In order to make it to the U2 concert in Salt Lake City on Friday, my friend Pants (names have been changed) had to ride, freezing, in the back of some guy’s pickup truck all the way from Mesquite, Nev. But he’s not the only one who suffered. I had to sit around my house all afternoon and wait for him!

But it was worth enduring these trials to see the world’s greatest living rock band. I am not usually much of a concert-goer, because I dislike large crowds and loud noises. (Chronologically, I am not yet 30, but mentally, I’m well into my 70s. Also, I’m a cat.) Also, I don’t care much for the smell of marijuana, which is distributed free at all concert venues. Also, most rock bands suck.

I never thought I would be one of those fusty old grown-ups who complain about how music was better when they were young than it is now, but here I am, old, grown up, covered in fust, and telling you with great certainty that modern music is terrible and music in the old days was awesome (also: tubular). In my day, we had the great synth-pop bands of the ’80s, as well as the more straight-ahead rock ‘n’ roll of such masters as … um, Laura Branigan, I guess. OK, we didn’t have much good rock in the ’80s, either, because it was all those hairy bands like Poison and Def Leppard, but the pop was good. Even Michael Jackson, who is now the least cool person on the planet, was cool then. (I know! If I hadn’t lived through it, I wouldn’t believe it, either.)

But today’s music — awful. Just awful. When I want to shake my head, roll my eyes and sigh deeply, I look at the names of the artists on the Billboard Hot 100. On the current chart are these people: Ja Rule, Ginuwine, Staind, Aaliyah, Bubba Sparxxx, Jay-Z, Nate Dogg, and Travis Tritt. Yes, Travis Tritt. They’ve even let country singers in. Clearly, the state of modern music is a sad one indeed.

U2 is another matter, though. Despite having been around for 25 years, U2 has not become a grotesque self-parody, like certain bands with names like Rolling Stones I could name. And despite being current, U2 still produces some solid rock ‘n’ roll music, and performs it with an energy and dedication not generally achieved without the aid of sorcery.

Pants shares my feelings about modern music, so you can see why getting to the concert was so important to him. He wound up in the back of a pickup truck because his car broke down in Mesquite, which is not far from Las Vegas, which is where he started. The car rental agency in Mesquite had nothing available, and the guy who offered to give him a lift to Utah wandered off to “play the slots” and was not heard from again. Pants’ last available opportunity, for which he was grateful, was to sit in the back of a truck.

He reports that this was fine at first. They were in Mesquite, and it was a pleasant, sunny afternoon. By the time they reached St. George, Pants reported “chilliness” and put on a sweater. By Cedar City, it was “cold,” and he put his jacket on over his sweater. By Fillmore, he was stuffing the spare clothes from his overnight bag into his pant legs, then guzzling hot chocolate from the gas station, then setting himself on fire. When he arrived at my house, he was colder than a dead librarian.

The concert made it all worthwhile. The soulful singing of Bono (not Sonny Bono) and the expert musicianship of the Three Guys in U2 Besides Bono warmed us to the gills; indeed, my gills were slightly singed. It was a thrilling, cathartic show. But why must they play so loud? You kids today, with your rock ‘n’ roll.

Today’s topic, at least until I get sidetracked: stuff that isn’t funny. (YOU: That’s what your column is always about! ME: Har!)

Certain things are considered not funny now because they are in poor taste “in light of recent events”; apparently, some people think that if something’s in poor taste, that means it’s not funny, when in fact I can think of many jokes that are tasteless AND funny, including a ribald yarn about a piano player who is 12 inches tall.

Here is a case study: The guy who hung around University Mall on Halloween and pretended to blow anthrax on people. According to the Daily Herald — and I don’t know if I believe anything I read in that rag — Scott Armstrong, 33, dressed up like a reporter and went around asking people if they were worried about anthrax. If they said they weren’t, he would blow a handful of nothing on them and tell them they had now been exposed to it.

Everyone freaked out, of course, because freaking out is what we do here — it will be an Olympic sport — and Armstrong was arrested. No doubt his defense is that he was just playing a Halloween prank. Well, fine. As a joke, it’s not bad, and though a 33-year-old should have stopped being interested in Halloween about 23 years ago, that certainly is the right day, along with April Fool’s Day and Pioneer Day, for a prank. However, he failed to take into account his local audience, which isn’t that good at taking a joke anyway (trust me), and which is particularly jittery right now.

Another example: Reagan Outdoor Advertising has refused to accept billboard ads making jokes about polygamy. An ad for Brighton Ski Resort would have said the new chair lifts have room for four people — specifically, “Wife, wife, wife, husband.” Reagan also nixed a Wasatch Brewing billboard that said, “Why have just one?,” in reference to both wives and beer. (If I had multiple wives, I think I’d have to drink a lot, too.)

According to The Salt Lake Tribune, Reagan Outdoor Advertising president Dewey Reagan said, “Yes, there’s actually a guy named Dewey. Yes, I know it’s a ridiculous name. Yes, that’s why I have no sense of humor.”

No, that’s not what he said. He said, “(Polygamy) is not something Reagan wants to be associated with.”

I notice Reagan has no problem, however, being associated with Totally Awesome Computers and its owner/pitchman/cloven-hooved demon SuperDell, who is the embodiment of all evil and must be stopped before he slays our children and drinks their blood. No, Reagan likes him and his billboards just fine. When asked about the SuperDell connection, Dewey Reagan said, “Yes, like the Dewey Decimal System. No, my brothers aren’t named Huey and Louie. Can we just let it go?”

But just let it go we cannot, for there are important issues to discuss. At times like these, don’t we need humor more than ever? And more importantly, aren’t we tired of people saying “at times like these”? Yes. Yes, we are.

I maintain that the anthrax guy’s prank suffered more from bad timing than bad taste — it would have been viewed as mere harmless stupidity a year ago — and that there is absolutely nothing wrong with the proposed skiing and beer billboards.

Let’s lighten up, folks. Anthrax is not an epidemic, and the odds you’re being targeted are slim. I know I’m not worried. I doubt the people who dislike me have access to anthrax; most of them don’t even have access to a spell-checker.

And do I even need to explain why it’s OK to joke about polygamy? Polygamists are Utah’s official State Joke. Let’s embrace them and mock them and let the whole world know we love our adorable, misguided little zealots. We need them now, at times like these.

I went to the ballet to try to broaden my horizons. I tend to be more artistically inclined than, say, the governor of Minnesota, but my tastes do not generally run as deep as ballet. All that dancing, and so few electric guitars. It seems like a waste.

The opera is something else I usually find inaccessible. I always wonder how it would be to live in that strange world where people sing instead of talking. I think there would be a lot of suicides in that world. Which there are in operas, too, so I guess it makes sense.

The last opera I saw was “Carmen,” which is a delightful show about a skanky woman who wins the love of a guy named Don Jose, who then kills her. Huzzah! (“Carmen,” by the way, is in no way affiliated with “Where in the World Is Carmen Sandiego?”)

But back to the ballet. Before I went, I happened to see part of a DVD recording of “Swan Lake,” which was staged last year on Broadway in an attempt to trick theater-goers into watching ballet. At one point in this ballet, several of the main characters go to an opera. A ballet about people going to the opera: What sort of experiment is this? If the opera were about people standing in line at the DMV, then the unholy trinity of tedium would be complete, all in one show.

Or so I thought, before I attended a ballet last week in Salt Lake City. (As is often the case, my opinions had to be altered upon actually experiencing the thing.)

It was not boring. It was beautiful and exciting. The stage was filled with so many lithe young men and flat-chested young women, I thought an Obsession commercial was going to break out. The music and dancing complemented each other, telling a story. (“Once upon a time, there were some people who were dancing.”)

It was a wonderful experience, even with the two old ladies behind me who kept talking. I think they’re the same two old ladies who are always behind me, talking during shows, like when I was at “No, No, Nanette” and someone in the play said, “Marry me, Nanette!,” and one of the old ladies said, “That’s Nanette,” which we all found very insightful. These old ladies follow me around everywhere I go as part of a vast conspiracy to drive me crazy. They report back to their headquarters, which are in a secret lair cut in the shape of a big purse out of the side of a mountain, where the evil queen old lady says, “What is the status of Operation Drive Eric Crazy?,” and the old ladies don’t answer, because they weren’t paying attention, because they were talking about shampoo.

But I digress. If I had a nickel for every column I’ve written about people who talk during shows, I’d have enough money to have each of those people killed.

The point of this particular column is that we needn’t be so afraid of things like opera and ballet. In Europe, people go to operas the way we in Utah go to plays: It’s a fairly casual thing, everyone does it, they bring their screaming babies, they eat candy bars during it, they call it a “good” production as long as everyone knows their lines, and they get mad if any local critics say otherwise.

Ballet is also popular in other countries, primarily countries where televised wrestling is not popular. Many of these countries are in Europe, though, so I can understand our ignoring them when they say ballet is fun. But you can take my word for it, and I’m sure the old ladies will back me up. Don’t look, but they’re sitting … behind me … right … now ….

The dull-looking men on TV tell us that America is entering a recession. Now, despite having its root in the word “recess,” a recession is not all fun and games and kickball, nor do school children look forward to it, nor does it end after 20 minutes with the sound of a bell. In fact, a recession is nothing at all like recess. Stupid language.

A recession is a downturn in the economy, marked by a decline in trade and employment. It is not as bad as a depression, which occurred in the 1930s and is the leading cause of thrift among old people. A depression requires Prozac; a recession just needs us to eat a lot of ice cream and watch a funny movie. Unfortunately, we cannot afford the good ice cream, so we’re stuck eating generic, and even if we could find enough loose change to go to the movies, the theater would be full of teenage girls talking on cell phones. So times are indeed bleak.

I don’t know what economic indicators are used to officially determine recessionhood, and I’m certainly not going to look them up. I’m going by my instincts: We must be in a recession, because I don’t have any money. Perhaps this is due to eating in restaurants twice a day, every day, for the past month, but perhaps it is also due to a recession. Who can say? And if someone can say, who will listen? I can’t, because I’m busy eating.

As a result of the recession, businesses are cutting back, laying off employees and, in some drastic cases, forcing upper-level management to take pay cuts, putting them in only the top 10 percent of the nation’s wealthy instead of the top 5 percent. Many executives have had to fire their chauffeurs and must now walk unescorted as they dodge the panhandlers outside their offices. Many of these beggars used to work for them.

Newspapers are not exempt from these cutbacks. The Orange County Register recently laid off 105 employees, and the Dallas Morning News sent 73 folks packing. The New York Times even had to sell its theater critics’ thesauruses. (“A tragic tragedy of tragic proportions!” is how one critic described it.)

The Daily Herald has made changes, too, some of which may not be apparent to the average reader, particularly since I made some of them up. Among them:

• Newspaper now being printed on 3×5 cards.

• Humor removed from “The Family Circus.”

