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.