Suffocated by small town life, weary of the frozen tundra of Ithaca, New York winters, I took trips down to Manhattan as often as I...

I have frequently heard it said that some parents flounder when their children leave home and redirect their affection to dogs.

I am a large man. Think of Jack Black if he was the unholy love child of Fred Flintstone and Philip Seymour Hoffman. In America, I blend...

Some of my Mom’s belongings migrated to the new place and as years passed, I discovered what she left behind.

I asked my mom why Butch despised me--was it just because I was gay? No, Mom said, there’s more to it than that

Just before the big flood of 1972 in Rochester, New York, in the wake of Hurricane Agnus, my father moved out of our house for good.

I have named my pain and called it ‘dog’ —Friedrich Nietszche, The Gay Science

Michele had grown increasingly disruptive and violent throughout August. Whatever truce we’d achieved with her medication was clearly over.

It was 1963. A blizzard blew across the grass outside the married quarters where we lived in RAF St Athan.

Aunt Jean would read popular psychology books on the #50 trolley as it bounced down Fourth Street in fits and starts toward Passyunk Avenue.

The source of the Actor’s anxiety arrives on the set, his partner in the scene, a male with dangling testicles each the size of grapefruit.

I look at this clean-shaven man with dark eyes and a sharp jaw. He’s Australian and talks about my dating profile.

Biden immediately dropped his briefcase and contorted himself into a wrestler’s crouch, hands in front ready to strike.

I’m fifty-nine years old. That’s eight years older than my Dad ever got to be. When I look at photographs of him, all I see is an older man.

About a year ago, I had the pleasure of forming the first ever girls boxing club in Luxor. It was somewhat revolutionary, no exaggeration.

I wonder how my teenage son, Davis, will remember me after I’m gone. Perhaps it’s a thought in the minds of many parents in these COVID-19 d

Tonight I rewatch a video my son posted some time ago, of him teaching his five year old to weave on a pretty complicated loom. The patient

I walked the main Camino de Santiago, known as the Camino Frances, in portions lasting around a week each, as my time and energy permitted

Grenada, post-invasion, 1984. Twelve degrees latitude. Thirty degrees centigrade and humid.

‘I’m writing a book,’ she said. Not a great surprise considering that her online dating profile stated clearly that she was a writer.