NOT RIGHT WITHOUT: My wife and son are in Florida with my parents. And apparently they're all having a ball. This is great, and it makes me happy to know they're happy, all of 'em. Each of the few times my wife and son have left me for any period of time, I always find myself looking forward to their departure, imagining all the leisure time I'll have in their absence. And usually within 24 to 48 hours I'm miserable, I miss them so much. I look at my son's picture and I almost want to cry. I know this is silly, and I don't cry. But it's like I almost hunger for his return. And my wife? I don't sleep right when she's gone. I sleep, but I don't relax. I fret my way through the night, tossing and turning and kicking her side of the bed hoping to hit something.

INTO THE MYSTIC: I'm still having fun with my goofy camera phone. A couple nights ago I snapped a shot in my darkened car as I drove my hour-long commute home. The sparse light kind of had a cool effect. Check it out:

STOP SINGING LIKE THAT: We all have little innocuous things that, for some inexplicable reason, just drive us nuts. Don't we? Okay, I do. And one of 'em seems to be gaining in popularity of late: It's that flugeling motion singers make with their fingers wrapped around the microphone, like they're playing a run on the trumpet. Man does that chap my butt when I see it. I can't like a singer who does that. I'm also no fan of syllable adding, like when a singer takes a word like "you" and makes it into "yew-eww-uh-ooo-woo-hoo-uh" or some variation thereof. Or when they turn "and the land of the free" into "and the la-hand, uh-wuh-uh-huh-uh-huv...thuh fuh-ree-hee-ee-ee-eeyee-hee!"

MISSING THE BOAT TO LAKE WOBEGON: I may have swerved rightward in the past year or so, but I'm still a Garry Trudeau fan and I think Al Franken is damn funny. So when I read that the pair had dinner with Garrison Keillor last December in a kind of lefty humorists summit conference, I found myself wondering something I've wondered often in the past: Have I completely missed the boat on Keillor? Am I too young for Keillor? Is that it? Or does he have fans under forty? Or he is just not that great, a kind of Larry King or Jay Leno in his field, wildly popular for no discernible reason? Anybody out there read him and like him? What am I missing?

KERRY/MCCAIN? My brother Eric e-mailed me a link to a story suggesting the possibility of a Kerry/McCain bipartisan ticket. My first reaction is excitement, because like my brother I have an unusual affection for McCain. I've somehow come to the conclusion, likely naive, that he is above politics, or is at the very least more in tune with my own personal politics (he's a hawk, soft on some social issues, plain-spoken, etc.). My second reaction is there's no way this ticket happens, because McCain is a Republican and we just don't have split tickets in this country in this time. My third reaction is jeez, why should a star like McCain have to play second fiddle to FrankenKerry? I don't have a fourth reaction yet, but I'll work on it.

Okay, here's my fourth reaction: I love this quote...

"It's impossible to imagine the Democratic Party seeking a pro-life, free-trading, non-protectionist, deficit hawk," the senator told ABC's "Good Morning America" during an interview about illegal steroid use. "They'd have to be taking some steroids, I think, in order to let that happen."

LONG LIVE THE EIGHTIES: Wow, a new Tears for Fears record with both the original dudes (Roland and Chris) on it. Excellent! Now if only The Smiths would get back together (which the article says ain't gonna happen).

YOUNG MC: In the winter I have a habit of wearing a ski hat around the house in the evenings. My next-door neighbor tells me I look like a schizophrenic. I prefer to think I look a bit street, like maybe I'm an underground rapper or a slacker-snowboarder. Sure, the reality is I look like a 37-year-old man who wishes he was a little cooler and a little younger. The good news is I'm my two-year-old son's hero, and so he likes to swipe the hat off my head and put it on his own dome. Here's what that looks like:

WISH YOU WERE HERE: Teenagers tell of life in the Guantanamo prison camp. (When normal day-to-day life in your country is worse than being helicoptered to a remote prison, that's pretty rough.)

INCOMING: I'm currently averaging 28 unique visits/day. (The number seems to vary between 25 and 30 from week to week.) This is not much traffic, in the grand scheme of things. Still, I know bloggers who get five visitors a day if they're lucky, so I'm not griping. How to get more traffic, and why I even care...these are big questions I should try to answer.

STERN TO SATELLITE? My brother Eric and I have been swatting e-mails back and forth about Howard Stern's impending demise. I like Eric's thinking in his last e-mail (one thing about Eric, he always sounds like he knows what he's talking about), and so I share it here with you (with his permission). Here's Eric:

I listened to Stern this morning too.. the show content is now lost in his whining (must admit though that I laughed when he realized Tom was in the studio and said (with no anger), “What are you doing in here? Go have your discussion with one of the interns. You come when I call for you.” -- Tom obeyed).

Howard was going off on the Parent Council something-or-other lady on MSNBC. But then went on a rant about stem cells, the Patriot Act, Iraq.. etc. Many things he supported Bush on and now he’s flailing away. [ed. note: Eric and I have been discussing what a wussy Stern is...as soon as his livelihood is threatened he drops Bush and starts finding all manner of things wrong with him, stuff he was willing to forgive only a month or so ago when he was a big Bush fan.)

He should take his show to XM.. they’ll pay handsomely. It’s the radio equivalent of cable right now. No regulation. People pay for it. He can do what he wants. And he will single-handedly bring about a quantum shift in over the air radio. “Free” radio needs guys like Stern. If all of ‘em went to satellite, the audience would completely splinter (just like it did with cable TV).

This is Howard’s destiny, but he’s too scared to take the step. He still thinks this is just good radio fodder (the FCC hates me.. I’m through) If you listened before his last contract renewal, he played the same cards. I don’t think this will blow over anymore.

COMMUNICATIONS HALL OF FAME: Submitted by my pal Sean Baenen:

PORT-AU-PRINCE, Haiti - U.S. Marines shot and killed a gunman during an outbreak of shooting at a weekend demonstration by Haitians celebrating the ouster of President Jean-Bertrand Aristide, a spokesman said Monday.

Col. Charles Gurganus said the shooting occurred near one corner of the presidential National Palace when a Marine platoon observed two gunmen. One was killed, while the troops did not know what happened to the other, he said.

Asked how he knew the man killed was a gunman, Gurganus said: "He had a gun, and he was shooting at Marines. That's what I call a gunman."

