Gymbalaya: The Ingredients of the American Gyme

If you're like me, you probably eat a lot of Jose Ole microwave chimichangas. That's right, the perfect breakfast side dish. You're also probably a badass, sunglass-wearing cop with nothing to lose but the badge you can't respect anymore. Additionally, it's probably true that your massive guns, bulging pecs, and indecipherable accent are the only things stopping you from completing your toughest undercover assignment to date--teaching kindergarten!

But in all seriousness, have you been working out? For real, man, you look good. Been tossin' some iron around? I know how it is. Working those lats? I hear ya. Dumbbells and so forth. I'm all about making my muscles larger, and I've noticed that a lot of other people are, too.

And with that, I've decided to get my David Attenborough...well I guess it's Oprah's torch now... on, and do a detailed study of all the organisms that inhabit what I'm hoping to sell to the Discovery Channel as the next Planet Earth or Life or whatever: Gyme.

To the discerning observer, Gyme is teeming with varied and plentiful life. On the surface, though, Gyme appears to be fairly homogeneous, which basically means that there are a bunch of bros standing around in backwards hats and ripped t-shirts looking at each other in the mirror. This is the most plentiful creature in Gyme: the guy wearing the backwards retro Cubs hat with the distressed bill and the "2005 NILES WEST FLAG FOOTBALL CHAMPION" t-shirt ripped in just the right places for everyone to see the particular muscle groups he's working that day. This man has an entire closet full of needlessly ruined articles of clothing. Hats, jeans, t-shirts, thong sandals--you name it. There's one shirt that's ripped so that it's four inches thick on the back to show off the lats and traps, and one ripped so that it's four inches thick on the front for the pecs and nipples. And of course, all of them are always Belichick'd (that means sleeveless, ladies). In many ways, the bro is Gyme's golden calf, embodying the arrogant, thickly muscled nature of the bull, except it's more bronze in Gyme.

Looking past the bros and into the cardio section, we can find the Gyme equivalent of the peacock in the Lance Armstrong spinning class guy. He wears the skin-tight spandex outfits and sleek Oakleys that riders in the Tour de France--you know, the 2,200 mile, 21 day road race through the mountains--wear to gain an aerodynamic edge, except he's pedaling a fake bike in place for 25 minutes, flipping through the pages of the latest Men's Health, and listening to his The Lost Symbol audiobook. Much like the peacock, he's all decked out in sweet gear, but he doesn't really do anything and he's basically stuck in one place at all times. Spinning class guy is similar to Pro Shop guy--the one who works out either in a polo from his local course and a Titleist hat (worn forwards--respect the game) or an all-white outfit and a headband.

I'm so fast, I'm so pretty.

Gyme is also rife with the 53 year old woman who isn't fat but isn't not fat either, but still refuses to wear anything but a sports bra. This is the lynx of Gyme--not quite a cougar, but not a housecat, either. Consequently, this is a confusing person, mostly because you can't make fun of her without being a dick. She wants so desperately to be 24 again, but you really can't fault her because she's actually trying to do something about it. Still, let's throw a shirt on unless I have a realistic shot at cross generational romance.

Another peculiar creature is super-intense former high school wrestler who got 5th place at sectionals that one time. He is the Daggett of Gyme. Maybe just a little bit nuts and always giving 115%, former high school wrestler who enjoyed moderate success can be seen wearing full sweats to cut weight, but he hasn't actually needed to for at least 8 years. He's always doing pushups or crunches in between each set, and he has a ton of spunk, but unfortunately, it's now illegal for him to put people in The Clinch.

That was nuts!

A minority population in Gyme that's enjoying a recent boom is the confused hipster. He is the rooster of Gyme. Generally sporting a mid-length mane of curly hair and wearing ironic pastel-colored short shorts, mid-length socks, and a shirt that says something like "What wouldn't Jesus do?," this critter, a vegetarian by principle, can typically be seen smoking outside the doors before coming in. He feels the need to exercise, but he can't get himself to admit it. He's gone so far as to actually enter the gym, but he has trouble going much farther than that. He can typically be seen doing hilariously exaggerated motions with dumbbells and/or wearing 80's Ray-Bans.

