"Graffiti Free NYC"

Cute little trucks parked along what I call "Identity Crisis Lane". Heading uptown from the Brooklyn Bridge it starts out as "Centre Street," through the Civic Center and Chinatown. It briefly gets renamed "Cleveland Place" before becoming "Lafayette," through SoHo and some of the Village. All of a sudden it's "Fourth Avenue" from Astor Place to 14th Street, before morphing into "Union Square East" for three blocks, and becoming "Park Avenue South" through Gramercy Park and Murray Hill. Finally, it matures into just plain simple "Park Av" for the rest of its journey through Mid and Uptown. These shots were taken in NoHo between Bond and Great Jones.

WTF is Going On?

Been listening to WBAI news radio while steaming dinner and washing dishes. All the dire issues I somehow fail to hear about anywhere else have got me in a tizzy. Why is something 35 miles away permanently leaking radiation, threatening my water, and sitting atop a geological fault? Why are ATF agents making monetary gains from arming Mexican paramilitary factions that broaden the bloodbath?

What are intellectual property rights [excuse to push for complete control of the last free range space (infobahn) left] if there really isn't even such a thing as invention, when one humbly acknowledges that parallel microcosmic replicas are all derived from the ultimate parent macrocosm? I mean who do you think you are? And all I hear on other stations is about there being 4 rats for every New Yorker and how most of them live in the subway thanks to commuter food donations.

Back from the trivial and still on the subject of egotistical audacity. How is it that Monsanto is destroying everything and everyone in its path unbridled? And to ensure their profitable path of total annihilation, they have the gall to turn around, accuse, and sue farmers for inadvertently (helplessly) acquiring (by way of wind) the "technology" of contamination that these farmers were in fact trying to offer consumers alternatives to. How do these people live with themselves? How do they sleep at night? How do judges find it fair to empower them? And not that I'm one to count on "the government" for anything, but how do you allow this?

I feel helpless as the world seems to creak into collapse. My tear ducts resemble a dam with a trembling crack in it. To add to my emotional state is the fact that in the last three days, after a clean year, I've been pulled over twice and given tickets for the most absurd reasons. The city has no problem unleashing its human kennels into the streets to intentionally jeopardize the livelihoods of honest, proficient, hardworking cabbies for the sake of, hell, I dunno, revenue? And when I bring the cab back to the garage 4 hours into the 12 hour shift and announce I'm quitting for good, I get a lecture from my Pakistani dispatcher on how bad he had it back when he drove and how much of a cry baby I'm being. Then a lecture from the Bangladeshi cashier on how no matter how difficult life is, I should always thank the maker.

On the way home I scheme out various options. Back to trucking for the moving company in New Jersey? Over to Philadelphia where my friend has his own little indie moving service? To the airport to apply at one of the airlines so I can work towards free flight points? I take a nap in my bed to awaken refreshed and reconciled. Ain't goin' to let a few bully cops and oblivious passengers keep me away from the freedom and independence of a job I love doing well, in the city I serve with pride. Not yet, anyway. Time is coming soon though.

In fact I'm such an upstanding sucker than when two Colombians (well-estabished Manhattanites) at Kennedy step into my cab, having just met each other on the return flight from their monthly sojourn to the homeland, and reveal two distinct destinations deep into the fare, I can't quite bring myself to turn off the meter upon arrival at the first stop (57th and Tenth), in order to collect my flat 45, and turn it on anew for trip #2 up the Henry Hudson Parkway to Washington Heights, all in baseless fear of being labeled a crooked cabbie. I'm entitled to two separate payments, but instead I just hope and pray that she'll take my leniency and the extra distance/time/gas into account. Especially after we establish, in the midst of a friendly en-route chat, that neither of us are entirely sure how the law explains it, but theoretically fare #2 would've been about $20. And besides, I'm a compatriot (born in Colombia). Unfortunately most countries are made of at least two countries. In this case, Colombia of the Haves and Locombia of the Nots.

Says she'll even things out on the credit card tip, by which she means 25% instead of the customary 20%. That makes $56.88, minus the ironical 5% taken out. In reality the whole journey was well worth around $78. By then it seems too late to voice any protest, since it's really my fault for being such a well-mannered, well-meaning sucker in the first place. Between the cops, passengers like this, the great rat race of New York, and the global absurdities i hear about on WBAI, my once entranced soul and spirit is rotting out from the inside. I'm increasingly jaded, angry, frequently prone to bawls, and all but hopeless about the fate of humanity. But the putrefaction will never touch my deepest core, which is made of endless inextinguishable light. I'm back to work tonight. Unshakably yellow, with dirty hands brown in solidarity with farming families still trying to preserve a millenia old tradition of saving unaltered seed, not poisoning their crops, and being gentle with their livestock. At one point in history, 60% of Americans were farmers. Today there are more people incarcerated here than there are farmers.

