End of an Error: Sweet Impeachment

In the last twenty-four hours I have received numerous emails, Tweets, phone calls, telegrams, ravens, and telepathic messages informing me that charismatic (that's French Canadian for "obese") Toronto mayors Robs Fords have all been de-mayored:

Fords have vowed to fight the defrocking "tooth and nail," which just happens to be the same way they attack and devour a gigantic sandwich:

(Fords used taxpayer funds to employ a hundred-person sandwich-making staff.)

In any case, the Fords first came to my attention when they said some incredibly dumb shit about cyclists, and since then I've taken perverse delight in watching their buffoonish reign of terror.  Therefore, while I am of course pleased on behalf of my overly polite neighbors to the north, I must confess I'll also be kind of sad to see them go:



As for what the Fords should do next, I'd suggest that they make a bid for the US presidency.  Sure, technically you're supposed to be born here, but nobody really goes by that, since everybody knows our current president was born in a terrorist training compound in a remote part of Pakistan.  (I saw all about it on the Fox news.)  Also, the United States prides itself on being the land of the free and the home of the obese, and once you hit 300lbs you're automatically granted citizenship.

Speaking of asses who hate cyclists, a reader tells me that a Swedish woman was recently hit by one:

Here's what happened:

"I was cycling down a bicycle path near the street when I saw the car coming toward me," she told the local norren.se news website.

At first Nordqvist thought the car would turn to avoid hitting her, but the next thing she knew, the passenger's protruding posterior sent her hurdling to the ground.

Ass-themed alliteration aside, the police are baffled:

"I'm not sure how I should put this since I've never seen anything like it," Joakim Oja of the Skellefteå police told the paper.

But that's only because they live in civilized society, whereas here in Canada's menstrual cup even the "greenest" police officer would immediately recognize this as a typical drive-by mooning gone awry.  Anyway, it's a good thing she was wearing a helment:

(Ass.  Hat.  Now that's good spondee.)

Or at least she was wearing one after the incident.

Of course, in a world where we're all just a single wayward ass away from disaster, it's important that we learn to empower ourselves.  And according to one Kickstarter, there's nothing more empowering than making your own bread--except for making your own bread with stuff you portaged with your custom-fabricated carb-mobile:



Yes, nothing says lovin' like some fresh-baked smugness from the oven:

I am a bread baker with a utopian agenda. To most, the end product of a freshly baked loaf is most tangible and delicious, but more important to me is getting people excited about the act of baking one's own daily bread, and the challenge that presents to the ready made culture that is our "stuffed and starved" American lifestyle. Baking bread is a skill that has been lost in the prepackaged, preserved food environment where we are stuck in the cycle of market-based mass food consumption. Lisaruth's Lovin' from the Oven bread making demos help connect people to a primordial skill that I believe to be the gateway to other means of self-empowerment and the participation in creating one's own reality. One gains ownership over one's food sources, and the possibility for human connection arises. One slows down.

I'm not so sure I'd call buying a pre-baked loaf of bread an act of gross consumerism, though I do have respect for Lisaruth, for I too bake my own bread.  Indeed, when I made my exodus from Brooklyn, the forces of gentrification were bearing down upon us with their Best Made axes, and I did not have time to let my bread rise.  Lo, the result was a brittle and flavorless cracker-like slab I call "matzoh," and if you too would like to partake in it just give generously to my Kickstarter campaign and I'd be happy to teach you how.

Alas, I don't know what I miss more about Brooklyn--the throngs of people clamoring for entry into overpriced dining establishments , or the gigantic curbside containers full of cabbie pee:

Actually, while I'm assuming it's cabbie pee, I guess it could also have been left there by someone who was waiting on one of those 12-hour gas lines right after the hurricane.  Either way, it's only a matter of time before Brooklyn "mixologists" start collecting these things and using them to "curate" exotic cocktails:

("Barkeep!  Make me a Number One!")

One of these $17 drinks contains locally-produced urine that was sustainably harvested by bicycle.  Can you guess which?  (Hint: it smells faintly of asparagus.)

