The Final Gumshoe

I am happy to note that for the last few weeks, TTC subway vehicles have been outfitted with this ad (notice the miniature note pad of gum disposal paper) in an effort to clean up the TTC and keep it above the current neglected-restroom standards it currently follows. I was saddened however to see a man remove the entire pad and put it in his knapsack. The following day, I was further crushed to see a teen, standing with a group of friends, over-dramatically remove a piece of bubble gum from his gabber, rip off a piece of gum disposal paper, scrunch the bolus into the paper and then animatedly throw the refuse over his shoulder - narrowly missing a co-passenger. I bet the campaign would do better in the zoo; in the primate cage, more specifically.

Hotter Than Hades

Do you know where I can find a cement room filled with snowcone ice so that I can roll around naked in it? Today I got on to a packed subway car and shock of all shocks: there was no air conditioning. Normally this would not be an issue, but today, on July 5th, it is, with humidity, 40 degrees Celsius (which is like 86 degrees Fahrenheit). To add an element of dire straits to this story, I am pregnant and very short tempered (not to mention short of breath). I strongly feel that the TTC should have people standing on the platform to advise if a street car’s A/C is broken and to offer an “at your own risk” warning carnival barker-style. I frankly would not care if this added a minute or two to the commute. They could even hang signs reading “SAUNA” on the windows to give us the heads’ up, I don’t care. Had I known that this were the state of the union, I’d have waited for the next train. As it was I got off at the next stop and bolted to the other car where it was more packed, yet icy cool, I’ll trade sardine-can riding for the armpit tango anyday. I don’t think it would make much sense for the TTC to disable an entire train due to one or two of its cars having malfunctioning A/C, but a warning would be nice. It smells of gym socks and rotten crotch on the average air-conditioned streetcar, so to step onto a muggy, sweaty, boiling one with an offensive odor just hovering there, is akin to being trapped in an elevator with a gaseous person or being caught in traffic when a co-passenger barfs.

why do your feet smell like onions?

call it world cup fever, but when a Spanish onion falls out of someone’s grocery bag on a subway car, most normal people would pick it up and hand it to the shopper.
Not the folks on the subway car on the way home from work last Thursday night.
About 11 people got in on the action. 7 sitting and 3 standing, all of them faking injuries. They were all really into it. It was then and there that I determined a camera video application might come in handy for a little mobile YouTube upload.

A TTC etiquette campaign the TTC doesnt know about (with printable posters)

A TTC etiquette campaign the TTC doesnt know about (with printable posters)

Dirty Bugger

So, big surprise, there is a giant creep roaming TTC property, allegedly standing thisclose to women with long dark hair and wanking himself. That is just another reason to go to Master Cuts and ask for the "Dorothy Hamill"...

News report below... BEWARES!

Cops release security images of suspect wanted in connection to TTC sex assaults
680News staff May 13, 2010 23:25:03 PM
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Toronto police are asking female subway riders to be especially vigilant after a series of sexual assaults on the TTC dating back to 2007.

According to investigators, the suspect rides the Yonge-Spadina-University subway line during morning and evening rush hours.

He approaches women between the ages of 20 and 40, with long black or dark brown hair.

He then stands behind them on crowded trains and performs sexual acts.

The man is described as:

- East Indian
- 5'9"
- 30-40-years-old
- Having a medium build
- Having black wavy hair

Police said riders should be especially careful at the following stations on the Yonge line:
- Dundas and Queen (morning rush)
- Eglinton and Davisville (afternoon rush hour)

Anyone with information is asked to contact police at 416-808-7474, Crime Stoppers
anonymously at 416-222-TIPS (8477), online at www.222tips.com, or text TOR and
message to CRIMES (274637).

Pregnant and Pissed

We pull into St. Clair station and a very pregnant woman steps onto the car. “Get up!” she announces. “I’m pregnant; I’d very much like to sit down please!”. She is talking to nobody and everybody at once. She is waddling towards the 5 seated commuters nearest her, not even waiting for a response. Direct and commanding she’s like a sergeant! A few are startled and 2 of them jump to their feet. “Here, take my seat, ma’am” says a handsome lanky manboy. “No, this seat has more leg room” says a helpful young business woman, she puts her iPod away and gets up quickly. “Thank you both, so much” preggo says, carefully lowering herself into the seat and letting out a sigh of relief.

Now I will tell you what really happened. We pull into St. Clair station and a very pregnant (likely psychopathic) woman scrambles into the car. “Somebody get up NOW!” she screams as she holds the underside of her belly. I am already standing, so I am no help to her, and there isn’t water leaking or screams of pain so I’m assuming she’s not in labour. She looks about 12 months pregnant. No one looks up. Everyone is plugged in and in the zone. Some are reading the Metro, some are sleeping, most have their eyes closed and are bopping to their personal soundtracks, blocking out the crazies. She is exasperated and confronts a sleeping asian pre-teen. She kicks his skateboard shoed foot. He awakens, startled and sneers. “Let me sit!” she demands loudly and over-enunciating. He gets up, shocked and as he shuffles off to lean again the exit doors he mutters something in an unknown language that sounded like “Jowla” which I’m pretty sure means something like “bitch” or “fat head”.

I myself am 3 months pregnant and while I’m not carting around 4 phone books worth of extra weight quite yet, my legs are achy and I prefer to sit than stand, but would I ever attack a fellow commuter for a seat, a fellow sleeping commuter at that? Stay tuned.

Is That The Poo of A Rat?

I'm sitting and minding my own business, finishing off a delicious cup of strawberry froyo from Yogen Fruz when I spot a nugget of shit. Its sitting under the seat of the person in front of me. Now the lighting in a subway car ain't great and further more it was in the shadow of the seat, but even from a few feet away I could tell it was rodent excrement. A variety of possibilities went through my mind first. A chocolate almond? A kalamata olive? One of those soft things that covers the earbud piece of a headphone? It was none of them. I craned my neck and squinted, but stopped when I realized it looked like I was focusing on the man's crotch who was seated across from me. For the record I wasn't. I guess it could have been a chewed off piece of one of those candy cigars, you know? The black licorice ones? But I'm pretty certain is was mice droppings... I almost wanted to take my spoon from my now finished yoghurt and carefully lift the specimen into my cup for a more careful exploration, but I thought that might be odd and slightly disgusting. So I just stared at it for the remainder of the ride home and imagined some innocent person (most likely in flip flops) tucking their feet under the seat and being surprised by the smelly brown mystery smear that encrusted under their toenail.

