Complex Simplicity

By Peter Dabbene and Richard Tighe

Facts. Opinions. Anecdotes. Reviews.
Narration. Persuasion. Speculation. Punctuation.
Musings. Meanderings. Lists. Twists.
Geography. Astronomy. History. Gastronomy.
Athletics. Aesthetics. Comics. Economics.
Hiking. Holidays. Hamilton. Politics.
Blues. Brews. Tattoos. Earth.
Pathos. Ethos. Logos. Mirth.

Complex Simplicity reprints the first 101 entries from Peter Dabbene's monthly column in the Hamilton Post newspaper, plus assorted essays focusing on comic books, movies, social media, politics, mixed martial arts, astronomy, and more. With humor and style, these pages probe the important and not-so-important issues of everyday life in New Jersey, and America at large.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781716415654

Peter Dabbene

Peter Dabbene has also written Prime Movements, a collection of short stories, and The Invisible Book, a nine hundred page novel about marketing fraud.

Book preview

Complex Simplicity

Essays, etc. by

Peter Dabbene

Copyright Information

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing: October 2020

ISBN: 978-1-716-41565-4

This book is copyright © 2020 Peter Dabbene. All rights reserved.

Cover and book design by Peter Dabbene

Other books by Peter Dabbene:

Prime Movements

Mister Dreyfus’ Demons

Glossolalia

Optimism

Spamming the Spammers (with Dieter P. Bieny)

ARK (Graphic Novel)

Robin Hood (Graphic Novel)

More Spamming the Spammers (with Dieter P. Bieny)

The End of Spamming the Spammers (with Dieter P. Bieny)

www.peterdabbene.com

Foreword

I have 250 words for you. 

Peter Dabbene’s essays provide a uniquely New Jersey perspective to the everyday scenarios that we are all confronted with. This perspective emanates specifically from Central Jersey, (which is widely known to be the best emanating part of New Jersey). Somehow, when Pete writes about whatever is on his mind, it affirms the absurdity of many situations in our day-to-day lives to which we might never otherwise give a second thought. So, in a way, this collection of essays could be considered life-affirming. Affirmations of the absurdity of modern life. And, therefore, if these essays are affirmations, then isn’t this book an opportunity to make peace with ourselves and the modern world in which we live? And if this book is an opportunity for us to make peace with ourselves, then doesn’t that make our author a peacemaker? And if Peter Dabbene is such a peacemaker, then shouldn’t someone nominate him for the Nobel Peace Prize (or, if you prefer, the Noble Peace Prize)? Really, if you stop and think about it (which is what these essays are designed to do – make us stop and think), who is more deserving of a Nobel Peace Prize than Pete? Our author is arguably as worthy of nomination for a Nobel Peace Prize as any nominee as distinguished as the President of the United States.  Complex Simplicity?  How about absurd normality? Prepare to be provoked, amused, confused, and possibly enlightened by that which is contained within this book!

Rick Tighe

Council President, Hamilton Township, New Jersey

Author's Preface

This bulk of this collection consists of 101 columns written for the Hamilton Post newspaper, from 2010 to 2019. The Post has given me a forum to share my thoughts, and a monthly deadline to motivate me to do so regularly.  I'd like to thank Joe Emanski and Rob Anthes, editors, for their mostly hands-off approach, but also for their valuable suggestions to expand, and when necessary, scale back the size or scope of a column.

You'll also find one extra column (This Column Brought to You by Kelly Yaede) that the Hamilton Post editors decided to pass on, in order to maintain the paper's hard-earned reputation for political objectivity. It's a decision I completely understood, given that my wife was running against Ms. Yaede in that year's mayoral election. Even so, I would emphasize that nearly everything in that column was in my files and earmarked for a column long before my wife announced her candidacy.

Other writings on various subjects are also reprinted here, after originally seeing publication in a number of different online journals and websites. Most of what I write is prompted by my own interest in the subject, rather than any prediction of marketability, so I'd also like to thank the editors of those sites, for seeing some measure of value in my musings.

