IN MY CITY

Always lots to see and do here. some of my favorite things include a 9,335 sq. ft. architectural model of NYC containing every single building constructed before 1992 in all 5 boroughs; a total of 895,000 individual structures. at the Queens Museum of Art in Flushing Meadows Corona Park. Open Wednesday - Sunday: 12 - 6pm. It's always PAY-AS-YOU-WISH!

And the best eatery ever is:

CURRY LEAVES MALAYSIAN RESTAURANT.

135-31 40th Road Flushing, NY (end of 7 train).

Best Meal: CURRY MEE WITH VEGETABLES ($5).

Open daily 6:30 am until 11:00 pm

CAN'T MAKE IT THERE. YOU PERHAPS?

FREE CONCERTS IN NYC

Summer Stage at Central Park (near E72 and Fifth) is hosting several fantastic upcoming shows:

On Saturday, June 26th, from 3 to 6 PM, three eclectic international bands will play. I'm excited about Omar Souleyman, who has been on the frontline of the dance-folk-pop scene in Syria since 1994. Tinariwen, the pied pipers of social conscience in the southern Sahara, will also be performing. Toubab Krewe, a fusion band from North Carolina, will blend West African music with rock.

On July 3rd, Istanbulive II will go down. Five hours of Turkey's most contemporary sounds, starting at 2 PM. Not quite as traditional as I would've liked, but an intriguing language to hear in song nonetheless. On July 11th, Jimmy Cliff, one of Jamaica's reggae legends, but more importantly (and on the same day): Victor Deme. He's from Burkina Faso and his voice, guitar, and humility are profound!

On August 22nd at 3 PM, The Specials will be playing at that same stage in Central Park. In case you're not two-toned and rude, this British band helped revive Jamaican Ska music in the late 70s and early 80s. Speaking of the 80s, Public Enemy will be on stage August 15th. And on September 26th is the Black Sea Roma Festival. I love 'Gypsy' music!

In addition to Central Park, there are free concerts occurring at several other parks:

Brand Nubian will perform at Crotona Park in the Bronx on June 23rd at 7 PM.

Brooklyn Bandshell in Prospect Park:

July 2nd, at 730 PM, The Fab 5 and Uzalo

July 9th, at 7 PM, Ozomatli/ Fidel Nadal/ Toy Selectah

The Charlie Parker Jazz Festival on August 28th at 3 PM at Marcus Garvey Park in Harlem, and the 29th at Tompkins Square Park in the Village.

There are many more performances, but these are the once I've highlighted, according to my tastes.

From Freedom to Uncertainty

If only I had the privilege of creating my own schedule as I go along, from day to day. That is how it used to be before the taxi industry became saturated with so many new drivers that the lease depots gained the upper hand. Before the economic downturn, taxi garages were begging us to come in and lease their cabs, at times even offering us discounts. Now they impose a strict schedule upon us that undubitably includes both days of every weekend.

Sure, I can call in before a shift and ask the dispatcher not to reserve me a cab because I have matters to attend to, but each time I do this my risk of being given the boot by the garage altogether becomes greater. They now have the power to simply eject me from the list, because there are so many drivers without cabs to drive. Now this is all just my impression. In reality I don't exactly know what goes on behind the scenes. I just don't want to be left without an income at a time that I'm trying to save up and travel across the sea. It would have been nice, however, to explore that camp out on the beach.

http://nygypsy.com/default.aspx

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.

Serene 17th (Part II)

Every so often people and places synchronize and line up like the planets, in my cab. That weekend my partner, Jenine, had come into town from Rhode Island, specifically to see the International Exposition of Sculpture Objects and Functional Art. She didn't bother asking me to go because she knew I'd refuse to spend $25 on admission, much less take the day off to go. Approaching 9 A.M., she was still asleep in my apartment as I hustled the streets for fares.

I made a pit stop at Starbucks on East 17th to go #2. I took exactly the perfect amount of time to complete that endeavor, because I immediately hopped back in the cab, made a left onto Fifth Ave., and magically picked up a woman who turned out to be one of the big dealers for that art show. Not one minute into the ride she handed me a free pass for two, good for all four days of the show (and $80 value!)

