This is my nephew, Hunter, who without question is the cutest nephew that can ever be (I've seen your nephew; he's just not as cute. I don't know - maybe it's that tooth thing he has. It's like it's almost a tooth, but it's not. You know? Also: his head's kind of a weird shape).

Anyway, back to my nephew: Hunter is the cutest. He's even cuter when he dresses up like slightly fey pirates with ol' Uncle Shane*. Unfortunately for this photo shoot, earrings were as far as we got before Hunter decided it would be fun to throw toys at my head. But look how cute he is, seriously!

My little buddy just moved to Vallejo, California for three years and I miss him fiercely. Well, we'll always have "Hunter, what does a pirate say?"

Yarrgh, little buddy. Yarrgh indeed.



*Promotional consideration (plastic earrings) provided by Mr. Potato Head (R)

I just got back from several days of getting up close and personal with Ms. Nature in Huntington, Utah. This was my first camping trip in a while, and as I was driving home in my air-conditioned car listening to my iPod, I reflected on the things I had learned about myself. I now share them with you:


S'mores will always make me want to throw up and die a little inside. I can't even look at them.

The starry expanse of the night sky away from city lights still sends the same little thrill through me that it did when I was a kid. Man, we are SMALL!

I am so pathetically vain that I don't even hesitate to pack cologne and styling wax into my backpack alongside the bug spray and Neosporin.

When I go four-wheeling with a group of seven people, my face will somehow attract more dirt by the end of the trip than the other six combined.

There is nothing on this planet more thrilling and soul-destroyingly boring to me at the same time than fly fishing.

Even when her hair and face are filthy and matted almost beyond recognition by three days of dust, sunscreen and insect repellent, I still think Riley's cute.

My brain becomes so paranoid in the fresh mountain air that it instantly interprets any twig breaking outside of the tent as a 2 a.m., coordinated multi-grizzly attack.

I possess previously unknown horseshoe-throwing skills, and have a "Winner of the Summer 2008 Vuksinick Family Tournament" medal to prove it.

I can only be in camp an hour before the first impulse to check my email strikes.

If I want to guarantee that I wake up in a foul mood, all I need to do is make sure that my face brushes against the clammy condensation on the inside of a sweaty tent at the crack of dawn. It's all downhill from there.

When I stare into a campfire, instead of reflecting on the beauty and romance of the dancing flames, I think about what items would be fun to throw in there and watch explode.

I would have lasted about twenty minutes on the Lewis and Clark expedition.