One or the other, dude–wear the Giants jersey, or wear the tailored white dress shirt. But a fancy oxford collar poking out from under your Eli #10 v-neck uni? Less cool than sneakers and a suit. Less sartorially acceptable than the bottom three inches of a sport coat sticking out from under a ski jacket.

I’m not sold the concept of grown ups wearing the team jersey to work, unless, of course, they happen to play for the team. I mean, my son is 6, and they’re basically making them do it today at school. News 12 is there, and so is the Journal News shutterbug, and that’s fun, even if the only thing my kid will be rooting for on Sunday will be more Doritos. (Should the Yankees make the Series next year, and his principal mandate some sort of Yankee gear, well, we’ll just have to have Junior take a sick day.)

But a grown dude wearing the Big Blue jersey to work? (As I type that, I can hear Patrick Warburton’s monosyllabic Puddy on Seinfeld, explaining to Elaine why he painted his face in Devils colors: ”Ya know, support the team!”) I always had kind of a weird issue about wearing the jersey of a guy who was actually younger than me–it just felt wrong–but now that I’m older than nearly every pro athlete except for Tim Wakefield, I may have to rethink that rule.

I dig it, it’s the Super Bowl. We’ll be lucky if the Giants, or the Jets, make the Big Show in the next decade. It’s a big deal. And you, sir, undoubtedly stuck with Couglin and Manning a few months back when everyone else wanted them impaled on a big foam finger. You’ve earned the right to wear your Eli jersey–let’s call it “Manning up”–to work.

Just don’t wear it with a dress shirt underneath, man on the 8:16 tapping at his laptop while dreaming about the Super Bowl.

We pulled into Grand Central and slowed. You wandered over to the semi-private folding seat spot, where there were no people. I wondered why, until I saw that you were checking your appearance in the darkened window.

You don’t need a mirror to tell you how you look. You look ridiculous.

Sincerely,

Trainjotting

PS: Go Giants.

As another sign in another window indicates, the cafe is hiring.

Here’s what we wrote about the joint when owner Gerry Petraglia gave us a tour last month.

Hours look to be 5 a.m. through the evening commute, with wraps and sandwiches to go as well as seating for 15 or so. There’s a tidy little dining area facing the station, so you could sip your java on cold days such as yesterday, and run for your train soon as you see it lumbering into Hawthorne station.

So when it does finally open, get out and support the cafe, because Petraglia is investing…big…in Mount Pleasant, and is improving Hawthorne commuters’ quality of life.

We stopped by the Punta Cana restaurant, which opened on Hawthorne’s tiny main drag just over two years ago, to see about doing a short interview with the owner about how the first two years have gone for the Spanish-Portuguese place. (The photo below is obviously from before it opened.)

Owner Raysa declined, saying she was passing along ownership to a new individual that she declined to name. She said business is doing fine, and the menu seems a good match for local residents. But she wants to spend more time with the family, including the little boy who parks his wee bike outside the restaurant.

Chowhound wrote a little something about the place, which also appears as “Cana Restaurant Punta” on some websites, not sure which is correct, a few years ago.

The ladies behind the counter were really nice. They have a small regular menu, but I think most people would just grab something from the steam table. According to the menu, they have different specials every day. And I would guess that the specials are all available from the steam table. I grabbed the pernil with rice and beans, just $6.50 for the order. There was a decent amount of pork, but they gave me so much rice that the pork portion looks small. The rice and beans were good.

Raysa said the new owner would likely keep the current menu intact.

OK, this is ridiculous. I just can’t imagine that Pleasantville smells any different than Chappaqua or Valhalla or even a little city like White Plains.

If anything, perhaps Pleasantville had the scent of hops in the air, with Captain Lawrence Brewery in town. But that operation moved to Elmsford yesterday, and the GQ guy didn’t mention the brewery.

And of the other nine smelliest cities on the GQ list, it’s the likes of Dallas, San Francisco, London, Bogota and Paris.

I like Pleasantville and all, but does it really belong in that group. C’mon. Pleasantville isn’t even a city.

The writer, Chandler Burr, is called GQ’s “globe-trotting scent critic.”

Now there’s a job.

