10 Things I Hate About Halloween Nowadays

1. The Costumes: Back in my day, I grabbed my dead grandpa’s old brown shoes and my dad’s rainbow suspenders, put on a giant pair of tighty-whities, and somehow that was a costume. Or I’d wear my mom’s 1950s poodle skirt and put on some lipstick because dressing like a girl was okay. Or we would unroll all the wrapping paper and use the brown tubing on the inside for shanking each other and who the hell knows what. Or maybe if we were feeling particularly crafty and bold because it was Halloween goddamnit, we would knock sheepishly on the door of our lonely neighborhood cat lady who smelled like mothballs and meat, looked like a witch, and imprisoned young children, and ask her to help us sew or knit or papier-mâché our costume. What we didn’t do was spend $50 on Amazon or $80 at Target, and we definitely didn’t go to the Halloween pop-up stores because back in my day, there were no Halloween pop-up stores. Back in my day, we earned our costumes by digging through weird shit in the basement, making a robot out of aluminum foil and cardboard boxes, or throwing on a Julius Erving jersey and some rec-specs, and painting ourselves a light shade of brown. I know, I know, Julius Erving didn’t even wear rec-specs but you still get my point.

2. The Weather: Back in my day, Halloween was cold. We wore parkas underneath our white sheets, we wore winter boots underneath our home-made, hand-crafted teenage mutant ninja turtle feet, and we trudged happily through the rain, sleet, and snow. Then global warming f*cked Halloween. Yesterday in Chicago, it was 75 degrees and I sat on a yoga mat out in the sun for over an hour with no socks, shoes, or shirt. Yes, it was sexy and, yes, there was a women’s kickball team 20 feet away and, yes, they couldn’t stop staring but that’s not the point. The point is that it’s gonna be warm on October 31st and not cold. Most kids will just throw on their stupid Amazon-purchased Minions onesie and go trick-or-treating without a winter hat but with sunblock.

3. The Timing: Speaking of sunblock, back in my day, we trick-or-treated at night. When it was dark. When it was scary. When the pedophiles and kidnappers had great odds. Nowadays kids trick-or-treat in broad daylight and have to be home by sunset. Halloween is supposed to be about fear, not safety. The goblins, ghouls, and rapists don’t stand a chance.

4. The Parents: Speaking of safety, back in my day, parents didn’t trick-or-treat with their kids. Back in my day, there were three options: 1. You were too young to trick-or-treat; 2. You were too young to trick-or-treat but you had an older brother you could fearfully glom on to, and when you peed your pants cuz it was so dark and cold and scary, your older brother sent you home in shame and you learned your lesson that you were too young to trick-or-treat; 3. You were old enough to trick-or-treat. Back in my day, kids went out alone while their parents stayed home and took out the whips and chains that you’d used for a Halloween costume the previous year but were now being used to teach daddy a lesson. Today, all the parents are out pushing 4-year-olds in strollers. Walking 15 feet behind their little lambs. Sticking their own grown-up claws in the candy bowls on behalf of their sheltered, pampered, infantilized children. You’re supposed to be scared on Halloween. Cautious. Paranoid. Freaking out when you stick your own little paw in that candy bowl because you never know where that one sicko sociopath neighbor hid the rat poison.

5. The Costumes - Part II: Back in my day, not everyone had to dress like a slut. Yes, I know I shouldn’t use that word and that “slut” is no longer acceptable terminology and that “slut-shaming” is no longer a thing, but just give me a minute. Back in my day, some of the girls dressed…provocatively. Nowadays, Halloween is a competition to see which girl can wear the least clothing. You know what Panini’s costumes (yes, plural, I’ll come back to this momentarily) are this year? Sexy zebra, steamy Karen Smith from Mean Girls, thirsty vampire, and lusty Lavagirl. Ok, fine, she’s just being a zebra, Karen Smith, a vampire, and Lavagirl but trust me when I tell you that butt cheeks and cleavage will be in abundance. When the Boss was in 5th grade, she showed up at a Halloween party in a full clown costume: face paint, red nose, and big clown shoes. Immediately upon entering the party, she started to cry real tears not clown tears because every girl there was dressed “cute”: cheerleaders, punk-rockers, etc. These little 9-year-old suburbanite JAPS were no longer dressing as scarecrows or mechanics; they were already fast on their way to being slutty zebras. Not to worry: The Boss won best costume because the host parents were overwhelmed with pity.

6. The Excess: Back in my day, you had one costume per year. Period. If you were a frog on Tuesday at school, you were a frog on Friday at the Halloween party. If you were an astronaut on Wednesday at the costume parade, you were an astronaut Saturday at the monster mash. There was none of this zebra-Karen Smith-vampire-Lavagirl business. You just chose one thing, gathered crap from various corners of the house, and rolled with it. Of course, if you’re a bad-ass like me, you could choose one person and, over the course of a few hours, transition from a thin, emotional, glam rock big hair band Andre Agassi to a thick, stoic, bald Andre Agassi, or from a geeky, khaki pants, brown belt, checkered button down, full head of hair Walter White to a fierce, black top hat, bald Heisenberg, or from a wrinkled old man Benjamin Button to a wrinkled baby Benjamin Button but nowadays no one would ever do that because one would actually have to care about and respect Halloween to do that.

