Fiddley Gomme - Photos

Make It So

Pete — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 18:33:30 -0400

It has recently come to my attention that some visitors to this site might have reason to question my gender. Maybe it's the pink mastheads. Or all the ads for purses and swimsuits. It got me thinking.

Practical Math

Pete — Tue, 26 Feb 2008 00:48:00 -0500

Finally, schools are teaching girls some skills they can use in life.

Objects in equation may be exaggerated due to testosterone impairment

Crazy About The Staircase

Pete — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 19:56:31 -0500

Between the lobby of my office building and the floor where my desk lives there are eighty-six stairs. How do I know? I counted them. Then I counted them again. In fact, I count them every time I climb them.

Why? Umm... because I have OCD, maybe?

Also, while I'm walking up them, my brain is triggered into thinking about an episode of Hill Street Blues. One in particular having something to do with an evidence room and a misplaced pistol.

Why? Hmm... perhaps my mental issues run deeper than previously thought.

The stairs were also cut from steel plates measuring fifty-two inches by five feet. How do I know? Because it's written right on them. Nothing crazy about that, right?

One day I'll measure it just to confirm.

Bamboozled

Pete — Thu, 07 Feb 2008 00:40:21 -0500

Some of the parking at the building where I ~~spend all day on Twitter~~ work is covered by a freeway overpass. But, despite the fact that the overpass keeps the harsh weather off of my car, I rarely park in that part of the lot because it also keeps the harsh weather off of the homeless people who like to poop there. Yesterday though, I pulled into a spot under the freeway for a minute as I took a phone call that came in as I was trying to dash away for a quick dinner before an evening of lugging computers from room to room.

So there I was, minding my own beeswax, coordinating the contractors who were coming to help with the planned server move, when ... KLUNK ... as I was saying ... I was talking on the phone ... KLUNK ... What the hell? ... KLUNK ...

"I'll call you right back."

KLUNK

Rocks were hitting the roof of my car and rolling lazily off the windshield and onto the hood. But why? A vandal from across the lot? Bridge failure? Pigeons defending their territory?

Well, yeah... pigeons.

I snuck up on the nest today and snapped this covert reconnaissance photo.

As I got out of the car and looked up to find the source of the pebbles, I saw the culprit poking her head out the side of her nest atop the steel girder on the underside of the roadway high above me. She quickly ducked back into her nest and then popped right back out.

What the hell is that in her beak?

KLUNK

"You bitch!", I shouted like a deranged hobo at the bird. This was clearly a deliberate act. She wanted me away from her nest.

KLUNK

I was clearly in what she deemed a no parking zone. And since I didn't have a slingshot stuffed in my back pocket, it was time to move. She had won this battle.

But I promise you this... The next time I catch that damn bird humping on the sill of my office window, I will win the war. By pushing that feathered slut to the street below and leaving her to the mercy of the peregrine falcons and pelicans. I hope Thomas Monson can forgive me.

The Family Guild

Pete — Fri, 01 Feb 2008 01:27:45 -0500

My father and I are hardly very different at all. When people meet him it is common for them to comment how alike we are in our mannerisms, conversation style and attitudes. Even the vertical wrinkle next to our left eye is the same. So it should come as no surprise at all when I tell you that my father is, generally speaking, a selfish son-of-a-bitch.

That's why I was touched and surprised, when at the end of a small get-together at his house last weekend, he casually gave me his guitar. A 1978 Guild D25M.

Now, it's not like he's been playing it since he was a boy or keeping it stored in a humidified, bullet-proof display case or anything. In fact, it was sitting at the back of a closet in an unassuming black case with orange, crushed velvet lining. The strings were old and dull-sounding and the finish was dusty and dry. The old girl was in need of a good cleaning and new strings but not much else.

But still, something about this old guitar is special to me. He bought during the only time in my life I remember living with him, when I was about four or five years old. And as far as I know, during the next three or four years while all the whole family lived together in Japan, was the only time he really seriously played it.

When I opened the case, it smelled like our old army base house at Camp Zama. Musty and humid. Somewhere in my mind I could even still imagine the old smokey cigarette smell I expected to have permeated the instrument.

Though I've often described feeling like my dad was a stranger who had moved in with our family at that time, I have some of my happiest memories from then. It was the last time in my life I really felt safe and not the least bit homesick. And this guitar reminds me of that. A lot.

