Google.

Hi Google. Sorry to hear the broadband-in-China thing didn’t fly, and sorry to bother you as you attempt to take over the world in other ways.

But I’ve noticed the Google Adsense revenue I get from those ads you serve up at the top of Trainjotting has slowed to a trickle. Mind you, it was never much to speak of; calling it “revenue” may be a bit flattering. But it was enough to cover a Sam Adams on the train every now and then, and maybe a cup of java for the likes of humble correspondents JerseyJim and Straphanger Joe.

But the past few weeks, Google, it’s been like a penny a day. Literally a penny a day. Why? Because you’ve been running an ad for your Nexus One smartphone every day, and no one clicks on it! People click on those random mom-and-pop banners that tell you where to go when you need a good DWI lawyer or a “doctor” to fix your ailing back. Those things grab you. They don’t click on your self-serving ads as you elbow your way into the cellphone market.

Google, your stock is like 540 bucks. You’ll someday digitize the world’s books and you already know more about our personal lives than our loved ones. I’m sure your Nexus One will be the next iPhone, China will eventually kneel down before you, and someday we’ll all be commuting across Planet Google to work for our local Google branch office.

In the meantime, can I please get my mom-and-pop ads–and resultant beer money–back?

Respectfully,

Trainjotting

I enjoy glancing at the learning agenda put forth by my son’s pre-school up the road in Priusville; it’s fun imagining him in the school learning about the various topics (animals, firehouses, pumpkins), and it’s nice to know what we are getting for our considerable tuition outlay.

I was struck to see that today’s lesson involves “Train Safety.” Little G, who’s in a 3’s program, learned about airplanes on Tuesday, and made a few pretty cool ones that fly a bit better than the lame paper ones I fold up for him. It looks like it’s Transportation Week over at PCC.

I’m curious to hear what train safety is all about. Is it about minding the gap as you enter a train, or staying glued to one’s seat once you’re on board? Or is it more about co-existing in a part of the country where trains racing by is part of life–stop well in advance of the safety arm when trains cross, or avoid those pesky third rails altogether?

I simply don’t know, but I expect a full report from Little G tonight. If he tells me his teacher said to cap my evening commute consumption to two Sam Adams or one Foster’s oil can, I can’t say I’ll be pleased.

With TJ hitting a landmark birthday later in the week…thank you, no, really–thank you…the gifts from far-flung sisters start trickling on around now.

The first one over the transom may just end up the best, especially for thirsty and stressed out commuters such as yourself.

Here’s a bit of a dilemma for the mature commuters of the world. You want a bottle of beer for the 6:33 after a particularly stressful day, during which your boss has mentioned just how narrow the gap is between you and the unemployment line. Sure, you could have the Grand Central beer guy pop the cap for you, but then you’re walking around looking for a seat with beer spilling over the edge of your bottle. You could pop it yourself, but that would involve carrying a bottle opener everywhere you go, and men of a certain age should no longer be in the possession of bottle-opener keychains.

And if you’re like me, the plastic RSA hard-token thingy your company issues to regenerate a network passcode every few minutes ends up looking like a dog chewed it after its hard edge has opened a few dozen Sam Adams.

Enter the Guinness ballcap with the bottle-opener built into the brim.

[mine is slightly different, with the opener on the under side of the brim, and a nice Guinness harp on the visible side.]

Folks, this is genius. Or, as the guys in that Guinness commercial might say, “BRILLIANT!”

It’s a handsome black Guinness hat with gold lettering. It has a metal circle with a harp logo in the visor. For the first hour or so of owning my handsome new Guinness hat, I thought it was just a decorative element–a metallic take on the gold stickers that dumbass kids seem to love leaving on the brims of their new Starter baseball caps.

But lo, the underside of it is designed to pop open bottles.

Keep this baby in your briefcase, and you’ll not only look sharp on the ride home–who doesn’t respect a Guinness drinker?–but you’ll have a handy bottle-opener to boot.

It’s the greatest development in beer-related headware since the Foam Dome rose to prominence.

As of this moment, that beer, wine, cocktail or soft drink you rely on to melt away the day’s frustrations as you board Metro-North is considerably more expensive than it used to be.

Metro-North spokesman Dan Brucker says prices are up “give or take about a dollar” on beverages. “Some have not been raised in ten years,” adds Brucker.

With the new prices, top shelf liquor is $6.50, Foster’s oil cans are $4.75 and soda is $1.50. Our beloved Sam Adams is considered an “imported beer” despite its Massachusetts address, and thus costs $3.25.

According to Metro-North, riders consumed 1 million bottles and cans of beer and 1 million non alcoholic drinks on the trains last year.

Metro-North is poised to hike up the price of a cocktail on both its bar cars and the carts stationed near the platforms in Grand Central. The railroad is “seeking approval from the Metropolitan Transportation Authority board of directors to raise prices…to keep pace with inflation.”

Metro-North’s booze sales represented $607,000 in profit last year, approximately 63% of it from me.  Metro-North estimates it sells a million beers and 250,000 bags of chips in a year.

The MTA board will vote on the matter–a joint request between Metro-North and Long Islang Railroad–Wednesday, and the price hikes would go into effect May 8. Perhaps more daunting, the railroad is also “seeking authorization to raise prices each September at the rate of growth in the consumer price index… without seeking board approval.”   

The new price list would see a domestic beer jump from $2 to $2.50.  

Dude, I’m sorry.

It was a long day and I was tired. I wanted to sit on the train and sip my Sam Adams quietly.

I also wanted to tip you, it being the holidays and all, and you guys almost always being so nice.