The Newfie

So I'm sitting minding my own business and doing a crossword puzzle when out of nowhere a man actually says "I think 2 down is DADA". The clue is PC Food. "DADA?" I say. "AS IN THE SWISS CULTURAL MOVEMENT?" I ask, confused. "No - D-A-T-A. Get it? The computer eats Data?" Ah Hah! I get it. Of course. I smile and fill in the boxes. What just happened?

I peek to my right where the man is sitting and he looks to be in his late 50s wearing a Bantam team hockey jacket. He is smiling and leaning towards me, eager, eyebrows raised, grinning. "What else are ya' stuck on? I just love those things. Do quite a few myself!" Oh Jesus. I sigh put my crossword on my lap. This is it. The moment of surrender. The point of no return. You can either continue to do your crossword and answer with one word responses hoping he gets the hint that you actually don't want to engage in conversation to pass the time because you have your crossword to pass the time. Something like a "I''m okay thanks. Take care. Bye Bye then" would do in this scenario. Or - you can be a decent human being and humor the guy. "Bhutan locale?" I reply.

I can see my fellow commuters assessing the situation. They look up from their Metros, one lady even takes out her earbuds to eavesdrop. "How cute" I can hear them thinking. "They're going to share a puzzle now." We get to talking, I fill in A-S-I-A (how moronic of me!) considering I'm surrounded by their entire immigrant population - how could I have been stuck on that?

I proceed to learn all about this man's hobbies and that he's going to see the Leafs play the Thrashers and that his daughter is pregnant and lives in Newfoundland. Then he tells me that where he's from was actually a war town. That a German submarine was found in the caves in in the farthest inland port in Canada. That he's a first generation Newfie and that his parents are British citizens. That he worked for a company in Kitchener for 18 years. That he and his wife watched every second of the Olympics in their heated garage. That he once picked up a young girl who was a hitchhiker who was from Colorado and who said the Canadian Rockies are more beautiful than the American ones. The rest of this man's stories were endlessly entertaining and most of them started and ended with the mention of a big rig. I had to cut him off mid-sentence. "Buh-bye then. Enjoy the game!" I said as I made way to the doors. "Bye dear - keep up with your crosswords and don't cheat!"

Commuter Calisthenics

Everyday I try to hit the subway gym. You might be familiar with it. Its not a real gym that requires a monthly membership and is hidden through some secret door deep within a specific subway stop, but a make-believe gym that exists in the minds of some ingenious commuters. Ingenious-lazy commuters. Ingenious-lazy commuters, like me. You see, I don't work out. No treadmills. No elliptical machines. No public heavy breathing, schvitzing, and jiggling up and down. That's just not my bag. But since I love a butter croissant as much as the next gal, I do walk up the stairs instead of taking the escalator between levels on the subway system. I do stand the majority of the way to and from work so as to focus on toning my core (you really feel the burn enroute to College station where the train sways quite dramatically). I've calculated that its pretty much the equivalent of 100 crunches. I figure that I spend an hour and 20 minutes a day on either the subway or the streetcar (in bad weather, otherwise I power walk) so I might as well come up with some moves to pump up the jam. I've taken to walking to the end of the platform regardless of whether the platform is full or not (Its solely to increase the count on my pedometer). I've got exceptionally svelte wrists now thanks to having to balance my coffee from spilling for 80 minutes each and every day. My thighs are marble sculptures since I've been holding my purse between my knees (the floor is just too risky). But, by far, the most complete exercise one can do is hold it in on a packed street car. Think of it! People are squishing by you and attempting to pass by you in such insanely small spaces that in order to maintian any sense of dignity and not be sandwiched into a complete stranger, you are forced into a Lotus-like position. Yes, indeed, if I keep this up I'll look like Kathy Ireland in no time.

A Thank-You Note re: subway ride of shame home after st. paddy’s day

Dear ttc,

Thank you from the bottom of my green-tinged heart for getting me home thoroughly entertained and in once piece yesterday.
After two cold pints of smithwick’s and nary a bite to nibble, I was feeling pretty teetery-tottery and your shuttle services from The Unicorn to King Street W. helped me to make it home so that I could deposit my emergency-Burger King-stop-off-come-upchuck in my own bathroom and not in the Out of Order men’s stall at said pub. Thank you also for the Guiness-scented subway cars and fast, efficient services last eve.

I mention that I was entertained because along with my drunken ass you transported hundreds of fellow partiers to their homes (or to secondary, nay tertiary bars on their leprechaunian pub crawls.) I saw many oversized Kelly green, felt hats and some shiny brass buckles too. I even saw a drunk teenager's shelayleigh and boy was that a treat!

Sincerely,
Enya McEvoy

Killing Time

So after 3 train delays last week which made me 1) tardy for a 9:00 am teleconference, 2) in desperate need of the toilet and several stops away from my home salle de bain and 3) extremely pissed off at the entire world in general, I decided it was time to cave and buy a book of crossword puzzles to pass the time.

My dad is an avid puzzler (he even has a encyclopedic help book which some view as cheating, but he never actually looks anything up when anyone is around to judge him for it - I inspected the spine - it doesn't even look like he's cracked the thing once). He just loves puzzles. All puzzles, the one in the back of the TV guide - even the toughies in The Sunday Times - those hard ones that would even stump Einstein. I remember getting some photocopied exercises back in elementary when my teacher was sick and we had a substitute. It was Thanksgiving time of year and along with a connect the dots cornucopia, I had been given a Harvest-themed crossword in the shape of a giant turkey. All the clues were to do with pilgrims and Stove Top stuffing. I got a perfect mark on it. I knew I had inheritied a gift. Think of the most odd, arcane, random tidbit of knowledge and my father can figure out 4 Down. I should mention that he gets this from my grandma who, along with smoking massive quantities of Virginia Slims and painting her talons a shimmery mocha peach, has done crossword puzzles her entire life.

