Taxi Driver Remake with Scorsese and von Trier?

So you may have noticed that I've been AWOL for a few weeks -- thanks to an amazing vacation in Panama. And do I have a couple good Panamanian cab stories for you. That and water taxis, which are almost cooler than cabs because, well, they're boats. And you're on the Caribbean. And it's hot, humid and sunny. Need I say more?

But in the meantime, feast on this tasty nugget:

A rumored remake (Variety reported the scoop) of Scorsese's Taxi Driver as challenged by Danish-director-of dogma-fame Lars von Trier? Oh, von Trier, can't you leave amazingness alone? Because I hear they did a good job on that flick the first time around.

Cell Phone Ban in Effect

Did you notice that your cabbie was grumpy this weekend? That's because taxi drivers are no longer allowed to use cell phones, iPods, or any other wireless devices, even if they're hands-free.

I'm going to decline listing all said wireless devices and let you use your imagination. So go wild.

The ruling came down from the Taxi and Limousine Commission to a pissed-off force of drivers.

I've documented in this blog my feelings about driving with cell phones. But I still empathize here. So my suggestion to you, when it comes to dealing with drivers going through wireless withdrawl, is to act in empathy. Take the cell phone off the side of your head, take those ear buds out, and have a chat with the cabbie. You might learn something.

Or not. There are no guarantees, people.

Taxi Gourmet

Most people living outside of New York don't associate taxis with food, unless it's smelly food stains on the backseat. And for these people I say Listen Up! Because you're going to learn something here.

I'll start with this: Taxi Gourmet. And then I'll go here: Pakistan Tea House.

Taxi drivers know all the best restaurants, the secret sweet spots in neighborhoods you're too snobby to go to. Hands down, the Nepalese driver knows where to find food that his mom used to make.

Also, when they're driving, they have to buy their lunch somewhere. And guess what? It's not from McDonalds. For those of you outside of NYC, this might blow your mind, so proceed carefully, but Manhattan McDonalds don't have drive-throughs. That's right. You actually have to walk in, because who in their right mind drives in Manhattan?

Taxi drivers, that's who. And they eat. And many from Pakistan and India eat at the Pakistan Tea House, a superb, and superbly cheap, taxi joint in Tribeca. Another warning -- the ambiance here is a bit like a cafeteria. Not for a first date. But great for a second date, if the person is cool.

Now, for Taxi Gourmet. If you want to know where cabbies like to nosh in the big apple -- or Buenos Aires, Argentina -- hit this site. Your taste buds and travel wisdom will thank you. And read my review of the Pakistan Tea house, their curries, their ambiance, their cheap-as-dirt prices.

Taxicab Reciept Necklace

A must-have accessory for the cab lover in your life -- the Taxicab Reciept Necklace by designer Kristin Victoria Barron. Is it a real receipt, doused with some hardeneing glue and strung on a chord? Or did the artist create something entirely new, based on the receipt? No idea.

What I do know is that it's made in Napal, for those of you who care about that type of thing.

I saw it the other day on MoMa's gift shop website, but it's since been taken down, but I still say your best bet is to inquire there.

$21,000 Returned to Forgetful Passenger

This just sent in by alert reader Rita Devlin:

A cab driver spent his Christmas Eve tracking down an Italian grandmother visiting family and friends and New York. Can we mention the purse contained $21,000, jewelry and a passport? Kudos to Mohammad "Mukal" Asaduzzaman for being a seriously up-standing guy.

Also, someone needs to introduce this Italian grandmother to Travelers Cheques. Seriously.

Read more...

Hot Sausage

I was hitting some after-holiday sales in Soho when a cabbie stopped in the middle of Broadway and stuck his fully graying head out the window.

"How much for a hot sausage," he yelled in a gravel and whiskey voice, while gesticulating with a cigarette. He seemed to be trying to address a street vendor at a nearby hot dog stand, who had his back to him and was waiting on other customers.

"How much for a hot suasage," he shouted angrily in his New York accent, "how much for a hot sausage. How much for a hot sausage." He kept repeating the sentence, as if getting angrier and pushier would make the service better. (And alas, sometimes it does work that way in NYC).

Finally the vendor turned around, "Why are you yelling at me," he asked.

The driver sped away.

Above a picture of a totally different hot dog guy on a totally different day.

The Search for the Happy Cabbie

Loyal readers,
I need to find the "Happy Cabbie." Anyway have any ideas where he's hiding? I've heard he's Indian (unconfirmed), that he decorates his cab with lights, loves music, and gives people warm advice on living and happiness.

If you have any idea where I can find him, post a comment or email me at: nyctaxistories@gmail.com. Thanks!

Vegas taxi drivers = pimps

I learned some interesting facts about Las Vegas taxi drivers when I did a fun radio interview with Nevada's NPR. (Click here to listen.)

The cabbie who shared air space with me revealed the following facts:

1) If cabbies take a guy to a Vegas brothel (legal there), there get a serious kick-back -- as a percent of what the guy spends.

2) Same with strip clubs.

3) They will get you just about anything you ask for -- anything -- if the price is right.

This was all confirmed by loyal reader, Jae. Thanks Jae!

My only disappointment in the interview -- I really wanted the cabbie to talk about the Sin City mobsters - Bugsy Siegel, etc.

