Young Love…or should I say Young Turmoil

By Guest Blogger Michelle Vroom

http://lifeasavroom.blogspot.com/

I knew something was wrong the moment I stepped on the train. There was screaming. And you’re not supposed to hear screaming at 7:30 in the morning. You’re supposed to hear silence. The sound of people attempting to wake up and start their day. Some aren’t even awake yet. But you’re definitely not supposed to hear screaming.

At first I couldn’t tell where the screaming was coming from. The girl who was emitting those horrible noises was crouched low in her seat so you could barely see the top of her head. Therefore it took me awhile to locate the source. Once I did, I realized we were all in for a wild ride.

The girl was barely 20 and was dressed in ripped clothing. Her hair was covering her eyes and she had a nasty sneer on her face. The guy sitting next to her, taking the brunt of the abuse (and in my opinion, was asking for it with some of the comments he was making) was also very young, but a little bit more pulled together.

I was sitting in the seat in front of these two yahoos and it quickly became apparent that they were having some sort of a lover’s quarrel. It went something like this (only envision screaming):

“You don’t care about me AT ALL!” – the girl

“What are you talking about? Lower your voice!” – boy

“Here I am, having to go into the hospital for SURGERY and you’re not even being supportive!” – crazy chick

“How am I not being supportive?”

“How dare you say those things to me, you f***ing ***hole!” – foul-mouthed girl

Silence on the boy’s end. Smart move, dude.

“We are OVER. Do you hear me?” – girl

“Fine. Like I care.” – guy (not such a smart move)

Girl starts crying. Lot’s of crying. Then the back of my seat starts moving and I realize she’s hitting him. Oh lord…first the yelling, now physical abuse? I looked around quickly to see if there were any young children in the vicinity and there weren’t. Whew.

“When this train stops at Suburban, I’m leaving you. Don’t even try to follow me. I’ll go to SURGERY by myself.” – hysterical girl

“Stop that. You’re not going to walk all the way there by yourself. Besides, I’ll just follow you anyway.”

“No you won’t. Do you hear me? No you f***ing WON’T.”

At this point, the train was creeping along as slowly as possible. All I wanted to do was get away from these nut jobs, but I was at the mercy of SEPTA. Then, as we were about to head to Suburban, the train doors wouldn’t close. All that ringing, the lovestruck teenagers’ yelling…it was too much for a Tuesday morning. I almost slapped both of them and said, “Knock that off. Knock that off RIGHT NOW.” But to be honest, the girl seemed a bit unhinged and I wasn’t sure what she was capable of. In this situation, it’s best to be quiet. Even the train conductors were following this rule – not a single one came around to check tickets during the entire ride.

Eventually we made it. I have no idea if they actually went to her surgery together or not. Frankly, I don’t care. There are so many other things wrong with this picture. SEPTA is difficult enough to ride on a daily basis. But to ride it with two screaming teenagers? Never again. If I ever walk onto the train and hear screaming, I’m getting right back off and calling a cab. It’s just not worth it, people. Not worth it at all.

Crack Can't Get You Out of a Scabby Situation

I got on the El at 69^th Street Station and sat down in a window seat.  I couldn’t help but stare when a young guy sat down facing me with a massive head of curly hair, a fitted Rihanna t-shirt, very tight shorts and giant purple rhinestone earring— just interesting to look at. Because I was inspecting this guy, it took me off guard when a man’s voice to my right asked, “Excuse me, but is it ok if I sit next to you?”  I was confused because no one in the history of the El has ever asked anyone if it was ok for them to sit down in an empty seat.

I looked up, and to my surprise, saw one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen. There even seemed to be a beam of light shining through the window on him. I think I might have smiled and definitely blabbered something like, “Yes, sure, yeah you can sit down. Go ahead. Yeah, sure.”

I scooted over and jammed myself against the window for some reason to give him more room, which was not necessary because I was only taking up my seat in the first place.  For some reason I found this really hilarious and started laughing. 

The handsome man then took out his laptop, placed it on top of the satchel on his lap, and started typing.  The only problem was that he thrust his elbows out, taking over half my seat with his arm. Then he started rubbing his left elbow against my arm as he was typing away—I’m still unsure if this was intentional.  Unfortunately, he had a giant scab on his elbow, which I could feel as he rubbed up against my right arm.  I was horrified and moved my arm over.  He then moved his elbow over.  I moved my arm up and over, and he followed with his elbow. I had nowhere else to go! I started laughing again because I thought, why does this stuff happen to me?

