The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

The first Halloween I can remember was when I was about six. My nascent gay ass wanted to be a witch for Halloween (fitting, eh?). The boy next door with whom we went trick-or-treating wanted to be Superman. My obliging mother was totally kosher with my gender-inappropriate choice of costume. I believe she even still has pictures of the event somewhere at home.

So, here’s to all the bitchy witches in the world like myself who had a mediocre 2005. Let’s boil boil toil and trouble our cares away in hopes for better days in 2006. My ass is on (paid) vacation until the new year’s, so no computer access ’til then.

*Cheers*

“Red Bull tastes like very sweet, very pink ass.”

–Michael Ian Black (<==I want to have his children), “I Love the ‘90s: 1998”

What is it about the rain that makes you feel like a pussy if you put up your umbrella too soon?

What is it about the mail that makes it something you love as a kid (birthday cards, Christmas cards) and loathe as an adult (bills, bills, bills)?

What is it about drama that makes it just as common on the TV screen as in the political arena?

Case in point: They’re “launching an investigation” (okay, Sherlock…) into salaries given to top-level staff and faculty at the University of California for the past ten years.  We’re talking about professors, doctors, and salaried departmental heads who work far over forty hours a week to further the higher education and health of others. 

Lemme ‘splain somethin’, jackass.  These people are not the enemy.  Your outrage is sorely misdirected.  I don’t mean to suggest that the top echelons of UC’s power structure have always acted in completely innocence.  But that’s nothing compared to the everyday insidious dark mongering that goes on in the Morodor of corporate- and political America (sorry—the “Lord of the Ring” trilogy was literally on non-stop over the weekend…).  UC may be a public institution, but as a former UC student and current student loan debtor, I can assure it is student tuition and not public funding that keeps UC’s financial bloodline flowin’. 

If you’re looking for a scapegoat for our collective economic sorespot, let’s take a gander at how much we’re forced to pay in federal taxes to fund salaries for certain loathsome congressman and to pay for a war we do not support.  Think about how that trickles down into healthcare costs courtesy of the tobacco and fast food industries and the poisonous products they produce.

So California got itself into a financial fuck up with this big ass debt.  Don’t blame the worker ants by targeting state employees.  Head straight for the hive by trimming the six-digit incomes of the government’s top brass.  Isn’t it their job to make sure the budget is balanced properly?  I certainly don’t recall being personally consulted on passing any measure or law that would catapult is so far into the red.  But I have noticed a third of my paycheck goes missing every month to fund Mr. Senator’s coke and hooker habit.  So pay for your own ho’s and blow, muthafucka, and let a brotha live, shoot. 

If a cashier comes up short at the end of the day, it comes out of their pay.  If the state budget comes out fucked up in the end. it should come out of the congressman’s salary. 

Sure sounds fair to me.

“The problem with twenty four-hour news channels is that it takes them a month to show twenty four hours of actual news.”

–Lewis Black

Did anyone else in Santa Francisca just sit around on there ass this past weekend of torrential rains and pig out while watching the freakin’ “Lord of the Rings” trilogy?  Sweet, fat Jesus…

Ming Na came home the other night dressed in ‘80s style stonewashed jeans and a Body Body tight white lycra T.  That he kept on while making and eating dinner.

A well of discordance deep in the pit of my belly rose up desirous to speak out ‘gainst this retro no-no, but a chalet-and-a-half of sapphire gin-and-tonic, plus a late night showing of “Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit”—featuring my favorite Caucasian-hating rapstress, Lauryn Hill—forced me to hold my tongue, and thus the fashion crime went unpunished.  Pity.  Truly.

A few entries ago, I went on about how straight guys are generally hotter than gay guys (This has nothing to do with Ming Na, by the way–the jury’s still out on that one… ).  Well, a bitch done changed her tune.  At least when it comes to celebrity straights.

Johnny Knoxville?  Went straight from inexplicable “Jackass” hottie to crease-streaked chonchmonger.  That whole “let’s mock the retards” movie doesn’t help the situation.

