973 Words. 4 Minute Read.

As any man knows, there’s a point of no testicular return. It happens upon the submergence of Frick and Frack, when the boys and the central nervous system screech in unison—when a man would just as soon take a Louisville Slugger to the cranium as dip the old coin purse in chilly water.

335 Words. 1 Minute Read.

There are two mornings in Texas—gloomy or glorious—and the good Lord didn’t see to putting a damn thing in between.

920 Words. 4 Minute Read.

Think about it—when was the last time you folded your unmentionables in the company of strangers? It’s probably been a while—if ever. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for the convenience of doing these things in the privacy of your home, but there’s something humane about being part of a community, if only for an hour.

963 Words. 4 Minute Read.

I got home last night at two in the morning. I was out with a true Texan and a German couple at the Broken Spoke—a honky-tonk in Austin where the country music is real. None of that post-’90s Nashville crap that passes for country on the radio.

937 Words. 4 Minute Read.

There isn’t a six-pack in the fridge or a bottle of Dickel in the freezer. I’m doing my best. I’m no saint, but I ain’t the son of a gun I used to be.