As I paid my $3.50 for the JUMBO SUPERB CROSSWORDS - ALL THEME - I had high hopes that I had inheritied my relatives' Trebekian intelligence for obscure facts and rare synonyms and antonyms. ACROSS 1. Cotillion gal - 3 letters. STUMPED. FAILURE. I sat there for a good 15 minutes as the train stopped at Davisville due to signal problems. I looked around. Someone somewhere on this train was looking at me and judging me and my blank puzzle. I couldn't even get the first damned clue! Defeated already! I surveyed my co-commuters and no one was really paying attention so I peeked at the answers. This breaks the code of my anscestors, but as far as I knew they weren't on the train.

With DEB filled in 1 Across in nice, ballpoint block letters, I proceed to fill out the puzzle: Beekeeper's reward was easy. "Metamorphoses" poet? Well it wasn't Dante or Virgil, that left OVID which fit perfectly in the 4 boxes. I nearly finished the puzzle when I realized I had missed my stop.

Who Is At Fault The Employee or The "Customer"?

An interesting point of view about abysmal TTC experiences...
http://www.eyeweekly.com/blog/post/84580

manners n. social deployment, the prevailing customs, social conduct, and norms of a specific society

Hi there. You don’t know me, but I have an important question for you! Did you happen to pay a double fare when you entered the TTC today? You know, at the ticket booth, upstairs? I mean, did you happen to pay $6 instead of $3? No, you say! Then WHY THE HELL IS YOUR PURSE TAKING UP AN ENTIRE SEAT? Yes, that’s right, I would like to sit down. I’m sorry that you have to hold your purse on your lap or rest it between your feet on the floor.

Hi there. I don’t think we’ve met. Would you mind MOVING THE FUCK OVER? Because you’re blocking an entire seat. Yes, that one. The one right beside you. Its empty. See that? Yes, I know its a bit tight; a bit claustrophobic, but I can manage. Your legs are long? Oh I see.

Hi there. Sorry to interrupt, but I was just wondering if you realized YOU’RE BLOCKING THE ENTRY WAY TO THE SUBWAY AND PEOPLE CAN GET NEITHER ON OR OFF BECAUSE OF YOU.

Hi there. How are you today? That’s wonderful! Did you know that your giant Tna bowling bag just AGGRESSIVELY TACKLED ME AND YOU KNOCKED ME INTO ABOUT TEN OTHER PASSENGERS when you turned just now? You hadn’t realized? Okay. Well you did. Be self-aware. Thank you.

Hi there. Nice day today, isn’t it? Do you mind if someone else makes use of this pole that is specifically here for people to hold on to for balance? Mmmhmm. That one there. Yup. THE ONE YOU’RE LEANING AGAINST WITH YOUR ENTIRE PERSON. You see, if you step away from it and hold on with your hand as you’re meant to, other people can actually position their hands above and below yours so as to also make use of such a useful safety rail. Its called sharing. Its a a little thing I learned about in kindergarten.

The next Kelly Clarkson

Have you ever been on the subway when its really quiet, yet there are easily 50-100 people sitting around you? This happens a lot and I love it (not the volume of co-passengers, the quiet). I like the dome of silence that most people enter into on public transport. Its a respect thing. Its unspoken, no one teaches this to you. Its conditioned. You conform so that you blend in and mostly everyone wants to blend in. I’m not talking about when you’re with your friends or you’ve run into someone you know. Its not like you take up pantomime in order to abide by the rules of quiet. I’m talking about when you’re riding alone. There are certain rules. You don’t talk to strangers. You don’t talk on your cell phone on the streetcar (or if you do, you’re one of the worst people ever born). You don’t engage the otherwise busy driver in conversation about meaningless things. But what you certainly never do is sing! You know who I’m talking about.

She’s sitting there and has absolutely no shame. She’s singing some smooth R&B or Top 40 piece of shit. She actually doesn’t sound half bad. And yet. She’s singing. Its not like she’s so immersed in her iPod world that she’s momentarily forgotten that though she cannot hear others, others can most certainly hear her. Nope, that’s not it. You see, she’s showing off. The TTC is her forum, her Greek Theatre, her House of Blues. She’s belting it out now, gesticulating with her manicured hands as her vocals cascade up and down. In New York, Concrete jungle where dreams are made of, There’s nothing you can’t do. If I never have to hear that song again I will die happy. Singing aloud is second only to the annoyance factor of public whistlers. Who are you flagging down? A cab? Because, newsflash, you’re on a moving vehicle already. We don’t care if you have the Andy Griiffith Show theme song in your head. Keep it to yourself!

The man with the breath of a thousand dog farts

Yesterday on the way home I was on a particularly packed streetcar headed west on King Street when I smelled a foul odor. I placed it immediately. It was human halitosis.

There was a tall man standing over me who insisted on breathing out through his mouth and his breath was notably wicked. I considered handing him a piece of Juicy Fruit and this tidbit of advice “Do everyone within a 50-mile radius of you a favour and chew on this a while”, but I was too chicken.

This man had to have had a sinus infection, or some cantankerous wound festering under his tongue because this was in no way a healthy scent. If I were a betting man, I would say this guy had never heard of floss, a tongue scraper or mouthwash. I pictured the mounds of anaerobic bacterial scum building up on the back of his tongue and felt a wave of nausea.

During the next ten minutes of my ride I became obsessed with the smell and tried to pinpoint what ferocious combination of food and drink could produce such a stench. I decided that the man started his day with a cigarette and a cup of coffee. He had a cheesy, roasted garlic and onion omelet for breakfast. For lunch, likely some sushi. For dinner? Beef and broccoli stir-fry and a beer. Then another coffee and cigarette. He also likely talked all day and drank no water.

I once heard a story about a friend of a friend who had accidentally inhaled a sunflower seed. He was gorging on them during a football game and began to laugh and it went up into his sinus cavity by way of his larynx. The man had no idea that it went into his sinuses and proceeded about his day. He went on for weeks with no clue and his breath became increasingly bad. Turns out he had a sunflower growing in his nose. How about that!

