PBS has a special on tonight about how a superior rail infrastructure can leave cities head and shoulders above their competition, as well as the converse–how a failing rail system will doom a metro area.

The special is called Blueprint America: Beyond the Motor City and it compares the thriving high-speed rail system in Spain to the sagging setup in Motown. When the car took off in Detroit, the train died a quick death. Some people want to bring it back to life.

Here’s a preview of the special. Tumbleweeds through downtown Detroit–wow.

Here’s the NY Times review.

[image: NY Times]

It’s Mount Pleasant: The History of a New York Suburb and its People. Written by Philip F. Horne, the book is a wispy 57 pages, type-written, with a strip of tape holding the binding together. Horne says he wrote it as a sophomore in college, publishing it in 1971.

The writing is a bit clunky, but the kid did ample research–poring through old history documents and even finding a few old-timer primary sources.

The railroad plays something of a starring role in the book, as the rail link to the city truly changed the lifestyle in the area, and helped the farms give way to suburban tracts.

Horne does give a glimpse at the earliest days of city commuting as the 1800s began.

The farmer could also drive his own wagon to New York, leaving at midnight to arrive early in the morning. He backed his wagon up to the sidewalk and led the horses to a livery stable for the day. In addition to produce the farmer would sell any fancy work his wife had sent along. Later in the day, purchases were made for the family; for special goods, this was their only opportunity to buy, except from peddlers.

Hawthorne was known as Unionville, presumably for the residents’ allegiance to the British Crown (the Union) despite our kicking their ass in the Revolutionary War. The people were primarly Dutch Reformed.

And long before Gordo’s there was John Brett’s tavern at 347 Bradhurst–around where Bradhurst hits Broadway, near where the Citgo station blew up and the entrance to the Taconic/Bronx River Parkway is.

The tavern was the site of some bloodshed during the Revolutionary War. Two Yank soldiers popped in for a potable after their honorable discharges. A British soldier shot up the front window, then went in and offed the two soldiers with his sword.

The first glimpse of Mt. Pleasant-as-suburb came in 1835, when Manhattan resident Joseph Miller bought the Zephaniah Birdsall homestead, whose manor house stood as 230 West Lake Drive. Miller claimed New York City was no place to raise kids.

I’ll be excerpting from Mount Pleasant all week.

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. 

I don’t really mind the landfill of cigarette butts the dispatchers create outside their window.

And I’m really perfectly fine with the fact that the old station house is used as storage for the cab company’s junk, instead of something useful and attractive like the Starbucks over at Hartsdale station, and I don’t hold them responsible for the time the disgruntled cabbie slaughtered the rabbit on the cab station steps. 

Not their fault.

But geez, are they making a mess where they park over by the bike rack. Earlier this week, I noticed a giant brown puddle of something that looked like milk chocolate but surely doesn’t taste like it. The puddle was about the size of an inflatable kiddie pool, and sat underneath a taxi that looked like it was out of commission. The puddle had oozed its way to a storm drain about 40 feet away, an ugly river of brown and weird toxic rainbow colors. Some unidentified car part–some sort of liquid holding vessel the same color as the ooze–has been sitting next to the bike rack all week.

The dioxin puddle has subsided a bit, but it’s still there.

Then, this morning, I spied a porno mag open spread-eagle, if you will, next to the bike rack. The fold revealed several pics of a woman named “Gianna”–hey, it’s an Italian neighborhood–and the bold type stated that Gianna is, indeed, “100% Genuine.” 100% Genuine as she sat perched upon a Harley, 100% Genuine as she did a little gardening in the buff.

I would’ve turned the page to see what other fleshy treasures the mag held, but a full platform of 8:16ers were looking down on me.

I’m a grown-up and I’m not offended by the smut. But hey–there’s a kid’s dirt bike locked to the rack…there are kids present!!

I was doing my own Olympian imitation this morning, chugging my two-wheeler into the parking lot for the 8:16, and the giant white SUV (an Escalade??) pulled in ahead of me. I noticed it had a Lake Placid sticker on the rear windshield. [Editor’s Note: It’s not really a “rear windshield”, as the back window doesn’t block the wind. Unless, of course, you’re speeding in reverse.]

