I thought I’d take us on a little break from the drama on Wall Street and at the county courthouse today and occupy our minds with something a little more numbing – “Dancing with the Stars.”

Longtime readers of this column have no doubt ascertained that I make no pretensions about being uniformly highbrow when it comes to my entertainment choices. Sure, I love a good play, musical or art exhibit -- I can even stomach opera on a limited basis -- but generally I prefer my idle hours to be filled with entertainment geared more for the idle-minded. I’ve always considered it the hallmark of a well-rounded gentleman when he can read a little “Macbeth” in the same night he watches Paula Abdul drool incoherently on the week’s 34th hour of “American Idol.”

‘Tis the season now, of course, for that other time-sucking scourge of pop culture, the aforementioned “Dancing with the Stars.” I hear tell we’re in the seventh cycle of the show now (remember when “season” was synonymous with “year?” -- these quasi-reality hits are now churned out every few months until we’ve sapped the life from them), but I’ve managed to have been suckered into only two.