A Hero's Journey

Fast Friends

In August of 2023, 150 puberty-infused 7th graders started school at Schmane Schmeck Academic Center, a program for high-achieving nerds from across the city of Chicago. Every kid was new to the school and most walked in on Day 1 without a single friend. Out of desperation and fear, two young ladies glommed on to each other like Truth Social and a white male without a college degree.

The first of these young ladies is Chloe who is blonde, thin, and cute. She has pretty blue eyes and a nice smile. Chloe plays soccer, sings in the school chorus, and competes annually in the Chicago History Fair. She is articulate, smart, and kind of annoying. She’s the type of kid who not only thanks you for a ride home but does so multiple times, profusely. She’s overly complimentary. She talks loudly. She gives hugs too easily and too strong. In the words of OG (the other young lady and the hero of this story), Chloe is “really great but she’s a lot.”

All direct quotes in this post are attributed to OG, my 14-year-old daughter who, in her own way, is also a lot. Specifically, she can be a bit holier-than-thou. In 6th grade, OG was brought to tears by some wretched little boys who threw snowballs at her during recess. OG decided to send a 1,000-word email to those boys, shaming them for their behavior. Her sanctimony got her in trouble: The boys shared the email with the entire world and OG was bullied to no end.

But sometimes the bullied become heroes and the defenseless become saviors. Before becoming Spiderman, Peter Parker was tormented for being a science geek. Before becoming Batman, Bruce Wayne witnessed the murder of his parents. Before OG became a hero, she was a sad little dweeb on the playground with wet mittens and damp cheeks. Becoming a hero is complicated.

Back to Chloe and OG who, within weeks, were besties: endless messaging, sleepless sleepovers, excessive sharing of feelings, mindless excursions to Sephora and Starbucks, etc. It was all very cute.

Drama

Less than two weeks into the school year, Chloe also had a girlfriend named Violet. At a school where everyone is new and no one knows each other, it’s weird for anyone to start dating so quickly, let alone two girls, even in today’s climate where basically everyone is gay.

And sure enough, as the year dragged on, the drama between Chloe and Violet picked up: emotional texts, breaking up, getting back together, etc. It was all very silly. As Chloe’s best friend, OG often listened to Chloe complain about Violet not giving her enough attention. Because all feelings experienced by anyone in 2025 must be validated, OG validated Chloe’s but often lamented the fact that she herself had to give Chloe so much attention.

Chloe and OG were also part of a bigger friend group who, I suppose, are generally high-quality people but often suffer from groupthink (“we don’t like Ms. Barker,” “we like being nonchalant,” etc.) and, consequently, become mindless, middle school monsters, resembling a more naive, less Machiavellian version of Mean Girls. By spring of 7th grade, most of them had already “stopped liking” Chloe and one of them outwardly expressed frustration at OG for “spending too much time with her” (code for “I’m a jealous bitch”). By the end of the year, OG had started distancing herself from Chloe because she was “just a lot to deal with.”

OG liked Chloe but sometimes felt annoyed by her. She didn’t want to abandon her but pressure from the Mean Girls was mounting. OG felt stuck. Summer was approaching, and her friendship with Chloe was in doubt. Becoming a hero is complicated.

The Phone Call

Luckily for OG, she was able to avoid making any decisions for most of the summer. Such is the life of the privileged few who get to shirk responsibility and decision-making by attending sleep-away camp for the entire month of June and frolicking around the Middle East and Europe for the entire month of July. By the time OG came home in early August, school was about to start and she felt that a “decision” with Chloe needed to be made.

OG was slow to respond to some texts and Chloe asked if the two of them “were still good.” She messaged OG again, saying she didn’t want to be “iced out” or “left on read.” The worst thing any human being can do to any other human being is 2025 is “ghost” them so, like a big girl, OG picked up the phone and actually called Chloe, something no child has done since approximately 2009. OG initially tried to give her the “it’s not you, it’s me” speech but ultimately felt compelled to tell Chloe that she “needed some space because it was a lot to handle.” 

“What’s ‘it’?” Chloe asked.

“Being around you,” OG responded.

Chloe was in tears.

An hour after the phone call, OG was feeling sad, perhaps guilty, so she went to check her phone which, sure enough, had an “essay” from Chloe. OG responded sympathetically, came back to the couch for Family Movie Night, and returned to her phone a few minutes later to see another “mad” essay followed by a “sad” essay.

Chloe was reeling. OG apologized. Chloe sent another “mad” essay followed by another “sad” essay.

They were both in tears.

Lunch Tables (Part I)

Mean Girls is a great movie and one of its many great scenes is when Regina George breaks the rules by wearing sweatpants on a Monday. After a heated exchange at the lunch tables in the cafeteria, Gretchen Wieners explodes, “You can’t sit with us!”

The Mean Girls in this story commandeered a few lunch tables in Schmane Schmeck’s cafeteria and, on the first day of 8th grade, Chloe sat with them. Soon enough, the Mean Girls at Table 1 started literally, figuratively, and wickedly “pushing Chloe to the side,” saying they could only fit a few girls on each end.

OG: “Maybe we also made some comments. I don’t remember.”

Saul: “You don’t remember? You mean you remember perfectly but don’t want to admit it?”

OG: “Okay, we were pushing her. I’m taking responsibility. But, like, I don’t remember if there were comments or if she just got fed up and moved to another table.”

Was OG a bystander? Was she complicit? Are bystanders ipso facto complicit? Quick story: I went to high school with a kid named Greg and once when we were taking a group picture, another kid named Jason directly excluded Greg from the photo because, well, the details don’t matter. I sat there, silent, while Greg walked away in tears.

So Chloe (now at Table 2) is feeling rejected, eating a sloppy joe made by the lunch lady, and OG is feeling safe, eating a turkey and cheese sandwich made by Saul. The Mean Girls at Table 2 then start complaining to the Mean Girls at Table 1 about Table 1 having banished Chloe to Table 2. So what does Table 2 do? It squeezes in with Table 1 so now Chloe “actually can’t fit.” If I may: What a bunch of heartless bitches.

So now what does Chloe do? She goes and sits with Violet (the girlfriend) and a couple of Violet’s friends who also don’t want Chloe sitting with them. I can’t explain why a girlfriend wouldn’t protect her girlfriend in this situation but I can tell you that everything does, in fact, get worse.

