Can’t really remember what happened in Jan.

OH WAIT.

I visited Chicago for the first time. Neither one of us would be the same after I left.

(Ok, well maybe Chicago stayed the same.)

(OR IS IT TOO SOON TO TELL?)

(It’s probably not.)

FEBRUARY

Can’t really remembered what happened in Feb. either.

OH WAIT.

I got laid off! This was actually pretty awesome because I kinda hated my job and it directly lead to me meeting my MVP of 2011: funemployment!

MARCH – AUGUST

Look for work. Daydream about Chicago. Surf the web for hours on end. Daydream about Chicago some more. Write. Netflix. Wash. Daydream about Chicago. Repeat.

SEPTEMBER

Went to Chicago, Vegas, & Mexico. I’m pretty sure the only other people who go to all three of those places in the same month are businessmen and high-class, bilingual escorts.

OCTOBER

Oh, I just sold my car, packed my bags, and moved to Chicago. You know, nothing important or life changing or awesome.

I’m just kidding! IT WAS TOTALLY IMPORTANT AND LIFE CHANGING AND AWESOME.

NOVEMBER

I cleaned a bathtub for the first time and I hope I have to never do anything that disgusting ever again.

DECEMBER

Went back to Houston for the holidays and came back to Chicago for the chuckles.

All in all, I’d have to say 2011 was… aw, fuck it, who cares? It’s 2012 now and has been for 14 days now. So here’s to a slightly better than average year everybody.

WIFE: I just know she’s here! I can feel it in my bones!

HUSBAND: Are you sure that’s not the jet lag that you’re feeling? And how do you know she’s a she?

WIFE: Of course the Loch Ness monster is a she! Why else do you think she’s called “Nessie”? Wow, what an unbelievably stupid question — I can’t believe you even asked me that.

HUSBAND: I just don’t understand why we’re spending our 20th anniversary at a department store in the middle of nowhere Scotland looking for something that doesn’t exist when we could be sipping margaritas in Mexico or eating hotcakes in Canada?

WIFE: Goddammit, You KNEW when you married me that finding Nessie was my life-long dream, so will you stop crying like a little bitch? You’re ruining this for me!

HUSBAND: Ok, fine. Can you at least explain to me why we’re here instead of at the lake?

WIFE: Pretend that you’re Nessie. Go on, pretend.

(HUSBAND closes his eyes and holds his index and middle fingers up to his temples.)

HUSBAND: Ok, I’m Nessie.

WIFE: Well, it’s been scientifically proven that you don’t live at Loch Ness, so, obviously, you don’t live there. Now where would you go if you didn’t want people to find you?

HUSBAND: …

WIFE: Well?

HUSBAND: Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you wanted me to pretend that I was Nessie. And, obviously, Nessie didn’t answer because Nessie doesn’t exist.

(WIFE smacks HUSBAND hard in the arm.)

WIFE: Stop fucking around! Nessie does exist and my gut tells me she’s here! And I can’t wait to find her! We’re going to take so many pictures! And for our Christmas cards, we can photoshop a little Santa hat on top of Nessie’s head…

(Right on cue, a large figure walks behind the WIFE and taps her on her shoulder. The WIFE turns around to see who it is.)

WIFE (at the top of her lungs): AAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!

(WIFE, in shock, runs around in a circle while wildly waving her arms before collapsing in the middle of the stage.)

HUSBAND: No way … It can’t be? Nessie?

NESSIE: Hi!

(WIFE gets back up and runs around the stage one more time while screaming and waving her arms before collapsing in the middle of the stage.)

HUSBAND: I must be dreaming. Or maybe I’m dead and this is hell? Yes, that explains things! The plane crashed on the way to Scotland, I’m in Hell, and you’re the devil!

NESSIE: Yeah, I don’t really know what you’re talking about.

HUSBAND: That’s because you don’t exist, right?

NESSIE: No — it’s actually because I’m a monster.

