Motion Picture

Doug Aitken + Melissa Plaut.
Making a short movie.
For the Museum of Modern Art.

Maybe I Missed It

If I'd jumped in a cab, instead of onto the subway, I would have missed this:

INT. F TRAIN TO CONEY ISLAND

GIRL
Maybe we just need to gentrify a little harder.

BOY
Yeah, I mean, all kinds of people eat food.

OTHER GIRL
I'm hungry too.

On

"Two stops," we said.

Then changed it to one.

(Before making it quite a few more.)

People Talking and Sitting

For some time I've wanted to do a series of interviews wherein I'd take a taxi ride with someone, and we'd chat, and then I'd print what we'd said.

Some rules?

- We'd ride together only as long/far as the person was already intending to travel.
- I wasn't thinking so much about strangers, or persons of fame, as I was about people I know, and want to pin down, even for a few blocks.

Of late I've all but abandoned this page. Interrupted the lull with brief appearances, posted some throwaway things. But I've a renewed commitment.

(Also, a renewed friendship. Come back to Brooklyn, S.A.; we've a cab ride to take, an interview to do.)

No Newsies At The Curb When You Get Into A Cab

Yes, there are a lot of people on this subway car.

Yes, you and I are reading the same newspaper.
Or, I'm reading it, and you're holding yours, and leering over at mine.

No, it's not "so funny" that there are so many people reading the newspaper.
This newspaper is crappy.
And also, they give it out for free at the foot of the stairs.

So, no, I don't think that, "we were destined to meet."
Our reading habits are not all that aligned.

Even Worse

9. What profession would you not like to do?
TAXI DRIVER IN NYC.

(Stereogum interview with Sondre Lerche)

Alas

I had a feeling this love wasn't going to last.

Today, I'm afraid I've one of those entries that pretty explicitly says, "I like you, but I don't think I like you like you."

Sorry.

For you: Taxi! On Fifth Avenue in Manhattan an African-American man hails a cab.

If, By Screenplay Writer, You Mean CREEP (in a cab)

If you are my cab driver, and you hear me talking on the telephone, and I mention my website, it is because I am talking to a boy who is in the process of fixing it for me, NOT because I'm inviting you to Google it, visit it, and then send me an e-mail inviting me to go see the Miami Vice movie with you.

And, if one week passes, and I have not responded to you, you are not supposed to send me a second e-mail that says,"Hi jen what's up? It's richie the screenplay writer.jen e-mail me back when you get a chance. 1 sent you an e-mail last saturday. Thank you." (sic)

You are not a screenplay writer. And you are not my friend. And although I've never met an old dude who has such good Googling skills, I think you should leave me alone.

The third, fourth, and fifth e-mails -- even I'm not bitchy enough to reprint them here. Today.

Youwantcompany? No, thank you.

I got off of the subway. (The elevated train.)

And, at the bottom of the stairs, when I reached the street, there stood a small man.

And he said to me, “Youwantcompany? Youwantcompany? Youwantcompany? Youwantcompany? Youwantcompany? Youwantcompany? Youwantcompany? Youwantcompany?”

And he stood in my way.

And I, pissed that it was 3:00 a.m., and that it had begun to get cold, replied, “No. You want me to beat the shit out of you?”

He was a small man.

And he seemed shocked. And he stepped aside. And even though I had 8 blocks to go, I wasn’t worried that he’d follow me. I’m pretty positive that I don’t know how to “kick the shit out of” anyone. And every time I looked back he still stood there, at the bottom of the stairs. Blocking the way of any imaginary girls getting off of the train even later than me. And just thinking of that phrase made me laugh.

Sure, Not.

I'm not sure if this means that I'm back.
Or that I'm bored.

Miss You

1. One of the best songs ever.
2. The truth.
3. Love, this:





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