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


Barn Owl, Night Killer

Maybe I should stick to stills.
(Sufjan Stevens video, on Vimeo.)


Still Embarrassed To Have Been Employed By You.

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?

Jen Snow


That's What He Said

Some people used some sort of digital processing to reveal what is said at the end of Lost In Translation. You can now watch an annotated video.


20 Things You Didn't Know About Snow

Notes on "watermelon snow," motes of outerspace dust, photographs of snow crystals, and "thundersnow."



I liked it better at the beginning of the ride when no one was under the impression that we had holiday pleasantries to exchange.


"A Prune Is Listening"

Maybe this beautiful calendar will help me keep track of time?



Take my number.
Take my number.
Take my number. (You implored.)

If I take your number, I'm going to put it on the internet.


Because I Am Classy

I can't find my keys.
I left my wallet on the couch.
I'll let you pay for my coffee.
I guess I'll come back.


I'm Not Scared

If you listened, then you've already subscribed to The New-York Ghost, but even if you didn't listen, you must check out Ed Park in Sunday's NYT. The excerpt they reprinted might be my favorite poem of the year!

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
was supposed to be our
impression of a
mustachioed aristocrat,
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
quotation marks.

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!



I'm just as tired of it as you.


Faux Sugars, Real Suspicion

"Sweetener skeptics, on the other hand, say that safety studies are often funded with industry dollars..."
(L.A. Times)


Backseat Shooter: Unnecessary Parade


aka Stop in the Name of Love


'I Am Your Waiter Tonight and My Name Is Dmitri'

Was it asking for a low-level amount of trouble by putting Chistopher Hitchens just after Robert Hass at the National Book Awards Finalist Reading? Since this seems to be shaping up as "superficial worry about the war week" here, I mention this incident too. Hass's poem — "I Am Your Waiter Tonight and My Name Is Dmitri" — was amusing, and Hitchens wasn't entirely wrong in his tiny tirade. Some of the crowd hissed, which seemed stupid, but then so is making sweeping statements about what you wish and don't wish a room full of writers might join you in believing. Both men tried to rally some sentiment in an audience not otherwise interested in seeing the podium as a platform of any sort.

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.)


What Did You Do During The War?

Choire Sicha is smart. He was helpful to me during my art writing days, when he worked at Debs & Co. and I was researching Nina Katchadourian, and now I'm really glad to see his sometime series — What Did You Do During The War? — on an otherwise nonessential of late Gawker. Photos and captions, simple juxtapositions, and that's it. It's like a good poor man's Martha Rosler and it's by far the best thing I've seen on Gawker in a long time. I'd read a whole blog of it, if he posted them every day.


In The Hermitage You Would See This Bow On This Woman

"Knowing that, how could anyone want a war? Or plastic surgery?"

(Maira Kalman's The Principles of Uncertainty is very good.)


The BQE (Sans Arrests)

The BQE can be pretty, and civic pride is possible, and I'll have more photos and more to say soon. For now, just a few, of Sufjan and co. And this, which is brief, and shaky, and sort of my first video try:


Who Knew + Since U Been Gone = BFF

I admit, I like this song in almost exactly the same way I liked this song. Wholeheartedly and on repeat at the gym and even those times I hear them and they (inexplicably) make my eyes tear-up a bit. I know nothing about music but I think they might share something in their structure too.

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.



I bought a new camera.
I forgot to tell you.


Blind Item

Almost literally. Who impulse bought a pair of glasses today? And whose new glasses happen to be branded by an Aaron Spelling tv show? A bit of Googling revealed that no character on the show actually wore glasses, although this pair is named after "Jake."



Here is where I admit that I had trouble following the directions on the back of the pack of ponytail holders. Do I have more respect for the medium now? No. Now I hate them even more.



An astute friend pointed out this post on Curbed, or, more precisely, he pointed out the handwriting on the sign taped to a stolen bike in a photo in a post of Curbed; with only tiny exceptions (the "a," the "y"), that sign could have been written by me.

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.


Some Things

  • 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.



5A92 is outside my door.
3J92 sits just around the corner.



