for any who will be away from their net connection or boycotting technology on the holiday week, may you make the most of family and friends.

speaking of those we know, i was rapping with a guy at a christmas gathering and he said, "yeah, that was about three years ago and both of my parents were alive then," and it occurred to me that i, you and others will someday be saying that about people walking around at this very moment. it never hurts to recall that there is what matters and then there's all the shit we are sweating everyday. holiday up with someone you know.

also remember, it's not about what you get, nor is it about what you give, it's about whether or not you get an ipod or are giving me one.

and lastly, remember those affected by 09.11 as well as those overseas right now hating life so we don't have to.

I personally witnessed the demise of Halloween. I remember as a child joining all other young children, pillowcase in hand, forming a human chain/parade on the sidewalks of our community, racing from house to house, screaming, laughing, pushing for position and frantic in our desire to accumulate record volumes of candy. Then one year I recall overhearing my parents talking about the boy who had ...

saint louis has this thing where you can't get candy until you tell a joke or do some pantomime (trick). Saint louis translates the phrase trick or treat very seriously. I initially hated this, mostly because i know i would have loathed this added pressure and time hit as a child, but i have since grown to enjoy the tradition. Here are some of the more noteworthy offerings this year:

best joke of the night
Q: when isn't a door a door
R: i don't know
A: when it is ajar

most overused joke
Q: why didn't the skeleton cross the road
R: i don't know
A: because he didn't have any guts

worst joke of the night (actually a riddle)
Q: you're in a room with no doors or windows and only a table and mirror in it. How do you get out?
R: i don't know
A: neither do i

I recently learned that one should never take a date to an amusement park. I haven't seen a more date-hostile environment since Sheila Michaels took me to a canceled Agent Orange concert than what we experienced on our recent boondoggle to Cedar Point where I witnessed not one, but two highly vicious and very public scraps between young couples.

In each case it was the girl who was ma...

Doctor Stevie stopped in town last night on his way to San Francisco. He claims to be going to a medical conference on infectious diseases, but he looks rather suspicious about it all.

In a conversation between he, Marty and I, the term PDA came up in reference to a young couple. I admitted to not understanding the meaning of this inference. They looked at each other in that 'are you kidding me kind of way' and explained that it stood for "Public Display of Affection." Thinking they were joking I asked what it really meant and after exchanging sideways looks again, the mocking began. What do you think it means, personal digital assistant, they asked. Well yes, I replied. They then informed me that I shouldn't wear my dork badge so loudly on my sleeve. A lot they know, we carry them in our wallet.

At last! Today these signs mysteriously popped up beneath the elevator buttons in my building. What I like most about the message is the duplicitous inference that can be made by the wording. Does "For your health..." imply that the exercise will serve you well physically or that if you don't take heed we will kick the living hell out of you for being such a lazy waste of mass.

And truly, the funniest thing about this landmark event is that I've been at the company long enough to know that an entire think-tank and approval process was put in place to craft and post these few words.

I shower naked. I also sleep naked and I'm naked when first getting dressed. I talked with a guy recently who is never naked (except in the shower which really doesn't count). I mean this guy is single, lives alone and he gets dressed in the bathroom after bathing. Now perhaps it's just that my body has never acclimated to the St Louis humidity or that I'm in constant denial about our clothes conscious society, but I like to air the parts out every now and again, you know walk around and pick up the house, watch a sitcom, read a book, everything but fry bacon. It's liberating. Therapeutic if you will.

In fact, in my old third story apartment I felt immune to gazing passerby's and was nude as much as not. The only people who had any kind of view into my place was the third story apartment across the way. And, as I recall the only time this was an issue was one night when I was standing in the dining room reading an entertainment weekly, naked, and looked up and discovered my neighbor, his girlfriend and two dinner guest all turned in their seats or craning their heads around and looking at me from their dining room. Now one would think that either they or I would break the gaze to diffuse the oddish moment, but no one did. We all held each others eye, or at least I think eye, for about 30 seconds until I finally turned the page of my magazine and slowly walked into the living room to finish my article while lazing on the futon. Being a fan of memorable moments, I like to think that they, as I, remember that unique isntance still today.

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.

Paying for things with damp money equals huge fun. After an energetic bout of tennis or an afternoon at the pool, nothing rivals reaching deep into a front pocket and placing this dark and heavy paper into the upturned hand of a cashier. The facial contortions made while studying the soiled bills and contemplating the source of the money's funk are unrivaled.

Unrivaled at least until the tables are turned and a cashier deposits moist bills in my hand at the conclusion of some transaction. The look of compounded disgust on my face is absolute while I consider the amount and whether or not to put them in my pocket, wallet or garbage can. Heathens.

Did you ever notice that the phrase "I'm an adult" sounds very much like "I'm a dolt"? Just because your age categorizes you as such does not mean your demeanor must. So I encourage you to sleep till noon, skip your chores, watch three movies in one day and on occasion eat yourself into oblivion so you can, if even only for a moment, again taste the unassuming beauty that defines youth.

