BSNYC Friday No Quiz For You, Instead You Get Sloppy Seconds!

On Monday, I wrote a response to a New York Times op-ed called "Is It O.K. To Kill Cyclists?"

The post was commented upon, "Tweeted," and so forth by a fairly sizable number of people, and here and there readers asked whether I'd sent it to the Times.

I never do that, mostly because if something's on my mind I can just type it right into this blog with as many obscenities as I wish and then press "Publish."  Sure, this blog has only a tiny fraction of the readership and respectability of the Times, but whether something is published here or there it also ultimately winds up on the same Internet.  It's sort of like pissing in the shower instead of the toilet: "It's all pipes!," as George Costanza once pointed out.  So really, why bother getting out of the shower in order to submit something to the Times when it all ends up contaminating the same water table?

(For the record, I don't actually piss in the shower because I'm extremely uptight.  It's just a metaphor.)

Also, two years ago, the Wall Street Journal asked me to write something about bike lanes for them.  So I submitted this--which they ultimately declined to print.  Instead, they published a bike-baiting piece of shit by P.J. O'Rourke in its place.

That really pissed me off.

Nevertheless, when Streetsblog reported on Wednesday that, in the wake of mounting pedestrian deaths, the NYPD suggested we all walk around with flashlights so we don't get run over, I figured that was worthy of critique--even more so than the objectionable nature of the color blue, which the Times has already demonstrated they believe to be a subject worthy of an op-ed.

So yesterday I wrote up an op-ed of my own and sent it to the Times.

They didn't want it.

Therefore, by way of pissing in the shower, I'm publishing it here instead for your delectation, derision, or total indifference, as the case may be.

As always, thanks for reading, ride safe, and have an enjoyable and brightly-lit weekend.


--Wildcat Rock Machine

PS: That cab driver who maimed a tourist in the process of trying to run down a bike messenger will not be charged, so you can surrender now and lease yourself a Hyundai, because the cars have won.

SAFETY ORANGE IS THE NEW BLACK

by W. Katz Rockmanstein

There's a peculiar notion that, if you ride a bike without wearing a helmet, whatever happens to you is your fault.

"It's unclear whether the victim was wearing a helmet," the local news report will offer uselessly--unclear, most likely, because after the SUV driver ran the light the cyclist's head rolled away and has yet to be found.

Go ahead, judge cyclists and the helmetless all you want, but you should know that the forces of smugness and victim-blaming are coming for you too, even if the only vehicle you ride is the heel-toe express.  Yesterday, the website Streetsblog.org reported the appearance of a flyer in the 78th Precinct in Brooklyn, posted by the NYPD and issued by 1 Police Plaza.  The title of the flyer was "SAFETY TIPS FOR PEDESTRIAN [sic]," and the advice ranged from somewhat sensible to completely ludicrous, the three most egregious examples of the latter being these informational nuggets:

--Hold your hand up or do whatever it takes to make yourself more visible to drivers.

--Avoid walking in the dark and during bad weather such as snow, ice, rain or fog.

--Wear light or bright-colored or reflective clothing, especially if you walk at night.  Use a flashlight if you walk at night.

Really, it's come to this?  We're supposed to walk around New York City carrying flashlights like it's a KOA and we're venturing out of our tents to relieve ourselves in the bear-infested woods?  Remember Woody Allen in "Annie Hall," perambulating in Manhattan and lamenting that the only redeeming quality of Los Angeles was "being able to make a right turn on a red light"?  Now picture him that evening, wearing a reflective vest and waving a flashlight as he does jumping jacks while attempting to cross 5th Avenue--assuming it's not raining, of course, in which case he'd be well advised to avoid walking altogether.

Good thing it never rains here.

As New Yorkers, we love to lament the changes this city is constantly undergoing.  You know the refrain: Brooklyn is the new Manhattan, Manhattan is the new Dubai. Nanny Bloomberg raised our rents, riddled the city with bike lanes, and tried to take away our big sodas. The whole city is becoming a soulless shopping mall, a tony suburb of Yonkers.  And so forth.

Hey, we all knew this couldn't stay the greatest city in the world forever, but who knew after all we've been through it would end with the NYPD ordering us to surrender completely to cars by effectively dressing like traffic cones should we dare to step out at night?  The "SAFETY TIPS FOR PEDESTRIAN" flyer is a response to "an increase in fatalities of pedestrians in New York City."  However, to my knowledge, the NYPD did not issue a similar warning to motorists.  A flyer called "SAFETY TIPS FOR DRIVER" placed under every windshield wiper, while no doubt worthless, might have at least been a start.  (Tip #1: Avoid driving in the dark and during bad weather.)  Instead, we're all supposed to go around jumping and waving our lights like a bunch of ravers on Ecstacy.  (Albeit ravers on Ecstacy who still have the presence of mind to scrupulously adhere to traffic signals).

If you're not horrified that the police force in the largest city in America (and one of the few where people still walk) is recommending that its citizens dress like highway construction crews and carry flashlights like every day is Superstorm Sandy, you should be.  The 78th Precinct, where this flyer was spotted, encompasses Park Slope, and as amusing as it is to imagine the local yuppies showing up at al di la dressed like Dynamo from "The Running Man," phosphorescent and in constant fear of drivers from Jersey is no way to go through life.  It should also be noted that the 78th is Bill de Blasio's home precinct, and while he campaigned in part on "Vision Zero," a plan to reduce traffic fatalities to zero in 10 years, in the meantime he's still angsting over possibly having to give up driving his teenage son two miles to school.  Given all this, I'd love to hear what he thinks of "Vision Wave-Your-Flashlight-In-Desperation-On-The-Way-To-Duane-Reade."