I wondered what type of flora Mr. Greenhouse might be tending to up his sniffer.

Thought of the day

slang for heroin needle injection scars = tracks. There must be a reason for this comparison.

alone adj. separate, apart, or isolated from others

A few months ago I recall riding the subway home after a few beers at the local pub around the corner from my office. It was about twenty minutes to twelve. I waited for the train going southbound at Yonge and Eglinton for about 5 minutes and was pleased to note that I was the only person on the car when I stepped in.

Some people, especially women, don’t like this scenario, in case some creep gets on at one of the next stations and either sits too close or starts to pester/harass her. The woman might feel at risk or worse yet, actually be at risk. Not me. Call me stupid or naive, but I find something appealing and liberating about a car to myself! Its almost like driving the subway yourself! (okay, that's a bit of a stretch). Its like that movie I Am Legend, where Will Smith’s character finds himself walking through downtown NYC midday and its completely vacant. Its a rarity and oddly amazing for a city of its size (granted New York was empty due to a hideous virus and rabid zombies, but I’d seen other souls on the platform at Yonge & Eg so I wasn’t planning my eulogy just yet).

Now maybe it was because I had had a few and was feeling a little goofy, but I decided to take full advantage of my privacy. I let out a big, long, satisfying belch and I put my feet up on the seat next to me. This is disgusting behavior. If there was even one person on the train I never in a million years would have done these things, but I was all by my lonesome and it was great.

As the train approached Davisville I was doubly pleased to note that no one was getting on my car again! Wonderful! Feeling brazen, as if I was the Queen of the Underground, as the train entered the tunnel towards Summerhill, I farted quite loudly - this is the first time I’ve ever not held it in on public transit. I was beaming. I was really enjoying myself now.

Just then, I heard someone cough from behind me. I froze in utter and complete horrorbarrassment (equal parts horror and embarrassment). I slowly turned to realize that a young man, maybe in his late teens early twenties was laying on the two seats directly behind me. Had he been there the whole time?

I stood up abruptly. I was completely startled. I wanted to flee, but we were in the tunnel and I had no where to run. I peered over the seats. His eyes were closed and he was smiling. Was he high? Homeless? Drunk? Sleeping? I sat down on the opposite side of the car and a little down from where he was laying and tried to slow my pulse. He sat up a little and muttered to himself “Holy fucking shit! I fuckin' passed out” To this day I don't know if this was due to my passing gas or not.

Ride The Snot Rocket

Growing up I remember my mom always seemed to have the sniffles. She would use and reuse a kleenex to the point where it no longer looked like a tissue, but rather an owl pellet (you know the kind that contain mouse skeletons? Yeah, those). Anyway, I remember her drinking her cup of International Coffee (Suisse Mocha flavour) and dabbing her nose while she prepared our lunches. When not wiping, she would store the kleenex in the cuff of her navy blue housecoat. Let me be clear, she didn’t use a hanky, she used a disposable facial tissue more times in a row than its creators ever intended for it. She was recycling before it became trendy!

Now my grandfather, he used a real mccoy handkerchief. In fact, he had a vast array. He was a debonair man in white polyester slacks and tinted glasses and he loved a pop of colour peeking out of the breast pocket of his pale pink polo. Plus his honker dripped like a spigot, so it was quite pragmatic to carry one on his person.

You may be wondering what on earth my meandering over these childhood memories of my family members has to do with public transit. I’m getting there. You see, I am completely compassionate when it comes to runny noses. I come from a long line of nasal issues, but I will not stand for blowing one’s nose on a packed streetcar.

Its cold and flu season, H1N1 is in full tilt, HELLO?! So for the love of all things holy, keep your globules to yourself! Feel a drip coming on? Sniff it back, honey! Have you ever seen that horrifying slow motion close up of a man sneezing behind a black backdrop and the camera zooms in on each droplet of germ-ridden saliva and mucous that shoots out of his facial orifices? This is what goes through my mind every time I hear an “Achoo!” on the TTC.

What makes this worry a gruesome reality is that I’ve witnessed with my own eyes on more than one occasion, a person completely ignore Public Health’s helpful advice to do the “Sleeve Sneeze” and instead choose to hock a big, pale yellow loogie right onto the palm of their mitt. What did they do with said mitt? Why they held on to the hand rail, that’s what! And I swear I saw a string of mucous stretch between the red woolen fabric of the assailant’s mitt and the aluminum pole. I will throw a parade the day that Purell is made available on public transit.

Chinatown n. an ethnic enclave of overseas Chinese people

One of the worst situations a commuter can find herself in is the rush hour ride home with an armload of groceries. Can you empathize? A bag containing a magazine and a can of Pringles doesn’t count. I’m talking about a mother load of canned goods, dense heads of cabbage and animal carcasses weighing down your limbs. When the grocery bags are so heavy that they are cutting off circulation to your fingers and leaving deep creases on your hands and wrists you know you've bought too much. When your arms are shaking and your weak, untoned muscles struggle to hold the weight and there is nary a seat in sight, this is the seventh circle of hell.

In terms of public transit etiquette, I equate a successful shopper with a pregnant woman, a parent with a small, unsteady child or an elderly person who cannot count on their arthritic knees to serve them well during a particularly swiveling or bumpy ride. I always give up my seat to a shopper because their situation dictates that a seat is sorely needed. For how do you hold on, when your hands are full? Easy! Take a seat and rest your load. Perhaps I am the only person in Toronto to do this, I don’t know.

I made the brave/ stupid decision to take a shopping excursion to Chinatown using the Spadina streetcar last Saturday morning. I also made the grave error of only bringing 2 cloth bags and no plaid, fabric-covered granny cart with me (as so many of my fellow commuters equipped themselves with last weekend). I left the grocery cart at home because I feel its rightful place is when I walk to St. Lawrence Market. It belongs rolling down the sidewalk, not taking up human space on a public transport vehicle. I guess I should take this opportunity to mention my severe aversion to anyone who brings anything onto the subway, bus or streetcar that takes up commuter space; read: bicycles, strollers/prams/carriages, dogs, grocery carts, red wagons (of the Radio Flyer variety especially), skateboards, skis, giant hockey bags, moving boxes, scooters, Vespas, unicycles, donkeys, industrial espresso machines). I also despise children who wear Heely shoes (those sneakers with a wheel in the heel), but that’s not really related to subway travel more in terms of inside the supermarket, I digress.

