Since I don’t spend nearly enough time riding the rails to New York City, we packed up the gang to head in for a day trip yesterday. Little G is obsessed of late with two colossal things: skyscrapers and dinosaurs. So we threw it to him: see the dinos at the Museum of Natural History, or see the skyscrapers in midtown.

He opted for the buildings, which meant we could take the train.

We bundled up the kids, packed the snacks, and I got a taste of what the rest of my commuting brethren enjoy each day: driving to the station and parking in the lot. It being a weekend and all, we had our choice of spots, so I took the one usually occupied by the Yankeemobile during the week, hoping to impose some sort of jinx on the spot.

The 9:53 was about five minutes late (what, you couldn’t be late when I was chugging into Hawthorne station on my bike today with seconds to spare, having read Little G one too many pages from one of his dino books this morning?), and it was pretty packed. The Missus had suggested seats near the front, to minimize walking along the Grand Central platform, so we set out for seats.

I saw what looked for all the world like an empty three-seater, but upon arriving at it saw a SnoozerLoserThree-Seat-User–a young woman napping across all three. (For the record, SnoozerLoserThree-Seat-User is just a working title…we’ll try to come up with a snappier term for those seat-sleeping types. If you can think of a good Word of the Week for this, please send it along.)

[The Missus snapped this shot moments before the woman woke up.]

We instead grabbed a pair of folding seats facing each other, but Little G–his first train ride since the Christmas Spectacular at Radio City in December–started howling because there’s no window next to the folding seats (handicapped people apparently don’t enjoy looking out windows, I s’pose). He and I relocated to a two-seater with a window behind the SnoozerLoserThree-Seat-User, and he was happy again.

North White Plains saw a cattycorner two-seater open up, so the Missus and Little Miss C slid in there.

And we were off.

It’s interesting to see what affect the SnoozerLoserThree-Seat-Users (SLTSUs) have on the train. At White Plains, we saw at least four different parties do just as I did: See what looked like an available seat (or three!), approach it, then look with dismay at the body lying supine across it. We get it, you’re tired, you’re hung over. But it’s not a victimless crime. Buy three tickets and I promise I won’t blog about you.

The SLTSU eventually woke up around Bronkers and then, to ensure she had all three the rest of the ride, spread her backpack and a second back across all the seats. No longer snoozing, she was merely a LoserThree-Seat-User.

Much like Little G’s beloved view out the window from the train, making the trip with newbies is a good reminder that there’s interesting stuff to be seen amidst the boredom of the daily commute. Little G’s favorite among the New York skyscrapers is the Chrysler Building, and we were all of a block south of Grand Central when we looked back and saw it in all its silvery majesty–a vantage point I’d hardly noticed in three years of walking that route. (Cue the Annie soundtrack: You’ll stay up, until this place shines….like the top of the Chrysler Building!)

We meandered down to 34th and Park and decided not to tell Little G about what skyscraping colossus awaited around the corner. It took seconds before his eyes went wide and he said “Look!!!” Indeed, the Empire State Building (the informal “Empire”, to Little G, who’s on a first-name basis with all the Gotham skyscrapers–the Empire, the Chrysler, the Flatiron) loomed like Kimbo Slice in the foreground.

Staring skyward as we were, we were pestered by the usual swarm of hawkers looking to sell us a trip to the top. We turned them down, but did stop at a gift shop to get post cards. Little G wasn’t having the 10 for a buck cards, opting instead of the 99-cents apiece ones: One of the Empire, one of the Chrysler, one of the World Trade Center, RIP, and one of the Brooklyn Bridge.

After a cold but fun frolic in the Madison Square Park playground and a pit stop at my work, we headed back for the train. We grabbed some sandwiches at Mendy’s (”You said lunch, Jerry. Soup is not a meal.”) and hit Grand Central with time to spare. I made a big show in front of Little G to drop a quarter into the cup of a homeless man huddled in the foyer of Grand Central (the hypocrisy…like I ever do that on a normal commuting day). Sensing a teachable moment, I paraphrased the man’s placard for Little G once we were out of earshot, telling him that the man did not have a job and did not have any money.

Little G found the positive in that way kids do: “If he doesn’t have a job, then he can play with his kids all day?”

