DERAILED

Everything you always wanted to know about a train conductor *But were afraid to ask

2011-10-08T01:14:00.012-04:00

Emily, author of the "I ride the Harlem Line" blog has recently been branching out (literally) and visiting, and photographing train stations on the New Haven Line. Riding the red line must have got her thinking about me, since she recently sent me a list of questions about being a railroad conductor (in general) and this long neglected blog of mine (in particular). Here's how the Q & A went:

Q: There are a lot of different types of conductors - some like trains, and others just see it as a job and a means to a paycheck. You mentioned growing up near the rails, and had family members that worked for the railroad - were you interested in the trains as a kid? Are you a little bit of a "train buff"?

A: No, I'm definitely not a train buff. In fact, when I was growing up, I was deathly afraid of the railroad tracks. I grew up six houses south of the tracks in West Haven, CT, and whenever a train went by, our house would shake. It was as if we lived on the San Andreas Fault. Guests would regularly hide in closets or stand under secure thresholds whenever the Turbo Train went by.

My grandfather lived next door to me. He was a retired car inspector for The New York, New Haven and Hartford Railroad. He always warned me not to go anywhere near the tracks, and he'd frequently tell horror stories of kids getting their feet stuck in track switches. Trapped like wild animals, they'd ultimately get run over by express trains whose engineers were going so fast they couldn't stop in time. As if to prove him right, shortly after one Papa's warnings, a middle-aged neighbor was killed while crossing the tracks coming home from a bar late one summer night. A few months later, on a cold winter's morning, I watched the railroad police as they searched the body of a neighborhood friend as his body lay frozen along the tracks at the end of our street. He was always doing crazy things, and I later learned that he'd climbed the catenary pole and innocently touched a high voltage wire. I guess my grandfather knew what he was talking about.

Q: Though it isn't nearly as true as it was in the past, there have been many "railroad families" - sons following in the footsteps of fathers and grandfathers in the service of the railroad. Since you had railroading family members, was this a career path that was encouraged for you and/or your siblings?

A: I'm a fourth generation railroad worker, so in the back of my mind, I guess I always considered a railroad career an option.
I shared a bedroom with my brother Brian who is eight years older than me.. He started as an fireman with Penn Central in 1974, and a short time later became a locomotive engineer for Conrail which eventually became Metro North. I knew firsthand what a railroaders life was like..i.e. getting called for work in the middle of the night, long hours, working seven days a week. I wasn't sure I wanted that kind of lifestyle. I graduated college in 1985, and still didn't know what I wanted to do with my life. Brian told me that Metro North was hiring, so I sent in a resume. A few months later I got hired as an asst conductor. At the time I thought a railroad career beneath me. After all... I was a college graduate. I told myself I'd only stay until a real job came along. That was 25 years ago....still here... and don't regret it.

Q: You mention that you got a job with the railroad "until a real job came along." Was there a particular reason that you decided to stay?

A: I know it's cliche to say, but I truly am a "people person," and when you think about it, we carry some of the most fascinating people in the world. From the captains of industry, to Wall Street billionaires, Hollywood celebrities to street corner drug dealers (okay, maybe drug dealers aren't fascinating, but they are interesting). Our passengers come from all walks of life, and I love to chatting with all of them and learning their life stories. Also, it's a steady job with good pay and great benefits. I love my job....not many people can say that.

Q: My favorite question to ask train conductors is "what is the craziest thing you've ever seen someone bring on a train?" The Wassaic portion of the Harlem Line has almost an "urban legend" that people bring their goats on the train. Have you seen anything nutty over on the New Haven Line?

A: One afternoon a guy got on in Bridgeport and had something hidden under his leather jacket. I watched as he sat down and pulled a baby bottle out of his front pocket. I assumed he had a small child inside his coat and was keeping him warm against the cold winter winds...I was wrong. When I approached to collect his ticket, a giant brown snout poked through his jacket zipper. I jumped back a step. "What's THAT?" I shouted. He chuckled, unzipped his jacket and produced a Wallaby!!!! (as in a mini Kangaroo). I half expected him to reach inside the joey's pouch and produce his ticket. "Where did you get that?" I asked. "I picked her up at Kennedy Airport last week" he said, as if everyone owns a exotic animals. "Is it even legal to own a wallaby?" I asked. "Yeah" he answered unconvincingly. (BTW, I just Googled it. Apparently it is legal).

Q: As the "conductor to the stars" you've encountered quite a few famous faces while working the rails (though admittedly, I may be too young to recognize all of the names). Do you have a favorite, or most memorable, encounter with anybody famous?

A: In the early 1990's, comedienne and ex-Saturday Night Live cast member Victoria Jackson used to ride my train on a regular basis. She is as sweet and wacky as she appears on TV, and I always got a big kick out of talking with her. Our conversations weren't always light and funny though. Sometimes she'd confide in me about the messy divorce she was going through, once telling me her husband was evil. Other times she'd complain about not getting enough airtime on SNL. I felt bad for her, and sometimes I'd pitch skit ideas to her (she never used them).
One afternoon, Victoria generously offered to get me and my wife tickets to her show. I told her that we'd love to go but my wife was 8 months pregnant and we'd have to make it very soon. About a week later, Victoria called my home and told my wife that she had two tickets with our names on them waiting at NBC Studios. It was the last show of the season. I called her back and asked what time the show ended, and if I would have enough time to catch the last train back to New Haven (01:30AM). She arranged that we'd drive to Westport, then take the train to New York from there. She'd have her limo drive us back to Westport at the end of the night.

We did as she instructed and drove to Westport, then took the train into NYC. Just as she said, there were two tickets waiting for us at 30 Rock. The guest host that evening was John Goodman and Garth Brooks was the musical guest. We loved the show, but couldn't help but notice that Victoria was never on stage during the entire show...not once. After the finale, we reported to the security guard as instructed and gave him our names. He called upstairs to her dressing room, then nodding his head in agreement, pointed us to a bank of elevators. When we stepped off the elevator , we immediately heard muffled sobs coming from one of the dressing rooms. We knocked on the door and found Victoria slouched over a bottle of wine, with streams of black mascara running down her face. She was crying her eyes out. She sobbed loudly, saying that Lorne (the show producer) had cut her out all her skits and she was going to quit show business.

Victoria got the call that her limo was ready, so she led us, and the wardrobe women, the hair stylist and the make up artist downstairs, where we all piled in the back of her stretch limo for the ride home. We shuttled through Manhattan dropping off the SNL crew members on their respective street corners. Once we were on I-95, she got on her car phone and called her boyfriend in Miami (this was pretty amazing to me, cause this 1992 BC ...before cell phones). She cried all the way back to Westport, and in famous baby doll voice, told her Miami cop boyfriend that she hated show business and was going to give it all up, move to Miami, and marry him. She said she wanted to be just like the sweet railroad conductor and his adorable pregnant wife who were sitting across the seat from her.
And that's just what she did. She quit show biz, moved to Miami, married the cop and had more children. I guess we inspired her.

Q: For every famous person you've encountered, you've met quite a few more "ordinary" people. What is your most memorable encounter with a regular "run of the mill" train rider?

A: My most memorable "ordinary" passenger was probably the extremely grouchy woman who often rode my evening rush hour train home. This curmudgeon complained every time she saw me, and for some reason, she always seemed to sit in my car. She'd complain that the train was either too hot or too cold. The PA was too loud or she couldn't understand my announcements. She groused about the train being dirty or that it smelled like a urinal.
One particular night, she rattled off a laundry list of complaints as I stood patiently by waiting for her to finish. She went on and on till the surrounding passengers began rolling their eyes. Some commuters shook their heads and took pity on me. When she finally finished, I took a deep breath and asked, "Did you have a tough day at work today?" She suddenly burst out laughing, and I could see the tension leave her body. "As a matter of fact I did... it was a horrible day" she said with a big smile on her face. She loved me from that day on, and I never heard her complain again...well, almost never.

Q: Metro-North nights (especially on the NH Line from your stories!!) sound like they can be pretty crazy... yet you seem to prefer the evening trains. I know a conductor's schedule can be difficult with family - does the evening schedule help, or do you like the punishment from the crazy drunks?

A: A female conductor friend of mine once said that in order to be a conductor on a late night train, you had to have come from a dysfunctional family. Her theory is that we're survivors and we're the only ones who could put up with all the craziness we encounter. She may be onto something here.

As far as my schedule goes, I hate getting up early in the morning, and in the railroad world, in order to get home at a decent hour, you have to start work at in ungodly hour...like 4AM. No thanks. I've missed a lot of my daughters' field hockey/lacrosse games, and parent/teacher conferences (fodder for their therapists sessions someday), but I do get a lot of yard work done during the day.

Q: You've mentioned that you knew a conductor that had a complaint letter written about them because of chewing gum. I've heard some other complaint stories about a conductor that let a bug fly into the train, and that after collecting tickets would spend long periods of time in the bathroom (passenger didn't realize it was the cab!!). Has anyone ever written a complaint about you, or have you heard any other crazy complaint letter stories?

A: In my 25 years as a conductor, I believe I've only have one complaint letter in my file...but it's a doozy. I heard it was double spaced and eight pages long. It was sent to the the Railroad Superintendent, the President of Metro North, and the Director of the MTA. The prose was a group effort, written by a posse of obnoxious bar car patrons who thought Metro North rules didn't pertain to them (i.e.smoking on the train). I heard they called me a "fascist".

I recently heard that a woman on the upper Harlem wrote a letter of complaint, saying she counted 183 automated announcements on her very early morning M-7 train. I guess she shows up to work a little bleary-eyed. Not sure how the railroad responded.

Q: Have you gotten the chance to ride any M8's yet, and if so what do you think about them?

Yes, I've worked the M8's, and I like them. They're shiny, bright and new...what's not to like? I just hope I still like them were they're no longer shiny, bright and new.

Q: Do people on the train ever recognize you based upon your blog? Are any of your passengers aware of it?

Once a passenger saw me walk by and he got very excited...almost star-struck. "Is that Bobbyderailed?" he asked my assistant conductor. I was flattered that he recognized me, so I walked to where he was sitting and thanked him for reading my blog. He showed me what he had just tweeted: "Wow! Bobby from 'Derailed' is the conductor on my train." I think I stood a little taller that night.

On the flip side, I once overheard one of the female conductor sharing a funny story in the stationmaster's office. It seems she had a male passenger on one of her morning trains and the gentleman had an explosive episode of diarrhea in one of the train bathrooms. He left the whole area a terrible mess, and at the last minute, he ran out of the lavatory with his pants still unbuckled and scurried off the train just as the doors closed. She said she didn't know the guy's name, but she was kind of surprised cause he was one of her regular passengers. "He sounds a little irregular to me," I joked. I'm leaving out a lot of details, but her story was funny in a disgusting, over the top kind of way.

I took this story and embellished it a humorous blog post and did my best to portray the irregular passenger as weirdo...a real deviant of society. I must admit, my story was pretty funny and it was a favorite of my readers.
About a week later, the alleged deviant wrote a letter of apology to the female conductor. It turns out he's one of my regular readers and he read, and recognized himself in my blog story. He's also someone I happen to know and like (small world, huh?). To make matters worse, I learned he's battling colon cancer and has problems controlling his bowels. As you can imagine, I felt horrible about how I portrayed him...still do.

Q: Was there any particular reason you started blogging in the first place? Does your family ever read it/what do they think of it?

A: A few years back, my nephew's journalist fiance started writing a blog. They lived in North Carolina and I had never met her, but felt I did since I read about the daily minutiae of her life. I liked her blog so much that I started commenting on her posts on a regular basis. Her readers found many of my observations humorous and some petitioned me to start writing a blog of my own. I was working late night trains out of New Haven at the time, and I knew I had plenty of material to write about. That's how "Derailed" was born.

My extended family loves my blog, since I often write about family lore. My nieces and nephews tell me they've learned a lot about our collective family history from my stories. They often tell me to cut back on railroad stories and write more about the family.

I had to give my immediate family (particularly my daughters) veto power over of my stories, since I sometimes "over-share."

Q: Have you ever thought of joining twitter?

A: No thanks! Facebook consumes too much of my life already.

Milford Station

2011-02-07T10:12:00.006-05:00

I was recently contacted by a writer for Milford Living Magazine, asking me to write my ruminations on Milford Station, and how things have changed on the railroad over the years:

When I first hired out as a conductor on Metro North some 25 years ago, I had little seniority and was forced to work out of Stamford. At the time I lived in West Haven near the Woodmont line, and everyday I'd deadhead (ride the train when not on the clock) from Milford Station to Stamford Yard. All these years later, I still consider Milford as my home station.

I moved east to Clinton 11 years ago, and I now only catch quick glimpses of Milford from my train cab window. I've seen the once quiet shoreline town's mom and pop stores disappear. Upscale boutiques and chi- chi restaurants seemed to have popped up out of nowhere. Gone are the Capitol Theatre and Jake's Cafe (a railroad worker favorite). Fladd's Music, where I once took guitar lessons, is now a yuppie cafe. Even the High Street stop sign has been electrified and blinks its demand in LED lighting ( I hear it's the only one of its kind in the country). The city is beautiful, but it seems to have lost some of its small town charm to a more affluent Fairfield County vibe.

Milford's train Station has changed too. The New York bound side used to abut track # 3, but some years back, the railroad decided that they could save maintenance costs by eliminating a track from Woodmont to Devon. Track #3, which had intersected Milford Station, was removed from service and the New York bound platform was pushed south over the missing track bed. The platform now parallels track #1. West Haven is building a station now, and I hear rumors that they may be putting track #3 back in service. Maybe they should just put a giant concrete slab on wheels and push the platform back and forth at will.

Milford Station's eastbound platform has changed too. It used to fit only four train car lengths, meaning if a Milford passenger was sitting in the front or rear of an 8 or 10 car train, they would have to walk back or forward to exit the train. Inevitably, someone wouldn't hear the conductor's announcement, and they'd be carried by their stop, and end up swearing at the conductor in New Haven. Thankfully, some years back, the platform was lengthened to 10 car lengths, and now the only "carry-bys" are those passengers too glued to their cell phone, or their MP3 headphones to hear the conductor's station announcements.

It's hard to believe now, but 20 years ago the trains still had smoking cars. And because I was the rookie conductor, I was always assigned to the smoke filled cars (cough!!!) and came home reeking of nicotine. The railroad eventually banned smoking on board, but air pollution was quickly replaced by noise pollution. Requests like, "Conductor, can you tell that man to put out his cigarette?...were quickly replaced with..."Conductor, can you please tell that guy on the cellphone to keep his voice down?"

Yes, technology has really taken over. I recently was scouring the train for a copy of The New York Times, and to my amazement, I couldn't find one. It seems everyone subscribes to newspapers on their IPad or Kindle now (at least the ink doesn't rub off on your hands). I must admit, without all those newspapers underfoot, the trains are a lot cleaner... but it will be a cold day in Hell before I buy a copy of The New York Times.

Last week I climbed onto my 40 year old train in New Haven Yard, The cars were ice cold, and the Public Address system didn't work. When we pulled into Milford the doors refused to open. On the platform, a group of Laurelton Hall girls huddled together, giggling about Fairfield Prep boys. I walked over to the frozen door and gave it a swift kick with the heel of my boot. It slid open. It's good to see that some things never change.

New Year's Eve...BY MYSELF!!!

2011-01-01T14:33:00.012-05:00

I worked the last train of 2010 BY MYSELF!!!

In their infinite wisdom, Metro North’s planning department somehow forgot to assign me assistant conductors on a standing room only, eight car train on NEW YEARS EVE!!! (Normally I would have at least two assistants). To add insult to injury, the ticket vending machines on the platforms had a system- wide computer glitch and they weren’t accepting credit/debit cards…meaning tickets had to be purchased from ME!!! But being the excellent employee that I am, I collected tickets in all eight cars, only missing a handful of fares (Do I hear President’s Club nomination anyone?).

When I was boarding the train in New Haven (Did I mention I was by myself?) a nutty looking guy in a grey hoodie sweatshirt pushed by me. He stood out in my mind because he had the hood pulled over his head with the drawstring pulled tight (kind of like Kenny from South Park). This left just a small oval for his eyes, bulbous nose, and grey moustache to poke out into the cool December air. He also had something large and square tucked under his sweatshirt, looking not unlike a homeplate umpire on a cold game during the World Series. I remember thinking, “I gotta keep an eye on this guy…

When I started collecting tickets, I had to keep stepping over the legs of a group of drunken college students, who I later learned were from India. I know I’m stereotyping here, but when I think of Indian college students, I think… conservative, intelligent, studious, hard working, SOBER young adults. This group however was wild. The guys were chasing gulps of Red Bull (the energy drink) with shots of whiskey, and the more the women drank, the more amorous they became. The closer we got to Grand Central, the more cock-eyed they were.

Shortly after Stamford a young women approached me and pointed out the grey hooded sweatshirt man who was now panhandling from the other passenger. “Conductor….I may be paranoid, but that guy is hiding something under his jacket and he’s making me nervous. Sorry to bother you, but as they say…if you see something, say something.”

I told her that she was absolutely right to be concerned, and I was surprised that I hadn’t thought him suspicious myself. I mean, wouldn’t New Year’s Eve be a perfect time for a suicide bomber to strike a crowded train where the conductor is working the train BY HIMSELF???

“Sir,” I said, “would you mind showing me what you have tucked under your jacket? Some of the other passengers are concerned.”

“I don’t have to show you nothin’’” he answered.

“You’re absolutely right, but if you don’t show me what’s hidden under your coat, I’ll have to call the police. Then the train will be delayed and it will be a big hassle.”

After several seconds, he begrudgingly unzipped his hoodie, and pulled up three more layers of filthy, dirty sweatshirt until he finally exposed what looked like a floral chair cushion. My untrained diagnosis is that he is a paranoid schizophrenic and is using the cushion as a poor man’s bullet proof vest.

“Thank you sir. Sorry to bother you. May I have your ticket now?”

“Ain’t got one.”

“We take cash.”

“Ain’t got that either.”

“And where are you going tonight?”

“As far south as I can get.”

“Do you have identification of any kind? I can bill you.”

