A disgruntled twentysomething waxes poetic on her many travels aboard Tdot's very own public transportation system, the TTC.

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

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!"

Friday, March 19, 2010

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.

Thursday, March 18, 2010

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

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

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.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

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

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

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.

Monday, March 8, 2010

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!

Friday, March 5, 2010

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.

Thursday, March 4, 2010

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.

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

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.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

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.

Monday, March 1, 2010

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?!!!!