Somewhere There is a Subway Bench With...
You know how you sometimes sit on a bench in a subway funny? You know, there is something about the way your ass sticks to the bench a little instead of sliding easily when you move? And, when you put your hand down to steady yourself as you sit, it encounters an unexpectedly viscous surface? Have you ever had the feeling of suddenly knowing you have just lived the goofiest of physical comedy tropes even before you look up and see the writing on the wall?
I didn't know what that experience was like either...until last night.
That's right: somewhere on a bench in a subway station in Toronto is the imprint of my ass.
Now, you might wonder why subway benches are painted while the subway was still running; I know I did. But, this is uncharitable. If subway benches were painted after people were no longer allowed on the platform, where would the potential for bad physical comedy be?
Granted, nobody ever looks at my butt, so my impression of a red assed baboon would likely go unnoticed for months, if not years. Still, I can only send the comedy out in the world; how people perceive it is their business!
If I Was Any More Awkward, I Would be an Olympic Gold Medalist!
I've started attending Nerd Mafia meetings in Toronto because everybody deserves to be with like-minded people, so why not have some fun? Early in a recent meet-up, one of the original organizers of the group mentioned that his wife would be coming to celebrate her 30th birthday. Cool - the more, the merrier. When she arrived, I thought that she looked familiar, but, my memory being what it is these days, I couldn't place where.
The evening progressed. A woman I wanted to talk to was listening to a story the organizer's wife was telling about having sex at an orgy. Okay. Wasn't expecting that. But, I listened politely while waiting for a moment to pull the woman I wanted to talk to away. In the course of the story, I learned two things: the woman telling it was interested in stand-up comedy and had been involved with The Naked News. That last one should have sparked my memory (not for the reason you're thinking!), but I still had nothing.
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I was in the subway station where the whole wet paint thing occurred a few days later and, sure enough, my assprint was still on the bench! Oh, yeah! My ass has staying power, baby!
We now return you to your regularly scheduled column.
A few minutes later, her story over, the organizer's wife was standing on her own, so I thought I would go over and talk to her about stand-up comedy. I had spent some time in a club when I was younger and found it to be a brutal way to enter the comedy world. When she told me that she had already started doing stand-up, I froze. Would it really be a good idea to talk about how horrible stand-up comedy was to somebody who had already started down that path? On her birthday, no less? I may be a nerd, but I'm not entirely unaware of the existence of other people.
So, we awkwardly talked around the subject for a couple of minutes. I asked her if she found it hard, as a woman, to break into such a male-dominated scene. She answered that she had spent a lot of time at science fiction conventions, which weren't always welcoming to women, so she wasn't worried. That was another clue to where I knew her from, but, again, I wasn't able to put it together.
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Oh, no! The enamel paint has started flaking off my pants! It's only a matter of time before the pattern is completely gone! Then, they'll just be...pants.
Does anybody know where the next TTC bench painting will take place?
It finally hit me as I was on my way home: she had interviewed me at a con (probably Polaris) a couple of years ago for The Naked News. She told me she would let me know when the segment aired, but I never heard back from her and assumed that it hadn't. Which was fine by me: it was only my second convention, and I was still developing my ability to talk about my work in a way that would make it at least mildly interesting to those unfamiliar with it.
In the end, it was probably just as well that I hadn't remembered who she was, because it meant I wasn't able to bring up a subject that could have made the conversation even more awkward!
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Good news! Sort of! I took the pants into the cleaners, figuring that if the paint was flaking off, I may as well get it off completely. But, when I went to pick up the pants, the paint was still there. The woman at the cleaners said that the man I left the pants with told her that the stain had actually been part of the pants when I bought them and that I wanted it to remain - the very opposite of what I actually told him! Even better: the dry cleaning really baked the paint into the pants - it won't be flaking off any time soon!
I'm ready to start my fashion revolution now...