“The only ID I got are these here tattoos.” He pulls up his sleeves and displays his forearms.

I wasn’t about to read his tattoos, so I said, “Okay, take a seat, and please don’t bother the other passengers.”

At Grand Central, the Indian students staggered off the train. Two of the men had to be supported by their girlfriends just to walk down the platform. The girls were attending to their boyfriends by keeping them hydrated with bottled water. They looked like mother birds feeding their young, pouring H2O into their boyfriend's wide-open, drooling gullets.

“They’re not looking too good.” I said. “Should I call for medical attention?”

“No, thank you,” the girls said. “We’re already late for our party.”

I spend the next several hours drinking coffee in the conductor crew room in Grand Central. Ryan Seacrest is counting down the minutes on TV, while ABC shows an aerial view of the mass of humanity that stands only blocks away from where I’m sitting. Midnight hits and I text my love ones “ Happy New Year.”

It has been a hellish year in which my wife was diagnosed with breast cancer, and has had to endure several surgeries and chemo and radiation treatments that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. I then think of the surgeries that still lie ahead. Jill has been amazing through this whole nightmarish process and I know she'll continue to do great. She's the strongest person I know.

I turn from the TV and say good riddance to 2010 and look forward to a brighter 2011. Then I gear up to work the 2:03AM train back to New Haven… but that’s a whole other story.

New Haven Register 11/25/10

2010-11-25T12:32:00.006-05:00

Today the New Haven Register used a snippet of a story I told here a few years ago:

http://www.nhregister.com/articles/2010/11/25/life/doc4ceda2a0ecadd377187388.txt?viewmode=fullstory

Physical Graffiti

2010-09-02T03:15:00.006-04:00

This is worse than the time I dented my wife's newly purchased RAV4.

Fresh off the boat from Japan, some hooligan has already "tagged" one of the new M8 cars with graffiti. It's not clear where the train was when the vandals struck. Some say it was in the Brooklyn Navy Yard (where I guess it was unloaded). Others say in happened in the New Haven rail yard (insert wisecrack about yard security here).

Let's hope the dope spray painted his signature on his "artwork" so the cops can find him easily.

I hear that a team of graffiti-removal specialist has already been dispatched to scrub down the side of the train. I wonder if they can pull a dent out of RAV4?

P.S. Read comments for more information.

WPIX Report

2010-06-12T09:14:00.003-04:00

St. Patrick's Day on The Green Line

2010-03-29T09:21:00.003-04:00

Glad to see that my Hudson Line brethren got to sample the hooliganism that's standard on the New Haven Line.

99

2010-03-05T08:31:00.007-05:00

Bill, my assistant conductor and I are standing at the block in Grand Central loading our train and answering questions of the passing hoards of commuters. In the distance I spot a familiar face. He's hunched over, cane in hand, and hobbling down the platform. He's dressed in a wide lapelled business suit, and wearing a wide red tie. I point the gentleman out to Bill and tell him how I've consistently seen this guy commuting over the past 24 years...and he'd seemed old 24 years ago.

"How old do you think he is?" Bill asks.

"Hmmm....I'm guessing 82."

"Maybe," Bill says. "At any rate...It's time for him to give it up."

"Yeah" I agree. "I guess some guys just don't know when to retire."

The old man is getting closer now, and a woman who appears to be in her early 60's comes trotting up behind him. She grabs his arm and leads him to the open door of our train. The old man looks perturbed by this and he jerks his arm away.

"Dad," she says. "Let me help you on the train."

"I don't need your help!" He shouts.

The daughter seems a little embarrassed by her father's public admonishment, but she ignores him and gently grabs his sleeve and leads him onto the train. A few seconds later, she returns shaking her head. She explains that her father is stubborn, but she'll forgive his acerbity since it's his birthday...his 99th birthday.

"99?" Bill and I both say in unison.

"Yep," the daughter laughs. "He refuses to retire, and even worse, he drives himself home from the train station every night."

I begin daydreaming, picturing the old man peering over his steering wheel while driving down the highway at 15 miles an hour. He's blissfully unaware that his right turn signal has been blinking all the way home.

"What does he do for a living?" I ask.

"He owns a bus company that he started when he was in college. He still wants be involved in the day to day operation and he refuses to retire."

In my daydream, the car turns into a bus. I do some quick calculations in my brain, and realize that he must have founded his company circa 1930. A crank now appears on the grill of my daydream bus.

When I collect the old man's ticket, I wish him a happy birthday, and tell him he doesn't look a day over 80. He smiles, chuckles and says "thanks."

"How long have you been commuting?" I ask.

"Sixty years." He answers.

"How much did a ticket cost 60 years ago?" I ask.

"I don't remember!" He answers sternly... as if to say, "I don't remember much of anything these days."

Later, I imagine myself collecting tickets when I'm 99. Again I do calculations in my brain. I add up the balance on my mortgage. My second mortgage. My daughter's college tuition loans, and I suddenly break out into a cold sweat. The scenario is all too real.

Three pilgrims driving through Rhode Island

2009-11-25T19:29:00.008-05:00

We're driving my older daughter to Newport, RI to tour Salve Regina University, and about to cross the bridge into Newport when I launch into this monologue:

"This is Narragansett Bay...named for the Narragansett Indians who once inhabited this area."

My wife doesn't react, instead she reaches into her pocketbook and pulls out $4.00 for the bridge toll.

"Further to our east, lived The Wampanoag Tribe, led by their sachem, Massasoit. Massasoit felt threatened by the powerful Narragansetts, because his tribe had been decimated by a small pox outbreak (thanks to encounters with European fisherman off the New England coast), and their numbers had dwindled down to almost nothing."

My wife looks at the Google map directions and tells me to watch for road signs. I look in the rearview mirror and see that my daughter has plugged her Ipod earbuds in, and is missing my rousing history lesson.

"Massasoit needed allies against the Narragansetts, so he befriended a group of English settlers that had just settled in Plymouth. It was these settlers, or Pilgrims, who joined Massasoit and the Wampanoags in the first Thanksgiving feast."

"How do you remember these things?" My wife asks.

"Well...I just read a book on the Mayflower and..."

"Why didn't you major in History in college?"

"What do you do with an History degree? Well, now that I think about it... probably the same thing I did with my English degree...become a railroad conductor."

One off the disabled list...and another goes on.

2009-11-17T21:23:00.027-05:00

This is the scene that unfolded in front of my wife and I, as we returned home from my "return to work" physical following double-hernia surgery.

11/10

"Achoo!" A man standing the vestibule convulses in a sneeze. He's carrying an armful of boxes, and is stricken so suddenly, he's unable to cover the burst that spews forward.

"HEY...TRY COVERING YOUR MOUTH WHEN YOU SNEEZE!" Shouts a man in a nearby seat. "I just got back from a week off being sick, and I don't need you sneezing on me."

The man with the boxes chooses to ignore the seated passenger's protests, and when the next station stop arrives, he steps out into a clear cool night...free to spew wherever he chooses.

"BARBARIAN!" The seated man shouts after him.

11/11:

Margaret is a 60 year old construction worker who rides my train on a regular basis. Like the lone apple amongst the three bananas in the old Sesame Street game..."One of these things is not like the other" Margaret looks out of place amongst the grizzled hard hats she boards the train with; looking more schoolmarm, less material elevator operator.

"Hey Margaret," I ask. "How are things on the elevator?"

"Oh...you know Bob. Not bad...

"No Margaret...Wrong answer!" I chastise. "Remember the answer we practiced?"

"Oh yeah...what is it again? Something about... up and down?"

"Ugh... Okay, let's go over it again." I instruct. "Whenever someone asks: How are things on the elevator? You answer...It has its ups and downs."

Margaret gives me a nervous smile, and I tell her that this joke is pure gold. "Think of it as one of the benefits of your job...a kind of perk, like an HMO or a 401K plan. It's kind of like when someone asks me 'Are you still working on the railroad?' I answer... 'All the live long day."

Pure gold!

11/16

*Names have been changed in the following story to protect the innocent.

Garth, my assistant conductor, approaches me with a weekly ticket in his hand. "Look at this " he says, holding out the ticket for me to inspect. I briefly peruse the ticket and see that someone has taken a magic marker and crudely altered its expiration date from 11/13 to 11/18.

Garth says that he told the ticket holder (a high school aged girl) that her ticket was obviously altered, and that she'd either have to pay the fare or get off the train at the next station stop. The girl refuses to do either, so I call for police assistance. The rail traffic controller tells me that the closest available police are in Westport. We're in Darien.

At South Norwalk, two stops before Westport, I notice three girls stepping off, and then back on the rear car of the train. Step off...step on...step off...step on...step off...etc. Finally Pam, a 61 year old assistant conductor, appears at the door of the rear car. From a distance, I watch as silent words are shouted and fingers pointed. All at once the situation escalates. The girls (one being Garth's fare evader) rush Pam with flailing arms and swinging book bags. Pam raises her hands defensively, but the girls are on her like bees on honey. They slap, punch and pull at her with all their might.

Like a play by play announcer, I get on the radio and describe the unfolding situation to the rail traffic controller and say that we need police assistance at South Norwalk station.

Garth pokes his head out the window, just in time to see his fare evader (and two others) run into South Norwalk Station. I'm too far from the altercation to give chase and the perpetrators soon blend into the departing crowd of commuters, never to be seen again. Well almost... remember folks, this is 2009...and big brother is always watching. The MTA police have surveillance photos of the three girls running through South Norwalk Station and today they distributed "Wanted for assault" flyers throughout the railroad.

Unfortunately, Pam suffered two broken fingers, scratches, bruises and bumps. She is now at home resting comfortably. Godspeed Pam!

Home for the Holiday

2009-09-13T13:59:00.012-04:00

I spend a lot of time bashing the ne'er do wells who ride my trains, so today I want to praise Pvt. Luis Feliciano, Army-82nd Airborne. He was on my Waterbury train on Friday night, September 11th (of all days), returning from a stint in the God-forsaken mountains of Afghanistan. He told me that he was heading for his home in Winsted, CT for 30 days of R&R before reporting to Fort Bragg, NC.

"I'm surprising my wife" he said," she has no idea I'm coming home, and hopefully, I can talk her into coming to Ft. Bragg with me."

I thanked him for his service and asked how things were in Afghanistan. He said conditions were rough, considering we had to climb snow covered mountains, twenty five thousand feet up where the air is thin..it makes it hard to breathe. "We were trained for these conditions at Fort Drum," he said, "but nothing prepares you for those mountains."

When I asked if he'd seen any action, he nonchalantly said that he'd been in a few fire fights...only one scary one...but he acted like it was no big deal. He then changed the subject and asked how much a cab ride would be from Waterbury to Winsted. I was about to say that I had no idea, when another passenger, a fellow Army vet, chimed in saying that Winsted was about 30 miles north of Waterbury...and that a cab ride would cost a bundle..."but don't worry," he said, "cause I'm driving you home tonight."

I helped Pvt. Feliciano take his bags off the train, while the army vet got the car and a soft rain began to fall. A street lamp shone upon two silhouettes walking to a late model Ford and loading duffel bags into the trunk. I thought about Luis' unsuspecting wife waiting at home and the surprise that awaited her. I thought about all the members of the service who never made it home. I thought about the families of those lost in the terrorist attacks on that clear, crisp morn eight years ago. It was September 11th...and I got a sudden lump in my throat.

National Geographic Presents...The week in review

2009-09-05T14:19:00.013-04:00

08/29:

An agitated man meets my train in Waterbury and asks what the fare is to Bridgeport. I tell him that it’s only $2.25 and he looks relieved. He tells me that his wife is six months pregnant with their first child and she was just rushed to Bridgeport Hospital with labor pains. He then offers a little too much information, reporting that her doctor just implanted a stent into her uterus to prevent the baby’s head from pushing down on her cervix.

“It’s called a pessary,” I say. “My wife had one when she was pregnant with our youngest daughter.”

“And everything turned out all right?” He asks.

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s no big deal.”

“Thanks conductor…. you give me hope.”

OB/GYN advice…Just another service we Metro North conductors provide.

08/31:

Like a pollinating honeybee, a young man is flitting from one female passenger to another. I watch as he briefly hovers over each young flower, each time briefly showing them whatever he’s typed out on his cell phone’s display screen. Once rejected, he buzzes off and lands on the next available petal. Just as I’m about to reach for the Raid, he spots me and flies my way. He points to his ear, grunts, and shows me his disability card. He’s a deaf /mute. He then shows me his cell phone’s display screen:

I am single…do not wish for relationship…but I would like to get together with you…

Boy this guy must be desperate, I think, but then I notice something written in small print at the top of the screen.

How much for disabled fare from WTBY to STAM?

I find a slip of paper, and scribble… $2.50. He says “Thank you” in sign language, then zips off to sip the sweet nectar of a new and unsuspecting blossom.

09/01:

When I was in 5th grade, Sister Adele introduced our class to the reference room of our library at St. Lawrence Grammar School. Before long, we boys discovered a pile of National Geographic Magazines hidden in the deep recesses of a corner bookshelf. Huddled in pods, we’d pour over the well-worn pages of the African tribe pictorials like Anthropologist studying for our doctoral thesis. Margaret Meade had nothing on us. Here we’d see multi-tasking, bare breasted women nursing their young, while carrying clay pots of water atop their heads. Tribesmen were bejeweled and covered in war paint, sitting by campfires, sharpening spares before the big rhino hunt, some flashing toothless grins at the strange and foreign camera. This is how I envisioned the denizens of the African Continent. But Mayan says I have it all wrong.

Mayan is a 40 something nurses aide who rides my Waterbury train. She originally worked as a journalist back in Africa, but says it was a dangerous job where criticizing the government could cost you life and limb. She said she now regularly works 100-hour weeks to help support her two sons and fifteen brothers and sisters back in Nigeria.

One day Mayan told me that Nigeria is a polygamist society and that her father had four wives.

“Wow,” I said. “Four wives. That must be great.”

“Really?” said Mayan, seeming surprised.

“Yeah”, I mean, what are the chances that they’d all have headaches on the same night?”

She laughed a deep hearty laugh, glanced at my name badge, and in a thick African accent said:

“Oh, you bad man…Mr. Mc Donuff. McDonuff…That Irish?”

“Yep.”

“Then you like the Guinness?

“No…I don’t drink.”

“What?” She seemed shocked. “I’m more Irish than you. I love the Guinness. We Africans love the Guinness.”

“Really? I said. “I thought you only drank milk from cocoanuts.”

She laughed again, saying that we Americans are so self-absorbed that we know nothing of other people’s culture.

“Do you like the country music?” she asked.

“You mean like “Ladysmith Black Mambazo?”

“Nooooo!” She laughed again. “Like Kenny Chesney, Randy Travis, Reba McEntire?”

“Wait a minute…you mean to say that Africans listen to American County Music?”

“See what I’m saying about Americans….Yes, we Africans love the American Country Music. In fact, Dolly Parton… She is very big over there.

“Dolly Parton is very big everywhere.” I said.

This took a minute to register, and then she let out a big hearty laugh.

“Oh… you are bad man.. Mr. Mc Donuff.”

“Okay, I said. “When you Africans are drinking Guinness and listening to Dolly Parton, are you usually naked and sitting around a campfire?

“What! She laughed again. “Where do you Americans get these crazy ideas?

I was going to tell her about Sister Adele, 5th grade and the National Geographic pictorials, but she had shattered enough myths for one day and I moved onto the next passenger.

-The next passenger was a woman, Bible in hand, holding a revival meeting in the head car. She shouted that we were all fornicators who needed to be saved from are sinful ways. She implored Jesus’ name several times, saying that the wages of sin were heavy and we would all suffer eternal damnation and perish in the fires of Hell. She testified that her husband was in captivity (i.e. jail) because of his lust and fornication. I was about to step in at this point, but the woman was on a roll. Besides, I remembered her from a month earlier when she sang gospel songs all the way from Bridgeport to Waterbury. I recall that I interrupted her during a rousing version of “Amazing Grace” and asked her “pipe down.” She did momentarily, but then raised her palms, stared up into the fluorescent lights and broke out into “Nearer to Thee” as a tear rolled down her cheek.

Sometimes it’s easier to walk away.

09/03:

“Yo, conductor…remember me?”

I didn’t at first.

“Yeah man I’m the guy with the pregnant wife from last week.”

“Oh yeah,” I said, “How are things going?”

“Not so good. We lost the baby.”

“Oh, I’m very sorry.”

“Yeah so am I.” His eyes now filled with tears.

“Well…you can always try again.”

He wiped a tear from his cheek with the back of his hand, then said, “Yeah, I’m good at the trying part.”

Grief counseling…just another service we Metro North conductors provide.

Dominick Dunne 1925-2009

2009-08-27T09:37:00.011-04:00

News came yesterday of the death of bestselling author Dominick Dunne. He was of 83.

Mr. Dunne had been an occasional passenger on my train, and I wrote about him back in May of 2006. Here's the link: http://bobbyderailed.blogspot.com/search?q=dominick+dunne

We've lost two of my favorite writers over the past couple of months; first "Angela's Ashes" author Frank McCourt, now Mr. Dunne. I was fortunate enough to have met both of these fine gentleman. I'm sure St. Peter is being charmed by these two wonderful story tellers.

Trespasser Gone Wild and Ashleigh

2009-08-23T14:20:00.014-04:00

If you happened to be listening to the railroad radio channel at 8PM on 08/13/09, this is what you would have heard:

Train 1107: Metro North train 1107 to Central District G...

Rail Traffic Controller: District G to 1107...you called?

Yes sir. I just spotted two trespassers by the side of the tracks in the vicinity of Catenary 874...just west of Milford station. Over...

You got a description. Over...

Two Caucasians, maybe in their 20's. One male. One female...blond...and she's topless. Over...

She's what? Over...

Yeah, I just got a quick glimpse...but she appears to be topless. Over...

Roger. I guess today's your lucky day.

Train 1107 was just two trains ahead of mine and we were rapidly approaching caternary 874. "Did you hear that transmission?" I asked my engineer over the PA. Then..

Central to train 1591 (the train immediately ahead of mine).

Metro North 1591 to G...go ahead. Over...

Be on the look out for two trespassers in the vicinity of cat 874. One male. One blond-topless female. Over...

