On Your Left!

I love cycling, but it is a sport for a-holes. There are many reasons why, but I am not going to list them. I don't want to expend the energy, and I am sick of thinking about it.

But check this out:

My girlfriend and I always get harassed by a cycling club that rides in Prospect Park. For the purposes of this blog post, I will refer to this cycling club as the Crotchety Old Wheelmasters. These guys HATE us. They don't like anybody that "gets in their way." It's a classic cycling mentality: "What I'm doing on my bicycle is more important than what you're doing on your bicycle, here in the park." My girlfriend and I get in their way a lot, because we ride through the park with our dog attached to my bicycle. They don't approve of that, because it takes up extra space and appears reckless.

The ringleader of the Crotchety Old Wheelmasters is extra curmudgeonly. One time there was an accident in the park, in which a little girl fell off her mom's bike trailer, because a bolt was loose, and smacked her face against the asphalt. It looked terrible. The girl stood up and started crying, her helmet askew, and her mom ran to her and picked her up, making sure she was okay. As she did this, the ringleader, who had stopped to help, began yelling at her and telling her to get out of the way of the bike path:


RINGLEADER: (confusing everybody and exacerbating situation) Don't stop! Don't stop! Don't stop!

LADY: (hysterical) My baby!

RINGLEADER: Get out of the way of the path! Move over! Move over! Get her out of there!

LADY: Fuck you, sir!

RINGLEADER: Move the bike! Yahhhhhghg! (pointing at me and my girlfriend, who are watching from the other side of the street) We got dogs on leashes! Attached to bicycles!!

ME: Relax.

RINGLEADER: I'm not excited!! I've been riding in this park for thirty years!!

MY GIRLFRIEND: So have I!

RINGLEADER: Yaahagahgh!! Miflbpblst!!!


In case you didn't know, by riding your bike in Prospect Park for thirty years, you become an authority figure, and you're then allowed to yell at people.

The next day, the ringleader rode past us and exclaimed, "There's the yutz from yesterday!" Then he flipped us the bird. This is a sixty year-old man we're talking about. He gave us the sixty year-old middle finger, which I didn't even know existed.

For the next few weeks we had a vendetta with the Crotchety Old Wheelmasters. We engaged in shouting matches with them every time they rode past us. It was frustrating, because I could never think of any good insults to cast upon the ringleader. He rode by too fast. The best I could do was yell, "You're old!" But that wasn't effective. I had to come up with a plan.

I researched the Crotchety Old Wheelmasters online, and, as expected, there wasn't much information available. No website, no nothing. (Old people fear computers.) But I did find a Flickr page through which some bike repair guy in Park Slope sells the Crotchety Old Wheelmasters bike jerseys. Apparently, to be a part of their crew, all you need to do is purchase one of the wool jerseys for $110.00 and persuade them that you are worthy:

"If you are interested, please email me at: blah@blahbikerepair.com with a convincing argument as to why we should consider you grumpy enough to wear one of our jerseys. If we buy your story, we'll let you know where to send your deposit check."

Perfect! I finally had a way to deliver a death blow in this silly blood feud. I would order a jersey for my dog, and he could wear it while running next to my bike in the park, and if the ringleader gave us the finger again, he would only be telling himself to go fuck himself. A brilliant conceit.

Here is the email I wrote to the bike repair guy/Crotchety Old Wheelmasters jersey salesman:


Hi Blah,

I just checked out your website. It's awesome!

I especially like how you restore vintage bikes and are a Brooklyn native. My girlfriend is from Brooklyn, and I recently moved here (to Brooklyn) to live with her. We live right next to Prospect Park, and, being an avid cyclist, I couldn't wait to absolutely bomb Prospect Park on my 1989 Ciocc, which is my baby! On your left!!

Anyway, for the last few weekends, I have been riding the paceline with The Crotchety Old Wheelmasters, though it's been hard to keep up! Am I worthy of the jersey? I think so. I was on my college's road team for three years, was a messenger in Boston for four years, and rode in the Bikes Not Bombs Riding Club for five years before coming to NYC. I love cycling and bike mechanics, and I have loved riding with the Crotchety Old Wheelmasters (some of their grumpiness might even be rubbing off on me!).

What do I do to order one of these jerseys?


I received an immediate response, in which the bike repair guy/Crotchety Old Wheelmasters jersey salesman told me that he was excited to see me in the park on my classic Ciocc, and attached an order form for me to fill out. This was going to be a work of genius. I couldn't wait to carry out my clever strategem.

At this point in the story, I wish I could say that I went through with the order, put the jersey on my dog, and fooled the ringleader into telling himself to go fuck himself, but, unfortunately, that never happened. It would have been too much of a financial investment for a prank. Plus, I would be giving money to my enemy, which doesn't make much sense.

So I left it alone. What's funny is that I keep getting reminder emails from the bike repair guy/Crotchety Old Wheelmasters jersey salesman, like this one:


We have not received your order form and check yet. The order will go in on Friday - with or without you.

We don't care.


I know he is intentionally trying to sound crotchety in an effort to stay true to the cycling club's whole "grumpy" theme, but still, c'mon, try to be a little more friendly, so people will actually care when you die one day. No one is impressed by your grumpiness. That goes for the whole Crotchety Old Wheelmasters bike club. You obviously want to be cool and want to be liked, otherwise you wouldn't be drawing so much attention to yourself. Shift your attitude and stop yelling at people in the park.

