July 26th, 2025

 “...grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel.” — Shakespeare

That line is about friendship... the kind that doesn’t bend or break. Polonius gave that advice to his son Laertes in Hamlet. Don Shepley gave it to his boy once too. I took it to heart and wound up with a band of brothers from the southwest corner of Oak Park.

We raised pints to 21st birthdays and again at 30. We toasted weddings, baptized babies, buried fathers, and fielded slow-pitch doubleheaders with hangovers and hustle. One night in a tavern on Roosevelt Road, most of us still too young to drink legally, we picked a name for our team: The Wild Turkeys. It stuck and so have we.

Forty years later, we are still swinging. Some with grandkids, some with pensions, some with emptier nests than they planned. I might be the only one officially divorced, but today we are together again for the annual Wild Turkey Open, followed by a cookout.

The storms might roll in and with my golf game, I might be better off skipping to the 19th hole anyway, but I’ll be shoulder to shoulder with the Turkeys. The laughter, the stories, the old memories… they show up every time.

We don’t see each other often, but when we do, it’s gusto, knowledge, laughter, and a fondness that doesn’t fade.

I’ll find my astonishment today.

It just won’t be wearing a smile on the sun.

July 25th, 2025

    We have seen some major celebrity deaths this week. We don't plan on it, but celebrities become a part of our lives. When we lose one who we grew up with, it can leave a void. Maybe not like when we lose a family member, a colleague or an old neighbor.

The Steinbeck line I chalked, “It’s darker when a light goes out than if it had never shone," hits different today. It speaks to the bittersweet truth of human experience. The darkness after the light isn’t just an absence. It is a reminder that something once burned bright in the world and during our lifetime.

The difference between a celebrity and, say, Uncle Gilbert or Larry Dodd, the boss who gave me my first shot after college? Celebrities leave behind their art, their music, their characters. Uncle Gilbert’s cigar smoke is long gone and Larry Dodd hung up his trading jacket well before 9/11.

But if you hit play, you can still hear David Bowie. You will still be able to hear Ozzie Osbourne howl at the moon.

The older we get, and I speak for Gen X here... we start losing our MTV crushes and sports idols at a faster clip. That is when we realize they weren’t that much older than us. They just seemed old when they were 29 and we were 15. We all know where we were when John Lennon was shot or when Elvis was found on his crapper. It lives with us and continues to linger with the drop of the needle on a record.

Pop in an old VHS tape and Hulk Hogan is still slamming Andre the Giant in WrestleMania. In fact, maybe they wrestled again the moment the Hulkster arrived in heaven.

From now on, when I hear thunder, I’m not saying Jesus is bowling and just nailed a strike. I am saying Andre just body-slammed Hulk Hogan down on the mat and created that thunderous clap.

That is why I chalked this particular Steinbeck quote today.

Famous people, at their best, shine a brief light on the world stage and that is better than if they had never found their stage at all.

What celebrity death hit you the hardest?

For me.... I just play a record or watch an old movie, and the loss doesn't seem so bad after all.

No smile on the sun today, but you might hear a body slam after a bolt of lightning this afternoon.

July 24th, 2025

  Hey you with the pretty face, welcome to the human race is fitting for July 24th.

Twelve years ago today, the world got a little louder, a little brighter, and a whole lot more interesting. I remember it well, probably because I haven't had a solid night's sleep since.

The ELO song has been my alarm clock for years now. “Mr. Blue Sky” kicks off at 3:33 AM, though most mornings I’m already up, coffee brewing, brain spinning. Today it hit me a little differently. This line stuck out because it was that first peekaboo with that little redhead welcoming her into the world, the human race. It reminded me that storms come and go, but the light, if you’re lucky, usually stays.

Life is funny like that. One day you are a rookie dad trying to swaddle a newborn without losing your cool and the next you are staring down at adolescence like it’s a thunderhead rolling in off the lake. The sun is out, then boom... lightning, wind, sideways rain and just as quickly, back to blue skies.

I don’t need to spell it out for you Chalkheads. Let’s just say fatherhood isn’t a job you clock in and out of.

It’s a lighthouse gig.

You shine steadily, even when the fog rolls in and the boat drifts further from the shore.

Twelve years. A blink and a lifetime all wrapped up in one. A thousand “I love you's,” a few slammed doors, lately a couple "I hate you's" and more pride than I ever knew I could carry.

