FEAR ME: I tried to recreate the look I gave that crazy driver the other day. Here it is:

I LIKE CHRIS: According to Chris at Everyone Hates Me, "I am overweight, unemployed and my hairline is receding." He goes on to say he has no girlfriend and lives with his parents. Such disclosure!

Either Chris has a terrific sense of humor or a horrible self-image. Regardless I'm rooting for him.

(One thing I'll say for Chris: He takes some awful nice pictures.)

LOOMING: In the past year I've posted often about my son, C.J. This grainy shot, taken with my new cameraphone, captures his omnipresence, his curiosity, and his plain-faced innocence:

MY DENVER DOPPELGANGER? Just noticed that Denver Broncos' running back Clinton Portis is listed at 5' 11", 205 lbs. If that's true, I'm an inch taller than he is, and only ten pounds lighter. So why is it that he's one of the most dangerous offensive threats in the National Football League, and I'm merely a top-flight commuter? We're virtually twins.

I'm thinking I'm only a few protein shakes away from greatness.

MAKING LITTLE POEMS: I've long been a fan of Robert Creeley, a poet perhaps most famous for his shrunken writing style. Creeley uses abrupt line breaks and bracing word juxtapositions almost like a minimalist carpenter might use only a few simple boards and a handful of nails...to create austere masterpieces.

For example, here's a favorite Creeley poem, titled I KNOW A MAN:

As I sd to my
friend, because I am
always talking, — John, I

sd, which was not his
name, the darkness sur-
rounds us, what

can we do against
it, or else, shall we &
why not, buy a goddamn big car,

drive, he sd, for
christ's sake, look
out where yr going.

Okay, so maybe you get it now, and maybe you don't, but for sure I'm not going to write a long academic treatise on Creeley's style or import. Let's just pretend you get him and you happen to share my fondness for his approach. Which leads me to...

...as I was looking at the last line of my last post, I got to thinking how many neat little poems I could make it into. Here's the line again:

"I know I never think like that."

And now some poems, each with unique titles:

ENLIGHTENED
I know I
never think like that.

PREJUDICE
I know
I never think
like that.

THEREFORE I AM NOT
I know I never think
like that.

DENIAL
I know I never
think like that.

NAVEL
I know I
never
think like that.

WHY I...ERR, THEY...DO IT: I wonder how many bloggers think they're just one great post away from being discovered, transformed, and/or made famous. (Enfamed?)

I know I never think like that.

ARRIVING AT ANTI-COOL: This morning I'm walking my dog and I see this couple we know and we like. They're a cool couple, hip even, and they're standing in the alley behind their garage, loading their kid into their...minivan. And I look at this minivan, this terribly uncool vehicle, a dirty, white, boxy, lumbering heap of metal and glass just sitting there in their garage. And I look at this couple, their smiles, their collective happy-go-luckiness and I think, wow, you know, this minivan is just a car, it's not inherently uncool, and in fact if you stuff this couple and their kid in it -- I think this as they pull out right past me, smiling, radiant -- if you stuff this family in it, well, the minivan almost seems cool now.

And then I think how, ever since we had our kid, there's this sense that nothing other than the kid and our family and just making the day somehow work and pass by with everyone healthy and unhurt, that nothing else really matters, and that that in and of itself is not only enough, but it's everything. Right? So that all the trivial years -- of the right hair gel and the on-trend jacket and the art-house movies, that these years were sort of silly, because here we are anyway at the mini-van and suburb stage (even if we never have a mini-van or move to the suburbs, we actually get why people do both) and it feels so perfect and complete, and not just in spite of its dorkiness, but as if somehow the dorkiness has lifted like it was never here, has revealed itself to be only a loitering vapor easily burned off by a blast of sun. We parents, I think, we've got it sussed, and we don't care anymore. Or maybe we know what it is to care now, and so we no longer care about things not worth caring about. (We have this new vision that enables us to delineate better between trivia and its opposite.)

Which brings me to: Maybe senior citizens aren't doddering so much as swaggering. Maybe senior citizens sit serenely on benches or careen into traffic with barely a sidelong glance...because they've passed on into yet another realm of enlightened non-caring. Maybe they eat early and wear tattered blue blazers and silly hats with military pins on them because they've entered a higher state of apathy. Picture an army of sans-a-belted seniors slow-stepping their way around the mall, a vaccuum of anti-cool preceding their every footfall. Cue the music now, a string arrangement of the Sex Pistols' "Pretty Vacant," with a world-weary Bobby Short intoning the most important couplet of all: "We know....and we don't care!"

MALCOLM FROM THE BEGINNING: I'm a latecomer to the Fox show MALCOLM IN THE MIDDLE, which is apparently in its fourth season. I discovered it somewhere in the middle of this latest season when, channel-surfing on a Sunday night, I came across a hilarious episode in which the show's Dad character goes to work at a Best Buy-type store and tries hard to fit in with his slackadaisical teenaged colleagues. I laughed myself silly and became a regular viewer.

And that's why I'm so excited about tonight's special MALCOLM MARATHON, featuring an episode from each of the show's seasons. If you're home and idle, tune in and see what I believe is one of the best little comedies on TV.

DRIVING TO A STATE OF BLISS: My new job comes with a new feature: serious commuting.

In all my previous professional incarnations I've done the simple neighborhood-to-Loop commute, utiliziing the full range of available means of transport: El train, CTA bus, taxicab, and private car. For the most part this meant anywhere from twelve to thirty minutes spent in transit each way. It also meant I paid no mind to pesky traffic reports, and I regarded city-to-suburb commuters as minor idiots. (What did I think of suburb-to-city commuters? Poseurs. Wussies. Preppyfaces. Etc. That I myself am now mulling over the thought of a suburb-to-suburb super wuss-out boggles my mind, even as it lowers my blood pressure.)

Now, with my new gig in Northbrook, I find myself faced with a standard sixty-minute commute every morning and night. I find myself tuning in to traffic reports, finally comprehending what the heck "Lake Cook to the junction" means. And I find my general demeanor impacted in at least some small way by the traffic manners of those around me. I am an active commuter now, fully engaged in the daily schlep to and from my other life; whereas in the past I was a literal and figurative passenger on the rails and roadways, because even when I was driving it was such a short and prescribed path that it bore few of the wrinkles and requirements of my new macro-commuting lifestyle.

This new commuting life comes with its own challenges, to be sure. But more and more I'm experiencing small breakthroughs...like this one from earlier today:

I'm sitting at a stoplight off the highway, poised to make a right-on-red turn. Meanwhile traffic from the left-turn-lane to my left is slowly executing their turns, arcing into the inside lane of traffic on the road I'm intending to enter. Sensing a small seam in the turning traffic, I execute my right turn just as a left-turner initiates a broad, sweeping turn that nearly propels him into my path. (In other words he veers across the inside lane and into my outside lane, as if the centrifugal force of his five-mile-an-hour turn is more than he can control.)

I make a sign to him, a mild wave of the hand as if to say, "It's okay, not to worry old chap." I perform a skillful evasive maneuver in my larger car, a slight jog curbward that keeps me and my vehicle out of harm's way. He slows down then, pulling his passenger window alongside my driver's window, and I look over expecting to see an acknowledgement of wrongdoing and/or remorse, perhaps even a gently mouthed "sorry" or "thanks." Alas, the words he forms are not nearly so benign. He bites down hard on his top lip and expectorates a fully felt "Fuck you."

"Fuck me?" I simmer. "Fuck me?"

I stifle an urgent, obvious "No, fuck you," and I simply stare back at him, like a blissed out yogi too high on my mantra to care. I purse my lips into a small smile, the sort of miniature facial greeting one might offer a stranger from across an elevator.

I sense his fury accelerating, even as his vehicle holds steady just inches from mine. Both his arms leap wildly off the steering wheel in a grand upswing. I can hear him, even through three panes of auto glass (his own measly single pane juxtaposed limply alongside my luxurious double-dose of imported, crystalline protection):

"WHAT THE FUCK?!!!"

I let my face go Botox blank. I give him nothing. Instead of mirroring his anger I absorb it, like a river receiving rain. My car seems to drive itself. I neither accelerate nor decelerate, neither smile nor frown, neither inhale nor exhale. I am suspended in a state of exhilarated nothingness, of totally engaged detachment.

Either I am getting good at commuting, or I have suffered a major stroke.

YOU'VE MADE A BIG IMPRESSION ON ME IN '03:



So Blind Camel has averaged about 30 visits a day in 2003. Wow.

Sure, Site Meter defines a visit as "a series of page views by one person with no more than 30 minutes in between page views," which allows that the same people may be coming back several times a day (given a half hour or more away from the site).

Sure, the logs themselves reveal that a ton of my traffic comes from people Googling "Rudi Bakhtiar."

And yes, I know that my family accounts for some of that traffic, and they largely come here because they a) feel sorry for me, or b) are looking for ways to mock me at our gatherings.

Still, that thirty-a-day number multiplies all the way up to 10,000 visits this past year, which is simply staggering.

To my family, I say thanks for reading.

To the Rudi Bakhtiar devotees, I say I'm sorry.

And to those of you who aren't family or Bakhtiar fetishists, I can only say thanks, and I hope you've been mildly entertained. (Oh, and maybe it's time to think about a hobby.)

FRESH RANCID: Driving out to work this morning I came across a disc I bought a couple months ago. I've got a six-disc changer in the trunk, and sometimes when I'm shoving new discs in I drop the old ones down into the well where the changer resides. Anyway, that's where I found Rancid's latest, the aptly titled INDESTRUCTIBLE. It was, of course, intact, and so I put it into rotation.

