A blog that was supposed be made up of bits about cab rides and blurbs about beauty products but, instead, is about other things.


Last Night A Ninja Saved Her Life

Last night my little sister was mugged.
Luckily, she is okay.
Luckily, it was only 7:30 p.m. when it happened.
Luckily, she got all her stuff back.
Luckily, she was mere feet from her apartment, and also near a taekwondo academy, at the time.
Luckily, some guys on their way into the Upright Citizens Brigade Theater drop-kicked and held down the perpetrator as he tried to get away.

If you are one of these super-ninja-samaritans, or you know these super-ninja-samaritans, please contact us. She'd like, very much, to say "thank you."


You Are Trying To Break My Heart

Apparently, “3N23” stands for "I am going to try to hit that girl as she crosses Delancey."

Not “hit on.”



Mother Knows Best (but she couldn't get past the title)

My away message had a link to my blog.
This is what I found when I returned to the computer:

bonniesnow: Jennifer, are you dating a cab driver?!

I don't understand.

Why don't you tell me about these things?!

It's okay if you're dating a cab driver.

bonniesnow: We should talk.

It's not okay if you're dating a cab driver. It's WEIRD!!!

Just because a boy tells you that you're pretty doesn't mean that you have to go out with him.

I tell you that you're pretty.

I think you should call me.


Ugly-hot. Not, pretty ugly.

I'd get into that cab with Andy Samberg.

He's quite hot, in that jolie-laid kind of way.


I hailed a cab last night, for the fun of it

And a whole new ethics of interaction was born.

Hailing a cab in this mess was sort of like voluntarily hopping into a roving dinner party wherein the guests are all strangers and the host is the mediator who must vet routes and deal with grumblings because Passenger 2 doesn't want to sit next to Passenger 1, and Passenger 3 thinks the best route would be to go all the way uptown before going to Brooklyn, and Passenger 4 is allergic to dairy and wants to keep talking about his hernia.


Making up is hard to do

The TWU has "officially" rejected the MTA's "final offer."

And now it's like they've broken up.
Well, broken up in that way that we all seem to break up.

Sort of temporarily. Sort of semi-permanently.
Sort of with the possibility of make-up sex somewhere on the horizon.



The last time I passed your place I was in a cab.
“Pull over at the yellow people walking sign,” I wanted to say.

In all the time it was my place too I never bothered to look up what that symbol was actually called.

I don’t think I’ll look it up now either.



Has anyone else ever been offered a discount on cab fare?



News reports about the Palestinian/Israeli conflict sound much prettier in French.


Things, some

- something about fake IDs
- something about hating to drive
- something about dropping me off
- something about snowshoes for tires
- something about 7-year-olds being confused by hand-cranking windows
- something about kicking things to curbs


My other blog is a newspaper

But they're not going to publish this scoop.

Local Bank Doesn't Pay Bills

NEW YORK -- Area woman visits East Village branch of Bank of America to find out why she hasn't received replacement ATM card she requested on November 12. Help at East Village Bank of America is poor, as usual. Despite the fact that this is the second time that said woman has visited this banch to check on status of card, they appear to have no answers. She tells them that "this is unacceptable," and asks to speak to a manager. The manager, who had assured her (on November 22) that the card was "in the mail," told her that there was little he could do. She asked him to call someone that could help.

She sat across from him as he called various national affiliates. She waited quite some time. She waited long enough to notice a very interesting Post-It stuck to his computer screen. It read:

She returned to her office and called the number. After a few minutes of Muzak-filled holding, she was told that the East Village branch of Bank of America is "ten months past due" on their bills. They owe, in total, $1,XXX.80.

She's not so sure that she wants to do business anymore with a bank that doesn't pay its bills.


On the way to work

“You sound like a writer,” he said.

Based on the amount I’d said, I assume he meant one who writes very short books.

I hope that I haven’t begun to speak in 65 word blurbs.


Pretty as a picture

I just got an e-mail announcing the lineup for the Whitney Biennial.

I'm so sleepy.
And the list made me even sleepier.

Two people with my last name made it.
No relation.

We shall discuss their work later.
And the list later.
And those we thought should have been on the list later.

But now, sleep.
I hope my dream looks like Pierre Huyghe's piece...


Kiss of death

I am allergic to cats.
So don't kiss your cat and then kiss me.

Also, pets are gross.
So, if you kiss your cat, I probably don't want to kiss you anyway.



There are still cabs in the city.

But there isn't any snow.



There are no cabs in the country.


