Every winter, like clockwork, an ugly Nor’easter roars into the region and knocks down powerlines between New York and Philadelphia. This cold-hearted force of nature quickly transforms Penn Station from a semi-sociable sea of humanity into a menacing mob of suburbia. Upon learning that their trains will be delayed, derailed and cancelled, each commuter instantly performs two important tasks: First, they text their family letting them know they’ll be late. And second, they look for a sharp object to jam into their auditory canal, hoping to prematurely end the torture that awaits them. Thankfully I carry a bevy of ballpoints with me, so I’m always prepared for such an emergency.
