I got an email from Metro-North Tuesday informing me I’d been picked to fill out an e-questionnaire regarding the railroad’s email and text message alerts.

“To help us continue to improve this system, we are asking selected subscribers to complete a brief online survey.  This will take about five minutes to complete and your responses will remain completely confidential,” it wrote. “Please help the MTA make its email and text message alerts more useful by providing the kind of information you need to make travel decisions easier and faster.”

I did the thing and, frankly, gave it low marks because I can’t remember the last time I got an email alert from Metro-North.

I searched my email box for Metro-North, MNR and MTA, and got my weekly CleverCommute news, my monthly Mail N Ride statements, and of course the questionnaire from earlier in the week. My box goes back to October and I didn’t see a single service alert. I haven’t seen one in my spam folder either. Not one!

And today, we’ve got a snowicane/blizzicane/Norbeaster, and nothing from Metro-North either.

So, yes, I suppose the alert service could be a little more useful.

For a much better way to get updates from Metro-North, email their PR people and tell them you’ve got some sort of wacky commuter blog or something. Metro-North’s updates to reporters are timely and informative; it’s odd that the railroad sees its relationship with reporters–most of whom do not ride Metro-North each day, and probably don’t report on it very often–as being much more important than its relationship with riders.

I got this a few minutes ago:

Because we expect ridership will be lighter than usual tomorrow morning, (Friday February 26) Metro-North plans to operate a slightly reduced schedule during the AM peak. About two dozen trains will be affected, either by elimination or combination.  The details will be posted shortly on the website (mta.info)

The trains selected were chosen to impact the fewest people.  As a result of these changes, the maximum additional wait for the next train will be less than 15 minutes.

In addition, customers can expect minor delays due to slow boarding on snowy platforms.

Crews are working and will be working all night to clear platforms, stairs and walkways.  Additionally track workers and signal maintainers are deployed to keep tracks and switches clear.

We will update you if and when conditions change. 

Come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time I got an alert from CleverCommute either, which relies on riders to submit their own train delay updates to members’ emails. I do get the CleverCommute track report each day, which tells me what track my train is on. Frankly I don’t use this anymore; I pass a departures monitor in Grand Central, which is easier for finding my track then pulling up my Blackberry and opening an email. I don’t know that you could enter Grand Central anywhere and not come in contact with a departures screen.

CC tells you to check the board anyway–PLEASE CONFIRM TRACK BEFORE BOARDING, it reads–which makes the service somewhat useless, at least in my opinion.

Plus, my train has been on the same track for months and months. An alert would be useful should it ever be on another track.

This is awful.

A little over a year ago, a Metro-North signal maintainer by the name of Kenneth McGrath was killed in the line of duty.

The ensuing media reports–Journal News, NY Daily News, USA Today–got McGrath’s name wrong in their stories, calling him Kevin.

We did the same, grabbing the story from the local Journal News.

We heard from McGrath’s daughter, still every bit in grieving over a year later. Lana asked us to please get her father’s name correct.

So that’s what we’re doing. Kenneth McGrath was hit by a Metro-North train and died Jan. 9 near Rye.

From the comments we got from people who knew Kenneth, he was a motorcycle enthusiast, a karate black-belt, a father of three, grandfather of three, and a fun guy who answered to “Shrek” or “Heavy Metal.” He owned three rescue dogs. He lived in New Rochelle. He would’ve been 51 Feb. 20.

“He was a father who layed a strong foundation down for his children. He was a very good brother, son , husband and family man. He was a superior person and he is with me when I wake and when I go to sleep,” wrote Alberta.

Rest in peace, Kenneth, and we’re sorry Trainjotting–and the media as a whole–got your name wrong.

Metro-North officials will conduct a live demonstration of their “Train Time” smartphone app at Hastings station from 7 to 9:30 a.m. Tuesday, Feb. 9. The next two Tuesdays will see similar app demonstrations at Brewster and Portchester stations.

Metro-North says the app covers 67 stations so far, and there have been 71,000 “hits” on the website. Riders with an enabled smartphone–Blackberry, iPhone, etc.–can get real-time train info.

