A blog that was supposed be made up of bits about cab rides and blurbs about beauty products but, instead, is about other things.
Dear Village Voice,
A billboard: bold move. But the cliched and yet appropriate phrase is actually "Bowery bums." Your use of "junkies" is just misguided enough that it renders your attempt at edge and insider status more sad than anything else. Your promo team is based in Denver, I suppose?
The best part —
Midtown musing: If
you stand across 57th so
that you’re looking at the
front of Carnegie Hall,
you’ll notice that the
frieze says: “MVSIC
HALL.” ¶ We like the
old-school V, but we
especially like the quotation
marks. ¶ What was their
purpose? ¶ What did the
builders or the letters
hope to indicate? That
perhaps this was not a
music hall? ¶ That it
might instead be a stable,
or a stocking factory? ¶
That all is uncertainty,
and in years to come, the
structure might be
converted into a parking
garage? ¶ Or do the
quote marks suggest that
the performances to be
held inside were not what
some meddling fuddyduddy
‘music’? ¶ That is not
music, that is the sound of
TARPAULIN! ¶ That
was supposed to be our
impression of a
decrying some new fad in
music. ¶ Imagine him
expounding while in a
smoking-jacket. ¶ Okay. ¶
It’s not working. ¶ We
really wish we had a
picture of those
Another best part —
Best thing that
happened the other day: We
were walking by a school
playground, during recess. Kids
were running around,
screaming, laughing. In one
corner, a teacher gave a
command to a group of girls:
“Robots!” Then they all started
acting like robots, arms moving
rigidly, etc. One-word review:
Hilarious. Seriously, this made
our day — our week — our year.
¶ Our life. ¶ That’s going too
That's a large bit of the piece, but now you will read it and you will subscribe and you will print it out each week at work, right? Note: when The N-YG started, I had neither a real job nor a real printer, but I figured it out. You should too!
Another NBA note: after today's proceedings, I now really want to read Brian Selznick's The Invention of Hugo Cabret. This morning, the finalists in Young People's Literature had an entire auditorium of students entranced. There was actual hooting and hollering, which was certainly more inspired than the ninny hissing that happened when the adults were gathered later in the night. (Photos, of all of this, the above fake fracas too, soon.)
Hit "play" on both of those at the same time. The videos even have a similar number of seconds of "just doing stuff to set the scene before my song starts" noise before they begin. Both have the same type of build-up of the verses and then crescendo-ing choruses, they both repeat a phrase a few times at the end of each song. They are the same song. And so, I do not feel as bad that I'm so taken with both.
He was not spot on, however, in asking whether the bike and sign were actually mine. My lack of street-crossing skills, my poor paying-attention skills, and the fact that I'm not very coordinated all indicate the obvious: I could never ride a bike on city streets.
- Something about sitting through an entire movie.
- Something about being traumatized by uninvited advice from the clerk at the glasses store. (Has anyone else ever heard this nonsense that your eyes "must" be in the center of each lens?)
- Something about propagating plants and picking the last cherry tomato.
- Something about marveling at how long my hair has grown. (Past my shoulders.)
- Something about doing a bit of work for Brooklyn Vegan.
- Something about riding the subway and reading.
"A dollar isn't a tip?" I asked.
He said something nasty about "all that change."
"You're right, it isn't a tip," I said, and I kept it, and I didn't feel bad.
(For the record: it was four quarters; it wasn't like I tried dumping a pile of pennies on him.)
He repeated this series nine times before I felt like I had to either say something to shut him up or ask him to just let me out where we were, which was, unfortunately, quite far from where I wanted to be.
I said, "I have no interest in discussing such matters with strangers," which seemed, even to me, like an odd thing to say. But then he was silent for the rest of the ride, so it worked.
I loved it a few weeks ago, and meant to post it then, but just found it now, sitting in my drafts folder, while I contemplated what the heck to post. It is great. I think you should watch it. Maybe watch it a few times. It might be a while again before I'm back.
- 20x200: "large editions + low prices x the internet = art for everyone"
- The Thing (Quarterly): "THE THING is an object based quarterly publication. Each issue of THE THING is conceived of by an individual artist, wrapped by the editors ( Jonn Hershend and Will Rogan ) and sent to the subscribers."