So if you've been waiting for a good time to join the growing number of people who are outraged over the culture of reckless driving and victim-blaming in this city, now would be a good time--unless you fancy walking around town lit up like a human Hanukkah bush.  And let's hold di Blasio to this Vision Zero thing, because at this rate in 20 years you'll be reading news stories about how "the victim wasn't carrying a lightsaber."

In the meantime, sunset is at 4:38pm today.  Don't forget your flashlight.

"Please, Please, Please Do Not Go-oooh..."--An Open Letter To David Byrne On This, The Eve Of His Departure From New York City

Dave, Dave, Dave.

Early in this blog's life, when I was still anonymous and it was still funny, I went to an event under the auspices of The New Yorker Festival called "David Byrne Presents: How New Yorkers Ride Bikes:"

I never thought about David Byrne very much before starting this blog.  Having assumed my cultural identity in the 1980s I was of course well aware of his music because by then it was everywhere: the radio, MTV, movies like "Down and Out In Beverly Hills" (still one of my favorites), and so on.  At the same time, I was too young to have been aware of those vital early days when Talking Heads and Blondie and Television and Patti Smith and whoever else were all underground and playing at CBGB.  By the time I was old enough to seek out music by myself (you had to travel to an actual record store back then) those days were long gone.  I do remember going to the Tower Records on Broadway in the Village when I was still trying to get a handle on my musical tastes and buying both "True Stories" and "Jealous Again" by Black Flag.  While the Black Flag album was already old at that point it spoke to the kid I was very plainly and in a way that "True Stories" simply did not.  (I still have the Black Flag record, though I have no idea where "True Stories" went.  I'm sure I jettisoned it at some point because it wasn't a "hardcore" record.)  Certainly as I got older I became more sophisticated and gained more of an appreciation for David Byrne's place in underground rock music, but I was never, like, deeply into his stuff or anything, mostly because by that point in my life I was way too busy with bikes and work to spend lots and lots of time geeking out over music.

And that might have been that, but then I started a bike blog, and suddenly David Byrne was omnipresent.  It was 2007.  Bike lanes were appearing everywhere.  People were gentrifying the fuck out of Brooklyn.  It seemed like anyplace the advocates and bike boosters were gathering they were trotting out David Byrne as their celebrity spokesperson.  His bike racks began to appear.  I'd be riding home from my (then) job in Manhattan to my (then) home in Brooklyn only to encounter mobs of people in Prospect Park taking advantage of the bike valet parking for the David Byrne show at the Bandshell.

In my little private world, within the space of about a year, David Byrne had gone from the guy on an LP I discarded in middle school to the very bellwether of New York City cycling and gentrification.

And now he wants to leave!?!  Nooo!!!

At first I worried that it was something I said, and I felt terrible.  I realize I've been kind of hard on the guy, but it was all in good fun.  Anyway, I can't help it.  I've been "bridge and tunnel" (at least until Brooklyn became cool and the phrase lost all meaning) my entire life, so even though I agree with most of his modern urbanist livable streets sentiments I also can't help find his Manhattan-centric lofty loft liberalism amusing from time to time.

I mean, I know he doesn't own a car, but has he ever had to schlep the whole family from some transit-starved corner of Queens to visit grandma on Staten Island?

Look, I know cars are hopelessly suburban and the suburbs are depressingly American, but what do you expect from me, Dave?  I'm a lowbrow.  While you were experimenting with "Afro-Cuban, Afro-Hispanic, and Brazilian song styles" I was scrounging rides out to Bay Shore to see Sepultura at Frank Cariola's Sundance.

Fortunately though, I don't think I had anything to do with David Byrne's decision, and the immediate cause for his possible departure seems to be that tourists aren't waving to him:

Venice is now a case study in the complete transformation of a city (there's public transportation, but no cars). Is it a living city? Is it a fossil? The mayor of Venice recently wrote a letter to the New York Review of Books, arguing that his city is, indeed, a place to live, not simply a theme park for tourists (he would like very much if the big cruise ships steered clear). I guess it's a living place if you count tourism as an industry, which I suppose it is. New York has its share of tourists, too. I wave to the doubledecker buses from my bike, but the passengers never wave back. Why? Am I not an attraction?

Oh, Dave, of course you're an attraction!  It's just that these pathetic Midwestern rubes don't recognize you now and thus have no idea they're having an encounter with a real live celebrity.  If only you'd ride around in that giant suit they'd probably fall out of the bus trying to get your autograph:

("Hey, it's big suit guy from the '80s!")

As it happens, I attended a lot of Bar Mitzvahs back in those days dressed pretty much exactly like that.

Anyway, yeah, you can't expect these hicks to know that you've aged and have become all grey and distinguished.  At best, now they just think you're Ted Danson:

("Fuck 'Cheers.'"--David Byrne)

So yeah, naturally they're not going to wave to Sam Malone, since he has very little currency outside of Boston.

But it's not just the waving.  David Byrne also wants to move because New York's for rich people now and you can't be artsy or middle class here anymore, and so he proceeds to examine why this is and what it means and why people want to live in New York in the first place:

Work aside, we come to New York for the possibility of interaction and inspiration. Sometimes, that possibility of serendipitous encounters – and I don't mean in the meat market – is the principal lure. If one were to vote based on criteria like comfort or economic security, then one wonders why anyone would ever vote for New York at all over Copenhagen, Stockholm or some other less antagonistic city that offers practical amenities like affordable healthcare, free universities, free museums, common spaces and, yes, bike lanes. But why can't one have both – the invigorating energy and the civic, intelligent humanism?

