It's Sunday - no, Monday. The bar next door has closed up shop, but nobody in this subterranean hangout is looking at the time. I'm at an Internet café attached to the back end of Clinton's, near Bloor and Christie. I would tell you the name but I don't know how to read Korean.
It's a little scary walking down the stairs into this Web lair that smells like a cheap hostel. Once the door is cracked, though, it gets a whole lot less intimidating.
That is, unless a bunch of chubby guys (no ladies in the wee hours of a new workweek) building online experience points puts the fear in you. The only blades here are the ones earned in World Of Warcraft. Coke litters the joint - again, the less intimidating cola variety.
I buy an hour-long paypass for $3, which gives me plenty of time to check e-mails, lurk on Facebook and type this. The guy next to me is working up a sweat liberating some fantasy vixens, slaying some fantasy villains and casting a magical cloud of body odour over me. Nobody cares who you are or what you do in this dungeon.
I guess if I were an angsty teen (or middle-aged man) playing fast and loud and my mom told me to go to bed, I'd sneak out and continue playing here, too. Or, you know, I'd ignore her, find some headphones, make some Pizza Pops and take another swig of Jolt.