Rogggger! (chuckles)

And let me know what you see. Over...(I've never heard an RTC express such interest in a trespasser before.)

(ha! ha!) Train 1591 to Central G. Over...

Go ahead 1591. Over...

Yeah...they're still there...caternary 874. She flashed me just as we passed.

Roger. Central district G to the train 1109 (my train). Be on the look out for trespassers in the area caternary 874. One male Caucasian. One female Caucasian, blond- topless.

"I'm glad he cleared that up." I said to my engineer. "I wouldn't want to confuse this topless woman with a brunette, or African American one."

Safety is always my first priority, so I positioned myself at the barrell end door window at the front of the train...uh, for safety sake...yeah, that's it...for safety sake. "Caternary 877-876-875" I was counting down. My heavy breathing fogged up the window and I had to wipe the condensation from the glass. "Here we are ...caternary 874 and...and...and...nothin'.

Train 1109 to Central G. There are no trespassers in the area. Just two Metro North trucks.

I turned to my engineer and asked, "since when does the track department chase trespassers off of the right of way?"

08/17/09

After a month of service disruption, the Waterbury train returned to service, and as if to welcome me back, the very first customer I encountered paid the $2.25 fare with 225 pennies.

08/19/09

I was boarding the train in Grand Central, when a woman who looked exactly like former MSNBC reporter Ashleigh Banfield ran past me. A few years back, the bespectacled Banfield was the hot rising celebrity journalist, and her reports were all over the cable news channels. But then she criticized NBC and ticked off the studio brass. They fired her, and now she works for Court TV (Tru TV).

When I collected the woman's ticket, I thought that I was mistaken. Now, up close, this woman looked too young and blond to be Asleigh..

"For a minute there, I thought you were Ashleigh Banfield." I said.

"Yeah," she said. "I've heard that before."

"But you're much younger."

"Bless you." She said.

The woman's husband was sitting next to her, he looked up, laughed and said, "You're kidding...right? This is Ashleigh."

"Wow. You're younger than you look on TV."

"Well," she said. "I like to tell people that I'm 50 ( she's 41), then they think I look great for my age."

Maybe Obama will invite me over for a root beer (I don't drink)

2009-07-30T22:23:00.024-04:00

This whole Henry Louis Gates/Officer James Crowley controversy has got me thinking about two incidents that happened to me several years back.

Some 18 years ago, I was collecting tickets on an early morning train when I came upon a bench/row where all three seats were occupied by passengers. Being observant, I noticed that I had previously placed two seat checks in front of two of the passengers here. This meant that there was a recent arrival and someone owed me a ticket. I used logic and assumed that the gentleman sitting on the aisle was the last to enter the row...therefore, he was the one who owed me the fare.

"Tickets please!" I addressed the well dressed African-American businessman in the aisle seat. He ignored me.

"Excuse me sir...can I get your ticket please."

The man slowly folded his newspaper and looked up at me with daggers in his eyes and smoke coming out of his ears.

"Let me ask you something conductor...There's three of us sitting here." He pointed to his two seatmates, a white woman sandwiched next to him, and a white man whose face was crammed against the window. "And yet... you only ask ME for a ticket."

I'm a little slow, especially at 6AM, and I wasn't catching his drift. The woman seated in the middle seat nervously rummaged through her pocketbook and handed me her ticket.

"That's right," he repeated, now knowing he had an audience. "There's three of us sitting here...and yet you only ask ME for a ticket. Hmmmm....Why is that???"

I finally realized that he was accusing me of racial profiling.

"Sir." I felt insulted. "I asked you, because you're on the aisle and I assumed that you must have been the last to enter the row."

"Yeah," he said. "You and I BOTH know what you assumed." With a snap of his wrist, he unfolded his newspaper and continued reading.

I stood there hurt, stunned and amazed and I didn't know what to say next. I finally blurted out... "You're paranoid" and I walked away.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that racial profiling doesn't exist or that it isn't a major problem in the minority community. I'm just saying that sometimes...sometimes...sometimes a guy is just trying to do his job.

The second incident happened over 20 years ago. It's a tale about my short lived life of crime. I've covered the story before on these pages, so instead of repeating myself, I'll give you the link from my archives:

http://bobbyderailed.blogspot.com/2006/06/breaking-and-entering.html

Car plunges onto tracks in New Rochelle

2009-07-29T10:04:00.002-04:00

Thanks for the link Marcellus.

Helter Skelter

2009-07-26T14:02:00.011-04:00

It’s Friday afternoon and I’m standing outside a Connecticut Transit bus in Waterbury. A little guy who’s covered in paint, maybe 60-years old, approaches me. He looks a lot like mass-murderer Charles Manson.

“Yo dude!” He says. When’s the next train to Derby?”

“There is no train,” I explain. “They’re doing track work on the line. You’ll have to take this bus.”

He takes a puff of his cigarette, chokes back his alcohol tinged breath and asks, “Yeah…but when’s the next train to Derby?”

“Oh…sometime in mid-August” I say.

He exhales, blows smoke in my face and says, “Yeah…but really, when’s the next train?”

We went on like this for several minutes till I finally lost my patience, raised my voice and said, “Listen…either get on the bus or stay here.”

Charlie doesn’t like my attitude, but he finally puts out his cigarette and climbs on the bus/train. He sits down next to me, and the smell of smoke and stale beer permeates the air. His cell phone rings:

“Yeah…I’m on my way,” he yells into the phone. “I’ll be there in …” He turns and asks, “how long till Derby?”

“About half an hour.”

“Yeah… I’m on my way…I’ll be there in half an hour.”

Charlie pushes the end button on his phone, apologizes, and explains that he’s a painting contractor and his crew is working on a house in Derby. He complains that they’re dogging him, since they’re only painting a five room house…and it’s taken almost three weeks… and they’re still not done. He says that all of the crewmembers are homeless, but he’s worked out a deal with the homeowner that allows them to stay in the house- free of charge- while they’re doing their work.

“No wonder it’s taking so long,” I say. “If I had that deal…I’d be painting with a toothbrush.”

“Yeah, I know” says Charlie, “But three weeks is long enough. I need to get paid. So today… I’m paying them a little surprise visit and I'm gonna see what's up.”

Charlie’s phone rings again: “Yeah…don’t get nervous…I’ll be there in like 15 minutes.”

“Sorry about that,” Charlie says, “but the crew’s picking me up at the station, and they’re a little nervous.”

“That’s not much of a surprise visit,” I say.

“Yeah…well” he stammers. “I have to make do. The cops took my license a few months back. All because of a burned out tail light.”

I sit there waiting for part two to this statement. Something like:

“All because of a burned out tail light …and a blood alcohol level twice the legal limit.”

Or

“All because of a burned out tail light…and a dead body in the trunk.

But no part two is offered, and I’m afraid to ask any more questions. Instead I imagine different contractors plying their trade from a Connecticut Transit bus…maybe a mason storing bricks in the overhead rack…a carpenter piling 2x4’s in the aisle…an electrician with romex wire wrapped around one arm while pulling the stop cord with the other.

I awaken from my day dream and say, “It must be hard to be a painting contractor, and have to rely on public transportation. I mean, what if you were a plumber? Where would you put your pipes?”

Charlie ignores me and his phone rings again. “Jesus Christ!” He shouts.

“Yeah…I’ll be there in like five minutes. Don’t forget to caulk the nail holes on the molding. Just take a wet a rag and wipe off the excess.”

Ten minutes later we pull into Derby Station where Charlie’s minions are anxiously awaiting his arrival. They seem happy to see him…maybe a little too happy. A bearded man greets him with an “I’m not worthy” bow, while a braless woman bounds out of an green Chevy van with a ladders on top. She plants a big wet kiss on his mouth.

I check their foreheads for swastikas.

Charlie’s “family “jubilantly jumps into the van, and it recklessly swerves in front of our bus. It’s then I notice…a tail light is burned out.

The month in review

2009-07-20T12:32:00.018-04:00

6/20-Train 6362-

So this guy approaches me as I’m making my pre-departure announcements on a jam-packed Stamford local train in Grand Central. He complains that the train is crowded, and says that a woman in the next car has packages on the only available seat on the train. He says that he politely asked her to remove her belongings, but she patently refused. I tell him that I’ll talk to her, and he follows as I walk to the next car to confront an attractive, nicely dressed, Asian woman.

“Excuse me ma’am… but this gentleman would like to sit here and you’re bags are on the seat. Can you please remove them?”

She’s looks out the window and pretends she doesn’t hear me. Again I repeat my request.

“Hello…Can you please remove your bags?”

“No,” she says finally. “I’m tired and I need my bags here.”

“We’re all tired ma’am…Especially this gentleman.” I point to my left… “That’s why he wants to sit down.”

“I’m sure he can find a seat elsewhere.” She says defiantly.

Surrounding passengers overhear our conversation and they look astounded by this woman’s attitude.

“Listen,” I say. “This gentleman wants to sit down…and if you’re not willing to remove your bags, I’m going to charge you for the obstructed seat. And… if you refuse to pay… I’ll call for the police and have you removed from the train.”

With that the woman snatches her bags off the seat, turns, glares at me and says: “You’re only picking on me cause I’m Asian.”

The surrounding passengers break out into laughter. “Oh give me a break!” Says an Asian woman in a nearby row.

“Is that the best you got?” I ask.

“Yep!” She says sheepishly, now realizing that she may have overplayed her hand by pulling the race card.

With that, the male passenger plops down in his seat, and the car breaks out in thunderous applause.

6/25-5:51PM-Train 1464- Grand Central-Two minutes before departure time:

Ring-Ring-Ring! I answer my cell phone:

Me: Hello!

Wife: Channel 8 just came on with a special report, saying that Michael Jackson has died of a heart attack.

Me: No way!

Wife: There are conflicting reports…but channel 8 says he’s dead.

Me: Wow!

I grew up listening to Michael and I’m truly stunned. His song catalog begins playing in my head.

It’s now 5:53PM, leaving time. I make my final announcement, and look out over the unsuspecting passengers, none of them knowing that the world has changed forever. I briefly think of sharing the news over the public address system; a news bulletin of sorts…. hot of the presses. I eventually think better of it, deeming it too unprofessional. But still, I have hot news and I feel an obligation to share it…even if I have to use non-sequiturs.

“Tickets Please!” I shout. “Thank you…Thank you…Hey buddy, did you know that Michael Jackson just died?”

“That will be $3.00 extra ma’am…and did you hear that Michael Jackson just passed away?”

“Really?” They say. “Where? When? How?”

I puff out my chest and say thing like, “Well I don’t have all the details, but…”

Other passengers peer over their newspapers… “Who died?” They ask looking shocked.

“Michael Jackson” I answer proudly, now shaking my mournful head for added effect. “A real tragedy...and so young.”

I’m starting to take perverse pleasure in sharing this shocking news.

As I progress up the aisle, passengers begin getting tweets, texts and emails from family and friends telling them of Jackson's untimely death. Others have discovered the news on their laptops through websites like TMZ and Perez Hilton. The further I progress up the aisle, the staler my news gets.

Damned technology!

07/02/09- train 1464:

My train is deadheading (no passengers) from South Norwalk to Bridgeport when we get a call from the rail traffic controller in New York. He asks us to bring our train to a safe stop and wants my engineer and I to inspect our equipment for evidence of a “possible hit.”

Apparently, a homeless man has just been found decapitated under the platform at South Norwalk Train Station and the RTC believes that our train may have hit him. We were one of the last trains through the area and it’s possible that we could have hit someone and didn't even notice.

After taking a hold on the adjoining track, we inspect the engine and brake shoes for blood, hair, or other body matter. Luckily, we find nothing but a starling with its feathers flattened against the engine’s air hoses. I climb back on our train, radio in hand, and hear the train that's immediately behind us report “hit evidence” on their equipment.

Five minutes later, I back my train out to Jenkins Curve. Here the tracks are elevated and overlook the outfield of Harbor Yard Ballpark in Bridgeport. Baseball great Tommy John manages The Bridgeport Bluefish minor league baseball team. It’s the 7th inning stretch and I watch as three

grown men dressed as hot dogs race down the first base line.

One minute I’m looking for body parts…the next I’m watching racing weenies.

I have a strange job.

7/09/09-train 1464-

We’ve just left Grand Central and I’m collecting tickets, when a businesswoman asks if I’ve met “the stewardess” yet. “Stewardess?” I ask.

“Oh…you’ll see,” she warns. "She’s one car up.”

I look forward and through the window I see a short, impish looking, middle-aged woman with dyed blond hair. She’s standing in the aisle and all passenger eyes are turned toward her. She turns, spots me, and comes racing back.

“Hey darlin” she says. “What are you called?”

“I’m the conductor…Can I help you?”

“What’s that on your face?” She asks, then rubs my cheek with a manicured fingernail.

“A bit of poison ivy,” I say.

“Bullshit!” She screams. Startled, I jump back. "You cut yourself shaving."

She then shifted gears and went in a whole different direction:

“I’ll have you know that I’m a porn actress, and I was in the movie “One Night in Paris” and I made $100,000. All my friends here (she points to the passengers), they was in the movie too. These woman, they’re jealous cause they only made $1000 and the men…they did it for free.”

“Really?”

“Yep…and I can see you’re jealous too. Now let me see your pecker…go on …whip it out.”

“No ma’am,” I say. “I think you need to take a seat and stop bothering people.”

“You can’t tell me what to do.”

“Where you going today?” I ask.

“Toronto.”

“Well then you’re on the wrong train.”

“Really?” She seems surprised.

She then becomes distracted, and starts staring at a pretty young lady who is one of my regular passengers.

“Hey,” she says, “You see that blond bitch over there…the one with the sunglasses on top of her head.”

“Yeah.” I say playing along.

“Those are my sunglasses and that bitch stole ‘em from me.”

With that, she goes racing toward the woman and starts screaming at her. “Those are MY sunglasses…give ‘em back, bitch.” The girl looks terrified…and I realize that this woman is not only a danger to herself but others as well. I get on the radio.

Me: Metro North train 1470 to district E. I have a mentally disturbed woman on board and I’m going to need police assistance.

RTC: Standby.

While I’m waiting for the RTC to respond, a businessman approaches and says that earlier, the woman was lifting her shirt and exposing herself to all the male passengers.

RTC: There are no police in the area… The closest cops are in Stamford.

(Stamford was 15 minutes away)

Me: Okay…I guess it’ll have to be Stamford.

The woman finds her sunglasses in her pocket, and apologizes to the blond bitch. She then moves to a group of male passengers who are standing in the vestibule area She yanks a Budweiser from one guy’s hand, chugs it, and throws the empty can over her head…narrowly missing a pregnant woman and showering surrounding passengers in beer foam.

“Hey! Stop that.” I demand.

“F*&K YOU!” She says.

Next she finds an abandoned can of Red Bull. Chugs it, throws it to the floor and crushes it below her foot. She then spits on the floor and smears the yellowish-green puddle with the sole of her shoe.

“Please don’t spit.” I say.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “ I ain’t got no AIDS.”

She then begins ripping the pull cord from a windbreaker that is wrapped around her waist.

“Gordie Howe is my father.” She says, apropos of nothing.

She takes the cord and begins wrapping it around her waist like a belt.

“Gordie Howe the hockey player?” I ask.

“Oh he can’t play hockey for shiiiittt!”

Suddenly, she runs to the head car of the train and I follow close by. “Hey everybody,” she shouts. “This prick is stalking me.”

She stops her march, turns and announces “I am a porn actress and I was in the movie One Night in Paris. I earned $100,000 for my performance. She points to a college-aged girl who was sitting near by:

”You was in the movie too, weren’t ya…tell ‘em.” She points at me. “Don’t be shy…tell ‘em.”

The girl seems nervous, and nods her head in agreement.

“Ha! Told ya.” She looks vindicated.

“By the way…did I tell you that Gordie Howe is my husband?”

“I thought you said he was your father?”

“Oh…never mind.”

My new friend tugs at the cord she’s fashioned around her waist and announces:
“Folks…I’m gonna strip for ya now.” She then removes her belt and lifts her t-shirt exposing her drooping breasts. Luckily, we’re pulling into Stamford and four MTA police officers are waiting on the platform. They interrupt her performance, each grabbing an arm and removing her from the train without incident. We pull out of the station and I watch as an EMT wheels her stretcher down the platform.

And how was your month at work?

Train vs. Tornado

2009-07-08T02:20:00.002-04:00

My bet was on the train...boy was I wrong.

200000

2009-07-04T23:49:00.013-04:00

In December of 1990, my wife and I purchased a brand new 1991 Acura Integra. It was one of the best purchases we ever made.

Yesterday the ol' Acura hit a new milestone and I captured it on my cellphone video camera (it was filmed on a deserted country road.) Please excuse the wind tunnel noise you hear, but the car windows were open since the air conditioning compressor is shot. I thought about playing "Star and Stripes Forever" in the background as the odometer turned (for dramatic effect) but then I remembered that the radio/cassette player got fried last year when I spilled a cup of Diet Coke all over the dashboard. The car also has a cracked windshield and plenty of dents and dings, and my daughters refuse to be seen in it. But hey... it's paid for.

My friend Frank always criticizes me for buying Japanese cars. He calls me "unpatriotic" and "un-American " and he says that I drive a "rice burner." Well Frank, when Detroit starts making cars as reliable as Honda and Toyota...I'll be happy to buy one.

Life on the Waterbury Branch

2009-06-20T17:12:00.044-04:00

During the 19th and 20th centuries, the Naugatuck River Valley was one of the main manufacturing communities of New England. Brick factories dotted the landscape and straddled the banks of the twisting Naugatuck River. The Waterbury Branch of the New York, New Haven & Hartford Railroad weaved the river like a ribbon and supported the area's burgeoning manufacturing base. The 28 mile long line provided raw materials for the brass, plastic, latex and rubber plants that lay between Bridgeport and Waterbury.

Sometime during the 1970's the valley's factories slowly began to disappear. Most relocated overseas or "down south" where labor and operating costs were much cheaper. The final death knell came with the explosion of the Sponge Rubber Products Plant in Shelton in 1975. The fire that ensued is one of the largest arson fires in U.S. history. Thousands of valley residents lost their jobs and much of the valley became a economic wasteland.

