(At least I'm pretty sure that says "lip.")
As I mentioned yesterday, Byrne has designed some new bike racks for the Brooklyn Academy of Music, and as it happens later that day I found myself in the vicinity of that august institution. Immediately I remembered the rack, and so I resolved to stick my bike into it. At first I was skeptical, but as it turns out there are few acts as thrilling as becoming one with a piece of living art created by a true genius of our time. Of course, I'm not referring to parking my bike in David Byrne's rack; rather, I'm referring to reading Heather Hooters's column in the copy of "Juggs" magazine I found in a nearby wastebasket. It was only after finishing it (spoiler alert: it was about big breasts) that I got around to parking my bike in the rack. I certainly can't say it was as exciting as a found copy of "Juggs," but I'm sure the Brooklyn gentry will savor the experience of hitchin' up to Mr. Byrne's latest brainfart when they come down to see "Red Hook Summer" so that their next visit to Fairway will seem more culturally significant.
(By the way, the copy of "Juggs" was deposited into that wastebasket by a man driving a brand-new Hyundai Sonata with the sticker still in the window. I wouldn't swear it was David Byrne, but it sure looked like him, and the music coming from the car sounded a lot like Brian Eno.)
Meanwhile, as Byrne works tirelessly to gussy up the cycling structure of New York City by means of his prodigious mental flatulence, the next mayoral administration (whoever it turns out to be) will most likely do their best to tear it down--or at least put it in a state of suspended animation:
(Putz.)
Also, I liked him much better in "Midnight Run:"
Sure, it's easy to laugh at idiots like this, but it's only a matter of time before someone succeeds in passing a law requiring cyclists to purchase a gallon of gasoline for every 20 miles traveled. (The fact that cyclists don't have to pay for gasoline seems to be at the heart of all this resentment.) But of all the idiotic things said by Dennis Farina's slow-witted cousin in the above video, this was probably the idioticest:
Apparently to work for the Chicago Tribune you don't even have to say things that make any form of sense, even as satire. Instead, it's sufficient to simply equate something you don't like with something other people don't like, even if the two things have absolutely nothing to do with each other. It's like saying, "Wouldn't you say that kayakers are kinda like the Nazis of the sea?" Anyway, you know who are the one percenters of the commuter class? The one percenters. Like this guy:
I swear to Lob, if another one of these entitled Wall Street assholes rolls up to me in the bike lane and asks me if I have any fancy mustard I'm going to put my U-lock right in his boeuf bourguignon.
It should be apparent to anybody with even the most meager cognitive ability that cycling is cheaper than driving not because of the laws of man but because of the laws of physics. Anyway, cyclists do their best to make it expensive anyway, which is why they buy stuff like Butnitz bikes. Incidentally, I recently visited the Budnitz Twitter where I read this:
You know, those guys in the "matching bike outfits" aren't embarrassed, they're tired. That's because they probably just got finished riding like nine hundred miles through the Rockies and are rolling home, whereas you're riding your designer city bike to brunch. They're not racing you. Thinking you're faster than people who are at rest is the primary symptom of the condition known as "New Cyclist's Exuberance." If left untreated, it can go on to cause other undesirable forms of behavior, like starting designer bike companies or inventing gratuitous accessories:
Every great inventor has his "Eureka!" moment, and the inventor of the Wingz seatpost rack had his during an ill-fated trip to the grocery store:
"One night I had to make a late-night run to the grocery store, and that's when I bought a 24-pack of water bottles, some cereal, and milk. And on the way home, every time we'd make a turn all the cargo would just fall off. So I ended up having to walk the bike home."
Sadly, between admitting that he purchases bottled water and revealing that he rides a Magna, he's just lost every single potential investor in Portland:
(To Portlanders, this is the equivalent of riding around in a Klan outfit.)
Nevertheless, this was his inspiration to invent the perfect seatpost rack:
"So that's when I decided to design my own seatpost rack. One that could adequately balance larger cargo without causing them to become off-balance and fall off."
Arguably, inventing the perfect seatpost rack is sort of like inventing the perfect suction cup car dashboard pad. Still, you have to admire him for boldly ignoring the fact that there's already an invention that can "adequately balance larger cargo without causing them to become off-balance and fall off," and it's called "The Box:"
(Modified box with cutouts for additional weight-savings.)
Instead, he went with barbecue-tongs-and-a-bungee:
Though I suppose in a pinch he could use it to take a hot dog off the grill.
Speaking of milk crates, the crate image above comes from a site called "Milkcrate Digest"--which, amazingly, exists:
Since learning about it, I've been elbow-deep in milk crate porn (milk crates are typically only elbow-deep)--and I even found some milk crate pet-portaging porn:
Awww, that dog's wearing a hlellment! ("Hlellment" is Welsh for "helment.")
Hopefully they'll charge him double for the passenger if he rides though Chicago.
