Difficult subjects: Let's talk about Tracy Chapman

I headed over to Wegman's today on my $7,000 cargo bike to see if there were any Presidents Day sales on soy based meat. While browsing the aisles, Tracy Chapman's "Fast Car" started playing on the supermarket sound system. I got so upset I almost put down the case of LaCroix I had in my arms and left. This song needs to stop being played in public. Why? Well, the car culture is waaay too strong in this one.

Let's set aside the fact that the song is literally encouraging reckless driving. I mean, it's called FAST CAR. And let's also set aside that the song is about heartbreak and keeping hope alive in the face of despair.

Let's get down to the real nitty gritty.

First stanza

"I want a ticket to anywhere."

If she lived in a 15 minute city, she wouldn't be clinging to a cager driving a death machine to get out.

Second stanza

"Won't have to drive too far, Just 'cross the border and into the city."

Hey lady, if it's not that far, you should be taking public transportation and saving the environment.

Fifth stanza

"So I remember when we were driving, driving in your car, Speed so fast it felt like I was drunk, City lights lay out before us"

That's how fast your loser boyfriend was driving around and you didn't bail? City lights mean there was probably a bus you could have taken home at least.

Sixth stanza

"You got a fast car, We go cruising, entertain ourselves"

OH. MY. GOD. Driving for entertainment? Burning fossil fuels to get your jollies?

"We'll move out of the shelter, Buy a bigger house and live in the suburbs"

Now this is where it really goes off the rails. We amateur urbanists all know that poor people don't drive or own cars. And the writer has dreams of living in the suburbs, the worst possible place for anyone to live! You belong in an inner city housing project, honey.

I know Ms. Chapman is a respected folk singer and that it's black history month and we need to listen to black voices and all, but she gets my white transportation activist ire up. Tomorrow I am going to call the Master of Urban Planning Department at Hunter College and see if any of the students there would like to focus their thesis on how car culture in songs detroys cities.

The sociopathy associated with car centric holiday toys

I was on my way to pick up a tofurkey with my cargo bike this week when I came across this truly disturbing sight. Someone out there has purchased a starter SUV for their 4 year old. This item should be nowhere near innocent children. Why get them started so young on a life of traffic violence? It got me very depressed and it made me think of all the other popular car centric toys that are sold by the millions every year. Let's recap:

Matchbox cars. Collect them all. Well matchbox is an appropriate name since the real versions of these vehicles frequently implode. Terrible choice for under the Christmas tree. I'm thinking of starting a miniature replica bike toy biz to combat this car culture. And not one, but two, police cars in this set! Defund, don't lionize!

Sure, this thing with its bright cheerful colors looks innocent enough, but why introduce your kid to sitting behind the wheel of a gas guzzler as a toddler? What a sick mentality. We only see this depravity in 'Murica, folks!

Ultimate garage? Why are we indocrinating youngsters with the notion that parking should be plentiful? I weep for this generation.

Transformers - more than mets the eye! I'll say. Why not mention the fossil fuels in the bellies of all these creatures and how they are destroying the planet instead of actually saving it?

The F'ing Hess Truck. I truly despise this thing. Nothing says Christmas like trucking combustible fluid around the country to help people engage in wanton consumerism. And this one isn't even hauling gas but "hot rods" which no doubt will be used to run down Christmas carolers. Oh, the inhumanity!

Anti-cyclist ribbon appears on police car parked at bus stop

While cycling on a highway service road in Queens, I passed this NYPD van illegally parked in a bus stop. It belongs to the NYPD Electronics Section, and I couldn't think of a possible reason why this unit would need to exist. It sounds like something used for spying on people engaged in micromobility. Seeing this van served as a stark reminder that I need to replace the tin foil lining in my bike helmet. While I sat atop my trusty Huffy enraged that we were throwing good money down the tubes on unnecessary surveillance, I noticed a blue ribbon affixed to the back of the death machine that said, "Support POPPA, Inc." This seemed like some kind of an unauthorized protest message so I decided it was my duty as a trusted blog journo to ask for a complete investigation. I contacted 1 Police Plaza and asked why the NYPD needs an electronics division, why they felt it was ok to park their van in a bus stop and why there was a coded message on the back of it.

