In Vex

Gaddafi made this 'his' nation's flag back in '77. It has since been the world's only national flag composed of only one color and no insignia.

A transitional council was formed earlier this year, in wake of civil war, adopting this flag, which was previously used in Libyan history. It might not be widely accepted as the official current flag, but that's the downside of vexillology, no? Sadly it is the study of how everyone is divided.

Malawi's on nearly the opposite side of the African continent from Libya, with seemingly nothing in common, except that now their flags have identical colors, though distributed differently, and each flag boasts one of two heavenly bodies most influential upon our planet.

Holly Morris, the best presenter on adventure travel show 'Globe Trekker', was exploring neighboring Zambia on public television today. I love her 'pro-woman' approach to everything, the fact that she's down with hitch-hiking, and that one of her guests on that episode (or hosts rather) was a female mining truck operator. This on the same day many Saudi women call for nationwide action against it being illegal for non-males to obtain a driver license.

This drunk Texan motorist, who drove his Ford Grand Marquis into a batch of cyclists during a race in Mexico back in '08, was indeed a man. Though I guess this is not relevant, since the reason Saudi officials refuse to allow women to drive is mostly to keep them from leading independent lives. Then again, what do I know? At least intoxication was behind this guy's horrible act. The guy in the next picture did a similar thing, but with a lot more damage. His move was intentional and entirely sober.

Ricardo Neis got tired of waiting in his car while a monthly critical mass ride of bicyclists made their way through the Brazilian city of Porto Alegre a couple of months ago. Watch what he did about it. There's a lot of hate directed at bikes everywhere, every day, but this one tops them all. Be safe out there people. And may Libyans get a rest from the bloodshed and destruction around them. And may Saudi women be granted the right to drive. And may bicycles gain the respect they've always deserved.

China Truck Bike

Been in L.A. for a month. Bonding with paternal relatives. Learned how to fix a few things at the Bicycle Kitchen off Melrose. Great crew there. Community atmosphere. Replaced the brakes on my purple mountain bike and the seat post on dad's white beach cruiser. Even brought in my rusty old "China Truck Bike" that I salvaged from under a tree in Florida and hauled across the continent. That is my favorite bicycle in the whole wide world. I bought it like 10 years ago for ten bucks at a yard sale and when I moved to New York five years ago, I left it in the hands of my bike-loving network of friends, who promised to keep it in communal circulation and working order.

I've been back to visit thrice and twice I've found its tires flat and its frame decaying in the Floridian elements. It's since been restored to its original might, without compromising its old, beat up, commie aesthetic.

I have other little tales to tell of this visit to L.A. and of our way here. I hope to let them out in smaller chunks and therefore more often. Like once a day. That's after I've caught up on a backlog of updates from eastern Europe in September. I've come as far as Budapest. Next is Belgrade. Then Bucharest and onward.

Euro Part IV: Wien

At the crack of dawn, on the last day of August, I arrived at the International Bus Terminal in Vienna and immediately proceeded to help a Nigerian musician (off the bus) carry his hefty baggage across the street, up the staircase, and unto the U-Bahn. In exchange, though not keeping count, he orientated me on how to use the system and which line I needed. Less than an hour later I was walking up Rembrandtstrasse, on the northwest edge of town, ringing a young Austrian couple's doorbell I'd met briefly on their first visit to NY a couple years ago. I was amazed at how cold it already was. In NY it doesn't get that cool until the later parts of October.

Amadeo and Ruth had been referred to my front-seat, on-duty taxi tours by Melanie, an old friend of mine who they'd met in Berlin. They each enjoyed a cab ride and I promised to visit when I came to Europe. Life was now much different for them with the advent of a child, but they were still very much holding on to their sociopolitical ideals and to showing me around on bikes.

I only spent two days and two nights in the Austrian capital, and I didn't venture into the rest of the country, which is quite different, with its dramatic Alpine topography. I wasn't expecting too much from Vienna, and I didn't find much either. As everyone says, it's got a lot of historical architecture and an air of sophistication, but perhaps it was the incessant rain that put a dent on my outlook. The only thing I felt awed by were the miles and miles of high quality graffiti murals along the banks of the river.

One pit stop on our bicycle tour was an abandoned horse racing track, the seating all tossed around into heaps of decay. We also stopped at a monument erected by the Soviet Union, commemorating its liberation of the city in 1945.

