Tag: music

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

OUR WORLD:

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

“Serving Patricia: The Story of Michael Kelcourse”

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

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

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

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

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

michael kelcourse

 

“Backstage Pass” 

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

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

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

“Overnight Pharmacist”

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

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

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

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

JIMMY GAMBLES

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

(My account currently at $4.71)

K bye.

Movie Remakes That Would Get You In The Theaters (7/24/18)

OUR WORLD: 

What is the age where you stop going to the movies?  All of a sudden, it’s some special occasion to go sit with strangers in the dark, overpay for soda in an embarrassingly huge cup, and order a small popcorn (watching that figure) that you have to be careful not to finish before the previews end.  (Ever get to the start of the movie and look into your popcorn bag just to see seeds?  Enjoy the next 120 minutes of feeling disgusted with yourself!)  Going to the movie theaters used to be a thing I’d decide to do on a random Wednesday because…uh…I wanted to.  It wasn’t a whole fucking production where I’d have to research the movie on 18 different websites to make sure I wasn’t about to waste 14 of my hard earned dollars.  And finding a movie that your wife is ALSO into, so you don’t have to apologize forever if it sucks, is CRITICAL.  Few things in life are worse than having to wear a bad movie pick.  “Hey, remember that time you talked me into seeing ‘Suicide Squad’?”-is something I still say to a friend of mine 2+ years later.  It’s a sharp knife that cuts deep.

I think the age when going to the movies changes is 26.  Now, the advent of Netflix and On Demand and all the other shit is not what I’m talking about because that’s a bigger discussion that I DON’T WANT TO WRITE ABOUT!  26 is when you look in the mirror and go “hmmm, I should probably start to prove to people that I’m not a selfish piece of shit.” You start dating another human being; begin thinking about “career path” and actually trying at work, and maybe even buy a dog.  You trade “hey bro, wanna go see that cop movie?” for “hey babe, did Belle make a big poop or a little poop on her walk?…NO POOP!?!?!”  By the time you get to 33 (guys! That’s my age!) and you’re consumed with work and saving money and talking to your friends about how lame you are now that you’re over 30, going to the movies becomes a long shot.  (I’m aware I don’t have kids yet, and I’m sure my friends who are parents are rolling their eyes like “he doesn’t know the first thing about responsibility.”  Yeah, you’re right.  But I’m writing this blog, so you can back the fuck off.)  

In trying to figure out ways to get all of us 30-somethings back into theaters, I would like to propose some remakes of films that let us all down just a little bit.  Obviously, we don’t want to see remakes of films that were FUCKING AMAZING because…uh…they can only get worse.  But what about those movies that were sooooooo close to being amazing?  You know that feeling where you look to the person next to you after 20 minutes and go “holy shit!” but then leave the theater talking about how it JUST missed?  Looking back on our pre-26 free wheeling, movie going days, here are the films that JUST missed being great, but would immediately get all our whiny asses back in the theater.  Ladies and gentlemen, the “Almost Great Movie Re-Do”:

WAR OF THE WORLDS (2005):  

IMDB PLOT SUMMARY FOR THE DUMMIES THAT DON’T REMEMBER THIS MOVIE:  Ray Ferrier (Cruise) is a divorced dockworker and less-than-perfect father. When his ex-wife and her new husband drop off his teenage son Robbie and young daughter Rachel for a rare weekend visit, a strange and powerful lightning storm suddenly touches down. What follows is the extraordinary battle for the future of humankind through the eyes of one American family fighting to survive it in this contemporary retelling of H.G. Wells seminal classic sci-fi thriller.

Look, I get that it’s easy to stamp Tom Cruise as a certified WEIRDO, but his IMDB page is a list of “Oh, I loved that”s and if you disagree then you, muchacho, have a big dump in your pants.  “War of the Worlds”  stands out to me because I remember sitting in the theater after the initial alien invasion, about 20 minutes through the movie, thinking “I cannot wait to watch this every time I see it on TNT for the rest of my life.” And then the last two thirds of the movie didn’t live up to the first act (movie term, UCLA film school nbd…the debt from UCLA film school, however, is a VERY big deal.  Shit.)  Alien invasion survival movies are in my wheelhouse, though, and the story of a divorced dad trying to save his family, while proving that he’s not the dirtbag everyone thought he was, has JIMMY LIKEY written all over it.  (Jimmy relating to a dirtbag divorcee…interesting…)  13 years later, let’s take a shot at recasting:

Ray Ferrier (Originally Tom Cruise): Bradley Cooper–In the 4 years since “American Sniper” he hasn’t been in anything that matters.  Time for B. Coop to take on a movie that allows him to be the bright shining star that he is.  Combine the cocky dickbag he played in “The Hangover” with the quiet, tough guy he was in “American Sniper” and you have the EXACT divorced dad I wanna watch trying to save his family.

Rachel Ferrier (Ray’s daughter, originally Dakota Fanning):  Millie Bobbie Brown–the lead girl in “Stranger Things”.  Millie is this decade’s Dakota Fanning; the only teen girl actress that adult men know.  That’s why I picked her…I legit couldn’t think of another name and if you can, then congrats, you’re creepy!

Robbie Ferrier (Ray’s son, you’ve never heard of the original actor):  Lucas Hedges–the kid from “Manchester By The Sea”.  You need a dude who’s almost a full-blown adult (Lucas is 21) so he can rebel against Ray throughout the movie while building up to the scene at the end where we see Ray hug his crying son for the first time in years.  Lucas has a great cry-face too, which is VITAL for that climactic “I love you Dad” scene at the end.

Mary Ann Otto (Ray’s ex-wife, you’ve never heard of the original actress):  Vera Farmiga–the psychiatrist from “The Departed”.  Did I pick her because I have an all-time crush on her? Very much YES.  However, when you need someone who isn’t overwhelmingly beautiful (realism, folks) and can also toss a cutting “you were never home!” towards the Ray character, you take the lady who tricked Clooney into falling in love with her like Vera did in “Up In The Air.”

MIAMI VICE (2006):  

IMDB PLOT SUMMARY FOR THE DUMMIES THAT DON’T REMEMBER THIS MOVIE:  Ricardo Tubbs is urbane and dead smart. He lives with Bronx-born Intel analyst Trudy, as they work undercover transporting drug loads into South Florida to identify a group responsible for three murders. Sonny Crockett [to the untrained eye, his presentation may seem unorthodox, but procedurally, he is sound] is charismatic and flirtatious until – while undercover working with the supplier of the South Florida group – he gets romantically entangled with Isabella, the Chinese-Cuban wife of an arms and drugs trafficker. The best undercover identity is oneself with the volume turned up and restraint unplugged. The intensity of the case pushes Crockett and Tubbs out onto the edge where identity and fabrication become blurred, where cop and player become one – especially for Crockett in his romance with Isabella and for Tubbs in the provocation of an assault on those he loves.

If you told me the director of “Heat” was making a movie about drug-running undercover cops, but the only way I could see it is if I PROVED that I could fly, I would immediately start jumping off buildings.  So…I’d essentially kill myself to see Michael Mann direct this kind of movie.  I remember seeing it when it first came out and thinking it was too long and too boring and too artsy.  There aren’t specific scenes or lines that I remember, and that sucks because this is the kind of movie that you should be quoting to your buddies ten years later.  Real, dead serious question for everyone: who doesn’t like movies about potentially dirty cops with personal issues?  “Training Day”, “Heat”, “American Gangster”, “Serpico”, and “The Departed” ALL feature these characters and ALL are “I’m not changing the channel until this is over”-classics.  Therefore, whenever a movie with potentially dirty cops who have personal issues doesn’t become a “I’m not changing the channel until this is over”-classic they should just keep remaking it until they find the right balance.

Sonny Crockett (Originally Colin Farrell):  Tom Hardy–if Tom Hardy isn’t the first name to come to mind when trying to think of a badass with good hair and underlying personal demons, then you need to get some electroshock therapy cuz your mind is BUSTED.  Listen, Tom Hardy could be in a movie about birdwatching and I’d stand in line to go see it, but him getting to play a coked out cop who falls in love with the wrong girl is what he was born to do.  Who else is excited for the scene where he kills a bad guy with his bare hands and then flips his hair back and looks at the camera like a dog with rabies trying to catch his breath?  I SEE IT IN MY DREAMS!!!

