Purple Wristbands

Back in the day, the whistle blew, the other team threw the ball in, and you fuckin figured out who you were guarding. It wasn't that hard. 

Nowadays, the whistle blows, the 9-year-old YMCA Lakers line up at half-court across from the 9-year-old YMCA Celtics, and they all put on their stupid fucking wristbands. The kid on the Lakers with the yellow wristband guards the kid on the Celtics with the yellow wristband, the kid on the Lakers with the green wristband guards the kid on the Celtics with the green wristband, and my little Boni who plays for the Lakers and is complete trash at basketball and always needs to wear the purple wristband cuz she loves purple guards the kid on the Celtics with the purple wristband.

It's a fucking joke. The coaches make the kids point at each other as if to say, "You're wearing a purple wristband and I'm wearing a purple wristband, so I'm guarding you!"

It's shameful. And it teaches them nothing. In fact, it teaches them wrong. Cuz now instead of understanding that you gotta guard whoever you need to guard and that you need to protect the rim at all times and that you always need to see the ball and your man, you just run around like a fucking moron making sure you're guarding the kid with the purple wristband.

No joke, the ball could be on the right side of the court and a kid could be dribbling directly to the basket about to shoot a lay-up, yet there will be kids on the left side of the court who have absolutely no idea where the ball is because they're only paying attention to the kid who has the same color wristband.

It's a fucking travesty, and by "supporting" kids in this way, we are ruining them.

Here's another one: Broosevelt, my 9-year-old son who is actually somewhat decent at basketball, plays in a league that actually has some decent players but the league has a rule that you can't guard the other team until they get to the 3-point line. You can't guard 'em when they get the rebound and you can't even guard 'em once they cross half-court. You have to stand behind the 3-point line and wait until they make the first pass, and then you can finally play defense. 

Here's how this plays out: The other team shoots and misses, Broosevelt grabs the rebound, and there are two dudes on the other team right next to him. In normal life, Broosevelt would have to protect the ball by passing it, dribbling away from them, etc. But in this world of irony and stupidity, Broosevelt just dribbles up the court and pays no attention whatsoever to the kids on the other team running next to him because those kids can't touch the ball. So now Broosevelt has no idea how to protect the ball because he's never needed to protect the ball.

You know what else Broosevelt can't do? Cross the street by himself. You know what else? Make his own lunch. You know what else? Wipe his own ass. Just kidding, he wipes himself, but it is true that I still help him cross the street and that I still make him a sandwich every day. Yes, I contribute to this Culture of Enabling, but no longer. I might throw some turkey and cheese on a piece of bread for him but he will heretofore navigate on his own through traffic.

I heard a report the other day on NPR titled, "Shots can be scary and painful for kids. One doctor has a plan to end needle phobia." Are you fucking kidding me? "Needle phobia?" No one likes needles. Needles suck. But this isn't a "phobia." This is something kids are scared of because it fucking hurts, so how about instead of NPR lamenting the "distress parents experience at hearing their child scream at the doctor's office" and labeling it "emotional torture," we all calm the fuck down a bit and tell our kids, "Look, it's gonna hurt a little. You'll be fine. Stop crying." Our kids will say, "You mock my pain!" (Princess Bride), and we will respond, "Life is pain. Anyone who says differently is selling something."

I "help" Broosevelt and Boni by pouring their Cheerios and milk. The Boss "helps" our kids by plying them with Advil at the slightest hint of discomfort. My students' psychotic parents "help" their kids by obsessively protecting them from a B.

We protect our kids from pain, and they're weak. We protect our kids from chaos on the basketball court, and they suck at basketball. We hold their hands when they cross the street, and they end up dead like a smushed Frogger.

Back in the day, normal parental love meant a healthy mix of affection and discipline. Nowadays, that's known as "tough love." Eventually, "tough love" will be known as "abuse" because "love" will mean letting full-figured Little Johnny eat a whole pint of Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey and then demanding Little Johnny's principal be fired when he doesn't expel the two "bullies" who "body-shamed" our Little Johnny by calling him "fat."

More basketball: Broosevelt plays in another league which generally consists of kids who are borderline physically disabled. At halftime they give both teams two minutes to make as many lay-ups as possible. I'm cool with that. Seems fun. Keeps everyone active. But what I'm not cool with is that each team gets a point for every lay-up they make. So, if the score is 10-0 at halftime and both teams make 10 lay-ups, now the score is 20-10, and the team that didn't score a single fucking point in the first half is still down 10 points but feels much better about itself. They don't need to feel better about themselves. What they need is to feel like absolute shit for not having scored a single point so they go home, work hard, and become better basketball players.

Pain is a good thing. Pain motivates us. Pain makes us think creatively and problem-solve. If a B makes you cry, work harder. If losing hurts, play better. If you're about to get hit by a car, run. 

I'll tell you who can't figure out shit because her mother has never made her figure out anything: Panini, my 15-year-old incompetent. For years, yes years, the Boss gathered laundry from the floor of Panini's room, washed it, dried it, folded it, and put it back in Panini's room. Panini couldn't even be bothered to put it away, leaving it in piles scattered around her room. The Boss eventually said that if Panini didn't put away her clean clothes and put her dirty clothes in the hamper, she would stop doing her laundry. Panini didn't do shit, so the Boss stopped doing her laundry. Fast forward a couple weeks, and Panini literally had no clean underwear and was gathering dirty socks off her floor to wear to school. So what did the Queen of Enabling do? Buy her more underwear.

