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The Complete Adventures of Transit Man
It’s a Worm! It’s a Snake! It’s… Transit Man!
By PHILIP RECCHIA
Posted Monday, June 9, 2008
Step in, stand clear of the closing doors and slap on those nose plugs because it’s time for “Yo, Transit Man!” the only subway column that stops. In the middle. Of sentences. For no. Apparent. Reason. But now we’re moving full-steam ahead, so let’s get right to today’s questions.
Q: Why does the MTA bother making announcements in the station when no one can decipher them on that Flintstones-era PA system?
A: You think that’s bad, try logging onto their website – www.Y§l?.info
Q: Why is my train always being held in the station due to “sick” passengers?
A: “Sick” passengers tend to move slowly – what with hiccupping, blowing chunks or being hung over – so the conductor will hold the train until they have boarded and are seated safely beside you.
Q: How old is our subway?
A: Bud Apple of the New-York Historical Society tells Transit Man, “The very first NYC Transit train left Spain on August 3, 1492 and arrived five weeks later at East Broadway, which its conductor mistook for the Far East.”
Q: Will you be sticking any statistics into today’s column to give it the look and feel of real journalism?
A: Of course: 98 percent of all subway passengers favor yet another MTA fare hike, provided it’s accompanied by at least one of the following service upgrades: open bar, roulette tables, live performances by Tony Bennett.
Q: On the L train to work last week I counted 775 passengers packed into one car. Isn’t that some kind of violation?
A: Indeed. According to MTA code (Chapter 7, Section F, Aisle 3 across from the canned meats), “Rush-hour cars should contain no fewer than 875 passengers, at least 10 of whom are on their way to an indecent-exposure festival.”
Q: Where does the term “straphanger” come from?
A: In the late 1800s, subway trains had leather “straps” from which passengers who asked stupid questions were “hanged.”
Q: I hate it when people hold the doors open for their friends – who are, like, 900 miles behind them. I say they should be slapped with a $100 summons. My roommate says they should be banned from the subway for 30 days. My girlfriend says James Blunt is way cuter than John Mayer. (She walked in late.) Who’s right?
A: No one. Though your roommate was on the right “track”: Door-holders should be slapped – 10,000 times across their bare buttocks with one of those huge wooden spatulas used to make brick-oven pizza.
Transit Man will now pass the hat. (Cash only, please.)
The Return of Transit Man
By PHILIP RECCHIA
Posted Monday, June 16, 2008
It’s time now for another incarnation of “Yo, Transit Man!” the subway column that can be ripped out of the paper, balled up and hurled at oncoming assailants. Let’s begin with a question that’s near and dear to Transit Man’s spleen, which was removed in 1986 and today sits bronzed on his grandmamma’s mantle.
Q: What’s up with the Second Avenue line – which the MTA has been promising ever since the Indians sold Manhattan to Peter Minuit for $24 because they were sick and tired of schlepping six blocks to the Lexington Avenue line?
A: Transit Man is happy to report that Mayor Bloomberg has already raised $3 billion of the $3.8 billion needed to make this dream a reality.
Q: What are you unhappy to report?
A: It was raised in subway tokens he found in a dumpster behind MTA headquarters.
Q: There seem to be more – and uglier – rats scurrying about the subway these days. Can’t something be done?
A: You didn’t hear this from Transit Man (unless the Pulitzer Prize committee asks), but sources say the MTA is developing a new “poison for rodents” program, wherein any passenger who brings a live rat to a token booth gets a free dose of strychnine with which to bump the little bugger off.
Q: Is this the part where you throw in statistics that sound bogus but are actually on loan from John McCain’s personal collection of facts and figures?
A: Yes: 86 percent of all New York City subway crimes are committed by Barack Obama and his wife Michelle.
Q: Working as a team?
A: At least 90 percent of the time.
Q: I’m a Harvard MBA who runs the municipal finance department at Goldman, Sachs. But even I can’t figure out how the MTA ended 2007 with a $272 million surplus then “went into 2008 with an $800 million deficit.”
A: Though Transit Man never completed his MBA (nor even started it), common sense tells him that, on December 31, the agency’s board threw itself the New Year’s Eve party di tutti New Year’s Eve parties.
Q: How tutti was it?
A: Each goodie bag contained the deed to a Polynesian island.
TODAY’S ETIQUETTE TIP: When asking fellow subway passengers for directions, remember to be friendly, polite and effusive.
WRONG: “Yo! Where the train to Bleeker?”
RIGHT: “Good day, sir. Could you by any chance tell me which train I take to get to Bleeker Street, where I’m meeting my girlfriend for a quickie?”
Never Fear, Transit Man Is… Somewhere Around Here
By PHILIP RECCHIA
Posted Monday, June 23, 2008
All aboard for another edition of “Yo, Transit Man!” the only subway column that appears monthly, bimonthly, annually, biannually, sexually, bisexually or whenever we get around to it. Our first question comes from someone who may or may not be a woman himself.
Q: Why do some women think it’s OK to use the subway as personal-grooming salons, what with all their makeup slathering, lotion smearing, teeth flossing, eyebrow tweezing, armpit shaving, Botox injecting and so on?
A: Transit Man has long wondered the same thing. But instead of sitting around grousing about it, he recently began using his commute time to do guy-oriented things. Yesterday he threw two touchdown passes up the middle of the F train. The day before that he welded a carburetor to the ventilation duct. Tomorrow he’s going to dissect a goat.
Q: Though I moved here from Antlers, Oklahoma, 23 years ago, I still won’t ride the subway after 8 p.m. because, frankly, it scares the #$@! out of me. Am I just being a Nervous Nelly? And is it OK to say “#$@!” in the newspaper?
A: As testament to the NYPD Transit Bureau’s spectacular work, the odds of being victimized in our city’s subway system recently plummeted to an all-time low of one in 714,000, about the same as being struck by light . . . HEY! What’s that behind you? (Ha-ha! Made you look!)
