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.