WHO'S IN YOUR SIGHTS? Not sure how you should vote in 11 months or so? Here's a helpful site, thanks to my pal Dave at just procrastinating. For the record, I'm scored as a "Typical Democrat" likely to vote for John Kerry. Could be.

BATTLE OF THE BLOGWORLD NON-STARS: You may recall I've got a fitness grudge against fellow blogger Dick Costolo. To recap: Homeboy Costolo can do 78 pushups, 44 Navy Seal situps (yes, he's improved from when I originally posted), and 18 wide-grip pullups. This morning I tested myself and came up short: 60 pushups, 40 Navy Seal situps, and 0 wide-grip pullups (no way was I gonna try any after the pushups -- will have to set this mark another day, but I know I'll max at around eight right now). Granted, I did all this after a 30-minute run, but I'll be honest. I ran really slow, and there's no way I could've done more than that even if I had just come off a massage and lots of rest. So Costolo owns me right now, I'll admit it. But his day will come.

BUSH'S ERROR OF CERTITUDE: Andrew Sullivan and my pal Bart both point to an excellent Will Saletan piece on Slate. Check it out.

BART REPLIES: A few posts ago, my pal Bart and I were trying to make sense of W.'s disdain for same-sex marriage. Anyhow, Bart has just weighed in (within the netherworld of my "Comments" feature) with some new thoughts, and I think they're sound enough to deserve a broader airing. I'm not going to bother picking through his words this time. I'll simply say he and I are more on the same page than not right now, and I respect his even tone. So...here's Bart (with extremely mild editing/formatting for easier reading):

Scott, I feel your pain. It is tremendously difficult for anyone with an intelligent, informed viewpoint to find a person or party to support. Unfortunately the apathetic response of "they all suck" inevitably leads to even greater lunacy which means that like or it not those who choose to educate ourselves must grip our nose tightly and wade deeper into the pile of shit that passes for political debate these days.

Regarding your response to my post I can't disagree with your contention that all people make decisions beased upon reasonable cost - I just dispute what the equation is actually based on. I tend to agree with you that Bush is not sitting up at night calculating political variables - like him or not, Bush is clearly a man of great principle. He decides upon a course of action and follows through regardless of the potential cost to him or others -he does what he thinks is right. This is what served him so well in the months after 9/11. However the same attribute that is so effective in war (in many ways a black or white issue - especially in Afghanistan people truly were for or against us)can be a tremendous detriment when it comes to more nuanced situations (arguably almost every other challenge that we've dealt with as a nation). Clinton, for all of his many faults, was unbelievably adept at recognizing the various sides of an issue and working to resolve them in ways that would allow all sides to claim at least partial victory. This is one of the main reasons that many hard core conservatives hated him so passionately- in their eyes America demeaned istelf whenever it adopted a position that was anything other than 100% pro-american (I am overgeneralizing, of course, but damnit this post is already too long). George Bush works much more decisively - his support for the FMA fits this pattern perfectly. In his worldview homosexuality=bad, christianity =good, therefore FMA. The fact that it is completely at odds with his expressed conservative bent never enters the equation.

In my mind the true greatness of this country lies in its long established core principles: life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. In my mind we went to war in Afghanistan not only to protect our borders but to protect our way of life from a group of people who would run rough-shod over all that I hold most important: men (and it is all men) who would proscribe for me my type of worship, who would tell me how, when and where I should gather, who would argue that religion trumps science (Georgia Board of Education, anyone?), who would limit the potential of my daughter or sister or wife to advance in her chosen field, who would choose to marginalize people based solely upon their choice of religion, or nationality, or skin color, or sexual orientation, who would hold back social progress because it doesn't fir into their particular world view. That is what I am willing to fight against and that is unfortunately what am I seeing happening in my own country. People who have sworn to uphold the Constitution are instead using it as a political tool and that to me is damn close to criminal. I don't agree with everything that the democrats stand for but if it's a choice between paying an extra 5% a year in taxes or having John Ashcroft decide how I should live my life well for me the answer is simple. The most important thing that I have is my self-determination and everytime I see this administration ham-handedly try to reduce it reminds me again and again why I'll do everything that I can to make certain that W is a one term president.

IPOD SAY: Still iPod crazy, so here's another "next ten songs on random" mix, followed by a fun narrative:

"Smack My Bitch Up," The Prodigy

"Hear Me Lord," George Harrison

"I Wish My Baby Was Born," Uncle Tupelo

"The Murder Mystery," The Velvet Underground

"DJed," Tortoise

"Here," Pet Shop Boys

"Django," Rancid

"Janet Jangle," High Llamas

"Johnny Appleseed," NoFX

"Suffocation," The Pulsars

We open on a man on the edge of disaster. (Hmmm, not unlike my last story. Am I projecting something onto these songs? Rorschachian, perhaps?) He lives in squalor, he's in a broken relationship. Still, after a horrible incident, possibly related to domestic violence, we see him seeking forgiveness, a path to repentance, forgiveness...a future. We learn that his partner -- wife, girlfriend, whatever -- is not blameless, that he actually has a good heart, has seen a future with this person. He's considering all options. He's desperate. He's nearly insane. He goes to a club. He takes drugs, maybe some acid, has some drinks. Hallucinates, passes out against a wall. He starts to come out of it, wakes up as the cleaning crew is poking around him. As the sun is offering its first promise of morning, our man in trouble finds some hope, realizes where he has to go, how he needs to live. By draining himself completely, wrecking himself, he's emptied himself of his pain. He picks up a head of steam, decides to bury his past and start anew. All of a sudden he feels lighter, almost airy. He hatches a plan to build something, to renew his commitment to a project that has long lain dormant. "Suffocation" comes up under the credits, a sort of light look at how tough life and love are. We feel a sense of relief and empathy with our main character as he faces his new life...

I'm tellin' ya, these songs tell that story all on their own.

