Category: Old Man Yelling at the Sky

The Sweet, Elusive Sound of Absolutely Nothing…

I have officially reached the age where my number one enemy is noise.

It’s the dark side of my love/hate relationship with Chicago. Sometimes I love this city, but Christ, it is relentless. It’s the diesel trucks groaning on the highway. Yesterday, it was some guy on a motorcycle in traffic who apparently felt the entire gridlock needed to experience his exhaust note. It’s being under the L tracks at the exact moment a train rumbles overhead, vibrating your teeth out of your skull. It’s the sirens, the unnecessary honking, and the cars with aftermarket subwoofers tuned to a frequency that literally rattles my windows.

You’d think a high school classroom might offer a brief sanctuary. You’d be wrong.

Today was the last day with students. In between periods, instead of letting us enjoy the impending sweet relief of summer, the administration decided to blare music over the intercom. It wasn’t just music; it was tinny, screechy, and turned up to eleven. It was actually physically painful in my ears. Combine that with hundreds of teenagers yelling over the din, and my central nervous system was ready to check out.

I am just so incredibly, profoundly tired of the noise.

In fact, I am so desperate for a break from the auditory assault that I did the unthinkable today: I skipped a workout. I pushed the training block to tomorrow for the sole purpose of going straight home to sit in my backyard and read. “Quiet” in a Chicago backyard is relative, of course. I’ll still hear the hum of traffic and the neighbors’ lawnmowers and trains in the distance, but at least it won’t be actively assaulting my eardrums.

It’s times like these where the siren song of Utah gets incredibly loud – or rather, incredibly quiet.

When we’re out there, the silence is a physical presence. Granted, we live near a major road, so if you’re sitting outside, you can hear a faint hum. But usually, the ambient bubble of the hot tub drowns it out, and the second you step inside, the world goes completely dead. No sirens. No people blaring bad bass from a Honda Civic. No commuter trains shaking the foundation. Just stillness.

The irony in all this is that, as I get older, I am systematically losing my hearing.

It’s a documented fact. It’s the main reason I started taking ASL classes and why I still spend time watching sign language videos every single day. But here is my dirty little secret: I’m completely fine with it. People ask if I’m going to get hearing aids, and my answer is a hard no. Why would I pay thousands of dollars to turn the volume back up on a world that won’t shut up? I don’t want to hear most of what’s going on out there anyway.

I don’t need to hear the intercom, the traffic, or the motorcycle guys compensating for various life shortages. I just want the world to be still. And if my ears want to cooperate by fading to black, I’m happy to let them lead the way.



The Golden Cage and the TiVo Life

Right now, I am getting paid to do absolutely nothing.

Seriously. If you walked into my classroom today, you’d find me sitting at my desk, watching TV, messing around with video games, noodling on a bass guitar, and texting friends. Occasionally, I leave the building to go for an hour-long run or a bike ride.

The reason for this sudden, tax-funded retirement preview? I teach high school seniors. They graduated a week ago. Across all eight periods of the school day, my remaining roster totals exactly three students. Two are in one class, one is in another, and both of those periods are completely wrapped up by 10:50 a.m. After that, my classroom is a ghost town, and I am a highly compensated piece of furniture. Heck, most days, two of those three students wander to their girlfriends’ classroom, and I have nobody.

I can’t even pretend to be productive and plan for next year. Thanks to the perpetual bureaucratic mystery of public education, there is a solid 35% chance I’ll get laid off, and zero indication of which classes I’d actually be teaching if I stay. Unit planning is impossible. So, I sit.

Don’t get me wrong – it’s awesome. I will take a free paycheck any day of the week, and I’m not crying into my coffee about it. But even after eight years in a classroom, this forced confinement highlights the one thing about employment I still absolutely loathe: the schedule.

Before I became a teacher, I spent fourteen years running my own law firm. I was the boss, the employee, and the scheduler. If I had court, I would go to court. If I had a client meeting, I would go to the office. But if I had a mountain of police reports, financial records, or audio wiretaps to review? I could do that anywhere. I could sit in a coffee shop, at my desk, or out on the back deck at home. If I wanted to look at discovery from noon to 2:00 p.m., I did. If I wanted to use those hours to go for a long ride or run errands, I did that instead and read the files at midnight.