Among the offerings are eight blogs I wrote for Foreword Reviews about comics and graphic novels. I debated whether to include these, as they may not translate perfectly beyond the world of comics fandom, but they gave me the opportunity to interview some of my favorite creators in the field, so I indulged myself by including them. Thanks to Matt Sutherland and Howard Lovy, who green-lighted those entries. Thanks also to Suzanne Willever for website help, and special thanks to Rick Tighe, who graciously provided a foreword (and some flawless logic) to this book.

Enjoy!

Peter Dabbene

Hamilton Township, New Jersey

October 2020

101 Columns of Complex Simplicity

The Complexity of Simplicity (and the Fun of Hoarding Political Mailers)

November 2010

Greetings.

First, an explanation: the title of this column isn’t a reference to fractal geometry or some similar subject; it comes from a reality show a few years back, wherein a love-struck, socially inept M.I.T. grad professed to a particularly vapid model, The complexity of your simplicity is what fascinates me about you. I thought that was pretty funny at the time, and it also seems as appropriate a title as any, as I begin my first column for the Hamilton Post.

Election season is upon us; my fellow columnist Rob Anthes has written about political signs in this issue, and much attention is paid to political ads on TV. But it’s also time to harvest my favorite source of ripe whine and cheese: direct mail ads. For the past 10 years, I’ve kept a file saving nearly every piece of political direct mail I’ve received. And every year, I pull them out to savor the fine art that is political mail.

Curiously, I’ve been told that not everyone values these mailbox gems like I do. To better appreciate the direct mail approach, place yourself in the position of a candidate. Subtlety is definitely not the name of the game here. Much like politics itself these days, you need to be bold (some would say borderline obnoxious) to get people to pay attention.  If you’re running for sheriff, for example, maybe you’ll want to feature a photo triptych showing an ill-intentioned (but strangely well-dressed) criminal breaking into a house using a hook straight out of serial killer urban legends. You’ll want photographs of yourself—in uniform, if possible—while your opponent is shown lounging in a polo shirt, or better yet, an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt. You’ll want your opponents followed with cameras until your people can get just the right shot of them looking sleepy, or confused, or just irritated (maybe because they know they’re being stalked for that awkward moment or bad hair day). Make their photos in grainy black and white, to resemble a mug shot or something caught on a 7-11 security camera.

Showing some sad kids is always good when mentioning budget cuts; or you can really get creative, like the ad that prominently featured a mouse on one side, while explaining the danger of unsanitary cafeteria conditions on the other.

You’ll want photos of yourself in action—talking, that is—but looking passionate about whatever it is you’re discussing. Dignified passionate, not crazy passionate—empathetic, not pathetic. Sensitive. But not wimpy. 

You’ll also want senior citizens—lots of them, preferably in a park setting. Here, you’ll need to capture just the right mix of youthful, inspired leadership, and calm, sedate bingo partner.  Nothing too shocking—these are senior citizens. American flags are good.

Images are important for your direct mail piece, but so is the text.  You’ll need big, dangerous-looking font sizes to carry the full weight of terms like tax raiser and wasteful. Of course, if you don’t want to design your own direct mail ad, there are lots of companies that offer custom designed ads to help you win your hypothetical campaign.

Do these mailers change anyone’s mind? Maybe, maybe not.  Unfortunately, mud-slinging seems to work better than the simple statement of facts. It comes down to name recognition, a few out-of-context quotations, and a good photo.  In America, we seem to like our politicians the way we like our direct mail: slick and glossy.

With automated phone calls and sophisticated e-mail networks absorbing more of candidates’ advertising money, some predict that direct mail will make up a smaller slice of the election pie in the future. So, while you still have time, appreciate the absurdity. Pore over the carefully selected and slightly exaggerated factoids. Rally behind the champions of freedom and prosperity, and rail against the villains who want to take everything and make your life miserable. Instead of throwing away your direct mail unread, savor the overall packages for a minute or two. Or, if you’re like me, ten years.

And don’t forget to vote.

For Dad, in Memoriam

December 2010

My  Mom’s personality has always been a bit understated, so when she called at 6:30 a.m. and said, Your Dad’s not well, I need you here, I suspected the worst. When I arrived an hour later, a police car in front of my parents’ house confirmed my fears.