Q: Say I was a member of the John McCain for President Committee and tried to slip some positive campaign messages about John McCain into your column by asking, “Wasn’t that John McCain I saw in the Bowery subway station yesterday giving food and clothing to a blind homeless leper?” Would you print my question about this great American patriot (John McCain) (who’s way more brave than Barack Obama) (also Indiana Jones)?
A: Transit Man would never fall for such a ruse (even if the hundred-dollar bill that accompanied your letter did arrive safe and sound [wink, wink]).
Q: Last week on the B train I found a Cartier necklace encrusted with rubies the size of Brazil nuts. Tell me honestly, Transit Man, what would you do with it?
A: I would try my darnedest to do the right thing, namely by calling the MTA Lost-and-Found and saying, “I found a valuable item that I would like to return to its rightful owner pronto.” Only I’d say it in Norwegian.
TODAY’S SAFETY ADVISORY: Never ride the subway naked.
Transit Man and the Menacing Motorcars
By PHILIP RECCHIA
Posted Monday, June 30, 2008
Stop whatever you’re doing, even if it involves Natalie Portman, because it’s time again for “Yo, Transit Man!” the only transit column with a built-in navigation system (N: up, S: down, E: right, W: left). Today we’ll be focusing on automobiles and why you should never own one.
Q: According to a sign on East 45th Street between First and Second Avenues, parking is permitted “except between 12 a.m. and midnight.” If you don’t believe me, my husband, who’s studying to be a Franciscan monk, will be writing in any moment now to back me up.
Q: She’s not lying, my son.
Q: See! And this is just one of many perplexing parking signs I’ve seen around the city lately. Who writes these things?
A: Though Department of Transportation Commissioner Janette Sadik-Khan did not return calls seeking comment, she did send Transit Man an email promising to fix the sign “within the next five to three business months.”
Q: With gas prices through the roof, I’m thinking of siphoning from some SUVs on my block that are always backing over my dog and taking up two spaces. Naturally, I’d do this at night when no one is looking, which brings us to my question: What’s the fastest yet quietest siphon on the market?
A: Transit Man is outraged that you would sully his good name – to saying nothing of opening him up to civil and criminal charges! – by writing to inquire about the Makita SpeedSucker 3000 (just $29.99).
Q: How old do I have to be to drive? Signed, Benjy.
A: You’ve come to the right place, Benjy, because there are lots of unscrupulous people out there – like your teachers, state Attorney General Andrew Cuomo, Walter Cronkite – who’ll give you the wrong answer. They’ll tell you you can drive when you’re 16. But the truth is, you have to be 32. You also have to have a college degree, a steady job as a court stenographer and no desire whatsoever to weave in and out of traffic at 90 mph while emitting hip-hop beats that measure 5.6 on the Richter scale, thus frightening the piss out of Transit Man.
Q: What’s the politically correct term for meter maids these days?
A: That would be “parking enforcement officer,” as in, “Yo, parking enforcement officer Brazini! You sure is lookin’ sweet in that regulation cap.”
Q: What if it’s a male officer?
A: Then you would use meter maid, as in, “Hey, meter maid O’Flaherty! What’s the matter – couldn’t hack nursing school? Ha ha ha!”
TODAY’S SAFETY TIP: When driving in a gale-force hurricane, be sure to steer clear of airborne pedestrians.
Bumper Demise Driving Transit Man Bonkers
By PHILIP RECCHIA
Posted Monday, July 7, 2008
There’s a simple reason why I’ve been stopping on the street to fondle the bumpers of old-model cars lately: My new-model car doesn’t have any.
I did not notice this when I bought the silver sedan last month. I was too busy drooling over its state-of-the-art features like GPS navigation system, dynamic radar cruise control and voice-activated sushi bar.
If I had looked, here’s what I would have found: The manufacturer (whom I’ll refer to only as “having the same initials as ‘Laverne & Shirley’ creator Gary Marshall, but with a better sense of humor”) failed to install rubber protrusions at each end. In their place were flimsy plastic panels buffed to a high gloss, which is like replacing roofing shingles with Hostess Ding Dongs.
This is a big problem in my borough of Brooklyn, where I park on the street 856 days a year.
Faced with ever more cramped conditions, Brooklyn drivers often resort to maneuvering into spaces shorter than their cars. They do this by ramming the car in front of them to inch it forward, then ramming the car behind them to inch it backward, then ramming the car in front of them again, and so on until they’ve transformed a six-foot space into one that fits a 16-foot vehicle.
So you can imagine how my $27,359 car looks after just one month. It looks like both ends have been gnawed on by the U.S. Olympic Beaver Team.
I tried exchanging it for one with bumpers. But, after bursting into a fit of laughter so severe that he required a tracheotomy, the dealer let me in on a piece of common knowledge I had no knowledge of: There are no bumpers on automobiles anymore. Our nation’s entire auto industry has shifted from the trusty-rubber-protrusion method of protecting against minor collisions to the flimsy-plastic-panel one.
“Why would they do that?” I asked.
Alas, it was too late. Re-convulsed with laugher, he fell and smacked his head on the rear-end panel of a 2008 coupe, causing fatal damage.
To the panel, I mean. The dealer should be back on his feet by Labor Day.
In the meantime, I’m taking pains to prevent further damage to my purchase. After gingerly parking it each evening, I plan to lay in wait there ‘til dawn. If any driver comes within three feet of me, I’m going to roll down my window and shout, “Ready… aim… SQUIRT!”
So beware: Wasabi mustard can eat clean through those “bumpers."
Transit Man Meets The Flasher
By PHILIP RECCHIA
Posted Monday, July 14, 2008
Cram into the car lickety-split because it's time for another edition of "Yo, Transit Man!" the only subway column that protects against sun, rain, sleet and that white stuff that leaks from the ceiling at West 4th Street. Today's first question comes from one of Transit Man's many non-English-speaking readers visiting from Europe this summer.
