Tag: travel

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

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OUR WORLD:

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

-You can’t wear sweatpants in public anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

MOM MEMORY OF THE DAY:

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

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

K, bye.

The Clubs I Would Like Entry Into

MY WORLD:

Mike Jones is a Houston rapper who rapped something about saying “Mike Jones? Who?” years ago and there are people my age joking about people who don’t know who Mike Jones is.  Confused?  If so, you better be careful, or you’ll end up like I did–sitting in a car laughing nervously about this “joke” while praying that the other people in the car didn’t turnaround and go “please explain this Mike Jones joke to the class, Jimmy!!!”  I have no idea who Mike Jones is, still, but the people who do know who he is sounded very cool and current and alternative and COOL!  So like, can I become one of those people?  Can I become a “I know about cool rap stuff”-guy?

There are little groups bonded around things I don’t know about, that I’m jealous of.  If you think that jealousy ends when you graduate from High School, try spending a weekend around people who know about things like Mike Jones and it’ll take you right back (tell them the story about how you used to hide in the library and eat your lunch!  That’s a fun one!)  While sitting in the back of a car resisting the urge to say “this Mike Jones character sure sounds spunky!” I started thinking about things, activities, and topics that I, as a 34 year old MAN, think I would like to get into at some point (unless I’m like not allowed to because that group is already full and they just can’t fit one more person into it.  I mean, it’s fine, I don’t even really care.  I was actually not even really interested to begin with, so it’s like, whatever.  Okay…I’m gonna go back to the library now!)

Here is the Jimmyschair list of “Things I Think I’d Like to Get Into Maybe?  If it’s cool?  If it’s not cool, though, that’s fine.  I’m just like, chill, whatever.  That hat is really cool by the way.  So we’ll talk later?  Or not.  Whatever.”:

HIKING:

Did hiking exist before Instagram?  One of nature’s great unknowns, huh?  It feels like a large group of the people I follow on THE GRAM (make sure you keep saying cool slang like that so people know you’re not a cop!) got together one morning and were like “alright, does everyone have their big backpack, short shorts, and sporty brown hiking boots?  Nobody tell Jimmy about this!  DANIEL?  YOU DIDN’T TELL JIMMY ABOUT THE BIG COOL BACKPACK STORE DID YOU?!?!?! DANIEL!?!?!”  Then Daniel was all “I haven’t talked to Jimmy since the Mike Jones incident,” so the group started up the hill, taking beautiful pictures meant to clog my instagram feed and make me feel VERY EXCLUDED (maybe if your thighs weren’t so big, you’d be invited to the cool, tiny shorts store!)

I don’t even know what hiking really is.  Like, if I eat a Cliff Bar and then walk up a big hill in my old Brooks running shoes, did I just go hiking?  I’m pretty sure rocks have to be involved on some level, so what if part of that hill walk includes me going over a gravel driveway?  And the tiny tan shorts with a lot of pockets?  Those are necessary for a hike, right?  Like, if I wear my big white Indiana University mesh shorts while doing this uphill walk, it doesn’t count does it?  DAMNIT!

At some point over the past few years, I think a professional Hiking Judge saw me buy a Cliff Bar at a 7-11 and ruled that I was guilty of “buying a Cliff bar as a treat, and not for sustenance during an Instagram-worthy trek uphill,” before sentencing me to “not a legit hiker”-jail for life.  It was a tough sentence, but looking back, I understand.  Why was I buying a nearly 300 calorie bar when all I was just going to be sitting in traffic for the next hour on my way home?  Stern, but fair.

But is there any opportunity for parole?  I’d love to find my way out of “not a legit hiker”-jail, so I, too, could be in a picture while wearing a big backpack at the top of a beautiful hill.  What a feeling that must be!  (And the Instagram likes!  MY GOD, THE LIKES!!!)  I imagine once you’re accepted into this group, you get some really cool perks like getting to eat a Cliff Bar and not having the 300 calories count because your body knows that you’re a hiker and need that stuff to push through all the rocks you’re gonna have to awkwardly step on.

Dear REI Store Worker,

Next time I walk in, I promise to pretend to know what kind of boot I’m buying and to not ask “which one do you think looks cool, though?”  It’s all about utility, I get it.  Looks? Don’t even care.

