Investment Opportunities: All You Haters Fund My Venture

Here in the United States of America (also known as Canada's gratuitous undercoating), today is Presidents Day. On this day, many Americans are free not to attend work so that we may instead take advantage of big, big savings on designer clothing, flat-screen TVs, new automobiles (make sure you get that undercoating!), and other costly items we might otherwise have had the sense to forego had we simply headed into the office. Most importantly, though, we celebrate the lives, work, and of course hair of Presidents Andrew Jackson, Martin Van Buren, and William Henry Harrison:

The administrations of these three Presidents spanned the years 1829 to 1841, a period which historians universally agree is the "Golden Age of Presidential Hair." From Jackson's powerful pompadour, to Van Buren's inspiring sideburn aurora, to Harrison's pointy forelock that prefigured the coiffure of Glenn Danzig by something like 140 years, this was an exciting time during which Presidents still understood the sense of authority that can only be conveyed by truly "epic" hair. Sadly, this Golden Age ended with the untimely death of President Harrison on his 32nd day in office due to complications from tetanus (Harrison insisted on being shaved by a rusty razor for purposes of "street cred"), and while there have since been some flashes of Presidential barbatorial brilliance (Abraham Lincoln's "chin strap," Grover Cleveland's walrus-like lip curtain) there has also never been a dynasty to rival the one we celebrate today.

Meanwhile, if you've accessed the Internet at any point this weekend, you may know that the big news in cyclesport is that some track racer guy got a gigantic splinter in his leg, and while I have been known to post affronts to good taste such as this I draw the line at medical "grodiness" and am therefore posting a censored version of the photo using images that convey the nature of his injuries without actually depicting them:

If you'd like to see the original, it is here, though even when obscured by a pizza pie and a body modification enthusiast who will never, ever hold a job you can plainly see that he lies supine like Jesus on the cross just before the Romans hoisted him into a vertical position. (And the Jews did "golf clap," according to the Gospel of Mel Gibson.) The real tragedy of this injury is that all the hipsters who pretend to like track racing are already agog at how "badass" it is, and you can expect them to start inserting slivers of wood through their own calves as the new must-have accessory to complement their "shants:"

"Oh, this old thing? Yeah, it's been there for years, never bothered to take it out."

Speaking of must-have accessories, on Friday I mentioned this seatpost clamp that is the latest in a seemingly endless procession of bicycle components and accessories that can also open beer:

Since them, I've been more vexed than perhaps it's reasonable to be by a small piece of aluminum--mostly because you'd think that if someone were to integrate a little bottle top-popping dingle into a seatpost clamp, they might at least orient it in such a way that you don't have to hold the bottle sideways and spill half your beer in order to use it:

I'd maybe possibly perhaps consider accepting an argument that this seatpost clamp is designed to use while the bicycle is lying down, except for the fact that the promotional video contains shot after shot of the opener being used with the bicycle standing up as beer spills everywhere:

This is the beer-opening equivalent of an iPhone banking "app" that costs you $35 every time you log into your account.

By the way, this brilliantly-executed seatpost clamp comes in two versions. The first one is the "Nectar:"

According to the copy, this is for people who like PBR--a brand of beer most commonly consumed out of a can.

The second version is the "Elixir:"

This one's for the "tweaker"--which, as I always understood it, is a person who is addicted to methamphetamine.

At this point you're probably saying, "So what? This is Canada's gratuitous undercarriage coating, the land of the gratuitous undercarriage coating. Sure, it's nearly impossible to screw up a bottle opener, and somehow these people have succeeded, but if some designers want to manufacture a little anodized dingle with a poorly-placed dongle on it then that's their Gid-goven right." Of course, I couldn't agree more--except that's not what's going on here. Actually, the dongle-curators want us to give them $15,000 before they'll make us a poorly-designed bottle opener:
Sadly, they're a good $14,000 short, and I'd offer them a bridge loan myself if my money wasn't all tied up in a brake lever-slash-pizza cutter that uses a pinball instead of a circular blade. Still, I'm confident some sort of "angel investor" will step in--perhaps a mystery benefactor who has a vested interest in lots of people riding around on bicycles with sideways bottle openers on them, like an alcoholic recumbent rider:

