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Not that the Phillies are doing their best to make the playoffs, but, seeing as how I'll be in town if they're in the National League Division Series, and game one coincides with my visit, I tried to order tickets when they went on sale at 7 pm ET today. The system they uses was online only, and you had to get into a "virtual waiting room" that would refresh itself every 30 seconds until you could randomly get in to the ordering area. Fine, I set it up and waited.

10 minutes later, paydirt- I got in. I put my selections in- 4 tickets, terrace level...

...and the system crashed. Not my browser, THEIR system- and it sent me back to the waiting room.

20 minutes after that, I got into the order area again. This time, it didn't crash, it just told me repeatedly that it couldn't take my order because of the volume of business, and I should try again. And again. And again. Then it decided it didn't recognize the team name "Phillies" and didn't have tickets. Then it went back to the order screen. Then I was told to try again. And again. And ad infinitum until, finally, I was told that there were not 4 tickets together in the 300 level, or 600, or 700. Nor were there 2 tickets together. Anywhere.

@#$%&*!

So, if anyone can get ahold of some tickets- 4 would be great, I wanna take care of my friend Joe HDTV as well as Fran and myself- I would be appreciative. No scalpers, though- ain't worth it. I'll report on my progress here.

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They had the Ninth Circuit recall hearing on the radio today. I guess it was entertaining in its way to hear the justices beating up on the lawyers like that- you think of someone like Lawrence Tribe as this top-flight learned legal practitioner, and then you hear him getting interrupted and spun and thrown off track by the judges and it's...

...well, it reminded me of my brilliant legal career again.

Yeah, I have a law degree, and I was in private practice. One year. I gave it one year until I threw up my hands and went into broadcasting law, which is how I ended up doing what I've done for almost 20 years. I'd never intended to practice, really, but I decided once I'd gotten the J.D. to try it out, and I eventually hooked on with a small firm in New Jersey, where I learned:

a) Not all lawyers make a decent living. b) You're not supposed to be assigned an obviously fraudulent personal injury case and say you don't want to take the case, not if you want to keep your job. c) I really, deeply hate the practice of law.

Qualifier: I didn't hate all of it. I actually liked the court part, where you go and stand before a judge and do what they do on TV law shows, only the TV lawyers have sensational murder cases starring John Laroquette as a psychotic rich guy and you handle some landlord-tenant eviction case in landlord-tenant court, which resembles the courts on TV in that a) there's a judge and b) there are two tables in front of him. What's not on TV is a tiny courtroom filled with families and shifty-looking people and lots of wifebeater t-shirts, and noise like you wouldn't believe, and judges so impatient that you hardly get to say your name before the judge makes a decision. But that was the fun part.

I didn't get much fun stuff to do. I got to interview prospective personal injury clients, and it made me feel like those guys who advertised on channel 17 in the daytime and late at night, trolling for "back injuries." I got to file paperwork with the clerk. And I got to leave, after a year, and I never looked back.

But I never got to do the stuff they were doing on the radio today, excepting moot court. It sounds alternately harrowing and exciting, verbally jousting with the judges and trying to manipulate the conversation back to the argument you prepared and which you can see flying out the window, one page at a time, as you speak. First one side gets eviscerated by the panel, then the other, and it's like watching a particularly high-scoring sporting event- non-stop action. And it made me feel like a minor leaguer who dropped out after a year in low Class A when he's watching the World Series. Deep down, you know you don't belong there, you don't have the talent or the desire, but damned if it doesn't get the adrenaline going.

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Fran's not here.

I took her to the airport early this morning, and she called me in the afternoon to say she'd arrived safely on the other side of the country. I'll be joining her at the end of the week, but in the interim, she's not here and I am.

A long time ago, I thought I'd always be independent, that there was no way- no way, man!- I'd ever be one of those sappy, mushy "sensitive" guys who can't bear to be without their wives, ever. I was wrong. It's just me and Ella right now, rattling around the house. I had dinner alone, I'm writing and watching the Phillies struggle in the late innings and for once I don't need to rush to finish so I can spend time with Fran, and it soesn't feel right. She should be here, should be in the living room reading and playing with the cat, HAS to be here smiling and laughing and instead she's 3,000 miles away and it just feels wrong, you know what I mean?

Some of you do. Some of you think I'm crazy, or pathetic, or less than manly. Guilty, your honor, I'm probably all of that, but, damn, I miss her.

And this is all over three and a half days apart. Imagine what a basket case I'd be if we were apart for a month.

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The good thing about the Phillies' inability to win the must-win games is that my inability to get playoff tickets no longer matters.

