Can I talk to you for a second? Can we get serious? Totally fucking serious?
I have a confession to make, I’m a New York bicyclist. Yes, that’s right, I’m that guy weaving wildly in and out of traffic, scraping your sideview mirror with my elbow, taking up the reverse lane on Delancey Street, and hipstering that shit up. While I have not yet transcended samsarra to the point where I can have a fixed-gear bike or anything, my bike was made by a company that, as far as you know, only makes TVs.
Panasonic, bitches. (Note: This is the girl version. My bike has testes. And it’s black, like coal mining.)
Anyway. Biking. It’s super-fun, but I don’t recommend it at all. My friend Sara was demolished (bike-wise and shoulder-wise) by a cab that decided to take a U-turn in the middle of Chrystie Street, sans signal or warning. My cousin hit her head and was unconscious for several days one time. I myself get really sweaty. (Yeah, my life is very hard.)
Biking in New York is stressful for everyone, even though it’s quite fun, rewarding, and exercise-tastic. But many’s the day people have swerved wildly into me. The same cream-colored minivan rear-ended me on Bedford Avenue in the Hasidic district, in the fucking bike lane, three times. On Brooklyn Avenue once, a guy swerved in front of me (and in front of the stranger riding beside me), then came to a dead stop without warning. When we tried to pull around him, he shouted “Streets is not for bikes!!!” out the window. How do you counter such a fine-grained, poorly-worded argument? Via the Socratic method? A nuanced round-table discussion on traffic management? By pointing to the giant “Bike Route” sign just twenty feet away? We decided to swear at him and take a side street instead.
Anyway, I’ve got a lot going on in my life right now. Wanna hear me complain about girls? No? Okay, well, see you later. Oh, hey, P.S., wanna see a cop almost kill a bicyclist in Times Square last Friday, the whole reason I started this post to begin with?
This particular clip is not to be missed. (Don’t worry, I’ll go back to italicizing funny swear words next week.) The average New Yorker pays $9192.24 in taxes to support the NYPD every year (note, I made this number up) — for that much money, shouldn’t they be coming to my house to change my children’s diapers? Or, um, you know, not indiscriminately killing us? Just sayin’. It’s hard out there for a pimp, especially on two wheels.