MAKING STORIES WITH MY MUSIC: Like I said last post, I'm lovin' my iPod, mostly because it makes the most awesome random mixes, stuff I could never come up with. I'll share more. Here are the next 10 random tracks on my iPod:

"It Could Have Been a Brilliant Career," Belle & Sebastian

"Side of the Road," Beck

"Pink Chanel," The Aluminum Group

"Anytown," Everything But the Girl

"If Not For You," George Harrison

"Ivory Coast," Rancid

"When the Night Falls," The Pooh Sticks

"The Crying of Lot G," Yo La Tengo

"All Countries," Tristeza

"A Pistol for Paddy Garcia," The Pogues

Wow. I mean, this is a great brainstorming tool! It suggests a narrative. Let's see...

Guy gets disillusioned, goes on a bender, has an affair with an older woman, rethinks his whole life. He remembers the woman that had almost saved him, the town that he used to love. Hmmm. "Ivory Coast" comes out of nowhere. He's watching CNN? Uh...he gets a phone call from his younger brother in the Persian Gulf. Yeah. He goes out for a walk, he gains perspective. He realizes he's still in love with the woman, but that he has nothing to offer her. He dreams of travel, thinks maybe he'll go to Spain. He buys a copy of "The Sun Also Rises" and we see him walk into the horizon, melting against the first rays of morning sun.

Howzat?

BIG APPLE: Broadcasting live and wireless from a Big Apple Starbucks, I am. A quick meeting in the city, then back out to LaGoo.

I've been iPod crazy of late, rippin' 10 GBs inside of a month. On random, here are the next ten songs that come up:

"Mister Butterfly," The Aluminum Group

"Night Air," Tortoise

"Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon," Queen

"Save You," The Pulsars

"Hey Ya!" Outkast

"Kije's Ouija," The Free Design

"High on the Chalk," The High Llamas

"Ms. Lazarus," Hum

"Smiley," The Hangups

"You Take Me Up," The Thompson Twins

You gotta love it!

Funny thing: After an hour in Starbucks, I've noticed they play some great music. So why can't I "grab" a song or two out of the ethers and pull 'em down onto my music device? I'm sitting here with a live wireless connection, they've got billing info on me. I should be able to find out who played the last track (a great, burning Americana ballad) and, if I want, buy the darn thing here and now. And I can't. Heck, I can't even get the baristas to find out who it was. Silly baristas.

SEEMS LIKE A LOAD OF CRAP: Forcing Howard Stern off the air, rather than letting me choose whether or not to listen. Altering the Constitution to prevent citizens from fully pursuing their own life, liberty, and happiness. I smell the Republicans of old. I think GWB may have lost the election in the past 48 hours. At the very least my vote is in peril. I've gotta think about this. Is this as simple and ugly as it seems? Stern is a mess, a guilty pleasure at best and a sort of gateway drug to depravity at worst. Still, I listen and watch, at least until he offends me enough to send me away for a few days or weeks. And you know how I feel about same-sex marriage. I thought, as I moved rightward, I was choosing less government, more freedom. I thought I was choosing security. Did I think wrong?

COST WITHOUT BENEFIT: In response to my post saying Bush's support of a constitutional ban on same-sex marriage makes no sense to me, my dear friend Bart writes:

I think this follows a predictable Bush pattern which can be summarized as thus: wealth and the accumulation thereof is what drives the economy and therefore the strength of the nation. This is to be preserved despite any social, environmental, or other costs that may be incurred. This may be his actual conviction or he may have just recognized that policies that benefit the wealth-possessing status quo makes fundraising (and at least to some extent future electablity) much easier. People who possess wealth are better able to determine how to utilize their wealth than the government, therefore taxes and regulations should be as minimally intrusive as possible. Social society (for lack of a better term) on the other hand needs guidance and protection from those that would impose a more open set of social mores. When it comes to civl liberties of almost any type Bush has consistently come down against them: the PATRIOT act (I know, I know, it's a lefty bogyman, but nonetheless it does considerably reduce civil liberty), his support of government funded faith based initiatives, and certainly his support of the same-sex marriage amendment. While I certainly don't agree with his decision to support it it makes perfect sense to me as to why he would.

Bart, I hear you. But I just don't believe Bush & co. are as cynical as all that ("despite any social, environmental, or other costs that may be incurred"). Instead, I submit that Bush (and all leaders) have to weigh the costs associated with anything they propose, undertake, or allow. The answer, the line they all seek, is "reasonable" costs. Because there are costs associated with every path we choose, I'm sure you'll agree. So while I understand how Bush might think drilling in ANWR (which I oppose) is a reasonable cost when laid against the benefit of enhanced domestic oil production and reduced reliance on foreign suppliers; while I understand how Bush might think that some greater powers might be selectively appropriate for law enforcement in light of real terrorist threat/activity (at a real cost of civil liberties for some); and while I understand how Bush might feel that eliminating tax burdens on principle and in practice might cost some programs but free up greater dollars in the long run....I just don't see the same cost/benefit analysis when it comes to same-sex marriage. Amending the constitution to make same-sex marriages illegal...where's the benefit? The costs are great: alienating an entire population, not to mention a wide swath of sympathetic straight folks; making our republic more exclusive, less inclusive; creating a sort of tiered human rights menu in our country; etc.

Surely you'll concede that there are at least some real or at least perceived benefits associated with many of Bush's other decisions. In this particular instance, supporting a constitutional ban on gay marriage, the only benefit I can find is -- perhaps -- a political one with Bush's conservative base...or a divine one with Bush's imagined deity. What am I missing? Is that all this is, a vote grab or an attempt to curry heavenly favor? What's in it for the rest of us?

KIM JONG IS ONE ILL DUDE: We all know Kim Jong Il is a weird dude, but you gotta read what his personal chef has to say. Reads like a McSweeney's piece, but it's real.

NOTHING TO FEAR BUT OURSELVES? I don't have time right now to analyze Bush's support for a Constitutional amendment banning same-sex marriages. I want to believe there's a reason for his convictions other than what's in the Christian Bible. At this point, the most profound response I can come up with is: I don't understand. I sincerely hope we learn more about why he thinks we need to alter the Constitution...to protect ourselves from ourselves. Makes no sense to this blogger.

SEAL SITUP? A reader below asks, "What the hell is a Navy SEAL situp?" I'd reply using my comment feature, but it doesn't work for me. My posts just disapper into thin air. Hence, I'm replying here.

