Thirty Years of Talking Crap—and Showing Up

Most Tuesdays and Fridays, a core group of us guys gets together on Zoom. If you’re picturing thoughtful discussions, mature reflection, and dignified conversation… you’ve got the wrong Zoom.

Most nights, we talk crap about each other.

For some of us, this started more than 30 years ago. And apparently, we still have material.

Sure, there are moments when we get serious. We talk about life, the hard stuff, and whatever somebody is going through. But most of the time, these calls are a chance to escape life's pressures and just have fun. For a little while, we get to laugh with people who knew us long before our current responsibilities did.

Last night, though, something happened that made me appreciate these friendships a little differently.

A few of the guys go to New York Comic Con every year. It’s an event. It’s expensive. It’s crowded. I’ve never been, but I’ve seen the pictures, and the costumes are clearly part of the experience. That’s cosplay, for anyone unfamiliar: dressing up as a character from a comic, movie, game, or whatever world you want to step into.

One of our guys is going this year with his 15-year-old son. Their first time.

Naturally, we asked if he was going to cosplay.

He was against the idea.

Naturally, that did not end the discussion.

With AI being what it is, I used his likeness and his son’s to put together some costume suggestions. Real possibilities, presented in a PowerPoint. Because apparently, this is what decades of friendship have prepared me for.

He looked through it with his son.

Then his son wanted to join our Zoom.

His dad told him to go away.

Now, before anyone gets caught up in that last part, let’s appreciate what happened: a 15-year-old wanted to hang out with us.

Us.

I took two things away from that.

First, we’re still cool enough for a teenager to want in. Or we act like 15-year-olds often enough that he recognized his people.

Some of the time, anyway.

Okay. Most of the time.

But the second thing stayed with me.

He got a glimpse of what a lasting friendship can look like. A group of guys who, across time, distance, race, and all the ways life can pull people apart, still make room for each other.

We weren’t trying to teach him anything. We were doing what we always do: making fun of one another, laughing, and showing up. Yet somewhere in that, he saw something he wanted to be part of.

That means a lot.

Friendships like these don’t sustain themselves. People get busy. Priorities change. Life gets complicated. Keeping a connection takes effort, even when that effort looks like logging onto Zoom to hear the same guy tell the same ridiculous story again.

It isn’t always easy. And I know what we have is rare.

I hope his son finds his own version of it. People he can grow up with and grow older with. People who will listen when life gets heavy—and give him a hard time when he needs a laugh.

And to everyone reading this, I hope you already have friends like that. If you don’t, I hope you find them.

Thirty years from now, may you still be showing up for each other.

And still have plenty of crap to talk.