Maybe they can serve Number Ones in the bar at that new Brooklyn velodrome that nobody wants:

“It’s just so self-evident that this is his personal passion,” said Peter Flemming, co-chairman of the Brooklyn Bridge Park Community Council and one of the most outspoken critics of the plan. “The track-cycling community is devout, I’m sure. The snowboard community is devout, too. There’s no sport that doesn’t have its devotees.”

Mr. Flemming added, “He’s paying for his building, and then the city gets stuck with it.”


Fr. Flemming might have added golf to that list of sports, but then he'd have to acknowledge how much public space the city already devotes to people hitting balls with sticks and then walking after them.

Then again, I do acknowledge that there are more valuable gifts than velodromes.  For example, if I had billions of dollars instead of just the hundreds of millions I currently do and wanted to give the city a bike-themed gift then I'd start a bike share system.  Sure, we're supposed to be getting one anyway, but who knows when that will actually happen at this point.  Plus, mine would be a lot better, and instead of unsightly docking stations I'd just have indentured Portland framebuilders in cages who would build each customer a bespoke bicycle out of bamboo.  Then, when you're done you just dump it in the East River--or maybe feed it to the thousands of wild pandas I will unleash upon the city.

Now that's philanthropy.

When You Have Your Own Blog You Can Just Type In Whatever You Want Up Here!

Hi!  How was your Thanksgiving?  Did you eat turkey?  Tofurkey?  Foturkey?  Pho turkey?  A turducken?  A whahorcopiturducken?  (That's a whale stuffed with a horse stuffed with a cow stuffed with a pig stuffed with a turkey stuffed with a duck stuffed with a chicken.)  A cat?  (Great turkey alternative if you're on a diet.)  Whatever it was, I hope it was totally ahhh-some, and so forth, and may the poor people of the world salivate covetously as the leftovers grow moldy in your refrigerator.

Amen.

As for me, after my docafish (a dog stuffed with a cat stuffed with a goldfish) I gave thanks for my new abode.  You know, I was apprehensive at first, but I'll be darned if living on the observation deck of the Empire State Building isn't all I hoped it would be and more.  Not only do the extreme wind gusts obviate the need for vacuuming, but tourists are also appreciative of my spirited song and dance numbers and fill my upturned top hat with loose change after nearly every performance.  The point is that I'm flush--so flush I may get myself a new bicycle cycle:

I've been pretty "out of it" so I had no idea Nashbar was selling a 650b mountain bike until I was perusing my off-brand tablet for bargains while using the bathroom this morning.  Yes, 650b is the new 29er which was the old 650b which was the new 26" which was the new 700c and so forth, and you know it's only a matter of weeks before this wheel size shows up in Walmart now that Nashbar's on board:

The new 650b mountain bikes are the next big thing and the Bee's Knees 2x10 650b mountain bike is a perfect example of why. The Bee's Knees has the benefits of a 29er without the draw backs. Its bigger size wheels(about 27.5") means you can roll over stuff that would stop most 26" MTB's, but it is smaller and more nimble than a full-size 29er bike. It's a sweetly spec'd bike at a value you won't find anywhere else.

Presumably this also means that 650b tires, tubes (if you're one of those LOSERS who still uses inner tubes) and forks are all widely available now, which is precisely why I won't be embracing this wheel size.  I prefer the sense of smug self-satisfaction that comes with riding a truly obscure "standard," and so I'm converting my entire stable to 640q.  In case you don't subscribe to the Rivendell Reader, 640q was the standard wheel size for 18th century Austrian hay carts, and it has all the benefits of 29er wheels and 650b wheels with none of the drawbacks.  (This is just another way of saying it's round.)  Sure, I need to hand-stitch my own tires, but it's a small price to pay for something that doesn't overlap with my elf shoes:

I shouldn't have to waste time explaining why the discriminating cyclist rides in elf shoes, though I will point out they have all the benefits of genie shoes with none of the drawbacks:

I mean seriously, who still rides in genie shoes?  Probably rides a 29er with inner tubes too.  Also, as a bike blogger I would be remiss if I didn't include a wheel size-themed poll, so here it is:

650b

Yes

No

Why?

