The New York Times hits new lows in photo illustration today with a Swiftian nod gone awry. For a greater sense of visual horror, an enlarged version is also available. No wonder there's no one's name in the credit. One of the little people is running into his foot!

But this reject from a Photoshop contest gets at something that's been on my mind recently. The New York Stock Exchange just isn't the same without Dick Grasso. For those of us who have to watch the opening bell every day, the thrill is gone.

Before Grasso was vanquished for his $140 million pay package, the former chairman of the NYSE was as close as the exchange came to having a public face. Every weekday morning on the cable news networks, you could count on seeing his bald head at 9:30 ET sharp. The opening bell was Grasso time.

Standing above the floor, if the celebrity bell-ringer didn't know which button to push, Grasso would point it out. If boardroom bell-ringers looked nervous, Grasso would guide them through. He and his merry band of market confreres set the tone for each market open, clapping and smiling as if they were out on the porch at F. Scott and Zelda's. Pour the champagne, the group always seemed to say, and raise your flute to the day's success.

I attributed all of this fabulousness back to the brilliantly bald head. Grasso's gleaming presence on the scene added airs of power and mystery each day, as if Kojak ran Fantasy Island and Fantasy Island was the NYSE.

But now he's gone, and cable news watchers are poorer for it. Those on the bell podium these days are anonymous in appearance, and NASDAQ has yet to step up their own soulless open — corporate bosses autographing an electronic board. With computers trading computer stocks, NASDAQ remains the Nowhere Man of the markets.

I'm not one to comment on Grasso's chairmanship or the reasons for his firing. But for a quarter of a minute every morning, he was everything a viewer could ask for in financial news.

Even though his star has fallen, maybe he could host a game show. Or lead a PBS fundraising drive. But Mr. Grasso, wherever you are with your $140 million, I hope you're okay. The bell just doesn't ring the same without you. Who loves ya, baby?

Mix Magazine describes the production behind Springsteen's recording of The River album. Despite the ultimate double-record format, I'd argue the album stands as perhaps his most decisive work. Why? The article explains well: possessing options, options, options and the ethic to deal with them.

Robert Pinsky goes Keats on us this week:

Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too�

While the former poet laureate didn't mention baseball in his comments, we know the playoffs had to be on his mind. Once a Brooklyn fan, now a Red Sox fan, Pinsky's a wait-'til-next-year kind of guy. You think he wasn't rooting for a Cubs-Red Sox series?

In the year the long ball finally quieted down, he had to be loving this postseason. He's a pitcher's poet. His Night Game has got to be one of the best pitching duel poems ever, if anyone else ever wrote one. If no ever did, then the poem still throws the lights out.

Pinsky doesn't write like a man who sits around reading Bill James. Across the waves of a radio Brooklynite's Dodger dial, he would probably agree with Vin Scully: "Statistics are used much like a drunk uses a lamppost: for support, not illumination."

Poets are all about illumination.

This postseason, when statistics are giving way to game sixes and sevens and goats and ghosts, Pinsky introduces Keats' work with nameless appropriation. "The fulfillment, the hovering, and the finality of autumn," writes the baseball fan, illuminated but long-suffering.

I normally don't do two spam roundups in a week, but the pickings proved especially fine in the past few days. Plus, there ain't much else going on.

A company from Turkey e-mailed after gettng my "address details from the Turkish Consulate." They make gas springs, which are apparently like regular springs but work better. They're springier, I guess. They close their missive: If you don't wan to have any e-mail from our company please write "DON'T SEND ANY EXTRA E-MAIL" and send back the message.

In other news… Begorah! The Irish and the Nigerians have finally teamed up. Ever wonder who's on the other end of that scam spam? Now it could be a leprechaun, bringin' ya a pot o' gold! "Peter Amata" e-mailed to inform me of an Irish banker who'd died mysteriously in Nigeria, leaving $12.2 million sitting in the bank. When the Irish government failed to respond to their communications, they sought my assistance. It was Waking Ned Devine, Abuja-style!

And "Ashlee Peoples" wrote to sell me the "Banned C D." I'm happy to say that her product offered something for everybody:

–The ambitious! You can track down old flames from college, or you can dig up some dirt on your boss to make sure you get that next promotion!