Now, as you hopefully read in the first half of this shift (previous post), I was having a really lucrative morning so far. I knew all of these things combined meant the universe was opening a window of opportunity for me to simply turn the cab in early today and go to the art show with Jenine. I couldn't contain my excitement, so I picked up the phone and gave her a rude, yet uplifting awakening. She went from cranky to ecstatic in 5 seconds. We agreed to wait an hour to see if I could will into existence a fare into Brooklyn. That hour went by and the closest I got was Battery Park City, so I decided to just hop on the Brooklyn Bridge and shoot down the BQE, since the Metropolitan exit lines right up with Ainslie, the very street that leads to my doorstep.

She joined me for my last two hours on-duty. We looped around the main drag of Williamsburg a few times and came out with a trio of the most delightful Ohioan tourists hopping flea markets. All they had to say was Fort Greene Flea and I knew exactly where to head. Jenine talked it up with them, so much to their enjoyment that they dished out $20 for a $10 fare. Upon crossing the Manhattan Bridge with an empty backseat, we parked in the Lower East Side briefly, so she could grab a snack from Babycakes (a vegan and gluten-free bakery). I also wanted to get a close up look at the three buildings on Grand and Eldridge that were charred in a blaze last week.

WE HAD THREE MORE MENTIONABLE FARES BEFORE TURNING IN THE CAB:
1. A Swedish couple, stuck in NY due to volcanic ash, who had a wonderful time chatting with and being transported to the Theater District by a dynamic taxi-operating duo, to see "In The Heights." Oh, how I love Jenine and her exquisite mind and spirit. And I must try to see that Broadway show. Never been to one, and I hear it's especially good if you love the anthropology of New York (as I obviously do!)

2. A lawyer who said most of her colleagues are buying East River-front condos in Brooklyn, hence contributing directly to the neighborhood's second wave of gentrification. First it was the Latinos. Now the artists and musicians who pushed them out. The history of SoHo repeats itself here.

3. A young New Yorker waiting for the B62 bus on Park Avenue by the Navy Yard. I drove past him and thought, "He's probably going to downtown Brooklyn. Why don't I just offer him a free ride, since it's in on our way to the depot?" Jenine looked at me funny as I stopped abruptly and reversed into the bus stop. The guy looked at me funny too, but accepted the offer without thinking twice. He'd been waiting 15 minutes for the bus and was so relieved to be given a free ride by a yellow cab, something that never happens. It felt good to do something I'd be so thankful for, if offered. And thankful he was! I even earned me a little peck on the cheek from a very beautiful co-pilot. He jumped out on Flatbush and Tillary.

We gassed up and turned in the cab. I mentioned a possible car problem to a mechanic at the garage, and he got upset that I hadn't brought the cab back when I first heard rattling noises in the axle. It started during my first two hours on the road. Returning the taxi then would have sabotaged this entire streak of luck. But that is not why I had neglected to bring the cab back. You see, at my previous garage in Greenpoint, both the dispatcher and the mechanics would have chewed me out for bringing a cab back that wasn't completely falling apart. As long as it ran, their policy was not to bother with it. Being the creature of routine protocol that I can be, I had that unpleasant and bankrupting scenario in my head when I chose to stay out.

The art expo turned out alright. Nothing I would have paid full admission for. Afterward we took the 6, N, and 7 trains out to Tito Rad's for a Pinoy meal. Lovely ambiance and tasty dishes, but the waitress didn't recognize the Pinay in Jenine, which was a bit of a bummer.

My favorite part of the entire evening were the two Senegalese men on the subway platform beneath 68th Street, playing and singing traditional Senegalese music that raised the hairs on my arms with its beautiful grace and humility.

Last but not least: I have a brief request for the folks in charge of TAXI TV. Is there any way you could refrain from playing that little recording over and over and over again, throughout every single fare..... the one that says, "Welcome to Del Frisco's" ? It's really drilling a hole through not only my head, but the heads of a number of passengers who've complained. And, if you could, when a passenger presses the off button, could you see to it that it actually does in fact go off, and not back on again without anyone's permission? I would really appreciate it, from the bottom of my heart!

