Cocaine Vibes

Panini and I were in the car last week and “I Just Might” by Bruno Mars came on the radio. I was like, “This song is on the party playlist,” and she was like, “It is?! You bitch. This song is lame. You’re not having a 4th grade birthday party.” I was like, “You’re right. You’re right. I’m such a loser. I’ll take it off the playlist right now,” and she was like, “Damn right you will. You don’t want 4th grade birthday party apple juice vibes. You want cocaine vibes.”

I was at dinner with my tennis friends a couple weeks ago and my friend Sam, who has done his fair share of cocaine, looked me dead in the eye and said, “You know your party’s gonna suck unless there’s a shit ton of cocaine.”

Last week at work, my colleague told me she got a text from another colleague who asked, “Hey, is [Saul’s] party gonna be a weed party or a cocaine party?”

The odds of there actually being cocaine at the party is around 4% and the odds of me doing cocaine at the party is around 0.04% but that’s not the point. The point is that this party will have, must have, cocaine vibes.

And I simply can’t tell you how badly in need I am of a party with cocaine vibes. I grade essays for 8-10 hours a day; I haven’t seen the sun in days. I drive my kids to and from their sporting events from 4:30 to 8:30 every evening; I haven’t had a drink in weeks. I fall asleep at 8:45 every night; I haven’t had sex in months.

I recently went to the doctor who, in addition to telling me my “shit was all fucked up and that [I] talk like a fag” (Idiocracy), told me I had high cholesterol, low vitamin D, and high bilirubin which he described as “Gilbert’s syndrome, a nonsymptomatic liver condition afflicting inbred Eastern European shtetl Jews.” He said cocaine, or even just cocaine vibes, is an effective treatment.

A few weeks ago, I woke up early on a Saturday morning, brushed my teeth, did my business, and started to put on my basketball clothes because I still fancy myself a basketball player who plays basketball. 60 seconds later, due to absolutely nothing at all, I was sitting on the side of my bed, gasping for air because I’d somehow tweaked a muscle in my back which, when I breathed, caused sharp, debilitating pain. I couldn’t move for the next hour and couldn’t take a deep breath for the rest of the day. Things got better but a week or so later, I reaggravated it playing tennis and couldn’t sneeze for days after. I have a physical therapy appointment on May 22, the day before the party. I’ll find out what’s going on and then on May 23, we’ll lock the bathroom door, get a credit card and some blow, and discuss my physical ailments.

This party, these cocaine vibes, are pretty much the only thing I’m looking forward to any more, so much so that I’m scared of the day after when things go back to normal, my friends from out of town head back home, the Boss asks when the disco ball is coming down, and my cholesterol keeps going up. I feel like it’s 25th Hour and this is my last big night before I go to prison forever. I feel like it’s Leaving Las Vegas and I need to drink myself to death because the alternative is worse. I feel like it’s Scarface and I need to snort every ounce of cocaine in the entire world because the bad guys are comin’ to get me.

The Boss and I spent an embarrassing amount of money on alcohol and the Boss spent I don’t even know how much on the food. My bestie from Italy spent his inheritance to fly in for the weekend and sleep in Broosevelt’s room. My 81-year-old GOAT mom spent all her miles on Southwest Airlines to be here for eleven days and crash in the basement. I continue to spend an inordinate amount of time on the playlist and will also be spending a large sum of money on a bunch of pre-rolls because, let’s face it, at the end of the day, this is a weed party, not a cocaine party. That said, I need you all to bring your best cocaine vibes cuz fuckin’ YOLO, vamos, si se puede, and say hello to my little friend!

Wear pink.

Saul's 50th

In the 1980s in Denver, Kool 105 was the oldies station that played Elvis, Buddy Holly, and the Beatles. By the 1990s, it was the rock station that played Bon Jovi, Guns N’ Roses, and Def Leppard. My WWII-era parents no longer had a radio station. The powers that be had decided their generation was no longer relevant.

In 2025 in Chicago, 104.3 Jams was the hip hop station that played Outkast, Biggie, and Lauryn Hill. In 2026, it became a sports talk radio station and hip hop is now “played” on B96 where you can hear a lot of Taylor Swift and, if you’re lucky, shitty Nicki Minaj songs. I no longer have a radio station. The powers that be have decided my generation is no longer relevant. I am culturally obsolete, commercially worthless, and socially expired.

However, like the old man in Monty Python and the Holy Grail who, despite being completely alive, gets tossed on a pile of corpses, I am here to tell anyone who will listen, “I’m not dead yet!” So to prove that point, I am having a desperate-for-attention, one-last-gasp, kick-ass 50th birthday party, and you are invited.

