There’s this kid’s book called I Just Forgot in which this porcupine-looking little critter keeps forgetting to do the most basic shit: bring his lunchbox to school, turn off the water in the bath, take off his wet shoes when he comes in the house, etc. Basically, he’s a stupid fucking idiot.
And so am I.
Cuz when I made my terribly inaccurate prediction two days ago, I forgot something as well: For most people, when it’s time to vote, one thing matters more than anything else.
If I’m Latino, I’m pissed about these illegal immigrants because I came here the right way, god damnit, and fuck these Venezuelans who don’t respect the law. The border is out of control, and Biden and Kamala haven’t done anything about it. Sure, Trump says some racist shit which I don’t love but I believe him when he says he’s gonna shut down the border and stop these illegals from coming. Fairness matters. I came here fair and square, I worked my ass off to succeed, and I’ll be damned if these Guatemalan fucks are gonna cheat the system.
If I'm Arab American, I’m pissed about Gaza. I know you’ll tell me that Trump would be even worse for Palestinians and, yeah, I don’t love his anti-Arab rhetoric, but hypotheticals and words don’t kill people. Weapons do. Biden and Kamala keep selling arms to Israel and Israel has killed nearly 40,000 people in Gaza. My people matter, and the Democrats are killing my Arab brethren, so fuck them.
If I’m a white Christian living on a farm in Iowa, I’m pissed about these homosexuals who talk about critical race theory and gender identity. Yes, black lives do matter, but the lives of my brother who’s a state trooper and my buddy who’s a fireman and my grandfather who died in Vietnam matter more. You can be gay inside your house, but don’t teach about it in schools. And don’t tell me a boy can be a girl. Boys are boys. Identity matters, and this half-black, half-Indian woman who seems friendly with the “woke” left threatens a lot of what I know and believe. Yes, Trump says and does some very anti-Christian things but I pray for him and I believe he will do his very best to keep this country on the straight and narrow.
______________
Okay, so everyone’s ultimately a single-issue voter: The Latino’s issue is fairness, the Arab American’s issue is family, and the Christian’s issue is identity. But let’s all be really honest about the single thing that matters most to nearly everyone: money.
I’d like to amend what I wrote above: For most people, when it’s time to vote, one thing matters more than anything else, and that one thing is usually money.
I forgot that. It’s embarrassing and ridiculous and shameful but when I predicted Kamala would win, I forgot that most people care more about their next pay-check than they do about pussy-grabbing. I thought Kamala was gonna win because I thought people cared about threats to democracy and women’s rights and corruption and racism and misogyny, and yeah people do care about those things, but people care more about how much their eggs cost.
Why did I forget? Because I’m a rich, out-of-touch asshole who is annoyed by his $700 monthly family gym membership but keeps paying it. I’m annoyed by the fact that Panini’s basketball uniform cost $300 but I paid for it and went on with my day. I’m annoyed that OG wasted $30 by buying the wrong-sized screen protector but I never checked to see if she returned it and didn’t think twice about her spending another $30 to get the right size. I’m annoyed that a gallon of organic milk (yes, of course, we buy organic milk) costs $9 but I still buy it. Basically, I am immune from inflation and I forgot that most Americans think about it every single day.
I figured women wouldn’t vote for Trump because he’s responsible for overturning Roe v. Wade. But I forgot that if I were a working-class waitress in Missouri, I wouldn’t really be thinking about my inability to have an abortion because that’s theoretical and abstract, and I have zero plans on getting pregnant. What I’m thinking about right fucking now is how big a tip this customer is gonna give me and whether or not I can pay for my 3-year-old’s day care. Biden and Kamala shuttered this restaurant, my only source of income, for years, so I’m voting for Trump.
I figured older people wouldn’t vote for Trump because they don’t want their grandchildren growing up in an ugly world that lacks civility and justice. But I forgot that if I were a 75-year-old retiree, I would want the inheritance tax to be zero and I would want the capital gains tax to be zero and I would want a tax break for my son’s small business. January 6th was terrible but I can’t afford a god damn gallon of regular milk with all this inflation, so I’m voting for Trump.
I figured your average Joe working-class American who lives in a suburb of Reno wouldn’t vote for Trump because he wants the West to stay wild. But I forgot that if I were trying to make ends meet by renting jet skis on Lake Tahoe or buying some stock in a mining company exploring the Sierra Nevada, then I’m okay with Trump rolling back regulations so we can do our thing out here. Yeah, I know it’s probably not the best for the environment and, no, I don’t fully trust Trump or like all the things he does, but I can’t pay for the treatment for my mom’s skin cancer from the high desert sun, I can’t afford to buy a god damn house because mortgage rates have been at 7% for years, and I sure as shit can’t afford $300 for my kid’s basketball uniform. So screw Biden and Kamala, screw all these regulations, and screw big government. I’m voting for Trump.
______________
One of the reasons Bill Clinton was elected in 1992 is because his campaign’s mantra was, “It’s the economy, stupid.” They knew that people care about their own livelihoods more than anything else, and they successfully reminded the American people of that fact each and every day. Whether or not you believe the economy has actually been rough these past four years and whether or not you think it’s the current administration’s fault, this is the perception of millions of Americans. It’s important to dig into why this perception exists and what to do about it, but we’ll shelve that discussion for now because I know we all have news updates to read, meals to make, and, most importantly, bills to pay.
Reader of Saul: My apologies for forgetting something so important and making such a shitty prediction. I promise never to forget to take off my wet shoes again.
I’m sure you fondly remember the scene in Revenge of the Nerds when Booger, Takashi, Poindexter, and other nerds stage a panty raid on the Delta Pi sorority. Lewis and Gilbert are running down the hall with black hoodies and black ski caps when Lewis yells, “This is gonna be a great year! Ha ha ha!!!”
That’s how I feel about Wednesday, November 6th. Whoever wins on the 5th, the day after is gonna be a fucking shitshow.