SNEAKERS:

A good amount of my friends talk about online sneaker releases, secondary markets for sneakers they bought a few months ago, and the basketball shoes that some non-mega-star has coming out that are “amazing!”  I have no idea what they’re ever talking about, so I’ll throw in cheap jokes meant to throw them off my insecure scent.  “You guys see the new ‘Gary Levinson’s’?  No?  They’re the new Brooks running shoes for suburban dads who can’t really run anymore because of their knees.”  

BUT!  They sound pretty cool talking about the “New Kawhi’s” and the new “Paul George” shoes and…I don’t even know if I’m supposed to fucking call them shoes or sneakers.  I feel like a gym teacher from the 80s calling them sneakers, but then I swear I’ve heard a DJ on Hip Hop Radio Station use the word “sneakers” and sound cool so…What is it?!?! SHOES OR SNEAKERS?!?! GIVE ME A SIGN, GOD! GIVE ME A SIGN!

These guys are also able to pull off the new basketball sneaker/shoe with skinny jeans look, and that’s kinda unfair when I’m having a hard enough time pulling off the running shoe with relaxed jeans look (you’ve got the “suburban surrender”-look down pat!)  Whenever I’m around someone NAILING this look, all I can think about is “aren’t you scared of getting those dirty?  And how have they not gotten ONE SPEC OF DIRT ON THEM?!?! DO YOU HAVE SOMEONE FOLLOWING YOU AROUND WIPING YOUR SHOES WITH DISINFECTANT WIPES!?!?!”  Also, do you play basketball in those shoes too?  Or is that like a lame thing to do?  I’m pretty sure there is one set of basketball shoes meant for skinny jeans, and then another set of basketball shoes meant for…actually playing basketball, and if you mix the two up, you’re kicked out of the sneaker guy club forever.

Last time I played basketball, I wore Brooks.

SCARY MOVIES:

I’m just tired of feeling the compulsion to blurt out “they give me nightmares” anytime the topic of scary movies comes up around me.  It’s not a cool look.  I’m also pretty sure that the people around me are annoyed that they can’t talk about some make-believe monsters because the 34 year old dude next to them, wearing Brooks and a small backpack, will get scared when he goes seepy at night if they do.  (Here’s an idea: quit being a fucking baby, Jimmy!)

So can I just decide to stop being a baby?  Is there a pill I can take that will cause me to enjoy scenes where teenagers get stabbed by a guy wearing a mask at a cabin in the woods?  The people that seem to really enjoy scary movies, REALLY FUCKING ENJOY SCARY MOVIES AND LOVE TALKING ABOUT THEM!  Hey guys, I love talking about stuff!  Being able to talk about brutal murders while smiling also connotes a brand of “bad-assery” that I wouldn’t mind being a part of.  It’s a high-wire act between bad-assery and “hey, do you think Eric liked that torture scene a little too much?”  Once you master it, you’ll be as cool as Nick Wallenda walking in between skyscrapers (minus the weird family stuff going on there…)

There has to be an age you reach, where you’re just like “I pay bills and talk about politics with relatives, I can watch ‘Scream’ without softly whimpering into my pillow later.  Is that age 34? CAN IT PLEASE BE 34?!?!

OUR WORLD:

I’m going on an impromptu, not-fun road trip to Kentucky today and so, of course, I will be allowed to cheat on my diet because road trip calories don’t count.  Here are the Top 10 “Road Trip Treats”:

  1. Gardetto’s Snack Mix
  2. McDonald’s breakfast
  3. BBQ Pringles
  4. Chick-Fil-A waffle fries with Chick-Fil-A sauce
  5. Teriyaki Beef Jerky
  6. Honey roasted peanuts
  7. Gummy worms
  8. White chocolate and macadamia nut Cliff Bar
  9. Diet Mountain Dew
  10. 7-11 Coke Slushy

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you get that feeling in the back of your throat that means you’re about to get sick, but you’re not TOTALLY sick yet.  It’s like walking around with a bomb strapped to your chest AND YOU CAN’T GET THAT TICKING SOUND OUT OF YOUR HEAD!

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I don’t know this person, but…

cheering young woman hiker open arms at mountain peak

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I’m at $0 right now and feeling lost.  I want to gamble on something but I’m tired of baseball and I think I’m really bad at this thing.  But…what if I’m not?  What if I just need to…yep….STAY THE FUCKING COURSE!!!

