What ever happened to crazy Jane?

169 days. That’s how long I wanted people to pontificate on my neti pot experience. That’s the amount of time I figured it would take to sink in. I hope you all have learned something.

Naw, really, I have a better reason than that but it’s not as easy to explain. And since my fan club on Facebook has attracted a whole 11 people, I feel that I owe my loyal fans something of an explanation.

Several things lead to the fall of Plastic Brain Train and I will attempt to explain them here.

First, the superficial reasons:

1) I got psycho busy at the end of May and through the end of July with a job related to the small business that I own. Since it is my livelihood, I spent all of June and July working my ass off to make that project a success. And it was. Kudos to me for working hard at something I love and earning a satisfying payment as a result. But man, was I busy.

2) My cunt-face of a landlord raised my rent $300 which was in essence an eviction since I don’t have that kind of money. August was spent preparing for the move which happened at the end of August. I am risking the bad karma by wishing nothing but bad things to happen to my ex-landlord, may he rot in hell for all eternity.

By the end of August, I hadn’t written in months and figured that my readers had forgotten me and moved on. C’est la vie, it was fun while it lasted and so on.

Now the not-so-tangible reasons:

1) My real name is not Jane. Many of you know this but many of you don’t. But then again, it’s not supposed to matter. My writing is my writing regardless of whose name is on it. I never started this blog to become a famous writer. I only started it to entertain my friends, many of whom had blogs at the time and convinced me that blogging is fun. And it is fun. But, here’s the tricky part: after a certain point, I wanted credit. The real me.

The two-selves paradox was presented to me thusly: After I wrote this entry about wacky hijinx at my dad’s cabin, I was contacted by a publisher who wanted me to write an essay for a real book to be really printed in a real way. (No, not for money, but whatevs.) A dream come true. However, I had to explain to the publisher that my name is not really Jane. Then I thought, if people google search me, they won’t be able to find all of my writing because I’ve hidden it under a fake name. And suddenly, I was sad. (PS: the book is now published, my essay is in it, complete with adorable photo of my brother and me.)

2) Why did I need a fake name to begin with? Well, when I started, I was unemployed and planned on writing my stupid adventures of temping, interviewing, starting a new job, making fun of my boss, etc. I didn’t want potential employers to find my foul-mouthed snarky blog and not hire me on that basis. My fears are not completely unfounded, I feel. People have been fired over lesser offenses. So I chose my stage-name, my alter-ego, Jane Gavin.

Jane was supposed to be everything I’m not. Confident, famous (if only in her head) and able to do things that the real me can’t do, like get on stage and do stand-up comedy. Except that the real me actually got on stage and did stand-up comedy. And did it again. And again. And again. Suddenly, my real self and my confident, sassy, alter-ego were fusing into one person. I didn’t need Jane any more. I could just be me, the real me, non-famous and insecure real me. But doing things that only Jane could have done in the past.

3) Apparently, Jane’s writing amuses people. And I loved throwing my creative energy into amusing people. However, when I started throwing my creative energy into doing stand-up comedy, the blog seemed unnecessary to me. I now pour my heart and soul into making people laugh while I’m on stage, 7 to 10 minutes at a time.

4) I got an actual piece of fan mail that for real made me cry. Jane has exaggerated the rate at which she receives fan mail. I think she clocked it at thousands of pieces a day. On July 9th, I got an email from a guy in Tasmania. And it wasn’t a one-line “i like ur blog” email. It was a long and extremely well-written letter that I can’t believe my writing inspired someone to write. I just can’t believe it. He used the word “besotted” in reference to my blog. This was the most inspiring thing to me because I can have friends tell me they like my writing up and down but I never fully believe it because I just figure they are being nice because they are my friends. (Jane would believe it but the real me is much more insecure and has a tendency to deflect compliments.) But I’ve inspired a perfect stranger? And he liked my writing enough to write a letter? I won’t post the full text, (even though I’m almost sure he wouldn’t mind), because it’s just for me. My little private nugget of inspiration. And I feel terrible that I haven’t written him back or written a blog entry since then. I simply didn’t know what to say to convey what his letter truly meant to me. And part of me feels that I simply can’t live up to expectations.

5) What does the future hold for PBT? I’m not sure. I don’t think this is the kind of thing that can get published on its own. Should I write a book of essays? Would anyone read it? Will I have to self-publish? I’m not prepared to fail at that. When something funny occurs to me now, I put it into my stand-up comedy. Which is difficult because funny things that happen to me now need actual punch-lines. (Punch-lines don’t write themselves, people.)

