April 22nd, 2026

 I just erased several paragraphs.

I was going to tell you that my circle is tired. Not the kind of tired that a good night’s sleep fixes. I mean worn down, worn thin. The kind of tired that comes from too much noise and not enough meaning.

Cable television, the home computer, the cell phone and streaming everything all the time. Somewhere along the way, convenience turned into clutter, and clutter turned into decay.

We used to have edges to the day.

You got the final edition of the Chicago Tribune. You watched the local news at 7:00 AM. If you missed it, that was on you. The day moved on without you. Soap operas filled the afternoon until the five o’clock news brought you back to center. Followed by network news, game shows and prime time on three networks. You closed it out with the 10 o’clock news and maybe a rerun of The Honeymooners before bed.

There was structure, there was rhythm and there was always a finish line and a closing bell.

Now it’s just… endless.

Harry Truman took a train home after his presidency. Think about that. He didn’t have a motorcade. There wasn’t a book deal waiting or grotesque libraries being built. No empire was built on the back of the office. He came in as a man and left as a man.

We have drifted a long way from that.

Radios should come back, get rid of Spotify, Sirius and iHeart. So should movie theaters where people sit shoulder to shoulder and actually watch the same thing at the same time. Diners that never close should bring a neon glow back. Newspaper stands on the corner. Horse tracks that smell like cigar smoke and bad decisions. Taverns within walking distance where the bartender knows your name and your business, but keeps one to himself.

Streetcars, not buses. Neighborhoods with identity known by names and the local Catholic parish.

Black neighborhoods. Puerto Rican neighborhoods. Irish, Polish, Mexican, German, Jewish, Italian neighborhoods.

Not to divide, but to belong. Keep to yourself if you want. Just be decent and courteous.

And every one of those neighborhoods should have good schools, clean grocery stores, steady jobs, and a place for the old folks to sit and play bingo.

That isn’t nostalgia, that is dignity.

This summer we turn 250 years old. That number doesn’t mean a damn thing unless we act on it. Not as a country pointing fingers, but as individuals deciding to be better where we stand.

Because the truth is, these politicians aren’t going anywhere. Some months the paycheck will be light. Some months the bills will stack higher than you would like.

And still… life moves.

What I learned when my parents went to heaven is this: everything they worried about is gone.

Not solved, not fixed. Just… gone.

Most of it disappeared faster than the grief it created.

What is left of their lives fits into a couple boxes in the back of my bedroom closet.

You want to know what isn’t in those boxes?

The bills.

The overtime.

The missed deadlines.

The broken cars.

The loose toilet handles.

The spilled turkey gravy from Thanksgiving 1975.

None of that crap made the cut.

What made the cut were the things that mattered, and even those are just fragments now.

So no, I’m not worried about the economy or the government. I’m worried about the people I love. The ones grinding every day. The ones trying to get ahead and feeling like they’re falling behind. The ones who are too damn tired to enjoy what they’ve already earned.

Take care of what you can touch. Let go of what you can’t.

Because none of the noise, none of the stress, none of the worry is going to be there when the boxes get packed.

The dance ends quicker than you think. Don’t walk off the floor and go home disappointed. Grab your crush, pull them close and slow dance while the music is still playing.

I ended up erasing and chalking more than I thought this morning. I need to take the erasers out to the playground and beat them on the concrete.

Stress less Chalkheads, stay hydrated and unbothered…

April 21st, 2026

 I’m not singing for the future because I don’t own it.

I’m not dreaming of the past because I already lived it.

These days I don’t count the firsts or the lasts.

I count the little things.

A good cup of coffee.

A quiet room.

A laugh I didn’t expect.

A song on the radio.

Life didn’t shrink… it just got more honest.

Bonus points if you know the two artists represented this morning…

April 20th, 2026

 I was joking with a buddy of mine who also suffers from Sunday night into Monday morning anxiety.

It starts with the stopwatch ticking at the beginning of 60 Minutes and builds into that 2:00 AM walk to take a piss.

On the way back to bed, you make the mistake. You detour over to the computer screen…

… just to take a quick look at the overnight markets.

That is all it takes, you are done. There is no going back to sleep.

