This weekend I was obligated... err... pleased as punch to attend Megan's Jr. High School production of "Fiddler on the Roof". I was fully prepared with an arsenic pill I kept clenched between my molars, ready to break open, just in case. A full-length, professional production of "Fiddler" is generally hard enough to stomach. Add the variables a Utah middle school has to offer a musical and it truly has some horrifying potential.

Well, wasn't I just as surprised as a Bishop with his pants down to find that this was a production of "Fiddler on the Roof, Jr." Junior! Hot shit! What will they think of next? Church, Jr? Colonoscopy, Jr? Visit from the in-laws, Jr? Whoever thought of this idea is a friggin' genius and deserves some kind of award. Perhaps a Nobel Prize, Jr.

At last my formal education in musical theater came in handy. It was actually to my benefit that I already knew every line of the show (Though it may never be useful that I have the original opening night cast of the Broadway production committed to memory like the vivid details of an automobile accident I just can't shake. God damn you Jim Christian and your Musical Theater Trivia Death Sheet, 1991.) because this script was not offering much as far as character development or conflict and resolution. It was like the kids were performing a staged reading of an outline of the show.

Today's post is post number 193. This is in no way significant in any way at all. It is however just as significant as any number of things a lot of people choose to celebrate as abnormal, miraculous or supernatural. Like Passover, Easter, Christmas, baptisms, blessings, Thursday night TV and the like.

So... I hereby submit that there is a special historical significance to Post Number 193, henceforth and forever known as PN-C1. PN-C1 reminds us of the fleeting nature of life and love and renews our commitments made at logging-on. Namely, that I, Pete love you and want you to buy my t-shirts and stuff because they will bring you (and most importantly, me) joy and happiness (and money).

Rejoice, Fiddlyonians! Rejoice and Happy Holy PN-C1! Enjoy it while you can because there will never be another PN-C1. It is once-in-a-lifetime and once it's gone, like your virginity, you'll never get it back.

I was asked recently what it was like to grow up Mormon. What was it like? What does that even mean? It was like growing up, duh. How would I even know if it was different from the way someone else grew up. We accept the reality we are presented.

Really, growing up Mormon didn't have the kind of major impact it may have for some people. Oh, sure there were uncomfortable and inappropriate Bishop's interviews. There was a lot of pressure to behave a certain way. There was a level of repression that I may not have had outside of a religious upbringing. But I'm not convinced I would have escaped those sorts of things raised outside the LDS culture.

If anything, Mormonism provided a lot of social networking a kid from a poor family would not have otherwise had in a school full of rich kids. I went to dances, met girls and made friends at church dances, outings and meetings. And for the most part, those other kids and me did all the things kids everywhere do. We just did it under the umbrella of a heightened expectation. But that didn't stop us, it just kept us from telling our parents about it.

I'm back at work today after an extended weekend camping trip with my old friend Danny.

Camp as a row of pink tents.

Our extensive and scientific research tells us that there's nothing about cold rainy weather that will keep you from sitting around a fire and drinking large amounts of beer. It also seems, though the data is sketchy, that the more beer you consume the more hilariously entertaining it is to melt beer bottles in a campfire.

"Have you ever shaved your arms?"

"No... No I haven't. I'm not Canadian, eh."

The camp awaits us.
Not quite spring or summertime.
Beer will be consumed.

The mens' restroom in my building is divided, cleverly enough, with urinals in front, bowls and stalls in the rear. A subconscious tribute to "milk, milk, lemonade, round the corner fudge is made", I'm sure.

Today as I passed through the front area, past the urinals, towards the stalls, another man passed me in the opposite direction. He had obviously just been a patron of the stalls. I approached the bank of three stalls and sized up the situation.

The one on the far right has a prominently-displayed handicap access placard. I happen to know that there are a couple of men in the building who are legitimately physically handicapped who make use of the larger stall and handrail. Most others are respectful of this and leave the stall available for those who need it.

I found out why the theater hadn't yet called. It's not that they didn't want me to do the show I was being considered for. It's that the want me to do the next four shows.

