On bicycles, cars and four-way stops: an polemic

When is it OK to run a stop sign? Well, if you drive one of the hundreds of millions of automobiles that clog America’s roadways, the correct answer is: never. What about if, instead of one of those noisy, air-befouling sheet metal monstrosities, you travel via the sophisticated and urbane power of your own two well-toned gams – then is it acceptable to ignore those white edged, one-and-a-halfish syllabled, reflective red octagons? Yes, yes it is.

Naturally, along with pointing out my incorrect use of the word “an” in the title of this piece, you’re next going to enquire why cyclists get to do something that is usually reserved as the prerogative of lazy cops and the soon to be DUI’d. ‘Tis a fair question, and, as the previous sentence evinced, one that I anticipated.

The cyclists inborn, inherent, innate and imminently justifiable right to run stop signs begins with the preservation of inertia, but is also much more than that. For the motorist - smugly cutoff from nature behind an airtight windshield, an insulating stereo and the insufferable purr or strident roar of an engine - inertia comes from combusted fossil fuels animating cylinders which themselves turn a driveshaft, that in turn provides motive power of those ever-spinning wheels (and here, even my ignorance of the specifics of this process is, in its own way, proof of a greater, metaphysical intelligence).

The cyclist seeks not to perform such arcane alchemy as turning the fern forests of aeons past into their cheap and tawdry convenience. Instead, the source of the cyclists’ mobility is little more than the meal they ate before the sallied forth into world that doesn’t wish to understand them; that meal probably handpicked from a CSA, or barring that, something organic; or barring that, something classy; or barring that, at least the newest culinary innovation that Taco Bell has produced from their sundry labs. The point is, the forward motion of the cyclist is self-evidently more honest than that of the motorist, and, as the cyclist is not cut off from their environs by the above listed automobile impedimenta (viz. windshield, stereo, engine noise), they are more safely and better equipped to cruise through stop signs in the absence of traffic.

That last sentence is key. Go ahead, read it again. Note that I only find it justifiable for cyclists to run a stop sign when there isn’t any other traffic around, or at least none close by (and this goes for stop lights on two-lane roads, too. And, also those roads with a single lane of traffic going in each direction that incorporate a left turn lane [three laners?], but not four lane roads – that’s anarchy).

I don’t, “do not” as it were, think that it’s ok for a cyclist to cruise through a stop sign when other traffic is present. Should another rider of bikes, or perhaps a beastly driver of cars, be near or already stopped at an intersection, that then it is incumbent upon any cyclist, no matter the nobility of the foodstuffs in their belly, to observe the stop sign’s terse command and arrest all forward progress.

But, as I said, our right – and I do say “our,” for despite my attempts to remain impartial in this piece, I must admit that I, too, am a cyclist – to run stop signs with impunity is more than mere inertial persistence, or even the obvious nobility of our primum mobile – classy, or at least innovative, victuals. Something else is there.

Cyclists are ennobled by a certain je ne sais quois, but what is it? Of course other cyclists who are reading this understand it. As for the motorists, who sadly outnumber we cyclists at least one-million-to-one, I must tell you that ultimately you’ll find no satisfaction in this screed because the thing which I wish to explain simply cannot be put into words; even by a man of stately erudition and expansive vocabulary, such as, for instance, me.

Thus, the only thing that I might recommend to you harnessers of oil, you petrol junkies, you gas fiends who do to truly want to understand why it is cyclists have the imprimatur of the Almighty to act as though stop signs are little more than abstract, intersectional decoration erected by some prolific pop-art jester, is to eschew your own gas-guzzler for a few months and experience the majesty of moving under you own power for yourself.

Just like the diehard NASCAR fan (is there any other kind?) who rightfully scorns the masses who haven’t watched an entire race from the green flag to the checkered, but still see fit to hurl imprecation at their chosen pastime, I, too, will issue a similar challenge. Unless you have personally experienced life as cyclist you will forever live in ignorance of our divine rights of stop sign ignoring. And, instead of the portal to sustained inner peace that our sublime visages reflects as we heed not the stop sign, you’ll instead only see the smug smile of the entitled elitist, and nothing could be further from the truth.

How the 3/5 Compromise Can Solve Gay Marriage, or A Parodical Plundering of Our Past Mistakes

Gay marriage is a polarizing issue with a lot at stake – fortunately, to quote Will Ferrell as Robert Goulet, I went and did the political world a frickin’ service. Though the U. S. of A. is a relatively young country, I was still able to cull a few gems of even handed, thoughtful policy from our past, each one more tenable than the last – enjoy!

