The Bionic Woman

Okay, so from 1976 to 1978, one of crime’s biggest adversaries was known as The Bionic Woman, played by Lindsay Wagner. This show was in no way meant to be a series, as Jamie Sommers was originally killed off. However, the writers decided to revive and revitalize the character after loads of infuriated fans expressed their outrage over her early demise (see: cryogenic hibernation for disconnected, bionic rebirth). Twenty-nine years later, NBC has decided to revive the character once again with The Bionic Woman. Don’t get me started on the title, however, as a devoted fan of the original series I felt obligated to at least give the new version a go. To avoid confusion, I will refer to this contemporary version as The (New) Bionic Woman.

Here’s the thing:

It's not that I can’t appreciate the resurrection of a classic program, it’s just that in doing so, the writers and producers have regrettably pandered to society’s addiction to hyperactive stimuli. That is, they engulf the senses with a copious dalliance of visual effects and leave the meat of logical dialog/narrative to quietly circle the drain of primetime television. Even worse, the one-hour premiere of The (New) Bionic Woman required the entire hour to illustrate the obvious details of this program’s title: that she is indeed a bionic woman.

But wait! What does that mean, jenji? Effects! I need effects! Flash, spin, and exploit some images, maybe then I’ll understand!

It means that she’s a bionic woman you moron.

Although some may argue that the original series (adapted from the novel Cyborg) was somewhat hokey with its melodramatic acting and minimalistic special effects, the series was one thing to be sure: efficient. Each week one was afforded a full hour of who-done-it entertainment. Unfortunately, our current choice of one-hour, dramatic programming will often insist upon leaving the viewer stymied and lost. Literally, Lost. Week after week, hour long programs like Lost and Heroes bait and lure the viewer into the 58th minute, only to suddenly spring a gaggle of new characters and/or storylines, thereby forcing the viewer to spit out their beverage and retort, “for fuck's sake, who the hell is that dude?!”

Seriously, I can appreciate suspense, but not every single episode. I mean, there’s a difference between suspense and manipulative trolling. Sometimes I just need closure, is that so much to ask? Stop teasing me throughout the actual episode and save the majority of that nonsense for sweeps and/or previews. In a world full of indeterminate obstacles I could occasionally use some constructive and satisfying closure. I have a feeling that The (New) Bionic Woman is heading down this obnoxious road of manipulation.

NBC incessantly teased us with the preview-- COMING THIS FALL: The (New) Bionic Woman. And so, the leaves begin to drop, my nose begins to run, the car insurance is due and Bubbleboy goes into DEFCON 5. Fall arrives and I tune in to The (New) Bionic Woman and what do I get in return for my patronage? Well, for one, a “revived” program that sputters out an entire hour of meaningless sneers, contemplations and cryptic one-liners.

Now, I’m not a complete curmudgeon, I understand that new viewers—that is, those born with the inherent ability to text message—may not be aware of who and what The (New) Bionic Woman (not to mention the original series) is all about. Naturally, a premiere episode would have a certain responsibility to summarize the details for the new viewer. I don’t have a problem with that, but for the full hour? Here The (New) Bionic Woman should heed the example of its elder.

The original series…ahem…The (Real) Bionic Woman, managed to condense an introductory summary into a simple, 2-minute sequence: the opening credits. I say simple and I suppose visually it was, but that’s my point. I just want to shake NBC and say, “listen, you don’t need to dazzle me with neither sensory overload nor matrix-like effects: really, the Buffynastics, driving porn riffs and women who flounce around in wet t-shirts, whilst aggressively shouting enigmatic, homoerotic insults back and forth—these elements aren’t required to get me to watch your show. I think we already covered and undeniably overdosed on these elements with Xena Warrior Princess. In short, stop humping me with your visual trickery NBC. I get it, I’m the fragrant target of television and you, television, are the alpha dog of primetime."

Perhaps an example of just how efficient the original opening sequence to The Bionic Woman actually was would help the new series work out some freshman kinks. Allow me to elaborate.









First, the opening intro to The Bionic Woman began with a snare drum and a ratchet—enough said.

However, in an effort to be more precise I will continue.

The opening musical theme had an urgency, an excitement that would simply demand your presence and further, compel you (or me, as a 7-year old) to abandon a full glass of Kool-Aid in lieu of missing said intro. The fruity beverage could wait until commercial, as clearly you were being summoned for more pressing matters. You can see the original opening sequence here.

The visual summarization of this intro went as follows:

beautiful heroine-Jamie Sommers-25-year old tennis pro CHECK
low-flying airplane CHECK
recreational skydiving CHECK
“shit! my chute didn’t open” CHECK
-critical injury/anatomical damage report via fancy computer CHECK
-“we can rebuild her” (of course you can) CHECK
-both legs CHECK
-right arm CHECK
-right ear CHECK
-concerned, brooding mystery man CHECK
-bionic replacement surgery CHECK
-estimated cost of bionics (okay, classified, but still CHECK)
3-dimensional animation of bionics with coinciding visual representations of power—
-she can hear CHECK
-she can crush a tennis ball with her right hand CHECK
-she can leg press more than any machine CHECK
-and finally, she can run super duper pooper scooper fast and frankly, it looks as if her hair smells terrific! CHECK

And now, The (New) Bionic Woman intro:

Zip. (for week one anyway)

The show just began. Hmmmm, interesting. Or wait... I suppose one could argue that the intro was there, it just took fifty-five minutes to complete.

However, let me be clear: these were fifty-five, George Lucas laden minutes. Too long, too fancy. Seriously, leave that shit to CSI, Tom Cruise and Spielberg.

So, here is what we did find out about The (New) Bionic Woman, albeit through 60 minutes of musical montage, captain obvious dialog and Lost like perplexity.

First, in the spirit of the current trend of mysterious Asian characters, a mysterious Asian character who mutters things like “I love you” and then subsequently shoots you.

-The (New) Bionic Woman, Jamie Sommers (Michelle Ryan), is a perky barista, but certainly not one who makes you say, “gee, her hair must smell terrific.”

-we meet another woman credited as the first bionic woman—who by the way I would like to refer to as the new first bionic woman, rendering the star of the show the new new bionic woman. Anyway, the new first attacks the new new bionic woman (no parachute, just t-boned by a semi) and upon learning that the new new bionic woman didn’t die, the new first bionic woman visits her at the bar and as any angry nemesis might do, teeters between the temptation to tear the guts out of the new new bionic woman and the overwhelming urge to deep throat a shiny brown beer bottle. I mean I get it, these things happen. Incidentally, the new first bionic woman eventually informs the new new bionic woman that she had her “eye, arms, legs and part of her chest done,” whatever that means.

Confused yet? Lovely. Moving on... There is

-an isolated compound that can only be reached by chopper (usually in the rain) that the new new bionic woman mistakes for a simple hospital even though the entry to her room entails walking through a “shhhhhuuusssh” like Star Trek door—even though the room is covered in wall to wall mirrors and people keep referring to her as the subject. And where you have a subject, one can bet that there is an experimenter lurking somewhere nearby.

-the OSI has been replaced by an Army-like establishment (how trendy) and Oscar Goldman by Jonas Bledsoe, played by Miguel Ferrer who like his character on Crossing Jordan wanders around aimlessly muttering ambiguous one-liners like “ when will she be combat ready” and “how long until the implants come online” through his husky, Miguel’esk, daddy-loves-his-little-girl cryptic intonations.

-we may not know how much the original bionic woman cost, but the new new bionic woman runs somewhere around 50 million dollars, just in case you were thinking of investing.

-the new new bionic woman is able to regenerate any injury to her bionic components because of anthrocites—yes, anthrocites—unlike the original bionic woman whose injured bionics resemble that of a splintered toaster, the new new bionic woman has the regenerative capabilities of a starfish.