The response received was that
1) the Electronics Section supports the Life Safety Division which has something to do with the 911 system. But I'm skeptical because their headquarters is located in bike friendly Woodside where there are tons of cyclists to surveil.
2) They were parked in a bus stop because they were "perfoming an official function" and "didn't have time" to look for a non-bus stop spot. Outrageous! The spokesman actually chuckled and said, "Would you like us to send a unit out to issue a summons?"
3) Lastly, he snidely stated, "Let me Google that for you" when I asked about the ribbon. POPPA, Inc. is an organization that provides support to cops by other cops. It's only open to cops so no doubt they are actually meeting to figure out how to undermine cycling in NYC.
It should come as no surprise that this this illegally parked van and the Life Safety Division are located in the city council district of the notorious pro-cop Citibike hater, Bob Holden.

Driving a Toyota Corolla is Horrifying, Menacing, and Very, Very Loud.

A STREETSBLOB exclusive

The Toyota Corolla LE: Test Driving a Death Machine By Kunt Gershman

As an openly virtuous cyclinista in the war against automobiles, who fights for safe streets and clean air every day, I have often wondered why some New Yorkers insist on driving cars and trucks despite my articles plainly explaining the moral imperative to only ride bicycles.

In a selfless attempt to understand the madness that overpowers car nuts, I decided to make a great sacrifice for my Streetsblob readers and test drive one. I selected a model popular with the wealthy elite who put their selfish needs above the climate crisis and the rights of cyclists to control the entire city: the Toyota Corolla.

Just holding the cold, heavy key fob of this 2022 Toyota Corolla LE CVT in my hand sent shivers down my spine. It was adorned with a silver “T” symbol. I assume the T stands for testosterone, a marketing play for the kind of carnivorous alpha male consumer who still insists on buying bicycle-devouring world-killers like this Corolla.

It has four wheels, twice the number that any enlightened global citizen needs. And despite this 3,000-pound behemoth’s forward-collision warning, automated emergency braking, lane-departure warning and lane-keeping assist, it was plain to see it was designed primarily with killing cyclists in mind.

I took a deep breath and climbed into the cockpit. A series of gauges and screens suggested a military design, efficiently monitoring its murderous capabilities. Headroom in the driving position was limited, with the top of my bicycle helmet scraping the interior ceiling.

When I realized there was virtually no chance of tipping over and smashing my head or scraping my limbs on the road, I felt unnerved.

I slowly penetrated the ignition with the key, closed my eyes and turned it in place. There was a deafening roar as I heard and felt this beast’s 1.8 liter four cylinder nightmare machine roar to life with its ludicrous 139 horsepower. I could not even bring myself to think of the torque, for fear of fainting.

I slid the phallic gear selector knob to “D,” which I assume means “death” mode. I dug my fingers into the steering wheel and released the brake with a lump in my throat. Within a few seconds, I was hurtled to a breathtaking 28 mph. My heart was pounding. I experienced tunnel vision, a cold sweat and a crushing combination of fear and guilt.

I felt the power of death over life at my right foot. I suddenly understood this to be the drug to which so many weak-willed Americans are addicted.

The vehicle’s automatic climate control blasted cool, dry air toward me, making me uncomfortable from the lack of sweat and natural odor to which I am accustomed, my scrotum arid and loose against my nylon bike shorts on the vehicle’s decadent cloth seats. I no longer felt human.

I arrived at an intersection with a green light and came to a full stop to allow cyclists and scooters to ride through the red light on their end, as is their right and custom. The traffic light facing me turned red and so I proceeded through the intersection. The operators of other hulking death machines furiously blew their horns at me for going through the red light, as if they owned the entire city. Their self-entitled rage was horrifying.

Knowing that this experience would permanently change me, I dared not prolong it. I found a Citi Bike station and parked the heaving, growling machine in front of the nearest fire hydrant, lest its blood lust be satisfied with me at the wheel. I rode the Citi Bike through a stop sign and nearly collided with a parent pushing a stroller and felt my pulse slow as I regained my usual feelings of peace, superiority and entitlement.

As I rode the equity-exuding Citi Bike up on the sidewalk to get a fair-trade kale-lemon-basil espresso tonic, I reflected on how much good I had done the city on this day. But knew I would never be the same.