Separate But Equal (from Plessy v. Ferguson, 1896) – OK, in all fairness a lot of people beat me to this one, but it’s still a win/win. What we do is let the gays get hitched, but we don’t let them call it “marriage,” ‘cause that’s the straights’ word for it! Instead, we call it a “civil union” and imbue it with most of the legal rights of a “traditional marriage” but none of the reverence, because “they” shouldn’t get to use “our” word, because it’s ours! So, it’s a separate institution that only applies to a minority group, but it’s still totally equal – that’s never not-worked, right?

Altar Tax (from Breedlove v. Stuttles, 1937) – If you don’t want people to do something, but instituting complete prohibition is too harsh, the good news is you’ve still got options. One popular - and profitable! - option is to make it really expensive for people to do whatever it is you actually covertly/overtly don’t want them doing. Wary of tobacco and alcohol use? Vice tax! Don’t want African Americans, Native Americans and poor Anglo Americans voting? Poll tax! Don’t want two dudes or two chicks getting married? Altar tax! All you have to do is pass a law that says the gays can get married, but then – and this is the kicker – you make it $100,000 for “them” to get a marriage license. That way gay marriage is “technically” legal, but most of ‘em still can’t do it!

3/5 Compromise (from Article 1, Section 2, Paragraph 3 of the U.S. Constitution, 1787) – Before you say it, I know: the three-fifths compromise was later superseded by the 13^th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, which was passed in 1865 and blah-blah-blah, thank you Mr. Wikipedia. Next you’re probably going to point out that both Plessy v. Ferguson and Breedlove v. Stuttles were later over-turned, as well. You say political injustices righted, I say they were simply applied to the wrong minority-group.

The 3/5 Compromise really is the masterstroke, though, because it combines the best parts of my two previous policy initiatives (see above). To achieve separate by equal, when two persons of the same gender unite under the law we wouldn’t call it a marriage, but instead a “marri” (mare-uh), which is pronouncing 4.8 of the 8 letters in the word marriage. As you math geeks have probably already figured out, 4.8 is three-fifths, or 60%, of 8. As for being profitable while still tacitly giving gay marriage the political middle-finger, people that are in a “marri” would only get 3/5 of the benefits normally afforded to “traditional” spouses. So, if Adam and Steve are in a marri, and Adam’s employer was the primary benefits provider, when Steve gets a bill from the dentist (because the gays have poor dental hygiene – new stereotype!) it would be 40% higher, as his insurance would only be paying 60% of the amount they’d have paid were Steve a woman. The insurance company then gets to keep the other 40%, and thanks to Trickle-Down Economics we all benefit in the end, somehow. This can easily be applied to inheritances, hospital visitation rights, and all the other benefits that come from legal matrimony.

So, there you go – three great ways to legally disenfranchise tax paying, voting, employed, jury-serving, consenting adults who are American citizens. You’re welcome!

On my cat’s frequent use of the n-word

First off, it’s totally OK that my cat says it – nobody has any proof he isn’t descended from some Egyptian cat, and Egypt is clearly part of Africa, and in this country “African-American” generally signifies someone as being black, and "being black” is such a nebulous thing anyway – I mean if a black Jamaican can say it, and so can a black Canadian, and I don’t believe anyone would object too much if an Aboriginal Australian said it, or a Congolese Pygmy, or Filipino Negrito, or Jason Kidd or Barack Obama, who are both US citizens from mixed race parents – then why not my possibly Egyptian cat? Would anyone have stopped Anwar Sadat from saying it? I doubt it.

So, with that out of the way let’s get to the point of it – most middle-class white folk like myself want a cool black friend who would call them the n-word (“-ah” not “-er”, of course) in a casual, jocular way, like if you were getting some lunch together they’d be all “N-word, give me some those fries,” and then they’d totally grab some of your French fries off of your plate, and you’d totally think, “He/she called me that, but it’s OK, because we’re friends and they’re black, or black enough that it’s OK for them to say that (see above discussion).”

Basically, we all just want to hang out with Dave Chapelle, who’s hilarious and non-threatening enough to appeal to white America, but still has some idea of “street-cred” because he was on that show and those rappers liked him, and rap’s street, right?

So, since I live in a town that’s less than 1% black, and cool, funny black friends have been few and far between, in the dry spells I’m forced to project my want of a hip black friend on my cat. When he meows at me from outside so that I’ll come let him in I imagine he’s actually saying “Come let me in, n-word, if I could work the door knob I’d do it myself, but I can’t!” Or when I’m reading a book and he jumps up in my lap, I like to imagine him saying “Lookout, n-word, I’m coming up!”

