This week I love ... the MTA?

Among the many things I love this week is this sweet little poster by Leonard Quiles for the (gasp) MTA. For all of the times the MTA has let us down (let me count the ways), I have to give the Establishment for Fare Exchange props for supporting the visual arts. This poster is one in an ongoing series about New York transit. I love seeing it everywhere. It makes me want to draw more. And something about that bunny is wonderfully off.

The bunny poster made me think of two other MTA landmarks I adore: the 14th Street/Eighth Avenue station on the E line and the Prince Street stop on the N,R,W.

At 14th/Eighth are Tom Otterness's Life Underground figures in bronze. It is sort of like Disneyland took over the station, with all these unspeakably cute figures acting out scenes of daily life. Think dozers from Fraggle Rock. Freaking pinchably cute. Except they are bronze, which is not so pinchable.

Prince Street station is adorned with "Carrying On" by Janet Zweig and Edward del Rosario, featuring 200 silhouettes of people carrying things. I admired this work for a while, mostly trying to figure out how the mosaics fit so cleanly (cut with waterjets). But then I heard the story behind the frieze and it took on a whole new meaning, placing it firmly in my heart as a piece of real New York. The artists spent time photographing actual people all over the city who were carrying things. They translated some of these images into the silhouettes. In the artists' own words: "People on the streets of New York are almost always carrying something, sometimes something huge and outlandish. After the 9/11 tragedy, New Yorkers felt that they must carry on with their lives. Finally, New Yorkers are notoriously opinionated and lively; they really do 'carry on.'"

Signing off, lest I, too, carry on ...

Gym Rat

I finally gave in to peer pressure and joined the gym. Apparently all the cool kids are doing it. My gym membership doesn't really qualify, though, since it is for the work gym. Most New Yorkers join the gym to "get in shape." This is code for "meet people." But since I'm just sweating it out with coworkers, there's not a lot of interaction. It's more of a don't-make-eye-contact-while-sweating environment. But that's OK by me. I actually did join the gym to get in shape, overcoming terrible intimidation to do so. Remember gym class? I didn't go so well for me.

Anywho, I recently turned 30. It was right around that time that I noticed my clothes were shrinking. Sure, it could be an evil plot by the rats, who, theoretically, are running my threads through a dryer while I'm at work. Or perhaps they have those Cinderella mice taking in my clothes whilst singing in freakishly high-pitched voices. But as my good friend William of Ockham says, the simplest answer is usually the best one. I had to face facts: The rats were injecting me with fat while I slept.

There's only one way to fight this, which, sadly, involves hard work. Thus, the gym. I'm total rubbish at working out at home. I'll do it for a little while, get into a routine, but the first whiff of something else comes along and that's the end of tae bo with Billy Blanks. I figured joining the gym would provide me incentive, since it is at my place of employ and I do have to pay for it. So far it's working out all right. So far.

However (and isn't there always a however?), when I was orientated to the gym, the trainer showed me how to use some of the weight machines. I have been using them faithfully twice a week for about a month now, in addition to the cardio machines. Yet I am just putting on more mass—2.5 lbs. of mass to exact—which is not what I was looking for. So I'm strictly an elliptical machine/bike girl now. And it's back to yoga at home. Until I get distracted by ice cream sandwiches, or blogging, or youtube, or the book I'm reading, or the phone ...

Until next time, drop and give me 20.

NYM (hearts) Richard Serra

It has been a very weird day, even by New York standards. I woke up and discovered the water wasn't running in the bathroom, though mysteriously it was working in the kitchen. I waited it out a little, thinking that maybe they were doing plumbing work or something. But when the water still wasn't working an hour later, I called the Super. Here's where the day hits bottom: The Super tells me that a girl on one of the floors below me died, with the water running. Because it is a crime scene, they can't shut the water off in her apartment, so they had to shut the whole valve down. So no water in the bathroom until the police move the body.