Q: Que tren tomo para conseguir a Columbus Circle? (What train do I take to get to Columbus Circle?)
A: C. (C.)
Q: Si? (Yes?)
A: Si – C. (Yes – C.)
Q: So far this year, I've been flashed three times on the subway. What's a girl to do?
A: Next time some deviant opens his raincoat . . . [EDITOR'S NOTE: For legal reasons, all references to the following terms have been removed from this response: "pipe clamps," "ice tongs," melon scoops" and "ball pein hammers"] . . . until he hollers "Uncle!"
Q: I hate it when some passenger who smells like he fell into a vat of day-old fish intestines plops down on the seat next to me -- especially in the summer, when the AC is set on "swelter." Is there any way to deter this?
A: Neatly concealed in his briefcase, Transit Man always carries a large, hungry crocodile to brandish on such occasions.
Q: Beginning next week, I'll be living on Bergen Street in Cobble Hill and working in Elm Place in downtown Brooklyn. What's my quickest commute?
A: If service isn't suspended due to signal maintenance, track repair, asbestos removal, asbestos installation, flooding, locusts, toads, ghosts sightings, oil-well strike or tunnel relocation, simply take the G train one stop to Hoyt-Schermerhorn.
Q: Are you going to toss any statistics into today's column to give it journalistic authenticity?
A: Naturally: As we speak, 93 percent of all male subway passengers between the ages of 18 and 78 are ogling 100 percent of all female passengers between the ages of 18 and 38.
Q: Last week, this guy on the A train was selling Rolexes for $29 each. So, naturally, I bought one. But the next day I took it to 47th Street to have the band adjusted and the jeweler told me it's not really a Rolex!
A: What is it?
Q: A Piaget.
A: Let that be a lesson to every reader: Never buy anything from a subway vendor without getting one for Transit Man, too.
TODAY'S RECYCLING TIP: Expired MetroCards are delicious when topped with a strip of bacon and a wedge of cheddar.
Hawking Your Home? Get Hip to Transit Man’s 25% Solution
By PHILIP RECCHIA
Posted Monday, July 21, 2008
Like many mortgage-strapped New Yorkers desperate to unload their homes these days, you’ve no doubt been wondering: “Would it help to see more tattooed flesh around my neighborhood?”
The answer, of course, is yes: The higher the inked-to-non-inked-skin ratio among locals, the more likely it is you’re living in a hip “nabe.” And according to a recent survey by Some Real Estate Firm Hoping To Get Its Name In The Paper (but I sure fooled them, eh?), 63 percent of New Yorkers planning to buy homes this summer said “hipness” is the quality they’re looking for most in a nabe.
So if you’re not seeing much body ink, a good idea is to get a tattoo gun and go door to door offering free samples of, say, an actual-sized python. If your neighbors balk, tell them they’d be helping raise property values by 25 percent. If they still balk, just pin them down and start inking.
Another good hipness indicator is vintage shops. Hipsters love these, so the more the better. If your nabe doesn’t have any, try this: Go into a new-clothing store, take several dozen items into the fitting room, and stomp around on them until they look old and unappealing. Then return them to the racks with hand-written tags that say “Authentic Vintage Apparel (add 25% to list price).”
A similar tack can be taken at furniture stores, but be sure to bring along some wire brushes and a hatchet.
Now let’s talk about food. Comfort food is very popular with the hip set, so you’ll want at least 10 comfort-food restaurants in your nabe. A simple way of achieving this is to go into eateries with names like Le Petite Portion Bistro and, after scrutinizing the menus, leap up and shout, “What, no meatloaf with a tapioca-pudding glaze! Darned if I’ll be eating here any more – let alone leaving my usual 25-percent gratuity!”
Before you know it, Le Petite Portion Bistro will have changed its name to Rusty’s Roadside Grubfest.
Yet another way to ratchet up the hipness factor is to start rumors about celebrity sightings in your nabe, though without being too obvious:
CORRECT: “Yesterday I saw Scarlett Johansson at Rusty’s eating tuna casserole on a bed of crushed Cheerios.”
INCORRECT: “Yesterday I saw Scarlett Johansson looking at a one-bedroom walkup in my building at 1368 Ocean Parkway. Then I saw her fork over $12.5 million for it.”
I have many more ideas, but I’m out of space so they’ll have to wait. In the meantime, if the mortgage company comes knocking on your door, tell them to talk to the hatchet.
Transit Man and the Turnstile of Doom
By PHILIP RECCHIA
Posted Monday, July 28, 2008
Grab on tight to those handrails because it’s time for another chapter of “Yo, Transit Man!” the only subway column that offers nonstop kvetching between Pelham Bay Park and Far Rockaway. Let’s begin with a question from a rider who has been waiting on the line since late May.
Q: Whenever I swipe my MetroCard through the turnstile, I get a message saying “Insufficient Fare” – even if I just refilled the thing. So I’ll swipe it again and the same message comes up. After about 10 minutes of this, the turnstile tells me I owe money, like “Please Pay $50 If You Ever Want To See Your Children Again.” I’m not too fond of my children. Still, it’s annoying.
A: You think that’s annoying? Yesterday Transit Man got a message asking if he wanted $3 from his MetroCard to go to the Presidential Election Campaign Fund. (He did not.)
Q: What’s your biggest pet subway peeve?
A: Transit Man hates it when he’s trying to board and people stand right in front of the doors instead of moving to the middle of the car – even though there’s enough room there to park a Hummer. He thinks these people should lose their right to vote. And to drive. And watch TV.
Q: I never know how much – or if, even – to tip my conductor. Please advise.
A: While it is customary to offer your hard-working subway conductor a gratuity after each ride, the amount should be commensurate with the service. For instance:
Q: Does Transit Man have a special lady in his life?
