Boys of Summer

When most of you think of Saul, you think tennis. It’s true: If you are reading this post but don’t play tennis with me every Thursday like a certain self-hating Arab, a war-torn Yugoslav, a thick Jew named Jeffrey, or a blue-eyed alcoholic angel, I am, in fact, the best tennis player you know. I’m good.

When some of you think of Saul, you think basketball. It’s true: My lefty floater is the stuff of legend, my shooting range expands every year, and if you saw me play, you’d say I don’t look a day older than 38, or maybe 44. I’m still pretty decent.

It is only Saul' s most special readers, those who know Saul most intimately, those who knew Saul when he had hair, those who knew Saul decades before he became Saul, who, when they think of Saul, think baseball. It’s true: I was once downright awesome at baseball. As much as I’d absolutely love to bore you with stories of state championships, batting averages that would make Shohei Ohtani blush cherry blossom red, and an underwhelming college experience feeling lonely in left field, I won’t. Just know that I can still throw a ball farther than you or your ugly kid and that although I struck out with hundreds, nay thousands, of young ladies in my youth, I was a better hitter than I am a writer. Mindblowing, I know. I was good.

Alas, this story, unfortunately, is not about how great I once was. Rather, it’s about love and family and hopes and dreams and a home run and rain and Robert Redford.

Baseball is in my blood. My dad, as Saul’s most special readers know, was one of those post-WWII kids you see in the movies who ate, drank, and slept baseball. He was a fiery left-hander who threw hard and low, who was the star pitcher on his high school team, who played semi-pro in Arizona, and who tried out for the Baltimore Orioles back in the day when I guess tryouts were open to 5’7 Jews who had no chance of making the team but who could at least get to one day tell their sons stories about trying out for the Baltimore Orioles.

My brothers, my dad, and, yes, my mom played baseball all the time: at schools, at parks, in the backyard, in the driveway, in the basement. Some arguing, lots of intensity, and the most fun I ever had. As Saul’s most special readers know, I hit lefty but there are grainy black-and-white videos of me from the late 1970s hitting righty. Mindblowing, I know. My dad sat behind home plate at all of my games. My mom and my brother drove 2,000 miles in two days to watch me play. Baseball was my family’s best friend and my best friends growing up played baseball. Baseball and I were in love.

And then we fell out of love. My college teammates were goateed douchebags, not best friends, I was no longer a big fish in a small pond, I sat more than I played, and Bonds, McGwire, and Sosa left a bad taste in my mouth. So baseball and I broke up, forever I thought. When Roy Hobbs (Robert Redford, The Natural) got shot, I’m guessing he thought his love affair with baseball had also ended forever.

But then a few things came along: the north side of Chicago; the 2016 Cubs; catch in the park with Broosevelt; 40-yard long toss; batting practice in the basement; Broosevelt hitting lefty like his old man and like Roy Hobbs; sitting ten rows up behind home plate with Broosevelt at the Cubs; long talks about the cardinal sin of striking out looking; watching Broosevelt go from hitting last in the line-up to hitting fifth; and sitting in blue lawn chairs with my 81-year-old mom, watching her take pictures of 12-year-old Broosevelt in left field, listening to her explain to some idiot parent why the runner on second should have tagged up, and tearing up when I realize that these blue lawn chairs are 40 years old and that my dad used to sit next to my mom in these exact same blue lawn chairs, watching her take pictures of me in left field and listening to her explain to some idiot parent why the runner on second should have tagged up. Baseball is in my blood and we had fallen back in love.

A few weeks ago, Broosevelt’s team made the championship. After a solid regular season against decent and sometimes shitty pitchers, he’d struggled mightily in the playoffs, as every team threw their best pitcher and Broosevelt was simply outmatched. We had a couple of tough car rides home, not because Broosevelt had struck out but because he’d struck out looking. Voices were raised. Frustrations were shared. Expectations were clarified. Tears weren’t shed but eyes were watery.

