In his comment to my last post, andy asked: “what proof do you have that [MBTA employees] are highly paid?”

Well, I thought it was pretty well-known.

According to a report from the Bureau of Transportation Statistics: “MBTA’s annual operating deficit is second only to New York’s. A major reason for this situation is the fact that Boston’s transit work force is among the highest paid in the country…. Other reasons include MBTA’s outdated equipment and the fact that it generates much of its own power in inefficient, oil-burning power plants.”

Another tidbit of relevant information from the Pioneer Institute, in a report in 2002: “Between 55 percent and two-thirds of the T’s budget is labor costs, which are among the highest, if not the highest, of any major transit system in the United States. We have the highest paid bus drivers in the country, and we’re near the top in virtually every other category.”

And just for good measure, The Beacon Hill Institute reported back in ‘99: “T employees…are the highest paid workers among comparable transit authorities in the nation. An MBTA delivery person makes $21.85/hr plus benefits compared to $14.38/hr for a delivery person working for the Maryland Transit Authority (Baltimore) and $15.96/hr for the New Jersey Transit Authority. A general helper makes $19.83/hr compared to general helpers for the New York Transit Authority who make $16.23/hr. The report also found 20% of the MBTA’s budget goes toward administrative costs and 31% to fringe benefits, which is higher than similar transit authorities.” Remember, that was in ‘99. On the fly, I couldn’t find more recent numbers, but I’ll keep looking. You can be sure that in the intervening years wages have not fallen, though.

Part of the reason for the high cost of labor is the strong union, of course. I’m going to leave off for now talking about that. I’m all for workers’ rights, but unions just seem to breed a certain mentality–they seem, in fact, to produce workers like the one I encountered yesterday afternoon.

By the way, there’s an interesting article here about worker absenteeism on the T from The MBTA Advisory Board. It’s from 2005. It contains more evidence of bloated pay (in italics). Among its findings:

“Assuming that every day of absence, at least in the bus and subway division, needs to be covered either by employing additional operators and technicians or paying employees overtime to work extra shifts, the high absenteeism levels translate into significant costs for the Authority. We estimate that a reduction of the average number of days in the bus and subway division by one day (from 19.69 and 19 days average respectively) could yield $484,640 in savings by avoiding overtime or the need to hire additional employees (based on an annual salary of $50,000, 240 work days and a premium of 50% either for overtime worked or for benefits paid to additional employees).

“Cutting the average days absent in half for both divisions consequently could lead to over $4 million in savings. While there are additional costs involved in monitoring and enforcing attendance policy as well as creating incentive programs, the projected savings far outweigh the cost of the programs and could contribute to closing the $10 million gap in the FY2006 budget.”

I had the following frankly bizarre exchange with an MBTA employee in the token booth this afternoon. As I approached he was talking animatedly with another employee in the booth. All I wanted was a couple tokens.

I slid a fiver under the window and said “two please.”

“Waddya want?” he snapped at me.

I said: “Two. I wanna go and come back.”

“Just tell me what you need!” the guy snarled.

“Two please,” I repeated, flatly.

He was spoiling for a fight, and was grumping and griping beneath his breath.

I talked over him, but matter-of-factly: “Two. Two. Two.”

I’m sure he would have thrown the tokens at me had there not been that bullet proof glass between us to protect me. Those cages were the best idea the T ever had. I think they ought to provide their passengers with stun guns, too. Like, when you buy a monthly pass. Just in case one of their employees escapes and comes at you. They’re like those zombies in 28 Days Later, aren’t they?

“Here,” he snarked, adding inexplicably (this is the bizarre part of the exchange): “And it’s my fault. Remember that.”

And, well, the truth is it was. I mean, all I wanted was two tokens. Not an outrageous request, I wouldn’t think. Without the bile, if you please. I don’t know what was going on with this dude, and I don’t really care. If I’d been pushy, rude, disrespectful, maybe then I’d feel bad for him. But you know, I walked away thinking, that jackass makes good money in that little bullet-proof booth of his. These creeps are the highest paid transit workers in America. And what’s so difficult about sliding tokens under the window a few hours a day? There’s a lot worse jobs out there, buddy.