And I can’t wait.
If Trump wins, my dear old mother will drive 100 miles north to Wyoming, buy a gun in about four seconds, and break the record for oldest mass shooter in American history. If Kamala wins, my mom will immediately start criticizing her every move because everyone, and I mean everyone, over the age of 60 can’t fully accept a half black, half Indian female running the country. Even the most steadfast of elderly Liberals feel more comfortable with a president who has light skin, a grey head of hair, and a pair of testicles.
If Trump wins, my all-talk, no-action brother Darryl will once again talk about moving to Canada. If Kamala wins, he’ll continue prescribing wildly overpriced obesity medicine to his patients while naively advocating for single-payer health care.
If Trump wins, my libtard other brother Darryl will blame the not-left-enough Democrats for their complacency and corruption. If Kamala wins, he’ll blame the not-left-enough Democrats for their complacency and corruption.
If Trump wins, the Boss will cry and repeat statements such as “I just can’t believe it.” If Kamala wins, she’ll be ecstatic for a couple days until she accidentally rubs up against my beautiful body in the middle of the night and says, “I just can’t believe it.”
If Trump wins, Panini (16) will ask a few questions, express concern, and snap her friends. If Kamala wins, she’ll snap her friends.
If Trump wins, OG (13), currently in the throes of puberty and sharing one brain with a gaggle of 13-year-old girls, will say, “We think this is terrible. 😢” If Kamala wins, she’ll say, “We’re very happy. 😊”
If Trump wins, Broosevelt (10) will say, “Trump won? Bummer.” If Kamala wins, he’ll say, “Is Kamala black?”
If Trump wins, Boni (10), our little empath, will cry because she senses that other people are sad. If Kamala wins, she’ll give me a celebratory hug and then spend 20 minutes in the bathroom reading The Unwanteds and pooping out all the mini-Snickers she’s eaten since Halloween.
________________________
If Trump wins, my students will take a mental health day, demand their feelings be validated, and beg for their work to be excused. If Kamala wins, they’ll feel empowered and cancel me for using the phrase “libtard.”
If Trump wins, my barely left-of-center, mostly white, middle-aged friends will publicly lament the direction our country has gone and privately high-five each other for lower taxes. If Kamala wins, they’ll feel relieved but not in the least bit excited.
If Trump wins, my progressive Zionist (not an oxymoron) brethren will be absolutely disgusted by his victory but sleep well at night knowing Israel will get all the shekels it wants. If Kamala wins, they’ll be happy their candidate won but wake up in a cold sweat due to fear that she will sell out Israel to Rashida Tlaib & Co.
If Trump wins, the woke left will shit its pants. If Kamala wins, they will demand radical action on climate change, reparations for descendants of slavery, and amnesty for undocumented migrants. None of their demands will be met. Four years from now, they will be in the exact same spot they are now: mostly well intentioned, mildly ignorant, and completely vilified.
If Trump wins, the alt right will continue to deny climate change, mock those who call for reparations, and form militias to deport illegal aliens when Trump quickly proves he can’t do it himself. If Kamala wins, the alt right will shit its pants. Four years from now, they will be in the exact same spot they are now: poorly intentioned, generally ignorant, and completely vilified.
________________________
If Trump wins, MSNBC will sow fear and loathing of the democratically elected dictatorial narcissist who has the codes to the nukes. If Kamala wins, it will wholeheartedly congratulate the first female president in the history of our nation and dangerously turn a blind eye to the 80 million Americans who voted for Trump in 2020 and will do so again tomorrow.
If Trump wins, Fox News will profusely apologize for ever having doubted him. If Kamala wins, it will not particularly subtly question the validity of the election.
If Trump wins, the Supreme Court will continue to take away women’s rights, foment corporate power and greed, and undermine any/all criminal prosecutions of the Donald. If Kamala wins, it will continue to take away women’s rights, foment corporate power and greed, and undermine any/all criminal prosecutions of the Donald.
If Trump wins, Congress will remain deeply polarized and combative. If Kamala wins, it will remain deeply polarized and combative.
If Trump wins, Biden will die of regret. If Kamala wins, Biden will die of dementia.
________________________
If Trump wins, he will fire everyone in the Department of Justice as well those in the Department of You Name It who do not demonstrate unwavering loyalty. He will continue to lie, cheat, and grab pussies. If Kamala wins, he will encourage another panty raid on the U.S. Capitol except this time his supporters will come to win.
If Trump wins, Kamala will concede defeat and express concern. If Kamala wins, she will enthusiastically thank her supporters for their dedication and do everything in her power to appease the corporations, I mean the citizens, that elected her.
________________________
Look, men may prefer a male president and white people may prefer a white candidate, but Kamala is gonna win tomorrow, and she’s gonna win big. You can say you heard it here first.
But her victory won’t mean shit when it comes to dealing with the real problems plaguing our nation. The left and the right are as far away from each other as they’ve ever been, holed up in their respective social media silos and perusing entirely different “facts.” Both groups feel they’re being left behind and both have valid points: Black Americans (Kamala supporters) continue to fight an uphill battle against a lack of generational wealth and non-college-educated White Americans (Trump supporters) are less prosperous by nearly every measure than the previous generation. Add to this division the fact that Citizens United continues to grab our country by the pussy and we have a recipe for indifference, resentment, and violence.
Kamala will be our next president but if we keep running around like a bunch of horny nerds with Delta Pi panties on our head, you can forget about January 6th because a real reckoning is coming.
It was a terrible, horrible, no good, magical day.
On a cool Saturday morning in mid-September, the sun has just risen when I wake up before my alarm to prepare for the championship. We’d reached the finals after thrashing most of our opponents over the warm summer months.
