Fordo does it again!

It’s bad enough to set the example that it’s okay to flagrantly break driving laws and talk on a cell phone while behind the wheel, but now His Ascended Fattiness has been caught driving past open streetcar doors on Toronto streets while passengers were boarding. Anyone who lives in the city knows that streetcars can’t come to the curb so drivers must stop to let passengers on.

Of course, this law doesn’t apply to the mayor who apparently gets to plow through anyone he chooses because he’s Rob Fucking Ford! How do I know it doesn’t apply? Simply because, despite having words with the streetcar operator, Ford once again got away without so much as the measly $109 fine. There was a streetcar full of witnesses, and it’s unlikely that most of them wouldn’t recognize our Illustrious Thickness at this point, so why the fuck aren’t the police charging him with breaking the law?

And what was Fucking Ford’s response? He’s apparently the one that “had comments” for the TTC operator and then lodged a goddamn complaint against him for having the gall to confront him! And Ford’s lapdog, Andy Byford, has said that he can’t comment on the complaint because,  “In the same way as normally we wouldn’t comment on specifics around a customer complaint, I’m not going to on this occasion.” Really, Andy? Last time I checked, Rob Ford was in his van or whatever the hell he drives, and not on the TTC, and hence not a customer. In fact, when was the last time Ford squeezed his fat ass onto public transit?

So in the long run, does it matter at all that the mayor once again brazenly broke the law, chided the operator for calling him on it, and then instead of trying to do the right thing tried to get the operator fired?

“As far as we’re concerned the matter is closed,” TTC spokesman Brad Ross said. “We’re not going to comment on the incident.”

Hooray! Another day of justice for Toronto.

… Continue Reading

Generally speaking, that’s a good rule. I usually just smile and ignore, but I was sucked into this one. Why? I offered my seat to a kid. Oi.

Two brothers, I dunno, ten and and eleven, were escorted to the back of the streetcar where I was sitting, by their dad. He sat them down and suddenly realized he’d forgotten to get transfers. The one kid was buzzing to look out the back of the car and he kneeled on the empty seat between me and the matronly, scraggly-haired woman on the other end. His dad sat him back down. Guess he thought the kid would be pestering us.

There were two empty seats across from me – the back  is a half-circle facing each other – so I offered to give the kid my seat. I knew the dad would want to sit with the kids anyways (correctomundo, btw), so I thought the kid might as well have a few seconds of fun gazing out the back of the streetcar. I loved looking out through the front of subway cars when I was young, so I get it. And I honestly didn’t see the harm. The boy was polite, he was obeying his dad, he was keeping his feet off the seats, backpack neatly to the side – damn if that kid didn’t deserve an ice cream sundae!

So shit, peeking through a greasy, filth-covered window for ten seconds seemed appropriate for a young man of that calibre.

Offered it to him twice. Twice he refused.

Scraggly-hair to my left says, “good for you!”, to him. “You listen to your dad!”

Okay, guess she had a point. But you know, not like he’s gonna roll up his sleeve, tie off a vein, and start hitting the dragon back there. Plus, potential weirdo ends up in a seat farther away from the kids. Where would be the downside?

Dad came back, seat gladly accepted. The opportunity was gone.

Oh well, the kid did refuse. And that should’ve been the end of it.

Scraggly-hair pointed at the kids and said to the dad, “You shouldn’t leave them alone like that here. This isn’t a safe neighbourhood.”

Internally, I begged to differ. Oddballs? Painful piercings? Imaginative body modifications? Yes, yes, and yes. Dangerous? No. But, this was still just between her and the three of them. :)

The dad replied, “I teach my sons well and they know how to handle themselves.”

The buzzing kid popped erect, beaming a smile, and immediately added, “We take the streetcar by ourselves all the time. We walk home, we take the subways, we take the buses. I know what to do if I get lost. On this streetcar, if I got lost, I would get off at St. Andrew Station and …”

It went on for another five minutes with the other boy interjecting excitedly in sporadic bursts to further heighten the tales of their prowess. The dad finally stopped them when they got on the subject of late-night taxi rides (if only he’d let them look out the window).

