NOT TO MENTION MY FRIENDS BEN & JERRY: Maybe I can blame those ten extra pounds in the past year on my commute.

BADONNA: The Canadian National Post points out how lame Madonna is.

SPORTING LIFE: Just as my NEW YORKER subscription is about to run out...and just as I'm seriously contemplating *letting it* run out for the first time in maybe six or seven years, they hit me with Ben McGrath's excellent "Project Knuckleball," a meandering examination of the flutterball pitch and the hurlers who live by it. It's a great read if you have a moment (and if you have even a passing interest in sport). As a sports misfit myself (I was a soccer goalie and a breaststroker, both specialties that have long-standing associations with mental imbalance), I found myself dying to go out and perfect my own ghostball. If only I had somebody to throw the ball with. I'm working with my two-year-old on this, but thus far he's much more interested in "backerd" throws than in hitting Daddy in the hands.

(When I saw the Ben McGrath byline on the knuckleball piece it gave me pause at first. Luckily a quick Amazon.com search revealed that the pause-inspiring writer is actually Ben Marcus, the guy who's responsible for one of the most useless novels I've come across in this or any other decade, the appropriately titled po-mo wank-job that is SUPERBAD. Steer clear of Mr. Marcus or, if you like him, please to be explaining to me why.)

In the past couple years, I've found myself investing more time in two seemingly different sports: NASCAR and baseball. NASCAR is my new interest, born of a "just for laughs" fantasy league that, in stealth mode, ignited my passion for redneck racin'. The dynamic nature of the sport -- an entirely new event each weekend, new track, new strategy, new alliances and enemies -- really works for me, as does its inherent patriotism and aw-shucks humility. I thrilled to the 3-D NASCAR IMAX movie on its opening weekend, and I devoured the insider account MEN AND SPEED on a recent vacation.

If NASCAR is my new love, baseball is like a first girlfriend who, after losing track of her, shows up on your doorstep in her same old sundress, the years having done nothing but add magic to her smile. After a few strikes (as in 'work stoppages', not dead-center pitches), I had sort of given up on baseball, had stopped following the free-agent signings and the latest sensations. After realignment, I'd even lost track of which team went where.

But I found I couldn't boycott baseball; it was already too deep in me. I found myself imagining my old baseball cards -- the Ron Santo TRADED card, the way Milt May held the bat like a toothpick, the snapshot of the knuckleballer Wilbur Wood with a dozen fish on a stringer, the sheer gleaming mass of men like George Scott and Willie Stargell, the insouciant leer of the young Dusty Baker. I remembered hearing Jack Brickhouse's "Hey, hey!" and later Harry Caray's malaprops and "Holy Cow" and "Vizza-kye-EE-no!" And over the past two seasons, as my Cubs regained some measure of competitiveness, I jumped back in with both feet. Earlier this year Michael Lewis' excellent MONEYBALL offered me another entry point into the game, showing how my current vocation (research) is changing the game of baseball in grand and subtle ways.

With baseball and NASCAR alike, the more knowledge I gain the more fun it is to watch cars going around in circles and frustrated jocks taking miserable swipes at fluttering ghostballs for three hours at a stretch. What looks slow to some feels exquisite to the initiated. Trust me.

(UPDATE: A quick Googling reveals a cool old Chicago Trib piece on the knuckler, complete with a handy little animated GIF on how to throw it.)

MCMAHON/CARSON: This CBS News poll shows that a Kerry/McCain ticket runs a great chance of beating Bush/Cheney. (Adding McCain to the ticket doubles Kerry's chances of winning.) I know this holds true for me -- you add McCain, and I'm on board. But I keep thinking: Shouldn't it be McCain/Kerry? I mean, Kerry/McCain is too much like Barney and Fred to me. The wrong guy gets top billing.

MAKE IT HAPPEN AND ROLL OUT: My brother Eric forwards me this link to Snoop Dogg holding forth on an unlikely subject: Ivan Lendl. Love it.

QUICK HITS: A few interesting things you should be aware of out there:

- Snoop Dogg is getting divorced. Hey, who knew he was married? Somehow I thought making porno movies in your background suggested you weren't yet promised to anyone. Go figure. (Very funny article, by the way. Hat tip to Just Procrastinating for the link.)

