Mailbag

Like any service industry, the railroad gets a lot of letters of complaint. Passengers write to complain about late trains, dirty trains, hot trains, cold trains and sometimes they write about rude conductors. A lot of these letters have merit, but sometimes these letters are a bit trivial.

Dave is a fellow conductor who also happens to work as a stand-up comedian. I see him almost every evening in Grand Central. He paces the floor of the conductor’s lounge as if it were center stage at Caroline’s Comedy Club. He looks a little like Paul Reiser, but his delivery is more Richard Lewis. Every night Dave has a gripe. Whether it’s politics, the company, the union or a recent passenger. No one is safe from Dave’s rants.

Dave’s performance on Wednesday night was particularly amusing. It seems that a passenger recently wrote a letter to the railroad to complain about the way he chews his gum. The passenger wasn’t so much offended that Dave was chewing gum; it was more the manner in which the gum was chewed. The letter said something like; “ He chews gum the way a cow chews cud.”

Dave was fired up:

“Can you believe that?” He asked.

“Don’t these people have anything better to do?”

“What? Do they expect the railroad to take disciplinary action if I don’t learn how to chew gum properly?”

Just as I began to wonder if Wrigley’s had a 12-step program for excessive chewers, Pete, another conductor chimed in:

“Yeh. You think that’s bad? A passenger once wrote a letter and complained about the way I smile. She said it was sinister!”

I thought these stories were pretty funny and that they’d make a good story for this blog. I began asking other conductors if they had ever been written up for frivolous reasons. Most conductors said no... and If they had been written up, the passenger had just cause. I was about to give up hope when someone shared the following story.

It seems that a fellow conductor named Evel, (rhymes with level) had a disagreement with a female passenger on his train one night. I’m not sure what the problem was, but the passenger demanded to know what his name was so she could write a letter of complaint. Evel (ever the gentleman) obliged the woman. He even went as far as spelling his name out on a piece of paper:

E-V-E-L M-O-R-A-L-E-S

He politely handed the piece of paper over to the passenger, but this seemed to only infuriate the woman further.

A couple of days later a trainmaster (supervisor) met Evel’s train at the platform in Grand Central. “Okay,” he said, “Which one of you wise guys told a woman that your that your name was Evil Morals?”

Hair Today...Gone Tomorrow!

No, the above picture is not me!

David is a mentally challenged man who lives in town. He can be regularly seen pedaling his bicycle up and down Route 1. Almost everyone in town knows him by name, and he spends the better part of the day visiting (and pestering) the merchants up and down Main Street. He speaks in a VERY LOUD VOICE that some people find intimidating. Yesterday morning, he approached me (still wearing his bicycle helmet) in the local convenience store.

David: HEY, DON’T I KNOW YOU?

Me: Yes, David. We’ve met several times before.

David: DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU LOOK LIKE WITH THAT BALD HEAD OF YOURS?

(The people in the store now turn to look our way, waiting for my reply.)

Me: Yeh, Yeh, I know…I know. You think I look like Captain Stubbing from The Love Boat.

(He tells me this every time he sees me.)

David: YES, THAT’S RIGHT!!! CAPTAIN STUBBING, TELLY SAVALAS AND YUL BRENNER…COMBINED!

Me: Wow! That’s quite a list.

David: YOU’RE A VERY HANDSOME MAN!

Me: Thanks, David.

I tried to laugh off David’s left-handed compliment, but it really started to bug me. Gavin MacLeod (a/k/a Captain Stubbing) is like 32 years older than me. I usually don’t let the bald thing get to me, but it was the third time in the past week when somebody thought I was much older than I am.

It all started on Monday when I covered a conductor’s job on the Waterbury Branch. Train service had been canceled due to track work, and the railroad called in busses to shuttle people back and forth between Bridgeport and Waterbury. Whenever the railroad calls in busses, conductors ride along, collecting tickets and generally acting as a liaison between the bus company and the railroad. On this particular day, I worked with a pleasant bus driver named Eva.

Eva told me that she is a recent immigrant from Poland. She said that she’s been working as a bus driver for the past few years, but that she would like to get a job as a conductor. She told me she was afraid to apply because her English is, in her words, “Not so good.” I told Eva that I thought her English was fine, and that she’d make an excellent conductor. She then asked me the dreaded question:

“You retire soon?”

“No, I’m not old enough.”

“How old you?”

“Forty four.”

(She then looked at my bald head)

“OH…You Americans work too hard!”

“Yeah! Well at least I have all my teeth!”

(Okay, I really didn’t really say this…but I thought it.)

On Tuesday, I got a haircut at a barbershop across the street from Grand Central. This barbershop sits atop a Chinese restaurant that proudly displays roasted ducks (hanging by their necks) in their window. Beside the ducks hangs a sign that reads: “All haircuts $11.” (This would be a good deal for most people, but considering the amount of hair I have, it’s a rip off.) Beside the restaurant is a narrow staircase that leads up to a tiny barbershop with about eight chairs. The barbers that work here are of every ethnic background. Palestinians cut hair next to Israelis and Pakistanis in relative tranquility. They could really teach a lesson to the diplomats down the street at the United Nations.