I had a little bit of trouble following this, since Copenhagen and Denmark each have less than a tenth of the population of New York City.  In fact, the New York City metropolitan area has something like eight million more people than Denmark and Sweden combined.  This is why it would make more sense for him to compare New York to places like London, Paris, and Tokyo, which are also huge global culture and business centers that attract scads of gajillionaires.

By the way, it's also probably why New York City smells like sex:

Maybe those Scandinavian cities do, in fact, have both, but New York has something else to offer, thanks to successive waves of immigrants that have shaped the city. Arriving from overseas, one is immediately struck by the multi-ethnic makeup of New York. Other cities might be cleaner, more efficient or comfortable, but New York is funky, in the original sense of the word – New York smells like sex.

I don't know what kind of sex David Byrne is having, but it must smell like honey roasted peanuts and urine.

Where Dave does start making sense (Get it?  I'm the first person ever to make that joke!) though is when he talks about what brought him here in the 1970s:

I moved to New York in the mid 1970s because it was a center of cultural ferment – especially in the visual arts (my dream trajectory, until I made a detour), though there was a musical draw, too, even before the downtown scene exploded. New York was legendary. It was where things happened, on the east coast, anyway. One knew in advance that life in New York would not be easy, but there were cheap rents in cold-water lofts without heat, and the excitement of being here made up for those hardships. I didn't move to New York to make a fortune. Survival, at that time, and at my age then, was enough. Hardship was the price one paid for being in the thick of it.

This I find very interesting.  So David Byrne came here when a lot was happening culturally, and he was young, and so he and his peers were willing to deal with some temporary and (to a certain extent) voluntary squalor, which provided them the freedom and inspiration to create art that to this day exerts a tremendous influence on the popular culture and ultimately made them lots of money.  This is great, seriously.  High fives all around.

But what about the people who were a little older than David Byrne, like my parents?  This was not a viable lifestyle for them by this point, so the post-Robert Moses landscape that inadvertently fostered David Byrne also drove us to the outskirts.  And what about the people who are younger than David Byrne, like me?  20 years after Byrne's vital period of "cultural ferment" I was ready to establish my own foothold in New York City and, as someone working in a sort-of "creative" field, most of Manhattan was already out of the question for me financially.  Sure, part of the reason was the drop in crime, but it was also because of the cultural influence of David Byrne and his fellow fermentors who had made all of downtown terminally cool and hopelessly expensive.  So instead I lived in Brooklyn, where a young person could actually survive on an entry-level salary while still being able to take part in Manhattan culture via subway or bike, but then came the bike lanes and David Byrne and his bike racks at BAM and his concerts in Prospect Park and all the rest of it and now Martin Amis is moving there because of the spondee.

Like David Byrne, I too was bitter, but also like David Byrne it was mostly because I was old and out of touch:

This real estate situation – a topic New Yorkers love to complain about over dinner – doesn't help the future health of the city. If young, emerging talent of all types can't find a foothold in this city, then it will be a city closer to Hong Kong or Abu Dhabi than to the rich fertile place it has historically been. Those places might have museums, but they don't have culture. Ugh. If New York goes there – more than it already has – I'm leaving.

No!  Don't leave, Dave!  You did this to us in the first place!  This is all your fault!  Can't you at least see it through by staying here and comforting us with your music and your whimsical bike racks as we drown in glass condo buildings and chain stores?  Anyway, there are actually still places where "emerging talent of all types" can "find a foothold in this city"--it's just that they're not cool and you've never, ever been to them.

But where will I go? Join the expat hipsters upstate in Hudson?

Hey, you can live anywhere you want, consider yourself lucky.  Plus, if you really wanted to save the city you would have left for Beverly Hills decades ago when you first made it big.  Instead, you and your friends stayed in your big lofts and hung around making the scene and other people wanted to hang out and make the scene with you and now look.

Can New York change its trajectory a little bit, become more inclusive and financially egalitarian? Is that possible? I think it is. It's still the most stimulating and exciting place in the world to live and work, but it's in danger of walking away from its greatest strengths. The physical improvements are happening – though much of the crumbling infrastructure still needs fixing. If the social and economic situation can be addressed, we're halfway there. It really could be a model of how to make a large, economically sustainable and creatively energetic city. I want to live in that city.

Yeah, the writing's on the wall, Dave.  You're moving to Brooklyn.  Bike lanes, independent businesses, affordable (for you) real estate, and at your age you'll still think it's still got cultural vitality.  Plus, at least instead of living next to billionaires who are never home you'll live next to other millionaires who are not only home all the time "creating" but also leaving annoying notes about how your cat's too mean.

Face it Dave, you're stuck here.  I feel like I know you, and you'd be miserable anyplace else.  Your only other option (without leaving America) is Portland, and I don't think even you could deal with that.

Come by anytime.

Your neighbor,


--Wildcat Rock machine

This Just In: It's The Holidays And I'll Recess If I Want To!

So how about that Apocalypse?  Sure, it wasn't total devastation like some were predicting, but nevertheless it was a real inconvenience.  At the very least, I'm going to have to go out and buy new underpants.

Speaking of underpants, that's something you sometimes find under the Christmas tree (either as a gift, or else crumpled up in a heap if you over-nogged it on Christmas Eve), and with the holidays upon us please note that after today's post I will be on a peanut-butter-and-chocolately-delicious Holiday Reese's until Wednesday, January 2nd, 2013, at which point I will return with regular updates.  Until that time, you can bask in the virtual warmth of this holiday yule log:



Or, if you're a Wisconsin drunk, you can gather around the burning Obama instead:


Whatever your party affiliation, that's just disturbing.