Off topic

Why I have a crush on you:
-you play Clap Your Hands Say Yeah when you have your coworkers over to your house
-you are adapting "Brief Interviews With Hideous Men" for the big screen
-you look like the slightly busted younger brother version of a friend of mine

Yes, I understand that you aren't real.

But you play out as more fascinating than most people I've ridden in cabs with lately.


This Year's Rent

Just back from a screening of Rent.

Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying About Gentrifying my Neighborhood When I Realized That Those Damn Kids Were Crack Addicts and They Dressed Funny.

I'd take far fewer cabs if that subway stop at the Northeast corner of Tompkins Square Park actually existed.

Also, guys, it seems silly to take the F train from Second Avenue to Second Avenue.
Although, if there was that much dancing on my train I'd probably get off where I got on too.



Here, a link to a link to a link about taxis.

Yes, we hate her. But she has pretty hair.

I'm off to get my hair cut.
But my head already hurts.

I used to be a haircutter-slut.
Keith, however, changed my ways.

He cuts each curl individually and he told another customer that I am the funniest person he knows.

Yeah, I'm that easy.


Rewrite, an homage

(Or, TEN WORDS: O.M.G! Ed P! Your new blog, brilliant! Brilliant!)

The ability to vomit up your day and start over.



The ability, upon riding home, to vomit up your day and start over.


Train wreck

Of late, my favorite part of any television show is, without a doubt, "scenes from the next...."

I just got around to reading the most recent installment of the best almost-weekly dramedy; I call it "The George and Hilly Show."

Read it before tomorrow's episode.

Obligatory taxi reference toward the end!
(Although not the one about the cab we shared. Sigh.)


Going back

What would one call a reverse-chronology blog?

I'll fill in the blanks at a later date.


Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs

IG and AS took me to see a singer whose initials are DD.

His crooning was as divine as crooning should be.

We all fell in love with his cover of "I Will Follow You Into The Dark," by the Mssrs. Death Cab for Cutie.

I wish I knew how to share an MP3 of either version.

This link, for now, should do.



Twice this weekend I found myself sharing a cab home post dawn the next day.
There has to be a better word for this.

There is not much more comfortable than the slightly uncomfortable silence of the early morning after a night well-spent.

There is not much better than when you realize that you were having so much fun yesterday. And today.

There is nothing shameful about being beaten home by The New York Times.


On the 6

I have fairly poor hand-eye coordination.
So it surprised me when I saved a baby this afternoon on the subway.

We lurched to a stop; she rolled right into my hands.

And her free-flying stroller continued on, down the length of the car.

This would never happen in a cab.

Cab riders tell her she's pretty

She said something about starting a blog...
But I'm not the best at keeping in touch.
So I was delighted to see this today.

Even though her blog isn't called "Cab Riders Tell Me I'm Pretty," you should visit Melissa Plaut at New York Hack.


Going home

"Okay, I guess I'll sleep over. It's so late that I'm afraid that if I do go home now, I'll fall asleep in the cab and then I'll wake up in Guam."

"Well, I have relatives in Guam," you said. "Although you probably won't be driven much further than Brooklyn. If you stay over, though, there's a guy coming to pick up the gun at 9:00 a.m."


Cool (in the backseat)

Remember that time that I called my parents and said, "Hey, let's get tickets to see the Rolling Stones," and they said, "Umm, we already have tickets to see the Rolling Stones, and I said, "Wow. Great. I didn't realize they were on sale yet," and they said, "They're not, but we have them, and we're going with X and Y," and I realized, "Oh, and not with me," and then I felt like my parents thought I was really uncool?

Tonight they're going to Schiller's for dinner.
Sans me.

Maybe they'll take my table.

Seasonal affect

You feel the scurvy coming on, eh?

I think you should join our citrus club.

It's the season.


Another mother

I asked him to take me to Avenue B at 7th Street.
But he took the FDR Drive and we ended up going up Avenue C so I asked him to just drop me on 7th Street between Avenues C and B. But he was driving really fast and I remembered that I had to run an errand on Avenue A so finally I told him that he could just continue down the street and drop me at Avenue A.

We stopped.
He laughed.
And he said, "You are funny. You have kids, right?"
And he kept laughing.

I felt like the funny bit was a compliment, but I'm not sure that the bit about being a mother was one too.

Also, being the kind of mother who displays such an utter lack of decision-making skills couldn't possibly have been a compliment.

I wasn't sure how to respond.

I asked, "What makes you think I have kids?"

He just laughed and laughed.

Maybe I did look a little harried.


Crisis mode

Someone I work with just told me that I'm beautiful.

Yeah, it's sort of like we're preparing for the apocalypse here.


Backseat Shooter: Shooting, Drive-by

A new feature, from the backseat.