If I had more time/energy, I'd make room for others: I always like to support Jeremy Laing's show and Michelle at Cynthia Rowley, I rationalize Heatherette because it defines the over-the-topness of the tents, and I actually enjoy something reliable like Marc Jacobs, which is just really nice to shoot.
But I'm growing up. I'm no longer excited by the mess of fashion-related photos that remains on the now-in-progress/transition jensnow.com, so I think it's best not to add too many more to what needs to be sorted out.
Also, remember the last time I said I was giving up on shooting shows, and I was convinced to go see Marc Jacobs, and a young tween vomited on my shoe as I got out of a cab outside of the show? It was a sign. It still sort of is.
(Although Melissa's Op-Ed did more to convince me than the dumb driver who raged recently about my "loss of privacy as an American consumer.")
Related: I'm not actually on strike; I will return to this, I think.
(Right now I'm fixing jensnow.com, which has been left untouched for far too long. Lots of new photos, lots of deletion, etc. It should be done in a few days.)
It confirmed what I thought as soon as they started arriving for sound checks on Sunday: such talent and beauty and generousity of time and spirit. It was great to see so many of them together again.
Today we love video: the New York Times at Revenge of the Book Eaters.
One totally trite article about "man" food in today's New York Times: "Be Yourselves, Girls, Order the Rib-Eye."
(Only Andy's piece was noted on Papercuts, the NYT blog. For good reason.)
Bonus: Chip Kidd interviews Glaser in an early issue of The Believer.
*At first this was titled, "He Put His Thinking Cab On." I thought better of it and took it down. Under threat, I admit it here.
Last night, Eat For Victory and I sat in awe of:
1. the fact that they were willing to serve me the striped bass entree minus the striped bass. I'm allergic, but I was really interested in the mussels, asparagus, radish, pickled fennel, and fava beans that were supposed to be just on the side.
2. the fact that Saturday Night Fever is an amazing movie. Until the disappointingly slow dance number and the downer drama on the Verrazano Bridge.
We plan to be there every week.
I won't link to it here because I think they'd prefer it to remain semi-private, if possible.
But, still, they did it. (The birth! And the blog.)
A relevant bit, posted via mobile phone:
"Twenty-four hours later, little [redacted] seems to be enjoying his first NYC taxi ride. After initial terror over the carseat, he’s sleeping like… well, a baby. We’ll see what he thinks about the potholes when we get downtown."
Baby's first NYT Sunday Styles piece?
Some children like to write books, some children like to eat books: buy tickets and support them both.
Tickets will be on sale today at 10:00 a.m. for the revenge of Revenge of the Book Eaters: a benefit for 826NYC at The Beacon Theatre on 8/26.
We promise a show in which: A.C. NEWMAN sings alone. GRIZZLY BEAR is a band. FEIST reads from a book. JIM JAMES croons. SARAH VOWELL speaks. DEMETRI MARTIN hosts.
A few minutes into my ride, my phone rang. I didn't recognize the number, and I answered, unsuspecting of the wrath I'd hear when I did.
A man screamed at me in Arabic.
I know some male Arabic speakers, none of them have reason to scream at me, and the number didn't belong to any of them, anyway, so I hung up.
The screamer called back. I answered. This time he yelled, "I AM WAITING IN MY CAB." And then he continued with the screaming in Arabic. Mostly repetition of one word. He sort of howled it.
I hung up and the man driving the cab I was riding in told me that he'd heard all the yelling. I explained what I thought happened and he offered to tell me what the caller had yelled. It was so loud, he'd heard it all.
I called the car service and asked if they'd given my phone number to their driver. They had. Before or after my cancellation? Not clear.
They'd taken it from caller i.d. when I called initially. Just like I took the screaming driver's number from my caller i.d. when he called to scream at me two more times in the next few minutes.
(Q: Why did you answer your phone every time, Jen Snow? A: Because my name and my work number are on my outgoing voicemail message and I didn't think it wise to let him have that info too.)
The last time he called, I just said the word for "police," in Arabic. It sounded a little like the word he'd been screaming at me.
- Something about you writing a song for me and then running away and I'm tone deaf so I've no clue how it goes.
