During one of my 11 hour sleeping stints last week on vacation, I had a dream. In this dream I was the personal assistant to the beer baron August Busch's wife. We were at a day spa and she sent me to find a tampon post-haste while she was getting a pedicure. While bumbling around the antiseptic building, in that I was not and am not keen on matter of feminine hygiene acquisition, I bumped into a chum from high school. We engaged in a brief conversation and the next thing I know I'm being whisked away on an undercover sting operation for Poncherello of CHIPs fame. We were trying to debunk an anti-cult group who was in the process of sneaking into a Branch Davidian compound in Highland, Illinois where they wanted to hang a series of charcoal sketches on the walls in hope to confound the sneaker-wearing purists.

In the eleventh hour, my mother rocked me out of sleep with her standard, "Get up! You're sleeping your life away" missive so I'm unable to divine how the mystery unfolded or how un-fresh Mrs. Busch felt after I did not return with her medicinal parcel.

sidebar: an inherent problem with a dream journal comes in trying to decipher your early morning scratches and scrawls. This is what I read, days later when I consulted my palm pilot for a reminder of this dreams? details.

i was a nard fcr poncherello. The criminals at hand where areligious fanatics whg were tryinv to sneak into a bvicdinin highuand illinoij to hang some of their charcoal drawings on tye wall

i got mixed up in aul this aftr bumpfng into a hioh school chum at a women's health spa. Ihad somzhow been drafted as thE personal assistant for augvst bushes wife and was retUrning from my emand Of locating a tampon for her when i ran into this h1gh school chur.

second sidebar: and, did you know that ponch's full character name was Officer Francis Llewellyn 'Ponch' Poncherello? I now know where all of the creative efforts for that show were expended.

Marty and I have been forced to move to a zero tolerance policy when it comes to food in bed. In that I eat bread, french fries and watermelon with a fork, one can surmise that I'm not the one munching Trisquits or M&M's immediately before my slumber without the aid of a plate or utensils. So, the rule truly goes that Marty may no longer snack in bed while flitting through a magazine or grading papers. Now many will think this is just some sleeping with the enemy kind of antic on my part, but I assure you it is not. This missive was born in the pre-dawn hours many seasons ago after I was rocketed from a deep sleep due to rolling over a Snyder's pretzel shard that about sheared off what makes Troy a boy. (and, for all of my 'friends' thinking of the psuedo witticisms you would place here if this were a conversation, allow me to refer you of the medium being used and remind you that I can't hear you. so there.)

I used to drink. I no longer do. I used to try to explain. I no longer do.

A friend of mine was recently bemoaning the agonies of hanging out with people who drank a lot and the relentless push for him to consume equal amounts. While he does not mind the occasional taste he does not desire to swill the unreasonable quantities that are placed in front of him (funny that). So, I shared with this friend my secret weapon when combatting such high-minded fellows.

"If you find yourself taking heat over the glass of coke or water in front of you," I tell him, "simply state, no thanks... recovering alcoholic." No single comment will renovate an uncomfortable and annoying situation faster. And you get the added humor of ?

1. witnessing the priceless look as they size you up, amazed that such a vanilla looking guy could acquire such a rogue disorder at such a tender age.
2. watching them come to grips with the fact that you were once a better drinker than they are attempting to be
3. having them know that you have the internal wherewithal to overcome being a better drinker than they are attempting to be
4. and, digesting that you're strong enough to have once been a barley fish, kick it, and still hang out in a bar with a bunch of lushes without even being tempted by their shiny grogs of plenty.

There are few guarantees in life, but when battling the emotionally addled this fix has been absolute. I promise if you put it into terms they respect, mindless as these terms are, you can enjoy your diet sprite in unencumbered peace.

And, of course it doesn't hurt when you and your real friends behave in a drunken and unabashed fashion without the benefit of alcohol. All the zaniness with none of the slurred speech or $100 plus bar bills at the end of the night that no one pitches in for.