Ricardo Tubbs (Originally Jamie Foxx):  Chiwetel Ejiofor–We need a smart looking guy (check!) who also isn’t a total pushover.  Combine the character he played in “The Martian” (smart, kinda nerdy dude) with the “whoa, this is a little too realistic”-performance he gave in “12 Years A Slave” and you have someone who can tell coked out Tom Hardy to “JUST CALM THE FUCK DOWN!”  Will there be a scene where Chiwetel shoves Hardy against the wall after Hardy got a little too physical with a potential witness?  You fucking bet there will be!

Isabella (Sonny’s romantic interest, originally Li Gong):  Rooney Mara–Let’s think of a girl who we could see married to a drug kingpin.  She’s going to have to look a little scary, but  also be able to pull off a little “girl next door” so that Tom Hardy can save her with his cool hair and reckless behavior.  Rooney proved her scary chops in “Girl with the Dragon Tattoo” where I remember thinking “I would rather date Michael Myers than this girl.”  AND! She proved her “girl next door” chops as the Mark Zuckerberg’s opening-scene girlfriend in “The Social Network.”  Her signature scene in this will be when she’s next to her drug kingpin bad guy but giving the “we shouldn’t do this”-eyes to Tom Hardy.  FORBIDDEN LOVE IS ALIVE AND WELL!

BATMAN BEGINS (2005):

IMDB PLOT SUMMARY FOR THE DUMMIES THAT DON’T REMEMBER THIS MOVIE:  When his parents are killed, billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne relocates to Asia where he is mentored by Henri Ducard and Ra’s Al Ghul in how to fight evil. When learning about the plan to wipe out evil in Gotham City by Ducard, Bruce prevents this plan from getting any further and heads back to his home. Back in his original surroundings, Bruce adopts the image of a bat to strike fear into the criminals and the corrupt as the icon known as ‘Batman’. But it doesn’t stay quiet for long.

Maybe in hindsight this movie looks worse than it really is, but “The Dark Knight” and “Dark Knight Rises” were so much better than the first in this trilogy that I’m dying for Chris Nolan to ask for a do-over.  It’s a Nolan Batman movie so it’s still watchable, but tell me one scene that you actually remember from this movie and I’ll be your butler for the rest of my life.  You can’t do it.  Meanwhile, we can all basically remember EVERY. SINGLE. SCENE. from “The Dark Knight” and most of Tom Hardy’s scenes from “Dark Knight Rises”.  What do I think went wrong?  I think it wasn’t dark enough and Liam Neeson just isn’t THAT captivating of a villain.  Tough to go up against Ledger’s “Joker” and Hardy’s “Bane”, but the most memorable part of Neeson’s “Ducard” is his weird facial hair.  Whenever some dummy asks you “well, what sequel was EVER better than the original?” you should start with this.

Bruce Wayne/Batman (Originally Christian Bale):  Michael B. Jordan–Trying to think of who should play Batman next is always a fun game.  This time, I just kept going back to MBJ.  Yes, him being the first black Batman would cause a social media meltdown in both good and bad ways, but he checks ALL of the boxes we need for a Batman.  Young enough to kick off a franchise that could span the next decade? Check.  A big enough star that people would be excited to see him don the cape? Check.  Ability to look great in a tux, built enough to kick many many asses, and acting chops to carry a love story?  Proved his love story chops in “Friday Night Lights” and this dude is built like a shit brickhouse in “Creed”.  Try this exercise: Look at the IMDB picture of MBJ.  He’s in a tux and smiling.  Now close your eyes and imagine if you had to name that person any name in the world, what would you name him?  Bruce. Fucking. Wayne.

Ducard (Originally Liam Neeson):  Joaquin Phoenix–We need an older guy, who can pull off weird facial hair and go to creepy enough places to create a memorable villain.  You don’t get much more enigmatic than Joaquin, folks.  The only reason I hesitated casting him in this role is because whenever they inevitably remake “The Dark Knight,” I think Joaquin would make the PERFECT Joker.  Too bad, I got him for this first! One of the most underrated actors ever, Joaquin has a nice enough smile to kinda’ trust, with eyes that scream “something DARK is going on behind those!”

Rachel Dawes (Originally Katie Holmes):  Elizabeth Olsen–The lesser known, but super beautiful Olsen sister.  Katie Holmes was a weird casting decision because she’s not beautiful enough to reel in Batman.  Point blank, NOT HOT ENOUGH.  It’s friggin’ Batman for chrissake.  So we need a KNOCKOUT ROCKET who can pull off the “Bruce! Help!” scream in a not-cheesy way.  Check out Olsen in “Wind River”.  Stunningly beautiful who can knock the wind out of you with her “I’m about to cry cuz I’m scared”-face.

Jim Gordon (Originally Gary Oldman):  Kyle Chandler–This guy was meant to play Jim Gordon and I will not hear any arguments that say otherwise.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

A guy I’m kinda’ friends with on Facebook posted this and I almost fainted.

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you have to pick up your wife from the airport at 10PM on a Sunday while making sure to pretend that you’re not SUPER SALTY that she ruined your martini and HBO weekend sendoff.

K bye.

 

 

The VP and I Go Canoeing-PART TWO-(7/19/18)

MY WORLD:

*Quick recap of Part One for those of you who are too fucking lazy to read it:  The VP of Ops and I went canoeing last weekend.  Part one was about the 3 hour drive up to Bumfuck, Wisconsin.  I left off when I got out of the car and was massacred by mosquitoes.  Want more details? GO READ IT!

By the time the VP actually got out of the car, I was but a shell of myself.  Weary from the beating my body had taken in the 47 seconds I had been outside, the thought of shielding myself with The VP’s body not only crossed my mind, it consumed me.  If I draped her over my shoulders like a fashionable shawl, and began to spin, the helicopter motion of her limbs would SURELY fend off these hungry fuckhead squitoes.  The VP had a solid defense mechanism, however, which consisted of her giving me the “I can’t believe you made me come here”-stare.  Imagine two razorblades made of un-meltable ice; that’s what The VP’s eyes looked like.  I may have let out an audible “yikes” after being caught with that frigid glare.  Back to the squitoes, everything is going great!

We had to load our stuff on the back of a school bus before it drove us to the launch off point.  The VP carried like a friggin’ pillow and left the cooler, firewood, tent, chairs, and backpacks for me; this is the definition of not-fair and if my Mom was there I def would’ve squealed a “Mom! This is unfair!”  Unfortch, my Mom was too busy not sacrificing her body to the Squitoe Squad, so I was left to exhale audibly and then just carry everything because WE’RE NOT GETTING IN A FIGHT!  By the time I loaded our entire life into the back of this dumb bus, most of the seats were taken.  When I got to the VP’s seat, I felt like young Forrest Gump.  While not exactly Jenny-ish, the VP did scoot over and make room for my swollen ass.  Want a perfect remedy for a tense situation with your significant other?  Just make a fart noise.  I’m not sure if I did that or I just said something along the lines of “thanks for letting me carry everything!” but it did lighten the mood.  The Squitoes, like most cool people, wouldn’t be caught dead in a big yellow school bus, so we were safe for the time being.  As the bus took off and our itchies began to subside, I felt The VP begin to soften.  Beers and sun and NATURE were on the docket.  We were about to live that H.O.C. life (Hot Outdoorsy Couple).

We got to the launch point and after a minor altercation with the canoe organizer lady, we loaded our canoe and set off into the great wide open!  Oh, the minor altercation?  You know that thing when someone acts like you don’t have a reservation when you really do, so you respond with a brief, albeit passionate, fury?  Did the words “well that’s something that YOU need to figure out” come out of my mouth?  Yes.  But listen, The VP and I didn’t drive 3 hours, and get in a few almost-fights before donating our bodies to the Squitoe Squad to be turned away by some idiot woman holding a clipboard and wearing a life vest ON LAND.  Hey Lady, hard to drown in grass, dontchathink?!?!  Thankfully, my very brief, very minor outburst didn’t result in any sort of incarceration.  Before we knew it, we were on the water, paddling towards enshrinement in the H.O.C. Hall of Fame.