7. The Entertainment: Back in my day, “Thriller” was the greatest thing in the history of the world. Back in my day, Halloween, Friday the 13th, and Nightmare on Elm Street were f*cking awesome and scary and entertaining and hell yes Jamie Lee Curtis and Freddie Kruger and yellow-eyed Michael Jackson. I mean, sh*t, as far as I know, the last time a good Halloween movie came out was Scream in 1996 and, yes, you’re right, that wasn’t even a Halloween movie. Nowadays everything sucks. Taylor Swift should make a music video where she’s like some zombie diva who just won’t go away or Timothée Chalamet should make a movie where he’s a scared little bitch or Ariana Grande should dress up like a skeleton. Oh, wait, what?

8. The Doorbells: Back in my day we scurried down the slippery sidewalk, opened the creaky front gate, stumbled up the icy front stairs, and rang the doorbell. And waited. And waited. Eventually, some hairy, musty 60-year-old man wearing a wife-beater and smoking a Marlboro opened the door and we all screamed, “Trick-or-Treat?!?” With both hands, he held out a giant black garbage bag filled with M&M's, Butterfingers, and Michelob Lights. We reached our tiny little arms deep into the bag thinking that if we went deep enough, we might find a Snickers or a bloody limb or that the man might yank us into the bag, tie it/us up with one of those Glad twist-ties, and throw us in the basement where we screamed until our lungs gave out or until the Gimp stopped us from screaming. Nowadays, there are no doorbells. Parents sit on their stoop with their candy bowls and kids don’t even have to open the front gate, let alone walk up the stairs, ring the doorbell, and inhale the second-hand smoke. Parents just toss the candy in the kids’ bags and the kids go on their stupid, merry way. It’s like a god damn parade. Children saunter down the sidewalks and parents throw Twizzlers at them because their little monster babies are heroes who found a deal on Amazon. There’s no effort, no grind, and certainly no fear.

9. The Costumes - Part III: You know what you can’t wear to school anymore on Halloween? Anything. That’s right; you can wear nothing. Nothing scary. Nothing bloody. Nothing violent. No masks. No hoods. No weapons. No swords. No daggers. No water guns. No face paint. No black face (okay, that one’s fine). Nothing triggering. No devil worship. No skeletons. No nothing. Slutty costumes? No problem. Scary costumes? No way. Sex sells. Goblins don’t.

10. The Candy - Part II: There’s an Asian American family up the street who gives out toothbrushes and floss on Halloween. It definitely, like, doesn’t matter at all that they are of Asian descent; I was just taught as a writer to be as detailed as possible. Anywho, back in my day, that family would have been shunned, their home would have been egged, and they may have been relocated to a camp in California. Back in my day, that dental hygiene nonsense would not fly. Yeah, there may have been that one hippy family who gave out apples but there were for sure razor blades in some of those bad boys and, yeah, most families nowadays still give out candy but there’s nothing original or scary or even concerning. Back in my day, drunk moms would come to the front door with homemade brownies and you just took your chances on whether they had sugar and butter, allergenic tree nuts, or crushed up Tylenol. Or a 4-year-old would come to the door with a tray of homemade chocolate chip cookies but the kid would have that sad, scared look in his eye like, “Please help me. I’m being held against my will. Don’t eat the cookies.” And then when you ate the cookie later cuz you figured the kid was fine, there would be a tiny little rolled up note that said, “You ate the cookie. Please help me.” Nowadays, it’s just mini-Snickers and mini-Milky Ways and tiny gay Fruit Snacks except for the snobs who sit out on their stoops with their hot chocolate matcha in a ceramic mug and their tight leather jackets and $400 fur-lined UGGs and million-dollar space heaters (even though it’s warm) and give out full size Twix bars because they’re snobby c*nts who need to flex every single day of the whole year, even on Halloween when instead of spoiling kids, they should be scaring them. I miss the musty man with the garbage bag and the Gimp.

Christmas is when we pretend God exists and that we love our families. Hanukkah is when we pretend Jews are heroes and that conspicuous consumption is ok. July 4th is when we pretend our country is founded on freedom, not slavery. Halloween is when we pretend there are ghosts and ghouls and pedophiles lurking around every corner. Well, it used to be.

The Death of My Child

Children dying has been on my mind a lot this summer. I watched Hamnet twice and read the book. I watched Manchester By the Sea and cried. My oldest child is technically still alive but I can tell with you great certainty that she is, in fact, completely dead.