We are not the only two Oldboys doing this dance. Most of the guys our age who have been answering opening bells since the Milli Vanilli scandal are up before the Monday dawn, staring into the glow.

Back then there were no bids, no offers and no noise until the bell rang.

We had a 7:20 open and a 2:00 close in the bond room. The grain guys had it even better, 9:30 in the morning to an exhausting 1:15 in the afternoon. Hard work that was measured with time stamps and trading cards.

The pits took a break.

Life took a breath.

Now?

These screens never sleep. They are always hitting bids and always lifting offers… always pulling you back in.

And that’s the thing, Do not trifle in the affairs of dragons.

Because once you step into this world. Once you walk over to that screen at 2:37 in the morning, you are not dabbling anymore.

You are in it, pugna usque ad finem. Fight all the way to the end.

Because this way of life doesn’t allow half measures. It never did. It has structure and it keeps you grounded.

From the trading pits of our youth to the keyboards of our graying days. When we got home from the bars at two in the morning and now we take the geriatric walk to the bathroom to urinate.

The opening bell will always be ingrained into those that heard the call of adrenaline.

Buy low and sell high. Get long in Chicago and sell it in London.

The week has already started in Singapore. Rise and shine and grab the gusto.

Do you know where your brokers are?

April 19th, 2026

 To the left I have my nightstand radio playing blues before sunrise.

To the right I have the morning birds singing through the open window.

In the middle is the tinnitus ringing in my head.

Together, the cacophony has my thoughts wandering, moving too fast to pin down to chalk.

From the Strait of Hormuz, to the Pope stirring up the Gospel, to the water bill due tomorrow, to the 60 Minutes stopwatch marking the end of the weekend.

My mind is anxious. I couldn’t even remember what movie I watched last night when I woke up.

I’m starting to forget stupid things like that more every day.

Today’s Chalkboard is going to be like a Seinfeld episode, a chalk about nothing.

I wake up almost every Sunday morning to a blues program I’ve been listening to for nearly forty years.

That alone is crazy….

…things measured in forty years.

Forty years ago used to mean the Second World War or President Truman. Forty years shouldn’t be Live Aid or Reagan telling Gorbachev to tear down a wall.

There isn’t anyone laying here telling me to turn off the radio or shut the window.

The one thing I do miss is the Sunday paper that was as big as your sister’s ass.

I was listening to Lou Manfredini yesterday on the big GN. He is the handyman guy who gives advice to callers with broken doohickeys and thingamajigs.

The callers always have thick Chicagonese accents, and Mr. Fix-It answers in clean deez and doze sentences.

At one point they ran a station break. The voice was Orion Samuelson, who recently went to heaven.

I started crying. That voice always brings me back to my Oldman.

Now I’m thinking about the guy who does this blues show on WDCB.

Just like Orion, or Dick Buckley, or Lin Brehmer… sooner or later this guy who has been spinning blues records for me on Sunday mornings since the eighties, is going to sign off for the last time.

And when that happens, it won’t matter if there is someone laying here telling me to turn off the radio.

Oh yeah, I woke up with rosary beads under my hip. Like the movie I forgot, I forgot that I meant to bang out a round of Hail Marys before falling asleep. I can’t even remember if I finished a decade.

And no, I wasn’t drinking.

Just an early evening cocktail with my mother-in-law before dinner time.

I gotta shave if I’m going to Mass. I forgot to take my dress shirts to the cleaners yesterday.

The sun should be starting to peek out soon.

I need to stop rambling about nothing and go make a pot of coffee.

The Sox are at their usual horrible pace.

At least the other Chicago team has climbed above .500.

I gotta go pay that water bill.

I put a half-ass grin on the sun today. Go get that gusto and maybe… just do stuff.

Sometimes the most astonishing things come from stupid stuff.

Or maybe from nothing at all.

Happy Sunday, you Chalkheads…

April 18th, 2026

 There was a period from my mid-twenties to my mid-thirties when I went to the shows and grabbed a bite with my Oldman.

It was the late 1980’s towards the new millennium.

We hit several of the theaters near the neighborhood and a few of our top restaurants throughout this period.

