The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

I’m a little melancholy at present.  I just found out the Living Room coffeehouse in Hillcrest, the gay part of San Diego where I grew up, is closing.  Along with its younger sibling Euphoria, the classic Landmark Theatre, and a few other stores like my good old Blockbuster Music, the Living Room is the last in a line of places that were the backdrop to my coming out experience.  Before I knew drinking, drugs, or clubs, it was enough to be in good company and carouse the homo-teeming streets of Hillcrest under a starlit sky.  There has never been another time as carefree in my life, and I’m sad to see it go.

http://www.theespresso.com/ed_displayarticle.php?id=146&PHPSESSID=323a831a1cd4a0a2578236604ca54c9c

Tiff Tiff and Melissika came up this weekend for an extended girls’ nite out, and it was more fun than a barrel. We drank in excess, dined at- and were dissed at Lori’s Diner by a waiter named Horrace, shopped at H & M (which, didn’t you know, stands for Hellish & Miserable), and I forced them to buy wares at my beloved Body Shop. Not that they needed it, but they’d previously highly dissed it, and I was hellbent on changing their minds.

Things I learned this past weekend:

1. I love taking pics of chicks doing faux lesbian kisses with hair extensions.

2. I’d previously thought champagne was the pussy of all alcohols, but have in fact discovered that the right kind rocks.

3. My fucking front door buzzer still doesn’t work.

4. Sugardaddy4me.com is no place to find a man. Nor a sugar daddy. Sugar the kitty cat is all the sugar we need.

5. I wish I had more black friends. But three max.

6. Some of my dearest friends think that, and I quote, God sucks.

7. I like–nay, love girls who include the following words in their everyday discourse:
fuck
fucking
fag
faggot
homo
bitch
screwed
penis
dick
balls
pussy
eating pussy
metro (and I don’t mean the bus, bitch)
fat
Xanax
Vicodin
Atravan
nigger
nigga
niggaaaaa
friendly
whore
prostitute

That is all.

A homeless person sat next to me on the bus this morning. The stench of alcohol and trash he brought nearly caused me to vomit. What better way to start the day, eh?

Why does Hotmail have to change their layout? I don’t care for change when it’s an inconvenience.

I’m having sushi for lunch with my co-workers. Then Tiff Tiff, Melissika, and X-Tinafied are coming

In an ongoing effort to diminish my Bacardi belly and with my impending thirtieth birthday, I’ve added sit-ups back to my exercise routine…and now know precisely why I stopped doing them in the first place.  Akin to some cruel form of medieval torture, nothing hurts more than working your stomach muscles.  Thankfully, it has helped pay off a bit.  Just need to keep up with it.

Speaking of my thirtieth, me and my bitches are heading out to see Kathy Griffin, who performs right on the day of.  I’m very, very excited.  I do hope she wins the Emmy for her show this year.

I saw a poster for a lost bird.  I wanted to call the person and say, "Sweets, I think you ought give up the dream."

I just enjoyed a blithering diatribe from an employee who was not given a recent experience-based pay increase because she’s one month shy of the criterion.  This is tough titties, however, since it’s a union contract-based pay increase with set-in-stone criterion.  And while I tried to sympathize with her, the bitch makes $57.66 an hour, so eventually, I just didn’t know what else to say to her, and she just hung up on me. 

You feel for these people, and how hard they work, but they’re also quite well-compensated for it, and should direct their ire and suggestions to the fucking union with their complaints, not my middle man ass–which, by the way, hasn’t seen a pay increase in a good year and half.  So I say, kindly shove it, madam.

Why do car commercials emphasize how fast a car can go?  The potential fatality factor of a car should not be its biggest selling point.

I love piercings.  On other people.  You see, I’m just wary of sticking something into your body that doesn’t belong nor serve any discernible physical benefit or purpose being making one look possibly more attractive.  You see the dilemma.

I’m not always happy to be alive, but I appreciate the life I have.

It’s like a train that’s coming from miles and miles away, maybe half way around the world, from so far in the past that you know it’s coming eventually, but don’t really pay attention to it in the meantime.  So when it does come, it steamrolls into your life with such a rush that it overtakes you.

After my mom and dad had me, my dad went splitsville.  He went on to marry another woman, and have two daughters and a son with her.  Now, through the wonder of MySpace and that fact that we share an uncommon last name, I’ve been reunited with my half-brother and one of my half-sisters.  And they’re totally cool.  It’s just totally weird.  Not the least of which is because their mother has been communicating with me via MySpace for the past few months, and hadn’t mentioned how she knew me. 

I can say that it’s something new and exciting, and helps begin to close a circle in my life that has been incomplete since my birth.  It’s also really cool to have a brother, since I already have two half-sisters from my mom as well.

I managed to get through our summer training programs, the busiest time of the year for me, even with the jury duty last week.  I busted my ass on Thursday and Friday processing all the new hires, and now can happily say it’s over.  Now I’m in preparation for my sister Marie’s visit next month.  I already have a list of tourist-y shit to do like Alcatraz, the TransAmerican Tower, the Beach Chalet, pretty much all of which I haven’t done myself.  Should be good times.

Those ringtone ads asking you to text to 42020 (yeah, 420, we get it…) are about as blatantly blase as the "songs" they purvey.  It is the stuff of sketch comedy parody.  Move on, folks.

Anyone who wears a scrunchie in the year 2007 is just suspicious.

"Isn’t Scientology one of those things where you meet someone, then they tell you they’re a Scientologist, and you’re like, ‘Mm, I’m out.’  But you don’t want to say anything because they do kill people somewhere in the south."

–Kathy Griffin

I was in jury duty hell Friday, Monday, and Tuesday.  I am such a creature of habit, that being broken from my normal pattern of going into work and steadily easing into the day with my pep-inducing diet pill, multi-vitamin, and big breakfast, followed by a series of pee breaks, really pissed me off.  And I constantly need stimuli to keep me awake.  And sitting and fucking waiting ’til no end does not qualify. 

Thankfully, I had a cool bunch of intelligent San Franciscans as jurors who dealt with the case fairly and with good humor.  If nothing else, it made me glad that I live in this city.

Nevertheless, the time it took has really hit me, especially since this is the busiest time of the year at work.  To top that, my fucking rent check bounced because my bank sucks and claims I had less money in my account than was up and displayed online.  There’s a nice $80 fee my way, and another ding in my tenancy. 

Super duper, pooper scooper!

My wonderful fourth of July began with me awakening at the crack of noon, and ended with my attempts to comfort Sugar, who believed the world was ending with the rockets red glare and the fireworks fuckin’ bursting in the air outside at night.  It was nice to have that one day to sort of break up the week, and get in some extra sleep, sho’ ’nuff.

All it took was the movie "Trainspotting" to keep me far, far away from heroin.

"Afoul" is such a great word that you rarely get a chance to use.

Why is it "dressed to the nines" and not "dressed to the tens"?