A party in Gotham had me on the 6:53 p.m. into the city Saturday night, one of the very rare occasions when I’m on the train outside of typical commuter hours. It’s quite an experience, the train packed with people drunk on anticipation of the night ahead, or simply drunk on the 6-pack they’d been working on since Chappaqua.

Being on the weekend train felt a bit like coming home to your apartment and discovering that your roommate is throwing a not-unlarge party: All these strange people in your place, eating your Cape Cod potato chips, playing your CDs, using your coffee mug as an ashtray, wearing your t-shirt from U2’s ‘85 tour (uh, “Unforgettable Fire”).  You look around, saying, who are these people, and, more importantly, what the f*&% are they doing in my place?

The unspoken rules that govern the commute are out the window on the weekend train: There are the cellphone screamers (with nary a chatterblox in sight!), the multiple-seat occupiers, the aisle-standers, the leavers behind of trash.

Here’s a modest proposal that will never, ever fly: Metro-North should dedicate one car per weekend ride for holders of monthly passes (hard copies or digital ones). The Commuter Club Car, available only to the daily riders. It be a nice perk for buying a monthly Webticket, other than the 18 cents we save for purchasing it online.

The weird thing was, my return train just after midnight was dead quiet. I figured that would be chock-full of drunken louts, but in fact, it seemed nearly everyone on there passed out before the train hit 125th. How many Accidental Tourists were hatched that night?

One non-sleeping young woman offered up a quote to make anyone from the dinky hamlet of Hawthorne smile. As the train headed out of North White Plains, she told her friends with confidence, “It goes, Valhalla, then Pleasantville, then Chappaqua,” completely omitting that little H-Town stop after Valhalla.

Hawthorne. The Peter Brady of the Brady lads. The Abdul Salaam of the New York Sack Exchange. The Jose Carreras of The Three Tenors.

No respect.