breaking the cycle

The Karma Cycle has been on an unofficial hiatus lately, due mainly to the fact that I don't have much to complain about, celebrities haven't been stupid enough to merit a post, and I haven't bought any products that have made me mad. No grumpy opinions = no blog posts, apparently. I am rather pissed that my gym has randomly started charging me again two months after I canceled my contract, but that saga is ongoing. I have to call and talk to some dude named Johnny tomorrow who's supposed to sort things out. We'll see. Anyhow, until either 1) something blogworthy happens or 2) I win the lottery, quit my job and take to messing around on the computer full-time, the Karma Cycle posts will come if and when I feel like it. Once the weather gets warm, I'd rather sit in the park and read a book anyhow...hasta luego, Cycleites.

Shoot the frog

The Crazy Frog (click at your own risk...seriously), the annoying ringtone mascot, has been scratching around inside my ear canals for a few years now. First, it advertised a ringer that sounded like an electronic moped engine. The noise crawls in your head and jackhammers away at your brain. I used to see it on commercials when I was in London, and I promptly changed the channel...there were only four channels, and most of them were fuzzy. Sometimes I had to put the TV antenna through the mail slot to get reception...and that was when it was sunny (three days a year).

But I can deal with a ringtone promotion here and there. Recently, however, I saw that the Crazy Frog now has its own CD, a random selection of covers, including of Jingle Bells, Pump Up The Jam, and the high school basketball pre-game warm-up classic, Whoomp! (There It Is). Allow me to plant a marker for this event on the slope of senseless consumerism we're rapidly sliding down. While I know I'll never voluntarily have to listen to the Crazy Frog album, I fear for those people who buy it. And what about the children? Something that annoying has to have a lasting effect after repeated exposure. Nightmares and mild paranoia to start off...pretty soon it's pulling a Van Gogh or committing mass amphibicide. The worst fallout from that stupid frog...Wikipedia says they're developing a TV series based on the character. Say it ain't so. Gotta go sharpen my ear-slicing knife.

Fun with microwave cooking

This morning, yahoo.com had a feature story called "Healthier Chip Choices", about to get slightly less fat from eating potato chips. Below the intro sentences, there is a link to a recipe for low-fat potato chips. I click through. The recipe basically calls for you to fill a Ziploc bag with vegetable oil, dunk slices of potato in it, spread them on an oiled plate and microwave them. Sounds tasty, right? I don't know one microwave that's ever made anything crispy. Well, perhaps the Yahoo weekend staff should have read the comments on the recipe before they linked it, because they're pretty funny. Every single one of them says how much the recipe sucks, how it yields mushy, starchy potato slices and not chips, etc. Thanks for the helpful tip there, Yahoo. Keep up the good work.

A bar to avoid

This evening, I ventured into the heart of darkness and was witness to levels of douchebaggery I haven't seen since sneaking underage into cheap, student bars in DC to take advantage of all-you-can-drink rail vodka. The Cellar Bar, in the Bryant Park Hotel, set the scene for the mating rituals of drunk former nerds who are now financial services professionals. I haven't seen so many bad dance moves and so much dry humping since college. Fine, just walking in the door, I knew what I was getting, but I had to be there for two drinks regardless. The population was split evenly between ex-frat guys and sorority girls and middle-aged dudes who probably wished they weren't wearing their wedding rings. Not my scene. Ever. At least now I know where they all congregate and can avoid it like the bubonic plague. The best was when I was waiting in line to retrieve my jacket from the mandatory coat check. A group of four overly-groomed girls and two very drunk, wobbly guys named [no kidding] Brad and Todd, were getting irate because the beleaguered coat check girl took more than thirty seconds to locate Todd's man bag. Yes, I just spent an hour and a half of my precious life in the same bar as a guy named Todd who carries a navy blue dude purse and refers to it as such. It was as if a J-Crew catalog fused with a Ketel One ad and these people were the unholy product of the union. Even though that time is gone forever, I have to say that the Riesling wasn't half-bad and the hand soap in the bathroom smelled pretty.

Random stuff

Just got home from my best date in a long time. Manhattan is brutal for dating, so it's totally worth mentioning. Just had to record it for posterity...and recommend Australians to all you gals out there. I have a couple couple glasses of wine to metabolize before tomorrow morning. Time to watch Aqua Teen Hunger Force and see how much sleep I can get in before the alarm rings...nighty night!

Gold: from a galaxy far, far away to discount mall jewelry

I'm on a bit of a science kick today, so I thought I'd share this article on the origins of gold from NPR's All Things Considered discussion with Neil deGrasse Tyson, Director of the Hayden Planetarium at the Museum of Natural History. Dr. Tyson is the peoples' Stephen Hawking. The shorthand explanation: gold atoms, rare and dense (nearly twice as dense as iron), are formed during the explosion of supernovae (dying planets) out there in the universe. They sit around in space for eons, after which time they may or may not become part of a gaseous cloud, a precursor to planet formation. If they become part of a planet, some of the gold atoms may end up near the surface where we can dig them up and make them into jewelry. Tyson estimates that the journey from supernova to ring, necklace or hoop earring takes about 3 million light years. How insignificant do you feel now?


(thanks, mom)

My new favorite show

Lately, I've been obsessed with How It's Made on The Science Channel, purely for the insane level of detail on the production of the most random selection of products imaginable. The last episode covered the manufacturing of caskets and soda, and so far this episode, it's been knives and mannequins. The creepiest thing I've seen in a while is mannequin parts rolling off an assembly line...arms and torsos springing to human form from dense foam sheets, being cobbled together by Dr. Frankenstein at the end of the conveyor belt and getting painted, made up and wigged to look quasi-alive. Weird. Surprisingly, they cost anywhere from $800 to $2,000. Next up...how socks are made, which of course, is much more complicated than it looks. It involves vacuum tubes. I'm transfixed.