• Paperboys replaced with trained monkeys.

• Bold promotion to increase circulation: Every new subscriber gets a date with Julie Stoffer.

• Expensive newsprint replaced with much cheaper Fruit Roll-Ups.

• Valuable news space conserved by switching from traditional English to more word-efficient “Tarzan-speak.”

• To be more “eye-catching,” front page will now be the same as the cover of the current TV Guide.

• Ann Landers euthanized. (No impact on finances, but good for employee morale.)

• Sensationalistic words such as “bloodbath” and “murderrific,” once banned, now encouraged. (In today’s edition: “Murderrific zoning issues discussed in bloodbath city council meeting.”)

• Instead of focusing on “who, what, why, where, when and how?,” news stories will now include “why” and “where” only on weekends.

• New attention-grabbing title: The Daily Salt Lake Tribune.

Only time can tell whether these changes will boost revenue and ultimately change the state of the economy, but it’s almost certainly going to get worse before it gets better. Pass the Prozac.

Does it make me a bad person if the only thing I remember from church last Sunday is that every single speaker used the phrase “grateful for the opportunity” at least once?

We Mormons (non-Mormons: Stop reading now! I’m not talking to you) use the word “opportunity” far too often. Priesthood guys used to come around saying, “Did you have the opportunity to do your home teaching this month?” And I’d respond truthfully: “Yes, I had the opportunity.” Heck, I had lots of opportunities. That doesn’t mean I did it. But that’s not what they asked, and I like the idea of using someone else’s poor syntax to dodge the issue. (I am counting on the questions at the Pearly Gates being similarly vague.)

The other way we use “opportunity” is when we want to express having done something, but we want to use a lot of words to say it, possibly because we think we are being paid by the syllable. When giving a talk in church, never say in two minutes what can be said just as easily in five.

It might be a humility thing, too. Saying, “I went to the moon” sounds boastful. But “I had the opportunity to go to the moon” has the subtext of, “This was through no fault of my own, I assure you, and I’m really lucky to have gone.”

This subtext is particularly clear if you say it in a spiritual tone of voice. And by “spiritual,” of course I mean “quiet.” If you whisper when you talk, you are conveying spirituality. Conversely, it is impossible to be spiritual if you speak in a normal tone of voice. Using a loud voice is downright wrong, and if you yell, it’s the same as having Satan deliver your sermon for you.

Saying, “I had the opportunity to go” instead of “I went” is a waste of words, certainly. But sometimes Mormons conserve energy, too, and use a kind of verbal shorthand.

A few of these are already well-established. For instance, everyone knows that if a woman has a “sweet spirit,” that’s code for “she’s as ugly as Janet Reno,” and if a man is a “nice guy,” that’s code for “he’s as ugly as Janet Reno.” And Orson Scott Card, the famed author of science-fiction and other children’s stories, once pointed out to me that among Mormons, “humble” means “proud.” (“I am really humbled at being named People’s Sexiest Man Alive.”)

I am grateful for the opportunity to show you some more examples I’ve compiled:

• “share” = “make you listen to” (“I’d like to share a story.”)

• “special” = any adjective with a positive connotation; indicates the speaker has warm feelings but lacks the vocabulary to express them (“It was a special experience.”) (See also: “choice”)

• “brethren” (pronounced “broth-ern”) = “everyone here, including women”

• “struggling,” as in “Brother So-and-So is ‘struggling’ with some things right now” = “You wouldn’t believe how much porn Brother So-and-So has downloaded.”

• “Young Men’s program” = “Boy Scouts of America”

• “less active” = “not the least bit active”

• “Democrat” = “less active”

• “Word of Wisdom” = “don’t drink or smoke”

• “inappropriate” = “I personally don’t approve of that, and I’m sure no one else does, either.”

• “not very Christlike” = “I personally don’t approve of that, and I’m sure Jesus doesn’t, either.”

• “diverse” = “some non-Mormons are there, too”

• “be tolerant” = “pretend you don’t hate gay people”

• “I am being tried and tested” = “I think God has it in for me”

I hope you have enjoyed this glimpse into Mormon terminology. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have the opportunity to get some work done.

It is quite an honor to be voted Best Local Journalist. It’s right up there with Best Brother in the Snider Family and Best Guy Who Just Moved into Stonebrook Condominium No. 1236.

My job has many facets, all of which contribute to my becoming softer and doughier, physically speaking. I review plays and movies, both of which are passive activities, unless the show is really awful and I start throwing things. I also write a column called “Snide Remarks” twice a week. I generally do this from a sitting position.

So it is nice to receive some kind of recognition for all the arduous sitting around I do. My chiropractor will especially appreciate it.

Is it hard being the Best Local Journalist? Oh, my, yes. Aside from the constant sitting and reclining involved, there are mental strains, too. Reviewing movies sounds like fun, until you realize a lot of them have Freddie Prinze Jr. in them. Seeing theater productions for free sounds nice, until you find out they’re all called “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.”

I have a lot of freedom with “Snide Remarks,” which is a writer’s dream. But some of the pleasure in writing it is tempered with the knowledge that no matter what I write, there are some individuals who will complain about it. (Some of these people, I believe, do not even read the column anymore. They just send pre-written angry comments every Wednesday and Friday.)

I write a sarcastic column, and I get this: “Can’t you ever be nice? You’re a jerk! ” (Except they spell it “your.”)

I write a pleasant, gentle column, and I get this: “Snide, you’re losing your touch!” (See previous note.)

But I shouldn’t complain. (And yet, I still do.) These are minor quibbles over what is generally a very entertaining job. And it pays fabulously well!

Sorry for the bald-faced lie there, but I wanted to make sure I still had your attention. As Best Local Journalist, I feel it is my duty to keep you alert.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Those of you who are not the Worst Local Journalist have no idea how hard it is to maintain that low level of quality. Combing through the Deseret News for inspiration, watching Fox News all the time — it’s a lot of work, being the worst.

But it’s worth it. When I listen to an angry voice mail — delivered late at night or on a weekend, when the caller was sure to be in no danger of actually reaching me — it warms my heart. When the caller obviously missed the point of the column, or has no idea what theater reviews are for, or thinks that movies containing cute actors are automatically “good” movies, it reassures me that my labors have not been in vain.

Being the worst means being the one people disagree with the most violently. In fact, that’s all it means. It has little to do with one’s actual writing abilities, and everything to do with the content of one’s stories. Let’s be honest: There are popular writers who have far less writing skill than I do. Some of these people wrote “The Christmas Box.”

Nonetheless, I am content with the honor of being Worst Local Journalist. I am in good company: Don Meyers, who is actually one of the best local journalists, won the title last year. The bodies of his enemies wash up daily on the shores of Utah Lake.

I would like to weigh in on some of the other “Worsts” in the valley. As the Worst Local Journalist, I feel obligated to tell you what I think and berate you if you disagree with me.

Worst Roommate: This guy named Dax, who moved out in the dark of night without advance notice and forgot to leave the key behind.

Worst Child: The kid who kept kicking my seat last week at a local playhouse.

Worst Newspaper Delivery Trend: The way the Salt Lake Tribune paperboy has not actually landed a paper on my porch for as long as I’ve lived in the house. I am fairly sure he has stopped trying.

Worst Thing to Do to a Fuddrucker’s Employee: Get him drunk and then make him try to pronounce the name of the restaurant.

It is quite an honor to be voted Best Local Journalist. It’s right up there with Best Brother in the Snider Family and Best Guy Who Just Moved into Stonebrook Condominium No. 1236.

My job has many facets, all of which contribute to my becoming softer and doughier, physically speaking. I review plays and movies, both of which are passive activities, unless the show is really awful and I start throwing things. I also write a column called “Snide Remarks” twice a week. I generally do this from a sitting position.

So it is nice to receive some kind of recognition for all the arduous sitting around I do. My chiropractor will especially appreciate it.

Is it hard being the Best Local Journalist? Oh, my, yes. Aside from the constant sitting and reclining involved, there are mental strains, too. Reviewing movies sounds like fun, until you realize a lot of them have Freddie Prinze Jr. in them. Seeing theater productions for free sounds nice, until you find out they’re all called “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.”

I have a lot of freedom with “Snide Remarks,” which is a writer’s dream. But some of the pleasure in writing it is tempered with the knowledge that no matter what I write, there are some individuals who will complain about it. (Some of these people, I believe, do not even read the column anymore. They just send pre-written angry comments every Wednesday and Friday.)

I write a sarcastic column, and I get this: “Can’t you ever be nice? You’re a jerk! ” (Except they spell it “your.”)

I write a pleasant, gentle column, and I get this: “Snide, you’re losing your touch!” (See previous note.)

But I shouldn’t complain. (And yet, I still do.) These are minor quibbles over what is generally a very entertaining job. And it pays fabulously well!

Sorry for the bald-faced lie there, but I wanted to make sure I still had your attention. As Best Local Journalist, I feel it is my duty to keep you alert.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Those of you who are not the Worst Local Journalist have no idea how hard it is to maintain that low level of quality. Combing through the Deseret News for inspiration, watching Fox News all the time — it’s a lot of work, being the worst.

But it’s worth it. When I listen to an angry voice mail — delivered late at night or on a weekend, when the caller was sure to be in no danger of actually reaching me — it warms my heart. When the caller obviously missed the point of the column, or has no idea what theater reviews are for, or thinks that movies containing cute actors are automatically “good” movies, it reassures me that my labors have not been in vain.

Being the worst means being the one people disagree with the most violently. In fact, that’s all it means. It has little to do with one’s actual writing abilities, and everything to do with the content of one’s stories. Let’s be honest: There are popular writers who have far less writing skill than I do. Some of these people wrote “The Christmas Box.”

Nonetheless, I am content with the honor of being Worst Local Journalist. I am in good company: Don Meyers, who is actually one of the best local journalists, won the title last year. The bodies of his enemies wash up daily on the shores of Utah Lake.

I would like to weigh in on some of the other “Worsts” in the valley. As the Worst Local Journalist, I feel obligated to tell you what I think and berate you if you disagree with me.

Worst Roommate: This guy named Dax, who moved out in the dark of night without advance notice and forgot to leave the key behind.

Worst Child: The kid who kept kicking my seat last week at a local playhouse.

Worst Newspaper Delivery Trend: The way the Salt Lake Tribune paperboy has not actually landed a paper on my porch for as long as I’ve lived in the house. I am fairly sure he has stopped trying.

Worst Thing to Do to a Fuddrucker’s Employee: Get him drunk and then make him try to pronounce the name of the restaurant.

Outside the Wendy’s on University Parkway in Orem is a sign that reads as follows:

Pick-up window open “TIL” 2 a.m.

Notice that “til” is apparently being used sarcastically, as indicated by the quotation marks. Wendy’s is open “til” (wink, wink) 2 a.m., if you catch their drift.

