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.