Venue: I’m not taking a trip for my 50th. I’m not renting out some cheesy bar on the top of a hotel. I’m having a mother. f*cking. house party. And if things go well, many perimenopausal mothers will drink, dance, debauch, and at the end of the  night when they go home tired and happy, get motherf*cked like it’s 1999.

Attire: If you’ve known me long enough that you came to my house parties circa 2001 (the year the Boss and I met……at a house party), you already know what you’ll be wearing: pink. Back when 104.3 was still a thing, we had Halloween parties, black and white parties, and, of course, pink parties. Pink is gay. Pink is festive. Pink pops. Pink makes ladies feel young and happy and makes dudes feel open and free. Wear pink: pink shirts, pink hats, pink shoes, and, if you’re a bad ass motherf*cker like my friend Brett, a head-to-toe pink suit bought on Amazon for $100.

Playlist: Go f*ck yourself. You don’t need to worry about the playlist. I got it. I may be a bad father and a terrible husband but I know (or, at least, once knew) how to get people on the dance floor. If I may speak to the perimenopausal mothers again, you can forget about Madonna and Wham!, you can hope for Michael Jackson and Bruno Mars, and you can expect Mary J Blige and Tupac. If you have playlist requests, please let me know or, better yet, keep ‘em to your goddamn self so I can singlehandedly resurrect 104.3 Jams and the hedonism of my youth.

Food: Come hungry. The Boss’ job is food; mine is music. The Boss likes nurturing and providing sustenance and nursing from her breasts; I like to do the worm. The Boss likes to stuff people with warm bread bowls and spinach dip to honor the suffering and starvation of the Holocaust; I like to play “Mo Money Mo Problems” to honor Diddy’s legacy.

Drinks: I pushed back against getting a bartender cuz it felt bougie and not my vibe but there’s gonna be a bartender who will be serving beer, wine, jack and coke, aperol spritz, white Russians, and anything else your desperate, lonely, sad, “functional alcoholic” self needs, Adham.

Weed: “I had to back up off it and put my cup down. Tanqueray and chronic, yeah I’m f*cked up now…” - Snoop Dogg, “Gin and Juice,” 104.3 Jams

Kids: Hell no. Get a babysitter and tell ‘em you’re gonna be home late or never. Better yet, leave ‘em with the in-laws so you can pass out on my couch and at 6am do the, Did Saul touch me like Diddy touched them? walk of pride, I mean shame.

Parking: Park on Ashland or park in the neighborhood and come pester the Boss for a parking sticker. She will be more than happy to help you as she simultaneously caters to my every need. Wait, why am I talking about parking? Uber: You’re gonna be r-word wasted.

Logistics: Evening of Saturday, May 23 at the McMansion with the putrid columns on West Grace. Yes, I’m aware that’s Memorial Day weekend and, yes, Jonathan, you will come back from your lake house in Michigan or, Dana, fly in with your family from Florida, or, Christine, bring the whole clan from Colorado. I love you all.

Disco Ball: I have a video of Panini when she was four, sitting on the floor in the family room doing a puzzle. Without looking up, she said, “Daddy, can we please listen to the music with the disco bob?”

I said, “The disco bob?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s a disco bob?”

“A disco bulb.”

“A disco bulb. What’s a disco bulb?”

“Remember? You know what a disco bulb is. [Groans.] You know daddy.”

“A disco bulb?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know what a disco bulb is.”

“A disco bulb! Remember? That thing. [Points to disco ball]. That thing.”

“Oh, I thought that was a disco ball.”

“A disco ball. [Laughs.]”

“Yeah.”

“Bulb. Gross.”

You can watch the actual video when you come to the party. My point is that I own a disco ball, that I used it many times between 1999 and 2014, and that I can’t wait to use it again in 2026 cuz I probably won’t use it again until 2036 when I turn 60 and, technically, am still “not dead yet.”

People: My tennis friends will be there. My basketball friends will be there. My neighborhood friends will be there. My mom and my brothers and their WAGS will be there. Some Jews will be there. Some Christians will be there. Hopefully two Muslims from Persia will be there. Some city folks will be there. Some suburban folks will be there. Hopefully some folks from Italy, Germany, and Israel will be there. Lots of white people will be there but there will definitely be some Asians, there will probably be some Blacks, and there will hopefully be some Hispanics because Bad Bunny is on the playlist, diversity is important, and our dear friend Juanita will be there. Juanita loves 104.3, hates men, and is looking for a man.

Guests: Bring your friends if they’re cool and like to dance. If they’re single and would like to meet Juanita, even better.

Shoes: We don’t normally allow shoes in the house per our Japanese ancestry but we will allow them for this party. If, however, you are a chick who wears heels or a dude who wears dress shoes, you clearly don’t understand the vibe of this party, you are not my friend, and I’m not sure why you're still reading. The move is to wear old Nikes like my barely functional alcoholic friend Adham whose Nikes look like hand-me-downs from a homeless person or, better yet, take off your shoes and spend the evening in the pink socks you’ll receive as a party gift for attending Saul’s 50th Bar Mitzvah.