“This new service allows customers to check the status of train service in real time at their home stations or wherever they are traveling,” said Metro-North President Howard Permut.  “It gives people the freedom to plan a trip and get up-to-the-minute information to make necessary adjustments while they are out and about.  We think it’s a technology whose time has come.” 

Says the press release:

Smart phones and computers will show whether a train is On Time, Late, Canceled or Delayed, including the number of minutes it is late, also what track it will arrive on and what stops it makes. 

The February edition of Westchester Magazine has a funny little “Field Guide to Metro-North Commuters” in it from John Korpics. The writer commutes from Waccabuc (uh, top 5 funny Metro-North station names…maybe top 3), and has come up with nine different species of Metro-North rider.

Here’s a taste:

Cellphonica obnoxium

A person whose need to make small talk on the phone supersedes your need for sanity. I was looking through some old drawings of medieval torture techniques the other day (like you’ve never done that), and I came across one that was particularly disturbing. It showed a man whose arms and legs had been pulled off by horses, his eyes had been gouged out, and someone was laughing while pouring hot liquid into his disemboweled stomach. Now imagine that the guy laughing and pouring the liquid is me, and that one of the severed arms is holding a cellphone…
Distinguishing Characteristics: Look carefully for the numbers 666 somewhere just beneath the hairline.
Warning: This rider can be dangerous if antagonized with a sarcastic comment (trust me). Overheard phrases can include: “Nothing, what are you doing?” and “I am so bored.”

Foster’s twofisticus

A commuter who boards the evening train with two 22-ounce, motor oil-sized cans of Foster’s beer. Yes, that’s 44 ounces of beer for a 45-minute train ride. If he drinks an ounce a minute, he still has an extra minute to pee! Subject also has been observed spilling various snack foods on his lap and not caring. Have you ever seen that scene in North by Northwest in which Cary Grant orders a Gibson in the dining car of the train and then charms the pants off of Eva Marie Saint? This is the complete opposite of that.
Distinguishing Characteristics: Untied tie, un-tucked shirt, sits near the bathroom.

You can even see Trainjotting’s shameless plug in the Comments section at the end!  

As it turns out, Korpics, who’s creative director at Fortune Magazine, has a Metro-North commuting blog called My Effing Commute. And we thought we had the only one out there!

Like Trainjotting, My Effing Commute revels in poking fun at fellow riders. Unlike Trainjotting, MEC has the nerve to shoot photos of the commuters its making fun of.

The 5:27 home after a long day of work.

I board late, as usual, and search for the best option among a shrinking pool of aisle seats.

I conduct a little Spatial Profiling and grab a seat next to a Typical Commuter: White male, 40, black hair, pinstriped gray trousers. He’s got a Blackberry in one hand, a giant Foster’s oil can in the other, and a David McCullough book about the Brooklyn Bridge on his thigh. The book will remain on his thigh, unread, for the duration of my ride.

My seatmate is listening to his iPod. Within moments of settling in, so am I. His is on a bit loud; I can hear it over my own. So I turn up the volume a bit.

We ease off the platform, and his iPod is really freakin’ loud. I switch for something louder and buzzier, some Franz Ferdinand, to drown out the Fremix.

Suddenly, his iPod gets even louder when a new song comes on. I can almost make out the tune despite having functioning earbuds wedged in my ears; it’s a familiar melody that calls to mind acid washed jeans, mullets and the cheapest beer you could find.

The guy finally acknowledges the aural pollution and goes to turn his music down. As he hits his touch screen, it lights up the name of the artist and track: “Oh, Sherry”, by former Journey-man Steve Perry.

Good Lord, how can someone actually be listening to “Oh Sherrie”–that synthy pop treacle that ruled the 1984 music charts the way Idi Amin ruled Uganda–by choice? I can see if you’re stuck in Gitmo, and the former Administration is cranking it into your cell in an effort to coerce you into giving up vital terrorist intell. But this man was not imprisoned in Gitmo, he was a practitioner of free will. [Editor’s Note: I vaguely remember WBAB doing its own version of one of those July 4 weekend Top 500 countdowns that always saw “Stairway to Heaven” win. I believe “Oh Sherry” won the WBAB countdown. WBAB didn’t do it for long, for obvious reasons.]

