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.

ETERNAL RUMSPRINGA OF THE MUNICIPAL ARRONDISSEMENTS

Dos (2) mapas de dos (2) turnos de dia (day shifts) from this past autumn. 24 hours of slapdash circumstance, split into 2 neutrally bouyant pools of slippery time. All the while building vocabulary, butchering jokes, and discombobulating molecules. It's the life of a happy-go-lucky (but not johnny-come-lately) trilingual taxicab aviator. Without a single traffic light it would feel more like a mid-air flight. The Hebrew letters were stenciled in (courtesy of my art journaling aunt's nifty utensil) on a recent visit to L.A.. Now I just have to find stencils for all the other written tongues I love, but know not yet how to read: Mandarin, Arabic, Hindi, Tibetan, etc.. Early mornings, between fares, the dial is often set to 89.9 FM (non-commercial and student-run), for the soothing ragas and galvanizing reggaes. Robust, complacent, and bionic all at once.

Bedpan Alley on York Avenue: the most boreal fare departure on the green shift (see map color). Bedpan as in how bedridden patients go potty. Alley as in a cluster of medical institutions. Boreal as in closest to the arctic. The corner that Ansche Chesed is on took that title on the red shift, while Lehmen Center for the Performing Arts in Bedford Park (Bronx) made the cut for septentrion terminus, and all the way from Sunnyside (Queens) of all places. The green shift's answer to that was the intersection that is home to Kieselstein-Cord and L'Ocitanne on the Upper East.

Yana, a friend from Moscow, was my guest of honor during the first eight fares of the green shift. She has always dreamed of driving a taxicab, but felt less so after this first-hand experience. I've never been a passenger of hers, but I know her personality would turn her into a great cabbie.

Many homeless panhandlers have told me that the only motorists who hand them change are cabdrivers. I believe it. We might not be without a roof over our heads, but we're on a frontline in the basic human struggle to survive. We must forge our way ahead, or be left behind just the same, because unlike the lawyers, surgeons, psychiatrists, engineers, managers, etc.... society has yet to assign a sustainable value to our endless efforts, those of us who try (our best.)

I imagine that, like me, most cabbies in NY have their preferred territorial turf to hunt for fares. Of course, you have your perpetual hotel and taxi stand loungers. And many of us wander aimlessly up and down the avenues without giving much thought to strategy or any sense of hyperlocal inclination. Union Square is the nucleus of my cruising grounds. Anything below 29th Street is Kosher in my kitchen. Anything above it and I feel like a fish out of water. Unless a passenger requests to be driven up there, I don't bother with Midtown, or Uptown for that matter. I'd rather go to Brooklyn.

I'm a downtown cabbie. I like my Villages, my Chelsea, and my Chinatown. Long live Alphabet City, the LES, and the FiDi. You can catch me in TriBeCa, NoMad, NoHo, NoCa, and the Civic Center. Less stress, less traffic congestion, less pretentiousness, less police harassment, and less of the dull, mainstream tourists. More locals and visitors alike who can actually think outside the box and/or appreciate history, art, music, diversity, honorable character, and quality cabdrivers. I know it's not as cut and dry as I'm making it sound. You have assholes, dimwits, snobs, and lame cops everywhere. But I know which communities I can serve with a stronger sense of eagerness and belonging.

Lastly, let's step out of our little bubble for a minute and take a look two things that I'm not very happy about :

#1. Israel ruining what's left of its diplomatic ties with Turkey and the world by being a naval bully.

#2. Guatemala being devastated by two 'natural' disasters in two days.

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

Pictures From Earlier This Month

MOTHERS' DAY PARTY AT OUR APARTMENT IN WILLIAMSBURG.

CLOCKWISE FROM THE BOTTOM RIGHT: Rosita (cabbie's mom), Paul (cabbie's roommate), Gil (the cabbie), Jenine (friend), Emilie (cabbie's surrogate sister), Alan (Emilie's BF), Slava (cabbie's brother-in-non-law), Lizette (cabbie's sister), Jennifer (sister's friend and taxi blog fan), Yoram (cabbie's father), Gui (cabbie's surrogate brother)

AN ABANDONED STOOP ON FOURTH AVE IN BOERUM HILL

I WALK PAST IT ON MY WAY TO THE G TRAIN AFTER EVERY SHIFT

DAMAGE DONE BY RECENT FLOODING IN PROVIDENCE, RI.

