The Most Overrated Things in NYC Right Now

Please don't do this. It makes you sound unbearably pretentious, and about as astute as the New York Times declaration that dating is dead. Yes, some neighborhoods are in the midst of being developed, and may soon experience rising rents as a result, but none of them will ever be the "new Williamsburg." At best, it will be the "new [insert name of neighborhood here]."

The heightened expectation of drinking on a rooftop is easily eclipsed by the reality of drinking on a rooftop thanks to massive crowds with an unfavorable tourist to actual New Yorker ratio and wildly overpriced drinks. Remove the covering of your establishment, and you can unquestionably charge three-dollars more per cocktail, but you'll also increase the douche factor proportionally. That's what you call a catch-22, my friends.

Long lines, a rapidly dwindling selection, and bows being thrown by overzealous sartorialists eager to score deeply discounted Alexander Wang trousers make for the perfect storm of awful. Instead of using your lunch break to scour through last season's rejects, remind yourself that those Ferragamo double monks may be half off, but they're still $500 dollars, and that's twice as much as you'll make this week.

If number of wayward sexts directly correlate to inches Weiner is overcompensating for, the junk of the mayoral hopeful is likely the most overrated entity in the city. Huma, you have our sympathies. Carlos Danger, you and your over-hyped appendage need to pull out before the going gets even harder. Pause.

The once exciting news that New York City would introduce WiFi to 30 subway stations quickly became the summer's most supreme dissapointment. For one, the WiFi barely even works. And when it does, we're helplessly hooked into replying to emails for 45 minutes rather than finishing the book we were chipping away at during our morning commutes. If you can't keep up with the NYT's bestsellers' list, WiFi underground is surely to blame.

You're paying too much to sweat to dub step beats in unison with strangers while being yelled at by an overzealous instructor. Invest in an actual bicycle and enjoy the landscape. Your throbbing eardrums and your empty wallet will be grateful to leave that smelly sweatbox behind for, you know, trees and fresh air. Actually, that's bullshit. The main reason Soul Cyle is overrated is because we can't afford to take a class. Soul Cycle, holla at us!

Like rooftop bars, rooftop pools are plagued with many unsettling strains of human, none of which we look forward to getting wet with, and the Gansevoort's hotel pool may be the worst offender of them all. Littered with people whose tans are more up to date then their knowledge of current events, the Gansevoort's chlorine bath is like a small slice of Miami situated right where no one wants it—in the middle of NYC. The pool is strictly guests-only, which likely contributes to this phenemenon. For better vibe (and, arguably, a better view) stop by the pool at King and Grove.

This "ice cream" has the texture of a yeast infection and the flavor of, well, a yeast infection. Also, it's missing an ingredient that's crucial to the enjoyment of a frozen treat—sugar. We'll skip the clumpy, sour mess Pinkberry has been hawking on the sidewalks, and take a scoop of cookies and cream on a sugar cone. Abs, maybe we can try again next summer.

You may have heard that New Yorkers have a rep for being unapproachable and generally having a terrible attitude. It's the shade throwers that are responsible for this, mostly. Most of us feel happy for (albeit, slightly envious of) the dudes who can actually afford to buy pieces from A.P.C.'s fall collection and still make rent on time, and the ladies who can eat a cheeseburger and still look wild sexy in their skinny jeans. But, there is a small contingent of guys and gals whose parents left them in their cribs to cry and never told them they look rad in their camp uniform whose mouths seem unnaturally equipped to talk shit. Save your venom for that gig you'll never get as the judge of Project Runway. Until then, silently wallow in your inferiority complex like the rest of us.

Secret bars are a gimmick—can we adknowledge that? In an effort to lure more hype-seeking patrons in the door, clueless restauranteurs leave the markings off their door, and instead employ a burly man to tell would-be diners that entrance into the establishment is available by reservation only. This technique inevitably means you'll pay at least $18 for a hand-mixed cocktail. It will be delicious, but it will also make you feel like a dick for buying into the ruse. Yes, PDT is awesome and Jim Meehan is the undisputed boss of libations, but we didn't need to enter via a telephone booth to come to that conclusion.

If you haven't caught on yet, we hate lines. Lines are the harbingers of hype. So, while Smorgasburg sells delicious food from local vendors situated right on the scenic Williamsburg waterfront, we're not about to stand in line for an hour for a ramen burger. We're not about that life. Also, at max, you can conquer four food stands without incurring permanent damage to your digestive system and/or never fitting into your slim fit chinos again. Start serving smaller portions and consider limiting the number of people you let inside your food flea market, and maybe we can start our love affair up again. Until then, we'll just have to make the trek to Dough's brick-and-mortar shop in Bed-Stuy.