Now, some of you are doubtless thinking that I’m somehow commodifying the abstract concept of hip, urban blackness, and thus reducing a large group of people to an idea or product that can be acquired, and thus denying a group their individuality, and here’s what I say to that – no, I’m not. My cat’s hip and urban, and sometimes - and that’s the thing, it isn’t always that he says it, just sometimes – he drops the n-word in casual conversation. Paramount to all of that, though, is the fact that we’ve known each other for over 7 years and in that time have developed an understanding with each-other built on mutual respect, and that relationship is really what makes it OK. Plus, I like to imagine he does a great L’il Jon impression.

Who’s the better Hollywood hard-ass: Chris Cooper vs. JK Simmons

Franchise – Bourne films vs. Spider Man
Hilarity: Simmons - Intensity: Cooper - Box Office: Spiderman
WINNER: Simmons

Against type – Adaptation (Eccentric) vs. The Music Never Stopped (Caring therapist)
Metacritic score: Adaptation – Farther from type: Cooper - Oscar: Cooper
WINNER: Cooper

Challenging traditional American mores – American Beauty vs. Juno
Depressing: American Beauty – Funny: Juno – Mores challenged: 6 (Jailbait, affairs, drugs, blackmail, Nazis, illusion of suburban bliss) vs. 1 (Teen pregnancy)
WINNER: Cooper

Horse movies adapted from books – The Horse Whisperer vs. Seabiscuit
Director: Horse Whisperer (Robert Redford) – Success of novel: Horse Whisperer – Scarlett Johansson?: Horse Whisperer
WINNER: Cooper

Racially intense – A Time to Kill vs. Oz
Memorability due to horribly sadistic violence: Simmons – Samuel L Jackson?: A Time to Kill – Sandra Bullock?: Oz
WINNER: Simmons

Work with comedy auteurs – Me, Myself & Irene (Farrelly Bros.) vs. Extract (Mike Judge)
Use of word “dingus”: Simmons – Humorous quality of rhetoric from “urban” supporting cast: Me Myself & Irene – Humorous unawareness of Spain’s colonial past: Extract
WINNER: Simmons

Movies with the CIA in them – Syriana vs. Burn After Reading
Funny: Burn After Reading – Serious: Syriana – Obvious Coen Brothers bias: Burn After Reading
WINNER: Simmons

Notable voice work – Where the Wild Things Are vs. Megamind/Spiderman/Batman/et. al
Spike Jonze?: Cooper – Embodiment of role as angry newspaper editor: Simmons – Breadth of experience: Simmons
WINNER: Simmons

Critic’s darlings – Capote vs. Cider House Rules
Is Brandt in it?: Capote – Oscars: Cider House Rules (2) – Use of the word “mendacious”: Capote
WINNER: Cooper

Military/Cop – Amigo/Remember Me/Jarhead/The Patriot vs. Red Sands/The Way of War/Arrested Development/Harsh Times
Can walk through generic hard-ass role with their eyes closed: Both
WINNER: Tie

Harder hard-ass: In an angry, profanity laced tirade JK Simmons wins 5-4 – though both men are very disappointed in you.

Now YOU can live in a Chipotle, thanks to Old Town North!

Having grown up in Fort Collins I often recall the old waterfront district north of Old Town, and how in the 50s and 60s it used to be the industrial center that helped put this city on the map. But as the economy changed and people started shipping goods on trucks, planes and trains, our beloved waterfront district, and the old warehouses that defined it, began to fall into ruin. By the mid-90s the buildings had begun to rust and the area was rampant with vice. Then, about five years ago it was purchased and turned into a modern, mixed-use business/residential community, and proudly did urban renewal raise its head, having once again brought new life to a decaying hell-hole. And what became of the old warehouses that were once so iconic? Well, they were worked into the very buildings that replaced them, ingeniously incorporated to remind those who dwelt there of the area's historic past.

Wait, none of that ever happened.

And since it never happened, why is there a half-built neighborhood just north of Old Town that's decorated with faux-rusted corrugated steel? Might it be a cheap attempt to look "edgy"? And so it was that I stumbled across Old Town North, the hippest place to befriend a prairie dog in all of Fort Collins. (Admittedly I don't get out much, as their website says they broke ground in 2007, but since it still looks half finished, I think it's fine to be making fun of it now.)



No, that sign isn't hundreds of feet wide. Yes, there really is a Spanish style mini-hacienda going up next to the gritty, urban condos that give OTN its safe-danger charms. Clearly they want to have it both ways: if the "wrong side of the tracks" gentrification angle is too much for you, you're just a quick walk from the comforts of a regular suburban neighborhood. It's like a yoga studio that also sells crack.

