March 7th, 2025

    I came across a single mom when I first moved to Riverside. She walked past my building with her two sons every day. She was probably in her late twenties and the boys were probably five and two at the time.

I’d say hello from the balcony like I usually do with anyone that walks by and makes eye contact. We’d run into each other at Riverside Food and occasionally at the library.

Soon, I received a friend request and then the private messages started happening.

I got to know this lady and her struggle raising two sons on her own. The first sob story came right off the bat. An elaborate tale that would have made for a great episode of “Days of Our Lives.”

I loaned her a little money with the promise that I’d get it back on payday. Then another story and another small loan. It happened a couple more times and I finally made the point that the ATM was closed.

Earlier this week, I received a text on messenger. It started with small chat and went into the latest episode of “Guiding Light” that I knew was going to happen.

The story was a mish mosh of tragic circumstances that didn’t make sense, but ended with...

“I just need twenty bucks to fill my gas tank for work”

I sent her thirty through Venmo and told her that was it. I blocked her on Facebook and finally cut off this stranger that I never really knew.

I did feel some Catlick guilt, but I already have a single mother who strains my finances. I don't need another one.

Here is the reason why I sent a couple bucks here and there to this single mom.

My mom was a struggling single parent. Cecilia was always borrowing from Peter to pay Paul.

Every once in a while, my mom would receive an envelope in the mail with a return address from The Holy Spirit.

Just a plain white envelope with a twenty-dollar bill or two stuffed between a couple pieces of blank paper.

Either a family member or a friend, maybe even a neighbor up the street was sending my mom a couple bucks to get by.

Years later when I was standing next to her bed. Sometime during her last sixty days. I asked her if she ever found out who The Holy Spirit was that sent the money to her many years ago.

I was too young at the time to look at the postage stamp and see where it originated from. I would think my mom could have figured it out that way.

She laid in bed and told me that she thought it could have been one of her aunts. She also had an older sister that was a cloistered nun down in Saint Louis. My mom thought it could have been her as well.

That was the only reason that I gave this single mom some cash here and there. Because someone did the same thing for my mommy when I was a kid.

I’m no fucking Holy Ghost, but I did learn a few things about giving when I was growing up.

And I also wanted to make my mom proud of me. I want my mom to look down from heaven and see that she didn’t raise a little jagoff.

I thought today’s quote was appropriate for today's chalkboard. Even when life gets tough, we can’t expect help every time. We gotta learn to help ourselves every now and then.

Faith, Family and Friends will always cover us when we need it, but we shouldn't always expect it.

I’ll never know who that Holy Spirit was during my mom’s time of need.

I’m sure she had a few of them.

After all, isn’t that what we all are?

An extension of kindness working for a spiritual good.

When the day comes when is join my mom in heaven, we can personally thank The Holy Spirit.

It’s going to be a wintry mix of a shitshow today. Find some astonishment and be safe.

And when you figure out the grabber section…..

...Live by that principle

March 6th, 2025

 It was on this day in 2016 when my mom told me she was dying. She didn’t come right out and tell me, but by the tone of the conversation, I knew my Cecilia Marie was fighting a battle.

Sixty days later, she went to heaven.

For the next sixty days, I will take a journey to define how special the last sixty days of life is. How fragile the last sixty days of life is and how much we take it for granted.

Maybe we don’t take it for granted, but we don’t realize that it is someone else’s will that determines everything.

Every day after the market closes, I walk down to my car with my work wife.

He always says, “See you tomorrow Jumbo” and I always reply, “God willing.”

I think my mom knew on this day eight years ago that the kingdom was calling and The Big Chief’s will was being done.

Catlicks love to suffer. Jesus did it for us up on the cross. My mom suffered and so will I.

I don’t think it was the pain of cancer that hurt my Ma the most. I think she was more worried about me and not being there if I needed her. That was what hurt Cecilia the most during the last sixty days.

How am I going to suffer for sixty days?

Take away my booze, my red meat, my desserts, my hotdog, my pizza, my toast and my orgasm. That’s going to put some suffering in my life.

I’m doing it more as a tribute to my mom for all the sacrifice she made raising a little jagoff named John.

