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Dec. 5th, 2006
Tuesday Evening Commute
Dec. 5th, 2006 08:35 pmI had a late meeting, so I didn’t leave the office until about 6:35. Plenty early to get an express, but not early enough to get the 6:40. When I arrived at GCT, the train was waiting ont he lower level, track 109. It’s always on 109, but I still look on the monitor to make sure. I hop on the train, head car, and plop my arse into the Coveted Third Seat. The car is dark. It’s early, so I assume the lights will come on, and I won’t have to remove myself from my seat. This hypothesis proves to be true, and shortly thereafter, the lights turn on, and many people begin filling the seats around me.
I already have my powerbook open, so I am only watching things out of my periphery. On my left, there is a what I would describe as a micro-collie. I’m not really sure what that’s all about, but it seems sedate, so I don’t flip out. It’s not a helper dog, so why is it on the train? What if it were to bite someone? Considering this is a litigious society, it wouldn’t surprise me that the MTA/Metro North would be sued, and probably the woman as well.
Facing me, in the jump seats, is a man who is tall enough to make me look short, and he’s going over a business agreement for a new company. With the corrections he’s making, I would think he’s a lawyer. His face is young, and it doesn’t quite match the age of his body. Perhaps he’s borrowing it. Keeping it safe until the original owner comes to claim it. Of course, he also has the ubiquitous Blackberry, on which he frenetically taps, then puts back into its tacky plastic holster. You’d think people would realise how silly it looks to wear your phone on your belt. You’re not Batman. Put the phone in a pocket or bag. While you’re at it, keep it on vibrate. In these modern times, there is no need for me to ever hear your ringtone.
It’s always fun to spot the raging functional alcoholics on the train. You’ve seen them. They’re the ones that carry 3+ cocktails on a train that only goes to Stamford, roughly an hour away via the express. Of course, they frown on bringing glass bottles on the train (although you may), so the vendors will sell plastic bottles of crap domestic beer for your journey. With the small 12oz plastic bottle, the beer can’t stay cold, and so there is always a rather rancid smell of domestic lager in the air. Good times.
On my right is a small man reading the NYT at full span. If our space were more crowded, I would have given him a dirty look for overstepping his allotted boundary, but he’s safe…for now.
As for me, well, it’s finally winter weather, so I am bundled up in my cashmere scarf (it’s the size of a blanket), and my leather motorcycle jacket, and brown corduroy trousers, 8-hole Docs with what I have found to be *several* holes in them where there should be none. No worries. I planned on getting new ones for weeks. I just haven’t pulled the trigger, as these are so comfy.
And now it’s my turn to get off…
I already have my powerbook open, so I am only watching things out of my periphery. On my left, there is a what I would describe as a micro-collie. I’m not really sure what that’s all about, but it seems sedate, so I don’t flip out. It’s not a helper dog, so why is it on the train? What if it were to bite someone? Considering this is a litigious society, it wouldn’t surprise me that the MTA/Metro North would be sued, and probably the woman as well.
Facing me, in the jump seats, is a man who is tall enough to make me look short, and he’s going over a business agreement for a new company. With the corrections he’s making, I would think he’s a lawyer. His face is young, and it doesn’t quite match the age of his body. Perhaps he’s borrowing it. Keeping it safe until the original owner comes to claim it. Of course, he also has the ubiquitous Blackberry, on which he frenetically taps, then puts back into its tacky plastic holster. You’d think people would realise how silly it looks to wear your phone on your belt. You’re not Batman. Put the phone in a pocket or bag. While you’re at it, keep it on vibrate. In these modern times, there is no need for me to ever hear your ringtone.
It’s always fun to spot the raging functional alcoholics on the train. You’ve seen them. They’re the ones that carry 3+ cocktails on a train that only goes to Stamford, roughly an hour away via the express. Of course, they frown on bringing glass bottles on the train (although you may), so the vendors will sell plastic bottles of crap domestic beer for your journey. With the small 12oz plastic bottle, the beer can’t stay cold, and so there is always a rather rancid smell of domestic lager in the air. Good times.
On my right is a small man reading the NYT at full span. If our space were more crowded, I would have given him a dirty look for overstepping his allotted boundary, but he’s safe…for now.
As for me, well, it’s finally winter weather, so I am bundled up in my cashmere scarf (it’s the size of a blanket), and my leather motorcycle jacket, and brown corduroy trousers, 8-hole Docs with what I have found to be *several* holes in them where there should be none. No worries. I planned on getting new ones for weeks. I just haven’t pulled the trigger, as these are so comfy.
