The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

“All these straight actors are being praised and getting all these awards for playing gay roles, but Tom Cruise plays straights roles all the time, and I don’t see him getting any awards.”

–Greg Fitzsimmons, “Best Week Ever”

It never fucking fails.  Whenever I take some time off, it always rains on my head.  What the crap?

They’re showing that “Lestat” musical at the theatre down the street, and it’s really brought out the rabble.  Now, I read the Vampire Chronicles and enjoyed them—in high school.  But these pasty, stork-like dorks and plump, bespectacled chicks all decked out in flashy funeral garb do nothing to enrich the experience of the revue nor their own personal self-images dressed thusly. 

The Body Shop has replaced its pore-suffocating self-tanning foam with a much more skin-friendly lotion.  Inspired, I glazed my whole upper body with some and headed out to the E.U. (European Union) Friday night feeling ¼ more confident than usual.  That’s where I met an adorable 22-year-old James Duval look-a-like named, let’s say, Darren.  A bit more musical theatre than I’m accustomed to and didn’t know what the word “clientele” meant, but came with floppy black hair and gleaming onyx eyes that contributed to an overall adorable package.  We went out for some post-clubbing grubbing in the drizzly night and chatted ‘til the wee hours.  I called him Sunday to see if he wanted to go out again, and he mentioned he was going to call me earlier that day to have lunch, but he was too impoverished to go out. 

So……I guess…. we’ll see? 

In the featured personals of “Genre” magazine, I found one of an overgrown twink who was, for all intents and purposes, adorable and fun, if not unoriginal.  But the last question asked – “Does size matter?” – and his response – “No, but the bank account does!” – left me feeling like the end of “Schindler’s List”: depressed and pensive.  Sadly, this guy was probably the most “circuit perfect” of the bunch.  And when you’re beautiful, you can get away with being repugnant from time to time.

Of course, any guy who is rich, hot, and actually cool would make one prize of a Prince Charming.  But when you prioritize with his financial status as being first in line, you’re really putting yourself first in the relationship, aren’t you?  Yourself and your own got damn material desires. 

I sometimes wonder if this sub-sect of fags stricken with this upward consumerism mentality was born on the same planet on myself, and morally weaned on the same after school specials as I was.  Hey, they may not have been Shakespeare, but they had a good message to them.  You know, don’t make fun of the fat chick ‘cause she may turn out to be a bombshell later on in life.  Don’t act like a haughty shitwipe ‘cause karma’ll bite you in the ass.  And don’t count material fucking possessions over the value of people.

Like at the end of “The Goonies”:

Mikey: “I’m sorry, dad.  We had our hands on all that rich stuff, but we blew it.  We lost the Goon Docks.”

Mikey’s dad: “Don’t worry, son.  Your mother and I have you and Brand back safe now.  And that makes us the richest people in Astoria.”

Word.

You’ll be happy to know the holiday pounds are coming on steadily, if not readily.

Brava to Ryan Seacrest for hittin’ the Botox on those cheeks and forehead.  Now ya just gotta plough through another season of “AI” to finance enough injections for those grisly frown lines.

There is a woman in my office who is, I believe, the long lost sister of Martha Stewart.  She has all the decorative panache without the financial deceptiveness, and bears more than a passing resemblance.

The other night, I heard “Wind of Change” by the Scorpions in Walgreens, and nearly teared up.

If you ever need to pep up some form of required reading you have, try reciting it in a bawdy, New Yawkish accent.  Hey, if it worked for me and “Canterbury Tales” it can work for you, too!

Last night, I thought of that “I feel like chicken tonight, like chicken tonight…” soup jingle set to a “West Side Story”-scored rumble scene, and could not stop laughing.

Kat Gianits, if you’re out there: I love you.  http://movies.msn.com/celebs/gallery.aspx?photo=627024&gallery=10648#photos

Having not been out in eons due to malevolent financial constraints, I bit the bullet and braved the drizzle for L’End Up last Friday.  While I was without the company of Illicit Substances, my old friend Tanquery came along, joined by her sister Diet Tonic Water and their really cool, really hyperactive friend Ginseng.  Oh, what a joyous trio, those three.

And while the music wasn’t “off the chain” as youth say, I did make a friend.  A black friend: Herbie the Luvbug.  And while no love was made, much fun was had dancing with someone who knew how to and chatting about all the gay shit we had in common.

Including, but not limited to, LADY KIER, who herself is SPINNING at the End Up in February.  I’m so happy, I could pooh.

Sunday, I cashed in my Sears gift cards from grandma from the past two Christmases and hit the mall.  What a brightly-lit breeding ground for so many cutie pie guys. 

And that’s where it happened.

No, no Prince Charming sighting, but I fell in love with a midnight blue jacket in the Structure section that I absolutely, positively had to have.  It’d never happened to me before, but now I understand.   And I purchased, the total of my items leaving me with change to spare (well, credit on file), so I guess I “made a killing” as the middle-aged say.

On Monday, I did the unthinkable, and booked it via BART to Berkeley.  Despite its fascist lack of public bathrooms, omnipresent shade, and hordes of hashish-reeking homeless, Berkeley does boast a lovely slice of shopping in its Telegraph Ave.  Not to mention plenty of cute Cal boys peppered throughout.

Good times….

They keep going on about how pomegranate juice is so freakin’ great for you.  Even Odwalla has created two new flavors.  But if you read the fine print (as always you should), you’ll notice that it’s always

                                                            100% JUICE !!

                                                                                             (from concentrate)

                                                                                                    shhhh….                                      

Well, fresh juice-minded Tropicana ruined it for me ages ago, so anything from concentrate takes like Nutrasweetened ass water to me now.  Plus, I don’t think the health benefits promised by the real fruit can be matched by its white trash counterpart in concentrate. 

