The group guitar class I took through the local school district was a blast. When, at the end of the course, the instructor announced his upcoming songwriting class, I signed up on the spot.

Earlier this week I attended the first of, what will be, eight classes. We left with the assignment to look for lyrical or title "hooks" as the basis for a potential song. I've written a few songs before. Even a couple that have been recorded and published. But I decided to enter this class with no preconceived notions about the process.

So, I'm going to follow the coursework explicitly and do exactly as instructed. I've only collected a couple so far but I think I already have my hook.

This is rarely a forum for my political opinions. But today John McCain came to town to pander some cash from the strong Republican base here in Utah. This, of course, so he can become President and keep flushing American soldiers down the toilet.

And this got me thinking, and I'm going to say this as plainly as I can, If you don't vote for Barack Obama in November, you can't be my friend any more.

We're still working with Megan on her grades. She's got her phone back and friends aren't totally off-limits but homework is the top daily priority. Every day we remind her to follow-up with teachers about missed work, extra credit and anything else she can do to raise her grades.

"B's or better", is our mantra. "Or no dance, no friends, no phone."

It's not that the grades themselves are actually that important. A C here or there isn't going to threaten her future. Hell, I dropped out of high school and it didn't completely ruin my life. Not that it made it any easier but that's a whole other post.

The battery meter on my MacBook tells me I have fourteen minutes before going to sleep. I'm way to lazy to get up and find the power cord so I'm playing it safe and writing this post in thirteen. Well, now it says thirteen so I guess I have about twelve. Ish.

I'm tempted to write about a recent event at the office. I know better. I really do. But let me say this briefly. If you're thinking of coming to work at my office and you want to stay there for longer than a few months, I recommend you have a vagina. No. Nothing happened to me. Please don't send me panicked emails.

Though if you want to send me money anyway. Go ahead and click the "Buy Pete A Beer!" link directly below this post.

I got so confused by the early Easter this year and got so wrapped up in the commercialism of the holiday that I nearly forgot to remember the true meaning of the day. Yes, Easter is a converted Pagan sun ritual. No, there's not really a giant rabbit that hides eggs all over your yard only to be found rotting under a tomato plant, weeks later by your dog.

But the true meaning of Easter is that it's the day each year when Jesus rolls away the stone at the entrance to his tomb and pulls the Shroud of Turin away from his eyes. And if he sees his shadow? Six more weeks of Lent.

That's right. 1994.

When we built our house a few years ago, there was one space that was supposed to be left unfinished. A spare bathroom in the basement. But instead of leaving it totally unfinished a few, but not all, of the contractors did some work in there.

The drywallers put up walls that were painted but no plumbing was installed. Drains were roughed-in the concrete floor for a shower and toilet but the tiling guy just covered the floor without regard for where the toilet, shower and vanity might eventually go. In other words, in order to finish the bathroom, I have to rip out all the drywall, tear up a bunch of tile, add plumbing and generally undo all the work that shouldn't have been done in the first place.

I mean, it was very nice of them to do us what they thought was a favor. But next time guys? Just do what's on the plans. Mkay?

So. My grandfather died. Umm. Like. Maybe a couple weeks ago. Though I'm not exactly sure when. Or how. Or where. See, it turns out my dad kind of forgot to tell me. I heard it last night from Donna who heard it yesterday from my new new mom.

This grandfather was my father's biological father. Long before I came along, my dad had a new dad and this guy was relegated to the role of "Grandpa Deb". I knew him mostly from photographs and anecdotes and the last time I saw him in person was at my wedding fifteen years ago. My father didn't care for him much. Nevertheless, he WAS my grandfather.

Because my dad thought Deb was a shitty father and grandfather, I'm sure the news of his death was shrugged off with a "good riddance". And then his disdain for the man and his bad example made my dad do the most ironic thing he could find to do. He did exactly the kind of thing Deb would have done that gave my dad such a poor opinion of him in the first place. He neglected his role as a good man and father and forgot to call his kids with the news.

One night each week, Megan and I take a group beginning guitar lesson at a nearby middle school. The class is a veritable orgy of bad tuning and muted bar chords. But bad as the students are, the instructors hair is worse. At least I assume the hair is his, unless he's still making payments on it.

Bad toupee aside, he's an excellent teacher and I've been surprised how successfully I've learned the fundamentals. I've really picked up a lot of cool stuff and I'm a little bummed that next week is the last class in the course. So after class, I stopped to chat with the teacher about the details of the intermediate course for a couple minutes while a few other students milled around waiting to get a little one-on-one time before the next class shuffled in.

One of those other students who lingered after class was the mousy redhead who always sits in the back. I've never talked to her before but she usually comes in just as class is starting and sometimes flashes a hello smile as she takes her seat across the room. Tonight, she finished her business with the teacher at the same time I got my guitar packed in its case and we both headed towards the parking lot where Donna and Megan were waiting in the car and where, I presume, her car was parked too.

With each polynomial the father explains, his frustration with explaining the relationship of monomials and their powers to his daughter increases exponentially in relationship to the lateness of the hour. Simplify this expression.

My brother's wife has been in town with their kids for a couple of weeks. She flew in to help her brother finalize the preparations for his wedding to a Filipino mail-order bride. Or something like that. Maybe he met her while he was a Mormon missionary in the Philippines. I'm not entirely sure and the more I hear, the stranger it all seems. It's best to just pretend like it isn't going on around me.

While they were here, we had some good time to spend with my nephews and niece while their mother went off shopping for the world's tiniest wedding shoes and blah blah blah, who cares. During their visits with us we reaffirmed that which Donna and I already suspected.

My nephew is autistic.