We all have dick moments. Which is funny, because most of the time we don’t think we have dick moments. We only think other people have dick moments. So we find those moments, point them out, analyze them, tear down the other person as a dick. When, truthfully, we’re not
The above photo features Harry Carson, the former New York Giants linebacker and a member of the Pro Football Hall of Fame. I don’t know him, but—at this moment—I love him. Earlier today, in a radio interview, Carson said that he regrets playing football; that the concussions he absorbed throughout
Five months ago, I wrote a blog post titled Just … because. It explained why our family was moving from New York to California. Not because of a job opportunity. Not because of a sweet media deal. Not because of an amazing house or real estate investment or, truly, anything.
This is my old roommate, Russ Bengtson. Russ and I lived together when I first came to New York back in the late months of 1996. We’d attended Delaware together, played lots of hoops. Russ was working for Slam Magazine when I arrived in Manhattan. I’d just been hired by
Yesterday on Twitter I was repeatedly called out for being a hypocrite. I argued a bit. Resented the dogging. Battled back. Battled back a bit more. Then looked to myself and realized something: The accusers are pretty right on this one. The whole thing started with a Tweet. This Tweet
I’m working on the worst part of book research right now. Calling people. This is what I do. I sit in my dark office, with a list of people. One Word file after another. And I call. And call. And call. And call. Sometimes, someone answers. Usually, someone doesn’t. When
The woman in the above photograph was positioned two seats away from me earlier this evening. This blog post is about her. And it’s not about her. It’s about society, and what we seem to be turning ourselves into. I digress. The wife and I traveled to Los Angeles to
One of the greatest lacrosse players in United States history talks up the game he loves, explains how he knew the Duke lax rape allegations were false—and begs obnoxious sports parents to go far, far away.
So last night I spent about 1 1/2 hours at the gym, working out with weights and the ol’ StairMaster. At, oh, 10:30, I headed over to the basketball court, to see if anything was going on. As soon as I entered, I heard, “Hey, you want in?” There were
I moved to Orange County a few months ago. I hadn’t been a print newspaper subscriber for quite some time, but I signed up to receive the Orange County Register for a weird reason: I took my kids to an Angels game, and there was a woman sitting at a