The memories are dearest to the movies we saw at the Lake Theater in Oak Park and cheeseburgers at Goldy’s just on the other side of Harlem Avenue in Forest Park.

Last night I watched one of those movies that I saw once with my dad. A movie I haven’t seen in thirty years.

The movie was "Legends of the Fall" with Anthony Hopkins and Brad Pitt.

The Oldman left the theater that night grumbling about how Anthony Hopkins saved this mediocre film. He thought Brad Pitt was recreating his role from another movie we saw together, "A River Runs Through it."

My Oldman saw himself to the father growing older and me to the son still trying to tame his youth.

I was in my twenties at the time and thought I knew everything about everything, and my dad had forgotten everything about everything.

Last night I realized I was wrong and cried every time Sir Hopkins bonded with Brad Pitt.

The lines from the father in the movie echoed the advice given at the table at Goldy Burgers...

...and the same wisdom I find myself leaning on today in the Divorced Dad District.

We grow old quickly in raising our children, protecting them from themselves and the cruel world we bring them into.

The movie and bite to eat period in my life occurred when I was off on my own making mistakes at LaSalle and Jackson over on Oak Park Avenue and everywhere in between.

Sitting over cheeseburgers, French fries and bottles of beer was a father and his son reviewing movies and relating them to life.

I tossed and turned last night thinking about chalking down these memories.

I concluded that the time I had with my father wasn’t long enough and my time as a father won’t be long enough.

And a tear rolled down my face when I think of one of the last things my Oldman muttered on his deathbed, “I’m proud of you, you magnificent son of a bitch….”

I’m not sure why it took me thirty years to see this movie again. Maybe because it stuck with me that Don Shepley gave a thumbs down with his patented fart noise raspberry sound.

It is going to be a gorgeous spring Saturday. Go find some gusto and astonishment.

Maybe find someone you love and go to the show and grab a bite afterwards. The memories in thirty years will outlast the movies box office draws.

The rain and clouds should subside and bring a chilly sunny afternoon. Try and smile back at the sun.

April 17th, 2026

 Time and nuns are the best teachers.

April 16th, 2026

   A fish with a closed mouth never gets caught isn’t just about staying quiet, it’s about knowing when talking costs you. In the old Chicago rooms, whether it was a trading pit or a back table, guys understood that loose words could cost money, reputation, or both. You didn’t need to win every conversation. You needed to stay in the game.

Eggs Benedict Day takes me back to The Old Broker’s Inn, tucked right next to the Board of Trade. It wasn’t fancy, but it didn’t have to be. Dark stained booths, worn just right. Heavy wood tables that had seen a thousand deals, a thousand stories. The walls were paneled deep and dark, the kind of place where voices stayed low and conversations mattered.

Then you had that counter in the back…. bright cream Formica, wrapping around like a diner trying to hold onto a little light in a room built for shadows.

I would walk in a little worse for wear some mornings, no question about it. Hungover, a little beat up, maybe still a little ripped from unemployment eve. I wouldn’t overthink the order either, eggs Benedict, every time.

Hot coffee, that rich hollandaise, the kind of meal that didn’t just fill you up, it steadied you. Like it was putting you back together before the opening bell.

It wasn’t just breakfast. It was a reset.

April 15th, 2026

   Warren Zevon was terminally ill in 2002 when David Letterman asked him if he had learned anything facing death.

Zevon didn’t give the late night host a philosophical answer.

He just said, “Enjoy every sandwich.”

Don’t rush through life. Take the time to appreciate the ordinary things.

I have always believed the best sandwich is one made for you by someone who loves you.

Now let’s get something straight…

… I don’t think a hot dog is a sandwich.

No reason, it’s just not a sandwich. End of discussion.

I love a good sandwich, and I live in a city that knows how to make one.

I’d drive for a great Reuben, a deli sub, a meatball sub or an Italian beef

A BLT and a grilled cheese? Those are home sandwiches. Same with a PB&J. You don’t order those, you grow up with those.

My deathbed sandwich?

The pork tenderloin sandwich from somewhere in the Midwest, preferably a state that starts with an “I.”

