The legislature's religion problem

It’s worrisome when officials try to turn their private religious principles into public policy. Turns out it can also be worrisome when they ignore those principles. 

Take the refugee resettlement program, a federal program designed to offer a haven for people who flee war, persecution or other dangers in their home countries.

Tennessee already has a fractious relationship with the program. The state withdrew as administrator in 2008. It has been fighting it in court since 2016, with a lawsuit claiming it’s unconstitutional “to commandeer state funds to finance a federal program.”

So far, judges have not looked favorably on that argument. But in September, President Trump issued an executive order allowing states and localities to refuse to accept refugees. 

 

That made for some anxious times for the Tennessee Office for Refugees, a department of Catholic Charities that has administered the program since Tennessee washed its hands of it.

“I had heard that that was coming,” Holly Johnson, state refugee coordinator for the office, said of the Trump order. “But nothing is sure until it’s sure, until you’ve seen it.” Once they had seen it: “We were all sort like, OK, now what?  I’m an eternal optimist; I don’t automatically go to a bad place. But it’s certainly nervous making.”

To his credit Gov. Bill Lee, who along with his wife has worked with refugees in the Nashville area, announced in December that the state would continue accepting them. 

“That was awesome,” Johnson said. “It’s just really nice when someone recognizes the cause that you fight for. We tell the refugee story every day, and it often falls on deaf ears.” 

Lee, she said, “acknowledged that Tennessee is really that kind place that all of us have called home. It was a really good day.” 

Enter, now, the legislature, with three pairs of bills to undercut the governor. Enter in particular, with the worst bill, Rep. Bruce Griffey, a freshman Republican from Paris who, if he had his way, would build a statutory wall around Tennessee to keep out anyone he deems unworthy. 

Griffey spent much of his first year trying (and failing) to pass all manner of anti-immigrant bills. His bill for refugees would require that any resettlement here get a two-thirds vote of local government entities, followed by approval by two-thirds of both houses of the legislature. 

“We were elected to represent Tennesseans,” The Scene quoted Griffey as saying. “We weren’t elected to represent the best interests of refugees.” 

The notion that the two aren’t necessarily in conflict does not seem to have occurred to him. 

Lee, in addressing criticism he’s gotten since his announcement, has charitably ascribed opposition as due to “misinformation,” conflating refugees with illegal immigrants. Johnson agrees that plays a role. 

“I also think there’s the argument that this is how terrorists enter the country,” she said, and “that refugees are a big toll on the state budget. That’s just not the case at all.” 

Before entering a country for resettlement, refugees are subjected to a thorough vetting process that Johnson said takes from 18 months to two years. And while state and local governments do incur costs associated with any residents – refugees or natives – a legislative fiscal review in 2013 found that “refugees brought in twice as much as they cost the state,” Johnson said. 

And then there are the numbers. With this White House allowing fewer and fewer refugees into the country at all, Johnson said Tennessee would stand to resettle only about 300 people this year. 

“It’s just such a small number,” she said.  “I mean, there might be more people than that in our building. I don’t even know why this is a thing.” 

It’s a thing because of mean-spirited people. 

The website for the Tennessee Office for Refugees has this quote near the top of the homepage: “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers; for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.” 

It’s from the New Testament’s Letter to the Hebrews, reminding of the importance of hospitality and compassion as an expression of Christian love. 

This effort by Griffey and others like it represent a profoundly un-Christian approach by a body that, in the past, has voted to make the Bible the official state book. 

But even setting religion aside, the efforts fail the test of basic human kindness.

This is my column for The Nashville Ledger for 2/14/20.  

Joe Rogers is a former writer for The Tennessean and editor for The New York Times. He is retired and living in Nashville. He can be reached at jrogink@gmail.com

Me and Marcus Dupree

Having seen ESPN’s “The Best That Never Was,” I now realize that Marcus Dupree and I were amazingly similar football players.

I don’t mean in the superficial, obvious sense. He was 6-foot-3, 225 pounds. I was not.

He ran a 9.5 hundred. I did not.