The once mighty freight trains that rumbled up and down the Waterbury Branch have now been replaced with sparse commuter service provided by Metro North Railroad. This is where I come in; for the past couple of months I've been working the night shift on the Waterbury line. Here's a portion of my conductor's log:

6/1: A distraught woman boards the train in Seymour wreaking of booze. Her skin is pale white but her eyes are vibrant red and bloodshot. She tells me that her boyfriend just threw her out of the house and she needs to get to her sister's place in Naugatuck. I say "no problem" and tell her that I can bill her for the fare. I hand her the billing pad book and she sits down. She begins sobbing uncontrollably, so much so, she can't fill the billing form out. I take the pad from her shaking hands and I begin filling the form out. I ask for her name and address, but instead she gives me her life story.

She says her name is Penny and she's 46 years old. She has a son and two daughters but they're all crack-heads. The daughters each have two children, but the state has taken the babies away from them. She goes on and on like this for ten minutes until we reach Naugatuck (her stop). As she gets off the train gently touches my hand and thanks me for understanding and the free ride. I look down at the blank pad in my hands and realize that I've been duped.

-

6/2: When we pull into Waterbury Station I notice an older African American gentleman waiting on the platform. I assume he's there to pick up a passenger, but instead he walks up to me and begins telling me a tale of woe. He says he just got a call from the Torrington police department and they have his son locked up. He says he needs gas money to drive up to Torrington to bail him out.

" I know my son is wrong," he says. "But I have an empty gas tank and I got to get up there ."

I reluctantly reach into my pocket and give him a five dollar bill. He looks down at the bill in disappointment. His face brightens when he sees my engineer climbing down from the locomotive. Screaming over the engine's roar he repeats his well rehearsed story and again pleads for "gas money." My engineer looks him square in the eye... and tells him to "get lost".

Why didn't I think of that?
-

6/3: There's a methadone clinic in Bridgeport and several of their patients travel from Waterbury to Bridgeport to get their daily fix. Later in the day these pale and lethargic patients return to Waterbury. I notice that one of the patients, a woman with Don King hair, is staring at me. It isn't till I collect her ticket that I find out why..

"Baby" says the woman. "You got you-self a cute little mouth."

"My mouth isn't really little" I say. "It's just that I have no lips...I'm lipless."

"Ohh baby...You lucky."

"Well, I guess I do save on Chapstick."
-
6/5: Penny is standing at Seymour Station again. She gives me that "deer caught in the headlights" look, and she cautiously says that she doesn't have any money again. I begin to reject her... but she starts to cry. "Okay," I say, "get on." Once aboard her tears begin to dry and she apologizes for all the drama. She says she suffers from depression, but can't take anti-depressants because they make her suicidal.

"A few months back," she says, "I laid down on the tracks, but someone saw me and called the cops."

I try to counsel and tell her to go see a doctor and find the right meds. She admits that she's a horrible alcoholic and that she'd have to quit booze in order to take anti-depressants. She says her doctor told her that liver is shutting down and if she doesn't stop drinking...she'll soon be dead. It's hard to tell if this news makes her happy or sad.

I tell her it doesn't have to be that way and she should go into rehab.

Penny says that she used to be a crackhead, but she quit cold turkey. It happened after she saw her drug dealer's luxury condo. "My habit paid for that condo" she says. "It really pissed me off....so I quit...just like that."

6/5: I walk to the north end of the train in Waterbury to perform a brake test before departure. It's pitch black out and I use a flashlight to find my way. The path is littered with old brake shoes and railroad ties, so I have to be very careful and watch my step. Suddenly, I hear a loud grumble to my right. I quickly spin and the flashlight beam catches three homeless guys sleeping alongside the track.

The Waterbury Branch is beginning to depress me.

6/8: A young man hands me his prison release papers and asks me to bill him for the $2.25 fare. It seems that most of the males up here are somehow involved with the criminal justice system. They've either just been released from jail, or they're on their way to visit their probation officer. They all seem to be short money, and the fare is only $2.25.

Former Governor John Rowland once said that it would be cheaper to buy all the commuters on the Waterbury Branch their own minivan than to continue funding it's operation. I'm beginning to think he was right.
-
6/9: I've seen a lot of "quick turners" on this line. Young guys travel south to Bridgeport then, 20 minutes later, return to Waterbury. Just long enough to make a transaction with their dealer.
-

6/10: A woman in a motorized wheel chair boards the train in Bridgeport and asks me to plug her chair's battery into the AC outlet. I do this, but find that the electrical outlets are dead in that car. I then check the electrical cabinet and find that someone has broken the circuit breaker that feeds juice to the outlet. I tell the woman about my findings and she begins cursing me out. She says that she has to drive herself home and she "sure ain't gonna push herself up the hills of Waterbury." She tells me that I'd better figure something out. I try to wheel her to another car, but the chair is too wide for the aisle, instead I help lift her out of her chair and place her in a seat. I then disassemble her chair and roll it to another car, reassemble it and plug it into an electrical outlet. Another passenger tries to help me, but she yells at him when he turns the wheel chair seat in the wrong direction. Just another example of "No good deed goes unpunished."

I'm one of the most absent-minded guys around and I'm forever forgetting to charge my cell phone and hand held radio battery, but if my mobility depended on it...I'm pretty sure my wheel chair battery would be charged.
-

6/9: Penny and a younger woman are running for the train in Seymour. Penny is hyperventilating and sobbing uncontrollably. The younger woman, one of her daughters it turns out, tries to calm her down. Penny's hands are shaking as she takes a prescription tablet from a brown bottle in her purse. She pops an anti-anxiety pill and takes a swig from a water bottle. She says she spent all day in court with her 19 year old son who has been arrested on 3rd degree burglary charges. She spent her last $5 on a Subway sandwich and neither she nor her daughter have the fare.
-
6/10: The methadone patient with the Don King hair is back. We reach Waterbury and she fails to get off the train. She says it's too cold out and asks if she can stay on the train and go back to Bridgeport. I tell her it's the last train of the night and that we don't go back to Bridgeport, unfortunately she has to get off. "But it's cold out there" she says. I tell her that I'm sorry, but we have to yard the train in New Haven.

After she leaves the train I go into the garage at the Waterbury Republican newspaper building and call the rail traffic controller in New York for my train orders. I return to the train some 10 minutes later and find "Don King" sleeping in the dark against the side the building.

On the way back to New Haven I stand in the engineer's cab, looking out the front window at a turbulent Naugatuck River. A hard rain begins to fall and my thoughts turn to Don King huddled against the building. The train's headlight catches a lone fawn in the distance. "Run Bambi..Run!" I shout, but Bambi doesn't hear me, and steps right into the gauge of the rail. I close my eyes and hear the crush of bones beneath my feet...It makes me think of Penny.

Vote for Dan...again!

2009-06-18T00:31:00.012-04:00

Yes folks...it's that time of year again. The time of year when I ask you to go over to the Animation Magazine webpage, and vote for my nephew Dan Contois and his latest animated cartoon pitch idea:

A note from Dan:

So here is where I can use your help. This year my submission is titled "Harold and the Walrus." It is about a boy and his walrus who find themselves in over their heads when they inherit a run-down aquarium and try to return it to its former glory. You can see my submission along with many others by clicking on the web address below. Take a look at it, and if you like what you see I sure would appreciate your vote. Every vote counts!
Voting ends 6/26/09.
Thank you for your time and your vote!

Dan

www.animationmagazine.net/pitch_party_09_vote.html

Somehow...and don't ask me how, Dan did not win last years contest with "ROCKET" (We wuz robbed!!!) but, in partial thanks to you, he did come in second place in the online voting.

I really don't understand why Dan hasn't won this contest yet, and I may be a little partial because he is my nephew... but really, look at his amazing artwork. Read his clever and creative story lines. Wouldn't you want to watch cartoons like these. Just look at this pitch from two years ago:

For all that is right in America...for Mom, hot dogs, apple pie, Chevrolet (okay, skip Chevrolet). I urge you to go over to Animation Magazine and Vote for Dan and "Harold and the Walrus."

May God bless.

P.S. Dan, if you win, I want a piece of the Harold and the Walrus merchandising. Just think of it...Harold and the Walrus action figures. Harold and the Walrus lunch boxes. Harold and the Walrus Happy Meals. Harold and the Walrus bed spreads. etc. etc. etc. Then maybe I can quit the railroad and update this blog on a regular basis.

***Update...Voting results are in and unfortunately Dan did not win this year's "Pitch Party". He did, however, come in third in the online voting poll. Dan plans on pursuing his pitch ideas to the networks. There's always next year.

The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson 06/18/09

2009-06-18T00:30:00.000-04:00

Oh yeah... Well we can't understand Scots either!

Glory Days of the New York, New Haven & Hartford Railroad

2009-06-06T11:30:00.004-04:00

Grab a bag of popcorn, a box of Junior Mints, and step into yesteryear.

My sister Sheila sent me this newsreel video that dates back to the 1940's. Look for New Haven's Union Station in the background.

A cautionary tale of how a teddy bear killed my grandfather...and eventually led to my existence.

2009-04-28T00:15:00.028-04:00

A teddy bear killed my grandfather...at least that's the story I was told.

The truth is a little more complicated.

It was an unseasonably cold evening in early October, 1918 when Emmett McDonough (my grandfather) stood before his orchestra at a Wallingford, Connecticut dance hall for his clarinet solo. He was well known in the area as a musical virtuoso and everyone was eager to hear him play. The crowd was in especially good spirits that night, since newspaper headlines shouted that World War I would soon be at an end.

A group of teen-aged girls began to foxtrot in front of the bandstand and one girl (I'll call her Mary) began tossing a teddy bear to her friends. Teddy bears were all the rage in 1918, so it was no surprise that she'd bring one to a dance. After several tosses, Mary lost her grip and the bear tumbled airborne toward the bandstand. Emmett, now finishing his solo, was hit square in the face. He picked up the teddy bear and handed it back to young Mary.

Just two days after the dance Emmett began to cough and felt a general malaise. By mid-week he was bedridden. Jimmy, his three year old son, was sent to stay with relatives. Emmett's wife Nellie (my grandmother) could do little more than drape him with cold compresses and put Vick's VapoRub on his chest (yes, it was around then). By week's end he'd taken a turn for the worse.

The flu was now wide spread and people were dropping left and right. Young Mary, the teen-aged teddy bear owner, was one such victim. Speculation says that Mary must have sneezed into her teddy bear's fur, leaving droplets of live virus that my grandfather inhaled.

*The Spanish Influenza started as an avian virus which spread from bird to man, then horribly mutated and spread from human to human. It was an especially virulent strain. The dead included not only the elderly and infants but also robust adults in the prime of life. It's estimated that this pandemic killed 675,000 in the United States and as many as 100 million world-wide.

The country was now in panic mode, and all of the area hospitals were full. Sister Winifred, my grandmother's sister, was a nurse/nun at St. Francis Hospital in Hartford and was able to pull some strings to get Emmett admitted. It was too late though, by now his lungs had filled with fluid and he was essentially drowning. He died from pneumonia on October 10th 1918. He had just celebrated his 29th birthday.

Nellie never remarried, which left their son Jimmy (my father) an only child. Without any substantial means of support, they shuffled from house to house living with a series of Nellie's sisters and family in Wallingford. My father would later say that it was a lonely existence and that he hated being an only child. That, in part, is why he had nine children. The youngest being me.

So when you think about it, I guess I owe my existence to...a teddy bear.

*New York Times -04/28/09

Paris Hilton

2009-04-21T10:33:00.014-04:00

As all my fellow conductors know, my alter ego is "The Conductor to the Stars"; A near legendary railroad phenom, with an uncanny knack for spotting rail- riding celebrities. Because of this, coworkers are eager to share anecdotal stories of their brushes with fame with me. Mark and Bob, two Danbury Branch conductors, told me a whopper of a story in Grand Central last night:

"Hey Conductor to the Stars" Bob yelled from the platform on track 16. "You're not going to believe who we had on train Friday night."

I've been in a big celebrity sighting drought lately, and I felt an immediate pang of jealousy.

"I assume it was a celebrity?"

"A BIG celebrity," Mark said.

I didn't have time to play 20 questions, so I cut to the chase.

"Okay...Who was it?"

Mark and Bob shouted in unison:

"Paris Hilton!"

"NO WAY!" I yelled back. Now I was really jealous.

"Not only that," Mark said. "But she didn't have any money and I had to bill her,"(now he paused for dramatic effect,) "and then I had the cops take her off the train in Stamford."

"Get out of here," I said incredulously.

"No really," Bob said.

Bob then had Mark show me the "pink slip"(a billing form used when passengers have neither ticket or money). Sure enough, there on the form was written:

Name: Paris Hilton

Address: 200 Main St.

City: Hyannis, Ma 02530

Paris's signature was emblazoned across the bottom in big girlish loops. She'd even placed hearts over the "i" in Paris and Hilton.

"That's HOT!" I said, doing my best Paris Hilton impression.

'Not really," Mark said. He then 'fessed up' saying the story was only partially true. As it turns out, truth was much sadder than fiction:

"I was collecting tickets on my train, when I came across an old white haired lady, who was about 70 years old. I asked for her ticket, but she said she didn't have time to buy one, and that she didn't have any money."

"No problem," Mark said while handing her a pink slip, "Do you have any form of identification?"

The woman reached into her over sized purse and pulled out a clear laminated ID pouch. In the lower right hand corner was a photo of Paris Hilton lounging in a skin tight dress. In the middle of the pouch was an aluminum lid from a Jello pudding container. This lid was in place of an official seal or hologram.

"The woman looked clean," Mark said. "I thought she was putting me on."

When the woman finished filling out the pink slip, she handed it to Mark.

"M'am," Mark questioned patiently. "You're telling me that your name is
Paris Hilton?"

"Yes!" The old woman answered matter of factly.

"THE Paris Hilton?"

"Yes!"

(surrounding passengers began to roll their eyes.)

"And this is your picture on the ID?"

"Yes!" She was starting to get annoyed. "I used to be a model."

There were a few moments of uncomfortable silence then, and Mark and Paris stared at each other down.

"Okay Paris," Mark finally said. "I'm going to have the police talk to you in Stamford."(Mark was concerned about the woman's mental stability and thought that maybe she was suffering from Alzheimer's or dementia.)

"Is it because I'm Jewish?" The woman asked. "Is that what this is all about?"

Mark said that he called the rail traffic controller and asked for police assistance. He explained that he had an old woman on board who claimed to be Paris Hilton and unless the hard partying had finally caught up with her...the last he knew, Paris Hilton didn't look like a 70 year old woman.

When the train arrived in Stamford, two MTA police officers were waiting.

"Is there a problem officers?" Paris asked.

"We'd just like to speak with you m'am. Maybe get your name and address."

"I already told the conductor...My name is Paris....Paris Hilton."

"Okay m'am...Can you please come with us?"

The officers each grabbed an arm and escorted Paris off the train.

Before stepping on the platform, Paris turned around and addressed the
entire car:

"See ya later...bitches!"

(Okay, I made that last part up...but wouldn't that have been a great exit line?)

Centraal Station-Antwerp, Belgium

2009-04-09T08:01:00.009-04:00

Found this video on Sandi Kahn Shelton's blog (which I highly recommend).

How long before this breaks out in Grand Central?

What we have here...Is a failure to communicate

2009-04-07T09:29:00.017-04:00

"Conductor," said the woman in a thick southern drawl, "Could ya' please tell me when we get to Grand Central? I can't make heads nor tails of that man on the loud speaker."

"That Man!" I said indignantly. THAT MAN...happens to be ME."

The woman and her four friends burst out laughing. "No it ain't" one of the women said (I guess she thought I was teasing).

"No, really." I said.

I was a little hurt since I pride myself on my clear and concise announcements. Passengers compliment me all the time.

"Sorry Darlin," another said, "But we're visitin' from Alabama and we can't understand a lick of what you was sayin'."

"Would it help if I slowed my speech?" I asked.

They nodded their heads in agreement.

"Maybe make the announcements in a s-l-o-w southern drawl?"

"Go fer it!" They said.

The next station stop was rapidly approaching. I quickly raced to the cab and made this announcement:

"This here," I drawled, trying to sound like the prison warden in Cool Hand Luke. "This here...is Mt. V-e-r-n-o-n East."

I heard a loud cheer come from the other end of the car. Looking down the aisle, I could see my new friends giving me the thumbs up sign.

"The next station stop," I took a pregnant pause here..."The next stash-i-u-n is fixin' to be Fordham."

The cheers were even louder now and they were interspersed with guffaws of laughter.

They were egging me on now. After Fordham :

" I a-reckon that Harlem 125th Street is gonna be next."

They were actually clapping now... wavin' and a hootin' and a hollerin'.

One of the woman waved me over. "Darlin, where'd ya learn to talk like that? I mean ....Fixin'?"

"We watch a lot of 'Reba' reruns in my house." I said matter of factly.

"Reba!" That's our favorite show. (no surprise there)

We were almost to Grand Central when one of the ladies thanked me for giving them a good laugh. Another said I made their night. I thanked them as well, saying they were good sports. They could have just as easily been offended.

"So. You think we Yankees speak too fast?" I asked.

They all nodded their heads in agreement.

"Then you should be happy that you didn't have a New York conductor. I'm from Connecticut, and even I can't understand them."

Biohazards Please!

2009-04-04T09:00:00.044-04:00

"Sorry dude!" Said the passenger, now showing me his thumb which was dripping with blood. "I sliced it at work today and it won't stop bleeding." I looked down at the ticket he'd just handed me, still not comprehending his apology. There, between my index finger and thumb, lay a crimson colored piece of paper. It was the size and shape of a powder blue Metro North ticket, but streaks of plasma had left it unrecognizable.

"Where are you going today?" I asked curtly, not trying to mask my annoyance.

"New Rochelle." He answered with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Ugggh!" I grumbled in disgust.

I ran for the bottle of Purell hand sanitizer that I keep in my railroad bag and squirted several droplets into my palms. While vigorously rubbing my hands together, I thought about Bill, a germaphobic coworker who collects tickets in latex gloves, a practice I once thought of as eccentric, but now think of as ingenious.