K, bye.

 

I’m Moving to Maine

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OUR WORLD:

Heat wave > Polar vortex.

LETS HATE THIS AT THE SAME TIME TOGETHER:

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

JIMMY GAMBLES:

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

K, bye.

 

 

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

-CONTINUED-

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

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

Pic 1A

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pic 1 9:18.jpg

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

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

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

TO BE CONTINUED…

K bye.

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

 

 

 

 

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

IRELAND (PART ONE OF MANY):

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

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

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

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

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

Pic 1 (ireland post)

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

Pic 2 (Ireland post)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CAN’T WAIT TO TELL YOU MORE NEXT TIME!

K bye.

 

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.

 

 

The VP and I Go Canoeing-PART ONE- (7/17/18)

MY WORLD:

You know those couples that both have long hair that looks good when it’s dirty and greasy?  They both wear headbands and cheap sunglasses that look cooler than your expensive ones and talk about all of their outdoor activities.  Their instagram feeds are just nature pictures taken from the tops of places they had to climb and camp out on.  In a t-shirt, you’d describe them as “wiry strong”, but they’re not too snotty to avoid cheeseburgers and hot dogs.  They can’t talk to you about “Southern Charm” because they don’t own a television, but if you want to chat about some author that wrote some book about minimalism, they’re ready and willing.  Sometimes, I get real jealous of those couples and try to force myself into thinking that I could pull off the “hot outdoorsy guy” thing.  Unfortunately, after this weekend’s canoe trip that I forced the VP to join me on, it is now official that I can never be “hot outdoorsy guy”.

This is the second year that the VP and I joined a group of more outdoorsy people than we are (basically, everyone in the world) for a canoe trip along the Wisconsin River.  I talked The VP into it last year by making the “let’s try something different!”-case, while secretly plotting it as my “hot outdoorsy guy” (H.O.G.) coming out party.  A good friend of ours-let’s call him Bonesaw because that’s his actual nickname-who is taller and more outdoorsy than me (but, is he hotter?) was leading the trip and offered to lend us all the camping gear we would need.  Not only that, knowing that we were relative nature rubes, Bonesaw took the lead in really setting EVERYTHING up for us.  We were blessed with PERFECT weather, no bugs and Bonesaw setting up our tent, starting the fire and cooking the food.  All I had to do was paddle our canoe, which was great because it left me more time to try to look HOT and OUTDOORSY.  The VP and I did have to sleep on the ground because we didn’t bring any sort of mattress pad, but that was okay–it just gave H.O.G. Jimmy a little more street cred…or should I say, trail cred? We finished last year’s trip proud of ourselves and, yeah, probably a lot happy that it was over with.

Then a year passed, and Bonesaw sent out the “let’s do it again” e-mail.  (Wait, but I thought I already proved that I was a H.O.G.?)  When I brought it up to The VP, I could feel her waiting for me to give her an out.  She had the “please don’t make me do this again”-face, but I wan’t budging.  People, it seems, had yet to think of me as a true H.O.G. even after my one canoe trip where I didn’t really do anything.  (The nerve!)  Not to mention, over the past year, my Instagram feed has been seemingly taken over by H.O.G.’s who have yet to invite me into a private instagram group to talk about all the cool, outdoorsy things we’ve all been doing.  (Seriously? Not one person asked you about the paddling in the 4 foot deep river you did a year ago?  I know, I’m shocked too.)  So I signed us up for Canoe Trip Round Two, and exaggerated how great of a time we had the year before to The VP.  She didn’t want to go, but she never gave me an ultimatum, so I kinda’ played dumb and just made her do it.  I recruited some other friends of mine pretty hard to join, but most of them had well-rehearsed excuses that left little room for follow-up questions.  IT WAS AS IF THEY ALL KNEW I WAS GOING TO TEXT THEM!  How did so many of my friends have weddings to go to that I wasn’t also invited to?!?! SOMETHING WAS UP!!! Fine!  As long as we had Bonesaw doing everything for us, I’d be able to prove my H.O.G. worth through a barrage of social media posts when I returned.  GET READY FOR SOME PICS OF RIVERS AND CANOES AND TREES AND ME LOOKING REALLY FUCKING HOT WHILE OUTDOORS!!!

