C’mon, folks, get those votes in for the Best Damn Commuter Town Period contest.

A week ago, we announced the second running of Trainjotting’s search for the best commuter town in the area, based on train service, downtown options, property taxes, walkability, a**hole factor, and other factors that make a cool town cool.

Is it Mamaroneck? Summit? Revitalized Rockville Centre, fey English spelling and all?

Or something from the Nutmeg state: The wilds of North Stamford, or the Aryans who make Darien so special?

Will Pleasantville repeat its 2008 win? Get those votes in, either via the Comments section or by email.

A comment from a reader today who, after “extensive” research on the topic, decided the best commuter town in the area was Westfield, New Jersey, has prompted Trainjotting to conduct its second-ever Best Damn Commuter Town Period Contest.

It is you, readers, who decide which town has the best mix of commutability, walkability, and other overall abilities. Who’s got a nice downtown, including a Manhattan-esque restaurant or two, reasonable taxes, decent schools and a relatively low a**holes-per-capita rate? Sidewalks? A movie theater? A town pool? A beach?

Pleasantville, NY won the first and most recent time we conducted the poll, beating out the likes of Mamaroneck, Ho-Ho-Kus and a handful of other hamlets. “P’ville is eminently walkable and human scale, being a classic pre-automobile village, as yet unsullied with sprawling development,” wrote reader Peter. “A very livable little burg.”

Your best town can be any relatively commutable burg in the tri-state area (if you really want to nominate something in Pennsylvania, you better make a very strong case). Send your pick in via the comments section or drop us an email at trainjotting@gmail.com.

Seeing as we’re caught up in a bit of Olympic hysteria, Trainjotting will be awarding the gold, silver and bronze medal to three separate towns.

Some $67 million worth of renovations are in the works at the Philipse Manor, Scarborough and Don Draper’s own Ossining station houses, reports the Journal News. The projects should be completed by Aug. 1.

Among the improvements: digital message boards telling you when the train is coming, less harsh lighting, and walls and structures to block those brutal winds coming off the Hudson.

Those being the artsy river towns and all, the stations are also getting new artwork that reflects the local landscape.

Philipse Manor already has its piece, a set of stained-glass windows designed by Manhattan artist Joseph Cavalieri [Pictured above]. They depict a stylized blue tree on a bold yellow background with a haiku Cavalieri created, written as a single line on the main tree branches: “A gentle Hudson whistle begins my journey north and south and home.”

Cavalieri, who grew up in Pleasantville and has relatives in the Tarrytown area, said he unofficially dedicated the work to his mother and father, and saw in it the idea of family.

“The whole design itself is like a big, strong old tree and that just represents a community, almost like a family tree,” he said. “But it encompasses the community there.”

We continue with another excerpt from Mount Pleasant: The History of a New York Suburb and its People. Chapter 5 is called “The Coming of the Railroad.”

Philip F. Horne writes:

Until the 1840s a man who wished to leave the city and move to Westchester was forced to cut his ties of employment to New York. Travel was difficult over poor roads; New York was many hours ride by horseback or coach, and even river travel was some distance from Unionville, Nanahagen and Robbins’ Mills, as well as being useless in the winter. When Joseph Miller moved to Robbins’ Mills in 1835 “for the children,” he went to farming.

Of course, that all changed when the train rolled in. In April 1831, a charter was granted to the New York and Harlem Railroad for a line to run from lower Manhattan to Harlem. The charter was amended in 1840 to allow the train to run through Westchester.

By 1844, it reached White Plains.

Two years later, the line was extended to Hawthorne (then “Unionville”) and Pleasantville. A guy named Nathaniel U. Tompkins had a store that became the Unionville train depot.

The sight of the train running through the area was of great interest to the locals. Notes the railroad’s civil engineer, Allen Campbell:

The first running of the trains through the country was a matter of great curiosity, and great crowds of people surveyed it from the adjoining hills.

The 9:16 was pretty full this morning. I took an aisle seat in a four-seater, hoping I’d get to keep the leg room and unobstructed view for the remainder of the ride.

Alas, a young man took the seat across from me, though the two window seats were more open than Tony Gonzalez against the Jets secondary yesterday.

He was about 20, black, wearing a baseball hat and jeans.

Right away he makes eye contact and starts chatting. Ten seconds in, and he’s broken every unwritten rule of commuting.