I wish I could say that this disgusting episode was unique, but I can't. For example; I frequently catch passengers holding tickets in their mouths. Sometimes they'll go as far as using them as dental floss, spending the better part of the ride mining molars for forgotten bits of a $200 business lunch and then handing me a ticket covered in spit and shreds of steak tartar.

Frequently, I spy someone coughing or sneezing into their ticket. They act as if nothing untoward has happened and try to pass their mucus covered ticket to me. I'll usually hold up my hand and say something like: "Today's your lucky day...you get to keep that ticket as a souvenir."

A passenger on my morning train passes his time by picking his nose and then eating it. Every morning it's the same thing, picking...eating, eating...picking, picking...eating. Luckily, he has a monthly commutation ticket and there's no hand to ticket contact between us. If he ever forgets his pass...he gets a free ride.

A few years back, on a hot August afternoon, a young man boarded my train in his high school basketball uniform. "Tickets please!" I asked, as I watched droplets of sweat pour down his face. "One minute" he said. He then reached down for his size 13 Air Jordans. I waited as he slowly untied his shoe, took it off and reached inside for his ticket. Once retrieved he proudly displayed a sweat soaked ticket. It drooped in his fingers, looking as soggy and limp as a cornflake left in day old milk. "You can't be serious" I said. "Sorry man," he said with a smile, "Ain't got no pockets."

There is an upside to this story. Because of all this bacterial exposure, I believe I've built up immunity and I rarely get sick. I guess that's what happens when you work in a Petri dish.

A pictorial week in review

2009-03-20T21:07:00.012-04:00

I thought I'd share some images from the "My pictures" page of my cell phone. Most of these shots were taken in the past week:

This is Noah (at least I think that's what his name is) and he's a real rail aficionado. Each week his mother brings him to Grand Central to see the choo choos. The jar in his hand is filled with seat checks that he collects from all the conductors. He knows that each conductor has their own punch design and he likes to see all the different shapes they create.

This was the scene outside Grand Central on Tuesday as high school bands and The Orange County Ancient Order of Hibernians lined up on Vanderbilt Avenue, getting ready to march down 5th Avenue.

This is a video I shot of the Westchester County Fire Department's Emerald Society bagpipe band. Sorry for the poor quality, but they were standing outside Grand Central in what used to be the taxi stand. There wasn't much natural light there.

Fairfield, CT- (AP)March 17, 2009

Tragically, "Lucky" the Lucky Charm's leprechaun mascot, was struck and killed by a Metro North train today. MTA police pieced a suicide note together from multi-colored marhsmallow bits found at the scene. Pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars and green clovers, were strewn across the tracks. According to General Mills, Lucky had been despondent and suffering from paranoia. He was recently overheard complaining: "They're always after me Lucky Charms...ALWAYS! ALWAYS! ALWAYS!"

An MTA police sergeant claimed the suicide note was "magically delicious."

I found this fedora in the luggage rack on one of my trains yesterday. I noticed it was my size, so I thought I'd try it on before turning it in to Lost&Found. I'm bald, so there's no chance of cootie transferal. A name was embossed on the leather head band, so if it's yours...and you can prove it, you can pick it up in Grand Central.

Mea Culpa

2009-03-11T22:32:00.010-04:00

Sorry folks...It seems that I owe my loyal readers an apology for neglecting this blog. You see, a few months back I decided to switch my work schedule from late nights (think drunk...yet entertaining passengers) to early mornings (think sober, curmudgeony passengers). This was quite a difficult transition for me, especially since my body was more accustomed to climbing into bed at 5AM, not climbing out. Add to this that I'm now working 11 hour days-5 days a week, and then usually one (sometimes two) 8 hour shifts on the weekend...

Oh! and the gym...did I mention the gym? My New Year's resolution was to drop 20lbs, so January 1st I joined the New York Sports Club gym in the MetLife building in Manhattan. Every morning I spend the entirety of my swing time on a treadmill or an elliptical machine, headphones plugged in, whilst I pretend that I'm on The Biggest Loser and that Jillian is screaming in my face and telling me to pick up the pace. It must be working, cause I'm down 16 lbs so far. Two weeks ago, I pulled a muscle in my back and I'm beginning to to backslide...maybe I should switch to Bob's team.

At any rate, by the time I get home from work... I'm exhausted. There have been times when I've sat down at the computer, wanting to share a story with you, but inevitably, one or both of my daughters ask for a ride to one of their many high school activities. I've spent so much time chauffeuring these two around, that I now know all the words to latest Taylor Swift CD.

No wonder I'm exhausted.

In early April, we conductors pick new schedule assignments. I'm hoping to go back to the night trains, where the passengers really know how to put on a show. When they do...I'll be sure to write about it.

In the market place

2009-01-30T19:57:00.019-05:00

Lately Grand Central has become a marketing Mecca...not that I'm complaining. Just before Christmas, elves were passing out free samples of "Bag O' Coal Popcorn" (chocolate covered popcorn). I got two bags.

Yesterday I picked up a free t-shirt from a women dressed as a big red ball. She was promoting a new ABC television show called "Wipeout" (Super Bowl Edition).

Today I was walking through Grand Central when eight blonde-wigged models slowly marched in formation through the terminal's main concourse. They circled the floor and then each of them struck a pose:

Okay...I get that they're pushing small laptop computers... but which brand? It's still a mystery to me. There were no signs, no t-shirts, no pamphlets, nothing to signify the brand. What a big waste of money! But I guess it's better than paying 3 million dollars for 30 seconds of Super Bowl commercial time.

Say it loud...I'm 47 and I'm proud.

2009-01-23T19:11:00.006-05:00

Here is a transcript of the conversation my daughter and I had as I drove she and her sister to school yesterday. It was my birthday.

Daughter: So...Dad...How does it feel to be 47?

Me: Huh?

Daughter: I said...How does it feel to be 47?

Me: Eh???

Daughter: I SAID...HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE 47?

Me: Oh! Well...aside from the whole hearing thing...it's pretty much the same as being 46.

Look to the Cheesecake!

2009-01-15T19:24:00.006-05:00

Can we celebrate this historic presidential inauguration with our favorite fatty baked good? YES WE CAN!!! (for 29.95). I was buying a coffee at Junior's in Grand Central today when I spotted these cheesecakes.

You would think that Junior's would also make an "Obama" Black and White cookie:

A black man on a white cheesecake...look to the cheesecake!

The Curious Case of John Ruggiero

2009-01-07T18:03:00.013-05:00

Good Evening, I'm your host Rod Serling.

Submitted for your approval:

Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction. Case in point: A Mr. John Ruggiero, a middle aged railroad conductor from Connecticut, takes his wife on a Sunday afternoon date to the movies. They have purchased two tickets to see the latest Brad Pitt blockbuster, "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button"...little do they know...they have two aisle seats in... "The Twilight Zone."

First some background:

"The Curious Case of Bejamin Button" is based on a short story by F. Scott Fitzgerald, in which a man ( Benjamin) ages in reverse. He is born old, but for some reason his internal clock runs backward, so the more he ages... the younger he gets.

At times, the movie detours from the main narrative and tells a parallel story of a blind clockmaker, who has lost his son in World War I. The clockmaker's great masterpiece is the newly unveiled clock tower at The New Orlean's Train Station. The clock in the tower runs backward and serves as a memorial to the war dead, whose lives have ended much too soon.

Okay, this is when the story gets weird:

Conductor John really enjoyed the movie and when the lights came up in the theater, he checked his watch to see how long the movie had been. This is what he saw (this video is of John's actual watch):

If you missed it, the second hand is running counter clockwise.

John was understandably freaked out at what he saw. He's had this watch for 10 years and it has never given him a lick of trouble. He plans on bringing it to a watch repair shop for answers.

Serling:

"Einstein said that time is relative and it could never be totally understood. The same can be said for John Ruggiero and the time he spent in ...The Twilight Zone."

Plugged In

2009-01-01T18:56:00.003-05:00

What the modern conductor's countertop looks like.

L to R: Cellphone, radio, Ticket Issuing Machine, Printer,Keurig coffee maker.

The 1/2 week in review

2009-01-01T10:35:00.021-05:00

Monday, December 29:

It's a frigid morning as I back the 6:47 AM train out of the yard and onto the platform on track #8 in New Haven Station. The platform is usually packed with commuters, but this morning everyone is standing over on track # 14 platform...that's three tracks away. I toot the horn and glance over at the trembling, huddled masses, yearning to commute. They stare back at me, throw their hands up, mouth four letter words and begin racing for the stairwell. A minute later they file onto my train, most give me dirty looks, others grumble, a few ask:"What happened to the 6:40 train?" I try to look concerned, pull a schedule out of my jacket pocket and read:

1527
------
AM
6:40
------
WILL
NOT
OPERATE AND
12/30
12/29

I get on the PA and announce: "Folks, this is the 6:47 local train to Grand Central...those of you looking for the 6:40 express... search no more. According to the schedule...the 6:40 will not run today or tomorrow."

"UGGHHH!!!" The huddled masses let out a collective groan.

After leaving New Haven, Kathy, my assistant conductor, walks back to me and says:

"Bob, I need you to talk to a passenger in the head car. He insists that we're really the 6:40 train, and that we're lying about being the 6:47. He says we're running late and we're just trying to cover our tracks...I need you to talk to him."

I hand Kathy a schedule and say: "Give this to him and tell him to read the small print....the devil's in the details."

Tuesday, December 30:

Train 1531:

We pull into Riverside Station and "The Greenwich Country Club Member", stumbles onto the train. He's wearing a stained pair of sweat pants, Top Siders (no laces) and no socks. He's grossly overweight, disheveled and looks not unlike the homeless people who wander through the halls of Grand Central.

The New Haven Line has a regular cast of ne'er do well passengers, and one of them is this guy. I call him "The Greenwich Country Club Member," (hereafter called the TGCCM.) He is a tall, heavy, white haired man in his 60's. He regularly rides the Stamford local trains where he drunkenly pesters and verbally assaults other passengers. He rarely has the fare, and when a conductor challenges him, he'll say: "My good man...I'll have you know that I'm a proud member of The Greenwich Country Club." I guess he thinks we'll be impressed and let him ride for free. We don't.

About two years ago, the TGCCM took the cure (got sober) or possibly started taking anti-psychotic medication. Suddenly he was a model citizen. He began appearing on my trains in tweed jackets with ascots. He was polite, unassuming and quiet as a church mouse. He'd meekly board the train, sit in a corner and read the newspaper for the duration of the trip. It was a refreshing change.

But that was then, this is now. I don't know what happened, maybe he invested with Madoff, at any rate TGCCM has fallen off the wagon. After boarding the train today, he immediately starts fighting with Kathy, the assistant conductor. He has a canceled Senior Citizen ticket and he insists that it has never been punched. Kathy wants me to throw him off, but I don't want to delay a rush hour train and offer to bill him instead. He reluctantly fills out the form, then dismisses me with a wave of a bloated hand.

Everyone files off the train in Grand Central, and I notice TGCCM milling through the cars and picking up newspapers. I momentarily think of asking him to get off the train. A relief crew will soon be here to yard the train and I want to close the doors. But then I figure that this will start a fight and I decide to let him be....big mistake.... (to be continued.)

Wednesday, December 30:

Train 1531

When my train reaches Grand Central, a group of passengers run up to me. "Conductor," one says, "A guy in the rear car just fainted. He stood up, then dropped like a ton of bricks." I run to the last car and find a seated 47 year- old man whose skin is pale white and he's staring out into space. His pupils are dilated and he's sweating profusely. "Sir," I pull on his arm, "Are you alright?" No response. I begin to panic and run to the radio to call for medical assistance. The only problem is....I suddenly can't remember my train number or who I'm supposed to be calling:

Me: Train 1529 to District U...uh, I mean train 1571 to District L...I'm here on track 109 and I have a medical emergency."

District L dispatcher: Track 109? You must be train 1531.

Me: Uh, yeah. Train 1531 has a medical emergency. I have a guy here and I think he's having a seizure or something.

District L: We'll send somebody right over.

I run back and find that the stricken man has gotten off the train and is staggering down the platform. I chase after him..."Sir...Sir...are you alright?"

"I think so," he says.

"I have medical personnel on the way. Why don't you take a seat?"

The man takes my advice and sits back down on the train. The paramedics arrive a few minutes later. The paramedics ask if he has eaten breakfast and he says that he only ate a banana. He says he was feeling weak and when he stood up he must have fallen back down and hit his back on his chair's armrest. He says it knocked the wind out of him.

I give the paramedics all the train's pertinent information and I'm released. While walking down the platform I run into Paul, a fellow conductor who yards my equipment. Paul seems annoyed with me. He is from Queens and he peppers his language with colorful expletives.

Paul: Did you leave that fat gray haired F--K on the train yesterday?

Me: You mean "The Greenwich Country Club Member?"

Paul: You know what that F--K did? Huh?

Me: No, but I have a feeling you're going to tell me.

Paul: That fat F--K put newspapers on one of the seats and took a big sh-t.

Me: Oooohhh!!!

Paul: That's right. The fat F--k took newspapers, put them on the seat, took a dump, and left a big pile of steaming sh-t right there...he stunk up the whole car. I gagged...I actually gagged.

Me: I guess those Greenwich people are wrong. Their sh-t does stink.

Paul: That disgusting fat F--k-piece-a-sh-t. I shoulda had him arrested.

Me: Well....sorry about that..... Um...Happy New Year?

Paul: The disgutin' fat F--k-piece-a-sh-t.

Train 1538

Susan, one of our regular passengers, meets the train in Stratford and hands David (my assistant) two small wrapped packages. One is marked "David" the other is marked "Bob." I open the package and find a beautiful hand painted egg ornament. This is the first time I've been given a Christmas gift by a passenger and I'm genuinely touched. I'm reminded that there are still nice people in the world and I forget all about the TGCCM.

Happy New Year!

The Archer

2008-12-23T13:45:00.033-05:00

Today marks the 12th anniversary of my mother's death. Not a day goes by when I don't think of her and miss her...especially during the holidays. I dedicate today's post to her memory. Merry Christmas!

Like Ralphie in "A Christmas Story," I begged my mother for a BB gun at Christmastime. But like Ralphie's mom...and every other mom for that matter, she'd always counter my pleas with the standard answer from the mother's handbook... "No, you'll shoot your eye out." I considered my mother's opinion to be knee jerk and reactionary and her argument weak. "No," I'd say, "I 'm not like other boys...I'm going to be extra careful."

"No," she'd say again, "you'll shoot your eye out."

Frankly, my mother's firmness surprised me, she was usually such a pushover. I mean, just that summer I'd called her up at work and asked if I could buy two rabbits from Mr. Chickla, a rabbit breeder who lived down the street.

"No," she said, "They'll mate and multiply and before you know it, we'll be up to our eyes in bunnies."

"But Ma," I said innocently, " I'll make sure I get brother and sister rabbits."

I could tell from the guffaws of laughter on the other end of the line that Rabbits must be incestuous critters. Who knew? My mother got such a chuckle from my naivete, that she let me get the rabbits and then told this story for the rest of her life .

Back to the BB gun...When I turned thirteen. I went on a scorched earth campaign to get that "holy grail of Kiddom," and when Christmas rolled around, I thought I'd finally received it. There, under our tree, was a slim, wrapped cardboard box...just the right size for a BB gun. Finally, I thought, my mother had come to her senses. I could take the suspense no longer, and ripped open the package and found...a bow and arrow set???

In the box was a green fiberglass bow, with three steel tipped arrows. It wasn't a professional grade set, but it wasn't exactly kid's stuff either. I didn't understand my mother's logic.."Oh yeah" I said sarcastically as I inspected the arrow's steel tips, "This is much safer than a BB gun." This sarcasm proved prophetic...here's what became of the three arrows:

Arrow 1: Went though the 2nd floor window of a house one block over-

I began my archery career by shooting arrows into our wooden garage door. After putting a few dozen holes in door and breaking a square window or two, I began shooting for distance. When I reached 50 ft or so , I drew back the bow string as far as it would go. The bow bent from the strain and my hands began to shake. I released the string and watched as the arrow flew high in the air...it flew over the garage, over our backyard fence, over the treetops and then SMASH!!! It shattered the glass on a second story window of the house behind us. When I saw what I had done, I high tailed it back inside the house and ran straight into my brother Brian (8 years older than me). "You could have killed somebody," he said. "you better go over there and apologize and offer to pay for the window." But I was way too chicken to own up to my mistake and I never did retrieve the arrow.

Arrow 2: Narrowly missed impaling an old woman-

I don't know what my friends and I were thinking, but one day we took the bow and the two remaining arrows over to my friend David's backyard. For some reason, we thought it would be a good idea to shoot arrows straight up into the air, and then run for cover before anyone us got skewered in the head by a falling arrow. David,the youngest of our group, didn't want to be shown up by the older boys, so he really pulled back hard on the bow string, and his arrow took off like an Apollo rocket.

When we came out of hiding, we couldn't find the arrow, but after searching for five minutes or so, we spotted it sticking straight out of the tilled dirt of Mrs. Rinaldi's garden... and only about a foot away from the bent-over Mrs. Rinaldi. The old woman had been so intent on tending to her tomato plants, she didn't notice or hear the descending missile whizz by her ear. OOPS!!!

Arrow 3: Flooded my mother's basement-

After what we later called the "Rinaldi incident", I thought it best to retire my bow and the last remaining arrow. Then one winter day, I grew bored and found the hidden bow and arrow atop a rafter in our basement. I took a piece of abandoned wood paneling and drew a target on it, then propped it up against one of our radon-laden cellar walls. The very first arrow I shot went wide right and missed the target completely. Instead it pierced a copper pipe that lead out of our water meter... PSSSTTTT! It was a geyser. The water shot out of the pipe and spat across the length of the basement. Like the fabled dutch boy who put his finger in the dike, I grabbed a piece of duct tape and wrapped it around the pipe. The water pressure proved too great and the water sprang forward which in turn made the tape shoot across the basement. There was about an inch of water on the floor before I finally found the water main and shut the valve off. I vaguely remember hearing complaints about how expensive the plumbing bill was.

