can we think, for just a second, about what would happen if I DID actually get caught trying to take a spycam pic of James Harden?

The bartender had already told me “don’t be weird about it” when the guy I was having lunch with asked if that was, in fact, James Harden.  It was weird because I didn’t ask the question, but she looked directly at ME and said “don’t be weird about it.”  Of course, I calmly, quickly replied with a, “too late,” that drew some laughs but…like, it was too late.  I was caught in between staring and doing the “I”m not staring, I’m just drift-looking at the ceiling above your head James Harden”-thing.  Yeah, weird was accomplished.  So if after that, she caught the camera on my phone screen, there is a decent chance that she would have gently grabbed my arm, clenched her jaw and uttered a furious, “I fucking said not to be weird!”  Then, I’m the PROVEN weird guy who has to be touched to be believed.  She would probably be thinking “I have to touch this person to make sure that I’m not hallucinating that I’m witnessing an adult being THIS weird.”

And what if James Harden caught me?  (Can’t call him just ‘James’ because we’re not close enough friends) With how petty NBA players are, and how ready they are to air their shit on Twitter, is out COMPLETELY out of the realm of possibility that he would take my picture in retaliation only to post it on his Twitter with the caption “Chicago Creepo”?  Guys, that’s fucking possible and you know it.  YOU KNOW IT GODDAMN WELL!

Next thing I know, people are printing kitchy, graphic t-shirts featuring the pic Harden took of me on them with his caption underneath.  Then I’m walking down the street with The VP of Ops and people are whispering while staring at me.  So the VP curiously asks, “why are people looking at you and whispering?”  I pretend not to hear the question and just keep walking, until some girl starts laughing as she approaches me pointing and saying “you!  You’re the Chicago Creepo!”  Then I’m trying to explain that the reason a girl called me “The Chicago Creepo” is because I got caught taking a spycam pic of James Harden, but she won’t believe that.  No, she’ll go straight to “a girl pointed him out, so that must mean he was taking spycam pics of girls.”  So we’ll end up getting divorced, and any date I have with any girl after will be a terrifying “I hope she hasn’t seen that James Harden pic of me” experience.

-I could tell the bartender to buy James Harden a beer and tell him that it’s from me.  

So, I’m trying to pick up James Harden in a bar now?  Either two things could happen here: 1)  He could accept the beer, raise it for a “cheers” from down the bar and carry on with his lunch.  2)  He could decline the beer, in which case the bartender would then return it to me–but I didn’t want to drink during the day on a Tuesday, so now I’m just sitting at lunch with this beer/”James Harden rejection trophy.”  He’ll look over a few times to see what certified bozo-the-clown sent a Tuesday afternoon beer over to a professional athlete and I’ll catch him with a half-smile in an effort to convey “I’m not a weird guy.”  He won’t smile back, though.  Instead, he’ll look to the guy he’s actually having lunch with and say something like, “keep an eye on that dude for me.”

In the end, I convinced myself that doing nothing was the only option.  So I sat at lunch, pretended to listen to the guy I was having lunch with, and made the executive decision that proving I sat next to James Harden wasn’t worth risking my marriage/dignity/future.  BUT I FRIGGIN’ SWEAR HE WAS RIGHT NEXT TO ME WEARING A BIG HAT AND BIG FLANNEL SHIRT AND LOOKING FLYYYYYYY!!!!

OUR WORLD:

Continuing the theme from today’s “My World”, I’d like to educate my fellow early-to-mid 30s people on, aside from taking a spycam pic of James Harden, what other things you are no longer allowed to do.  Of course, if you’re one of those “I don’t believe in the word ‘can’t'”-people, then this section will read as a challenge.  But maybe, even those people can take a break from their life of posting inspirational quotes over their crossfit videos and actually contemplate whether “can’t” is something that they should incorporate.

-You can’t wear sweatpants in public anymore.

The sweatpants-wearing public has been fooled by the tapered (?) cuffed (?) bottoms of new sweatpants into thinking that those make it acceptable to go outside wearing them.  Yes, this was a “Seinfeld” bit 20 years ago, but the emergence of Lululemon (and imposters for those of us poors) has caused a confusion that has led to a sweatpants-in-public resurgence.  It’s like when you work out a lot and then think you can eat whatever you want.  Next thing you know, you’re too sluggish from all the chips to go to the gym anymore and you’ve put on 14 pounds.  Just because the hot mannequin guy is pulling it off in the store window, doesn’t mean that you and your puffy beer face can.

-You can’t go to music festivals and post non-funny videos of yourself there.

Was I the only one seeing people my age post Instagram stories of themselves wearing basketball jerseys and neon whatever while at Lollapalooza this past weekend?  They’re cringeworthy, and even though I hadn’t spoken to these people in years, I felt like contacting them just to see “is everything okay?”  Now, I’m not judging if you actually went–that distinction must be drawn.  There are bands at music festivals that we are still allowed to love (oh thank god Jimmy told me I don’t have to give up music!)  So you can go, yeah.  But while there, if you find the need to send any sort of video of the band on stage, or you in the crowd, you better be damn sure that it’s a funny video.  Because if that video says something like “all the feels” or is just of you doing some sway-dance moves that your drunk brain thinks are “actually pretty cool,” then you become THAT person to EVERYONE IN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE.  One “look at me at this music festival” Instagram video after the age of 30 will cause: banks to never give you a loan; friends not to trust you alone with their spouses; and your parents to drink more.

-You can’t have dirty dishes in your sink when guests are over.

This one is deeply personal and, frankly, really fucking stinks.  Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was a goddamn crime to put a DISH in a SINK!  Unfortunately, I have been hit with one too many “you’re a slob, huh?”-looks from guests who see the plate I used at breakfast that morning sitting there in the sink.  Now, thankfully, there is a trick if you have a dishwasher, aka “the best hiding place in the world.”  Look, you don’t have to have every dish actually clean once guests arrive, they just can’t be able to see them without opening a SECRET door.  So do yourself a favor, jam every dirty dish or kitchen utensil you have into your dishwasher right before your guests arrive.  That way, when you’re giving them the grand tour of your 900 square foot apartment, you’ll get to shoot them a “bet you feel dumb for thinking I was a slob”-look when you get to the kitchen portion of the tour.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you get your dog all riled up and running around your apartment, but then she accidentally jumps into a table and starts crying.  You grab her, almost start crying yourself because it’s your fault and you think you’re about to pay $2,000 at the vet because her leg “has to be broken if she’s crying like this.”  Only to have her, one minute later, walk around like nothing ever happened while you try to convince your wife that you weren’t crying.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I really love this band and am reminded of it when their songs randomly come up on my Spotify mixes.

MOM MEMORY OF THE DAY:

Yeah, I know, this may be a bit heavy, but I’m always trying to be really honest in this blog and I think a lot about my Mom.  So, until I start gambling again (“I can’t wait!” said the VP in a shitty, sarcastic tone) I’m going to share some quick memories of my Mom.

When I was 15, my parents got me a 1984 Ford Escort hatchback to learn on.  They didn’t want me to learn on their much nicer cars, so they gave me this hunk of junk and DARED me to say anything negative about it.  Within the first week of having it, my Mom backed her Chevy Suburban directly into the driver’s side of my Ford Escort.  I was outside when it happened, and I watched like it was slow motion.  She left a massive dent in my car, while there wasn’t a scratch on the Suburban.  While I stood in the driveway watching, she rolled down her window and very matter-of-factly said, “we’re not fixing that,” before driving off.

K, bye.