“Jesus loves you, but he’s not in love with you.”

Thanks for coming out, part one

Thanks to everyone who showed up to Pogeypalooza. It was a charming little soiree that wouldn’t have been the same without you. I’ll get the pictures off Paul and post them later today or tomorrow.

The first guests

Noel, one of the programmers who started at the company just after New Year’s, was the first to arrive. He joined me out on the back deck while I barbecued the burgers. He asked me what my plans for the future were, and I told him about Peekabooty. Once the burgers were done, we took them to the dining room table and Paul joined us.

“Your burgers are good, but you have a little way to go before the burgers are like Rob’s,” Paul said between bites. “You used the same ingredients, but I think he puts more love into his.”

“Hey buddy,” I retorted, “any more love in the burgers and I would’ve had to take my pants off.”

The crock pot incident

About midway through the party, Karen saw something on my kitchen counter that caused her great concern. I was making my way to the fridge when she buttonholed me to voice said concern.

“I can’t believe that Joey deVilla has a crock pot!”

(While I don’t like talking about myself in the third person, I find it flattering when other people do so when talking to me. In the future, could you please phrase it as “The Joey deVilla”?)

“That’s so wrong,” she continued, “the guy who used to DJ at Clark Hall Pub and who plays accordion on the street should not have a crock pot! That’s for when you’ve settled down!”

She mentioned that Martha remarked that such a transgression of cool could be forgiven if my grandmother had given it to me. Hasn’t she heard of the phenomenon called “Just Gay Enough“? Sensitive and manly, all rolled into one? The kind of guy who’ll bake you some really good toll house cookies, then take you very roughly from behind?

“Both my grandmothers died in 1997. You can’t give crock pots from beyond the grave,” I said.

Paul piped in. “I gave it to him for his birthday,” thereby condemning himself in Karen’s eyes too. He might as well have said “I hold the sheep reeeeeal tight, and Joey porks it reeeeeal good, hyuk, hyuk, hyuk.”

“I could have understood,” she continued, “if it were a Star Trek crock pot.” I made a mental note to go to the Silver Snail and buy a Seven of Nine sticker for the crock pot. I also decided not to tell her that I was interested in getting one of those George Foreman grills.

Paul to the defense again: “The crock pot is cooool,” he said, in almost the same tone of voice he uses when Britney appears on TV and he says “she’s hoooot.”

“And what’s with the Swiffer?”

“Hey,” I replied, mounting my defense, “it’s not un-edgy to want to have a clean house. Like the saying goes, ‘you don’t shit where you eat’. Even Shaft kept a clean apartment. And the crock pot, well, it means I like low-fuss meals with only one thing to clean at the end of it all. Gives me more time to be ‘edgy’,” I said, pantomiming the quote-unquote marks with my fingers.

Apparently Karen didn’t want me to be too edgy; much later in the party, she complained that I’d run out of hand soap in the bathroom. I should’ve offered to Swiffer her hands clean.

More stories from the party in the next posting…

Break out the Cubans and Veuve Clicquot — the divorce is final. Paul gave me a lift to the office where I used to work so that I could sign my final release/indemnity and stock options forms. In exchange, I got a cheque comprising payment for work-to-date, vacation pay, and severance money and a form that makes me eligible to collect pogey. I no longer have to deal with the administrivals, unless I want a letter of reference. I may request it, if only to make the acting CEO have to take time out of his day to write nice stuff about me. Make sure you use proper punctuation, bee-yatch!

Here’s a tip for any of you who are going to visit a company from which you have been recently fired or laid off: come in all smiles and greet management warmly. I did; not as a ploy, but because I was in a good mood, what with having had a good week and getting lots of rest. The higher up the ladder, the brighter my greeting and the wider my smile, the more they had trouble making eye contact with me.

It was good to see the programmers again. They all had nice things to say. Most of them had gone home early, as the office had been cleared out so that the old desks could be removed and cubicles could be installed in their place. In a moment of high irony, some of the workers who were still at the office had commandeered the boardroom computer and projecter and were watching the Office Space DVD. They threw each other rueful looks of recognition whenever they saw something in the movie that was just like the office, especially when this line came up:

We don’t have a lot of time on this earth; we weren’t meant to spend it this way! Human beings were not meant to sit in little cubicles staring at computer screens all day!