Then there are the girls who work out in packs in order to motivate one another, except all they ever do is lean on the machines, answer their phones, and drink Starbucks. These are the koalas of Gyme--social beasts that enjoy Eucalyptus in one form or another, but who don't actually do anything. I defy any of you to observe one of said packs in which each member completes a full set of reps for any exercise - I don't even care if it's the weird thigh squeezing one. They'll typically set up shop at the leg press for a good 15 minutes, presumably because they can take turns luxuriating with their feet up, then move on to lat pull downs, carefully making sure they're only using the minimum weight, then call it a day after pretending to not be able to find an open elliptical.

Finally, there's the pale, skinny white kid with red hair who works out in a dirty wifebeat, Dungarees from 1997, and black combat boots. This, viewers, is the barnacle of Gyme. He does the least work out of anyone in the entire place, yet he isn't there to show off his muscles. He just kind of sits around and every so often he'll throw up a few reps of 75 on the bench, then he'll move over to do some bicep curls, except he looks really tired all the time. He'll be out there for hours on end, doing nothing but wandering around and darkening the bags under his eyes. In fairness, that darkness does make his eyelashes pop.

Of course, there's one final class: the kind of guy I am in Gyme. I fall into the broad category of the bland, sort of like a panda--lacking the ferocity of a real bear, but also lacking the stick-to-it-ivenss of the raccoon. I'll come into the gym wearing my standard mesh shorts I've had since the 9th grade, a different colored t-shirt depending on what my inner mood ring is telling me, and my muddied Asics from the two times I actually tried running outside. I'll set my regimen regularly, decide when I've plateaued, increase my weights, and eventually stop going after two and a half months.

Considering that I've pretty much covered every phyla of Gyme, perhaps it's time now for you to figure out which of these categories you most belong in. You can do so by taking a good, hard look in the mirror... probably not the one in front of the golden calves though, they really like looking at themselves. Also, beware of naked old men in the locker rooms. Their balls are poisonous.

Yours in Christ,
Mike

P.S.--Those illustrations? Oh yeah, let's everybody welcome the newest member of the Chicago Sometimes, Mr. Thomas Glass Jr. Outstanding work, sir.

Not Around the Mamas and the Papas

Out on the town last weekend, I found myself in a March-madness inspired quarters tournament in a bar. It was supposed to be a co-ed team event, so my friend Sean – secure enough in his manliness – volunteered to claim “the girl spot.” Naturally, an ass-whooping of the opposite teams ensued. I mean, you’re talking about a partnership where both teammates are Naperville North All Guys Gym alums.

After using intimidation and skill, we advanced to the Final Four, only to be eliminated on a miscalculation. Being in a fairly conservative voting town, we decided against a 2000-inspired recount, and went on with our heads held high.

Leaving the establishment, I thought to myself, "Man, it sure would be nice to be able to drink away my tournament sorrows in the comfort of my own home." This, however, was an impossibility. You see, my home is also my parents' home. I guess technically it's not my home at all, but they allow me to live there and eat their food, so I take advantage of the situation.

Not being too far removed from home life, many of you may have certain house rules that you are by no means allowed to break. These are things your parents just don't want to see you doing. Think the total opposite of "Viva La Bam." One of those things at the Jones' home is that you don't drink in the house, end of discussion.

Enter real point of blog post after hooking introductory story. I realize that there are things that all the Tapan Jones Sr.'s don't want to see us do, but I don't know if they realize that we've been taking preventive measures all of our lives to stay out of awkward situations with out parents. Things such as... dot dot dot...

1) Watching a Movie with a Sex Scene In It
Some of you who know me well are aware that I like to get down with some high-class cinema (that last sentence shouldn't be interpreted as my having some love for pornography with increased production value, but honestly, that whole industry is just making strides. Good for you guys!). I'm all about films that can be analyzed with great scrutiny. Often times, these films deal with mature subject matter, which may or may not involve sex scenes.

Now if I know there's a sex scene in a movie, I don't care if it's fuckin' Citizen's Kane (get it?), there's no way in hell I'm going to be able to watch that movie with my parents. It would be like volunteering to be in that scene from Ace Ventura: When Nature Calls where the knife and fork are being scratched along the bottom of the dinner plate. Terrifying.

I swear you guys, I thought the original sin was gluttony.