In any case, I'll also point out that I had hoped to bore you with a longer end-of-the-year blogular posting, but believe it or not I am a parent (parenting is like riding a bike in that they'll let pretty much any idiot do it), and as it happens I have to strap on my daddy helment this morning and take care of some important parental business.  Nevertheless, I will take the time to direct your attention to this article and video about Jerry Seinfeld:

Not only is it interesting, but it also turns out he rides a Pinarello road bike around the city:

A sleek Pinarello racing bicycle, which Seinfeld rides around town, stood against a wall. “It’s very addictive, that feeling of gliding through the city,” he said.

I had no idea he was a closet Fred, but I guess it goes with the Porsche fixation.

Also, here's video of Jerry Seinfeld "getting rad" on that very Pinarello:



Just kidding.  That wasn't really Jerry Seinfeld.  Also, I bet you never, ever saw that video before, nor are you completely tired of it.  I know I'm not.

Lastly, before we all vanish into our own personal psychedelic tinsel-tastic holiday nightmares, I'll once again remind you that if you're looking for last minute gifts for people you don't like that much you should a) Buy My Books; and b) Patronize Our Sponsors, as seen in the right-hand margin.  For example, not only are Knog lights useful for your bike, but they're also great as beacons so that make-believe planes don't accidentally fly into your make-believe George Washington Bridge:

Yes, that's the George Washington Bridge, because the East River crossings are sooo last decade.  Plus, Knog lights are waterproof so they make great tub toys.  By the way, if you think it's my kid who's playing with Knog lights then you're mistaken.  The block architecture and the tub play is all me, and he knows if he gets anywhere near my toys I'll take away his box cutter.

And with that, I turn you over to the holidays and all the joy, depression, and general ennui that comes with them.  Hopefully you only experience the joy part.  Once again, please excuse my hasty departure, and I look forward to returning on Wednesday, January 3rd, 2013 (holy crap, it's the future!) with regular updates.  (Or even earlier, which is highly unlikely, but not impossible.)

Most of all, thank you very much for reading this crap every day, it makes me very happy to type it.

Look Out! It's Wednesday And We're About To Be Attacked By A Giant Holiday!

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.  Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins.  Two years ago, a friend of mine asked me to say some MC rhymes.  And so forth.

Well, I know I've only just returned from a moving-induced absence, but tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and Friday is the day after Thanksgiving, and that means after today I won't be posting again until Monday, November 26th.  If you're American, chances are you don't care that I won't be bloggering because you'll be off doing Thanksgiving stuff too.  If you're not American, don't blame me for the fact that you live in the wrong country.  Also, keep in mind that the day before Thanksgiving is the busiest travel day in the country, and I have to get to the airport in three hours to catch a plane from LaGuardia to JFK.  Most importantly, you should be tolerant of my culture, because Thanksgiving is a very important holiday here.  It commemorates the day that Christopher Columbus landed on the island of Hispaniola, where the Native American tribes fêted him with turkey and then ritualistically circumcised him, in return for which he gave them the gift of smallpox.  That's why on this day we make gratuitous lists of things that we are thankful for, and here is mine:

Things For Which I Am Thankful For

by Wildcat Rock Machine

--The delicate balance of nitrogen, oxygen, and other crap that makes the planet Earth habitable

--Most cheeses

--The urethra, because without it what a mess making "number one" would be!  Like the "mist" setting on a spray bottle!

--Vowels, because a world of only consonants would be a living trdczwmnmnmnthrhrhr.  (And sometimes "y.")

However, if you're a nudist and you live in San Francisco, you're certainly not thankful for the fact that the city has officially banned public nudity:

Here's why they did it:

The nudity situation in the Castro has become extreme,” Mr. Wiener told his colleagues.

Ohmygod he hates nudity and his name is Wiener.  That's the most mellifluous sentence I've read in a very long time.  If I ever reach a point where I no longer find something like that funny then just bury me alive.

Ironically, while San Francisco's public nudity enthusiasts may enjoy unobstructed views of each-other's human genitalia, they have no tolerance for the Wiener:

“Recall Wiener! Wiener is a Republican!” shouted Gerhart Clarke, 55, who stood up along with half a dozen others and stripped down to the buff.

“Shame on you!” another woman yelled, pulling off her shirt. “What are you afraid of?”

"Enough of your flip-flopping, Wiener!," I might have added while waving an athletic supporter had I been there.

Anyway, San Franciscans are now on notice that they have until February 1st to thoroughly gross out their fellow citizens:

The law will not go into effect until after Feb. 1, which will allow enough time for a federal judge to consider a lawsuit brought against the city by a group of nudists who claim that the ordinance infringes on their constitutional right to free speech.

The idealist in me wants to live in a world where we're all are comfortable with the human form, yet the pragmatist in me just wants to tell these people to put on some pants and shut up.  Of course, the real problem is that in practice some human forms cause more discomfort than others, so perhaps the best solution would be to institute some sort of permit system by which you'd have to apply for a public nudity license.  In that scenario, I'd deny roughly half of these applicants:

By the way, I enjoyed this picture of the San Francisco pro-nudity demonstration:

Not only is it good to see Tony Bennett letting it all hang out, but it's tremendously entertaining to see fully-clothed interlopers hoping for a glance at some nip:

Evidently he doesn't have the Internet at home.

Meanwhile, in Scotland, Graeme "The Flying Scotsman" Obree is preparing for his assault on the human-powered land speed record, which he will attempt on a homemade machine called the "Beastie:"

That looks remarkably like a Swatch I once had in middle school.  Apparently the condom-like fairing has been impairing Obree's visibility somewhat, but he's still optimistic:

Due to issues with visibility, Obree decided to test the usability of the bike with the fairing at a more moderate speed. The tests proved very successful and he remains upbeat despite the weather.

