It’s the second of three installments of “The Great Train Revelry,” the Metro-North pub-crawl feature that appeared in the Journal News mag INTown. Part I focused on the Harlem Line, and Part II on the New Haven Line. Extra added bonus: A drag queen sighting!

The New Haven Line

Unlike on the Harlem and Hudson train lines, the New Haven’s cars are ancient, dark, and more prone to breakdowns. But that’s more than made up for by some of the liveliest downtowns in Westchester, which will serve us well as we endeavor to reach the next four bars. Our spirits are further lifted as, heading out of the city, we’re treated to the spectacle of a full-grown, full-blown transvestite high-stepping into the car somewhere between Harlem and Fordham.

About 6-foot-6, he’s wearing a mesh dress and faux fur coat, a platinum blonde wig topping a massive latte face. The conductor tells us he’s “Paris” when glammed out and “Rocky” while wearing his guy duds—he apparently being a regular rider, too.

The train pulls into Pelham as Paris describes his fearsome footwear to a young female rider. From here, it’s a short walk down Fifth Avenue before the Publick House comes into view. The Publick smells like a bar should—eau de cheeseburgers and beer. There’s all sorts of sports memorabilia on the walls: an ancient pair of boxing gloves, a program from a high school football game back in 1957, the Daily News from when Joe Torre was named Mets manager—yes, he managed the Mets, all the way back in 1977. We order a round of Buds, the drink of choice at the Publick. After a game of pool and a few rounds of Big Buck Hunter, we’re back on Fifth Avenue with a hop to our step. The Stamford local ambles along, and three minutes later we’re in New Rochelle.

A couple of cops man the platform, a reminder of New Rochelle’s urban landscape. As we head up the staircase to Bridge Street, we pass a moving van unloading its wares at a brand new Avalon apartment, a reminder of the city’s growth. We pass Mason’s Pub and Mo’s New York Grill, owned by Yankee legend Mariano Rivera. Every time we visit the city, there’s something new and interesting. Sure enough, like Rivera closing out the opponent in the ninth, Main Street comes through once again. We happen upon a sleek storefront, artfully lit and looking, for all the world, like a tornado lifted it up from Chelsea and dropped it in the middle of New Roc.

How new is Gnarly Vine? So spankin’ that a woman is hanging a cardboard sign, “Gnarly Vine” written in marker, in the window. The menu’s got tapas and small plates, such as a bruschetta with white bean, shrimp, rosemary, and olive oil, plus an endless wine list, ranging from a $7 Bogle on up to a bottle of something called Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, which sells for a cool grand (uh, is that negotiable?).

Cursing my limited budget, I order the Bogle. There’s an open kitchen and an array of loungy couches. The house music plays Coldplay from before they got lame. We chat with Ray Schramm, who says he opened shop with co-owner William Leon just days before. He says he wants Gnarly Vine to grow via word of mouth—work out the kinks and build a local clientele before the press catches wind of it. The dark lighting, soothing tunes, and comfy couches beckon us to order a second Bogle, or even try that Domaine de la Romanée, and hope InTown doesn’t happen to notice the four-.gure tab. But there are bars to see, tipples to topple, and new memories to make—so we wish Schramm luck and hustle back to the station.

The train is late—get used to it, it’s the New Haven Line—which gives us a moment to ponder our mission. We’ve hit six of the 12 bars on our dance card; shouldn’t there be some sort of halftime show? I close my eyes, but no Janet Jackson wardrobe malfunction is forthcoming, not even a crummy Aerosmith concert.

When we arrive in Larchmont, Globe Bar & Grill looks enticing, but since we’ve met our quota of upscale joints, we instead opt for the Cellar Bar next door. True to its name, Cellar Bar is a little hole in the ground; manager Gary says it looked old even when it was new. Built in an old warehouse, Cellar’s got a vaguely hip energy—there’s a guy in a vintage Miller High Life hat at the bar, explaining the code of hockey violence to a pal; there’s a giant parrot mural in the men’s room; and Dave Matthews fills the cozy space. We order up a round of Guinness. Matthews rips through a Hendrix-inspired version of “The Star Spangled Banner”; maybe it’s the booze talking, but we get a little choked up. Then we spy the “No Sniveling” sign behind the bar. It’s our cue to move on.

The station is all of about 50 feet from the Cellar; one could very easily take the pub-crawl concept literally, but fortunately we’re not at that stage yet. We make liberal use of the cash machine on the platform and hop on board.

Next stop is Mamaroneck, and we can see the Town House II from the station—bar number eight is within spitting distance! Unfortunately, upon closer inspection, the dusty old joint is about as inviting as last week’s sushi. The evening isn’t too cold, and a walk down Mamaroneck Avenue will surely get the blood pumping, so we venture onward.

Next we stumble across the bar that time forgot—a perfectly preserved German brauhaus, with stained glass in the windows and an ornamental gnome lugging a keg on the door. Unfortunately, it’s locked, and looks as though it’s been that way since Friends ruled Thursday nights. Some locals tell us it’s the Hofbrau, and it’s indeed shuttered. Zum Donnerwetter!