He rushed for 7,355 yards with an 8.3-yards-per-carry average in his high school career and scored 87 touchdowns. I did not.

He was considered the best high school player in the country – perhaps of all time - and was relentlessly recruited by every major and not-so-major college in the country to wear their uniform and score touchdowns for them.

Again, I was not.

But after one notable season playing for the Oklahoma Sooners (including a Fiesta Bowl record 249 yards) and a few games into the next, Marcus decided he had had enough. It isn’t fun anymore, he explained, and he quit, not quite in that order.

Just like me! For exactly the same reason!

My decision came a bit earlier in life, after my junior year in high school. And unlike Marcus’s, it wasn’t precipitated by a concussion that left me woozily wondering where I was, and what I was doing there. But I imagine the thought process to have been identical:

Not fun + hard work + pain = Outta here.

Of course, having been blessed with an abundant lack of God-given talent, I did not face the repercussions Marcus did. Network news shows did not take note of my choice. And, unlike him, I did not go on to play in the USFL, tear up my knee, attempt a comeback five years later and manage to last a few games over a couple of seasons with the Los Angeles Rams.

Still. We are brothers under the skin.

Some things in life have to be done whether they are fun or not. Some things do not. The trick is to be able to tell the difference and, for those things that do not have to be done, not to do them.

I still try to live by that rule. And I hope Marcus does, too.

Old Times, Not Forgotten

I’ve been visiting with an old friend. It’s nice to renew the relationship.

The friend is Robin Mather, and we haven’t visited in person, exactly. I’ve been reading her new book, “The Feast Nearby.” The subtitle, “How I lost my job, buried a marriage, and found my way by keeping chickens, foraging, preserving, bartering, and eating locally (all on $40 a week),” provides a pretty clear description of what Robin’s been up to lately.

Our lives overlapped for a few years back in the 1980s when we both worked for the newspaper in Jackson, Miss. She wrote about food, I wrote about pretty much whatever. We judged chili competitions together, red beans and rice competitions, beer competitions. (Guess which one I conceived and organized.)

Her book is a reminder of the gentle way she has with words, and her affection for food, not just as fuel for the body, but as restorative for the spirit.

I remember in particular a meal of hers, after a long night of election coverage and post-election revelry for the newspaper staff. As she prepared and cooked it, she spoke of the soul-warming experience of being able to provide someone with sustenance.

At the time, my culinary ability consisted primarily of opening cans, and heating the contents.

But the sentiment stayed with me. Bit by bit, I expanded my range. And some years later I did chicken breasts, herbed pasta and ratatouille for a Valentine’s Day dinner. Not haute cuisine, but enough to surprise – and impress - my date.

Robin’s book is a treasure. It almost made me want to move to a cabin on a lake in the Michigan woods, adopt a dog, a kitten and an African gray parrot, and spend a winter around a heating stove while canning vegetables.

At the least, I will try some of her recipes, which I now feel confident enough to tackle. I’ll share them with that Valentine’s Day date, who is now my wife. And who I still try to surprise from time to time.

Like Father, Like ...

Sooner or later every guy compares himself with his father. Sometimes sooner, and later. How the son fares pretty much depends on what he learned from his father, and how much he appreciates it.

Daddy never taught me how to hit a baseball or catch a football, probably reckoning that those skills and related ones were best acquired in sandlot games with neighborhood friends.

He didn’t bother to show me how to weld, work on machinery or compute production expenses and payroll, perhaps sensing that those staples of his work life were not going to figure in mine.

He did teach me to drive, and as a result I’m pretty darn good at it.

But most of the lessons weren’t formal instruction at all. He taught by example. I only had to pay attention.

He showed that it’s always best to try your best, and to be satisfied with the result. Or if you can’t be satisfied, to try again.

That honesty is not just a policy, but a way of life.

That a man’s word is indeed his bond, but that not every thought needs to be expressed.

That reading is a valuable pastime.

That the ability to laugh - including, and perhaps particularly, at yourself - can lighten a lot of life’s burdens.

That you should do the right thing, even when no one else would know otherwise.

