It was warm and humid in New York until yesterday evening after a rain. Then, the autumn was back in the air. And the coolness is still there today although it’s not cold. But it is playoff weather and for Yankee fans the change to fall means more baseball. This won’t last forever, the Yankees making the playoffs annually, but it has been a constant in New York life for a generation now and you have to be a selfish fool not to take a moment to breath it in and give thanks.

[Photo Credit: I Spy NYC]

From Glenn Stout: “Hangovers were instantaneous, severe and violent.”

I wondered about being hungover as I passed this guy today and felt the ground vibrate.

More from Stout:

Mike Torrez screamed “I’m off the hook!” Darrell Johnson was sprayed with champagne in the Met clubhouse. Bill Buckner danced a jig on his ranch in Idaho, while Carl Crawford, Jonathan Papelbon and a cast of thousands not named Jacoby Ellsbury pushed Pesky aside, their careers distilled into a single moment, the lead of their obituaries already written. The whole 2011 roster elbowed their way past Stanley and Schiraldi and Galehouse and Willoughby. Don Zimmer, Joe McCarthy, Joe Cronin, John McNamara and Grady Little welcomed Terry Francona to the brotherhood while Joe Maddon looked on in sympathy, Buck Showalter grinned and pushed the pin into the voodoo doll a little deeper and Theo Epstein felt the pain and tried to peel the target off his forehead. Robert Andino joined Aaron Boone and Mookie and Bucky as an improbable villain and regional epithet. The dark corner deep in the heart of all Red Sox fans everywhere, the one that appeared to have healed got ripped open and suddenly seemed a little darker, a lot more crowded, and a whole lot more unpleasant.

More than one Boston fan woke the next morning and either logged on or turned on the television or clicked on the radio to confirm that the ultimate nightmare had indeed taken place. It had.

My mom was in town and came over for dinner last night. Ted Berg had given me some of the pulled pork he cooked over the weekend so I figured I’d make a couple of sandwiches, and as luck would have it, mom brought a loaf of challah. I’m not sure why, maybe in honor of the Jewish New Year that I don’t celebrate. She doesn’t celebrate it either, though she was once been coerced into “converting” to Judaism.That expired, at least in spirit, well before she divorced my dad. Still, maybe she brought the challah to remember the old days. Or just because she thinks it is delicious.

Anyhow, the bread was ideal for the pork, and we topped it with some homemade coleslaw and a vinegary bbq sauce.  I usually only think of challah for french toast but it’s more than lovely for a pulled pork sandwich too.

Happy New Year, indeed.

[Photo Credit: James Ransom for Food 52]

In the elevator this morning with my neighbor, Bee. She’s a nurse and we sometimes meet on our way to work. She is a zaftig Puerto Rican with a big smile. Got an easy laugh. Bee’s also a huge movie fan so I mention the upcoming George Harrison documentary by Martin Scorsese.

“Oh, I love Rock n Roll,” Bee said. “I was one of the only Latina’s that did back then. You don’t believe me? Inagaddadavida, baby!”

I remember waiting for the subway once with my grandfather. 81st Street, Museum of Natural History stop.  He walked to the edge of the platform and leaned over to see if a train was coming. That image is frozen in my mind. He was not a physical man and I was convinced he would tip over and fall over, down to the tracks. He didn’t. When the train came, we got on and an older guy kept looking at me and I thought he was going to mug us.

Mug. That was a word that was always on my mind as a kid in New York. I don’t hear it so much anymore. Not “jack” or “rob.”  Mug. Whenever I was on the subway I’d try to guess who would mug me and how I could escape.

[Photo Credit: Bruce Davidson]

Ah, if only we had a time machine and could go back and sit in the Polo Grounds. Man, that’d be nice.

[Photo via The Mighty Flynn]

On my way to the subway this morning I see a bus trying to make a left turn on a narrow street. But a car going the other way is blocking it. They both stop and soon there are several cars behind the car. The bus driver folds her arms and waits.

The woman driving the car blinks first and does a u-turn to let the bus pass.

Take a minute, or seven, to enjoy one of the great New Yorkers of them all.

We miss ya, George.

Enter Sandman rang through Yankee Stadium on Wednesday night, even though Mariano was in Seattle. Metallica was in town and a few of my friends went to see the show. They grabbed a few beers for the subway and made their way uptown.