La dolce vita...

Yeah, even when it's stormy, the blue skies are somewhere.

July 23rd, 2025

 The Glory of Late July...

In Chicagoland, the last days of July don’t whisper, they yell. Usually in a deep Chicagonese accent.

A symphony of attic fans, alewives laying on the shore, RC in a two liter, francheezies, ice cream trucks and kick-the-can echoing down cracked alleyways. The lightning bugs blink like Morse code sent from childhood itself, while the ghosts of a Schwinn Stingray leaned against a chain-link fence separating the park from the Lake Michigan beach. God, I wish I took better care of that bike, sorry dad....

We didn’t have calendars. We had Mrs. Jablonski’s pitcher of orange Kool-Aid. We had the ballpark dust on our shins, a brand new Louisville Slugger from the hardware store and the slow, sweet crackle of WLS under the pillow as we fell asleep on our baseball gloves.

Our older cousins played Cheap Trick too loud on the back stoop and someone always got socked in the arm for saying something stupid.

We kissed girls from the neighboring parish and swore secrecy on the walk home past their rectory.

Friday nights, when the kitchen was too damn hot, Mom dialed the local pizza joint and told them to make it quick. Soon delivered in a grease-stained bag with the map of Italy and a two-liter of RC ready to be divvied up between thirteen kids.

The attic fan, God bless... it had the pull of a DC-3. It took the heat, our snores, and our dreams right through the roof, replacing them with a breeze strong enough to lift the cowboy-and-Indian curtains like ghosts dancing one last reel across the plastered ceiling.

Now the end of July means waking up before the sun, answering emails, matching bids with offers and staring down at the dinner hour waiting to start over for the next monotonous day.

If I close my eyes just long enough, I can still hear the crack of the bat, still taste those creamy scrambled eggs that my ma occasionally made and still feel the worn leather of that glove swinging on my handlebars.

Growing up is mandatory.

Forgetting the glory of late July?

That is not acceptable.

Adulthood, parenthood, career and responsibility should never keep us from making new memories. Though relying on childhood memories is a sweet blessing.

What I would do for a swig off my Oldman's Lowenbrau right about now.

Anyway.... Let’s finish July with gusto and a couple wins at the old ballpark.

July 22nd, 2025

 Let me tell you something about barking dogs. Because I have met a few in my time. They sit behind the Goldman desk with their cufflinks and overpriced cologne, acting like their trade ideas are commandments from Sinai. When all they are is an overpriced phone clerk.

They show up in divorce court under a different last name, barking legal spew and stirring drama like it’s a crockpot. They whisper about my Chalkboard like it's too loud, too raw, too vulgar. They turned away when they saw the "I Love Hot Moms" sticker on Betty the Green Blazer...

...and they even laughed at me in ’84, until my big booty spun on that piece of linoleum and shut them all up.

But I never threw a stone. I just kept walking. Because barkers bark... that is what they do.

Me?

I build.

I pray...

I write.

I raise Shepkids.

I find bids and offers.

I dance if the music’s good.

Yap yap dogs come and go.

Like Norm said: “It’s a dog-eat-dog world, and I’m wearing Milk-Bone underwear.”

And like I say: leave the yapper a bowl of water and he’ll piss himself out.

These mealy mouths, whether they are on the trading floor, in the front church pew, tailgating the yellow on Harlem, or hiding behind a keyboard...

they all bark loud, burn fast, and crawl back to their doghouse when the stamina runs out.

Don’t bark. Don’t throw stones. Just keep swimming.

July 21st, 2025

    Here we go with another Monday. The kind of Monday that separates the doers from the dabblers. While some people are still shaking off the weekend or nursing regrets, I’m already lacing up and leaning in. Because life doesn’t wait for you to feel ready. It just shows up and it is up to you whether you answer the bell or roll over and hit snooze.

I have spent enough time worrying about what people think. Enough hours twisting myself in knots trying to win over the miserable and the misinformed. That’s a game you never win. Those assclowns up in the cheap seats will always have something stupid to say. That is why they sit where they do. Because it is safer to heckle than hustle. Safer to mock than make.

They show up empty and leave bitter every time. You can spot them a mile away...

