Roasting Each Other, Showing Up for Each Other
I saw this video about friends who roast each other, and it reminded me of my fraternity brothers in Tau Epsilon Phi, Phi Chi Chapter, formerly Epsilon Lambda, at City College of New York. I pledged in Fall 1990. That means I’ve known some of these guys for more than 35 years.
We still get together on Zoom when we can, usually Tuesdays and Fridays. The calls often run about two hours, and they’re so much fun that even a 14-year-old wants to join the insanity.
And there is plenty of insanity. We roast each other about my eyebrows, our dating and marriage decisions, the questionable things we did at the fraternity house in historic Harlem, pranks, a WWE DDT episode, hairlines that have seen better days, and how fat we’ve gotten. If you can imagine it, we’ve probably said it.
But the jokes are only part of the story. When life gets tough, and someone needs help, the same guys who can roast you without mercy will make time to show up for you. That kind of friendship is built over decades—and proven when it matters.
Our creed says it best: “To Live in the Light of Friendship, to Walk in the Path of Chivalry, to Serve for the Love of Service.”
Some of us may be more dependable than others, but the brothers who stay in touch—and stay in touch with me—are the ones I know I can count on. Even if the emergency involves a goat, a bottle of baby oil, and a cord of wood.
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.
Donna Woods Has My Number. Let the Games Begin.
I showed up at the skilled nursing facility around 3 p.m., bringing Mom the lunch from Somerby.
I hadn’t eaten all day. Mom and I had food to try, and I was ready to sit down and share it with her.
But first, someone had one final piece of business before leaving.
The Donna Woods.
She wanted my phone number or Mom’s phone number. If you read my previous post, you know I had been gently campaigning for Mom’s.
Negotiations had apparently reopened.
Donna initially wanted me to follow her to her room so she could get her phone.
I made a decision: I was staying with Mom and the food. I was hungry, and sharing that meal with her was more important to me than making a trip down the hall.
So I asked Donna for her number instead.
She gave it to me, and I called her.
And just like that, my carefully considered plan to avoid giving Donna my number was defeated.
By me.
Then I asked, “Donna Woods! Do you do the text?”
She said yes
So I texted her, too.
Apparently, I wasn’t satisfied with opening one line of communication. I needed to confirm that the entire system was operational.
Calls? Connected.
Texts? Delivered.
Boundaries? Undergoing a brief internal review.
This is the same Donna Woods who can cover Pensacola, bacon, pets, prosthetics, and hot tea before I’ve finished forming a follow-up question. The woman who gathers people for Coffee Chats, greets the nurses,
es, and somehow found time to approve my light blue Hokas with pink laces.
She now has a direct line.
I can already imagine looking at my phone, seeing “Donna Woods,” and wondering whether I have enough battery for the full update.
-But I’m also glad we exchanged numbers.
She made a point of stopping before she left. She wanted to stay connected with people she had met, and Mom and I were among them.
I’ve spent these visits writing about making time for people. Donna has been doing her part to make sure we have the opportunity.
I could stay with Mom, share lunch, and still help Donna leave with a way to reach us. It turned out to be a pretty simple solution, despite my earlier attempts to protect myself from unlimited conversational access.
Now the question is: what’s the over/under on calls and texts for the rest of the week?
And does one story sent across seventeen separate texts count as one message or seventeen?
I need the rules established before the first update from Pensacola.
Donna Woods Has My Number. Let the Games Begin.
I showed up at the skilled nursing facility around 3 p.m., bringing Mom the lunch from Somerby.
I hadn’t eaten all day. Mom and I had food to try, and I was ready to sit down and share it with her.
But first, someone had one final piece of business before leaving.
The Donna Woods.
She wanted my phone number or Mom’s phone number. If you read my previous post, you know I had been gently campaigning for Mom’s.
Negotiations had apparently reopened.
Donna initially wanted me to follow her to her room so she could get her phone.
