Alaska!

Suppose I was a big fan of alcohol-which I'm not-but say we suppose so. I would most certainly be inclined to transform Sarah Palin's Alaska into a drinking game.

It's simple: flip to TLC and every time she utters the word "Alaska," go ahead and take a shot. You'll be half in the bag by the first commercial break.

jenji

*I intentionally selected a flattering photo of the former Governor despite my absolute disgust for her as a human being. It would have been entirely too easy and predictable to post a photo of her holding a rifle or crossing her eyes. This selected photo is my feeble attempt to take the high road, however I suppose this impulsive postscript subsequently negates all efforts preceding.

Drive-By

I think someone attacked Kenny Rogers with a Botox gun among other things. I suspect his former face is bound into a ponytail behind his head. I'm just sayin.

jenji

Ritual

Wally

The mumbling codependent is at it again. Wally fell from his nest, while his parents made their frustration readily apparent by screaming at one another all evening. Dusk was quickly approaching, stray cats looming.

And so first I made this:

And then I went about weighing it down (rocks beneath the grass) and perching it within the crook of a tree in the backyard.

The parents weren't particularly jazzed about my involvement despite my use of gloves and anesthetic (for me, not Wally). At least Wally is safe from predators and the damp ground. It'll be interesting to see if the integrity of the nest will hold up overnight, as well as whether or not his parents have figured out what has transpired because frankly, Wally's ready to eat and I'm out of worms.

I'm just sayin'.

jenji

Lost In Translation

(electrostatic feedback)

Welcome- can I take your order?

--Yes, I'd like a small fry and a cheeseburger with no mustard (pause for attendant processing) double cheese, double pickles, please.

Extra mustard?

--No, no. No mustard, double cheese, double pickles, please.

Oh, okay.

jenji consults the drive-thru LCD so as to confirm the order wherein she sees the following:

-1 small fry

-1 cheeseburger

-NO mustard

-NO cheese

-EXTRA pickles

Will that complete your order?

--No, no...I'd like no mustard and double the cheese and double the pickles.

Oh, okay.

jenji refers to the LCD one more time:

-small fry

-cheeseburger

-NO mustard

-EXTRA CHEESE

-EXTRA PICKLES

Would you like to guess what I found once I returned home and unwrapped my burger?

Why Marvin, why? The plane would have crashed is all I'm sayin.

jenji

Double Standard

Scenario #1:

And so imagine that you see a rather portly man or woman standing in line at the gas station waiting to pay for gas or various other items. For the purposes of this example let's say this individual is 5' 4" and weighs about 350 pounds; let's say this person is very clearly obese. There are a few other folks in line, as well as the gas station attendant. Now, how many people do you think would find it socially acceptable and/or appropriate to say out loud to this person--a complete stranger-- the following:

"You need to cut back on the nachos and lose a few pounds, Fatty."

I have yet to hear anyone utter anything even remotely similar to an overweight individual in this fashion; okay, maybe a few times in junior high school I can recall some bullies picking on heavier kids, but not since then have I ever heard it again. I'm not talking about a friend who may comment upon an individual's weight to you sotto voce, I'm talking about a direct confrontation, one stranger to another. I've never seen it happen. And yet, I find that complete strangers seem to feel no sense of social structure when they comment upon my weight to my face. In fact, I find that it happens at least once a week.

For example, imagine a woman (ie: me) is 5' 4" and weighs approximately 100 pounds and she is standing in line at the local gas station waiting to pay for her gas and particulars (ie: my gas and particulars) when this man begins to eyeball her up and down (ie: eyeball me up and down) and then scoffs at her (ie: me):

"you need to eat something, Skinny."

OR

A woman (ie: me) walks into a hair salon and another woman--a complete stranger--says to her (ie: me):

"Ugh, why are you so thin? Are you anorexic or something? I wish I could be so thin."

My response: "systemic illness, Asshole."

I've also found that heavier women find it socially acceptable to call me a "skinny Bitch," a passive-aggressive jab wrapped in a generous heap of "I'm just kidding" also known as the indisputable self-loathing. Whatever.

Scenario #2:

Imagine you are at work and the boss' daughter comes in to visit. You haven't seen her in quite a few years and she's really tan, as in at-the-tanning-bed-twice-a-week tan, so the first thing you say to her is:

"You need to stop sitting in the sun, you look like a saddle bag!"

Again, I've never heard it happen and I've seen a lot of saddle bags in my day.

And yet, the boss' daughter (ie: me) wanders into the building to visit and stumbles upon an employee she hasn't seen in a couple of years and he seems to think it's socially acceptable to say:

"Good God, you need to get some sun. Take a vacation, you look like a ghost!"

My response: "Um, first of all, I'm fair-skinned, I've always been that way and the reason I'm so fair is because of my British heritage and overall genetics, not to mention (again) systemic illness and the need to avoid ultraviolet exacerbations, but nice to see you too, Asshole!" Okay, that was my inner response, my real response was: "*uh-huh" as I was taken off-guard by this individual's seamless ability to open with such an fantastic one-liner (see: offensive observation).

*also known as, "oh right, this is why I never visit...I'm outta here, Asshole."

I won't even go into the individuals who refer to me as pale and/or peaked. I've been hearing that since I was a little kid. Okay, maybe one example.

I'm 9 years old and the woman at the ice cream shop greets me:

"Oh darlin, you're so peaked and thin!"

My response: "I don't know what that word means, do you have any double chocolate today?"

I guess my point is that people are insensitive assholes who seem to have no problem with indiscriminately spewing whatever flutters into the vast abyss they call a mind... oh wait, that's my point, it does seem to be discriminating and I find it utterly annoying, as I tend to run into one of these comments, as I mentioned, at least once a week. After a while one can begin to become self-conscious about what is completely natural and might I add significantly out of one's control.

