The Tragically Unhip

a blog with three fingers on the pulse of uncoolness.

(Fixed) Gears of War March 19, 2009

Filed under: City Living,Health,Musings,Transit — Brooke D. @ 12:45 am

 

I’m a little new to the whole “riding a bike” thing, but so far am pretty sold on the idea.  I’ve always lived in cities with decent mass transit  (except that 5-year stint in LA when I spent more on parking tickets than I did at Trader Joe’s) and never really got into bikes. If you live in LA and ride a bike it means you’re either seriously broke or all those D.U.I’s finally caught up with you. Nobody rides a bike, ever.  We drive Mercedes and HUMMERS, thank you very much. I think one summer a friend decided to start a super sweet “bike gang” but we only got as far as the matching hoodies and then kind of gave up. Maybe we rode to the neighborhood bar like, twice.  People are lazy in LA and it’s kind of hilly and spread out and we like our polluted skyline just the way it is because the haze truly makes for some “amazing sunsets.”  Plus, what would we have to talk about if there was less traffic? I also spent some time in Seoul and New York, and the subways always treated me just fine.  I swear I love the sweaty cattle car feeling and getting smushed up against strangers who think other people really must love their open-mouth-gum-chewing-spitty-bubble-blowing-smack-cracking sounds first thing in the morning (obviously a pet peeve of mine).

 

 

So a couple years ago I sold my car, started traveling, and up until now thought that I’d been doing just fine on foot/by bus/metro.  Until last fall, upon my arrival in Montreal, when I was given, quite generously, a bicycle which I’m convinced possesses magical powers.  Not only do I never have to wait for the bus or go underground ever again, but anything (that isn’t booze) which gets me not only out of the house but across town is like a damn miracle.  I’ve been riding everyday since Spring kicked in and I now look for any excuse to throw on my fuzzy slippers and bike to the market, the dep, the post office, or the SAQ with my bathrobe flapping freely in the wind.

 

Just kidding; I wear pants if I have to.

 

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m kind of a wuss when it comes to traffic, patches of ice, puddles, hills, potholes and basically everything else that isn’t a clear, wide open and completely flat bicycle lane. I don’t know all the fancy names for the gears and parts and crap, and I’m more the “basket and bell” kind of girl, but I finally understand why people are so into their bicycles.  It’s been pretty wonderful and I actually feel fairly, almost, something close to… healthy? I like going fast. I like the way the sunshine reflects off my handlebars, I like the wind in my hair.  I love the sights, sounds, and smells you just don’t get from riding the bus. I love riding by people’s houses and looking in their windows. Haha. Plus dudes think it’s cute when girls ride bikes.

All images by Brooke D.

 

When I got started, a friend in Minneapolis wrote asking if I rode a fixed gear because, in his opinion, “If it ain’t fixed its broken.” And I was like, “Well, my brakes are kind of shot and really only use one gear anyway… does that count? Ooh!! And did I mention it’s pink!?”  Now, dear reader, don’t judge.  I’ve been around the block once or twice, the whole world even, and yes, I know what a fixed gear is.  I just don’t necessarily get the thing about them.  I’m pretty sure I understand that they don’t have brakes and make you… cool? Well, not so much according to this guy:

 

free-fixie

 

I like bikes, I like riding bikes, but I have no idea what this guy is talking about.  Four things I was actually able to decode from this little rant:

  • First: This guy’s messenger bag is way older than yours and ISN’T from Australia.
  • Second: Riding a fixed gear will only make you cool if you are him.
  • Third: He was the first person to do anything ever.
  • Fourth: He hates your pants. (Don’t worry, guy, I hate pants too.)

 

Nothing like some weirdo elitism to take something Super Fun and make it a Pointless Pissing Contest!  So now I’m a little confused: is riding a fixed gear really cool or really really uncool?  Is my busted up generic junker better than your Bianchi because it’s not as trendy?  Are there some kind of style guidelines I’m not aware of?  Why does this guy care if I wash my hair and what does that have to do with his bike? Are certain people just not allowed to ride bikes at all? Gee. There sure is a lot of stigma, social stratification and fashion involved in foregoing public transit, being healthy, and falling in love with your city via two wheels. I had no idea! Better start reading up to see if I’m doing this right; wouldn’t want to break any of the rules in this town. Ohwait!! I don’t give shit and I should be outside practicing my sweet wheelies, bunnyhops and gear shifting skills….

 

How to Look Cool When Air Canada Loses Your Luggage and You Have No Pants January 8, 2009

Filed under: Fashion,How-To,Transit — Elli S. @ 11:43 am

Yeah, I got nothing. My luggage has been in luggage-land limbo for three days now. My toiletries, my entire wardrobe, my entire life was in that suitcase. I have no hair straightener (‘sup jewfro), and I have no clean underwear; but more importantly, I have no pants.

