Today is rich is headline possibility, regardless of where one falls on the political spectrum, or, perhaps more significantly, where one lives on the potential commuter path from say, downtown to Canarsie. Being a member of the exceedingly marginal media allows me the latitude to reflect what might be expected from my brethern: hoots and snark at the welter of coverage that tries to wring pathos, or just entertainment, from a fact that defines the ‘commuting�’ experience of the vast majority of those alive: walking a reasonable distance in often trying conditions. In other words, never has so much been written by so many for so little.
There are, no doubt, stories to be had that involve discomfort, sickness, frostbite and certainly worse, since today’s labor inaction will more than inconvenience those who have congenital medial conditions and for whom the public transit exists as integral to their treatment as an insurance card (dialysis patients, etc.). But these next few days will do what any number of pseudo-emergencies have done for generations: provide fodder for Talk of the Town pieces and getting a handful of people laid. And perhaps tamping down some of that Brooklyn is great superiority meme that has been a little too present lately.
Here at MR Strike Central (written hastily on the back of a piece of scrap paper with a Sharpie and taped over the monitor — okay, I haven’t actually done that, but I’ll think about it when I’m done), we’re taking it in stride (chuckle), but most because we haven’t had to actually stride anywhere today. Preparation consisted of buying a fresh bottle of bourbon (though this strike is perhaps a truly nefarious plague on the city — my preferred brand was unavailable).
With lots of air time to fill, we’ve been subjected to mostly the uninteresting stuff, even though this is actually a rather rich story, from end to end: a militant union that is perhaps rife with an internal conflict that is the driving force in the walkout, a intellectually bankrupt governor who set the stage by cravenly handing out ill-advised benefits (with the rousing approval of a state legislature — heavily funded by that same union — eclipsed only by Maoist-era China in its intransigence and seeming permanence), and the seeming inability to manage (stocked with appointees from that dimwit governor) the long-term health of one of the largest, best, and most effective public transit system in the world. Instead, we get lots of comments about how cold it is (brrr!), traffic problems (aiyee!) and rueful inquiries about getting home (public radio types are resoundingly stereotypical, all biking off to Park Slope).
At the end of the day, the State Supreme court swiftly approved a ‘massive’ fine that, if this strike lasts through New Year’s, might get large enough to buy half of Lenny Kravtiz’s apartment. Not reported widely was the interesting counterpoint that the Taylor Law, which the city is invoking to justify the fine, also prohibits negotiating pension benefits collectively. Since Dubya has been too busy spying on us to notice, there are still some powerful regulations left in the labor department, one of which is that bargaining in bad faith might exempt the union or its members from sanctions. That is, they can argue that they had to go on strike, since the MTA’s demand to negotiate pension benefits put them in an untenable position. If it is found that this does constitute a violation, it may well end up that the union can demand restitution from the state, the reverse of today’s ruling.
Aside from the very real effect this will have on those who can afford it least, and the certain and real discomfort this will cause many, just how central the transit system is to our culture was evident in the preponderance of counter-intuitive observation stories: just how empty it is. Given the nearness of the holiday, many workers likely moved around schedules, or worked from home. The masses of automobiles were not as great as expected because much of it simply wasn’t possible. The hordes of Jerseyites or Long Islanders who come in on the weekend were working wherever they normally do. The large numbers of city dwellers without cars didn’t go out and buy or rent one. And even if any one of these constituencies made a go at commuting by car, where would they park?
As a result, we have a very clear picture of what density requires, and what a well-run (though not managed) transit system affords. For all our criticisms, one should never lose sight of what an amazing resource we have in the MTA. And it is operated every day by an army of workers who by and large perform their tasks thanklessly, and are today vilified more than ever.
There may be real tactical flaws in the TWU approach, and just as many embarrassing anecdotes about self-interest (when attempting to justify lowering the retirement age for station agents, it was argued that the dust and ink in money posed health hazards) as you would find in a corruption story on AIG or Enron, but the truly minor inconvenience (though it sounds like a bad stereotype, my grandfather, who worked almost forty years in a steel mill, never had a driver’s license, and for a good decade walked over ten miles one way to work) this presents for so many should not justify the ire the workers will face. Like the Postal Service, it is one of the best arguments for government regulation and ownership of crucial services (for all you privatization fans out there, remember that the lines started out privately, and next time you complain about the seeming inanity of the system layout, thank the magical hand of the market).