A: Yes, but he doesn’t like to talk about her lest the tabloids twist his words into sensational (if accurate) headlines like “Transit Man’s Secret Engagement to Keira Knightly! Penelope Cruz furious, vows to fight for the guy she loves.”
Q: What’s the most disturbing thing you’ve ever seen in your subway travels?
A: Transit Man once observed a woman with piercings in her tongue, nose and navel get off the 6 train at 125th Street.
Q: What’s so disturbing about that?
A: When she got on at Bleeker Street, she didn’t have any piercings.
TODAY’S PUBLIC-HEALTH WARNING: Before sneezing in a crowded subway car, be sure to swallow all of your egg salad sandwich.
All Hail Transit Man!
By PHILIP RECCHIA
Posted Monday, August 4, 2008
Hightail it out of those station stops because it’s time again for “Yo, Transit Man!” the only subway column that makes no mention whatsoever of the subway system. Instead, we’ll be talking today about taxicabs – so let’sgetrighttoitbecausethemeter’srunning.
Q: What was the purpose of those groovy floral decals we saw plastered all over so many taxicabs last year?
A: That was a campaign to promote good will among the taxi-riding public, namely by letting them know New York City cabs are clean, friendly vehicles that sell LSD.
Q: Doesn’t it annoy you how cabbies – with flagrant disregard for the fact that they’re blocking traffic – will stop right in the middle of a busy street to pick up a passenger?
A: Transit Man believes this practice should be punished by life imprisonment (unless, of course, he’s the passenger; then the cabbie gets a $20 tip).
Q: Why do some cabbies refuse to take passengers to certain neighborhoods?
A: Because they’re afraid “certain people” will harm them.
Q: Can you tell me who these “people” are – so I, too, can avoid them?
A: Certainly you jest.
Q: Are cabbies allowed to talk on cell phones while driving?
A: No. But they may use the device for other essential purposes, such as:
—Watching naughty videos.
—Scratching their personal regions.
—Dipping into the hummus when out of chips.
—Flinging at slow-crossing pedestrians.
Q: What’s the best way to catch a cab in Manhattan in the rain?
A: Transit Man has found the following method to be extremely effective: (1) Stand on the curb near a busy intersection while wearing rollerblades and wielding a harpoon gun. (2) As soon as a cab passes, fire directly into its rear bumper. (3) Hold on tight.
Q: What happens to valuables that passengers accidentally leave in cabs?
A: Within 24 hours, drivers are required to turn the items in to any one of eight Taxi and Limousine Commission precincts, where a TLC officer, in accordance with regulations, promptly lists them for sale on eBay.
Q: Will you be capping off today’s column with a pertinent statistic?
A: Yes: Each day from 7 a.m. to 8 a.m., 63 percent of all NYC cab drivers are idling directly below Transit Man’s bedroom window, honking their horns.
If you are not 100% satisfied with this column, try reading it again after a three margaritas.
Steppin' Out With My Babies
By PHILIP RECCHIA
Posted Monday, August 18, 2008
There’s something about a gorgeous summer day in New York that inspires me to take my girlfriend by the hand, look deep into her eyes and lie my butt off. I’d like to tell her the truth. I’d like to look into those sweet, gentle eyes and say, “Nina, I’m an ogloholic.” But I suspect she’d strangle me with her iPod cord.
As an ogloholic, you see, I’m incapable of ignoring any attractive woman within a 100-yard radius. If I’m at Madison Avenue and 65th Street and have to be at Madison and 70th by, say, 3 p.m., I’ll set out no later than 9 a.m. Walking north, I’ll make excellent progress for about 12 seconds. Then a willowy brunette across the street will catch my eye and I’ll pop over for a closer look. “Just a quick one,” I’ll promise myself.
But moments later I’ll spot an elegant redhead heading west on 66th and be off for another. Then it’s south to survey a pair of stunning blondes window-shopping on Fifth. Before you know it, I’m sprawled out on the grass in Battery Park, gaping at a dizzying array of beauties sunning themselves along the water.
So you can imagine how hard it is to hide my condition from Nina. I’ve tried the “squat and peek,” where I squat to tie my shoe then sneak a peek at an oncoming cutie. Also the “point and feign,” where I point to some object near a fox and feign interest in it, like “My, what a lovely fire hydrant,” or “Getta load of that trashcan!”
Still, my beloved Nina – whom I’d never dream of two-timing (and, in case she reads this, plan to wed tomorrow in a surprise ceremony at Buckingham Palace) – is getting suspicious. Last week, during a protracted “yawn and gawk,” she caught me sizing up a raven-haired siren and snapped, “See something interesting?”
That was when I took Nina by the hand and explained that the woman in question bore an uncanny resemblance to my Aunt Vivian, who, 10 years ago to the day, had perished in a freak golf-cart accident after swerving to avoid a stray duckling.
Then I began to sob and a suddenly sympathetic Nina gently wiped the tears from my eyes.
And not a moment too soon because a sultry Latin number, apparently out to exacerbate global warming, had just sashayed ‘round the corner.
Transit Man and the Melodious Mystery
By PHILIP RECCHIA
Posted Monday, September 25, 2008
Scamper to the station posthaste because it’s time again for “Yo, Transit Man!” the only subway column able to squeeze 14 full-grown riders onto a single line:
Today we begin with a statement posing as a question.
Q: Whenever I see someone fall asleep on the train, part of me feels obliged to gently wake him so he doesn’t miss his stop.
A: What does the other part feel obliged to do?
Q: Put Cheez Doodles in his hair.
(A: This is reason No. 1 why Transit Man never rides the subway without his trusty sombrero.)
Q: The lyrics to “Take the A Train” say “the quickest way to Harlem” is to “take the A train.” But the B and C trains make the exact same stops as the A. So why isn’t the song called “Take the A, B or C Trains”?
