The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

After a too-long-prolonged reunion with my illicit old friend Costella Friday night that took me well into the wee hours, I was out for the count and useless on Saturday, getting nothing done.  So when the day of Folsom hit, I popped up at 11:30 already with two texts and a voicemail from LG awaiting me, and hit the Marina Trader Joe’s for some emergency Smirnoff, Two Buck Chuck, and actual groceries.  Then it was back to Casa de Fiesta where J Co was fending off some fifty odd people sending her about 800 texts wanting to meet her at the fair, until we finally got out the door (which door?).

You would never know we were in a period of economic decline to see revelers at the fair.  We actually had to wait in line to get in, paying the $7 “recommended donation” and getting an admission sticker from one of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence.  Then making our way passed the bruised asses, nekkid mens, leather-clad ladies, and drag queens, J Co and I trekked for what felt like miles before we reunited with our respective friends. 

LG was baked, and I was toasted, and together we hit up the dancefloor, took as many peen pics as were able to (though my count this year sadly was not as high as last year’s…), sanitized our hands after using the port-a-whirls or whatever they’re calling port-a-potties nowadays, before the record slowed to a halt, and the day came to an end.

And I lived to tell about it this morning.  There’s something to be said for putting the breaks on the partying ’round 7:00 on a Sunday so you can still make it to work Monday.   You guys.

Notwithstanding the violent vomiting that began my Monday morning after much excessive drinking, my weekend was a joy.

It began Saturday with a reunion with LG, a dear old friend of Mr. Alterhausen’s in his Berkeley days who was last seen at the End Up circa 2000/2001, then left for Idaho or Ohio or one of those red states highly populated with white people where he has since resided for the past seven years.  We hit up the ‘Stro, did the Bar on Castro and the Mix while discussing Jem, the Roger Rabbit, and our favorite stable of divas, then had deliciously unhealthy burritos in the Mission.

Then Sunday, I met up with Dascha in the Haight, freshly back from the Continent and with adorable blonde highlights.  We had cosmos at Trax and crepes afterwards with much invigorating converstaion most of which I don’t remember because I was a full three sheets to the wind. 

Folsom Street Fair next weekend with Melissika making a feature appearance.  I will, as ever, be one of the only fully clothed, non-costume wearing people, but as I will take any excuse to be soused in public during the daytime, I can’t wait.

Welcome to an era of economic woe worse than the Great Depression!  Jump on in, kids!

Some switch flipped on in me and my mom’s cleaning gene was activated a few weeks ago.  I’m suddenly fixated on wiping any little spill, sweeping up fallen bits of food, spraying down the sinks and counters, and washing dishes before they hit the basin.  It’s not a bad thing.

People with pornographic pictures, either personal or procured, on their MySpace: brave or tacky?

Doesn’t Rite Aid’s slogan, “With us, it’s personal” sounds a bit threatening?

My new bed arrives tomorrow!  A plush firm, queen size mattress set.  And I’ve already bought all the beddings.  They’re sitting in their packages, waiting to be unwrapped and herald in the beginning of a peaceful night’s sleep from now on.  I’m taking the day off to gut my room, scrub it down, toss out the old mattress, and begin anew.  I can’t wait.

There was some super shit commercial on the other night where this skeletal-thin chick is eating one of those one hundred calorie packs of Oreo’s or M & M’s or whatever–all of which still contain trans fat/hydrogenated oils, so you’re not doing yourself any favors whatsoever.  And she’s being driven in a cab through this urban fairytale of a city replete with kids playing jumprump and people walking dogs who fortuitously bump into their future lovers, all while this jaunty tune plays.  And the whole fucking thing is like getting anal raped with a molten lava-tipped pitchfork over and over again ’cause those hundred calorie packs aren’t going to help you be thin and happy.  Just chunky and happy.  So cut the crap, Jan!

Hearing a beautiful new song is like riding over the tip of a roller coaster.  It’s amazing and exciting, and you wouldn’t think you’d ever still be alive and get to experience something like it.

Happy 9/11th anniversary, you guys! 

As Mr. Alterhausen aptly put it when we went to visit NYC this past May, it really appears to be a tourist scam when you look at the site now, some seven years later.  It’s literally just a gaggle of construction workers wandering to and fro, the requisite crane, a few planks of steel, and lots of dirt.  Not a hint of an edifice in sight. 

According to the city, there are issues with a proposed subway underneath the land, the cost is higher than initially estimated, there are security issues, and it won’t be built in the ten years since the anniversary as initially proposed. 

Why build anything there at all?  Does NYC really need another building? Who would feel comfortable working in a building that served as an unmarked gravesite for such a recent tragedy in history?  Did they steamroll over the concentration camps, cement ‘em up, and build parking lots over them when the war was over? 

Build a memorial there.  Let the people who’ve lost someone have their peace. Honor the memory of those who were lost.  Try to think about why it happened instead of rising out of the ashes like some capitalist phoenix with a blatant erection of a skyscraper like we’re flipping off the Taliban chanting, “Nyah, nyah, nyah nyaaah, nyaaaah!”

Grow the fuck up, America.

I got on the bus this morning and it smelled of sweat and peas.  Nice and crowded, too.  I oft wish I had a machine gun when I get on the bus so’s I can just mow the motherfuckers down and have myself a seat.

There’s something very self righteous about Whole Foods employees. They are all like hippies who are holier than thou, asking, as you present large boxes of foods, vast quantities of produce, and several bottles of wine, if you need a bag.  Since grocery bags nowadays are the enemy, responsible not only for global warming, but terrorism, the budget deficit, and the war.  I bet they just can’t stand the ending of “American Beauty”.

An incident occurred a week or so ago where I was in the kitchen of our office, and one of the woman who works in the other department on our floor was washing dishes with another woman, and referred to me as a “maricon”.  “Maricon” is Spanish for fag.  I may not have learned that in high school Spanish, but everyone knows the bad words.  And how blatantly retarded could she have been to have assumed she could get away with saying it?  I didn’t approach her at the time–because if I had, she would either be in the hospital or a morgue–but instead did the mature thing, and notified my manager.

Action is being taken, though it’s nothing severe since I’m working off of what I assume I heard versus what I know I heard.  But, ya know, I know I heard it.  And I hope the bitch gets it.