In theory, Citibikes are a revolutionary idea, particulary with regard to environmental efforts. The idea of choking down less smog is appealing, no doubt. But Citibikes, in addition to being an eyesore wherever they're docked and being clunky and generally awkward to ride (we've took one for a spin, trust us), also plague the city with another issue—amatuer riders with little regard for the established rules of the road. Thumbs up for commuters saving on their Metro card, but FOH for those of us on foot narrowly avoiding death on our walk to work.

Anything that promotes peacocking as an art form is not OK in our books. Styling yourself so you look fresh enough to turn the head of the new girl in marketing is one thing, going sartotorially H.A.M. in the hopes that a photographer will put you on his struggle style blog is another.

The Gallow Green's lush, sexy rooftop bar just might be one of our favorite places to spend a summer night. The drinks are spectacular, and the actors roaming the place only add to the bar's exotic mystique. We didn't even mind when a man who claimed to work at the hotel pulled us by the arm into the garden, and cornered us in a tool shed to tell us about a murder that occured there. We dig wacky shit like that. Our issue is that inventive performances like Sleep No More are more a rare exception than the rule. If you're going to touch our bodies, and try to immerse us in your fictional drama, you better do it with zeal. Otherwise, fuck off and let us enjoy our cocktails.

Let us make ourselves clear—we have nothing against twerking. We've been trying to master the art for months...MONTHS. Still, somehow, this twerk-heavy beach dance party doesn't sit well with us. Perhaps it's because its "let loose" mentality seems a little forced and contrived, or because websites like joonbug write articles about it titled "Get Ready to Rage with Brunch Bounce." We like our raging to be more impromptu, and less like something Urban Daddy would promote, thanks.

There are a lot of things that are better on wheels (rolling luggage comes to mind) but food isn't necessarily one of them. While it's nice to see a new option pop up (err, drive up) in your hood to mix up your lunch routine (shout out to the 20 trucks currently parked in front of the Time & Life building) the food stuffs found within these roving restaurants are wildly unpredictable, not to mention overpriced. You don't pay rent, you operate your buisness out of a truck—why are you charging me $15 for a falafel? Also, cash only sucks. Get square already, fools.

Nothing showcases the vanity of New Yorkers quite like sidewalk seating. See and be seen is the name of the game when it comes to dining outdoors, but is it really worth it to wait an extra 30 minutes so you can add #alfresco to your Instagram of your mussels marinara? Is having strangers walking by, ogling your food really that important to you? We didn't think so.

First of all, let's start with the New York Knicks' fans—and this applies to New York sports in general, too. Knicks fans, in particular, have such inflated egos that they almost eclipse the overrated players themselves. They believe their team has a rich legacy like the Boston Celtics or Los Angeles Lakers. They foolishly think their team is good enough give the Miami Heat a run for their money. And, worst of all—and we genuinely feel bad for them on this one—they are convinced Carmelo Anthony (or maybe Amar'e Stoudemire) is going to bring an NBA title back to Madison Square Garden. LOL. Over LeBron's dead body.

We're happy you've conquered your addiction to the tar and chemical-laced tobacco currently parading as "cigarettes," but you look like a complet tool exhaling water vapor in the club. When we see the faux-burn of your e-ciagarette, we will mock you. You've been warned.

OK, rather than being called out for being hypocrites, we'll admit it; we love lobster rolls. We willingly stood in line for 20 minutes and paid $15 to get our hands on Red Hook Lobster Pound's version, which has a buttery top split bun, tender lobster, and just the right amount of mayo (read: not much). Our issue? All of the inferior versions parading around, demanding our hard-earned sheckels (we've seen them go for as much as $30) and giving us very little in the way of quality in return. We've encountered enough rubbery lobster bits doused in a quantity of mayo that would make Paula Deen uncomfortable to know that 99% of the time, lobster rolls are overrated.

Art is awesome. It's transcendent, integeral to our culture, and having access to its many forms is one of the chief reasons it's so wonderful to live in this city. But, waiting on line for 4 hours to Instagram yourself in the faux rain just so you can floss your tree pose is a level of lame we have no interest in descending to. Still, despite our appreciation for the concept behind the MoMA's latest installation, we aren't slightly tempted to spend 3 hours in the sweltering heat to experience it firsthand. Even if it does mean missing out an Instagram shot that would inflict instanst FOMO on our followers.

Dominique Ansel is a fine pastry chef. The finest, perhaps. But waiting in line for 5 hours by choice is an overrated, not to mention asine, way to spend a Tuesday morning. And don't even get us started on the people digging through the trash for these. Cronuts are ingenious take on hybrid foods, yes. But until someone volunteers to stand in line and get us one (any takers?) we won't be eating any croissant donuts.

Like complaining about the crappy weather, expressing your dislike of wading through humans in Times Square, many of which are tourists who are taking pictures with no regard for your commute to work, is almost redundant. Yes, 95 degree weather without a whip of wind in sight is god awful. No, that doesn't mean you should talk about it every time you walk outside with every person you come across. Thanks.