The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

A lot of people dismiss country music as twangy tripe, but if you actually listen to a lot of the songs, they tell a story.  And no, they’re not all about how my wife left me, my dog died, and all I have is this bottle of whine (sic). 

The day before I left Vegas, my grandma and I were walking along the Strip when Garth Brooks’s "The Dance" came on, a reflective homage he wrote about his relationship with his former wife. 

"I love this song," I sad.

"Me, too," said my grandma, as we sang along while strolling along under the neon-lit night, as the crowds passed by. 

Y’all dance music aficionados may recalls Rockell’s version of it from 2000, produced by Hex Hector.  Even in dancefloor form, it’s still a great song, moving in a very simple, sweet way.

Anyways, epilogues for fictional characters–unless facetious–are otherwise quite embarrassing.

How come you can sometimes see the moon during the daytime?

Anyone who knows me knows I like me some reality TV.  Here are some thoughts I have about some new shows, out now:

"Twentyfourseven"
This is the story of some reanimated roadkill that was shipped out to Hollywood in the hopes of making it big.

"I Love New York"
Should be called "20 Faggots and a Drag Queen"

"The White Rapper Show"
What is that part of the bible where a red star of blood appears in the sky to mark Satan overtaking the Earth?

"Breaking Bonaduce"
He looks like he smells like farty spam.

"Elimidate"
No reality dating show makes me feel more uncomfortable than this one."

"Cheaters"
My favorite episodes are the ones with black people, ’cause you know somethin’s goin’ down.

"Only takes one sip of wine to know if the bottle’s good."
–lush maid in "Pillow Talk" giving love advice to Doris Day’s character

God bless the 27.  Bus route, that is.  In the year plus I’ve lived in my happenin’ pad on Nob Hill (key word: Hill.  Capitalized.), I’ve gone from considering the walk uphill home as good exercise, to occasionally circumventing it by hopping the cable car, to proclaiming it the Nazi Death Hike.  So, I finally took a look at the Muni map to find a bus that would get me to my street sweat-free, and that bus was the 27.  I’m pleased as punch.

"Adventures in Babysitting" was such a rad movie.

Margaritas are the mostest.

I still feel guilty to this day about a crank call I made in the seventh grade.

Hillary Swank scares me.  Look like her teeth are about to jump out of her mouth and bite ya.

"Only takes one sip of wine to know if the bottle’s good."
–lush maid in "Pillow Talk" giving love advice to Doris Day’s character

God bless the 27.  Bus route, that is.  In the year plus I’ve lived in my happenin’ pad on Nob Hill (key word: Hill.  Capitalized.), I’ve gone from considering the walk uphill home as good exercise, to occasionally circumventing it by hopping the cable car, to proclaiming it the Nazi Death Hike.  So, I finally took a look at the Muni map to find a bus that would get me to my street sweat-free, and that bus was the 27.  I’m pleased as punch.

"Adventures in Babysitting" was such a rad movie.

Margaritas are the mostest.

I still feel guilty to this day about a crank call I made in the seventh grade.

Hillary Swank scares me.  Look like her teeth are about to jump out of her mouth and bite ya.

While my trip to Vegas was enjoyable, I was so happy to get home. Just taking my lunchtime walk today, and seeing a skyline full of trademark SF apartment flats in the sunny afternoon was a treat. The non-strip part of Vegas has that very midwest soulless staleness to it–all the same types of houses, giant ominous Walmarts, etc. Not good.

J. Co and I are seriously considering subscribing to Merry Maids. We are currently in the process of kitty-proofing the apartment as best we can. I can’t wait ’til we get him next week. I predict it will be a he-kitty, but that, of course, remains to be seen.

Why do we even have the South?

4/7/09

That is the date I will resign from my job.  Or die and thus resign from it.  At least, that’s what I predicted.  But I ain’t not John Edwards or Ann Landers or Lisa Williams, so who’s to say. 

I can’t believe Tower Records folded.  What a woebegone world this is when you can’t go into a music store and actually buy music anymore.  I need to get with the proge and get a computer.

My New Year’s resolution is to travel more.

Next week, J. Co and I are getting a kitty.  I’m so excited!

Welcome to freakin’ 2007, boys and girls!

Vegas was Vegas.  Had a time with grandma Petula (who is a cross between a southern belle and a ’60s housewife) and grandpa Lance (who is a spitfire of a businessman).  With its giant pillars, numerous fountains, and larger than life edifices, Vegas looks like heaven was must be like, without all the slot machines and card tables.  And smoke.  God, the smoke.   But yes, the free drinking.  AND you can drink in public, which was an utter marvel to me of which I most certainly partook. 

I at one point had $200, but came back with $4.  I also peed in a urinal the shape of the flux capacitor.

My lax vacation eating habits were in painfully full effect as well, much to my later chagrin.  I will need to go on Lipozene (http://www.lipozene.com/) and not eat for the entire month of January.  Black will be the color du jour (or actually du mois, sheeut). 

I was so happy to be back home, though.  Everyone keeps telling me I look "rested".  I suppose that’s a good thing.

Is the smell of your poo/gas hereditary, or completely based on what you eat?

Bear with me, but do you see anything wrong with using your toilet if you don’t have a garbage disposal?  I don’t mean for things like chicken bones and burnt rump roast, but just small undesirable ephemera like the last few bits of rice at the bottom of the bowl or the little bit of cereal left over in the bowl?