“Can’t believe it’s almost Christmas,” he says. “It feels like it was just summer.”

I turn down my iPod and nod.

“Time goes so fast,” he says.

I fold my Times Business section and smile.

The guy then tells me he knows what he’s doing for New Year’s: giving his girl an expensive necklace. I tease him about getting her a ring and he smiles. He’s got a pleasant way about him.

He tells me he splits time between a parent in Pleasantville (I guess that explains his pleasantness) and his girl in Far Rockaway; the Metro-North/subway trip can take as much as three hours, he said.

We engaged in (very) small talk until North White Plains.

There was a lull. I slid my earbuds back in and picked up my Times again.

At White Plains, he wordlessly got off.

I kept the legroom and unobstructed view the rest of the ride.

I’ve parked my bike in a different spot the last few days. In a nod to the daily forecast for thunderstorms, I’ve eschewed the bike rack I fought so hard for to park under the staircase overpass. I’ve also noticed there’s only one bike there chained to the overpass fence; there used to be four or so bikes, which was what initially prompted me to pester Town Hall for the bike rack.

Anyway, while parking in the new spot, I’ve noticed a white painted crosswalk spanning from the crummy old station house across the station byway, to the greenery bordering Elwood Ave. on the other side. I even saw a pylon informing motorists to let pedestrians pass under state law.

I’m fairly certain I’ve never seen this before. If so, kudos to Mount Pleasant for showing bipedals the love. Whether motorists will or not is to be determined.

By the way, dedicated Trainjotting readers (Hi Mom!) may have noticed that I’ve stopped referring to Hawthorne as “Hummerville” and Pleasantville as “Priusville.” This is due primarily to one thing: We had our home appraised for refi purposes, and the appraisor was a man from Pleasantville who parked his big honkin’ Hummer in front of our house.

Moreover, I no longer see the 2-3 Hummers that once dotted–OK, dominated–my immediate neighborhood, surely victims of those escalating gas prices last summer. I’ve even seen a few Priuses around little Hawthorne.

“Priusville” worked as a stand-in for Pleasantville because Pleasantville is crunchy and artsy–a little slice of Boulder/Burlington along the Saw Mill. That, and we see a red Prius every time me and Little G visit his beloved Dump Truck Playground.

“Hummerville” was always intended not so much as a characterization of Hawthorne residents’ love of ridiculous former military vehicles, but a general label for the suburbs–where the car is king, and pedestrians (and cyclists) took an, um, back seat to automobiles.

But that’s all changed now that we have a pedestrian crosswalk.

I must say, I’m really not impressed by this year’s lineup at the Pleasantville Music Festival, which takes place July 11. It’s a great little fest–you can show up in the middle of the day, toss a blanket down a hundred feet from the stage, enjoy a brew from local Captain Lawrence (although you’re confined to the bier garten/holding pen whilst quaffing your brew), and take in some fun musical acts–some that you’ve even heard of.

Kids are everywhere, with bouncy houses, crafts and other pleasant diversions for the thigh-high set. And the whole shebang, located at Parkway Field, is about a five minute walk from the Pleasantville train station.

Last year we saw Joan Osborne, among many others. The year before, Shawn Mullins and some talented Brooklyn hipsters called the Damnwells. Both years we caught a fun band called De Sol (not to be confused with De La Soul, of course), a Santana-esque outfit that really, truly seemed psyched to be rocking out in Pleasantville that day.

[beware the big head]

Music…arts…locally brewed beer…it’s all part of what makes Pleasantville a hip little town–and the best commuter town in the tri-state area, voted thusly by Trainjotting readers.

The festival has grown each year, so naturally expectations were that there’d be a couple blue-chip acts on the bill for 2009. Alas, the headliner is Big Head Todd and the Monsters–that Colorado college campus second-fave from, oh, 1993 or so. Second billing is Hill Country Revue, who I never heard of, and after that it’s Davy Knowles with Back Door Slam. We caught Back Door Slam last year: young English blues guys–good, but very, very loud, and just wrong for an outdoor fest crawling with kids. I distinctly remember lots of people walking away from the stage, fingers jammed in their ears like the squeaky 6 was pulling into Union Square Station.

I wish the organizers would put more emphasis on up and coming acts, such as those Damnwells guys, and less on the bands who are so obviously on the back nine of their career.