The weather was perfect out on the water and the Squitoes weren’t too bad out there either.  The VP and I basically took deet showers before we got on the canoe, and that seemed to work.  Lite beers began to flow and cheesy country music blared from our friend Bonesaw’s cool waterproof speaker.  (Am I the only one still using the speakers I bought for my dorm room in 2004?  Yes? Oh.)  When you’re out on the water, cheesy country music or Dave Matthews is all that you can listen to.  If someone had put on like Two Chainz or N’Sync, I would’ve swam over to their canoe to strangle the life out of them.  (Aggressive).  Give me Florida Georgia Line or give me death on the open waters.  The VP and I were having a ball, guys.  No joke.  Was I doing most of the paddling? Yes, of course.  However, if I wanted to earn my H.O.G. badge, I was going to have to blast my delts and traps until they begged for mercy.  When they did beg for mercy after roughly 4.1 minutes of paddling, though, I was forced to yell at The VP to “feel free to paddle ANYTIME!”  Flinging guilt trips your wife’s way is part of the H.O.G. lifestyle, correct?

We (mostly me, but whatever) paddled for a while and then hooked up with a few other canoes for a solid, hang ‘n float sesh.  My jokes were not landing the way I was hoping they would, however, and The VP seemed to revel in that.  After a few “I think we forgot to pack our motor”-jokes didn’t connect, she looked back and said “you’re really on fire today!”  I can’t lie, it stung and I’m still kinda’ pissed about it.  Don’t wedding vows also encompass supporting your husband’s desperate attempts at canoe humor?  If they don’t, they should, and if they do, then The VP owes me a heartfelt apology.  (VP?  Care to comment?)  Eventually, the hang ‘n float group loosened up and sent some (courtesy?) laughs my way.  WAS THAT SO HARD?!?!  We ate sandwiches and drank some beehs and bagged many many rays.  Excuse the following brag, but I tan like a Greek God; going from translucent white to burnt gold in a matter of minutes.  I skip the lobster red phase altogether; it’s a gift.

After a little more paddling (yes, still mostly by me, thanks for inquiring) we set up camp at a little sandy beach.  Are these called dunes?  I don’t know and I don’t want to look it up, but it was like our group’s own private beach.  It was sweet.  Everyone went off to set up their tents while it was still light out.  I guess I missed the memo that good friend Bonesaw wasn’t going to do everything for me, as he did last year, though.  I pretended that this wasn’t a MAJOR problem, but my brain was beginning to swell with anxiety.  I had no fucking idea how to put this tent together.  We borrowed it from other friends, and now was the time that we were supposed to act like a real H.O.C.  The instruction packet was stuck together because it got wet, so we had to go into “we can figure this out”-mode.  Wanna hear a secret? Both of us knew we weren’t going to be able to figure it out.

After scrambling for a solid 37 minutes of minor fights and little progress, our tent resembled a deflated bouncy castle.  It was sad, and looked even more sad because it was surrounded by fully erect, gorgeous tent houses.  I swear to god some of these other tents looked bigger and nicer than the apartment we pay almost two grand a month to live in.  The rest of the group was hanging and drinking in the water for a long enough time that I’m sure they had to be talking about and laughing about our tent issues.  The case for me becoming a H.O.G. had hit QUITE the speed bump.  Some would say, the point where I snapped “well, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing” at The VP is where my H.O.G. case was forever lost.  (Members of the H.O.G. jury all nod.)  We awkwardly gave up after we got the tent erect enough to sleep in, and shuffled our way to the water.  Our body language must’ve SCREAMED “everything is fine! Please don’t ask us about our tent!”

Vodka with strawberry lemonade was the drink of choice as the day progressed and, lemme tellya, they were going down SMOOTH.  I’m also pretty sure that I told everyone around us just how smooth they were going down no less than 87 times.  (We get it Jimmy, you’re drinking a lot of vodka in the sun!)  Nobody said anything about our shitty tent, which was nice.  Instead, the group was more focused on laughing and smiling AND LAUGHING.  Hey! I like to laugh!  The water felt great and the weather was perfect as The Golden Hour approached.

golden

When the sun went down, an actual H.O.G. in the group put together a gorgeous fire.  Honestly, if the H.O.G. jury had asked me to build a fire, I probably would’ve just rubbed some sticks together until my hands bled before running off to my deflated tent while yelling “everything is impossible out here!”  I was good at sitting near the fire, though, and eating a hot dog that someone else cooked.  (God you’re impressive, Jimmy.)  But when the sun finally went into hiding, the mosquitoes came back out.  And they were angry, guys.  Very, very angry.  The VP and I looked at each other one last time.  The itchies were back.  The rest of the night consisted of people trying to laugh in between slapping the back of their necks and saying stuff like “these mosquitoes!”  Fun fact, it’s hard to function as a human being when mosquitoes are building apartment complexes on your face.

Everyone went to bed relatively early as a result.  Our bed did consist of, uh, the sand because our blow-up mattress refused to blow up even after I yelled at it to “just work!”  I know, I couldn’t believe it either.  So The VP and I slept on the ground, using our damp backpacks as pillows.  How come nobody ever puts those camping pictures on Instagram?  No videos of you telling your wife to “stop sighing, there’s nothing we can do” on their stories?  I would’ve recorded some of this for you but my phone was already dead because I went canoeing with my battery at 16%.  Planning, it appears, is not my strong suit.

The VP and I awoke covered in a thin film of sweat and sand.  Guys, it gets hot outside in the summer.  Did you know that?  I made a bunch of the same sounds your dad makes when he gets up from his seat at Thanksgiving dinner.  A lot of “urghs” and “wugffs” and “jesus christ, my back”s.  Needless to say, I will not be perusing the “Wisconsin Sand”-section next time I go to Mattress World.  The VP refused to get up because she knew that meant packing up the tent and cleaning and getting back on the canoe for more paddling.  The VP was going into full-on “But I don’t wanna”-mode.  Good thing that I can be INCREDIBLY annoying when I want to be.  She snapped out of her fake slumber after a few Jimmy fingers went up her nose.  (Surprisingly few boogs in there FYI.)  

Nobody talked much in the morning because we were all tired and covered in mosquito bites.  One guy in the group just looked like a human mosquito bite; I’m pretty sure King Squitoe swallowed him whole at some point in the night.  It’s not fun doing your best impression of an air traffic controller while trying to take your morning pee, either.  Hey mosquitoes, what don’t you get?  Pee is gross, back off for a minute.  By the time everyone loaded up their canoes again, we were all ready to have a magic current take us to the finish line.

That magic current never came, though, so we were forced to paddle much further than any of us anticipated.  Whoever said “we just have to get to the second bridge” can rot in hell.  Seriously, I don’t remember who that person was, but if you’re reading this, you better pray I don’t run into you in a dark alley.  We passed like a hundred bridges and  I don’t know if the magic current was actually working against us, but it did feel like you had to have the strength of Dwayne The Rock Johnson to get your canoe moving.  Did it help that The VP wasn’t helping at all because she felt “nauseous or something”?  No, that did not help.  At this point, I didn’t give a fuck about ever being labeled a H.O.G.  In fact, I began to think that H.O.G.s are really just tired, sweaty, miserable guys who are able to trick us by smiling for the one picture they put up on Instagram.  I looked around at the group on the water that morning, and there were no smiles.  ZERO. SMILES.  There were grimaces and bug bites and The VP with her head between her knees saying “I am not okay.”  THE OUTDOORS!