It's bad enough I have to drink mass quantities of Boost to keep myself within triple digits, do you have to point it out as if it's deliberate and I've done something wrong? You can all see the picture of that woman in the right column, does she look like she's asking for an insult? I realize she's adorable, but that's not our topic today, so do your best to answer the question.

I'm just sayin, zip it and mind your own business... Assholes.

jenji

I Have No Idea What It Means

I had a very detailed and vivid dream last night.

The particulars:

I was working concession at a movie theater (of course I was) and my manager was President Obama. And so whilst going about my shift Mrs. Obama came into the theater to discuss finances with her husband. Specifically, they were standing at the counter perusing the record of their dividend profits or in this case, significant losses.

President Obama remarks: We've lost so much this year, how are we going to afford underpants?

Wherein jenji, the harbinger of humor and levity remarks: There's no rule that says that the Commander and Chief can't go out and about in a state of commando.

Mrs. Obama was quite amused, wherein Mr. Obama just gave me an odd look and so I said:

I'm just sayin Mr. President, they're only undapants.

I actually woke up laughing at the absurdity.

jenji

Blurb

Defective down below. I'm just sayin.

jenji

Mammy-Gram

This afternoon I had my annual mammogram. Is this too much information? No? Then I shall continue.

For me, annual exams—both *pap and mammography—can evoke a sense of fear and trepidation, as the possibility for anomalous, irregular results can seem imminent, given an individual’s family history, coping style and/or current situation, or in my case, given the fundamental equilibrium and overall cohesive performance of the various synaptic connections throughout The Ol’ Noodle, which have been known to spontaneously challenge jenji’s ability to navigate about the particulars of reality, rationale and/or status quo with any definitive eloquence at any given moment. (see: dread)

*Frankly, the former—pap trepidation—initially has more to do with jenji minor’s anticipation and inability to brace for, so to speak, the advance of the stone-cold speculum—also known as The Cervical Iceberg, which has an undeniable ability to hastily freeze and lower my core temperature from the inside out within seconds of impact—more so to do with that than it does with my family’s significant history for irregularity in this particular arena. I’m just sayin, would it kill The Man to get a toaster oven? (The Man: My highly reputable gynecologist).

Conversely, one can choose to embrace and dare I say, be thankful for, the existence of such early detection devices so as to allow for early intervention should the results of any given test come back irregular and/or suspicious. I’m happy to report that given my current state of polarity—middle of the road, vanilla, hopeful, even—I didn’t lend any energy to the formidable worry front, as I currently posses the previously mentioned definitive eloquence, which allows one to successfully rationalize energies away from approaching murky squalls. (see: dread, opposite)

Also, given the virulence of various inefficient processes and programs associated with health care as whole, this particular Group—THE INSERT RADIOLOGY GROUP HERE—which prides itself on being progressive, cutting edge etc. truly is what it purports to be.

Wait. That can’t possibly be right. No, no, it truly is. They truly are.

Prove it.

Item #1: Intro

They welcome client feedback and in fact, actually make adjustments accordingly.

My last visit was in late 2008 and while the physicians, technicians and staff were entirely courteous, competent and expeditious, the waiting area (stage 1) was somewhat jarring in that their ability to work efficiently as a cohesive unit—to funnel individuals through 1, 2, 3—although still commendable, the staging area of the well-oiled machine could easily leave one feeling as if one ought to have a floppy red tag hanging from one's ear, a graphic match to the shiny red mark branded upon one's ass, both indicative of one's arrival and position within the voluminous herd.

Okay, perhaps that’s a bit exaggerated or melodramatic, however, the waiting area was so congested with clients that each one was referred to by a given number so as to protect and preserve privacy; in fact, one was initially given a pager to check in with admin and therein a plastic garment tag—a call number—to proceed back for the actual scan. Truly, it was reminiscent of a classic delicatessen, as the temperature of the anxious crowd--best described as feverish--was a crowd riddled with individuals constantly peering down at their pager and/or tag in an effort to validate that they hadn’t been skipped or passed over by another muttering mass of nerves. And so yes, 2008 was a bit disconcerting and overwhelming, especially for an artistic temperament (example: mine), which tends to implore one (example: me) to imagine the back-story and particulars—from title cards to credits—of any and/or all individuals I may stumble upon and/or interact with throughout any given day.

And so upon request I made a suggestion on the comment card provided at last visit:

Less factory, more intimacy. Yours truly, jenji

Item #1: Conclusion

The INSERT RADIOLOGY ESTABLISHMENT takes into consideration client feedback, as the entire establishment has been renovated and refurbished since my last visit wherein the artistic temperament (example: mine) will find itself (example: me) inquiring about the particulars whilst mid-squash, mid-mammo, mid-tug-- the particulars regarding the catalyst for said renovations so as to avoid inaccurate speculation and thus unnecessary title cards later.

The Verdict: “Client feedback indicated that the waiting areas were too crowded and impersonal, which caused unnecessary anxiety for many people.”

(gasp)

You don’t say.

And so the well-oiled machine, while still entirely lubed, has been broken down into “several different waiting areas,” each complete with its own flat screen television (Cable: The Food Network), fireplace (electric), comfortable décor, tranquil tones (sage, taupe), complimentary beverages (water, tea, coffee, juice) and finally, a heaping dish of chocolates. Shall I repeat the last part: a heaping dish of chocolates. Expensive, individually wrapped, gluten-free chocolate, I might add. No need to worry about smattered fingers in the candy bowl, as the candy in the bowl, or dish as it were, could easily be unwrapped and popped down one’s gullet sans contamination.

