We once took the family to Planet Hollywood.

To celebrate Luke’s birthday in Myrtle Beach, he picked the giant, globe-shaped restaurant. When our server found out we were there for his special event, she told Luke he could choose any song to blast over the speakers.

After thinking, he made an inspired decision. Actually, he selected what I consider the best '80s anthem. Hint: it’s by Bryan Adams. The tune? Summer of ’69.

Yes, a proud Dad moment.

I can remember how Luke's face lit up when those first guitar riffs kicked in. The emcee even gave him a shout-out. And the whole place turned into his personal concert venue as we ate burgers and played air-guitars.

Fast forward to today. We weren’t in a glitzy globe, but at the serene New Kent Winery. For a few hours, we met up with McKenzie and Will, sitting on a patio and listening to a musician strum '80s and '90s covers.

We split a plate of crackers and pimento cheese. And oh yeah, celebrated my birthday — just a few days late. A world away from that loud Myrtle Beach party. Years between. But the heart of it stayed the same.

Still with family. Still rocking.

Every time I see one, my stomach turns.

Growing up, we’d make the drive to Raleigh for the NC State Fair. A classic experience filled with spinning rides and carnival games. Also prize pigs and vendors selling steak knives.

But oh, the food. Southern everything: hush puppies, smoky BBQ, and sugary treats that defied logic. Fried Oreos, anyone?

However, one menu item always made me cringe. The infamous... turkey leg.

It seemed everyone wandered the fairgrounds, gnawing on these massive drumsticks, juice running down their chins like some medieval picnic. All I could think: do you realize you’re ripping and chewing meat off a nasty bone? Gross!

I know, I’m the oddball.

Fast forward to today. We took a 45-minute trip to the Gloucester Daffodil Festival. The 39th annual celebration, held on Main Street, is a throwback to those old fair days. Live music, hundreds of merchants, and we even saw the new Daffodil Queen wearing her satin sash.

Then we hit the food section. Country guitars twanged from the stage and fried batter wafted in the air. Booths served up everything from funnel cakes to corn dogs to shrimp.

And there it was. A ghost from my past, a nightmare. The turkey leg.

What could I do but shake my head and laugh?

I came for the daffodils, but I left haunted by the bones.

I’ve never been so hot.

As a teen, I spent my summers working 10-hour shifts at Mr. C’s Car Wash. The North Carolina sun showed no mercy as temps soared into the upper 90s. We didn’t just work — we baked.

By late morning, my coworkers and I had a ritual. We’d sprint across the street to a convenience store, our air-conditioned oasis. Inside waited my hero: a massive 32-ounce fountain drink. Filling my cup with crushed ice and Pepsi, I called it the Bladder Buster.

That giant soda powered me through the concrete inferno. And to this day, I have a weakness for Pepsi. Not only for the flavor, but for the memory of carbonated survival.

That’s how we got it done back in those times… through sweat, grit, and high-fructose corn syrup.

Today I read that Pepsi sales are slipping. In the ‘80s, they gave Coke a real run for the lead. But now they’ve fallen to #3, behind Dr Pepper.

Coke, Pepsi… they taste nearly the same to me. But somewhere deep in my nostalgic heart, I want my fav cola on top. To me, it will always be the “Taste of the Carolinas.”

And my fizzy, emotional support in a cup.

He coached us almost every afternoon.

Mr. Sessoms, my next-door neighbor’s grandfather, was passionate about baseball. More than just a casual fan, he once played for the minor league Yankees alongside Joe DiMaggio.

After school, we’d rush to the backyard. There, Mr. Sessoms stood with his glove on, cap tilted, ready to instruct.

He taught us how to throw sidearm. How to field grounders without flinching. And most importantly — how to hit. His advice? “Wait for the right pitch. Don’t swing at them all.”

I didn’t realize at the time he was teaching more than baseball. Trying to hit everything is for batting cages and burnout.

Today, I heard an interesting piece of business wisdom. Someone I admire said, “I have yet to meet a high-functioning leader who answered every email, responded to every text, got back to everybody, and showed up at everything.”