The rest of the day was a blur of tears and activity, settling arrangements at the funeral home, making and receiving phone calls, comforting and being comforted by friends and relatives. The next day the viewings began, two full days with an afternoon and evening session for each.  My father accomplished a lot in his life, and came into contact with a lot of people. We suspected a large crowd, but we didn’t know how large until the people started coming.

I never really appreciated the traditional Roman Catholic wake until now—I had always wondered how it could possibly be good for the family, after such a tragic event, to endure the long lines of sympathizers. After all, how many times can you hear someone say, I’m sorry? But it helped to see the long parade of people who had come to pay their respects, many of them with the highest compliments I’ve ever heard anyone utter. When you meet people who have lived 70 or 80 years and they tell you, Your father was the best man I ever knew, it becomes easier to step back for a moment and forget the loss, and just feel grateful that you had as much time together as you did.

Among the mourners, there were people from every stage of his life, many I’d never met, many with stories I’d never heard before. It was as if his life were suddenly flashing before my eyes. During those two days of viewings, after I’d drift toward the back of the room to greet people or attend to some detail with the funeral director, it was comforting to return to the front of the parlor where he lay, looking peaceful. It felt like life could go on like that indefinitely, in that room, still in his presence. But of course, that was impossible. Death is a bitter pill any way you look at it—seen as the final link in a chain of events, all death seems avoidable; but if you extend the timeline enough, all death is inevitable.

I had steeled myself to the idea of my father’s death since he had a heart attack ten years ago. He survived that, but for me it brought home the idea that he wouldn’t be around forever.  His own father died at age 59, when Dad was 27 years old. At age 37, I have to feel lucky to have had a decade longer with my father than he had with his.

Dad didn’t talk about his father often, because he couldn’t do so without choking up. But when he did, he always said that his father was his hero. I don’t know if he knew it, but Dad was my hero, too.

There’s a saying that a man is not a man until he buries his father. I couldn’t disagree more. I might be a more appreciative man now than I was before my father’s death, but certainly not more of a man in total, and maybe even less. There’s a piece missing that can’t be replaced, only covered over with scar tissue.

In searching for closure to my father’s death (and this rather cathartic column), there is one quote that I think is appropriate, by the former Governor of New York, Mario Cuomo: I talk and talk and talk, and I haven’t taught people in 50 years what my father taught by example in one week. I might change that slightly, to I write and write and write, but otherwise, the sentiment is the same.

Pasta and Me: A Love Story

January 2011

This is a column about a love story; but let me warn you: it may get a little saucy.

We first met when I was very young, too young to know what I was getting into, really. The attraction was instant and she seduced me easily, with her many varieties and colors. She could be long and thin or short and fat, whatever I wanted—dressed in red one day and white the next. Every once in a while, I’d just smear butter on her and we’d take it from there.

We were good for each other for a long time, but people change. As I got older, I found I couldn’t tolerate her as well as I used to. Oh, she still tasted delicious—it’s just that… well, let me tell you the sad tale of a bitter breakup.

Courtesy of a recent blood test, I had discovered that although my overall cholesterol level was good, my amounts of  HDL (good) and LDL (bad) cholesterol were out of whack, the latter being MUCH higher than it should be. I resolved to change my diet. A little less meat? A little less ice cream? These were easy sacrifices to make, where my health was concerned.

But it wasn’t that simple—avoiding saturated fats is a good idea, my doctor said, but while that might help my total cholesterol level, it wouldn’t help the HDL get higher or the LDL get lower. To get those numbers back in line, I’d have to cut back on simple carbohydrates—soda and other sugary drinks, white rice, and yes… her. Pasta.

I’d known pasta intimately, for a long time. We met at least once a day, often twice a day, and sometimes even three times. Her angel hair, those elbows I loved to nibble…  I couldn’t get enough of her. Things often got steamy, but we tried not to overcook it… I liked it al dente, not soft and limp.

The Atkins people said it would never work between us, but we paid no attention. Our rendezvous might take place at any time of day, one pound at a time. Vodka sauce, Puttanesca, with broccoli or with lentils—she was up for anything.  But in the end, it was too much of a good thing. It seems our relationship was so close, it had become… toxic.