Now, don't get me wrong, I love big burritos. Aside from the countless breweries, tattoo parlors and medical marijuana dispensaries that make this town great, it's seemingly limitless demand for big burritos is another thing that makes FoCo "The Choice City." That said, the decor at Chitpotle has always struck me as forced. Diamond plate and corrugated steel, along with the metal Aztec warrior statue at the Laurel & College locale, never really said to me, "Eat a burrito!" Instead I always got a sort of upscale fight club vibe from it. Like you go in, take off your designer sweater-vest and then kick the crap out of someone, but never talk about it.

As Old Town North also seems to be decorating from the "corrugated metal = urban cool" school of style, I've taken the liberty of adding the statue from the Chipotle entrance (whom I've dubbed Xochipotle, a delightful portmanteau of Xochipilli - the young Aztec god of feasting, painting, dancing, games, and writing - and the burrito parlor from whence he came) to my cellphone pictures of this bastion of edgy desperation. See if you can spot Xoch' in each one!

Here we see just how close OTN places their seemingly irreconcilable want for both The Urban and The Suburban. I'm no professional estimator, but that looks like about 40 feet, ja? Also, Xochipotle is flying on a burrito.



Similarly baffling are the street names. Intellectual religious luminaries, the lot of 'em, or so Wikipedia has led me to believe. Jerome, for St. Jerome, the man who gave us the Bible in Latin. Osiander, for Andreas Osiander, a prominent early Lutheran theologian. And Pascal, for Blaise Pascal, an all around smart guy and staunch Catholic. Amazingly, we again see OTN's ability to unify opposites - it was not enough to, as Jay Z put it, bring the suburbs to the 'hood, they're also setting aside that whole Protestant/Catholic schism thing. God, what a place to live.



At this point you may be feeling a little overwhelmed by all these urbane, big city ideals that Old Town North represents. "Wait a minute," you say in a protestation-y tone of voice, thus revealing what side of the aforementioned schism you fall on (pro pudor!). "I'm just a regular person from Northern Colorado, not some big city hipster impressed by all this book learnin'." Well, here we again see OTN's remarkable penchant for diverse inclusion. Why, it's a veritable Noah's Ark of ideals.

For all the effort that was taken to pre-rust the metal siding that graces the sides of the "cool" condos, it would seem real distress has come to this delightful little faux-urban enclave. As their website was last updated during the 2007 groundbreaking, and the ass-end fell out of the stock-market a short-ish while later, Old Town North has lots of unused lots, at least by humans. Never ones to pass up a new home regardless of the affected pretense associated with it, a large colony of prairie dogs has dug in at OTN, and judging from my rough estimates, they may outnumber the humans. Is that Northern Colorado enough for ya?



Big City, Suburban, and Rural! OTN truly has it all. The only thing they're missing is the "at" that so many other neighborhoods have incorporated as of late. (The Preserve at The Meadows, The Ponds at Overland Trail, Invesco Field at Mile High, etc.) To this end, and as new building seems to be on hiatus, I've decided to help OTN out with this final dash of ridiculous pretense.


Also if they want to use any of my photos for their website, they're more than welcome to. (Arrows added for emphasis.)



Now, who wants a burrito?

SAFETY! - Coming Soon to a Bike Lane Near You!

I was riding to work - 'cause I'm eco-leet like that - when I noticed the head of the familiar, stenciled humanoid cyclist in the bike-lane had been replaced by a largeish, industrial grade rivet. I thought this was odd because you do, in fact, need a head to ride a bike. Then I realized that the little fella - I know it's a guy because female signage involves a skirt, e.g. "Women" restroom signs and the gender diverse "children crossing" signs - had stepped up his personal safety a notch or two by putting on a helmet.


Good for him, I thought. Now when he's run over countless times during the day his little painted pate will be in much less danger of being seriously damaged. And then I thought, why stop with just helmets? Why, there's plenty of other things people do while riding that's dangerous.

I see people texting - or t-ing as I call it 'cause it's shorter, as in "I'll t you the directions," or "I just t-ed him about our impending divorce" - so we should encourage cyclists to not use cell phones while riding. And eating while biking, especially fast food 'cause that's bad for you anyway, isn't a good idea either. Nor is drinking while riding, and of course smoking, which, like fast food, counts as a double bad.

But at the same time I realized that as long we're encouraging people to avoid certain things while riding a bike, or at all, we could be championing causes as well.

