A Brief Interlude, in which Jenni explains the nature of time to Jamie Bourdon:

At present, I must say that I'm quite pleased with myself.

NOTHING feels better than finishing something you never really wanted to start doing in the first place.

NOTHING.


NOTHING,that is, except hating Jamie Bourdon.




Here we are, hanging out in the bathroom during some random college concert in 2004. Hi, past-Jamie! Hi, past-Jenni! I like to call this photo, "Lamey Boredom vs. The Bright White Future."

The future came, past-Jamie. Oh, yes it did. The future came and turned into the present, but we're probably still exactly the same height. And now, present-Jamie, another future is coming.

"Where do we come from? What are we? Where are we going?" to quote a much-beloved title of a much-despised painter.

Here, Jamie, I'll post the painting for you, now:



Ugh. Horrid thing. Horribly funny title.

Where do we come from, Jamie? What are we? (I mean, obviously you're a robot.) Where, Jamie, are we going?!!!!!?

17. Health Scare

This conversation has been deleted by Jamie's vindictive robotic future-brain.

16. The Holidays

This anecdote is dated November 30, 2000.

One year, right around the start of the holiday season, Jamie sent pornographic Christmas e-cards to all of our friends and signed my name at the bottom.

15. A Short Thesis on How Jamie Bourdon Has Altered My Brain Patterns

This scientific document is dated November 20, 2006.

Let's start with a rudimentary diagram of the flow of thoughts through my brain in the last five minutes.

1. Nabokov--> 2. Google--> 3. G Mail --> 4. My ex-boyfriend --> 5. The Edogawa River --> 6. My friend Jack--> 7. Modern Aesthetics--> 8. Cremaster 5 --> 9. Jamie Bourdon

1. As do most thought patterns, mine began with a visual stimulus, in this case, the silvery spine of "The Short Stories of Vladimir Nabokov.

2. Instantly, I recall, "The Vane Sisters," which I read last night. Feeling that something was funny about the last paragraph, I flipped to the corresponding "Notes" entry and confirmed the story's acrostic ending. I spent approximately five seconds trying to tease out the meaning on my own, then instantly turned to the internet. (Thank you, Google, for making it so easy for me not to think.)

3. And of course, once I got thinking about Google, I was compelled to check my email.

4. Which contained a letter from my ex-boyfriend. "Come to California," it said. Enclosed, was a photo of TuPac.

5. Wishing to respond in kind, I replied with a photo I had taken on our last visit to the Edogawa River, near my apartment in Japan.

6. Which swept me, through some Joyceian deluge, to my friend Jack (who, like the ex, has a J name and is very tall and has a fine brain stuffed full of strange notions) and his unfaltering belief in...

7. Modern aesthetics. I used to spend a great deal of time thinking about modern aesthetics, flatness, and the like, having been a rather devout disciple of Immanuel Kant (via, at times, Clement Greenberg). But after reading "The Abuse of Beauty," by A. Danto this summer, I ceased my formalist fascism. And now, when I think of the aesthetic codes governing my life, I often think of Matthew Barney.

8. Including Cremaster 5, which I watched not so long ago. In September, I spent hours watching The Cremaster Cycle, only ceasing after I started having nightmares about foggy hills and shiny dead horses.

9. And then, for whatever reason, I thought of how much I hate Jamie Bourdon. Why, God, why, does Jamie Bourdon now follow Matthew Barney in the wheel of my memory's rote recall?

The explanation, I hope, is more Pavlovian than Freudian.

I wish Jamie were this:



Or this: リラクマ。

o(^-^o)(o^-^)o o(^-^o)(o^-^)o

14. A Trip to Wal-Mart

This anecdote is dated November 15, 2001.

Five years ago, on this very day, Jamie asked me if I would drive him to Wal-Mart. Midterms were approaching, and I was trying to memorize slides for my art history exam. This was before I cared one shit about art, and I was having an awful time trying to distinguish Manet from Monet and Gilbert from George (ha ha, I'm joking, we didn't study Gilbert and George in Intro to Art History).



"Is it really important?" I asked, "I'm kind of busy."