HUSBAND: Ah. Makes sense. Anyway, I can’t believe that my wife was right. Why are you here?

NESSIE: I live here. I mainly stay over there.

HUSBAND: The lingerie section? Really?

NESSIE: Oh yeah. No one ever goes over there.

HUSBAND: Why’s that?

NESSIE: Have you seen some of the women here? And just between the two of us, Scottish men are way more interested in their sheep than they are their wives. Anyway, I’m about to leave. I just wanted to say hi to your wife. I always try to interact with my biggest fans, but I think that might be the first time I made someone faint twice.

HUSBAND: Yeah, she’s something else. Don’t flatter yourself, though, she did the exact same thing on our 10th year anniversary. We were in Cuba and she claimed she saw Tupac.

NESSIE: Ha! Hey, you should come join me. I’m meeting a couple of my friends at a pub close by. Maybe you’ve heard of them: Bigfoot and El Chupacabra?

HUSBAND: WHAT? NO WAY! BIGFOOT?!

NESSIE: Don’t forget El Chupacabra!

HUSBAND: Eh. He’s alright. BUT BIGFOOT? FUCK, YEAH, I’LL JOIN YOU! WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? LET’S GO!

(HUSBAND and NESSIE run off stage.)

(Blackout.)

If you live anywhere other than Chicago or Toronto, and/or don’t consider yourself to be a huge comedy nerd, then you’re probably not going to like this book very much. Or maybe at all. Who knows? But if you’re like me and just recently moved to Chicago and signed up to take classes at Second City, then you may also think that this is one of the GREATEST BOOKS EVER WRITTEN. (You may be a little biased, too, but I’ll be willing to let that slide. Just as long as you promise me that you won’t turn into the guy who wants to improvise a musical scene every time he gets on the train. Please, I beg you; Don’t become that guy. NO ONE LIKES HIM.)

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Hi. In case you couldn’t tell by the title of my blog, my name is Jerry. You can just call me that, no need for any of that “Mr. Whatever-my-last-name-is” crap. Because me and you? We’re cool. I have no beef with you. But you know who’s definitely not cool? My mailman. (Or mailwoman. It is 2011 after all.) And shit has gotten so bad, the problems are so irreconcilable, that I’m going straight to the top. Sadly, it took me longer to find President Obama’s personal email (never found it) than it did to google who the Postmaster General was, which is why this open letter is addressed to you. I hope you take this as seriously as I have.

About a month and a half ago, I moved to Chicago. As with anyone who moves, especially those who make such a big change like I did (I used to live in TX), they’re pretty busy for a while getting everything in order. Even though the USPS is struggling right now, I assume you know what that’s like, being that you’re the Postmaster General OF THE UNIVERSE. And from one busy person to another, there’s just no way we can possibly do everything we need to do all at once, right? That’s why we prioritize. And you know what was way, way down on my list of Things To Do? This:

How dare they defile something that contained a Season 1 of The Wire?

And you know I was willing to let it go. But then I saw THIS (keep in my mind, Mr. Donahoe, that this was the same exact day):

This is what I don’t understand: my landlord, the guy that I actually have to listen to because he owns the apartment that I’m living in, didn’t say anything about putting my name in the mail box. And unless they have really bad eyesight, the person delivering the mail should be able to clearly see that each mailbox is labeled with it’s each respective unit scribbled on it. So the only reason that I can think of for my mailperson to write a hate message on my mail is because they think I’m making their job harder for them because I haven’t put my name on the stupid box. And the last time I checked, the US Postal Service wasn’t doing too well. So unlike my parcel-handler, I can understand that some people may be going through some tough times, you know with being worried about their benefits, and their jobs, and rabid pit bulls, etc., etc. I was willing to let it slide, and part of the reasoning behind it was because I was too busy with more important things (like, oh, watching Season 1 of “The Wire”, which I just so happen to get from Netflix, which just so happens to be the USPS’ biggest customer) than to get in some pissing war with my junk-mail provider. BUT THEN THIS HAPPENED:

Oh, you crossed the line now, mofo.

