GUITAR DAD

My silver 2003 Toyota Highlander is closing in on 60,000 miles, and from all indications should easily make it another 60,000 and beyond. At least that's my plan.
 
I've never been much of a car enthusiast. Just give me a reliable, well-built vehicle and I'm good to go. It's true that I admire all the flashy BMWs and Mercedes-Benzes and Audis sitting so regally in the parking lot of my office building. But what I really want is an understated, modestly priced set of wheels. And that's exactly what I drive. I'd rather spend my money on music, books, travel, food – oh, and my kids.
 
If my Highlander starts acting up with some major mechanical issue, I suppose I'll need to look into a new car. Otherwise, count on me to drive my Toyota into the ground. I intend to squeeze every last drop of life out of that puppy.

During a recent three-night trip to my native North Carolina, it was a great pleasure to spend quality time with my folks. Being in the same room with loved ones, eye to eye, sure beats talking on the phone or emailing.
 
We laughed a lot, shared family updates, retold old stories and broke bread. Lots of bread. In fact, among the most satisfying aspects of my visit were the culinary delights prepared so exquisitely by my mother.
 
Cheesy lasagna. Tangy beef stroganoff. Mouthwatering waffles. Delicious cheesecake. Even my mom's iced tea – which I know damn well comes from plain ol' Lipton tea bags – tastes immensely better than any other tea I've had.
 
Before my trip, my wife politely stated, "I wonder how many pounds you'll put on while you're gone." Very intuitive query, my dear.
 
In the end, I'd characterize my weight gain as minimal, perhaps completely unnoticeable. Maybe just a pound or two. Or three. All I know is I won't be cutting back on my exercise regimen anytime soon.

After living in Florida for 16 years, I finally visited the renowned Haslam's Book Store in St. Petersburg. Wow, what a place! Literary dorks like me could spend countless hours browsing the stacks in this historic shop, which occupies a connected cluster of unremarkable, low-slung buildings not far from Tropicana Field.
 
Founded in 1933, the store touts its extensive collection of new and used titles (more than 300,000, they say) and claims to be haunted by the ghost of Jack Kerouac, who frequented the store during his final, drunken years in St. Pete.
 
Well, I didn't run into Jack but I did have a blast poking around the store the other day. Its Florida section is the best I've seen, and its literary criticism, travel and poetry sections are all superb. My time there was thoroughly enjoyable, and I only dropped $1.50 on a small book of travel-themed poetry.
 
Over the years I've visited countless bookstores, from Austin to Paris to Vancouver. Haslam's now ranks near the top of my list of favorites, a roster that includes The Strand in New York, Chamblin Book Mine in Jacksonville, Edward McKay Used Books in Winston-Salem and Avenue Victor Hugo Books in Boston.
 
My bookstore obsession is a peculiar addiction I suppose. But at least it's a healthy one. After all, few activities are as meaningful as digging into a good book. It connects us to language and storytelling and ultimately informs and rounds out our perspectives.
 
As Mark Twain put it, "The man who does not read good books has no advantage over the man who can't read them."

Outside of a few Facebook conversations of late, my old friend Clark and I hadn't kept in very good touch. Years had simply vaporized without us staying connected. Living a few states away from each other certainly didn't help.
 
Now my pal is gone, dead at the much-too-young age of 46. He was found unresponsive in his home yesterday, the cause yet to be specified.
 
Although we chose different paths in life, Clark and I shared a bond that ran deep and wide, built over a period of several years in the 1980s when we played together in The Vanguard, our rock band in Winston-Salem, N.C. We spent countless hours practicing, gigging, laughing (lots of laughing), swapping secrets, getting into trouble and, most of all, letting the music take us to otherworldly places. He was a gentle soul who unfortunately struggled to fight off more than his share of demons. Above all, he was a fabulous musician. A natural, uncompromising talent who deeply enjoyed playing and immersing himself in music and whose voice and soulful touch on the guitar and drums were extraordinary.
 
