The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

"Large, naked, raw carrots are acceptable as food only to those who live in hutches eagerly awaiting Easter.
– Fran Leibowitz

"My God, if I sounded like that, I would only ever communicate in sign language."
– thought I had the other day as I passed a woman mercilessly yapping away in Russian

Notice how there are no food courts or hot dog vendors at Pride? Just water bottle stops and beer gardens as far as the eye can see.

Straight guys in pants and sandals are just inexplicably hot. I guess because we fags are too cautious to brave open toed shoes on the open roads.

I had a dream the other night that I was on "Project Runway". Odd, as I don’t know the first thing about clothes, except how to buy them and criticize them. I hope Jeffery gets the boot, the mother-hating mutant munchkin buttfuck.

Paaaaauvre Mark Foley.  Well, not really.  But let’s face facts here: Once you hit puberty, you’re biologically ripe and ready for sex.  That does not mean you are emotionally- and mentally equipped to do (clearly, since young people still rank the highest in contraction of STDs and teenage girls still get pregnant all the time), but you are otherwise a newly sexual being.  We have laws in place and taboos in society that try to keep the emotional- and mental states on track with the biological, but it’s still a contrived effort.

There’s nothing wrong with being attracted to teenagers.  I’d wager to say many people are, they just don’t freely admit it.  There is something amiss about pursuing one with sexual interest, though.  Either way, that’s not pedophilia.  Pedophilia is sex with children.  Children are 12 and younger.  And that is just gross.

But Mark Foley is another beast entirely.  A closeted gay Republican who promoted anti-gay legislature and laws against child exploitation.  He’s one of us, but one of our most fringe, pariah-type members.  Being that this is Coming Out Month, I would suggest to all those still in the closet to not let it suffocate you to the point where you become a blinding hypocrite like Foley.  Learn from this, learn to love yourself, and come on out into the real world.

In my freshman year English class, we read the play and saw the movie version of "The Miracle Worker". We saw the movie over two days. It’s the last scene where Anne Sullivan is rocking Helen Keller in her arms, and the "Hush Little Baby" song comes on then segues into the movie’s moving theme song that I almost lost it, and nearly burst into tears. Everyone else in the class was on the edge of their seats waiting for the bell to ring.

A co-worker of mine received an email from someone in Taiwan who clearly did not have a full command of the English language. It cracked her up, as such emails often do, and she forwarded it to me. I’ll admit, the Engrish inquiries we receive for people looking for jobs in a hospital of all places do tend to generally be amusing. But this one really wasn’t, and it just made me feel sad. I guess because it reminds me of my ex, Sean, and all the struggles he had with English, and how people around him were much more willing to laugh about it than be patient and understanding.

Speaking of problems with English, I was talking about recent merit increases with some of my colleagues and pronounced it "mewit increases" like Elmer Fudd. Lord Jesus.

"I would rather see my children starve than have a white person buy my album."
–Lauryn Hill

Oil crisis be damned, the Blue Angels took to flight this past weekend, not because we were under attack, but to show the Bay Area public what a third of their paycheck goes to in taxes each month.  Seeing as how I always see the blight side of life, I just kept waiting for one of them jet planes to come careening into the side of my apartment building everytime I heard one roar by.  Unpleasant?  Yes.

I’ve been debating what to get Grandma Petula for Christmas.  She likes tacky trinkets, so I was thinking a Bedazzler, though I hate to contribute to that ghastly phenomenon.   Or maybe one of those little recording devices called Li’l Reminders so old people can, like, remember where their car is parked or where they are.

My feet are in agony.  I need new work shoes.

Something very weird happens to me every morning when I wake up and get ready for work.  I have visions of San Diego dancing in my head as I iron my clothes, shower, dress, etc.  That window between just out of REM dream sleep and just waking up always bring back images of my hometown.

I know for a fact I didn’t get to spend nearly enough time there when I visited in March.  Plus there was this giant-ass rainstorm that prohibited earthly travel.  I would like very much to go back and just spend some quality time scoping out my old haunts and such.  And I honestly need to get out of the City.  I need new scenery.  ASAP.  Nia often travels and has invited me to come along.  I just need to have a travel fund on hand so I can hightail it off to exotic locales as per my wont at will.  Hiz-olla!

My last final in college was in a class on the classical poet John Milton, who wrote the epic poems "Paradise Lost" and "Paradise Regained".  I was the first to finish.  I closed my blue book, took a deep breath, and had a very "Waiting to Exhale" moment where time slowed to pace, and the weight of the last seventeen years of school shifted off my shoulders and into my past.

My friend, Deirdre, was sitting next to me and noticed I’d finished.

"Are you done?" she asked
"Yeah," I peeped
"Congratulations, sweetie," she said, reaching over to hug me.

I’m so glad she was there to mark the end of my academic life with such a warm send off, as I started off on my first few steps into the real thing.

It’s a brisk rainswept day today, but it’s still light outside.  Autumn is on its way, but I don’t feel sad about it.  I’ll be twenty nine in a few weeks.  I’m planning on visiting my grandma in Las Vegas for Christmas this year.  Everything is as okay as it can be, though it could certainly be better.

(sung to the tune of Christina Aguilera’s "Ain’t No Other Man"… well, make it work)

Ain’t no better way
to start off the day
than by boarding the bus a day after being sick on my way back to work

Only to discover the seat I’m about to sit in
has a pile of vomit on its floor
Bless the beloved people who shriek in warning at me
and the lady who produced it holds up her hand wavering
keeping me from sitting in the seat
nice and early in the morning,
loud harsh cries to start the morning

As I lumber backwards tumbling toward the
back of the bus warbling
looking for another seat
and sick to my stomach, as can be

And then sitting there
watching others
as they nearly make the same mistake
and wondering all the while
how I can be here on the big tin vehicle
roaring down the way
with vomit herein duly placed

"Th-this can’t be real."
–Holla Scholar in disgusted disbelief upon watching "Laguna Beach" for the first time

Do you take pictures because you truly want to remember the moment or because you want to show them off to people later?  Talk amongst yourselves, and while you’re doing so, keep in mind that in some cultures, taking someone’s picture means you’ve trapped their soul.  Enjoy!

If you watch the Logo network, you’ve perhaps caught the video and reality show promo for homo pop duo Nemesis.  The song, entitled (I kid you not) "#1 in Heaven" sounds like a "Saturday Night Live" boy band spoof, and actually includes the lyrical couplet: "You’re so excited and you’re lookin’ like the bomb / Come on now, baby, tell me where you’re comin’ from".  "The bomb"?  What is this, 1996?  And isn’t God considered #1 in Heaven?  I recommend they change their name from Nemesis to Hideousness tout suite.

Brooke Hogan: Sweet girl.  Looks like a man.  Shouldn’t be on the moving picture box.