Thank You Eyjafjallajokull

Image Source: http://blog.roomwithaview.is/

It seems everyone was so focused on the widespread inconveniences caused by that volcanic eruption in Iceland that they forgot to look at it from a different perspective. In the cab all week I broke the ice with passengers by commenting on how much kerosene wasn't being burned into the atmosphere, hence giving the planet's lungs a little time to catch their breath.

I HEARD ON THE NEWS THAT AS SOON AS SOME AIRLINES FLEW TEST FLIGHTS WITHOUT PASSENGERS THROUGH THE VOLCANIC ASHES AND CAME OUT ALIVE, THERE WAS AN UPROAR WORLDWIDE QUESTIONING THE NEED FOR AIRSPACE RESTRICTIONS IN THE FIRST PLACE. I'M SORRY BUT HUMAN BEINGS ARE QUITE THE INSATIABLE CROWD. IF THE AIRLINES AND THEIR GOVERNMENTS WOULD HAVE BEEN CARELESS AND ALLOWED FLIGHTS TO PLUNGE CATASTROPHICALLY OUT OF THE SKIES, THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN A CONTROVERSY TOO. YOU CAN'T WIN WITH PEOPLE. THE BLAME GAME NEVER CEASES.

FACT OF THE MATTER IS THAT JET ENGINES SUCK IN OXYGEN IN ORDER TO IGNITE THE TURBINES, WHICH COMPRESS THE AIR, THEREBY PUSHING THE PLANE FORWARD. WE DO NOT WANT TO FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS WHEN FINE DUST PARTICLES FROM THE VOLCANO INTERRUPT AND CHOKE THE ENGINES AND TURBINES.

On a side note, here's an article about a famous comedian who took a taxi from Norway to Belgium. And here's an article about how Eyjafjallajokull is affecting New York City. I love the butterfly effect. I do! Please do give my other blog a brief visit, especially if you live in NYC. You might find it helpful, whether you take taxicabs or drive one.

The latest post is called FROM FLEA TO SHINING FLEA!

Tomorrow is Int'l Roma Day

My Favorite Dance Venue in NY

I wanted to go dance to the eclectic sounds of Ethno Mesh at the Bulgarian Bar tonight, but I ran out of steam. I have to report to a 12 hour taxi shift before dawn tomorrow, and I didn't get a full nap after work today, as planned, so there'll be no East European pogo dancing for me tonight. I'll be on the streets to serve you bright and early in the morning. Just hail me from a street corner if you need a ride to the airport. Don't mind my jadedness due to lack of dance therapy.

Idle Hands and Sestural Glips

(spoonerisms are often used in the titles these postings are given)

Things are getting a bit craggy at the garage. It seems all 700 drivers want to work 7 shifts a week. Those who were driving all along are now putting in more hours to offset newly unemployed relatives sitting at home. And then there are those who've had their valid hack license stored away in a drawer, just in case, while relying on a steady day job that ended up falling through. So now they're adding to the long waiting lists at the garage. And the dispatchers are taking advantage of the situation by catering to those drivers who make a habit of tipping them better than anyone else. Leasing a taxicab has become something of an auction, and furthermore, a casino where you put down a hefty sum, in hopes of earning it back on the streets of a landscape that has gone from luscious economic greenery and endless nocturnal revelry, to block after urban block of sand dune. More cabs on duty, later and later into the night, circling the same deserted sidewalks like an obsessive needle locked into a groove on a broken record. These days I'm taking whatever the garage can give me. Day shift. Night shift. Double shift. No shift. Carpe diem.

Last week I got lucky one evening when, after teleporting someone from Midtown to Sunnyside, I happened to be approaching that fork in the road where Queens Blvd splits into Thomson at precisely the right moment. An elder was being escorted on foot from La Guardia College. His helper waved animatedly at me while the #7 made hellish noise, not to mention short circuit sparks seemingly dripping down like lava above our heads. Together we eased a flustered gramps into the backseat and I was reminded of how touching it is to clench a senior's cold, anhydrous hands. Made me nostalgic for the part time companionship I was hired to provide to two wheelchair bound nursing home residents during college. Off to Morningside Heights we went and it turns out he's a retired art history professor who was giving a lecture. And from the same corner where he got out, a college student entered the cab, needing to be at a Pilates class in Union Square, in 8 minutes. God bless the Henry Hudson Parkway. For months she had been oblivious to the statue of Mohandas Gandhi that was directly across from her building, and I was euphoric to have the honor of revealing it. It's my favorite statue.