Right now, we’re easing off, taking a break, testing a trial separation—however you want to put it, it’s still painful. I see her every day, hiding in the pantry, just waiting for me to come to her… but I can’t. It’s tragic, really, on the lines of Romeo and Juliet, or Dom DeLuise’s Fatso. It’s the end of an era. My salad days were over long ago (and short-lived, as I never cared for oil and vinegar), but this is, perhaps, the end of my pasta salad days.

Since realizing we weren’t made for each other, I’ve played the field a bit, searching for a steady, lasting love, with steady, lasting carbohydrates. Friends and family would set me up with a very nice wheat pasta or "quinoa, the new girl on the block," but it’s not the same. They were a little too nutty, and the experience left a bad taste in my mouth.

Despite the risks, I haven’t kicked pasta completely. We meet once in a while—furtively, late at night when no one else is around. We’ll always have Rome, and that carbonara for the ages. And maybe we can remain friends and see our relationship evolve in a more mature way, free of youthful indiscretions. I am seeing someone new these days, though: a statin drug. She’s not as exciting as pasta, but the doc says she’s good for me.

The Barks and Howls of a Winter Dogwalker

February 2011

With winter upon us, I feel compelled to use this forum as the voice for a forgotten minority, of which I am a member. Stay at home Dads, you ask? No. Mets fans? Again, no.

The dogwalkers.

Our numbers have dwindled, the result of modern conveniences like dog parks and invisible fences and miniature hypoallergenic dogs that exercise on hamster wheels… but there are some of us left. And our dogs, for better or worse, are accustomed to being taken for a daily tour of the neighborhood, that they might achieve their goals: to stretch their legs and spread the scent of their urine (not necessarily in that order).

My dog Amoke (ah-MOE-kay) is a Siberian Husky, so naturally she loves the cold. (We selected the name Amoke because it sounded vaguely Eskimo despite its Nigerian origin, and also because, when translated, it means To know her is to pet her. Perfect for a dog; maybe not so perfect for your daughter of Nigerian descent.)

So yes, that’s me out on the ice, holding onto the leash for dear life, sled-dog skating. It would be nice to be inside sipping hot chocolate at the bay window, laughing at all the fools with their dogs that run in circles idiotically every time it snows, but I figure at least I give people some entertainment value.

Chief among the many hazards and discomforts we dogwalkers face in winter are the sidewalks of homeowners who, rather than shoveling, prefer to wait for the sudden, localized onset of global warming, in which bursts of 50 degree weather conveniently melt the snow from their sidewalks without their ever having to lift a finger. 

Last year at a large corner property in my area, the family in residence (Mom, Dad, and three kids, the oldest about 12, by the look of him) emerged after a big snowstorm, shovels in hand, while I was walking the dog. I admired the team effort, the family togetherness, like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. I also looked forward to a clear path in the days to come. With five shovelers, they quickly cleared most of the driveway. Then they dropped the shovels, piled into their SUV, and drove off—possessed by a snow-borne compulsion to acquire massive quantities of milk and bread, perhaps.

Days passed, and the top layer of snow on the still-untended sidewalk froze into a slippery mess. The sidewalk remained nearly impassable, and yet I forged ahead, even as my dog shot me looks saying, What, we’re going through this AGAIN? Aren’t YOU supposed to be the SMART one? But aside from traversing even deeper snowbanks or braving a busy street, there weren’t any better options. 

One day I saw the family building a snowman in the front yard as we trudged through the snowy blockade. After a week of negotiating this treacherous pass, with the only dent in the icy snow my own footprints, I knew I needed to do something.

But what? Anonymously grace their mailbox with a copy of Hamilton Township Ordinance 130 (requiring homeowners to remove snow from their sidewalks within 12 daylight hours, or suffer a $10 per day penalty)? Not really my style. Knock on the door of the homeowner and express my concerns face to face? Way too direct for my taste.

