I'm interested in you. I'm curious about who you are and what makes you tick. I want to meet each and every of you and nuzzle your internecks. I like the sound of my own voice. I like to start my sentences with I.

Lately, I've become a bit frustrated about a couple of things. I've posted what I think is some pretty damn good content fairly regularly on this site for a couple of years now. But my readership has stayed nearly level since it peaked in the first few weeks since the site launched. Try as I might, I've not been able to extend the reach of my voice.

Fine. If people aren't interested in what I have to say then maybe, like me, they're interested in what you have to say.

The love for my children is infinite. It knows no bounds.

I know. Vomit.

I've never found the limits of my love for them... but I can see the edge from here.

I've been thinking about putting together a podcast for a while. I have a ton of ideas, probably too many, and I still need to settle on an exact format. While I'm trying to figure all that out, I'm trying to participate in as many other projects as I can to get the hang of the whole process.

I've been given a generous offer to join Robert Merrill, Thom Allen and Matt Reinbold on The Couchcast this Monday to interview Dave Fletcher, CTO for the State of Utah. I can only assume I've been included as comic relief.

Hopefully the joke isn't on me. Be sure to tune in and find out.

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.

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.

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.

If you listen to the Christian Right® then you probably believe that the world is going to H, E, double hockey sticks in a handbasket. We'll soon live in a world full of people married to animals, drive-thru abortion clinics and nothing but reality shows and hip-hop videos on television. And with all these hip-hop videos we'll soon be facing a crisis... a shortage of rap video girls.

Where, I wonder, will all these hip-shaking, spankie-clad hoochies come from? How will we meet the ever-rising demand for bling girls?

Worry not.

"I think you should do more shows at the theater."

"Oh? Why's that?"

"So I can get a boob job."

I sat in the passenger seat of the rented SUV with the windows down, snapping pictures as we came to the red light at the intersection of 45th and Broadway... Times Square. As we pulled to a stop, this dude came right to the door of the car, stuck his head well into my personal space and asked, "Hey! You guys like hip-hop?"

I was dressed for the theater in the only dress shirt I own. I am, it should be pointed out, the whitest person you've ever met.

"Yes. I love hip-hop. It's all I listen to."

These million show weekends might just kill me. This is me blogslacking again.

There is almost not enough beer in the backstage fridge to make this worth it.

Almost.