On my final night in town my friends invited me to an interesting little activist center that doubles as a pay-what-you-wish gourmet restaurant named after the famed Soviet cosmonaut who in 1961 became the first earthling in space. There is a sign by the entrance offering shelter from racist assaults in German, English, Turkish, and French. Another sign in a bathroom stall reads something like "no shops with the Iranian regime. now under review."

After a delicious meal we walked back home, me in charge of pushing the baby stroller in as erratic, taxicab-like ways as possible, honking incessantly at his half-stiff parents and at all the imaginary vehicles in my path. I got a few good laughs out of the kid. At home we laid him to sleep and made ourselves cozy on the couch to watch 'Mary and Max,' off the living room wall, using Ruth's awesome projector. I highly recommend this film animation about two complete strangers on opposite sides of the world who become lifelong pen pals. It was way late after the screening, yet Amadeo convinced me to go explore the Augarten across the street, a 52 hectare Baroque garden from the 18th century, walled and gated at night (we had to jump.) It was real spooky to stroll through, especially in the nearly pitch darkness, with ominous war towers looming over us, whose Wikipedic description says it all:

Toward the end of WWII war strategists selected the strategically-placed Augarten as a site for the construction of several massive flak towers to protect the city center from Allied air raids. In the summer of 1944 the construction of one battle tower with a height of 55 meters (roughly 180 feet) and a leader tower with a height of 51 meters (roughly 167 feet) was begun, their bizarre appearance in the middle of the park having since become an integrate part of the Augarten. The construction associated with the building of the towers (16 lines of rail track, large barracks for construction workers, etc.) took a serious toll on the landscaping of the park. Also during the war hundreds of cubic meters of rubble were dumped on the site while armored vehicles criss-crossed the garden and supposed mass graves were dug in which hundreds of war victims were buried. However, except for the virtually indestructible flak towers and the bunker (in which a restaurant is housed) nothing from this period remains.

PICTURES FROM VIENNA:

Dream Home Among Many

I would love to live in one of these, some of the time.

My ex-partner wanted to help me build one.

Dangerous "Public Safety"

When responding to a call, one thing is to be on the wrong side of the street. That might just be acceptable, depending on the situation. Another is to block the bike lane on such a busy and narrow thoroughfare. I did not witness any good reason for the police to be endangering bicyclist safety this past Saturday night, on Grand Street in Williamsburg.

AT THE READY

Being “on-duty” takes on a much deeper meaning to me than simply hacking. I am the eyes of New York. My scanning of every inch of public space and my vigilance of every visible human being, though done for the sake of seeking out a fare, can't help but double as a form of citizen patrol. I am at all times prepared, at the drop of a dime, to (reasonably) step into any situation and facilitate safety, justice, and the well-being of strangers.

My ears prick up when I hear vulnerability and/or aggression on the streets. My eyes read facial expressions and bodily gestures like a studious Jew reads the Torah. My reflexes spot movements as if the seconds of time are getting sucked forward ever so slightly, like a mosquito that successfully evades a swat. I get in and out of the cab readily, like a milkman making his rounds.

Ideally, my work bag for the cab contains jumper cables, a tire iron, a car jack, a couple of used inner tubes (as ropes), a subway map in case someone needs directions, an air pump for bicyclists with low pressure, the shirt off my back, etc.

McGuinness Management

Beautiful twilight sky, contrasted with the dark starkness of the taxi lot.
That pole in the back resembles a minaret in the distance if you use your peripheral imagination.


Notice the three different hues of emanating light in the background:
Amber streetlights. Isolated florescent apartment windows.
And a subtle glow of urban purple in the predawn skies.


Exhaust pipes leaning haphazardly against an exterior wall.
And in the foreground an old taxicab partition with a hole cut out in the shape of a TV screen.


Seems as if the taxicab's jaw was torn wide open.
Chassis and wheels below. Everything else left suspended in mid air. Looks painful.
What could possibly call for such violence. Reminds me of a Colombian necktie.


Mikey and I hanging out between our two parked taxicabs in the Meatpacking District around 4 A.M.
He only works on the weekends. I miss his cellular support on the weekdays.



Mode of transportation to go pickup a taxicab before a shift: BICYCLE!


The one half inside the garage looks kind of like an optical illusion of....
....two different cabs, because of the lighting.



