Construction of protected bike lanes is scheduled to start April 2, and Upper East Side and Harlem small business owners are pretty worried about the negative impact they will have on their bottom line. Our West Side neighbors said, “Goodbye, Columbus Avenue” to their mom-and-pop stores and hello to the chain drugstores and banks, thanks to the bike lanes.
Since the Great Recession, two to eight stores have closed on the blocks along First and Second avenues from 57th to 96th Street and with overtime charges for limited delivery accessibility and reduced parking spots, there’s little hope for new businesses to open and pay high rents.

In addition to damage to businesses, getting picked up or dropped off will be particularly difficult for our residents, especially the elderly and handicapped, with protected bike lanes on one side and Select Bus lanes on the other. Far more people need to take taxis or be transported by car and buses than need bike lanes—for no more than 22,000 cycling commuters, according to the DOT.

Despite complaints to City Councilwoman Jessica Lappin’s office about lawless cyclists and lack of enforcement from 72 percent of her constituents, Transportation Commissioner Jannette Sadik-Khan is adding 10,000 uninsured rental bikes and installing 40-foot-wide bike stations in our neighborhood in July. If you can’t run, be sure to look in every direction when walking on our sidewalks and before crossing our streets.

Susan P. Forman
East 63rd Street

Letters have been edited for clarity, style and brevity.

By Jeanne Martinet

The cocktail party was crowded, as every self-respecting cocktail party should be. I was therefore making depressingly slow progress in my foray to the bar, during which I overheard the following conversation:

“So how are you doing these days?” asked one man, sipping his drink.

“It’s been pretty tough. And you guys?” said another man. He was wearing a wine-colored bow tie. (It’s a fact that parties on Park Avenue contain more bow ties per capita than parties in any other neighborhood.)

“Horrible,” replied the first. “We haven’t had any profits in two months and now our health insurance went up again.”

“You think that’s bad,” said Mr. Bow Tie. “I lost my job nine months ago; I’m losing my insurance altogether.”

“Jesus, sorry to hear that. Well, at least you don’t have that terrible commute to New Jersey anymore. I’ve been having to go there to visit my sick aunt and it takes forever.”

Mr. Bow Tie nodded eagerly. “I wish my relatives were in New Jersey. I’ve been traveling to Philadelphia every weekend to take care of my mother-in-law. Try that for a couple of months.”

Hello? I thought. What is wrong with this picture? Exactly when did complaining become a competitive sport? What happened to bragging about fabulous Caribbean vacations, or the perfect tennis game? When did one-upmanship become one-downmanship?

New York City has always engendered a competitive spirit. It’s almost as if in order to compensate for how expensive and hard it is to live here, we have to believe everything—including people who move here—is the best, the biggest, the most, the ultimate. Moreover, to survive, you needed to present a positive image; you were always supposed to project confidence. Now it seems we are taking the opposite tack. Ten years ago, when you heard people talking about real estate, it was usually about a killing they made. Now you are more likely to hear them say, “We bought our apartment at the height of the market; man, I really took a bath.” Instead of smug talk about the success of financial investments, now it’s a conversation about who has more credit card debt. And it’s not just conversations about financial matters. I hear people complaining about relationships, health, the weather—even their kids. Rather than “My Johnny aced the SATs, we are so proud,” parents these days are more likely to complain, “For a kid who aced the SATs, my Johnny is certainly having trouble getting into the college of his choice. It’s a nightmare.”

Although more and more people seem to be in competition about how bad their lives are—instead of how good—it’s still about winning. You may be winning the Booby Prize, but it’s still a prize. As long as your case is the most extreme, you still get to feel superior. If you are the most miserable, the poorest, the unluckiest, that makes you the most important, most impressive person in the conversation.

It’s not surprising that people should complain during a Recession. If one-downmanship is a bellwether of the economy, perhaps we will know we are in economic recovery when we once again start bragging about our golf scores and country weekends.

But is one-downmanship a symptom of the state of our economy, or is it a symptom of the state of the economy experienced by a heretofore spoiled population? Have we all become whiners and crybabies? Maybe we’ve discovered that it feels better to be pitied than envied, and that vying for the bottom spot seems less egotistical than seeking praise. I can’t help wondering if social gatherings underwent this kind of conversational transformation during the Depression. I’m certain people talked about their troubles, but did they compete about them quite as much as we do now?

Right before I left the Park Avenue party, I happened to overhear the same two men, still tête-à-tête:

“Well, I’ve got to head out—I really should have left 10 minutes ago,” said Mr. Bow Tie.

The other man scoffed. “Ten minutes?! I was expected home two hours ago!”
_
Jeanne Martinet, aka Miss Mingle, is the author of seven books on social interaction. Her latest book is a novel, Etiquette for the End of the World. You can contact her at JeanneMartinet.com.

