October 29th, 2026

 

    A cat that dreams of becoming a lion must lose its appetite for rats…

   We all spend part of our lives chasing things that eventually lose their appeal. What seemed important at twenty doesn't necessarily matter at forty, and by sixty, you begin to wonder why you wasted time chasing stupid shit in the first place.

   A lion doesn't become a lion without hard work and instinct. He needs to change his appetite and hunting patterns. He has to stop settling for the trivial things that keep him from becoming something greater.

       And that is the trick to growing older. Knowing when to stop chasing rats.

     Today is National Oatmeal Day.

   I enjoy a hot bowl of oatmeal a couple of times a week. My ma made me a bowl on the first day of school every year, from kindergarten through my senior year at Dear Old Cathedral. From Sister Balthazar to Father Kelly... 

  ...seventeen years of first-day jitters, Catholic girl uniforms, freshly sharpened pencils, and a bowl of oatmeal made by someone who loved me.

   The Board of Trade cafeteria made a helluva bowl of oatmeal. Nothing hit the spot like a steaming bowl after a bitter winter walk from the Lake Street el to the opening bell in the bond room.

   Back then, I was a young lion with an enormous appetite. I wanted to make money, make a name for myself, and make my way in the world.

     Forty years later, I still have some of that appetite, but the menu has changed with wisdom and instinct.

   This morning, before heading off to work, I got to kiss both of my sons and tuck them in. I spoil those two magnificent bastards, and I make absolutely no apologies for being their Oldman.

     Funny how life works. You spend your younger years trying to become a lion, only to discover that life's greatest pleasures are as simple as a bowl of oatmeal, a mother's love, and kissing your children goodbye before the sun comes up.

     Maybe the lion's greatest accomplishment isn't what he manages to catch. Maybe it is what he learns to cherish.

        Gusto and astonishing performances today, Chalkheads!

October 28th, 2026

 

        You got to pray just to make it today…

   Stanley Burrell might not be the first person you think of when it comes to spiritual guidance, but the man had a point.

    It seems that over the last few days, I have added more people to my prayers.

My morning prayer.

My driving-to-work prayer.

My biscuit-break prayer.

My teatime prayer.

My nighttime recap prayer.

    Apparently, my prayer list is growing faster than my Christmas list.

 I think it is pretty clear to the Chalkhead Nation that I am a foul-mouthed Catholic kid.

   I have been getting paid to scream and yell for forty years. Bids, novenas, offers, and litanies. I have a deep Chicagonese accent, a vocabulary that I picked up as an altar boy, and I am pretty fucking fond of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

   In fact, I catch her having breakfast with my ma and gramma when I am saying my driving-to-work prayers.

     I like that picture. Three women that I love sitting around a kitchen table somewhere in heaven, having a cup of coffee, a cinnamon roll, sharing some gossip, and shaking their heads at the bullshit going on down here on earth.

   Especially my shenanigans and stunts…..

   Today, I thought I would share my driving-to-work prayer with the Chalkhead Nation.

    Of all the prayers I say throughout the day, this is the only one that remains the same.

    Every morning, word for word.

  It needs to be uniform because, while I'm concentrating on my faith, I also need to concentrate on the road.

     After all, I don't think the Good Lord wants me rear-ending somebody on Mannheim Road while asking for a little divine intervention.

    So here it is. Never shared or heard in public before this morning. Someone should notify Geraldo Rivera.

      Jumbo’s Driving-to-Work Prayer.

Good morning, God.

Good morning, Jesus.

Good morning, Mary and Joseph.

Good morning to all you angels and saints and all my brothers and sisters who have gone up to heaven before me.

Look down upon me and bless me.

Forgive me of all my sins.

Give me the strength to be a better person today and know how much I love you.

Look down upon those who have asked me to pray for them.

Look down upon those for whom I have promised to pray.

Look down upon Jojo and Uncle Bill out in Wyoming and his family.

Look down upon Terese and George and Fritz and Hazel.