"That isn't a tip," he said, of the four quarters I was handing to him.
"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.)



Maybe you should write it?


Yes, This Is All There Is

And what if the most exciting thing that happened was that I gave myself a manicure in Sephora? An opaque turquoise shade that I wasn't sure if I actually wanted to buy. They let you do this there, which is weird, because ten fingers and a coat of quick-dry is much more than should be able to be explained away as "just testing it out."

I Didn't Want To Speak Even To Ask For A Receipt

"This song is for making love, yeah?" he said. "This song is for making love, huh?" he added. "This song is for making lo-ve," he finished.

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.


Things, Some


Dance Dance Revolution

I'm back sooner than I thought, but only because you should probably watch this. Another Dance Blog entry. I'm not sure why I like some of these so much. I don't even like dancing. But I'd love to see what it was like to the passersby who saw them happening without hearing the soundtrack. Those walk-throughs and reactions are the best parts.


I Like This More Than Lip-Dubbing

I still sort of love this video — "Put You in Your Place" — from Davey Dance Blog.

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.


Doctor's Bag

At first glance, I cannot decide whether this (Dr. Jay Parkinson: I Am A New Kind Of Physician) is brilliant or not. I think it might be brilliant, in that the idea is simple, almost altruistic, and incredibly well-designed. But I've no clue if he's a good doctor. Or maybe this is an art project. I'd like to believe in it, as a reasonable alternative model, though. I think.

(via Personism)



fundraising = friendraising

(They really said that. Out loud. And on Powerpoint slide.)



I'm at work, alas, but I think that you really should run or get a ride to the Brooklyn Book Festival to see Ed Park and others talk about how "Everyone's a (Former) Critic." Today, at 5:00 p.m., at Brooklyn Borough Hall Plaza.


New Year's Resolutions?

Maybe this time.


Hey, New York, You're Still Beautiful

It's sort of true. Depending on my mood.


A Lot Of Art Isn't Boring

Two recently-launched "it's easy to buy art" projects; both are really great. Go buy something:
  • 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."


Fashion Weak

I might break my fashion week ban for Saturday's Threeasfour show.

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.



I'm not sure I agree with the reasoning behind the taxi strike.
(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.)


Things I Don't Understand And Definitely Am Not Going To Talk About

  • What will happen now that I'm bored.
  • How this is going to work.
  • A new blog.


Me and You and Everyone We Know

(Not mumblecore.)


Hack Like Me

Melissa Plaut's Hack came out yesterday.
I'm excited for her and for you to read it. It's very good.



I hope you saw Feist and friends clapping on tv last night.
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.


I'm Still Not Here

See previous post.

But first, turn to page E26 of today's New York Times.
That's my photo.
The article is online but the photograph isn't.

Holding the real paper is more fun anyway. You can hang it on your wall.


I'm Not Here

Because of Revenge of the Book Eaters, I'm not here.

But I do have a moment for:
I'm Not There — the trailer.
Although I might be more excited for the soundtrack.



Did I tell you about the time the cab ride ended with two police cars and an escort to watch me walk home? No, I didn't, because I'm too busy talking about it and I really should try to sleep. The tale, tomorrow.


I Admit I Miss

I admit I miss knowing that you'd always be there to stop me when I try to cross the street but should really stay on the sidewalk for a few seconds more.


How To Fall Down

I do this at least once a week. If you've ever walked anywhere with me, you know that I tend slip, wander into things, bump into people, trip and/or fall frequently. But I don't act like half as much of a dolt as this writer. (NYMag)


Man Eater

One fantastic article about "man" food by Andy Selsberg in The Oxford American: "Are You Macho-Man Enough For Manfood?"

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.)


Mobile Office*

Milton Glaser submitted an idea to the city, but while riding in a cab the next day, thought to use I (heart) N.Y. instead. (NY1)

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.


Things I Don't Understand And Definitely Am Not Going To Talk About

  • This was going to be a list, but there might be too many things.



DATE: 01/09/2004
END TIME 02:28
TRIP # 2426

You don't want to know where I found it. But I think that it's mine.