I wash the snot out of my eyes, brush my teeth, and get my things together: black flip-flops, white tennis shoes, pink hoodie, black sweats, extra t-shirts, extra socks, extra hat, two narrow-mouth Nalgene water bottles, electrolyte tablets, sunblock, a peanut butter sandwich, an orange, a banana, two freshly strung Prince Original Graphites, and a vial of hemlock.
I drink two glasses of water, do my business in the downstairs bathroom, give one or two children already on screens a kiss on the top of their unwashed, light-haired heads, and quietly close the back door behind me so as not to wake up the Sleeping Queen with Dark Circles Under Her Eyes resting quietly in our bedchamber.
I open the garage, slip into the reclined driver’s seat of the blue Nissan Leaf, back out, close the garage, and turn on 104.3 Jams, Chicago’s #1 for Throwbacks. I hear a faint whistling followed by “can’t be any geek off the street…” I turn up the volume and Warren G is my muse: “Regulators, mount up!”
I drive west with the sun at my back, toward Riis Park, a sprawling urban oasis with fields of grass, weeping willows, and ten tennis courts. A few miles in, as I pass the phở restaurants and Black-owned nail salons, 104.3 plays “Country Grammar.” I blast the volume and Nelly and I rap together with the windows wide open. The Leaf rises a couple of inches above the grey, pot-holed streets on the West Side of Chicago.
They’re all there: the middle-aged white ladies with sunglasses, visors, nametags, clipboards, and pens; the mostly 20-something opponents with thick thighs, poly strings, and palpable virginity; and my squad with 5 o’clock shadows, faithless wives, and Covid.
My doubles partner, Martin, is overweight and out of shape but 20 years younger than me and handsome. His dad is white and his mom is black. Chubby Martin has the body of a hippopotamus but the speed of a gazelle. He makes amazing shots and too many mistakes. He sweats profusely even though it’s doubles and barely over 60 degrees. He likes me because I’m likable and he wants to know more about me because I went to a Talib Kweli concert.
My team needs to win three of five matches and, by mid-morning, we’re down 2-1. Fat Martin and I are still playing, as is Young Dylan who, unfortunately, has Covid. Young Dylan is a white boy from St. Louis. He’s 29, unassuming, very good at tennis, and suffering from Covid. He never brings a bag or a second t-shirt. He shows up to the courts with a water bottle, two tennis racquets, and a demure Don Draper tattoo. Today, his shoulders are sagging because he has Covid.
Young Dylan’s opponent is the last person he or anyone else would ever want to play while suffering from Covid. His name is Enrique Ochoa, he is 38, and he is the love child of Cristiano Ronaldo, Rocky Balboa, and the Salamanca twins. He runs down every ball. He never hits hard and he never misses. He is caramel brown from the sun. His calves are veiny. He rarely speaks. He is a convicted murderer.
The sun, the temperature, and the pressure are rising. I try to focus on my match but Young Dylan’s match is riveting. Enrique Ochoa makes bad line calls but Young Dylan doesn’t have the energy to argue. Young Dylan refills his small plastic water bottle while Enrique Ochoa drinks nothing. The points are long and brutal. Young Dylan wins an important game but is practically in tears because he has Covid. Enrique Ochoa turns to the crowd and says, “If he dies, he dies.”
Young Dylan wins the match because he is the superior player. He stumbles off the court and sits on the grass with his back against a weeping willow and his head hung low. Squirrels nibble on the rubber of Young Dylan’s tennis shoes. He allows it because he is exhausted from Covid.
The team match is now tied 2-2, and it’s up to Fat Martin and me.
We go up 5-4 in the third set. If I hold serve, we win. I slow down between points. I focus on my breathing. I bounce the ball a few extra times. My throat feels dry and my anus feels tight.
I play a great first point but Fatboy Martin misses an easy volley. My arm feels heavy from the weight of the pressure and I miss too many first serves. On break point, Thunder Thighs across the net hits a 200mph inside-out forehand that clips the line.
We lose that game, we lose the next game, and we lose the game after that. We’ve lost the match 7-5 in the third set and we’ve lost the championship for our team. I recall that the vial of hemlock is packed in the side compartment of my black-and-white Prince tennis bag.
A lady with a visor hands me a sheath of plastic with 20 silver medals which weigh less than nothing. We stand glumly as our picture is taken. Young Dylan stands off to the side because he is social distancing and suffering from Covid.
I feel shame. My head hurts, my feet are sweaty, and my banana is warm. I don’t stretch. I climb into the Leaf and listen to “Ocean Eyes” by Billie Eilish. The drive back across town takes nearly an hour and the Leaf’s battery is critically low.
I open the garage, pull in, close the garage, and open the vial of hemlock. It’s empty, and its contents have spilled all over my precious Prince Original Graphites.
I open the back door and one of my unwashed, light-haired children says, “Hi, Daddy. Did you win?”
“No,” I say. “Daddy didn’t win.”
_____________________________
I spend the next seven hours in a fugue state but I have a date that night with She of the Dark Circles. I shower, shave, and brush my teeth again. I am feeling slightly better by the time we walk out the front door.
I’m wearing white shorts, a black t-shirt with images of a polar bear and a coat hanger, and flip-flops. I tie a light blue, long-sleeved t-shirt with an infinity sign around my waist in case it gets chilly, but the gentle heat hits me as the heavy wooden door closes behind me. I stand on the second step, look up at the full moon, take a deep breath, and inhale the warm September evening.
Halfway down the block, we stop to smell our neighbor’s lilies, admire the breadth of the oak trees, stare at the bright moon, and inhale our own greenery. And now we’re rolling 😊.
We round the corner, I turn to give Dark Circles a giant hug, and her brown eyes are glowing. She hugs me tight and I feel her warmth as well.
50 feet ahead, something looks peculiar. As we approach, we see that it’s bubbles. Our whimsical neighbor has set up a bubble machine and blue spotlight in their front yard so passersby walk through a mosaic of soft, luminescent, ephemeral bubbles. Brown Eyes and I pause in the bubbles, briefly kiss, and continue on our merry way.