THAT'S WHERE JENINE LIVES SO WE TAKE TURNS VISITING EACH OTHER.

VIEW OF THE BROOKLYN CLOCKTOWER FROM BERGEN STREET.

THE WALL AND THE TREE GIVE IT AN ALMOST JERUSALEM FEEL.

BALLOONS TIED TO A GARBAGE TRUCK IN CHELSEA

HENCE: THE UNSEEN SANITATION WORKERS ARE POTENTIAL FRIENDS OF MINE

JENINE: UNA MUJER MUY FINA.

ES JUDIA FILIPINA Y TIENE MUCHO ADRENALINA!

Two Shifts On A Single Map

SHIFT #1..........................................SHIFT #2

Friday 4/30/10................................Saturday 5/1/10

10 Hours= 5:30 to 15:30................ 11 Hours= 4:00 to 15:00

100 Miles for 32 Fares................... 160 Miles for 29 Fares

$150 Net from $313 Gross......... ....$250 Net from $412 Gross

$105 Lease/$33 Gas/$16 MTA Tax........$105 Lease/$42 Gas/$14 MTA Tax

10 unique situations..........................8 unique situations

UNSOLVED ETHNOLOGIES

I enjoy guessing exactly where and what purpose a passenger is off to when they provide a block or intersection as their destination. Call it creepy. I like to think of it as field work anthropology. A pleasant man in a fancy suit hopped in on Park in the 60s. He requested Fifth between 27 and 26th. Are you going to that building with all the chandeliers in the brightly lit lobby? No, I'm going to the not-so-fancy building across the street. Upon research, I found that it is the NY MarketCenter, 20 historic floors with over 200 showrooms for trade shows from a wide range of product categories. I'll leave it at that for now.

ONE'S STRANGE URBAN LANDSCAPE IS ANOTHER'S WORKPLACE

Just before 9 A.M. a Mexican man hurried out of Grand Central Terminal and approached my window very timidly. It's the second time in two weeks I got a fare to the Mexican Consulate with under 10 minutes to make it there on time for a crucial appointment. I think it's important for cabdrivers to know where it's located and the fastest way to get there from any other point in Manhattan, especially from the transportation hubs they are most likely to come out of. I was on Vanderbilt and 43rd. The consulate is on 39th between Park and Madison. Walking distance, but not if you're clueless. I shot down 43rd, hung a left on Fifth, another left on 41st, a right on Park, and a right on 39th. Voila! One minute early. I had thought about dropping him off on Madison, but he might have gotten lost again.

PASSENGERS FROM LIBYA ARE AS RARE AS THOSE FROM CAPE VERDE

Just before 10 A.M. I was hailed on Eighth by a casual Libyan man named Kamar. He just wanted to go across town to Second Avenue. We conversed about the similarities between Judaism and Islam. I loved his North African accent and he loved my openness. I wonder if he knows that Barnes and Noble flies a flag at the entrance to their bookstores that is identical to that of his country: solid green. Later on I picked up a young lady from the above-mentioned islands off the coast of western Africa. I could not, for the life of me, guess her origin.... something I'm often good at. She herself said people ask her if she's Asian, Latino, etc..

FOLLOWING RULES FOR TAXI DOWN TO THE TEE

Minutes later I was on 43rd and Lexington. A woman was hailing on the west side of the street, which is a big no- no for cabbies between 7 and 1 P.M. I motioned her to cross the street over to my side and to my surprise, she complied. I explained about the anti-taxi signs in the bus lane and she completely understood. She agreed it has become much more common to see cabs pulled over by the police. I hope she spreads the word about crossing the street to hail a cab there.

UNDERSTANDING EXPRESSIONS IN ENGLISH

Even though I moved to the U.S. when I was four years old, I never really learned all of the expressions people use in English because my immigrant parents never used them, nor did my mostly immigrant peers growing up in ethnically diverse parts of L.A. and Houston. I've learned so many new expressions in the last three years, simply from hearing them used in the backseat of my taxi. One lady on her cell phone said, "It's water under the bridge." I initially guessed it meant that 'it' was where 'it' should be (whatever 'it' was). I later discovered (on the web) it means something in the past and no longer important.

