Across the valley of the shadow of the Gowanus and into the trees. The sun enflamed windows up the Slope. A slick of toxic unctuousness moved upon the canal’s currents, beautiful in that deadly way of a noir fatale. A hipster couple in drone-eye sunglasses came towards me at the Union Street Bridge, each enraptured in their own hand held devices. That’s so cute, I thought to myself, his and her crackberrying.
Bloomberg stirs. The hither-to-now useless if not venal technocrat (cf. the brief but repellant foretaste of the police state of too many American’s dreams that was the RNC Convention, and the Olympic/stadium foolishness, for starters) is belatedly getting on the global warming bandwagon, with efforts to tame the cars. Congestion pricing and now the switch to hybrid cabs are good initiatives. In general, I don’t patronize cabs. It just encourages them to drive like assholes. I think the last time I was in one was in January, when the Public Health Historian nicked my tupperwear: a long story, but we were on the way to her northern Manhattan neighborhood and her getting cold feet at the last minute. The last time I was in a livery cab was for work more than a year and a half ago. As a walker, I know that the black cars are even worse offenders than the yellow cars. They are right up there with the bicyclists. I swear, when I see a bicyclist actually stopping at a stoplight I nearly plotz in amazement.