The Dalai Lama is in Utah County this weekend, speaking at, of all places, Utah Valley State College. (What, was Provo High School booked?) Earlier this week, the Daily Herald’s Eric D. Snider was granted an exclusive interview with Mr. Lama, held at T.G.I. Friday’s. Here is a transcript of that historic meeting.

ERIC: Your Holiness, it’s an honor to have you here at T.G.I. Friday’s.

DALAI LAMA: Thank you. I am glad to be here.

ERIC: What’s the deal with Friday’s, anyway? Do they think all the weird stuff hanging on the walls somehow makes the food taste better? Are their chefs inspired to greater culinary heights because there’s a washboard from the 1920s that says “Coca-Cola” on it nailed to the wall behind them?

DALAI LAMA: That is a good question.

ERIC: Anyway, I wanted to ask you — oh, here’s the waitress.

(Eric and the Dalai Lama place their orders. Waitress leaves.)

ERIC: Did you notice she did that server squat at our table?

DALAI LAMA: The server squat…?

ERIC: You know the one, where they crouch down next to you instead of standing up like a Homo sapiens? I don’t like it. It seems too informal to me.

DALAI LAMA: (nodding thoughtfully) A restaurant should maintain an air of formality….

ERIC: Also, I don’t like people squatting next to me. Nothing good ever happens when people squat.

DALAI LAMA: Perhaps you are interested to know the subject of my address this weekend.

ERIC: Ah! Yes. Please tell me.

DALAI LAMA: I will speak on the obligation each of us has to make the world a better place.

ERIC: Did you notice she also didn’t write down our order? She just memorized it.

DALAI LAMA: Yes, well, her memory must be good.

ERIC: That always makes me nervous. I don’t go to a restaurant to be entertained by feats of memory. Is she a waitress or is she The Amazing Kreskin? “Here’s your sandwich … AND WITH PICKLES!”

DALAI LAMA: The Amazing Who?

ERIC: Kreskin. I think he might be Buddhist. Do you know him?

DALAI LAMA: I don’t believe so.

(Waitress brings appetizers.)

ERIC: Oh, good. Have you had these mozzarella sticks before? Man, they’re tasty.

DALAI LAMA: To the naked eye, they seem to be nothing more than fried cheese.

ERIC: Yeah, but somehow they turn out really good.

DALAI LAMA: As I was saying, about my speech….

ERIC: What’s the deal with appetizers, though? They’re called “appetizers,” so I assume the purpose is to get our appetites going for the main course. But if you’re trying to make someone hungry, wouldn’t giving them food be counterproductive? Seems like that would make you LESS hungry. I mean, if they really want to whet my appetite, the thing to do would be to bring out the appetizers, wave them in front of my face, and then take them away again.

DALAI LAMA: That is an interesting idea.

ERIC: But for that matter, do I need them to MAKE me hungry? I walked into the restaurant; I must be hungry already.

DALAI LAMA: I believe the appetizers are meant as a light way of beginning a heavy meal. You must crawl before you can walk.

ERIC: No, because most appetizers are really heavy. For crying out loud, these cheese sticks are nothing but grease and fat, and plus, they cost almost as much as an entree. And besides, I don’t think I need the restaurant’s help preparing myself for a meal. I don’t need to coat my stomach with a layer of onion rings before introducing the main course. I’ve eaten before. This is not my first meal.

DALAI LAMA: I would not accuse you of such.

ERIC: Why are you defending the appetizers, anyway? Are you getting a kick-back from Friday’s?

DALAI LAMA: I assure you, I am not.

ERIC: I’m still worried about that squatting waitress not writing down our order. If my sandwich shows up with a tomato after I specifically said “no tomato,” I’m not tipping her.

DALAI LAMA: I’m with you there, man. No service, no tip.

ERIC: Amen, brother. Hey, it’s been good chatting with you.

DALAI LAMA: Will you be at my speech Saturday?

ERIC: Can you give me a shout-out?

DALAI LAMA: You know it.

ERIC: Right on.

DALAI LAMA: Word.

So the phone company came out to hook up my new phone line, but ‘cept after they did it, it didn’t actually work. Evidently, one needs to specify that one would like a WORKING phone line, as opposed to just a telephone number and a bill.

So they came out again a couple days later and went around to each phone jack individually to re-wire them. They fixed them all, except for the one in the master bedroom, which they only pretended to fix, perhaps as a fraternity initiation.

So they came out a third time. Since I hadn’t known that the phone jack in my bedroom still didn’t work, I had shoved a desk up against the wall where it was located. You could still get to the phone jack, except you had to lie on the floor and reach behind the desk. The surly phone guy said I would need to move the desk. I thought, “If you don’t do any actual work, like lying down on the carpet to fix a phone line, then why are you dressed like an auto mechanic? You could wear a suit and tie for this job, apparently.” However, being passive-aggressive, I said nothing.

So I moved the desk, and His Majesty crouched down on his dainty knees and fixed the phone jack. Then, without so much as a “goodbye” or a “thanks for using Qwest,” much less an offer to help me push the desk back against the wall, he left.

So I tried pushing the desk back myself, and in so doing broke off a piece of the hutch that sits atop the desk. Granted, it was no antique; it was just a $130 desk from Wal-Mart. But I expected it to last more than two days, especially after I had worked so hard on it, staying up until 3 a.m. watching my friend Jared put it together.

So I called Qwest. I pointed out that their guys had already been to my house twice and failed to hook up the phone properly. I had put the desk against the wall because I assumed they’d succeeded in making the phone work. Their last guy, Prince Surly, could have done his job without moving the desk at all — but at the very least, he could have offered to help me move it back again. Qwest’s reply was, more or less, “Yeah, so?”

So I hung up and realized I was foolish to have ever thought they might make reparations. After all, this is a company that makes you buy “Line-Backer(TM)” at $4.50 a month so that if something goes wrong with your phone line, they’ll come out and fix it for free. Otherwise, they’ll charge you for it, even if the problem was their fault. What they’re saying is, “You know that service you’re paying for, i.e., the phone line and the phone number? Yeah, well, if we fail to provide you with adequate service, we’re going to charge you for fixing it unless you’ve paid your monthly ‘protection.'” I’m not saying Qwest hires goons to sabotage the phone lines of people who don’t buy “Line-Backer(TM)” just so they can charge them later for fixing it, but I am saying the phone company reminds me of the Mafia, except less compassionate.

So now I have a working phone jack, but a broken desk. Too bad I didn’t pay for “Desk-Backer(TM)” from Wal-Mart. And what’s with Qwest, anyway? Don’t they know a “q” should always be followed by a “u”? How qweer.

After spending three days at Disneyland, I am pleased to report that the best ride is Pinocchio’s Daring Journey. At least, I assume it is, since we rode it five times.

The “we” in question was me, my research assistant/consultant Josh, and our friends Becky and Chanel, with whom we maintain relatively platonic relationships despite constant pressure from our other friends. We went to the Magic Kingdom as a respite from the drudgery of day-to-day life, and also to see if Josh could break the land speed record for consuming 1,000 churros.

The first night we were there, Chanel had to leave the park for a while to have dinner with some group of relatives, or something (we weren’t that interested, frankly). Not wanting Chanel to miss out on anything, Josh, Becky and I decided to go on rides that weren’t very much fun. Naturally, we headed straight to Fantasyland.

Now, I don’t mean to say Fantasyland rides aren’t fun at all. They are apparently quite entertaining to young children, who don’t realize, for example, that Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride ends with everyone going to hell (it really does!), or that the Alice in Wonderland ride was obviously designed with the aid of marijuana. Actually, these things kind of entertain me, too, now that I think of it. It must be the rides’ slow, repetitive nature that I get tired of, just like I got bored with Al Gore last fall.

Anyway, we went on the Pinocchio ride. As with the others, you drive through the story, and characters yell things at you, and a whale tries to eat you. At the end of the ride, when Pinocchio has been returned to the bosom of his family (instead of going to hell like Mr. Toad did), Gepetto says, “I’m so happy!” But he says it in a thick, old-man Italian accent, so it comes out “I’m so heppy!”

To the three of us, this was the funniest thing that had ever been said by anyone, ever, animated or not. It delighted us to no end. We walked around the rest of the night saying it. We wrote it down in Josh’s special book where you write down memorable things. We vowed to have it engraved on our tombstones.

Alas, Chanel had missed it. So when we got her back from her captors, we went on the ride again so she could hear it. We were positively giddy with anticipation and then … he didn’t say it. He said something else instead. Apparently, it’s one of those rides that has variations, which I’m sure the 4-year-olds really appreciate.

So we rode it again, and Gepetto uttered yet another variation. So we rode it again. We were going to MAKE Gepetto say “I’m so heppy!,” if it was the last thing we did. But he still did not say it. We began to fear the ride had an infinite number of variables, and that after it ran out of lines from “Pinocchio,” it would start quoting from other sources until it had exhausted every possible sentence combination in the English language. We envisioned Gepetto spouting random nouns and verbs in a nonsensical manner, like the people who post comments at HarkTheHerald.com, eventually saying everything EXCEPT “I’m so heppy!”