It was the TiVo life. I could pause the grind, live my life when I wanted to live it, and catch up on the work on my own timeline.

Granted, the TiVo life had its reruns. There were plenty of times it completely stunk – like getting a call on my birthday at 10:00 p.m. and spending until 3:00 a.m. in a bleak police station because a client just got busted, again!. But the flip side was priceless. I was able to pick up my kids from school most days and just sit there watching them play on the playground, completely untethered from a timecard.

Now? I’m trapped by the bell. I have a million things I want to do, but they all have to be crammed into a strict, narrow window between the time I get home and the time I go to bed, or punted to the weekend.

With summer break looming, that craving for autonomy is screaming. I’m counting down the days until I can once again do what I want, when I want, or at least choose the damn order I do them in.

Lately, the daydreaming has taken a specific turn. I find myself thinking about walking away from teaching and dipping my toes back into the legal waters. Nothing crazy. Just taking on a few court-appointed federal criminal cases. Go to court when required, take the massive boxes of FBI or DEA discovery, and review them wherever the hell I feel like sitting. Meet the client on a mutual schedule. Control the time.

The older I get, the more poignant that becomes. The clock is ticking, and I’m literally running out of time.

So as much as I’m enjoying the absurdity of getting a paycheck to watch TV and play video games this week, the novelty wears off fast. I’d rather be traveling. I’d rather be hiking, paddle boarding, or doing something as mundane as cleaning out a junk drawer or organizing a closet at home. I want to get things done on my own terms, rather than just burning daylight in an empty classroom.

Even if the thing I’m getting done is just sipping a hot cup of coffee out in the woods, on my own watch.



Gut punch….

I was reading the Wall Street Journal this morning and saw a quick review for an upcoming sci-fi series:

Alfred Molina, Geena Davis, Clarke Peters, and Bill Pullman star in a sci-fi series about a group of scrappy seniors who band together to fight an evil force….

And there it was.

Geena Davis is now being described as a “senior.”

Not “veteran actor,” “seasoned star,” or “beloved Hollywood legend.”

Senior.

That one landed like a punch to the kidneys.

To be fair, she is a senior citizen.  She’s also 10 years older than me, but still, she was one of the “it” girls when I was growing up.  The Fly, Beetlejuice, and so on. Now she’s basically this generation’s version of that old lady who they can’t believe used to be hot.  My Lauren Bacall.  We have officially reached the point where my generation is starring in our own version of Cocoon.  (but THOSE people were OLD!!!!)  That can’t be right.

Anyway, I’m going to ice my knees and yell at clouds while Geena Davis and the gang save the galaxy with her AARP card.

 

 



There are days I feel like the old man yelling at the sky.  Okay, most days.

Not because I think everything used to be better. It wasn’t. But somewhere along the way, we stopped teaching people that choices have consequences. Worse, we started treating the mere existence of consequences as injustice.

I see it constantly with students. They’ve never been allowed to fail. Never been allowed to sit in discomfort. Every setback becomes trauma. Every criticism becomes harm. Nobody says, “OK, you’re offended. So what? You’ll survive.” Nobody says, “You’re stronger than this.” Nobody says showing up, paying attention, and doing the work is simply required. Instead, we cushion every landing and remove every consequence, then act confused when resilience disappears.

And it’s not just kids.

I see the same mentality in the news almost every day. Someone makes a choice – often a whole series of choices – then complains about the predictable outcome as if it was imposed on them by society.

Last week, there was a story about a professor who married a woman from South America after an entirely long-distance relationship. Her immigration approval was delayed, and the article framed it like they were being cruelly “separated.”

Separated? They were always separated. The entire relationship existed in different countries. He chose to marry someone who was not a U.S. resident. He chose not to move there while waiting for the visa process. Those are choices. Nobody forced them.