Item #2: Intro

Mammogram: 2010—

There was a phenomenon, a very post-9/11 phenomenon, which took place whilst waiting for my scan (stage 2): people—women, from all walks of life—spoke to one another in lieu of the formidable at one another or even worse, not at all. My city isn’t particularly known for neither friendly banter, nor routine pleasantries even whilst sharing a 4-foot by 5-foot space in an elevator, let alone sitting in a waiting room. Ingredients for jenjiworld surroundings: eyes down, grimace affixed, audible grumbling about this, that and the other. Such is my frustration, as the artistic temperament (example: mine) does not allow one (example: me) to coexist well amongst the detachment of the many who surround me. I’m too inquisitive; too chatty; perhaps even too polite. Far too often I find myself saying “nevermind, it was a joke” or “I asked, how’s it going?”

And so, these women you speak of jenji, as if they even exist at all; you say all walks of life? How do you know that? How could you possibly know that?

Because they spoke to me and they spoke to one another, while I naturally, said very little, to nothing. Such is my right as the nodding, prodding, albeit entirely engaged observer who cannot hardly get a word in, as she is busily cramming her face with goodies from the heaping dish of sanitarily sound chocolate. Chocolate trumps conversation, period.

It has been my experience that people interact and make considerably more eye contact throughout two different scenarios: whilst entirely comfortable and at ease or whilst incredibly anxious and nervous.

The particulars vary depending upon the audience. A man will interact differently with a woman than a woman will interact with another woman or in this case, amongst other women. Groups interact differently than individuals and I suppose one could assert that our group of 7—in this case all women—had a smattering of both scenarios (comfort and anxiety), however our surroundings were so comforting—fireplace, lighting, aromatherapy—that women seemed compelled to exchange particulars—not pleasantries, this was not mindless, polite banter—particulars, such as recipes (two women were caterers) and background (one woman was an elderly cancer survivor from India). This was interesting, fulfilling banter, which is not something I run into very often. Usually I witness either defiant mutes, complete with the what-are-you-wearing judgmental sneers (yes, I have a few holes in my jeans and yes I’m wearing fingerless arm warmers: deal with it), vapid inquiries/responses, narcissism and/or abject gossip.

And so we--7 strangers, picked to have scans and see who stops being polite and starts getting real; apologies--we all waited throughout stage 2 and into stage 3 together. With one another. (cue Phillip Glass)

At THIS ESTABLISHMENT one can choose to wait for a doctor to read their scans before they go home; this is stage 3 (my label, not their label I assure you); it takes a bit longer, however one doesn’t have to wonder about the possibilities and can set oneself up with an opportunity to more than likely go home with good news. In all, I encountered three different waiting rooms: reception, scanning and results. Women wish one another luck before going into their scan (stage two: “good luck”), while they congratulate one another once they get results (stage three: "congratulations"). I witnessed three women emerge from the doctor’s office with what could only be described as a posture of relief and a slap-happy grin on their faces. And as each one exited from the office they said some derivative of the same thing to all of us: all clear, negative or clean! When I emerged from the doctor’s quarters all of my comrades had gone, while a new group of women were busy respectively chatting with one another, however, caterer #2 was just leaving the changing room next to mine as I approached and she asked: “is everything okay with your results?”

My point: I suspect that this establishment's ability to truly care for us allowed us to truly care for one another. The university doesn’t give a shit about us and therefore, we don’t give a shit about one another, even within the confines of a 4 foot x 5 foot elevator, or so I've come to convince myself so as to avoid embarrassment, discouragement or homicidal rage. (see: fundamental equilibrium)

Note: I had a lovely conversation with a set of identical twins in the elevator--Donna and Diana (honestly, gleaned, not inquired)--however, while I can claim to have given a shit, I cannot elaborate further, as both were relegated to different staging areas once we reached our floor.

**Item #3: Intro

Existence

While a mammogram isn’t in and of itself a box full of kittens, it’s not nearly the most painful procedure on the planet (see: retrograde cystography for kidney stones) and so I will once again refer to, focus upon and embrace the existence of mammography as a diagnostic tool/device to be thankful for. In fact, I shall focus upon my results.

Item #3: Conclusion

Results:

Normal/Negative. No evidence of cancer.

**While Item #3—my result—isn’t in and of itself evidence of this establishment’s extraordinary expansion, sincere care nor purported pride, it certainly didn’t hurt neither my experience nor this review; then again, neither did the heaping dish of chocolate. Did I mention the heaping dish of chocolate?

jenji

Disclaimer For Insensitivity: jenji is keenly aware that many women may receive less than desirable news from the doctor regarding their mammography, however for the purposes of this entry she has consciously excluded such discussion; except for this part-- which is meant to deter anyone from pointing out what an absolute ignoramus jenji is for having overlooked the gravity and prevalence of breast cancer. For this entry is not about breast cancer, it's about chocolate.

Poorly Written, but Written None-the-Less

Get A Grip

A fellow blogger created a post about a week ago regarding "How Powerless Humans Really Are" when it comes to a particular weather event. Please do visit Marvin's blog, as not only does he have a unique writing style, but he also gets *it. For me, the topic ignited a pretty specific response, as the topic of weather--particularly snow--as it relates to an individual's defiant inability to simply consider the non-magnitude of its presence--has been and will continue to irritate me up until the very last flake has evaporated into the sky.

And so, some of this post is copied directly from my response to Marvin's original post, while I will go ahead and apologize for pulling what some may consider a repost or perhaps some sort of backwoods plagiarism even though I did in fact create the response myself. I apologize, I do-- however, I don't really mean it.

------

I completely understand that a blizzardlike event can slow up or even halt human beings in their tracks. It can be difficult to navigate about a wintery environment when you're not accustomed to doing so.

