I’ve written before of “Perishing Square”–the site at 42nd Street and Park where fatal decisions are often made by commuters who need to cross the street immediately and make a train that’s about to leave from Grand Central.

I’ve also written of “Pershing Square-Dancing”–a less serious case in which an anxious commuter nervously jigs in place as he or she waits for the light to turn.

Both acts are commited en route to Grand Central.

Yet today, I did both as I headed away from Grand Central–a first for me after nearly four years of commuting.

What prompted such anxious behavior at 9 a.m. this morning? Well, I spied the first batch of U.S. Open fans in white–white outfits, white skin–walking through Grand Central. They always tend to give me the creeps for reasons I can’t quite explain.

But no big deal.  

I then stepped out of GCT, and saw a pair of street hawkers dressed all in black, giving away some sort of packaged treat from giant bins. I was about to grab one–who doesn’t like free treats?–when I looked down and saw that there was a collie on the packaging.

Kind of an odd marketing ploy–give people dog treats when they’re going somewhere where their dog most definitely is not. Might it make a bit more sense to hit them with the treats on the way home from the city, an hour or so before they’re rolling around with ol’ Rex?

I pulled my iPod earbud (iPod earbud…try saying that several times fast) out as I handed the doggie snack back.

The woman handing them about was about 25, a little plump, brown skin, non-descript. Except her voice.

“FREEEE Science Diet Dog TREEEEETS!” she yelled in just about the shrillest voice imaginable, a car alarm, a 4 a.m. wakeup call and an agitated Rosie Perez all rolled into one sound.

I was stuck at the light at Pershing Square, praying for a green, her voice bouncing around my skull.

“FREEEE Science Diet Dog TREEEEETS!” she yelled in exactly the same anxiety-inducing tone.

I replaced my earbud in my ear and prayed for the light to change. Was it broken? I searched for a break in traffic and thought about making a mad dash.

“FREEEE Science Diet Dog TREEEEETS!”

I shot her a look, but she didn’t notice. I stepped off the curb, moving a few feet away. Others had done the same.

“FREEEE Science Diet Dog TREEEEETS!”

At long last the light changed and I bolted across 42nd. I got as far as 41st before “FREEEE Science Diet Dog TREEEEETS!” finally blended in to the urban cacaphony–buses, car horns, sirens–around me.  

Six weeks ago, as June turned to July, I left my July monthly at home, and used the expired pass to get to the city on the first day of July, as is Metro-North’s generous policy.

I’d picked up an $11 one-way for my return trip that eve, and casually showed the expired June monthly for the second time that day in July. What the hell, I figured. Worst case scenario, the conductor tells me it’s expired and I produce my one-way ticket.

Well, the dead monthly worked. (Ah, the benefits of being a 40-something white male!)

I stashed the one-way ticket for a family member’s future ride, and we grabbed it this past weekend to take the kids into the city. Little G used to harrass us to take us to the city to see his favorite skyscrapers; he’s on a first name basis with most of them: the Empire, the Chrysler, the Flatiron, the CitiCorp. Now he wants to go and climb the giant boulders in Central Park, cuz, you know, you can’t find great rocks anywhere but in the middle of New York City.

Little G also used to be fixated on the landscape flying by from the train, but it only held him captivated until White Plains this time. Guess he’s growing up. Little Miss C, meanwhile, was happy to partake in another favorite commuter pastime; zoning out to a personal music device, she and The Missus being biPods as they listened to Music Together.

Kids ride free on the train, of course, so The Missus used the freebie 11-bucker on the way in, and we figured we’d get the return ticket from a machine at GCT.

The conductor came by and didn’t so much as look at The Missus, or her ticket. “Am I invisible?” she wondered aloud.

So, yes, two free rides thus far on our $11 ticket.

Our public transit highlights in the Big City included Little Miss G throwing a giant tantrum on the downtown bus in front of the Plaza, as I had not let Herself, who is 2, climb up the bus steps. She screamed the entire ride from 59th to 42nd, but was good enough to polish the filthy aisle floor by rolling around on it in her pretty blue dress. The driver appreciated that.

As we returned to the great northlands, the conductor was much more attentive. An awkward guy of about 30 with a large nose, he stopped in front of The Missus and clicked her now-pretty-wrinkled ticket.

We cheekily asked him if we would get money back on the ticket, as it was a peak ticket and we were riding off peak. (The nerve, huh?) He shook his head and went into a long explanation about returning the ticket at GCT, getting the difference back, but then paying extra to buy a new ticket on board. We didn’t completely follow, but the message was there–no money back.

Hey, no big deal. Three rides on an $11 ticket. That’s….like not even four bucks a ride. (Too early in the week to do proper math, sorry.) It’s like 1982 all over again–without the smoking cars.

[* The headline almost works, but not quite. Again, too early in the week for a clever headline.]

Metro-North is seeking old train memorabilia for an exhibition commemorating Grand Central’s 100th anniversary, reports Teen Stabbed in Yonkers Mugging the Journal News.