Pounded thin and hanging over the bun like it is too big for the plate.

Crisp lettuce.

Firm onion.

A juicy slice of tomato.

Mayonnaise on both sides of the bun.

Next up is an oyster po’ boy made anywhere in Louisiana.

And rounding out the top three….

The breaded steak sandwich from Ricobene’s. Located just north of Sox Park. A favorite of Anthony Bourdain, which tells you everything you need to know.

So from here on out…

…Enjoy every sandwich.

Slow down.

Pay attention.

Because the moment you take that first bite, that is the whole deal.

That’s when you realize time is limited and that sandwich is one bite closer to heaven.

Chalkhead Nation, talk to me:

What’s your favorite sandwich?

Did someone you love make it for you?

Is it tied to a memory?

Did you eat it in a place that’s long gone?

Because if anything brings gusto and a little astonishment…

…it’s a great sandwich.

Bon appétit.

April 14th, 2026

 What you know is very limited. What you don’t know is limitless.

That line isn’t meant as discouragement. It is meant to ground us and bring us down to earth. Most people walk around thinking they have things figured out. We build opinions, routines, and beliefs based on what we have seen and experienced.

What we know is shaped by where we have been, who we have met, and what we paid attention to.

It is a narrow lane.

The world outside of that lane is wide open, full of perspectives, experiences, and truths we haven’t even brushed up against yet.

There is something humbling about that. It reminds us to listen a little more and assume a little less.

It keeps us curious.

It keeps us from getting too comfortable thinking we have it all nailed down.

It keeps us humble.

At the same time, there is opportunity in it. If what you don’t know is limitless, then so is your ability to grow. There is always something new to learn, someone new to understand, or a different way to look at things.

That isn’t a weakness, it is the whole point of growth.

The people who keep moving forward aren’t the ones who know everything. They are the ones who understand how much they don’t know, and stay open enough to keep learning anyway.

Keep learning Chalkheads and always find new ways for gusto and astonishment.

April 13th, 2026

 I’m coming up with this theory as I get older…

…that I need, we need to take care of our village.

Village?

I’m still working on the definition, but it is basically anyone who has crossed our path and is still around.

It could be your best friend since kindergarten…

…or the girl you had a fling with after your divorce.

Your last great uncle in Midlothian…

the receptionist at your office…

the guy you worked with at the beginning of your career…

or the elderly neighbors down the block who used to drink beers with your parents at the neighborhood tavern.

Anyone you have come across through the years who still lingers. I really think we need to start putting them on the agenda.

Can I drive you to your doctor’s appointment?

Do you want to go to eight o’clock Mass?

I’ll pick you up Tuesday, let’s grab a cup of coffee at the diner.

Meet me at the bar for a pint so we can shoot the shit.

Once a stranger… usually an acquaintance… now a friend.

I’m not saying I need to become Mother Teresa or Oskar Schindler, but I think it is time to be the guy who sweeps the shed.

Time to show up more. Time to stop blowing off chances to make life a little mo betta’.

I floated this idea the other night with a couple of my dearest friends. I ran it by my mother-in-law. Now I’m bringing it to the Chalkheads.

The other day I vented about Hazel… and I got a shit ton of support.

And at the same time, a handful of villagers needed a little JumboLove themselves.

This Chalkboard and my willingness to be transparent hasn’t just helped me. It is helping people inside this village that I didn’t even realize I was building.

708-215-0700.

That is the number for the head villager. The heavyset kid who is just trying to hold this thing together as we all get a little older.

Put it in your Rolodex and use it if you need some JumboLove.

I’m not climbing ladders or cleaning your gutters, but I will do my best to help make the best out of the worst.

Today is Peach Cobbler Day.

I love a warm cobbler with a cold dollop of vanilla ice cream.

And yeah… I really love those two-legged Hoosier peach cobblers smothered in smoochie.

Happy Monday, Chalkhead Nation….

…Gusto and astonishment for everybody.

April 12th, 2026

 I went to a wedding in the early 1990’s that had a disposable box camera on each place setting at the reception. I had never used a box camera before.

These were our generation’s version of today’s cell phone camera.