As you can see from this recumbent rider's-eye view (or, more accurately, recumbent rider's-beard view), a world filled with horizontal seatpost clamp bottle openers would mean that, for the 'bent rider, refreshment would always be just an arm's length away. This in turn would provide yet another source of recumbent rider smugness:

Of course a recumbent commute like this hinges on having access to an uninterrupted and completely car-free bike lane. I'd like to see him try that commute in New York City during rush hour.

Speaking of spurious projects needing funding, a reader recently alerted me to a film called "First Winter," in which a bunch of Brooklyn hipsters traipse around in the country with Golden Age of Presidential Hair-caliber beards and artisanal blunderbusses to the strains of lugubrious accordion music:


They also stare pensively into the horizon:


Apparently, "First Winter" is sort of a "minimalist hipster survival movie," which I'm guessing will be the next hot new "indie" genre:

***
The Premise:

In December 2012, a massive collapse of infrastructure leaves a group of Brooklyn yogis snowed-in at a country farmhouse without electricity, cell phone reception, or running water. With nothing to rely on but their wits, a couple of old books, and each other, they must survive the first winter off the grid.

***
The structural skeleton of First Winter is the procedural aspects of survival: chopping firewood, melting snow for water, hunting for food, etc; but the movie at core is really a spiritual exploration. As the distractions of modern of life are replaced by the routine simplicity of living off the land, the friends gradually evolve out of their neurotic fixations into a more quiet, contemplative state of being (of course, not all of them make it).

Obviously, this film is a metaphor for the hipster's first year in Williamsburg, the Mission District, or Portland after graduating from Bard, Sarah Lawrence, or Wesleyan, and the journey towards independence and self-sufficiency which they all undertake but ultimately never achieve. Also, there's ironic sledding--during which, I assume, somebody dies:

As for the technique being employed by the filmmakers:

The aesthetic approach is rigorously formalist; mirroring the inner journey of the characters, the film gradually evolves from frenetic jumpy handheld close up camera work at the beginning to slower, wider, more composed shots towards as the film progresses.

In other words, as the filmmakers continue to shoot the film they gradually figure out how their equipment is supposed to work.

In any case, I predict "First Winter" will be a huge success. Not only is this a perfect product placement opportunity for companies like Best Made Co. and Base Camp X, but the filmmakers have already exceeded their financial goals. In fact, they've received nearly enough backing to start their own bottle-opening seatpost clamp business:
That's gotta sting the "Swarm" guys.

Lastly, another reader has forwarded me what he claims is the "Greatest Craig's List Post Ever," and while this is debatable there's no doubt it's noteworthy:

old bike - $500 (hyattsville)
Date: 2011-02-17, 1:41PM EST

This is mankind's crowning technological achievement. If you are not someone who can appreciate a 35 pound steel beach cruiser with carbon tubular race wheels on it, don't waste my time. You are not cool enough to even thinking about riding this bike.

Please note that no brakes are provided. All braking power is derived from the user dragging a foot on the ground, or in an emergency, putting an old Silca frame pump into the spokes of the moving front wheel. Nor are the tubulars glued.

If you play bike polo, leave me alone. This bike shits out bike polo players on the daily.

Here is a list of places to ride this bike to: a liquor store, a riot, a hockey game.

A good bike lasts 3-5 years, EVIL NEVA DIES.


Not bad I guess, but it needs more bottle openers.

Strange Days: What Might Have Been

Call me Ishmael. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, and as Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect. I enjoy the sleek locomotion of my fixed-gear like I enjoy a smooth, frictionless fuck, but if you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.