I wonder what preposition they really meant, if “til” was not it? Pick-up window open “underneath” 2 a.m.? Pick-up window open “due to” 2 a.m.? Pick-up window open “on account of” 2 a.m.? The mind reels. Well, mine does, anyway.

Speaking of signs, there are several billboards in the valley right now for “The Christmas Box Miracle,” a sort-of sequel to Richard Paul Evans’ grossly overrated “Christmas Box” semi-novel. The billboards say, “You’ve only read half the story.”

Really? Must have been the bad half, then.

Speaking of books, there are also a lot of billboards for Ken Merrell’s “The Landlord,” advertised as “a clean thriller.” Is this our only criteria now? If it has no sex or profanity, it’s automatically worth reading? I haven’t read “The Landlord” (though I do recognize the potential for ruthless villains who go by that title), but if the fact that it’s “clean” is the best thing you can say about it, then maybe you’re sort of grasping at straws the way Jack Dawson grasped at that piece of driftwood. A math textbook is pretty G-rated, too, but I’m not going to curl up in front of the fireplace with it, unless I’m low on firewood.

Speaking of advertisements, I’ve been alarmed lately by radio commercials that include sound effects of horns honking. I’m always in the car when I hear these, and I always think there’s some real-life commotion going on. And then I realize it was just a radio commercial, and I feel stupid, having flipped off the guy behind me for what turns out to have been no reason.

Speaking of radio, I realized recently that whenever I hear something surprising on the radio, I always look at the radio itself in disbelief, even though I understand that the person who said the surprising thing is not actually there. Does everyone else do this, and/or am I just a big nerd?

Speaking of being puzzled while driving, I made reference a couple months ago to the way people in Utah react when they’re at a stoplight and it turns green, i.e., they don’t move. I want to expand on that with the following discussion question: What is the DEAL with these people?

Here is my theory. Utahns are so accustomed to being humble and meek that when the light turns green, they feel unworthy. They think, “A green light? For me? Oh, goodness, that can’t be right. I don’t deserve that. These other people to the left and right of me, they don’t have green lights. Why should I be the special one? (Five-second pause.) Well, I don’t feel right about this, but I guess I’ll go ahead and put the car in gear now and hesitantly take my foot off the brake and very, very slowly start to press the accelerator and oh, well, the light’s yellow now, so I’d better stop.”

Speaking of “STOP!,” I was watching an old episode of “Press Your Luck” (“No whammy, no whammy, STOP!”) on the Game Show Network the other night. The winner was a delightful old lady named Alpha, who shuffled away with more than $12,000 after a very tense second round in which she nearly lost to some Yuppie woman named Wendy who I did NOT like. And I was really happy to see such a nice grandma type win so much money, and then I realized this was in 1984, and she’s probably dead now.

Speaking of Wendy, outside the Wendy’s on University Parkway in Orem is a sign that reads — I’m sorry. Now, where was I?

Heavens to Betsy! It’s time once again for “Ask Eric Stuff,” the ridiculously unpopular feature where people ask Eric stuff and he offers advice, counsel and vague threats.

All of these questions were submitted here [outdated link], where you can submit your own questions, provided you have Internet access and can type. Note that while Eric would love to reply to each and every question sent to him, at the same time, he really wouldn’t love that, either.

Dear Eric: Can you help me understand why all the supermarkets in the valley are suddenly installing gasoline pumps? — Unsigned
Dear Unsigned: Because there is an overriding desire among retailers to be mediocre at dozens of things rather than really good at just a few. Hence, we have stores like the Wal-Mart Supercenter, where you can have your oil changed, buy groceries, visit the eye doctor, get a mammogram ,and adopt an underprivileged African child, all in one overcrowded, city-sized store where the employees may not be exactly at the top of their field. I mean, do you really think guys are graduating from optometry school saying, “I hope to open a practice at Wal-Mart, looking for astigmatisms in housewives who are pushing seven barefoot children in a shopping cart”?

Dear Eric: Do you believe that there’s one person, “The Person,” out there for everyone? — Wondering out West
Dear WOW: Yes. Your person is named Ming Chi. She was born in Beijing in 1656 and died of malaria 19 years later. Sorry.

Dear Eric: Are there actually people who live in Provo during the summer, after BYU lets out? Why in the world would anyone stay? — Wondering in Washington
Dear WIW: Summer is the only time any of the lights on State Street in Orem are actually green. People travel from far and wide to see it, like the aurora borealis.

Dear Eric: Can you explain why Wyoming advertises that it is “Like No Place on Earth”? — Urban Cowgirl
Dear Cow: Because the rest of Earth wanted to make it clear Wyoming was an anomaly.

Dear Eric: Is it OK to marry a sister missionary from your mission? — Locked Heart
Dear Locky: Not while you’re still missionaries, no. (P.S. Not afterward, either. Remember how much the sister missionaries whined when you were out in the field? You think that’s going to CHANGE?!)

Dear Eric: What is your best pickup line you use to get chicks? — U.R. Cool
Dear Coolio: “Your daddy must have been a maker of high-quality garden tools, because you are one fine ho.”

Dear Eric: Why do guys cheat on girls? — Mindy Mae Noisy Hawk
Dear Noisy: Who else are they going to cheat on? If it makes you feel any better, they treat their guy friends pretty badly, too. It’s just that none of their guy friends care.

Confidential to the heavy-set woman in line behind me at the bank the other day who was wearing a short shirt that revealed her pasty, puffy stomach, and who was also wearing pants that were clearly just pajama bottoms: What were you THINKING?

Do the people with the mullets know we’re making fun of them? I mean, it’s not like we’re being quiet about it. We’re pretty much mocking them openly.

(By the way, this is going to be one of those columns where I act superior and tell you what to do and how to act. Just so you know.)

The people who continue to wear their hair in mullet fashion — really short on top and really long in the back — are either doing it out of pure self-confidence, honestly not caring what others think of their unpopular hairstyle; or else they’re doing it because they think that style actually looks good. I’m betting on the second option, because the people I see with mullets don’t strike me as the high self-esteem crowd.

The mullet is actually rather useful in our society because it helps us identify people just by looking at them: Men with mullets are rednecks, and women with mullets are lesbians.

There are no exceptions to this. If you are an ordinary man and you start growing a mullet, you will BECOME a redneck. If you are a heterosexual woman and you start growing a mullet, expect to be buying a lot of scented candles and watching “Xena: Warrior Princess” very soon. Never underestimate the power of the mullet!

Another thing I have a problem with is the “soul patch.” This is what some grungy young men have, where it’s just a little patch of hair under the bottom lip. I don’t like it. The soul patch disrupts the face. When someone has a soul patch, all I can look at is the soul patch. This might be good, I guess, if you have a third eye in the center of your forehead that you want to attract attention away from. Otherwise, you’re just interrupting your own face. People think, “Well, he looks like a handsome — wait, what’s THAT?” And they never get around to seeing the rest of the face.

And not to be argumentative, but in regards to the old people who refer to BYU as “the BYU”: They know the rest of us think that’s funny, right? They know we call it that sometimes, too, but only to make fun of them, right?

Also, all this sign language needs to stop. I don’t mean we shouldn’t communicate with deaf people, because most of them do seem nice enough. I’m talking about the sign language we’re using when there are no deaf people around. In many of our talent-show performances and church musical numbers, we have been thinking it is extra-cool to perform a verse in sign language, or to have someone perform it in sign language while we perform it in English.

This is wrong. No song will ever be made more poignant just by having someone do it in sign language. In fact, I will go on record right now as saying that there is NOTHING CHEESIER IN THE ENTIRE WORLD than using sign language in a public setting when there are no deaf people present.

Along the same lines, let’s quit thinking it’s nifty to sing a song in a foreign language when most of the audience does not speak that language natively. The last person to have been impressed by the fact that you know Spanish was your grandmother, and she died a long time ago. The rest of us couldn’t care less. Sing it in whatever language most of the audience will understand, or don’t sing it at all.

I’m sorry, but I get so worked up sometimes. If everyone would just do what I say, we wouldn’t have any problems.

Dramatis Personae:
ERIC, a local man
SMACKY, Eric’s friend
SMACKY’S FRIEND, Smacky’s friend
THE WAITER, a waiter
STARVATION and WOE, non-speaking roles, present for symbolic purposes
SAMUEL BECKETT, absurdist playwright (1906-89) here playing several roles
MONKEYS, acting as stagehands

(Enter ERIC, SMACKY, SMACKY’S FRIEND, at Village Inn. Enter also SAMUEL BECKETT as the hostess. Enter also SAMUEL BECKETT as the large entourage following the principal characters.)

SAMUEL BECKETT AS HOSTESS: Table for how many?

ERIC: There are many of us. We are in abundance.

SAMUEL BECKETT AS HOSTESS: The wait will be considerable. As you can see, we are quite busy.

SMACKY: Busy indeed. We shall wait.

(One hour passes. This should happen in real time, with the audience forced to watch as the actors sit on stage and do nothing.)

SAMUEL BECKETT AS HOSTESS: Your table is ready.

ERIC: (sarcastic) But, it has only been one hour…!

SMACKY: Incur not the wrath of the hostess!

ERIC: (subdued) I shall not.

(They are seated. Enter STARVATION and WOE, who sit on ERIC‘s head. Enter THE WAITER, who does not.)

THE WAITER: Tell me what you wish and I shall bring it.

SMACKY’S FRIEND: I would like pie.

THE WAITER: I shall bring you pie.

ERIC: I would like foodstuffs.

THE WAITER: This, too, I shall bring.

SMACKY: And more for me?

THE WAITER: It shall be so. (Exit THE WAITER.)

(One hour passes. This should happen in real time again, with the audience forced to watch. If necessary, the theater doors should be locked. During this time, STARVATION and WOE take turns sitting on various characters’ heads. Enter THE WAITER.)

THE WAITER: Your food will arrive shortly. As you can see, we are quite busy. Our cooks are working as quickly as possible.

ERIC: Perhaps instead of standing here yakking, you ought to be helping them.

THE WAITER: It is a provocative statement you have made. However, I cannot cook. I lack the knowledge. (Exits.)

SMACKY: O, that I had food!

SAMUEL BECKETT AS ONE OF THE ENTOURAGE: (dies; a MONKEY carries his body off stage.)

(A few more minutes pass. To alleviate the boredom of the audience, cast members take turns reciting dirty limericks. Particular attention should be paid to the New England town of Nantucket. Enter THE WAITER with food.)

THE WAITER: I bring food! Eat and be filled!

ALL: Hurrah!

ERIC: We are merry!

SMACKY: We shall not die!

SAMUEL BECKETT AS ANOTHER IN THE ENTOURAGE: (dies; another MONKEY carries him off.)

THE WAITER: (to SMACKY’S FRIEND) Alas, I cannot bring your pie. We have served all our pie to other patrons.

SMACKY’S FRIEND: What cruel fate befalls me!