I stumbled across Rancid back in '94 when I heard their anthemic single "Salvation." Man, this sounds like the Clash, I remember thinking. Now let's find out if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

The more I listened -- buying LET'S GO, going back into the catalog and discovering their Operation Ivy roots -- the more I liked them. Sure, they sounded a lot like the Clash, and yet they were clearly doing their own thing. They were extending the musical legacy of one of my favorite bands, drawing inspiration from them and injecting that band's energy and commitment into something entirely new. When AND OUT CAME THE WOLVES dropped a year later, I was simply in awe. A varied collection of hard-rocking, punkish anthems, the record just kicked the poopie out of anything else released in 1995. While teenyboppers and radio programmers seemed to prefer the more cartoonish Offspring, I saw them as Jay Leno to Rancid's David Letterman. No contest. One cuddly and innocuous, the other lovably insouciant. Seeing them live on a double bill made it even more obvious: Rancid were the real deal, a genuine rock band with chops and attitude, a band good enough to take over the world if they could just hold it together. (And the Offspring were a novelty act, Weird Al gone punk.)

Nearly a decade later, Rancid remains on the fringes of success, largely owing to two interesting yet aggresively noncommercial releases in a row. In a way, I admire their commitment to their art, to exploration and punk rock and damn-the-dollars record-making. That said, I was happy to tune into INDESTRUCTIBLE -- and to reconnect with it this morning -- and discover the signs of a maturing band, a band ready to once again earn the ears of a wider listenership. On "Fall Back Down," Armstrong retraces his rebirth after a bumpy divorce, saluting his bandmates for their unwavering support. On "Tropical London," he staggers his way from self-doubt to confidence, his trademark slurry snarl pronouncing the Stuart Smalley-like affirmation: "If you lose me girl, you lose a good thing/That's one thing I know for sure."

And that's pretty much how I feel about my relationship with the band, like I'd lost 'em for a few years and in so doing, had lost something special. If you're in the market for a solid punk rock album, you could do worse than picking up INDESTRUCTIBLE. It's like going on a first date with your ex-girlfriend again. You know each other's moves, but that's not such a bad thing. Pick it up and tell me what you think.

AND THEN IT ALL MADE SENSE: You ever get these things, where you're driving or you're on a treadmill or walking the dog and you think you've figured something out, figured out life or a small piece of it, maybe?

I had one tonight, listening to the Flaming Lips. I was coming back from the grocery store, and I was thinking about my son, about how so much of what he's doing right now as he's learning and evolving is really all about contextualizing. He's learning shades of meaning and movement, little variations on a theme; but the theme he's starting from, that's Truth, the mixed-upness of everything when it's just one big Everything, minus all the context. It's like he had It, Everything, and now he's gradually losing IT.

Contextualizing isn't about adding meaning, it's about subtracting it, and then when we get older we keep recontextualizing and adding on and going subtly more and more crazy...until we stumble across Alan Watts or meditative Catholicism or what-have-you and then we slow down a bit and actually start decontextualizing our way toward what we might call spiritual peace or big-G Grace or the like.

So I didn't want to lose that, up there, those thoughts. We'll see how I like 'em in the morning, though.

FLANKED BY BABES: Given the resounding, one-person outcry for more pictures, here's a shot from last weekend. It's me, the wife, and her pal Martha exhibiting some holiday cheer. (BTW, the Comments feature has been up and down since my last posting. It's crap. I know it. Resolution for the New Year? Resolve the Comments feature on Blind Camel.)

CAN I HEAR YOU NOW? Comments are working again, so weigh in, would ya? I know there are about 25 or so of you reading on a regular basis. Holla back, a-ight?

THAT'S MY CARROT-TOP ALLUSION: My pal Dick Costolo is biting my rhymes, albeit with attribution.

SHUT. CAKE. HOLE. The more I think about it (below), the more ridiculous it seems: Who cares who Madonna's candidate is? Who are the next washed-up, talentless old bags we'll hear from?

- Phyllis Diller comes out for fellow hair-molder Al Sharpton.
- Fran of Kukla, Fran, and Ollie jumps on the Lieberman bandwagon, citing her affection for his Kermet-on-cough-syrup patois.
- Sally Jesse Raphael endorses fellow clueless idiot Carol Moseley-Braun.

Etc.

MADONNA STRIKES A POSE FOR WES, DRIVES FIRST NAIL IN HIS CAMPAIGN COFFIN: Weeks ago I cited the Rall Rule, which stated roughly that if Ted Rall was for somebody I was likely against 'em. (This, in light of Rall's endorsement of HoDean.) Now I've got a reason to dislike Wes Clark: The Immaterial Girl (Badonna) just endorsed him.

GET YOUR MOUTH SHUT: A tip of the cap to Andrew Sullivan for pointing out one of the greatest come-backs of all time (from an article in THE GUARDIAN):

Today in the former president's hometown of Tikrit, a roadside bomb injured three US soldiers, two of them seriously.

In the same northern Iraqi town yesterday, about 700 people rallied, chanting: "Saddam is in our hearts, Saddam is in our blood."

US soldiers and Iraqi policemen shouted back: "Saddam is in our jail."

RANTING FOR ME: Dennis Miller is ranting in TIME about politics, among other things, and I find myself nodding along. And I'm not some Miller-head who applauds his every bluster. His cornucopia of allusions used to bug more than amuse me. But about a year ago when I saw him ranting rightward about the same time my politics were shifting, I took notice. And now, reading quotes like these, I feel myself drawn to him:

TIME: Your politics have drifted right in recent years. How come?

MILLER: I'm left on a lot of things. If two gay guys want to get married, I could care less. If a nut case from overseas wants to blow up their wedding, that's when I'm right. (Sept. 11) was a big thing for me. I was saying to liberal America, "Well, what are you offering?" And they said, "Well, we're not going to protect you, and we want some more money." That didn't interest me.

Amen.

AIMING FOR THE STARS: Here's home base for the L.A. leg of my current trip.

SHOOTING IN BEVERLY HILLS: Nobody walks in L.A.? Au contraire. (Okay, so I'm way too overeager with my new camera-phone, the Sony-Ericsson T616. Good phone, bad camera is the verdict. Still, pretty darn fun.

AL GORE, CAMEL READER? So Al Gore agrees with me now. Dean is the only viable Dem, and his primary point of differentiation is that he didn't support the war on Iraq.

AT LONG LAST: Finally, a sensible Democrat. Almost makes me want to call him a "fellow Democrat."

BAD INSPIRATIONAL SLOGANS: Here are a few inspirational slogans I'm told the poster-makers tried and recalled:

IF AT FIRST YOU DON'T SUCCEED, CHEAT

WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE ANYWAY

PERSPIRATION IS 90% URINE

WHAT DOESN'T KILL YOU MAY HURT ALOT

WINNING ISN'T EVERYTHING IF YOU'RE A BIG PUSSY

GOD HATES LOSERS

STRONG COMEDY: That Dick Costolo is being funny again. (And not only is he funny, he can do more dips than you. I'll explain another time.)

THANKSGIVING DOUBLE-BIRD: My dad was running around with his digital camera over Thanksgiving, so I wanted to give him something worth shooting. Hence I shot him a lively double-bird, which he seemed to enjoy. He e-mailed it to me this morning, and I'd like to share it with all of you, since I rather like it myself:

MY DAD DOTH PROTEST: My dad reads my blog. So does my mom. Oh, and I think at least one of my sisters-in-law reads it, and even my two brothers check in from time to time. A few of my work-pals read it. My best friend's sister reads it. Some other bloggers who I've stumbled across have stumbled back, and so they read it. And people looking for nude pictures of Rudi Bakhtiar also read it, albeit unhappily, I'd suspect.

Anyhow, there's this mixed bag of folks who blow by here now and again, which is great. And I guess at some level, if you're weird enough to keep coming here, then you must be at least mildly interested in the meatloaf of ideas that somehow get served up as my worldview.

Coupla days ago, I mentioned how my dad likes to root against home teams. I forgot he's actually a regular reader, and for some reason he's intent on setting the record straight. Apparently he cares that this band of misfits -- you, my readers -- know him for who he is. I'll let him tell it. In an e-mail titled "Not True," he writes:

I have rooted for the Cubs for a lifetime....also the Bears, though less hardily...and, at one time, (when Hull, Hull, Hall, and Mikita were playing) the Blackhawks....In Cincinnati, I stuck with the Chicago teams and when we moved to Detroit I stuck with the Chicago teams with the exception of cheering for the Redwings. Perhaps I have rooted against Detroit teams (which hasn't been hard at all) for your entire lifetime....cheers, D

So there you go, Dad. Now everyone knows you're not a naysayer, a curmudgeon, or even a fair-weather fan. You're a jaded Chicago sports fan who's moved around a bit, and a guy who can be forgiven for jumping on the Red Wing bandwagon, given that Detroit is pretty much a one-bandwagon town.

Still, I wonder: Where did I get the impression you're an anti-home team guy? Like I said, my mom reads this blog, too, and I think she might weigh in on this stuff before too long.

LUVABULL: Jerome Williams is my new favorite NBA player. Woof!

