Back to the grind... and a near miss. The week in review

08/18 Train 1583:

It's my first day back from vacation and I'm feeling tan (in an Irish kind of way), rested, and ready to take on the Greater Metropolitan Region. I lose this feeling, when on my first train...at leaving time, a woman sticks her foot in the closing doors of the head car. Without a "door closed" light, my engineer cannot take power.

"Ringgggg!!!"

I try to close the doors, but the woman won't budge from her post. I get on the PA and announce that it's leaving time and she needs to either "get on or get off."

"Ringgggg!!!"

The woman ignores me and stands firmly in the doorway. It's now a minute past leaving time.

"Ringgggg!!!"

"M'am please...step on or step off the train," I announce. "There's another train in 30 minutes"

"Ringgg!!!"

My engineer, who is sitting a few feet away from this woman, gets on the PA and tells me that she's waiting for her daughter and her infant grandchild. I'm not heartless, I'll wait (within reason) for parents with small children, the elderly or disabled, so I cool my heels, waiting for the door blocker's family to arrive.

It's now two minutes past leaving time and the Rail Traffic Controller is calling us and asking what our delay is. Just then a young woman runs through the platform doors...without a baby. The door blocker gives her a wave and they both step into the train. Obviously I've been duped.

UGH!!

"Ringgg!!!"

There went that calm vacation feeling.

08/19/08, Train 1974:

As a favor to the railroad, I'm covering a Waterbury branch job today. We leave from Bridgeport and an overweight, toothless, tank top wearing, creepy, hillbilly looking guy, gets on. I'm guessing he's in his mid 50's. When I collect his ticket, he looks at my company ID hanging from a lanyard around my neck. The plastic pocket on the lanyard has flipped and on the reverse side is a picture of my two, young, teenage daughters. Women passengers love to see this photo and find the fact that I carry it endearing. They tell me the girls are beautiful and that I'm sweet to carry their snapshot. This guy, however, is thinking something totally different. I can see it in his eyes. He leers at the photo and asks:

"Thems your daughters?"

"Yep!" I answer.

"Theys look perty good" he purrs. "P-e-r-t-y good!"

The hair stands up on the back of my neck, and I debate smacking him. Instead, I stuff the picture in my shirt pocket and walk away.

I wonder if he's registered here.

08/21/08, Train 1500:

Two rotund Puerto Rican Women are flirting with Dan, my assistant conductor. They say he's soooo cuuuute, and they want to take a few pictures with him. He happily obliges, posing as they take turns snapping pictures with their camera phones.

"Wow Dan", I say, "looks like you have a fan club."

One of the women gives me a toothless smile and says:

"Honey, Dan is cute... but you more my type."

"Me?" (I didn't know if I should be flattered or not.)

"Yeah," she said. "I goes for that mature type...Know what I'm sayin'?"

I don't know what she's sayin, but I nod my head in agreement.

"You older guys (she was 32) know what time it is...Know what I'm sayin'?"

I nod my head again.

"You do know what time it is...don't you baby?

I point to my watch and say "Of course I know what time it is...I'm a railroad conductor."

08/22/08, Train 1194:

We're deadheading to South Norwalk when I hear my engineer give a sudden blast on the train horn. This noise is followed by the loud burst of the emergency brake dumping.

"Sh*t" says the engineer..."I just hit someone."

The engineer calls the Rail Traffic Controller, and I get a familiar knot in my stomach. He tells the RTC that we just hit a guy on the bridge just west of the station. He says that the guy was laying in the gauge of the rail.

I walk back to retrieve my radio and flashlight (it was dark out) from my railroad bag. It's my job to find the body and I'm dreading it.

As Yogi Berra said..."It's Deja Vu all over again". Three years previous, I was working with this same engineer and we hit someone on a bridge about 15 miles west of here. That time, I spent several minutes walking the bridge and looking underneath the train for a body. I couldn't find one. I was about to tell my engineer that the guy must have jumped out of the way, when my flashlight beam shone upon a work boot resting on the curb of the street below the bridge. I followed the beam up, and to my horror, found a man lying spread eagle in the middle of the street. He was in a pool of blood. I was walking down the bridge embankment when the police arrived. I saw the cop crouching over the body and searching the man's neck for a pulse. He then stood up and walked over to the trunk of his car and pulled out a yellow tarp. He draped it over the body.

This scene plays in my mind as I grab my flashlight and radio. My assistant and I gingerly step off the train and begin searching under, around and behind the train. My adrenaline is pumping and my breathing is labored. Every muscle in my body is tense. It's kind of like the feeling you get when watching a horror movie...only ten times worse.

I'm searching for a body or a severed leg or maybe an arm, perhaps a head. I look for a blood trail or perhaps a length of intestines. The horror. The horror. The horror.

I begin to reconsider my choice of occupation.

We find nothing, but still we search. My engineer joins in and we look, under the train, around the train...and on the street below.

Still... no body.

I walk track side, looking through the brush, then under a billboard and down to the avenue below. There I interview three Hispanic men who have been standing and watching the whole scene unfold. I ask if they' ve seen anything or anybody around the tracks. They say they haven't, but I don't believe them. This is the bad neighborhood and I'm sure that they're silenced by the street's "no snitch" policy.