THE WAITER: May I bring you another item?

SMACKY’S FRIEND: You may.

ERIC: And should not the new item be offered free of charge?

THE WAITER: I see no reason why it should.

ERIC: I shall explain it. We have waited one hour for our food. You could have told Smacky’s Friend one hour ago that her pie would not be forthcoming. Indeed, one hour ago, you verily could have served the pie to her, as your pie supply had not yet been depleted at that time. Ergo, whatsoever replacement item you bring her now should be given free as a consolation.

SMACKY: He has proved it!

THE WAITER: It shall be so.

SMACKY’S FRIEND: (to ERIC) You are my hero. May I bear your children?

ERIC: It shall be so.

(Exeunt all. End of the play. MONKEYS steal audience members’ wallets. SAMUEL BECKETT is returned to his grave.)

I could never be a smoker. The biggest reason might be my widely publicized disdain for people who smell bad (which everyone at least secretly agrees with, by the way). I’d hate to start smelling bad myself.

Smoking is very uncool in this century (the 21st), and especially in this state (Utah). But in the old days, everyone in the country smoked, especially movie characters. Humphrey Bogart always had a cigarette or a dame or both dangling from his lips. Shirley Temple would dance about merrily, prodded by off-camera branding irons, then say something adorable as she lit up a big, fat stogy. Lassie died of lung cancer. I could go on.

In those days, no one had any idea smoking was unhealthy. What could be more sensible than setting something on fire and sucking the smoke into your lungs? Then scientists discovered, lo and behold, that smoking was BAD for you. Everyone believed it, except the tobacco companies, which also believe the Earth is flat and the South won the war. Hillbillies like Sen. Jesse Helms continued to support the tobacco companies, all common sense, decency and oral hygiene aside.

According to the American Heart Association, every year more than 1 million people under 18 become smokers. Every year, one million kids START smoking. In the old days, when people weren’t very smart, I could understand this. But it’s the year 2001 — we live in the age of Chia-Pet technology, for crying out loud — and yet, there are still people dumb enough to take up smoking? I’m surprised anyone that stupid has the brain capacity to even light a cigarette, let alone a job that pays them enough to afford it.

Clearly, there are greater forces at work here than mere stupidity. And as much as I’d like to blame the tobacco companies for everything evil in the world, I really don’t think it’s their advertising that lures new smokers, consisting primarily as it does of images of leathery cowboys and grotesque camel-like beasts, neither of which ignites in me anything more than a determination never to become a cowboy or a camel.

Peer pressure doesn’t make a lot of sense, either. When I was a teen-ager, I lived in Southern California, where teen-agers are required by law to be cool. And yet, of the few people I knew who smoked, not one of them was cool. They were losers, and everyone knew it. I don’t know if they were losers because they smoked or if they smoked because they were losers; it’s a “chicken and the egg” thing, by which I mean I’m hungry and I’ll be ending this column soon. At any rate, kids were not, in general, taking up smoking because their peers were talking them into it.

So I’m going to have to blame the parents for this one. I suspect a lot of kids start smoking because they see smoking taking place at home. Sure, they know it’s bad for them, and maybe their parents even warn them not to start. But examples speak louder than words.

For example (see?), when I was growing up, my parents ran a secret, highly illegal cockfighting ring in our basement. They knew it was wrong. But it was so lucrative, and little Joy needed braces, and if you’ve ever been involved in cockfighting, you know it’s hard to get out once you get in. It’s like the Mafia in that regard. In fact, what the heck, my parents were in the Mafia, too.

Anyway, they always told my siblings and me not to get involved in such dirty business, but now that we’re all grown, you know what we’re doing? Telling lies about our parents in the newspaper.

The point is, 1 million new under-age smokers every year is about 999,000 too many. (I don’t care if the brats who are at Movies 8 every Friday night start.) Whether it’s advertising, peer pressure or parental example, we need to fix it. If the problem is just that kids are dumb, well, I don’t know what to do about that, except complain about it, which does seem to be helping.

We had a visitor at the Daily Herald office last week. He was a lunatic who wanted us to publish his lunatic opinions concerning recent events. His shoes were several sizes too big, his glasses looked like Jerry Lewis’ in “The Nutty Professor,” and he smelled like urine. He was hired on the spot.

I kid on the last point, but the rest is true. The crazies have been coming out of the woodwork since Sept. 11, which makes me wonder what’s going on in that woodwork. People get panicky and emotional and they don’t always stop to think before they act. It’s like a riot, but with less looting and more crying.

For example, we have received more than a dozen poems in the past month. Apparently, some people think that in times of national emergency, we cease publication of the news and become a literary journal. The poems all have two things in common: They are heartfelt, and they suck.

I don’t have a problem with people expressing themselves in poetry or some other artistic medium. Indeed, it can be cathartic to vent your feelings through language, particularly with the vast array of obscenities available to us. The best place to do it, though, is in your diary. It is presumptuous to think that because you were “inspired” to write something creative, that means everyone else wants to read it. I don’t doubt that God has inspired some folks to write their thoughts in poetic form, but judging from what I’ve seen, God has not been sending much talent to accompany that inspiration.

Anyway, back to Urine Man. It is my staunch belief that if you walk around smelling like urine, it doesn’t matter what you think. Your opinions are rendered null and void. They should have people sniffing everyone before they enter the voting booths on Election Day. If you smell like urine, you don’t get to vote. I’m pretty sure the Constitution allows for that sort of thing.

(Maybe he didn’t realize he smelled like urine. Maybe he’d been walking around all day, saying, “Man, somebody sure smells like urine.”)

So Urine Man’s opinions don’t matter, but we’ve come this far, so we might as well discuss them. His view was that we shouldn’t be sending food and aid to the people of Afghanistan because they are “the enemy.” I pointed out that while Osama bin Laden and his band of crazies may have been affiliated with that nation, it is not the rank-and-file population of Afghanistan that attacked us. Urine Man countered with the revelation that everyone in Afghanistan hates Americans and would kill us if they got the chance, and that we should kill them first. I suggested there was a difference between not liking a group of people — I don’t care much for people who smell like urine, for example — and actually intending to kill them. Urine Man was unfazed.

Here are his exact words, as spelled out in the flier he gave us, which was as crudely produced as he was:

“Bomb Afghanistan now! Kill 27,000,000 people [the entire population of Afghanistan]. Yes, U.S.A. has to kill all of them or they will kill all of us.”

I want you to read that again, and then I want you to be scared by it. I want you also to be scared at the following detail: Urine Man is certain that well over 50,000,000 Americans share his view.

Now, even allowing for the high level of dumbness in this country, I don’t think one-sixth of us feel we should kill every man, woman and child in Afghanistan. Most of us believe we should root out terrorism and its proponents and leave the ordinary citizens alone. The Afghan people may not care much for America, but that doesn’t mean they should die. I’d even listen to their opinions, as long as … well, you know.

It is disheartening that lately we have to be told NOT to kill every Muslim we see. I already knew not to do that, even before President Bush told us not to. It’s common sense, really: Don’t kill people. Duh.

I don’t see Muslims that often anyway, as I live in a place not known for its diversity (Utah). But when I do see one, I don’t think, “Kill that guy!” I think, “Hey, it’s a Muslim person. Huh. How about that. Look! A flower!”

Where does all the rage come from? I’m angry about what happened, too, but I’ve managed to keep my emotions in check. I get angry on the freeway all the time, but so far it hasn’t caused me to do anything illegal. Unless tailgating is illegal. Which it is. Never mind, then.

(The other day I was driving to work behind one of our special senior citizen friends, and her license plate frame said, “Grandma’s my name, spoilin’s my game.” I assume she meant it as in “spoilin’ the grandkids,” not “spoilin’ Christmas dinner” or “spoilin’ my trousers.” Anyway, what she was spoilin’ was my drive to work, as she was driving 55 mph in the fast lane.)

So it’s scary that there are Americans who really need to be told not to kill each other. It’s a sobering reminder of something we should keep in mind every day of our lives: We have a lot of very, very stupid people in this country.

I don’t know if we have more stupid people per capita than the world average. I don’t know if our stupid-to-smart ratio is any higher than anyone else’s. (Actually, I bet it’s higher than Japan’s. Woo-whee, those guys are SMART!) I just know that many of our fellow Americans are dumb.

And what’s the deal with the South? How does a whole region get to be that way? Not dumb, necessarily, but, you know, odd. It can’t just be the inbreeding. The British Royal Family is inbred, but they still manage not to shoot their guests at wedding receptions or eat raccoons on dares.

But back to my original thesis: I’m going to get a license plate frame that says, “If the only thing you’re passing is a kidney stone, you don’t belong in the passing lane.”

No, that was my second thesis. My original thesis was that the Muslims are our friends. Or not our enemies, anyway. I personally don’t have any Muslim friends, but I wouldn’t be opposed to it, as long as they watch “The Simpsons” and don’t mind picking up a check now and then. And as long as they’re not dumb, which I sort of have issues with, as mentioned in Thesis No. 3.

Notice I avoid the term Muslim-Americans. I believe it is unnecessarily divisive. “Muslim” is not a nationality. It’s a religion. (Really! You can look it up!) No one says Catholic-Americans or Unitarian-Americans. They’re Americans, and they happen to be Muslim. If they go to a restaurant that offers a 10 percent Muslim discount, they should get it, assuming they are at least 10 percent Muslim.

There is a great air of mystery about Islam in the United States. Muslims are a distinct minority here, and while we tend to have a live-and-let-live attitude toward our non-Christian brethren, we also tend not to learn about their non-Christian beliefs. So as a public service, I have compiled this primer on the differences between Christianity and Islam.

CHRISTIANITY: Teaches that mankind can be saved through the atonement of Jesus Christ.
ISLAM: Teaches something else.

CHRISTIANITY: Follows the teachings of the Bible.
ISLAM: Follows some other teachings, possibly from someone named Karen(?).

CHRISTIANITY: Occasionally is given a bad name by a few fundamentalist lunatics, such as Osama bin Falwell.
ISLAM: Ditto.

I hope this helps more than it hurts.

A telemarketer called last week. He said, “I am calling to tell you about a funtastic new offer from–” and I hung up. Any product that can be described as “funtastic” is not a product I want in my home.

“Our funtastic life insurance policy will guarantee your family is provided for–” No.

“The anti-lock brakes on the 2002 Toyota Camry are funtastic, ensuring–” No.

“When hemorrhoids flare up, reach for funtastic–” No.

I don’t understand how telemarketers stay in business. No one I know has ever bought anything from one, and indeed I am doubtful they have ever sold anything to anyone. I’m guessing their pact with Satan pays a few dividends, but enough to keep bread on the table? The Satan I know doesn’t usually subsidize such unprofitable ventures.

My friend Tanny Tantan (names have been changed) reports a new development in telemarketer evil: They called his house at dinnertime on a Sunday.

