GUITAR DAD

If the music is good, I like it. Rock, classical, jazz, country, pop, whatever. And I'm particularly fond of guitar-driven tunes. I am Guitar Dad after all.
 
Though I'll always worship the six-string rock maestros – Page, Clapton, Hendrix and an endless list of lesser-known masters – I've cultivated a deep interest in jazz guitarists of late. All of my favorites are old-school jazzmen: Grant Green, Jim Hall, Kenny Burrell, Wes Montgomery, Barney Kessel, Tal Farlow, Django Reinhardt, Charlie Christian and the like.
 
There's just something about the fluid, roundish tone of a hollow-body jazz guitar, played by someone who knows what it means to swing, to build tension, to alternate flurries of melody with laid-back grooves. Get a better understanding of what I'm saying by clicking on the arrow below and listening to Kenny Burrell take command of his instrument on the tune "Midnight Blue."

This month we commemorate the 50th anniversary of statehood for the Hawaiian islands. These gorgeous volcanic masses, positioned in the Pacific some 2,000 miles from the mainland, were admitted to the union on August 21, 1959.
 
I'm in complete agreement with Mark Twain, who called Hawaii "the loveliest fleet of islands that lies anchored in any ocean." Granted, I haven't visited every fleet of islands on the planet. But my brief time spent on Oahu and the Big Island in 2007 was enough to make me realize how special, how intoxicating these islands are. Their dramatic landscapes and sublime spirit possess you long after departing Honolulu International.
 
Happy 50th, Hawaii. What a nice, youthful milestone for such a timeless, mythical land. I intend to return to your shores again.

I am immensely grateful for the musical genius and pioneering spirit of Les Paul, who died last week at the age of 94. He perfected the design and functionality of the solid-body electric guitar and basically invented multi-track recording. The significance of these innovations cannot be overstated.

I never met the man but feel a close kinship with him. I've kept his autograph in my wallet for 20 years now. Back in 1989, a college buddy of mine saw Les perform at Fat Tuesday's in Manhattan. After the show, my friend met the guitarist and was kind enough to get an autograph for me on the back of a Fat Tuesday's business card. I've always loved that Les scrawled "Howdy!" after my name. What a cool guy!

Thanks, Les, for doing everything so well and bringing so much happiness to so many people. Your enormous influence touches every corner of the music world.

I figured I'd get a little exercise during my visit last week to Charleston, S.C., so jogged across the Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge and back. Opened in 2005, this spectacular structure stretches 1,546 feet across the Cooper River, the longest span among cable-stayed bridges in the Western Hemisphere.

It was a solid workout and quite an enjoyable experience, running along a nice pedestrian path above busy maritime traffic and taking in panoramic views of Charleston and the South Carolina Lowcountry. 

Lately I can't seem to put down the books of Paul Theroux. This worldly and renowned travel writer has an extraordinary gift not only for storytelling but for casting a critical light on the fakery and hypocrisy of contemporary culture.

I was instantly drawn to the smart and fluid construction of his sentences, his wry wit and honed powers of description. His travel narratives address the complete experience of voyaging to unfamiliar lands, all ugliness and discomfort intact. To Theroux, travel is hardly synonymous with vacationing and should be viewed as an undertaking of enlightenment and most of all surprise. "Tourists don't know where they've been; travelers don't know where they're going," he wrote.

My initiation to Theroux was Fresh Air Fiend, a collection of essays about the remarkable people and places he's encountered in some 50 years circumnavigating the planet. Now I have three more Theroux tomes in my possession: the novel Hotel Honolulu and the travel books Sunrise with Seamonsters and The Old Patagonian Express. I'm making headway with all three at once.

His work is painted with a joyous spirit, a quest for meaning, and an appreciation of the world's beauty and heartache. These books reveal a man going to great lengths to savor and make sense of every moment.

"I cannot make my days longer so I strive to make them better," he said. It would be hard, in my opinion, to hold a more valuable point of view.

My plan for attracting feathered friends to my backyard with a nifty bird feeder has been thwarted by the local squirrels, whose pesky behavior has my blood boiling. Notice that the feeder is empty now, all of its contents devoured by these vile varmints. Anybody have a pellet gun I can borrow?

"Do you get to eat lunch in jail?" my son asked, prompting me to wonder why he's contemplating time behind bars.
 
"Yeah, but it's just water and a slice of bread," I told him. Turns out he was just wondering, a little concerned that detainees might be going hungry.
 
This is just one of the many amusing inquiries and comments my wife and I hear from our kids on a daily basis.
 
"When you're in college, where do you brush your teeth?" my boy asked. On another occasion he wondered, "Can a bee sting you through a napkin?" Good question. Not sure about that one and don't want to find out.
 
My daughter is more declarative than inquisitive. "You forgot to put dessert in my belly," she has said more than once. One of my favorites was, "Dad, my dress is wet from my pee." Once, while luxuriating in a bubble bath, she looked up, smiled and announced: "Ahhh, this is the life."
 
Indeed, this is the life. You little kids crack me up.

I was tickled to pick up the Orlando Sentinel this morning and see my "Being There" piece on Chicago published in the Travel & Arts section. I submitted it earlier this year and was notified by the section editor last month that it would be appearing in an upcoming Sunday edition, whose circulation still tops 300,000. Click here to view the piece.