Seriously...Can you feel NBC humping your leg yet? Can you feel the tug? As we speak, I think I have a callous forming on my thigh.

Finally, the new new bionic woman already has her share of rivals, but unfortunately I don’t see the new series embracing the intricacies of The Fembot anytime soon. You remember The Fembot, yeah?








No, no…not that Fembot…I realize the confusion.

This one…







The Fembot (click to see clip)

Now, come on...that's good stuff! NBC would probably consider such low class drivel and effects as virtual impotence. Yet, there's a lot to be said about a man, dressed as a woman, dressed as a Fembot.

The point is this:

Sometimes simple is better in the long run. Sometimes less is more.

The character of Jamie Sommers is not that complicated. When she was heroic, she acted and spoke heroically. When she was vulnerable, she acted vulnerable. When she was neurotic, (uh, boy could she get neurotic) she acted neurotic—although, this wasn’t so much a character trait as it was a psychological response to Lisa Galloway (her evil twin who has stolen Jamie's identity and left her bionic ass in the clink) who had a serious addiction to Adrenalazine. Yes, Adrenalazine. All I know is that it made Lisa bionic-like and looked like pink Play-Doh. This explains why as a 7-year old child I was compelled to carry small amounts of pink Play-Doh with me at all times in order feed my own bionic capabilities. I didn't eat the Play-Doh per se, but I gave it some very serious thought.

NOTE: When out of Play-Doh, bazooka gum will do the trick.

I digress, apologies.

Keep it simple.

The original Jamie Sommers, that is Lindsay Wagner, acted. I know, I know…I realize today she’s a crunchy, granola eating, Buddha worshiping, ethanol driving, yoga posing, hemp wearing mattress peddler, but she’s also an Emmy winner, so show some goddamn respect, would you? She didn’t depend on Sia’s song Breathe Me to act for her. Yes, they resorted to the musical montage whilst the lead actress pouted, sighed and sulked her way throughout this interlude. I suppose we were meant to surmise that she was, I dunno...upset? I mean, her fiancé was killed, so she should be upset, but it would be nice if she—oh, I don’t know—acted upset for shit's sake. Eh, everyone's a critic.

Sigh. Such is the drought of meaningful dialog and expression in contemporary television.

Update...
***Since the premiere episode of The (New) Bionic Woman I have had the opportunity to watch a few more episodes—what can I say, I’m staying optimistic. To my surprise, they have mysteriously abandoned the dark, brooding, special effects peppered pilot episode for subsequent hybrid episodes of Felicity meets All My Children meets anything BUT bionics--occasional bitch slap, yes, but bionics, not so much. In fact, I think I see more physical action and fight sequences during an average episode of The Factor with Bill O'Reilly. The show is called The Bionic Woman, yet Jamie Sommers rarely, if ever uses her bionics.

Psssst, NBC...seriously, break out the bionics. Okay, in all honesty she did manage to chuck a cantaloupe across a field in an effort to nail a bad guy in the head, but break out the bionics already or I’ll have to pull the rip cord on my optimism.

So, how to sum up The Bionic Woman for those of you who haven't had the (dis) pleasure of experiencing this regrettable reincarnation of the original.

Okay, you know when you're having a conversation with someone and they have something hanging from their nose and you just can’t quite figure out what it is? Yes, The (New) Bionic Woman manages to be just as grotesque and puzzling, but not nearly as intriguing.

jenji

There...I said it...

Once, I was asked to describe my first, inexplicable crush.

At the time said crush wasn't quite as inexplicable for me, as it was inexplicably crush (ing) for my parents.

The Particulars:

When I was 8-years old, the waif-like librarian laid my brand new library card before me and said, “sign your name here.” Naturally, I wrote …your…name…here. No, I wasn’t being an obligatory smart ass; I was simply following directions—doing what I was told. You see, while I appeared to be a devout listener, I would often fail to take the time to fully process any fundamental and/or essential meaning of what it was I was hearing in an effort to placate my shyness and blend in with the background as quickly as possible.

In 1981 we moved to a new neighborhood and by this time I was just about 12-years old with a distinct shyness still intact. This particular neighborhood had a 4:1 ratio of boys to girls, wherein I began to actively cultivate an overwhelming anxiety about making new friends. Luckily, the boys on my block decided to grant me a most gracious welcome: that is, as I rode my bike about the street they shot me in the ass—or what Forrest Gump would call the buttocks—with a BB gun from a second level window in what I later rationalized as a failed attempt to re-enact the JFK assassination. These sociopaths were ruffians and hooligans whose combined intelligence barely peaked above any discernible, primal level, thereby falsifying my theory of historical re-enactment. Needless to say, my first summer in the new digs was riddled with unsolicited groping, tedious make-out marathons, extraordinarily crass catcalls and the occasional albeit entirely nostalgic BB shot to the ass.

And then it happened.

My favorite singer, Olivia Newton-John, was about to be featured on the late-night television program Solid Gold. It was a well-known fact that I had idolized and admired Olivia since the days of Jolene, as I was not some fair weather Physical fan; no, I was there for the long haul. I had most of Olivia’s albums, as well as various posters of her upon my wall: Olivia horseback riding. Olivia roller-skating. Olivia playing with her dogs on the cover of Supermag. Olivia as Sandy in Grease. Olivia as Debbie in Two of a Kind. Sure, I could appreciate John Travolta in Grease, but it took a distinct talent to squeeze oneself into a pair of religion revealing, size triple X petite black satin hot pants, umkay?

The seating arrangement for this performance was as follows: my parents sat upon the sofa behind me, while I sat dead center, one foot away from the screen, sincerely transfixed as Olivia "exercised" around the stage, which I now realize wasn't so much aerobic exercise as it was a subliminal performance in soft-core porn. I mean really, what was that white towel for anyway?

(see performance for yourself here)

Much the way a small child might be excited for a particular holiday special, I was just as excited; this was my special presentation of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. And yes, I was sporting the iconic white headband as a symbol of my unconditional support. Anyway, as the end credits began to roll, my parents reminded me that it was time for bed, as they had graciously allowed me to stay up well past bedtime to watch the special.

And then I said it.

Whilst still mesmerized by the final moments of her performance, I suddenly had a revelation and emphatically announced, “Wow, that Olivia Newton-John can sit on my face anytime.”

All right. I will give you a moment to reflect upon that comment.
And yes, I did use the word "wow."
Okay, enough...

Now, I can’t entirely recall whether or not I actually heard the collective clang of jaws dropping open, but I’m more than certain that there was some sort of reverberated response from my folks, as their 12-year old daughter had just offered Olivia Newton-John a most compromising seat and further, undeniably meant it.

And I did mean it, I surely did. In fact, as I squat thrust my way into bed, my mother came in to ask me if I in fact knew the meaning of what I had said.

My reply was “Of course I do! It means I like her!”

Calmly, my mother said, “say it again out loud.” So I said it again out loud. Nothing- crickets. I didn’t get it. Now, I vividly recall the brisk wind blowing from my mother’s bewildered eyelashes as she patiently blinked back at me, while the image of her doing so remains priceless to this day.

the Particulars of jenji’s comment (the Particulars of The Particulars):

Day after day I would hear the boys in the neighborhood bark this expression at various girls and therefore knew it was reserved only for the girls that were most revered; that is, for girls that were liked. As I said, I was painfully shy, not to mention naïve and much like I had failed to process and critically think about the library card, I had once again done so by foregoing the actual translation of my crude revelation and instead chose to internalize the generic admiration that went along with said expression. For me it was simple, I liked Olivia Newton-John, while this revelation had nothing to do with sexuality and everything to do with stupidity.

