By John J. Cox
A Resident of Woodside
Shameful. Outrageous. Height of irresponsibility. These are the words used by President Obama this week after learning that, in the midst of the worst financial melt-down since the Great Depression, Wall Street had just handed out some $18.4 billion in employee bonuses. That this figure should constitute nearly one-fourth of the $800 billion in taxpayer money loaned (supposedly) to bail out Wall Street is bad enough; that it was the 6th largest bonus payout in history is more disturbing still; that it should be announced the very same week 65,000 other Americans lost their jobs is loathsome beyond description. "The trouble with capitalism," Herbert Hoover once noted, "is capitalists--they're too greedy."
There are some who disagree, who believe that the bonuses have become an institutionalized method of compensation and are necessary to retain top talent, especially in times as difficult as these. And there are others who believe that the bonuses are necessary because they increase tax revenue and help stimulate the economy. Most people, though, find this hard to swallow as they lose their homes and find their 401-Ks cut in half, while at the same time reading that their own tax dollars are funding undeserved bonuses, the (attempted) purchase of private corporate jets, and the redecorating of executive offices that cost millions more. It's hard to feel sorry for Wall Street when its chief executives have no qualms about spending $1500 for a waste basket and $15,000 for an umbrella stand.
The philosopher Wittgenstein is attributed with the notion that language, by its very essence, is communal in nature. Its value lies in groups that share the same meaning for the same words. Words, of course, have little or no value if their meaning is left to the musings of one or only a few individuals. I believe this is what has happened to the word "bonus."
A bonus is commonly understood to mean an extra benefit bestowed on someone as a reward for achieving extraordinary results or for a performance that was better than expected. In the case of Wall Street, the very people who have presided over what may prove to be the worst performance in history are nevertheless laying claim to bonuses. Evidently, the Wall Street crowd has its own meaning for the term "bonus." Yet for at least the last century-and-a-half the term has retained a consistent meaning among the community-at-large.
The current edition of the Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines bonus as "something in addition to what is expected or strictly due; money . . . given in addition to an employee's usual compensation."
Thirty years ago the same dictionary defined it as "something given in addition to what is usual or strictly due."
And Webster's 1861 American Dictionary of the American Language defined it as "an extra dividend . . . out of accumulated profits."
Profits. Now there is a novel idea. Since many corporations issuing bonuses have declared losses rather than profits, and have begged the government for taxpayer money, the decision to hand out bonuses defies the commonly accepted meaning of the term. It is indeed strange that after such a poor performance there are still people on Wall Street who think they deserve a bonus. No matter how well, for example, a particular money manager may have performed, his company still lost money--so what will be the source of this manager's expected bonus?
All of this reminds me of the story baseball Hall of Famer Ralph Kiner once told. For years he played for the Pittsburgh Pirates, then a losing team. After one particularly productive year in which he led the league in home runs and other offensive categories, Kiner asked Pirate general manager Branch Rickey for a raise in salary. Rickey's response: "We finished in last place with you; and we can finish in last place without you."
I'm sure this story will be lost on most Wall Street regulars. Therefore, I propose that we no longer call the money paid to these rascals "bonuses." A more accurate word is "plunder." As defined by Ambrose Bierce in The Devil's Dictionary, plunder is "property {taken} of another without observing the decent and customary reticences of theft." Enough said.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Vernon's Law--A Modest Proposal
by John J. Cox
A Resident of Woodside
"So I wanted to make a right turn from the avenue onto a side street," says my friend, Diane, "when I noticed that to do so I have to cross over one of those painted bicycle lanes. What if a bicyclist just happened to be in my blind spot as I made the turn?"
Good question. As cycling becomes more popular the City has tried to accommodate the increasing number of bike riders by dedicating portions of some streets and avenues to bicycle lanes. Given the instability of gasoline prices, the rising costs of insurance and car prices, and the growth of environmental awareness, it is hardly surprising that many people have opted for the bicycle as their principal means of commuting. This trend has caused some controversy in a number of communities, where existing traffic congestion is said to have been exacerbated by the bicycle lanes, which reduce the width of the streets and avenues. And although the City and State insist that cyclists are bound by the same rules of the road applicable to motor vehicles, some confusion persists. In Diane's case New York law requires that a right turn be made from as close to the curb as practicable. But what if there is a bicycle lane between the car and the curb? Since New York law also requires cyclists to travel in the same direction of traffic, it is only a matter of time before the inevitable occurs.