After 20 minutes, we give up the search We assume that the trespasser either jumped out of the way in time, or possibly we ran him over, and he crawled out from under the train.

We get back on the train and report the situation, and the rail traffic controller tells us to continue on to our next station stop. We begin our next train like nothing happened. I collect tickets and my body begins to relax. The adrenaline is subsiding and my muscles start to ache. It feels like I just ran a marathon.

I call my wife, and the conversation goes like this:

You're not gonna believe what just happened.

What?

I just spent the last 20 minutes looking for a dead guy.

A what?

A dead guy. My engineer thought he hit someone, so we had to go out and look under and around the train for the body, but we never found it.

How do you know you didn't hit him?

We can't be certain...but we didn't find anything.

Why didn't you wait for the police to look?

There was no body....

Yeah, but....

My wife doesn't say it, but I know what she's thinking. She doesn't trust me to find a body. She knows me as the guy who spends 10 minutes searching the refrigerator for mayonnaise, when there's a jar of Helmann's staring me in the face. I'm the guy who regularly misplaces his keys and glasses. I'm the guy who recently lost his cell phone for like the 20th time.

"Listen," I say as if to calm her, "I wasn't the only one looking. My assistant conductor looked too, and so did the engineer...and he's very organized."

Sigh!!!

08/23/08

I think I need a vacation.

Myrtle Beach or Bust!

08/08:


I planned on taking I-95 all the way down to Myrtle Beach, but shortly after crossing the Connecticut/New York state line, an electric highway sign flashes, saying that the highway is shut down in New Rochelle. I take a detour onto Rte 287 to the Cross County Expressway, then down the Saw Mill River Parkway to the George Washington Bridge. I'm proud that I found my way around the accident, and I'm so busy patting myself on the back, that I miss the I-95 turn off and end up on The Garden State Parkway. I resist my wife's pleas to stop and ask for directions (after all, I am a man). I eventually stop at a gas station in Paterson N.J. where a Pakistani attendant tells me to turn around, drive eight miles back down Rts 46/3 and take a right at Giant's Stadium. On the way we pass a "Target"department store and my wife starts to salivate. She insists we buy a map and a few "necessities." Wrong turn ends up costing me $27 (after all, she's a woman.)

The ride is going smoothly, until we hit "The Woodrow Wilson Drawbridge" in Washington D.C. and the traffic begins a long crawl. I miss the sign for the high occupancy lanes, and stay in the truck/bus lanes. The missed sign costs me one hour of travel time.

I kill time by reading aloud the names painted on small white memorial crosses that dot the roadside. I tell my daughters that these signs were placed by the family and friends of those killed in car accidents along the highway. My wife asks me to "please keep my morbidity to myself." I try, at least till we pass several exit signs for Civil War battlefields, places like Manassas, Fredricksburg, Charlottesville, and Richmond. I begin telling my daughters of the thousands of soldiers that died on these fields, but then look in the rear view mirror and see blank faces. My history lesson has fallen on deaf ears.

After Virginia, we see miles and miles of trees and farmland, then some more farmland and trees. Occasionally a small house or trailer pop into view, sometimes cows, but then it's more farms and trees, trees and farms. The Northeast is densely populated, where the cities blend one into another. I can't believe there's so much open space down here. Where are the housing developments? Where are the malls? Where are the Starbucks?

We plan on stopping for the night in "The Royal Inn" in Selma, NC. A motel that a friend has recommended, saying it was only $40 a night and a "real bargain." I told him that a $40 motel scared me, but he assured me that the place was clean. "Not fancy...but clean." Boy, was he wrong.

08/09:

It's 12:30 a.m. and we're beyond exhausted. We find the motel which looks like it was built sometime in the 60's and hasn't been renovated, or cleaned since. When I check in, I find the front door locked and a skinny man walks from behind the counter, and meets me at the door. I think he's going to unlock the door, but instead, he points to a small mouse hole opening in the Plexiglas (this should have been my first clue). I hand him my credit card and confirm my reservation, he then hands me the key, points, and in a thick southern accent, tells me that the room is 14 doors down.

As we step into the room, we're hit with the powerful stench of cigarette smoke. It's supposed to be a "non smoking room", but there are ashtrays on the bureau and night stands. The room totally reeks of smoke. My daughters walk into the bathroom and I hear them yell, "Yuck!!!" I go to check out what they are yelling about, and find them pointing at the shower, which has mold and mildew climbing its walls and the bathroom faucet is caked in soap scum.

I say that we'll only be here for a couple of hours, and we can live with it till morning. I climb into bed, and find that the mattress is ripped open on the sides, exposing springs and padding. I'm sure if I had one of those ultra violet lights, I'd find blood splattered on the walls and bedspread.

"I'm sleeping in the car!" my wife says as she grabs everything she can carry and starts heading for the door, with my daughters in tow.
"Yeah," I agree. "We're out of here!" I grab everything else they haven't already grabbed. We drive another 20 minutes to Dunn, NC, and stay in a Hampton Inn. The hotel is shiny,new and clean, and serves free hot breakfast in the morning. The first thing we do is take showers, trying to wash the imagined bed bugs, lice, fleas, whatever off our skin. As we climb into bed, my daughters laugh and ask what kind of friend recommends the Royal Inn? "What did you ever do to that guy?"