But Broosevelt is a good boy and a quick learner, and he does not strike out in the championship game. He gets a groundball RBI and throws a kid out at third, and in the bottom of the seventh (the final inning in little league), his team is up 4-2 with two outs and no runners on base. Asher, the star player on Broosevelt’s team, is pitching and the #2 hitter on the other team is hitting. Things are looking good. It's a hot, humid day and the clouds are slowly rolling in, but the trophy is near. There are well over 100 people watching: players, coaches, family, friends, kids with gloves waiting anxiously beyond the outfield fence, and locals walking their dogs, drinking their coffee, and stopping to see what all the commotion is about.

Asher gets the batter to a full count and needs to throw a strike. He throws a ball and now there’s a man on first. The next batter is the #3 hitter Johnny, the other team’s best player. Asher gets him to a full count, throws a perfect strike right down the middle, and this little piece of shit 12-year-old Johnny (who also hits lefty by the way) times it perfectly, makes solid contact, and hits a ball deep to right-center. It all happens in slow-motion. It could be caught. It could be a double. It could go. All. The. Way. And it does. The ball drops just beyond the right field fence. Two-run home-run. Johnny’s a hero (villain). Game tied 4-4. Still two outs. Still bottom of the seventh. 100+ people going berserk.

When 36-year-old Roy Hobbs finally gets his first at-bat in the big leagues, he literally rips the cover off the ball. It starts raining as the outfielders fumble with the wet yarn and rubber cork, Hobbs triumphantly stands on third base, inspirational music plays, and it’s very romantic. Now when I tell you that it starts raining the very second that Johnny’s home-run lands in the grass just over the right field fence, I mean that a torrential downpour begins the exact millisecond that that ball hits the ground. Johnny’s team screams for joy. Broosevelt’s teammates shake their heads in shock. Fans look at each other to confirm that they actually saw what they think they just saw. The rain keeps coming. Within 10 seconds, the players are off the field. Within 30 seconds, we are all huddled under trees and blankets. Within 60 seconds, the infield is mud. Within two minutes, everyone is racing to their cars completely soaked.

Broosevelt and I drive home with shopping bags underneath us so the seats won’t get too wet. We talk about how incredible the home run was, how amazing the rain is, and how exciting the next day will be. I tell him how proud I am of him for throwing that kid out at third, for his RBI, and for not striking out looking. We talk about the scene in The Natural when it rains. We smile and laugh. Broosevelt’s eyes are bright blue.

And then it hits me: Roy Hobbs wore number 9; Broosevelt wears number 9. My dad loved the smell of a baseball glove; I love the smell of a baseball glove. Hobbs and my dad were lefties who hit lefty; Broosevelt and I are righties who hit lefty. Hobbs left baseball for decades; I left baseball for decades. My dad threw hard and low; Broosevelt throws hard and low. All of us have baseball in our blood. All of us are boys of summer.

In the final scene of the movie, Hobbs is playing catch with his son, big smiles on both of their faces. It’s a slow-motion shot, out on a farm, sun shining down. I don’t need the melodrama but I do want to play catch with my son.

Opportunity Cost

You’ve seen her, right? The frustrated 86-year-old woman with grey hair and wrinkly skin who, for the last 15 minutes, has been writing, editing, and preparing to send one single message. The text on her phone is in 24-point font and she’s typing the letters one by one with her two gnarled, arthritic index fingers. She should be doing the crossword puzzle, knitting a sweater for her great granddaughter, walking slowly around the neighborhood with her slowly dying friends, or baking a pie and forgetting to turn off the oven, but instead she’s sitting alone at the dining room table, bent over her phone with a furrowed brow, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, desperately trying to send this one message about the nagging pain in her chest.

You’ve seen him, right? The lost 14-year-old-boy at the bus stop with his heavy backpack, fluffy hair, black hoodie, grey sweats, and white crocs, head and neck at a 45 degree angle, concave back, and T-Rex arms, hunched over his phone as he waits for the bus, vapid look on his face as one YouTube Short after another sucks him deeper and deeper into the abyss. He should be playing hacky sack, talking to his friend about the Cubs game, or fantasizing about the girl who sits next to him in math class so, right then and there at the bus stop, he pops a little boner which he has to slyly tuck into the waistband of his shorts. But there’s no little boner today, just 23-second Short after 23-second Short, optimally curated to inevitably lead him and every other 14-year-old boy down the path toward the Manosphere which ends with self-loathing, misogyny, and no girl or woman ever touching his stifled little boner.