"What made the list?" you query in an inquisitive tone, thus utilizing inflection to make sure I know that you're asking a question and not just beginning a sentence and then pausing dramatically. "Recycling?" Natch. "Sunblock use?" 'Course. "What about butt padding? 'Cause one time my cousin hit his tail bone pretty bad and he said it really hurt, and I wouldn't want that to happen while I was riding my bike." Amigo, I heard ya' there.

And in addition to butt padding I thought why not some groin protection, for both men and the ladies, 'cause getting hit "there" hurts everybody. Also: eye protection, knee protection, preemptive neck-brace, football style flak jacket and elbow pads. And, if the stenciled bike-lane-guy had ankles, wrists, feet or hands, I'd have included protection for those, too.

Though this dramatic "re-imagining" - to borrow a phrase from re-make happy Hollywood - would necessitate the use of a second paint color - red for safety, of course - I think it could be paid for by increasing taxes on cigarettes, fast food, booze and cell phones. My better, more utopian graphic would look something like this.


Also, people should empty the lint trap from the dryer when they're done. Leaving it for the next person to clean out is tantamount to murder.

After having my vivid, Constantine-esque vision of what a world with safer cyclists might look like, I realized that some harm is simply unavoidable. Even with the proper padding - and eye, sun, lung and artery protection - every cyclist on the road is just one errant driver away from utilizing that other oft-stenciled street logo. And if it, your-favorite-deity forbid, should ever come to pass that you ended up in a wheel chair, I imagine you'd just say "To hell with it," and quit worrying so much, at which point your street signage might look something like this.

A turtleneck isn't half a tie, or even one-tenth

One of my teachers, I'm not sure which – or maybe an “instructor” if it was in college - once told me that there's no reason for a woman's skirt to come up above her knees, because everyone's knees are ugly. The same could be true, I suppose, for ankles, and even a man's neck. The Adam's Apple, like the other aforementioned joints, is lumpy in a mashed-potatoey sort of way instead of angular and bulgy like a sports car or fitness enthusiast, or even delightfully rounded like Pillbury's mascot, or maybe certain aspects of my own physique.

It is this lumpiness that dictates that the hierarchy of men's fashion is built around covering the neck. To start at the top, or most formal, we have the tuxedo with bow-tie. It's the most formal because James Bond wears it, and he could kill you. Then mixed in amongst the various medals of silver and bronze and trophies for participants are standard neckties, aviator's scarves, ascots, plain ol' collared shirts, hipster's neckerchiefs, and polos. How much of the neck they cover, and of course the context in which they're worn, determines how formal they may or may not be, but the fact remains that if you're going to the courthouse, a funeral, a wedding or grandma's house it's a welcome gesture to not go in bare-necked.

You'll notice that turtlenecks are conspicuously absent from the above list because though they do cover the neck, they simply don't belong in the same class of sartorial formality as England's top super spy or high flying Lucky Lindy.

“Why is that?” you ask in a snide and nasally voice disagreeable to dogs, children and the elderly. Well, for starters, turtlenecks have more in common with a slinky than hundreds of years of conservative Occidental fashion. The excess neck cloth protrudes awkwardly from the collar of an otherwise agreeable sweater like an afterthought, perfunctorily claiming some sort of formality while sitting upright, waiting to be toppled over. Steve Jobs is selling millions of Apple branded doohickeys, but if that style averse man could top his jeans and tennis shoes with even an untucked Oxford shirt, I'm sure that number would be in the billions.

And where as Jobs shamelessly dons his high-necked garments by themselves, it's when the turtleneck is combined with a jacket of sport-coat that true tragedy strikes. Wearing a sport-coat over a turtleneck is about as classy as a tuxedo t-shirt while performing a bris. On paper the logic seems sound enough: formal outerwear + covered neck = ohhh yeah. But in execution we see that merely clothing ones neck is not enough, even when combined with a vest, suit jacket, or most lamentably, a sweater vest, which gets its own rant another time.

And yet I know that sadly this diatribe won't change anything. When Steve Jobs debuts the iSoul it will be in his trademark garb, and when some well intentioned school principal gets dolled up for parent-teacher night it will be in penny loafers, patterned slacks, a sport-coat and you-know-what. And so, I'm willing to meet the turtleneckers halfway, sort of. A turtleneck embodies the want to be classy, just like a coupon proves someone wants to save money, so for those who continue to insist that turtlenecks have class I'll give you the cash value of your intent. Henceforth, a turtleneck will be worth 1/100^th of a Double Windsor knotted tie, a generous offer for a hideous look so richly deserving to be euthanized.