Special Lies: Innovate or Don't.

I used to worry about the future of humanity.  War, climate change, dwindling natural resources, the endless proliferation of flavored vodkas...  It seemed like we were all on a highway to Hell in a flaming Prius with failing brakes, the stereo playing the breathy musical stylings of John Mayer in a futile attempt to distract us from our imminent demise.

Now I realize I was wrong, and that design douches in colorful studios will soon solve all of the world's problems.  Consider the Clug, which purports to solve the eternally vexing problem of bicycle storage:



Apparently, these particular design douches couldn't find a place for their bikes that didn't block either their ugly painting or their useless tchotchke shelf:

So they had a brainstorming session ("brainstorm" is a euphemism for "circle jerk") and came up with the idea for the Clug:

(Drawing things first legitimizes them, especially if there's a coffee mug nearby.)

Of course, any design douche solution has to perform an identical function to an existing product, only it has to do so far less well.  In this regard the Clug is a resounding success, since it does exactly the same thing as a typical bike hook, which is to say it grasps a bicycle by one wheel and holds it to the wall:

Except unlike the hook it currently only fits skinny tires, and it's not strong enough to get the bike up off the floor where it's out of the way:

(Always a good idea to hang your bike in a doorway.)

Unlike the pathetically unfashionable hook, which allows you to keep your bikes higher up on the wall, thus making it easier to sweep, mop, or vacuum, and also freeing up valuable floorspace for whimsical tchotchke hutches, mid-century modern credenzas, and other forms of home decor:

Unfortunately, regular bike hooks are only rated for uncool low-end mountain bikes and come in a very limited variety of colors, so they're not really a viable option for today's cyclists.

Perhaps most irritably, the Clug is nothing new, and I have almost the exact same thing in my broom closet where it's gripping my Swiffer®:

(All You Haters Grip My Swiffer.)

Alas, I cannot take credit for the installation of this device, for it was already there when we moved in.  (The clip, not the Swiffer.  That's the "Pro SL" model with the titanium shaft, too, it cost me $750 not including the custom fitting.)

Nevertheless, despite all these shortcomings, they've already raised a shitload of Canadian dollars:

I guess I can just go Clug myself.

Speaking of marketing, I recently received the following email:

Hi,

My name is Carlo and I work in the community outreach team at Tug Agency for momondo.com, a new flight comparison site.

We’ve produced a video about New York bike messengers that may be of interest for the readers of BIKE SNOB NYC. Part of the “100 subcultures” campaign, the video describes the scene, everyday life and challenges of the bike messenger community in New York City with beautiful images and in less than 1 minute.

You can find the video here and if you think it’s worth sharing on BIKE SNOB NYC, please let me know and I will send you the embed codes.

Many thanks for your time and hope to hear you soon

Carlo

Alas, I was torn.  On one hand, I did not want to help the Tug Agency give one of their clients a little tugjob by promoting "momondo.com," the new flight comparison site I don't give a flying fuck about.  On the other hand, I did watch the video, and it's completely idiotic, which of course made it worth sharing on my blog, because if nothing else I consider myself a "curator" of bicycle-themed idiocy.  Fortunately, I am also a brilliant hacker, so ultimately I was able to obtain the so-called "embed codes" for the video without first asking Carlo for them--and here it is:



This is top-shelf filmmaking by someone who is clearly intimately involved in the world of the New York City messenger, and I especially like the part about how messengers "whiz down concrete stairs:"

It may not surprise you to learn that bike messengers don't do a lot of whizzing down concrete stairs, inasmuch as most concrete stairs in Manhattan lead only to subway stations--unless they mean "whizzing" in the sense of "urinating," in which case, yeah, a stairwell is as good a place as any to take a whiz.

So what do messengers do when they're not pissing in stairwells?  Well, they're also "cementing a curious bond with the concrete jungle they are kings.  Of."

The narrator, it should be noted, also has a curious bond with the English language.

"The image of a 'ruth-less' renegade moving wildly through traffic is gone," the narrator continues.

So what has become of them?  Are they now merely ruth-less renegades waiting patiently for the subway?

In fact, it's even more complicated:

"They follow a new code, to go with the flow of traffic, bothering NO-ONE."

Really?  I hadn't heard that, and apparently neither have the hordes of salmoning messengers I see on a daily basis.

"If you ever get lost in New York City," the narrator concludes, "THESE are the ones you ask for directions."

Translation: messengers are mostly white people with liberal arts degrees now, so you don't have to be afraid of them anymore, assuming they look like this:

(Never trust whitey.)

Wow, the Tug Agency is sure worth whatever monomondo.com is paying them, and I imagine this tedious, wildly inaccurate, and subtly racist video that has nothing to do with air travel will go viral and send profits into the stratosphere.

Meanwhile, in California, a "safari style nomadic village needs a bathroom/shower trailer to be able to host bike tourists camping on farms and wineries"--or, to translate from the Kickstarterese, some hippies need themselves a shitter:



I was freaked out by the California vibe and the banjo accompaniment and suspect this may be some sort of cult, but I was intrigued by the bathroom/shower trailer, so I checked out a website and learned that I myself can easily become a bathroom/shower trailer entrepreneur:

It seems fairly clear to me that I need to order a Clug, hang up my blogging wheels with it, hook my Big Dummy up to one of these babies and get into the toilet-schlepping business.  Actually, I can't believe someone's not already doing this in Portland.  You have to figure that as the operator of the world's only human-powered bathroom you'd make your entire year's nut during the Cross Crusade alone!

Sure, it would be more of a challenge in New York City, though I'd probably do pretty well if I scored a big client like the Five Boro Bike Tour or the Gran Fondo New York:

(A relieved Fred emerges from the Bike Snob NYC Velo-Latrine.)

Or, as I call it due to its URL (http://granfondony.com/), the "Gran Fondony" [GRAN Fon-DO-ny], which sounds like something you might order at an airport Sbarro:

(A half-eaten and abandoned Sbarro Gran Fondony, its erstwhile owner already furtively depositing flatulence into an airplane seat cushion.)

This year's Gran Fondony took place last Sunday, and it's a testament to my profound isolationism and dedicated Fred avoidance that until yesterday I had no idea that thousands of Freds had amassed mere miles from my home--though as careful as I am not to cross paths with other recreational cyclists I did encounter a different group ride on Saturday.  I'm not sure who they were, but as they approached me their leader shouted out, "BIKER UP AHEAD!!!," and the rest of the group responded by swerving wildly and very nearly putting themselves in a ditch.  Also, at least one of them was wearing a Reddit jersey, so evidently membership in the club required being a gigantic nerd.

Anyway, back to the Gran Fondony, if you want to know who got crowned the World's Greatest Fred, here's the finish line video:

(Instant online results are no longer enough, we now need finish line video.)

Pending the drug test, to the victor went whatever the spoils were, while the rest of the Freds were forced to compete for scraps:

Beautiful Red Lips in Gran Fondo - m4w (Gran Fondo)

Can't get the picture of you out of my mind. Cutting through Rockland on your bike. Deepest red lips. Pow right in the kisser Alice!!!
Tell me what I do for a living and I will treat you to a drink or 7 or 12. Once tipsy who knows.

Yes, when it comes to pickup lines, women love a timely spousal abuse reference.