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


Backseat Shooter: That Time of the Month

NY hearts women? Only until today, I presume.


He was gross, and he was singing.

I don't like to sing.
And, to be honest, I don't really like it when other people sing.
Most of the time I feel embarrassed for them.
On their behalf.

So as we rode home and he sang along to the radio, I couldn't help but squirm.

The chorus: "As the sun shines/I'm going to be there for you baby."
Over and over.

And he continued even after the radio was on to the next song: "I can see in your eyes that you want to be mine/something something northern skies/whoa-oh-oh eyes"

Now mix in the bit about the sun shining, and being there for baby, and ugh.

I thought about vomiting on his feet on my way out of the cab.
(He hadn't picked the station though, so I thought it best to forgive him.)



The hybrid, which is much larger than other cabs, passed me by.


A Lot of Art Is Boring

If we've ever discussed art, you know that I'm concerned with price.

Not merely when I'm shopping, or selling, but as a legitimate factor in thinking about/talking about work that's being shown today.

A gallery is a storefront.
A gallerist a salesman.
This isn't a bad thing.

This article
, however, might be. I'd be interested in reading someone address non-blue chip names, and prices, and sales. Something less glossy, and more numerically heavy. No one needs New York magazine to tell them that Thomas Ruff, John Baldessari, and Takashi Murakami will survive an inevitable crash.


And Some Other Things That Aren't As Scary, Maybe

If you think I'm pretty,* you should buy this book:

Noisy Outlaws, Unfriendly Blobs, and Some Other Things That Aren't as Scary, Maybe, Depending on How You Feel About Lost Lands, Stray Cellphones, Creatures from the Sky, Parents Who Disappear in Peru, a Man Named Lars Farf, and One Other Story We Couldn't Quite Finish, So Maybe You Could Help Us Out.

If you think I'm not pretty,** you should buy the book.


Or I'll never ride in a cab with you again.

*By "you think I'm pretty" I mean: you'd like to help fund the teaching of writing to children.

** By "you think I'm not pretty" I mean: you are stupid.



For my money, I've always said that The Forward building would be the prettiest place to live.

I'm sad that spaces inside are finally on the market and I don't actually have the money.

Perhaps someday I'll buy re-sale.

See: Live With Marx And Like It by friend Michael Calderone (NYO)



The West Side is a different story.



I always forget to figure travel time into things.


Cab Gab

"Abie! I want to thank you very much on behalf of cabdrivers for the new Flushing hack stand. Give us the spiel about it."
(from Cab Gab, by Jennifer Bleyer, NYT)


Grape Crush

For those keeping score: I just got off the bus.
Two swipes. (A transfer.)

It's almost 3 a.m.
And we brought a grape soda along for the ride.

This, friends, is the height of class.


Overheard Inside New York

"Look, I think that maybe we should just get married," he says to her. On the phone. As I sit there. On my phone.

"Look, I think that maybe you should just not have this conversation while I'm riding in the back of your cab," I say to myself because it doesn't seem right that I should be witness to this. Or that he could ask her this way. On the phone.

I got out before she could answer.


Mapping Sitting

He told me that I have Geographic Tongue.
He said this wasn't such a big deal.
It's not contagious, but it still sounds as if my tongue is on a journey.
And this worries me.



Today, on the occasion of my first commute, I fell off of the subway.

The reaction of the woman behind me: "Oh, shit!"
(Before she rushed to her train.)

I'm a bit bruised.



On my last day:

I walked to work in 8-minutes’ time.

I had time for neither breakfast nor lunch, but it seemed necessary to take a break for a drink, upon which I got quite drunk. All the while, I was in charge of taking photos for an article, so it felt like I was doing the right thing.

I witnessed the end of the beginning of a sad scene.

I skipped the Biennial opening in favor of fruit tart and french fries with friends.

I walked out, and past the spot where I would normally catch a cab when I carried as much home.

On my 12-minute retreat, I didn’t cry. (I sniffled once.)

And I almost got hit by two cabs.


Return Trip

“We’ve done this before,” he said when I got in.

Confused, I didn’t have much to say.

He did know where I was going.

“About a year ago. I picked you up here and dropped you off there. But last time you seemed quite sad.”

He was right, of course.

And now I'm not.

And he got me where I was going.
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.