Houston Street, at Bowery; Billy's Antiques.

P.S. I bought my couch from Billy. The pretty couch.


Watch it, Mister

Watch Me Change is disturbing.

Not because I'm worried about the implied voyeurism, or bizarreism, or any other 'ism that I'm sure will be invoked when critiquing this approach to advertising.

I was in the Gap yesterday, trying on jeans.
And I just hope I don't look as heinous as this cartoon seems to tell me I should.

And I certainly wasn't having a dance party in there.


His name was Wade Tango.

I was caught up in thinking about this, and the short story character his name could become, when he proclaimed, "You will have a great evening."

He repeated it and added, beaming, "I just came from praying. You are the first to enter my cab since my prayers."

It was only noon, so it seemed a bit early to be making predictions about my evening.



I haven't abandoned cabs.
Or things that are pretty.

I will return.

Tonight, though, you must come to this, a benefit for 826NYC:


MM: Cab Drivers Tell Him He's Pretty Too

"MM lives in a hovel and dates cab drivers!"

I owe MM $3.
For my share of a cab ride, in fact!

I should pay it at once; I don't want to prevent him from taking his drivers out in style.


Third wheel

She got into the front seat while I was paying, waiting for change.


In passing

Your offer of a free wireless connection is sweet, but vegan gelato surely isn'’t.

Bittersweet: learning that someone you had a crush on in high school is married. And vegan.
(I guess we'll never go on a date and eat steak.)


HP7Z? 73HZ?

I'm loathe to leave his number, even as I indict him here.
(Also, I didn't take a receipt, so my recall of the number is sketchy.)

Maybe if he wasn't driving around New York with a trunk full of porn, I wouldn't have reason to write about him.

His car was clean.
He helped me with my suitcase.
He ignored my histrionic cell-phone call.

But he kept them in a big, clear trash bag.



MED#7H54, TRIP #15052

"Have you been to that place on the corner?" he asked when he dropped me off.

"No, I haven't. But I heard it's good."

"I think I'll go there someday," he said.

I thought about asking him to write and send a review when he does.


On sap. Or, Still Beautiful?

Just now, while working at my desk, in an office that's empty (as it is Sunday night), culling through the archives, a cartoon made me cry.

The only thing that did it then, when it actually happened:

"Hey, New York, you're still beautiful."

(Written then on the Penn Station wall.)

I passed it every morning on my way to work.
And every night as we ran for the train home.

And it was the only thing then that got me.

Maybe today it was the sappy soundtrack that's playing here.
Or maybe the fact that we don't run there anymore.
Either way, I don't have a heart of stone.


All my friends are gorgeous

No, really, they are.

What's not gorgeous is watching them each flip out as they think about the theoretical/potential ramifications of people on Friendster being able to find out who's viewed who's profile.


pretty/petty (part 2)

"You're too pretty to be ugly," she said that she'd always said to her.
She agreed.
As did I, I suppose.

We all vowed to use it to title our books.

Do we all have the same mom?



I've been asked why I don't post "pretty pictures" here.

I don't know.


Go here, for now, even though it's not so up-to-date.

But come back soon.
(Or I'll miss you.)


telephone, game of

The people who work for T-Mobile are not pretty.
In fact, they are incompetent.

"All of them?" you ask.

Yes. All of them.

For if you can't answer a simple question along the lines of, "Are you really telling me that my voicemail will not be working until September 28?" then not only are you stupid, but, most likely, you are a terribly ugly human being.

And, no, 50 free minutes of talktime on your heinous network will not make me happy.
And it certainly won't make you pretty.


Keeping it in the family

The family jewels, yes, and as such I'll admit: I do page though the catalogue, calculating the discount on pretty pieces.

Daddy, I'd like these, etc.

So this was fun news.



It's not pretty when I'm pissed.

I'm not pretty when I'm pissed.

(And, yes, I skipped Zac Posen. Even though he's pretty.)


$2.59, $3.10, $3.59, HIKE

While working on a post about pretty people getting awards for making other pretty people look pretty, we came across this:

The TLC Still Working for You. (Gawker)

We were wondering when the cost of oil was going to start affecting the cost of our rides.



Worst press release of the week?

I assume the mascara is waterproof...

------ Forwarded Message
From: //REDACTED//@thinkpublicrelations.com
Date: Thu, 1 Sep 2005 16:56:50 -0400
Subject: Attn: Hurricane Katrina Relief Kit e.l.f. Cosmetics

e.l.f. Cosmetics Creates Hurricane Katrina Relief Make-Up Kit
Shipped to Hurricane Victims

NEW YORK – On August 30th, 2005, e.l.f. Cosmetics received an email from one of their customers. She was contacting the company to tell them to put a stop on her order because she had lost everything in Hurricane Katrina. In response, e.l.f. Cosmetics immediately shipped her a package of make-up brushes and cosmetics to her current location.