Or the endless stories about retirees suddenly squeezed because an adjustable-rate mortgage kicked in. I sympathize, but why does a 65-year-old retiree still have an ARM? Why are they still carrying major mortgage debt at retirement age? Nobody ever asks that question. The assumption is immediately that somebody else should absorb the consequences.

Student loans are another example. Again, nobody forced people to borrow massive sums for degrees tied to careers that mathematically could never support that debt load.

I know someone who borrowed heavily for a private undergraduate degree, then borrowed even more for a private master’s in education. They could have gotten the same teaching license from state schools for a fraction of the cost. Meanwhile, their social media was nonstop trips, bars, concerts, and vacations while constantly complaining about student loan payments. At no point was there any recognition that expensive choices require tradeoffs elsewhere.

That’s the part that drives me insane. The refusal to acknowledge tradeoffs.

You can marry someone overseas. Immigration may take years.

You can take out huge loans. You may have to sacrifice luxuries later.

You can tolerate rampant shoplifting in neighborhoods. Businesses may close stores.

You can skip schoolwork for four years. Opportunities later may shrink.

This isn’t oppression. This isn’t injustice. These are consequences flowing from decisions people freely made.

Somehow, we’ve created a culture where saying “your choices contributed to your outcome” is considered cruel. But personal responsibility isn’t cruelty. It’s reality. In fact, responsibility is what gives people agency in the first place.

If your choices matter, then you matter. Your discipline matters. Your judgment matters. Your sacrifices matter.

But if every bad outcome is always somebody else’s fault, then people eventually stop believing they have control over their own lives at all.

And maybe that’s what this old man yelling at the sky is really angry about.



Having a Moment….Not a Great One…

I never had a midlife crisis, but apparently, I am having a 60-year-old crisis.

Somewhere along the line, instead of buying a red Corvette and dating someone wildly inappropriate, I skipped straight to existential dread.

I have this overwhelming feeling lately that I may have wasted my life.

Not in the dramatic “I should have been a rock star” way. I have no musical talent beyond confidently playing the same four chords on bass and pretending it’s jazz. I mean more quietly. The kind that sneaks up on you when you’re driving home from work or standing in the grocery store comparing two brands of paper towels, like this is somehow your legacy.

You take a path because it seems like the responsible thing to do. School. Career. Marriage. Kids. Mortgage. Retirement account. Replace the water heater. Learn what mulch is. Suddenly, you are an expert in things your 22-year-old self would have considered a cry for help.

And for a long time, that path feels right because it is busy. Busy can disguise a lot. If you are constantly moving, you don’t have much time to ask if you are headed somewhere you actually wanted to go.

Then one day, you realize the road is no longer stretching out in front of you. There are fewer miles ahead than behind. That gets your attention.

You start doing inventory.

Did I spend enough time with people I love, or was I mostly banging my head against a wall at a job I didn’t like?

Did I actually enjoy my life, or was I just extremely efficient at completing obligations?

Did I choose things, or did I just keep accepting the next logical step until I woke up wondering “well, how did I get here?” (to quote Talking Heads)

This is not regret exactly. I love my family. I have had good years, great memories, and enough ridiculous stories to keep dinner conversations alive.

But I also wonder about the unlived versions of life. The ones where I  didn’t get married and have kids.  The selfish one where I didn’t give 30+ years of my life to other people and get (frankly) little in return.

I’m not sure what anyone would say at my funeral.  “Yeah, he lived and he died, but did he really DO anything?  Did he really leave any legacy or make a difference in anyone’s lives?”

I’m sort of worried that I haven’t left a legacy or made a difference in anyone’s life.  I know I spent a lot of time raising a family, but I’m not sure I did it “right” or that they are better off having me as a father rather than someone else.

In short, I don’t know what value my life added to the world, near or far.



I Don’t HAVE to Bang My Head Against the Wall….

There’s a special kind of luxury in taking a day off when you actually need it instead of waiting until your body files a formal complaint.