Huh?

or View Results

Create your own poll at Flisti.com

Eat that, legitimate cycling press.

Meanwhile, in other product news, did you know that there's finally a home test for dried semen?

(Cyber Monday special!  Buy six dried semen tests and get a free weed test!  Because if you can't keep track of where you ejaculated then you're probably stoned.)

Sorry, wrong blog.  I get confused "curating" so many.  I meant to post that one on I Can't Believe It's Not Semen.  (I'm announcing a book deal for that one imminently.  The packaging is going to be fantastic, right down to all the pages being stuck together.)  Oh, I almost forgot the semen poll:

Is it semen?

Yes

No

Why?

Huh?

or View Results

Create your own poll at Flisti.com

Anyway, please allow me to start again.

Meanwhile, in other product news, a reader informs me that if you live in a place with no bicycle infrastructure you can now buy yourself your very own bike lane on eBay:

Here's how it works:



Why just be visible to motorists when you can also confuse the fuck out of them?  The biggest problem I see here is that the areas without bicycle infrastructure tend to be rural--the very same places where people in overalls keep thinking they're seeing alien spaceships.  Therefore, should you attempt to use one of these, the best-case scenario is that it leads to a sudden uptick in reported UFO sightings, and the worst-case scenario is that someone throws you into his pickup truck and you wind up in a "I'm a-gonna probe you before you probe me" situation.  (Yes, I'm an expert on rural American speech patterns, because to me the vast expanse between the coasts is just one gigantic stereotype.)

This is not to say we don't have our own problems here in New York City, and indeed the authorities are looking to question a salmon in connection with the death of a skateboarder:

"The skateboarder was moving along side the truck. A man on a bicycle riding north on University place caused the skateboarder to swerve into the truck with his board and himself going underneath the vehicle. The truck driver was not doing anything wrong and probably could not have seen the Boarder who was moving along the right side of the truck."

And here is video of the salmon, who evidently just rides away from the scene of the deadly collision he may well have caused:


This person could very well be the absolute worst cyclist in all of New York City--but, you know, at least he was wearing his helment.  And if nothing else, it could be time to introduce a "zero tolerance" policy towards bike salmoning--just like Alberto Contador wants to introduce a "zero tolerance" policy towards doping:

"For cycling, it should be zero tolerance, I express myself less certain but it is clear that there is no place for cheaters," the Spaniard explained.

Presumably the zero tolerance policy does not apply if the substances in question are contained in meat, a delicious loophole known as the "steak exemption."

Lastly, speaking of stereotypes (as I was earlier), it's both easy and fulfilling to stereotype Freds, and here's an email I recently received:

dear BSNYC

i thought this might interest you

Indeed it does, though I believe in that part of the world they're called Frédérics.

Look Out! It's Wednesday And We're About To Be Attacked By A Giant Holiday!

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.  Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins.  Two years ago, a friend of mine asked me to say some MC rhymes.  And so forth.

Well, I know I've only just returned from a moving-induced absence, but tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and Friday is the day after Thanksgiving, and that means after today I won't be posting again until Monday, November 26th.  If you're American, chances are you don't care that I won't be bloggering because you'll be off doing Thanksgiving stuff too.  If you're not American, don't blame me for the fact that you live in the wrong country.  Also, keep in mind that the day before Thanksgiving is the busiest travel day in the country, and I have to get to the airport in three hours to catch a plane from LaGuardia to JFK.  Most importantly, you should be tolerant of my culture, because Thanksgiving is a very important holiday here.  It commemorates the day that Christopher Columbus landed on the island of Hispaniola, where the Native American tribes fêted him with turkey and then ritualistically circumcised him, in return for which he gave them the gift of smallpox.  That's why on this day we make gratuitous lists of things that we are thankful for, and here is mine:

Things For Which I Am Thankful For

by Wildcat Rock Machine

--The delicate balance of nitrogen, oxygen, and other crap that makes the planet Earth habitable

--Most cheeses

--The urethra, because without it what a mess making "number one" would be!  Like the "mist" setting on a spray bottle!