In an effort to help others affected by this disaster, e.l.f. Cosmetics has created 10,000 special Hurricane Katrina Relief Beauty Kits that include:
pressed powder
shimmering facial whip for the eyes, lips and face
lip moisturizer
lip gloss

e.l.f. asks the public to help them get in contact with victims of the hurricane. e.l.f. asks these people to call or email the company and provide a location for the relief kits to be shipped.
e.l.f. will be shipping these kits to people directly affected by the hurricane disaster.
e.l.f. Cosmetics will be posting a Relief banner on their website and emailing their current loyal customers incase they have friends or family that have suffered from the hurricane.
e.l.f. will be getting in touch with networks that have contact with hurricane victims, encouraging them to contact e.l.f. and provide a location for the company to deliver their relief kits.
e.l.f. will likewise be contacting local hotels and relief organizations in the affected and safe surrounding areas and will ship e.l.f. relief kits to the designated locations.
Local and national press will be asked to direct people to the e.l.f. website www.eyeslipsface.com so people can receive beauty relief kits.

This is not the first time e.l.f. Cosmetics has tried to help during unfortunate times. e.l.f. Cosmetics supports WIN Against Breast Cancer and The Humane Society of The United States by creating signature products that promote and direct proceeds back to the organizations.

e.l.f. Cosmetics would like to do as much as they can to provide relief to this devastating situation. Thousands of people are without any of their belongings. Although make-up is a secondary need, e.l.f. hopes to get people back on track. This is a small token, but it’s a start. www.eyeslipsface.com

How to contact e.l.f. Cosmetics:

Email: customerservice@eyeslipsface.com

Call: 800.231.4732 x111




And she's calling a cab

In the car with family the other day we heard strains of a song that we'd heard before but never investigated.

We plugged the bit we recalled into google and came up with this very special e-card.

And we haven't stopped listening to it since.

We thought about posting a close reading of it.

But we remembered that we never really respected close readings and we realized that perhaps there was no need to analyze a powerpop song that came out ages ago.

For now: we love its desperate pleas, its longing for lust, its potential to induce teenage concert-goers to jump up and down and pump their fists in the air, its prominent mention of a certain type of car.

We think we'll add it to our gym playlist (between the Beastie Boys'Intergalactic and Beyonce's Crazy in Love).



Once, when we shared a cab with MH after a night of hard work, he refused our cash.

Now he’s reporting on far more pressing/scary matters:

Eight Long Days: Nearing the end of their tour in Iraq, National Guard troops from Louisiana face an uncertain homecoming (Newsweek)

We’re proud of him.
And we owe him a ride.


You are worth it

A friend, BS, often chides my riding ways.

He should probably pen a book -- a guide to finances for females of a certain age.
(He turned his ladyfriend's net-worth around, she says. And she, in turn, organized his desk.)

He comes down hard on the habits of highly ineffective splurging -- he proscribes some things that I care nothing about and never bother with (venti lattes, atm fees) and some that I find it harder to do without (taxis, toe nail polish, temperature control).

On the wallet-taxing taxi beat we happily found this, written by colleague LY, in this Sunday's T magazine:

"Some shopping rationalizations have a built-in element of self-flagellation. Kym Canter, the creative director of J. Mendel, is forcing herself to take the subway instead of taxis until she has made up the cost of a diamond brooch that she was sure she'd wear every single day. As of this writing, she has worn it only a couple of times -- it isn't quite as magical pinned to the hip of her jeans as she had hoped -- and it'll be months before she can stop riding the rails."

It's nice to see that the taxi trick is universal, although it is easy to excuse said rides when the taxing puchase happens to be an adorable, yet uncomfortable pair of shoes, a heavy bag, etc.


And I think the dress looks nice on you.

After spending time recently in a dress that was far from pretty, I've sort of fallen in love with this song.


Knock knock. (Who's there?) We broke the back window.

A lawyer, a banker, and a wedding planner get into a cab.
They carry with them a stainless-steel topped dining room table.

The punchline (literally) later.


I did not give him my number.

Hipster cab driver (what number are we up to?), the last leg of the trip home.



You left in a cab.
Or two.



Maybe you'll come in a cab.



How many cabs could I take, in the course of a normal day, if I was trying?


Goofus always takes cabs. I hope Gallant does too.