- Apparently Bill Cosby is a pretty decent guy. This I'm not surprised by.

- Two different guys gripe about Michael Moore. Apparently he's not such a decent guy. Also no big surprise. Here's the first guy...and the second.

- Is it just me, or do the summer megaconcerts sound like torture? Madonna, for the love of all that is holy, please hang up your pointy bra. Your act is not just tired, it's embarassing. Check out Michael Ventre's light and funny piece on the summer's biggest and dumbest tours.

KNEEJERK RESPONSE AFTER READING A VERY LONG ARTICLE: Wesley Clark for President. (I mean, let's face it: Do you really think W. is capable of contrasting post-Ottoman state socialism with the emergence of Balkan democracies? I wasn't a big Gore fan, but I justified my Gore vote last time around by saying I couldn't vote for a dummy for president. But then came that whole election debacle, and by the time W. was shoehorned into office I was pretty much politic-ed out. Fine, W., you be president. Go ahead, I thought. Who cares? But then the terrorists reminded me that, when bad guys say they're going to kill you, you owe it to yourself to care...and to kick them in the jimmy preemptively. And all of a sudden W. emerged as a first-rate preemptive jimmy-kicker. All of which has had me tilting into W.'s arms for the past coupla years. But then I read Clark's seemingly cogent, insightful analysis, bookened by all manner of war atrocities and bike wrecks, and I'm reminded that a U.S. President oughta have some sense of history to go along with his intuitive understanding of human nature and ultra-low heartbeat. Oh, and he should be smart, too. Right?)

THAT'S WHAT I GET FOR ACTUALLY BUYING MUSIC: Buzzed past Best Buy last week to pick up recent releases from two of my favorite artists, Morrissey and Lloyd Cole. Yes, I'm a child of the eighties. Lloyd has made a few good ones in a row, especially that last one with The Negatives, and Morrissey has this whole massive media push behind him again, so I was nothing if not optimistic about both records. Sadly, five or so days later, I'm not feeling great about either record. The unformed sense that keeps playing in my head is that both guys have come to understand their own brands so well -- Morrissey is the petulant, almost bitchy ne'er-be-happy, and Lloyd is the hopeless romantic with a taste for poetry and red wine -- they almost sound like they're covering themselves.

The production on the Morrissey record is uneven, with one song sounding bright and treble-soaked and the next one awash in guitars and blurry, compressed midrange. Oh, and I can't say I care how Moz feels about American politics, so there's that. He says something like "until the president of the United States is Black or Hispanic or Gay you've got nothing to say to me." Okay, great. Forget about democracy, we'll just appoint a deserving minority. Thanks, Mo!

The Lloyd record is, in a word, subdued. His vocal range seems to have been reduced to four or five notes, and where there was once a kind of piss-and-vinegar attitude we're now left with something more like salad dressing, nicely blended but not so special as a standalone item.

I'm hopeful the new Bee Gees compilation, purchased on the same trip, will deliver more bang for my music-buying buck.

ON DADHOOD: I've been thinking a lot about fathers and fatherhood of late, which is appropriate since Father's Day is just around the corner.

In a perfect world (or in a major magazine that paid me to do so) I'd write a coherent essay about fatherhood, the various aspects of it that have been swirling around in my brain. But this world is not perfect, I'm sad to report, and so I'll just write aimlessly here on my blog.

(Sigh.)

I saw Moises Alou, he of hand-peeing fame, hit a walk-off home run to beat his father Felipe's S.F. Giants last night. I saw it in-person from nine rows behind the Giants' dugout, thanks to a very good pal with great tickets. Wow, I thought afterwards. Felipe Alou changed pitchers to try and beat his son. He obviously spent time with the new pitcher discussing how best to beat Moises, which weaknesses to exploit. And still, on this night, the son not only bested the father, but he did it in dramatic fashion, the ultimate "You are not the boss of me" blast slicing the night and sending a packed house spilling into the beer gardens of Wrigleyville. How cool for Moises! And, I wondered, is it really so terrible for Felipe to see his son deliver such a heart-stopping, heroic performance? Nah. Can't be. Somewhere, deep inside perhaps, Felipe Alou was beaming. Had to be! (And Moises had to feel a tinge of sadness, too.)

