Fiddley Gomme - Entertainment

I Want To Make Us Both Famous

Pete — Thu, 12 Jun 2008 00:24:00 -0400

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.

Dancing With The Stars

Pete — Wed, 28 May 2008 22:52:00 -0400

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.

Several of the last Saturday mornings have been spent in the basement studio of Cynthia's very pregnant, usually barefoot, frequently perky dance teacher. This alone isn't SO unusual. With four daughters there seems to be no end to the activities requiring leotards and sequins. I've sacrificed more than my share of weekends and evenings to recitals and lessons.

What made these particular Saturdays so unusual is that I was the one breaking a sweat. These rehearsals were for the dads. Or as the grammar-barren flyer, photocopied on goldenrod, now stuck to the refrigerator door called us, "the dad's." To be specific, we were rehearsing for a dance piece in the upcoming recital that the girls ("our daughter's" -sigh-) had prepared especially to include us.

I figured the teacher, who has seen me on stage, would know that I am simply too uncoordinated and graceless to be trusted with anything more complicated than, as we called it when I was a Madrigal, choralography. Choralography simulates dancing in kind of the same way curling poses as an actual sport requiring skill and coordination. Her misuse of the possessive apostrophe should have tipped me off.

The number is something like a five minute hip-hop cha-cha medley. Or exactly like.

We are required to not just stand there while our kids prance about is while we blush. No. There's actual dancing. And hands. Jazz hands. And possibly the moon walk.

"It's left, left, cha-cha-cha! Listen to the beat, dads (err... dad's)! Try to stay together! Watch your spacing!"

If her navel weren't sticking out six inches, ready to parry my blow, I might be tempted to punch her in the baby. Instead, I smile... I listen to the beat... I try to stay together.

On The Air

Pete — Thu, 01 May 2008 00:30:18 -0400

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.

Monday, May 5, 12 PM MST
You can call in and participate as well by calling 347.324.3797 during the live broadcast.

Playing Hooky

Pete — Fri, 28 Mar 2008 19:09:35 -0400

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.

Goosby, it's hot in here

I just know, deep down, that I'm going to get an A.

Because I Obviously Take These Things Very Seriously

Pete — Wed, 30 Jan 2008 23:00:45 -0500

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.

But now, given some distance from my own Mormonism, the only sense of loss I felt was in a moment when I realized that I would have to put to rest the crown jewel in my vocal impersonation repertoire. Seriously. My actual, honest-to-the-polygamous-God-of-my-forefathers first thought was about how much work it would be to learn Thomas Monson's voice. And in an election year, no less.

You see, my next best voice is George W. Bush. And now, in one year, after so many years of perfecting both voices, I will now have to replace them both. I feel just like Larry Miller and Jerry Sloan must have that year that John Stockton retired and Karl Malone played for the Lakers.

Both Bush and Hinckley have (and had, respectively) particularly distinctive voices. Both, when done well and for the right audience, are instantly recognizable. It will be hard to get the kind of mileage I've gotten out of both voices from the next guys.

But I have a solution to my problem. Mitt Romney for President of The United States AND President of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. It's a perfect solution for both of us, really. He gets to both tell the Mormons what to do AND have them tell him what to do. And me... well I get the most impersonatable candidate with loads of material to work with. Plus, he's not likely to die any time soon.

So whether you're voting on Super Tuesday or a member of the Quorum of the Twelve, do me a favor. Vote Mitt.

In Which My Fingers Become Numb And Calloused

Pete — Wed, 09 Jan 2008 23:15:10 -0500

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.

So that day I told Donna I was buying a guitar. Or better yet, she could buy one for me for Christmas. And so it was. Christmas morning, there was a guitar under the tree. O, come let us adore it.

It says 'Spectrum' in cursive letters on the neck. I'm no linguist but I'm pretty sure spectrum is the chinese word for balsa wood. Even still, two weeks later, I'm playing The Beatles, John Denver and Johnny Cash. OK, I'm playing three-chord versions of their songs from the internet but still, I'm playing them.

And though Donna is a little tired of me falling asleep curled up with the guitar, she is pretty happy about how strong my fingers seem to be getting.

What A Feeling

Pete — Mon, 17 Dec 2007 18:40:30 -0500

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.

Our oldest daughter belongs to a private dance company fully prepared to meet the world's future needs for pole dancers, strippers and backup dancers. This studio's focus is hip-hop dance. Yes, they teach a couple of tap and jazz classes but mostly it's hip-hop. And this past Saturday afternoon they were on parade in full force. Every troupe in the studio got gussied up for their annual Christmas concert at a local middle school.

Let me just interrupt to say a few things to all of you other parents of pre-teen and tween dancers. There are a couple things you need to be aware of.

Number one, sit down and shut up. These recitals are only an hour long. The phone call you got up to make or the comment you made can wait. I'm so sorry if my daughter's performance is interrupting your conversation about scrapbooking but you'll just have to wait till after to talk about it. This goes double for the small children you have climbing all over you. Put a leash and a muzzle on them or I will.

Second, if you take flash photos in a dark theater you will only get a picture of the person sitting in front of you so go ahead and turn the flash off before you blind everyone around you. Face reality, your camera isn't good enough to take a good picture of a stage from a hundred feet away. And even if it were, the fact that you are using a built-in flash to get that shot tells me you aren't a good enough photographer to handle making it happen. So just put your camera away and watch the performance.

Lastly, your kid sucks. no matter how much makeup you slather on her she will never be as cute or be able to dance as well as my kid. Face than now and avoid the disappointment later.

OK, now that we've got that out of the way...

The concert was brief and entertaining. Each skill level and age group performed a short routine showcasing their flexibility, rhythm and generous makeup application prowess.

At the curtain call each of the classes came out for a bow in descending age order (that's oldest to youngest in case you were wondering). And just as you thought the youngest group had curtsied their way across the stage, another, even younger group was right behind them. It was like opening up a Jon Benet Ramsey nesting doll, each class tinier and more intricately decorated than the previous.

I am reassured that night clubs, gentlemen's clubs and rap choreographers will have an ample stock of trained talent to choose from in the coming years.

Tit For Tat

Pete — Tue, 02 Oct 2007 20:34:35 -0400

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

"Oh? Why's that?"

"So I can get a boob job."

"OK. But if I'm buying you new, expensive tits then you have to show them off. I mean, if I'm going to restore an old car I'm not going to leave it in the garage where no one can see it."

"OK. So I can get a boob job?"

It's A Gangsta Menace

Pete — Thu, 27 Sep 2007 19:24:40 -0400

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."

He shoved a CD in my face. A CD featuring a lovely portrait of Chedda Boy himself and two smoking 9mm handguns. "It's A Gangsta Menace C-Boy". His mother is very proud, I'm sure.

"Remember me. I'm gonna be famous."

There was an awkward pause. Awkward in the way that while I paused, he stood there with his head still inside the car. Awaiting my reaction, I presumed.

"Any donation is welcome."

Ah. He was asking for money. I fumbled through my wallet, hoping not to make a scene of the stack of twenties and handed him five dollars.

As we sped away the only adieu I could muster was, "Thanks, brutha." Our trip back to Connecticut up the Westside Highway was orchestrated with the rhythmic stylings of "Knock Knock Twice" and "It's Money In Da Hood".

What? You didn't think I'd shell out five bones for a CD and not listen to it, did you?

Weekends

Pete — Fri, 14 Sep 2007 19:50:35 -0400

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.