I didn't miss this.


Hollyhock House

The Hollyhock House is amazingly gorgeous, and in this NYT slidehow it's blocked by unnecessary adornment. I'd rather a slideshow of the renovations and recent reopening.



The driver shared a name and a face with the young-yet-retired investment banker I met while moving out of Tompkins Square Plaza.

I don't think it was him.



Here is where I recommend that you not read Shalom Auslander's Foreskin's Lament in a cab.
But, read it. It is good.



Tuesday night plans for the rest of the summer: dinner and a movie at The Farm on Adderley.

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.


Live-Blogging The Birth

They decided to live-blog the birth.

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?


826 on 8/26

Revenge of the Book Eaters
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.



The Funny Thing Is

That the cameras are broken, not lost.


New Rule

No talking.


I Think That

You should drive.



I'm having trouble not thinking about the ramp-infused vodka with walnut oil served to me at Marlow and Sons. It was like drinking an amazing alcohol-based brine. I realize that that probably sounds gross. But, I promise, it was delicious. And, they publish Diner Journal.


Victorians Are The New

If all my friends are the New Victorians, does that mean that I get to be part of The Great Social Evil?

(via The New York Observer)


Things, Some

  • Something about a close-up of a cockroach and a kind word from a friend.
  • Something about I'm Not There, the trailer. (But it wasn't real.)
  • Something about using antiperspirant on your face.
  • Something about your attorney's lack of power.


Sounds Like You're A Slut

It was raining and windy and I had lots of important papers, and a camera, but no umbrella, with me. No cabs in sight, I called a car service. "5 to 10 minutes," they assured me. "He's just a few blocks away." After 20 minutes, I called to check the status. After 30 I called to cancel the car. I tried my luck again at the corner, and eventually I flagged a cab.

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.



I'm still not excited by pretend parties; i.e. birthday, "holiday."

(I'm surprised that this still surprises you. No offense.)



During my first (finally) ride in one, I noticed that the hybrid really is very high. And the driver, boxed in with plexiglass. Not just a partition. I couldn't even ask how much he saves on gas.


Things, Some

  • 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.



Today I will take a few taxis, and I'm not looking forward to any of them. I will carry lots of stuff to work. Then I will go to East New York, which is actually still in Brooklyn. There, I will hang out in the post office bulk mailing center which is actually a lot like a warehouse where they have no clue how to handle what they sell and they justify the low price you pay by making you do all their work (nonprofit rate, sorting, stamping, counting, sorting again) while they stare at you and complain. The cab will wait for me there, then take me back to work, and then, a few hours later another cab will take me to a wedding, on Long Island. Yes, on a Tuesday night.

Bonus round: Wednesday morning, 5:00 a.m., another cab, the airport.


Dizzy With Excitement

BOMB magazine's 100th issue came in the mail today.
Yes, you know someone who was an intern there.
Yes, Ed Park has a story on page 90 and I'm going to read it on the trip home!



Too hot to handle, too cold to hold.

Not really, but that song was playing on the radio.



Sounds almost like a weapon.
No, not very close.



Even I wouldn't have advised you to take a cab to the Cyclones game. You can take credit for that not-smart move.

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

It seems that my family thinks that the way to cure anxiety attacks is to send me on long road trips alone and at night. They printed out directions, and added in handwritten notes, they promised it would be okay, and then they left me to find my way home. This wasn't when I was learning to drive, this was last night. I cried, and my hands are still sort of stuck in the position I held them in while gripping the steering wheel the entire ride, but I'm home, and I didn't take anti-anxiety pills because I was more worried about them making me fall asleep at the wheel than I was about finding my way. I guess my family won.


Remember The Time

This looks familiar.


Neither Stale, Nor Stuffy

Today is sort of stuffy and stale so maybe it's time for news about a place that is neither. On Sunday afternoon, the man at Gertel's told me that they are closing up on Hester Street on June 22. The building was sold. They'll operate, after then, wholesale only, in Williamsburg. He wouldn't sell me their sign.