I love Goofus and Gallant.
I love Highlights for Children.
(In the ophthalmologist's office recently I met up again with the two. Long lost, it was good to see that they're still both clear specimens of boys I should and shouldn't date. Although they're both a little lame. Perhaps they have another brother that is a good mix of the two.)

Today, some internet love for Goofus and Gallant:
"Explaining what a scientist is using Goofus and Gallant as an example. Goofus and Gallant have also been pressed into service to explain 21st century etiquette, politics, and journalism." (kottke.org)

I found this while checking my Kinja list on my Blackberry in a cab.
(So there.)



IJ slid in.
Then MF.
Then me.
"Wait," she said. Panicked.
"There's a backpack in here."
"There's a backpack in here," she repeated.
And I realized that I was expecting her to say "rucksack," or something equally British.
But she didn't.
"There's a backpack in here," she said.
(As if it were a bomb.)
And we repeated to the driver who seemed confused, but then not so, as he backed up, off of the street, into the gas station.
And we hurried into another cab.


role reversal

"What's taking him so long?" I asked once we got out.

We'd packed four into the cab, so he sat in the front seat.
We'd already paid.

"Oh, him?" she asked. "He's trying to pick up the driver. He does that."

"He should write about it," I think.


15 minutes

"Goodbye, Jen Snow," he said with a smirk, as I left.

I smiled as if I knew how he knew this.

I'd paid in cash.
And I hadn't made a reservation.

This is starting to sound sleazy.
But it wasn't. It was sweet.
If surprising.



They got into the cab with me.

We'd pulled over to the side and I was unzipping my wallet, paying my bill.
And they got in next to me, in the back.

"Hi," she said.

He kept talking on his cellphone -- half in and half out of the car.

I hadn't been moving particularly slowly and I didn't speed up once they'd entered.
I paid and took my receipt.
I got out and glanced back to make sure I had everything that was mine.

"103rd and Broadway," she said.


I've only been punched on the subway.

I was underground the only time I've been punched during a transportation dispute.
(The only time I've ever been punched in any dispute, actually.)
I refused a swipe on some young thug’s card, so he punched me.
I, only a little flustered, took out my Metrocard and got on the train.

These guys (http://www.nydailynews.com/news/crime_file/story/334719p-285998c.html) had a similar predicament.
Only they stabbed the puncher in return.

I don’t carry a knife.

Also, my situation seemed so absurd that I couldn't help but laugh.



She handed me my paycheck/Transitchek combo.
I slit them open and I sliced the space between my pointer and middle fingers on the staple.
I am bleeding.
A lot.
This is my punishment for using neither the Transitchek nor the subway nearly as often as I should.



All I want to do is swim.
A cab ride won't quell that thirst.



Recent taxi news timeline on Gawker yesterday: Your Taxi and Limousine Commission at Work
(Straightforward. Super.)

My photos and Andy Selsberg's writing on not-taxi-related-at-all popped collarism from this week's Village Voice: Flippin' Out
(Hire us to anylyze your latest/not-so-latest fashion trend. Please.)

Not my writing on taxi relations today in Lusty Lady: Taxicab Hookups
(This piece made me sort of carsick. And I'm sitting at my desk.)

If you're in Scotland, and you have a tv: Taxi for Troon, a documentary about a cab outing that raises money for sick children airs tonight.
("Peter Barber-Fleming, the Producer and Director of Taxi for Troon, said: 'There’s nothing to say that Glasgow Taxi Drivers don’t simply enjoy donning fishnets or getting dressed up as their favourite cartoon character but maybe some of them have found that a day of concentrated giving is unfashionably rewarding.'")


standard, double

She's pretty, but it's odd that a girl her age would be into boys my age.

It's okay, of course, that I'm a girl my age and that I'm into boys her age, though.



"This is going to end up on your blog, isn't it," they said as we rode back to town.
(Over a bridge that didn't cross the Mississippi but did let us out on Delancey Street.)

Yes, but I don't remember what "it" was.


Take the ferry.

As per the last post, and ensuing discussion with others:

we love you, Oregon Trail.


Ford it?

I'm not one to sing the praises of the flatlands, but I just crossed the Mississippi River in a rental car that costs $13.10 a day.

(I should map how far $13.10 would take me in a cab. 65th Street, I think.)

Earlier today I was in the Mall of America.

It was good to see an Ikea near so much sky.


Busomy hills

I'm off to where they don't have taxis.
Corn on the cob, but not corn-colored cabs.

I return on Monday.


Hidden cab content

A few unrelated people wrote to tell me that in this piece, David Sedaris gets to cabs in a manner similar to mine.

I guess I agree.