If I don't know there's a sex scene in a movie, and we see it together, I don't care if I'm 21 or 69, I'll still have to fake the whole looking away, or pretending to text, or whatever, when Kate Winslet takes her clothes off...again (by the way, mark my words, old Kate Winslet is gonna be the new Helen Mirren. So hot).


2) Talking to a Girl You Like on the Phone
Now I know what many of you are saying. This whole practice of trying to hide a girl you like from your family has been outgrown, and so what if she's a lady of the evening? Well in this case, I refer you all to my co-blogger, Mike Bogart. When asked about his phone habits with the ladies, all the members of his family will point you in the direction of the bathroom. Why is that? It is because that's where he finds telephone sanctuary away from his parents. The man literally walks out of the (fill in the blank) room and into the bathroom.

Finally makes sense why these were invented, right?

But really, aren't we all just secretly terrified we'll slip into our impress-a-girl mode, and start spewing horrific cutesy talk, questions about the other's attire, and an endless argument of "No you hang up!!"? I think doing any of these things in front of your parents wipes away decades of work that they did to raise you like a person with a certain sense of pride and authority.

Now, there is one last thing that I think many of us have a tough time doing in front of our parents...

3) Walking Past Victoria's Secret in the Mall
This one is the ultimate test. Our moms have an inbuilt desire to buy us clothes, and dress us according to plan. It's all they've ever wanted to do. This noble, sometimes creepy motivation does require some interaction on the part of the offspring in question.

Seeing that clothes need to be tried on and fitted, it is not unlikely that at some point in time, you were walking through the mall with your mom, and you spotted the pink, white, and black-colored store coming up to the right. Maybe it was the vivid colors, maybe it was the loud music, or maybe it was the large breasts, but all I know is, you all did everything in your power to sneak a peek without getting busted.

I know this is everything I've ever wanted in my life, but I must look away.

You definitely did not want your mom looking to find you ogling those super models, because then you'd be in for the worst afternoon at Kohl's in your life.

The worst thing ever though? When your mom says, "Oh wait, I need to look in here." For one tiny, infinitesimal moment, you're overjoyed that you can look at the displays without fear of being caught. But that's immediately followed by a quick thought, and an, "Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww."

There have been points in my life in which I literally chose to sit at that little glass wall protecting me from falling into the food court while my mom shopped at that place. And I know some of you did it, too.

So the next time you think of things you can't do at home, just remember, someday you'll get to torture your kids in socially uncomfortable situations.

Word to Your Mother,
Tapan Jones

p.s. comment on your awkward parent-involved situations!

The Complete Idioms Guide to Picture Adaptations

English is the Bret Michaels of languages. Always needlessly complicating things and making up phrases that really have no business existing. People are always telling me not to count my chickens before they hatch. Bitch, I 've never seen a chicken in my life. Or they're telling me they're hanging on by the skin of their teeth. That's disgusting.

So today, as I was swirling my aged 2009 glass of red wine in my neon orange, plastic Senior Celebration cup, I began to think. Those same people - remember, the chicken farmers from the previous paragraph? - have been telling me to buckle down, and stop letting my imagination run away with me. Let me ask you something. Why is it so wrong to be prancing on a white sand beach, with my best, but hunchbacked, friend, Imagination? None of the other kids wanted to play with him, so I said, "jump on, buddy!" and wore his ass like a back pack. Just because his favorite activity involves running, those English speakers of the world doth protest.

Which brings me to my main point. People should say what they mean, and that's why I'm presenting you with four mock-ups of what happens when idioms go wrong. Before you read the accompanying captions and descriptions, stare at each photo and try to figure out what idiom I have masterfully illustrated. Otherwise, you too will be singing Every Rose Has Its Thorn, crying yourself to sleep as 10 more slutty women refuse to shack up with you on a bus.

From 56 yards deep, too.

Kicking the Bucket: The phrase, no doubt created by a philosophical janitor, has come to describe the end of life. Interesting story, this idiom came about during early 20th century medicine, as a patient was "pissing his life away." The nurse overseeing him got so mad at the noise, she kicked the bucket out from under him with all of her white shoe'd might, not realizing he'd been sitting. Next thing you know, Boom, death by cracked ass.

That third Powder Puff Girl sure would come in handy right now. Not the ugly one though.