No amount of amber nectar from a Foster’s oil can could make “Oh Sherrie” palatable.

From December 1, 2008

It was the day after Thanksgiving, so-called Black Friday, when human nature’s darkest tendencies are on display, and it was exactly a month before Little G’s third birthday.

Big Sis and the kids were in the city, staying at the Marriott Marquis. I had the swell idea to put Little G on the train to see his cousins.

It’s hard to get Little G out of the house these days–everything that’s not pre-school, the grocery store or the Dump Truck Playground is “scary.” I’d packed his knapsack–PB&J, granola bar, water, wipes, his miniature red VW Beetle–but couldn’t get him off the couch.

Finally, I called on my ace in the hole.

“You don’t have to take a nap if you go,” I told him.

Every man has a price. That was Little G’s.

The Missus drove us the 9/10ths of a mile to the Hummerville train station and wished us well as we ambled up the steps for the 11:53 train. The weather was perfect for late November–sunny, 50, hardly a breeze.

We saw a neighbor on the platform–actually a neighbor’s son, who’s about 26, who’d recently moved out of his folks’ home on our block to a house down the block from the train. He was heading into the city for that most fun of mid-20s pastimes, the pub crawl–starting at a watering hole called Lansdowne.

The train pulled up and we got on. The last time Little G had been on the train, he was 20 months old and too young to truly appreciate what was going on–the fact that we were flying down tracks at 80 miles an hour, that we were passing other trains, that there was sometimes cool scenery outside. I recall the whole ride was an exercise in survival–hoping to keep him interested/occupied until Hawthorne, needing the help of kindly passengers to do so.

This time was different. He stared at the window as I showed off my knowledge of what the next stop would be, and what to look for there. He loved watching the northbound trains fly by. He dug the gaggle of cement mixers just south of Mount Vernon, on the Bronx border. He liked it when the conductor stamped my monthly and cracked a joke.

Heck, the kid even dug the long tunnel as we approached Grand Central.

We got in the stroller at Grand Central and headed up the ramp. Big Sis and her foursome were skating in Rockefeller Center, so we headed there and watched them for a bit. That part of the excursion was uneventful, except for when G stood on the front of his stroller and put his hands on the handlebars, his weight tipping the stroller backward and pitching him onto the smooth 30 Rock concrete. He was OK.

Little G was eager to check out the massive Toys R Us in Times Square, so we left a quick message for Big Sis and made our way over there. What’s incredible about that Toys R Us isn’t so much that it’s got a giant Ferris Wheel in it–the cars range from boats to Little People buses to M&Ms–but that the Wheel fits into what’s actually not that huge a store.

We steered the stroller up to the car section–no small task on Black Friday in Times Square–and Little G immediately jumped on a display featuring Dodge Charger radio-control cars.

“I want this!” he yelled.

I’m usually pretty good about not spoiling the kid, but figured it was OK to get him something to remember his big trip to the city by. Plus, the worker scanned the price and it was only $12.99, so I figured I was getting off relatively easy.

We poked around the store some more, checking out the kid-size Hummers you can climb on (and, yes, the bright pink Barbie jeep) and the ginourmous dinosaur. We then made our way across the street to the Marriott Marquis to wait for Big Sis and the kids. Little G enjoyed those insane glass elevators climbing some 450 feet in the air, before we took some rest on the benches in the 8th floor check-in/check-out area. I decided not to tell Little G about catching a nap on one of these benches during a most unproductive work day following a work Christmas party a decade before. 

He pestered me to open his new remote-control Dodge Charger, but I told him that would have to wait until the train ride home.

Big Sis and the kids came along, we shifted to the bar overlooking Times Square, and Little G and his young cousins wrote in pen on the bar’s pleather banquette as their parents enjoyed a bottle of Brooklyn Lager. Little G started pushing me to open up the Dodge Charger again. It’d been a long napless day, so we bid farewell and made our way toward Grand Central for the 3:53.