Immediately after that scene, I walked out of the boardroom to collect my cheque and saw the first of the cubicle walls being carted into the office by coverall-clad movers.

One of the programmers told me that M., the last of the original programmers, handed in a letter of resignation earlier this week. The fact that it happened shortly after my firing worried some of the guys. It meant that the last of the old guard programmers who’d built up the company were gone. The new guys– nice folks, great coders — were just a construction crew, far removed from the brainstorming and conceptualizing that we from the earlier generation got to do. The company’s reins had been handed over to a CEO-by-coup and a technocrat with the sense of imagination that God gave asparagus. The Dilbertization was now complete.

I grabbed my cheque and walked out of the building for the last time.

T.G.I.F.

Although weekends aren’t all that different from weekdays for the unemployed.

Art Imitates Life

Well, I’ll be. Dilbert got sacked a day before I did! (My friend Ryan e-mailed me about this earlier today).

Monday, January 7: “I walk among them but I am not one of them”.

Tuesday, January 8: “But…I’ll have to interact with people who know I’ve been downsized.”

Wednesday, January 9: Unemployment gets you chicks!

Thursday, January 10: A new situation calls for a new look.

Friday, January 11: Looking for work.

Saturday, January 12: Customer service.

“Some people claim that our biz dev’s to blame / but I know / it’s the VC’s fault…”

My friend George Scriban has a new blog, called Radio Blogaritaville, in which he comments about “The Industry”. It’s a great read that follows the three C’s of snarky industry journalism: concise, correct and caustic. Dave Winer says that it “could win the prize for best named blog next year if it sticks around.” Personally, I think The Register should hire him as their “man in New York“. Go read it now, or wallow in the filth of your ignorance.

One Week of Unemployment

Yesterday marked my first full week as one of Canada’s 8% with nowhere to go and nothing to do. I have treated this week as a vacation (not having had a chance to take one last year) and done all kind of neglected household chores, rearranging my room so it can double as a home office, taking my bike out for rides and napping a lot. Now I’m feeling a good deal more rested, and can get on with the work of programming Peekabooty and sharpening my tech skills. I’ll probably do this for two to four months, depending on how long my stash of money can carry me.

Negotiations

While working for the company, the laptop assigned to me became my primary machine and I gave my old, slow laptop to my sister so that she could use it for word processing. I sent an e-mail to my former bosses, asking if my laptop could be thrown in as part of my severance package. They were moving away from laptops to desktop boxes for both development and testing, and I thought they might be able to swing it for me, given my long and good service record. They said “no”, owing to the cost, but offered to sell if to me for its “replacement price” of US$2151 — almost CAD$3500 (it’s a Toshiba Satellite Pro 4360, PIII 700, 64MB built-in + 256MB + 64 MB, 12GB hard drive, DVD, 14′ display). The damn thing’s depreciated one year already, and you can get a newer, faster laptop for that price! What a total crock of shit.

Looks like I have a date with Factory Direct Computer Outlet very soon.

Good thing I made off with one of their staplers. That’ll show ’em.

Pogeypalooza

If you’re in the Toronto area, you are cordially invited to my “I got fired” party, which I’ve dubbed Pogeypalooza — “pogey” being a Canadian term for unemployment insurance. It takes place this Saturday, January 19th at my house, in Toronto’s Queen/Spadina area. You can come early (say, around six-ish) if you want to throw something on the barbecue, or later in the evening if you just want to have drink. If you need more details, e-mail me.

Please note that if you are the VP R&D, CFO or Business Admin from the company that just let me go, you will be shot and turned into urinal mints if you even breathe on my property.

Kick Ass Karaoke / NASA

Last night was the Wednesday closest to the middle of the month, so I slung on the squeezebox and went with Rob to Kick Ass Karaoke at the Bovine Sex Club. The room was on the empty side near the beginning, owing to the crummy weather, but after midnight, the place filled up to its usual jam-packed state. I performed George Michael’s Freedom ’90 and AC/DC’s You Shook Me All Night Long and backed up Will on Hey Jude.

I left the Bovine at about 2:00 a.m. and noticed that the dance club across the street, NASA, was still busy. I decided to take a peek inside.