Everything that enables my kids has, in fact, disabled them. They ask Siri what 12 times 6 is because they can't do math. They use the Maps app to walk .3 miles to 7-11 because they, and I'm not exaggerating here, don't know north from south. They use Snapchat to "communicate" because they are incapable of talking on the phone, let alone being in the same room with another human being and making eye contact.

Some more basketball: Panini played on the JV basketball team this year at her high school. I repeat: high school. In a game early in the season, her team was getting its ass kicked. At some point I notice the clock keeps running when the whistle blows so, like the asshole dad I am, I yell out "Clock!" Happens again, and I again yell out "Clock!" No one pays me any attention and the clock keeps running. Turns out that there is a district-wide rule that when a team is losing by more than 30 points, the clock doesn't stop. In other words, they make the game go faster to avoid a total massacre. In other words, they make every girl on both teams play less basketball so all the girls on one team can feel a bit less shitty about themselves.

Look, I'm down with the "mercy rule" but only to a point. If a 9-year-old baseball team is losing by more than 10 runs after five innings, fine, call it. If a 12-year-old soccer team is losing by more than 10 goals deep in the second half, fine, call it.

Actually, no, fuck that. Make the soccer team that's winning make 20 passes before they can shoot. Take one of their players off the field. Make it so they can only shoot with their left foot. Would the losing team still feel humiliated despite all those adjustments? Yes. But at least they'd get to play more soccer. See, that's the issue: We're so hell-bent on "protecting" our kids that we've sacrificed play for pity.

Fuck it, more basketball: Late in the season, Panini's team was, once again, getting crushed. The opposing team scored a basket to go up by 27 points and Panini's coach looked over to the scoring table and said, "Just let it run." You heard me right: This skinny little fuck asked for the "mercy rule" to be implemented before it was supposed to be implemented. What makes it worse is that he wasn't trying to "protect" his players. He just wanted the game to be done because he's a shitty, uninvested coach who felt humiliated by the debacle unfolding in front of him for which he was primarily responsible. But all that's for a different blog post...

Back in the day, criminals wore handcuffs. Nowadays, kids wear handcuffs disguised as purple wristbands. Our kids don't have the freedom to fuck up. And learn.

I'm done making lunches.

Sorry, not sorry: Yesterday at Boni's YMCA game, the Celtics were beating the Lakers 20-10 and the YMCA folks told the Celtics coach he had to make his players make five passes before they could shoot. The score wasn't 40-3 or 55-12. The Celtics were winning by ten motherfucking points, tears were already being shed, and feelings were already being protected.

Enough already.

Privilege gives our children the opportunity to thrive, but some of us have so much privilege that we need to give our kids the ultimate opportunity: the freedom to fail.

Nathan Wilks

Nathan Wilks is a 38-year-old financial advisor who lives in Naperville, IL. Please feel free to google him, send him an email (as I did), and go to his home or place of work to learn more about him. I am using Nathan's real name because this motherfucker was brazen enough to use his real name in his efforts to cheat on his wife and scam my friend, Juanita, out of $100,000. He was semi-successful in his cheating and unsuccessful in his scamming.

Nathan, if you wanna anonymously do some shady shit when you’re on vacation in Thailand, be my guest. But if you’re gonna recklessly put your entire self out there, then I’m gonna put you out there too.

Juanita (not her real name) is a 45-year old project manager who lives in Glenview, IL. She spends time on various dating apps and recently met Nathan on Tinder. Juanita is divorced, has three children with two different dudes, and is therefore not the best judge of character when it comes to men. However, there will be no victim-shaming here and, as you will see, Juanita figured out that Nathan Wilks is a lying scumbag well before it was too late.

In April, Juanita and Nathan match on Tinder. His profile states that he is “looking for a relationship” and Nathan tells Juanita that he got divorced a couple of years ago. They eventually decide to meet for brunch at Egg Harbor in Oak Brook at 11am on a Thursday.

Juanita is impressed: Nathan is 6’2, physically fit, and handsome. After a few minutes, Nathan asks Juanita if she is on LinkedIn. Juanita says yes, and Nathan takes out his phone and invites Juanita to connect. Juanita figures Nathan is just networking, as financial advisors often do.

Nathan tells Juanita he is currently launching his own investment bank and that he’s very busy these days. He wonders, however, if Juanita would like to go on a “proper date" and asks what she is doing in the next few days. Juanita is enjoying her bacon, egg, and potato breakfast skillet and generally enjoying Nathan’s company, but she has two other dates planned, so she rainchecks.

After a week or two of underwhelming texts from Nathan (“Good morning!”, “How was your day?”, etc.), they set a date for a Wednesday night at J. Alexander’s, a contemporary American restaurant near Juanita’s house. Juanita appreciates that Nathan is coming all the way from Naperville.

The date goes well. Juanita is wearing her usual first-date outfit: jeans and a black v-neck which shows off her cleavage. Nathan is wearing a suit with a white shirt and a purple tie, which brings out the purple in his stylish tweed jacket. They sit at dinner for three hours, Juanita gets the prime rib, and they both drink old-fashioned’s.