–The lazy! Or maybe you want a fake diploma to hang on your bedroom wall. You'll find addresses for companies that make these diplomas on the Banned C D.

–The Steve Bartman! Need to disappear fast and never look back? No problem! Using the BannedCD, you will learn how to build a completely new identity.

–The dangerous! Uncle Sam and your creditors are horrified that I am still selling this product! There must be a price on my head!

–Those who would damn the man! Why are they so upset? Because this C D gives you freedom. And you can't buy freedom at your local Walmart.

Staples contest: Invent an office product. The grand prize winner gets $25,000 plus royalties.As the FAQ notes, they are only looking for boring inventions. Velcro chairs and edible telephones will not be accepted.

So Diddy wanted to dance. "Dance!" Diddy said. Dance dance dance, Diddy said like a damn fool, jumping up and down. Diddy wanted to dance, Diddy said, because Diddy was due. The last time Diddy danced, they all knew Diddy got drummed. They all sat back and shook their heads. Dumb dumb Diddy, they all said.

But Diddy paid them no mind. No one had given Diddy a damn reason not to dance. None of them had stood in Diddy's face and said, Diddy, don't dance. They all sat back and sat in to watch Diddy's oncoming disorientation. They wouldn't miss Diddy dancing, not for the world.

Diddy looked down at this feet and swore at them. They swore back. Dance dance dance, Diddy said and they didn't move an inch. They declined. They drew on Diddy's head, draining and draining and Diddy just stood there with a cross look on his face.

Then a big fool came galloping up the street, and Diddy gave him a look. "Hello big fool," said Diddy. "Hello Diddy," said the big fool. Then the big fool galloped away, and Diddy was there alone and Diddy swore at the big fool. No dance, said Diddy, glaring away down the street.

They all sat back and laughed because Diddy was a damn fool too. Dumb dumb Diddy.

Beau of The Prisoner's Dilemma recently forwarded a quality Nigerian e-mail he received. It begins: "After a discreet but thorough investigation at the Foreign Office of the Nigerian Chambers of Commerce, we write with absolute confidence in the legality of your company and the integrity of your person."

It's that kind of spam that makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside. When a complete stranger writes and compliments you on your person, it restores your faith in basic human kindness.

Similiar is the e-mail I recently received from a bogus Yahoo account. "I want you to know that there is someone who loves you very much," the writer said. "After 42 years of struggling with the meaning of life and what the purpose of my life should be, I met a man named Jesus and He changed my life."

What he said made me think of The Weight by The Band. Take a load off, Fanny! Take a load for free! Free like the free bottle of Herbal Pro Penile Enlargement Pills you get with every purchase of Herbal Pro Penile Enlargement Pills. Or so Shelby Shirley said. You had to love his/her subject line, "Hey bro…."

I really prefer the Nigerians' "Dear Sir/madam." It offers more respect. Much like a fake college diploma, a growing spam offering. A recent one: "Do you want to increase your earnings, and gain more respect from EVERYONE?" Get a fake college diploma, and you can have all that and more. Havrard University is waiting your call.

And speaking of calls, how about that recall? You've got to continue to give credit to the Arnold T-shirt spammers on their timing. As short as the recall process was, they got their spam out there. When it was over, they didn't slow down. I got two within a week of the vote: "Congratulations Arnold on your California Recall 2003 Win!"

A portion of their T-sales, they noted, "will be donated to the Disabled Children of America." A Google search finds the only group by this name to be a punk band.

Which brings us to my favorite emerging spam sector: anti-spam spam. "FWD: Stop emails like this one."

Despite weakening in the past few years, Mike Peters' strip comes through with a winner today.

I've finally found my dream job. But somebody already has it and is doing it brilliantly. The Post's David Segal profiles The Elvis Hunter.

Do I like the Black Eyed Peas?

I do not like them, playa please!

I do not like the Black Eyed Peas,

I do not like their lyrical cheese

I do not like Where Is the Love

I do not like th'Elephunk thereof.

Would I like them off the chart?

Would I like them to depart?

I would like them off the chart

I would like them to depart

I would like Shut Up to go

It's got three parts and yet no flow.

I do not like them on CDs

I do not like their MT-Vese

I'll admit I'm hard to please

But I do not like the Black Eyed Peas!

"I love you, boo

I love you too"

I do not like them,

Not I do.