The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

I’ve tried, with a laudable degree of effort, to budget properly this last year or so.  But when I crunch the numbers, I still come out victor-less in the end, which in turn makes me wroth.

I wasn’t meant to be poor or to have to worry about money.  And someone who makes what I make shouldn’t be in the red so often.  But a combination of viable long-term expenses, flippant financial choices, and a dash of bad luck have parked my butt in a manageable, but mucky, rut of debt.

I could blame the credit cards for bewitching me into a Paris Hilton-like state of blissful euphoria, wherein the world was my oyster and money was no object for the month before I maxed out the card.  But I have only myself to blame, and have decided to take the hard line:

1. The only way is the Safeway

For some reason, the extra 30-40 minutes to stop off at Safeway has been anathema to my after-work schedule.  I don’t know why.  “Golden Girls” will be on again tomorrow and thenceforth evermore, even if I don’t make it home in time to catch it today.  Why not take the time to partake of Safeway’s multitudinous two-for-one specials and save myself from paying double at the corner store?

2. I pledge allegiance to the funds that are available in my account today

The overdraft limit on your bank account can prove a tempting cookie jar to pilfer from.  But when you factor in the fees and the fact that you’re basically borrowing against your future (not to mention having to receive those daft notices they mail you—yeah, like I couldn’t already smell the shithole I was in, dillwads!), you really begin to feel guilty at having robbed your future self.  No more prolonged visits to Negative Balance Land for me.

3.  Enemy, thy name is Payroll Advance

I’ve dabbled in these demons of the financial lending industry for longer than I care to admit, coasting by on just paying the interest fee instead of the full balance plus.  Again, another monetary misjudgment that has cost me, but that will soon be stopped up short.

Ultimately, I just need to eat if for the month of May, and not have too much fun.  Pride is coming up in June anyways, so best to conserve all resources monetary and mirth-wise.  I was kind of hoping our company’s annual bonus later this year would kind of help me catch up, but the light on that star is a bit wanting for wattage, so I’m holing up for a harsh winter.

Still, I’m open to any get rich quick schemes that don’t completely rob me of my sense of self-shame, so keep those ideas comin’, kids!

Fight the power

Don’t support Scientology

Thwart the mentally-warped, couch-hopping efforts of Tom Cruise to overtake the world with his attacks on women with post-natal depression.

Let the closet fggot finally fry in the flames of a burnt out career…

DON’T SEE "MISSION IMPOSSIBLE 3"!! (I RECKON IT’LL SUCK ANYWAYS)

Thanks in advance…

Have you noticed that you can use all of the senses in a metaphorically positive light except for that of smell?

“I can just see it now…”

“It was so real, I could taste it…”

“I can still feel his touch…”

“It’s like music to my ears…”

But then you say,

“It stinks…”

…and that doesn’t sound so good.  I guess it’s because we as humans can basically excel in all other areas of the senses except smell.  Regrettably few people naturally smell good.  In fact, most smell bad without the help of some deodorant, soap, and maybe a splash (note I said splash, not shower) of cologne. 

Yet, like that laundry detergent says, smell is the closest sense linked to memory.  Ain’t that a physiological bitch slap in the face?

So, I did get my hairs cut the other day, and Hottie Flip Boy Stylist was working there.  But the place was, like, deserted, so there was no way I was gonna all up and ask him out in earshot of his co-workers.  Plus, he was cutting someone’s hair while I was there.  He did, however, look up from his trimming as I was leaving and I flashed him a nice, “Hi I’m in love with you and wanna sleep with you” smile as I left. 

That should count for something. 

Have you ever caught yourself giving mini-makeovers to people on the street.  Like, She could use some color in her hair, or Homeboy needs to trim his eyebrows and he’d be hot, or Sista needs some wrinkle cream asap?  Well, I do it all the time.  We do, after all, live in the Age of the Makeover.  Whether it’s your face, your body, or your house, tips abound on the television as how to improve all.

One such show that’s piqued my interest is “Can’t Get A Date” if only because it so painfully applies to me…. Well, I wouldn’t say I can’t get a date, it’s that I don’t even try thanks to our good, dear friends Insecurity and Fear O’Rejection (good gals…). 

There’s this kind of cute, flip guy who’s one of the stylists where I gets my hairs cut.  He cut my hair once when my regular guy was out, and didn’t do a very good job, but he’s tres adorable, and he laughed at my jokes.  I think I caught him eyeing me up in one of the mirrors once, too. 

I was thinking of asking him out.  Nothing fancy schmancy, just a fun trot through North Beach or something low key and fun like that.  Of course, I’d have to have several tequila slammers in me before popping the question, but the thought occurred to me last night. 

Why not?  Plus I really need to get my hair cut, you know?

Streaks on the china,
never mattered before,
who cares.

When you dropped kicked your jacket
As you came through the door,
No one glared.

