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?  

This is shocking and unbelievably awful–so much so that we’ll curtail our typical sarcasm for the moment. It happened at Riverside (CT) station over the weekend.

Man Killed By Train After Putting Penny On Tracks

GREENWICH, Conn. (AP) ? Police say a man who was trying to entertain his family by putting a penny on the tracks has died after being struck by a train in Greenwich.

Police are withholding the man’s name, pending notification of all of his relatives.

Cementing its standing as everyone’s third-favorite Metro-North line, there was nearly a throwdown on the New Haven Line last night around 9 p.m. Our source says Combatant #1 seemed a bit off–a 40-something nutty professor type in t-shirt and cords, off enough to actually strike up “where ya’ from?” convos with seatmates….in a very loud voice. (That’s a bit of foreshadowing, folks.)

As the train headed into the Bronx, Combatant #1 took a cellphone call, something about helping a woman move into a new place, speaking loud enough to attract the ire of many around him.

Especially Combatant #2, a husky Greenwich type in a suit. When he’d finally had enough, Combatant #2 stood up and yelled something to the effect of, can you keep your voice down, taking your f***ing call to the vestibule, etc.

Combatant #1 didn’t take kindly to this, telling his cellphone convo mate he’d have to call back, then shooting back an emphatic “You don’t have to be an a**hole about it” to Combatant #2.

The staredown commenced, as the riders between them gathered their belongings up and prepared to move to a different car, preferably one without two large males swinging fists.

“How about I smack your f***ing face!” offered Combatant #2. It was on.  

A clean-cut young male stepped between them with a gentle “now, now,” but to no avail. Then, from out of nowhere, a strapping man in blue emerged. No, not Superman, but one might’ve confused this conductor with the Man of Steel.

He approached Combatant #2, who explained his side of it.

“I’LL BE THE ONE WHO TELLS PEOPLE TO KEEP THEIR VOICE DOWN!” the conductor yelled as #2 cowered.

Superman then approached Combatant #1.

“KEEP YOUR DAMN VOICE DOWN AND BE CONSIDERATE OF FELLOW RIDERS,” he bellowed. “WE ALL WANNA GET HOME IN PIECE.”

Cooler heads prevailed. And the train rolled along into the night.

October is nearly here, and the hottest part of the year is now behind us, thank God. Unfortunately, I ride the dilapidated New Haven line with its 20+ year old cars that have been in the process of being replaced since I was in high school. The current rumor is that the new cars will be coming in somewhere around 2009.  Rest assured, I will NOT be holding my breath waiting for that to happen.  My 2-year-old son will probably be retired by the time the new trains arrive.  The past couple of days have been in the 80’s and I’ve been unlucky enough to sit in cars without air conditioning two days in a row on my way home. For those of you who ride on a semi-functional MNRR line (read: any line OTHER than New Haven), you may not realize how disgusting and uncomfortable this can be. Take my word for it – it is not pleasant.  While I could rant for hours about the despicable condition of the trains that I ride ~225 days a year, my focus today will be the famed terminal – Grand Central – that marks the beginning and end of each of my work days.  Beautiful architecture, convenient transfers to subway lines, food & drink options galore (where else in NYC can you get a bottle of Heineken for $2.25?)…. Grand Central’s got it all, right?  

I have a request for the ultimate improvement to GCT, if I may be so bold:  ventilation on the hellish train platforms. Diesel fumes, and air so thick that you can cut it with a knife.  I’ve lost about 20 lbs in the past 4 months, and I’m convinced that 90% of that comes from sweating it out walking on the train platforms in Grand Central. 

If you spend more than 30 seconds on the platform, dehydration (and a possible asthma attack from the diesel fumes) is pretty much a given.  There are fans affixed to the ceiling every few hundred feet, but they are absolutely useless.  I’m not sure who to contact – the EPA, OSHA, Department of Health – but Satan himself would surely be uncomfortable in these conditions. 

I truly feel for the poor souls whose job it is to work on the platforms – they deserve hazard pay. MTA:  Do something.  Please.  I’d rather stab myself in the eyeball with a rusty coat hanger than stand on a platform in GCT for any period of time. 

CTRider did not enjoy his ride home last night.

Fun & Games on the 5:01…. 

Last week (or was it the week before?) we were still inside GCT, and there were a series of LOUD noises (I hesitate to use the word explosion) before one of the cars started filling up with smoke. They moved everyone out of the car, and finally got it moving 15 minutes later, saying that nothing was wrong.  

Sure…I believe that one. Smoke pouring into a train car doesn’t exactly sound like normal operation.  