Another reason for his optimism is that, while the bike offers limited visibility for the rider, it also makes it difficult to see inside.  This means Obree will be able to operate it naked without running afoul of Weiner's draconian anti-nudity statutes.  When you're going for the land speed record every fraction of a second counts, and it helps if Obree can keep "The Little Scotsman" unfettered.

Moving on from little Scotsmen to gigantic Canadians, the set of bike-hating siamese quintuplets who call themselves the Robs Fords have had an accident while miming the act of playing football, and Canadian-flavored commenter CommieCanuck has forwarded me this riveting video of the incident:

He totally crashed himself like a Cat 5 in a field sprint.

Or, if you prefer the salient moment repeated ad nauseum you can watch this, which was forwarded by another reader:

Fords can rest easy knowing that once his political career is over he's a sure thing for the lead in the Chris Farley biopic.

And in product news, a reader has informed me of the "Helmet Hoodie," which promises to provide you with "cranium candlepower:"

Unfortunately the "Helmet Hoodie" people are missing out on huge cycling markets like Amsterdam and Copenhagen where everybody rides bikes but nobody wears helments.  The obvious solution is to rebrand it in those cities as the "Psychedelic Yarmulke" and just tell them to wear it without the helment.  They could even do an underpants version, which should be a big seller in San Francisco come February.

Happy Thanksgiving, ride safe, and try to avoid those Black Friday human stampedes at Walmart.  See you on November 26th.

--Wildcat Rock Machine

Instant Identity: Just Add Money

Further to yesterday's post, a reader left the following comment:

Anonymous said...


Mandatory helmet laws weed out the people who don't LOVE riding their bikes. Fight it, but ride not matter what!


June 27, 2012 8:56 PM

This is exactly the problem.  I don't want to "weed out the people who don't LOVE riding their bikes." People who love riding bikes are obsessive-compulsive freaks, and I say this as one of those people.  For the most part, America is a crappy place to ride a bike, which is why the people who actually ride bikes anyway are such weirdos.  I don't want to be surrounded by other weirdos like me.  American cycling badly need an infusion of people who aren't especially excited about riding bikes but do it anyway.  This is the only way we can water down our extreme dorkitude.  Otherwise, cycling in America is going to continue to look like this:

Before you complain that this image is not safe for work, please explain to your boss and colleagues that I am using it in a sociological and anthropological context, and therefore it is no more offensive than anything you're likely come across in "National Geographic" while waiting for your dental appointment.  It's also a valid cultural exploration, since the guy on the right is no doubt an authentic Rastafarian, albeit by way of Lake Forest.  And now, thanks to the miracle of Kickstarter, you can sponsor this image and others like it by giving money to "Positive Bodies: A World Naked Bike Ride Supporters Art Show:"

This project is very important, and here's why:

Unbending in the face of pressure and criticism for not posting these images on the web, he has been waiting for the right moment to exhibit these striking images as prints that can truly honor the courage of the participants.  After three years nearly 400 WNBR-C tastemakers have collaborated in this comprehensive collection in support of positive body image and freedom of expression.

Or, if you prefer, it's perhaps the most powerful argument against mandatory helment laws that it's possible to make, because as long as we keep cycling marginalized and freakish then people like this will be compelled to keep shoving their unkempt genitalia and unfortunate body art in everybody's faces.

Speaking of Kickstarter, "social panhandling" is rapidly becoming a potent force of social change.  See, you can ascribe as much metaphysical or spiritual significance to human existence as you want, but the simple fact is that life is mostly about exchanging stuff.  We all need stuff--food, water, shelter, boutique deodorizers formulated specifically for caucasian dreadlocks--and societies evolve around the sharing of this stuff.  This is because you can't just go around kicking people in the nuts and taking what you want.  There needs to be rules for who gets what and how.  Until recently, here's how "stuff exchange" traditionally worked in our society:

--You need stuff;
--You go to someone else who already has stuff and ask them if you can help them manage all that stuff in exchange for some stuff of your own (this is called "getting a job");
--You do your job, and in your free time you enjoy your stuff;
--As you accumulate both stuff and experience, you eventually strike some sort of happy balance between stuff management and life enjoyment, and this unique balance determines who you are;
--You die.

Now, though, all of this is hopelessly outdated, since thanks to Kickstarter all you need to do is just come up with an idea and then ask people for money:



The real genius of Kickstarter is two-fold, in that it:

1) Inverts the concept of "supply and demand."  It used to be that people had demands, and so they paid other people who were able to help them fulfill those demands.  Now, the way it works is you simply demand money from other people, and then you supply them with something they didn't even want in the first place;

2) It cuts out that pesky middleman known as "evolving" and instead allows you to conjure your identity from thin air.

Best of all, it allows you to "bundle" your leisure and creative endeavors.  Before Kickstarter, maybe you'd save up your money to take a long bike trip.  Then, maybe after the bike trip, you'd record some music about that trip.  If you were lucky, maybe people would enjoy that music, and if you were extremely lucky, maybe people would enjoy it so much that they'd even want to see a documentary about how you made that music.  This tedious process could take years, and success was far from guaranteed.  Now, though, you just ask for money so you can do the bike tour and the album and the documentary all at once, like when Disney releases a movie and a toy and a "making of" special and a fast food meal deal all on the same day, and the success is just assumed:

To me, this is the most fascinating aspect of Kickstarter--the way so many projects walk the fine line between self-reflexivity and auto-fellatio:

("Help me help you help me make art about my art.")