Jenine was down from Providence over Valentine's weekend and did a few hours of front seat co piloting, during which we took her friend Liz Harris, who's now a famous musician, to the airport, after having come in from Portland for a live performance at the New Museum. That shift Jenine had to witness several instances of me swelling up in dramatic conniptions over unfair activities being carried out by the NYPD against fellow yellows all around us. They're really stepping it up on behalf of city revenue. Just ask this 31 year veteran cabbie who also happens to be one of the best taxi bloggers on Earth. His story is one of hundreds and his account infuriates me. Especially if the cop was a rookie in his early 20s. It's like a teenage Israeli soldier humiliating a Palestinian who is old enough to be their aging parent. The other guy who really pushed my button was a passenger who kept mumbling under his breath about how much he hates cabdrivers (and everyone else who is obsequious to him), for no apparent reason. I sure as hell didn't give him one. Jenine had to tranquilize me with a peaceful pep talk.

This Presidents Day had the smoothest traffic flow of any day I've ever worked (minus Xmas), while yielding the most continuous stream of fares of any holiday I've ever hacked on. The sidewalks were akin to bee hives and ant hills cause the weather had warmed up, yet not a single ounce of vehicular congestion could be found. The reverse gear wasn't responding on this particular cab, so I had to pre plan all of my movements to take that into consideration. No stealthily slothful U turns on 14th, 23rd, 42nd, or 57th. I don't understand slick young men who say they'll pay for my ticket if I get pulled over for breaking a turning law on their behalf. Why would they then leave less than a 10% tip when successfully arriving at their destination on time, thanks to the risky short cut. Something's missing from that equation. In the physical notebook I keep on board the cab is an uninterrupted list of every final red glow display on the taximeter, coupled with another row for the actual total given (including tip). So in theory I could add a 3rd row to show the percentages of gratuity, and even devise statistical charts of generosity levels.

OTHER PASSENGER HIGHLIGHTS OF MID FEBRUARY 2009:
1. Minneapolis parents and their post graduate New York daughter jump in at Gramercy Park and hesitantly inquire about making three stops. Why in the world would I have an issue with stopping at the thrift store to unload three large bags of clothing donations, dropping her off at work (NY Times), and then continuing on to David Letterman's show with the free ticket wielding parents? Sounds like a fabulous fare to me. Some of these cabbies have really devalued the riding public's expectations. She was so surprised at my enthusiasm and her parents were like (in a thick Midwestern swing), "see honey, they're not so bad." $14.60 was the bill and one crisp, solid Andrew Jackson their reward.

2. The sweetest old lady ever leans down and collects a few chunks of rubbish left on the floor by previous passengers and says, "I'll throw this away for you honey." Meanwhile, her door person stands there and holds it open.
In a 180 degree upper torso twist I blurt out,"I really appreciate it".
"I know you do", she smiles warmly with sustained eye contact.
No one ever does that for a cabdriver. Especially not on the Upper East side.

3. If it hadn't been for a graciously informative guy from Seattle that I picked up at the international toy fair earlier in the afternoon, I would have made nearly 100 dollars less that shift. On our way to his hotel he let me in on the inside scoop: where would many of the 1000 toy manufacturers, distributors, importers and sales agents from over 2 dozen countries be partying tonight? The hottest new spot in NYC: Strata! From 11:30p to 1:30a I kept bouncing off that place like a pinball stuck between a jackpot and a trampoline. I tend to avoid nightclubs because they're always already crawling with yellow cabs, but this one has yet to be discovered.

MOSAIC OF TAUTOLOGIES

Member FDIC don't mean jack squat. The car wash restroom on W24th has a sign that says "This bathroom is available to all who need it". You must always put a dollar in there to help maintain the cleanliness. And they do a commendable job of it. It's the most community oriented thing in all of Chelsea. Aside from the gracious proliferation of public relief zones (star bux), an accessible non profit restroom in Manhattan means jack squat and much more.