If I’d had this column back then, venting onto the page might have satisfied me. But instead, in a demonstration of non-violent protest that wouldn’t have occurred to Gandhi had he lived 200 years, I stopped one night in mid-dog walk, dug my heel into the snow and wrote the word LAZY in big letters, with an arrow pointing toward the house. Yes, it was petty, and not something to be especially proud of—but man, did it feel good at the time.

There have been a few snowstorms since that one, and I’m happy to say, the sidewalk in question has been promptly cleared and salted every time. As I write this, it’s snowing again. The dog is circling, eager to get outside. Get your shovels ready—hardy and hard-headed, into the snow we go.

The Selling o’ the Green

March 2011

The opportunity to drink green beer is a March highlight, but during a recent trip to the supermarket, I found myself beguiled by green products of another sort.

I needed cheesecloth. If you don’t know what cheesecloth is, don’t feel bad—neither did I. The image of a room-sized dropcloth made of Swiss cheese occurred to me more than once.

I found it by accident—drawn, ironically, by a section of shelf space marked by products of a dull brown  cardboard color, a sharp (or dull, if you want to get technical) contrast to the rainbow of bright hues on most product packaging. Turns out, cheesecloth looks a little like a gauze bandage.

Cheesecloth in a plain, simple wrapper wasn’t all that drew my attention; nor was it the assortment of waxed paper, household gloves, aluminum foil, and other goods that most men don’t usually seek out until they’ve unsuccessfully substituted something else.

It was all unmistakably environmentally friendly (nothing says environmentally friendly like drab packaging). But what really stood out was the company and brand name offering these products:

If You Care.

This was a pretty bold provocation by the greenies, invoking Mother Nature as a wielder of guilt the equal of any human Mom worth her salt: Oh, stop at the store and get some of those unbleached, chlorine-free, non-toxic coffee filters. If you care, that is.

After checking the prices of the If You Care products and their alternatives, I realized the following fact:

If You Care = expensive.

If You Don’t Care = now on sale.

It’s all about the green—putting a price tag on green, that is. And it’s about me seeing the Earth as a vagrant with a cup begging for spare change, and responding I’ll help the Earth a little bit, but after that, it’ll have to fend for itself, as opposed to, say, extending an invitation to follow me home and stay a while, rent-free.  Here’s a description of If You Care Firelighters, from the company’s website:

Using only wood from FSC Certified forests and 100% non-GMO vegetable oil, our Firelighters are made from 100% renewable resources. Most other firelighters contain kerosene and/or paraffin or paraffin wax, derived from petroleum, the combustion of which can release carcinogenic formaldehyde. If You Care 100% Biomass Firelighters are considered carbon neutral, are non-toxic and harmless when in contact with plants, vegetation or aquatic organisms, and can be safely stored near or with food.

Is anyone else exhausted just from reading that description? If you add a comma after If You Care, the words become the preface to a long list of rather uninteresting facts. No one would consciously seek out toxic firelighters, would they? Yet other firelighters exist, so can they really be all that bad? Do I care enough about the distinction to buy the If You Care brand? If not, would donating half the price difference between the green product and the non-green product make everything copacetic?

Putting a price tag on the environment raises sticky questions of morality and social responsibility. As someone who swallowed plenty of pool water growing up, the If You Care-supplied information that chlorinated drinking water might be dangerous was an (underwater) eye-opener.  But shouldn’t policing that fall under the aegis of the Environmental Protection Agency? Does it really fall to me to buy coffee filters that are certified not to have used chlorine in the manufacturing process?

Everyone’s got a different answer to the question How much is enough? Recycling in Hamilton is easy, and it’s required, and as a homeowner you get those cool green and yellow buckets. It’s a feel-good, win-win for everyone, as far as we know. For many people, it’s enough.

But the question remains: If I have an extra dollar to help the world, is it really best directed toward If You Care Firelighters? And if I recognize If You Care Firelighters as a more socially responsible choice than another brand, does that logically require me to also buy If You Care Recycled Aluminum Foil, Sandwich Bags, and Cooking Twine? 