I’m opposed to boozing on the subway because booze leads to piss and you’re S.O.L. when nature calls underground. More than that, groups of drunkards can get aggressive and, at times, violent, and I’d rather not be confined in tiny box cars with them when that happens.

So I wholeheartedly support police presence down there for the big crush of ball games and concerts. When my friends got busted I had no sympathy for them when the started to tell the story. But the story didn’t end where I expected it would.

One of them had an unpaid citation (of which he has no recollection) and he got to spend the next 19 hours on a tour of the New York City correctional facilities. He spent the night in lock-up. By the time he finally got to see a judge, around the noon the next day, she took one look at the case and sent him home with time served, seemingly annoyed she even had to say that much.

I think he should have been punished. There are a limited number of cops and just maybe they could have been doing something more useful at that moment. But in the end, he didn’t even pay a dime, for either citation and how much money did he cost the system by being processed? The way this went down seems like a terrible waste of everybody’s time and money.

What should have happened?

PM rush hour. Water main break Upper West Side at 106th St. Streets buckled, buildings flooded, subways shut down. UN in session on Upper East Side. Traffic snarled. How to get from midtown to Inwood?

There a usually a lot of routes to get to any given spot in the city. And we calculate the best way each time, and probably nine out of ten times we succeed. All those options, all those factors to consider, and most of the time we choose correctly and never think twice. We’re certainly not patting ourselves on the back for picking the express over the local.

But that one time we screw it up, our heads explode. This time, I was not as upset because it seemed that all the possible avenues were blocked for me. But if I screw it up because of my own ignorance (That parade is today?) I’m gonna stew in it.

[Photo by Metro]

Take a New York Minute out to look at this great photo gallery of the disappearing face of our city. From Retronaut, where else? Oh, and dig the book, by James and Karla Murray.

We’ve talked about eating on the subway. But shouldn’t hot coffee be a much bigger hazard? I’ve seen all sorts of coffee containers on the subway over the years, and I’ve never seen one spill. Do New Yorkers have mad balancing skills? Advances in coffee cup technology?

What’s your theory? Or have you seen a coffee disaster?

Some mornings, waking up is a chore. Maybe you stayed up to watch a late game or your kid had trouble sleeping. Perhaps one kid had trouble sleeping, and then you went into help him, and the other kid noticed, and all three of you ended up crammed into a skinny little toddler bed. Could be that all these things happened on the same night.

When morning comes, every minute is precious. Start by eliminating the shave. The coffee. The tie. The breakfast. Shudder, the shower?

What do you eliminate when you need to save a couple of New York Minutes in the morning?

The wife and I went to Pittsburgh last weekend. Went to PNC, gained 46 lbs each and had a great time. The wife said, “It’s a nice little city,” which is what a New Yorker says whenever they visit a town that is not Mexico City or London or Rome.

Then to come back and see something like this?

Well, it’s good to be home.

[Photo Credi: Ribonyc]

Sitting in the safety of my living room, reading about bomb plots, I sometimes wonder about the security of my commute. But then the time comes to get going in the morning and my head is clear of any notion that something might happen. When I arrive at my desk, I remember I was supposed to be worried and I feel irresponsible.

I’m not trying to ignore the threat, but at the most crucial times, it’s the furthest thing from my mind. I can see how that unconscious selectivity helps me function as a human being, but I wish it was a manual shut-off valve instead of an automatic.

How do you guys deal?

Peace to all of the Banter readers out there. To you and your families.

Walk Tall.

[Photo Credit: Joel Zimmer]

In memory of 9.11, please check out the first chapter of what I think is probably Glenn Stout’s best book, “Nine Months at Ground Zero: The Story of the Brotherhood of Workers Who Took on a Job Like No Other.”

[Photo Credit: N.Y. Times]

Fresh nail polish packs a wallop. At the end of the line, there’s always breakfast-eating and make-up-application on the train. And in the nice weather, there’s polish for fingers and toes.

It’s a collision of personal moments and public space that bothers some. The stinging scent of alcohol acetone in the nail polish isn’t the most pleasant eye-opener, but honestly, it’s better than a lot of subway cars. And on some mornings, every second counts.

I’ll probably take a harder line when a train lurches and a bottle spills on my leg. Until, then, I’d rather see paint than pancakes.

Seen. Older brother reading to his younger brother on the train.

Life is good.

You know if Dude really wanted to be bold he’d just walk around with his schmeckel hanging out.