Every few months the "Crossroads of the West" gun show comes to Salt Lake City. I'd been seeing the blazing hunter orange signs advertising it along I-15 for years, but had simply shuddered and driven by. That all changed when I met Riley's family.

They are HARD CORE gun owners. If the government falls and it all goes down, I'm heading to their compound/house in Holladay, Utah and loading up the shootin' irons. Join us at your own risk. The remarkable thing is that you would never guess it by looking at them that they are avid shooters and hunters. I had no idea about the arsenal they are sitting on top of until the day Riley showed me the walk-in gun safe in the basement. As soon as she said the phrase "walk-in gun safe" I knew that these were no ordinary gun owners. As we dated, I went shooting with them several times. To my surprise and my dear mother's consternation, I discovered that I not only enjoyed firearms, but that I actually had a bit of a knack for them. I could bust up clay pigeons and hit the "10" ring with the best of them. Riley's proud father presented me with my first handgun as a college graduation present. My mother took him off her Christmas card list.

One of your responsibilities as a gun owner is to attend the aforementioned gun show as often as possible. I duly accompanied Riley's dad and brothers to a show a couple of years ago, and I've been back several times since. I recently introduced my brother to the dangers and delights of the gun show. As I watched his cherubic face light up at the sight of all the varieties of plaid flannel and facial hair, a thought occurred to me. Something happens to you when you get your hand stamped and enter into that cavernous expo center. Some sort of reality distortion field alters your thinking and makes you do things that would make no sense on the outside. Allow me to explain.

I'm sure you've heard the term "beer goggles". This refers to the fact that under the stupor of alcohol, things (and by things I mean women) that you would find horrifying and grotesque when sober are suddenly appealing and attractive. The LDS world has a similar aphorism: "mission goggles". I submit to you, dear reader, that once you cross the invisible line just behind the NRA table, you have donned a set of gun show goggles (GSG) and should be considered a danger to yourself and those around you.

The pile of gun show detritus in the back of my closet testifies to the fact that I am not immune to the effects of GSG. "I've never had a blowgun," I once thought to myself while under the nefarious fog of GSG. "I can't imagine a future without a blowgun in my life." Shortly thereafter I found myself wondering if I'd made a mistake purchasing a 14" blowgun instead of the 20" like the nice booth man recommended. GSG actually gave me blowgun regret.

"You know what I really need: throwing knives." This is a perfectly normal thought that GSG will sweetly whisper in your ear. "A real man has a Chinese-made, lead-infused, metal airsoft gun," GSG will tell your fevered mind with cool, inescapable logic. You are helpless to resist.

GSG is a cruel mistress. The second you exit the expo center, you will look into the generic yellow plastic bag you're clutching and wonder what in the world just happened. You will look around and make sure nobody you know sees what you are holding. You will lie awake at night thinking about the all the money you just wasted on absolute crap, and swear that it will never happen again. And then, a few months later, there's a bright orange billboard on the freeway...

I love music. There's just no getting around it. Music occupies a ridiculous percentage of my computer's hard drive. I've tried to quit; I had a two year hiatus from most of my music that coincided with a 24 month period of ecclesiastical service in the great state of Washington.

It didn't stick. I was a member of BMG (as you were too at the time, remember?) and had CDs sent my missionary apartments. Before you go judging me, know that I did not listen to them, but merely reveled in their cover art for a second before sending them home in boxes to await my imminent return. There was no rule in my mission against desiring, purchasing, and drooling over music--just listening to it. Loopholes, people, loopholes!

I'm not entirely sure why I like music so much. I don't remember having a particulary musical childhood. There were of course the requisite piano lessons, with the age 12 escape clause that I took grateful advantage of. My sweet, dear grandparents presented us with an autoharp one Christmas, apparently with the hopes that it would be strummed alongside many a crackling fire in the years to come. Bless their hearts, it resides in its case under my parent's couch to this day unloved, untouched, and unsung.

I was, however, somehow a part of a singing group that toured such exotic places as Utah's Hogle Zoo. I honestly have no idea how I was ever coerced into wasting my youth in such a troupe of troubadours. I think my mom was friends with the director, which also probably explains how I was ever accepted into a singing group. I only remember two things from my time there: the other group members' unhealthy obsession with Ed Grimley (above), and the all lyrics to that diabolical western song we sang EVERY time we performed, "Ragtime Cowboy Joe". Don't ask me to write them, my fingers tremble over the keys just thinking about it.

I soon parted ways with the singing group, and discovered the virtues of the acoustic guitar, with its unexpected bonus of undeserved female attention. Soon after came my first Beatles album, and the rest, as they say, is history.

So, despite the vile machinations of Martin Short, I stand before you today a musical maven, every ready with a recommendation or snide remark about your favorite band/rapper/High School Musical star.