All of a sudden, the woman sitting behind us picked up her phone and said loudly, “My kids better have gotten that crack.  They ain’t coming home without that crack. That’s all I gotta say about that.” At this point, I was too alarmed to look back to check out this woman behind me.

A few stops later, the woman got up and off the train, and the handsome man sitting next to me said, “Excuse me, but did you just hear that woman talking about her kids getting crack for her?”  I looked him in the eyes, replied with a simple “yes,” and then totally lost it laughing aloud like a mad woman because, well, only me.

Boys will be…Pterodactyls

I left the office about 5:30 and began walking to my train stop.  As I neared the bus lane behind the elementary school, which I always use as a shortcut to the train, I saw three teenage boys leaning against the fence—all probably about 15 years old.  I could see them whispering and looking my way. 

One of the boys suddenly ran out into the middle of the road and stood looking at me.  All of a sudden he put is arms up like clawed wings, contorted his face and let loose a loud pterodactyl-like screech.  He repeated the screech several times as I walked by, now flapping his arms, and waiting for my reaction. 

I turned back around toward him and said, “Kid, you’re going to have to do a lot better than that if you’re trying to weird me out.”

Too bad I wasn’t wearing stilettos.

During my commute home last night, a guy got on the train at 30^th Street. He was probably about 40 or so, wearing a dark green t-shirt, and smelled like wet newspapers, old cigarettes and sweat.

When he sat down, he took up his seat and half of mine (the seat in which I was already sitting).  He was a bit bulkier, so I always like to accommodate if I can, but trying my hardest to melt into the train wall was not helping me escape the smell.  Also, it didn’t help that he kept reaching into his pocket, thus simultaneously elbowing me and rubbing his sweaty arm against mine. 

We arrived at the stop before mine, and I said, “Excuse me sir, can I please get by?”  No reaction.  I say a little more loudly, “Excuse me, can I get out, mine is the next stop.”  No reaction. 

Then the thought crossed my mind—I’m such as ass, maybe he’s deaf!  So I start waving my hands in front of his face to hopefully get his attention. Still nothing.  I then thought to myself—I’m such an ass, maybe he’s deaf and blind!  

Nope, neither. I quickly realized that he was looking down, writing a text message and completely ignoring me.  Others started to notice that I was trapped, so the man standing next to our seats said loudly, “Sir, can you please let her out? She has to get off the train!”  Nothing.

In one last attempt, I yelled “Sir I need to get off the train! Please get up!” He looked up for a brief moment, said “Oh,” but didn’t bother to get up.  He continued typing and slid his legs to the side so that I had to climb over him.  I was not about to miss my stop, so I climbed over him like a sherpa.   

Too bad I wasn’t wearing stilettos.

Some Bunny

The businesswoman standing behind me in the Amtrak line is eating a giant, full-size carrot like a rabbit.

Baby, You Are Sexy

I wound up taking a late-morning train due to a doctor’s appointment, so when I got on, there were plenty of open seats.  I sat down near the door.  Across the aisle, a woman had parked her massive stroller in the wheelchair accessible area and was standing above her son who looked to be about 2 years old.  Sitting right in front of the stroller was a very thin woman with long pink braids and tattooed arms.  The woman leaned forward and started playing with the boy, complimenting the mother on how well-behaved and happy her child was.  It was clear that the two women did not know each other.

The tattooed woman said that her stop was approaching.  She leaned her head a bit more into the stroller and said, “You are one sexy baby.”  I looked up from my book thinking that maybe she was now talking on her cell phone, or perhaps to a friend or boyfriend who had stepped unnoticed onto the train.  Nope.  She was talking to the toddler in the stroller.  She repeated, now addressing the mother, “Seriously, your baby is sexy.  Just sexy.” The mother didn’t say a word—she just looked at the woman and then at me.

“You stay sexy, baby.”  And she got off the train.

The Red Pee

Yesterday evening I ascended the stairs toward my train platform. Quite humid with cloudy skies, but in general I was very happy to be getting some fresh air and a bit of sunshine.

As I reached the top, I looked down and noticed a man—red hair, bright red jacket, slightly burly, a bit disheveled, probably mid-30s—standing on the ground in between the platform and the tracks.  Unusual for someone to be standing where you might actually get hit by a train if it were to arrive.  After a few seconds, my eyes focused, and I realized what he was doing. He had his dong (yes I said “dong” –I find it far more hilarious and far less offensive that other phallic nomenclatures) out in plain sight and was peeing on the side of the platform.  He stared at me, and I stared back at him.  Excuse the quip, but it was like staring at a train wreck—no one else was around, and I couldn’t look away. 