Oh well. With Little G and Little Miss C in attendance, we’ll surely be heading home before Big Head Freakin’ Todd even takes the stage.

I’ve not read this Lee Child author before (real name, Jim Grant), but I do see a number of his books in the hands of my fellow Metro-North riders. His protagonist across several of his escapist novels is Jack Reacher–a Jack Ryan-esque fellow who knows a thing or two about counter-terrorism, and also can kick some serious ass.

Times book critic/Pleasantville resident Janet Maslin says Child’s latest, Gone Tomorrow, starts with Reacher thinking he’s sitting across from a suicide bomber lady on the New York subway.

I don’t typically go for the escapist stuff–my life of wake up-commute-work-commute-dinner-bed is exciting enough as it is. But this actually sounds kind of fun:

He is riding in a New York City subway car at 2 in the morning when he spots a woman who alarms him. The book’s lean, mean opening paragraph: “Suicide bombers are easy to spot. They give out all sorts of telltale signs. Maybe because they’re nervous. By definition they’re all first-timers.”

Reacher, being Reacher, knows Israeli counterintelligence’s 11-point list of telltale signs for spotting female terrorists. He also knows the exact specifications of the R142A Kawasaki-built New York City subway car, down to its automated announcement system, which gives orders in a man’s voice and information in a woman’s. Much of the guilty pleasure delivered by Mr. Child’s books comes from their fine-tuned, obsessively deductive use of data…

When the subway-riding woman, who is not a suicide bomber, winds up dead because of Reacher’s meddling, he attracts the interest of the Police Department. But something about the dead woman’s identity puts larger forces into play. Soon, by the improbably upward-spiraling logic that drives these books and would give readers pause if pausing were possible (it’s not), Reacher has become a target for secretive foreign agents, federal officials and certain persons from the Pentagon. One of this book’s high-powered, intricately wrought suspense sequences brings together three groups of Reacher catchers, Reacher and Reacher’s knowledge of the New York subway system.

The Missus and I and assorted other parties actually got out to a restaurant for dinner twice this weekend, thanks to her folks being in town.

Saturday, we opted for one of the few high-end options around us, the consistently good Iron Horse Grill, located in the old Pleasantville train station building. We wanted a special-occasion kind of place to mark National Train Day–not to mention our anniversary. We got Little Miss C down early and actually snuck out early enough to enjoy a drink at the bar.

The restaurant has a subtle train theme paying homage to the building’s origins; the name of course refers to trains, there are old train photos on the walls, and even a little Edward train from the Thomas the Tank Engine set above the bar (or was it Gordon?).

We got put in a small room off to the side which features just a pair of two-tops and a big round table for eight or so. Not the best spot in the place, but it did prompt me and the Missus to wonder what the room used to be–the ticket-taker space? A storage room for luggage?

The food was very good–I got a nice sole dish and The Missus got the duck, which featured a very tasty sauce. Owner Phil McGrath is very visible around the place–he stopped by to chat about the dishes, and was even about to take our order before a server wisely stepped in and saved McGrath the trouble (and likely saved his own job). McGrath does his flitting about in a very low-key way–none of this “I’m, Phil, the owner!” nonsense–we only knew him because of a framed review on the wall with his picture in it.

Speaking of framed reviews, The Missus spotted one in the bathroom with a real anachronistic quality–it was about a decade old, and talked about the depressing (and dodgy) downtown area surrounded Iron Horse, full of nail salons, empty storefronts and a crazy person or two. Priusville has come a long way.

I’d love to say we had a similarly terrific experience at Cabin, the recently rebooted restaurant in the cozy lodge on the Greenburgh/Valhalla border. We’d eaten there before and had a wonderful time–ambitious menu, surprisingly winsome ambience, considering the somewhat rundown exterior, and really good service–actual servers, not high school kids.

We went last night with the Mother In Law (MIL), Father In Law (FIL) and of course Little G and Little Miss C. Much like the night before, we got put in the junior varsity room–a dining space in the bar area, where you can’t help but watch golf and local news on different screens, not to mention the constant parade to the men’s room, while trying to converse with your table mates.

We ordered the fried shrimp (or Fried “Shirmp” on the menu…The Missus and TJ are career editors and no menu typo gets by us) for Little G and asked the server to please bring it with our salads. No problem, she said.