Mamaroneck is making things difficult on our tiring gang, but the notion of doing what no Westchesterite has done propels us forward. We head toward the harbor, past Sal’s Pizza and its new gelato offspring next door, and our perseverance is rewarded as the Duck Inn comes into view. The room is done up in, yup, ducks: hunting decoys, stuffed animals, ceramic ducks, rubber ducks. We order a round of lager, and I endeavor to count the ducks.

It’s a bad idea. First count, I come up with 112. Second count, it’s 131. I ask my friends to give it a try but they know better. I give up and gaze out the window, where the boats sway with the waves. Mercifully, there are no more ducks.

Eight bars down, four to go.

PUBLICK HOUSE Pelham

ORDER A Bud by the bottle—the preferred potable here (139 Fifth Ave.; Pelham).

GNARLY VINE New Rochelle

ORDER A Glass of the Gnarly Head Zin from Sonoma, in keeping with the wine bar’s

gnarly theme.

PUB GRUB Try the gorgonzola, caramelized fig, and balsamic vinegar bruschetta or the shrimp, octopus, and baby clams in Mediterranean vinaigrette (501 Main St.; New Rochelle; 355-2541; thegnarlyvine.com).

CELLAR BAR Larchmont

ORDER A Pint of Guinness. “Freshest Guinness in town,” promises manager Gary.

PUB GRUB No food, but the bartender will order pizza if you ask nicely (8 Railroad Way; Larchmont; 834-8723).

DUCK INN Mamaroneck

ORDER A “Fluffy Duck”—pink grapefruit juice and vodka. (Regulars call it “Duck Juice.”)

PUB GRUB Freebie shepherd’s pie during happy hour (128 W. Boston Post Rd.; Mamaroneck; 835-8791). 

Since none of us can seem to get enough of the giant drag queen who often rides Metro-North, here’s a little somethign from the modestly monikered The Legendary Train Main Paul:

Sounds like you all have met Rocky!! He (or she, however you think of it!!), is a regular on the Harlem and New Haven lines. He once saved a trainman (assistant conductor) from being beaten by an irate customer several years ago on the Harlem line. Believe me from as I understood it, that guy owed Rocky big time!!!

Which of course prompts the question: Which is worse, sustaining a beat-down from an irate customer, or having your ass saved by a man in fishnet dress, faux fur coat and 11-inch heels?

Hard to say.

It being the season of dressing up and scaring the shit out of people and all, I’ve found myself thinking about the Metro-North drag queen more than I’d care to admit.

And I’ve come up with a hypothesis. I’ve seen the drag queen on the Harlem Line and I’ve seen him on the New Haven Line. And neither time did he exit the train at any locale that might logically have a fun nightlife destination for a transsexual, instead staying on to the part of Westchester where white people go to bed early.

So here’s my theory: The drag queen, a 6′ 5″, black behemoth that the conductors know as “Rocky,” isn’t really going anywhere. Instead he just rides the train for shock value, and what better place to shock people with your mesh minidresses, tights with the ass cut out, and thousand-inch stiletto heels than on a train packed with uptight white guys?

My first post about the drag queen, which generated the traffic I normally get in a week (thanks, Gothamist!), brought out several comments from people who had seen Rocky get off in Bridgeport, in Croton Falls, in Bronxville–none of them anywhere near each other.

So I’m postulating that the drag queen gets on the train, brushes his blonde wig in the vestibule–for all to see–rides to the end of the line, and then rides back again, for full effect.

Then again, if he’s getting off at all sorts of different stops, he could be doing, shall we say, contract work. Maybe those white people aren’t going to bed as early as we thought!

There (s)he was on the 7:16 to Stamford last night, all 11-inch heels and fishnet dress and tights with the ass cheeks cut out.

Yes, the giant black drag queen was shaking up the stuffy decor on the Metro-North again, brushing his blonde wig in the vestibule as riders peered over their Posts at this most unique of spectacles.

There were what looked like a man and his granddaughter, maybe 11, sitting across from each other as the drag queen entered the car a little before Fordham. The older man struggled for the right thing to say, then struggled some more, and looked like he was concerned he might actually be held responsible by the girl’s parents for what she was forced to witness on her trip to New York.

Finally, the oldster let loose this philosophical beauty:

“There’s a whole big world revolving around you,” he said as his arms whirled about to show just how big the world actually is. “You ought to…pay attention.”

As we neared Mount Vernon, a young woman in the vestibule near the queen asked about the heels. “These are 11-inch,” the drag queen said. “The company just started making 12-inches yesterday.”

He then added, “If you were to take this off and hit somebody, you’d kill ‘em!”

An Indian woman and her toddler got on in Mount Vernon. The toddler’s eyes went as big as pingpong balls, humming “Old MacDonald” as she took in the biggest, blackest Barbie Doll she’d ever seen.

The conductor walked by, and made a point of shaking his head emphatically, letting the whole car know he did not approve of the rider’s choice of black fishnet dress with the feathery waist.

A few more images I’ll not soon forget is the look of the poor guy, grayish black hair and business-casual attire, next to the queen as (s)he brushed her wigs and blonde strands fell on poor fella, and the whole of the car cringing as the queen bent over to retrieve something from her bag–exposing those tights with the ass cheeks cut out for all to see.