I love that they chose a cab to illustrate the article -- primarily because it appears to be largely about sick sex with animals.
(Although I've only read the online excerpt, so this whole post could be rendered false after a trip to the newsstand.)

Town and Country: One man’s journey into the dark (and filthy) heart of the American class system. (GQ)



"Look," she said. "I tell them that the story they're imagining is probably far more interesting than the real one."

"And you're not in this business to entertain."

I've found my new best friend.




"Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg signed a bill yesterday that requires the Taxi and Limousine Commission to approve, within 90 days, at least one hybrid vehicle model for use as a taxicab. The City Council members who introduced the measure said they did so because no alternative-fuel vehicles are in use, even though a Council bill in 2003 called for the sale of special medallions to encourage the use of cleaner fuels. Environmentalists applauded the bill signing. One of them, Marcia Bystryn, the executive director of the New York League of Conservation Voters, said that hybrid cars have far greater fuel efficiency because they combine a small gasoline engine with an electric motor that recharges automatically." Sewell Chan (NYT)


Death Cab*

I've seen Death Cab for Cutie in concert.
But I just remembered this.
And, despite hours of OC viewing, I haven't a clue what they sound like.
But I should.
I think.
Maybe someone will make me a mixtape...

*It was only a matter of time before I went here, obviously.



"Is she pretty," he asked, pointing to her photo.

"Not as pretty as she should be."


Not a knock knock joke

My mom went to the gynecologist the other day.

"How was your weekend," she asked.

"Good," he said, although he'd spent most of his time driving his daughter and her friends to and from various bar mitzvah services and parties.

"Oh," she said. And then, "They don't rent school buses anymore?"

"No. They stopped doing that after the children started giving eachother blowjobs during the rides between Temple Shalom and The Grand Marquis."

A school bus is, of course, the same color as a taxi.



I wish you could give someone a gift certificate for taxi fare.



"The two men were arrested after the taxi in which they were riding was stopped at a checkpoint near Balad, 50 miles north of Baghdad, and a search of the vehicle turned up 35 washing-machine timers, devices that military officials said were sometimes used by Iraqi insurgents in making bombs."

American Filmmaker Held by the U.S. Military in Iraq for 7 Weeks Is Released (NYT)


And if we talk, communication.

"I like your phone," he said.

"I like your c.d.," I said.

I left with my packages and hailed a cab.
I wish I'd asked him to come along for the ride.

(I had a kiwi and a packet of spoons in my bag.)



Found in my notepad:
  • 5D25: mean driver, 14th to North 6th, Williamsburg

I recall no details.

(Save for the broken L train.)


empty ashtray

"Well, I do run Smoke 'Em If You Got 'Em Mondays," he said, apropos of nothing.

I've often had visions of lighting up and resting my arm on the opened window while being whisked home late at night.
What glamour!

But it was Tuesday.
And I don't carry cigarettes.


On walking

Tonight I did not take a cab.
I did, however, wear two different shoes.

(I did not notice this until the subway ride home.)



The cab driver and I had brunch today.
He didn’t know it though.
He never once turned his head.
To Brooklyn, and step on it.
(I said in my head.)
(I’ve yet to try it out loud, in a cab.)
But he took the wrong bridge.
So we sat in traffic long enough for me to eat my bagel, and for him to eat his bagel, and for me not to offer a napkin to him.
He was silent.
And I didn’t want to cross any lines.
We listened to “Listen to Your Heart.”
And to 1010WINS.


one for the road

Sometimes I love headlines:

I do not, however, love abbreviations.



Another helpful article could be created by a simple comma move.


Hit me baby, one more time

This morning I received a call from Walter, my seltzerman.
He was in the neighborhood, and I was home, so we arranged a hand-off.
For him, my empties, for me a case full of bubbly deliciousness.

In carting the case out to my doorstep, I dropped a bottle onto my face.

It was one of the beautiful aqua-colored ones at that!

It was heavy, and it hit me in the mouth and it caused my tooth to plow clear through to the outside world above my lip.

The bottle, weighing possibly a pound empty, is fine.
I, however, had a hole in my face.
It bled.

Like a good vain soldier, I ignored the nausea and headed to the freezer for some ice.

Alas! The banana-flavored Go-gurt portable yogurt that I keep frozen was the perfect size!
I applied it to my face (it fits perfectly between the upper lip and nose), took a phone call from my sister, who promptly laughed at the situation, and continued to get ready to leave the house.

But Walter is tricky.

The doorbell rang, and there stood the deliveryman and a special friend (with a microphone wire threaded through his shirt button-hole) whom he introduced to me as Steven, from The New Yorker.