I stammered through a response that said he could, but the toys would not be very good.

We hit the 12:48 with a few minutes to spare, grabbed a six-seater, busted open our Mendy’s bounty, and looked forward to one final view from the bridge.

Miserable morning in the northeastern U.S., including a hard, steady sideways rain. Let’s call it the Umbrella Buckler.

Biking to the train was way out of the question, and even walking there seemed less and less viable.

I asked The Missus about perhaps hopping a ride when Little G was heading off to school up in Priusville. That would mean them leaving earlier than normal so I could catch the 8:43; it also meant helping get both Little G and Little Miss C dressed, shod and ready to rock by about 8:35.

I stood in the shower and hoped the walk to the train would not be a repeat performance of standing in the shower. I was leaning toward the ride-with-the-kiddies option, but when I got downstairs, Little G’s school pants I’d picked out were dirty, Little Miss C had fouled yet another diaper (on top of the, what, six she desecrated yesterday. We’re tapping her damn piggy bank for the next batch.), and the place was in a typical state of disarray. I had 13 minutes to make the 8:43, so I bid good bye to the clan and set out on foot.

It was awful out there, and I hadn’t gone 30 feet before my umbrella caved and my feet were wet. But to be honest, it wasn’t as bad as the Great 2009 SuperSoaker from December 9. The rain wasn’t coming down as hard, and it was actually warm this morning.

Still, a miserable day to walk, with only the middle of the street free from giant puddles. I jogged to Amsterdam and crossed Bradhurst.

I ventured down the hill, that sleepy neighborhood where that one house still has the McCain-Palin sign up, and spied a white Cadillac easing out of the driveway a bit ahead.

The driver put it into Drive, went 20 feet and stopped.

As I approached the driver rolled down the window. Could it be?

“Can I give you a ride somewhere?” asked the woman.

Score.

“Sure,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”

As I opened the door, the woman said, half kidding, “You’re not dangerous, are you?”

“No,” I said as I slid into the passenger seat. “Are you?”

“Well, not really,” she joked.

We made small talk. She said it was an awful day to try to walk. I explained how I could’ve waited to go with my son, but I would’ve missed my train. The kid thing…immediately and insuperable evidence that I was not, in fact, dangerous. We discussed mine (wee little folks) and then hers (college age). She told me to enjoy them while they’re young–just as the nice elderly man with the two young dogs does every time I pass him with one of my kids on a walk. (Random trivia about that man: his name is Joe Girardi, and he says he’s a distant cousin of that Joe Girardi.)

I promised the woman I would.

I mentioned that I usually bike; she said her husband had bought a bike and wanted to get out more, but found the Mount Pleasant area completely unsuitable for biking. I suggested the old rail trail running parallel to 9A and the Saw Mill; park in the lot near the Pleasantville exit off 9A, and ride from there.

She said she’d mention it to him, and suggested that the info was a fair trade for driving my ass to the train. She didn’t actually say “ass.”

We got to the back entrance to the station on Broadway. I thanked her again, and hoofed it up the stairs.

Three times now, I’ve been driven to the train by strangers: a woman from Ireland, a man from Russia, a woman from Yonkers.

Humankind is doing OK, if you ask me.

Mother Nature, she’s still a bitch.

There’s a fun little game me and Little Miss C play.

Little Miss C, who is 1 1/2, takes my wallet any time I leave it at a height she can reach. (Insert cheap sitcom jokes about wallet-grabbing females here.)

She likes to rearrange every last thing in the wallet: bills, credit cards, business cards, train pass, Metro Cards.

Yes, Metro Cards.

I don’t know if I’m the only one with this problem, but I’ve got a half dozen of the things in my wallet, five of them with less than a buck on them. I’m sure there’s some algorithm out there that would prevent me from ever having loose change on my MetroCard, but right now it eludes me. Since fares went up to $2.25, I’ve been left with a less than even sum on my cards. When I buy a new MetroCard from a city machine, I can add on to that card and hope to someday get it to an amount that divides equally by $2.25. When I buy a new card at Hawthorne station, my only option is a $20 card, and the almost useless old cards pile up in my wallet.