Empathetic Solidarity

I always keep a bag on the side to collect cans and bottles of value to give to people laboring after them on the streets. Some of what I collect is from my own consumption, but much of it I gather from my building's recycling bins in the basement every time I go downstairs to dump the remaining recyclables that aren't of street value. It's easier to do when the bags in the bin aren't completely commingled and full, but these people have not the anytime access to the bins that I do. It doesn't take a lot out of my time and it makes me feel a little more connected with the fact that though I complain about my meager income driving a cab, much of the world's population labors many more hours than even I do, for much less compensation, and with many more mouths to feed. I got the picture from this article, which I understand and agree with on one hand, but being innovative and a lynchpin doesn't always guarantee financial comfort.

People often approach me with the same mentality as the author of this article, asking me "what I'd like to do when I grow up?" If my answer's anthropology, they say I need school. What better school than taxi driving, nitwit? My other answers include writer, artist, farmer, tour guide, paramedic, ambulance driver, etc.. "In that order?," they ask while laughing. It's not ridiculous to have many different pursuits in life, so don't ridicule me. Instead, why don't you try shifting your whole paradigm and look at it from a standpoint of appreciation for people's hard work, regardless of how 'entrepreneurial' they may be in your eyes, especially if their work is an important one that helps keep society (or the world in general) in balance, or at least moving?

New York runs on cabs and needs competent cabbies, or am I wrong? Perhaps I am wrong after all. That is why I'll soon be joining the exodus of bright minds from this industry. Back to the subject of recycling. We need to recycle our rubbish or else face a non-sustainable future, right? So instead of labeling these people as lazy or not resourceful, why not support their efforts to eke out a living by making it a little easier for them? I encourage you to start having a bag set aside for cans and bottles of value to them. You can tell by looking on the can or bottle itself. In New York, for example, it must say 'NY' and the value in cents.

Garage Panoramas

January 21: first snow since late October. Climate trans-myoo-tey-shuh n?

Glamorous life of a cabbie. Back seat nap at the garage while queued pre-shift.

Restroom at the garage. Fit for livestock but at least they have one, right?

Meaningful Juxtapositions

semi-wild felines of the taxi garage

(fed regularly by some of the drivers themselves),

juxtaposed with my old trusty "China Truck Bike,"

with matching background rust (named after 80s Beijing traffic)

my previous employer (in Perth Amboy, NJ)

stopped by to visit but no one was there (a sunday).

still enjoyed juxtaposing speedy yellow with the truck I used to drive

back in 2006, before I got a hack license.

only other job I've had since moving here was bike messaging in Manhattan,

when I was fresh from Florida. It's been a long road, literally.

always delivering something or someone.

even down south I was an organic produce delivery van driver.

adventurous young tourist couple caught trespassing

with 'deplorable intentions' of exploring abandoned, overgrown buildings

at Brooklyn's Navy Yard. i was pedaling home along Flushing Avenue's bike lane

when all of a sudden this patrol car made a crazy u-turn (nearly hitting me)

and drove down the wrong side of the street.

i stayed to watch the cops make them climb back over the tall fence.

her bright red coat and their leisurely approach

(instead of swiftly subtracting street visibility)

is what sadly gave them away

Healthy Eating as of Late

egg sunny side up, whole garlic chopped, baby carrots, mixed greens,

sliced cucumber, dried arbol (hot red pepper), and a mug of joe for dinner

cheerios and wheat puffs in greek nonfat yogurt (not milk)

with brown pear chunks and a generous sprinkling of ground flax seed

for breakfast (past dinnertime for most westerners)

This Past Tuesday's Shift

Dished out $110 for the 12 hour lease and pulled out of the lot with 7L71 at half past 2. First thing I heard was a Russian spokesman on WBAI: "truly speaking nobody cares" (on selling Syria arms to quell its people). I'm thinking, "Russia has 140 million minds (hearts). That's a lot of indifference." 49% of food stamp recipients in the U.S. are white and NYC janitors make absurd amounts of money (thanks Newt). Nothing like late night news via taxicab radio.

My first fare's a blond mid-age Brit. She requests the Manhattan Bridge from Delancey and Ludlow to Myrtle and Nostrand. I'd a taken the Williamsburg to Lee, but I do as I'm told. "Stop at the deli, I need to get milk. Do you need anything? Please don't leave me here in this neighborhood." No thanks (and you haven't paid me yet so why would I take off?). $17 for a 14.30.