--Vowels, because a world of only consonants would be a living trdczwmnmnmnthrhrhr.  (And sometimes "y.")

However, if you're a nudist and you live in San Francisco, you're certainly not thankful for the fact that the city has officially banned public nudity:

Here's why they did it:

The nudity situation in the Castro has become extreme,” Mr. Wiener told his colleagues.

Ohmygod he hates nudity and his name is Wiener.  That's the most mellifluous sentence I've read in a very long time.  If I ever reach a point where I no longer find something like that funny then just bury me alive.

Ironically, while San Francisco's public nudity enthusiasts may enjoy unobstructed views of each-other's human genitalia, they have no tolerance for the Wiener:

“Recall Wiener! Wiener is a Republican!” shouted Gerhart Clarke, 55, who stood up along with half a dozen others and stripped down to the buff.

“Shame on you!” another woman yelled, pulling off her shirt. “What are you afraid of?”

"Enough of your flip-flopping, Wiener!," I might have added while waving an athletic supporter had I been there.

Anyway, San Franciscans are now on notice that they have until February 1st to thoroughly gross out their fellow citizens:

The law will not go into effect until after Feb. 1, which will allow enough time for a federal judge to consider a lawsuit brought against the city by a group of nudists who claim that the ordinance infringes on their constitutional right to free speech.

The idealist in me wants to live in a world where we're all are comfortable with the human form, yet the pragmatist in me just wants to tell these people to put on some pants and shut up.  Of course, the real problem is that in practice some human forms cause more discomfort than others, so perhaps the best solution would be to institute some sort of permit system by which you'd have to apply for a public nudity license.  In that scenario, I'd deny roughly half of these applicants:

By the way, I enjoyed this picture of the San Francisco pro-nudity demonstration:

Not only is it good to see Tony Bennett letting it all hang out, but it's tremendously entertaining to see fully-clothed interlopers hoping for a glance at some nip:

Evidently he doesn't have the Internet at home.

Meanwhile, in Scotland, Graeme "The Flying Scotsman" Obree is preparing for his assault on the human-powered land speed record, which he will attempt on a homemade machine called the "Beastie:"

That looks remarkably like a Swatch I once had in middle school.  Apparently the condom-like fairing has been impairing Obree's visibility somewhat, but he's still optimistic:

Due to issues with visibility, Obree decided to test the usability of the bike with the fairing at a more moderate speed. The tests proved very successful and he remains upbeat despite the weather.

Another reason for his optimism is that, while the bike offers limited visibility for the rider, it also makes it difficult to see inside.  This means Obree will be able to operate it naked without running afoul of Weiner's draconian anti-nudity statutes.  When you're going for the land speed record every fraction of a second counts, and it helps if Obree can keep "The Little Scotsman" unfettered.

Moving on from little Scotsmen to gigantic Canadians, the set of bike-hating siamese quintuplets who call themselves the Robs Fords have had an accident while miming the act of playing football, and Canadian-flavored commenter CommieCanuck has forwarded me this riveting video of the incident:

He totally crashed himself like a Cat 5 in a field sprint.

Or, if you prefer the salient moment repeated ad nauseum you can watch this, which was forwarded by another reader:

Fords can rest easy knowing that once his political career is over he's a sure thing for the lead in the Chris Farley biopic.

And in product news, a reader has informed me of the "Helmet Hoodie," which promises to provide you with "cranium candlepower:"

Unfortunately the "Helmet Hoodie" people are missing out on huge cycling markets like Amsterdam and Copenhagen where everybody rides bikes but nobody wears helments.  The obvious solution is to rebrand it in those cities as the "Psychedelic Yarmulke" and just tell them to wear it without the helment.  They could even do an underpants version, which should be a big seller in San Francisco come February.