Most important of all, he showed me the importance of treating people right, even when the evidence indicates they haven’t treated you right.

Most of the time I feel that I fall short, because the bar was set pretty high. And that, I believe, is the best way for a man to feel about himself and his father.

Happy would-be 82nd, Daddy.

Who the Hell Are We?

My alma mater concluded a few years back, not unreasonably, that a Civil War icon was not the most progressive image to present on the sidelines of a 21st-century athletic contest.

So, since 2003, Colonel Rebel has been absent from the playing fields of Ole Miss.

A campaign is now under way to replace him, and more than 1,000 people weighed in with suggestions. The original list was winnowed to 11 by the Mascot Selection Committee and that number reduced to five finalists by a vote of students, faculty, alumni association members and, apparently, a large contingent of 3-year-olds. The finalists are:

Horse

Land Shark

Hotty and Toddy

Lion

Bear

To which I say, pardon my abbreviated French, WTF?

Each finalist is accompanied on the committee’s Web site by a claim of its worthiness (“Nothing portrays this sense of Rebel freedom, strength and confidence like a charging stallion,” goes the argument for Horse). And each is clearly ridiculous.

With the possible exception, I grant you, of Hotty and Toddy, the homage to our signature cheer. But the information so far (“The pair may be animals or original ‘muppet-like’ characters”) is too sketchy to build an allegiance on. Painful images of the Phillies Phanatic, as seen above, present themselves.

I am not, mind you, one of those diehard Colonel Rebel fans. As a matter of principle I refuse to wear any Ole Miss gear with its depiction. Besides, as my buddy Rick Cleveland of The Clarion-Ledger helpfully points out, Colonel Rebel as a sideline presence is not exactly steeped in history.

And I take the Selection Committee at its word that, fears of the Sons of Confederate Veterans aside, there are no plans to drop “Rebels” - a nickname that I am, oddly enough, attached to.

But we can do better than this load of dreck. We need a mascot that represents dignity, not to mention one that can be defended without dissolving into helpless laughter. A mascot instantly recognizable, universally esteemed, quintessentially Mississippi. A mascot we can be proud of.

To wit, the Catfish.

Now, that’s Ole Miss, by damn. And tasty, too.

This Won't Hurt a Bit

Take one dodgy family medical history, add in a couple of slightly perplexing test results, combine with a doctor who never met a medical procedure he didn’t like, and you get this:

“I want you to have an angiogram.”

When? you ask.

“Today,” he says.

Dim recollections enter your mind. Angiogram. Isn’t that the exam in which they scootch a wire up a bloodway into your heart and have a gander? From an entry point in an area where a man least wants a pack of strangers meddling? Won’t that be ... unpleasant?

“They’ll make you comfortable,” the doctor says.

Your ideal state for a procedure of this level of invasiveness could best be described as “unconscious.” As you were the last time medical personnel peered around in your inner regions. This theme dominates your thinking as you make your way to the friendly local hospital, where you move along with surprising speed to a room filled with people in beds along the wall, separated by retractable curtains. A nurse named Pam takes you into her care.

“You’ll be comfortable,” she says, as she pokes a needle into a vein in your left arm. A needle that feels distinctly larger than those used to extract blood. A quite attractive young physician assistant stops by to tell you what is soon to happen, which includes the possibility that something resembling the spring in a ballpoint pen will be permanently inserted into your heart tubing. Oh, and there is the rare but occasional bleeding. And heart attack.

You are then wheeled into another room where you edge onto a table beneath a big light. Two more nurses there promise to “make you comfortable” with a cocktail they will inject as soon as the doctor arrives. You ask that it include a Jack and water.

The good news they provide is that it appears the entry point for the scootching can be your wrist, instead of that other place. As a precaution, though, both places are washed with a soap that feels oddly cold. The doctor arrives, the cocktail flows, and he inquires as to its impact. You ask if it can be augmented with a single malt scotch, preferably from the Islay region.

