Accidents Will Happen

"Bang!"

"Crunch"

"Squeaaal"

"Shiiiish"


These were the sounds that jarred me from my slumber this morning as I was making my way into work aboard the 6:47AM train out of Lindenhurst.


Our train was side-swiped by a double-decker diesel/electric train as they were both leaving Jamaica Station at about 7:35 AM.

The incident was nothing like this LIRR collision -- Long Island Rail Road's Worst Train Crash.

The force of the impact derailed the car I was in and the one behind us. Our train was crossing over an interlocking (or a track switch) when we were hit. Because of where the trains collided, I have to assume that my train had the right of way, and that the engineer of the double-decker simply fucked up.

I was in the fifth car of a six-car train. Earlier, I bitched privately about the fact that our train was short two cars, but I let go of my angst once I found a seat. What's the point? Would we get two cars back by calling the LIRR President, Helena E. Williams, to rant about the service?

Ring! Ring!

Me: Ms. Williams, you're a Mooselini McDoodyhead!

Williams: Spartacus, go fuck yourself!

Click!

I could also bitch about the fact that the LIRR took a pass on me for the locomotive engineer's job back in July. I'm kind of glad I didn't get it. I could be the poor schmuck driving the double-decker. Given that the unemployment rate in NY is on the rise, I'm just glad to have a job.

No. I'll leave the bitching and moaning to the good folks at Transit Blogger.com. That's just not my milieu.

I digress.

There were only three minor injuries reported, thank goodness. I saw a young guy laid out on a flatboard as I was walking off the rescue train. He was conscious and moving his extremities as FDNY paramedics were strapping hard foam padding around his head to keep it from moving. I'll take that as a good sign.

It must be some Long Island commuter instinct, because after we got past the initial shock of the accident we all pulled out our mobile phones, not to call loved ones, but to tell the boss we'll be late. Skippy was my third call ... sorry Skip. But she knows the drill: if there's no blood, call the boss first; a sad reality of corporate employment.

My blogger instinct reared it's ugly head, too, because I recognized instantly the blog-ability of this accident and snapped a few shots with my phone camera. These shots suck. I know. It's the best I could do.






















I finally made it into work at 9:30AM where I was greeted by several concerned co-workers wanting to know if I was okay, and wondering what supplies they could pilfer from my desk if I wasn't. I laughed it off. I told them it was all my fault; that I had stolen the train to satisfy my desire to become a locomotive engineer.

Sometimes you have to have a sense of humor about these things.

Casey Jones - The Grateful Dead

All Aboard the 6:17AM to Penn Station

There's never a dull moment about the 6:17AM train to Penn Station. Every Monday through Friday -- except on days when I don't feel like dragging my ass out of bed so early or going into work -- I hook up with four of the nuttiest people I know.


There's Pat, a dysfunctional IT Auditor just like me who always sits next to my pal, Jack, the Empire State Building's coolest union plumber.




To the right is the day school Italian teacher from Sicily, Maria. She's the Christian who celebrates Christmas in December, but says Jesus' real birthday is in September, and then covers her ears and yells "LA LA LA I"M NOT LISTENING!!!" whenever me and Jack decide to trash the Bible.


Rounding out our intrepid quintet is Carmen, a residential property manager, who just happens to be a fellow Puertoriqueña (living in Lindy, no less), who was unavailable the day these shots were snapped for the 6:17 train's year book.

What makes these morning ridings so entertaining is that we have no shame or limit on the topics we choose to riff on. It's like a Linda Richman's Coffee Talk...

Talk amongst yourselves...



We always do.

The other day the topic was hermaphrodites. It all started with a comment Jack made on why he takes long morning showers: "I like the way the water feels on my penis", to which Carmen followed quickly with, "I like the way it feels on mine, too." This led to speculation on exactly what kind of "package" Carmen is packing, "Hey! Hermaphrodites are people, too," I shouted.

Yikes! You would think that a bomb like that would lead to a subject change. But no. Carmen chimed in a few moments later with a story of her niece, who recently informed dear 'Titi Carmen' that "I have a vagina, but my brother doesn't. He has a penis." This spawned school teacher Maria's story about a bathroom show-and-tell incident in which a little girl proved to a little boy that she had no penis. "So how do you go?", the little boy asked. Could there be a more vexing question?

But Carmen simply couldn't leave well enough along. She had to tell us a story about a lesbian that lives in one of her buildings, who is the mother of two kids. Quipped Carmen: "She must have a had a thing for penis at some point."

Me: Yeah. Or maybe she just asked a man to leave a ....ahem...deposit? What wonders one can achieve with a turkey baster.

All this before the sun even rises.

As I ponder whether Jamie Lynn Spears was proving to Casey Aldridge that she is indeed penis-less or showing him how she goes (maybe she was working wonders with a turkey baster), I leave you with this gem from Melanie Safka. While you're listening, stop on over at Politits for the Big "O" celebration and make some noise.