We live in an era of apathy and cynicism. Government is broken; religion fails to relieve the anxiety of the age; torpor and resigned acceptance are the default responses to the inconveniences and incivilities life throws in our way on a daily basis. So when a group comes together and rouses itself against injustice, despite the arduous effort and unlikely odds of success, that group deserves to be celebrated, nay, put forth as a model for others to follow.

We speak of the downtrodden commuters from Westchester and Fairfield, from Roslyn and Ronkonkoma, this happy band of brothers who coalesced to ensure that one of man's most important rights was not abrogated by a group of faceless bureaucrats and killjoys. These freedom fighters stood up for their God-given privilege to get absolutely blitzed on the 6:07 to Stratford. A man works a long, hard day at the office, he needs a couple giant cans of Fosters and a few shots of Jim Beam before he's got to drive home to face the naggy wife and screaming kids. Thank you, riders of the MTA, for taking the stand that so many of us would be afraid to make. We're soliciting donations for a monument to your courage that we will set up somewhere in Greenwich. It will be a bronze statue of a man in a gray flannel suit, Coors tallboy, Blackberry, and briefcase in hand, inscribed with whatever for the Latin is for "Where the fuck is my drink." Gentlemen, we salute you, and the 300 public drunkenness citations for which you stand.

Commuters' Cocktail Hour Likely to Keep Rolling [NYT]