At some point during all this, perhaps while your mind is wandering off to Scotland, the scootching occurs. A dye is injected, with the resultant sensation that you are taking a warm shower, but only on the inside. The dye allows an image to be seen on a screen, an image the doctor shows you. It looks to you like a map of the Amazon and its tributaries, but to the doctor it signifies something else: everything in your ticker, he says, is A-O.K. Those previously perplexing test results must have involved a false positive, he says. No big deal.

At which point, for the first time all day, you feel very comfortable.

Gooooaaaallll!

Inspired by the World Cup, I’m trying to give a damn about soccer. Any kind of damn. It isn't easy.

Part of the reason, I know, is that the only soccer I've ever witnessed in person involved a field full of 8-year-olds running around somewhat randomly, every now and then kicking the ball in no particular direction. I quickly realized that the only way for this to be entertaining was to have a blood relationship - and I mean a close one - to someone on the field. I didn’t.

I’ve seen professional soccer played on TV, and did appreciate the difference in skill level. Those guys certainly have a way with their feet - stutter stepping, juking, hands unemployed - why, I bet they’d be naturals on the Riverdance stage.

But the result seemed all-too-similar to that of the 8-year-olds: one or more players would scheme to get the ball close to the relevant goal, and then some opposing player would intervene and kick it WAY THE HELL to the other end of the field. At which point the process would take place again, in reverse.

It was a little like watching a basketball game in which nobody makes a shot, with the occasional minor drama of someone bouncing a lob pass off his head toward the basket.

My effort to get excited is further complicated by the fact that I have no particular allegiance to my U.S.A. home team. A couple of countries that I could support for genealogical reasons - Scotland and Ireland - failed to qualify. (Slovenia made it! North Korea! What’s wrong, Scotland and Ireland?) England did qualify, and is, in fact, considered one of the stronger contenders. But I have a curious lack of enthusiasm for the English team. Maybe, because of David Beckham, I unfairly associate it with the Spice Girls.

Still, I know that some sort of rooting interest is necessary if I am to give that damn. And so, after careful consideration, I’ve decided to support Brazil, the five-time winner and favorite.

Am I shamelessly boarding the bandwagon? Not at all. It’s just that my extensive research determined that, of all the teams, Brazil has the coolest jerseys. Shirts. Whatever.

BFF

My best friend died a year ago today.

Before going down for his funeral, I started jotting down notes about some of the memories we’d created over our 40-plus years.

Each one had long-since taken shorthand form for us; a few words that instantly transported us back to a specific point in time:

Chinese Genetics. The Lightning Storm. The Accommodation Bar. Throw Double-Ones. Evil Roy Slade. The Best Meal Ever. The Worst Night Ever. Is This a Purse, or What? You Sugared the Eggs. Bulls Strategy. Beat the Dolt.

And so on. I had 58 when I stopped, but there are more.

Each one still transports me.

Some tales inevitably grew with the telling. In Beat the Dolt, our account of a college intramural football game, the number of touchdown passes he threw me inched up over the years. No matter. Friendships don’t rely on facts.

I can still hear his voice, and the to-the-point way he started every phone call to me (“Rogers? Furby.”). I can feel his handshake, left hand gripping my upper arm, as he warns me to drive carefully. I can see him in the distance of Victoria Station, 1988, as he stops, puts down his bag, and thrusts both arms over his head, triumphant: two Moss Point boys together in London. England, beware!

We talked and argued endlessly over God, politics and sports. He made me laugh more than anyone else. He saved my sanity more than once.

Our last conversation was by phone, him in a hospital room in Mississippi, me in my kitchen in New York. He was to have more tests the next day, yet another effort to find out what was wrong, to see what could be done to fix it.

“Hang in there, boy,” I said.

“I will,” he said.

But he couldn’t.

I’ve put a candle on the mantel today. It’s in memory, and honor, of the light he brought to my life.

The candle will go out. The light will not.

Kills Bugs Dead

Anyone who doubts the adhesive power of TV advertising on the brain should take a look at some of the stuff rattling around in my head, in some cases even after decades. See how many you can put a product to:

__ _______ will clean your whole house, and everything that’s in it.

____ _____ means fine tobacco.

I can’t believe I ate the whole thing.

