Uneasy Riders

I was standing outside my train tonight, answering questions for the passing commuters as they boarded the 6:18 train to Harrison, when a 40-something biker dude and his old lady slalomed down the platform toward me. They each were carrying a plastic bag in one hand and a Budweiser tall boy beer can in the other. The dude was sporting a mullet hairdo with matching handlebar mustache and wearing the mandatory leather biker vest over an orange tee shirt that stretched over his bloated beer belly. His woman was much shorter than him and had curly red hair and freckled, sunburned skin. She wore a black, skin tight shirt with a plunging neck line that nicely displayed her ample bosom. She also had a beer belly, and several rolls of fat spilled over a pair of too short cut-off jeans which clung to her wide rear end. The biker dude pulled out his Harley Davidson wallet, which was tethered to his belt loop by a metal chain and retrieved his train tickets. He handed them over to his motorcycle mama.

“Does this train go to Harrison, New York?” she asked.

“Yes it does… It’s our last stop.” I answered in a polite tone.

“You don’t got no express train or nothin’?” She seemed impatient.

“Not at this hour,” I said, “but Harrison is only six stops away.”

“Well, I don’t know!” She acted as if I had somehow insulted her. “ I ain’t from around here.”

When I came around to collect their tickets, she handed me two “Off Peak” fares. “I’m sorry,” I said. “But you have off-peak tickets here, and you’re on a peak train. That means it’s rush hour, so you owe me $2.25 more per ticket. The woman was incensed. “They consider this rush hour?” (It was 6:18 pm) “Well they should have told us that when we bought these here tickets.”

I explained that if the ticket agent had sold them a peak ticket, they would have been charged $2.25 more then, instead of me charging it now. “It all evens out in the end,” I said.
“Well that’s just ridiculous,” she protested. She was really starting to make a scene now. The biker dude again pulled on his metal chain and pulled out his oversized wallet and handed me $2.25.

“I’m sorry, I said. But it’s $4.50… $2.25 per ticket.”

“What? She screamed. “First it’s $2.25, now it’s $4.50. What are you trying to pull here! Her voice grew louder and louder and people started to look up from their newspapers. “Well mister,” she said. “I demand receipts and I want those little stubby things back.”

“You mean your tickets?”

“Yeah…my tickets.”

She obviously thought I was trying to scam her and biker boy and she was practically calling me a thief. I felt a little insulted by this, and I could feel my Irish temper starting to rise. I wanted to say something snappy like: “Honey, I’m not going to risk my job over $4.50, or “If $4.50 means that much to you…you can keep it.” Instead, I bit my tongue, collected their fares, handed them their receipts and walked away.

It is part of my job to stick my head out the train’s cab window and inspect the platform before opening and closing the doors, and when we reached Harrison Station, our last stop, I did just that. I remembered that this was where my biker friends were getting off, so I kept an eye out for them just in case they tried to:

A. Punch me. (This has happened twice in the past. The first time the punks broke my nose.)
B. Spit on me. (This also has happened twice before.)
C. Kick me. (Merely once)
D. Give me the finger. (Numerous times…and I’m a nice guy.)

When the “uneasy riders” got off the train, Motorcycle Mama walked up to my window. “Here we go,” I thought. “Can I get a picture with you?” She asked as sweet as could be. She then handed her camera over to Biker Boy. “We’re visiting from San Diego,” she explained, “and we ain’t never been to New York before. Hell, we ain’t never been on no train before either.”

Most conductors would have told her to get lost, and slammed the cab window in her face. Others would have called her a few choice names and given her the finger. I, on the other hand, said... “Sure.” (I told you I was a nice guy.) She stood next to me and we smiled together like two old chums while Biker Dude fumbled with the camera and took several snapshots.

Later I thought…I wonder if they’re going to send these pictures to the railroad with a complaint letter. It will say something like… “Here’s the #%$* conductor that overcharged us.”

D'OH!!! I've been Simpsonized

One of the benefits of having children, is that you stay on the cutting edge of popular culture. For example; coworkers regularly hear me using the current street lingo or rapping the latest top 40 songs:

My lip gloss is poppin
My lip gloss is cool
My lip gloss is poppin

or

They tried to make me go to rehab
I said
NO-NO-NO

When my co-workers hear me singing, they stand there amazed and say things like:

"How did you know that song?"

I"ll say something like:

"I'm just one hip dude," (ironically, using the term "dude" automatically negates this statement.")

Last week we took our daughters to see "The Simpsons Movie." When we got home, the girls got on the computer and downloaded a picture of me onto a Simpson/Burger King website. Miraculously, this site somehow converts photos into "Simpsons" characters, (see my picture above.)

Click on this link: http://simpsonizeme.com/ and you can become a Simpsons' character too.

Glory Days

Last week my younger daughter attended lacrosse camp here in town. Three teenage girls from England ran the camp, giving instructions on the fundamentals of a game that was new and foreign to my daughter and me. The lead instructor was named Lou (short for Louise, I suppose). She’s a cute, 18 year old, blond, pony tailed pixie, who stands about five feet tall. A real dynamo. She speaks in a heavy British accent, kind of a cross between Mary Poppins and one of the Spice Girls. I found her quite charming.

“If it should rain today,” she said, “I’ll give you a bell and you can come and retrieve your daughter.”

“A what? I asked.”

“A bell.” She repeated.

“Are you from England?” I asked (it was quite obvious.)

“I am.”

“What part?” I asked as if I were some sort of expert on the country.

“Near the Isle of Wight… Have you heard of it?”

“Just in the Beatle’s song…you know…When I’m 64?”

I began to sing:

“Every summer we can rent a cottage in the Isle of Wight
If it’s not too dear.”

“Right then,” She said, now looking down... as if she were embarrassed for me.

Before I left, Lou handed me the required paper work and told me that on Friday there would be a graduation game: the girls vs. the parents. She said she would love for me to join them. I usually work nights and miss these parent/child activities, but I was on vacation this week and was excited to say I’d attend.

When Friday arrived, I started to get pumped up for the big game. I didn’t want to act like one of those super-competitive, macho middle-aged men, who try and relive their high school glory days, especially at the expense of small children. On the other hand, I didn’t want to look like an old, out of shape has-been either.