We made a brief stop in Bryant Park, where Little G took delight in racing down the ramp leading up to the Christmas booths and skating rink, and finally got to the train.

Alas, the Southeast-bound was fairly full, and we didn’t have a window, so we made do with some books and a brownie. I put our coats and the Dodge Charger on the fairly full rack opposite us, and found a spot for the stroller on the floor near the engineer’s booth.

As the train started through the tunnel, I told Little G to remind me not to forget the stroller.

We made our way past Valhalla and I told Little G our stop was next.

“Not to forget the stroller!” he yelled.

I didn’t forget the stroller.

The Missus and Little Miss C picked us up and asked us about our adventures. Little G talked about seeing his cousins, sitting in the kiddie Hummer, seeing the “Enterpire State Building” and, of course, the remote control Dodge Charger Daddy bought him.

My heart sank into my stomach. I’d left the fucking thing on the train.

“Little G…,” I began. “When Daddy goes back to the city on Monday, he’ll get you…”

I looked at his face, scrunched up, holding back tears. I’d made the short list for Worst Dad Ever.

Plan B, and quick. Try & Buy in Pleasantville was still open. We got home, The Missus and Little Miss C got out, and the boy and I were at the toy store in five minutes, buying a cool red and yellow remote control racer a few minutes after that. Crisis averted.

I went to the Metro-North website early Saturday for lost and found info. I filled out the Web form for lost items. The site said the thing was staffed 24/7, so I called and got perhaps the most disinterested man I’ve ever encountered. “Benjamin” mumbled something. I told him I had no idea what he’d just said. He paused several seconds to show me he was not pleased to have to repeat it, then told me to call Monday.

Think Little G’s Dodge Charger will turn up? If it does, we’ll do something cool and charity-minded with it.  

Three years ago today, Trainjotting was born.

Yes, three years ago, we threw up a question and answer with Engine Bob, and Trainjotting had eked its way into the blogosphere.

Thanks to Mayor Bloomberg and MTA chief Jay Walder and of course President Obama for the birthday cards and well-wishes.

Thanks also to “Justin” for the nice note today:

TJ -

Love your site and read on a regular basis. These words of the week are always amusing and it would be great if you had some sort of “Dictionary” that was easily accessible and contained past and future entries.

Just an idea….

Big thanks to all the correspondents and contributors (JerseyJim, Straphanger Joe, Engine Bob, etc.) who’ve blessed the site with their wit and wisdom, but the biggest thanks go to the readers–those who chose to come to our site, and didn’t stumble upon Trainjotting by Googling ’train sex’ or ‘black drag queens’ or ‘where does don draper live.’

It just dawned on us that Trainjotting turns three years old January 13.

So we’ll be doing something special next time. I’m not sure what it is, probably some lazy “repurposing” of old material that we find particularly funny. We should probably do a redesign or something. But I don’t think we will.

Got any requests for old Trainjotting posts–the mash-up of Metro-North and Thomas the Tank Engine, the riders on the 8:16 helping the blind woman and her dog, a particularly amusing Open Letter–that seem to stick out in your mind? Let us know, we’ll run ‘em again.

Have a happy weekend.

I had a pleasant interaction with a Metro-North customer service rep this morning.

Can you say that?

As I wrote yesterday, I forgot my new January pass yesterday and had to buck up $11 for a return ticket home last night. (Metro-North lets you use your expired previous month’s pass for one trip, but the other trip is on you. Fearful of crazy first-workday-of-the-month lines at the ticket machines, I allowed an extra 15 minutes, but zipped through the new ticket room in about two minutes.) After asking the conductor if I could avoid getting the ticket punched, as I had a January ticket waiting at home (that was a big No), I spent the entire ride home figuring out how I was going to cut $11 from my budget for the month, such as skipping the lettuce-and-tomato option on a sandwich from the deli.