Huh. Those words transported me to those dusty afternoons, bat in hand.

Don’t swing at them all.

Back in grad school, I shared a house with some guys in Virginia Beach.

Two floors, five dudes, and somehow everyone clicked. Each evening, we watched sporting events together.

One of my roommates, Ted, was an eclectic guy we all loved. He had a knack for saying the wildest things, without even trying. A walking soundbite. It grew so consistently hilarious that another roommate started a document of his best quotes.

Thus emerged the legendary “Book of Ted”: a sacred text of hot takes, accidental wisdom, and absurd opinions. That was 30 years ago.

Recently, I caught up with an old roomie. “Still have the book,” he told me. I’m hoping for a copy soon.

Today I heard a one-liner that felt worthy of that collection — from a Harris Teeter cashier.

A sweet girl, probably in high school, scanned my pizza, paused, then reached for paper instead of plastic and said:

“Pizza just hits better in a paper bag.”

Completely deadpan.

It was so random, so perfectly odd, that I laughed out loud. And immediately thought of Ted.

Yes, his spirit lives on. There’s a new philosopher in town, and she works by aisle 10, near the frozen foods.

I was winning.

In Mrs. Hunter’s 3rd grade class, my name sat at the top of the leaderboard. The contest? Who could read the most books during the school year.

This was my wheelhouse. Even as a kid, I devoured books. My parents fed the habit, buying me any I wanted. The highlight of my week was the Scholastic Book Club, a magical little catalog that was basically Amazon before Amazon, full of titles you could order right from your desk.

With a few months left, I was comfortably in the lead. In a distant second place was my friend, Michelle. A strong rival, but I wasn’t worried. No sweat.

And then one day, everything changed. Mr. Vines, our principal, walked in and dropped the bomb: “Because of classroom sizes, we’ve got to transfer some of you to a new room.”

And just like that, they reassigned me to a first-year teacher named Mrs. Sox. Different teacher. Different rules. No book contest.

When my name vanished from the rankings, I argued my case, but it was no use. Weeks later, Michelle claimed the prize to great fanfare. Brutal.

Ah, core memories.

To this day, I’m still a rabid reader. But I’ve developed a frustrating habit: I juggle too many at once. Right now, it’s a 1,000-page fantasy doorstopper, a marketing guide, and two histories — all in rotation.

I also have a daily The Wall Street Journal addiction. Paper copy only.

Come to think of it, I’m reading like I’m angry. Mr. Vines, you did this to me.

In high school, my friends and I chased hot air balloons across town.

Every May, our local “Balloon Festival & Air Show” filled the sky with color. Dozens of huge inflatables drifted above us, from the Burger King Whopper to a grinning Mr. Peanut.

As they descended, pilots hunted for open fields, never quite sure where they’d land. That was our cue.

We’d pile into a car, choosing one balloon to track through backroads, craning our necks to keep it in sight. Sometimes we followed for miles, laughing at our frantic turns, determined to be there when it touched down.

It was pure, free fun — just the thrill of the pursuit.

Lately, with the weather warming up, Jess and I have started a new tradition. We call it Chasing Sunsets. About 45 minutes before sundown, we drive to a nearby beach, spread a towel, and watch the sun melt into the horizon.

There’s something peaceful about ending the day with sand between our toes and the surf lapping at our feet. Our summer goal is to catch at least 25 sunsets.

Tonight was Sunset #2.

If you see our car pulling out in the early evening, you’ll know we’re off on the adventure. With a giant, glowing fireball in the sky, who needs Mr. Peanut?

On my 40th birthday, I couldn’t believe what showed up in my driveway.

My friends had hinted at something but refused to spill the details. All they said was, “Be ready at 5PM, dressed for a date.”

Right on time, a sleek limo arrived. The driver swung open the doors and announced our destination: the Williamsburg Inn, a swanky spot 30 minutes away.

That night, Jess and I rode — and dined — like royalty. Our friends covered everything, making it an evening to remember.

Fast forward a few years to this weekend's birthday meal. We chose a cozy countryside restaurant, tucked inside an old house about half an hour away.