Now, dinnertime phone calls from telemarketers have been de rigueur for centuries. During the Renaissance, the toothless, inbred nobles couldn’t sit down to a feast of gristly chicken and peasant stew without a knock at the castle door from someone wishing to sell syphilis insurance, or whatever. At least they didn’t have telephones back then, although you can be sure Leonardo Da Vinci was in the process of inventing one when he died of terminal filth.

So we’re used to having dinner interrupted. But on a Sunday? That’s a new low. Not that I’m likely to buy anything anyway, but if a telemarketer called at dinnertime on a Sunday, I wouldn’t buy even if he were selling immortality for a nickel. In fact, the only way to win me over at dinnertime on a Sunday would be if they were offering to come over and make me dinner, for free.

Which brings us to an idea my brother Jeff and I had. We were eating lunch at a local restaurant which, to avoid legal troubles, we will refer to as Shmapplebee’s. Some time had passed since the last time we’d seen our server — our “server was down,” you might say, if you’re a nerd — so we had time to come up with what we consider a fool-proof business plan: pizza telemarketing.

The way it would work is that a pizza establishment would send a driver out into a particular neighborhood, stocked up with a few of the most-requested pizzas. Then the restaurant would call phone numbers in that neighborhood and say, “Hello, this is (name of pizza establishment). It is 6 o’clock. (Oh, I forgot to mention: It is 6 o’clock.) Our driver can have a fresh, hot pizza to your door in less than five minutes. Would you like to buy one?”

I don’t know about you, but there have been many times when I have been a) too lazy to cook something, and 2) too hungry to go on living. Ordering pizza is an option, but then you have to wait 30 minutes before it shows up. If someone ever called at one of those moments and offered to bring me pizza in less than five minutes, I’d jump at the chance, except for being too lazy/hungry to jump.

I mean, if telemarketers are going to continue existing — and it would appear they are, voodoo curses against them notwithstanding — they might as well do something useful. People might actually need pizza at 6 p.m.; no one ever needs more subscriptions to more magazines. So why don’t they quit trying to sell us things and do something to improve our quality of life? They should practice random acts of telephone kindness, calling people and just saying things like:

“Your boss doesn’t appreciate you, but the rest of us sure do.”

“Did you see ‘Friends’ last night? It was really funny.”

“You look good in that shirt.”

“Why don’t you lie down for a nap?”

We would thank them for their kindness, hang up the phone, and life would be just bootylicious. I mean, funtastic. Sorry.

We recently received a submission for our letters to the editor page that had been composed on an old typewriter, using old typing paper. I believe it was delivered by a carrier pigeon driving a Model T on the Pony Express.

Clearly, one of our senior citizens had written this letter, judging by its unusual presentation and subject matter, which was honking. (I don’t mean the subject matter was “honking,” as in, “Man, that letter sure had some honking subject matter!” I mean honking WAS the subject matter.)

Specifically, the writer felt that drivers honk too much. He proposed that car manufacturers make horns so that once they toot briefly, they cannot toot again for another five minutes. (I have proposed the same regulations against my brother Jeff. Thank you!)

The problem with the complaint of too much honking is that it’s not true. I hear a little honking here and there, especially when I have fallen asleep at the wheel, but not enough to drag out the Smith-Corona, head down to the Typing Museum to buy some typing paper, and write a letter.

A day or two after reading about the horn-honking crisis, I saw a letter in The Salt Lake Tribune from another elderly person. This person felt that mail carriers dress too slovenly, with unkempt beards and untucked shirts. “These people are supposed to be representing the U.S. Postal Service,” he wrote, the implication being that this is something the mail carriers ought to be proud of.

Now, I often notice trivial things and get amused by them. Sometimes I make cracks about them in this column. These letters were different, though. These people were ANGRY.

It occurs to me that if I’m going to do nothing but complain about stupid things when I’m old, I’d better start stockpiling them now. As it is, I shrug too many things off as being inconsequential. I can’t do that when I’m old, as I’ll need something to help wile away the hours until my death and/or the end of the world.

So here is my list of dumb stuff that’s hardly even worth complaining about that I’m going to complain about when I’m old.

• Grown men who wear ties featuring cartoon characters. Is that any way to represent your neck?!

• Couples who hold hands in church. Such an inappropriate display.

• Clothing manufacturers who don’t make clothes that fit me exactly. Everything is always either too loose or too tight. I’m going to start wearing togas. See how you like THAT, General Public! (Note: I mean the public in general, not the ’80s new wave band General Public.)

• Why can’t they make a denture adhesive that is delicious AND nutritious?

• That Mr. SNIDEr sure is SNIDE in his column called “SNIDE Remarks.” What a fitting name for such a SNIDE(r) young man who always behaves so SNIDEly!

• Why do people on game shows jump up and down when they win things? Do people do that in real life? Did the pope jump up and down when he found out he was pope? It’s not very dignified.

• Harry Potter this, Harry Potter that. What ever happened to classic children’s novels like Huck Finn and “The Scarlet Letter”?

• His name is SNIDEr, and he always writes SNIDE things! Good thing his column is called “SNIDE Remarks”!

• I am tired of plush carpeting. It is too deep. It causes more hip injuries per year than all the nation’s slippery bathtubs combined.

• The New York Times insists on putting unneeded apostrophes in decades, like the 1920’s or the 2000’s. Other papers stopped doing this a long time ago, owing to the apostrophe shortage. The Times should get with the times (pardon my cleverness).

• Can’t they make silverware lighter in weight? I don’t need a workout every time I eat, for heaven’s sake!

• And he’s SNIDE, too!

Finances baffle me. And by that I mean, I have no idea how much money I have, let alone how much I owe other people. I get a credit card statement, and I look at it and say, “That much? Really? Huh.” Then I write a check and go buy some more DVDs. You could send me a letter claiming I owe you a thousand dollars, and I’d probably pay it. (Note: If you actually do this, someone will have beaten you to it, and it won’t be cute anymore.)

I used to balance my checkbook, but it got to be too much work, and Daily Herald management has thus far been extremely unsympathetic toward my pleas for an assistant. So I started keeping a “mental record,” which initially meant I had a rough idea of my checking account balance, but which now means that as soon as I use my debit card, I forget ever doing it, like the guy in “Memento.”

What I have now is a mental alarm. If I’m about to buy something I can’t afford, my mental alarm goes off. It doesn’t tell me how much I lack to be able to afford it, or how long I’ll have to save up to afford it. It just tells me I can’t afford it. (“Don’t buy the gold-plated toilet paper!” it told me.) If I am wise, I listen to my mental alarm.

The inadequacy of my system was made clear last spring, when I bought a condo and had to go through the process of acquiring a mortgage. (“Don’t buy a condo!” the alarm said.) The mortgage people compiled a list of every debt I owe, and compared it to how much income I have.

The two figures are so different, they should not even be in the same numerical system. The “income” figure had a minus sign in front of it, and the “debts” figure was so large it had to be expressed in tons.

More recently, I was contacted by an associate of mine, Patty Cakes (names have been changed), who works for a financial planning institution. He and his partner, That Guy Whose Name I Forgot, visited me at work to discuss my financial future, including possible investments and retirement funds. The first thing we decided: No more taking time off work to discuss personal finances.

I told them I had issues with investing a lot of money now just so I can have a bunch of it when I’m retired. For one thing, I’m never going to be old. I’ll be in my late 20s forever.

For another thing, I need money NOW. If I could pay off my credit cards (“Don’t buy a ceramic dog at RC Willey!” the alarm said, and by “alarm” I mean “all my friends”), I’d have enough money to take care of retirement, no problem.

But as long as those credit cards are hanging over my head, there’s going to be trouble. My problem with credit cards is that I tend to treat them like gift certificates. If I have a $2,000 limit, I might as well spend $2,000, right? Otherwise, the money just goes to waste, and I think Congress gets it, or something. That was the logic behind the RC Willey dog, anyway.

And yet, despite my utter financial irresponsibility, I always seem to have money. Not loads of it, but enough to get by and enjoy life (assuming one’s enjoyment of life is dependent on how much money one has) (which it is). What I can’t figure out is where the money comes from. Is there a goose laying golden eggs directly into my checking account? Who authorized this? And is this goose edible? Because I just got an e-mail from a friend, informing me I owe him lunch. I don’t remember this, but I’ll take his word for it.

Our new library in Provo is very lovely. It used to be the Brigham Young Academy, but the building fell into disrepair sometime after the Civil War and was being used primarily as a place for kids to sneak into and make out.

It was a marvelous, creepy-looking old building that scared me every time I drove past it. (Bear in mind I also get scared when I see spiders or Christina Ricci.) I imagined a lot of episodes of “Scooby-Doo” taking place there. It was one of my favorite Provo landmarks, along with the neon Grimace character in the window of the Bulldog Boulevard McDonald’s who appears to be flipping us off.

A few years ago, some folks decided to restore the Academy building and turn it into a grand new library. This they did, with the help of a lot of money and the Ghostbusters.

Some people complained that the dedication ceremony a few weeks ago had too much Mormon influence in it, and I have to agree. I don’t understand why a state founded by Mormons in which most of the residents are Mormons in which a building originally built by Mormons for Mormons to use would have so much Mormon stuff in its re-dedication ceremony.

Anyway, I visited the library recently to see what’s there. Turns out the whole thing’s full of nothing but books. I figured by the 21st century they’d have holograms and talking card catalogs, but no such luck. Just the old-fashioned, left-to-right assemblage of symbols printed on pages. Oh, and cyborg librarians who can see the future.

The new facility is beautiful. I cannot stress this enough. It looks like the gorgeous old university libraries you see in movies (and, I suppose, at universities), but it’s not musty. (All the must was cleaned out with the beer bottles and skeletons and was donated to a fledgling second-hand store that still suffered from “new-store smell.”)

I observed several people sitting around, reading books. My first thought was the same one I have when I see people doing this at Barnes & Noble: Hey, cheapskates, this isn’t a library. Then I realized it WAS a library, but not before knocking “Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing” out of some kid’s hands.

But seriously, who are these people? What a charmed life, to be able to spend the whole day sitting around a library, reading free books in quiet, air-conditioned comfort. Some of us have to sit in an office all day and surf the Internet!

The library has an entire shelf devoted to Cliffs Notes. This is the height of laziness. Why read the book when you can read the Cliffs Notes, and why buy the Cliffs Notes when you can read them for free at the library? I applaud the efforts of the American student to become more slothful.

I also heard a woman request a library card, except she pronounced it “libarry.” I understand the requirements to obtain a library card are not very stringent, but I do think you should be able to pronounce the word. Anyone requesting a “libarry” card should be given a membership at a video store instead.