RUNNING WITH THE BULLS: For two decades (at least) my sports allegiances have been divided thusly:

NBA - Detroit Pistons

NHL - Detroit Red Wings

MLB - Chicago Cubs

NFL - Chicago Bears

This division is the result of a life spent in different places. I was born and spent my first eight years in Chicago, where I became a Cubs and Bears fan. (I'll admit, I did have a dalliance with the Big Red Machine when we relocated to Cincy in the height of the glory. But when we took our act on the road again, this time to the American League city of Detroit, I found it easier to renew my Cubs' passion on WGN than to try and manufacture energy for the Other League or to follow newspaper box scores of the Reds.) And then we moved to the Detroit area in high school, where I had the good fortune to see my first live NHL games at Joe Louis Arena, and to witness the birth of the Bad Boys era in the NBA, when one of the most colorful teams of all time was able to win back-to-back championships.

When I later moved to Chicago during the height of the Bulls' dynasty, I tried to like them as best I could. Alas, it was a losing proposition, and I was never able to bask in their greatness with any true joy. Over the years I've been seeking an entry point to the Bulls and the Blackhawks, because as anyone knows it's no fun to root against your home teams (despite the fact my father has made a hobby out of this his entire life). With the Blackhawks, well, it's been tough. As they've continued to suck the Red Wings have continued to dominate. Okay. And what of the Bulls?

As the Bulls began rebuilding from scratch, drafting rookies and finally shuttling the loathsome Jerry Krause out of town, I sensed an opportunity. But with the hiring of the spunky Scott Skiles a week or so ago, I've finally found my way in.

As this Sun-Times article indicates (and thanks to my brother Eric for forwarding it), Skiles is the kind of guy that doesn't see the glass half-full OR half-empty, so much as he just grabs ahold of the glass and throws it against the wall. In an age where NBA players seem more like overfed babies suckling at the engorged teats of a culture gone awry...ahem....gasp...what'd I say?...ummm, in an age where the NBA and its players seem like HGH-drunk teenagers more interested in hookers than hook shots...

What I mean to say is, I like the subplot of a Skiles, where he rides into town and kicks some butt and maybe just maybe this team learns how to overachieve rather than simply coast. That's what I mean. Count me a fan, starting today.

SMALL FARE: As the father of a 19-month-old boy, I don't get out to see many movies. And over the years I've had so many bad movie experiences -- where I wondered why I bothered paying my hard-earned money for two or three hours of total dreck -- that I haven't much missed the theater.

Still, when I heard about ELF I knew I had to see it. After all, it had two big things going for it for me:

1) I'm a sucker for the smart kids' story that bears messages for adults. (Hey, I grew up on Bugs Bunny.)

2) Will Ferrell.

That's why it was such a disappointment to shell out the cash, sit through the flick, and discover ELF is just another in a long line of lumps of coal in my movie-watching stocking. It had everything I don't like: cheap, unearned sentimentality that, when the director sensed it wasn't working, tried to veer into irony; superfluous gastrointestinal punch lines; obviously and inelegantly borrowed plot/character devices from myriad other movies (e.g., a fat, loud black guy who's supposed to be comic simply by virtue of his fat loud blackness); and more.

I had a similar bad taste after another Ferrell vehicle, the 1/3 good, 1/3 mediocre, and 1/3 crappy OLD SCHOOL. It was like, "Hey, these guys are onto something here, so why'd they have to just half-ass it so bad?"

I won't pretend at movie criticism, trundle through the film and catalog its failures. I simply want to warn people: ELF is small fare, probably no better (and possibly far worse) than the "wears its stupidity on its sleeve" BAD SANTA. It is not that mystical, wonderful holiday fairy tale it aspires to be.

THANKSGIVING WITH THE TROOPS: In my humble opinion...only a cynic can hate this story.

STRANGE BEDFELLOW, VOLUME 31: I suspect my friends on the Right and the Left, as painful as it may be for them to admit, will agree with me in agreeing with David Horowitz: A constitutional amendment to ban gay marriage is not just idiotic, it's reckless.

BRA-VO! Liz Penn writes a fun, whimsical piece about the recent Victoria's Secret Fashion Show for Slate. Apparently she also has a website which I'll be checking out now and again.

THE RALL RULE: I have no use for heartless cartoonist Ted Rall. Oh, wait, yes I do!

Keeping up with politics is hard work. You have to listen to the radio everyday, read the candidates' websites, scan the newspapers, watch the Sunday shows. Or, you can do what I do.

When you come upon someone so wrong-headed as Ted Rall...someone who had the audacity to mock the widows of 9/11 (those whose behavior he, in his infinite wisdom, took to be "cynical, crass, and gauche")...and who couldn't seem more mean-spirited, cynical, and generally grotesque in his TV appearances...well, you put him to use.

Here's how I do it:

1) Rall comes out in favor of Howard Dean.
2) I apply the Rall Rule, which states, "Anything he's for, I must be against."
3) I realize I'm against Howard Dean.

It ain't sophisticated, but it just might work.

WHAT NOT TO DO: If possible, try not to lose your cell phone on the eve of the biggest cell-phone buying spree in the history of wireless communications.

Jeepers. I lose my phone last Wednesday. I call the BUU Wireless (not their real name) customer service line, and they say due to high call volumes they can't help me at this time. Hours later I finally get through, and a helpful woman agrees to leave my VM intact, but to make it impossible for anyone to make outbound calls on my phone. Moments later I discover I can't access my VM anymore. Great. Thanks for nuttin', lady.

So I go to a BUU Wireless store to get a new phone. They want at least $733 for any of the phones I'm interested in (since I'm already under contract), but that's beside the point: They're out of all the models I'm interested in. "Don't worry," the BUU guy tell me. "I'll call and order you one and have 'em overnight it." Moments later he comes back. "Systems are down. Sorry. Can't help ya."

I go back to my office and call. Systems still down.

I go on my business trip with no phone. When I get home I back to the BUU store. "We have no phones and all our systems are down," they tell me. "No phone for you."

I go back to my office and I call the BUU customer service line. I get through!

"We have plenty of phones, but our systems are down so we can't sell them to you right now."

Finally, the woman agrees to write down which phone I want (the really crappy one with the crappy camera on it, the one whose reception will blow ass and whose battery will run out really fast and which will sometimes just turn off for no reason and that costs $733), and to key my order into the system when they come back up.

I am not a winner in this game.

TRIUMPH FOR TRIUMPH: Forget about Dick Costolo, this is the funniest thing I've heard in years.

FISH OR FOWL? I've had AT&T Wireless phone for about a year now. I'm a bright guy. I'm fairly tech-savvy. In fact, I'd wager I'm more tech-savvy than about 80 or 90 percent of the population. And I still don't have the foggiest idea about what mMode is, or what I'm supposed to do with it. I just got a "service message" touting the new look and new features in mMode, and I'm still back on page one wondering what the heck it is.

ONE MORE REASON LIFE IS NOT A MISTAKE: I like to pretend like I'm the first to most parties, a real go-getter, trendsetter-type. Yeah, right...

So let me be the first to say I was slow to jump on the Death Cab for Cutie bandwagon, and I was wrong. "Transatlanticism," the latest record from DC4C, is simply wonderful. Think Elliott Smith (of ever honored memory) meets Built to Spill, with less heartbroken wallowing than Elliott and less guitar bluster than BTS. Geez, I'd actually buy this record (if my brother hadn't already burned me a copy).

Heh heh.

Just kidding, RIAA.

HOW TO SUCCEED IN HOLLYWOOD: My pal Dick Costolo recently wrote one of the funniest things I've read in years.

STUPID THINGS SOMETIMES PLAGUE ME: Like, for example: Why do people with Caller ID pretend they don't know who's calling? I see this all the time. A colleague just heard his phone ring, looked at the display screen and said "Oh, this is [so-and-so] calling," then answered the phone with a faux-innocent salutation. I have a neighbor who does this, too. She lays a quizzical "hello" out there, then feigns surprise and mild delight when I identify myself. Recently I could take it no longer, and so I said, "Carolyn, you have caller ID, right?" "Yes," she says. "So you knew it was me, right?" "Right," she confirms. "So why not just say, 'Hi, Scott,' instead of this surprised act?" "I dunno," she says.

Or there's the reverse that happens: Your phone rings, you see it's so-and-so, and so you answer, "Hi, so-and so." And they act all surprised, chuckle and say something like, "Wow, how'd you know it was me?"

People, we ALL have friggin' caller ID these days. At the very least, we all have it on our cell phones. Let's quit pretending. You're making me crazy. Err. Crazier.

BEST HEADLINE I'VE SEEN IN A WHILE: "Trapeze artist lands on fat spectator."

INGRAINED AS GREAT: I wouldn't call myself much of a Pearl Jam fan. I tried, though.

I bought the first disc, TEN (if memory serves), the day it came out. I was intrigued by what I'd heard of Green River (Gossard and Ament's earlier band) and by all the critical buzz. I listened to it start-to-finish on a flight to San Francisco, then again on the return flight. It did nothing for me musically or lyrically, and so I sold the disc back to a used record store near my house.

Years later, going through a rough patch in my life, I happened to listen to YIELD, one of their more recent releases. Somehow I latched onto the fourth and fifth songs -- "Given to Fly" and "Wishlist" -- and ever since I can listen to those songs a hundred times in a row without tiring of them. I actually have a preferred listening time: first thing in the morning. I love it when I'm in my office very early, way before everyone else, and I can just unleash them. The first, "Fly," is an admitted rip-off of Led Zep's "Going to California." Funny, 'cause if there's one band I don't like it's LZ. Never could handle Robert Plant. Still, I just love this song, the way it's a kind of march, like many of the songs I loved back in the day by bands like The Call and The Alarm. And "Wishlist" is really a sort of simple, clever poem, ala Billy Collins.

I think I'll listen to 'em again.