I’m going to come closer to my mom and to the faith that she instilled in me through baptism.

The Chalkboard will probably focus more on this sixty-day journey between today and May 6th.

Slap me if I start complaining about missing chocolate eclairs or hotdogs smothered in onions and mustard.

The funny thing about May 6th, 2016…

…I see my Ma more now than I did prior. I realized heaven is much closer than Indianapolis.

It’s going to be a sunny day for a walk. I’m going to find astonishment in how much my shadow has changed in the last week.

March 5th, 2025

 I went over to a place yesterday that I’ve been celebrating Mardi Gras at since the early 1990’s. I was dancing on the bar thirty years ago. The same bar that I was eating my redbeans on yesterday afternoon.

I had a hard time getting my big ass up on the barstool, I sure as hell couldn’t pull off doing the Mardi Gras Mambo on the bar today.

Besides the redbeans and rice, I had some jambalaya and an order of shrimp served over grits. I had a hurricane when I sat down and another one during my meal.

Unlike the year in the late nineties when I had thirteen Shanahan hurricanes. I only had two this year.

I had to order George a cheeseburger to take home. I ordered a cup of coffee and a piece of key lime pie while I waited for my to go order to be completed.

That was it for Mardi Gras 2025.

I got home at four-fifteen in the afternoon. Handed Big George his dinner and walked back to my bedroom.

I hung my Mardi Gras beads up on the hanger in the back of my closet. This year I grabbed my boobie beads and my voodoo doll beads.

I put on some sweats and turned on the news. Four-thirty on Fat Tuesday and I’ve turned into my Oldman.

The last cocktail that I had until May 6th was a Shanahan's hurricane. My beads are hanging up until Tuesday February 17th, 2026.

Time to kick into Lent and “The Sixty Days of Cecilia.”

Today was a boring Chalkboard for a boring Ash Wednesday.

Time may change me, but I can't trace time

March 4th, 2025

      I left you Chalkheads hanging with the Monday Morning Chalkboard. I never picked up the chalk because I didn’t know what I wanted or needed to say.

We had an interesting weekend here in the Divorced Dad District. The Shepkids mom spent the weekend in the hospital.

Hazel sent me a text Friday morning saying that mom was sick and she was worried. There was no school on Friday, so it was a good thing that Hazel was there for her mom. Hazel called 911 and was strong throughout the entire time.

The point of today’s Morning Chalkboard should be the heroic spirit shown by my daughter, but I already knew that I had a tough baby girl.

I’m taking the therapeutic angle this morning. The one that I’ve been formulating for a couple of days.

I thought about that vow that I took and how I ended up breaking it.

…in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part.

I wasn’t there Friday morning for Hazel’s mom. The journey of life took me on another path, but the two trails still run parallel.

I often chalk that I just need to get Hazel to eighteen and I will finally have this lady out of my life.

The thing is, I’m never going to have the Shepkids mom out of my life. My Oldman told me on the morning of our divorce,

“Moose, be amicable with this woman and know this…..When the both of you are gone…. You’ll still be together in eternal peace. So get this crap settled honorably.”

My Oldman also told me that when I married this girl, I married her family and he was correct again. To this day I’m still close with my mother-in-law. Hell…I didn’t divorce her, I divorced her daughter.

And she has become a beacon in George’s life. Just like my grandmother was for me.

Back to Hazel’s mom. She’s out of the hospital and hopefully on the road to recovery.

As long as she and I have the three products of love that we created…

…we are together in sickness and in health.

And as much as we don’t like it, we will be doing it ‘til death do we part. We just don’t love and cherish each other anymore.

Though the fucked up thing that I’ve been formulating these last couple days.

As much as I hate her, I realized that I still love her. I don’t cherish her, but the Shepkids do and that is the most important thing.

At one point over the weekend, Hazel blurted out…. “She’s your ex fucking wife!”

“What does that mean Hazelnut?”

She angrily replied, “you don’t need to do any of this for mom. You guys aren’t married…”

That was the line that had me formulating for the last seventy-two hours.

I’m going to have this broad in my life well after Hazel turns eighteen. We don’t sit next to each other at school events, but maybe someday we will dance together at a Shepkid wedding.