When we got to the field Lou split us into two groups. The parents were dubbed “Team UK” and the girls were named “Team Gambia.” Before the face-off, Lou explained the rules and emphasized that there would be “no checking.” I took this to mean, “checking”… like in hockey. I showed my ignorance on the very first play of the game. It happened when a little Gambian sped past me. I swung into action, thrusting my stick under hers and knocking the ball free. Lou blew her whistle and shook her head in disgust.

“NO CHECKING BOB!!!” she yelled.

“That’s checking? I asked incredulously.

“It is, and Team Gambia gets the ball. Now stand back four meters.”

The parents on the sidelines began to heckle and boo me.

Shortly after this embarrassment, a little freckled-faced seven-year-old girl named “Riley” came charging down the field. I wanted to show the fans just how athletic a 45- year- old man could be and I started running backward. I had underestimated Riley’s speed, tripped on a tuft of grass and did a triple backward somersault. My glasses flew one way and my hat went the other. Sometime during my second rotation I heard the spectators in the bleachers burst into laughter. “That’s showin’em,” my friend Art shouted from the sideline.

I had something to prove now. On the very next play I intercepted a pass mid-air. I cradled the ball in the webbing of my stick, now running down the field at full speed toward the opposing goalie net. Past one Gambian- past two Gambians-I was now all alone. I cocked my arm back, and catapulted my stick forward at the open side of the net. Whoosh! went the stick as it whizzed past my ear. Plop! went the ball as it fell out of the netting and landed at my feet.

Suddenly, I was transported back in time. I’m 17- years old and running down the soccer field at Ken Strong Stadium in West Haven. Mark, the team all-star, and I are on a break away. We pass one defender-two defenders-I’m now in front of an open goalie’s net. Mark makes a perfect pass. The balls right in front of me, (this is my big moment.) I cock my leg back, swing my leg forward and... miss the ball completely.

Glory days my eye!

At the end of the lacrosse game, my friend Art patted me on the back and said, “At least you did a great triple back flip.”

I smirked, shook my head and said, “And I would have gotten a perfect “10” if it wasn’t for the Russian judge.”

The instructors gathered Team Gambia together and began handing out awards. I was a little disappointed that I didn't get one. Soon, pizzas were delivered onto the field and we had a little impromptu picnic. Lou came over and congratulated me on a good game. "Wow," she said, "You must have run four kilometers going up and down that field." I did a quick metric conversion in my head and stuck my chest out. I then told Lou that it was "no big deal." Somewhere in my brain a Springsteen tune began to play:

Glory Days

well they'll pass you by

Glory days

in the wink of a young girl's eye

Glory days, glory days

Kitty Conductor

If this catches on, I could be out of a job:

http://www.heavy.com/video/14643

Of Mice and Men

Ooooh! YUCK!!! My skin is still crawling…

About an hour ago, I went to cook up some burgers on my gas grill. When I opened the lid, two beady little eyes looked up from the under the grates. It seems a mouse has built a nest under the burners and is now raising her three tiny, hairless, babies there. Part of me wanted to jab them with a broomstick, part of me wanted to turn the propane jets on high, light a match and incinerate them. In the end I did what any other self-respecting man would do…I ran and got my wife to take care of it. (After all, it is Father’s Day, you know!)

If truth be told, I suffer from a debilitating condition known as “Musophobia” or fear of mice; a fact that my wife discovered very early on in our relationship. One night, when we were watching TV at my mother’s house, she fell asleep on the couch. Being the gentleman that I am, I covered her with a blanket, and then sat down on an adjoining love seat. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a mouse scurrying across the shag carpet and then leap onto the blanket that was covering my wife (then girlfriend).

“MOUSE!!!” I screamed, now standing on the love seat, much like a cliché sitcom housewife.

“WHAT? WHAT? WHAT?” My freshly awoken love screamed back, now following my lead and dancing on the couch, but not sure why.

“A MOUSE!!!” I screamed again.

“You’re flipping out over a mouse?” She asked.

“Well yeah,” I said, now climbing down from my perch atop the love seat, trying to salvage any bit of manhood I had left.

“You almost gave me a heart attack!” She said.

“But it was A MOUSE!!!”

To understand the roots of my anxieties, we must revisit my childhood.

I grew up in an old, drafty house, just steps away from the railroad tracks that I now travel on every day. My mother’s house was built sometime during the Lincoln administration, long before the advent of electricity and home insulation. I believe Edison himself wired the house, but no one ever thought to insulate the walls. This, in turn, made the home a haven for mice trying to escape the wrath of cold New England winters.

After my father died, his mother (my “Nana”) came to live with us for a short period of time. She was close to 80 years old, walked with a cane and was then suffering from the early stages of dementia. I was only about four years old, but I do remember her living with us. It was also about this time that my first encounter with a mouse home invasion occurred.

We were all sitting around the TV room watching Ed Sullivan, when one of my sisters spotted a mouse. “MOUSE!” She cried. Everyone in the house jumped up on the nearest chair, table, couch etc. The rodent was undoubtedly as frightened as we were and scurried along the baseboard and finally disappeared into the kitchen. My Nana, enlivened by my sister’s screams, somehow got out of her chair, grabbed a broomstick and chased the rodent around the kitchen until she had it cornered. She then mercilessly beat it to a bloody pulp. To add insult to injury, she picked the mouse up by its tail, turned the hot tap water on and slowly scalded it to death. It was as if she were torturing it to set an example for other mice in the house. She wasn’t done yet. As a final insult, she took the mouse and flushed it down the toilet. I can still picture its furry little body, spinning counter-clock wise into the porcelain abyss. I don’t know who was more traumatized…the mouse or me. I’m guessing it was me!

My brother Jimmy said he once saw my Nana snatch a mouse that was hanging from curtain and then squish it in her bare hands until the blood spurted from it's eyes. The woman was a true mouse-nazi.

When my kids were little, my wife and I took them to Story Land Amusement Park in Glen, New Hampshire. We stayed in the local Story Land Best Western Motel. Sometime during the night I heard the sound of gnashing coming from the motel room closet. It was there that we stored the kid’s snacks, so we knew it was a mouse. My wife must have forgotten the lesson she learned early in our courtship, because she wanted me to go investigate. I called the front desk instead.