Schadenfreude Alert: Britney Spears goes 'round the bend

Well, it finally happened. Britney spears, sporting a buzz cut under a hooded sweatshirt, showed up at a tattoo parlor in the San Fernando Valley (epicenter of the porn industry) on Friday night. The tattoo she chose, apparently, is a small pair of pink and red lips. That'll go nicely with the star on her hand. Looks like she's just a short shot away from cult membership or wearing a toga and handing out flowers in the airport.

The slippery slope that lead to this implosion started with her Federlinization. I have long joked that I was going to carry a pointy rock in my handbag with "K-Fed" written on it, so in case I ever saw him, I'd have something to throw at his head. But then that would be caring too much. Even so, the dude is all the least desirable qualities of the male gender distilled into one huge walking douchebag. A lazy, unwashed moocher whose hobby is fathering children when he's not exploiting Britney's success. Well, duh.

The thing that disturbs me is that his DNA is spreading unchecked into the general population. The thought of a Federline descendant one day becoming governor of California or, god forbid, my gynecologist, is just too much to bear. Federlines multiplying like Agent Smith in The Matrix. Federlines bringing your mail, delivering your dry cleaning, or taking your ticket at the movie theater. I'm giving myself fodder for more than one nightmare here. Since castration on general principle is illegal, ladies, I implore you, do not Federlinize yourselves. Say No! to breeding with the K-Feds of this world and keep the future safe for all of us. Otherwise, you may end up with a freshly-shaved head getting a regrettable tattoo in the porn capital of the US.

NYC Condoms

The Karma Cycle gives hearty approval to City Hall's NYC-branded condom campaign, which launched on this snowy Valentine's morning. The condoms, made by LifeStyles, are free and available at a growing number of locations. Any New York City establishment can sign up to distribute them. The more, the better. The Karma Cycle would be pleased to see them popping up in bodegas and bar bathrooms all across the city. Nobody likes condoms, but we all need to use them. So get out there, get yourself some snazzy new city-brand rubbers, and go enjoy yourselves. Well done, NYC, well done.

Today in daytime television

It's Valentine's Day, there's snow on the ground, I have a cold, and I'm getting bored tucked away inside my apartment. I never watch daytime TV, and most definitely don't watch Dr. Phil, so today, I'm doing both of those things and you, lucky reader, get to read the fruits of my boredom.

Of course, today's Dr. Phil is V-Day themed ("Are you having a little trouble with your Valentine?"), with couples who need some help. The first guests are a guy who loves to deer hunt and the woman who loves him. He usually dumps girlfriends before V-Day and then tries to pick up with them after. Classy. Apparently, during deer season, he spends three months a year out in the woods, during which his girl sees him two days a week. But she's the lucky one, because no other women have made it through hunting season. He got her camouflage seat covers for Christmas. A thoughtful and heartwarming gift for any female. Within 30 seconds of her saying how much she hates the hunting obsession, he turns around and presents her with a ring. Now they're engaged and have gone from the troubled couple to sweet newlyweds-to-be on national television. The issues were glossed over once the big ol' ring came out. And Dr. Phil is giving them flowers from some company, so there's an excellent cross-promotional opportunity built in there. That relationship is clearly going to last forever.

Up next, we have a boring-ass couple. He says the most romantic thing he's ever done for her is throwing her a birthday party at a bowling alley. He proposed over the phone, and says now that he's married, he doesn't have to be romantic anymore because he knows she'll be there anyhow. Their honeymoon was at Oktoberfest, and they watch football on their anniversary. Oh, the dizzying heights of love. So now that the grievances have been aired, let the schmaltz begin. Out come the champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries (all "donated" for an ad mention), the love messages and the sponsored trip to Fiji. No helpful advice, no scolding. The lesson is that throwing money at your problems tends to work just fine (especially for ratings).

I'm afraid of the next segment. Dr. Phil's Prozac-y wife Robin and Stephen Cojocaru (an unfortunate gay Canadian man who works at The Insider and looks like a middle-aged lesbian in a power suit...not a good source of fashion advice) descend upon a school teacher whose husband wants her to dress more sexy. To be fair, she has a pretty horrendous style (sweatpants and flip-flops aren't gonna get you much ass), but they're loading her up with denim skirts and sparkly tank tops. This could go anywhere. And boy, did it. Lord have mercy. They dressed this poor woman up in a tight black skirt and red low-cut shirt (tarty, but doable), but then they topped it off with this big, square-cut, shoulder-padded metallic silver blazer that looks like a refugee from 1992. That, plus the fourteen pounds of lady-primer on her face makes her look like she belongs out on the corner in Lucite heels. Hubby looks like he's logged quite a few hours in titty bars, so he's probably diggin' it. But what?? No champagne or trip to Fiji?? Harsh!

Our next case is a busy wife and mother whose husband complains that she doesn't dress sexy enough at bedtime. A complaint that is not unfounded - she comes to bed in sweatpants and a hoodie. Girl, go get yourself some decent silky pajamas and be done with it. You don't have to wear a corset and fishnets every night. But damn, did they have to go on Dr. Phil to get this advice? Who are these people???