That said, I've lived in NY for most of my life and I can tell you that snow can slow things up quite a bit. It can be messy and inconvenient; however it's snow and it's February. In fact, winter, for the most part, is not going to kill you.

Our local news networks bask in the glory of a snow event in that it provides an opportunity for manipulative producers to create an event out of a non-event. They love to panic the local residents and they know damn well what they're doing: crying wolf.

It's snow.

...It's not cancer

...It's not a death in the family.

...It's not a life-altering event. It's snow.

In fact, fiscal arguments aside and aside from the unexpected/expected accidents that may occur during a messy commute, a snow event is not the type of experience that qualifies as a disaster. And yet the media makes it seem as though the apocalypse has finally arrived. Individuals who live down south and speak as if the end of the world is upon us need to understand that I understand: it's snow. It's messy and if you're not used to it, somewhat overwhelming. However, southerners (and believe me, many, many northerners who dare quibble about winter in February) fail to look at the bright side or gain perspective for what really matters.

Yes, we may be talking about a few feet of snow, but you're not buried underneath a pile of fallen cement in Haiti; your home has not been swept away by a tornado; a tsunami has not leveled your home and carried away your loved ones.

It's --> fucking --> snow. Deal with it. It can be cold, blustery and even inconvenient, but for the most part, it's not going to kill you. Stop whining, make a cup of hot cocoa, drag your kids out to make snow angels and/or snowmen and thank your lucky stars for this particular strain of weather-related inconvenience.

Belly in the sand. And yes, I have since cleaned the lens.

Southwest

Nature's Confection

Adjust your perspective and attempt to embrace the beauty.

*it: whatever you need it to be, Marvin gets it.

jenji

E.T.A.

I came home today to find this upon my doorstep.

Now I must admit to some serious trepidation, as I'm not entirely sure how to process the creepy particulars of such a premeditated decorative invasion, if only to mention that upon reflection I do recall seeing a gaggle of 20-somethings roaming about the neighborhood with what appeared to be literature before my departure this afternoon. In fact, upon further reflection I believe there was a mysterious van parked outside in front of my house as well.

So okay, I guess I'll get The Kid on the 25th. However, I have a few questions. For instance:

The 25th of what? Of December? Of August?

Are we even referring to a specific day within a specific month and if so will I need to be home when The Kid arrives?

Will The Kid need accommodations? If so, for how long? More important, will The Kid have all the appropriate shots and vaccinations so as to remain sterile and less than a spewing vessel of viral plague?

Will The Kid be traveling alone or will The Kid have a companion?

Will I need to collect The Kid--'get The Kid'--from the airport or the bus station? I guess what I'm asking is this: will The Kid need a lift?

What do we mean by "get." "Get" The Kid as in I'll be given The Kid? Or "get" The Kid as in I'll be required to retrieve The Kid? Although it seems entirely clear that someone somewhere will be getting something at some point--particularly on or within the 25th of something--the message itself is a bit remiss with regard to efficient details so as to allow The Kid a seamless arrival.

I have a sudden urge to barricade myself into my home. I'm just sayin'.

jenji

UPDATE: "A Kid" did indeed show on Christmas Day, however whether or not it was "The Kid" in question remains to be seen. It could all be a terrible coincidence.

The Consummate Gentleman

And here we have yet another example that explains my visceral aversion to alcohol, as well as to the individual who will wholeheartedly embrace the inherent properties and components of alcohol that in excess will undeniably allow said individual to make a conscious decision to engage in imbecilic behaviors that more often than not precipitate copious consumption of alcohol, as the effects will more often than not allow and encourage one to believe that their drunken behavior is somehow appropriate for any given moment, as if their presence, behavior and opinions for that particular moment are somehow concentric to the universe at large. In other words, I find drunken people and their self-indulgent behaviors to be highly irritating and more often than not offensive.

The particulars:

Upon my first introduction to the gaggle of people that I'll be playing on a summer volleyball league with, I found myself *fascinated (*see antonym: repulsed) by the amount of *premium ale (*see: piss-warm beer) that this one individual in particular could consume all the while butchering the English language into a fragmentary, bloody pulp. Example: “that ain't true yous guys, that's a fuckin wad, man!”

It was only upon game number two—match number one—that I was further *delighted (*see: disgusted) by not only his unwavering ability to butcher basic sentence structure, but by his effortless ability to do so whilst engaged in formidable and entirely competitive co-ed volleyball with at least 3-4 beers coursing throughout his system, and might I add that I was genuinely *impressed (*see: under whelmed) and dare I say *sexually aroused (*see: sexually repelled) by his casual and astoundingly cavalier decision to suddenly take a leak in between side out points just along court side west. That is, after the side out, I pushed myself up off of the sand and spun around to see a grown man taking a piss a foot away from the service area. A piss straight into the wind I might add.

Truly remarkable. I can only hope that he's single. I say he, as I find myself unable to actually recall his name, as the presence of his piss in the wind created an offensive miasmic mist that surely caused my short-term memory to temporarily shutdown. And rightly so.

And so, I don't presume to fully understand the particulars and/or protocol regarding the male plumbing system, however despite its mechanical convenience I cannot think of any other male friend, relative and/or acquaintance who would pull such a gauche move in anything other than an emergency situation, while I'm quite sure that I’d find myself hard-pressed to piss whilst in the presence of some very dear friends, let alone in front of a stranger, in an open lot, surrounded by four other courts in a state of play, which translates into roughly 48 other individuals on the premises at the time.