It took my barber, a young Israeli, about two minutes to trim the ring of salt and pepper hair around my head. When he was done with my hair, he began trimming errant nose and ear hair. Before he finished he asked if I would like to have my eyebrows trimmed. “Might as well,” I said. I began to feel a little depressed when I realized that the barber had spent about as much time on my eyebrows, nose and ear hair as he did on my head. I said something like, “So it’s come to this, huh?”

How old you are? The barber asked in broken English.

“Forty four,” I said.

“Really?” he asked incredulously.

“Yep” I said.

“How old you think I am?” He asked.

This guy didn’t look a day over twenty but I wanted to play with him.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe thirty?”

His face fell and he said, “No, I only twenty three.”

“Really?” I said.

As I walked out of the barbershop he was staring at himself in the mirror.

Oh What A Night!

Friday 08/04/2006-02:22 a.m. New Haven. Last stop.

If this blog has given you the impression that my job is all glamour and celebrities, this photo should correct that. It's a pretty good representation of what our late night trains are like. My friend emailed it to me. He said that he had to call the police to help him drag this guy's sorry butt off the train.

Joe Lieberman for U. S. Senate

This past weekend, the editorial board at “Derailed” gathered together in our conference room around a ridiculously long oak table. At the head of this table sat Bobby, our Editor and Chief. He called this emergency session because he believes that we should enter the political arena and endorse a candidate in tomorrow’s Connecticut Democratic senate primary race. There was some consternation among members who believed that we should continue this blog’s “no political agenda” policy.

At one point, Mrs. Bobby stood and spoke, saying that she is a proponent of avoiding controversial subjects like politics, race and religion. She fears that stating Bobby’s views, (as correct as they may be) risks alienating this blog’s burgeoning readership.

At the end of the meeting our Editor and Chief spoke. He stated that he would like to break with tradition just this once. “The reasons for this are two-fold” he said:

A. He has no new material.

B. This affords him the opportunity to brag about how he’s met Joe Lieberman.

Op-Ed

When I was in college, I used to work at Sears in the paint/electrical/small appliances and candy departments (divisions 30-34-11and 18 for all you Sears people out there.) One day Joe Lieberman (then a state senator) came up to me and made an odd request. He said his young son was having trouble sleeping and he was looking for a device that would emanate white noise. I was only about 20-years old at the time and I’d never heard of such a thing.

Me: Joe, let me get this straight. You want a machine that makes noise to put your kid to sleep.

Joe: Yeah, we tried it at a friend’s house and the kid went right
out.

Me: Nope, sorry. We don’t carry that product. Try the catalog department (Standard answer for all Sears salespeople.)

Joe: Thanks for your time. (What a mensch!)

Several years later, Joe (now a US senator) was on my train. When I collected his ticket, I reminded him of our past meeting and I asked if he ever found that white noise machine. Joe said that yes, he had found the machine and it had worked wonders. He said his son didn’t need it anymore, seeing that he had recently graduated from college.

Me: Boy! That makes me feel old.

Joe: How do you think it that makes me feel?

Mike, one of my co-workers, recently left a comment on one of my posts:

I was gating the trains in New Haven on New Years eve the year Gore and Lieberman lost in the election vs Bush, some blame the "Chads" in Florida. That night Joe Lieberman was putting his daughter on an Amtrak train. We had to give each person a seat check with a punch in it when we took their ticket. As Joe walked by surrounded by Metro North officials and CT state police, I said to him "Watch your step Joe, there's chads all over the floor and I know you had problems with them in Florida". Everyone laughed and Joe looked at me and said "You son of a." then he looked at one of the officials and said "Fire him". He was a real good sport, he really thought it was funny. I don't think my boss, Mr. Kanel thought it was that funny.

I’m endorsing Joe, not only because I think he’s a great guy but also because he thinks for himself. He doesn’t always tow the party line. People who think in terms of liberal and conservative/ left and right (think Al Franken/ Rush Limbaugh) make me nervous. Issues are rarely black and white; they’re more shades of gray and I think Joe understands that.

Some members of the Democtatic party are punishing Joe for not drinking their ideological Kool-Aid. Other members can’t get past what they viewed as a “Judas kiss” between he and President Bush after the State of the Union speech a few years back.

Personally, I’m having trouble getting past Ned Lamont’s embrace of Al Sharpton.

If he read this blog, I'm sure Joe Lieberman would approve this message.

A Penny for your thoughts!

I returned to work on Tuesday after a week's vacation. When I got to the sign-in room in New Haven, I found Bill, my regular engineer, looking a little despondent.

“Why the long face," I asked.

“Ugh!" He said. "While you were on vacation, I inherited a Cockapoo puppy from my aunt.”

“I guess it’s not going too well then?”

“Well, actually, it was going fine till yesterday…and then he swallowed a penny.”

Being a new pet owner, Bill was very concerned. He raced the puppy to the local veterinary hospital where the vet gave the dog medicine to induce vomiting. It didn’t work. He then took X-rays of the dog’s stomach and put a camera probe down the dog's esophagus and into it’s stomach, but try as they might, they still couldn’t find the penny. After several more X-rays they finally spotted Old Abe resting comfortably in the puppy’s intestines.

