Pretty as a picture

I just got an e-mail announcing the lineup for the Whitney Biennial.

I'm so sleepy.
And the list made me even sleepier.
Sigh.

Two people with my last name made it.
No relation.

We shall discuss their work later.
And the list later.
And those we thought should have been on the list later.

But now, sleep.
I hope my dream looks like Pierre Huyghe's piece...

Kiss of death

I am allergic to cats.
So don't kiss your cat and then kiss me.

Also, pets are gross.
So, if you kiss your cat, I probably don't want to kiss you anyway.

Unrest

There are still cabs in the city.

But there isn't any snow.

Rest

There are no cabs in the country.

Off off topic

Nothing at all to do with taxis or pretty.

Read this: People Are Nearly Getting Hit By Beer Bottles Every Day (an interview with Deborah Treisman).

Off topic

Why I have a crush on you:
-you play Clap Your Hands Say Yeah when you have your coworkers over to your house
-you are adapting "Brief Interviews With Hideous Men" for the big screen
-you look like the slightly busted younger brother version of a friend of mine

Yes, I understand that you aren't real.

But you play out as more fascinating than most people I've ridden in cabs with lately.

This Year's Rent

Just back from a screening of Rent.

Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying About Gentrifying my Neighborhood When I Realized That Those Damn Kids Were Crack Addicts and They Dressed Funny.

I'd take far fewer cabs if that subway stop at the Northeast corner of Tompkins Square Park actually existed.

Also, guys, it seems silly to take the F train from Second Avenue to Second Avenue.
Although, if there was that much dancing on my train I'd probably get off where I got on too.

(Meta)xi

Here, a link to a link to a link about taxis.

Yes, we hate her. But she has pretty hair.

I'm off to get my hair cut.
But my head already hurts.

I used to be a haircutter-slut.
Keith, however, changed my ways.

He cuts each curl individually and he told another customer that I am the funniest person he knows.

Yeah, I'm that easy.

Rewrite, an homage

(Or, TEN WORDS: O.M.G! Ed P! Your new blog, brilliant! Brilliant!)


CABSICK
The ability to vomit up your day and start over.

Cabsick

The ability, upon riding home, to vomit up your day and start over.

Train wreck

Of late, my favorite part of any television show is, without a doubt, "scenes from the next...."

I just got around to reading the most recent installment of the best almost-weekly dramedy; I call it "The George and Hilly Show."

Read it before tomorrow's episode.

Obligatory taxi reference toward the end!
(Although not the one about the cab we shared. Sigh.)

Going back

What would one call a reverse-chronology blog?

I'll fill in the blanks at a later date.

Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs

IG and AS took me to see a singer whose initials are DD.

His crooning was as divine as crooning should be.

We all fell in love with his cover of "I Will Follow You Into The Dark," by the Mssrs. Death Cab for Cutie.

I wish I knew how to share an MP3 of either version.

This link, for now, should do.

semantics

Twice this weekend I found myself sharing a cab home post dawn the next day.
There has to be a better word for this.

There is not much more comfortable than the slightly uncomfortable silence of the early morning after a night well-spent.

There is not much better than when you realize that you were having so much fun yesterday. And today.

There is nothing shameful about being beaten home by The New York Times.

On the 6

I have fairly poor hand-eye coordination.
So it surprised me when I saved a baby this afternoon on the subway.

We lurched to a stop; she rolled right into my hands.

And her free-flying stroller continued on, down the length of the car.

This would never happen in a cab.

Cab riders tell her she's pretty

She said something about starting a blog...
But I'm not the best at keeping in touch.
So I was delighted to see this today.

Even though her blog isn't called "Cab Riders Tell Me I'm Pretty," you should visit Melissa Plaut at New York Hack.

Going home

"Okay, I guess I'll sleep over. It's so late that I'm afraid that if I do go home now, I'll fall asleep in the cab and then I'll wake up in Guam."

"Well, I have relatives in Guam," you said. "Although you probably won't be driven much further than Brooklyn. If you stay over, though, there's a guy coming to pick up the gun at 9:00 a.m."

Cool (in the backseat)

Remember that time that I called my parents and said, "Hey, let's get tickets to see the Rolling Stones," and they said, "Umm, we already have tickets to see the Rolling Stones, and I said, "Wow. Great. I didn't realize they were on sale yet," and they said, "They're not, but we have them, and we're going with X and Y," and I realized, "Oh, and not with me," and then I felt like my parents thought I was really uncool?

Tonight they're going to Schiller's for dinner.
Sans me.

Maybe they'll take my table.

Seasonal affect

You feel the scurvy coming on, eh?

I think you should join our citrus club.

It's the season.

Another mother

I asked him to take me to Avenue B at 7th Street.
But he took the FDR Drive and we ended up going up Avenue C so I asked him to just drop me on 7th Street between Avenues C and B. But he was driving really fast and I remembered that I had to run an errand on Avenue A so finally I told him that he could just continue down the street and drop me at Avenue A.

We stopped.
He laughed.
And he said, "You are funny. You have kids, right?"
And he kept laughing.

I felt like the funny bit was a compliment, but I'm not sure that the bit about being a mother was one too.

Also, being the kind of mother who displays such an utter lack of decision-making skills couldn't possibly have been a compliment.

I wasn't sure how to respond.

I asked, "What makes you think I have kids?"

He just laughed and laughed.

Maybe I did look a little harried.

Crisis mode

Someone I work with just told me that I'm beautiful.

Yeah, it's sort of like we're preparing for the apocalypse here.

Backseat Shooter: Shooting, Drive-by

A new feature, from the backseat.



Houston Street, at Bowery; Billy's Antiques.


P.S. I bought my couch from Billy. The pretty couch.

Watch it, Mister

Watch Me Change is disturbing.

Not because I'm worried about the implied voyeurism, or bizarreism, or any other 'ism that I'm sure will be invoked when critiquing this approach to advertising.

Nope.
I was in the Gap yesterday, trying on jeans.
And I just hope I don't look as heinous as this cartoon seems to tell me I should.

And I certainly wasn't having a dance party in there.