Freedom (revisited)

I never post the same entry twice, but I am making an exception for a friend of mine who I hope will keep the following in mind whilst navigating about temperamental relatives throughout the holidays.

You know who you are.
Please, be wise with your precious energy.
You matter more than any tedious, dysfunctional drama.

Freedom













There is a moat.
It surrounds me.
They cannot cross.
All runnels leading have been dammed.
I am safe.

It is a boundary. It is mine.
They shall not pass.
The bridge shall only draw upon my judgment, upon my command.

I no longer have an obligation to engage within the inherent presentiments of dysfunction, derision and delusion.

They ring the bell, but the bridge does not lower.
I control the counterweight.

Impatient, they ring for the ferry.
Blinking. The boat of Charon does not appear.

Universal: them and us.

And so, upon these banks they are inclined to leave us handmade baskets brimming with fresh fruit—messages—: persuasion. Anemic at first, and so we are inclined to pick through them at our leisure.

Hours. Days. Slumber.

They ring two, three times more and beckon for attention.

No.

They ring repeatedly and begin to leave patronizing messages, ripe with urgency and concern, as their arrogance will not allow them to consider that our silence has a greater meaning: not now: no.

No.

They give up quickly.
Time intervenes.

Everyday. Progression. The New Normal.

They Reform, restructure and begin to ring again.

The hypervigilant moat begins to leak; rust begins to form around our recollection. A formidable fog of nostalgic memory rolls in: a photograph-- Tribe surrounded and smiling.

An olive branch is extended and we contemplate acceptance.
Subtle. Pavlovian.

No.

Weakness. We assess the caller's identity and wager: perhaps I have overreacted. Perhaps I am part of the problem. Perhaps I am able—this time.

No. 
No?  But...

And so we gamble.

Hello…

We abandon our hypervigilant, detail-oriented condition for real-time interaction. There is no need for conditional division; for boundary, for there is no harm: we are of the same tribe.

Yes.

And so I would argue with the fine doctor.

* * * 


They are Traitors.


Traitors who are literally teeming with derision, negativity, disconnected outrage and delusions of grandeur.

Traitors who commiserate and conspire.

Exponentiation. Virulence.

How have you been?
This is not a question: it is a code for contempt.

They emerge from their histrionic dens not to listen: no.

Vapid inquires, for they are vampires whose self-centered mission remains: to suck and to spew: to suck our spirit and to spew their sanctimonious rhetoric.

Blathering on and on.
Sucking. Exsanguination.

What have we done? They are vampires and we have knowingly invited them in.

Echoes.
Ringing.

Repeat.

Awareness.
NO.

Recollection returns.

A fleeting specter where time has stood still.

The formidable fog of nostalgic memory lifts: a photograph—tribe surrounded and smiling. It is propaganda. I see it. We see it.

Present.


No.


We did not respond, the bridge is still intact and our feet remain dry.

Escalation.
Ringing.

Not now.

Live.  Life.  Living.

Baskets. Piled, they begin to fray; the fruit begins to seep and rot but still, they sow the seeds.

Sunshine. Friends. Contentment.

A heaping, putrid landfill forms along the bank, the soil tinged with their pestilence.

It is a plague. They are a plague.

Persistence. Insistence.
More messages.

They ornament their disdain and hunger for this emotional ambush with concern for our well-being. It is circuitous. It is a lie. It is a trap.

It becomes about the why are you, the where are you and the what's going on? 


It becomes about their graciousness and our silence.

It builds.
It becomes about our immaturity and our capricious temperament.

Our silence simmers within them.
It becomes about our self-absorption, our audacity and our impassivity; our inability for functional communication within the company of pure righteousness.

We are a predicament: their predicament.

The silence begins to boil.
It becomes about our disrespect, our disobedience, our ungratefulness, and three baskets later, our more than obvious defiance.

Yes, it is a Defiance. It is a Precedent.
It is our Recollection that they are vampires and we must not knowingly invite them in.

No.

* * * I would argue that when one makes a concerted effort to negotiate with one’s detail-oriented condition, one risks the unrestricted access of one’s own foolish, Pollyanna judgment and the consequential invasion to be dawned upon by the traitors in our tribe.




Illustration: Gustave Doré Charon from The Divine Comedy

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.