We better start getting along now, because she’s going to be everywhere I turn in heaven. Which sounds more like purgatory than eternal happiness.

Speaking of happiness….

Today is The Mardi Gras!

“Laissez les bons temps rouler!”

I’ve got the beads, if you got the boobs.

Get out today and get some gumbo, drink a hurricane and join the second line.

Find astonishment and let the good times roll….

March 3rd, 2025

 

        Charlie Chaplin quote

March 2nd, 2025

 I looked in the mirror this morning and saw my dad when he was in his late fifties.

Crows feet flaring from the outside of my eyes. Three ruts along my forehead formed by the perplexed thoughts that I had. Pruny skin over my collar that is early onset gobble-gobble chin.

…and I was wearing a white crewneck t-shirt stretched out from a hard night sleep.

My dad was getting tired when he was at this age. Stressed by the threat of forced early retirement in a career that he thrived on.

Having hindsight, I can see my dad was getting warm out by the years of bowing his neck, lowering his shoulders and pushing through life’s hard days.

I didn’t realize that my dad was quickly aging at the time.

Tomorrow, I will see something else when I look into my mirror. I will see the person that I have woken up with since the 1960’s and I kind of like that sweet bastard.

Whatever we see when we look in the mirror is a fanfuckingtastic human being who is worth loving and caring for.

I know I sound like Stuart Smiley on this first Sunday of March, but I’m not bullshitting you.

Look into the mirror when you walk away from the Morning Chalkboard and marvel in who you are.

On a fun note….

Mardi Gras is this week!

Let the Good Times Roll!

Let’s go out and be Bacchus the next couple of days. Bacchus is the Roman god for good times and joyous parties.

I first met Bacchus playing quarters at a high school party many years ago. We don’t hang like we once did, but our memories are golden.

I’m going to hit it hard these next couple of days. It has worked out perfectly that Mardi Gras is right before my “Sixty Days of Celebrating Cecilia.”

One last chocolate eclair, one last hotdog, one last glass of bourbon and pint of beer. No pizza, no steaks, no sliders, no orgasms, no Alpines and not even a grilled cheese.

The biggest thing missing during my sabbatical for my Mama…

… the polish sausage smothered with grilled onions and a swipe of mustard on opening day.

Look into the mirror and be astonished in what you see

March 1st, 2025

 Let’s start off the month of March with some Billy Shakes.

It comes from “12th Night” which is a romantic comedy that involves a shipwreck, a love triangle and cross dressing.

Shakespeare is saying that you don’t find love, but love finds you. My Oldman said something similar in his Grawbowski style, “Son… you get more on accident than you do on purpose.”

He was right again…..

Spring is here and it is time to clean out the closets and pitch unused crap. You never know what you might find jammed in a box in the corner of your garage.

Maybe you’ll find love that was lost or an old watch that reminds you of wasted time.

Today is the first day of meteorological spring. The parade of newborn colorful clutter will soon explode across the fields and forests. Get your chores done early and make time to watch shit do stuff.

We share a National Day today between pigs and peanut butter. I couldn’t think of a better way of starting the month that will soon bring flowers to the corners of the neighborhood.

I mentioned toast on the Chalkboard the other day.

I’m thinking rye toast spread with peanut butter, three pieces of bacon, a mashed banana and a drizzle of honey is the best way to jumpstart March.

I’m on that somabitch right after I tell you to go find astonishment.

Go find astonishment

February 28th, 2025

 The last day of February has finally arrived. Possibly the worst month of the year and my least favorite. I like June and October, followed up by July and November. Thank goodness the worst month of the year is the shortest.

Not much to talk about this morning.

I’m probably going to watch a couple Gene Hackman movies this weekend. Forest Park Irish parade is Saturday and the Chicago Hounds Rugby Club play on Sunday down the block.

If you go to the parade tomorrow, look for me at Shanahans.

On Sunday I’ll be sitting in my regular seat during the first half, section 126, row 3, seat 22. During the second forty minutes, I like to move up to the southeast corner near the bar area.

Look for me…

Time to roll into Friday and balance geopolitics and the agricultural markets. My computer has been chirping throughout the overnight session. Hopefully the month ends will a ton of business.