The vet kept the dog overnight for observation, in hopes that it might pass a penny-laden poop but it never did. When they released the dog, they told Bill that he'd have to check the dog’s stools for the next couple of days. Bill had to work, so he enlisted a friend to stay at his house with the puppy. Her responsiblities were to feed the dog Bill's grandmother's meatballs and then follow it around his backyard until it moved it’s bowels.

As the night progressed, I heard Bill on his cell phone giving her instructions. He was saying things like, “The rubber gloves are on the counter,” and, “It’s getting late, so follow him around with a flashlight.”

“That’s a great friend you got there," I said.

“If we don’t find the penny, it means more tests and maybe surgery.”

“Those tests must cost a bundle.,”

“Thanks for reminding me. I’ve spent 948 freakin’ dollars already.”

“Wow! “That’s one magical pup you got there. He turned a penny into $948 overnight. He’s like the hen that laid the golden egg.”

“I just want it to lay the copper penny.”

“By the way… What did you name this dog?”

“Snickers. My aunt named him.”

“Maybe you should rename him Inflation.”

I could tell that this puppy had already stolen Bill’s heart, but he was sick over the vet bill. He kept complaining that the vet hadn’t even done anything except a few lousy tests. In an attempt to make Bill feel better, I told him about our late cat Casey.

"Casey got into weekly catfights, and he would always come home beaten up. The vet told us if we got him neutered he'd be less aggressive. He had the operation but it just gave him more reason to be ticked off. His fights continued and his ears soon looked like they'd been trimmed with pinking shears. His cuts turned into abscesses, and the abscesses would eventually burst. We were constantly bringing him to the vet for surgery (they would insert a drain), requiring at least an overnight stay. Then there were the stitches and antibiotics, then to top it all off, he got hit by a car and needed his jaw wired. The vet recommended that he have a root canal, but I told him that the cat didn't have dental. Casey lived till he was 18, and in all that time, I figure I must have spent thousands of dollars on him.”

Bill smiled and said, “I'm feeling better already!”

When we rolled into New Haven at the end of the night, Bill finally got the word from his friend. He then got on the PA system and announced to the whole train; “The penny has been found!” The passengers had no idea what he was talking about, but the all of the crew members had a good laugh.

When I went to work on Wednesday, I asked Bill how the patient was.

“Not bad,” he said, “except that he crapped on my new $2000 rug and then peed on my new couch.” Bill said he was at first angry at the dog, but then Snickers looked up at him with those big puppy dog eyes, and it melted his heart.

I knew exactly how Bill felt. I then told him the story about how my dog Brenna ate my wallet when she was a puppy. I had gone to bed and left my wallet in the back pocket of my uniform pants. Sometime during the night, I heard chomping and when I turned the light on, I found my wallet, license and credit cards strewn around my bedroom. Each of these items had incriminating bite marks in them.

“BAD PUPPY!” I shouted. But Brenna just tilted her head and looked up at me with those big cocker spaniel eyes. I just couldn’t be angry anymore.

I collected the contents of my wallet and put it back together. I was going to put it on my nightstand, but my wife told me that the dog would probably grab it again. I figured she was probably right and I hid the wallet under my pillow.

The next day I threw on my uniform pants, completely forgetting that my wallet was under my pillow. As Murphy’s Law would have it, that night a Connecticut State Police trooper pulled me over on I-95 for speeding. When the trooper asked me for my license and registration, I instinctively reached for my back pocket. It then dawned on me where my wallet was. I told the officer, “You’re not going to believe this but… my dog ate my wallet…

Old Cape Cod

If you’re fond of sand dunes and salty air, Quaint little villages here and there
You’re sure to fall in love with Old Cape Cod
If you like the taste of a lobster stew
Served by a window with a ocean view
You’re sure to fall in love with Old Cape Cod
If you spend an evening you’ll want to stay
Watching the moonlight on Cape Cod Bay
You’re sure to fall in love with Old Cape Cod

My family and I just came back from a mini-vacation on Cape Cod, and the whole time we were there, the above song kept playing in the back of my head. You may recognize it. It’s called “Old Cape Cod,” recorded by Patti Page in 1957. The song speaks of some of the Cape’s charm; the sand dunes, salty air, little villages, great seafood. These are some of the things we love about the Cape, but Patti left out some of my daughters favorite things.

While driving through Providence, Rhode Island, on the way to the Cape, it has become family tradition for my wife and I to point out the giant insect that sits atop the New England Pest Control building. The bug has become a New England landmark, and my daughters can’t wait to see it. Sometimes the pest control people dress it in a Red Sox uniform or a pair of sunglasses. This year it was naked but my girls loved it all the same.

When we arrived at the Wellfleet Motel and Lodge, the first thing my younger daughter did was run and smell the soap. We've stayed at this motel several times before, and to her, the smell of the motel soap harkens back to fond memories of summer vacations past. We all think she's a little strange for sniffing the soap, but she doesn't care what we think. She loves it. This year in fact, she hoarded seven bars to take home with her. She's hoping it will get her through the long Connecticut winter.

