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.

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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.

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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 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).

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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. 

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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.

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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?

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

An Open Letter to Zohran Mamdani

Dear Mr. Mamdani,

Congratulations on winning the Democratic primary for the 2025 New York’s mayoral election. Based on what I’ve read, it sounds like you have tons of support from progressive New Yorkers and I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been to beat Mr. Cuomo, someone so deeply entrenched in New York politics and so widely known for sexual harassment. Just messin’ around. Mazal tov!

I’m guessing you’ve read my open letter to NBA Commissioner Adam Silver on August 15, 2024. As bald Jewish men who love basketball, he and I have a lot in common. As it turns out, you and I do too.

We both live in big cities brimming with rich histories, vibrant cultures, and economic opportunity, as well as aging infrastructure, abject poverty, and violent crime.

We’re both liberal. Sure, I’m not some raging commie like the media paints you to be but I’m solidly left of center and fully support increasing taxes on corporations, making housing more affordable, and investing in impoverished communities. Your call for government-run grocery stores and free buses reminds me of my illegal visit to a black-market laden Cuba in 2002 but I’m open to change, especially if it involves meeting Cuban women.

We both like rap. No, I’ve never laid down my own beats or recorded my own videos like you,¹ but I can quote Tupac lyrics with the best of ‘em.

We both come from privilege. Your dad is a tenured professor at a prestigious university and my dad was a doctor. Your mom is a wealthy filmmaker and my mom is the shit. You spent most of your childhood on Manhattan’s Upper West Side and attended a private elementary school (2025 kindergarten tuition is $66,236²), a selective enrollment high school in the Bronx, and a private college in Maine.³ My mommy and daddy similarly paid hundreds of thousands for my education.

We both love politics. You ran for student body Vice President at your high school and lost;⁴ I ran for student body President at my high school and lost. You currently serve in the New York State Assembly and are likely to become New York’s next mayor. I was a White House intern and have a Master’s in Political Science. I even considered going into politics but it turns out that in addition to all the skeletons in my closet, I’m not as likeable as I think.

Of course there are some differences as well. You are handsome and have a full head of hair. I am gaunt and follicly challenged. You’re a millennial who is hip to all the socials. I’m a Gen X’er who has a blog no one reads. You’re Muslim. I’m Jewish. (Though it’s worth noting that you were almost half-Jewish, as your mother was first married to a MOT, Mitch Epstein, before divorcing him and marrying your father.⁵)

We also seem to have some significant differences on the Israel-Palestine conflict. I believe, however, that if we reflect on the ways in which our personal backgrounds have shaped our political views, we can reconcile our ostensibly dissimilar positions. Simply put, when I evaluate the Israel-Palestine conflict, I’m biased. And so are you. So let’s both get over ourselves and see if we can be friends.

___

I understand you spent some of your formative years in South Africa where victims of Apartheid often identify with Palestinians and where perpetrators of Apartheid are often compared to the Israeli government. In 1990, two weeks after being released from prison, Mandela met with Yasser Arafat. In 2023, days after Hamas’ attack on October 7th, Mandela’s grandson, a power player in the African National Congress, said, “We have stood with the Palestinians and we will continue to stand with our Palestinian brothers and sisters.”⁶ What did you learn about the Israel-Palestine conflict when you were young? Is a typical South African student taught that Palestinians are the good guys and Israel is the bad guy?

Some of my formative years were spent in Philadelphia where I went to Hebrew school, where I had plenty of Jewish friends and neighbors, and where my pride in Jewish history and culture was cultivated. I also lived in Israel for a year where I learned that Jewish refugees to Palestine drained the swamps (literally) and built the only democracy in the region.

My point here is most definitely not that South Africa is wrong and that the Shlomo Goldberg Jewish Cultural Center is right. It’s simply to describe the potential biases with which each of us approaches this issue and request that, if you haven’t already, you consider another narrative.

Speaking of narratives, I’m sure you’d agree that the ones provided by our parents are pretty damn impactful. My dad was deeply, proudly Jewish despite the anti-semitism he faced, including quotas for Jews at college and medical school. He loved Israel and, if I’m being honest, did not love Arabs. In fact, he sometimes referred to them as “the Arabs.” He took our family to Israel for a year-long sabbatical. He played in the Maccabi games. He steadfastly defended Israel and even bought me a book called The Case for Israel by Alan Dershowitz.

Your dad, on the other hand, is a postcolonial studies professor at Columbia who was persecuted as an Indian in Uganda, fought in the Civil Rights Movement in the 1960s, and has spent most of his professional career writing about colonialism and postcolonialism, particularly in Africa.⁷ My dad was a typical American Jewish liberal in that he defended Israel, perhaps unfairly. Your dad is a typical liberal Columbia professor in that he criticizes Israel, perhaps unfairly. I’ll bet our fathers could’ve learned a lot from each other. In fact, if my dad were still alive, I’d suggest that “your old man and my old man...get together and go bowling” (Breakfast Club).

But where does all this leave us? Well, maybe you should read more of the books my dad gave me and I should read more of the books your dad gave you. And then we can sit in my basement, throw on Tupac’s “California Love,” and see if we can find some common ground.

I was for sure biased by my dad but my mom is my mom, ya know? She doesn’t even have to talk politics and I’ll still know how she feels. Most of her best friends are Jewish. She goes to synagogue most Saturdays. She keeps in touch with old friends in Israel. She travels to Israel every few years. Your mom, on the other hand, is married to a Muslim and, after declining an invitation to the Haifa International Film Festival, said she “will go to Israel when the walls come down...when [the] occupation is gone...when Apartheid is over.”⁸ My mom would say the walls are there for security, question the use of the word “occupation,” and be downright offended by the use of the word “Apartheid.”