Presents: Do not bring a present. If you bring a present, I will throw it in the trash.

Miscellaneous: We have a deck in the back and I really hope some of you enjoy yourselves so much that you start ripping fags out there. Please grab a white ceramic cereal bowl for your ashes or drop them in the neighbors’ yard to the west. Neighbors to the east are cool. Neighbors to the west need some ashes in their yard. Hopefully it’ll be a warm evening and the party will spill outside and the cops will be called and we can all pretend we’re in high school again and that 104.3 is still a thing.

Jane

Freezing day in early February. Northwest side of Chicago. Public high school full of black and brown kids. First round of girls’ basketball city playoffs. Gym filled with screaming coaches, players, and fans. Total chaos.

Panini’s team is down by one with ten seconds left. Other team is inbounding the ball while Panini’s team is in tight man-to-man trying to get a steal. Panini chases her girl out to half court and the inbounder throws a tentative, telegraphed pass. Panini steals the ball, dribbles down left side of the court with her left hand, and rises up for a left-handed lay-up with six seconds left...

___

Hold on. Let me back up a second. Panini’s team is 2-23. They’re not good. Panini is the best player on the team but I think I’ve made it abundantly clear over the past however many years that she is a good player but not a great one. She’s had a decent season personally and the team has had a terrible season collectively. The girls, however, are generally cool and Panini has enjoyed being captain. In sum, a relatively enjoyable season but certainly no shining moments.

This game feels different though. In her team’s first three possessions, Panini shoots three times and scores six points. She’s in a zone. Her fourth shot, which she misses by a mile, is a full-on “heat check,” so it’s all good. She plays okay the rest of the game and finds herself on the freethrow line with 90 seconds left and her team down by four. Panini is the best free throw shooter on the team but as she steps to the line, I can feel her nerves from the upper row of the bleachers where I sit in my perch of judgement, condemnation, and a hope that kills. She misses both. To the layman, she is not clearly upset. To her father, she is visibly distraught.

Panini’s team somehow scores a couple buckets and the game is now tied with 30 seconds left. A girl on the other team makes a wild 20-foot jumper but gets a technical foul for taunting. Panini is chosen to shoot the freethrows and, as she steps to the line, I can hear her trying to calm herself down from the upper row of the bleachers where I sit in my perch of pity, disdain, and a hope that kills. Panini swishes the first. The crowd goes wild. They’re down by one. She bricks the second and, for those of you keeping track, has now missed three of her last four freethrows. Her team has the ball though so there’s still a chance. They throw it in, dribble up the court, and somehow fumble it out of bounds. Awful, unforced turnover, and the other team now has possession with 20 seconds left and a one-point lead.

Panini’s team plays tough defense and forces their opponents to call a time-out with ten seconds left. And now we’re back to where I left off: Panini steals the inbounds pass, dribbles up the left side of the court with her left hand, rises up for a left-handed lay-up, and…

___

Hold up. Let me back up a second. You may remember a post from a couple years ago which is ultimately about my dad but also tells the story of the only shining moment in my mediocre basketball career. As I’m sure you remember, I stole a pass, dribbled up the left side of the court, and sank a game-winning lay-up as my dad rose from his seat, swelling with pride, arms lifted in the air, fists clenched in triumph. Suffice it to say that 40 years later as I watched my progeny steal a pass, dribble up the left side of the court, and rise up for a potential game-winning lay-up, it was kinda cool.

___

So there she is, dribbling toward the rim with a defender draped on her right shoulder. Panini rises up for the left-handed lay-up and softly, sweetly, smoothly kisses that shit off the backboard. The ball gently falls through the net as Panini’s team goes up by one and the seconds start to tick away, 6…5…4…

___

Neurodivergence is an interesting word. And when I say “interesting,” what I really mean is: vague, unclear, broad, loose, euphemistic, inane. Its denotation is “divergence in mental or neurological function from what is considered typical or normal.” Shiiiiit, by that definition, I would be considered neurodivergent. Alas, my doctors tell me I am not entitled to medical treatment and that I should just stop all the whining.

A young lady on Panini’s team named “Jane” is neurodivergent. Jane is not autistic but she has significant learning disabilities, some of which manifest on the basketball court. Jane laughs after she commits violent fouls. Jane drives to the rim and takes five steps instead of the legally allotted two. Jane throws 60-foot baseball passes that end up in the wrestling room. When a ball careens off the rim toward Jane, she spikes it 30 feet out-of-bounds like a volleyball. Jane plays really hard but she is super weird. Apologies, I rescind that statement. Jane is not weird; Jane is neurodivergent.

