As a child, my relationship with daily transportation was one wrought with toil and grief provided by a succession of partially-functioning automobiles my parents seemed to attract like lost kittens. Often, our Volkswagen Microbus would only start with the aid of my mother's prayers, said aloud in the front seat after numerous failed attempts at getting the wretched thing to start. On occasions when the prayers went unanswered, during particularly cold winter mornings, she'd have to get a hammer from the glove box and crawl under the car to beat on the machine's underbelly, which did the trick, and off we'd go to church. Getting from point A to point B was frequently a great deal of work, especially when relying on divine intervention. Now, relying entirely on various forms of public transit to make it from one place to another, I have become a mean and surly urbanite with sharp elbows and a furrowed brow. Transportation in New York is proof of Darwin's theories regarding the survival of the fittest. He who doesn't fight for his life doesn't make it on the morning train...

Deep under the ground, there is a world that exists free of sunlight and taxis and the warbles of dirty pigeons. It is a world where the rules of the vertical world seem vaguely inconsequential and a subterranean horizontal reality takes over. Surrounded by strangers, packed into small metal boxes that are controlled and thrust about by unseen hands, one tends to pay more attention than usually given to any brightly colored distraction from the rush-hour transit claustrophobia festival at hand. Peering out at the huddled masses from illuminated placards running along the ceilings of the subway cars are static faces offering promises of varying nature. Some promise wealth, some promise speedy divorces and some promise medical miracles, but the faces promising eternal youth and beauty are the most powerful of all, especially when surrounded by so many specimens of the human race that appear to have seen better days.

There is an undisputed king of these purveyors of affordable hope; he stares out from a backdrop of sunshine and rainbows. He is the great and powerful Dr. Zizmor and for an agreement of mere financial servitude, he will make you beautiful in as little as one lunch break with his collection of magical potions and mystical secrets. Somehow, although time keeps passing, his likeness in his photographs hasn't changed in 20 years, nor has the quality or aesthetic sensibility of his graphic designer. Having never met the man myself, he seems like a mythical creature, akin to the great Oz behind the curtain. While the other subway wizards may offer things like "free" abortion alternatives, help with sexual dysfunctions and speedy bankruptcies (seemingly grand and complicated problems with even grander necessities for resolution), Dr. Zizmor tells you that YOU TOO can be beautiful with little to no effort on your own part. Although he uses outdated and rather pathetic methods to do so, there is a simplicity to his offer that is warm and inviting, and besides, who can be very intimidated by a man who looks like a Muppet? I find that the testimonials from his loyal subjects, which are a key component in every version of his subway posters, add that little something extra to make you feel like you're reading the cliff's notes from an infomercial, and who doesn't like that?

Anyone who has lived in New York for any length of time knows of the technicolor subway skin doctor, but perhaps not all have the fondness for him that I do. There is something endearing about the way his images seem to be frozen in the late 1980's, and they never seem to progress or innovate. His shtick hasn't, and most likely, it will never change. He connects us with memories of an increasingly less-tangible past, one without WiFi and text messaging and Photoshop, a simpler time when lots of labor would go into making a single mix-tape on cassette. I suppose that my recent fatigue brought on by working 70 hours per week between two different jobs has taken a toll on my sanity, and this is why Dr. Zizmor is speaking to me in such a way. At least he hasn't animated himself in my mind when I am stuck focusing on him rather than the fact that I've been physically violated by everyone who has gotten on and off the train while I patiently wait for my stop. In a city that is so focused on forward motion, I find it sort of wonderful to see something that refuses to move on...