Anyway I bought a Chinese buffet’s worth of produce, meat and sauces and then determined that my haul was too heavy to walk back home with so I waited for the streetcar with the 9000 fellow Spadina shoppers. My bags were full of giant bok choy, knobs of galangal and bottles of fish and oyster sauces and hoisin. My hands were turning a similar purple to the colour of the thai basil Peking out of my bag. As the streetcar approached, I breathed a sigh of relief! At last! An empty car where I could rest my bags down and revive my numb limbs! There was much commotion and a foreign cacophany of “Diu!!!”, “Hai!!!”, “Gao!”, “Chat!!!”, “Lan!!!” as the driver flipped his sign to OUT OF SERVICE and glided by.

Hold v. to carry or support (the body or a bodily part) in a certain position

Have you ever seen one of those people who think they are too cool to hold on? They completely ignore those oversized aluminum carabineers of the hand rail genus. Then, like it does at every station, the train abruptly stops and they crash into innocent bystanders over and over again. Knocking them all over like bowling pins in the alley of public transit. Strike.

I don’t have a large enough number or digits to count how many of these jerks I see on the average 2-way commute working day. Sure there are the accidental bulls of Pamplona who rush the closing doors and gouge into the helpless victims with their sharp-angled briefcases. Sure there are the doofus’ who think they can swing reading a magazine AND standing balanced in the middle of the train. (You must have seen this: their legs spread-eagle as if strapped to a snowboard and you can just see their abdominal muscles flexing as they try to find their centre of gravity).

But compared to their counterparts, these geniuses can be excused. While they lack brains and logic, at least they are being productive. The bull of Pamplona is trying to get to work on time and the snowboarder is reading a magazine to learn about important things.

Now how about the true cretins of the underground? The commuters who have skateboards tucked into the crevice between their backpacks and spines and scraggly facial hair. Sometimes they have pitbulls and sometimes they have squeegies. They almost always wear doc martens. Their backpacks are usually bursting at the seams with text books or flyers ready to be goobered onto a smooth surface. They are usually ragamuffins. I saw one such skinhead this morning with his “I'd rather bleed with cuts of love then live without any scars “ tattoo running horizontally along his forearm. For the record, the forearm that was not extended upward so as to aid holding on to a hand rail. The emo’s victims are usually feeble and elderly or holding a bubbling hot cup of coffee. The brown geyser almost always ruins a white button down or silk blouse and this person is almost always on their way to an important board meeting.

Her Colors Are Blush and Bashful

I thought I’d seen everything before this morning. Its not unusual to witness a woman (or a man for that matter) apply make-up on the subway ride to work. Killing two birds with one stone: travelling and beautifying. Makes perfect sense. But would you pick up your make-up sponge having dropped it on the train’s floor and dip it into your creamy square of warm honey foundation? I sure wouldn’t. Why? One word, two syllables: mi-crobes.

You see, there is no such thing as the 5-second rule on public transit vehicles. There have been tests of what substances lurk in miniscule form on TTC surfaces and they include: semen, urine, sputum, fecal matter, blood and hair from a variety of species. Would you want to spread any of these on your face? I didn’t think so. But Mimi from the Drew Carey show wanted to this morning. If that wasn’t enough to turn you right off of Sephora forever, she actually took out tweezers from her make up kit. Would you pluck your eyebrows on a train? How about a train packed with people? How about a train that was herking and jerking all over the tunnel. Tweezers are sharp! Why don’t you just nibble a block of cheese right off the end of a Ginsu while riding a rollercoaster? Do you want to stab yourself in the eyeball? Because its looks like you’re on the way to the emergency room with that behavior. Wait a second! What are you doing now? Is that a pre-waxed strip? Why are you undoing your jeans?!!!!

Mind The Gap

Have you ever stumbled or tripped in public? Its embarrassing. I did it at Le Select Bistro on my anniversary on my way to my table. My high heel got wedged between the hardwood floor planks and I did a face plant in front of the entire restaurant, thank fully my husband was there to help me up, but I could tell I had humiliated him too. This was mortifying, but I was able to quickly recover with the help of a double G&T.

Friday morning, with no bartender in sight to help her ease her pain, a well-dressed business woman tripped while exiting the southbound subway at Union station. She was wearing a lovely wool coat (likely a cashmere blend). Her hair was perfectly coiffed and Aquanetted in place. She wore sensible high heels for subway travel with a chunky squared heel. She was ready to do some wheeling and dealing that day, you could tell by the look in her eye. Holding on to her well-worn brief case and fluffing up her hair in the reflection of the subway door window as the train approached her stop, she was readying herself for what would be highly productive day in the fast paced setting of her Bay Street job, likely as a banker or lawyer or marketing exec. But for all her style and put-togetherness, she was unable, this Friday morning at 8:25 am, to put one foot successfully in front of the other.

You see the subway floor is usually level with the platform when the doors open at any given station, but at Union, going southbound, it is ever so slightly lower. There is a lip that is slightly elevated that is like a virtual landmine for those who are in a hurry (read: everyone). Ms. MBA's polished toe caught the edge of the yellow line and she did an aerial that was rivaled only by Shaun White. Her briefcase went flying as did her purse and she lay face down, sprawled in the middle of union station.

For the record she wore white lace panties and no one of the roughly 1000 fellow commuters rushing to their jobs stopped to help her.

al·ter·ca·tion n. a noisy heated angry dispute; also : noisy controversy

A tough young woman slouches in her seat with a sour expression on her face. She is listening to Ludacris rap profanity at a level not normally used for the inner-ear experience provided by earbuds, but rather more suited to stadium sound-systems. From the polar opposite side of the car one can quite clearly hear the following lyrics: Yeah I think you a superstar wit a ass like that. But this lyric has no real relevance to my story, I mention it purely for entertainment value.

