My very first bike accident
My people are from Glasgow, which features one of the worst slums in Europe (so I'm told, I cannot be bothered to Google). They came to the states and settled in Detroit, another top-ranking slum area. I left Detroit (we will ignore the bland non-slum-ness of Allentown and the suburbs of Detroit where I actually grew up) and bought a house in South Philly, home to a larger proportion of semi-employed assholes than most urban areas. Really. Ask me about my delightful tire-slashing tree-killing constantly-threatening neighbors sometime.
Like my people, I do not fear a little adversity. Friday night? When a taxi hit my bike? And was totally in the wrong? Did I cry and get upset and call the cops? No. I blocked the damn taxi so it couldn't drive off and yelled and cursed at the driver long enough to make him feel really bad. Then I made sure that my bike was functional and rode off. Goddamn taxis are a menace. That driver should be thanking whoever it is he worships that I didn't call the cops. I didn't call because both because I fear the overzealous South Street cops (I did have a few drinks in me), but also because I am sympathetic to the undocumented and I didn't think that dude needed to get in a lot of trouble. But he and all the other taxi drivers in Philly need to PAY ATTENTION.