Once again, my mother asked me to say it out loud, only slower and to “think about what you’re saying.” Slightly aggravated, I slowly and sarcastically uttered my innocent and sincere admiration for Olivia and here I remain 100% certain that I indeed heard an actual light bulb fire, as I realized the literal meaning of what I was saying.

As one might imagine, I embarked upon the biggest “ew, ew, ew, I hate boys” fit in adolescent girl history. In fact, I was so disgusted with myself; with the naiveté, gullibility and undeniable idiocy required to muck up and form such an egregious interpretation of a most literal phrase, that I decided to save the boys the trouble next time and shoot myself in the ass with a BB gun.

In fact, resistance was futile, as I had clearly become one of the village idiots and therefore needed to give serious thought as to how I might decorate my cell; whether or not I would get the top or bottom bunk; of the intricate details required to survive a felonious life; of habitual incarcerations and the throwing about of white-girl gang signs. I was going to end up in the clink and I highly doubted that they would allow my Olivia posters to come along as décor. What a kick in the pants.

You'll be pleased to know that I haven't been to prison (yet), while my parents still feel the inexplicable need to tell this story, also known as jenji's Crush, to each and every person that is willing to listen. I don't have a problem with that, as I've since gotten over the majority of my shyness.

Olivia however, will never be the same.

jenji

Lactose Intolerance

In the spring and summertime, Mister Softee will often meander down Any Street USA, beckoning neighborhood children to indulge upon a tasty frozen treat and experience what is known as the all encompassing, Mister Softee experience. Religiously, children will chase Mister Softee down (INSERT STREET NAME HERE) with either a barefoot parent in tow—or more likely, a flock of barefoot kids will ebb and flow, to and fro about the street as they frantically backtrack for rogue quarters and dimes that disobediently drop from their tiny little hands and begin to roll curbside. Seriously, forget about checking the sofa cushions for change—in the spring and summertime, check the curb. I’m just sayin’.

For the most part my encounters with Mr. Softee have been amicable in that I can tolerate his jinglistic presence by simply channeling my childhood nostalgia, as I clearly remember the excitement of Mister Softee. As a squirt, I faithfully chose the ice cream sandwich even though I wasn’t a huge fan of ice cream per se; or should I say, my digestive system wasn’t the fan. No matter, as it was only two minutes until the blistering sun melted my treat into a structurally unsound heap of cookies and cream anyway—it was all about the experience for me; the chase.

You see, that’s what a phenomenon Mister Softee is, even the lactose intolerant can enjoy the experience. As an adult I can certainly appreciate the sight of children chirping for sugar like hungry little finches. One might recall that as Mister Softee trolls the neighborhood for children—homeostatic and neuroglycopenic alike—his truck plays the contagious jingle known as “Mister Softee.” Or, as the children like to call it—ICCCCEEEE CCRRREEEEAAMM!!

Here is a little something you may or may not know about the “Mister Softee” jingle:

The jingle transmitted via the Mister Softee trucks was created in 1960 by an advertising agency. No way! Way.

The lyrics include the following: (please, hum along)

The CREAM-i-est DREAM-i-est SOFT ice CREAM
you GET from MIS-ter SOF-tee.

FOR a re-FRESH-ing de-LIGHT su-PREME
LOOK for MIS-ter SOF-tee....

This time of year, the Mister Softee jingle evokes a northeastern, weather repressed association to spring and then to summer; to fresh cut grass, vacation, and chlorine-tinged hair; to happiness and contentment. I don’t have a problem with that. I mean, for the most part Mister Softee is speedy about his business, thus making this trademark jingle tolerable. After all, he only swings by our neighborhood 1-2 times per week, which is far more bearable than the ritualistic pace of the pimped out, subwoofing El Caminos that rattle and bombard my friend Chet’s neighborhood on INSERT Avenue with their driving DOOOMMM THHHUUMMP DOOOOOMM riffs 24/7. In fact, up until the summer of 2007 Mister Softee rarely came by at all, as my neighborhood doesn’t have many children who typically respond to his presence; in fact, they are somewhat indifferent. It’s nothing personal.

Yet this year, spring arrived and it suddenly became more than clear that Mister Softee had changed. I say this because he now circles our neighborhood 4-5 times per day and I would testify under oath that his virulent jingle been upgraded in the amplification department; MTV has clearly pimped Mr. Softee’s ride. But why this sudden change in behavior, Mr. Softee?

I believe that Mister Softee is misinterpreting the indifference in my neighborhood as rejection, taking it personally and therefore, he has reassessed his routine, for we have become a challenge, we have crossed him and we will pay. In retaliation he has deliberately cranked the jinglistic audio needle deep into the red, while he has quadrupled his visits to our disrespectful, indifferent neighborhood. However, Mister Softee ought to consider that our indifference is not even about him. Perhaps he would realize the true source of our indifference if he merely paid attention to the smattering of signs, which adorn and bookend our street.


In fact, I think he may be under the delusional impression that we—children and adults—sit in our homes poker-faced and defiant; mocking his cries for attention, when in fact a majority of the children are probably busy reading a closed captioned episode of “Sponge Bob Square Pants.” What a pickle: Mr. Softee is oblivious to their disability and the children are oblivious to his presence.

Sometimes I will scream from inside the house, THEY CAN’T HEAR YOU MISTER SOFTEE!, yet he still circles the block like a hawk hunting for prey. He is relentless; he is committed; he is Glenn Close from “Fatal Attraction” and trust me, he “will not be ignored,” as he is determined to provoke us by blasting his musical gibberish—ironically, at deafening decibels—while in response he will receive only the aggravated reverberation of windows slamming shut. Did I mention how freakin' hard it is to get that motherhumping jingle out of your head? I’m just sayin’, it’s a subliminal attack on your short-term memory; you can’t help but rehearse it and unknowingly consolidate it into your long-term memory. What a kick in the pants.

Look, I’m a napper; I enjoy and rely upon my catnaps for leisure, as well as medicinal purposes and I have to say that it’s as if the lyrics to his jingle have undergone a most misanthropic metamorphosis—‘The CREAM-i-est DREAM-i-est SOFT ice CREAM- You-can FOR-get AB-out NAPP-ing, I-am MIS-ter-SOF-tee!’ Truly, I have tried to be tolerant of his harassment and misdirected frustration, but his daily presence has finally breached the confines of my patience.

I never thought I’d say this, but I’m at war with Mister Softee. Sadly, his erratic behavior has created a self-fulfilling prophecy; that is, his perceived notion of our rejection has indeed created a rejection within us via his obsessive, if-I-can’t-have-you-no one-will mission and it’s only a matter of time before I go running outside wild-eyed and disheveled with a fist full of marbles in one hand and a carton of Ben and Jerry’s in the other screaming, “WE DON’T WANT YOUR ICE CREAM MISTER SOFTEE!! BUGGER OFF, YA MUG!” Yes, I am of British descent.

Oh, come on now, jenji…Marbles? Must you be so aggressive?

What!? He started it with his fanatical use of that bedazzled, jingle-jangling, diesel chugging, subwoofing, smoke spewing, whippy-dipped sugar mobile as an abusive device designed to disrupt my catnaps and punish our neighborhood.

If Al Gore wants someone to blame for frivolous fuel consumption, Mister Softee’s the man. I’m just sayin’.

jenji

temporary peace and harmony

ask Harold

On 7/20 Sue had this question for ask Harold...

This may be personal (but not quite as personal as the grooming habit you discuss) but what is your current shedding factor? I was at the SPCA last night and was a pubic's hair away from adopting a fellow 'mate of yours until he dumped a crapload of hair on my new white capris. I don't think this is gonna be a match made in Heaven since I love to live low maintenance.
Kind Regards, Sue

Thank you kindly for your question, Sue. Please be assured that you have come to the right metro kitty to answer your query.

