This morning, I snagged one of those new fancy cabs on my way home from work.
A cabbie named Yosef picked me up, and within two minutes he was talling me about me about his 47-year marriage with his wife.
He slid photos of his (truly beautiful) family through the slot in the plexiglass, then turned his smartphone around to show me a photo of one of his adorable grandchildren.
It was a nice chat, so I asked him what the secret to marriage was.
"Always keep a bottle of Johnny Walker in the freezer."
Well, John already does that, so maybe we’re halfway there if we ever decide to lock it up.
Yosef honestly seemed so happy with his life, so we kept chatting.
Another secret to happiness emerged: “My wife is a saint in the kitchen, and a whore in the bedroom.”
There you have it. A madonna-whore complex revealing itself before 7 a.m.! That has to be a new record.
Honestly though, it was a great conversation, minus Yosef telling me I need to start having babies soon because I’m getting too old. That part was cool too.
This is actually one of the things I love about New York. New York is like one of those terrifying 5-year-old children who scrutinize you and then tell you about yourself. It will give you some raw, naked, hurtful honesty, whether you want it or not, even if you’re half-asleep. Keeps it interesting.
PUMPKIN SPICE GREEK YOGURT?!
it’s so good. i would know. i have enough blueberry chobanis in my fridge to fill my sink. those tasty little bastards.
Poetry by Clive James: “Your death, near now, is of an easy sort.”
a beautiful poem about dying.
it will make all of your feelings gather in your throat.