Now Would Be A Good Time

Now would be a good time to admit that an Eggers painting — sold years ago at an auction to benefit another literary magazine — is pretty much responsible for why I work where I work today. I no longer have the painting (I bought it to give to a boy as a gift), but I have a job working for a place that was birthed at a meeting where we'd been instructed by the seller to bring the painting one Sunday afternoon. I'm glad we stayed for the meeting. Then, a lot of time passed and a lot of stuff happened. The important point: now is, in fact, a good time to buy things being sold to benefit McSweeney's. There is another Eggers painting. And lots of books.



Just yesterday I discussed out loud and with another person a life-long desire to be on The Price Is Right. To my delight, this dream was shared by many with whom we were sitting, and so we might, some day soon, take that trip.

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."


No Comment

Trashing your wedding dress while someone takes photos.
This is a trend? What about the bridesmaids? (NYT)

I Think It Was A Van Cab, But I Cannot Recall

"It’s like the ShopRite of junk," said some guy in today's New York Times about Billy's which is sort of a store but sort of not. I don't think I agree with his supermarket comparison.

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'm not sure why we were following you, 1D50.

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.


All The Green Taxis

It seems like all the "green" cabs are parked in Park Slope.
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.


Father Figure

If I had to pick a fictional father, maybe I'd pick Jack Spade.

"He" is donating 10% of proceeds (from June 10 through June 17) to 826NYC.


Is The Voice Of

I didn't play deaf, exactly, I just pretended I couldn't hear anything he said.



"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.


Things, Some

  • 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).



I think I am allergic to you, not to your dog.
No, I won't let you both lick me "so we can find out for sure."


Don't Get Martha Plimpton Started On Duane Reade

"Don't Get Martha Plimpton Started On Duane Reade"
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:
Me: "Plimpton."
Duane Reade: "Clinton?"
Me: "Plimp-ton."
Duane Reade: "Crimpson?"
Duane Reade: "Pimpman?"

Cut to: Giant mushroom cloud signifying my own internal apocalypse.


Car Seat, Kids Table

Traveling to and from Baltimore taught me that I never want to ride in a car ever again.

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.


Better Than Bright Eyes

Better than Bright Eyes was the boy whose job it was to make the background look pretty.

I watched him most of the night.



His heart hurt, he said.
Not in a love way, in a broken way.


Short Trips

  • 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)



One way of knowing that you made the right decision in taking the subway home instead of a cab is if, while walking along the platform while waiting for your ride, you run into a friend there, and he is playing music for money. And you think, "Who knew he did this? Hysterical."



Kid rock.
For real.

Tiny Smooshy Sunday On Fire
A benefit for 826NYC

Sunday, June 3rd, 2p.m.
Southpaw (125 5th Avenue, Brooklyn)
Tickets: $25 adults /$10 ages 16 and under



  • Something about three train transfers and thinking this was a reasonable travel time.
  • Something about an Italian newspaper, a gym bag, and four and a half manila folders.
  • Something about why you have to beg to differ.


You Give Girls A Bad Name

"Do you like me more than dinner?" she asked.
(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."


Backseat Shooter: 2C68. Or, Garden State Parkway, Mother's Day


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.



There are few products I've purchased (or had purchased for me) consistently for 20ish years. Maybe there's just one, actually. And, over time, the packaging has changed and the price has changed, but most things stayed the same and so I was always a happy girl. Not anymore.

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,
Jen Snow


Short Trip

Vik Muniz + David Byrne = two components of a dream dinner party even before I read this post.


Cab, Rat. I Can't Look Away

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.


Response Card

Dear Mr. and soon-to-be-Mrs. Sortoffriends,

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.



Ready, Set, Go

I'm not normally the kind of girl who comments on the necessity of certain traffic lights, but this one seems like a good idea.


People Who Live In Glass Houses Shouldn't Throw Stones Or Walk Around Naked

A teacher told me that in 5th grade. I wish I could remember what I said to provoke it.

Philip Johnson's Glass House is now open to visitors! Who wants to take a trip?


No One Belongs On The Subway More Than You

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.


