The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

Skydiving, para-sailing, scuba diving, parachuting, bungee jumping, rock climbing… What do all of thesse nihilistic activities have in common?  They were invented by and are largely practiced by White People With Too Much Time On Their Hands (WPWTMTOTH).  Only WPWTMTOTH would find such spectacularly morbid ways to generate endorphins.  Fun borne of the fear of death, as it were.

You see, white people have it pretty good on Earth.  Pretty much anywhere you go, it sure helps if you’re white.  The lack of violent racism to which white folks are exposed causes them to grow bored and listless.  That’s when they invent shit like tying a rubber cord to your ankle and hurling yourself off a 700-foot bridge in the Amazaon. 

Well, this white person just doesn’t get it, and never will, muchas gracias.

I had a couple cocktails then toggled back and forth between "Breakfast at Tiffany’s" and "Friday After Next" on Sunday before heading out to the T-dance.  Interesting combo to juxtapose, sho nuff.

Cats are like living pillows.  I really miss having one.

I posted the ad for my new roomie.  The responses thus far–and granted it’s only been in hour–have been less than impressive.  I’m actually feeling a little nervous that I won’t find someone, but then I just have to remind myself how things were ’round this time last year.  Calamities up the ass.  My only problem at present is worrying I won’t find someone as fun-minded as myself, which is not a problem but a fucking whim, so hush, I says.

"Forgive sounds good
Forget–I don’t think I could
They say time heals everything,
but I’m still waiting…"
–The Dixie Chicks, "Not Ready To Make Nice"

My annual bonus was somewhat less than remarkable after Uncle Sam taxed the hell out of it.  Still, it’s better than nothing, and certainly something, and will clear out some of my more egregious debts.

"The Hills" has really proven to be the pits as the "Laguna Beach" spinoff featuring doe-eyed, baby fat-bearing blondie Lauren from the original show.  I’m awaiting the new season of "LB" to debut in August with some degree of trepidation since I doubt it will be as good as last season.

"Animaniacs" is being released on DVD!  Personally, I believe the wily animated series starring lovebly crazed toon sibling Yakko, Wakko and Dot should be broadcast 24/7 on its very own network, but that’s just me.  Helloooooo, nurse!

Once during a driver’s training course when I was sixteen–which I paid for all on my own, thank you very much–I suddenly braked hard as a cat dashed across the road.  The trainer immediately chastised me, and I shot back, "Well, I’m not going to run over a cat!"  Later, my friends in the car told me he’d given me quite a dirty look, but hey, nasty scowls from driver’s ed trainers are better than cat entrails on your car’s wheels, eh?

So Justin Timberlake wants to bring sexyback? I recommend he start by having a go at those caterpillar eyebrows and by getting a little sun.

There’s nothing sexier than the hint of a bicep peeking out of an otherwise innocent t-shirt. The only thing sexier is when said bicep bears the beginnings of some tattoo *drool*.

I like the new series "Work Out". I think that one kid who was supposedly married before and who called the girl a "slut" and whose darkest secret was Mariah Carey is a gay homosexual. And a rude one at that. And doesn’t have all that nice of a body for a trainer. I mean, I could take him. But he is cute, so I’d take him.

Does anyone else see the rather macabre promise of the song title "Sadness: Part 1" by Enigma?

When a book is so good that you get pissed when the bus stops and you have to stop reading to deboard, then you know it’s fucking good. For me, that book is "Date Me, Baby, One More Time" by Stephanie Rowe, a sort of dark fantasy/modern day romantic comedy novel. The first ten pages in, there’s a dragon with mascara and painted nails who used to be this ho-ish girl once. Good stuff.

It was a telling moment when, during a visit home to San Diego trying to figure out a digital camera, I rhetorically asked "How does this damn thing work?" and my seven year old niece shouted with frustration, "It’s digital!" and come up to assist me while everybody laughed. Okay, so bone me ’cause I don’t know how to work a friggin’ digital camera, nor do I have one or plan on getting one anytime soon. But with the advent of all this alleged new advanced technological gadgetry, one has to ask oneself the Three Most Important Questions Ever:

1. What’s the point, really?

2. Is it worth it?

and
3. Are you suuure you’re not trying to compensate for something else?

A few examples: iPods runs about $300 a pop. My walkman cost about $30 bucks. I could buy a computer, but I already have one at work, and kind of prefer to limit my time exposed to computer glare radiation. It might behoove me in my fairy tale pursuit of becoming a DJ to get a laptop and some software to make online mixes, but the cost and complexity sort of outweigh the simplicity and convenience of just sticking my tape recorder up to the speakers and making myself a mix.

End side A. Flip over to side B. That’s right, ho.

That said, I’m making the landmark decision to finally get a cell phone. Cingular sent me a letter promising me and me alone a free phone and free delivery, so I see it as God’s will. ‘Sides, you never know when you need to call the poh-lice.

In other news, what was with Lance Armstrong asking Jake Gyllenhall at the ESPYs, "Jake, what’re you doing sitting in the front? I thought you liked it in the rear?" How does the guy with one ball make a fag joke?

ANT the comedian: not that comedic.

Are there no more video arcades?