A Navy SEAL situp requires one to get into situp position -- laying on your back, knees bent. Your feet must be unsupported. Your hands are placed in "I Dream of Jeannie" crossed-arm position in front of your chest. Now, rise up to touch your elbows to your knees (or just above your knees, actually). Again, it's important that your feet are unsupported and your arms remain crossed. Come all the way up, then return all the way to the floor, no bouncing. Repeat. They're pretty tough. Way tougher than "crunches."

GEORGE W. DANGERFIELD: By way of Andrew Sullivan, I give you one of Bush's (or his writers') best lines in a long while:

"The other party's nomination battle is still playing out. The candidates are an interesting group with diverse opinions: for tax cuts and against them; for NAFTA [the North American Free Trade Agreement] and against NAFTA; for the Patriot Act and against the Patriot Act; in favor of liberating Iraq and opposed to it. And that's just one senator from Massachusetts."

DON'T CALL IT A COMEBACK. Somewhere about a year ago I was quite healthy. In fact, I could likely have made the statement "I'm in the best shape of my life" with a straight face. A year later is a different story. My weight isn't out of control (I'm still 195 lbs. on any given day), but the ratio of fat to fit isn't what it should be, so to speak.

Since this morning was the first day of the rest of my life, I popped out of bed and headed into work early. I hit the gym in our basement, did some treadmilling and light weight machine stuff. Now I'm spooning my way through some apple/cinnamon oatmeal and drinking some herb tea. Kicking dormant potential in the gut sure does feel good.

Why the renewed commitment? I have this friend, right, a pretty good guy, who's gone all fitness crazy. He's always e-mailing me about how many situps and pullups and pushups he can do, what his body fat percentage is today, and how he's looking forward to his next saloon scuffle. Anyhow, I got tired of reading all his self-congratulation while propping my elbows on my own gelatinous midsection.

The deal is this guy can do 32 Navy Seal situps (in under two minutes), 18 wide-grip pullups (without dropping down from the bar), and 78 pushups (in less than two minutes, without coming out of pushup position). That's pretty good, especially considering the guy was barely able to carry his own laptop bag a couple years ago. Thing is, I can't have him ahead of me. In fact, I can't have his physical prowess even in the same zip code as mine, so that's why I'm in training. My goal is to double each of his numbers inside a year. I think it's totally possible on every exercise except pullups. Come to think of it, my pullups goals will be 20. Ain't no way I'm gonna be able to do 36 friggin' pullups. Who do I think I am, Pat Tillman? But maybe that's stinkin' thinkin'. Maybe I should make my goal 30. I mean, it's not impossible. Right?

Last night I did 40 Navy Seal situps, just for good measure. So I'm ahead on at least one front. I'm still too weak from my little bout with death to try and take on his other marks. Okay, I'll admit, I did six pullups this morning and started craning my neck for a defibrillator. And pushups? Well, I think I'll get 80 first time out. We'll see. I'll report back in a few days. I'm sure the suspense is killin' ya.

I'D LIKE TO THANK... I can't seem to keep up the blogging momentum of late. First it was the new job, then it was vacation, and last week...well, I was visited with a biblical flu.

We have a tradition in my family that each family member contributes to an annual holiday letter at the end of the year. We all send in our many and varied epistles to my mother, and she compiles them into one big family letter. Over the years, the letter has almost become an Academy Awards for the Hess clan, where major accomplishments are variously recognized and celebrated in prose form.

Last week during the Days of Fever, my younger brother Casey and his wife Paula came over and took care of my son while I alternately shivered and sweated. Casey refreshed my cold washcloths and scored me a 2-liter bottle of Ginger Ale. He was aces. They stayed the night, even, and had to get up and deal with a major C.J. shitstorm before 6AM. Funny that, as I flopped in fevered reverie, all I could think of was:

"That's Christmas Letter-worthy."

SAW MYSELF IN A SNOW DRIFT: I'm just back from a family trip to Montreal and then up to Mont Tremblant, an icy-cold ski resort an hour-forty-five north of there. And I'm brimming over with stuff, like that I don't know if I really enjoy a winter sports vacation, because it's necessarily cold and it's necessarily strenuous, and that descibes most of my workaday winter life in Chicago as it is, and so what am I doing chasing more of the same? Life is busy and full and tough and freezing-ass cold RIGHT HERE, so it's not like I need to haul ass on and off planes and hurtle rental cars through snow and slush up and down mountains, not to mention put my own ass at risk on the slopes and the lifts. I spent a day indoors watching the Daytona 500 with my brother Eric, and that was a great day. And we had a hella good sushi dinner one night, although I understand our server was top notch at my end of the table and a real bitch at the other end.

I like sitting down with my brothers and their wives. It's like watching pieces of my parents' lives, with maybe less of the emotional involvement than what I had watching it as a kid. It's like being at a play I've seen before or maybe even co-wrote and yet I have no idea what comes next.

My wife is so strong. So strong. I am a genius for marrying her.

I spent the first day home with my son, took an extra vacation day so that my wife could fly off to San Francisco. Boy did we have a big day. Perhaps the highlight was when he was racing around Santullo's Pizza Parlor chanting, "Pizza, cookies, and pop!" I spoiled him, I did.

And as I'm flying home listening to New Order's "Regret" I realize this blog is the answer to a prayer and the embodiment of a dream and yet I'm giving it less attention than I give junk mail and late-night television.

MORE SNL ADDS: Dave at just procrastinating also makes a couple SNL suggestions I'm taking:

BEST SKITS
First Citiwide Change Bank. "We make change. That's what we do."

BEST PLAYERS
Eddie Murphy. He was the Will Ferrell of his day. When he appeared onscreen I'd smile in anticipation.

LOOK AT ME, I HAVE NO LIFE! My pal Dave at just procrastinating makes a nice post about a recent FAST COMPANY profile of some guy named Ram Charan. (He's also got a good little riff about THE APPRENTICE.) Basically the article seems to celebrate this guy's lack of a life outside his work. Anyway, it ticked me off, so I went a bit batty on Dave's comments pop-up. I wrote:

Geez, this kind of stuff bugs me, too, Dave. Seems like the bizpress is always lionizing some imbalanced jerkball who works too much, is mentally and/or physically unhealthy, is divorced, etc. Heck, it's not just the bizpress. We're always quick to make heroes out of rockers and actors who live to gross excess (sexually, drugs, etc.). Or we love the ones who've sniffed the edge, peered over the abyss, then after getting their ass handed to 'em in a handbasket, discovered that family time and clean living ain't so bad after all.

