Kafka Takes the N

I always found it interesting that the first thing Gregor Samsa worries about when he finds himself transformed into a giant insect is his job and the fact that he will be late to work. Even though he has never been late in seven years, he fears that this one late morning will jeopardize his career. And sure enough, when he is not on time his boss arrives at the door questioning his parents as to why Gregor is not at the office. Unfortunately, our workplace standards have fallen down a few pegs in recent times. I'm sure there even exists a few employees who would more than welcome being transformed into a giant insect, because not only is this an excuse which cannot be refuted by the boss, reality tv would absolutely love it.

"Watch Steve Brooke on "This Bug's Life" cope with his sudden transformation into a giant insect as he goes on his first date in four months. Will Andrea be able to see past his appearance or will she be repulsed and try to crush him with her shoe?! Stay Tuned!"

In an age where every individual aspires to be god like in their individuality ad nauseum... being transformed into a giant insect would definitely have its benefits. At the least it would separate one from the crowd.

9/11, Friday Morning Commute

Friday morning, 14th Street Union Square subway station. Approximately 30 police officers stand at attention in dress uniform outside the underground precinct.  The low ceiling makes their number seem twice as many. At 8:46 AM a bugle begins Taps. Rising from the subway platform when the first note sounds I am immediately frozen. A less aware commuter following a bit too close, bumps into my shoulder.  More people stop. The bugle resonates, the sound reflects off  the hard surfaces, the white subway tiles, the steel I-Beams, the concrete floors. Each note fills the space, penetrates every crevice, every corner. Above ground it can be heard as well. A low murmur. A distant ghost. When the bugle finishes bagpipes begin. Amazing Grace plays. By now a crowd clusters around the officers, silent.

Around the corner from the underground police station, stretching the entire length of the corridor, approximately 50 or so meters, are the names. They are not carved in stone, nor set in bronze. Instead, they are printed on labels. One label to one tile, and one name to each label, 2,752 in all.

In the days after 9/11, 14th Street was the boundary in which people were not allowed to pass. It is fitting that this unofficial memorial should be here, and remain here after eight years.

Boba Fett Live at Union Square

Boba Fett does indeed play the accordion, and can be heard just steps away from the northwest entrance to the 14th Street Union Square subway.

Ahhh, how the sounds of Paris sounded from the work of his deadly hands. Who knew the ruthless bounty hunter had a soft side? Or perhaps the falling crime rate, and growing unemployment in NYC  forced him to this rather undignified station.

It is rather strange that many Americans associate the accordion with France, and France with Paris, and Paris with love (i.e. passionate sex). Why is this? In my Brooklyn neighborhood, I often see a hipster girl in front of a ramshackle bookstore playing the accordion on Saturdays. How do Americans even learn this instrument?

Philosophy Works.... My Ass it Does!

Thursday morning while riding my usual Manhattan bound number 4 train, a little later than usual, I was struck by a poster claiming to make me the happiest of all the posters I would see that day on the subway. I've seen them on other lines, but today as I was in a more contemplative state, and being a former philosophy student, and not in the mood for mindless bullshit, began a mental examination of what exactly in the hell is The School of Practical Philosophy.

I arrived at some pretty interesting conclusions, but in a nutshell this School is a load of crap, and has nothing to do with philosophy. Please forgive my rather un-philosophic approach on this one, just take my word. And whatever you do, don't give them any money.

Penn Station

Good design creates spaces with intended effects. Public spaces are more interesting than private in that the design is not limited to the whims of the individual, but reflect the collective attitudes and feelings of the culture coursing through that particular time. In this sense, public spaces serve as time capsules into reading the values prevalent when the space was built, and in so doing can be used to measure how far we have come, or how far we have moved backwards as a society.

A magnificent station, such as the original Penn, could only have been built during the optimism carried over from the 19th century rationalists. How else could one explain the 277-foot long waiting room designed to resemble the Roman Baths of Caracalla and the Basilica of Constantine?

The building itself wasn't torn down in 1964 in so much as the rationalist world view which created it.

Lorraine B. Diehl, in her comprehensive history of Penn Station, The Late Great Pennsylvania Station:, writes:

"...the first of the six stone eagles that guarded the entrance was coaxed from its aerie and lowered to the ground. The captive bird was surrounded by a group of officials wearing hard hats. They clustered about their trophy and smiled for photographers. Once the servants of the sun, symbols of immortality, the stone birds that had perched atop the station now squatted on a city street, penned in by sawhorses as their station came around them."

Borough Hall Suicide

In the film "Scent of a Woman." when Al Pacino's character, Col Slade, decides it's time, he checks into the Waldorf Astoria, hires the best call girl in town, drives a Ferrari, then as the moment approaches, dons his dress blues, has one last scotch, and while sitting in his obscenely expensive, and impeccably decorated suite, pulls out his .45. Not a bad way to go. In fact, I'm sure I could find a handful of volunteers on the Monday morning subway that would jump at the chance (no pun intended) to spend their last week on Earth exactly how Pacino's character planned to spend his. The reality is that suicide is rarely this well planned, or done with as much style.

On March 23, 2009, at Borough Hall station, approximately noon, just when many of us were thinking about lunch, a man in his 30s threw himself into the path of a Manhattan bound 4 train. Earlier the same day the scene was repeated in Queens. Of all the ways a person can commit suicide, why choose this way? What is it about the NYC subway that encourages people to jump in front of trains? How much does the interior of a space influence, if at all, the human behavior that takes place in that space?

In the end, Col Slade was talked down by Chris O'Donnell, but it does make me wonder what would have happened if Pacino's character had poorer planning, and as the decision drew near, found himself staggering across a subway platform, instead of sitting in a suite at the Waldorf. Could any appeal have been heard among the scurrying rats and screeching brakes?