WTF SHIT IS THIS, DONAHUE??? THIS IS THE THANKS I GET FOR NOT CANCELING THE DVDs FROM MY NETFLIX ACCOUNT? FOR SENDING POSTCARDS TO FAMILY BACK HOME? (I actually haven’t sent them yet, but I was going to. Keyword: WAS.)

Fine. You win. Are you happy now?

In the spirit of holidays and Black Fridays and, ahem, Small Business Saturdays and football and the NBA returning and alcohol, I officially rescind this open letter to the Postmaster General that I had typed up a couple of weeks ago and had kind of forgotten to finish (hence the strike through). Hope everyone had a non-depressing Thanksgiving and a pepper spray-free Black Friday. Postcards are in the process of being mailed out. If you haven’t gotten yours, it’s probably because I haven’t mailed it out yet, or, and this is probably the more likely scenario, the post office lost it.

(No, I’m kidding. He didn’t say that. But he did used to say something similar: “Boy, you’re not paying for this family plan just so you can not answer your phone when I call you!” Ah, I miss him.)

Chicago is crazy. But I don’t mean that literally. It’s not New York. (It was called “The Second City” for a reason, you know.” And it’s not like it’s filled with a bunch of people that root for a sports team that has done nothing but break their alcohol-addled hearts, year after year after year or anything like that. Now that would be crazy. What I’m really talking about is the experience, that Chicago State of Mind feeling. Specifically, my experience and feelings since I’ve moved here. I’m sure that there have been others who have had great experiences with, and in (and maybe on top?), Chicago, but this post, and now that I think about it, this blog, doesn’t have anything to do with these people and their sappy stories about falling in love at the top of the Sears Tower (I don’t feel like I’ve been here long enough to call it by it’s proper name). They can start their own blog. This one’s mine! Mine, I tell you!

It’s been exactly one month since I signed the lease to my apartment. And in that time, I’ve seen the 10th Anniversary screening of Wet Hot American Summer at the Music Box Theatre, where David Wain was gracious enough to do a 30 minute Q&A beforehand, listen to Dino Stamatopoulos talk at The Second City Training Center (who was also kind enough to give everyone there a sneak peek at the first two episodes for the upcoming season of “Frankenhole“, the HILARIOUS show that appears on Adult Swim, that, coincidentally enough, was also created by someone named Dino Stamatopoulos), and, thanks to OkCupid, multiple (not a typo) dates. All things, for one reason or another, that I never would have been able to do back home in Houston. So although I miss my family and the few friends that my evil, anti-social alternate ego, Loner Jerry, didn’t alienate, there’s no doubt in my mind that I made the right decision to pack my shit up and move here.

Even though there are times when it hits me, and I’m like, “Whoa… I fucking live in Chicago now”, I don’t really feel like it’s a big deal. To me, this is just one step in what I feel is the right decision. And to get where I want to be professionally, and personally, there are still many, many more steps to go. Maybe when I finally get there, I can look back and be satisfied with what I accomplished. Or maybe I’m just being too hard on myself. But is that really a bad thing? If I had to choose between being too hard or too soft on myself, I’m always going with the former. The latter just sounds like a bad fabric softener commercial. I know I seem cuddly, but I can’t let people see me as soft. I have a fucking wordpress.com blog! I have an image to uphold!

Because my bed doesn’t get delivered until Wed at the earliest, we got an air mattress. Unfortunately, we forgot to buy batteries, so instead of my brother and I sleeping on the same air mattress, we’re going to sleep on the same deflated air mattress. But as long as the rat that’s lying right outside my back door doesn’t try to sneak in after coming back to life, I think we’ll be ok.

Luckily, not everything got buried in the dessert next to the dead hookers and slot machines that paid out too much, so here are some random observations and bits and chunks of the (maybe?) craziness that was “Jerry’s 2011 Family Vacation in Vegas”.