You’ve seen her, right? The obsessive 44-year-old mom who, even before her alarm goes off, checks the weather and her email. She should be rolling over to snuggle her man and maybe get an extra few minutes of sleep and tenderness, but instead she’s worried about whether or not she should get her kid a college counselor because she just saw on Facebook that her friend whom she hasn’t spoken to in four years and who lives eight states away has a kid who was accepted to University of Whatever and we’re all so proud of her journey. Later that morning, after berating her colleagues for not using person-centered language, she takes a break from her soul-scorching zooms and advances to level 2,336 in Wordscapes even though she should step outside, get some sun, and ensure she reaches her daily steps goal. That afternoon she micromanages her kids’ snack content and social plans via text message even though she should be entirely focused on the email she is sending to the principal about the dangerous cracks in the gaga pit. That evening while she’s cooking an environmentally sustainable dinner, she watches a video montage of one of her kids that Google Photos has, without being asked, created just for her and, without being asked, sent to her. She should be listening to an old Billy Joel album and drinking half a glass of wine but the glossy images of her child accompanied by soft instrumentals is like catnip. At dinner, she excuses herself to take a “really important call” even though she should be listening to her daughter’s story about the weird substitute teacher who kept touching everyone. After dinner, she reads an article in her Apple News trough about hemorrhoids. She should be laughing at Nailed It! with her family but the notification on her home screen about two great college counselors in her area is impossible to ignore. That night when she is brushing her teeth, her phone is face up on the bathroom counter. She should be looking in the mirror, checking her skin for precancerous moles, but she really doesn’t want to miss that dish towel sale on Amazon. She gets in bed and checks her email one last time. She should be listening to how hard her man’s day was and offering sterile hand relief but instead she watches a couple of deeply concerning YouTube videos of Trump and has trouble falling asleep.

You’ve seen him, right? The distracted 28-year-old man-child at the gym with big biceps and wireless Beats headphones. He’s on his phone between and even during workout sets, scrolling through his Twitter feed, retweeting, and sharing with his friends particularly outrageous videos of women fighting in public. His algorithm is locked in. He should be making eye contact with some of the lonely young ladies in the gym but he’s too busy swiping right on the lonely young ladies on his phone. He’s also texting his friends about who the Bulls drafted and whether or not they would have sex with Maya Rudolph. He should be deep in reflection, thinking about his widowed mother and feeling guilty about missing leg day, but instead he’s calculating how much more money he can afford to lose on DraftKings but still have enough for a vial of coke at the strip club.

You’ve seen him, right? The lonely 58-year-old man who texts when he’s driving, who watches TikTok when he’s taking a shit, and who has a paid subscription to schmornhub.com. When he’s in the car, he should be listening to NPR but the red lights are everywhere and he texts fast. When he’s in the bathroom, he should be reading that article from The Atlantic about DOGE’s death database but the TikTok vids on DIY man caves are awesome. When he’s jerking off, he should be doing it for free but it’s so damn convenient to have his favorites armed and ready, especially in his car at red lights. He had his kid set a screen time password on his phone but he always overrides it. He should be laboriously reading hundreds of pages a month instead of spending hours a day on Reddit. He should be sarcastically/sincerely sexting his wife instead of anonymously joining chat rooms. He should be drinking beers with his friends instead of texting pictures of beer in their group chat. He should be at the park with his daughter or shooting hoops with his son or grilling veggie burgers on his deck instead of lecherously ogling scantily dressed Czech nubiles who share group selfie dance videos on the dark web.