Marcy to Union and my next fare is an semi-awkward peer from Bedford's hip strip to 1 River Place (off W42 in Manhattan). We talk about music. Grunge was his thing back in 8th grade. Same here. Says he can only listen to Punk if it's harder than the pop sort. I play him some Casualties and he's down. $24 for a 19.90 [by credit card (take 5% off total)].

Been eating mad healthy last few days so I treat myself to a couple slices of cheese at the original 99 cent Pizza on Ninth behind the bus terminal (owned and operated by a crew of Bangladeshi harlequins). I down the last of 15 antibiotic pills from last week's ear crisis with a can of root beer and spend the next 45 minutes frantically searching a fare (ironic time for a lull in business as 4 am comes and goes).

A girl jumps in at Essex and Rivington, headed to Blissville (via BQE, McGuinness, and the G-point bridge). On her way to work. She didn't know the neighborhood's historic name. "Someone must've been happy when they named it." Actually it's named after mid-19th century developer Neziah Bliss and its only landmarks are the enormous tombstones at Cavalry. $15 for a 13.90 [meager tip (minus 5%) for an immaculate ride and free history lesson].

Over to Bedford's trusty hip strip again and I catch one to FIT. He's actually going to the Chase bank nearest 29th and Ninth. Online with his phone, he changes the destination twice and still isn't sure. Without saying a word I simply drive him to the branch on 27th and Seven (one I'm familiar with). $18 for a 15.10 (minus 5%).

At Eighth and 23rd I catch fare #4. He's just going to Penn Station, but our mutually spastic mannerisms jive well and feed of each others' high strings. We're there in 15 seconds and he gives me a fiver for 3.80. Then up on Eighth and 56th I find a good listener to hear out my rants while I drive him over the upper level to Astoria. He agrees this taxi life stuff sounds rough. Sixteen in cash for a 12.70. I don't rant for tips, believe me.

Back into the city and zig zag the east side and bingo at Third and 33rd. This one ain't cut and dried though. A drunk, fabulously flamboyant Irishman has lured three drunk Mexicans out into the street from a bar and kitchen he'd patronized while they were wrapping up their shift.

It took them a good three minutes to figure out who was going and where. I dropped 3 of them off at Queens Boulevard and 46th. The fourth one, who had been sitting front seat with his head dangling out of the window, was to continue all the way home to the beach neighborhood of Rockaway Park and pay the full fare for all of them. I bluntly asked why the well-to-do guero hadn't chipped in. He looked me in the eyes, and in spanish, with as sober a tone as he could muster, told me not to worry cause his brother's a cabbie and for that reason he couldn't wrong one if he wanted to. He then asked if he could take a nap. Como no? Claro que si!

As he snored through his thick drool (his repeated attempts to puke had all failed) on the door, I carefully (so as not to stir his stomach) made a right on Woodhaven and drove straight down to the ocean with the heat blasting to make up for the open window (see photo above). With the $1.80 toll it came out to 51.70. I waited 5 minutes while he went inside to get more cash. He paid $60, in all singles, and apologized for being a busboy. I felt bad for taking his hard earned cash, but I'm not the one who decided to get too drunk to take the A train home. Actually, it's a hell of a long way (end of the line) no matter how you slice it.

Just then the sun had risen (it was 7 am). I stopped for coffee and a donut and watched seagulls pass overhead while the radio announced that last night a 50 year old man in Ozone Park (just beyond the bay from there and one neighborhood over from mine) had lit a firecracker that ruptured his gut and killed him. Having been up since 10 am Monday morning, the surrealism of it all had me smirking like De Niro. Typical for sunrise on any shift consisting of those hours.

I drove back just the way I came and found a fare from Woodside back out to Kennedy. Three courteous men from Bangladesh (two of them cabdrivers) to catch an Emirates Airlines flight. $38 for a 33. Getting there was a breeze, but coming back would've been a standstill, so I stayed at the holding lot and took a two hour nap in the back seat. I was dispatched to the same terminal (4) I'd dropped off at. An East Asian lady and her curious, wide-eyed son of about 7 (who watched my every facial gesture and wheel maneuver) were on their way to the Sheraton near Times Square. The radio reported heavy traffic on the bridge so I took the tunnel and crossed at 42 with no delay. Meter read 50.30 and she asked me if $52 cash would be sufficient. I politely pointed out that 20% was customary for a good service. She added $2 to make it 54 and I got out to handle the luggage again, trying to not to show dismay. I assumed she simply wasn't used to proper tipping a la New York.