So I did with this problem what I always do when similarly perplexed: I sought trusted counsel. A full grasp of the dimensions of the issue required a wide range of experience, wisdom, thought and opinion. And where else could I find such diverse attributes than in the Shillelagh Tavern. So I took the issue there. Paddy Collins, a retired cab driver, was sipping a bourbon. "If you ask me," he said, "the problem would be greatly relieved if you simply banned bicycles altogether. They're nothing but a flippin' nuisance."
Doc Milano, so named because he is an EMT, chimed in: "Not only are they a nuisance, but a hazard, too. You have no idea how many cyclists I've had to scrape off the pavement after being struck by cars--and how many silly seniors, trying to recapture their youth, drop dead from heart attacks after a few minutes of cycling."
Tony the Greek ordered another beer and entered the discussion. "Let's face it, you're never gonna get rid of bicycles. I've got grandchildren. Bicycles are what I buy them for Christmas."
"Tony's got a point." I turned to see John Whitney look up from his Wall Street Journal. "Think of what would happen if bicycling were banned," he said. "Think of all the people who make and repair bicycles. They'd be put out of work. The economy is bad enough already."
Eighty-seven year old Marty Flanagan was sitting nearby nursing a scotch. "Marty," I said, "what do you think about the bicycles?" He turned to me with a vacant look, grunted and returned to his drink.
That left my friend Vernon Jackson who had been politely listening from the other end of the bar. "It seems to me," he started, "that a compromise is in order." He took a swig of beer and continued: "On the one hand we simply can't ban cycling altogether; on the other hand something has to be done to make it safer."
"What do you have in mind?" I asked.
"I've researched this issue, and the number one cause of bicycle accidents involving cars is 'dooring.'"
"Dooring? What's that?"
"When a driver or car passenger suddenly opens a car door into the path of an approaching cyclist, that's 'dooring.'" My first job out of school was as a messenger in Manhattan. My bicycle was my livelihood. I know all about 'dooring' and I've got the scars to prove it." Vernon sipped his beer and continued.
"It has always been a source of wonder to me that the law requires cyclists to travel in the same direction as traffic. It should be the opposite. There is nothing more unnerving as a cyclist than being forced to travel in the same direction as cars. You can't see what's happening behind you, no chance to ditch if someone loses control of a car or swerves too close. If you were required to travel in the opposite direction, you could see what's happening in front of you, just as the drivers coming toward you could see what's happening in front of them. And there'd be no more 'dooring' because the person about to open a car door would be able to see you coming."
I had to scratch my head. "That's a great idea, Vernon. We should lobby Albany for a change in the law. We can even call it 'Vernon's Law.'"
"I like the sound of that," said Vernon.
"Me, too," said Paddy Collins. "It would make cyclists less of a nuisance."
"Fewer injuries, too," added Doc Milano.
"I can still buy my grandchildren bicycles," said Tony the Greek.
"And the economy won't be further damaged," observed John Whitney.
We all turned toward Marty Flanagan. He just shook his head and asked for another scotch.
A Resident of Woodside
"So I wanted to make a right turn from the avenue onto a side street," says my friend, Diane, "when I noticed that to do so I have to cross over one of those painted bicycle lanes. What if a bicyclist just happened to be in my blind spot as I made the turn?"
Good question. As cycling becomes more popular the City has tried to accommodate the increasing number of bike riders by dedicating portions of some streets and avenues to bicycle lanes. Given the instability of gasoline prices, the rising costs of insurance and car prices, and the growth of environmental awareness, it is hardly surprising that many people have opted for the bicycle as their principal means of commuting. This trend has caused some controversy in a number of communities, where existing traffic congestion is said to have been exacerbated by the bicycle lanes, which reduce the width of the streets and avenues. And although the City and State insist that cyclists are bound by the same rules of the road applicable to motor vehicles, some confusion persists. In Diane's case New York law requires that a right turn be made from as close to the curb as practicable. But what if there is a bicycle lane between the car and the curb? Since New York law also requires cyclists to travel in the same direction of traffic, it is only a matter of time before the inevitable occurs.