After a good night's sleep we jump in the car, and head for South Carolina. We start seeing those familiar (and
politically incorrect) "South of the Border" signs, which feature an overweight, mustachioed Mexican bandito named "Pedro." Apparently, Pedro wants... no insists, that we visit "South of the Border," because he has placed his billboards every 100 feet or so.

When we get near the South Carolina border, I see a giant Sombrero tower in the distance. I get excited, but my wife, who has visited "South of the Border" in the past, is less than enthused. By the 80th Pedro sign, my daughters and I are brainwashed and I can't help but pull off the exit ramp.

"South of the Border" is everything I'd hoped it would be. It's a tacky, kitschy, white trashy Disney World and reminds me of something right out of "Pee Wee's Big Adventure." It's gift shops sell South of the Border toilet paper, t-shirts, switch blade pocket combs, shot glasses, pink flamingos, sombreros, and every cheap little tchockes you can think of. I smile and proclaim Pedro "the man." Before we leave, my wife snapped a picture of my daughters and I posing before before his 30ft likeness.

We jump back in the car and drive, what is supposed to take two hours to Myrtle Beach. As soon as we leave I-95, we hit a wall of traffic on Rt 501, where roadside stands sell farm fresh Peaches and Watermelons and something called "boiled peanuts." We're definitely not in Connecticut anymore.

After four hours of bumper to bumper traffic, we finally reach our beach side condo in Myrtle Beach. It's owned by a coworker who proclaimed it, "not fancy...but clean" (where have I heard that before?) Thankfully he's right...it was perfect.

We spend the week shopping, sunbathing, body surfing, reading and eating everything in sight. It was a delightful week.

A little help from my friends

I don't like to steal other blogger's post, but since I'm on still on vacation, I'm going to make an exception. I found this video today on Sandi Kahn Shelton's blog. It's hysterical!!!

Gone Fishin'

I'm on vacation this week, so I've decided to troll through my archives and give links to some of the more popular stories:

Of Mice and Men: http://bobbyderailed.blogspot.com/2007/06/of-mice-and-men.html
Starburst: http://bobbyderailed.blogspot.com/search?q=starburst

I rake-Iraq: http://bobbyderailed.blogspot.com/2006/11/i-rake-iraq.html

Just when I thought I'd heard it all...: http://bobbyderailed.blogspot.com/2008/01/just-when-i-thought-id-heard-it-all.html

Sarah Smiles: http://bobbyderailed.blogspot.com/2007/01/sarah-smiles.html
Stupid Questions: http://bobbyderailed.blogspot.com/2006/10/stupid-questions.html

September 13th, 2001: http://bobbyderailed.blogspot.com/2006/09/september-13th-2001.html

Letting Go: http://bobbyderailed.blogspot.com/2006/09/letting-go.html

Walking the dog

"Girls, I'm late for work again. Can one of you PLEASE take Brenna (our cocker spaniel) out for a walk?"

My 16 year old daughter is lost in cyber space and too busy instant messaging to hear a word that I've said.

I then look to my 14 year old daughter, a girl soooo obsessed with the Jonas Brothers, that she can't pull herself away from the 15th rebroadcast of "Camp Rock."

When I get home at 3:30AM, I invariably find Brenna with her legs crossed and a few pounds heavier. "Did anyone let you out girl?" I ask.
She looks up at me with her big brown eyes, tilts her head and says... "What do you think?

This same scene is played out almost daily. The website or TV show might change, but in the end...the poor dog never gets walked.

Yesterday, my daughters had a surprise for me. I give you "Walking the Dog" starring Brenna (who loves me) and our cat Tara (who hates me).

"The Exclusive Details" or The Week in Review 07/28-08/02

07/28/08 Train 1388:

A middle aged man, stinking of booze, got on the train at Fordham. Jason, my assistant, asked him for his ticket. The guy said he didn't have one. Jason offered to sell him a ticket, but the man said he didn't have any money (he obviously spent it all at the package store.) The man was then told to get off the train in Mt. Vernon (the next stop). The guy laughed and said, "No, I'm going to New Rochelle, and that's where I'm gonna get off."

True to his word, when we reached Mt. Vernon, the man refused to leave the train. I called for police assistance but there were no MTA police in the area (as usual). This forced me to use plan B....acting. Faking a radio call, I stood before the guy and yelled..."We have a non-payment of fare in the second rear car." The man, now nervous, saw that I meant business and got off the train in Pelham.

I don't like to brag, but I hear there's some "Oscar" buzz.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Because railroad workers are so widely dispersed, gossip is critically important to getting the news out. For example, when something happens in New Haven, a conductor might tell an engineer in Stamford. That engineer might tell a car inspector in Grand Central. The car inspector might tell the half-truth to a Harlem Line conductor.....etc.....etc....etc. This continues until the rumor is spread over the greater metropolitan region. It's kind of like that old game "telephone," the final story given, usually bares no resemblance to what really happened, but that doesn't stop the rumor mill from grinding. Having said this...here is what I heard happened on Monday:

It seems a woman conductor asked a passengers to take his feet off the seats. The man ignored her. She asked again. Again, he ignored her. When she asked a third time, the guy stood up and punched her in the head. He then ran off the train and disappeared into the shadows. The bruised and battered conductor is now back to work.

