HAPPINESS FOR NO REASON

Since Sesame Street played a significant role in my upbringing, and Pakistani culture contributed to my adolescent understanding of the world (my best friend in middle school was from there), and since the combining of cultures, styles, idioms, etc. is a favorite pastime of mine, I present to you this hilarious little music video of Grover grooving to a 1970s Pakistani film song.

I come across such fascinating eccentricities as the clip above thanks to good friends who know what sorts of ethno-meshing make my day, and take the time to send me the links. The same thoughtful ally sent me the audio-clip below, which is from WNYC radio. It's a short interview with the official borough historian of Queens, who answers questions like how Flushing really got its name. I love history as it relates to ethnology and geography.

1.

In other news, a drunk tourist from the U.K. pissed in the backseat of my cab, a while back. I wanted to share this event with you right away, but of course I got caught up in other endeavors.

He hailed me outside of Southside night club in SoHo and asked me to follow the minivan cab in front of me, which had just picked up four women. I didn't know if they were together, but it all seemed odd to me from the start. I made a left and another left, trailing right behind the other cab. As soon as we stopped at the first red light I began hearing the sound of a liquid stream behind me. I asked him what that noise was and he replied that it was his beer and he apologized for accidently spilling it. That's a common occurrence late weekend nights as people pile into taxis. I went back to silent driving concentration.

At the second red light the stream of liquid resumed and I became certain it was urination, though I was in utter disbelief. I turned my entire body around and peeked over the bottom of my partition to see him holding his penis out toward the floorboard and an arch ending in a puddle, and splattering on the seat cushion, partition, and TV screen.

He immediately flung back in embarrassment, zipped up his pants, and begged for forgiveness. I yelled at him and threatened to drive him straight over to the first cops I could find. I would have to clean up that mess. I interrogated him as to why he didn't just ask me to stop somewhere so he could go. "Cause I didn't wanna lose that cab with the pretty girls in it."

The cab had already disappeared ahead anyhow, and he offered me twenty extra dollars if I would just pull over right there and let him go. I snatched the cash from his fingers and told him to scram. Then I spent 10 minutes wiping everything down with Lysol and continued my shift.

The way to bring about the messiah (codeword for immortality and a few other goodies), according to Kabbalah, is to be happy for no good reason at all. The music video up top and otherworldly quirks like it give me that feeling of happiness for no reason. Just smile, dance, laugh, hug, care... just because. The opposite would be the usual human condition known as "hatred for no reason." That, I'd like to add, is not how I feel about the silly Londoner who thought he could get away with pissing in my cab. As inconsiderate as his actions were, they really weren't the end of the world. They were probably just hidden little blessings. Perhaps it happened so that I'd stop following the other taxi with girls who probably didn't want anything to do with him. Anyhow, I didn't stay mad at him for long at all. He sort of just made me laugh inside. I giggle every time I picture the scene in my head.

THE CITY I WAS BORN IN

I only lived there for the very first month of my life,

yet for some reason it contains a large chunk of my heart,

tucked away inside an Andean valley of everlasting springtime,

on the northernmost reaches of the world's longest continental mountain range.

A short bus ride away from the axis of world-renowned coffee cultivation.

Just 60 miles east of the Pacific and 80 miles south of the Caribbean.

Colombia's 2nd metropolis and the world's 91st urban agglomeration.

An historical hub of oxen and mule path networks for cocoa farms.

Now the industrial capital of Colombia and orchid capital of the world.

Home of South America's first kidney transplant.

Affability and diligence are the qualities of its people.

Oh, and did I mention that it is Fernando Botero's home town?

He's the self-proclaimed "most Colombian of Colombian artists."

Famous for situational portraiture of proportionally exaggerated figures.

Did you guess which city yet?

real life cartogram radio robot dance

Photo Credit: Marilynn K. Yee/ The New York Times

Ever since I was little my geographic imagination and infatuation with ultra urban landscapes has been off the wall. Whenever the daydreamer in me stares at cracks in the sidewalk, they look to me like tributaries leading to rivers and so on. If the cracks are straight lines they represent streets, especially if there are ants navigating along them in both directions.