My current shedding factor remains quite precarious in that I have a tendency to hack up hairballs on a somewhat frequent basis. This is not to say that any kitty you may choose to adopt may do the same—in fact, my mommy has informed me that many of her past kitties have not had such hairball problems.

First, you should know that my allergy condition has predisposed me to hairball issues—so, you need not worry about hairballs as long as you buy kitty food with hairball formula to prevent such problems (dry food only).

Second, you should be aware that what some have come to call my “fanatical” baaawwwl licking actually compounds my hairball issues, yet cuts down the “shedding about the house” factor, as most of what would have been shed about the house has indeed been hacked down my throat. Occasionally, my mommy will sigh and say things like “seriously Harold, how can one cat shed so much?” as she sweeps the floor during the summer months. As I have mentioned in previous posts, I have been known to shed like a wookie in the Sahara desert, but overall it’s really not much. My mother is just—well, you know…dramatic. I don’t want to even tell you what she sheds once a month—let me just say it isn’t pretty…have you seen Baby’s First Christmas? Yeah, I rest my kitty case.

Anyway, if you get a short-haired cat the shedding won’t be nearly as much as a long-haired kitty. Also, it’s a good idea to brush your kitty outside or on a patio to limit shedding and promote a healthy, shiny coat (make sure an indoor cat has a leash on so they don’t run away). Shedding about the house should be minimal if you follow these directions. In fact, I did some research on the web (despite my lack of thumbs) and found a site which may help you here. One site even went so far as to insist that "if you brush your cat, you have full control over where the fur goes." I love to be brushed, but I strongly recommend that you do not attempt to brush your kitty while he is licking his baaaawwwwls, as this will only infuriate him and ensure that he pisses on your new white capris (not a move that I would pull, as I am a pair of hot pants away from being a lady).

Most any kitty will love to be brushed as you can see if you click here.

The only other mitigating factor concerns your capris, as clearly the adoption of a kitty is all about you. Are they from Banana Republic or Ann Taylor? If they are from the latter, I hope you enjoy your new adopted kitty. If they’re from Banana, well………buy a brush and make a sincere effort to adopt a kitty that has been schooled in the fine art of baaaawwwwlll licking to minimize your problems.

Which reminds me, it’s time to get back to mine.

Good luck and good day to you.
Harold

We interrupt this program...

In society, there is a dysfunctional relationship between the corporation and the community. Specifically, the corporate entities of 24-hour cable news often become the abuser, whereby the community, society, and/or viewer, will become the abused.

Structurally, this abusive relationship renders one party deviously aware of its power and superiority, wherein the other, faithful and loyal to the information that television provides, remains unaware of their own inferiority, suggestibility and ignorance regarding this calculated duality.

Ann Marie Seward Barry wrote an essay entitled, Visual Intelligence: Perception, Image and Manipulation of Visual Communication, wherein she maintains that:

“The viewer believes in television, for generally speaking, he is convinced that the small screen, unlike the large screen (of cinema) opens a window on the real lives of people”
(Barry, 171).

For the most part, I agree with Barry and therein lies the problem. Further, I assert that contemporary television—specifically, 24-hour cable news—has taken advantage of this conviction by deceitfully persuading the viewer that the information broadcast is somehow a collective, homogenic experience—that this is reality and in reality we (the channel) are you. Au contraire. In reality, they are not us, nor should they be. They should document and present the news to us sans the manipulative and/or suggestive bias or spin and further, encourage us to form our own opinion and ideology; to supplement our source for information with as many outlets as possible. Our relation to the talking head should be irrelevant, for the journalists of contemporary 24-hour news fail to attain even a shred of journalistic integrity and impartiality and further, simply refuse to ask the tough questions. Therefore, the tough questions are rarely asked, the corporate spin ensues, the “real” reality skews and the various societal maladies begin.

Regrettably, a vast majority of our society will simply believe what they are told, wherein they fail to critically engage with the presented information. Abusing this reality, each channel harbors a specific objective and actively preys upon society’s pluralistic ignorance and passivity to attain the real reality.

In addition, they strategically overload our auditory and visual perceptions with dramatic melodies, while surrounding the chiseled bobble head of the moment with various icons, banners, graphics and an inexhaustible stream of post-9/11, journalistic text—other news—that incessantly creeps across the bottom of the screen, because let’s face it, we need to know it all and we need to know it now. Assign a trusted face to assault our senses, add fear and stir. Now wonder society is riddled with ADD, OCD and PTSD—we’re distracted, obsessed, traumatized and indeed entranced by the affects/effects of the all-powerful 24-hour, all-or-nothing news, fraudulent flim-flam cable news. And by all-or-nothing, I mean that they either overwhelm us with ambiguous, spurious fear (all) or distract us to the point of obsession with utter drivel (nothing). Either way, we’re too preoccupied and distracted to notice what’s really going on around us—events that in fact desperately need our attention.

Still, society continues to ritualistically gorge itself upon this feast of 24-hour news, riddled with fear, terror and panic, and we do so with a significant sense of urgency and desperate sense of futility—and yet, we are often unable to articulate exactly what it is that has us up at night because these methods leave the viewer highly distracted and incapable of any form of qualitative and/or constructive analysis. In fact, many viewers are generally unaware of this subliminal, cognitive assault and may instead feel a sense of community and camaraderie with their news source; that is, as they sit in their lazy boy dutifully nodding along with channel XXX’s assessment of FEAR FEAR FEAR they may relate to this experience in much the way one might relate to a live community exposition—they have chosen their source for information and they believe what they are told. We trust in what they’re reporting as accurate and thank them for it. After all, the bobblehead of the moment is our friend—a constant in an inconsistent world—and a friend would never lie to us, so we have faith in what we perceive as fact. Don’t eat it (FEAR)! Don’t buy that (FEAR)! Don’t trust them (FEAR)! Don’t travel there and for God’s sake don’t stay here—FEAR FEAR FEAR!

It’s no wonder that society is in a perpetual state of hypervigilance, as we are told that we are either going to catch it, lose it, need it and/or die from it—or that someone else is either going to discharge it, steal it, leave it or kill us for it. It only makes sense that after cramming this FEAR FEAR FEAR down our throats for so long that we are merely a mass produced and perfectly manipulated plate of pâté de foie gras for the corporation (24-news) to indulge in—and in our worried, restless, sleepless and anxiety ridden states, these corporations continue to relentlessly cram this cocktail of fear and doom down our already swollen throats—literally, through a cathode ray tube (quiet all you flat screen smugolites). And like our avian friends whose sick and swollen livers are created to satisfy the palates of the privileged and elite, our bodies have also become sick and swollen from this constant ingestion of fear and doom—our sickness has been created to benefit or feed the elite as well—mainly the pharmaceutical corporations and their investors/supporters who rely upon the psychosocial affects/effects of media.

This is the real reality.

In fact, it seems that the only reality where the viewer has a choice or shall I say, invitation into the analytical processes of television remains in the realms of the other reality; to be precise, reality television and it’s up to us to decide whether or not Sanjaya should stay another week on American Idol. In fact, I believe that this other reality—where the viewer is asked to vote and thereby feel included—was created by the corporation as a device to further distract society from the real reality by again instilling a false sense of control over something—anything—as long as we feel and perceive that we are important and being included.

They would much prefer that we perfect the fine art of dual dialing (using a cell phone and home phone to generate as many votes as possible for our favorite performer), as opposed to the fine art of getting ourselves to a certified polling station, signing in, nodding to the elderly volunteer, drawing the curtain and pulling an actual lever for a candidate whose talents and issues exceed that of wearing a mean pair of hair extensions. Honestly, what a true gift the corporation has bestowed upon us with this other reality—thank God for American Idol and her inbred cousins, for without them we might drown in our own miseries.