We didn’t take selfies… we took usies.

I was digging through old photos last night looking for a photograph from one of my Mardi Gras parties in the mid-1990’s. I always had a fresh disposable camera nearby. I took them to parties, tailgates, sporting events, road trips, concerts, and even a bar mitzvah.

They made it easy to capture memories. I could spend a fin at Walgreens, drop it off at the photo shop in the lobby at the Board of Trade…

…and get this, they could get my film back to me the same day. I could drop it off before the market opened and pick it up after the closing bell.

Much more convenient than dropping it off at the Photo Hut and waiting two weeks. Maybe not the immediate gratification the world has today, but we didn’t know any better.

I came across some photos from a trip in the late 1990’s. I remember one of the guys in our group bought one of those new digital cameras.

He bragged about how he spent five hundred bucks and how awesome it was. He scoffed at the Kodachrome box sticking out of the top of my shirt pocket.

He was a jagoff that was never invited to join us again.

The thing is, thirty years later, my photos look just as good. You couldn’t tell if they were taken on a five-dollar camera or a five-hundred-dollar camera.

The memories are worth a million dollars.

I don’t know if there is a lesson here, but I do know this, I’m glad I made it a habit to always have a disposable camera at my disposal.

Misty, water-colored memories of the way we were.

Looks like the Sox are dragging the Cubs into the shitty baseball category. At least this summer we have a 250th birthday to celebrate, because the baseball season is going to suck.

Get your taxes done… and go find the gusto and astonishment that mid-April brings.

April 10th, 2026

 Sleeping during a rainstorm is the best way to start a Friday.

Have a fantastic weekend.

I’ll be at Shanahans today for the last time. I will never find gusto or astonishment at 7353 West Madison Street ever again…

Add Shannys to a long list of places that hold fond memories and are gone.

Zum Deutschen Eck

Parthenon

Sabbatino’s

Schaller's Pump

Southport Lanes

Heaven on Seven

Gennaros

Chicago Brauhaus

Come Back Inn

Klas

Hickory Pit

Cozy Corner in Oak Park

Slicker Sam's

Gossage Grill

Mirabels

Gina's Italian Ice

McCuddy's

Sauer's

Binyon's

Wabash Inn

Roditys

Broker's Inn CBOT

Ronny's Steak House Loop

Bishop's Chili 18th/Damen

Trader Vic's Palmer House

Rosita's in Westchester

Agostinos

Wally's Red Hots

The Dumpling House

Jim's at Halsted and Maxwell

Rocky's Fish House/Navy Pier

April 9th, 2026

 At my age, if they’re talking about me, it is none of my business. If you don’t like me, that’s fine, keep your distance.

If you yell at me, watch for the smirk. If a Prince song comes on, watch me dance. If Sinatra’s playing, I’ll sing it my way.

I’m going to take care of the Shepkids. Give my boss his money’s worth and spend time with the people who matter while I still can.

No more punting, I’m going for it on fourth down.

I don’t lean on empty hope anymore.

I lean on optimism and faith to carry me through.

Walk your walk Chalkheads and let people talk.

We got this…..

April 8th, 2026

 There is some sort of pile in all of our lives.

It doesn’t look like much at first glance. Maybe a few bad habits or a few stale names. A few negative thoughts we have been carrying around longer than we should.

Stuff that once mattered. Stuff that might have even saved us at one point.

But not anymore.

Now it just sits there taking up space blocking out the light and keeping anything new from taking hold.

We don’t get rid of it because it is familiar.

We don’t get rid of it because it is easy.

We don’t get rid of it because we don’t know what life looks like without it.

So we drag it along, dead wood.

Here is the honest truth…

…nothing grows in a pile of dead wood.

Not relationships.

Not discipline.

Not peace of mind.

I f you want something new, you don’t add more. You clear out the old and get rid of it to make room.

And yeah… burning it might cost you something.

Memories.

Comfort.

Excuses.

But holding onto it costs you much more.

So today, take a look at your pile and burn it.

I didn’t forget that yesterday was National Beer Day. It was also National Coffee Cake Day. I was tossed on which to pick, so I didn’t.