Me: Yeah, um hi! This is the family in room 212. I hear noises coming from inside the closet and I think we might have a mouse. Um… I was wondering…could you send someone over?

Manager: Sir, you’re in the country now. These things are to be expected. We’ll send somebody over in the morning.

Me: Um, ah, hold on. Is it possible that you could move us to another room?

Manager: Sir, it’s 3AM on a holiday weekend. We don’t have any more rooms available.

Me: Um…Ah!

Manager: Click!

My wife called me a few choice names, opened the closet door, found the mouse hanging from my favorite fleece jacket, opened the motel room door, threw my jacket (with mouse attached) out into the parking lot and slammed the door shut.

“You want your jacket,” she said. “Go get it!

My hero!

Back to the gas grill incident. I really tried to be a man today…honest! I poked the cast iron grill housing with a broomstick in hopes that the mouse would fear me, as much as I feared it, and maybe it would run for safety. I even removed one of the grates, but then the mouse looked me straight in the eye and that was it…I was done. I ran inside.

My wife came out and began to disassemble the grill and found three little hairless babies inside the nest. She said she tried to put herself in the place of mama mouse and pictured a Giant lifting the roof of our house and poking us with a broomstick (sounds like spooky Twilight Zone stuff to me). She then left the mice where they were and closed the lid.

“Don’t stay too long mama,” she said. “Summers here and we have some grilling to do.”

I say let them keep the grill. I don’t think I can stomach using it again anyway.

Match Game

Gene Rayburn: Dumb Dora said... Charles Nelson Reilly is... blank?

Brett Somers: Hi Gene! (something we should all practice). I said (pulls out card)....Dead!

(audience burst out in canned laughter)


It's true. I read today that actor/Match Game panelist, Charles Nelson Reilly passed away Friday at the age of 76. Hearing this news brought back memories of my brother Brian and I, watching Match Game '76 and yelling out double-entendre answers to Gene Rayburn's dubious questions.

It was an innocent time.

I never had a chance to meet Charles, but I did meet Rayburn (Match Game emcee) several times. He used to ride my train to and from Pelham Station in Westchester County. The first time I saw him (about 12 years ago), I was shocked by how old he looked. His face hadn't changed much from his television heyday, but his back was now hunched over and he shuffled when he walked.
The last time I saw him, I told him that Brett Somers (one of the celebrity panelist) frequently rode my train. He complained that Brett never called him, and if he didn't make the effort to call her, he would never hear from her. I offered to tell Brett to call him. "You do that," he said. Gene passed away a few months later. I haven't seen Brett since.

I once had occasional panelist/actress Anita Gillette on my train. She was returning to New York after attending her son's graduation from Yale. I remembered her name after racking my brain for several minutes. She was impressed that I remembered. So was I.

Doesn't it seem that celebrities are dropping like flies lately?

Maybe I'm just getting old.

Leisure Suit Larry Rides Again

My 13-year-old daughter ‘C’ has put a lot of effort in to mastering the lyrics to the song “Sweet Escape,” by Gwen Stefani. This is not an easy song to sing, since the bridge is sung rapidly, as if one single word:

CauseI'vebeenactinglikesourmilkallonthefloor
It'syourfaultyoudidn'tshuttherefrigerator
Maybethat'sthereasonI'vebeenactingsoco-o-o-old

When I was a kid, I used to be pretty good at the old McDonald’s jingle: “Twoallbeefpattiesspecialsaucelettucecheesepicklesonionsona
sesameseedbun,” so I thought it would be fun to learn the words to “Sweet Escape.” With the help of my daughter, I pretty much got it down.

A few weeks back, I was chauffeuring ‘C’ and her two friends around, when “Sweet Escape” came on the radio. I seized the opportunity to showcase just how hip and happenin’ I was.

I sang:

CauseI'vebeenactinglikesourmilkallonthefloor
It'syourfaultyoudidn'tshuttherefrigerator
Maybethat'sthereasonI'vebeenactingsoco-o-o-old

I looked in the rear view mirror, expecting to see the look of amazement on three teenage faces. My own reflection, however, sent me back in time, kind of like "Alice Through the Looking Glass."

Summer, 1974.

My 16-year old sister Maureen and I, (age 12,) are seated in the back seat of a brown, 1974 GTO. ‘Larry,’ the man whose child we just babysat for, is in the driver’s seat, twisting the car’s radio dials, looking for just the right song to impress my sister and me. The radio’s red needle stops on 1300AM-WAVZ. He knows he’s found the perfect song… “My Eyes Adored You” by Frankie Valle and The Four Seasons.

He turns the volume up and croons along:

My J’eyes J’a J’ored J’ou
Though I never laid a hand on you
My J’eyes J’a J’ored J’ou

The blue dashboard lights reflect in Larry’s black, plastic-rimmed glasses, matching his powder blue leisure suit perfectly. His pencil neck is lost in his silk shirt's over sized collar.

Like a million miles away from me
You couldn’t see how I
J’a J’ored J’ou

He is intentionally bastardizing the lyrics, almost as if to say, “I’m not only hip...I’m funny too.” My sister and I roll our eyes and try to stifle our laughter.

So close
So close
And yet so far

What a dork!

This is what the girls in the backseat are thinking; I can see it on their faces. One of the girls leans over and whispers in my daughter’s ear, “You poor thing…you must really be embarrassed.” It was then I knew... I am “Leisure Suit Larry.”

Watch 'The Gap!'

About a year ago, my friend "Ron"(not his real name) left the conductor ranks and switched over to the cushy life of an engineer. After spending a year in class, he recently graduated, qualified and became an official big "E." I bumped into him the other night and asked how he liked his new occupation."

"Oh, it's great," he said, "I love it."

"I bet you don't miss dealing with the passengers?" I asked.

"Oh I'm still dealing with them," he said. "Wait till you hear this one..." .

Ron went on to to tell me about a drunk woman that was on his train the previous evening. He said that she spent the better part of the ride pacing, barefoot, up and down the aisle of the head car and talking to herself. When the train pulled into New Haven (the last stop) she staggered up to the head end of the train and pounded on the the engineer's cab door.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

Ron opened the door...

"Yes?"

"Are you the conductor or the engineer?"

"I'm the engineer."

"Well then...Why didn't you stop the train on the platform?"

