Metrofail & Trifail—Total Failures Part III

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By Seth H. Bramson

Greetings again, all!

Our tsurris over the last few weeks is likely fodder for another column, and, indeed, we will get to that in an upcoming issue, but, for the moment, it is important that we continue with our discussion of the two entities named in the title.

I could understand if people might want to say “oh, you’re being negative,” but, folks and friends, that is completely incorrect. As occurs when people say to me, after I have paid them a compliment, “oh, Seth, you’re so nice” I respond by saying, “actually, no, I’m not “nice,” but I am honest and if it comes out “nice” then so much the better,” and that is the situation with the discussion regarding those two shameful transportation debacles, which is all and the only thing they both are. I am NOT being negative but I am being honest.

“But,” you might say, “how can you say (write) that? Do you have an insider’s insight?” And the answer to that well-meaning question can only be answered by quoting from “The Bridgetender” sound bite from the late, great NEILGOD show, when the caller, who thought he could put it over on Neil, replied to one of Neil’s questions with “Ab-so-lute-ly correct, Sir”

Besides being the President of the Miami Beach District during the Transit Improvement Program, which, from 1972 through 1974 was the citizen involvement program for the planning and building of Dade County’s rapid transit line, I was, by necessity and because I was the only person involved with rail transit at the time, the County’s official spokesperson regarding the rapid transit program. Indeed, I had utter inside insight, for a number of reasons, most of them having been previously written about hereon. As for Trifail, though, that is yet another sorry and sordid story.

When Trifail was announced, I “broke my back” attempting to secure a position with them as either marketing director or director of communications. It was the equivalent of the great Moron joke: “Why did the moron hit hit himself in the head with a hammer? And the answer? Because it felt so good when he stopped!”

The insult of them bringing in some female (I am NOT a chauvinist: it could have been a worthless, useless, know-nothing, knowing nothing about the region, the area, or rail transit male, so skip the phony indignation) who, as just noted, knew absolutely nothing about marketing was beyond shameful. She lasted maybe a year and then they advertised locally for a marketing director. I not only applied but I had strong references from the Chairman and the President of Florida East Coast Railway. Did you get a reply? Neither did I and they hired another no-nothing yutz.

As the great Popeil’s Pocket Fisherman ad went (now copied by dozens of companies) “But wait! There’s more!”

My reaching out to them numerous times to run history trains with me as announcer and itinerary arranger (we would have filled at least one full car) to West Palm Beach, bused over to Palm Beach for lunch at the Breakers then a visit to Whitehall, the Henry M. Flagler Museum and then back on the Trifail train) received the same response as I would get speaking to my closet door. (Are you getting it now?) Hell, my two cats would do a better job of responding than those mutts did.

Eventually, the useless director resigned (in transit, no matter how useless or worthless the agency manager is, it is like a closed sorority or fraternity: that person just goes on to another job in which he or she can continue to screw off, do less than nothing and get paid more than he or she did in the previous job) and, sure enough, they hired another director, a total twit, who was there for no reason other than to collect a paycheck while she used her connections in transit to get another screw-off job. And she did.

When another nobody, John Dyer, left Miami after I don’t remember how many years of conning the commission until he finally got caught on to, he got one of the most important jobs in transit: director of the then a-building Los Angeles transit authority. But unlike Miami-Dade (don’t these things always happen in this Podunk town?), where he messed around and did essentially nothing for a good few years, they caught on to him quickly in L. A. and he was out of there in less than six months. (Okay, maybe a month or two more than six!)

So, what happened here with Trifail? They brought in this ditz from L. A., who, like Dyer, was only there a few months as Director, and, sure enough, she, in her totally disinterested tenure, did absolutely nothing except put on her makeup and file her nails. You want proof? Here it is.
Every Trifail employee I spoke to told the same story about that flake: She would come in in the morning, make personal calls and usually leave by 2:00 PM. And then, one day, she flounced into the office, packed some things—seriously and honestly—and sashaysed out, saying to the people in the office (and as Jack Paar used to say, “I kid you not!”) “I got another job. I’m leaving. Tell the board that I won’t be back.” And that was it. 86 (a restaurant term meaning “out of an item”), gone, gornisht helfend, zugnisht, kaput, OUTTA THERE! And that was it: she split.

So am I being negative? Hell, no! But I am being honest and truthful, and, frankly, in this country—where the ONLY fake news comes from that person (negatories deleted by author, heaven forbid anybody is insulted!) in the White House—I think (and you might disagree) we need a helluva lot more of THAT!

Be well, all, and as I promised Mr. Berkwitt, now that the god-awful tenting (and coming home to the A/C not working (yes, it is now, thank Neil!)) is over we should be able to get back to our twice-weekly schedule.

Love to all and kishentouchoss to those subhumans (including the lice in my Beach High class) who I wouldn’t dignify by mentioning their names.

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