I was never more certain that a word was not a word as when I read the following:

As Sanders LaMont, the ombudsman of The Sacramento Bee, and a former editor of the Modesto Bee, said: "I think there is a legitimate argument that elected officials have a right to certain privacy."

It's not the first time I've squinted into the pages of my dictionary with wild amazement.

In doing a landscaping project over the past few days, I have learned that if I ever needed to bury a body to prevent incarceration, I'd just turn myself in.

One time while showering I had a persistent hair tickling my upper lip. I would push it out of the way only to have it return moments later. While attending to my post-shower ablutions the nuisance returned. I leaned into the mirror to locate it and saw the pest sneaking into my mouth (This wasn't greatly unusual in that I've always been shaving challenged and have missed many a chin or cheek hair for weeks at a time). I trapped the nuisance between a forefinger and thumb and gave it a tug. To my bewilderment the result did not register on my lip though, but in my nose. I leaned closer and pulled the hair directly away from my face and sure enough after the visible inch it snuck up into my right nostril.

Being in college at the time, I considered leaving this unique strand in place to astound and impress my classmates with but after a moment of lucidity gave it a hearty tug and dropped the surprisingly stout root into the sink. Later in class I momentarily panicked at the thought that this coarse black hair had been hanging out of my nostril for weeks. I rapidly deduced this was impossible because even if people did not possess the social experience to address such a fix there certainly would have been gasps of horror and fleeing children in my presence. So it obviously must have been around for some time, like since age twelve, growing in an upward direction only to be dislodged by an allergy based sneeze or a healthy blow of the nose. I don't know this to be fact but it is the explanation I'm running with still today. Furthermore, I've yet to purchase one of those silver claw contraptions used for internal hair removal but have also not ruled it out of my bathroom arsenal just yet.

A few people have razzed me recently regarding my sandals and socks look as seen in this month's gallery selection. It is time for us as a people to get past this hangup with socks and sandals. I am doing you a favor by masking from you my least appealing and cleansed body part. And, all this without even touching on the medicinal implications of the foot--bunions, calluses, lost toenails (which is super-gross if you've ever had the pleasure), foot odor, athlete's foot, etc. So let us dissect our friend to the south at a raw and anatomical level.

Unless you are a part of the wasabi tribe of southern Africa or one of their charter members, your feet are bunged up all the time in a B.O. ridden vacuum you call your socks and shoes.

All male feet at one point or another have come into contact with human urine, and oftentimes it's not our own. Tut, tut, tut ladies, don't wipe that brow just yet, because if you've ever lived with a male, your little piggies have swam in the yellow water as well.

While my feet are exceptional in this next area, most people's feet possess at least one oddity. My claim to fame; my feet are as wide as they are long. Yes, you did the math right, that would make them square.

I have never seen two sets of toes that look the same. This is unnerving. I've also known people whose second toe is longer than my pinky finger. Also unnerving.

Lastly and most importantly, people's grotesque negligence towards the routine and non-optional maintenance of their feet is appalling. You gotta get between the toes, between them.

Given the abuse I have taken over my cloth-covered toe, the obvious need for discussion and the fact that I am right, I am dedicating this entire week to the human body. And, can we get a game of socks versus skins going here?

I do not eat the ill-intentioned or unavoidable aspect of any food. I cut the crust off my bread, ignore the outer ring of a cinnamon roll and most annoying to Marty, break the jelly-absent edges off of my pop-tarts. You can ask, but neither my delicate palette nor I will apologize for our sophisticated proclivities. And as far as all the starving kids all over the globe, they are more than welcome to dine on my crust pieces.

One time while getting my car fixed a guy sat down next to me in the waiting room and started talking to/at me. While this is not a noteworthy event, what made this exchange odd was that this gentleman thought I was dating his daughter and asked me about an outing that apparently took place a few nights previous. He was working on his second question before realizing that I was not his progeny's suitor (I'm real certain the dumbfounded look on my face clued him in). Now, while this fellow represents the guy who most thought I was someone else, he is definitely not alone in that I am often confused or likened to people who are not me.