To be fair, it was Mother’s Day. But the restaurant wasn’t really that slammed–I’d say it was 75% full when we got there, and everyone was ordering off a prix-fixe menu, which makes life much easier for the staff.  

Well, our salads came, and no fried shirmp. The salads had lovely toasted goat cheese pucks or croquettes or whatever, but none of the four we ordered had the sugary walnuts the menu promised. No big.

Well, our salads were consumed, and still no fried shirmp for Little G. The kids started getting restless. The Missus walked Little Miss C around and I engaged Little G, compelling him to crayon a picture of the new Roary the Racing Car toy MIL and FIL picked up for him on a recent trip to England. Little Miss C was put back in the high chair, got cranky a little while later, and I took my turn walking her around. Little G joined us in a quick tour of the place.

Still, no fried shirmp. The waitress even came by, saw our long-since picked apart salads, and said, quite rhetorically, “The shrimp hasn’t arrived yet?”

Finally, it showed up, and Little G returned to his seat. I occupied a bench about 20 feet from our table with Little Miss C, midway between the main dining room and the bar area, trying to entertain her as her bedtime approached.

Alas, the fried shrimp was hard as a rock, and Father in Law sent it back.

“This is totally unacceptable,” FIL said politely but sternly. “This is hard as a rock.”

Mind you, we’ve been here about an hour and only now were getting the kids meal, with the grown-up meals still in the works. Some frustration poked through.

The waitress took the inadvertent Rock Shrimp and headed for the kitchen. She stopped to talk to what I suppose was a floor manager, about 10 feet from me and Little Miss C. The waitress did a pretty unflattering imitation of my father in law:

“This is totally unacceptable,” she said in a whiny voice through a sneer. “This is hard as shit.”

OK, now there’s trouble.

I don’t believe I’ve ever heard the father in law curse in the decade I’ve known the guy. I also don’t believe I’ve ever seen him be anything but completely cordial to a server, especially a female one who’s half-decent looking. I felt my blood boil as I watched this hack (and inaccurate) impersonation.

Finally our entrees came about an hour and ten minutes after we first sat. Alas, they brought the wrong thing for Father in Law (he wanted crab cakes, they brought a Cape Cod casserole). He told them not to bother bringing his desired entree–we were hungry, and the kids were absolutely done.

It was one of those meals where the entree becomes an after-thought; you just want to finish and get home. Little G’s reconstituted fried shirmp never showed, and we were finished in 10 minutes.

It didn’t quite end there. The Missus and I asked for our chocolate bread pudding desserts to go, while FIL and MIL asked for them to stay. We got the kids up and got the heck out of there.

Alas (yes, another “alas”), all the desserts came to go, accompanied by the check. Then FIL and MIL had to wait another 10 minutes or so for the check to get picked up; when the waitress never came for it, FIL settled up at the bar.

Fittingly, the desserts were a bust too. Granted, no dessert really holds up in to-go form, but the bread pudding was painfully mediocre (neither the Missus nor MIL ate theirs, and I only did because I would eat cardboard if it was smeared with chocolate). FIL’s “berries” dessert featured two strawberries–two, 2–cut in half. Technically, yes, they were “berries.”

In their defense, the Cabin did not charge for Little G’s meal (mind you, he never got his meal), or FIL’s Cape Cod Casserole. That smoothed frayed feelings to a degree.  

As I’ve said, we’ve had very good meals at the Cabin, and were very happy to see a good dining option to all the uninspired red-sauce joints in our area. But last night sure was a dud.

As we exited the 5:46 last night, Hawthorne riders were met at the stairs by a fresh-faced young lady handing out equally fresh copies of The Examiner. The Examiner is a weekly paper that launched last fall, covering Pleasantville and Mount Kisco. The paper has since commenced coverage of Chappaqua and, as we saw in the issue the young lady was handing out yesterday, has recently begun covering the Thorns–Thornwood and Hawthorne–as well.

We think this is excellent. Maybe we just love the smell of newsprint, but in an era when large dailies are sacking people by the hundreds and someone’s actually running a Newspaper Death Watch, some crazy folks are actually expanding their newspaper’s reach.

As publisher Adam Stone said in his introductory editorial:  “We’re here to photograph your triumphs, to chronicle your tragedies, pay tribute to your good deeds, and capture your misdeeds. Newspapers aren’t dead. They’ll only perish if those who run them suffocate them.”