Junior Pulaski Auto Repair across the street.
They lease the space from Gus, the Greek magnate who owns a vast ocean of taxicabs,
real estate, and the nearby gas station where we are required to fill up our tanks at shift's end.
You know that game, Monopoly? Us hacks are the playing pieces.
The race car, wheelbarrow, sack of money, horse and rider, shoe, dog....
....train, battleship, cannon, thimble, top hat, and iron.... all rolled into one!


A video clip of cabdriver, garage owner, and taxi dispatcher arguing over money issues.

FREEGANISM

When I moved to NYC in 2006, some of the first friends I made were part of something called the Freegan movement. I had arrived from Florida with nothing but an old bicycle, a map, a change of clothes, a toothbrush, and a sleeping bag. The first two weeks I spent nights on park benches and cardboard in the nooks of buildings. The second day here I found a job in the Village Voice classifieds. I delivered envelopes and packages on my bicycle for Champion Courier. They paid $3 per item and since all the nice runs were given to seniority, I was averaging around 6/hr. Far below minimum wage, but an exhilarating introduction to life in the Big Apple.

One day I happened to be fixing a flat in the Garment District when these two kids from the Freegan Bicycle Workshop walked by and offered me some donuts they had just scored on the curb around the corner. I followed them back to their space and made friends with all the other little Freegans. I learned some basic bike mechanics, where to look for free food, possibilities for squatting/couch surfing, and a whole lot more.

Through Rachel Sakristan, an artist and good friend from Barcelona, I met a wonderful couple from Andorra and Brazil who were in New York to shoot a short documentary about the so-called "Freegan" movement. They came along in my cab one shift and interviewed me on camera about my views regarding the philosophy behind it. I just saw it for the first time this week. Edu and Priscilla finally emailed me a Quick Time attachment of the clip. They weren't able to complete their documentary due to lack of funds. I must say, I'm not very fond of my barely coherent babbles throughout the 5 minutes. Wish I could have been more eloquent.

Jenine doesn't like the way the word "Freegan" is used now because it originally meant something else and because other words for what it means now have already existed for a long time. She's old-school in some ways and I like that about her. A freegan used to be someone who was a vegan, but would temporarily become vegetarian if the eggs, dairy, or pizza were free. Today the word Freegan has expanded to include anyone who not only eats ANYTHING (including meat) if it's free, but also seeks to find all the other components of life for free. Jenine prefers the older word GLEANER for this definition.

It's similar to my dissatisfaction with the spelling of the word Hanukkah. The 'H' doesn't do the rough guttural sound any justice. And the 'Ch' version already has a different sound in English. My conclusion would be to spell it Khanuqa. Anyhow, I hope you enjoy my expressive hand and finger gestures throughout the clip, because it's the only articulate aspect of the interview (my speech is laughable).

TOKENISMS AND TRAVAILS

This past Monday at 11:30 I showed up at the Taxi and Limo Commission in Queens. I went through the security checkpoint on the 1st floor, past the wide-eyed newbie applicants on the 2nd floor, and right into a thick crowd of weary-eyed veteran cabbies awaiting their court hearings on the 3rd floor. Half a dozen taxi attorneys shuffled about, each with their personal gaggle of hacks following behind them. We all stood and sat in the hallway for 3 or 4 hours longer than expected (scheduled.) Paks. Afghans. Colombians. Nigerians. Egyptians. Tibetans. Kazakhs. Hindus. Sikhs. You name it.

At about 3 PM I was called into a little room to sit before an enormous desk. Across from me sat the judge with his nose deep inside the thick TLC law book, flipping pages endlessly as if it was his first day there (though it was far from it.) He dismissed my case based on the erroneous dates and points on the summons. That's right folks! I'm still a licensed taxicab operator in the City of New York. It was the miracle I needed for this upcoming holiday season (the most prosperous time of the year for taxi drivers). I plan to save for upcoming world travels in the spring and summer of 2010.

Sonny, my Bangladeshi dispatcher back at the depot, had urgently referred me to attorney Rizwan Raja, an organizer for the NY Taxi Workers Alliance. Both Sonny and Rizwan have proven to be absolute angels in my quest for justice and dignity. I feel privileged to have been represented by a genuinely kindhearted lawyer AND to find myself in the good hands of NYC's best taxi dispatcher each time I go lease a cab. Sonny might give a first impression of being crude and churlish, but he demonstrates true concern for his hacks on a daily basis.