Happy Thanksgiving, ride safe, and try to avoid those Black Friday human stampedes at Walmart.  See you on November 26th.

--Wildcat Rock Machine

Back to Front: Getting On Terms Again

("Kahdeksan-Sarvinen Hirviö," spotted in Finland)

One thing that happens when you prepare for a big move is that you go "off the back" in terms of keeping abreast of the news, and so I now find myself in the position of having to draft off of the team cars and claw my way back into the peloton of current events.  For example, apparently we're about to go over some sort of "fiscal cliff," which doesn't really concern me anyway because I'm fucking loaded.  Also, last week saw the running of the World's Smarmiest Fred Ride, officially known as the Gran Fondo Giro d'Italia. The point of this ride was to settle once and for all the question of who's more unctuous--Italian bicycle racers:

Or Italian race car drivers:

Though ultimately the only way to settle that one is to poll the area prostitutes.  (Or at least swab them and bring the results to a lab.)

One thing's for sure though, which is that human beings don't get more unctuous than this guy:

They say that the Lion King is so greasy that a laying on of hands from him actually creates a clear spot on your flesh.  It's like he's a donut and you're a brown paper bag.  This is what you look like before an encounter with Cipo:

And this is what you look like after:

And all they did was shake hands.

By the way, while in Miami, Mario Cipollini and Danilo DiLuca also filmed the pilot episode of their new TV drama series, "The V Squad:"

They play a pair of rogue gynecologists who are on the wrong side of the law but the right side of the mons pubis, and their manager pitched it to Cinemax as "Burn Notice" meets "ER" meets "Miami Vice" meets a sexual harassment suit.  Rumor has it that the casting agent actually wore rubber gloves to the audition.  It's already getting lots of buzz, and Danilo DiLuca in particular is being touted as the "poor man's Duchovny."

Speaking of being "off the back," it's been awhile since I've ridden a bicycle recreationally for more than an hour, which means any attempt to do so now in a group setting would result in my being dropped in fifteen seconds rather than my usual forty.  Nevertheless, I look forward to resuming my bicycle cycling activities just as soon as I finish unpacking, which should be sometime this spring.  Fortunately, I now live within easy striking distance of the better cycling routes in the area, which should put to rest once and for all the sordid rumor that I have moved to Queens.  In the meantime, I'm taunted not only to my proximity to these rides, but also by emails inviting me to partake in events like the "Deloitte Ride Across Britian:"


Deloitte Ride Across Britain 2013 from Threshold Sports on Vimeo.

Presumably there are bike bloggers in the world who can just decide to go to Britain and Fred around for nine days, but I am not one of them.  And even if I was, I tend to shy away from rides that involve tents:

In theory I like the idea of camping.  In practice, I like walls and ceilings and televisions and speedy Internet connections and flushing toilets that I can access without first having to go outside.  This is because I am what true woodsmen call a "simpering wussbag."  In fact, I haven't camped since my "teen tour," which is when they send a bunch of kids from the New York suburbs away for the summer so that they can point and laugh at the rest of the country.  (In case you didn't know, we think you're hilarious.)  Plus, if some guy with a shirt that says "crew" on it is going to pitch your tent for you and everything, why not just go all the way and stay in a hotel?  Then again, I guess it's as good an excuse as any to carry your Best Made axe with you, and maybe if you ask the guy in the crew shirt nicely and slip him a fiver he'll go cut something down with it for you.

Anyway, the Deloitte Ride Across Britain goes from John O'Groats to Land's End:

I'm not really familiar with British geography, but I'm pretty sure both of those are mail order outdoor clothing catalogs.

Of course, the hallmark of any Fred ride is the abundance of  crabon componentry:

As well as the distinctive rollout:

In an elite-level bike race the riders roll out gracefully and engage their pedals with a near-simultaneous "click."  In a Fred ride, they struggle and heave themselves onto their bicycles in various ungainly ways, like a bunch of seals making their way onto a beach.