We got up at 4:45 A.M. on Saturday so I could take a shower and make sure our cooler was stocked with sandwiches and pineapple because eating fruit is a BIG part of being an outdoorsman.  Everybody knows this.  The VP put a brave face on and told me she was “actually excited” a few times because she’s nice and supports my dreams, but also because she knew that if this trip was a disaster, she could hold it against me for a LONG time.  The VP was playing chess when I was playing checkers, and I couldn’t respect that move any more.  One time I went shopping with The VP and her cousin ALL DAY in downtown Chicago and remember thinking the whole time that she was going to owe me for this.  I was going to owe The VP for this canoe trip.  We got in the car for about a 3 hour drive, and The VP leaned back, put her hat on her face and immediately went back to sleep.

55326548243__A9F1D9B1-9D88-4212-8689-6956FC6B9685

SO EXCITED TO TALK ABOUT OUR HOPES AND DREAMS AND FUTURE ON THE RIDE TO—Oh, you’re hat is on your face and you’re snoring.  Okay, talk later.

As you can tell from this picture, the excitement in the car was palpable.  I listened to some music and Howard Stern while The VP snored for the majority of the trip.  She did wake up about halfway through because she smelled something…”Is that Chic-Fil-A?” she bellowed, as fumes from a nearby eatery slithered their way through her straw hat and into her nostrils.  If you want to see The VP at her best, get a load of her approaching a Chic-Fil-A drive-thru.  I’m pretty sure I could tell her I bought us a mansion on the water, and her face wouldn’t light up the way it does for chicken biscuit aromas.  We got Chic-Fil-A and she went back to sleep.  It was a wild ride.

We got to the car drop-off area early because H.O.G.’s are punctual.  Yeah, you could say I was well on my way to reclaiming my status.  Little did we know, however, that it had rained HARD for the past week in Wisconsin.  And!  I’m guessing you too didn’t know this, but mixing rain with woods and a river is nature’s way of attracting EVERY SINGLE MOSQUITO IN THE UNIVERSE.  I stepped out of the car and into a mosquito soiree that I was NOT invited to.  Sensing a stranger in their midst, the mosquitoes deployed their security detail on me; chewing up my legs and arms and face until I shrieked “I JUST WANNA BE A HOT OUTDOORSY GUY!!!”  The VP watched in horror from inside the car.  I held my hand up against the window, as if to say “I didn’t know it’d be like this, but I want you to know that I love you.”  She touched my hand through the glass, but remained still.  The deet was in the trunk, and the only way to get to the trunk was to join me in the ambush; a kamikaze mission, no doubt.  As The VP contemplated, my arms began to tire from all the flailing, my legs began to shiver with itchies, and my mind began to wander….”is being a H.O.G. really worth it?”

-PART TWO COMING TOMORROW-

*TAKING A BREAK FROM THE OTHER SECTIONS TODAY.  WHY? BECAUSE I CAN DO WHAT I WANT.

K bye.

 

The VP and I Are Going Abroad! (5/8/18)

MY WORLD:

Yeah, I took a few days off.  The VP of Ops and I celebrated our 1 year anniversary in the greatest and laziest of ways.  I’m talking dog walks and outdoor margaritas (although The VP got a Michelada for some reason and pretended not to hate it the entire time…she’s bad at pretending not to hate things), but mostly, I’m talking SWEATPANTS! COUCH! DELIVERY! NETFLIX!  And we finally pulled the trigger on buying tickets for our belated honeymoon; so the VP and I will be going to Ireland in early September.  (Braggy Jimmy STINKS!  THIS BLOG HAS CHANGED!)

Yeah, it is a slight brag, BUT we have had to answer the “where did you go on your honeymoon?” question for the past year with shrugged shoulders and stories about how “we’re saving up!”  I always felt like when that question came up, things would get real awkward and the people asking us would feel bad for us and walk away like “aww, they’re sad.”  I know that didn’t ACTUALLY happen, but it did kinda feel like it did.  So now, we get to play the nonchalant “oh, we’re going to Europe”-people for the next couple months.  (Going to Europe sounds cooler than just saying “Ireland” I think because that’s what my brain is telling me and I don’t have a rational way to describe why I feel like that.  IS THAT OKAY?!?!)  