J. Alexander’s closes at 10pm and there’s nowhere to go in Glenview, so Juanita invites Nathan back to her house. They have another drink, make out a little, and he leaves. Nathan is a good kisser and behaves like a gentleman.

Juanita and Nathan begin texting more frequently and Nathan seems more interested. They try to set up another date but Nathan says he is still very busy with the launch of his company. He is unable to make plans in advance and sometimes says “maybe tomorrow for lunch.” He also says that he can’t ever go out on weekends because his ex-wife has the kids during the week and he has them all weekend.

Nathan, I know of a lot of set-ups for divorced people, and this is not one of them. No dad takes his kids all weekend every weekend. Lie better.

Nathan offers to meet for a happy hour during the week. He again drives to Juanita, they meet at a bar for a little while, and Nathan bounces. Juanita thinks, “You drove all the way to Glenview during rush hour to hang out for less than an hour? Weird.”

Though Juanita would prefer to actually get together in person, they continue to text. Nathan shares details about his childhood: He’s from the South Side of Chicago, his mother was a crackhead, his brother spent time in jail, and he experienced homelessness.

Nathan, that’s some sad shit so, in this case, I actually hope you’re lying about some or all of it.

Nathan invites Juanita to invest in his business. Though Juanita knows there is no way in hell she is going to invest, she asks how many partners Nathan has, what the minimum investment is, and what the expected return is.

Nathan is dead serious about getting Juanita to invest; Juanita is not. She says, “You think I’m gonna give 100k to some dude I met on Tinder? Do I look like a crazy person?” She sends Nathan a link for the The Tinder Swindler. She gives Nathan her email but says that if he asks for her SSN, she’s out. 

She jokes, “Ok, I’m in. I give you 100k and then what happens?”

He says, “We meet up for dinner, we pop some champagne, and we go on a trip to celebrate.”

“Where?”

“Alaska!”

“Alaska?!? So you can push me off a cliff and keep my 100k? Fuck that. I just saw that story on Dateline!”

Nathan keeps coming on strong. He texts Juanita every day and starts calling her “babe.” They’re still trying to meet up for another date. Juanita’s daughter comes home from college, so she offers to go to his house. He responds, “Oh, I don’t know. My house isn’t very clean.”

Nathan, BRO, you’ve put yourself on Tinder and created this entire scheming lifestyle, but this is the best you can come up with? How about your house is being renovated or you have family in town? How about anything other than your house being dirty? If you’re gonna be this big of a bastard, you better up your game.

Juanita is now suspicious as fuck. First of all, this conversation occurred on a Monday and they were talking about going out later that week, so how does Nathan not have time to clean up his house? Second, if Nathan is really an investment banker, how does he not have a cleaning lady? Third, neither Juanita nor you nor I has ever met a man who wouldn’t leap at the offer of a woman to come to his house.

So Juanita says, “Look man. We’re not going out again until I see your place. Period.”

Nathan invites Juanita over for lunch on a Sunday. She pulls into the driveway and the house looks shabby. She meets Nathan at the door and he makes an off-hand comment about the lock-box on the door. He says he keeps it there in case his ex-wife needs to come by.

Nathan gives Juanita a tour. The house is kind of a mess with mismatched, outdated furniture. It feels sparse and neglected, especially for an investment banker. Nathan says this is the house that he and his ex-wife bought years ago when their kids were little. There are no women’s clothes in the closets, but Juanita feels very suspicious.

They go to lunch and, after 20 minutes, Nathan says he has to go pick up his kids. Juanita is confused. Nathan said he had dropped off his kids before she got there, so why would he need to go pick them up so soon? Jaunita is annoyed. She drove all the way out to Naperville for this?

Juanita gets home and immediately googles his address. She quickly discovers that the house is for rent beginning on May 15th. It is May 8th at this point. She also discovers that Nathan is not the owner of the house; he’s a renter.

Juanita looks up divorce records in Cook County and surrounding counties. There is no divorce record for Nathan Wilks and she presumes that Nathan is still married.

Juanita goes on Facebook and finds Nathan’s wife. Her profile states that she is married and there are recent pictures of her, her kids, and Nathan.

Juanita enters the Facebook group, “Are we dating the same guy?”, which she has successfully used before (and which was recently banned in Chicago because so many guys complained about it). Sure enough, Nathan is on there and someone has posted that he is married with kids and has attempted to con numerous people out of money.

In the meantime, Nathan has texted Juanita a couple of times and she hasn't responded. He writes, “What’s your deal?”

Juanita responds, “When are you moving?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your house is listed for rent. I’m surprised you don’t know that.”

“Oh, it’s been for rent for a while. Bla bla bla. Bullshit bullshit bullshit.”

“Lies. You don’t even own that house.”

Silence.

Juanita finishes, “Are you done clowning now? 🤡”

Nathan, do I understand the desire to have sex with other women? Sure. But what I don’t understand is how you can put your entire personal and professional life at risk. What if Juanita (who, lucky for you, decided she has better things to do than fuck your shit up) had DM’d your wife, poured sheep's blood on your desk at work, or stood outside your kids’ school with a sign that said CHEATING ASSHOLE? You either hate your life and are subconsciously trying to self-sabotage or you’re just the stupidest motherfucker I’ve ever heard of. Best of luck to you.