One of the first things that I noticed was that there didn’t seem to be as many people walking around compared to my last visit, which was about five years ago. Supposedly there’s some kind of recession going on and the economy isn’t doing real well? Being funemployed just takes up so much of my time, so I haven’t really been able to keep up with my usual Economist and Wall Street Journal reading.

Just kidding, guys! I never read The Economist and The Wall Street Journal! I can’t afford to pay the $200 or whatever it costs to read ‘em. I’m not that dumb.

The economy over in Euroland must be doing well because I saw a ton of people from overseas. Germans, Spanish, Dutch, you name it. Personally, I love hot foreign women, so I didn’t mind. In fact, I hope the global economy improves enough to the point where attractive Brazilian, Australian, and Japanese women can afford to party in Vegas, too.

This shouldn’t be too big of a surprise, but Vegas loves dance music. Old Asian ladies were fist pumping to LMFAO at the Hard Rock with their left arm while the right stayed glued to the slot machine. Bathroom attendants at the Wynn were bobbing their heads to funky house beats while spraying you with Dolce & Gabbana Eau De Toilette Spray. Adult-service oriented solicitors were passing out cards that seemed to offer adult services with David Guetta songs playing in the background. Electronic music was everywhere on the strip; seemingly, the only way to escape it was to go see Donny and Marie Osmond at the Flamingo, but who in their right mind would want to do that?

Speaking of adult services, I wish I would’ve taken a picture of this, but I was too busy being distracted by how absurd it was. If you’ve been to Las Vegas before, then you know all about the poor men and women on the strip who pass out the cards that I mentioned in the previous paragraph. (If you haven’t, they’re basically business cards. FOR WOMEN. WHO ARE NAKED.) This by itself is kind of absurd, but what really got me were the many (what seemed to be) moving trucks that advertised THE SAME THING THAT WAS ON THE CARDS. Which can only mean one thing: that the pimps in Vegas have also been negatively affected by the economy. They’ve been forced to sell their old school Cadillacs and Lincolns with the furry dice hanging from the rear view mirrors and buy moving trucks. How sad.

For those wondering how the second leg of “Jerry’s 2011 Family Vacation” went, it didn’t go well. IT WENT VERY WELL. For those wondering what the fuck I’m talking about, go read the previous post. More details to come later, but for now, PICS.

Did I win this by betting the max at the penny slots? Did I end up losing it all by betting on black at the roulette table? I wish I could answer these questions, but I made a drunken blood pact with a homeless guy whose girlfriend was kidnapped by ninjas that I wouldn't tell.

One of my biggest regrets from this trip was not taking a picture of me riding this.

First time ever placing a sports wager in person. Didn't think it was going to be this easy to win, though. (GO TEXANS! WIN ME SOME MORE MONEY.)

Witnessing this in person never gets old. So shout out to the Bellagio for keeping it classy for not having dubstep playing while it happened.

For my peeps who had no idea what I was talking about and needed a visual, this is for you. For my peeps who are offended, the NSFW in the title is for you. This way we all win.

(This is where you’re supposed to say, “Yes, Jerry, you’re right, it could be worse.”)

But that’s not even the best part! We’re only staying in LV for a couple of days. After that, we’re headed to… wait for it… Chicago! Yes, for the third time this year, I will be making the trip up north to hopefully, FINALLY, lock down a freaking apartment there. (If this time’s not “the charm”, I swear to all that’s holy that I will be drop-kicking the next Leprechaun I see.) Can a brother move on with his life? Like Papa Hov says in Can I Live: ”Can I live?”

(And this is where you say, “Yes, Jerry, you can live.”)

Unless something horrible happens (i.e. dropping my phone in the Bellagio fountain), I’ll probably tweeting anything that’s even remotely tweet-worthy. Pics will probably go on tumblr. Trip report when I get back. If all goes well (and why wouldn’t it, right?), I’ll be carrying my gambling winnings and the key to my new apartment in Chicago back to Houston with me.