"M'am, we have a 10 car train tonight, and this is an eight car platform. If you had listened to the announcements, you would have known that you have to walk back two cars to exit."

"Oh yeah!"

Now the woman seemed stumped, not sure of what to complain about next....

"Why is the floor on this train so filthy?"

"Well m'am, It's late in the day and the car cleaners haven't had a chance to mop the floors in a while. And besides... it isn't very sanitary for you to walk these floors barefoot."

Ron walked off the train and down the platform, but the woman was right on his heels.

"Hey, who taught you how to drive?"

When Ron turned around, the woman was pointing to the gap between the train and the platform.

"Look how far the train is from the curb!...I'm going to write a letter to the railroad and complain about this!"

Somehow Ron kept his compusure...

"You do that m'am, and, whatever you do, don't forget the part about the train being too far from the curb."

Sarah Comments

Back on New Years Day of this year, I wrote a post called Sarah Smiles, about my chance encounter with "Animal House/Caddyshack" actress Sarah Holcomb, some 18 years ago. My memory had been jogged by a recent article (Dec. 29, 2006) I had read in the "New York Post" which said that after "Caddyshack," the young actress fell into a world of drugs and mental illness and ..."wound up, sort-of erased from life."

It seems the rumors of Sarah's demise are greatly exaggerated.

While searching through my "archives"tonight, I found this recent comment on the "Sarah Smiles" post. I can't be 100% certain that Sarah is its author, but my gut tells me she is:

1:03 AM, April 21, 2007

Bob- i remember your gesture of kindness and giving me that ride. I am amazed people still wonder what happened to me. i am doing fine and raising my 2 children. The path that hollywood put me on was a most destructive one. I wanted to let you know i am doing well and have found ways of dealing with my personal issues that are not self-destructive. Take care and god bless!

That's great news! God bless you too.

It's Not Easy Being Me

Dear Saint Anthony
Please look around
I lost my knapsack
And it can't be found
Please help me find it


Grand Central Terminal, Monday, April 23, 2007, 4:15 PM

SNIFF! SNIFF!

There it sat, an abandoned navy blue knapsack, planted smack dab in the middle of the Hudson News emporium.

SNIFF! SNIFF!

The store is huge. In addition to newspapers, it sells almost every magazine in print, paperback books, warm soda and snacks.

SNIFF! SNIFF!

A candy-laden cashier’s booth sits at the hub of the store. Here, no less than four Pakistani cashiers impatiently scream out… “Next!”.

SNIFF! SNIFF!

Red dots form into headlines, then scrawl across the “Fox News Channel” ticker tape that circumnavigates the store’s wood paneled ceiling.

SNIFF! SNIFF!

Television sets hang in the room's four corners, blaring Bill O’Reilly's “fair and balanced” opinions in surround sound. He's interrupted by a Special Report...another insurgent bombing in Iraq.

I eye the cashiers suspiciously.

SNIFF! SNIFF!

A bomb-sniffing German Shepard is now upon the knapsack. He stands on his hind legs, poking his long nose inside the zipper of the bag.

SNIFF! SNIFF! SNIFF! SNIFF!

“That’s it boy,” says a Metro North Police officer, now pulling up on the leash with one hand, while dragging the bag across the floor with the other.

SNIFF! SNIFF! SNIFF! SNIFF! SNIFF!

The harried commuters seem oblivious to the dramatic scene that is unfolding before their eyes. I know what they’re thinking; I can see it on their faces… “What kind of idiot would leave a bag in the middle of Grand Central?”

SNIFF! SNIFF! SNIFF! SNIFF! SNIFF! SNIFF!

I step forward.

“Ah, excuse me officers…that bag …it’s mine.”

SNIFF! SNI…

The German Shepard lifts his snout from the bag, looks up at me and tilts his head.

“Yours?” The officer seems incredulous at first, and then, with a slight smirk on his face again asks, “YOURS?”

“Yeah, Yeah, I know,” I said, “I was in here about 10 minutes ago buying a soda. I was carrying my briefcase and this knapsack and I guess I just forgot…”

“It’s just kind of ironic,” said the officer. “Of all the people to leave a bag behind, (like Vanna White, he runs an outstretched hand up and down the length of my uniform) it’s a conductor. Ha! Ha!”

“Yeah, I know… I’m a knucklehead.”

I could feel my face turning red from embarrassment. I quickly grabbed my bag and tried to make a hasty exit. I almost made it out the door when I heard the officer shout…

Hey! Conductor! I need your name and employee number for my report!

So much for the quick exits.

This was the third time in as many weeks that I left my gym bag behind. Two weeks previous to this experience, I left my bag on the train in New Haven. Luckily, a mechanic found it and turned it into “Lost and Found.” The same day I recovered the bag, I left it on the train again.

My wife often asks, “How is it that you can remember the most trivial of trivia, but you can never remember where you put your stuff?”

“It not easy being me,” I say with a sigh. “It not easy being me.”

SNIFF! SNIFF!

Jon Anderson + The School of Rock = Earth Day

On Friday, just outside the doors on Grand Central, there was an Earth Day Concert featuring Jon Anderson of the legendary rock group"Yes."
Jon's was backed by a group of kids from "The Paul Green School of Rock." They're an incredibly talented group of kids, aged 13-16, who weren't even born when the songs they were playing were originally recorded. They were so good, that if you closed your eyes, you would swear you were listening to "Yes."

The lead guitarist was a fifteen-year-old girl named Sarah Zimmerman. Her playing style reminded me of Bonnie Raitt (a lot of sliding up and down the neck of the guitar). I predict that she'll be a big star someday.

My brother Brian turned me onto "Yes" back in the "70's," so it was very fitting that I ran into him in the crowd. We both agreed that it was one of the best shows we had ever seen, and ...it was FREE!


After the show, Brian and I went backstage where I asked Jon Anderson to take a picture with me. He told me to make it quick because they had to go to lunch. He reminded me of a kindly, elfin, college professor.

Just as Brian snapped the picture, some random dude ran up with his Blackberry and took a picture, (that's me behind the Blackberry.) Unfortunately, Brian couldn't figure out how to take another shot (he was using my cellphone.) Jon apologized and said he had to move on. Obviously, he didn't know he was with the "Conductor to the Stars."

