Joe Torre, in Twilight Zone re-creation, pitches Tanyon Sturtz and Mike Meyers

Somewhere out there, in a dimension of sight, a dimension of sound, a dimension of mind, Rod Serling is looking to buy season tickets for the ’08 Dodgers.

Yesterday, Joe Torre, seeking to ease himself out of the opiate fog known as Yankeehood, began sipping the LA Kool-Aid by opening his first intrasquad game with two bombed-out ex-Bombers: Tanyon Sturtze -- the big-hearted, sore-armed lugnut of the 2004-05 bullpen collapses, and Mike Meyers, the once-stellar situational southpaw who last year transformed every left-handed batter into Rod Carew.

I know what you’re thinking. He followed up with Scott Proctor? Nope. For reasons that transcend the obscene human carnival – maybe Malcolm Lowry and Charles Bukowski could throw us some visions here – Joe held the line on self-torture and did not continue his journey up the River of Quantrill by bringing in the man who not only torched games but his uniform.

Joe, Joe, Joe... We miss you.

You're gonna have a tough year, dealing with the buffed cleavage Hollywood egos, the next injury to Nomar, and that first ninth inning with the bases loaded and the tying run at third, when you can hear the peanut vendor fart because everybody in the stands is checking email.

Even worse -- as the Gammonites in Tampa jockey to become top toad in the new Yank regime, the accolades will never cease to gush about Joe Girardi’s clockwork camp. They're already foaming:

How Abreu and Damon this year came in shape, as opposed to last year, when they served to foreshadow the national obesity scandal.

How Jason Giambi this year has strengthened his “core,” which has has yet to be decided is comprised of hard nut or gooey marshmallow.

How this year the men are running, the competition is looming, and this year the team is learning fundamentals long forgotten.

Every account screams the unwritten implication: that Joe had gone fishing, that Joe wasn’t commanding, that it was right for the braintrust to offer him a baloney-on-rye contract and then, when he hesitated, send security guards with cardboard boxes to his office.

So now Joe stares into the Pacific sunset, and here’s Nomar, and here’s Meyers, and here’s Tanyon, and here’s Proctor. Familiar faces. But where the hell is Stan’s Sports Bar, and where is Suzyn, and the subway, and the madness, and the stupid squirrel that climbs the right field foul pole on nights when the world seems boiled down to one point on earth?

They’re here. He’s there. It hurts.

Good luck to Joe Girardi. God bless Joe Torre.