Where the hell was (s)he going?  

Whether it’s TJ or CTRider or Straphanger Joe, we hear plenty from riders of New York’s rails. But what about the other half of the commuter equation, the workers? Toward that end, Trainjotting sat with veteran Metro-North conductor Bobby McDonough, author of the blog Derailed, to check out the commuting game from his perspective.

1.    What’s the craziest thing you ever saw after 21 years on the job?

I once caught two couples having a mini-orgy on one of the late night trains. Passengers having sex on the train is more common than you might think, but this is the only time I caught two couples in action (I was more embarrassed than they were). 

The craziest rider award goes to “Rocky,” a 6′4″ cross dresser who regularly rides our rails (all three lines).  He usually boards the train as a man, but like a sexually ambiguous Superman, he’ll run into a nearby train lavatory and come out dressed in pink hot pants (with the words “BOY TOY” emblazoned on the back), a halter-top, a feather boa, black platform leather boots and a Tina Turner wig.  You should see the look on the other passengers’ faces. It’s priceless.   

On a more serious note, the days following 9/11 were definitely the strangest.  Read my post about it here:

2.    Riders give Metro-North conductors high approval ratings. What grade do you give riders? 

My knee-jerk reaction was to give riders poor grades, but that’s because I usually work late night trains when everybody’s drunk and obnoxious. Outside of this demographic, I’d give our passengers a “B.” Most people merely ask us to get them from Point A, to Point B, in a safe, considerate and timely manner. When we don’t meet these expectations, they get a little upset …I can’t fault them for that.  

If they’d only clean up after themselves, they’d get a B+.  

3.    Does the MTA know about your conductor blog? Do they care? 

“Derailed” was mentioned in the “Commuters Journal” section of the New York Times last year, and The New Haven Register recently did an article on me.

Both of these articles are posted on the MTA ’s company website, so I guess they’re vaguely aware of me and my blog.  I try to be careful and not write anything that would embarrass, or in any way damage the company. 

4.    If I could implement one rule for Metro-North, it would be…

Communicate…communicate…communicate. I have seen some progress in this area over the past few years, but when the #@%* hits the fan, communication between company and passengers breaks down. I agree that conductors could do a better job communicating as well, but we’re usually left as clueless as the passengers.  

5.    Which stop has the best riders? The worst?

When my wife was a child, she’d ask her mother, “Which one of us kids do you like best?” Her mother would answer… “I dislike you all equally.”  

That’s kind of the way I feel about our stations. Each one has its own unique personality, some good qualities, some not so good.  For example, riders from wealthy towns are usually bright and interesting people, but they also tend to be demanding…Some are downright arrogant, (the phrases “I’ll have your job” and “You work for me” come to mind.)

Stations in urban areas are full of hard-working, “salt of the earth” type of people, but it’s here that we find most of our fare evasion problems.  

Conductors say that Harlem Line passengers are by far the nicest, most polite people on Metro-North territory.  Hudson Line passengers, they say, are a close second. Rumor has it that they say “please” and “thank you” over there.  When we New Haven Line conductors hear these stories, we stand with mouths agape in disbelief.

The searches that brought visitors to Trainjotting this week show that they’re still obsessed with gangsta hos, drag queens, Papa Smurf and Choo Choo Charlie.

Some of the better ones:

gangster hos

metro north slow

white trash Amtrak

poppa smurf car seat covers

lirr cop ass

Choo Choo Charlie was an engineer

child afro hair

bicycle racks london bridge

shark week+foam hat

he smiles at me and i look down

Feel sick and dirty, more dead than aliv

riding around with the car top down

bipods

lady cheng’s drag queens

nice rack

old lady train to Larchmont

bad airplane seat bathroom blanket napkin

big rat ny train station

sheila dikshit+bluelines

I know many of my posts start with “I’ve never seen this before,” and here I go again: A drag queen got on the northbound 8:22 at 125th last night! (S)he was ginormous–around 6′ 5″, with some huge heels as well, putting her pretty darn close to 7-feet. (S)he was black and wore a brown wig, black and white leopard print coat lined with fake fur, and a fishnet crop top with a giant belly exposed. She carried two bags from the bodega.

In fact, in contrast to most drag queens I’ve seen (I did, after all, live a few blocks from Lucky Cheng’s for over a decade), (s)he wasn’t the slightest bit attractive.

Far as I can tell, this sort of stuff rarely happens on Metro North. Especially on a northbound; think about it–where the hell was she going? White Plains is the most urban–and presumably most urbane–stop on the line. And White is really the operative word there. Was (s)he antiquing in Chappaqua?

It was interesting to see the reactions of the hardcore commuters. As the drag queen found a seat, a man across the aisle (literally and probably metaphorically as well) got to his feet and walked to another car entirely. Others periodically looked up from their papers and electronic devices.

The drag queen stared out the window, applied makeup and brushed his hair. Oddly, White Plains came and went and the drag queen stayed on.

Maybe she was going antiquing in Chappaqua.