WHY I MAY VOTE REPUBLICAN, VOL. 17: Longtime BC readers know I've been lamenting the sorry state of what was "my" Democratic Party and even threatening to vote Republican for the first time ever. Why the shift? Some think it's because I'm a papa now. I don't think that's the reason, but I'll be the first to admit that fatherhood seems to be making all manner of invisible, subcutaneous transformations on your humble correspondent.

I've had a difficult time articulating my change of political heart/head, but leave it to Andrew Sullivan to do it for me, via an e-mail from one of his readers. An excerpt:

I consider myself in many ways a "September 11th Republican." That is, before September 11th, I was a passionate Democrat. I voted for Clinton twice, campaigned on behalf of Al Gore (despite the fact that the man had no personal charisma). And in my heart, I guess I sort of want to be a Democrat, primarily because all of my friends are, and I want them to like me. And I want to think of myself as a caring humanitarian (which embodies liberalism at its best) rather than a calculated realist. But I can't. Not after September 11th. Not with the raving lunacy that has captured the Democratic party. Not when National Security is considered dispensable, if considered at all. Not when the Democrats fault George Bush for creating French obstruction. Not when the Democrats secretly applaud American deaths because it proves George Bush is "wrong."

I would also add that, for me, conservatism is beginning to seem like a more viable and honest vehicle for compassion than liberalism. More on that another time.

GREAT MOMENTS IN NIPPLE HISTORY, VOLUME 1: An inspired commercial. I'd like to see them apply the same creative treatment to the opposite sex, but that's just me.

OFF TO A GREAT START: I walk out to my car this morning and...EGGED! It was friggin' egged last night! Meanwhile it's 6:30AM, and if I don't get my ass (in my car) onto the Edens I'm looking at an ungodly long commute. Fine. So I pilot the Eggmobile onto the highway and roll out to Northbrook, jammin' high-powered, pissed-off rap tunes all the way. I find a self-service car wash, feed a buck-fifty into the slot, and start scrubbin' like a madman. Damn egg is tough to get off. So I'm sudsin' and scrubbin' and I hear beepin'. Huh? I'm out of quarters, and the timer says I'm gonna be out of water pressure in 30 seconds. I utter a profanity, yes, then switch the dial from soap to water and run around the car like a moron, spraying water all over the vehicle and myself. I get most of the soap off, but I'm a bit wet and a lot pissed. I cruise over to Starbucks and order my standard double-tall soy latte, then head for the office. Still adrenalized from the morning's events, I swing the car in a fast, angry arc around the parking lot. Splash! My coffee leaps from the cupholder into my lap, the lid comes off, and I find myself sitting in a bath of hot liquid. My pants are soaked, front and back, and my crotch smells like Costa Rica. So far, so bad.

OSCAR THE GREAT: I'm not sure why, but I've always loved boxing. And Oscar De La Hoya is hands-down one of the three or four most talented boxers I've seen in my life. (Roy Jones Jr., Sugar Ray Leonard, and Muhammad Ali are three that immediately come to mind ahead of Oscar.) Am I the only one that thinks that, save for some faulty decisions, the man is undefeated? I think he's gonna batter Sugar Shane in the rubber match.

GHOSTING ORLANDO: I love "boy bands" like NSYNC and the Backstreets. Seriously. They've usually got ace songwriters and absolute studio wizards behind 'em, so you're almost guaranteed to get an A-list melody and production to rival Steely Dan. Where they fall short is usually in the lyrics department. Schlock city, right? The other day the perfect boy-band anthem came to me, cheesy as all hell and full of teen themes. I don't know what else to do with it, so I post it here:

"INTERNALISTICALLY"
I may not be beautiful
but I'm still waiting for you to fall
right down here in love with me
in spite of what you see

I may not be a winner on the outside
But I will cook dinner if you're my bride
Yes, I'm willing to swallow my pride
If you would let me take your body for a ride

There's so much more to me
than the stuff that you can see
Take a look inside, honey
I'm beautiful...
internalistically.

SMOKING SIGN: Again, God knows who I'll vote for or whether I skew farther Right or Left on the political spectrum. But this back-and-forth over the "Mission Accomplished" banner is such B.S. I can't stand it. Who cares who put the banner up? And hell, when you liberate a country and boot a bully into hiding, I'd say you're entitled to some small self-congratulatory banner.

TWIN ALBATROSSES: There's an "e-mail forward" making the rounds outlining all of Bush's shortcomings as a man and as a president. As I sit here vacillating over how I'll vote in the next election, I enjoy playing devil's advocate for both parties, and so I admit I read this latest anti-Bush screed with the same basic interest that I've given to Andrew Sullivan's ongoing analysis of the Dems. Along with the usual criticisms -- you know, Shrubya is a free-spending, war-mongering mental midget -- there's also an additional bullet point that jumped off the page at me: Despite his vows to bring Osama and Saddam to justice, both are still wandering the earth lookin' for trouble. (I'm paraphrasing.) Not a revelation, right? So why did that factoid spark my interest? Because it's going to have amazing visual heft as the election nears. Imagine an ad where Bush says he's gonna get those guys, that it's only a matter of time. And then imagine cutting to video of the two men laughing, enjoying themselves, making threats against Americans. Their ongoing lives and liberties may be 43's greatest negative as we near this next election.

BIG BABIES: Shaq and Kobe are squabbling again.

YOU VILL BE PRESIDENT! No big whoop, but I find it odd that the "reformed" Govinator paid such a high-profile visit to Mr. Steroid 2003. Are we done pretending we care? I don't mind if Arnold or Ronnie Coleman or whoever wants to gulp steroids 24/7, but why not just come clean about it. Professional bodybuilding is built on steroids, plain and simple. You can't look like Coleman -- or Arnold -- without 'em.

GO FISH: It's the Yankees and the Marlins, eh? So who will I root for, the perennial champs or those pesky fish that dashed my dreams?

Fish all the way, baby.

Unlike the Atlanta series, where my dislike for the Braves grew with each smirky at-bat, the Marlins series actually had the opposite effect. By the time Pudge Rodriguez knocked in his 73rd RBI I had actually grown to like him. C'mon, who doesn't love a stocky, bossy catcher who legs out every hit and comes through in the clutch? I'd take him on the Cubs in a minute. Granted, Miller and Bako seem like nice, sturdy guys, and they sure did a nice job of gunning down scampering opponents this season. But let's face it, they barely hit a lick between 'em, and there were times I was actually hoping they'd walk so some of our hot-hitting pitchers could have a whack or two.

The rest of the Marlins? Josh Beckett is a humble talent with a bad beard, not unlike a certain Cub who I've grown fond of. Conine seems like a solid, happy dude, the perfect guy to take a fishing trip with. Lowell is dark and scary, like a guy haunted by a bad accident, but he's also a fearsome competitor and a soft-spoken dude. Very likeable. McKeon? Who doesn't love the too-old manager, doddering his way into history? And those pesky fast guys, Castillo and the French-Hispanic black guy Juan Pierre? Love 'em. Speed thrills, baby. Now if they can just teach Pierre to get an actual jump. He's the fastest unsuccessful base-stealer I've ever seen.

Why not root for the Yankees?

I have no affection for New York or New Yorkers, truth be told. Sure, I have friends there. But I pretend they live elsewhere, that they're only visiting the Big Crapper. Plus it's no fun to root for the favorite. I'm almost glad my Red Wings were swept out last year. There's nothing like a team with a chip on its shoulder. That's why I'm rooting for the Marlins to win their second Series...

...and why I'll be cheering harder for the Cubs next year than ever before.

HI: I haven't been blogging because:

I started a full-time job at this company.

I've been too excited about the Cubs.

I've been too miserable about the Cubs.

I was traveling.

I tend to do things a lot for a while, but then get sick of them.

Just because. So mind your own beeswax.

Anyhoo, there's a lot to cover. right? I mean, it's been two weeks since last I wrote, and even then things had started to slide around here.

Trouble is, it feels like some of these recent events deserve long essays, or at least well-considered sentences strung together into coherent paragraphs.

But since most of my readers are here because of searches on "Rudi Bakhtiar nude" and "Paige Davis nipples," well, how bad should I feel? By now, most of my real readers have gone elsewhere, have found other mad diarists with whom to wile away their meager discretionary moments.

Well, as LL Cool J once opined, "Don't call it a comeback." Yeah, I'm gonna try and spread more thoughts on this fallow ground, like so much cerebral fertilizer. (Pee-yoo.) Look for more posting later today, tomorrow, and in the days between and beyond this one.

BITCHSLAPPED BY THE MAC: A gossip hack baits the SuperBrat and gets what she wants.

NO HE DIDDY! As P. Diddy announces his plan to run the upcoming NY marathon -- with an abbreviated training schedule no less -- I'm reminded of other similar lame-brained stunts. Confused pugilist Riddick Bowe once joined the Marines, only to leave a week or so into boot camp. And recently deceased rock god Joe Strummer reportedly ran the Paris Marathon while on the lam from his label.

Judging by a NEW YORKER profile of the Did-ster I read sometime last year, he'll have to cut down on his alcohol intake and amp up the water if he plans to actually finish. Nonetheless, since this stunt is all about charity (and not even the least bit about free pub), here's hoping Sean bling-blings his way across the finish line.

LINE OF THE DAY: "Maybe I am a retard and everyone else is normal."
- Mike Mihaly, former general manager of Trans World Skateboarding, analyzing his recent business travails

BRAIN TERMINAL MEETS SUPERSIZE LEFTY: Fledgling right wing documentarian Evan Coyne Maloney stakes out his lefty counterpart Michael Moore (yes I know Maloney is a small fry next to Moore -- literally and figuratively), and it makes for some interesting viewing. Moore, who usually comes across as a bombastic, unhealthy jerk actually seems amicable and kind.