Having undoubtedly captured your attention with that artisanal steel-jaw leghold trap of an opening paragraph (inhumane traps are certain to replace axes as the must-have "North American backwoods revival" accessory for 2011), you now have some understanding of how I felt when I read the following gripping email this morning:

I'm writing this with tears in my eyes,my family and I came down here
to Scotland,United Kindom for a short vacation unfortunately we were
mugged at the park of the hotel where we stayed,all cash,credit card
and cell were stolen off us but luckily for us we still have our
passports with us.

We've been to the embassy and the Police here but they're not helping
issues at all and our flight leaves in less than hours from now but
having problems settling the hotel bills and the hotel manager won't
let us leave until we settle the bills,I'm freaked out at the moment.

A less considerate and/or more savvy blogger might have dismissed this as the overture to a scam, but I never shirk my responsibilities when it comes to helping others--even if they're in a faraway land of manskirt-wearing haggis eaters. So, keeping my composure, I replied as follows:

Dear Freaked Out At the Moment,

I'm very sorry to hear about your predicament. I know you're very afraid, but never fear. Help is on the way, for I have summoned the World's Most Agile Scotsman!

Sincerely,

--BSNYC/RTMS

PS: Tell the hotel manager to keep his skirt on.

PPS: You came down to Scotland? Where are you from, the North Pole?

Moments later, Danny MacAskill jumped out of a helicopter on his bike and disarmed and incapacitated the muggers in a blindingly fast series of wheelies, endos, tailwhips, bunny-hops, and other jumpy-spinny-type moves:

It was a lot like this:



Except it was much more graceful, and with bagpipes. I only wish I had been there to see it--and I would have, if only I wasn't such a coward. Anyway, I'm pleased to announce that Freaked Out At The Moment and family did manage to catch their flight--though it turns out they're not only Internet scam artists but also terrorists, so it looks like the World's Most Agile Scotsman is going to have to pull off one of his signature 39,000 foot bunny-hops and give that exploding printer cartridge the old backwheel "Whap!" treatment.

Meanwhile, closer to (my) home, Staten Island is being stripped of bike lanes faster than the World's Most Agile Scotsman divests a mugger of his revolver:

Sure, I know what you're thinking: "Whatever, it's only Staten Island. That will never happen here on the planet Earth." Won't it, though? Remember that "First they came..." poem:

They came first for the "hipsters" in Williamsburg,

and I didn't speak up because I didn't have a muffin top.

Then they came for the smug-mongers of Park Slope,

and I didn't speak up because I wasn't the King of Park Slope.

Then they came for the Lone Wolves of Staten Island,

and I didn't speak up because I didn't ride a Huffy with unhooked V-brakes and an enormous pie plate, and because who even goes to Staten Island anyway?

Then I just said "Fuck it," sold my "fixie" on Craigslist, and moved to Portland.

Soon, however, there will be nobody left to complain when the rest of the bike lanes get the "Whap!"

Incidentally, I should point out that "Whap!" is an innocent reference to the comic book hitting sound, and not a perverse reference to the now-defunct periodical Women Who Administer Punishment:

Though as cyclists, it's hard not to feel as though we're masochists without "a safe word." In fact, you don't even need to get on a bike to feel that way--or even leave the sidewalk, for that matter--since here in New York with simply leaving your house makes you fair game:

Yes, if you've ever longed to run somebody down in your car you'll be pleased to know that here in New York City "brake failure" and other similarly cartoonish mechanical explanations are a sufficient excuse. I once watched a car service driver speed through an intersection in reverse, pass within two feet of me, and finally came to a stop after destroying two parked cars. Naturally I stuck around to watch the aftermath, and I'm pleased to report that the officer accepted his explanation of a sticky accelerator pedal and let him go without so much as a summons. So if you have any arch-nemeses, adversaries, "frenemies," rich relatives who have already written you into their wills, or you simply see someone walking down the street and you don't like their pants, feel free to run them down. Then, when the police come, just tell them you had a sticky accelerator or your brakes didn't work or your satellite radio lost its signal and you were busy trying to fix it. It's the perfect crime--and if your car is made by Toyota (as the above-referenced Lexus is), it's positively iron-clad.