"Rizwan Raja or vakil saab (as he is now called) is the legal eagle of the Taxi Alliance. After driving for ten years, Rizwan decided to take on the TLC more directly. He now is the NYTWA’s representative at TLC courts in Queens and Manhattan. If you want to make him drop his serious vakil saab persona ask him about his daughter Nayab!" -TAKEN FROM THE NYTWA BIO PAGE

THIS IS RAJA ON PBS BACK WHEN HE DROVE A CAB:
http://www.pbs.org/wnet/taxidreams/meet/meet_raja.html
IN FACT, THE ENTIRE SITE IS AN AWESOME LOOK INTO OUR LIVES

Raja explained to me how hard it is to fall asleep every night knowing that the sustenance of cabdrivers with families to feed is on the line. The ever harder push to accelerate the yellow cabdriver turnover rate in NYC is driven by the Mayor's Office. It's no secret that the recent (massive) wave of suspensions and revocations is not a sincere attempt to rid the streets of danger, but rather a two-fold scheme to increase city revenue, and to keep solidarity among hacks to a minimum.

That brings us to a very current topic among New Yorkers: the mayoral candidates. It's obvious that Michael Bloomberg has little to no room in his heart for this city's hacks. His indifference to our plights translates into an utter lack of respect for our profession, embodied by officers of the NYPD. It comes as no surprise that his 3rd term has the unprecedented endorsement of all 5 local police unions. This is the first time in NYC history that all of the police unions have supported the same candidate.

For a long time I, too, was enamored by Bloomberg's straightforward, WYSIWYG way of speaking, and his efforts to make our streets more livable for pedestrians and bicyclists. That's right, a taxicab-driving bicycle advocate! Ever thought you'd meet one? I live on a beautiful planet and though I technically burn fossil fuels for a living, I'm anxious to see the human race revere and appreciate her.

I was willing to look past Bloomberg's billion dollar fortune and judge only his character, but he's inevitably slipped into my myriad list of bullocks politicians. Yellow cabs do not fall into the same category as civilian motor vehicles in Manhattan. Taxis need the same slack and consideration given to buses and delivery trucks, but neither Bloomberg nor his opponent, Thompson, seem to have much compassion for the yellow brother/sisterhood.
Again I'm torn, unable to firmly put my support behind any candidate. What a disappointment.

I'm still collecting testimonials from passengers, in the event I get mailed a new summons with correct dates, which is completely possible at any time. Here's the latest one I've been blessed with:

"It was great riding with you on Saturday. Not only were you courteous and informative but your driving was delightful. My return trip with a different driver cost me almost twice as much and was jerky and uncomfortable. So it reminded me just how special of a trip I had with you in your cab. Thank you for a terrific experience." -Mardy Pilot

AND I LEAVE YOU WITH A MESSAGE FROM THE TAXI WORKERS ALLIANCE:
To win the fight against millionaire garages/brokers, NYTWA needs your help. Send in your
$100 membership dues today and make the union stronger. In return, get great benefits– lawyers for all tickets, free representation in cases against garages/brokers, free $5,000 term life insurance & more.

WHAT'S RIGHT OR WRONG

I'll testify that many of these pedicab peddlers are outright jerks and very full of themselves. However, I have a respect for all cyclists, whether on bicycles or tricycles. I believe that as utilizers of the most efficient and downright incredible invention on the planet, they have as much a right to be on the road, if not more so, as do motorists. If a pedicab in front of me is pedaling slower than I wish to drive, it is my duty to safely/swiftly shift lanes and move on. The incessant honking and cursing that the minivan cabbie did in the first place is intolerable. Not to mention everything else both parties engaged in for the remainder of the clip shown down below. Speaking of respect for cyclists, do you ever look in your mirror before making a turn when it involves crossing a bike lane, to see who's there and give them the right of way, since it's harder for them to slow down and speed up?

I DON'T BLAME THIS GUY (video below)
We really do freak people out. But it's not just us. It's the whole city of New York. Daunting. Rabid. Impugning. Browbeating. Bedraggled. Obstreperous. The city that I have always loved with all my being. And the profession that takes it all in. God bless all 40,000 of us.

Highlights from July and August

1. An upbeat elder double date out of eastern Washington state ask to go to the West Village from SoHo.

2. Roadwork, condo construction, and film production perpetuate the nightmares of traffic nonflow.

3. A single, middle aged New Yorker heads over to sign adoption forms for an Ethiopian infant. The honored cabdriver credits her with kudos for her wisdom.