This is all just background and, until now, I’ve avoided the question I want to ask: To what extent should neurodivergent players be forgiven for their mistakes?

___

When your team is up by one point and there are four seconds left, there is one, and only one, thing you must not do: foul. Play tough defense, protect the rim, get a hand up, hope they miss, and don’t foul. Despite this universally agreed upon imperative and despite the fact that the other team is inbounding the ball on the far end of the court, Jane fouls. Way too aggressive. Way too physical. Easiest call the ref has ever made. Was it a bad foul? Absolutely. Was it the dumbest foul I’ve ever seen? Pretty much. Was it completely and utterly inexcusable, reprehensible, and unforgivable? Well, Jane is neurodivergent so I refer you to my question above.

A girl on the other team now has two freethrows with four seconds left and it looks like Panini’s one shining moment is dimming. The girl swishes the first so now the game is tied. But she bricks the second, Panini’s team gets the rebound, and it looks like it’s going into overtime. Panini and her team will have one more shot at redemption, and Panini’s sad, lonely father may still fall asleep tonight with a smile on his face.

But the ref has blown his whistle and called a lane violation on Jane. A lane violation??? Panini told me later that she heard the ref say something about Jane trying to distract the shooter. To this day, it’s unclear exactly what Jane said or did but we do know that the girl got another freethrow, made it, and put her team up by one with a few seconds left. Panini’s team was unable to get up a final shot as the clock ticked down, the gym erupted into total chaos, and Panini’s previous heroics were all for naught. Jane is Forrest Gump, Panini is Lieutenant Dan, and Jane stole Panini’s destiny.

Jane stole my family’s destiny.

___

I wasn’t even mad; I was confused. How, for the love of neurological inclusivity, could Jane have committed not one, but two, terrible mistakes? Should I be angry? Should I try to understand? Jane ruined what was about to be Panini’s one, singular, solitary shining moment, but should I absolve her of her crimes? Michael Phelps is neurodivergent and got two DUIs. Bill Gates is neurodivergent and cheated on his wife. Hitler was neurodivergent and killed the Jews. I’m not saying Jane was as bad as Hitler; I’m just saying it’s hard to forgive.

As the Boss and I stood in the halls waiting for Panini to finish up with her team, we found ourselves under a sign which, if you’re ignorant enough to believe there are no coincidences, was “there for a reason.” I don’t hate Jane but if she and I ran into each other at a Starbucks or something, I might become violent. But I also might be kind because empathy, compassion, and understanding are, I’ve been told, virtues.

An Open Letter to Donald Trump

Dear Mr. President,

You may know my identical twin, Saul, from whom I was separated at birth. My name is Paul and I am not like my radical leftist brother. He lives in that wasteland known as Chicago with his psycho-babble wife and his Charmin-soft children. I live in the Free State of Florida with my tradwife, Molly, our four heterosexual children, and our dog, Charlie Kirk.

Saul has said some crazy things about you, Mr. President, including but not limited to wishing you were dead. But he doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about, sir. Saul is a 1%er who has never done a hard day’s work in his life. I get my hands dirty every day, digging ditches, cleaning toilets, and fondling Molly. Saul has a Master’s degree in absolutely nothing. I have a G.E.D. and a tool belt. Saul is a bald fem-bot who wears $120 designer Nikes. I have a thick goatee and steel-toed Timberlands. Saul is a secular Jewish conspirator. I am a God-fearing Christian patriot.

Saul sits in his ivory tower, pontificating on the merits of political violence. In fact, he and I were FaceTiming the other day, and he suggested that if someone killed you, this country would be better off. I, however, am here to tell you, sir, that I do not think you should be assassinated because you have done great things for the United States of America, you are a man of integrity, and you have a very large penis.

I’m not sure where to begin with all the great things you’ve done for this country, Mr. President, but I’ll start with the economy. The DOW Jones was at 43,487 when you took office and today it’s at nearly 50,000. I don’t own any stocks myself, Mr. President, but I sure like seeing the number on that ticker get bigger. Sometimes Molly and I make an over-under bet on where the stock market is gonna close. If it’s under, she gets to slap me around a little but if it’s over, I get to take her outside to the toolshed. I saw that some of those fake news people were saying that the tariffs are keeping prices high but honestly Molly does most of the shopping, a six-pack of Miller Lite is still $5.99, and I can’t wait for those increased estate tax exemptions to help out us blue-collar workers.