It’s another good reason to buy a monthly pass, though. I mean, I want as little to do with these cunts as possible. I think they must recruit them from homeless shelters and mental hospitals.

As I said, I didn’t get too worked up. I don’t argue with people like that. Thing is, when someone’s provoking like that, it’s a cry for help, innit? And I’m not trained in that area. I can’t help you. So I got my tokens and went about my business.

The funk is thickening, though. Look around. It’s sinking in: Christmas comes but once a year. But look on the bright side, people: only 51 weeks to go.

I ran out of coffee a couple days ago, and hadn’t had a cup when I left the house this morning, and was feeling cranky. I usually don’t get coffee out. I have my beloved Bialetti Moka Express stovetop espresso maker. It makes two cups of espresso which I drink from a glass, not a cup. Throw out all that expensive espresso-making parphernalia you never use, because this is it. This is how real Italians (eh-hem) do it.

A Moka Express’ll run you about fifteen bucks. Get some Illy espresso coffee (they sell it at Whole Foods), and your happiness is assured. Sometimes when I’m a little low on funds I pick up a 10 oz. packet of Cafe Pilon for $2.69 and dump the contents into an Illy canister, and I’m stillhappy! Point is: you don’t need Starbucks. (Speaking of, there was an interesting piece in Slate about Starbucks’ espresso you might want to check out, if that’s your thing.)

Anyway, I went to Dunkin’ Donuts to grab a cup of joe this morning. There was a Starbucks across the street, but when I have to choose, I’ll take Dunkin’ Donuts. And it obviously has nothing to do with the coffee, per se. I like to think of it like this: if there was a rumble between Dunkin’ Donuts and Starbucks, who do you think would win? I think I know. But still I’d like to see it. And I don’t mean one of those mamby-pamby barista tournaments. I mean, brass knuckles and crowbars. And finger-snapping and dancing, too, of course. That goes without saying.

But, actually, before I could get my coffee (I got a muffin, too), I had to drop into the ATM. I was at Downtown Crossing, so I went to the one at the corner of Arch and Summer. But there were two homeless people inside, and they were just rising to greet the day. One was putting on his pants. And I can now report with confidence that homeless people are just like anyone else: it’s one leg at a time. Anyway, I didn’t want to disturb them, and there’s another ATM in the neighborhood.

On my way back to the T after the gym, despite the chill, I gave in to the temptation of Brattle Books on West Street. They have that outdoor browsing area with books priced from one to five bucks. I can remember when five bucks out there was unthinkable. It still is for me. Three bucks is my limit–I mean, if I’m bargain-hunting musty old used books. You pay five and it doesn’t feel like a steal. I don’t know why. That’s about the price of one of those so-called value meals at any fast food joint, but still.

I never leave empty-handed, and I always take away something I feel my library can’t do without. This morning I picked up The Essential Lippmann, Reinhold Niebuhr’sThe Irony of American History and a pocket-sized hardcover of Washington Irving’s brilliant The Crayon Miscellany, which is perfect for reading on the T, size and subject matter both.

What I like about browsing used bookstores is that you have no idea what you’ll find. That gives your finds a feeling of fate. I’ve been re-reading Lippmann lately. I just ordered A Preface to Morals, which I think is a great book, from amazon.com, so the Lippmann anthology felt right. Seems like I’m on the right track, you know. The same with Niebuhr. He’s been coming up a lot lately. The Crayon Miscellany is a freebie. I mean, it just jumped off the shelf at me.

On the way home there were two guys from Southie, one of whom had a bone structure and features as close to the Western ideal as I have seen. And then he opened his mouth. Had that Southie drawl. And that Southie attitude that goes with it. I’m not knocking it, it just seemed a little incongruous in this instance.

Male beauty is so misunderstood, though, isn’t it? One online source I consulted (answers.com) ranked determinants of male physical attractiveness this way: first and foremost, “sexual attraction for man by a woman is determined largely by the height of the man.” And you guys thought it was your shoe-size. If you make the cut, the next most important factor is a muscular physique. This, according to answers.com, “largely arose as a social backlash against effeminate homosexual men.” Um, OK. After that comes (I’m not kidding, either) “a unique hairstyle.” Then comes a “heavily-set jaw” and a big bone…through the nose. (Wikipedia’s entry for “Physical Attractiveness” is both instructive and entertaining here.)