Clearly then, the way to solve the problem of dangerous driving is the same way you solve any municipal problem, and that's by coming at it head-on with a rap PSA sure to galvanize the youth into action:

New Rap, "Drive Safe New York," Targets Speeding on City Streets
November 17, 2010

Hip hop artist and physician, Dr. John Clarke, has composed a rap to promote slower automobile speeds in NYC and will present his recording Friday, at a traffic safety conference at NYU hosted by Transportation Alternatives and NYU's Robert F. Wagner Graduate School of Public Service. Clarke produced an award-winning rap about the H1N1 Flu for the U.S. Department of Health & Humans Services last year and has written other rhyming public health messages, including songs aimed at stopping HIV and watching "the gap" on commuter rail platforms.

While hip hop artist and physician Dr. John Clarke doesn't address the problem of speeding on city sidewalks, at least this is a start. By the way, if you can't wait until tomorrow and want to hear the "leak," you can do so here. I particularly enjoy the way Dr. Clarke manages to "flow" while citing statistics, much in the way that the Wu Tang Clan incorporated that Five Percenter math into their songs. It's also worth noting that Dr. Clarke's "Drive Safe New York" has a decidedly harder edge than his previous song, "Gap Rap," which dealt with teaching young people how to enter and exit Long Island Railroad trains safely:

At the time, critics were hard on Dr. Clarke--unfairly so, in my opinion--for failing to either incorporate or come up with suitable rhymes for stations such as "Speonk," "Patchogue," and "Ronkonkoma." Also, subsequent to "Gap Rap," the LIRR was subject to problems with its antiquated switching system that virtually crippled the nation's largest commuter rail and resulted in considerable fan backlash. Still, I think "Gap Rap" is a solid if not seminal work in the rap PSA genre, though to this day nothing rivals the TARC Bike Rack Rap for sheer danceability:



In any case, despite the best efforts of well-meaning people like Dr. Clarke, I think our worst days may be ahead of us--unlike recumbent riders, whose darkest day is well behind them. I was sifting through the comments on that New York Times recumbent article I mentioned on Monday when I found this:

April 1, 1934. Recumbents Banned from all UCI Sanctioned Racing:
Recumbents' Darkest Day.

The history of the recumbent bicycle is filled with intrigue. Only a few people today realize that the current surge in interest and ownership of recumbents is a "renaissance" of what occurred at the end of the previous century and in the early years of this one. The banning of recumbents from bicycle racing in 1934 had the effect of putting the recumbent bicycle design in the closet for fifty years, until it was re-discovered there primarily by MIT professor David Gordon Wilson and his students. To him, I and thousands of other laid-back cyclists will be eternally grateful.

Based on what I could gather from the article and from the comments, recumbent apologists apparently believe that, had it not been for that dark day on which the UCI banned them from competition, recumbents would have gone on to become the predominant form of racing bicycle. This in turn would mean that, today, recumbent riders would in fact be recognized as the "norm" instead of being simultaneously gawked at and feared as the freaks that they are. Presumably then, all recumbent riders are now tortured by this future that should have come to pass but never did, which to me lends them a completely new dimension and makes them all the more interesting, layered, and freakish. Indeed, Cormac McCarthy himself could not have "curated" a more complex and nuanced character than the recumbent rider. They even have their own mythology, centered around a tragic hero, "Francis Faure, brother of the famous cyclist Benoit Faure," otherwise known as the "King of the Nerds:"

At the start this event the other riders laughed at him and said: "Faure, you must be tired and want to go to take a nap on that thing. Why don't you sit up upright and pedal like a man?" They quit laughing when Faure poured his annoyance into the pedals and left them all behind. They couldn't even get close to him. Afterwards they were upset that they couldn't even draft his funny bike. One after the other Francis Faure defeated every first-class track cyclist in Europe, taking advantage of recumbents' clear aerodynamic superiority.. The following year Faure was practically unbeatable in 5000 meter distance events. Even in races against three or four top riders, who would alternate pacing a leader, Faure would leave the Velodrome in the yellow jersey.

