We’ve long heard that subways run on some sort of actual schedule, similar to commuter trains. Like, the 6 train is due in at 9:15, and if you miss that one, the next one is due in at 9:20, or something like that.

We always kind of chalked that up to an urban myth, like the Samaritan who grabbed the stray puppy off the mean streets of Gotham, only to have it turn out to be a giant rat, or the one about the family who was robbed of everything but their camera and (tainted) toothbrushes.

Well, the MTA actually makes these subways schedules available online (our apologies to everyone who’s known this since the ’60s). Here’s the link.

Back to that 6 train–if it seems like she’s pulling into Grand Central every three minutes or so during rush hour, she is, at least theoretically. The 6 is scheduled to arrive at 9:04, then 9:07, then 9:10, and on, until it lags to every four minutes at 9:23.

Good luck downloading the sked to your Blackberry–it’s a pdf file.

Finally catching up on rest from a quadruple-overtime hockey game the night before, and the drizzly weather suits me fine. Changing up my usual triathalon of biking to station, sardine can swim in train car, and speed-walk to the office, I walked the 7/10th mile to the station, and thus forgot to bring along my steely travel coffee mug.

I can still feel the guilt-vibes from No Impact Man for footprinting another dreaded coffee cup on my carbon-account, but I’ve been chipping away at my impact here and there. Looking around on the train, lots of folks are switching from paper to re-usable containers.

I stopped at (the not so evil) Starbucks in Jersey before boarding the train, and they filled up my (Fleet Bank) steely travel coffee mug without a shrug, which was nice–and only charged me $1.66 for it…which is nice.

The guy fixing his broken coffee mug at the fixins bar asked, “Did they fill that up for you?” and I said, “Yup!”

I tried not to sound victorious, or cooler-than thou, but he was drinking ice coffee anyway–so I felt tres un-cool, not making the switch to ice-coffee here in May.

Matt Lauer put on his best play clothes this morning to examine “The Mystery of Track 61″ on the Today show. Lauer went 30 feet below the Waldorf to investigate the secret train track that has intrigued urban explorers for decades.

As luck would have it, when one Googles “Track 61″–as thousands, perhaps millions did this morning, none other than Trainjotting is the first listing to pop up. The link brings readers to an Ask Engine Bob column devoted to every last detail about Track 61, which FDR used to sneak in and out of Grand Central and hide his disability (he had severe polio) from the public.

As a result of our stellar Google placement, we had nothing short of stunning traffic on ol’ Trainjotting. (A link from Gothamist helped as well.)

Lauer ended up with a nice 7-minute segment, with some commentary from colorful Metro-North spokesman Dan Brucker and Brooklynite historian Doris Kearns Goodwin. He spoke about not only the phantom track, but the mysterious bulletproof freight car still located under the Waldorf that played some sneaky role in presidential security.

[photo: MSNBC.MSN.com]

The letter came on crisp Metro-North Railroad stationery yesterday, informing me that the railroad had approved my damaged-property claim stemming from the train armrest tearing my pants on April 17. A check for $15 was enclosed to cover “Misc/Damage to Personal Property.”

I must say, much as I was skeptical that Metro-North would uphold their end of the bargain, the whole experience was ruthlessly efficient. I contacted Metro-North April 17, the same day their train ripped my decade-old Gap khakis. I was told to write a letter, which I did, then received a call on April 29 instructing me to email a digital photo of my train pass and the torn pants.

I did that late on April 29, the check was issued May 1, and arrived May 7–”representing full and final settlement of the aforementioned matter.”

If only Metro-North’s trains were as prompt.

I had the divine pleasure of working from home yesterday, and with the 90 minutes of round-trip Metro-North time out of the equation, I was done–and, of course, home–at 5:30.

I took advantage of the bonus time by taking Little G to the playground over at Hummerville Elementary. He climbed the three steps up to the ramp he loves to run on, a 30-foot corridor on a slight incline that leads to a mad tangle of slides, tunnels and bars.

I was watching out of the corner of my eye when Little G suddenly dropped like a rock, parallel to the ground just before he slammed into the ramp. He jumped to his feet as I ran to him; he wore the WTF? mask just before his little face scrunched into prepare-to-wail mode.

As it turned out, some jackass–OK, more likely, some kid simply being a kid–had laid a branch about the size of a pool cue across the ramp’s handrails, about 2 1/2 feet from the ground. Caught up in the rapture that is those first couple steps on a playground, Little G hit the stick with his forehead at full speed, and even broke the thing in two.

I held Little G as he wailed, a small cut rising on his temple. Of course, he wanted Mommy, so we got in the stroller and headed for home.

