Rich Mintz  

Also saw The Naked City tonight — I’d seen bits and pieces, but never the whole thing. This is the granddaddy of every police procedural ever made, and was filmed on location all over New York City, mostly in spots instantly recognizable. The 10th Precinct house on West 20th Street, which I bike past every day on the way to work, was used extensively, and not only the exterior; many interior shots were filmed in a room in the front of the building, probably on the third floor, because out the window you can identify buildings across the street (which I confirmed via Google Street View).

You know all those Netflix DVDs you have sitting around in your living room, collecting dust and costing you $9.95 a month? Maybe you should, you know, watch them. I dug through my little DVD stack and found The Best of Everything (1959), made from Rona Jaffe’s book, which I read earlier this year.

The book is one of those “young women come to NYC from the sticks with the dream of making it big” affairs, like The Women and so forth. I really enjoyed it, although having four or five parallel subplots intertwined throughout the whole thing was kind of hard to follow. I kept having to flip back to figure out whether the girl from Colorado was the same one who was dating the country club guy with the roadster, and who was it again was divorced with a small child?, and exactly which married guy was sleeping with who, and so forth, but on the whole it was a satisfying experience, and right after I finished the book I rented the movie.

Of course I didn’t watch it until now, several months later. And I was struck by the extent to which all the men in this 1950s office-romance movie were utter cads (with the occasional exception), and all the women were either baldly husband-hunting with no ambition, or so ambitious they’d lost their souls. Joan Crawford plays a slightly older woman in the office who has more or less literally lost her soul, and much is made of this as a plot point. It’s pretty bleak. But the movie is largely faithful to the book; that’s simply how Jaffe wrote it.

On the upside, the movie is gorgeous. It’s a lush evocation of its era in New York, with gorgeously and matter-of-factly dressed women throughout, office furniture that you mostly see now in expensive Brooklyn junk shops, interiors in pastels and primary colors, a spectacular coffee-shop scene near the beginning, and lots of identifiable 50s New York exteriors. And every woman wore a hat and gloves every single day!

I have to admit that I’m of two minds on last night’s NYPD clearing of Zuccotti Park, the birthplace of the Occupy movement — which happens to be three short blocks from my apartment building.

Obviously (and in case it isn’t obvious, I’ll say it) I support the movement. I’ve gone from being one of those mildly curious “what are their demands?” people to being impressed by the extent to which this movement has made inequality a legitimate subject for serious public debate — for the first time in a generation. So, good on them.

But as someone who lives close enough that I was awakened at 2am today by helicopters and sirens, and that people were arrested in the early morning hours at a police line right at the end of my street, well — I’m not so sure an indefinite and semi-organized domination of a public space by a loud and intimidating (yes, intimidating) band of grubby, confrontational people is something you’d want in your neighborhood. People live down here. For weeks I’ve avoided turning left at the end of my block instead of right, because going left just wasn’t worth the anxiety. And I’m a six-foot-two man, sympathetic to the occupiers, and someone who, in ordinary circumstances, isn’t much bothered by anything or anyone.

Bloomberg’s been in an impossible position for weeks — not because of his “girlfriend” or his “cronies,” but because even a liberal mayor (which, duh, have you ever paid attention to anything the guy has said?) is obligated to protect public order for everyone. There are times when “public order” is a cover for an anti-idealistic crackdown, but this isn’t one of them. Camping on private property without the consent of the owner is in clear violation of the law. (If it were a public park, the violation would be even clearer.) And when an EMT doing his job is assaulted, you’ve reached a point where public order has broken down.

The media blackout was a terrible idea, and is being rightly treated as such in the public debate. But I suspect a silent majority of Occupy’s supporters — and certainly of the hundreds of thousands who live and work in lower Manhattan — are ready for the next phase of the Occupy movement. The Zuccotti occupation has achieved what it needed to.

It’s not even November yet, and outside our window this Saturday morning, lumps of goopy snowy muck are falling. It’s almost pretty, as long as you’re inside.

I have no idea where the year went. I mean, I did a lot of stuff and all, but there was no sense of time marching forward in an orderly manner, season by season; it all just went by. I guess that’s what happens when you pass the chronological midpoint of your life — you start falling toward the precipice, like a little red wagon full of rocks on a steep mountain road.

Today I was made fun of by a doorman for having, as he put it, “3 locks on my bike — are you paranoid or something?” (Not a random doorman; it’s someone I deal with regularly.) Actually, what I have is a seat leash (to secure my QR seatpost), a Kryptonite U-lock, and a supplemental cable to lock my wheels, which I think of as “an ordinary amount of security.” But when a doorman thinks you’re being too careful, you know the city’s getting safer…

I had a brief conversation with someone this afternoon who, discovering that I had arrived by bicycle to meet him, could not believe that I would ride a bicycle on the streets of New York. He was a lifelong New Yorker (I’m guessing), somewhat older but not vastly older than me, who was apparently of the opinion that biking in Manhattan was something that only a crazy person would do. Among the things he said were (1 – in jest, I assume) that taxi drivers steer directly for bicyclists, and (2 – apparently seriously) that he would never let his children ride bicycles.

Obviously people have their own opinions based on their own experiences, and have a right to, and I know nothing about why this person formed his. But this point of view is empirically disconnected from contemporary reality for someone (like me) who is on a bike every day in Manhattan.

Aside from the measure of unavoidable risk associated with being on a small bicycle immediately adjacent to large wheeled missiles controlled by fallible humans, it is only extremely rarely that I feel physically in danger on a bike in New York City. I am, obviously, a competent street bicyclist, in good health, unafraid to take the lane, large enough that it is less likely I won’t be seen, alert when I’m riding and free with my bell, smart and self-protective enough to stop at red lights. But still.