Many of us taxi drivers who keep blogs tend to include a blog roll for our network of fellow taxi scribes. These rolls are often set up to display the one that most recently posted an entry, and so on down the line. In essence, we take turns jumping to the front of the pack, just like taxicabs in traffic. Those of us who take a nap on the curb or at the airport end up remaining in the same spot at the back of the line. How analogous.

I'll never forget my dad's story about a waiter who asked him if he wanted soup or salad. He thought they said, "would you like super salad?" When he answered, "yes please!," the waiter got annoyed and asked again. "Soup....or salad?" There were so many other options through the course of the meal that my dad was the one who became annoyed. Sometimes I feel like the waiter, and I assume the passenger feels like my dad.

Do you want that in the trunk?
Do you want to go up Sixth or Eighth?
Do you have a crosstown street that you prefer?
Do you want the left or the right side?
Do you want the near or the far corner?
Are you paying cash or credit?
Do you want the receipt?

THREE FAST NOTEWORTHY FARES OF RECENT:

1) In the Flower District I was hailed by a trio with lots of nursery merchandise, including a mid-sized tree in a large planter that had to fit across the floorboard, over their laps, and out the window. It all worked out just fine.

2) A couple got in with their newborn infant and joked about how they don't want to wake the baby because if he started to cry the cabdriver would kick them out of the taxi. That always-present initial ice broke right then and there. I didn't even have to make an effort. The rest of the ride was sweet and hilarious. It was nice to be reminded that there are people out there who still think of cabdrivers as human-- not a robot you can switch on and off, who emotionlessly listens to the re TV ads behind his head all day (which make it nearly impossible to have symbiotic communication with the passenger). A robot who can't make or receive any phone calls either, obviously because robots don't require any sort of interpersonal interaction. 12 hours of complete isolation a day? No problem!

3) A strung- out filmmaker hopped in on Bedford in Williamsbug. He had a cow in the backseat when he realized he spilled lens cleaner all over his video camera, because the cap came loose inside of his bag. He called up a colleague and the destination changed from somewhere in SoHo to the camera shop on Canal and Walker.

Valerie Smaldone, the graceful radio personality on news talk 710 am, aired an interview she conducted with an awkward, less-than-eloquent cabdriver on May 13th, during her lunchtime program on the hidden little facts of New York. The lucky cabdriver to be featured that day happened to be me. Here's a link to the on-demand podcast. My two minute segment of audial fame can be found toward the end of the show, around 75% of the way through.....

http://67.72.16.166/wor/2382022.mp3

AN EXCITING SHOW COMING UP IN BROOKLYN
MARCHING BANDS AND SKA BANDS ARE SOME OF MY FAVES....
http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=115222455162251

Events of the Current

Photo Source: http://bemetweb.blogspot.com/

I drove past St. Vincent's Hospital late this morning and all the entrances were boarded up with wood. For a taxi driver, not many things could be classified as eerie sights. I had heard of its closing on news radio for days now. I didn't think much of it, aside from my geographic mind mapping out the routes and distances ambulance drivers would now have to detour towards, from any given neighborhood. But as I drove past this morning, it hit me. The familiar buzz of hopeful eyes exiting its doors. The urgent (if open) eyes being carried in on stretchers, as I do my auto-pilot wiggle around double parked ambulances. It's as if none of that was ever there now. The residential rents are are so high in that area. Couldn't someone with all that money put some down on behalf of the community? I guess their insurance plans are only good in other hospitals.

Another highly disappointing situation I heard about in the cab is the oil spill in Louisiana, right at the very lips of the mouth of the Mississippi River. It's quickly on its way to being on par with Exxon Valdez, if that means anything to you. Basically, complete ecological devastation. It's times like these that I question my role as a burner of fossil fuels. However, I stick to my guns (guts) on the idea that my job is a highly efficient, and mostly necessary use of petroleum. It just needs to max out in passenger capacity more often, and run on hydrogen. If we operated with the organic resourcefulness of taxicabs in the third world, we'd be pretty damn eco-friendly.

What's left among current events that is relevant to my occupation? Immigration. Every now and then I get someone run up to my window with a look of desperation on their face.

"Do you speak Espanish?"

"Si, claro."

