Interested in viewing photos from the recent ATypI conference in Vancouver? Go here for an updated list of various pages that have been posted by typophiles.
Public transit, though occassionally convenient (especially during heavy rainfall when riding the ole bicycle doesn't seem appealing), sucks ass! The so-called convenience of the buses and the skytrain especially, caused me to be much later than I had originally intended. The bus wasn't so bad, or should I say the two seperate buses I had to transfer between. The train, on the other hand, this [not so] high-speed, monorail-esque, slightly tub-ish beast that arrives every 2 to 3 minutes, is highly INconvenient, especially during the early morning and afternoon rush. It was war between myself and the hundreds of others standing on the platform, hording around the entrances to the train like the media trying to get access to Kobe Bryant. With every opening of the automatic doors, I was pushed away in an instant, business women inconspicuously hitting the knees of others with their briefcases and purses that weigh 30 pounds. I stood there through 4 trains, each time hoping I would get a spot, then being crushed by the weight of the stronger, more aggressive commuters. When I had secured a place on the fourth train, breathing became the problem; forget about my arm that was twisted backwards to get a grip on something that would keep me from falling on the jolting ride through the city; forget about the dozens of anonymous hands, armpits, hips and asses touching me; breathing, that was rough. No one would open a window, "it might rain on my hair which I spent hours molding into the right place," the countless crack-heads and junkies who commute from the Drive and Chinatown to the downtown core for a days worth of panhandling and dumpster-diving whose stench you can detect from a block away, and you cannot forget the business women and their bags whose taste in perfume is similar to that of Liz Taylor's. Breathing is impossible in that kind of space, at least breathing without the risk of death or infection. Through it all, I still arrived at school soaked to the bone with rain, miserable and cranky. This is what I have to look forward to in the afternoon as well. When rush hour hits , think of me, I will be uncomfortably situated under some man's armpit on the train, who just finished weeding through the garbage of a woman who wears too much perfume.
Public transit, though occassionally convenient (especially during heavy rainfall when riding the ole bicycle doesn't seem appealing), sucks ass! The so-called convenience of the buses and the skytrain especially, caused me to be much later than I had originally intended. The bus wasn't so bad, or should I say the two seperate buses I had to transfer between. The train, on the other hand, this [not so] high-speed, monorail-esque, slightly tub-ish beast that arrives every 2 to 3 minutes, is highly INconvenient, especially during the early morning and afternoon rush. It was war between myself and the hundreds of others standing on the platform, hording around the entrances to the train like the media trying to get access to Kobe Bryant. With every opening of the automatic doors, I was pushed away in an instant, business women inconspicuously hitting the knees of others with their briefcases and purses that weigh 30 pounds. I stood there through 4 trains, each time hoping I would get a spot, then being crushed by the weight of the stronger, more aggressive commuters. When I had secured a place on the fourth train, breathing became the problem; forget about my arm that was twisted backwards to get a grip on something that would keep me from falling on the jolting ride through the city; forget about the dozens of anonymous hands, armpits, hips and asses touching me; breathing, that was rough. No one would open a window, "it might rain on my hair which I spent hours molding into the right place," the countless crack-heads and junkies who commute from the Drive and Chinatown to the downtown core for a days worth of panhandling and dumpster-diving whose stench you can detect from a block away, and you cannot forget the business women and their bags whose taste in perfume is similar to that of Liz Taylor's. Breathing is impossible in that kind of space, at least breathing without the risk of death or infection. Through it all, I still arrived at school soaked to the bone with rain, miserable and cranky. This is what I have to look forward to in the afternoon as well. When rush hour hits , think of me, I will be uncomfortably situated under some man's armpit on the train, who just finished weeding through the garbage of a woman who wears too much perfume.
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