That is, as many people struggle to makes ends meet—working two, three or more jobs—they will still find that they must live check to check only to find themselves clawing their way around a bottomless pit of debt, wherein they cannot afford healthcare, rent, utilities, daycare or any other such trivialities like oh I dunno, food; some cannot find employment, while many others have simply lost sight of any realistic retirement. Yet, through our despair, network television has allowed us to keep the faith, for we have control over who’s going to sing the next Celine Dion cover song on American Idol which, by the way should be illegal in all 50 states. And the inebriated hosts of these programs make it more than clear—dammit, if you don’t vote, then you’re to blame for Sanjaya’s departure. They even triple team us—Simon, Randy and Paula tell us that if someone is eliminated, then it’s our fault for not voting and I hope you’re happy!

If only certain elected officials had the balls to admit to us that we’re to blame for their position, that it’s our fault that they are in office. As if to say, "You imbecile, if you dropped the remote and voted/participated in the real reality, we wouldn’t be in this powerful position in the first place, so it’s your fault. There, I hope you’re happy!" this is about the point where they would blow a big wet raspberry in our face. However, they wouldn't dare give away this secret formula of dysfunction, so we remain.

Most likely, we may take joy in judging and eliminating others on these programs because then we can then perpetuate this overbearing cycle of judgment and abuse that the corporation heaps upon us, as the abused can often become the abuser in another circumstance and how gratifying is that power I ask you?

Sure, we're merely deciding—that is, judging—the fate of an often tone-deaf 17 year-old kid, but oh how sweet the satisfaction of doing so. The subordinate sector can suddenly begin to feel somewhat liberated. You see, the corporation has the brilliant sense to throw us a bone every once in a while, as greed and a fervent preoccupation with immediate gratification can sometimes blind the corporation and thereby sabotage their own agenda. However, very rarely do they shoot themselves in the foot, as these folks have excellent life coaches to be sure. I suspect that these coaches are primarily made up of child psychologists who must break out the crayons in an effort to explain why conquering an already fragile population without reward may prove to be counterproductive in the long run.

You see, as society continues to drown in the real reality of everyday existence, 24-hour news and network television (the ugly stepsister of 24-news) have a premeditated partnership in how they inundate us with copious fear; however, not enough to send us completely over the edge—the crayon presentation works, I tell you. For, even the abused individual has a threshold for their abuser and it’s a mighty fine line that the corporation (television) has to walk and this is where network television tags out the meaty hand of 24- hour cable news and begins to allow hope. Hope to relieve our suffering, as we are permitted—in fact, welcomed—to become part of a democratic process, albeit a completely irrelevant democratic process.

As I mentioned, network television allows us to vote on frivolous topics and to further garner our trust, it incessantly asks how we’re doing, for it suspects we’re not feeling so very well and rightly so—in fact, network television has the solution.

Oh, network television, how do you know I’m not feeling so well? You’re so perceptive—I heart you network television. Please, share your remedy with me.

Around 6 pm or so, network television begins to urgently ask the viewer a myriad of important questions:

Do you feel anxious?
Do you have stomach trouble?

Seriously, how many times a day do you find the need to, you know….go?
Headaches?
Constipation?
Bloating?
Diarrhea? Dry mouth? Migraines? Blurred vision? High cholesterol? Low cholesterol?
Acid reflux? Insomnia? Arthritis? Restless leg syndrome?
Do you think you have generalized anxiety disorder? Bipolar disorder?

Do you have an unsightly scar on your face—because you know, as a society we need you to obsess over your body and perfection—ah, we mean you deserve to look perfect.

Muscle pain? Weakness? Fatigue? What about cellulite? You best get rid of that cellulite. Depressed? Depression hurts. Come on, you can tell us. Do you have an overactive bladder? Hemorrhoids?

Wait! It’s herpes; you have herpes! That’s okay, you can still lead a sexually active life (usually by the beach) with anyone you want—you can even ride bikes together! We at network television have the answer to your 24-hour prayers.

In fact, look at all of the well-lit remedies we have to offer for your various maladies.

And as the viewer, we remain oblivious to this passive-aggressive agenda, as we are again entranced by the suggestibility and consideration of network television, which has compassionately validated our suffering through a simple acknowledgement: that we are indeed suffering. Therefore, we feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude for their concern, for we remain paralyzed with an inability to constructively ask why we’re sick—let’s face it, by that point we’re feeling so shitty that we’ll try anything to relieve our suffering. It’s as if we’ve been on an all night bender of toxic 24-hour news and now, violently ill and heaving, we’re resting our head upon the side of the porcelain throne and begging God for a cold washcloth or friend to hold our hair; and in our weak and vulnerable state, network television can easily become that friend. Although I am quite sure that they would much prefer that you consider them a God.

These corporations realize that this unremitting inundation of fear and hate that they, the mass media, have so lovingly bestowed upon us is going to make us sick, weak and submissive. Therefore, they send in the subliminal messages of profitable network advertisements—specifically, pharmaceutical advertisements—which have again, given us a false sense of control. They assure us that our situation is far from futile—there, there my friend, here is the answer—just ask your doctor if XYZ is right for you. However, if you don’t ask, it’s your own fault and I hope you’re happy!

In fact, one day in the middle of July 2007 between 6:45pm and 7 pm I recorded all of the advertisements during the NBC, CBS and ABC nightly news. These elevating stories included lead based paint in children’s toys (FEAR!), vague terrorist plots (FEAR!), the inaccuracy of mammography (FEAR!), an incurable and virulent strain of tuberculosis (FEAR!), as well as an addendum to the Ten Commandments by the Vatican (don't forget to pray), which reminds us not only that “thou shall not murder” (kill), but that “thou shall recite the rosary whilst in (formidable) traffic.” The latter is not so much fear as it is freaky, and clearly an indication that someone in programming needs to be fired for allowing such benign stories to slip through the fear laden cracks.

Inexplicably, I began to feel nauseous while I watched the news—I can’t explain it—just that my stomach burns into my throat, my head throbs, while my heart races and my legs…well, my legs feel all, I dunno—squirrelly. I sure wish I knew how to remedy this tummy ache of mine.

Luckily, sandwiched between this symptomatic trigger fest o fear were the following advertisements:

Preparation H (2 times), Lunesta (insomnia), Requip (RLS), Caduet (cholesterol), Gas X, Zetia (cholesterol), Advil PM (insomnia), Nexium (acid reflux), Listerine, Imodium, One-a-Day Prostate for men, Vesicare (bladder control), and Contar (diabetes)—did I mention this was only a 15-minute chunk of time? There were also two commercials for Hyundai, one for Chrysler, another for V8 (mysteriously, a preventative measure for our health and again, someone should be fired at Pusher Man Inc.) and finally—or shall I say ironically, Liquid Plumber (twice)—after all, with all that shitting, yakking, and pissing you should be using the “foaming pipe snake” to clean out the ol’ pipes of the house once in a while—you’re up pacing at night anyway, why not use this time wisely?

Overwhelmed with ailments via our neuroticism, thanks in part to our manipulative 24-hour news, we must remain isolated in our real reality from any physical interaction and/or involvement, organized protest and/or individual research, oblivious to our ignorance and analytically static in the biased rendition of their real reality. After all, we’re too overwhelmed with illness and fatigue to assert ourselves after a 12-hour workday.

Further, the corporation relies upon subliminal polarization to prevent the viewer from any proactive interaction with the news or for that matter, with each other. How can one organize when one cannot stand their neighbor? Compounding the spin (I know, at FOX the spin stops there), the viewer can only see/hear what they are shown/told and along with the power of a savvy producer and creative editor they can alter the context or "reality" of an actual event—the real reality—through a manipulative editing process. It is divisive, deliberate process and it works.