I’ve gone and done something I said I would never do and admitted that Jane is not a real person. I’ve also blogged about blogging which I hate. So I’ve ruined the fun in that way.

Anyway, this is the triumphant return and dramatic ending. Thank you all for reading. It was a wild ride. Come see me do stand-up comedy, which is essentially, this blog live on stage.

How to give your face an enema.

Well, well, well… turns out I ran myself completely ragged last week and got myself sick. I ran around, doing two jobs in one day and doing stuff at night didn’t sleep enough and picked up some kind of cold.

But what’s this? I thought I couldn’t get sick since I don’t have tonsils. No, that theory has been completely blown out of the water. My secret dreams of never being sick again have been shattered. (As a side note, you don’t want to get a cold while reading The Stand by Steven King.) Yes, I have a sore throat, but it’s not a swollen-feeling sore throat. It’s a new kind sore throat. More on that later.

I have no time for getting sick. Illness doesn’t strike when you have nothing going on. Illness is your body’s way of punishing you for being busy and trying to pay rent.

I’m all congested in my schnoz (not to be confused with my snizz) and I was sitting around, popping vitamin C and sucking on zinc and saying to myself “Hey, I wish I could just flush out my face.” And then it hit me: You can flush out your face. You can flush your face right out.

Enter my new friend, the neti pot. The neti pot is an enema for your face. You shoot water in and then it comes out bringing congested matter with it. Yes, this is as gross as it sounds but lemme tell ya, friends: It friggin works. The practice is thousands of years old and supposedly helps clear up numerous health conditions, including allergies, which for me have been terrible this year and I’m sure the nasal irritation is what indirectly lead to getting this cold.

I went to the health food store and bought the cheapest pot I could find at $15 for a blue plastic one. You have to use salt water (1/2 teaspoon of kosher/sea salt per 8 oz water) so it doesn’t irritate your delicate nasal passages and it has to be the right temperature or you’ll die instantly. Well, you don’t die instantly but it will suck somehow. (Scientific, I know.) Then you lean over, tilt your head and pour the water in one nostril and it comes out of the other. While this is going on, you can breathe through your mouth.

When I first poured the water in, nothing came out for a few seconds and I figured I was doing it wrong. Then, suddenly, I had the water-in-the-nose feeling you get when you play too hard in the ocean surf and water slowly drizzled out of the other nostril. For a minute, my body was confused like I was drowning but then I relaxed and tried to focus on watching my head cold go drizzle down the drain. The water coming out of my nose didn’t look or feel like snot, as I thought it might. I did this for a good 40 seconds or so, and then I looked to see how much salt water was left in the pot. It didn’t look like I’d made a dent. I dumped out the pot and made a slightly warmer mixture and did the other side. I read later that one pot is good for both sides. Duh on me. When you’re done, you have to be careful to get all the water out of your face by blowing your nose gently a bunch of times. That part was instinctual for me.

When I finally stood up and inhaled, it was remarkable. I felt so much cleaner and clearer—just like after the more-standard butt enema. My cold is still here but I feel like flushing my face is a mechanical way of clearing my sinuses of crap. Drugs can make you drowsy or high. Putting water up your nose just cleans you out.

I’m a convert. When I first heard the idea many years ago from a yoga teacher friend, I was repelled. “My nose is exit only,” I scoffed, “No cocaine and no crazy hippie water pot thingy.” Now, I wish I’d done it earlier. (Not cocaine, the other thing. Cocaine is bad.)

Neti pot, the face enema: I give it a B.

Where’d you go, Jane?

About six months ago, I started my own business. It’s awesome being my own boss and setting my own schedule. But there are some downfalls. Like, when business is slow, I have no money. Lately, business has been slow and over the last few months, I have slowly run out of money. My goal each month is to pay my rent. If I can pay my rent, the rest falls into place.

At my last giant corporation job, I had a 401K. When I left, it rolled over into an IRA. I know the first thing you learn about finances is this: Never cash in an IRA early. (Unless you’re buying real estate.) Well, I thought to myself, I can either cash in my IRA or pay my rent with a credit card and pay the fucking finance charges. The penalty for cashing in an IRA is ridiculous. Da Man taxes your IRA like a paycheck in addition to a 10% penalty fee for not being 55. So, if you have $10 in your IRA, you’ll probably only see about $6. Well, I did it. I thought to myself, I can’t be sitting here, complaining about being broke if I have this sum of money just sitting around. So that’s how I paid rent in May.