Aside from bragging a lil bit (it is MY blog…I’m allowed to do that every now and then) this is more of a plea for help because I have no idea what to do on a vacation.  I’ve never been out of the country (or have I? And if so, why am I hiding it? Is Jimmy a sp– IS THE GOVERNMENT READING THIS?!?!) and The VP and I have never been on a vacation together.  Yeah, real talk.  The only times The VP and I have been out of town are to visit her fam in Mississippi or to go to a wedding (where I would normally get too intoxicated and come VERY close to embarrassing The VP in front of all her friends that were skeptical of her being with a Yankee in the first place.  I’m a master of first impressions, guys.)  The last time I was on a legit vacation was in High School I think, so we’re going to need some suggestions on where to go and what to do because here is what I think a vacation consists of (according to teen/pre-teen Jimmy):

Hours in the hotel pool:  Wait, so my Dad isn’t coming to Ireland with us to throw me around in the hotel pool?  WHAT KIND OF BULLSHIT IS THIS?!?! I swear to god, if The VP doesn’t want to play catch with a mini-nerf football in the pool, I’m gonna LOSE IT!  Here’s what should happen; my Dad shows up to throw me around in the pool and then Erin and I play catch with the mini-football where I’ll mostly stand on the ledge of the pool and have her throw it so I can make a V cool looking diving catch.  Instagram finna’ be LIT UP with my diving catch boomerangs!

Hotel freeze tag:  Little does The VP know that she lucked out and married the undisputed King of Pomerantz Hotel Freeze Tag.  “But Jimmy, you were the oldest of 4 siblings, so weren’t you always at a physical AND mental advantage?”  <<<Who in the fuck is asking me questions like that?  PASS!  Listen, barefoot freeze tag through hotel halls with your siblings (and now wife…don’t worry VP, we’ll let you play now!) is the 5th major sport in America.  The Sportscenter Top 10 was made for moments like when the oldest of 4 taunts the youngest for being too slow to win freeze tag and too immature to handle ALWAYS losing freeze tag.

Eating dinner at that place with peanut shells on the ground and a free popcorn machine:  If all-you-can-eat popcorn and getting to toss peanut shells on the floor doesn’t say vacation, I don’t know what does.  Were my parents simply masters of manipulation in framing dive bars as the epitome of relaxation for kids?  Possibly, but goddamnit do I respect that move.  Nothing was more exciting for 11 year-old Jimmy than pulling up to “The Satisfied Frog” in Cave Creek, Arizona and being reminded that it was the “peanut shell and popcorn place!”  AWWWWWW HELL YEAH!

Those activities sound doable for a couple of 32 year olds in Ireland, right?  (He’s joking, right? I can’t tell…I REALLY CAN’T TELL!)  I am kidding…sorta.  Please take this as an invitation to tell us what to do if you’ve been there.  Even if you haven’t been there and saw something in a movie that looked cool, we’re open!  We watched an Anthony Bourdain show on Ireland yesterday and it seems that Guinness and dive bars are a good place to start (maybe I’ll just bring my own bag of peanuts and pray they don’t get mad at me for tossing the shells on the ground?)

OUR WORLD:

I haven’t been living in “our world” lately, so gonna need to sit this one out today.  Takes a day or two for me to get my sea legs back.  Kinda like when you get back into the gym after a long layoff and your body doesn’t work anymore; that’s me and my writing fingers right now.

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I plan on this being me every morning in Ireland…

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Lisa Vanderpump was kind of a MAJOR B to the 2 Tom’s on last night’s Vanderpump reunion show, right?  So….my point about her being a pompous jerk was proven.

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

Won with the Cavs last night which is never that enjoyable because I can’t stand Lebron.  We did lose with the Celts though and the parlay so….BASICALLY EVEN!  Tonight’s games have BIG lines which are scary, but the Rockets and Warriors seem destined to stomp out these series.  LETS BANG THOSE FAVES!

(My account currently at $153.68)

K bye.

Best Drink of the Week and Travel Talk (4/12/18)

OUR WORLD:

My friends and I had a discussion a couple weeks back where we tried to rank the best drinks of the week.  Keep in mind, this is not a ranking of the best drinks of your life, like after some crowing achievement or overcoming some adversity, simply the best drinks of a normal boring-ass week.  While my friends, nicknamed “Thunder” and “Cash Out”, had differing opinions (that I don’t remember because we were on martini numero tres at this point in the night), I believe that the following list is THE definitive drink of the week ranking….er, list….YOU GET IT!

