strike
I wanted to go to Tom Piazza's reading of Why New Orleans Matters at KGB Bar, but getting from 116th St. to E. 4th St. was impossible tonight. The transit workers went on strike this morning, and I couldn't find a ride. A livery cab driver pulled over and said it would be $30 to get downtown. I blanched, and he said, "The yellow cabs'll cost you $45." I told him I'd keep trying my luck.
After standing around at Lenox and 116th for 5 minutes in the cold wind, a yellow cab finally pulled over. He waved me toward him, so I tried to open the door. Locked. His front window was down. "Where are you going?" he said. I said East Fourth.
"I'm sorry, man, I was just down there, and it took me 3 hours to get back uptown."
I walked back east, thinking I'd get the Metro North train at 125th and Park. But as soon as I saw my building, I went back in. Too cold. Fortunately, No Direction Home was in my mailbox. God bless Netflix.
So that was the extent of my strike experience: 10 minutes shivering outside on my block. I didn't get below 116th St. It's strange to live on the same island and not get to see this momentous event. The marching crowds on bridges, the cattle-width lines for cabs, the literal gridlock of vehicles, the hitchhiking. The power of organized labor.
The sociological grid laid plain for all to see. The arguments. "Why should someone working on a subway line make $60,000 a year?" "Well, see what happens when they don't do it?"
The ratio between the salaries of the average CEO and the average lowest-paid-worker in a company has grown from about 40 in the mid 1980s to over 300. It's nice to see labor issues on the front page and on the sidewalk.
Search "strike" at Flickr for some good photos. It's strange that I couldn't get any closer than these pictures. Well, I could have, but I wasn't walking in this weather.
After standing around at Lenox and 116th for 5 minutes in the cold wind, a yellow cab finally pulled over. He waved me toward him, so I tried to open the door. Locked. His front window was down. "Where are you going?" he said. I said East Fourth.
"I'm sorry, man, I was just down there, and it took me 3 hours to get back uptown."
I walked back east, thinking I'd get the Metro North train at 125th and Park. But as soon as I saw my building, I went back in. Too cold. Fortunately, No Direction Home was in my mailbox. God bless Netflix.
So that was the extent of my strike experience: 10 minutes shivering outside on my block. I didn't get below 116th St. It's strange to live on the same island and not get to see this momentous event. The marching crowds on bridges, the cattle-width lines for cabs, the literal gridlock of vehicles, the hitchhiking. The power of organized labor.
The sociological grid laid plain for all to see. The arguments. "Why should someone working on a subway line make $60,000 a year?" "Well, see what happens when they don't do it?"
The ratio between the salaries of the average CEO and the average lowest-paid-worker in a company has grown from about 40 in the mid 1980s to over 300. It's nice to see labor issues on the front page and on the sidewalk.
Search "strike" at Flickr for some good photos. It's strange that I couldn't get any closer than these pictures. Well, I could have, but I wasn't walking in this weather.
posted by disappearingink at 6:26 AM
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