Yesterday was a mental health date, and honestly, I highly recommend dating yourself. I slept like an angel the night before – one of those rare sleeps where you don’t wake up at 3:17 a.m. wondering if you remembered to reply to an email from three weeks ago. I still got up early, because apparently my body now believes 5:30 a.m. is a personality trait, but there was no rush.

Coffee. Quiet. No work bag. No bell schedule.

I did the full Ross Retirement Simulation.

Went for a run. Went for a swim. Read for a while. Watched a genuinely good movie without scrolling my phone every eight minutes. Read some more. Played drums. Made dinner. Watched hockey. It was 100% enjoyment with no productivity guilt attached. Frankly, I was thriving. If I had put on linen pants and started talking about olive oil, I could’ve become one of those people who moves to Italy.

Meanwhile, in my actual life, I had left what I thought was a pretty fun assignment for my law class.

Find two songs that sound alike – sampling, parody, copyright disputes, whatever. We’re doing copyright law, so I figured this was a layup. Listen to music. Your music. Pick songs. We’ll talk about ownership and infringement.

There are 21 kids in the class.

Two did it.

Two.

I literally assigned teenagers to listen to music and somehow that was too much. Not a ten-page paper. Not Bluebook citations. Not “brief Marbury v. Madison.” I asked them to Google songs that sound alike.

They didn’t even care enough to fake it.

That’s the part that gets me. It’s not just that they didn’t do it – it’s the complete indifference. No panic. No excuse. No “I forgot.” Just vibes. It could have been five minutes of work while sitting in the parking lot before school.

Nothing.

And this is where people love to gaslight teachers.

“Well, if they were more engaged…”

“If the lesson was more relevant…”

“If you built stronger relationships…”

Nope.

Respectfully, nope.

I am the same teacher I’ve been my entire career. Same sarcasm. Same energy. Same stupid jokes. Same projects that used to work. Same assignments kids used to actually enjoy. I’ve done mock trials, debates, music law, crime scenes, contract negotiations – real things, fun things, things designed specifically so they don’t feel like school.

This group of seniors just does not care.

Not all of them, obviously. Two of them did the assignment. God bless those two. I may frame their work like it’s the Constitution.

But when the baseline becomes “I don’t care if I fail,” there is no educational strategy powerful enough to compete with that. You can’t out-teach apathy. You can differentiate, scaffold, build relationships, call home, create incentives, stand on your head juggling flaming copies of the Constitution – but if they fundamentally do not care whether they pass or fail, eventually you’re just performing CPR on a mannequin.

So today, after sleeping terribly because apparently peace has an expiration date, I’m back at work. Making playlists for copyright law. Prepping study guides for other classes. Doing the job because that’s what you do.

But if I’m honest, the tank is running low.

People say focus on the ones who care.

I do.

I absolutely do.

But when it’s 2 out of 21, sometimes that math gets a little depressing.



Hater Tuesday … Celebrity Edition

There are a few things that reliably trigger my inner old man. Celebrity culture is near the top of the list.

Nothing makes me roll my eyes faster than a sporting event cutting away from the actual game so the broadcast can show me who is sitting courtside. I do not care that Timothée Chalamet is at the Knicks game. I do not care that Suni Lee is there too. I especially do not care that the announcers are treating this like breaking news.  (link)

“Look who’s here tonight!”

Yeah, thanks. I was actually trying to watch basketball.

I can’t stand celebrity treatment at sporting events. I can’t stand the courtside seats, the camera pans, the awkward waving, the constant need to remind us that famous people are in the building. I can’t stand the sideline access, the locker-room access, the handshakes with players, the little manufactured moments so everyone can post them on Instagram later.

It’s the exact opposite of those old US Weekly headlines: “Celebrities, they’re just like us!”

No, they absolutely are not.

They are treated completely differently from the rest of us. They get the best seats, the special entrances, the backstage passes, the private rooms, and the access nobody else gets. Why? Because they act in movies. Or sing songs. Or have enough followers to qualify as “important.”

Meanwhile, the guy who worked a double shift as an ER nurse? Upper deck.

The firefighter who ran into a burning building last week? Watching from home.