Let’s roll with astonishment Chalkheads and don’t forget about the planets aligning tonight.

February 27th, 2025

 The planets are all lining up together for a once in a lifetime viewing party at the end of the week.

All we need is a clear sky and an unobstructed view of the southwest sky after sunset.

Last summer we experienced the largest invasion of cicadas in over two hundred years. Small trees and bushes were wrapped in netting to protect them from the cyclical occurrence. The bugs came with a big hoopla and left with little fanfare.

I guess I brought up these two examples to prove a point towards today’s quote.

The wonder in our lives is already there, right in front of us. We are all Luke Skywalkers built with the force. We just need to cultivate it.

I often chalk down the term, “watch shit do stuff.”

Some people are born with a keen eye and some people have to walk around the block a few times.

I’m the guy that must walk around the block. Walking around the block and watching shit do stuff can be an amazing experience.

Curiosity and awareness can make us see the world differently, if we develop how to use them.

My dad was a big advocate of watching shit do stuff.

We jumped on the Eisenhower on Memorial Day in the early eighties to get a closer look at the guy climbing the Sears Tower. He heard about it on WGN, so we got in the Dadillac and drove into the city to watch a guy wearing a Spider-Man costume ascend 110 stories.

Another time my Oldman told me to get in the car. He heard that the Polk Brothers up on North Avenue was on fire. We got so close to the inferno that our clothes smelled like soot when we got home.

My Oldman loved grabbing a sack of sliders and parking at the edge of the runway at O’Hare. He had a spot so damn close, we could see the pilot's name tag. You can’t do that anymore. That area has all been secured since 9/11.

The Oldman would pack a cooler full of sandwiches and pop on a Friday night. He’d wake me up before dawn on Saturday morning and drive us to the middle of nowhere just to watch a steam locomotive.

In the late nineties we went down to the lakefront to watch four CHA buildings get destroyed. It was the first time in Chicago history that explosives were used to take down a structure. The buildings were all around fourteen to seventeen stories tall. At about eight-thirty on a cold Saturday morning in December, we sat on the hood of the Dadillac eating donuts from the Oak Park Bakery.

Within two and a half minutes we watched the appearance of rubble.

Watching shit do stuff…

… and I haven’t even gotten to the natural beauty of watching shit do stuff. We can save that for a future Morning Chalkboard.

I will tease that story though.

For me the grandest magical moment was watching the birth of my three Shep kids. I can quote the late Roberta Flack on this one.

“The first time ever I saw your face,

I thought the sun rose in your eyes

And the moon and the stars were the gifts you gave.”

One last magical gift that makes life mo betta’.

Toast

The simplicity of making a piece of bread crispy and wiping it with butter. Then personalizing it with your favorite spread.

Jelly, apple butter, sugar and cinnamon, peanut butter…..

The list goes on.

I bet half of you Chalkheads want some toast right now.

Everything that can astonish us is right there in front of our eyes. We just need to unfocus and focus

February 26th, 2025

     Today’s quote reminds me of those memes that tell you to dance like nobody is watching and sing like nobody is listening.

I’ve been doing that for years!

What I’ve picked up lately is talking to myself. It is easy to pull off nowadays because everyone is talking on their earbuds. So, when I’m talking to myself, people think I’m on the phone.

The other day I got into an elevator right behind a couple millennial kids. Maybe they were the next generation, I don’t know what the hell that one is called, Generation Zevon or Zero.

Two girls and a guy with dumbfounded looks on their faces.

I stepped on the elevator and scooted to the back corner.

I started telling myself out loud, “We were done making love and man did I have to fart really bad.”

The guy looked my way and then quickly made eye contact with the little elevator television that was flashing hockey scores and temperatures from across the country.

The two girls looked at each other nervously and immediately joined their guy friend in watching highlights of the Winnipeg Jets game.

Then I told myself, “I’m lying next to this lady, I think her name was Katarina or maybe Katalina, something Russian…

…she asked me ‘what are you thinking about Big Boy?’ and I replied simply, pizza puff.”

At this point I need to finish talking to myself before these kids get off the elevator.

I quickly mutter…

“I’m thinking about putting a couple pizza puffs in the toaster oven. Do you want one?”