"Indeed, most of [men's] vices are attempted short cuts to love. When a man comes to die, no matter what his talents and influence and genius, if he dies unloved his life must be a failure to him and his dying a cold horror. It seems to me that if you or I must choose between two courses of thought or action, we should remember our dying and try so to live that our death brings no pleasure to the world."

-John Steinbeck

Basic Book Review: Mike Birbiglia

I have been meaning to write a review of Mike Birbiglia's memoir, Sleepwalk with Me, and Other Painfully True Stories, for a long time. I read it a few months ago, and it's totally good.

Mike Birbiglia has been one of my favorite comedians for a long time. When I bought his book, I was a little worried that I would find it disappointing, because often times comedy memoirs can be lame and underwhelming. I was pleased to find out that the book was a quality read. Mike Birbiglia is a good storyteller, and he's hilarious.

The book intertwines some of Birbiglia's stand-up material with embarrassing/interesting coming-of-age tales, including ones about his family and romantic relationships. He also writes about his comedy career--how he got started, what it was like on the road, his influences, his experience on the college circuit, etc. That was my favorite part of the book. I love reading about that sort of thing.

Basically, this is a really great book for comedians and non-comedians. I'm pretty sure most people would find it amusing. I know I had a smile on my face every time I read it, and it made me feel happy and inspired.

One more thing: I met Mike Birbiglia once, and he was friendly. We shook hands.

Also, watch that documentary, The Cove, on Netflix instant. That movie will make you hate Dolphin fisherman.

Also, watch the entire Shogun miniseries, starring Richard Chamberlain. Great actor, great chest hair. A lot of beheadings.

My Bowling Ball Went Brooklyn

I went to Melody Lanes tonight and bowled solo. Bowling is a great sport. I had the bowling alley to myself and used the jukebox to play my favorite hit songs. I played one song by The Who. "Happy Jack." For a while I thought I hated The Who, but now I know I don't hate The Who. It's like The Beatles. For a while I hated The Beatles, but then I realized that I don't really hate The Beatles, and that, in fact, I like them okay.

Melody Lanes is located in Sunset Park. It is a short, creepy bike ride away from my house. I can ride my bike there in 15 minutes. Unbelievable. Rarely can I commute anywhere in New York in 15 minutes. It felt fantastic. It reminded me of Boston, where you can ride your bike to most places in 15-20 minutes. It is good that the commute is short, because my bowling ball is heavy.

I like spraying my bowling ball with a specialized bowling ball cleaner and wiping it off with a worn out Lanes and Games bowling ball towel. (Lanes and Games is a bowling alley located in Cambridge, MA -- that's where I got my custom bowling ball drilled to perfection and fitted to my monstrous hand.) I like taking proper care of my custom bowling ball. I like bowling my bowling ball into the pins and cracking them into disarray.

The lady at Melody Lanes was so nice to me. Her customer service skills are unmatched. I almost asked her her name, but then I didn't.

The people bowling next to me sucked at bowling, which is why their scores were low.

Your Local Bookstore

I went to my local bookstore tonight. It was like smoking a cigar or having a beer with dinner: I wanted so bad to love it, but it sucked.

That place sucks bigtime. I left wondering why that place is actually good and what it has to offer. I discovered that it offers very little. I was disappointed, because that bookstore, according to Yelp reviews, is "one of the best in the city."

First of all, all I wanted was Frank Herbert's science fiction novel, Dune. And they didn't have it. So that sucks bigtime, because, according to the lady whom I spoke to last week, they had Dune in stock. Thanks for not having Dune, dorks.

Secondly, the dude who works there is a dicksquad. His spectacles had an aggressively-angled green frame--they were a hip, quasi-masculine perversion of old maid librarian glasses--and he looked to be the type of man that snivels. He was a real bespectacled sniveler. A squirmy, bookwormy jerknose of a man. I could picture him sniveling on his little swivel chair behind the cash register and consoling himself by sniffing the books. Snivel, swivel, sniff. That's his move. The move of a jerknosed squirmworm of a man. My interaction with him went something like this:

ME (holding a copy of The Brother's Karamazov that I wanted to sell): I'd like to sell you this book.

DICKSQUAD McDOOGLESTERNZ (listening to world music, he gives my book a cursory glance): I will give you $3.00 for this, or $4.50 in store credit.

ME: That's it?! It's brand new!

DM: I will sell it for half the retail value. I have to make a profit on it.

ME (understanding where he's coming from but disliking his tone of voice): Okay. I'd like the store credit. I'd like to buy Dune.

(He looks around for the book and tells me they don't have it.)

ME: I talked to the lady last week and she said you had it.

DM: Well, that means we had it last week.

ME (joking, sort of): So you sold it between then and now? Who buys Dune? No one buys Dune.

DM: People buy Doomsday or else we wouldn't sell it.

I thought I heard him say "Doomsday," but I wasn't sure, and then my girlfriend confirmed to me that he said "Doomsday," which then made me think he misheard me and that maybe Dune was somewhere in the store. So I double-checked. They still didn't have it.

After we left, my girlfriend and I discussed local bookstores and the small business versus big business battle, and this is what we realized:

A. Small local bookstores have very little to offer outside of being quaint and charming.

B. Certain types of small businesses make a lot more sense than others. For example, small, local bars and restaurants give you better drinks/food than chain bars and restaurants, and aren't much more expensive, if at all.

C. If you get a product (book) at a small, local bookstore, you are getting the same exact product you would get at a chain bookstore, except it is more expensive and less convenient.

Therefore, small, local bookstores are pretty worthless, especially when they don't have Dune and the dude behind the desk is a jerksqueeze.