A buddy of mine is writing a screenplay called The Wolfpack, about a business that breaks “the rules” to lie, cheat, and manipulate girls that you go on dates with to make them think that you’re responsible, monogamous, and sober.

Personally, I love the idea.  I was a deadly assassin when it came to drunk, moose-hipped, exiled sorority whores, but when it came to any girl bordering on the top half of the hotness scale, i.e. 5.1 or greater, I was shooting blanks … in my pants.  I guess I needed the Wolfpack.  I’m sure that they’re already planning on casting Dane Cook in the lead.

It got me thinking … who would I pick to be my Crew if I could pick anyone, from anywhere to join me in the boozerous foray into ‘Gina-land.  Well, I’m glad you asked. [Read Column]

My son is turning seven months old this weekend.  As my first child and obviously only child, I’ve had to endure the slew of challenges that every new father has had to face – the shrill, high pitch cry-scream combination, the green sludge pouring from his rosy bottom, and the endless shopping list of items that only further reduce my PS3 video game fund.  But …

There are some things about my son in particular that I can honestly say that very few other parents have had to cope with.  In fact, no more than 1 in 100 according to the national growth statistics that are shared with our friendly, neighborhood mid-wife (remember we’re in Australia).  My son is a colossus.  He’s titanic.  He’s gargantuan. [Read Column]

It’s an often joked about concept, but one that every red-blooded male secretly holds in his heart.  The Man Crush.  Its a combination of ravenous jealousy mixed in with diligent worship and desperate emulation.  For the last nine years, my Man Crush was clearly and solely focused on William Bradley Pitt.  My growing fixation started with Se7en (1995), but was firmly cemented with Fight Club (1999) and Snatch (2000).  But its 2008 and I’ve just turned 32 years old.

It’s time that I said it:  Brad, I’m dumping you. [Read Column]