Still, seeing a pod of Freds migrate across a vast distance is one of the most spectacular displays in nature:

Especially when they change position to relieve the incessant pressure on their taints:

Which, as it happens, is also inspired by seal behavior:

("Hey Fred!  Quit biting my moves!")

Nine days later, the Fred pod reaches its breeding ground, the fists punch the air, and Morgan Freeman ceases his soporific narration:

By the way, wardrobe disparity is another hallmark of the Fred ride.  In an elite-level bicycle race the competitors wear more or less the same amount of clothing.  In a Fred ride the attire will vary from full tights and heavy jackets to shorts and sleeveless jerseys and everything in between.  This is because roughly 75% of the group is unable to gauge the weather correctly and is therefore profoundly uncomfortable for most of the ride.  It's not unusual during one of these rides to see an overdressed Fred who has been forced to shed layers and is sporting a fanny pack bursting with more clothing than most riders even own, while directly behind him is another Fred who is woefully underdressed and in the early stages of hypothermia.

Anyway, the best part of the ride is when the Freds get to justify their ultra-light crabon bikes by lifting them over their heads:

Don't try lifting a steel bike triumphantly after nine days of bicycle cycling.  You could be killed.

Lastly, in other Fred news, a reader tells me the latest company to employ the time-traveling t-shirt-wearing retro-Fred from the planet Tridork Bret is Sportstiks stick-on tridork numbers:

Here's a closer look:

Though I think they could have found a better model:

But what do I know about marketing?

It's Monday: I'm Back, But Barely

You know those Rapha videos that are supposed to convey suffering?  The ones were people on exquisite handmade bicycles ride across beautiful landscapes while wearing foppish scarves and facial expressions that make them look like they're trying to solve math problems in their heads while someone gently flicks their testicles with thumb and middle finger?  Well, that's not suffering.  That's a vacation.

No, if Rapha really want to capture a "suffer fest" then they should make a video of a move.  I don't mean one of those Portland moves where fifteen people portage a futon, a bunch of houseplants, and a litter box across town on their cargo bikes.  No, I mean a real grown-up move, with trucks and elevators and traffic and lawyers and people stepping barefoot on staples inadvertently dropped by the cable guy and then crashing through French doors.  Because this is not impressive:

Strap a couch on each of their backs though and maybe you're getting somewhere.

In any case, I'm pleased to report that my family and I have successfully moved from one residence to another, and we now live in a warren of boxes so labyrinthine that we must carry flags around with us lest we get lost going from the kitchen to the bathroom.  As for where we live now, I'll let you know as soon as I figure it out myself, but I can tell you that when I look out my living room I see the Statue of Liberty, and my study offers an unobscured view of the Empire State Building, and my bedroom balcony overlooks the polar bear habitat at the Bronx Zoo, and my indoor swimming pool has a glass bottom that overlooks the Goethals Bridge.  Also, I did notice that in the comments to last Monday's post a number of people speculated that I had relocated to Queens, which surprised me.  I mean, I said I was moving.  I didn't say I was giving up on life.

One thing's for sure though, which is that I no longer live in Brooklyn, and if you're wondering why then clearly you don't read the New York Times Real Estate section.  If you did, you'd know that a one bedroom apartment with a closet in which to store your one (1) baby costs well over half a million dollars:

Though to be fair, in this case the baby storage closet actually has its own closet:


But this apartment was different. “We both had that immediate feeling,” Ms. Fox said.

They loved the high ceilings, large windows and prewar character. They didn’t mind the fact that the bedroom was on the small side. The requisite extra room, in use as a child’s bedroom, had a closet. There was even a wood-burning fireplace. The asking price was $579,000, with maintenance in the high $800s.

"Extra room" is brokerese for "windowless firetrap."  I'm sorry to bore you with matters of real estate, but the truth is all New Yorkers are deeply obsessed with the subject, and when you're moving you become doubly so.

