Whatever shall they wear?

It has been called to my attention, through the ever-rapacious intellects at the New York Times, that New York City cab drivers have a dress policy. Surely, I thought, reading on, the New York Times had uncovered the Di Vinci code of cabbies. What else could explain the article's place on the front page? Perhaps it was one of those sub-cultural conventions we would never have known about if not for daring journalists following in the footsteps of Mario Puzo, bringing us the fashion equivalent of the mafia code of always sending a little something to the widow of a hit--a tacit acknowledgement of her loss of graft income, if not an enviable conversationalist.

But, no. It turns out that many cabbies reading the Times this morning will find out, along with me, that there is a dress code at all--one that has not been enforced very strongly, as any patron of the modern livery could have told you. Apparently all agree we have tumbled exceedingly far from the early 1900's when cab drivers actually wore uniforms modeled after West Point cadets. I, for one, am pleased not to be driven by a man in epaulets, having always found them too close for sartorial comfort to my own 80's shoulder-pad fashion coma, all images of which have either been burned or exchanged for good money under the cover of darkness at the base of the Verrazano bridge--and then burned.

But, the article was worth reading, for two reasons. It allowed me to momentarily fantasize that a news day this slow must mean all was well in the world, and the banks had paid back the money I gave them. And it gave me a good laugh, quoting a history professor who recalled a happier time, one when cab drivers wore slogan t-shirts, and "expressed their opinions." I can only deduce that this teacher is hailing taxies in an alternate universe, his doppelganger never once made privy to his driver's thoughts on the mayor, or the dark conspiracy concerning New Jersey drivers and their plot to slow down New York commerce by trying to back up out of the EZ-pass lane at the tunnel.

But I will keep my eyes open nonetheless for the sudden appearance of Armani behind the wheel. I just hope, whoever he is, that he still has an opinion.

Play to pay

It's not every day that one's world view shifts. One minute, there I am, trying to decide between Raisin Bran and leftover Pad Thai. And the next, this thought walks in the back door of my brain and I am so struck that I completely stop wondering what I did in my sleep to make my hair look like the top of the Chrysler building.

It started with remembering a dream where Derek Jeter and I are bowling. Well, truth is, Derek was bowling, and he was damn good at it. I was watching. That he was managing to bowl down a full alley in my 600 square foot apartment was pure dream-physics, along with the fact that he was, in the other room, also in a playoff baseball game. I knew this was a message dream, as Derek had clothes on, unlike others where he and I have co-starred with absolutely no artistic differences.

As my brain reviewed the tape, I realized that Jeter was not, technically, working. He was playing. And he had figured out how to get someone to give him money--a lot of it, actually--to do just that. Or maybe he hadn't figured it out as much as believed he could. And that's the thought that stopped me somewhere between the cereal and the milk. Especially as I have been struggling with just this concept ever since Bobby Cangelosi turned me in to the nuns for coloring hair onto the baby Jesus statue. I thought I'd done a brilliant job, especially with the bangs. Apparently not.

I wonder what would happen if we took play as seriously as Derek does--if we believed in the right to play with anything approaching our belief in the demands of work. So, I've decided to believe in playing, and report back. I'm starting small but have a feeling this whole thing is just going to snowball. Especially when I get a hold of some crayons.

Only two lives to give for my country

The front-page top-fold story in the Sunday NY Times today alerted Americans that its government--get ready for it--has been saying one thing and doing another. I know, I know--will this loss of collective innocence never stop? Apparently, this time, it's about cheese.

I have met only one person in my entire life that did not like cheese: a young child who had clearly confused those cellophane-wrapped orange-dyed paste squares with that glorious substance that is often the most interesting encounter at a cocktail party. I do not simply like cheese. A creamy herbed chevre, wheat crackers, and a buttery Chardonnay deliver what I believe people meditate in ashrams and enter sweat lodges to discover: that Socratic balance of inner and outer as one; the still point; the Om. That I do not eat this every night is only a testament to my frugality: I cannot afford to replace my Theory slacks to accommodate new thighs. Not in this economy.

It seems the US Government, through the Department of Agriculture, has been actively discouraging over-consumption of the food that the guy in the Dairy Management office down the hall--also part of the USDA--is spending money like a drunken starlet to promote. Those readers who've had anything more than a casual brush with corporate America can't help but do that snort/chuckle thing that substitutes for all the times at work we wanted to return to our pre-K behaviors and throw things--especially now that our pitching arm is so much better. The idea of one part of an organization working at complete cross-purposes to the goals of another department--both citing the exact same mission statement as their mandate--is not a foreign concept. In fact, it is the entire reason Dilbert cartoons and happy hour exist.

So, if you feel schizophrenic don't get paranoid. Yes, Virginia, we are bad girls and good girls--sometimes at the same time. With our very government funding both sides of the argument my advice to you is to go for a good long run, then order the Stracciatella. It would be un-American to do anything else.