Mr. President, I also love how you’ve sued so many fake news networks for trying to get that black Indian lady to be president. While Fox News exposes harsh truths such as the rigging of Dominion’s voting machines to steal the 2020 election, CBS deceptively edits its interviews, absurdly claiming it needed to cut hours of footage down to 60 minutes for their show 60 Minutes. But my favorite thing you’ve done, sir, is to make those Bolshevik colleges pay up for the liberal propaganda they’ve disseminated and the anti-semitism they’ve allowed on campus. Mr. Kirk, may he rest in peace, had every right to publicly express his concerns about unqualified black pilots but no one should ever criticize our white, Judeo-Christian saviors of democracy in Israel. (Personally, I’m trying to keep the Jew’s hand out of my own pocket but I do think those money-grubbing Jesus-killers should feel safe at school.) Oh wait, Mr. President, there’s one more amazing thing you’ve done for this country: I just love that you changed the Gulf of Mexico to the Gulf of America. I would’ve preferred you named it Gulf of ‘Murica but we’ll take what we can get, especially if it’s from those border-jumping rapists.

It’s not just all the things you’ve done for the country, Mr. President. It’s the type of man you are. I remember way back in 2017 you sat down for an interview with that Afro-American gentleman Lester Holt who asked you if you fired James Comey because he was investigating you. You looked Holt straight in his Heart of Darkness eyes and said, yep, sure did! Men with integrity tell the truth, Mr. President, and you sure told him. The Washington Post (more fake news) says you made over 30,000 false or misleading claims during your first term but Sleepy Joe falsely claimed he used to drive an 18-wheeler, so who’s the real liar?

And, of course, Mr. President, there was the dignified way in which you responded to the election getting stolen right from under you. My cousins and I went in full camo gear to that hell hole Washington D.C. to stop the steal and you did everything you could to keep things peaceful and calm, saying things like, “Fight like hell.” Some of my brethren were arrested but then you got them that Get Out of Jail Free card with that January 6 pardon you issued. You know who should be in jail, Mr. President? Those liberal conspirators who created those AI videos of those spineless congressmen barricading themselves in their office. I mean, I certainly don’t promote violence of any kind, but I wouldn’t be opposed to that California lesbian Nancy Pelosi gettin’ her wrinkled face kicked in. We were just defending democracy on January 6th and you were right there with us, Mr. President! Saul says there’s no evidence that the election was stolen but he clearly doesn’t understand that those bastards who stole the election destroyed all the evidence!

By the way, sir, those 34 felonies you were convicted of are downright silly. Hiding salacious information, falsifying business records, and all those other fancy words are just noise to me because I know that someone who promised to drain the swamp would never try to make himself rich or powerful by screwing over the working man. Hunter Biden lied on a federal form about his drug use. Hilary used a personal email account to handle classified information. But sure, Mr. President, you’re the criminal. The liberal media is so jealous of you, sir, that they’ve even accused you of using your position as president to make billions from crypto. That’s just smart investing if you ask me, kind of like when I invested in my neighbor Wilbur’s small business, which makes truckloads of money selling white bed sheets with three holes.

Finally, Mr. President, it’s obvious to everyone that you have a very large penis. Only a man with a very large penis can grab women by the pussy and get away with it. Only a man with a very large penis can humiliate the Ukrainian president on live TV in front of hundreds of millions of people. Only a man with a very large penis can cover the White House in gold trim. Only a man with a very large penis can make fun of a retarded reporter for being retarded. I heard Saul’s cock-blocking psychologist wife saying that all these things were you just compensating for having a small penis but you are clearly well endowed, sir. You know it, I know it, Melania knows it, and, between you and me, I’ll bet some of those Epstein girls know it too, amirite?

Mr. President, my G.E.D. teacher once told me to finish my writing where I started, so here goes: Someone who has done such great things for our country, someone who has so much integrity, and someone with such an outstanding penis should most definitely not, I repeat not, be assassinated. I know that that Green Party Antifa madman Thomas Crooks felt otherwise but he didn’t realize you’re invincible.

Political violence is never the answer, Mr. President, even for those woke commies who are crazy enough to think you’re destroying our country. Lincoln violated the Constitution by freeing the slaves, but he shouldn’t’ve been killed. Kennedy made Castro look like a hero, but he shouldn’t’ve been killed. MLK Jr. cheated on his wife, but he shouldn’t’ve been killed. Malcolm X said white people are the devil, but he shouldn’t’ve been killed. You’re a million times better than all those fools, Mr. President, so I can’t even begin to understand why anyone, even my long lost brother Saul, would want you dead.

Stay strong, Mr. President, and God bless America!

Pulp Fiction

Jews run Hollywood.

You know it, I know it, and every MAGA moron knows it. Jews founded Universal, Paramount, Fox, MGM, Warner Bros., and Columbia. Harrison Ford’s mother was Jewish.

Jews are liberal. In 2008, 78% of Jews voted for Obama. In 2024, despite the cooling of the Left’s relationship with Israel, 70% of Jews voted for Harris.