And now for the tidal wave of product plugs for things that you girlies can use to set the mood for your man (or woman) on Valentine's Day. Bath gel, perfume, candles. Duh, duh and duh. And men, you know what women want? Chocolate and cookies! Gwen Stefani and Kate Winslet love the cookies. And jewelry, don't forget jewelry. Charm bracelets in particular. And to nail the final plug, Robin's just written a book. Cha-ching! And for the men, they recommend the Samsung Blackjack. And a belt for golfers that has a built-in a ball-marker and divot fixer. And some sort of subscription to a video game service. Then and of course, and X-Box 360 to play them on. And to capture Valentine's memories, they promote an Hitachi DVD camcorder. The lucky bastards in the audience are catching a windfall today. They're getting one of everything that's been plugged. Damn. Maybe I need to go cringe through a live taping of Dr. Phil sometime myself. Sell that shit and pay the rent. I'd love it if he gave everyone in the audience a live chicken to take home. Now that would earn my regular viewing.

Okay, now they're bringing out Clint Black to sing a love song. I hear twang, so I'm afraid I have to turn the channel.

Next week: identical twins hooked on heroin and married women selling themselves out to sugar daddies. I wonder if they'll be handing out free smack to the audience.

Textual Message Irritation

I was greeted this morning by a text message. Awww. How cute. Someone's sending around Valentine's Day wishes. Not so. The message was tagged as important from a North Carolina email address. Unusual, but I know some people down south, so I opened it. The body read, "Hey Dad, my company will announce a big oilfield discovery in Wyoming this afternoon. The share price will easily triple. It's [redacted] you want to buy." Lovely. Spam text. I thought this was particularly dgreat, because I have the oldest phone in the world. It doesn't have a color screen or web capability, and certainly won't allow me to buy stock. Of course, spam texting is an excellent marketing strategy, but at least the idiot who sent it isn't going to get any business from me. But if you're in the market for some oil stock, I just got a hot tip. And if spam texts cause a pain in your ass, too, click here for details on how to get rid of 'em.

And the search continues

Ah, dating. One of the great mysteries of the universe. A quick glance, an inviting smile...that unmistakable and elusive chemistry. The commercialism of Valentine's Day, with all it's heart-shaped boxes of chocolate and discount diamond necklaces, also yields a plethora of marketing to the singletons among us, from self-help to set-ups. For curiosity's sake, I took to the interweb to see what kicked up in a few searches.

On Amazon, "dating" yields 150,102 results. The top hit? A book entitled, "The Shy Single: A Bold Guide to Dating for the Less-than-Bold Dater". Seems there are a lot of wallflowers out there. It even beat out "Dating for Dummies". One quick way to shed the shyness is a tasty cocktail...liquid courage, you know.

Google turns up a whopping 201,000,000 hits. Damn. The top two, unsurprisingly, are dating.com and match.com. Both a good way to go on 50 first dates. Interestingly, the fifth hit is washingtonpost.com's Arts & Living section. Seems there's a busy single scene down there in conservative, practical blue suit, lawyer land. Perhaps NYC should take notes.

And just for fun, I headed over to urbandictionary.com. The first definition is pretty standard, but the second, "a socially acceptable form of prostitution", can describe the state of things in NYC (see match.com, as above) for some. A bit harsh, perhaps, but not so wide of the mark sometimes.

The Karma Cycle is just as clueless as everyone else in terms of dating, so no surefire advice to be found here, I'm afraid. Relax, be yourself, don't talk about your hang-ups/exes/pets, and do whatever makes you happy. Sounds pretty simple, right? That's the tricky part of the mystery. Here's wishing everyone good love karma for V-day and beyond.

Public Service Announcement: Valentine's Gifts to Avoid

For all the men out there who are searching for a special Valentine's Day gift for your girls - this is not the answer.This model, "Loverboy", is one of the many options waiting for you at the Vermont Teddy Bear Company. I've logged some quality hours in front of the TV this afternoon, and have seen no less than seven of this company's ads. They're particularly annoying because they feature cooey, girly, high-pitched women gushing over one's surprise teddy bear gift in an office setting while all the men who didn't boy bears for their ladies cower in their cubicles. They women are amazed at how it's "oooh, so much bigger than I expected." Seriously. The thing stands 15 inches tall, and costs upwards of $70. The "Red Hot Redneck" bear is $90. Damn, fellas. Take your woman out for a nice dinner (or at least to White Castle) and spring for a good bottle of wine instead of buying one of these stupidly dressed hairballs. It'll make you look like a thoughtless douchebag because you ordered it off the TV...unless she collects teddy bears, and then you have other things to worry about. I'm sure her 22lb cat, Furchild, will love it.

Another no-no is PajamaGram. They're competing with the bears for every available second of TV advertising today. Again, it's an overpriced, last-minute gift that will likely make you look like a inconsiderate douche. They even have a category for "No Brainer Gift Sets". For just $95, you can get a red velour tank top and pants (which cost about $22 at Old Navy), with two cinnamon-scented votive candles. Oh, and some soap. A bargain if I've ever seen one. Everyone woman needs more soap and candles. But to make it extra-special, it comes packed in a hatbox with a "Do Not Disturb" sign and a gift card. They'll probably even type your name in there for you.

A word to the wise...if you want to make your girl feel special, get reservations at a nice, intimate French restaurant, choose a good bottle of Boredeaux and make her feel beautiful. It doesn't take much. And uh, once you get home and things start heating up, throw down in the sack like it's your job. That means the full works, fellas. She'll love you for it.

New Jersey looks pretty good in the dark from a distance.

Three glasses of wine will do that to a girl.

Frankendogs

I read an article in the NY Times magazine last weekend on designer dogs, hybrid breeds that are odd combinations of ordinary dogs. Apparently, purebred dog breeders are all in a tizzy about it. I'd never given this matter much thought. I heard Jake Gyllenhaal owns a puggle (the result of a one-night stand between a pug and a beagle) that cost like $2,000, but that's about all I know on the topic. Maybe it's having recently read the article, maybe there's a run on crazy Frankendogs in New York, but I'm seeing them everywhere now. And they're freaking me out. Tell me this isn't funny-looking with it's short-ass legs:

Puggle
I saw one the other day in the park wearing a really preppy looking sweater (red and yellow, with a little collar). Granted, it was cold, but still...the thing looked like it went to Yale. All it was missing was a crest on the breast pocket...