Well, Little Miss C rearranges everything, with half the cards spilled on the floor. I hastily put my wallet back together, then forget about our little game until the next morning, when I’m rushing to the subway under Grand Central, half the damn city behind me as I approach the turnstile.

You see where this is going. I try card after card, the turnstile rejecting me with a rude Insufficient Funds time after time. The would-be riders behind me get more agitated, thinking me some out of town rube.

Back at home, Little Miss C is surely laughing.

Well, four months after it opened, the TJs finally got out to visit the High Line, the marvelous raised pedestrian park on the Way West Side of Manhattan. What took us so long? Well, it’s a hike from work, the family doesn’t get into the city much, and we’d heard the High Line was, like, cursed or something.

But we made it out yesterday, a near-perfect blue skyed fall day. We easily found a parking spot on Little West 12th, did the requisite staring-at-the-sign for several minutes, wondering if it was too good to be true, then ventured across the street to the rail trail’s southern entrance.

We had a stroller, and there are dozens of stairs and no elevator at that entrance, so we had to take Little Miss C out and haul the stroller up two sets of stairs. I believe the elevator is located at 16th Street.

It being a beautiful fall day and all, the High Line was packed — lots of accents (mostly English) and lots of people snapping photos. On the ride down, stuck in Giants traffic north of the GBW, I’d promised Little G ample views of his beloved “Enterpire” State Building. We did catch one glimpse at the ol’ beauty, but the great views from the High Line are along the Hudson: ferries ferrying by, motorboats, cruise ships, and Jersey doing its jersey thing across the way.

The park is a mix of concrete walkways, boards and what High Liners call “Wild”–the fauna growing on the sides of the walkways. Park volunteers are quite adamant about keeping the Wild wild–one snapped at me for standing too close to what are essentially weeds.

We met some friends, including a very pregnant woman and their 3 1/2 year old, so we didn’t conquer the whole Line. We found seats and a table at a recessed deck area near 15th, and the kids got cupcakes from a stand along the Line. There was no line for the bathroom, and there were even a pair of attendants handing out paper towels just outside the bathroom doors.

The most unique architectural element we saw was some wooden auditorium seating built into the platform around 16th Street, with the bench seats facing a glass wall that shows traffic racing up 10th Avenue. The kids loved watching the cabs, buses and cars roll by. Dad dug it too.

The High Line was teeming with humanity yesterday, but it never felt packed, as everyone keeps moving. The vibe was very positive–everyone seemed impressed, everyone appeared happy to be there. There were plenty of seats, including some wooden platform seating affixed to the old rails that actually slid a few feet in either direction. The kids loved it–there were ramps to climb, buildings on stilts to walk under, rails just below floor level to race along (”I’m Thomas!” “No, I’m Thomas!”), and of course cupcakes to eat. Small children can peer through the walls of the rail trail at the streets below, and I didn’t see any spots where a kid was actually in danger of falling to the street.

The Missus lamented the lack of alcoholic beverages on the Line; indeed, in our previous life, it would’ve been perfect to order a beer or white wine and watch the sun slide down below Jersey. But one can certainly understand the notion of not selling booze to people walking about some 30-50 feet in the air. And there are oodles of trendy brunch spots under the Line, including the recently opened new Standard Grill (one star, NY Times); the teeming Meatpacking District surrounding the High Line is either Manhattan at its shimmery best, or the worst collection of over-trendy restaurants jammed with fading Carrie Bradshaws, depending on your take on New York.

For the more downmarket hunger victims among us, there was a perfectly adequate hot dog stand at the base of the stairs on West 12th.

One very New York-y thing I noticed: lots and lots (and lots) of people snapping photos along the High Line. But they weren’t the typical landscape–cool pedestrian park, river, skyscrapers–shots. No, in true Gotham style, these were glammy shots of friends and loved ones, attempting to look their hippest in a cool setting.

All told, a memorable visit to a compelling landmark.

[image: NY Times]

Sometimes we pay too much attention to the feats of our celeb heroes–Derek Jeter’s 2,722 singles as a Yankee, Mark Sanchez’s surprisingly strong start to his Jets career–and not enough to the everyday Joes pulling off great feats of strength and fortitude.