4. Brisbanite of Polynesian descent proudly fulminates Qantas as the only airline free of fatalities.

5. Guitar and vocalist for the rock band 'Betty' rides aloofly backseat from ABC to NoHo.

6. Swiss suit shares tales of hitchhiking from Venezuela through the Amazon.

7. Swedish duo get a royal tour from the Regency hotel to Atlantic Yards via scenic FDR drive with a view of four monstrous bridges. The boy wants to find "street wear", so the cabdriver recommends Fulton Street mall.

8. Russian lady whose husband is an absent Turkish sea captain has me carry an a/c unit up 5 flights for a generous tip.

9. Peruvian nanny and a little boy communicate so adorably on the way home from a Zionist private school. She shows off the few words in Hebrew she's learned.

10. It seems no one in NYC is ever interested in improving their alternate merging skills.

11. Paid a visit to the mud puddles of the Willets Point district, haggled a bit, and replaced broken automotive glass that some Brooklyn teens must have practiced on.

12. Took my Houstonian cousin on a camping trip to the Catskill mountains.

13. Joined the Parks & Recreation Department here in NYC and I've begun using their gyms/indoor pools about three times a week.

14. Moved into a small apartment in south central Queens with my parents in order to save money to travel the Mediterranean on a shoestring late this winter. They're in their 50s and the thought of them aging never crosses my mind. Occasional moments of concern do emerge, but then passengers pass through my taxicab to demonstrate that health and age don't have to be codependent. Merialis, a 67 year old superwoman who just attained her black belt in karate, serves on the Connecticut board of ecotourism.

And a guy my father's age, who piles his bicycle in my trunk, pedals in daily from Sheepshead Bay to work in Manhattan. Today his wheel caved in on itself. The spokes must've been loose for too long and he hadn't known to tighten them. Unlike in the Bucket List, these folks actually mend their adventures into their daily routines, not some last minute punch list. Mine is going to be Portugal, Morocco, Spain, Croatia, Albania, and Greece come February or so. Then Palestine, Jordan, and Egypt. And a return to the states via Turkey, Bulgaria, Romania, Hungary, Austria, Germany, Holland, France, and Britain.

TZEUBIM ANAHNU

5 am in the city of New York. The Brooklynites are still asleep. But on Ladies Mile there's a eurofemme duo bound for home (the East Village). They chat back seat in English by way of two differing accents. Perhaps Deutsch and Francois? Self eject and in enters an athletic missy who goes 50 blocks and disappears into a subway pit. Scratch my head and then oh, it's also an entrance for Equinox. The 3rd fare's a redheaded boy in a sharp suit. Jumps in at Kell's Hitchen and off we go to FiDi. Soon as he says "best way is to stay on 9th and take Varick", he apologizes and says "you probably already know that". Cabbie's reply: "Comparing notes! That's a fantastic idea. Especially during rush hour."

#4 is a short fare. Chelsea to St. Vince. She's petite, polite, and tips 75%. #5 isn't noteworthy. Neither is #6. Just bland, dried out suits. And then a guy gets in slobbering voraciously on a red apple, so I'm thinking: yes, this one's laid back. But no. He immediately freaks out about the rubber cushion lining that's sticking out of the door frame at him. "I'll let the garage know to fix that this afternoon. It's always one thing or another with these cabs."

"I SEE THAT" (why the wise guy attitude?)

And I can't say "go find yourself another taxi" cause sis needs monthly MetroCard funding, art supplies, lunch money, etc. and mom/dad need support getting through their mortgage woes and homeownership gone criminalized in general.

Midmorning four suburban housewives climb out of the Long Island Railroad staircase and have tickets to their favorite syndicated American TV talk show. Giggling the entire ride up about every idiosyncrasy they can spot from their window view of my beloved human circus of a city, they join a monotonous herd minded line at ABC studios.

A blond euroman in an immaculate suit you wrote off early on in the trek (Theater District to Museum Mile) as being sterile and aloof, turned out to be so neat. As we traversed across 96th Street, under Central Park, for the last leg of the journey, he asked me if the narrow sidewalk is bicyclable. He took a cab this first time in order to scope out the prospect of a two wheeled commute, soon to be his routine. Excitedly, I recommended the circuit that runs within the park's perimeter, which is a whole lot safer and surrounded by the fragrance of trees. He mirrored my enthusiasm instantly and his seeming pompousness melted entirely. Silence ought not pervade the space between cabdriver and passenger unless an official indifference has been formally established.