That brings us to June. How will I pay June’s rent? I’ve decided to take up some jobs. I asked the universe for some part time work. I don’t want a full time job at an office. I need flexible part time work where I don’t stress about work at home. And I want the jobs to be fun because I’m not wasting my time on unfun stuff any more. The universe responded with more jobs than I could shake a stick at. I think I have about six different jobs, all paid hourly. I even babysat last week for the first time in more than a decade. I’d forgotten how much fun it is and what a great babysitter I am. Here are some fun facts about my new jobs:

• Two of them require name tags.
• One of them pays me in cash.
• For one of them, I’m not sure my new boss knows my last name.
• Two of them require me to wear something on my head.
• One of them had a non-intentionally hilarious training video for new-hires, complete with awkward introduction from the confused-looking CEO.
• Three of them were gotten through friends.
• Two of them require extremely early morning hours.
• Only one of them doesn’t require a corporate casual dress-code.
• On Tuesday of last week, I got two jobs in one day.

And I’m still doing stand up. My ultimate dream is to make a living being funny in whatever form that comes in: Doing stand up, actress, comedy writer, essayist, mortician, whatever. To make a living being funny – that’s the goal. And to make my business a raging success so I ultimately don’t have to get up so dang early.

So that’s where I’ve been. Working myself into oblivion. Most of the jobs are a lot of fun and it's giving me tons of comedic material. I'll let you know if I make June's rent.

I’m reminded of a quote:

“People who work sitting down get paid more than people who work standing up.”

--Ogden Nash, US humorist & poet (1902 - 1971)

That’s poignant on a few levels.

If anyone needs a babysitter, call me. You get a night out, I get some cash. It’s win/win.

A week is a week gone by!

Too fast, yo. I can't believe it's been a week since I vented about shitty fake coffee. Stupid Sundays come so fast here on the east coast. I have too many things to write about but I've been quite a busy little bee. So, a quicky. Here's an awesome thing that happened to me this last week:

I found a $20 bill in the middle of the street.

Twenty dollars.

I felt like I'd won the lottery. Of course, as karma and human decency dictates, I had to make an effort to find the rightful owner of this money. "Anyone lose a twenty?" I said under my breath as I slowly shook my head around, making eye contact with nothing. There was no one around me for at least 30 feet in every direction. This twenty was mine, I realized. Pure joy washed over me.

Don't get me wrong, my heart aches for the person who lost it because that sucks. But it's possible he or she was a very bad and very rich person who would have spent it on doing bad mean things to someone. I know that karmically, I have to be very careful about how I spend this newfound jackpot, but still, I found $20 in the street. When you're as broke as I am, finding paper money is equivalent to having a financial orgasm. It feels good.

And I'm not ashamed to say that it made my damn day.

Last weekend, I heard there was going to be a Coffee and Tea Festival at the Metropolitan Pavilion on 18^th street. Now, this was interesting to me because when I was in taking graphic design classes, the final project for one of my classes was to promote something. Some people chose to develop packaging and marketing for something like jewelry or hair care products. I decided to do a then-fictitious Java Festival. And guess where I put my fantasy Java Festival? At the Metropolitan Pavilion. And guess when the first real Coffee and Tea Festival was held? A few months after I finished my project. Coincidence? Here is the actual front page of the flier I made for the class:

Notice that the date is but a few weeks after my class ended and but a few months before the first real Coffee and Tea Festival was held at the Metropolitan Pavilion. But I’m not mad. As long as I can go and get samples and coupons for coffee. Here is the actual Coffee and tea Festival invite:

(I think mine is better.)

I went with great excitement but the festival was a giant disappointment. There was exactly ONE coffee stand and the rest was a bunch of tea and tea products. One thing I enjoyed seeing was a green tea liqueur. I tried a sample of a green tea martini. T’was good.

I did, however, get a big ol’ bag of swag. There was a bunch of tea in there. But there was one packet that caught my attention. It was caffeine free herbal coffee from a company called Teeccino. “What’s this,” I thought, “Herbal coffee?” and little question marks appeared over my head. At the bottom of the bag, it ominously states: Contains no coffee beans. That should have been enough for me to know it wasn’t for me. But I’m naïve and always in search of a good decaf, right? I look at the ingredients: Roasted carob, barley, chicory root, dates, almonds, figs, natural vanilla extract, and other natural flavors. Looking back, I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess it was just dumb curiosity.