My mother was ticked off by the holes in her garage door and the flooded basement. I told her that a BB gun would have been a much safer gift. Cheaper too!

Thanksgiving

2008-11-24T19:16:00.009-05:00

Lest I forget to be thankful that I have a good job...or any job for that matter (especially in this economy) here are a few reminders:

I took these photos a few weeks back, when Metro North was holding a "Career Fair" in Grand Central. The line of prospective employees ended here in Vanderbilt Hall:

But it was a long...

long....

long...
...line.

These resume bearing applicants were literally wrapped around the block and the building. The head of the line was in Vanderbilt Hall (42nd Stand Park Ave.), but its tail ended somewhere around 45th Street and Vanderbilt Ave.

I was once told, that at any given time, Metro North has 2500 applicants for each of their open conductor positions. After seeing this crowd...I believe it.

The next time I hear one of my ungrateful coworkers say "This job sucks," I'll show them these pictures and say... be thankful...be thankful.

Cute joke

2008-11-12T10:02:00.002-05:00

I usually ignore jokes sent to my email box, but I must admit...this one is cute:)

Two Red Indians and an Irishman were walking through the woods.
All of a sudden one of the Red Indians ran up a hill to the mouth of a small cave. 'Wooooo! Wooooo! Wooooo!' he called into the cave and listened closely until he heard an answering, 'Wooooo! Wooooo! Woooooo!
He then tore off his clothes and ran into the cave.

The Irishman was puzzled and asked the remaining Indian what it was all about. 'Was the other Indian crazy or what?’ The Indian replied 'No, It is our custom during mating season when Indian men see cave, they holler 'Wooooo! Wooooo! Wooooo!' into the opening. If they get an answer back, it means there's a beautiful squaw in there waiting for us.

Just then they came upon another cave.
The second Indian ran up to the cave, stopped, and hollered, 'Wooooo! Wooooo! Wooooo!' Immediately, there was the answer. 'Wooooo! Wooooo! Wooooo!' from deep inside.

He also tore off his clothes and ran into the opening. The Irishman wandered around in the woods alone for a while, and then spied a third large cave. As he looked in amazement at the size of the huge opening, he was thinking, 'Hoo, man! Look at the size of this cave! It is bigger than those the Indians found.

There must be some really big, fine women in this cave!' He stood in front of the opening and hollered with all his might 'Wooooo! Wooooo! Wooooo!' Like the others, he then heard an answering call, 'WOOOOOOOOO, WOOOOOOOOO WOOOOOOOOO!' With a gleam in his eye and a smile on his face, he raced into the cave,tearing off his clothes as he ran.

The following day, the headline of the local newspaper read...............

You'll like this

NAKED IRISHMAN RUN OVER BY TRAIN!!!

Love Train

2008-11-11T19:13:00.003-05:00

If I had a dime for every time I've seen this happen on my late night trains...I'd be a rich man.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1084723/Couple-arrested-having-sex-crowded-train.html

A gift from Hunter, age 8

2008-11-10T20:02:00.006-05:00

Click to enlarge

It's against Metro North policy to accept gratuities or gifts from our passengers, but yesterday, while working a Stamford local train, a young artist named Hunter, age 8, presented me with this drawing. Of course I bent the rules a bit and accepted his wonderful gift.

Hunter is a 3rd grader and a big railroading fan. He said he recently visited The Danbury Railroad Museum, and a month ago went to Metro North's Open House at the diesel shops in Croton-Harmon, NY. There he inspectied all of our rolling stock and told me all about the inner workings of the Genesis engine (pictured above). He then went into great detail, explaining the engineer's stand, the train throttle and independent braking system.

Maybe he'll be my engineer someday.

A note to Hunter and other rail aficionados, tomorrow night (Tuesday November 11th, 10PM) The History Channel starts an eight-part series called "Extreme Trains." It's described as *"a series that tracks amazing locomotives that have helped shape America and continue to deliver today."

*Frazier Moore, AP Television Writer

Letters...I get letters...I get lots and lots of letters

2008-11-09T08:15:00.010-05:00

I'm amazed by how many strangers read this blog and then email me. I'm honestly thrilled and touched that readers take the time to write comments and questions. Here's a sampling of one recent correspondence I received:

Bobby,

I love your blog, it's awesome to get the perspective of an insider on the MetroNorth trains. Next time I see someone puke on one of the late night weekend trains, I'll email you a picture.

You should start a feature on your blog called "ask the conductor". Here's the first questions to start you off:

When did the conductor announcing the stops start using the words 'platform' and 'express' as verbs. For example, instead of saying, "the train will run express to Stamford. The rear car will not reach the platform, please walk forward," the conductor will say, "the train will express to Stamford, the rear car will not platform, please walk forward."

In my book, the words express can be used as a noun or adjective, and the word platform can only be used as a noun. I guess using fewer words and insider lingo shortens the announcements and lets you get your job done faster, but as a nitpicky anal retentive rider, it drives me nuts.
thanks and a keep the war stories coming!
-Peter D.

Peter,

I think you answered your own question in the last paragraph.
Yes, fewer words do shorten the announcements and let us get our jobs done faster. Though, it's true that some conductors like the sound of their own voice (I've been accused of this) and their announcements go on like Shakespeare soliloquies, most like to keep their speeches short and sweet and to the point. Hence the "rail speak."

I recently heard this announcement: "This is Grand Central Station. Our last and final stop." This really got under my skin, because it's both redundant (last and final) and incorrect. Grand Central is a "Terminal" not a station, a qualified conductor should know that.

I'm hesitant to start an "Ask the conductor" feature, mostly for fear that rail buffs will start asking technical questions. I'd rather they visit sites like railfan.net or railroad.net

P.S. Keep the late night train puke pictures. I've seen enough to last a life time.

Continental Drift

2008-11-02T11:24:00.015-05:00

Train 6550:

Yesterday afternoon, I collected a ticket from an old woman who was on an outbound New Haven train. She had grey hair and was dressed all in black. She reminded me of my friend's old Italian grandmother.

"Conductor," she yelled as she flagged me down, "Why is New Haven so far today?"

"New Haven is no further than it usually is," I said, "and we're on schedule."

"Oh, but the rides so long."

"Maybe it's because this train makes all the stops between Stamford and New Haven. You must normally take an express train, and skip a lot of the stations that we're making today."

"No," she shook her head. "New Haven is definitely farther today."

"Do you normally ride the train with family or friends?" I countered. "Good conversation can make the ride go by faster, you know."

"No" she said." "I always ride alone."

"Hmm" I tried to look pensive. "As far as I know, New Haven is still 72 miles away from Grand Central. Nothing has changed"

"Then why is the ride so much longer today?"

I briefly thought of saying something sarcastic like:

This morning a giant fissure opened up in the Harlem River, and due to plate tectonics and continental drift, New Haven has moved 20 miles to the east. This makes the commute 25 minutes longer. We just haven't had time to change the schedule yet.

But she seemed like a sweet old woman, I didn't want to be mean.
I finally gave up and said,"I don't know."

Why didn't I think of this answer in the first place?

Station Stops for iPhone

2008-10-25T15:16:00.003-04:00

Chris, the administrator over at "Station Stops" has recently released "Station Stops for iPhone"on the iTunes App Store.

Chris writes:

'Stationstops for iPhone’ allows you to tap on your Metro-North station and immediately find the next regularly scheduled trains departing to or from Grand Central Terminal on the Hudson, New Haven, or Harlem Lines.

As the entire timetable is on the iPhone in a database, internet access is not required – which was an important requirement since I so often need the information while on a subway.

Find the full story here:

http://www.stationstops.com/2008/10/23/stationstops-for-iphone-now-available-on-itunes-metro-north-grand-central-schedule-iphone-app/

Aussie Radio Star

2008-10-12T23:34:00.010-04:00

Jerry Lewis might be popular in Paris, and David Hasselhoff big in Germany, but I'm huge Down Under (get your mind out of the gutter, I'm talking about Australia.)

A year ago, I got an email from an Australian psychologist named Gina Perry. She was enrolled as a "mature student" at the University of Melbourne and doing her Master's thesis on Dr. Stanley Milgram's "Obedience to Authority"experiment. She also was in the process of producing a radio documentary for ABC (The Australian Broadcasting Company) about the experiment and the lasting ramifications on those who took part-volunteers, experimenters and their loved ones.

While doing research, Ms. Perry stumbled upon this blog and a post I had written in March of 2006 about my father's involvement with the Milgram experiment. "I thought your piece about you discovering your father had been involved was wonderful and very well written," she wrote. She then asked if I'd be willing to partake in an interview for her documentary. I reluctantly agreed, saying that I was only two years old when my father died and I didn't think I'd be much help. She responded, saying anything I could contribute would be a valued addition to her program

The experiment was performed in 1961 and finding volunteers wasn't an easy task. Most participants, like my father, had gone on to their "great reward". I think Ms. Perry was desperate, so I agreed to help her
.
Ms. Perry flew to the U.S. to do research and conduct interviews in California, Florida, Ohio and Connecticut. After exchanging several emails, we met at the Yale Club in New Haven on an unseasonably cold March evening.

The Yale Club is a basically a no frills bed and breakfast in the middle of New Haven, but it's just down the street from where Milgram conducted his experiments, so it was perfect for our meeting. We stole away to a dusty lounge where she placed a small digital recorder on an end table next to me and then proceeded to pepper me with questions.

This past Saturday, the documentary was broadcast on ABC in Australia:

http://www.abc.net.au/rn/radioeye/stories/2008/2358103.htm

I encourage you to click on the link above and listen to the documentary in it's entirety. If you just want to here my contribution, slide the play bar over to the 8-10 minute mark (depending on your media player). In fact, I command you to listen. BZZZZZZ!!!!!!

A seedy week in review 9/21-9/28

2008-09-28T21:48:00.016-04:00

09/21-Conductor's Lounge, Grand Central:

A group of us were sitting around a table in the conductor's lounge, drinking coffee and decompressing by telling war stories from the previous week. Somehow the conversation turned to women (as it always does) and how many sexy ladies have been riding the trains lately. That's when one of the conductors said that he'd recently been caught staring at a woman's cleavage.
-
"How long were you staring?"
-
"Too long."
-
"How long is too long?"
-
"My wife says that I can stare for three seconds... five seconds if I don't have my glasses on. Any longer than that ...I'm a pervert."
-
Another conductor said he recently was standing over a buxom woman while she rummaged though her purse, looking for her ticket. He said she had a low cut blouse on and he couldn't help but stare down at her cleavage. The woman looked up, caught him leering, and said..."Honey, you're not gonna find the ticket down there."
-
09/27/08, Train 6500
-
A drunken middle aged businessman boarded the train with a "Leg Show" porno magazine under his arm. He staggered down the aisle, stopping occasionally to show the centerfold to anyone who would look in his direction. Finally, he spied a cute college girl and he sat down next to her. He began flirting with her and started flipping through his magazine, showing her the pictures. I could see she was disgusted, and after several minutes, she screamed:
-
"I'm a lesbian...Leave me alone."
-
"That's okay," he said, "I'm a lesbian too."
-
He then went into graphic detail, saying what he and lesbians have in common. That's when I stepped in, saying that the lady obviously didn't want to be bothered and that he should move his seat. He reluctantly agreed and walked back to the rear of the car, where he found a whole new group of people to pester.
-
09/28 Train 6537
-

A Stepford wife was sitting in a four seater with an aluminum foil covered sheet cake lying on the seat across from her. The train was crowded, but there were still some seats available. I didn't say anything at first, but by Westport the train was packed and we had several passengers who were standing. I walked by the woman and saw that her cake was still on the seat; "Mam," I said,"please take the cake off the seat. We're very crowded," I then pointed to the five people who were standing in a nearby vestibule.

I moved on and continued to collect tickets, but when I returned (some five minutes later) I found seven people standing, and the woman's cake still on the seat.
-

"Mam, please remove your cake, others would like to sit here."
-
"No," she said as if annoyed, "I asked if anyone wanted to sit here and they said no."
-
"We still have five station stops to go," I said. I'm sure someone will want to sit here."
-
She still refused to move the cake.
-
"Listen," I said, "Either you take the cake off the seat, or I'll have you and the cake removed from the train."
-
It was starting to drizzle out, and I envisioned her standing on the platform, cake in hand, while the song MacArthur Park played in the background:
-
Someone left the cake out in the rain

I don't think that I can take it

'cause it

took so long to bake it

And I'll never have that recipe again

Oh,no!
-
She finally picked up the cake and placed it in her lap.
-
"This is unbelievable," she huffed.
-
"You're unbelievably rude," I countered.
-
At Stamford, a young lady boarded the train and sat where the cake had been. She seemed happy to find a seat and I was happy that she found one. There's nothing worse than fighting with a customer about opening up a seat and then nobody sits there.

A blood splattered week and 1/2 in review.

2008-09-22T22:16:00.015-04:00

9/10-Train 1583

A slim, handsome businessman got on the train in Westport and began pacing up and down the aisle as if he were looking for something.

"This train is clean" he said. "Too clean. I can't find a newspaper."

I went to my cab and gave him my copy of the New York Post.

"Thank you," he said, flashing a toothy smile...a very familiar toothy smile.

After racking my brain for several minutes, I realized why... this guy looked a lot like Senator Robert F. Kennedy.

When I approached to collect his ticket and he accidentally handed me his business card. It read "Save the Children" across its top and the words Mark Shriver-Vice President were printed on the bottom. That's "Mark Kennedy Shriver" as in the son of Sargent Shriver and Eunice Kennedy. As in the brother of Maria Shriver and brother-in-law of Arnold Shwarzenegger. As in the nephew of President John F. Kennedy and Robert F. Kennedy.

"Shriver!" I said. "I thought you looked Kennedyesque."

He smiled that toothy Kennedy grin again.

I told him that my name is McDonough, and that I grew up the the youngest of nine children in an Irish-Catholic-Democratic household and growing up, the Kennedys were like royalty to us. I then told him that my great grandmother's name was Catherine Kennedy.

"Hmmm" He said."Did you inherit the crazy gene?"

"That would explain a lot." I said.

I told him how I see his cousin, Ted Kennedy Jr. on the train from time to time, and how I once met his brother Tim at a Joe Lieberman fundraiser, some 25 years ago.

"Was Timmy nice to you?" He asked.

"It was a quick handshake...that's all."

Mark picked up his cell phone and called his brother while I was standing there. He left him a voice mail message:

"Tim, I'm here with a Metro North conductor McDonough. He says that he met you at a Lieberman fundraiser 25 years ago. He says that you were a real S.O.B."

Click!

I wanted to ask if we could crank call Governor Schwarzenegger next, but then I thought better of it. You see, I was hoping to get an invitation to Hyannisport... maybe play a little touch football with the clan. I didn't want to ruin my chances.

I'd recently finished reading "Symptoms of Withdrawal" a memoir written by Mark's cousin, Christopher Lawford. In this book, Lawford airs a lot of the Kennedy family's dirty laundry. I asked Mark if he'd read the book. He said he hadn't. I don't know about you, but if someone wrote a memoir about my family, I'd be the first one in line at Barnes and Noble.

By the way...I never got an invitation to Hyannisport.

9/15-Train 1388

Tonight the moon is full, and I suspect we'll get a few crazy passengers on the train. I'm not surprised, when on my second train, my assistant conductor says that he has a passenger in the head car who is talking to Jesus.

"Talking to Jesus...as in praying?" I ask.

"No...he's talking as if he's sitting next to him."

"Did he give you two tickets?"

"No, but if JC shows, I'll be sure to get his ticket. Savior or not, no one rides for free on my train"

I suppose that Jesus riding mass transit is possible (like in the Joan Osbourne song). I've seen paintings of him playing soccer in the junior leagues, so why couldn't he ride a train.

09/18 Train 1500

"Mam, this is New Haven...our last stop...time to wake up." I tapped the back of the intoxicated woman's seat and she groggily looked at me.

"New Haven," I said again, "Rise and shine."

I waited another minute or two, but she didn't budge from her seat.

"Mam, this is the last stop...We'd really like to get home."

She wiped some drool from her chin, and said "Yeah, yeah...I'll leave as soon as I find my car keys."

"You don't look like your in any condition to drive," I said. "You better call a cab."

"Oh, I'm not driving," she said, now clutching her keys. She then stood up and walked woozily to the vestibule area, and stood before a pair of closed doors.

"Excuse me," she said in a snotty tone. "Do you plan on opening these doors anytime soon?"

"Turn around," I said.

"Oh," she said. She then made an unsteady 180 degree turn and stepped out onto the platform and disappeared into the night.

09/19 Train 1388

There are some incidents that have occurred over the span of my railroad career that I'll never forget. This is one such incident.

(Note: I mention the race of the players in the following story for descriptive purposes only. No racial prejudice is implied or intended.)

Bill, my assistant, came running toward me.

"Bob, some guy in the rear car just punched another guy in the face."

I went running back to the rear car and found a short, muscular, white guy exchanging insults with a linebacker sized black guy.

I was assessing the situation while Bill filled me in on the details:

It seems that the white guy, who was very intoxicated, got on the train and started making rude remarks to two girls who were seated across from him. These girls were from Spain, and were vacationing in the New York area. They had never seen this guy before, and they were understandably upset and frightened. The girls had a male friend with them, a fellow Spaniard who was in his 20's. He politely asked the white guy to stop saying such horrible things to his friends. The white guy took exception to this, and allegedly punched the Spanish guy in the face. The Spanish man was meek and frightened and didn't retaliate.

A large black man, who was standing nearby, came to the defense of the Spanish trio, and it was about this time that I came upon the scene.

"You want to punch somebody?"Asked the black man. "Try punching me.

He (pointing to the Spanish guy) won't hit you back...but I will."

"What? You think I'm afraid of you? Said the white guy. "I'll kick your ass."

With that, the white guy ripped off his shirt, and displayed his muscular arms and torso. Nobody was impressed.

Like a boxing referee, I got between the two parties and told them to calm down. I next asked the Spanish man if he wanted to press charges. He said he did, so I called for police assistance.

"What? You think you're a tough guy? " Asked the black guy, now pointing as his fellow combatant.