I salute everyone who is making the ugly, dark (it’s almost the solstice) trek home, and I likewise salute the mostly unappreciated effort our transit workers make every day (remember, at best they didn’t get paid today, and it may be worse still). A drink to you all, from the admittedly comfortable command center for smart ass urban blogging.
*The Nancy Sinatra struck me as archaic, so today is a bit more age appropriate (for me at least)
Contempt in a Teapot.
There are plenty of reasons to dislike Moby. Purveyor of insipid and treacly music predestined to shill products targeted at the wallpaper-reading set (though that might be shooting a little high). Proprietor of insipid and self-consciously cutesy food establishments (I’m surprised we haven’t be subjected to McTeaney’s, a meat-free sandwich shoppe staffed by earnest underprivileged youths, or those that simply self-identify as such). Self-indulgent rich kid from Connecticut who transplants himself and postures downtown chic as badly as Liz Phair used to (at least she decided to make no bones about her reality). Highly public and doctrinaire vegan. Hell, vegan, period.
Today we can add ruthless businessman to that list, if reports are to be believed. I don’t — or, more particularly, don’t care, and the energy invested in not caring, somewhat equal to the effort required to skirt his officious Rivington Street mini-empire (as it juts further out into the sidewalk than any other business on what is a fairly narrow street), is a source of resentment itself. So something happened at some organ in the Moby empire. Wringing of hands, deployment of snark, blogged rebuttals. The makings of a sitcom plot based on bloggers courtesy the wubbie, circa 2007. But if being intentionally twee, ‘stylish’ or willfully obscurant got you banished from the Lower East Side, it would be pretty desolate relative to the rich tapestry we have today. So revamp or no, mass firings of communal love-in, what Moby does is of little concern to me, but the episode certainly underscores how much blogging has become like the news crawl at the bottom of CNN. Sure, you in the back row, you’re saying “What, you just noticed?” Well, no, but the Gawker standard of 12 posts a days seems to have infected other outlets. Add to the proliferation of real estate blogs (the Times weighs in, a Browstoner party gets written up in Talk of the Town — maybe my second anniversary party, comprising me having a glass of rye on the couch and generally hating, which, believe it or not, is distinct from most other nights, which involve bourbon and a desk, will get covered as well) and a story like this suddenly has legs. Well, 30 minutes thereof. Why this is a perfect squall situation is because later in the afternoon I noticed that Jack Abramoff pled guilty in return for an agreement to testify. And even though most of our well-known blogs take a pass on politics, there would be, one assumes, enough related interest for it to turn up somewhere. Getting my information through RSS, NPR streams, and a couple newspaper sites, I knew about the Terror at Teany (which occurred roughly contemporaneously with the Abramoff announcement) several hours earlier. If I subscribed to the right blogs, I doubt there would have been a gap. But it rankled because, aside from being the easy target of just about everyone, Moby is ostensibly (like the other LES celebrity bar owner, Tim Robbins) a political ‘activist’. But I couldn’t think of a single thing he’s done (aside from turning up at some part for Outfoxed — a fact I gather from some dusty remnants of an Observer article). Not like Ralph Reed, the conservative charlatan who seems to pop up just about everywhere (and, I found out today, is running for Lieutenant Governor of Georgia). Granted, Reed is a political operative and Moby is a bad singer, but his coffee shop contretemps is what holds our attention? When they say grass roots organizing is how political change is achieved, this is not what they are referring to. This isn’t some clarion call for blogging standards. I’ll leave that to the more capable. But even as we all stand in thrall of real estate prices, either drunk on the direct benefit it brings us, seething at the good fortune of others, or simply overwhelmed at the absurdity at all, it is crucial we don’t lose site of the fact that macro and micro economic and political events still have the power to interrelate and change things. I’ve been trying to figure out what to write about this year. Scope out an editorial calendar, try and make this a more rigorous enterprise. I haven’t come to any good conclusions. But I know I’m not going to write about Teany. At all. Except this once.