Yankees Doodle Dandy

In the wake of the Yankees' stirring World Series championship,* a friend sent congratulations, tempered by his Yankees loathing: “Every year the Yanks don't win it is a victory for our national pastime in my opinion.”

Another confessed inner conflict, saying he really likes the team “except for A-Rod.”

Well. So it goes.

We Yankee fans are accustomed to such. Everybody needs a villain, it seems, and let’s face it, teams like the Padres, the Royals or those adorable loser Cubs just aren’t up to the role.

And so the Yankees go about their business of beating up teams at home in the Bronx, or traveling around the country and filling stadiums for other teams, and then beating them up.

“They’re buying championships!” critics cry. “The best team that money can buy!”

As if there’s something wrong with an owner trying to put the best team on the field. Besides, if money is the be-all, where are all those championships Jason Giambi, Kevin Brown, Carl Pavano and Randy Johnson were supposed to bring? How about a little sympathy here for nine years without a ring?

“Steroids!” others shout. “Cheaters!”

Hey, the Yankees have been winning championships since the days when cigarettes and beer were their performance enhancers. Imagine what the Babe or Mickey could have done sober!

So, in the spirit of comity, let's give the Yankees their due for No. 27, move on to football season, and hate the team that really deserves it: the Patriots.




*Every Yankees' World Series championship is stirring. Every defeat is either gut-wrenching or heartbreaking (see Game 7, 2001).

A One, and a Two, and a ...

I count.

I don’t mean that in the sense of, “I’m important.” I mean, I count things. Actions. Stuff.

Not everything - that would be nuts. But a lot of things: stair steps, each skip of my jump rope, the number of pumps it takes to put air in my bicycle tires, the time it takes for my commuter train to arrive from the previous stop to mine.

I could tell you how many running strides I get to the minute, with a pretty fair degree of accuracy. On a driving trip, I could tell you how many miles I’d covered in the past hour, how that compared with the previous hour, and the overall average for the journey.

Research tells me this kind of behavior is consistent with obsessive-compulsive disorder, which I find unsurprising. It can also apparently be a sign of depression, which I find depressing. But I can’t stop.

It is, after all, a compulsion. Like, say, repeatedly checking to see if you turned off the stove or iron. Which I also do.

And sometimes it’s useful. I count breaths when meditating, up to 12 and then starting over. Unfortunately, that also leads me to keep track of the number of cycles I’ve been through and to keep a running tally of how many more I have to go, which more or less defeats the purpose of meditation to begin with.

Still, as compulsions go, counting seems to be relatively benign. At least I’m not compulsively gambling away all my money, washing my hands 20 times an hour or rearranging my CDs and books so that they’ll be in alphabetical order.

Come to think of it, I wonder how many CDs and books I have...

My Way

I’m thought to be mild-mannered, and I work for a great metropolitan (and beyond) newspaper, so let’s assume for the sake of discussion that I’m Superman.

In addition to fighting for Truth, Justice and the American Way, I’ve got some changes I think ought to be made for the benefit of society in general, and me in particular. Hey, I’m Superman. You gonna argue?

And so, henceforth:

Baseball players are to let their socks show below the knees - with stirrups. It’s baseball, not cricket.

Littering will be a felony. And that includes cigarette butts. Ditto loud talking, cellphone or otherwise, on trains, and trying to butt ahead when leaving a plane. That steams me.

Items someone - it doesn’t matter who - should always make sure are in my fridge: banana pudding, tuna salad, pimiento cheese, meatloaf.

The broadcast of singing by Tom Waits or Neil Young is prohibited, as are public performances by either.

Every bar must stock Double Diamond ale, on tap. And, say, Stella, Carlsberg and Harp (or at least two out of the three). And Guinness or Murphy's stout, for when I feel more heavy.

All dentists are required to use nitrous oxide upon request. Lots of it.

No more designated hitter.

TV and radio talking heads will be subject to fact-checking and review. More than five distortions, outright lies or blatant examples of idiocy, and it’s off the air for a month.

Facebook must return to the old practice of showing only a person’s most recent status update.

Professional basketball? Hockey? I don't think so.

The willingness to eat bugs, exotic internal organs or small slithery creatures will not be sufficient reason to have a TV show.

No college football polls before the second game of the season.

No commercials before movie screenings. Instead, a return to cartoons.

Women will not make the same amount of money for a tennis tournament unless they play the same number of sets as men.

No long-term guaranteed sports contracts.

Barq's will be the official and only root beer, and grape, orange and strawberry flavors will return. In glass bottles with blue labels.

