I'm going to my first World Series game tonight, and I am so psyched for this it's ugly. I'm wearing the lovely teal and black of my not-so-stinky Marlins. I have my official Marlins baseball cap. I'm wearing earrings best described as psycho-rainbow pirrahnas.



And I've made a sign to hold up as a shout out to all my friends in the Baseball Swap. It says, simply, GLUB!.

Why glub? Because the Tigers fan signs her e-mail with a roar. And what do fish say? Right.

I'll be in the right field foul corner, just above the Marlins' bullpen. Does life get any sweeter for a baseball fan? Yes, but only if we win.

GLUB!

You know it and I know it. All women love baseball. It's outdoors, there are no stupid pads to distract from the players, uh, charms, and it's almost like ballet. It's a great sport, and when the cameras pan the stands, who's out there but women and lots of them.

So why, then, are all the World Series ads directed at men? Viagra, Levitra, Ford F150 trucks, Hummers, beer and jock itch powders. Oh. And that ratty Fran Drescher ogling a Carson Kressley look-alike commercial for Old Navy. Tell me that's aimed at straight women? I think not. I think not lesbians, either. In fact, I'm not really sure who that ad is for.

The last time I went to Shea, the Mets PR group had it figured out. They sold baby doll shirts for women, hair scrunchies, scarves. Like that.

I tell you, I'd like to see some chick ads during the world series. Victoria's Secret ads. Perfume ads. Sports car ads that show women driving. And speaking of women driving, has anyone ever seen a man drive a Hummer anywhere other than in the commercials? Not me. I only see the ubiquitous soccer moms, with cell phones up to their ears and no visible children. Which raises another question: since when is soccer the American Child's sport? What ever happened to baseball and softball? Or even kiddie football? What spin meister figured out that the most ear-catching sobriquet for that particular market sector should be "Soccer Mom"? Are the Soccer Moms married to the NASCAR dads?

Why can't there be Soccer Dads and NASCAR moms? Are there even NASCAR moms? What do they drive? Ford F150s? Rusted out beaters because the old man ain't paying child support like he's supposed to? Ick. I don't even want to think about this.

What I do want to think about is how those hot baby fish are going to bounce back tonight and beat the snot out of those overpaid, overexposed, over confident big, bad Yankees. And what I'm going to wear to the game tomorrow night.

I tried, I really tried. I went to the gym and worked out for an hour, to raise my tolerance for dumb. I got home, pulled some freshly-made guacamole out of the fridge, opened a bag of blue corn chips and collapsed on the couch.

I watched as the poor, dumb schmuck David was schooled in how to address the butler. He couldn't do it. Not a nice boy raised in the Southwest, he couldn't. Anybody older and/or in a position of authority is addressed as sir. Except, the butler kept trying to explain that David couldn't call him sir. David's response to this? "Yes, sir. Oops, sorry, sir, uh, Paul..." and it trailed off as he bit down on that last "sir."

The girls, on the other hand, had no problems ordering the staff around and drinking copious amounts of alcohol. And smoking, lord love 'em, they are smokers. They also sleep really late, and bitched and moaned about having to get up at 8 in the morning, hung over. They come down to breakfast in sunglasses, discussing how they look like rock stars.

At the meeting where the joke is set up, they fall for it, hook, line and sinker (fishing reference for people looking for a comment on the World Series and the Marlins). The chick hostess says, the guy who wants to meet you is an American cowboy. This pushes buttons like you cannot believe. Someone says something like "We are European women, we do not think this is funny." The hostess says, "An American cowboy with an 80 million dollar oil inheritance." The girls think that this is no longer a joke, and start getting all slitty-eyed at each other, calculating what it will take to win the cowboy's heart.

Cut to the cowboy getting to pick out his own horse for the next part of the scam. Ladies, I am here to tell you now that he is more attached to that horse than he will ever be to any of you. He took longer to pick it out, and felt better about it, than he will ever feel running this scam. The horse is real. You women are not.

And that was when I realized that I will not be able to watch this train wreck, no matter how much I wanted to. It just isn't fun to watch raw greed and unscrupulous behavior on display. Unless it's national politics, and then, well, it's a little bit slicker.

So, Jodi, don't worry. I just can't watch it. I'm going back to VH1, and the Independent Movie Channel, now.

I have been extremely rigorous in my avoidance of any and all "reality" TV. I am proud to say, that except for an occasional commercial, I've never seen a single minute of any of the Survivors. Ditto Joe Millionaire, the Bachelor, the Bachelorette (ugh, the very concept), Fear Factor, Amazing Race, Paradise Hotel or any of the several million knock-offs and variants thereof.

However.