A: Sources tell Transit Man the Rev. Al Sharpton is equally outraged by this egregious musical miscarriage, and will soon be organizing a boycott of the letter “A.”
Q: How come there are no restrooms on the subway?
A: Transit Man put this excellent question to MTA spokesperson Phyllis Wembley, who declined to comment (though did say off the record, “If you’ve really got to go, rest assured that we maintain a ‘don’t ask, don’t smell’ policy’”).
Q: My boyfriend, whom I recently dumped after finding out he cheated with my best friend, plans to watch “The Taking of Pelham One Two Three” tonight – on the DVD player I bought for his birthday! He’s never seen it, so I’d love you to spoil the ending for that little #$@!.
A: Gladly. In the final scene of this classic Big Apple subway thriller, villain Robert Shaw gets bitten in half by a giant rubber Academy Award-winning shark.
Q: Who’s the greatest Big Apple subway conductor of all time?
A: Charles Gilroy (1931-2004). During his six years with NYC Transit, “Choppin’ Charlie” racked up a whopping 79,582 SOPs (shutouts of passengers holding the doors open). Though Gilroy was traded to Boston in 1969 for two signalmen and a track inspector, his record still stands!
TODAY’S IDENTITY-PROTECTION TIP: When defacing movie posters in the subway, be careful not to rat yourself out to the authorities:
CORRECT: “Brad Pitt is a doo-doo head.”
INCORRECT: “I, Scotty Roach, of 1306 Lexington Ave., Apt. 5-G, think Brad Pitt is a doo-doo head."
A Glorious Day in Transit History
By PHILIP RECCHIA
Posted Monday, September 1, 2008
Get up off those grubby benches because it’s time again for “Yo, Transit Man!” the only subway column that doubles as a sanitary seat cover. Today’s first question was selected from the one that came in this week.
Q: I hear the MTA is trying to burnish its image by instituting a “Subway Riders’ Bill of Rights.” What I’d like to know is, before drafting it, did the agency solicit input from you – the tri-state area’s leading expert on dark, decrepit, overpriced modes of transportation?
A: They did not. That’s why Transit Man is formulating his own riders’ rights, which will be released in bill form as soon as he finds some tattered, yellow parchment to give it that authoritative look you want in an historic document. Until then, here are the basic points:
– I: No rider shall be subjected to advertisements about disgusting medical conditions such as bunions, hammer toes, nail fungus, blackheads, whiteheads, cold sores, genital warts, herpes or Scientology. If a rider does see any such ads on the subway, he has the right to rip them down and put up a picture of Scarlett Johansson splashing in the surf.
– II: At least seven days a week, riders shall have the right to speedy, delay-free trips. In the event there is a delay of more than, say, 10 seconds, riders shall be airlifted out of the subway and driven to their destinations by Dale Earnhardt Jr.
– III: Riders shall have the right to shush anyone who boards the train – particularly in the morning, when no one is in the mood – and starts bellowing about the need to embrace Jesus or else burn in hell. If, after two shushes, the zealot persists, riders shall be obliged to elect a jury of their heaviest peers, who shall sit on the zealot until he or she clams up.
– IV: If someone who smells really bad – so bad that rats are fainting from the odor – wanders onto the subway, riders shall have the right to shout, “Shoo, pig!” If, however, for fear of being politically incorrect, all but one of the riders just sit there pretending to ignore the potentially lethal odor while the lone, heroic rider does their shooing for them, the lone, heroic rider (who, let’s just say, is a subway columnist) shall have the right to collect $5 from each of them at gunpoint.
– V: For one month after the announcement of a fare hike, riders shall have the right to assemble in the home of the MTA chairman and put their feet up on his coffee table.
Do you have a question for Transit Man? If so, spray-paint it on the wall of your station stop.
The Transit Man Brand of Justice
By PHILIP RECCHIA
Posted Monday, September 8, 2008
Replenish those E-Z Passes pronto because it’s time again for “Yo, Transit Man!” the only transit column that won’t rat you out for smashing the window of a car whose alarm has been blaring for three hours. Let’s begin with a question that has been on the minds of many teed-off drivers.
Q: I understand there are placards that would allow me to park anywhere I want, including the lobby of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, without being ticketed or towed. Where can I get one?
A: Unfortunately, they are issued only to the city’s highest-ranking elected official, his official cabinet members, their official deputies, their official interns, and their (the interns’) (also the deputies’) official Facebook friends.
Q: Last week I got a $100 ticket for talking on my cell phone while driving. But I was only using the antenna to pick a chunk of wax out of my ear – the phone wasn’t even working because I haven’t paid my bill since February. Should I fight the ticket?
A: You should indeed. Better yet – though Transit Man isn’t an attorney – he will plead the case for you, if only for the chance to say:
“Your honor, I’d like to ask officer McSweeney to examine exhibit A – which the bailiff is removing from its evidence bag as we speak – and tell the court if it is not in fact the same substance that was lodged in the defendant’s aural cavity at the time of the alleged offense.”
Q: Is this the juncture at which you cite examples of genuine vanity plates that could only have been issued in New York?
A: You bet your life sentence it is:
— PMS-N
— XQZ-MOI
— PHA-Q
Q: What’s your biggest pet driving peeve?
A: More and more, Transit Man is seeing drivers – who are obviously not cops – zip through traffic jams after flipping on an illegal siren. Just once he’d like to see real cops pull one of these bozos over, ask him to step out of his vehicle, cuff him, read him his rights, stuff a cactus down his pants, shove him back in his vehicle, strap the siren to his head, flip it back on, and leave him there until he passes out.
Q: Or his battery dies.
A: Yes. Whichever comes first.
TODAY’S PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: Friends don’t let friends drive drunk, unless it’s one of those kiddie Ferraris they sell at FAO Schwartz – in which case, break out the camcorders!
