Phones

6:30am

In 1885, Saul’s family of six gathers around the table for a hearty breakfast of potatoes and bacon. They’ve all been awake since sunrise, getting water from the well, collecting eggs from the chickens, and gathering their chemises and trousers from the clothes line. Saul nimbly repaired one of the wheels on the covered wagon and the Boss quickly darned a few of Saul’s woolen socks. 17-year-old Panini made soap from lye, 14-year-old OG canned tomatoes and peaches, 11-year-old Boni swept and scrubbed the floors, and 11-year-old Broosevelt kept the family’s wolfhounds entertained. The family holds hands around the table and, as they bow their heads to recite the hamotzi, Saul tickles Boni’s bare feet.

In 1985, Saul’s family of six wakes up for work and school. The alarm on the Boss’ rectangular clock radio hasn’t gone off and her eyes are closed, but she’s wide awake and can’t fall back asleep, so she rolls over to Saul’s side of the bed and, despite the stale odor, spoons him tightly and kisses his bald head. They snuggle for a few minutes, crawl out of bed, take turns urinating and using the sink, and briefly discuss who’s picking up which kid that afternoon. The Boss puts on an oversized sweater with lots of bright geometric shapes and asks if it looks okay. Saul says no but tells her he loves her. Panini wakes up to “Like a Virgin” playing on her clock radio, gets up, brushes her teeth with red-, white-, and blue-striped Aquafresh, and spends ten minutes in front of the mirror getting her perm just right. She pulls her ripped crewneck off of one shoulder, heads downstairs with her backpack slung over one arm, downs some Sunny Delight, and quickly assembles her lunch of a granola bar, a banana, and Ritz crackers. In the car, Saul and Panini listen to “Little Red Corvette,” Panini blabs about the latest boyfriend she dumped, and Saul compliments her on her efficiency. OG misses her alarm completely and is woken up by the Boss 30 minutes before school starts. She pulls her hair back tight, makes a high pony, puts on a headband, and punctures a hole in the ozone layer with a bodacious amount of hair spray. She throws on some bright orange stirrup sweatpants and Keds, rushes downstairs, drinks a glass of orange juice, throws some dry Cheerios in a bag, rushes to catch her bus, and says hi to a boy at the bus stop. The bus is crowded, so OG and the boy stand close together, laughing about their Chemistry teacher who smells like bologna. OG notices that the boy’s breath smells like orange juice and Cheerios and she wonders if he might end up being her first boyfriend. The Boss wakes up Broosevelt, who throws on some tube socks and tighty whities, and Boni, who throws on a pair of fluorescent pink leg warmers. They come downstairs, sit at the kitchen counter, eat their Cheerios, and complain about their gym teacher who is always smoking cigarettes behind the school at lunch. Broosevelt works hard to figure out the Candyland maze on the back of the cereal box and Boni uses her pastels to create an abstract drawing which will one day sell for thousands of dollars when she’s a famous artist. The Boss packs their lunches and tells Broosevelt not to trade his turkey and cheese sandwich for Garbage Pail Kids cards. “We Are the World” comes on the radio and they all start singing.

In 2025, Saul’s family of six wakes up for work and school. The alarm on the Boss’ phone hasn’t gone off and her eyes are closed, but she’s wide awake and can’t fall back asleep. Instead of kissing and cuddling her beloved Saul, she grabs her phone to check the weather, her email, and the family calendar. Eight minutes later, she’s at her sink brushing her teeth and looking at her phone when Saul gently approaches and caresses her backside. She’s too busy scrolling through Apple News and the New York Times crossword, so she shuns him and Saul brushes his teeth at his own sink. Panini wakes up at 6:45am, quickly brushes her teeth, washes her face, gets dressed, and is back in bed at 7am, right when her downtime ends. She spends exactly eight minutes on Snapchat and, at 7:08am, two minutes before she and Saul are supposed to head out the door, walks down two flights of stairs, head in her phone every step of the way. She quickly assembles her lunch of a granola bar, a banana, and Ritz crackers, and is out the door at 7:12am. She gets in the front seat and, upon checking her phone once again, is chastised by Saul for breaking the apparently-no-longer-sacred “No phones in the car” rule. She and Saul spend the rest of the car ride in silence. OG misses her first three alarms, jumps out of bed, brushes her teeth, gets dressed as quickly as she can, rushes downstairs, grabs a bagel, puts on her shoes, realizes she forgot her phone, runs back upstairs (with her shoes on) to grab it, hurries back downstairs, opens the door to leave, forgets to close the door behind her, and walks two blocks to the bus, head in her phone the entire time, unaware of the bright sun, the big sky, the clean air, the beautiful birds, the speedy squirrels, and the murderous kidnappers. She crosses the street to her bus stop, head still in her phone, unaware of the dangerous trucks, dangerous cars, dangerous bikes, and murderous electric scooters. She gets on the bus, sits down, and spends the next ten minutes buried in her phone, unaware of a cute boy with Cheerios sitting nearby (who also has his head in his phone) and the murderous, homeless, pedophilic, drug-addicted kidnapper sitting across the aisle. The Boss wakes up Boni who crawls to the bathroom on her hands and knees, brushes her teeth, gets dressed, comes downstairs, grabs her phone, sits on the couch, and checks her messages while the Boss pours her a bowl of Cheerios and milk. Boni then brings her phone to the kitchen counter where she has a few bites of cereal and spends the next ten minutes hunched over her phone sending inane GIFs to her friends. The Boss wakes up Broosevelt who gets dressed, decides not to brush his teeth, slides down the stairs on his stomach, sits on the couch, and spends the next ten minutes hunched over his phone sending inane GIFs to his friends. The Boss briefly tries to talk to Boni and Broosevelt about how they slept, their math test later that morning, and who’s picking up which kid that afternoon, but they’re unresponsive and she’s distracted by her own phone, rescheduling a Zoom call and doing other things that could for sure wait until the kids leave the house.

12pm

In 1885, Saul’s family of six returns to the cottage for their mid-day meal. Saul washes his soiled hands at the well with lye soap, takes off his worn leather boots at the door, and rests his weary body in a wooden chair at the head of the table, tired from the morning’s labor of mending the rabbit-holes in the fence and shooting his favorite steer (suffering from rinderpest) in the head. The Boss has sore arms from churning the butter and seared fingers from baking a loaf of bread on the stone hearth. The family sits down and recites the hamotzi in unison. Panini grumbles about her schoolmarm and asks why boys and girls have to be in separate classrooms. OG says she likes the schoolmarm and that she can’t wait to use the new abacus. Boni, who loves to read, asks when it will be her turn to go to school, and Broosevelt, still illiterate, sticks all five fingers through his warm, thick slice of bread. The wolfhounds sit by the fire in the hearth which keeps the family warm as they savor their meal and delay their afternoon chores of milking, sewing, and plowing.