So I brew this stuff. And it tasted like you might imagine roasted carob and chicory root might taste. Not only was it not at all anything even remotely close to coffee, but it was completely disgusting. Terrible. It wasn’t even good enough to be called really bad coffee. The aftertaste lingered and the smell was horrible. I’m horrified that they even put the word coffee on the packaging. There may be a market for this awful stuff but it’s not for anyone who has ever enjoyed a cup of coffee.

The Teeccino website states:

Teeccino is the best selling coffee substitute in America. Though we prefer the term “herbal coffee” (No one calls herbal tea a “tea substitute”, now do they?), we anticipate the day when herbal coffee brings as many people health and enjoyment as herbal tea does today.

Best selling coffee substitute in America? Try the only “coffee substitute” in America. And that’s because everyone knows, there is no substitute for coffee. A better “coffee substitute,” besides actual brewed decaf, would be anything but this crap. It might be: hot water, hot water with lemon and honey, hot chocolate, a chai latte, boiled baby blood with Splenda. Anything else would taste better and “substitute” for coffee.

There is a disturbing page on Teeccino’s website called “Endorsements.” This should be a dead giveaway — one of the endorsements reads:

"Teeccino makes me feel like I'm part of the social scene. Now I have something to drink and so do my kids!"
S.S.
Santa Barbara, CA

WTF? Social scene? How does drinking nasty-ass non-coffee crap make you part of any social scene? Remind me never to visit Santa Barbara.

I’m back to my ongoing search for quality decaf that doesn’t break the bank. And it ain’t this shit.

Take my jerky, please.

As I’ve mentioned before, my eating habits on the road are completely counter to my eating habits at home. At home, I make an honest effort to eat good healthy foods with only the occasional disgusting venture into fast-food or a drunken night that ends with Kraft mac n’ cheese. If I do venture into the fast-food world, I keep my portions small and order the smaller sandwiches because they are cheaper, smaller and contain fewer calories. About twice a year, I’ll get a Whopper Jr. and orgasm my way through every bite. Whoppers are fucking delicious. My favorite meal at home is my big salad. I make my own dressing because store-bought dressing is filled with garbage.

All this goes out the window when I’m traveling or on vacation. One food that I consider strictly a road trip food is beef jerky. More specifically, I like a good ol’ fashioned Slim Jim. So embarrassing, I know. But it’s good road trip food because it’s not messy, it’s easy to eat and it doesn’t spoil. This was the reasoning behind RM and me looking for a bag of “quality” beef jerky to share. This logic is faulty, I know, but bare with me, it gets stupider.

For reasons I still can’t fully explain, we settled on Jack Link’s Premium Cuts KC Masterpiece Barbeque Beef Jerky. (It’s the brand that has that hilarious “messing’ with sasquatch” campaign and I know this because sasquatch is featured on the packaging.) The bag is 3.65 ounces and has a resealable strip on top, which I appreciate.

There are two things I try to avoid in processed foods. The first is MSG or monosodium glutamate. It’s nasty shit and it gives me headaches and in large doses, can make me burst into tears. (Seriously – and it took me a while to figure that out.) The other is High Fructose Corn Syrup. HFCS is also nasty shit and has been linked to all kinds of health problems. I’m not going to kid myself that MSG and HFCS aren’t already in everything, but when I have the option to look at labels, these are two things I avoid if I can. I avoid MSG like the plague and HFCS when it’s possible, which it isn’t always. Sometimes, I want a damn Peach Snapple.

Now, I know I said dietary rules go out the window when traveling, but I’d still stick with my no MSG rule even when traveling. That’s why it’s baffling how we came to purchase Jack Link’s Premium Cuts KC Masterpiece Barbeque Beef Jerky which contains both MSG and HFCS. I didn’t look at the ingredients. We got to the car, opened the jerky and each took a bite. I was expecting spiced dried beef. But it tastes over-processed. And once I knew, I couldn’t get over the fact that it has MSG in it. I was afraid to eat any more.

We brought the bag home and it sits in my kitchen now. In the kitchen, healthy rules apply again so RM and I can’t eat it. But I’m opposed to throwing away perfectly good food since that’s wasteful and I hate wasting food. This bag was nearly $6. Can’t eat it and can’t throw it away.