Oh, Steven knew that I'd written about Walter before, and Steven had an unacceptably weak handshake and made truly poor eye-contact, but he did politely ignore the frozen yogurt I applied to my bleeding face.

Steven wondered if I'd heard about Walter before writing about him.
(Umm, yes, that's how I knew to write about him.)
And whether my seltzer delivery desire stemmed from a childhood bathed in bubbles.
(Alas, no. We didn't have delivery then.)
At this he seemed disinterested, and continued his lack of ocular contact.
(In his defense, maybe he didn't want to watch the bleeding.)
We talked briefly of my grandpa's appearance in Talk of the Town (a story for another day: about the utter horror of Brooklyn being forced to change from the 212 to the 718 area code!).
And then they were gone.

I called my mom.
She'd already heard the tale from my sister, who, in fact, found it funny enough to report on herself.
She suggested I take a cab to the emergency room.


A comfort compromise


From BBC:

Driver can use luxury car as taxi
A Worcestershire taxi driver has won an application to register his Jaguar as a private hire vehicle.

Tony Harvey attended a meeting with Wychavon District Council's licensing sub-committee over its concerns about him using the car for four passengers.

The council thought the middle seat in the rear of the luxury vehicle was too uncomfortable for a third person.

But a compromise has been reached, allowing Mr Harvey to use it for three passengers.



room/cab mate wanted

We'd talk about this, but some already did.

And we're a bit busy today.
Poll: If need be, can I ask a cab driver to move in with me?

moving (not me)

  • How much would it cost to hire a cab to move your belongings into or out of an apartment?

  • I wonder how many people use cabs instead of moving vans.


Delancey, please hold.

Today, a shout-out to my taxi-fearing friends: Delancey Car Service.

Oh, what a beautiful website you have!

Although, it doesn't do justice to the recording one receives when calling.
(Dear readers, if you know how to make/post an mp3 of "DELANCEY! Please hold." I will be your best friend.)

Or to the thugged-out drivers you employ.

Or to the cars filled with a reading selection that can best be described as running the fine gamut from the not-very-latest rags to prized back issues of the Victoria's Secret catalogue.

Or to the magical fact that no matter when you call, or where you call from, you say you will be there in "5 minutes" and instead arrive approximately 30 seconds after we hang up the phone.

You are on my speed dial, DCS.

First name: Delancey.
Last name: Pleasehold.


taxi cab confession*

A friend and I once took a cab from Times Square to central New Jersey.
I slept the whole way.

I'm tempted to do it again.
But I'm not the one with an expense account.

*I have never seen this tv show. But I will. Or, I should, no?


public v. private

It's easier to change clothes in a cab then it is on a NJ Transit train.

Expensive transportation: 1, public transportation: 0.


People that would be inappropriate dates when invited to a wedding “plus guest.”

  • my mom
  • a 6-year-old child
  • my doorman (in uniform)
  • someone whom I've kissed, but whose name I do not know
  • someone who speaks only a language that I do not speak
  • an attention-hogging celebrity
  • my grandfather
  • a live-blogger
  • a reality tv star with a proclivity for ass-grabbing
  • a prostitute
  • a camera crew
  • my stenographer
  • the bride's ex-boyfriend
  • a blind date
  • a man in a chef's outfit
  • Cat Power
  • my boss
  • a krump dancer
  • the cab driver who drove me to the affair


If Kinkos made cabs

If Kinkos made cabs I'd never take a ride.


To the library, and step on it!

To paraphrase my favorite line from a book that is far from my favorite:

I'm the type of girl who gets into a cab and says, "To the library, and step on it!


Mr. Cab Driver, you’re never gonna win*

Last night a cab pulled over as I was saying goodbye to those keeping me company on the Ludlow Street sidewalk.
I was planning to walk.
Presumptuous cab drivers: Back off. Please. You bother me.

* I have, in fact, never heard this song. I'm digging deep/learning.


No, my mom is a bus driver.

In nursery school I told my teacher that my mom drove a school bus.*

Said teacher to mom: "Wow, Bonnie, it's amazing that you manage to work full time and to drive JenSnow to school each morning and to pick her up each afternoon and to take care of a baby and to help out with class projects and..."
Said mom: Work full time?
Said teacher: Well, driving the bus takes a lot out of your day, no?

Obviously, this would portend the endless amounts of chauffeuring Mom was to do over the next 12 years.

And we never even had a minivan.

I didn't learn: two years later, when testing to get into kindergarten, I chose to forget the fact that I'd learned that my dad was a "financial analyst," and instead to peg his profession as, "He barbecues." when asked.

*Bus/cab, bear with me. Both are yellow.


I keep waving at the taxis; they keep turning their lights off.