We sit outside at a local bistro and are enveloped by the full moon, fairy lights laced through a matrix of latticework, and planters brimming with red petunias, orange marigolds, and yellow geraniums swimming in a sea of green leaves, sweet potato vines, and trailing ivy.
Our waiter is a gay Hispanic man with tattoos, tight black jeans, a white, low-cut, v-neck t-shirt, and thick, black-rimmed glasses resting low on his nose. He glows gold in the fairy lights and floats around the restaurant a couple inches above the sidewalk so his all-white, unlaced Air Max 1’s don’t get dirty.
I spread my baby blue infinity shirt over the back of my chair and take a deep breath as I look at Brown Eyes and settle in. We drink peach-colored aperol spritz and eat tender purple beets, sweet cherry tomatoes, soft white burrata, crispy green salad, and seared pink salmon.
Brown Eyes gives me a few minutes to process the morning’s defeat but we spend most of the time talking about I can’t remember and laughing about I have no idea. We don’t need dessert or a second aperol spritz because we’re happy with the bright sky, the fairy lights, and the purple hydrangea, but thank you anyway gay Mexican Buddy Holly.
We’re nearly done with dinner when more magic arrives. The stop light on the corner turns red and up pulls a man on a motorcycle. Actually it’s not a motorcycle; it’s a chopper, baby. The seat is reclined, the rearview mirrors are elevated, and the handlebars are high.
The man on the chopper is wearing dark sunglasses and has a pair of ski goggles on backwards. He has jet black skin but I can see him perfectly because the moon is shining and the red, green, and yellow stop lights have painted him rainbow.
The chopper is gently humming but the man’s speaker system is absolutely blasting “All Night Long” by Mary J. Blige, the Queen of Hip-Hop Soul. The man is nodding to the beat, swaying to the rhythm, and making sweet love to the chopper. He is half-man, half-hip-hop party, and all sex machine. Brown Eyes and I soak in his aura for 25 seconds or maybe an hour. The light turns green, the man drives away, and I can see his beautiful penis resting impressively on the chopper’s brown leather seat.
We finish our drinks, give Ricky Martin a giant tip, and walk home. It’s still warm. The moon is still full and the bubbles are still in the air. Everything is infinity. Brown Eyes and I frequently stop walking to embrace and French-kiss.
The unwashed, light-headed children are nowhere to be found when we walk through the front door, so Brown Eyes and I head to the bedchamber which, within minutes, is ablaze. It’s been a long day, but Fire Eyes and I are still and always in love. There is laughter, intensity, and tenderness, and Fire Eyes rests in my arms as we fall asleep thinking of hemlock, bubbles, and beets.
It was the spring of 1999 and I was floating up the Nile River on a canoe. The Egyptian gentleman with leathery hands guiding the canoe said to me, “Where you from?”
“The United States,” I said.
“Where in United States?”
“Colorado.”
“Columbine?”
Columbine?, I thought to myself. How does this motherlover know where Columbine is?
Columbine is a small suburb just south of Denver and, until April 20, 1999, was unknown to anyone not from Denver, let alone a leather-handed Egyptian canoe guide.
1999 was the Dark Ages of No Internet, particularly in rural Egypt, so when we got to a decent-sized town, I tracked down a newspaper and, sure enough, the headlines screamed of a school shooting at Columbine High School.
I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t mad. I was confused. A school shooting? Done by students at the school? Done in nondescript suburban Columbine by some white boys who looked like they got cut from the JV soccer team? What the fuck?
Columbine was, by no means, the first school shooting: In 1970, the National Guard killed four Kent State students; in 1976, custodian Edward Allaway killed seven students in a library at Cal State Fullerton; in 1989, Patrick Purdy killed five Southeast Asian refugee students at Cleveland Elementary School in Stockton, California; in 1992, alumnus Eric Houston killed three students and one teacher at a high school in Olivehurst, California; in 1998, after killing his parents, 15-year-old Kip Kinkel drove to Thurston High School in Springfield, Oregon where he killed two students. I left a bunch out but you catch my drift.
And you know what I know? That other than Kent State, you haven’t heard of any of these.
Neither had I. And that’s why I was so god damn confused when I picked up that newspaper on April 23rd-ish, 1999, in middle-of-nowhere Egypt.
Columbine was confusing for everyone. Who were Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold? How could they kill so many kids? Where and how did they get the guns? How the hell did they learn to make bombs? Why did they do it?
Cliques and bullying got blamed. Mental illness and psychiatric medications got blamed. The video game DOOM got blamed. Marilyn Manson got blamed. Michael Moore made a movie.
There were so many questions and so much confusion and yes, of course, so much anger and sadness, but mostly people just tried, unsuccessfully, to make sense of the thing.
Fast forward a few years and a few school shootings, and we arrive at Virginia Tech in 2007 when Seung-Hui Cho killed 32 students and faculty members. At the time, it was the deadliest mass shooting in the history of the United States, and it is still the deadliest school shooting ever. If Columbine was confusing, Virginia Tech was horrifying.
Fast forward another few years and a few more school shootings, and we arrive at Sandy Hook Elementary in Newtown, Connecticut in 2012 when Adam Lanza killed 20 first-graders. Columbine was confusing because Eric and Dylan were armed to the teeth. Virginia Tech was horrifying because so many people died. Sandy Hook was downright devastating. College kids? Terrible. High school kids? Awful. First-graders? C’mon now.
Fast forward another few years and a few more school shootings, and we arrive at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida in 2018 when Nikolas Cruz killed 17 people. To date, it is the deadliest mass shooting at a high school. It is also the school shooting which, thanks to the internet, social media, and the empowerment of the youth, provoked outrage. Parkland students formed an advocacy group and lobbied for gun control. For, like, one fleeting fucking second, I felt hope. Maybe, just maybe, we can do something about this plague…
Nope.