July 23, Train 1500:

A handsome couple boarded the train in Grand Central and sat down in my car. I remembered them from the previous evening's commute, mostly because the guy was a Derek Jeter look-a-like and his girlfriend wore a low cut blouse.

The man showed me his monthly pass, but I was surprised when he asked to buy a ticket for his companion. I was sure they both had passes on the previous evening's commute.

"Excuse me, but didn't you both have passes last night?" I asked.

The woman frowned and said "Last night?...I wasn't on the train last night."

Derek Jeter look-a-like hid his face in his hands, and the woman began to interrogate him:

"Who were you with last night?...Who is she?"

I gave the guy a "sorry about that" shrug, and continued on to the next passenger.

Oops!!!

July 23, 2008 Train 1583:

A family with several suitcases boarded the train in New Haven. I helped them lift their luggage into the overhead racks and they thanked me in what I thought was a heavy German accent.

"Are you from Germany?" I asked.

"No, ve're und holiday vrom Austria," they said.

Excited, I began singing "Edelweiss" half expecting them to join me in the chorus.

"Edelweiss-Edelweiss, blessed be my homeland forever."

The family looked at me like I had a third head. The oldest daughter, a Yale Student, stepped forward and explained that Austrians aren't familiar with "The Sound of Music." In fact," she said, "I didn't see the movie till I came to The States."

"Really?" I said. "I thought Edelweiss was the Austrian Danny Boy. You know, one of those nationalistic songs that people sing when they're drunk (whether they know the words or not.)"

They said that one of Von Trapp family members visited Austria recently, and the media made a big deal about it. The excitement was lost on most people though. So few have seen "The Sound of Music."

I guess it's that whole "Nazi" history thing.

08/01/08 Train 1388:

While boarding the train in Grand Central, five mechanics in orange vests walk past me. One of the mechanics asks:

" Where's the lady trapped in the bathroom?"

"What lady trapped in the bathroom?" I answered.

"We got a call that there's a lady trapped in the bathroom."

This was the first I'd heard of it, but I followed the mechanics and we searched all the lavatories. We eventually found a small crowd gathered around the lavatory in the third head car. There we found a woman, dying of embarrassment, trapped in the bathroom. Panicked, she had called 911.

They, in turn, called the railroad.

After a few pushes of the pry bar, the woman was released from her odoriferous prison. If it weren't for cell phones, she might still be there.

08/02/08 Train 6554:

Celebrity Corner:

I was standing in the vestibule waiting for the train to stop in Stratford, when an attractive blond woman stood next to me. She looked familiar, but I figured I had just seen her on the train before. Then it dawned on me...

"You look a lot like that newswoman...Rita Cosby." I said.

"Maybe that's because I am her." She replied.

Rita couldn't have been nicer. I'm not Anna Nicole Smith's "Baby Daddy"(that I know of!) but she still seemed genuinely interested in me. She even asked my name and where I was from. She told me that she was originally from Greenwich, and that she rides the train on a fairly regular basis.

I asked if she was still on Fox,. "Not anymore," she said. "Now I'm on Inside Edition."

She said she has also been doing a lot of writing lately. I told her that I had a blog and asked if she minded that I mention her. She seemed excited and asked me for my blog address. I was happy to give it to her.

When I become famous, I'll be sure to give her the "Exclusive Details" of my life.

Heads...you lose

And I thought my passengers were crazy:
http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,396537,00.html

How I roll-The week in review

Monday, July 14:

Today is the day I start my relationship with TIM (not that there's anything wrong with that). TIM is not a person, but rather an acronym for the new "Ticket Issuing Machine" that the railroad is distributing to its conductors. It looks similar to a thick Blackberry, and allows us to electronically sell tickets on board our trains. I am also supplied a wireless printer, which attaches to my belt and spits out copious amounts of paper, whether I want it to or not. Along with this equipment, I'm given a two rechargers, two extra batteries and a power strip. Now if only they'd pay my electric bill.

I overhear a fellow conductor say: " Only a government agency would replace a $5 paper punch with a $3000 hand held computer... and then call it a cost saving measure."

Tuesday, July 15, 1:25am:

Four guys in their early 20's, board the train at 125th Street Station. They're returning from the "Home Run Derby" at Yankee Stadium, and they're a little loud and boisterous. I ask them for their tickets and they instead produce four yellow summonses that the NYPD had given them.

"Uh Oh!" I say, "What did you do?

"WE SPIT," they answer in unison.

"Oh come on," I say, "What did you REALLY do?"

One of the guys hands over his summons and lets me read it. Sure enough, they were ticketed for spitting outside Yankee Stadium.

Commentary:

It's funny that on the field, players have turned expectorating into an art form. Outside the stadium these poor boys got ticketed. I guess it's like they say in real estate...it's all about location. Location-Location-Location.



Tuesday, July 15, Train 1583:

I was going to work with TIM today, but the wireless printer was being fickle and it came between us. I called the Metro North tech support hotline, and they said that my battery must not have been charged sufficiently. I reluctantly put TIM away and go back to punching tickets the old fashioned way. Coworkers ask why I'm not using TIM, I say that I'm "Old Skool," and "that's just how I roll."