The question is: would he have still done so sans booze? Maybe, maybe not. What I do know is that alcohol serves as the great magnifier, as it evokes behavior and attitudes that one might ordinarily stifle, as they could be construed as less than attractive or acceptable; rude even. And so, I'm sure that while it would have certainly occurred to The Sober Consummate Gentleman to take a leak court side west, his better judgment would have allowed him to use the restroom like any other human being, child or trained cat.

I'm just sayin.

jenji

An Urgent Request

For the sake of those with Asperger's and Autism.
For the sake of those animals who rely upon echolocation.
For the sake of mankind's reliance upon mechanosensation.
For the sake of all that is sensate.
For the sake of my sanity, I implore you Billy, please stop shouting, as the pitch of your voice makes me want to hit myself in the face with a frying pan.

Vestibular Residence

My doctor took a moment to consider his examination and then, as he confidently popped the sterilized veneer from the top of the otoscope thing-a-ma-bobber, he disclosed his diagnosis, “you have a virus in your ear.”

Now, I was immediately inclined to ask that he might repeat himself because I must have somehow muddled and/or misinterpreted this diagnosis due to what he would later refer to as “a significant amount of congestion and inflammation” in my right ear or what I began to acutely refer to as: why does the room keep spinning? (insert nausea here)

So I asked him, “I’m sorry, could you repeat that. I have what?”
So he repeated himself, only this time slightly louder, “I say, you have a virus… in your ear.”

Consider the two distinct responses that popped into my head:

1. Defensive indignation in that I could embrace my inner 8-year old child and respond with the exceedingly infantile show stopper known as the “I-know-you-are-but-what-am-I” Freudian projection, as clearly my lexicon of “your mama’s so fat” one-liners would never suffice in such a clinical setting.

“Oh yeah doctor? Well….well you have a virus in your ear! So there!” wherein any unflappable physician should promptly respond with “that may be true, but it doesn’t change the fact that you have a virus in your ear.”


2. Thoughts of extrication, extraction and removal of the virus in that one might consider that when it is revealed that one has a virus in one’s ear, an opportunity to remove said virus from one’s ear would soon contrarily present itself as it could be argued that what goes in, must come out.

A few examples of what goes in, must come out:

-When one has a fly in one’s soup one can beckon the server to fish it out and then promptly storm out in a disgruntled huff—that is, storm out the door from which they came in.

-One can put tropical fish into one’s 30-gallon tank in an effort to promote personal tranquility; however much to their dismay the fish can then be taken out of the tank and quickly left to squander about in a desiccated state of decomposition.

-An individual can put 10W-40 into the engine of their 1980 black Chevy Monza 4x4, however I assure you, it will systematically leak out if you’re driving the one I used to own.

-An individual can jam an index finger into their nose, but they’re bound to pull it out sooner or later; how else would they be able to flick the coagulated bugger at their sibling thereby inciting a fratricidal fury for custodial Sunday.

I suppose there are a couple of exceptions to my what goes in, must come out rationale.

For example, if you’re at a wake and you overhear some insensitive yenta babbling on about how “Teddy wouldn’t quit smoking right up until the end and so it was the congestive heart failure that finally did Teddy in,” well then the odds are that once the vessel formerly known as Teddy is peacefully placed into his Sarcophagus, he will in all probability not be coming out for cig by the dumpster anytime soon.

Yes, but jenji you have a virus in your ear. Precisely, and I’m thankful to have an answer as to what was/is causing my symptoms, however I still found/find myself perplexed by the phraseology of said diagnosis.

What I really wanted to say to the doctor was, “What do you mean I have a virus in my ear? Surely you mean to say that I have caught a virus or that a virus is causing these symptoms and my condition.”

Or how about he went ahead, took a gamble and allowed for a clinical diagnosis, wherein he could have informed me that I had vestibular neuritis: a condition caused by a viral infection of the vestibular nerve, which can in turn cause the excessive vertigo and nausea that I had/have been experiencing, as well as the spontaneous nystagmus associated with lying down on my right side in bed. At least I could have Googled that explanation.

But no, he chose to embrace the perilous, enigmatic virus in your ear and all of its incendiary implications in lieu of the vestibular neuritis.

…you have a virus in your ear.

I don’t believe it would be too farfetched for me to maintain that I have a significantly bent mind, and when you inform a bent mind that they have a virus in their ear, that bent mind will undoubtedly conjure up one image: of a strapping Ricardo Montalbán jamming a gigantic Ceti eel larvae into Commander Chekov’s ear in Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. Good God man, don’t inform someone they have something in a particular orifice of their body if there isn’t some possibility that you can coax whatever it is that’s in there out in the very near future.







Wrath of Khan

jenji, enough with the semantics.
You know what, you're right.

….
…….
……….

But I’m just sayin’, when my mother had a seizure a few years ago the distracted emergency physician didn’t say to me, “your mother had a seizure in her brain.” No sir, in fact he said, “your mother had a seizure, I’ll explain more later, it’s mac n cheese Friday downstairs,” wherein I assume he headed downstairs in to the cafeteria to pack his insensitive face with what is apparently phenomenal mac n cheese and then afterward, came on out to finally explain more later. You see, he was going to head in to the cafeteria and further, implied that at some point he would be coming back out to speak with me, so that makes perfect get in, get out sense.

When I saw a contemporary of mine at an opening wearing a cast on his leg I asked, “what happened to your leg?” he responded, “I broke my ankle.” What he didn’t say was “I have a broken a bone in my leg,” for that might imply that he could take the break out in some fashion.