By the way, renting in Brooklyn is no better, since then you have to compete with Sandy-displaced Red Hookers who are looking for apartments with space for their chickens:

Yes, it's a familiar story here in New York.  A farm girl comes to the big city and settles Red Hook, where her rugged wardrobe and quirky country bumpkin ways are, by an accident of geography and demographics and the zeitgeist, the absolute height of urban chic:

Ms. Kirshner, 27, grew up on a farm in Washington State, home to goats, sheep and, yes, chickens, which when she was young she was charged with caring for. As an adult living in Brooklyn, she arranged to have chickens again, for the eggs, but mostly for fun. The four she currently has — Chicki Minaj, Hillary Chicken, Black Betty and Salt Hen Peppa, who is also called Cookie Dough — were born in New Jersey in May.

Then, a giant hurricane comes and threatens to sweep her chickens out to sea, but her neighbors rescue them just as they're up to their wattles in storm surge:


“On Monday night as I was getting the news that I’d lost pretty much all my belongings, I was also getting news that someone had heroically saved my chickens!” she said.

Ms. Swenson and her partner, Monica Byrne, who live above the restaurant, decided to huddle at home.

When the water began to rise, Ms. Byrne and Ms. Swenson headed over to the lot with the chickens and plunged into chest-deep water to save them.

“We had to,” Ms. Swenson said. “We’re big suckers.”


Suckers is right.  There is no way on Lob's red Earth that I'd risk my life--or even get the slightest bit wet for that matter--to save a bunch of pending Chik-fil-A sandwiches.  But then again, clearly I don't have what it takes to live in today's Brooklyn--by which I mean huge amounts of money and a willingness to die for barnyard fowl.

Nevertheless, I do owe Brooklyn a tremendous debt of gratitude for being the place that nurtured me my entire adult life.  Indeed, this past weekend I had what felt like sort of a symbolic "last ride" out of the borough.  Sure, my tires will roll upon it and I will pull over to surreptitiously pee on it many, many more times, but merely as a visitor, and perhaps never again as a resident.  As I rode along the Great Hipster Silk Route, I was stricken by the fact that roughly every 20 feet there was somebody photographing or filming something.  Either it was the woman taking pictures of "street art" on some warehouse-turned-luxury condo, or the shitty skateboarders filming each-other failing to land tricks off the Jersey barriers along the protected bike lane, or just the absurdly trendy couples snapping Instagram shots of one another's outfits.  Brooklyn is increasingly becoming a place of self-invention, and having invented a persona for myself over the years that is as fatuous and ersatz as any, I have now moved on, secure in myself, delighted by my new surroundings, and looking forward to pointing and laughing at the place from whence I came from a comfortable distance.

Speaking of laughing at stuff, a reader who was uncomfortable at the idea of laughing at someone's stolen bike recently sent me this photo:

I, however, have no such compunctions.  As they say, when life gives you lemons you make lemonade, and when life steals your artisanal bamboo bike you make an artisanal sign that's probably worth more than the bike itself.  It must be crippling to live the artisanal lifestyle.  First you spend a bunch of time making a bike out of sticks, and then it gets stolen so you spend a bunch more time making a fancy sign, then maybe someone finds the bike and you spend three more weeks making them a hand-lettered Certificate of Gratitude on parchment, and so forth.  It's a vicious cycle of arts and crafts.  At the very least, if you're going to turn your stolen bamboo bike into an art project, you should paint a decent "Wanted" poster:

The first place I'd look for the stolen bamboo bike would be in his droppings, though you'll be lucky to find anything rideable.

By the way, I did check the Threepenny Bikes website, and my favorite model is the "Hemp Mixte:"

Lugs are for bike frames.  Hemp joints are for Wednesdays--though I guess they couldn't be any worse than this bike, forwarded by another reader:

I'm not sure I'd agree with the seller's "sturdy" assessment:

Though it is a good candidate for some bicycle taxidermy, as forwarded by yet another reader:

It's the perfect accessory for your quasi-rural Brooklyn apartment.