Drivers in New York City obey the law and are accustomed to driving safely in tight quarters without hitting anything, and (as I’ve said previously) taxi drivers are the ones I fear the least. All NYC drivers stop at red lights (or yellow lights), with exceptions being so rare as to be notable. NYPD traffic control officers understand the flow of traffic and work to keep it moving, and without exception have always respected my right to be in the road and treated safely by other road users. (More than once I’ve seen a NYPD officer yelling at a motorist who put a bicyclist at risk.) I’m on extra-high alert whenever an SUV with out-of-state plates is nearby, and near tunnel and bridge approaches; but elsewhere in Manhattan, where most drivers are locals, I am by and large treated with respect.

I bike 30 or more miles in Manhattan in a typical week, and virtually all of it is on roadway on which DOT signage clearly indicates bicycles are welcome. Almost all of that is in designated bike lanes or on designated bike paths, and more than half of that is on separated paths, where pedestrians stepping into the street without looking pose the primary hazard. (See above: I have a loud bell, and I use it when I need to.) And I cover the whole city, up and down from 125th Street to the Battery, west and east sides. There are a few places I avoid because traffic volume is heavy and a pain in the ass, but there’s no place I avoid because drivers are reckless. They aren’t.

In the past few weeks I’ve biked in Chicago and in DC and I found the same situation. Social attitudes are changing, thank God. I can’t speak for the suburbs (the two places I felt physically at risk on a bike were on the Roosevelt Bridge in DC and on the Pulaski Avenue viaduct in southwest Chicago, one used primarily by suburban commuters and the other fairly distant from the central core), but in the city, bicycles are becoming respected and coming to be expected as road users. And, in a virtuous cycle, this encourages people who aren’t trendsetters or early adopters to take up the practice. Tonight I saw a woman pulling her daughter in a trailer in the left lane of 9th Avenue in heavy afternoon traffic — she even ran a red light, which shocked me but is indicative of her sense of safety and control.

Lauren Sharpe, the New York Neo-Futurist, is making a short film every day in September as part of her Month By Day project.  (Follow her here.) Here’s last Friday’s:

september 2 from Lauren Sharpe on Vimeo.

And here’s yesterday’s:

september 9 from Lauren Sharpe on Vimeo.

I love this stuff! This is exactly the sort of creative project I wish I could make time for, and of course I can — anyone can. I just don’t. So I’m going to.

Beginning this weekend, I’m going to write a short informal essay about a place I remember, every day for a month. I won’t necessarily hit every day, and the point of this isn’t to punish me if I miss; it’s to give myself a gentle kick in the tailpipe not to miss a day whenever possible.

This sort of thing doesn’t take a whole lot of time; the value is in the habitual doing, not in the size or complexity or even (necessarily) quality. So watch for some short pieces about places, beginning real soon now.

The NYC Summer Streets festival kicked off this morning, and will be continuing for the next two Saturdays, 7am to 1pm. A tremendous “thank you” to the army of NYC DOT volunteers, NYPD police and traffic control officers, and sponsor staff who made it a safe event for the thousands of walkers, skaters, and bicyclists who participated today. I rode from the foot of the route (near the Brooklyn Bridge) up almost to Grand Central and then back down to Houston, and I saw people of all ages out enjoying the streetscape — including young children and older people who might not normally be comfortable bicycling in the street.

As a side benefit, I saw a ton of gear, including a Dutch pannier bag that I now covet.

A few photos below, but I didn’t take many, as I was busy, you know, doing things.

One of the things I learned from Adam Roberts’ book (which he learned from Ruth Reichl, after learning it in a different way from his upbringing) is that you benefit from becoming a regular at the restaurants you like: you learn what they do well, they learn how you like things, and a relationship develops.

Well, I’ve discovered the next restaurant I want to … have a relationship with, and it’s Peels, on a bleakish-but-improving stretch of the upper Bowery just below Cooper Square.

New York magazine recommended it for breakfast and I had it on my mind, so I went and checked it out recently, given that it’s more or less on my bike route to work. And boy, was I pleasantly surprised! Like Markt, another breakfast place I have a fondness for, they do good eggs and good potatoes; and unlike Markt, they do biscuits as well as or better than the Flying Biscuit, which was previously my gold standard.

The menu is a tad precious (no “eggs any style,” you gotta have them in one of the handful of styles they’ve canonized, such as poached with a biscuit and sausage gravy), but there’s enough range there, and everything is super-fresh and cooked to order. Drinkable Stumptown coffee made in a French press; attentive and friendly service; sidewalk tables; a high communal table inside. And they open early and stay open late. There’s a lunch menu, too, but I probably won’t bother; breakfast is my thing.

Special bonus: when I left this morning and went to the bus stop on the corner, my lovely friend Meredith was standing there! How random. Hi, Meredith!

I found myself near Columbus Circle at the end of the workday today with my bouncy little Dahon folding bike, and so I decided to take a trip down the Broadway bike lane, snapping photos all the way. I took pictures basically every time I had to stop at a light, or when I saw something interesting.

You’ll note that that route took me right through Times Square, which is CRAZYTOWN.  Not much riding for about 10 blocks.  Incidentally, anyone who thinks the pedestrianization of Times Square isn’t an overwhelming success is a nutjob with an agenda; on a random Thursday evening, the entire zone was as mobbed with happy-looking people as anywhere I’ve ever been (and I’ve been to Oxford Street!).

I would have shot photos the whole way home, but I ran out of iPhone battery somewhere in the thirties, so I had to give it up.

And so here you go. Almost all the bike lane-oriented photos are south-facing (i.e., in the orientation in which I came upon the scene). These are in rough order from south to north (that is, in reverse order from how they were shot)…