The Text

Who hates immigrants the most? Immigrants. More broadly, who hates outsiders the most? Outsiders. Pardon the xenophobia, but Table 3 of Mean Girls consists of two Chineses (Tropic Thunder) and one Ethernopian (South Park), two of whom are downright vicious and one of whom personifies complicit bystander. Out of utter desperation, Chloe joins their lunch table and the Outsiders jump at the chance to destroy another outsider. After a few days, the most “mean-spirited” of the three sends the following text:

“Hi [Chloe]. I think I’m speaking for my table and [that other Mean Girl’s] table that you have been hopping around recently. In short, we would like space. We have constantly made it very obvious that we don’t want you with us. All of us are visibly uncomfortable with you around us and you continue to deny that. We don’t want to be friends with someone who doesn’t respect boundaries and completely denies the fact that anything’s wrong. I know for a full fact that you know what you did. I have a few requests. Firstly, give everyone space. Secondly, stop body-shaming people. And lastly, stop following us after school. If you are unsure who to sit with at lunch, sit with your girlfriend or at your original table.”

Before I once again refer to these young ladies as heartless bitches, let me offer some commentary and context:

1. This text was, somehow, unbelievably, a softer, edited version of an earlier text which included shaming Chloe for allegedly flirting with some stupid boy.

2. What does “full fact” mean? I thought you attended an academic center.

3. Chloe didn’t body-shame you but if she had, maybe there was a reason.

4. If you had any balls, you’d say this to Chloe’s face. Good luck hiding behind a screen for the rest of your life, you heartless bitches.

OG claims she told all the Mean Girls, “Stop being mean to Chloe and stop icing her out. If you really want space, tell her in a nice way.” But, she says, they still “wrote [the text] and [asked] for space in a mean way. I didn’t tell them to write this. I didn’t even know they wrote this.”

Well hold on there OG. What do you mean by “this”? You knew about an earlier version of the text, right? You knew they were gonna send something, right? Did you tell them to talk to Chloe in person? Did you tell them to just chill out and grow up? Did you tell them to be nice or else you'd torture and murder them?

No, OG, I don’t think you did any of that because becoming a hero is complicated.

Winter Formal

Let’s take stock: After starting a brand new school, Chloe finds a crew, gets a girlfriend, and makes a new best friend. She is then rejected by her vicious crew, excluded by her callous girlfriend, and abandoned by her confused best friend. The bullying continues, and we arrive at 8th grade Winter Formal.

Per aforementioned privilege, our house is a big house which means our house is the party house which means OG’s friends come to our house for sleepovers in the basement, sun-bathing on the deck, and beautifying themselves in preparation for the most awkward of awkward: middle school dances. OG told the Mean Girls she’d send a text to invite everyone over before the Winter Formal. A day or two later, Chloe (who, OG claims, didn’t know OG was hosting a pre-party) sent a “sad” text to 13 girls inviting them to get ready at her house where they could “have snacks and order pizza in the basement.”

In a state of total chaos and complete anarchy, the Mean Girls immediately start blowing up OG’s phone: “Are you gonna go? Are you not having a party at your house? What’s going on???”

Though OG had not planned to invite Chloe to her house, she admirably responds to the hysterical Mean Girls, “I’m going to Chloe’s. There’s nothing at my house anymore. I’m going. I can’t tell you what to do. I can’t pressure you into this. I’m going. I think you should too.” She also quickly responds to Chloe on the party group chat, “Yup, I’m coming.” Maybe becoming a hero isn’t that complicated?

The Mean Girls are in crisis mode. They don’t know where to pre-party and they certainly don’t know how to be nice. One of them strongly considers getting ready in the school bathroom. Fast forward a couple weeks and a total of three girls go to Chloe’s pre-party: Chloe, OG, and Kendra, who is not a member of the Mean Girls and whom OG describes as “very nice.” The pre-party at Chloe’s is fun, the dance is great, and OG has a post-party with the Mean Girls at our house. Chloe is not included. Oops, maybe becoming a hero is still complicated.

Lunch Tables (Part II)

Cold February day in Chicago. Cafeteria in Schmane Schmeck Academic Center. Regina George, Gretchen Wieners, OG, Chloe, etc.

OG gets up from the lunch table and Chloe sits in her seat. OG returns to the table and thinks, No way I’m kicking her out of my seat. She’s sitting here now. Maybe I’ll ask her to scooch over.

OG: “Hey Chloe, can you scooch over a bit?”

Mean Girls: “Chloe, you took her seat. You’re in her seat. Get up. Go away.”

OG: “Guys, it’s ok, it’s ok. She can scooch over a bit.”

Mean Girls: “No. Chloe, go away.”

OG thinks, Forget it. I’m just gonna stand here and eat my blueberries. I’m standing. It’s fine. I’ll stand.

Mean Girls: “Chloe, you have to leave. You have to leave.”

Gretchen Wieners stands up and exclaims: “CHLOE, CAN’T YOU SEE NOBODY WANTS YOU HERE?!?”

Chloe gets up, tears welling her in her eyes, and “speedwalks” away. OG catches up to her and says, “I’m so sorry. I can’t even believe she did that. That was so horrible of her.”

Chloe: “No, it’s ok, it’s ok. Just leave me alone.”

OG: “I’m so sorry.”

Chloe: “You don’t understand how hard this year has been for me. This is taking such a toll on me. It’s so hard for me to get up in the morning and come to school every day.”

OG: “Yeah, I understand. This has been so horrible.”

Chloe: “It’s not just them. It’s you too.”

OG: “I understand. I’m so sorry I can’t stand up for you more than I already am.”

Chloe: “No, I understand. I’m not worth risking all your friendships over.”

OG was mad at the Mean Girls but mostly swallowed her anger and guilt. OG considered going to the counselor with Chloe but ultimately encouraged her to go alone. Gretchen Wieners told OG she apologized to Chloe but Chloe said she didn’t. OG never followed up.

The balance between defending Chloe and maintaining a friendship with the Mean Girls was delicate. After OG called out one of them for excluding Chloe from an after-school gathering at Wendy’s, the Mean Girl got mad at OG for not blindly “having her back.” OG told her she didn’t have anyone’s back when what they were doing “was wrong.” In the end, however, OG ended up profusely apologizing to the Mean Girl even though she knew that calling her out had been right.