After sitting through this ride five times, and getting seriously weird looks from the lithe young man who operated it, we gave up and left it, swearing never to return again. Josh even put an Italian curse on it, between churros. So if you go to Disneyland and find the Pinocchio ride mysteriously burned to the ground, you’ll know why. As for us, we have moved on with our lives and hope one day to find true heppiness.

(Note: In the interest of full disclosure, I should point out that upon entering Disneyland, I was given, as were all the other guests, a full-color brochure describing the park’s rides and attractions. This brochure was provided free of charge. My subsequent coverage of brochures and brochure-making was produced independently of my receipt of this gift, however, and was in no way influenced by it. I thank Disneyland for its kindness in providing me with the brochure, but all reporting I have done on brochures since then has been with an impartial mind. Thank you.)

My recent trip to Disneyland revealed a park vastly different from the one I knew as a child. The Mickey’s Hernia Operation ride is new, for example, as is Tigger’s Crack House.

I kid the multi-national conglomerate, but Disney really has changed. As a tyke, and even into my ragamuffin years, one of my favorite attractions was the Swiss Family Robinson Treehouse. I liked that it was a thing you could actually stop and LOOK at, instead of rocketing past it at 100 mph. And it was built like the treehouse actually lived in by the Robinson family and that crazy transvestite they picked up. (Remember that? And remember how the older Robinson sons, the tough one and the gay one, both wanted him/her? That was one trippy movie.)

But now the Swiss Family Robinson Treehouse is called Tarzan’s Treehouse. Why? Because kids don’t remember “The Swiss Family Robinson” (nor should they, really, especially with all those transvestites in it). Does it matter that Tarzan didn’t live in a treehouse in the 1999 Disney cartoon? Does it matter that the only time a treehouse is even shown is when Tarzan’s parents are killed in one by a jungle cat? Does it matter that, because of that tragedy, even SEEING a treehouse is probably very traumatic for Tarzan? No. The general theme of Tarzan’s Treehouse is: “Tarzan” is now available on video and DVD.

Just across from Tarzan’s Treehouse is the relatively new Indiana Jones ride. What connection Disney thinks it has to Indiana Jones is beyond me, but it’s a pretty fun ride, with an audio-animatronic Harrison Ford who speaks with more inflection than the real Harrison Ford.

One thing that has not changed about Disneyland is that it still leads the world in the production of comical robots who make bad puns. No matter how genuinely thrilling a ride may be, you can rest assured it will have at least one expressionless, wise-cracking android. If there were a Disneyland ride that actually made it possible to travel through time, winning the praise and accolades of scientists, theologians, and philosophers as the most daring invention in all of recorded history, it would have a talking monkey as a tour guide, and he would say things like, “We’re in the Paleolithic Era now — and boy, did someone ever make those dinos sore!” (The monkey’s voice would be provided by Nathan Lane.)

But back to my point: “The Swiss Family Robinson” had a cast full of transvestites. No, sorry, my point is that the changes at Disneyland reflect the changes in the Disney company in general. In the old days, you got the feeling Disney actually existed just to make kids happy. Even the Disney films that were awful at least were quiet about it. They weren’t over-hyped, big-budget monstrosities like today’s “102 Dalmatians,” “Dinosaur” and “Pocahontas.” They had stories — dumb stories, sometimes, based on absurd premises like donkeys kicking field goals or Kurt Russell being funny, but stories nonetheless. “102 Dalmatians,” in contrast, was just 90 minutes of dogs sniffing each other.

And so the park is different, too. The old rides, like Snow White’s Stupid Adventures and Mr. Toad’s Boring Ride, were centered around entertaining kids, without regard for craftsmanship or originality. But the new rides are so intent on competing with Six Flags and other vomit-oriented amusement parks that they’re too boisterous and crazy for kids to even go near. Surely the frozen corpse of Walt Disney is spinning in its cryogenics chamber. Which would be kind of a fun ride in itself.

The reason you couldn’t drive anywhere yesterday is that BYU held its commencement exercises and everyone in Utah County drove to the Marriott Center. (You will notice they did this without using their turn signals.) More graduation stuff happens today, because we Mormons figure there’s no reason to have only one meeting when you can have two.

(Note to self: Remove that last joke before this column goes to print, unless you’re positive no one will remember you made the same one last year.)

Today’s ceremonies are for the individual colleges, with messages tailored to each department’s graduates. How do the speeches differ from one department to the next? Here are some excerpts.

FOR HISTORY MAJORS:
“When I look into this sea of faces about to leave this university forever, I am reminded of how the Romans must have felt when the Vandals sacked them in A.D. 455: disappointed, sure, but we can always rebuild. And just as George Washington’s surrender of Fort Necessity to the French in 1754 meant losing a battle while eventually winning a war, I am sure our ongoing efforts to cram useless data into students’ heads will ultimately prove fruitful. Remember, those who don’t pass their history classes are doomed to repeat them. (Silence from audience.) On Sept. 8, 2002. (Cheering and applause.)”

FOR CLOTHING AND TEXTILES MAJORS:
“You spent the past four years learning how to design clothes. And guess what? Right now you’re all wearing the same thing. Welcome to the bitter irony of life.”

FOR JOURNALISM MAJORS:
“Though your work at The Daily Universe may have taught you otherwise, journalism is more than quoting only one source, and misquoting him, for your semi-annual three-part series on eating disorders. It is more than writing obvious headlines such as ‘Internet Popular Among Students.’ It is more than misspelling the names of well-known religious leaders. In the real world, journalism also means swearing a lot and criticizing Republicans.”

FOR SPANISH MAJORS:
“So you went on a Spanish-speaking LDS mission … and then decided you should MAJOR in Spanish? What did you minor in, tracting? I spent two years in the Army before college, but I didn’t come home and get a degree in camouflage. So you can speak Spanish really fluently now. Well, olé for you. Good luck finding a job.”

FOR PUBLIC RELATIONS MAJORS:
“Thank you for coming to this innovative and exciting graduation ceremony. ‘It will be an event to remember,’ proclaims Department Chair Takki Gusher. ‘Such innovation and excitement will surely be enjoyed by all.'”

FOR RECREATION MANAGEMENT AND YOUTH LEADERSHIP MAJORS:
“I am sorry this ceremony was scheduled to be held in the library, which apparently confused those of you who had never entered the building before. But we — wait, is this even a major? ‘Recreation Management and Youth Leadership’? What do you do? Organize Little League teams? This must be a prank. Am I on ‘Candid Camera’…?”

FOR MATH MAJORS:
“We apologize that our keynote speaker has not arrived yet. He was on a train that left Chicago at 6 a.m., heading west at 150 miles per hour, while another train left San Francisco at the same time, heading east at 100 miles per hour, so … well, you do the math. (Graduates do the math.) You see our dilemma.”

Centuries from now, when American civilization has completely collapsed, historians will look back and say: “What caused this great society to fall? How could a culture so rich in the arts, so advanced in government, so efficient in its distribution of Girl Scout cookies, have come to such utter ruin?”

The answer, they will determine, will be this: “Freddy Got Fingered.” On April 20, 2001, when that film was released in theaters, American civilization officially began its decline.

Oh, sure, our society had its occasional downturns before. We had Guns ‘n’ Roses, for example, not to mention “Full House” and the years 1970-1979 inclusive. But we always rose up again. With “Freddy Got Fingered,” we have reached the point of no return. We have leapt from the Empire State Building of culture and now await the inevitable splat on the Fifth Avenue of ignorance.

I don’t mean to say this is the worst movie ever made. I cannot make such a declaration, as I have not seen every movie ever made. But I have seen a couple thousand of them, and as sure as the sun hangs in the sky, as sure as no one has ever looked good in a mullet haircut, as sure as Drew Barrymore is a vapid trollop who deserves to be married to Tom Green, it is certainly the worst of those I have seen. There is no question.

Is “Freddy Got Fingered” worse than “Battlefield Earth”? Certainly: “Battlefield Earth” at least was amusing for its unintentional camp value. Is it worse than all the movies ever featured on “Mystery Science Theater 3000”? Exponentially: Those films were made by people who, while incompetent, at least seemed to be trying. Is “Freddy Got Fingered” worse than passing kidney stones made of barbed wire? Yes: At least that would kill you quickly. This movie lasts 90 minutes.

Tom Green is a Canadian immigrant who had a show on MTV for a while, as part of the once-relevant network’s ongoing mission to prove its own obsolescence. On the show, Tom would go out in public and do crazy things to annoy strangers, capturing their reactions on videotape. He would also do gross things like violate dead animals, earning cheap guffaws from … well, the kind of people who watch MTV and think violating dead animals is funny. It’s a show that takes zero creativity and zero talent, putting Tom Green in competition with a piece of bread in terms of who is best qualified to do it.

“Freddy Got Fingered” is sort of a big-screen version of Tom’s TV show. The difference here is that he’s “playing” a “character” named Gord Brody, a 20-something loser who wants to be a cartoonist. (Or a cartoonist who wants to be a loser. Six of one, half-dozen of the other.)

But the movie is really just a series of puerile skits featuring Tom Green committing a host of atrocities. He sexually harasses a horse and an elephant, for example, making you wonder why PETA wastes its time on people who eat animals. He whacks his paralyzed girlfriend in the legs with a stick. He falsely accuses his dad of molesting his younger brother. He delivers a baby against its mother’s will. He sacks Rome in A.D. 455. OK, that was the Vandals. But I’m not entirely convinced that all bad things that have ever happened should not be attributed to Tom Green.