I Wish Damar Hamlin Had Died

In a perfunctory, guilt-ridden spectacle, the entire world offered its "thoughts and prayers" to Buffalo Bills player Damar Hamlin back in January after he nearly died on a football field. It appears that millions upon millions of people genuinely love Damar Hamlin and care about his well-being.

I don't.

Hamlin suffered cardiac arrest after a vicious collision with a player on the other team. But I don't care about Hamlin's heart. I care about the hearts of the 400,000 Americans who die from cardiac arrest every year, most of whom suffered from heart disease due to the build-up of cholestrol and plaque inside the lining of the coronary arteries. The primary cause of this plaque build-up? Obesity. That's right; I care about those who suffer from the disease that affects 40% of Americans and is the #1 killer in our country.

Actually, I don't really care about them either.

I care about Micah Hyde, the player Hamlin replaced in the Bills line-up after Hyde himself suffered a season-ending neck injury. There are approximately 100 neck injuries in the NFL every year, and if you google Reggie Brown, Dennis Byrd, Mike Utley, etc., you can read all about the awful, appalling, atrocious paralyses and near-death experiences that occur regularly in the National Football League of Lawlessness.

I don't actually care about Micah Hyde. I'd never heard of him until recently. But I do care about Dane Jackson, yet another Bills player who was carted off the football field in an ambulance after a scary neck injury about one hour before Hyde's injury.

Just kidding, I don't care about Hyde or Jackson. I care about the real problem in the NFL which isn't neck injuries; it’s CTE (chronic traumatic encephalopathy), a neurological disease resulting from repeated trauma to the head. A 2017 Boston University study found that 99% of brains from deceased NFL players were positive for CTE. In 2013, more than 4,000 former players sued the league, which ultimately settled for $765 million. That was nice, but I still feel nauseated when I think about former NFL player Junior Seau who committed suicide by shooting himself in the heart, presumably so his brain could be used for research on CTE.

The more I think about it though, the less I care about all the players who suffer and suffered from CTE. I mean, these guys chose to play in the league, right? They chose to play a violent sport and they chose to put themselves in harm's way. They knew the risks. Screw them. Everyone knows how dangerous football is. They shoulda known better. 

Damar Hamlin definitely shoulda known better. Hamlin was born in 1998 in cosmopolitan Pittsburgh, went to a reputable Catholic high school, and ultimately attended the University of Pittsburgh, a hub of learning and research.

The thing is though, zero people were talking about football players and CTE in 1998, and Hamlin was actually born and raised in McKees Rocks (part of the Pittsburgh metropolitan area), which had a median household income of $22,278 in 2010. When Hamlin was a kid, his dad spent three years in jail for selling drugs and three of his friends died from gun violence. So let's just say that neurological trauma was the furthest thing from Hamlin's mind and football may have seemed like one of the only ways out.

Still though, when Hamlin first put on a helmet, he must have known the risks. He must have known about the concussions, the neck injuries, the spinal injuries, the paralysis, the CTE, and the disproportionate share of former NFL players who commit suicide. He must have known, right?

Fuck no, he didn't know. And neither did Micah Hyde, Dane Jackson, or Junior Seau. Or any other current and former NFL player when they were six years old and made their first tackle. 

You know who else didn't know? Heisman trophy winner and former NFL All-Pro Bo Jackson. Remember him? "Bo knows football. Bo knows baseball. Bo knows..." 

In 2017, Bo Jackson said that if he had known about the risks associated with CTE, he never would have played football and that there's no way he would allow his kids to play today.

No, I don't wish Damar Hamlin had died. But if he had, I would hope that a silver lining of his death might be that you, the casual NFL fan, might reevaluate your life choices and decide not to put your eyeballs on the modern-day version of Roman gladiators.

I know 40-yard touchdown passes are exciting and that the Cowboys cheerleaders are pleasant to look at, but the NFL is, quite literally, killing people. Perhaps if Hamlin had died, he would have whispered, in his dying breath, "Are you not entertained?!?"

Is There Any Dolphins Still Alive?

Listen, Panini's my best friend and OG is my favorite and Boni is the Queen Goddess, but Broosevelt is my guy. I don't necessarily espouse the philosophy of bros before hoes, but only Broosevelt and I sit for hours in front of an NBA playoff game, give each other hi-five's when we fart, and cross the streams when we pee. We have a special relationship, he's a special guy, and I desperately want you to understand who he is. 

Broosevelt is a 9-year-old boy with fair skin and a blond head of hair. He weighed in at exactly 4 pounds when he was born and he is still short and weak. He just started being able to do push-ups in the last few months and his core strength is zero. He's got heart though. Every time I beat him in 1-on-1, he's like, "Another one!" Eventually he cries, but he always says it was worth it.

Broosevelt plays piano, enjoys math, loves geography, and is obsessed with statistics, names, numbers, addresses, and capitals.

Broosevelt is clearly like his father in many ways, but he is also very much unlike me: He is sensitive, anxious, and kind. He is nice to the boys and the girls, he hugs his teammates when they strike out, and he sometimes thinks about death before falling asleep.