But sometimes things get turned around
And no one’s spared.

All hands look out below
here’s a change in the status quo.
Gonna need all the help that we can get.

According to our new arrival
Life is more than mere survival
We just might live the good life yet.

I awoke the other morning from a beautifully vivid dream set in this path near where I used to live.  It was up on a hill sort of in between two blocks of houses, lined on one side by the backyards of these really nice houses and on the other by these giant trees, so that it had the surreal effect of being totally shaded on one side and sunny on the other.  When I woke up, I had the desperate urge to be there, so much so that I could have squeezed the dream close to me and not let it slip away. 

I take it as a sign I might want to visit San Diego again.  Itd be nice to hang out with old friends and my sister this go round since last time was more family-centered.  I do still have that $100 in ticketless travel funds…

Decry generic brands all you please.  Ive been using Safeways brand of acne cream, and my forehead has never been smoother. 

I rented "Rent" and simply couldnt make it through it.  Within the first twenty minutes after learning that three of the characters had HIV, one is a heroin addict, and theyre all poor as dirt, Im thinking, Do I really need to pay money to be depressed or could a simple glance at the homeless downtown provide the same effect for free?

Im thinking of braving drag for the first time ever this Halloween so that I can be Princess Clara from Drawn Together.  Any brown-skinned brothers out there wanna go with me as Foxy Love?  Holler! (sic)

Holla Scholar (Allen) came and went in the blink of an eye this past weekend.  We started things out Thursday evening.  After a few “Matrix”-styled moves to avoid the kamikaze-minded pigeons, we made it to the Muni on down to the Castro.  Coming up out of the station, Allen had a bittersweet pang of nostalgia for good old Santa Francisca: the omnipresent fags, the homeless selling their “wares” on the street, etc. 

We ate at Askew (marinated tofu on the citrus cous cous—mm!) before segueing to The Mix for after dinner cocktails.  En route, I informed Allen that should we run into Sean (my ex) and/or Darryl (his new boyfriend and friend of Allen’s) that I would have to purge myself of the situation.  Not out of any particular dislike for either of them, just out of social comfort’s sake, you might say.  I don’t have anything against them, but I don’t got anything for ‘em either.

So of course, Darryl has to show up right on our fourth vodka straight up, thereby souring the situation.  He ran into Allen as he’d gone back to the bar to get refreshers for us (which now included Taj who’d joined us at the bar) and was apparently desperate to talk to me.  Thankfully, Allen kept him at bay as I adroitly ushered desired company exit-wise, escaping with a mere, “Byyye, Jooosh…” from Darryl as he hugged Allen goodbye.

I can’t imagine what he’d want to talk to me about.  Especially over drinks of all things.  This is the exact reason why I keep the number of gay male friends I have down to the strictest minimum.    

It’s only when I’m drunk that I’m diligent about doing the little important things in life.  So, on Saturday, after a nice sippy drink, I (1) called to schedule my long-overdue routine check-up appointment with the doc, and (2) called SouthWest to check on the status of my refund from my trip to San Diego.  That’s when the nice lady on the phone told me I’d purchased a non-refundable ticket, and had a credit of about $100 valid ’til next year, which contradicted the story the dumb lady who’d earlier canceled my flight had told me.

No matter.  I’m hoping to visit Petula (grandma) in Las Vegas for Christmas this year.  It’d be choice if Lavern (mom), Jo (sister), Marie (other sister), and Ashley (niece) could come, but that’s a pretty tall order.  Maybe this spare $100 credit could kind of help the matter along.

Or it could pay for the ticket of the boyfriend I won’t have to come along.

Or someone could die, and I could use it to fly to their funeral.

In any case, I guess it’s fate that it’s part of my "Ticketless Travel Funds" ™ as opposed to cash in hand.  Surely.

Anyways, can someone tell me why the Sugar Ray guy (aka. Mark McGrath) is on E!s Extra Insider Hollywood Reporter?

Simon Cowell rules for making that "beard" comment to Ryan Seacrest.  Fuckin’ closeted little imp.

I’m thinking of naming my daughter Beatrix after Beatrix Kiddo from "Kill Bill".

Holla Scholar is coming to visit this week, and it should be off the chain gang.  One of my favorite things he once said to me was (as we were leaving, in reference to my satchel), "Are you gonna bring your little qu’est-ce que si?"

Last night, I dreamt that the streets of San Francisco were all water slides, and I skated to the top of the Fillmore and slid all the way down to the Marina.  The sky kept fizzing into different colors: tangerine, cotton candy, azure blue.  It was as funky-fun as having sex at a carnival.

Then the alarm clock went off on my first day back to work on Daylight Savings Time, and I had to drag my tired old bidness off to the office.  I’m used to being asleep at this hour.  I really need to be hooked up to an IV of ginseng and caffeine, f’real, tho’.