(Holy crap! As I type this Moises has just swatted another one in today's game, tying it up in the seventh inning! Moises!)

What else? I've been thinking back on an overlooked novel I loved, Jonathan Dee's THE LIBERTY CAMPAIGN, in which a father-son subplot lends poignance to a wonderful story about self-knowledge and male friendships. Great book, and I ought to read it again.

And more...

I thought last night about things my father has given me, the many interests and ideas he's sparked in me and that I've carried on...my love for the city of Chicago, its Cubs and Bears...of mystery novels and reading...my simple personal fashion aesthetic, where navy blue and khaki begin and end my color palette...my desire to coach my son's teams and to be present for his athletic triumphs and travails, ala Moises and Felipe...

And then I get to wondering what part of me will filter through to my son...what will stick...

I could write a million words and (hopefully) never say it any clearer than this: Fatherhood -- parenthood -- has added an extra dimension to my life, a richness that I can't imagine how I ever lived without.

So that's what I've been thinking.

ME AND THE BOY: My brother Casey took this shot (below) with his digital camera. It was a quick thing, not really as posed as it looks, and I think I'm as happy with it as any picture I've ever seen. My son looks so damn adorable to me, and I can even see in myself how thrilled I am to be his dad. (Can you see it?) The picture was taken during our Sanibel vacation, where our extended family came together to check in with one another and to recharge our batteries. Oddly enough my dad thinks I'm nuts for posting pictures of myself on my blog. Perhaps my paternal pride will earn me a free pass on this one.

FAREWELL FELIX: The deaths of TV icons from my youth always make me sad. Today it's Tony Randall. Some interesting notes from his CNN obit:

- His real name was Leonard Rosenberg! No way! Next thing you know we'll find out uberwasp Ralph Lauren is actually Jewish.
- No mention of his very young wife and child. What gives?
- They note his frequent appearances on THE TONIGHT SHOW, but make no mention of his frequent walk-ons to LATE NIGHT. Huh?
- Funny that he played the first openly gay TV lead, was constantly the subject of innuendo about his sexuality, but managed to bag a hot young wife. (Maybe Kevin Spacey will hook up with the post-Andy Mandy Moore and prove everyone wrong.)

UPDATE: Okay, apparently I saw a very early version of the obit this morning. They've now updated it to include wife/children info, the LATE NIGHT link, etc. And to those who've commented/e-mailed about Ralph Lauren...c'mon give me some credit. I was kidding!)

IN BEAVER COUNTRY: I'm in Portland this morning for a meeting. Seems like a nice town, almost like a hipper version of Cincinnati. Maybe it's the mountains that up the hip quotient. Oh, and the hippies. There are a lot of hippies here. Of course hippies up the "fragrance" quotient, too, but you gotta take the good with the bad. There's a "clog superstore" across from my hotel. So either the hippies have a serious foothold here, so to speak, or there are a lot of nurses in this neighborhood.

I'm thinking hippie nurses. Huge clog market!

WHAT I WROTE IN ONE OF THOSE COMP BOOKS YESTERDAY: Still that nagging feeling: Am I doing it right? Is this it?

Nagging, even though I already know the answers...


1) There is no 'right'. And there really isn't any 'I' either.

2) Yes, this is it. Enjoy.

WHAT HAVE I DONE FOR ME LATELY? I got to thinking last night, mulling over the things in my life I'm most proud of. (Maybe I am having a midlife crisis!) My first thoughts were kind of obvious and nice and related (pun intended, and not in any order):

- My son, C.J.
- My marriage to Eileen (nearly 13 years!)
- My relationship with my extended family

Hmmm. Very nice, I thought, but what if I eliminate genetically relevant stuff and just get a little selfish? Stuff I've done, you know?

Here's what came to mind:

- Quitting smoking and dipping
- Completing two AIDS Rides
- Maintaining my friendships

At this point I drew a blank. Sure, there are other things, but many of 'em are so small and seemingly insignificant (coming in second place one year in breaststroke after having to re-swim the finals; finishing my three grad-school applications, even though I didn't get in to any of the programs; etc.) that I'm almost embarassed to list 'em.