So I’m curious who the presumed Olympic vet is in our little corner of the tri-state area is. I mean, you wouldn’t get the Olympic rings and personalized license plate unless you were there–and there as an athlete. This isn’t the other giant white SUV in the Hawthorne lot–the ridiculous pinstriped Yankeemobile. This dude–dudette??–seems like the real deal.

Of course, the Winter Olympics start next week, and it’s the 30 -year anniversary of the Lake Placid Games–which of course included the unforgettable Miracle on Ice.

Is it Mike Eruzione? Kenny Morrow? Eric Heiden? Some luger?

Anyone know who the Olympian in our commuter ranks is?

We had lamented that the newest entry to Hawthorne’s burgeoning culinary scene (pizza! Chinese! Gordo’s!), the Spanish-Portuguese bistro Punta Cana, offered up a decent but ultimately unspectacular meal to the TJs recently.

Well, readers–including Punta Cana’s proprietor–have come to the tiny eatery’s defense.

To wit:

Raysa writes:

Hi, I am the owner of Punta Cana Restaurant and I appreciated your words… I been open for a month and I’m wondering what you think, if is really GOOD STUFF….. Thanks

Ann writes:

Hi,
Thanks for taking the time to tell us about Punta Cana. Having worked in Hawthorne for several years I had few options for dining outside of the deli and pizza place. I refused to eat at the Chinese place based on its appearance and their consistent inability to get my order right.

At any rate, I was recently able to stop by Punta Cana, lured by their breakfast ad.
I was able to get a special order and it was prepared very well. In addition, when I engaged the owner in conversation she was willing to allow me to sample other menu items. I have had an amazing oatmeal, egg white omelet, authentic Spanish coffee and the moistest, well seasoned chicken imaginable. When simple items are prepared well it speaks to the potential of the establishment. Im glad that Punta Cana is there and I hope the community supports the restaurant. I know I will be back!

Raysa writes (again):

hi, I’m the owner and I’m very sorry to hear about your disappointment on the menu and your wife’s food. we are trying to get better and hopefully you guys can try it back. I am open to any suggestions and feedback.
The restaurant is empty during the afternoon, as well the Pizzeria and many other business. but thank God for those costumers that keep coming back. Maybe your wife wants to try other things,NOT TOO MUCH FAT IN IT. Again I’m very sorry.

P.S. I’m working on the menu

Latina writes:

Punta Cana is the way to go!! I was there yesterday , they had a great lunch special ..the spanish rice was delicious and the oxtail out of this world. Empanadas and Pastelitos a must

Well, consider the TJ clan convinced. We’ll try Punta Cana again this weekend.

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.

Blackberrys were buzzing, and Clever Commuters were quizzing, as the 7:15 from Summit left the station.

As he walked through the first car, the conductor promised the nervous passengers that he would make an announcement.

“Due to AMTRAK problems, there are up to 60 minute delays in and out of Penn Station New York. Several trains are being diverted to Hoboken, but this train is not. Next Stop, Penn Station, NY.”

Some smiles, and audible sighs of relief rose above the seats. It sounded too good to be true. And sure enough, it was.

About 10 minutes later, another announcement from the conductor.

“Ladies and Gentleman, this train will be going to Hoboken. PATH trains will cross-honor fares for all NJT passengers.”
 
From the ongoing postings to Clever Commute, confusion and delays persisted on the other trains heading East.

So we rolled into Hoboken Lakawanna Terminal, and submerged to the PATH trains. Not much complaining; most of the passengers shrugged and took it in stride. In yonder days before the Midtown Direct, this was a daily slog for all Jersey commuters heading to New York City.

Conductor 1: You know how I like astronomy? You gotta see the moon coming up ahead. Dude, it’s like a pumpkin!
Conductor 2: Mark, you’re a werewolf.
Conductor 1: SOOOOUTH Norwalk is next.

[image: Saugatucker’s blackberry]