At that point it was 11:30 am and my friend Lluvia (Rain) boarded the front seat for a one hour copiloting tour. She had come to perform in an acrobatic show and was leaving for Oakland in the afternoon. We had three short, friendly, central Manhattan fares totaling $37. One of those actually only tipped 20 cents and another gave $20 cash for an 11.80 fare, which more than made up for it.

Remainder of afternoon:

Chelsea to East Village: $9 (minus 5%) for 7.40

Stuytown Loop to NYU Hospital: $6 for 4.60

Same spot (the driveway) to 7 World Trade (via FDR): $15 (minus 5%) for 13.80

TriBeCa to Chelsea: $10 (minus 5%) for 8.60

Back to Boerum Hill (Brooklyn) without a fare to end the shift.

Jimmy (the taxi garage cashier) said I'm dressed like a lumberjack. Between him, the lot attendants, the morning cashier and dispatcher: -$4 in tips. Gas is $44 (for 150 miles). MTA state surcharge is $8 (16 trips). Even though my total overhead (expenses) was $20 more than my net profit, I still made $150 clean cash "in the pocket" for me (minus self employment income taxes) for 1o hours of driving and a 2 hour nap. Not bad today, though I doubt Mitt, Newt, or any of those guys want my job.

Ode to Overly Sentimental Self via Glory

One of my favorite scenes in one of my favorite films. I'm not into war or movies about war. I'm not all that into religion either. I am however into deep, soulful group humming, clapping and chanting with humility, appreciation, and fearless conviction in the face of oppression.

Friends

He's not always the easiest person to get along with, especially in his Libran moments. Me being a Leo, we aren't all that similar, aside from the fact that neither of us are easy (and we've both always loved justice, authenticity, punk, and Jamaican music).

For some reason though, he's always felt like a mirror reflection. His tribulations and trials are my own. His name is Daniel Robleto (el agricultor luchador) and he's been my best friend since 1997. I have no contact with 96% of the friends I had in my childhood prior to that. Even now I don't really keep in touch with most of my friends, including Lil' D. It's not that I'm pick and choosy about who I spend my time with. I'm picky about how, which translates into who.

Most of the time I prefer to be on my own, though not alone. I need having people around me. I'm just allergic to boondoggle, flapdoodle, small talk, and "hanging out". Each moment and word must have purpose and meaning if I am to feel comfortable in a social setting. Lately some of the only people I've spent time with, besides my passengers, have been like-minded cabdrivers (like Gejza Simansky the Slovak guru on wheels). Below we're pictured taking a coffee break in Chelsea.

Another way I've kept from being anti-social are unique copiloting sessions, as seen in the bottom-most photograph (with copilot Arni Eddie, northern California's top dog). Once you've ridden around front seat and on-duty for part or all of one shift, I promote you to the level of trusted confidant, or at least copilot licensee. If it's the latter, don't take it personal. Leos are known not to place their trust easily. We rely only on ourselves. We nearly never ask for help because we don't think we need it. We can, however, reveal a lot of light in the world if we learn to delegate tasks. That's why as copilot you'll have plenty of opportunities to participate in taxi operations, minus driving.

Call of Action

Forgive me everyone for posting these. I assume the readers of this blog expect juicy stories from the job and tales of travel funded by the bare bones income. Perhaps some artwork and photography here and there. Certainly not political rants about worker mistreatment. Though I'm astounded by how many passengers know absolutely nothing of the hardships endured by their yellow donkeys daily. And just in case a fellow driver or two are tuned in, it's good place to get the word out. This is upcoming. It's similar to the one last month, but at a different garage (depot, base, horse stable, whatever you wanna call it).

PROTEST AGAINST BROKER OVERCHARGES!

Monday 1.23.12 @ 15:00 in front of All Taxi Management

41-25 36th St. (LIC). 7 train to 33rd/Rawson.

Demand an end to lease overcharges before the city decides on a fare raise. A raise means nothing if the leases aren't controlled first.

Garages/Brokerages recently picketed: Midtown Operating Corp (twice), Checker Management, SLS Jet Management, Stan 55 Operating Corp, Ronart Leasing Corp, Tunnel Management. Not where you work? We're coming there too!