One would be the situation I already told you about, picking up an extended run for an actor who can't continue with the show. The other is the show I actually was interested in doing in the first place. I have played this role before and when I saw it on the schedule I expressed interest. Shows three and four would run concurrently right after show number one ends but before the run of show number two.

If I agreed to all four roles I would begin rehearsals immediately and be either on stage or in rehearsal until the middle of November. It would be a commitment of ten to twelve performances or rehearsals a week starting pretty much this week. All this in addition to my regular day job.

I don't need random freaks stalking my children, it's bad enough the Primary President drops by from time-to-time. To keep the creeps at bay, I don't post pictures of my children. I think I may have found a loophole though.

Turning their backs on me already.

"I was talking with a couple of my friends the other day about you making beer."

"Oh yeah?"

"They asked if you 'get drunk and stuff'. I couldn't help but laugh. You hardly drink at all and when you do, it's not even a big deal. Just one or two beers now and then."

From outside the stall I heard the clickity-clack of a cell phone being dialed and a voice approaching the stall next to mine.

"Hello... is Nichole there?"

There was a short wait as the caller entered the stall and closed the door behind him.

"Mom, Dad, I just started my period," Megan said as casually as if she were announcing the completion of a piece of toast. She was seemingly unaware of the fact that the sun was not yet up and our eyes were not yet open.

"You what?" Donna said groggily.

"My period, it came this morning. I thought you'd like to know."

I could hear sniffling from the hallway outside our bedroom door as Donna and I argued. I opened the door and the light poured in revealing the silhouette of our ten year-old daughter, Cindy. She was crying and clutching her teddybear, Stanley.

Cindy came in and her mother cradled her on the bed.

"What's the matter?" I asked, knowing full-well what the matter was.

Listening to the 80's station today caused me to wonder...

If you girlfriend were in a coma, how long would you feel obligated to remain faithful? What factors would influence your decision? What if you decided to move on and she woke up?

A related question... If a ten-ton truck, kills the both of us... Oh nevermind.

According to Mormonism and it seems, some other religious nuts with too much time on their hands, April 6th-ish is the actual birthday of Jesus Christ.

Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. There isn't a meter sensitive enough to measure how little I care. In my opinion, this is just another quirk Mormons have adopted to set themselves apart as the snootiest-of-all-know-it-alls in a sea of other pretty-damn-snooty-know-it-alls.

What's more important (and not at all in dispute) is that today is Billy Dee Williams' 70th birthday. So go out rent Return of The Jedi and get yourself a nice, tall cold Colt 45 to celebrate.

Not a word from the theater today. They never write. They never call... Perhaps they don't need me after all. It's just as well though. I'm not completely sure I really want to jump back into the game like this anyway.

Though I've filled-in on literally two hours notice for shows I've never seen, this time I'm a little scared. As I think about it I am coming to the realization that being on stage generally, and bailing out for diva actors who leave in a huff specifically, has always scared me. I just never noticed before because I was always going to great lengths to numb my fear with some medication or another. Usually by getting my hands up a skirt. Or drinking heavily. Or both.

Now, left alone with what is probably a totally understandable level of anxiety about a pretty stressful situation and basically no medication, I'm scared. It makes me wonder if I can still perform with abandon and confidence as I once did or If I'll freeze up and wet myself.

How do I start telling this story? From the beginning, I suppose. No wait, from the end. Err... the middle?

Oh hell, just try to follow along...

This morning, just as I got to my desk at work, my cell phone rang. I answered because, well, that's what you do when your phone rings.

I read the other day that adding just one twelve-ounce beer to your daily diet with no other changes to caloric intake or exercise will net an extra fifteen pounds of weight gain per year.

I guess I'm going to have to mix in some sit-ups now and then. Or maybe a squat thrust here and there.

Concerned in Suckramento asks, "How did you make it through General Conference weekend?"

Dear Concerned,

I have a one-word answer for you: Beer.

...read the rest...