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Eight Hours of Recommended Reading

(But only if you're really slow.)

Eight Hours Worth
of other Blogs

I've been to too many blogs to list them all in this column, but you can see the list here.

At Least Eight Hours Worth of Podcasts I'm Not Supposed to Like:

October 2005


Letter From an Observant Reader

Sunday, October 30, 2005
7:20 PM
In your picture of moving boxes under the “fifth offer” I see two boxes with the Pfizer logo that could hold, I dunno, maybe 5,000 Viagra pills a piece. Maybe you should caption it so we don’t wonder!

Mike

* * *

Dear Mike,

First of all, thanks for visiting the site! I can see your concern about the boxes and I want you to know that those boxes are indeed full of Viagra. Rest assured that I don't have any problems in that department. No sir! We use it to make jerky. It makes the meat stiff.

Regards,
Doug

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The Value of a Dollar

Saturday, October 29, 2005
10:53 PM
A few days ago, as Heidi was getting Brynn ready for school, Brynn was counting the number of times Heidi ran the comb through her hair. She was having enough fun counting that she started counting how many seconds it took to do different things as they got ready.

On the way to school, Brynn explained to Heidi that numbers never end—pretty smart for a six year old. They talked about how long it would take to count to a million and how a billion is so big that it was unlikely that you could count that high in your lifetime.

“Brynn, have you ever heard of a billionaire?”

“No.”

“Well, to be a billionaire you need to have at least a billion dollars. Most billionaires are very smart businessmen and own lots of businesses and property. They're very, very rich!”

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“I like rich guys the most!”



Later that evening the topic of money and happiness came up while I was talking with my dad. “Money can't make you happy,” he said.

For whatever reason, some people seem to be convinced that you have to make a choice in life. You can be rich, or you can be happy. Does this mean that a person can't be rich and happy? Do the middle class and poor have a monopoly on joy?

The pious answer is a reluctant yes. Since every religion is essentially a business, it is clear that yes must be the answer if they are to survive. When someone bargains for your house, they try as hard as they can to convince you that your house isn't as desirable as you think it is. When the church is grubbing for your money, they use the same tactic.

Through a combination of guilt and fear, they do all they can to persuade you that your money isn't as desirable as you think it is. An individual who values their money is dangerous to the financial well-being of any religious establishment because they aren't likely to be donating any of it.

The con seems obvious enough to me, but plenty of people do give. I've watched in disgust as my former religion has spent billions on meeting houses, temples, malls, radio stations and conference centers. The cost of LDS church steeples alone could feed thousands of starving people. Instead, church leaders surround themselves with beautiful gardens, buildings and statues while the average members forgo basic creature comforts and even luxuries that should be theirs.

My own mother who never missed paying a dime of tithing in her life has even put off dental work that she couldn't afford. Do her church leaders have to even think about such sacrifice while they sit in their posh offices surrounded by security guards and fine furniture? Do they skip house repairs, eat on the cheap and drive run-down cars? I doubt it. You see, as long as someone keeps sending in the cash, money just isn't that important.

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The King of Comebacks

Tuesday, October 25 2005
11:01 PM
This is a picture of me in fifty years. You can see that I'm still working on the perfect comeback to an argument I had in third grade. I'm kind of slow that way.



Let me give you an example. Waaaaay back in 1989, before I was a heathen, I went on a Mormon mission. HA! No, really. Guayquil, Ecuador. Presidente Walter F. Gonzalez. Giardia. Muggings. Cane shacks. Normally this is the part of the story where I lament all the alcohol and sex I missed out on, but today I'm going to stay on task. Besides, who am I kidding? Back then I would have had to pay for both.

Missionaries who are “called” to speak a foreign language have to spend two months as inmates of a religious boot camp called the Missionary Training Center (MTC). They shuffle you from meeting to meeting and class to class seven days a week from 5:30 in the morning till 10:30 at night. It takes them this long to convince you that paying the church to work twelve-hour days for six-and-a-half days a week is a good idea.

One morning as I stood at a urinal relieving myself, one of the missionaries yelled to me from the door, “Hurry up Humphries, we're going to be late! If you shake it more than once, you're playing with yourself!”

I didn't know what to say. No good Mormon boy wants to be guilty of mishandling his little factory! Completely flustered, I zipped up and hurried off to class.

At least ten years later I found myself in front of a urinal again, only this time at work. In typical fashion, my witty retort revealed itself to me with depressing clarity. “Yes, I know, Elder. And you enjoy watching how other men piss because you're gay.”

