It’s earlier in the morning for my commute than usual. I walk up Park Avenue toward Grand Central Terminal. A man in a chambray shirt and a beige cap covering frazzled grey hair begins shouting from a bicycle. He is shouting from a custom-built bicycle, constructed from a hodgepodge of parts. He shouts “Protect yourself from being protected! Protect your information!” I think he might be alluding to the subject of the news this morning, about famous women who’s private pictures have been stolen and leaked onto the net. Oscar winners’ private boudoir moments distributed and replicated, conjuring a false nostalgia for an imagined tabloid past. Noir-tinted stolen photographs of Hepburne and Tracy. A classic scandal that rocks a classic, faux Hollywood that does not even exist in memory; only in images. He seems well informed for a man who shouts things from the street.
"You think the corrupt paramilitary won’t make a profit from your information?!" he shouts.
Maybe he’s just crazy. What he definitely is is loud and he is violating an unspoken law of New York. You do not yell out on the street, especially in the morning during people’s commutes. Only crazies do that, no matter how relevant the subject matter.
I continue down into the train station, to the platform. A performer belts “That’s What Friends Are For.” It echoes off the walls and adds a touch of menace to a Tuesday morning. The S train arrives on track number 1. A man with a handlebar mustache with meticulously waxed curls exits the train in the crowd. I step into a car covered in advertisements, but I’ve already forgotten what was being advertised. I begin to draft this blog post in the Tumblr iOS app.
Our dystopian future is here, now, if we want it.