Bianca was my favorite of the "Bevery Hills Teens". Brandon was my dream man from "Beverly Hills 90210". And Granny rocked my world from "The Beverly Hillbillies".

When I was little, we lived on the third floor of an apartment complex overlooking this large field.  I mean, we didn’t live out in BFE countryville or anything, it was just this large empty field where no buildings had been built yet.  Just past the field, during one summer, I remember there was a carnival.  I remember sneaking into my parents’ bedroom, peeking out through the window, and through the wind hearing the sounds of the carnival, the music and the distant roar of the people, the whoosh of the rides.  And seeing the ferris wheel with its rotating Christmas lights from afar.  Even the fence erected around the perimeter of the carnival was colorful.  I remember wanting to go so badly.  And one day, towards the end of the summer, we finally went, and it was everything I’d hoped it would be.

I think that’s what heaven must be like.

People don’t like to sit next to me on the bus.  It used to bother me.  Now I consider it a blessing in disguise.

I work in an area frequented by a lot of old Russian immigrants (don’t ask) and I tell you, they could bottle whatever three prime and pungent perfumes worn by the women and market that shit as extra strength insect repellent.  Jesus, comrade.

A long time ago, my daddy banged my mommy when they were but teenagers.  Then my daddy hightailed it on back to the deep south where he was from, leaving me with nothing but his last name to remember him by.  When I was a kid, I met some of my relatives, and even had a penpal relationship with my grandma.  Time passed, she died, and I pretty much lost contact with all of them.  I do know that I have, I think, two half sisters and a half brother floating around somewhere, which is kind of funky when you think about it.  And with the world wide internet, finding someone, especially with an uncommon last name like I have, is not all that hard. 

So I was only mildy shocked when I received a "smile" from someone named Lisamarie [my last name] via Friendster.  No info in her profile, nor a picture of Elvis’s daughter/Michael Jackson’s ex there, so I didn’t have much to go by.  But I do find it strangely, scarily intriguing.  *cue "Twilight Zone" music*

I love it when Judge Judy interrupts someone by saying "Just a second" ’cause it never is. And how Wilford Brimley pronounces it "die-uh-bee-duhs". And my grandma’s minimum five second delayed reaction time to…everything.

Anyways, I could’ve sworn I saw Julie Andrews on the bus this morning working on a Dell laptop.

My new thing is spotting the number of Asian women with ’80s hair in the crowd.

My new insult of choice/term of endearment is "hooker", so don’t be offended…or should you?…

"Favorite Animal: Steak"
–Fran Leibowitz

Yeah, so a special screw you, too, to all you sour bastards I called on Saturday night to come out clubbing and who didn’t come.  It was actually probably for the best.  The Stud’s Saturday night party, formerly called Sugar, is now called something like Hooker or Hustler or I don’t know, and it was well nigh dead.  The music was nothing to write home about either.  And I ended up with a Deathstar hangover on Sunday, too.  Oy gevalt.

But I bought new beige bedsheets and black satin pillowcases on Sunday.  And yes, it’s just as sexy as it sounds, yo.

Crissy Aguilera’s "Don’t Want Another Man" is the "Toxic" of 2006.  I hope it re-propels her back to fame since Britters has already popped out, like, two albums, since "Stripped".

They’re making "Aqua Teen Hunger Force: The Movie".  I’m thrilled.

I’m in love with Adam Ruggiero.

I was awoken at the ripe hour of 7:00 this morning to someone blaring Kelly Clarkson in their bathroom, the acoustics thus amplifying the American Idol’s award-winning voice.  Now, I love me some KC, but not in the AM.  Nothing sounds good but nothing in the AM.  Although I do have to say that "Will & Grace" is for some reason much more bearable in the morning than it is at night.  But I guess anything looks good after you’ve come out of the long, dark tunnel of REM sleep.

In other apartment news, Ming Na tells me the other night that he’s in fact staying through August.  Uhh, pull it together Pikachu!  They’s a big difference between two weeks and a month and a half.

Do those who boast of family values and family programming realize that to make a family you have to fuck?

Once when I was little, I was playing video games at a friend’s house and said, "Oh, I died" when my character was killed.  The friend’s mother said, "Josh, we don’t use that word in this house."  So, what did she expect me to say?  "I lost a life" or "My life  ended"?  That sounds soo much worse, doncha know.

I’m heartbroken. The Body Shop is discontinuing my beloved brand of tinted moisturizer. Luckily that means it’s on sale, so I stocked up yesterday after payday. I felt like that episode of "Seinfeld" where Elaine’s favorite brand of sponge is discontinued so she buys several boxes of it, then has to decide whether or not a guy is "sponge-worthy". Guess I’ll have to decide which locales and personage are "tint-worthy" from here on out. Blast!

Those transition sequences with the Fly Girls on "In Living Color" had the best, danceable hip hop music. Where did that Salt n Pepa-type style of hip hop go?

I remember someone calling in to Casey Kasem’s Top 40 back in 2000 asking for an explanation of the song "Say My Name" by Destiny’s Child, and him actually using national radio air time explaining its ghettofied discourse. I do miss Destiny’s Child and they poignant lyricism, ranking right up there with Dylan and Lennon… "Naasty put ya clothes back on, I tole ya"