"It's really, super, horribly, terribly, undeniably important," he said.

I was unconvinced. "Why, what do you need?"

"Bandaids," he said, "I accidentally stabbed myself with a butcher knife and I'm bleeding to death under my sweater."

Well, I couldn't really say no to that, so I scrambled to find my car keys and sped all the way to Wal-Mart. When we got there, Jamie went straight to the candy aisle, where he opened and ate three bags of those orange marshmallow-y Circus Peanuts.

"Uh, aren't you dying?" I asked.

"This will help the blood clot," he responded. Having gotten a B+ in high school biology and taken no science classes since then, I couldn't argue. I started to get a bit suspicious when he moved into the automotive aisle and began ceremoniously smelling all of the different air fresheners.

"Would hanging a pink pine tree in my car be too feminine? I really like the bubble gum smell, but I don't want to come off as fey," he asked to the high-school employee stocking the car wax.

"Jamie, you have a car?" I asked, shocked.

"Like, duh," he said. Before I could ask him why he had insisted on being driven to Wal-Mart, and furthermore, why he had no apparent interest in saving his own life, he skipped over into the home appliances aisle, where he spent 15 minutes examining snow cone makers.

It was November. No one eats snow cones in November. At this point, I was really mad. So, without saying another word, I left the store, got in my car, and drove back to campus.

The next day, I found out that Jamie had spent the night in the emergency room. Apparently, he'd collapsed in a pool of his own blood somewhere between the girl's hosiery section and a seasonal decor display. They found him clutching desperately to a pair of wool Mary Kate and Ashley Olson knee-highs and crying like a little girl.

And the next day, he died.

JUST KIDDING. Jamie doesn't have blood. He can't die. I made up the whole story. You know, in the way they just filmed the "imaginary story" of Diane Arbus.

Correspondence

Jamie Bourdon reaches out from the depths of internet hell to write:


dear jenni,

why do you document my "reality" with the worst pictures of me in existence?

also, you can put chanel on a pig. doesn't make it cute.

love,
jamie

Well, Jamie, this is a cheap shot, but are there other kinds of pictures of you? If so, sir, I challenge you to produce them. Given my journalistic tendency towards fair and balanced reporting, I will publish them here, in this public forum. Don't try and send any photoshopped images of Bright Eyes or baby kittens. I'm not blind!

In the meantime, I leave you with...


Jamie, I am sure that you are somehow responsible for this!

13. Photographic Truth

A few people have recently asked, "Is Jamie Bourdon real?" Yes! He is real and really awful. And here are two photographs to prove both of my points:


1. Here, we see five friends enjoying a civil sushi dinner. Jamie and I are on the right side of the photograph, real as can be.


2. In this photo, we see the psychic essence of the scene, a social X-ray, if you will, revealing a Truth (big T) that goes beyond what a camera lens can capture. Please note the flies descending upon Jamie's head; as well as the mysterious binary message being transmitted by his devil horns. You might also note that I'm wearing Chanel glasses. The photo was taken in 2004, about a month before I left for Japan, at the very apex of my arty pretentiousness.





Whatever. At least I'm not Satan.

Jamie, you little troll,
where did you go?
Wherever it is, I will surely find you.

12. A Short List of Things that are as Good as Jamie is Bad

one: Elephant Science
two: Celebrity Professors
three: Pumpkin Ice Cream
four: The MoMA

12.5 A Short List of Things that are as Bad as Jamie is Bad

...

(Epilogue)

I often think about how different my life would be if I'd never met Jamie Bourdon. First of all, I would be healthier. I often hate Jamie so much it makes my stomach hurt. Second of all, I would be happier. I often get depressed thinking about how Jamie is living in the same apartment as MY best friend, manufacturing lies about me, and generally turning the Midwest against me. Thirdly, I would be much more productive. This point needs no elaboration beyond the existence of this blog.

I also think about how different Jamie's life would be if he'd never met me. First of all, he would have no friends. Second of all, he still doesn't actually have any friends because I'm not his friend. And thirdly, he would be just as awful as he is now. All of which basically amounts to the fact that he would be no different at all.