It is already the last Friday of June...
Our life.... flies by so quickly. We are slotted into a stretch of time like a bookmark in the middle of a chapter that we didn’t get to start and won’t get to finish.
I was placed on this path during the last part of the 20th century and walked it into the first half of the 21st. From climbing trees while Elton John sang through WLS to watching the Weather Channel before I go to bed, before the streetlights even flicker on. That is the arc. That is the slide.
Most of the ride, it seems, we are meant to suffer. The rest of it, we are masking that pain, but I’m done with the mask and I’m damn well done worrying about the pain.
I have seen the evangelical right hijack one party and the socialists put the other in a sleeper hold. I watched my baseball team, my football team and my hockey team win it all, but my basketball team fell down this week. Still, I keep watching. That’s the thing that we always do, we keep rooting for those teams from our youth.
I get this strong urge to call someone on a payphone. Not a contact. Not a screen name. No caller ID, I want you to guess who’s calling.
I want to hear my mom pick up the line and shout, “WMAQ is gonna make me rich!”
.. and for a moment, believe her.
Give me a Larry Biittner card flapping in my spokes. Give me a world where I don’t know what a boob feels like and a French kiss is still a mystery.
I want to get yelled at for leaving my plate on the table. I want to throw a tennis ball against the front stoop and have my Oldman yell at me from the porch.
I want my mom cutting up my hot dogs and putting a plop of ketchup... yes, ketchup on my Hong Kong Phooey lunch plate. I want to watch a game on a TV with rabbit ears and not give a damn about not having cable television yet.
I want Orion Samuelson to tell me where pork bellies are trading and Wally Phillips spinning an Ellery Queen mystery before school.
My muscles ache now.
My breath ain’t so deep.
My hair is wiry and my skin is starting to spot just like Aunt Tillie’s did, but I am still here.
It is already the last Friday of June 2025. Next June, we will be getting riled up for the semi-quincentennial. 250 years of this wild, stupid, brilliant American ride.
And me?
I went from little league
to my first solo CTA ride into the Loop
to popping my cherry
to my first lap dance
to my first steak at Gene & Georgetti
to my first diaper change
to receiving emails from AARP.
All of it, just like that... tucked into this sliver of history. From one century into the next.
Friday night, maybe I’ll sit out back, listen to the ballgame on my transistor, spill a little mustard on my shirt and yank an Old Style out of a cold bath of ice. Gershwin on low in the kitchen, Sacred Heart on my mind and Shabbat peace humming through my heart.
We’ve done it, haven’t we?
We made our parents proud.
We didn’t make it all the way perfect, but we showed up and showing up is half of the battle.
We made sandwiches.
We gave rides.
We bought a Weber grill.
We tucked them in with all of our heart.
We said, “I love you” even when it burned.
Now all that is left is to leave this motherfucker a little better than we found it and maybe, just maybe, we can make someone else feel what we felt when the phone rang and we ran to answer it, not knowing who it was, but hoping it was someone who loved us.
Astonishment.........................