Now, because I really am a super nice and super strong guy, I didn’t make The VP feel bad about not paddling much on the way back.  But now that we’re alone here guys, holy shit was that hard.  Like, “am I going to have a heart attack and die in a canoe on the Wisconsin River?”-hard.  Every day since, I’ve checked out my arms and shoulders in the mirror expecting them to look more chiseled than your neighborhood bodybuilder’s.  Spoiler alert: they don’t look chiseled, and it’s fucking bullshit.  After, no joke, like 3 hours of paddling, we finally got back to where I had parked my car.  The VP scurried up to my Chevy’s air conditioning, while I dragged back every damp, smelly belonging we had.  Remember those times when you would be moving into a new apartment and you just started dragging stuff because you were tired and didn’t give a fuck anymore?  That was me here.  If some strong man would have offered to carry me back to my car, I would have divorced The VP on the spot and married my new burly hero.  I may have even tried looking helpless for a little while hoping that some strongman stranger was waiting to play hero.  Hey, can someone play a sad song while I have my “please help me” face on?  There was no strongman stranger, just a sandy hill and a wife bolted to the inside of my car.  I loaded all our shit in the trunk, didn’t say goodbye to anyone in the group and said “holy shit” 14 times before I pulled out of our parking space.

I’m never going to be hot outdoorsy guy.  I’m a chair man, through and through.

THAT WAS A LOT OF WORDS AND NOW I’M DONE.

K bye.

 

 

When Do We Get To Stop Lying? (7/11/18)

MY WORLD:

Last night The VP and I didn’t know what to do for dinner so we walked around the corner to some Mexican joint we’ve walked pass no less than ten hundred trillion times.  It’s on a busy, shitty street and neither of us had ever heard of anyone who had tried it before so it had been easy to overlook.  But whatever, we couldn’t make a decision so we chose the path of least resistance, figuring, how bad could it be?

And then we ate there and it was bad (what a story, Jimmy!!!  Keep up this writing thing! Riveting stuff!)  The server was not good at her job; giving The VP an “I don’t know” when asked whether the enchiladas were spicy.  As a former server myself, I’m allowed to pick on them now, and this lady was awful.  If you went to a doctor and asked what your treatment would entail, and she responded “I don’t know,” you’d find another doctor.  So, off the bat, I was pissed that this woman couldn’t even fake pretending to be competent at her job.  Then the food came.

It wasn’t the kind of bad where you can’t touch it, but more the type where you’re really hungry so you keep eating and saying “it’s fine,” to each other.  If you ever want to feel like a dog willing to eat whatever is put in your bowl, try going to a mediocre Mexican restaurant where the only dinner conversation that’s allowed are the words “it’s fine.”  (Does Belle say “it’s fine” every morning while eating that stale kibble from the giant plastic bag?  Well, that’s because she can’t talk because she is a dog.)  

When we finished, I went up to pay and our server asked how everything was.  And this is what sparked what I wanted to write about this morning (finally!  You sure you don’t want to blather on for another 3 paragraphs?!?!) I told the server that “it was good!”  I even put an emphasis on the word “good” where I made myself sound excited when I said it.  She smiled and I tipped her over 20% because of 33 year-old guilt complexes ONLY.  But it made me feel like a dirty fucking liar.  Why did I owe it to this stranger who couldn’t have been trying less at her job to make her feel like she and her place of employment earned my money?  It’s like letting your dog up on the bed when she whines, or giving a kid a cookie when he starts to cry; simply reinforcing bad behavior.

I think there are a lot of sanctimonious people who love telling anyone with ears that they “never lie.”  Well, I’d like to call that bluff.  If these people “never lie,” then are they telling their 16 year-old waiter at the local Italian restaurant that their meatballs sucked ass?  Because if you tell him they were good, you’re a liar.  I don’t support conflating “being nice” with lying; these are mutually exclusive terms.  The manner in which your honesty reveals itself, is when we can determine whether you’re nice or not.  If I would’ve said “the food sucked. I hated the way you performed your job, and your hair is dumb” it would’ve been honest, but not nice.  However, who is arguing that I’m a dick if I would’ve said “the enchiladas were cold, and the service could’ve been more helpful”?  (Uh, I’m arguing that.)  Isn’t that constructive criticism that could, ultimately, help this restaurant?    (Please support Dickhead Jimmy’s crusade to save the shitty restaurants of the world!!!)

As we walked home, The VP could probably feel me stewing (were you grinding?  Well then how could she feel you?) I definitely said “you know what? That was not good” a few times, as if to atone for my recent LIE.  The VP, sensing that I was on the verge of some rant that she didn’t feel like placating, simply agreed and changed the subject quickly (which explains why you’re dumping it on the readers today.  Thanks Jimmy!)  But, I’m tired of the white lies.  I’M SICK OF EM!  Am I also sick of my cowardice taking over too many times in order to avoid a somewhat awkward, albeit honest, interaction with a stranger? Yeah, that too.  Here are some other “white lie” situations that leave me feeling like a dirty fucking liar afterwards:

Whenever I thank and tip an Uber driver whose car smells like a lumberjack’s armpit and drives like he’s auditioning to be “Car Crash Victim #7” in the next “Mission Impossible” movie.

Is there a worse feeling in the entire universe than getting into an Uber, closing the door and then having your nostrils flare as you realize “oh no, I’m in a smelly car”?  (There are worse feelings, but g’head make your point!)  If your car is your livelihood and you work in a tip-based industry, wouldn’t you want to make sure that your car doesn’t make your customers want to vomit?  I used to chalk it up to a “who gives a fuck?”-attitude on the part of the driver, but now I’m convinced that they just don’t know that their car smells like ass because NOBODY has the stones to tell them.  The driver has simply become immune to the chronic B.O. smell of their car and is none the wiser thanks to cowardly passengers such as myself.

Then there are the drivers who dart in and out of lanes while mixing in the occasional seatbelt check of a slam on the brakes.  Here’s a deal: if I have bruises across my chest from the hard stops of an Uber driver, the ride is free.  Do drivers like this end up saving any meaningful amount of time?  I’m convinced that they simply raise the blood pressure of every driver around them while saving POSSIBLY 9 seconds on total drive time.  Traffic is death: there’s no escaping it. (Wow, deep.)  

Whenever I’m in either of these types of Ubers-or both at the same time!-I end up just grumbling to myself or The VP the entire ride, only to thank the driver on my way out of the car and give him/her the standard “I’m not looking at my phone” Uber tip.  This is why these drivers drive like this, guys!  THAT’S WHAT I’M SAYING!  If I would take the time to tell the Uber driver that the smell of his car reminded me of a high-school mathematician convention (Nerd B.O. is the most pungent), he/she may think “oh, maybe I should get my car cleaned or, at least, make sure I drive with the windows open.”  Even if I left a bad review under the “stanky car, cranky driver” reason, that would surely help.  If we all band together we can put an end to this epidemic!  FOLLOW ME! FOLLOW ME TO FREEDOM!

Whenever I talk about how my life is going to my grandfather.

I’m sure Grandpa Irv doesn’t want to hear about my struggles with staying away from sugar and drinking too much, but telling him everything is “really good” is depriving him the chance to impart some wisdom of his.  (Is that sarcastic?) No, that’s not sarcasm.  I’ve been thinking about how every time I’m around my grandpa, I answer every question he asks about my life by starting with “it’s really good, actually.”  Uh, that’s a lie.  Everything isn’t bad, but isn’t everyone creeped out with the person in their life who ALWAYS says that EVERYTHING is going GREAT?  Does that mean my grandpa is secretly creeped out by me? (Yes!) I’m imagining him going home with his girlfriend-yeah, he has a girlfriend-and being like “isn’t it creepy how Jimmy says that everything in his life is ‘really good’?  He must be doing drugs or just plain stupid.”  I bet his girlfriend nods along in agreement and they go to sleep thinking I’m some sort of simpleton.  THIS IS AN UNMITIGATED DISASTER!

If I were my grandpa, I’d go into these grandkid hang sessions somewhat excited about getting to share some of the knowledge I’d gained from being around for so long.  The way I can try to steer my younger brothers from mistakes I made, he could steer me away from potential adulthood missteps that he took.  But you can’t give advice to someone who only insists that everything is “really good, actually.”  He could press me on it, but what a waste of energy that is.  He’s probably like, “fine, you don’t want my advice, I don’t need to give it.  Have fun in that one bedroom apartment on the west side!”  Maybe if I was honest and told him that I’m worried about providing for a family while trying to pay off some preposterous student loans, he’d enlighten me with some comforting words.  Maybe he was in his 30s when he founded his carpet business that ended up paving the way for the comfortable life he has been able to lead?  Maybe he could light the spark for me to take some risks that I’m too afraid to take now?  But no, I’m content with little white lies about my life so as not to burden him with problems that aren’t his own.

