The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

I finally figured out why I’ve been so grouchy this week.  It’s not because I’m on my gay boy’s period, but because I’m unbelievably tired.  I don’t sleep well, never have, and get up at least twice in the middle of the night.  So, I went back to an old standard today, and drank some red apple ginseng tea.  Sure it may be packed with calories and sugar, and make my bowels bleed, but it gets me through the day with a somewhat pleasant, mildly alert mentality.

I was mortified yet overjoyed watching "Laguna Beach" flunky and big time bigot Jason Whaler "rap" on that celebrity rap show.  Was he drunk?  Or just acting like his normal wholly retarded self?

I read an article about what men should eat everyday.  One item was red wine, because the material from the skins of the grapes has an antioxidant that’s also been shown to be heart-healthy.  I drank an entire bottle of delicious, sweet port last night.

I got the scoop from an insider in our department, and things are potentially looking quite good for this year’s merit increases.  Tha’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout!

I had another one of my vivid, interactive dreams last night.  Thankfully, this one was good.  Come to think of it, I haven’t had a horrible one ever since I got rid of the cracked vanity mirror I’d been using in my room.  That would make sense considering broken mirrors are bad luck and bad feng shui.

Anyways, in the dream, I was able to fly around holding on to this red balloon.  I flew to this Las Vegas-type place over video game landscapes, but all the casinos were toy stores and candy stores.  A few times, someone tried to grab on and come with me, but for the most part, I was able to navigate and stay afloat easily.  Far better than most of my flying drams, where, once I realize I’m flying, I start to sink.  They say that when you dream of flying, you’re thinking about sex.  And how!

Those crazy ‘licans.  First Foley and his texting escapades with a teenage intern (I am still grossed out to the max about his archaic use of the word "spiriting" for ejaculating).  And now Senators Larry Craig and Bob Allen and their nasty bathroom sex scandals.  I’m so glad these glaring hypocrites were exposed for the assfucks that they are.  And with Bush’s phenomenally low approval rating, things are certainly looking up for the ‘crats.

J Co and I are wicked into salads now.  I made a bomb-ass one last night with all the fixings; romaine lettuce, baby cabbage, slices of low fat cheese, almonds, dried cranberries, fresh shrimp, and soybean peas all topped with some balsamic dressing.  And for the first time in a long time, I woke up this morning without feeling like I had to throw up.  Go on witcha greens!

I love food.  I once used to hate it, and view it as an inconvenience.  In fact, at one point in college, some friends and I tried to become anorexic.  I once tried to throw up some Top Ramen I’d eaten to no avail.  We were inspired by Fiona Apple’s "Criminal" video, and all the skinny, glamorously heroin-ized models.  But I’ve since changed my tune, and relish some good eats.  It’s one of the few necessities in life that requires no effort to enjoy.

J Co and I had a pedo moment when we watched the premier of "Life of Ryan", a reality series featuring jailbait skateboarder Ryan Sheckler.  Cute kid.  Even with that cap of hair he sports.  As Holla Scholar–who, since he has graduated and begun his new teaching job, shall heretofore be referred to as Mr. Alterhausen–would say, I’d tap it.

In a fit of nostalgia, I packed a sippy drink and took the California Train to San Mateo on Saturday. When I first moved to the San Francisco/Bay Area in October ‘99, I stayed with friends for a month before renting a room from a wicked old witch in San Mateo. I awoke every weekday morning around 5:00 am to get ready and get into the city by 8:00 am when I first started working as a receptionist. It was certainly not the best of times, but I hadn’t been back since I’d moved in mid-2000.

So, once again on board the newly renovated and much more stylish Cal Train (the garish ’70s-styled seat covers had been replaced with a slick, silver style), I rode the train past all the industrial sites and suburb-type cities into San Mateo. Firstly, the Cal Train station there looked fabulous, like some old time railroad station, but cuter. Better than the brick wall with a door that it used to be.

