GUITAR DAD

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.