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Web Eight Hour Lunch


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:

July 2006


Watching My Language

Sunday, July 30, 2006
11:15PM

I've been fascinated with other languages since I was a kid. So when I was a junior in high school and found out I could take two years of French instead of the regular English classes, I jumped at the chance. I don’t remember my exact reasons for choosing French over the other languages, but it was probably because I thought it’d help me find a girlfriend. Of course we’re talking about me in a public high school. Unless you count swearing, I managed to avoid learning much French or English, and I didn’t have a girlfriend.

After two years of French and a year after graduation, I wound up on an LDS Spanish-speaking mission (go figure). I don’t remember my exact reasons for going on a mission. Besides the pressure and the whole “God said so” thing, it was probably because I thought it’d help me find a girlfriend.

My first two months of training were in Provo, Utah. Early on, we were given a rule: HSI (Hable Su Idioma, or “Speak Your Language”). It meant that we were supposed to speak in the language of our destination all the time. As far as I was concerned, HSI was a new commandment from God, and I acted accordingly. Believe me; I faced no small amount of ridicule for wanting to speak only Spanish with a bunch of white Mormon teenagers who just didn’t care.

For all the great things I had heard about the Missionary Training Center (MTC), the pressure was killing me. I felt wholly inadequate. I cried a lot. My naïve dream of fluency seemed untenable. But I was doing it for God! Why shouldn’t I be able to pick up the language in two months? Wasn’t I worthy?

In 1989, I had this picture taken in Cuenca, Ecuador.
Color film wasn't invented until after I went home.

A year later, while walking through rows of cane shacks on a muddy street in a bad part of Guayaquil, I had a startling realization: I was thinking in Spanish. And then it dawned on me—there were people on the other side of the globe from me thinking in Japanese. (I know, I know. “Is there no end to his genius?”)

There I was going about my business while billions of other people went about theirs— nearly all of them thinking in their native tongues. None of them would likely ever have so much as even a hint of my existence, and yet for a moment I felt strangely connected to them. How would it be if I could step inside a few of their minds just for a minute—to see the world as they see it? Learning their language seemed to me to be at least a step in the right direction.

When I arrived home in May of ‘91, I goofed around with Portuguese for a few weeks. I don’t remember the exact reasons why I thought I’d need to know another language. There was the chance that it’d help me earn more money. Maybe that would help me find a girlfriend. But alas, it didn’t come to me instantly and I abandoned it. I guess it’s just as well. I’ve met maybe three Portuguese speakers since, and my samba CDs don’t count.

I do remember the exact reasons why I studied German. I was fresh on the heels of a bad breakup when I met a girl who had family in Frankfurt. I liked her enough that I made a pretty serious effort to learn German. Have you ever stood outside your former self and said, “WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING? WELL??” Looking back, she had given me little or no reason at all to think that I’d actually end up over there once she moved back.

I’m still pretty good with my German numbers, but I’ve lost most of what I studied. I did learn one thing though. There are plenty of reasons to learn or do all sorts of things, but one of the worst reasons to take on something tough is for someone else.

It has been a long time since my first French class in high school. Strangely enough, I’ve rekindled my interest. I’m not sure exactly where I’ll end up with it, but it has been useful at work. If I could, I'd love to learn Japanese and Chinese just because they look and sound so cool—or maybe even Korean first. Hell, I already have a head start in Hap Ki Do…

At the core of my interest in foreign languages is a sincere fascination with the people behind them. I like to hear what they have to say, and I love hearing it in their language. I’m genuinely interested in other peoples’ cultures and lives. If I could start taking it all in tomorrow, I would.

And that brings me back to the dilemma of the Eight Hour Lunch—I want more things from life than will ever be possible in the time I have. So you might say I approach life like a buffet—come hungry and take in as much as you can. The things you might have liked best could be gone tomorrow.

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Class Action Suit

Thursday, July 27, 2006
5:00PM

Kind readers,

If you consider yourself even moderately pious, you may want to skip today’s post. Consider yourself warned.