It was to be a modest tip, mind you, just a quarter on a $2.25 purchase.

I paid for my beer then stepped to the side of your cart to make room for another customer. I poked around in my pocket as you helped the next person on line, then settled on what I thought was a quarter.

Alas, Thomas Jefferson’s aristocratic mug stared back at me as I pulled it from my pocket. The nickel!

Then the awkwardness ensued. I had nothing but that nickel and some pennies, and there I was, stuck at the side of your cart. I couldn’t just walk away without dropping something on your tip cup.

So I threw the nickel in there and tried to pass it off as a quarter. Ah, but I’m sure you knew full well of my skullduggery, Mr. Beer Man, your ears well-trained to tell the difference between a quarter and a nickel as it drops in your cup.

I know now that I should’ve walked away instead of insulting you with a 2% tip.

Sorry, dude. Next time.

Sincerely,

Trainjotting

I started packing up my spent newspapers as the train pulled into the Grand Central tunnel around 9 this morning. I realized I had an empty Sam Adams bottle in my knapsack that I’d neglected to throw out on the ride home last night; I thought my bag felt a tiny bit heavier, but just chalked it up to not having been in a gym since Emily’s Reasons Why Not was still on the air.

Leaving the relative privacy of my 1-3/4 seat cubby, I stood up and crept toward the door, where my fellow riders were massed.

The train crawled towards 42nd. My commuting brethren took me in as I approached. To a man (and woman), their eyes zeroed in on the empty bottle in my hand, then back to my face, wondering all the while what would compel a man to pop open a brew on the morning train.

I let loose a boozy belch and shrugged my shoulders.

(OK, that last part didn’t really happen.)

According to a new report from the U.S. Census Bureau, all of 4.7% of American commuters used public transportation to get to work in 2005. Furthermore, almost half of the nation’s 6.2 million public transportation users live in 10 U.S. cities, such as Philly, LA, Houston and, yes, New York.

Also among the findings, 87.7% drive to work, and 77% of them drive alone. So those $3.50 gallons of gas obviously aren’t a big issue for many.

And Trainjotting readers–all six of you–know well the travails we’ve suffered in trying to get the town of Mount Pleasant to install a bike rack at the Hawthorne station so that more than five people can bike to the train (the 18-bike model, for $320 at Park-A-Bike, should suffice). A mere .4% of the population biked to work in 2005, with Portland, Ore. leading the pack with 3.5% (2.9% of them while stoned).

Finally, 2.5% of us walk to work. Boston led the nation at 13%–mostly guys named Sully who lost their license when driving home from Bill’s Bar on Lansdowne after 11 Sam Adams.

I’d never seen this before. The 7:22’s about to leave. A guy—Lennon specs, preppy, clean cut–asks another guy—rumpled beige suit, loosened tie, tired, resembling Robin Williams when he has a beard–to let him in for the window seat. Robin Williams obliges.  

The train takes off. Clean Cut makes a joke. Robin Williams, munching a bag of nuts and quaffing a Sam Adams, offers a perfunctory laugh.  

A conversation ensues. Clean Cut, drinking a plastic cup of cola that is or is not augmented with alcohol, is clearly the aggressor; when he speaks, he turns towards Robin Williams. Williams, meanwhile, is playing defense; short retorts to Clean Cut’s questions, looking straight ahead.  

Mind you, they’ve already broken the most hallowed of commuter rules, the same golden rule you learned when you were six and your friends were turning up on milk cartons: don’t talk to strangers. Blame the drinks. The one convo I’ve had in my four months on the train, my seat-mate wished me a happy holiday, and I responded “You as well.” He then asked me what I did for work, intrigued because I’d said “You as well” and not “You too.” Honest. That’s what he told me.  

By Harlem, the two are well-engaged, yet still holding fast to their roles: Clean Cut pushing the convo, Robin Williams half-heartedly playing along.  

But by the Westchester border, Williams warms. Instead of answering to the seat-back in front of him, he turns about 45 degrees to Clean Cut to answer. They’re smiling. They’re laughing.  

What are they talking about? 

At White Plains, the usual gaggle gets off. I inch closer. Clean Cut says the Democrats have become smarter, are much more in touch with their people.  

Moments later, Clean Cut asks what the name of the parish is. Robin Williams struggles to find the answer. 

“Sacred Heart,” eventually comes the reply.  

As we approach Hawthorne, Clean Cut has bad news: it’s his stop. Will they shake hands, promise to do lunch, barbecue in summer, introduce their wives, hug? Not so. Smiles and nods, and Clean Cut is on his way.  

Friday after work, and I’m enjoying a little life, liberty and pursuit of happiness on the 6:33. Guy next to me is young (28?) and nondescript. The second the train exits the tunnel, the guy whips out his cell phone.  

He dials.  

“What’s going on…” 

“I’m on the train. I’m bored…” 

“Forgot my book…” [Editor’s note: Yeah, right.] 

“KFC? Cool.” 

I tried to tune him out.   

“It barely snowed here. Remember when we were kids, wasn’t there like mountains of snow? Remember when we’d play King of the Hill and it was, like, 10 feet high?” 

The train progresses through the Bronx. I squeeze my Sam Adams a little harder.

“Did you download Lost yet?” 

“I haven’t seen any movies…” 

I turned the iPod up a little louder.

“I have Babel. It’s like Crash, seven storylines going at once…” 

I switched the iPod from Violent Femmes to System of a Down, acoustic punk for angry Armenian metal. No luck.

“I hate it when they try to push their political agenda…” 

“Yeah. Cool. Cool. Cool.”

And on. And on. And on.  

At least he was kind enough to get off inWhite Plains.