So today, the fun continues. Something goes haywire, and the train came to an abrupt stop a few minutes short of New Rochelle. The garbled PA declared something about brake problems, and that we would be moving shortly.

A few minutes later, the story changed a bit and we were told that we’d be dropped off at New Rochelle so that we could all get onto another train.  Great. 

We pulled into New Rochelle, but we weren’t on a track next to the platform…. so we are just sitting here.  The next development is that they are moving everyone from the front three cars into the rear six, so they can remove the head three and have the rest of the train continue on. 

To add insult to injury, there is an obvious non-commuter in a four-seater nearby with her iPod at full volume–I can hear the distorted bass from the $0.05 earbuds from here, so it can’t sound too great in her ears.

One person got her attention and asked her to please turn it down, and the non-commuter’s screaming response: “?*$# you! You don’t know me! Don’t be telling me what to do.”  Now her cellphone is ringing and beeping–it sounds like something from Star Trek, but of course she can’t her it.  

God, I love my commute. Some people don’t know how to share common space, and even if they do the trains are so unreliable that it’s a coin toss if you are even getting home on a given evening. Hey, it’s 6:02 (I usually get to Fairfield @ 6:05) and we just started moving again.

Any bets on what time I’ll actually get home?   

–CTRider  

[Tune in later for the rest of CTRider’s trip.]

Far as we could tell, it wasn’t quite a Nor’easter. It wasn’t exactly a snowstorm, and you wouldn’t really call it a steam pipe exploding next to Grand Central.

So what the hell caused colossal malfunctions on Metro-North and the subways this morning?

The bike ride to the train was completely uneventful; a few puddles to avoid, that’s about it. Was waiting for the 8:16 when G. Francis texted from Mamaroneck: sitting on the beleagured New Haven Line train, conductors instructing riders to get off, hop the eastbound train, and go home.

Ten, 15, 20 minutes pass. A muffled announcement says something about no trains in and out of Grand Central, but no one has heard the announcement clearly. I get talking with a few fellow platform paisons–young, sort of cute Westchester Italian princess, portly Russian emigre dude. I share G. Francis’ dour news and we debate going home and going to bed (our respective beds, not one big one).

At 8:40, people start arriving for the 8:43. A moment later, the train shuffles in to the station. It’s half full. We consider not getting on, if it means being stuck somewhere in the Bronx for an hour. We get on and the doors close.

Text from G. Francis: Stuck in New Rochelle. Keeping eyes open for New Roc City rioters.

Our train chugs along, stops in North White Plains, a near-empty platform in White Plains. It’s surprisingly smooth sailing.

Instead of going express from White Plains, we stop in Hartsdale, Scarsdale, Crestwood, Tuckahoe (most limerick friendly stop name ever), until the train is packed; basically, if you were wearing a collared shirt and standing anywhere near a train track in Westchester, we were stopping for you.

Text from G. Francis, stuck in Pelham.

Us, we’re rolling right along. We enter the Bronx, the site of the morning’s flooding. We keep hustling.

Text from G. Francis, who’s staring at an abandoned car in the brush near Fordham: “It’s the Bronx’s biggest trash!” he gushes.

We hit 125th, and are in Grand Central all of 10 minutes later. All told, we’re 45 minutes late. It could’ve been worse. In fact, it was for G. Francis, who was delayed 1 1/2 hours. Damn those pantograph shoes on the New Haven Line! [Editor’s Note: “Pantograph Shoes” would be a great name either for a punk band or a Steely Dan tune.]

Alas, the trauma didn’t end there. I descended the subway stairs at Grand Central for the 6, ran my card through the turnstile to the tune of two bucks, and found out no trains were running. I exited Grand Central and began my walk, passing the some of the sweatiest dudes New York has known since the days of the Tunnel on the way west side.

All because of a phantom rainstorm.

I couldn’t tell if the deejay on the Peak this morning said “drenching rains” or “trenchant rains,” but either applies. MTA Service Advisory #1 landed in my email at 8:14 this morning, right around when one puts one’s Blackberry in one’s bag to prepare to step onto the 8:16.

“There are currently delays on all Hudson, Harlem and New Haven line trains,” it read, “because of storm-caused flooding problems in the Bronx and lower Westchester county…All trains operating toward Grand Central Terminal are subject to 30 minute delays.”

Everything seemed normal until we slowed in Hartsdale, then stopped, then picked up a gaggle of irritated Hartsdale types. The same thing happened moments later in Scarsdale, and the train got cheek-to-cheek jammed.

One Scarsdaler spied a coworker or neighbor across the train.

“That’s what you get for trying to get to work early!” he jibed.