And You're Not In This Business To Entertain

Next season's Random House catalogues arrived in the mail. Guess what I want to read first? Melissa Plaut's How I Stopped Worrying About What to Do with My Life and Started Driving a Yellow Cab, out in August.

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.


Things, Some

  • 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.


Caring is Creepy, Convenient?

If you see your dentist at a bar on Friday night and then his office calls you on Monday morning to see if you want to schedule a check-up appointment, should you think that it's cool and convenient or a comment on the state of your teeth?



Appeared to be a grumpy jerk, a jerky driver, and possibly drunk.
I asked to be let out, as soon as I discovered this, near the median.


Backseat Shooter: A New Kind Of Computer


No, not the old kind. Or, that's what he said.


Things, Some

  • 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.



"You talk in your sleep," he told me.

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.


Like A Hug, But Harder

Q: Why did I get two copies of The New Republic in the mail this week?

A: Because I want to read "Hunting Henry Heimlich" twice.*

*I haven't finished it yet, so this may not be true.


As If They Knew

I think I could write a book about what I think about weddings. (Although, if we've talked in the past few years, you probably knew that.) But, I admit, I love this song. I love it in a way that makes me want to write an essay about it. Or to tap dance.

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.)


No Heat

What got to me was the way you insisted on swiping at the windshield with a towel, as if you could stop every drop even though you were inside the car and the rain outside, and it was pouring, and the defroster was on, so it wasn't like it was necessary for you to wipe away steam and, oh, I don't know. Your compulsion was troubling, to say the least.


British, But...

John Oliver is the newest member of 826NYC's advisory board. And he's British. But he's very funny.

The World, Explained explained

I'm a fan of that syntax, and if you are my friend then you must like it too. And so I'll see you at said show, tonight.

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.

The details:
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.


Things, Some

  • Something about I love you. For like ever.
  • Something about thank you. I think.
  • Something about the international sign for: I am allergic to this.
  • Something about pantomiming dying.
  • Something about the death of pantomime, not a wordless action for death.


Short Trip

Concept cabs. (NYT)



You live two blocks away from me?

It would have been less creepy if you'd kept that to yourself.



Michael Hastings is a good reporter and a good person. So the fact that young media is behaving so badly is — sadly — no surprise. Mockery mixed up with an April Fools excuse? A mass email with nothing other than the entire contents of your take-down post?! And no disclosure of who worked for who was involved with who, of course. Classy.


Time (Ex)

I'm not sure who reset my clock. Or how.
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.


Two Truths And A Lie

You can just hop on trains. Fixed focal length lenses are fine. It was totally awesome that you kissed that Dutch girl who looked like a cross between Kelly Osbourne and Mena Suvari when you said you were just running off to the bathroom.



Been around the world and I...

Uh, I don't know you and even I can't believe you just decided to sing that song.



"We share the cab. We live in the same building. That building, there. I park the car and I leave the key on top of the tire. The front tire. On the passenger side. Then the other driver takes it, drives a shift. And then he does the same."

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.


Following Directions Is Fun

It is "The Weekly Newsletter You Print Out At Work," and although I usually read it on the computer screen, today I printed it out at work, and I read it in a cab, and I enjoyed it! Maybe even more so than previous issues! Issues I read while not following directions! You should subscribe. And then print out your issues. Even if you're not at work. Paper is cheap and The New-York Ghost is special. And not scary.


Short Trips

  • 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)



From the backseat it sounded like 25 minutes of:
"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..."


Bring Back

I pulled up in a cab just as yours was driving away.
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.



  • Something about sincerity.



Not East.
It says so on the street sign.
W. Not E.

(I'm not sure how to respond to your claim that you cannot read.)



Not A Taxicab Confession

I do not know how to whistle and I cannot wink.


Short Trips

- Sufjan Stevens defines Friend Rock. (Finally. And from a performer, yet.) Speaking of the genre, I'd be a bad friend if I didn't tell you that on Sunday night, you should be here. (AK)

- 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)


Things, Some

  • 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.


Moving Violations

A paper arrest?
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.



Yes, it is nice that your wife packed a bagged lunch for you.
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.)


