I'm told the first MTA transit strike happened in 1966. And though I was alive for the second one in 1980, I was just a young impressionable sapling in Nebraska, watching the Wuzzles, and Pinwheel on TV, and managing the nightly rotation of 186 stuffed animals between my cozy bed, and the other not-so-cozy sleeping spot, my shelf. After all, I wanted fairness. (Ah, just the beginnings of my OCD which would come to haunt my future roommates.)
This past Tuesday at 3 am, the hour of infomercials, sloshy drunkenness, and the beeping of garbage trucks, marked the third transit strike in the city's history. How does that saying go...Three strikes.. you're out? If I were a frenzied conspiracy theorist, I'd have packed all my belongings (save for the contents of my Manhattan "menu" drawer, and my pigeon-poop-covered direcTV satellite) and evacuated the big apple to seek refuge in a new place, notably one without volatile public transportation (Gasp! These places exist?).
Of course, if I really DID harbor conspiracy theories, I'd be roaming dark, newspaper-strewn alleyways, mumbling about how many secret underground subway tunnels (inhabited by mole people of course) truly exist, or how the MTA could whine about tremendous debt, raise fees, suddenly celebrate a surplus, and then divvy out "tourist" discounts, all the while, operating with highly flammable control room equipment, archaic communications systems, and faulty Metrocard vending machines. But I have no outlandish theories, my belongings remain in my (small, yet charming) NYC apartment, and I only take taxis when absolutely necessary, being a strong proponent of mass transit, that is.
Gawker.com has, as expected, already featured transit strike wear: "I walked 150 blocks and all I got was this t-shirt," or "I survived 9/11, the blackout, and all I got was this lousy transit strike." But how about one that says, "I carpool with complete strangers, and gosh darnit, I like it," or "Where can you find culture in the big apple? The backseat of a carpool!" One fur-clad stranger with whom I rode to the East River, expressed sincere hope that the TLC would one day embrace "rainy day" carpooling allowances. I agreed. A 1-cab to 1-passenger ratio was absurd, I fired back. I wished my 2-minute friend a good night. It didn't matter that my hair was disheveled and that I sported disintegrating red diesel sneakers, and that she fancied mink and clutched a sturdy Pucci shopping bag. It had been a meeting of the minds, in the backseat of a yellow cab. The next passenger, a well-to-do gentleman in an impeccable business suit, flagged us down on Madison Avenue. "How is anyone going to get around you if you block traffic like this, sir," he reprimanded the driver, as he climbed into the backseat. (Why do drivers think they're exempt from street ettiquette?) Though we only traveled a short distance, we managed to discuss the fact that December makes him sleepy, that he'd never even heard of Hell's Kitchen, and that I grew up far away from New York City (in Omaha, the "dimple" of "the cheek of the land that is Nebraska," he quoted from some bizarre unknown source. An attempt at poetry.) We dropped him on Lexington, in the 60s, whereupon he wished me a wonderful holiday, and promptly paid, in advance, for my entire ride home (to the exotic, made-up land that is Hell's Kitchen). I was stunned. (I was also slightly nauseous from the driver's lack of proper braking skills.) Where is the New York of yesteryear? What happened to stealing other peoples' cabs? Aren't we all playing the survival-of-the-fittest game?
Well, it seems that New York City has shed its reputation as a seedy, crime-filled, graffiti-covered den of sin. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that one day, rainy day carpooling will prevail. Look for my tshirts soon, in stores near you. (Accessible only by public transport of course).
This past Tuesday at 3 am, the hour of infomercials, sloshy drunkenness, and the beeping of garbage trucks, marked the third transit strike in the city's history. How does that saying go...Three strikes.. you're out? If I were a frenzied conspiracy theorist, I'd have packed all my belongings (save for the contents of my Manhattan "menu" drawer, and my pigeon-poop-covered direcTV satellite) and evacuated the big apple to seek refuge in a new place, notably one without volatile public transportation (Gasp! These places exist?).
Of course, if I really DID harbor conspiracy theories, I'd be roaming dark, newspaper-strewn alleyways, mumbling about how many secret underground subway tunnels (inhabited by mole people of course) truly exist, or how the MTA could whine about tremendous debt, raise fees, suddenly celebrate a surplus, and then divvy out "tourist" discounts, all the while, operating with highly flammable control room equipment, archaic communications systems, and faulty Metrocard vending machines. But I have no outlandish theories, my belongings remain in my (small, yet charming) NYC apartment, and I only take taxis when absolutely necessary, being a strong proponent of mass transit, that is.
Gawker.com has, as expected, already featured transit strike wear: "I walked 150 blocks and all I got was this t-shirt," or "I survived 9/11, the blackout, and all I got was this lousy transit strike." But how about one that says, "I carpool with complete strangers, and gosh darnit, I like it," or "Where can you find culture in the big apple? The backseat of a carpool!" One fur-clad stranger with whom I rode to the East River, expressed sincere hope that the TLC would one day embrace "rainy day" carpooling allowances. I agreed. A 1-cab to 1-passenger ratio was absurd, I fired back. I wished my 2-minute friend a good night. It didn't matter that my hair was disheveled and that I sported disintegrating red diesel sneakers, and that she fancied mink and clutched a sturdy Pucci shopping bag. It had been a meeting of the minds, in the backseat of a yellow cab. The next passenger, a well-to-do gentleman in an impeccable business suit, flagged us down on Madison Avenue. "How is anyone going to get around you if you block traffic like this, sir," he reprimanded the driver, as he climbed into the backseat. (Why do drivers think they're exempt from street ettiquette?) Though we only traveled a short distance, we managed to discuss the fact that December makes him sleepy, that he'd never even heard of Hell's Kitchen, and that I grew up far away from New York City (in Omaha, the "dimple" of "the cheek of the land that is Nebraska," he quoted from some bizarre unknown source. An attempt at poetry.) We dropped him on Lexington, in the 60s, whereupon he wished me a wonderful holiday, and promptly paid, in advance, for my entire ride home (to the exotic, made-up land that is Hell's Kitchen). I was stunned. (I was also slightly nauseous from the driver's lack of proper braking skills.) Where is the New York of yesteryear? What happened to stealing other peoples' cabs? Aren't we all playing the survival-of-the-fittest game?
Well, it seems that New York City has shed its reputation as a seedy, crime-filled, graffiti-covered den of sin. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that one day, rainy day carpooling will prevail. Look for my tshirts soon, in stores near you. (Accessible only by public transport of course).