Again, akin to the abusive relationship, I would argue that as the abuser, the corporate executives isolate the abused from the truth and implement their own devices to foster a false sense of security in the depiction of the news—sure you should be afraid, but our hierarchy (government, executives etc.) has it under control—or, sure it’s a problem, but just keep working and everything will be okay. Therefore, we believe the fear, we worry about the solutions and we get sick—then, we find comfort in network advertisements and go further into debt trying to pay for those remedies. When one is sick, one should rest. Instead, one has to take on extra hours or positions to pay for the potions that maintain us as viable drones. We’re too damn busy and burnt to investigate any other alternatives.

Further, I would contend that the corporation in fact loathes the viewers they so depend upon and abuse, as they continue to exploit our devotion for their own profit and advantage. As I have argued, the corporation exploits our desire for communication and information, by feverishly shoveling frivolous news, copious fear and uncertainty down the throat of an already anxious society riddled with apprehension and diffidence. Again, a method is used to distract society from the more pressing issues of our time; issues with images so vivid that they cannot be spun or disputed—the real reality.

For example, 24-hour news fails to document or depict the caskets of the well over 4,000 servicemen and women killed in action arriving home from Iraq and Afghanistan. Although, this particular case of censorship was in fact a direct order from The White House to the press, wherein casket coverage was forbidden, while this deliberate deception is spattered red with manipulation and the trickle down effect from our President to the corporation is in all probability polluted.

So I ask. Despite that order, why doesn’t the layman organize and rebel by documenting and capturing the flag-shrouded caskets on a camera phone; by resorting to what Jesse Drew called”

“a form of technological ju-jitsu, whereby a smaller opponent uses the greater motion and weight of its opponent against itself to bring it down” (Drew, 186).

Because most of us are too sick, tired and hopeless to do so—not to mention, the drone-like whirr coming from the societal nest is deafening.

Yet, one could capture this somber reality of war on their camera phone and consequently post the footage on the Internet via MySpace, which is incidentally owned by News Corporation (NewsCorp), who ironically own FOX television and dozens of other media outlets; ultimately, these controversial images would be broadcast through the very device that the corporation has been forbidden to use in broadcasting such images. Instead, 24-hour news fixates and distracts us with the images of a big-breasted blonde who squandered her life away through the dysfunctional consumption of pharmaceutical drugs and money; eventually, dying from it. Or with the perils of a intellectually vacant heiress who is so self-absorbed and overflowing with ego that she cannot even hire a driver to chauffeur her drunken ass around Los Angeles.

The corporation knows that as a society we can identify with Anna Nicole Smith and Paris Hilton (and prefers us to), for our increasingly superfluous and materialistic society continues to raise generations of entitled young adults who, not yet burdened with the ever-present stomach ulcer, have a ferocious appetite for immediate gratification and gluttonous consumption, sans the effort.

These vices further serve as a catalyst for the continuous cycle of corporate abuse against a credulous society that depends upon this disingenuous depiction of the real reality, which the other reality successfully distracts us from.

It's classic good cop, bad cop. Society is its own worst enemy (bad cop) and network/24-hour cable television is seemingly their salvation (good cop). It's dysfunctional: the abused and the abuser, while there is no shelter for salvation.

Let me just say this: the bucktoothed mama of network television and 24-hour news didn’t raise no dummy.

jenji

Sometimes one should assume...

If I inform you that within the eyes of others, your behavior portrays you as the Prime Minister of Jackass --an individual who hasn't an ounce of pride in oneself-- and you still act like said jackass, well, then... I'll just assume you want to be a jackass.

if you're okay with that, I'm okay with that.

as long as we're clear.

June 9, 1954

At one time, many thousands of Americans were accused of being Communists or communist sympathizers and became the subject of aggressive investigations and questioning before government or private-industry panels, committees and agencies. The primary targets of such suspicions were government employees, those in the entertainment industry, educators and activists. Suspicions were often given credence despite inconclusive or questionable evidence, and the level of threat posed by a person's real or supposed leftist associations or beliefs was often greatly exaggerated. Many people suffered loss of employment, destruction of their careers, and even imprisonment. Most of these punishments came about through trial verdicts later overturned, laws that would be declared unconstitutional dismissals for reasons later declared illegal or actionable, or extra-legal procedures that would come into general disrepute.

At a session on June 9, 1954, McCarthy charged that one of Welch's attorneys had ties to a Communist organization. As an amazed television audience looked on, Welch responded with the immortal lines that ultimately ended McCarthy's career: "Until this moment, Senator, I think I never really gauged your cruelty or your recklessness." When McCarthy tried to continue his attack, Welch angrily interrupted, "Let us not assassinate this lad further, Senator. You have done enough. Have you no sense of decency?"

Overnight, McCarthy's immense national popularity evaporated. Censured by his Senate colleagues, ostracized by his party, and ignored by the press, McCarthy died three years later, 48-years old and a broken man.

-Wikipedia

He died? Are you certain?

Let's ask Mr. O'Reilly...

Wait. What?

C A U T I O N !


Post hoc analysis of response times during the rebound period using a 3 (group: OC, NAC, AC) x3 (word type: nontarget word, nonword, target word) mixed factor ANOVA yielded no main effect of group, p>0.05; and no significant group x word type interaction, p >0.05.

However, there was a significant main effect of word type, F(2, 72)=7.18, p<0.05.>0.05. Thus, there was no evidence of a signifcant rebound effect for any of the three participant groups.

Rebound d's were as follows: OCs o.11, NACs 0.27, ACs 0.33 Similarly, between-group post hoc tests indicated no significant differences in lexical decision time for any word type, p's>0.05.

Soooo, yeah... I could easily tell you the answer, if only I could figure out the goddamn question!

Get me a functional graphing calculator and allow me to do The Dew and I'll tell you the answer, but the question... I forgot the question...

welcome to jenji's world.

jenji

Look For Clear Skies Tonight

May 31, 2007
Full Moon

Share Thoughts On Multimedia Here

hey there.

I'll be shuffling around multimedia clips regularly.

Some clips are meant to be light, some are meant to engage conversation and others may or may not annoy you...

If you have any requests or thoughts, please share and indicate which clip that you're referring to and I'll do my best not to take them too personal.

be well,
jenji

My Memorial Day Morning

Back to the single woman living alone and "you're-screwing-up-my-evening-now-scat." (YSUMENS) *see here
On Sunday afternoon there were several baby robins wandering around and about my yard. The birds were only able to fly about two feet off the ground and appeared merely days away from being able to care for themselves. Robins are extremely doting parents and they didn't seem to mind when I would pick up a baby and shuttle it back into the play area before it was hit by a passing car or mower. They were great parents--I know this because I had been watching their ritualistic feedings throughout the spring--granted, with voyeuristic binoculars in hand (my neighbors already think I'm eccentric. Big deal). The chicks would chirp from a low perch wherein the parents would bitch and moan at each other to get the babies fed. Mom and Dad yank the worm out, fly over and drop it in the kid's face.

Rinse and repeat.

So, on Sunday/Monday morning I went to bed at around 3 a.m. Just on the brink of slumber I hear a high octave chirp outside my bedroom window. Naturally, in classic "you're-screwing-up-my-evening-now-scat" form I ignored the chirps and figured I would let nature take its course. Very Darwin, very Survival of the Fittest.

Chirp. Ignore it.
Chirp. Ignore it.
and yet again, chirp. I ignore it.

By this time I'm not looking out the window out of sheer defiance, rather than fatigue.

Then I hear these frantic high-octave chick chirps and the parents throwing a complete shit fit in my driveway.

I AM IGNORING YOU!

sigh. I just want to sleep--

--in only a few hours my neighbor will wake to obsessively vacuum his car out, followed by his predictable 8 a.m. lawn maintenance. Seriously, would it kill the fucker to sleep in just once?

Still ignoring the chirps.

Then it came. The knock at my front door at 3:30 a.m.