As I’m asking myself if the Russian lady wants to have a pizza puff after having sex, the doors open and the kids born during the Clinton Administration debark the elevator.

Just as the doors close, I can hear the one girl say to her friends, “I really like pizza puffs!”

Do you see what I did here? I taught these kids a lesson. If you are getting some strange love and you need to fart, go make a pizza puff.

Women love pizza puffs and it gives you a chance to sneak out onto the balcony and lay out a fart. Just make sure your neighbor isn’t down on the sidewalk walking her dog.

Though… that is where I also learned a lesson. Not only can I talk to myself at my age and not give two shits, but I can fart in public and just smile and wave.

The numbers in the Grabber Section?

The number of days since January 1st 2000 and the amount of days until January 1st, 2050. We are closer to 2050 than we are to 2000.

It’s Humpday…

…Go dance, sing, fart or eat a pizza puff. Just find joy in what you do.

And no, I didn’t pick up a former KGB agent, but I did put a pizza puff in the air fryer!

February 25th, 2025

I was stargazing with Fritz the other night.

I was trying to explain how Chicago looked on a cloudy evening from the old sodium vapor streetlights.

I explained that LED lighting on a massive scale has only been around for twenty years or so. Chicago started replacing the old high pressured vapor lights with the newer blue lighted LED’s during Fritz’s short lifetime.

Fritz will never know the orange glow during an evening rainstorm in August. The great blizzards of our childhood when the snow fell across an orange sky.

The tall poles that reached high along the city blocks shining down the glow of our youth. It was the beam of security that Mayor Daley gave to his great metropolis.

All replaced with more efficient lights that put a dent in light pollution along the shores of Lake Michigan.

We had an old sunroom that faced east. I enjoyed sleeping in that room year round even though it was purposed for three seasons.

Our house in Oak Park was built well before air conditioning. I can picture the original owners sleeping with all the windows open and an old metal fan blowing the warm summer air.

I loved sleeping up there during a snow or rainstorm, being lulled by the orange hue from the city.

Today’s quote comes from Scotty Fitz. He used a green light located on the end of a dock as a symbol in “The Great Gatsby.”

The green light symbolized hope for the future, a desire to be successful and unobtainable love.

The orange glow of the last part of the twentieth century into the new millennium was steep with symbolism as well.

To me the ancient glow of Chicago meant strength and power. It gave security to lost souls who longed for calm among the midst of chaos. The orange skies provided happiness and warmth. Something we didn’t realize until the staleness of technology changed the bulbs and brought a bright blue hardened reflection.

Jay Gatsby overlooked the bay gazing at the green light from the distant shore. I had the orange clouds hanging over the John Hancock and Prudential Building.

The potential of LED lighting has already made an impact going into the middle of the 21st century. I long for the neon lights from the 20th century hanging over the sidewalks and the sodium vapor lights shining down on the corners and in the middle of the block.

Chinese restaurants, furniture stores, liquor stores, taverns, movie theaters with the neon signs hanging from their facades have been replaced with plastic sheets in metal frame boxes illuminated by rancid lighting. Displacing the richness with a cheap fake landscape.

Nick Carraway turned off the green lamp at the end of his dock. Extinguishing the hope and desire the light gave Jay Gatsby. Technology and Mayor Rahm Emanuel replaced the stage lighting from my early years.

That’s alright….

….Fritz and I have a better view of Jupiter and the Moon.

Or in the case of my sophomoric son, “Hey Dad? Where is Uranus?

Today is National Clam Chowder Day. Make mine Manhattan with a warm baguette and a cold lager.

Find the glow in your life that guides you through the creeping pace of your daily routine.

Astonishment is always radiant no matter what light bulb we have…

February 22nd, 2025

 I was a little pissed off at myself after I finished chalking today’s quote. There was a time when I would go do stuff at a drop of a hat.

Get on the Lake Street L and go to a baseball game an hour before the first pitch. Jump on an airplane and go to New Orleans without a hotel reservation. Hop in the car and drive to a rural town just to find a good pork tenderloin sandwich.

Why did I stop doing these kind of things? Oh yeah, fatherhood.