A woman with big frizzy hair and a bitter expression that rivals sourpuss is staring at tough young woman with a look that mixes both disgust and pity with utter disbelief. I see Frizzy assess the situation and she looks to the commuters around her to see if anyone else is as annoyed as she is; to back her up for what she is planning. What I fear. An intervention.

I make the fatal mistake of noticing her notice Hearing Damage and so Frizzy sustains prolonged eye contact with me sending me waves of silent perturbation. I can't look away. I am frozen. I receive her message loud and clear: tough young woman is ruining my hearing AND MY MORNING! We have to do something! I smile a half smile at Frizzy and shrug. To each his own is my motto when it comes to anyone who appears to be of the "I will end you" variety. Best not to look at them the wrong way. Like street smarts, there are certain subway smarts that some people just don't have. Some people like Frizzy.

The car is packed and she is seated across from tough young woman. Every occupant of the subway car is now privy to the musical stylings of Lil' Wayne: now pop that pussy take her to my bedroom and pop that pussy. Well that's just lovely. Really gives Cole Porter a run for his money. Clearly at her breaking point, Frizzy moves stealthily towards TYW and delivers the following seething rebuke: Your headphones are broken and you're giving everyone...you're giving me a headache because of it! There is awkward silence and Frizzy is basically stamping her feet and sneering at TYW. Tough young woman looks as though she is ready to bust a cap and screams: Yeah? Well I'm sorry to hear that lady. Take an Advil and have a nice day BITCH!

Oh no you dit-int.

In railroad terminology, a stock car is a type of rolling stock used for carrying livestock (not carcasses) to market.

“S’cuse me!” a tubby man with halitosis is trying to civilly squeeze past me on the Long Branch rush hour sardine can, er, I mean streetcar. He is right behind me. I mean, I can feel him. Gross.

While his word-choice is polite and he is at least trying to use manners, there is a discernable edge to his request. Its more of a command, actually and he’s kind of shoving past me. He has one of those industrial looking messenger bags with reflective tape and punk band pins all over it that should have paid its own fare to ride quite honestly.

You’re kidding, right? I almost said this out loud, but am not confrontational. I looked behind me where there was nothing but about 10,000 people literally piled on top of each other and clearly losing oxygen. What do you want me to do, climb out the window and ride on top like Keanu Reeves in the last half of Speed when he’s wrestling Dennis Hopper on the subway?

Instead, I sucked in and created a smidgen of room between me and the commuter squashed behind me for Mr. Rude to at least see that I was attempting to accommodate him. He ends up body slamming me anyway. Where exactly he was trying to go is utterly beyond me. There was NO ROOM. Seriously, even a baby gnat’s penis would find it laborious to fit on this jammed streetcar.

We’re approaching Bay and there’s a line up of people outside jockeying to fit on to this impossibly jam-packed car. The driver comes on over the loudspeaker: okay folks, move to the back please.

Thought of the day:

Why is there a Cinnabun in every station, but no public washroom?

I have received some feedback that my blog has a big hate on for the TTC. My issues have little to do with the TTC – how its run and who runs it (re: the TTC union members – I have nothing but sympathy for the shit they put up with). My main grievance is the idea of public transit, and the people who take it who have no clue. I guess I should rename it: Socially Awkward Morons in Confined Spaces.

So Glad I Wasn't On This Train. The therapy bills would be endless.

The Vomit Tunnel

I don't want to be insensitive to people who suffer from bulimia. I understand that its a real disease. I get it. What I don't get is why there seems to be a Bulimia support group that meets in the underground passageway at Yonge and Eglinton station every morning.

Its cold outside. No one wants to wait for 2 sets of pedestrian crossing lights in the bitter cold at 8:00 am above ground, so they proceed underground to the tunnel under the intersection where they are shielded from the biting winds and slushy car-spray of the disgusting Toronto winter streets. I have noticed that for the past 2 weeks it has smelled like yak in said tunnel and I will not stand for it any longer.

Yesterday I approached the woman in the ticket booth and asked her if she knew why it smelled like upchuck. She looked at me like I was speaking Euskara. To aid her comprehension I proceed to act out a mime presentation of throwing up, holding my nose, waving my hand in front of my nose in a "pee-u" fashion and pointing toward the tunnel. Still nothing. She was totally unresponsive. Nearly comatose.

I have not moved above ground yet because of my investigative nature. While its nearly impossible not to myself throw up while making my way through the tunnel, I must admit I am kind of morbidly curious as to the source of the malodorous funk. Have you ever smelled over-ripe, squashed gingko berries? Pure hurl. Its like that only stronger. It literally assaults the nostrils to the point that your esophagus starts to expand and contract, gagging.

Tonight on my way to the subway, my co-worker and I were faced with the decision to use the tunnel. As we entered it I said (rather evilly), "Doesn't it smell like Pizza in here?" and she nodded. "....or barf" I added. I saw her nostrils expand and contract. "EW! IT DOES!" she agreed, clearly shocked and appalled. We covered our noses and sprinted to the turnstiles.

Eavesdropping v. the act of secretly listening to the private conversation of others without their consent

The day my helpfulness was stolen from me.

It started with a simple question - “Excuse me Love. Do you know if we’re headed towards the Eaton’s Centre?” The lost man was wearing a Crocodile Dundee hat and was sporting a very generous tuft of greybeard so his referring to me as “Love” was less offensive than the average person. I let the overly familiar endearment slide, processed the question, and decided that yes, we were going northbound from Union towards Finch, and that we would hit Dundas or Queen station in a stop or two. “Yup” I said. “What station should I get off at for the Eaton’s Centre then?” he wondered. “You can get off at either Queen or wait one more stop and get off at Dundas,” I said, obligingly. “What was that?!” he said, sounding puzzled, “I don’t want to have to walk that far to get there – so which station is closer?”