That being said, there is the off-chance that I’m totally honest with him the next time we’re together and it causes him to back away from the table making “yuck” sounds before saying “good luck with all of that!”  It’s a risk I am simply too insecure to take.  But like, hey Grandpa, if you’re reading this and want to send me an inspirational e-mail, that’d be VV chill of you.

Whenever I talk to or about little babies…to anyone. 

I’m just lying the entire time I’m talking about little babies.  I’m talking like when they’re real new babies, I don’t know how to talk about them.  They all look basically the same, aside from some have hair and some don’t, and all they do is cry and poop and move some of their fingers sometimes.  Which parent does he/she look like?  I never have any idea and yet, usually, just lie and make some lame joke about he looks like the local mailman.  (Those jokes are never not funny FYI.)  I’ll “talk” to the baby in a higher pitched voice and talk about how cute it is, but like, can we be real?  They can’t understand me and I don’t know if it’s cute.  It looks like every other baby I’ve ever seen.  I’m sure some parents are reading this and labeling me a dick, but why am I supposed to be excited to interact with a thing that has no discernible look or personality?  It’s like getting mad at someone for not being excited to meet and speak with a new floor.  “Oh wow!  It’s wood and kinda smooth!”

This doesn’t mean that I’m not proud of friends of mine who have had little babies.  (Oh, is this the part where you protect yourself?) When I’m around friends of mine or The VPs who have had kids, I am instantly impressed that they have the maturity and stability to ensure the survival of a helpless creature.  These parent-friends of mine LITERALLY have to save their babies’ lives multiple times a day, and I’m writing a blogpost complaining about mediocre enchiladas.  Yeah, you’re more advanced than me!

However, when these life-saving heroes ask me about their 3 week-old’s personality, I wanna be like “uh, to be honest, your baby reminds me of my fingernail.  Like, I know it’s a living thing, but I’m not getting much in the way of a relationship.  I hope I don’t break it.”  While that may be an instance of being honest without being nice, this is really a no-win situation.  If I were to say “it has no discernible personality and looks like every baby I’ve ever seen,” the parents aren’t going to regale me with praise for my honesty.  So I’m forced to lie and walk away feeling like complicit in society’s rouse to make every kid feel more special than they really are.  (That got dark and kinda’ heavy there, bud.  Maybe tone it down a notch next time?)

OUR WORLD:

It’s Wednesday and today’s “My World” section ran long.  See ya’ out there.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

If you know me well, you know that I can’t handle scary movies because I’m a baby and they give me nightmares and I don’t like being scared.  BUT!  Every once in a blue moon, I kinda’ want to see one.  The trailer for the newest Halloween movie looks prettttayyyyy pretttttayyyyy sweet.  May have to man up and check this out.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The Little League World Series is starting soon and that means that I won’t want to watch ESPN for like 3 weeks.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

Cool, guys.  I let you know who I was betting on yesterday for the first time in weeks and you all jinx me.  As if I need another reason to hate France, now they’ve actually taken money out of my pocket by beating Belgium yesterday.  I guess I’m going to bet on England today because…I don’t know where Croatia actually is.  That seems like sound reasoning.  WHAT COULD GO WRONG?!?!

(My account is currently at $31.44)

K bye.

 

The 4th of July Stinks and My Dog is Making Me Feel Fat (7/3/18)

OUR WORLD:

One of the best things about this big, smelly country is a little thang called “freedom of speech,” mmmkay?  So check me out exercising this freedom when I say the following: the 4th of July stinks.  STINKS, FOLKS!  (Dear ICE, you know that Jimmyschair guy?  Can you chop his head off please?…Why not?)  A day during the hottest month of the year that we HAVE to spend outside in front of grills that are making the cheapest of grilled meats all leading up to sitting in long grass and getting mauled by Zika-ridden Mosquitoes to watch 8 minutes of fireworks.  Oh, and the best part?  It’s on a Wednesday this year, so you have the option of blowing a vacation day on Thursday or showing up to work in your best hangover disguise, holstered with the “my allergies are horrible!”-excuse as you try to stop dry-heaving in front of your boss.  You know why people call this holiday simply “the 4th”?  Because it’s the 4th best summer holiday (That’s not true, Jimmy.  SHUT UP MOM!)  Give me Memorial Day, Labor Day, and MY FRIGGIN’ BIRTHDAY AKA FLAG DAY, a trillion times out of a trillion over “the 4th”.  (Point Jimmyschair.)

Now, does the 4th stink compared to a typical day?  Do I look like a stupid idiot?  Of course it’s great compared to your typical July workday.  We’re talking compared to other holidays here, try to keep up JERKS!  (I didn’t mean that and feel bad about lashing out).  Lets go through why, compared to other holidays, the 4th STINKS:

Fireworks are overrated:  I can’t believe this is that hot of a take, but I’ve never been a big fireworks guy.  Even as a kid, I remember wondering when the whole “show” would end so I could go back home and play video games.  Before television, I’m sure I would’ve thought fireworks were cool, but now I’m supposed to bypass getting to watch 2-3 episodes of “Southern Charm” (The VP and I have been binging this and DADDY LIKEY!)  Colorful explosions in the sky < Did Craig take the bar yet?  (TeamCraig stand up!)  Even if you’re not in the midst of a “Southern Charm” binge, please do not even try to tell me that watching fireworks is preferable to watching a TV show of your choice while on a recliner in an air conditioned room.  Firework shows last 18 minutes tops?  And how long did it take you to get to your friends backyard or rooftop or local…uh…field?  Probably AT LEAST 20 minutes each way, but it’s not like you can just show up for the fireworks and toss up deuces (PEACE!) the second after the finale.  NO WAY JOSE!  You’re getting there early, bringing some mayo “salad” and you’re staying after for at least one “I’m too tired to drink this and then drive home”-beer.

*Quick breather:  I’m aware I sound like the ultimate Debbie Downer.  To play my own Devil’s Advocate for a second, it is ALWAYS fun to hang out with your best friends and get drunk.  However, with the 4th landing on a school night this year, this will be like the first NFL Sunday of the year where you get drunk with your friends and then silently freak out at night about how hungover you’re going to be at work the next day.  Whenever you’re playing the “I’m going to be hungover at work tomorrow”-game, you’re playing with fire and DEFINITELY worrying about it every time you open a new beer.  

BACK TO HATE-CITY!  I touched on this last week, but when you live in a big city, for the week leading up to and the week after the 4th, there are CONSTANT random fireworks going off throughout the night.  When you live with a wife who has been mugged and a dog who gets stressed at the sound of a sneeze, these sounds are not exactly comforting.  I took Numba One Pretty Gurrrrllll Belle out for a walk last night and felt like I was an extra on the set of “Saving Private Ryan 2: Escape from Chicago”.  This is why when I’m never sad when I hear stories about people blowing off their fingers setting off fireworks.  THAT’S WHAT YOU GET FOR SCARING ME AND MY PRETTY PRINCESS BABY BELLE!!!

It’s too hot to be in front of a grill or hanging outside all day:  The 4th is the number one day for making people feel guilty for wanting to stay inside.  As someone extremely sensitive to guilt-trips (are you mad at me?) this is my nightmare.  Why do we have to feel guilty for not wanting to spend the entire day in stifling heat and humidity?  Hard to get a beer buzz when you’re sweating through your friggin’ eyeballs!  If you told your friends or spouse, that you were planning to spend the 4th under a blanket in your air-conditioned coldbox of an apartment watching reality television all day, you’d immediately be slapped with the “it’s too nice to spend the day inside”-guilt trip.  Fuck. That.  I’m all for spending nice days outside, but the majority of my Independence Day memories include sticking to my chair and slapping at the mosquitoes treating my legs the way I treat corn on the cob.  (Not coming up for air until that corncob is raw!) 

How many times can I get excited about hot dogs and hamburgers?  I like grilling as much as the next Joe Blow (I don’t even know ONE Joe Blow, Jimmy!) but how many times can I get excited about cheap meats that are, most likely, poorly cooked by a half-drunk “grill master”?  If you’re blessed enough to go to a spot that’s cooking up steaks or fancy chicken then you win; but most of us are stuck with Uncle Larry and his technique of smashing burgers on the grate until they’re hockey puck tough.  “Have you seen my ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron, guys?” Is this dinner or a hack-job comedy routine where everyone pretends their dinner doesn’t SUCK?!?! (Can you drown in ketchup?)  

*Related, I can’t wait to buy a “Kiss the Cook” apron.  I plan to wear it every single night of the year just to make that joke to The VP so many times that she goes into therapy.  “The thing is, I don’t want to kiss the cook.  Matta’ o fack, I’ve developed a deep seeded hatred for the cook and his stupid fucking apron!”

Having to be around people who don’t work the next day when you do:  Every year there’s the group of your friends at the party who love reminding everyone that they don’t work the next day.  You’ll say stuff like “wow, I’m jealous” and then play it off like it’s not that big of a deal.  In reality, though, you want to go to the bathroom and cry while looking at yourself in the mirror.  (My life isn’t as good as their life!)  The impromptu “whose job has the most relaxed vacation day policy?”-competition is never fun for the losers.  So you’re left either sipping on a lukewarm Coors Light while your besties get blackout without a care in the world, or you throw caution to the wind and sign up to be MISERABLE at your desk the next morning.  What an option!  I love watching the person who does work the next day get progressively drunker and sadder as the night goes on.  The whole “I’m going to get drunk and not even think about the consequences” act is impossible after the age of 30.  It’s a game of chicken that, even after 30 beers, you know you’re losing.  (This person is usually me btw).

Can’t wait.

MY WORLD:

IMG_3649

My dog Belle got a real short haircut on Sunday because she had mats and it’s super hot outside for a big FLOOF dog.  She looks so much thinner!  I was calling her “Chubba Bubba” before this cut, but now she looks like the Nicole Kidman of dogs so I’ve re-nicknamed her “Nicole Belleman”  (not my best, but The VP chuckled).  Anyway, this haircut and the effect it has had on her looks has got me thinking…do I need to get a buzzcut?  It feels like Belle has a newfound skinny-dog confidence, and is kinda’ judging ME for not being as skinny as her.  I think that she thinks that she’s better than me!

I’m currently mired in the phase of hair-length where I wear a hat every single day because I’m too lazy to properly style it in the morning.  And maybe this length/lack of styling is making me appear fatter than I am?  (That’s what I’m going to tell myself, at least.  The fact that all my shorts feel outrageously tight MUST be tied to my hair and not my recent diet of cookies and craft beer!)  Like, I’d love to show up with a new haircut and have people think “wow! I had no idea Jimmy was that skinny!”  That could happen!  It happened for Belle!  In High School I got a buzz cut and looked a little nazi-ish, but that was like forever ago which means it wouldn’t be the same, right?  If I do get a buzzcut I would have to worry about my hair growing back AND if it would highlight me getting thin on top.  Plus, if I get a buzzcut, I can’t cover it up with a hat because bald guys with hats make EVERYONE uncomfortable.  (Seriously, I’d feel more comfortable next to a drooling tiger than a bald guy with a big loose hat sitting on his dumb head.)  As you can tell, I’m in a real pickle here folks.  I want to shock people with how thin I can suddenly appear, but do I risk being the Nazi-lookin’ bald guy who’s making everyone uncomfortable with his ill-fitting hat?  You’re never in a good place body-image-wise when you’re jealous of how skinny your dog looks.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Bet you didn’t think I’d like this song…

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Getting into your car when it’s super hot outside and feeling the life get sucked out of you  while waiting for your AC to actually get cold.  It’s a race against time that I’m convinced will be the death of me.

GAMBLING UPDATES ARE STILL ON HOLD.  I AM CURRENTLY WORKING ON A STRATEGY THAT WILL ALLOW ME TO NEVER LOSE AND ONLY WIN BETS.  BLUEPRINTS, REPORTS AND STACKS OF PROPOSALS ARE INVOLVED…

K bye.

 

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

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Help).

OUR WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I’m just going to lean into this one…

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

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

K bye.

 

Becca is RUINING “The Bachelorette” (6/26/18)

OUR WORLD:

I’m doing my best to hold out for the many many MANY readers who are waiting on baited breath for my takes on reality television, but I have to come clean: I’m about to bail on this season of “The Bachelorette”.  Why? (Solid question, thanks for asking) Because Becca stinks.  Excuse me, Becca doesn’t stink, she STINKS LIKE DIRTY RAT PIG!  “The Bachelorette” is meant to have a somewhat likable, pretty lady make a bunch of douchey guys look silly while we kinda’ root for her to find the one normal-ish dude in the bunch (it’s like a game of pin the tail on the non-douche!)  This whole equation goes right down the crapper when we’re forced to watch an overdramatic Ice Queen play the victim 24/7/365.  With the popularity of this blog soaring to new heights EVERY. GODDAMN. SECOND. I’m thinking that this reaches Becca, herself.  Therefore, Becca, I’m going to write directly to you.

What’s the deal with the sparkle dresses?  The VP of Ops said last night that you “dress like a dickhead” and, being a fashion icon myself (Jimmy Fashion, ever heard of him?), I must say that I agree.  You dress like a dickhead.  Nobody wears sparkles as often as you do.  After a while, it’s like “we get that we’re supposed to look at you, you’re THE bachelorette on ‘The Bachelorette!”  Insecure much?  (Girrrrrrrlllllll!!!!)  And, trust me, I’ve done my best to defend you and your “look at me” sparkles to the VP, but when you turn around and wear some ridiculous crop top on the next group date it amounts to a slap in my face.  Aren’t you 30?  Do you know what it’s like to defend your dumb sparkles for an entire solo date and then have The VP give me the “told ya'” eyes when in THE NEXT SCENE you’re wearing a t-shirt that’s too small for a baby?  BABY’S WEAR LONGER SHIRTS THAN YOU!  Fool me once, shame on you.  Fool me twice, and you best believe Imma write a blog about how I’m FINISHED with you.  BELIE ‘DAT!  (We get it Jimmy, we’re reading the blog.)

Now let’s get into last night’s episode.  There was no part of you that thought “you know, Chris really went all in on that stupid Danke Scheoen performance, I’m going to make sure I talk to him!”  Nope.  After performing a Wayne Newton cover in front of Waxy Wayne HIMSELF, national television cameras, and a crowd of strangers ALL FOR YOU, you still thought to yourself “I’m only going to believe Chris likes me if he seeks me out later during the group date!”  THAT’S LOONEY TOONS!!! If I buy one roll of paper towels for our apartment and The VP doesn’t give me a sincere “thank you so much,” I’m holding a grudge for the rest of the night.  And Becca, we have a happy marriage!  But nope, you saw a sliver of an opportunity to make yourself into the victim again and BOOM, you took it!  When Chris tucked his balls away later and offered that “apology” I almost threw up.  He should’ve told you that he was Team Arie and gone back to the Wayne Newton show to see about scooping up the one groupie under the age of 72.

Speaking of Arie, how long are we supposed to feel bad for you? Forever?  It’s not like you were in a 7 year relationship that ended on the altar in front of a nationwide audience.  You “fell” for an obvious tool who you went on like 4 dates with in a 6 week span.  He gave you a ring and then said “nah, never mind I like the blonde more” a couple weeks later.  Was it nice of him? Of course not, but he also didn’t tie an anchor to your foot and invite you to go scuba diving.  I’ve had rougher break-ups with toothbrushes (but I don’t wanna spend $7 at CVS!!!)  Yet, every chance you get, you toss out the “remember, I’m the forever victim”-eyes.  You will get no more sympathy from me, you ordered up a big plate of Arie.  When The VP orders sushi on a hungover Sunday, I don’t feel bad for her.  Just like I tell The VP, “It’s your decision, but we all know it’s going to end horribly.”