Hmm. I think symmetry is important. And features in impeccable proportion to one another. And that’s what was so jarring about this bloke on the train. Still, an ideal is an ideal, and you get to a point where the ideal may not be attractive in reality. While the ideal may still be a touchstone, a degree of deviation from it may be more attractive than the ideal itself. Even so, those who approximate the ideal must be admired for the sheer fact that they do. That’s how we’re programmed. We have no choice but to admire them, even as we may resent them for not having done anything particularly admirable. But we don’t resent purebred dogs or horses for approximating the ideal, which is precisely why we breed them as we do.

Anyway, all I’m trying to say here is while I felt compelled to admire this fellow, it wasn’t a hubba-hubba thing.

There was a very nice-looking guy behind the counter at the munchie stand at JFK today listening to some hypnotic Arab pop. He looked to be of Arab extraction himself. Very nice, indeed. And nothing at all like this other bloke. Kinda scrappy. Finding awesome beauty in the little imperfections is what it’s all about. For the flawed masses, at least. It’s like people who are happiest when they’re saddest. (Saint John’s wort can help with that, by the way.)

I finally went out and got a TV. I’d been without one since October, when I moved in. I went through mild withdrawal, but after a couple of weeks I didn’t miss it. But this latest mining tragedy thing convinced me I needed to have one. (I wrote about it here, in case you’re interested.) Long and short of it is: if you didn’t have a TV there wasn’t really a story. I mean, of course there was a story, but the story wasn’t the story in the end, was it? It was a “mining tragedy,” which is a pretty established genre of tragedy. Not a lot of room for variation there. The story was the story of the story. And without a TV you didn’t really get it.

But I had forgotten, in the intervening months, how miserable I was supposed to be. All those smiling talk-show hosts are so busy hammering that home, aren’t they? Dr. Phil and Oprah. Even Lester Holt, with that crooked little smile and those sad eyes of his, was on NBC’s morning show this morning hocking “happiness make-overs” . And what are make-overs but an admission of misery so abject you have to annihilate the source of it?

Went to the gym this morning, and on the way picked up a Metro, and saw the front page piece on a possible (read: probable) fare hike to cover a shortfall caused by higher gas prices. This is the piece the charming and tactful Patrick mentioned here.

Patrick. First of all, Metro pays my rent. It’s not as bad as all that. It’s just a bunch of cut-n-paste AP reportage, with some local listings thrown in for good measure. And it’s free. Samizdat it’s not, but, really, what do you want? Anyway, you heard it there first, dincha? Doesn’t that count for something?

So another fare hike. If every time the T is in hock they can hike the fares, we can look forward to paying about thirty bucks a trip by 2010. It’s not the answer, Dan.

If anyone reading agrees do two things:

1) write GM Daniel Grabauskas. His email is gm@mbta.com. Doesn’t matter that he doesn’t read his email. Send him a bunch with the subject line: “NO to fare hikes!” and tell him to take his fare hike and stick it up his ass. In a charming and tactful way, of course. And then…

2) contact your local and state representatives (you can find their email addresses here–or if you do not know your local rep, go here, and once you have filled in the required fields and clicked the “find my election information,” scroll down to the “District Representatives” section, click on the appropriate link, and go from there), and demand that they LEGISLATE A FARE FREEZE, like the one that was in place all those years when we were paying 85¢ for the exact same sucky service(and it was not so long ago–up to 2003, when Governot Romney signed a bill into law allowing fare hikes).

#2 is actually the more important of the two points. Seems to me, this is about the only way to agitate for a cease-and-desist on fare hikes. Riders obviously can’t afford to boycott the T. They’ve got us by the balls, basically. That’s why the legislature should step in. And it is not inconceivable that they could do just that. After all, they have done so in the past.

A legislated fare freeze forces the MBTA to think outside the box instead of dipping into rider’s pockets every time they fuck up.

Feel free to post any other prescriptions you can think of. I’d appreciate hearing them.