You’ve seen her, right? The morose 20-year-old college girl lying in the fetal position on her bed with her phone propped up next to her in landscape mode. She should be gazing into the soft brown eyes of another 20-year-old college girl with whom she’s just had her first lesbian experimentation, but instead she’s binging Love Island on Peacock. She should be writing that essay on neo-colonial capitalism but ChatGPT is armed and ready. She was planning to go to the gym to work off that freshman 15 but she ended up getting sucked into confidence-crushing “Get Ready With Me” Instagram reels of plastic influencers yapping to no one and everyone about their skincare and makeup routines. No worries, she promised herself she’d do a six-minute ab workout later on YouTube. She also spent time today on Snapchat which she’s used less since finishing high school but still comes back to sometimes because it feels like a warm, familiar blanket of heroin FOMO. She should check out that lecture in the student center on fourth wave feminism but she’d prefer to just watch the TED talk online. Her parents used to control her screen time but now she’s, technically, an adult who, theoretically, can self-manage. Sometimes it occurs to her to text her dad for help but she has too much pride and shame.

You’ve seen him, right? The inattentive 10-year-old boy up in his room, on his bed, hiding under his sheets, face three inches from his phone, eyes wide open like A Clockwork Orange, mesmerized by the complexities of Crossing the Mexican Border in Roblox. It’s his sixth hour on Roblox today. He got access to the old iPhone 6 floating around the house and figured out the wifi. His parents never turned on screen time limits so the boy sneaks away every opportunity he gets to play Steal A Brainrot on Roblox. He should be juggling a soccer ball in the driveway or riding his rusted bike in the rat-strewn alley or reading Percy Jackson for the seventh time or playing ping-pong with his friend or watching Colombia versus Uzbekistan with his sister or playing Monopoly with his dad or selling overpriced lemonade at a lemonade stand or looking through the comics, but all his friends are on Roblox too and it’s about 1,000,000 times more Beavis and Butthead fun fun FUN than Monopoly or lemonade. His thumbs hurt from the fast-paced clicking and he has a headache from the backlight of the phone but he has $20 octillion in Grow a Garden and the chats flying back and forth with his friends are dopamine city, so piano and dessert and showering and pooping can wait. 

___

What would all of us be doing if we weren’t on our phones?

An Open Letter to My Son

Dear Broosevelt,

I just want to start by saying that you, my son, are the best boy in the whole entire world.

You’re kind. You’re chill. You’re handsome. You’re smart. You always put away your laundry. You usually practice piano. You sometimes shower. You set the table. You clear your plate. You smother your mother and me with hugs and kisses. You give your sisters money when they need it. You pass the ball to the open man. You don’t swing at bad pitches. You don’t wear your cleats in the house. You only curse with your friends. You’re a good boy. The best boy.

Once when you were about five and pestering your twin sister because pestering sisters is what 5-year-old boys do, your frustrated, anti-boy mother said, “He’s just a bad kid.” I still give her shit for that ridiculously inaccurate assessment because you are a good kid. The best kid.

One day when you’re a father, you’ll realize not only how much I love you but also how scary it is to raise a son. Raising girls is easy: I let your mother do most of the work and, as my friend Sam likes to say, my only job is to keep your sisters off the pole. With a son, however, all the pressure is on me. I need to make sure you’re sensitive yet strong, sweet yet resilient, and humble yet confident. I don’t know if I’m doing any of those things, but I do know a few things my little man, first of which is that you need to grow a pair.

I’m sorry, Broosevelt. I apologize. I’m a little upset. Unlike your father and at least one of your sisters, you are a genuinely good person. But good doesn’t mean meek. When a waiter takes your order, speak up and look him in the eye. When your stupid coach tells you to slow it down but you see a teammate wide open under the basket, make the pass. When your sisters ask for even more money, say no. Be strong. Be bold. Be brave.

I love you and I even love some of your little dufus buddies, but you can’t stop your friends from tearing the hoop off your wall. You can’t stop your friends from grabbing handfuls of chocolate chips. You can’t stop your friends from barging through the front door, trashing the basement, and eating goldfish on the couch even though you know that no one can ever eat goldfish on the couch and that your friends can’t be over when mommy and daddy aren’t home. And, yes, I know that you calling us mommy and daddy is emasculating but, like I said, I don’t really know how to raise you so it’s time for you to stand up to your friends on your own.