If I cared, I suppose I would buy the green products, despite the extra cost. If I really cared, I’d recycle the twine (provided I could find a recycling center that accepts textiles). Driving a car there would kind of defeat the point, so maybe I would ride my bike, once I’d saved up enough twine. That sounds like a good, clean, responsible, guilt-free way to kill an afternoon.

So now I’m curious: Do you care?

Because, you know, when it comes to If You Care… I don’t think I really care that much.

Dear Joe: The Truth About Kids (A Letter to the Editor)

April 2011

The editor-in-chief of the Hamilton Post, Joe Emanski, is soon expecting his first child. He recently received the following letter to the editor from a fellow columnist:

Dear Joe,

I understand you’re expecting a child soon. Congratulations!

Your news makes me think back to those hazy days before my own children were born, when all I heard from parents was how wonderful and rewarding parenthood was. At first I wondered if those parents were simply Panglossian pollyannas, trying to convince everyone—including themselves—that everything in their lives was perfect, proceeding as expected, according to plans composed long ago.

Well, Joe, now I’m on the inside. I’ve infiltrated the cabal and I can tell you that there is, absolutely, a conspiracy among parents to hide from not-yet-parents the true misery it can be raising children. Forget Dan Brown, even WikiLeaks couldn’t handle the magnitude of this secret—a secret on which the lfe of every living person depends. As an insider, I can clearly see the difference between the way parents grumble to other parents, then abruptly change demeanor as soon as a non-parent of child-bearing age enters the room. Not only do the parents instantly stop complaining about their own children, they immediately descend on the non-parent like wolves targeting a gimpy caribou. Then the assault begins, with "So when are you going to have kids? followed by You’re really missing out on something special," and other popular dictums.  Alas, Joe, short of funds for spycams, I have no firm evidence to show you.

Since conspiracy theorist is a title one doesn’t generally aim to acquire, let me back away from my shocking revelation for a moment and head for the firmer, but still squishy, footing of theoretical science. Some scholars suggest that, evolutionarily speaking, crying, screaming, and generally undesirable behavior  might have a larger, long-term purpose beyond getting a diaper changed or acquiring candy: to dissuade the parents from having more children, thereby freeing up more parental resources for the first child.  And if crying is step one, then surely whining is just a further enhancement upon this particular evolutionary adaptation. In summary: your child has the ultimate incentive to become the most annoying thing in your life.

Of course, evolutionary tactics such as these aren’t always effective on parents already clouded in a 24/7 daze of sleep deprivation, which pretty much explains the arrival of our second child.

I know this all sounds paranoid, Joe— conspiracies, babies manipulating your thought processes. Except it’s all true. I know it. And soon you will, too.

In fairness, it’s not all bad being a parent—you have an excuse to pull out all the stuff you liked when you were a kid and foist it on your own children. There are the funny things children say, and the moments of transcendent joy when your kid says a first word, first sentence, first pees in the potty.

And then there’s the rest of the time.

Now, I don’t want to be responsible for further lowering the United States’ already anemic birthrate. So let me tell you, despite being woken at all times of the night, despite the serious and ongoing lifestyle curtailments, even aware of the conspiracy among parents to convince the next generation to procreate... 

Parenthood. It’s worth it, in the end. Surely. I just haven’t gotten to the end yet. Really though, it’s great.

Trust me.

Would I lie to you?

Why I Strongly Dislike the New York Yankees

May 2011

My wife and I discourage our kids from saying they hate anything—it’s a powerful, sometimes dangerous word. So I won’t say I hate the Yankees. I just strongly dislike them.

To me, rooting for the Yankees is like cheering for Francis, the spoiled neighbor, instead of Pee-wee Herman in Pee-wee’s Big Adventure. The Yankees have the biggest financial advantage over their competition of any team in any major sport, having outspent their competitiors every year since 1999. From 2002 to 2011, the average annual gap between the Yankees’ payroll and the second highest team’s is over $50 million, an average of 38% higher. Bad contract? Injuries got you? Go spend some more to fix it.

The Yankees’ last losing season was in 1992 (they spent modestly that year, only sixth highest in the league). This is an exceptional run of success, and despite the fervent cries of Yankee fans everywhere, its main cause was not good management, the Yankee tradition, or anything except economic superiority. The average difference between the Yankees and the lowest spending team each year  from 2002 to 2011? Drum roll, please...  $160 million, or 648%.