I ran into Irving, one of the Chicks Dig It organizers, who said hello and talked with me for a few minutes. While on the dance floor, some girl in a long black dress asked me why I didn’t show up earlier, gave me a big hug (all the while, I’m wondering who is this person?) and then took off (have I mentioned how much I love this instrument?) I danced for a bit, and I was stepping out to go home, a guy by the name of Adam stopped me. He said he saw me playing at the last Chicks Dig It and asked if I would show up at a Tuesday event at Temple Bar called Puerta Latina. It’s a Latin music night, featuring a DJ and live musicians playing over the tracks. They have a guy on tablas and some percussionists, and he thought an accordion would be a perfect addition. I guess that means I have plans for Tuesday night.

The Lindi gig…

…is two weeks away. I should get in some practice before the next rehearsal.

Interesting Link of the Day

A bear that shits prime numbers. For the non-mathematically inclined, a prime number is a natural number (any whole number from 1 and up) that is greater than one and evenly divisible only by 1 and itself. The first few prime numbers are 2, 3, 5, 7, 11, and 13 (by definition, 1 is not a prime number). For those of you who don’t like the “s-word”, there’s the prime number pooping bear as well. Bears are cute animals and prime numbers have all kinds of useful applications, and finally the two have come together. Enjoy!

This and That

Rehearsal

The highlight of Sunday was my first rehearsal with Lindi. Meeting Lindi, like many other lucky breaks I’ve had since owning it, was an yet another accordion-releated incident. I’d brought my accordion to a Christmas party thrown by my friend Eric when she came up to me and asked if I would back her up for her CD release party.

Along with me, the band consists of Neil Leyton on guitar, a guy named Brad on drums and Lindi’s dad on bass. Lindi alternates between playing piano and guitar. All save me are serious musicians; each is working on his or her own musical career and playing with at least one other act. These guys play in studios and clubs; as for me, I play on the street, yo! (I wonder if Puff Daddy felt this way the first time he was invited to the Hamptons to do brunch with Martha Stewart.)

We took one break in the middle of the rehearsal to relax. Lindi’s Dad broke out a bottle of gold tequila and shot glasses with Spanish words on them. Now that’s what I can rehearsing! Lindi’s shot glass read “mama“, Neil’s read “jefe” and mine read “compadre“. Lindi’s dad showed us some footage of a burning set played by Bela Fleck and the Flecktones on his big screen TV for a couple of minutes, and then we went back to rehearsing.

The rehearsal itself went well. We managed to cover most of the songs (Lindi’s album plus three or four extras) twice. Lindi’s material, being folksy tunes with a strong “Paris in the twneties” feel aren’t terribly complicated, so we managed to pick them up quickly. I’m glad I was able to keep up with the other musicians — those guys are good! That being said, I’m going to have to set aside some time to practice my scales — I’m not as good as I should be in the keys of C# and A flat.

We’re going to practice twice this weekend, and we should be able to get one more practice in after that. I think we’re going to sound very impressive at the show.

Back in the ‘hood

Not having a car and having to commute to the ‘burbs every weekday meant that I missed out on the pleasures of running errands in the city. For the first time in about five months, I took my bike out for a spin around the neighbourhood and did some shopping. I went to Kensington Market, which has a different ryhthm on weekdays than it does on weekends, the only time I was able to visit. While supermarkets are convenient, and even though Loblaws is a much better supermarket than most (especially when compared to its American counterparts), there’s nothing like going to a bakery for baked goods, a butcher for meat, a fruit stand for fruits and vegetables, and so on. It was nice not to have to take a car to a mall.

Chicks Dig It

Last night was the second night of Chicks Dig It. I joined their mailing list last Monday night and received this e-mail message yesterday:

Please join us also for some live accordion music and dancing school-boys that will be interspersed throughout all the DJ sets. One night only!

I was planning to go anyway, but now that I was expected, I really had to go!

Heidi, the promoter who sent the e-mail, was at the door when Rob and I arrived at Temple Bar and greeted us. “Did you see what I wrote?” she asked. I thanked her and talked with her for a bit. She mentioned something about a cake being brought out later that night, as it was DJ Freedom’s birthday.