I decided: I was staying with Mom and the food. I was hungry, and sharing that meal with her was more important to me than making a trip down the hall.
So I asked Donna for her number instead.
She gave it to me, and I called her.
And just like that, my carefully considered plan to avoid giving Donna my number was defeated.
By me.
Then I asked, “Donna Woods! Do you do the text?”
She said yes.
So I sent her a text, too.
Apparently, I wasn’t satisfied with opening one line of communication. I needed to confirm that the entire system was operational.
Calls? Connected.
Texts? Delivered.
Boundaries? Undergoing a brief internal review.
This is the same Donna Woods who can cover Pensacola, bacon, pets, prosthetics, and hot tea before I’ve finished forming a follow-up question. The woman who gathers people for Coffee Chats, greets the nurses, and somehow found time to approve my light blue Hokas with pink laces.
She now has a direct line.
I can already imagine looking at my phone, seeing “Donna Woods,” and wondering whether I have enough battery for the full update.
But I’m also glad we exchanged numbers.
She made a point of stopping before she left. She wanted to stay connected with people she had met, and Mom and I were among them.
I’ve spent these visits writing about making time for people. Donna has been doing her part to make sure we have the opportunity.
I could stay with Mom, share lunch, and still help Donna leave with a way to reach us. It turned out to be a pretty simple solution, despite my earlier attempts to protect myself from unlimited conversational access.
Now the question is: what’s the over/under on calls and texts for the rest of the week?
And does one story sent across seventeen separate texts count as one message or seventeen?
I need the rules established before the first update from Pensacola.
Donna Woods Is Leaving—and Taking Requests for Phone Numbers
Today’s delivery for Mom was a large Chick-fil-A fruit cup and a coffee. I had already brought her International Delight French Vanilla creamer when she arrived, so that part of the operation was covered.
And who greeted me?
You already know.
Donna Woods.
The day room reminded me a little of junior high: a table of women gathered together and a separate table of men.
The women were chatting. The men were sleeping.
I felt a little sad seeing the men asleep while the conversation happened nearby. Of course, I was only seeing one moment of their day. For all I know, they’d already solved the world’s problems and were taking a well-earned break.
The women, meanwhile, still had business to conduct.
Today, I learned that Donna likes bacon, wants hot tea for the resident chat, and is leaving tomorrow.
That last detail caught my attention.
Donna has become part of my visits. I come to see Mom, and somewhere along the way I get a greeting, a story, a restaurant recommendation, or an unsolicited but welcome review of my footwear.
I’ve gotten used to seeing her.
Now she’s getting ready to leave, and she wants to stay in touch with Mom.
I thought that was lovely.
Then Mom volunteered my phone number.
Suddenly, I was involved in telecommunications planning without having submitted a proposal.
I told Mom I’d give Donna her number.
Donna said she would take both.
An efficient response. Why choose one contact when you can expand the network?
I am purposely trying to avoid giving Donna my number if I can help it. I enjoy our conversations, but I’ve heard the speed at which this woman delivers information. I’m not sure my phone plan includes that kind of coverage.
I could answer a quick call and emerge forty-five minutes later with updates on bacon, Pensacola, three former pets, and a person I’ve never met whose grandson apparently needs something.
Meanwhile, my original reason for picking up the phone would be lost to history.
But underneath my joking, I’m touched that Donna wants to keep the connection going.
We met because I was visiting Mom. A conversation became another conversation. Then she knew my name, asked how Mom was doing, and became someone I looked forward to seeing in the hallway.
Now she wants to make sure leaving the facility doesn’t mean losing touch.
I’m glad Mom has someone asking for her number. With everything she’s been through, I like knowing that someone she met here wants to call and hear how she’s doing.
I’ll miss Donna’s greetings and whatever subject she happens to be halfway through when I arrive.
I hope her next stop has good bacon, hot tea, and people who make time to listen.
As for the phone numbers, I think Mom’s is an excellent place to start.