I offered a little “special coal”– which seems to work for Thomas the Train’s boiler ache in one of Little G’s books, and often for Little G himself after he’s taken a tumble. The invisible offering helped a little.

There will be countless times when I’m at a loss to explain life’s small injustices to Little G (and, down the road, Big G) after he’s been stung by one.

This was but the first.

As of this moment, that beer, wine, cocktail or soft drink you rely on to melt away the day’s frustrations as you board Metro-North is considerably more expensive than it used to be.

Metro-North spokesman Dan Brucker says prices are up “give or take about a dollar” on beverages. “Some have not been raised in ten years,” adds Brucker.

With the new prices, top shelf liquor is $6.50, Foster’s oil cans are $4.75 and soda is $1.50. Our beloved Sam Adams is considered an “imported beer” despite its Massachusetts address, and thus costs $3.25.

According to Metro-North, riders consumed 1 million bottles and cans of beer and 1 million non alcoholic drinks on the trains last year.

I’m seeing a disturbing trend out there.

No, not Jose Reyes’ tendency to hit lazy fly balls, or the price of a gallon of gas inching toward the price of a pint of Brooklyn Ale.  

It’s the trend of commuting men wearing sneakers with their suits, presumably to facilitate walking before or after the train ride, while changing into proper shoes that spent the night tucked under the desk.

I saw three such men this morning alone: One in a fine gray suit with bright white Reeboks, one with a beige summer suit with running shoes, and one clod wearing a charcoal suit with those clunky brown things that are part sneaker and part hiking shoe.

In Trainjotting parlance, these men who so carelessly combine Armani and Nike are known as Armanikes.

I can’t quite put my finger the resurgence of the Armanike. Perhaps those suburban train station parking lots are just so crowded that some are opting to walk the half-mile. Perhaps they see their slim, mussed-hair hipster brethren traipsing around 1515 Broadway and the Shake Shack in Madison Square Park, and see that it’s OK to wear sneakers with a sport jacket, or perhaps even a suit.

Far as we can tell, ironic kicks like Chuck Taylors or Vans or Simples with a Salvation Army blazer can work. Big white Reeboks with a standard navy sport jacket–aka “the Seinfeld”–does not.

Men, rise above this. Don’t complain about your blisters, your bunions, your plantar fasciitis. If you’re making the effort to drape yourself in a good suit, dear God, go the extra half-mile and adorn your feet with something made of leather.

Your statue need not have feet of clay.

The Missus was watching a DVR’d version of Law & Order over the weekend, the much hyped one starring Robin Williams as some creepy audio engineer who calls McDonald’s restaurants and asks female employees to conduct their own strip search. (Ah, Robin, has your career really come to this? Is L&O not where all young actors’ careers start, not finish?)

The episode, the 200th in Special Victims Unit history, tipped its cap to the super-cool clip of the actors freezing in place in Grand Central.

Just as the “Improv Everywhere”-inspired freeze-out goes down, Williams’ Merritt Rook character is apprehended by Mariska Hargitay’s “Olivia” after pretending to be part of the ploy.

Regrettably, L&O, that cornerstone of NYC culture, refers to Grand Central as Grand Central Station, not Terminal, in the white block letters that precedes the scene.

Someone’s got some pretty cool, albeit raw, footage of the L&O shoot in Grand Central. Looks like Hargitay is considerably taller than Mork.

An interview with former Mets skipper Bobby Valentine in the NY Times Magazine revealed that Valentine, now managing the Chiba Lotte Marines outside of Tokyo, rides his bike to the ballpark.

Stamford’s own Bobby V is the subject of an upcoming ESPN documentary called “The Zen of Bobby V.”

Valentine also explains why a tied game would automatically end after 12 innings:

 Japan is a public-transportation society, and the trains stop running at midnight.

One can only imagine how crowded that last train must be.

Speaking of Valentine’s commute, a very good profile in GQ several years ago detailed the seemingly obsessive/compulsive manager’s mounting frustrations at the garbage he saw on the Merritt while schlepping to Shea each day.

[image: allposters.com]

We recently featured some video on the white-gloved employees in Japan whose job it is to shove people into packed subways. Someone–OK, TJ’s dad–just sent a second video of the above, and this one’s even better.

I love how the pushers initially start scanning the mass of humankind for their angles and points of leverage; they look like hockey referees waiting for the right opportunity to separate two giant Canucks ensconced in a five-minute major.

I love how the human overspill spreads several feet onto the platform, yet the men still know there’s a way to get everyone in.

I love how no one complains as they’re being violently shoved; while the clip has full audio, you don’t hear a peep of complaint, though I’m pretty sure you can hear the guy in the tan overcoat’s spine get rearranged.