...arms crossed, eyes squinted, waiting to pounce on someone else who stumbles, so they can feel a little taller. Let them whistle in the corner, make their nervous humming sounds and apologize over and over again. Let them bark and point and gossip.

Because here is the truth...

... people doing something worthwhile rarely have time to sit around criticizing. They are too busy carrying the weight, chasing meaning and living in harmony.

Today is not about proving anything to anyone. It’s about putting your head down and stacking something real. It could be a decision, a phone call, a workout, a conversation you’ve been ducking. Whatever it is, get to it. Let the day meet a version of you that isn't hiding.

If the critics still chirp? Let them chirp. Let them whistle until their lips crack. I’ve got a job to do, a life to live, and a week to get after. There is joy in the doing, even if nobody is clapping.

Just put a smile on your sun, find something astounding and bring gusto to your world.

July 20th, 2025

 Nothing great in the world has ever been accomplished without passion?

Yeah?

I have two words for society that we throw around like rice at a wedding... hope and passion. Cheapened by repetition and worn down to smooth stones that don’t skip when you chuck them across a pond.

Hope?

That got hijacked by politicians with nothing in the tank but a catchphrase. Hope mattered when you were eight, wishing on Santa for a new Schwinn. After that, it belongs in a drawer with unicorn stickers, whoopie cushions, and that old leather wallet you carried through high school. The one with a ring in the leather from a condom you never used.

And passion? Christ!

That word gets tossed around like it belongs in everybody’s story. It's good for a centerfielder in October or a Broadway diva belting to the mezzanine...

...but for the rest of us, the Grawbowskis, it doesn’t belong on the menu.

I'm a Grawbowski and we don’t do passion. We do early shifts, burnt coffee, busted knuckles, and second helpings. My people came from bakeries, from quarries and from railyards. We don’t sip mimosas, we drink out of chipped mugs at diners with eggs that still jiggle. My couch has a slipcover and the last car I drove was born in the 1900s.

I do some damn fine things. I cook a mean steak, I bake a mean peach cobbler and I write words that land. I read a shit ton because my brain is a battlefield and books are how I keep the foxholes from caving in. That ain’t passion, that is survival and only the strong can survive.

Fatherhood?

It ain’t fairy dust and slaying dragons. It’s dilemmas, dedication, discipline, and showing up on the days that wear you down to a nub. Not because you're passionate, but because you're responsible. You plant seeds and pray they grow into humans that you will be proud of.

My job?

I don’t love it like some romantic fool, I respect it. I bring work ethic, show up clean and leave a trail of grit. I thank God every morning for a five-decade career that still pays the bills and lets me sleep at night. Passion? No. Integrity? Every damn ounce.

I don’t have hope, I have awareness.

I don’t have passion, I have follow-through.

I don’t sit around waiting for a genie in a bottle. I mop the floor, make the grocery list, stand at a trading desk, pack my lunchbox, pray to heaven and I get it all done without passion.

Joy?

That is seeing a sunrise and knowing three people in the world love me. I swear and pray in the same breath. I talk to heaven and cuss out hell before brushing my teeth. I listen for the roar of a lion and the coo of the Mourning dove.

That is joy for me.

Then I go do what needs doing. Not because I’m chasing a passionate dream full of hope. Because I’m a Grawbowski and Grawbowskis don’t have butlers or gardeners. We get morning light, stiff knees, and the blessing of one more go-round.

God willing.

You wanna throw some zeal or gusto into your Sunday Funday? Be my guest. I’ll be on the couch with a coffee watching golf in the Northern Irish wind. The British Open, now that’s a holy day. Passion? You keep it.

I’ve got chores to finish and JumboLove to spread.

July 19th, 2025

    Last night, the sunset didn’t do its job. Neither did the lightning bugs. Neither did my jazz music.

I sat on the balcony with a Manhattan and I let the day settle deep into my chest. Hard bop from seventy years ago poured from the speaker, but even Miles Davis and John Coltrane couldn’t shake the ache. The kind of ache that won’t show up on a calendar, but settles firmly into your bones.

I have a daughter who won’t come over to Riverside. I have an ex who would rather stir than settle and a home that I built on the belief that the Shepkids would always feel safe.

Just when I was sitting there talking to the night like it owed me a paycheck, Fritz came out on the balcony. Quietly, no big speech. Just checking on his Oldman. He was in the middle and he knew his Oldman wasn't his gregarious self. That is when I told him and now, I am telling you Chalkheads...