Brokers are finally under investigation. Keep the pressure to win! Some brokers are now charging close to 60k for a 25k car. Since '04 fare raise they've overcharged in the name of Tax Stamp, Vehicle Expenses, Additional Driver Fee, and Loan Guarantee. Some even charge a shameless $1 service fee to issue drivers our own credit card check. The brokers are now lobbying to make their high interest car payments and lease overcharges permanent and higher still. They're crying that next to their garage pals, they're poor. Nobody in the industry knows poor like the cabbies themselves. Both the garages and brokers are crying that unless TLC raises the lease, they'll go bankrupt and the industry will collapse. Stop the lies! Stop the greed! Raise the fare! Lower the lease! NYTWA's Campaign against lease overcharges is picking up speed! NYTWA pressured TLC to establish a Lease Caps Enforcement Unit, which has been summonsing garages and brokers (one garage was summonsed for 150k and a broker for 80k). Four NYTWA members filed a class action lawsuit in civil court and NYTWA protests outside garages are drawing media attention to the plight of overcharges and high leases. Now let's build the January 23rd demonstration and keep up the pressure!

In Solidarity, Bhairavi Desai

Acute Otitis of the Left Ear

Ain't been sick in a long time. I keep my immune system chirping with raw garlic, a glass-half-full approach, plenty of water, constructive arguments (bottling them kills cells), a minimum of sarcasm, a dash of aerobics whenever inspired (be my jog pal), and an Emergen-C packet here and there. I don't touch antibiotics unless absolutely necessary, and I'm not easily convinced.

However, at least two counterproductive habits have finally caught up with me. I go on using the same disposable ear plugs for weeks and store them on dirty surfaces. I often penetrate my precious labyrinths with cotton swabs in attempts to scoop up wax. I don't need to delve into why these and other peculiar hang-ups like nicotine and too much coffee work against all I do to build integrity and empathy (the cornerstones of character). Well anyhow, something's bothered my left ear for a over a week now. It started with just a tickle and an inability to hear clearly out of that side. I left it alone for a few days and the symptoms quietly persisted. While driving the cab I managed to resuscitate sound wave conductivity on that crucial window side often used to negotiate traffic by holding my nose and blowing pressure through it.

Yesterday afternoon, as I arrived home from another twelve hour tour, the pain hit me. It was roaring throbbingly and all sound had ceased to have any chance of passage. Worried about something spreading into other, more serious members of my cephalopod, I gave in and relinquished a quite possibly lucrative Martin Luther King Junior Day in the taxicab for an extremely rare visit to the doctor and an even rarer antibiotic stupor in bed. The pain is gone and I'll be back behind the wheel tonight (earliest hours of Tuesday.) In case you were wondering, cabbies in NYC are independent contractors. Sounds profound, but unfortunately it means we have no access to medical insurance or any other benefits. Luckily, I was recommended a great doctor (Diogenes Almonte, MD) who only took $50 for the visit and treated me as if I were his own son. Another $50 at the pharmacy for the darned pills and the Neomycin ear juice.

I'll leave you with my favorite MLK, Jr. quote ever: "If a person is called to be a taxi driver, they should hack even as Michelangelo painted, or Beethoven composed music, or Shakespeare wrote poetry. They should hack so well that all the hosts of heaven and earth will pause to say, here lived a great taxi driver who did their job well."

(Please note that the quote was originally about street sweepers. I've altered it to reflect my own profession. After all, he was only implying that every job is just as valuable a piece to the whole.)

hack 2 (hæk) —verb

12.	informal ( US ) ( intr ) to drive a taxi

Ce Mai Faci

A warm salute to my Romanian colleagues. The article that came with this picture is short and sweet. I happened across it while searching Cadmium Yellow. I have a strong association with that color (and the smell of coffee). My grandparents happen to be from Iasi (pronounced Yahsh) and Bacau [baˈkəw]. Both towns happen to be in northeastern Romania.

jalopnik.com/5279904/romanians-are-just-like-new-yorkers

NYTWA IS ON IT!

Demonstration Against Garage Greed! Wednesday, December 28, 2011 @3:00PM Midtown Garage 42-50 24th Street (Queens) (N/Q to Queensboro Plaza;7/E/M to Court Square) Since the 2004 fare raise, garages have raised our leases and watched our incomes plummet while their medallion is now valued at $1 million dollars. When gas prices soared, they did nothing to share the burden. When the MTA tax cut our tips and smaller trips, they did nothing to share the burden. When credit card fares started taking over and cutting our incomes, they gladly took the 5% surcharge. Now, after the TLC actually did the right thing and said the lease cap includes all taxes, fees and surcharges, including the sales tax - they paid millions of dollars to sue us in state court for $4.77 per shift. They have million dollar lawyers, million dollar lobbyists, but can't spare a lousy $4.77 from us. For drivers, it's a loss of 5% in their income when there is hardly anything left to lose. STAND UP & FIGHT BACK. ENOUGH IS ENOUGH. The New York State Court of Appeals made a devastating ruling on Thursday, December 15th, stating that garages can charge us sales tax (now at $4.77 per shift) above the TLC's lease caps. The garages, represented by Midtown Garage Owner Ron Sherman and his Metropolitan Taxicab Board of Trade (MTBOT), sued the city when the TLC passed a rule banning them from the pass-along in 2009. They lost. The TLC would have to redo their rulemaking process in order to change this. Please know that the court did not say that the TLC does not have the power to stop the garages. The court only said that the TLC has to follow a different rulemaking process than they did. The TLC has the power. And we will organize to make them use it. The garages don't have to add the tax above the lease cap. They arechoosing to charge us more. Garages did not even wait 24 hours. They started charging immediately, even to day drivers who were mid-shift when the ruling came out.

