Notes From Underground: Bubbling to the Surface

Further to yesterday's post, many readers scoffed at the Nü-Williamsburgers who are paying a million dollars for genuine industrial views and an appealingly edgy urban environment in which to raise their children. Sure, this may strike you as the height of irony, but the truth is you can't put a price on authenticity. Plus, sometimes that big investment pays off even sooner than you'd think. Remember this guy?

In August they moved into a $980,000, three-bedroom apartment at 80 Metropolitan. Through his living room window, Mr. Signer can see the Domino Sugar factory and the Williamsburg Bridge, partly obscured by the steel beams of new construction — just the industrial feel he wanted.

Well, he got it all right. How's this for an industrial feel?

But authentic urban living is about more than savoring factory views from the safety a hermetically-sealed million-dollar skybox. It's also an intangible feeling in the air that you savor when you're stepping out to hit those trendy bars and restaurants while the nanny watches your kids. Part of what creates this feeling is the knowledge you're living smack-dab in the middle of the Zeitgest, though the radiation may also have something to do with it:

If your children attend that school it's an outrage, but if they attend private school it's called "ambiance." If Radiac wants to make sure nobody messes with their building they should have Banksy paint a mural on it. Their real estate will be more secure than St. Patrick's cathedral. A child's right to be more than 1,500 feet away from toxic waste does not compare to a Nü-Williamsburger's right to live no more than 1,500 feet away from notable "street art."

And let's not forget the distinction of living right next to one of the largest oil spills ever recorded in the United States:

"I thought 'Greenpoint Oil Spill' was an ironically-named bar, like the 'Gowanus Yacht Club,'" I can imagine a nonplussed Nü-Williamsburger telling the New York Times. Nope, it started gushing back in the 1970s, when the neighborhood was presumably more sincere. Speaking of oil, if you were a hipster living in Williamsburg "back in the day" when the PistaDex was still high, you might remember all the sludge that bubbled up from ruptured oil tanks while all those luxury condos were being built in the first place:

"There are at least 8 tanks being removed. Oil has leaked into the surrounding soil. People in neighboring buildings are complaining of headaches. In one building across from the site there are 5 children ranging in age, from 5 weeks to seven years old."

Now that's "rock ‘n’ roll for kids.” In fact, the fixie-riding hipster has arleady become an endangered species surviving only in promotional condominium imagery, as a member of the Twitteroni informs me:

So where the fuck are all the friendly puppets?!? Well, if you mean those quirky colorful hipsters with the funny glasses, DayGlo bikes, and cartoonish tattoos, even their parents can't afford to pay for them to live there anymore. Anyway, it seems to me that if you want to try to maintain the illusion that you're "cool" by spending a ton of money and slowly killing yourself, you might as well skip the Williamsburg condo, stay put, and just take up smoking instead.

Speaking of harsh urban realities, the Great New York City Bicycle Crackdown of Death continues unabated, and the NYPD has reportedly "dropped" a whopping 1,400 tickets on the city's cyclists over the past fortnight ("fortnight" is "old school" for "two weeks"):

So intense has this crackdown become that I'm officially giving it it's own news graphic:

Incidentally, the "crack" portion of the graphic comes from this self-important alleycat video, which is of the oft-seen "Reckless riding is OK because we're helping!" variety.

Anyway, my personal impression of the crackdown has been that police are targeting recreational and commuting cyclists while sparing food delivery people. Granted, I have no data to back this up, and am instead basing this on the following observations:

--The people I have seen receiving tickets appear to be of the "bike culturey" variety;

--In Prospect Park this past weekend, police were on stakeout at a red light, waiting to pounce on any unsuspecting Freds* who failed to stop;

*Arguably, the term "unsuspecting Freds" is redundant, inasmuch as Freds are, by nature, unsuspecting.

--On Smith Street in Brooklyn, I watched food delivery people salmon, sidewalk ride, and run lights right in front of police cars with no consequences.

I don't know what the political implications of this approach are, but clearly if you want to flout the rules on your bicycle in New York City, the answer is to get a 24" wheeled girl's mountain bike from Walmart, balance one of those insulated pizza bags on your handlebars, and take to the sidewalk. Otherwise, you're asking for trouble. As for me, my plan for coping with the crackdown is two-fold, and I have both a short-term and long-term plan of action:

1) Short Term: Total Compliance

I'm following all traffic laws*, and have even gone so far as to outfit my Big Dummy and my Scattante with bells. (Yes, you can get a ticket in New York City for not having a bell on your bike. This is for your protection because, as everybody knows, nothing cuts through the din of rush hour in the largest city in the United States like a gentle ringing sound.)

*Obviously I mean I'm following all traffic laws on my bicycle. This crackdown does not apply to any other form of transportation, so when driving I continue to idle in bike lanes, chat on my cellphone, and steer with my feet as is usual New York City practice.

2) Long Term: Escape!!!

I'm a bit slow when it comes to certain things, and one of them is figuring out when I've overstayed my welcome. It may have taken me awhile, but I've finally realized that, as a cyclist, New York City just doesn't want me here. Foolishly I thought all the new bike lanes meant they were warming to me, but it turns out they were just a passive-aggressive hint, like when a party host keeps plying you with drinks in the hopes that you'll pass out so they can stick you in a cab and send you home.

It's not like I mind following traffic laws on my bike, but I do mind being under police scrutiny while I do it in the hope that I will suddenly mess up. Riding in the city is starting to feel like taking the SATs. Therefore, I have resolved to plan my escape, though unfortunately I have no idea where I'll go. I did put a map of the world on my wall and then threw a dart at it so that fate could decide for me, but I missed the map and instead hit my framed portrait of the Lobster God, which fell to the floor and then burst into flames. That can't be a good omen.

But to date, no aspect of the crackdown has been more irritating than hearing roadies complain about how it is compromising their ability to "train" for the local park races. This is like listening to a hipster complain about how enforcement of the drug laws is interfering with his personal journey of self-discovery, or about how the smoking ban in bars is making it more difficult for him to emulate Mickey Rourke in "Barfly." We're not taking about crushing the dreams of young olympic hopefuls here; we're talking about middle-aged investment bankers who hire coaches to help them target club races more effectively. Sure, there are worse forms of recreation, but if there's one thing amateur bike racers need to realize, it's that their performances and exploits are not a source of inspiration for the people of America.

Neither, I should add, are the cycling exploits of celebrities--especially when mountain bikes are concerned. For example, no less a personage than Scot Nicol recently forwarded me this photo of comedic actor Jack Black:


Though for on-the-bike style, he doesn't come close to Orlando Bloom:

Judging from his attire, he's about to slay some "gnarly" terrain--not gnarly enough to warrant wearing a helmet, but more than sufficiently gnarly to require truly "epic" shin protection.

On the other hand, as we've seen before, George Clooney prefers to stick to the pavement:

He's an insulated pizza bag away from total crackdown immunity.