Such as me making the 7:50 train after waking up at 7:30 this morning.

I had to get the early train–yes, poor me, the 7:50 is the early train–after the Boss suggested all his minions be at a conference. I did not set an alarm clock, because I have two very trusty flesh-and-blood alarm clocks in Little G and Little Miss C. When was the last time I slept past, oh, 7:15, was pretty much how my thinking went before turning in last night.

Indeedy, The Missus gave me a shake at 7:30 this morning.

“It’s 7:30,” she said. Before she finished the statement, I was in the shower.

I was out by 7:35, and dressed by 7:40–no minor accomplishment, seeing as I had to dress up a bit for the conference. (Of course, dressing up a bit–like the 7:50 being the early train–is relative.)

I offered a quick kiss to the clan, shook the dew from the morning’s Times, and climbed on my bicycle at 7:43.

The streets are definitely more clogged since school started; it’s actually kind of a drag. I was stuck behind a silver Honda at the corner of Bradhurst. The Honda waited for…just…the…right…moment before going, and I actually went around it and crossed Bradhurst before the car did.

Right about now, dear reader, if you enter the city each day from the upper reaches of the Harlem Line, you’re probably saying, “That so-called early train is a 7:52, not a 7:50.” And you’d be right. I take the thing so infrequently that I didn’t even know the real time it was supposed to arrive, giving myself two extra minutes that–for the record–I didn’t even need.

The train pulled up, me and a bunch of 7:52-type strangers got on, and we made that weird stop in Mount Vernon about 20 minutes later.

The 7:52-ers are definitely a more corporate bunch, but I’d like to think I fit right in with my dress shirt and necktie, which I was able to fasten from the comfort of an unclaimed 1-3/4 seater. 

Hours later, back in the office, my co-worker–who splits his time between the Hudson and Harlem Lines, depending on his dog-sitter’s schedule–teased me about the tie.

“You can take it off now,” he said. “The conference is over.”

I told him I felt grown up in it, and looked forward to showing off the Grown Up TJ look to my fellow riders on the 5:46 home tonight.

A bit later, I ventured to the post office for stamps. The post office on 23rd and Lex took the stamp machines out about a year ago. I don’t know if the whole city did this, but it could go down as the most idiotic move in the history of idiotic moves. Whereas four or five machines once served the needers of stamps, those same fools must now stand on a line that counted about 50 people when I walked in.

Mercifully, a worker by the name of Stone ushered us needers of stamps over to a separate line. I asked Stone why the post office scrapped the machines.

“I only work here,” came Stone’s reply. Uh, thanks.

There was a woman behind me on the stamp line. She had straight blond hair, was about 45, and wore a blue pinstriped dress shirt and blue slacks–an outfit that would’ve worked equally well on a man. Certainly not unattractive, but everything about her screamed WASP.

She voiced some displeasure with the stamp line, and we briefly discussed the PO yanking the machines, much to the aggravation of customers, employees, everyone.

“Must be part of Obama’s socialism plan,” she said.

I stared at her, trying to follow the leap from A to B–or, in this case, A to Q.

I paid for my stamps, and, as is typically the case with me, thought of a half dozen snappy comebacks after I’d walked out of the post office. (Among the rejects: “Now, see, what you just said right there, well, that didn’t make any sense whatsoever.”)

Equally vexing, how did she end up identifying me as a friendly right-wing Barack-basher? Did three years in the suburbs really scrub any hint of counter-cultural funk from me?

I looked down and saw the answer: The necktie! The stupid necktie!

I ripped the thing from my neck like it was a boa and jammed it into my pocket.

The Baby Who Snubbed Me on the Track 38 Ramp This Morning.

I was climbing the ramp to the Grand Central Concourse after exiting the 8:43 out of Hawthorne on Track 38.

You were clinging tightly to your mother, as babies of about 15 months are wont to do.

You were a cute Hispanic girl in a blue dress and matching hair clip, dark eyes and an immuteable expression.

We were slogging up the ramp, which moved at its usual snail’s pace. I’d tried to pass you and your mother on the platform, but your mother failed to move right and allow me a berth. So you were directly in front of me on the ramp, staring over your mother’s shoulder like an animal peering over a foxhole.

