I spoke to Bosnia Chris today over his web phone and had commented on the recent update where they were climbing up some mountain and one of the people took a tumble and cut his wrist impressively open [photo not for the weak of gut]. I conveyed to Chris that had this happened to me, a flight for life chopper would have had to escort me to the nearest trauma center. He simply laughed it off and said how they didn't have a first aid kit and had to improvise. Their makeshift solution began with a tampon, which was applied directly to the wound and served as the initial gauze. This was followed up with a wrap of toilet paper and then a sandwich bag to keep all the fixings in place. Once applied Chris escorted his mate down the mountain and to more traditional medical care.

I asked how he could not divulge those details when retelling the story on the web. He said that he didn't feel comfortable putting the word tampon on his site (tampon, tampon, tampon). After calling him gutless I said that I would share this juicy detail on my own in that I've already freely used the term (tampon, tampon, tampon) a number of times and it appears in my working journal an additional 24 times.

Furthermore, I'm not sure how I would have fared in this fellow's situation. You see, I have a immense phobia towards this and other like hygiene products. If you've ever meandered down the pink and blue isle at the supermarket or department store, the smell emanating from these shrink-wrapped packages is just not right. It's like in math where two negatives make a positive. The stuff is just too clean, too natural that they are actually unclean and unnatural. But, in typical fashion I believe in getting in the face of that which terrifies you/me and this is my vehicle for this aggressive posturing. Man, just imagine if I was born a non-tripod.

I saw a borders bookstore while out tonight and was thrown into another ill-will fest over those destructive book whores, which is negating my ability to think of anything jovial or perky. Sorry. Hate is all consuming.

The New York Times magazine has this section called "What were they thinking" and it is comprised of a picture and below there are brief statements from the people shown in the photo telling about what was going through their mind when the photo was taken. This is always one of my first stops every Sunday after cracking the seal on the blue wrapped paper. Given this and the number of photos I take in a month, week and day, I realized that I could craft a similar feature. There will be three differences between the times' journalistic practice and mine though. First, I will not interview the other people in the photos because I intuit that I will not always be greatly interested in what they were thinking. Secondly, I will interview myself because another facilitator may not ask the question I want to answer. And lastly, my photos will be of a higher caliber, technically and compositionally, than those of the paper. With that said, I offer the first installment which I simply term "Conference Call".

While I have recently discovered that I can gaze upon photos of Angelina Jolie, Martina Hingis and/or Winona Ryder all day long, I could look at this individual photo of this individual woman all week long. I'm chilled, awed, moved, and stimulated all at the same time.

The best bookseller in all of St. Louis for many years has been a place called Library Ltd. They sported a comprehensive and diverse collection, greatly knowledgeable staff, comfortable environs and premium location. A few years ago the owner sold the place to Borders. The new regime promised the community that not a thing would change through this transaction, right down to the name. One month later, hard to find and unique books began being replaced with more commonplace selections. Six months after that the Library Ltd sign came down and the shiny white Borders insignia went up. Today I swung by to pick up a few magazines and a novel only to be greeted by an empty building with a hand scrawled sign that read, "To serve you better we've moved! Please visit our new location in strip mall hell three miles away."

So to recap, in moving into my neighborhood and in attempt to service me better Borders gutted a respectable book collection, turned a comfortable walk and easier bike ride into a car trip and evolved the best book retailer in the metro area into nothing more than another hyper-mall boutique. Borders, you can go to hell.

did you hear about the hooters employee who won a company contest for selling the most beer? she was under the impression, from the company, that the grand prize was a Toyota car but when she was presented with her spoils it turned out to be a "toy Yoda," the original star wars munchkin. And, lo and behold hooters finds themselves embroiled in yet another lawsuit.

now what i ask is what makes a company think they can deceive and fool their employee and customer base in so many ways? well, if you've ever been to a hooters i reckon you know the answer.

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.

I ran into a website for a clothier and their motto reads "happy clothes for happy kids". Talk about getting a jump on breaking humans into thinking that their well being and emotional fortitude is encapsulated in a shiny and crisp garment specifically from their storehouse. I'm rarely offended, and am not here, but if I were more offendable, this marketing campaign may have sent me into a raving fit.

