It's not upsetting that my bank, Wachovia, is being taken over by Wells Fargo. Heck, that's a good thing – it brings stability to what apparently was a wobbly financial institution (with my money in it).
What throws me off balance is that Wachovia as a brand name is more than likely kaput. Established in 1879 in Winston-Salem, N.C. – my hometown – this bank and its unusual name were part of the fabric of my upbringing. And it was a real success story, growing from a small Southern bank into the fourth-largest U.S. bank holding company. Now, in what seems like an instant, it's gone, a victim of the "credit crisis" and the massive financial failures we're seeing unfold on Wall Street.
I'll always associate Wachovia with that dull glass skyscraper in downtown Winston-Salem that used to house the bank's headquarters, renamed Winston Tower several years ago and pictured above. Farewell Wachovia, or "Walk all over ya," as we joked. Looks like Wachovia's the one getting trampled this time.
We loaded up the kids early the other morning and headed down the interstate to Tampa. Our destination was the Florida Aquarium, an attraction we'd never visited before, being that we're so spoiled by SeaWorld.
We spent an hour or so strolling through the exhibits, checking out stingrays, giant groupers, moray eels and hosts of other sea life indigenous to Florida and elsewhere.
The most entertaining part of the experience was letting the kids loose in the aquarium's outdoor "water fun zone." As they enjoyed the fountains, spray guns and slides, we grown-ups savored some quality down time, taking in the views from the aquarium's splended waterfront locale and sampling the draft beer selections at the outdoor bar. OK, Guitar Dad was the only family member doing any beer sampling. But it was definitely a successful weekend getaway.
More of Guitar Dad's travels are chronicled here.
No matter what you might think of writer Charles Bukowski (literary genius, overrated drunk or something in between), you've got to admit he was prolific as hell. Even though he died 14 years ago with dozens of titles to his credit, his books have kept pouring forth, with collections of previously unpublished work emerging almost annually.
Just this month, City Lights Publishers brings us Portions From a Wine-Stained Notebook: Uncollected Stories and Essays, 1944-1990. The contents are wide-ranging and include many pieces unavailable since their original appearance in underground newspapers and literary journals.
Consider me a devoted fan of the legendary Buk (rhymes with "puke," the author explained). It's a thrill to live vicariously through his inebriated and sordid exploits in lowlife Los Angeles. Where so many late 20th-century scribes fell short, Bukowski got it just right – in an authentic and bad-ass way.
Since my son started kindergarten in August, I've volunteered as a "Lunch Buddy" with his class a couple of times. I can't tell you how much fun this is. I sign in at the office and then proceed to the cafeteria to meet his class. My purpose is simple: to help the kids open their milk cartons, fruit cups and other child-challenging food containers.
During their brief 20 minutes at lunch (not much time to eat, huh?) I move from kid to kid, offer assistance, ask them how they're doing, amuse them, encourage them to finish their lunch and give an occasional high five or fist bump. A couple of kids have even jumped up to hug me.
I've always thought I'd make a good teacher, especially with young children. I suppose being a Lunch Buddy is as close as I'll get, and I'm grateful for it.
One of our most distinctive and adventurous keyboard players left us today. Pink Floyd's Richard Wright died of cancer at his home in Britain. He was 65. It's impossible to describe the monumental impact that Wright's playing, songwriting and gentle voice had on millions of listeners, especially musicians with psychedelic tendencies. Just yesterday, while jogging with my iPod in shuffle mode, I was lucky enough to chance on Pink Floyd's Funky Dung, which features the percussive and trippy sounds of Wright's brilliant organ playing. Rest in peace, Mr. Wright. Thank you for daring to play the way you did – and for making my world so much more colorful and sonically satisfying.
Ranking rock bands, or anything for that matter, is a dicey endeavor. It's thoroughly subjective and invariably contentious.
My list is not only biased but skewed toward so-called "classic rock" and "progressive rock," the latter of which evolved the genre into more dynamic and, some would say, self-indulgent territory in the late 1960s and 1970s. For what it's worth, here is Guitar Dad's carefully considered and definitive list:
1. The Beatles
2. King Crimson
3. Pink Floyd
4. Led Zeppelin
5. The Who
6. Genesis
7. Yes
8. The Replacements
9. The Rolling Stones
10. Radiohead
11. Cream
12. Black Sabbath
13. Traffic
14. Van Halen
15. The Byrds
16. U2
17. The Allman Brothers
18. Big Star
19. ZZ Top
20. The Yardbirds
21. Jimi Hendrix Experience
22. REM
23. Foo Fighters
24. The Police
25. The Clash
Any questions?
When I was a young reporter, I couldn't get my hands on enough newspapers. I read most of the daily rags in North Carolina, where much of my journalism career took place, and even subscribed to a few out-of-state papers.
On top of that, I chased down two or three stories a day for the papers I worked on, relishing the sight of my bylines.
Now, with instant online access to news and everything else, and having left journalism long ago, my appetite for newsprint has dropped sharply. That's not to say I'm not reading newspaper content. I probably absorb more news now than ever before. But most of it's on the computer screen and in abbreviated form.
I do retain a subscription to the Orlando Sentinel, although lately I've been questioning the wisdom of keeping it. The most satisfying aspect of newspaper delivery for me is seeing my kids get excited when I ask them in the morning, "Who wants to get the paper?" They love walking outside with me for this silly ritual, and I'm reluctant to give it up.
The inky newspaper will die in due time, I figure. It already has in many ways. Makes me a little misty eyed.
A selection of Guitar Dad's old newspaper pieces can be found on this page.
With my wife out of town for a few days, I'm running the show at home. Translation: Guitar Dad is feeding the kids, getting them ready for school, taking them to school, picking them up, playing Transformers and princesses, bathing them and alternately yelling at them and inspiring them to do great things. It's not that I don't do some of this stuff when my wife is around. I do. Seriously. But with just me in charge, it's monumentally more taxing. I can handle it, though. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine. Really. I've got it.
RSS Feed