So Hollywood writers, producers, and directors are disproportionately Jewish and liberal, but who else is in the room actually crafting these shitty scripts? One or two gays for sure. A black woman. A white Democrat. And maybe, just to round things out, an ambiguous looking brown person who could be Hispanic, Arab, or South Asian. 

Who’s not in the room? A comely white lady from Mississippi with a cross around her neck. A muscular gentleman from North Dakota with a goatee and tattoos. An old person. A Mormon. My point here is that conservative voices are nowhere to be found in Hollywood movies, or at least not the ones nominated for Best Picture in 2025, most of which promote a liberal agenda and some of which drown in their own sad pool of wokeness. For a cisgender, heterosexual, white male, I’m relatively woke. But this batch of trash, I mean Academy Award-nominated films, from 2025 is downright outrageous.

Before I provide a description and brief analysis of the films nominated for Best Picture, let’s start with the fact that there are now ten, not five, films nominated every year. This alone speaks to how “inclusive” Hollywood has become and how desperately it wants to “celebrate” as many “voices” as possible. Hey, I have an idea: Some movies are good, some aren’t, and Leonardo DiCaprio can have sex with whomever he wants.

To be fair, not all ten were dripping in woke, so I’ve created three tiers: Tier 1 are those that simply tell a story; Tier 2 are those that tell a story with a progressive edge; Tier 3 are those that try to tell a story but get completely lost in their agenda-pushing, politics-infused, über-left propaganda.

Tier 1

Dune: Part Two is a sci-fi fantasy about love, fate, and revenge. Though you could argue the movie is yet another allegory for colonialism and the annihilation of indigenous peoples, it feels like a mix of Star Wars and Mad Max, and my understanding is that Timothéeee Chalamet and Zendaya make out a lot, so that’s cool.

The Brutalist is an epic tale about the trauma of the Holocaust and the difficulties of assimilation. Though you could argue the movie is yet another example of self-pitying Jews obsessed with antisemitism, the film is ultimately much more artistic than it is political, and Adrien Brody does, in fact, have the biggest Jew nose of all time, so good job with casting.

I’m Still Here is a biographical dramatization of a Brazilian family that suffers under the country’s military dictatorship in the 1960s and beyond. Though you could argue the movie perpetuates the notion that right-wingers are violent and fascist and that left-wingers are peaceful and democratic, the Brazilian government was pretty awful for 20 years, so I get it. Could there be more films about the horrors of leftist regimes in China, the former Soviet Union, etc.? Sure, but we’ll leave this film in Tier 1 because otherwise my ratios get messed up.

Tier 2

Nickel Boys is a historical drama about two black teenagers in 1960s Florida who are sent to an abusive reform school. I loved Boyz n the Hood. I loved Get Out. I wholeheartedly agree that black people in America have been raped and pillaged, and that black men, in particular, have been raped and pillaged, and that, as a result, black boys are the most vulnerable cohort in the entire country but where are the movies about a white kid in Tennessee whose parents are addicted to fentanyl? Where are the movies about a Turkish kid in Ohio who gets bullied for eating a döner kebab at lunch and fights back? Where are the movies about an Indian kid in Massachusetts who kills himself because he loses the spelling bee?

A Complete Unknown isn’t a biopic about Mick Jagger, a British rockstar who, reportedly, has schtupped thousands of women. It isn’t a biopic about Axel Rose, a kick-ass, long-haired head-banger who, reportedly, did more heroin than Jagger did women. And it most certainly isn’t a biopic about Jimi Hendrix, one of the most interesting, talented, and messed up dudes ever to walk the earth. Woke-ass Hollywood could never tell his story because despite being black, alive, and wildly popular in the 1960s, Hendrix was relatively apolitical. A Complete Unknown is a biopic of Bob Dylan (aka Robert Allen Zimmerman, ah-joo!, bless you) who became one of the leading voices in the Civil Rights Movement. Need I say more about this wonderful White Savior?

Anora is a great movie. Fast-paced, dark, funny, and lots of eye candy. And while it does a fantastic job of not being preachy, it ultimately asks the viewer to confront the harsh realities sex workers face. (The term itself is only used in progressive circles. Go to Alabama and see what “sex workers” are called.) I hesitate putting this movie in Tier 2 because it’s excellent but if Pretty Woman goes in Tier 1, then Anora goes in Tier 2.

Tier 3

Wicked has singlehandedly ruined The Wizard of Oz by taking a beautiful story about courage, hope, and love, and morphing it into a completely unsubtle treatise on race. In case you didn’t understand that Elphaba is outcast because she’s black, I mean green, the Hollywood libs made sure to have a woman of color play that role.