We never seem to latch onto folks who didn't create a career around depravity and excess, who maybe only meandered a bit in college or during some apprenticeship period, then righted the ship and worked at a lifelong, committed relationship, were thrifty and family-oriented, and nurtured their health. No, those guys bore us.

The real heroes of our culture are the men and women who dare to be ordinary, who refuse to be knocked off balance by our celebration of excess, and who simply go about their daily drudgery with love and compassion for those around them.

Anyway, I typed the above on the quick, without stopping, and I rather liked it. So I figgered I'd port it over here.

DEFINITION OF A BULLY: As if recklessly shooting a limo driver to death wasn't bad enough, now I read that Jayson Williams shot and killed his dog several years ago after the dog disappointed him in a bet. Is this a bad guy or what? Sure seems like it.

HAD ME THEN YOU LOST ME: Bush may well convince me to vote against him yet. What a dope. That said, I need somebody else to vote for. Oy vey, time to start doing my homework on Kerry. Are there any candidates out there who aren't afraid of gay people and boobies? If I were to run, that'd be my platform: I love gay people and boobies! I might not win, but I could probably beat Kucinich.

THIS IS THE YEAR: Just cruised past my pal Christian's great Chicago Cubs blog and noticed it's less than a week until pitchers and catchers report! Get Maddux in camp! We're gonna do it!

FILE UNDER IMPROBABLE: I really like the soundtrack to LOVE ACTUALLY. I grabbed it on my last visit to Universal (actually, the good folks there put it in my goodie bag), and I stuck it on this afternoon while doing some writing. And I'm on the second go-round and lovin' it. Who knew...

SNL ALSO: I'm sure I'm have a bazillion of these, but here's an add:

BEST SKITS
Bob Dole's Chair. The Real World with Norm McDonald as Bob Dole.

MY SNL LISTS: Several of you are kind enough to continue reading and to post regular comments. And believe it or not, I almost always respond to your comments. It's just that my comment functionality is so godawful-bad that my posts go into some sort of black hole somewhere. For all I know they're broadcast in Times Square whenever I enter them. I do know they never seem to appear where they're supposed to, within that crap box. Anyhoo...

A friend (sort of) posts below that Rob Schneider is never funny. At the same time, my brother Eric e-mails me a link to one of the funniest SNL sketches of all time. Which got me to thinkin' 'bout a few little SNL-related lists. (Before I post them, let me just say I continue to marvel at how bad most of what is broadcast each week on SNL is.) So here's my quick, off-the-cuff take on SNL bests and worsts:

(Note: As I assembled this, I noticed there are almost no "classic" characters or skits mentioned in my "favorites" lists. I hate to say it, but as I've watched old episodes on E!, I hardly ever laugh. I know, comedy has a shelf life. Maybe that's why. And sure, I've missed tons of stuff. Drop me an e-mail or a comment and tell me what to add. I'm especially remiss with Belushi highlights. Oh, and I'm remiss on lowlights, I'm sure, because who remembers the terrible stuff?)


BEST SKITS
Cowbell. Will Ferrell adds extra ding-a-ling to Blue Oyster Cult, with as Christopher Walken as legendary producer and cowbell-lover Bruce Dickinson. "I've got a fever, and the cowbell is my only prescription."
Carsenio. Rob Lowe does a spot-on Arsenio Hall.
Letterman. Norm McDonald apes Dave and finds himself forever banned from his show.
Schmitt's Gay. The best commercial spoof ever.
Canteen Boy goes camping. An underrated recurring character and the creepy genius of Alec Baldwin as the amorous scoutmaster.
Matt Foley plows through the table. Good writing and excellent physical comedy. Genius.
Aykroyd as Jimmy Carter. Talking down a guy on an acid trip. Dan's finest moment, except maybe for NEIGHBORS.


BEST RECURRING CHARACTERS

Matt Foley, Motivational Speaker (Farley)

Cheerleaders (Ferrell and O'Teri)

Wayne and Garth (Myers and Carvey)

The Compulsive Liar (Jon Lovitz)

The Noogie combo of Lisa and Todd (Radner and Murray)

Emily Litella (Radner -- "Never mind")


WORST RECURRING CHARACTERS

Horatio Sanz's and Jimmy Fallon's stoner, dorm-room recreation of Wayne's World.

Coneheads. Four words: Costume comedy is not funny.

That Jim Breuer Falconer thing.

Mango the monkey.


BEST PLAYERS

Will Ferrell. His presence in any skit -- any skit -- makes it at least watchable, at best classic.

Bill Murray. He doesn't have to move a muscle or utter a sentence to be funny.

Chris Farley. Fat guys are funny, and Farley was the funniest of them all.

Mike Myers. Can make lemonade out of piss.

Darrell Hammond. His dead-on impersonations take skits to another level.

Phil Hartman. The king of the straight men.


WORST PLAYERS

Joe Piscopo. We were laughing at him.

Jimmy Fallon. He laughs harder at his own jokes than anyone.


BEST GUEST HOSTS (excluding former cast members)

Alec Baldwin

Steve Martin

Rob Lowe (was he a cast member?)

Justin Timberlake


WORST GUEST HOSTS (excluding former cast members)

Michael Jordan

J. Lo

Goldie Hawn's annoying daughter

Tom Green


BEST WEEKEND UPDATE HOST

Norm McDonald

Tina Fey

Colin Quinn

Chevy Chase


WORST WEEKEND UPDATE HOST

Kevin Nealon

Dennis Miller

Chevy Chase


MOST UNDERRATED PLAYERS

Victoria Jackson

Cheri O'Teri


MOST OVERRATED PLAYERS

Lorne Michaels

Jimmy Fallon

Jim Belushi

Dennis Miller

Dan Aykroyd

Martin Short

FREAKY FRIDAY: My friend Derek Friday is crazy and he can't spell.

TOTAL DICK: One really rewarding thing is when you have a friend, and he has a blog, and sometimes you write posts that link to his blog, and then you even put a permanent link to his blog on your blog and then you look at his blog every day and you notice he never links back to your blog, ever. Oh, wait, that's a really sucky thing. Never mind. (Update: So the sad sack finally linked to me. Some people don't understand anything but public humiliation. Let that serve as a lesson to him, etc.)