Then, Out of nowhere, my hero, let’s call him Yves Dropeur, piped in. And here is a word for word account of his actual interjected response: “Ac-tu-al-ly, the shopping centre spans an entire city block or two, Sir, so both stops are viable options for your destination”. Yves was a strange saggy gentleman and he seemed to have instantly appeared like a mirage, extending his long helpful neck over my shoulder and into my private conversation. Yves wore biker shorts* and smiled at me with a knowing “I’ll take it from here” smirk as he edged his body between the Australian tourist and myself, posturing for a more in-depth discussion about Toronto tourism destinations and best travel routes. He was relishing his new-found role as tourism ambassador to the city. Instantly I pictured him in an INFO kiosk happily flipping through pamphlets and pointing out all the best-kept secrets and must-see monuments Toronto has to offer.

*Let’s circle back to Yves actual attire for a moment. When I said biker shorts I want to be clear that I did not mean black Harley shorts with studs and skulls and crossbones but, rather a indigo blue, shiny Lycra, nut-hugging pair of short-shorts. This man also had tiny John Lennon glasses and extremely sculpted calf muscles. He was likely a bike messenger given the look, but I think he took his role as messenger a little too literally on this occasion. Quite clearly no longer needed for my in-born GPS abilities, I sat back down and turned on my iPod. First song: Waltzing Matilda.

More (or less) than meets the eye…

What forever perplexes me is the blatant disconnect between the outer and inner appearance of a TTC vehicle (specifically subway cars). Its like expecting a sweet piece of Lychee fruit and biting into a pickled cocktail onion (unless you like pickled pearl onions, and then it’s the reverse…)

It is basically a tin-box with rivets acting as a giant rat shield protecting riders from the casualties of tunnel travel, the severed, gut-spewing vermin flying this way and that.

Popular imagery of the subway shows it in motion, blurred, speeding through tunnels toward destinations near and far. This speeding subway car often brings to mind a plethora of engineering marvels, chiefly, a cutting-edge veneer or design to increase speed and velocity. Maybe I’m picturing the luge bobsleds of the Olympics which are much more impressive or maybe Disneyland's Monorail…but I digress.

I imagine the stainless steel Bombardier rail-runner gliding into position through a cloud of mist grandly announcing its arrival for a bevy of anxious bankers and lawyers… wearing top hats and checking their pocket watches…. No wait, that’s Shining Time Station. Okay, wait… daycare teachers and students (yes, that's it!) resting assured that they will arrive to school on time and glad to be actively reducing their carbon footprints as they queue up for entry.

But, on the Bloor-Danforth line, when the doors open to allow commuters in, its like stepping into another era. This futuristic bullet suddenly becomes the classroom of Welcome Back Kotter with its charming marigold seats and wood paneling accents.

Granted the red crushed-velvet-esque upholstery of more modern cars is a welcome update to the puke-yellow vinyl, but even the updated interior leaves a lot to be desired.

There are some pros to the old vinyl seats though. You are actually able to discern whether or not your seat is urine-soaked prior to sitting, unlike the is-it-or-isn’t it damp camouflage properties of red velour...

The Kinder Way

Now this would be a better way to get to work fo sho!
Video is property of Barclay Bank UK
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1WlRcXIO5ik

Shuddering With Disgust

No lie. I am riding the subway this morning, minding my own business, listening to a little Bloc Party to pump me up on a Monday morning, when I spot a rat under a seat. I quickly stand to evade the scurrier. When I move a few safe feet away I squint at it a little, it looks dead. Wait a sec... its not a rat at all. What relief! Hmmm... but what is it? I only wish that I had a camera phone for the mass of discarded hair I spotted below a subway seat was absolutely revolting. It was quite a large amount and it led me to wonder what on earth it could be from? I have attached an image above so that you can get some idea as to what I was privy to this morning. Filth. Pure Filth.

Is that a banana in your pants?

Thursday, 7:30 pm. Northbound between Eglinton and Lawrence. I have to say, my favourite thing by far is the flying hormones and pre-marital sex shows put on by the Canada Goose Parka-wearing youth of Toronto. I find this occurs most frequently on the Yonge Line between Eglinton and Lawrence and always among 15 year olds who travel in large groups. And always going North. I don’t know if there is something in the water up there in Hogg’s Hollow, but those folks are on the road to teen pregnancy. I’ll tell you, nothing clings to a virginal boner than a pair of Heather-gray Roots Sweatpants

Testing Testing 123

Monday, 5:35 pm. Stuck in the tunnel southbound between Rosedale and Bloor. #*FH # YVQNVF ewein vuiw nv. Delays VNSEIO aivoewfnbweobfn southbound rgherdsshhhh spofsempebpnneee….crackle crackle ping crackle crackle…. How about the BOSE surround sound, state of the art, high-definition announcements they’ve outfitted all TTC vehicles with? Every station, every car equipped with the static-free audio of Carnegie Hall. SJDfjfnwuev broveoruneirboneri eoiuvnoeri riruv owi neru. Oh, you don’t say? Thank you for that valuable information. Thank you for making me think I had to remove my ear buds and break the sound, safety bubble to learn the potentially life saving directions you were about to bestow. “They said there’s been a mechanical failure.” Says one aging Librarian. “No, no that’s not what they said, they said it was a suicide”. Declares the pimple faced 15 year old. “A suicide bomber?!!!” Frets Lady Birkin bag. No, you’re all wrong, its that family that’s apparently homeless and living inside the tunnel between Pape and Greenwood they’ve crawled all the way across to try to get to Honest Eds – there’s a sale on Maple Leaf cold cuts.

Helen of Troy

Today I saw a woman carrying a hamster on the subway. I should clarify that the rodent was caged and appeared to be relaxing on its wheel, however the smell of urine soaked wood shavings permeated the nostrils of the surrounding commuters. If it weren’t enough to bring your hamster along for the morning ride, this woman also wore a heavily decorated Jan Sport backpack. It was adorned with 60 to 70 beanie babies hanging off miniature multicoloured karabiners. Unable to remove the backpack while balancing the animal’s cage, she sat on the edge of her seat, for it was as comfortable as she could get given the children’s store fastened to her torso. I named this woman Frieda because she looked of German descent. She wore wraparound shades, not stylish ones, but ones prescribed by an optician to block out glaucoma-enraging sunlight. She had on a tie dye t-shirt and a long denim skirt. Her shoes were white Reeboks, well-worn, the once-white laces dingy grey and frayed at the ends. For the record, her legs (only the shins peeked out between the hem of the past-the-knee skirt and her sagging gym socks) were unshaven.