Look down upon my Uncle Chris, my Aunt Barb, my cousin Ann and her family, my cousin Trish and her family, and my cousin Chucky.

Look down upon all my dear and close friends.

All those who have come around through the years and, at one point, thought that I was kind of special.

Look down upon my colleagues, my neighbors, and my acquaintances.

Bless them all.

Give them the strength to get through this day!

 … and let the devil know I plan to fuck up his day today.

Amen.

     It isn’t a fancy prayer or something Leo is going to repeat in the Vatican. There aren't any big theological words or passages from Scripture. It is just a conversation between a Catholic kid from Saint Ita and the people he believes are listening.

      I do not pretend to understand how prayer works. I do not know why some prayers seem to be answered while others leave us scratching our heads.

    And I sure as fuck don't believe that saying a prayer guarantees that everything is going to turn out the way we want.

    But I do believe there is something powerful about taking a few minutes out of your day to think about somebody other than yourself.

To remember the people who are struggling.

To remember the people who are sick.

To remember the people who have lost somebody they love.

     And to remember the people who might just need a little help getting through another Wednesday.

   Maybe prayer changes things. Maybe prayer changes us. Maybe it is a little of both. I don't know because prayer is just another mystery of our faith.

    Somewhere between Riverside and Heaven, every morning, I have a conversation with Papa God, His long-haired Son, the Holy Ghost, and the Blessed Virgin.

   I ask them to forgive me for yesterday, help me be a better man today, and keep an eye on the people I love.

    Somewhere up in heaven, I like to think my ma and gramma are finishing their breakfast with the Blessed Virgin Mary. My ma is probably apologizing because I still swear too much.

       And Mary is probably smiling and saying…

                    "Cecilia, at least your boy remembers to call."

     Have a wonderful Wednesday, Chalkhead Nation. If somebody crosses your mind today, say a little prayer for them.

    It doesn't cost anything. You don't need to make an appointment, and you never know how much they might need it.

     After all, you got to pray just to make it today.

                                     2 Legit 2 Legit 2 Quit.

October 27th, 2026

 

       I have come to realize that there will never be peace on Earth.

   Even though Sister Balthazar taught us how to sing “Let There Be Peace on Earth” back in kindergarten.

   The history of mankind suggests otherwise.

Blacks and whites have spent generations fighting over race. The Irish and English have centuries of bad blood between them. The Polish and Germans, China and Japan, Turkey and Greece, India and Pakistan, Russia and Ukraine and Islam against everyone.

    Different countries. Different religions. Different centuries.

                       Same old hatred.

   History books will continue to write chapters devoted to war.

      The next line in that song Sister Balthazar taught us all those years ago is the one that matters the most.

      “And let it begin with me.”

     That is the part I have come to understand through my life.

      Peace has to begin with me. Not Trump or Putin. Not Netanyahu or Ayatollah Assaholla. It begins with the fat kid from Edgewater.

    Before I can bring peace into the world, I need to make peace with John Shepley, and that has not always been the easiest thing to accomplish.

     I have spent sixty years getting to know him. His shortcomings, his mistakes, his regrets, his triumphs, and the occasional good decision.

   Somewhere along the way, I have come to realize that making peace with yourself doesn't mean pretending you haven't made mistakes along the way.

    It means accepting that you have, learning from them, and getting on with living.

       Peace begins in my heart, grows in my home, trickles down to the Shepkids, and follows me around town.

   I need to be the guy who brings a little peace to the people who cross my path.

     Sometimes peace is nothing more than a kind smile, a firm handshake, or handing a shopping cart to someone at Aldi.

   Peace also means making certain that the jagoff turning into the Jewels parking lot without using his directional has been properly informed on the purpose of a turn signal.

      I am still working on that particular part of inner peace.

   This morning, I found a little peace when Van Halen came blasting out of the radio on Two for Tuesday.

    You might as well jump, followed by a reminder to run from the devil.

Not bad advice from Diamond Dave before sunrise. Sometimes peace is that simple.