Nor did he say, “similar to the injury that the incomparable Frida Kahlo suffered in her right leg, I have an oblique fracture of the fibula in my right leg, however my particular injury is much more minimalistic in nature in that mine didn’t shatter along the entire column of the leg” for if he had said that, which would have been entirely plausible given my past experience with artistic and/or intellectual symposiums, well then I probably would have told him that he was a tiresome, smug pedantic who doesn’t deserve neither my sympathy, nor my attention because I’m not looking to get covertly dragged into a pretentious debate about whether or not I consider Frida Kahlo’s work to be anti-conformist in nature; in fact, I had been previously fixated on the sophisticated cheese tray behind him; that was until he gimped his way across my sightline and so now I had no other choice but to ask him what the fuck was wrong with his leg.

What I should have said to the doctor was “I have a virus in my ear? Okay, then how can we get it out?” wherein he more than likely would have responded, “we can’t get it out, your insurance won’t cover the procedure.” Now that would have made perfect get in, get out sense, however that wasn’t what transpired.

In fact it’s simple: I have a virus in my ear that’s intermittently wreaking havoc, and luckily it doesn’t require extraction or invasive attention, however given my doctor’s predilection for ominous diagnoses, he has graciously afforded me with a far more indeterminate prognosis for said diagnosis: “the virus will go away on its own,” wherein he threw a prescription at me for anti-emetic, anti-vertigo pills.

I'm going to go ahead and interpret “the virus will go away on its own,” as it'll go ahead and come out on its own in an effort to thwart my bent mind, as the thought of a virulent intruder riding along a one-way vestibular concourse and taking up residence within my noggin overwhelms me with an imperative need to go out and buy wire hangers and rubbing alcohol.

jenji

Inappropriate

As a Christmas present for my parental units, I thought that I might look into purchasing a couple of tickets to see Tina Turner live, as they about lost their marbles last time they saw her live and on tour-- as opposed to dead and on tour, which is entirely plausible since James Brown's family took it upon themselves to make it so damn trendy.

Anyway, the folks were particularly impressed by the energetic sass and bottomless stamina that Tina had sported throughout the entire performance despite her advanced age. Now, keep in mind that this particular tour took place a handful of years ago, so imagine how impressed they'll be to see her strutting about the stage at age 69!

So I logged onto Ticketmaster and everything was going just fine and dandy until I was prompted for word verification; to read and re-type the two fuzzy words that appeared upon the screen before me for security purposes.

Those two words were: beaten well

No, I am not kidding.
I'm just sayin', highly inappropriate.

jenji

Or So I'm Told

Poppies will make her sleep. Sleep...










An unruly, paradoxical sleep fervently disagrees.

jenji

Precipitation Consideration

They said it would rain Sunday. In fact, they predicted it.

Personally, I knew it would rain wherein I made a concerted effort to check the Doppler radar for meteorlogical advisement Sunday morning, as I could sense that the swelling, bucking and heaving within my bones was indicative of stormy weather; my personal body barometer if you will. Those who have cracked a couple of bones in their neck, a few more in their arm and one in their knee, which by the way only proves to piss off a systemic condition in the end, might be able to relate to this osteopathic, predictive pinging.

Still there were other individuals who knew it would rain as well. In fact, a friend of mine (who shall remain nameless in an effort to protect the brilliant) intentionally opted for the bus over her bike for just that reason; milling around, slathered in SPF 50, waiting to be rescued by public transportation.

However, another friend of mine (who shall remain nameless in an effort to protect the innocent), insisted that it was in fact not going to rain yesterday. Insisted, I tell you.

If only I had wagered some cash regarding that prediction.

Here's the thing: For the most part, I'm not the type of individual who has an imperious need to argue my point when I'm already more than sure that I'm right; that type of give and take just doesn't interest me. However, I am totally the type of individual who would expand upon it in an obnoxious, passive-aggressive blog post in order to prove my previous point in the end.

Now, whether or not this friend pissed off Mother Nature with his/her obvious snub is still up for debate... ...sort of.

Okay, not really. He/She totally pissed her off and now evidence of her wrath is pooling in my front yard among a gaggle of hillbillies. Thanks a lot anonymous friend whose name may or may not rhyme with Gallison! Sheesh.

Exhibit A
a shot of the street from jenji's driveway









Exhibit B
jenji's redneck neighbors frolic as the water begins to recede








Exhibit C
stupidity is clearly contagious








I'm just sayin', they said it would rain yesterday and they were right.

jenji

Cheese With Your Whine?

Air travel.

I can appreciate the invention of the airplane, the discovery of flight and the astonishing capabilities of transcontinental air travel. Really, I can.

Even though my fundamental understanding of all that is mechanically aerodynamic can barely navigate about the blueprints of a paper airplane, the concept of the airplane as a means for travel remains brilliant—the execution and efficiency of said travel, not so much. However, my intent is not to analyze the imprudent, conspiratorial abuse that the airlines so ardently bestow upon us as Americans. I know you’re disappointed and I truly apologize—although said analysis is on its way.

Instead I would like to address a specific perquisite, an aroma if you will, related to airline travel:

Feet.

For those who have traveled via overpriced, overbooked airline, I would dare say that many would perhaps agree that the best word to describe the eternal funk and stink that one encounters whilst encapsulated at 30,000 feet in a pressurized fuselage—whose custodial maintenance by they way is in a perpetual state of bacteriostatic denial—is feet.

