The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

Have you ever just gotten sick of all the pants you own and had the urge to chuck them in the incinerator in favor of a new set?

I’m tall.  I need a bit of a flare at the cuffs of my pants to create some semblance of balance and symmetry to my overall frame.  Otherwise, I got highwaters that make me look like I’m walking on stilts from a distance.  Roll on, Wilhelmina.

The details of his claim to fame are sparse–labor unions, migrant workers, some street in San Francisco that confuses people–but God bless Cesar Chavez for being since I gets me a CTF (Compensatory Time - Floater Holiday) day off tomorrow in honor of his legacy.  We’re throwing in Monday, too, for good measure.

Memo to Madonna: We get it–yoga equals eternal youth and flexibility.  Now, leave those mystery-free leotards at home, drop the tantric tarantula dance "moves", and bring back those groovy routines from your "Vogue" days, please.  And what, is she supposed to be carousing through the trendy slums of Hong Kong in all of her videos now?  New venue, chop chop.

Beauty is in the lies of the Sephora.

Mind the gap.

Protestors of the war took to the streets in where else but San Francisco over the weekend.  They were met with a quaint counter-protest in the form of some twenty students from the (try not to laugh) UC Berkeley Republicans.  No tiffs were reported, praise be.

I’ve noticed that such counter-protestors, who generally come in the form of Republicans and sometimes even family members of soldiers, often make the mistake of assuming that anti-war equals anti-soldier.

Nein.

We don’t hate the folks on the frontline, just the war they’re fighting.  We’d much rather have our guys ‘n’ gals back home safe and sound so they can just make love, not war, natch.

Now, countering this hippie wisdom by proclaiming the necessity of war, with a patriotic nod to America’s founding by it, is purely backwoods logic.  Sure, we’ve fought wars before, but for independence, not revenge.  For the freedom of our fellow man, not for oil.

And this whole “Freedom doesn’t come for free”mantra touted by supporters of the war is simply a sad crock of shit.  No one’s invading our country—we’re invading theirs.

One rather murky thought I had was about the soldiers themselves.  We’re all very well aware of the great gay-positive attitude in our armed forces.  It comes from the ranks up, not just as dictated down by that “don’t ask, don’t tell” crap.  Well, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.  A lot of those bull-headed, bigoted military men will spend their final days in Iraq, and that’s sad, and that’s not how I would have it.

But a lot of them will come back having faced death right in the face, and known only loneliness as their closest companion while overseas.  The simple things in life we always take for granted will unfold into such beautiful significance for them, and the stupid shit we expend too much effort on, like battling gay marriage, will begin to fall away.

Maybe this post-war generation of jarheads will help inspire a new American mindset, one that values the gift of life over the power of might.  We’re all made from a different mold.  Some of us are naturally more sensitive, and see what others often miss.  Others of us are a little harder around the edges, and are great for fixing cars, killing spiders, and fighting wars.  It sometimes takes a few dents in their armor to get them to reflect on what’s most important in life.

I think I need a brow lift. As long as I don’t look like an Irish space alien, like Kathy Griffin (caveat: still love ya, Kath Kath!).

I never thought I’d say this, but I’m kinda sick of San Francisco. Coming back from SD made me realize that. Not that SD is all glamor and glitter, fashion and fame. It’s just that I know SF like the back of my hand now. I’ve pretty much done everything (though sadly, not everyone) there is to do here.

However, the likelihood of me getting off my keister and making an actual move is about 0.02%. I rather like having job security and a steady paycheck. And I don’t like snow or extreme heat. Or weather whatsoever. And people when it comes down to it.

I think I just need to get out more and travel. There we are.

In packing yesterday, I discovered that the strap on my satchel did in fact extend so that the sack itself was level with my waist.  Before then, it had been parallel with my belly, qualifying it as, yes, a man-purse.  But now, it’s a totally acceptable, dangly black satchel that nicely elongates my imperceptibly portly (at present due to my saturated fat-packed diet in San Diego) frame.

Thank the Baby Jesus.

On the plane home, I practically hyperventilated at the sadness of leaving.  I had to turn on the air to calm myself.  The BART semi-conveniently deposited me at the Powell station so I could hike uphill to my apartment.   At least I got home before the rain set in.  Such a shiny, happy return back to my favorite metropolis.

Yest aft, the sun shone brightly, and Jo and I headed downtown to the beloved labirynth/mall, Horton Plaza.  I introduced her to the wonders of The Body Shop, wherein she bought a Love Your Body card for discounts on future purchases.

We then segued to Pacific Beach and, slightly tipsy, strolled down the southern Cali gal and guy-teeming boardwalk.  She’s certainly got her shiznit together nowadays, and it was fabu getting in some quality cocktail time with her.

Lavern will be coming home from her lunch break in about fifteen minutes to pick me up for the airport.  Then it’s back to the grind tomorrow. 

I still feel antsy.  Kind of wish I still had more time here.

My stay in SD has whipped by mighty fast.

I saw my little sister in the school play "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat".  Adorable.  And  raise your cups with me now, won’t you, to virtually shirtless high school boys with surfer haircuts and tight li’l  bods.  It was also the first time I was back on the school’s campus since graduation eleven years ago.  And I must say, hasn’t changed a bitch.