Train 1583:

A homeless man hands me a handful of nickels, dimes, and quarters, and tells me he wants to go to Old Greenwich. This surprises me for two reasons, 1) He has the fare. 2.) He wants to go to Old Greenwich (an old money enclave.) About 20 minutes later, this same man comes racing down the aisle toward me, and shouts that he wants to go to Fordham and that I better sell him a ticket to Fordham. "Okay," I say, "Calm down...I'll sell you an add-on ticket to Fordham." He isn't satisfied and leans in and starts screaming in my face...kind of like Lou Pinella yelling at a home plate umpire. He again changes his mind and demands to go to Port Chester. I finally realize that this guy is nuts, and I try to walk away from him. He follows me down the aisle. "Sell me a ticket to Mount Vernon." He then tells no one in particular that he's a member of the Democratic Party and says something about being divorced or getting divorced or wanting a divorce. He was hard to follow. I'm glad TIM wasn't there to see this.

I call for police assistance and four MTA policemen meet my train at Stamford Station. "Did he pay his fare? " One officer asks.

"Yes, he did," I say, " but... "

"Then why did you call us?"

Oh I don't know, maybe because I thought he was gonna kill me!


Train 1495, 10:55 pm:

My train is sitting in South Norwalk Station when a yuppie guy knocks on the train door. "Conductor," he says, "I dropped my cellphone on the tracks, and I want to know if I can climb down there and get it. He points into the gap between the train and the platform and I see his phone's green LED light blinking rhythmically against the ballast below. "Tell you what," I say. "My train doesn't leave for another 15 minutes. I'll jump down and get it for you." The yuppie's wife has now arrived, and he explains the whole situation to her. She tells me to be careful.

Before climbing down, I let my engineer know what I'm doing, and instruct him to "Stand hard" which means don't move the train. Once at track level, I crawl approximately 10 feet between the train and the platform. In the near distance I see the green LED light blinking. Along the way, I bang my head on a protruding, rusted metal bracket, and it hurts like the dickens. I rub my head and I discover I'm bleeding. Undeterred, I continue on and find the phone. I hand it up to the yuppie who is watching from the safety of the platform above.

While crawling back, I wonder how big of a tip I'll be offered (which I can't accept of course). I then think about how distressed his wife will be when she sees the gnarly 2" gash atop my bald head.

I finally climb back up on the platform and I'm surprised to find that the yuppie couple are no where in sight. Another passenger says that they grabbed the phone, hopped in their BMW and left.

No tip, no sympathy...not even A THANK YOU!

July 16:

TIM and I have worked out our differences and we're getting along swimmingly (not that there's anything wrong with that.) The printers still a little temperamental though.

July 18:

We're delayed because some guy is walking on the tracks in the Bridgeport area. Trains are backed up as the MTA police are dispatched up and down the rails looking for this guy. The situation is resolved when the trespasser climbs up into a dead head train (meaning it had no passengers) and sits down like he's been there all along. MTA police find this convenient. They easily locate train and arrest man.

July 19. 1:10 AM:

A Muslim woman is dressed from head to toe in a burqa and is boarding my train in Grand Central. I notice that underneath her clothing she is wearing Nike running shoes. This makes me laugh, but then I think of how she symbolizes West meeting Middle-East and I get a happy feeling. I start humming "Kumbaya."

July 19, 2:45 PM:

"Give me tickets!" Screams a four year old boy, as he spies the small seat checks I keep in hidden in my pouch. I'm busy with another transaction and I ignore his initial cries. "Give me tickets!" he screams again. "Okay, okay," I say. But before handing over my stash, I ask, "What's the magic word?" He thinks for a minute, then answers... "Abracadabra?"

Miss July

Miss Late Night train, July 2008:

Favorite activities: Partying! Partying! and Partying!

Guilty Pleasures: Little black dresses. Stiletto heels.

Favorite Books: Um...You mean like reading and stuff?

Favorite TV show: Sex and The City.

Foods I crave: Jello shots.

Ambition: To not sleep past my station stop. Oh yeah...and end world hunger.

Turn ons: Bar Cars, Long Island Ice tea.

Turn offs: Mean conductors, gravity, sobriety.

Ideal man: Jim Beam, Johnny Walker and this guy:

Photo credits: Adam Welsh. Jamie V.

The Week in Review

Monday, July 7:


Train 1388- I'm alarmed because my engineer dumped the train (put emergency brake on) just west of Larchmont Station. Two trespassers had set up a video camera on a tripod in the middle of track #4...our track. The idiots grabbed their tripod and jumped out of the way just before our train came sliding by. Police were called and dispatched. I'm sure this guy's video is now on YouTube.



Tuesday, July 8:



Train 1388: A Blonde haired, blue eyed, Greenwich business woman(with an evident sense of entitlement), lay across three seats on this standing room only train. I asked her to sit up, pointing out all the standing passengers in the vestibule area. She reluctantly sits up, but when I go to open the doors at 125th Street, she lie back down again. I returned, and again asked her to sit up. She does...kind of,(she was still leaning to one side.) Whenever this happens, I try to find the biggest, smelliest,meanest looking passenger I can find, and escort them over to the newly opened seat. This night, however, I couldn't find anyone smelly enough. I had to settle for big and mean looking.

(Side note: I've been trying to figure out the whole lay/lie/laying/lying thing. Forgive me if I used them incorrectly.)