And I just saw one of these Labradoodles (Labradors crossed with Poodles) this evening:

Kinda cute, right? Originally bred in Australia to be guide dogs for people with allergies because they don't shed much. That makes them less of a vanity half-breed then the rest of them. It looks like it enjoys a good drooling session, though...





Other pricey canine mash-ups: Cockapoo (Cocker Spaniel and Poodle), Morkie (Maltese and Yorkie), Boggle (Boston Terrier and Beagle), and finally the Begapoo (Beagle and Poodle). Those Beagles and Poodles really get around, huh? Little sluts...I wanna see what happens when you cross a Chihuahua with a St. Bernard. Probably a crime against nature.

And just when you think you've run out of ways to spend money on your made-to-order puppy, you can drop $1000 one of these custom, solid oak dog beds:

They're as stylish as they are practical. But your shiny new puggle may not be able to get in it with those stumpy little legs.

Obits: Anna Nicole Smith

Whew! What an unusual week...and it's not quite over yet. We started off strong with the mentally unstable NASA astronaut, and today, as if the news cycle is trying to top itself, Anna Nicole Smith drops dead. It's not all that surprising, but still...for all her flaws, that lady had some brass ones. She set precedent when her inheritance case was heard before the Supreme Court (the issue was the probate exception to federal jurisdiction for all you legal types...), which earned her a unanimous judgment in her favor. I'm sure it was the first time a former chicken joint waitress/day-shift stripper/Playmate of the Year/model/prescription drug aficionado/yo-yo dieting trophy wife ever went before the nation's highest court. I love this country. I'll let Fox News handle the rest.

Holla! (yeah, I'll still say it)

What's up, China? Just checked my site traffic before going to bed. Ya'll must be playing around on your lunch breaks, because I got a spike just now from all over Eastern China. Considering this blog is purely for my entertainment and vanity (and I wasn't expecting any actual readers), it's way too easy and satisfying to get feedback from all over the place. Perhaps I should join a Google Analytics addiction support group.

Public Service Announcement: Empty Subway Cars

If you've recently moved to New York or are preparing to visit, there are a number of helpful things you should know. Subway routes. North, South, East and West. Landmarks. How to tip (if anyone feeds you or moves you from one place to another, give them money). Burgers cost a minimum of $9, even at the divey dives, so don't act all shocked. Beers cost $5 and cocktails are at least $10, and you gotta tip the bar staff extra nice. This isn't the Midwest. You gotta pay to play. But, in your defense, eager tourist or bright-eyed new resident, you can't be expected to know the finer points of taking on the city and keeping your sanity on your first day. To improve the quality of your time here in the Big Apple, The Karma Cycle is henceforth issuing Public Service Announcements to cue you in on the hard-won knowledge that you won't find in guide books or Zagat's.

Today's PSA: If, during peak commuting times, the train is completely stuffed except for one car, DO NOT, under any circumstances, enter the empty car. There is one and only one reason for the lack of passengers. A homeless person has set up residence in said car and is compromising the air quality with his or her body odor and/or stench created from bodily functions.

I made this mistake once as a NYC neophyte and just today saw some unfortunate soul make the same error during the evening rush hour and run gasping for the doors between the cars. The stink had invaded my car too, which was behind the empty one, no doubt due to people escaping the offending vapors. Occasionally, in summer, the air conditioning in a car will break and the car will carry fewer passengers than usual. Even in this situation, there will still be people in the car if the train is crowded. But, to maintain your commuting comfort, choose a different, normally-populated car if possible.

EMPTY SUBWAY CAR = STINKY SUBWAY CAR

Crazed astronaut stalkers make my workday go faster

So this is a perfect example of truth being sooo much stranger than fiction. Today, Lisa Marie Nowak, a ten-year veteran of NASA who took a space flight last July, was charged with attempted murder. So much for heros. Captain Nowak drove 900 miles from Texas to Florida to confront her perceived rival, an Air Force Captain, for the affections of a fellow male astronaut (Nowak was married with kids, he was divorced with kids). This in itself is weird enough, but to show her true level of craziness, Nowak made the trip wearing Depends adult diapers. You know, because not having to stop to hit the bathroom would make the trip waaay shorter.

Nowak also had a choice selection of poorly thought through intimidation weapons, including a compressed air pistol and a steel mallet neatly packed in her trunk. This is what happens when geeks attempt murder. According to Nowak, she and the male astronaut had, “more than a working relationship but less than a romantic relationship.” NB to the ladies: perhaps the relationship in your head isn't the same as the relationship in reality. And, uh, stalking seems just a tad desperate, so think that 900-mile drive through reeeal hard. Anyhow, Nowak posted $25,000 bail on kidnapping, battery and attempted murder charges and is currently under house arrest in Houston.

The moral of this story: I'm really fucking glad I didn't go to Space Camp.

Image poached from Gridskipper. They're better with Photoshop.

Squeezing out a little optimism

The top five good things about this freezing cold winter weather:

5. Soup tastes better when it's cold outside. So do grilled cheese sandwiches.

4. At least it's still sunny.

3. Everyone's hair looks like crap, so you don't have to worry about yours.

2. You feel tough for even venturing to the subway. Extra tough if you have to walk more than two blocks to get there.

1. Sitting around watching crap TV all evening in your pajamas without feeling like a slob.

Honorable mention: blogging about absolute rubbish to alleviate boredom and in hopes of raising your Google Analytics profile hits. So: Fashion Week, Super Bowl, Britney Spears, Iraq. That oughta help.

