Your biggest regret in life will be something you failed to commit to, not anything you did wrong.

Most of us are scared of making the wrong decision, when it’s indecision we should really fear. Indecision is paralyzing. It’s what keeps us from moving forward.

We’ve all found ourselves lost, sitting at a stop sign, scanning the road for clues to point us in the right direction – and we’ve all stepped on the gas. We are fearless on the road, knowing that we can always correct course and wind up at our chosen destination – even if it means running an innocent, slow-driving, QVC loving, Craftmatic Adjustable Bed using grandma off the road to get there on time.

Left, right, forwards, backwards, it doesn’t matter – we’ve made our mind up and grandma needs to get her sweet-ass outta the way!

But in life… in life, we’re often that same slow driving grandma who sits way too long at every stop sign, afraid to move, waving others on while trying to determine when it’s her time to go.

In contrast, my grandmother refused to yield to any of the stop signs she encountered in life. She was resolute in her decisiveness and became my mentor and personal hero long before I ever learned to drive.

I was raised by my mother and my Granda Jane. My father and sister lived a few hours north, but it seemed much further away than that.

My grandmother was part Annie Oakley, part Jackie Kennedy. She bought me my first knife. She taught me to chop wood and shoot guns. She introduced me to golf, tennis, travel, art, politics, cuisine and classical music. She was far more intelligent and capable than the man she married, and that isn’t a knock on my grandfather, it’s just the simple truth.

She let me use massive, razor-sharp cooking knives long before I could see what was on the counter. She supervised as I stood on a stool chopping vegetables. Years later, when I was in grade school, I remember sitting by her side with the newspaper spread before us, listening intently as she explained the stock page. Her trust in me was unfailing, because she knew I would never defy her.

My grandmother was still auditing college classes at age eighty when she informed my grandfather that she was leaving him for her high school sweetheart. It wasn’t a discussion. It was a directive. Move. Get out of my way. I’m making a left turn, right the fuck now.

Everyone was surprised, but no one except my grandfather was shocked. When he asked why, she unapologetically answered, “I’ve lived my whole life caring for you. It’s time I take care of myself.”

Wow, right? That’s one hard-ass woman! Yup. That’s why I loved my grandma. She never minced words. You always knew exactly where you stood with her because she was the most direct and decisive person I’ve ever known – and she never let the expectations of others drive her decisions.

She was sure in life, confidently choosing decision over indecision, knowing that even the worst decisions lead you somewhere new.

My only regret in regard to my grandmother is meaningless to everyone but me.

The entire family met for her 90th birthday on a sunny fall day in Tucson, AZ. I had plans to splurge and buy her a bottle of her favorite champagne. Dom Perignon, which she had tasted only once before.

I held it I my hands and before I made it to the register my aunt saw the bottle and began chastising me. It was a waste of money she said. She handed me a bottle of Freixenet, deeming it a perfectly suitable replacement.

I remember looking around as if I was sitting at a stop sign, unsure of which way to go. In a moment of true indecision I caved and bought the Freixenet. That night, I watched on helplessly as my grandmother took a single sip of champagne before dismissively setting her glass aside. She died a few days later.

I think about that a lot more than I should. I’m telling you, it’s the things you want to do, but fail to follow through on that you’ll regret the most in life.

Today, I find consolation is her favorite quote, which she jokingly suggested be placed on her tombstone:

“If this is the worst thing that ever happens to you, you’ll be lucky.”

True that grandma. True that.

Left to right: Grandma Jane, my mother Martha and my aunt Michelle.

Everyone has one voice that moves them more than any other – the voice left echoing in their soul long after the song has ended. It’s the voice of your favorite singer.

While you may be nameless and faceless to them, you are eternally bound, tethered by your connection to their music – which is what makes you a true fan.

I am a true fan of Isaac Hayden, which is why I’ve been sending him annoying text messages for the last two-weeks, trying to convince him to audition for NBC’s musical competition The Voice.

If you’d like to encourage Isaac and help convince him to audition, “like” this blog post on Facebook and share it with your friends. I am pledging $2 for every Facebook “like” this post gets (up to $2,500) in hopes of forcing Isaac to audition.

I’m not going to lie. This isn’t going to be easy. The only quality Isaac posses that rivals his voice, is his stubbornness. The more likes we get, the more support we show, the better chance we have of convincing him to compete, so “like” away!

What I’ve written below is something I should have told Isaac long ago. I’ve worded it as an open letter hoping that you might copy and send it to your favorite artist. I’m guessing they’d appreciate hearing from you.

Shine on people, shine on.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Dear {name your favorite singer here},

You have no idea how much your music means to me. You have no idea how often I listen to your music or how deeply your voice and lyrics affect me. Your gift, the one you deliver to me through thoughtful words and brilliantly executed tones, is a gift I truly cherish. You make me feel loved, understood and happy – like someone gives a shit about my sadness or success. Whether you realize it or not, you are a real friend to me.

Thank you for always being there for me, lifting me up from my despair and continually reminding me how beautiful life really is. Whether I’m feeling lonely on the road or worrying about {confess a fear here}, your music parts the clouds in my heart and brings light to my mind. You helped me through {reference a personal tragedy here} and I’ve danced my ass off to {enter your favorite song here} countless times.

