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 came through the glass doors two days ago and headed towards the turnstile, my wallet already out and my card ready.

An officer stood by the turnstiles, leaning against the silver gate, his hat at a cocky angle. I saw him at the same time he saw me. I smiled and he pointed to my backpack. I stopped a few feet from the turnstile not sure what was happening. He pointed from my backpack to a place beyond my left shoulder. I looked behind me and saw a plastic folding table, behind which stood two other men in blue with their hands on their hips.

I looked back at the officer who had pointed at my bag.

“Bag check,” was all he said. Three women and a man walked past me and through the turnstiles, business dress. He didn’t stop them. I was wearing a blue t-shirt, jeans, sandals made of recycled rubber.

I was terrorist material.

I shrugged.

“Sure,” I said and headed over to the table, swinging my backpack off my back.

“Open it up,” one of the cops said, obviously bored, as I put it on the table.

I smiled at them both. One nodded.

Without getting too close he gazed over the edge of my bag and looked a little inside, squinting. He motioned me to be on my way with his hand, then stepped back and crossed his arms across his chest.

I pulled my backpack on again and walked past the same officer who’d stopped me moments before. I smiled at him and he smiled back, then motioned at a young kid with a backpack to go have it checked.

“Bag check,” I heard over my shoulder.

I’ve seen the police at the Roosevelt Station many times on my way down into the subway, but this was the first time I’d ever been stopped or actually seen them stop someone – in this case me. Usually the cops are like wallpaper – part of the scenery. That day they were bas-relief. I wonder why I got stopped? Maybe they saw something in me that was, well, dangerous?

Today, this morning, on my way to the same turnstiles, I saw the same cop. He didn’t seem to remember me. He stopped a young dark-skinned man who was trying to pass through the turnstile in jeans and a t-shirt a few feet ahead of me. I walked up to the turnstile right in front of the cop just to see if I’d get searched this time too. I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt again, and sandals too — same ones, made from recycled rubber.

The cop took one look at me. As I took out my Metro card, he said, “That one doesn’t work.”

“What?” I said, ready to head over to the table with the two cops again for my bag search.

“That one’s not working.” He pointed to the turnstile in front of me. The one my card was about to be swiped at. There was masking tape across it.

“Oh,” I said. “Thanks.”

I moved over one, passed through the revolving bars, and headed down into the bowels of the earth, where a new F train waited for me.

Una offers her six categories on the New York version of Huffington Post. They are: The Bullseye, The Self-Talker, The Provocateur, The Religious Fanatic, The Slow Burner and The Jester.

Complete descriptions are offered on HuffPo. I’ll save you a click and offer The Provocateur here:

The Provocateur
The Provocateur is a self-talker gone bad–he or she hones in on a victim and whispers, mumbles, or yells provocative insults and threats. Sample dialogue:
Provocateur: YOU DON’T KNOW ME.
Victim: [Shifts uncomfortably].
Provocateur: YOU THINK YOU’RE BETTER THAN ME? IN YOUR RED JACKET.
Victim: [Changes seats].
Provocateur: WHY YOU RUNNING AWAY, BITCH?
The best course of action when faced with a Provocateur is to change cars. Be warned: the truly crazy may follow you.

We’d lamented the demise of the Westchester section of the NY Times, as it was always a good source of local news, much of it transit-related, because all we truly care about in the ‘burbs is a smooth ride to the city each day.

Well, the replacement for the Sunday Westchester section (not to mention the Jersey, the Long Island, the City, etc.) is the all-encompassing Metropolitan section. And the most recent one actually has two interesting stories about local transit–three, if you include the surprisingly moving Lonelyhearts subway poetry culled from Craigs List.

One story looks at the weird conundrum of train stations with long waiting lists for spots, juxtaposed with the fact that lots of people are laid off and no longer need their parking spots, at least for the time being. So there are long lists of people who cannot park at the station in their town, while spots are unoccupied because a permit holder is sitting at home, sending out resumes for jobs that will eventually get him or her back into the city.

