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...say what you mean & mean what you say...

I'm just sayin'

Updated: 2018-03-06T01:13:19.818-05:00


Anthony Weiner and Huma Abedin...again.


Oh, the sweet, sweet taste of quiet regurgitation.And so here we are again.  Another politician with yet, another juvenile, diabolical transgression, with yet, another humiliated wife looking on at yet, another news conference addressing indiscretions.  I may elaborate more about Weiner himself later, but for now allow me to repost from 2008, as the topic is relevant yet again.REPOSTMarch 16, 2008SMOKE AND MIRRORSAs 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 hand towel Mr. Spitzer? The entire scenario is so 1950’s I could gag.So I ask. Is she really Silda “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[...]



I'm so very sorry to inform my readers that Harold, my unconditional friend, my perpetual, longtime companion and champion of all things metrosexual cat passed away just over two weeks ago.  He became unexpectedly gravely ill and the decision--so as to end his suffering--was quickly made to put him down. Given his condition at the time, I'm confident that it was the right decision.  I was with him and held his paw, stroked his head, spoke to him and comforted him throughout the entire procedure.  He was the best companion anyone could ever ask for for well over 15 years.  He was independent, codependent (or was that me?), whimsical, incredibly wise and in fact he had his own alter ego online known as Shabba who actually performed on live casts, and as you all know, he was also a columnist on this blog for Between The Whiskers.  Incidentally, he was also as much my caretaker, as I was his.  And he loved to spoon and run that purring motor of his.  He was also a nephew to his Uncle Chet and Aunt Maggi Rose the daschund, a grandson to my Mother, and a friend to many of my family and friends.  All of those folks have been incredibly kind to me--calls, sympathy cards and more calls--and many have expressed that they miss him already as well.  I thank you all for that and you know who you are.  Your kindness and sensitivity has meant the world to me and it brings me comfort to know that he was loved and appreciated by so many.    I'd had him since he was a scrappy, scrawny, flea-infested stray kitten, with ears as big as his heart.  As some of you may already know, he was also a fantastic companion to his brother, Lil Man.  Survival of the fittest didn't apply when it came to these two.  They loved hanging out with one another, perusing the neighborhood from the windowsill.  And so now the two are back together once again.  Or so I hope.  I had Harold cremated and for now his remains sit upon my nightstand, however soon they will join Lil Man's remains on the shelf in the living room.I've had many, many pets in my lifetime and I have to say that out of all of them, Harold was the one that I could have easily thrown myself upon the proverbial coffin for had there been an opportunity to do so.  I'm afraid I'm short on words--organized thoughts, or proper punctuation for that matter, as words just aren't coming so easily for me--as I'm filled with grief and yet, empty, as I feel like a part of me is missing.  He was a part of me.  But most of all, he was my friend and I shall never forget all of the joy, amusement, companionship and love that he gave me and the many others who knew him and his unique personality.This is the last photo that I took of my handsome man just a few weeks prior.  Harold, you certainly grew into those ears.  You most certainly did.  Harold 1997-2012And so, Goodbye, friend.  May you rest in peace.-Harold's Mama[...]

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.FreedomThere 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 d[...]




Dr. Mehmet Oz

Fear mongering instigator. Helpful messages can be lost when you're under pressure to create and (over)produce a riveting one-hour show every day of the week. His expertise is better utilized on a guest basis.

I'm Just Sayin.


*I guess I called that one. See: arsenic in apple juice 2011




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.


*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.




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.






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'.


I Say Tomato



I'm frequently approached by loquacious individuals--specifically, gentlemen-- in the grocery store, as well as senior citizens, however the latter is a tale for another time. I'm not entirely sure why men--particularly middle-aged men--find the need to speak to me. Actually I have my suspicions--a gut instinct-- and they range from the very benign and friendly to the dangerously sociopathic; today the gentlemen registered somewhere in the middle.

The Particulars:

I needed two vine ripe tomatoes and so I began to do what I always do: fondle the produce. Produce needs to be handled so as to ascertain its quality and shelf life. And so I aggressively handled the tomatoes. I tried to do so generically, as I was already aware of his eyes upon me and I could feel--I could tell--that he was being more than an impartial spectator to my handling. Suddenly I was a general practitioner there to conduct a physical; I could feel it: I could hear him thinking it. He was ogling me as I went about my business and he made me extremely uncomfortable; it's a female instinct that just cannot be explained unless you've experienced it; and some women don't even have this instinct to rely upon. Some argue that to be ogled should be flattering, however it's not flattering, it's disgusting. There's a definitive difference between admiring and ogling and you know it when you feel it.