The Gulf War Did Not Take Place

I sort of loved The Gulf War Did Not Take Place.

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.)


Sumimasen (Or, I Am Sorry To Bother You And Thank You For Doing This.)

For the past few years, a common refrain has been, "Let's quit what we're doing and open a Muji store in New York!" Luckily, it's being done for us. I'm happy. Even (especially?) if they keep knocking-off Asfour bags.



Yes, that's your tip.
No, I don't want one from you.


Short Trips

  • 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)



A short school bus spent the night in the yard with two taxis.
(I passed it on my way to work.)
A pair of regulation-size school buses slept there too.


Ceci N'est Pas Une Cab

This is not a cab. (NYM)


Short Trips

  • 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)



Ten months old.
(DATE: 5/25/06)
All mixed-up.


Oh! See?

So Seth Cohen got into a cab.

"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.


Things (One)

  • Something about all endings including driving.



I could count the receipts, but I'm bad at math.
Eight rides in two days? Nine rides in three?
I assure you, there were many.

(I'm not sure you want to be assured.)


The Prettiest Place

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.


Big Love

"You should get the marriage. Marriage is the biggest," he said.

And he repeated. Throughout the entire ride from Brooklyn to the Chelsea Piers.

I didn't give him such a big tip.



Sounds like my address.
Drives like an escalator.



Cut corners.
Didn't laugh when I towel-dried my hair.


No Number

It wasn't the cold.
It was the fact that every boy in the entire city decided to splurge for a taxi at the same time.

We took the train.
Which was festive.


Things, Some

  • 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.


And, By Pretty, I Mean Stunning

In light of the boy who once asked, incredulously, "But, Jen Snow, I thought you had a heart of stone!?" there is this:
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.


Give It To Me

Sometimes, when you're driving, if you give someone the finger because they have been honking their horn behind you for the past five minutes, they will zoom in front of you (across a double yellow line) when the light changes and then at the next light they will get out of their car and walk, in a style that can be most closely likened to bow-leggedness, toward your car, and you will make a big show of dramatically locking your door, and then the light will change and you will drive around him, and his big stupid car, both of which are now stuck standing in the street.



I'm sort of scared of whatever it is that is frozen to the seat.




Yes, I am wearing Keds.
No, I don't want to know how you can see that.


Things, Some

Something about sitting in the dressing room and sending e-mails.
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.



Slow, steady. Not winning any races.


Promiscuous Materials Project

I love the title You Don't Love Me Yet* almost as much as I love the short story, "The Spray."

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.


Music For Traveling

Sometimes, when you work in an office, and it's really small, and you're not wearing headphones because you need to wear your scarf indoors and wrapped high up on your neck (because you don't have heat), and your music is playing out loud, through your computer, you are forced to admit to your coworkers that you really do like Traveling Wilburys and that it was you who chose to play "End Of The Line" right after the computer picked "Anything You Want."

(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.


Does This Work? Didn't Think So.

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.



A long (and otherwise empty) cab ride.
A short (and otherwise empty) post.


Sister Winter

My sister was 16. Or 17.
There was a storm.
I was sort of joking when I suggested the shoot.

I guess it's good that she doesn't put her summer clothes in storage.


To Do: Tonic, Tonight

I'd be a poor publicist if I didn't tell you where you will be tonight:

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.)


And We'll Never Be Lonely Anymore

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.


Shade (Sick)

My snot, today, is taxi-colored.



Acqua Di Parma packaging is taxi-colored.

(I'm not sure why I didn't make the connection until now.)


Things, Some

Something about Acqua Di Parma.
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.


Photo 'Ho'

Dash Snow is not Jen Snow.


(But we do use the same dentist.)


Stop Talking

These cards from Alison Riley/Set Editions are beautiful and perfect.
I suspect I'll run out of them quite quickly.



I vomited seven times this morning.

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.)

Any connection?


Oh, See?!

Apparently, the Seth Cohen show will die on February 22.

It is no longer pretty, so I'm not really sad.
I do, however, miss Oliver Trask.


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.