As we ate, two long-lost friends appeared at our table. We caught up and told them we were celebrating my special day. It was a sweet reunion, and they left a few minutes later.

At the end of our meal, dessert came — unordered. “From your friends,” the server said. “And… they took care of dinner, too.”

We stared at each other, stunned.

A random encounter, another act of birthday kindness.

The night would never end.

Back in my Boy Scout days, I jumped at a challenge to earn an exclusive merit badge. The mission? Get dropped alone in the woods for a solo overnight. Game on.

When the weekend arrived, a pickup truck hauled me out under the stars. My supplies: a sleeping bag, one sad slice of bread, and two hard-boiled eggs. The instructions were simple: Stay put. If you wander, we might not find you tomorrow.

Well, alrighty then.

I zipped into my bedding, tossed the eggs into the darkness (no thanks), and spent the evening wide-eyed. Not a single blink of sleep. Just the creeping shadows and watching the moon crawl across the sky. Somehow, I survived.

Fast-forward to today: my outdoor adventure was much more pleasant.

Jess and I (with our golden retriever, Cali) hiked the Bassett Trace Nature Trail. Since volunteers have labeled all the foliage, it’s like walking through a living field guide. Think bubbling brooks, wooden bridges, and dirt paths.

No merit badge earned, but a lot less stressful.

Sometimes, growth means choosing scenery over survival.

Two years ago in Aruba, we stumbled upon a restaurant we'll never forget. 

The drive took half an hour on twisty roads through empty landscapes. We started to worry. Were we lost? 

As darkness fell, our GPS led us to a gravel lot in the middle of nowhere. Just a few cars and lots of trees. But then, hidden behind lush foliage, we spotted a wooden door marked with the restaurant’s name. We opened it, and BAM!

It was like stepping into Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. Flower-lined path, marble sculptures, the soothing sound of water. Following the walkway, we turned a corner and came face-to-face with a smiling hostess.

She guided us to a private stretch of beach, where a table waited at the water’s edge with white linens and flickering candlelight.

One of the most enchanting meals of our lives.

Today, Jess and I ate lunch on our deck. Sunshine and a perfect breeze. Sure, it wasn’t Aruba, but it still felt magical. No elegant hostess, only a golden retriever begging for scraps. 

Still a five-star experience.

It was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.

And one of the most fun.

In college, my buddies and I met some guys in Athens, GA. We hit it off immediately, and soon we found ourselves invited on a mysterious adventure the following weekend. Curious, we agreed — because that’s exactly what students do.

Late that next Saturday night, we showed up at the rendezvous point, under cover of darkness. Their pickup truck sat at the bottom of a bridge, wires stretching upward like some DIY daredevil operation.

It turned out to be a homemade zip line. Surely illegal. But who thinks about rules when you’re young?

After climbing to the top, I strapped into their makeshift harness, connected myself to the cable, and, with a final breath, plunged into the blackness below.

Safety never crossed my mind. Neither did consequences.

I didn’t escape uninjured, though. Gripping the rope with gloves to slow down, I misjudged the stop. The friction seared my wrist, leaving a second-degree burn that required weeks of daily clinic visits.

Still, looking back, I’d do it again. Dumb? Absolutely. Worth every reckless second? Without a doubt.

Why did this memory surface? Because this week I read about Evel Knievel, one of my childhood heroes. This dude straddled his Harley-Davidson and jumped buses, fountains, and a shark-filled tank. Even buckled himself into a rocket to soar across a canyon.

Sure, he broke nearly every bone in his body, but the crashes only deepened his icon status.

I’m glad to say I had my own Evel moment.

Except he had a Harley. I just got rope burn.

We had to do it once a day in elementary school.

Swish.

A noun — and also, unfortunately, a verb.

Around mid-morning, the teacher gave the dreaded announcement, “It's time for Swish.” Groans would fill the classroom as little paper cups traveled down each row.

Then came the strange, greenish liquid, poured carefully into each cup. The adults called it fluoride. But to us, it was torture.

The teacher would glance at her watch and yell, “Go!”

