Category: It Happened to Me

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It Happened to Me Toronto (a.k.a. Accordion City)

Critical Massholes (or: Why I No Longer Ride with Critical Mass)

Before I Begin…

…let me first show you the Scorpion King, my bike, which I bought immediately after getting hired by Tucows back in 2003. She’s still running well:

Joey deVilla's bike
My bike. Yup, that’s a keytar in the rear basket.

Now let me point you to a couple of articles by Accordion City’s favourite Crazy Biker Chick, Tanya:

…and now, the meat of the article.

Critical Mass

Today is the last Friday of the month, which means that in many cities all over the world, there will be a Critical Mass bike ride. I won’t take part in it — partly because I have a prior engagement, and partly because I refuse to take part in it anymore.

The simplest way for me to describe Critical Mass is to borrow a line from this page: “a monthly bicycle ride to celebrate cycling and to assert cyclists’ right to the road”. The closest to organization that the event comes is that there is an agreement for interested cyclists to meet at some specified location and go for a bike ride en masse. No leadership or central body coordinates its activities and the route taken is determined as the ride takes place. It’s up to the participants in each of the cities to make it what it is, oftentimes as it happens. It’s rather like the BarCamp/DemoCamp “unconferences”, which shouldn’t be surprising: both arose from the culture of San Francisco.

While I wouldn’t call myself “hardcore” — I’m neither a mountain biker nor a bike courier — I could honestly self-identify as an avid urban cyclist. Ever since coming back home to Accordion City from my (unexpectedly long, but rewarding) stint at Crazy Go Nuts University, I’ve biked to work whenever possible. This city is a pretty decent one for cycling by North American standards, and there’s a certain way that travelling the roads by bike puts you in touch with the “feel” of a city that travelling by motor or even on foot can. The benefits of exercise as well as not being beholden to the Saudis and other equally unpleasant terrorist-funding oil states (as my pal Cory likes to say, “an oil state is just a failed state that happens to have oil”) are bonuses. It is my love of cycling that led me to participate in Critical Mass.

Why I No Longer Participate

It is also my love of cycling that led me to stop participating. I understand that the character of Critical Mass varies from city to city, and in this city, it seems to have degenerated. It’s turned from a celebration of cycling into a bike-driven way for hipsters and the angry underemployed to act out their unresolved rebellion issues against their parents. I think that Critical Mass Toronto does more harm to cycling than good. That’s why I no longer participate in it, and that’s why I’m speaking out.

The battle cry of Critical Mass is “We’re not blocking traffic, we are traffic!“. I agree with that sentiment: bikes are vehicles with as much right to the road as cars. The problem is that Critical Mass participants here in Toronto seem to have forgotten that with rights comes responsibilities. The rally here tends to hold itself above the law, hogging as much of the road as possible, holding traffic by running red lights as a group and harassing drivers for committing the heinous crime of driving a car.

There’s a regular participant in Toronto’s Critical Mass, a bike courier type with curly brown hair and always in shades. He tends to bike ahead of the pack and seems to take great joy in either goading the police or threatening drivers. He often bikes up to cars to block their way and hurls verbal abuse at their drivers. At the last Critical Mass I attended, a guy in an SUV asked him how long they’d be blocking the intersection, to which he replied “Go fuck your mother.” In retrospect, I should’ve given in to my urge to clock him with my Kryptonite lock.

The problem is that in the sort of working anarchy that things like Critical Mass are, enthusiastic participants like him tend to define the spirit of the event, and the rest follow suit. The end result is that Critical Mass becomes less about celebrating bikes and more about acting out revenge fantasies against “The Man”.

In the meantime, the people in the cars who have been barricaded by the bike rally aren’t likely to be convinced that bikes have a ride to the road. What they see are ruffians who are flouting traffic laws and hurling abuse at them. For the most part, they’re people who are willing to share the road; they’re probably less willing to do so after encountering the two-wheeled barbarian horde.

In the last few Critical Mass rallies I attended, some bike cops escorted the ride with mixed results. Some of the crowd were a bit annoyed at the presence of the cops, and a couple of the cops shoved some of the cyclists about, follwoing it up with a “Go ahead. Hit back. I dare you.” It was two kinds of stupid coming together for a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup of ass-hattery.