In 1985, Saul’s family of six eats lunch at work and at school. Saul downs two hot dogs and some Pepto while he and the janitor smoke Marlboros in the parking lot and discuss the young, newly hired French teacher. He heads back to class and the room is in utter chaos when he enters: Marcus and Miles are shooting spitballs at each other, Jenny and Jaliyah are lighting a joint in the back of the room, and Hannah is touching Hector under the desk. Saul commands their attention with just a few words, all the students take their seats and open their books, and Saul Stand[s] and Deliver[s] those young minds better than they’ve ever been Jaime Escalante’d in their lives. The Boss is in her office at work, eating an egg salad sandwich on white bread while she and a couple of social workers smoke Virginia Slims and debate whom they would boff first, Bruce Springsteen or Prince. Panini is in the school parking lot with some friends, eating Ritz crackers, smoking a joint, and laughing her ass off. OG is in the corner of the school library, nibbling on a cream cheese sandwich while her friend quietly reads to her the library’s brand new copy of The Handmaid’s Tale. Boni disregards her lunch entirely and is already on the playground orchestrating a game of Spin the Bottle. Broosevelt trades his turkey and cheese sandwich for Garbage Pail Kids cards and races outside for recess. As he stands in the soccer goal while his friend lines up a penalty kick, he yells, “Kick it right at my balls!”

In 2025, Saul’s family of six eats lunch at work and at school. Saul grades mediocre, AI-generated essays alone at his desk, eats his low-calorie, non-cancer causing carrots and tomatoes, and, in order to avoid the barrage of texts he knows he’s about to get from his burned out wife and helpless kids, flips over his phone and puts it on Do Not Disturb. He heads back to class and the room is dead silent as he enters: every kid on his/her/their phone, necks craned at a 45 degree angle, faces six inches from screens, thumbs sore and pre-arthritic, human spirits crushed by social media monsters. Saul rouses them from their stupor and trudges through an unoriginal, uninspired lesson on the difference between equality and equity. The Boss is on her fourth mind-numbing Zoom call of the day. As she tries to eat her salad, clean up the yogurt that squirted on her keyboard, and contribute to a “critical” meeting with stooges from the mayor’s office about the mental health crisis afflicting Chicago’s children, particularly black and brown ones, her phone is blowing up: Panini is at lunch, frantically texting Saul and the Boss about how her Bio grade just dropped to a B, and OG is also desperately texting the Boss (she knows Saul won’t respond) about how her AP Human Geo teacher won’t give her extra time on an assignment she’s had three weeks to work on. Broosevelt eats his turkey and cheese sandwich in 30 seconds, goes out to the playground, sits on the pavement, and plays Roblox for the next 20 minutes with his 74-pound, 4’9’’, pre-pubescent, spoiled-rotten friend who just got a brand new iPhone 17 for his 12th birthday. Broosevelt knows Saul would be disappointed he’s not playing soccer at recess but he’s already on Day 200 of 99 Nights in the Forest and can’t quit now. Boni feels sick from the three cupcakes she had for lunch, borrows her friend’s phone so she can text the Boss, and realizes she doesn’t know the Boss’ number. Boni knows Saul would be disappointed she ate so many cupcakes and can’t go an entire day at school without texting mommy and daddy but she still goes to the nurse’s office. The nurse tells her to drink some water and rest for a bit. Boni looks up with tears in her eyes and gently sobs, “Can’t you just text my mom?”

5pm

In 1885, Saul’s family of six sits nervously in their covered wagon bumping down a dirt road in the dusty plains. Saul has a firm grip on the horses’ reins and stoically holds a shotgun as the wailing of Sioux tribes can be faintly heard in the distance. The wolfhounds’ ears are perked. The Boss, dressed in a tattered white bonnet, cradles OG, wrapped tightly in a deer skin blanket and suffering from pneumonia. Panini, herself with child, embraces Boni, who whimpers softly from the pain of cholera, while Broosevelt sits alone, fumbling with his filthy toes and swollen testicles. As the sun starts to set over the horizon, the family is still miles from home. They start to sing “Shenandoah” until OG stops because she is coughing up blood. A gentle, salty tear rolls down the Boss’ cheek but it tastes like fierce, sweet love. Saul steadies the horses and guides the covered wagon toward the family’s cottage, as the wailing of the great Sioux nation grows louder.

In 1985, Saul’s family of six climbs into their brown Oldsmobile station wagon with a three-person pleather bench seat in the front, a three-person pleather bench seat in the back, and a cargo area overflowing with dusty baseball gear, ratty picnic blankets, and woven folding chairs. None of the seatbelts have shoulder straps, there are no airbags, and the radio has to be manually tuned. Saul struggles with a fold-out road map, the Boss flicks cigarette ashes out the window, and Broosevelt starts crying because he can’t complete a single side of his Rubik’s Cube. The girls in the back fight over space, Boni kicks OG in the shins with her checkered Vans, OG starts crying, and Panini laughs at OG for crying and because she’s stoned. Boni is told she has to switch seats with Broosevelt and someone floats the possibility of having Broosevelt sit in the cargo area. “Hotel California” comes on the radio, everyone sings along, and they roll down the windows. Boni rests her head on Panini's lap, Panini apologizes to OG and, and OG falls asleep for a few minutes until she wakes up feeling nauseous and asks Saul to pull the car over so she can vomit. As the family stands on the side of the highway laughing and pointing at OG, Broosevelt stares at the clouds, lost in space, thinking about on which finger the Monopoly thimble would fit best.

In 2025, Saul’s family of six piles in their three-row Honda Odyssey with air bags, Bluetooth, reclining seats, and automatic sliding rear doors. Saul and the Boss argue about who gets to plug in their phone because Saul needs Waze but the Boss needs to clean out her work email. “No phones in the car,” Saul says to the Boss. She ignores him. Panini tilts her head sideways, sticks her tongue out on the side of her mouth, and shamelessly Snaps her friend. Saul hates her. OG apologizes for being on her phone but says she really needs to keep her American Sign Language streak alive. Saul pities her. Boni brought her phone but can’t use it because it only works on wi-fi, so she screams from the third row, “Why is everybody on their phones?!” Saul tells her not to yell and that he’s only using the phone for Waze, the Boss ignores her, Panini willfully disregards her, OG apologizes again, and Broosevelt, phone in hand, asks, “Is there wi-fi in the car?” The sun is out, the windows are cracked, and Taylor Swift’s “The Fate of Ophelia” comes on the radio but no one hears it so Saul turns off the music and the family drives in silence, heads down, lost in their screens.