Oh, now it's on!

I get up, bitch and moan my way across a pitch black house and open the door.


I look down to see this staring back at me:









Okay, not exactly that...more like this...




..and no, it wasn't Harold. He's much too metro to go outdoors at night. And by that I mean that he's a pussy in every sense of the word.



It was a baby robin scared out of its mind fluttering against my door with a big ol cat lickin his chops a foot away, ready to pounce.

Let me be clear: The bird knocked on my door.

I'm just sayin' I had already handled him most of the day and now he knew to knock.

He knocked, I'm just sayin'.

Long story short, the baby robin would never survive the night with that big bad lion out there, so we had a sleep over. I put him in a spare bird cage that I had and he slept in my bathroom. Occasionally I'd hear a chirp, but overall I think he slept quite well. Harold could care less, as his bawwwwls are far too hypnotic for him to pay any attention.

The next morning I got up and well,
as I said, my Memorial Day morning went something like this:


Breakfast






"Oliver"






Mumbling Co-dependent up the tree in her jammies.








Oliver happily back in his nest.








Oliver let out a chirp that sounded like a birdy version of thank you...

Or was it...

"You dumb bitch, this ain't my nest!"

jenji

Ask Harold advises Red from 5/29

On 5/29 Red inquired at Ask Harold
--I don't know anything about bawwwwwwls but eye do have a question for harold NOW about my cries of lust and wanting that continue into the night? Is this normal for a certain lady that was suppose to have been FIXED! Harold please help NOW, RARA MEOWWWWWWWWWWWWW

Thank you for the question, Red.

It was just this morning as I was cleaning my bawwwwls that I began to reflect upon my own “fixing.” Frankly, I thanked my mother for having me snipped because it cut (literally) my bawwwwl maintenance down by at least half—I mean, the surface area alone of the un-neutered bawwwwls can double your cleaning time, as well as make it difficult to sit, squat and think.

I have also experienced the annoyance of what I’ll refer to as, “The Post-Spay-Lay-Play,” with a former roommate of mine who went by the name, Spooky. Or, as we all came to call her, “Horny! Horny! Horny!” Then again, when Spooky would writhe all through the late, late evening and early, early morning hours my mother would often call her something like, “Yer fuckin killin me cat! Killin me!” I’m not sure what this means, but Spooky answered to it with the customary “RARA MEOWWWWWWWWW” as you mentioned and I certainly appreciated the reference to bawwwls.

You see, although Spooky was spayed, she had the unrelenting ritual of rubbing her, what we came to call “tang,” all over every surface of the house. Every spring and summer Spooky pushed, shoved, thrust, jammed and dragged her tang onto and at anything with a tangible presence. This is the "Post-Spay-Lay-Play" that I spoke of earlier. She left a snail trail imprint of her nonsense, which if asked to describe said nonsense for a line-up, I would describe it as an irritated, inverted Slim Jim lookin’ for attention. I suspect this ritual is similar to the ritual of your kitty.

I cannot say whether this behavior is normal for fixed kitties per se, but I can certainly relate to your quandary.

My advice is as follows:

My mother has a device that she uses for—well, for what I’m not sure because when she does use it she usually shuffles me out of the room or incessantly screams at me, “Harold, don’t look”—right before the lights dim and I hear the sump pump motor fire up—which is odd because I don’t live in a house with a sump pump. Anyway, this device seems to calm my mother and keep her from rubbing her own tang on the walls in an almost magical way. I asked for one for Christmas, but all I got was a lousy two-dollar faux fur mouse made of CoonDog hair. Maybe you could purchase one of these devices for your kitty and leave her to it—but I strongly advise that you leave her alone with it—I must warn you that if you insist on watching she’s liable to throw a shoe at you—I’ve got the permanently bent whisker to prove it. I'd like to be able to describe this device to you better, but I found a picture (see below) that is very similar to my mother's device, except a different color.

Recommended "Post-Spay-Lay-Play" Device










Other than that Red, you should probably accept your fixed kitty for who she is and let the poor little lady out for a quick slap and tickle whenever possible.

And now, back to my glorious bawwwwls before they dry out.

Good day.

Harold

YSUMENS

As a single woman living alone I must say there are moments where one might think that one would be alarmed if one saw a shadowy figure in the window while watching television late into a Friday evening (that was last month).

Or one would think that one might find it odd when one hears the voice of an inquisitive man mumble into one's ear "mmmmhharmmruffyouknow?" from within the wall of one's laundry room in the middle of the day (that was last week).

Further, one might seriously freak out if one wakes to see a faceless figure standing above one while sleeping peacefully (this happens all the time).

Especially if one lives alone, right? Well, one would think...

When it comes down to it, there are certain circumstances in the life of a single woman living alone where panic would seem logical, yet I tend to adopt my maternal grandmother’s innate (and I would argue, practical) response to an alarming situation—denial. Make no mistake, it’s a ballsy, proactive, you're-screwing up-my-evening-now-scat kind of denial. I refer to it by the acronym, YSUMENS.

You see my grandmother would regularly encounter peepers who would peer into her windows at night while she would cook or sit at the kitchen table. These guys were bold enough to actually peep through the old-school mail slots that used to be cut into your front door—very muppety if you ask me. In fact, after a night of bumper to bumper, one-way traffic peeping, one could count the number of cigarette butts heaped beneath the windowsill from the previous evening of peeping activities.

Today, modern DNA technology would have every one of those peepers identified and thrown in jail to be sure. However, decades ago grandma’s response to this breach of privacy was neither panic nor even fear--she would simply whip her dishtowel up into a tightly wound weapon and aggressively thwack it at the window or door without missing a beat of any conversation that was taking place around her.

THWACK!
And with that, the peepers would scatter like vermin. This thwacking is similar to that which takes place during middle school pool periods across the country.

I’m just sayin; the woman had balls.

As a single woman, I find that this ballsy, proactive, you're-screwing up-my-evening-now-scat kind of denial works well. Although, I have yet to thwack a dishtowel at anything since the summer of 1982. And my reaction to the shadowy figure in the window last month? It was to simply stare straight ahead at the television with an expression that said,

"I can sit here and act like I don't see you all night, so either do something or scram ya jag-off!"

Or my reaction to the man's voice in my laundry room
(remember,"mmmmhharmmruffknow?")

Yes, it seemed like a question at the time regardless of my inability to translate “mmmhharmmruffknow?” into English. Basically, my inner dialogue was (and I must say, I may have even said this out loud), "I know, I think you're right."

And finally, the faceless figure above my bed as I sleep?
Well, this was a bit different you see because I was half asleep at the time and also pretty sure that these figures were extraterrestrials. More on that later.  So naturally my reaction was a bit more...um, Hollywood.

Ahem. You see it was summer and I actually woke up repeatedly screaming, "people next door...call the police,” from my bed. I was full of piss and vinegar, but not nearly so alarmed and clearly too sleepy to either flee or call the damn police myself. Not screaming out of fear, no. In fact, I later came to realize I was paralyzed, but still, more on that later.  I was merely screaming for added volume (and probably theatrics), quicker recognition and a speedier response by the authorities—whether Mulder and Scully or Officer Doughboy from Headquarters I didn’t really care—only that upon their arrival I could return to my slumber sooner rather than later.

Did I mention this was in the middle of August and my windows were wide open? Wait, wait…did I mention that I can easily hear a mouse fart from my neighbor's house during a sleet storm? I can’t imagine how The Born Again Family next door didn’t hear me; still, the police never showed. No good Bible beating dunces. I guess that's why my neighbor once described me as enigmatic. Yeah, yeah, get in line.

By the way, it turns out that the shadowy figures above my bed that have been plaguing me since childhood and the subject of so many of my film works are in fact common for those with narcolepsy and goes along with sleep paralysis, so I'm no longer concerned for experimental probing.