Looking back, it's probably better that I'm slow. He and his twin brother were both over six feet tall and weighed in at around 260 pounds. I was five foot six and 125 pounds. I suspect they would have had a funny way of thanking me for prematurely helping them recognize their homosexuality.

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My Prayer

Tuesday, October 25, 2005
7:15 AM
Oh Lord, hear my prayer. As thou hast said, money is evil. Deliver unto me evil. Lots of evil. And write me into thy will on Earth, because I won't get into heaven. Yea, smite me terribly with thy righteous wrath. And an embarrasingly large house.

Oh, and while you're up…could you get me another beer? Thanks. rAmen.

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I'm Not Free, Mom

Sunday, October 23, 2005
3:42 PM
A few days ago, Heidi was asking Brynn to do something. She was being particularly detailed about the instructions. Brynn sighed and said, “I’m not free, Mom.”

“What??”

“I said I’m not free. I’m six.”

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Weird Call From My Wife Today

Friday, October 21, 2005
9:41 PM

“Brynn found a dead mouse at Mom's today.”

“Ugh. Gross”

“She picked it up.”

“No!”



“She tucked it in the bottom of her shirt.”

“EEEEEWWW! NO! THAT'S JUST WRONG!!!”

“Yup. I guess she was carrying it around for a while.”

“Oh my god. That is disgusting.”

“Oh...I almost forgot! She asked mom to pour water on it.”

“Whaaaa???”

“To wake it up. She thought she could bring it back to life if she poured water on it.”

(Short pause).

“Heh! That's kind of cute, isn't it? I mean it's gross, but kinda cute. Sort of.”

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Time in a Bottle

Wednesday, October 19, 2005
11:35 PM
Yesterday after work, I left my desk and started my daily run down the four floors of stairs to the parking lot. As I ran, I mused over how fast time goes by. Hours turn to days, days to weeks, weeks to months. Before you know it, years are gone, your children are grown, and you're left in an empty old house that years ago you thought the builders would never finish. As my short daydream reached its end, I was surprised to find that I had gone one floor too far.

Ever since abandoning religion, I've begun to see a lot more value in each of the individual days of my life. They are finite, irreplaceable and precious. I want to occupy every moment of my life with as many different, beautiful and wonderful things as I can. There is so much life to experience. To waste any of it is the worst kind of tragedy I can imagine.

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He Looketh Over the Commuter

Tuesday, October 18, 2005
11:34 PM
And it came to pass that I was flying through the midst of heaven. And as I flew, I did look down upon my Lord's vast creation. And as I beheld it, his Noodliness saith unto me, “Doug, I would that you should always remember me. For behold, this is my Spaghetti Bowl. And even when thou art swearing in traffic, lo, I am with thee always. rAmen.

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Ok, So I Lied. Sue Me.

Tuesday, October 18, 2005
7:35 AM
I know I said there would be a new post today. My Internet connection is back up, but now I'm fighting something completely different…and weird. My parents house makes me sleepy. I can't explain why. For the last three days, I've been going to sleep as early as 9:45-10:00 PM. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I don't have an office anymore and that my bed and my desk are the same piece of furniture.

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Update

Monday, October 17, 2005
Ok, just a short post to let you all know I'm still alive. The move went great. Thanks to everyone who helped! The rest of you can go to hell. :)

Unfortunately, the Comcast guy didn't do everything he needed to. After a few phone calls yesterday, I was informed that it could take as long as 72 hours to bring my home connection back. So stay tuned. I'll be writing tonight, but it'll probably get posted tomorrow morning before work.

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Offline For a Day or Two

Friday, October 14, 2005
9:49 AM
I'm going to be without Internet access for a couple days while we move. I'm feeling withdrawals already. Anyhow, I'll give you a hint of what I'll be doing until my cable modem is set up. Is it just me, or is Max looking better these days?

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This, Ladies and Gentlemen, is an Empty Bottle of Scotch

Wednesday, October 12, 2005
5:12:41 PM
Why is it empty, you ask? I’ll give you a hint. It has to do with a theory I have. It isn’t published yet. If things are as bad as I fear, most of you won’t understand it. I call it the General Theory of Relative Stupidity. Here it is:

Compared to me, most people are stupid.

I really don’t want to believe in this theory, but the daily accumulation of evidence in support of it has been simply overwhelming. Why else do so many shitty things keep happening to us when we have to depend on other people? By the way—the first person to tell me that it’s because I don’t go to church is going to get bitch-slapped. HARD.

Today a fifth (as in I’m going to need a fifth to handle much more of this) offer fell apart on our house. We were going to close in two days. We’ve reserved the moving truck, cancelled the utilities and moved all the food to my parent’s place. Nearly everything we own is in boxes. I’m almost too exhausted to be pissed off.