After wrestling with the pillows for a few hours last night, unable to sleep, I stepped outside for some fresh air. Looking into the vast and dark sky, I knew Clark was at peace, at home, finally settled. Thank you, buddy, for all our joyous musical endeavors, your good humor, your appreciation of what was most important, and for enriching my life. Your kindness and friendship were great gifts.

Clark Huneycutt's Eulogy

Online Condolences

My son's elementary school really underestimated the reliability of fathers and how eager we are to carve out quality time with our kids.
 
Upon arriving on school grounds this morning for the PTA's "Breakfast with Dad," my boy and I immediately found ourselves in abundant company. The line of kids and dads stretched for at least 75 yards outside the cafeteria. Once inside the building, the line snaked around the perimeter of the room for another unfortunate distance. It took us almost 45 minutes to finally get our breakfast and take our seats.
 
As we wolfed down our last few bites of bagel, cereal and grapes, the principal politely addressed the crowd, apologizing and informing us that the school had planned for a much smaller turnout. She also told us that a similar event with moms drew considerably less attendance than ours. A few voices then murmered "We beat the moms!" and "Dads rock!"
 
Chalk one up for us good fathers. When it comes to our kids, we'll be there. Count on it.

One of my favorite restaurants is Tijuana Flats, a regional chain of laid-back Tex-Mex joints. And one of the most enjoyable aspects of my dining experience there has been accentuating the flavor of my refried-bean burrito with a little Scorned Woman hot sauce.
 
That is, until Tijuana Flats mysteriously stopped stocking this amazing sauce a few months ago. They must be out of their minds. I mean, they have what looks like hundreds of different hot sauces available. Would it have killed them to keep Scorned Woman on the shelves?
 
No worries. I quickly took matters into my own hands and ordered a three-bottle supply directly from the manufacturer. Now I've got plenty of this deliciously fiery liquid at my fingertips and ready for my homemade burritos. Hell, I might even sneak some into Tijuana Flats on my next visit.
 
As the Scorned Woman slogan declares, "Don't Get Mad – Get Even."

One of my favorite power trios is the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion. Super loud and distorted. Just two guitars and drums, plus some wacky-ass vocalizing. What's not to like about these guys?

The other morning, my wife and I dropped the kids at the babysitter's and headed downtown for a leisurely bike ride. After finding a spot for the van off peaceful Delaney Avenue (where we used to live) and unloading the bikes, we pedaled through Orlando's central business district and into leafy College Park. By the time we returned to the van, we had covered 10 miles or so. Not a major workout but an enjoyable one all the same.
 
A highlight for me was turning onto sleepy Clouser Avenue in College Park and riding by the bungalow once occupied by none other than Jack Kerouac. It was here, in this cozy little cottage, that Jack lived for a few months in 1957, just before his masterpiece On The Road catapulted him to worldwide fame. It was also here that he wrote the original manuscript of The Dharma Bums in just 11 days, or so the story goes.
 
Whenever I'm in the vicinity, I make the obligatory pilgrimage to Jack's old pad. It's nice to know that Orlando, theme park kingdom, enjoys its own extraordinary sliver of literary history.

It started as a simple assignment from my son's first-grade teacher. Create a small cardboard cutout of yourself, mail it to someone in another town, have them take pictures of it amid local scenery, and then share the photos with the class.
 
Who knew that "Flat Jackson" would indulge in the adventure of a lifetime?
 
Thanks to the generosity and ingenuity of Uncle Kerry and Aunt Mary in Phoenix, my son's cutout went mountain climbing, visited Arizona State University, enjoyed a beautiful sunset among the cacti, descended into the Grand Canyon, and even assisted with a dangerous high-altitude rescue.
 
It's true that a little computerized magic made many of these extraordinary events possible. But just look at the satisfied smile on Flat Jackson's face. Something tells me his class will be extremely impressed with his ability to so deftly maneuver Arizona's dramatic landscapes.
 
And to think he covered all this ground without food, water or sleep! Go get 'em Flat Jackson!