As a movie critic and an American, I have no particular problem with filth and depravity as long as it’s entertaining. “Freddy Got Fingered” is boring, though, as were its recent gross-out cousins, “Say It Isn’t So,” “Tomcats” and “Joe Dirt.” What have we come to as a society when we make a TV star popular enough to get his own film despite his being utterly worthless? Why do we keep encouraging people to make movies that are both figuratively and literally covered in excrement?

Because we’re morons, that’s why. You and me, we’re all morons. We’ll watch anything, read anything, talk about anything, regardless of whether it’s entertaining, uplifting or even tolerable. I take some comfort in knowing “Freddy Got Fingered” made only $7 million its first weekend, but not much. That means 1 million people did see it, which means 1 million more people with whom I cannot be friends. (It was a lengthy list already.)

It’s the beginning of the end, I tell you. The sidewalk’s coming up fast, and the tourists are already gawking. “Freddy Got Fingered”? My friends, we’ve ALL been fingered.

My friend Jared and I went rock climbing. It made sense that we would go together, because the last time I climbed was in 1992, and the last time he climbed, he fell and knocked himself unconscious.

Since Jared is a theater student, hitting his head did not do any serious damage. Still, there was a general outpouring of concern and a strong feeling among many of his friends that he should not go rock climbing again. They wanted him to take up something safer, like knitting.

In particular, since the doctor had told him not to drive for a while — seems he’d had a bit of a seizure just after the bonking, though never again after — it made sense that he not climb any rocks, either.

To me, it was apples and oranges. Specifically, I had some apple pie and a glass of orange juice at lunch today. My point? It was delicious.

My other point? It was an unsound comparison. The reason he wasn’t supposed to drive was that if by some freak of nature he should have another seizure, he would wreck the car and everyone in the world would die. If he had a seizure while rock climbing, though, whoever was on the other end of the rope would belay him, and nothing would happen.

So that’s why Jared hadn’t been climbing for a few weeks. For me, it had been several years, and my reason had less to do with head injuries and more to do with laziness and a general distrust of nature. After all, nature is where the bears are.

Also, I’ve never been a particularly athletic person. My forays into sports have brought nothing but shame to myself and others. Even before I knew I was no good, though, I had little interest in sports; being berated by teammates when I screwed up didn’t help any. (That’s the fun thing about being a boy. You get abused if you don’t like sports, and then, if you break down and play anyway, you get abused for playing badly. It’s a good thing life is free, because you could never charge for this crap.)

I went rock climbing a few times in high school and I was OK at it. Not good enough to go pro or anything, but decent. I wasn’t falling and cracking my head open, anyway, which is more than I can say for some people.

High school was a long time ago, though, and I’ve had plenty of new reasons to doubt my physical prowess since then. Whatever skill at rock climbing I’d had, I’d long since forgotten it and replaced it with the same awkwardness I felt for other sports. But Jared wanted to go climbing again, and I’m a good friend who wanted an excuse to leave work early.

Jared had actually tried climbing once since the accident, with his girlfriend, bless her heart, who had been with him when it happened. But going together re-created the accident scenario, and it was psychologically difficult for everyone involved, including the rocks, and the attempt was aborted.

So I offered to go with him. Maybe a different climbing partner and a different attitude — one of “Let’s go climbing!” instead of “YOU’RE GOING TO DIE!!!!!!” — would help things.

We went to Rock Canyon, which is a very appropriate name, as it actually is a canyon. We climbed using the “top rope” method, which is where you first find an easy way to the top of the rock, secure a line, then go back down and — this is the crazy part — climb up again the hard way. The top rope prevents you from plunging to your death if you fall, and under the circumstances (i.e., not wanting to plunge to our deaths if we fell), we figured it best to use it.

I quickly remembered one good reason why I hadn’t climbed in a while: The rocks are inconveniently located. None of them are in town, like maybe at the mall or somewhere. They’re all out in the canyon, where you have to walk to them.

So by the time we actually reached our first rock, I was tired. By the time we climbed up the back way to the top of it, I was planning to fling myself off. By the time we got home three hours later, I had been dead for two years.

After securing the top rope, we went down and started climbing up again. (This still does not make sense to me.) With Jared belaying the rope from the ground, I began my slow ascent up the rock. Though I’m 20 pounds overweight and literally have no muscles in my body — seriously, where my muscles should be, there are French fries instead — I managed to climb. I stood on the tiniest of ledges and clung to the smallest of crevices. Soon I was the sweatiest of rock climbers. But I was also making steady progress, climbing higher and higher with no serious difficulties. Jared hollered encouragement from down below, which was more helpful than I would have thought. (“Eric, would hollering be of any use to you?” “No,” I’d probably say, “I can’t imagine it would be.”)

When I reached the top, I looked out over the Utah Valley and marveled at the majestic beauty of my eyeglasses, which were plummeting to the earth because they had slipped off my face.

After I rappelled down so I could belay him, Jared started his climb. He made it up the rock faster than I had — you know, like he was an experienced climber or something, which he was. Neither of us fell. Neither of us freaked out. Neither of us even dropped our glasses, except me.

I hate to be philosophical, but you have to face your fears in life. One bad experience climbing, or a million bad experiences with sports in general, doesn’t mean you have to quit trying. Like the old saying goes, when you fall off the rock, you have to get back on and keep riding. Or something. At any rate, we conquered a little corner of Rock Canyon, and next I’m going to try catching a fly ball.

When the time came for me to be a grown-up and buy a condo, I insisted on buying one that had just been built. With no previous occupants, I figured the place was less likely to be haunted, although it did still run the risk of having been built on an ancient Indian burial ground. These are the chances one takes when purchasing a home.

It was the right time to buy a condo, though, because of the current state of the nation’s economy. It’s taken a downturn lately, and if I recall my high school economics class correctly, a downturn means that two of the atoms are sharing electrons. So someone named Alan Greenspan, who I guess is like the Wizard of Oz or something, magically decided one day to lower the interest rates. This was good news for people wanting to buy homes, as it meant the total amount they would wind up paying on their 30-year mortgages would only be in the millions instead of the billions.

I already knew where I wanted to live. It’s a brand-new condo complex in Orem where some friends of mine, Chris&Lisa, already live with their two kids, whose names I have forgotten again. From Chris&Lisa I knew what the area was like, what the neighbors were like, where the nearest Wendy’s was, and whether it was haunted (no). So when it came time to buy the place, all I had to do was walk into the model unit and declare: “I’d like to buy one condo, please.” This availed me nothing, so I came back again later, when the model unit was open and someone was there to hear me.

The person there was a chic gal named Lakshmi. (This is a Hindu name; Lakshmi is the Hindu goddess of buying a condo.) Lakshmi quickly became my best friend, insofar as I talked to her more times per day than I talk to people I actually know. She would stop by my office frequently to give me another pile of papers to sign. Among them was one indicating that even after I’d bought the place, it was still part of the condo complex, so I couldn’t go knocking out walls or painting the exterior of the building. (Actually, what Lakshmi said was, “Don’t go painting your unit purple,” which seemed like pretty good advice anyway.)

Once I had signed enough documents, I was allowed to sign some more documents, and then I was allowed to move in. Since I’ve lived in apartments all my adult life, though, I’ve accumulated no furniture. Lisa was delighted at the prospect of helping me “decorate” my condo, and she asked what kind of decor I wanted. I told her I was thinking of an Early Deseret Industries motif. That’s when Lisa’s head exploded. Her philosophy was that for my first home, I should buy some fairly nice things that will last me a while. My philosophy was that all I needed was a bed and a desk and something to put the TV on, like a floor. That’s when Lisa’s head exploded for the second time.

So I wiped down Lisa’s neck and headed to RC Willey, lured by the attractive notion of “90 days same as cash,” because some part of my brain thought that in 90 days, I’ll have a lot of cash. My intention was to buy the cheapest furniture I could find; unfortunately, I made the mistake of bringing along my research assistant/consultant Josh, who thwarted me at every turn. Why buy a full-size bed when I can buy a queen-size? he reasoned. Even though I sleep alone and don’t move around much, apparently I need 700 square feet of sleeping area. Maybe the ghosts need a place to sleep.

BYU student Nick Soto knew there was going to be trouble as soon as football season started.

“Every time there was a game on, I couldn’t help but watch it,” said the 21-year-old engineering major. “It was only a matter of time before my roommates caught me.”

His roommates did catch him, and Soto was subsequently suspended from school because of something he says he cannot change: He is a heterosexual.

“This is who I am,” he said. “I’ve always liked women and watched sports. If I weren’t LDS, I would drink beer and read Playboy. I am who I am.”

His roommates, however, could not accept Soto’s lifestyle.

“We’d come home and find him watching ‘SportsCenter,'” said Chad Christensen, one of Soto’s roommates. “We tried to look the other way, but you can only take so much heterosexuality. It makes you sick after a while.”

The last straw, said Christensen, came when he arrived home one evening to find Soto on the couch, making out with a woman. A videotape of “Die Hard” was nearby. Christensen called the Honor Code Office the next day.

“I hated being a snitch, but it was for his own good,” Christensen said. “Besides, we couldn’t live with a hetero in the apartment, exposing us to all his hetero diseases like mono.”