So, what is this phenomenon of ballsy, proactive, you're-screwing up-my-evening-now-scat kind of denial? Is this an extreme form of liberalism at work; in that I assume that we are all equal to do as we please no matter the circumstances because peeping, poltergeist and alien probing remains a universal right of every organism?

Or is it a sloth like laziness that has managed to render me sedentary and apathetic toward any proactive action that might say, require me to drop the remote and/or think too hard?

Or, is this just plain mental illness? Freud would probably site Plato’s definition of hysteria (hystera is the Greek word for uterus):

“when it (the uterus) remains barren for a long time after puberty it finds it difficult to bear, it feels wrath, is goes about the whole body, closing the issues for air, stopping the respiration, putting the body into extreme dangers, and occasioning various disease.”

Here is where I would tell Freud to kiss my skinny, barren ass in a wrathful manifestation of fury.

It's not mental illness. It's a strain of resilience.  In fact, I would recommend that young girls are taught that the ballsy, proactive, you're-screwing up-my-evening-now-scat kind of denial is indeed a practical approach to coping with the various challenges that a single woman may encounter whilst living alone; that is, peepers, bumps in the night, voices in the wall and bags of flaming shit on your doorstep.

Which will bring me to my next post.

3:30 a.m. on Monday, May 28th…there was a bump in the night…

a big one...
to be continued…

Ask Harold advises Chet from 5/27

On 5/27 Chet inquired at Ask Harold...
Hello Harold. My question is about bawwwwwwls. With the humid temperatures of summertime quickly approaching, I've considered adding a dose of talcum powder to my morning post-shower nether regions bathroom ritual. Do you think this would be beneficial?
Hello, Chet.

As I am keenly aware of each and every one of your "issues," I must warn you that to talcum powder your "nether regions," or what I so fondly refer to as my bawwwwls, would be a most unfortunate remedy for summer scrote heat.

You see, I recently overheard you telling my mother that you had aquired an "actual toothbrush that dentists use" from your dear old dad. I would venture to say that using said talc powder on one's bawwwwls would indeed leave a sooty, cakey residue that would almost certainly linger upon your tongue after a good bawwwwl washing. That would be quite the not so fresh feeling, yes? Hence, the fancy toothbrush reference.

Long story short, using talcum powder on your bawwwwwls would leave your royal, if not smug, toothbrush jammed with powdery soot and such, and ultimately break your genuine American Dental Association tool.

What I would recommend is that you open a window after each and every steamy shower--then, carefully perch your newly polished bawwwwwls upon the sill--preferably in a window that will not slam shut without warning--then, carefully air the front, sides, overhang and under hang of your privits through the naturally wafty winds of the Avenue and cremative air of your surprisingly stiff downstairs neighbor.

I often air my bawwwwwls out this way after a serious bawwwl cleaning.

**Incidentally, to fight winter bawwwl chaffing, thoroughly saturate area with Crisco Original (none of that smug crap) and then air out with a 100 watt hairdryer.

Good luck Chet, and please refrain from sending any pictures of your progress.
Harold

ASK HAROLD

Greetings.

As most of you are probably already aware, I'm Harold and my life is beyond busy.

For example, in the morning I rise at about 5 a.m. only to find that my mother is far from ready to feed , play, and/or smother me with attention in any kind of way. So, until she gets up I usually thoroughly clean my bawwwwls. Some say that I'm obsessed with my bawwwwls and I say, damn right I am, wouldn't you be?

After my mother gets up, she feeds me and keeps yelling something about, "that is a seriously offensive load in the litter box, Harold!" I'm not quite sure what it is that she means by this, but she yells it at least once or twice a day.

After my mother leaves the house, I settle in so that I may again thoroughly clean my bawwwwls, as clean bawwwwls are the sign of a truly metrosexual cat.
If I could wax them I would do so, as I shed fur like a 300 lb wookie in the Sahara. However, my fear of the outdoors (especially thunderstorms) keeps me local and unable to get out to the detail shop on my own.

Please feel free to post any questions that you may have for me regarding any topic really. I'm very wise and I often give helpful advice. I am highly skilled and accredited, as I have an MFA in the smuggity art of bawwwwl licking from the University of Felix.

To quote the great Mustafa: "I lick them because I can."

I hope to hear from you soon and I promise to get back to you as soon as possible, that is unless I'm polishing my bawwwwls of course, then you'll just have to wait it out.

Cheers,
Harold (Pronounced Hair-wuld)

Seriously, did you hear something?

What bonds a friendship?

No, Chet...not a hot glue gun covered in Bubbleboy epidermal cells--keep yer unda'pants on already.

It's not Elmer's Glue (unless you're under age 10)

Not staples

Not velcro (that is like, sooo 1986 I could gag)

Not rubberbands

Not even the Randy go-to for sinking ships, Hypoxy.

It's certainly not the fruity, gooey hunk o Hubba Bubba that one has covertly managed to jam under one's chair (you know who you are!)

Hmmm, it's definitely not braiding each others hair and watching American Idol---in Smug Town this is also known as exchanging salt scrubs and watching snails screw (thhhhhannks!)

I decided to ask a glue expert and he suggested various forms of adhesives like:

acrylic adhesive
aerosol adhesive
anaerobic adhesive (and you know how I loathe cardio)
catalyst adhesive
conductive adhesive
cyanoacrylate adhesive
Epoxy
Glue Dots (if they taste like they sound I'll give em a whirl)
Hypoxy (sans the lit cigarette)
Hot Melt adhesive (if this is anything like a Hot Tuna sandwich, I'm out)
mastic adhesive
methacrylate adhesive
silicone adhesive (too easy, no comment)
solvent based adhesive
urethane (No! You're a thane!)
UV Curable (thank God, I'm all out of penicillin)
and finally, water based adhesive

But one would think that sharing a birthday would be enough to bond a friendship--apparently not.

Clearly nothing bonds a friendship like good ol gaffers tape and a gecko.

Thanks for your (you know who you are) pragmatic response during a sticky situation.

jenji

Grammar 101

Participle present
A verb form ending in -ing. Although a present participle may usually function as a main verb, it may also be used as an adjective.

Although this grammatical definition remains undeniably confusing and difficult for some, one can overcome the challenges of using this form through dedicated practice (say, throughout grades 1-12) and visual repetition (say, through the use of official Air Force One Grammatical flashcards). However, some of us still fail to implement this form properly and thereby continue to hack the English language into a puddle of bloody pulp. For example, "the Iraqi people are askin' and hopin' we'll remain" or "you saw 'em votin'," or "we're runnin', comin' and gettin' close to success" doesn't quite fulfill or fully commit to the use of the present participle. You know what I'm sayin'? Oh, see now it's contagious.

If you can't commit to grammar what can you commit to?
jenji

For the love of God woman!

Stop injecting your ass into your lips!
It's beginning to muddy your breath...
jenji

Pfieffer me!

...there are no lines...no creases...no furrows...
the ebola strain just seems to paralyze this aging trifecta...
sure, it activates a predisposition for some random, ghastly disease to be sure,
but you'll look young and happy about it at your weekly dialysis treatment...

jenji

...this is what I'm sayin...

a day in my life of jammie pants....that's all i'm sayin!

New Rule:

The outside world is not your house.

Is it me, or will people wear just about anything to the supermarket or INSERT UNIVERSITY HERE? When you hear that announcement over the P.A., "Clean up in Aisle 7," they're talking to you!

I mean, it's heartwarming that you held onto those comfy gym shorts from high school, but

...I can see your balls. Which reminds me, I'm out of kiwi.

Bill Maher

That's quite a tug, mister...

Fresh from the TimeWarner shuffle here is my first high-speed blog. What does one feed a roadrunner anyway?

jenji