“We know that railroad fans and history buffs have some unique collections that may have had interesting origins,” Metro-North President Howard Permut said in a press release. “But we are grateful to the stewards of our history and recognize that many of these vintage items were literally rescued from trash bins as one railroad failed and another took over.”

I may send them a monthly pass that only cost me $208–now that’s a relic!

The MTA will take anything with “Grand Central” on it, or the other railroads that have come into the famed train terminal over the past century.

Writes the paper:

Even “ephemera” (as the railroad called it in the press release) such as train tickets, timetables, and menus and matchbooks from restaurants and other establishments that served passengers. Think of it as history’s confetti.

They’ll take photos, fliers and advertisements for events held in the terminal.

And if you’ve got something they haven’t thought of but that still has something to do with Grand Central, let them know anyway.

“We’re hoping that we’ll be surprised,” railroad spokeswoman Marjorie Anders said.

Thanks to reader Lisa H. for the tip.

Trainjotting sets its way-back machine to September 2009. Will Ferrell and Mark Wahlberg are shooting a film in front of Grand Central.

It was, of course, The Other Guys–the No. 1 movie of the past weekend.

 Here’s the sneak preview we got last fall:

Where There’s a Will, There’s a ‘Hey!’

Posted by TJ under Grand Central, Pershing Square (edit this)

I decided I’d make the most of the warm fall temps and walk from Grand Central to work this morning.

I encountered a movie set right across from the Terminal, at 41st and Park. A couple leading-men types were unwinding after a shot. Both were wearing dark suits. The tall one lit up a smoke and the shorter one had a prop gun strapped to his chest–an interesting sight with much of the Grand Central region under serious security lockdown with those world leaders in town.

I grumbled about the jam-up ahead at the corner of 40th, where some P.A.s instructed us luckless pedestrians to loop around some of their gear.

It was a pretty big production, maybe 60 crew members massed on the corner.

I was about to cross 40th when a large black SUV stopped in front of me, and who gets out but Frank the Tanchorman himself, Will Ferrell. Nice suit, looking relaxed, not as freakishly tall as his vertically challenged co-stars might make him look–6? 2? or maybe 6? 3?. Will walked past and was approached by a large man from the set–either security or some production lackey.

“Hey–how ya doin’?” said Will with a smile.

Stay classy, south of Grand Central.

I was making my way to Grand Central yesterday evening, doing a little Pershing Square dancing with the usual two minutes to get from 42nd Street to my train.

There was a massive crowd in front of Grand Central; clearly, a film shoot was going on. It takes a lot to get more than a few dozen New Yorkers to stop and actually watch a shoot–remember, we had live Law & Order whenever we wanted it for the last 37 years–and this shoot was succeeding in that regard, easily a few hundred people watching the proceedings.

At the heart of the shoot was a man with wild, dark hair and a rakish top hat. The Missus had PPV’d Tim Burton’s trippy “Alice in Wonderland” the night before, so I immediately thought of Johnny Depp as I crossed 42nd.

Nope, wasn’t him. As I got closer, I saw it was actually Russell Brand hamming it up for the crowd. He’s starring in a remake of Arthur.

Who would’ve thought Brand, a.k.a. Mr. Katy Perry, was so recognizable to the chubby, moneyed white GCT demo?

I don’t know that this has ever happened to me in my seven years of using a MetroCard.

I made my way to the turnstile under Grand Central this morning, en route to the 6.

I saw the massive lines for new monthly tickets, and patted myself on the back for having had the forethought to bring my August ticket this morning.

Alas, the turnstile turned out to be a spurnstile.

“Already Expired,” read the digital reader after I ran my card through the turnstile.

Expired?

I have four MetroCards in my wallet right now, six if you include the ones offering their services on the flipside of my July and August train passes. All four have some degree of value on them–40 cents or a buck or a buck-fifty, or some amount that’s not quite enough to get on the subway with.

This happens when I need to put more money on the card, but am faced with a machine that issues only new MetroCards. I have another five or six cards at home, also with some change on them. I may make a Christmas ornament out of them someday.

A crowd assembling behind me at the turnstile, I flipped the card over. “Expires -7/31/10,” it said. Expired indeed, and took my four or five dollars or whatever I had on the card with it.

Happy freakin’ Monday, I thought as I headed for the escalator and Grand Central exit.

At least walking is still free.

UPDATE: Thanks to the sound advice from readers Benjamin and Ellie, I presented my expired card to the token clerk at 28th and Park, and was given a fresh new card with the existing $4.50 on it about four seconds later.

It was, quite simply, the least amount of time I’ve ever given myself to catch a train.

And I’ve pushed the limits quite a bit.

I had my eye on the 5:46. I’d like to say I had something absolutely crucial to do in Westchester at 6:30–put out a ticking bomb planted by the Russkies (Jack Bauer was, in fact, having a nap), or go over final wedding plans with Bill and Hill up in Clintonville.

In fact, I just wanted to get home to play with the kiddies and give The Missus a breather.

I’d had a 5:15 phone meeting scheduled and figured it wouldn’t go beyond 5:30, which is when I try to leave for the 5:46.