My favorite T employee has got to be the one known to denizens of the orange line as Crazy Lady, who’s in the Stony Brook station token booth a lot of the time, especially weekends. I’ve seen her in Chinatown, too, though. Haven’t ever seen her on the red line. I think they’ve probably confined her to the orange line. Or could be she has demanded the orange line. I bet she’s got orange line pride. They probably have profiles for each of the lines. They take one look at you and assign you a line.

“But, I’d rather work on the red line, sir.”

“You’re not red line material, son. You’re obviously blue.”

“Actually, I’m quite happy nowadays, since I started on the St. John’s wort.”

“No, I meant your coloration has an icy nuance. Intrepid. Distinctive. You’re a Winter, son, and Winters are intense and rich in their coloring and have the best profile for power dressing because they look great in all the power colors. Black. Navy. Charcoal. Blue line. To the left there. Next!”

Crazy Lady sure hates it when you’ve got a pocketful of change for her, doesn’t she? Starts twitching. She hissed at me once. Glad there was that bullet-proof glass between us. You thought it was there to protect them, I bet.

The thing about the Stony Brook T coin machine thing–you know the contraptions that stand next to the booth where you can drop in change if you’ve got it instead of having to exchange your change for a token–is that its funnel shape has been altered so that you can’t just toss it all in at once. You have to drop it in one coin at a time. I guess maybe it was getting jammed with coinage, so they just went and lopped the funnelly part right off.

I usually save up all my coins over several months and then try to get a whole month of rides out of ‘em. But only the nickels and dimes, on account of there’s a coin-op washer-dryer in my building that only takes quarters. That’s a royal pain in the keister, let me tell you. A whole month can go by before I collect enough quarters to wash everything. I’ve been going commando now for about three weeks as it is.

So I just gather up my fare for the day in the morning. I count out all those nickels and dimes ahead of time. I don’t have a little coin purse or anything, but, if it’s just round-trip I’m going, the “there” fare goes in my right pocket, and the “back” fare in my left, so I don’t have to count it all out again. I always do anyway, but theoretically. And on the walk to the station, I enjoy that sound of jingling coins. It makes me heavier, but somehow I feel lighter. Isn’t that funny?

I’m going back to Florida for a week in the middle of the month, so I decided to forego the pass this month. I mean, add it up. For your basic subway pass, you spend 528 bucks a year. That’s not exactly chump change. I mean, yeah, it’s relative, but still. As for the cost effectiveness of the pass—usually I wring every last penny out of it, for sure, but a lot of times during the weekend I don’t use the T at all—most of my friends have cars. And then if I’m gone for a week…

I mean, here’s the math. $44 worth of tokens would buy you 35.2 rides. So anything above and beyond that is presumably a bargain. Not really, but never mind. At a minimum, most people take the T five days a week, to and from work (or “work,” like me), which, without the pass, is $1.25 one-way. $12.50/week. Four weeks in your average month, which adds up to fifty bucks. With the basic monthly subway pass the same trip costs 15¢ less. You’re paying $1.10 a trip. So you’re already getting a deal. It ain’t 85¢, but you can’t have everything. But if you figure three weeks, the pass is no longer cost-effective. Turns out to be regular fare then.

Of course, it’s better not to think about it. Just buy the pass and forget about it. But it eats at ya. That $528. That’s over 2000 packets of Ramen noodles. Over 3,500 Durex Chocolate Passions Condoms. 5,280 tootsie pops. 6,800 Viceroy Special cigarettes. Sure, that $528 buys you a little convenience on a weekday morning, but what are you giving up? Think about it.

Another shout-out to Dani B., who along with the inimitable liz has come through yet again on the issue of “recycling” doors. Do you think that if you lost a limb in a non-recycling door and sued the MBTA you would still have a case? Shouldn’t they be more explicit as to the exact nature of the threat? How about some little stick figures, at least? And do they at least recycle the severed limbs?

There are signs, in orange line trains at least, that say something like, “your tax money pays to clean these trains,” and then instructs you to clean up after yourself anyway. Do they pay a piece-rate to rag-pickers or something? Saying they pay someone to clean the trains would seem to encourage littering, wouldn’t it? I mean, when I was growing up my mother never said, “the maid is coming, so clean up your room!” For years I thought we actually had a maid who always had the day off. One day I realized that we didn’t have a maid at all, and that my mother was being sarcastic, and referring to herself as “the maid” because she felt like her sons treated her like one. That was a sad day, but I guess I learned a valuable lesson.