Weekend Wrap-up

It's late and I'm tired, but I'll post a bunch of "a day in the life" drivel in my sleep-deprived state anyhow. Let the rambling commence. This weekend, I braved the unfriendly weather both days to take my camera over to Central Park. Even though it was colder than a snake's belly on a frozen pond/colder than a witch's tit/colder than a polar bear's butt, it was bright, sunny and perfect for photos. Saturday, it was just me, today I had a couple friends with me for a walk. That's how I know they like me...if they'll walk 6 miles in freezing weather with me on Super Bowl Sunday. I swear, no bribery was involved and they're also not crazy (at least not in the clinical sense). Here is a random selection from the photo haul.







































This evening, I went to see Cat Power for the first time at the Hiro Ballroom instead of watching the Super Bowl. The venue was great, one of the best I've been to in NYC. Cat Power, I learned, is rather exhausting to watch live...she's odd, disjointed, difficult to understand at times and is a bit of a spazz on stage. Probably has something to do with the new-found sobriety. But she has an amazing voice. I was grumpy from standing in line for half an hour in the blistering cold and then sitting on the floor for another hour and a half until she took the stage, so it would have taken a freakin' three-ring circus to entertain me out of the mood I was in...though somehow my friends and I got onto the topic of puke stories, and pretty soon I was laughing 'til I cried. I'm all class - low class. But a decent show at a great venue, so two out of four stars, accounting for grumpiness.

Other than that, I ate stuff, drank stuff and slept as much as possible. Amen for weekends.

You never know what's around the corner

Today was an average day. Average work, average food. I was walking after work, as per usual, for the project (I'm just shy of 100 miles now). I went from my office through Soho and the West Village to Chelsea. I happened to pass by Loehmann's and figured I'd check it out since I'd never been there. I've shed a some pounds recently, I'm in the market for new pants. The ones I wear to work are starting to look like I picked 'em up at MC Hammer's bankruptcy yard sale. After making my way quickly through three floors of disorganized racks stuffed with designer overstocks and standard department store fare, I found the petites section on the top floor. My legs are short, so I need short pants. This seems like a reasonable request, but it's pretty much impossible to buy something that fits without alteration. Their selection was small, but I found a few things to try on.

And that's when it happened. I was not warned. I was not prepared.

I took my things over to the fitting room, expecting to be shown to a stall. Instead, I'm waved around the corner into a harshly-lit communal dressing area with wall-to-wall mirrors where I was greeted by a huge white ass in a hot pink thong. I then noticed three other women in various stages of disrobing, checking themselves out and trying on their items. The room wasn't that big, so it was pretty close quarters. I briefly considered bolting, but instead set my backpack on the floor, dumped my items on the bench and took off my coat. I've been pantsless before, and I'll be pantsless again, dammit. I don't care who sees it.

But then I remembered. The underpants.

Not panties, undies or lingerie. Underpants. That's the only way to describe them. Big white brief-cut Jockeys. Can also be used as a replacement sail for a 30-foot catamaran in a pinch. I have no excuses. It's laundry time and I don't like to wear my cute panties when I'm on a walk because they crawl up big time. Have you ever tried to discreetly fix a wedgie on the street after work in Midtown in the winter? Not easy.

So there I am, frozen in position with my hand on my zipper, deciding whether to bare the least attractive underpants ever to a room full of strangers (who were, thankfully, not going to win any beauty contests). Finally, I sheepishly drop trou, hide behind the ones I'm trying on and get the job done. They fit, but just aren't that great. Same thing for the other pair. I left, having flashed Jockey for nothing, but glad I wasn't the owner of the big ol' badonkadonk in the hot pink thong.

Boston gets its panties in a bunch over a Lite-Brite

BREAKING NEWS: Hot off the AP wires, we have a report of Boston police shutting down bridges, highways and part of the Charles River due to a security threat. What, you ask, could cause all this commotion? A dirty bomb? An anthrax letter? Uh, not quite. The source of all the confusion and misplaced terror hysteria was none other than a guerrilla marketing campaign for [adult swim]'s show Aqua Teen Hunger Force (late night surrealist comedy cartoon about a geek-genius box of fries, a lazy, sarcastic milkshake and a semi-retarded ball of raw meat), which is being released in movie form on March 23. The marketing effort consisted of putting Lite-Brite type signs, a.k.a. "suspicious devices", showing one of the cartoon's characters flipping the bird at points of high visibility (subways, tunnel entrances, etc.) around Boston, as well as nine other US cities. Other places, including NYC, Los Angeles, Chicago and Atlanta, have had these signs in place for several weeks, with nary a complaint among them. Way to be killjoys, concerned citizens of Boston. Here's the breakdown:

The sign lit up:














Action shot of sign removal:














Because these guys said so:














And had the detectives down at the crime lab working in shifts:













Once the stink cloud started descending, Turner Broadcasting ([adult swim]'s parent network) copped to the stunt, told their marketing firm that was running the promotion to pony up the whereabouts of all the signs in every city and apologized all around. Even knowing where they were, Boston PD has managed to round up only 14 of 40ish devices scattered around the city. Nobody seems to give a damn about the signs in any of the other cities. The dude hired to place the them was arrested (at his lawyer's office) and faces one felony charge of placing a hoax device and one charge of disorderly conduct. The city claims that dealing with the "scare" cost them $500,000.