So, again, Mr. Mamdani, where does that leave you and me? My mom taught me that Israel is defending itself from those who want to destroy it. Your mom taught you that Israel is killing innocent civilians. From the moment our fathers’ prejudiced semen infiltrated our mothers’ prejudiced eggs, you and I were predisposed to feel a certain way about Israel and Palestine, to analyze the conflict with a particular lens, to support one group rather than the other, to love one and to disregard another.

Finally, as much as I’d like to forget about my wife, I can’t. She is Israeli. Her parents are Israeli. Her whole family is Israeli. Yada yada yada. Your wife is of Syrian descent and “has created numerous works [of art] about Israeli crimes in Gaza.”⁹ I can’t help but think that those late-night postcoital pillow talks have deeply influenced what you and I believe.

___

Mr. Mamdani, if I drank all of the pro-Israel Kool-Aid I was served, I might believe, among other things, that the intifada is a call for violent terror attacks against civilians, that Israel should receive unconditional military aid due the constant threats it faces, and that the current war with Hamas is just given the atrocities committed on October 7th. I do not believe those things. If you, for example, drank all of the pro-Palestine Kool-Aid you were served, you might believe, among other things, that the phrase “globalize the intifada” is defensible,¹⁰ that consumers and countries should boycott, divest from, and impose sanctions on Israel,¹¹ and that “Israel’s assault on Gaza is a genocide.”¹² Do you really believe those things?

At the end of Pulp Fiction, as Jules (Samuel Jackson) is deep in the throes of an existential crisis, he says, “But I’m tryin’, Ringo. I’m tryin’ real hard to be the shepherd.” I’m not trying to be the shepherd, Mr. Mamdani, but I’m trying, trying real hard, to see this disaster as clearly, as objectively, as holistically, and as truthfully as possible. It pains me to read articles from Haaretz about Palestinians being shot at food distribution centers. It pains me to read articles from The Guardian about Gazan children dying outside of medical facilities. It pains me to read articles from Democracy Now! about Netanyahu’s desire to make Gaza a “perpetual, ongoing war.”¹³ The Kool-Aid I’ve been served much of my life doesn’t go well with this other Kool-Aid, but I force it down anyway.

And so I ask you, Mr. Mamdani, is the Kool-Aid you’re drinking today the same Kool-Aid you’ve had your whole life or are you trying some new flavors? Do the stories you read confirm what you already believe or do you seek alternative narratives? Are you in a social media echo chamber or do you look for spaces with truly diverse perspectives? Are you perpetuating your own biases or trying to address them?

In the words of the late, great Tupac Shakur, “I got love for my brother but we can never go nowhere unless we share with each other.” How about you and I meet for lunch, perhaps something shared by our cultures like pita with hummus, and talk?

1. Zellner, Xander. “Zohran Mamdani Used to Rap — and His Catalog Has Been Surging in Streams.” Billboard, 6 June 2025, https://www.billboard.com/music/chart-beat/zohran-mamdani-rap-catalog-streams-surge-1236008425/. Accessed 9 July 2025.
2. “Tuition and Financial Aid.” Bank Street School for Children, https://school.bankstreet.edu/admissions-2/tuition-financial-aid/. Accessed 3 July 2025.
3. “Zohran Mamdani.” Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia, Wikimedia Foundation, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zohran_Mamdani. Accessed 2 July 2025.
4. Sauer, Megan. “​​Zohran Mamdani ran for VP of his high school and lost—now he’s winning the Democratic primary for NYC mayor.” CNBC, 27 June 2025, https://www.cnbc.com/2025/06/27/zohran-mamdanis-political-career-started-in-high-school.html, Accessed 9 July 2025.
5. “Mira Nair.” Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia, Wikimedia Foundation, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mira_Nair. Accessed 2 July 2025.
6. Imray, Gerald. “Nelson Mandela’s support for Palestinians endures with South Africa’s genocide case against Israel.” Associated Press, 11 Jan. 2024, https://apnews.com/article/south-africa-palestine-israel-genocide-mandela-arafat-39d222b9dd65994c4c13730efabe8815. Accessed 8 July 2025.
7. “Mahmood Mamdani.” Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia, Wikimedia Foundation, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mahmood_Mamdani. Accessed 2 July 2025.
8. “Mira Nair.” Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia, Wikimedia Foundation, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mira_Nair. Accessed 2 July 2025.
9. “Rama Duwaji.” Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia, Wikimedia Foundation, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rama_Duwaji. Accessed 10 July 2025.
10. Arkin, Daniel. “NYC mayoral candidate Zohran Mamdani criticized for 'intifada' remarks.” NBC News, 19 June 2025, https://www.nbcnews.com/news/us-news/nyc-mayoral-candidate-zohran-mamdani-draws-criticism-intifada-remarks-rcna213967. Accessed 7 July 2025.
11. Beeferman, Jason. “Critics say Zohran Mamdani is antisemitic. He says he’s holding Israel accountable.” POLITICO, 24 June 2025, https://www.politico.com/news/2025/06/22/critics-say-zohran-mamdani-is-antisemitic-he-says-hes-simply-holding-israel-accountable-00416388. Accessed 7 July 2025.
12. Harb, Ali. “Mamdani’s New York victory boosts pro-Palestine politics in US.” ALJAZEERA, 26 June 2025, https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2025/6/26/mamdanis-new-york-victory-boosts-pro-palestine-politics-in-us. Accessed 8 July 2025.
13. “‘Netanyahu Is the Problem’: Sanders’s Former Adviser Matt Duss on Why Gaza Ceasefire Remains Elusive.” Democracy Now!, 9 July 2025, https://www.democracynow.org/2025/7/9/netanyahu_trump. Accessed 9 July 2025.