Our fearless forefather Robert Meehan is quoted in the story.

Roughly 100 of the 573 spaces at the parking lot in Dobbs Ferry were free at 3 p.m. on a recent Tuesday. Over in Hartsdale, Stephanie Kavourias, executive director of the public parking authority, figures that about 90 of the station’s 900 permit spaces are empty on an average day now. And Robert Meehan, the supervisor of the town of Mount Pleasant, which includes Valhalla (191 spaces) and Hawthorne (355), has also seen growth in vacancies.

“I went down to Valhalla on a recent Monday and there were 30 spaces empty,” Mr. Meehan said. “Before the recession it would always be full.”

Some are pushing to allow permit holders to rent their permits (and spots) until they need them once again.

Elsewhere in the section, Timesman Ray Rivera offers an offbeat solution to the modern annoyance known round these parts as Fremix–the unwanted overspill of noise emanating from a fellow train riders’ iPod.

I sat down in the first car, empty but for about half a dozen people, including, of course, two teenagers blasting iPods. Each was playing different music, and the overflow collided in a discordant shrill that flooded every cubic inch of the car like a swarm of angry mosquitoes.

I sat two seats away and pulled out my crossword puzzle for the half-hour ride to Inwood. But those mosquitoes. … I gave the boys a stern look to telegraph my annoyance. They ignored me. Finally, I said, “Excuse me,” tapped my index finger to my earlobe, pointed to their headphones, and pantomimed, “Can you turn it down, please?”

“Go sit somewhere else,” one of the boys said.

“You can hear it through the whole car,” I said. Nothing.

Then Rivera gets clever.

Finally, a bit of subterranean poesy–with a System of a Down reference to boot–to brighten your otherwise unspectacular Tuesday.

metal train guy

i dont use this craigslist thing.

i was sitting right next to you.

long awesome Shavo style beard (soad).

you had headphones on.

chain around your neck.

backpack. big guy.

i had some tattoos.

my arm was touching your leg.

you got off at 42nd street and yes!

you looked back at me for a millisecond …

and i saw a very sad face.

im sad too.

[image: LACityBeat.com]

Come fall, Metro-North will experiment with a train that goes from Westchester to Giants Stadium in time for Jets and Giants games.

Metro-North and New Jersey Transit are calling it “direct service,” according to Journal News, but boy, is it a circuitous route. The football trains stop in Rye and Larchmont, then venture through the Bronx, down the Hell Gate Bridge into Queens, and west into Penn Station. From there, NJ Transit takes over, guiding the trains to Secaucus, where another train provides a 10-minute hop to Giants Stadium.

The round-trip looks to be about $22.25.

Metro-North will try the football trains for the handful of 1 p.m. Jets and Giants home kickoffs. The railroad calls it a “huge experiment.” It doesn’t say how long the trip will take, but hopefully it’ll be less than the 1 hour, 45 minute drive we experienced from Hawthorne to Citi Field Friday night, all of 24 miles away.

[image: NY Daily News]

First off, Ma’am, I don’t think I was really, truly in the wrong.

It’s the slow approach to the two revolving doors under the 6 train’s special 28th Street entrance/exit that lets out at 25th and Park.

I’ve written about this unique spot before. Dozens of commuters stagger toward a pair of antiquated revolving doors. Why people need to exit through revolving doors as opposed to, say, I don’t know, maybe a wide-open corridor, is beyond me. I assume it has something to do with the Met Life building being on some list of historic places, so everything that’s under its roof is exempt from being knocked down.

The egression congestion problem was never more acute than a few weeks back, when one revolving door was broken, so the whole of the 6 train exiting at that spot had to file through a lone revolving door. Thank you, preservationists of New York City.  