Train 1495-Two guys were blasting rap music on their cellphone/mp3 players. I told them they needed to use their headphones or turn the music off. They called me a "hater" and said that no one was complaining,and I should "mind my business." I told them that it was my business and threatened to have them removed from the train. In a final act of defiance, they turned the music up before turning it off. When they exited the train at Fordham, they called my assistant conductor a few choice names. He returned the favor.



Train 1495: Guy gave me a $100 bill for a $2.25 fare. He was the third guy that day to give me $100, and I was unable to make change. I pawned him off on my assistance...he had plenty of change. I've never had a $100 bill in my wallet, and I wonder what I'm doing wrong.



Train 1500:-A Brooks Brothers clad guy from Fairfield (a wealthy town) stinks to high heaven and is smelling up his entire end of the car. I wished he'd been on train 1388. I would have seated him next to the Greenwich woman.



Wednesday, July 09:

Train 1388: -The train is packed to the gills. I climb over passengers doing my best Bugs Bunny impersonation: "s'cuse me, pardon me, s'cuse me, pardon me...pass the popcorn."



-My assistant conductor was missing. It seemed he'd been delayed on his previous train, filling out a police report in Westport. "Allegedly" he had a passenger who was high ("allegedly") on angel dust . He was "allegedly" crawling on the floor and grabbing at unsuspecting passengers. Westport police were called, but they had a tough time removing suspect from train (he had super human strength). They eventually wrestled him to ground and carried him away. "Allegedly".



Train 1495:-Old Mexican woman is playing Salsa music on her radio. I love Tito Puente, but I ask her to turn it off. She doesn't understand a word I'm saying and gives me a big,gold toothed smile. She must have eventually got the message, because just as I'd begun to mambo, she turned the music off.



Thursday, July 11:



Grand Central 1am : Standing in Grand Central, I watch as the MTA police strap a drunk guy, who was nearly comatose, to a gurney and wheel him away. Nearby, two drunk college guys lay flat on the floor and arm wrestle. People step right over them, not seeming to notice. It's like Cindy Adams says..."Only in New York kids...Only in New York."



July 12, Train 6557: There's a free Bon Jovi concert in Central Park and the train is PACKED. A middle aged guy with a bad toupee, pulls me aside and complains that the young woman sitting next to him is loudly yakking on her cell phone. I told him that I'd talk to her. I approach woman, but before I could say a word, she yelled "it's a free country and I can talk on the phone if I want... Nobody else is complaining," she says. She then asked the couple seated across from her if she was bothering them. They say,"Yes, you are a little loud."

I asked the woman to be courteous and move her conversation to the vestibule area. She refused, and went right on yakking. I went back to original complainant and told him there wasn't much I could do. "We're in kind of a gray area here," I said. "We suggest that people converse in the vestibule area. It's really not a removable offense." Complainant claims I'm intimidated by the offending passenger because she's black. He then stormed away. He later apologized.


-Just another week on the rails.-

Connecticut Magazine, May 2008

In case you missed it, here's an article that ran on the last page of Connecticut Magazine's May issue:

http://www.zwire.com/site/news.cfm?newsid=19835301&BRD=2329&PAG=461&dept_id=484827&rfi=6newsid=19835301&BRD=2329&PAG=461&dept_id=484827&rfi=6

Conductor's Log: 07/06/08

0100 hrs: While boarding the train in Grand Central, conductor (me) observes a severely inebriated male passenger trot toward the train. He trips over his own feet, goes airborne and belly flops onto the hard concrete platform. Conductor bites lip to keep from laughing.

0115 hrs: Train departs Grand Central.

0120 hrs: Female with a "Jesus-Christ is the real thing" T-shirt, tries beating the fare by using her father's monthly commutation ticket (she had strategically placed her thumb over the gender marker.) Conductor decides girl's T-shirt is ironic.

0125 hrs: A group of drunken Yankee fans board train at Harlem-125th St. Station. They're all around 40 years-old and sporting Yankee caps and shirts. They loudly discuss their team, as if they're members of the Steinbrenner family. "We're bringing up two new pitchers from the farm team," one says, and the others nod their heads in agreement. One, a foul mouth woman, screams :"We just picked up a f---ing catcher!"


0130 hrs: Something loud (maybe a rock) hits the train as we travel through the South Bronx. I call my engineer on the radio and ask if he hit something. He says he didn't. I return to collecting tickets and a concerned passenger asks if we hit someone. I calm his fears by saying..."I hope not."

0134hrs: A woman passenger complains that she's hungry and asks where she can buy a pretzel with mustard. I tell her that she just left New York City, the pretzel with mustard capital of the world. "They're kinda hard to find in the suburbs" I say. She sticks out her lower lip and pouts.

0135hrs: Male passenger offers me his McDonalds' french fries in lieu of a ticket. I decline, but tell him he might be able to broker a deal with the pretzel lady.

0140hrs: Male passenger with a heavy Spanish accent, complains that while in the lavatory, "That sommaofabitch" (now pointing to a drunk guy a few seats away) took his seat and drank his beer!" I briefly contemplate chastising the beernapper, but think better of it, and walk away.