We went to the upper level to check out the dance floor. It was more crowded than last week and full of new faces. It looked as though word about Chicks Dig It was getting around; hopefully it bodes well for Monday nights. DJ Chocolate and one of the organizers walked by me and greeted me. “Hey! Good to see you again!”

If anything, a hiatus from work is always good for one’s scenesterdom. (Scenestership? Scenesterhood? Sceneterness? Scenesterosity?)

While on the dance floor, I could see some of the organizers lighting sparklers on a cake at the bar. I quickly took the accordion off my back and brought it into playing positions so that when the cake came, I was already on the opening chord for Happy Birthday. DJ Freedom turned down the sound system so we could all sing.

A couple of party/event organizers gave me their cards after the cake ceremony. It looks as though I should have at least a couple of parties to attend and gigs to play in the near future.

Another musician on my street

Rob and I called it quits about 1:30 and he took a cab home from the corner of Queen and Spadina.

I was unlocking my front door when a guy who was getting out of his car said “Whoa. Accordion.”

I turned around. “Yeah, this is my street accordion. I take it out often — you never know when you’re going to need one.”

“Play something,” he said.

I played some blues scales (quietly, since I didn’t want the neighbours to kill me) and then slipped into Head Like a Hole, one of the old standbys that I can play in my sleep.

He asked if I played jazz, and I told him about the improv jazz band I jammed with while I was living in San Francisco.

“That’s cool. I live just down the street, and I just got my music space set up, but I don’t have any musicians. Come knock on my door sometime this week if you have time; I’ll definitely be knocking on your door soon.”

---

As Mr. Burns would say: Excellent. It’s all falling into place.

Gratitude

Thank you.

Thank you.

Thank you.

I would like to thank my family, friends, former co-workers and acquaintances, both “real world” and online. Thank you for asking how I’m doing, for saying all those kind words about me, for buying me dinner, for asking for my resume for future reference, for offering to hook me up with people looking for programmers and for asking if I’ll have enough to eat (of course I will, Mom, but thanks for checking). You have my eternal gratitude.

Oi!

I’d just finished giving the kitchen range and hood a proper cleaning and de-greasing when Paul returned from his trip to Starbucks. He bounced up to the kitchen counter and looked as though it was taking some effort for him to stay still.

“C’mon, man, let’s go! Ska ska oi!” he said, flailing his arms as if he were desperately trying to get the attention of a distant search plane. He gets that way when he’s on stimulants of any kind.

Ska Ska Oi is an annual fundraising ska/punk concert organized by a Toronto group called Anti-Racist Action, whose purpose I’m certain you’ve already gleaned from their name. The event has a reputation for being an evening of boistrous fun, combining a very friendly crowd, great music and a wild but considerate mosh pit. Paul and I saw the posters for this event a week or so earlier and decided that we weren’t going to miss it.

We arrived at Reverb at about 10 p.m. (which I thought would be early) to find a line of people leading up the stairs. The event had been sold out, but we could wait in line to replace people who were leaving the club. Having nothing better to do, we opted to wait. Our patience paid off; we were let in just over half and hour.

“I assume you’re of legal drinking age, gentlemen,” the guy at the door said as he let us in.

“We’re old enough to be some of these kids’ substitute teachers,” I replied. I turned to a young punk beside me. “Young man, I want to see that math assignment on my desk first thing Monday morning.”

After downing our only alcohol of the evening at the bar — a broken down golf cart shooter — we moved to the dance floor. On the way there, one of the bouncers recognized me and said “Yo, Accordion Guy! How you been?” I actually don’t introduce myself to people as “Accordion Guy”; it’s just what people who don’t know my name tend to call me. As the next act came onstage, he took a position at the edge of the mosh pit, just ahead of me. “Gotta keep these kids from breakin’ their heads, so they can still do arithmetic on Monday,” he told me.

We’d missed a couple of the earlier bands. The first act we caught were the Class Assassins, a foursome of energetic shaven-headed guys playing some very loud, very raucous punk tunes. They opened with No Justice No Peace, a very catchy number off their new album. The mosh pit exploded at the first measure of this song, and halfway into it, Paul decided he couldn’t take bouncing in place any more and launched himself into the fray. I chose to stay at the edge of the moshing, concerned that I’d either shred my accordion (which was strapped to my back) or accidentally hit someone with it. They played a blistering 45-minute set, and the moshing went non-stop.