Your friends aren’t bullies; they’re a bunch of simps who would get destroyed if it weren’t 2026, the softest era known to man. They cry on the basketball court, they bring their lovies to sleepovers, and they play cartoon games on their phones. Yet you, my dear son, are the one who often gets pushed around, at least when it comes to the goldfish. You feel insecure when your friends tease you for having a big forehead. You feel sad when you miss three questions on a science test and your friend calls you dumb. You feel powerless when your friends kick the ball over the sport court. I know you have feelings, I validate those feelings, and I want you, my son, to have, be aware of, and express those feelings. But I also want you to just grow a pair.

Speaking of awareness, the second thing I need you to do is wake up, dude. Listen. Look around. Sim lev. Dry yourself off before you get out of the shower. Stop using my towel and, if you do use my towel, bring it back to my bathroom and hang it up. Don’t leave it on the carpet in the middle of your room. Keep the food on your plate and off your shirt. Get your hands out of the chicken. Brush your teeth before you leave the house. Eat a vegetable. Pay attention to the conversation at the dinner table and in the car and any time you’re with other human beings who have words coming out of their mouths. Sometimes when you’re sitting next to me at dinner, I secretly watch you eat, deep in your thoughts. I feel happy because I know you’re counting how many games out of first the Cubs are but I also feel sad because I know my son is lost in the clouds.

Put the toilet seat down after you pee. Don’t leave your filthy socks next to the toaster. Hug me but don’t choke me. Just pay attention man. Focus. Your grandpa was a world-renowned physician who went glassy-eyed in long conversations. Your uncle is a PhD who has lost his wallet 37 times. Your father is a famous writer who falls asleep anywhere at any time. I see my own genetic shortcomings in your general cluelessness but I know you can be an even better version of the men who came before you.

Maybe you didn’t notice, but it mattered when you had three missing assignments. You should have felt scared, worked your butt off to finish them, and never missed an assignment again. Maybe you didn’t notice, but it mattered when you failed miserably at yout piano recital. You should have felt shame, practiced hard as hell, and crushed it the next time. Maybe you didn’t notice, but it mattered when you walked seven hitters. You should have felt embarrassed, thrown me 100 pitches the next day, and struck those motherfuckers out in the next game. I feel awful when you fail but I’m not sure I can, or should, help you any more. It’s time for you to help yourself, my boy. Much of my own life has been acknowledging and learning from my mistakes. Now it’s your turn: wake up, smell the coffee, and fail better.

And speaking of failing, my boy, my precious boy whom I may be failing as a father, I need you to step up your game here and there. I tried to teach you how to tie your shoes but you still run around on the soccer field with your laces everywhere. I tried to teach you how to hold and use a pencil but I can’t read anything you write. I tried to teach you how to put on sunblock but you look like a clown with special needs. Your grandpa was a practiced violinist who couldn’t do his own laundry. Your uncle is a former college athlete who was banned from his own mother’s kitchen because he is a walking disaster. Your father is a hirsute sex-pot who can’t get his chest hair out of the sink. Broosevelt, my job, I think, is to make you better than all of us. You can be a doctor, a writer, a musician, an athlete, and even a sex-pot if you just put your mind to it and decide that you will be a better man, and ultimately a better dad, than I am.

In your soccer team’s tournament championship, your coach asked who was gonna take the first penalty kick. You demonstrated bravery by saying you would. You demonstrated awareness by knowing your teammates needed your leadership. You demonstrated competence by making the shot. The young man who volunteered to take that shot is the best version of you, the one I’ve played a minor role in cultivating and the one you can now choose to be every single day, especially when your friends are eating the goldfish.

Love,

Daddy

P.S. Part of being brave is being okay with being naked. You don’t have to be an exhibitionist like your sex-pot father but I will be very upset if we can’t play grab-ass in the shower anymore.

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!