Dear you,
I am not a liar.
I will post again.
I will post about faux-pregnancy, as previously promised.
I will post about Miranda July's almost-taxi-colored dress.
I will post about my mom.
I will post about Hipster Cab Driver #2.
And how he played neither music nor air conditioner for me.
I will post a missive on cab-sharing.
I will post about the new ubiquity of cab credit-card swiping machines.
But, this weekend I will be far away from cabs of any sort.
So I can't properly post.


reading in cars with boys

I think I know someone who wants to read this.
And maybe this.
But not this.
Or this.
Someone hates pets.



Taxi girl, taxi girl, taxi girl: a little bit high, a little bit shy, a little bit spoiled

Tonight I almost cried in a cab.
Strike that, I almost cried to get a cab.
My feet hurt.
A lot.
And I was very tired.
And facing hours of work.
So maybe some of the tear duct excretions would have been genuine.
But not all of them, alas.
I also considered resorting to faking pregnancy.
But, we know how I feel about that one.*
I ended up simply trying to look very sad.
And to not making eye contact with the others who were on the same corner and vying for my ride.

The moral of this story: if you’re planning on wearing 2 ½ inch heels you bought at Target, carry a pair of black ballet slippers in your purse

* Oh, we don’t actually know how I feel about that one because I haven’t told the whole tale here. Yet. Don’t fret: I took notes.


pen central

A joyous occurrence: rediscovering a favorite fountain pen.
I must take it for a ride in a cab!*

*Okay, so the cab content here is minimal. But the pen is pretty. Got it?


Lazy, lazy, lazy, lazy, lazy, lazy Jen./She wants to take a cab./So she wait and waits and waits and waits and waits for it to rain.

Coming soon, as per special request:

  • The story of the time, last Saturday, that the cab driver thought that I was pregnant, if not pretty.

  • The story of the time, this Saturday, that obviously the cab driver thought I was ugly because he didn't listen to a single request my friend and/or I made. Not even to the request wherein we asked if he could wait two seconds so that I could watch her walk through the door of her crack den/apartment! He wasn't very nice. In fact, he hated us.

  • A note on the time I was driving though the Holland Tunnel, and we were stuck behind a cab, and a companion uttered the phrase, "Who would have thought we'd be stuck in the tunnel behind a cab going 30 miles-per-hour?!" I'm not quite sure what she was getting at. I thought this was the speed at which one was supposed to drive through the tunnel. Then again, I'm not so into driving.

  • A full report on Know Your Public Space: NYC Taxi Cabs, the flash card. With illustration, of course!

  • The full name and license number of The Crankiest Cab Driver Ever!


Logic, or lack thereof.

I've had relations in taxis.
(N.B. Not with taxi drivers.)

My muffled mind rationalized it since the drivers (at the times) spoke little English.

Is this horrific?
For you don't have to speak English to know that two people are relating.

But you do have to speak English to ask us to stop.


Well, maybe I am. Maybe I am.

Once I went to see Jens Lekman in concert.
(With IG, LZP, and AS.)
I did not take a cab there.
Or home.
It was fairly close to my apartment.

I find that I listen to "Black Cab" only when I'm walking.
I've never played it in a cab.

Just turn the music up, and keep your mouth shut.


The biggest loser. (Or, 3A91. Or, 6J47. Or, 7H29.)

Apparently it is common knowledge that I have both lost and recovered and lost and found things in the backs of cabs.
(Another colleague sought my services today. Word gets around.)

My secret: always take a receipt.

Proper paper-saving provides easy access to the medallion number which, I've found, is helpful not only in titling blog posts, but in recovering dropped goods.

(I generally throw said receipts into the mass of papers I store in my wallet, but still.)

Keep the cab number.
Call 311.
File a report with them.
Also, file a report here.
Follow-up with the TLC.
Follow-up again.
Make them give you the telephone number of the cab's owner/garage.
Travel to the nether regions of Long Island City or Elmhurst or East New York and collect your belongings from cab owner/driver/mechanic.*
Give them a reward.
Not a hug.
(My mom's advice.)

*If you are traveling because your boss forgot something in said cab, take the office car service. There's no use in risking leaving your stuff in a taxi while you fetch the shit someone else forgot. I'm just saying.



I've forgotten your number.
But you were sweet, hipster cab driver.
And that song by that band, that has the line about cabs --
do you play it for all the girls?


jensnow(AT)gmail(DOT)com. All content Copyright 2008. You can visit me at Things I Don't Understand And Definitely Am Not Going To Talk About (thingsidontunderstandand.tumblr.com) and at www.jensnow.com.