After my daughter was done sniffing the soap, we threw on our bathing suits and ran to the motel pool and hot tub for a dip. It's one of our favorite things to do. I keep telling the girls that someday we'll get a hot tub to call our own. That someday hasn't come...yet.

Our days were spent at the Cape Cod National Sea Shore. Here my daughters begged me to go body surfing with them in the icy cold surf. I did my best, trying to be a good father and all, but the ocean was way-way too icy and cold. We all retreated back to our beach blankets where the girls whined that they wanted to go back to the motel pool. I whined because I had spent $15 on beach parking.

At night we went to the Wellfleet Drive-In Movie Theatre. It is conveniently located right across the street from our motel. Going there is like travelling back in a time machine and the girls have a blast. We always bring pillows and blankets and stock up on junk food as we watch the nightly double feature. On Wednesday we watched "Monster House" and "Click." Friday we saw "Pirates of the Caribbean II" and "Shaggy Dog." The girls thought that these movies were pretty good, but they can't compare to their favorite movie... the "Intermission" film:

Intermission Time


Perhaps Ms. Page can update her song:

If you're fond of Insects atop pest control buildings
Quaint intermission movies at the Drive-In
If you like the smell of the soap in your motel bathroom
Afternoon dips in a indoor hot tub
You're sure to fall in love with Old Cape Cod

Shrink Rap

No, I didn’t have Sigmund Freud on the train, but I do sometimes wonder what he would have to say about my obsession with celebrity.

I picture myself lying on a chaise lounge in his office while he sits in a chair, crossed legged with a cigar in one hand, ("sometimes a cigar is a just a cigar!") and a quill pen in the other. He begins to speak as he jots down some notes:

“Und celebrity obsession es very commune” he might say, “Und dis obsession inflates your male ego and makes you feel more important. Dis coupled vit da fact that you veren’t breastfed as un child explains it.”

“Wow Dr. Freud,” I might say, “ That makes a lot of sense. Now if you could only explain this recurring dream I have. Every night I dream of my train going into a tunnel...”

What's in a name?

That which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet."
--From Romeo and Juliet (II, ii, 1-2)


Last night I worked with an engineer that I had never met before. After introducing myself in the sign-in room in New Haven, I asked him what his name was.

“John,” he replied.

I was surprised that I never had seen him around before, and I wondered if I might know him by his last name

“John what?”

“John Smith.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah!”

“What did you do, rob a bank or something?”

“No.”

“Perhaps you’re in the witness protection program then?...
I know! You’re in the mafia and you’re on the lam?”

“No, that’s not it at all.” (Of course. What else could he say?)

“Don’t tell me?... You’re wife’s name is Jane Doe.”

“No,” (now looking a little perplexed.) “Her name is Claudia.”

I really wanted to explore the whole Pocahontas, Captain John Smith angle, but he didn’t seem to want to play along, and it deflated my enthusiasm.

Tonight I worked with an engineer by the name of James Joyce, and the same thing happened.

“Written any good books lately?” I asked.

“NO!”

He said NO, curtly, as if he’d been answering this question all his life. (Which he probably has.)

Although, John and James might have it bad, they can’t hold a candle to my fellow conductor…Ronald McDonald (Swear to god!)

When I met Ron, the first thing I noticed was his name badge. It read R. McDonald.

“Please tell me that your first name isn’t Ronald?” I pleaded.

“I’m afraid it is.”

“EGAD MAN!” Can’t you bring your parents up on abuse charges?

“I'm afraid not. You see I was born in the 1950’s, long before the restaurant clown with the white face and red hair.”

I can’t imagine the harassment poor Ron has gone through and it made me think back to my own grade school days . Classmates would deliberately bastardize my name (McDonough). All I heard was McDoogle, McDoogie, and their all time favorite-McDonut. But poor Ron’s torment must have been tenfold.

We have some other interesting names on the railroad. For several years my brother Brian has been having fun at the expense of a fellow engineer named Jimmy Stuart (Stewart.)
Whenever Brian sees Jimmy, he breaks out into a spot-on impression of George Bailey, from “It’s a Wonderful Life.”

“Ah, ah, ah, Clarence…Where’s Mary?”

To mix things up, Brian sometimes opts to impersonate the older, feebler Stewart. This requires a lot of stammering and talking with his hands. Brian will sometimes go on and on about a 7ft imaginary rabbit named Harvey or he’ll tell the risqué joke that Stewart once told on the Merv Griffin Show.

Jimmy Stuart, (the engineer) always laughs along with Brian and takes the ribbing in stride. I wish the same could be said about my long time engineer-Bob Barker. For years Bob and I worked the late night trains together. When meeting at the beginning of each shift, I’d always greet him with a:

“Hey Bob Barker…COME ON DOWN!”

Perhaps Bob isn’t a Price is Right fan, or possibly he just got sick of me yelling, "COME ON DOWN." I'm not certain. The only thing I do know, is that one night he gave me a look.

It was the kind of look that said…ENOUGH ALREADY!

It was the kind of look that said…CUT THE CRAP!

It was the kind of look that said…I WISH I COULD HAVE YOU SPAYED OR NEUTERED!