Fast forward another few years and a few more school shootings, and we arrive at Robb Elementary School in Uvalde, Texas in 2022 when Salvador Ramos killed 19 students between the ages of 9 and 11. Jesus man, again with the young ones? Outrage had turned to hope but now hope had turned to sadness and despair.
Fast forward two years and a few more school shootings, and we arrive at Apalachee High School near Winder, Georgia where, just two and a half weeks ago, two teachers and two students were killed by, allegedly, Cole Gray.
And I felt nothing.
(Do you remember this school shooting? Do you remember students at Apalachee High School getting gunned down while working on a stupid Algebra assignment two and a half weeks ago? No, you don’t. Because when it happened, you also felt nothing. I was gonna publish this post more than a week ago but realized there was no urgency because no one, including you and me, cares anymore.)
Okay, fine, I’ll just speak for myself: They won. They beat me. I’ve given up. I’m too tired. I’ve watched Bowling for Columbine more than once, I’ve lobbied for gun control, and I’ve taught classes about special interests in American politics. But now I’m indifferent and I realize there’s nothing I can do about it. School shootings are now, school shootings are tomorrow, and school shootings are forever.
But let me discuss yesterday for a quick sec because yesterday was also fucked.
Guns are in our blood and efforts to limit them have been too little and too late. The British imposed a gunpowder embargo on some American colonies in the 1770s and look how that ended. In the early 1800s, some folks from Kentucky (of all places) tried to limit the practice of “concealed carry” but by 1822, the state ruled that the “right of citizens to bear arms in defense of themselves and the State must be preserved entire.” To be clear, the “arms” in question was a sword cane, not a Beretta M12 semi-automatic submachine gun, but let’s not split hairs.
Gun reform was trending in the 20th century, though many millions of guns were produced and sold and many thousands of Americans died.
The National Firearms Act of 1934 allowed the federal government to regulate machine guns and other weapons but it was passed only after thousands died from gun violence during Prohibition.
The Gun Control Act of 1968 regulated firearms commerce and ownership but it was passed only after John F. Kennedy, Bobby Kennedy, Martin Luther King Jr., and Malcolm X (amongst others) were shot and killed.
The Brady Handgun Violence Prevention Act of 1993 mandated background checks and a waiting period for firearms purchases but it was passed only after an unsuccessful assassination attempt on Ronald Reagan and a successful assassination attempt on John Lennon.
The Federal Assaults Weapon Ban of 1994 prohibited the manufacturing of certain assault weapons for civilian use but it was passed only after the aforementioned 1989 school shooting in Stockton, California.
Of note: The Federal Assaults Weapon Ban expired in 2004 and has not been renewed.
Also of note: Almost 30,000 people died from guns in 2000 and almost 45,000 people died from guns in 2020. In other words, these reforms may have slowed but certainly did not stop the gun violence epidemic you and I and every other American are currently experiencing.
But who cares? Not me.
The NRA is too powerful. It successfully markets itself as “America’s longest-standing civil rights organization,” it has millions of members, and it helped pass a 1997 amendment that prohibits the CDC, our nation’s leading public health organization, from advocating for gun control. In 2008, the Supreme Court explicitly and directly protected an individual’s (as opposed to only a “militia’s”) right to possess firearms for certain purposes such as self-defense. Well done, American democracy. I concede.
The military-industrial complex is too powerful. The United States spends nearly $1 trillion annually on its military and more on defense than the next 13 countries combined. The Pentagon’s budget exceeds the combined budgets of the Departments of Education, Energy, Health and Human Services, Housing and Urban Development, Labor, and State. Well done, Lockheed Martin. I concede.
The culture of gun ownership is too powerful. 1/3rd of American adults say they own a gun. My Christian friend in California owns a gun. My Jewish friend in Chicago owns a gun. There are approximately 350 million Americans in America and 450 million guns in America. Well done, Charlton Heston. I concede.
If you know me, you know that my first car was a red Saturn and that my second car was a green Saturn and that on both of those Saturns, I had a bumper sticker that said, “If you’re not outraged, you’re not paying attention.”
For most of my life, that was my mantra. I believed in it fully. But now I’m not so sure because I’m still paying attention but I feel nothing. I feel numb. I feel desensitized. I feel hopeless. School shootings have always been a thing and always will be a thing.
We have a problem on our hands that we can’t (or won’t) get rid of. Enact common-sense gun reform? Maybe. Produce fewer guns? Unlikely. Repeal the 2nd amendment? C’mon now.
If you know me, you might think this post will end with a message of hope. It won’t: School shootings now. School shootings tomorrow. School shootings forever.
I know we don't actually know each other but I feel like you're my brother from another mother. We're both white. We're both Jewish. We're both bald. We both wear glasses. We both love hoops. We're both financially stable. We both have a B.A. in Political Science. You're a lawyer and my mom wanted me to be a lawyer. You lived in Chicago and I live in Chicago. Your people died in Auschwitz and my people died in Auschwitz. See what I'm saying? I feel like we could switch bodies like in Freaky Friday and no one would even notice. I'd have no trouble running a multi-billion dollar global corporation and you'd do just fine teaching ugly 16-year-olds how to read and write good.
Before I tell you why I'm writing you this letter, I want to make it absolutely clear that I am not your average basketball fan.
I'm a connoisseur. I appreciate basketball like Sidney Deane "hears Jimi" in White Men Can't Jump.
I'm a savant. I understand basketball like Rain Man understands toothpicks.
I'm an enthusiast. I love basketball like a "fat kid love cake" (50 Cent).
I'm a junkie. I'm as addicted to hoops as Pookie is to crack in New Jack City: "The shit just be callin' me man. It be callin' me."