Apparently our buyer’s loan qualification was rejected at the last moment. They had been qualified two weeks ago. Unfortunately, in a brilliant stroke of luck that has come to describe my every business transaction, the mortgage company decided to run their credit again this week. They missed it by two points.

Their realtor, who has worked a total of two transactions including ours, didn’t think it would be important to call us. According to my theory, it’s because he’s stupid. It wasn’t until our realtor pressed him that the truth came out. The earnest money we’ll get won’t begin to compensate for the major pain in the ass this has become.

Can the bad luck last forever? We’ll see. We’re going ahead with the move as planned. Hopefully the house will sell more easily now that it’s empty.

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Your Kindergartener Knows More Than You Think

Tuesday, October 11, 2005
4:20 PM

"Hey Daddy?"

"Yes hon?"

"Do you remember that horse with the extra leg?"

"Hah! Yes dear."

"He had a big one, huh?" (Giggling).

"Yes. Yes, he did."

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Figuring Out My Self Worth

Monday, October 10, 2005
9:53 PM
You know, I think I’m a pretty stable guy. I don’t need a lot of outside affirmation. In fact, if I were to find out tomorrow that there were a million people out there that thought my life was only worth a nickel, I’d be okay with that—as long as they sent me the nickel.



No really. Send them in.

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I Got Kicked off Southwest
Airlines and All I Got Was This Fucking T-Shirt

Sunday, October 09, 2005
10:40 PM
I’m sure by now all of you have heard about Lorrie Heasley. She’s the one who got kicked off a Southwest Airlines flight for her oh-so-naughty t-shirt.

Stupidity notwithstanding, I’d say they were acting legally. A company should have the right to set the terms of its service. If you disagree with the terms, do business with someone else.

What I’m not sure I understand is their reasoning. If Southwest sees it as their goal to protect as many people as possible from the mother of all swear words, then they focked up royally.

In their attempt to protect a couple hundred people from “objectionable” material, they got it in front of 100 million people on the evening news. I wish I had designed the shirts. I’d be looking at retirement in a couple weeks.

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The Unnecessary Article

Saturday, October 08, 2005
7:34 AM
Updated 10:48 PM
Sometimes when I’m listening to the radio, the DJ comes on after a song and says, “That was The Smashing Pumpkins playing Today. You’re listening to KBLS and I’m an IDIOT who made it through college with a communications degree and somehow still has trouble understanding the difference between Smashing Pumpkins and THE Smashing Pumpkins.”

Don’t get it? Then you’re part of the problem. Let me clear things up. The band name is SMASHING PUMPKINS. No “the.”

Yeah, but surely it's not that big of a deal, right? Are you still talking to me? Yes it is. Yes it is. Yes it IS. YES IT IS. YES IT IS!!!!! GAWD!

If it’s Smashing Pumpkins, then Halloween has just ended, and a bunch of punk-ass brats (like me in high school) are running around the neighborhood trashing your jack-o-lanterns. The Smashing Pumpkins would be a bunch of well-dressed, possibly homosexual gourds from England.

Maybe it would make more sense if I tweaked the band name just a little: Fucking Pumpkins. As in, "Earl, you've got to stop fucking pumpkins. That's just sick!" Conversely, if it weren't for The Fucking Pumpkins, we wouldn't have all those cute little pumpkins to look at every fall.

Here's another. The Counting Crows is just a bunch of big black birds sitting around counting things. That’s from an Ayn Rand book. (No, really). I think what the band intended to imply was the action of counting birds. It doesn’t make sense to me either, but I checked the album cover for the band name and that's what it says.

Now, let’s see if the DJs in the room understand. Who was the lead singer of The Police?

NO! You morons! It wasn’t “THE STING!!”

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Membership Drive

Friday, October 07, 2005
11:15 PM
You know, if everyone who visits this site brought over just one user …hmmm…let’s see…six. Wow.

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This Week's Calendar

Thursday, October 6, 2005
11:56 AM
Is it too early in the week for me to be thinking like this?

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Daddy's Little Artist

Wednesday, October 5, 2005
8:31 PM
What more can I say? (Sniff) It's...beautiful. I'm so proud!

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Pack Rat Paradise

Tuesday, October 4, 2005
9:38 PM
We’re moving! The house is under contract and we’re supposed to close next week, which means we’ve got a ton to do and not much time . Just one question: Who the hell bought all this shit?

Compared to most people I thought Heidi and I were bare minimalists. Our practicality notwithstanding, we’ve filled the garbage cans several times and even made a trip to the dump. Still, there are a few treasures that I don’t think I’ll part with.