Boston

Cool days in April. Violet dumps Chloe. Chloe now has no one to room with for the 8th grade spring trip to Boston. Each room has four girls. OG is in a group of seven so Chloe would be an easy eighth. Chloe asks two of the Mean Girls if she can room with them. They straight up lie to her face with their ugly, lying faces and say they don’t have space. Chloe asks OG if she can room with her and, without asking the Mean Girls, OG says yes. (“I didn’t need to ask them. I just said yes.”) The Mean Girls are not pleased and do everything in their repulsive power not to share a room with Chloe.

On the final night, Chloe, OG, and two of the Mean Girls “just start talking.” Chloe tells them how “horrible” they have been and the girls say “I’m so sorry” over and over. Chloe keeps asking, “Why? Like, why?” and the girls can’t explain their behavior. The “trauma-dumping” goes deep into the night and there are tears, laughter, and hugs. Though some of the Mean Girls not in the room that night initially resist, Chloe gets added back to the original group chat. The next day, “everyone was friends” again and the Mean Girls were kinder to Chloe.

A few weeks later, OG had the end-of-year party at our house. All of the Mean Girls were there and so was Chloe. I watched them sitting around the dining room table, stuffing their fat faces with cake, sending vapid selfies on Snapchat, and jokingly calling each other racist for using the word “Hispanic.” OG was laughing. Chloe was laughing. The Mean Girls were laughing. Becoming a hero isn’t that complicated: You just have to keep trying.

Other Emotions

A few weeks ago, Panini and I hopped in the Honda Odyssey at 7am and drove 25 miles from Chicago, to some miserable suburb for some miserable tournament. She should have crushed most of the girls there but pressure changes everything and Panini somehow figured out a way to make the day even more miserable. Rather than beating these girls in straight sets, she kept winning the first set and then losing the second.

And I'll tell you what: I get emotional when she splits sets. 

___

It’s not the anticipation of the third-set tie-breaker that’s making me emotional; it’s the fact that now I have to continue to make “polite” conversation with this slick-haired, teeth-whitened, Northface puffer vest-wearing, douchebag executive recruiter who won’t stop talking about how he didn’t want to leave the city and move to some nameless, soulless suburb but felt like it was the “best thing to do for his family.” And how he used to be on the grind teaching 5th grade at some gritty Chicago Public Schools elementary school but now he’s a corporate sell out bitch (my words, not his). And as we talk more about city life, he says, “Yeah you just do your best to make sure your kids are safe and the rest is in God’s hands.” And I say, “Yeah, totally, everything is in God’s hands, you Jesus-loving Christian fuck.” So yeah, I’m not anxious about the super-breaker; I’d just prefer to be done with this overly friendly, self-righteous sycophant.

It’s not closeted Chris Cooper from American Beauty that’s making me emotional; it’s the Asian helicopter dad sitting stoically, alone, in the front row of the stands, with perfect posture and a slight forward lean. It’s cloudy but he’s wearing dark sunglasses and a hat. It’s chilly but he’s not wearing a jacket. His jeans are too tight and his Hoka walking shoes are so red that [insert joke about Communist China here: ___________ ]. He for sure speaks Chinese but he doesn’t say a word. Meanwhile, his fist-pumping, high ponytail-wearing daughter won’t shut the fuck up. She’s wearing a bright green tennis dress to match her bright green racquet. She’s also wearing glasses because the only time Chiang Kai-Shek* lets her outside is to play tennis, so of course she’s near-sighted due to lack of natural sunlight. But her glasses have transition lenses because of course they have transition lenses, so she’s actually playing in dark sunglasses which, as you know, no respectable tennis player uses. Did I mention this little girl is 11 years old and weighs 80 pounds? She’s playing in a tournament with 15- and 16-year-olds because she’s very good at tennis. She’s also putting most of these big girls to shame and screaming out “C’mon!” every other shot. But what’s making me emotional is that I’ve seen this movie before: Queue will never play another sport in her life and, instead, will play 15 hours of tennis per week for 50 weeks a year for the next few years until she gets injured or burns out. She will then realize how much resentment she has for her father, who, per stoic East Asian cultural norms, will forbid her from going to therapy and, thus, expedite her suicide. So yeah, I’m emotional because I feel bad for this sad little girl in the bright green dress.

___

It’s not China ruling the world that’s making me emotional; it’s that I’m missing the Nuggets game. This stupid tie-breaker is delaying our departure, so now I’m gonna be late picking up Broosevelt from his soccer game and, shucks, I’ll have to miss seeing him standing around kicking up dirt while he plays goalie for the entire second half when his team is already up 6-1. And I’ll probably hit vicious Saturday afternoon city traffic when we get back which will make my 70-mile day of driving even worse. And then I’ll finally get home and the Nuggets playoff game (read: the only thing I have left in my life) will already be over.

It’s not the delay that’s making me emotional; it’s that I’m feeling nervous about my new seating arrangement. I’ve moved away from Phil Dunphy and Pol Pot on the bleachers and am now lying on the sidewalk next to the rec center because that’s the only sunny spot near the courts and there’s a good view inside the rec center of a karate class for kids with special needs. Some construction guys in Carhartt hats just finished working on the rec center roof and, though they cleaned up, I’m surrounded by rubber tubing, broken pipes, and other detritus. And when I say I’m lying on the sidewalk, I mean that literally. I am prone, head propped up by my right arm, like a Sports Illustrated bikini model but handsomer and hairier. Even though it’s cold, I’ve already put on two layers of sunblock because cancer kills. My knees hurt, the gravel stings, and I’m pretty sure the other parents think I “walk the earth” (Jules, Pulp Fiction). So yeah, I’m feeling insecure about loose roof shingles, a Daniel LaRusso crane kick going sideways, and someone calling the cops on the guy with a rainbow hat and bright blue sunglasses that say “Saul.”

___

It’s not my imminent arrest that’s making me emotional; it’s Panini’s anxiety. After splitting sets with some completely mediocre girl in her first match today, she walked toward me with tears in her eyes and stammered, “I can’t lose!” I wanted to venomously spit back, “Actually, you can lose, you often do lose, and you’ll probably lose this one.” Instead, I put on my Horse Whisperer hat and talked her off the cliff by helping her realize that all of the mistakes she was making on the court were a result of the mistakes she was making in her head. She somehow got through that match, and now here she is in the finals, freaking out because she’s about to choke away the entire tournament. And I’m a little emotional too.