He made no facial expression nor movement to cover himself—or to finish up for that matter.  As my train approached, the conductor began blowing the horn.  I found this unusual, as they very rarely blow the horn on my route. I realized that she was actually blowing the horn at the man, trying to startle him and get him to zip his pants.  She stopped the train at my platform and stared out her window at the man, continuing to blow the train’s horn.  The man—mid-stream—shuffled around the other side of the platform, partially out-of-sight; well, except for his bright red jacket.

While disgusted and disturbed, I couldn’t help but also be impressed as his time spent urinating was reminiscent of Jimmy Dugan in A League of Their Own.

The Dwarf Train (not to be confused with the Short Bus)

Glancing around the train this morning, I couldn’t help but think of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. I could easily fit every commuter into one of the seven categories.

Sleepy: The tired head-bobber. These commuters miss their stop at least once a month and arrive to work late with wrinkled clothes and drool-stained collars. I know because I work with several of them. (For the record, I have never fallen asleep on the train.)

Happy: The perky, needs no caffeine and always wakes up on the right side of the bed commuter. They never have a case of “the Mondays” and are the people I want to punch on a regular basis.

Dopey: The dwarf to collectively describe every high school student on the train. I’m sure my teenage conversations were equally brutal to anyone who had the misfortune of overhearing… and for that, I am retroactively sorry.

Grumpy: All of the not-yet-caffeinated commuters. (myself included)

Bashful: The tentative lurkers who are afraid to sit next to anyone and spend at least three stops wandering up and down the aisles until an empty row becomes available. To them, I say: grow a pair or buy a car.

Doc: You can spot them from a mile away in their scrubs and white coats. I never mind if one of them ends up next to me… perhaps I will get smarter and/or healthier via osmosis.

Sneezy: With my itchy eyes and sniffles, this is definitely me during allergy season. It is my sincere hope that my incessant A-CHOOs will prevent any of the first five dwarfs from wanting to sit next to me… but if there is a Doc anywhere within arm’s reach, beware. I will totally steal your Zyrtec.

Submitted by guest blogger Mia Angiolillo

Skirting the Issue

Leave it to the rain to bring all the wack-a-doodles out of the woodwork on SEPTA.  Until today, my daily commute has been surprisingly uneventful, which, if you’re a regular on the R5, is the most you could hope for.

After getting settled on the outside seat of my two-person row (yes, I am that anti-social commuter who will make it as difficult as possible for you to sit next to me), I looked up and gawked. All of my mother’s years of “it’s not polite to stare” went out the window. I looked. I looked away. I looked again.

There, seated across from me was a disheveled man in a baggy tank top and a loose-fitting hemp skirt. SKIRT! On a Wednesday morning at 7:30, no less.

At first, I thought he was on an incredibly unfortunate “train of shame” ride home from a Flintstones themed party and his foot-powered car got towed by the Philadelphia Parking Authority. But as I looked (gawked) further, it appeared that, perhaps, this was how he dressed all the time.

From his scruffy beard to his shoes that looked like leather pouches loosely fitted around his feet to his four large bags made from coarse woven fabric, I wondered WHO this skirted nomad was and how he ended up Paoli/Thorndale bound.

The bearded lady who escaped from the circus?

An overgrown dyslexic man-child who confused SEPTA with SHERPA?

Bin Laden’s now unemployed pasty stunt double? I don’t think we’re in Abbottabad anymore, Toto.

Regardless, I hope he is headed to a better place than wherever it was he came from. He sure looked like he could use a good night’s sleep, a pair of trousers and a hearty meal… I wonder if he likes skirt steak.

Submitted by guest blogger Mia Angiolillo

The Man Who Wanted to Sit Down

On the ride home last night, a couple got on the train at about 52^nd street.  A tall string-bean of a man was pushing a woman in the largest wheelchair I’ve ever seen.  They were both wearing Phillies t-shirts, clearly on their way to the ballgame.

There was a women dressed in scrubs sitting in one of the seats that face each other and can be folded up to fit a wheelchair. The man asked, “Would you mind if I take this seat?”

The woman gladly got up and stepped over by the door.  The man then sat down in her seat.

She looked down, bewildered.  I could tell that she was contemplating whether or not she should inquire.

“Excuse me, but I think I’m confused,” she said. “I thought that you were asking me to get up so that you could fit the wheelchair into the space.”