For example, have you ever fumbled with a box of toothpicks and said, “This is so damn inconvenient! If only there was a better way to do this!” Ladies and gentlemen, behold the answer to your prayers. Apparently your god works in more mysterious ways than you thought.



An image this strange probably requires a little explanation. Over twenty years ago, my mom and dad packed all four kids into the Volkswagen bus and drove us out to California. We were there to visit my Grandma and Grandpa Humphries in Carlsbad. They had lived in Utah for the larger part of my childhood, but they had moved for health reasons.

During the visit, Grandma took each of the kids through her house and had us point to a knick-knack that we liked. Once we found one, she wrote our name on a tiny piece of paper and placed it in the object. She told us that someday when she wasn’t around anymore, she wanted us to have the thing we had pointed out. It was probably the first time I realized my grandparents wouldn’t live forever.

Many years later, Grandpa, and then Grandma passed away. I had all but forgotten the details of our visit when my parents reunited me with my chosen treasure. (As you can see, I was a youth of impeccable foresight and taste). This and a few other small things are the only physical reminders that I have of them.

The truly valuable things they left me weren’t tangible. They lived most of their lives in Salt Lake City as proud Jack Mormons. They cursed when it made sense and sometimes when it was funny. They drank beer on fishing trips and at family parties. They laughed loudly and sometimes even argued bitterly. But they loved each other and were married for more than 50 years. They lived their lives fully, sensibly and without apology—as it should be.

See the rest of the knick-knacks here.

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Voulez-vous un faux pas?

Monday, October 3, 2005
1:51AM
My first experience drinking wine in polite company was a few years ago on a business trip to Montreal, Quebec. I was with several of the people from the Canadian branch of our partner company. They were fantastic people and enjoyable to work with.

As a show of their hospitality, they invited me to dinner at an amazing restaurant called La Queue de Cheval. They informed me with a snicker that the name of the restaurant translated to “The Horse's Dick.” I'm glad they weren't reading the menu. (Ahem, waiter? Yes, I'm sorry… my steak is, well um, it's a little stiff).



We were seated after a small wait at a table upstairs. I was immediately in awe. Everything was perfect. A live jazz combo played softly in the background as important looking people sat around their tables enjoying meals the likes of which I had only seen on the Food Network.

A waiter came by with a cart and displayed the different cuts of aged beef available that night in a way that made me feel more like we were shopping for jewelry. My new friends picked a bottle of wine from the list that looked good to them and sent the sommelier on his way.

After a few minutes, the sommelier returned. Standing next to me, he ceremoniously opened the bottle, placed the cork next to my plate and stood at attention. Now, I grew up as a strict Mormon in Utah. I had absolutely no clue as to what protocol surrounded drinking wine in a fine restaurant.

“Dammit! He could have stood anywhere else. Why me? Now what do I do? Omigosh omighosh omigosh! Ok. Try not to look stupid. Just sit really still and see what happens. They can't see you if you don't move.”

I could feel the blood rushing to my face. I knew I had seen what to do in the movies. Unfortunately, the only scene I could remember was the one from the Muppet Movie. You know, the one where Steve Martin says to Kermit the Frog, “Would you like to smell the bottle cap?”

“It can't be the same as that! Oh my god! Ok...can't smell the cork...damn! What do I do?”

My mind was completely focused on one emotion: panic. I didn't move. I couldn't think. I didn't speak. The pause went from long to longer, and then from awkward to painful. A minute or two after painful, everyone stopped talking between themselves and began staring at me as if to say, "Ok already. Do something!"

Finally, the sommelier poured a little wine in my glass. Still I waited, as if by continuing to act like an ignoramus would somehow get me out of the situation gracefully. After what seemed like hours of excruciating social agony, one of them mercifully broke down and said, “Go ahead, taste it.”

I did, and as soon as I proclaimed it fit for consumption, the sommelier filled our glasses. Conversation resumed, noise came back to the room, and everyone around me started moving again. It was at about that time that I remembered to breathe.

The rest of the evening was really quite nice. The meal lived up to all the ceremony and surroundings. Best of all, my gracious hosts seemed to have gotten over the dummy from Utah who didn't know what to do with a bottle of wine.

I think I learned at least two things that night. First, a good cabernet goes really well with a slice of rich chocolate raspberry cake, even when you're full. If you haven't already, you should try it. Second, it's usually better to just admit up front that you're a doofus and don't know what the hell you're doing than it is to play things out. In my experience, most people are quite forgiving.

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Dorking Around

Saturday, October 1, 2005
12:06AM
Heidi bought me a Wacom tablet. Hee hee, giggle giggle.

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