This is why April 1st (April 1st being, appropriately enough, a day of mockery for the rest of the world) is observed as a day of mourning among recumbent riders, who gather their low-slung vehicles around a monument to Francis Faure, rend their garments, and fluff their beards in grief. To witness this ritual is to grieve, but even moreso to laugh--but try not to let them hear you, for they will impale you upon their safety flags.

And to think, we could have all been rolling doorstops:

There but for the grace of Lob, and so forth.

Things are Looking Up: It's a Comfort Thing

This past Friday, I mentioned so-called "Cat 6" racing, in which Nü-Freds and other "bike culture" aspirants race other cyclists over the area bridges on their way to or from work for what I can only imagine they believe to be "bragging rights." Of course, in many cases, their "opponents" are completely unaware that they are even being engaged in a race, which makes any subsequent bragging on the part of the victor about as logical as a would-be Lothario boasting about his sexual conquest of an inanimate object such as a fur-lined mitten or a bowl of room temperature Jell-O. Still, despite its inherent dorkiness, I imagine that "Cat 6" racing (the dessert-sodomizing of the cycling world) will continue indefinitely, and it would not surprise me if local coaches are already offering specialized commuter race training programs in anticipation of the inevitable increase in popularity the "sport" is about to enjoy.

Even I have unwittingly raced in the "Cat 6" field (and I'm not referring to my recent Prospect Park incident, which was beyond "Cat 6" and can only be classified as "Cat Douche"). After riding over the Manhattan Bridge one evening, a winded Nü-Fred type rolled up next to me and complimented me on my strong ride. Evidently, he had been trying to beat me over the bridge and failed, and so in a rather sportsmanlike and gentlemanly fashion was conceding defeat. This was highly puzzling to me since I had no idea he was even there in the first place, and it also made me wonder how many of the cyclists who pass me on a regular basis during my commuting and errand-running are actually congratulating themselves as they do so. ("I totally schooled that schlubby guy on the Big Dummy with the box of fair trade coffee.") It all goes to show that each one of us dwells in his or her own completely subjective reality (though objectively speaking, some of these "realities" are much dorkier than others).

Even worse than being unwittingly mixed up in a bike race is being unwittingly mixed up in an electric motorcycle race--especially when that electric motorcycle collides with you, as in this article which was forwarded to me by a reader:

I don't know anything about the "around-the-world race for zero-emission vehicles" in which the motorcycle was embroiled, but I can only imagine it's some incredibly smug version of "The Cannonball Run." Also, riders of highly flatulent motorcycles such as Harley Davidsons with de-baffled exhausts have long defended their "Look at me! During the week I'm a lawyer, but today I'm an outlaw!" behavior with the claim that "loud pipes save lives." The implication here is that their flatulence alerts other road users to their presence and serves as a safety measure, even though if you've ever been overtaken by such a machine you know it doesn't so much "alert" you as it does confuse and disorient you by pounding on your brain from all directions until you finally see some guy on a $30,000 motorcycle who looks and sounds like he's sitting on a rolling toilet. Still, I guess the ear-splitting rumble emitted by a middle-aged professional who still hasn't outgrown his childish desire to show everybody that he knows how to use the potty is better than "silent creep," in which you're suddenly overtaken by some stealthily smug person you couldn't hear at all:

Car makers are only just beginning to come to terms with what is known as ‘‘silent creep’’, or the ability of electric vehicles to move almost silently at low speeds.

Yes, as the streets fill with electric cars and motorcycles and "e-bikes" and hopped-up Segways that can reach speeds of over 200mph we can all expect their drivers to constantly startle us like "the sidler" in that "Seinfeld" episode. That's why I'm a strong advocate for laws requiring electric vehicles to emit a minimum level of noise, and given the high smugness quotient of their drivers I think an appropriate sound would be the droning intonations of their hero Al Gore:

When you hear that soporific monotone behind you it's best to simply pull over and let them pass, since they're generally too busy congratulating themselves to drive carefully. Of course, this could have the unwanted side-effect of causing other road users to fall asleep at the wheel.

