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It’s your life, your story, your destiny — you decide what happens next. Are you brave enough to dare the future? If so, your fate awaits you:

It’s Summer At Grandma’s!

If you have the balls (or ovaries)…

Mother’s Day is such a wonderful occasion! It’s that very special day when you give thanks that the Outback Steakhouse commercial telling you to take your mom to Outback Steakhouse will finally stop playing every thirty minutes on every radio station in town! Man, they drive that commercial into ground like it’s a Green Day song! But it’s over… for 11 ½ months.

So in honor of Mother’s Day, I’m posting a travel article about Australia. You can read it here — Destination: Australia!

PS: Happy Mother’s Day, Mom! I love you!

This weekend, as part of Hub Theatre’s Crazy Christmas, several of us MOHO’s were asked to share a special Christmas memory. Here’s mine…

When I was six, Santa finally brought me that bike I’d been asking and asking and asking for. It was a snazzy little red number with a fancy plastic doo-dad, shaped like a gas tank, attached to the main ball-busting strut to make the bike resemble a motorcycle.
Because I lived in a small town in east Texas, the weather was nice so my dad helped me learn to ride that very same day. He put me on the bike, held it as he ran along beside me, then let me go! Then he came over, picked me up, put me back on the bike, held it as he ran along beside me, then let me go! Then he came over, picked me up, put me back on the bike, held it as he ran along beside me, then let me go! Then he came over, picked me up, put me back on the bike, held it as he ran along beside me, then let me go! Came over, picked up, on bike, let go… Eventually, Dad decided to install the training wheels which Santa had sent along but not attached because it seemed like a pain in the ass at the time.
The very next day, empowered by my training wheels, I grabbed a fistful of Christmas dollars and pedaled down the streets of Marshall, Texas to Old Man Johnson’s candy store. Honestly, I’ve never understood why his parents named him “Old Man.” He must’ve caught hell in grade school. But so anyway, I sauntered into Old Man Johnson’s candy store, asked for a half pound of gummi bears and plunked my Christmas money on the glass counter like a big shot. Old Man Johnson smiled and rang me up.
The instant the register was open, I whipped out the Saturday Night Special I’d taken from the drawer of Mom’s nightstand (in case Dad got frisky) and pointed it at Old Man Johnson’s pacemaker. “Put ‘em up, Old Man Johnson,” I said. “Put ‘em up and keep ‘em up!” I emptied the register then forced him to open the safe.
It was a nice haul. Forty-five thousand dollars, more or less. That might seem like a lot of cash for a neighbrhood candy store in a small east Texas town, but not when you consider that Old Man Johnson also sold heroine.
But as I packed the wads of bills into my Dukes of Hazzard backpack, Old Man Johnson brought up some things I hadn’t thought about… What did it mean that I was stealing from Old Man Johnson in the very midst of the season of giving? What would Santa think about all this?
Old Man Johnson’s words got to me… Not only was I violating the spirit of Christmas, I had betrayed Santa’s trust and turned his wonderful gift into a crime getaway bike. Boy, did I feel guilty.
I didn’t like feeling guilty so I shot Old Man John. “Die, Old Man Johnson! Die, die, die!” Then I grabbed my backpack and left.
But it’s so dadgum hard to keep secrets in a small town, and before long I was caught and made to pay for my crimes. After all, murder is illegal, even in Texas. But luckily for me, a six-year-old is considered a “juvenile” so they couldn’t execute me. Even in Texas.
Anyway, it’s my first Christmas out of the pen, and I’m really happy I get to spend a small part of it with you. Thanks and good night.

Andy Chudzinski and I went to go see eighty year old Alice “Alligator” Johnston sing at the Back Room last night. She was brilliant, but the crowd wasn’t. One particularly rowdy drunk eventually rowded too far, and right in the middle of “Baltimore Oriole” Miss Alice pulled out a switchblade and casually flipped it into his foot, though if you weren’t watching you wouldn’t have known because she never missed a note. Well, things went to hell and some idiot called the cops. Andy and I bailed right away because we were hungry and didn’t want to be witnesses.

Out on the street, we discovered that Andy’s car had been towed. An overgrown mimosa obscured the sign warning of that possibility. So instead of a late night breakfast at Brite Spot, we had a late night cab ride to the impound lot at 22nd and Alvarado. After Andy paid his fine, the toad behind the bulletproof glass slid us a lot number to find his car. Our steps echoed horribly through the garage. The car was humiliated. Andy felt guilty as hell so he filled it with Premium as an apology.