So is that what the T is trying to say, or what?

What I wanted to say about The School of Practical Philosophy’s “Philosophy Works” ads on the T is: I think they are a little unfair. It’s a kind of entrapment, or something. You know, you’re very likely either on your way to or from work, first of all. And coming or going, odds are you’re thinking, Crikey, what a rat race this has gotten to be. And then you read: “Freedom from the small and binding circles of habitual existence.” Yes, that’s it! That’s what I need! But it’s not. You’re just weak. You’re susceptible. Hey, by the way, why is that creepy guy with the notepad staring at my flip-flops? See what I mean?

Let me save you the ten-week course. Trade secret here: the only freedom from the small and binding circles of habitual existence is in the small and binding circles of habitual existence. There. All better.

First of all a big, big shout-out to Dani B., who was able to answer my burning question about why the doors on both sides of red line trains don’t open simultaneously at Park. And furthermore was able to do so without having to say something like, “but why do you care?” I just do.

The after the holidays funk has fallen like a hard fog on our fair burg. Have you noticed how down in the mouth everybody is out on the streets? It’s because everybody knows there’s no goodies for–what?–another four months, or something. I mean, when’s the next big holiday when you can go ape-shit at the mall and gorge yourself till you puke? (It’s just an observation, not a judgment, by the way. Don’t be so touchy!)

I’ve always thought it was better to have lots of little gifts all throughout the year than to blow your load at Christmas. But when you have kids you have to try to contain their bottomless greed and corral their endless wants. Again, an observation, not a judgment. Children have no choice but to be greedy. It’s how they survive. At least the ones who were the most greedy and cunning were the ones to survive in the ancestral environment, where resources were scarce and competition for them fierce. Every morsel that your little sister manages to get mom and dad to give her is a morsel stolen right out of your mouth. You’ve got to be cuter, smarter, faster, more brutal, or just pitch a fit whenever you don’t get what you want. That’s why they call it survival of the fittest, after all. Greed got us to where we are today, evolutionarily speaking.

But now, you know, you’re already in hock up to your eyeballs, and you dug yourself a little deeper in the hole, and all that crap you bought your kids, they’re over it. Onto the next new thing. Daddy, mommy, more! More! MOOOORRRRE!

You just have to look them square in their greedy little gimlet eyes and say, but Veruca, honey, there is NO MORE. Ah, but they know better. There is always more. That’s the one thing that there has to be!

But not until Easter, honey. Then we’ll buy you a stuffed bunny as big as you are and you can gorge on marshmallow chocolates until you spew! Now’s time to explain to them that it’s just like director Ang Lee said about his gay cowboy movie in a recent interview: “sadness lasts longer than happiness.” It’s best children learn that at an early age. It only takes a few minutes to scarf down ten lbs of chocolate bunnies, but the tummy ache will last you into next week, and then when finally you wake up without one, your siblings will have stolen all your candies, and there will be nothing left. But look on the bright side: Ol’ Whatsisface is Risen!

Yes, that old post-holiday funk. I’m immune, because I started taking my Saint John’s wort a month before the holidays, so I would be prepared. Nothing can touch me. But for those of you who don’t have any pills to pop, thank goodness there are so many helpful ads up all over the T! Feeling down in the dumps? Well, remember: “Philosophy works.” I love those ads. I was riding the T home one night last week, after a few too many pints, and feeling as lugubrious as I can nowadays, which isn’t really very, but I still have empathy. So it was after ten and everyone was kind of glaring into the middle distance. My eyes fell on that ad: “Who am I? What am I doing here? What am I meant to be doing? How can I be happy?” The School of Practical Philosophy will show you how! (Cults are the best way, I’ve found.)

If you’re too busy paying off your Christmas debt to join a cult, then you’ll just have to hunker down. Spring is only four or five months away!

Another riddle for Dani B. or anyone out there with special insight: you know those signs on the sliding doors of T cars that say “These doors do not reopen automatically”? What exactly are they implying with that?