Chapter 1: Playing
There's never been a time in my life that I wasn't playing hoops. When I was 5, I played in the driveway with my brothers and ran down the hill behind our house when one of us shot an air-ball. When I was 8, I made the Philadelphia YMCA All-Star team and played on the floor of the Spectrum during halftime of a '76ers game. When I was 11, I made the winning shot against my Denver YMCA's team archrival. When I was 14, I broke my nose when a kid on the other team threw a pass into my face from four feet away.
I'm a bit embarrassed to share with you, Adam, that I didn't play on my high school team my junior or senior year, but it was only because the fascists at my school didn't allow students to be in the musical and play on the basketball team. Yes, I can sing; yes, I was the lead in West Side Story and Guys and Dolls; and, yes, I had relations with my female co-stars. (We can discuss that further offline.)
Where was I? Oh right. Even though I didn’t play on my high school team, I played in a rec league with my friends and played 3-on-3 with my friends and my brothers and my brothers' friends every night, all summer, every summer. In college, despite playing on the tennis team for four years (yes, I’m also a multi-sport athlete, no biggie), I played pick-up in the gym all the time.
In 1998, I lived in Washington, D.C. and played at a local park with all black dudes. One time there was a series of gunshots right next to the courts. I felt scared.
In 1999, I lived in Israel and played on a kibbutz with all Israelis. Not only do Israelis foul like they’re being attacked by Hezbollah but they also call fouls when you breathe on them. I felt annoyed.
In 2000, I lived in Cincinnati and played at a local park with all black dudes. They called me Eminem. I felt cool.
From 2001 to 2003, I lived in Boulder and played in the University of Colorado gym with mostly white dudes. I touched the rim for the first time in my life and had finally learned how to shoot. I felt proud.
Starting in 2003, I went back to Israel every summer and played at Gan Hapa’amon, a park less than one mile from the Old City in Jerusalem. Many of the dudes wore yarmulkes when they played. Lots of the dudes spoke Russian. The Palestinians usually played on their own court. I felt confused.
From 2003 to 2009, I lived in Denver and played with the teachers and coaches at my school. I also played as much as possible with the kids I coached. Quick story: One of the best players I ever helped coach was a kid named Kyle Lewis. In the fall of Kyle’s sophomore year, I guarded him the entire afternoon in a series of pick-up games. He destroyed me. I went home and cried in my future wife’s arms because I felt old and tired and beaten.
But I kept playing. I moved to Chicago in 2009 and for the next ten years played every Thursday for two hours with a bunch of North Shore Jews and one South Side Mexican at Sheridan Park Rec Center near UIC. We showered together and partied together. I felt happy.
In 2013, I played for the 35+ U.S.A. men’s basketball team in the Maccabiah games in Tel Aviv. The dudes were mostly investment bankers from the East Coast and I was pretty much the last man off the bench. I felt unfulfilled.
Since 2017, I’ve played with a motley crew at 6am at Sheil Park, less than a mile from my house in Chicago. Old dudes, young dudes, fat dudes, skinny dudes, tall dudes, short dudes. I feel inspired.
I love hoops, Adam, and as you can see from my exhaustive resume, I plan on playing for the rest of my life or “‘til the roof comes off, ‘til the lights go out, ‘til my legs give out” (Nate Dogg).
Okay, fine, so I’ve played a lot of basketball and can make cool hip-hop references but you still may not trust that I’m a reliable source to give you some feedback. Did I mention I coach?
Chapter 2: Coaching
In 1999, I was the head of the middle school girls’ basketball program at my teaching job in Cincinnati. The girls hated me cuz I worked them so hard. (Sorry, it probably sounds weird when a reference is made to a grown man working young girls really hard. I only meant to indicate that I made them run a lot so we could full-court press our opponents.)
From 2002 to 2008, I was the 9th grade boys’ basketball coach and the Varsity assistant at my teaching job in Denver. We nearly won a state championship but, no joke, Kyle Lewis forgot to bring his hoop shoes to what turned out to be our final playoff game.
From 2009 to 2015, I was the 9th grade boys’ basketball coach at my teaching job in Chicago. We usually practiced at 6am before school and the boys brought swimsuits for the shower. (Sorry, it probably sounds weird when a coach knows about his players’ shower habits. I only meant to indicate that these boys were insecure little nerds who felt uncomfortable being naked around each other.)
I took a hiatus from coaching after one too many children came out of my wife’s vagina but I recently got back in the mix. A couple years ago, I coached my oldest daughter’s horrid 8th grade basketball team and, last year, my son’s soft 4th grade team.
It’s not just the coaching, however, that should prove to you I am worth listening to; it’s my obsession over teaching kids to use their left hand, my fascination with how to beat a 2-3 zone, and my admiration for anyone who sets a flare screen. I can’t tell you how many late nights I’ve spent lying in bed, wide awake, diagramming plays, when my wife snuggles up to me and, half-asleep, says, “Are you thinking about basketball?”
Yes, Adam, I’m always thinking about basketball, even when I’m not playing, coaching, or watching it. And trust me when I tell you that I’ve watched a lot of basketball. Bear with me one more minute, won’t you?
Chapter 3: Watching
When I was 7, I watched a bunch of ‘76ers games in the Spectrum from the second row and, I believe, single-handedly willed Moses Malone & Co. to a championship season.
When I was 13, I watched the Nuggets make a deep playoff run and became best friends with Nuggets superstar and Hall of Famer Alex English. Well, maybe not “best friends” exactly, but see I was good friends with this kid named Brent Farber who was one of the richest Jews in Colorado, and Brent’s family bought Alex English at an auction. (Sorry, it probably sounds weird when a reference is made to a white family buying a black man at an auction. I only meant to indicate that the Farber family paid a large sum of money for Alex English’s services. Shoot, that still sounds weird.) Whatever, long story short: Mr. English came to Brent’s house and shot around for an hour with Brent and me and one other dude, and he and I have been best friends ever since.