So I did with this problem what I always do when similarly perplexed: I sought trusted counsel. A full grasp of the dimensions of the issue required a wide range of experience, wisdom, thought and opinion. And where else could I find such diverse attributes than in the Shillelagh Tavern. So I took the issue there. Paddy Collins, a retired cab driver, was sipping a bourbon. "If you ask me," he said, "the problem would be greatly relieved if you simply banned bicycles altogether. They're nothing but a flippin' nuisance."
Doc Milano, so named because he is an EMT, chimed in: "Not only are they a nuisance, but a hazard, too. You have no idea how many cyclists I've had to scrape off the pavement after being struck by cars--and how many silly seniors, trying to recapture their youth, drop dead from heart attacks after a few minutes of cycling."
Tony the Greek ordered another beer and entered the discussion. "Let's face it, you're never gonna get rid of bicycles. I've got grandchildren. Bicycles are what I buy them for Christmas."
"Tony's got a point." I turned to see John Whitney look up from his Wall Street Journal. "Think of what would happen if bicycling were banned," he said. "Think of all the people who make and repair bicycles. They'd be put out of work. The economy is bad enough already."
Eighty-seven year old Marty Flanagan was sitting nearby nursing a scotch. "Marty," I said, "what do you think about the bicycles?" He turned to me with a vacant look, grunted and returned to his drink.
That left my friend Vernon Jackson who had been politely listening from the other end of the bar. "It seems to me," he started, "that a compromise is in order." He took a swig of beer and continued: "On the one hand we simply can't ban cycling altogether; on the other hand something has to be done to make it safer."
"What do you have in mind?" I asked.
"I've researched this issue, and the number one cause of bicycle accidents involving cars is 'dooring.'"
"Dooring? What's that?"
"When a driver or car passenger suddenly opens a car door into the path of an approaching cyclist, that's 'dooring.'" My first job out of school was as a messenger in Manhattan. My bicycle was my livelihood. I know all about 'dooring' and I've got the scars to prove it." Vernon sipped his beer and continued.
"It has always been a source of wonder to me that the law requires cyclists to travel in the same direction as traffic. It should be the opposite. There is nothing more unnerving as a cyclist than being forced to travel in the same direction as cars. You can't see what's happening behind you, no chance to ditch if someone loses control of a car or swerves too close. If you were required to travel in the opposite direction, you could see what's happening in front of you, just as the drivers coming toward you could see what's happening in front of them. And there'd be no more 'dooring' because the person about to open a car door would be able to see you coming."
I had to scratch my head. "That's a great idea, Vernon. We should lobby Albany for a change in the law. We can even call it 'Vernon's Law.'"
"I like the sound of that," said Vernon.
"Me, too," said Paddy Collins. "It would make cyclists less of a nuisance."
"Fewer injuries, too," added Doc Milano.
"I can still buy my grandchildren bicycles," said Tony the Greek.
"And the economy won't be further damaged," observed John Whitney.
We all turned toward Marty Flanagan. He just shook his head and asked for another scotch.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
A Culinary Delight
By John J. Cox
A Resident of Woodside
New Yorkers have been blessed with some of the greatest figures in history: Statesmen, such as Theodore Roosevelt, Franklin Roosevelt and Fiorella LaGuardia; captains of finance and industry, such as J.P. Morgan, John Jacob Astor and Cornelius Vanderbilt; sports legends, such as Babe Ruth, Jack Dempsey and Joe Namath; entertainers, such as Tony Bennett, Duke Ellington and Billy Joel; literary giants, such as James Fenimore Cooper, Herman Melville and Walt Whitman. The list could go on and on.
But in the field of the culinary arts one man stands alone. He is Alan S. Geisler, who passed away last week at age 78. He is the genius who 44 years ago created the red-onion sauce without which no New York hot dog would be complete. Concocted at the behest of the owner of Sabrett, whose frankfurters are a New York mainstay, the sauce became so popular that in recent times it was, and continues to be, marketed in its own packaging in supermarkets. Before that, the only way you could get your hands on it was by purchasing a Sabrett hot dog from a pushcart vendor in the City streets. Anyone who has lived in or visited New York knows how distinctly "New York" these hot dogs are. The pushcarts that populate City streets are equipped with Sabrette umbrellas, announcing not only the presence of the hot dogs, but more importantly, Geisler's sauce. For as good as a Sabrett hot dog may be, it is the sauce that makes it a quintessentially New York dog.