Since we had a few minutes of ramp ascension in front of us, and because I like babies (especially when they’re not screaming screeching at 3:30 a.m., Little Miss C), I offered a goofy smile.

Still, you stared, expressionless.

I tried another goofy smile, and another. Failing to elicit anything but the frozen mask from you, Baby, I shook up my act–swinging my head back and forth, opening my eyes and mouth wide. Perhaps there were even wildly gesticulating hands involved.

Nothing.

Which is weird, because my act usually–make that always–plays well with babies. Strange babies love me, and never fail to laugh when I suggest they do so through painstakingly executive humor-inducing machinations. If the mothers don’t offer up a “Wow, you sure are good with babies,” at least they’re thinking it.  

By this time, several other commuters were aware of my efforts, increasing the pressure on me to get a smile and save face. I tried a few more desperate gags from my bag of tricks, but alas, could not garner so much as a hint of a smile.

We finally got to the top of the ramp and the expanse of the concourse. I shook my head to express my disappointment in you, Baby, and bolted for the subway.

What’s so darn pressing on the agenda today? Eat, poop, cry, sleep. Repeat.

Don’t be such a baby.

Frustrated,

Trainjotting

PS: Can you please tell your mother to speed up, or at least move to the right a bit so faster walkers can pass?

As I gas on about every time I come back from vacation, there always seems to be havoc awaiting on the first ride into the city after an extended time away.

This morning I actually caught a break. The downpour held off just long enough to allow me to speedwalk to the train station without getting completely drenched. (I wasn’t about to leave The Missus’s shiny, unrusty bike out in the rain all day, and get her Strawberry Shortcake spoke-cards all wet.)

I hopped on the 8:16 and found a seat. I recognized the man that took the seat in front of me from my stop. He’s a normal looking guy, but seems sort of nervous on the train–even more nervous than me. A few times, I’ve seen him pick a seat, drop all his gear off on the rack, then stand up in the vestibule, presumably scanning the vista for a better seat, pacing the aisles, and ultimately moving. Not real sure what that’s about.

So anyway, the antsy guy sits in front of me. And sneezes–a huge, hearty, get-the-hell-out-of-my-way kind of sneeze, one that makes others in a six-foot radius wince, recoil, or both. Then he sneezes again, and again.

The guy is facing away from me, so it wouldn’t seem like a big deal. But he’s sneezing into his folded up AM New York, and there’s a window in the middle of his seat back, giving the cooties a wide, inviting tunnel through which to pass en route to my nasal cavity.

And to boot, Little Miss C was off her game all weekend with a fever and ear infection.

One more sneeze and I’m leaving, I think to myself. We’re hardly out of Hawthorne and Valhalla is a few minutes away–plenty of time to switch seats.

He sneezes.

This time I mean it, I say to myself. One more sneeze, I’m leaving.

He sneezes.

I’m temporarily paralyzed with indecision as “Should I Stay or Should I Go?” runs through my brain. I actually consider the people around me–the Bill Clinton lookalike in the Det. Sipowicz short-sleeve dress shirt to my left, the heavy-set woman buried in the Journal News sitting cattycorner to me. What will they think if I up and leave?

I think of Mr. Sneeze as well–is it insulting to vacate one’s seat when the reason for such departure is the actions of a fellow rider? I picture a tense, awkward exchange between us:

“What, afraid of a little sneezing?”

“I…uh…my daughter has a fever. It’s not you, it’s me.”

“So, like, my germs are gonna fly behind me, cling on to you, stick with you all day, and jump onto your precious daughter tonight?”

“Uh, well, yes, that’s what I was thinking. I know, it’s silly,” I say, trying to diffuse the situation with good natured bonhomie. “I guess being a parent makes you kind of crazy.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’ll say,” he says, then sneezes, not using his AM New York for cover.

Now I’m annoyed.

“Why can’t you just stay home for the day?” I say. “I mean, you’re SOOOO important at work–they simply can’t miss you for one day, right.”

He snarls. Then sneezes. A conductor separates us.

Back in the real world, the man sneezes again. That’s seven, by my count. With, say. 1.6 million germs per sneeze, that’s 11.2 million germs. I gather my bag, my raincoat, myself, and head to the next car.

