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


If Ever I'm Shot, I Hope That Guy That Looks Like Vince Vaughn's Big Brother Goes Crazy And Solves The Case While His Pretty Partner Nods Beside Him

I hate mystery. And suspense. I always read the end of a book just after I start the first few pages. And I skip around the rest to find out everything I want to know. In my own order. On my own schedule. And it all seems to make sense. To me.

I never saw Law and Order. On TV. I saw them shooting it. Many times. Most notably when I crossed Cooper Square one morning on my way into the office and there was a city bus overturned and lots of people milling around, but everyone was so calm and quiet, and I got really scared. And then I saw the photocopied “no parking because we’re filming” signs – only after I believed I was about to see a bus full of people so dead that it shocked the crowd into silence. (Also the time I saw a van dangling over the water east of the South Street Seaport, and people were screaming about children and a field trip, and lots of police cars – and all of it was fake and for some incarnation of the series.) So I‘d a feeling I’d no desire to see the show.

But then I saw it. And then I saw the website: When Is Law and Order On? And then I started DVRing all three branches of the series. And then, in the span of one week, I watched 21 episodes. And now, tonight, I found myself asking the suddenly sketchy-seeming cab driver to drop me off down the block from my home. And I walked into an apartment building that isn’t mine. And I stood in the lobby and watched through the window until I was sure he’d pulled away, and only then did I walk over and into my house. Just in case.

No more mysteries for me.


Things, some.

  • Something about standing up in the backseat.
  • Something about saving your receipt.
  • Something about drowning a pomegranate in order to set its seeds free without staining anything.
  • Something about dying a sheet set with beets.
  • Something about splitting the fare.
  • Something about dry air and bloody noses.
  • Something about knowing which end of the train to take.
  • Something about a phrase etymology page.
  • Something about how there are not any good ones.


Did I Make You Cry On Christmas Day?

(Well, you deserved it.)


Reading In Cabs With...

I sort of love most of this page. (#441, from Pynchon's V.)
But the appropriate bit:
Its landscape is one of inanimate monuments and buildings; near-inanimate barmen, taxi-drivers, bellhops, guides: there to do any bidding, to various degrees of efficiency, on receipt of the recommended baksheesh, pourboire, mancia, tip.


Playing Tag

I haven’t figured out how to summarize my ride in 7Y89: The Taxi That Saved Me From Suffocation, so maybe I should be glad that I was tagged with this Five Things You Don’t Know About Me thing. Therefore, I admit:

1. Once, while I was making out with a boy, my Blackberry beeped a few times. “You want to get that, don’t you?” he asked. And I said “no.” But sometimes “no” means “yes.”

2. I used to take my intern to the tanning salon during the work day. I think I taught her a lot about how to work for an ailing alternative newspaper.

3. I don’t like weddings, and I don’t feel bad that I sometimes have a hard time hiding it. Even (and especially) when I am your bridesmaid.

4. I take hundreds of photos at a time but I have pretty much no organizational system for dealing with them all. And I do not know how to use Photoshop. And I do not know how to use any of the non-manual fancy functions on my cameras. (This may be why I haven’t updated my real website in over a year.) (Also, this may be me asking for help.)

5. I'm really bad at sleeping. Even with the pretty little pills, three hours, tops.

You’re it: Ed, Izzy, Emily, Ten Words, Doug.


Girl Talk

My grandfather went to the News Corp. holiday party on Friday night.
While there, a 20something-year-old girl who worked for one of the other papers asked him to kiss her. "On the lips."

He said that she was pretty. And that she wanted to listen to his stories. And, I assume, she was at least a little drunk.

Next July: our 87/27 joint birthday party. Ladies?


Exit 117A

I drove from Brooklyn.
And then I drove back.
Two passengers.
(No panic attacks.)



Things, Some.

Something about a nationality.
Something about a novelty act.
Something about borrowing body armor.
Something about layering.
Something about a leotard.
Something about sleeping.
Something about five rides in four days.
Something about snaps, stupid.



Today, a new pair of glasses.

Or, I love you Optical 88.
(The one on the corner of Mott and Hester, not the one in Hong Kong.)

Here's how it works. Some girls have problems and so they buy lots of glasses frames. But then they remember how expensive it is to fill them. Except at Optical 88. It's my own cheap crack. But it works. You bring them your frames and $45 cash. Then you go back in 24 hours. And you have glasses.

It's not magic, but it's pretty.
And my new glasses are tortiseshell with an overlay of a slightly shimmery green and silver plaid pattern. Like cheap crack. But pretty.


Art History

Uptown, but not uptight.

Yeah, you think so.


You, Tube

Yes, I have a video of you crying in the back seat of a taxi.
Yes, it makes me sad.


Slower To Get It, More Pleased When They Do, And Swift To Locate The Unfunny

A boy once promised me that I could try out to be a talking head on his I Love Last Week-type show just as soon as I learned not to laugh at every one of my own jokes. I was never given the nod.

Christopher Hitchens also makes me laugh. Mostly because it took him how many paragraphs to get to this:
"...but there are some impressive ladies out there. Most of them, though, when you come to review the situation, are hefty or dykey or Jewish, or some combo of the three." (Vanity Fair, January 2007)
I didn't see that one coming. I'll pass your number along to VH1.



The best part of Spencer Ackerman's blog is the "What Gives You The Right To Fuck With Our Lives" series. The posts are simple. He's stealing their words. It's the equal of and the antithesis to the NYT Portraits of Grief. Remember them? Every morning. (Remember their Pulitzer?!) Where are they now?


Embarrassed To Have Been Employed By You

Dear Editor,

Jonas Mekas, Andrew Sarris, Jim Hoberman, and Dennis Lim will appear tonight at the Brooklyn Academy of Music to celebrate the publication of The Village Voice Film Guide: 50 Years Of Movies From Classics To Cult Hits, and you didn't dedicate even so much as a 50 word blurb to the event. Classy.

Jen Snow
Brooklyn, NY


About Time

I eat dinner while you eat breakfast.

And we're in the same time zone.
And we're in the same kitchen.

It's possible that there's something wrong with both of us.


Yeah. Oh Yeah.

Yeah, we went there.
And then I drove you home.


Unrequited Love

I stole this title.

But Artforum really got it right.
(And I shot photos for the story, so I'm allowed, I think.)

I don't care what the mean man in the pageboy cap said; "The Book Of Love" still sort of makes me cry.

("The Luckiest Guy On The Lower East Side," and "Washington D.C." also make me cry. I can't really explain this other than to suggest that even I am guilty of occasionally dissolving into a big pile of ovary.)


You are not a lawyer.
You cannot turn off the meter in an attempt to "bill for your time."
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.