Conductor to the Stars

As the reigning Conductor to the Stars, I am always looking over my shoulder. There’s always seems to be some upstart trying to unseat me from my throne. Conductor John Murphy is one example of a coworker attempting a coup d’etat.

One summer, a few years back, I hit a severe celebrity dry spell and John took much pleasure in my frustration. He always enjoyed reporting his latest celebrity sighting and we soon entered a game of chess where the celebrities were our pawns.

One day he told me that Whoopi Goldberg was in the head car of our train, but instead of being boastful, he seemed a little taken aback. He said that when he first saw her, he started, "Hey, aren't you...?"

Whoopi put her hand up, as if to stop him, looked over her sunglasses, and said, “Don’t say another word.”

“ Huh! Show folk,” I said, “Go figure!”

I told John that as a potential CTTS, these things are to be expected. “Take this as a learning experience," I advised. "Why, I once had disco queen Donna Summer on my train, and she treated me the exact same way.” I wanted to say, “Hey honey, I work hard for the money too.”

That summer, John was my assistant on the 6:55 pm train from New Haven to New York on Sunday nights. This train, for some unknown reason, was like an episode of the Love Boat, where long forgotten celebrities, ( i.e. Jessica Tandy, Shirley MaClaine, Mariette Hartley, Charles Grodin, David Groh, Sandy Dennis, James Naughton, Frank Converse, Larry from Three’s Company,) regularly made cameo appearances. This was much to the delight of John and me. We started a friendly competition to see who would earn the coveted title of Conductor to the Stars.

I believe I drew first blood when I collected a ticket from Get Smart’s Barbara Feldon. I asked Miss Feldon to play along as John approached.

“John,” I said, “May I introduce you to my good friend Barbara Feldon.”

John crossed his arms then touched his hand to his face, “Oh, Max!” he said in mock indignation, doing an almost perfect imitation of Agent 99.

The next Sunday it was John’s turn. He had just collected a red-haired woman’s ticket and he gestured to me with the wave of his hand, “Conductor to the Stars,” he said.  May I introduce you to my dear friend Marcia Wallace, you know Carol, the secretary from the Bob Newhart show?”

He thought he had me.

“Nice to meet you Marcia,” I said. “Oh, and John, did you happen to notice that Marcia is seated with Match Game’s Brett Summer?”

“Oh Brett,” John said in feigned embarrassment, “I didn’t even recognize you.”

“That’s why I’m Conductor to the Stars,” I said, “and you’re only the assistant conductor to the stars.”

Slick Willie

During the 1992 presidential campaign, then Governor Bill Clinton made a campaign stop in Grand Central. He was followed by a huge press corp, jostling cameras and carrying microphones. As I walked by the crowd I paused to see what all the commotion was about. Clinton saw me, a workingman dressed in full uniform. He paused (he knew this was a great photo opportunity,) and held his hand out to me. He looked me straight in the eye and firmly grasped my outstretched hand with his right hand as he clasped my forearm with his left. He made me feel as if I were the only person in that cavernous station, and I was not surprised when he won the election that November.

Howard Dean on the other hand did not impress me at all. It was after the democratic primaries but shortly before he had been named Chairman of the Democratic National Committee. He boarded the train and sat down right across from the train’s lavatory. Unfortunately, most lavatories on our trains emanate a foul barnyard odor. Smart commuters avoid the seats surrounding the lavatory like the plague. Even though there were several other seats available, he chose to sit right across from the lavatory.

Now I ask, if a man does not have enough sense to not sit across from a bathroom on a Metro North train, how can he ever hope to be the leader of the free world?

Dazed and Confused

As you may have noticed, I haven’t written much lately. It seems that my blog obsession has fallen by the wayside (for the time being,) and blogging has been put on my mind’s back burner.

The blog has, however, been replaced by two new obsessions:

1. My desire to drop 20 lbs.

2. My quest to dig myself out of debt.

In order to reach these new goals, I have been reading three books at the same time.

Having just finished phase I of the South Beach Diet, I occasionally refer back to the SBD book for guidance. At the same time, I’m reading Dave Ramsey's “Total Money Maker” book. This book is a step-by-step approach to getting out of debt. In addition to these books, today I found an old copy of “Make the Connection” by Oprah Winfrey and her trainer Bob Greene. This book really emphasizes exercise in addition to diet for maximum weight loss. I began reading it on the train this afternoon, and I’m already 1/2 way through it.

What have I learned from these books? You might ask.

I discovered that I could reduce my consumer debt by eating more fiber and running three miles a day with Stedman…

Err! Sorry that’s not it. Let me try again.

I discovered that I could lower my glycemic index by cutting up my credit cards and giving new cars away to my studio audience.

No, no, that’s wrong. It seems I’m a little confused here.

Perhaps I should tackle these books one at a time.

Grumpy Old Men

Tickets! Tickets Please! I shout, as I walk down the aisle collecting tickets on an early morning Metro North train. A gentleman with white hair and wild eyebrows touches me on the sleeve. “Conductor," he whines, “some genius just got off the train and left that huge duffle bag behind.”(This is New York pre 9-11, before errant bags and terrorism are a big concern.) He points to a giant black duffle bag the size of a Volkswagen that sits in the overhead luggage rack. Suddenly, I realize that I am talking with 60 Minutes' personality Andy Rooney. He looks smaller, older and feebler in person.

