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?

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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.

So, it's a Sunday in the middle of a long weekend. My girlfriend calls around noon. "Wanna go to the gym?" Hell, yes. The gym on a Sunday? Doubly virtuous, extra calories burned by virtue of time and day.

We go on a shopping expedition afterwards, she to pick up a serenity fountain for her office, me to stock up on cold and flu meds for the darling (and flu-ish) husband. I even make a pit stop at the Chinese restaurant for chicken soup.

I come home, bearing gifts and sustenance, only to be asked:

"Did Leslie get a hold of you?"

Uh, no. Why'd she call? (A friend, but not a particularly close one, and one with whom telephone communication is infrequent and sporadic.)

She had tickets to Game Four of the League Championship Series. She is my only true blue, die-hard baseball buddy. She had an extra ticket and called me. But I was out. I was at the gym, watching the Dolphins as I slogged my way over hills on the elliptical trainer.

I watched one of the best baseball games ever played -- ever-- from the comfort of my living room. But I'd rather have been in the stadium.

When it comes to stadium events this month, I am just not on a winning streak.

I present to you the following e-mail conversation I had with my brother-in-law yesterday. He's still alive, but only because I don't want to go live in the slammer. Still, as I pointed out to him, a jury of baseball fans would acquit me.

E-mail #1, from me:

So. Did you get invited to the box for the playoffs? If you say yes, and didn't invite me, I'll have to kill you with my bare hands.

E-mail #1, from Steve:

How did you know? Only kidding, but we do have tickets for Friday's game.

E-mail #2, from me:

Tickets for Marc and me, too? Or (and I am not kidding about this) am I going to have to drive up to your office and just strangle you. I'd be acquitted by a jury of baseball fans, it's perfectly defensible.

E-mail #2, from Steve:

I was given nose bleed seats for Friday.

E-mail # 3, from me:

Excuses, excuses, excuses. Nose bleed seats are still seats in the stadium for a playoff game in the League Championship Series. How can I put this more simply?

I am a HUGE FUCKING baseball fan, and a Marlins fan, and have been since I was part of the grassroots movement to get an expansion team to South Florida. One of my life goals is to attend a game in every major league park. I'm about a tenth of the way there. I have been to opening day games at Yankee Stadium and at Shea. I have seen the Red Sox play at Fenway. I cry at the first pitch.

And you have a seat for the play offs, the hardest seats to come by in the country, and you didn't even THINK of inviting me? Or trying to wheedle an extra ticket? Are you MAD? Do you think I'm kidding? I'm just going to have to, I don't know.... give your daughter a toy that makes noise?

ggrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

I don't want to be your sister-in-law anymore. Expect to see a major rant about this on Girlyshoes, bucko.

ggggggggggrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

E-mail #3, from Steve:

So does this mean your email is working? (Note: the whole conversation began with a request to fix a broken e-mail link on a site he hosts)

Sorry, I have no control over the ticket thing. So the Marlins are in the playoffs? Will I have trouble finding a parking space?

E-mail #4, from me:

Yes.

> So the Marlins are in the playoffs? Will I have trouble finding a parking space?

Yes. And yes. Take a shuttle. Unless your buddy gave you a parking pass, too.

If you weren't so cute, if you didn't look EXACTLY like David Lee Roth, and if I didn't love your idiot brother so much, I would be so very, very pissed at you right now.

He thanked me for relieving him of some of the guilt with that last message. I told him if he wanted to be relieved of all the guilt that he could give me the freaking tickets. I guess he likes living with guilt. And I hope he likes living with the child-size set of bagpipes his daughter is getting for her birthday next week.

Or I would have had to kill myself. My ole pal Andy* called me last night to gloat over the fact that he'd gone, not once, but twice, to see Springsteen at Shea Stadium. And he had his regular Mets seats, which means he was just off home plate on the first base line, down in the boxes. Bastard.

This is retribution for not getting him in to Madison Square Garden when I was up for the Reunion Tour.

But the thing that I would have had to kill myself over was this:

Shea Stadium October 4, 03

1. CODE OF SILENCE
2. The Rising
3. Lonesome Day
4. Roulette
5. Night
6. I WISH I WERE BLIND
7. Empty Sky
8. You're Missing
9. Waitin on a Sunny Day
10. Johnny 99
11. Another Thin Line
12. Tunnel of Love
13. Because the Night
14. Badlands
15. Prove it all night
16. Mary's place
17. BACK IN YOUR ARMS
18. Into the fire

First encore:
19. LIGHT OF DAY
20. Bobby Jean
21. Born to Run
22. Seven nights to rock

Second encore:
23. HIGHWAY 61 REVISITED(Bob Dylan)
24. My city of ruins
25. Land of hopes and dreams
26. Rosalita(Willie Nile)
27. Dancing in the dark
28. Quarter to three
29. Twist and Shout(Soozie on lead)
30. BLOOD BROTHERS

Two encores, 30 songs, and THE BOB. The Bob, she says with a cry and a whimper. On the same stage as The Boss. Singing, as Andy put it "For Yom Kippur", Highway 61 Revisited.

For those of you who don't know, on Yom Kippur, the torah reading is the story of Abraham and Isaac. Or, as The Bob puts it, and I mutter under my breath, every single fucking year:

"Oh God said to Abraham, "Kill me a son"
Abe says, "Man, you must be puttin' me on"
God say, "No." Abe say, "What?"
God say, "You can do what you want Abe, but
The next time you see me comin' you better run"
Well Abe says, "Where do you want this killin' done?"
God says, "Out on Highway 61."

Well, just bite me. I would have had to kill myself after such a peak experience as that. And what if, by some amazing freak of good luck, my girlfriend with the all-area access had me backstage and introduced me to The Bob?

Well, my head would have spontaneously combusted, and there'd be no more Girlyshoes. So I repeat, it's a good thing that I wasn't there. Or so I tell myself.

* Andy and I have been pals since college. We went to see "A Boy and His Dog" together at a midnight movie. And loved it. When I married Marc, Andy looked around and figured out that he was the only person on the bride's side not related by blood. So for the rest of the day, he walked around introducing himself as my "only friend." And I refuse to give my name when I call his business, saying only that I'm HIS only friend. The secretaries all know who I am, and put me through.