A bad day can’t become a bad week. A bad week can’t become a bad month and a bad month can’t turn into a bad year. Because that can only scar a glorious life.

We can't let that happen.

I know it isn't kosher to write about our problems in public. This board is where I go to talk to something steadier than Bob Newhart. It is my therapist and maybe yours as well. Sometimes when you are going through a shit storm, you gotta say it out loud so it doesn’t eat you alive in silence.

I don’t have any answers today.

But I’ve got this...

... pain makes us stronger if we let it teach us. Melody doesn’t always cure the ache, but it reminds us we are still alive enough to feel it.

So today, I’ll chalk the board. I’ll stack another brick. I’ll stand in the same spot I have stood in for many years. Because even when the melody is minor, the tune still plays.

...and when Hazel reads this someday, I hope she knows that her daddy’s home is the safest place in her world and the foundation she needs is always here.

Saturday is Daiquiri Day, I quoted Hemingway and my weatherman says we might have some rain. I just need you Chalkheads to walk on the sunnier side of your journey and bring an umbrella. If you are a banker and it is pouring rain, wear your mac and go check on Eleanor.

July 18th, 2025

    The first habit I picked back up after my Exile West of Mannheim Road was making my bed.

That was my bed again, no one else’s. I got in it alone and climbed out of it alone. So, every morning I made it my way. That simple act gave me a win before the day even got rolling. At night, no matter if the day was glorious or a full-blown shitshow, I climbed into a freshly made bed.

That’s closure. That’s pride.

Now, one habit I miss, deep in my bones, is reading the morning paper.

I come from a long line of ink-stained fingers. My Oldman could fold a crease in the Tribune like a Marine folds dress blues. I devoured the box scores, the standings and the Maywood and Sportsmans race results. I followed the circus at City Hall, read about aldermen throwing punches, and I got my movie picks from Roger Ebert. Royko was gospel. Holtzman told it straight. Gil Thorpe was the best coach. Kup was fading but still swinging by the time I picked up the paper.

And Sundays?

Jesus, a thick Sunday Tribune with the TV Guide, coffee cake and a fresh cup of coffee was a ritual.

I’ve got so many daily habits. Some I chose and some were handed down. Someday, the Shepkids are gonna sit around a Thanksgiving table, laughing about my quirks. If they start bitching over pumpkin pie about the way I did things, I swear I’ll flick the dining room lights from heaven just to remind them that old habits don’t die, they just dim a bit.

My Gramma had me up early when I was on her clock, working my ass off. Because of her, I’m the guy who shows up before on-time because on-time is already late. That stuck with me along with turning off WIBC to say Grace before breakfast and lunch.

The Chalkboard?

It’s a habit now too. Maybe the chalk breaks some days, maybe the sun doesn’t shine, but I’m still gonna chalk as long as I can. Some mornings I get fifty looks, other days I get five hundred. People tell me the Chalkboard has become part of their routine and if I have become their Royko or Wally Phillips, then I’m doing something right. That comes with a shit ton of responsibility. I won’t take it lightly you Chalkheads.

There’s less than two weeks left in July. We will lose 43 minutes of daylight by month’s end. The GoldBond will get swapped out for the Vicks VapoRub soon enough. Another habit formed through the years.

In 74 days, our Jewish brothers and sisters will atone on Yom Kippur. In 132 days, we will be rubbing BenGay on our cankles and shoulders before the annual Turkey Bowl.

Ditch the habits that drag you down. Keep the ones that lift you up. Put a smile on the sun and make the world astounding for yourself and the people lucky enough to cross your path.

Shabbat Shalom.

Keep chalking.

July 17th, 2025

 A quote from Scotty Fitz to inspire the Morning Chalkboard today...

One Fall Ain’t the Finish.

I’ve stumbled, yeah,

but I’ve never stayed down.

Not once.

Got that from my Oldman

who taught me life doesn't pause

for your bruises.

... and from Fitzgerald,

I learned not to bet my soul

on some green light

flickering across the bay.

Hope is a helluva thing,

but it won’t carry your weight.

Failure?

It knocks, but it doesn’t get to move in

unless you open the door and pour it a drink.

I’ve bounced.

Every damn time.

Not because I’m lucky...

... because I know the fall ain’t the finish.