As a transit reader, I sit as far in the back as possible, where it’s possible to wedge into a side seat, face forward, and slouch properly into my book right under the brightest lights, right in a corner where no one can bump me. She, as a maybe slightly crazy person, got on a couple of stops after I did, and proceeded to begin a monologue of utter, utter bile. A narrative thread thick with fucking pigs, wops the fucking lot of them or spics fucking spics and if he hadn’t fucking said those fucking lies, shit, it serves them right, fucking niggers, fuckers, mother fucking shits.. It’s not like it was even directed outward, her obvious hatred at the entire planet and every multi-celled organism on it, no. Oh no. She stood there, leaning brutishly over her over stuffed back-pack like it was a rebellious child she wanted to smack, talking only to herself. Hissing, whispering, barely above a disturbing murmur.
I tried to tune her out, and mostly succeeded, though there were a few moments when her volume reached out and clobbered my reading, usually with derogatory terms I had to search my memory for. (Like, okay, when she uses the word chink, she is obviously not referring to a plaster crack in a wall, but what the heck is a chug? Answer: I have no idea.) Every time the bus paused at a stop, my spirits lifted with a wild hope that when the doors opened, she would leave, and I would never see her again. More the fool me. Oh hope. Oh fallacy. Instead, she grew more violent with herself, more spirited. As my stop approached, I decided that I would brush past her as quickly as possible because I knew, I just knew that if she said anything even remotely hateful to my face, I’d slug her. It’s not that I’m violent, but more that I wouldn’t be able to help myself. I’m Canadian. I don’t even like to witness littering.
The time came. I pulled the cord, the bell rang, the bus slowed. I stood, collecting myself as compactly as possible, and slid past her, touching her as little as possible. Unfortunately, given her disposition, she’d been crowding into my corner more and more, and by the time I got up, when I say I slid past her, it’s more I squished past her, trying to get by. She turned, “Hey!” and I braced myself, telling myself to be nice, to leave my pointy things in my pocket, to not bunch my fist full of keys. “Ma’am,” she said, (ma’am? really?), “I would appreciate if you would say excuse me in the future, as pushing past people is rude.” Stunned, I replied, “Er, sorry, I didn’t want to disturb you. Sorry.” and exited with as much confused dignity as I could.
“Way to make a stand.” I thought at the corner, watching the bus drive by, “Next time I should set myself on fire.”
Jeepers, I thought last night was unexpectedly exciting, what with successfully hooking Nicole up with Nick for the holidays, finally meeting Dominique‘s new little baby, SURVIVING NICK’S NEW VAN CATCHING FIRE, (no one was hurt. I pulled Nicole out and we put the fire out with snow), and admitting rather bashfully to someone that I wrote about our personal life on the interblags, but today’s news sort of trumps it, so I’ll just get it out of the way and talk about yesterday in the next post…
“Skate to Chanukah music or watch and nosh latkes and doughnuts.
Monday, December 22, 2008, 6:00-7:30 pm.
West End Ice Rink, 1750 Haro Street (Between Denman & Bidwell).
Admission: By donation. Skates are free.”
Which sounds, on the surface, like it’s going to be a Yiddish Icecapades, people dressed as sparkling, spinning dreidel, singing songs and throwing glitter under a rainbow of lights, but apparently it’s something a thousand times more hard-core bizarre. Something I would never have the wit or imagination to think up myself.
Did you get that? Shaped like hockey sticks.
This error just popped up when I tried to favourite a video on YouTube:
Shine On Me by Chris Dane Owens
My voting station was in the gymnasium of one of Vancouver’s oldest elementary schools, only a couple of blocks from my house. To get there, we had to walk through the thin strip of nameless industrial area that jackets the foot of Clark Drive, all auto-body shops and unidentifiable offices, where low rent prostitutes cluster on the corners at night. The way over was unremarkable, a short, pleasant walk of a couple of blocks, David and I discussing the Canadian women who fought for their right to vote back early in the 1900’s. The way back, however, is worth a story.
We’ve already crossed Clark, we’re not even a full block away from my house, when a speeding red “sportscar” hits the breaks next to us so hard the tires smoke, and the driver, a young, thin man of about twenty-eight yells intensely out the window at us, “GOTH IS GREAT! ROCK THE VAMPIRE REVOLUTION! I’M WITH YOU! FUCK EVERYTHING BUT BLACK! RAAAUUUGH!”.
Now, David and I, dressed as we are in perfectly ordinary clothing, are baffled. We stop, look at each other, decide simultaneously that he’s off his rocker, and look back at him.
“Excuse me,” I say as he stopped shouting to take a breath, “but we’re not even dressed a little like goths.” Disgusted that I managed to get a word in edgewise, he replies, just as loudly, practically frothing, “FINE, FAGGOTS, WHATEVER.” “Anyway,” I say, “their band practice is a block up. You’ve got the wrong street.”
He then growled at us, spat out the window, then drove off as fast as his car could actually go.
A few moments later, I turned to David, “Were we just goth-bashed?”
“I think so.”
“Wow. What a freak.”
this highly entertaining pack of lies via Dragos, the mad.