No Time For Traffic

I've no time for traffic.

I'll see you after the move.

Strung Together

Tonight I shot:
- a reading
- a book party
- a celebutant and his secret boyfriend
- a hipsterish dance-off in a bar basement
- some cops beating up what looked like a very respectable young man and woman outside on my corner

Tonight made me less sad about moving away.

Things He Told Me When He Took Me To Brooklyn

"I don't like to pick up those people."

"It is only my second day."

"They told me that if I find a cell phone, I should throw it out."

"Maybe I should get a map. Or call my uncle."

"I turn on the 'off duty' sign. Sometimes you just want to drive by."

"I'm not a racist. I just don't like to pick up those people."

"Those people have knives; they'll hold them to your throat."

"Those people pay with hundred-dollar bills."

Pretty Girls Make Greatness

Today I visited two pretty stores owned by two pretty girls:

- Yanina Landsaat is the proprietress of Don The Verb, an adorably curated (and named) consignment shop on Delancey Street. She lined the walls with the metal shelves of the trimming store that previously occupied the space, and her stock of pocketbooks is one of the best I've ever seen. Lots of little framed bags, shoes in great shape, a mix of vintage and contemporary castoffs -- great finds, great labels, great prices. (Don the Verb: 61 Delancey Street, NY, NY 10002, 212.219.7633, www.dontheverb.com)

- Anne Saxelby might be my favorite cheesemonger. Might be because she recently opened Saxelby Cheesemongers in a stall in the Essex Street Market. Might be because she talked about how cute two of her farmers are. Might be becuase she's redefining "American cheese." Might be because her logo and her packaging are impeccably well-designed. Might be because her dairy is delicious. (Saxelby Cheesemongers, Essex Street Market, 120 Essex Street, NY, NY 10002, 212.228.8204, www.saxelbycheese.com)

Moving (me)

Some time ago the question was hypothetical.
Not now.

I'm leaving.

And I've no van to move my stuff.
So I'm doing it in cabs. And mom's car.

Which is sort of like a cab. Because I won't drive.
And she'll tell me how pretty I am (when I smile, fix my hair, wear a little lipstick, etc.) And I'll tip her and kiss her goodbye when we're done.

Loser

Despite my lack of peripheral vision, attention span, and coordination I admit: in lots of ways, bicycles do win.

Have taxis ever had so catchy a theme as the song from The Triplets of Belleville?
(All my rides would be accompanied by that song. Perhaps this is why I'm not to be trusted with a bicycle.)

This morning, apparently, bicycles did win.
So taxis are for losers.
Join my club.

Reading in Cabs With Girls (Again)*

"The–-the–-damn it, are you deaf too? Who said undertaker? I said taxi; can't you hear what I say?"

"You want me to call a taxi, sir?"

"No; I don't. I already told you so. I'm going to walk."

Edith Wharton, from "After Holbein"




*A sometimes series

Carry The One

Sometimes even the least logical of girls needs a mathematical equation that proves...fuck it.
Sometimes that illogical girl just wants a proof to make sense.

Service Station

Pretty smart: car services/cab companies are advertising on hand-stamps used by doormen at clubs.

Not that I go to clubs.
Not that I drive.
(Although I do have a drivers' license wherein my shirt is falling-off in the photo.)
But still.

8K47

Sounds like a gun.

Is honest.

Jolie Laide

When I was young, the story goes, a friend walked into a hair salon in North Jersey and asked for "the Jennifer Snow haircut."

This is nice, but I'm no Aniston, and my hair at age 6 didn't exactly spark a trend.

But I understand the impetus. Of asking.

Last night I walked into Sephora. I was looking for black eyeshadow. I have black eyeshadow. More than one kind. Slate. Midnight. Smoke. I have a whole host of non-colors with which I attempt to make shadows around my eyes. But I'm looking for a specific shadow. And until it came out of my mouth I didn't recognize that it is one that I probably will never achieve.

The smocked-lady asked what I wanted and I realized, "Can you make my eyes look like my French roommate's?"

So now I have an "Onyx"-colored kohl pencil that has a smudgey-sponge at the other end. And buying it, and calling it such, pretty much affirmed that I'll never have that shadow.

This is all sounding like I'm trying to be grossly poetic. It's not. It's simple. I just need to convince myself. I'm not from Paris. My smudging looks less like a smoky shadow than it looks like a mess. A mess I made by drawing on my eyes with a big black crayon. I think that if I start to cry and then rub my eyes it will look better.

This seems like a perfectly viable option.

Pretty Pants?

Yesterday I passed a girl on Essex Street -- such aplomb she showed by wearing not just leggings, but leggings with huge dots! (Cream-colored circles on black, more Marimekko than polka. Surprisingly flattering!)

Even so, I like that someone is attempting to right such important wrongs in public. The stickers ("NO MORE BLACK LEGGINGS WITH DENIM SKIRTS. PLEASE!) are polite, yet firm. And they're even more special when placed inches from the snoozy "9-11 was an inside job" and "The Bush Regime Engineered 9-11." (Near the bottom of the frame.)

Also there is a cab behind the pole.

There's Some Truth In Your Advertising

"You're pretty," he said.

So I ran.

Backseat Shooter: Well, That's The Law in New York City

One day later.
No joke.
How refreshingly colloquial!

Backseat Shooter: Tissue? I Don't Even Know You

So if someone gets into your cab – drunk, and surly – and they’re about to light a cigarette, they’re careful to mind your allergic condition?

Rather than sharing your medical history, you could have added: “IT'S ILLEGAL.”