28 Hours Later

As you probably know by now, the NYC transit workers' strike is SO ON. I was cozily ensconced in my apartment all day, so I didn't have to brave the chill and wend my way into the city, but I have it on good authority that it was damn cold. That wasn't the only reason I was relieved not to have to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge, though: the last time I crossed the famous span it was August of 2003, during the blackout, and the experience reminded me of nothing so much as a scene from the fabulously freaky 28 Days Later. Something like this:

"He will never read again. He will never love again. He will eat his own flesh when food is not found. He is Infected."

That's right: those who must walk to work every day will never read again, because they aren't getting their free copies of AM New York. They will never love again, because they must spend four hours a day communting. They will eat their own flesh when food is not found, because they haven't exercised this much in 25 years. They are Stricken.