He replied, “How would the wheelchair even fit in this space?”

“Here, get up and I’ll show you.” He rose and she folded up all three seats.  He said, “Oh, I had no idea.”

She said, “I thought that’s why you asked me for my seat.”

“No, I just wanted to sit down.”

Train Weirdo Returns, and Totally Redeems Himself

As the train approached the platform, I jumped out from under the shelter and into the rain.  Just as the train came to a stop, my long-lost Train Weirdo came trudging up the stairs and got on the train right behind me.  I was soaked, running late and tired, so I was in no mood to converse. With my peripheral, I could see him looking at me, but I kept my head down to my blackberry. There were only four of us on the train, and we were all standing up front—an elderly woman, a guy in his 40s, Train Weirdo and me. With all the swinging and swaying on the express train, the elderly woman dropped her cane on the floor.  The guy and Train Weirdo just looked down and stared at the cane, making no move to pick it up.  I looked at both of them with a “really?” expression.  

In my heels and dress (while holding my cell phone, umbrella and giant satchel), I bent down to pick up the woman’s cane.   It wound up getting stuck in between the metal bars so there was a bit of a struggle, on top of dealing with my existing physical nuisances. After dislodging the cane and handing it to the woman, I stood up and Train Weirdo was standing right in front of me.  Ok, I admit that calling him Train Weirdo is just rude because he means no harm, so let me call him by his name—Chris.

I stood up and found myself face-to-face with Chris.  I was taken aback so I couldn’t think of one word to say. “You have a giant moth on your head,” he said calmly. My head was wrapped in a scarf to protect my hair from the rain, so it was not unfeasible that I was unable to feel the giant insect sitting on my coif. Before I could open my mouth or extend my arm upward, he reached for my head.  He grabbed something and held it up in between us.

“Oh, looks like it’s just a little piece of nature or something,” he said.

“Yeah, it must have fallen out of the tree outside my office with all this wind,” I replied. “Thanks.”

“I like your outfit,” Chris said. “I mean, what’s your name? I mean, I’m only asking what your name is because I want to see if it matches your outfit.”

Blank stare. "What does it look like my name should be?"

“Like, I feel like with that outfit that your name should be Verdania or something like that.”

I looked down at my outfit trying my hardest to figure out what he meant.  “My name’s Blair.”

“Oh, that doesn’t sound anything like Verdania,” he said. “I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

“What’s your name?” I asked, knowing full well that his name is Chris based on our past encounters.

“Chris,” he replied. “Are you headed back into Center City?”

“Yep.”

“You know, Britney Spears is coming back on tour, and I bet her show is going to be awesome. Tickets go on sale on Friday I think,” he said.

At this point, our train was coming to a stop at 69^th Street Station, so, as much as I’d honestly liked to have kept talking about Britney Spears, I had to say “bye Chris!” and ran off to my transfer.

Now, I’m really regretting missing out on a conversation about Britney Spears with Chris.  Maybe some other time.

I Bit It

As I entered the train station at 2^nd & Market, I could hear my train approaching.  I knew I could just make it if I made a run for it.  I ran down the flight of stairs and sprinted toward the turnstiles, ticket in-hand. Then, I saw the glisten of the freshly mopped, blue tile floor about two seconds too late.  Thanks to the insufficient traction on my commuting flats, I was suddenly on my butt speedily sliding toward the giant silver turnstiles. My knee and shin bones quickly met the hard metal with a loud thud.  

At first, I thought I broke my leg—or knee.  A woman coming through the turnstile in the opposite direction next to me stood there, looked down at me for about five seconds, and then kept walking without saying a word.  Thank you for your concern, no, I’m fine!  At that point, I might have still been able to hobble onto the train but one, my leg was in a lot of pain and two, I was really embarrassed.  I had fleeting thoughts of people saying “that was the worst fall I’ve ever seen!” or just laughing at me until I cried. Plus, I’m like a toddler in that whenever I hurt myself, I can hold myself together until someone asks if I’m ok.  I decided to avoid humiliation and wait for the next train

I swiped my pass and limped over to the bench, trying to force back tears. I got on the next train and sat down in an open seat next to the control panel.  After a few minutes, I smelled something burning.  One of the train conductors walked over, opened up the panel and said into her walkie-talkie, “Uh oh, the inserters are all burnt out.  Get on the loud speaker and tell the passengers that I need to fix these before we get moving.” Icing. Gravy.

