Do you remember when I used to actually write about actual things instead of always writing about why I don't have any time or energy or whatever to write? Yeah, me too. OK, Pete, get on with it. Here's an actual post.

I was not surprised to hear that Gordon B. Hinckley, the leader of my former faith, had died. Especially given how matter-of-factly Donna told me, as though she were announcing the arrival of the mail. Also especially because he was a mere ninety-seven years old. At last check that's almost as old as John McCain.

There was a time when I would have been moved, emotionally by Hinckley's passing. A long while ago, that emotional cocktail would have been equal parts sadness, loss and introspection on my own mortality. A little less of a while ago, I may have been somewhere on the other side of the emotional gamut. I may have even been happy to hear the news. Though I'm not exactly sure why and that happiness would have been rude and misplaced.

Sometimes in life we are faced with choices. Stay in and rent or go out to a movie? Nachos or hot dog? Water or wine?

Sometime around three o'clock this morning I realized I had chosen wrong to all of those choices while suddenly faced with another; what do I do with the contents of my stomach? Do I flood the basement or send it out the chimney? I sat up in that instant with a cold chill and a light head. My stomach churned. Whatever I chose, I didn't want to choose it in bed.

But as I stood to rush to the toilet, I swooned. I was fainting. As something of an expert at losing consciousness, I quickly recognized the sensation and laid back on the bed.

I have a stupid habit of naming inanimate objects. My first car, a powder blue, vinyl-topped 1978 Pontiac Bonneville was dubbed The Blue Whale. After that, I drove The Cherry Tomato. These are the first in a line of cars that included The Hulk, Black Beauty, Snow White, Goldilocks, Goldilocks 2, Goldilocks 3 and Babe, The Blue Ox.

Now that I think about it, what I have is a dumb habit of naming my car based on what color it is. None of these is a proper name for a thing. First of all, things should only be given a name if they are sleek, or beautiful, or powerful. Things like race cars, airplanes and naval vessels. Not 1985 Honda Civic sedans.

Also, I should probably not ask my kids for their advice when naming the three gold minivans in a row we've owned.

When asked about newly-inaugurated Salt Lake City mayor Ralph Becker's proposed registry for domestic partners, State Senator Chris Buttars (R - West Jordan) replied, "I have great empathy for that kind of thing. I have no problem with people sharing insurance or their wills, estates, real estate or lives. I just have to be certain we're not coming in the back door of the Amendment 3 [ban on gay marriage and civil unions]."

I'm sorry... did he just say, coming in the back door of Amendment 3? I thought so. Poor choice of words, Senator Butthole. Personally, I hope the registry gives Amendment 3 a reach-around and a Dirty Sanchez.

In other news, the LDS Church is busy talking out both sides of its political mouth. With one side it is assuring the voting public that it would never dare influence a potential President Romney. With the other, it is issuing statements telling the Utah State Legislature how to vote when it comes to matters of legalized-adulthood. It seems to me that if the church and Attorney General Mark Shurtleff are truly concerned with protecting teens in Utah that grocery stores ought to be farther down the list than forced polygamous marriages, a matter both are quick to divorce themselves from at every opportunity.

Just before Christmas, Donna and I saw some friends perform in a Christmas-themed variety show. And while we thought the girls sang beautifully and the jokes were funny, the real star of the show was Brian. Or, to be more accurate, Brian's guitar.

As he played, I took notice of the audience taking notice. And not just the girls. The guys too. In fact, I can neither confirm nor deny having a bit of a man-crush on Brian now too. It was in that moment that I decided that thirty-three years, eleven-and-a-half-months was long enough to wait to learn to play the guitar. The very next day I asked Brian how he learned how to play.

As I gazed dreamily into his eyes, he told me how, when he was fourteen, his parents gave him a guitar and a Beatles songbook. In the months that followed he picked his way through Day Tripper, Hey Jude and eventually While My Guitar Gently Weeps. And now Brian is twenty-one and a very, very good guitar player.

This is a 2007 summary I had intended to post last week but I'm just getting around to posting now.

These are, for one reason or another, my favorite posts of each of the twelve previous months.

January

...read the rest...

Is is completely Pollyanna of me to sincerely hope everyone had a great holiday season? If so, well... tough shit. I said it, I meant it.

I've been in blog-hibernation for a few weeks, what, with a huge project pending at work, a much-heavier-than-normal performance schedule, regular holiday obligations, and my yearly bout of SAD. I know for many of you, living without my daily posts is like suffering drug withdrawals. I've come to a place where I'm ok letting you suffer like that because in order for me to find a balance, a few things have had to give a little. Sadly, writing and photography got the axe for a little while.

But I'm back. For me writing is not just about entertaining or venting or being funny. For me, this is therapy. I write about things I'm not always comfortable telling other people, including Donna. I write more often to find out how I feel rather than to express it.