Other places have their own version of the sidewalk hot dog. Chicago dogs, for example, are noted for their tomato and relish toppings on a poppy-seeded bun. Cole slaw, I have read, is a popular topping in the South. But here in New York it is Mr. Geisler's Sabrett onion sauce, along with mustard and sauerkraut if you're adventurous, which is the necessary accoutrement.
I was introduced to the New York hot dog in the mid-60's. At that time the first Sabrett pushcart appeared in my neighborhood in Queens. A young stocky fellow named Frank (no pun intended) set up his cart on a little triangular street on the north side of Broadway and 63rd Street. During the day his only company was his dog (again no pun intended), a well-groomed boxer who would sit quietly beside the cart. Before long he was doing a brisk business providing lunch to the many people who worked at garages, factories and warehouses along Broadway and nearby Northern Boulevard. And on weekends, before we drove off to visit one relative or another, my father would pull his car up behind Frank's cart and each of us--my mother, brother and me--would get a dog and a soda. I don't remember exactly how much it cost, but in those days it was our idea of dining out.
At that young and timid age, I always refrained from sauerkraut (a phobia I have long since overcome). And I could not then see the point of combining the onion sauce with mustard (a phobia I have not overcome), so I took my dog with onions only. I still do.
And my appetite for it never abated. After a few years Frank was doing so well that during winter months he suspended business and, with his loyal canine friend, vacationed in Florida. But his return each spring was as welcome as the warm weather, green leaves on trees and baseball.
In the decades since, I have continued to eat my dogs the same way. It is only when I am at a backyard barbecue, or in some other city where the onion sauce is not available, that I'll resort to mustard or sauerkraut. Otherwise, a dog without Mr. Geisler's sauce is like bacon without eggs, ham without cheese, water without scotch whiskey. It does nothing for me.
Oh, I know the sauce has some drawbacks. For one thing, it is sticky and the one napkin typically issued by vendors is never enough. And yes, it's messy, too. Anyone who regularly uses the sauce is bound to ruin some shirts and ties. Once I even ruined a new pair of expensive white sneakers. I didn't care. I continued to wear those stained sneakers until--well, there's no need to provide a description of that.
Anyway, if somewhere there is a food maker's hall of fame, I nominate Alan S. Geisler. His contribution to the life of New Yorkers should be forever enshrined.
A Resident of Woodside
New Yorkers have been blessed with some of the greatest figures in history: Statesmen, such as Theodore Roosevelt, Franklin Roosevelt and Fiorella LaGuardia; captains of finance and industry, such as J.P. Morgan, John Jacob Astor and Cornelius Vanderbilt; sports legends, such as Babe Ruth, Jack Dempsey and Joe Namath; entertainers, such as Tony Bennett, Duke Ellington and Billy Joel; literary giants, such as James Fenimore Cooper, Herman Melville and Walt Whitman. The list could go on and on.
But in the field of the culinary arts one man stands alone. He is Alan S. Geisler, who passed away last week at age 78. He is the genius who 44 years ago created the red-onion sauce without which no New York hot dog would be complete. Concocted at the behest of the owner of Sabrett, whose frankfurters are a New York mainstay, the sauce became so popular that in recent times it was, and continues to be, marketed in its own packaging in supermarkets. Before that, the only way you could get your hands on it was by purchasing a Sabrett hot dog from a pushcart vendor in the City streets. Anyone who has lived in or visited New York knows how distinctly "New York" these hot dogs are. The pushcarts that populate City streets are equipped with Sabrette umbrellas, announcing not only the presence of the hot dogs, but more importantly, Geisler's sauce. For as good as a Sabrett hot dog may be, it is the sauce that makes it a quintessentially New York dog.
Other places have their own version of the sidewalk hot dog. Chicago dogs, for example, are noted for their tomato and relish toppings on a poppy-seeded bun. Cole slaw, I have read, is a popular topping in the South. But here in New York it is Mr. Geisler's Sabrett onion sauce, along with mustard and sauerkraut if you're adventurous, which is the necessary accoutrement.