Christensen stressed that he has nothing against straight people. “I’m not a bigot,” he said, adding that one of his roommates is Caucasian and he’s fine with that, too.

Soto is angry at his roommates for turning him in, but angrier at BYU for suspending him for simply being himself.

“I know a lot of straight people here, and they’re all afraid to talk about it openly. As soon as anyone knows they’re straight, girls start trying to marry them immediately. It’s a nightmare.”

“It’s very hard when you see a cherry-red Corvette convertible drive down the street, and you have to be careful not to let anyone see you looking,” he said.

BYU spokeswoman Carri Jenkins said the Honor Code does not make heterosexuality against the rules, only heterosexual behavior.

“If someone has opposite-sex attraction, we sympathize with that,” Jenkins said. “And as long as he doesn’t act on it, he can stay at BYU.”

But what constitutes heterosexual behavior? Soto denies making out with a woman, saying he only held hands with her. And while he admits to playing on the intramural basketball team, he claims he was never very good.

“I went through the motions, really, because that’s what some of my straight friends were doing,” he said. “But I never went all the way — you know, slam-dunks and that stuff. A couple of lay-ups, that’s it.”

Jenkins said BYU does not plan to make the Honor Code any more specific. “We feel students know where the line is,” she said. “We’re not going to make a list saying that Schwarzenegger movies are OK but not Jackie Chan, for example.”

Soto said he plans to move to an area where heterosexuality is more widely accepted. “I’ll probably go to Cleveland,” he said. “They watch a lot of NASCAR there. It’s mecca for straight people.”

After years of renting an apartment, I have finally purchased a condominium. I got tired of giving money away to a landlord every month and have decided to give it to a mortgage company instead.

Everyone kept telling me I should buy instead of rent so that I could build up “equity.” I have no idea what this alleged “equity” is, but if one acquires it by signing a lot of forms, it must be coming out my ears by now. (Something’s coming out my ears, anyway. I hope it’s equity.) By the end, I think they were inventing new forms just so I could sign them. It would be easier to buy $106,000 worth of crack than it was to buy $106,000 worth of condo, and it would require less paperwork.

The most entertaining part of the mortgage process is the comical array of documents the mortgage people want. Now, I will confess that I didn’t even have the basic things, like recent check stubs and bank statements. When I told Debbie the Loan Lady that I didn’t hold on to things like that, she looked at me like I had equity coming out my ears. I explained that she was the first person who had ever asked me for recent check stubs or bank statements, and so I’d never seen a reason to keep them. But apparently, grown-ups are supposed to keep every document they ever encounter, just in case some day they buy a condo.

They also wanted my W-2 from 2000, which I had, since it was tax season. Then, the day we were supposed to close on the deal, in a special surprise announcement, they revealed that they’d also be needing my W-2 from 1999. This seemed strange to me, because no one had ever questioned before whether I had a job in 1999. Everyone had always taken my word for it.

But the assortment of documents and blood samples required was a Sunday matinee at the Roxy compared to the co-signer issue. According to the mortgage people, I would ordinarily qualify for a loan, no questions asked, because I get paid thousands and thousands of dollars every week for writing this column. However, I also have so much outstanding debt — and it truly is outstanding; I mean, this is some really nice debt here — that if I were to pay it all at once, it would cripple the economy. To counteract my high “debt ratio,” as they call it, I had to find a co-signer.

I first thought of my parents, of course; I believe this is who one is expected to first think of when one needs to get bailed out of something. My parents could not co-sign, though, because they just bought a new house their own selves, and mortgage companies don’t like people buying two houses in the same month any more than you like people saying “their own selves.”

After my parents, I didn’t have a lot of options. Most of my friends are young and single and don’t have established credit or a job. And besides, co-signing a loan is a big deal. You can’t just say, “Hey, remember how I bought you lunch last week? Yeah, I need to call in that favor….”

But I found a co-signer the mortgage company approved of, and last week we went into an office in Orem that was filled from floor to ceiling with documents. Each of these, needless to say, needed to be signed or initialed. Some needed to be signed AND initialed. Some needed to be baked in a white-wine sauce at 350 degrees. This avalanche of documents included a Federal Truth in Lending Disclosure, a Deed of Trust, a Statement of Not Liking Jimmy Buffett, the Magna Carta, and someone’s birthday card.

As we would get to each document, Tammy the Document Lady would explain what the documents said. My co-signer and I listened politely, said “Mm-hmm,” and had not the faintest clue what she was EVER talking about. All I know is, I left the office with keys to a condo and a heaping handful of equity. I think I’ll have it bronzed.

It’s time once again for “Ask Eric Stuff,” an occasional feature in which people ask Eric stuff and he answers them. You can submit your own questions at [old Daily Herald link no longer active], and then hope and pray the gods smile upon you and Eric replies in the column. He is unable to reply to each letter personally due to laziness.

Dear Eric: Do you remember when Rage Against the Machine held a concert in Spanish Fork? People actually feared for their lives. What was up with that? — Fearless in Fork
Dear Metal-head: Yeah, but people in Spanish Fork fear for their lives when it rains, because they think the sky is melting. Panic over a rock concert shouldn’t surprise us.

Dear Eric: Why did God tell the Mormons to go to Utah? — Michael in Tulsa
b>Dear Michael: Because a big part of Mormon theology is the importance of sacrifice and suffering. (Actual letter I will now receive from someone: “If you don’t like Utah, WHY DON’T YOU LEAVE?!!!!!!!”)

Dear Eric: Since Mormons don’t have to pay for lavish weddings, why don’t they at least feed their guests a meal? — < Always the Bridesmaid Dear You’ll Never Get Married: Those little mints and nuts aren’t enough for you, Tubbo?

Dear Eric: Why does the Utah legislature only meet for a couple months when my state legislature meets for a year? — Non-Utah Native
Dear Outsider: Because Gayle Ruzicka only bakes enough marijuana-laced brownies to last seven weeks.

Dear Eric: How do you tell a girl you don’t really want to go out with her again, ever, without hurting her feelings? — Perplexed in Provo
Dear Perple: The best way is to shout it as you slow down near her house and push her out the car door.

Dear Eric: My boyfriend recently moved to Ohio. What’s your opinion on long-distance relationships? — Stuck in Provo
Dear Stuck: They can work out very well. What are you doing Friday?

Dear Eric: What is the governmental procedure to be followed if the vice president dies? — DownWithGOP
Dear DWGOP: Widespread panic.

Dear Eric: What signals should I look for to tell if a guy likes me? — BYU Coed
Dear Fat Girl: Does he seem to ignore you? Does he date other girls? Does he avoid complimenting you? Is it difficult to maintain a meaningful conversation with him? If the answer to most of these is “yes,” then he either doesn’t like you or else he does.

Dear Eric: Why is my little brother so hyper? — Bewildered in Bountiful
Dear Bounty: Last year, Utahns in some counties voted to allow fluoride to be put in the public water supply. So much attention was focused on that bill, though, that no one noticed another one: the decision to put crack in the public water supply. (It should also be noted that the people of Utah County were opposed to fluoride. Please see the above item above Rage Against the Machine.)

Dear Eric: Someone once told me that one of the stated purposes of BYU is to provide a place for young men and women of the Mormon faith to meet and mingle so that they will get married. Is this true? Has that policy actually been put on paper somewhere? — A Little Skeptical
Dear Little: The only policies that have actually been put on paper at BYU are that the Honor Code Office treats the accused as guilty until proven innocent, and that mustaches are a sign of apostasy. Everything else, like having to stand motionless if you hear the national anthem, is unofficial.

Dear Eric: Why does Secretary of State Colin Powell pronounce his first name “CO-lun?” The spelling indicates “CAH-lin.” Why on earth would he prefer that pronunciation? — Organized in Orem
Dear Organ: To find out the answer to this question, I wrote to Mr. Powell’s parents, Rectum and Intestina Powell. They did not reply.

Dear Eric: How can you tell if a guy likes you? Should a girl play hard to get, or does that turn a guy off? — Looking for Love
Dear Looking: How can I tell if a guy likes me? I don’t know. Maybe he offers to buy me a drink or something. Oh, that was a generic “you”? Thank goodness. A girl who plays “hard to get” usually winds up “not gotten.” Men are fickle, with very short attention spans. Perhaps you — ooh, a quarter!

Seeing a movie is the most popular thing to do on a date. This is probably because it allows you to sit in the dark with someone of the opposite sex without actually having to talk to them. At least, you shouldn’t be talking to them. If you are talking, then, you know, shut up.

Because of this, we have a genre of movies called “date movies.” Now, when we say “date movie,” of course we mean “a movie women like.” Most date activities are centered around whether the woman will enjoy herself, with little regard for whether the man has any fun. I would like to think this is out of chivalry, but I suspect it’s more because men don’t care what happens on the date, as long as there’s some action at the end of it. A man would gladly endure a date that consisted of going to flower shows and reading magazines in a gynecologist’s waiting room if he thought there were a chance of even a peck on the cheek at the end of it.

Date movies are films that have very little profanity or nudity, no strong violence, and not a single original thought in them. They are made from templates by factory workers.

