Weather Vain: One Man's Man-Boobs Are Another Man's Barometer

I'm normally not one to honk my own clown nose, but the fact remains that I've been riding bikes or awhile now and over the years I've learned a thing or two.  For example, consider getting dressed for a ride.  This is something with which "newbies" tend to have a difficult time.  Either they overdress and overheat, or they underdress and freeze, or they carry a bunch of rain gear for a storm that never comes, or they find themselves caught in a storm with nothing to protect them from the downpour but an empty Clif Bar packet.

On the other hand, the seasoned rider knows how to account for these meteorological vicissitudes, and he does so by Being In Touch With His Environment.  Nature offers us all the clues we need as to the conditions of the day ahead if only we learn how to look and listen.  Some experienced riders listen for clues in the morning birdsong.  Others dig their fingers deep into the soil and smell the earth itself.  As for me, I gauge the conditions by the guy who smokes on his fire escape:

With the punctuality of a Swiss timepiece, this silverback gorilla clambers out of his window every hour to suck down a cancer stick.  But he's not just a hirsute human cuckoo clock; he's also a thermometer, barometer, and living weather "app" all in one.  This is because his choice of attire (or lack thereof) allows me to divine the weather conditions.  For example, if he's merely wearing underpants (as in the picture above), I know it's a shorts-and-short-sleeves day.  However, if he's resplendent in his velour sweatsuit, I know I need to layer up with leg warmers and arm warmers and maybe even a vest and gloves.  Furthermore, the volume of his smoke plume reveals to me the relative humidity, and it also acts as a windsock by informing me of the wind direction.  If I really want to be accurate I'll occasionally cross-reference the guy who smokes on his fire escape with his wife who shakes out their bedding while wearing a bra, but for all but the most "epic" rides one or the other is generally sufficient.

You know who's also an experienced cyclist?  David Byrne.  This is because he doesn't own a car--or does he?

By now you may have seen Byrne's new and inscrutable music video, in which he emerges from and then does weird stuff near a gasoline-powered motor vehicle:



I was unable to watch the video straight through as I have not attained the Bard College degree it is necessary to have in order to do so, but I did skip around a bit, and what I did see was very thought-provoking:

In fact, the above sequence called to mind Pee-Wee Herman dancing on the bar for the Satan's Helpers, and it led me to wonder whether the two artists share some sort of "Dorian Gray" relationship in which Pee-Wee stays perennially prepubescent while Byrne grays and withers:

Then I looked closer at Pee-Wee Herman and realized he looks like he just got back from the embalmers, whereas Byrne looks more or less like a normal human (albeit one who has not experienced the joys and miseries of car ownership), and so I scrapped that theory.  Nevertheless, I'm hoping that my essay "The Bicycle, Spasmodically Dancing Man-Children, and The Future of Urban Transport" will land me a cushy research gig at a well-endowed university.  (And by "well-endowed" I do not mean the Mario Cipollini University for Natural Male Enhancement.)

Of course, if you prefer lighter reading, there's always Tyler Hamilton's new book, as reviewed by "USA Today:"

The review begins with what used to be called a "burn" back in the day:

You can say this about Tyler Hamilton's new book: Even the author knows people would rather read about Lance Armstrong.

Though the causticity of the "burn" is diluted somewhat by the fact that it's coming from "USA Today," which is basically just a paper diner placemat with a few more pages and a weather section.  Still, I doubt I'll be reading it since this whole doping thing has become impossibly tedious, and if a bunch of aging jocks are going to play out their personal dramas in a public forum I'd at least like them to take the time to put a few rubber bands in their beards:

If you're looking for escapism then I suppose following sports is a decent choice, but if you insist on having integrity with your escapism then your only real choice is art.  Athletes and artists both have talent, and they both like to enhance that talent with drugs.  The crucial difference though is that nobody calls Jimi Hendrix a doper because he was on drugs when he recorded "Are You Experienced."  This is why we're appalled by someone slapping a testosterone patch on his balls to win the Tour de France, yet we're delighted by someone tripping his balls off on LSD to make some freaky sounds--sooner or later an athlete is bound to betray your trust, whereas the only way an artist is likely to do that is if they sober up.  It's also why you should never, ever get a tattoo like this one, which was pointed out by a commenter yesterday:

Though it does manage to combine the foolhardiness of a girlfriend/boyfriend name tattoo, the indignity of a corporate logo tattoo, and the treacly sentimentality of a poetry tattoo in one unfortunate package.