In Solidarity, Bhairavi Desai

Minuses and Pluses

A question for the state government: What's with this new "Sales Tax" ? As of a few shifts ago taxi drivers have been paying $4.75 more per shift to lease a cab. I thought the odds you (and other entities who want a slice of our pathetic little pie) stacked against our livelihoods couldn't get any higher. The management at my garage could not answer why it's even called a Sales Tax. Thanks for bursting my sensibility bubble. Passengers have no idea about this. They wouldn't know how much we paid in the first place. Let alone how the whole taxi system works for drivers. I invite anyone to come along for part or all of a shift, front seat, like a copilot, and see for yourself. Or at least just click on the pic to enlarge the evidence.

Next question goes out to the credit card technology folks. Why does the passenger screen pop a "Thank You" in the middle of a transaction, before it's authorized? Passengers often mistakenly believe it means they've already been charged, whether they're sober or drunk. They look at me and respond as if I'm a lying crook when I tell them my screen says "swipe again" or "card error" or "declined" or "not approved." Please prevent the back screen from thanking them prematurely. Thank you.

A shout out to Amadou, 9M86's steady night driver, for always making my shift start full blast with Senegalese talk radio on 930 am, soon as I turn the ignition. I love listening to that language, though I don't understand. A minute later I'm flushed with frustration and hooking up my FM transmitter on 95.1 to treat my passengers to my own homemade radio station of 1400 mp3 hymns of every imaginable culture and genre.

Land of 573 Hills

I do take heed of Albert Einstein's words:"Reading, after a certain age, diverts the mind too much from its creative pursuits. Anyone who reads too much and uses their own brain too little falls into lazy habits of thinking." However, I am at the point in my life when I've decided to finally just tackle the must-try-reading list of books I've had rotting idle on my shelf (and at the library), so that I may keep only a few favorites for reference and loan-outs, while finding new homes for the remaining bulk. All part of the becoming-less-materialistically-anchored life path.

This particular one was thick like an encyclopedia, but juicy enough to finish in a few days. Its gist is that Manhattan has always been an extremely unique island. Before 1609 it was to nature what it is to humanity today: the anomalous zenith of diversity. Just as its multiethnic mosaic dwarfs that of any other city on Earth, it was at one point home to a more juxtaposed variety of ecosystems than all its surrounding regions combined. An archipelago in an estuary and that's just the beginning. An entire chapter is dedicated to the Lenape, the oldest of Algonquin tribal cultures. Stewards of New York before Europeans and urbanization came along.

I learned of our complex indebtedness to soil, our planet's living skin. That our climate requires 40 years to form 1 cm of it. Inky Schist, Granitic Pegmatite, Granodiorite, and anthropogenic (garbage) being my favorite names for some of the 87 different kinds that exist in the modern city, out of 17 originally. I discovered the words Onomastics, Toponymy, and Bathymetry.... all right up my geo-linguistic alley. The book inspired me to go check out Cold Spring at Inwood Hill, the most preserved stretch of wild nature left on the island, and the supposedly still bubbling, original Tanner’s Spring in what is now Central Park near W82. Ilearned that in 1640 there was a merchants ordinance against reckless sledding, inspiring me to borrow garbage lids next time snow accumulates and get a bit reckless at Forest Park, the hilly wilderness behind my Queens neighborhood.

Favorite quote from the book: "One of the main wonders of NY is her people. Opinionated, quick with a word, insistent on getting ahead, generous in a pinch, New Yorkers are, nearly to the last individual, a tremendously alive bunch. It seems impossible to live in NY and be boring, or be bored- there is always someone to irritate, titillate, or stimulate you into action. Love it or hate it (arguments can be fairly made on either side), NY culture is a mind-altering experience. It can be a bit much, but when it works, it works like nothing else to please the human animal. That NY culture is so vibrant today sometimes obliterates the fact that there are other ways to please the human animal. Before the whole party got started in 1609, there was another way, equally distinctive, for people to live on Manhattan."