By the way, nice typo on “Normal Rockwell,” Chandler Burr.

Burr writes:

2. Pleasantville, NY Money changes the smell of everything, and  wealthy towns where people who want to flee New York’s asphalt canyons go to  have gardens and lawns have scents as restricted as the covenants guarding their  real estate values. Maple, oak, and pine smell cyclically different as the  seasons turn, and Pleasantville’s scent is based on these trees and their leaves  at all stages—green, yellow, dead brown, and budding. When you close your eyes  you get grass and then the smell of “America as it was,” whenever that might  mean for your nose. If [sic] Normal Rockwell’s paintings emitted a scent, this is what  it would be.

The purse went missing last February, while this month, Gray allegedly nicked the iPod and iPhone–the latter last week.

He was arrested after being booted off the train last week for not paying his fare.

A passenger on board the 7:55 a.m. train from Port Washington January 26 reported that her iPhone had been stolen. It was later recovered using an app that can be used to track the phone if it goes missing.

Yesterday, LIRR train crew members spotted Gray on board the 10:49 a.m. train from Port Washington headed to Penn.

Because he was refusing to pay the train fare, Gray was kicked out at Bayside. The train crew notified the MTA Police, who apprehended him, and linked him to the thefts.

He does jumping jacks as he awaits a fare, because, presumably, pedaling fat-arse tourists around New York is not enough exercise.

He keeps a pack of Marlboro Lights fastened to his helmet with a rubber band.

Odd fellow.

Sun. Sky. Hope.

When you leave work today, you will see a fading blue sky as the sun exits stage left into the Hudson. It will not be the inky black that’s greeted you like a stiff slap these past three months, as you stepped outside the office and made your way toward Grand Central.

If you don’t see a little blue in the black when you leave work today, leave earlier tomorrow. 5:30 should suffice.

Pitchers and catchers report in three weeks.

Until recently, they wore light blue polo shirts. I assume they wore some sort of pants as well, but their legs are typically obscured by their beer carts.

The new uni’s feature a seasonal jacket similar to one worn by a ’50s bellhop. The “bartenders,” as they are officially known, bear a badge stating “Trackside Commissary.”

A Metro-North spokesperson said both the carts and the uniforms are an effort on the part of the railroad to “update the operation of its commissary.” The concept of the commissary, says Marjorie Anders, is a railroad tradition. Commissaries kept rail cars stocked with food, and drink.

GCT’s 20 carts, and 20 bartenders, were updated January 17. “The uniforms are smart looking,” says Anders.

The carts are testing healthier dining options, adds Anders, including granola bars and protein bars and trail mix.  There may be some new brews in the mix too.

The carts have new lights and display cases. “I think they look spiffier,” says Anders.

Budweiser and Coca Cola are the sponsors, but the product offerings are not limited to those vendors.

So far, commuters seem to like the new garb. “We saw an uptick in sales the first week [of the rebranding],” says MNR’s Anders.

The bartenders themselves may not be quite as enthused. I asked one about it while buying a Bud tallboy last week, and he rolled his eyes. A conductor pal tells me he ribs the beer guys for their “Nehru jackets” by asking them which Beatle they’re pretending to be.

Yes, four times in the past two weeks, with rain in the air, on the ground, and in the forecast, I set out on foot for Hawthorne station.

And four times, I was picked up by a motorist.

Those include the lady across the street, the guy next door, the lady a few doors down and, as of today, the Ghost of Commuting Future, a fellow biker I’d had a brief interaction with last month.

Today’s ride, unlike the other three, happened well into my walk. I’d seen him as I’d approached Chelsea Bridge. I nodded hello. He offered ‘Good morning.’

A moment later, he and his wife pulled over to the side of the road and offered me a warm, dry spot in their automobile. She apologized for the mess in the back seat, which I’ve gotten a lot of in the last few weeks.

We discussed the perils of biking in Hawthorne, and, within minutes, pulled into the station.

We shook hands and went our separate ways along the platform.

Four for four.

Small town, USA.

Not bad.

The video is posted on Huffington Post.

Based on his musical skills, I’d advise, don’t quit your day job.

And hopefully the MTA won’t take your day job after this not-in-the-handbook performance.