"You're a big f-----g f----t!" Screamed the white guy.

I stood between these two guys for five minutes (a very long five minutes), waiting for Fordham Station, and the MTA police to arrive. Occasionally the name calling intensified, and it really looked like these two were going to go at it. To prevent this, I held the poles on either side of the vestibule, which virtually trapped the white guy between me and the doors. He started pacing like a caged animal.

I then told the black guy that the police were on the way, and I asked him to cool down. "You don't want to get yourself into trouble too, do you?" To his credit, he backed down and retreated to the rear of the car. The white guy, saw this as a sign of weakness and started tossing more insults, mostly questioning the black guy's manhood.

We pulled into Fordham Station, and the MTA police were waiting outside on the platform. I had to let them aboard, meaning that I had to put my arms down and key the door open. This, in effect, set the white guy free from the cage that I'd formed. He took advantage of his new found freedom and immediately ran back to the rear of the car, charging the black guy. The black guy made short work of him, swinging with three successive blows to his face. Blood squirt from his nose and mouth and splattered everywhere. He really folded like a cheap suit, and crumpled to the ground.

An MTA police officer, having just seen the black guy punch out the white guy, grabbed his arms and started to cuff him. By this time the white guy was back on his feet and started swinging again, seeing this, I jumped on the white guy's back and held him in a full nelson till Bill (my assistant), and another officer were able to cuff him.

When I pulled away from the white guy, my shirt and arms were splattered with his blood (slightly visible in photo).

Seeing the blood on my shirt and arms, an MTA police sergeant recommended that I go to the hospital for an "exposure test." Apparently, whenever a police officer or an EMT come into contact with another person's bodily fluids (involuntarily, that is), they get tested to see if they came in contact with the HIV virus.

I didn't really think I needed the test, but a second officer told me I really should go and have a doctor check me out. I reluctantly agreed and then spent the next 20 minutes being transported by ambulance to The North Central Bronx Hospital, where a doctor briefly looked me over. He asked if any of the blood got in my eyes, nose or mouth, or if I had any open wounds that that may have been exposed. I said "no" to all of the above. He then handed me some scrubs and told me to throw my shirt away. Next, he advised me to go home and take a long, hot shower."

I heard that later that night, when the car cleaners mopped up the bloody floor, they found a tooth. I doubt is was a wisdom tooth.

The more things change...The more they stay the same

2008-09-14T19:27:00.030-04:00

Some things have changed over my 22 year on the railroad. For example, when I began I was always given the unpleasant assignment of working the smoking cars (the 3rd and 5th car from the west/south end of train, or any bar car.) It was difficult to see tickets through the clouds of smoke and I frequently came home red eyed and smelling like a wet ash tray. I jumped for joy when they banned smoking.

It's hard now to believe, but back in the 80's, Grand Central was a glorified marble urinal for the homeless, and it seemed that beggars outnumbered commuters.

Other memories:

Remember buying monster sized pizza slices from Zaro's? Each slice weighed five pounds.

How about drinking at Lindy's, or buying a cup of coffee at Eclair?

What about the giant Kodak Colorama sign that towered over the east end of the GCT concourse? I used to get excited whenever they changed the photo.

Remember leaving your bags unattended and not having to say something when you saw something?

In more recent years there have also been changes.

Remember the Railfone? These phones were installed on our trains, but they charged users $2.00 a minute. A year after they were installed, everyone, and I mean everyone, had their own cell phone and the Railfone was obsolete.

With all these changes, it's comforting to know that some things stay the same:

Rocky is arguably the most well known, and notorious passenger on Metro North. He rides all three lines and all the conductors know him. I've known Rocky since he was a crazy, mixed up teenager. Back in the day, he used to dress as a male, but he slowly began to change. First came the Tina Turner wigs, then the platform shoes. He eventually graduated to hot pants with "boy toy" plastered across the back.

I remember him telling me of one memorable Thanksgiving, when he he "dressed up" for his grandmother. It nearly killed her.

He was on my train last week and I asked if I could take his picture (bottom) and post it on my blog. He agreed, but said that I was crazy to put a picture of a cross dresser on the Internet. He was dressed in a micro mini, a thong, and was wearing 12" stiletto heels when he said this...and I'm the crazy one!

Another old friend visited last week:

This is why my wife doesn't want me wearing my work boots in the house. You know, eggs, larvae, etc...

I was working a Stamford Local when a passenger spotted my friend here,"ROACH!!!" he screamed. I'm no Entomologist, but I was going to correct him and say that this is technically a water bug (at least this is what my New York co-workers call them), but then, after doing some research for this story, I found out that he was right, this is a roach- an American Cockroach to be exact. Not to be confused with the smaller, German Cockroaches, who also ride our trains. I think the passenger wanted me to kill it, but when the bug is big enough (two inches) to have its own zip code, I draw the line. Instead, I asked it to say "cheese" and I snapped its picture (above).

Here's something that hasn't changed in 35 years:

Hold on folks, the new M8's are coming in late 2009.

The Sting

2008-09-03T11:43:00.006-04:00

Yesterday, I was standing in my backyard, circular saw in one hand and a sledge hammer in the other. I had spent the better part of the morning ripping apart my old deck and throwing the remaining slices of pressure treated lumber into the weeds in the corner of the yard. I plan on leaving this pile here till I rent a dumpster and dispose of it properly.

Later in the morning, my friend "Pat" stopped by to discuss building a new deck for me. Pat's a macho guy who's an army veteran, Police Sergeant, and part time builder of decks. He came over to survey the job and inspect the work site. Sometime during our discussion, he pulled out a tape measure and started walking past my gas grill. Bees have recently nested beneath the grill's underside and they began to circle Pat. He quickly retreated six steps back.

"You're not gonna let a few bees scare you...are you?" I asked.

I grabbed the tape measure from his hand and stoically marched past the grill and began taking measurements. While doing this, I bragged, saying that I'd never been stung by a bee before.

That's when it happened.

Like a mob hit, the bees (who I believe belong to the Genovese family) surrounded me in all directions. If Scorsese filmed it, the scene would unfold in slow motion:

An unassuming man puts tape measure to garage, when several yellow and black striped missiles cross the screen in formation. The man cries out in pain, then reaches for his right leg. Just then, a Sicilian looking bee attacks from the left and jabs his other leg. The man's body convulses, as another bee (played by Joe Pesce) stabs him in the hip. The man does a little girly man dance and runs for his life. His friend, who is standing at a safe distance, doubles over in laughter.

"Owwww!!! That hurt!" I screamed. My puncture wounds began to burn.

Before leaving, Pat watched as I carried a few more pieces of lumber into the wood pile. "Be careful back there," he said, "those weeds look like poison ivy."

"Ah...don't worry." I said. "I've never gotten poison ivy before."

I better keep some calamine lotion on hand.

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

2008-08-27T12:08:00.027-04:00

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!

2008-08-22T10:49:00.008-04:00

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

2008-08-15T18:29:00.005-04:00

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'

2008-08-11T10:35:00.010-04:00

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

2008-08-07T17:24:00.004-04:00

"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

2008-08-05T15:36:00.015-04:00

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

2008-08-05T03:43:00.002-04:00

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

A Disgusting Week in Review 7/22-7/25

2008-07-27T10:02:00.034-04:00

7/22, Train 1388:

An actual conversation between me and a passenger:

Passenger: Conductor...why is this car so hot?

Me: The air conditioning isn't working.

Passenger: Okay, next question...Why is that water dripping from the ceiling? (he points upward, where water droplets are hanging like stalactites, then down, to a puddle forming on the seat across from him)

Me: Hmmm....I would say that's condensation dripping from the air conditioning.

Passenger: But I thought you said the air conditioning wasn't working?

Me: It's not....That's why it's so hot in here.

It's a vicious cycle.

7/23, New Haven, CT:

When I signed in at the yard master's office, one of the female conductors (I'll call her Patty) was telling a story and she seemed disgusted. She said that a passenger on her morning train, a businessman, had an explosive attack of diarrhea in the lavatory. Apparently this guy left no surface untouched. He erupted on the floor, the walls, the mirror, the sink, and even the ceiling. At Stamford, the last stop, Patty (not knowing what had happened) began closing the train doors. The distressed man, hearing the bells ringing, ran for the doors with his pants still down around his ankles. Patty later found a trail of fecal matter running from the lavatory, down the aisle and out the door. When she reached the yard, she called the car cleaners and told them to bring mops, Lysol and hazmat suits.

As news of Patty's adventure spread, she began getting text messages from fellow conductors...things like:

"You don't have to put up with that crap."

"I bet you had enough of his sh*t."

"I hear you're knee deep in sh*t."

Patty said she felt bad for this guy, especially since he's one of her regular passengers.

"He doesn't sound regular to me." I said.

Train 1388:

While boarding the train in Grand Central, my coworkers and I watch a muscular man in a wife beater tee shirt, dance around the platform and pick up spent beer cans from the recycle bin. After digging through piles of refuse, he finds a can, shakes it, and then drinks whatever swill remains on the bottom. Disgusting!!!

7/24 Train 1583:

My assistant conductor tells me that radio host/Guardian Angel founder, Curtis Sliwa is in the third head car. Like Superman (minus the cape and tights) I turn into my alter ego, "The Conductor to the Stars." I feel it my duty as the CTTS to introduce myself and interview him for this blog.
Curtis is easy to find because he's dressed in full Guardian Angel uniform, i.e. red beret, red jacket. I'm a little disappointed because he's sitting in the window seat and is shielded by an aisle passenger sitting next to him. I go back to my cars, only to return a half hour later and find him fast asleep. Even "The Conductor to the Stars" doesn't have the cogliones to wake him. His loss.

7/25 Grand Central, 12:55 am:

A passion play:

From a distance, I watch as a drunk man in a conservative brown business suit pounds on the plate glass doors at Zaro's. The store is closed, but there's a clerk cleaning up inside . Pantomiming, the businessman points to a cooler of Heineken that lay on the other side of the glass partition. The clerk ignores his pleas at first, but the pounding gets louder and louder, and he finally looks up from his mop and mouths the word "closed."

The businessman's wife comes along and tries to pull him away from the storefront. I can't hear her, but I know what she's saying. She's saying..."You've had enough" and "I'm tired, and I just want to get home." The man turns his back on his wife and shows the clerk a $20 bill. The clerk, suddenly interested, puts two 12 ounce cans in a plastic bag and heads for the door. The businessman shakes his head "no" and slyly holds up three fingers. The clerk returns to the cooler and throws a third can into the bag. The wife looks exasperated. The clerk slides the glass partition open an inch or two, and a folded $20 bill exchanges hands. With the skill of an obstetrician, the man, ever so gently, delivers the plastic bag through the small opening, then walks away...contented.

7/25 Train 1388:

While collecting tickets, I notice an adorable three-year-old Asian boy out of the corner of my eye. He looks very excited to see me. When I get closer, he shows me that he has his very own metal ticket punch and he asks me for my ticket. I hand him a pile of seat checks and he shouts with joy. His parents speak broken English, but I understand that he "roves trains" and that he wants to be a conductor. I hand him another pile of seat checks. By the time we reach Stamford, the floor is littered with little round paper chads and the kid is demanding comprehensive dental and a 401K plan.

7/27 12:50 AM:

While walking through the Lexington Avenue passageway, a drunk, middle aged couple (are you sensing a theme here?) stops me and asks if the "The Graybar" is still serving drinks. I smirk and explain that "The Graybar" is not a tavern but rather an office building.

"Well then," they ask, "Where can we get a drink?"

I want to say, " try The Empire State" or "The Chrysler" but I lose my nerve and point them to the Oyster Bar.

How I roll-The week in review

2008-07-19T12:06:00.017-04:00

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

2008-07-17T10:48:00.009-04:00

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

2008-07-14T14:41:00.014-04:00

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

2008-07-09T12:57:00.005-04:00

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=6 newsid=19835301&BRD=2329&PAG=461&dept_id=484827&rfi=6

Conductor's Log: 07/06/08

2008-07-06T21:23:00.029-04:00

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!

2008-07-02T10:30:00.011-04:00

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

2008-07-01T11:48:00.001-04:00

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!

2008-06-22T12:53:00.022-04:00

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"

2008-06-17T13:43:00.012-04:00

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

2008-06-09T15:16:00.013-04:00

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

2008-06-06T13:50:00.006-04:00

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?

2008-06-02T10:25:00.013-04:00

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

2008-05-26T23:38:00.004-04:00

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:

Innovations on the 6:12

2008-05-25T23:32:00.012-04:00

I have to give the passengers on the 6:12 PM train to Bridgeport a lot of credit; they're an innovative lot. Take these two fellows for example:

With the high price of gasoline, our trains are more crowded than ever. Commuters are lucky to find seats on our off-peak trains, never mind during the rush hour. This is why this gentleman's idea is brilliant:

My friend here knows that if he arrives late, he'll never get a seat, so...he brings his own. He told me that toting this chair through the city is a drag, but it's better than standing up or squishing between two smelly commuters. When his ride is over, he simply folds the chair back up and slides it back into the canvas bag. He throws the bag over his shoulder and away he goes.

I like this idea. I'm thinking of carrying a bunch of these chairs around with me and possibly renting them out. I could start a squad of train cabana boys. Maybe we could even branch out and sell drinks with little umbrellas in them.

My next passenger's innovation is more high tech:

No, this is not LeVar Burton on Star Trek, it's just one of my passengers wearing a pair of EZVision eyewear glasses, and though they're not "virtual reality"...they're pretty darn close. My friend here showed me how they work. The glasses and earphones are plugged into an iPod that is placed in his lap. A strap pulls the glasses tight to the head so all outside light is blocked out. This gives the viewer the sensation of sitting in a movie theater, stereo sound and all. Hey, maybe me and the cabana boys can sell $10 buckets of popcorn.

What will they think of next?

*I'd like to thank these gentlemen for allowing me to use their images for this post.

A day at Yankee Stadium with my family...Priceless

2008-05-04T20:04:00.022-04:00

Today my wife and I took our daughters to the Bronx for their first New York Yankees' game. Recently, I'd been given two free tickets from a friend and all I had to do was shell out $95 (plus shipping and commission) for two additional tickets from StubHub (believe it or not, my wife was able to buy two tickets for seats next to our original two). This, coupled with the fact that my family gets free train rides on Metro North, made me feel like I was getting a real bargain. The weather was picture perfect...this was adding up to be a great day.

Then, I got to the stadium...

Outside the ballpark, I noticed a street vendor selling hot dogs. I suggested that we buy our franks here instead of paying exorbitant prices inside the stadium. My wife gently reminded me that this was our daughters' first time at Yankee Stadium and buying hot dogs from a stadium vendor was part of the whole experience.

Four hot dogs bought from stadium vendor= $20 + tip

Sometime around the third inning, the people sitting in front of us came back to their seats with a big cup of french fries. "Dad," my younger daughter said, "will you take me to get french fries?"

Large fries (add cheese) = $8.50

Three sodas in souvenir cups = $18

One pretzel = $5

As is baseball tradition, we sang "Take Me Out to The Ball Game" during the 7th inning stretch. This made me hungry:

Bag of Cracker Jacks = $6 (It was really $5.75, but being a big spender, I let him keep the change.)

I started to mentally add up what I'd spent and it was beginning to affect my enjoyment of the game. Then, someone walked by with "Dippin' Dots" in a little souvenir Yankee helmet. "Bob," my wife said. "should we get the girls ice cream?"

Two cups of "Dippin' Dots" in little souvenir Yankee helmets = $13

Like most teenage girls, my daughters are crazy about Derek Jeter. After the game, as we were leaving the stadium...

"Dad, can we get Derek Jeter T-shirts?"

Yeah, I know I could have just said "No" but I've been putting in a lot of hours at work lately and I'm suffering from overtime guilt. Besides, the Yankees just won...

Two Derek Jeter T-shirts=$45

Oh yeah....then there was the newspaper, magazines, Dunkin' Donuts run and beverages for the train ride. You can add it all up if you like, I just don't have the courage.

The next time someone offers me "free" Yankee tickets, I just might have to decline... I don't think I can afford it!

In a New York Minute

2008-04-27T12:47:00.013-04:00

WARNING: This post contains subject matter that some might find disturbing. Reader discretion is advised.

In a New York Minute

By Don Henley

Harry got up

Dressed all in black

Went down to the station

And he never came back

They found his clothing

Scattered somewhere down the track

And he won't be down on

Wall Street

in the morning

Henry, my engineer, was in particularly good spirits that afternoon. His beloved Baltimore Orioles had just swept The New York Yankees in the latest home stand series and he was crowing, saying his birdies were going to go all the way to win the American League pennant.

"Notch it out to P-2," yelled a technician from the middle of the head car.

Henry cranked the throttle clockwise and we began to accelerate.

The test train we were running had just been refurbished, meaning that the railroad had to put a 1ooo or so miles on the equipment before they would accept delivery from the re-manufacturer.

We had no passengers on board, just me,Henry and maybe five or six electrical technicians. Each of them had a laptop computer, which in turn was connected to circuit boards hidden deep behind the train's cabinet doors. They asked us to make simulated station stops so they can make sure the train's computers were working as intended.

"B-Max!" Another tech shouted and Henry turned the throttle counter clockwise and the brakes slowed the train to a stop and we all lurched forward.

"Henry...How long until you retire?" I asked.

"P-4" interrupted a technician, and we began to rapidly accelerate through Westchester County.

"I've only got about another year... year and a half tops. My wife and I plan to...."

Whoosh, the emergency brakes suddenly came on and Henry jumped to his feet; "EMERGENCY-EMERGENCY-EMERGENCY," he shouted in the radio. His skin went pale white.

Ping! Scrape! Pang! Scrape! Ping!

A gut wrenching sound came up under the train.

"EMERGENCY!-EMERGENCY!-EMERGENCY!" Henry shouted again, "Some guy just dove off the platform in front of me.

He had a home

The love of a girl

But men get lost sometimes

As the years unfurl

One day he crossed some line

And he was too much in this world

But I guess it doesn't matter anymore

I dreaded this day since I hired on the railroad. I'd heard other conductor's fatality stories and I knew my day would come eventually, but it's something you can never really prepare for.