GOOD WOOD? The first review I've read of Woody's new flick sounds very promising.

HAS WOODY GONE LIMP? Woody Allen may well be my favorite filmmaker, but recent years have not been good to the man. Although Woody has made his share of mediocre films, HOLLYWOOD ENDING (his last effort) was an unmitigated disaster, a film so inept and unfunny that I actually felt sad after watching it. Brian Bellmont's MSNBC essay delivers a message many Woody fans are feeling: This next one, ANYTHING ELSE (which opens tomorrow), had better be good.

GOOGLE OF THE MONTH: "Free nude camel toes." Oh, man. Of all the ways to search for porn!

UH, HI: An ongoing job search, a sick 17-month old son, and a Cubs pennant race. These are the things that have conspired to keep me from blogging of late. Thankfully the job search may have borne fruit, the kid is feeling much better, and the Cubs' season is winding down, so chances are I may be blogging more in the days and weeks to come.

Just a second ago I refreshed my My Yahoo! page to see that the Rockies have taken a 5-2 lead over the Astros! I did an all-by-myself fistpump followed by a very quiet whoop (wife and kid are both asleep). That my evenings have been reduced to refreshing web pages in an effort to follow the Cubs' pennant chase does not bother me one bit. Life is all about these shrunken moments of charged insignificance.

MORE MOURNING: Motor City sports scribe Mitch Albom writes a brilliant memorial to Warren here. (Thanks to my brother Eric for the pointer.)

CHECK OUT: A wonderful profile of the late Warren Zevon on MSNBC today.

READ REILLY: Add the Washington Post's Reilly Capps to my list of must-read journalists (alongside the NYT's Charlie LeDuff). His recent piece on the Pepsified NFL kickoff party is so full of verve I found myself tapping my toes and smiling while I read it.

EASING BACK INTO IT: So I take off on y'all, my loyal readership, for like ten days. And then I lollygag around once I return, only posting one lazy GOOGLE OF THE DAY. Sucks, right?

Sorry.

Let's say I'm easing back into the blogging. What with my job search, my sick sixteen-month-old son (tongue twister!), and my incredibly demanding wife, well, who has time to pour their heart out to strangers?

Me.

I heard (the acclaimed young writer) Jhumpa Lahiri on FRESH AIR yesterday, and she gave a really solid explanation for why writers write. She said something like, "Writing is hard, but when I don't write I don't really feel like I'm living a complete life." Amen.

Of course when blogging takes the place of more substantive, goal-oriented, literary writing...

Hey, where's the crime?

GOOGLE OF THE DAY: Today's hilarious signpost to the Camel? A search on "Ohio laws on topless beaches." Come one, come all.

DOWN ON THE FARM: Blogging is still light -- duh -- because I'm deep in the wilds of Ohio, hunkered down on a farm. Next stop: The in-laws in Mount Vernon, Ohio. Right now I'm a stone's throw from Denison College. Tomorrow I'll be a hop, skip, and a jump from Kenyon College. Oh, and then there's that job opportunity I'm mulling over that's...gulp...right on Harvard's doorstep. The Camel may be quiet now -- but I can feel some serious soul-searching prose coming on. Stay tuned, friends. Stay tuned.

GOOGLE OF THE DAY: Searches for "naked Rudi Bakhtiar" and "naked Jose Canseco" have been supplanted of late by searches for "naked and/or topless Paige Davis." The Camel is proud to continue to appear high on the "nude celebrity" search lists, despite our continued lack of content to justify it.

SET BLOGGER ON STUN: I'm cruising the Midwest this week, stopping off in Detroit and Columbus, so blogging may be haphazard and/or light (as if you haven't noticed).

PLAY PHAIR: You know I'm a fan of the underdog. ISHTAR is probably my favorite movie, the Cubs are my favorite baseball team, and I happen to really like Liz Phair's roundly dismissed, self-titled fourth album.

LIZ PHAIR-the-record arguably features three or four of Liz Phair-the-person's best songs. Interestingly enough, which three or four they are keeps changing for me. I like the pop confections ("Extraordinary" and "Why Can't I?"), the divorced mom anthem ("Little Digger"), and her signature cynical introspections ("Take a Look" and "Love/Hate").

At the same time, this record also harbors two of her absolute worst tunes (the just-plain-dumb "Favorite" and the jaw-dropping-in-a-bad-way "H.W.C."), and features her most contrived art direction to date.

Years ago I was lucky enough to meet Liz on a number of ocassions -- when she was guest-bartending at Delilah's, in the VIP balcony at Metro before and after her own gigs, and so forth. What always struck me about her was how simple, down-to-earth, and friendly she was. Contrary to her image at the time, Liz was not some foul-mouthed sexpot or cooler-than-school indie princess. She was a Midwestern music fan who happened to have an act of her own, and she was polite and casual and generally seemed pretty happy. If she happened to swear here or there or talk about sex, it seemed somehow appropriate, or at least genuine.

Granted, her live show was bit wooden, but it also appeared earnest and heartfelt, a nice antidote to much of the slouching, disinterested indie shows of the day.

On her recent Chicago homestand, the local critics savaged her. This only steeled my resolve to get the word out about the record. Check it out if you get a chance. It ain't Aimee Mann (although the Michael Penn-produced tracks shade in that direction), but it also ain't Avril Lavigne by a long stretch. In a summer devoid of musical gems, Liz's latest record is, at worst, a very compelling fake -- a Cubic Zirconia that shines just fine until the real thing comes along.

TWO TONGUES: Hamas says it's pulling out of the cease-fire and seems to blame it on the Israelis.

This after they've claimed responsibility for a grisly suicide attack yesterday that killed 20 innocents, and the Israelis have responded by executing one of the Hamas leaders.

The Israelis say simply, "Cease fire? We've never had a cease fire with terrorists."

Meanwhile, the PA sputters and threatens. (""We are going to take a new set of measures, measures not seen before in the last period of time," said a PA spokesman.)

We'll see. Thus far, Muslim extremists seem good at two things: 1) making really threatening threats, and 2) blowing themselves up.

In the meantime, I like the Israeli's strategy. With Abbas, talk diplomacy. With the terrorist scum, speak their language.

GOOGLE OF THE DAY: Someone from the Federal Bureau of Prisons went to Google...typed in "beer camel photo"...and found themselves here. A big shout-out to the FBofP!

Wow. So I go over to the FBofP website, just for kicks, and here's what I learn:

There are 130 Mike Smiths in their inmate registry. (Not all are incarcerated. Recent releasees also appear.)

There are "constant openings" for new correctional officers at facilities across the country.

At 37, I am too old to apply for one of those jobs.

Having a family member in prison does not disqualify one from becoming a prison guard. (I mean "correctional officer."

There is no minimum age for corrections officers.

Corrections officers must be able to perform the following physical duties: walking/standing up to an hour; seeing a human figure at a distance of one quarter mile or a target at 250 yards; hearing and detecting movement; using firearms; performing self-defense movements; running an extended distance; climbing stairs; lifting, dragging, and carrying objects; and smelling smoke and drugs.

OUTRAGE: Mark this down as the year in which I gave up any feelings of sympathy for the Palestinians. As long as they continue to support and enable groups that commit atrocities like this one, I'll stand with the Israelis and against the Palestinians. There is no Israeli equivalent to this kind of reckless butchery.

BRIDE GONE WILD: All men have dated this woman at some time in their life. Luckily very few of us have ever been stupid enough to marry her.

NOMACK! The knowledgeable armchair analysts over at the Cub Reporter don't much care for the Cubs' recent acquisition of Tony Womack.

_

WHO YOU TALKIN' AT? Our tireless pal(s) over at the excellent Who You Talkin' At have dedicated today's musical selection to us, and God knows we're a bit verklempt over it.

Their featured song/reminiscence of the day is Split Enz's haunted "I Got You," a jagged stalker's anthem that was a staple on early MTV. The talented blogger also raises an age-old debate, MTV's equivalent of Ginger vs. Mary Ann. In other words:

Nina or Martha?

His opinion is Martha, no contest, but I don't think it's that simple. Back in the day, the Camel was much more attracted to the flighty, kinky-haired Ms. Blackwood (Nina) than the grounded, earnest Ms. Quinn (Martha). One would guess that the years have been kinder to Ms. Quinn than Ms. Blackwood, and that an older and wiser Blind Camel might have learned a lesson or two about flighty blondes. But you never know, now do you?

Meanwhile, the Camel can't help but point out that the often loathsome Edward Vedder turned in a blazing cover of "I Got You" on 7 Worlds Collide, a live concert film of an assemblage billed as "Neil Finn and Friends" that aired on DirecTV's Freeview channel for several months last year. (The all-star cast includes Johnny Marr, Lisa Germano, Vedder, and members of Soul Coughing and Radiohead.) Oddly enough, the track seems to be absent from the CD and DVD versions of the show available on Amazon. Go figure.

HORRIBLE: Great. So now I've got a whole new thing to worry about every day.

DEPRESSING REPRESSION: According to a CNN poll, roughly 30% of respondents would object if their neighbor "put a nude masterpiece sculpture in his yard."

BOY NAMED SUE: Let's be honest: Any time the average guy reads a story like this, his first timorous thought is, "How can I be absolutely certain never to sleep with a woman who was once a man?" Scary stuff. Naturally, after fully experiencing this thought, the man is free to read the rest of the article with a suitable air of intellectual detachment.