“You never know who’s around them down here. All sorts of people”, responded scraggly-hair after a short pause. “It’s just not safe.”

Then she looked over at me. For fucks’ sake!!

“I didn’t mean to imply that you’re a criminal”, she explained sheepishly.

Steady, old boy, I thought to myself. Not a problem, a broad smile and that’ll be my reply. No problem. I never felt myself to be a criminal, so ho harm no foul. And no statement. :)

“But don’t you think it’s dangerous?”, still looking at me. :(

… Continue Reading

Dear reader, it’s so good to see you again! It’s been months, hasn’t it? How’s the significant other? And the things you look after, they’re doing okay? Boss being good to you?

Wonderful! :D

Well, let me not waste any more of your time with idle small talk. After all, we’re both here to discuss matters of the practically passive-aggressive gentleman as regards the urban sphere. And the rudeness therein. Right?

For this instalment, I’ve been blessed with the endorsement of the Toronto Transit Commission. Sort of. Lets not belabour that point because what’s important is the general agreement that as temperatures drop, people will be required to be in close quarters with one another as public transit passengers. Notwithstanding the challenges of H1N1, an even larger threat looms on the horizon. It wears the face of the young buck who decides to use the seat in front of him as a footrest, or the young buckette who insists that everyone should hear her mobile conversation, or sometimes that young crowd over there who believe that no one should disembark the train before they first board.

Such behaviour is crass, uncouth, and frankly, insolent. So what’s the practical gentleman to do?

A great deal has been scribed on the walls of public washrooms as regards these matters, but please allow me to at least get the ball rolling:

Flatulence for Feet

A variation of this technique was featured in a previous guide. However, on closer inspection, the advice within that guide proved most unpractical. Gathering large numbers of people together is difficult enough. Doing so for group farts, even more so.

However, working individually, I believe it could be accomplished. The premise is the same as in the previous guide; load up on legumes, Brussels sprouts, and anything that will arm your gut with something genuinely unpleasant. Improvise: eggs, onions (good on both ends), fried garlic (ditto! plus delicious!), pickled cabbages, and so on. Make a meal of it. :D

Then, when you spot yonder young man with legs outstretched o’er the spot in front of him, shoes dripping wet muck directly into the middle of the seat, you must smite him directly! And of course, by that I mean that you simply sit beside him, saddle up good and close, and start tearing off some justice. Be all cool and relaxed about it, like you’ve just come home, sat on the couch, and just let it all hang out. “Ahhh. Comfy.” The odour should infect the cabin forthwith.

If the offending party protests, simply smile and inquire why he should get to make himself at home and you can’t. You paid your ticket like everyone else, didn’t you? Feet on the seat? Okay. But I get to fart. It’s how I get comfortable.

Hopefully the point will be driven straight up the nose and off the seat.

Of course, you could also simply try asking him to take his  feet off the seat first, but that would defeat the purpose of the ghastly meal you’d ingested the night before, wouldn’t it?

Music for Mouths

Is it safe to assume that most of us have cell phones today? Why not use them to battle those who abuse their own mobiles by TALKING TOO LOUD. For this, you need to read a section of your owner’s manual for the device to figure out how to preview ringtone sounds and set the speaker volume to maximum. You probably already know how – I trust that all TCL readers are exceptionally clever.

In this exercise the offending party, who is making a racket into her mobile, is simply approached. No interaction required; in fact, a nonchalant looking the other way is more effective. Then, our mobile phone is extracted from its hiding place, and the previewing of the ringtones commences. At top volume. Start bobbing your head. Damn, all so good – can’t decide. “Hello, Moto” – funky fresh!

“Excuse me sir, could you please stop doing that?!” (over the din *giggle*)

“Huh?!” *looking genuinely puzzled, but not enough to stop playback*

“Could you please stop doing that?!”