Now I'm a chatty individual and I have no problem with making eye contact and idle chit-chat in a grocery store; in fact, it can be rather pleasant to embrace the camaraderie a grocery store may have to offer. And so it would be a rarity for me to act a snob, however my gut instinct has always served me well and so when it goes into Defcon 5 I tend to listen to it and thus appear arrogant and snobbish. It's self-preservation.

And then he said it:

-What does one look for in a tomato?

Ugh. Really? Where's your wife (there's always a wife or significant other looming about, electively ignorant) and why are you just standing guard next to the tomatoes like a creep in the bushes? And what's with the salmon colored golf pants? Seriously, isn't there an online porn account that needs tending?

Now my answer is firmness- I look for firmness in a tomato, but there was no way in Hell I was going to respond with that little nugget of information given the guy was already visually and now audibly breaching my personal boundaries. And so I answered: color, I look for color.


What I wanted to say was: piss off, freak. But I didn't. Instead, I collected my fruit, which had barely been inspected properly and quickly made my way over to the bananas. Yes, the bananas.

Thankfully he didn't follow me, as I managed to shoot him just enough stink-eye so as to say: piss off, freak.


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
-NO mustard

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.


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[...]

Poorly Written, but Written None-the-Less II: The Resurrection



Earlier this afternoon, I caught a few minutes of frenzied news coverage on The Weather Channel regarding tornadic activity and the subsequent aftermath in Mississippi. A devastating scene to be sure, however seeing Mike Bettes on location reminded me of a blog post I meant, but failed to post back in February when the folks in Washington D.C. found themselves waist deep in blowing and drifting snow. And so I feel compelled to mention what Mike Bettes had to say about that particular snowstorm.

The Scene:

On location, Bettes went on about the gravity of the situation, as this particular storm had provided some aggressive accumulation, which was quickly becoming unmanageable for D.C. residents.

Then he said it:

"And I have to tell you, this is nothing-- there's a number two storm right behind this one."

I couldn't help but interpret this to mean that this storm had nothing over the shit storm that was about to follow.

I know this is a juvenile observation--I know it. But I laughed out loud when I heard him say this because I immediately envisioned myself as his producer wherein I would have said to him via his earpiece: really Mike, a number 2 storm? So a shit storm is about to follow, is that what you're saying? A shit storm. Really? Is this language you want to use?

Honestly, I need to grow up.


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.


It's Thimble, really it is...



Wednesday Evening:
jenji spent a full minute watching a frenzied contestant on a television show make a desperate attempt to bounce six separate marbles into six separate thimbles.

The suspense gave me a stomach ache. Truly. Or was it the production value itself? I feel as though I've been injected with synthetic adrenaline via the remote. I feel violated. Yuck.

That's 60 seconds I'll never get back.





Defective down below. I'm just sayin.




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 (exa[...]

Poorly Written, but Written None-the-Less


Get A GripA 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.SouthwestNature's ConfectionAdjust your perspective and attempt to embrace the beauty.*it: whatever you need it to be, Marvin gets it.jenji[...]

And Now A Message From Our Sponsor



Rick Sanchez

It is nothing new to learn that I have serious and considerable criticisms regarding 24-hour news. However, the following message is not related to the political/social agenda of a particular network and/or their psychosocial effect/affect on society per se. Instead it is about a specific personality and while I understand and agree that the current strain and overall majority of cable "news" personalities--those who present "the news" throughout various networks--are generally problematic and troubling as a whole, for some reason in the wake of the current catastrophe in Haiti, this particular individual's need to punctuate horrific imagery through gratuitous commentary (as if such imagery cannot speak for itself) really stood out and rubbed me the wrong way.

And so, take note of the photo above:

News flash: You're neither a journalist, a news anchor nor a correspondent. You Sir, are a sensationalistic putz; a transparent talking head whose insincerity for truth is surpassed only by your insincerity for humanity and you should be ashamed of yourself.


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.


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?




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'.


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.




Let me take a wild guess, Mr. Family Man: you're a sex addict.

Yes, spin your web of lies and then please, go ahead and join your cohorts in the douche bag suite.




"ethereal i""ethereal ii""ethereal iii"[...]

Rasta Kitty!




Delayed Post



July 4th: East


July 4th: West

The entire weekend was riddled with filmmaking, improv, creative energy and good friends, while our venue for The 4th provided an astounding view of innumerable fireworks displays--pro and amateur alike--all while perched high above the downtown skyline.

No injuries to report despite the rickety trap door.


Portable Jenga



Wanna play?

And yes, I was driving. Apologies.


I Toad You To Knock First


When I opened my front door this morning look who I ran into...


" it's like,, when do we eat? And hey, what's with the cat?"

Our new friend has since been relocated.
No, no. In a good way.