She comes off the court after double-faulting away the second set and the first thing she says to me is, “It’s the wind!” I want to venomously spit back, “It’s not the wind. It’s you! Make an adjustment!!” Instead, I put on my Horse Whisperer hat and tell her to use her slice when the wind is at her back. It works, she pulls ahead in the tie-breaker, and Panini now has two championship points. She hits a solid cross-court backhand and a beautiful approach shot. She gets an easy forehand volley put-away on top of the net and all she has to do is put it in the court to get that precious, plastic, long sought-after trophy. She misses, and I know for a fact that she had the same thought I had: Holy shit, she’s gonna choke away this match.

Thank god the other girl was an even bigger choker: She double-faulted on the next point to gift Panini the match and the tournament. I was proud of Panini but mostly I just wanted to get the hell out of there to catch some of the Nuggets game.

*not a Communist

A Mirror

I get emotional when she hits a backhand.

___

It’s not just the backhand that’s making me emotional; it’s the fact that it’s a one-handed backhand. 16-year-old girls usually use a two-hander, so a one-hander makes her unique.

It’s not just the one-hander that’s making me emotional; it’s the fact that she’s hitting with slice. 16-year-old girls usually hit with topspin, so a slice makes her particularly unique.

___

It’s not just the slice that’s making me emotional; it’s the talent that the slice demands. Anyone can “grip it and rip it” with topspin; slice demands a soft touch and a firm wrist. It demands sensitivity and strength, feel and power. I’m emotional because every time she hits a slice, she shows me how god damn good she is at this sport.

It’s not just the talent that’s making me emotional; it’s the intelligence. She’s mixing up spin to keep her opponent off-balance. She’s mixing up pace to keep her opponent guessing. She’s using it defensively out of necessity. She’s using it offensively out of opportunity. These other 16-year-old girls are mindlessly blasting the ball; she’s playing with precision and patience. God she’s so fucking smart I could cry.

It’s not just the intelligence that’s making me emotional; it’s the confidence. The belief that this shot is the right shot. The trust that she’ll win the point a few shots later. The understanding that sometimes being different is better. She’s an anxious kid, so I get emotional when I see her being brave.

___

It’s not just the confidence that’s making me emotional; it’s the work. Talent, intelligence, and confidence aren’t enough. She has put in the time. Hours of cross-court, down-the-line, and figure 8’s. Warm, comfortable days in October; cold, painful days in April. Blazing outdoor sessions in July; dreary indoor sessions in February. Sit-ups, push-ups, stretching, pilates. She has earned this moment. I see her daily, years-long grind in this shot, and I feel pride.

It’s not just the work that’s making me emotional; it's the toll of the work. The physical toll of 6am alarms and hour-long drives to distant suburbs. Twelve-hour days and entire weekends in the car. Shoulder pain and ankle sprains. The emotional toll of nail-biting victories and brutal defeats. The satisfaction in playing tougher than her opponent and the shame in choking. So much laughter in the bleachers and so many tears in the car ride home. The fun of making friends and the misery of getting cheated. So much time and energy, so much joy and pain. It’s all brought her to this moment, and I am overwhelmed.

___

It’s not just the toll that’s making me emotional; it’s the fact that she is grown. From crawling to walking to running. From fear to hesitation to embrace. From novice to expert. From weakness to strength. She has mastered the grip, the angles, the footwork, and the timing. She is tall, fast, smart, and beautiful. She is a role model. Spectators walk by the court and are impressed. They stay for a moment to bear witness. She entertains; she captivates; she inspires. She’s not a 16-year-old girl; she’s a woman. And I can barely handle it.

It’s not just her being grown that’s making me emotional; it’s that I’m looking into a mirror. The slice is my shot, my weapon, and I taught it to her. I called her up to the net and adjusted her grip. I taught her when to use it, how to follow through, and the correct angle of the racquet. I’m emotional because when I look at her, I also see me. I see our work together and I see the daughter becoming the father. I see my legacy.

___

It’s all of it: the excellence of the present, the grind of the past, and the brilliance and torment of the future. I think I’ll give her an extra-long hug after her match today, and she and I will be back on the court tomorrow.

No One Phucks Anymore

I lost my virginity on my 17th birthday. Well, it wasn’t right on my 17th birthday but I like to pretend my deflowering was special.

It wasn’t. It was awkward, uncomfortable, and dry. Jennifer and I loved each other but the sex was bad. I had no idea what I was doing, she had no idea what she was doing, and we walked away from the experience feeling a combination of relief and shame.

I’m guessing you also lost your virginity when you were 17 and that it was similarly overhyped and underwhelming. And I’m happy for you. I’m happy that when you were an insecure, hormonal, and curious 17-year-old, desperate to smush junk with another insecure, hormonal, and curious 17-year-old, you found someone you could put your junk into or someone with whom you felt comfortable enough that you permitted them to put their junk into yours.

Cuz that’s not what’s happening in 2025. Today, no 17-year-olds are smushing junk because they’re all a bunch of scared losers.

_____

Let’s back up: When should one lose one’s virginity?

13-year-old shepherdesses in the Red Tent days lost their virginity to 40-year-old men as soon as they had their first period and were, thus, deemed to be women. That’s messed up; 13 is way too young. 14-year-old milk maids in the Middle Ages lost their virginity to 30-year-old lords whenever the lords got a royal boner. Seems oppressive; 14 is too young. 15-year-old cheerleaders in the 80’s lost their virginity to 18-year-old football players with a Corvette. Clear power imbalance; 15 is a bit too young.

17 seems like the sweet spot. End of junior year of high school, maybe some time during senior year. A few years after you’ve realized you’re a sexual entity. Right when you’re gaining some confidence. Right when you’re feeling like a big fish in your small high school pond. Maybe you have a boyfriend or girlfriend. Maybe you’ve been dating for a few months. Maybe you’re finally ready to take that step, and you’d rather lose your V-card now than at some rapey frat party in college.

_____

Let’s (heteronormatively) back up a bit further: When should a boy first timidly hold his girlfriend’s hand? When should a girl first overzealously French-kiss her boyfriend? When should a boy first clumsily caress his girlfriend’s breasts? When should a girl first fearfully handle her boyfriend’s penis? When should a boy first aimlessly explore his girlfriend’s vagina? And so on and so forth...

Regardless of your answers, here is a problematic anecdote: My incredibly intelligent, absolutely gorgeous, and increasingly curious daughter is about to finish 8th grade, and neither she nor any of her smart, pretty, and inquisitive friends have had their first kiss. C’mon now.