A taste of your own medicine: First of all, using an idiom while describing another? Who do I think I am? Stephen Baldwin, that's who. At any rate, this idiom strikes close to home. One time, after my third Choco Taco, my body found itself fighting a violent case of frozen-innards. That is the medical term for it. Some rummaging through my cabinets and garage later, I created a potion of saltines, orange juice, whiskey, and a pinch of WD-40 to cure what ailed me. The taste of my own medicine? Coffee...from the emergency room.

Decisions Bro....Decisions

Put on your thinking cap: If such were the case, my neighborhood hangout of Lids would fucking sell them.

Freeze! It's Liberty Police!

Saved by the bell: I guess if I had to pick anyone, it would have to be A.C. Slater. But if that show had been what I had always dreamed of, the buddy cop genre could have been greatly expanded. This boxing phrase is used to describe when the boxer on the receiving end of a pummeling survives to fight another round, because the sound of the bell ends the current one. If this bell really was the savior Jesus Christ, a much more altruistic approach would be to end the fight entirely. Otherwise it's just continued torture.

You'll now find yourself noticing that idioms don't just come once in a blue moon, and you'll fight the urge to cry wolf, vigorously trying to speak in English befitting a 10th grade ESL class. In these cases, just remember, Bret Michaels = Poison, and Poison = fish in French.

Love,

Mike

The Bros Ceremony

As much of the country braves the continuing cold and snow, this past weekend many hearts were warmed by the happiest, lovey doviest, most cuddly date of all - February 14th, Valentine's Day. That is, of course, if they weren't spending it with their emotions on a seemingly never ending Giant Drop of lonely sadness.

To this I say, "shake it off, towel -- you'll be alright." To copy with my single status in life, I spent most of Valentine's daydreaming (see what I did there?) about the perfect date. I went over the main criteria: face, smarts, family, booty, and monaaaay. What's that? How dare you call me Kiddy Pool Shallow Jones! We all do it! .... But anyway, the thinking led me to an interesting place.

I eventually found myself in a "The Bachelor" type scenario, with the final two contestants squaring off. I thought to myself, who in the world would I want to spend the rest of my days with? It was obvious: Will Smith or Larry David.

WWF: St. Valentine's Day Massacre 1998

On the one hand, you have a strong black man whose perennial box office championships come as the result of being charming, witty, and oh-so-mean to Carlton. On the other, you have the embodiment of everything that has ever been considered hilarious, donned in beige slacks, a uni-colored V Neck sweater, and a white undershirt. Both of them are very hard to say no to.

As the daydream continued, I immersed myself further into the world of a potential playoff, at the end of which one of them would be crowned my soul mate. In the interest of the few women reading this - yes, I have absolutely stolen this format from all of your favorite dating shows, but no, I will not give my contestants street walker nicknames.

It's basically Blacker Vance versus the Bald Buster.

For Prince, my daydream carried on as such. We went to a Philly Cheesesteak place in his hometown, and he was initially treated like Norm walking into Cheers. (Anyone reading this, that kind of reception is a lifelong dream of mine, and if you wanted to make it a reality, you too could be on this shortlist). Anyway, as the dinner went on, and my vegetarianism gave way to a French meal where little potato sticks were fried just so, the owner of the establishment started giving Hancock a hard time. Turns out there was another man. One who apparently spun him around during the opening credits. Another man with whom he'd shared a dance? I can understand Kevin James -- who could resist that piece of work -- but this? I was about ready to head back to L.A. for the rose ceremony.

More like the King of Hearts

As the thought raced through my mind, something happened. In a classic Hitch move, Will told the owner that he only conversed with civilized people not on Burn Notice, defended my honor, and apologized for the embarrassing display. Along with introducing me to Uncle Phil and both Aunt Viv's, he had redeemed himself.

Alas, there was another contender in this race. Not to be outdone, Larry picked me up at my doorstep in his Prius, and proceeded to curse every schmohawk on the road who was getting in the way of our plans. His aggressive nature and poor manners were winning me over. Anyway, after the dinner, where he got into a staring contest with the waiter - to the tune of flute music - over the Cobb salad, we went to a mutual place of interest - the driving range. We laughed as one of the balls struck Funkhouser, went home and kicked it with Leon, and decided to call it an evening.