Of course, it's essential to keep in mind that these are merely the cynical musings of somebody who's hopelessly staid and ornery and whose blog is itself a daily act of auto-fellatio.  Certainly if someone wants to take a bike trip and someone else is willing to give him money for that bike trip so that he'll burn their name into his guitar then by all means they should all sit back and enjoy the fellatio.  Who knows?  The ensuing album/documentary could be a masterpiece.  And certainly some of these projects do have the potential to make a real difference.  Consider this one:

Creative endeavors are one thing, but you can't tell me we don't need more "deditcation to the peace building process:"

Anyway, this project reached its funding goal last year:

And since then they have indeed been "bi-keen for peace."  In fact, I visited their website, where I learned they've been saving the world by having incoherent interactions with the locals:

He talked fast and continued to use his hands and arms enthusiastically to emphasize whateverthehell point he was trying to make. He continued on about “papas”. Julia and I smiled and nodded. We understood “potatoes” but we’re sure of the details. We continued to attempt successful communication. We used phrases from my lonely planet phrase book to try to get him to slow down. “Puede mas despacio por favor?” We even pointed to the written phrase in the book. He looked at the words, but appeared to not read. Instead of trying to understand, he treated it as a game. Talking faster and using more hand gestures. Julia and I resolved to play along with his game. We used more hand gestures and talked of irrelevant things. It didn’t matter. The innocent boyish smile on this older mans face glowed with joy that there were people in his big and lonely cab to ride with him.


That's $5,180 well spent.  Say what you will about Kickstarter, but there's no more effective tool for launching ill-prepared Americans into the world at large, where they proceed to practice a strange form of altruism that mostly involves asking poor people for favors.

We may need less kickstarting and more restraining.

Travel Day! Wheee!

(How many times do I have to tell them?!?  It's Wildcat Rock Machine, dammit!)

Owing to my imminent departure for Seattle, I can only offer this brief note in lieu of a proper blogging post.  Thank you very much to 21st Avenue Bicycles for hosting my pre-BRA ride in Portland yesterday evening, and to Powell's for hosting the BRA itself.  Thank you also to Portland for cutting a beautiful, sunny day short and finally raining on me.

If you're in Seattle, I hope to see you later today at the following places and times:

Wednesday, April 11

5:30 ride

20/20 Cycle

2020 East Union Street

Seattle, WA 98122

(206) 568-3090

2020cycle.com

7:00pm talk and booksigning

Elliott Bay Book Company

1521 Tenth Avenue

Seattle, WA 98122

(206) 624-6600

www.elliottbaybook.com

Thanks very much for your indulgence, and I will furnish you with a regular update as time and smugness allows.

--Wildcat Rock Machine

 

BSNYC Friday Fun Quiz and Holiday Recess Announcement Spectacular!

Oh, hi there, I didn't hear you come in. Do you like my slippers? How about my sweater with snowflakes on it? Did you notice when you pulled into my driveway that I dressed my Jeep Cherokee like a reindeer? It probably fooled you for a moment, but that's just how we get into the holiday spirit here in West Stereotype, CT. Please, ladle yourself out some egg nog, have a seat on the shabby chic sofa, and watch "Christmas Vacation" with us for the 17th time. We're happy to have you. Oh, the ham will be ready in 20 minutes. Doesn't it smell delicious?

(Shit, that's a bad motherfucking ham!)

In any case, now that you're comfortable, I should probably mention that it's officially Wildcat Rock Machine Holiday Recess Time. This means that, as of the freaky grilled cheese girl at the end of this post*, I'll be gone until Tuesday, January 3rd, 2012, at which point I will resume regular updates.

And while we're all gathered by the fire in my expansive Tudor style home, I'd like to tell you the story of my Bose:

In yesterday's post, I mentioned the above bicycle, laden as it is like Scattante Claus's sleigh. As a bike blogger, I know that any time I include a picture of a bicycle belonging to me--from the humblest Scattante to the loftiest neon green tiger skin-faired recumbent--it will receive some sort of criticism. I don't mind this at all, and in fact I enjoy it, since nit-picking is what this blog, cycling, and indeed the entire Internet is all about. I even make something of a game of of it, and try to guess which attribute will garner the most scorn. Will it be the headset spacers? The hue of the bar tape? The choice of derailleur or lack thereof? The live chicken I "portage" on the top tube at all times?

In this particular case though I was surprised that the object of derision was not a part of the bicycle at all, but was in fact the Bose box I was "portaging:"

From what I gathered from the comments, the common view of Bose is that they sell overpriced stereo equipment with poor sound quality to douchebags who don't know any better. My first instinct was to feel ashamed, and to explain away the box by claiming that it didn't house a Bose iPod thingy but that I was actually using it to protect my top tube chicken from the elements. But then I decided to own up to it, and to tell the heartwarming and sleep-inducing story behind it. Here goes:

Once upon a time, two people loved each other very much--so much that they decided to get married. However, they didn't want to have a douchey wedding with keynote speakers and lectures about cup recycling, even though one of them was an inveterate douchebag with a crappy bike blog. Instead, they decided to have a small party for their friends and family. (Well, the douchebag didn't have any friends, but he did have people who couldn't help being related to him.) So that's what they did.

Naturally, they wanted to have music at the party to fill the awkward silences, but the DJ from "Zoolander" wasn't available. So instead they decided to "curate" the music themselves and spend the savings on booze, and one of them (the one who is usually smarter, and who does not have a bike blog) had a cunning plan: to buy an iPod dock thingy, use it once for the party, and then take advantage of the store's liberal return policy by bringing it back for a full refund.