POINTERPOURRI: Some stuff you should check out:

In defense of the flawed wonder that is Dr. Laura

Charlie Brown, existentialist

A preview of the 2004 NASCAR season

WHY WHY WHY: Why is this photo funny and this photo scandalous?

BULLET POINTS FROM THE BORING BOWL: Sure, I watched the Super Bowl. And boy was I bored. Even though it was a close game, even though I had some small change on the Patriots, my heart rate never crested 70 beats per minute. (And that was only when I strained to spread salsa on my nacho chips.) We got so bored my brother and I kept flipping over to the THE SURREAL LIFE, if only to observe the ingenious juxtaposition of Ron Jeremy and Tammy-Faye Bakker. Some observations, mostly from the halftime show:

Forget about Osama Bin Laden, I want Aerosmith at the top of our "Must Be Stopped At All Costs" list.

Say what you will about him, but Justin Timberlake is a genuine star.

Kid Rock is dangerously close to being completely over with. Still, I did get a kick out of the head-thrashing "Bawitdaba." He may be a one-trick pony, but it's a pretty good trick. He has a long life of county fairs ahead of him, if he plays his cards right.

P. Diddy can neither rap nor dance. The only person who has less of a claim on fame than he does is Paris Hilton. They should be together.

I for one rather enjoyed seeing Janet Jackson's breast, and anyone who tells you they found it offensive or that their children were somehow traumatized by the sight of it, well, they're goofy.

The commercials were abysmal. The only ones I liked were for the NFL, especially the one with Jerry Jones and Bill Parcells singing the ANNIE tune. Most of the commercials seemed to think they were funny, seemed to want to be funny...but simply were not funny. The AOL ads were pathetic examples of just plain missing the boat and landing ass-up in the water of mediocrity. I found myself poised to grin and then just left hanging. I rooted for the ads, and they did not deliver.

AND THEN KAZURINSKY PUT ME IN A HEADLOCK: Wouldn't you hate to be the guy who got his butt kicked by Al Franken? I mean, why didn't the guy at least grab ahold of the Franken hair and give it a good tug? Al's got that low center of gravity, those thick, short legs. Maybe Franken's a tough guy after all. Who knew?

DON'T LOOK UP, I MAY BE ABOVE YOU: You might have noticed it's a bit quiet 'round here again. That's because your faithful correspondent has been on the road quite a bit -- so much that the nice woman at the United Red Carpet Club, when completing my application and looking at my profile said, "My, you've certainly been busy this year." And it's true. Last week was Los Angeles. Week before was New York. Week before that was Los Angeles. Or something like that.

This week is particularly travel-intensive. Tonight in New York. After a meeting tomorrow morning, it's off to Los Angeles for a day and a night. Then to San Francisco until Friday morning, when I finally jump back to O'Hare and home.

Anyhow, I just joined the T-Mobile Wireless plan, so I can duck into Starbucks and airline clubs now and get online. Granted, I'll be checking biz e-mails first -- if I can get our VPN to work consistently -- but hopefully I'll also be able to continue what's been a fantastic year-plus of blogging. Thanks for your continued patience and interest.

DRIVEN OR CRAZY? If you've ever worked for a nutter boss, you'll appreciate this WSJ profile of magazine star Bonnie Fuller.

POLITICAL BLAH-BLAH: I'm out in Cali for work, and I must say it beats the frozen tundra of Chicago right about now. Anyhow, I missed the Prez's State of the Union address, so I quickly read a summary or two on the news sites, then tuned into the Dem response. You know, I hate to say it. but I'd rather have a tough-guy Texan who acts a little crazy as our faceplate to the world...than this Nancy Pelosi in her red dress, stumbling through a telepromptered speech about sharing and caring. Hey, I'm all for sharing and caring, and I'm all for grandmas in red dresses. But in this crazy world, where fundamentalist terrorists slam airplanes into skyscrapers, I want a badass middle-aged guy who can bench-press his weight and run 7-minute miles in my White House.

Okay, now it's Daschle. He looks like he oughta be hosting a resurrected version of CARD SHARKS.

Either Dems can't read teleprompters, or they're having real problems in the studio. Daschle is stumbling, too.

Say what you will about Clinton, but that guy could wing it better than most people can read it.

Okay, so I miss Clinton. I don't know why, but I do.

NEW REKKIDS: My wife and son are up in Detroit at my folks' place for the long weekend, so I had a chance yesterday to go spend a couple hours at Tower Records. After quite a bit of time on listening stations, I realized there are a lot of bands I like one song by, and very few bands worth buying whole albums from. Here's what I bought:

SUPER FURRY ANIMALS, PHANTOM POWER
Really it was the production that just leaped out of the headphones and grabbed me. I don't have the foggiest idea what the songs are about, but they sure sound nice.

RUFUS WAINWRIGHT, WANT ONE
Great production again, and even despite his voice (which I don't love) I just had a sense this record was more ambitious and accomplished than most of the rest of the junk in the store. This is the one I've had on in the car for the past 24 hours. It's really amazing and deep and I trust I'll be listening to it for years. The man is a composer. I'm just sort of amazed by what I hear.

COPELAND, MEDICINE TREE
I picked it up, put it back, picked it up, put it back. And finally left with it. Pretty, post-Red House Painters style songwriting, with an extra coat of emo guitars (layered, bright, big) laid over the top. Nice harmonies. A prettier version of Hum, maybe.

G UNIT, BEG FOR MERCY
Look, I loved like three songs on the 50 Cent disc. And when you're driving 'round town in a big black car you gotta have some G-funk boomin' from time to time. Front to back, this may be a more solid record than 50's.

I also really liked songs by Mae and Hey Mercedes, but I couldn't bring myself to plop down eighteen bucks for their discs.

CAN YOU SAY PRODIGY? My son C.J. dropped by his uncle's house last night and got his first chance to play a real drum set. He immediately performed a series of intricate rolls, moving from the snare to the tom to the cymbals. I've got him practicing the solo from "Working Man."

_

HELLO DAVE: My old pal Dave Segebarth has launched a new blog. (Everybody's doing it.) It's called just procrastinating, and it seems to be as all-over-the-map as Blind Camel. Dave's definitely got that new-blogger enthusiasm, so he's writing every day. Go visit.