Spending some time among the books reminded me of my childhood in Lake Elsinore, Calif., where the local library was named after a relative of ours. Because of this connection, we were allowed to check out books for free (or so we were told). I have fond memories of going there often. I got a lot of joke books, Choose Your Own Adventure books, the “Alice in Wonderland” books, Danny Dunn books, Encyclopedia Brown books, and others that too much time in front of the TV has since edged out of my memory. My brothers and I would prowl around the children’s section while Mom looked through the adult books; I now understand this distinction merely meant her books were for grown-ups, not that they were dirty.

I wish I had more time to read books. There are so many I haven’t read, such as “The Adventures of Tom Sawyer” and the user’s manual for my CD burner. Maybe our beautiful new city library will inspire me to call in sick for a few days and catch up with some “old friends.” And maybe then I’ll go read some books.

And while we’re on the subject of PETA and other organizations that battle against common sense, let us discuss the king of them all: the ACLU.

ACLU stands for American Civil Liberties Whining Poopy-Pants Babies. The group’s goal is to make sure no one is ever slightly inconvenienced, somewhat bothered, or mildly put-out. If you have even the tiniest grievance that might conceivably be blamed on an organization larger than yourself, you can either go cry to your mommy, or you can contact the ACLU, and it will fight your whining poopy-pants baby battle for you.

Utahns heard from the ACLU a few weeks ago when an Orem baby with poopy pants whined about not receiving a missionary discount at Rodizio Grill. The restaurant pointed out quite truthfully that she was not a missionary, but her mind and diaper remained unchanged.

The ACLU sent a letter to Utah Attorney General Mark Shurtleff, expressing concern that many restaurants in Utah County offer such discounts. The letter is posted on the ACLU’s Web site (www.aclu.org) and reads, in part:

“We are writing to apprise you of several complaints [and by ‘several’ we mean ‘one’] we have received regarding what appears to be a common practice … in violation of Utah’s non-discrimination laws. [Utah has non-discrimination laws?] … Certain restaurants … offer a ‘missionary’ or ‘LDS’ discount on certain days. Customers who are not LDS are not given the same discount. [Heck, customers who are LDS but who aren’t missionaries aren’t even given the same discount. Why aren’t the thousands of non-missionary Mormons in Utah County complaining?] … The practice is hurtful [it punches people in the face] to those who are not members of the majority faith in Utah and only compounds the unfortunate impression that non-adherents are disfavored and disadvantaged.”

Strong words indeed. Here are some other letters the ACLU has sent out recently.

Dear T.G.I. Friday’s Restaurant:

We are writing to apprise you of “several” (snicker, snicker) complaints we have received regarding the behavior of your servers. When customers receive poor service, such as undercooked food or wrong orders, servers have been known to make amends by not charging them for their drinks, or by offering some other discount, in an attempt to keep the restaurant in the customers’ good graces.

This practice is hurtful to those customers who do not receive poor service. Through no fault of their own, some customers are enjoying speedy and accurate service, and are thus not entitled to apology discounts.

Either stop offering the discount or start providing equally bad service to all customers. Otherwise, we will hold our breath until we turn blue.

Dear Sizzler Restaurant:

We are writing to apprise you of MILLIONS of complaints we have received regarding your practice of printing coupons in local newspapers. These coupons allow patrons to receive food at discounted prices, thus putting them at an advantage over those who do not have the coupons. This would include people who do not subscribe to a newspaper and/or who cannot read. It also punishes those who do not patronize your restaurant at all.

Please rectify this situation by offering the same prices to all customers, regardless of literacy levels or subscription habits. Also, please distribute free money to every person in the county, so that all people receive the same advantage without having to eat at Sizzler.

Dear God:

We don’t actually believe in You, but we are writing anyway to apprise You of “literally” thousands of complaints we have received regarding Your practice of blessing those who follow Your commandments while punishing those who do not.

This practice is hurtful to those who behave wickedly and only compounds the unfortunate impression that the “righteous” are better off than the “unrighteous.” Please discontinue this practice or we will start offering sacrifices to Baal again.

“Snide Remarks” did not appear in The Daily Herald on Wednesday. We figured no matter how funny it was, it wasn’t going to seem funny at all in the context of the dreadful news we’d be reporting alongside it, especially considering most readers don’t find it funny most of the time anyway.

Tuesday was a long, arduous day for everyone. Most Americans had their eyes glued on the TV set all day, and we in the news and semi-news business were obviously no exception. It was shocking, horrific stuff.

It was odd to consider how quickly things can change. On Monday, I was concerned about whether I’d be able to afford the “Godfather” DVD set and the “Simpsons” Season 1 DVD set, both of which come out in the next few weeks, or whether I’d have to buy one of them now and the other one later.

Even Tuesday morning, before I got in the car and heard the news on the radio, my mind was completely elsewhere. U2 had announced it would stop in Salt Lake City during the second leg of its U.S. tour, and I was absolutely thrilled. I also had a lunchdate planned that day with many friends and was looking forward to showing them my magic new corduroy pants (at least, I assume they’re magic, given how much they cost).

Suddenly, everything seemed trivial. The column I had prepared for Wednesday was about the missionary-discount controversy in Orem, which now seemed like the least important thing in the world (which may not be saying much, considering how unimportant it was to begin with). How in the world are we supposed to go on with our lives after something like this happens?

The lunchdate was canceled, and I stayed in the newsroom for eight hours straight, which my co-workers will tell you is not an ordinary occurrence. The TVs were on the entire time. I somehow managed to write an article about Peter Breinholt, though I later had to rewrite it and take all the gloom out (“Peter Breinholt will perform this weekend, but how can you think about Peter Breinholt at a time like this?”). That night’s movie screening was canceled, too, so I went straight home from the office, turned on the TV, and watched some more news.

Then it started to catch up with me. After 10 hours of non-stop terrorism coverage, my emotions were beginning to be overwhelming. I became utterly depressed. I forced myself to turn off the TV and do something cheerful. I watched “Mary Poppins.”

What an appropriate movie this turned out to be. First, it’s as light-hearted and jolly as the day’s news had been dreary and upsetting. Second, it’s one of my favorite childhood movies, and I hadn’t seen it in a long time. (P.S. What’s the deal with Admiral Boom firing a cannon twice a day? Who lets him do this?)

But most importantly, it’s a movie about finding joy in life. No matter how all-consuming our job at the bank may be, we have to take a break now and then to go fly a kite. If someone tells us a joke, we need to laugh at it, long and loud and clear. Sometimes we need to have crazy hallucinations about jumping into chalk drawings and fraternizing with waiter-penguins. We need to cherish our children while they’re still young, and we need to cherish our parents while they’re still tolerable.

Watching the film, I was finally overcome by the grief of the day. It was all too sad to comprehend. But at the same time, the movie was a reminder that joy and happiness still exist, and always will. There had been a lot of sadness, but there were still some very sweet things in life, too. It’s possible that all of these thoughts made me cry while watching “Mary Poppins,” but you’ll never be able to prove that.

Life really does go on. Those “trivial” things aren’t trivial, because they’re the components of our lives, and our lives are the furthest things from trivial. (Well, mine is, anyway.) Now, more than ever, we need to find the little joys around us. The spoonfuls of sugar, as it were.

I’m not one to criticize or pass judgment, but if there’s a bigger group of morons than the folks at PETA, I’ll eat my hat (which is made of trumpeter swan, by the way).

PETA is People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, and the group’s latest victory in the war against common sense is that Disneyland employees will no longer shoot fake bullets at the fake hippos on the Jungle Cruise ride. This was long overdue, as the fake animals have been tormented by fake bullets shot from fake guns by fake river guides for decades. It took a fake hippo nearly fake dying from a fake bullet wound before Disney finally did the sensible thing and began shooting PETA members instead.

I’m kidding on the last part, but the no-more-shooting decision is true. Disney allegedly made the decision on its own, but People for the Ethical Treatment of Fake Animals has been suggesting it for a while. Presented with the fact that Disney and PETA should both cheer up a little and enjoy life for heaven’s sake, PETA spokeswoman Debbie Leahy was quoted in Monday’s Los Angeles Times as saying:

“If it was a fantasy baby or fantasy toddler, I don’t think somebody would find it funny. Clearly, we should not be accepting it for a hippo. It’s not humorous. It’s really a form of animal cruelty.”

I don’t even know where to begin here. First of all, I wouldn’t say unequivocally that pretending to shoot a “fantasy baby” would NEVER be funny. Is the baby dressed as a clown, perhaps? Are the bullets made out of tickles?

As for being “animal cruelty”: Even if it were a real hippo, it wouldn’t be cruel to fire blanks at it. And if it were charging your boat, I wouldn’t be opposed to firing real bullets, particularly if the hippo appeared to be rabid or shifty-eyed.

I do agree with one statement, though: “It’s not humorous.” This is true. Have you been on the Jungle Cruise? NOT FUNNY.

But I disagree strenuously with the idea that because it (generally) is not OK to shoot a baby human, it’s also not OK to shoot a hippo. What happens over at PETA headquarters that makes the members so bereft of self-esteem that they truly consider themselves no better than hippos? Do they have demotivational speakers come in to talk them down off their high-horses (I’m sorry, high-humans)? I mean, I’m no great piece of work, but I’m better than a hippo. Even your finest hippo, the very champion of the hippo race, is no match for me and my opposable thumbs and my mastery of the microwave oven.

PETA was also in the news this week for its proposed billboard on the East Coast, which said: “Would you give your right arm to know why sharks attack? Could it be revenge?” That’s right, all those shark attacks have been an act of revenge! The sharks have organized themselves and are systematically hunting down anyone who has ever wronged them. Also, they are eating innocent byswimmers — but hey, you have to break a few eggs to make an omelette, right?

So PETA’s full of crazy people; we all know that. What I have the least patience for, though, is its attack on Wendy’s restaurants, as outlined at www.wickedwendys.com.

PETA’s beef (pardon me!) with Wendy’s is that it uses chickens and cows that have been genetically modified, kept in inhumane enclosures and belittled with insults and personal attacks, including wedgies, at which point Dave Thomas himself goes out there on a moonlit night, kills every single animal with his bare hands, drinks their blood, and then uses his folksy charm to persuade people to eat them.

All of this may be true, but it misses the point: Wendy’s food is delicious. If PETA would drag its pasty, tofu-weakened body down to Wendy’s just once and have a Monterey Jack Chicken Sandwich, PETA would change its mind in a hurry. Of course, they’ll have to lay off the fries, or else they’ll anger the People for the Ethical Treatment of Potatoes.

[ I think one particular sentence in the column is funnier when altered slightly: “I mean, I’m no great piece of work, but I’m better than a damn hippo.” I could have said it in the paper, but I decided to save myself the headaches that would have ensued.

Some 4 1/2 years after it was originally published, this column prompted an angry letter. She says she read all my PETA columns, but I’m including it here because of her reference to eating my hat, which suggests it was this column in particular that irked her.