Anyway, the spot offers an interesting snapshot of New York mass transit protocol. A pair of informal lines develop before the revolving doors, but since they’re not official lines, people sneak up the side of them and cut.

Which is what you were doing at 9:35 this morning, Ma’am. I saw you out of the corner of my eye, sneaking up the eastern flank or the revolving door on the right. I know from experience that eastern flank sneakers are easy to thwart, as one enters the revolving door from the western flank. One has to be extra-crafty to sneak up on the right, and still get in the door before the rest of the line.

You–a 40something black woman, short gray hair–were not quite crafty enough. You tried to sneak in, but I got my big dopey body in first. I’m not sure how it looked to the 60-odd people behind us–who they would find as the offending party, or if they would even notice at all.

Ma’am, I did make an extra effort to get in the door before you, and probably was seen by some (albeit those with a blind eye to etiquette) as an overly aggressive thug. About that I’m not particularly proud. But it was merely a response to your offending action; you were offsides, and then fair game for such malfeasance. If you venture into the goalie’s crease, Ma’am, you really can’t complain about an abrupt hip check.

You did not go quietly in my wake, Ma’am. No, after I’d clearly gotten my frame into the the next available Trivial Pursuit slice of the revolving door, you muttered a sarcastic “Thank you” into my back. I’d received no small degree of sunburn on my (previously) pale Irish neck over the weekend (so much for the Curse of Ezekiel Marcus!), and could feel your words burn into my sensitive nape.

I’ve learned from my actions, Ma’am. Perhaps I’ll be less aggressive in penalizing the improper behavior of others; surely that’s a Sysyphean task in a metropolis such as ours.

Hopefully you’ll learn too–to take your rightful place in the informal line, or at least keep the sarcastic barbs nestled behind your lips when someone calls you on your breach of subway etiquette.

Sort of apologetically but mostly not,

Trainjotting

UPDATE: To show that I’m a changed man from the experience, I just five minutes ago held open the door for three people behind me as I approached Gregory’s for some coffee, even though I knew that would place me behind them on line. I only cut ahead of them when they were dawdling inside the store while discussing Hoboken.

Kindle Hunting on the F

Two sightings in one week.

Two days ago I was standing on the F train, late afternoon, crowded enough to stand, but not so crowded I couldn’t breathe, when I spied what appeared to be a black leather cover about the shape and size of a Kindle. I couldn’t believe it. All this time I’ve been waiting to see one on the F and there it was.

I walked carefully across the car to get a closer look – not too close, because this is New York and staring at people doesn’t go over too well. I stepped on one person’s foot and had to apologize twice during the short passage.  

I stopped ten feet away.

I gazed at the leather cover and then… away. There was something wrong. The cover was flat and not shiny. Up closer it didn’t look like the same kind of leather I’d seen on the advertisements and on my wife’s machine. There was no cream colored interior. I was pretty sure the device the cover was holding was silver with a black/gray screen.

It wasn’t a Kindle. It was a Sony.

Advertisements galore, but no Kindle. Instead a Sony Reader had infiltrated my ‘hood. I looked at the owner. He was Caucasian, maybe 30, balding, had a belly, carried a black messenger bag, wore a white shirt, no tie, black sneakers, and glasses. I wasn’t sure what it meant but I filed the description away in the back of my brain.

Then this morning, on the F, I went into work early, caught the train about 7:35. There were seats available on all cars. That all by itself was amazing. At 8 or 8:30 it’s a mob scene.

I stood for a moment, looking to see whether I could sit or not. I did a quick seat-or-stand scan of the car. There were no pregnant women standing – no women at all. A couple of guys were leaning against the door but they were young and healthy, clearly choosing to stand. There were no elderly straphangers waiting for seats to open up.

I was good for a seated passage.

A seat next to a man, thirties, balding, glasses, white shirt, black pants, black messenger bag, slight belly, but wearing black shoes, was sitting down at a two-seater by himself – and, I shook my head to make sure I wasn’t dreaming, he was reading a Kindle.