I’m gonna count down from 5 to 1 because I’m a storyteller who likes to build suspense…

5)  Tuesday night, at about 6:41 P.M., the Double IPA you drink as you prepare dinner.  Your Monday nightmare is but a distant memory now, and having made it through Tuesday as well means that you’re back in your weekly routine.  Tuesday was a long day, but you’re in full-on “weekday work-mode” now, so it’s okay.  You got off work, went to the gym and took an extra long run because the Monday workout was more about ridding weekend toxins, than actually improving your health.  Tuesday at the gym is about proving to yourself that you’re not the fat piece of shit that your thighs say you are (sitting in a car while wearing jeans that just came out of the drier puts me under the deepest of deep depressions when I look down at my thighs and pray that they don’t burst through my pants.  I swear I could hear my thighs screaming for help.)  So you ran far enough to sweat through your dirty hat, and you got home in time to make a meal that takes just long enough to enjoy every little sip of the Double IPA that you so rightly earned on the treadmill.  It’ll be your only beer of the night because it’s high ABV, but you’ll savor every. single. sip.

4)  Sunday morning, at about 10:24 A.M., the Bloody Mary you drink at your favorite comfort-food brunch spot.  Sunday mornings can be rough, and this is no exception.  You stayed out too late the night before and snuck a cigarette with your friend who smokes when your spouse was busy making fun of you behind your back (or, in my case, you vaped like an absolute fiend because you’ve convinced yourself that vaping is kinda healthy…)  Your mouth tastes like desert garbage and all you really want to do is curl up in sweatpants and wait for the Sunday night depression to hit.  BUT! You told your kinda-friends two weeks ago that you’d meet for brunch, so you have to shower and wear a shirt that doesn’t have late-night salsa stains on it.  Your spouse asks if there’s any Advil left.  There is, but there’s only 2 and you’re holding the bottle so you lie and say “no”…then close your bathroom door and pour the last 2 into your hand slow enough that it doesn’t make that bottle-rattle sound and blow your cover.  The walk or uber to brunch is all about convincing yourself that you’re “not actually that hungover,” but you are.  The Bloody Mary at this place has some fun cheese and meat things that come in it, but you’re kinda scared to order it because alcohol is the devil.  You order it, though, because you’re not a NARC and it IS the weekend.  You’ll really really enjoy the first half of it as it washes over your hangover and brings you back to the “kinda loopy and feeling not hungover”-phase of being drunk.  It’s the last truly enjoyable buzz of the weekend because nighttime is far enough away that you can pretend it’s not coming.

3)  Saturday late-afternoon, at about 4:17 P.M., the I.P.A. you have to set the base for the rest of your AGGRESSIVE night.  (I’m realizing that there are people reading this who have kids and, I just want to say that I’m sorry that I’m still in the aggressive Saturday night drinking phase of my life.  Am I ashamed of it? Slightly.  But, by the time Saturday afternoon rolls around, I’m so excited about going out that I tuck the shame away in my “I’ll deal with this on Monday”-dresser drawer.)  Plan is to meet up with friends at a shitty-in-a-good-way bar a little after 5. You’re ready and your spouse is in the shower, so it’s time to put on some sporting event you don’t really care about and to properly enjoy a good beer before you dive into the “get me whatever you’re getting” bar orders for the rest of the night.  Now is the time to use your favorite, most beer-snobby, fancy beer glass.  Be sure to pour it slow and make sex noises after your first sip; this is the last time that you’ll be truly enjoying the taste of what you’re drinking for the rest of the night.  This beer will also be a quick topic of conversation early on in the night, when you try to prove to your friends that you have taste by talking about a beer they’ve never heard of.