Dear “D. Snider” if thats what you call yourself. [Um, no, I don’t.]
After thoroughly reading your aritcles on PETA I concluded that you are an idiot. [Really? Most people figure it out a lot sooner.]You also seem incapable of writing a humour column, and would recommend that you don’t call it that because really you are a disgrace to the world of writers. In my small amount of years upon this planet I have achieved a greater intellectual standard than you could ever hope to achieve throughout your hopefully short life. I really should eat that hat of yours [You should, or I should? Who’s eating the hat here?] not just because you are wrong but because I hope it sticks in your throat and chokes you to death. Your “writing” [Like it or not, it WAS writing, so the sarcastic quotation marks don’t make any sense] makes you sound like an old fat man who has no actual clue as to what is really happening and uses information he scrounges off the internet to write his “articles”. [Which is odd, because all the information in my PETA columns comes directly from the PETA Web site. Also, again, it was an article whether you like it or not, so lay off the sarcastic quote marks.] Feel free to email me if you ever do come up with a decent argument against PETA. They do so much good for animal welfare worldwide and deserve to be congratulated not insulted. However I do not agree with some of their principles, for instance I am not a vegetarian but you would not find a piece of battery chicken on my plate. [Battery chicken? Is that a chicken made from batteries? Or is it battery-powered chicken?] If you feel happy eating a chicken that could easily have been scalded alive then you are more inhumane then i thought possible. I suppose with these views you also find hunting acceptable. [And I suppose with your spelling and grammar errors, you are retarded. See? Sometimes supposing things isn’t logical!] If this is true I quite agree with you! I would be perfectly happy to ride out and hound you until you can run no more before skinning you alive. [You want me to choke to death on a hat and/or to be pursued and skinned alive. and I’m the inhumane one?] If this was legal I would not hesitate to do the honours.
Please do email me I would be happy to hear with any disagreements you have with my opinion.
Oh and please take some lessons in writing, because it really is atrocious

Four minutes later, she sent this addendum:

I also suggest you use your articles as bog roll because that is all they are useful for

It took her four minutes to come up with that. “Bog roll” is British slang for toilet paper, by the way. How I would use my Internet-only columns as toilet paper, she did not explain. Instead, I shall continue to use toilet paper made from the skins of baby seals. ]

We return once again to “Ask Eric Stuff,” an extremely unpopular feature in which ordinary people like you, you and especially YOU ask Eric stuff in the hopes he’ll provide guidance, insight and cleverly masked swear words.

Bear in mind the following are actual questions from actual readers, submitted here [link outdated], and not made-up questions like that she-devil Ann Landers uses.

Dear Eric: How come people in Utah don’t use their turn signals? — Frustrated on the Freeway
Dear Free: Because turn signals don’t work when the radio is tuned to a country station or if the driver is pregnant.

Dear Eric: What are some of the tried and true phrases you can use to generate lots and lots of angry letters from readers? — Wondering in Walla-Walla
Dear Wally: These phrases usually elicit very strong responses: “the mayor’s rear end,” “pitching a tent,” “kicked the baby in the head,” “gay pirate” and “that Totally Awesome Computers guy kicks babies in the head.”

Dear Eric: How can I pay less for my new apartment? — Strapped for Cash
Dear Strappy-Doo: Tell the landlord you want a discount for not setting it on fire. Then, after he gives you the discount, set it on fire. And let that be a lesson to him, the gay pirate!

Dear Eric: Does that tingling sensation I get when I’m around a certain girl mean I’m in love? — Hopelessly Lovelorn
Dear Hopeless: No, Tom Green, it just means it’s mating season again.

Dear Eric: What is Victoria’s secret? — Pornokemon
Dear Porny: That “Rosebud” was the name of the sled. No, sorry, that’s “Citizen Kane’s” secret. Victoria’s secret is that she’s a man.

Dear Eric: Do you consider yourself a role model? — Curious Jorge
Dear Jor: No, just an underwear model. If the right role company came along, though, I’d be glad to model them.

Dear Eric: How can you get your friends to level with you? I’m trying to get an honest response about how well I sing. People tend to give me “oh, don’t worry about it, you’re fine” type answers. I don’t know if they’re sincere, or just trying to be nice. — Singing Sour
Dear Tone-Deaf: Your friends are just being nice. You sing so badly, you make people leave the church.

Dear Eric: What’s the deal with the 15 mph speed limit on Center Street in Provo? With so many car thefts, shouldn’t the police be patrolling the neighborhoods stopping the real criminals? When was the last time you drove 15 mph down Center Street? — Forced Revenue Supporter
Dear Just Got a Speeding Ticket: Hey, hey, one question at a time here. In order of your asking them: They choose speed limits by drawing numbers out of a hat; yes; and, the last time there was a cop behind me.

Dear Eric: In your opinion, what crimes against humanity merit definistration? — The Definistrator
Dear Gay Pirate: You sent two questions containing the word “definistration,” obviously trying to impress me with your knowledge of such a big word. The thing is, that word is actually spelled “defenestration” and it means “a throwing of a person or thing out of a window.” I’d say trying to show off your vocabulary but misspelling the key word is grounds for defenestration.

Dear Eric: What video game do you think would be the best choice for a group date? — Anime Man
Dear No Taste in Cartoons: Try Sega’s “No Goodnight Kiss” or Nintendo’s “I Can’t Believe What a Big Loser I Am.” (I can lend them both to you.)

Dear Eric: My cat is really fat, but she doesn’t eat a lot. What should I do? — Feline Friend
Dear Catwoman: Do as Bob Barker suggests: Have her neutered, and then run over her with your car. And watch “The Price Is Right,” weekdays on CBS!

The church attendance rate among Latter-day Saints is anywhere from 10 to 90 percent, depending on whom you ask and whether they like Mormons. The anti-Mormons tend to put the number pretty low, although I don’t know why they’d bother attacking the church if no one’s attending it anyway.

In all fairness, it’s a difficult thing to measure. There are too many variables. Do we count people who are present in body but who sleep through the whole meeting? If so, then I know of several bishops who are inactive.

However you look at it, not everyone who’s supposed to be going to church is actually going, and the problem isn’t just among Mormons. Everyone’s slacking off. Why, I know some Catholics who only go on Christmas now and are neglecting Easter altogether!

But this column is about how Mormons specifically can increase church attendance. I’m not talking about changing doctrines around, like lowering tithing to 8 percent or having a smoking section at Relief Society luncheons. I’m talking about things we can do within the existing system that will make church attendance more appealing.

My first suggestion should already be in place, and it should go without saying, but I will say it anyway: If you can’t sing, don’t join the choir. I suspect hideous choir numbers is the main reason people leave the church. I cannot cite statistics on that, but my suspicions are not usually wrong, as my friends Fred and Daphne will attest.

Next, I think something has to be done about the way we give talks in sacrament meeting. Specifically, I don’t think they should be boring. (Pardon me if I am contradicting scripture here.) The gospel is exciting and has many interesting facets. So quit mumbling and say something interesting, for crying out loud! My goodness, you’d think some of these people had been asked to speak at their own funerals, the way they talk in low tones and stare at the podium. If I wanted to hear people talk about nothing, I’d go back and get my master’s degree.

Of course, not everyone is adept at public speaking, which is why I propose we add some enhancements to spice things up. For instance, if you’ve ever watched a musical, you’ve noticed that no matter how time-worn or obvious the dialogue is, it can easily be punched up with a little choreography. Now, I’m not suggesting we start dancing in church. Well, OK, I am suggesting that. With better costumes, too.

I would also like to declare a moratorium on a particular genre of sacrament meeting story. It’s the kind of story where the speaker tells it in the third person — “there was a guy who did this and that” — and then reveals, in a shocking conclusion, that HE is the guy the story is about! It was him the whole time!

I don’t know what we’re going for here. Do we want a huge “Sixth Sense”-style twist, where the audience goes, “Holy crap, he TOTALLY had me fooled!,” and they spill their Tupperware containers of Cheerios? If so, I have no problem with that. Anything to keep us awake. The trouble is, we’ve heard too many of these stories to be fooled by them. Whenever I hear a story told in the third person in which the main character is not named, I assume the speaker himself is the main character, unless I recognize the story from another source (e.g., if it begins with “In the beginning” or “Once upon a midnight dreary”).

Another thing that would bring people back week after week is cliffhangers. Rather than ending each talk with everything wrapped up neatly, speakers should leave off at some dramatic point with a promise to finish it next week. People would walk out of church just itching to return. “Why was there only one set of footprints?!” people would say. “And what happened to that train on the bridge?!!” And the next Sunday, church would be packed to the rafters.

Are my suggestions irreverent or disrespectful? Possibly. But they said the same thing about other men with strong ideas, men such as Galileo and Hitler. And I’ll keep going to church regardless of whether any of my ideas are implemented. Just don’t be surprised if I bring earplugs when the choir’s performing.

I got an e-mail with the subject line, “Eric, an urgent message about your future!” The use of my first name let me know this was a friend writing me, and the word “urgent” informed me of the great importance of the message, but the exclamation point is what sealed the deal. Wide-eyed and sputtering, I threw my chalupa to the floor, genuflected hastily in the general direction of Mecca, and opened the e-mail.

It began, “Eric, you must have friends in high places.” I thought, “Well, yes, I have met Michael McLean.” It continued: “I’ve been authorized to issue you a Free Tarot Reading!”

My heart leapt within my breast, and I suffered a mild stroke. At last, I could gain a foothold on my life and wrench myself free of the crippling sense of doom that overcomes me every time I leave the house or encounter other people. Everything I’d ever heard about tarot cards gave me the impression they were highly accurate, non-satanic tools used by college-educated people who don’t live in trailers. Now was my chance to put these powers to work for me! I’d have them start with the front lawn, which desperately needed a trimming.

There was a toll-free number to call: 1-800-308-1673. The e-mail said, “Please do not give or use this number for anyone other than yourself. It’s a special number meant only for you!”

Now, it is not often that special phone numbers are established just for my use. If I’d had any doubts about the Free Tarot Reading — and surely I had not — they were now melting faster than a bucket of ice on Penelope Cruz (because she is HOT! Yowza!). I skimmed to the end of the e-mail and discovered who it was from: MISS CLEO.

Miss Cleo! Having watched more than five seconds of television in the past six months, I knew exactly who she was. She’s a Jamaican psychic with a song in her voice and a rag on her head. She knows everything, except grammar, which she doesn’t know. Would she be at the other end of 1-800-308-1673? This day was just getting better! It was like Christmas in whatever month this was.

I dialed the number and heard a recorded message not in Miss Cleo’s voice. It said: “We’re sorry. Based on the area you are calling from, we are unable to bill your tarot card reading to your home phone. However, for a limited time, when you use your Mastercard, Visa, or pay with a check by phone, you can enjoy speaking to a master psychic for as little as 1.99 a minute! That’s a savings of more than 60 percent off our regular prices. Just call 1-800-840-8284 to learn more!”

