The Indignity of Living in New York: Big, Fat, Lazy Egos

Well, it's August 27th, and that means two things: it's the 50th anniversary of Bigfoot; and I'm back in town. And while I'm celebrating Bigfoot Day in the usual manner (writing a large check to the International Cryptozoology Museum in Portland, ME while dressed as Bigfoot), I'm somewhat less celebratory about my return to New York.

You may be wondering why this is. Isn't one of the best things about traveling the way it helps you cultivate an appreciation for your hometown? Don't you return with new eyes and see, as if for the first time, all that you've taken for granted? Well, not exactly. For me, it's more like riding a really nice bike for a few days and then having to get back on your crap-tastic bathysphere. That first day back on the streets of New York is like a twelve-tone symphony of stupidity and malice composed by a reanimated and insane Arnold Schoenberg. (When people get reanimated, they always come back insane. I learned that from movies.) It's a cacophony played by an orchestra of phlegm-hocking, jay-walking, coffee-slurping pedestrians, moronic bike salmon, malicious cellphone-cradling delivery truck drivers, deranged cab drivers in exotic religious headgear, doughy endomorphs in drifting SUVs, and riders for whom the highest expression of cycling is the crosswalk trackstand during which they stare deep into space in a desperate attempt to maintain their precarious balance like candy-colored pointers locking on to birds.

There are many reasons why New York is the way it is, and they are too numerous to list here. However, the main one is that New Yorkers have a sense of self-importance that is more bloated than a French duck's liver. Here's just one typical example I encountered this morning:

Note how the driver was considerate enough to perch one wheel on the curb in order to provide an ample five inches of bike lane for any cyclists requiring passage. And lest you think the driver was simply pulling over momentarily to pick up or disgorge a passenger, please note that I watched him pull over right in front of me, rode around him, continued on for a few blocks (including a lengthy wait at the light to cross Sixth Avenue, a major artery), decided as an afterthought to go back and take a picture, dismounted my bicycle, walked back to his car (I had to cross Sixth Avenue and wait for the light again), and found him still there, doing this:

I suppose I should be thankful he was heeding my PSA and not actually driving while using his cellphone, but strangely I was unconsoled. At this point, the driver had to have been on the phone for at least ten minutes, and he was so engrossed that he took absolutely no notice of me as I stood directly outside his passenger window and snapped away at him with my Instamatic. It was kind of like encountering Bigfoot in a forest, but instead of him running away he just sits there nibbling on berries while you film him. I could have twisted the ends of my handlebar moustache pensively, gotten underneath the black curtain of one of those old-timey cameras, and set off a blinding and explosive flash without his so much as peering at me through his tethered spectacles.

Since there didn't appear to be any urgency, I got in closer and tried to see if I could read the paper in his lap. I assumed it must be a very important phone call for him to have been sitting in the middle of a bike lane conversing for such a long time. Without actually sticking my head through the open window (I wasn't about to do that, and my handlebar moustache probably wouldn't have fit anyway) I was unable to make out his handwriting, but through the miracle of technology I was able to render it legible in my laboratory:

Indeed, he is taking down directions to the Hamptons. If you're unfamiliar with the Hamptons, it's almost exactly like the movie "Weekend at Bernie's," and in the summer months it has an irresistible allure for idiots like this. It appears his final destination is 803 Hill Street, which means he's probably headed to Southampton. Southampton happens to be the location of an excellent cyclocross race. However, the only barriers this fellow seems interested in hopping are the ones between decency and being an asshole. He's also preparing to exceed the speed limit--note the double underscore beneath "watch for cops."

And stupidity wasn't just waiting for me on the streets. It was also lurking in my email inbox. Somebody forwarded me the following request from no less a publication than the New York Times:

Hello,

I'm working on a piece for the upcoming Thursday Styles section that will be a photo-driven article about who rides what in the city, and why. We basically want to identify the tribes: downtown design hipsters on vintage Scwhinns, Wall Street jocks (or whoever) on their hot, pricey road bikes, etc. The more specific detail the better.

I want first to hear from bike-riders with a keen eye for style about what "types" of riders out there they observe: what they wear, what they ride, what accessories are must-have. Obviously, we'll be generalizing, but the point is to be visual and light-hearted, not scientific in our categories. If you could contact as many riders as possible and ask that e-mail me with ideas of what types of people ride what bike, and why, that would be great. The more colorful the descriptions, the better.

Once we winnow down the list of types of riders to about five or six, then I'll want to contact people who fit the bill to get quotes. So I'd love to get contact info for anyone who seems like the epitome of any particular style.

I'd love to cast as wide a net as possible, so any help you can give me in getting the word out would be most appreciated. And I am under deadline.

Thanks so much.

[deleted]
Reporter
The New York Times
212 556 [deleted]

[deleted]@nytimes.com

Yes, that seems about right. I don't see why the notion of "journalistic standards" should preclude any reporter from putting together an article on something about which he's completely ignorant. I also don't see why he shouldn't then just email a bunch of people to do his job for him. Hopefully, this approach will spread to other professions too. I'd love to receive an email from a doctor which says, "I'm seeing a patient tomorrow and I'm looking for people with a keen eye for illness. If you could contact as many people as possible who know about coughing-type stuff, bleeding-type stuff, and oozing, crusty, scabby-type stuff, that would be great. The more disgusting the better. And hurry, because I'm on a deadline--the patient I'm seeing is dying."

Sure, I know, it's just the Style Section, and it's just something "visual and light-hearted." Why take it so seriously? Well, first of all, it's the New York Times! They've got the ultimate cycling authority on their very own staff, and his name is Robert Mackey. Why not ask him? I'm sure he can tell them all they need to know. Secondly, there's just something offensive about the "help us help you pigeonhole yourselves" approach. And lastly, there are enough people out there purchasing lifestyles already. In fact, it's right up there with bloated self-importance as a primary reason New York can be so irritating. It's easy to be a rock star--just buy the pants. It's easy to have a personality--just buy the drugs. It's easy to be a cyclist--just buy the bike. Similarly, it's easy to be a reporter--just send out a few emails and photograph a bunch of people who are eager to legitimize and validate themselves in print. Because, whether you're a cyclist or a reporter, why should you have to actually do anything to be something? Why should a writer have to go out there and find something himself? Why not just sit there, like the Hamptons-bound guy in the bike lane, and let the world come to you? That's much easier.

I look forward to seeing the article tomorrow.