The teacher who spent all day trying to convince teenagers that deadlines matter? Illegal stream and a beer.

No surgeon is getting walked courtside because he nailed a triple bypass on Tuesday.

No paramedic is getting shown on the jumbotron while the announcers gush over their outfit.

No soldier is getting front-row playoff seats because they served three deployments.

And before someone says, “Well, celebrities can afford it,” that’s not even the point. I’m not mad they have money. I’m mad we’ve collectively decided fame itself deserves worship.

We built a whole culture around pretending the famous are more interesting, more valuable, and somehow more worthy of attention than everyone else. And sports broadcasts are one of the worst offenders. I tuned in to watch the game, not a live episode of TMZ.

I know this makes me sound like a grumpy old man yelling at clouds, and honestly, fair enough. Put it on my tombstone.

Here lies Ross.
He hated celebrity culture.
And he really didn’t care who was sitting courtside.

Still true.



There Ought to Be a Law

There should be a law that no online business can send you an email or text that they’ve shipped your order unless it’s actually in transit.  None of this “label created” bullshit.



The Great MCLE Shakedown: Checking Boxes and Writing Checks….

There is a specific brand of bureaucratic theater that exists solely to make people feel “protected” while doing absolutely nothing of the sort. In the legal world, we call this Mandatory Continuing Legal Education (MCLE).

I’ve kept my law license active. I don’t practice anymore, but I still read SCOTUS opinions for breakfast and keep tabs on Illinois appellate rulings because, frankly, I care about the law.  Yet, the State of Illinois still demands I sit through 30 hours of “education” to prove I’m a fit member of the Bar.

The Grift of the Seminar

Let’s be honest about who this actually benefits:

  1. Professional Development Companies: The ones charging $500 for a “Comprehensive Guide to [Insert Niche Topic Here]” that you’ll forget by the time you reach the parking lot.

  2. Legal Organizations: They get a captive audience and a steady stream of registration fees to keep their lights on.

  3. Bureaucrats: They get to point at a spreadsheet and say, “Look! Our lawyers are 100% compliant and therefore 100% competent!”

Performative Competence

The absurdity lies in the lack of relevance. Illinois doesn’t care if I spend 15 hours studying the granular details of bankruptcy law – an area I have never touched and would rather eat glass than practice. They don’t care if I sleep through 30 hours or play games on my phone.  As long as I have the certificate and the “Ethics” box is checked, the state is satisfied.

It’s the exact type of regulation I detest: it feels virtuous. It sounds great in a press release: “We require our lawyers to stay current!” But it’s a mile wide and an inch deep.

The Two Types of Lawyers

The irony is that MCLE doesn’t change behavior.

  • The Diligent: The lawyers who actually care about their clients and their craft are already reading the law, staying organized, and attending meaningful sessions because they want to be good at their jobs.

  • The Slackers: The ones who don’t care will either find the ultimate “blow-off” PDs – where they can answer emails in the back of the room – or they’ll simply lie on the self-reporting forms.

The “College Level” Loophole

Just so we’re clear: this isn’t a “woe is me” post about finding the time. Since I teach law at the college level, I can sleepwalk my way into those 30 hours through teaching credits. It’s not that the requirement is hard to meet; it’s that it’s stupid.

It is a performance without a purpose, a tax on time and money that serves the system rather than the law. But hey, at least the certificate looks nice in the recycling bin.



Same old same old…

There has been no shortage of news stories about the high cost of food at Coachella.  It’s the same article written again and again.  Some people complain about how much the food costs, show receipts, and scream outrage.

DON’T BUY IT.

If it’s expensive, don’t buy it.  It’s that simple.  Nobody is forcing you to pay that much; you are paying it willingly.  They know that.  They know you’ll whine but still pay.  They pay what they can get away with.

DON’T BUY IT.

Imagine, just for a second, thousands of concert goers NOT buying the expensive food or alcohol.  It is possible to enjoy a music festival without beer and funnel cakes.   I guarantee the prices will plummet.

But, as long as you keep buying it, no matter how much you complain, they’ll keep charging it.