In Stand By Me, Denny (John Cusack) is dead. Sometimes Gordon (the younger brother) goes to Denny’s room, stands in the doorway, and stares numbly at his dead brother’s college pennants and Yankees cap. Sometimes I lumber up to the third floor, stand in the doorway, and stare numbly at my dead daughter’s Stanley water bottle and pink hairbrush. The bed is perfectly made, there’s nothing on the desk by the wall or the chair in the corner, and the closets are nearly empty. There’s only a big purple rug which I now realize is much bigger than I thought because it’s not covered by life: hoodies, shoes, bras, backpacks, computer chargers, Fritos wrappers, Sephora lotions, and Wilson racquets. The room is neat and clean and tidy and filled by a ghost.

There are two white tennis grips in a silver bowl by the stove. They’re hers but she’s not around to use them. The family used to play H-O-R-S-E on the sport court most nights. I can’t remember the last time I was up there. The dinner table has an empty seat. No one plays ping pong anymore. There are fewer dishes to do. I don’t take the car keys out of my backpack when I get home because she won’t be needing the car any time soon because she doesn’t live with us because she’s dead.

Just a few short months ago, we used to walk out the back door together at 7:12am. She’d toss her heavy black backpack in the backseat, slam all the doors, throw herself down in the passenger seat, and get poppy seeds all over her clothes and cream cheese all over her fingertips as she scarfed down a toasted everything bagel that mommy made for her. We’d go left out of the garage and she’d grade my U-turn on Ashland and Byron. Noah Kahan would come on the radio for the thousandth time, I’d make the family joke that never gets old (“You know this song?”), and she’d smile. We’d pull up to her school at 7:28am but she wouldn’t get out of the car until it said 7:30am on the phone, the radio, and the driver dashboard. I’d say, “Get out. Let’s go. I gotta go to work,” when all I actually wanted was for her to stay in the car forever. But, of course, every morning she’d grab her stuff, leave her dirty napkin in the car, and walk to school with her back turned toward me. And then one day she walked away and never came back.

Now I walk out the back door alone at 7:12am, get in the car quietly, slowly, morosely, put my lunch bag and backpack in the backseat like a giant lonely loser, and make a right out of the garage. I listen to NPR because there’s no one to listen to Noah Kahan with, but I’m not listening. I’m staring out over Lake Shore Drive, at the water, at the clouds, at the rising sun, longing for my dead kid.

Her dirty socks aren’t on the stairs. Her bathroom counter isn’t overflowing with skincare products. There are no empty Celsius bottles outside her bedroom. No broken phone chargers hanging from various outlets around the house. No used paper towels on the floor of my car. No coats falling out of the closet. Sometimes I forget about her for a few hours. One time I didn’t think about her for an entire day. Those were the saddest 24 hours of my life. What’s worse than a child who has disappeared?

I picture her in her dorm room at college, lying in the fetal position on her bed and scrolling through TikTok. I wish she were in the living room at our house, lying in the fetal position on our blue couch and scrolling through TikTok. I want to pinch her legs, smother her with a blanket, and mock her relentlessly.

I picture her playing tennis in sweltering humidity in New Orleans, laughing with her friends and getting pissy when she loses a point. I wish she were playing tennis on a cool fall day in Chicago, laughing with me and getting pissy when she loses a point. I want to remind her to move her feet, watch her whiff an overhead, and mock her relentlessly.

I picture her studying quietly in the library, struggling with a complex Chemistry problem and feeling anxious about her next exam. I wish she were studying quietly at the kitchen counter, struggling with a complex Chemistry problem and feeling anxious about her next exam. I want to tell her to keep grinding, give her a hug, and whisper into her ear that she’s my favorite person in the world.

Sometimes she calls but mostly she texts. I read her messages but I can’t hear her voice or feel her frustration or excitement or fear or joy. The words are just empty words on a lifeless screen. No sound. No emotion. No humanity. Just death. The family puts her on speaker phone while we eat lunch but I can barely hear her and everyone keeps interrupting. I want to steal the phone, take her upstairs with me, and talk forever. Sometimes Boni and I argue about eating on the couch or playing piano or something else stupid. She starts to cry and, out of nowhere, says, “I miss [Panini].” I say, “Yeah, so do I.”

I sent her a pair of white Reeboks but I don’t get to see her take them out of the box with a giant smile on her face. I don’t get to see her sit down on the floor and lace those bad boys up. I don’t get to see her wear them out the front door like a motherfucking baller. And I don’t get to see those white Reeboks get dirty over time because she wears them to her 312 class at the gym or dinner at Summer House with her friends or parties at “the garage” with sketchy boys or Lolla with thousands of filthy animals. She’s wearing those white Reeboks all the time and living so hard and they’re getting dirtier every day but I can only picture them as white and clean because a dead person doesn’t wear shoes or get them dirty. I’ll only see those white Reeboks get dirty when she’s lying in her coffin and people throw dirt on her shoes and her cold dead body.

I know she doesn’t want to die. Most days she tells us she loves us, some days she tells us she misses us, and occasionally she tells us she’s feeling sad and lonely and that she can’t wait to see us in October when, for a second, she will be alive again.

Watch out your kids don’t go dying on you. Hold on to them as tight as you can. Suffocate them in your arms so they don’t die far away.

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.