This bike has the guilty bearing of someone who has managed to get a woman up to his apartment under the pretext of showing her his record collection. His guest should not get too comfortable though. As soon as he drops the needle on that first LP he'll be pawing at her with those yellow Ourys like he's a cat and her sweater is filled with catnip. The black and yellow color scheme is meant to evoke bees, but this fixed-gear freestyler is way more "smarm" than "swarm." I'm not sure when people are going to realize that riding a bike with chopped risers makes their elbows stick out in such a way that they look like peasant farmers urging on mules, but judging by the number of them I see every day it's not going to be any time soon. And it's going to take more than colored Velocitys and colored vinyl to keep this guest from leaving, because despite the "High Fidelity" charm once Rossin puts on the moves she'll be out of there faster than Cusack skiied the K-12 in "Better Off Dead."
This bike also made me think of "High Fidelity." Not the movie, but the unfortunate musical adaptation. In 30 years when annoying rich people are looking for early 21st century kitch to decorate their lofts with, they'll pay top dollar for something like this. This bike is to right now what lava lamps were to the 60s, disco balls were to the 70s, and rampant androgyny was to the 80s. I'm sure it's waiting by the door for its friends BMX and Nishiki Conversion to show up. Then they'll listen to some Def Leppard, throw on their top tube pads and hit the bars.
The owner says "your grandpa's gonna hate this bike," but unless he's a diabetic and can't eat sugar I don't see why this rolling confection would offend him. This would be an ideal steed to take on a trip to Candyland. Just put on your stripey riding kit, strap on your marshmallow helmet, lock it up to a giant candy cane with some licorice string, and frolick among the gumdrop hills, caramel lakes, and cotton candy houses that line Lollipop Lane. If you're lucky, you may even meet King Kandy himself. And hopefully when you get back to your bike it's not crawling with ants.
This bike, like so many others, makes me sad. Forlorn, it waits by a rusty mailbox for a message that never comes. Does it wait for news of a loved one? Is it expecting a new bottom bracket from Nashbar? Or is it so desperate for companionship that it's donned that strollopy leopard print halfshirt in an attempt to seduce passers-by with its bare midriff? Whatever it's doing, I don't see much hope. It's only a matter of time before it hits rock bottom, takes heed of the sign down the road, leaves its passed-out partner in the background, and is finally born again. 