Eric McCormack?  Where there’s a “Will & Grace” star’s salary, there’s enough dosh for some botox, surely.  What happened to the yummilicious forty-year old from just a season ago?  I mean, Debra Messing’s got anorexia, Megan Mullaly’s got her hairpieces, and Sean Hayes has just the barest smattering of Nicole Kidman smile lines.  C’mon pitch in, Will, and make with the pretty!

A pox on those who bring sweet treats to work and contribute to baklava butt and fudge brownie thighs.  We got the dim sum spare tire goin’ on and egg roll double chin threatenin’, and quite frankly, it all gossa stop.  My soul for several lines of speed to curb the enthusiasm of divin’ in to these delicious and far too readily available foods, laid out like culinary gold coins for the taking.

As Donna and Barbara once sang, “Enough is enough! 

The only thing more frustrating than having to pump out the same information repeatedly in egregiously long email chains at work is the knowledge that those asking you the same questions repeatedly and consistently missing the clearly articulated facts are paid far more handsomely than yourself.  We’re talk tens of thousands of dollars here.  I mean, if a high school graduate could look at the email chain and figure out what I was saying the first time around, shouldn’t someone within the organization itself with a job title like "Manager" or "Director" or "MSO" be able to catch on even quicker?

Such is the great gap between what is and what should be.  God dammit.

Hurrah for Mariah and her host of Grammy nods ‘n’ wins.  I know what you’re thinking, but I fell in love with the bitch after “Fantasy”, and have been unable to break the spell ever since.  I do, however, think that new song of hers should’ve been titled “We Boobs Pop Together”.  Tell me that Minnie Mouse lookin’ ho ain’t had them tits done.

My favorite speed freak couple, Nicole Richie and DJ AM, have called off their engagement.  I’m moribund.

“Laguna Beach”’s Kristin will soon have her own reality show where she plans parties.  I don’t care how stupid it sounds, I’m gonna watch.

I wish I could’ve been temporarily black so I could’ve starred as a featured extra in the film “Roll Bounce”. 

I want a cutie flip boi for Christmas.  And a nice Jewish boi for Chanukah. 

God bless Ricky Prior. 

I’d switch teams for Sarah Silverman.

“George Bush doesn’t care about black people.”

Kayne West in Hurricane Katrina relief commercial

When I woke up this morning, I couldn’t wait until lunch so I could take a nap, but the Elders willed me to take a walk, notwithstanding the rather Siberian weather.  I hoofed it on down to the quaint and pseudo-trendy Fillmore before wandering into the Marina and finally right into the Palace of Fine Arts: http://www.nps.gov/prsf/places/palace.htm

http://www.palaceoffinearts.org/Rotunda_day.jpg

I was absolutely mesmerized.  The giant Roman columns had me feeling like I was in heaven, if heaven needed a good scrub down of Rust-A-Way, that is. 

Have you ever seen a boy so beautiful it physically pains you to look at him?  It hurts because you want him and you want to be him? 

There is a chick that rides my bus in the morning who has long, ass-length hair, a bit chubby, Latina, all dolled up in make up.  She’s probably in her early 20s, and carries a little Macy’s make-up bag to work.  I reckon she’s probably a housekeeper based on the company she keeps on the bus and the stop she gets off at, and I’ve nicknamed her Senorita Mujere ‘cause I admire how she gets all purtied up even though she’s just gon’ get dirty. 

The only plus this week is the impending arrival of Allen, aka. Holla Scholar, in his first visit back to SF since gallivanting off to grad school a few months ago.  I anticipate good times, noodle salad…

If you haven’t already heard, certain fanatical Christian groups have gottent their panties all in a wad–oh my God!  That "I would walk five hundred miles and I would walk five hundred more…" or whatever song from "Benny & Joon" is on the radio!  Oh, I love that song.  And that movie.   You know, "Reality Bites" was on the other night and I missed it for some reason.  Those cute. quirky ’90s "X Generation" movies were so much fun…—but anyways, the psycho-Christians say we’ve taken the "Christ" out of "Christmas" by referring to it as "the holidays" so as to appease other religious and atheist groups. 