    One of my favorite bands from my younger days. A strong cup of coffee. A quiet moment before the rest of the world wakes up and starts acting like the rest of the world.

  Peace is easy to find. Making peace work is another matter.

    This morning, I chalked three ancient words for peace in the grabber section.

            Shlama. Shalom. Pax.

            Aramaic. Hebrew. Latin.

    Different languages, different civilizations, and thousands of years of human history.

       All searching for the same thing.

    Maybe Sister Balthazar knew something back in kindergarten that it has taken me sixty years to understand.

I can't bring peace to the entire world, but I can bring a little peace to my piece of it, and maybe that is where it all begins.

    Let there be peace on Earth.

                  And let it begin with me.

October 26th, 2026

 
 I like the moon.
    I like what it does every month…
     … Or, technically, every twenty-nine and a half days.
   I like its folklore, its mystery, and the uniqueness of the names we give each month's full moon, and don’t forget the occasional Blue Moon.
     What I really like about the moon is that it belongs to all of us.
  I like knowing that a friend in England, Tennessee, Indiana, Montana, or Texas can step outside, look up, and see the same moon that I am looking at.
   We might not be sitting in the same backyard. We might be separated by hundreds or even thousands of miles, but we are standing on the same planet, looking up at the same sky, and somehow, that moonglow brings us a little closer together.
   October's full moon is called the Hunter's Moon, although I have always associated the October moon with Van the Man Morrison.
  There is something about a Moondance underneath the cover of an October sky that makes it a marvelous night for romance.
        Van understood that.
  I am a Cancer, which means, according to the zodiac, I am ruled by the moon. In fact, Cancer is the only zodiac sign ruled by the moon. The rest of you are lined up behind planets.
     That explains a few things about me.
  Maybe that is why I get sentimental. Maybe that is why I occasionally find myself staring into the night sky, contemplating life, love, and everything in between.
    Hell, I probably cry watching Brian's Song because of the moon.
  Speaking of moons, all my former lovers and exes have witnessed the legendary Shepley Moon.
   Usually in the morning, when I climb out of bed and make the long journey across the bedroom to put on my trousers.
    Not exactly the celestial wonder we are discussing here, but a full moon, nonetheless.
   From here on out, whenever you look at the moon, I want you to think of me. Think of me standing somewhere, looking up at that very same moon.
Just don't think about those few awkward steps between my bed and the dresser.
     Some things are better left to the imagination or on my OnlyFans page.
  The Hunter's Moon is October's contribution to the nighttime sky, and Saturn will be keeping it company.
    Then comes November's Beaver Moon. Yes, I have a sophomoric observation about that particular name, but in a rare display of maturity, I am going to let it pass.
   December brings the Cold Moon, illuminating the winter sky and perhaps helping Santa Claus find his way through the neighborhood.
     While the days are getting shorter, that doesn't mean I am putting the sun up on the shelf.
    I love the sun. I love what it does for my disposition, and I intend to enjoy every minute of daylight Mother Nature gives me, but these longer autumn and winter nights offer something special, too.
     They give us more time to appreciate the moon.
  There is something wonderfully reassuring about its predictability. It waxes, it wanes, it disappears, and it returns.
     Month after month. Year after year.
  Long before any of us arrived, that moon was hanging above the people who came before us…
     …and long after we are gone, it will be shining down on those who follow.
  The same moon that illuminated the evenings of our grandparents now shines over our children.
   The same moon that watches over Riverside shines above England, Tennessee, Indiana, Montana, and Texas.
    And for a few moments, no matter how far apart we might be, we are all sharing something.
A little moonlight.
A little wonder.
A little reminder that this enormous world isn't quite as big as it sometimes seems.
      I love big butts, and I love full moons.
  One of those observations is more profound than the other.
I will let you decide which.
    Tonight, step outside. Look up and find the moon.
   Think about someone you love who might be looking at it, and remember, even darkness gives the moon room to shine.
    Enjoy its gusto and astonishment and do not forget to smile at the sun when it returns from behind the clouds.

