“You’re Beautiful. I Want To Know Everything About You.”

Fluorescent Adolescent – Arctic Monkeys

Were I the type to traverse the “blogosphere” (or whatever hip term is being used today to describe the collective consciousness of today’s brave, new internet authors) or even just read today’s paper, I’m sure I could find a lot of opinions and perspectives concerning yesterday’s “signal cable problem” between Lawrence and Bloor station that crippled the Yonge line for several hours. I offer my unique point of view for your review.

(Let me say that I put “signal cable problem” in quotations because I don’t believe that was the actual case. As I later discussed with William, the delay was undoubtedly a case of the original subway engineers having delved too greedily and too deep and unearthing some ancient, supernatural evil. For years, I have speculated that these forces are the cause of all subway delays. William refused to acknowledge this theory, preferring to wallow in blissful ignorance. I, on the other hand, eagerly await my first inevitable contact with a Balrog or some lesser fell creature.)

Last week, I was late getting to the Rogers Centre for a Blue Jays game. I’m not the most punctual person in the world, but I pride myself on being fairly reliable when it comes to being on time for things. Considering that I don’t have any outstanding daily obligations, there was really no good reason for me to be late either. I had just lost track of time.

Yesterday, we were supposed to meet around 6:00 at Union so I left my house around 4:30 to make sure that I would make it with plenty of time to spare. Unfortunately, the TTC system was experiencing some kind of malfunction and I, along with thousands of other commuters that day, found myself in subterranean limbo. The atmosphere was not unlike that at a rock concert without the blaring intermission music and second hand weed smoke. Also, if the opening act took over two hours to arrive (and then proceeded to suck).

It wasn’t too bad once you actually made it up to the street, which I managed to do relatively quickly by picking the correct line of traffic to follow. All in all, the proceedings weren’t moving that slow at first, but after the initial launch of shuttles passed by it was a long wait for the rest of us. In typical herd fashion, people began to pour onto the street completely blocking the right hand lane. On the one hand, I don’t blame them because it meant that more people could get out of the station, which I imagine only became more cluttered and hot as time went on. On the other hand, it did become inconvenient for any drivers and probably slowed things down considerably.

One unfortunate looking guy tried to be a leader by yelling at everyone to back away from the street to speed things up. He must have been standing and hollering for a good ten minutes before he finally gave up. I could barely hear him as my ears were plugged with music for almost the entire two hours. It was a relaxing time for me.

Other than that one dude, I have to say that the commuters of Toronto are generally a well-behaved, cooperative bunch. People were communicating with each other, exchanging information, helping to identify incoming shuttles…I chose to listen to music, but that’s just me. At one point, one guy even stopped his car and let four commuters hop in since he was heading south anyway. It was a random, wonderful act of kindness and while only a couple of people were brave enough to clap, I like to think everybody recognized it.

With my ears occupied, my eyes were free to scan the crowd for attractive women and there were a good amount. One sticks out particularly in my mind. She was a redhead with incredible eyes. She wore a long, dark coat and had very short, yet still distinctly feminine hair. Her bone structure was absolutely immaculate and I have no doubts that she could be a part-time model. She’d probably still have to keep her normal job. In her hands looked to be some kind of binder, which for one reason or another I perceived to be related to a quality profession suggesting that she was an independent woman. The most endearing thing for me was the subtle expressions on her face, occasional looks of concern mixed with resigned amusement over the whole situation. You’re beautiful, I wanted to say to her. I want to know everything about you.

In a silly and selfish way, I thoroughly enjoyed the whole experience even though I hated being so late. As I looked around at everyone else, I couldn’t help but think about my current situation. I feel stuck. Everyone there with me, for at least a few hours, knew exactly what I was going through. It’s not an entirely unpleasant place to be, “nowhere”. Everyone reacts in a different way. Some people, a lot of people, were pissed off. Some cracked jokes. Some looked for another way, any other way out of this situation. I listened to my music. Like I said, silly and selfish.

After the game, I was craving a Baconator. William noted that it could be sometime before we got back uptown, so we stopped at College station to get a late dinner. While we were there, this hot girl was sitting some distance away and I noticed that she wasn’t wearing underwear. How could I tell? A pinch of ass crack, that’s how. I find that sort of thing completely unattractive. Don’t get me wrong, I like a hint of thong. I like a woman’s bare ass. But that weird in-between zone of straight-up ass crack…what is that? I informed William that this image would be useless when attempting to pleasure myself later that evening. Oddly, he offered no response.

William did offer an opinion on death near the end of the night. As our bus approached Davisville station, there was a brief stop in a tunnel as we waited for the bus in front to move on. Wouldn’t this be a horrible place to die? he asked. He then explained that having your existence snuffed out in transit would be a grim and meaningless way to go. I agreed that death in transit would all but guarantee one’s place in purgatory. As we continued to spout our spiritual bullshit, a man behind William reached over to tap me on the shoulder. When I looked to him, he was holding out a pamphlet that read, Do You Want To Have A Relationship With God? I politely declined, as casually as one would decline a cigarette or pepper on their steak, and business carried on as usual.

I’m so tired of spending evenings making fake insights with people who work for Dysentery.
Commentary.
Really? I heard Commentary and Dissent had merged and formed Dysentery.