Transit Man and the Phantom Tunnel
By PHILIP RECCHIA
Posted Monday, September 15, 2008
Scurry to the platform PDQ because it’s time for another installment of “Yo, Transit Man!” the only subway column made from 100-percent recycled graffiti. Today’s first question has been edited for length but not clarity.
Q: Duz skitzin la peeps gwatt muzeum a nat’l histree byda V trane?
A: Unfortunately not.
Q: Why doesn’t the Staten Island Railway connect with the New York City subway system?
A: Though proposals for a tunnel that would run underneath the Narrows between Staten Island and Brooklyn have been floating around for years, city officials could never agree on whether to award the $4 billion project to the Gambino Construction Company or Bonnano Contracting Corporation.
Q: Speaking of city officials, if Michael Bloomberg – as he claims – rides the subway to work, does that mean the mayoral limousine is just sitting in some garage gathering dust?
A: It does indeed. That’s why Transit Man has asked the City Council to take up his Equal Rides Resolution, which would allow New Yorkers to use the city-owned vehicle for personal business, provided they (a) have a valid driver’s license and (b) are gainfully employed as a subway columnist.
Q: I understand there’s a move afoot to wire all 277 underground subway stations for cell-phone service. Please update me.
A: The bad news is, the MTA isn’t scheduled to complete this project until 2013. The good news is, they’ve promised to repair both remaining payphones by 2010.
Q: Is it my imagination or has there been a recent increase in the number of subway riders going bald?
A: Transit Man, too, has noticed this trend, among both men and women. He attributes it to global warming.
Q: If someone who’s scrambling to board the subway ahead of everyone steps on my foot and elbows me in the ribs, what’s the proper form of retaliation? I mean, am I only allowed to step on his foot and elbow him in the ribs? Or, as he started it, can I also slap him upside the head?
A: Etiquette expert Millicent Pickwick tells Transit Man, “While it’s natural to want ‘payback’ after being jostled by an ill-mannered passenger, violent confrontations are never the answer. The answer is to follow him home, wait until he’s asleep, and ring the #$@! out of his doorbell.”
Q: Then run?
A: “Yes – like a muther.”
TODAY’S HYGIENE TIP: Before sitting down on the subway, always rip out your old seat and install a new one.
Transit Man and the Suspicious Tramp
By PHILIP RECCHIA
Posted Monday, September 22, 2008
Whip
out those MetroCards ASAP because it is time once again for “Yo,
Transit Man!” the only subway column printed on scrumptious
fruit-flavored paper stock. Let’s begin today with a question from the
late Sir Alec Guinness.
Q: You always refer to your column in superlative terms, but how do you personally stack up to the competition?
A: Transit Man is the only subway columnist who can tell the difference between a B and D train simply by sniffing them.
Q:
Please settle an argument. According to a recent article in your
newspaper, all MTA board members “receive free lifetime travel passes.”
I say that allows them access only to trains and buses. But my husband
(who’s an ignoramus) says it also includes taxis and pedicabs.
A:
Sources tell Transit Man that, in addition to all four abovementioned
modes of transportation, board members get comped on horse-drawn
carriages, Circle Line cruises, Big Apple Helicopter tours and the
space shuttle.
Q: What do you make of people who sit on the subway eating steam-table grub from the corner deli but looking like they’re feasting on a three-course meal at Le Cirque?
A: Transit Man can only imagine that when they do dine at Le Cirque, they’re not the type who send the paté de foie gras back because “it lacks the proper consistency.”
Q:
Yesterday on the M train this guy came up to me and said he was Gene
Hackman. Then he asked to borrow $10. But I was skeptical, as he
appeared to be a dwarf. So I only gave him $4. My question is, what’s
your position on panhandlers?
A: Transit Man is guided by the
ancient proverb “Give a man a fish and he will eat for a day. Teach him
to fish and before you know it he’ll be lugging sackfuls of
foul-smelling sea creatures onto the subway – as if the subway’s not
already enough of a stinkfest.”
Q: Do you think it’s hard for
new conductors to announce station stops like “Ralph” Avenue and
“Mosholu” Parkway without giggling?
A: Transit Man doesn’t know
about that, but last summer when he read that the new MTA chairman
would be a man named “H. Dale Hemmerdinger,” he laughed so hard a
wisdom tooth flew out of his nose.
TODAY’S ETIQUETTE TIP: Always
offer pregnant passengers your seat after checking to see if they’re
really pregnant and not just faking it with a pillow.
The Secret Identity of Transit Man
By PHILIP RECCHIA
Posted Monday, October 13, 2008
File through those turnstiles tout suite because it’s time again for
“Yo, Transit Man!” the only subway column that absorbs odors, sounds,
sights and fare hikes. Today’s first question comes to us live from the heart of the Rocky Mountain region, which accounts for the delay.
Q: Dear Transit Man: Do you have any advice for aspiring subway
columnists like me, 13-year-old Billy Baker from Poncha Springs,
Colorado?………….
A: ………….Well, Billy, subway columnist is one of the hardest jobs in the
entire world – harder even than president of the United States! I
myself spend at least 12 hours a day alone in a room talking to
imaginary children like you, whereas George Bush spends just 10. But if
your heart is set on this exciting career, it’s never too soon to start
by exploring the Poncha Springs subway system. If Poncha Springs
doesn’t have a subway system, why not build one? All you need is some
concrete, metal, glass, plastic and electricity. Good luck!
Q: Why are some of our subway lines numbered while others are lettered?
A: New York City subway historian Clement P. Winthrop, author of “Metro
Mysteries Unraveled,” tells Transit Man, “Damned if I know.”
Q: Last week, two transit cops searched my purse and found a nail file.
So then they frisked me, looking for more “weapons.” Is this legal?
A: Yes. NYPD Transit Bureau officers reserve the right to inspect both passengers and their belongings.
Q: But I was home in bed at the time.