The glorious 1990’s when all of my friends were having families and I didn’t have any responsibilities. Now all of those friends are empty nesters, while I’m picking up my daughter at the middle school.

And when did junior high school become middle school?

Being a thirteen year old kid is awkward in the first place. Now you want to stick them in the middle. Getting stuck in the middle sucks.

My Oldman was a “Let’s jump in the car” kind of guy. Out of nowhere he’d tell me to put my jacket on because we are going for a ride.

We’d end up buying a loaf of bread and a couple cannoli at D’Mato’s or at Bishop’s for a bowl of chili.

Sometimes he’d want to go get the Sunday papers on a Saturday. Instead of heading to the White Hen five blocks away, we would drive to a newsstand at the corner of Cicero and Irving Park or the one down on Ashland Avenue. My Oldman knew where every newsstand in Chicago was and which one had a diner or hotdog joint nearby.

When my Oldman would throw my coat at me and tell me we were going to get the papers, I knew we were getting something to eat.

I need to tell the Shepkids to go get in the car more often. They need to know where to find a good almond cookie in Chinatown.

Life doesn’t have a schedule. Have you marked down on your calendar the day when you die?

I actually have… May 21st, 2051. That is one day longer than my Oldman lived. I think it’s the perfect time. I can one up my dad and go see him in heaven at the same time.

Then we can grab Saint Joseph and jump in the car and go get the Sunday papers. I can go get an Italian beef with my Oldman and Jesus’s Oldman.

Here is your challenge you Chalkheads.

Go do something off the beaten path today. Go find a Jewish deli and get a bowl of matzo ball soup.

Here is a good one for you Chicago Chalkheads. Grab a sack of sliders and drive to the lakefront. Park your car facing Lake Michigan before it becomes Lake Indiana and have a dashboard lunch.

You don’t know what a dashboard lunch is?

It’s when you sit in a parking lot and watch shit do stuff. You turn the radio on and listen to a ballgame or a jazz program and try not to get those little flakes of onions in the cup holder or on the steering wheel column.

Drive up to Wrigley Field and take a picture of the Harry Caray statue. Drive down to Comiskey and take an at bat on the old home plate.

Grab a growler from BuckleDown and a sandwich from Alpine and go have a picnic at the forest preserve. Just don’t back your car into the parking spot.

My Oldman and I found out the hard way…

….parking backed in was code for looking for a quickie.

That’s a story for another chalkboard. Just make sure you pull in forward.

I’ve been rambling this morning.

Go be astonished with something that isn’t scheduled.

    

February 21st, 2025

I was awoken by an Amber Alert at 1:51 this morning and I tossed and turned for an hour. I had a series of dreams plastered together that had me running around looking for Hazel.

My Friday starts early.

I wonder if I wasn’t a father, would I be pissed that an Amber Alert woke me from a solid sleep?

I hate that we have Amber Alerts, but keep them coming. I could only imagine what the parents are going through while I struggled for one more hour of sleep.

Let’s kick start Friday and hope that child is returned safely.

Not the kind of Morning Chalkboard that you Chalkheads deserve, but the bad moments make the good moments taste much better.

Go love someone

February 20th, 2025

 On the hop this morning.

It is important to know that today is muffin day. Broker’s Inn across the street from the Board of Trade always had gorgeous muffins in the morning.

They would cut them in half. Plop a glob of butter in a skillet and fry your muffin for about two minutes.

Blueberry, Banana nut, Chocolate chip, Strawberry and Bran muffins were the main choices. They were so good, even the bran muffins were delicious.

Broker’s also would fry up a pecan roll, which we will pretend is a distant cousin to the muffin.

Just imagine a pecan roll frying on a glob of butter for two minutes. Crusty from the skillet, gooey from the heat.

Picture a young Jumbo sitting at the counter wearing a trading jacket. Tribune, cup of coffee and a fried muffin or pecan roll.

I miss the morning paper. I miss sitting at the counter at Broker’s Inn. I miss the people hurrying their breakfast before the opening bell.

Happy Muffin Day you Chalkheads.

I’m going to Google and see if there is a place between Riverside and Oak Brook that has muffins at five o’clock on a Thursday morning.

Be astonished and enjoy the sun on your smiling face.