A date movie is usually about a smart, pretty career woman with short hair who is successful in life but unlucky in love. She really wants a man — but not in a pathetic, “I need to be validated” kind of way. She could totally do without a man altogether because she is self-sufficient, but she happens to WANT one, and there’s nothing wrong with that.

Then, there’s a guy who is kind of a womanizing jerk, but in a cute way. The woman hates him because he’s a womanizing jerk, but then she starts to see his tender side because he’s cute. By the end of the movie, they are together. It doesn’t matter what happens in the middle, as long as they have sex (discreet, nudity-free sex) and as long as one or both of them walks in the rain at some point. A soundtrack featuring a love ballad by a popular rock band wouldn’t hurt, either.

Date movies cannot contain any violence. The only exception is if the cute womanizing jerk has to punch a non-cute womanizing jerk in the face in defense of the career woman with short hair.

So what separates date movies, which couples allegedly enjoy together but which are actually only enjoyed by women, from full-blown “chick flicks,” which men actively despise? Here’s what:

• In a date movie, the couple winds up together at the end. In a chick flick, one of them dies.

• A date-movie protagonist should have one wacky friend who offers sardonic advice and is not prettier than the protagonist. (This friend may be a gay man instead.) The male lead may also have friends, but they should not be better-looking than the lead (though they may be funnier) (but not more charming). A chick-flick protagonist can have an entire beauty parlor full of advice-giving friends.

• Date-movie protagonists may be male or female, but there must be at least one (1) of each in order to make the requisite couple. A chick flick, on the other hand, might have no more testosterone than what’s in Bette Midler.

• In a date movie, both the male and female leads must be attractive (e.g., Tom Cruise movies). In a chick flick, everyone can be ugly (e.g., Richard Gere movies).

• The worst thing that happens to a date-movie character is that he or she might get an adorable cold or have a cute allergy. In a chick flick, someone will have cancer.

Until next time, I’ll see you at the movies! I’ll be the one cuddling with a woman during the brain-eating scene in “Hannibal.”

Following is The Daily Herald’s at-a-glance roundup of today’s front page stories relating to the 2002 Winter Olympics.

OLYMPICS = DEATH: With less than a year to go before the 2002 Winter Olympics, state officials are recommending Utah residents get out now, while they still can. “There is no way the freeway construction will ever be finished in time,” said a spokesman from Gov. Leavitt’s office. “All these people pouring in at once, inundating the state, and some of them wanting to drink beer — it’s going to be awful. Thousands will certainly be killed. For the love of all that’s holy, flee for your lives now. NOW!!”

OLYMPIC ATHLETES DOING OLYMPIC THINGS: A timed trial held Monday in a sport no one cares about — indeed, a sport no one even considered a sport until the Olympics decided it was one — resulted in several athletes breaking records, while other athletes did not break any records. Some of those athletes will become Olympians, and after March 2002, you will never hear of them again.

OUT TO LUNCH, OLYMPIC-STYLE: SLOC President Mitt Romney announced today that he would have lunch at Chili’s. It was anticipated he would have the baby-back ribs, though the possibility of a taco salad was not ruled out.

OLYMPICS AND RELIGION: The LDS Church has denied attempting to turn the 2002 Olympics into “The Mormon Olympics.” “We prefer to call them ‘The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints Olympics,'” said a church spokesman, noting that the “The” should be capitalized.

PLEASE DON’T TALK ANY MORE ABOUT THE @#*$ OLYMPICS: Several Olympic-related stories in yesterday’s Daily Olympic Herald went unread, presumably due to lack of interest. To increase reader interest in what is surely the most important event in the history of the frickin’ universe, the Herald will print twice as many Olympic stories in tomorrow’s paper.

PARKING, OLYMPIC-STYLE: The city of Provo is urging residents to fly flags during the Olympics. “We want the world to feel welcome here,” said Mayor Lewis Billings. “We don’t know where the world is going to park, but they’re certainly welcome once they get here.” As an afterthought, he said, “Maybe the world should just walk. I mean, traffic is bad enough in this town without throwing a bunch of foreigners into the mix.”

AN OLYMPIC PERSPECTIVE: A large chunk of the moon broke off today and subsequently crashed in Africa, killing millions and sinking most of the continent into the sea. Olympic officials promised, however, that the 2002 Winter Olympic will continue as scheduled. “When was the last time Africa hosted the Olympics, anyway?” a spokesman said. “I mean, really. Let’s put this thing in perspective.”

OLYMPICS, OLYMPICS, OLYMPICS, OLYMPICS, OLYMPICS: The Olympics Olympicked today, resulting in Olympic Olympics. “Olympics Olympics Olympics,” said an Olympic. “Olympics Olympics Olympics.” The Olympic was expected to Olympic.

ACADEMY OLYMPICS: More than 800 million people worldwide viewed at least part of the 73rd Annual Academy Awards on Sunday. Tragically, none of the films nominated were about the Olympics, making the whole thing irrelevant. In other news, someone mentioned the 2002 Winter Olympics on Sunday. Story and photos are on page A1.

(Legal disclaimer that shouldn’t even be necessary but trust me, it is: All quotes in this article are fictitious.)

Like all red-blooded American men who pay their taxes and love their wives, I have March Madness. I get it every year. I feel fatigued and nauseated, and it burns when I urinate. It’s either March Madness or syphilis, one.

At any rate, I am a pretty big basketball fan, particularly in the sense of “fan” that means I don’t pay any attention to it. It’s lately been hard not to follow it, though, as our newsroom TV has been showing the NCAA playoffs 24 hours a day, and everyone connected with the paper, including people who just use it as bedding when they sleep in the park, has been hanging around, whooping and cheering while people like me slave away at our desks and try to decide where to go to lunch.

Speaking of big losers, the other kind of March Madness that afflicts many people is the kind where you get upset about the Academy Awards. This year’s case was mild, as most of the bothersome things happened not in the awards but in the nominations. (“Chocolat” gets nominated for Best Picture, while “Angel Food Cak” and “Hot Fudg Sunda” languish in obscurity?!) And while there were a few surprises among the winners, there were no absolute travesties like there were last year, when that sleep-walking fossil Michael Caine beat the kid from “The Sixth Sense” for Best Supporting Actor.

So this year’s March Madness came not from the winners but from the telecast itself. Creepy Icelandic singer Bjork looked like a fjreak with that dead swan wrapped around her neck, and it was interesting that John Travolta introduced the “People Who are Dead Now” montage, since his career could have been included in it.

But the most alarming thing? That new Pepsi commercial starring a scantily clad, rump-shaking Britney Spears. It was effective, though: It really made me want to go out and buy a six-pack of cleavage.

Speaking of people whose 15 minutes of fame are about up, another kind of March Madness is the one where people get mad at you because you made fun of former pop star Tiffany in your March 7 column. On March 8, I received a phone call from a female with a trailer-parkish voice who began the conversation thus:

“I just wanted to call and tell you what a [richard] you are.”

Many people would have hung up on her right there, being offended by her use of brackets. But since nothing turns me on more than a woman with a potty mouth (I imagined she was beating her kids and smoking, too), I said, “OK.” She went on to say, “What gives you the right to make fun of Tiffany?” I explained that what gave me the right was the First Amendment, the same thing that gave her the right to call me a [richard]. I also explained, as I had explained in the column, that I wound up respecting Tiffany for staging a comeback, despite my initial skepticism. The woman was not to be pacified, however, possibly because of my use of the words “skepticism” and “pacified.” She continued to rant and rave and watch Jerry Springer, so I hung up the phone. For all I know, she’s still talking. March Madness can have strange effects on people. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go.

Writing a press release is hard, if by “hard” we mean “not hard.” No offense to the public relations students I had classes with when I was a journalism student, but it’s not exactly brain science or rocket surgery.

Not that journalism is any trickier. Why, I once wrote an entire article without using a single verb. Every time it appropriate to a verb, I just it out.

You can see how easy it is to write a press release by examining this one, which is basically every press release I have ever read, compressed into one:

“This Friday, our group will be holding an event. This will be the most important event that has ever occurred, and any newspaper not putting it on the front page is clearly a newspaper fit to be used only for personal hygiene and not as a news source. We will be calling the newspaper office several thousand times to make sure they got this press release, and then to see if they’re running it, and then to see if they ran it (because we don’t actually read the paper), and then a few more times just to bug them.”

Anyway, though writing a press release is not difficult, it occasionally trips people up. For example, the Little London Dinner Theater recently extended its run of “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Why Won’t People Stop Doing This Show?” and made the announcement by faxing me this release. Read it carefully:

“Due to popular demand, ‘Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat’ has not been extended until Friday, February 23.”

My first thought was how wonderful it was that the people’s voice had been heard, and that the theater had opted not to show “Joseph” any more times than necessary. Then I figured the word “not” had slipped in there accidentally.

But this is nothing — yes, NOTHING! — compared to a press release we got from Provo School District. Its purpose was to laud the local crisis team for all it did in the year 2000 in preventing teen suicides and stuff like that. Team member and therapist Stuart Harper is quoted as saying, “Team members will debrief with both students and parents to help them recognize that they are not alone in their feelings.”

Note that team members will not debrief students and parents; they will debrief WITH them. That is, team members will join students and parents in a room and they’ll all debrief together, possibly with cameras rolling. Woo-hoo!