Sneezy doesn’t say anything. I actually stumble on a precious 1-3/4 seater, which you’d simply kill for on a rainy day–room to hang your wet coat, your umbrella, even your dress shirt if you’re that kind of person.

I started thinking about how Metro-North actually let me off easy on this, my first day back from a break. Then the train crawled through the tunnel, and docked at Track 36 four minutes late.

Still, not too bad, I thought.

Then I got jammed up in an awful–and getting worse–pedestrian traffic situation at the Grand Central stairs heading down to the subway. The up escalator has been on the fritz for several days, meaning the stairwell that’s usually dominated by those descending to the subways has to be shared with the ascenders–causing massive gridlock at the top of the stairs. Come to think of it, there’s been trouble with that escalator–and that stairwell–off and on for several months.

The descenders were routed to the far left staircase, and the up-goers headed up the near-left stairs. We stood for several minutes at the top of the stairs, a few hundred of us waiting to make our descent. Mockingly, a sign on the busted escalator said it would not be fixed until July 31.

A man in a red MTA vest whose sole purpose appeared to be standing there in a red vest stood in between the two lines, staring at the ground and shaking his head.

It was the traffic jam we did not get heading back from the Delaware beaches yesterday, I thought as I inched forward.

At last, Metro-North claimed its pound of flesh from my sunburned ass.

The kid selling lemonade on 5th Avenue yesterday.

I was heading down 5th in the Flatiron, and you and a young pal were hawking lemonade from the step of a storefront. You and your chum were about 7; he wore a Mets t-shirt, perhaps for sympathy, and you wore a blue shirt too.

Your mothers hung nearby to supervise.

Your little table held a sign that suggested that either you or your friend’s brother is ill with disease. It was one of those diseases with hyphenated last names; I hadn’t heard of it, but I sincerely hope–for the sake of your brother, your mother, you–that he pulls through OK.

The lemonade stand was, of course, a benefit for your stricken brother.

I walked by and smiled at the thought of a lemonade stand smack in the middle of Manhattan. Days before I was to move into Manhattan way back in, oh, ‘92, a friend checked out our prospective block and building, and gleefully reported that there had actually been a lemonade stand going on on the street–an encouraging factoid for a neighborhood that had seen its share of crime in recent years.

I’d even patronized a lemonade stand over the weekend; twice, in fact–Little G and I were given a cup on the house (neither LG nor I had our wallet), then we returned with some change and got a second cup. The stand was manned by the children of a guy who’s running for a pretty high elected position round our parts; we joked with his wife about the kids helping out with the campaign fundraising.

So back to the Flatiron. I’d walked by, then decided I should backtrack and buy some lemonade. Who with a beating heart can so no to kids running a lemonade stand? In truth, it was the Mets t-shirt, not the placard for the diseased sibling, that drew me back.

I asked how much the lemonade was. You, local youth, said it was 50 cents. My eyes opened wide–subtly but noticeably. I’d paid half that up in the ‘burbs.

You, the kid in the non-Mets shirt, took my dollar and tried to temp me with a baggie holding a pair of sagging Lorna Doone’s. I declined. You asked if I wanted change. I said I did.

As you made change, you delivered the ill-advised zinger:

“You’re the only one who’s asked for his change back!”

I simmered as I waited for my cup and quarters.

“That’s not nice!” Mom shouted, then topped off my lemonade to make up for the slight.

She handed it to me and said, “You’re actually NOT the first one to ask for change back.”

As I walked away, I thought of a million suitable replies for you, such as, your customer service could use some work, and not everyone strolling down 5th Avenue has 50 cents to spare.

Of course, all the good ones hit me a block too late. So you got away with one, you little punk.

But thank you for reminding me that if I’d ended up raising kids in Manhattan, those kids would have a very good chance of being entitled smart-alecs with shaggy hair.

Tartly,

Trainjotting

[image: barista.net]

As the rainy weather continues, the region’s outdoor recreational activity has been null.