Anyhow, this is what I'm thinking about today...achievements...what they are and why they matter.

POSTPONING MY MIDLIFE CRISIS: I turned 38 yesterday. Given that the average life expectancy in the United States is approximately 77 years, you could make the case that I've reached the halfway point of my life, give or take a few years and barring any untimely cancers, car crashes, or incidences of bioterror in my immediate vicinity. In other words, I've successfully reached the mythical "midlife" we hear so much about and, as a result, can expect to be visited by the attendant "crisis" sometime soon.

Somehow I don't think so.

I was talking to my mother yesterday afternoon. She had called to wish me happy birthday and, as we often do when one of notches another year, we got to talking about how old we both are and about the parallels in our lives. And the differences.

As we were talking, I realized that she had given birth to all three of her boys by the age of 31, whereas my wife had our first child at 36 and will be 39 when she delivers our second.

"I was the old lady," my mom told me, recounting a kindergarten parent conference for my youngest brother Casey, eight years my junior. She went on to describe how she sees grey-haired parents chasing toddlers around airports and thinks they look old enough to be grandparents...only to realize they're the same age as her eldest son...grey-haired me.

It seems that my generation -- or at least the urban folks my wife and I live around in Chicago -- are operating six or eight years behind my parents' generation, getting married a bit later and procreating a bit later. (I'm not sure if this applies to our rural contemporaries or not.) Although many journalists are rallying around the phrase "60 is the new 40," I'm starting to think that's wishful thinking. So on the morning after my 38th birthday, after waking up in my contacts after a glorious sushi dinner in the company of dear friends, I've come up with a rallYing cry that feels right for me:

"38 is the new 30."

Which gives me eight more years before I have to start planning my midlife crisis.

COLOR ME DEEP BLUE: Yet another totally frivolous and enjoyable online personality profilers:

you are deepskyblue #00BFFF

Your dominant hues are cyan and blue. You like people and enjoy making friends. You're conservative and like to make sure things make sense before you step into them, especially in relationships. You are curious but respected for your opinions by people who you sometimes wouldn't even suspect. Your saturation level is very high - you are all about getting things done. The world may think you work too hard but you have a lot to show for it, and it keeps you going. You shouldn't be afraid to lead people, because if you're doing it, it'll be done right. Your outlook on life is very bright. You are sunny and optimistic about life and others find it very encouraging, but remember to tone it down if you sense irritation.

the spacefem.com html color quiz

(I'm a sucker for anything that's about me and positive. Every time I get a favorable fortune cookie I wrestle with the idea of having it framed.)

SURVIVORAMA: Some quick thoughts from last night's SURVIVOR ALL-STARS finale:

- Rupert will walk away with the extra million, but I voted for Colby. The guy deserved it the time he gave it away to Tina, and he was once again awesome on this show. That said, I love Rupert. He's great, too. He's in the now, as they say.

- Sure, the show is manipulative, cheap, etc., but I love it, and I also think it's a great learning/teaching tool. I learned so much about grace under pressure just watching this show. I think stress does reveal peoples' true character. No matter how you slice it, I think Big Tom looks like an idiot. And for all this talk about what a "great girl" Jerri is, two shows' worth of SURVIVOR suggests otherwise.

- I'm definitely with the "it's just a game" crowd. My wife and I sat there and marveled at lecturing Lex and blubbering Big Tom and crying Kathy. (Of course we were also amazed that the clueless ShiAnn actually seemed to *get it* for once.)

- Alicia and Amber look worse in all the makeup. Kathy and Jenna looked much better. Jerri demonstrates how a bad personality can turn a hot girl ugly.

- Most of the contestants looked way hotter to me super-skinny than they do more full of face. I don't know what this says about me or how it relates to the fact that low-calorie diets supposedly help you live longer.

- Jeff Probst is spooky. That shot of him hanging out of the helicopter and then making the "take it down" hand gesture (as if he was in control of the landing) was so over the top I could barely stand it.

- I also agreed strongly with Jenna's admonition to Rob and Amber to stop apologizing and to revel in a job well done.