I was pretty seriously freaked. I even woke up G to tell him. Then emailed my mom and sister. Then I waited. I occupied myself by posting some old NYMs to the blog (from the email-only days of NYM). Then after an hour, I couldn't take it any more. I had really, really wanted to go to the Richard Serra show at the MoMA and this was the only day I was going to have a chance to do it. But, due to my 80 levels of OCD, I cannot leave the house unbathed. So I got twitchy. I called the Super again. He said it might be another hour. The MoMA's hours of operation were dwindling away. I pitched a mini fit to G.

About 20 minutes later, the water came on. I hopped in the shower, eager to start my day. I was on the conditioner stage of my shower when I realized what an extremely insensitive git was being. I mean, someone died. She could have been killed, or had an accident, or (what I deem most likely) ended her own life. It is a real tragedy and I still can't seem to wrap my mind around it.

I headed out to the MoMA seeing and appreciating the world like I rarely remember to. I was thankful to be. And from there on I had a really amazing day. The MoMA is a wonderful, yet expensive place, so I don't go too often. But I really wanted to see this Richard Serra show; I am so glad I did.


Serra started with smaller sculptures, but now works in giant pieces of steel, creating environments you can walk through. He says he wants you to experience his pieces on a psychological level and I totally did. There is something very natural and cave-like about these large works. I'd even call them womb-like. Definitely feminine. If you go—and please do if you have the chance—walk close along the walls. The first time the angle changes and the wall starts to fall away from you, you have this overwhelming feeling of space and motion, even vertigo. All with slabs of metal! It's so simple and beautiful and powerful. I seriously almost cried while I was walking through Band on the second floor. The only other time I've been so struck by a piece of art is when I saw David in Florence.

Of course, I was/am probably emotionally ... er ... unbalanced. Well, more than usual. I hope, though, that wherever the girl from downstairs is, she can rest in peace. And I hope you can all find a bit of peace today, too.

Until next time ...

This is ridiculous (or NYM wants to wear Underoos, just Underoos, all day)

Well, it finally happened, an event so immensely irritating that I could no longer sit on my duff and continue to *not* blog. So now, thanks to rain+tornado?+heat+the ever-loving MTA, is the first-ever New York Minute blog post. Let's get to the good stuff:

Ah, rain. Not only did you rob me of hours of sleep by tripping some stooge's car alarm right below my window—not once, but twice, at 45 minutes a pop—but, rain, you also saw fit to shut down THE ENTIRE NEW YORK SUBWAY SYSTEM. And for good measure, you took out New Jersey Transit, Metro-North and the LIRR. All hail the mighty rain.

But surely the MTA has had to deal with rain before, no? Oui, my friends. On average, it precipitates 121 days a year in New York City. For those of you keeping score at home, that's a third of the year. Granted, it isn't all rain. But a goodly portion is. So what gives? Apparently the infrastructure of "the world's best transportation system." (Direct quote from MTA website http://www.mta.info/mta/network.htm, which apparently shut down during the critical times when people would have actually needed it to get information today.)

But, truly, I tell you brothers and sister of Gotham and beyond, I am *not* here to kvetch about the MTA (today). I am here to ask, nay, demand to know what became of the Future? You remember the Future, don't you? It is that golden age of telecommunicating telecommuting we were all promised. Why do we even need the MTA? Why must I leave the comfort of my air-conditioned apartment to put in eight hours of hard, grueling labor? Why can't I labor from my living room? Or kitchen? Or, for the risque, bedroom? Where is my teleconference? The one where I wear a suit jacket and blouse with just my Jockey shorts in the southern hemisphere? You know, business up top, party on the bottom. Or better yet, where is my IM-based workgroup, so that I can sit on my couch in my Underoos all day, no one the wiser?

I see how telecommuting won't work for everyone. Certain careers are dependent on location; waiters, doctors and my Starbucks barista lose some meaning if they aren't where I need them. (Closest barista: 981 feet.) But imagine, if you can, a commute without the desk jockeys, such as myself (proud member since 1999). It would be so easy! No sweaty bodies packed into a metal tube like Spam. Just half as many sweaty bodies, with more space to breathe. Trust me, this is a good thing. There is only so much good will to be spent in one day and if you have to sink it all into your morning commute, things don't look so good for the afternoon. Not even with a venti iced green tea.

Until next time, hang tough. Underoos optional.