In fact, the law these days is very clear. It states that New York City is now the domain of the mediocre bureaucrat, of the inspector with too much time on his hands, of the anal-retentive cop with his nose in a rule book, of the snitch willing to drop a dime on a harmless fellow citizen, and of a mayor who is that most pathetic and annoying figure—the micro-megalomaniac.

The lawbreaking itch is not always an anarchic one. In the first place, the human personality has (or ought to have) a natural resistance to coercion. We don’t like to be pushed and shoved, even if it’s in a direction we might choose to go. In the second place, the human personality has (or ought to have) a natural sense of the preposterous. Thus, just behind my apartment building in Washington there is an official sign saying, drug-free zone. I think this comic inscription may be because it’s close to a schoolyard. And a few years back, one of our suburbs announced by a municipal ordinance that it was a “nuclear-free zone.” I don’t wish to break the first law, though if I did wish to do so it would take me, or any other local resident, no more than one phone call and a 10-minute wait. I did, at least for a while, pine to break the “nuclear-free” regulation, on grounds of absurdity alone, but eventually decided that it would be too much trouble.

So there are laws that are defensible but unenforceable, and there are laws impossible to infringe. But in the New York of Mayor Bloomberg, there are laws that are not possible to obey, and that nobody can respect, and that are enforced by arbitrary power. The essence of tyranny is not iron law. It is capricious law. Tyranny can be petty. And “petty” is not just Bloomberg’s middle name. It is his name.

In the space of a few hours late in November, I managed to break a whole slew of New York laws. That is to say, I sat on an upended milk crate, put my bag next to me on a subway seat, paused to adjust my shoe on a subway step, fed some birds in Central Park, had a cigarette in a town car, attempted to put a plastic frame around a vehicle license plate, and rode a bicycle without keeping my feet on the pedals at all times. I also had a smoke in a bar and at a table in a restaurant. Only in the latter two cases would I hitherto have been knowingly violating a city ordinance.

I decided that, partly to protect those who were with me or hosting me, I would not do anything to directly taunt the forces of law and order. I would be the Zelig of the scofflaws. So I took a bike to Central Park and, starting near the boathouse, rode it uphill until blood started to rush to my head and blackness to descend—i.e., for about a quarter of a mile. I then turned and coasted down, allowing the brisk air of a crisp fall day to whoosh disturbingly up my trouser legs as I lifted my feet in the air. I compounded the offense by having no bell on my handlebars. This was midmorning on a weekday, with almost no traffic, but that was just the luck of the draw. Policemen interviewed recently have confirmed that they are under orders to spot riders who take their feet off the pedals, or who have no bell. (Try getting attention in New York by pinging a bike bell, by the way.) It’s all part of the ticket harvest that they are expected to reap. The mayor denies that there is a quota, which would be unlawful, but he looks and sounds even more like a weasel than unkind nature intended when he admits that there are “performance measurements” that his Police Department might be observing.