Here's a link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uxks-PWvY0w

In Search of "Oscar"

Yeah-Yeah I know, I haven’t written in a while, it’s just that after almost 21 years on the railroad, my seniority finally allows me to hold a good “day job.” This means that I now wake up at the ungodly hour of 5:30 a.m. That may not sound bad to you, but I’m more accustomed to going to bed at this hour… not waking up. It’s been quite an adjustment, and I really haven’t found the time or inspiration to write.

Most day jobs on the railroad have something called “swing time” built in. This is a sort of job recess that gives employees time off in the city (usually three of four hours between trains.) The railroad likes swing time because it allows them to hold conductors and engineers over from morning rush hour, to evening rush hour at a reduced rate of pay.
This down time may sound sweet, but believe me…it gets old quick.

Some employees spend their swing time playing poker; others go to the gym and work out, while still others get part time jobs. I, on the other hand, spend my time researching genealogy at the library on 5th Avenue, or take sightseeing walks on the streets of Manhattan. It was on one of these walks recently that I went “In search of Oscar.”

Every year my younger daughter “C” has a sleepover birthday party.
These parties have become a big social event amongst her friends. Part of the reason these parties are so popular is my wife (who is very creative) puts a lot of planning into them. Each year my daughter’s party has a theme. Past year’s themes were: Harry Potter, Penguins, Hello Kitty and a Hawaiian Luau. This year’s theme was “Movie Night,” an evening that was a cross between The Academy Awards ceremony and a traditional teenage sleepover.

A few weeks before this year’s party, my wife ordered a bunch of party supplies from “The Oriental Trading Company” catalogue. She purchased a red carpet runner so that the girls could make a grand entrance into our family room. They would enter the party room through a gold Mylar curtain that hung from the family room threshold. There, other girls acting as paparazzi, would take snapshots of arriving guest as my wife asked: “Who are you wearing?”

All these decorations gave our house that old time Hollywood premiere look, but one thing was missing…Oscar. My wife had ordered several small plastic Oscar statuettes as party favors, but when the order arrived, there was a note saying that the statues were out of stock and discontinued until further notice. “Not to worry,” I said, “I’m sure I can find them at some specialty/party shop in New York.”

The next day I asked my fellow conductors if they knew where I could find little plastic Oscar statues. Keith, a fellow conductor, told me to look in the Garment District. “W 38th St. is full of little shops that specialize in selling cheap souvenirs like that,” he said.

I was now a man on a mission. I walked to The Garment District where I found a store called “Just Buttons,” this was next door to a store called “Just Rhinestones,” and across the street was a store called “Just Zippers.”

On 36th St. I found a store called “Spandex World.” The sight of this store made me think of the “Physical” video by Olivia Newton John. I hummed this song for several blocks until I walked by “Leather World,” and I quickly changed my tune to “YMCA” by the Village People. I was really getting into it, and I had to fight the urge to do the semaphore arm gestures that usually accompany the song.

After trudging all over the West 30’s I decided that “Oscar” wasn’t in the Garment District and I took a subway down to Chinatown
(The cheap crap capital of America.) When you walk up the subway stairs to Canal Street, several Asian women selling “knock off” designer handbags, perfume and sunglasses usually accost you. “Chanel…Gucci…Prada,” they shout out in broken English.

I asked a young Chinese woman, “Do you know where I can find little plastic Oscar statues?

“No speak Engrish,” she said.

“Statue?” Another woman asked, “We have statue.” She then led me into a tiny shop where several Statues of Liberty were displayed. There were also three shelves of Buddha statues, each in various poses. There was fat Buddha and thin Buddha, sitting Buddha and standing Buddha, young Buddha and old Buddha. Unfortunately, there was no Oscar Buddha.
I continued onto the next gift shop where the Chinese version of “Oh Susanna” was blaring over the Muzak system. I asked the clerk about the Oscar statues even going so far as doing my best Oscar impersonation (i.e. standing rigid with my hands folded over my stomach.)
“You know?” I asked slowly, “Oscar? A-c-a-d-e-m-y Award?”
The clerk nodded her head as if she knew what I was looking for and she then led me over to a shelf dedicated to a collection erect gold penis statues.
The day after my adventure in NYC, I went to a local party store to pick up a few helium balloons. “By any chance,” I asked, “do you have small gold Oscar statues?”
“Not anymore.” the clerk said. “The manufacturer got sued by The Academy of Arts and Sciences, and we had to take them off the shelf. Too bad,” she said, “They were a big seller.”
I told my daughter “C” that I looked far and wide for Oscar, but unfortunately I couldn’t find him. “Oh, that’s okay,” she said, “I didn’t really want those statues anyway.”

THE SECRET

Yahoo!!! I won first prize in the NCAA college basketball bracket pool.

What's that you say?

The NCAA basketball championship hasn't been decided yet?

Not to worry folks. I'm convinced I'll win, because I know THE SECRET.

Let me explain.

About two weeks ago, my niece sent me an email, inviting me to enter a NCAA bracket pool competition. Around this same time, my sister Kathy called my wife, and told her about a wonderful new book called THE SECRET. She said that through the power of positive thinking, we could improve every aspect of our lives-money, health, relationships, happiness, just by asking a higher power for it. The "laws of attraction" will realign the universe and make our wishes come true.

Back in the day, I think they called this praying, but I guess someone needed to write a book, so atheists could have something to hope for too.

My wife and I got caught up in my sister's excitement, so we went out that night and bought the book. We found it in our local Stop & Shop, (side note: once Oprah gave this book her seal of approval, it's been impossible to find, but my wife and I found it immediately. Coincidence? I think not.)

When we got home that night, my wife went to bed and read THE SECRET, while I poured over my NCAA brackets and chose my winning teams. When I went to bed, my wife read me a few book excerpts, and we talked about the future millions we'd make.

Just by asking, we'll finally get a new deck. We'll put on a new roof. We'll go on fancy vacations. We'll drive luxurious cars. It's like rubbing a genie's latern... but wait...maybe I should start small:

"I want to win the NCAA bracket pool," I said.

"You can't want to win," my wife said. "You have to envision that you've already won."

So...

Yahoo!!! I won first prize in the NCAA college bracket basketball pool.

