Notes from the Subway - a rant in three parts by Jon

Three big thoughts on my mind today:

(1)

Redacted. For real.

(2)

The most terrifying sound you encounter on a Toronto subway are the words, “Attention, passengers on the Bloor-Danforth Line….,” because it’s never suffixed with anything good. It will be rush hour, and you’ll hear something like “Attention all passengers on the Bloor-Danforth Line, due to a power outage at the ______ Station, trains are now turning back from ______ station. Surface routes have been arranged connecting ________ and ________ stations. We apologize for any inconvenience.” The end result is, by the time you get home, it’s time to brush your teeth and go to work again.

Just once, I want to hear them say, “Attention, passengers on the Bloor-Danforth Line: Each of you will be orally pleasured by a supermodel before leaving the train today. We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause.”

(3)

The best part about living on Toronto, by far, is taking the Yonge Line during rush hour. It’s something of a cattle car – people are packed shoulder-to-shoulder, and one is constantly reminded of the full gamut of smells that a human body can produce. I spent 6 agonizing minutes next to two girls whom I would place in Grade 9 or 10, and I learned the following:

1. The word “awkward” can now be truncated to “awk”, as in “this is so awk!”
2. Nobody is going to Janice’s party on Thursday night, because she’s, like, so not cool.
3. When a teenage girl exclaims, “why else would I be in Catholic school?” it’s almost impossible to not shout a response that involves words that would simultaneously make my mother very, very disappointed in me and impress the hell out of my new Navy shipmates.
4. A cell phone conversation (one-sided demand, really) seemed to indicate that the Alpha female’s father was willing to pick her up from York Mills Station in the middle of rush hour, despite the fact that she was already riding public transit. My first suspicion was that this man had the patience of Job, but genetics would usually dictate that this trait would be passed to the daughter, which was clearly not the case. I certainly hope that there was some special reason for the pickup, otherwise I think this might be overindulgent parenting. By stark contrast, I present the same conversation I intend to have with my future children:
   
   Jon Jr.: Hi, Dad? Can I get a ride home from York Mills Station?
   Me: They still have buses that do that, right?
   Jon Jr.: Well, yeah… but it’s raining, and I have a broken leg.
   Me: Which leg?
   Jon Jr.: My right leg.
   Me: How’s the left one?
   Jon Jr.: Still good.
   Me: Remember to lean on the crutches equally, or else you’ll walk home in circles.
   Jon Jr.: But, I don’t have cru—
   *click*

He’ll be tough, that son of mine. Tough as nails.

Back to the girls on the train, I suppose that if one of them grows up to cure cancer, I will look silly for my prickly insistence on public decorum. Only time will tell.

This is Zero-Echo-Niner, over and out.