6:30pm

In 1885, Saul’s family of six sits down at the dinner table, joins hands, and quietly recites the hamotzi to give thanks for their meal. Saul recently traded a hammer to a member of the proud Sioux nation for some buffalo meat which the Boss roasted over the fire. The children are excited for their first protein in days, as Panini, still with child, is suffering from anemia and OG is pale and malnourished. Broosevelt has been particularly sullen over the past few days and his bones ache. Boni is the only one in good spirits because she has been sneaking extra cow milk. With the okra from her garden, the Boss has made a stew which the children devour. Few words are spoken during the meal but the children are nourished by the buffalo meat and the glowing candle in the center of the table. They will fall asleep tonight with their bellies full and their family protected.

In 1985, Saul’s family of six sits down at the dinner table for a last-minute meal of Chinese take-out. Panini has food on and around her plate, and she’s still wearing her Chuck Taylor All-Stars from basketball practice because she was “too starving” to take them off. Broosevelt is struggling with his fork, and his unwashed hands are now greasy from sticking them in the lo mein. Boni has her head down on the table, too tired from swimming to even put food on her plate. OG is not yet at the table because she can’t bring herself to step away from yet another record-breaking game of Tetris. The Boss is yelling at Panini for her shoes, at Broosevelt for his hands, at Boni for her self-pity, and at OG for her pathology. Saul is enjoying his dinner, sipping his Miller Lite, and mocking everyone until they almost cry.

In 2025, Saul’s family of six sits down at the dinner table for an overpriced meal of Asian fusion delivery. Panini serves herself first, devours her plate in four minutes, and spends the rest of the meal in the bathroom on her phone. Broosevelt complains about the chicken, eats three giant egg rolls and four fortune cookies, and races back to the couch to send inane GIFs to his friends. Boni, too tired from swimming to even put food on her plate, crawls under the table with her phone and, upon being chastised for her behavior, screams, “What?! I’m not at the table!!” OG is not yet at the table because she has captured an incredible amount of territory in Paper.io. Saul and the Boss eat their dinner and discuss logistics for the next day. The Boss takes out her phone to check the family calendar and Saul berates her, “No phones at the table!” Annoyed, the Boss replies, “I’m just checking the calendar!” Flabbergasted, Saul screams, “Is nothing sacred anymore?!”

8pm

In 1885, Saul’s family of six forges five miles on foot through a snowstorm to watch a traveling minstrel show for which Saul has been saving his pennies for months. OG’s fingers are cold and Boni’s legs are tired but the family hoots and hollers as the oil lamps of the small town appear in the distance. They take their seats but Boni can’t see, so she and Saul walk to the back of the giant tent. Saul puts Boni on his shoulders, both of which are dislocated from years of plowing. After just a few minutes, Saul’s entire body aches but Boni is laughing harder than she has in years, especially since her bout with cholera. The white men with their faces painted black have sent the crowd into a rapturous frenzy. Panini, smiling for the first time in months, makes eye contact with a strapping young lad who may be the father of her unborn child. OG is deaf from her most recent untreated infection but she can feel the drum beat in her chest. The Boss squeezes Broosevelt tight as he sits on her lap, swinging his spindly legs and chewing his fingers which are bruised from his first experience with the plow. Saul’s family of six stumbles back home through the relentless blizzard, laughing the entire time about how funny the men with black faces were. Saul and the Boss make eye contact and smile, grateful their children had fun and that no one discovered they were Jewish.

In 1985, Saul’s family of six gathers around an 18-inch television after a delicious dinner of Sloppy Joe and Hi-C. Saul futzes with the antennae and eventually finds The Cosby Show on NBC. Saul reclines in his La-Z-Boy with a Miller Lite in the cup holder, the Boss sits dutifully on the carpet with a cucumber and lime Bartles & Jaymes wine cooler placed precariously next to her, and Panini grabs the best seat on the couch. OG huddles in next to her but forgot she has to go to the bathroom. When she gets up, Boni steals her seat, so OG begrudgingly squeezes on to the La-Z-Boy next to Saul and the farts. Broosevelt sits on the floor next to the Boss and spends most of the episode trying to fit the thimble Monopoly piece onto his misshapen pinky. The phone rings at some point but no one gets up to answer it. Everyone starts laughing hysterically when Theo appears in a home-made shirt his sister made for him, and the family giggles at all of Dr. Huxtable’s silliness, oblivious to the fact that Bill Cosby’s brand was not his reality. The Boss puts out a small fire caused by the electric popcorn popper, Boni starts crying after the wrestling with Broosevelt gets too rough, and Panini lobbies to watch A Different World. Saul falls asleep in his La-Z-Boy with a Miller Lite in his hand, an SBD in his pants, and a smile on his face.

In 2025, after an expensive sushi dinner and hours of coercion, Saul and the Boss finally guilt trip their four children into Family Movie Night. The Boss lies down on the couch but her middle-aged arse nearly cracks her phone, which she forgot was in her back pocket. She puts it on the ottoman before the movie starts and it lights up whenever she gets a notification. Within five minutes, she’s back on her phone, responding to a text. Saul berates her and the four children shame her but Panini can’t stop checking Snapchat and OG’s bathroom breaks are mysteriously long. After 20 minutes, attention starts to wane and Boni, who has already hit her screen time limit, demands more time on iMessage. When Saul refuses, she says, “This movie is boring. I’m going to bed.” She marches straight upstairs and does not brush her teeth. After ten more minutes of impatience and frustration, the movie is turned off, the Boss finishes the Wordle on her phone, Panini goes upstairs to bed-rot and Snapchat, OG FaceTimes her friend, and Broosevelt asks if he can watch Nuggets highlights on Saul’s phone. Saul tells him no and asks for a hug because he feels lonely.

9:30pm

In 1885, Saul’s family of six is asleep. They’ve already been down to the cold river to clean their clothes, wash their pots and pans, and bathe. It was dark by the time they returned to their cottage and the Boss lit candles so the children could prepare themselves for bed. The girls took turns brushing each other’s hair while Broosevelt played precariously with his new axe. Home-maid quilts were laid out on the wooden floor and pillows of straw were carefully arranged. Everyone crawled into bed and Saul told them the story of the first time he saw a member of the furious Sioux nation. Broosevelt and Boni were asleep by the time the story ended, and Panini and OG giggled about the boys they saw at the river. Eventually they dozed off as well, exhausted from a hard day’s work of harvesting. Saul and the Boss blew out the candles and made quick, quiet love on the floor next to the children while the wolfhounds stirred from the Sioux war cries in the distance and the pheromones in the air.