I decided to call Metro-North today and see if I could get refund on my $11 ticket, seeing as I’d already paid for yesterday’s fare in the form of my January pass. Stacy (or is it “Stacey”? I couldn’t tell) was very helpful. She told me there is a “one time exception” for people in my situation–send in a copy of your one way ticket and monthly pass, along with a short note explaining the sitch, and you’ll be refunded in full.

Looks like I’m back to lettuce-and-tomato on the sandwich today.

It was, quite simply, my worst schlep to Hawthorne Station after over three years in this racket.

The morning’s weather was a peculiar hodgepodge of what the cheery weather folk call “wintry mix” and what can only be described as “Satan’s potpourri”–a driving freezing rain blown sideways by torrential winds, giant puddles of slush from the night’s wet snow, and rivers of fresh precip gushing down both edges of the street.

As I set wet foot on Pythian, I prayed a friendly neighbor or even a stranger–hey, it’s happened twice–would take pity on my soggy ass and drive me to the train.

When I turned right onto Broad, the wind hit me with full force. It was a wind that seemed to pick up momentum, like a runaway snowball, as it blew off the Atlantic, strafed Nova Scotia, rolled down the eastern cliff of Hawthorne and made its way up the giant hill on the west. It hit me like a nine-iron to the face from Tiger’s cuckolded missus, and buckled my umbrella into a useless heap of wayward metal fingers.

I forged on, attempting to hop the giant river sweeping down Bradhurst, and catching my trailing right foot in the foreboding drink.

I encountered a pair of folks in a pair of cars a few houses down; he’d backed out of the driveway to make room for his wife to pull out. I’d met the couple one day in the fair months when walking Little G home from “Firetruck Playground”. They’d just moved in with their young children. I welcomed them to the neighborhood and told them about the good playgrounds.

I peered through the frozen rain, hoping a little eye contact would merit a ride to the train. Alas, both ignored the crazy wet guy with the broken umbrella lurching by.

I thought about turning back, regrouping, changing my clothes, and working out a new gameplan. But the weather showed no sign of subsiding and I figured I’d just be wasting the five blocks I’d conquered thus far.

On I trekked. Every so often, a stiff wind would deliver a fresh round of soakage, icily pinning my overmatched cheenos to my legs, finding every centimeter of unguarded clothing between my coat buttons.

I had a brief break from the onslaught while heading north to Chelsea for a block, but got the same old F- you from Mother Nature as I again turned to the east. At this point of the trek there are sidewalks, but no one had thought to plow the damn things, which were covered in three inches of gray muck. The Mount Pleasant plow guys saw fit to plow our roads something like three times in the wee hours Saturday night, long after the snow had stopped and been completely cleared. I looked out our bedroom window at one point late Saturday, and saw the truck make two consecutive trips up and down our tiny dead end street, the plow on the road waking all within a quarter mile, and there hadn’t been a single flake on the street for a few hours. Kaching!

Where were the guys shoveling the sidewalks?

Not only were the sidewalks unwalkable, but there was a four-foot wide stream rolling down both sides of the street, so the only logical place you could walk was toward the middle of the road.

At this point, both thumbs were numb from taking turns holding the nearly useless umbrella up in the air. I thought at one point about actually hitchhiking the rest of the way to the train–what is this, 1989 in Narragansett?–but could not get my numb thumbs into the proper hitch position.

Soaked to the bone, I truly did not think my journey could get worse, until that god-awful “Bad Day” song started running through my head. I’d seen that hapless tunesmith Daniel Powter on the Yahoo homepage a few days before, awarded the dubious One Hit Wonder title for the decade. Now his mawkish tune was bouncing around in my brain.

I stepped into the station lot quagmire 15 minutes after I set out, clinging to one shred of hope: snagging a beloved folding 1 3/4 seater on the train, with a tiny heater inches away, and no seatmate to inevitably say something like, “wow, you got wet today.”

At 8:16, I caught the first break of the day, and hopefully not the last: An available 1 3/4 seater, with a steaming cup of cocoa, a pair of warm slippers, and a tiny fireplace. I may have imagined the cocoa, the slippers, and the fireplace, but the rest of it was real.