5:15, no call. 5:20, nothing.

Finally, the guy calls at 5:25. Maybe I can make it really short, I thought.

We did our business while I eyed the clock. It was 5:32 when we were winding down. I shut down my computer and loaded my backpack. We made small talk about Mad Men, and I thought of Don Draper rushing to catch the express to Ossining.

I huge up at 5:34; could I actually exit work and sprint to Grand Central, and track 108, in the next 12 minutes?

I hit the elevators, then the street at 28th. It was 5:37. No, I couldn’t sprint it, not even in my lean, mean prime. My only hope was the 6 train.

Just as I entered the station at 28th, I saw just what I hoped to see: a subway at the platform. I ran my card through and bolted for it–then watched the doors shut and the train take off just as I got there.

I’d be on the 6:10, I conceded. Mission failed. Russkies win. Again.

The new-ish electronic scoreboard in the station said the next train would arrive in three minutes. I clung to a distant hope.

Indeed, there it was, three minutes later. The on-train clock said 5:41. Could I go two stops, then bust through the rush-hour crush in Grand Central to make the 5:46?

I was sure as hell going to try.

We made it to 33rd in a flash, while the run to 42nd snaked slowly through the dark tunnel. I moved closer to the door for pole position and stretched my legs for the sprint.

I looked at my new Timex Iron Man: 5:44:20 as the doors opened. I had less than two minutes to navigate the GCT obstacle course.

I bolted out of the train, pushed through the human morass at the stairs, climbed the steps, bumped off an old man as I headed through the turnstiles, and headed up the stairs to Grand Central.

5:45.

I prayed for the typical 40-seconds late Metro-North train as I galloped down the GCT corridor to the concourse. Then it was down the way-too-narrow escalator  to track 108 (Going up the stairs, only to go down the escalator. Must it be that way?)

I committed the faux pas of actually passing people on the one-person-width escalator, earning me a few stink-eyes. Still, I soldiered on.

It was a straight sprint across the basement level to 108, cutting through a Hudson News to shave off a few seconds (”Crossing the Hudson,” in commuter parlance.). I hit the ramp at 5:45:40 and the lights of my train were flashing. The conductor’s head was out of the window like a Whack-A-Mole. He spied me and offered a faint mask of disgust.

I stepped onto the train just as the doors shut.

A new NYC commuter record. My fellow riders toasted me with a gold medal, a crown made of an olive branch, and a seat on the aisle.

The middle-aged couple strolling hand-in-hand down the ramp to Track 108 yesterday.

It was 5:45 and the 5:46 was itching to head to points north.

The ramp was jammed, trains on both Track 107 and 108 receiving passengers.

At the front of the jam were you too, walking lovey-doveily down the ramp, your hands linked, your arms an impenetrable wall for all the commuters hustling to catch trains behind you.

Don’t get me wrong, folks. I’m glad to see you’re so deeply in love. Especially at…let’s just say it…your advanced age. It’s encouraging. It’s good to see.

But there’s a place for holding hands: Walks on Caribbean beaches come to mind, as do Cialis commercials.

But not on the ramp heading down to a train in Grand Central!

First off all, it’s the second least romantic spot in the world, ahead of only a ramp heading down to a track in Penn Station.

Second of all, you’ve got people behind you, lovebirds. Break your grasp, and make your way down the ramp in as little time as possible, occupying as little ramp real estate as possible, just like the rest of us.

You’ve got the whole next 45 minutes or an hour to hold hands, sit on each other’s laps, coo sweet nothings, and feed each other nearly over-ripe strawberries in the relative comfort of a Metro-North train.

Save the public displays of affection for when you get on board.

Just no smooching in front of me, please.  

Frustratedly,

Trainjotting

[image: kcantinmft.com]

Any seasoned commuter lives by the minute. He or she knows exactly how many minutes it takes to get to Grand Central, and how many seconds it takes to sprint through the Terminal. One needn’t make one’s train with a minute or two to spare; a second or two will do.

But the watch-watching starts even earlier in the day: knowing precisely how long you can play with your kids before hitting the shower, how long you can stay in the shower, and exactly how many minutes you have to get to your hometown station without missing your all-important ride.

So it was with great disappointment that my Timex digital watch band snapped on me today.

I’m particularly disappointment because my watch is a Timex “IRONMAN”, presumably made to stand up to real tests like harsh bikes across the desert, swims through swirling surf, and sprints over unforgiving blacktop–not jaunts to GCT to catch the 5:46.

“Practical, reliable and durable,” says the copy for the Ironman Core on its website.

Not so much, says me.

There was a giant line snaking around in front of Grand Central Friday evening, and the main doors facing Perishing Square were locked.

Fortunately, we’d allowed ourselves an extra minute or so, and had time to board our train entering on the Vanderbilt Ave. corner of Grand Central.

While crossing the line of bodies, we asked some hirsute fellow what was going on.

“Band of Horses is playing,” he said.

Band of Horses is some rootsy rock outfit out of Charleston.

AOL filmed the concert, which was in Vanderbilt Hall, in the front of GCT.

Here’s some vid.