A: Bed searches are also within their rights, so long as the officers are wearing regulation boxer shorts.
Q: In my hometown of Bucharest, subway announcements are made in Romanian and English. So why can’t the MTA announce in English and Romanian?
A: As far as Transit Man can tell, the MTA’s announcements are in Romanian. It’s English he’d like to hear once in a while.
Q: With all the “funny jokes” you make about the MTA, I’m surprised they still let you into their press conferences.
A: You would not be surprised if you saw Transit Man’s press pass,
which reads “Ernie Anastos, Fox 5 News” and sports a photo of Bill
Ritter.
Q: They actually fall for that?
A: They do when he wears his Chuck Scarborough mask.
TODAY’S SAFETY ADVISORY: If you see something, say something (unless what you see is a $100 bill).
Transit Man's Got an Axiom to Grind
By PHILIP RECCHIA
Posted Monday, November 3, 2008
On the eve of the most important presidential election since John F.
Kennedy beat out Teddy Roosevelt for the starring role on the
fifty-cent piece, Transit Man turns his attention to that fact the he’s
numerically challenged. If you’d like to help him become numerically proficient, please email $99.99 to his PayPal account at once. Or, email $59.99 to his PayPal account. He’ll never know the difference.
In 1790, give or take the truth, an English lad whom I shall identify
momentarily arrived home and reported: “Father, I’ve gotten an A in
algebra.”
“Have you really?” his father replied, quite astonished (not so much at
the estimable grade but at the fact that he never before realized he
had a son). “Well, then, let’s have a look.”
Pridefully, the lad handed over his report card.
“Why, this is no A,” his father chided, “it’s only a C.”
“But, sir, you don’t understand. In algebra, A = B and B = C. Thus, A = C.”
This vignette from the boyhood of Peter Mark Roget is especially
poignant for me because, like the legendary synonymographer, I too am
no man of numbers. Although I did win a fifth-grade arithmetic award,
I was in my second year of college at the time and took great offense
at the honor.
Yet now that I have reached the seasoned age of two score and four,
while earning a very respectable $29,000 annually for the past decade
without any use of mathematics whatsoever, I would like to express some
longstanding concerns I have had on the subject.
To begin with, why must a circle have 360 degrees? At this moment,
there are undoubtedly countless geometricians at M.I.T. waiting
ravenously at their blackboards, chalk in hand, for precisely such a
question. Nonetheless, I will not give them the satisfaction of
bewildering me to epic lengths with some arcane response that involves
ancient Greek men sitting around on rocks making mud pi’s.
No, let me instead, propose a circle with 370 degrees. Granted, this
circle will be a bit warmer, but I see that as a change for the better,
particularly in the Arctic Circle.
Another geometric axiom that has always annoyed me is: It takes two points to define a line.
Nonsense. A line is a long straight thing down the center of the road
that you should never cross in two-way traffic. Or, a line is something
the Rockettes form onstage at Radio City Music Hall. The two points are
what you get (in my book) for convincing any one of them to meet you
after the show.
Moving on to the higher planes of numerica, we come to trigonometry. As
a rule, I refrain from the sophomoric rhetorical device of employing
definitions to embark upon a discussion. But in this case, unabashed
ignorance has me scrolling furiously through Websters.com as we speak.
Under “T” I find:
trigonometric function(noun) a function of an arc or angle most simply expressed in terms of the ratios of pairs of sides of a right-angled triangle.
An admirable attempt to sound knowledgeable about this branch of
mathematics, Webster, but how well did it go over at parties?
Personally, I’d rather redecipher the Rosetta Stone by candlelight than
try to make heads or tails of trigonometric functions. So lest someone
object, I will relegate them to that tabooed list of topics that
includes religion and politics, and may we all sleep better in mixed
company.
What I have been leading up to here is my distinguished nemesis, the
Word Problem. To fully appreciate the grief once given me by these
textbook favorites, know that I am someone who to this day carries a
Playschool abacus when shopping for apples or stamps.
On that note, bear with me this specimen:
At 8:45 each morning, 18-year-old Edgar drives 1.5 miles to school at
an average of 30 miles per hour. As soon as classes let out, he drives
26 miles home at an average speed of 96 miles per hour, detouring
somewhat to visit his friend Sue.
On March 23, exactly halfway to school, Edgar’s rear wheel pops off and
he is stranded on the side of the road. He then flags down a woman,
Lola, to whom he is immediately drawn like lobster to butter.
If lobster is $13.99 a pound and Lola is $16.50 a pound, what is the
annual public-works budget for the State of Utah and how long (in
metric time) will Sue have to wait to see Edgar again?
The way I see it we need first to substitute Edgar for a more palatable
appellation, such as Alistair, and call him “X.” Then we must raise the
driving age to 21 to prevent nefarious characters like Alistair (Edgar)
from ever again zipping recklessly through our streets.
Ipso jure, we now know that it will be at least three years
before Sue, whom we shall call “Y,” again sees Alistair. To convert to
metric time, simply add X to Y then divide by the quotient. Using this
formula, we get 1.7 years, a significantly shorter sentence for
Alistair, but as he was no great orator in the first, I won’t complain
if you won’t.
Finally, we multiply Lola’s weight of 120 pounds (and those of you
who’ve seen her in a bathing suit will know that I am being gracious
here) by Sue’s wait of 1.7 years, we realize that Alistair would be
wise to forget his word problems ever existed, grab a bus for Utah
pell-mell, abduct Sue and Lola on the way, and marry them both at the
first church they pass.
After all, the Mormons the merrier.
N’est-ce pas, Roget?
Transit Man Is Mad as Hell (though you’d never know it)
By PHILIP RECCHIA
Posted Monday, Nov. 17, 2008
With yet another round of MTA fare hikes looming in
the distance, to say nothing of ever more shoddy service, Transit Man
feels compelled to march downtown and give the agency’s board a piece
of his mind. Only problem is, he’s terrified of public speaking. Here,
for the first time, he discusses his phobia in hopes of convincing the
federal government to foot the bill for 12 weeks of intensive therapy
in the Swiss Alps. Because – what the hell? – that’s as good a use of
the$700 billion bailout package as any he has heard yet.