Not flossing greatens my risk of heart disease, but my arm wrestling match against languorous apathy itself is dwindling in most aspects of my life, aside from the fact that I militantly pour heart health Emergen-C powder into every glass. Lycopene and mineral ascorbates to counter poor hygiene and lack of exercise? Atrophy from perpetual operation of a yellow cab.

Don't go one inch past the white line when approaching Avenue of the Americas while westbound along Canal unless you want a 5000 cent postcard in the mail. If you encounter a street hail, esp. an individual standing snobbishly smack dab in the middle of the street and not budging over as you angle and decelerate, then ever so slowly coast right past them as they follow frantic until snuggly curbside. They have no right to obstruct the flow of traffic for self-absorbed purposes. And half the time they will turn their head and hail the next taxi.
Which weeds out those who have no cognizance of public safety and most likely no appreciation for any driver. Move on, they aren't worth the hassle.

Can't afford to do that, you say? Hard time fishing for passengers as it is? Well, I have a formula that works for me, any hour and anywhere in Manhattan, and parts of Queens and Brooklyn. Just go straight ahead until 2 or more vacant taxis are cruising in front of you. Once you spot a plurality of lit roof lights, turn off at the next street. If someone on that block is coming out of their building, you'll be the first available cab. Otherwise just turn again on that following avenue, which often gets you dibs on that block as well. Repeat step one and two over and over. This gets the goods. Believe me. There's nothing more detrimental to a cabdriver's income than to sit in an ocean of empty cabs. Avoid drag race chicken fights. Make the dough and get the hell home. We don't burn fossil fuels for the fun of it. And it ain't just for the hell of it that I'm adamantly against splitting atoms and creating other high level waste.

Regionalism can get sort of silly sometimes. This week Katy Couric corrected her guest on the pronunciation of 'Nevada'. She made him say it like 'vast', not 'far'. I looked into it and discovered that folks out west believe Katy's correction to be appropriate. I doubt any Nevadans will read this, but 'nevada' happens to be in Spanish (Espanol). It means covered in snow. Hence, the Sierra Nevada (mountain range in California) literally means 'snow-covered hills'. And Nevada is pronounced like Dada (art cultural movement), not rat or mad hatter.

I really do try to withhold from judging others, especially when they're passengers in my cab. People have their reasons for tipping the way they do. But with every new fare, I automatically begin to compile a picture of their socioeconomic status and personal value system out of what I piece together from a conversation, the rear view mirror, or the price tag for an event I'm taking them to. Last week I brought several groups of people to the convention center and back, so they could pick up their runner numbers to put on their abdomen during the NYC marathon. I learned that it costs $177 ($232 for foreigners) to register in the race. Based on that, I'd say the Californians were generous tippers, but the Englishwomen were cheap scoundrels. It's not like these ladies came from London's east end and have spent their entire lives saving up for this.

I just finished reading a fabulous zine:
WORLD DOMINATION THROUGH DUMPSTER DIVING #19.
It features an article called YOU DON'T DESERVE BRAIN CANCER.
YOU DESERVE THE FACTS. Amy Worthington reveals cell phone industry secrets and makes a connection between it and the endless civil war in the Congo. This was published in 2003 and since then the violence in that country has all but disappeared from the news. Ironically, only days after I read the zine, this unique slice of human misery reemerges in the mass media.

I had a recent rider from Albania whose name (Fiutra) means butterfly in Shqip (her old Balkan language). She's especially memorable because she said that when she tells people that she's Albanian, they say oh you're from the state capital (Albany). Another conspicuous rider was a Scotsman in a suit who's traveled to all the Central Asian nations on behalf of the beer industry. He's having difficulty resolving his visa here because his passport contains stamps from Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, and Kyrghystan.

DHS don't like the fact that he's tasted authentic home brews around the world. And in yet a third illustrious fare, the Jennifer Aniston lookalike had you stop by a sidewalk cart so she could buy her 15 month old a hot dog and got one for you too. That never happens. Who ever wonders if the cabdriver is hungry? Then there was the German couple who just disembarked a cruise ship. Their only 48 hours in NYC were looking very pluvial. I came up with the most cliche idea for that: MUSEUMS?. "Boring", they murmured defiantly. Right then I had a clairvoyant moment. I knew exactly what they'd like to hear. "Did you know we have a MUSEUM OF SEX in NYC?" Their eyes lit up as they pulled out a pen to write down the address. That tip that would manifest into another pleasant tip as we pulled into their hotel.