But this is nothing — yes, NOTHING! — compared to something else from the same press release. What they meant to say, I think, is that in 2000, the crisis team responded to six school-related suicides; they also helped defuse some other situations in which weapons were involved.

But what they SAID was this:

“Last year alone, the crisis team responded to six school-related suicides and provided additional support with weapons.”

Good for them for helping out like that! A kid calls a suicide hotline and announces his intent to kill himself; alas, however, he is without a gun or knife with which to do the job. That’s when the crisis team swings into action and provides additional support with weapons.

I don’t mean to belittle the important work the crisis team does, nor am I necessarily in favor of teen suicide. (Spend some time at Movies 8 on a Friday night, though, and you’re bound to find your anti-teen-suicide stance loosening somewhat.) All I’m saying is that the way you write says a lot about you and the organizations you represent. If you badly, people not you seriously.

I see by the old clock on the wall that — hey, who stole the clock?! Man alive!

I see by my watch, then, that it’s time for “Ask Eric Stuff,” an occasional feature where people ask Eric stuff. All of these questions were submitted at [special Daily Herald Web address given] and are answered exclusively by Eric himself, and not by some staff member or secretary, like that lazy old invalid Ann Landers does.

Dear Eric: I don’t really understand the controversy surrounding the electrical power crisis in California. Could you explain that issue a little bit? — Baffled in Boise
Dear Baffled: The problem is simple: There is a finite number of electrons in the world. Or, possibly, there ARE a finite number of electrons in the world. That number is large — somewhere in the thousands — but nonetheless, it is finite. Man, it is so finite you wouldn’t even believe how finite it is. California has long been known as an electron hog, using literally dozens of electrons every day to power its many light bulbs and crack houses. Finally, the state used up everything. Utah has only survived the electron shortage because it had a year’s supply of them stored up in the basement.

Dear Eric: Why can’t people tickle themselves? — Puzzled in Provo
Dear Puzzled: You can’t? You should see a doctor.

Dear Eric: Where do they get the critic quotes that they use in commercials for bad movies? You know, the ones that say “Critics agree, [terrible movie] is ‘the best movie of the year…'” I can see tiny print after the quote which I assume is the source, but my TV is too small to see what it is. — Squintin’ from LaVerkin
Dear Squintin’: One of the problems inherent in a free society is that it allows people to have opinions that are stupid. No matter how awful a movie is, someone will like it. For example, Disney’s live action “102 Dalmatians” was so bad the dogs who appeared in it requested their faces be blurred out to avoid incrimination. Yet, when I posted my negative review of it on the Internet, I received this comment: “I very like 102 Dalmatians!!!!!!!!!!!!!” I’m sure that quote was used in the film’s promotional materials, and the tiny letters you saw after it read: “Monkeys whacking randomly at a computer keyboard.”

Dear Eric: A couple of years ago, BYU’s Daily Universe did an investigation of the Honor Code Office. I don’t know why, but I expected a “60 Minutes”-type exposé on how the office actually handles infractions. In reality, the Universe simply conducted a survey of students’ perceptions of official Honor Code policies. What’s up with that? How does a student survey translate into an Honor Code Office investigation? — Curious Cougar
Dear Curious: It’s possible that a humor column on the subject of unfair Honor Code Office tactics was censored out of the paper by an insane administrator, and doing a half-hearted “investigation” was the concession she made. Then it’s possible that a story describing actual Honor Code Office horror stories was assigned to a student reporter, but he didn’t write it because 1) he was a broadcast student and didn’t care about the newspaper, and 2) he had a large role in BYU’s production of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” and felt that entitled him to slack off on other things. It’s also possible you expected too much from The Daily Universe in the first place.

Dear Eric: When is the right time to have children? –Geoff and Madison
Dear Geoff and Madison: Not right now! Wait until I leave, for crying out loud!

Today’s point to ponder: I cried because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no head.

I recently visited my friends Ken and Katie Craig. They used to live in Provo, but that’s no place to raise a family, so they moved to Las Vegas.

The purpose of my trip was to get away from the stresses that beset me in Provo, not the least of which is the guy at the front of Sam’s Club who wants to see my membership card before I’m even allowed in the store. (What, it’s Area 51 all of a sudden?) But it was also because I wanted to see Ken and Katie’s two adorable children, Abbie and Garren. Garren is 18 months old and understands English but doesn’t speak it, like Harpo Marx. Abbie is 3 years old and never stops talking, like a teenage girl in a movie theater. Both are supernaturally cute. Aggressively cute. Horrifically cute. They’re the cutest kids in the world. I don’t care how cute your kids are, they’re disgusting trolls next to Abbie and Garren. You just want to fry them up in a batter and eat them, they’re so cute.

Speaking of eating, one of the major things we did in Vegas was eat. The first night I was there, we left the kids with a babysitter and went to an Italian place called Buca di Beppo. They translate this as Joe’s Basement, though my research assistant/consultant/fashion adviser Josh, who speaks Italian, says another accurate translation would be Joe’s Hole, though I doubt you’d get many people eating there if they called it that.

Anyway, despite having a reservation, we still had a hard time getting into Joe’s Hole. Given the option of smoking, non-smoking or “first available,” we realized we’d be seated faster with first-available. Everyone in Las Vegas smokes, as part of the Nevada Foul Air Act, and what better way to enhance a meal than to cover it with the stench of tobacco? (I don’t understand smokers, but I know one of them is going to tell me now that from a culinary standpoint, it’s no different from drowning your food in ketchup. To which I respond, “OK. Would you mind putting out that ketchup bottle?”)

But as I was saying, Buca di Beppo is a traditional Italian restaurant. The entrees are served “family-style,” which means you have to fight over them. I enjoyed the buca, but I’ve had better beppo.

After evacuating Joe’s Hole, we saw the Blue Man Group. This is where a group of men who are painted blue do stuff. I can’t really explain what they do. Just, you know, stuff. Like this bit where it looks like regurgitated Twinkies are oozing through holes in their chests. The show costs $70, despite Las Vegas’s reputation for being an affordable, tourist-friendly town. (I’ll say this much for Vegas, anyway: It’s well-lit.)

The only gambling we did was was that Ken and Katie hired a babysitter they’d never used before. Imagine our surprise when we returned home after a night of beppo and blue men to find out she had fried Abbie and Garren in a batter and eaten them! No, I kid. The children had been neither fried nor eaten. The babysitter reported, however, that Garren had been crying for a long time and she couldn’t figure out why. She finally called her mom, who didn’t exactly have powers, over the phone, to make a baby stop crying. The babysitter, at the end of her wits (it was a short trip), finally gave Garren some milk. This made him stop crying, because his whole problem all along had been that he was hungry. She’s a genius, this girl! Get her a job at the front of Sam’s Club.

I went to see Tiffany in concert at the BYU on Monday for the same reason I would go to a traveling freak show: It may be unsettling to watch, but I’m curious to see if anyone has two heads.

OK, maybe not exactly the same reason. My point is, I’m not exactly a huge Tiffany fan, and I’m not convinced anyone really is. After it was announced she would be performing on campus, I casually polled every single person I know, and no one could remember anything she sang other than 1987’s “I Think We’re Alone Now,” which was actually a remake, which means technically, she didn’t have ANY hits. (Several people tried to say she sang “Lost in Your Eyes,” but in fact that was Debbie Gibson — the Britney Spears to Tiffany’s Christina Aguilera.)

I was curious whether this “comeback” tour, in which she’s performing at colleges all over the United States, would be embarrassing. I suspected it would be. It seemed like people attending the concert would be doing so to watch an ’80s has-been try to regain her former popularity, which was dubious in the first place.

(Free joke you can tell your friends: What did Tiffany say to the bank officer after her popularity faded? “I think I need a loan now.”) (I didn’t say it was a good joke. What do you want for free?)

Upon arriving at the BYU, I was not surprised to find literally thousands of people there, clamoring around the outdoor stage, “clamor” being one of the few verbs permitted under the Honor Code. I figured a dozen or so were actual fans, and the rest were there for the camp value, like I was.

A BYU representative stepped forward to announce Tiffany, and everyone got real loud and excited. Then they had to shut up because, in BYU’s typically surreal juxtaposition of sacred and secular, someone had to offer a prayer. (“Please help Tiffany to rock” is something the person offering the prayer did not say.)

It was important that a prayer be offered so that Tiffany could be properly inspired when she sang: “Then you put your arms around me/And we tumble to the ground/And then you say/I think we’re alone now.” (Also: “Look at the way/We gotta hide what we’re doing.”)

After the crowd yelled a thundering “amen,” Tiffany came onstage. She sang a lot of her new songs, which all sounded about the same. Her guitarist was hopping around like he was a superstar. My friend Reyna pointed out to me the sadness inherent in this situation, as here was a guy who was not even a former pop star; he was a former pop star’s guitarist. (Reyna also suggested we start the rumor that the reason Tiffany performed at BYU is that she’s a Mormon now. So consider the rumor officially begun!)

After a while, I realized something strange: I graduated from this university years ago, yet here I was, standing on campus like a student and listening to Tiffany. Not one detail of this scenario made any sense. Next thing you know, I’ll be wearing socks with sandals and proposing marriage to girls I’ve just met.