Since the playoffs (and if you have to ask which playoffs, you are utterly worthless) were on FOX, there were a lot, a lot, a lot of ads for the new season of Joe Millionaire in which they showed a dozen very pretty young Euro-trash women burbling on about how they could just so easily fall in love with this man they think is worth $80 million. "And now for the best part, he's riiich"

God help me. I have to watch. This is a train wreck I would PAY to watch. I don't want to. I won't respect myself at all. But I am going to be glued to this. It's ugly. It's cruel. It's going to be my personal must-see-TV.

Speaking of cruel, I am just appalled by the new Sprint commercials which show a young woman taking a photo with her voice and image cell phone of some poor schmuck having a bad day at the diner. She sends the photo to her girlfriend with the snidest, bitchiest singsong voice over of "Look at your new boyfriend, don't you l-u-v your new boyfriend?"

It is just mean spirited. Cruel. It gives me the heebiejeebies of highschool cliques and unpopularity contests. It's ugly. It's demeaning. It's awful.

And a lot like what I suspect will be my new favorite TV show of all time: Joe Millionaire goes to Europe to hose the unsuspecting gold diggers.

My (not-so) Stinky Fish have won the National League Championship Series, coming from behind in the series. Huah!

I have tickets for Game Five, if there is a Game Five.

I had to drive to work today. If I'd wanted a two-hour commute, I'd live a hundred miles from my office, not 10. Who's idea was it to trim the trees in the median of Dixie Fucking Highway during the morning rush hour, anyway? We don't need an Office of Homeland Security, we need an Office of Stupidity Security. You know, these would be the guys who looked at everything the government, from national down to local proposed and do a common sense and logic check before things actually took place.

Hmmm, cutting down three very slow north-bound lanes of traffic to one even slower lane during the morning commute... sounds like a great idea to me! And then that moron would forward it to the OSS to be reviewed. Someone there with sufficient brain cells to rub together would look at the idea and say: "Uh, how about we cut the trees in the north-bound lane at the end of the day, when 98% of the traffic is heading south, and there won't be an inexplicable traffic jam that extends all the way south to Kendall, a mere 120 blocks away."

And then, once I finally got here, I had to park on the roof of the building. Hey! I can see my car from my office. Yep. Still there. Sort of in the shade. I got to the office, checked the office e-mail and then sat down to the most important chore of my day: getting on-line and getting those Series tickets.

Life is good, sometimes.

I have a new troll. Or a new stalker, depending on your point of view.

He came to me the way they always do: he Googled the web, searching for someone who disagreed with his opinions. Then he sent an e-mail, calling me a pathetic loser with too much time on my hands. (This from someone who searches the web for dissenting opinions) Then he sent another, and another and another. The vitriol escalated slightly. He sent me a long e-mail that backed up his opinion and was contrary to mine.

I finally responded. I said: I don't care what you think. I don't care who agrees with you. I will be deleting all further mail from you.

That caused him to send me a storm of e-mails, suggesting that I kill myself, offering to help me do so.

I blocked his address. He took a new e-mail address and sent this chilling little item:

From: robert blake (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address))
Date: 13 Oct 17:47 (EDT)
To: .(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)
Subject: no hard feelings. ok?

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in the east - the far east - when a person is sentenced to death, they send them to a place where they can't escape - never knowing when an executioner may step up from behind and fire a bullet into the back of their head. it could be minutes, hours, days, weeks, months or years from the time they are sentenced.

it's been a pleasure talking to you. have a nice day.

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What was the catalyst for this? What had he Googled? Was it religion? War? Politics? What deep-held belief of his had I trampled and so condemned myself to death?

I think David Lynch is a second-rate film maker. I don't like Paul McCartney.

What kind of world do we live in, anyway?

So, for the record, I still don't think David Lynch is a genius.

But for all the rest of you trolls out there, try to think this through. I'm speaking to myself when I blog. I'm assuming that some people will read, and many more will not. I'm voicing an opinion, I am not attempting mind control or saying that my word is law. I'm just saying.

I do not send my opinion to you. You come to me. I do not spam the web. You search the web.

You are searching, you are spending time looking for something to argue about and take offense to. And you have the nerve to call me, and my brethren (or sister) bloggers people with too much time?

How small is your life? How insignificant do you feel, that you need to threaten and violate? Take a night class. Get another degree, or your first one. Move out of your parent's basement. Get a real job. Get a friend. Get a life. Try volunteer work. Try therapy. Watch fewer movies, play less x-box. Read the newspaper.

Because, and I'm sure you'll remember this: killing the president didn't work out so well for Travis Bickel, did it? Or even for John Hinkley.

Have a day.