GO CHRIS! Our pal Chris over at Everyone Hates Me got into a scrap with his dad, took the high road, and landed a job, all within the span of a few days. Here's to Chris! He's en fuego in '04.

WHATSAMATTER? Wanna know how to really scare the poop out of your neighbors? Here's my trick: Every time I pass someone I smile, look them in the eye, and offer a warm greeting. "Good morning." "Hello." "Hi!" I get a look of sheer terror every time. People aren't so much interested in interaction these days.

THE FUTURE IS HERE AND IT SUCKS: Several months ago I worked on a book that used some of the futuristic scenarios from MINORITY REPORT as examples of how future business might look. Big whoop, right? Thing is, I got to thinking about the stuff we see in the movies, the depictions of the future where these crazy space-cars fly all over the place and people use laser guns and wear lycra suits. And it's all such b.s., right? I mean, it's 2004, and think of all the basic stuff that still totally sucks:

Cell phone coverage. How many dropped calls are acceptable? Let's try none. A phone that hangs up on me is not a phone, it's a nuisance. Can you imagine a car that stalled intermittently? A refrigerator that just switched off now and again? I'm all for stem cell research, but let's make sure I can call my friggin' brother without having my phone hang up on me before we try and solve the mystery of disease. Okay, on second thought, let's tackle diseases first. But then I want proper cell phone coverage.

Online music and video streaming. When watching a movie or listening to music, how much "buffering" is acceptable? See above. If I wanted the program to stop and start for no good reason, I'd simply unplug my stereo or TV from the wall every few seconds. I'd rather not do that. Instead of displaying the message "buffering," the program should just say "sucking."

Urinals. Why do guys have to pee on a flat, vertical surface that seems friggin' designed to reflect pee-spray right back at us? Why can't we pee down into an abyss of some kind, from which pee-spatter cannot possibly escape? Amount of acceptable friendly fire, so to speak? See above.

What else still totally sucks in 2004? Do tell.

ME AND MY SHADOW: Here's what I see from my desk at dawn. I think it's pretty cool.

CHECK OUT MY NEW SHIRT: As an old Smiths fan, I was pretty thrilled to pick up this new Morrissey t-shirt over the weekend:

MAN WITHOUT A PARTY: I'm reprinting a letter sent to Andrew Sullivan from one of his readers. The letter neatly summarizes my own feelings of being a man without a party:

"First, a little about me. 30, media professional, married with a young son, Brooklynite, registered Democrat, long-time TNR subscriber, pro-Iraq war, great fan or yours.

Now that we've established the basics, here's my plight. I am horrified by my own party, and have been for quite some time. Al Sharpton as our moral arbiter? Check. Continued obeisance to the failed domestic and foreign policies of a bygone age? Check. Failure to learn the lessons of history? Check. Movement away from the Party's few voices of reason (read: Lieberman)? Check.

So I guess we've settled it: can't stick with this mangy dog. Which leads me to the other guys...

Abandonment of fiscal sanity? Check. Hateful, close-minded bedfellows? Check. Unchecked rapacity? Check. And that's just Cheney. Bush, by all accounts, is the least curious-intellectually, or otherwise-President in modern history. Guess they're out, too.
So what is a reasonable, patriotic, inclusive, urban professional to do? My peers are closet socialists who want to present Bush's head to Kofi Annan as a peace offering. On the other hand, I'm not ready to make my peace with a party that still counts on the religious right to mobilize the vote. It's as if I'm caught in vortex, between the two parties, but seemingly light-years from either. My secret fear, of course, is that I and my ilk do not represent an underserved silent majority, but we, in fact, are just a tiny, sane minority standing between the radical fringes on either side. Sadly, I do not see the situation improving anytime soon. Any words of encouragement for a man without a party?" - from a beleaguered reader. You read my mind, sir. Too depressing for words.

Interesting how a gay conservative is becoming the voice of reason for married thirtysomething former Dems, eh? (I'd have linked to the letter rather than reprinting it, but the link wouldn't go directly to the letter -- only to the related grouping of postings -- and so I just figured the reprint was easier and more effective.)

THE DEFINITION OF A RHETORICAL QUESTION: Management meeting all day today in a nice suburban setting. How great is a job where you get to wear army cargo pants, a long-sleeve Rancid t-shirt, and a pair of new Osiris skate shoes to the management meeting? Actually, the answer is it depends. Two jobs ago I could've showed up naked for all the CEO cared, and it was a terrible job. This job, on the other hand, thus far smells and looks like a rose. Call it what you will.

RUN AND RUN: Because I'm odd and I'm drawn to discipline and personal challenges as a path to mindfulness...phew...taking a breath...because of that I'm considering a running streak. No, I'm not thinking about streaking. I'm thinking about trying to run at least a mile/day for as long as I can. I'm thinking of it. I've not yet committed. (Believe it or not, the longest active running streaks are more than thirty years!)

BOUND FOR LAGOO: Jumping on a flight to New York in a few, headed for an early AM meeting tomorrow. I'm meeting two old pals for dinner tonight. They're both NY residents, but try as I might I can't get them to pick a dinner spot. They keep saying, Where do you want to go? Okay, look, where do I wanna go? I wanna go to Bob-San, a great sushi spot. Trouble is it's here in Chicago. See I know Chicago. I'm what's a called a resident. So when you come here, no prob, I'll pick the place. But when I come to your city, howsabout steppin' up to the plate.

That said I'm hoping we do Taka, a little neighborhood sushi joint in the Village. Somehow I have a feeling we're gonna end up at Benny's Burritos, though. Whatever.

THE LONELY BLOGGER: The other day a friend and fellow blogger lamented that he couldn't figure out how to find an audience, and that he had no idea how those precious few whe were reading him were receiving him. He has an improv background, and so he's used to hearing a titter or two from a live audience, even for his worst material. I told him blogging is like singing in the shower. I was so pleased with that image I decided to share it with you, my meager readership. Please titter, at least.