Yes, art is always the wiser choice, because you can let your guard down when you enjoy art, whereas watching sports without a healthy dose of cynicism is like leaving your bike outside without a lock.  And speaking of stolen bikes, here's an article that has been making the rounds lately, and that, like most articles about stolen bikes, contains almost no information that isn't already completely obvious:

(Bike thief or hipster cyclocrosser?)

Sure, you already knew that bikes get stolen all the time and nothing happens, but did you also have a chart to prove it?

Also, the article contains some gross misinformation:

Anybody who knows anything about bikes knows there is indeed a Keyser Söze of bicycles, and here's his picture:

The way the caper works is this: Söze's crew make some swoopy designs on a computer between group rides, some other company in a faraway country builds the swoopy designs out of plastic, and then Söze sells you the plastic lump as a "module" for thousands of dollars.  Fortunately though, there is one man who can save us:

He's wearing lots of rubber bands, only they're not on his beard.

Sticky Situations: Meet The New Bond, Same As The Old Bond (But A Lot More Oily)

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

by Wildcat Rock Machine, age 6

Last week I had a summer vacation.  It wasn't really a vacation because I don't work.  Still I took a vacation anyway.  One of the things I did on my vacation was ride bikes for no reason.  Riding bikes doesn't count if you don't use a computer and tell everybody about it.  So if you want to learn more about my biking rides please visit my Strava account.  The end.

Also, as I become increasingly old I also find myself becoming increasingly disinterested in looking at pictures of special bike parts and then buying them.  In fact, there are only about two Internet "webbing sites" that ever make me want a special bike part, and one of them isAll Hail the Black Market.  (The other site isn't even about bikes, it's actually about macrame, but it does make me want to put macrame on my bikes.)  

One day, I was reading All Hail the Black Market and the guy who writes it was talking about some tires.  What he said about them made me want them, so I ordered some and put them on my traveling bike:

(What you're mistaking for bad photography is actually called "sun-mottled.")

Sadly, I don't have ready access to the sorts of mixed-terrain bicycling adventures that the AHTBM guy does, and even if I did I'd fall down and hurt myself almost immediately.  Nonetheless, I did take my travel bike with my new fat tires on it to some local mountain bike trails and had myself a very enjoyable time:

(Someone on Twitter said that my valve stem was too long, which made me feel sad for them.)

Also, at another point during my summer vacation I took my hands off the handlebars while riding, which is something that very few people are able to do:

(Don't worry, I'm actually not doing that here, I'd never attempt to use a camera and ride at the same time.  Instead I placed the bike on a home trainer and took the photo in an attempt to recreate the stunt.)

Never, ever take your hands off the handlebars, or you will die.

But recreation isn't just about bicycle cycling.  It's also about going to the movies, and of course this past weekend marked the end of the summer blockbuster season.  As such, I resolved to see a summer blockbuster myself, and as it happens there was one playing that was all about bikes.   No, I'm not talking about "Perineum Rash" starring that Jennifer Jason-Leigh kid.  I'm talking about "Cipollini Bond--The Movie" starring Mario "Hep B" Cipollini:



At first I thought "Cipollini Bond" was some kind of new denture adhesive made from the Lion King's various and sundry viscous secretions, but in fact it's a promotional video for his new racing bike.  The word "tour de force" gets bandied about all too easily these days, but you can rest assured it will never, ever be used to describe a Mario Cipollini film.  In fact, "tour de force" is to "Cipollini Bond--The Movie" as "Tour de France" is to the "USA Pro Cycling Challenge."  "Cipollini Bond--The Movie" is also filmed entirely on location inside of Mario Cipollini's gigantic ego, and in this cinematic romp Cipo proves once and for all that he is the Tom Danielson of James Bond actors.