I'm 90% certain that the cause behind our debilitating eco-system stems from burnt microwave popcorn. How can you mess this up? And, if you mess this up, how can you think it acceptable to not go to every person within nasal shot of your crime and grovel for forgiveness on violating their personal space with your culinary ineptitude. Not only does this produce one of the most unnatural smells known to man, but it does not say a whole lot for your ability to contribute and/or participate in this thing we call life. Being one who still uses a pre-JiffyPop recipe to make my corn, I am flabbergasted that someone can fail in this meager endeavor.

As long as we have humans unable to follow a set of instructions that begin with "Place bag in microwave", I vote for government regulation restricting who can engage in this complex form of food preparation. Unless of course you plead uncertainty given that steps two and three of the instructions could not be consulted since they were written on the bag which was currently spinning in circles in the radiation box.

I'm not a fan of slapstick comedy, skinless chicken or backyard fireworks. After witnessing the grandiose spectacles a government budget can produce, why bother with these ma and pa affairs? Now, I'm not naive ve enough to think that mine is a majority opinion here though. I know plenty of patriots who plan and then execute their own version of the fourth to intimate barbeque filled audiences and ...

How has the onus of the toilet seat's position fallen upon men? We don't need it down to tend to our lower numbered task, therefore why should we be the one's expected to manage it willy-nilly all day long. Now think about it. Not only are we asked to put the seat down when we're done, we are also expected to lift it up before we start. I don't do that much work professionally; I'm certainly not going to take it on as an elective. If you want it up when not in use, I suggest YOU lift it up. If you need it down to do your deed, by all means, put it down. I know I do when necessary and in fact have never had my delicate cheeks kiss the icy glaze of room temperature commode water because as a civilized creature I have the wherewithal to see if I'm going to go plummeting into a sitz bath before committing to the act.

The only practical path here is that the toilet seat should always be up and comes down only when called upon. This is a win-win for all concerned. The seat stays clean, no one makes any undue assumptions and I don't get yelled at every time I visit my mother-in-law's house. Although, should you argue the above points you force my hand ... You force my hand to shake wildly instead of calmly and you force me to whiz on the seat intentionally instead of accidentally. The choice is yours to make.

While cruising bella around, we ran into this hoey-hoey woman with this crazy, souped up baby carriage. I commented on it and she said it was an SUS. After giving her my "come again in english" face she said "Oh, I'm sorry that stands for Sports Utility Stroller."

My brain really hurts sometimes.

I recently had three breast feeding women in my house at once. I felt like I should have been at the door charging admission and playing a Lita Ford song on the hi-fi. While this thought was going through my mind I overheard one of the women say, "Oh, I'm sure. Like some guy's gonna get off watching me breast feed my kid."

So, so young and innocent. She's obviously never made the acquaintance of my friend Big Dog. At best, I could have gotten him to refrain from taking pictures.

Tonight a friend working on his masters was complaining about the cost of books and how much more significant it seems when it is coming out of his personal budget and not his parent's checking account. Everybody then reminisced on the end of semester ritual where you would sell books back to the university and how those monies never seemed to make it back into ma and pa's checking account. One girl sitting quietly to the side said in an almost whisper how she would buy books for classes she wasn't even taking so she could get extra money back at the end of the semester. The room fell silent and then erupted in overwhelming acceptance and disbelief that no one else had thought of that. I love the simple variations of life and the people who invent them.

movie: swordfish (also credited as the movie where halle berry is topless)

should you see it: (see movie's alternate title)

best part: (see movie's alternate title) & explosions is fun.

worst part: when this 300+ git did a very ill-advised Nestea plunge into the seat in front of me. This scene mesmerized me to the point that I sat wide-eyed, watching him free-fall through the air and roughly crash into his chair. While gazing upon this escapade from my quasi-stadium seated seat I overlooked the possibility that the back of his chair would dip so far in its duress that the top of it would come crashing into my knee-cap, my bad knee mind you, setting me back about 2 months in my rehabilitation. Flying big guys suck.

My only, or greatest, problem with other people's flatulence is that if I detect something, which emanated from your person, one could surmise that an unpleasant and ejected element, even if only a molecule, that was just in your rectum is now setting up shop in me. And, in an OCD guy's mind, you might as well pick me up and insert me, head first in an ally mcbeal like antic, into these vaporous confines that jettisoned this waste product in my direction.

It's kind of lonely around my neighborhood now that Washington University has let out for the summer. We live on a major student thoroughfare and typically see a steady stream of kids traveling to and from the campus, but have the place all to ourselves in the steamy months ahead while the student body returns home to summer jobs and hometown friends.

