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 north. Neighbors to the south are cool. Neighbors to the north 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.