I realize you don’t know me, but I want you to know that all your work, all the long nights you spent writing and practicing and early mornings you spent toiling away at a shitty job so you could continue making music – none of it was lost on me!

I appreciate your music more than you’ll ever know. You matter to me. What you do and who you are makes a difference in my life. So, thank you {enter artists’ name here} for being my only best friend I’ll never get to know.

Your friend forever,

{Your name here}

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Listen to Isaac Hayden here:

Question: How old are you?

Answer:

If I could count down from my end rather than up from my beginning, I’d tell you my true age – and still you’d learn far less about me than what you’ll glean from this page…  unless you’re smart enough that is, to close your mouth and open your mind and stop asking the one idiotic question from which you’ll never divine – who I am, what I believe or anything of any significance my brain could possibly conceive.

For time is relative and age is fucking fiction, a tale followed blindly by those searching for direction. Obliviously optimistic they cling to the illusion of longevity, worshiping anything and everything that offers them a modicum of false security.

Packed up tightly in their little box, fortified by imagined boundaries, they slide the lid shut rather than embracing life’s possibilities. Acting their age they engage in charades, taking on the personality of who and how they’re supposed to behave ––  all while passing judgement on those who refuses to bend, unwilling to subjugate themselves by attempting to fit in.

Everyday we wake up we’re each on the clock, never knowing how, when or where our gears will wind to an unsuspecting stop – so grow the fuck down and rise to your occasion, knowing that age and time are powerless against the gravity of youthful conviction.

Me, sporting my custom, “Grownups Are Losers” t-shirt.

Good decisions make for boring stories. Nowhere is this more evident than in the modern Walmart of human depravity:

Las Vegas, Nevada USA.

Hmmmm, this is way better than SkyMall!

Partying in Vegas for five nights straight is a terrible idea. I came to this realization while standing motionless along the Vegas strip nine-years ago.

Frozen there on the sidewalk, in broad daylight, staring down at the freshly-birthed turd resting solemnly on my shoe as strangers whirled by me, it took me a moment to process what had happened. Yep, it was undeniable. The evidence was overwhelming. I had stepped off an escalator and shit myself.

I immediately began running through my options. Spotting a nearby casino entrance I started waddling toward it. Fearing detection I crept forward slowly at first, legs spread wide, trying not to rub my cheeks together, which proved to be a terrible idea.

I quickened my pace when snack-sized Snickers Bars began dropping conspicuously from my boxers. They dotted the sun soaked, bleach-white sidewalk like dollops of chocolate cookie dough waiting to be baked.

Halfway to the door I became keenly aware of the stench emanating from my sagging Banana Republic shorts. It was the smell of rotting, week-old animal carcass that’s been salvaged from a summer highway, pressed into homemade Hot Pockets and burned in the toaster oven.

My concern turned to full-blown panic as I entered the casino and spotted the bathroom, situated oh-so conveniently on the far side of an expansive, brightly carpeted room. Terrified of being spotted by a pit boss, I deftly made my way through the clamoring slot machines and slipped silently into the bathroom – only to find that ALL of the stalls were occupied.

My brain screamed FUUUUCK!!! so loud my ears considered dripping blood.

Minutes later, after scrubbing myself with the vigor of an amateur prostitute, I emerged from the bathroom and headed straight to the nearest roulette table, put all of my cash on black, figuring it was the color of the day, lost and walked back to my hotel to shower.

You may be wondering, why on earth would Morris share this story with me?

Fast forward to two nights ago. I was back in Vegas, sitting in a bar listening to a local explain why Vegas is so great. “Anything you want, it’s here,” he said.

An hour later I was at Vegas’ hottest night club, listening to one of the best DJ’s alive, standing amongst the world’s hottest women, watching the greatest Jersey Shore douchebags of our generation vie for their attention, as I casually sipped Budweiser from a stainless steel bottle and asked myself if he was right?

Surveying the crowd I found a lot to like, but it wasn’t enough.

More than snow-capped mountains, more than a true sense of community, more than exhilarating slow-motion landslides and shitty country-swing music, what Vegas lacks is authenticity.

Everyone there is looking to represent, rather than to present themselves for who they are. It’s as if they are all working tirelessly to create the perfect avatar in an effort to convince one another that they’re worthy.

In contrast, I believe in the power of authenticity. Sharing your faults can be scary, but it’s a great way to build trust – and allowing others to pull at the cracks of your imperfection is the only way you’ll ever build truly meaningful relationships.

But, let’s give credit where credit is due. While the residents of Sin City may not be gurus of introspection, they are a diverse community of hard-working posers who built an amazingly luxurious city forged from mobster urine and hedonistic escapism that I fully embrace, endorse and enjoy.

Judge it. Hate it. Vilify it if you want, but do so knowing that you’re already embracing Vegas in some way. Whether you watch reality television, read crappy magazines or play video games – that’s all Vegas baby. It’s escapism at its finest.

While we may choose to get on a plane or turn off the TV and return to our boring lives, rather than allowing ourselves to live lives dictated by our shallowest desires – we aren’t completely different from them.

Whether you realize it or not, we all shop at the Vegas Walmart of life from time to time – and without exception, we love every bit of useless, self-indulgent crap we load into our squeaky-wheeled shopping carts of superficial cravings and wanton misadventures.

If Vegas has one lesson to teach us, it’s that we’re only human after all.