Well, yes.  America is full of other non-Christian and atheist groups of people, and unfortunately we all gossa get along, you bigoted fucks.  But besides that, CHRISTMAS IS A FUCKING PAGAN HOLIDAY!!  That’s how it started off, you stupid, uneducated ‘tards!  So how can you say it’s a veritable "war on Christmas" and thus against Christ when it’s not even about Christ really?

If you want to be Chrsitian and thus Christ-like, follow in his footsteps and show mercy and compassion for even those most rejected by society.  Remember, Christ befriend lepers and shit, so how can you folks go around lambasting everyone from Hindus to homos and still call yourself Christian?

So anyways, happy Kawanzaahanauchrsitmas.

I finally saw “Kill Bill: Vol. I” the other night and was absolutely riveted.  I was pissed that I was called out on a mission in the middle of her showdown with Lucy Liu, but caught the rest of it in an encore showing.  Much as I love cartoons and comedic films (I don’t know why I ever watch scary- or depressing movies because they always leave me scared or depressed), I also much dig fight films.  They have all the grace of a ballet, the grit of a football game, and the drama of a soap opera.  You get your all in one there.  And I love how this one just broke right into the fighting without a bunch of smarmy backup story.  I found myself jumping up and down in my room going “Go, Uma, go, bitch!  Kick the fuckin’ fucker!” 

We are such a violent peoples, we are.  And we don’ make no ‘pologies for it either, mkaaaay?

Is it odd to feel pangs of nostalgia over a dance music song? Well, I am a strange card, so sometimes I do get a bit choked up while listening to 92.7 “The Party”.

Whenever “Feel The Beat” by Darude comes on—a techno track driven by relentless beats, varied electronic “horns”, a little Atari sample, and rounded out by a chorus of “I can feel the beat, feel the beat, feel the beat, feel the—I can feel the beat…”— I hear the cheers of the shirtless masses at Universe rise up to greet the trademark anthem, and a small bubble of emotion floats up in my tummy.

Or the house mix of “Stranger in My House” by Tamia, which takes me back to the heydey of Metropolis, and the few times I went there with my cutie Latino trick at the time.

Yes, the station is a bit stuck between the years 2000 and 2001, but those were my first halcyon days of clubbing in SF, so no complaints here.  In fact, 92.7 is celebrating its one month anniversary this month.  Kudos to it.

Deborah Cox, the R ‘n’ B songstress corralled into dance diva status courtesy of Hex Hector and his sweeping, spectacular circuit remixes, is performing on New Year’s eve.  When you stop and do the math, there’s in fact a whole grip of great club anthems from the past couple of years with her name on them.  Would love to see her perform.

I can’t say I was much impressed by the dance music releases in 2005—that is, there was nothing that saw me running to the DJ booth asking who sang that song—but here are my favorites:

“Be Thankful” by Jamie Lewis featuring Michelle Weeks

A beautiful message crooned over strong, strident house beats.

“Free Yourself” (house mix) by Fantasia

The R ‘n’ B groove set to dance beats that undeniably made you move.

“Nightlights” by Polyphonics

Any song about clubbing automatically gets my vote, but the “Daylights turn to nightlights…” element of change sung about in this amped up disco ditty mirrored my many shifts in housing this year, and my emotional transition from being coupled to confirmed singlehood.

“Easy as Life” by Deborah Cox

Need I say more?

“Most Precious Love” by Blaze featuring Barbara Tucker

The undisputed vocal house champion of the year that tore the roof off, shot all hands heavenward, and made your insides jiggle with its million-person choir chorus.

I’m afraid Madge’s “Hung Up” doesn’t make the list.  Something about that song—maybe the ABBA sample?—just doesn’t sit right with me, like a rebel poo clinging to your rectum as you try to wrap up your number two.

Like, ew.