Some may call this whole thing a public nuisance of the highest order, and argue that those responsible should be punished to the fullest extent of the law, but I think that's a bit of an overkill, to put it mildly. People are more terror-happy than ever these days, so much so that reason escapes them when they notice something slightly unexpected and they jump to the worst possible conclusion. Next time, citizens of Boston, before you call the SWAT team, just have a little think on the fact that a multi-colored, lighted sign about the size of a sheet of paper with a little guy flipping you off may not be a threat to national security. Perhaps you should also start watching more cartoons at midnight, just to be safe. And to you guys in the dark suits: relax a little. If anyone's out to get you, you likely won't know it until you're totally screwed. Also, you may want to loosen up those ties, too. Lack of oxygen isn't good for the brain. No matter what, [adult swim] got more publicity than they were bargaining for, and that can't be all bad.

UPDATE: On Feb. 5, Turner Broadcasting and their Manhattan-based marketing firm, Interface, Inc. have agreed to pay $2 million in restitution for the chaos called by their ATHF stunt. Unbelievable.

Remainders

This evening, coming home after a long day of work and a couple glasses of Pinot Noir, I saw the saddest thing I've noticed in a while. It was a sign, written on discarded cardboard, that said "Help. Trying to get out of the cold". There was some stuff on the opposite side I couldn't read. It had been tossed into the tracks for the uptown CE train at West 4th St. Occasionally, I take a census of the refuse lying in and around the track. Most often, it's the cast-offs of everyday life...pens, batteries, plastic forks, soda bottles, etc. But this sign, someone's best attempt at making their life bearable for a short time, lying forlornly in the subway gutter, made me wish that the world was a little kinder sometimes.

An open letter to the automatic flush toilet in the second stall

Dear Toilet,

I know you probably don’t like your job all that much. I understand, because I’m not always so keen on mine either. Some days it’s busy and things can get kinda shitty. And you have to deal with the lady cops from the NYPD office on our floor. I couldn’t do that. I’m lucky I can manage to use the bathroom I’m obligated to share with them. For people who are licensed to use firearms, they have shockingly bad aim, especially for females. You work hard, toilet, but we need to discuss your attitude. I think you have an anger management problem.

My complaint is that you flush with hair-trigger sensitivity at a volume and force rivaling Niagara Falls. I do my best to use one of the other two stalls, but when I’m in a pinch, we need to work together. Given the devastation the lady cops leave in their wake after their lunch break, I need to be able to hold a high hover for at least 15 seconds without setting you off. Is that too much to ask? Why can't you be like your comrades over at the airport? Don’t get me wrong, toilet, I appreciate what you do for me, but I just can’t touch skin to seat in order to block your sensor. I’ve tried to double-cover you and drape you in paper, but you gobble them down the chute before I’m able to attend to my urges. Even the slightest turn of my body or a shadow passing your electronic eye causes you to react unpredictably. Toilet, I am not a contortionist, so you need to learn to control yourself and stop being so sensitive.

But the worst infraction is when you flush with fierce velocity while I’m mid-hover. I cannot abide this type of treatment any longer. I have literally leaped out of the way of your foul plume of spray. Believe me, this is awkward. In summation, if you can find it in your mechanical inner workings to tone down the aggression when I enter the stall, I would truly appreciate it. In return, I promise to be a sweetie and wipe the seatie.

Cheers,

The Karma Cycle

Stupid Product Catalog: Bic Soleil

I'm a thrifty shopper when it comes to stuff I use every day. I appreciate quality, but sometimes, brand name products are stupid. For instance, I don't buy top of the line toilet paper, sandwich baggies or liquid hand soap. Anything I flush down the toilet, wash down the drain or toss in the trash should come into my life as cheaply as possible (I'll opt for a level above the ultra-generic ass-sandpaper masquerading as toilet paper, however). I also buy men's razors. Since they're meant to shave burly lumberjack beards or whatever, they do a better job on my legs than pink chicky crap that has its own theme song. (I'm generally anti-waxing, too. I don't see the point of giving a stranger a fair amount of money that could be spent on cocktails to rip out my pubic hair. The last time I went, this sadistic French chick made me wish I'd gotten an epidural before I'd stepped through the door). One of my main reasons for resisting brand marketing is products like this:
I was shopping in the Duane Reade this evening, pricing the man-razors, when these caught my attention. First of all, they're $6.29 for four razors. What the hell. They're disposable, which should mean cheap! For you math geeks out there, that's $1.57 for a razor that I'll use a couple times. Whereas, with just the barest amount of price comparison effort, I can get 10 Bic (same brand as above, mind you) razors for $5.19, or 52 cents apiece. Yeah, that's how I roll. But the thing that really got me was the lavender-scented handles. I don't know about you, but I have yet to pick up my razor from the side of the tub, take a big whiff of the handle and say, "Man, I wish this smelled like flowers". I just have a maximum for the amount of mixed-in, added-on bells and whistles bullshit I'm willing to deal with for a decent shave of the legs. Congratulations, Bic Soleil Twilight lavender-scented handle girly razors, you've pushed me over the edge.

Bad Art, Volume 1: "Bling"

For some time now, I've been irritated every time I'm greeted with this poster upon entering the subway. Granted, peoples' artistic tastes come in all forms, but this piece makes me let out an inner sigh of despair when I'm immobilized on a crowded train and know I'm going to have to face it (and take the forced opportunity to study it) for twenty minutes during my commute.


This particular work, done in colored pencil (advanced!) and entitled "Bling" by an artist named Dave Calver, is the worst example of MTA's artistic judgment yet to date. It's a stylized female hand wearing a shirt with subway logos on the sleeve and jewelry made out of New York landmarks. Now, I'm all for public art, even the eccentric or strange. It's part of what makes this city unique and beautiful. I don't even mind the bongo players and dancers at Times Square, though the Scientologists can bugger right off with their stupid "stress tests". My first problem with "Bling" is that it looks like something you'd find marked 75% off in the discount bin at a New Age shop, next to the patchouli-scented aura adjustment candles, whale sounds CDs and crystals that can be used as deodorant.