So it was with joy that I found and with guilt that I purchased a modest jar of actual natural pomegranate juice for nine simoleons easy.  (Damn Whole Foods…It’s like the Macy’s of grocery stores, with wonderful wares, but so few sales.)

I’m such a sucker for the hype.  If this shit doesn’t beautify my ass to the point of causing hot fags to fall at my feet on sight, I’m phoning in a complaint to the FDA posthaste.

Lord knows I’ll never be accused of being a neat freak, but I’ve yet to see Ming Na lift a finger, dampen a cloth, or depress a nozzle in the name of cleaning our apartment.  Whereas *I* have cleaned the kitchen once, the bathroom twice, and vacuumed innumerable times (okay, four).  And been asked to wash my dishes, left in the sink for merely two or three days, twice. 

One of the benefits of having a smaller place is that it takes seconds on the hour to tidy things up.  This will be the first time on record I’ve ever complained about roommates not pitching in.  Not that I even really care all that much, I’m just sayin’…

There’s a new “Cops”-esque reality show called something like “Beach Patrol: San Diego” where they follow beach cops in my eponymous hometown.  Watching it has kind of help spurn my bizarre feelings of nostalgia for the place I hightailed it from ten years ago.  I just like to see how things have changed since I last visited.  Or revisit places, like the gay ghetto Hillcrest. 

I can remember the day after high school graduation, I took my graduation money and my newly out self there for a little shopping in the morn.  I got off the bus on that bright, brisk sunny day, Deee-Lite’s “Bittersweet Loving” humming in my walkman, and sort of started off my newly free life.  I’d love to absorb a bit of downtown SD, Horton Plaza.  Definitely like to revisit the neighborhood I grew up in, all the fond memories having kept my nostalgic feelings fresh.  And my little sister, who’s not so little anymore, is in “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Fubu Jacket”.  Should be good times.

Because I have, like, no friends, TV is a close companion of mine.  Oh, don’t cry for me, Argentina—I didn’t have cable for some nine odd years, so we’ve much catching up to do, TV and I.  Plus with TV, you can always change the channel at your leisure, whereas changing the personality or mindset of a friend can take undue effort.  And you can switch off the TV at any time.

So I feel I speak on some authority when it comes to reality TV.  Some of it is flat out, unbelievably repugnant, like “Jenny Jones” or the rat-eating antics of “Fear Factor”.  Other shows are mildly inspirational, like “Next” and “Room Raiders”, the first gay dating shows of memory that feature gay contestants. 

But perhaps the most disappointing is the “Real World/Road Rules Gauntlet”. 

Now, for you old school folks, you’ll remember “The Real World” as being the first reality show to feature an openly gay and fully self-accepting character, Norm Korpi.  The third season, in SF, also featured the legendary Pedro Zamora.  There was even a hint of diversity among the cast in the earlier seasons.

Now, the show is basically a debauched orgy of cutie kids drinking and fucking, and generally being uninteresting to the nth degree.  I tried watching a recent episode and was as ardently bored as I remember my logic class in college being.   Maybe you can chalk it up to co-creator Mary Ellis-Bunim having kicked the bucket recently, but whatever the case, it’s sad to see a show that so helped me in my coming out stoop to the rank levels of crap that it has.  Do we really need to see the pits of the human experience hoisted on display in competition on “The Gauntlet”?  What good does this do for us as a society?

God, I’m sounding more and more like an old fogy by the second.

P.S. Consider this shit copywritten. You wanna take one, you call me and we’ll discuss pricing:

Dyspepsia Amorphous
Echeneccia St. John’s Wort (this one goes to my supplement-happy ass)
Dieuretique
Clairol Claritol
Miss Ann Phetamine
Vicky Dinn (you know…Vicadin)
Sandy Teri Knappkin
Pryla Sect O’Nunns
Princess Avarice
Vida Mens

You know you’re getting old when you’re cringing more than laughing at "America’s Funniest Home Videos".

Also when those garishly-decorated club hit compilations you own hit the one decade mark. "Short Dick Man" is now a club classic, you say?

Or when bragging about passing out drunk after a party becomes less a badge of pride than a warning sign.

Praise be.

I don’t buy into the idea that someone can be bi-curious or questioning about their sexuality.  I sympathize with the plight of someone struggling to *accept* their sexuality, but come one.  You either are or aren’t turned on by men, women, or both to varying degrees.  For guys, it’s even more clear cut: you either do or don’t get a hard on. 

What I do believe, though, is that people are afraid of the political- and familial implications of saying they’re gay or bi.  As if some royal gong is sounded from the heavens for all to hear, and all eyes are turned on them in judgment.  In fact, the first step in coming out is not worrying about what others may think.  It’s in realizing that your own happiness comes first, not substantiating and supporting the fears of others. 

There was this whole cult of closetedness at my college.  I never caught on to it at the time, so blissfully stymied was I by the nirvana of political correctness UC so strives to culminate.  But I could not then and would not now find it attractive to be with someone who hadn’t fully accepted his sexuality, and simply considered its stigma second nature and its celebration of primary importance. 

“Bullshit.”

–Zelda “Tangina” Rubenstein when asked what she thought of the alleged “Poltergeist” curse

It would be so much easier to be bad than good.  Evil has a certain sort of cruel efficiency to it, an immediate sense of satisfaction in the potency of its destruction.

It’s much easier to level a building to the ground than build it from the ground up.  To insult someone than to inspire them.  To keep silent than to speak out.  So why be good?

…Well, because if you don’t, who will?