In 1985, Saul’s family of six has eaten dinner, washed the dishes, and finished their homework. Broosevelt and Boni take showers and spend the next 30 minutes running up and down the stairs, chasing each other with their towels, trying to snap each other’s butts. Towels keep falling off, tushies are fully exposed, and shrieking permeates the entire house. Broosevelt eventually snaps Boni’s butt too hard and Boni runs to the kitchen, hysterically laughing and crying. OG is also nearly in tears at the kitchen table, stressing about her Chemistry homework and complaining to the Boss about how her teacher smells like cigarettes and bologna. Panini has stretched out the 20-foot telephone cord and is sitting on the floor talking quietly to her best friend, just out of ear shot but loud enough for Saul to hear key words like “Spicoli” and “pot.” Saul does jumping jacks and push-ups, drinks his Miller Lite, and tries to distract Panini by pushing out his stomach to show her that he’s pregnant and that she’s gonna end up pregnant too if she’s not careful. The Boss smokes her Virginia Slims and listens to the news on the radio about the hole in the ozone layer, the growing AIDS crisis, and the urban crack epidemic. Hugs and kisses are exchanged and everyone goes to bed.

In 2025, Saul’s family of six has eaten dinner, washed the dishes, and finished their homework. Saul is on his phone, drafting a wildly inappropriate text to his friends. The Boss is lying on the couch with her phone, scrolling through Facebook posts about Korean skin care products. Panini is sitting at the kitchen counter, hunched over her phone, scrolling through Snapchat stories of “friends” she has literally never met. OG is on the couch in the living room, obsessively organizing the widgets on her phone for the third time this week. Broosevelt is on the floor on his phone trying to figure out how to send his friend the most moronic GIF he can find. Boni is upstairs in her bed, pajamas on, teeth brushed, head and body under the covers, surreptitiously on her phone, face two inches from the screen, desperately clinging to the “1 more minute” she has on Safari. The house is silent.

And everyone is alone.

DC's Nobituary

In the fragile nation of the United States careening toward authoritarianism, in the fractured state of Illinois overrun by corruption, in the frightened city of Chicago obsessed with optics, there is a tennis center, nay, a boutique gym, nay, a behemoth fitness club affectionately known as RatTownTM where MILFs with lip-filler and lululemon do pilates, where GenZs with tight sweat pants, tighter tank tops, and big biceps take selfies, and where a group of desperate, tired middle-aged men gather every Wednesday to play tennis and debauch. This sordid sanctuary has high-powered Dyson hair-dryers in the locker room, a golf simulator on the second floor, and an outdoor hot tub in which those same middle-aged men sip warm cans of Modelo and laugh heartily while rats scurry across the pool deck.

I am the captain, nay, the glue guy, nay, the court jester, nay, the indentured servant for this crusty crew which includes a shredded GenX who doesn’t sleep, a charming millennial who doesn’t drink, and an understated GenZ who defies expectations; a filthy Bolivian who smokes a lot of pot, an alcoholic Venezuelan who eats a lot of eggs, and a war-scarred Croatian who has a lot of secrets; a tortured Catholic who loves tennis, a chubby Jew who loves sex, and a misanthropic Arab who loves life.

This story is 50% about them, 50% about me, and 50% about the kingpin, nay, the elder statesman, nay, the godfather of this crew, a grey-haired, devilishly handsome 60-year-old named Dave Clark. DC, as he’s affectionately known, is the coolest motherfunker on the planet: flowing grey hair like Richard Gere, designer tortoise-shell glasses like the professor you wanted to lay in college, well worn blue jeans like Springsteen, soft cotton zip-up track jacket like a white Jay-Z, and classic all-white Adidas like a black Arthur Ashe.

DC went to Harvard but he’s a man of the people. DC worked in the pit at the Chicago Board of Trade but he’s no douchey finance bro. DC reads The Atlantic but he keeps most of his wisdom to himself. He’s humble, understated, and demure. But make no mistake: Back in the 90s, DC was an animal, or at least I like to imagine him as such. He snorted an exorbitant amount of cocaine before, during, and after work. He lived in a high-rise apartment building next to Lincoln Park which, I can assure you, was the epicenter of Scarface screenings, Eyes Wide Shut-type foolery, and, of course, freak-offs that would have made Diddy jealous. See, DC might occasionally still don his ironed Harvard button-down but he was once an inebriated groper who, from 1989-ish to 2004-ish, closed down every 4am dive bar in the city. DC didn’t meet his wife until he was 39, didn’t get married until he was 45, and didn’t have his first kid until he was 46. In other words, he had 20+ years to sow his royal crimson oats, and sow them he did.

Oh, one more thing about DC: He was a professional tennis player.

___

For the non-tennis fans out there, the following statistic won’t mean a lot. For the tennis fans out there, get ready: DC earned, and will forever have to his name, 33 ATP points.

ATP stands for the Association of Tennis Professionals. If you play on the ATP tour and earn a single ATP point, you are a professional. For perspective, Roger Federer earned 16,000 ATP points, DC earned 33, and I could never even fantasize about earning a single ATP point, even in my wettest of dreams. As, of course, you know, I played at a top Division III school and still occasionally dominate. But let me be clear: If 22-year-old DC played 22-year-old Saul, it would’ve been like a Nazi stormtrooper vs. a Polish peasant, an imperial Japanese warrior vs. a local Nanjing female child, or an Israeli pilot vs. a Hamas tunnel-runner (too soon?). DC would have thrashed me like Drago thrashed Apollo, looked down at my febrile Jewish body with his hearty Irish-Italian workman hands, and pronounced, “If he dies, he dies.”

33 ATP points is like making an NBA roster and sharing a bench, a locker room, and some groupies with LeBron James for a few weeks until they decide not to renew your contract. 33 ATP points is like getting called up from the minors and pinch-running for Shohei Ohtani with one out in the bottom of the ninth. 33 ATP points is being a god damn professional tennis player for one shining moment in your life. It means you played with and competed against the best tennis players in the world and thus, by definition, were one of the best tennis players in the world.

My point here is that back in the day, DC was the man. By 8am, he was making deals in the pit like a debonair Dan Akroyd from Trading Places. By 11am, he was drowning a liquid lunch like a charming Charlie Sheen from Wall Street. By 4pm, he was serve-and-volleying some poor schmuck to death like a jolly John McEnroe. By 11pm, he was doing blow off a beautiful broad’s buttocks like a magical Michael J. Fox from Bright Lights, Big City. By 2am, he was escorting a naive young lady back to his bachelor pad like a stunningly handsome Christian Bale from American Psycho. DC was a thing of beauty and, per John Keats as quoted in White Men Can’t Jump, “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.”