MICHAEL LEWIS IS AN ACE: Just finished MONEYBALL, Michael Lewis's brilliant examination of how GM Billy Beane has made the low-budget Oakland A's into perennial winners. The answer? Hard work and statistics. That's right, Mr. Beane may not be the kind of guy you'd like to hang out with all the time (he swears a lot, throws temper tantrums, and comes across as fairly one-dimensional), but he's definitely the guy you want directing your major league ballclub. Why? Because in a results-driven business, Beane only cares about results. In other words, he thinks like an owner rather than an employee. While the rest of baseball focuses on myths and hunches, Beane and his henchmen live for the numbers -- and not just old-time, deceptive stats like RBI and batting average. These guys live for the obscure but more reliable numbers of the hardcore baseball statisticians, permutations like OBS (on-base plus slugging percentage). Among the many things Beane and team learn and espouse: walks are stupid; ditto sac-bunts; ditto steals; and so forth.

What's so great about this book? It's vintage Lewis, placing the reader inside a human drama that just happens to be about baseball. I couldn't read it fast enough, just like my experience with LIAR'S POKER and the retitled LOSERS, which respectively tell tales of NY high finance and presidential politics. Neither field makes makes for page-turning intrigue on its own, but in the capable hands of Michael Lewis they become the perfect backdrop for cautionary, ribald tales about life and human strength and frailty.

As a researcher, too, I found myself nodding along. Too many marketers rely on hunches and happenstance, when they're only a (relative) few dollars away from real knowledge. Conventional wisdom may be conventional, but it ain't always wise. Hats off to Lewis for delivering that same moral wrapped in real entertainment. Go read it.

FONT FEEDBACK: So whaddya, like the new big font or not? Easier to read? (UPDATE: I changed it back. Heck with it. If any real designers wanna improve my template, I'll...ummm...make it worth your while somehow.)

AM I OLD, UNFUNNY, OR BOTH? Young colleague comes into my office and sits down. In so doing he nearly impales his own ass on his voluminous hipster-keychain. "Careful there, Schneider," I say to him, chuckling. He gives me a blank stare.

MONEY AND MOUTH MEET: "I support the troops."

"I have nothing against the people of Iraq. I feel for them."

We've all heard these statements. Many of us have made them. Thing is, they're statements that, no matter which side of the ideological fence you sit on, seem compassionate, human, and yes, American. So...if these two statements reflect your feelings, why not put a little money where your mouth is:

The American Spirit

Sure, it's a far cry from camping out in the desert dodging grenades and mortar fire. But it's non-partisan. It's humane. And it's easy. Let's all do it.

(I just did.)

ALL WET: What good is water resistant? Shouldn't the label read "not really waterproof?"

I wear my black gloves out last night to play in the snow with my son. My hands get wet almost instantly. "Aren't these waterproof?" I wonder. "I seem to remember a label that said 'waterproof'."

I remove the wet gloves and look inside at the label. "Water resistant."

Ah. Water resistant. So what?

Hey, I'm water resistant. Unless I'm showering or swimming, I do my darndest to stay dry. And I have all manner of tactics to accomplish this dryness. I can run under overhangs in a storm. Grab an umbrella. Dodge raindrops. Not jump in pools or lakes. Avoid dousing myself with Evian. Refrain from sticking my finger in the drinking fountain spout so that it doesn't spray all over me.

And I do these things. I resist water.

These gloves, on the other hand, they just sort of lay there on my hands and absorb water. That doesn't strike me as very resistant. That's more like "water accepting" or "water friendly."

CALLING FOR THE FUGAZI OF ROCK CRIT: A bunch of griping about the state of rock criticism here. An idea/response: A magazine or website called NO MIDDLEMAN, wherein the editor(s) and staff refuse to deal with label execs and managers, refuse to accept ANY free product or tickets, and go straight to the artists themselves. All reviews are signed and thoughtful, and ample space is provided for contrarian viewpoints. Doesn't sound so revolutionary, does it?

CHEERS, SULLY: Two things swiped from Andrew Sullivan this morning:

A link: A moving tribute to a fallen soldier.

A thought: How is Britney Spears' 24-hour union considered "sacred" and laden with civil rights, yet the union of two men or two women living in a long-term, committed relationship is thought worthy of a constitutional ban?

As I've said before, I'm likely to cast my first Republican vote in 2004, but that doesn't mean I buy the platform. Although my conservatism has awakened, I'm more of an Independent than ever.

EVER THE FUNNY GUY: Dick Costolo has some ideas for new prime-time TV shows. His best? Alcoholics Unanimous, a gripping reality show.

ROSE STILL STINKS: I still think Pete Rose is full of shit. Instead of taking complete responsibility for his actions, he continues to speak in this weird second-person:

"You don't think you're going to get caught," he said.

"I think what happens is you're, at the time, you're betting football and then, then what's after football is basketball & and obviously the next thing that follows is baseball. It's just a pattern that you got into."

"But I can't change it, it's happened. And sitting here in my position, you're just looking for a second chance."

"We can rehash it all we want," he said. "And all you can do is tell people that, and if they're not going to believe you, they're not going to believe you."

Rose also seems to blame his tortoise-like path to the truth on baseball brass:

"The only guy I could confess to that would help me was the commissioner of baseball," he said. "And it took me all these years to get face to face."

Nice hustle, Charlie. Boo hoo.

MY SON REACHING: Here's a great shot of my son C.J., thrilled to see Dad coming up the front steps.

DON DONE? Is it just me, or are the Don Cheadle/NFL ads just horrible? It's as if Cheadle -- who I thought was a talent until his embarassing turn in OCEANS ELEVEN -- is having major trouble even reading his lines, let alone acting them.

That said, the Mark Borchardt/Mike Schank spots are tremendous.

SMALL OBSERVATION: Allen Iverson playing in the NBA is like a Mini Cooper racing NASCAR. Allen Iverson actually dominating NBA games is like that same car winning at Rockingham. Lance Armstrong may be the world's greatest athlete, but Iverson has to be the world's toughest and, perhaps, most improbable.

THE YEAR OF CHRIS: I notice I didn't really do Chris at Everyone Hates Me justice. His full "About" statement is a gem:

This is my personal weblog. I am 31, unemployed, fat, loosing my hair, living with my parents and I am poor.

Chris, Happy New Year to you. May '04 find you older, employed, fit, comfortable with your tightly-coiffed urban hipster 'do, living in a swingin' loft downtown, and flush with dollars. My wish to you. And given your talent and your honesty, I'd say it's not only possible but likely that you're gonna have a large New Year.

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.