- Something about a yellow cab, an orange cab, and a green cab, in a line, but not in a race. The hills and the prices were steep.
- Something about shomer negiah.
- Something about now it's official: I own no working cameras more sophisticated than toys.
Bonus round: Wednesday morning, 5:00 a.m., another cab, the airport.
You missed many scoreless innings and a stop at L&B Spumoni Gardens. We had a real estate history lesson and I spilled stuff all over my dress.
I Passed Fresh Kills, But I Couldn't Hold My Nose, Because I Had To Keep My Hands On The Wheel And I Was Sort Of Holding My Breath Already Anyway
Today a blog and a band love it too: "Arcade Fire Employ Guerilla Tactics To Woo The Fertile Indie Rock/The Price Is Right Crossover Demo."
One of my favorite piece of furniture was an impulse buy. Out one day, on a walk, with a friend, it was there, at Billy's, and it was perfect. Friend guarded the couch from other would-be buyers (in what I imagine to be a fervent way), while I ran to an ATM and back. I gave Billy the cash and took the couch home in a cab ten months later. (The delay, no one's fault but my own.)
I hadn't been paying attention, so I was surprised when I looked up and my driver was about to turn left, instead of right, where I needed to go, and when I asked him to change lanes he yelled at you and threw his soda bottle at the trunk of your car as you made your left turn and got away.
Strategically? What good does this do?
Ad placement? (They're all topped by Yahoo.)
And they're all over the neighborhood.
Not driving. Just taking up space, parking spaces.
"A person can reduce the risk of this condition by managing stress and learning how to express his or her feelings," said the dermatological expert.
I thought it merely a reaction to the cheap metal ring you bought for me at the street fair, or to the heat; I didn't realize the rash on my finger could possibly be an indictment of my ability to deal with life.
- Something about a crooked tie.
- Something about a 24-hour clock.
- Something about being mislabled and misquoted.
- Something about wondering how many times you got it wrong when you were on the other side.
- Something about wishing you'd just drive away and take all this stuff with you.
- Something about The BQE and Sufjan Stevens and a symphony (but not about two arrests that took place there too).
But do come to our show:
TINY SMOOSHY SUNDAY ON FIRE (Hosted by Martha Plimpton, and featuring Smoosh, Care Bears on Fire, and Tiny Masters of Today).
Also, read the New York interview with Martha, because it includes such hysteria as:
What do you hate most about living in New York?
The dead-eyed pharmacy people at Duane Reade. I'd rather have a drunk Mr. Gower filling my prescriptions. It's always a journey into the Heart of Darkness, going in there, with a long line of hysterical Upper West Siders tearing at their clothes and smearing themselves with their own feces. Here is the script:
Duane Reade: "Clinton?"
Duane Reade: "Crimpson?"
Me: "PLIMP. TON."
Duane Reade: "Pimpman?"
Cut to: Giant mushroom cloud signifying my own internal apocalypse.
And, Baltimore, if one of your guests is old enough that it's entirely possible that she could have given birth to everyone else at her table, then, yes, you've given her the wrong seat.
- In parts of the new Gursky show, fashion plates are stuck in the middle of Formula One scenes. The photos are, as always, so shiny. (at Matthew Marks)
- "I'd like to unintend her consequences." (Citizen Truth)
- Miranda July + Blonde Redhead video. (via Ed, via another Ed, apparently.)
- "Mayor Plans an All-Hybrid Taxi Fleet." (NYT)
- Tord Boontje talks, lights my living room. (Artkrush)
- Oregon Trail online?! I can't get it to work, but I hope you can. (via Zach Klein)
Tiny Smooshy Sunday On Fire
A benefit for 826NYC
featuring SMOOSH, TINY MASTERS OF TODAY, and CARE BEARS ON FIRE, and hosted by MARTHA PLIMPTON
Sunday, June 3rd, 2p.m.
Southpaw (125 5th Avenue, Brooklyn)
Tickets: $25 adults /$10 ages 16 and under
(I should mention: they were clearly on a first date.)
His response, "Dinner as a concept, or this dinner?"
Then, and without hesitation, she started to cry.
He waited what I thought was an appropriate amount of time (two minutes), he put down some money, presumably for the check, and he left. She sat, still, at the table, and cried.
