"Saturday Afternoon at the Hamster Derby"
"My Manic Ex-Love"

This essay is about a tumultuous relationship in my 20s with a woman who was manic depressive. Nearly a decade later, I searched her name, in a vain attempt to catch up and apologize. The first thing that popped up was her obituary.

What better way to spend a Saturday afternoon than standing around Petco as your son's hamster competes in the annual Hamster Ball Derby? Answer: There is no greater thrill.

Eliot wrote, "I grow old...I grow old/ I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled." This essay summons the spirit of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," only it involves frat boys puking in sinks. Same difference.

We all have issues. In my early-30s, after packing on 20 lbs. in sympathetic pregnancy weight, I noticed the emergence of man-titties. This essay covers the battle between me and my man-titties that ensued. 

"Frat Party (Revisited)"
"My Battle with Man-Titties: One Man's Quest to Curb His Cup-Size"



Here are a few of my non-fiction endeavors, various musings about life in the vain attempt of seeming profound and reflective. They range from sad to funny to quirky, but If nothing else, they're honest. Click on the image to read the piece.

This is maybe one of the hardest essays I've ever written. Marriages, let's face it, traverse some rocky terrain. For a brief period, my wife and I separated, and I had to learn to live alone again. Thankfully, this is no longer the case, but the essay exists for those people struggling with relationships. In other words, everyone.

Baseball has always been sacred to me, and this is in large part due to my father. Our entire life, we've communicated through baseball, and I finally had the opportunity to take him to Fenway Park. This is less an essay about baseball than it is about fathers and sons.

As assistant coach for my son's baseball team, I learned more for these 10 year old year boys than I could've possibly imagined. In many ways, this is a nostalgia piece, capturing the innocence of boyhood.

I set out to write a satire about yoga pants, and it ended up inciting a veritable shit-storm that the editors at The Good Men Project titled "Yoga Pants-gate." This has the dubious distinction of being my most read and notorious piece of writing to date.

"Learning To Be Alone Again"
"Fenway Park with My Father"
"Trotting on Clouds"
"Yoga Pants Nation"