Again.  I’m at the Clinic with loose oranges in a burlap bag, my body tested for levels of abnormal energy force.  Last time my reading was 25.3, which was very bad, but now it’s 38.6 and that is serious.  Maybe life threatening.  Because there’s no medical treatment for this, they decide to send me to an anthropologist who will monitor my lifestyle for discrepancies.  The taller doctor at the Clinic suggests that I might have been adversely affected when I turned on my toaster oven and the coils were frozen.  I have no toaster oven, I tell them.  Too many kitchen appliances mean seduction by corporate capitalism, and I’m a Marxist.  I hand the shorter one an orange (Valencia) which he looks at quickly and puts in the pocket of his lab coat.  He seems disappointed there’s no navel.  Transistors in the oranges don’t count as kitchenalia, I decide.  After all, what’s a little more surveillance.