The truth, however, is that “forever” is not a thing: Father Time is undefeated. DC is no longer the man he once was. He doesn’t run for certain balls on the tennis court. He can’t see his phone if it’s too close. He has gained a few pounds because cocaine helps you burn calories but beer doesn’t. His kids steal his energy. His wife steals his soul. He plays melancholy Johnny Cash ballads on the guitar by himself at night. He falls asleep on the couch with a New Yorker magazine face-down on his chest. He has chronic pain in his foot, and one foot is almost in the grave.

___

And so DC recently made a decision that pains me to no end. Before I explain, some context: Our haggard crew of has-beens who escape domestic purgatory once a week to hit some fuzzy balls, get the geriatric juices flowing, and not engage in any locker room talk whatsoever is more than just your average crew. Some of us have been playing together for 15, 20, even 25 years. We play every week, religiously, 52 weeks a year. If someone misses tennis, an explanation is expected. Tennis ends around 10pm but most of us don’t get home until 1am due to stretching, icing, beer, and no locker room talk whatsoever. We play in leagues together throughout the year. We have team dinners at fancy steakhouses in the West Loop and cozy deep-dish pizza locales in the burbs. We have brunch together with our WAGS and kids. We travel together: debaucherous trips to Detroit in August, debaucherous trips to West Palm in February, and one particularly debaucherous, regrettable trip to California in March to find a sturdy tree branch and some rope. I have beautiful old friends around the world but in terms of my day to day for the past 15 years, these motherloving idiots are my lifeline. They’re my crew. They’re my ride or die. They know all my secrets. I know some of theirs. We have our own clothing line for fuck’s sake.

As you can imagine, when a critical member of our crew stops playing tennis ✅, gets injured ✅, leaves Chicago ✅, or dies (stay tuned!), the group suffers. We’re a shockingly tight-knit, co-dependent gang of morons and we need every domino for this thing to work.

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And so I must painfully return to DC’s recent decision, which is to end his membership at RatTownTM where he has played tennis for the last 30 years, where he and I have played together for more than 15 years, and where the crew that respects him, that adores him, and that worships him waits with bated breath and tears in their eyes, hoping that the DC they know and love won’t leave. Hoping that the 60-year-old with the Harvard degree, 33 ATP points, and a bad foot won’t sign the papers. Hoping that the old man who beats up on punks half his age will never quit. Hoping that the gentleman who brings some class to this group of degenerates will never abandon ship. Hoping that DC the conqueror, DC the legend, DC the GOAT will not “go softly into the night” (Dylan Thomas).

___

I get why he wants to leave. DC lives in the burbs and RatTownTM is in the city. DC gets some of his juices flowing by playing old lady pickleball with some old ladies in his neighborhood. DC is busy making lunches for his kids and driving them to lacrosse and swim practice. RatTownTM is expensive. DC can’t keep getting home at 1am on Wednesdays (Thursday, technically) after 3.5 beers at the bar, creaking open the basement door like a scared teenager late for curfew and accidentally arousing his two dogs who start barking incessantly and wake up the whole family so now DC has to pacify his angry wife and help his kids fall back asleep but now it’s nearly 2am and he has to wake up in four hours to make the lunches again and get his kids off to school but the big dark circles under his eyes are getting bigger and darker, and he’s just not sure if the long drive, the sore foot, and the late nights are worth it. He’s decided they’re not. He’s decided to leave. He’s decided that he doesn’t want Bright Lights, Big City anymore. Morgan Freeman’s Bucket List will be just fine. Travel a bit. Play some guitar. Drink his beers in peace. Give up.

DC claims he’s gonna join another tennis club and play there. He might do just that but I can tell you with total certainty and utter despair that when you look up a year or two from now, DC will be playing doubles every other week with some dudes who are even older than he is. And when you look up a year or two after that, he won’t be playing tennis at all. He’ll have his shameful weekly pickleball, begrudgingly go to an occasional pilates class, and despondently take his old dogs for long, quiet walks in the metaphorical and literal setting sun. In other words, if he leaves RatTownTM, his career is over. His playing days are done. No more Wednesday nights. No more competition. No more camaraderie. No more laughter. No more debauchery. Osteoporosis slowly sets in and Father Time wins. 15 pounds overweight leads to 25 pounds overweight which leads to heart disease which leads to me writing an actual obituary for my friend and muse, Dave Clark.

___

But here’s the thing: This isn’t about DC. It’s about me. I don't want DC to retire, I don’t want him to die, I don’t want to go to his funeral, and I don’t want to deliver what would surely be an outstanding eulogy at that funeral while his Skull and Bones* buddies whisper, “Hey, who’s the Jew?” I don’t want him to leave, I don’t want the crew to suffer, and I don’t want Father Time to win. I’m a better man when DC is around and a slovenly fool when he’s not. I’m a better man when I’m playing tennis with my crew on Wednesdays and a lazy addict when I’m not. I’m a better man when the RatTownTM brotherhood is strong and a bored loser when it’s not. This is about me, god damnit. If DC leaves and his life starts to end, so does mine. I need the tennis. I need the camaraderie. I need “the hang.” DC knows I need it. And I think, deep down, he knows he needs it too. He may have other friends and I’m sure grilling cheeseburgers with other lonely dads in Park Ridge is fun but Wednesday night tennis, Friday afternoon beers, and Sunday night pizza is everything. It’s the only thing. Nothing else matters.

___

DC, if I may have the privilege of addressing you directly: The cost doesn’t matter. The barking dogs don’t matter. The sleep-deprived children don’t matter. The aching foot doesn’t matter. The hang is all that matters. The crew. The brotherhood. The debauchery. It’s all we have left. 25-year-old American Psycho-you may be long gone but if you really wanna die, let me buy you a plane ticket to Nevada and I’ll hold your hand as you end it Leaving Las Vegas-style because that’s what friends are for.

Don’t leave, DC. Do not “go softly into the night.” The world around us is crumbling and I know your foot is aching but the hang is everything. If you need a babysitter on Wednesday nights, I’ll pay for one. If you need a personal trainer, I’ll get you one. If you need some cocaine, I know a guy. It’s one of the final scenes in New Jack City and you’re Wesley Snipes, crying, pointing a gun at your best friend’s head, my head. I don’t want you to leave, I don’t want either of us to die, and I’m crying too. Through tears of fear, desperation, and love, I scream at you, Sir David Clark, “We all we got!”

*Yale, not Harvard. Same diff.

Dying Alone

If you believe in God, this post may not be for you.

If, after dragging your tired, wretched body out of bed every morning, brushing your coffee-stained teeth while you stare at your phone like a zombie, and failing to defecate after sitting on the toilet for ten minutes, the misery of your morning ritual is mitigated by an unshakeable belief in the divine, this post may not be for you.