And I never realized just how cute San Mateo is, with its Spanish style building and quiet charm. The library had also been renovated, and looked fabulous, like some university library. I walked along the streets wondering how I could have had such racing horse blinders on while I lived there, but knew only to harken back tn memories of Mrs. Swan (no, not from "Mad TV"), the vile old woman who rented me the room, and watched me like a hawk, not allowing me to have visitors and coming up with a list of ridiculous rules that included no alcohol in the house. The one Christmas I was there, she asked semi-politely if I wouldn’t mind not being around since she was celebrating it at home with her family. I remember going to Drager’s the upscale grocery store in the neighborhood, and just being among the bustling holiday crowds all on my own.

Anyways, I bought some glow-in-the-dark stars for my room at a toy store that had once been a Walgreens (who would have ever thought a Walgreens store could be bought out??), then took the next train home. I couldn’t stand to live there now, being so damn far away from civilization. But it was good to just revisit the past, and realize that I’m past it.

I was running around like a wild chicken last night doing errands after work, among them, my laundry.  And when I went to go get my clothes from the dryer at the ripe old hour of 11:00, I discovered that the recovered crack addict attendant had closed up early, leaving me to wonder if my accouterments would later be sold for drugs I couldn’t have.

I woke up this morning with a pain in my right arm.  It hasn’t left.

We have one staff member on vacation until next week, another one going on maternity leave, and two who have to be trained.  I’m already worn to the core thinking about it.

I am, as always, poorer than I expected to be despite my attempt at budgeting.

I guess the only good news is my haircut, which came off smashingly courtesy of my new stylist, Michael.  I’ve already been told I look thinner and tanner.  Fuckulicious.

My stylist done up and moved to Texas with his malignant boyfriend, leaving me to the wolves among the other stylists at his salon.  Luckily, he did recommend someone there, whom I’m going to today.  It’s not like I have some complicated weave or complex cornrows to bead, but the right haircut can really make or break you.  I like it short and sweet, but I rely on the right stylist to keep the sides of my hair from ballooning up into this sort of Carol Brady effect that I just can’t stand.  Time will tell.

You *can* judge a book by its cover.  And I don’t mean metaphorically, I’m talking literally. If it’s got a cover that really pops, chances are it’s a good read.

Fashion boutiques selling thrift store clothes at department store prices are a great scam, but a stupid buy.  Secondhand stores are all the rage, babe.

J Co returned last night in full form–well, no, she was actually quite jet lagged.  But she managed to be her old endearingly forgetful, quasi-frat boy self, belching intermittently as we watched the new epi of "The Hills" while eating delicious PMS food.  It’s good to have my roommate back.

As a person in a position of authority at my job, I often have to give people answers to questions that they don’t like.  Upon giving such answers, people will just remain silent, expecting me to say more.  At this, I am at a loss.  I mean, when someone in the know tells you what the facts are, why continue to dispute them?  Still, they do, so what can I do?

I have decided to stop drinking on weekdays, yesterday notwithstanding in celebration of J Co’s return.  Wish me luck.

I can feel the thirty-ness creeping up upon me.  It’s but two months off.  Holla Scholar and I were discussing it just the other day.  We no longer get carded when buying alcohol.  Like, not at all.  I mean, it had started to taper off, but now it’s gone.

I had thought it might have something to do with the fact that I’m usually in work clothes buying it at Trader Joe’s during my lunch break.  But then I saw this notice all the cashiers had on their registers: REMEMBER TO ID ANYONE WHO LOOKS UNDER 35.  And I says to myself, I says, Do I really look six years older than I actually am?

Who is that faggot-y Tommy Lee-looking homo with the fluffy raver-cum-pimp hat who hosts "The Pick-up Artist"?  "Mystery" is his name?  The only mystery is why this queer duck thinks he’s got the goods to get any and all chicks.

"LA Ink" rules.

I first saw use of the word "messianic" the other day, and have plans to use it liberally heretofore.

On the bus home the other day back from shopping, the combined odors of someone’s salami sandwich and the Fritos some crackhead was munching on nearly caused me to ralph before I’d reached my stop.  I miss the smell of the buses in San Diego.  It’s this nice kind of pizza-y plastic smell.  And they’re so much nicer, with their cushion-y seats and tinted windows.  The smell of them reminds me of when I used to take the bus to Hillcrest to go to OutWrite, the little gay youth writing group of which I was a part one summer; or to venture downtown in the hopes of finding underage clubs or cool shopping spots; or coming back from the San Diego Youth Symphony rehearsals in Balboa Park.