Remember truth or dare in 5th grade? Remember spin the bottle in 6th grade? Remember two minutes in the closet in 7th grade? Remember seven minutes in heaven in 8th grade? Me too. They were fantastic. They were awkward, humiliating, anxiety-provoking, and thrilling. I got to stick my tongue in Julie’s mouth, push my little boner up against Rebecca’s zipper, and wrestle with self-doubt and fear. They were the best moments of my otherwise wretched middle-school existence.

But no more. No one is French-kissing anyone, no one is fumbling around with anyone else’s bra, no one is taking any risk, and no one is fucking.

_____

Here’s what you’ll see if you look out across a sea of 17-year-olds today.

A nerdy-ass white boy with skinny arms, thick glasses, and a gnarly head of hair resembling a 1970’s bush with dandruff. He doesn’t exercise, he has bad skin, and he has never kissed a girl. I imagine he masturbates but he may lack sufficient dexterity.

A light-skinned black girl who gets straight A’s and is on the dance team. She is pretty but she wears way too much lipstick, talks too fast, and is drowning in high expectations and anxiety. She has maybe kissed a boy but certainly never made it to third base, let alone copulated.

A short Hispanic kid with an earring whose hair covers half his face. He’s kinda funny and probably has some good text banter going with one or more of the females in his grade but he’s for sure a virgin. He spends too much time on his phone, too much time playing video games, too much time watching porn, and, well, too much time watching porn.

A chubby future lesbian who loves science. A quiet Asian boy who never smiles and wears the same khakis every day. A non-binary squash player who wears short skirts, high socks, and bunny ears.

None of these dorks is getting laid cuz, like I said, they’re scared losers.

_____

But hold on: I was also a loser when I was 17 (and so were you). I had big glasses, a receding hairline, and skinny calves. I was arrogant, obnoxious, and selfish. I couldn’t shoot 3’s, I wore sweater-vests from Abercrombie, and I vomited all over a bathroom in a seedy motel room after one too many Zima’s. 

I was also scared (and so were you). I was scared of failure, scared of being vulnerable, and scared of being different. I was scared to shoot 3’s, I was scared that my sweater-vests weren’t preppy enough, and I was scared that if I didn’t drink more, my friends wouldn’t think I was cool.

So what’s the difference? Why did scared losers knock boots 30 years ago but not today? Why were kids more willing to push through fear and discomfort 30 years ago than they are today? What the hell is going on?

William of Ockham tells us that the simplest answer is often the correct one: phones. In the words of mediocre rapper, Jack Harlow, “All these social networks and computers got these pussies walking 'round like they ain't losers.”

Kids aren’t playing truth or dare in 5th grade; they’re playing Jellyfish Tap on their Apple Watch. Kids aren’t playing spin the bottle in 6th grade; they’re watching YouTube Shorts. Kids aren’t playing two minutes in the closet in 7th grade; they’re at home, lying on their bed, alone, texting their friends some stupid meme of a polar bear slipping on the ice. Kids aren’t playing seven minutes in heaven in 8th grade; they’re at home, lying on their bed, alone, snapping their friends some stupid selfie at a 45-degree angle.

In other words, they’re missing out. They’re missing out on the bravery of saying dare rather than truth. They’re missing out on the courage of kissing that zit-faced nerd the bottle is pointing to. They’re missing out on the audacity to close and lock the closet door. They’re missing out on the determination to stay in that closet for the entire seven minutes and see what’s what. So fast forward a few years to when it’s time to bump uglies, and they are woefully unprepared. They’re still at home, lying on their bed, alone, doom-scrolling on Instagram, jerking off, or both.

_____

Who cares? Well, we all should because this generation of infantilized dweebs will fail in the most important thing in life: intimacy. They’ll be research assistants, finance managers, and pharmaceutical reps, but they won’t know how to be a good husband or wife. They’ll have no tolerance for discomfort and zero ability to deal with adversity. So when it’s time to have sex with their high school sweetheart, discuss birth control with their college bang buddy, break up with someone they’ve been dating for two years in their mid-20’s, or have an extremely difficult conversation with their life partner about kids, money, or trying anal, they’re screwed. Simply put, if they don’t know how to fuck, they may never know how to love.

So what do we do? Well, let me tell you a quick story about 11-year-old Broosevelt who, I recently discovered, is absolutely mortified about some of the physical changes he is experiencing. I understand that puberty is tough and that we all felt self-conscious when our bodies started going berserk, but I refuse to let Young Broosevelt recede into the shadows of anxiety and self-loathing. So, I embarrass the shit out of him by chasing him around the house with my pants pulled down a couple of inches, yelling, “Look at my pubic hair!” The logic here is that if I make him super uncomfortable right now, he’ll feel less uncomfortable later when it’s time to hold his girlfriend’s hand or, inshallah, smush junk.

Look, I may be a total piece of shit but the Boss loves me for more than just my below average manhood. She loves me because I communicate, she loves me because I know how to be vulnerable, and she loves me because I don’t avoid difficult shit. Ultimately, she loves me because I know how to be intimate, and the reason I know how to be intimate is because I practiced it when I was young.

So get your kids off their phones, lock them in the basement with their boyfriend or girlfriend, toss some condoms in the room, and let’s Make America Fuck Again.

When My Dad Died

I remember there was blood in his urine.

I don’t remember if he, my mom, or my brother the doctor told me about the blood in his urine, but that’s the very first thing I remember.

I remember that weeks, maybe months, after the blood in the urine, my brother the doctor told me that weeks, maybe months, before the blood in the urine, my dad had told him he’d lost some weight. My brother had told him not to worry about it. Weight fluctuates.

I remember my brother the doctor feeling guilty about not paying closer attention to our dad’s weight loss. He thought, and maybe still thinks, that if he’d told my dad to go see someone immediately, things may have gone a different direction.

I remember feeling optimistic when it started. There were a few spots on the kidney but no signs it had spread. My dad was strong. He worked out six days a week, skied more than twenty times a year, and ate one square of chocolate every night for dessert.

I remember still feeling optimistic even after one of the MRIs showed spots in his chest. I remember discussions about chemotherapy and immunotherapy, and I was confident that my stubborn 78-year-old dad would beat it.

I remember feeling less optimistic after a conversation with my brother the doctor. He said the goal was not to beat the cancer; it was to give my dad two or three more years.

Two or three more years, that’s it?