You can't see this but my dad's Social Security Number is engraved on the back of her head.

There are new strings on her now and I've carefully cleaned and polished her. I've even put a period-appropriate leather strap on her that looks as if it came with that vintage 1970's case. It still needs some minor action adjustment but even as it is, it plays and sounds just like I remember when my dad would strum his way through those old Neil Diamond and John Denver songs.

Dusting Off

Pete — Thu, 03 Jan 2008 16:02:35 -0500

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.

In short, I have to do it.

But I didn't come here to blog about blogging. I came here to open my wounds and expose my guts to you... to show you my insides.

Or maybe I just want to show you the inside of my brother-in-law's nose.

Hey, I can hear the ocean!

Body Image

Pete — Mon, 03 Dec 2007 17:00:23 -0500

When Donna was growing up, her parent always lovingly teased that she was their "big girl". I don't mean when she was like five in a gee-now-you're-in-kindergarten-please-stop-sucking-your-thumb sort of way. At five feet, seven inches, Donna is nearly as tall as her dad. So even into high school, she was their "big girl".

While she's never been anything even close to obese, and while she's never considered herself fat, I think it's a safe bet that she also never thought of herself as skinny. In fact, I think that while she's always been aware of her weight and shape, she's never really had either a positive or negative body image at all.

She's certainly been aware of her weight and size and shape but it's never seemed like it was really a part of who she is... a part of her identity.

But something has happened lately as Donna as made a conscious effort to discover the world outside her prescribed boundaries. She has discovered her body. It has become a part of her identity. She now rejoices in skinny days and laments her fat days. In the past, there had been no indication that if she felt one way or another about her body that it made any difference to her daily goings-on.

Better than she looked in High School

The upside to all of this is that, for the most part, she has developed a body image that is positive. She sees herself as a tight, skinny, sexy woman. Which, of course, she is. As a result, she now carries herself with all the physical confidence she deserves. She's not ashamed or afraid of her body within appropriate boundaries.

I, for one, am glad of it and hope she's able to discover and integrate into her identity even more of the fabulous things those of us around her already know.

Smoosh

Pete — Thu, 04 Oct 2007 18:52:45 -0400

Yesterday, as I climbed into my car, I fumbled with my backpack, my keys and my iPhone all while trying to keep my headphones in my ears and keep the door open with my foot.

Long story short, I went all Tony Romo with my iPhone and it slipped like a wet fish from my hand. It hung, in slow motion, hanging onto the headphones by its jack for a moment. And then, it happened. A sudden gust of gravity took her from my clutches.

Thunk. Slide.

I prepared myself for the worst. Happily, she only suffered a slight bruise. A blemish for character.

Why do bad things happen to good devices?

Now, if she's ever stolen, I'll be able to give the police a description and recent photo of her distinguishing marks, scars and/or tattoos.

Rewiring

Pete — Wed, 05 Sep 2007 15:34:07 -0400

This is just the sort of thing that happens when people don't plan the way I asked them to.

There had better be a damsel in a tower at the other end of this.

A Pain In The Throat

Pete — Tue, 04 Sep 2007 19:15:45 -0400

Since I was a kid, I've suffered from canker sores. I remember sitting on the carpeted kitchen floor of our Sandy slum, err.. rental house, in front of the avocado-green refrigerator yelping with pain every time I had to swallow. Always the caring mother, mom would be extra careful when pushing me away from the fridge with her foot when opening the door to get at the pitcher of re-hydrated Deseret Brand powdered milk.

It's been a couple years since I had a serious outbreak but it looks like I'm about overdue. The first tickle came on Friday along with a little redness in the throat. You know these sorts of things are bad when I find myself wishing for strep throat instead of cankers. By Sunday morning, a full-fledged ulcer had formed right on my uvula.

There is no know cause for cankers though some say a combination of factors are likely to blame. Including stress, lack of sleep, sodium laurel sulphate (a nearly-unavoidable main ingredient in toothpaste) and, depending who you ask, apostasy. Great, all I have to do is lie perfectly still, stop swallowing, quit my job and stop brushing my teeth. The apostasy thing is non-negotiable.

So you can share in the horror, I've included a photograph.

I think I can hear the ocean!

... and a close-up.

Is it slutty to show you my uvula?