NEWMAN DERIDES, YOU DECIDE: I've felt largely indifferent toward the Fox News/Al Franken dust-up. Until this morning. Paul Newman -- yes, that Paul Newman -- quite elegantly and economically points out just how silly the FOX suit is in the New York Times. The best line of the piece, by far, is the bio at the very end.

GOOGLE OF THE WEEK: Okay, this is getting out of hand. For the last week or so, roughly 1 in 5 Camel visitors are arriving here by way of the "Rudi Bakhtiar nude" search string. What I really want to know: Are any of these smutseekers actually sticking around to read me? You know, they're like, "Gotta see Rudi nude, gotta see her. C'mon, Google, c'mon...hey...wait a sec. This blogger is really quite good. Why, he can actually write! The heck with masturbation, I think I'll just wile away an hour reading some stranger's prose."

FREUDIAN QUIP: Am I the only one who initially read this headline the wrong way?

Schwarzenegger Pals in Austria Recall Average Boy

I'm like, they did what? They recalled who? Why did they recall him? Was he doing a bad job? The poor boy...

STILL MORE NUDE MUSING: Yesterday I lunched with a good pal whe had just returned from Spain. He travels internationally quite a bit, and in his recent travels something has been bothering him:

"Why is it if a woman goes topless on a beach in this country she gets arrested, but if she goes topless in most other countries nobody even notices?"

Or, as he also phrased it, "Why are we so uptight about nudity?"

We've all heard the discussions over why some forms of nether-region nudity garner a film an R or even NC-17 rating while only the most extreme forms of violence even jiggle the ratings meter. We've seen the recent stories about how TV Guide changed their recent cover shot of home-improvement hottie Paige Davis because of a so-called "nudity clause" in her contract. We've noticed that gubernatorial candidates that have had sex on camera seem to garner more publicity than most of the other candidates (save for the ones that have spun Speedos, violence, and steroids into an enviable fortune), and that major celebrities seem more concerned about squelching nude shots of themselves than in avoiding bad scripts. And closer to home, we've seen how adding the word "nude" to the end of a celebrity name can bring an uptick in traffic to a humble little blog like this one.

What's going on here? Are we trapped in the dark ages? Would a little more gratuitious nudity help us pull our heads out of our own carefully covered behinds? Would more skin lead to more or less sin? I love these questions. And I think I have an answer to why we're so uptight.

Because it pays to be uptight.

I wonder if it's not simple supply and demand at work. After all, in a society where nudity is kept scarce, you can make a lot of money peddling nudity. Larry Flynt may be annoying and amoral, but he ain't dumb. Late-night cable channels have likely made fortunes peddling porn-lite. (And some channels have made even more selling the unfiltered version of same.)

You could even make an argument that the Internet you're surfing right now is simply a wave machine whose engines run on pure porn fuel.

This is where economics gets interesting to me. Here's the question that needs exploring: In societies with more toplessness and sex on TV and nipples-on-parade, is there a larger or smaller per-capita porn market? Would topless beaches shrink the domestic skin trade? I'm curious. And it sounds like a fun study to undertake.

NUDE ANNUITY? A quiet blog day yesterday, as I spent much of my time engaged in a job search. Had a stellar lunch at the University Club, a charming old relic of a place that's had just the right amount of cosmetic surgery to keep it beautiful.

I checked traffic here last night and noticed that this "Rudi Bakhtiar nude" meme has really taken off. Ten Camel visitors in a row Googled their way here looking for au naturel shots of the newsbabe. Bummer for them. Oh, and I also had a couple more "Jose Canseco nude" visitors, too. Heck, I should just put the job search on hold and start the umpteenth nude celebrity pay-site. If only I were a trifle sleazier.

SHORT IDEAS THAT DESERVE LONG ESSAYS: I always marvel at columnists and bloggers who say how tough it is to come up with new ideas everyday. My problem isn't the new ideas, it's making time to actually explore all the crap that flies through my head.

Today's list of stuff that deserves greater exploration:

Who's the real villain in this year's PROJECT GREENLIGHT? Chris Moore? The directors? That arrogant studio putz? Ben? I veer between thinking Moore is an asshole and a hero. And this Shia kid is just lights-out fantastic.

Why does everyone say Liz Phair's new record sucks? I think it's her second best, after EXILE.

Today a handyman came over to my house and fixed windows, doors, light fixtures, sinks, etc. I'd like to explore the emasculating side of having another guy in your hosue, fixing your shit -- versus that creepy feeling of, "Yes, now do the next thing I tell you." Which is worse, being a putz who can't fix shit, or being the guy who has to answer to some "lord of the manor" goof like me? Which is not to say I'm not a nice lord of the manor, 'cause I am. Oh, and I'd explore the angle of my wife watching in awe as he fixes her lamp, and looking at me like, "Why can't you do that?"

Last night's conversation with Doug, a guy in my wine group, about how you make it on the floor of the Mercantile Exchange. "I'd say height is way more important than brains," he told me. "Tall guys always get their order taken before shorter guys." So where does brains come in? "Way down the list. First you need a financial backer, or some access to big bucks. Then you need to be connected. Then you need to be tall and aggressive. Maybe smarts is next after that." What a bizarre profession! I'd like to do a Surowiecki-style exploration of this.

BERRY GOOD: I now officially want me one of these!

BUT PARCELLS IS A HOMO: In addressing Jeremy Shockey's latest slip of the tongue -- he called Dallas coach Bill Parcells a "homo" in an interview with New York magazine -- SI writer Phil Taylor and nearly all the other wild-eyed pundits calling for the tousle-haired tight end's head miss the point.

Parcells is a homo.

Kidding.

But he is. As in, I know what Shockey meant. Parcells is a homo, in that he's a big-mouthed, self-important, fat jerk. He's sanctimonious, a know-it-all, and a self-aggrandizer. In other words, a total homo.

Taylor writes:

The only question I'm remotely interested in hearing Shockey answer is this: Homo? Even homophobes don't call people homos anymore. He embarrasses no one but himself by using the term, which makes him sound like a sixth grader, circa 1975. It's so juvenile that the only appropriate response from Parcells would have been, "I know you are, but what am I?"

He's right about one thing. Homophobes wouldn't use that term anymore, because it's so laughable and meaningless. But tons of guys do still call each other homos. Heck, I'm 37, and I call people homos all the time. In fact, my two gay neighbors call people homos. We do it jokingly, because the word is funny. It's sort of antiquated and goofy, like saying "Gee whiz" when you see something cool. "Don't be such a homo!" Another popular synonym: queerbait. As in, Only a queerbait would think Shockey was being a homophobe when he called Parcells a homo.

It's not that I don't think Shockey's something of a homophobe. His track record speaks for itself. But 90% of all straight men I know are a little homophobic. It's wired into the straight brain. Gay sexuality looks a little funny, sounds a little funny, especially when you haven't been exposed to it much. So if, at this young stage of his life, Shockey isn't completely secure in his sexuality and open to others around him, so be it. I don't mind if he's a bit awkward, so long as he doesn't run around verbally or physically hurting anyone. And I don't believe anyone was hurt by his remarks, excepts perhaps tough guy Parcells who, after all, was his target.

After two AIDS Rides, several gay neighbors, and a coterie of employees and old friends who've come out of the closet, God knows I've learned a ton about gay men -- and I'm lucky enough to count some among my best friends. And one thing I know is that most gay guys could care less if a straight guy throws out a casual 'homo' every now and again.

I'm weary of Shockey's whole act, his bad haircut, and his total redneck demeanor. But this is the first time he's actually made me laugh. As a friend e-mailed me, "No way did he call Parcells a homo! That's awesome." And I guess I agree.

GERRY MARRIED (AGAIN): The mind boggles.

GOOGLE OF THE DAY: We've got an early leader today that will be tough to beat: Somebody got here by way of "Al Sharpton sexual orientation wife."

All roads lead to the Camel, my friends.

GOOGLE OF THE DAY: Apparently the sensibilities of the average net surfer are elevated over the weekend. Some amorous seeker actually typed in "rudi bakhtiar marriage" and found their way to the Camel's doorstep. A notch up from the usual "rudi bakhtiar nude" that brings 'em in.

What's next? My money's on "rudi bakhtiar gay marriage."

Y'know, I typed that and, on a whim, actually went and Googled it. Alas, we're #2 for that search string.

THE NEXT GREAT SPORTS SHOW PERIOD: Years ago, two ink-stained wretches with different styles squared off on TV and created a franchise. Their names were Siskel & Ebert. Several episodes of cancer and one untimely death later, the franchise persists in a slightly different form. It was their perceived enmity that birthed the show, their natural tension that made them multimedia stars and household names.

Conflict is at the heart of any great story, and theirs came pre-loaded.

This enjoyable little piece in the Chicago Reader suggests the platform for another similar show, this time in the sports arena. It's a show that might fit well amidst the PTIs and Around the Horns that currently populate the airwaves.

According to the article, Chicago scribes Rick Telander and Jay Mariotti hate each other's guts. It also sounds like, deep down, each grudgingly respects the other. Perfect.

They are truly the Siskel & Ebert of sports. Telander writes lyrical, albeit sometimes lazy columns about whatever captures his imagination. He is more Bob Greene than Mike Royko, a guy whose easy prose suggests someone you'd like to have a beer with. Mariotti, on the other hand, is all piss and vinegar. He's always wading -- make that running -- dead center into the waves of the day, flinging terse sentences around in a vainglorious pursuit of the center of the storm. Mariotti is a grinder, a guy who lives and breathes sports, and who still wants to change the world. Meanwhile you can almost see Telander nearby in a chaise lounge, spiked ice tea in one of his mitts, shaking his head. Rick is the former jock, watching from the sidelines with a smirk. Jay is the last kid picked in a kickball game, now crashing the varsity locker room.