If you are so weak that you have embraced the biggest, most heinous lie humanity has ever unleashed on itself, this post may not be for you. If you are a mindless, spineless creature who needs to believe there’s something bigger out there, this post may not be for you. If you are a sheep, this post may not be for you.

___

I am an atheist. Clearly, there is no god. This vapid, vacuous, vicious existence is all we got. It’s dirt and stars and fascism and Michael Jackson and orcas, and that’s it. Each of us is here for a little while to drink a few Modelos, watch KPop Demon Hunters, do some rhymes with shmunnilingus, and die.

___

The year was 2005 and I was sitting with an old friend and his great penis in a sauna in Minneapolis when it hit me: Life has no purpose, and time is running out. So I did what most desperate, lonely, and practical people do: got married and had kids. I’m like “the basket case” (Ally Sheedy) in Breakfast Club who comes to Saturday detention not because she got in trouble but instead because she “didn’t have anything better to do.” I couldn’t make it in the NBA, I wasn’t gonna chase tail for the rest of my life, and I’d already been to a Cambodian bath house, so I went out and got myself a ball and chain because I figured raising a batch of incompetent, ungrateful, and unclean children would fill the void, or at least keep me busy.

Of course there’s deep irony in deliberately, intentionally abandoning a life of Hoop Dreams, tail-chasing, and Southeast Asian bath houses but it turned out that changing poop-ravaged diapers, singing “Five Little Ducks” in the bath with screaming toddlers, and bringing oranges to poorly played soccer games filled the void. I mean, the void is the void and it’s never actually full but the diapers and the baths and the oranges made me feel like it was full. They fooled me. They distracted me. They put a lid on the void so I didn’t have to stare into it every day, didn’t have to look directly at the utter emptiness of life, didn't have to face the truth.

That’s what we all do every day, isn’t it? Go to our banal commercial real estate jobs, attend our monthly book club meetings without having read the whole book, scroll through Apple News until we doze off on the couch, go to our high-intensity muscle-sculpting class to get shamed by and/or ogle the instructor, try to convince our friends that Israel is or isn’t committing a genocide, and, of course, floss, all just to kill time, all just to fill the void minute by interminable minute in an effort to stave off misery and despair. That’s life. Doing things that make us “happy” because/even though we know we’re gonna die. Trying to make the world a bit of a better place because/even though climate change is coming for us. Doing one more rhymes with shmunnilingus because/even though the sun will eventually explode.

___

For the past 18 years or so, my kids filled the void. But then over the last year or so, something changed. They grew up. They stopped needing me. They learned how to tie their shoes, brush their hair, and wipe their butts. And the second that happened, I lost my way. I lost my purpose. The void was back.

Theoretically, I’m supposed to be happy that instead of whimpering in her bed every night until mommy and daddy come give her a kiss, Boni can now cry herself to sleep like a big girl. Theoretically, I’m supposed to be happy that instead of morosely asking me to cut his chicken, Broosevelt has finally gained the dexterity and determination to do it himself. Theoretically, I’m supposed to be happy that instead of asking me for weed, OG can buy it herself on the Red Line. Theoretically, I’m supposed to be happy that Panini, ummm, she actually still needs my help with everything.

So yeah, theoretically, I’m overjoyed by my kids maturing and becoming more independent. But in reality, the older they get, the more they do things for themselves. The more they do things for themselves, the less I do for them. The less I do for them, the more useless I feel. The more useless I feel, the more life sucks. In sum: If you give a mouse a cookie, I might as well rhymes with shmill myself. 

___

I watch in awe as Boni glides through the water at swim practice and I’m excited for her to get out and tell me about her day. She runs to me in her big black swim jacket with wet hair and crooked glasses. We hug. She smells like chlorine. We hold hands as we walk to the car and it feels like we’re together and maybe I’m not dying. She tells me about a new friend she made at practice and wonders out loud why there are so many Asian kids on the team. We laugh because she’s racist and maybe I’m not dying alone. We get in the car and we’re about to do our routine when she tells me three things about her day but before I can even ask, she says, “Can we listen to music?” So I turn on the radio and cry on the inside.

I sit with Broosevelt while he dutifully practices piano but he plays because he has to and because he’s a good boy who follows the rules and would’ve been the first on the trains, not because he enjoys making music, being with his dad, or making music with his dad. Before he hits the last few notes, he’s already halfway across the room, floating back to the TV or his phone or his homework while I, alone on the couch, like a geriatric with nothing to do and no one to talk to, fall into a deep sleep for 13 minutes until one of my children shames me for drooling.

I haven’t seen OG all day and I’m excited to pick her up from gymnastics. She starts to tell me about her back handspring on the beam and half twist on the vault but I lose focus because it’s 9pm, I’m tired, and, as hard as I try, I really don’t know anything about gymnastics. I know she knows I don’t know. She shows me a video on her phone of one of her routines, and I’m like, “Holy shit, that’s amazing!” Then she gets a text from her friend and starts to reply and I’m like, “No phones in the car.” She says, “Ok, one sec,” and I think to myself, One second is forever. You’re already gone.

Unfortunately for Panini, she and I both play tennis. Unfortunately for Panini, she and I have the same sense of humor. Unfortunately for Panini, she and I are besties. So what do I do with the one child who wants to be close? I push her away. I tell her yes when she asks if she looks fat, I tell her no when she asks if she looks pretty, and I tell her maybe when she asks if I’ll always be her daddy. And then to make things worse, when she dresses up like a you-know-what to go out with her you-know-what friends, I shame her for going and beg her to stay home. She’s leaving for college in less than a year, which is basically tomorrow, which means she’s already gone, which means I’m all alone, dying.

I’m like Patrick Swayze in Ghost, blowing around Saturday morning newspaper cartoons to get people’s attention. I’m like Michael J. Fox in Back to the Future, watching my family disappear from the picture as they do their Science homework at the kitchen counter. I’m like Bruce Willis in The Sixth Sense except he didn’t know he was dead.

___

But Saul, what about your work? Well, let’s see. Would you enjoy spending eight hours a day with a horde of politically indifferent, socially incompetent, discourse-avoidant, anxiety-ridden, acne-infested, tail-donning, headphone-wearing, Tik Tok-addicted, status-obsessed, grade-grubbing dorks who, at the first sign of disappointment, scrawl DIE SAUL! in pink sharpie on the bathroom mirror? Yeah, me neither.

But Saul, what about your friends? Well, let’s see. My texts go unanswered, my phone calls are disregarded, and my emails are immediately labeled as junk. I used to have fun parties where people had sex and did rhymes with shmugs and my friend from the sauna put his rhymes with shmick in a box. Now my only social interactions are on a group chat where everyone hates me and at bars I go to by myself because strangers like me more than people who know me.