How Was Your Day?

And so for various personal reasons I had originally designated January 14th, *2010 as: Are You Fucking Kidding Me Friday (not to be confused with Stop Dickin' With Me December). That is until I realized that today is in fact Thursday, January 14th, 2010. So, here we are again and while I'm frustrated and undeniably riddled with pain, I most certainly recognize that things could always be worse. (see: Haiti)

*pronounced: twenty-ten or two-thousand and ten or perhaps even two-thousand-ten; I suppose it all depends upon your current **level of neurotic dysfunction.

**jenji is a card carrying member of "The" neurotic dysfunction and thus, as far as she can tell, unable to decide and/or commit to a particular pronouncement regarding the ***new calendar year.

***Yes! I suppose that I could refer to it as The New Calendar Year, as in: January 14th, The New Calendar Year (considerable emphasis on the New), however then contemplative confusion for those who hound...ahem, surround me (particularly between the hours of 8 a.m. and 5 p.m.) is sure to ensue.

jenji

This entry is dedicated to Marvin for his unwavering ability to get me, urge me (see: encourage me) to post, despite my current condition. Thanks, Marvin! And seriously, what's with the funny hat?

Shutter

"ethereal i"

"ethereal ii"

"ethereal iii"

Non- Chronological Enumeration

2: the number of times that the loquacious gentlemen at the market referred to me as "darlin" (amusing)

6-7: the number of times I accidentally bit the inside of my cheek during dinner (moronic)

244: the number of milligrams overestimated in my daily aspirin regimen (rectified)

$8.95: the price of an Amy’s frozen cheese pizza (gluten free)

8-10 minutes: time spent contemplating whether my overwhelming appetite for pizza would trump the preposterous price (answer: yes, it did)

4 hours: the time that it took for my meds to kick in this morning (somewhat unusual)

20 minutes: time spent sitting static in traffic after a pile-up on the expressway (CD: X & Y)

3: number of cars involved in said pile-up (no injuries observed)

jenji

Blown

And so this past weekend I ventured out and finally bought myself a new hairdryer, as my hairdryer present (currently past) was as my mother might say: not cutting the mustard.

I bought the CONAIR ion shine Ionic Ceramic Styler (1875 watt) in case you were wondering. Sale price: $20.99

It came with a performance manual and under WARNING I read on about keeping the cord away from this, and to avoid submerging it in that, wherein number 7 on the WARNING was most amusing and not at all obvious and so I appreciate the advisement:

7. Never use while sleeping.

In fact, a clinical warning I've heard on more than one occasion, however never in relation to an appliance.

jenji

Survey Says

And so in a moment of telegenic monotony I decided to give Family Feud a moment of nostalgic consideration--

Don't judge me, it was raining, cold and miserable outside and so mindless channel surfing was completely justified.

Now I must admit that I felt significantly jarred by The Host and his Bert and Ernie eyebrows. Then again, he wasn't nearly as offensive as Richard Dawson and his big bag of 1970's slap and tickle bullshit.

No matter.

And so the survey question read as follows:

Name an item you would want to have with you if you were being chased by a vampire.

--an entirely realistic question bound for the quantitative survey of 100 random people if ever I heard one.

And so naturally Andrea, from the animated ménage otherwise known as The Clark Clan, answered with the following:

--a wooden spoon.

I suppose what she meant to say was:

--a wooden spoon, a pocket knife and an inherent ability to whittle said wooden spoon into a wooden stake whilst under extreme stress.

I mean, clearly that's what Andrea had intended, however due to the productive time constraints for which television is required to adhere, I'm confident that the remainder of her answer--that is, her complete answer--was left on the cutting room floor.

These things happen.

jenji

Miscommunication

First ones here!

-Are you sure that the brochure said March 20th?

March 20th, that's what it said.

--So...

So?

--So, where is everyone?

They're late, we're the first ones here!

--So...

So?

--So, what's with the iceberg?

jenji

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

Dichotomy, Surrounding

a jenji photo

Daddy? What's that?

-Why that's a rainbow.

No, that with the smoke coming out.

-Pay no mind to the mess below the rainbow, look at the beautiful birdhouse.

...yeah, but...

Birdhouse mister!

jenji

Nocturnal Final

What can one say about a sleep study?