I was introduced to the New York hot dog in the mid-60's. At that time the first Sabrett pushcart appeared in my neighborhood in Queens. A young stocky fellow named Frank (no pun intended) set up his cart on a little triangular street on the north side of Broadway and 63rd Street. During the day his only company was his dog (again no pun intended), a well-groomed boxer who would sit quietly beside the cart. Before long he was doing a brisk business providing lunch to the many people who worked at garages, factories and warehouses along Broadway and nearby Northern Boulevard. And on weekends, before we drove off to visit one relative or another, my father would pull his car up behind Frank's cart and each of us--my mother, brother and me--would get a dog and a soda. I don't remember exactly how much it cost, but in those days it was our idea of dining out.
At that young and timid age, I always refrained from sauerkraut (a phobia I have long since overcome). And I could not then see the point of combining the onion sauce with mustard (a phobia I have not overcome), so I took my dog with onions only. I still do.
And my appetite for it never abated. After a few years Frank was doing so well that during winter months he suspended business and, with his loyal canine friend, vacationed in Florida. But his return each spring was as welcome as the warm weather, green leaves on trees and baseball.
In the decades since, I have continued to eat my dogs the same way. It is only when I am at a backyard barbecue, or in some other city where the onion sauce is not available, that I'll resort to mustard or sauerkraut. Otherwise, a dog without Mr. Geisler's sauce is like bacon without eggs, ham without cheese, water without scotch whiskey. It does nothing for me.
Oh, I know the sauce has some drawbacks. For one thing, it is sticky and the one napkin typically issued by vendors is never enough. And yes, it's messy, too. Anyone who regularly uses the sauce is bound to ruin some shirts and ties. Once I even ruined a new pair of expensive white sneakers. I didn't care. I continued to wear those stained sneakers until--well, there's no need to provide a description of that.
Anyway, if somewhere there is a food maker's hall of fame, I nominate Alan S. Geisler. His contribution to the life of New Yorkers should be forever enshrined.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
They Can't Predict Nightfall
By John J. Cox
A Resident of Woodside
Maybe it's me, but has anyone else noted in recent years that the more advanced and technical weather forecasting has become, the worse the forecasts themselves have been? Weather has become big business. It occupies more and more time on news telecasts. The National Weather Service has the ability to interrupt cable television programming so that we can be advised of an impending storm and to track its approach minute by minute. Forecasts are available twenty-four hours on radio and television cable services, and the Weather Channel, which is available on local cable outlets, has become increasingly popular, not only with its national and local forecasting but with regular features that document the most deadly storms and how storms have changed history, to cite just a couple.
And you cannot watch a local news program anymore that doesn't boast of the millions of dollars invested in its weather forecasting capabilities. Radar, satellite, Doppler, and so on. Yet it seems that despite all these boasts, all the money and all the technology, weather forecasting has gotten worse.
Perhaps it is the result of being overly cautious. How many times have we been warned days ahead of time that a major snow storm is on its way only to see it fizzle out? Are the weather authorities simply employing the strategy of 'better safe than sorry?' Or is something more sinister at work, such as news outlets using the prospect of a storm to increase its viewership and its ratings? Here in New York, every time snow is predicted it becomes the lead story on local news telecasts. The friendly weatherman, who is usually relegated to a minute or two deep into the telecast, is suddenly propelled to the lead story. Viewers with bated breath sit anxiously on the edge of their sofas, taking in each word as if their very lives depend on it. Reporters are sent to the far reaches of the viewing area to provide updates of local conditions and roadways. Governmental officials, from mayor to sanitation commissioner to transit chief to airport administrators, are interviewed on the gravity of the situation and their anticipated response. Other news-- like war, famine, economic disaster and the like-- is cast aside as a minor diversion.
Yet for all this, it is uncanny how frequently they get it wrong. And the consequences go unnoticed. How much money did the City spend in readying its forces and equipment for an ordeal that never materialized? How many people, confronted with the possibility of being trapped in their homes for a day, dropped whatever they were doing to line up in supermarkets to stock up on such necessities as bread and milk and beer and potato chips? How many people changed their travel plans for no reason? How many failed to go to work (or more precisely, used it as an excuse not to go to work)? How many backs were thrown out in the course of buying and lifting 50 pound bags of salt or digging the snow blower out of the back of a cluttered garage? The list goes on and on. Yet all of it was for nothing.
