Public Library, Social Disease

I used to think the worst part of getting to the public library was taking public transit.  You know the public transit situation here in Toronto: it is a warm place in winter, air conditioned in summer, and dry all year long: so the insane that roam the streets between welfare check binges make it their place to work through the voices in their head.  After the insane, you have the criminals.  Sure, a person with a diversity of personalities will push you onto the tracks, but at least they have a bad smell and wardrobe that can alert the urban jungle dweller that there is a problem.  The criminals come in packs.  A new crop every spring (only the cold weather seems to thin out their ranks).  A discerning reader of the state media knows they are a problem: every transit rider can tell you of incidents of violence experienced or witnessed.  Yet there are never arrests for such pedestrian crimes.  The bright elite lights of progressive Toronto, when their progressive voters are snuffed out and eulogized by the progressive media, are known personally for public urination, spitting, and cell phone jacking.  The elites weep on their country estates under the watchful gaze of Lenin, Che, and Trudeau.  The working class is relieved: that dirty N-person who pissed on the Bloor line last August has gone to the great hip hop subway station in hell.  Such is transit.  You endure until you get to the library.  Now, it seems, the progressive voter has found their way into the book stacks.