October 25th, 2026

 

   When I had my first apartment in Oak Park, I did my laundry at a laundromat up the block.

   Back then, I stuffed my dirty clothes into an old duffle bag I bought at the Army/Navy surplus store in Forest Park.

    I am chalking today's Morning Chalkboard from a laundromat up the street from where I live today.

     Thirty-six years separate these two laundromats.

     Thirty-six years packed with a career, bachelorhood, marriage, fatherhood, family, divorce, and back to bachelorhood.

          And apparently, back to the laundromat.

   When I was doing my laundry in 1990, I was embarrassed that I couldn't wash my clothes in the comfort of my own home.

    When you are twenty-four and working at a place where everyone seems to be making a shit ton of money, you don't exactly feel like you are setting the world on fire schlepping an old duffle bag of dirty laundry into a coin-operated laundromat on Oak Park Avenue.

     One of the older guys at work told me he took his laundry to the cleaners. They washed it, folded it, and had it ready for him after the closing bell.

    I tried that a couple of times.

    It was lush.

  Unfortunately, it was also a little beyond the budget of an arb clerk working in the ten-year pit.

   So, back to the duffle bag and the quarters.

   Here I am at sixty, schlepping two big bags of laundry into another laundromat.

   I'm not sure why a twenty-four-year-old needed one bag and a sixty-year-old needs two. I do know they seem a hell of a lot heavier these days.

      But something else has changed.

  The laundromat no longer carries that little badge of failure I pinned on it when I was young.

    I'm not embarrassed to be doing my laundry at six o’clock on a Sunday morning.

     In fact, it has become a peaceful little ritual.

  There is something satisfying about the hum of washing machines, the smell of clean clothes, and having absolutely nowhere else you need to be.

    The technology has made it a helluva lot easier.

      In 1990, I needed five bucks in quarters and a box of detergent.

   Today, an app takes my money, starts the machine, and dispenses the detergent and softener.

   Thirty-six years of progress, and I am still watching my underwear go around in circles.

    Which brings me to the words on today's chalkboard.

      "Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild…"

  Those words belong to William Butler Yeats, who wrote of escaping the troubles of the human world.

   At twenty-four, I was desperate to escape the laundromat. I wanted the house, the washer and dryer, the money, and all the things I thought would prove I had finally arrived.

   Somewhere along those thirty-six years, I got many of those things.

      I also lost a few.

    That's life, that’s what all the people say.

 At sixty, I realize that the things I once thought were signs of success weren't necessarily the things that made life successful.

   The young man with the duffle bag was so busy worrying about where he wasn't that he couldn't appreciate where he was.

    The old man with two bags knows better. Maybe Yeats was onto something.

  Sometimes we need to come away from the noise, the expectations, and the endless comparisons that clutter our lives.

  Sometimes the waters and the wild aren't some magical place far away.

  Sometimes they are at a laundromat on a quiet Sunday morning.

  Sometimes it takes thirty-six years to discover that being back where you started doesn't mean you haven't gotten anywhere.

   Especially when you've got all your laundry finished before seven in the morning.

    A special shout-out to JoJo on National Mother-in-Law Day!

 I might not be married anymore, but that doesn't mean I don't still have a mother-in-law to keep an eye on!

   More importantly, I want to make sure JoJo continues spending time with the Shepkids. Divorce might change the family arrangement, but it doesn't erase the family connections.

      And those connections are worth keeping. Happy Mother-in-Law Day, JoJo!

      Finally, Chalkheads…

      …enjoy this last Sunday before we turn the clocks back next weekend.

 Next Sunday, November 1st, we get that extra hour of sleep, but we also start surrendering our late-afternoon sunshine.

    So get outside today, soak up a little autumn, and enjoy the daylight while we've got it.

    There is still plenty of living to do before the sun goes down.

Have a fanfuckingtastic Sunday.

Go at life with gusto and astonishment and don't forget to put a smile on the sun!

