Day 2 of Gotham under siege began today with my hat being thrown into the ring of commuters united in simmering rage but gritting their teeth in quiet desperation. To say that my A.M. routine was a little altered would be like saying that Al Scales Reynolds has a mere sprinkling of sugar in his tank. The approximate distance from home to my corporate plantation is a mere 7.9 miles according to Yahoo! Maps, so to the casual observer, it would appear to be a piece of cake. Until you crunch the data in actual foot power, you have no fucking idea.

To fully grasp the extent of my disgust, enclosed is an edited timeline of my bizarre ride to the far side.

4:08 a.m: After slapboxing my alarm clock for the past eight minutes, I finally roll out of bed and march bleary-eyed into the shower when even the inviting scent of Bliss peppermint soap isn't doing much to perk up my senses.

4:56 a.m: Doing bicep reps holding my Solano hair dryer in Hindu goddess poses trying to sufficiently prevent myself from contracting pneumonia simply because my 'fro was out of control and need to be tamed back into a manageable moptop.

5:37 a.m: Running around my basement like a banshee trying to find exactly where I stuffed those oh-so-sexy pair of thermal underwear to layer under my slacks and furry snow boots.

6:11 a.m: Two Ensures are chugged down as liquid nourishment to go, and I bring the old school AM/FM walkman without the tape deck to get my daily fix of hate from Star and Buc while I pounding the pavement.

8:49 a.m: Trying to weed through the advantage takers for a legitimate carpool further downtown on the corner of Underhill & Vanderbilt is as easy as getting a quick response from EMS in an urban neighborhood.

9:32 a.m: Contemplated hitching a ride with an Aviator full of Pace students, but the vibe was just a little too Negrodian for even me. Young Jeezy blasting in the whip before 10? Nah son, you can go ahead...I'll be alright.

10:25 a.m: I make my way over to the Red Cross hot chocolate booth off City Hall to refuel with a freebie before heading down Fulton Street into work.

Bottom line, I woke up two and a half hours earlier than usual only to be trapped in a snail's crawl to travel the normally clocked 25-minute trip. When it was all said and done, my average of just over a half hour from the subway was tripled in a bone chilling atmosphere. At any other time, I'm happier as a bug in a rug since today kicks off the first day of my favorite season. But this monkey wrench in the script fucked the game up beyond oblivion.

At this point I'm beyond frustrated with both the MTA and the TWU. Both sides need to be padlocked into a room until something concrete can come of this. I respect the union's stance, but goddamn... a sista's feet were crying the blues tonight.

The one upside in this whole fiasco? The emergence of Roger Toussaint as the perfect successor to Mike Quill's billy bad ass swagger. He's public enemy no. 1 on many a dartboards in the city, but dammit, when you see a countryman cause a crooked monopoly to get weak in the knees, you gotta respect the gangsta. Mama always said we Trinis don't bite nice...a metropolis had to learn this one the hard way. Bracing for the trifecta coming tomorrow...

Labels: New York City, rants, transit strike