He doubled back, and handed her a twenty-dollar bill, "For your cab home."
There was a kite and a beach and a family and a fight and there was a cab, and it was out of place, and it made them laugh. A little.
Dear Dr. Pepper Lip Smacker,
My mom remembers buying you when she was young and though she hadn't seen you in years, even she admitted that your new smell stinks. Thanks for making me sad.
Not your friend,
Crossing Hester Street. I don't know why I looked back. But then I couldn't look away. I wasn't sure if the set-up was real and the cackling and hollering of the boys outside of aNYthing didn't help me out.
I'm mailing you this note card in place of the response card I should be sending, except that I can't send it because I left it in the back seat of a cab. It was early, and I was opening a pile of yesterday's mail, and I think it fell when I got mad at all the magazine subscription cards and matrimony. So, on the back of this note I'll write my name and the name of my "And Guest" who you won't know and who you'll probably never see again and I'll tell you that I'll have the chicken and he'll have the fish and I'll mail it to your mom and dad. Maybe the cab driver or the next rider will respond too.
Philip Johnson's Glass House is now open to visitors! Who wants to take a trip?
Last night I went to see John Zorn and co. celebrate, via marathon, an award he'd just won. It was a good show, only enhanced by the fact that I skipped the second act in favor of hanging out with a friend in her graduate-smartypants-school lounge. After an hour I was back in my seat in time for "Cobra" — whatever— and I noted the time and that the crowd had thinned. All the empty chairs led to lots of seat shifting which seemed appropriate given the piece being performed.
The show was long, but my travel time longer. I read Miranda July's new book from beginning to end during the rides. The stories are as good as the striking cover design. I felt reassured carrying it. Like the title gave me permission to be everywhere I was.
Maybe she'll do a mobile book tour? I guess all tours are inherently mobile, but it seems like a tie-in to her return to driving could be sweet.
- Something about saying "He's the DJ, I'm the rapper," in real life.
- Something about not having notes.
- Something about my plants dying in your possession.
- Something about sharing a table with strangers, and bad tofu.
- Something about running out of bags on Bayard Street.
- Something about membership fees, cardboard coffee cup sheaths, and structural support.
- Something about stationary.
- Something about using science to schedule a ride.
- Something about getting really excited when you pick a new password and then really sad when you remember that you shouldn't share it with anyone.
- Something about admitting that the intern knows much more about what you do than you ever will.
- Something about un-Happy Shabu Shabu and Cafe.
- Something about leaving me a voicemail message while jumping rope.
I know this. Lots of people know this. But I didn't know that he knew this. How he knew this. It was morning. And we hadn't gone far enough for me to sleep or for me to talk or for him to know this or to tape it.
Yes, he told me that he taped it. Repeatedly as I paid my fare and rushed to shut the door.
A: Because I want to read "Hunting Henry Heimlich" twice.*
*I haven't finished it yet, so this may not be true.
I danced to it in a recital when I was 9. Our costumes had red hearts and sequins. I still remember the steps. (Our moves were more similar to those of the singers in this video than to the gawky white girls interpreting-it-up in the background. But we were the gawky white girls. I'm not sure we have a video.)
On Tuesday, April 10, you should join 826NYC, 826LA, and McSweeney's for THE WORLD, EXPLAINED: an evening of erudite comedy and fact-based entertainment. (Which means: stories, music, and extreme Powerpoint presentations.)
John Oliver (Daily Show correspondent), David Rakoff (author of Fraud), Joshua Davis (the lightest man ever to compete in the U.S. Sumo Open), and Rodney Rothman (former Undeclared and Letterman writer) will explain The World to you. Or, parts of it. The confusing parts. Parts like: The Intricacies Of Lightweight Sumo Wrestling, How To Create Your Own Fake Boy Band, 525,600 Reasons To Pay Your Rent, and A Mystery Topic Yet To Be Revealed.
Our own ad hoc indie rock supergroup (featuring members of Wolf Parade, Islands, Black Mountain, and Les Savy Fav) might even explain to you why they decided to perform under the name FINAL FANTASY: ONLINE A.K.A. INTERNET.
