The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

Because no one was available to hang out because everyone sucks, I went solo on a drunken power walk on Dolores on Saturday.  Such gorgeous houses there.

Then Sunday, Gideon and I went to the DeYoung for the Warhol exhibit.  It was quite something.  There was even a trippy acid room replete with a strobe light and everything.  I never quite realized into just how many avenues his art extended.  I also think he had OCD.  But then, as Gideon pointed out, most all artists do.  I would kill to have spent a day in the Factory. *sigh*

Even a “no” is better than not knowing for sure, so ask all the same.

If you were condemned to hell and the apocalypse came, but then God changed his mind, could he create a magical force field to lift you up to Heaven, or would it be too late?

I did drinks in the ‘Stro with Gideon, my old flame from back in the day on Friday, and within the first five minutes, he told me he’s breaking up with his boyfriend.  Promising thing.  I don’t want to get too in over my head, though, but I will say I’m excited.  We had a grand ole time, and even if things don’t go in that direction, he’ll still make the best cocktail buddy.

I’m a bit sick to death of defending Perez Hilton on IMDb for his Ms. America comment.  It’s not like I think it was the nicest thing to call her a “dumb bitch”, but she is!  She’s one of a million voices of intolerance in this country who continue to make life shit for gay people for no good reason. 

And just because he called her a “dumb bitch” and painted penis pictures over her face on his site (like he does with every celebrity), that doesn’t mean he’s “setting back the gay movement” or making a bad name for gay people.  He is ONE GAY PERSON.  Not the fucking spokesperson for our race!  So peoples’ overarching self-righteousness needs to stop now.  Or as Mrs. Brady told Jan, “Cut the crap, Jan!”

I don’t know how it happened.  There doesn’t appear to be one triggering event.  But I cut out sweets from my diet.  No more yummy chocolate chip cookies.  And as I’m getting more acclimated–nay, enjoying cardio at the gym (I out elliptical-ed two bitches next to me yesterday, and glowed with pride and sneers), I’m seeing some semblance of my vodka gut receding.  Smiles all around, folks.

I hate to seem like one of those self-important people who flicks out their cell phone every two seconds to see if they’ve received a call or text, but I keep feeling these phantom vibrations from my phone and have to keep checking it.  Freaks me out.  Maybe it’s the radioactive waves wreaking havoc on the bloodstream beneath my thigh since I keep my phone in my pocket.  Wonderful.

I had lunch with an old co-worker yesterday who is coming back to work for the company.  It was a delight to see her again and reminisce on old times.  It was certainly a different generation of HR staff back then (all of four, five years ago).  We had our little happy hour clique.  Now, everyone is much more career-minded and ambitious.  It’s not a bad thing.  Just different.

Tonight, I’m having drinks with an old flame.  I made the idiot mistake of severing ties with him many years ago, and really let what could have been a good thing go.  He’s in a relationship now, but was always a cool guy, so I looked him up on Facebook and we re-connected.  And I could always use another friend.

But if you don’t already know, then hear it now: Once you have a good thing, don’t let it go.  Don’t let pride or pettiness be an impediment to your ultimate happiness.  It’s not fucking worth it. *cue dramatic church music*

Happy 3869 Buddhist New Year.

Friday night was a first when I geared up to go to the End Up, made my little way in, and was promptly accused by a female security guard of inappropriately touching other girls in the club.  Agog, I explained to her that I’d spent the last hour or so on the side of the dancefloor having a few drinks before dancing for the last five minutes, at which time I was accosted by a young black guy in a white sequined shirt (blech, I know) who was high out of his mind and started hugging me.  My maternal instinct kicked in, and I took him out to patio area to make sure he was okay when she approached me.

I think she mistook the white guy in the black shirt for the black guy in the white shirt.  Either that or it was a fucking full moon on Friday the thirteenth.

That new Schick Quatro Bikini Trimmer commercial is a bit much.  It features chicks heading out on the town to shop, on their way out to play tennis, sunbathing by the pool, and in the background, bushes neatly form into upside down triangles.  I mean, I’m all for keeping one’s nether regions neatly trimmed, but that’s some pretty fuckin’ transparent symbolism if you ask me.

I’m in love with Google maps.  I’ve been missing Santa Barbara a bit recently (I went to college there, and haven’t been back since graduation), and hopped right onto Google to take a trip down memory lane.  Got it out of my system.  Won’t be booking a ticket there.  Peace, Reece’s!

I know it’s like a catchphrase of mine, but this time it’s true: Band Aids are racist.  They are!  I saw a very dark black man on the bus the other day with a Band Aid on his cheeks, and the fleshy-colored bandage really stuck out from the rest of his skin.  They are clearly made for white people, and with this, I take umbrage.

I would love to see chef Gordon Ramsey try the shit he pulls on “Hell’s Kitchen” in a black restaurant.  Just bring on the yellin’ and screamin’ and food throwin’, ya limey bastard, and see how the brothas and sistas respond.

I’ll be honest with you: sometimes I think it would be a good idea to go to AA or Jenny Craig.  But I don’t want to set in a group of strangers or with some vapid, grinning diet counselor and dissect my life.  I’d much rather enjoy recovery in some sort of seaside resort spa prison for three months, where all I had to eat was snow peas and mineral water, and all I had to do was meditate, get massages, and take nature walks (not uphill).  My eating habits are out of of control.  My drinking habits go unchecked.  But I don’t need AA or Jenny Craig.  I just need some luxury retreat asylum!