As a cabdriver it's alarming to discover how little people actually know about the miseries that entail our profession. $110 to lease the cab for a day and another $40 (way less than a couple months ago) for gasoline. Roughly half the shift goes by before we actually begin earning an income. We drive anywhere from 12 to 17 hours a pop, in circles, through some of the most temerarious traffic on the planet. The odds stacked against us are twice as tall as the Empire State Building, and still we manage to make due.

If a passenger shows interest, I'll speak their godforsaken ear off about it all, as they lay there in astonishment, wide eyed and open mouthed. More questions flood their heads and the answers keep churning. God bless us, the yellow children of Gotham. I think the exact number of human faces we see in a year's time is greater than any other line of work, simply just from ceaselessly scanning crowded streets with eagle eyes while maintaining a thirty mile an hour peripatetic.

WARNING TO NYC YELLOW CABBIES:
There's quite often a speed trap on the FDR North, just before you go under the Brooklyn Bridge. If you enter where South Street ends or off the 9A underpass (tunnel), do not go a single MPH over 40. Everyone floors it here because it's the very beginning of the highway. A cop stands in the shoulder just over the hill. Only other radar gun trap I've seen in NYC is SB on Cross Bay Blvd. as you enter the residential zone of Broad Channel the limit plummets to 30 MPH and an unmarked hides in the median. On the opposite side of Queens, when WB on Astoria Blvd do not make a left on Crescent St. from 7 to 10 am. One of those little golf cart-like interceptors is busy around the corner. And in Manhattan, I'm pretty sure what I witnessed had to do with that far left lane on Broadway as you're about to cross 14th. It says on a sign and on the ground that you MUST turn left. Taxis break this rule 50 times a minute. Well, I saw folks getting pulled over systematically on that southeast corner one day last week. Must've been that rule being enforced. That's all for now.

livelihoods

I've got a new cell#. Ask me for it! Free front seat on-duty taxi tour of n.Y.c still available. Call to book a ride any day (but Sat.) btw 5 am and 16:00. Notify one hour prior to arriving at Union Square for pick up by Gandhi statue.

Another reminder if you're a New Yorker:

Tomorrow (Mar 15) from 9 to midnight at Sultana's on N.4/Bedford in W burg

you can dance to Tunisian + Moroccan music for free (and live Sephardic band).

Some highlights from the yellow cab:

#1. An oddball in his early 20s uses my services to go hunt for the glossy black land rover that his boss left parked in front of a bus stop, across from a see and be seen bar the night before. We circle around thrice and even check the side streets until I convince him that it's probably been towed to the NYPD pound. He slides a debit card that his boss gave him to pay for the fare and punches in a tip on the back seat touch screen. Total: $107 (for 12 minutes of pecunious ballyhoo for easter egg reconnaissance via taxi). The kid explains that his boss is perpetually wasteful and so he wants to safeguard some wealth under the wings of a worker. Finally something makes up for the hundreds of non tippers and various traffic/parking fines I've accumulated.

#2. While inching along 9th Avenue in the lower 40s, and catching 2 to 3 lights per block through a dawdling impasse, my eyes follow this mail carrier who methodically stops in front of each passing pedestrian and toots a little bicycle squish horn that is attached to his push cart, smiles wide and says 'how's by you today'. And in between, when he's got the sidewalk to himself, he wails away on that bugle like a 3rd world megaphone in an open air market. Not one person manages to hold back a grin, nod, chuckle, or hoedown.

#3. A couple of spunky mid aged suits absorbed in chatter the entire trip from TriBeCa to the Theater District speak in amalgamated tongues except twice when they caught my attention:

A) "That's so Bear Stearns. That is so, like, kitchen sink. Totally man."

B) "You're asking ME if that's being too greedy?"

C) I wish I had an iTalk so I could let you listen to how opinionated many passengers were about Mr. Spitzer this week. And I didn't even ask for any. It's how they broke the ice with me. Since I don't care so much for the details concerning that, I won't recall how folks reacted.

pS: THE DATE ON THAT PICTURE IS INCORRECT.