Last night around 6 p.m., we stepped onto a downtown F train, whereupon we were greeted by what might be the most odd and/or terrible thing we’ve ever seen on the subway: Paul Wolfowitz. “What station is this?” the prime architect of the Iraq war asked us. He was traveling (strangely, we thought) with no apparent security detail save for a middle-aged dude in a white baseball cap. “34th Street,” we mumbled. As in an encounter with a bully, we were left reeling — all we could manage to do was snap this fuzzy camera-phone photo of the back of his head, and it was only later, long after Wolfowitz had exited the train, that we thought up the perfect rejoinder: “This is 34th — if you’re still looking for those WMDs, may we suggest you try Delancey?”