I love beer and coffee cake and if I’m tailgating and both are there….

Go Team!

Because that is the only time I have ever enjoyed beer and coffee cake together. A couple hours before kickoff sitting in the shadows of a football stadium.

April 7th, 2026

    A local in the Ten-Year pit turned to me and said a buddy of his was opening a new bar and restaurant in the neighborhood.

“Go over and ask for a job, I’ll put in a good word for you.”

I was an arb clerk on the trading floor, renting my first apartment in Oak Park, and a little extra money could help. The rest is history. The year was 1991.

It was the beginning of a love affair with what would become my happy place in the world, but still close to home.

I worked there for a while but felt more comfortable in front than behind the bar. In those early days, when youth still filled my heart, I would jump up on the bar and dance...

...and when the song ended, I would jump back down.

My ankles, knees, and hips cringe at the memory.

I threw legendary Christmas parties, epic Mardi Gras parties, and even had my dress rehearsal dinner at 7353 West Madison.

I met dear friends that I still have today. Friends I only knew for one night and characters who came and went with the last call.

There was a sad lady who reminded us of Blanche DuBois from A Streetcar Named Desire. She drank a cocktail called a Salty Dog. So she became the Salty Dog at the end of the bar.

There was the Bank Dick. A neighborhood kid who had suffered a brain injury as a child. He was outgoing, always ready with a riddle or a limerick for anyone who would listen. A short guy with dark glasses, dark curly hair... looked a little like Woody Allen.

We called him the Bank Dick because he would finish a conversation, walk to the back corner, and jot notes into a small notebook he pulled from his jacket pocket.

Years later, we found out he was writing things down so he wouldn’t forget who he met, where he was and what happened. The injury affected his memory, but you would never know it. He was always sharp as a tack and sober as a judge.

There was Mike, part owner, part bartender, part cook and full-time customer. Tall, lanky, a swimmer at the local Catholic high school and a Big Ten college. He had a thick walrus mustache that covered his mouth and held the foam from his beer.

One night he took a bet that he could drink a shot from the spillage in the muck bucket under the bar sink. The one where all the used glassware was dumped before being washed.

Melted ice, backwash, bruised fruit, drink stirrers, the last sips of everything, muddled together in a five-gallon bucket.

Mike slammed it.

That was the last time we saw Mike for several months.

He got sick, real sick. It became a bit of a legend that the bucket muck did him in.

The regulars became friends. Sometimes they became family. They had baptism showers, wedding showers and many fiftieth birthday parties.

The food had a Cajun-Creole flavor... famous for jambalaya, gumbo, and especially the voodoo pork chops. And they made a Hurricane just like Pat O’Brien’s down in the French Quarter.

Whenever I was sad, I went to the bar.

Whenever I was happy, I went to the bar.

It is the only place where my father, my mother, my closest friends, my first love, my cousins, my in-laws, their daughter and the children we made all broke bread with me.

It is the common thread of where I gathered all the people who thought I was special.

There had been rumors for years that the owner, now in his seventies, wanted to sell.

He sold it last month.

And this weekend will be the last time the Cajun and Creole neon lights shine on the facade at Shanahans.

I went from my mid-twenties… to dating… to celebrating milestones… to marriage… to fatherhood… through divorce… and into my late fifties knowing that if I needed a memory-induced boost, I could drive to the Cajun/Creole Irish Pub on Madison Street in Forest Park.

I always thought people would gather at Shanahans after my wake and funeral. That the people who made me happy would meet in my one happy place.

Instead, I will be there Friday night, celebrating my last supper at Shanahans.

A couple more hours.

One last bowl of gumbo.

One last plate of jambalaya.

One last pork chop smothered in Tim Shanahan’s voodoo hollandaise.

And a couple, two, tree Hurricanes to wash it down.

But I definitely won’t be dancing on the bar.

Farewell, old friend.

You were the one constant from the peak of my youth to the beginning of my senior years. Thank you for the shoulder to cry on. The palm to high-five in jubilation. The ear that listened to my triumphs and my tribulations and the place I could always call home.

The next time I go to Shanahans will be in heaven.

When we all gather again in Eternal Étouffée.....