THE BEST SHAWARMA IS ON THE TONGUE OF THE BEHOLDER

A family trio on their last day visiting from Ramat Gan (suburb of Tel Aviv) claimed that the Shawarma at Bereket (Turkish spot on Houston Street) is even better than the heavenly stuff on the street back home. I found that hard to believe, so I tried it myself. The Turks call it Doner Kabab, even though it's the same exact thing: meat shaved off a rotating spit. I try to limit my consumption of meat, since it has a negative impact on the planet, but Shawarma is one of my Achilles' Heels. Bereket turned out to be alright, but not as great as the Israelis made it out to be. I've always gone there for Falafel, which they do really well. However, my favorite spot for Shawarma remains the new place on Second, between St. Marks and 7th. It's called Cheep's and it's only $3.75 for a loaded sandwich. That's an unimaginable bargain in NYC, and DELICIOUS!

APPLYING SKILL ORGANICALLY

Just before noon I picked up a guy at Macy's on 34th. He was in an incredible rush to get to 19th and Sixth, and he understood that no left turns could be made until Ninth. He said, "just do your best and I can run from nearby if that's easier." I took Ninth down to 22nd, made a left, and dropped him off at Sixth, so he could run three short blocks. 18th Street would've swallowed more time with all its delivery trucks. This was accomplished in five minutes flat, and was met with a compliment: "You're an excellent taxi driver." Always nice to hear.

ON DUTY IN MORE WAYS THAN ONE

My sister called frantic and in need of a favor. She's at the end of her third year at Parsons New School for Design and she might just be the next big name in fashion. She needed her final essay edited for grammar and content within the next hour. I always carry my little netbook in the cab, so I pulled into the taxi relief stand on 16th, by Union Square. Sure enough, there was free WiFi on that block, and I was able to revise her paper and email it back to her.

CAB RIDE TO MEET WITH A CELEBRITY

I nearly never get anyone famous riding in my cab. I do, however, come within a degree of them. Around 1 P.M. I picked up an eccentric New Yorker in Midtown who was on his phone the whole way up to 77th and Columbus. He was debating over which snacks to serve at some event. He then said, "I am going to meet up with John Fraser right now." Upon later googling the name I discovered he's a renowned chef who owns a restaurant precisely on the corner where I dropped this guy off. I've had world-renowned chefs in my cab before, but I never caught their names.

COAST TO COAST TO SEE HIS DAUGHTER

The last fare of the day was a moody guy who visits his teenage daughter in L.A. bi-monthly. He didn't seem too happy with his life, but I think I managed to uplift him ever so slightly. Since it was already 2 P.M. on a Friday afternoon, we took the local Brooklyn route to JFK.

FROM SHIFT #2

I was taken to work by a cabbie from Uttar Pradesh who has hacked only 1 day a week for 8 years. He spends the rest of his time as a termite exterminator.

A BACHELOR'S DEGREE DON'T MAKE YOU SMART

My first fare was a polite (but drunk) couple who came off as Columbia grad students. They had me transport them from Chinatown back to their uptown abode just after the bars had closed. They tried to pay with a credit card, but the transaction wouldn't go through. I gave them a cash receipt upon cash payment and she asked if she could have the receipt for the first transaction too. "It won't print out because it didn't work," I said. She got real nervous, as if under the impression that she had paid twice. I guess there are some crooked cabbies out there who tell you the credit transaction failed, even after it just processed successfully, so that you pay them in cash as well, essentially doubling the fare. She stumbled out all worried and said she would figure it out in the morning. I hope she figured out that there is nothing to figure out. And it was already morning, by the way, in Morningside Heights.

For those of you who constantly anticipate this happening, know that the great majority of cabdrivers are honest people, regardless of how rude they might seem to you. Driver rudeness comes from overworked jadedness so don't take it personal. If you have to swipe your card a few times before it works, there's no reason to believe it's charging every swipe. Only one successful swipe is possible per fare. If your card is declined or unreadable by the machine, don't assume the driver is secretly scheming to make you pay in cash. Both the cheap machines installed in our cabs by entities we have no control over, and the cards themselves, are unreliable and not in any way our fault. Try to have cash as a backup if you jump in a cab, and please be aware that if you end up making us wait for you to try all of the cards in your wallet or purse, or make us drive around to find you an ATM, the lost time is directly hurting our income for that shift, so tip accordingly.

SLEAZEBALLS GET FREE PIZZA

Another drunk fare entered the cab in Hell's Kitchen and asked to go to a pizzeria on 14th because a gay clerk works there who has a crush on him and always gives him free slices. This guy reminded me of my friend Cormac, but chauvinistically opportunistic. He spoke of the gay clerk the same way he'd speak of easy girls. Cormac isn't like that, but a doppelganger nevertheless.

NEW JERSEY! KNOW YOUR WAY HOME WHEN DRUNK IN NEW YORK

From that same spot two drunk teenage girls got in and asked how much to Jersey City. I said what I always say: regular fare to the tunnel and then double rate, plus the toll. They seemed clueless about directions once inside Jersey, so I held my breath for what might come next. Luckily, they accepted the PATH train alternative. I dropped them off at the Christopher Street station. Later I noticed a South African driver license in the backseat that might have belonged to one of them, but the picture didn't match my memory. Regardless, if you know anyone by the name of Melissa Coton, who left her ID in a yellow cab, please refer them to my email address.

SERVING THE HUMAN BEINGS OF BED-STUY

Because God only know how much they already put up with. Just before sunrise I was returning from a fare out to deep Brooklyn when a black woman and her three children (one an infant) hailed me on the corner of Bedford and Fulton. It's uncommon to be hailed by anyone in that neighborhood, much less a mother with her kids at dawn on a Saturday morning. I have no doubt in my mind that 99% of the other yellow cabs coming down that street would have flown right past them. I'm so glad I was hailed by them because I love serving the under-served segments of my city. To the Ridgewood border they were headed and I rounded the fare from 12 to $10, which she gracefully accepted, appreciatively.

HIPSTERS SEEK YELLOW CABS ON CERTAIN BLOCKS

I've had such good luck coming down a certain street after dropping off anywhere east of Bushwick Avenue, that it's become my routine route of return toward Manhattan. The Mckibben Lofts often have a steady stream of all-night party-goers exiting its doors. Whether they're waiting impatiently for a car service or walking to the L stop, they'll hail me if I roll by. This time I had two foreign hipster ladies, one from Italia and the other from Ecuador, on their way to 92nd and Madison, a $23 fare that most other cabs would have missed in their incessant race back to Manhattan. Why pay the return time and gas out of your own pocket?

DO YOU KNOW OF A GOOD PLACE?

At 7 A.M. I picked up a Montreal documentary filmmaker at Times Square. She's here to interview an elder Jewish writer who survived the Holocaust and she had stayed up all night to organize all of her information. She was headed to breakfast in the Village so she could stroll through Washington Square Park afterward. It's the second time in a couple months that an out- of- towner has asked me to recommend them a diner in the Village. What else but the Waverly? It's either that or 7A Cafe.

AN UPTOWN ROLL ON A SATURDAY MORNING

Downtime? What's that? At 8 A.M. I picked up an Inwood fare in NoHo. Along my return through Hamilton Heights I picked up another Inwood fare. Upon dropping that one off, an East Village fare hopped in. That's what I call an Uptown (and Downtown) roll. $32, 14, and 37.... back to back! And then right before 10 A.M. it happened again. I picked up an Upper West Side fare on Canal Street, and from there I didn't move an inch before a Brooklyn Heights fare hopped in. From that destination I had a lad with 15 minutes to catch the Bolt Bus on West 34th. Right on time! Those were $19, 31, and 25.... back to back! That's how you make $250 in 11 hours. A mixture of luck, intuition, talent, swiftness, and charm.

Go for a swim in the Florida Keys or anywhere along the Atlantic coast of Florida while you still can.....

Photo Credit: NASA's Terra Satellite/ The Huffington Post

Serene on the Seventeenth

Photo from fascinating Gothamist article about cabbies.

At 4:30 A.M. I depart the depot and come over the Brooklyn Bridge. Several vacant cabs hog the main off-ramp (Civic Center), so I opt for the Park Row exit instead. A vacant cab heads straight onto Barclay, so I go left down the Canyon of Heroes. Just before Bowling Green, I pick up my first fare. Up Avenue of the Americas. Right on 34th. Have a nice night (day).

Just a few feet ahead I stop for Craig, my second fare. We take Madison and Broadway all the way up to 161st Street. My taxicab is the friendliest, most non-judgmental one he's ever ridden in. His advice on heterosexual romance is the most omniscient and non-intrusive that a drunk, homosexual passenger has ever offered. By the time we get to Harlem, he feels so comfortable that he politely asks if he could sit up front, and I instinctively let him. He tacks on a $20 tip to the $19 fare and disappears into the predawn abyss.

As I make a U-turn for downtown again, I am hailed by a man trying to get to his hotel on 125th and St. Nicholas. It's his birthday and his "lucky night." At the first red light he rolls down his window and asks a woman walking on the sidewalk if she has a cigarette. She comes over and he opens the door. She steps right in and they start making out. I haven't had my cup of coffee yet and I'm entirely unsure of what's happening. She pets his head and tells him to relax. She has a thick New York accent and he sort of does, too. He rounds the tip to the next dollar and they step out.

Minutes later I scoop up two buff men on Central Park West at 105th, heading up to 171st and Fort Washington. As soon as they exit the cab, a vulnerable young transplant from San Luis Obispo runs over and hops in. He's going to 96th and Amsterdam. With that, my predawn roll in upper Manhattan ends. It isn't until after sunrise that I find my next fare, and only due to swift stratagem.

I'm cruising up 4th Avenue and vacant cabs infest every possible route, except East 10th. As I complete that long and potentially treacherous right turn, a man in my peripheral vision steps out of his apartment building. I slow to a crawl and poke my head out the window. Mere eye contact yields a trip to Flushing Avenue and Bogart (Brooklyn). I return via Metropolitan, which yields a pleasant fare back over the bridge to 9th and C, followed by okra on rice for breakfast, at the Punjabis on Houston St.

Around 8 A.M. I transport a Tudor City trio to Newark Airport ($55). After returning through the Holland Tunnel I pick up a Jewish trio in TriBeca, en route to Friends Seminary for their teen's exam. Upon dropping off, I turn the corner onto Rutherford Place and stop to jot down a few notes. Soon I hear whistling from behind. One of them needs a brisk emergency ride back to TriBeCa to grab documents they forgot at home, and then come right back. I do it all with a smile. He says, "I want you to have lunch on me." That's two $20 bills and $10 from the initial trip. $50 in 25 minutes. Or $105 in justsengers, bridges and tunnels, driver philosophy, exceptionally sweet passengers, food, income, lower manhattan, mid and uptown over an hour. That alone covers the (fixed) lease!

Second half of the shift coming soon to a blog near you.....
Stop in at the tips blog for today's digest: Wishful Yearning (Citizens' Band)

El Borachito de FiDi

I picked this guy up on First Avenue and 6th Street about an hour after the bars had closed. He asked to be driven to the corner of Wall and Pearl. I said no problem. He fell asleep early on in the ride and did not wake up. No matter what I did to awaken him at the destination, he would not respond. His breathing was normal, but he was obviously extremely intoxicated. I drove around the block and found two cops who shined flashlights in his eyes and lifted him into an upright position. They waited patiently for about ten minutes while he fumbled around with his wallet and was finally able to swipe his credit card and stumble home. Barely coherent, but visibly embarrassed, he apologized profusely to me and then to the cops. I hope he made it to bed that night (early morning).

PLEASE CHECK OUT MY LATEST DISPATCH ON TIPS FOR HACKS AND PASSENGERS.

IT'S CALLED "HOW A CABBIE WOULD CATCH A CAB"

Murphy's Homeless and Karma's Lonely

In front of this Vitamin Shoppe, next to the staircase to the ACE train, is someone's makeshift home. In life you either have enough to splurge much of the time, or you don't know where your next meal is coming from.

Just as people say they can always catch a cab, until they actually need one..... cabbies go through long vacant periods without finding a fare, until someone finally steps in. Then all of a sudden there are hands hailing on every street corner.

I once learned that Murphy's Law only exists in our overly logical minds. In reality, everything that can go right, will go right. Let's be thankful for every breath of air, every sip of water, every morsel of food, every ailment we're not undergoing, every single one of our functioning senses and organs, every warm and dry stretch of restful sleep, and every waking hour.

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.

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).

IMPACTS AND TAXI CATS

This past Sunday I drove the night shift. Around midnight I discovered these two cabs (above) on the corner of Broadway and E 9th. They seem to have been chasing after a potential fare on the curb and ended up on the sidewalk with the building's scaffolding all over them. Sunday nights can get downright ghost town. Especially after Halloween took all the limelight on Friday and Saturday nights. If you hail a taxi during hours in which there is a surplus of vacant cabs and a lack of passengers to transport, always be ready to run for your life if they decide to play chicken over you. Unfortunate, but true.

And ironically, that same night I was taking my friend Wald home, down Queens Blvd., through Sunnyside, and I got dangerously cut off by a minivan cab making a left from the middle lane, directly in front of me. I was on the left lane going straight and he was more interested in his ear piece than his mirrors. Lucky for me my reflexes are nearly immaculate and so I swerved gently and braked swiftly. I proceeded to complete the left turn he had forced me into and then got out to go give him a lecture.

He was completely oblivious to the wreck he had almost caused and even went on to use some obscure, unintelligible explanation about why I was at fault and not him. My friend Wald is my witness. I was driving the speed limit and minding my own lane when this guy made an abrupt 90 degree angle with his vehicle out of the blue. That happened around 1 AM.



The above pictures are of crashed cabs parked at my garage on McGuinness Blvd. and I have no clue what their stories are. And the cat up there is the taxi garage lot cat that meows day and night. I really hope it doesn't perish in the freezing cold this winter.

GUMPTION IS ESSENTIAL

NICE RUN: A CONSECUTIVE STREAM OF WORTHWHILE FARES. Mind you this developed during the otherwise slow mid morning downtime hours....

I fished two foreigners from the art galleries district at 10:15 am and ferried them to the Upper West by 10:30 ($16). Ten minutes later I had crossed over to the Upper East and caught yet a bigger fish. She'd just left dental surgery and mumbled a need to go to downtown Brooklyn. Clear and steady down the FDR and over the oldest bridge got us there by 11:00 ($25). The destination immediately became a point of origin when a lost couple approached the cab in search of Atlantic Yards Mall.

Upon dropping, a right turn on Atlantic Avenue yielded more fruit: a business lady who couldn't wait on the bus anymore ($10 for those two little fares). Within five minutes of that short trip into Cobble Hill I was positioned in the right place at the right time for a fare from the Heights to Kips Bay. She was a classic character of a Gothamite, although not memorable, aside from $20 made in 20 minutes.

Around the corner from that drop I came across an older lady with more humility and inner peace than all of that week's passengers combined. And like an angelic godsend, she had me stop on the very corner of 23rd and 9th where a younger girl and her suitcase awaited a yellow cadmium airlift to La Guardia. $37 in 35 minutes (gracious tip for graceful service).

Sitting outside Terminal B for the following 90 minutes might have seemed like the end of this "nice run", but the magic wasn't over yet. After a nice lunch break among the idle yellow rows of the central holding lot, a kindhearted couple from Toronto had me transport them to Gansevoort Hotel ($40 for friendliness and funicular finesse). The moment we pulled up, a doorman offered me a fare right back to La Guardia again. He wouldn't take my tip, but instead shook my hand and said, "you're the nicest cabdriver this taxi stand has seen today".

A rather pushy dude from southern California stumbled out of the lobby and made me guarantee him a $30 maximum. I said sure. It had been his first ever visit to NYC and the occassion was his 40th birthday. By 4 pm we were at the airport and he dished out $37 for the $30.10 on the meter. Must have been an enjoyable ride. With that it was time to return the cab and call it a day.

Long story short I grossed $200 in under 6 hours, which isn't incredible, but generally satisfactory considering I started that shift at 6:30 am, paid the garage $105 for licensed vehicle usage, and $25 at the gas pump. I had the overhead covered by the time this "nice run" began, so the math calculated out to around $15 an hour this time around. Not bad with the economy and all.

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.

PLUMP SAMOSAS

Shifting paradigms makes a really slow shift like the day after Christmas go by easier. I just imagine/pretend I live in a Communist state and so my job is not to chase desperately after the widest possible profit margin, but rather to serve the riding public as needed, in return for basic needs (net income on the worst days is literally hand to mouth).

Otherwise I'll drive myself insane to come up with 2 fares an hour. I took an Indonesian couple visiting from San Francisco to a NY Knicks game. They had not known that 'knicks' is short for knickerbockers, nor that 'the Mets' is short for 'the Metropolitans'. Los Metropolitanos (sounds better in Espanol)! Earlier that morning I'd taken a drunk young Jewish hipster home to the corner of Hooper and South 4th. Upon flagging me down by Tompkins Square Park he'd simply said "Williamsburg". I didn't want to pry at first, but as we descended off the bridge I had to ask which exit to use. His index finger flew in every direction. Next thing to come out of his mouth was, "this is Hasidic Williamsburg, I'm not Hasidic", all flustered and claiming he had given me the exact street corner upon entering. The 978th biting of the my own red hot tongue. He later apologized for being drunk and obnoxious.

New Year's eve is supposed to be the most lucrative of all 365 nights to drive a cab in NYC. But I decided to have a life for once. No use risking trouble with lunatic passengers, street closures, and intoxicated motorists. Instead I picked up my old friend Chip from the airport at 23:00 with two bicycles strapped to the trunk and we rotated amongst three parties on two wheels along the north side of Brooklyn. Liquid blankets for the zero degree wind chill and buzz clippers in hand for impromptu dance floor haircuts. 2009 came into view from the roof top terrace with a 360 degree panorama of fireworks and echoes of city wide mirth.

The night ended on a bad note when, at 4:30 am, I brought up the Strip to a circle of revelers. Someone went on to say, "why don't the Gazans go live in Damascus? It's nice there this time of the year." I couldn't help but respond with, "why don't the western Negevites go live in Moscow?" One side wants freedom and the other wants security. Can't become autonomous unless you give us quiet, but you can't give us that unless we give you a viable/workable sense of self determination and the smallest ounce of genuine respect. It's so non existent. Call me crazy, but if I had been the leader of the Zionists in the 1940s, I would have settled all my refugees in an area the size of the Gaza Strip, seeking the least problematic of possible spaces. Perhaps splitting into two enclaves. One on the Mediterranean coast and the other somewhere in the southern Negev. I would have maximized resourcefulness and humble appreciation amongst my population. I would have made sure that those who were already on the land when I got there were consulted with utmost esteem. That would eliminate the need for military defense. One dense, compact urban center or two for the Jews while the rest of Palestine be left to their jurisdiction. With their permission, we would have cooperated on extensive plots of mutual agriculture in the large rural tracts in between. And they would have gladly allowed us access to the biblical landmarks via organized round trip bus/truckloads to and from our enclave(s). This intense bilateral hatred wasn't there before we created it with our arrogant and (who truly knows how) violent push to take over and control every last square kilometer of that beloved territory. Unfortunately it's all or nothing with us (Jews). 'Nothing' being the annihilation we are at risk of experiencing if we continue building a monstrous list of enemies. Why must we be so thick headed? So ignorant of the humility our creator wants us to emulate. Imagine the tremendously beautiful coexistence we could have nurtured if we hadn't bullied our way through all these years. But I was raised in Los Angeles, Texas, and Florida, so what do I know?

A French New Yorker named Arnold got a flat on his brand new luxury SUV on E11th. I was the first cab coming down Third Avenue so I took him to buy one of those instant disposable mini C02 tire inflators from the nearest gas station. I offered to wait on the corner and mount his spare on if this didn't work. Turns out the valve was busted, so my idea was implemented, but not before he wasted another 15 minutes digging under the seats for an imaginary magic pump he claimed came with the SUV, according to the manual he kept perusing under cellular glow. I kept suggesting we bring the spare over to the same nearby station and inflate it there, which he finally succumbed to. He was also stubborn when I warned him of its instability with his wife and baby still inside, while the flimsy jack barely held up one side of his heavy vehicle. At some point someone had come out of their building and asked me to help them lift a delicate, old fashioned baby stroller up three flights of stairs. Almost an hour later Arnold had hit the road again with a smile. I was also wearing one, having received sixty dollars from him, after assuming I had missed out on crucial fares around town. As long as I'm not losing too much income, I love scenarios that go beyond the average taxi stint. Arnold more than reimbursed my time. The effort though was my pleasure.

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.