The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

When I’m feeling down in the dumps about any bit of ephemera (perpetual singlehood, questionable financial state, non-bombshell looks), I have to look back on last year to put things into perspective.

Last year saw me being booted from the place my ex and I had shared, and having to look for an apartment with a worrisome credit report and not a lot of moolah to spend.  In fact, a year ago this past weekend I moved into my cursed li’l apartment on “Treasure” Island.  Did I mention that the decision to drop the bomb on Hiroshima was made at the military base on that island?

If there’s a seven year itch when it comes to relationships, there must be a six year one when it comes to workplaces.  Every morning when I board the bus, I feel like I’m getting on the bus headed for the state penitentiary.  My co-worker Pia and I whine everyday about wanting to leave early.  And lately, weekends seem pitifully short compared to the lengthy workweeks. 

I’m grateful to have a job and everything.  I just don’t want to work.

I just bought the new Amazing Purple Superfood Odwalla ™, and I don’t recommend.  It tastes like licking yogurt off of a countertop.

What’s the point in pre-heating the oven?  Just stick that puppy in, and account for the time it takes to warm up.

Online profiles of people seeking “drama-free” relationships essentially advertise that they are “drama-prone” in nature since this is a tacit aspect of any healthy relationship.

The best thing about being a grown-up is never having to do homework.

It’s absolutely beautiful outside

should be a crime to stay inside

But my ass must work indoors

to pay bills and club covers

The spring air sings with life

while I die a little inside

No window in my office

just stale air and fluorescent overheads

Oh, how I wish I could walk a little

stroll downtown in the sunshine

But nay, computer glare is all I get

in my office here confined

What a joy it must be to be dead

and ne’er have to work again,

to be free to walk the earth lifeless

as a spirit instead of an office bitch

My three-day Holiday Blowout Weekend—preceded by the Most Exasperatingly Long Workweek in Hisotory, infected, I swear, by a vicious time warp that caused Tuesday to repeat itself—began at Old Reliable, aka. Fag Fridays, which is celebrating its TENTH YEAR this year.  I credit this party with refining my erstwhile hiNRG/eurobeat tastes into a penchant for delicious, deep soulful grooves and down-home house. 

No more 589 BPM tracks with helimum euro-whore vocals for me!

And while beloved DJ Ruben Mancias has since gone his own way, leaving my fave local guy, David Harness, at the helm, I regret that I haven’t been that impressed lately.  I mean, the man can lay down some good time, rollickin’ house sets—I know, because I’ve heard.  But whereas before I would walk in to the End Up greeted by some bouncy, house groove, now he seems to be catering to a more circuit-oriented/mainstream crowd.

As Patsy called it, “Dull, soulless dance music”.

Here’s to hoping he brings back that stellar sound that always used to brighten up my Friday nights.

Saturday saw me with Aunt Jemima and RoRo hitting a newer club in SoMa called Eight to see DJ Hawthorne, whose CD I’d heard loved as much as mama’s little baby loves shortenin’ bread.  While making our way to the club, the frigid winds kindly Botoxed our faces free of charge, so we looked young and lifeless upon entry to the club.  Sadly, the place wasn’t packed, but Hawthorne still rocked the house with his hip hop-spiked happenin’ grooves.  If you live in or around the Bay Area, I strongly recommend you check him out when and wherever he next plays: http://ghettodisco.com/index.html

Sunday, I watched the heartbreaking docudrama “The Magdalene Sisters” about the mistreatment of “sexually promiscuous” girls sent to live in convents in Catholic Ireland.  Besides the fact that they were basically sentenced to indefinite servitude in the laundries while the nuns reaped the profits, given gruel to eat, and nearly scalped of their hair if they tried to run away, the saddest part of the whole story is that the last of these places was only shut down in 1996. 

For all the horror movies like “Saw II” and “Hostel” that are out and at the top of the charts, I would ask that people check out films like this one or “Hotel Rwanda” first.  All the horror that you need is already out there in the world and in human history.  There isn’t even a need to graphically fictionalize it because the reality is quite horrendously real as it is.

I booked my butt on a flight to SD the second weekend of March.  It’ll be the first time I’ve been home in nearly five years.  I probably should’ve given myself a buffer day the day before I leave and when I get back, but in any case, it’ll be nice not to have to be a work if nothing else.  Oh, and I also hope I have fun.

P.S. I need a fucking boyfriend at my earliest convenience. 