A native Californian, I now live and work on the Upper West Side as a full-time nanny. My workday is spent pushing a bright pink stroller, passing strangers I will probably never meet.

Still, I didn’t give a second thought to helping a high school kid who dropped a $10 bill on the ground while strutting to his headphones. I picked it up and ran down the block after him, the baby shouting, “Faster, faster!” as I tried to catch up.

That same week, I was shopping with my friend Gina when a girl in a studded black hoodie rushed past me, a $20 bill falling to the linoleum floor behind her. I darted after her.

“You could’ve kept it. This is a recession,” Gina said.

“No way, it’s not my money,” I responded.

Being in a recession shouldn’t mean humanity regresses as well. In a city that can seem rather overwhelming, I still believe in trying to do what is courteous and considerate, even in the smallest of ways. Like pulling someone aside to tell them if there is food stuck in their teeth, or running after a person who drops lunch money.

Two weeks later, my gal pal Scarlett and I were braving the cold, trying to hail a cab on Fifth Avenue. My teeth chattering and paralyzed by a swirling breeze, I watched as Scarlett sprinted down the block in 4-inch heels after an available taxi van. She hopped in and we leaned back in our seats feeling warm, thankful, relieved. I saw a piece of paper on the floor and scooped it up without looking, suspecting Scarlett dropped it while stepping into the cab. It wasn’t until we passed under a traffic light that I glimpsed  a balding man staring back at me, a stoic expression on his face. It was Benjamin Franklin on a $100 bill!

Was it coincidence? Luck? Karma? I can’t say. All I knew was that I wanted to spend it in a generous manner. I mentally went through my options: hand it over to the driver, donate it to Haiti relief, take Scarlett out to dinner. As I envisioned my friend running in platform shoes against a 25 mph wind chill for me, the decision was made.

“Are you sure you want to share it with me?” Scarlett asked.

Her question made my decision all the more satisfying. That is the neat thing about New Yorkers: They are often surprised when you do something kind for them.

Instead of going out for cocktails, Scarlett and I dined at a French restaurant. We took a picture of good ol’ Ben and sent him back on his way through the Manhattan currency exchange.

Buying lunch one Friday soon after, I placed my $15 change in a shallow coat pocket. Standing in the drugstore only a minute later, I felt the money was gone. I backtracked, but it was rush hour—probably 50 people had strolled in my steps within that time. Maybe a morally crooked person saw me drop it and, saying nothing, claimed ownership of my Manhattan moolah. Or perhaps someone found the abandoned cash and it really helped him or her out that day. I’m inclined to believe in the latter. Many of us may be strangers in this city, but practicing compassion adds up to a lot more than dollars.

–
Sarah Elder is a writer living in Manhattan and working on her first book. The other day she found another $6.

The Democrats have blown it big time. The situation in the Senate ended with a mess that has put some of the most morally corrupt politicians in New York history in the collective driver’s seat. State Sen. Pedro Espada is the beneficiary of a lot of money in the form of pork that has come his way because he had the deciding vote. To put it mildly, the Democrats, who should hold the light to lead the way through this morass, paid the guy off. Disgusting. Not only that, the ruling clique that is running the place can’t even decide who their leaders are. There seems to be a situation resembling something Woodrow Wilson once warned about, “Secret agreements, secretly arrived at.”

For their part, the Republicans have no real bench. Virtually every major statewide office is up for grabs this year and the GOP has no one of substance to run. Rudy Giuliani, who knows something about playing hardball, has left himself vulnerable by his sponsorship of the hopelessly corrupt former New York City Police Commissioner Bernie Kerik. The blissfully retired George Pataki is being pushed and pulled out of retirement for everything. John Faso, who ran and got beat (badly) by Eliot Spitzer for governor, is being called on to run for so many offices that he can’t afford the luxury of honing his message. Faso should be talking state issues and staying away from the Obama bashing he is engaging in. You do that if you are running for the U.S. Senate, and even then it’s stupid. Obama is still popular in New York and Faso should be talking like a moderate instead of an ideologue.

Meanwhile, the Democratic big boys have assured that a fairly weak Kirsten Gillibrand will have the race of her life if the Republicans can convince a moderate big name Bloomberg-type to run against her.

The Grand Old Party is trying to resurrect the body of Rick Lazio from Long Island for a gubernatorial run. He could be the next Pataki if David Paterson’s numbers stay as low as they are.

The oft-quoted Brennan Center at NYU spoke of dysfunctional government. They have been all for changing the rules, but what they don’t get is that it isn’t about the rules alone. It is about the people.
–
Alan S. Chartock is president and CEO of WAMC/Northeast Public Radio and an executive publisher at The Legislative Gazette.