I spent the last few days in St. Paul/Minneapolis on a work boondoggle. It was a surprisingly event packed trip considering it's quick and dirty nature. In fact, enough humor occurred that I'm considering putting a photo essay together over the weekend. I say 'I may' because coming home has not seemed to interrupt this crazed routine just yet. So, if I can get more than a 10 minute gap over the next few days, I'll see what I can do.

today i used the term "taking opium rectally" in a business setting. i know some of you are thinking big deal, that's just another one of those overused corporate catchphrases like 'best of breed' or 'incentify'. others may be saying 'so what, opium, rectally. i don't see the conflict'. but, few of you were thinking what the people i made the comment to were thinking..."that guy just said his boss was taking opium rectally."

We must first thank britney for plunging waistlines to all new depths. We must next thank the perseverance of the Europeans for sticking with the thong concept and letting it grow on them, in them, whatever the proper description may be. We must thank these people because it is through their diligence to fashion and image that make moments such as this possible at a Saturday afternoon football game.

I am a believer in film. All film. The slow, the stupendous, the horrendous, the clean, the brash. Simply said, all film. Because, without the tripe there would be no good and without the flawed there would not be the Hitchcockian, etc. etc. etc. This weekend I partook in a film that to the untrained eye may appear to be just another piece of flotsam lining the shelves of our local blockbuster. But, an eye studied in the ways of classic presentation can pluck from the rack an undiscovered morsel that has much to offer despite its minimal fanfare. One such film is none other than Stallone's latest opus, Driven.

While I, or any, could pedantically describe its faults for the duration of the indy 500, few could highlight the positive elements this flick possesses. For instance, the creators of Driven have developed the ability to make a guy, a single guy, sweat profusely through the whole film. While the rest of the cast maintains a cool and dry demeanor, this guy is soaking wet like he's just been taken from another movie set where he was disarming a bomb. No small feat here guys and you just know the das boot boys are quite jealous. Secondly, many, if not all, of Hollywood manufacturers have attempted to meld the flash of action and wispiness of romance with modest success. But, to attempt this even when only equipped with the acting equivalent of a fork/spoon combination from KFC shows true and admirable grit. Lastly, I never, never, never thought it was possible to see a film that made me wish I was watching Days of Thunder. And, that's saying not a little since Days of Thunder made me wish I was front and center for the opening night of Stroker Ace. And never mind the fact that Stroker Ace made me wish I was at the celebrity pre-screening of Six Pack.

mark fiore - the san jose mercury

jack ohman - the portland oregonian

steve breen - the asbury park press

scott stantis - the birmingham news

kevin siers - charlotte observer

I know I said I was done, but while working on today's entry, it just didn't seem right. I received the following in my email and thought it offered a unique perspective on this ordeal, meaning it's not a political analyst or re-playing the same 10 shots of the actual carnage. As for if this concludes my entries on this or not, it would seem apparent that I cannot honestly say. We'll see. Meanwhile please share in this personal essay, The Price We Pay.

I had a mini anxiety attack tonight. After watching 12 hours of peter Jennings on Tuesday and listening to gobs of NPR today I had to just get away so I went to a 10pm viewing of Rock Star (love aniston, love wahlberg) to get a little dose of the ole Americana. So now to take the advice of our leaders, I will get back to business as usual (tomorrow). But, first let me leave you with a shot of the vigil at Washington University I ran into while making my way back from a cancelled class Tuesday evening.

On the morning of September 11th, I stood in front of my tv with child in arms and cried.

Someone recently told me that when it comes to matters of sending children to diversely populated schools, meaning there are people in attendance who are not devout Caucasians, it is more of a problem for the parent than it is for the student. I think I agree with this observation. I also think that if I try really, really hard, I could make a parallel to that argument and the one that rages on around the topic of circumcision. Anyone think I can't? Because, if not I will spare you my insights. But, if there is a single person out there in the world wide web who is saying, "No Troy, I don't think you can draw a significant connection between the two" I will not waste your time. Oh wait a minute. Do I see a hand in the very back of the auditorium? Yes ma'am, you, the one who has never met me, never heard of me nor has ever read a single thing I've ever written or said, you do not think I could make such a case.

All right, I'll give it a shot. Where to begin? I guess at the source. The number one reason PARENTS circumcise their children is so they don't look funny in the locker room. Strong argument. But, if you would take the moment you saved by not considering this decision in the first place, you'd realize that your son, if not circumcised, would not be in the locker room to begin with because he would be unable to participate in sports given his unwieldy and un-aerodynamic foreskin. You don't think uncircumcised people can run do you? What, did you flunk ninth grade biology or what? Sheesh.

The number two reason PARENTS circumcise their children is out of fear, primarily the fathers, that their son will think it's peculiar that his penis does not look like his fathers. While very magnanimous on the father's part, if you are hoping, thinking, desiring your 4-year-old son to gaze at his penis and then yours and exclaim the words, "Wow, dad, your penis looks just like mine? I'd like to meet you. I'd like to meet you because if this were me and if my son made this same observation towards Yappy in the din of the shower one day I would, after lopping my obviously insignificant root off, forever retreat from society because when the villagers found a 32 year old man sporting a four year olds bald and pointy staff, I'm quite certain they would descend on my like John Merrick in the train station and stone me to death to remove my ill-functioning genes from the stagnating and leaf covered pool.