But Saul, what about your hobbies? Well, let’s see. I take 45-minute showers at night and plan out ingenious blog posts I’ll never write. I publish an occasional post no one will ever read. I run three tennis leagues no one wants to play in. I coach Panini’s tennis team because I enjoy working with disabled kids. I myself don’t actually play sports anymore because my knee, like my soul, has called it quits, so I spend most of my time lying on my back, stretching my hamstring with a white flag, I mean towel.

But Saul, what about your wife? Well, let’s see. She  used to rest her head on the soft brown fur on my chest but now she claims that that luxurious pillow top has turned grey, brittle, and prickly. We do still have magical sex every day and she replaces the toilet paper roll on demand, but she and I can’t talk about Nikola Jokic’s passing, we fight incessantly over whether or not to use subtitles when we watch TV, and I swear to a god that doesn’t exist that if she leaves the cabinets open one more time, our children will no longer have a mother who’s alive and Boni will finally have something to cry about in bed. Speaking of children, let’s be honest: The only reason I put a ring on it in the first place was so she could bear the fruit of my loins. Mission accomplished. Been there, done that. Now what?

___

Nothing is what. It’s over. I’m dying. Alone. The kids are grown, the Boss is in bed by 9pm most nights, and I have no purpose. The rational response to this crisis would, of course, be to rhmyes with shmill myself but I’m not brave enough to do that. So instead, I’ve come up with new, even more ridiculous ways to fill the void: I feel satisfied when I get my Yahoo! email inbox to zero. I feel accomplished when I finish a National Geographic from 2018 about frogs. I feel like I’m a good son when I talk to my 80-year-old mom on the phone even though she can barely hear me while I ruthlessly attack her for not doing more physical therapy for her fractured pelvis.

I barely drink. I barely smoke. I put spinach and berries into my smoothies every morning. To what end? So I can extend my time alone until I die? It’s like Sisyphus doing jumping jacks before he decides to push the boulder up the mountain again. Moron.

___

Yom Kippur this past Thursday in Chicago was beautiful: blue skies, 74 degrees, and a gentle breeze. The Boss and I decided to go for a walk through nearby Graceland Cemetery, filled with lush greenery, quiet ponds, and death. We held hands, talked, and laughed about how much I hate her when she leaves the cabinets open. Suddenly, like the old man on the Black Death cart in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, I realized, I’m not dead yet!

And so now I ask myself, “What would Jesus do?” Just kidding. F Jesus. I ask myself, “What would Sisyphus do?” All alone. Big rock. Big hill. No future. No purpose. No rhymes with shmunnilingus. But still alive.

I think he would man up, dig his heels in the dirt, place his hands firmly on the rock, engage his core, and start pushing. So I guess that’s what I’ll do, though I sure miss my kids. 

And rhymes with shmunnilingus.

Lollapalooza

We just spent three and half weeks in Italy but this story isn’t about how the pool at our hotel in Siracusa (the venerable Grand Villa Politi, where Churchill once stayed) baked in the Sicilian sun all day and was blissful in the evening like a warm tub of urine.

Or how out of all the restaurants we went to, the very first one at the end of the block was perfect: Italian men with dress shirts unbuttoned to their stomachs; Italian women with revealing tank tops, long flowery skirts, designer glasses, and leather sandals; pizza covered in smoked salmon, avocado, and burrata; fusilli al dente drenched in pesto; arugula salads with fresh mozzarella, roasted red peppers, tomatoes, olives, capers, lemon, and olive oil; soft, creamy pistachio cannoli dipped in a candy coating; and, of course, Aperol Spritz that somehow tastes better because it’s summer in Italy, everyone in the restaurant is also drinking Aperol Spritz, and it’s in a glass that says Aperol Spritz.

No, this story isn’t about how we explored well preserved ruins at Villa Romana del Casale where the mosaics look like they were constructed last week and depict glorious battle victories, leopards, ostriches, and other exotic species from across the empire, and a Roman lady with a great ass straddling her Roman gentleman.

Or how our ten hours in the magical, mountain city of Taormina (part of the 17th- to 19th-century European “Grand Tour”) were the best ten hours of our trip, complete with 270° views of the Ionian Sea from the perfectly situated Greco-Roman amphitheater, cool drinking water from public fountains lodged in medieval walls, three pristine clay tennis courts being hosed down by a leathery Italian geriatric ripping a fag, a ten-minute nap on the rocky beach after 700 steps down to the shore, and an Aperol Spritz-infused dinner al fresco served by a waiter who looked like Carlos Alcaraz on a date but smelled like Carlos Alcaraz after a five-setter.

___

No, this story isn’t about how when we got to the Aeolian Islands and our Airbnb with an incredible view of the Tyrrhenian Sea and a TV with Netflix, the kids chose Netflix. Or how our boat trips around the islands were miraculously vomit-free.

Or how after sunset on one of those boats we sailed by the volcanic island of Stromboli while we watched lava stream down its side. Or how after we were served refreshing wine in plastic cups and delicious penne al dente with tuna, capers, and olives on paper plates, we lay down on mattresses on the top of the boat and looked at the stars at which point I allegedly “ruined everyone’s experience” by audibly calculating the approximate distance of the closest star and then mansplaining to “whoever was listening” (Tropic Thunder) how many trillions of miles away it is (5 million).

No, this story isn’t about how it’s kinda cool when 20-year-old Italian locals “roll their own” with fresh tobacco but very sad when 60-year-old Italian locals take desperately long drags from their vapes during a short train stop. Or how I didn’t use the strange Italian bidets that point and shoot water down toward my balls because I prefer bidets that point and shoot water up toward my butt. Or how I hate the Vatican, its ostentatious aesthetics, its excessive wealth, its moral turpitude, and all Catholic people.

___

No, this story isn’t about the quest for the holy grail of gelato. Or how we quickly went through two bottles of sunblock mostly for the tops of my feet. Or how my kids are scarred from seeing their father’s glorious naked body more than any child should ever see their father’s glorious naked body. Or how I got over my jet lag in a record three days due to the walking, the touring, the padel, the tennis, the sun, the pool, and, grazie mille, the passionate love-making.

Or how it doesn’t bother me at all that the Boss needs to be the one who decides which train to take to the airport, where we should eat dinner, and when we should get gas. Or how she doesn’t trust me with anything but then doesn’t read the fine print about how the hotel shuttle service costs 40€ and starts ineffectively and emotionally arguing with the hotel lady until I come in and calmly save the day with my conflict-resolution skills and gentle charm. Or how the Boss wanted just the two of us to go out to dinner for our anniversary so I took her out to dinner but brought the kids with us so she and I wouldn’t have to look into each other’s eyes and acknowledge the truth.