It is:

Boring.

Sticky.

Boring.

Gooey.

Boring.

Binding.

Boring.

Constricting.

Boring.

Interesting, in a --mind-numbing, you really want me to sleep now (?)-- kind of way.

Boring.

Ambitious in a --no really, you actually want me to sleep now (.)--kind of way.

Boring.

Unrealistic in that they lost the remote to the TV thereby forcing me to face and address the closed circuit camera as if it were in fact an actual human being with the following:

"Vanessa?"

"Yes, jenji"

"Could you please come and change the channel again? It's stuck on the WWF"

"Sure jenji, no problem"

Boring.

Challenging, in a --how am I supposed to go to the loo whilst hooked up like a cryogenic cyborg (?)-- kind of way.

Boring.

Surprisingly efficient, in that the technician attached well over 25 electrodes in under 45 minutes.

Boring.

Ironic, in that I nearly dozed off several times whilst sitting upright in a chair as said electrodes were being attached.

Boring.

Intuitive, in that the first technician greeted me and immediately said, "oh honey, you look like you're ready for a sleep study."

oh and did I mention, categorically and undeniably b-o-r-i-n-g!?

It was a snooze fest. Or not.
Apologies.

jenji

*image: "Sleep" by Salvador Dali

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

Perennial State of Sloth

Current Condition:

Well, I've resorted to using a most primitive device—a Bic Ultra pen cap—in an effort to scoop deep down into the gelatinous core of my medicated, desiccated Blistex so that I might somehow thwart a tedious trip to the store, yet still remain faithful to the prevention of nocturnal chapping.

What a lazy toad.
No, not a toad, a sloth.

Eh, if a toad and sloth reproduced you’d get jenji and her current condition.

jenji

**see Jake's rendition of what he has imagined a "Sload" might look like here.

The Punctuality of Correspondence

I would like to briefly address yet another item indicative of both the disintegration and degradation of the self-respect, efficiency, common sense and overall decency on the part of the federal faculties of the US Postal Service, as well as the all encompassing current state or might I say, disorderly State of Our Union.

I just received my friend's invitation to her out of town art installation, running February 16th to March 29th, today. Yeah, so I think I won't be making that show. I mean, as an artist, fashionably late can be the norm, but this would just be ridiculous.

Hey postal service? ...late much? I realize many of you have taken to delivering mail in civilian clothes and that's fine, as long as you deliver my mail within oh I dunno, 2-3 weeks of the postmark.

So, what could possibly be the hold-up?

As you might expect I have a theory and you should be informed that the following is a true story.

I would submit that a certain pathologically obsessed mail worker who had previously stalked me and who can only be described as a nonsensical, contradictory cross between a gigantic eunuch and an emboldened hermaphrodite, has in fact resurfaced.

To be more precise, said mail worker is a walking, talking progeny of a genetic misfire involving a kinky, drunken threesome between Hellboy, Alice the Goon and Jabba the Hutt, who was indeed forced into retirement, through a deal she struck with the federal government to avoid confinement for her felonious, federal offenses against me, which only commenced after HellGoonHutt had taken the bait (literally) of a decoy envelope addressed to me, which secretly had a federal tracking device in it, wherein she was ultimately followed, run-down, cornered and surrounded by 3 undercover vehicles packed with federal agents in the middle of an intersection and consequently arrested for possession of said decoy, where upon opening the trunk they found almost 2 years worth of my mail, while another heaping pile spilled from the glove compartment into the street—

Yes, I would not only submit that this disturbed freak of nature has somehow been reinstated as said mail worker despite her earlier, court-enforced retirement, but in fact bet that she has once again started to glean, hoard and jam both my relevant and irrelevant mail down her size XXX, polyester, federally issued postal trousers (for real, stuffed them down her pants), in an effort to silence, threaten, intimidate, and control me (as if).

Yet, two and a half Presidential terms ago it would have been utter nonsense to realistically consider that such a reinstatement could ever come into logical fruition and therefore, I would like to posit that it is entirely possible in our country’s current, illogical state of oh-no-you-didn't, it-can’t–possibly-be- existence. You know I'm saying?

I mean, this is just a theory, but the back story is true just the same.

In the end I'm just sayin'...US Postal Service....slow much?

jenji