No Christmas lawn decorations until after Thanksgiving.

Science will turn the attention of its greatest nutritional minds to subtracting all the calories (but none of the taste) from Cinnabons, Butterfingers and Snickers.

Leather and/or stretch pants will not be sold in a size above medium.

Oh, and June 28? National holiday.

Alpha to Omani

Kayne and I are eating our way around the world, alphabetically.

And slowly.

We started almost three years ago in Argentina. From there it was on to Burma, Cuba, the Dominican Republic, and so on. The process has been instructive, in terms of cuisine -- we learned, for example, that it’s risky to be a cow in Argentina, or a chicken in Peru -- and not particularly expensive, since we don’t actually go to any of the countries involved.

That’s one of the benefits of living near the Big Apple Pie.

For example, Germany was a relatively easy drive to the Zum Stammtisch in Glendale, Queens. (Kassler rippchen, bratwurst und leberkase mitt sauerkraut. Yum!) Ethiopia? LIRR to Penn Station, walk to the Queen of Sheba on 10th Avenue. (Assorted meat stews and vegetable mushes, basically, scooped up with spongy bread. Better than it sounds!)

We did burn some miles for Lebanon and Morocco, both of which we sampled while on vacation last year in Vancouver. The food was pretty interchangeable, as was the belly dancer above, who appeared at both restaurants.

I’m not complaining. I love Middle Eastern food. And, given the right belly ...

A highly flexible rule is that we aim for less-familiar cuisines when possible: Filipino, not French; Tibetan, not Thai. Over all, there have been more hits than misses. At the top: Burma, at Village Mingala in the East Village.

There have also been some cases of what even a generous soul might be inclined to refer to as “cheating.” For “O,” we ate “Oriental,” on Chinese New Year. (Hey, Omani restaurants aren’t as easy to come by as you might think, even in New York.)

Most recently, we fudged some more on “Q,” with a single dish called poutine that originated in Quebec. (French fries with cheese curd, smothered in chicken gravy. Let me just say that Filipino, long at the bottom of my list, has edged up one notch.)

But at least now we can move on to hit Russia in Brooklyn, followed by a few relatively simple to find countries scattered around the vicinity.

And though “X” was looming as a potential stumper, a friend, in the spirit of further cheating, has recommended Xunta, a tapas restaurant in the Village. Onward to the former Yugoslavia, or Yemen! Zambia, or Zimbabwe!

But I will not eat zebra.

Ever Endeavour

My house is full of books, most of which I’ll never read. Some were gifts that didn’t match my tastes but I can’t bring myself to toss. Others I know I should read, but don’t.

But there’s only one I bought with the specific intention never to read.

The title is "The Remorseful Day." The author is Colin Dexter; the protagonist is Inspector Morse. Chief Inspector Morse. Fans of the PBS television series “Mystery” may be familiar with Morse. This is him in a nutshell: Thames Valley, England, police official; brilliant and enigmatic; devotee of classical music, crossword puzzles and a well-pulled pint; chronic failure with women; thorn in the side for superiors; mentor and tormentor to junior partner, Sergeant Lewis (seen with him above); grumpy.

Endearing.

I got the chance to interview Dexter in 1993, while he was on a book tour in England for the paperback edition of his 10th book, “The Way Through the Woods.” I asked if he had lots of other Morse tales up his sleeve.

“Certainly not,” he said. “I have to struggle to get any ideas at all.’’ But, he added, “I know if I start, something will come.’’

Dexter added three novels. The last one I read, “Death Is Now My Neighbor,’’ revealed a long, jealously protected secret, the chief inspector’s first name: Endeavour.

A revelation of that nature should have been a clue to what lay ahead.

There’s precedent for authors killing off their detective creations, most famously Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s dispatching of Sherlock Holmes. The public was outraged, and so Doyle brought him back. Holmes lived on to retire and keep bees in Sussex, where for all we know he still is.

Dexter rejected any such riding-into-the-sunset.

“Morse never would have lasted in retirement,’’ he told an interviewer in 1999. “He had no lawn to mow. He would have gone spare. No, it’s better this way.’’

Better for Dexter, perhaps, whose health, I gather, has not been the best and on whom the writing came to take a physical toll. Not better for those of us who dearly miss the good, grumpy inspector.

To Have and To Hold

Kayne wanted a travel adventure. I wanted a handsome, suitable-for-framing marriage certificate to display proudly and invite envy.

So we decided on a destination wedding for our nuptials in 1998.