Horoscope Squatter

Tuesday, 2:00 pm, somewhere near Pape on the Bloor-Danforth line. Who is this douche clearly reading over your shoulder? I’m sorry, what’s your sign? No seriously, you can tell me and I’ll read your horoscope outloud for you, its no sweat, seriously. Okay, Mr. Sagittarius, do you happen to know the answer to eleven down? PERSONAL BOUNDARY, you say! Of course, how did I not get that? I swear, it was on the tip of my tongue. Say, you wanna meet up for lunch later? Hey, I know! Why don’t you come up to the cottage for the long weekend and meet my entire extended family? Now FUCK OFF AND GET YOUR OWN FREE NEWSPAPER! There’s only an entire pile of them under your seat there….

Superhero in the gray flannel suit

Friday, 5:01 pm, Arriving At Union Station. Just sitting here amazed and mind-fucked that I’ve witnessed another David Beckham business man leap from the final stair at St. Andrew station and hurl himself through 2 inches of slowly disappearing space between the ding- ding- ding closing subway doors so as not to be late for his Brazilian waxing appointment. These superhero wheeler and dealers are literally traversing the space-time continuum, the Bay-Street matrix – why they don’t just run along side the train and grab on to the caboose, is beyond me. They appear to be in that much of a hurry. Please do not rush the doors, the overhead announces, there is another train right behind us.

gen_try [jen-tree] n. 1. wellborn and well-bred people. 2. (in England) the class below the nobility. 3. an upper or ruling class; aristocracy

Tuesday afternoon, 4:45. infant sputum and uncontrollably horny pedophiles are bad, but these things are minor negatives compared to what I’ll call the “cream of the crop” commuters. These ones really curl my toenails. These are the gentry on their way to a matinee presenta-tion of Menopause Outloud, the ladies who lunch at Holt’s with the girls, or the Geritol gents on their way to pick up their caddies from the detailer. The Rosedale nobility who decide to live a little and deign to take the tube down to Summerhill for their latest “dermatology” consultation. God help them if they have to hold their Birkin bag on their lap. Pish! That’s what the empty seat beside them is for, silly! Its rush hour for goodness sake and I ask you: what does a one-legged veteran need to sit down for during a 5-minute ride when he’s only going to miss his stop trying to get back up and exit the car? Why should he rest his decaying stump when my Louis Vuitton is simply exhausted from looking fabulous on my arm all day? It’s the Cashmere Mafia. These are the same ladies who sit on the outside seats - you know the ones who leave the inner seat completely barricaded from use? When someone stands over them and makes eye contact; the silent “Hey there, sorry but can I get by you and sit there?” inquiry, these women slowly scoot to the side, roll their eyes and sigh like it’s a goddamn marathon to get out of the way. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you paid fare for your invisible friend to ride beside you. You inept piece of Yorkshire Terrier shit!!

mi_crobe [mahy-krohb] n. a microorganism, esp. a pathogenic bacterium.

Monday morning, Bright and Early, 6:55 am. That’s the extra annoying thing about early morning commutes. The seemingly essential need for breakfast on-the-go. God I hate people who eat on the subway. Have they no etiquette? No fear of minuscule bacterium? I’ve seen a woman’s water break, a baby barf, a dog shit and a homeless man piss whilst riding in a subway car and yet by Jove, that fat kid there just dropped his pizza pocket on a sticky, brown, floor stain and Mary, Mother of God, he’s picking it up and shoving it in his piehole like nobody’s business.

personal space n. the variable and subjective distance at which one person feels comfortable talking to another.

May 16th, 8:07 am. I’ll call him Lou, the obese, boner-wielding ex-camp counselor, current insurance salesman pervert standing directly in front of you and way too close to you in your no-longer-safe zone. His smelly sweatpants are baggy in the wrong places and did I mention they are stained? Obviously the inertia of the jerking subway car is too much for his load “down front” and he can’t help but gyrate and hump up against your makeshift newspaper shield. Thank god for the thick celebrity gossip section and Super Sudoku or you may have had more than foam on your latte.

Stale Chocolate on A Slow Train

February 14, St. Valentine’s Day, 2:35 pm. God I hate public transportation. The kinder way my ass. Train delays & mechanical failures referred to as “temporary inconveniences” – yeah right! Maybe to a glass-is half full, TTC union member they are temporary inconveniences, but to an imaginative commuter, these delays almost always have a sinister root. They are suicides, over-grown rat mutants, track-loving crack whores yelling in your face for change, for something to eat.

claus_tro_pho_bi_a n. An abnormal fear of being in narrow or enclosed spaces.

Last Wednesday, 5:17 pm.

Three seats across, its almost a mirage, rush hour and there are three vacant seats SIDE BY SIDE! You approach them slowly and take a big, suspicious whiff. Has someone peed here recently? Did someone yak? Is there gum/cum/spilled-smoothie on the red velour? Well I’ll be! Transferred Stain-free and relieved, you sit near the glass and lean, but not to rest your head, god no, not on that scalp-sebum smeared, extra large Petri dish, but rather to rest assured that you will only have to bear one smelly stranger squashed up against you (and not two had you chosen the middle seat). It’s all strategy during public transit commutes. Avoid the stranger sandwich at all costs, even if you have to bypass three or more trains to wait for an emptier one (its OK - you can watch Oprah later on time-shifting). So you sit in the not-so-bad, demi-violation seat, because undoubtedly the ultra safe-zone-single-seat beside the operator’s booth is occupied by a guy with dark wrap-around shades and his very cute, astute K9. But, hey, what the hell, at least you got a seat, unlike the other 173 or so folks who have to stand crammed like overgrown bull rushes, straight and spiky, swaying in the commuter swamp.