I just spent about an hour noodling on one of my electric guitars, an act that, in my estimation, is one of life's greatest pleasures. Since I was 13, the experience of plugging a guitar into an amplifier and launching off into a musical fourth dimension has been nothing short of miraculous.
Playing guitar, or any instrument for that matter, transports you to a special place where reality and dreams mix, where the mathematical fundamentals of music morph into pure emotion and adrenaline, and where you instantly make a connection to the divine. I think of it as church for Guitar Dad.
And did I mention that it's just plain fun? Here's to all you loud guitar players out there, some of you occasionally unnerving your families and neighbors, but all of you surely enriching your lives forever. Crank it up, I say!
Below is a super-brief (and low-fi) video of Guitar Dad in the zone.
It feels good to rid yourself of unnecessary clutter, doesn't it?
This morning my wife and I hosted a garage sale and managed to unload a fair number of items no longer relevant to our lives. That is to say, items that were completely useless and taking up valuable space. Big plastic toys. Small metallic toys. Medium-sized toys that make obnoxious sounds. We even moved a few grown-up products, like an Ansel Adams print and a never-opened Mickey Mouse desk set.
The sale started off a little shaky when a potential customer approached one of the toys and my daughter decided she didn't really want to part with it after all. "Don't take my red car!" she belted, and tears ensued. A few moments later, I persuaded her to let it go in exchange for candy corns.
All told, we netted $67.50. Given our modest success, I now find myself sizing up other crap around the house and wondering how much I could cash it out for. Hmmmm. I think I see a few more opportunities …
My son and I went fishing with some buddies over the weekend. We headed out first thing Saturday morning to a small lake not far from our neighborhood, one equipped with a nice spacious pier. We got dirty. We got slimy. We got smelly.
It was my son's first time fishing and my first time in probably 25 years. It was cool to become reacquainted with the sport (it's a sport, right?) at the invitation of our easygoing friends, who generously brought all the necessary rods, reels and gear. We just had to bring the snacks.
My son caught three smallish sunfish, and I lucked onto a few myself. Actually, they may have been the same ones for all I know. We were throwing them back and they looked hungry.
My son eventually tired of the experience and began playing with his pals in the shoreline mud. But I continued to give the fish a hard time, baiting my hook with live minnows, dropping my line in the shallow water, watching intently for movement or a twitch of a tail. I yearned to feel the struggle at the end of my line and pull my hook from the bloodied mouth of a flapping, scaly, totally spooked fish. Wow, when I put it that way, it doesn't sound so nice, does it?
"Fishing is boring, unless you catch an actual fish, and then it is disgusting.” – Dave Barry
A new report shows that Florida is the second most miserable state, just ahead of bottom-of-the-barrel Oregon. Excuse me? Our chosen peninsula of golden sunshine, sparkling beaches and Mickey Mouse is a hell hole?
Apparently so, according to the survey by MainStreet.com, which took into consideration such bummer factors as household debt, unemployment and home foreclosures. OK, I guess if you're looking at that kind of stuff, it's entirely possible that Florida sucks.
The happiest states? Nebraska, Iowa and Kansas. I can hear my wife now, mustering up support for Siberia-cold, farm-friendly Iowa, her native land. Hey, I've got nothing against Iowa. I've traveled there and would very much like to return. But I know my better half is sensible and realizes that fun-loving Florida, despite its distressed economic condition, is indeed the happiest place on earth for our family, with or without that big-eared mouse.
My family just returned from an all-too-brief overnight trip to St. Augustine, that charming if slightly down-at-the-heels relic south of Jacksonville. We had a wonderful time of it, traipsing around the 300-year-old fort, grabbing lunch at the Milltop Tavern on touristy St. George Street, and setting up camp at a Hampton Inn on nearby Vilano Beach. It turned out to be a spectacular afternoon for splashing around in the surf, and the kids couldn't get enough of the sun and sand.
After a restless night of walloping wind and rain (not an issue for the kids, who could sleep through an A-bomb), we set out on another tour of historic sites before heading home. We stopped by the town's candy-striped lighthouse and even took a gander at a 600-year-old live oak, the celebrated "Old Senator," which stands right smack in the middle of a Howard Johnson's parking lot. Fun was had by all, although something tells me my little ones won't remember the haunting old tree like they will building sand castles or running around the playground near our hotel.
Spending time in St. Augustine holds special meaning for Guitar Dad. When I lived in Jacksonville from 1993 to 1995, I often drove down for the day with friends, enjoying the town's thriving music and restaurant scenes, and of course digging its cool waterfront setting and ideal beach access.
In a moment of reflection, as I maneuvered our mini-van through the congested downtown streets, I mentioned how much I used to enjoy hitting the bars on St. George Street, tipping cold beers and occasionally treating myself to a good cigar. My son quickly replied, "Why don't you not do those things and just have fun." Good point, little guy. And I'm proud to say we accomplished just that, indulging in a pleasurable and completely family-friendly outing, one that was brief for sure, but one that I wouldn't trade for all those excursions of yesteryear combined.
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