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.

As some of you may be aware, my former employer (hereafter referred to as "The Overpriced Fruit Juice Company That Must Not Be Named" had some layoffs last week. In an unrelated occurence, I suddenly find myself with much more free time.

Worry not, dear readers. I have several promising things in the works and am doing some freelance work to fill the gaps. In the meantime, my loss is your gain, as I now have time to post many more entries than usual. Maybe even two a month! (Don't jinx it!)

Unemployment has been especially difficult for dear Riley. She is pictured above with our three filthy yet adorable chillins in a photograph taken last Tuesday. She was used to having me around for just a few hours on weeknights and weekends. Now that I'm here both when she leaves and when she gets home, I've noticed a distinct decline in her enthusiasm for my presence. I do believe that my novelty is wearing off! Can it be that my awesomeness is best experienced in small doses?

As a result of these distressing developments, I'm extra motivated to regain employment, if for nothing else than the sake of our declining relationship. I sent out three resumes today, baby, I promise!

I’m probably one of the more avid readers that I know, devouring about a book a week in a good month. I recently decided that for every bestseller (read: brain junk food) I read, I needed to balance my mental diet with something a bit more substantial. If you consider "The Da Vinci Code" to neatly straddle the line between both worlds, please stop reading now.

In the literary morass that was my high school and college education, I read more than my fair share of “classics”. Some, it seemed to me, were far more deserving of that accolade than others. "The Grapes of Wrath", "To Kill a Mockingbird", and "Animal Farm" inspired me and made me think about and question my views of the world. On the other hand, "My Antonia" and "Red Badge of Courage" made me want to stab my eyes out by page 20.

Somehow, one “classic” novel managed to never pop up on any of my reading lists or syllabi: "The Great Gatsby". That’s right, someone as (supposedly) well-read as I am made it through primary and secondary education without reading F. Scott Fitzgerald’s great American novel. I’d heard of it, of course, and figured it was good in that same vague way you figure opera is awesome, compelling art but have no intention of ever seeing one. However, with my new resolve to work great literary pieces into my reading rotation, last week I proudly walked out of the local library with Fitzgerald’s thin tome tucked under my arm. I figured it would be a quick, enjoyable way to start on the road to intellectual pretentiousness. There was just one little hiccup, though.

It sucks. "The Great Gatsby" sucks. There's no getting around it. I HATED it. From its mind-numbingly dull beginning to its bizarre murder-suicide finale, there wasn’t a single drop of literary value to be had in its pages. I kept reading and reading and telling myself, “Surely something that justifies “classic” is going to pop up any time now.” Alas, it was not to be. Teachers and professors who rhapsodize about its merits and deep significance are liars. Deluded, deceived, deranged LIARS, I tell you! Literati who sing its praises and laud its profundity are fools. If the book hadn’t been the prized property of the Orem Public Library, I would have given its precious pages to my year-old nephew and let him have his way with it. Such is the fate an abomination like "The Great Gatsby" deserves.

With such a rocky start, I am now seriously rethinking my “classics” aspirations. Anyone have an extra copy of "Angels and Demons"?

This will be the first in a (hopefully) long line of posts designed to expand the horizons of my dear readers. Yes, both of you. There are some things in this world that are so awesome, they simply must be shouted out to in the blogosphere. In this season of striking T.V. writers, it seems appropriate to begin with what just might be (all apologies to THE OFFICE) the cleverest show on T.V.

30 ROCK, as you may or may not be aware, is the brainchild of Tina Fey, former SNL writer and quite possibly the funniest woman on the planet. The show is so great because it's got something for everyone. There are plenty of topical jokes that will make the kids chuckle, and there are also several very sly references slipped into each episode that only those with a sophisticated sense of humor (or that at least think they do) will get. What other show set in 2007 makes a (funny!) Haldeman reference? I know my dad will be the only one that even knows what I'm talking about there.

30 ROCK is so brilliant that it's difficult to describe. I urge you to go to nbc.com, where they have full episodes you can watch for free. Yep, free! Relive the moment when Tracy, in his best mentor voice, instructs young Kenneth to "Live every week...like it's Shark Week." Then there was the time Jack read a critic's review of his family's brand of wine that stated that it tasted like "...the urine of Satan after a hefty portion of asparagus." Or who could forget the time a frustrated Jenna declared "If the president is so serious about the war on terror, why doesn't he hunt down and capture Barack Obama before he strikes again?"

Watch it. Love it. Tell your friends.

As you’ve probably heard, the WGA (Writers Guild of America) is on strike because of a disagreement with movie and television producers over royalties and residuals (read: $$$). What this means to you and me is that the T.V. studios are rapidly running out of scripts, and our favorite shows will soon be off the air, if they aren’t already. What will be left are reality and game shows, whose writers aren’t members of the Guild.

As an aspiring WGA member, I feel it my duty to support the writers. However, as a television viewer (I love The Office, House, and 30 Rock), I feel obligated to offer some few programming suggestions to the studios as they struggle with what to put on the air.

ABC

Are You Edible?
A daring reality show that invites professional cannibal chefs to sample brave viewers and inform them of their level of “scrumptiousness”. Watch out for the zesty wit of Nuwandubumppu, the “Simon Cowell of cannibalism”. Television has never been so tasteful.


CBS

CSI: Santaquin
A gritty look at the crack team of crime solvers in central Utah’s thriving metropolis. Be amazed as they use the latest technology to solve the mystery of Nephi Smith’s missing cat (SPOILER! It was under the porch) and Sariah Rockwell’s rickets (SPOILER! Lack of sunlight).


NBC

Are You Smarter Than Ben Bernanke?
Twelve aspiring capitalists compete to see who can bring the country to financial ruin the fastest. The most unqualified contestant becomes the new chairman of the Federal Reserve, with President Bush rewarding their incompetence with his trademark, “You’re hired!”


FOX

Oedipus Island
You thought your family had problems! The “mother” of all reality shows.


The CW

Heaven help you; I have nothing for you. I doubt anyone’s noticed that nobody’s writing your shows anymore. (Are you listening, Gossip Girl? XO! XO!)