I remember one of the first side-effects of the treatment: sores all over the inside of his mouth. He ate nothing but smoothies for days, maybe weeks.

I don’t remember talking to my brothers much. I remember talking to my mom a little. I remember talking to my dad a lot. I had close to an hour in the car every day after work so I put on my headset around 4pm and called him from my pre-Bluetooth 1998 Toyota Camry. We probably talked about my job. We probably talked about my kids. We probably talked about the cancer. I don’t remember. I only remember that the Camry was beige.

I don’t remember visiting Denver at all. I don’t remember if we went there for Thanksgiving, Winter Break, neither, or both. I think my mom and dad visited us in Chicago because I remember my dad wearing black Skechers, sprinting down the sidewalk, and pulling my laughing, screaming 2-year-old twins in a red wagon. I remember thinking that I would never run that fast down any sidewalk, I certainly wouldn’t do it if I were 78, I definitely wouldn’t do it if I were pulling two toddlers in a wagon, and I for sure wouldn’t do it if I were dying of cancer. I remember feeling proud and scared.

I can’t remember any other side-effects of the treatment. I’m pretty sure he didn’t lose his hair. I don’t remember if he experienced nausea. I think he was fatigued. I’m sure there were lots of side-effects and I’m sure my family in Denver told me about all of them but I don’t remember a single one.

How can I not remember any of a year’s worth of side-effects?

I don’t remember things getting worse; I only remember when they became unbearable. A tumor grew out of my dad’s nose and I remember that’s when he decided to call it quits. My memory is that he drove himself to the hospice.

I remember that about a week later, my wife, my four kids, and I flew to Denver to say goodbye. I think it was a Thursday, maybe a Friday. I think we went straight from the airport to the hospice. My dad was in his bed, maybe sitting up, maybe wearing plaid pajamas. My mom was in the room. I think both of my brothers were there. We hugged and kissed my dad. He hugged us and kissed us. Everyone cried.

I remember my dad always said he was going to work until the day he died. I think I remember him sitting on the patio outside his room, at a small table with an umbrella to protect him from the August sun, surrounded by a bunch of manila folders.

But I don’t know how that’s possible because the night we arrived, or maybe the next day, my dad went to sleep and never woke up again. I remember thinking how cool it was that he waited for us to say goodbye. My wife and kids flew back to Chicago a day or two later but I stayed to be with him, my brothers, and my mom until he died.

After he went to sleep, there was no more eating or drinking, just lots of morphine. I remember my brother the doctor asking our dad’s doctor to “make him as comfortable as possible.” I remember thinking that that was the euphemism of all euphemisms: We were clearly asking the doctor to end my dad’s life.

I remember feeling proud that after two, maybe three, days, my dad’s heart was still beating. He was so strong, I remember. He didn’t need food or water, and neither the cancer nor the morphine could kill him. His body was refusing to let him die.

I remember the funeral a few days later. My wife and kids were there.

Wait, did they really fly back to Chicago and then back again to Denver for the funeral?

I remember my brothers giving speeches but I can’t remember anything they said. I remember that in my speech, I compared myself to my dad. He loved sports and I love sports. He loved dirty jokes and I love dirty jokes. He didn’t care what other people thought and I don’t care what other people think. I remember not feeling embarrassed about choking on my tears.

I remember my four kids and my two nieces sitting in the front row, but maybe my 2-year-olds weren’t there. I think the girls were wearing dresses with flowers. When I cried, the big kids cried. When the big kids cried, the little kids cried. I remember at first thinking that some of the tears felt inauthentic but then I remember thinking that there’s nothing more naturally contagious than laughter and tears. My kids didn’t fully understand they had lost their grandpa but they knew their dad was sad.

I don’t remember much after that. I vaguely remember the casket being lowered into the ground and thinking that, god damn it, my dad had had ten more good years in him.

I remember flying back to Chicago and burying myself in my very new, very challenging job.

I remember that in every teaching job I ever had, my dad always came to watch me teach. He shook hands with and sometimes hugged the other teachers. He sat with and worked alongside my students. He smiled up at me from his desk.

A few months into that job, my mom came to watch me teach. She shook hands with and sometimes hugged the other teachers. She sat with and worked alongside my students. She smiled up at me from her desk. I remember feeling happy she was there and thinking it was weird that my dad wasn’t.

RESIST

I know you’re seeing what I’m seeing, that it’s hard to watch, and that it’s easier not to watch. But we need to watch. We need to watch very closely, in fact, because, per a previous bumper sticker of mine, “IF YOU’RE NOT OUTRAGED, YOU’RE NOT PAYING ATTENTION.”

Existential crises demand action. When I couldn’t decide if I wanted a wife and kids, I went to therapy. When the illegitimate, bastard son of King Robert Baratheon usurped the Iron Throne, Rob Stark went to war. When Trump tried to end birthright citizenship, seized the power of the purse from Congress, and pardoned the January 6 Boner Boys, the people of America went to the streets.

Well, not really. But after this post is read by thousands, nay millions, of Americans, they will.

It’s time to RESIST.

Saul has identified seven things every one of us can, should, and must do in order to save our country.

About 200 people read Saul so if everyone does these seven things, that’s 1,400 acts of resistance. If each of you then shared this post with 10 friends and each of them engaged in all seven acts of resistance, that’s 14,000 acts of resistance. I know you were “told there’d be no math” (Saturday Night Live) but resistance is only meaningful if a lot of people to do it so please shut the fuck up, do what I say, and let’s save this sinking ship.

1. BOYCOTT AMAZON. How far up Bezos’ ass is Trump’s dick? That’s a serious question. Rape, as you know, is about power, not sex, so it’s not illogical to assume that Donald Trump has raped Jeff Bezos. To avoid continued sexual assault, Bezos (as you may have forgotten due to the shitstorm of the last few months) prohibited the Washington Post from endorsing Kamala Harris. His bottom line is money, pure and simple, so let’s give him less of it. Perhaps if we fuck with his finances, he’ll finally stand up to the man who fucks him in the ass.

I know, I know: It feels impossible not to buy shit from Amazon. We at the Chicago McMansion (used to) receive multiple Amazon packages every week, and those “women’s butterluxe high waisted yoga workout running volleyball spandex booty biker shorts,” as well as that “eight-piece water bottle lid replacement stopper compatible with owala freesip 24oz 32oz,” are so easy to get with one or two clicks. But do you remember a time when Amazon wasn’t around and we bought things in stores? Do you remember a time when we waited a week to get the things we wanted? Do you remember a time when we bought fewer things? I also don’t remember that time but I’m confident it once existed and that we can revive it so that rich, white, powerful corporate moguls can be raped less.