After hours of deliberation, and countless Netflix rentals, my daydream came to a conclusion. If I can't have both, I don't want either, and I decided to return back to my first television based love - Sloan.

So the next time you feel lonely and down, observe and replicate my thought process. If you wanted to leave a comment about who your ideal candidates would be, that would be dandy like valentines' candy.

Keep dreamin' kids,

Tapan Jones

p.s. On February 9th we celebrated the One Year Anniversary of The Chicago Sometimes. Thanks for reading guys, and here's to one..no that doesn't work..five? more!

Disingenuously Disenfranchised..?

Sure, having both your legs blown off comes with its fair share of disadvantages. The searing pain, the years of rehab, not being able to walk, who am I kidding? You know the drill. But you people aren't looking big picture here. You're not shifting paradigms, you're not filling up your water glasses, hell, I don't even see one lemon juicer in this entire room. Come on, haven't you guys ever seen Murderball? Didn't you learn anything from Radio?

YOU can do it!

We gotta look on the bright side here. You know, like they say, the grass is always greener on the other side. And I bet some of you think that's because the other side is the bright side, and it gets more sunlight. But then you'd be missing the point. The point is, I bet you guys are wishing you had some legs right now, and I can't blame ya. It's pretty nice. But I'll tell you what--and you won't believe this--I'm jealous of you. That's right, the able-bodied man who can drive the lane and throw down a two-handed slam with ease is envious of the guys in the wheelchairs who can probably only pull off roll-away jumpers. And I'll tell you why:

1. Sympathy.

No one feels worse than when they accidentally close the door on a guy in a wheelchair. You think anyone feels bad about forgetting to hold the door for me? Well think again. The wheelchair-bound have a monopoly on sympathy in this country, and you guys need to tap into that resource as quickly as possible. Play it up a little, put on a show for the people, but definitely don't go for war veteran or mentally handicapped. People don't like that.

2. People will think you're brave.

This one is similar to sympathy. You'll instantly get credit for being brave, even if you're really a coward. It's sort of like how the casual basketball fan might think Allen Iverson is still a great player because he's starting for the East in the All-Star game, when in reality he's washed-up and he's stealing a potential starting spot form DRose.

Even YOU can wear a pinky ring this large, because you still have arms.

3. A great excuse to be really lazy.

Be honest, how many of you were pretty lazy around the house before your accidents? Don't be shy, now, let me see those hands. That's right, all of you had a honey-do list that was probably longer than both of your legs combined. Now, no one will expect you to paint the house or install new tile flooring. You're on the gravy train to Lazytown, and it's tasting delicious.

This is the actual first result for the Google image search "gravy train." On second thought, maybe you want to take the Amtrak.

4. It's actually pretty fun to be wheeled around.

Think back to your fondest childhood memories. If one of them wasn't getting to ride in the shopping cart at the grocery store, then I'm sorry, but you must have had a pretty crappy childhood. Imagine how excited you would have been if you got to ride in that shopping cart all day, every day--even at home! Now that dream has become a reality.

5. You're slightly more likely to be a successful panhandler.

This one, again, goes back to sympathy. If ever you should fall on hard times, people are slightly more likely to help out a person with no legs than they are fully-endowed folk. It's just a basic fact of human existence. Obviously, the art of panhandling can only be perfected through experience, but having no legs will give you a leg up on the crazy competition out there.

6. You're an extremely likely candidate for becoming a cyborg.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, they don't make robotic limbs for people who already have perfectly fine normal ones. None of the top cybernetic research companies out there are targeting healthy people as their key demographic, man. They're all about empowering the disenfranchised. Plus, robotic limbs are way more badass than real ones. Please tell me you guys have seen Robocop. You can have like guns and shit attached to your kneecaps, or they can make your legs shoot out really far to grab stuff across the room, because your feet could also be like hands, like a monkey. The possibilities are endless, and quite frankly, I'll never get to experience any of them. And that really sucks.

Yours in Christ,
Mike

The CeREAL Life

From what I understand, most of our readership has left us. That's not to say that they've stopped reading, but that for the most part, they have literally left the Chicagoland area. Where did they all go? Why, school of course! That happy time in life filled with drunken hate speech about professors and equally drunken love speech like "Hey you, beautiful. Listen, have you ever heard of the Fullerton Transfer?"