Then from one part of the Upper East Side to another, this euromom and her two gringosified children sit tight as we weave, squeeze, wail, swerve, and honk to lessen the shame on their faces for being late to an appointment. "Story of my life", says the adorable Scandinavian mother.

A straightshooting yet tenderhearted suit guy has you take him from Turtle Bay to FiDi. He's understanding of the little manifesto you mumble to him when the lanes that feed into the FDR above 34th St. get real backed up. "When my last day as a yellow cabbie arrives and I'm stuck at this spot, I'm going to drive right over that low concrete slab that divides ramp road from highway. I either won't need my license anymore anyway, or I'll slip away undetected and be able to brag about it to all the sucker motorists.

Shortly after that fare I encountered another, from Two Bridges to Bowling Green with a suit feller so extremely square that I'd label him an eccentric for gawking at every perfectly comprehensible phrase I uttered, like "I'm going to take South Street unless you have a better idea." As if my kidnapping of him was underway.

Some dude holding a loaded laundry hamper hailed from a Greenwich Village curbside. As you extended your wing flaps outward and steered the wheel in at him, a mack truck slowed from 30 to zero in 3 seconds and signaled a right turn, which instead of making, he pulled over in front of your client all angle posed like a cop car at a scene. As you hovered forward to pull in a head of it, the dude nearly destroyed his own flip flops trying to run out into the street with his heavy sack and get your attention (which he already had). Once inside, he said, "can't trust those trucks". Your reply: "tell me about it! Just last week one ripped my side view mirror off, left it dangling by the wires scraped some paint, and proceeded to take off through heavy traffic, like nothing had occurred. You followed it and used the next red light as a stage for dialogue.

I had the honor of transporting the MoMa cafe's Trinidadian chef with boxes of fresh produce from Union Square to the 54th St. loading dock. She is so hardcore and awesome. And towards the end of the shift I had the pleasure of taking a dentistry professor to the main NYU and we exchanged tidbits of etymology. He taught me that pediatrics comes from babies having their foot in their mouths. I in turn taught him that vexillology is the study of flags. Important word for someone who grew up memorizing those of every nation and their geo

graphic outline.

Gimme 22 minutes, I'll give you the world.

Before I go into tales of cabdriving, I'd like to invite my dearest New Yorkers on a bicycle adventure this Saturday (5th). It's my only day off. A friend and I plan to pedal through Flushing Meadows Park, stop by the Queens art museum, ride over the GW/Bayonne bridges for great views of NYC from NJ, and board the SI ferry back into town. I have an extra bike. Get in touch.

This past Friday I drove the PM shift for the first time. Just wanted to get a taste. No plans to make it a habit cause my body gets better rest at night. First fare a Dutch couple I mistook for Scandinavians. They taught me the correct pronunciation of Brooklyn (Breukelen) and swapped spots with a traditional Texan family en route to a sybaritic restaurant on the UES. The aging macho father sits up front, annoyed at his newly married daughter's back seat inquiries: "Dad, do you want to visit the cigar bar after dinner? But first we have to find out if blue jeans are allowed." They're in for a disappointment. Soon the roles are a switched again, with a sumptuous, semi-elder French mossback couple entering and uttering a single word: "Peninsula". Nightly rates at that place and the size of my tip are like night and day. I guess its exact address should have been in my rote memorization, along with 40,000 other locations. Or perhaps I should have gone to taxi school in London, not Queens Plaza. I'll remember places I can relate to. So, no, saying "it's by abercrombie & fitch" doesn't clarify anything. I swear it's so much more fun, less time consuming, more spiritually rewarding, and just as lucrative to take two working class women to the nearest subway station from their alphabet city housing project. After that it's on to some intoxicated dude duo that stumbles out of a busy club and politely request Penn Station. All trip long, one deplores the other for having made out with someone who had an ugly face. "Yeah, but the rest of her body was nice." Blah bla bl b. Time to go back to NJ, boys! Then at around midnight this pre-adolescent was operating his remote control taxicab right out in the middle of a heavily trafficked strip along St. Marks Place in the East Village. From the safety of the sidewalk this kid navigates the little toy car back to the curb , narrowly avoiding it getting crushed.

Final fare of the night was by far the best. At 3:39 am an old Polish lady headed home to Maspeth (Queens) stood at the corner of 6 Av and 28th. Her coworkers from the largest department store in the world had just treated her to a few drinks. She had her head poked through the partition the entire ride as she chatted unscrupulously with me, comparing her miserable 75 hour workweek with mine. Laughing ferociously at the mutual list we assembled of similarities between customers at Macy's and typical taxi passengers. Wish I had a grandmother like that.