And as I've said before, if you have a bullpen you can't trust, you can't win the big games. Millwood stayed in an inning too long because, as they subsequently demonstrated, the Phillies don't have a bullpen. Same thing happened the other night- starter gets tired, Bowa leaves him in because there's nobody he can trust to bring in, disaster strikes.

Well, if it's gonna have to be like this, at least it's not the Mets doing the damage.

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Let's dispose of everything that happened tonight in one word each, shall we?

Debate: noise.

Phillies: toast.

Telemarketers: scum.

Anything else? No.

All right, then.

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The list I'd made was simple. I figured out how many days I'd be away, assembled the requisite number of outfits, underwear, running shorts, and shoes, and set forth putting them into suitcases.

Can't be done.

There's one of those typical rolling suitcases, the kind everyone has, the kind that fits in the overhead but you always end up checking anyway, and a garment bag, brand new. The first sign of trouble was when I realized the underwear alone would fill up the smaller suitcase and leave no room for anything else. Then the shirts and jacket were thick enough to prevent the garment bag from folding properly. When I got the latter folded and zipped, it looked like it would explode. Back to square one.

I called Fran, who's already there. Weather? Warm, still warm. Out go the sweaters. Out go half the long sleeved shirts. The jacket stays, some short sleeved shirts go in. Eureka! It folds! Then I made the executive decision that part of Tuesday morning was going to be spent at the laundromat- a few t-shirts go out, shorts, socks. Ah, see, now there's room.

Of course, these things are STILL heavy as a pile of cinder blocks, but I can move them around, so we're good. But I have a whole day before I have to go, and I can easily screw everything up in one day. But that's what FedEx is for.

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The thing that struck me about the gubernatorial debate last night was the same thing that struck me when Hillary Rodham Clinton debated Rick Lazio in her Senate race: you can't challenge women. Ever.

Arianna Huffington felt free to attack Arnold Schwarzenegger with impunity for his "treatment of women" and his violent movies. He responded with a couple of scripted one-liners, one of which suggested she would be perfect for a role in "Terminator 4," alluding to the scene in "T3" where he shoves a female robot's head in a toilet. Huffington's response, backed by the Democrats (gee, I thought she was running as an independent), was to cry foul and act offended at this gross violation of women's rights. Why, he fought back! No fair!

Same thing happened in the Clinton-Lazio debate. When Lazio merely WALKED TOWARDS Clinton to hand her the pledge shw wouldn't sign, it was considered a massive breach of propriety.

Why?

Women are not alone in this. An article that ran in several papers this week about minorities being insulted by racial humor dredges up the flap over a column in Vanity Fair by "Dame Edna Everage" containing insults directed at Latinos. "Dame Edna" does not exist. "She" is the creation of a (male) comedian. "She" is also portrayed as loud, uninhibited, and somewhat prejudiced- the idea is not to laugh WITH her but to laugh AT her attitudes. That's satire. That's also not acceptable to people like Salma Hayek, who complained (she was on the cover of that issue), or the other people quoted in the article. Can't joke about that. Can't joke about ANYthing, not even if the joke is to expose racism. And Bill Maher chimes in with the idea that only members of the same minority group may make such jokes.

Bull.

It's like "All in the Family" never existed. We went through this in the 70's- you weren't laughing in agreement with Archie Bunker (at least, you weren't SUPPOSED to), you laughed AT him. Satire. Humor is one of the greatest weapons against tyranny and prejudice, yet the people most likely to be HELPED by it are insulted, offended, want it banned.

So is everybody too sensitive? Well, yeah- the same people who laud intent rather than results when you're talking about government programs are the ones ignoring intent and focusing only on the words when it comes to humor and discourse. Did Arnold intend to promote violence against women with his comment? Did Lazio intend to put Hillary in fear of imminent danger? No and no.

So let it go. And if Arianna can't stand the heat, she should get out of the... um... well, that would be stereotypical, wouldn't it?

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I'll be traveling Friday (9/26), so the next round of drivel will be coming from somewhere on the east coast. When, I dunno. Just keep checking in.

See you then...

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She knows. I know she knows.

Ella the World's Most Famous Cat knows something's up. She's figured it out- the strange bags, the flurry of action- cleaning, sorting, packing, the absence of Fran for several days. She knows I'm leaving, too. She can feel it. And she's right.

She doesn't know if we'll be back. She doesn't know that we HAVE to go, that she can't, that the strange lady coming in every day is there to feed her and look after her, not hurt her. I don't know if she has any perception of time, but she doesn't know what's next. I'd like to reassure her, but I still don't speak cat.

This is the hardest part of leaving for a trip.

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Flying all day, hopeless traffic, whaddya expect?

Geez.

Y'all gotta gimme time to acclimate to the east coast. You know I will.

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