0213hrs: A disheveled African-American woman boards train and says she doesn't have a ticket or money to ride the train. She wants to get to the shelter and asks if I could let her ride. My Catholic guilt kicks in, and I tell her to take a seat. Minutes later, I smell a strange odor... similar to an electrical fire or burning plastic. I look out the window for signs of smoke but don't see anything. I then check the heating vents which sometimes flame up. I see nothing.

0220hrs: Train reaches Stamford and the homeless woman thanks me for the ride. As she steps off the train, I notice that the burning plastic smell follows her.

0221hrs: I ask my trainman if he knows what smoke from a crack pipe smells like. "Yeah," he says..." like burning plastic."

0222 hrs: I realize I have a crazy job.

A shocking coincidence!

Last night, after collecting our tickets, a coworker and I sat down and began chatting. Somehow the conversation veered toward Dr. Josef Mengele, the notorious Nazi physician who performed human experiments on his concentration camp prisoners. I mentioned that my father was involved in the famous "Obedience to Authority" experiment by Dr. Stanley Milgram, some 46 years ago. The experiment tried to explain why normally decent people could commit attrocities against their fellow man. My coworker said he'd never heard of the experiment, but he'd be sure to check it out online. I wrote Milgram's name on a slip of paper and handed it to him. Before sitting down again, I reached for a copy of yesterday's New York Times which a passenger had abandoned on a nearby seat. There, on page 4, was a small photo of my father being shocked in the Milgram experiment. The paragraph below suggested that reader's check out more pictures from the experiment here:
http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2008/06/30/science/070108-MIND_2.html

What a coincidence!

P.S. After initially posting this story, I found that my niece Cara had emailed me a link to the full Times' story. Read it here: http://www.nytimes.com/2008/07/01/health/research/01mind.html?_r=1&adxnnl=1&oref=slogin&ref=science&adxnnlx=1215014801-9b5D6WBSmP/0eSbGVGiGqw

A word from Dan

Hello everybody,
I would like to thank everyone who voted for my entry in Animation Magazine's 7th Annual Pitch Party Contest. Although I did not win the big prize Rocket did come in Second Place in the Online Voting section of the contest. Your vote made a big difference!
Thank you all so much for taking time out of your busy schedules to vote for me. It is very much appreciated!!!
Rocket and I will be working hard to get out there to a screen near you in the future!
If you would like to see who did win the contest the link is:
http://www.animationmagazine.net/article/8541
Dan

Vote for Dan...and Rocket!

While growing up, my older brothers teased and harassed me mercilessly, so I felt it only right that I pass these torture methods on to my nephew Danny, who is only seven years my junior. It wasn't all taunting and wrestling matches though, we also spent a lot of quality time together coloring or drawing pictures at my mother's kitchen table. Being older, my motor skills were more advanced and I took perverse pleasure in comparing my more detailed drawings against Danny's rudimentary ones (this infuriated him!).

As Danny got older, his sketches got better and better and I eventually stopped showing him my artwork all together. By the time he reached Junior High, his creations were incredible and we all knew he'd be an artist someday.

Dan and his wife Jasmine are now successful graphic artists in New York
City. He enjoys his job, but his first love has always been animation. He is now looking to create cartoons for television and for the past two years has submitted ideas to the Animation Magazine Pitch Party contest. Submissions are reviewed by a panel of judges and voted on by you the online community. The winner gets a meeting with the head of a major studio (i.e. Dreamworks, Nickelodeon etc.) to pitch his/her idea for possible future development.

This is Dan's submission this year:



Please go to:

www.animationmagazine.net/pitch_party_08_vote.html and Vote for Dan...and Rocket! Voting deadline is TUESDAY, JUNE 24th.

This was last year's submission..."Ghengis Conroy":

The staff of Animation Magazine voted "Ghengis Conroy" best submission of '07. Unfortunately, it didn't win the online voting poll (somebody must have had a lot of relatives out there). Hopefully this year, with your help, Dan can garner enough votes and win the contest.

I like to think that Dan's drive and creativity is the result of some deep seated sibling rivalry (yeah, I know he's technically not my sibling...but close enough). Maybe, in some small way, I'm responsible for his talent. If so...I couldn't be prouder.

"It was a dark and stormy night"

Last night we had a severe thunderstorm and we lost our power. Just as the lights went out, our younger daughter called home from a friend's house.

"Dad...Can you come and pick me up at Taylor's house?"


"Right now?" I asked.


Just then a big bolt of lightning flashed nearby and I heard static on the phone line.


"Well...yeah." She answered.

"Alright," I said, "but I'm going to wait for the storm to die down a bit."

My wife had been going from room to room lighting candles when she overheard my phone conversation.

"You're not going to go and get her now...are you?"


(Baa-BOOM! A loud clap of thunder shook the house.)



"I'm a man's man" I explained, " A manly man who's not afraid of danger. In fact, if you look up 'Manly Man' in the dictionary, you'll see my picture:




Manly Man-n-: A brave man that laughs in the face of danger. See photo at right.





"Yeah,"My wife said, " You're a manly man...at least till a little mouse goes running by. Then who do you come calling for?... ME!"

"Hey," I said. "Even Superman has Kryptonite."

My older daughter walked into the room at this point and heard our conversation.

"Good one dad!" She said. "That comment should go on one of your blog posts."


"Good idea," I said.

