Tuesday, June 29, 2004



The day's cycle of meetings, instant messaging (surely one of the most evil things ever invented by my IT brethren), and general agita is finally over, and I can post. Plenty to bitch about, but without some significant context setup and sanitizing, it'll be pointless. Leave it said that a certain project manager who resembles Lou Costello still hasn't done his job properly, and we have absolute ca-ca based on his efforts. More remains to be seen tomorrow, at which point we know if we have a reasonable chance of making the newest arbitrarily decided deadline.

Rant du jour is about the Lexington Avenue IRT. I ride it from Grand Central down to the nexus of all things financial, and dammit, why are the quote unquote expresses so slow during rush hour? Case in point today, I got on the IRT 5 train at GC at 8:10, and it took almost twenty minutes to get to 14th Street (for the NY-impaired, that's the next southbound stop; during off-hours it takes between 7 and 10 minutes to get from Wall Street to Grand Central). It's not terribly overcrowded, and the A/C works (for the most part) on the trains, but if I've got to get downtown (or uptown for that matter), why is there some sort of cosmic locus around 14th Street that gums up the works for everyone? Then again, during rush hour it can take a solid half hour to go from Wall Street to GCT, heaven forbid you're on the subway later than 5:10 if you hope to catch any train from Grand Central in the 5:45 range.

Secondary rant du jour is that it's damn disconcerting, yet comforting in a strange way to see the intersection of Wall Street and Broad Street an armed camp. I'm very saddened in that the visitor's gallery of the NYSE has been closed thanks to some of our (ahem) allies in the war on terror's (double ahem) eccentric cousins. One of the most formative experiences of my childhood was Dad taking me to the NYSE, and explaining the action, all about the specialist posts, the two-dollar brokers and the like. I am doubly saddended that I now can't do the same for my kids. Dad would've muttered "Bastards!" under his breath, and like father like son.


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