2)  Friday lunch, at about 12:21 P.M., the margarita you get with your co-workers at the Mexican restaurant by your office.  The morning meetings are over, and you still have to send a few e-mails out, but you’ve effectively made it to the weekend.  It’s time for chips and salsa and marg(s) (stick to one marg, guys…once you go for the second in front of co-workers, you’re known as THAT lunch-drunk-guy).  Bitching about the job is ALWAYS the topic, and this is the most acceptable time and place for it.  Get all the bitching out now because your spouse has heard ENOUGH throughout the week, and if you bring more of that shit into the weekend SHE’S GONNA LOSE IT!  (Can we make a cool looking medallion that says “No Work Talk” that we all wear around our necks from Friday night through Sunday night?  Feels like a piece of jewelry a hipster would wear and not admit that they got it at Urban Outfitters…”Urban Outfitters? No, I only shop at thrift stores.”)  Get ready for a lot of deep exhales and “we made it to Friday”-headshakes.  They’re gonna feel good and earned and your co-workers are gonna nod at you overtime you do one because they know…they know…

1)  Thursday night, when you’re alone at about 7:02 P.M., the martini that you carefully measure out and make like you’re a bartender whose rent depends on the tip you’ll get from this one drink.  This is a special time that was great when you were single and now only happens when your spouse is out of town or out for the night at a work event.  Does it mean you don’t love your significant other? I mean, maybe…like, why are you with them?  (To the 4 people reading this who are in bad relationships, now is when you look at yourself in the mirror and think about sad stuff…we’ll wait…)  You’re not in a relationship crisis, but getting to celebrate heading into Friday by crafting a nice cocktail by yourself is simply exhilarating.  There is no need for you to put music on or anything while you do this; the sound of almost-Friday silence is melodic and able to perfectly harmonize with the sounds your shaker makes while chilling your gin martini or old fashioned or some other drink they serve at the restaurant you only go to on your birthday.  If you have a dog, they’ll come over and you’ll say something to them like “we did it.”  Do you normally take pictures of your meal when you go out to eat?  Of course not, those people don’t read this blog.  But, maybe you take a picture of this drink you just made.  You don’t need to send it out, but there should be a record of it somewhere.  Next time you do this, toss a 5 dollar bill on your kitchen counter because you deserve a tip.

*In case insurance people or doctors or my in-laws read this, I would like to state that this is a hypothetical week and does not mean that I imbibe in all of these drinks every week…not, every week…IT’S HYPOTHETICAL!  THAT MEANS, LIKE, NOT TOTALLY REAL-LIFE!

MY WORLD:

*Every once in a while, I’m going to need to throw a George Costanza-style rant your way.  Today is one of those days.  Please indulge the following:

The VP and I had the new “Jersey Shore” show on in the background while she cooked dinner and I looked at my phone like a slob last night.  We weren’t really watching, except to comment about JWoww’s newly-mangled face (wrinkles are better than plastic surgery-face) and The Situation being sober and…why is he on the show, then? Anyway, during the show or maybe in a commercial or something (I was busy being an instagram slob, guys!) I heard someone say, “you know, you should really travel more.”  What an obnoxious thing to say.

When I heard it, I walked into the kitchen to rant at The VP about how mad it made me.  Is there anyone ALIVE who thinks to themselves “I’m glad I don’t travel”?  You know what? “I’ve got the next twelve years off and a ton of zeroes in my bank account, but this couch is pretty comfy and I love not knowing anything about life outside this country!”  The reason people don’t travel more is because…hmmm….let’s put on our detective hats…oh wait, it’s BECAUSE TRAVELING IS EXPENSIVE!  Would you ever tell someone “you know, you should really make more money”?  NO, because you’re not trying to set the world record for being-an-asshole.  Aside from the ludicrous content of this message, it’s always made worse because the person saying it is thinking they’re some Advice God selflessly gifting wisdom on the uncultured alley rats of society.  Get da fuck outta’ here with that shit!

I wish I could say that made me feel better, but I’m still mad that people think saying “you should travel more” is not only acceptable, but needed advice.  GOD THAT MAKES ME SO MAD!

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Uh oh, is Jimmy suggesting a song that hipsters might like?  Giddy up!  This is a perfect song to listen to when you’re getting stressed out and wondering if it’s time to cry alone in your car.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

BuzzFeed can go straight to hell.

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

Good thing I didn’t listen to my advice and bet on Milwaukee over Philly last night.  Philly won by seven billion points, if you missed it.  It’s time for me to huddle with my crew and figure out NBA playoff futures.  At first glance, I don’t hate Cleveland getting +650 to win the title.  However, that means I’d have to root for LeBron and that sounds awful to me…The East stinks, though, and once they’re in the ‘ship you never know what kind of injuries Houston or Golden State could be dealing with.  Who’s gonna talk me out of this?

(My account currently at $256.83)

K bye.