Two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun.

My baloney has a first name, it’s _ _ _ _ _

_______ tastes good like a cigarette should.

There’s nothing like the face of a kid eating a _______ ___.

_____ takes a licking and keeps on ticking.

You’ll wonder where the yellow went, when you brush your teeth with _________.

Everything tastes better when it sits on a ____.

Everything’s better, with __________ on it.

How ’bout a nice, ________ punch?

See the U.S.A., in your _________.

Mmmm, mmmm, good. Mmmm, mmmm, good. That’s what ________ _____ are, mmmm, mmmm, good!

____ has a better idea.

_______ cleans while it shines.

The beer that made Milwaukee famous, simply because it tastes so good.

You’re smoking neat, you’re smoking clean, with __________ today.

Have one, have another, it’s that kind of beer.

Have a ____ and a smile.

Betcha can’t eat just one.

_____ has been shown to be an effective, decay-preventive dentifrice when used in a conscientiously applied program of oral hygiene and regular professional care.

______ is a candy mint! _____ is a breath mint!

Show us your ____ pack.

A ______, a ______, a wonderful wonderful toy.

588, 2-3hundred. ______!

So pure, it floats!

Melts in your mouth, not in your hand.

Won’t sink to the bottom of the bowl.

_______ consumes 47 times its weight in excess stomach acid.

Nothing says lovin’ like something from the oven, and _________ says it best.

Silly rabbit! ____ are for kids!

Choosy mothers choose ___.

____ cleans like a white tornado!

You got chocolate in my peanut butter.

_________ kills germs on contact.

A ________, a ________, delicious whole-wheat biscuit, baked only by Nabisco.

It’s not fried, it’s ______ _ ____, and I hepped.

Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh, what a relief it is.

Now you know, and you can take all bets, that when you smoke all seven filter cigarettes, you’ll find some too strong, some too light, but ________ got the taste that’s right.

But wait, there’s more!

And indeed there is. Commercials aren’t the only thing from TV filling up my head. But that’s a topic for another time...


Answers: Mr. Clean, Lucky Strike, Alka Seltzer, Big Mac, Oscar Mayer, Winston, Hershey bar, Timex, Pepsodent, Ritz, Bluebonnet margarine, Hawaiian Punch, Chevrolet, Campell’s soups, Ford, Pledge, Schlitz, Parliament, Old Milwaukee, Coke, Lay's potato chips, Crest, Certs, Lark, Slinky, Empire carpets, Ivory soap, M&M, Seven Seas salad dressing, Rolaids, Pillsbury, Trix, Jif, Ajax, Reese’s Cups, Listerine, Triscuits, Shake ‘n Bake, Alka Seltzer, Viceroy. The headline and art refer, or course, to Raid.

Love and Local 203

I have an annual fling with football, and I respect it, as a sport. But every year at this time my heart returns to my first, true love: baseball.

Today’s kids seem to all grow up playing soccer, scurrying around in some inchoate effort to kick a speckled ball into a net, their arms and hands all but useless. I was lucky enough to come along when baseball ruled, learning from older neighborhood mentors the simple but eternal truths: throw, catch, hit.

And run, when appropriate.

If we didn’t have enough players for a game, we’d play flies and grounders, or relay. If there were only two of us, pitcher and catcher, swapping roles as soon as one struck out three or walked four.

If there was only one, throw the ball straight up, and catch it when it comes down. A lesson in physics and coordination. (I once broke the windshield on my parents’ car.)

The first goal was to demonstrate sufficient skill at tryouts to be drafted by a Little League team. To win a uniform: team name across the chest, pants tucked at the knees to show off those stripped leggings, cap with bill carefully rounded, black canvas shoes with rubber cleats.

I wanted it all.

It took two years in the minors - wearing T-shirts for Staples Athletics and Nelson Pontiac Dodgers - before I got a uniform of my own and a place on Papermakers Local 203. From that to Standard Oil to Burnham’s Drugs, to steel cleats and stealing bases, I was a serviceable infielder, a decent hitter and, for a couple of years, a wildly erratic pitcher.