“That’s what you get for wearing a suit like that!” the other jibed back. (His sparring mate wore a cheesy wrinkled seersucker jacket.)

Eventually, the Scarsdale “humor” subsided, and we trekked toward the flooded Bronx, with Fordham the exact hot spot. A lady in the aisle ate a bagel and dropped poppy seeds on my Journal.

Truth be told, the delays weren’t as bad as predicted, and certainly not 30 minutes. We stopped for a few minutes near Fordham, but otherwise held a steady pace into Manhattan, and pulled in 14 minutes after our scheduled time (technically “late,” even by MTA standards).

In fact, the worst part of the commute awaited. The platform to enter Grand Central was jammed, and I had to resort to walking through an empty train to the end of the platform, risking the doors shutting on us for an inadvertent joyride to, say, Stamford. The steps down to the 6 train were jammed too, as was the subway platform, the turnstiles at 28th Street (Emergency Door locked, nice), and the revolving doors under the Met Life building.

Then, the fun part–stepping into a downpour so heavy that we had to call on the emergency backup cheenos in the bottom desk drawer.

Surprise surprise, things were worse on the New Haven Line (soon to be rebranded the Beleagured New Haven Line). Texts Mamaroneck’s own G. Francis, “hey my train stopped in bronx. conductor announced ‘high water condition’ and signal probs ahead,” followed by, “‘not totally blocked but rest of trip will be ‘arduous.’”

Which I think means the same thing as ‘trenchant.’

After Tuesday morning saw an elderly gent tossed into the gap like yesterday’s Post, we almost saw a repeat performance on the 5:27 home. The train was an old one, the type typically found on the New Haven Line. It was packed, and it was hot–not all that much different from the 90 and humid outside.

A towering old guy got on at 125th. He wore shorts and a white t-shirt that said Boston–America’s First Subway, with a map of the various T lines on it. He wore thick, all-enveloping sunglasses, like Bono as The Fly. He was accompanied by what looked like his son, an uptight man of about 45, and the son’s wife.

There were no seats, so the three stood in the vestibule. Within seconds, the old man was bobbing and weaving, and threatening to fall.

Someone walked over and offered to help find a seat. The son shook his head and said they’d take care of it. They did, ushering the old fella into the end seat of a six-seater. His head lolled back and forth, but they fed him chocolate chip cookies and he snapped back to life.

Dear Sir Snores-a-lot, 

You’re a Caucasian male, probably in your mid to late 30’s and have some kind of half-spiked blonde hair. You board the train at Fairfield. You’re usually on the 7:08 or the 7:24 and sit towards the rear of the train.

For the past two days, I’ve had the VERY unpleasant experience of sitting in the same car as you. Why, you ask? Because you snort and snore very loudly as you drool onto your tie. On Tuesday, you were passed out leaning against a window and had everyone in the car irritated.

I was hoping that this would be a one-time thing, but I was wrong. Yesterday morning, you snagged a seat in one of the five-seaters, once again snorting, snoring and drooling.  Since the 7:24 was packed, you irritated even more people than on the previous day. 

I’m not sure if you’ve got a new baby at home that is keeping you up all night or if you’re out partying until 3 am every morning, but you make an already unpleasant experience even worse. Whatever the problem is, maybe you should try sleeping at night.  Not like anyone cares if you sleep on the train (although the guy next to you on Tuesday looked pretty pissed that your head kept bobbing and landing on his shoulder), but we could definitely do without the snorting and snoring. (Since the drooling is only a visual thing, I guess we can deal with that — although I’d prefer not to see that either.) 

Thank God I saw you walking onto the platform this morning so I had an opportunity to head in the opposite direction. It was actually a pretty nice ride in silence after listening to you for the past two days. 

Has anyone been appointed the enforcer of Commandment #7 on the New Haven line?? If not, I suppose I’ll volunteer. Where can I buy a family-sized pack of Breathe-Rite strips?  Not only will I properly affix one to the bridge of your nose, Sir Snores-a-lot, I plan on using them like butterfly bandages to close your mouth, as that seems to be the primary source of the offensive sounds.  

–CTRider 

Yes, the New Haven line is up to its old tricks. The catenary wire has decided not to play nice with morning commuters, so there’s no service at all New Haven line stops from Larchmont to Greenwich.

No city-bound service, that is. Riders at the six affected stops are encouraged to head west to Stamford to catch the express. So, if you live in Larchmont, and moved to Larchmont because you’re a fan of 30-minute commutes, you’re schlepping 32 minutes away from the city, only to wait for another train, then enjoy the 50-minute ride to Grand Central.

You’re better off walking on the shoulder of 95.