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 Wednesday, I was at a wedding.
The ceremony was lengthy. (We learned later that the groom forgot to bring the rings, and thus he had to purchase something to use in order to get married. He had no money on him, though, so someone else had to give him a wedding gift (of $1.00!) so he could then go to the bride's father and purchase the wedding ring off of his hand to give, in turn, to his bride, the original ring-bearer's daughter. All of this scrambling was not explained, however, to the three-hundred of us sitting and watching the under-the-chupa commotion from our seats.) The women behind us talked incessantly. And they kept talking, loudly, throughout the ceremony. I turned around a few times hoping to shame them into being quiet. Eventually I "shushed" them. That's when one of them pointed to my chest and said, "If you're so concerned with what's appropriate, maybe you should adjust your dress."

Another adjustment: NYC taxi fares. As of today.


Subpar Subway Passenger

"What does your ring mean is it heavy is it gold?"

No, sir, you don't get to ask me that.


Brooklyn Will Fill The Beach Eventually (Or, Requiem For A Dream)

I wish that Coney Island was as simple as it should be.
But it's not.
And because I live with history, I should probably reproduce some of the debate here. Or somewhere. (Suggestions?)

For now, see this: Coney Island's Astroland Sold, Will Close Next Year (Bloomberg)

Look out for Poppy in the papers tomorrow.
(Lots of interviews today.)


Jew For Jesus

Ever since I left that place where I got paid per blurb, I've had little desire to write. Well, to write reviews. More correctly: to write blurbs.

But today I got my first (ever) Christmas present. And, at the very least, it deserves a blurb. (Not that it needs it; everybody loves it, it's already a star.)

At first glance: it's creepy. Superficially creepy. Something about the stickers and the short shirt sleeves. And the camp. And the cartoons. But the songs. Oh, the songs. In general I'm a serial listener -- and every night last week I played only "Sister Winter" as I walked home from the subway. It's a soundtracky song -- if only my walk was being filmed. "That Was The Worst Christmas Ever" is also perfect and pretty, and a little bit cheesy, in a terrific and triumphant way. But the essays. Oh, the essays. RM is RM -- all stoic and fantastically repetitive. And SS, if he's to be believed, is the suburban everyboy. In the best possible way. Here, his essay saved his songs. For me.


Something About A Voicemail Message

Something about having a question about hanging punctuation.
Something about that other coast.
Something about where the fuck are you?
Something about moving there to import wine.

Island Hopping

Continuing this week's trend of multi-event evenings on the big island, last night I:
- shot Jest Fest '06 (dorky? yes. delightful? yes.)
- shot, sort of, Ten Fucking Years: The Concert (A Daily Show benefit for 826NYC)

The rain was torrential.
I took two cabs.
I have pretty pictures.
You can have them soon.


Big Time/Top

Last night I went to the National Book Awards ceremony. And then to the circus. And then back to the ceremony.

One was fairly innocuous, punctured by a terrific moment that some of the audience found fantastically humorous while the majority gaped, mouths open in horror.

The other featured a nauseating group writhing around while wearing tacky outfits and dated (1993) hairdos.

(Fran Lebowitz, at the first stop, was the winner. She caused the gaping. She's pretty much the reason I went back. The tightly-attired gymnastics trio and circus songs are going to haunt me for weeks.)


No, You Can't Paint Your Toenails In My Taxi

If a girl spends $18 on a bottle of nail polish, then perhaps she deserves to suffer through trying to figure out how she's going to get to Paramus to pick it up.

(And she's ruled out taking a cab. She's not so ridiculous that she'd spend upwards of $100 on procuring the polish.)


Now that I'm old, and leaning to the right, I can admit: unions are not so smart.

Garment workers? If you literally work in a factory, then sure, you can form a union.

Journalists? If you work at an alternative newsweekly, not so much.

The B(e)acon Theater? I probably shouldn't even begin to rail against this one. I guess it goes without saying that big scary union men would try their hardest to screw with a small charity, and then chalk it all up to "union rules." (And by "try their hardest," I mean "do as little as humanly possible and overchage and take lots of breaks.") Boo.

Cab drivers? Fine. Your alliance sounds sweet. Steven Greenhouse's NYT article reads as if it should have a smiley-faced emoticon at the end of the headline, though. But it got me. Enjoy your health insurance and archaically stringent rules of conduct.

(If you think I'm a spoiled brat today, just wait until I post about luxury nail polish tomorrow.)



Something about the way she told me to put the pills away.
Something about cinematic sleeping.
Something about riding around.
Something about running around.
Something about "synching."
Something about meeting your mom on myspace.
Something about paving a parking lot to put up a tennis court.
Something about ticketing.
Something about etched logos.
Something about blaming you for the time.


Out Of My Way

He turned off the meter.

I brought the map.

(Good, because it wasn't your fault.)


I've Been Here Before; I'd Rather Not Ride Back

The funeral was fake.
The flowers were not.

I took a taxi home.



What happens when your cab driver is a criminal?

(And you realize this, not when you're in the car, but months later when you see him on the cover of The New York Post.)


Over (There)

In all our time there, did we ever take a taxi?

(I remember you, but I don't remember this.)


Almost The Color Of The Cookbook, But Not Quite (Or, How To Cook Everything)

I didn't know it was possible to prepare a meal wherein every course was the color of every NYC taxi cab.


It also matched your bathroom fixtures. And your floor.

(So, points for that.)



I have never hit anything.
Or hurt anyone.
But I still shouldn't drive you home.


All The Way

Some rides are secrets.
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.