Then I realized something else. Though I had come to the concert to mock Tiffany, I was actually enjoying myself. Tiffany was rocking, to the extent that Tiffany can rock. I didn’t care a lot for her new songs, but then, I didn’t care a lot for her old song(s), either.

You have to respect someone who has the courage to stage a comeback. Many have tried and failed. Take Donny Osmond, for example. He spent most of the ’80s in oblivion, then tried a comeback in 1989 with “Soldier of Love.” Do you remember this song? Of course you don’t. The song stunk, and his comeback didn’t work. But he reappeared a few years later, this time acting out characters from Bible stories, and he was a star again. Then he did that dreadful talk show with his sister, What’s-Her-Face, and lost a few points. But the net result is that he’s a big deal again, and he has fans everywhere, all the way from Logan to St. George.

Others have not been so lucky. Huey Lewis, Vanilla Ice and cocaine all tried comebacks, but to no avail. I don’t know whether Tiffany will fare any better, but one thing’s for certain: She’s a Mormon now. Spread the word!

I saw a hair-care product whose two main ingredients were henna and placenta. The name of this product: Henna ‘n’ Placenta. Obviously, originality was not a strong suit here.

Please note that the product is not called Henna and Placenta; it is called Henna ‘n’ Placenta. The ‘n’ gives it a much more informal feel, like a ’60s folk duo (“I’m Henna…” “…and I’m Placenta…” “…and we’re Henna ‘n’ Placenta!”). Why you would want to put a placenta in your hair is beyond me, but I’m glad the marketing department didn’t try to hide it from the consumer, which is what I would have done. I would have called it Henna ‘n’ Stuff, or I Can’t Believe It’s Not Placenta.

I wanted to know more about Henna ‘n’ Placenta, so I consulted our friend the Internet. The first logical step was to visit a beauty or hair-care chat room and ask the gals there what women might use Henna ‘n’ Placenta for. (I’m assuming it is not a men’s product. No man I know would put anything in his hair that came from a uterus.) (Well, unless a woman told him to.) I was also curious to know why the company didn’t call it Placenta ‘n’ Henna, like how Kraft used to call their macaroni and cheese, Cheese & Macaroni (“It’s the placenta-iest!”).

But Yahoo! (enthusiasm theirs) doesn’t have any beauty chat rooms. I could infer from this that people who spend time in chat rooms have no use for beauty tips, but I won’t. Anyway, instead I went to a German-language room, not because I speak German, but because I was writing a humor column, and I consider German a funny language. (It’s a good thing World War II ended the way it did. If I were speaking German now, I’d never stop giggling.) At the German chat room, I found this exchange, reprinted here verbatim:

candy4you_00: bin gegangen Uteeeeeeeeeeeee kurz nach dir
donnie_s_2001: JA DAS BIN ICH MIMITITTI
teufelchen_aus_hb: ja mill wo isser denn
jutze: als blumenarragnement
candy4you_00: lol ute
oregonsnow: haste ihn alleine gelassen?
teufelchen_aus_hb: und hanky hast du eine bessere idee
mahee_m: cool

I also noticed a person with the screen name “chrissy_luvs_da_wiggle,” which amused me but didn’t provide any answers. If someone’s name had been “chrissy_luvs_da_henna_’n’_placenta,” well, then we’d have been in business.

Undaunted, I continued my quest. Through the use of a search engine, I found Folica.com: “The Hair Market.” From this site, you can buy all manner of hair-related products, including one that contains ONLY placenta. This leads me to believe henna wasn’t all that useful anyway, like the two guys who hung on Sting like barnacles when he was in the Police.

The site gives this description of placenta: “The most powerful natural protein for the hair instantly restores life and luster to day brittle hair.” I don’t know what “day brittle hair” is, unless they meant “DRY, brittle hair.” Whatever the case, I finally learned why you would smear placenta on your head: It has proteins, and you’re crazy. Hast du eine bessere idee? Cool.

So what’s happening in Our Towns this week? A better question would be, what ISN’T happening in Our Towns this week! No, sorry, that would actually be a worse question.

You’ve seen his face, but you probably never knew his name. LaGrese Bingham is the sprightly senior citizen who has spent every day for the past 30 years peering under the ladies’ fitting room doors at ZCMI.

He’s a fixture in the community, and we’re sorry to announce today will be his last day “on the job,” so to speak. Do you know, in all those 30 years, he’s never missed a day? “I enjoy looking at the ladies’ underthings too much,” said the cute old fellow, who hails from Lamanville.

Have a great retirement, LaGrese! Every time we feel creepy, we’ll think of you!

Got a phone call the other day from SinDee Jeppesen, who told me the unusual spelling of her first name was the result of her mother’s learning disability. Anyway, she was calling to tell me that her aunt, Maverglenn Baird of Beaver Fork, is turning 100 years old today. Congratulations, Aunt Maverglenn!

Aunt Maverglenn sounds like a remarkable woman. She was born and raised in a ditch in Muleton, and never even learned to drive — according to her niece, Maverglenn “didn’t trust machines, seein’ as how they have the devil in ’em.” A faithful churchgoer, Maverglenn was always the hit of the ward socials with her famous Chocolate Liver Pie.

Alas, age has taken its toll on Aunt Maverglenn. She stopped wearing clothes in 1962, and hasn’t been able to breathe on her own since the late ’70s. Clinically, this feisty old gal may have died decades ago, but you wouldn’t know it from seeing her out digging in the garden every morning! Let’s hear it for our beloved senior citizens!

Are you with me, that the past tense of “sneeze” should be “snoze”? That would sure be a hoot, wouldn’t it? What a confusing language we speak! No wonder all those foreigners refuse to learn it!

If you want a real tear-jerker, find yourself a copy of LyniMar Peterson’s “Pioneers to Glory Volume 1: Why Won’t My Feet Stop Bleeding?” Peterson is a local author, from right here in Orvo, and this is the first part in a series of historical novels in which a fictitious family — the Smiths — joins the real-life Mormon pioneers of 1847.

In the first book, Bob Smith and his family meet none other than Brigham Young! And I don’t want to give anything away, but let’s just say that by the end of the book, several of Bob Smith’s unmarried daughters are a little less unmarried, if you know what I mean! By which I mean, Brigham Young marries them. I can’t wait for volume 2, which LyniMar tells me will be called, “This is the Place … for Love.”

Finally, a tip of the ol’ Our Towns hat to little McKay Spencer Rowley, who has earned his Eagle Scout award at the early age of 4! His proud momma, LaVerDelLynTee Rowley, calls McKay “a scouting prodigy,” and claims he was already tying knots when he came shooting out of the womb like an illegally weighted pinewood-derby car.

“I didn’t force him into it at all,” Mrs. Rowley said. “It was his idea to get all 413 merit badges before he started kindergarten.” Then she added: “McKay, Momma needs a Fresca.”

Congrats to the Rowleys for their accomplishment! Between them and the chemicals in the water, we’re sure we never want to leave Our Towns!

The Utah state legislature has wrapped things up for the year, which means I can go back to my regular routine of not remembering they exist.

The most important thing they did this time around was make Jell-O the Official State Snack of Utah. This was an actual thing that happened, and it happened because of strong-arm tactics used by the Jell-O Mafia, a group of big-haired women who converged on the Daily Herald offices several months ago and tossed a bunch of free Jell-O products our way. We did what any sane people would do, which was ignore the Jell-O Mafia and hose down the newsroom after they were gone. The legislature, however, is apparently more easily swayed than we are, because they immediately stopped passing laws against foreigners and made Jell-O the official state snack.

Before this, Utah had no state snack. Residents were permitted to choose their snacks pell-mell (or, at times, higgledy-piggledy) without uniformity or consensus. Thousands were killed. Now, all Utahns are required to eat Jell-O at least once per week, under penalty of deportation.

O how great the legislature, in its infinite wisdom, to designate an official state snack! O how long we have waited restlessly for guidance in this important matter! O how we rejoice in the hoof-based dessert, with or without shredded carrots! O what Mormons we are!

In addition to ratifying the Jell-O Sanctification Act, state officials made Jell-O spokesman and former celebrity Bill Cosby an honorary citizen of Utah. Cosby was humbled to be the state’s only black citizen, and promised to see about finding more. Then, mistaking Lt. Gov. Olene Walker for the fat substitute Olean, Cosby said, “Hey, hey, hey!,” devoured her whole, and lumbered off into the night.

But not all of the legislature’s actions were gelatin-related, nor did they result in the eating of prominent citizens. Here are a few other laws enacted this year.

– As suggested by the people who write letters to the editor, anyone not liking the way things are done here must move away.

– All Utahns must think about the 2002 Olympics in a positive manner at least once per day. Negative thoughts will be punished. All Utahns must bow before the Olympics and kiss the Olympics’ feet. Hail the almighty Olympics!

– Elected officials may drive while intoxicated provided they allow newspapers to photograph them in comical poses as they take the roadside drunk tests. No further punishment is required.

– Hate crimes are not to be prosecuted any differently from regular crimes. Love crimes, though — you know, where you shoot a guy in the face because you love him — are punishable by death.

– By order of the state senate, Gayle Ruzicka is to be considered insane and highly dangerous. She may still carry a gun, however.

– Turn signals are banned from use in the state of Utah. The four Utahns who were using them had better stop.

– Official Most Embarrassing Town Names in Utah: Tooele and Beaver.