Given the frequency of these sightings and a comment from a guy last week at lunch, I have compiled a list of the people that I have most commonly been compared to.

Walt, Bella and I are off to Chicago for a few days. A few years ago Walt and I headed up there with some friends to do that whole biking Lakeshore Drive deal. We stayed in a youth hostel that had no hot water or sheets on the bed, almost knocked my bike off the roof of my car when entering a parking garage and got fleeced by a ticket scalper for Cubs tickets. Man, I love that city. And, I'm not being facetious here. I truly do love the city.

If you get a chance to ever bike Lakeshore Drive, I'd highly recommend it. Talk about a spectacle; grandiose skyscrapers, muscle beach, private airport, hippie entertainers, sand volleyball and suits eating lunch, this little jaunt truly contains it all. At one point in the ride I spied this pier deal which ran out into the water quite a way. Being the photo buff, I thought it would make for a great shot of the city with the water in the foreground, so I mounted my two-wheeled steed and peddled my way to the jut's precipice. Upon arriving there, my beautiful shot was mildly marred by what had to be a chi-town native.

When I was 13 I found myself at the pool with several friends. We were at that annoy everyone else in the water age where we'd perform cannonballs and engage in bewildering splash fights without regard for other pool-goers. Upon arriving at our destination and losing our non-swimming garb, the first challenge of the day was to see who could swim underwater the furthest. So we all charged to the side of the pool and performed awkward dives over the little tikes hanging on the side and began a frenzied race along the pool floor, weaving around the legs of the less active.

Near the other side, contestant's heads started surfacing, immediately looking around to see how they fared. I popped up a respectable second and was grinning at my accomplishment when one of my cohorts pointed at me and said, "You were supposed to swim underwater DeArmitt." I looked at him startled thinking some deception was at hand to pilfer my silver. "What are you talking about, of course I swam underwater". His reply was one I would never forget and that would haunt me for many school pictures to come. "Then why's your hair dry?"

I raised my hand to feel my head only to find he was right. While everyone else's hair was matted cleanly to their foreheads, mine still leapt wildly away from my skull. It was at that precise moment that the discovery process began, a process that ever confirmed that I was not like all the other boys in that I, unlike them, had water repellant hair.

Marty was recently bragging to a mutual friend on my ability to skip like the wind. I can actually skip faster than I can run, and I bet that with some time, training and commitment, many of you could as well. My question is why has this fundamental form of human movement and transportation been so overlooked by not only us as a public but also by the sporting world at large. I for one would like to see the 10K skip introduced to annual events, and why not at the Olympic level. I mean they have medals for shuffleboard or some shuffleboard like activity. Where's the justice in that?

About four months ago I surrendered to the bally's hype. Now while you may wonder why someone who can lift 40% of his body weight would pander to such frivolities, I have unfortunately arrived at an impass. My physical state has reached a point where I have actually considered returning to my college ways when my vegetable-free diet and weeklong periods of inactivity proffered the physique of a Ni...

This scene represents a typical non-working day in the life of Marty and Troy. At the time of this shutter click, it is most likely about noon, maybe 1:00pm, and we are just now considering getting out of bed. Many times this simply means moving the show to the couch for a couple hours of mental preparedness for the trials the average American faces from day to day.

On Feb 3, we are f...

Walt and I are about to celebrate our 3rd wedding, 11th together anniversary. We honeymooned in the big N.O., New Orleans for any nubiles out there. This probably wasn't the best-suited locale for us. We dont drink, eat very little, and reserve our nudity for one another. One might think, well, you got each other. Yes we did, but on this day we have been sharing such time for eight years and we ha...

POPMADOUR: (noun) a man's style of hairdressing in which the hair is combed into a high mound in front.

Holy smokes how does this happen? I obviously had no friends during this period of my life to offer consul in the ways of hair preparation. For those who do not recognize this backdrop, it is the desk and set of the David Letterman show (nbc era), minutes after the taping.

G...