How long is it before somebody puts these guys in a little booth...together?

GOOGLE OF THE DAY: Someone's path to the Camel was "toy SUV limo." Lebron? Is that you?

SCHWARZENEGGER! Oy vey. How can a blogger not weigh in on this?

My first thought: How long before Arnie blows his top? Because I seem to recall that Mr. Terminator does not suffer fools or aggressive questions from the media -- or God forbid, the two of them together -- gladly. I remember a press conference soon after the Ahnuld was named to that Presidential Physical Fitness office, whatever that largely ceremonial post was called. Everything was peaches and cream as Ahnuld pumped and preened and reeled off movie catch-phrases. Even the first few media softballs were no problem. It was a lovefest...and then it wasn't.

"Uh, Mr. Schwarzenegger, do you see any contradiction in a man who has admitted to years of steroid abuse being named a physical fitness leader for this country?"

Schwarzenegger's massive alp of a jaw locked in place and his double-beam Termigaze found his inquisitor. The rejoinder went something like:

"Dat is a stewpit quezchun from a loo-zah!"

The fesitivities were called to a halt shortly thereafter, but I remember thinking at the time, Geez, this guy better not run for office. Short fuse.

And yet here he is.

How do I feel about Schwarzenegger the candidate? Hard to say. As Sullivan points out, he's a pro-gay conservative, which is a rare and welcome combo. Perhaps this signals a man who is liberal on social issues and conservative on fiscal and defense matters.

The big question: Can this clearly ego-centric dude find it within himself to meander though the muck of California politics for four full years? Can he put balancing the budget ahead of pumping iron? Can he be as convincing a Govnuh as he was a Terminatuh?

I'm just thrilled we get to watch this for the next two months, at least. Poor California, lucky us.

MADDENING: I get a COLLECTION NOTICE from the City of Chicago for two unpaid parking tickets. Parking tickets? My God, I haven't had a parking ticket in ages. And the few times I have had one I've paid it online within hours (or days) of receiving it. Tickets are the kind of loose ends I can't stand to have in my life anymore. Sure, when I was younger I had my irresponsible moments, those times when I let unpaid tickets stack up and my parents had to bail me out, so to speak. But what the heck is this?

Closer scrutiny reveals the tickets in question are from 1997 and 1998. They're for locations I've never parked, and for car makes I've never owned. Sure, that's my license plate number, but I'm guessing somebody just ripped the plates from an old car (I totalled one years ago) and drove around parking with abandon. Seems obvious, right?

So I call the city to straighten things out. After enduring a painfully long hold process, complete with all manner of cheerful "please stay on the line" messages, I finally get through to a helpful operator. "Please hold, sir," she says, after I provide her with my plate number. I hear a strange click, then a pause, then I'm back at very first menu in the city's automated phone system, asking me to press 1 for English, etc. I wait it out again, and after about ten minutes I get another operator, and we start the whole process over.

After a meandering conversation, the bottom line according the operator is that I should have appealed these tickets years ago (despite the fact I have no recollection of ever seeing them before), and since I didn't I'm stuck with the bill. "Sir, you could have been putting your license plate on all kinds of different vehicles. We have no way of knowing." Yeah, but the thing is I didn't do that. And now you've sent me tickets for vehicles I don't own for parking on streets I've never visited, and you've escalated the fines to where they're ridiculously expensive. Way to go, Chicago. So that's how you're paying for all those beautification projects.

GUARDING THE BODY: Here's a bizarre column. SI writer Michael Silver basically argues that major athletes should have bodyguards with them at all times to prevent incidents like the Kobe Bryant fiasco from happening. Oddly, though, he seems to argue that these bodyguards are there not only to provide security, but to act as a kind of safety netting for when athletes drink too much and then wanna f--- or fight their way into trouble.

Last time I checked, the people that will stand up to you in the face of your own stupidity, who will corral you or bodyslam you out of harm's way are called friends, not bodyguards. And those folks Silver mentions who are just along for the ride and are loathe to say anything, those are called leeches. Anyway, read it and tell me what you think below.

READY FOR REALITY TV: Remember that squeaky clean Powerball winner who donated millions of dollars to his church? Well, that was only part of the story. Turns out when he's not tithing the guy likes to gamble, drink, and hang out in strip clubs after hours. Oh, and did I mention he keeps more than half a million in cash in his pickup truck? And that it was stolen and returned in the same evening with the help of his private investigator? (Why does he need his own personal P.I.? God I love this story.)

He also owns his own race track!

I'd watch this guy over Anna Nicole Smith or the Osbournes any day.

GOOGLE OF THE DAY: Some poor soul went looking for "Rudi Bakhtiar nude," and all he got was a Blind Camel. Nothing to see here, folks. Just a fully dressed newswoman with dramatic hair and an ambivalent expression on her face.

Funny, a couple slots above me on the Google search is our friend the Whimsical Revolutionary. Sicko.

DRIVING THAT TRAIN, HIGH ON HO DEAN: I'm still puzzling over how (and if) Dean should respond to Lieberman's recent "ticket to nowhere" jab. Some ideas:

"Senator Lieberman has said nominating me is a ticket to nowhere. I submit that nominating Joe Lieberman would be a ticket to four more years of insider politics. It's time for a fresh face. It's time for new ideas."

Sort of dry, eh? Not snappy enough, not headline or column-worthy. Just the expected dry response, the normal gravitation toward "change, any change, is better than the status quo" that we see in almost every campaign for every office.

How about this message, delivered to supporters:

"Ladies and gentlemen, according to Joe Lieberman you've bought a ticket to nowhere! (Boo! Boo!) Well, I say to Joe Lieberman that at least this train is moving. We've got the wind in our hair, and we're moving! While the rest of the Democrats stand around trying to look like Republicans, this train is on the track, and we're giving it more coal! We're gonna enjoy this journey, ladies and gentlemen, and we're not gonna stop 'til we reach the White House. All aboard! All aboard!"

Now that's much better. Y'know, I've always dreamed of being a presidential speechwriter, or of being a political operative for an up-and-coming candidate. I'd love to be one of the behind-the-scenes guys, working on messages and strategy. I know I have a knack...but how does one actually make the leap?

Every time I come up with a great career scenario -- y'know, cub reporter for a smalltown paper, political speechwriter and gopher, struggling actor, mystery novelist -- the long view seems to involve all manner of economic and family hardship. Y'know, make less money, get on the road, start smoking again. Okay, so maybe no smoking.

Anyhow, I'd like to see Dean use that little meme up there. "All aboard" and the populist imagery of the coal-fed train would be awesome.

I KNOW YOU ARE BUT WHAT AM I? Lieberman says nominating Dean would be "a ticket to nowhere." I've been trying to think of a funny comeback for Dean to use, but all I keep thinking is, "Yeah, and you sound like you've just downed eleven bottles of codeine cough syrup!"

I'll keep working.

GOOGLE OF THE DAY: Today's bizarre Google search term that led an unwitting surfer to the Camel's doorstep: "pill placeholder for birth control." Hmmmph.

SACRIFICIAL DEM? Andrew Sullivan nails my mixed feelings about Howard Dean.

LIKE A FUNGUS: I'm delighted to note we've experienced some slow but steady growth of late.

We, as in those of us who bring you this Camel. We, as in the "royal we."

We, as in me.

For months, we were stuck on roughly 20 unique visits a day. But in the last few months all that has changed. We now have reached the threshold many once called unattainable, that grand precipice of illustrious achievement...30 visits a day.

Thing is, when I started writing this I thought it'd be a lark. Write a bit here and there, maybe get read by my parents and my dog (these Airedale Terriers are smart, I'm tellin' ya), and then gradually just fizzle into oblivion. Some six or more months of steady effort later I'm still writing -- and readership seems to be on the rise. During this period of fungus-like growth, I've had varying attitudes towards traffic. At first I pretended not to care. Then, for a while, I was gripped by it, was constantly clicking on the SiteMeter, Googling various methods to grow traffic, and so forth. In the end, though, it comes down to this:

I couldn't stop blogging if I wanted to. It's something of a compulsion. It's how I think, the way I sort the events of the day and the minutiae of my world into tidy (and untidy sometimes -- sorry) piles of ponderousness.

So thanks for being here with me. I'm glad you're compelled to read what I'm compelled to write. May we both experience tiny bursts of enlightenment along the way to wherever we're headed.

SIGNATURE STANCE: As my esteemed fellow blogger at the wonderful Clark & Addison Chronicle notes, Craig Counsell (the AZ D-backs third baseman) has one of the most ridiculous batting stances in the history of the game.

Counsell is a wiry, well-scrubbed young man, and he has a kinetic vibe to him, like a greyhound in repose. In fact, he's a relatively cool looking dude...until he steps into the batter's box. I watched him in person last week from two different angles -- once from near the visitors' bullpen, and then again from behind the Cubs' dugout. I also got to see him on TV, and I got to listen to some of Ron Santo's dumbstruck commentary on his stance. Here's a rough summary of his approach...

He steps into the box with a rigid spine, drops the bat through one sweeping practice swing, then lifts it up high above his shoulders (who was it that used to hit this way?). Next he angles the bat back severely, almost seeming to "cock" it at a sharp angle. Meanwhile he stands straight and tall in the proverbial "broomstick up the butt" pose. Finally, just before the pitch comes, he arches his back, tilts his chin up, and seems to be having a small seizure that throws his shoulders far back over his hips and locks his body into a gravity-defying pose. He looks like someone with a muscular disorder, part Daniel Day Lewis in My Left Foot and part "Handiman" from In Living Color.

