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“Be a good neighbor and honk only in emergencies,” TLC chief David Yassky warned the city’s raging ranks of Travis Bickles this week, promising a $350 fine for cabbies who honk in non-emergency situations (in other words: every time a cabby honks).
No longer will taxi drivers be able to beep purely in the interest of expressing such thoughts as, “Boy, traffic is really heavy, isn’t it?” “I wish I were not currently sitting in the middle of this intersection just as the light turns” or “What a hellhole. I shoulda stayed in Islamabad.”
Why stop with honking-cabby fines? If we’re going to be effective in handing out nuisance taxes, we need to think different. When it comes to irritation, this city’s king of the hill, A-number one. Consider all the other ways we could replenish city coffers in the efforts of pest control. How about fines on:
Large men standing in the subway doorways. Greetings, frighteningly oversized fellow citizens. I understand that life has been difficult for the both of you since you lost your last job, playing left tackle for the Pittsburgh Steelers. However, I need to get to work, so if either one of you could acknowledge that other human beings exist and shift your Yeti-sized frames to one side or the other, I would be most grateful. Either that, or you could just move your legs apart and I could dash beneath as easily as if I were passing under the Washington Square Arch. No? Two words: Cattle prod.
Free-range marsupials of 42nd Street. I suppose the tourists must wear fanny packs, to help rookie muggers figure out where all their valuables are, and I understand that they feel the need to stop dead in the middle of sidewalk traffic every five yards to take a picture of one another on their way to a Red Lobster. But when they hold hands and form human charm bracelets, as if they were afraid of getting washed away in the tide, that prevents me from pushing past. Look, touristas, it’s no big deal if you get split up. You know you’re all going to wind up in the same place: posing for pictures next to a wax effigy of Samuel L. Jackson.
Which reminds me that a lot of these people are also:
Elmo-stiffers. Don’t ask that life-size Elmo you see standing on the sidewalk if you can take his picture unless you’re going to give him a tip. He’s a freaking Peruvian immigrant from New Jersey who speaks no English. You think it’s fun standing in a polyester fur suit in the sun all day? Skip that 4,000-calorie Bloomin’ Onion you were going to order at Outback Steakhouse and slip Elmo a few bucks instead.
iZombies. The only able-bodied humans in New York who move at tourist speed. Have . . . iPhone . . . must . . . check . . . e-mail . . . every . . . five . . . minutes . . . cool . . . Groupon . . . for . . . 75 . . . cents . . . off . . . gelato . . . I . . . am . . . lost . . . soul . . . used . . . to . . . be . . . aware . . . of . . . surroundings . . . help . . . me . . .
Banshee Beemers. Ticketing cars that feature spastic car alarms clearly isn’t working because the meter maids aren’t on duty at night, when MY KID IS TRYING TO SLEEP. How am I supposed to find the owner to tell him his SUV is having a 40-minute freakout? Mayor Mike: Just give us good neighbors citizen immunity for judicious use of baseball bats. We’ll take it from there.
Christmasiana infestation. Christmas is eight weeks away. Why is there a skating rink in Bryant Park, where it’s 67 degrees? Why is there a Ye Olde Christmas Cottage on Seventh Avenue when it isn’t even Halloween yet? Why are the Rockettes getting ready to jingle up Sixth Avenue when the leaves haven’t finished falling? And how exactly is it a sign of respect for the Nativity of our dear Lord’s son to have 15 identical glamazons in spangled hot pants dance the can-can? Let’s cool it on the Christmas culture and dial back expectations so the kiddies won’t bleed us dry. Listen, little ones: Santa isn’t coming to your apartment. You don’t have a chimney, and if he came in the window, you’d probably Mace him.
And if we can throw the flag for excessive Christmas jubilation, we must surely be able to do something about one of New York’s perennial scourges:
Grumpy-ass newspaper columnists. This city never sleeps, sweeps, weeps, or comes cheap. It’s not supposed to be the Galleria in Dallas. Not only can’t we make drivers stop honking their horns, speed up slowpoke pedestrians who hold up traffic, or prevent shifty-eyed merchants from selling kitschy junk and flammable pashminas on every sidewalk, we wouldn’t recognize the place if we did.
Tickets will do nothing. What are we going to do, outlaw being rude? All of New York City would be illegal.
You were expecting Bedford Falls, you yokel? Whassamattawidyou?