What, oh what, can I do with this jerky? I’d like to send it to someone. For free. So here’s my offer:

Email me your address and I’ll send you the leftover beef jerky. I haven’t done anything weird with the bag, I swear. Here are some positive selling points:

High in protein, low in carbs, fat and only 80 calories per serving which means the entire bag, if it were full, would only have 280 calories. Not too shabby.

The first person to email me gets it. If you want to have this leftover jerky, for free, I’ll mail it to you, no questions asked. Help me help you eat jerky. Thanks!

My email address: plasticbraintrain@gmail.com.

Road verses Air

Some people might think it’s weird that I’m willing to spend 24 hours on the road to spend 36 hours somewhere. I don’t think it’s weird. I like driving because I don’t own a car and therefore, never get to drive. So it's fun. Gas prices being what they are, is it cheaper to drive to Chelsea, Michigan or to fly? Let’s find out.

I looked into flights first.

Cost of airfare for RM and me: $333 each = $666 (spooky)
Then, I’d still have to rent a car to get around: $18 x 3 days = $54
Trip estimate for flights, not including getting to and from the airport and the cost of gas and taxes for the rental = $720.00

And now, the actual costs of driving.

Rental and cost of getting to rental place = $154.09
Cost of gas = $142.93
Cost of food = $74.49
Tolls = $13.5
Other = $25.16
Total cost = $410.17

Money saved by not flying: $309.83. Boo-yah. Vindicated.

I’d like to point out that the Fuel Cost Calculator site gave me a round trip gas estimate of $137.38. Good for them and what a fun and useful site. They were off by just $5.55 and that’s the money it took to drive around locally at our final destination and get lost in New Jersey, the land of nonsensical driving rules and no fucking left turns ever.

I probably gained 8 pounds in junk food. Traveling rules for nutrition = anything goes. My “vacation” starts the minute I get the rental car on the road or get to the airport for a flight. First order of business is usually to find an egg McMuffin. Lunch was Taco Bell. I haven’t had Taco Bell in a crazy long time. It’s messy to eat but so freakin’ delish. We had Wendy’s twice. I ate a “Scrambler” at Perkin’s. I don’t recommend it. It was disgusting and not in a good way. I can justify a lot of disgusting food as long as it tastes good but this was barely edible. And I usually eat anything I’ve paid for.

Detroit is pretty nasty, as advertised, but the surrounding areas were very nice. Chelsea, Michigan is adorable.

Comfort Inn lets you make your own Belgium waffle every day, for free, at their hotels. Highly recommend that.

There are endless reasons to hate New Jersey but here’s one more example. There is no self-serve at any gas station so you have to wait for an attendant and then make sure that the attendant gives you the kind of gas you ask for. You have to supervise him or her like a child. I handed my credit card to RM, the driver at the time. I heard RM ask the attendant to fill it up with regular unleaded at $2.99/gal. Then I got out of the car to make pee-pee. When I got back, RM handed me my card and receipt and we got back on the road. The total came to $46.01. Today, I looked over my receipts and lo and behold, I wasn’t charged $2.99 per gallon, I was charged $3.129 per gallon. What the fuck? At 14.703 gallons of gas, the fucking state of New Jersey owes me $2.04. This is the kind of thing that makes me find alternate routes from New York City to Pennsylvania.

An activity.

A few days ago, I decided that I wanted to see what RM would do if I labeled everything in the bathroom with little identifying post-it notes. Tile, soap, towel, etc. I put little yellow post-it notes on every surface I could find and wrote the word of the object on the post-it.

Here’s what happened:

RM got home from work and it took him forever to go into the bathroom. When he finally came into the bathroom for the first time, I was in the shower. Outside the curtain, I can hear him looking around. After a good five seconds, he says, “How do you get that bored?” and walks out. This is highly offensive to me. Putting post-it notes all over the bathroom is not an act of boredom. It’s an act of someone who is afraid to leave the house and must entertain herself with what is available. (So, very indirectly, boredom, I guess.)

Once I’m out of the shower and drying off, he comes in and says that he’s glad I labeled everything since he had been confusing the toothpaste and the hand soap. Then he chuckles and walks out again. Very funny.

Then he does something that shocks me. He pinpoints the exact reason I did it. He matter-of-factly says, “You just did this to see what I’d do.” And that scares me since he’s completely right. Am I that obvious? This is quite a pickle.

Fulfillment of a lifelong dream costs $20.

Hear this now: You can learn to juggle for $20. It can happen to you and it can be everything you dream it can be.