Knackers

Steve is a friend and coworker of mine from Ireland. A native of Dublin, he speaks in a lilting Irish brogue (which I love.) Whenever I work with him, I find myself slipping into a brogue of my own. I'll say things like, "Saints be praise us" or "Frosted Lucky Charms...They're magically delicious or "Manly yes, but I like it too ." In my head I sound like Barry Fitzgerald in "Going my way," but if truth be told, I probably sound more like Chief O'Hara from Batman.

When Steve first heard my feeble attempt at a brogue, he gave me a wary smile and said: "You're nuttin but a knacker."

"A knacker?" I asked.

"Look it up." He said.

Knacker: The term knacker is sometimes used in Ireland to denote an Irish Traveller, though it is considered extremely derogatory. In Ireland this term may also be applied to a rural character equivalent to the urban scanger or scum bag which are both derogatory terms in themselves. For more information see scanger. or the word GUG.

A few days after our conversation, Steve brought in a copy of the "Irish Echo" newspaper. There, on the back page, was an ad for a wrestling match in which The McDonough Clan of Galway was to face off against some other clan in a fight to the finish, "Tickets now on sale."

Steve pointed to the article, gave a self satisfied smirk and said, "What do you know? You really are a knacker."

After talking with several of my Irish passengers, I discovered that Steve was right. The McDonoughs are a bunch of knackers. Apparently, in Ireland, my family name has become synonymous with these travelling people or gypsies. Oh sure, some people were kind and used euphemisms like "peddlers," or "tinkers" or "travelling people " but the truth is, we're all a bunch of knackers."

I say, let's no longer be afraid to use the "K" word. In fact, I think we should own the word as a way of empowering ourselves.

Say it loud:

I'm a"KNACKER" and I'm proud.

If you're less militant, you can say:

"Knacker"...manly yes, but I like it too!!"

HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY!

RENT

Seasons of Love
from RENT

Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Moments so dear
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure
Measure a year

Last May, my sister Sheila was kind enough to take my 14-year old daughter 'A' to see the Broadway show RENT. Little did she know, she was turning my daughter into a “RENT-head.”

For some reason, RENT really speaks to adolescent girls and gay-adolescent boys. I’m not really sure why, but I’m guessing it has something to do with the show’s rebellious spirit, and the fact that the characters are trying to find themselves in a world that doesn’t seem to understand them. I do know that 'A' is obsessed with this show, and the rest of the family is paying the price.

'A' constantly wants us to watch the RENT DVD, and she seems perplexed that the rest of the family doesn’t share her enthusiasm for the show. The soundtrack regularly blares from her upstairs bedroom and she constantly plays it on her Ipod when she’s doing her homework. She even has the “Seasons of Love” song set as her ring tone on her cell phone.

Our 12-year-old daughter 'C' doesn't share her sister’s RENT passion. In fact, she calls her sister a geek for liking it. She says that she's sick of living in a house surrounded by the show’s omnipresent soundtrack and shakes her head in disgust whenever she hears its music playing.

The other morning I drove 'C' to school. When I turned the key in the ignition we heard:

"FIVE HUNDRED TWENTY FIVE THOUSAND SIX HUNDRED MINUTES”

'C' screamed from the backseat “For the love of God, turn that stupid song off.” A few minutes later I inadvertently started humming the same tune. 'C' sighed, patted my baldhead and said, “You poor…poor man.”

I must admit, the soundtrack is now ingrained in my brain. Just yesterday, I was getting ready for work and I started singing the show’s title song:

“How we gonna pay, how we gonna pay, how we gonna pay… last years rent?”

“I know,” answered 'C', “We can sell 'A's “CDs and DVDs.”

'A' will be 15 next month. You’ll never guess where she wants to go on her birthday…

SUITABLE FOR FRAMING

HEY KIDS! BE THE FIRST ON YOUR BLOCK TO OWN THIS "ORIGINAL COPY" OF "THE OFFICIAL "CONDUCTOR TO THE STARS" POSTER. IT'S SUITABLE FOR FRAMING, COLLECTING, TRADING OR TARGET PRACTICE.

IT'S EASY, JUST "CLICK" TO ENLARGE AND PRINT. YOU'LL BE THE ENVY OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD.

My 82-year-old Uncle Bobby is one of those renaissance men; electrician, artist, pilot, comedian. He got a big kick out of the recent New Haven Register article that featured the "Conductor to the Stars" and he used it as the inspiration for this poster. I received it in the mail last week in one of those cardboard poster tubes (I've always wanted to get one of those.) I think he did a pretty good job (although, I hope I don't really look that old.)

PUT ON MY BLUE SUEDE SHOES...AND I BOARDED THE TRAIN

From the Associated Press
BOULDER, Colo. (AP) - February 2, 2007 - Singer-songwriter Marc Cohn will return to Colorado for concerts in three cities next week, his first performances in the state since he was shot in the head during a carjacking attempt in Denver nearly a year and a half ago.

Cohn will play in Boulder, Breckenridge and Aspen, according to his Web site.

In August 2005, Cohn was shot during a botched carjacking. Joseph Yacteen, 27, pleaded guilty to attempted first-degree murder in the shooting and was sentenced in October to 36 years in prison.
Cohn, 47, told The Daily Camera he feels some anxiety about his return: "The truth of the matter of is, and I'm well aware of it though it's hard to convince your brain, the chance of anything like that happening again, especially where it's already happened once, are pretty slim."

Cohn, who's married to ABC News anchor Elizabeth Vargas, had a hit with "Walking in Memphis" and won a Grammy in 1991. His latest album is due out next summer, his first since 1998 and fourth overall.

That's good news!

Several years before this horrible carjacking, I met Marc Cohn on my train. He and his 5-year old son were returning to New York after a weekend in Connecticut. His son was seated across from him, using his dad's legs as a highway for his "Hot wheels" cars. When I collected his ticket, I said something original like:

"Marc Cohn, right?"

"Yep" he said.

The traffic on Cohn's leg came to a stand still, as his young son looked up at me in wide-eyed amazement.

"I really enjoy your work."

"Thanks!"

Marc's son now sat frozen, staring up at me with his mouth agape.

I saw you singing backup for Carly Simon when she did her free concert in Grand Central.

Yeah, that was a lot of fun.

