The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

When I pass by people on the street who seem to be staring at me, I assume they’re thinking:

a) Wow, what a fag.

b) Wow, what a weird-looking fag.

or

c) Wow, he’s kind of cute.

Now, I suspect it’s more often than not choice B since SF is packed to the brim with homos, so seeing yet another one pass by can’t be all that astonishing for your average resident.  But it’s still kind of annoying since I hate to have attention focused on me, unless I’m purposely trying to get it (e.g., leading a new hire orientation at work).

At times, I’ve come this close to flipping the person the bird, or saying with crisp, clean enunciation, Fuck_you."   But I’ve managed to restrain myself.  I just don’t know that I can hold out much longer.

"Only" two months until San Diego.  I was thinking yesterday about Parkway Plaza, the big mall in El Cajon where all the kids hang out.  I remember going there all the time when I was in middle- and high school.  I saw the first movie I saw on my own without my parents, "Big", at that mall.  I also bought the blue-black hair dye I used to dye my hair my junior year of high school at that mall.  Mm.

An all too typical phone conversation between me and an employee at work:

Me: "Human Resources.  This is Josh."
Employee: "Oh, hi, Josh!  I was just wondering if I could make an appointment with you to go over becoming benefited and what my pay rate would be."
Me: "I can give you that information over the phone, actually.  What’s your social security number?"
EE: "123-45-6789."
Me: "Okay, just a moment". (I look the person up in the system) "Okay, your pay rate would be $51.44 an hour."
EE: "That’s it?"
Me: (pauses) "Yes."
EE: "Even with all my experience?"
Me: (sighs internally) "Yes."
EE: "Why?"
Me: "That’s what’s in the union contract.  There will also be a three percent raise in February."

If at this moment, you’re wondering how someone could think $51.44/hr. is meager compensation, it gets better…

EE: (resignedly) "Okay, well, I heard that you were giving bonuses to people who converted to benefited status?"
Me: "We had a temporary program last February through August, but it’s over now."
EE: "Why?"
Me: (pauses) "Because it ended in August."
EE: "But why?"
Me: "Because that’s what they decided.  It was just a temporary program."
EE: (sighs) "Okay, well do I make an appointment to come in and sign paperwork for benefits?"
Me: "No, you actually do it all online."
EE: "So, what do I need to do?"
Me: (grits teeth) "You need to tell your manager that you want to convert to benefited status, they’ll send us the paperwork, then we’ll send you an offer letter with all of the information."
EE: "Okay.  Thaaaank you."
Me: "You’re welcome.  Bye."

It may seem like a pretty trivial gripe to post this, and I’m sure people who work at the DMV and such have it worse, but the employees at my company are highly paid professionals in their field, who perform quite complex tasks on an everyday basis.  So you’d think that they could comprehend simple responses to basic questions without resorting to protesting the facts like a three-year old, n’est-ce pas?

I had a patch of bad luck last week when the elbows on three or four of my work shirts ripped, meaning I had to buy new ones.  Now, I don’t particulary care for buying clothes for work, because it’s sort of a waste of money as far as I’m concerned.  It’s like dressing up to go to the bathroom: you know you have to go, but why make such a fuss of it?

But it was an intriguing day full of storm clouds and sunshine yesterday, so I went on down to Polk street to a secondhand fashion boutique, and found four new suave shirts straight out the bag that I bought.  The store was also robbed by a tranny while I was in there, but the guard wasn’t big enough to fight her off before she took off with her pilfered accouterments.  On the way back home, I passed a fat man in a clown wig and headphone yelling at his female companion that he wanted pizza, not the "fucking Chinese food" to which she’d taken him.  Such a colorful neighborhood.

Friday night, I hit L’End Up and when the bouncer patted me down and happened upon my walkman (that’s right, old school cassette deck and e’erything), he asked, "What the hell is that?"  I needs me an iPod.

Remember that before you blame something on society, you are part of society.

A federal law should be enacted that requires any price for a good or service that is advertised to include its full and actual price, tax included.  There’s no reason the whole thing should be such a fucking mystery.  Tax is tax.  It’s not like shipping costs which may vary depending on where it’s going.  It’s going to be a set amount.  So put it on the bloody pricetag!

How long has Jared been doing those Subway commercials?  And I take it, at some time in the past few years, he’s tapered off, and gone back to consuming some more flesh-adding foods?

I recommend they do a "Real World"-type show full of seven of the best , freakiest "American Idol" rejects.  That’d be a hoot and a half.

Color me stoked, gurl!   J. Na Na jus’ booked hisewf a flight back to the motherland (i.e., San Diego) for the end of March.  Hopefully, there won’t be some turbulent storm abrewin’ this time.  I’m really looking forward to it.  And I have a full six days to stroll around and reminisce.  I never got to go to Balboa Park last time.  That would be nice.  And I wouldn’t mind doing a more thorough re-visit of the neighborhood I grew up in.  Thankfully, the trolley goes through there now.

So many memories…

Don’t those commercials with doctors endorsing those satanic weight loss pills remind you of those doctors from the 1960 who used to endorse cigarettes?

When she was little, my sister broke into the bathroom and drank all the Pepto Bismal, in the process getting it all over the walls.

I’m not going to see any more horror movies until they promise to stop using that same deathly blue pallor ghost character that walks on its elbows.  Once in "The Ring" was enough.

It’s always a bit awkward when you run into a friend of an ex.  Especially if you’re quite estranged from said ex.  This happened to me on Friday night when I ran into a girl named Barbara while on the Muni. 

She was accompanied by her new husband, and looked cute as ever.  Luckily, so did I, having just come back from the hair salon, and wearing a sharp new shirt.  And you always want news of how good you look–or, even better, how much better you look–being delivered back to your erstwhile amour.

Thankfully, our exchange was generalized, but personable, and we parted ways without an incendiary comment made.

I made the retarded mistake of watching the DVD on TV version of "The Exorcist" on AMC last night, and couldn’t get to sleep for fear of Pazzuzu popping into my room unannounced.

I’m planning to visit the fam in San Diego in late March.  It’s been a year since my last visit, and I still can’t stop thinking about my hometown.  Not so much that I direly miss it, it’s just that I’m the most nostalgic motherfucker on planet Earth, and there are a lot of memories packed into the place I spent the first seventeen years of my life, you know?

I really wanted to go to Ibiza this summer, as the sort of last summer before I turn 30.  I’ve wanted to go ever since I enviously read about the party island abroad in the damned British dance music magazines back when I was a wee lad.  But looking at hotel rates, it seems I’d need a good couple thousand just to stay for a week and, ya know, eat and drink.  Pity.

I want to start a band called The Whom.  Care to join?

I discussed with J. Co that we should commit to dine out in North Beach on a biweekly basis.  It literally looks like a slice of Italy at night, and just can’t be beat for its charm.

This past weekend, it was the coldest it’s ever been in SF since I’ve lived here.  And I had the worst craving for an ice cream sandwich.  I couldn’t bring myself to buy one, though, because I knew I’d get looks.

Why are all car commercials about….. life?

I wish I owned a magazine.  I’d put Jennifer Hudson and America Ferrera right smack dab on the cover.

Getting a cut on your hand is the absolute worst.  You’re bleeding profusely and trying to open the Band-Aid, and you’ve rinsed the cut to stave off infection so it doesn’t stick properly to your wet skin.  And since you use your hands for everything, it’s almost inevitable that you’ll bump the boo into something and restart the cycle of pain and crisis all over again.  It sucks diseased anus, I tell you.

From where does the saying, "Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle" originate?

Peter Wentz from Fallout Boy is utterly fuckable.