 

This, as you can imagine, can pose quite a problem when you’re in Toronto and you’re up to your ass in snow and all that’s available are summer dresses. And some leftover reject clothes, but those belong in the Fashion Crimes Against Humanity section. 

 

Things I have done:

- Worn thigh-high American Apparel socks over my leopard print leggings. This looked good on day one—it had a little bit of an old-school, sexy-stocking look to it, with a leopard twist—but it’s day three now. My leopard print leggings have been stretched to crap-catcher status, and the socks smell of wet feet.

 

Things I will most likely have to do tomorrow and every day until Air Canada delivers my suitcase:

1. wear my hot pink tights for the first time ever, which leads us to number two:

2. not leave my apartment.

 

If there’s anyone in the downtown Toronto area who has an extra pair of pants, holler.

 

 

But here’s a peculiar airplane-related story that has nothing to do with me not having any pants:


On this particular flight back to Toronto, I was left to sit beside the strangest person I have ever had the (mis)fortune of sitting beside. She was probably about 42, with short black hair and an unfortunate lady-mustache. She didn’t say hello or bother with small talk, which is fine because I’m not the biggest fan of single-serving friends. 

 

I suppose she didn’t talk to me because she already had a friend with her. A small, hand-sized teddy bear that was somewhat disheveled and dirty: two things that screamed “crazy-grown-woman-who-carries-around-a-stuffed-animal!”. She put it in the pocket of the seat in front of her so that it appeared to be smiling up at her with its plastic eyes and its threaded smile. As she was reading her National Post, she would every so often acknowledge it by giving its nose a little poke. When she ate her Greek salad, she put the bear on the tray, and would pet it lovingly between bites. 

 

Towards the end of the flight I—no longer trying to subtly glance, but rather fully gaping at this point—noticed that the stuffed animal was sitting on her lap, and that she was looking down at it making it nod every few seconds by poking its little plastic nose. I wonder what they where talking about.

 

Also weird was how every time I coughed (which I courteously did into my elbow, taking my cue from McGill University’s coughing etiquette sign), she would begin fanning herself with the safety instructions card. This happened every single time I coughed; she would just tut and fan away, as though fanning herself would keep away the germs that I clearly had already safely stowed in my elbow. I spent the four-hour flight trying not to cough, which is hard to do when you’re sick.

 

She occasionally made comments under her breath, the first of which I acknowledged and tried to say something in agreement. She completely ignored me, probably because she was talking to her teddy bear. Silly me.

 

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go raid my roommate’s closet for some jeans, which is stupid because I’ve already done that and her jeans won’t magically fit me today, when they were two sizes too big yesterday.

 

Beer Pong: A Narrative in Drinks January 5, 2009

Filed under: Booze,City Living,Transit — Laurin McNiff @ 10:00 pm

6:05pm  I arrive at Boss Tweed’s in the Lower East Side. I am the only person in the bar.

6:15pm  The bartender comes out of an entryway unseen by my sober eyes. Remarks that there will be no karaoke until Thursday but, “Damn, were you awesome last week!”

6:16pm  I order the daily “special”: a shot of Jack Daniels and a Budweiser for $5.

7:10pm  Three “specials” later, I am buzzed. I recall that there is a beer pong table in the front of the bar. I am in game mode.

7:30pm  Two guys come in and begin setting up the table by filling disposable plastic cups with the contents of two pitchers of beer. I look on in amazement and watch the first game unfold.

7:45pm  If there was a league for beer pong, [Ed.'s note: There is.] these guys would be MVPs. These players are geniuses and can play the game like professionals. They are both so good that the game ends by 7:55pm. This is only adding to my excitement. I want in.

8:10pm  I am halfway drunk and fiercely playing beer pong with the two pros. We spot three gangly looking kids who must be from NYU, eyeing us like we suck. They approach us and declare that they can whoop our asses. We loudly contest this and immediately re-rack. I order another “special”.

9:10pm  We promptly kick their butts, but amazingly, these kids are some tough competition. They fight the good fight, but lose regardless. I am now 90% drunk and am in no way legal to drive. Good thing I live along the J, Z. (The subway line, not the rapper.)

10:00pm  I get cocky with my beer team and decide we should whoop the NYU kids’ asses one more time before getting even more intoxicated. Everyone agrees, and the NYU kids put their game faces back on.

11:00pm  The NYU kids beat us in the final game. At this point no one dares to suggest further play. We retreat to the bar and drink some more.

 

All I remember next is that I had a quick moment of lucidity and left in a mad dash to catch the subway before it was too late. At least, I think I did. Who knows when I left, or how I really got home. But I assume it was via public transit and I show no signs of getting mugged. Oh, the things I do in the name of research.

 

Hair Crimes: West Coast Edition October 1, 2008

Filed under: Hair & Fashion Crimes,Transit — Kimberly Senf @ 2:02 am
Mullet at twelve o'clock (Photo by Kimberlily)

Mullet at twelve o'clock. (Photo by Kimberly Senf)

I discreetly took this shot while riding the Vancouver Skytrain, marveling at the length of the mousy brown curls that cascaded down his back. I hope he didn’t get any hair caught in his bike chain on the way back to Surrey.