Of course, once in a while the forecasters do get it right and we get dumped on as predicted. But by the next day and the next news cycle it is all pretty much forgotten. By then the story is as attractive as the dirty ice and slush the snow has become. And who is to say if the forecasters got it right this time out of skill or sheer luck. My guess is luck. As my wife likes to say, "They can't predict nightfall."
Anyway, I have to interrupt this meditation on weather forecasting. I hear from the radio above my desk that we're about to be hit with another snow storm. Time to stock up on beer and chips.
A Resident of Woodside
Maybe it's me, but has anyone else noted in recent years that the more advanced and technical weather forecasting has become, the worse the forecasts themselves have been? Weather has become big business. It occupies more and more time on news telecasts. The National Weather Service has the ability to interrupt cable television programming so that we can be advised of an impending storm and to track its approach minute by minute. Forecasts are available twenty-four hours on radio and television cable services, and the Weather Channel, which is available on local cable outlets, has become increasingly popular, not only with its national and local forecasting but with regular features that document the most deadly storms and how storms have changed history, to cite just a couple.
And you cannot watch a local news program anymore that doesn't boast of the millions of dollars invested in its weather forecasting capabilities. Radar, satellite, Doppler, and so on. Yet it seems that despite all these boasts, all the money and all the technology, weather forecasting has gotten worse.
Perhaps it is the result of being overly cautious. How many times have we been warned days ahead of time that a major snow storm is on its way only to see it fizzle out? Are the weather authorities simply employing the strategy of 'better safe than sorry?' Or is something more sinister at work, such as news outlets using the prospect of a storm to increase its viewership and its ratings? Here in New York, every time snow is predicted it becomes the lead story on local news telecasts. The friendly weatherman, who is usually relegated to a minute or two deep into the telecast, is suddenly propelled to the lead story. Viewers with bated breath sit anxiously on the edge of their sofas, taking in each word as if their very lives depend on it. Reporters are sent to the far reaches of the viewing area to provide updates of local conditions and roadways. Governmental officials, from mayor to sanitation commissioner to transit chief to airport administrators, are interviewed on the gravity of the situation and their anticipated response. Other news-- like war, famine, economic disaster and the like-- is cast aside as a minor diversion.
Yet for all this, it is uncanny how frequently they get it wrong. And the consequences go unnoticed. How much money did the City spend in readying its forces and equipment for an ordeal that never materialized? How many people, confronted with the possibility of being trapped in their homes for a day, dropped whatever they were doing to line up in supermarkets to stock up on such necessities as bread and milk and beer and potato chips? How many people changed their travel plans for no reason? How many failed to go to work (or more precisely, used it as an excuse not to go to work)? How many backs were thrown out in the course of buying and lifting 50 pound bags of salt or digging the snow blower out of the back of a cluttered garage? The list goes on and on. Yet all of it was for nothing.
Of course, once in a while the forecasters do get it right and we get dumped on as predicted. But by the next day and the next news cycle it is all pretty much forgotten. By then the story is as attractive as the dirty ice and slush the snow has become. And who is to say if the forecasters got it right this time out of skill or sheer luck. My guess is luck. As my wife likes to say, "They can't predict nightfall."
Anyway, I have to interrupt this meditation on weather forecasting. I hear from the radio above my desk that we're about to be hit with another snow storm. Time to stock up on beer and chips.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Parking Ticket Blues
by John J. Cox
A resident of Woodside
Few things in life are more aggravating than dealing with a parking ticket. The whole process-- from finding a place to park in the first place, to finding a ticket on your windshield (if you're lucky enough not to have had your car towed), to standing in line at an adjudication center, to facing a judge who has no real desire to listen to your side of the story, to paying the fine--can tax the patience of the most saintly person.
I don't know of a single person who owns a car in this City who cannot provide a horror story. I've got plenty of my own, like the time I double-parked in front of my building to remove groceries in a driving rain storm. By the time I handed off the grocery bags to my wife who was waiting a few feet away at the lobby door, a parking enforcement car pulled up and a young officer got out and wrote a ticket, even as I screamed and ran back through the pouring rain. Too late. But like most New Yorkers I've learned through experience two things: First, when it is the end of the month, as it was in this instance, there is no mercy. The monthly quotas the City says do not exist must be met anyway. And second, it is far easier, and healthier, to forgo the adjudication process and simply pay the fine.