It wasn’t the same guy from two days ago but it could easily have been his brother or twin. I hesitated another moment then sat down next to him.

There was something different about this Kindle. It was bigger, wider – more like the size of a large hardcover than a trade paperback like the Kindle my wife has but still won’t let me read. Yes. It was the new model – specially designed for folks who want to read larger items like newspapers or magazines. It’s the exact same looking model only bigger.

I couldn’t help myself. I stared at his machine. He glanced at me then back at his Kindle. I stared some more. I had to hold my hands in check so I didn’t reach out and touch the thing.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but is that the new larger sized Kindle?” I asked.

He nodded.

“What do you think of it?”

“I like it,” he said. “I only just got it but so far it’s pretty good.”

“How does it compare to the smaller one?”

“I don’t know. I only have this one.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll let you get back to your, you know, reading.”

He nodded and smiled at me, then shifted a little away, just enough for me to notice.

I nodded slowly, smiling myself.

There you have it folks. First the advertisements for the Kindle — then a Sony Reader. Now, finally, after months of searching for one on the F train coming into or out of Jackson Heights – the Kindle had arrived.

And both electronic books were being used by bald white men in their thirties, with small bellies and black messenger bags. Keep an eye out. You never know where they’ll turn up next.

–Joe Lunievicz

That region of Connecticut used to be a bustling manufacturing base. Now it sounds like it’s beyond despondent.

Bobby writes:

A distraught woman boards the train in Seymour wreaking of booze. Her skin is pale white but her eyes are vibrant red and bloodshot. She tells me that her boyfriend just threw her out of the house and she needs to get to her sister’s place in Naugatuck. I say “no problem” and tell her that I can bill her for the fare. I hand her the billing pad book and she sits down. She begins sobbing uncontrollably, so much so, she can’t fill the billing form out. I take the pad from her shaking hands and I begin filling the form out. I ask for her name and address, but instead she gives me her life story.

That original column in the defunct New York Sun has been good for business for Skenazy, whose book Free-Range Kids came out last month.

You may have heard about me, too, thanks to the fact I’ve been on every TV show from Dr. Phil to Nightline to The View. (I love those ladies! Yes, even Elizabeth!) Or it could be because I’ve been lauded and/or lambasted in newspapers and magazines from Chile to China to Malta. (An island. Who’s stalking the kids there? Dophins?)

Or it could be you heard me on NPR one of the six or seven times they interviewed me about the topic. Or on the BBC. Or on the Today Show. Or Australian TV. Whatever.

Skenazy hears from a man named Irving, who was 10 when he rode the subway to visit Grandma in the Bronx for Hanukah…in 1929!

Irving says his solo voyage was one of the great moments in his life.

Now here’s a guy who has been married for 66 years. He has children, grandchildren, great grandchildren and even two great great grandchildren, which I wasn’t sure was humanly possible. He fought in World War II. But one of the defining moments of his LIFE was that first time he did something “grown up” by himself.

We shuffled off the 8:43 and made our way up the gang plank on Track 38.

As usual, traffic slowed to get around one of the giant metal-mesh bins that people are to deposit their spent newspapers in. The bin occupies about a third of the platform width.

Only today, people were taking an extra wide route around the bin, leaving a good two feet of space between them and the silver cage, clogging pedestrian traffic even more.

I wondered why, and was determined to breeze past the bin and show my fellow commuters the error in their sluggish ways.

But as I got closer to the newspaper bin, I saw why–a ginormous insect, half roach and half water bug, hanging out on one of the bin’s metal squares about chest high. His brown, oval-ish body measured an inch and a half, his antenna were about a half inch, and his tail was another inch. Indeed, the whole of the supercritter measured about three inches.

We gave him as wide a berth as we thought he might need. Any Binflints looking to score a free Times quickly moved on to Plan B.

[image: dirtdoctor.com]