"Me puedes llevar al consulado Mexicano? (or whichever it might be)"

Of course I can take you to your consulate. I know where the ones are for Colombia, Philippines, Peru, Poland, Indonesia, Pakistan, Mexico, and a few others. I find out real quick where they are if I don't already know. I usually just remember where it was I've seen the flag drooping down from the second or third floor. Yes, I have 98% of the world's flags memorized by color and design. Capitals too. (I've been obsessed with geography since I was 6 years old.) I always slice off a dollar or two from the fare for my fellow immigrants who are on an urgent task to secure their opportunity to work (and/or live) in this country. If I charge them the full fare, I can't help but feel as though I am some sort of COYOTE, taking advantage of their urgency.

I too was born abroad. In 1984 I immigrated to the U.S. with my parents (as a 4 year old on a tourist visa.) Our arrival in Los Angeles coincided with the summer games of the XXIII Olympiad. A year later we were granted Green Cards, thanks mostly to the fact that my step grandmother was a U.S.- born citizen. That was an easy excuse back then. Not anymore. We remained safe, sound, and content as resident aliens until 2006. By then the Bush administration had thoroughly inspired us to get naturalized ("love it or get the hell out," so to speak). If that hadn't done it, present-day Arizona would have. In observance of May Day tomorrow, there will be an Immigration Reform march in downtown Manhattan. It starts at 10:45 AM, by Federal Plaza, and goes down Centre, Park Row, Barclay, Church, Worth, and back to Foley Square.

diurnal tachycardia

Hybrid taxicabs have crept up and infiltrated the iconic streams of Crown Vic for many months now. Though I remain the steer of an old school icon, I've become increasingly ashamed of not making the effort to find a garage that would lease me a hybrid. That was until now.

I just read something quite disturbing in the taxi newsletter. It turns out that just as compact fluorescent bulbs defeat their own energy efficient purpose when you repeatedly turn them on and off, hybrid vehicles emit more CO2 than conventional ones when used in the extreme stop and go conditions found in places like New York (nothing compares). I'm not sure this information is entirely accurate. It might be a ploy on behalf of traditionalists. I myself am what you'd call a flexible tenacity slicker. Therefore, although I adhere to my perspectives with passion, I'm simultaneously on guard for and urgently open to epiphanies, whether internal or imported, that could flip those views upside down, right on their ass.

Both scenarios involve the irony of the apparatus requiring more juice to start up and less to keep going. I've always had a splinter in my cortex about burning fossil fuels for a living. But every time I've expressed these concerns to eco-sensible peers, I've received the same comforting response. A city full of taxicabs is several times more sustainable than a city full of private vehicles. And on top of that, I do an unquestionably good job at it. By that I mean a stellar combination of....
-acutely galvanic maneuverings
-geographical acclimatization
-a voraciously assertive attitude
-blunt honesty about traffic patterns, ETAs, and fare estimations
-an overly accommodating approachability
(especially towards guests of our city)
-utmost respect for bicyclists and busdrivers
(minimal amounts for anyone else)
-the ability to navigate organically through swarms of pedestrians without costing anyone behind you the light (letting three cross the walk and then squeezing by before the next three)

All of these and a whole lot more are essential to a genuinely adequate NYC cabdriver. More than people want to give it credit for. We're not white collars. Nor are we blue. We're cadmium yellow light. Prepare for supersonic flight and the respite of an elevated kite.

I keep a pouch in the cab that contains both the free NYC condoms that I pass out to passengers and the Emergen-C packets that I occasionally pour into my jug of H2O. Sometimes I'll find myself accidentally having reached for the wrong one when my eyes must remain glued on the road. You can't pour a condom into your water. It won't boost your immune system. Speaking of that, I often bring a couple cloves of garlic on board to chew on, and its odor befuddles some of my fares.

I love it when the early parts of a shift line up perfectly like a row of Tetris cubes. Last Friday I hit the streets at 04:00. Off the Q Boro, I followed Lex to 23rd. Three dozen blocks on the tail end of a bar night and no fare? Time to get ill. One vacant cab split to the right. Another sped straight through. Up for grabs was the left. That Third Avenue light and I always synchronize with each other. Round the bend to the right stand two men hailing. Off to South Slope in the BK we go, all clubbed out and talkative. Less than a block away from where we said our goodbyes, in jumps un Mexicano con mariachi, meritoriously loud in his ears. "Roosevelt and Junction (Corona) please." That's not one, but two fares of $30 or more in under an hour. Eminence!