Well, after the party one day became two, and two became four, and four became 30, and before they knew it the window had closed, and even if it hadn't there was no way they'd ever find the receipt, and thus they became permanent owners of a Bose iPod thingy.

For years, the Bose was a symbol of lazy consumerism, and it languished in exactly the sort of storage unit that drives people like the TED minimalist guy crazy. (Now that I think about it, I should probably empty the storage unit and sell it to the TED minimalist guy, since it's even smaller than his apartment and he'd probably be willing to pay at least a few hundred grand to live in it.) But then the people and their 17 children were going away for the holidays, and they realized they might want to have music in the place where they'll be, and so the douchebag went to the storage unit and tied the Bose to his Scattante, and soon the family will bask in love and warmth and togetherness and holiday cheer and then they'll switch on the Bose and listen to this:

It makes me misty-eyed just thinking about it.

While I'm tapping a sentimental vein, I should also convey my sincere gratitude to everybody who reads this blog, takes the time to comment on it, or for that matter even takes two seconds to glance at it in order to remind themselves that they hate me. I'd also like to thank the proprietors of the "sponsored linkways" on this site, and to shamelessly point out that if you're looking for a last-minute holiday gift you should look no further than the right side of your screen. (Unless you're planning to buy someone a waffle iron. I don't think any of them sell waffle irons.)

As a parting gift pending my return in 2012, I'm also pleased to present you with a quiz. As always, study the item, think, and click on your answer. If you're right then holy crap wow!!!, and if you're wrong you'll see hilarity Italian style.

Thank you very much for reading, ride safe, and have a great holiday. See you on January 3rd, 2012, which is going to be the greatest year in the entire history of humankind.

--Wildcat Rock Machine

(Now that's personality.)

1) The BBC Sports Personality of the Year Award has gone to:

--Mark Cavendish

--David Millar

--Bradley Wiggins

--This is a trick question, British athletes have no personality

2) At Christmastime, triathletes hang compression socks instead of stockings.

--True

--False

(Graham Hill summarizes his TEDTalk by masturbating an imaginary phallus.)

3) According to the "Life Edited" philosophy, which of the following is a good way to simplify your life?

--Pay half a million dollars for a 420 square foot apartment

--Get rid of an old shirt

--Purchase a very expensive combination sink/toilet so you can relieve yourself and wash up in the same bathroom fixture

--All of the above

(Decorative rope makes a great compression sock stuffer.)

4) How much for this piece of rope, which is "for decorative use only?"

--$9

--$99
--$199

--$999

5) A bike just like this one was used in the 1998 Tour de France:

--True

--False

(Come 'bent with me.)

6) This holiday season, the discerning cyclist will outfit him- or herself with a:

--Santa jersey

--Helmet menorah

--Nativity-Scene-In-A-Bakfiets™

--CamelBak full of egg nog

7) This embrocation has "mystique" because:

--Traces of it were present in Frank Vandenbroucke's post-mortem toxicology report

--It is the subject of an intellectual property dispute

--It contains whale semen

--It has the consistency of cream cheese, burns like hot oil, and smells like dog butt

***Special Holiday-Themed Bonus Giveaway Without Even Having To Answer A Question!***

(My present to you.)

Click here to claim your free holiday bonus seizure!

...aaand:

PS:

*(Happy Holidays from Freaky Grilled Cheese Girl!)

The Curmudgeon Effect: Cultural Retrogrouchery

So, like, the world. What do we think? Better? Worse? The same? Every generation ponders this question, and every generation comes to the conclusion that the world was great once but that it sucks now. This is called the "Curmudgeon Effect." Consider the following quote from Socrates, a guy who lived in a time when people still knew how to think cause they weren't all dumb from their iPods:

“Our youth now love luxury. They have bad manners, contempt for authority; they show disrespect for their elders and love chatter in place of exercise; they no longer rise when elders enter the room; they contradict their parents, chatter before company; gobble up their food and tyrannize their teachers.”

This quote certainly supports the theory that the "Curmudgeon Effect" is as old as philosophy itself, and that the aging generation is always critical of the one that supplants it. Moreover, it would also seem to support the theory that the world is not better or worse but is in fact in a state of stasis, since it could just as easily have been written five minutes ago as 2,500 years ago. However, when you take into account that whole ancient Greek pederasty thing, the quote starts to take on a slightly different connotation and it becomes tempting to think that, yeah, maybe things are a little bit better now after all. See, back then academia was a much different place, and it was socially acceptable for a philosophy teacher to have a sexual relationship with an adolescent pupil. Now, however, it's mostly frowned upon, with the exception of the athletic departments of state universities.

In other words, when you compare yesterday with today, the world looks a lot worse. However, when you compare yesterday with a really long time ago, you can see we actually have it pretty good. For example, here's how average schmucks lives today:

("We have no idea who this creepy old guy is.")

And here's how they lived 600 years ago:

(In the 1300s, death metal was called "life.")

Here's what school looks like today:

(School of hard knocks gentle coddling.)

And here's what it looked like at the turn of the (last) century:

(Check out the spoiled kid on the left with the shoes.)