Somehow my train made it to 69^th street on time, and I was able to limp-run to my transfer. Right now, I’m sitting at my desk watching my leg swell. This is going to be an awesome day.

The Grooming Car

My boss (Anne) and I took Amtrak up to NYC for a client meeting on Tuesday.  Wanting to be able to do work during the hour and a half train ride, we sat in the Business Car.  Anne opens up her laptop and starts working on a project, and I take out some files for review, not paying much attention to the other travelers.

Anne leans over and  whispers in my ear "What is that girl doing?!"  I look across the aisle, and this young professional has a hair-straightener plugged into the outlet (where most business travelers plug in their laptops), and she's smoothing out her coif. 

At the same time, there is a youngish businessman sitting directly across the table from us. He's on what seems to be a very important phone call, until we hear him lower his voice and say,"I'd like to reschedule my facial appointment."

Anne types something on her laptop and tells me to lean over and read it:
"I think we inadvertently sat in the Grooming Car."

Girls Will Be...

I get on the El this morning, and my train is filled with hipster kids. Some look like they rolled out of a dumpster, some look like they rolled out of Boy George’s closet, so I can’t help but look around.  Two kids right in front of me are particularly intriguing.  The girl is dressed like a Polish immigrant—babushka on her head, scarf covering her face, wool military-style jacket and clogs—so until I hear her speak, I honestly think she’s a foreigner.  The boy she’s with is quite the portrait—he’s wearing a multi-colored patchwork hippie-meets-Bill Cosby jacket, a hot pink flannel shirt, skinny acid wash jeans, construction boots and is carrying a bag covered in peace signs and crossbones. He’s got a John Conner haircut (circa Terminator) and a pedophile mustache. In a very soft, feminine, high voice, he says to the girl, “Our train has been stalled for 10 min. I hope we don’t miss our bus.” 

I immediately realize that this boy is not a boy at all.  This boy is most certainly a girl—with a mustache.  If androgyny is hip, then I was totally hip when I was 13 years old and was continually mistaken for Taylor Hanson.

Little Middle Finger

A young girl of about 5 was sitting on her two grandmothers’ laps on the train this morning.  As I'm standing right next to their seats I hear the girl say, “This is the finger I was holding in my jacket for you,” as she holds up her middle finger with bright pink nail polish. 

Grandmother #1 tells her that she shouldn’t use that finger—that she should use her index finger to point. So the little girl points her index finger to the sky but then quickly switches back to her middle finger and says, “But I like this one better because it’s funny!”  At this point, both grandmothers are trying to swallow their laughter.

Then, the little girl says to Grandmother #2, “Grandma, I just passed gas on your lap!”

The man standing next to me turns around and says, “For a second there, I thought my grandson was riding on the train.  Sounds like something he’d say!”

Grandmother #1 replies, “I guess kids really do say the darndest things.”

Mix Tape

Yesterday’s commute was comprised of a few minor, yet amusing, little tidbits.  I hope one will give you at least a small chuckle.

1. Beam Me Up.  Something was definitely wrong with my train—it sounded like I was riding in a spaceship. I really loud, obnoxious movie-quality spaceship.  Coincidentally, the driver looked like Mr. Sulu, but I’m pretty certain that was the first time he’d ever driven a train spaceship because he was not obeying commands from the control center.  He was also driving the train so slowly that this old man in a walker passed us.  (Ok, I’m kidding about the old man in the walker, but it took a 20 minutes for a typically 7-minute train ride)

2. Gender Confusion. I get on my transfer, and this woman sitting there spills a red drink all over her light blue sweatpants and white bedazzled sweatshirt.  I grab a napkin out of my bag and say “Ma’am, here you go. This might help.” She turns around, takes off her hat, takes the napkin and starts wiping off.  At this point, I’m not certain if she’s a man or a woman.  So, I’m not sure if she didn’t say “thank you” because she’s rude, or because I’m an idiot.

3. Who Needs Pants?  Dude sitting in front of gets up and starts walking toward the door at his stop.  His pants fall plumb to his ankles.  Apparently he didn’t notice because he just kept walking until he looked down and said: “Shoot, my pants fell down.”  Luckily, he had on boxer shorts.

4. Keep it Straight. I exit the train and head down the corridor to buy my March Trailpass. A young guy carrying a nice leather satchel and wearing trendy clothing is standing against the wall.  When I walk by he says, “Miss, can I have some money?”  I decline and keep walking.  On my way back down the corridor, I hear:
Guy: “Can I have some money?”
Me: “You already asked me.” 
Guy: “What did you just say to me?!”
Me: “You already asked me.”
Guy: “Stupid bitch.”
Me: “If you’re going to ask for money, at least keep track of the people you’re asking.”
Guy: “You’re a stupid bitch.”
Me: “Good luck getting any money with that attitude, asshole.”

