Generally speaking, the only time a guy from Jersey gets to share sincere affection for another guy is at that guy’s wedding or during his eulogy. Not to be confused with all of the other times when guys from Jersey share raw, unstructured emotion, such as (ticks off fingers) in a car, at a bar, waiting in line, getting bumped by another person, thinking they got bumped by another person, thinking their friend just got bumped by another person (“that girl push you? that girl push you?”), or when his mother calls
“maaa why you calling me I’m at work!”
Ken Giddon is turning 60 years old today. Da fuq?
Ken Giddon is like a brother to me and at nearly twenty years my senior, probably more like a half brother from a parent’s first marriage.
People think we’re related because my last name’s Rothman, which was Ken’s maternal grandfather Harry’s last name, and as everyone knows, the name of Ken’s store. We even have a similar oblong face, and I’m sure if you 23andMe’d us you’d find that our people came from nearby shtetls, subsisting off the same cabbage and complaining about the Cossacks.
We also both went to…
It turns out there are a lot of ways.
At a time when Google, Facebook and Amazon capture up to 70% of all ad dollars generated in the US and newspapers across the country have shed half their journalism jobs since 2008, you may think only a masochist would make a career in ad-supported media right now. But every period of creative destruction provides a wellspring of opportunity for entrepreneurs with passion, a point of view on the world and a capacity to embrace uncertainty.
I’m a huge believer in second chances. From Mike Tyson to Martha Stewart, everyone is redeemable, worthy of a second act. Unless, of course, you try dating one my sisters. In that case, you’re not even getting a first chance.
I have two younger sisters — Dana, three years younger and Allie, five years younger — and I’ve never much cared for any of the guys they dated. At all.
Not even as an adult. And it’s gotten in the way of rational thinking.
A couple years ago, a friend of mine was helping my youngest sister Allie, who was…
So I run a parenting media company called Fatherly, which is ironic, because I don’t have any children.
For those who don’t know, Fatherly provides product and service recommendations along with parenting insights from dramatically overqualified people — like, for example, a Navy SEAL captain on how to win hide and go seek.
People often come up to me and say “wow you probably know a lot about being a dad! How many kids do you have? And I say “none”. And they say “whoa that’s weird” and I snap “well Nickelodeon isn’t run by children!”
But running a parenting…
I woke up before dawn in a baseball dugout in Kentucky. I had a shaved head, a scraggly beard and I was wearing really tight, stank-ass spandex shorts, the kind of shorts that could earn a few sidelong looks in coal country Kentucky. I scooped up some peanut butter from the jar with my hands, shook some Goldbond powder into my shorts, found our small trowel, went a few yards into the woods and got ready to start the day.
About a year before that, I was in my parents’ living room, watching Sex & The City with my mom…
I’ve spent my last 12 years marketing to young, single professional men, most recently as one of the first employees at Thrillist, the company whose entire mission is focused on helping young dudes lead more fun lives.
Well a funny thing happens when you’re marketing to young single dudes for over a decade: those dudes grow up and by decision, by accident or by some deep-wired biological imperative, they become responsible for raising the next generation of goobers who will one day wreak havoc in central business districts across the country.
What may be a little less self-evident is that…
It’s 1993. I’m in 6th grade. I have a greasy face, a lone armpit hair and this newfound notion that every girl moves in slow motion, and there’s my dad, in front of my class, explaining with his hands and fingers how wolves meet and mate with each other.
Kids start squirming in their seats and then the old man proceeds to HOWL, in a timbre that’s more bleating lamb than wolf, while my head, covered in a hoodie is now buried in my hands.
My dad has made this lecture an annual tradition, one that has begun to feel…