A year or so ago, Broosevelt started asking questions. A lot of them. I don't remember when and I sure as hell don't remember why, but on some random occasion, Broosevelt looked up from his cream cheese and jelly sandwich and, with total sincerity, asked, "Is there any dolphins still alive?"

That question, in addition to countless other gems, led the Boss and me to start keeping a list of some of the insane shit he has asked. We are not the list-keeping type, but I believe that these questions will help reveal to you, my wonderful readers, exactly who Broosevelt is.

Saul freely acknowledges that he has, at times, misled, embellished, obfuscated, and perhaps even outright lied. Though some of the questions and conversations detailed in this post may seem truly unbelievable, they are all 100% accurate and real. Enjoy.

Broosevelt is curious. He has asked, "How do traffic lights work," "If you had a finger between your thumb and your pointer finger, what would you call it?," and "Can people eat squirrels? Are they yummy?"

Sometimes though, he's more clueless than curious. After two gout-inducing buffet breakfasts, Broosevelt asked, "Is bacon a vegetable?"

Rather than laugh in his face, I gave him three choices:

A. Bacon, like sausage, comes from pigs

B. Bacon, like lettuce, comes from plants

C. Bacon, likes corn, comes from the earth

He guessed C.

We make fun of Broosevelt for his cluelessness. Sometimes he gets upset. Sometimes he laughs it off. Sometimes he doesn't even realize he's being made fun of. On a random Monday night during a totally normal week of school, Broosevelt asked, "Is there school tomorrow?"

I said, "Yeah buddy, there's school tomorrow," and then his sisters and I proceeded to tease him for asking if there was school tomorrow because of course there was school tomorrow. The laughter died down and a few seconds later, Broosevelt asked, "So, is there school tomorrow?"

Sometimes Broosevelt is funny by accident. One night I was putting him to bed and he kept peppering me with questions. Finally I said, "Broosevelt, it's official. I can't talk to you anymore. Goodnight." And he said, "Oh, it's official, like the Bill of Rights?"

Sometimes Broosevelt is funny on purpose. A few weeks ago, I came home from work and asked him how his day was. He said, "Well, I tried to make a Minecraft cowboy but I made his nuts too big so it didn’t work out."

Broosevelt, understandably, thinks I know everything. He has asked, "Who is the best player on Paris Saint-Germain?" and "Who is the best WWE wrestler of all time?"

And recently he asked, "When was James Madison born?"

I responded, "I'm not sure. Some time around 1740?"

"No, I mean his birthday."

Broosevelt can be philosophical. He has asked, "Why is it not possible to travel through time?" and "I feel like when you’re living inside earth, it’s hard to believe that earth is round. Don’t you think?"

But he's also pragmatic (read: crafty Jew who understands the value of a dollar). Two days after Christmas last year, he said, "At what age will I need to buy people Christmas presents? Can it be after my Bar Mitzvah? Because I'll have more money then."

Broosevelt is honest and direct. As he was getting his ass kicked in a game of UNO, he groaned, "Ughhhh, I don't like people!" 

But sometimes he is confused and unclear. Broosevelt and I were watching March Madness, and Princeton was up by 15 on #7 seed Missouri after already having knocked out #2 seed Arizona in the first round.

Broosevelt exclaimed, "Man, Princeton is literally on fire!"

I said, "Nope, they're not."

A few minutes later when Princeton was up 20, he said, "Ok, now they're literally on fire!"

"Nope, they're still not."

"Yes, they are!"

"Broosevelt, if they were literally on fire, they'd actually be on fire."

And then Broosevelt was silent.

Sometimes Broosevelt just wants answers. One day he asked me, "Are aliens real?"

I said, "What do you think?"

"I think they're not."

"Ok."

"So are they?"

But sometimes Broosevelt is very far away, thinking his thoughts, unaware of the world around him. This past April, we were in California for spring break. In the middle of a long, spectacular drive along the cliffs of the Pacific Coast Highway, Broosevelt said to the Boss and me, "Do you use Yelp?"

Sometimes it's hard to tell if Broosevelt doesn't know how to articulate his question or if he's just downright stupid. In February, he asked, "How are some countries better than ours?"

And then in May, while watching an NBA playoff game, he turned to me and asked, "Do most NBA players play with shoes on?

Sometimes Broosevelt is perfectly articulate and perfectly stupid. For his wax museum project at school, Broosevelt learned everything he could about Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. Though Broosevelt is fully aware that Abdul-Jabbar is currently over 70 years old, this past February, he asked, "Will Kareem start playing again since LeBron broke his record?"

Broosevelt is young and innocent. In a tv commercial, a man and and a woman started passionately kissing and then they got into bed with almost no clothes on and then the commercial showed a condom and Broosevelt said, "I don't think anyone's gonna buy that!"

But Broosevelt also understands the way the world works. He asked, "How is safti (Israeli grandmother) such a good cook? Does it come naturally?" 

And he likes to use a line he stole from his friend: "Martin Luther King wouldn’t have done all that if he were white."

Sometimes Broosevelt is smart when he's dumb. He asked, "Are all flags a rectangle?" and I judged him for his dumbness until I googled it and learned that Nepal has the world's only non-rectangular flag.

Sometimes Broosevelt is dumb when he's smart. A few months ago, he asked, "How long has the war in Ukraine been going on?"