Emilia Pérez is a Spanish-language musical made by a saucy French director about (get ready!) a Mexican cartel boss who wants to retire, disappear, and, according to IMDB, “become, at last, the woman he’s always dreamed of becoming.” Hey, I have an idea: Let’s take all the gay things we can, combine them into a movie, and then superimpose them onto something raw, gritty, and ethnic. I haven’t seen this movie, I have no plans to see it, and it has awful reviews across the board. Apparently Hollywood really chopped off its own dick with this one. 😏

The Substance is an ultra-feminist piece of trash intended to garner sympathy for past-their-prime female movie stars who mutilate their bodies to stay relevant. By the end of the movie, Demi Moore actually turns into a monster. Though I was literally laughing out loud at the absurdity of the film, deep down I was angry at the audacity of the filmmaker.

I lied. There’s a final tier. Well, not so much a final tier, just one final movie which was actually the catalyst for this post because when I saw it, I was so disgusted that I had to do something about it.

Conclave bills itself as a political thriller about the intrigues and scandals of the most secretive gathering in the world. The film, however, is pure fantasy, starting with an improbable speech about the centrality of doubt in the Catholic faith, continuing with an impossible scenario in which an African bishop nearly becomes pope, and finishing with an utterly absurd, totally unrealistic, and woke wet dream of an intersex bishop chosen to be the Supreme Pontiff of the Catholic Church, an institution universally praised for its progressive, open-minded, and extraordinarily tolerant ideologies and policies.

If you’ll hang with me for one more minute, I’d like to quickly contrast 2025 with 1995 because that’s what I do. The five nominees for Best Picture in 1995 were: Quiz Show, a period piece about a rich white guy who cheats; Four Weddings and a Funeral, an entertaining romcom about four weddings and a funeral; Forrest Gump, one of the most creative movies of all time; Shawshank Redemption, one of the greatest dramas of all time; and Pulp Fiction, perhaps the greatest movie ever made. These movies have a couple things in common: None of them is particularly political and all of them are great stories.

I like political films and I like leftist political films. But Hollywood is drunk on its own Kool-Aid and if it’s annoying liberals like me, just imagine how the still-breathing Charlie Kirks of the world feel. Hollywood has the biggest platform in the world and can bring people together through stories that transcend politics. But right now it’s trapped in its own echo chamber, it’s creating more division than unity, and, like Yolanda from Pulp Fiction, it needs “to chill the fuck out!”

We don’t need more or fewer Jews in the script-writing room. We don’t need more or fewer gays, straights, whites, blacks, liberals, or conservatives. We need more artists, more story-tellers, and more people whose embroidered wallets say BAD MOTHERFUCKER.

Saul's Holiday Card

Well, “it was a banner f*ckin’ year at the old Bender family” (Breakfast Club).

In January, we celebrated Saul’s mom’s 80th birthday at a ranch in Arizona because all of us city slicker Jews enjoy ridin’ horses, ropin’ steers, and shootin’ queers, I mean guns. In July, we disavowed our loved ones in Israel and instead went to Italy where we stuffed ourselves with gelato and urinated on the walls of the Vatican. In November, we hosted family for Thanksgiving, played Monopoly by the fire, and fought relentlessly over whether or not someone who passes GO should collect $200 if they don’t ask for the money. In December, we celebrated the Boss’ parents’ 75th birthdays in Mexico with a group of fifteen war-mongering Israelis, nine ignorant Americans, and one handsome, homosexual Frenchman. The private pool, the sandy beach, the sunny 83° days, the bowls of guacamole, the stunning cenotes, and the giant iguanas were decent, but the trip was nearly ruined by the fact that the hot tub somehow - unfortunately, inexplicably, outrageously - wouldn’t get hotter than 93°.

The rest of the year was an absolute pleasure: dragging ass to soccer games on the South Side, suffocating at humid swim meets in Indiana, and dying of boredom at gymnastics meets in Wisconsin. We also enjoyed basketball games with 37 turnovers* in freezing gyms, baseball games with four strike-outs at mosquito-infested parks, and, of course, tennis matches in sweltering summer heat that inevitably ended in tears and defeat. We had exciting Family Movie Nights starting with distraction and ending in disappointment, delicious family dinners starting with teasing and ending in tears, and exhilarating ping-pong tournaments starting with rancor and ending in rage. This was our first year without an afternoon baby sitter, so the latch-key kids came home from school by themselves and did exactly what they were supposed to do: leave their unfinished, warm lunch in their lunch bag, leave their rancid lunch bag inside their backpack, leave their filthy backpack on top of the kitchen counter, eat a healthy snack of cookies and popcorn on the couch, and watch Netflix before doing their homework and practicing piano.

