A Word Of Advice: Beating Your Sword Into A Ploughshare Can Make You Go Blind

From time to time I'm am getting the emails, and the "Blog Douche Handbook" that which is my bible says you should always answer your emails publicly on your own blog (it's called "cyber dickwagging"), so I'm going to do so right now in bulk:

--No fucking way
--French toast
--One online dictionary defines it as "The area on a man's body found between the scrotum and anus. Also known as 'the seams of life' because if one tears his scranus his soul will fall out."
--No, it's common knowledge the Canadians were behind the Kennedy assasination

That should about cover it.  If you're one of the three (2) people who has emailed me in the last week or so and asked me a question, just pick the answer you like best and go forth edified and replete with knowingness.

Moving on, there are a lot of different kinds of cars in New York City, and if you ride a bike you're bound to get hit by one of them sooner or later.  Sometimes that car is your typical Nissan Altima with Florida plates and a gigantic "Brooklyn" decal on the rear windshield to make sure you know they're not actually from Florida and just register their car there illegally for the cheap insurance, and sometimes that car is some sort of secret vehicle with untraceable plates right out of the TV show "Homeland"--or at least that's what one hit-and-run victim is claiming:

His lawyer, Steve Vaccaro, also didn't get any hits for the license plate number for the Chevrolet Monte Carlo: "It doesn't exist, so who knows what that means," Newman said. They do have one other potential lead on what organization the driver might work for: the accident occurred near a federal building, so he speculates that it may have been an FBI car. They're still pursuing the NYPD angle, but it's confusing: "I picked up the accident report, we have to file the criminal complaint. We're just not sure where to bring it to."

I only hope the authorities manage to find the driver so that they can let her go immediately.  By the way, proximity to an FBI field office aside, it's worth noting that cars with bullshit plates and emergency flashers driven by homicidal idiots account for only 75% of motor vehicles in the metropolitan area, so that should narrow things down not at all.

Also, this is only tangentially relevant, but awhile back I was IN MY CAR THAT I OWN (I'm not ashamed of owning a car, this is AMERICA dammit!) a few blocks north of that very intersection, when who should I see riding a bicycle but David Byrne, who does not own a car.  He cut a handsome figure in a monochromatic outfit of some kind, and as he approached the red light at 10th Avenue he rode right through it.  Naturally, this being New York City, there was like fast-moving oncoming traffic and stuff, and so he was forced to stop in the middle of the lane and then did that awkward thing people do on bikes where they put their feet down and sort of push themselves along like a toddler on a balance bike, thus Froggering his way across the busy thoroughfare.  If I were in that position I might have instead just waited at the light with my chin held aloft in a patrician fashion and let everybody else gaze upon my elegant attire as they considered my musical and artistic accomplishments, but I guess I don't know that much about riding bikes or projecting an air of urbane sophistication.

Speaking of David Byrne, who does not own a car, he also designs user-unfriendly bike racks, though a reader informs me that someone in Seattle is giving him a run for his smugness:

I wish someone would ask me to design a bike rack already, because mine would be so much better:

Ideally they'd install it in Seattle and position it so it was humping that stupid squid.

Of course, if you appreciate art like I do, you probably also appreciate valuable antiques, and another reader recently informed me that an antique anatomic saddle has sold for 251 pounds, which is almost 114 kilograms:

Note the dimensions:

8 inch in length, 
8.25 inch wide. 
Oval central aperture 3 x 1 inch.

Which take on suggestive anatomical overtones if A) you look at the photo, and B) your sense of humor stopped evolving in the 8th grade:

I can't help wondering if the explanation for the high selling price is that someone's piecing together a steampunk sex doll and they wanted a sumptuous hand-stitched leather "central aperture' for some period-correct pleasure.  If so they should complete the sex doll with this head, which is a bargain at $900:

Sure, you can scoff at the notion of using an antique leather seat for this purpose, but it's a real upgrade to the uncomfortable "clockwork vagina" you'll find as stock equipment on most steampunk sex dolls:

(Seen here.)

I realize I'm getting old, but I don't know how we used to live in a time when we couldn't just plug the term "steampunk mannequin" into a popular search engine and get a bazillion results.  We didn't even have steampunk in those days!  Sure, we had steam and we had punk, but nobody had thought to put the two things together, not even the huge nerds who would have been into such a thing.  Amazing.

Speaking of "clockwork vagina," when I start a bike brand that will almost certainly be the name of the time trial model.  As for the road bike, I'd love to call it the "Maillot Jaundice," but apparently someone has beaten me to it, for this was recently spotted by yet another reader in Fitzroy, Melbourne, which I think is up there in Canada somewhere:

Lastly, I'm glad I left Brooklyn when I did, because apparently the hipster invasion was merely the first wave of a full-scale alien invasion:

The onlookers seem amazed that the lights aren't moving, but it's pretty obvious to me that they're trackstanding.
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