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.