I was more confused than I had ever been, even more than when Luke and Bo disappeared and Coy and Vance showed up on “The Dukes of Hazzard.” Why did Miss Cleo need to bill my home phone if the Free Tarot Reading was free? Doesn’t “free” mean “without charge”? Or have the kids changed it with their slang, like how “bad” means “good” and “phat” means “I can’t spell”?

Unsure what else to do, I called the new number. This time, the recorded message was from Miss Cleo herself, telling me to press 1 to purchase psychic time (as little as $1.99 per minute) with a credit card, or 2 to pay through my checking account. I pressed nothing and got a live operator instead.

OPERATOR: Thank you for calling —
ME: Is this Miss Cleo?
OPERATOR: No, sir.
ME: Is Miss Cleo there?
OPERATOR: May I have your ZIP Code, please?
ME: 84604 (not my real ZIP Code; I was testing his psychic powers). Is this where I can get the free reading?
OPERATOR: No, this is where you can pre-pay some minutes with a credit card.

He explained that the Free Tarot Reading is free, but only for the first few minutes, and then they start charging you. I could not afford this, of course. Miss Cleo had snookered me. I admired her tenacity even as I cursed her name. Crestfallen, embittered and sad, I hung up the phone and shuffled slowly out into the night, where I was immediately struck by a bus.

From what I gather, one of the primary benefits of getting married is the assurance of always having someone who will listen to you, or at least pretend to. When you’re single, you have to make your single friends listen to you, and goodness knows they don’t care. If they were compassionate listeners, they’d be married.

The quest to be listened to is one of mankind’s most fundamental urges, up there with the desire to be loved and the impulse to pull Oreos apart. If no one will hear us, is there any reason to go on talking? No, there isn’t. So shut up.

I kid. One option, if you have no one else to talk to, is to visit a therapist/counselor/psychologist/psychiatrist. (There are differences among these professions, but what is this, a medical journal?) For a while in the Hectic ’90s, it was trendy to see a therapist. Psychiatrists still had the stigma of being only for crazy people, but “therapists” (often psychiatrists whom you referred to as therapists when mentioning them to other people) were OK. If you were seeing a therapist, it meant you had enough going on in your life to not know how to handle it.

I saw a therapist for a couple weeks. Then I overslept, missed a session, and was billed the full amount. In fact, I’d been getting a slight discount because the therapist was a friend of a friend, but for the missed session, I was billed the regular price. So it was costing me more to not show up than to show up. I needed to see another therapist just to work out the problems I was having with this one.

A therapist will go to great lengths to put you at ease and assure you he’s your friend, to join the ranks of all your other friends who charge you $100 an hour. Which is why it’s such a sad situation, really: No one will talk to you out of affection, so you seek out someone who will do it for money. It’s the world’s oldest profession.

Eventually, I realized that no one who makes $100 an hour can possibly relate to anything I have to say. We live in two entirely different worlds. I would say, “I’m so stressed out by my personal relationships,” and he’d be thinking, “If I take the Lexus in for a tune-up, I’ll be stuck driving the Miata all day, and the nanny will have to use her own car to pick up the kids from horseback-riding lessons.”

Speaking of psychological problems, it occurs to me that the person most ill-suited for ordinary society is probably Dr. Alan Grant. This is the character played by Sam Neill in the first and third “Jurassic Park” films, and if anyone’s going to have trouble finding someone to listen to him, it’s this guy. I mean, he was CHASED BY DINOSAURS, for crying out loud. The nightmares, the therapy, the fear of lizards — this guy is screwed up for life. Who can relate to him? Nobody. Here is a conversation I imagine him having:

FRIEND: Alan, I’ve been fired from my job.
DR. ALAN GRANT: That’s terrible. I was CHASED BY DINOSAURS.
OTHER FRIEND: Alan, I have cancer of the face.
DR. ALAN GRANT: Sucks to be you. I was CHASED BY DINOSAURS.
THIRD FRIEND: Alan, it turns out my internal organs are all made out of Silly Putty.
DR. ALAN GRANT: How unpleasant for you. I was CHASED BY DINOSAURS.

He may need to find a therapist who specializes in horror-movie neuroses, whose patients also include the girl from “The Exorcist” (“I can’t even LOOK at pea soup anymore”) and any of the various “Friday the 13th” survivors (“I can’t even LOOK at bad acting anymore”).

We all eventually have to find someone who will listen to us. Sadly, when many of us find such a forum, we squander the opportunity and talk about frivolous things like psychiatrists and dinosaurs. It’s all very tragic.

Now, should I write you a check for that $100, or is cash OK?

Do all your driving this weekend, because starting Monday, Utah Valley will be packed with Education Week visitors converging on BYU. Many of them are from out of state and are not familiar with our local traffic laws, like the one that says when a light turns green, you have to sit there and look stunned for several seconds before moving.

There are literally millions of Education Week lectures offered to knowledge-hungry Latter-day Saints. It would be impossible to attend them all, no matter how good your Franklin Planner skills are. So here are a few of the more interesting ones you may have overlooked in the catalog.

“The Book of Numbers: Motivating Your Quorum to Get Its Home Teaching Done.” One of the most important assignments in the church is the assignment to go to a stranger’s house and be his friend whether he likes it or not. This class teaches Elders Quorum presidents how to persuade their brethren to achieve 100 percent home teaching, while simultaneously convincing them they’re not doing it just for the numbers. Emphasizes “quality vs. quantity” doublespeak that makes it sound like both are equally important. (“Don’t go visit everyone just so you can tell us you did it. But do go visit everyone. And do tell us you did it.”) Instructor: Fare E. See

“The Name Game: Are We Mormons, Or What?” Explains what the heck we’re supposed to call ourselves, now that we’ve been encouraged to say “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints” instead of “Mormon Church”: “Latter-day Saints” is OK, but “Mormons” isn’t really accurate. Includes practice in saying “Latter-day Saint Tabernacle Choir” and “Latter-day Saint Battalion.” Instructor: The president of the National Association for the Advancement of African-Americans

“A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Pulpit: Using Sacrament Meeting Talks to Win Friends and Influence People.” Everyone knows the real purpose behind speaking in sacrament meeting: to crack jokes. But not everyone is adept at doing it. This class teaches the basics: Every talk must begin with a statement to the effect of, “When Brother So-and-So called and asked me to give this talk…”; every talk should include a jovial reference to the speaker’s wish that the person speaking prior to him had taken up more time; and every talk should include a random joke, preferably involving the prophet and fishing. Note: Factors such as timing and delivery are not discussed. Instructor: The guy in my last ward who I think seriously believed all this

“All Dressed up with No Place to Worship: Getting the Most out of Prom Dresses.” When the young women have been to their high school proms, everyone in the ward wants to know how darling and precious they looked in their modest new dresses. Achieve this not by showing everyone the 500 photos you took before they left the house, but by having them wear their prom costumes to church the next day. Nothing looks more not-out-of-place and not-tacky than a pastel-colored, chiffon-oriented formal dress in the meetinghouse corridors! Make sure the young ladies wear their wrist corsages, too, to give the impression they came to church straight from the prom, because it apparently lasted 16 hours. Class also includes tips on dressing for Boy Scout courts of honor. Instructor: Calvin Klein Christensen

Other Education Week classes being offered: “Commanded in All Things: Why There Should Be ‘R’ Ratings for Books, Plays, Music and TV Shows, Too, So We’d Never Have to Use Our Own Judgment Again”; “Missionaries Don’t Play Pranks or Use Toilets: Things to Be Offended by in ‘God’s Army'”; “The Man Who Recorded That ‘Mormon Rap’ Song 10 Years Ago: What Ever Happened to That Guy?”; “Be of Good Cheer: What a ‘Joke’ Is, and How to Take One.”

I was listening to KOSY 106.5’s “Showtune Saturday Night” as I drove to Atchafalaya for the 2 Live Crew concert when I realized I couldn’t remember which show the song currently playing was from. It was called “It Takes a Woman,” and it was really sexist, so it could have been anything from Rodgers and Hammerstein or Lerner and Loewe (or 2 Live Crew, for that matter).

It was something I’d seen recently, I knew that. I was going to call my friend Luscious Malone (names have been changed) to see if she knew, but I thought the irony of wanting to know which Broadway show a song was from while about to attend a 2 Live Crew concert was so great it might cause the universe to collapse on itself.

I was at the concert on official business, keeping an eye on things in case all H-E-double-hockey-sticks broke loose after the Herald’s deadline and someone had to call and yell, “Stop the presses!” (Note: If YOU try it, it won’t work. You have to be an employee, and know the password.)

I was not looking forward to the show. 2 Live Crew is not really my scene — when it comes to washed-up has-beens, I prefer Gerardo — and most of the people at Hootchafaloocha were beyond the level of skankiness with which even I normally associate. There was skank dripping off the walls, and the floor was several inches deep in skank. It took hours of bathing afterward to remove all the skank from my body. I had to burn my clothes in a special skank-tank.

2 Live Crew did not perform right away. First, we had to watch a loud, thrashy opening act. I did not catch the name of this band, as the singer spoke only in incoherencies, but I believe it was something like Whaaaglrrrgllg. They performed several songs, all of which were called, “We Can’t Sing and Our Music Sucks,” from the album of the same name, released on Throw Your Money in the Trash Records.

Then there was a man who I gathered was a local rap artist. His album, coincidentally, has the same name as Whaaaglrrrgllg’s, and was released on the same label.

After much anticipation and screaming and skankiness, 2 Live Crew took the stage. The band was accompanied by three semi-coordinated bimbos in tiny shirts who danced around in worship of their misogynist gods, who themselves be-bopped around the stage as they rapped hoarsely into their microphones and gestured emphatically. I literally could not understand a word they said.

Now, please grasp what I am saying here: I LITERALLY couldn’t understand a SINGLE word. I know people are fond of saying “literally” when they don’t mean it. For example, the Web site for the Hale Centre Theatre in West Valley (www.halecentretheatre.com) says the current show, “Lucky Stiff,” is so funny it will “literally knock you dead,” which obviously is not true. A few coincidental deaths each night would not surprise me, given the average age of Hale patrons, but it’s not really fair to blame those on the show.

But when I say “literally,” I mean it. The combination of a bad sound system and poor elocution from 2 Live Crew — or “the Crew,” as I like to call them — made it impossible for me to ascertain the identity of even one word. In that regard, it was the least obscene concert I’ve ever attended.

They did a song, then they shouted unintelligibly for a while, then they did another song, or perhaps the same one over again. The bimbos kept their clothes on, and the Crew did not physically molest them. I left after a few songs — or, again, maybe just a few choruses of the same song — and put all the protests and controversy and the concert itself in the “much ado about nothing” category. It’s all over now, and it’s hardly even worth writing about.

Oh, and the song was from “Hello, Dolly!” (enthusiasm theirs), and the sexism was meant to be ironic. Now maybe we can all go on with our lives.