Living midway between a pair of wonderfully restored train station eating/drinking establishments (Valhalla Crossing and the Iron Horse up in Priusville), we’re partial to creative uses for old train stations, especially when they involve alcohol.

So is blogging Yankee apologist 9nine9, who gives high marks to the Irish Rail–doing business out of the Manasquan train station in jersey. Unlike Valhalla Crossing and the Iron Horse, the Rail shares space with a still functional train station.

9nine9 writes:

The bar is, literally, the Manasquan New Jersey Transit train station. There’s a small waiting room and ticket booth, and The Rail takes up the rest of the building.

On Thursdays, The Rail offers $3 pints of Guinness, Bass and Smithwicks. Since Guinness makes up about one-third of my blood, and it would be unhealthy to risk fluctuations in that ratio, I decided to take the train rather than driving. I’ve always been very good about having no more than two drinks before driving, and I knew there was no way in hell I was limiting myself to a pair of $3 pints of Guinness (great pour, by the way).

9nine9 says the stellar Guinness made the six-hour round trip from Hoboken worthwhile–even if a truly bizarre seatmate with a penchant for screaming Billy Joel lyrics significantly subtracted from the experience.

While Metro-North conductors occasionally implore our younger, less-mannered riders to kindly remove their size 11 Reeboks from the seat, the railroad took a curious tack in delivering a message to riders–putting bright yellow cut-outs of bare feet, the big toe the size of an egg, on the seats last night.

The campaign urges riders to “Put Your Best Foot Forward!” and not “slip, trip and fall” (definitely not to be confused with “stop, drop and roll”) while heading to and from the train.

Metro-North then implores riders to watch the gap, to not be distracted by your cellphone and morning paper, to walk, not run to the train, use the handrails on stairs, and, uh, stay off the tracks.

The bare foot and the message…it really, truly feels like something Little G would bring home after a (half) day of pre-school up in Priusville.

The 6:59 ambled along toward Hummerville and Priusville as the sun went down.

I shifted in my seat, perhaps to take something out of my pocket. Stiffening my back a bit, I happened to peer over the seat in front of me.

My gaze caught some pure, unadulterated cheesecake: a playing card featuring a naked guy in a very cheesy pose–hand behind head, other hand laying limply at his side. Buck naked.

It was the 7 of diamonds from a nudey-guy deck. The card was, er, bent.

You typically don’t see such things on the White Mail Express.

I won’t describe the man holding the card with any great detail; let’s just say he was older, with a white moustache.

He stared longingly at his nudey 7 of diamonds for several seconds (and perhaps a long stretch of time before I happened to peer over), then slipped it into the front pocket of a small brown carry-case the size of a Tom Clancy paperback.

The man then turned his gaze out the window, staring at the Kensico Cemetery as the train roared past.

Perhaps I was projecting, but he seemed sort of lonely.

I step onto the 8:16 in Hummerville and take my seat. A young guy takes the seat cattycorner to me. The guy across the aisle from him–right in front of me–starts saying “Michael…Michael!”

“Michael” looks up from his Post, spends a minute on recognition, and says, “Hey!”

They’re both about 20. Michael wears a green oxford shirt and jeans, white Nikes, a buzzcut.

The other guy I’ve noticed on the train before. It’s hard not to. He’s a wisp of a kid in Ramones-style pegged jeans, a black jacket regardless of the weather, a hint of a pompadour, and always mirrored Oakley shades–also regardless of the weather.

An artsy twerp with an attitude, I’d venture.

“Who you working for?” asks the artsy lad.

“Lionsgate. You?”

“A little documentary house,” says artsy kid.

He acts like how a lot of kids from Priusville, one stop up from Hummerville, seem to act: Ready to set the arts world on fire with skills gleaned from class trips to the Jacob Burns Center.

Little Roman Polanski and Michael discuss films across the aisle for a moment: can’t wait to see Tropic Thunder, yes, I heard about the “retard” protests, Pineapple Express wasn’t funny, Dark Knight was fantastic.

They don’t seem to be friends, just casual acquaintances.

They both have internships. It’s the artsy twerp’s last day at the little documentary house, in fact.

The conversation lulls.

“Commuting sucks, huh?” asks Little Roman.

“Oh, it’s awful,” concurs Michael.

Michael then goes back to his papers–he has not only the Post but the Daily News too–as Little Roman reads the manual to a camera resting on his lap.

Little Roman then puts the camera and manual away, and whips out a beat-up paperback of…c’mon, give us a guess…yup, Crime and Punishment.

He’s on page 279: “Well, I am indeed idle and depraved,” penned Dostoevsky. “But your sister has so many excellent qualities that even I could not but be impressed by them to some extent. But it all amounted to nothing, as I see now.”