Recently, this question has been asked of me: Why do you want to know how to juggle so badly? This question had never occurred to me. I assumed that everyone wants to know how to juggle. Why wouldn’t someone want to know how to juggle? May as well ask someone why they want to fall in love or eat a delicious meal. Forced to put words to my deepest inborn desire, here is what I’ve come up with:

1) It’s magic. The physics behind being able to juggle have never been explained by science.

2) People who can do it are therefore wizards and can control other mystical elements of the universe.

3) It looks cool. Deep inside my very cool exterior still lurks a vulnerable 6th grader, trying to win friends by doing cool stuff.

4) It has potential to add a kooky ingredient to my stand up comedy.

Really, any one of those reasons would be enough but taken together, it’s a given.

I’ve made previous attempts to learn to juggle. As a kid, I owned this book but it failed to teach me how to juggle. I needed someone to show me. Throughout my life, whenever I’ve encountered someone who had the gift, I would always beg them to teach me. The most frustrating thing about people who have the gift is that they can’t imagine not having it so the lesson would usually go like this:

Me: OH! You know how to juggle! Can you teach me?
Gifted person: Okay!
Me: REALLY??!! YAY!!!
GP: You just take three balls and [starts to juggle] toss them from one hand to the other like this! See?
Me: Um… yeah, but how?
GP: Like THIS! [Continues to juggle]
Me: Yes, but how?
GP: Just toss them from hand to hand. Try it. [Stops juggling. Hands me the balls.]
Me: [Makes pathetic uncoordinated attempt that results in fallen balls.] Uhhh…
GP: Ha ha! Just keep practicing. You’ll get it.

Guess what? THAT’S NOT A FUCKING LESSON! That’s a slap in the fucking face is what that is. It reminds me of my first ever snowboarding lesson from someone who worked as a snowboarding instructor: “Just ride the edge as you come down the mountain.” That’s not advice for someone who has never touched a snowboard, jerkass.

Fast forward a few years when I stumbled across an ad in Time Out NY for Juggling Classes for $20. Surely that’s a misprint, thought I. Who can teach this magic for only $20? I don’t have a lot of money these days, but this would be a gift far beyond monetary value.

Rod Kimball is the teacher and I was terrified that he’d be a guy who happens to have the gift and decided to cash in on it by making regular, non-gifted people feel inferior. Not at all. He’s a master and a real teacher. He started with basics. First, arm exercises. (I admit, at this stage, I was impatient. I ain't payin' no money to swing my dang arms!) But then, one ball, up and over. Then two balls. If you can’t get two balls to fly properly, he has little tricks to practice. He was very patient and never showed a hint of frustration. Catching the balls is secondary to throwing them properly, which was counterintuitive to me but also a great relief. Then, finally, three balls. Get all three in the air at the right time, at the right arc and don’t worry about catching them.

… But I did catch them. Throwing three balls in the air and catching three balls is called a “flash” and it looks like juggling. When I did my first flash, I almost burst into tears, I was so happy. What a great moment.

Then Rod wanted us to toss the fourth/first ball again. And so on. And that’s juggling. Well, there are 9 million ways to juggle. The kind of juggling that I so desperately wanted to learn, what I think of as standard juggling, is called a “cascade” – learning the lingo is another way to look cool, by the way. Fulfillment of a wish is $20 if you’re looking for it. I highly recommend it. The only negative about the class: The latest one starts at 5:30pm so day jobs might compete for time.

Other notes: Yes, it has occurred to me that I have also taken a trapeze class and that these classes are a cry for help because I secretly want to be circus folk. Thanks for your concern.

Solution to the MetroCard Mystery Math Challenge

Ya's guys knows I loves the smart people. Ya's guys knows I loves the helpful peoples. Thems is the bestest peoples around.

One such smart and helpful person read my rant and posted a solution to my MetroCard Mystery Math Challenge. (In a nutshell, the new pricing leaves weird non-even balances on your MetroCard, thus allowing the MTA to collect fractions of fares from everyone who doesn't have time to figure out the math so that when 15% of the money added to your card will give you a zero balance. It's friggin' annoying.)

Here it is, guys. The solution:

NYC MetroCard Bonus Calculator

I don't know who owns the site or how I was lucky enough that he or she found me, but thank you, mysterious, smart stranger with knowledge of building websites. May your savvy bring you joy for years to come.

If you're not from NYC and these posts bore the life out of you, here is a cartoon that encompasses both talking chickens and farts. Enjoy!