“Oh!! Oh!!” *sudden stop*

“Sorry, I couldn’t hear my phone over the din of your voice. And din (*wearing a look that says “smarten up!”*) means loud noise.”

You can leave that last bit off; it’s there just for extra bite. :D

To be even less conspicuous you could use the music playback capabilities of your phone to loop a frenetic sounding ringtone. Many phones may have a record option, in which case you can simply scream into the phone to record your message. Plug your headphones into your MP3 player, turn that bad boy up, and do the same with your phone. Use your back pocket to host the merry noisemaker – good if you’re standing and the offending party’s sitting. You get the added benefit of having the racket coming directly from your ass. Terrific!

Again, there is the option of approaching the offending party and simply asking them to tone it down if possible, but what waste of much research and masterful skill, don’t you think?

Pricks for Pushers

This particular example of insolence may do more than simply annoy you, it may cause you to miss your stop entirely. In this scenario, the offending parties are multiple, seemingly aligned against you and closing in as a unit (this actually happens regularly!). You just need for one person to step aside and let you through because you’ve got nowhere else to go but back onto the train. Alas, no one does you the courtesy.

In this case, I feel it’s fair to single out one person who seems to be particularly obstinate, and simply approach him, stare at his crotchal area for a bit, point firmly to it, and returning to look him in the eye say, “Your penis is showing.” Fully serious face.

If it happens to be a woman who is hell-bent on pushing you back on the train, the same words may work just as well if delivered with conviction. I find that a single nod while speaking to drive home the point is the gesture that makes it a serious matter.

The point here isn’t to deliver a crushing insult or even a glancing blow, it’s simply to stun the opponent momentarily while you brush by them with an “excuse me”. Classy.

This example is one of those rare cases where I believe there is no alternative approach. There simply isn’t time to reason in that situation, and the offending party’s ego shouldn’t be sufficiently bruised to make him want to miss his train. Or her train. Though in all honesty,  a delivery by a lady to a gentleman is probably the most powerful version of this technique. Ladies will have an advantage over the gentlemen here, I’m afraid. Sorry fellas, we can’t win ‘em all.

—

Well, wasn’t that a rousing collection of techniques? I certainly do hope you get some practical use out of them. Apply liberally, for insolence does not sleep when we are tired. We should seek to banish it from within our midst at every opportunity. Because, and I don’t know about you, but I must admit to an innate dislike of the wet seat, the unnecessary noise, and the strange unwillingness to hold back just one second so that I can leave the train.

However, I firmly believe that together, we can lick this problem, one offending party at a time. As long as we hold to the ideals of justice, truth, an eye for an eye, and two men enter — one man leaves, then we can be sure we’re doing it for the right reasons.

Till next time!

I found myself out west today. I don’t want to be too obvious about it … just in case a certain someone reads this blog … so maybe I should just say I was reviewing my qualifications with two gentlemen for the purposes of negotiating a regular exchange of services for money. AND IT’S NOT SEXUAL!!

I had to travel to the outskirts of Toronto and just a little bit beyond. International airliners were landing next door.

The trip was a bit too long for my liking but at least it gave me the opportunity to loiter in some of the subway stations on the west Bloor-Danforth line. Most of them are the same drab tile tinted a few mild shades … don’t wanna excite the passengers! Not all stations are like that, mind you. Old Mill is a bit more interesting (big!):

The problem with these open platforms is the winter. When it’s cold, it’s cold. Sometimes the tracks freeze, during storms the snow piles up on the edges and the platform ices up, and the shape of the structure seems to actually accelerate the wind as it passes through. And the ticket collector smiling all smug and warm from inside his little booth with his electric heater doesn’t help matters. Then the storm takes the power out. HA HA. Oh. Except now the trains aren’t running.