It’s not the Yankees’ fault—a big chunk of the problem is the structure of Major League Baseball itself. Sure, the Yankees pay a Luxury Tax every year for going over the annual payroll threshold—and it's exactly the same harmless nuisance to the Yanks’ ownership as landing on the Luxury Tax space is to an owner of Boardwalk and Park Place on a Monopoly board.

Compare with the NFL, where from 2002 to 2009, the top spending team (which changed every year) only outspent the second highest by an average of 6%, and the lowest spending team by 78%. Use all the Sabermetrics you want, you can’t easily get past a $50 million salary gap in baseball. That’s two top quality free agents per year, at least. So imagine the Yanks without A-Rod and Mark Teixeira. Changes things, doesn’t it?

And a $160 million gap? It’s a staggering difference, like outfitting a professional team against the Bad News Bears. Even if they tripled their spending, most small market teams couldn’t compete with the Yankees. So instead of investing in player salaries, they pocket their share of MLB’s revenue-sharing distributions. In the process, once-great organizations like the Pittsburgh Pirates have become farm teams for big spenders who lure the best players away with the promise of a bigger paycheck. Which is why it’s so amazing, and so rare, when a small market team wins the World Series.

Sour grapes, you say? Bad apples, I would counter—because money is not the only reason I demonstrate pronounced distaste for the Yankees. For all the great players and role models the Yankees have boasted over the past 40 years, they ‘ve also had an awful lot of jerks, starting with the King Jerk himself, George Steinbrenner,who must be paying a publicist from beyond the grave to fluff his image of late. Good businessman? Probably. Jerk? Definitely.

Billy Martin and Reggie Jackson? Jerks who hated each other. Roger Clemens? Lying jerk (allegedly—wink, wink). Jason Giambi? Big doofy lying jerk. And since we’re now into the cheaters section of this column, let’s quickly list the ex-Yankees named in the Mitchell Report: aside from Clemens and Giambi, there’s Randy Velarde, Chuck Knoblauch, Gary Sheffield, and of course, good old sweet cheatin’ Andy Pettitte.

Let us not forget the cheater (and jerk) who will one day likely hold the MLB career home run record, Alex Rodriguez. I prefer to view his nickname A-Rod as an insult, combining Nimrod with... well, you can guess what the A stands for. He’s the victim of a swelled head, and not just in the HGH sense, despite his sort of, well, you know, kind of, admission about using banned substances. He may not be as much of an ass as Barry Bonds yet, but give him time. I’m sure he’ll think of something.

Sorry, Yankees. If you want to take credit for Lou Gehrig and Joe DiMaggio, or even Derek Jeter and Mariano Rivera, you also have to accept  blame for the rest of these yahoos.

And we’ve all met the new Boss (same as the old Boss)—Hank Steinbrenner, inheriting the mantle of jerkhood from his Dad.  I can just imagine Hank and Charlie Sheen, sucking down tiger blood and discussing the Yankee tradition of....  wait for it... winning. It makes you wonder what either Steinbrenner would say to Gehrig or Joe D., or Mickey Mantle, or Derek Jeter—oh wait. That last one actually happened.

Hank, like his father, has presided over the Yankees like a nightmare sports Dad, raging and foaming at the mouth every time he doesn’t get his way. Do we pay respect to sports Dad, laud him for driving his child to unprecedented success in sport? Or do we tell him to sit down and shut up?

A hypertrophied sense of Title Entitlement is yet another reason I have a deep reservoir of antipathy for the Yankee organization. It starts with Steinbrenner, but trickles down to others. In a game like baseball, where free agency allows players to switch teams with ease, the highest bidder expects to, and nearly always will, get the top players—recall the barely concealed outrage when Cliff Lee spurned the Yankees’ contract offer. 

If you’re a baseball fan, do you really want to root for the ultimate non-underdog? Or, like me, have you gradually come to feel a sense of ha—of subtle hostility toward the Yankees? 

It’s always a good idea, after slowly building