The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

"Uh uh, come again"
–Lauryn Hill
from the song "Doo Wop (That Thing)"

I soo could have used an extra day’s sleep today, but it was back to work after my four-day weekend. Wasn’t exactly a spectacular, blow-out weekend since I had to be frugal (*pissy pout tsk*) in case I have to pay rent on our still-vacant room again this month (!!!), but I did do the EU Friday and slightly made out with some delicious flip boy on the dancefloor before a premature hangover headache sent me packing. I know, I know, tragic way to start the weekend, but I’m just not as used to alcohol as I once was. *ahem*

Saturday was spent detoxifying and exploring some of Treasure Island. There are parts of it that are simply just breathtaking–namely, the view of the City and north bay from the coastline. And then there are parts that are just plain creepy, like all the abandoned military complexes, the vacated bowling alley and movie theatre, and the sign leading to the resident units that reads "Genetic Remodification".

I don’t know if someone spray painted that on to the sign as a joke or not, so I was more puzzled than pissed at the aspersion (?) cast at my new living quarters. But whatever.

I kavizted about and generally relished the brief freedom from work and such for the rest of the weekend, totally missing Carnaval and what I imagine was a fleet of hot Latino cuties parading half-nekkid in the streets, but I did get to see "The View" Monday morning which was just as thrilling since I now realize Star Jones is really the black reincarnation of Medusa. (Cool it with the curly tendrils and MAC-packed make-up regimen, sistah. Oh, and stop touting your ultraconservative BS viewpoints since, quite frankly, no one agrees with you.)

I end with an acronym my best friend Allen used to conclude his emails with: LIC (Love in Christ)

So, Saturday night after aclubbin’, I headed to the 24/7 Safeway in the Castro to stock up on food since I was completely without at home. Granted, it was like 3:00 AM, but I was ultrahungry and saw no point in going home all wore out and still intoxicated with no food in the cupboards to fill my tummy and lull me to sleep. So with my veggie pizzas, choco cookies, and the like in my basket, and go wait in line when I notce the beak-like guise and tell-tale white skin of Erasure’s Andy Bell. I kid you not. I even gave him a good look to make sure, and heard the accent when he spoke. The gross thing is, that there’s a sex club just across the street from Safeway (appetizing, no?) called Eros that he might have been at before popping in to the store for some eats. And if you didn’t already know, the man recently came out as HIV+, saying, "I just thought that getting AIDS was part of being gay." If that isn’t the most irresponsible, downright stupid thing for a 40+ year old man to say. Or anyone for that matter. You can be gay without getting HIV, unlike what all the TV shows and stupid gay movies might have you believe. You can even be gay and be happy–in fact, gay means happy. So, chin up, don’t let the bastards get you down, don’t say outrightly stupid things, and, in all seriousness, try the chocolate chip cookies they have at Safeway. They’re the healthy ones in that health food aisle. Free of hydrogenated oils, unbelievably soft and chewy, and downright addictive MMMM, gurl.

It is such a beautiful day outside today. The sun is shining unabashedly on the people, and the air smells like summer when I was a kid, and had nary a care in the world. And while I miss having summers off scott free and all that, I’d still take being an adult over being a kid any day. They say they’re the best years of your life, but to me, my youth felt more like a prison of restrictions. And I was just waiting out the end of my sentence knowing there was something better on the other side.

Namely, fun. Unhindered fun. Fun with an income. Fun whenever I wanted instead of when I was allowed.

Note to San Francisco media: The term "homeless community" is not just laughably hyper-liberal, but in fact an oxymoron. It also not only implies acceptance of destitution, but awards those who choose its lifestyle a glossy class status to wield like a trophy. Too many people get away with it here because of San Francisco’s live and let live/summer of love mentality. However, the tacit courtesy extended to them is not returned to the public, that’s for sure. Therefore, the new term for those panhandle-swindling, smelly, unjustifiably self-righteous bums who choose laziness over living shall now be the "hapless community." Thank you.

It’s something of a curse, this finding a new roommate thing. I tidied up the premises Thursday night in preparation for another interviewee, and threw in a load of laundry a good half hour before he was scheduled to arrive. Just before doing so, I’d moved the askew washer(spin cycle always sends it bouncing out of place) back in place parallel to the dryer.

So, dudefriend calls to let me know he’s in the vicinity and looking for our apartment when I head downstairs prepared to wave him down–and enter the set of "The Titanic". A shallow, albeit palpable, layer of water covered our linoleum floor in the entranceway, and had begun seeping into the living room carpet. In moving the washer back into place, I’d disconnected one of the outlet hoses causing muthafuckin’ Niagra indoors.

Mortified, but still managing to muster my best HR poker face, I invited the guy in and attempted to give a tour of the apartment and entreat introductory chit chat with my wet jean cuffs rolled up and holy white light ankles on display. To add insult to injury, he was this tall, buff hottie–who unfortunately was also, I think, uncomfortable with my being gay. But what does it matter anyways? Who would want to live in a place whose first impression included a rebel floor flood at the front door. Ugh, cripes.

Color me pissed.

We have been unsuccessful in finding a roommate replacement, meaning I, who put my foot in my mouth some months back in volunteering to pay the extra rent in just such a case as this, will now have to chew said foot and fork over an extra $%!^& in rent. Um, so if you’re reading this and have been throwing around the idea of possibly moving, it’s time to live the dream and come reside with me and mine on Treasure Island, baby. Plus, I am, like, soo fun to live with; it’s like Mardi Gras central sans the ruckus and piss. Fun.

In passing the Guess? store downtown on my way to work this morning, I noticed that some of the mannequins have their backs facing toward the street. That’s right: nates to the panes, asses to the glass. Showcasing casual wear outfits upwards of $100 which could easily be found in duplicate in the Salvation Army, these butt-bearing mannequins were, I’m assuming, meant to feature the appealing look from the rear of these accouterments. I just thought it looked outright vulgar and rude. And lame, too. Did I mention that?

Those Trader Joe’s boys are hot, by the way. I’d like to bag me up one wholesale and get at those all natural goods, mm! *sailor bell ring! ring!*

I watched some movie on PBS a few nights ago that I thought was "Hotel Rowanda". It was, in fact, very similar, and thank God it was (somewhat) edited for television, because it was brutally real in its depiction of the violence–and of the ghastly ignorance of the U.N. and U.S. There is an evil pestilence of the soul infecting those guilty of the genocide. Real evil can be defined as pure malice without reason or rhyme.

But what struck me most about the film was how beautiful the African people are. The beautiful brown-skinned people of the mother continent being butchered by the thousands, and all the other countries casting a blind eye. Why? I don’t fucking get it? I mean, even I, Queen of the Sunblock, would take up arms and bust a cap half a world away to spare my fellow human beings from what is honestly a living hell on earth. I challenge anyone to watch this movie (or "Hotel Rowanda") and not feel the same.

‘Tis like I always say, contribute to the greater good, or else.