My second complaint is that it seems to spring directly from the Thomas Kinkade (worst. "artist". ever.) school of crappy, unoriginal space-fillers for waiting rooms and apparently, now subway cars. I feel like I should be idly flipping through a six month old Redbook and waiting to get my teeth cleaned. It sends disappointing vibes all around, and definitely does not do anything to improve my mood while crammed under the armpit of the gentleman next to me. Come on, MTA. You can do better. Give me some poems by high school kids, at least. I thought this was the worst subway poster out there, but it seems Mr. Calver has trumped himself with his most recent effort. It's a brown rabbit bounding through Manhattan with commuters on its back. Truly, truly awful. I've only seen it once, and don't yet have a pic, but rest assured, one will arrive as soon as possible. Until then, keep an eye out for this astoundingly bad piece of art next time you're on the train.

Oh Karma, you evil mistress

Out of 30 lottery numbers, I got one. I guess Holmes' car issues weren't enough to swing Karma in my direction in a big way. But then again, I found a good deal on a cute hotel for an upcoming trip to Puerto Rico and I got to leave work an hour early today, so I'll take it.

Unsolicited Advice

Perhaps I'm the last person in the world to get StumbleUpon, but in case I'm not and you are, you should go download it (and Firefox while you're at it) and get busy. It's like channel-surfing the web based on your preferences. Add a thumbs up for The Karma Cycle!

Come on, karma, throw us a bone

It's been a little while since the Karma Cycle has allowed a day like this. "Buy a lottery ticket now. Tell you later why". That's the text I got at 12:30 this afternoon from Holmes. First thought: he failed Organic Chemistry. Second thought: he wrecked his sweet ride. Either way, since Holmes and I share a pool of luck, I just might win some cash off this karma windfall.

But my karma wasn't really paying any dividends today, either. My lunch break was largely consumed by hassling with the various insurance companies, prescription services and unions that are jointly in charge of my health coverage. I was just trying to get the pill. Not like I needed $2,000 worth or anti-psychotics or something, though after jumping through numerous bureaucratic hoops, I probably could have used some. One unsuccessful trip to the pharmacy, six phone calls, four automated systems and three "patient advocacy specialists" (they really have taken renaming phone-jockey positions to a whole new level), and I still didn't get anywhere. Bastards. Just when I was ready to throw the phone out the window in frustration, my doc's office called, offered a solution and promptly saved the day. But the whole ordeal pissed me off, and I still had to make a trip to the other end of Manhattan to get my pills after work. Grr.

I wasn't feeling very karmically-receptive when I set out to find a place to buy lottery tickets. And of course, today is the day I learn that there are no bodegas within five blocks of my office in any direction. Frustrational. After hustling from downtown to waaay uptown after work, I got back to my neighborhood and again tried for tickets. There's this weird little shop a block away that has all these ceramic figurines and stationery products in the window, but basically just exists to sell candy, cigarettes and thankfully, lottery tickets. Ah, purveyors of the daily vices. What would this city be without them?

I've actually never bought a real lottery ticket, only the scratch-off kind. I felt like I was using the SAT bubble sheets, and had to call Holmes for instructions. A damn Masters degree and trouble buying lottery tickets. Turns out that Holmes slid his car off the road and had to get AAA to tow his ass out of a ditch. Yup, pretty much what I thought. Karma definitely gave it to him harder than it did me (and probably didn't cuddle afterward), and he wasn't in a good mood. But after a bit of coaching, I got five lottery tickets plus a scratch-off to satisfy my need for instant gratification. Got a whole lotta nothin' outta the scratching, but the big drawing is tomorrow, so it could be me....

Open Forum: Here Comes Your Man

Song lyrics. Always a subject of interesting, and sometimes vigorous, drunken debate. In fact, a couple weeks ago, I climbed up on the intoxication soapbox to ramble on about how The Pixies' "Here Comes Your Man" is about homicidal, or possibly cannibalistic, railroad-riding vagrants. Even sober, I'd stand by this assessment. A couple days later, my friend, who was on the receiving end of said drunken rant, took to the internets to see what she could find. Her conclusion that the song was about the bombing of Hiroshima. Veery Eenteresting. The two wildly differing interpretations made me wonder what else was out there. And so, the forum is opened on just what, if anything, Frank Black is talking about in Here Comes Your Man.

Possibility 1: Killer Hobos: Boxcar-dwelling hobos wait for someone to walk by, hit him on the head with a "big, big stone", serve him up in a tasty "family stew" and escape when the train starts moving again. It's gotta be right, because the wine and I said so.

Possibility 2: The Bomb: August 9th 1945. US bomber the 'Bockscar' dropped an atomic bomb on Nagasaki. The bomb was called 'Fat Man'. This one seems to be pretty popular among the self-appointed experts in the comments sections. Beat out the references to WWII and Nazis at least.

Possibility 3: Old-school funeral procession: Back in the old days, bodies were transported by train. When the train was arriving at the station with someone's dead loved one, they used to say "Here comes your man". How's that for not softening the blow? Better than just tossing 'em out, I guess, but still an unlikely explanation for the song.

Possibility 4: 'Waiting for the Man': About the anticipation of waiting on a drug purchase, possibly in response to the Velvet Underground song. People who wait on drug connections always want songs to be about waiting for drug connections. Get a job.

Most likely explanation: A pre-Pixies song that Frank Black wrote when he was about 15. "It's about winos and hobos travelling on the trains, who die in the California Earthquake...before earthquakes, everything gets very calm, animals stop talking and birds stop chirping and there's no wind. It's very ominous...It's like the earth is shaking, and what can you do? Nothing." [Interview with Frank Black, NME, 1989]

So yes, my interpretation was twisted, a little bit sick and shows my general lack of trust in hobos, but at least I wasn't that far off. The Open Forum is now closed.