Paul emerged from the pit when the band left the stage, covered in sweat and smiling. “Lots of girls in the mosh,” he said. “That’s the most action I’ve had in a while.”

While waiting for the second band, a couple of people walked up to me and asked one of the usual questions: “Can you play that thing?” Being a ska/punk night, I obliged by playing and singing Goldfinger’s Here In Your Bedroom. I surprised myself by being able to sing the chorus on the first try; it’s usually a little out of my vocal range. I took that as a good sign for tonight’s busking.

The next act was a group from Montreal called General Rudie, a full ska outfit, complete with keyboards and horn section. They played an amazing set that got the crowd skanking so hard that the floor was literally bouncing, flexing with the rhythm of people jumping in unison. Once again, I stayed at the edge of the moshing while Paul dove into the pit. Paul was impressed enough to buy their album; I was impressed enough to know that I’ll probably borrow it from him this week.

Paul says “she’s hot” in a Butt-Head-esque tone of voice about someone almost every week, and this week was no exception. A cute girl in a tight mint green tank top hopped onstage during one of General Rudie’s numbers and danced while facing the crowd, eliciting this week’s declaration of “she’s hot” from Paul. No doubt he tried to collide with her in the pit.

After General Rudie’s set, Paul headed home. He had to get up early the next day, as he was going snowboarding. While waiting for the final act, Arsenal, to get themselves set up, I wandered about the club looking for anyone I knew. A guy walked up to me and said “Two accordion players appearing by chance in the same room. What are the odds?” The other accordion player turned out to be his friend Doug, whom he introduced me to. Doug and I talked about synthesizers, accordions and the gigs we were going to play this year while waiting for Arsenal to play.

We waited for a while. “These guys better be the Radiohead of ska if they’re going to make me wait like this,” Doug said.

They finally started their set around 1:00 — at least half an hour behind schedule. They were tight and had a rock steady rhythm section, but were somewhat unimaginative with their melodies. “I wonder if they know another chord,” quipped Doug during their first number, which seemed stuck on a single chord. The next two numbers were the same; great rhythms but repetitive, monotonous melodies.

“Not the Radiohead of ska,” I said, “but the Philip Glass of ska.” That got a laugh out of Doug.

Doug invited me to jam with him sometime soon, so I gave him my phone number and left.

Snog

A trio of Doc Marten-wearing grrrls sat outside the entrance to reverb with a sign that read Will snog for beer. One of them looked at me and said “How about it, Accordion Guy?”

“I don’t have any beer.”

“I’ll take a song instead of beer.”

I played Should I Stay or Should I Go. Nice safe standard, and The Clash goes over well with the punk kids.

“Now,” the girl said, “the snog.”

“The song’s a freebie, no worries. You look a little young.”

“I’m not too young for you. What are you, twenty-five?”

“Thirty-four.”

“Holyfuckinshit. Maybe I am too young for ya. You’re too good-lookin’ to be an old fart. Hey, me and my friends are going to catch up with our friends at Ossington station. You take care, and keep swinging’ that fine accordion, ‘kay?”

(I’m sure that there are several Japanese businessmen who would pay mad Yen to have what just happened to me happen to them.)

Have I mentioned how much I love this instrument?

Heirloom

I made my way over to the Velvet Underground. My plan was to hang out there until after last call, then go to Amato’s Pizza and busk. The bouncer waved me in almost immediately a very cute woman with dark shoulder-length hair and striking eyebrows (I love striking eyebrows) walked up to me.

“I just got an accordion for Christmas, and I need your help!” she exclaimed.

Really, have I mentioned just how much I love this instrument?

She told me that it was a family heirloom; it was originally her grandfather’s. She didn’t know how to play any muscial instruments and didn’t know what to do with it. Selling it was out of the question. She asked if I knew anyone who gave accordion lessons.

“Well,” I said, not wanting to sound too eager, “there’s Joe Caringi, whose store is out in Woodbridge…” Woodbridge is a way-out-there suburb, far away enough to be out of reach of public transit. I was betting that she didn’t live anywhere near there.

