Audio version now available.
Mindfuckery.
That’s how she described the cognitive dissonance of sitting in the waiting room while her son’s wisdom teeth were being extracted–doing one of the most motherly things a mother can do–while her husband sat it jail.
Audio version now available.
I wish I could deliver a message to my younger self. Many messages, really, to many earlier versions of me. Like that the penis my college friends drew on my forehead with permanent marker when I passed out would not, in fact, impact the rest of my life. Or that leaving my sales-manager job at a steel company that was for sale upgrading to a steel company that later declared bankruptcy was not, actually, the stupidest move ever. Or even more recently, that the knee injury I suffered playing soccer last summer was not the end, and that I was not yet relegated to the chair workouts Instagram feels are age appropriate.
Those tips would have been useful. But in mid-March 2026, I am thinking about the advice I would give a late 20-teens version of me about Saint Patrick’s Day.
Audio version now available.
Before they served us our farewell dinner, our neighbors of twenty years, while enjoying the evening sun of newly saved daylight on their back deck, asked our youngest two boys what their fondest memories were of the house we are leaving behind.
I froze in a mini-panic. “The time Drunk Dad got so mad that he punched a framed picture spreading glass all over our bedroom.” “Listening to Mom and Dad whisper-fight well into the morning through the heating ducts.” Those were the traumatic memories that flooded my brain as I waited for our sons to speak.
Audio version now available.
Confrontation has long been hard for me, and I have worked tirelessly to avoid it. My conflict avoidance is also probably one of the reasons that my marriage has survived. While I acknowledge that past, I am moving into a new version of the future.
Audio version now available.
My wife, Sheri, and I just spent a long weekend with three couples. It was interesting to hear that we had all shared the same clear and decisive experience, without which, none of our marriages would have survived.
All four of us men were drinkers. All four of us men begged our wives to let us back in emotionally, and to comfort us as we tried to get sober. All four of our wives, after multiple attempts to be our soft pillows–to cushion the impact of early sobriety, finally stood by a hard boundary.
All four of our wives said enough was enough, and forced all four of us men to do it on our own.
Audio version now available.
I turned off facebook notifications because every time I put my phone in my pocket, it would ding about ten seconds later. Without fail, the ding was a facebook notification. Like a dog who sticks his nose in your crotch when you stop petting him, facebook demands attention and isn’t interested in the other things you have going on. We all know that we see ads for things we converse about within our phone’s earshot. We know that the intricacy of the techno-web designed to paralyze us while their venom finds its way to our bloodstream is vast beyond our capacity for conceptualization. But this particular tactic is particularly despicable to me. It is evil incarnate. Are you engaging in direct, face-to-face human interaction? Fuck you! DING! Pet me with your eyeballs.
***
I drank vodka and watched television news like it was my job in the days that followed September 11, 2001. Airplanes crashed into buildings. Nothing resembling that fresh horror had ever happened. Not in my lifetime. Not ever. America was angry, America was shocked, and America mourned the loss of our fellow citizens.
Audio version now available.
While watching football over the holidays, my youngest son asked me why all of the sideline reporters are hot women, and all of the play-by-play commentators are variably attractive men. “Sexism,” I responded without hesitation. “It’s bothered me for years. These broadcasts are just money-generating engines, and I’m sure the networks have done focus groups. I think dudes are just uncomfortable being informed about football from chicks, except the cute ones who fawn over the winning quarterback.”
“Exactly,” my daughter said from behind the couch to which my fanny was semi-permanently adhered during bowl season. I didn’t even know she was in the room. Had I known, I might have used a different word. Females in their early-to-mid twenties have strong opinions, and they are pretty unified about reserving the word, “chicks,” for babies with feathers. Other than that, my message would not have been different had I known she was listening. Either way, it is hard for me to describe how it felt to have her agree with me.
At first, it was like the jolt of joy you get when you put on your jeans for the first time in the fall and find a five-dollar bill in the back pocket. But the more I have thought about it, the more her one-word reaction means to me. It has been a long time since she felt comfortable endorsing my opinion.
Audio version now available.
It’s Christmas card season. I took last year off for many reasons. I had, for 21 years, come up with the concept, outfits, and the wording of my family’s cards. I also ordered, addressed, stamped, and sent the cards for over two decades. So last year it felt invigorating to NOT send a card. So invigorating that I decided to NOT do it again this year.
But I still had to gather photos, design, write, and order cards for my mom’s Christmas card. I took that job on about five years ago. This meant texting my three siblings for photos of their kids and pets, and putting something together that my mom approved. I care that she can tell her friends and our family about her grandchildren. I’m proud of that story.
Audio version now available.
The Christmas Tree lights are off and the house is quiet. I’m slumped over on the loveseat, my neck sore from the unnatural angle created by the upholstered arm. This room was full of people, my people, when I nodded off. Christmas music and laughter and footed pajamas. A note was being penned reminding Santa that the carrot is for Rudolph. In the dark, I can make out the shadow of the Santa gifts next to the fireplace. The remnants of a glass of beer–about an inch left in the bottom–is on the coffee table next to the plate of cookie crumbs. Warm and flat, I drink it down before stumbling to my bedroom.
Audio version now available.
You probably assume that one of my top three loves for a holiday meal shared with friends rather than family is the likelihood of avoiding tense conversations about politics–the conflicts prevalent around a traditional multi-generational family Thanksgiving table. The last Saturday Night Live episode in November almost always features at least one skit that starts with a smiling family watching the patriarch carve the turkey, and devolves into a blur of isms and phobias with a predictable buildup and and eventual crescendo of mashed potato spittle being scream-launched while someone chugs directly from the wine bottle out of desperation.
Avoiding such scenes is not one of the three reasons I love Friendsgivings.