October 24th, 2026

 

         It depends on how you look at it…

What an incredible philosophy to find in a friend’s father’s obituary. A few words that say a shit ton about how someone chose to live.

            It reminds me of how Joni looked at both sides.

     Think about it. Two people can look at the same situation and see entirely different things. One sees an obstacle while the other sees an opportunity. One sees a rainy Saturday as a ruined weekend. The other sees an excuse to stay home, make soup, and read a good book.

    Neither is wrong, they are simply looking at the same world through different windows.

    An obituary is an odd place to discover a lesson about perspective. After all, the person whose life is being remembered has run out of tomorrows, while the rest of us are still busy worrying about ours.

        At twenty, sixty seemed ancient. At sixty, twenty seems like yesterday.

  When we are young, we measure life by what lies ahead. As we grow older, we begin measuring it by what we have experienced. The disappointments that once seemed catastrophic become stories we tell at Thanksgiving dinner. The ordinary afternoons we barely noticed become the memories we would give anything to revisit.

    That is the great gift of growing older. We begin to understand that happiness is not always about changing what is in front of us. Sometimes it is about changing how we see it.

    I wouldn't suggest that everything in life can be simplified by looking at it in a different light.

    Death is death, grief is grief, and a broken heart still hurts, regardless of the angle from which you examine it.

        …But perspective can change what we carry away from all of those negative experiences.

    We can look at the death of someone we love and see only the years we will not have together anymore. Or we can look at that same life and feel gratitude for the years we did have together.

      Both feelings are legitimate and both can exist in the same heart. Maybe that is what makes those eight words so powerful. We spend the first half of our lives trying to change the world around us and the second half discovering that sometimes all we needed to change was the way we looked at it.

     This morning, I found eight words in an obituary that made me reconsider the day ahead.

                 It depends on how you look at it….

  The sun rises in the east whether we are happy or miserable. The clock keeps ticking whether we are grateful or complaining. Another perfectly good Saturday is sitting outside our front door, waiting to be lived.

            It depends on how you look at it.

    And the beautiful thing is, we get to choose.

       I choose gusto and astonishment. I choose to love rather than hate. I choose to see the blessings before the burdens. Because Sunday October 25^th isn’t promised, but Saturday October 24^th is sitting right in front of my big ass.

October 23rd, 2026

 
    I think I may be losing my curiosity.
     Not all at once and nothing dramatic. I just stopped being curious somewhere along the way. Apparently, I decided to quit asking questions before curiosity had a chance to kill the cat.
     I don't have the same urge to wander into unfamiliar neighborhoods. Trying a new restaurant requires more thought than it should. A new recipe seems unnecessary when I already know how to make something I like.
   I have always said that one of life's great pleasures is meeting strangers. Yet somewhere along the line, I have become rather good at turning strangers into acquaintances and leaving it at that.
     Is this what happens when we get older? Does curiosity slowly surrender to comfort?
     Even the great mysteries of my Catholic faith don't occupy my imagination the way they once did. I have decided that sooner rather than later, I will have all of eternity to figure that crap out.
      There is a certain arrogance in assuming we already know enough. I am, after all, a creature of habit. Same taverns, same routes, same restaurants, same mass time,  same conversations, same bottle of beer, and same wake up time. There is comfort in knowing what comes next, but there isn't much adventure in it.
      …and comfort, when we are not paying attention, can become a prison.
   My Oldman spent years reminding me that there is no such thing as a stupid question. The older we get, the more questions we ought to be asking.
     This morning's Chalkboard reminded me of that.
   Most of us remember the scene in Ted Lasso when Ted stands in an English pub throwing darts and recalling the words from Walt Whitman: "Be curious, not judgmental."
    It is a powerful scene, but what stays with me isn't the darts or Ted's victory over the snobby prick. It is the reminder that curiosity requires us to look beyond what we think we already know.
        Especially when it comes to us.
    I ought to be curious about the man I have become and where he is heading. About the people I love and the people I haven't met. About my children, my friends, my relationships, my faith, my mistakes, and whatever growth I can still squeeze out of these remaining years.
    I should be curious enough to take a different road home, sit at an unfamiliar tavern, try something I cannot pronounce, or ask somebody a question and actually listen to their answer.
     Curiosity doesn't require a passport, a reservation, or a grand adventure. Sometimes it only requires the willingness to interrupt an ordinary Tuesday.
    Next week, the lights will begin coming on before dinner. The sun will surrender another hour of our afternoons, and soon we will push the clocks back into the long darkness of winter, but shorter days don't have to mean smaller lives.
    Maybe that is the challenge for this last full weekend before daylight saving time ends.
Go somewhere different.
Ask another question.
Start a conversation.
Learn something new.
Challenge yourself.
   At sixty, I don't need to have everything figured out, I hope I never do.
      Because the day I stop wondering what else life has to offer is the day I start growing old instead of getting older.
       Be curious, you beautiful Chalkheads.
          Go put a little gusto and astonishment into your weekend.

