The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

Why is it always joyless, pattern-bred emo youth who work in used CD stores, and openly bitch about and deride disco, dance, and techno.  Maybe a couple spins on the dancefloor and a bit of E might raze their self-imposed sense of hip gloom.  Just a thought.

My head aches today, and we have this big project which of course is due by 5:00.  I should know better than to do shots on a weekday night.

Why is Diddy performing at Princess Diana’s memorial concert?  No really, why?

I think it’s great when language changes.  Like how you can say "Google it" and most anyone will know what you mean.  Or how "remix" has broadened beyond the lexicon of dance music enthusiasts to the general youth culture.  Or how "text" is now a verb.  Viva la lingua!

I’ve taken to this habit of high-fiveing people like some frat boy, especially when I’m drunk.  I do it fully facetiously, though.  I just hope people realize that.

I’m thoroughly pissed that almost none of the democratic candidates support same-sex marriage, only civil unions.  I thought we were on the brink of a revolution with two of the top democratic candidates being a woman and a black man.  But it appears sexism and racism still hold precident over homophobia.  This fucking country sucks sometimes.

Tiff Tiff came up for Pride this weekend and we had a helluva time.  It wasn’t even so much all the partying, but just hanging out with her was cool, especially since I’ve been without human company in the house for the past month since J. Co’s been gone.  We did the End Up Friday night (her first time there!  Unfortunately, we got there too close to last call and didn’t stay long), woke up at the crack of the crack Saturday to move her car, then did the festival later that day, where she bought some J. Lo sunglasses, we took plenty o’ pics, then dined at the utterly delicious Asquew. 

I was too tanked to deal with the parade on Sunday, and she had to leave for work that day, so that closed out the weekend quite nicely.  Well, aside from my trip back from the grocery store that evening on the bus, whereupon some little Asian man tried to take my seat before I’d even gotten out of it, then berated me for knocking him over as I ignored him.

Otherwise, good times.

I finally wrapped up my week of cleaning yesterday.  Sugar, unaccustomed to the spritzing of Windex and the sound of the vacuum, retreated to J. Co’s room for the most part, and didn’t come out even after I was through until I coaxed her.  I am excited for Melissika and Tiff Tiff to come up for Pride this weekend, for they will surely make the unbearable fleshfeast that it inevitably turns out to be more fun, and make great drinking buddies.  And oh, how I love to be drunk out in public during the daytime.

Why do people think it’s better if it comes from another country?  Food, furniture, skincare products?  How Americans can be so xenophobic  when it comes to letting other people come into our country, and yet dive in to any crap that they make because it’s imbued with this undue exoticism mystifies the hell outta me.

I desperately want to go to LA.

I clean better drunk.  The alcohol numbs the pain of having to get on my hands and knees and scrub, and blacks out the boredom of the tasks at hand.  A good cocktail gets the job done, says I.

Have you noticed how Weird Al Yankovic looks as young today as he did when he made "UHF"?  And he doesn’t strike me as the type to get Botox.  Truly weird.

Do they still have "Captain Eo" at Disneyland?

The theme of my having frighteningly vivid dreams continued the other night when I faced off, video-game style (as always) with this wizard-like villan after battling my way through all sorts of mindless robots in this arctic setting with these aurora borealis lights overhead.  It wasn’t easy to beat him–I had to make him drink this potion–but I finally won.  And for my victory, he granted me the wish of finding my true love.

This, for some reason, required that he turn back time.  Suddenly, everything starting going backwards.  People started walking backwards, plants turned to saplings, like some sort of time-lapse video in science class–even Sugar disappeared and was replaced by her mother as a kitten.  It had something to do with my needing to change who I was in the past to find love now, or needing to have the advantage of the knowledge I have now back then to find it.  But I couldn’t stop it, and ended up being stuck in the past.

I was so distressed when I woke up, I just wanted to hug someone for comfort.  But no one was there.

From "Judge Judy":
(Plaintiff is discussing what may have caused her medical condition)
Judge Judy: "Don’t tell me what may have caused it.  Are you a physician?"
Plaintiff: "No."
Judge Judy: "Good!"

While I love the song, I kind of think Amy Winehouse’s "Rehab" reeeeally isn’t sending the best message to the radio-listening public.

Gordon Ramsey looks like a burn-damaged hobbit.

I don’t support movies featuring rats that prepare and cook food.

I love fountains.  Except drinking fountains.  Do they still have those in elementary schools?  Rusted, germ-infested spouts pumping mold-flavored water.  Yum!

For the first time ever, my cell died on me last night.  Bearing in mind that I’ve only had it for a month and a half, and it’s my first cell ever, I can easily tell you it was an apocalyptic crisis of global proportions (was that redundant?).  I felt naked (in a bad way), disconnected from the world, and sad.

Like a distressed ’50s movie starlet, I struggled through the paraphernalia of information sent with the phone from T-Mobile when I initially got it, looking for a troubleshooting section, but all for naught.  I read something to the effect of, "If there are problems with your phone, take it in to your nearest T-Mobile outlet."

Thoughts of contending with some greasy, straighter than straight salesguy who would pontificate, "Well, I don’t see anything wrong with it.  Are you sure you didn’t spill some make-up on it *snigger, snigger*".

But I calmed myself, plugged in the recharger and went to bed.

And it was just fine and dandy this morning.   I don’t know what the hell was wrong with it.  I charge it every night.   I guess I forgot the other night.

What…exactly qualifies Tobey Maguire as a "heartthrob"?  All that make-up can’t conceal his spotty complexion on the big screen, nor compensate for his bug-popping eyes.  And he talks like he’s chewing his upper lip at the same time, gnawing away at the labial with every syllable.  No thanks.

When I first heard someone use the word "chillax", I actually laughed out loud.  Not out of impressed amusement, but of scornful embarrassment.

Sometimes I wish you had a plug you could pull or a switch you could flip on your body to just immediately die painlessly.