When I was 17, I sat in the upper deck of McNichols Arena and went absolutely nuts as the Nuggets won the first of three straight games against the Sonics to become the only #8 seed to defeat a #1 seed. I’d recently been fired from the only real job I’d ever had and my second high school girlfriend had just dumped me (like the first one did) but all was well because Mahmoud Abdul-Rauf & Co. had made history. (By the way, I was not pleased with your predecessor, David Stern, blackballing Abdul-Rauf for his silent protest during the national anthem. We can discuss that further offline.)
When I was 20, I watched the Bulls play the Sonics in the NBA Finals on a small, black-and-white TV with an antenna in San Jose, Costa Rica. I slept on the floor every night, ate rice and beans for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and explained to everyone in my broken Spanish that Gary Payton’s nickname, “the Glove,” had nothing to do with condoms.
When I was 22, I graduated college in California and drove across the country to my new job in New York. Along the way, I made a detour in Chicago to watch Game 5 of the Eastern Conference Finals between the Bulls and the Pacers. I sat in the upper deck by myself and cheered wildly for MJ & Co. I was also the only one in the United Center to recognize and get a picture with the “black Zorro’s” teammate from White Men Can’t Jump. You know, the “big, bad, Gomer Pyle, droopy-eyed son of a bitch.” (Adam and dear readers of Saul, if you know this reference, congratulations, you are as much of a basketball junkie as I am.)
When I was 28, I was in Israel during the NBA Finals and my wife’s dear old tired aunt explained to me how to use the TV because I was planning on waking up at 4am to watch my boy Chauncey Billups dominate. (Sorry, it probably sounds weird when a white man refers to a black man as his “boy.” I only meant to indicate that Chauncey and I have a special connection cuz he and I are both from Denver and I watched him play in high school.) I couldn’t figure out how to work the TV and was therefore forced to wake up that dear old tired aunt in the middle of the night. She was not pleased but she understood that Chauncey and I were boys.
When I was 30, I was in a small town in Sweden during the NBA Finals and there was no Eurosport in our hotel, so I jogged two miles into the town center every other day at 3am in hopes of finding some bar or hotel that was open. I don’t remember how successful I was but I do remember having an icky feeling inside after the Mavs were up 2-0 and then somehow the Heat won four games in a row and Dwyane Wade shot 8,000 free throws cuz the Mavs suddenly forgot how to play defense without fouling. As my son would say, “it was sus.” (Much more on this soon when I finally get to the point of this letter.)
When I was 36, I watched LeBron and DWade and Bosh win their first championship and I felt gross. When I was 37, I watched them win another one and I felt disgust. When I was 41, I watched KD and Steph and Klay win their first championship and I felt disdain. When I was 42, I watched them win another one and I felt violated.
But when I was 47, I watched the Nuggets win their first championship and I felt complete and total joy. All had been forgiven, the world was a happy place, and I loved my wife and children again.
This bliss was ephemeral, however, and now I will share with you, Adam Silver, my thesis: You have ruined basketball.
Chapter 4: Ruination
I know this is hard to hear, Adam, but I really need you not to be defensive right now. My intentions are noble and my only purpose is to protect the integrity of this beautiful game. Okay, so where do I start?
Traveling. It is not an exaggeration to say that anyone who knows anything about the NBA knows that traveling is basically no longer a thing. I normally like to paint pictures with words but if you’ll please watch this quick video and then go kill yourself, I would appreciate it.
I mean, c'mon man. Watch any game over the last 20 years and you'll likely see an egregious travel violation in about five seconds. Dudes travel when they receive the ball. Dudes travel on fast breaks. Dudes travel cuz they don't even know it's traveling.
Carrying. Was Iverson's crossover a carry? Probably not. Does KD carry the ball as he prances around the court like a Maasai ballerina? Maybe. Do Ja Morant and Luka Doncic and Jayson Tatum carry the ball practically every time they touch it? Abso-fuckin'-lutely. How can anyone play defense any more?
Illegal Screens. If the pick ’n roll were easy, then no one would know who John Stockton and Karl Malone are because their ability to run it would not have been special. But the pick ’n roll is hard, or at least it used to be. Nowadays, Steph brings the ball up and receives a (moving) screen from Draymond nearly 50 feet from the basket. Steph’s defender barely even tries to get around the screen cuz Draymond has been allowed by you, Adam, to do anything he wants. Some 6’10 stiff with slow feet is now guarding the greatest shooter of all time and it’s night-night. I know you want to free Steph and all these other chuckers for a 35-footer because the 3-ball is so sexy but for me and, I believe, thousands of other basketball purists, the sweet sound of the swish when Steph sinks his signature shot has been soured by Draymond’s shoulders in someone’s esophagus. You know how Steph taps his heart and points to the sky after he scores? He’s not thanking God. He’s thanking you, Adam, for granting Draymond screening impunity so he can bask in the rays of 35-foot glory.
Offensive Fouls. When Trae Young shot-fakes, gets his defender in the air, and then leaps into that defender as he’s shooting, that’s an offensive foul. When James Harden throws his arms into the defender’s arms, that’s an offensive foul. When Jaylen Brown launches himself into the defender’s chest, that’s an offensive foul. It doesn’t matter if the defender is moving. It doesn’t matter if the defender is 6’11, 260. It doesn’t matter, Adam, that you think more scoring sells more tickets. Rules matter. Fairness matters. Black Lives Matter, and you are enabling black-on-black crime by letting Player X physically injure Player Y.
Embiid got called for a foul here but you and I both know plays like these often go unnoticed.