And we had to swish Swish for 30 long seconds, then spit it back into the cup. Simple in theory. Terrible in execution.

Without fail, someone would always snort-laugh, sending a geyser of Swish erupting from their nose. On the other side of the room, another kid would accidentally swallow some and immediately gag, triggering a dramatic vomit. Every. Single. Day.

Those poor teachers deserved medals. Or therapy. Eventually, the program ended due to logistical nightmares and parent complaints.

Then there were the dye tablets. A sadistic experiment where we chewed pills that turned plaque neon red, exposing our bad brushing habits to the entire class. Public dental shaming at its finest. I'm still processing this trauma.

Recently, I read an article about toothbrushes and oral hygiene, and memories of Swish flooded back.

For instance:

• Brushing for 2 minutes is recommended, but most people only manage 45 seconds.

• Blue is the most popular toothbrush color.

• Some people actually skip brushing altogether on weekends.

So excuse me while I go scrub my teeth. At least no one’s forcing me to swish green goo on a timer anymore.

Today, I went to the grocery store for a special item.

A few years ago, I wouldn’t have touched the stuff. Why would I? It held zero appeal.

But everything changed when a friend made me try it. One time turned into two, and now… well, I have a new habit.

Here are some clues:

• Invented in the 1950s and is still going strong

• Comes in many forms

• There are endless variations

• The military uses a lightweight version

• The options change with the seasons

What am I talking about?

Coffee creamer.

That’s right. I trekked to Harris Teeter to prep for tomorrow’s cup of Joe. Funny thing is, I didn’t even drink coffee until my mid-thirties. I loved the smell but thought it tasted like sadness.

Then I discovered the magic ratio: creamer + medium roast. After some experimenting, I’m now the classic cup-in-the-morning kind of guy.

To celebrate my successful store run, I poured myself a mug this afternoon — with a little French vanilla, because why not?

Bottoms up. Somewhere, my past self is sipping water and judging me.

I’ve always enjoyed podcasts, even when they were a hassle.

Back in the Stone Age, this meant manually downloading episodes from a computer (with a cord) to my iPod.

Then I’d hook that device up to a cassette adaptor thingy so it could play through my car speakers. During my commute, I listened to hundreds of sermons, interviews, and one of my favorites… a discussion about theories from the Lost tv show.

4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42.

If that sequence means anything to you: you’re welcome, fellow nerd.

These days, I’m still tuning into new content.

Recently, a show taught me two interesting ideas:

• Songs often end on a major chord — it feels resolved, like a happy ending.

• In storytelling, protagonists have to act — no one else can steal their moment, or the plot flops.

Learning never gets old, but my cassette adapter sure did.

And, yes, I’m still wondering what Lost was actually about.

It’s been nearly fifteen years since I watched a children’s show.

And honestly, I don’t miss most of them. Some even killed a few brain cells. Ahem, Teletubbies.

But when your children ask you to sit and join them, you do it. Back then, these series dominated our TV:

• Arthur

• Caillou

• Clifford the Big Red Dog

• The Berenstain Bears

• The Wiggles

• The Doodlebops

• Dragon Tales

• The Magic School Bus

And then, LazyTown, my favorite. Also, a special shout-out to Phineas and Ferb. Two of the rare programs that didn’t make me want to stick something sharp in my eye.

But the kids have grown up and suddenly I'm left behind. The old has gone, the new has come. And lately, I’ve noticed folks raving about Bluey.

First, I listened to a podcast that mentioned it, then I read that the Bluey empire is valued at $2 billion. Wait—what?! Apparently, even parents and grandparents are hooked, willingly viewing episodes and attending live performances.

When I learned the show’s creator draws stories directly from his own family, curiosity finally got the better of me. So, this week, I took the plunge. Yep… a grown adult, alone, watching Bluey.

And I really enjoyed it. I laughed several times. Credit to the writer for perfectly capturing the joy and quirks of life with little ones.

Plus, it sure beats having “Fruit Salad, Yummy Yummy” stuck in my head. Hey, future grandkids, I’m ready for ya.