Cablog

Goodbye

Blogging used to be fun for me - the shock of the digital revolution and automated publishing platforms was intoxicating - but now it's over.

Blogging has gradually become a chore as that time is increasingly taken by adventures in video production. Thus the site in its current form will close once advertising committments expire. Oh well, someone had to cut down the body!

A tremendous expression of thanks is owed to the many readers who have followed and contributed to Cablog over nearly nine years and some 1900 stories. And also thanks to ninemsn who contracted Cabpoll for four elections. For a taxi blogger in his pajamas punching out content at dawn it was gold. Just like the support shown by you guys.

Again, many thanks, and goodbye.

Adrian

UPDATE: Cablog preserved at Pandora, National Library of Australia.

Besties

What is it with besties who refuse to escort their severely debilitated friends home, or even provide the fare for them? It happens all the time. They use taxis like ambulances, for free patient transfers.

Over the weekend I took a fella to a Broadway hotel. The joint was once a favourite with the student grunge crowd for it's live music. "Now," he said, "it's just another club full of teens from the 'burbs".

A young woman waited at the door whilst he paid, then asked if I could take her friend down to The Shire. Sure, I said, happy to oblige as that district has work on a Saturday night. Then she produced the friend - totally legless.

She tried to pour her into the front seat but they missed and the drunken girl fell backwards into the gutter. Her lack of stability was exacerbated by a pair of elevated chunky shoes. And a ridiculous mini skirt, in the middle winter, didn't help her disposition, either.

On the second attempt they made it and I laid out the rules to the girlfriend. “I need the address and I want to see the money.” Of course not. The victim had been robbed, a usual story, and the mother would pay the $80 fare. Girlfriend showed me the address on an iPhone but it was unreadable.

I pulled on the handbrake. “I want to talk to the mother.” “What?” “Ring her mother, I want to arrange this with her.” Or someone who was sober to provide assurances on the address, the fare, and any clean-up penalty. If the kid wasn't collected and paid for, then she would be left at the nearest police station.

This request caused the girlfriend to immediately change tack. “Come on, Chantelle, get out! He won't take you.” And she proceeded to drag the now crying girl out of the cab, resulting in both falling backwards straight into the gutter. Again. Girlfriend yelled and the patient howled.

Hotel security arrived and waved me off but I was trapped by an open door and the girl's feet under the cab. What a joke. Sorry, besties, but cabbies don't do baby-sitting. That's your job.

Lesson

It is imperative that cabbies know the location of police stations and their proximity at all times. Moreover it helps to know which stations operate full-time or part-time hours.

Late on Saturday afternoon I luckily picked a night station which was already open for business. Although I didn't need them, just the fact the lights were on was enough to eject an out-of-control passenger...

Redirect

Whilst the problem with the missing Cablog domain is being worked on the full site is now available at the root domain:

http://jafablog.typepad.com/man_of_lettuce/ 

Once again, apologies for the ongoing delay.

UPDATE: Domain problem now fixed.

 

MIA

Well my domain registrar has gone MIA and it's taken a week to find out that a frame forwarding setting is supposedly the issue. But we can't access it from the control panel. Grrrr. Sorry, dear readers, but it's going to be a little longer.  

Bleak

Currently the blog design has gone west after a third party changed servers. Apparently this can take a day or two to resolve. At least that's what I'm hoping.

It's been that sort of week, starting with an accident, not serious but enough to side-line the cab for 36 hours. Then last night's disappointing Blues loss sent the fans home early and it was all over by midnight.

Lost wages and the carbon tax. A week to forget.

Wrong

A young woman hailed late one night in the City. She had been out with friends - only the young and restless go out midweek in winter - and was dying to get home. They were all American, students on their gap year in Sydney, and loved to party.

My passenger was in despair at their tendency to group together rather than branch out into the community. Yet conversely they struggle to break into the Sydney girls club. It's a tough club for outsiders to crack, as they are considered competition in a town with a dearth of eligible men.

She lived with an Aussie family on the North Shore in a beautiful location with water views. The home-stay was a totally immersive experience, right down to the 'damn bus service into town'. Hence the cab home, which she couldn't afford, save for 'Grandma's credit card'.

I thoroughly enjoyed her incessant East Coast rap, starting with her large body type being an issue in a body-conscious town. “Yep, Sydney is all sun, surf and sex.” I said. “If you don't feel good in a swimsuit, you might like Melbourne. It's not obsessed with that sort of stuff.”

There was also the issue of being excluded from the inner circle when on the hunt for men. Late at night when the girlfriends moved in on likely candidates, she was reduced to 'babysitting these silly bitches'. Thence making her lonely way home to the suburbs whilst girlfriends were all shacked-up downtown. Bitches.

In the cab, the big, heavy girls are generally friendlier than the micro-mini and heels girlfriends like hers, with congenial, well-adjusted personalities. When concerns over fashion, size and sex are eliminated that youthful enthusiasm can be used to shine in other areas, like the art of conversation. She was funny, engaging and a delight to carry.

Until, that is, at the end of the street when I found her phone on the back seat and had to return...

Derailed

An old acquaintance operates a successful Paddington art gallery and has a reputation for fostering budding artists who go on to greater heights. Don't ask me who they are, it's not really my world. 

Last night some passengers requested his gallery. A hot young South American artist was exhibiting and the gallery was packed and spilling onto the pavement where 'ol mate had thoughtfully installed a bar. Champion. 

Bugger it, I thought, I'll stop and say hello, it's been a couple of years, give him a real surprise! With parking space at a premium I gingerly inched into the corner spot, careful not to brush any of the noisy, well-oiled throng of art lovers bordering the gutter...