“Did you ever wonder?” he asks, as if doing an exaggerated impersonation of himself, “how anybody could leave something that big behind?”

No, I think, I misplace my keys, glasses, and cell phone on a daily basis, but I want to bond with an American icon, so I say, “ I can’t imagine how anybody could leave something like that behind.”

We chuckle, pat each other on the back, and congratulate ourselves for being of such superior intellect.

Pygmalion

My mother was an intelligent, well read women with a good vocabulary, but for some unknown reason, she had trouble saying words with the double “T” consonant in the middle of them. In my mother’s world, a bottle was a bot’l and the word little was pronounced lit’l. Herds of cows were called cat’l and the largest city in Washington was Seat’l. My sister Maureen and I found this very amusing, and we would intentionally ask her questions like:

“What do you call the metal teapot on the stove?”

“You mean the ket'l?” she’d answer.

We would then roll on the ground in laughter, and try to think up more questions to ask.
Occasionally we’d try and make up sentences with all of my mother’s most famous mispronounced words:

“Hey Ma!” we’d say. “Put the cat’l in the ket’l with a lit’l but’r or we’ll have a bat’l.”

“Don’t be fresh,” she’d say.

Some words that didn’t have a double “T” consonant were also a challenge. The word “turtle” comes to mind. She referred to all high-necked sweaters as turt’l necks and to this day I cannot look at one without thinking of my mother.

I came up with the idea for this post over this past weekend. I was at my brother Brian’s house, attending a high school graduation party for his daughter. After pouring myself a cup of coffee, I discovered there was no Splenda (the artificial sweetener) in the house. I knew that my wife (who is always prepared) carries extra packets of the sugar substitute in her pocketbook.

“Do you have any Splenda?” I asked my wife.

“Splender!” My ex-sister in law, Monique screamed.

Monique was married to my oldest brother Emmett. She has been part of our family for forever, and we’re all very fond of her. Since their divorce in the mid 80’s, Monique has remarried, become a grandmother and opened her own housekeeping business. She is a very sweet and intelligent woman and is always a load of fun to be around. This is why we still invite her to our family functions.

“Did you know, that if you have sugar ants on your kitchen counter you can kill them with Splender?” Monique said.

“You mean Splenda,” I said.

“That’s what I said,” she answered. “All you have to do is open a little packet of Slender and leave it on the counter. The ants take a few granules back to their nests and it kills the whole colony.”

“No,” I said. “It’s not Splender and it’s not Slender, it’s called Splenda.” I now spelled it, S-P-L-E-N-D-A. “Come on, you can say it,”

“Plenda” .

“No Splend-AH,” I said, now trying to emphasize the AH sound.

“Slend-AH” She said.

“No! No! No! I was starting to feel like Professor Henry Higgins to her Eliza Doolittle.

My mind wandered back to a day several years ago, when Monique said she was tired. So tired in fact, that she needed "tootpicks" to keep her eyes open.”

“Tootpicks? I asked.

“Yeh,” you know? She said, the little sticks they put in olives.”


Being young, I felt odd correcting her, but I wasn’t going to let it go now. I was a man on a mission. I cupped my fingers around her mouth, and helped her form the word.

“SPLENDA,” I said.

“PLENDISH” she said.

“SPLENDA”

“PLENDA” she said.

“SPLENDA”

“OH FORGET IT,” she said… “USE SWEET'N LOW!”

NewsFlash

My wife left this article on my homepage...HA! HA! HA!

http://www.comcast.net/news/health/index.jsp?cat=HEALTHWELLNESS&fn=/2006/06/26/421532.html&cvqh=itn_gay

You're so vain

A bridge on Amtrak’s Hell Gate branch got stuck in the upright position and our train was instructed to accept all of Amtrak’s passengers. As I stood in the ticket line in Union Station in New Haven, an Amtrak passenger who looked a lot like singer Carly Simon stood behind me. The woman was hidden behind a pair of big sunglasses. She had Simon’s wavy hair, large mouth and those familiar luscious lips that have graced so many album covers. I found it hard to believe that Ms. Simon would be hanging out in New Haven on a Sunday night so I turned around and said:

“Wow, you look just like Carly Simon.”

“Yeah,” she said, “I get that a lot.”

It wasn’t till she and her husband boarded my train that I realized that she was, in fact, Carly Simon. My brother Brian(who happened to be my Engineer that evening) walked back through the cars, checked her out and confirmed my suspicions.

“Aha! I said as I collected her ticket." You are who I thought you were.”

She just smiled and hid her face in a magazine. For the rest of the ride I had to resist the urge to sing, “You’re so vain.”

Raja and Me

I stopped by the local convenience store after dropping my daughters off at school. I poured myself a cup of coffee, picked up the newspaper and decided to order an egg sandwich from the deli counter. While my sandwich was being prepared, I chatted with the Indian family that owns the store. I regularly stop at this store, but I usually only exchange pleasantries with the family patriarch who mans the cash register. This day however, I conversed with his wife.