I said, "About a year, I think."

"So like, since last January?"

"Yeah, something like that."

"Do they use swords?"

From the moment the following question was asked through the time of writing, we still do not understand Broosevelt's intent. All we know is that we were an hour into Footloose, set in the early 80s in small town America, and as Kevin Bacon and the preacher were engaged in a tense conversation, Broosevelt asked, "Is this World War II?

Crisis at the Urinals (Part II)

The following is Part 2 of a 2-part series on the previously discussed urinal crisis.

Having covered the ridiculous way in which some boys pee, I would like to describe a moment to you in which I was relaxedly urinating and then, within a split second, felt panic and fear.

Draining the main vein is a pleasant experience and I was enjoying it thoroughly when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the young man next to me finish his pee, step back from the urinal, and motherfucking karate kick the urinal handle. The kid was around my height and the handle is well over 4 feet high, so flushing with his foot was a somewhat impressive athletic feat.

I was shocked. Dismayed. Utterly aghast. I tried to delete the experience from my mind, bury it deep down in my emotional wasteland with other forgotten memories including, but not limited to, scalding new-born Panini with boiling hot water, nearly breaking OG’s finger by furiously spinning her on a ride at the playground, and desperately trying to pause Game of Thrones during a gratuitous lesbian sex scene as my sweet innocent beautiful blond baby boy Broosevelt walked in the room last night.

But I couldn't bury having witnessed the foot-flushing because I saw it happen again. And again. And again.

Clearly this was a trend, not an anomaly, so I decided to process it with a group of people whom I trust dearly: my students. I shared every detail of my bathroom experience and once they had gotten over the horrible awkwardness of hearing a story about their teaching urinating, I said, "Look, this is a safe space and I promise I won't judge anyone in this room. I just need to know how many of you flush with your feet."

More than half of the hands in the room went in the air. 

I couldn't believe what I was seeing, so we talked about it. Girls were definitely more likely to foot-flush, but boys did it too. I asked them why, and they mentioned things like germs, general grossness of going to the bathroom at school, and, well, that's just how they do it.

I judged the shit out of them and went home to talk to my wife and kids about it.

Sure enough, the Boss foot-flushes too. "But only in public places," she said.

"So let me get this straight," I said. "If all you do is open a stall, sit on a toilet, wipe your pee, and close the stall, you still wash your hands, right?"

"I guess so."

"And the sink is only a few steps away, right?"

"Yeah."

"So then you acknowledge that flushing with your feet is completely fear-based and irrational, right?"

"You're the best husband ever. I love you."

Seriously though, this makes no sense. When you go to the bathroom, you're already theoretically covered in germs and therefore immediately wash your hands, so what difference does it make if you touch the handle before doing so?

Not only is this act irrational, it's also incredibly self-centered. People who foot-flush know perfectly well that not everyone else foot-flushes, yet they willfully place their piss- and shit-stained shoe soles where other people place their hands.

Let me rephrase everything I am saying: If you flush with your feet, you are an awful person. Though I suppose you can't control your anxiety, you can most certainly control your nonsensical, narcissistic behavior and I hate you very much. While some of us continue to maintain our sanity by pushing the toilet handle with our hands, we are currently in the midst of a fear-based, foot-flushing pandemic.

As established in Part 1 of this series, anxiety is at the root of diagonal and downward pissing. Clearly, it is also at the root of foot-flushing. So let's zoom out and connect the fear and anxiety behind our toilet-flushing crisis to the real issue here: death.

Recently, the Boss has been sharing the following data with everyone she can: While the rates of anxiety, depression, and suicide have increased, the rates of binge-drinking, teen pregnancy, and drunk-driving have decreased. In other words, kids aren't at parties getting shit-faced and making bad decisions; they're in their rooms by themselves on their phones feeling scared and sad.

So here's a terribly morbid question (consider yourself warned): Would you rather your 16-year-old son struggle with anxiety, not be able to pee in public, spend all his time alone in his room on his phone, experience deep depression, and kill himself, or would you prefer that boy live a happy, carefree lifestyle, party his balls off with his friends, deface property by pissing publicly on a building, and die in a drunk-driving accident after an absolute rager on a Saturday night? Neither is good, but if I had to choose, I'd take the latter.

Daniel-san using the crane technique to beat Johnny was heroic. You using it to flush the toilet is shameful.

Yet there is hope. Fear and anxiety need not rule our lives. We can still choose to flush the right way. We can be better. 

As Mr. Miyagi said, "Is okay to lose to opponent. Must not lose to fear."

Crisis at the Urinals (Part I)

The following is Part 1 of a 2-part series on the current urinal crisis ravaging our great nation.

Trigger warning: This post frequently uses words such as "penis" and "urinate,” in addition to other, more colloquial forms of these words. If you are sensitive to such diction (diction, get it?), I advise you to stop reading now.

One of my earliest childhood memories circa 1982 is walking into the men's bathroom at the Philadelphia Eagles game. The line at each urinal was long and I stood awkwardly waiting for my turn. It wasn't weird that I was an unaccompanied 6-year-old in a room full of drunk men with their faces painted green. What was weird is that every guy at the urinal was looking at up the ceiling. At first I thought, "Why is everyone looking up? Is there something cool up there? I can't see it!" But then at some point (maybe then, maybe years later), I realized what was happening: By looking up at the ceiling, Man A was giving Man B a non-verbal cue to indicate that Man A was not, in fact, looking at Man B's penis. It was Man A's way of saying, "I am not a pervert. This is a safe space. You may urinate freely."