- Lex seems like a cool guy in so many ways. But the bottom line is he's about a forty-year-old guy with a mohawk, a ton of piercings and tattoos...and undoubtedly some big-ass issues.

WHAT'S A BLOG? I recently told a friend to check out my blog, this Blind Camel thing you're reading right now.

"What's a blog?" asked my friend.

A day later over lunch another friend described his fledgling company's new product, an innovative product for adding relevant advertising (among other things) to RSS- or Atom-enabled (syndicated) blogs.

Two different days, two different friends, two different levels of blog awareness.

Trouble is, sometimes I forget that the mass of folks have more in common with my first friend than my second. If you're reading this blog right now, you're part of a relatively small (albeit growing) group. And if you understood that stuff about syndication, you're breathing still more rareified air.

One recent study reported that 11 percent of Internet users visit blogs written by others, and between two and seven percent of adult Internet users in the U.S. write their own blog. (And of that group, only 10 percent actually update their blog on a daily basis.)

I wonder if that's more or less people than are still buying and reading literary fiction? Poetry?

I betcha more people read blogs than read poetry.

What am I on about today?

Well, I'm in wondering mode. Wondering about how big this blogging phenomenon will get. Wondering about if the metastory about blogging should be more about 'vehicle' than content.

Right now, I'd bet most of us who "blog" and read blogs think of blogging as something largely personal, confessional, homespun, and cute. But what if a blog -- that is, a template-driven, actively updated content experience that typically arises from a singular POV or reason-for being (even if it's created by more than one person) -- is really an early incarnation of next-generation narrowcasting, a sort of Christopher Columbus for exploring how content creators can match up with their audiences and create real and ongoing customer relationships (to use a hackneyed business phrase). In other words, if I'm a big fan of Bob Mould, then maybe I'll want to subscribe to his blog, which will be the central point of distribution for his writing, his music, his merchandise, and the scheduling of his live performances. In other words, Bob's blog (or Andrew Sullivan's or even BlogCritics) will be the nexus at which you can enter into various value exchanges with one another, minus the mediation of a record label, a publisher, etc. Am I making sense? (Perhaps I'm stretching with the BlogCritics cite. When RSS enables you to be your own aggregator, who needs another layer of middleman?)

Our first collective attempt at creating the next generation of online content was corporate and money-driven and, as such, it missed the power of the medium. Blogging is the tip of the personal and creative next wave, a lurking iceberg that is arising from our passions and our needs.

"What's a blog?" Good question, I say.

GIVE UP: The older I get the more life feels like it knows what it's doing. Sure, day to day, life is a mess. Even week to week. Hell, maybe even year to year. But somehow this mystical "grand scheme of things" you hear people talking about...well, the older I get, the more I buy into it. And the nice thing about feeling this way is I get to just sort of give up, to lay back in life's big arms and enjoy the ride. At least that's how I feel today.

LISTEN WHILE YOU WORK: If you ever have a lot of work to do and you just want some beautiful, chill-out music on in the background...some stuff that'll set your head right, calm you down, and seep into the cracks between the work and your blues...try out Joe Pass's incomparable SONGS FOR ELLEN. One man, one guitar. Quite lovely.

AERIAL POETRY: A while back I mentioned I'd been writing more poetry of late. Not too long ago I wrote one I really like. Here it is, for your enjoyment (I hope):

Other Invisible Winds
When I’m on an airplane is it life
that is flying by
along with the landscape?

Is it only
the scenery receding?
Is this me missing
my son and my wife,
or worse --
am I also hovering
beyond the dying
intersection of our time
together in this life?

It could be
this is how love works,
all this floating above
the gaps in time and space,
still staying aloft and held
together even far apart
by unseen hands
or other invisible winds.

LEMME HEAR YA... I've been bitching about my COMMENT function for eons without doing anything about it. And a month or so ago I wondered how to get more readers, how to get more satisfaction and recompense from this weird blogging thing. Seems to me the two items are related. Seems like I oughta fix the COMMENTS feature so as to better engage those readers I do have, thereby generating greater stickiness and interest. Also seems like the recomponse I get right now comes from the feedback I get from readers (you!) more than anything, so how dumb is it to have the COMMENTS thing be all broken for so long.

