The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

Do you remember that scene in "Lost in Translation" where Bill Murray is on the treadmill and it starts speeding up and he’s trying to catch up before he hoarsely shouts, "Help!" That was hysterical.

Or in "Charlie’s Angels" where he’s wooing that one woman, and kneeling before the fireplace and says all smoothly, "I love a fire." Then lights it and it all flames up in his face.

Or in "Scrooged" when he’s walking down the street looking for the homeless shelter his ex-girlfriend works at, crazily shouting about how it was her fault they broke up. Then he says, "At least I work at a place you can find!" Then turns around and the shelter is right there, big as day, and he goes, "Okay, here we go."

Sooo funny, you guys.

Note to gay filmmakers: Please stop making films with one or more of the following plot lines:

1. Someone dies of AIDS.

2. Someone becomes a drug addict and dies horribly.

3. Someone loses their home/kids/job because of their sexuality.

4. Someone loses their home/kids/job because of their sexuality, becomes a drug addict, contracts AIDS, and dies horribly.

We get it–being gay is tough.  That does not mean we need to see it fictionalized on the big screen for $9.50 a pop.  What we really need are some movies with a fresh, zippy storyline, an involved, but not pedantic, plot line, and some characters that you can really sink your teeth into.  You know?  People you can identify with or even idolize.  Thanks in advance.

Bacardi has come out with a new mojito flavor.  Call me a trendbot if you want–I’m excited as all hell, and can’t wait to try.

I don’t get what the big whoop with "Chappelle’s Show" is.

I leave you with my rendition of india.arie’s "I Am Not My Hair":

I am not my hair
I am not this weave
I am not this wig of polyurethane

I am not my hair
Honkey, you’d best believe
This is not a natural part of me

niggria.pareese

(Excuse the mildly racist undertones of this li’l shanty, but if Dave Chappelle can do it, so can I.  So there.)

In somewhat titillating news of the day, Ming Na announced last night that he’d be moving out at the end of the month to head back to the People’s Republic of China.  It’s a somewhat bittersweet thang since he has been a very conscientious and considerate roommate–paying bills on time, not converging on my personal space, etc.- and spared me any drama, but now I have the chance to find someone fun.  Who hopefully is just as conscientious and considerate, and doesn’t end up stealing all my shit and everything. 

It’s funny because I’ve actually been dreaming–thinking about the possibility of this happening for the past couple of months, and now it is.  I’m excited and nervous, and really, really hope I find someone I can kick it with this go round, and not just someone who occupies the same apartment as I do. 

Anyways, I kinda wish the Spice Girls hadn’t broken up.

It’d also been ages since I’d gotten wonderfully stinking-ass drunk, and had nearly given up on alcohol when I rediscovered the wonder of shots.  Screw that mixed shit.  Bottoms up down breathe pour then up again yo!

How can Enzyte be a "natural" male enhancement when it’s a pill intended to artificially induce an erection?

Isn’t it a bit evil for insect repellent ads to advertise protection against mosquitoes which "may carry the West Nile virus"?

I want to meet Pai Mei so’s I can learn to whoop some tail.

Don’t eat after 10:00. Better yet, after 7:00. I’ve been sporting a baby Buddha belly as of late even though I’ve been eating nothing but healthy foods, and I reckon it’s all on account of my Nick at Nite eating frenzies.

I’ve had to skimp on the self-tanner this past week as we’re scraping by ’til payday, and have had to go in public with the true, pinkish, pig skin hue of my face on display for God and everybody to see. Egad. I like being white and everything. I just don’t like looking *so* white.

Three cheers for Quigga Lean! 

Mama done had met her goal for this year and gets her annual company bonus. I’m very pleased with that, and muchly looking forward to the monies to help me over this something of a mucky puddle I’ve been in with money lately.  According to my rudimentary at best calculations, I should actually be in better shape this latter half of the year than I’ve been in the early part.  Okay, then.

Why is it that everytime an artist releases a new album, they have to have undergone some revelatory personal transformation?  I mean, do you really expect us to believe that every two years on the mark, life changes so drastically for you that you’re inspired to write twelve or thirteen new songs to describe the experience and this "new place" you’re at in your life? 

What’s wrong with just being artistically inclined to feel moved enough to create new music as it comes to you?  No need for a revolution in your life for an excuse to crack out some new tuneage, bro.

I saw "Lost Boys" for the first time in a long time last night.  Jason Patric had the most beautiful bone structure of anyone on the planet in 1986, and Corey Haim had the most blowjob-worthy mouth of anyone I’ve ever seen before he blimped out to his present state.  Mercy!

Never skip your Vivarin doseage, boys and girls.  To do so is to incur the greatest, most painful-ass ilk of migraine known to man.  Take it from a jigga who knows.  Fo’ shizzle.

The highlight of my weekend was a late night trot downtown yesterday and the gradual discovery as I rounded the corner of the posh Safeway that it was still open.  I’d thought everything would be shut down at 11am as per the holiday, but was overjoyed to discover this exception.  Just goes to show the caliber of fun had on my 4th of Schmooly weekend.