I put Marc's tickets in my pocket and moved on to the next passenger. I could feel Marc's son's eyes glued to me as I walked away. It was then I heard the boy utter this memorable line:

"WOW dad!... You know the Conductor?"

I guess celebrity is a relative thing.

Rail Security

(The opinions expressed below are mine alone. I do not speak for the railroad or other railroad employees.)

Recently, WTNH reporter Alan Cohn filed an investigative report in which he left his briefcase on a Metro North train. The purpose of this excercise was to see if anybody would notice an unattended bag, and if they did would they report it (see link):

http://www.wtnh.com/global/video/popup/pop_player.asp?ClipID1=1251420&h1=Question%20of%20security%20on%20Connecticut%27s%20trains%20-%20story%20by%20Alan%20Cohn&vt1=v&at1=News&d1=260534&LaunchPageAdTag=News&activePane=info&playerVersion=1&hostPageUrl=http%3A//www.wtnh.com/Global/story.asp%3FS%3D6116787%26nav%3D3YeX&rnd=5950280

As you can see in this video, nobody noticed the briefcase. It has been my experience, however, that people do notice, and they do say something.

I am regularly summoned by concerned passengers who have spotted unattended bags/packages. The conversation usually starts with ... "Conductor, I may be paranoid, but..." I assure the passenger that they're right to be concerned and then I check the bag out. Ninety nine percent of the time, the bag owner is in the lavatory, or moved seats to talk to a friend. After finding the bag owner, I usually lecture him/her about leaving their bags unattended. "We live in different times," I tell them.

If nobody does claim a bag, things get a little dicey. If we had to call the police everytime we found an unattended bag, we'd be delaying a lot of trains. So, the rules of thumb are:

Does the bag look suspicious?

Are there exposed wires?

Are there batteries attached?

Is the bag/package wrapped in duct tape?

Is there an oily surface?

Was someone seen putting the bag on the train and then leaving quickly?

Did this person look nervous or agitated?


If the answer to any of these questions is "yes" we call the MTA police.

Occasionally the railroad police set up a card table in Grand Central and inspect commuter's bags. In my opinion this is a big waste of time. They check one person out of a million, and because of profiling concerns, they have to check a cross section of commuters, whether they look suspicious or not.

I agree with James Cameron, The Commuter Council President. Cameras on trains will only be useful after the fact. Better trained officers and train crews (we are given some training) should be the first line of defense. Besides, history has shown, suicide bombers don't leave their packages unattended.

Blog-iversary

Me: Do you know what today is?
Daughter: Valentine's Day?
Me: Yeah...but it's also the one year anniversary of my blog.
Daughter: Wow!!! It's your blog-iversary!!!

A year ago today, I started writing "Derailed." Little did I know that it would become my obsession and take on a life of it's own. In the past year, my stories have been mentioned in articles in The New York Times, The New Haven Resister, and they'll soon appear (in excerpts) in an upcoming WAG magazine article. "Derailed" has also been discovered by my fellow bloggers, and has been mentioned in blogs like: Case-notes from an artsy asylum, Stupidity, and My dirty life and times. It's even been discovered by a group of rail fans in Australia (where I now how a small following) and my Cape Cod vacation story somehow showed up on a now defunct website called "Lobster-facts.com."

After my union put a link to this blog on it's website, readership really shot up. It's pretty cool to hear coworkers quoting my blog or discussing my stories.

My wife has been a pretty good sport about sharing our private conversations and family stories. She tries to keep me honest, and occasionally takes exception when I embellish a story. Sometimes, she says, I really make her sound like a b---h. I call it "poetic license" she calls it "exaggeration."

To celebrate Valentine's Day, I'm hyperlinking my Valentine's post from last year. It's called "Cupid's Lost and Found".

Thanks for the inspiration, Cara.

The Exorcist Part II- The Night Stalker

Whenever I approach a celebrity on the train, I try to use an original opening line. For example- the first time I met Jessica Tandy, I said something like-“Wow! Now I can tell everybody that I drove Miss Daisy.” She and her husband, actor Hume Cronyn, gave me a polite smiles, but I had the feeling that they thought I was a jerk.

I once had the legendary actress, Eva Marie Saint on my train. When I saw her, I said something like: “Here I am in Grand Central with Eva Marie Saint. I feel like Cary Grant in “North by Northwest.” Eva gave me a wary smile, but her children (who are about my age) thought it was a laugh riot.

One night, about ten years ago, I had "The Exorcist” actress, Linda Blair on my train. I saw her seated in the distance and I immediately began searching my mind’s database for a good Linda Blair opening line. It went something like this:

Linda Blair- Search (Gears in my brain turning):

Spinning head…Nope, too corny.
Pea soup…Nope, too cliché.
Shared Birthday…Bingo!

When I collected her ticket I said:

“Ms. Blair, do you know that we share the same birthday?”

“WE DO?” She seemed genuinely thrilled.

“Yes we do.”

“How do you know my birthday?”

“I don’t know. I think Jeanne Dixon, Joyce Jillson or Sidney Omarr told me. You know...”

Birthday Horoscope- If January 22nd is your birthday: 2007 will be a year of change for you, but don’t worry Aquarius, you'll always land on your feet. Celebrities that share your birthday: Diane Lane, Michael Hutchense, Linda Blair, George Foreman, Sam Cooke, Bill Bixby, Lord Byron, Francis Bacon.

“Well, I’m flattered that you remembered.”

“You know, I’ve spent the last couple of minutes trying to think of something witty to say to you. I thought of making a joke about your head spinning, or something about you spewing pea soup, but I figured that you’ve heard em’ all.

“You’re right…I have.”

That was about the extent of our conversation, but I think I won her over with the whole birthday thing. When she got off the train she smiled, and gave me a big wave goodbye.
When I got home from work that night I told my wife about meeting Linda Blair, and how I told her about our shared birthday.

“You told her that you know when her birthday is?” My wife asked incredulously.

“Yeah.”

“Oh great. Now she probably thinks that you’re a stalker.”

“No. It wasn’t like that at all. I told her that I knew her birthday from the horoscopes in the newspaper. She seemed genuinely thrilled.”

“Yeah, right. She’s probably already has a restraining order against you.”

Now my head was spinning.