Here's what an economic crisis looks like today:

("i'm totally protesting LOL :) #occupy")

And here's how it looked in the 1930s:

("totally bummed sh*t sux :( #dustbowl")

You get the idea. It's all summed up rather humorously in that famous Louis C.K. routine which you can watch on the Internet--something you couldn't do back in Socrates's day since there was no Internet and you were too busy fending off the socially-sanctioned sexual advances of your philosophy professor:

So it was with Louis C.K.'s sagacious observations in my mind that I read Kurt Andersen's recent piece in "Vanity Fair" magazine, in which he posits that American culture has essentially stalled:

Basically, he's saying that, despite all the new technology, nothing's changed from a cultural perspective since the 1980s:

Since 1992, as the technological miracles and wonders have propagated and the political economy has transformed, the world has become radically and profoundly new. (And then there’s the miraculous drop in violent crime in the United States, by half.) Here is what’s odd: during these same 20 years, the appearance of the world (computers, TVs, telephones, and music players aside) has changed hardly at all, less than it did during any 20-year period for at least a century. The past is a foreign country, but the recent past—the 00s, the 90s, even a lot of the 80s—looks almost identical to the present. This is the First Great Paradox of Contemporary Cultural History.

Now, I suffer from the "Curmudgeon Effect," and in fact I've dedicated most of my life to complaining about how much stupider things are today then they were yesterday. For this reason, I read this with great interest, and I thought Andersen made some very good points. At the same time, sometimes I also thought he was crazy. And sometimes I thought both things while reading a single paragraph:

Look at people on the street and in malls—jeans and sneakers remain the standard uniform for all ages, as they were in 2002, 1992, and 1982. Look through a current fashion or architecture magazine or listen to 10 random new pop songs; if you didn’t already know they were all things from the 2010s, I guarantee you couldn’t tell me with certainty they weren’t from the 2000s or 1990s or 1980s or even earlier.

I'm tempted to agree with him as far as the music goes, but it's a bit of a stretch to say you can't tell the 1980s from the 2000s because people are still wearing sneakers to the mall--especially when he also says this:

People flock by the millions to Apple Stores (1 in 2001, 245 today) not just to buy high-quality devices but to bask and breathe and linger, pilgrims to a grand, hermetic, impeccable temple to style—an uncluttered, glassy, super-sleek style that feels “contemporary” in the sense that Apple stores are like back-on-earth sets for 2001: A Space Odyssey, the early 21st century as it was envisioned in the mid-20th. And many of those young and young-at-heart Apple cultists-cum-customers, having popped in for their regular glimpse and whiff of the high-production-value future, return to their make-believe-old-fashioned lives—brick and brownstone town houses, beer gardens, greenmarkets, local agriculture, flea markets, steampunk, lace-up boots, suspenders, beards, mustaches, artisanal everything, all the neo-19th-century signifiers of state-of-the-art Brooklyn-esque and Portlandish American hipsterism.

I'd say that's a pretty shocking change. I have mixed feelings about Apple stores and all the other hallmarks of gentrification he itemizes, but the simple fact is that if you plucked me out of the 1980s and put me in an Apple store today my face would have melted. Here's what an Apple store looked like when I was a kid:



Steve Jobs had nothing on Crazy Eddie. Speaking of cultural changes, you could have fired up a Marlboro in that Crazy Eddie and nobody would have even looked at you sideways. Just try that now in an Apple store--they'll lock you in an iCell and then send you to Cupertino for "refurbishment."

("A computer is like a rocket-powered bicycle for my bank account.")

I do think Andersen's central point is a good one, though, which is that popular culture is the way it is right now because we have our heads up pop culture history's ass thanks largely to the Internet:

On the one hand, in a country where an adorably huge majority have always considered themselves “middle class,” practically everyone who can afford it now shops stylishly—at Gap, Target, Ikea, Urban Outfitters, Anthropologie, Barnes & Noble, and Starbucks. Americans: all the same, all kind of cool! And yet, on the other hand, for the first time, anyone anywhere with any arcane cultural taste can now indulge it easily and fully online, clicking themselves deep into whatever curious little niche (punk bossa nova, Nigerian noir cinema, pre-war Hummel figurines) they wish. Americans: quirky, independent individualists!

But to say that "fashion, art, design, entertainment" hasn't changed dramatically in the past decade or two is curmudgeonly by any standard, even if that dramatic change does mostly amount to an explosive rehashing of the most insipid fads, fashions, and spurious "movements" of the past 100 years. Pop culture is always stupid; its stupidity just takes a different form every generation.

And who knows? Maybe the fact that we're no longer trying to outdo ourselves with outsized ambitious projects like we did when we built skyscrapers or flew to the moon is a good thing and a sign that we are "maturing." As it happens, not too long ago I also read an article in the New Yorker about venture capitalist Peter Thiel, who also thinks that our society is stagnating:


Says Thiel derisively, "We wanted flying cars, instead we got 140 characters." Is this really a bad thing? Maybe we didn't get flying cars because we realized that flying cars are stupid. People can't control cars on the ground as it is. Does anybody think it's a good idea to put them in the sky? Sure, Twitter is pretty stupid, but I'll take that over a Buick falling on my head any day. Plus, it turns out that we already had something as amazing as a flying car, and it's called a "bicycle," which is why more and more people are riding them now even though they've been around since the days of child labor. Sometimes all that rooting around in the ass of history actually yields some useful finds.

As for my own curmudgeonly view, I do find myself amazed at the way in which we all completely and utterly surrender to marketing and branding in a way that must surely be unprecedented. However, when I stop and think I realize it's not really all that surprising, since marketing is now our folklore and how and where we spend our money satisfies our need for personal expression. This is why in the 1960s people moved to communes, but now they're forming utopian societies of douche:

I've mentioned Rabbit Island before, and whereas once the goal was to "turn on, tune in, and drop out," now experimental societies function as focus groups and labs for new cocktail recipes, which are then served in the bars of the "gentriverse," thus perpetuating the artisanal economy (as forwarded to me by a reader):

I only hope those "foraged cocktails" contain truffle umami and smell like semen.

We may not be the greatest generation, and we're definitely not the worst, but we're certainly the most self-interested.