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....