cafe mclean

The present-day grocery store is a warzone. A veritable hellhole of conspicuously edible chemicals, and cleverly disguised, genetically modified organisms in otherwise innocuous foods we've deemed safe, or healthy. But are they really? Granted, we're not buying napalm in the morning, or depleted uranium shell casings in the bulk aisle, but at the rate the modern digestive system is collectively de-evolving, rendering itself incapable of the simplest of tasks, we might as well be. There are certainly cooler ways to die, and at the hands of some allergen the FDA has deemed fit for consumption, will not be hers.

wolves in wolves' clothing

The following is a real complaint email I sent to a small New York interior design company who (depending on the outcome) shall not, for the moment, be named. Years in front of a keyboard hammering out jaded responses to customers who allow themselves to be angry, often without rhyme or reason, seemingly conditioned to weasel and coerce CS representatives into getting what they want, when all they had to do was either ask nicely, give me something amusing to read, or simply not be from New Jersey. Damn straight I'm always more than happy to lend a hand either way. So how do CS reps communicate when they, themselves have been slighted either by a bad product or by bad customer service? I still adhere to the notion that I complain the way I would like to be complained to. Though appreciated, I don't expect a resolution because the world is an imperfect place, and I recognize that. I also recognize how positively exhausting it is to be angry over something not of my own doing. 

Hence, the following email was thoughtfully henpecked out after coming home from work and being greeted by the strangely vacant patch on my wall:

bigger point of pride

"Um... You know you're bleeding, right?"

Yeah yeah, I knew I was bleeding. The red mess was hardly subtle, to say in the least. Just my luck; hopped a curb and ended up hitting the pavement harder than I would have liked on the way to the shoot, resulting in a pair of grisly stains on my forearm and jersey. More inopportune timing than anything - thankfully, when my turn came to look at the camera and "not smile," the photog sensibly kept the carnage hidden from the camera lens. And from seeing the results below, I'd say no one's the wiser.

the DI tries his hand at an editorial, is not invited back

The following is a heavily opinionated piece on the state of the bicycle community, for Fietspad Magazine, written in response to a series of collective responses to a Tokyo/Osaka fixed-gear tour by a group of American riders. It is also worth noting that the author jovially relinquishes any and all editorial credibility through the usage of juvenile scatological metaphors and saying 'fuck' to drive a point across.  

The bicycling community is one full of poor role models. Sure, there’s always Merckx and Armstrong, but it’s since been discovered that admiring the exploits of an untouchable hero, and duplicating the exploits of that hero, are two very different sides of the same coin. It’s the community’s newest hero, one known not for what he’s done, but what he’s said, which is far more appealing to the everyman-cyclist than the aforementioned untouchables–done with a style and swagger significantly easier imitated than Eddie or Lance. Bike Snob NYC–the informally elected sarcastic and abusive father figure of bicycling as it now stands. He’s like a schizophrenic parent–abusive and demeaning. The scene, playing the abused child; timid, cowering, and never good enough.

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