Finally Becca, lets talk about Lincoln.  We’re getting into the heart of this season and you just picked him over a dude who built the Venmo app.  Seriously?  You think some mumble-mouth muppet, who cried about a wet picture frame, is more husband material than a guy who LITERALLY built the app that gives you money?  Every psychiatrist in the universe who watched that just diagnosed you as a certified IDIOT.  I’m sure you have a therapist, so here’s a spoiler for your next session: they’ve labeled you a “lost cause” and are going to drop you as a patient.  If this is a ploy to get on Dr. Drew’s new show “Celebrity Idiots,” then congratulations, you just locked up a spot on the inaugural season.

I tried defending you, Becca.  But, between the sparkles and the crop tops and the Lincoln stuff and the death glares, I have officially decided that I am out on you.  While I doubt I will watch ALL of the rest of the season, I am now rooting for an epic finale.  In my dream scenario, you pick someone, Colton probably, and he gets down on a knee.  With your heart about to explode with happiness, Colton opens a ring-sized box and says…SIIIIIKKKKKEEE!!!! Then, Arie’s new wife, Lauren, runs out and slaps you in the face right before making out with Colton right in front of you as Arie laughs in the background.  Either that, or you pick Garrett without realizing he’s the head of the KKK’s Minnesota chapter.

MY WORLD:

I’m stressed.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I’ve always thought I should like Weezer than I should, but I really do LOVE this cover.  I can’t tell if they’re trying to be funny or if this is a cheesy song, but it gets the coveted Jimmyschair “Stamp of Like”!

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

This whole Pete Davidson/Ariana Grande relationship is making everyone uncomfortable.  Can you guys just stop?

I’M TAKING A MINI-BREAK FROM GAMBLING THAT MAY LAST AS LONG AS 4 DAYS BECAUSE I HAVE BEEN ON A DREADFUL LOSING STREAK AND BETTING ON BASEBALL AND SOCCER IS REALLY STARTING TO PISS ME OFF.  GIVE ME FOOTBALL NOW.

K bye.

Worse Jobs Than Yours and Jeans in Critical Condition (6/25/18)

OUR WORLD:

Was I the only one to mutter “fuck this world with my whole heart” this morning?  My Monday morning routine has come to include vile self-talk followed by a sad march to make coffee before sitting on the couch and hugging my dog until she gives me the “are you actually about to start crying?” pull-away.  (Are we sure that hugging your dog can’t turn back the clock until it’s Sunday morning again?  BUT ARE WE SURE?!?!) It’s quite the scene in the Pomerantz household.  (Household?  You live in an apartment, pal.  Quit fibbin!”)  Now that I’ve finished shaking my head at nothing in particular, I’m ready to put my energy into finding perspective.  This section is somewhat twisted.  I’m aware that making myself feel better by thinking about the misfortune of others isn’t exactly the most noble of pursuits. GOOD THING I’M NOT NOBLE!  Faithful readers, lets take a trip back to…the “At Least I Don’t Have To Do That”-Job list.

Biker Gang Organizer:

I was in the burgeoning metropolis of Rockford, Illinois for a work event at a big sports bar this Saturday.  Unbeknownst to me, Rockford is home to large biker organizations (I don’t know if it’s a gang and if they read this and saw “gang” would they get mad and come find me?  Oh who am I kidding?  Bikers can’t read!)  GANG!  In the middle of my event, a biker GANG (still kinda’ scared…) pulled into the parking lot of the bar.  This gang consisted of about 60ish large humans wearing leather vests and bandanas while sitting on OBNOXIOUSLY loud motor vehicles.  The bar hosting my event was also the second stop on a Biker Bar Crawl.  I felt so lucky!  (Lucky? Or that feeling when you’re terrified and sad and annoyed at the same time but you act excited because the people around you think bikers are cool?  Yeah, the second one.)  

Once all of the “I’m tough because I bought a leather vest”-people had parked their bikes, however, a leader emerged.  A fleshy fellow walked to the middle of the lot, did that super loud whistle thing where you put fingers in your mouth, and yelled to the crew “WHAT DOES SINGLE-FILE MEAN?!”  I confidently raised my hand, but I guess I didn’t count.  (Fucking bullshit.)  If we’re being honest, he didn’t seem to genuinely care if people did know because he continued with his loathsome rant pretty quickly, “IT MEANS SINGLE FUCKING FILE!”  Ohhhhhhhhh!  But I thought, it meant…double….file.  The gang looked to each other with knowing nods, shared some chuckles and said things like “I’m glad that Larry is so willing to share what he knows with the rest of us!”  Seeing education live is inspiring.

But then I watched Screamy Larry head over to his clique for a few aggressive fist bumps and backpats.  It was clear he was not the leader of the Biker Gang.  Instead, he must’ve been the organizer guy; which makes sense because a Biker Gang leader doesn’t have to do stuff like look behind him while riding to make sure everyone is in single file.  Jax Teller never looked back, only ahead (Sons of Anarchy reference.  If you don’t get it, watch the show NOW.)  So I started thinking how much it must SUCK to be the guy in the biker gang in charge of making sure they stay in single file while riding around towns.  Further, there’s no way that the single-file thing is all Screamy Larry is responsible for, he must be like the Head of Organizing for the biker gang.  So the screaming made sense. Can you imagine how frustrating it must be to have to organize a biker gang?!

Aside from the whole single-file fiasco, he’s probably in charge of: figuring out how much each biker owes when they go out for a big group lunch; making sure everyone has the right patch on their leather vest; scheduling the chores at the biker gang clubhouse; AND, Screamy Larry also probably has to keep track of all of the members’ birthdays, ensuring they don’t forget to sing “Happy Birthday” and have cake in the break room.  Remember the time they forgot Knuckles’ birthday?  Knuckles and Screamy Larry do.  Simply can’t have that.

Today, when you’re staring at your computer screen while telling yourself not to say what you really want to say to your boss, be grateful that your job doesn’t entail having to send Venmo reminders to bikers who still owe from yesterday’s team lunch at Longhorn Steakhouse.  Screamy Larry knows that half the gang doesn’t even have Venmo, but asking a biker, in person, for money is something he’s just not up for on a Monday.

Money People:

This is broad and general because the whole “money management” universe is foreign and supremely intimidating.  I have friends and a brother who work in this world and I cannot imagine the stress of it.  Heading to the office on a Monday in charge of managing someone’s retirement or life savings or couch change would fill me with the type of anxiety that necessitates a 3rd martini on a Sunday night (NEVER a good idea).  

What do their voicemails sound like?  “Hey Jimmy, Mr. Perrywinkle here, I saw a report on the news that the market is taking a dive.  Is that the same market you just passionately convinced me to put my life savings into?  Just checking, let me know!”  There have to be calls like that, right?  And then you’d have to call back to remind the person whose bank account you just decimated that the market is, ultimately, unpredictable.  I’m sure they understand…

(I always feel impossibly ignorant when talking about money stuff….BUT LETS KEEP GOING!) When I see reports about the stock market doing well or not doing well or doing the same, I think to myself “that should probably interest me more than it does.”  In reality, I’m just annoyed that the news put the ‘Market Report’ ahead of the story about ‘Chicago’s Best Mozzarella Stick.’  (The answer is “Roots Pizza” FYI.  You’re welcome.)  The money guys, though, probably feel their phones seizing during any report about THE MARKET.  I can imagine a money guy or gal taking their dog for a walk on a nice day when, out of nowhere, their phone begins vibrating so much that it starts a mini friction-fire in their pants pocket.  “Uh oh, THE MARKET!”

Aside from having to be the face of market fluctuations, Money people have to make a lot of spreadsheets and graphs and presentations to really smart people in suits about spreadsheets and graphs.  Decimals and percentages and JESUS H. CHRIST it’s hard to breathe while wearing a tie in the summer.  If I were a money guy, all of my presentations would just be titled “We Should Invest in ______ Because My Rich Grandpa Said We Should.”  That would be the entire presentation, actually.