“No. Not Woodbridge. Too far, and I hate the attitude there.” Woodbridge has a rep of being where all the Mafioso live. It’s often referred to with a fake Italian accent: “Wood-a-breedge”.

“You can get nice cannoli there,” I said, unable to resist a Godfather reference.

“You can get just as nice cannoli on College Street, and it’s more fun there too.” I liked her attitude.

“So what do you play on your accordion?”

“Mostly pop and rock. I leave polka to the experts. I do Nine Inch Nails, Fatboy Slim, AC/DC and a pretty mean Britney.”

“That’s great! I didn’t know you could play that on an accordion!” she exclaimed, unaware that there isn’t some kind of dead man’s switch on an accordion that kicks into gear whenever to try to play something other than Lady of Spain (something I haven’t yet learned how to play).

I was about to suggest that perhaps I could give her some lessons — which would necessitate an exchange of phone numbers — when her boyfriend appeared. And it was playing out like a movie script until now.

“Hey! You have an accordion!” he said to me, “did she tell you about hers?”

I told them that I would be busking later on tonight and that they catch the performance, during which I’d be happy to give her a couple of pointers. Hey, women are walking up to me and starting conversations. That’s still better than what happens to most guys.

I’ve mentioned just how much I love my accordion, haven’t I?

Performance

When I arrived at Amato’s, there were only three guys sitting on the bench outside. Not a good sign, but sometimes a crowd gathers once I start playing. I started with the Presidents of the United States of America’s Lump, and they started singing along. Judging that these guys were alt-rock fans, I segued into Goldfinger’s Here In Your Bedroom, and they turned out to know the lyrics to that song too. I kept playing, and they kept singing, which attracted some more people to the area.

Arsenal’s show must’ve ended just before, because a large crowd were making their way from Reverb to Amato’s for some post-concert pizza. By the time I’d gotten to AC/DC’s Big Balls, I’d managed to get a crowd of about eighty people around me. Normally this kind of crowd happens only during the summer, but it was a mild night and people didn’t seem to mind hanging around and singing along. I’d grabbed a discarded pizza plate and placed it at my feet and saw that since I’d started, it had filled with loonies, toonies and even a couple of fivers.

Another busker, Jamie, who plays guitar farther east on Queen Street walked by, and the crowd and I asked him to join in. They cleared a space for him on the bench, and we started jamming. I led him through You Shook Me All Night Long and NiN’s Head Like a Hole and he led me through Train’s Drops of Jupiter and Colunting Crows’ A Long December. The crowd peaked during Neil Diamond’s Sweet Caroline (a bit of a hit here in Canada since it was featured in a recent beer commercial), with everyone singing out the horn part in the chorus — Sweet Caroline — ba da da! — Good times never seemed so good…

At about half past three, Jamie and I called it a night. Jamie went off to the Matador, and I went home. As I was putting the accordion on my back, one of the guys in the audience shook my hand.

“Thank you very much,” he said. “Only eleven days into the new year [Saturday night was actually the twelfth, and we were already three hours into Sunday — Joey] and it’s already very cool. Thanks for making it that way.”

I got more gratitude from (mostly) strangers in just over an hour’s busking than I did from my managers the last three months at work.

Condolences

On the way home, I ran into Star, a girl who lived in a squat near the University. She sometimes panhandles on Queen Street on Saturday night, and once I’ve covered my bar bill, I tend to give away a fair bit of my busking money to people sleeping on the street. Buskers are the unintentional nemesis of panhandlers, as we compete for the same spare change.

“Accordion Guy,” she said as I walked towards her. “Sorry to hear ’bout your job, man. Fucking bosses.”

“What?” I asked, surprised. Star was just an acquaintance. She couldn’t possibly have heard that I was fired; some of my friends probably haven’t heard yet. “How’d you know?”

“I read your blog. We get to surf free at the library.”

William Gibson wasn’t kidding, I thought, the street does find its own uses for things. She told me that she was looking for work using the ‘Net and that some street kids used Hotmail as a kind of system for leaving messages for each other.

“That’s cool! And hey, thanks. Look, let me give you ten bucks.”

“You sure? Maybe you need the money now…”

“I’ll be all right. Here, get something to eat.”

“Those fuckers, when they fired you, they lost out big. Thank you.”

No, Star, thank you.