Doug

***

Andrea Yates was determined not guilty for killing her kids yesterday by virtue of the fact that she is FUCKING INSANE. (Good thing she wasn't one of those completely mentally stable types that murders her children by holding them underwater in a bathtub). Yates appeared surprised to hear she was indeed not a murderer and that she, like Jack the Ripper, was just crazy.

Survivors on the other hand felt like they were left holding the bag. Of course they couldn't argue with the verdict—it was obvious. But if it wasn’t her fault, who should pay? If Yates truly had a deficient mind, and it was no fault of her own, there was only one person to blame—God.

And that, prosecutors say, is why they’ve filed a class action law suit against God T. Almighty, Esq. for an infinite amount of damages. In a press conference today, lead attorney Martin Lieberman had few kind words to share.

“Mr. Almighty knowingly created Yates' mind with these attributes. Given His omnipotence and perfect knowledge of the future, we can't look at this as anything other than gross malfeasance. Not only did he do nothing to prevent this tragedy, for thousands of years He has shamelessly continued to foster an environment where this kind of brutality is allowed to occur time and time again. Enough is enough.”

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One in a Bazillion. BUH-ZILLION

Wednesday, July 26, 2006
1:36PM

My hell! Real men say bazillion! Just the same, I'd like to extend a hearty welcome to everyone from The Blog Reader!

For those of you unfamiliar with the site, they interview bloggers across a wide variety of topics, and well one day a couple of weeks ago, they interviewed little old me. The interview was posted today. You can read it here. Please stop by and drop a comment or two.

I'd say that for the space they had, they did great. Now that it's up, I have just one problem. No one told me I'd feel like such a dork.

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Clean Flicks My ASS

Monday, July 24, 2006
8:20PM

This morning I stumbled on a local blogger’s post entitled Hollywood Hates You. He had a lot to say, but this paragraph should give you an idea of where he was headed:

“Now don’t get me wrong, I agree with the ruling, but I can’t help but find the case, brought to the table by the Directors Guild of America (DGA), utterly despicable. Why? Because any other industry would offer its customers what they want.”

Clean Flicks founders comment on
the state of the modern movie industry.

It should come as no surprise that he moderates his comments. Mine may or may not ever be approved, but just the same I thought I’d share my answer here:

***

I think you're missing something. When you buy a scrubbed movie, the producer of the "dirty" movie still gets their money. Is this your idea of a great stand for morality? If these movies are truly evil as you suggest, then shouldn’t you avoid supporting your enemies at all costs? Or does your need for entertainment outweigh your values?

If I'm the big Hollywood producer, I'm in business to succeed financially and create more of my art. So I see loads of copies of Titanic flying out the window, how should I interpret that information? People are ok with the nudity (damn straight!). Your purchase, scrubbed or not, sends a clear message to the producer: make more of it.

You can't call something evil on the one hand and then grant your sanction on the other by financing it. If you think those movies are bad, pay to see movies you think are good. When is the last time someone forced you to see one of these movies you so strongly object to? I'm betting never.

The reason these movies continue to exist is that people like me willingly pay to see them. We see value in them, and we’re happy to exchange our honest work for what we get in return.

You say Hollywood hates you? If it’s true, can you blame them? Then again, maybe you wouldn’t care if I cloned your blog, cut out the parts I don't like, replaced them with sex and drugs, and called it yours.

***

And now a quick closing note. We bloggers tend to congregate in places where everyone agrees with us. While I completely understand the desire to be around people of similar values, I think it’s a lousy way to change the world. If we’re going to have any effect in the world at all we’ve got to test our ideas and the ideas of others in free and open discussion.

So what’s my advice? Try it. I think you’ll like it.

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Writing for a Younger Audience

Sunday, July 23, 2006
8:33AM

Yesterday I ran some diagnostics against this site and discovered something interesting. According to their careful analysis of different words and their frequency in my posts, I'm writing at the level of an eighth grader in the US. The geographical distinction is important because eighth graders anywhere else use words with more syllables.