Symphony Space (2537 Broadway at 95th Street, NY). Tuesday, April 10 at 8:00 P.M. Tickets are $21 advance, $26 day of show, and are available through www.symphonyspace.org or 212.864.5400.
All proceeds, of course, go to 826NYC and 826LA.
I am sure of how I lost track of time.
It has nothing to do with the reset. This is reassuring. I had fun.
But those text messages I sent in the middle of the night? I'm sorry. In the cab it felt like morning.
I'm not sure why he told me this.
Perhaps he thought that by virtue of me being in his cab, I'd have no means by which to travel to it at another time to steal it.
- LA art? Not my scene. (NYT)
- Today, little appeals to me less. (NYM)
- I love this vase. And this. Because sometimes other people's dishes are dirty. (Fred)
- This is sad. And a little confusing. But it's tangentially about Levittown, so I'm in. (NYM)
- Hey, hot shot, you should apply. (Jen Bekman Gallery)
- I'm about to buy a pair of glasses. This method, a new low. (Ebay)
"Blah blah blah Brooklyn. Blah blah blah blah — Brooklyn — blah blah blah. Brooklyn? Blah! Blah, blah, blah, Brooklyn, blah, blah, blah, blah. Brooklyn. Blah, blah Blah, Brooklyn! Blah blah blah Brooklyn. Brooklyn. Brooklyn. Brooklyn..."
I noted the medallion number. (Of your car, not mine.)
I took bets, with myself, about what you'd left in it.
I didn't expect you to tell me it was a toaster, a travel alarm clock, and a box of magazines.
- Jonathan Lethem's You Don't Love Me Yet is out. There was a party at Bookcourt Tuesday (mid)night. The crowd, community-based, which is sort of cheesy, in a really sweet, supportive way. The Night Time (another fine example of Friend Rock) played an acoustic version of an appropriately cheesy/sweet rock-out song they recorded at Lethem's request. We got mix cds made by a character in the book. (Echoing his Promiscuous Materials Project is Lethem's generous offer -- titled "freelove" on his website -- of the rights to adapt this story too. I'd love to ask him to sit on a panel on art and copyright. With David Byrne? Who else?)
- Rachel Sklar sends a message to snark-for-the-sake-of snark, stands up for girls. Admirable move, Ombudsblogger. (ETP)
-"People can consciously suppress laughs, but few can make themselves laugh convincingly." (NYT)
- The World, Explained. (826NYC)
- Something about a sound-proof booth.
- Something about sitting in the front seat.
- Something about one-shouldered shirts and two and a half piece suits.
- Something about waiting for the weather.
- Something about her voice shaking. And cobblestone.
- Something about tonight that smells like the bottle of shampoo we bought in Italy the week we shared a shower with strangers we never saw. (Now that I smell it again, I think we might have had dish soap.)
- Something about remembering to forget the receipt.
Is this even possible?
Either way, I'm pretty sure the proper response to "What does this mean?" isn't:
"You can't drive, but I bet you can read. You wear those 'smart' glasses, so read it yourself."
I guess I'll ask him again in court.
No, I don't want a sip of your juicebox-sized Lactaid.
Yes, I can see that it fits into the slot between the handle and the door. Yes, it is perfect.
(I'm not tolerant of much, but I can handle lactose. Never fake milk, and never anything from an undersized straw that's been in a strange driver's mouth. Sorry.)
Baudrillard's NYT obituary, however, is a pretty poor piece of work. Mentioning The Matrix in the first sentence? Ending with a bored retort to banal criticism? I saw the man speak only once and I know that he deserves something much funnier than that.
(And the cover of the new paperback is not nearly as pretty as that on the first.)
- THINGS WE DON’T UNDERSTAND AND DEFINITELY ARE NOT GOING TO TALK ABOUT is "a tale of heartbreak and obsession that is so familiar you could tell it yourself." And Miranda July is, as always, spot-on and gorgeous. (The Kitchen)
- On Wednesday night, at Union Hall, I saw Changing Your Life One Song At A Time, a super bill made up of: Tim Fite (uh, who knew there was more talent in Little-T than the magic that created Shaniqua?), Will Kidman/Woolly Leaves (such sweet strum-y songs), and Marla Hansen (who turns the viola on its side, literally, and to beautiful effect, and who was backed on two songs by "Steve Stevens." If she wasn't so great, her joke and her giggle about that allonym -- and her own: Marla Maples -- might have stolen the show).