But at least the view’s nice. Some stations, like Spadina, are entirely enclosed but still connected to the outside; in this case, it’s because it’s a  loop for streetcars:

I imagine that at one time it was probably a pretty grand station. I remember it having two long motorized walkways that connected the north-south and east-west lines. It was so worth it to go one more station past St. George to Spadina to switch lines, even if at St. George the subways are just a flight of stairs away. Unfortunately, the Spadina people-movers are gone and the station’s in pretty rough shape besides. Why would I visit now? To walk down that big hallway? At least have a courtesy vehicle of some sort. Serving mildly alcoholic beverages and perhaps pretzels.

What makes Spadina especially bad is the fact that just a couple of stops down, the Museum stop is decked out to the nines:

They have nubile young women here that bathe and anoint your weary feet as you sit in wait for the next train. Libations flow from faucets in the columns. And if a train doesn’t come regularly every two minutes, they publicly execute the conductor responsible.

It’s a shame they couldn’t use some of that slave labour to fix up Spadina. I mean, if they want to try a passenger carrying service for that hallway, I’d be willing to hop on someone’s back, but I’d rather have the motorized walkway. It was always so much fun to stand there and watch people walking beside the walkway like suckers. You knew you were special then. Now, you’re lucky if they spit on you before they drive that screwdriver into your eyeball. I just wanted a transfer!

The subway could use a whole lotta facelift, is all I’m saying. I know I’ve said it before, but now I have to try to imagine spending three hours out of every day in there, and it’s not terribly appealing. So if there’s no alternative, the two gentlemen may have to discuss someone else’s qualifications.

Wednesday.

It started with screaming. Not the usual neighbourhood screaming for the hallucinatory demon to get off the street (he could get hit by a car!). That guy was by at 2 A.M. and he was surely all tuckered out by sunrise. And not the Chinese guy walking by my window now with outbursts of Mandarin-sounding … something.

No, this screamer was a bit more risqué. He was yelling at the sky for them to come and kill him already. He exclaimed he wasn’t afraid to die and tore at his clothes. Picking up a rock, he demonstrated how easily he could dash his own brains out, and then threw it at the cement so forcefully that it shattered. He implored for them to “beam” him out of this “cube” already. I think I detected some tears mixed in with all that rage.

Two cops were already en route from the bottom of the street by the time I passed him.

Wednesday.

Hump day. It always seems a little skewed but today it was quite oblique.

I like to sit at the back of the streetcar in the little semi-circular huddle space. When I sat down this morning, it was empty and relaxed. Five minutes into the ride, every seat was taken. The elderly gentleman with wispy white hair who sat to my immediate left opened up his newspaper, and mumbled something gleefully as he pointed to a headline. I didn’t think much of it until he did it again, but this time without the pointing or the happiness. Then he did it again. And again. Then a whole-body tremor. Then more mormmblingg. And so on for the next six stops.

The man who sat to his left had his eyes open uncomfortably wide, not unlike the fellow at our left. With a winter parka over one knee and an occasional spastic jerk, he smacked his lips noisily at the passing scenery. And you know what? Not a single cake or ice cream shop in sight!

I don’t remember the Weather Channel calling for crazy today. Even the schizophrenic atmosphere caught quite a few people off guard. The morning was a stark, sunny deluge of insanity and the afternoon a sleepy, sedated pillow of rain. *yawn* Even the Chinese guy sounds tired.

I hope everyone gets a good night’s sleep and we can all try again tomorrow. And no skipping the meds this time!

I’m on the Friday night’s third pint so please to apologize for any brevity or witlessness.

Imagine my surprise when I stumble outdoors into the still-full sunlight of seven o’clock and — there’s the streetcar. This would never have happened when I was all hypothermic in the middle of deepest darkest winter.

Me and the guys from work jump on and continue our discussion of chicks we’d do. Yes, ladies, we are admiring you from afar.

While I remark how short our wait at the TTC stop was, the conversation naturally meanders over to public transit (anything’s interesting inebriated, no?), and we get to talking about the purpose of streetcars. Or maybe that was in the bar.