October 22nd, 2026

 
    I was halfway through a Hail Mary on my drive to work this morning when some jagoff coming the other way had on his high beams.
     "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee... This fucking guy with his brights on!"
   That is how my conversations with the Blessed Mother went this morning.
I pray a shit ton, I swear a shit ton, and sometimes I manage to do both in the same sentence.
   I am sure the Virgin Mary has gotten used to me by now. She nudges my ma and says, "Here comes your son again. Let's see how far he gets through this one before he calls somebody an asshole."
     Anyway, enough religion. Let's talk pizza.
          Today is Tavern Style Pizza Day.
   I celebrated a little early last night with the Shepley Brothers. We had ourselves a beautiful thin-crust pizza. Crispy as a cracker, just the right amount of sauce, and enough cheese to cover the top. Sausage on one side for Fritz and pepperoni on the other for George.
          A perfect Chicago pizza on a Wednesday night.
    Now, let's talk about this "tavern style" business.
  The ultra-thin, cracker-like crust we Chicagoans grew up eating has its roots in the neighborhood taverns. Around the time of World War II, tavern owners figured out that putting a little pizza in front of their customers was a pretty good way to keep them drinking.
    A salty piece of pizza makes a man thirsty. A thirsty man orders another beer, and another beer makes him hungry.
      That is not a business model, that's perpetual motion.
   The pizzas were cut into little squares, or what we called party cuts, so a guy could grab a piece, put it on a cocktail napkin, and keep one hand free for his beer.
     For generations, Chicago had two kinds of pizza. Thin crust and deep dish, and despite what the Food Network and every tourist who ever visited Navy Pier might tell you, most Chicagoans grew up eating thin crust.
    Deep dish was something you ordered when your cousins from Iowa came to town and wanted the authentic Chicago experience.
    The rest of us were eating thin crust on Friday nights, drinking RC Cola, and watching television.
     Nobody called it tavern style, Nobody.
    Somewhere around 2005, a food writer from Pittsburgh started using the term, and before long, everybody was acting like Chicago had invented an entirely new species of pizza.
    Vito & Nick's has been making its famous thin crust for generations. Home Run Inn on 31st Street wasn't asking anybody if they wanted tavern style either. They made pizza, Chicago pizza.
    My old man never walked into the kitchen and announced, "Hey, kids, who wants some tavern style pizza tonight?"
    He would pick up the telephone and order a large sausage and onion with a two-liter bottle of RC.
       End of discussion.
    But there was one thing my dad always said when he ordered pizza, and it is a piece of wisdom I have carried with me my entire life.
      "NO CUT."
         Two simple words.
     My dad always ordered his pizza uncut. His reasoning was brilliant.
  When you cut a pizza into twenty-six little squares and throw it in a cardboard box, those little bastards can slide all over the place on the ride home. Cheese ends up on the lid. Sausage ends up in the corner. By the time you get home, the pizza looks like it survived a rollover accident on the Eisenhower.
Leave the damn thing uncut, and it travels as one beautiful, intact pizza. It also stays hotter because you are not creating a bunch of little openings for the heat to escape. Then you get home, grab the pizza cutter, and slice it up yourself.
      My old man wasn't a scientist, but he understood pizza transportation better than most engineers understand bridge construction.
      Here is a little advice from the Morning Chalkboard. Always order your pizza NO CUT. You will thank me later.
      I don't get all bent out of shape over the term tavern style. Some Chicagoans react to those words the same way they react to somebody putting ketchup on a hot dog.
     Personally, I give two shits what you call it. Thin crust, tavern style, Chicago style or just pizza.
    Just make it crispy, cut it into squares, and don't screw up the sauce.
     There is one term I absolutely cannot tolerate.
                          "Za."
      Who the hell started calling pizza "za"?
Another thing that I never heard my father say, "Hey, I'm gonna order a za from Joseph's Pizza for dinner."
    We have been saying it correctly for a hundred years, leave it alone.
 We have got another gorgeous October day lined up here in Chicago. Sunshine, warmth, and one more afternoon to enjoy before Mother Nature remembers we are supposed to be heading toward winter.
So, grab yourself a thin-crust pizza, a two-liter bottle of pop, or a cold six-pack of Old Style.
     Find a comfortable chair, sit outside, and enjoy the sunshine Chalkheads.