Get a grip guys. It's not your dick you're cutting up. And, for those uncertain of my stance on this matter, please send me a self addressed envelope and a picture of your god-given, doctor mutilated member and I will draw in brown crayon what you would look like had your parents paused to consider the non self-serving ramifications of this measure and return it to you for posterity sake.

Last week my mother worked in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, tomorrow she begins working in downtown St. Louis. It turns out that I am not the only one bella has wrapped snugly around a finger. Personally, I'm surprised she was able to hold out till now, this being her first grandchild and all. But, while this is great news for us, it is only mediocre news for those who frequent dearmitt.com's franchise page, Rockefeller Center. In that the page was initially designed for my out of town mother, now that she is in town, its continued propagation does not carry the same import. And given this, updates will not happen every Monday, but instead on a monthly basis.

I've also set a pretty high stick for when kid number two comes around. I've often heard that people do not photographically deluge the second child with the same vigor as the first. I hope to not deal that card to my children so want to slow down and meter my enthusiasm because I'm certain there is something to this syndrome so many people talk about. So, perhaps it's a smart move, perhaps it's nothing greater than a cop out but that is the decision coming out of this camp and I hope that all who have made Rockefeller Center part of their Monday routine will continue to do so and share in the latest antics of our little one in the new monthly format.

Everywhere I have lived, I have this thing I do where I find spots in the house/apartment on the floor in corners or under things and sit or lie down there and read a book or just think on something for awhile. I don't remember how this exactly started, but I remember sitting somewhere weird for some reason or another and looking up and realizing how different it all looked from that vantage point...

I have been seeing how many foul things I can put into my wastebasket at work before they give me a new plastic liner. To date my month old liner has housed the likes of:

1. A half eaten custard filled long john
2. A cupful of sunflower seed husks
3. 7 pieces of spent bazooka joe gum
4. 1 full helping of left over mashed potatoes
5. 1 broken and leaking bic pen
6. A half empty thai iced coffee, which busted open when thrown in there
7. One sock from the gym that had a hole in it, post work-out.
8. And, 1 chewed up cud of a snickers bar that made a funny noise while chewing on it.

Another week and I'm going to take a black light to the container and see how many different organisms and funks have set up shop in the space. My company doesn't occupy a slot in the fortune 500 because they distribute trash bags all hurly burly for no apparent reason. No sir-ree-bob.

Happy six-month birthday to Bella. Happy six month parenting badge for Marty and I. For any of you who predominately get advice and opinion from the omni-present nay-sayers club of America, I'm here to tell you little human watching equals big human fun. But, in accordance with my nature, allow me to be hypocritcal for a moment and share a retrospective on my five most evil moments in this first half year behind the wheel of the daddy-mobile.

[non-parents and non-kid people: commit time to this at your own risk.]

I have this thing with hand lotion, skin creams or essentially anything that makes my hands greasy. One of the quadrillion times Marty obtained poison ivy in the back yard she asked me to apply some soothing ointment to her back. I looked at her back and then the bottle of murky murk she handed me. I pondered the request to touch evil substance A to evil substance B with nothing more than my left or right hand. I dealt out five spots on Marty's back, smartly distancing each glop for even coverage. I then took the opening of the bottle and began pushing the mounds of goo around to all of the affected areas.

What are you doing?!?

I'm putting this stuff on your back.

You have to rub it in.

I am rubbing it in.

With your hand, not with the bottle.

What's the difference?

One is what normal people do and one is what insane people do.

Yeah, I know all of those crazy people getting this stuff all over their hands, that's why they're crazy.

Oh forget it. Give me that.

Marty sat up, snatched evil substance B from my hand and went into the bathroom to tend to evil substance A on her own. I wanted to help. I sincerely did. But, I sat on the bed unable to get the thought of either of those contaminants out of my head and the epidermal mayhem that was occurring just down the hall behind the half closed bathroom door didn't ease my anxiety. After a few minutes she returned looking a tad peeved. I asked if I could help, she said that she was just fine on her own. If she could have done it herself I'm not certain why she asked for my assistance to begin with. I decided not to mention this foible to her. She did have poison ivy and all.

I think Walt and I have a legitimate three months without tv under our belt. But, all missives and declarations must come to a close and so has this come to pass. This holiday weekend, we replaced our faltering picture box with a shiny new one. I lugged all 27 inches of its glory up the stairs and it is now resting comfortably atop its perch in the near-forgotten tv room. So I guess I can kiss my house, web and personal production goodbye as I again immerse myself in my tivo's offerings. The first thing I watched after setting it up; Saturday morning's X-Men evolution. I question how I ever got by without this valuable information in the last quarter.

The fallen television has been completely gutted and its shell returned upstairs to serve as a technologically advanced puppet house for bella. And, from my quick perusal of the tv listings, these productions will easily best ABC's entire proposed lineup. But, in their defense, it's not easy to suck that much that long.