 

Oh My Opus September 4, 2008

Filed under: City Living,Musings,Transit — Kimberly Senf @ 12:24 am
The card for everyone (except me and you).

The card for everyone (except me and you).

I’ve seen the new installations and all the fancy signs that blind me as I make my way out of the metro, but for all the transit-glamour associated with the new Opus card, I can’t seem to get my hands on one. Now, I’ve heard of establishments that have soft openings, but this uber-slow approach to getting the card out to Montreal commuters makes me a little wary of this new system. Why is it that two STM “Information” employees are watching as I slide my old trusty bus pass through the reader at numerous metro stations instead of palming me a new Opus card and directing me to the unfortunately-coloured terminals? I can’t figure out what exactly they do all day because I’ve never actually seen them interact with another human besides the STM worker behind the glass. Maybe they run marathons between stations to see who can get from Place-des-Arts to Atwater and back the quickest. And just maybe they should run to Berri station and grab an Opus card for this commuter, because I’m ready for a change—and this wrist of mine needs a break.

 

Hop on the Bus, Gus – We Need to Discuss Much August 16, 2008

Filed under: City Living,Etiquette,Transit — Kimberly Senf @ 2:00 am

Montreal has a solid and more or less reliable public transit system that helps everyone get from Point A to Point B. From the wonderful sounds of the metro, to the “advance to the back of the bus” yells that are heard daily (albeit in French and totally incomprehensible on a good day), this city has a transit system like no other. But the question I have is this: When exactly did bus etiquette fly out the window and onto Parc Avenue in one ungraceful swoop? Because I feel like I’m riding around with STM virgins that have somehow forgotten how to coexist in harmony with their fellow travelers—and is it ever getting my knickers in a knot.

 

Firstly, let’s talk line-ups. The whole point of queuing is to accurately display the order in which people arrived at a designated area in order to await public transit. If everything is running along smoothly, each would-be commuter will just get in line behind the last person waiting at the bus stop. But as everyone knows, things get rocky when it comes down to those limited seats on the bus. All of a sudden, the back of the line seems rather undesirable and the front all-too-interesting. You’ve got the ones who are pretending to look at the bus schedule, hoping that they can stall their way onto the bus before everyone else (i.e, me). Then there are the little old ladies who play the sympathy card. While I’m no heartless scrooge, I do like to judge each golden girl on her own merits and decide which ones deserve to inch ahead without the ten minute wait attached. I let most of them get on before me, but if I’m not convinced that they’re even paying the reduced-rate seniors fare, my pity ends at the black and yellow line by the driver’s seat.

 

Ridin' the bus in style (Note the window seat) (Photo by Kimberlily)

Ridin' the bus in style. (Note the window seat.) (Photo by Kimberlily)

Once I’ve made it past the driver and sauntered my way down the centre aisle, the many faults of the system present themselves. Sticky summer buses are their own special version of hell, and all the more so if I’m stuck next to Johnny Noshower. And then there’s the twelve-year-old kid with the backpack that weighs more than he does who stands in the middle of the aisle and refuses to budge, no matter how many dirty looks (or elbows) I send in his direction. My personal favourites are the people who hold ridiculously loud conversations on their cell phones about everything from dog food to genital warts. I don’t think they got the memo that not only can their caller hear them, but miraculously, so can everyone else in their immediate vicinity, and we don’t necessarily want to listen to them postulate on the many differences between their current boyfriend and the one they had three weeks ago.

 

At this point, a seat has likely been found beside one of the aforementioned undesirable characters and my journey is in full swing. I’m usually happy to settle down with a book, but sometimes I’ll take a look around to see what type of odd behaviour is on the loose. The people who talk to themselves can actually provide some much needed entertainment, but most of the time the eavesdropping is rather lackluster because the pitch gets so high that it’s almost as if they want everyone to hear what they’re saying. Oh yeah, that’s right—they do. For others, the bus is an intimate environment that must make them feel like they’re amongst kin, because the number of times I’ve seen my seatmate pull out a nail clipper and just go at it is high enough for me to realize I should have switched to the train a long time ago.

 

As for the send-off, I often find myself being catapulted out of the bus by my own sheer force, while my bags remain entangled amongst the folks who like to hug the poles near the exit door like they’re the only things rooting them to this Earth. As I squeeze my way out, I never forget to send poignant looks in the direction of these pole-huggers. I hope that one day they will figure out that standing right next to the door and blocking my way out is not only rude, but also that they’re touching the most germ-infested poles on the bus, since every person who goes by holds those poles as they wait for the bus to come to a complete stop. Once outside, I breathe a sigh of relief, inhaling the sweet, noxious fumes of exhaust that trail before me as I make my way to the metro. And then I start the whole process again.