This system works very well for the City, if not for its citizens. The City issues about 10 million tickets a year, and only about 20 percent of those ticketed have the strength and fortitude to challenge them. The rest figure, accurately, that the deck is already stacked against them and that it would be a waste of time (and money if they work for a living) to spend a day waiting to see a judge who will not believe them anyway. These more practical people realize that the constitutional rights of due process and confrontation do not in fact apply at the Parking Violations Bureau. They know that the Bureau has long adopted the judicial philosophy once espoused by Marxist Leon Trotsky that "only the guilty will be tried."
But in a City of endless innovation when it comes to more efficiently parting its residents from their cash, the Parking Violations Bureau has initiated a new program. If you are one of those hardy souls who appears at the Bureau to challenge a ticket you must first wait on a line to see a clerk. Before seeing a judge the clerk will inform you that the judge has no power to reduce a fine, that if the judge determines you are guilty no amount of begging and sobbing will result in a reduction of what you will be forced to pay. But, if you wish, you can get a substantially reduced fine simply by coming to terms with the clerk.
According to a recent story in the New York Times this program was started three years ago and has been successful. It has reduced the number of judges needed to adjudicate cases. And a person who obtains a reduced fine from the clerk waits no more than an hour, as opposed to waiting perhaps a whole day to see a judge with no authority to lower a fine. But there is one oddity about this program: the City does not publicize it. The Times reported that few people are aware of its existence, that the City never issued a press release about it, and that it is not even mentioned in the City's official guide to parking ticket hearings. It seems that it is only those brave and stout few willing to endure the bureaucratic morass who have benefited from the program. It gives new meaning to Woody Allen's observation that 90 percent of success is just showing up.
A resident of Woodside
Few things in life are more aggravating than dealing with a parking ticket. The whole process-- from finding a place to park in the first place, to finding a ticket on your windshield (if you're lucky enough not to have had your car towed), to standing in line at an adjudication center, to facing a judge who has no real desire to listen to your side of the story, to paying the fine--can tax the patience of the most saintly person.
I don't know of a single person who owns a car in this City who cannot provide a horror story. I've got plenty of my own, like the time I double-parked in front of my building to remove groceries in a driving rain storm. By the time I handed off the grocery bags to my wife who was waiting a few feet away at the lobby door, a parking enforcement car pulled up and a young officer got out and wrote a ticket, even as I screamed and ran back through the pouring rain. Too late. But like most New Yorkers I've learned through experience two things: First, when it is the end of the month, as it was in this instance, there is no mercy. The monthly quotas the City says do not exist must be met anyway. And second, it is far easier, and healthier, to forgo the adjudication process and simply pay the fine.
This system works very well for the City, if not for its citizens. The City issues about 10 million tickets a year, and only about 20 percent of those ticketed have the strength and fortitude to challenge them. The rest figure, accurately, that the deck is already stacked against them and that it would be a waste of time (and money if they work for a living) to spend a day waiting to see a judge who will not believe them anyway. These more practical people realize that the constitutional rights of due process and confrontation do not in fact apply at the Parking Violations Bureau. They know that the Bureau has long adopted the judicial philosophy once espoused by Marxist Leon Trotsky that "only the guilty will be tried."
But in a City of endless innovation when it comes to more efficiently parting its residents from their cash, the Parking Violations Bureau has initiated a new program. If you are one of those hardy souls who appears at the Bureau to challenge a ticket you must first wait on a line to see a clerk. Before seeing a judge the clerk will inform you that the judge has no power to reduce a fine, that if the judge determines you are guilty no amount of begging and sobbing will result in a reduction of what you will be forced to pay. But, if you wish, you can get a substantially reduced fine simply by coming to terms with the clerk.
According to a recent story in the New York Times this program was started three years ago and has been successful. It has reduced the number of judges needed to adjudicate cases. And a person who obtains a reduced fine from the clerk waits no more than an hour, as opposed to waiting perhaps a whole day to see a judge with no authority to lower a fine. But there is one oddity about this program: the City does not publicize it. The Times reported that few people are aware of its existence, that the City never issued a press release about it, and that it is not even mentioned in the City's official guide to parking ticket hearings. It seems that it is only those brave and stout few willing to endure the bureaucratic morass who have benefited from the program. It gives new meaning to Woody Allen's observation that 90 percent of success is just showing up.
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