Whining. Serbia doesn’t seem like a “whiney” country. I haven’t been there but it doesn’t strike me as a place where young men are allowed to bitch and moan. I think that in Serbia athletes and soldiers are expected to follow orders from their coach or commander and keep their mouths shut when they don’t like a referee’s call or, hypothetically, have perpetrated violence against civilians in Bosnia. Nikola Jokic is a basketball unicorn with hands made of the softest, sweetest butter, and when he played basketball in Serbia as a 16-year-old, I’m pretty sure he didn’t chirp at the refs. But now look what you’ve done to him, Adam. He saw LeBron chirping at the refs. He saw Chris Paul chirping at the refs. He saw Luka chirping at the refs. He saw every player (and coach and assistant coach and fan and owner) chirp at the refs and now he chirps at the refs. I’m telling you, Adam, if I read another article about which refs players respect and which refs are “always getting in the way” (Patrick Beverley, 2020), I’m gonna hunt you down. Refs should disappear into the game. Refs should not be on camera. As a fan, I shouldn’t know any of the refs’ names. You gotta tell these players to shut the hell up, Adam. You gotta keep ‘em on a tighter leash. (Sorry, it probably sounds weird when one white man encourages another white man to keep hundreds of black men on a leash. I only meant to indicate that players in the NBA should be strongly discouraged from complaining to the referees.)
I saw you on TV watching hoops at the Olympics, Adam, and I know you saw what I saw. You saw a brand of basketball that was basically unrecognizable to Americans like me who only watch the NBA: no traveling, no carrying, no illegal screens, offensive fouls that were actually called fouls, and almost zero whining. It was rough. It was beautiful. It was war. It was poetry. It was basketball exactly as basketball should be.
When I watch an NBA game on TV or highlights on YouTube, I’m bitching and moaning within two minutes. I’m not looking for something to whine about though, Adam. I’ve always loved watching the NBA and I just wanna not do the dishes and not listen to my wife complain about work or me not doing the dishes. All I want is to sit there, zone out, and enjoy some hoops. But you won’t let me. And now my kids hate me because I’m always yelling at the screen and rewinding to show them something egregious that happened.
But when I watched those Olympics games, it was completely different. Quick story: I was watching Canada play Spain and as Kelly Olynk was dribbling down the court, he threw out his right arm and hit his defender in the face. By the time I had finished yelling, “That’s a foul!,” a ref had blown his whistle. I was not only happily surprised the call had been made but I also realized I’d been dead silent for the previous 20 minutes because there was absolutely nothing to complain about. The refs were doing their job, the players had seamlessly adjusted, I wasn’t barking at the television, and my children were no longer scared of me.
Here’s what I think happened, Adam: Magic and Bird brought the game to life, Jordan took it to another level, and Shaq and Kobe kept your big-city market dreams alive. But then something else happened: A gritty team from Detroit (led, of course, by my “boy” Chauncey) won in 2004, the zero star-power Spurs won yet again in 2005, and some giant white man from Germany named Dirk was about to win in 2006. So you, David Stern, and a few other Jews who, collectively, control the NBA, global politics, and international financial institutions, said enough is enough: We need some stars. (Sorry, it probably sounds weird when Jews are described as controlling the NBA, global politics, and international financial institutions. I only meant to indicate that Jews control the NBA, global politics, and international financial institutions.) And Dwyane Wade was born. Don’t get me wrong, I like DWade. He was smooth as hell and has a cute face. But you gifting the Heat the 2006 championship by allowing DWade to throw his body into helpless Mavericks defenders and then calling a foul on those bewildered defenders was, I believe, the beginning of the end. (2006 was also the year I got engaged, but I’m sure that’s just a coincidence. We can discuss that further offline.)
Fast forward to 2016 and you know who the new Dwyane Wade was? James Harden. James. Edward. Harden. 🤮🤮🤮
It’s not the fact that Harden doesn’t play defense. It’s not the fact that Harden has, like, the worst fucking personality ever. It’s not even the fact that hundreds of Ukrainian freedom-fighters are hiding in Harden’s gnarly beard. The reason everyone hates Harden is because he embodies everything that’s wrong with the NBA.
Here’s the play-by-play Jeff Van Gundy (former NBA commentator laid off, allegedly, for being overly critical of the refs) wished he could have done in 2016: “Harden brings the ball down the court and receives a wildly illegal screen from Clint Capela. Harden dribbles right, dribbles left, dribbles right again, and then clearly carries the ball as he crosses back over to the left. Harden commits an obvious travel as he steps back into a 3-pointer but, hold on, Harden somehow keeps his dribble alive, attacks the rim, forearms one defender in the face, throws his shoulder into another, scores, and then screams at the ref for not calling a foul. And there it is folks, another completely fabricated 40-point game for the Beard!”
It’s a slippery slope, Adam: By giving Dwyane Wade too much freedom in 2006, you ended up with James Harden in 2016, this insanely long letter in 2024, and this shameful video.
And the defender, Ricky Rubio, got called for the foul lololol.
Chapter 5: Hope
It’s time to make some changes, Adam. Scoring records don’t mean anything if you’ve disabled defenders. Real fans can distinguish between legit superstars and fake ones. There’s a reason no one likes Jayson Tatum. You can do it, Adam. You issued flagrant fouls when the Bad Boys crossed the line. You stopped the hand-checking when the Rockets-Knicks final turned into trench warfare. You moved the 3-point line in and then back out again. You’ve recognized that NBA players can and should be able to freely smoke the ganja. You’re a progressive, Adam, and I am totally confident you can stop this descent into madness.
I know things seem to be going well, Adam. I know the NBA expands every year and that there are millions of new fans in China, Turkey, and South Sudan. I know that the NBA was worth less than $1 billion in 1984 and is worth nearly $100 billion in 2024. But you’re losing fans like me, Adam. Your brother from another mother. The guy who has always been in love with basketball but can’t stand it anymore. The guy who knows NBA players are the best athletes in the world but can’t even sit through an entire playoff game. The guy who obsesses over all things basketball but now can’t stop obsessing over how messed it up it is.
50 Cent got shot. Pookie dies. Rain Man goes back to the institution. I don’t want to end up like them, Adam. I appreciate you reading this entire letter and I know you’re listening but right now I really need you to hear me.