One distinction that I’m not sure about is this: Do they mean at the intellectual or the emotional level of an eighth grader? Or is it both? Either way, all I have to say is that those goddamn little shits had better watch their fucking language or I’m going to have a chat with their parents.

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Digital Video Recluse

Tuesday, July 18, 2006
10:00PM

There was a time when I thought nothing could get in the way of my writing. Nothing. I had latched onto the large benevolent breast of the blogosphere and…ahem…heh! (Cough, cough). Sorry. I think that was just a dream I had last night.

What I meant to say is that blogging has become something of an obsession for me. I love to write, and I’m absolutely sick/compulsive/crazy about checking in on my stats. Every time I walk by a computer, my first thought is to check the comments or my server logs. I have a problem, and I know it.

Or maybe I had a problem. We had dish installed a few days ago—and a digital video recorder. Who knew I could watch my favorite shows whenever I want? And without commercials? NAW! You’ve gotta be shitting me! Next thing you know, you’ll be saying I can pause a live show. Hey, I’m not stoopid.

Ok, I’m not stupid, but I’ll admit to being a little behind the times on this one. I figured who needs it? That was until I watched two straight hours of television this evening that I actually wanted to see. I usually don’t watch that much in two weeks. Really.

The truth is, it’s the addictive nature of television that scares me a little. Once I get started, I can’t quit. Kind of like this damn computer. Only when I sit down to the computer and write, at least I walk away with something to show for it. The best I usually manage to get from TV is a bewildered stare and a drop in my IQ.

So, please. Check in on me from time to time. If you see that I’ve gone several days without posting, I may be in need of an intervention. I figure there’s about a 50/50 chance of you finding my gangly, pasty-white, malnourished popcorn-and-cola sustained body stuck in exactly the same spot on the couch where I started. I’d write more, but alas, Mr. Stewart is waiting.

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The Smell of Burning Innocence

Friday, July 14, 2006
8:10AM

Back in third grade when I still thought a blowjob was a puff of air in your girlfriend's ear, my family moved to a new neighborhood. It was there that I made two new friends who would inalterably dirty my young, clean mind forever.

I don't even remember their names now, but I do remember they were from China. They had bad-ass transformer toys ten years before anyone else. They taught me how to say rude things in Chinese. Best of all, they had matches, a plethora of things to burn, and an enormous stash of porn. Did I mention that their parents were never home?

We managed to get into all sorts of amazing and wicked trouble. I was a pretty bright kid, so I knew the things my mom didn’t want to hear. For example, I was far too smart to tell her about the matches. A year or two earlier, my best friend and I had leveled an entire alfalfa field in a highly appropriate and scientific study of the quick release of energy from phosphorous-tipped sticks when applied to dry grass. I was pretty sure she wouldn’t understand that I had learned from my mistakes.

I also knew that bringing home a second-hand Playboy subscription would be suicide. Of course that didn’t keep me from looking at them while I was there. I knew my boundaries. Besides, we were just kids. After our initial curiosity wore off, we got bored and started looking for something with more of a punch line.

That’s about when one of the brothers introduced us to a small and very interesting box he’d found in his parents’ room. He reached in, pulled out a small foil package, tore it open, and unrolled its contents. What a neat way to package balloons! Oh sure, they smelled strange and were kind of funny-shaped, but wow! How’d they ever come up with that?

Instant fun! Just add water.

The older of the two brothers ran to the master bathroom and stretched one of the long, clear balloons over the faucet in the tub. He only turned it on a little at first, then a little more, and then finally full blast.

“Ohh…ooooh…ooooaaahhh…AAAAAAAAAH!! OH GOD!!!”

Whoosh! BLAM!!!

“BWAAAHAHAHA!!! Do it again, do it again!!!”

We emptied the entire box.

I didn’t know it then, but we had stumbled upon something revolutionary. Who knew at the tender young age of nine that you could enjoy an entire afternoon with a just a box of condoms and the company of a close friend? Genius, I tell you. Pure genius.