Me: Hey, I see by the name on your health certificate that your family name is Patel. I work with a woman from India and her name is Patel and her family also owns a convenience store. Come to think of it... almost all the Indian people I know are named Patel.

Indian woman: Yes sir. In our region of India, everyone’s last name is Patel.

Me: That must be confusing?

Raja, the woman’s 24-year old son, now took over the conversation.

Raja: Not really sir.

Me: Well if everyone’s last name is Patel, how do you tell each other’s families apart?

Raja: Sir…we just know.

I should have given up the inquisition here...but I was intrigued.

Me: How do you know?

Raja: Sir…it is just part of our culture. We just know these things. Everyone knows who is related to whom.

Raja then went off on a tangent that didn’t seem related to our conversation.

Raja: Sir… yesterday we had a 16-year old girl hiding out behind our store. She was a runaway. We had to hold this girl in our store till the police and her parents arrived. Now, such a thing might not seem like a big deal to you, but it is very foreign to our culture. No offense… but something like this would never have happened in India.
You see…cultures differ.

I finally got his point.

Me: All I meant to say, is that it must get a little confusing when everyone has the same last name. I didn’t mean to offend you, your family or your culture. I was just saying that it has to get confusing. That’s all.

Raja: Well sir…I did send my friend an Email recently. He had to write me back because he had four different friends named Raja Patel. He didn’t know which Raja Patel had written the Email.”

Me: Ha! So it DOES get confusing!

Raja: Yeh!…a little, sometimes.

aka Tania

A familiar looking woman got on the train in Green’s Farms. She looked like your average Fairfield County wife, decked out in preppy clothes and the mandatory blond bob haircut, but there was something very familiar about her. I collected her ticket and then it hit me. It was Patty Hearst, the kidnapped heiress and former member of the Simbianese Liberation Army. She looked a far cry from the bereted bank robber that the SLA christened as Tania.

Because my mind is full of useless trivia, I remembered that Ms. Hearst had married her bodyguard, a man whose last name is Shaw. Being the sensitive type, I didn’t want to draw needless attention to her, so I addressed her by her married name.

"Good afternoon Mrs. Shaw," I said.

There was no reply, but the look she gave me spoke volumes.

I momentarily felt embarrassed and continued on to the next passenger.

“Hey,” I later told a co-worker, “it wasn’t like I said, Yo Tania! Let’s go knock off the Bank of America.”

"THE MOVIE"

I was driving my daughters to school last week, when my daughter C said, Daddy...today we’re going to see “The Movie.”

“What movie is that?” I asked.

“You know?” She said, (now losing her patience with me) “THE Movie.”

“WHAT MOVIE?” I asked. I was still half asleep and I just wasn’t getting it.

“Dad,” my older daughter A chimed in. “You know THE Movie. The one they show all the 6th graders in health class?”

“Oh!” I said. “THE MOVIE!”

I now understood that C was talking about the movie about puberty that the health teacher shows at the end of the school year-- with both girls and boys present. It is one of the most talked about (and feared) events of the school year.

“Are you nervous about that?” I asked.

"No, not really," she said matter of factly.

When we reached their school, I wished my daughter A luck on her finals and then I wished C luck on watching THE MOVIE.

That night I called home from work and talked to my wife.

“How did the girls' day go?” I asked.

“Good,” my wife said with a chuckle. “Did C tell you she that she was going to see THE MOVIE today?”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “How’d that go?”

My wife told me that the girls came home from school and sat down for a snack in the kitchen. Just as any other day, she asked them how their day went. That was when the topic of THE MOVIE came up. My wife nonchalantly asked C if she had learned anything interesting or new from the film.

“YEAH!” C said. “I learned that boys have problems too!” She had previously only heard about the problems that girls face at puberty, so this obviously came as quite a shock.

“Like what?” my wife inquired. (Not having the slightest idea of what answer she might hear, but keeping the conversation open and light.)

C scrunched up her face, eyes half shut...dangled her finger in front of her and then, with a rising whistle sound effect (like a firework shooting up on the Fourth of July) pointed her finger straight out and then skyward.

“Yup!" My wife said with a straight face, "They sure do have that problem...and you thought only girls had to deal with changes."

Brian's Song

On a Sunday afternoon in 1958, my parents piled their eight kids into their car, (this was before I was born) and drove up to Wallingford to visit my grandmother. After reaching Nana's house, someone noticed that my brother Brian was missing. Being that he was only about four years old at the time, my parents were quite concerned. My father jumped back in the car and sped home to find Brian sitting on his tricycle in the driveway and crying his eyes out.

Ever since that day, Brian has made sure that his presence be known.

When Brian was a teenager (in the early 1970's,) he and his friends used to hang out in a place they named "Flat Rock." Flat Rock was not as bucolic as it sounds, in fact, it was a just a clearing in the brush next to the railroad tracks that ran behind The Armstrong Rubber Factory. Hidden from parents and the local police, the boys would gather here and drink beer (undoubtedly purchased by an older friend or sibling at a minimal profit). With the smell of freshly manufactured tires heavy in the air and their vocals occasionally drowned out by passing trains, each boy would sing their own signature song.