Fatigue overcame me early this morning while fare fishing in Carnegie Hill. I pulled over and laid my head down for 45 minutes, while remaining in the driver seat. During that time I had a dream about some lady with a dog on a leash that was looking for a taxi. She'd seen my vacant cab first, but then made a face and tried to run over to another cab. Each time the cab would become occupied before she could reach it. So she'd turn back reluctantly towards me. She repeated this cycle what seemed like a dozen times, until all of a sudden someone jolted me back into consciousness by knocking clamorously on my window. Standing there outside my hovercraft was a statuesque executive with a uniquely deep voice, asking if I was available. As we pulled away from that nourishing curb, I noticed how fresh the nap had made me. But I could use a taxi dream interpreter.

Actually, something somewhat similar to that dream occurred within a couple hours of that nap. An older Japanese couple from Rhode Island opened my back door and began to step inside, only to suddenly step repugnantly back out. It had been raining and this couple was profusely reiterating that the seat was wet, while escaping over to the taxi behind me. While that driver was refusing to take them for having an outer borough destination, I was wiping off the back seat (merely moist) with my stash of stray napkins. They noticed my effort and came bouncing back again. I smilingly let them know that they could have simply brought the 'wetness' calmly to my attention and waited 5 seconds for me to address the problem. No need to run off and try to catch another cab. After all, they were merely going on leisurely visit to their daughter's condo in Brooklyn. It turned out to be a real enjoyable ride for them and I alike, full of fascinating conversational points. They asked why I hadn't become a limo chauffeur, like the guy who drove them in from the Ocean State. Thought bubble: "Because then I would have been too busy kissing your delicate buttocks to have any time for an intriguing, down-to-earth chat like this."

On a shorter note, one of Ben Harper's tour managers jumped in my cab on Avenue C and begged me to rush him up to his Upper West Side hotel. I must say, that was one of the most delightful fares I've had in a while. We talked about growing up on the southwestern quadrant of the Los Angelino sprawl. I lived in the part of that vicinity known as Lomita from ages 4 to 11, and it really helped shape who I am today. He was born, raised, and still lives a few neighborhoods over, in what is known as Inglewood. He mentioned growing up on the same block as Pharcyde and watching them go from inconspicuous jam sessions to stardom in a matter of months. Our conversation immediately led to a thorough mutual listing of the Jazziest horn samplings from Hip Hop's golden age, of which we are both very fond.

VESTIBULE OF LOLLIGAGGERS

Every so often a cabdriver will run out of change because an unbroken succession of passengers pay with 20 dollar bills. Other times a cabbie might have accumulated a thick wad of singles, fives, and tens... to the point it don't even fit in the crevices of the cockpit or shirt pocket anymore. But when all you have is large bills, you can't pick up another passenger until you've parked and gone inside an establishment to break a Jackson or two, or maybe even a Grant. The hot dog and donut carts are quite often unwilling and it can take forever to find legal parking. So my instinct is always to jump out of my cab at a red light and bum rush every taxi on the block, which usually works after the fourth or so try.

What I've discovered though, is that the nicest cabbies in New York are the ones from Tibet. Without fail, they're always ready to help. May their unique language and culture survive the onslaught of now almost 6 decades of foreign occupation. In this city there is a united nations of taxi driving. There are very few countries I haven't seen represented. I have close friendships with a Guinean, a Turk, an Uzbek, a Paraguayan, a Belorussian, an Algerian, an Honduran, and an Afro-Chinese American. We'll periodically call each other to warn of new police traps and bustling taxi stands. Or we run into each other at the airport holding lots.

If it were up to me, I'd be backpacking around the world right now. And that has been the plan ever since I graduated from high school. But no one on my mother's side of the family had completed college yet, so she badly wanted me to not waste time. I spent 5 years earning a degree and another 3 working odd jobs to pay off the loans. And now that the coast is clear, the economy is nearing collapse and my immediate family needs my financial assistance. So instead of using the taxi income to save for travel, I'm having to give every bit of it to my parents, so they don't go bankrupt. They can barely keep up with their debts and I feel as if I'm repaying them for having provided me with such a fantastic childhood. Meanwhile, my little sister is almost half way through college and plans to be the next Jean-Paul Gaultier or Vivienne Westwood. And she wants to utilize her fortune on improving the lives of others (including us), if only those filthy rich with a fashion sense still exist after she graduates.