February 19th, 2025

     It is highly unlikely that I will be awarded The Presidential Medal of Freedom anytime soon. It is nearly impossible that the King of England will ever bestow me with Knighthood.

I have taken it upon myself to make my name an adjective. I think it is a great honor to find yourself in history as an adjective.

Queen Elizabeth has given us everything Elizabethan. Alfred Hitchcock has created a film genre that is known as Hitchcockian.

If something is suppressing free speech or is identified as being destructive to the welfare of an open society….

…it is Orwellian.

Named after George Orwell. The author that made everyone paranoid about Big Brother watching every step we take.

Probably the most famous person to be given adjective status is William Shakespeare. Everything associated with the greatest writer in the history of mankind is known as Shakespearean.

Why can’t I give the world the Jumboesque movement or period?

Started in 1989 in the Ten Year Treasury Note trading pit at the Chicago Board of Trade. The Jumboesque Period has become a major phenomenon in my own mind.

It is a movement known for its gregarious style. It is filled with fun loving and passionate feelings towards the world.

You can picture it having thick thighs and a robust bootie. The Jumboesque style of music can range from Beethoven to the Beastie Boys.

Something Jumboesque is usually boisterous since it was formed during the Open Outcry period in trading commodities.

The Jumboesque philosophy is based on getting straight F’s in life. Built on a Foundation strengthened by Faith, Family and Friendship.

Jumboesque is a combination of prayer and swearing mixed with a Chicagonese accent.

Jumboesque can be kind to strangers, but mean to anyone that doesn’t use a turn signal.

A hotdog must not have anything to do with ketchup and pizza is always thin and crispy.

A Chicago style hotdog is Jumboesque. A thin crust pizza cut in squares and topped with sausage, green pepper and onions is considered Jumboesque.

Clothing found in a men’s Big and Tall store is the Jumboesque style.

Any professional sports team formed after 1976 is an expansion team and not considered Jumboesque. Old school is commonly used by fans of Jumboesque.

You will only find Grawbowskis involved in the Jumboesque movement. Smiths are shunned and not accepted.

Jumboesque women are passionate and voluptuous. Jumboesque men are grateful and full of love and astonishment. Thus the term that is often used…

….JumboLove

Today’s quote comes from a ZZ Top song called “Jumbo just left Chicago and he’s heading to New Orleans.”

If anything comes from the Jumboesque movement…

… let it be astonishing and touched with gregarious passion for humanity.

All of you should award yourself with an adjective. Don’t limit yourself with a pronoun.

Reach for the stars and continue getting straight F’s

February 18th, 2025

     One of the first books that I bought George was “Aesop’s Fables.” If any book can teach common sense, it would be one filled with lessons told with fun stories.

Today’s quote comes from the story where the mice came up with the idea of placing a bell around the cat’s neck.

Sounds like a great plan, but how the fuck were they going to pull it off?

Life always finds a way of working out. Like a dear friend recently told me…

…if you want to make God laugh, tell him what your will is.

Tell him what your plan for life is.

Thy will be done…..

Fat Tuesday is two weeks from today. You know where to find me… Shanahans.

Time to go warm up Betty. Time to find the beauty on a cold Tuesday morning.

Be astonished and keep searching for a possible remedy.

February 17th, 2025

 My Oldman always liked to say, “opinions are like assholes, everyone has them and they both usually stink.”

Not much of a talker today. It’s a cold morning and I’m home from work. I don’t really enjoy these three day weekends much anymore. They make for a harder four day work week and since I’m not much of a traveler these days, they’re worthless to me.

Here is my opinion on National Holidays: Get rid of MLK, Presidents Day, Juneteenth and Columbus Day.

Add Election Day in November to replace Columbus Day.

The National Holidays would be New Year’s Day, Memorial Day, Independence Day, Labor Day, Election Day, Veterans Day, Thanksgiving and Christmas.

To make up for the gap left void between New Year’s Day and Memorial Day add the Monday after the Superbowl.

That is my opinion on National Holidays. Love it or hate it.

My Italian-American and African-American friends are probably not too happy with King and Columbus getting nixed. Take the day off, use a personal day.