There was nothing, from sweaty practice sessions to snowball treats after the games, that wasn’t fun. Even a bad day on the baseball field beat a good day doing something else.

I know the detractors’ arguments: baseball is too slow, too boring, too arcane. This, I figure, comes from people who never played it, or never played it well enough to appreciate it. (The infield fly rule isn’t really that difficult.)

My own playing days are decades behind me, but I still love everything about baseball, especially at the ballpark: the pre-game warmups and stretches, infield and batting practice, the national anthem, the smells and tastes, the crowd’s crescendo as a fly ball climbs, climbs, climbs into a home run.

O.K., I’m not too crazy about the ticket prices for a Yankees game. But as any guy who’s ever bought diamonds knows, true love can be expensive.

Lights! Camera! Joe!

I’ve been thinking about becoming a movie star, figuring, how hard could it be?

Not a young, good-looking movie star, obviously. But look at the career that, say, Karl Malden had. And nobody is confusing Morgan Freeman with Denzel Washington, but they both seem to do all right.

As for training, I had a part as a lord in my third-grade play, complete with red satin knee breeches and tailcoat, in which I demonstrated a marked ability to skip around a Maypole - forward and backward, mind you. (Hey, Ken Hase couldn’t do it, and had to play a frog.) I appeared in my junior play as well, and, as I recall, was able to deliver my lines and move about the stage without tripping over anything.

Clearly, I would come to stardom having paid my dues.

And so the other day, when my friend the comedian/actor Mack Dryden offered me a role in a coming small-scale video production of his, I leapt at the chance. Such is the stuff success stories can be made of.

My role, shot on location around Rockefeller Center, might be billed in the credits as New Yorker With Attitude. That, and Guy Who Held the Camera While Mack Did the Funny Stuff.

I will not, as a result of the second role, actually appear on screen. But I did have lines, extemporized by Mack, that any critic would be sure to describe as “crucial to the plot development.”

Alas, any critic would most likely go on to describe them as “the worst imitation of a New York accent ever attempted.”

O.K. So accents, other than the one I come by naturally, are not my thing. Perhaps a better entry role might be Middle-Aged Guy With Ability to Look Very Stern, and I could work my way up from there.

Meanwhile, I’m not putting all my show business eggs in one basket. I’ve also been thinking about writing some hit country songs. I used to live in Nashville, and from what I could see, there’s good money in it.

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.

Erin Go? Not

I heard Kayne say my name in that drawn-out, questioning tone that, in my experience, never precedes good news:

JOOOOOOEEEEEEE....?

Uh-oh, I thought.

We were five days away from boarding a KLM flight to Dublin. For a week we would explore the Emerald Isle, or such parts as we could get to.

Pubs! The Guinness brewery! Jameson distillery! More pubs!

And of course many cultural, historic and artistic sites. I hear Ireland has them, too.

But then Kayne came into the room, peering closely at something in her hands. A book? Blue, it appeared. My brain ran through the possibilities, and quickly got a hit:

Passport.

Uh-oh.

I like to think of myself as a reasonably seasoned traveler. I do my homework, search for the best fares, investigate suitable lodging, check the weather forecast, take notes on attractions, collect tips from people who have been to my destination before.

Lacking, in this case, was due diligence to the little document that, if you are leaving the country, pretty much trumps everything else in terms of importance. I last renewed in February 1999. Which meant that it expired ... in February 2009. Six months ago, almost to the day.

Kayne, bless her, uttered not one word of reproach, but I had plenty for myself. Efforts to schedule an emergency renewal appointment went for naught. The passport officials, while polite, did not feel obliged to let me butt in line.

So we started trying to formulate fallback travel plans - domestic, obviously. Maybe something within driving distance, even, for three or four days. Upstate New York, say.. Or ... uh ...

Every possibility seemed to me likely to suffer from the comparison: We’re here, when we could have been in Ireland?

Which is why, as I write this, Kayne is on that KLM flight to Dublin. I don’t mind paying for my mistakes. But I can’t let the innocent be punished.

She gets back next week. I look forward to seeing the pictures.