Anyway, I make a sparkling remark about rails being in the earth since Toronto was a wee’un. We got ‘em, makes sense to keep using ‘em. That must have been the deciding opinion in the discussion because everyone suddenly looses interest in the topic.

As my colleagues alight at University, I settle back to dream about the future of transit in Toronto:

Neat.

I hop off the streetcar at Yonge and head straight for the subway where, much to my surprise, the same chums I left earlier are now chatting up some girls heading north on the same line. In the time it took me to make it two blocks on the streetcar, they were able to go south three, do a u-turn back north a further three, all the time making relaxed stops at stations in between while psychically enticing me to hop on the same train.

That pretty much settles the argument of streetcar efficiency in my mind.

As my buzz starts to wear off I start to wonder how a longer streetcar (that’s basically what the new vehicles will be), would have made this trip any shorter. As much as I like the idea and even the look of the new trains, I suspect that until the city either widens the street or starts randomly detonating taxis, they won’t do much to make transit faster.

But I’d still do ‘em.

If they have a toilet, cuz I really have to wee.

I’m sure you’ve experienced this too; walking down the street just thinking your own devious thoughts when, all of a sudden, synchronicity jumps out from around the corner, grabbing your wallet and sprinting into a nearby entrance in one clean, continuous, and startling motion.

That was my morning commute;  a drab, water-logged grey smear with occasional pelts of icy snow.

I thought a little old-school tunage would be appropriate, so I plugged in my Zune and managed to run through about three songs in the Trip-Hop list before rounding the building to the 540 King streetcar stop. There, Tricky’s croaking “hell is around the corner” cut into a chill Massive Attack groove, the words foreshadowing the presence of something dark and evil just a few feet away.

Let’s call her L.

I’ve known her professionally for a number of years. Our paths have managed to cross on more than one occasion, and each of those times I was reminded of why I wasn’t keen on seeing her again. To sum it up succinctly, she doesn’t get fired well.

It’s not the kind of not getting fired well you’re probably thinking of. There are no angry expressions, violence, or bridge-burning words; just a psychotic grin accompanied by a wholly unsettling and removed calmness.

Allow me to paint the picture for you. On each occasion, settings aside, the situation is the same: At the time of the incident, she has either spent the previous six months or so producing something she was never asked to produce or, sometimes, nothing at all. There’s usually not great shock when the head of HR approaches her to “have a chat.” After this she returns to work at her desk, broad grin adorning her wide face, giving everyone the impression that she’d just received a raise.

On the contrary, she’d just been let go. Only she’s not letting go.

Management circles her desk and and explains slowly that she’s no longer an employee. She nods, eyes focused, clear, and clearly failing to take in reality, kind of like a serial murderer trying to figure out why the skin suit she fashioned isn’t giving her the power of its’ victims. Then she turns her head back to the monitor and resumes working.

At this point security usually intervene, physically escorting her from the premises. She flashes that magic smile at everyone as she leaves, perhaps still unaware of her situation, or perhaps deciding how best to decapitate all of her favourite ex-colleagues. That, in a scary nutshell, is L and her unceasing smile (trust me, it’s not incredible positivity).

As I swung around the corner this morning, that smile cut through the crowd like a bloodied knife. She looked straight at me with a horrible focus and a curt little Asian head-nod that indicated I was now very possibly the next unsolved murder of the year. Evading conversation seemed like a quick way to a sliced carotid, so I waved and said hello.

Despite my lack of interaction with her in the past, she knew my name, my age, where I’d lived and worked over the past few years, the name of my cat, and other creepy factoids meticulously gathered from the few sentences I spoke in front of her (not to her, as she explained).

My own memories  stopped at the companies where she claimed we had worked together (until they came flooding back later in a long-repressed deluge).

“What’s your name again?” I asked.

“Oh, you don’t remember?” she replied with an even deeper and more unsettling grin.

I glanced nervously at my watch while shaking my head no. Twenty minutes to my destination; God, please let me live through this!