Some People Share My Sentiment

I don’t think I’m alone in these sentiments; consider the comments by otherwise sympathetic people in this blog entry. I find myself in the weird position of agreeing with a writer from the “Moynihan Institute” web site, who wrote this about Critical Mass in a pretty good article about bike commuting:

I understand the statement they claim they are trying to make but the truth is that they come across as a bunch of douche bag hipsters living off trust funds. No one has ever taken up the cause of the cyclist as a result of these fart knockers grid locking traffic.

And Finally…

That’s the problem with Critical Mass Toronto: does it want to be about celebrating and promoting bikes as a better alternative, or about punishing people for using their cars? And really, when you boil it down, isn’t it about punishing people for not sharing your lifestyle, which is the sort of thing for which one typically blames “the conservatives”?

As long as it’s about the latter, then they’re Critical Massholes. I’ll still bike, but not with them.

Related Reading

Back in 2002, I wrote about a similar event, “Reclaim the Streets”, in an entry titled Not-So-Smart Mobs, which got a link from BoingBoing.

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It Happened to Me

Have a Good Rosh Hashanah / Ramadan!

(By the way, this entry will be number 4983 for this blog. Another 17 and I’ll have posted an even five thousand since starting this thing back in November 2001.)

One more entry before I call it a day: today is both the start of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year (it’s 5767 in the Jewish calendar), and Ramadan, the Muslim month of fasting. Everyone, and I mean everyone seems to be wishing the world a simultaneous happy Rosh Hashanah and Ramadan, and so do I. Have a good one!

My wife Wendy, the Ginger Ninja, is Jewish, so I made sure to bring home some apples, and I fixed her a New Year’s dinner with an appetizer of stuffed hot peppers and a main course of seared salmon in seafood spices and a couscous salad. I also brought home a movie she’s being dying to watch — Stick It — and the American Idol game for the PlayStation 2.

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Accordion, Instrument of the Gods It Happened to Me

A View of the World from Japan

Here’s yet another entry about my 1998 trip to Japan, inspired by Sarah “The Hollywood North Report” Marchildon’s blog entries about her moving there to teach English for a year.

Depending on how old you are — or what magazines you read — you may or may not be familiar with Saul Steinberg’s cover for the New Yorker titled A View of the World from 9th Avenue, which depicts how a Manhattanite supposedly sees the world:

Saul Steinberg's 'New Yorker' cover: 'A View of the World from 9th Avenue

This cover has inspired a number of parodies. Here’s one: it’s Ted Rall’s A View of the World from Pennsylvania Avenue:

Ted Rall's Parody of Saul Steinberg's 'New Yorker' cover: 'A View of the World from Pennsylvania Avenue

(For those of you outside North America, Pennsylvania Avenue is the street on which the White House is located.)

When I was in Japan, I visited the school at which my friend Anne taught English. I was there as her assistant for the day; my job was to talk to the students, give them English practice and an opportunity to meet a real live foreigner.

The strangest thing about the experience was the sense of deja vu that I got during the exercise: every Japanese person at the school remarked at how good my English was. Until that time, I’d only gotten that reaction from white people — it happened a lot in the 1970s — but these days, it’s incredibly rare that someone says this to me.

They thought I was Japanese and were surprised to discover that I was Filipino. “You don’t look it,” they said.

“Give me a pole to dance around and look again,” I replied.

They didn’t get the joke.

In one of the school hallways, I saw these large sheets on which the younger students had done an English exercise. I got a laugh out of them and had to take these pictures.

The first one was a list of things they associated with America:

List of things that Japanese students associate with America.

Remember, this was October 1998, so Clinton was president, and this only a few months after Clinton’s admission that he’d had an “inappropriate” relationship with Monica Lewinsky. As for “Mr. Big”, I have no idea what they’re referring to.

Here’s the next poster: a list of things they associated with Britain:

List of things that Japanese students associate with Britain.

Once again, this was October 1998, just over a year after Lady Diana’s death. It’s interesting that the students would associate gardening with Britain; although it’s a fair association, I doubt you’d get that answer from a North American student. I like the “Pank music” item too.