- Not a short trip: SA goes to Iraq, tomorrow. (THFTNR)
- The Vegas Diner is closed by the Board of Health on the same day that it was featured in The Village Voice (in a story by CZ and beneath a photo by me). CZ closed a chapter with the VV this week too. We're proud of her. (VV)
- I like Libertine. I like the copies I've made (with stamps and lots of newspaper spread on top of my kitchen table) of Libertine clothing even more. And now, a Target line. (I doubt there will be a down-market version of the Libertine/Goyard collaboration, though.) (RADAR)
- Ceci n'est pas un cab part two. (NYT)
- I'm not finding any of this to be "a hoot." A fascinating indicator of some odd need to pretend to integrate fashion-speak/standards into security-wear, but not a hoot. (TNR)
- Marc Jacobs mulls Marc3, makes me a happy girl. (IHT)
- Don't be sad; we didn't discover Sunny's either. Here's to bluegrass society meetings in the backroom. (NYT)
- The new New York Ghost features Toni Schlesinger and a mail-in offer from a seamstress! Sign up! Sign up! (NYG)
"I called it," I thought. The O.C. version of the Six Feet Under ending.
(I'd been waiting for it all day.)
And then Ryan got into his car.
And the strumming of the folkpop with the word "pulverize," and the reference to song, and the sentiment about life and leaving and losing and yuck.
For the record, I shed my first tear of the night when Julie Cooper picked up the college catalogue. (What's wrong with me?) I snorted in disbelief when they made it look like, in the fake future, Caitlin and Bullet were a couple. I am glad that yarmulkes made one more appearance on Fox.
But that final shot? Who framed that?
And why fast forward if you're not going to go all the way?
I bet that Oliver outlived them all.
Grand Central is one of my favorite places in all of New York.
LF and BS are two of my favorite people in all of New York.
(I mean, LS and BS are two of my favorite people in all of New York.)
Thus, this was perfect.
- Something about festival dailies.
- Something about frozen dumplings.
- Something about that stranger, leaning against the doors for the entire ride, writing alternating lines in blue pen and in black pen in a tiny notebook, and never messing up, and balancing.
- Something about Botox and sweating.
- Something about where they keep the carts at night and when it's cold.
- Something about this being the block where I lost you.
- Something about the bakery staying open for one more holiday's haul.
On Saturday night I drove over the Brooklyn Bridge. For the first time.
And I cried.
It was overwhelmingly pretty and then I realized that it was also the only thing holding me above all of that water. And that I should try to stay in my lane. And that it's really small, but really big. And, apparently, really tear-worthy.
Something about putting your feet on my seat.
Something about nonrefundable swimming lessons.
Something about your mistress, your seamstress.
Something about scabs.
Something about writing what you don't know.
Both are super sad. In very good ways.
I wonder if Jonathan Lethem's open to a photo piece, for his Promiscuous Materials Project.
*I heard Lethem read part of the new book a few months ago. A boy/girl break-up, a trying-to-stay-together band, and a kangaroo that's been kidnapped ("to save it from ennui") and kept in the bathroom feature prominently. Swoon.
(Remember when Stephen Thompson suggested a Wilbury renaissance? Liar.)
Also, remember Rachel's? Music For Egon Schiele is fine office music, fine falling asleep music, and fine driving music if someone else is driving and you want to look out the window and be quiet.
The pageantry of The State Of The Union is one of my favorite things about America.
(I've more to say, but I wrote the post last night, and failed to actually post it. I'll add it later.)
Above, one of my favorite of my photos -- a CNN chyron screw-up (that was supposed to run on the cover of the VV in December 2003). It ran inside, instead, with James Ridgeway's story. Which is fine.
Tonight, Cooper-Hewitt National Design Museum and Design Trust For Public Space present "a panel discussion as part of Taxi 07, the Design Trust program aiming to reinvent the NYC taxi and taxi system."