Rich Person’s Assistant

Most of us work in jobs where we’re surrounded by co-workers who earn about the same amount.  Today, when you’re having a mild panic attack re: the $74 you spent on brunch yesterday, you can look to either side and see co-workers also nervously typing in their online banking passwords.  The Monday money check is a trying time, but we’re all in it together.  That is, of course, unless you work as a personal assistant for a super rich person.  While you’re scrolling through the 14 separate charges from “Louie’s Pub” on your Chase Mobile App, your boss is tasking you with picking out a new Monday watch for him.  “Something that’s not too flashy, but enough to where people will know that I use the word ‘summer’ as a verb.”  That means the assistant gets to go into the jewelry store with a security guard!

Who do these assistants relate to at their job?  Who is the friend they can pull aside for the “you know, I hate to complain, but…”-chats?  The housekeeper’s are not on your side because they know that you get to ride in the fancy cars.  You can’t whine to the spouse because YOU KNOW they’re just going to tattle on you the next time they feel like having a “you can trust me”-convo with your boss.  The kids just think of you as the person who gets them the things they want.  So you’re left to text your friends who are too busy pretending to not look at their phones on Monday morning.  YOU ARE ALONE AND POOR IN A BIG, EXPENSIVE HOUSE!  If I was a rich person’s assistant, I would have a designated time every Monday morning where I would just stare at a mirror while crying.  I’d also probably steal little things like toilet paper and the little dog poop bags.

MY WORLD:

I’m a one-pair-of-jeans-for-6-to-8-months kind of guy, and it appears I am nearing the end of the road for my current pair of jeans.  This always happens and it’s never not sad.  The crotchal region of my jeans, having been stretched for months on end, begins to wear…and then a hole appears.  This hole gets large quickly and I am forced to retire the jeans.  My current jeans are hanging on by mere threads.  Upon close inspection this morning, we’re looking at another 3.6 days tops.  This means that for the next two weeks I have to wear pants that I don’t really want to be wearing.  It also means that I will be a little depressed because as hard as I try, there’s no way around thinking that the jeans died because my thighs got fatter.  If you happen to catch me staring down at my thighs over the next two weeks, do me a favor and feel free to mention that my legs don’t look chubbier than they did 6 months ago.  A simple “it’s gonna be okay” would suffice too.

And you think you’re having a tough Monday.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I’m seeing Dave Matthews Band this weekend and I am so excited I’m going to talk about it to strangers this week!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you get up at 4 A.M. on Monday morning and think “is it even worth it to try to go back to sleep?”  Next time this happens to me, I may just buy a ticket to Yugoslavia and start a new life.

GAMBLING WENT HORRIBLY THIS WEEKEND, THANKS FOR ASKING!  TURNS OUT, BLINDLY BETTING ON A SPORT YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT (SOCCER) IS NOT A RECIPE FOR SUCCESS.  LIVE AND LEARN.

K bye.

I Live Above A Drug Dealer (6-19-18)

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

EQUALS

Drug Dealers

I rest my case.

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

OUR WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

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

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

K bye.

 

Donald Trump and I Have The Same Birthday (6/14/18)

MY WORLD:

It’s my birthday and if you have yet to wish me a happy birthday, please know that I am aware of it and putting my relationship with you under evaluation.  While not a “birthday guy” it is a good excuse to do things that I normally wouldn’t do on a Thursday. This year?  I’m thinking of eating a big fancy donut and maybe having a Coke at lunch.  (A THRILL A MINUTE WITH THIS GUY!!!)  The VP of Ops is taking me out to dinner tonight and is very excited about the present she got me.  Unfortunately, The VP has cried on my birthday the past 3 years (not a joke) for reasons varying from “You think I’m a bad wife!” to “You weren’t THAT surprised!” Pairing that history with her excitement for this year’s present means I’m going to have to practice my “Oh my God, this is the best moment of my entire life!”-face for the rest of the day.  Odds are that we make it 4 straight years that she has cried.  If you have her number, try face timing with The VP around 9:18 tonight to see crocodile tears.

Before I get into a fun list that I felt like writing because IT’S MY GODDAMN BIRTHDAY!  I had to touch on one thing that’s driving me nuts.  Donald Trump has the same birthday as me.  I repeat: Donald Fucking Trump has the same birthday as yours truly.  If you’ve thought to yourself “Boy, he’s really ruining everything” lately, AT LEAST HE’S NOT RUINING THE ONE DAY A YEAR THAT’S ALL ABOUT YOU!

If you’re curious about my politics, here’s a hint: I hate our President with all of my heart.  An oozing wound with working vocal chords who keeps leaking through his bandages only to tell those surrounding him that it’s not puss, but liquid gold.  The fact that some people are mistaking this puss for currency is maddening.  Instead of trying to convince the “It’s gold because he told us it is!”-crowd of their shortcomings, I would just like to take a moment to highlight some differences between myself and my birthday twin (god that makes me want to puke).  

1)  I work out.

2)  Bill and Hilary Clinton didn’t come to my wedding.

3)  My Dad was not arrested during a KKK rally on Memorial Day in 1927 for fighting ALONGSIDE klansmen.  He wasn’t alive back then, guys!

4)  I would rather starve than eat a filet of fish from McDonald’s.  

5)  I’ve never cheated on my wife with a porn star.

6)  I think Robert DeNiro is awesome.

7)  I have a jawline.

8)  I own a dog who loves me.  

9)  I have not filed 6 of my businesses for Chapter 11 Bankruptcy and then bragged about my business acumen.

10)  If my wife was going into surgery and spending multiple days in the hospital, I would not simply “visit” her and then wait for applause when I announced my “visit” on Twitter.  I’d hold her hand on the gurney until the doctor told me “we’ll take it from here.”  Quick test: if your significant other is going into surgery and you aren’t there with him/her, you’re a bad person.  

To beat you over the head with the point of this exercise: supporting President GooGooGaGa is the same as advocating for the opposite of all of the statements above.  HAVE FUN WITH THAT!

LET’S GET TO A FUN LIST NOW!

Last night I sat outside, had a few Brewbabies and went through Spotify looking for my 10 Favorite songs.  Here’s what I’ve got in no particular order because that’s too hard and BIRTHDAY’S ARE DAYS WITHOUT HARD STUFF!  I will warn you that this is not the official JimmyGoodTime’s playlist–actually, a lot of these songs are kinda darker.  Let’s call this my “If this song comes on in the car, I’m not getting out until it’s over”-playlist.

*Yes, a lot of these videos have ads, but you can skip past them after 5 seconds so RELAX! I did my best to find cool live versions too.  SEE HOW HARD I WORK FOR YOU PEOPLE?!?!

Death Cab for Cutie “Transatlanticism” If the drums at the end don’t give you the chills, you might be dead.

Dave Matthews Band “All Along The Watchtower” Like it more than the Hendrix version…YEAH, I SAID IT!

Kanye West “Through The Wire” I hate that I love his music but Old Kanye was really fucking awesome.

Interpol “Rest My Chemistry” I miss this band.

 

Queens of the Stone Age “In The Fade” Sneaky good song to run to.

Steve Winwood “Valerie”  It’s not a joke how much I love this song.  If I ever am in DIRE need of a smile, this song puts one on my big round face.

The Joy Formidable “The Greatest Light Is The Greatest Shade”  Girls who sing lead for cool rock bands are, most definitely, the coolest humans on the planet.

Pearl Jam “Black” Unplugged Maybe the most intense acoustic performance of all-time?  So jealous that The VP gets to share her bday with my #1 ManCrush

Minus The Bear “Pachuca Sunrise”  Brought my brothers to a Minus The Bear concert and my youngest brother got us kicked out before the show even started.  This is my favorite song of theirs.

Radiohead “I Might Be Wrong”  Do you ever try to mimic the convulsion-like dance moves of Thom Yorke while alone and feel really cool while doing it?  Yeah, me too.

Since it’s all about me today, I’m not giving you an “Our World”.  OFF TO HAVE THAT DONUT!

K bye