October 21st, 2026

 
    Today is the last day the sun will set after 6:00 PM until next March. That is a depressing little fact to start a Wednesday morning, but we will Gloria Gaynor for another day.
   This is my favorite time of year. The morning alarm goes off with the temperature hovering around 49 degrees, and by the time the afternoon rolls around, we are flirting with 70. The kind of weather that makes you want to sit outside with an Old Style and watch the world go by.
    Unfortunately, Mother Nature is about to pull the shades down before dinner.
     Today also happens to be Back to the Future Day. On October 21, 2015, Marty McFly arrived from 1985 in his flying DeLorean, expecting hoverboards, flying cars, and a world that looked nothing like the one he left behind.
    Eleven years later, we are still sitting in traffic, arguing with our phones, and waiting for Elon to invent a decent flying car.
   I have often wondered what I would do if Doc Brown pulled up in front of my house and offered me a ride back through time.
   There are definitely a few dates I'd like to revisit. A handful of conversations I would manage differently. Some decisions I would reconsider, and a couple of people I would tell to go pound sand.
           …And maybe a few people I'd hold onto a little longer.
     But here is the problem with rearranging yesterday. You never know what you are going to erase from tomorrow.
     Change one decision, take one different turn, walk through one different door, and the three Shepkids never come into my life.
      That is a price I am not willing to pay.
     Besides, knowing my luck, I would end up tending bar in the French Quarter, drinking my profits, telling the same stories to tourists, and spending forty years promising myself I would finish that first book.
     Come to think of it, that doesn't sound entirely terrible, but I would miss the Shepkids.
       …And that brings me to today's Chalkboard.
             "No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted."
   We spend an awful lot of time thinking about the big decisions that shape our lives. The marriages, the jobs, the mistakes, the roads we took and the ones we didn't, but it is the little things that matter just as much.
     Holding a door for someone who looks like our ma. Buying the tired dad behind you in line a cup of coffee. Calling an old friend who has a loved one in the hospital. Giving someone the benefit of the doubt when they are having a horse shit day.
     I hammer this one constantly. You never know what somebody else is carrying around, and you just never know when an act of kindness might change the direction of somebody's afternoon.
    We cannot climb into a DeLorean and fix yesterday, and we sure as hell don't know what tomorrow has planned, but we can do something about today.
Be kind.
Do good stuff.
Don't be a jagoff.
       It isn’t hard to do...
          …And unlike time travel, it doesn't require 1.21 gigawatts.
   The sun has a smile until six o’clock. Grab a friend, grab a cocktail, point your lounge chair west, feel the astonishment, and share the gusto.