Living in swampy central Florida, I guess I just assume that alligators are everywhere, lurking beneath the surface of every body of water and hiding in the brush along shorelines. But when I unexpectedly came across one of these prehistoric monsters earlier this week, I must admit I was a little unnerved.

The 5-footer shown above was sunning himself on the banks of a tiny retention pond just across the street from my office building in the bustling Millenia area of Orlando. There's no fence around this pond, by the way, so this little rascal was free to roam. Once a few more folks catch a glimpse of him, I'm sure he'll be ushered off by the authorities. In the meantime, it's kind of cool to see the real Florida on display.

There's no lack of spirit around my house these days. Spirit, as in cheerleading spirit.
 
It seems my wife was quite the cheerleader back in her high school days, and we're learning that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Our little girl has joined a youth cheerleading squad and is really immersing herself in the role. Just today she and her peppy pals cheered at a kids basketball game, and afterwards our sweetheart was honored with the gold star for "most spirit."
 
"I love the jumping and the singing," she tells me.
 
Not long ago, my wife and I thought our little Lucy, who's just 4, might not have the physical coordination yet to execute moves, positions, routines, whatever they're called in cheer vernacular. But she's performing surprisingly well. And she loves it.
 
I ask her if she would prefer to cheer or eat cookies. "Cheerleading and cookies!" Good answer, baby doll.

The notion of removing oneself from civilization and living a life of complete freedom on a tropical island is certainly a compelling one for Guitar Dad. It will never happen of course. But I can dream, right?
 
Just the other day I finished reading Artist On His Island: A Study In Self-Reliance by Randolph W. Johnston. The book collects the author's insightful journal entries logged between 1951 and 1974, illuminating an amazing story of a man seeking refuge from society and making a home for his family in a secluded harbor in the Bahamas.
 
Johnston, a teacher and gifted sculptor from Massachusetts, documents the formidable challenges of his odyssey. His wife is stricken with polio shortly after they arrive in the islands; the task of finding the right spot for their home – and actually building it – proves monumentally difficult; and the family’s sparse income makes their existence all the more tricky. But their resilience and impossibly optimistic outlook hold calamity at bay, weaving a tale that is gripping and immensely enjoyable.
 
Shortly after setting sail in search of their paradise, Johnston writes: “Our floating home rises and falls with each swell. My life, my whole world are aboard this little ship – my wife, my children, the fruit of my past love and labor and all my hopes for the future.”
 
Later, after considering options across the Caribbean, the family decides on the Bahamas as the perfect spot to settle: “Year-round swimming in the clearest waters in the world. Year-round sailing over sheltered bank waters. Cultivable, low-lying land that allows the sea breeze to cool you from whatever direction it blows.”

The Johnstons ultimately make their home in Little Harbour, an isolated cove at the southern end of Abaco Island. “We have the limitless ocean to challenge our imagination, and hundreds of square miles of sheltered bank on which we can sail and explore to our heart’s content,” wrote Johnston, who ran private sailboat charters and sold his large-scale bronze sculptures to support his family.
 
One my favorite passages in the book is the artist’s description of the night sky as seen from his sailboat in the darkened Bahamian waters: “The stars tell of space and time utterly beyond human comprehension and give us an inkling of infinity and eternity. Surrounded by darkness and space, a seaman on night watch reflects on man’s loneliness in an infinity of physical space. The all-enveloping silence is only held at bay by the splashing of water and the hurrying of the wind. Standing by the wheel, steering by stars instead of compass, one reflects again and again on the wonder and mystery of life. What a precious gift it is!”
 
Johnston succeeded in accomplishing what most people could only imagine – leaving behind the machinery of the modern world and building a peaceful, productive life in the tropics. He did it on his own terms, and with the people he loved most.
 
His story is an extraordinary account of courage, unrelenting determination and strength. It certainly gives some lift to my dream of escaping to a deserted island. Read more about the Johnston legacy here.

It is true that the remaining members of The Who are past their prime, but what a rush it was to see them perform during the Super Bowl. Everyone needs to be reminded once in a while of what rock music really stands for – power, vision and ingenuity. The Who has always embodied these critical elements, and they conjured a bit of their magic again during the brief halftime show.
 
Back in the band's heyday, The Who stood among a small group of rock giants. Pete Townshend's imaginative song architecture and thundering guitar served as defining forces for the genre, supported by Roger Daltrey's commanding screams, John Entwistle's frenetic bass and Keith Moon's crazed drumming. I get goosebumps just thinking about their incredible sound. We desperately need more rock musicians like these guys.
 
Yeah, I enjoyed the football game. But it was much cooler to watch members of one of my favorite bands give it another go.