And finally, Canada. How do they see us?

List of things that Japanese students associate with Canada.

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It Happened to Me

Japan’s Worst-Named Non-Dairy Creamer

Another moment from my 1998 trip to Japan:

Joey posing with a jar of 'Creap'.

One of the first things I did upon arriving in Japan was to pose for a photo with the worst-named non-dairy coffee creamer anywhere: Creap. As the label implies, it’s meant to be an amalgam of “creamy” and “powder”.

Still from a 'Creap' TV ad.

Still from a 'Creap' TV ad.

Still, it’s not as bad a name choice as Darkie toothpaste:

Box and tube of 'Darkie' toothpaste.

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It Happened to Me

Belfast Travel Diary, Part 3

In case you missed the first two blog entries about my trip to Northern Ireland, here they are:

Newark

6:30 p.m.: I haven’t been to Newark nor its airport in a long time. That was back when my Dad’s sister and her family lived in Jersey City. To give you an idea of how long ago that was, the last time I was there, construction walls were plastered with posters for an upcoming movie titled Dirty Dancing and Michael Jackson’s new album, titled Bad.

My original flight plan included a six-hour layover at Newark, so I’d planned to make use of the Continental President’s Club lounge, with its comfy seats and valuable freebies: free non-alcoholic beverages, snacks and wifi. As a non-member, I’d have to pony up US$45, for the privilege, but my personal travel rule is that any serious layover time justifies either a trip to the city or hanging out in the elite business travel lounge.

The plan had changed. Since I volunteered to arrive at Newark at a later time in exchange for a flight voucher, I had two hours and change until my connecting flight to Belfast. In my books, that’s not enough layover time to justify the additional expense of the President’s Club. I decided to take a tour of the terminal instead.

Toronto’s Airport: A Brief Aside

I’m proud of Accordion City, but I feel a little shame when I walk through other cities’ airports. Despite having the dubious honour of being the most expensive airport at which to land in the world — an airline would have to pay CDN$13,000 to land a 747-400 — Terminals 2 and 3 can best be described as “ghetto”. Terminal 3 was once the jewel of Pearson airport, but what were once considered clean and spacious check-in areas and departure lounges are shabby and cramped (although there are signs of improvement with the current renovation). As for Terminal 2, it’s a cramped bunker with below-average food solds at above-average prices. I can get that in the UK, and they’ll throw in some local atmosphere for free, dudes.

(Yes, Terminal 1 is pretty decent, but despite flying an average of once every six weeks, I never end up going through there.)

Newark’s Terminal C has high ceilings, wide corridors, some decent-looking restaurants and enough shops to keep a traveller busy. If I needed to, I could buy a suit there. The only department where Toronto’s airport beats Newark is in availability of electrical outlets. I had the audiobook version of Imperial Grunts loaded on my iPod and I wanted to be sure it was fully juiced.

16D

I was hungry, but my itinerary said that dinner would be served on the flight. I opted to go light and just get a frozen yogurt from the food court. The stall beside the Yogen Fruz had a line of people with Irish lilts, all ordering something either fried or deep-fried. I figured that they were to be my fellow passengers on the flight to Belfast.

About an hour and a half later, the boarding call was made. Boarding was a bit slow, as the majority of the passengers seemed to be Irish tourists laden down with shopping and souvenirs from nearby Manhattan. I boarded when the call that included my row — 16 — was made.

If you’re flying “cattle class” on a Continental 757-200 and you have the opportunity to pick your seat, row 16 is a very good choice. It’s the rearmost of the over-the-wing exit row seats, which means that your seat can recline, but the seat in front of you can’t. This isn’t hard-to-find knowledge: I found it on this page at SeatGuru.com, which is a site you should be aware if if you fly often. I chose seat 16D, which is an aisle seat: plenty of room for the legs.

I worked my way down the aisle towards my seat. Row 12, 13, 14, 15, then finally row 16. Which was completely occupied. By a gaggle of Irish teenage girls travelling together, fidgeting with newly-bought iPods (they still had the Apple Store bags).