How wonderful that you'll be joining me at Tonic to see MY BRIGHTEST DIAMOND (in the form of super-sassy Shara Worden + string quartet, performing compositions of their own, and some by Ravel and Weill), GABRIEL KAHANE (because you love Craigslistlieder and the rest of his wistful and witty young canon), and openers JEREMY DENK and SOOVIN KIM (playing the greatest hits of Charles Ives, a.k.a. "three violin sonatas from the thorniest of insurance salesmen").
Tickets at the door. Interviews and autographs by request.
(E-mail me at jen(at)jensnow(dot)com for more info.)
I fell in love with this dress as soon as I saw it on the runway.
I showed my mom the photos and she told me that I could have the dress if/when I chose to have a wedding.
I'd considered, at one time, getting married for good health insurance, so getting married for a good dress wasn't out of the question.
I didn't let her trick me, though. Someday it will be on sale. And someone will get married and I will get to wear my dress.
Something about two-part plays and two-part perfumes.
Something about being otherwise engaged.
Something about a moving violation.
Something about all bell peppers being the same shade, in the beginning.
Something about breaking my camera.
Something about hearing your speaking voice in your singing.
Something about special ed.
Something about another use for shoelaces.
Something about giving birth in the backseat.
Something about wishing you still smelled like Pert Plus.
Once in a cab. Into my lunch bag.
And then six times in the office. In my office. My as-of-this-week full-time office. And by office I mean basement. But I love it.
I'm going to Minnesota tomorrow. (This time for a bit longer than last year's pass through the mall.)
- ▼ December 2007 (6)
- ► November 2007 (10)
- ► October 2007 (12)
- ► September 2007 (12)
- ► August 2007 (13)
- ► July 2007 (16)
- ► June 2007 (17)
- Things, Some
- Don't Get Martha Plimpton Started On Duane Reade
- Car Seat, Kids Table
- Better Than Bright Eyes
- Short Trips
- TINY SMOOSHY SUNDAY ON FIRE
- You Give Girls A Bad Name
- Backseat Shooter: 2C68. Or, Garden State Parkway, ...
- Short Trip
- Cab, Rat. I Can't Look Away
- Response Card
- Ready, Set, Go
- People Who Live In Glass Houses Shouldn't Throw St...
- No One Belongs On The Subway More Than You
- And You're Not In This Business To Entertain
- Things, Some
- Caring is Creepy, Convenient?
- Backseat Shooter: A New Kind Of Computer
- Things, Some
- Like A Hug, But Harder
- As If They Knew
- No Heat
- British, But...
- The World, Explained explained
- Things, Some
- Short Trip
- Time (Ex)
- Two Truths And A Lie
- Following Directions Is Fun
- Short Trips
- Bring Back
- Backseat Shooter: How To Get To Heaven From New Yo...
- Not A Taxicab Confession
- Short Trips
- Things, Some
- Moving Violations
- The Gulf War Did Not Take Place
- Sumimasen (Or, I Am Sorry To Bother You And Thank ...
- Short Trips
- ► February 2007 (17)
- ► 2006 (129)
- Things I Don't Understand And Definitely Am Not Going To Talk About
- Me, in real life: jensnow.com
- Revenge of the Book Eaters
- Scrabble For Cheaters
- The Believer
- This American Life
- The New-York Ghost
- Citizen Truth
- The Dizzies
- Learning To Love You More
- Good Magazine
- Sufjan Stevens
- Martha Rosler
- Ryan McGinness
- Russ & Daughters
- Elinor Carucci
- Nico Muhly
- Pretty Standard
- Nina Lalli
- Personal Days
- Personal Days: The novel's blog
- Hey, Hot Shot
- Michael Calderone
- Gretta Cohen
- Izzy Grinspan
- Gabriel Sherman
- Gabriel Kahane
- Noelle Hancock
- Nina Katchadourian
- Jen Bekman
- Melissa Plaut
- John Hodgman
- Marcel Dzama
- Jason Kottke
- Emily Jacir
- David Byrne
- The Farm on Adderley
- Artforum: Scene and Herd
- Knifed and Spooned
- Michael Bell-Smith
- Jeremy Laing
- Carrie Girl
- Mr. Rogers and Me
- Taxi F.A.Q.
- Transportation Alternatives
- File a lost property report with the TLC
- Taxicab Rider Bill of Rights