And so I've fixed it, so that you can comment and I can comment back. Hope this works, you enjoy, etc. Love to hear from you, as always.

(Until I get all popular, when I'll have no way to keep up with all y'all, but then you'll just talk amongst yourselves then anyhoo.

STILL NOT HATING CHRIS: Regular Camel readers know I've been encouraging Chris at EveryoneHatesMe to love himself and his life a little more. There's something about Chris I find hilarious and loveable and so I follow his writing and his various plights (losing weight, finding a job, trying to drink less, etc.). Most of the time I think Chris's troubles are everyone's troubles, it's just that he has the balls to talk about them, write about them, etc. But Chris's most recent post suggests he has some issues most of us do not. An excerpt:

A couple of months ago I ran off to Mexico. I was out of my head, and was not thinking clearly. So, I drove to El Paso, TX and crossed the border there. I was never so scared in my life. I ended up driving non-stop from Chicago. I was having a nervous breakdown.

Anyway, it must have been the lack of sleep. I thought people could read my thoughts. I had some dental work done on a tooth years eariler, and was convinced that there was a transmitter implanted in the tooth at the rear of my mouth. So, I stumbled around the Mexico border town and wandered into a dentist office. I had the tooth extracted.

I'll admit, my first instinct is to laugh. And somehow from what I gather of Chris's personality, I'm sure he sees a bit of the humor in this. After all, he *is* the guy whose blog "About" statement reads "I am 31, fat, loosing my hair, living with my parents and I am poor." A pathetic statement, to be sure, and yet naming your blog EveryoneHatesMe and airing your dirtiest laundry in such bald (excuse the pun) fashion suggests a guy who's not afraid to poke a little fun at himself, to allow other a vicarious window into his travails.

My next instinct is to worry about Chris. My God, what a nightmare! But then, I don't really know Chris. I only stumbled past his blog one day, maybe linked from ChicagoBloggers.com, if memory serves. How much should I worry about someone I don't know? After all, aren't there people in my day-to-day life who need and deserve my attention more than Chris? Of course.

The bottom line: If you have a moment, blow by EveryoneHatesMe and say a nice word or two to Chris. He's suffering, and he could use whatever spare support you have to offer.

DOING IT RIGHT IN THE MODERN WORLD: Maybe 25 years ago my Chicago grandmother came to visit our family in Ohio. Gramma, as we called her, had lived downtown her whole life, and so she seemed wide-eyed at much of our medium-small town existence.

Her greatest and most celebrated fish-out-of-water moment of the trip came at McDonald's. She stood back from the counter, pondering the menu, mouthing the various item names and furtively (and, of course, futilely) scanning for the "cocktail" section. Finally she stepped forward, ready to order:

"I'll have a cheeseburger, hon, medium rare, and a baked potato."

The needle dragged across the record. The counter-simp stifled a smirk. All around her, patrons gaped and mumbled. I distinctly remember a young boy around my age repeating it to his parents. "She said medium RARE!" And another: "She said baked potato!"

Meanwhile my brothers and I shrunk into the bright yellow and orange scenery, denying our genetic link to the woman who -- gasp -- didn't know how to order at McDonald's! (Today I realize it's a small miracle she didn't ask for a patty melt, compounding our horror.)

I had such a moment again this morning. Standing at Starbuck's, my automaton-like order at the ready ("tallsoylatteandicedlemonloafpoundcakeplease"), my money pre-counted, I found myself behind an older couple (they were maybe 58). He was dressed like a banker or an undertaker, with his hair meticulously wetted and sloped across his pale skull; she resembled an attractive young blonde secretary from the movies, although her face and her clothes and her hair were not new enough, not to mention altogether too pressed.

"One coffee," the undertaker intoned, his zen-like understatement drawing quizzical glances from the baristas.

"Are these pastries fresh, dear?" asked the old young secretary.

Meanwhile all around them the clued-in sighed and shuffled, wondering how it was possible in this day and age not to have your Starbuck's order down pat.

Somewhere I'm sure Gramma felt vindicated.