The Pain Train

So, I'm sure there's a moral or a metaphor or something in this post but I'm still having a brain hangover from playing at five Easter services so I'm not exactly connecting the dots. 

I don't know why I still bother trying to sleep on the morning train. Evening, I'm like a narcoleptic, liquored up pygmy hippo. But everything conspires against me in the A.M.  And I'm a fairly deep sleeper. Like all red-blooded American men, I'm able to sleep through approximately 90 minutes of screaming baby. But my morning commute has obviously been tampered with by someone who hates me.

By all indicators, you would think that the ride in would be a perfect place for a short coma. I'm dead tired; I sit in the "quiet" car; I have about a 70 minute ride that consists of a gentle rocking motion. But there's always something, or set of somethings that renders all of the above about as effective as a cotton-candy hockey mask.

First there's the PA system. This has been designed for two types of people: those with acute tinnitus, and those who wish to acquire it. This thing is so freaking loud that Motorhead could gig with it. I go from semiconsciousness to ducking my dad's belt every time a stop is announced. And it goes off as you're leaving one stop to announce the next stop, and again as you're approaching the next stop. Which means that at some points along the route, it's blaring every 60 seconds. And no, it can't be turned down, because the volume control is located--wait for it--on the underside of the railroad car! Yup, they though of every convenience.

Then there's the "climate control." Heat on the train is hit or miss during the winter months. Sometimes the heat doesn't work, and sometimes it's a Turkish bath, and there is no middle ground. Try to sleep with frozen feet, or drop down to featherweight: those are your options, champ.

Then there are the fun little wildcards, like today when I sat one seat ahead of Gammy Toot-Toot. Although she slept the whole way through, she nevertheless conveyed quite eloquently that yesterday's Easter brunch had a little too much dairy in it.

But still, I go through the motions. Occasionally I manage to score a few Zs for the last 10 minutes of the ride. Which leaves you feeling like you've accomplished something when the ticket collector shakes you awake and tells you to get the hell off his train.

Nah. There's no meaning to this post.