Nostalgia for an Age Yet to Come: Who Are the People in Your Neighborhood?

Since yesterday's post, I've been thinking of the composer who got a ticket for running a red light in Central Park, and his subsequent lament that the city is no longer "Real" enough because it has things like laws and amenities. This in turn led me to think, "Where does this kind of 'hipster nostalgia' come from anyway? Is New York City honestly not 'Real' enough for them? Have they never left the 'David Byrne-iverse' or the 'Gentri-verse?'" More importantly, I wondered, " How can you indict an entire city for not living up to a past you've never experienced beyond watching 'Taxi Driver' and listening to a few Velvet Underground records?"

But then, suddenly, I realized what was to blame:

Yes, it's all "Sesame Street's" fault. Like the ticketed composer, I too was weaned on this utopian post-hippie vision of city life, in which a smiling multi-ethnic population lives together in an artfully-distressed brownstone neighborhood where everybody's friends and nothing bad ever happens. At a certain point, though, you grow up, and you discover that "Sesame Street" omitted a few things. Sure, everybody loves Oscar the Grouch, but nobody ever talks about who's paying all those fines from the Department of Sanitation, or the fact whoever is paying would eventually call animal control and have him killed. Another thing they never address is how Sesame Street was conveniently spared from the crack epidemic of the 1980s. And where are the bikes? Sure, Elmo "palps" a tricycle, but I don't see too many "fixies" locked up around the neighborhood. My best guess is the landlords who own all those townhouses cut the locks.

Some people though manage to get all the way to adulthood without realizing any of this, which is why they walk around the city in a perpetual state of disillusionment. "Where the fuck are all the friendly puppets?!?," they want to know. But there are no friendly puppets. There are just regular people in varying states of being pissed off, many of whom also have bedbugs. Then these naive adults get tickets for running red lights on their bicycles in a cash-strapped city and the whole illusion is finally shattered once and for all.

Oh, and as everybody knows, there were absolutely no chain stores in New York City "back in the day:"

There were only authentic "Mom and Pop" stores like Florsheim and GNC--and of course lots of smiling, contented cyclists with gigantic primitive helmets and positively "epic" hair.

Of course, if New York City isn't "Real" enough for you, you can always move to Newark, a very "Real" city which recently had to fire 163 police officers:

The good part is that the remaining police are probably far too busy to give you tickets for running red lights. The bad part is that they're also probably far too busy to keep you from getting stabbed.

Meanwhile, as New York City's bike crackdown continues, local cyclists seem determined to receive costly tickets so that they can complain about them later. Despite the fact that this latest crackdown has been all over the news and "Tweeted" about more than Lady Gaga's alleged penis, as I rode around the city I saw as much salmoning, signal-running, sidewalk riding, and lightlessness as ever. There are few things more depressing than watching people play right into other people's hands and while I don't like the crackdown either, running a red light when you're virtually guaranteed to get a ticket doesn't make you Rosa Parks--it makes you like those people who are surprised when their illegal pet tigers suddenly turn on them.

But not all violations are egregious, and in fairness to my fellow cyclists some of them probably don't realize they're doing anything wrong. For example, this rider had a whopping four reflective pant cuff retainers, but exactly zero lights:


Whereas this rider did have a rear light, but unfortunately it was the wrong "colorway:"

I don't know why so many people have such a hard time with this, but white light go in front, red light go in back.

Among the worst offenders I saw though was this cellphone-wielding scooter salmon:

Complete with a hat in what I assume is a tiger "animalway:"

Probably the most frustrating part of the crackdown is that they'll stop you for not having a bell on your bike, but if you're on a scooter you can probably violate the law with impugnity--especially if you're a bigtime celebrity, like Hugh Jackman:

When you ride a scooter, you have nothing to lose but your dignity.

Speaking of dignity, English people are supposed to be dignified (to wit), and as I mentioned last week I recently took delivery of my first-ever Brooks saddle, which I have since mounted and ridden:

I'm pleased to report that I've already been finding the saddle to be quite comfortable. However, I must confess that the process of placing the saddle between my bicycle and my crotch was not without angst. This was because, as soon as I mentioned that I had obtained a Brooks saddle, various readers came forward with all sorts of advice: "Don't get it wet;" "Don't get road salt on it;" "Treat it with 'Proofide;' "Cover it when you're not riding it;" "Don't feed it after midnight;" "Dry clean only;" "Say a special Brooks bruchah over it before riding it;" and so forth.

My initial reaction to this was, "Get the fook out of here. I'm bolting the thing on my bike and never thinking about it again." After all, I'm a busy adult with 17 children and a demanding job as a cosmetic surgeon, and I don't have time to perform all sorts of ablutions over my bicycle components, like those paranoid people who write "epic" letters to Lennard Zinn asking him if they have to re-glue their tubulars because their bicycle was exposed to the light of the full moon. And don't get it wet? Seriously? If it's going on a bike it's getting wet. Saying a bicycle component shouldn't get wet is like saying a toilet shouldn't be exposed to urine.

But then I started to feel guilty. Not only had a cow actually died for this thing, but I also thought about the labor of good people like Eric "The Chamferer" Murray and how he might cut me if I neglected the saddle over which he slaved. "Fine," I thought, "I'll put the damn Proofide on it, but that's it." So I paid way too much money for a tiny can of this special wax. However, the instructions for the saddle said to only put the Proofide on the bottom since it was "Aged," whereas the website said to put it all over the saddle, even if it was "Aged." Meanwhile, people on forums said you don't need to put it on the bottom at all, since this instruction was only for stupid Americans who don't use fenders. "Maybe I should just put it on my 'taint,'" I even found myself thinking. In the end I just put it on the bottom of the saddle, causing my wife to comment on how much the stuff smelled.

Having been afforded this horrifying glimpse into the world of people who obsess over their bicycles, I saw how easily an unsuspecting person could become one of them, and so I slammed that door and resolved never to open it again. In any case, so far the saddle has not self-destructed, Eric "The Camferer" has not come after me with his chamfering knife, and I am shuttling myself about in considerable comfort. And if you want to borrow some "tainted" Proofide, you know who to ask.

By the way, I plan to formulate my own saddle wax which I will then market to hyper-obsessive leather saddle owners--but not before I market little ankle fenders to the Hasidim:

Footwear can throw up a lot of road grime, especially at this time of year, and with a decent pair of ankle fenders the pious can stop putting all that expensive kosher Proofide on their coats.