2. EMAIL SOMEONE IMPORTANT. “Hi sweetheart, are you in town this weekend?” “Hi baby, you haven’t forgotten me, have you?” “Hey sexy, do you want to see my beautiful tits?” At a certain point, I can’t “Delete and Report Junk” every message, so I just start responding: “Yeah, I’ll be around this weekend.” “Of course I haven’t forgotten you.”  “Sure, send pic.”  My point is that the squeaky wheel gets the grease. El que no llora no mama. In the words of the great John Bender, “Sweets, you couldn’t ignore me if you tried” (Breakfast Club).

So email your senator. Email your congressperson. Email your governor, your mayor, your alderman/woman/they. Email somebody. Anybody. Swarm the fucking system with outrage and demand they do something or else their time in office is over and done with.

Here’s a template you can use:

Dear [sir/madam/they],

Due to President Trump’s repeated violation of the Constitution, I demand that you do everything in your power to stop him, including, but not limited to, lawsuits, filibusters, and self-immolation. If you don’t, I will find someone who will and, when you are up for reelection, I will vote for that person, not you.

P.S. Attached is a pic of my beautiful tits.

3. ANNOY YOUR FRIENDS. So I have, like, one group of friends: a bunch of privileged tennis-playing douchebags who enjoy serving-and-volleying, drinking beer, and pretending they’re brave enough to kill themselves. They hate me. They used to not like me but now they really hate me because I bug the shit out of them about what Trump is doing, make them feel guilty about their indifference, and act like a condescending asshole every chance I get. I don’t care. I really don’t. Our group chat is the only one that matters, yet I’ve done an amazing job of pissing off everyone on there. I know they’ve all hovered over “Remove Saul” but I don’t care if our friendship ends because “deep down in places [they] don’t talk about at parties” (A Few Good Men), I know that my pestering has struck a chord, that their indifference is now concern, that that concern will soon be outrage, and that that outrage will soon be active resistance.

If you and your friends aren’t talking about it, make them talk about it. I know it’s easier to avoid the news, avoid the tough conversations, and avoid the pain of confronting all the awful shit that’s going down, but now is not a time to “bury your head in the sand and wait for your fucking prom” (Breakfast Club). Trump has ruined prom and impregnated the prom queen. Roe v Wade has been overturned which means a wretched little baby is about to be born. Mix your metaphors, pretend that baby is your friend, and shake it.

4. DISOBEY. My students test well (robots), work hard (nerds), and prioritize school (virgins). They are also total and complete sheep, and will do anything anyone with power tells them to do. Read 90 pages in two nights? Ok. Write an entire essay in 30 minutes? No problem. Sell me some high-quality weed for half-price? Bet. One time, just one time, I wish they would disobey me: refuse to do their homework; refuse to write that paper; refuse to give me a discount on that dank-ass flower.

If you’re financially stable and have been told to report five things you did at work last week, don’t do it. If you’re financially stable and have been told not to say the word “racism” at work, say it. If you’re financially stable and have been told it’s illegal to get an abortion in your state, get one. Protest. Break a law. Puncture a Tesla’s tires. Assassinate someone. Do something. Anything. If we just hop on the trains like they’re telling us to, next thing you know we’ll be at the gates of Auschwitz, convincing ourselves that “work will make [us] free.” Fuck that. These guys are condemning anti-Semitism while simultaneously/paradoxically/ingeniously giving 100% real Nazi salutes fuck you Steve Bannon. Just say no. Do not consent. Resist.

5. WRITE A CHECK. Broosevelt and Boni just turned 11 and they both got a check in the mail from their we Todd did uncle that said, “Happy 12th birthday!” Math aside, do people still write checks? Objection relevance. Sustained. Venmo. Zelle. Wire transfer. Doesn’t matter. Throw money at the problem.

This country runs on money. Money controls politics. Campaign finance reform failed. Corporations are people. Bla bla bla. So write a fucking check. I don’t care who you give it to: Moveon.org, the New York Times, your local school council. Someone. Anyone. Whether it goes to direct political action, the education of our youth, or a hired gun, your money can make change.

I know who you are, Reader of Saul. Hedge-fund Jew on the North Shore with a Porsche SUV. High-priced WASP lawyer in the Gold Coast with a convertible BMW. Lady of leisure in Florida with a self-driving golf cart and a glass of Chardonnay. The richest Venezuelan in the world. The guy with a second home in Aspen. The trustafarian who doesn’t pay for his own Netflix. You have money is my point. So stop stockpiling it like it’s an arsenal of nukes. Spend it. Give it to someone who can actually build a stockpile of nukes in case shit gets real real.

6. READ EVERYTHING. I move my bowels at approximately 9:40am every morning, which means that every morning at approximately 9:40am I read the news and text my “friends” something brilliant. I want to ignore the news. I really do. The last thing I want is to see another headline about DOGE, the Department of Education, or the 1984-esque purges in the FBI. It’s painful. It’s maddening. It negatively affects my bowel movement. But I need to stay informed and we all need to stay informed because ignorance is bliss only until they come for you and “there [is] no one left to speak out” (Pastor Martin Niemöller).

7. KEEP HOPE ALIVE. No one holds a grudge like my dear old mom. When Jesse Jackson referred to New York City as “Hymie-town” in 1984, my mom was outraged. 41 years later, she has not forgiven Mr. Jackson. When Randy Eisenberg slept over at my house in 6th grade, he told my mom to shut up. 37 years later, there is still a fatwa against Mr. Eisenberg. I don’t know if Mr. Eisenberg did good things for the world but Mr. Jackson did at least one: He reminded his brothers and sisters, over and over again, to “keep hope alive!”

You’ve heard me say what I’m about to say but I’m gonna say it again: We are better now than we were 50 years ago, we were better 50 years ago than we were 100 years ago, and so on and so forth. Slavery ended, the Civil War came and went, and weed is legal. Don’t get me wrong: This is a dark, dark moment we are living through but I, for one, am fully confident that with a lot of money, a lot of DMs, and a lot of hope, we can make America pretty good again.

Sex Work

I love whores.

Oof, that sounds wrong.

_____

I love prostitutes.