It was a year of change for the Boss, as she enthusiastically “retired” in June but somehow kept working with her former and current employer. She also spent many hours on a currently non-existent private practice, glommed on to a project with a former task-master from Colorado, and took days-long, family-abandoning work trips to Millfield, Ohio and other stunning locales. The Boss has also started working out two, sometimes three, times per week. We’re so proud of her for winning battle after battle against menopause even though she is clearly losing the war. The Boss also continues to attend a monthly book club, cook five meals a week, do the lion’s share of the laundry, take care of the bills, buy the birthday gifts, and burden herself with as heavy of a “mental load” as possible to ensure her martyr-like claims of “mental load” are valid. Every so often, the Boss lets down her hair with a second glass of wine which is fun for a while but invariably ends in a headache and an absence of carnal exploration.

Panini had her best year-to-date. She repeated as city champion at #2 singles and was one win and many tears away from making it to state. She is also the former and future captain of the Varsity basketball team, having been temporarily stripped of the honor after incorrectly subbing into a game and pouting. In the spring, Panini earned a 5 on the AP Lang and AP Gov exams and got all A’s for the first time in her until-now-underwhelming high school career. Over the summer, Panini got her first job and, after working really super duper hard as a part-time hostess and food runner, was laid off in August. In October, Panini and her friends broke the record for skimpiest Halloween costumes ever. All of Panini’s hard work paid off in November when somehow - miraculously, unbelievably, inexplicably - she was accepted to Tulane University for the fall of 2026 where she plans to major in Biology, drink heavily, and not play on the tennis team.

OG’s year was also one for the books. She qualified for regionals in gymnastics last spring, moved from Gold to Platinum after only one year of competition, and would have progressed significantly faster this fall if she hadn’t missed so many practices because she was behind on her AP Chem homework. Speaking of school, OG continues to crush it. In her first semester of high school, she took a bunch of tough courses and earned all A’s as a result of her unrelenting determination, crippling anxiety, irrational fear, and nearly 20 hours spent obsessively recording hand-written, serial-killer-type notes on manila folders. OG also made some fast cash as a babysitter, extended her streak on her American Sign Language app, and spent lots of quality time at home on Saturday evenings with mommy and daddy after abandoning her middle school crew who, as you may remember from a previous post, suck.

Boni continues to shine bright. She lives at the intersection of art and science, producing detailed, colorful “foldables” of soil erosion, imaginative abstract doodles of nothing, and home-made science projects involving slime, electrodes, primary colors, frustration, screaming, and slammed doors. Boni is also an outstanding athlete. She played soccer in the fall and spring, played basketball with her friends in the winter, and scored a record number of goals/points across the three seasons: zero. Boni’s best sport, however, is swimming. This year, after leaving her park district swim team, which is half a mile down the road and costs $50 for three months, and joining a private swim club, which is a 35-minute commute and costs $900 for three months, she worked really super duper hard and didn’t improve her times by a single second. Boni also got her first boyfriend this year, a cute little boy from summer camp named Elliott. They sent each other texts and even went to the movies where Elliott’s Milk Duds were mysteriously poisoned and he died.

Not to brag, but Broosevelt had the best year any 11-year-old boy has ever had. He’s just a happy-go-lucky kid. He loved playing on multiple basketball teams and wasn’t bothered at all by averaging as many turnovers as he did points. He loved playing on multiple soccer teams and wasn’t bothered at all by getting shut out and barely touching the ball. He loved playing on multiple baseball teams and wasn’t bothered at all by walking six guys in one inning. The “rizz” is also strong with Young Broosevelt: There is a cute little lady in his grade who, sources claim, has a crush on him. Broosevelt continues to play hard to get though, and when she and her friends knock on our front door, he uses sick-ass lines like, “What do you want?” Broosevelt keeps his skin from getting dry by avoiding showers, avoids excessive fluoride intake by not brushing his teeth, and prides himself on going days without any fruits or vegetables, subsisting on nothing more than milk, Froot Loops, and lollipops.

As expected, Saul had another earth-shattering year. Professionally, Saul continued to warp, I mean shape, the minds of hundreds of youth from across the city with biased readings, insincere conversations, and manipulative assignments. Known across the school as the toughest grader with a pathological dearth of empathy, Saul’s proudest moment was when one of his students began a speech with, “I hate Mr. Schmilden.” Socially, Saul continues to cull his community so only those with extraordinary patience and tolerance remain. Physically, Saul has never been better: He’s played about ten basketball games in the last six months, he has knee surgery scheduled for February, and he has a fat roll on his back. Cognitively, Saul is sharp as ever: After starting the 472-page The Emperor of All Maladies: A Biography of Cancer in September, he’s nearly finished. Most importantly, emotionally, Saul couldn’t be happier: The other day as he rested in shavasana on his yoga mat at the end of class, he cried.

F*ck 2026, I mean Happy New Year!!!

*I counted.