The film opens with some villain who may or may not be Mario Cipollini with his hair cleansed of styling products:

He speaks a guttural language and has Asian henchman, which means he probably represents any number of Belgian bike companies who have their products made for them in Taiwan.

Then, we meet the Cipollini Bond:

Note that his enemies have "Little Mario" right in the crosshairs.

We also meet Cipollini Bond's love interest, who may or may not be Cipollini in a wig:

If Cipollini is indeed playing all three roles, then surely you have to go all the way back to Eddie Murphy in "Norbit" to find such ambitious cinematic multitasking.

Like any movie, "Cipollini Bond--The Movie" contains symbolism, but unlike most movies every single symbol represents Mario Cipollini's penis.  For example, here's Cipollini Bond examining the label on his penis:

("That's a fine vintage.")

And here's Cipollini Bond cooling his penis in a bucket of ice:

Naturally, Cipollini Bond is suave and well-versed in the twin arts of conversation and seduction:

("The sparkling wine we're drinking came from inside my penis.")

But just as he's about to lead out Little Mario for the final sprint, Cipollini Bond gets an urgent message on his tablet:

("A new photo set has been posted to 'Japanese Girls With Big Shoes!'")

So he leaps into his helicopter and slips on his headset--which, due to his oily skin and oilier hair, immediately pops right off again like a banana clip off of an ice sphere:

Fortunately, after coating himself with sawdust he finally gets the headset to remain in place, just as Dr. BadTeeth blows up the Cipollini Bond secret sex compound:

By the way, most actors would fall back on a stuntman, but Mario Cipollini does all his own flying:

We know this because the helicopter spends an hour and a half crying in the shower afterwards.

Next, Cipollini Bond dons his dinner jacket:

And further runs up the film's vehicle rental budget by getting into a Porsche:

Which he drives to some jewelry store:

Where a woman hands him the "secret:"

The "secret," evidently, is the answer to the riddle, "What's long, hard, and made of crabon?"

After obtaining the secret, Cipollini Bond spends a little time fondling his Cipollini in the dark:

And then bursts into the daylight dressed like an unctuously-coiffed sperm:

So Dr. BadTeeth dispenses his henchmen:

But sending motorcycles after a Cipollini bicycle is like sending a canary to a cockfight, and Cipollini Bond rides through traffic in a way that makes Gordon Joseph-Levine in "Premium Rush" look like Sean Connery in "Finding Forrester:"

Naturally, the motorcyclists get stuck in traffic that even the Beautiful Godzilla on the cellphone is able to clear:

While Cipollini narrowly avoids getting hit by a bus (assuming you consider 20 feet to be "narrow"):

By the time Cipollini Bond gets to the speedboat (obviously there was going to be a speedboat), he's powering the bicycle entirely with his crotch:

Then Cipollini Bond makes a deft transition:

Powers away:

And successfully captains the speedboat with one hand while fondling his accomplice with the other:

Meanwhile, the motorcyclists make the universal signal for "drat!"

Safe in international waters, the accomplice resumes tanning:

While Cipollini Bond finds a nice spot to drop anchor:

And then they start swabbing the deck:

Obviously, after a movie this powerful you stick around to read the credits, and while I was impressed by the acting of both Mansoure and Mustafa:

The real revelation here was director Max Barbot:

Who manages to hit the cinematic "sweet spot" between hip-hop music video and all-out porn, and whose directorial style is almost as "maniacal" as the Italian craftsmen who make the Cipollini bikes:

If you need me, I'll be crying in the shower.

Paying Your Way: Physics Isn't Fair

Yesterday, while riding home, I inserted my Scattante into David Byrne's lip:

(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:

I was disappointed to see Streetsblog refer to the Robs Fords in the singular, but otherwise I found this to be an edifying yet somewhat depressing read.  On the other hand, this "modest proposal" from some idiot in Chicago, which was forwarded to me by a reader, is just stupid:

(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:

"Wouldn't you say that they're kinda like the one percenters of the commuter class?"

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.