Whenever I’m spotted sipping port on a hillside far from town it’s
because I’m due in town to m-m-m-make (sorry, I get nervous just
thinking about it) a speech. I don’t much like lounging on
nature-infested surfaces, and port makes me pucker, but I will take
them any day over public speaking.
This wasn’t always the case. As a young man of 18 (months, that is)
I’d toddle into any room and hold forth on issues ranging from what I
want (a piece of candy) to when I want it (now!).
But no self-respecting orator can go on like that forever, naked and
begging for sweets. Eventually he must slip into something less
comfortable and tackle more meaty topics, like “The Mideast Crisis—When
Will They Learn?”
The problem is, with maturity has come the alarming realization that I
possess none of the skills of an effective speechmaker. For one, I can
never bring myself to look directly at the audience. It just seems
rude. That they are staring at me is bad enough. I needn’t stoop to their level.
So I fix my gaze on the papers I am holding at nose’s length, which
contain carefully plagiarized thoughts that I can’t for the life of me
read because they (the papers—though the same can be said of my
thoughts) are trembling at a frantic pace.
The root of this anxiety, doctors assure me, is “Some sort of phobia?”
Harsh lighting, spider-infested podiums, carefully aimed citrus
fruits—their speculation is endless.
Then there’s my voice, which is as two-faced as they come. At home in
front of the mirror, it is commanding and resonant, serving up
Oscar-worthy impressions of Gregory Peck as Abraham Lincoln in Julius Caesar
(“IV score and VII years ago…”). But the moment I become the focal
point of a packed auditorium, it squeals something awful before
trailing off into a whimper.
If trembling, squealing and whimpering weren’t disconcerting enough,
it’s frankly quite lonely up there. If only I had some loving soul at
my side to hold my hand and mop my brow, I might stand a chance.
Better yet, give me three women of color (preferably black) with the
kind of vocal chops that enhanced so many Ray Charles albums and I’d be
off to the races.
If I stumbled from the get-go, with a feeble “Good eeeevening, ahem,
ladieeees and, er, genteeeelmen of the boar…” my backup speakers would
jump in with:
“HE SAID, GOOD EEEEEV-AH-NIN’, FOLKS! (YES HE DID, YES HE DID.)”
Or perhaps I flubbled a key line. Perhaps I meant to say, “That the
already beleaguered people of New York City should have to fork over
three dollars per ride on this putrid, rodent-infested grotto you call
a subway system is an outrage,” but I in fact blurted out “Wazm hpfft
seej prunk doobth mwan klote.”
In that case, my speakers would jump to the rescue with:
“HE WON’T TAKE IT. (NO HE WON’T, LORD, NO HE WON’T!)
Come to think of it, this arrangement could work wonders, too, when asking for a fare re-d-d-d-d…
“HE WANNA REDUCTION! (YES HE DO, YES HE DO.)
Now that’s talkin', ladies.
This New Year's Eve, Let's Ring Out the Resolutions
By PHILIP RECCHIA
Posted Monday, Dec. 22, 2008
Today we’re going to tackle the frequently-asked question: “Other than
hurling myself off the Brooklyn Bridge, how can I, an average New
Yorker, reduce stress in the New Year?”
One surefire way is to dispense with New Year’s resolutions, ideally by hurling them off the bridge.
Now, to most Americans, New Year’s resolutions are merely rough ideas
for self-improvement that they’ll try to get around to at some point in
the next 18 months provided it doesn’t cut into their TV-watching time.
Here, for example, are some actual resolutions made last New Year’s
Eve:
–Louise Deedlebock of Ponsford, Minnesota: “Stop chewing with my mouth open.”
–Todd Frisby of Salem, Oregon: “Learn pig Latin.”
–Harley Tuber of Elkmont, Alabama: “Use less cologne.”
Now let’s look at another set of actual resolutions, also made last year, but here in New York:
–Janelle Manning of Manhattan: “Get married and have three kids – by Memorial Day!”
–Bennie Tedesco of Queens: “Lose 50 pounds – from each extremity!”
–Norah Krantz of Brooklyn: “Write a book that outsells Harry Potter – and The Bible!”
See any difference? That’s right: The New Yorkers are out of their
minds. By March, each was exhibiting symptoms of severe stress, such as
slapping people randomly on the street. And in the end, they failed to
keep their resolutions, most tragically Bennie Tedesco, who lost just
five pounds, all from his nose.
Why did these New Yorkers push themselves to the brink? Because they’ve
been conditioned to believe that New Yorkers can do anything. Who’s
responsible for this illusion? Beats me. But I suspect Donald Trump had
something to do with it. Also Sarah Jessica Parker.
In any case, here’s what I say we do. I say this December 31 all New
Yorkers, young and old, rich and poor, regular and tattooed, join me in
inaugurating a new tradition of “New Year’s persistences.”
Rather than resolving to do things that ultimately increase stress,
we’ll simply keep doing things that, while perhaps petty, have a
relaxing effect on par with nitrous oxide.
I, for example, don’t like it when I’m sitting alone on the subway and
some stranger sits down next to me. So I’ve developed a method of
discouraging this, which I’ll persist in using next year:
(1) In a 12 oz. bottle, pour 8 oz. water and 4 oz. yellow food
coloring. (2) Shake well. (3) Carry on train. (4) As soon as seated,
pour 6 oz. on adjacent seat. (5) If stranger tries to occupy seat,
clear throat and point to liquid. (6) Chuckle as stranger walks off.
If this method doesn’t work, I simply say, “Etgay ostlay” (which is of course pig Latin for “Get lost”).