My parents, back in California, have sold the house I grew up in and are moving to one whose walls I have not marked with crayon (yet).

I can understand why they’re doing it. When you get older and the kids have moved out, it makes sense to get a smaller, more manageable house. Except the one they’ve bought is actually bigger, and half the kids still live at home. So I guess I don’t understand it after all. This is just another house for my mom’s idiot chihuahuas to urinate all over.

I do take some solace in knowing that, while they’re moving, I’m safely in Utah, where I can’t be asked to help. I’ve hated helping people move ever since I served an LDS mission in the United States, where church members move a lot, and where they think missionaries are all named Elder Piano-Lifter. If I had a little joy for every soul that went unsaved because I had to waste an afternoon loading boxes onto a pickup truck, how great would be my joy.

My dad’s attitude toward moving is to save on U-Haul rentals by throwing everything in the trash now. My mom has to rush to get her errands done during the day, for fear that by the time she gets home, my dad will have put an entire room, walls and all, into a Dumpster. You’d think my dad was from the Old Country, where they were forced from their homes with nothing but the shirts on their backs. But he’s from Los Angeles, and he was never forced out of anywhere, except maybe a few nice restaurants.

It’s unsettling, though, because we moved to the current house when I was 2. It’s the only house I remember. (Well, the only house I remember living in. I do remember other houses. There’s one next door to me now, for example.) This was my boyhood home. Every memory of my family up until I left for college centers around this house.

Like when my three brothers and I shared two sets of bunk beds in the master bedroom (my parents were relegated to a lesser bedroom), and my brother Jeff came running home one night, leapt onto the first top bunk, bounced over to the second top bunk, then bounced right into the window, which he shattered.

Or when I got on the roof and ripped off one of the shingles, which resulted in my dad angrily asking the very stupid question, “Do you think that makes the house look better?”

Or when my brother Chris, for reasons I have yet to ascertain, did a nose-dive onto the floor from atop the bathroom sink.

Or when I had a bad dream about a spider, so I climbed into bed with my parents, and my dad reached over to feel which kid I was, and his hand moving on the blanket felt like a spider crawling across me, and I freaked right the hell out.

Or when my brother Lane used a hammer to smash up an outside wall of the house because he was trying to sneak up on my sister Laura, who was playing in the bedroom on the other side of said wall.

Or when I was playing with my cousin Stephen (who lived nearby), and we got in trouble for something, and my dad sent us to my room to await sentencing, and we ingeniously thought to disguise ourselves in old clothes being stored in the closet, figuring that when my dad came in, he wouldn’t recognize us, and we could tell him Eric and Stephen had escaped through the window.

Or when we thought my sister Joy was lost and we looked everywhere for her and pretty much decided she was gone forever, and then finally found her curled up asleep under some blankets in the closet.

Or when my sister Laura, as a toddler, would toddle out into the front yard and eat snails.

Or when Stephen and I wanted to walk to Circle K to get candy by ourselves, but my brother Chris wanted to tag along, and my mom said we could go without him if we waited until he took his nap, so we used crayons to draw stars and moons on his bedroom walls, hoping to fool him into thinking it was nighttime.

I’ll miss that house. The new one was just built, so it doesn’t have any memories in it yet. And I don’t think we can take the old ones with us. At least, not if my dad has anything to say about it.

We Napster users have been in an absolute tizzy lately, downloading songs as fast as we can before the Feds shut everything down. A few more hours, and I’ll have completed my Hall & Oates collection.

As with most of the world’s major tragedies, the dismantling of Napster can be traced directly to a heavy metal band. Has-been rock group Metallica has been the most vocal critic of Napster for months, claiming to have lost money because of Napster. I disagree. I think Metallica has lost money because Metallica sucks. They should be on their knees, giving thanks to the God of Washed-up Heavy Metal Bands that anyone wants to hear their music at all, for free or otherwise. If someone wants to hear Metallica, Metallica should drive to their house and play for them. (I estimate the band could perform for every Metallica fan in the country in less than a week, and that would include stopping twice at my brother’s house.)

Metallica’s complaint was that if people can download songs for free, they’re not going to buy the CDs. The counter-argument was that bands don’t make much money from CDs anyway; the big bucks are in concerts, which are helped by songs being more widely distributed. The counter-counter-argument was that who cares if bands are losing money from Napster; bring on the free stuff.

I was a proponent of the last point of view. I don’t have much sympathy for groups like Metallica who are already quite wealthy and haven’t produced anything worth listening to in nearly a decade anyway. (Metallica’s last album was so bad it set fire to every stereo it was put in.) I do have sympathy for me, though, having to pay money for CDs. Why should I suffer? HAVEN’T I BEEN THROUGH ENOUGH ALREADY?!?!?

Yes, I have. I watched a Freddie Prinze, Jr. movie AND a Keanu Reeves movie in the same two-week period. It was like watching paint dry and then having that paint shot into my eyes with a bazooka. The only thing that got me through it was Napster and its never-ending cavalcade of free music.

Metallica resides in an ignoble period of music history known as “the early 1990s,” a dank realm also inhabited by the likes of Vanilla Ice and Wilson Phillips. But not all older music is forgettable. When I was a kid, we had a record called “Mickey Mouse Disco.” It had disco versions of “It’s a Small World” and “Zippety Doo-Dah,” as well as new songs called “Disco Mickey Mouse” and “Macho Duck,” plus, if I recall correctly, one called “Walt Disney Spins in His Grave.” We listened to this record constantly. We often forsook bathing in order to hear it one more time. It’s one of my more pleasant childhood memories, as it reminds me of a simpler time, a time when I was young and carefree, a time when I was allowed in the house.

Today, of course, the record is as scratched and battered as Bill Clinton’s underpants. Even if record players still existed in North America, I wouldn’t be able to listen to it. So I was delighted to find, in a moment of idle Napster-wandering, all of the tracks from “Mickey Mouse Disco” available for downloading. Here was my childhood, downloading at 100 kilobytes per second! Can you put a price on that? The courts have said you can. I say you can’t. If Napster bites the dust, something else will take its place. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to find a few more Wham! songs before time runs out.

I’ve been thinking a lot about marriage lately. Not because I’m any closer to getting married now than I was when I was, say, 7, but because I live near BYU, which emits high-frequency marriage waves. It’s impossible not to think about marriage under these conditions. Even people who never think about marriage, like hermits and Elton John, think about it when they’re in Provo. If the pope were to drive past BYU, he would say, “You know, it’s about time I settled down….”

I have nothing against marriage. My parents have been happily married for 11 months longer than I am old — they were not procrastinators, those two — and they’ve been a perfect example of how a marriage should work. This is because they adhere to one simple principle: no fighting or tongue-kissing in front of the kids. That’s really all there is to it. You don’t need seminars or wish-granting magic toads to learn how to maintain a happy household. My parents could write a book on marriage and parenting, and it would be called: “No Fighting or Tongue-Kissing in Front of the Kids.” And it would sell at least as many copies as the crap Richard Paul Evans turns out.

My parents’ marriage actually is pretty close to perfect. They not only don’t fight in front of the kids; they don’t fight at all. Sure, they disagree — like when Dad wanted to sell me to the gypsies while Mom thought a sack in the river was a better idea — but they don’t let it become heated. They discuss things rationally, often relying on flow charts and schematics to present their differing points of view. Then, being senile, one or both of them forgets what the disagreement was, Mom goes back to addressing her pet chihuahua like it’s another one of her children, and Dad goes back to videotaping my 1-year-old niece (which he has not stopped doing since the moment she was born. Seriously, if my niece is ever accused of a crime, she’ll have an airtight alibi, as my dad will have thoroughly documented her whereabouts with the camcorder. She’s living her own personal “Truman Show”).

But I have divagated from my point, to the extent that I got bored and looked up synonyms for “digress” and learned a new word: divagate. My point is that I have no problem with marriage. I rather like the idea, in fact. I like the idea of Pop-Tarts, too, but I wouldn’t want to hear about them 24 hours a day.

When I was in a BYU ward of the LDS Mormon Church, every single church lesson we had was about marriage, regardless of what it was actually about. We could start out discussing the priesthood or jumper cables or kangaroos, and somehow it would come around to marriage. If there had been some crazy lesson telling us why marriage is evil and we should never get married, the teacher would have presented it as a lesson on why marriage is great and we should get married ASAP, possibly even while quoting the same scriptures.

All the ward activities were centered around getting people together, too. We had a program set up wherein guys would go to the library every night at midnight to escort young ladies back to their apartment complexes. Ostensibly, this was to stem the tide of young-lady murders that apparently had been occurring without my hearing of them; really, it was so guys and girls could walk together in the dark. Family Home Evenings groups are established for the same reason, with the added creepiness of allowing “moms” and “children” to date each other, a practice not normally condoned this far north.

I think we’re not far from arranged marriages. Tevye and Golde had one in “Fiddler on the Roof,” and they turned out to be a very happy, fat couple. I know my parents would have hitched me up a long time ago if they’d found a taker. (I come with an impressive dowry, I’m told.) Some of the polygamists are already pre-arranging their unholy, God-mocking marriages; why not arrange the normal ones, too? Anything to make me immune from the high-frequency marriage waves, which sound a lot like Afterglow songs.