Alright, now listen: I didn’t have a computer in high school.  The internet was just first peeking its head above ground at the time.  I also didn’t have one in college.  I went to the computer labs to type my papers on Word, and used Excel briefly for an administrative assistant job I had on campus.  I had a student email account, and only created my own hotmail account during my senior year.  I also played video games a lot on the classic Nintendo Entertainment System when I was a kid.

Bottom line: not a lot of computer experience here.

However, my job requires me to be online pretty much all the time, typing shit, researching shit, using windows, Access, Excel, Word, et. al. okay?  And ya know what, IT AIN’T THAT HARD, BITCHES!

Where I work—granted, not a bastion of technological advancement—many of the employees can’t type up an email to save their lives.  They thrive on picking up the phone and interrupting your ass to tell you something that really isn’t that pressing, and that could have been rapidly relayed via email. 

Worse yet is when they call you with information that really needs to be forwarded to the rest of the staff—again, another opportune moment for email—and thus transform you into a secretary, forcing you to transcribe their message and send it off to your co-workers in an email of your own.

The moral of the story: WE NO LONGER LIVE IN THE 1980s.  IT’S OKAY TO USE FUCKING EMAIL.  IT WON’T BITE.  IT’S NOT THAT HARD.  IF MY SIXTEEN YEAR-OLD SISTER CAN SWING IT, SO CAN YOU. 

In Valentine’s Days past, I’ve channeled the spirit of the Pollyanna Hippie and been all like, "Even if you don’t have a lover, you should celebrate the fact that we *can* love." 

An admirable sentiment–unquestionably. 

But this past Valentine’s Day bit for some reason.  The sole highlight was seeing one of our closeted bull dyke departmental heads at the staff meeting complimenting one of her trademark asphalt gray pant suits with a pair of red socks in honor of the holiday.

Creepy-cute.

I saw "Aladdin and the King of Thieves" over the weekend, and in one part, the King of Thieves tells the villianous palace guard that the password to the secret cavern is "Open Sesame".  Then the guard gets there and says, "Open Caraway!"  My guffaws rocked the complex, y’all.  Am I the only one who finds stupid shit like that funny.  Yes?  No?  Okay, then.

Everyone gossa get paid.  I get it.  But do you have to lie through your teeth for a paycheck?

James Frey had the cajones to go on “Oprah” lying about being a recovering addict in his hyperbole-rich “autobiography” “A Million Little Pieces”.  Only to have it revealed as “A Million Little Packs of Shit” not long thereafter.

But what most kills me are these celebrity autobiographies.  I mean, do you really expect me to believe that Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie sat down, put pen to paper, and came up with enough words to constitute a book?  Ghost writers oughta be slaughtered. 

Anyways, I was watching “Mama’s Family” the other day, and I think Bubba stuffed his crotch.

This past week has been sheer hell at work.  I’ve felt like a Borg drone, soulessly processing paperwork for the hive.

And my cutie-in-waiting, Darren, called me the Sunday before last wanting to have lunch, but I had to decline.  I was still recovering from bottom shelfing it on Friday, and sounded like Large Marge at best.  I have doubts as to whether anything will come of it anyways.  Plus I think I lost his number.  One of the reasons fags find it so difficult to kick-start a relationship is because we’re all so goddamn flaky.  But did I mention how cute he was?  And how his favorite Care Bare Cousin is Swift Heart Rabbit?

I wish there was a Fuck-this-shit Bear in Care-A-Lot.  That’d be me.  When the shit goes down and some mess happens, I’d add my two cents in and be all like, “Fuck this shit, nyah!”

With the impending possibility of actual action on the horizon (i.e., sex), I decided it was time to ditch the mattress on the floor and move on up to the bed.  Heretofore, my “DJ decks” had occupied the bed since I lack that Queer Eye instinct for posh organization (i.e., I’m lazy).  But I finally cleared them away, laundered the sheets nice and good, and set up residency on da biz-ed at long last. 

And I must say, it’s been pretty heavenly.  Whether or not I’ll have someone to share it with remains to be seen, though.

Too does the state of the rest of the room, which resembles something like a maelstrom of porn and CDs.  It’s just that when I get home from work, I don’t wanna work no more.  I mean, you could hook me up to a sour apple vodkatini IV, switch on the “Laguna Beach” marathon, and I’d be one happy Jabba the Hut son-of-a-bitch just sittin’ there watchin’ and sippin’. 

‘Cause perfeeect. everything’s so perfeeeect…