Crow's tune was "Already gone" by the Eagles. All the boys would join in on the chorus:

I'm already gone
And I'm feelin ' strong
I will sing this victory song
Woo hoo hoo
Woo hoo hoo

The boys then sang a misogynist version of the 1950's hit "Duke of Earl":

Puke, Puke, Puke
Puke on girls, girls, girls
Puke on girls, girls, girls
Puke on girls, girls, girls

Soon it was Brian's friend Phil's turn to sing his anthem. He gave new lyrics to the Harry Chapin song "Taxi":

It was raining hard in Flat Rock
I needed one more beer to make my night

But the evening wasn't complete until Brian, or Big Mac as they called him, sang his signature song... "Tobacco Road."

I was born
Bun num! (All bystanders were required to sing this bass line)
In a dump
Bun num!
My mama died
And my daddy got drunk

Although several artists have recorded this song, no one has captured it quite like Edgar Winter did in his 1970 version (click here for sample) . This is the who Big Mac emulated when he sang:

And I love you
Because you're filthy
And I love you cause you're home

The highlight of Brian's song came when he'd hold an impossibly high note for what seemed like an eternity:

And I lo-oo-ooo-oooo-ooooo-ooooo-oooooo-ve you!

I LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE YOU!

When Big Mac held this note, his face turned crimson red and his veins bulged from his temples. Legend has it, that after one such performance he gave himself a hernia and that he had to have surgery shortly afterward.

That's rock and roll baby!

Big Mac performed this song at his high school class night in 1973. At that concert he had all his classmates singing the bun num bass line, and at the end of the song he got a standing ovation. That evening, Brian... and his song, became part of West Haven High School legend.

Shortly after joining the railroad and becoming an engineer, Brian and some friends went on vacation(I forget where). He performed Tobacco Road in a honky tonk bar and the crowd went nuts. Before the night was over, a record executive approached him and gave him his business card. He told Brian that he was a talent agent for a major record label and that he would like to discuss a recording deal. Brian figured that the record executive was as drunk as he was and never made the phone call.

Now that my brother is 52- years old, he finds Tobacco Road's high notes a little too hard to reach. His new signature song is 'Danny Boy."After a few beers and a little prompting (the amount of prompting depends on how many beers he's had) he'll make his way out to the dance floor and sing:

But come ye back when summers in the meadow
Or when the valleys hushed and white with snow
Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow
Danny boy, Oh Danny boy, I love you so

It's enough to bring smiling Irish eyes to tears.

A couple of years ago, Brian was running a deadhead train (meaning he didn't have passengers on board) from Stamford, CT to Grand Central. (This ride that takes about 45 minutes.) He had no one to keep him company so he kept himself amused by performing a little concert in the engineer's cab. With one hand on the throttle, the other hand was free to pound out a beat on the cab console. Brian sang from Connecticut through Westchester County, The Bronx, and Harlem. When he finally reached the end of the line in Grand Central, Mark, the chief rail traffic controller was waiting for him.

Brian knew something was up so he pulled down the engineer's cab window and asked, "What's up?"

Mark said that he, as well as the rest of the railroad, enjoyed his 45 minute concert but he was going to have to call in the mechanics to repair the stuck "transmit button" on his engineer's cab radio.

Opie

Actor/Director Ron Howard is usually on the top of other New Haven Line Conductor’s list of celebrity sightings and it had frustrated me that I had never run into him. I had spent most of my life watching him on TV and it felt as if we had grown up together. I was more than a little jealous that others had seen him before I did. Hadn’t we, I thought, spent many an afternoon skipping stones at the fishin’ pond with Pa and Barney. Oh, I’m sure, that while in high school, I shared fries with him, Potsy and Ralph at Arnold’s Drive In.

Then one fateful day while collecting tickets on the Stamford local, a thin red haired man in a blue baseball cap handed me his ticket. It was my old friend Ron. At first, I must confess, I was annoyed when there was no hint of recognition on his face. As I punched his ticket, I told him of the previous Thanksgiving when I had his brother Clint, (the kid from Gentle Ben,) on my train, but this didn’t seem to impress him much. I put his ticket in my pocket and stood in the vestibule to regroup my thoughts.

After our Port Chester Station stop, Ron gathered his things together and walked towards me. Finally, I thought, he remembers me, but he said nothing. At a loss for words, I noticed the Apollo 13 logo that emblazoned his cap.

"Is that your latest movie?" I asked.

"Yes it is," he said.

"What’s it about?" Asked one of the several pinstriped-clad Wall Street barons who were now standing around the vestibule area with suitcases in hand.

What’s it about? I thought. Isn’t that pretty obvious, but being the nice guy that Ron is, he proceeded to tell the cliff note version of the Apollo 13 story. Just as we crossed the New York/Connecticut state line he said, “Houston we have a problem,” and the movie credits rolled as we slid into Greenwich Station where he got off the train. As he walked down the platform I almost yelled:

“ Hey Ron, let’s meet at Goober’s fillin’ station for a bottle of pop,”