The Wrigley faithful were all over the guy. One heckler's succint message drew laughter each time Counsell batted:

"Counsell, you look like a retard."

The heckler was not wrong.

BTW, don't get me started on Jeff "I'm taking a poop" Bagwell or Moises "I've broken my leg" Alou.

UPDATE: A generous Camel reader e-mailed this link to a photo of Counsell in action. Much thanks to "Pills." BTW, the answer to a couple e-mailed queries: Yes, that's Counsell's signature on the pictured ball. And yes, I do like the guy as a player. He's rock solid in the field and smart at the plate. I just hate the way he looks when he bats. It makes me uncomfortable.

BULLETIN: A startling message to the citizens of Earth:

Male college athletes, especially those in the major sports of football, baseball, and basketball, drink more beer, smoke more pot, and go to more strip clubs than the average person. On the whole, they are less interested in academics than they are in sports and chicks. This is not unique to Baylor or any other college campus. There are exceptions to this rule, but they are just that: exceptions.

These men are the modern equivalent of warriors. They are revered and feared -- they are raging masses of testosterone-fueled agression -- and it was ever thus. Whether or not this is right or wrong, it is indeed true.

This behavior often carries over and intensifies when these young men reach the professional sports leagues. You see, given more discretionary income, these athletes often devote the additional dollars to the aforementioned pursuits.

Please note: The combination of aggression, intoxication, and money has been known to lead to violence or even sex. If you are the parent, spouse, girlfriend, or stalker of a young male athlete, please don't act like you didn't know.

OUT TO THE BALLGAME: Gonna try and make Cub game #12 this afternoon. Am targeting first five rows behind first or third base. Wish me luck.

SCAMATEURS: It's an open secret that big-time college athletics is as dirty as my car after a night under a bird-filled, sap-leaking tree. A friend who used to work in the sports business summed it up the other night on the telephone. "You want the truth about college sports? It's all in that scene from A FEW GOOD MEN, where Nicholson says 'You can't handle the truth.'"

The scene in question:

Jessep: You want answers?
Kaffee (Tom Cruise): I think I'm entitled to them.
Jessep: You want answers?
Kaffee: I want the truth!
Jessep: You can't handle the truth! Son, we live in a world that has walls. And those walls have to be guarded by men with guns. Who's gonna do it? You? You, Lt. Weinberg? I have a greater responsibility than you can possibly fathom. You weep for Santiago and you curse the Marines. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know: that Santiago's death, while tragic, probably saved lives. And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves lives...You don't want the truth. Because deep down, in places you don't talk about at parties, you want me on that wall. You need me on that wall.
We use words like honor, code, loyalty...we use these words as the backbone to a life spent defending something. You use 'em as a punchline. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom I provide, then questions the manner in which I provide it! I'd rather you just said thank you and went on your way. Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a weapon and stand a post. Either way, I don't give a damn what you think you're entitled to!
Kaffee: Did you order the code red?
Jessep: (quietly) I did the job you sent me to do.
Kaffee: Did you order the code red?
Jessep: You're goddamn right I did!!

Are Neuheisel and Clarett men of honor who are simply doing the job we sent them to do?

BLOG AND FORTH: The Whimsical Revolutionary is baiting me, taunting me, and otherwise agitating me. (Actually, he's mostly just mentioning me, but 'mentioning' don't sell tickets, y'know?)

I want to tell him why I don't like the Stones (let me count the ways), but who has that kind of time? I'll do it soon enough, though. I promise.

Meanwhile, the man-behind-the-blog, Mark, is on another roll. A couple wonderful excerpts:

On the Catholic Church's campaign against gay marriage:

Whenever you start to think that the White House is run by a sinister cabal of self-serving, power-hungry shitbirds, just take a look at the Vatican in comparison. Yes, that's right. The Vatican has launched a campaign against gay marriage. Here's an idea: Why don't you start a campaign against child-raping priests? And the bishops who cover up for them?

What a fucking travesty. I'm sure Jesus is very, very pleased.

After a diatribe over LAST COMIC STANDING:

Meanwhile, blog-reading women across America scratch my name out of their little black ebooks as they learn I actually sort of care about this show.

Oh, and he had the good sense to call me "quite the excellent blogger," which ensures I'll say mostly nice things about him, too, for at least a week.

STORYBOOK AFTERNOON: You couldn't write it any better than this...

An old friend treats me to a sushi lunch yesterday, and we wrap up around 1PM. Man, I think. If I hop on the El right now I'll be at Wrigley in time for the second inning.

Then again my business is slow, and I probably should just go home and listen to Santo and Hughes on the radio.

I hop the train to Wrigley, jump off at Addison, and score a primo ticket, five rows up just past first base, for twenty bucks. Yes! I enter the ballpark, find my seat, and settle in.

Shit. Wood has just given up a grand slam. Aww, man. Turns out the guy next to me scalped his ticket, too, and he's here solo, so we commiserate over how streaky Wood can be, whether or not we like the Glanville deal, and so forth. We're having a great time with our casual, intermittent banter. I buy a floppy hat to protect my expanding forehead from the fantastic afternoon sun. I buy a couple beers. I start to feel guilty about spending so much cash. It's adding up.

I find a $50 bill on the ground underneath my seat. No one else claims it. My guilt disappears like a grand-slam ball heading for Sheffield Avenue. If only the Cubs would have staged a late-inning comeback, it might have been the perfect day.

I leave the ballpark and buy a giant, ice-cold bottle of water. I walk two miles to my car in the perfect fading sun.

TREN TREN! My son's a little more than 15 months old now, and his vocabulary is growing rapidly. My wife asked me how many words he has at his disposal now, so let's see:

Tren
Spanish for train (he has a Guatemalan babysitter, so he's got some solid Spanish). He usually says this twice in a row, which brings to mind a rollicking old song by Blackfoot.

Dee-yuh
Short for ardilla, Spanish for squirrel.

Mo
More.

Yah-yee
Vladi, our dog.

E-yay!
His friend Sarkis, who calls him "E-yay."

Mommy
Of course.

Da-da
Hurray!

Kah
Car.

Fwower
Flower (his most advanced word).

Kluh Kluh
Kitty-cat.

Pock
Park.

Go
Go. (Repeated ad infinitum.)

Ahhhh-gwa
Agua (water).

No!
No.

Nie-nie
I want to go to sleep.

Me-me
I want to go to sleep.

Abba
Bottle (give me my).

Yum-yum
I'm hungry. Feed me.

Rie-uhn
Lion.

Scheeeze
Cheese.

Hmmm. So we're at about twenty, for now. Note that most have to do with food, sleep, or fun things. For things that are not in those categories, he has "No!"

SET THE WHIMSICAL STALKER STRAIGHT: My blog-pal Mark at Whimsical Revolution is a celebrity stalker. But it's not like he stalks your usual uberbabes. No, Mark is not interested in Uma Thurman, Jewel, Britney Spears, or even Jenna Jameson. Instead, everyone's favorite Calvinist focuses on cyberstalking brainy babes, women he might sip an independent-coffee-shop latte with while discussing last night's Charlie Rose.

For his first victim, Mark selected Maureen Dowd, she of the liberal scribblings and the come-hither publicity shots. Alas, it did not go well, as Modo never even so much as acknowledged Mark's desperate quest for her affections. Sensing defeat, Mark declared his Dowd Campaign ended, and he asked his throngs of loyal readers to help him select a new stalkee. From our many stellar suggestions, Mark used his unique criteria (single, smart, and not too mainstream) to establish the following candidate list:

Sarah Vowell
Former Chicagoan, forever linked with proto-radionerd Ira Glass, she of the terminally whiny voice and (Scottie) Pippenesque physiognomy. Overrated writer and commentarist who has somehow become the female David Sedaris. Okay, yeah, I like her. These grapes are indeed sour. But I have a secret (whoops) and simmering jealousy, an "I could have written that" vibe with a lot of her stuff, and I just can't shake it. So I suck. Bad me.

Neko Case
Auburn-haired alt-country and alterna-pop songstress; a real indie darling with the voice of an angel. Attractive and can really sing? Major bonus points.

Lauren Winner
Judeo-Christian memoirist, sort of Melissa Gilbert meets Elisabeth McGovern in the looks department. Definitely attractive, but how does she feel about drinking Schlitz from a can while listening to NASCAR on the radio. One wonders...

Gretchen Helfrich
Chicago radio's Charlie Rose, albeit younger, less pretentious, female, and cute. I think I voted for her, although Jennifer nominated her.

Rudi Bakhtiar
Lead anchor for CNN's headline news. Wiry, perky, smart...but a little stiff. Plus eventually you'd have to go to Hotlanta to stalk her in person, and everybody knows Hotlanta sux.

Amy Poehler
SNL gal, solid Chicago roots, smart, funny. My #2 pick for Mark, after Helfrich.

Of late, Mark is leaning toward Ms. Vowell. I recently submitted a helpful comment, suggesting he might want to reconsider his choice given Ms. Vowell's perpetually whiny demeanor. As a ten-year marriage veteran, I submit that whining is a skill a wife (or girlfriend) should develop over time. Ms. Vowell, on the other hand, will start off day one at DefCon 7 on the whine-o-meter. This is not good.

Please get thee over to the Revolution and help our boy Mark see the light...before it's too late.