"If the entire world lived the way Americans do today, it would take 4 planet Earths to supply the global population’s resource requirements.

Regurgitational Fragments:

"The U.S. Gov’t. estimates that the off-shore wind-power capacity of the US is in itself sufficient to supply electricity for the entire nation. In an average year NYC has 232 sunny days (nationwide average is 212). Solar shingles collect energy as plants do. New Yorkers use 2/3 the energy per person as Americans. Over 1/3 of mass transit trips made daily in the US are in NYC. The population of Seattle can be found in our transit system on a busy evening rush. Average New Yorker produces 3/10 the carbon dioxide annually as an average American. 100 year experiment concludes cars don’t work that well in cities.

How much pain can we suffer before we apply ourselves to tasks?

Plan of Action:

Reintroduce the street car (trolley), use subways to haul nonhuman cargo,implement pedicabs (cargo trikes) to deliver it locally. Unstructured outdoor play is exactly what helps kids learn to love nature in the deepest recesses of their hearts. It is the biota that we love the most.

New Jersey, Long Island, and the Hudson Valley must return to Agrarian ways. Suburban sprawl must be replaced with complex, dense cities and agro-belts that extend into the city. Organize farms cooperatively, not corporately. We will of course produce a few more apples and potatoes than needed and trade them, along with our art, science, business, and savvy, for sustainable coffee shipped into a revitalized harbor. We must have our coffee. We will still live on an archipelago in an estuary after all, on islands narrowed by rising tide. A businesswoman will be able to fly-fish in Minetta Water, downstreet from office fall evenings before heading out to opera or the baseball game. New Yorkers in 2409 will still be loud, direct, and pushy, but warm, generous, and involved in world happenings."

Last (undigested) Morsels: Adjudicating on the fly. Avenues 100 ft wide interlaced with 155 streets (60 ft across).Lenape: “the real people” (the ancient ones). Lenapehoking (Land of the Lenape).Mesingholikan (deity for negotiating a justified hunt). Sachem (tribal chief). Intimately familiar with all surroundings. Spirit guardianship. Parochial but profound sense of community. Extrapolations (of conditions for people). Historiographies. A WILLINGNESS TO BE SURPRISED. Don’t take yourself too seriously (nor too unseriously). Play the game, but don’t forget it’s only that. Maximum Entropy Algorithm. Carry respect and conscience as true wealth. Global ecological economy. Connected by a thousand invisible cords.

Bury Me Standing Too

I just finished reading this book on an ethnicity whose history, lifestyle, philosophy, and physiognomy I have long felt a particular intrigue and even semblance to. This book details the vast spectrum of idiosyncrasies privy to this people, through the eyes of an outsider who spent years among them. I will not go into all of what I learned, except for a short sampling of morsels.

The term "Gypsy" is old Greek for "Egyptian", and though they may have spent time there (along their centuries long journey), their origin (and that of their idiom) is somewhere in the vicinity of Rajasthan (India). Misunderstandings concerning them are abundant the world over, not to mention their perpetually unmentioned mistreatment in the hands of reluctant host cultures. The names they are known by are as varied as the regions they inhabit, some of which can be easily confused with other meanings. For example, "Roma" has nothing to do with Italy's capital city. "Romani" has nothing to do with the eastern European country that ironically happens to be home to the highest concentrations of them (only because they had at one point been imported as slaves). Rom, Dom, Lom, Sinti, Gitano, Tsigani, Ziguener, Manush, and Kale are a few of the titles they wear.

Call it romanticizing, but I have an internal propensity towards sharing in the traditional Gypsy male's custom of wearing the same single suit, all the time, regardless of occasion or weather, until it falls to pieces and has to be replaced.... or even the bright color mosaic of the female Gypsy. I desire as much a knack for multilingual fluency (3 is not enough) and declamatory accordion skills (add flute and xylophone) as I have for photographic memory of cartographic layouts and the sophisticated contents of city blocks and rural roadsides.

I wish to be passionately free of meaningless materialism and permanent, sedentary anchorage. I want to be an adjunct Bulibasha, though I'm allergic to Biznitsa (money not earned through manual sweat). As a ubiquitous cabdriver, I by default have a reputation for dishonesty, though I've done everything possible to live honorably. I'm wanted and detained for my talents, not crimes, though those talents are often mistaken for crimes. I assign value and priority to all events equally, though serially (per moment). I can't stay still and I can't follow someone else's orders if they oppose my principles. I have all the markings of a zingaro. The only thing I'm terrified of is being shiftless, a trait that frequently creeps up on us members of the Leo sign, though it might be least expected of us.

