Had a bad dream.

It started with a call from Peter the Re-fi Guy: "Did you know that we can refinance your home or car or many sparkly objects?"

At which point a dump truck delivered through my window an avalanche of mail: bribes to switch phone plans, pre-rejection from MasterCard, charities sending address labels with my name on them (like street people who wash your windshield like it or not).

The radio played a jingle for the once-in-a-lifetime, buy-this-or-die Toyotathon. I hummed along against my will.

On TV a man shouted at me to buy his ab machine now, now, now. On another channel the Dodgers' centerfielder made a catch between signs for IBM and Target.

"Great play!" said the announcer. "This next pitch is brought to you by Blockbuster."

The fax rang. It was Peter the Re-fi Guy. He had figures.

My computer dinged: another offer to enlarge my reproductive tackle (is my secret that widespread?). The Ambassador to Ishmuntuku also needed me, or current resident, to "urgently manage his ten million dollars."

These emails wouldn't exist if someone, somewhere, hadn't fallen for it. Where is this person, and can we get him a hotline?

"Thank you for calling the I've-Been-Scammed Hotline. The cost of this call is ten dollars a minute. A specialist will be with you in a while."

Spam gave way to pop-ups, but every time I closed one, two more emerged. Software installed itself, furniture was rearranged, radio presets changed...

"Well, you won't get a lemon((from Toyota of Orange."

I ran outside, where the clouds had formed a giant McDonald's arch. An airplane circled overhead with a banner for Doan's: "Got Back Pain?" Oh, to be a fly on the wall for that board meeting.

"I know! What if we take the old 'got milk' slogan, but instead of using the word 'milk,' we'll insert the name of our own product!" (The team beams with approval.)

My neighbor, checking his junk mail, asked if I was all right.

"Yeah," I said. "Just a little dizzy."

"That's good," he said. "Hey, I've been meaning talk to you about Amway."

I pointed my car to the interstate. An electronic sign warned about some leaflet storm, a message brought to me by Verizon High-Speed Internet, which delivers spam twice as fast as that old dial-up.

A boy in the next lane was watching commercials INSIDE A CAR! The car TV tided him over between the supermarket TV, his handheld TV, the hotel bathroom TV, and the doctor's office TV that no one, not even a hammer, can turn down. So it goes.

At the gas station, a tabloid reporter brought me up to date on Oprah Winfrey's weight, and Gillette reminded me to change blades often because "a fresh blade means a closer shave." In related news, Wal-Mart wants us to buy more crap.

Fleeing on foot, I collided with the "Shell" sign. The "s" fell off.

I found in church a pastor addressing his congregation from under a Nike hat: "And then God saith unto Moses, 'Do it, son. Just do it."

I ran past the billboards and rent-a-benches screaming, "Sell me a car! Change my plan! Give me the warranty!"

My whole life flashed above a little CNN ticker. Jimmy Bitzer, third grade bully, was punching my head, then paused to say, "Beating up your classmates can be a lot of work. That's why I drink Gatorade."

I floated to the sky, from where I could see my own tombstone. It was sponsored by Summer's Eve (when you have that not-so-fresh feeling).

Finally I awoke to a knock at the door. My real door.

I answered slowly, fearing Peter the Re-fi Guy. It was my neighbor come to return a garden hose. He chuckled at my nightmare and invited me to their barbecue. I gladly accepted, but there was something ominous about how he walked away humming the Toyotathon jingle.

This column was brought to you by MasterCard, Toyota, IBM, Target, Amway, McDonald's, Shell, Gillette, Verizon, Nike, The Dodgers, Doan's, CNN, Gatorade, Summer's Eve, Blockbuster, Wal-Mart, and the Ambassador of Ishmuntuku.

My dear friend Yahaira is learning baseball. She didn't take to football or hockey, but for some reason she's into the MLB. It may have something to do with the skin-tight pants. She doesn't read the sports page, but she does look at the pictures.

Having a coed baseball buddy is like watching a movie with someone who always wants to know what's going on.

"Why is the batter turned sideways?"

"It's called a bunt."

"Like in football?"

"No, that's a punt."

"How come there's an American League AND a National League? Isn't that the same thing? ... Why is the pitcher talking into his glove? Does he have bad breath? ..."

There aren't enough answers in the day.

Yahaira isn't a total Barbie. In sixth grade, she even joined a girls' basketball team. Before the first game she got so nervous, she regurgitated. So it goes.

[Note: Yahaira insists that I mention how, for her season of basketball, she earned a second-place trophy. As far as I know, she didn't throw up on it.]

The other day my team -- baseball, TV, we're back now -- was hitting in the bottom of the ninth, when I had to run cross-legged to the bathroom. Yahaira gave me the play-by-play from yonder.

"OK, they are two to zero [two balls, no strikes]. The bat man tipped while trying to punt [batter fouled a bunt attempt]. He swiped at a ground ball [swung at a pitch in the dirt]..."

Then she squealed and said, "The punter hit it! And the ball, the ball, is rolling ... and it's on the grass ... It's a DOUBLE!"

I hurried back half-dressed to find my team leaving the field, game over. Huh?

"That's close, love. It's called a double play."

Yahaira questions the rules of baseball as might, say, Nietzsche. She feels, for instance, that nine innings is entirely too long and that anything after seven should be "over innings."

"Then you wouldn't have to stop and stretch."

One day Yahaira asked what ESPN stands for.

"I think it means International Sports somethin'."

"Then why does it start with an E?"

"ESPN is when you guess the scores in advance -- I DON'T KNOW!"

So yes, co-ed baseball has more talking. That's why there are no female umpires: They'd not only call balls and strikes but have to discuss their reasons afterward.

Could you imagine a pair of women announcing baseball...

"Up to bat is Murray, and did you hear what he said to his wife last week? He should be placed on the mentally disabled list."

"Amen, sister. While you were talking, Rodriquez hit a ground ball, and my goodness, his thighs are huge."

"A cutie patootie indeed. He must be fattening. The next batter is a six-foot-two Capricorn, but the pinstripes make him look taller..."

Still, it's kind of nice having women in the room. Without their interruptions, baseball is mostly a bunch of bored men waiting for the pitcher to THROW THE DAMN BALL. Yahaira hates it when they "talk on the mountain."

"They may as well pull up a chair."

We plan to see a game in person someday. It won't matter who's playing; we'll be talking grass stains, cup sizes, why they call it a "strike" when a batter misses the ball...

We may even get to the bottom of ESPN.