I visited my great-grandmother, who has kindly been storing three boxes of my crap from high school and college.  Fashion, music, and fag mags, ancient cassette singles, and incriminating diaries were all deposited into the dumpster that day.  Will have to pick up my old yearbooks and photo albums another time.

The trolley is not the Muni.  Point A to Point B is more like Point A then settle-in-for-a-stretch-’til-you-finally-roll-in-to Point B. 

Hillcrest is not the Castro.  Granted, I went on a mildly rainy day, and we wicked fags eschew the rain for fear of melting, melting…  But I expected those old warm feelings of nostalgia to kick in when I popped in, but no.

All the CD stores are gone.  I kid you not.

There is nothing to do on Sunday nights.  Don’t bother.

Where did all these palm trees come from?  Are we in Hawaii?  Were they always there?

Vacations inevitably entail relaxed eating- and exercise habits.  I plan to go on a fast upon my return to SF.  Again, not kidding.

Today, I’m hangin’ out with sister Jo downtown.  It’s finally sunny out, so I plan to soak it all up for the remaining time I’m here.  I feel like there’s something on the tip of my tongue that I just can’t say or express.  Guess that means I’d like to spend more time here, but I can’t. 

1. Sprawling plains vs. self-contained districts.
You can walk for nearly people-less miles dotted with ’70s-styled stores in SD and still be in the same town, whereas a block and a half can mean the difference between the safe frivolity of the Castro and the dire straights of the Mission in SF.

2. Christian evangelicalism vs. homosexual bohemia.
Been gettin’ a lot of looooong looks since I’ve been here. Mm yeah…

3. Dirty buttons vs. hand-free convenience.
The walk/don’t walk (man/hand) signs in SD don’t just change in accrodance with the flow of traffic. You gotta get your hands dirty and do a little work.

4. Diet vs. regular.
Being chock-full of Faganese-Americans, I guess we San Franciscans are more apt to buy the fat-free variety than our rotund San sisters to the south.

Wednesday night, I laundered my shit, ironed it, and packed it all up nice and neat in my bag.  Then awakened unnecessarily early to pack my toiletries and such.  Then, dressed in mah best, trotted down to the BART station to head to the airport.

Literally, the moment I was about to put my ticket into the gate, the ghetto BART attendant came by closing each gate and said, "It’s closed.  They’s an emergency.  Don’ know how long it’ll take." 

Only me.

So, as more people crowded the station and limp explanations were given with absolutely no ETA, I called Southwest to find out about later flights, and then hit up the visitor’s center about possibly taking the bus to the airport. 

And while I contend with that crisis, let’s take a moment to discuss with our friends in the public transport authority the sheer necessity and ample viability of giving some form of ETA to the traveling public.  When you say, "We have no estimated time of arrival, y’all" we interpret that to mean, possibly hours, days, months.  Throw us a bone.  "Could be a few hours" or "Could be shut down for the day".  It turns out there was a fire at the next station that was contained within a hour and operable again within an hour and a half.  Quite thankful I didn’t book a later flight for an extra $80.

Anyways, once on board with my A pass, I for the first time in my life got a window seat.  Right near the wing. 

God only knows why.

Have you seen that movie "Twilight Zone" with John Lithgow?  I just kept waiting for that legoland thing to break apart or some beast to leap up on it and dismantle the shit.

But, lickety split, the flight attendess announced we were in San Diego.  We passed over a patch of Balboa Park, and a spurt of excitement popped up in me for the first time in my wormly day. 

Last night was spent just bonding with Lavern, Petula, Jo, Marie, and my adorably hyperactive niece Ashley.  My mom lives in this cute little gingerbread house now near the trolley, and she, Petula, and I are going to take it around town today.  To check out my favorite malls.  I kind of miss them.  I just want to see how things have changed. 

Like a good roommate, I informed Ming Na that I was headed out of town for a few days, and gave him my mom’s number in case there was an emergency.  To which he responded that his “girlfriend from Hong Kong” would be in town over the weekend.

My feelings were twofold: mild shock at his alleged heterosexuality and mild regret that I wouldn’t be in town to witness it.

Lavern (mom) announced that she was taking Friday and Monday off when I come to visit.  I reckon she, Jo, Marie, (sisters), and Ashley (niece) will all be at the airport to pick me up tomorrow, provided my body isn’t a mangled, incinerated mess from the plane having been piledrived into the side of some skyrise.  I’m even told Petula (grandma) will be in town.  It’s all a bit overwrought, but as long as I get some me time (shopping/clubbing), I’m good.

Pray for swift passage on the fiery—I mean, friendly skies for me!

The stars aligned just right, the planets were in orbit apropos, and the credit limit on one of my *sharp intake of breath* four credit cards was magically increased last night.  Just in time for my trip to San Diego.  I happened to call to check on my balance when the honey-sweet automated voice responded not with a one digit number to the question of my available credit, but rather three.  I immediately rushed out to by gin and English muffins, and dared not call back lest they changed their minds.

Although it’s not exactly spring break in Ibiza, I do hope a trip back to southern Cali will somewhat deflate the ballooning sense of restlessness I’ve been feeling for sometime.  I suppose it’s natural: you grow up, graduate from college, get a real job, then settle in to a sort of routine that makes the days drag by while the years whip by.  Sure, there are some speed bumps you encounter and side streets you take to sort of break the monotony, but what you really need is a nice, long scenic detour every once in awhile.  Put yourself in a totally different environment with totally different people.