As is railroad protocol, it's the conductor's responsibility to go outside and find the victim. First, I called the rail traffic controller and got a hold on all four tracks. I then climbed down the train ladder and went outside. I walked slowly back along the ballast, looking beneath the train to see if we possibly dragged the guy. The only thing I found was some blood and pieces of flesh clinging to the third rail shoes.

After inspecting the equipment, I began to walk back towards the passenger station which was about 1/8 of a mile behind us (it takes long distances for trains to stop.) It was a bright sunny day and I remember thinking that the weather was in contrast to the horror that lay before me. In the distance I could see the figure of a man slumped in the gauge of the rail. The body was folded backwards on top of itself, almost as if he were going to be neatly placed in a drawer somewhere. My stomach began to knot.

In a New York Minute

Everything can change

In a New York Minute

Things can get a little strange

I had just about reached the station when I saw a police car and a fire engine pull into the parking lot. They were immediately followed by a railroad trainmaster (supervisor.) After a brief interview, the trainmaster told me to go back to the train and await further instructions.

I had forgotten about Henry, and how upset he looked. When I got back to the train I discovered him having heart palpitations. I called the trainmaster and soon an ambulance was carting him off to the emergency room for observation. He was later released. Engineers are the silent victims of these fatalities/suicides and though now retired, I'm sure he still relives this incident in his sleep.

And in these days

When darkness falls early

And people rush home

To the ones they love

You better take a fool's advice

And take care of your own

One day they're here;

Next day they're gone

One of the perks of being a conductor is...

2008-04-27T11:52:00.015-04:00

Last night I had a group of 24 Fairfield University co-eds on my train; one more beautiful than the next. They were posing for photos and I asked if I could take a picture for my blog. They were thrilled.

Now, if only my wife was:

Me: (Trying to be casual.) Hey hon...Look at this picture I took last night.

Wife: Hmmm.

Me: (A little nervous now) Yeah, they were just these crazy college girls going down to a club in the city. It was one of the girl's 21st birthday. I thought I'd put it on the blog... you know just to demonstrate how the trains are full of beautiful women.

Wife: And you expect me to buy that?

Me: Well...Yeah!

Wife: Perv!

Me: No, really... Pretty women are a big part of the conductor experience.

Wife: You realize that you're old enough to be these girls' father?

Me: ...You really know how to hurt a guy.

The star to the conductors?

2008-04-24T22:22:00.004-04:00

It must be "Topsy Turvy Day." My union secretary just sent me a link to a blog where a celebrity writes about his experience with Metro North conductors.

http://www.newsgroper.com/christopher-walken/2008/04/24/if-you-are-one-final-two-internets-please-make-your-way-forward

AN INTERESTING HISTORY LESSON

2008-04-12T21:59:00.009-04:00

Jamie, a friend and coworker, always sends me the most interesting emails. Here's an
abbreviated version of the latest one:

The US standard railroad gauge (distance between the rails) is 4 feet,8.5 inches. That's an exceedingly odd number.

Why was that gauge used?

Because that's the way they built them in England, and English expatriates built the US railroads.

Why did the English build them like that?

Because the first rail lines were built by the same people who built the pre-railroad tramways,

and that's the gauge they used.

Why did 'they' use that gauge then?

Because the people who built the tramways used the same jigs and tools that they used for
building wagons, which used that wheel spacing.

Why did the wagons have that particular odd wheel spacing?

Well, if they tried to use any other spacing, the wagon wheels would break on some of the old,
long distance roads in England, because that's the spacing of the wheel ruts.

So who built those old rutted roads?

Imperial Rome built the first long distance roads in Europe (and England ) for their legions. The
roads have been used ever since.

And the ruts in the roads?

Roman war chariots formed the initial ruts,which everyone else had to match for fear of
destroying their wagon wheels. Since the chariots were made for Imperial Rome , they were all
alike in the matter of wheel spacing. Therefore the United States standard railroad gaugeof 4
feet, 8.5 inches is derived from the original specifications for an Imperial Roman war chariot.
Bureaucracies live forever.

So the next time you are handed a Specification/Procedure/Process and wonder 'What horse's
ass came up with it?' you may be exactly right. Imperial Roman army chariots were made just
wide enough to accommodate the rear ends of two war horses. (Two horses' asses.)

Physics 101

2008-04-10T20:27:00.009-04:00

This afternoon an elderly, white haired passenger stopped me and asked a question.

"Conductor, what do you call the guy who drives the train? Is he a motorman?"

"No," I said. "On the subway they're called motorman. Here they're called engineers."

"Okay then, my colleague and I have a question about the engineer."

I thought I was going to hear a complaint about where the engineer had spotted the train on the platform, and I was mentally preparing an answer.

"I know it's kind of an oddball question," he said, "but we're wondering...Is it harder for the engineer to accelerate when the train is packed full of passengers?"

"Hmm," I said. "That's an interesting question. I'd have to say no."

I tried to look learned and knowledgeable as I expounded on my theory. "You see, these trains are extremely heavy," (I had no idea what I was talking about, but I wasn't going to let that stop me) "and the added passenger weight is negligible to the train's performance."

My passengers looked pretty impressed with my explanation and they thanked me for my time and expertise.

I knew I'd shoveled the BS pretty deep, and feeling guilty, I walked up to the head car and knocked on the engineer's cab door. "Hey Mark," I said, "a passenger just asked if it's harder for you to accelerate when the train is full versus when it's empty."

"A crowded train is much more sluggish," he said.

"Yeah," I said. "That's what I thought."

I then swallowed my pride, walked back to my inquisitive passengers, and told them what the engineer had said.

"Yeah," they said. "That's what we thought. It's basic physics."

From Savin Rock Park to Lighthouse

2008-04-03T19:00:00.022-04:00

Don't ask me why, but this morning, while taking a shower, I started singing "From Savin Rock Park to Lighthouse." If you're not from Connecticut, or you're under the age of 85, I don't expect you to know this song. It's about the trolley ride from West Haven's Savin Rock Amusement Park (razed in the mid-1960's) and Lighthouse Point Park in New Haven. The song's origins are unknown, but I believe it was written in the early 1900's. It was taught to me by "Dick," my mother's gentleman friend, when I was but a youngster. He'd sit me on his knee (after one too many cocktails) and say "repeat after me":

(*Sung in an oompah-calliope style. Kind of like singing along to a merry-go-round.)

From Savin Rock Park

To Lighthouse

All for a dime

From Park Avenue

To Morris Cove too

Oh boy what a time

When we were kissin'

The motor was hissin'

Oh boy what a time

If you want a good trip

That's really a pip

Take the George Street Line

Down to Dinty Moore's

We go there because

There's corned beef and cabbage

And old Irish Stew

We sing the old songs

As well as the new

That's where I met

Sweet Rosie O'Grady

Down at Dinty Moore's

A few years back, someone wrote The New Haven Register and asked if anyone remembered the lyrics to this song. Me and a few 90-years olds were the only ones who did. Surprisingly, it seems there are a few variations to the lyrics. The trolley line (in my song, George Street) depended on what route the singer lived on. Also, not everyone remembered the protagonist's girlfriend as "Sweet Rosie O'Grady" or meeting her at Dinty Moore's (a restaurant, I presume.) This may have been a cultural lyric, possibly directed at New Haven's Irish community.

I'm not sure why Dick thought it important that I learn this song and I like to think that it was more than just the booze talking. Maybe he was psychic and knew that someday I'd have a blog and transcribe the lyrics for posterity sake.

If you remember this song or its history, I invite you to leave a comment in the section below.

Badfella

2008-03-29T15:40:00.016-04:00

What happened that evening in 1996 was surreal and like something out of a Martin Scorsese movie.

Scene one:

The opening shot shows a deserted, dimly lit train platform in New Haven, CT:

Sunday, Memorial Day Weekend, 1996, 2 AM

Flashes across the screen.

My tale begins 12 years ago on Memorial Day weekend. I was working the 11:22 train home from New York to New Haven on a Saturday night. This train has a Waterbury Branch connection, meaning that we had several branch passengers, or “Naugatuck Valley Mutants” as my coworkers call them. Most of these people are hard working, God fearing individuals, but there are also several ne’er do wells, many fresh from serving prison terms, returning from stints in a half way houses, rehab facilities or methadone clinics. Most are on the low end of society’s economic scale. Some are dirty; others missing teeth, and many have a hard time coming up with a ticket or train fare.

On this particular night, I collected a Waterbury ticket from a thin glassy-eyed Puerto Rican man in his mid twenties. He spent most of the ride taking nips from a bottle of whiskey he had wrapped in a paper bag. He looked a little inebriated, so I warned him to stay awake or he’d miss his connection in Bridgeport. He grunted something unintelligible to me and then closed his eyes. Somewhere around Milford (two stops beyond Bridgeport) I heard a loud pounding on my train cab door. It was my drunken amigo.

“Where’s the Waterbury train?” He asked.

I looked at my watch and said, “Half way to Waterbury by now. You must have slept past your stop.”

“How am I going to get to Waterbury?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “That was the last connection of the night. Maybe you can get a cab in New Haven.”

“NO,” he screamed. “YOU have to get me to Waterbury!”

I assumed he meant “you” as in Metro North and I told him that the railroad couldn’t be held responsible for people who fall asleep and miss their station stops.

“Yo man,” he said. “You think this is funny or something? You better get that smirk off your face.”

I didn’t realize I had a smirk on my face, but his threatening manner was making me a little nervous, so maybe I flashed a defensive grin.

“You better get me to Waterbury.”

“We’re done here,” I said, and I slammed the cab door in his face. He then spent the next five minutes pounding on my cab door, calling me names and threatening to kick my ass. Thankfully, we were almost to New Haven, so I didn’t bother calling for the cops.

Scene two:

Suddenly, as if to break the eerie silence, a silver and red striped train streaks across the picture, Clickety-Clack, Clickety-Clack, C-l-i-c-k-e-t-y-C-l-a... The train slows to rumble and then makes an abrupt stop.

The muffled sound of a conductor’s announcement can be heard:

“This is New Haven, our final station stop. Don’t forget your personal belongings and watch your step when leaving the train.”

The doors slide open and the commuters groggily spill out onto the platform and then descend down the stairs and into the station. One passenger, a thin Hispanic man in his mid 20’s, steps out onto the platform and then hides in the shadows.

The camera angle shifts and we see a balding, disheveled conductor, stepping off his train and slowly walking down the platform towards his car in the employee parking lot. The Hispanic man steps out of the shadows, reaches into a blue knapsack and quickly stuffs a shiny metal object into his right hand coat pocket. The conductor turns and sees the man and recognizes him as his disgruntled passenger.

“Hey conductor! Remember me?”

“Yeah, I said. “I remember.”

“Let’s see how funny you think I am now.”

He then brandished an outstretched pocket, as if he were hiding a gun, and dug a hard metal object into the middle of my back.

“Let’s see who’s laughing now,” he asked.

Scene three:

An aerial shot shows the wide expanse of the New Haven rail yard. A conductor is shown crossing the tracks, followed closely by a thin black haired man. The pair disappear into a white trailer at the edge of the tracks.

“Bill” I said as we entered the Stationmaster’s trailer. “There’s a guy here with a gun at my back.”

Bill, the Stationmaster, knows that I have a strange sense of humor, and he must have thought I was joking.

“I’m not kidding,” I said. “Can you find a train to take this guy to Waterbury?”

Bill, quickly assessed the situation and pushed past my new friend and I. He then walked out of the trailer and into his pick up truck that was parked outside. Seconds later, he returned with a fanny pack in his hand.

“You want to see a real gun?” Bill asked the passenger. “I’ll show you a real gun.”

Bill unzipped his fanny pack and displayed a small metal handgun.

“You think I’m afraid of you?” My passenger asked. “You think I’m afraid of getting shot? You think I’m afraid to die?”

Seeing that Bill had a gun, I suddenly got brave and found my voice again. “Listen pal” I said. “Someone might get hurt here. Why don’t you do us all a favor and get lost.”

Surprisingly, my passenger heeded my advice and removed the object he’d jabbed into my back and walked out of the trailer. Bill and I watched as he crossed the tracks and into Union Station.

Scene four:

A Hispanic man is on a pay phone in Union Station in New Haven. An MTA police officer cautiously approaches him and takes the phone from his hand. The cop then throws the man against a wall and begins frisking him.

“Where’s the gun?” Demands the cop.

The passenger says there is no gun, only a small metal camera tripod that he carries in the front pocket of his coat. The cop asks why the man carries a camera tripod in his pocket.

“I had a complaint against the conductor,” he says. I just wanted to take his picture.”

Epilogue:

I promised Bill (not his real name) that I wouldn’t tell this story until he died or retired.

Happy Retirement!

Now, if only I knew where I put my glasses

2008-03-14T21:42:00.001-04:00

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/articles/news/news.html?in_article_id=533358&in_page_id=1770

Justin Wong...uh...Long

2008-03-11T11:13:00.014-04:00

I’ve been hesitant about writing about my encounter with actor Justin Long, because I figured most of you have never heard of him. But yesterday, when I was at the checkout line at the local grocery store, I saw his picture plastered on the glossy cover of this week’s People Magazine. There he is shown in blue swimming trunks, while cavorting in the Caribbean surf with his bikini-clad girlfriend, actress Drew Barrymore. The story is really about Drew, but still, I figure if he’s big time enough for People Magazine, he’s big time enough for a post on “Derailed.”

A few months back, I was collecting tickets on one of my afternoon trains, when a thin, boyish-looking guy, sporting razor stubble and Wayfarer sunglasses came walking down the aisle. He had just left the bar car and was carrying an army green duffel bag over his shoulder and a bag of newly purchased pretzels in his hand. I remember thinking that he looked a little nervous and suspicious. It was as if he were trying hard not to be recognized. This made me think that he was either:

A.) A terrorist.
B.) In the witness protection program.
C.) Some sort of celebrity.

It wasn’t till I spoke with Seth, our bartender, that I found out “C” was the right answer.

“Did you see that guy with the pretzels?” asked Seth.

“Yeah.” I answered.

“That’s the guy from the movie ‘Accepted.”

I had never seen the movie ‘Accepted,’ but Seth seemed pretty excited that he had just sold this guy pretzels. I must have gotten caught up in Seth’s excitement, because when I collected his ticket, (he was seated in the last seat, hidden in a corner) I asked:

“So, I hear you’re an actor?”

“Yeah,” he answered, seeming a little embarrassed.

“The bartender tells me that you were in the movie ‘Accepted.”

“That was me,” he whispered, as almost to say; can you please keep it down?

I ignored this, and continued with my inquisition.

“What’s your name?”

“Justin…Justin Long.”

“Justin WONG?” I asked loudly (funny, he didn't look Chinese.)

“No, No,” he whispered, “Long…you know, like the opposite of short.”

“Oh, LONG!”

He now began slouching down in his seat.

“What brings you to Connecticut?”

“I’m from Fairfield and I came home to visit my parents.”

“Hey,” I said. “Do you know that actor…Jesse something…you know, the kid from ‘Flags of Our Fathers?”

“Jesse Bradford?”

“Yeah, yeah…that’s him. “You know, he’s also from Fairfield, and he’s ridden my train a couple of times. He seems like a nice guy.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I know him. Our parents are good friends.”

“Well it was nice to meet you Justin.”

“Nice to meet you too,” he said.

He seemed to be relieved when I walked away.

I continued collecting tickets till I came upon a group of guys in their twenties. I asked if they had ever heard of an actor named Justin Long and I pointed in his direction. They turned around and stared. One guy said that Long played the cool “Mac” guy against the nerdy Bill Gates’ look-alike PC guy in the current Apple Computer commercials.

“Oh, that’s him?” I asked.

Now that I had seen some of his work, I began to respect Mr. Long as a true artist. The next time I passed by him, I stopped and explained that I write a blog called “Derailed” and it contains a lot of stories about my celebrity encounters. I then began to reach for my cell phone and asked if he’d be willing to take a picture with me for one of my posts…

“No… that’s okay,” he said…"I’d rather not.”

I was tempted to thumb through the “pix” section of my phone and show him my photos with Gwen Stefani and “Mikey” from the Life Cereal commercials.

“What,” I’d ask, “You think you’re too big for my little blog? You think you’re a bigger star than Gwen or Mikey? Huh punk?”

I lost my nerve, and in the end I thanked him for his time and wished him luck.

Since our encounter, I have seen Justin Long all over the place (especially since he started dating Drew). He was in the most recent “Die Hard” movie with Bruce Willis and he is now, apparently, Hollywood’s hottest new actor.

I hope when he gets his first Oscar, he thanks the “Conductor to the Stars” for giving him his first big break.

We intrerrupt this message...

2008-03-06T08:18:00.007-05:00

Sorry I haven't written lately folks, but I 've been working crazy hours, which has left me feeling too tired and uninspired to write anything. A few of this morning's news headlines have rousted me out of bed and to the computer.

Item one: Police Investigate Time Square Blast By Derek Rose AP

New York-An explosive device caused minor damage to an empty military reruiting station in Time Square early Thursday, shaking guests in hotel rooms high above "the crossroads of the world."

The reason this news item is significant to me, is that two weeks ago, my family and I took a mini vacation in the city. We had tickets to see "Wicked" and "Mary Poppins," ate at "Carmines" (one of our favorite restaurants) and spent a couple of nights at the Marriot Marquis Hotel in Time Square (that would be one of the hotels that shook.) Our room overlooked the military recruiting center where this blast occured. Here's a picture my daughter took from our hotel room window:

Item two: Dozens of suburban trains delayed after vacant NYC building partially collapses March 5, 2008

BY ASSOCIATED PRESS NEW YORK---- A vacant five-story apartment building scheduled for rehabilitation partially collapsed Tuesday, leading to the suspension of dozens of rush-hour suburban trains amid fears the vibrations could cause more bricks to fall. There were no immediate reports of injuries.

Two days ago, a building that is adjacent to Metro North tracks collapsed in Harlem. This shut down the railroad for a couple of hours and caused major delays. Luckily, my inbound train only suffered a 10 minute delay. Amazingly, a news crew had a camera rolling and caught the building collapse as it happened, (there's a short commercial but it's worth the wait.)