I grabbed my keys and ran out of the house and into the dark and stormy night. My wife nervously watched out the front window, then turned to my daughter and said:

"That manly man just pulled out of the driveway without his headlights on."

Palindrome

In my college years, I worked part time at Sears in Orange, CT in the paint department. One day, while filling in at the candy counter, Sally and Emma, two highly educated coworkers, called me a "palindrome". I didn't know what a palindrome was but figured I'd been insulted. I sought out several of my fellow employees and asked what the word meant, but to further antagonize me, Sally and Emma had coached everyone and instructed them not to tell me.The only answer I got was "Bob, you're definitely a palindrome, but we can't say why." I was livid. When I got home I ran to the dictionary and looked it up:

pal·in·drome n.
1. A word, phrase, verse, or sentence that reads the same backward or forward. For example: A man, a plan, a canal, Panama! 2. Bob!

I was reminded of this story today, because my friend Jamie sent me this belated "Bob Day" video:

Reality TV Plott

This lovely young lady got on my train last night in Stamford. She was carrying a boquet of six helium balloons. I wished her a happy birthday, but she said it wasn't her birthday. The balloons were a gift from the students in her dance class. The kids were congratulating her on being one of the finalist on the Fox reality TV show "So you think you can DANCE."

I give to you, Lizz Plott:




I asked Lizz if she won the competition but she said she couldn't tell me since the series is still running and it's against FOX policy to divulge the results. I told her about the other reality TV stars I've met over the past few years.

" I once had Evan Marriott from Joe Millionaire on a busy morning rush hour train. He's real tall and was sprawled out across five seats. I had to tell him to take his cowboy boots off the seat." (a big railroad no-no).

She didn't seem impressed by this story.

"I once was on the escalator in Grand Central with Ereka Vetrini from season one of The Apprentice. We had a nice little chat...she was a real sweetheart."

She still looked unimpressed, but I continued:

"I have this blog...and I write a lot of stories about celebrities I've met on the train. I was thinking about doing a piece on reality TV stars and I was wondering if I could write about you and maybe take your picture."

She seemed less than enthused with my idea, so I whipped out my camera phone and showed her the Gwen Stefani picture (Yes, again). I then mentioned how Justin Long didn't want me to take his picture and I inferred that she didn't want to be like him...did she?

She finally agreed.

Lizz asked if I knew of a place near Grand Central where she could watch the show since it was coming on at 8PM and she wasn't going to be home in time. I recommended a deli on Lexington Avenue that has a quiet backroom with a big television. It was then I knew that she must not have won the competition.

I checked the "So You Think You Can DANCE" website today... She didn't advance. I guess appearing on "Derailed" is a good consolation prize.

What about Bob?

Folks, I must say... I'm a little hurt. As most of you know, Monday, May 26th, was "Bob Day"(a day to celebrate the ultimate OK guy), and yet, I didn't get a present, greeting card or phone call from any of you (Okay, my sister Sheila called, but she was three days late.)

I know what you're thinking... "He's really more of a 'Bobby' than a 'Bob'." but if truth be told... I go both ways (label-wise, that is).

I blame my identity crisis on two sources:

1. Emmett:

My parents, having already named their previous eight children, gave the awesome responsibiltiy of tagging child number nine (me), to Emmett, my oldest brother. For some reason, he took a liking to the name Robert and overruled all his younger sibling's more creative suggestions.

2. The nuns

At home and in my neighborhood, I was always called "Bobby," but in St. Lawrence Grammar School, nobody was allowed to use nicknames. There were no Billys, Kathys, Pattys or Bobbys; only Williams, Kathleens,Patricias and Roberts. This inhumane policy led my classmates to refer to me as "Robert"(a dreadful name) or the much more heinous "Rob." (No wonder I hated that school.) When I reached 9th grade, I went to public school. On the first day of class the teacher passed around a sign-in sheet, explaining that we were to write down the name we preferred to be called...even nicknames were fine.

"What freedom!" I thought.

I took out my #2 pencil and started to write "Bobby" but somewhere around the second "b" the graphite froze to the paper. I'm not sure what happened, but for some reason, I began to feel too mature to be called "Bobby" (such a youthful sounding name.) Sure, Bobby Kennedy pulled it off, but he was a great touch football player, and I was strictly second string. He also had the advantage of coming of age in the 1930's when children had all sorts of dopey names. When kids of my generation heard the name "Bobby," they immediately thought of the freckled, youngest boy in the Brady Clan.

Back to 9th grade; I finally lifted pencil from paper, leaving "Bob" in the designated box. Before I knew it, teachers, classmates, friends, girlfriends , were all calling me "Bob." It's amazing how the name steamrolled. Lately, I've been regretting that day. I'm not sure if it's middle age, but suddenly, I want to be "Bobby"again. I think Dr. Phil would say my regression to "Bobbyhood" is due to a Peter Pan Complex, and that I don't want to grow up. But then again, what does Dr. Phil know?

I was inspired to write this post today by a bird. I am somewhat of an amateur bird watcher, and this morning, for the first time, I spotted a "Bobwhite" by the side of the road. This got me to thinking...I wonder if nuns call these birds "Robertwhites?" and did they get any greeting cards on May 26th?

The New M-8's

The good folks over at "Stationstops.com" (see link at right) have produced a great video on the new, New Haven Line M-8 prototype. Check it out here: