It is a hotbed of sin and horror. It is where good hockey withers away like a collapsing factory in a service-based economy — or like a service-based economy in a world of consumerism. It is so bad that all economic metaphors apply to it equally, even ones that are complete opposites.
It’s so bad it’s awfulness was unpredictable — or beyond prediction, because it was so apparent.
It is both overrated and underperforming.
It is not a sleeping giant. It is a creeping giant, crawling slothlike down a hill to a boomshaw where it will try to swim but fall to the bottom of the beautiful abyss under its own slovenly weight to drown and eventually be consumed by heretofore undiscovered creatures with no eyes.
That’s a lot of pretty words to describe a decrepit scene. And these days, people want numbers. Oh, but the numbers. There is no poetry in arithmetic, which is fine because there’s no poetry to describe how woeful the Metro is, unless there’s undiscovered verse from an especially dark day in Emily Dickinson’s life. Here’s the numbers anyway: