FIERCELY LOYAL GRAVY TRAINS

An azimuthal equidistant projection, centered at the North Pole, between two olive branches. That is the flag of the UN. What I wonder though is: who raises all the other flags every morning. Each time I drive past the complex, I can't decide if each nation has someone in charge of this daily ceremony, or if an anonymous team of blue collars is dealt the task. Is it done in unison, all 192 member states along the colorful corridor of flagpoles? I always forget to ask when a foreign delegate gets in my cab.

This week I picked up a book that I had given up trying to read years ago, because of time constraints and random circumstances. Now I feel bad for having neglected Jay Griffith's magnanimously omniscient writing. Some of my favorite chunks so far have been these:
"Time is not measured in hours but in experience."
"Only those who live not in time but in the present are happy."
"Sea Horses mate at full moon and it's the male that gets pregnant."
"Modernity knows the strut and the fret but not the hour."
"Time is highly political."

It was almost 5 am on Water and Pine when an Irish bartender stumbled out into the street. Nearly choking on his own drool he just barely sputtered directions at me. "Brooklyn Bridge. BQE to Maurice Ave." We got off the highway in Maspeth (Queens) and he kept saying, "left here". But there was no left to make. "You mean right?" He just got louder with his left rant. So I pointed to the right at the last second and asked, "this way?". He agreed buoyantly, fading in and out of consciousness. When we stopped at his duplex he opened the door and literally fell out unto the curb. The red flags inside my head had begun to tatter in the wind. I walked around and got in his face with an outstretched open palm. You owe me 24 dollars. "Alright, alright don't be a prick about it." He only had 11 in cash, 7 ketchup packets, a wad of napkins, a set of keys, and no CC.

After checking his emptied pockets 5 more times he had me follow him inside. When he turned on the lights his girlfriend laid half asleep on the couch and the dog had ripped apart countless random objects that were strewn about the floor. He made her go into the back and get money. This entire scenario reminds me of the time I tried to help my phlebotomist crawl out of her depression. An impromptu camping trip to the beach ended up inside a pitch black trailer home littered with mounds of dog shit that I got all over myself while trying to sneak out.

Five ladies from the UK giggled and gawked at my traffic maneuvers, all the way from Le Parker Meridian to TGIF. Just like their hotel's motto, they are "uptown but not uptight". And it was TGI Sunday to them. And it's true.... not all of Great Britain is cheap. These ladies tipped handsomely.

Out of the blue, my mother began screaming at me from inside her bedroom. I ran over to see her watching ABC news. She scolded me for always offering to make sure people's unwanted electronics end up away from the landfill. I try to be some sort of quasi eco-warrior but today the TV is saying that electronic recycling has a very dark side. It all ends up smuggled to China, where people in slums melt it down in exchange for $2 a day and a slew of ailments. Once again, the only true solution is reducing rampant consumerism and not being so naive all the time.

At the age of 14, my dad and I were traversing a darkened parking lot after our tennis match in the lit courts of a park in a suburb of Houston. A light in the night sky caught our attention. We watched it for a quarter hour as it made extraterrestrial movements. Hovering, then shooting across in a straight line, then shifting directions at unbelievable angles. It was too far away to reveal any structural detail. Just a white blob, slightly larger than that of a visible planet. Nothing is impossible to me. I used to borrow UFO books from the nonfiction section of the library as a teenager. The whole topic's been put on the shelf for years now though.

I didn't always have a job that I felt belonged to me and I to it. Being a yellow cabbie in NYC has indeed been my longest lasting and favorite source of employment. But it's only been that way for 25 months. Before that I had been a truck driver for a residential moving company in New Jersey, a bicycle messenger on the streets of Manhattan, a produce van deliveryman for a warehouse in Miami, a remodelation debris grunt (manual laborer) on oceanfront condos, a shelver/page at a public library, a graveyard shift custodian at my own university, a pedicab peddler (bike taxi) in West Palm Beach, a helper electrician digging trenches, assistant to a wheelchair bound nursery/metal shop owner, a nursing home companion, a silk fabric art exhibitionist's assistant, and last (and least)..... when I turned 16, my first job ever was at McDonald's. I've come a long way from $5.25 an hour.

CAUTION to NYC taxicabs:
new rule: no left on 40th off broadway.
new red lite camera: 9 av crossing 26th

NOTE TO ALL:
Take a moment to sign the petition at www.donotmail.org
and prevent telemarketing calls on your cellular by dialing 888.382.1222.
Follow the automated prompt for your 10 digits, or just get rid of the damn device.

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.

BAILIWIX AND BIVOUAX

Read (rap) these homemade lyrics to the beat of this instrumental:

Self appointed guardians of the status quo
Plainclothes detail struck with its own ammo
A deported Dominican at Queensbridge station
only tried to avoid some Metro card inflation

But who's a cabdriver to judge the situation
Roles would undergo weekly rotation if we had our way
Bus drivers, traffic agents learning empathy the hard way
Chess matches manifest in brain cell expulsion via urination
Without pointing at an empty bottle like taxi percolation

Cops hide out by the south exit ramp with a perpetually painful paper fine
For those coming off the FDR unto Houston without stopping at the sign
Little kid in the cab asks his mom: 'is it better to be early or on time?'
And when we arrive he asks 'are we late?' you know he's in line...
Phenomenal we're malleable as clay and yet some other mom allows her child to play
with the backseat GPS screen during payment with a credit card
and almost beats the fare by denying cash confirmation with no regard

A Chicago businessman bounces out of hotel 41 and hasn't had breakfast thus far
Cabbie asks if he wants to grab a slice as they roll passed the 99 cent pizza bazaar
Odd questions like this hurled from the front seat make a square feel awkward as fuck
But hey eccentric hacks can have exceptional knacks and still deliver the hurried puck
Just figured it made sense to sacrifice 10 seconds and undo two famished bellies
But this suit had no trust that both the means and the end could be smooth as strawberries

There's no shortage of white collar criminals, they're practically everywhere
Beijing reroutes water from thousands of miles and it's a loss that the farmers bare.
Four elder intellectualists crowd into the cab on their way to an art museum nearby
One of them compares collage journaling to visual hip hop, which nearly makes me cry.

On the next post you'll see a list of traffic regulations for each Manhattan intersection
and a list of all the other jobs that I've had since the age of 16 and their effects on my soul
And a list of peculiar prerequisites for the soul mate I haven't met before.
It's been plenty of years since I've had to find myself looking at the front door.

NO MARGIN FOR ERROR

Azerbaijan votes but there's no pluralism. Hindus and Christians in India force conversion upon each other. 40% of the world has no access to proper toilets. But all you can do is complain about the people who ride in NYC taxicabs. This pompous prick in a corporate suit walked across 50th street and pulled on your door handle as you pulled away, after writing a note in your journal. He was like 'whoa!' (applied to horses) and you braked abruptly. Stuck your head through the window and told him he should speak in advance... say "taxi" or something, you know? But he found this offensive. "Know what? I'll find another cab, idiot!", he slurred in a loathsome fashion.

They think taking a cab is like checking into a vacant restroom at Starbucks. No need to recognize there being an actual human behind the wheel. You're like a commode, available to hold his ass when he needs to go (somewhere). It took a lot of discipline not to step outside and swing at his face. Your NYC hack license is far more valuable. But this scene reminded you of another instance a few nights ago when these 2 married executives got in and wanted to go anyplace they might have luck getting laid. "Our wives won't find out you facilitated this. Just help some geezers out. Somebody's getting rammed up the ass tonight (LOL)." Only difference in treatment of the cabdriver was that the latter were drunk. Therefore, the patronization came in a lighter form.

Every time you're stuck in Second Avenue traffic around 8:30 am (where are you not stuck at that hour?) and explain to the passenger that it's the Midtown Tunnel jamming things up, they say, in a malapert way, "but why would people be leaving to Queens right now"... as if you tried to pull a fast one over their heads. "No, I'm talking about the influx."
"Ohhh, I see what you're saying."

It'll be hard to forget this one elder aristocrat who hailed you down by the end of W23rd. She wanted to take the 6 train back uptown. You hadn't even crossed 9th Ave. when she began asking if you thought it's good exercise to walk across town. It was one of her only times ever coming this far downtown. "Well of course it is".
"But I don't see any good clothing stores around here".
"Sure there are, haven't you heard of Ladies Mile?"
"Well, so show me then".
You made a left instead of continuing towards the subway station.
"What kind of shops are you looking for?"
"Top of the line, high fashion".
So you begin naming off the storefronts and when you say Eileen Fisher she perks up and squeals for you to stop right here, this instant. The fare is $5.70 and she dishes out 6. No other cabdriver would have treated her with such genuine consideration the entire length of the trip. Yet if you compare her tip and the average price tag inside that place, something ain't right. Perhaps if you were rude she'd ask for three dimes back.

When not driving the cab, you teach Yoram (your dad) computer literacy skills, like how to attach his resume to email in response to ads online offering employment to experienced electricians. He's got a job, but wants options in case the economy grinds to a halt. You also get him a web cam so he can keep in touch for free via Skype with his sister in L.A.. She (your aunt) happens to be among the most incredible artists on the planet, in the realm of collage journalism. An inspiration to those who try to place meaning on the subtle contradictions of life.

Dad is so adorable on the lap top. In a short span of time, he's gone from nothing to picking up his pouch of coffee and typing up a map search of its distribution warehouse in Paterson (NJ). Both of us are interested in exploring this the 2nd largest Arab American population outside of Dearborn (MI), and bringing some authentic Baklava back to Queens. What's that? Astoria, right. You 're left with a picture of the first night in months you went out with old friends. Cabdriver with a social life. What?

EXTOLLING BRUSQUENESS

The driver's lounge at your garage turns into the scene of belligerent feuds between our browbeating Russian dispatcher and a handful of west African drivers, over adjustments made in the daily lease rate and early bird special, as well as whether he's fibbing about the commission having threatened him with summonses for allowing us to surpass the 720 minute continuous vehicle operation limit.

Upholding your idea of what is a good cabdriver, you tune into the traffic report nearly 15 times an hour, in case someone gets in the taxi who wants to get somewhere affected by roving construction, an accident, or just plain volume. In between, the radio blares out snippets about the potential for solar powered desalinization plants to cover the world's deserts and the theory about terrorism being a symptom of alienation (and degradation of the environment being its cousin). You take this extracurricular taxi idea home by using Google to compile upcoming NYC events, planned street closures, and the schedule for Javits shows as well as cruise itineraries at piers 88, 90, and 92. This is recommended for all cabdrivers to do if they want more lucrative shifts and/or care about improving the yellows' reputation for conscientiousness, or lack thereof.

Got your fix of Autopanethnic news via Caracol (Colombia) and Mabat (Israel). After the recent riots in Akko, an Arab apologized for driving through the Jewish quarters with a loud radio during the strict holiday of Yom Kippur. But no record of a Jew apologizing for hurling stones at him and his little son. Your latest You Tube fixation lasts an hour. In those 60 minutes you and dad watch clips of near catastrophic airplane take offs and landings. Dad injects his engineering background into every scene in attempts to explain what went wrong.

A landscape architect from Argentina in lavish Oxxford suit over drank and lost his cell at one of the bars. It's 4 am and he wants to know how much you charge to Orange (16 miles into NJ). "What the meter says, plus double rate from the state line, and tunnel toll." He says never mind and begins to exit (as if you resemble a con artist). Wait, what did you expect to pay? "It's always $100." You guarantee the meter will total out cheaper and even let him call his phone with yours. 25 minutes later the bright red digits read $80.10 and he hands you 120, smiling and staggering out into a dusky October dawn.

Chip came for a ride in the cab last week, but it was too close to the 5 pm shift deadline. Instead of cruising in search of itinerant people to give him a feel for this magnanimous profession, we had to return over the Queensboro bridge to drop off the cab. Chip looks healthy even though he complained of Candida complications. He stuck to his ironclad diet in tupperware while we had veggie burgers and onion rings at the local diner. Speaking of the 5 pm shift cutoff: it sometimes calls for maneuverings and negotiations to maximize time, space, and monetary efficiencies. For example, it's 3:30 pm and a mom/son duo from the Satmar sect wish to go over the Billy bridge to prepare for the sabbath.

You can see inbound traffic backed up beyond the horizon, so it seems like the end of your shift by default. Who would've ever thought these last 90 minutes would see so much action though. You begin up Bedford Avenue towards Long Island City a little bummed out at having been booted from Manhattan so early on, yet too late. But then in the heart of hipster district a girl jumps in and requests Fort Greene. From there it seems best to use the Manhattan bridge, which nearly never sees a jam, and work your off-duty Queens bound again. On the corner of Tillary and Flatbush stand a crew of young Spaniard tourists awaiting a lift back into the island of money. And then another instant turnover further uptown that leaves you a 1/5 mile from base. What a chain of luck. An extra $45, all thanks to the hub at Williamsburg.

Autumnalities

Peruano father and son duo stand by their '84 Toyota van wagon, holding cables up high to an audience of frenzied autoists on 8 Avenue. You pull right in to give them a jump but nothing works. They coyly inquire a ride to Cobble Hill, if their 300 pound floor finishing machine fits in the trunk. The three of us barely manage. Meanwhile the radio blares about the jihadist diaspora, closet quranophilia, and auto-erotic asphyxiation . We return from Brooklyn to exhale that the meter maids have only now begun their rounds around the block.

I've been studying Mediterranean demographics and cartography in preparation for an adventure this spring. Not sure if these countries allow one to pass through without a return ticket. I think sufficient bank funds are a viable alternative. If anyone has hitch hiked through southern Europe, please share some info.

Highlights from July and August

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fruitcake Elucidations of Gotham

Juxtapositions of ethnicities that sit in the taxicab on a daily basis amaze me. And even more befuddling is when months go by without a single Filipino passenger, and then four pop up within a week. Mind you that 62,058 of them live in NYC. One of them was an adorably diminutive, yet thoroughly sagacious gastroenterologist on his way to BIMC. The second, an iron willed secretary of an important surgeon at Sloan Kettering Cancer Center, who spends every last nickel sending her child to the best school in Manhattan. The third, a charismatic sculptor whose day job is interior design. The fourth, an older and much less Amerissimilated agent of Manilabound tourism at the nonprofit building which houses the consulate. She lives walking distance but was running late that day. A sprinkle of vexillology to top off the paragraph: flag of Phillipines and Czech Republic are astoundingly similar, considering they have nothing in common, cultural nor geographic. Same for Indonesia and Poland. It's as if Oceania and Eastern Europe were destined to be each other's parallel alternates.

Motoyuki, a ship engine salesman from Osaka, entered the cab near Chelsea Market and explained that his name means "being honest" as we careened towards the WiFi hotspot of Murray Hill. "That was fun", said an older businesswoman en route to the NY Yacht Clubhouse. The otherwise 20 minute cab ride up Avenue of the Americas lasted 420 seconds at 6:30 am. It pays to rise with the sun when surface transportation is your mode.

A retired NYU administrative staffer fought her way into the cab as a brisk breeze blew. She claims to know every nook among these urban canyons where the angles made by the crisscrossing of several streets combine with open air squares to create acute drafts of wind that have been known to knock people down. She's keen on these micro jet streams since a hip replacement sensitized her.

Four suits on their way to the Apple store by Grand Army Plaza, speak in tongues and act like they're preparing to jump out of a helicopter and into a battlefield, assigning each other roles. Something about the mayor confronting someone over buying out the Wendy's Corp. You drop them off at some sort of live, televised press conference. They beat around the bush when you inquire. "Come pick me up later. I wish every cabdriver drove like you."

A tax lawyer, whose obscure accent is a blend of the Queens he grew up in and the Ireland his father who raised him is from, warms up to the psychologist cabdriver you bring out in yourself and shares what plagues his mind: "My job is to help rich people get richer (in court). It's morally corrupt because they just sit on it like eggs, while people with less who strive to succeed and do the right thing have no access to fair and square distribution of wealth".

I love how much easier it is to talk with someone about their hometown once you've swallowed a good book about that region. I remember as a little squirt borrowing the straight, dry lists of factual trivia from the library. Nowadays I seek out endearing sociopolitical stories in order to touch the more human spirit side of my favorite subject: geography. So I just finished this book, which has made my conversations with Brazilian passengers all the more alchemized. I'm unto another one now, about how this guy escaped hell on the fringe of his continent and started over in New York. However, I'm bound to run into more Sierra Leonese cabdrivers than back seat passengers. Still, no less potent a dialogue.

The turbulent state of our economy has shown its face in my cab these past few weeks. Many passengers on their way to job interviews after getting laid off from big shots in the financial world. Not sure where their next pay check might come from. Yet too much in denial to admit that a cab ride is no longer in their budget. The manager of a Starbucks in Midtown had me reverse the cab until it lied near a storefront covered completely by newspaper, cardboard, and tape. Inside was the hollow skeleton of what used to be a cafe. She was shocked by the thrill on my face when asked to help load some boxes. I'm in desperate need of less mental exercise and more perspiration, as muscle atrophy and spinal paralysis looms amidst 240 hours of car seat posturing. So we delivered a full cab load of coffee shop paraphernalia another location that isn't going out of business and I was rewarded with an iced Macchiato.

In enters a 'friendly' man who until yesterday was a diamond dealer, and is now in search of a new 'career'. Thanks for the 10% tip. It really demonstrated your appreciation for my willingness to take you six mangled, gridlocked blocks in the opposite direction as my garage, where the cab was due back in 15 minutes so that the night driver (who has 3 children to feed) could start his shift. Remember my off-duty lights were lit, doors clamped shut, and I decelerated only because your face was moaning in agony and your finger was pointing towards Brooklyn. You even blasted the synthetic air that gives me migraines on this gorgeous, no-where-near humid day of 81 degrees and gas is at $4.33/g..

I feel like I got manhandled by you in half a dozen different ways. Where'd all those diamonds go? People only keep what they give. Therefore we're losing nearly everything. This man had got so sympathetic with me when I mentioned that dad is Israeli. He even shared his handful of distorted Hebrew phrases for a few moments. And your mom? She's Colombian. Oh. Awkward gap. Take it all back. Nothing against latinos. Just lost the mutual Jew 'contact high', that's all. The only way to correct having humiliated someone is by being humiliated.

ITINERANT IRREFUTABILITIES

Far away from ever being the victim of an existential crisis. That's you. The dawnielitic beings have arrived in a grease capsule to work on a vegetable farm in Virginia. If you could reclaim the freedom you once knew, you'd be there in a pulse throb. Farming is one of those dharmic human doings worth having your ignorance deplored about. But here you are in the city without a way out, for now. So into the taxicab we go for another hundred mile cacophony of scribbles on the street map of your life.

A pair of 'Ash the Berber' types, but Irish, tip selflessly for a smooth ride from the Bowery to West Fourteenth. A humorous old man travels crosstown to the diagnostic imaging place. One of his jokes: "...a cabdriver speeds up and runs a red light. speeds up again and runs another red. does it a third time. then approaching a green light, he outright sits on the brakes. why'd you stop here of all places? because you never know when there might be another cabdriver running the red light." Don't know about you, but that had me laughing hard. In enters another old man, but in a sharp suit and with no signs of decrepitness, he requests a ride up to Spanish Harlem. As you drop him off in front of the GoSo office, he gets awfully hubristic about his role in reducing recidivism among young men.

A wise young lady who reminds you of Daina Thomas just has to go a few blocks along E 72nd. Says she likes to interview cabbies and asks for your feelings over the credit card machines. She's collecting a rainbow of hackney responses for a letter she'll be writing the mayor. It's a tradition she has kept up ever since Mr. Dinkins himself actually wrote her back in 1990. You get political with your next passenger, a slick Egyptian buck, over the unethical behavior of most governments for the sake of monetary comfort and complacency.

One thing in particular is strongly agreed upon: "rather be homeless on the streets than to know someone died because of me." And the next fare is an Asian-California girl who just spent months touring the country to organize rallies for the Hillary campaign and is a bit bummed about it being over. And then a Jersey couple whose family is visiting from India try real hard to negotiate a flat rate to Niagara Falls and back, which is impossible to do in a dozen hours, and they wouldn't want to embark at 4:30 am anyhow. But there's no getting through to them.

An engineer who just returned from erecting a skyscraper in Dubai catches a ride from the Flower District to his one night crib while boasting the fact that Antarctica is the only place he hasn't been. It could have been a fascinating chat, but instead you drown in his vainglorious hypnotism. You yell something at someone through the window just to break up the stale monotony of his voice. You head back downtown vacant and available until an elder Italian Jew and his alert little granddaughter step in, bound for the salute-to-Israel parade. He tells his tale of driving a retired 1970s NYC Caprice yellow cab through 24,000 miles of Latin America and beyond.

Next in is a modest guy who looks like the helicopter pilot on Airwolf, the 1980s TV series that was among a handful of afternoon anesthetics your mom was clever enough not to let you watch too much of when you'd come home from school. He said he'd look up the resemblance on You Tube. Side note: If a Benz or BMW driver gets angry when you cut him off with your yellow cab, tell them "hey, I've got to earn my swanky beamer too. Ya know?" (ya right).

To get home and hear your sister recalling her great day at the summer internship makes each grueling shift worthwhile. You accidently hooked her up with this spot while being the random yellow cab that stopped when the fashion wizard's business partner hailed his hand up high a few weeks ago. It's going to look so good on her resume.

Synchronicities happen often enough to keep you ceaselessly humble, but only if you're outside the mental bubble enough to intercept them. I leave you with 2 outstanding photographs a Viennese friend took while riding in the cab.

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.

NERIPHERAL POTORIETY (spoonerism)

Good Friday at four in the a.m.. A plastered monomaniac hails my orange yellow streaks to a halt on the cadaverous streets of Nolita. He wants to go home (Pattery Bark City) and then requires hands on assistance with touch screen and visa swipe. I hand him his receipt and help him out of the cab. He says "I love you man" and hugs me insalubriously. Taxi remains vacant until a sudden swarm of cabs directly in front of me quickly clot up 11th, as people pour out of webster hall. One late-teen Latin-Am kid with a robust New York accent steps in and corroborates 172th by Wort Fashington. After a silent ride up the FDR, I utter the only phrase of the night: "If I'd been raised up here, I'd have spent my childhood walking across that majestic bridge." He responds flatly, "why?". Different worlds. Two fares later the sun is beginning to pop out from under Nuffolk and Sassau counties and I give this grandiloquent hipster a ride out to White Slope. "85% of cops are sociopaths. NYPD pulled me off the subway and cuffed me into an ambulance to central booking in Brooklyn for an open container the other night. My dad happens to be a top notch attorney....". I'll agree with him on one thing for sure: Cops have the tendency to be unreasonably spiteful, and that is quite frankly so unprofessional of them.

As dawn transforms into a full fledged weekday morning on the streets of Manhattan, I have the honor of transporting one of the friendliest passengers I've ever (16 months) taken, clear across 57th from east to west. We discuss a range of ideas in a truly peer atmosphere, whereas most professionals of her stature would have come off at least a tad bit patronizing. Turns out she's with that mag and we marvel symbiotically at the way the futuristic glass tower she works at stems right out of an old landmark building. It resembles a truncated version of Seattle central public library's architecture. As noon approaches I spot a large tribe of confused upscale Korean families trying to pack unto an eastbound hybrid SUV cab on West 23rd. Some of them pile in with me and ask that we follow the other. Their daughter wants to study art in NYC, and we dive into a language barriered, yet utterly animated chat about how art for the sake of expressing meaningful human urgency is so unexpendable. They pass around my collage journal of maps that display the route of any given day shift and brief accompanying descriptions of the wide passenger spectrum.

As the afternoon matures, my fares remain somewhat noteworthy. Four dude boy tourists from Quebec hop in near FIT and ask for Chinatown. "The real one with alleys that smell of fish and vegetables with no english names?" I try to seduce them, but of course they're only interested in fake trinkets on Canal Street. Next a posh waitress from Solita to Murray Hill, who tries to hide a pooch in her coat, until it starts to squeal. Her cellular discourse lasts the entire trip, and is about the fish cutter at the restaurant where she works, who died of cancer and his family can't afford a burial, so everyone is pooling their tips, and it's SUCH a drag.

The last chain of fares begin with a cute young orthodox couple from Mt. Sinai to way the F out in Boro Park. We see a jam on the BQE from across the river and our mutual brainstorm leads us away from the bridge, through the tunnel, and down Hamilton Avenue. After maneuvering along back roads to avoid traffic, making good time, and serving them with a smile, they painstakingly add 70 cents to a $41.30 fare. It's OK tho, cause I get to witness the rambunctious extent of an ongoing Purim pandemonium on every block. And my sweetest Brooklyn dream unfolds when that first fare becomes three or four more non-Manhattan fares. Like an outer-borough pinball machine from Kensington to Midwood. Then the Gowanus to Sunset Park. And finally from Atlantic Yards to Bushwick. On the way back to the island of money, two signs catch my attention: "Eco-accountability" and "Love your neighbor preemptively".

(DATE ON PHOTO IS INCORRECT)

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.

Esophagus Soup

Eleven degrees and atramental at six am. Taxi murmurs motionless at a red. I gaze at the 192 flagless poles of the UN headquarters. A discreet duo of corporate pigeons abruptly pop open the back door and shove their shivering bodies into my clement cacoon of a cab. "61st Street, the L.A. sports club, please driver." Gyms are good places to thaw out your bones.

A few fares later I pick up an 'easy come, easy go' Boriqua woman, who explains her role as 'medical biller' for much of the ride from Hamilton Heights to the hospital in Lenox Hill. Clerical and quite boring. Just as she boasts being in charge of the cardiovascular division, two people call in, directly to her cell, that they're unable to emerge from under warm blankets and are opting for a sick day. Her sighs are of understanding though, as we careen down Amsterdam Avenue.

One fare melts into another as this scruffy dude from Ukraine, in Carhartt overalls, has me take him to the district of galleries. Then the man who steps out of an animal clinic and says his hometown of RI is a mafia state, while holding a dog who's soon having adrenocortical carcinoma removed. Right beside us a white lady cop pulls over a white lady in a compact car for not wearing her seat belt. Rare combination.

A couple miles further up an agent from Department of Transportation pulls alongside some Con Edison trucks on Avenue of the Americas that are stationed on the middle two lanes, clotting up the flow of traffic with uncovered 'manholes' and orange cones. I watch as the agent snaps harshly at their perpetual cigarette break. They snap back with union rhetoric. All in a good NYC day shift.

Que Berraquera

At the end of a grueling midmorning crosstown ride, don't make the cabdriver proceed into your block if it's only three doorways down from the corner where another passenger awaits service, and you have no heavy cargo to unload. This can make an enormous difference in the cabbie's daily total. It's all about the turnover rate. Never mind the tip.

A retired news photographer hailed me on E 72nd and the whole way over to Hell's Kitchen his memories of chasing after structure fires, homicide scenes, political rallies, and celebrity sightings are regurgitated by our urgent maneuvering of the avenues. Seconds after he steps out, a gypsy lady gets in and wants Lincoln Center. What starts out as a smile quickly turns into an avalanche of slurs and sounds of coke being snorted, and ends with the seat cushion being hurriedly slapped clean. And she remembers to pay the fare.

After witnessing an elder entrepreneur from Mali get refused by three cabs just above Times Square, I welcome him in. He's headed back to his African art gallery in westernmost Chelsea and speaks of fighting to keep the home he owns in an increasingly Hebraic neighborhood across the Hudson, where they pay a third of the property taxes in order to cleanse it of

its gentiles. Later on an ambulance runs me off the road as I escort some web designer from his office in the Flatiron district to his apartment off Wall Street. We joke that its driver must have spun and scratched many a turntable record, telling from the unctuous styles of his siren blares.

If I preoccupied myself with finding a lawful parking spot at each urge to urinate, I'd literally be making single digits an hour. So instead I stay on duty until a metered space materializes. With a 200 minute long bloated bladder I pull into a vacancy on Bleecker and drop quarters into the pole. The manager at Manatus refuses to allow me relief because I'm not a customer. He sees my taxi in the window and I remind him that I'm the customers' transportation. Find out who finally lets me pee.

Every now and then a passenger

wearing oversized headphones enters the cab and voices their destination in accidentally high decibels. And for the remainder of the ride it's the same with anything they feel like saying. Amusing and simultaneously obnoxious. Then there are those riders who make my day with comments like: "that was the safest, yet fastest taxi trip I've ever had. Got there in record time, and my pancreas isn't in my throat." Sometimes my own mother calls me up to see if I can take her shopping for Kosher products in South Williamsburg. We always try out new stores, but the Satmar community rarely fails to leave her feeling alienated and unwelcome. You'd think they'd be into people buying their theosophical food. Go figure.

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

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

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

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

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

somnambulance

I must start keeping tape and scissors in the glove box from now on, because I love the idea someone had of posting an article on the wall at the JFK taxi hold that's relevant to cabdrivers, and watching them crowd around in a half circle and hullabaloo over its implications. The one hanging up this week was about undercover TLC enforcers hailing cabs just to see if we deter them from swiping a credit card. At 10 am the lot had 40% capacity and 'regular activity'. But still it took until 12:30 to get into a terminal. Too long of a wait that results in sub-minimum wage earnings by the end of the shift.

The young English couple I drop off at Millenium Hilton graciously add $10 to the flat fare, and switch places with a post-teen j.a.p. who is late to her afternoon shift in the Garment District. After stepping off the East River teleportation device unto 42nd, which vacuums the taxicab westward in 400 seconds, I let her off on 6 Av, and point her in the right direction. No need for either of us to agonizingly endure that specific crosstown street (39th) she had first requested. It only takes a couple seconds of pep talk for her to agree that 792 feet are completely walkable. Moments later Times Square yields a pair of Spaniards on route to the liberty tours heliport for an insanely priced panorama of New York. And just down a dusty road in far northwestern Chelsea two Germans hop in, needing to be rerouted to the other helipad, way downtown. The meter prints its final receipt of the day and, like divine geo-synchronism, the bridge home to Brooklyn awaits just up ahead.

With one red light on Water Street left to sit thru, I watch dozens of stranded people waving at me, and all the other off-duty cabs around. I roll down the window to ask the plainclothes lady nearest to me if she's going to Brooklyn, cause I'd take her free of charge. The only opportunity all day to bring carpool/ridesharing ideologies to life and she shreds it to pieces. "I'm a cop", she boasts. "What's your medallion number, I'm reporting you." It's true the TLC does make it illegal to ascertain a passenger's destination before they get in. However, that rule exists to keep drivers from being pick-and-choosy about fares throughout the course of a shift. Because everyone deserves to go where they need to go, regardless of distance (within the 5 boros).

Between 15:30 and 17:00 it's a whole other ball game. Cabdrivers MUST return the cabs to their respective garages so the night shift can go out. This is when it is essential that people on the streets of Manhattan understand something very clear and simple: negotiating patiently until you match the direction you're going with that of an off-duty cabdriver is the ONLY way to keep the first part of an evening rush hour from paralyzing NYC. Or do you like the 3rd world conditions? If so, keep dialing 3-1-1 like righteously ignorant gringos.

IF YOU LIKE THE ABOVE MAP, PLEASE VISIT THIS ARTICLE. IT'S WAY COOL!!!

This one hit me like a brick.

"I do not understand how a government agency can require a privately owned business to accept anything other than United States Currency, or a government voucher. In my opinion this is a dangerous precedence and I hope that someone will pursue this issue further. If taxi companies choose to accept credit cards that is one thing. The government should not be forcing anyone to do business with VISA, MasterCard or American Express. This is outrageous."
— Posted by SF Taxi Driver
(EXCERPT TAKEN FROM COMMENTS ON http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/ )

I'd rather live in Sunset Park

A combination of radioactive diarrhea and wet, quasi-frozen street surfaces kept me from opting for 2-wheel transportation today. Besides, buses allow for further readings of The Brooklynites, an awesome book with images of 'random' people who live in this borough and captions that capture their voices. And now we dive into that yellow cab. Fastforward the reading tempo: This matter-of-fact kind of person asks to be delivered from the spotlight of a street lamp in SoHo to an underground parking garage in NoLita. It's a 2.5 minute long fare that might seemingly exasperate a cabbie, but to me it's nothing less than the first trip of the shift, a great warmup calisthenic (12 hours yield 20 to 35 fares total). Then a suit comes bouncing smugly round the corner. The moment I turn left, his grin makes sudden sense. He's beat someone with lots of luggage, to my taxi. There goes an early airport fare (extra miles mean meter multiplicity in pre-cockcrow trafficlessness). The next 4 uncarpooled fares (ecological karma descending fast as the ascending national debt) materialize as 4 sterile suits. All display similar behavior: a gray area between 'best bud' and genuine prick. One tries swiping his debit card over and over while the bellman opens and closes, and opens his door in utter confusion. Another standoffish, but potentially flamboyant suit is expedited from Battery Park to Central Park South.

I love how after a certain hour the suits are all in their conference cubicles and everyone hailing a cab from that point on is a character of some sort. An elder whose life brims with synchronicity and she glows because of it. The Guatemalan futbol fanatic who brings me up to date on global preparations for world cup 2010 in South Africa. An rt gallery assistant who promises to teach me Mandarin. The Scottish dancer on crutches who lies on the phone about being 5 minutes away for her doctor's appointment, and the FDR Drive that facilitates it from being too far from the truth. Some down-to-earth guy with a feathered hat. An immaculate expedite (minimal use of brakes for any reason and wise grid navigation by maximizing use of traffic light patterns) of a young lady from Essex Market in the LES to the Film Forum in NoCa is rewarded with an 80% tip. An NJ girl appreciates the bright blue jacket compliment, which I spot a 1/2 block away. It's the 1st time she "successfully hails a cab from across 14th street like that".

Finding myself surrounded in a sea of empty cabs with numbered roof lights brightly lit is like having my tail between my legs. Independent, yet humiliated... and seeking to go off on a tangent, ASAP. Technical tip for fellow cabbies: cruise up the Bowery from Delancey to Houston for droves of art zealots exiting this recently opened venue. That one goes out to Aziz, the Moroccan cabbie I met at LGA, who's trying to write a better guide for NYC taxi drivers than the one that's currently offered. He confirmed the intuition which led me to believe that Arabization of northwestern Africa was heralded by the Yemenites. But that does not take away from the fact that the world's greatest accordionists and Salsa musicians are Colombian. And don't forget: no left turns from 57th unto Broadway between 8 and 19:00, unless it's Sunday.