An anglophile, I liked the idea of Britain. I figured a place displaying such pomp would be able to serve up a pretty nifty marriage certificate, too. One with a handsome likeness of the queen, perhaps, and a regal golden seal. Maybe even a knight in armor, or appropriate heraldry. With printing and wording along the lines of Magna Carta:

"Joe, by the grace of God, born of Mississippi, and Kayne, helpmeet and co-equal, do hereby and forthwith..." etc., etc.

We settled on Scotland, which has no pesky residency requirement, opting for a civil ceremony in Edinburgh. A fax to the register office announced our intentions, and we set about collecting the required documents and forwarding the paperwork.

It wasn't simple. We had trouble downloading the forms. We had trouble understanding why some of the information - like our parents' occupations - was required. But we managed, and forwarded it all, including birth certificates to attest that we were at least legal age, 16.

After several weeks, the office informed us that we had an appointment for a wedding at 1 p.m. on our requested date. We flew to Glasgow, rented a car, and drove to Edinburgh. The next day a taxi took us from our hotel to the office for the ceremony.

The wedding party was small. The wedding party was us two.

That, the registrar reminded me, was at least two people short. We needed witnesses. I was about to step into the street in search of a pair of strangers, wondering what might be the proper approach:

“Excuse me, witness my wedding? Buy you a pint!”

Luckily, the registrar spotted another couple who had stopped by the office to fill out forms for their own coming wedding. And so J.M. Blues and S. Mouat of Drumdryan Street, Edinburgh, became part of our official record.

After the ceremony, a decidedly unromantic affair, Kayne and I headed for the nearest pub, the Bow Bar. At about that point the wedding segued into honeymoon trip, with later visits to St. Andrews, Aberdeen, Stirling, Glasgow, and with friends near Loch Lomond.

A successful mission, from my wife's travel adventure perspective.

Unfortunately for me, the marriage certificate did not live up to my hopes. I had traveled thousands of miles for a piece of paper about as impressive as a car title: a washed-out, mint green sheet with a swirling background of cream lettering that repeats Registrar General of Births Deaths and Marriages for Scotland. (Somehow, the word "death" seems to pop up more than any of the others.)

A dimly produced Scottish thistle topped by a crown doesn't add much luster. And all the pertinent information is typed, in a font reminiscent of a term paper.

In aesthetic terms, our friends Glenn and Nancy did much better a few months later, with a ketubah evoking the Garden of Eden, as pictured above. It has lavender butterflies, blue and green pansies, two peacocks in full and colorful display, a lyre and other colorful, if hard to recognize, adornments. Their commitment to each other is spelled out using words like “cherish” and “honor” and “faithfulness” and “integrity."

They solemnized it before their lovely and moving wedding ceremony - on the backyard deck of friends in Nashville. A rollicking celebration followed.

We keep our certificate in a file folder along with old tax forms, bank statements and car insurance policies. Glenn and Nancy's ketubah is proudly displayed on a wall and invites envy.

Especially mine.

Headed for a Fall

Spring is supposed to be the season of renewal, and maybe it is for Planet Earth, but for Planet Joe, it’s fall.

That’s because decades after I last stepped into a classroom, internally I still function on a school calendar. Fall always offered a fresh start, no matter what complications the previous school year had brought.

New clothes, because I’d outgrown the ones I got last year. (My early sartorial models were Timmy on “Lassie” and Opie Taylor, which meant blue jeans and high-top Keds.)

New notebooks, rulers, protractors, compasses, pencils. (I was a big believer in the proper tools of the trade. Major advance: the authorization of ballpoints in the fourth grade.)

A new teacher, or set of teachers, who could help make or break a year. (Which is why fifth grade sucked.)

New subjects and challenges. (I recall wondering whether I could master cursive writing. The answer: not really.)

New textbooks, or at least unfamiliar ones, to be diligently enclosed in manila covers for protection. (Turning the covers inside-out allowed for personalized lettering and artwork.)

New classmates, to offset the ones who had moved away. (Growing up in a paper mill town, the transfer of parents helped provide both.) And reconnecting with others you hadn’t seen all summer, because they lived across town or didn’t play baseball.

A new season of high school football. (Perhaps the highest level of football that can be played with true integrity.)

Of course, none of those new starts apply directly for me now, one reason why each year tends to blur into the next with little distinction.

But I still find myself, in the August heat, straining to detect traces of the coming cooler, drier days. I try to imagine the smell of burning leaves, the feel of the approaching crisp evenings.

And I think: Fall sure comes a lot faster than it used to.