Or how Panini and I got fined 100€ for not having the right train ticket (my bad). Or how Panini left her backpack in a taxi (her bad). Or how Panini downed an Aperol Spritz in two minutes because she’s “not a social drinker.”

Or how if OG wasn’t already mad at me when I woke her up each morning with wet kisses and gentle squeezing, she was mad at me an hour later when I relentlessly mocked her for her breakfast choice of yogurt, potato, and ham.

Or how instead of appreciating the majesty of the Trevi Fountain or Spanish Steps, I had to pretend to listen to Broosevelt drone on about all the hilarious parts of Big Nate, Grown Ups, and White Chicks. Or how despite the brutal heat Broosevelt wouldn’t stop squeezing my moobs. Or how Broosevelt broke the family’s vomit-free streak when he barfed on a windy car trip up the mountains behind Positano. Lucky for us, the Boss had a barf bag. Unlucky for Broosevelt, the vomit was so voluminous that it leaked through the barf bag. 

No, this story isn’t about how Broosevelt and Boni started slapping each other in the face as they fought for space in the back seat of the car. Or how Boni didn’t see a puddle in the bathroom, slipped, and fell hard as shit on her knee. Or how she was walking on a concrete ledge above a bench, slipped, and scraped the shit out of her knee. Or how she was sprinting up the Spanish Steps, slipped, and scraped the shit out of her knee. Or how she was sitting sideways on a chair at a restaurant, rocking back and forth, leaned too far back, fell off, landed on her head, and eventually came to rest on her stomach after doing a complete backward somersault down five steps.

___

No, this story isn’t about the amazing vacation we just had. It’s about how Panini left Italy more than a week before the rest of us, foregoing a visit to good friends in Pescara on the Adriatic Sea and a few final days on the Amalfi Coast so she could be back in Chicago in time for Lollapalooza.

I repeat: Panini left Italy nine days before we did because she “really wanted to be back for” Lolla-fucking-palooza.

How could this happen? Honestly, I don’t remember. The Boss says I gave Panini the choice and I say the Boss gave Panini the choice. What I can say for certain is that back in April when we were figuring out our summer plans, I immediately went into a fugue state when the mere suggestion of Panini coming back early for stupid Shaboozey was floated.

Incredulous. Shocked. Disappointed. Disturbed. Disgusted. Angry. Homicidal. Suicidal. I think I probably went upstairs, locked myself in the bathroom, looked in the mirror, and, through tears of laughter and sobs of hysteria, said to myself with total sincerity, “You’ve failed as a son, a brother, and a husband. And now you’ve officially failed as a parent.”

Why did this happen? Well, here’s a verbatim exchange:

“Why would you choose to go to Lollapalooza instead of the Amalfi Coast?” - Saul

“I have the rest of my life to go back to Italy.” - Panini

Dear patient reader of Saul, what word is coming to mind right now? Spoiled? Obtuse? Ignorant? Horrid? Whatever it is, I feel you.

The how and the why don’t even matter. Panini’s decision to leave Italy early for stupid Luke Combs is a result of the most epic parenting failure ever. Even the Boss’ mother, the kindest, most understanding, most compassionate, least judgmental, least critical human being ever to walk the earth, called me into the dining room a few days before we left and said, “Saul, can I chat with you privately for a moment?” (Come here, asshole. We need to talk.)

“Saulie chamud, can you tell me how this decision came about?” (Saul dearest, what the fuck went down here?)

And I really didn’t have an answer. I couldn’t explain it. The Boss and I somehow allowed it to happen. I think maybe at some point I said something to the effect of, “I mean, if this spoiled-ass bitch seriously wants to bail on the Amalfi Coast to go see stupid Doechii, I don’t even know what to say.”

Could we have forced her to stay the whole time? Of course. But somehow “forcing” a 17-year-old to stay on vacation in southern Italy in July felt even wronger than letting her make the choice. I know, I know. You’re judging me even as you read this. I get it. I am too. I’ve judged Panini, I’ve judged the Boss, and I’ve judged myself plenty. I hate all of us for this whole thing. It’s utterly disgusting. Panini is a spoiled brat with defective values and poor priorities. We’re terrible parents who created a child with defective values and poor priorities. How does the defense plead? Guilty as charged.

___

But just give me one more second as I take a quick, and hopefully meaningful, aside: Despite the fact that I am a pedantic, arrogant, and annoying mansplainer, I don’t preach a lot to my kids. I don’t give them a lot of words of wisdom or life lessons. I encourage them to try their hardest, do what they love, and eat their vegetables. There is, however, one piece of advice I often find myself giving, one life lesson I wanted to impart before we got to Pompei and I unsuccessfully tried to throw myself into Mt. Vesuvius.

And it is this: Don’t worry about what other people think.

When Boni asks me if her hair looks pretty, I tell her not to worry about what other people think. When Broosevelt tells me his friends call him a ballhog, I tell him not to worry about what other people think. When OG tells me she’s embarrassed about being the oldest one in her gymnastics group, I tell her not to worry about what other people think. When Panini asks me if she’s fat, I tell her yes, and not to worry about what other people think.

Know who you are. Believe in yourself. Be confident. And fuck everyone else and what they may or may not think. Is it sound parenting advice? Maybe. It could probably use some qualifiers and nuance but it is what it is and my kids know it’s what I believe, how I myself roll, and how I recommend they roll.

So, back to Lollapalooza and Italy. Despite all the criticism, all the disappointment, all the shaming, all the outrage, all the begging, pleading, cajoling, harassment, and judging, Panini stuck to her guns. Despite her siblings, her parents, her grandparents, and literally everyone who knows about this debacle having completely condemned her and her ghastly decision, Panini stood firm. She said to everyone, “Screw you. Screw Italy. I’m going to Lollapalooza and I don’t care what you think.” In some sick, twisted way, I kinda respect it a teeny, tiny bit.

Is all of this one big “juicy rationalization” (The Big Chill) to make myself feel a little better about Panini’s terrible choice and my terrible parenting? Yes. Should Panini reflect on why she wants what she wants and why everyone in the entire world judged her so harshly? Yes. Would my parenting advice perhaps be better suited for a child who is a bit less FOMO-driven, a bit more self-actualized, and a bit less stupid? Yes.

All I can tell you is this: Panini reports that she had an absolutely fantastic time at Lollapalooza, has zero regrets about her decision, and was “thriving by [her]self.” Similarly, I'm pretty sure we had a great time in Italy and the trip was as awesome as we’d hoped. So now I’m left not knowing if this whole thing was an epic failure from which lessons must be learned or if I am, in fact, the best god damn parent ever. I’m gonna go make an Aperol Spritz and think about it.