It fascinates me that the Rom and the Jews have shared a guilt of showing too much initiative (of the wrong kinds). This book points out several similarities and dissimilarities among these two and other groups as well: "labored on their own in the jobs that no one else could or would do and sold their goods and skills door-to-door. But this for the moment is where the parallel between Gypsies and Jews as migrant middlemen ends. Far from the start of a brilliant career, their situation in the Balkans came more to resemble that of American blacks."

I can feel the ear bursting clamor of wandering musicians, the clairvoyant hustle of free and spirited tradesmen, the scraped subsistence of mudlarks, and the solemn silence of segregated servants. The preening of and being preened by the intimacy of a tightly knit community.

Limitation can force one to be resourceful. One of my favorite quotes in the book was: "The Masai of east Africa are said to believe that all cattle belong to them; the Roma of eastern Slovakia, it seems, feel the same way about potatoes." Foppish, raucous, and fecunditious were a few of the new words I learned in this book. Not that I'll remember them for long. If you don't read this book, perhaps at least watch 'Latcho Drom', which may not answer many questions, but may uplift your spirit when watched with an open mind. As a passenger in my cab once said, "I hope that extensive genealogies become less expensive so that we may collectively rid ourselves of our ingrown xenophobias." My wish for such a drop in cost for that service goes a small step further. So I may put to rest the mystery behind my Romanian roots, slightly darker skin tone than Ashkenazis in my family, and my pre-Romanian ancestry.

Nilo Tabrizy

One morning last month I drove a young lady from Chelsea to Central Park South. It was rush hour, the only segment of my 12 hour shift in which seldom words are exchanged between my passengers and I. Traffic is frantic. Vehicles of all shapes and sizes shifting lanes without notice. Horns blaring in synch with brake lights. Pedestrian kamikazes sprinting at every angle and dozen other things all happening at once.

Regardless of whether my passengers are, I certainly am on a race against time. It's a 120 minute window of opportunity to make up for the other, sometimes drastically less lucrative hours of the shift. All of my energy and attention is absorbed by an effort to connect point A with B as quickly as safely possible and then find point A again (new fare). The stress is punctuated by the endless stream of people hailing my cab as I weave towards point B. Silly, pointless questions share my brain with its two only other ingredients: adrenaline and a throbbing hippocampus. "Where were all of you a couple hours ago when I couldn't find a single fare?" and "do I look like Adolf Hitler to all you Nazis?"

Every now and then, however, I'll make the extra effort to open up lines of communication with a passenger who I absolutely can't help but feel intrigued by. At the brief pause of a red light I'll look up at the mirror or turn my head and ask "what big plans do you have in store for today?"

On that particular morning it was Nilo Tabrizy. In the final minute of the ride I learned that she's a photojournalism student at Columbia University who interviews people on the street, keeps a blog, and has been to much of the world. I offered myself as a subject for any of her future projects and received a call from her about a week later. This is what came out of it:

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF GIL AVINERI

"Not Appropriate To Weigh In On"

Irene this Weekend?

Misconstruements

Yesterday I confused the voice of Phil Hendrie with that of Keith Olbermann on the am dial. Some cabbies will tell you that the best thing about their shift is eccentric late night and weekend radio programs.

Some passengers will get in at Third and Atlantic in downtown Brooklyn and tell you they're going by the Williamsburg Bridge. McDonough and Patchen to be exact. That's deep in Bed-Stuy. Nowhere near the bridge. You'd be taking them the wrong way if you knew no better. About half way down Lafayette they say, "oh, you must live in Brooklyn since you know where you're going." That's also why you know they're bluffing. But you also understand that they're only trying to avoid a refusal. All of Brooklyn ought to be as fair game as Manhattan to all yellow hacks. Let's get that through our thick skulls.

Dear Taxi TV: is it really necessary to play the Smurfs movie ad thrice a fare? That's about 90 times a shift. Dear Gas Station TV: is it really necessary to play M.I.A.'s NY lottery song half a dozen times while I fill up my tank? That's 36 times per an average cabbie's week. I already have a scar tissue lump on my scalp from running into a low basement staircase ceiling in order to avoid a parking ticket after helping a passenger carry several suitcases in from the trunk. I had allowed him to substitute my cab as a residential moving company. No good deed goes unpunished. Like the girl who hopped in on the Lower East Side, going to Carol Gardens at 02:00. As always, I took the quickest route. But repairs on the Brooklyn Bridge have half of it shut down late at night. Since it was my first time using the temporary contra-flow, I had to double check the proper ramps on either side. Sure enough, the traffic agents standing there glared at me with disgust instead of answering my inquiries. Isn't that what they're there for? Why all the unconditional hate?