Despite my best effort to maintain a high level of culture and class, my sarcastic urges have gotten the better of me; this blog needs a sprinkling of comedic self-indulgence. After a visit with a friend and fellow writer currently residing in NYC, it has become quite obvious that the only writing style meeting success and admiration these days is cheeky celebrity gossip designed to make us feel better about not being famous. Of course, no part of my personality allows me to become party to such a display, however, I would like to pique more interest in my writing with adorable anecdotes, sticky situations, and fantastic fiction (while maintaining my signature flagrant use of alliteration). That said, here's the first post for a revamped 'Solipsism for Sisyphus':
This morning at 8:20am, I commenced with my own daily Sisyphean task--relying on public transportation to get me to work by 9am. The train system in Boston was the first of its kind in the United States. Boston, due to its antiquity, is able to claim many such firsts. Unfortunately, quantity does not necessarily equal quality. In a city overflowing with over educated overachievers and top technical schools, such as MIT, one would assume we possess the tools necessary to build and organize an efficient and reliable form of public transportation that does not experience weekly derailments and minor fires. We don't. Recently, I have become quite reluctant to step onto the "T" (as it's called here in Boston), for fear of becoming its latest crash victim (this particular Spring has seen a record number of "incidents"). Rather than make the trip to the bike shop to have my bicycle--now replete with two flat tires and a bent frame caused by my own vehicular foible--put back in working condition, I take the chance on the T; I'm just that lazy.
Everything went off without a hitch this particular morning, until I made it to the stop where I switch from one green line train to the next. This train stop lies seemingly in the middle of the road--no awning, bench, or curb, even. The first train to arrive stops at the red light, but, taking advantage of a sick and sadistic ritual, keeps its doors fortified like an army barricade. Then, also rather ritualistically, an angry old Russian woman (of which there are millions in Brighton, most often recognized by their fur coats of unimaginable and unsettling colors) pleaded with the driver using an open palm bang on the door. The driver keeps her eyes straight ahead. I probably don't have to mention that it is pouring rain at this point and a small group of angry commuters has formed at the door, all wearing varying expressions of "what the hell?" The next train allowed passengers to board, and I made it to work with one minute to spare. Why do I live here, again?
This morning at 8:20am, I commenced with my own daily Sisyphean task--relying on public transportation to get me to work by 9am. The train system in Boston was the first of its kind in the United States. Boston, due to its antiquity, is able to claim many such firsts. Unfortunately, quantity does not necessarily equal quality. In a city overflowing with over educated overachievers and top technical schools, such as MIT, one would assume we possess the tools necessary to build and organize an efficient and reliable form of public transportation that does not experience weekly derailments and minor fires. We don't. Recently, I have become quite reluctant to step onto the "T" (as it's called here in Boston), for fear of becoming its latest crash victim (this particular Spring has seen a record number of "incidents"). Rather than make the trip to the bike shop to have my bicycle--now replete with two flat tires and a bent frame caused by my own vehicular foible--put back in working condition, I take the chance on the T; I'm just that lazy.
Everything went off without a hitch this particular morning, until I made it to the stop where I switch from one green line train to the next. This train stop lies seemingly in the middle of the road--no awning, bench, or curb, even. The first train to arrive stops at the red light, but, taking advantage of a sick and sadistic ritual, keeps its doors fortified like an army barricade. Then, also rather ritualistically, an angry old Russian woman (of which there are millions in Brighton, most often recognized by their fur coats of unimaginable and unsettling colors) pleaded with the driver using an open palm bang on the door. The driver keeps her eyes straight ahead. I probably don't have to mention that it is pouring rain at this point and a small group of angry commuters has formed at the door, all wearing varying expressions of "what the hell?" The next train allowed passengers to board, and I made it to work with one minute to spare. Why do I live here, again?
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