Recently, on USAir flights out of Philadelphia and LaGuardia I was suddenly overcome by the stagnant, overwhelmingly cheesy stench of feet; of athletic jock feet, pantyhose feet, 15-hour work day feet, Frito Lays Corn Chip feet, airport layover feet, geriatric feet, pediatric feet, toddler and tween feet, the what’s this between my toes feet, frat boy feet, flip-flop feet, hammer-toed feet, corned feet, internationally jetlagged feet, hot foot puddle feet, barefoot sneaker feet, the corked Martha Betti side buckle clog feet, clubbed feet, pigeon toed feet, webbed toe feet, hairy toed feet, waxed feet, vacation feet, honeymoon feet, armed forces feet, I only own two pairs of socks feet, gnarly feet, fancy pedicure feet, fat feet, bony anorexic feet, calloused feet, planters wart feet, get off my feet feet, hippy feet, rules aren’t made for me feet, what the fuck did I step in feet, dime bag in my sneaker feet, spoiled Heiress traveling the world and her miniature Chihuahua’s feet, blistered theme park feet, the sweaty aerophobic, aviatophobic, pteromerhanophobic fear of flying feet, dry flaking psoriasis feet, diabetic feet, arthritic feet, bloated airport buffet feet, dancer feet, professional, blue collar, student, unemployed and disabled feet, the I just ate garlic pasta feet, the booze is seeping from my pores alcoholic feet, the airport pre-party feet, the feet that know no bounds feet, bound feet, tattooed feet, bedazzled feet and finally those feet that are literally on the cusp of becoming bona fide six feet under feet in the very near future.

I’m just sayin, the entire cabin reeks of feet. In fact, it’s nauseating. I realize within the aircraft carpeting resides a literal foot fungal metropolis o funk—a virtual rhinovirus retreat—but can’t the airline somehow make an effort to address the stink, as clearly the removal of nonsensical airport carpeting isn’t on the list of things to do any time soon.

The airline's solution:

The mechanical engineers who are familiar with the intricacies, specifications and challenges of providing comfort within the confines of a speeding, gleaming suppository in the sky (because let’s face it, the airlines are always shoving some sort of hassle up your ass) created and subsequently affixed a user friendly, finger-fondled mechanism above the head of each and every weary passenger, which somehow allows said passenger to individually manipulate the mechanism at their leisure in an effort to somehow re-route, re-circulate, waft and/or blow the offensive hoof smog directly back into one’s own face.

It’s utter brilliance. Probably the same wise guys who chose carpeting as a viable option for aircraft floor decor in the first place.


In addition, I am not yet physically capable of effectively describing and/or expressing the visceral repulsion I have experienced regarding this lil' $613 round trip gem without literally gagging.
<---$613 Lil Gem

In the interim, I invite you all to create a caption for this photo, as the pre-board sweep failed to somehow tactfully remedy this situation.

jenji

Gratuitious

To whom it may concern:

1. Stop accessorizing my meal with scallions








2. Stop accessorizing my treat with sprinkles
(excluding anything Annie Sprinkle)







I'm just sayin' ...sometimes less is more.
jenji

ps vote in my new poll --->

*photos courtesy of Google Image

Smoke and Mirrors

As of late, I have seen and heard many individuals, particularly women, ramble on about how angry they are with Silda Spitzer and her so called pathetic, codependent choice to support her husband during the controversy surrounding Mr. Spitzer’s recent, imprudent behavior; or what I have come to call—Seriously Spitzer, Could You Be a Bigger Narcissistic Moron?

To some degree I can understand this critical assessment of Mrs. Spitzer, as I must admit to my own knee jerk reaction upon first seeing her standing catatonic beside Spitzer at the podium. In fact, for a moment I was livid, yet slightly disoriented as to why I would be so quick to judge another's situation, as it’s not normally within my nature to automatically do so, especially under such an extreme and depraved circumstance. So I was puzzled, if not slightly sickened as to my disparaging response.

Seriously, what kind of bug did I have up my ass that day? Although at the time, I must admit that I was riding out some nasty cold medication.

I mean, justifiably our anger and criticism should be directed toward Spitzer himself, but instead we posture aggressively toward Mrs. Spitzer. It is truly astounding how quickly we have taken our eyes off the ball or in this case—off the bald. After all, Eliot Spitzer is the hypocritical, adulterous, self-centered, narcissist who brought shame upon his family, not Silda. He is the aggressor, while Mrs. Spitzer and her three daughters are the victims, right?

So, why is it so easy for us to blame the victim?
As usual, it’s the media.

Upon reflection and in an effort to think outside the media driven box, I came to realize that I wasn’t at all upset with Mrs. Spitzer’s decision, but in fact with the media’s decision to methodically use and thereby assign a most subliminal term—“Standing By Her Man”—as the end all description for Mrs. Spitzer’s response; presentation of said subliminal term is of course complete with gripping graphic and melodramatic music required to further evoke drone like submission from the masses.

24-hour media loves the literal, injudicious picture. They would prefer not to truly think or deliberate, as both waste time, so the quicker to judge, think and/or deliberate (in fact manipulate), the quicker to air; the quicker to air, the higher the ratings; the higher the ratings, the more money they make. It’s a lava lamp of misleading, agenda driven information; hypnotic and painstakingly repetitive as it creates legions of disciples who are addicted and willing to depend upon 24-hour news as their definitive source for deliberative thought.

This tag: “Standing By Her Man," is an irresponsible assumption; a manipulative suggestion, with a rudimentary connotation that is entirely strategic, primitive and discriminatory in nature, while it leaves little room for interpretive discussion and/or deliberation. I mean as a viewer why bother with deliberation? There she is, demure and dutiful in her unassuming blue suit; complete with silk scarf accoutrement. She looks like an accommodating flight attendant: Can I get you a beverage Mr. Spitzer? Would you like a pillow Mr. Spitzer? Hot cloth Mr. Spitzer? The entire scenario is so 1950’s I could gag.

So I ask. Is she really “Standing By Her Man?”

I’m not blind. I mean I see her standing there, demure and seemingly devoted as ever, but is she indeed supporting him?