Maybe they should just fit all electric vehicles with a loudspeaker that plays the sound of a V-twin motorcycle with straight pipes.

Meanwhile, speaking of wacky contraptions, the New York Times recently took a hard-hitting look at the horizontal world of recumbent cycling:

Recumbent riders were no doubt floored to see themselves covered by the Times--or at least they would have been if they weren't all lying on the floor already. In the world of fixed-gears, riders say "It's a Zen thing" and speak of a state of perfect brakeless awareness. Recumbent riders, on the other hand, don't talk about Zen. They talk about "The Comfort." "You have to accept the comfort," they intone as they lower you into the machine. Then, just as you begin to ease into it, biomechanical tentacles emerge and lash you to the vehicle as mechanical arms suture a beard onto your face and drill a helmet mirror directly into your skull. Having been subsumed by "The Comfort," you then roam the roads in a prone position forevermore. Just as the Flying Dutchman can never make port, the Lying Down Cyclist can never again dwell among uprights.

So why do it? So you can stare straight up in the air as you ride:

I could see the appeal on a long ride. My hands were no longer holding up my torso but instead were gripping a set of low handlebars. My head, now in a position more like that of driving a car, was free to take in the fall foliage unfurling above us from a vantage point I’ve rarely noticed.

Like this:

Ah yes, I remember my first "epic" recumbent ride all the way to Florida and the fascinating "vantage point" of the foliage it afforded me. We started up north:

I rode during the day:


And I rode at night:


All the while, I enjoyed that "vantage point" I had been missing on an upright bike, never looking down until I reached my destination:

In fact, I didn't look down even after I reached my destination, since my neck was now permanently craned like Lemmy Kilmister's. Really, that was my only complaint--apart from the time my "vantage point" caused me to accidentally ride into the Lincoln Tunnel because I couldn't see where I was going:

I can assure you there was no "silent creep" in there--in fact I never heard so many car horns at one time in my life since I pretty much brought traffic to a halt. I'm looking forward to reading the "Lincoln Tunnel Prone Dork Clog Slog" article in the New York Post as soon as I get back from the chiropractor.

But while the view overhead may be a key component of the recumbent experience, fixed-gear cycling is all about looking at yourself. Consider this video, which proves fixed-gear preening is the new fixed-gear freestyle:

PERSEVERANCE from NAYP on Vimeo.

I wasn't sure why this was called "Perseverance," since the only things the protagonist was persevering in were riding slowly and being a total hipster. But then I realized the video was Brazilian, so I ran the title through a popular online translator:

It made a lot more sense after that.

Meanwhile, even though the fixed-gear phenomenon has long gone global, regional news broadcasts still follow the "fixie" reporting template, complete with awkward explanation of how a fixed-gear drivetrain works. For example, in this recent segment from Los Angeles, the newscaster explains that "Fixed gear bikes are kind of like a unicycle:"

I suppose fixed-gears are kind of like a unicycle--apart from the two wheels, and the diamond frame, and the chain drive, and the handlebars... Actually, come to think of it, fixed-gears and unicycles have almost nothing in common, except for the fact that you'll often find clowns on top of them. And speaking of clowns, it's worth noting that the shop in the news report is the same one in that tall bike video that has been making the rounds recently:

LA Brakeless is now LA Windowless.

Lastly, the maker of the "Fuss Vom Gas" video has alerted me to his latest project, which chronicles the exploits of the "Rad Rowdies" bike club:

Apparently, "The Rad Rowdies are a Viennese bike gang -- drinking and riding is their mission." (Though it's clear from the video that they also take time out for the application of new knuckle tattoos.) I'm not sure how smart this mission is--it seems about as wise as "The Rad Rowdies are a Viennese urologist gang -- drinking and performing vasectomies on each other is their mission." I wonder if somewhere in the world some "bike culture" renegade will actually come out and say something like, "You know, maybe getting really drunk and riding our bikes around the city isn't a great idea." Probably not. This is the "bike culture" after all--anything goes as long as you wear a helmet.