You can define most men by the women in their life.  And that is especially true for me.  My dad, besides being stationed in Germany for most of my formative years, was about as bad a male role model as one could imagine.  There wasn’t another one to take his place either.  So more so than perhaps other men, much of my core was formed and modeled by women.

Two women in particular. [Read Column]

It’s Valentine’s Day.

For some reason this day always conjures up these unrealistic and callow modern ideals of what love should be.  Images of Prince Charming driving up in a Porsche and dropping diamonds on his woman like their were red hots.  Or the girl next door with size DDs that has a strong motherly instinct, but a secret inner slut.

Well, that’s not going to happen.  You know why?  Because that’s not love.  That’s fantasy.  That’s puppy love.  You want to know what love is?  True love, in the trenches, hard fought, iron forged, tried and tested l-o-v-e?  Listen up, my peeps – the Love Doctor is about to speak.

[Read Column]

Another year has ticked by and I’ve just come out of my annual, celebratory depression that accompanies every holiday season … and every one of my birthdays … and everytime I look in the mirror without a shirt on … and anytime I hear Khloe Kardashian’s name.  My moodiness over the Yule-tide season has become so consistent and reliable that I’m thinking about theming next year’s depression.  How about Antebellum South?  Or 1930′s Herbert Hoover?

Thirty four years of my life have gone by and if I were to weigh the “feel” of how long things have been, I’d say that the first 18 years felt like 18 years and the next 16 felt like a long weekend.  The one thing that I can count on is that the older I get the faster time moves and I hate it.  I really do.

In between moping around the house for the past four weeks, I’ve been thinking on why I do this to myself each year.  I’d say it’s a three-part answer. [Read Column]

I’ve got 34 years of memories.  Well, not exactly 34 years.  I can rule out the first 3 years.  If I did remember the early days, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have pooped my pants so much.  And then there is the alcohol-induced dead spot in my brain from my post-fraternity graduate degree days.  So I’ll call it a very strong 27 years of memories.  And in that time, I’ve had the honor of meeting and knowing some of the most amazing people.  Some of them have become close friends, one of them became my wife, and all of them have left me with an indelible impression.

And when I sift through these memories, there are moments that come to the fore – more clearly imprinted on my mind than others.  These hallmark moments for the people I have encountered along the way. [Read Column]

I’m 33 years old, very close in fact to 34.  I have a wife, two sons, and a dog named Bingo.  We have an SUV with two child seats and a plastic insert in our luggage area to protect our upholstery.  We are planning on adding a second car, smaller, sensible, fuel-efficient.  We don’t drink.  We don’t smoke.  We don’t go out after 8pm unless we’re on a mission for diapers or formula.  We have a mortgage, a growing collection of Wiggles DVDs, and a Winnie the Pooh growth chart.  When we watch the nightly news, we grumble about the teen drivers and global warming.  In every way, I would seem to be a normal, well adjusted person.  But … beneath this facade of suburban utopianism I have a little secret.  Back in the day …

I was a hellion.  A week smoking, beer guzzling, fist fighting, stealing, shoplifting, vandalizing, self-destructive hellion.  And I was in 5th grade.

[Read Column]