I just sent them an email stating that I am currently constipated and wondered if they had something in a clam digger jumpsuit, taupe preferably, that could resolve my discomfiture.

Man Who Screams Like Woman was telling me about this friend of a friend who has this bevy of great pickup lines. I get the impression that he is a pretty fit fellow and likes to draw attention to his physique whenever able. It was explained that in the delivery of the below lines, before answering each question, the meatback flexes his arm muscles and strikes a Ferrigno/Schwarzenegger like pose while finishing the line. Granted, this story is much better when Man Who Screams Like Woman is in front of you imitating how the lines would be delivered, but you'll get the gist.

Do you have a sewing machine? (strike pose and say ...) cuz I'm pretty sure I'm ripped.

Do you have a dictionary? (strike pose and say ...) cuz i need to look up this definition.

Do you smell smoke? (strike pose and say ...) Oh I'm sorry, it must be these guns.

Man, do I love people.

I had every intention on posting updates to my sight while away last week, but one thing stood between me and my site, all sites for that matter, the ever-advertised and always talked about JUNO. Until attempting to use their service via my parents' pc, I had never contemplated the meaning of their moniker. But after spending 20 minutes trying to get connected on three separate occasions and getting the warning from my mother that you can only connect after 11pm did I realize that juno stood for "JUNO nothing about the internet if you use this service." The sixty minutes I invested in trying to get connected to the net took five years off of my life, easy.

this is what i was doing today.

Today Bella takes her first plane flight and I'm extremely nervous. Nervous because I'm hyper-aware of the effects a screaming child has on non-parents in that I was one a mere six months ago. One of the first traits you acquire as the keeper of a tiny human is an auditory numbness towards shrill screaming. It kind of becomes simple white noise. But, that is not to say that I don't remember being seated next to a wailing kid in my pre-parent days on the way back from a business trip and debating whether my ears or their vocal chords should be removed. So, in the event the trip does not go well, I apologize in advance to any people sitting near seat 13A on the 11:15 to Cleveland. I know your pain and feel for your misery.

Excerpt from Victor Hugo's Les Miserables

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 spent the last several days goofing off with Mr. Bookpimp from the big NC. A good block of our time was spent investigating the latest lead on a Napster replacement, and I'm pleased to announce that we do have a winner. MusicCity's Morpheus engine is leaps and bounds above its closest rival. With incredibly fast downloads, sophisticated interface, great selection diversity and reliable receipt of files I recommend any looking to sate the void left by our late friend Napster to visit and use Morpheus.

And as an added bonus, it does music videos too.

One tastefully completed bathroom wall. One lamp. One frame. One muted tone of paint. And one insignia which I'm thinking was not part of the original vision. Outright vandalism or public character? While part of me hates this lack of respect for others property, a shred of me appreciates these flares of individuality for the extra cycle my mind's forced into while it plays an adult version of Whe...

I think bell has finally gotten their act together. Some may recall my previous tirade(s) regarding how they treated me when I called them and wanted to give them my money. After they said they would be at my house between 8am and 10pm on three different occasions and never showed up, I decided to go with another company.

Since then, every few months I get a phone call from some hyper-perky girl named Becky or the such inquiring as to the status of my pending order and wondered if it had been installed yet. No. Do I still have interest in it? Sure. What day will work for you? You pick. She picks some random date three weeks in the future? I'll be here. Ok, and thanks for choosing southwestern bell as your internet service provider. Ok.

I then tell Marty to clear out on that day or at the least to not answer the door. I initially justified this arguably unethical behavior as payback for the three times they left me hanging. The fourth and fifth times were questionable and I've yet to see if we will rank a sixth time, but I'm fearful of making the right decision because there is something oh-so satisfying about that yellow "Sorry we missed you sticker" on the door when I get home from work. Some people call it pettiness, I call it retribution heroin.

I am 99.9% certain if I did this I would do this. Hence, I have not done that.

Someone visited my site from a web TV. I didn't know that anyone actually had these. I thought they were a joke. I'm sorry, what I meant to say is that I know they are a joke and I didn't realize that there were people out there who did not know they were a joke. They must have fallen victim to that strong ad campaign.