“Hi there,” I said to the girl in my seat, showing her my boarding pass, “my pass says that I’m in 16D.”

“So does mine,” she said, showing me her boarding pass. There it was in bold: 16D.

“I think I’ll check with the people up front,” I said. As worked my way forward, I looked at the rest of the plane. Full. It dawned on me that after years of dodging the bullet, it was finally my turn to be a victim of overbooking. Not only would I not get my primo seat; I might not get any seat.

I showed my boarding pass to the chief flight attendant, a friendly guy with a nametag that read “Dave”.

“Hmmm…” he said, looking at papers on a clipboard, which I presumed was a passenger manifest. “This could be tricky. We’ve got a full plane tonight. Would you be interested in taking the next flight, this time tomorrow, in exchange for a voucher?”

I held out the vouchers I’d earned for taking a later flight to Newark, explaining that not only have I done my good deed for the day, but also that the people at the Continental counter in Toronto tried to pull a bait-and-switch on me and that I had a wedding to catch.

“You make a good case,” said Dave. “Look, stay here in the galley. I’ll take your boarding pass to the ticketing desk and see what we can do for you, Mr…” — and then, after looking at my boarding pass — “..deVilla.”

He then turned to the stewardess who was standing beside us and said “Could you get Mr. deVilla a drink while he’s waiting?”, and then ran down the jetway.

I was expecting to be offered a coffee, but the stewardess turned to me and with a sympathetic voice asked, “Heineken?”

“Sure,” I replied.

What Happened

Dave returned, with a facial expression that seemed to say that there were no free seats. He also held up a finger in a way that said “Wait, I’ve got one more thing to try.”

He picked up the allcall headset and made a general announcement, offering a free night’s stay at an airport hotel in Newark and a $500 voucher to anyone who’d volunteer to get off the plane. A minute later, a soccer-shirted guy in his twenties grinning for ear to ear, nattering about getting drunk in Manhattan for an extra night deplaned, and a half-minute after that, I got his seat: 27D.

The rest of the flight went without incident. (Inflight movies: Take the Lead, starring Antonio Banderas as a French dance instructor, complete with lame-o explanation of why he had a Spanish accent, followed by Vegas Vacation. Watched the first, which actually wasn’t too bad, briefly thought about making good on that promise to The Ginger Ninja to take ballroom dancing lessons with her, slept through the second.)

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It Happened to Me

Big in Japan

Joey deVilla at a CD vending machine in the train station in Kyoto, Japan, October 1998.

Pictured above is Yours Truly, nearly 8 years ago, checking out a CD vending machine at the train station in Kyoto, Japan, where I was visiting my friend Anne, who was there for a year to teach English. The trip marked the beginning of a big “things are looking up” phase; shortly after it, the Worst Date Ever would take place, I’d pick up the accordion and things would never be the same.

Sarah Marchildon, a Vancouverite who blogs at The Hollywood North Report, relocated in July to a rural town on the island of Shikoku in southern Japan to teach English. Given its small-town-ness and its removal from more cosmopolitan places like Tokyo or Osaka, it’s quite likely that there are locals who’ve never seen a real live white person before. Go visit her blog and see what she’s been up to!

I think I’d better finish the Ireland travel diary before I start recounting my last trip to Japan, but I’ve got a Japanese story or two to tell…

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Accordion, Instrument of the Gods It Happened to Me Music

Oh Yes, There WILL Be Accordions!

A little while back, a reader wrote in the comments asking what this Accordion Guy blog was all about. It’s basically my own personal publication in which I am the editor, writing staff, art department and most importantly, star. It’s a place where I work out ideas out loud, voice my opinions, tell stories, socially network and yes, talk about and even play the accordion.

One thing that this blog will feature starting this fall is a project I’ve been meaning to do for a while: post accordion busking lessons, complete with audio. While aimed primarily at accordion players hoping to escape the pigeonholes of polka and Lady of Spain, a lot of the stuff is applicable to anyone who’s ever wanted to try out busking. It’ll feature music theory for beginners, rock accordion technique and how-to’s for playing rock and pop. I’m hoping to have it up and running on this site sometime in the next few weeks.