Something about this cultural practice rubs me the wrong way, but I'd prefer it to the current situation amongst teenage boys, the cohort with which I am most familiar. Yes, I know it sounds weird that I am intimately familiar with the urinal practices of teenage boys, but I work with young people, drink a lot of water, and pee a lot, so this is, like, totally normal.

There are two very strange things these young men do. The first can be described as "diagonal pissing."

Let me paint a picture: Jacob and Nate have to pee and there are only two urinals. Jacob takes the urinal on the left but stands on the right side of that urinal at a 45 degree angle so his back is facing Nate. He then pees diagonally rather than using the traditional straight-ahead method.

In the meantime, Nate is standing on the left side of the right urinal doing the same thing. While the boys now have their backs turned to one another, their asses, ironically, are practically touching.

What's happening in this scene? Well, both young men are making absolute sure that no one can see their junk. They've turned away from any possible peeper and attempted to create complete privacy in an otherwise public space. 

Right now you're probably thinking, "But what if there are three urinals? The boy using the middle urinal can't turn his back in both directions." Excellent question. Thank you for asking.

You know what these boys do when there are three urinals? They wait. They wait for the urinal on the left or the right to become available rather than taking the open urinal in the middle. I've witnessed such absurdity many times. I initially assumed something was wrong with the middle urinal, but then I realized what was happening, jumped the line, walked right up to the middle urinal, and peed straight ahead.

Hypotenuse pissing is not the strangest part of this crisis, however. 

Back in 1982 at the Eagles game, boys, men, and Boyz II Men (Philly joke, get it?) stood a few inches from the urinal, removed their penis from their pantalones, pointed it forward, and peed. Nowadays, boys walk all the way up to the urinal so they are basically straddling it rather than standing in front of it. They then pee downward.

What's happening in this scene? Well, once again, rather than potentially allowing someone to peep their private parts, these boys have left no space between themselves and the urinal, making it impossible for anyone to see anything. And, yes, there are boys who combine the diagonal pissing with the downward pissing.

So what's really happening in these scenes? I'll tell you exactly what's happening. These boys are so afraid, so private, so insecure that they don't know how to piss in public. Back in the day, we played grab-ass in the locker room, we showered together at camp, and we ran naked through the woods. We weren't afraid of our own bodies, we weren't afraid of each other's bodies, and, to be blunt, we knew what each other's dicks looked like.

Nowadays, there's no grab-ass, no locker room, no shower, and no woods. These boys are in their rooms and on their phones, and when practice is done, they throw on their sweats and they're out the door. No one is ever naked around anyone and that's why they're so damn scared to take a leak. 

Years ago, I was coaching 9th grade boys' basketball and we often practiced in the mornings before school started. I told the kids to bring a towel and soap to shower after practice and one of the kids said to his teammates, "You'll probably want to bring a bathing suit as well." 

I thought, "What in the fuck would you need a bathing suit for? You're not jumping in the pool after practice."

I said, "Thank you for being so thoughtful and for validating the various feelings your teammates may be experiencing at this moment."

Back in the day, by looking up at the ceiling, men conveyed to one another, "I'm not looking." Nowadays, by hiding in the urinals, boys convey to one another, "Stop looking!" Back in the day, there was a fear that one could be perceived as a pervert. Nowadays, there is a fear that everyone around you is a pervert. This is not progress; this is a crisis, and I am certain this generation is in deep trouble, drowning in their own piss-stained anxiety.

Stay tuned for Part II early next week.

The Reverse Layup

The reverse layup is a trick shot. You can watch an entire NBA game and not see a single one. Shit, you can watch 20 high school games and not see one. It looks pretty, but it's basically useless.

So when Panini (my nearly 15-year-old daughter) lost in H-O-R-S-E to some punk kid named Adrian cuz Adrian could shoot a reverse layup and Panini couldn't, I nearly lost my mind.

Adrian is a 13-year-old Canadian Jew whose grandfather, Albert, fled from Libya in the 70s after Gaddafi came to power. Albert made his way to Italy and eventually to Israel. In the 80s, after Egypt and Israel were at peace, he started a cruise line between the two nations. In the 90s, he and his Canadian-Israeli wife immigrated to Toronto where he made his money helping the United Nations transport people and equipment to war zones.

Adrian's father, Evan, is currently one of the richest Jews in Canada. I'm talking Crazy Rich. He invested in weed before it was legal (Albert was not initially supportive of this endeavor) and then, when it became legal, founded a medical marijuana company which recently sold for $3.2 billion. That's right: billion.

So if your name is Evan and you're a billionaire, what do you do with your money? 

Well, first off, you check on your pre-nup and divorce your wife who, according to an anonymous source, is a "money-hungry bitch." You then get a girlfriend about half your age who has most definitely had a nose-job but is not yet in need of a boob job praised be the Lord our God.