Last week a Haitian woman who lives in the Pacific Northwest jumped into my cab at Kennedy airport. As we approached the Van Wyck Expressway I saw the total traffic standstill that awaited us up ahead. So I let her know that I taking the Conduit as an alternate. While trying to hear what 1010 am had to say about the L.I.E. and the BQE, so I could then choose between Woodhaven and Atlantic, she interjected with what would become a long metaphysical rant about using mind to manipulate matter. She more or less blamed my lack of spiritual strength for every thickening of cars we'd encounter. I do understand that our thoughts have more power than we give them credit for. Having studied Kabbalah for years, the concept of mind over matter isn't alien to me. But this woman seemed to lack a sense of humility about it all. She was almost conceded in her mannerisms, no matter how much I tried to not pass judgment. She instructed me to check out Ramtha and read up on the double slit experiment. Here's a cartoon video demonstration that effectively blew me away.

A couple days ago I was idling on Madison Avenue in the mid 40s. I always remain in the same spot when a passenger leaves. I jot down worthwhile observations or read a few lines for a minute, to advance in my book, and then glance at each mirror and window for prospective fares. If no one shows up within 60 seconds I'll merge back into the flow of everlasting fiberglass. But often enough someone does get in during that short span. In fact it's usually a better tactic than to instantaneously jackrabbit back into the continuum like most cabbies do.

This particular time four suits from Chicago knocked on the shell. I popped the trunk and walked back to load their luggage. All four of them were so happy-go-lucky and wide eyed, but started scratching their foreheads when I reached for their bags. In such a routine operation, I hadn't noticed that I'd forgotten about some cargo of my own. Two dusty old chairs that I'd salvaged from a dumpster were occupying the large tub of usually empty space. As I set them out unto the sidewalk to re abandon them, these lovely Illinoisians suggested that I place the chairs on top of the luggage. "But they're dirty!?!" They consulted each other for an instant consensus. I was going to end up keeping the chairs that I needed for the table I 'd found weeks ago in Queens. You see my mother had donated much of our furniture to the college kids who moved into our old apartment in Brooklyn. So we had to re scavenge the curbs.

Jill, an investment manager, got into the cab by where the viaduct sucks Park Avenue up into the Helmsley building. She was headed to a doctor's appointment precisely where the viaduct ends on the south side. We crawled above Vanderbilt and 42nd for almost 10 minutes to go the 4 blocks. She said something on the phone, so nonchalant and ruthless that it reverberates in my head. "....so did we get Margaret laid off yet? We've got to that a.s.a.p. if we want to remain...." No remorse. No human being on the receiving end, on the verge of losing what we, in this society, base our self worth on. Don't take me for a hopeless altruist or even a bleeding heart. I am one of those who believes that our economy has been based on air. On speculation and debt, as opposed to something more substantial, like resources and brow sweat. Perhaps it will take a total meltdown for us to rethink our roles and our purpose in life. Speaking of learning to appreciate what you have, Chop Shop is the best film I've watched this month. It's about this homeless kid in Queens who makes it work by being really resourceful and he even helps his older sister out.

The other day I was waiting at the garage to be assigned a taxi. It was around 2:30 am and there were about 4 other drivers sitting in the lounge alongside me, hoping to get a head start on their day shift. I started chatting with an older guy from Bangladesh, who was enthusiastic to teach me everything he knew about the history of his country. The catchiest thing about his lecture was his repeated use of the number 3,500. That is how many miles lie between Pakistan and Bangladesh if you go by sea, which is what they used to do when it was one country, because India was enemy territory. 3,500 is also the amount of princes in the Saudi government and the amount of nukes possessed by India, if I understood him correctly. Back when his country was known as East Pakistan, he served in the Pakistani air force. But one day they put him in a concentration camp on suspicion of being a spy. Long story short, we all were assigned cabs that morning and went on to toil and compete for customers on the streets of NY for more consecutive hours than your average human being can handle.