This mass migration - this would be a good time to coin the phrase massgration - has continued, for many of you, the bi-annual trend of living away from home at a dorm or an apartment. I think in the interest of fairness to this blog post, and to all of you, it should be made public information that I was a commuter during my college years. However, I am still fully able to relate to the conversation we're about to have...now!

My aforementioned independent friends often ask me, "Hey that's my girlfriend guy, what the fuck is your problem?" But in their less hostile moods, they often ask me, "Man, Tapan Jones, what the hell should I eat today?"

The back and forth invariably settles on a mainstay of the American diet - cereal. That's right, the deliciousness of those sugary little bits of finger food knows no bounds (with the exception of their binding rectangular domiciles, of course). Cereals taste great, satisfy hunger, and even promote happiness with their colorful designs and sexy spokespeople (I'm talking to you Count Chocula).

There is something I should let you know though, friends. My research into this delicacy has led me down an interesting path of lucky charms to that one single pot of gold in the box.

You see: Cereal companies run the drug trade!

User - Pusher - Queen's Guard

Some of you may read that and say, "Grrrrrreat. This guy doesn't know what he's talking about. This is another one of his Trix. I'm leaving. Cheeri-o"

But wait, hear me out! All it takes to validate my claim is a small look into the names of the products themselves. Observe:

1) (insert flavor) Puffs - Smoking references, with tons of variety

2) Fruity Pebbles/Loops - Ecstasy reference. I seriously just google image searched the word ecstasy and this is what I got. Seriously. I can't make this shit up.

3) Frosted Flakes - Cocaine reference. Tony Montana. Tony the Tiger. COME ON!

4) Honey Smacks - Smack is heroin people.

5) Banana Nut Crunch - Okay, not drug-related, but just kind of gross. Think about it for a second... there you go

So there you have it. My expose. And as the piece de resistance, think to yourself, what do drug users crave more than anything when they're high.....? That's right.

Until next time, just remember. This is your brain:

And this is your brain on cereal:

Hope you got your Kix,

Tapan Jones

Shake Ya Brass, Watch Ya Self

When I look at a girl playing a tuba, I think to myself, "Wow. She must have really big lungs." Big lungs are one of the Top 4 things I look for in a woman. And when I watch the same girl march with that brass behemoth buoyed on her belly, I think to myself, "Wow. She must have really strong pecs. I wonder how much that tuba weighs?"

But then I get to thinking, you know, what would happen if she stepped on some uneven pavement, and she fell with the tuba and got stuck inside it? That probably wouldn't be very sexy at all. Probably just really noisy, actually. I'd have to leave the parade because it would hurt my ears--the girl struggling to free herself from the tuba, I mean.

When you stop to think about it, there are a lot of instruments that are much more arousing than tubas, and much more than you probably (hopefully) realized. So without further ado...

THE TROMBONE(R)

...Leon Phelps?

If you've never been aroused by a trombone, I just don't know what to tell you. It's really obvious. First of all, what heavenly music they make! A little slice of heaven. Second, you're obviously blowing into the thing, and you're sliding that big metal piece back and forth like you're Charlie Sheen or something.

THE SAXOPHONE

Explanation needed? Probably.

Besides sounding like sexophone, the saxophone is the tried-and-true staple instrument for smooth jazz-seducers. It actually even looks kind of sexy. I mean, you could do worse, if you were so inclined.

THE PLASMAPHONE

Oooooo.... hot.

Look at this thing. I have no idea what the hell it does or how the hell it works, but I know that I'd be terrified of anyone evil enough to play it. I bet Criss Angel 's really good.

THE GLASS HARMONICA

You better believe Ben Franklin knows how to play the Glass Harmonica.

You play it by wetting your fingers and rubbing them over the glass. No, really.

THE KEYTAR

Pure Sex.

No other instrument so deftly combines the intimacy and warmth of a piano solo with the crotch-grabbing and spandex of hair metal in such a mobile package. Turn to the keytar if the object of your desire has a great affinity for horribly, horribly unattractive people.

On a funnier note, I'm sure you've all noticed the sweet new banner up top by now. A big thank you to Tom Glass for putting that together for us. If you'll kindly notice, each letter is taken from a different Chicago-themed thing. We'll post the key to what's what in the comments. What a guy Tom is!

Love,
Mike