Then, you buy an estate on an island in the Caribbean and build a giant house with a pool, pool table, bar, giant flat-screen TV, work-out room, and quick-drying tennis court with basketball hoops on either end. You then hire a personal chef whom you will fly down to the Caribbean in your private jet.

In the meantime, you pay Drake, yes Drake, to perform at Adrian's Bar Mitzvah, pay a private basketball coach tens of thousands of dollars to make Adrian decent at hoops, and pay a videographer seven barrels of Jew gold to make a highlight reel of Adrian playing hoops and of Drake pretending he and Adrian are friends. (I always enjoy when one rich white guy pays another rich white guy for the services of a black man. Happy belated Juneteenth!)

So Albert, Evan, Adrian, the chef, and the rest of the family arrive in the Caribbean for their holiday vacation. Unbeknownst to them, Evan's sister, Deborah, is good friends with the Boss' brother, and it just so happens that the Boss is also on vacation in the Caribbean with her entire family, including yours truly. (Full transparency: We are Rich Jews, but not Crazy Rich Jews.)

We invite ourselves over to the family estate, and Adrian's younger sister (Sarah, age 10) is at the bar making overly alcoholic drinks for the adults. Appetizers are served and Panini thinks the appetizers are dinner so she eats them as if they are dinner. Adrian and Sarah's twin brother, Michael, spend most of dinner playing Madden on the giant TV in the middle of the living room. The rest of the time, they're on their excessively large iPhones. 

When Evan and I meet, he is wearing khaki shorts, a belt, a tucked-in polo, and loafers without socks. I'm wearing thrift shop athletic shorts down to my knees, a ripped t-shirt with a cartoon figure taking a shit, and flip-flops. He shakes my hand, reluctantly.

Adrian is drenched in Nike Dri-FIT and wearing $350 LeBron's. Spoiled rotten Michael is wearing Air Jordan 4's which you know, if you've been on eBay any time in the last 30 years, cost around $800. Panini is wearing a tank-top, shorts that are too short, and flip-flops.

Deborah is getting drunk, Evan's nose-job trophy girlfriend is comparing nose-jobs with some of her nose-job trophy friends who have arrived, and the Boss, in her middle-aged grace, is prettier than all of them.

Now I'd seen Adrian's videos and I knew the kid could play, but I also know that my daughter Panini can shoot the shit out of the ball and I'll be damned if any sl*pe's gonna put their greasy yellow hands on his boy's birthright, I mean I'll be damned if I'm gonna let Adrian think he’s all that and not talk some shit, so I bet sloppy Deborah $20 that Panini will whoop Adrian's ass in H-O-R-S-E, and it's on.

We head out to the basketball court, Panini and Adrian warm up a bit, and I can see that Adrian is overconfident. How could he, the most privileged Jew in the great province of Ontario, lose to some gangly American girl???

Before they begin, Panini says, "Are we playing one game or is it best out of three?" and I shit you not, Adrian responds, "Well, let's see what happens," which is code for, "Shiiiiiit, I assume I'm gonna beat your ass in one game, but just in case I don't, let me hedge." 

The game starts and it takes both of them a few minutes to find their rhythm. Adrian is shooting hero shots because, as previously mentioned, he's a bitch-ass Crazy Rich Jew. Panini is nervous and struggling to find her range. 

But then Panini starts hitting: soft elbow jumpers, silky 16-footers from the wing, buttery 12-footers from the baseline. Banks. Floaters. Lefty layups. You name it. Bratty Michael starts complaining that Panini keeps shooting the same shot, when in fact Panini is moving all over the court. Are most shots between 12 and 17 feet? Yes. Do they look similar? Yes. Are they the same shot? No. Should ignorant little Michael shut his ignorant little mouth? Yes.

Adrian starts missing cuz he's got no heart and cuz he's a choke and cuz he and Drake aren't actually boys. Panini wins.

And sure enough, by the time Adrian's last brick hits the ground, he's like, "Best out of three."

And that's when it happens: Adrian discovers that Panini can't shoot a reverse layup. Her father has most certainly diversified her skill set, but we never bothered with the reverse layup because, like I said before, it's a motherfucking trick shot. 

So let's be clear about one thing: Does Adrian have every right to use the reverse layup to win? Absolutely. Is it a bitch-ass move to do so? Most definitely. Yes, you can "win" H-O-R-S-E by identifying and exploiting that one shot your opponent can't shoot, but you haven't "won" a god damn thing by doing so, and I guarantee Adrian fell asleep that night feeling deep shame and wondering why Drake never texts him back.

As this debacle unfolds, drunk Deborah screams obscenities at any child within 20 feet, Evan stands smugly with his hands in his pockets and a smirk on his face, and I feign magnanimity, taking careful mental notes which I will one day use against Adrian, his father, and the entire Canadian medical marijuana industry.

Panini loses the next two games and eight of her ten letters come from the reverse layup. And does piss-ant Michael say anything about Adrian using the same shot over and over? Hell no. He just prances around gleefully, cluelessly scuffing up his Jordan 4's and cheering stupidly for his stupid, immoral brother.

I think Panini cried after the defeat. I took her into my arms, looked straight in her eyes, and said, "Don't worry. We may only be Rich Jews without a private jet and a highlight reel, but at least we're not Crazy Rich Jews who actually lose when they win.”