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Life is…

Tuesday, July 11, 2006
7:35PM

Yesterday I took Brynn to see the doctor. We had a bit of a wait before we were seen, so she kept busy by reading the crafty décor on the walls. She paused on one, mouthed it, and then read it out loud.

“Life…is…good.”

“Good girl!”

“Daddy, that’s wrong.”

“What? Why?”

“It should say life is great!”

Yes it is. Thank you for reminding me.

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Poppin’ Fresh HELL

Sunday, July 9, 2006
10:20AM

I tend to think I’m a pretty tough guy. There aren’t a whole lot of things in life that scare me. I’ve flown solo cross-country several times. I’ve been mugged at knife point twice. I’ve ridden at insane speeds out of the local canyons on my bike without a helmet. Hell, I even enjoy public speaking—the bigger the audience, the better.

But there is one thing that pushes my limit: Poppin’ Fresh Dough. You know—the little cans of dough that you twist open like an evil jack-in-the-box from hell? Somewhere between pulling the can out of the fridge and laying the rolls out in the pan, I know it’s going to pop, and when it finally does it always scares the bajeezus out of me.

Hee, hee, hee! Ha, ha ha! BWAAAAHAAAHAAAHAAAAA!

This morning, Heidi was still in bed when I got up to make coffee, so I thought I’d do something nice. I took a can of orange rolls out of the fridge and preheated the oven. As I set the can on the counter, I felt my chest tighten. Without her in the kitchen, I had to open the can myself.

I procrastinated. There must be something else I could do first. “Oh yeah, gotta grease the pan!”

Done.

“Ok, ok, what else? Milk…need milk.”

Done. My heart rate increased slightly.

“Ok, ok. Umm…plates…cups…forks…”

Done.

“All right. I’ll just peel the can first. Then I’ll think about twisting it. Just peel it first…”

I held my breath and started to peel the can.

“One…two…thh…”

BAM!!!

My head jumped back, my eyes clenched shut and my heart leapt into my throat.

“JESUS!!!”

Now I know why the Doughboy laughs. The little shit.

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Good Morning, Suzy Sunshine

Saturday, July 8, 2006
9:19AM

I am not a morning person. Let me clarify. I am not the kind of person who likes any human contact until around 9:30 or 10:00 if possible. I don’t have any problem getting up early. In fact I like it.

My daughter, on the other hand, wakes up at 7:00AM like a hummingbird on speed. If I’m the transmission and she’s the engine, she makes sure that she’s at 7000 RPM before she jams me into first gear without the clutch. For the next two hours, she orbits me with the speed and unpredictability of an electron, insuring that I’ll die a crazy old man.

“Daddy! Guesswhat, guesswhat? Look at this string! I got it in my room! It came from my toy box!! It has two knots in it! I have lots of other strings, too! Look! Do you know where my t-rex is? I like my t-rex toy. It’sreallygreatlookwhatIcan
makehimdolooklooklooklookLOOK!Daddy!!!LOOOK!!!!”

Two knots. Same String.

“You know, Doug, I can’t wait until we get the blinds in.”

“Unnngh?”

“It’ll be so nice. These chairs are great. Can we bring in Brynn’s nightstand today? I just want to make sure they match her bed. Can you hear the lawnmowers outside? That’s definitely a summer sound. We won’t be doing that for a while. You know when I getsometimeIwanttotakea
lookatthefinancesifyoucouldletmeonthecomputer…”

Oh. Now I get it.

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A Letter To A Friend

Wednesday, July 5, 2006
10:52AM

Dear Mister Coffee,

It has been nine long months since Heidi and I last turned you on. We've missed you so much. But now we have our own house and I don’t care who knows about you!

I’m still wound up from our threesome this morning. As sun shone on my face through the kitchen window, we marveled at your beautiful, dark complexion and drank in your warmth. It just felt good—and right.

For months, we looked for satisfaction in other places—McDonald’s, Starbucks, the Java Hut—but none of them compare to seeing you in our home when we wake. And for this, you will always have a special place in our kitchen. We need you, Mr. Coffee. We’re codependent and we’re proud.

Love always,

Doug and Heidi

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