The Wiggles started in 1991 with three guys at Macquarie Uni in the early education program. Apparently, they were the only 3 dudes in a class of 600 women. Go figure. Anyways, as part of a class project, they put together a CD of children’s music. A few of them had roots in a successful Australian pop band, known as the Cock Roaches.  Not exactly what I would have chosen … maybe the Ebola Viruses would have been better.

Anyways, they needed a keyboardist for their project so Anthony Field contacted his former band mate, Jeff Fatt.  And, as they say Down Under, Bob’s your uncle.  The Wiggles were born.  They have become the most successful Australian music act, netting over $50 million annually with tours, merchandise, theme park additions, and even foreign country Wiggle team franchisees (the Vàng Wiggle?).  Strangely enough, the Wiggles of all things have been spared the Australian reaction of the “tall poppy syndrome” and they are now apart of Aussie legend.

Not all has been smoothing sailing.  In 2006, the Yellow Wiggle (Greg Page) was diagnosed with a health disorder and he stepped down, allowing the new Yellow Wiggle (Sam Moran) to take his place.  And this got me thinking – the remaining original Wiggles are all over 45 years old.  It is clear that they want their enterprise to continue … so what are the Wiggles going to look like in 2015?

I’m glad you asked. [Read Column]

Everyone has heard the statistic – over 50% of marriages end in divorce.  Fifty percent.  But as with all statistics, that number is easy to manipulate, to misconstrue.  Here’s the truth about that 50% – most divorces are like a Lays potato chip, you never just have one.  If four couples get married, and one gets divorced three times should that really mean 50% of all marriages fail?  Or should the more accurate statistic be that 25% of people are narcissistic, self-loathing bastards?

I’m married and I’m Catholic.  Which means that for better or worse, the Lucky Girl is my only girl until one of us dies.  This despite that fact that she ‘accidentally’ locked me in our garage for three hours. We are quickly approaching our 4-year anniversary this year.  With the last one of my high school buddies to recently get engaged, I’ve been thinking on how best to give advice that will give them the best opportunity to succeed.

Ladies and gentlemen, brides and grooms, I present you with the Marriage Contract. [Read Column]

My wife snores.  My dog snores.  My baby snores.

We all sleep in the same room.

I’ll even take it a step further – her dad, her sister, her brother 1, her brother 2, and even her brother-in-law all snore.  Every single one. The only member of her family that did not snore was her mum, who had to sneak out in the middle of the night to sleep on the couch in the living room just to get some rest.

I’m not sure if its a Vietnamese thing, but its one of the unifying traits of that half of my family.  Snoring, horrible, terrible snoring.  I want to be clear here as well … its not the soft, gentle purring of a light slumber.  Its not just heavy breathing.  Hell no.  This sounds like the hollow, dry, rattling sounds of slow asphyxiation like someone is pulling their spinal cord through their nose with a pair of grip pliers.

I’ve had plenty of time to think about this after hundreds of hours of lying in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening to my 90 pound wife snore like a lumberjack. [Read Column]

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the advice and lessons I plan on teaching my son as he goes through life.  Things that are universal in their truthfulness and patently useful in their frequency.  Right now he’s just 13 months old, so I’ve got some time to refine this list to make sure that its perfect.  I can already picture myself sitting down with my son on a fishing trip, just like Ward Cleaver.

And this is what I’ll say: [Read Column]

I’m a 32 year old that has subsisted off of nearly 29.7 years of junk food, chocolate, and sleep deprivation.  Father Time is ticking off the seconds of his stop watch like a Chinese gong right over my head.  The bad thing is that I still look like I’m 23 and I feel and act like I’m 12.  In other words, I am the incarnation of Josh Baskin.

I’ve put together a list of symptoms that every young male that has self-delusions of immortality can look forward to.  Consider it the Handbook for the Soon-To-Be Middle Aged Man. [Read Column]