I'm Jon, a.k.a. Daddy. I live in a Boston-area suburb about 15 minutes north of the city. I was born in January of 1970.

As a child, I thought I was going to be a member of the rock group KISS when I grew up. That didn't work out.

As a teen, I thought I was going to be a cop. I enlisted in the Army and served from July of 1988 through January of 1992. Most of that time was spent working as a military police K-9 handler at Ft. Irwin, Calif., located in the middle of the Mojave Desert.

By the time my tour of duty ended, I knew I didn't want to be a cop when I grew up; I wanted to be Howard Stern. I returned to Massachusetts and went to college, where I majored in communications and hosted a weekly college-radio show.

Occasionally, I listen to tapes of my old college-radio show. They are mostly bad. Regardless, my quest to be Howard Stern was misguided, since, as it turns out, there already is a Howard Stern.

Located across the hallway from the college radio station was the college newspaper. Since getting paid to talk for a living seemed increasingly less likely, getting paid to write for a living seemed like the next best thing, so I signed on as a Staff Writer, then as Living/Arts Editor, and, finally, as Editor-in-Chief.

I graduated in 1996 and immediately went to work as a reporter for a local newspaper. I covered city-council meetings and wrote about things such as housing developments and sewage problems—and, at one point, about local singer Gary Cherone, who, during my tenure as a reporter, became the third frontman for Van Halen, my all-time favorite band.

I enjoyed writing about Van Halen more than I did writing about city-council meetings, housing developments and sewage problems, so—long story short—I relocated to Arizona and took on a publishing job that offered the perk of being peripherally involved with the group. Highlights included spending the day with the band at Eddie Van Halen's home studio (a.k.a. 5150) and having backstage passes for the group’s entire 1998 tour. For the most part, this was a dream come true.

The part that wasn’t a dream come true: Van Halen with Gary Cherone was not Van Halen with Sammy Hagar, nor was it Van Halen with David Lee Roth. The album tanked, the tour ended, and I needed to make something happen before my career arc mirrored the band’s.

I landed a job as the editor of an online city guide in Phoenix, and used that position to leapfrog into a gig as a music journalist based out of Boston. Initially, I worked at an office in the city, but I now have the luxury of working from home. The commute rocks and casual Friday happens all week—and by “casual,” I mean “scruffy-faced, bed-headed, unshowered and clad in what I wore to sleep the previous night.” I’m not proud of it, but, boy howdy, is it ever convenient.

My wife and I were married in Philadelphia in 1998. She has a master’s degree in social work (which is helpful, since I’m a basket case who has been diagnosed with ADD) and works part time as a clinicial consultant at a program that provides services for adolescents with Asperger’s Syndrome and related social pragmatic disorders. Yes, she's very smart.

Our son, a.k.a. Zan, was born in June of 2003. Our daughter, a.k.a. Jayna, was born in July of 2005. I am convinced that they are the most adorable, wonderful and gifted children ever to set foot on the planet. I also am convinced that they occasionally are possessed by Satan, and that he uses them to, among other things, ensure that my wife and I can never, ever, ever sleep past 5:30 a.m., and that our patience is pushed to the breaking point at least three dozen times per day.

We live in one of the most expensive regions in the country. Did I mention that I'm a writer and my wife is a social worker? The simple act of making the monthly mortgage payment generates more suspense than a Tom Clancy novel.

So, to recap: Nearing 40, not a member of KISS, not Howard Stern, married with children, broke.

At this point, it's all pretty much riding on this whole writing thing.

Thus, the blog.