The final edition of The Rocky Mountain News rolled off the presses today. The publisher couldn't afford the massive financial losses anymore, couldn't find a buyer and really had no choice but to shutter the 150-year-old Denver institution.
I have no firsthand appreciation of this paper. I've never even been to Denver. But the closing of a big-city daily is disheartening for an ex-reporter like me. More papers will certainly end up with the same fate, and I guess I'm part of the problem. Just like everybody else, I read most of my news online now. An era is ending before our very eyes, and there's not a whole lot any of us can do about it.
Every so often I hop on my Schwinn Cruiser Supreme and take a spin around the neighborhood and beyond. It's a respectable workout and a nifty way to re-live my youth. Just so you know, Guitar Dad was a bad-ass bicycle-motocross racer back in the day. An upstairs closet at my parent's house is still stacked high with aging race trophies.
So, biking these days naturally means jumping off curbs and popping wheelies, in addition to just riding like a sensible grown-up. Once a BMX-er, always a BMX-er.
I recently dropped off my old five-speed cruiser for a tune-up at Orange Cycle, a fantastic bike shop here in Orlando. "Cool bike, man," a young guy behind the counter muttered. Seems my circa-1985, American-made Schwinn is something of a collector's item. More important, it's in great shape and still rides like a dream. With some new knobby tires and fresh lube here and there, I was ready to rock and roll. Happy two-wheeling!
It's been a crappy week. More layoffs, more massive corporate losses, another stock market nosedive. Clearly what we all need is a good poem. A really good poem.
Here's one by e.e. cummings, a master by any measure:
since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world
my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
-- the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says
we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph
and death i think is no parenthesis
This year marks the 40th anniversary of King Crimson, a rock band that with each phase of its evolution manages to thrill and inspire its deeply devoted fans.
Led by guitarist and sonic innovator Robert Fripp, the band of distinctively skilled players has continuously advanced the "progressive rock" genre and given us more than a dozen albums of utterly astonishing sounds, not to mention countless live performances and spin-off projects.
King Crimson's followers tend to skew toward musician types, particularly guitar players, because of Mr. Fripp's soaring solos and the group's intricate compositions. But the variety and depth of the band's output since 1969 has attracted an increasingly diverse audience, and its pointedly avant-garde vision is pure and powerful and singular among its peers.
Enough already.
It started when my wife caught a cold about two weeks ago. Then my daughter got sick. Then my son. And now Guitar Dad.
Lots of sneezing, hacking and even fevers. We've all been ingesting cough syrup, vitamin C, ibuprofen, even antibiotics, but illness continues to prevail. Ugh.
Weebly, a popular website creation tool, selected Guitar Dad as one of its Featured Sites on weebly.com. As a result, lots of folks have clicked over here to see what the fuss is about. I extend a warm welcome to all of you and thank you for dropping by. I hope you like what you see and return in the future. If you want, take a moment to tell me what you think of Guitar Dad by commenting on any of my blog posts. And be sure to let me know about your site, too.
I hadn't bothered to have lunch with my son at school lately, so decided today was as good a day as any to have at it. Just watching his face light up when he saw me waiting outside the cafeteria was more than worth the effort of leaving work, driving several miles and noshing on lunchroom provisions (in this case, a square of pizza, a small bowl of sliced cucumbers and chocolate milk).
Thankfully my 6-year-old boy still indulges my need for a succinct hug on such occasions, but when I half-jokingly asked today if I could give him a little kiss, he flatly rejected the notion. "No way, dad," he told me with a smile, scanning the room crowded with his kindergarten colleagues. That was cool with me, of course. I was a kid once, too, you know.
The Orlando International Guitar & Music Expo pulled into town this past weekend, and as you might imagine, I was there and totally pumped.
Dealers from around the world participate in this annual event, which is one of the nation's premier guitar shows and which is attended by a mix of aging tattooed rock-band types, suburban dads and shaggy-haired teenagers.
The main attraction is the thousands of electric and acoustic guitars, amplifiers and assorted guitar accessories on display and for sale. Some of the instruments are new but most are "vintage," as we six-string geeks like to say. Every model of guitar imaginable is represented, and some of them are truly rare and valued in the tens of thousands of dollars.
Funny thing is, I've attended this show religiously for almost 10 years and hardly ever drop a dime, other than the $10 admission fee. I picked up a tweed guitar strap once and, on a separate occasion, a groovy green pilot light cover for my Fender tube amp. For me, it's all about re-igniting my passion for guitars and seeing so many other kindred spirits doing the same. I'm already looking forward to next year's show.
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