GUITAR DAD

It started as a simple assignment from my son's first-grade teacher. Create a small cardboard cutout of yourself, mail it to someone in another town, have them take pictures of it amid local scenery, and then share the photos with the class.
 
Who knew that "Flat Jackson" would indulge in the adventure of a lifetime?
 
Thanks to the generosity and ingenuity of Uncle Kerry and Aunt Mary in Phoenix, my son's cutout went mountain climbing, visited Arizona State University, enjoyed a beautiful sunset among the cacti, descended into the Grand Canyon, and even assisted with a dangerous high-altitude rescue.
 
It's true that a little computerized magic made many of these extraordinary events possible. But just look at the satisfied smile on Flat Jackson's face. Something tells me his class will be extremely impressed with his ability to so deftly maneuver Arizona's dramatic landscapes.
 
And to think he covered all this ground without food, water or sleep! Go get 'em Flat Jackson!

I usually read everything I can get my hands on. Books, magazines, newspapers. Even the brochures and pitch letters I receive in the mail.
 
One of my simple pleasures is dropping by the big bookstores to browse the magazine racks. And one of the most convenient locations is the giant Books-A-Million not far from my office, whose magazine display seems to stretch for miles. I probably stop by there once every couple of weeks to leaf through my favorite titles in travel, music, business, tech and so on.
 
So imagine my surprise yesterday when I arrived to find the place shuttered, empty, a ghost town. Another victim of the recession or the trend toward online book-buying.
 
There is no other big bookstore anywhere close to my office, so perusing a wide spectrum of periodicals over lunch is pretty much out of the question now.
 
I guess I'm partly to blame. I rarely bought anything there. It just served as a nice, comfortable place to burn 15 or 20 minutes.

See the entire "Good Night and Tough Luck" series of cartoons right here.

Our Labor Day weekend adventure to Deerfield Beach got off to a less-than-stellar start.

The weather was gray. Our hotel was jam-packed with boisterous extended families. Our room overlooked A1A, not the beach, and backed up to a noisy elevator shaft.
 
But we quickly overcame the petty annoyances. In fact, it was one of our best vacations ever.
 
We spent most of our time frolicking on the beach, swimming in the warm Atlantic and getting walloped by the sizable surf. My kids can't get enough of the waves, by the way. They love to lie on their bellies at the shoreline and get smashed by the oncoming rush of whitewater. My wife and I kept a close eye on them, especially as our little girl continued to be sucked out into the sea. She always emerged laughing, however, spitting out salt water and brushing the abundant sand from her hair.
 
Another highlight was walking the Deerfield Beach pier. From that vantage point, we could easily spot fish and particularly large stingrays cruising beneath the surface. As the sun emerged in all its sizzling glory, we made a jaunt down to Fort Lauderdale for lunch and a walk on its crazy-busy beach. Lots of fun indeed. It brought back memories for me of bygone trips to Fort "Liquor-dale" with my college buddies. (Actually, my recollection of those escapades is a bit fuzzy.)
 
To top it all off, we lucked onto a great kid's movie on TV one evening – "Surf’s Up." All the cool animated surfing action inspired my kids to jump into the waves with even more gusto than before. Which is exactly what we did the next morning before heading back home.
 
I think we all still have sand in our ears.

Growing up in North Carolina, I enjoyed access to all the Cheerwine I could ever want. It was never exactly my favorite soda, but I occasionally indulged in its fizzy, cherry goodness. Kind of like Dr. Pepper or Mr. Pibb, but not quite. Tastier actually.
 
Nowadays, living in Florida, I cannot put my hands on a cold can of Cheerwine for the life of me. That's because it's simply not sold anywhere in the state. The company that produces Cheerwine, located in sleepy Salisbury, N.C., keeps its distribution lines pretty limited, mostly serving the Carolinas, Georgia and a few select spots outside the region. Alas, Orlando's not among the chosen.
 
Thankfully, I picked up a 12-pack of this liquid deliciousness last month on my vacation in Charleston, S.C. My wife wondered what all the fuss was about. Then she took a few sips. Now my Iowa girl loves this flavorful southern concoction as much as I do. Of course my kids like it, too. They even enjoyed drinking a fair amount of it until we realized it contains lots of caffeine. Oops.
 
The problem now is there's only one can of Cheerwine left in my fridge. I want to be gracious and let my wife have it. But on the other hand, I really, really want it for myself. After all, I'm the one who had the foresight to buy the 12-pack in the first place, right?
 
That can won't be sitting there for long.
 
More about Cheerwine here.

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.