There's Always One.

Last night, an apparent electrical short caused the train a few stops behind mine to go up in flames. Luckily, no passengers were onboard, and firefighters were able to put out the fire after the track electricity was turned off. Obviously, this caused major delays.

When my train actually arrived, the conductor stuck his head out to look at our large group standing on the platform and shouted back into the car “Raise your hand if you’re getting off at this stop.” He looked back out at us and said “Ok, I think we can fit all of you.” We crammed in there like sardines. I, for one, was stuck standing in a crowd of men that were about 6-foot and above, so needless to say, I had a lot of armpit in my face. In spite of the situation, most people were jovial, friendly and tolerant.

The conductor was very kind and felt bad for us and said “I’m really sorry for all of this folks. I know it was uncomfortable. I hope you have a nice night.”

The woman next to me screams out: “You stupid idiot! You are treating us like animals. We pay a lot of money to ride this train. You are a stupid idiot, and I cannot believe you did this to us! You can go to hell!”

There’s always at least one asshole in a crowd, isn’t there?

Which is Worse?

Which is worse?

1. The elderly woman sitting right next to me who reeks of wet cigarette butts and real butts

OR

2. The young girl sitting across from me singing at the top of her lungs to her ipod like she’s trying out for American Idol

Public Transit Rider Anthropology 101: The Early Riser

It is important when riding public transit to know what you are up against, namely, who is sitting next to you so you can be prepared. Public Transit Rider Anthropology 101 will be a series that chronicles these fellow riders.

Let's meet the Early Riser. No friends, this is not the guy or gal on the first train into the city, but the one that is compelled to get to the door first.

I like to believe it is common practice that just before one gets up for their stop there is that final email check (read: game of Angry Birds) or car/house key check but for the Early Riser those seconds are what dreams are made of.

Take for instance this morning, as I was on the train approaching a station heading into the city. I make the appropriate “Is this next stop yours?” head gesture to my seat buddy. “Nope, I’m the next stop.” Good, a few more precious seconds to check my email.

Negative.


No sooner did the train start moving to next station did I get the tap to get up. Are. you. serious?

Yes, friends meet my seat buddy, The Early Riser.

-Submitted by Guest Blogger Wit V

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Conductor

This morning, half my train broke down in between Center City and West Philly. The conductor came through and asked us all to switch cars because they were disconnecting ours. People started getting all riled up and the conductor shouted, “Ok then, you can also just sit in this broke-down car all day!” and turned to me specifically and said “What in the hell is wrong with people?” Exactly.

She was far kinder than the conductor I encountered on Tuesday. Because it had snowed, all the express trains turned into local trains. When I got to 69th Street, four trains pulled up within 30 seconds of each other. I asked one of the conductors, “Excuse me, but which of these trains will be leaving first?” He said, “I’m pretty sure you were standing right here when they all pulled up. Which one did you see arrive first?” I pointed up at the train in front of me. “Riiiight. So, logic tells us that this one will leave first,” he condescendingly snipped back at me. I just put on a giant smile and said “Gee mister, thanks for the information.”

Chicken Bone Appetite Suppressant

I didn't eat dinner before class, so by 9:30 p.m. I was pretty hungry. I get on the train and the floor is covered in gnarled chicken wing bones. A young skateboarder dude sits down and inadvertently starts stepping on them, dragging BBQ sauce all over the floor. I immediately lost my appetite.

The Fate of a Floor Newspaper

I took the 6:30 a.m. train, an hour earlier than my normal train. A tall, middle-aged man in a large brown jacket got on the train. He reached down in front of me under the seat, grabbed a filthy, stepped-on newspaper off the floor, and sat down behind me. Gross, yes, but I figure that he's just really eager to read the morning paper. Wrong.

He begins tearing up the newspaper piece by piece. He then starts hocking up lougies and spitting them into the pieces of newspaper. I have no idea what he did with those used pieces of newspaper, and I don't want to. I am glad that those lougies didn't wind up on the back of my head.

You Can't Make This $hit Up.

Welcome to Off the Beaten Track, the support group for commuters using Greater Philadelphia's public transportation system. Some stories will be witty, some disgusting, some shocking and some just downright ridiculous.

Our motto: You can't make this $hit up.