Still not great.

_____

I love sex workers.

Yeah, that’s better. 

Though “love” is misleading. I don’t love them like I love my wife or my children or my mom or my brothers. I love them like I love short people or Mexicans or ophthalmologists. I love them broadly and abstractly, in a generic humanity way, in a “Love makes the world go round” way, in a “Everybody Love Everybody!” Jackie Moon way, in a “Love thy neighbor way.”

The “neighbor” example is a perfect transition because a whorehouse, sorry, a brothel, sorry, a sex work entrepreneurial enterprise recently opened about 800 feet from my front door. True story. It was called Di Da Di, it was next door to a gas station, and it, completely conspicuously, sold sex: fluorescent facade; pink, bubbly letters; and signage that read “MASSAGE. SPA. CLUBHOUSE.” Clubhouse?! Sex work in the city of Chicago and elsewhere is normally marketed more subtly. Di Da Di was clearly selling blowjobs.

I watched Di Da Di’s doors open feeling not only surprised that sex work had become so commercially overt but also happy that the industry appeared to be continuing down the path toward decriminalization and destigmatization. Others, however, were not so pleased.

_____

I have a 13-year-old daughter and she has friends and those friends have moms and one of those moms is Allison, a white, Midwestern, Christian-type lady who has good intentions and is, perhaps unknowingly, a total hypocrite. Allison has surely donated to, purchased membership in, and/or canvassed on behalf of the Sierra Club, MoveOn.org, and/or the ACLU. She is a progressive. She works for some do-gooder non-profit. She believes in social justice, she believes Black Lives Matter, and she is a feminist…allegedly.

The Boss was recently sitting on our blue couch, looking rakish as usual, chatting with a friend, when I heard her say, “...like that place down the block where they give happy endings.” Now look, the Boss is worldly, wise, and an absolute wildcat on Saturday nights but, let’s face it, she’s kinda vanilla. So when I heard her mention “happy endings,” I was shocked.

“How the hell do you know about that place?” I asked.

“Allison told me.”

“How the hell does Allison know about it?”

“She’s a busy body.”

It’s true: Allison is a busy body. She pesters the principal about the reading curriculum, she bugs her neighbors about composting bins, and now she’s annoying everyone about the whores, sorry, sex workers down the block. And therein lies the hypocrisy: Allison believes in women’s rights. She believes that every woman should be safe, secure, and free. If I asked Allison, “True or False: Sex work should be decriminalized,” I’m sure she’d say true. And yet, when a sex work pop-up-shop popped up right up the road, she had that shit closed down right quick. Not in my backyard, she said. Sex workers can do their thing in the Gold Coast or out near O’Hare, but not in family-friendly Lakeview.

Hypocrisy 101.

_____

But let’s back up. Why does Allison, presumably, think sex work should be legal? Why do I think it should be legal? Why do many, if not most, educated, progressive, and Filthy Readers of Saul think it should be legal or, at the very least, decriminalized?

Well, first off, sex work has always existed and will always exist. Lonely cave men offered a shank of mammoth to starving cave women in exchange for some cave pussy. Roman senators frequented local brothels to relieve their stress of running the world. American soldiers in Vietnam killed hundreds of thousands of Vietnamese fighters and financed hundreds of thousands of Vietnamese sex workers.

Despite Sting’s protests, Roxanne put on the red light. Jamie Lee Curtis blessed my childhood in Trading Places. Julia Roberts showed everyone that Richard Gere is more than just a man with a gerbil.

Is sex work rooted in patriarchy? Of course. Is sex work an overall win for society? Of course not. But it’s happening, has always happened, and will always happen, so we can either criminalize it, pretend the laws are working, and push it underground, or we can accept it as a “necessary evil” and do our best to regulate, educate, and protect.

Here’s another reason Allison should support local business: America is already on the wrong side of history for abortion, democracy, and pretty much everything else, so we don’t need to be on the wrong side of this one too. Countries in which sex work is criminalized include the U.S., most of Africa, Russia, and China. Countries in which sex work is decriminalized or legal include most of Western Europe, nearly all of Latin America, Australia, and New Zealand. May just be a coincidence but I’m pretty sure more sex workers speak Mandarin than they do Kiwi.

Allison knows illegal sex workers have higher rates of sexually transmitted diseases. Allison knows illegal sex workers suffer from higher rates of violence, sexual and otherwise. Allison knows illegal sex workers are more likely to use addictive drugs and have unprotected sex. Allison knows sex work is bad, and she must know that marginalized, stigmatized, and criminalized sex work is worse. Instead of using the police to help protect sex workers, however, she called the pigs to shut them down.

_____

Saul has obviously done his research for this post and he came across this argument: To support decriminalizing the sale of sex would be to support prostitution itself. Well that’s about the stupidest shit I’ve ever heard. Smoking is toxic but we permit and regulate it because we want fewer people to die of lung cancer. War is awful but we permit and regulate it because we want fewer innocent civilians to suffer. Abortion is tragic but we permit and regulate it because we want fewer women to use hangers.

I also came across this: The existence of prostitution anywhere is society’s betrayal of women, especially those who are marginalized and vulnerable because of their sex, their ethnicity, their poverty, and their history of abuse and neglect. I agree. The world fucking sucks and women have been subjugated since forever. But until their subjugation ends, there is no need to exacerbate their betrayal by denying them greater safety and security.

But sex work, like slavery and child labor, is fundamentally exploitative and the U.S. has done away with slavery and child labor. Yes, all of that is true but, unlike slavery and child labor, the demand for sex work has never disappeared. The market adjusted and learned to function without slavery. The market adjusted and learned to function without child labor. But despite hundreds of years of prohibition, criminalization, and stigmatization, the market for sex work persists. What do we do with exploitative markets? We regulate them. We make them as safe as they can be. We try to reduce harm.

And, yes, of course, we need to address the causes of those markets. We should fight for women’s equality. We should fight for women's economic opportunity. We should fight to end conditions that make women so desperate that they feel sex work is their only option. And until that day comes, we should fight to make a terrible thing a bit less terrible.

_____

I’m sure Allison was just trying to shield her children from the cruelties of the world when she had Di Da Di shut down. But in the process of doing so, she perpetuated another cruelty. So I ask you, dear reader: Are you Allison or Saul? Do you want the doors of Di Da Di shuttered or do you want the facade to be repainted, the electricity to be turned back on, and the juices to start flowing once again?