On Thursday my friend Cassandra, an upbeat schoolteacher from Florida, rode along in the cab with me and had a great time sightseeing New York as we delivered people all over town. She had considered riding one of those double decker bus tours, but discovered this was much better for plenty of reasons. Around two dozen acquaintances have taken me up on my "on duty taxi copilot" offer since last winter. Don't wait too long. I might be retiring from the taxicab profession as early as early this autumn. Outside of hacking, my life has revolved around trying to deplete resources in the kitchen so they don't rot in this apartment that is devoid of all its residents for nearly three weeks, except for the one solitary cabbie who stayed in town. Also, I'm serious about memorizing the lyrics for that song "They want EFX" by DAS EFX, to use as performance art in social situations where the air needs slicing, like bread. Ever heard that song. So intricate.

Q) Where U from? A) My mother

Bobo, the apologetic Haitian dispatcher reports zero taxi vacancies this morning. "You don't believe how many drivers I send home already." It's looking like Sabbath is forced to be my 6th working day again this week. It's the peak season in which cabbies maximize their turnout. Days leading up to this have had the widest range of revenue. Anywhere from $30 to $230 in the pocket per shift. Boiled dogs in the lunch bag save a Lincoln from those sidewalk carts .

Noteworthy/heartwarming riderships this week:

An older businessman mutters "happy holidays" and hands me a Hamilton for a $4.10 fare. An upbeat mid age suit eagerly points out Tavern on the Green as the secret shortcut (I never knew about) to avoiding Columbus Circle bottlenecks. A Mexican florist going just two East Village blocks with cardboard carrying trays containing efflorescence that cover 100% surface area back seat and trunk. Some fuzzy French dude in a furry trenchcoat: says he's counting his cash when I 'mistakenly' ask him what book he's reading. The fidgety Italian couple, late to Conde Nast and in need of a lecture: sitting in traffic with the meter running is not as lucrative as it might seem.

The easygoing Californian exhibitioner from Javits Convention Center to Penn Station while everyone else in line was an obvious airport fare. The wide eyed no-English Chinese kid whose jaw was in his lap as I delivered him from the Manhattan Bridge to Borough Park in supersonic speeds, rebounding to Boerum Hill so the night driver can start on time. The prosecutor of organized crime that I couldn't see at first in that thick pre-dawn darkness, until his pale hailing hand stuck out inches from my cab. The clan of proud Boriquas and their conga drums rolling around the trunk as I Willieburg bridged away from the LES. Clerk of an architectural firm who chats about DOT's lack of utilizing known traffic patterns to solve problems.

Early Sunday morning drunk professional who hides it well from Flatiron to Astoria, followed immediately by a Roosevelt Island bound fare with an odd language on the cellular, and then a Brette Favre look-a-like back to Manhattan, closing a lovely circuit all before the sun even comes out. The undocumented supermarket employee who realizes he forgot a lawyer's form that allows him to be seen at the doctor's appointment in Bay Ridge. I expedite him all the way back to Bronx and then Brooklyn. I browse the atlas for 95th street, spot it in Brownsville, but later learn of the huge mistake. It's the other 95th. The one by the Verrazano bridge. A journey in which I lost money, disengaging the meter, for it wasn't his fault. The whole ordeal due to the fact that he was struck by an SUV while on his bicycle last week.

And a few random tidbits... an Access-a-ride bus blocking the taxi stand at port authority during rush hour and the orchestra of horns that blared behind it. The six o clock hour with 96.7 FM, an unlicensed station, broadcasting jewish pirate radio: debates in hebrew with arabic accents and ashkenazi ones disagreeing on everything, but the reception is bad. Later on in the day I witness a man's green cloak get caught in the sliding door of a Sienna mini van taxi across the median on Park Avenue. Slow motion moment when the light turns green and he gets violently yanked to the ground. Something inside says he probably needed a good reality check like that.

Each dawn I pedal my red Peugeot or hop on the B38 down Dekalb to Flatbush and walk over to the taxi garage. Afternoon same deal. Radio says it takes 3L of H20 to create 1 bottle of bottled water. There are only 31 or so female firefighters in the FDNY. Regular unleaded holds steady at $2.25/gallon.