A curious sideshow to this annual rite can be found in the local dumpster divers who use this changing of the guard as an opportunity to furnish and modernize their own homes with the remnants of these transient residents. These not-too-proud opportunists range from the lowly homeless guy who routinely visits these receptacles to the gaggle of Asian cooperatives who descend upon these unmanned garage sales like the Sand People of Star Wars. This latter operation proves a greater spectacle given the orchestrated nature of their process. They move in bands and make quick work of a bounty but unfortunately, like copulating squirrels, these projects are a not often witnessed given their skilled and organized methodology.

I was reading an article about what to do when squirrels are devastating your lawn by digging holes in the quest for nuts. This piqued my interest a touch because as of late I'm finding myself wandering around my front lawn muttering to myself about these evenly distributed divots in my otherwise well manicured turf as result of these cuddly tree warriors. Anyway after the problem was posed the very next sentence read: "Squirrels are not an endangered species." Aaaahhhhh! I hate that. First the Indians, now the squirrels. Murder out of inconvenience truly revolts me.

So this person posed a question to me the other day. You're leaving to head home on what should be about a 15-minute drive. Approximately halfway there you get stuck in a gridlocked traffic jam. One problem, you really had to go to the bathroom, number one, when you left but figured you could make it home in a reasonable time. Now you find yourself stuck here in this traffic. All the major obstacles apply; no facilities, no cover, no receptacle in the car and no sign of relief on the congestion. What do you do?

In honestly assessing the scenario, I wouldn't have the gumption to stand next to my car or on the side of the road in plain sight and attend to my need; I would therefore have to loose the torrent in my britches. I was relieved to hear that this was this young woman's solution as well. Man, do you know you took a wrong turn, when as an adult, you are purposely spreading that warm sensation in your lap. I really, really hope it never comes to that and going forward will always ensure I have a stale McDonalds cup rolling around in one of my foot wells.

I've noticed an evolution in the food industry's policy on plastic gloves. When initially implemented this prophylactic measure protected consumers from any contaminants the server may have been exposed to. Now their primary function seems to provide a protective barrier between the wearer and the public at large. Back in the day, you'd see employees swap these gloves out with surgeon like ethics, donning a fresh pair with each new customer or task. As of late I get the impression, they go on in the morning and are discarded out the car window on the way home.

This morning I watched a gloved waitperson pause from her chore of preparing turkey sandwiches for the lunch rush, to ring me out at her register. In this side-mission she handled my beverage, the cash register, the cash I gave her as well as the change she returned only to resume her prior burden of piling mounds of shaved turkey on cheese-laden buns with the same gloved hand. The only thing I'm certain to have left that transaction germ-free was her epidermis. Now don't get me wrong, as I've alluded to in the past, I would more than consider sporting a form-fitting body suit made of the sheerest, yet non-permeable material possible, so I don't blame them, I simply take issue in that I am not one of them.

People who gripe about "all those damn foreigners coming to the states and taking American jobs" make me wild. Just stop it already. First off, the jobs these individuals 'steal' predominately represent work that the native faction either does not want to do (migrant field worker) or are lacking enough people with skill (technology) to fill. Much of this can be attributed to the majority of our citizens not force-feeding the three R's down the throats of their children as well as growing kids who feel they occupy a particular station in life (pre-achievement) and are above many forms of menial labor. This parenting philosophy results in an ill-equipped workforce therefore crippling our highly demanding and specialized needs.

Secondly, recognize that importing human talent works in our favor. America is absolutely raping the intellectual wealth of the world. Other countries expend their public resources making their offspring smart only to have them plucked from their population as soon as they are ready to contribute. You see, this is a good thing for us and a very bad thing for them and we as a society benefit significantly through this dynamic.

A side facet to this debate I find irksome falls into the equal opportunity squabble. What percentage of people screaming about the loss of American jobs are the same dolts griping about quotas and equal opportunity acts ("The best candidate should get the job"). Well, guess what Clyde, sometimes the best or most willing candidate doesn't speak your native tongue. So instead of preaching about this or that atrocity why don't you get qualified so you do not have to worry about some bloke from here and there taking a job you were not ideal for in the first place.

I spied a parking rage battle last night at the local giga-mall. From what I can gather, both parties darted for the same spot and then got into a bitter shouting match concerning its rightful owner. I never really understood people's compulsion for getting the closest possible spot to the door, evil weather excepted. The more crowded places get the further I park away from the morass, and I'm not talking about that catawampus muscle car park job that defines great men. The practice I'm speaking of entails pointing my mobile down an aisle and not necessarily slashing into the first available spot, but just getting into a spot. As result I many times suffer the agony of walking five extra car widths (widths, not lengths mind you). Now while this methodology may not prove, on paper, to be the most efficient, I do find myself arriving at my destination impressively faster than the lap hound who's seeking the Costanza like alpha spot. And, much like the elevator practices of our fellow man, it seems to be the one's who would most benefit from the extra leg-play that are taking their chances on yet another shell-game of life. Is it any wonder SUVs only get 4 miles to the gallon.