But the wet and wild Curse of Zeke Marcus did not seem to faze a young woman on the 8:16 this morn. She boarded at White Plains. She was about 22 and Asian, but not in that easily identifiable (at least to me) Chinese or Japanese way. Pretty, hair in a pony tail, green raincoat, blue jeans and almost knee-high yellow Wellingtons.

She plopped a ginormous green backpack on the seat next to her. It was made by Nunatak and had a pouch for a large water bottle; the pouch’s elastic rim was decorated with tiny flags from many nations. She had a stuffed miniature Snoopy hanging from the bag, and a large white Frisbee occupying the front pouch.

I focused on the Frisbee. What prompted this women to haul the Frisbee along with her? Did she plan to get out for lunch today and toss it, despite a forecast that calls for rain every day until August (somewhere, Zeke is laughing!)? Was she a traveling backpacker, and the Frisbee was in the pack every day, in hopes that the next city…White Plains…New York…would offer a bit of greensward for a vigorous toss of the disc?

The Frisbee.

I threw the hippie disc a lot in my prior life. Langorous afternoons in college, when we should’ve been in Creative Writing 101 (thus the slipshod prose you’re reading at this moment). Making the most of newfound daylight savings time after work during those few months of post-college live-at-home, LIRR commuting (we said we’d never become one of Them!) with a few tosses in Heckscher Park. Even a little Ultimate in East River Park many years ago, hopeful that the barefoot guy we were covering didn’t step on a hypodermic.

The woman on the train looked out the window as each stop passed–Scarsdale, Fleetwood, Bronxville. She seemed to gauge the rain, to see if there might be a break in it just long enough to allow her to throw the disc.  

Like the woman across from us, we even hauled the magic orb along in a backpack when we ventured to Europe. There was a friendly toss with a few local grungers on the village green Galway, who saved our bacon when they noticed some no-good street kids (they called them “knackers”) attempting to steal our packs.

Then true adulthood hits, and the Frisbee fails to make the move into the new house.

But wait.

Just yesterday, in fact, I compelled Little G to play outside a bit after work. We tossed around the freebie flippy Frisbee knockoff I’d gotten in some silly press kit, Little G squealing with delight as he chased after the thing.

Then Little Miss C wanted in on the action, howling with laughter every time Little G threw the thing, her peels blanketing the backyard with happiness like only a 13-month old girl can do. She even refused to go to bed for some time, clawing at the back door’s window to get out and Frisbee it up with the boys a bit more.

Yes, the Frisbee.

The rain continues, today, and tomorrow, and likely into the weekend. But perhaps you’ll get that brief window of clear weather, Frisbee Gal on the Train, and you’ll be blessed by a few of those moments of Zen when you and your Frisbee are one with the Earth.

[image: wikipedia]

I was aiming for the 6:33 yesterday, not my usual 5:46.

Yanked from my typical routine, I didn’t execute my walk to GCT with its usual urgency.

Asleep at the switch as I ambled toward Grand Central, I checked the time at 42nd, across from the GCT entrance: 6:32 and a few seconds.

I contemplated some serious Perishing Square maneuvers, then waited for a break and bolted across 42nd. I checked the monitor as soon as I got inside: It said the 6:33 on Track 15 had, in fact, “DEPARTED.”

The next train was 26 minutes later. A huge deal, in the scope of things? Of course not. Get a beer and the Post, find a chair, take a breather.

A big deal at the time? F***, yeah. The Missus is probably ready to throttle Thing 1 and Thing 2 after a long day. I don’t get enough time with the kids to begin with. I had to make the 6:33.

Having learned not to believe everything I hear from the MTA, I pulled some serious LaTrainian Tomlinson toward Track 15, which is a bit of a hike from the Pershing Square Entrance. There was some physical contact in the jammed concourse; it was mostly my fault and I’m sorry.

As I approached the opening to the platform, I spied a woman sprinting toward the train from the opposite direction. From her vantage point, she could see down the platform; was the train still there?

Indeed, it was, I confirmed as I hit the ramp. The train’s lights were blinking–no, I’m positive they were–and the conductor’s rather large head was out window, shaking in disapproval.

I sprinted down the ramp. He tapped the side of the train impatiently. I made the doorway, the doors slammed shut, and we headed toward Harlem.

Departed, my ass.