Same with the Polish on Pulaski, the Irish on Saint Pat, the Mexicans on May 5th, the Croatians on Velika Gospa, the Gays on Pride Day, the muslims for ramadan, the Chinese for their New Year, the Greeks for Opa, the Jews for Yom Kippur, the Germans for Oktoberfest and any other nationality that I left out.

You get a personal day off as well.

I can hear Oprah right now, “you get a day off, you get a day off, you get a day off…”

I’m not getting paid today, but I’m still paying Uncle Sam and the former Mrs. Shepley.

Boy I sound like an assclown this morning!

I just want to go to work and not have to wear long johns this week.

I do have all three Shepkids asleep down the hall right now.

Day three of complaining about everything, not putting plates in the dishwasher, leaving shoes in the middle of the floor, slamming doors, and not flushing the toilet will be a joy today.

I’m already astonished at what the day brings.

February 16th, 2025

 I picked a quote today that is credited to Albert Einstein. I selected it specifically for today because I know all the Shepkids will see it right before they ask me…

…”What’s for breakfast Dad?”

The more mistakes that we make in life, the less regret we carry going forward.

It is the Sunday of President’s Day weekend. I always like to tell the story that happened on this day over thirty years ago in New Orleans.

Hurricanes, shrimp po-boys, sazaracs, Dallas chicks, hurricanes, Lucky Dogs, Abitas, oysters at Acme, sazaracs, karaoke, hurricanes, back for a Lucky Dog, stumble back to hotel, waking up on a balcony with a pillow of Mardi Gras beads passed out on a pull-out cot.

The Sunday night of President’s Day in the French Quarters. Back home in Chicago that weekend, it was ten degrees and snow was plastered on everything. In New Orleans, it was sixty-five degrees and humid.

I woke up on Monday morning to shudders swinging open at the tavern kitty corner to my hotel. Just before the bar owner turned on his “open” sign, he cranked his speakers to eleven and “Honky Tonk Woman” blasted me out of my cot. I had to peel the Mardi Gras beads from my cheek. The green, purple and gold clinging to my face that left a distinct pattern. I’m sure I wasn’t the first Yankee to use Mardi Gras beads for a pillow.

I realized something very important that morning.

For the rest of my life…

…when I’m standing on a CTA platform in the middle of February waiting for the “L” to take me to work. When I feel the bitter cold of late winter gnawing at my cheeks. I will be warm just knowing that there is a bar in New Orleans that is jamming to the Rolling Stones as they open for business.

Back to yesterday’s Chalkboard…

… instead of feeling doomed, I felt the beauty and the romance of not only the French Quarter, but also the experience of a cold morning commute across the westside of Chicago.

I loved reading the Tribune on the Lake Street el. Watching the skyscrapers get closer and closer as the sun began reaching over Lake Michigan. It was like I was living in a movie.

My life was a combination of “Wall Street” and “About Last Night.”

When I was in New Orleans, I was a small character in a Tennessee Williams play, but minus the mental illness and homosexuality.

Remember, I mentioned Dallas girls in a prior paragraph.

Life has its mistakes, but the experience far outweighs the consequences.

Life doesn’t need shits and giggles, lollipop trees and rainbows, flowers and Frango mints.

Life is a cold commute to work and a hangover at the corner of Toulouse and Bourbon Street.

Life is hearing your son compliment you on the pancakes or your boss telling you that you kicked ass at work.

Life is the morning Trib bought from a metal coin box on Ridgeland and South Boulevard.

Life is a sazarac at the Old Absinthe House.

Life is a first date that turned out awkward or a one-night stand that was electric.

Life is a road filled with potholes or a trip without a single red light.

I guess the theme this weekend is to make mistakes, try something new and see the beauty all around.

Because we are all doomed anyway.

Today is a trip to the hotdog stand on a cold afternoon. Parkys is just as tasty in February as it is in July.

I need to go fold the seven blankets tossed all over the living room.

Though the site of them is beautiful. Because that is where we watched hockey, rugby and movies together last night. I also need to pick up the spilled popcorn caused by an empty netter. A reminder of the experience that I had on the Saturday night of President’s Day weekend in the mid 2020’s.

Go experience astonishment, you won’t regret it