The Exorcist Part I- The Nightmare Begins

On Monday night, my wife made a new recipe called a Taco Bake. It is basically Kraft macaroni and cheese mixed with ground beef and taco seasoning. I found it tasty and decided to get a second helping before sitting down in front of the computer and writing a new post for this blog. I had good intentions of writing a story about the time I met the actress Linda Blair (Regan MacNeal from The Exorcist) on my train, but I was distracted by the television, which is in the same room as the computer. My wife and daughters were watching the latest episode of “Supernanny,” in which a four-year-old dictator named Sean (a demon child) was shown cussing, crying, whining, hitting, kicking , spitting, punching, biting, and in general just being plain evil. His police officer father, and ER nurse mother didn’t have a clue what to do with him, so…they did nothing. Before the show ended, “Supernanny” had changed Sean from a lion into a lamb, all within the coveted 9-10pm time slot.

As I drifted off to sleep that night, I thought about the night's events. I was impressed by how wise Supernanny had been. I then thought about how tasty the Taco Bake was. Next, I regretted not finding time to write The Linda Blair story, but I figured I’d save it for another day, and then...I drifted off to sleep.

That evening I had the strangest dream:
(imagine screen going wavy for a dream sequence.)

Supernanny Jo is called to the home of Regan, a little girl that is possessed by the devil. Regan’s mother leads Supernanny into the little girl’s bedroom, and finds that her bed is levitating three feet off the ground.

Supernanny: (British accent) What’s this then?

Regan: GET OUT!!!

Supernanny: Regan, you’ve been a very naughty girl. It’s time to go to the naughty chair.

Regan: Your mother is a #$%*

Suppernanny Jo pulls Regan out of the bed and places her in the naughty chair. Regan’s face is full of pustules and her head twists in a 360 degree turn.

Supernanny: Aye, you’re a clever one aren’t you? Are you ready to say sorry?

Regan: Eat #$%! (Spews pea soup in supernanny’s face.)

It was about this time that I woke up. I guess I’ll never know if Supernanny was able to exorcise Regan’s demons, or if like the priest in the movie, she gets thrown out of the window. I do know, however, that you should never eat Mexican food before bedtime.

Attention Rail Buffs!

My Uncle Bobby(my mother's brother) spent his high school vacations working alongside his father in the New Haven Railroad yards. He spent most of this time hauling giant blocks of ice and hay for the railroad car air conditioning system. He eventually graduated to the craft of car electrician.

My uncle said that the railroad had a certain "romance" back then, but the hours were long and the pay wasn't great. Unlike his brother, father and grandfather, he decided that the railroad life wasn't for him. He became an Air Force Pilot in WWII, then a licensed electrician, artist and finally a Safety Supervisor for the Connecticut Department of Transportation. He did all this while he and his wife Barbara raised 10 children.

Whenever my brother Brian and I get together with my uncle, the subject of the railroad invariably comes up. He recently told me that he had drawn up plans on how the air conditioning/heating system used to work on the old railroad coaches. He also diagrammed the electric coaches' generator system and how they used to "hump cars" at Cedar Hill.

He asked if I knew anybody who might be interested in this information. He's concerned that if this knowledge isn't recorded somewhere, it will be lost on future generations. I asked around the railroad, but nobody seemed to know what to do with it. I know that there's a huge rail fan base out there, so I decided to take my uncle's drawings and develop a blog around it. I titled it "How things worked on the New York, New Haven and Hartford Railroad. Here's the link:

http://nynhhrr.blogspot.com/

Reflections at 45

Breakdown
by Jack Johnson

I hope this old train breaks down
Then I could take a walk around
See what there is to see
Time is just a melody

I turned 45 today.
I guess I'm now officially middle aged...
that's if I live to 90.

I need this here
old train to breakdown
Oh please just
let me please breakdown

Some observations:
Martin Luther King Jr. made his "I have a dream" speech at 34.
Teddy Roosevelt assumed the Presidency at 42.
JFK was elected President at 43.

I'm a railroad conductor at 45.

And all the people in the streets
That I'll never get to meet
If these tracks don't bend somehow
And I got no time that i got to get
To where I don't need to be

My father died at 49.
Only four years older than I am now.

You can't stop wishing if you don't let go
Of the things that you find and you lose and you know
You keep on rolling, put the moment on hold

Maybe it's time to stop and smell the roses.

The wisdom's in the trees not the glass windows

I got to break on down
But I can't stop now

"Obedience" Revisited

For a guy who has been dead for 42 years, my father has sure been making the rounds lately. Here he is "getting shocked" on the the cover of the current issue (Jan/Feb) of "Yale Alumni" magazine. Inside is an extremely interesting article about the "Obedience experiment." I encourage you to click on the link and read the story. It's fairly short and not too technical.

He also appeared on "ABC's Primetime Live," last Thursday. I actually missed the broadcast (you can view most of it here.) They replicated the experiment, and found that the results weren't much different than they were when he acted as the Learner/Victim back in 1962.

For those of you new to this blog, you can read the post I wrote back in March. It's titled "Shocking." This essay tells the "Milgram Experiment" story, through the eyes of my family. It was one of my better received posts and I'm pretty proud of it.

Oops! I did it again

Ring! Ring!

Grand Ahbeets (pizza, for those of you in Utah). May I help you?

Me: Yes, I'd like to order a large pie with moots (mozzarella for all of you outside the New Haven area.)

Grand Apizza: Okay...Anything else?

Me: (Calling into the family room) Do you guys want a salad?

Wife: Yes!

Me: Yes, I'd like a large salad...no onions.

Grand Apizza: What kind of salad dressing?

Me: Poppycorn dressing.

Wife: What did you say?

Me: Poppycorn dressing.

Wife: It's peppercorn. Not poppycorn.

Grand Apizza: Sir?

Me: Sorry, make that peppercorn dressing.

Grand Apizza: Okay. Give us 30 minutes.

Me: Thanks!

Click!

Wife: Where did you get poppycorn from?

Me: Well...it has those little poppy seeds in it.

Wife: (laughing hysterically)Those aren't poppyseeds. Those are peppercorns...hence the name peppercorn dressing.

Me: Oops! I did it again.

Wife: Maybe you can put some aspirin and creme rinse on that salad.

Me: Ha! Ha! Ha! Very funny. Very funny.

Wife: Well, at least you have more material for your blog.