Hello? I’m talking to you 24-hour news. Did you bother to investigate the situation before smacking this simplistic, suggestive tag upon her response and presence? Surely you have the journalistic capacity to sniff out a reliable source that might offer some insight as to Mrs. Spitzer’s genuine motivation for showing up to this humiliating conference. After all, you hunt down sources to feed your incessant Britney stories; half a million reporters are strategically posted outside of Heath Ledger's loft waiting to get a shot of the velour covered mound (formerly known as Heath) as it/he is wheeled off into the coroner's vehicle. So what gives? Why this sudden, lackadaisical approach?

This tag: “Standing By Her Man," has become tiresome as politician after politician is compelled to believe that they are beyond the moral/legal law and further, entitled to break it: Senator Larry Craig, Detroit Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick, Governor James McGreevey and Senator David Vitter just to name a recent few. And guess what? All of their respective wives could be seen “Standing By Her Man,” albeit looking as if they had just thrown up in their mouths a little bit.

But should we be surprised with this rush to tag behavior?

No. As usual, 24-hour news has failed society. It has failed to consider that Mrs. Spitzer’s presence may be indicative of anything other than spousal dedication; that “Standing By Her Man” may not at all be about devotion, but strategy. For all we know she has already hired an assassin to settle all this cheating nonsense—although Silda, I wouldn’t recommend the extermination route, as I’m sure that your husk of a husband is friends and/or plays poker with the majority of NYC hit men, I’m just sayin’.

Yet this 24-hour assessment of what is indeed assumed accurate should be expected, as deliberate manipulation or at least partial omission is a symptom of the sexist, agenda-driven, one-dimensional society that we live in, wherein the news presents what it is we are allowed to see, dictates what it is we are allowed to think and therefore learn about our roles in society. They are corrupt and far from impartial, as they are in bed with cooperate entities, and therefore, riddled with sexism, ageism and racism. As a convenient source for news, 24-hour news takes advantage of their viewers by providing subliminal anti-group-of-the-moment rhetoric, which we (or most of) society will perceive as the valid truth. We don’t even realize that we’re being discriminated against and molded into thoughtless drones; drones who are taught to recognize that a woman should indeed “Stand By Her Man,” no matter the indiscretion because that's what we do. Put on your best 2-piece tweed, accessorize and smile lady because that’s what you do. Rub your feet, Mr. Spitzer? Would you like another blanket, Mr. Spitzer?

So, as I listen to women criticize Mrs. Spitzer’s choice, I think to myself, huh, nice job 24-hour news, you’ve managed to blame the victim and thereby turn women against women, wherein they cannot come together and give Mrs. Spitzer the benefit of doubt, support, or even consider that she may have her own agenda as to why she’s “Standing By Her Man.” It’s a divisive, strategic tactic indeed, meant to keep the masses from thinking, bonding, forming, gathering and revolting against the cooperation and it works like a gem.
To see the true off her rocker jenji rant click here.

Look, I'm sure she has her reasons for standing alongside him at these press conferences, be it religion, her children, whatever. Perhaps she is a passive product of a patriarchal society, I don’t know. I’m not nearly as psychic as Sylvia Browne suggests each one of us might be. My point is that we truly can't predict what it is that Mrs. Spitzer may be feeling and going through during this particular crisis anymore than we might be able to predict her favorite flavor ice cream. However, we might consider that there may be more than one explanation for her behavior; even Neapolitan has three flavors.

So, let's deliberate for a moment.

Here’s a question: Has anyone stopped to consider that Mrs. Spitzer is merely protecting her children who have been emotionally abandoned and traumatized by their father's disgraceful indiscretions? That as a matter of protection she may in fact be determined to keep their world as consistent as possible by postponing the feminist solution—to publicly scorn and vilify their father—as it would only serve to further exacerbate these abandonment issues for her children; is that possible? Could this be a Mama Lion at work?

This is just a theory, but it is entirely plausible that Mrs. Spitzer might be gathering all of her energy to provide a stable constant; a parent that her vulnerable children can actually depend upon and trust.

So what’s the solution, jenji? You must have some sort of alternative title/tag up your sleeve that 24-hour news can implement in an effort to describe her response, one which might somehow remain neutral, while still presenting the situation?

Oh, it’s not a tag at all. The solution is that he/she who has deceived, wandered and/or strayed should be holding these conferences solamente, sans the spousal distraction so that we may then concentrate all of our energy upon the true jackass of the moment.







<---true jackass of the moment

Then I should think the tags would be quite easy to create--literal even. The problem for the 24-hour graphics department is that these tags would constantly change, as do the deceitful aggressors. What a kick in the pants for graphics.

Still, I should think that these tags would read something like this:

Governor Spitzer Will Now Talk Out Of His Ass and Admit Felonious Activities

Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick Admits to Boning His ex Chief-of-Staff

Governor James McGreevey Admits Homosexuality and Buys Property on Fire Island

Senator Larry Craig Admits Incontinence, but Insists That His Bladder Is Not, Nor Has It Ever Been Gay

Senator David Vitter Admits DC Madam Is On His Christmas Wish List

Do you see what I’m saying? Now that’s simplistic and literal! The graphics department can thank me later.

I'm just sayin', take a moment to truly deliberate, to think outside of the media driven box and resist the mesmerizing, hypnotic, 24-hour lava lamp of complacency; consider as many sides of the issue as possible before you harangue and blame the victim. Make an effort to wade through the thick, 24-hour bisque of the day and whether vituperative or supportive in the end at least you’ve taken the time to interact before you react.

A bit of advice for Eliot Spitzer: although Mrs. Spitzer has been victimized she still has the capacity to react as anything other than a victim, for most mothers would agree—betray me and we may be able to work this out, betray my children and you’ll find yourself wishing you had never been born.

jenji

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