And now it’s my turn to get off…
Tuesday Evening Commute
Dec. 5th, 2006 08:35 pmI had a late meeting, so I didn’t leave the office until about 6:35. Plenty early to get an express, but not early enough to get the 6:40. When I arrived at GCT, the train was waiting ont he lower level, track 109. It’s always on 109, but I still look on the monitor to make sure. I hop on the train, head car, and plop my arse into the Coveted Third Seat. The car is dark. It’s early, so I assume the lights will come on, and I won’t have to remove myself from my seat. This hypothesis proves to be true, and shortly thereafter, the lights turn on, and many people begin filling the seats around me.
I already have my powerbook open, so I am only watching things out of my periphery. On my left, there is a what I would describe as a micro-collie. I’m not really sure what that’s all about, but it seems sedate, so I don’t flip out. It’s not a helper dog, so why is it on the train? What if it were to bite someone? Considering this is a litigious society, it wouldn’t surprise me that the MTA/Metro North would be sued, and probably the woman as well.
Facing me, in the jump seats, is a man who is tall enough to make me look short, and he’s going over a business agreement for a new company. With the corrections he’s making, I would think he’s a lawyer. His face is young, and it doesn’t quite match the age of his body. Perhaps he’s borrowing it. Keeping it safe until the original owner comes to claim it. Of course, he also has the ubiquitous Blackberry, on which he frenetically taps, then puts back into its tacky plastic holster. You’d think people would realise how silly it looks to wear your phone on your belt. You’re not Batman. Put the phone in a pocket or bag. While you’re at it, keep it on vibrate. In these modern times, there is no need for me to ever hear your ringtone.
It’s always fun to spot the raging functional alcoholics on the train. You’ve seen them. They’re the ones that carry 3+ cocktails on a train that only goes to Stamford, roughly an hour away via the express. Of course, they frown on bringing glass bottles on the train (although you may), so the vendors will sell plastic bottles of crap domestic beer for your journey. With the small 12oz plastic bottle, the beer can’t stay cold, and so there is always a rather rancid smell of domestic lager in the air. Good times.
On my right is a small man reading the NYT at full span. If our space were more crowded, I would have given him a dirty look for overstepping his allotted boundary, but he’s safe…for now.
As for me, well, it’s finally winter weather, so I am bundled up in my cashmere scarf (it’s the size of a blanket), and my leather motorcycle jacket, and brown corduroy trousers, 8-hole Docs with what I have found to be *several* holes in them where there should be none. No worries. I planned on getting new ones for weeks. I just haven’t pulled the trigger, as these are so comfy.
And now it’s my turn to get off…
I already have my powerbook open, so I am only watching things out of my periphery. On my left, there is a what I would describe as a micro-collie. I’m not really sure what that’s all about, but it seems sedate, so I don’t flip out. It’s not a helper dog, so why is it on the train? What if it were to bite someone? Considering this is a litigious society, it wouldn’t surprise me that the MTA/Metro North would be sued, and probably the woman as well.
Facing me, in the jump seats, is a man who is tall enough to make me look short, and he’s going over a business agreement for a new company. With the corrections he’s making, I would think he’s a lawyer. His face is young, and it doesn’t quite match the age of his body. Perhaps he’s borrowing it. Keeping it safe until the original owner comes to claim it. Of course, he also has the ubiquitous Blackberry, on which he frenetically taps, then puts back into its tacky plastic holster. You’d think people would realise how silly it looks to wear your phone on your belt. You’re not Batman. Put the phone in a pocket or bag. While you’re at it, keep it on vibrate. In these modern times, there is no need for me to ever hear your ringtone.
It’s always fun to spot the raging functional alcoholics on the train. You’ve seen them. They’re the ones that carry 3+ cocktails on a train that only goes to Stamford, roughly an hour away via the express. Of course, they frown on bringing glass bottles on the train (although you may), so the vendors will sell plastic bottles of crap domestic beer for your journey. With the small 12oz plastic bottle, the beer can’t stay cold, and so there is always a rather rancid smell of domestic lager in the air. Good times.
On my right is a small man reading the NYT at full span. If our space were more crowded, I would have given him a dirty look for overstepping his allotted boundary, but he’s safe…for now.
As for me, well, it’s finally winter weather, so I am bundled up in my cashmere scarf (it’s the size of a blanket), and my leather motorcycle jacket, and brown corduroy trousers, 8-hole Docs with what I have found to be *several* holes in them where there should be none. No worries. I planned on getting new ones for weeks. I just haven’t pulled the trigger, as these are so comfy.
And now it’s my turn to get off…