Subway Zealotry

The ads on the subways here pitch anything and everything, from cheap, quickie divorces to surgery for hammer toe correction. Among the ubiquitous liquor posters and promos for technical colleges, commuters can find their morning dose of good old-fashioned bible talkers. Chief among these is one Dr. Creflo A. Dollar of the World Changers Church International. That has got to be the most perfect name for someone in the evangelical sales business.

The ever-curious Karma Cycle took a look into Dr. Dollar, whose message combines your standard Christian buzzwording with the added bonus of relieving his followers of personal responsibility for their own prosperity. The "God will work it out" school of life management. Today's message is "How to get angels to work for you". This practical advice outlines "six steps to activating angelic protection", available through purchase only. My theory is that this works like a clogged drain. You pour your big bottle of extra-strength angelic protection down the drainpipe of your life, wait fifteen minutes and flush the sex, drugs and rock-and-roll away with hot water. That's not what I need. I'm more interested in how to get angels to do real work for me. At the moment, my laundry needs done and my tub could use a good scrubbing. Pray tell me, Dr. Dollar, how do I get the angels to get busy on that?

For the nominal fee of $4, you can get your very own copy of the six steps. I, of course, am too cheap to bite that bait, and have a strict policy against giving money to proselytizers. In fact, most of Dr. Dollar's messages come in easily-digestible, numbered step format, and are not too expensive as far as quality, feasible life advice is concerned. So if you are tired of being responsible for your own bizness, send your dollars to Dollar, and he'll give you a bullet-pointed list that no doubt includes lots and lots of praying. The best part? His wife's name is Taffi. That's right, Creflo and Taffi Dollar. Jim and Tammy Fay ain't got nothin' on them.

The Project

One year, one camera, and one pedometer. A thousand miles in Manhattan. The project started initially from my New Years resolution to quit the gym. I don't like the idea of only having one day a year to address all the stuff that's messed up in your life and get it sorted out, so I generally resolve to do something contrary to all the "lose 20lbs-eat more vegetables-find true love" rubbish declarations that are ancient history by the end of February. My gym is boring and it has the not-so-faint odor of sweaty feet on the workout mats. I figured out that was costing me about $15 every time I went, and that I definitely wouldn't hand over a ten and a five for the privilege of walking in the door. The final straw was that two weeks ago, they moved it 10 blocks north. Never going. Ever. Cheap and lazy, you say? Perhaps, but I don't know anyone who would pay $15 to walk ten blocks for the smell of feet. I'm sure they're somewhere on Craigslist.

A friend's office has sponsored a weight loss challenge for the staff, so we took a walk on the weekend after New Years to get some exercise. I needed to waddle off a large lunch I had in Chinatown. Soup dumplings from Joe Shanghai are worth navigating the crowded streets, holding your breath and trying not to retch when passing the fish markets. We did over five miles from South Street Seaport to East 57th. Didn't take that long, and was pretty enjoyable. Decided to do it again. At the end of the first week, I'd logged 30 miles, both on my own and with my friend. We got inspired to turn this walking endeavor into a project and really get to know Manhattan. I'm gonna take the camera out, document whatever interesting stuff I happen across and see what it yields. Who knows how far I'll get, but as of now, it's on.

Back in fighting form

Hallelujah. My computer is fixed, and for free. A faulty power cord was the root of the problem, which was replaced with a salvaged cord from my office's tech guy. I'm once again able to zap my random thoughts into the ether where they can sparkle and fade away like fireworks lit on the beach at night.

Karma strikes again

Alas, as soon as I decide to do a blog and keep it updated with some regularity, my trusty old Dell gives up the ghost with a sputtering beep of despair. Most likely a bad DC jack, which will require a costly and time-consuming return to the mother ship for repairs. I was tempted to round up a soldering iron and make the fix myself, but since I haven't soldered anything since high school (and my skills were poor then at best), I figured I'd do considerably more harm than good. My technological situation such as it is, the Karma Cycle will be offline for the near future, to return in excellent form at the soonest possible moment. Of course, I doubt anyone's reading this, but if by chance you, lone internet traveler, are hanging on my every word, well, you'll just have to hold your horses or send me $150 for parts.

You can't get fitter than a breastfed nipper

Your friendly proprietor of The Karma Cycle is in the health business. With all the hullabaloo about trans-fats, bird flu, obesity and the rest of it, business is good. It seems that everywhere you turn in New York, there's an advisory for cootie testing, healthy food, sex toy safety or whatever issue of the moment the government is taking a swing at. But we're not the only ones with an abundance of health-themed advertising. Here are a few of the more interesting ones I've run across:

I think this old motorcycle safety poster is from Germany, though it's archived at University of Amsterdam. It's pretty badass.


This little gem from Scotland proves that rhyming and breastfeeding are not mutually exclusive.

This vintage military/communist-y morale booster is from 1932 Japan, and translates as "Safety Leads to Efficiency". Makes every day into a Monday after a long weekend.


Leave it to the good ol' American government to make the ladies feel special:


And China wins the gold medal for ominous, gross and disturbing health advertising.

Swallowing atomic bombs kills thousands of Chinese children each year.

MSG is very, very bad for you.

But the award for homo-erotic tuberculosis control posters goes to Japan (translation: "Prevent Tuberclosis", 1930). I have no idea how naked wrestling prevents TB, but I like it. Though I bet they had to beef up their budget for other prevention posters (syphilis, anyone??) the next year...


And last, a little subtlety as only the Australians can do it.

Happy 2007!

Don't fuck it up.