Last name of Butt

Tonight, the cabbie who brought me home from the airport was named Butt. It was his last name. and it seemed rather unfortunate. Or, at least unfortunate that he moved to a country where Butt refers to, well, bums or hineys or rear ends, because his children will be the (cough) butt of endless jokes in elementary school.

Normally, this is the point when I'd talk to said cabbie. But you know what? Tonight I wasn't feeling it. Yeah, that's right, I was feeling lazy and content to keep my trap shut. Don't judge.

So when I got home, I did a bit of research -- ie googling Wikipedia -- and here's what I learned. Butt is a common name for someone from Kashmir or Punjab (news that made me kick myself because I've never met anyone from war-ravaged-but-once-lush Kashmir and can only imagine the interesting thoughts they'd have. That, and I love the Led Zeppelin song). Butts were said to be intellectuals, and members of the priestly Brahmin caste of Hinduism. Between the 13th and 18th centuries many Butts converted to Islam.

So now we know the brief history of Butts. Above, a map of Kashmir.

Snow, Dancing, Beer, a Cab

Two nights ago it snowed like mad in NYC. Which, for me, means one thing -- snowball fights and snow angles. So that's two things -- who's counting?

The evening started with sparkling wine and making crafty Christmas tree ornaments with some of my key people. Around midnight we set out for a park, snow flying everywhere, about 8 inches of blowing white powder covering the ground. Visibility was low. We were crossing a street, when a cab crawled by. His passenger window was open.

"Hi!" I said, smiling as he wind whipped snowflakes into my eyes.

"Hi!" he said back, smiling.

"You and your cabbies," my friend and bandmate -- hey, we've had 3 practice sessions, doubters! -- Tara joked.

Then we continued to the park, made snow angles, snow devils (snow angels face first), started two snowball fights with unsuspecting -- yet very willing -- groups, planned to recruit more snowballers in a Greenpoint bar, and ultimately succeeded in having a lot to drink and dancing until 4 a.m.

An incredible success of a snowy night.

UK, Cabbies and WMDs

This just sent in my alert reader Johannah.

Once the British public learned their source on WMDs was an Iraqi taxi driver claiming to have overhead a conversation between two Iraqi army officers, cabbie knowledge (or in some cases, lack thereof) came to the fore.

So who's collect the UK's cabbie stories? The Guardian, that's who.

(At this point, I was going to post a photo of WMDs, but I balked. They're too scary, and I won't be responsible for your nightmares.)

The Happy Cabbie, again and again

My friend Michael called me last night – he was reading Taxi Confidential in bed, which is the biggest compliment ever! – to tell me that he had personally ridden in the Happy Cabbie’s taxi twice. That’s two times for you people who have problems counting.

Also, thanks to pervasive Facebook status updates, he saw that another of his friends had snagged a ride with the Happy Cabbie last week.

No idea what I’m talking about? Read the book! (Specifically the Red Light District story.) Here’s a hint – the Happy Cabbie strings his cab with lights, digs good music, and genuinely wants everyone to be happy. Basically, he spreads good cheer with a shovel.

Michael first met him four years ago. In Michael’s own words:

“I was in the front seat, three were in the backseat, we were wasted. It was like a disco. A crazy disco. I don’t know if the music was great because we were wasted, but it was great Indian techno. Every couple of blocks [the cabbie] would turn it down and say, “I’m the happy cabbie!” He’d give us bits of advice about life. The windows were down, and we were just jamming, flying up Fifth Ave.”

Then two years later in Chelsea, Michael got into the Happy Cabbie’s cab again. And once again, he was in the front seat, three guys were in the backseat. And and the cabbie looked at each other – “it felt like seeing a long lost friend after 10 years,” Michael said – there was a moment of stillness, and then recognition.

“It’s the Happy Cabbie,” Michael exclaimed.

“It’s you!” the Happy Cabbie said at the same time.

(Above is a photo of Michael, looking hot.)

Bastard Cabbies

This is an exact e-mail sent to me by the wonderous Johannah Lane, the Irish lass pictured here with her hubby, all gussied up for Halloween as Pride and Prejudice and Zombies:

"Hello my sweet,
Why is it that none of the cab drivers I encounter are anything like the lovely peeps I met at your book launch? I was just crossing the street and a cab kept coming, even though I had the walk; I went around to the drivers window and told him that it was dangerous and that I had the right of way. He said, "You're already dead."

Charming!"

My answer: Because some people suck.

Too Hot to Handle

"Honey, can you get the door? Yeah, just like that ..."

Found on PhotoshopDisasters. A special thanks to Sweden.

He Drove Eleanor Roosevelt

Cabbie Story: Last night I did a reading at Bluestocking Books, a great little indie bookstore. After the reading, a cabbie in attendance -- he drove for 30 years, looked older than Jesus, and had a soft voice -- told me this story:

It was many years ago, and I was driving, and Eleanor Roosevelt got into my cab! She was on the road campaigning for Adlai Stevenson. [I5t was 1952. Stevenson was governor of Illinois and the Democratic presidential candidate. He lost to Eisenhower. Thank you, Wikipedia. And if the driver was, say, 25 at the time, that would make him 82 today. Thank you, calculator.]

I wasn't a talkative guy, so I minded my own businesses and drove her where she needed to go. She got out.

When I got back to the garage and told the guys who was in my cab, all they asked was, how did she tip?

(Her White House portrait is above.)