The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

From: Kimberly (HR)
Sent: Friday, May 29, 2009 8:11 AM
To: Joshua;  Kelly
Subject: RE: Frames

OMG you are sooo funny – thank you for making my Friday Morning.

Kimberly
_____________________________________________
From:  Joshua
Sent: Thursday, May 28, 2009 4:28 PM
To: Kelly;  Kimberly
Subject: RE: Frames

Time keeps on slippin’, slippin’, slippin’…..into the fuuutuuuuuuure…….

_____________________________________________
From:  Kelly
Sent: Thursday, May 28, 2009 4:27 PM
To: Joshua;  Kimberly (HR)
Subject: RE: Frames

Good god I’m 10 years older than Kim?  How did I get here?

Kelly
_____________________________________________
From:  Joshua
Sent: Thursday, May 28, 2009 4:15 PM
To: Kelly; Kimberly
Subject: RE: Frames

Or just old age.

Speaking of, guess who’s turning 30?  Kim-bah-ya!  Caaan’t wait.

_____________________________________________
From:  Kelly
Sent: Thursday, May 28, 2009 3:57 PM
To: Joshua;  Kimberly
Subject: RE: Frames

The fake plastic roach was both requisite and fitting.

Touché on the forgetfulness. Selective memory.

Kelly
_____________________________________________
From:  Joshua
Sent: Thursday, May 28, 2009 3:39 PM
To: Kelly;  Kimberly (HR)
Subject: RE: Frames

Well if we’re relying on your ability to recall things—like, for instance, that little lunch with Natalie?—then that explains your delirious misassumption.  That box, like your fake plastic roach, were neither wanted, nor needed.

_____________________________________________
From: Kelly
Sent: Thursday, May 28, 2009 3:36 PM
To:  Joshua; Kimberly
Subject: RE: Frames

If I recall you begged me to keep that box. You loved it and didn’t know how you would live and recycle without it.

I live for your sarcasm.

Kelly
_____________________________________________
From:  Joshua
Sent: Thursday, May 28, 2009 3:34 PM
To: Kelly; Kimberly (HR)
Subject: RE: Frames

I’ve actually been wondering when someone would relieve me of that box of nonsense, and glad to see you people are finally on top of it.  Thanks for letting the recycling just flutter all over the ground, too.   ‘Ppreciate!

And P.S., I live for Kimmie’s passive aggressiveness.  Few things put a smile on my face so big!

_____________________________________________
From: Kelly
Sent: Thursday, May 28, 2009 3:06 PM
To: Kimberly
Cc:  Linda;  Joshua
Subject: RE: Frames

Kim – you are obviously very highly Resourceful. Josh and I are very low in Exactness. Sorry to drag you down with me Josh. We just work well in a chaotic environment – don’t care if things are “out of order” ( nice way of saying messy).

I’m glad they are being put to good use!

Kelly
_____________________________________________
From: Kimberly (HR)
Sent: Thursday, May 28, 2009 2:07 PM
To: Kelly
Cc: Linda;  Joshua
Subject: Frames

Hi Kelly,

Linda needed some frames to congratulate her students, my resourcefulness remembered the T+ ones that were left over from the deep and wide project.  I regifted them to Linda – since it appeared you no longer wanted them and Josh was using them to prop his recycling.  Please let me know if you have a deep connection and I can get them back for you :p

Sorry Josh.

Thank you,
Kimberly

I’d meant to go to the gym yesterday, but yesterday was my Monday, and I’m always beat Monday.  So instead, I came home, crashed, and awoke around 9:00 pm feeling restless.  So I took a walk downtown.

It’s quite pleasant at night, without the glare of the sun and with fewer people clogging up the sidewalks.  I took a stroll down 4th St., which reminded me of when I used to take the Muni in to Powell from Ingleside, and then the bus down 4th to Universe back in the day.  God, what a fucking trek.  Couldn’t help but get a little emotional, nonetheless.  In a way, I miss those days.

I am not usually a fan of bumper stickers, but I approve of those Coexist ones.  Nice.

Mr. Altherhausen will be coming down for Pride with LG joining us, plus a special appearance by Melissika.  Am taking that Monday off for good measure.  Need time for my body to cycle through all the mediocre bar liquor while enjoying “Golden Girls” marathons all day.

Last night I had dinner with Gideon, my old paramour of yore.  I met him in front of the erstwhile Virgin Megastore (*sniffle*) after he’d finished a wine tasting for work.  He looked dashing.  We did Italian in North Beach, took a stroll ’round the area, and did a few drinks at Amante.

And he told me he broke up with his boyfriend.

Is that a smile on my face?  P’raps.

I’m just trying to take it slow.  I can’t read how he feels about me and don’t want to rush.  But he does like hanging out with me.  Although he didn’t know the movie “Pollyanna” and kept questioning my references to it (I’d been trying to cheer him up over the economy situation), and that flick’s an inspiration to me.

Got a text from him today thanking me for the good time and good dinner, and saying we’ll do again soon.  So we shall wait.  And we shall see.  And I hate waiting.  And I’m having trouble seeing because I’m sweating into my contacts at the gym and it’s making them permanently dirty.

Know what I’ve discovered?  Friday evenings.  No, not nights, but evenings.

While most folk are either winding down from the week or getting geared up for the weekend, the grocery stores are left uncrowded and the laundromats nearly empty.  I took advantage of this fact and hit up Trader Joe’s, managing to get there, stock up on foodstuffs, and get home in about an hour.  Fantastique!  (It’s the small triumphs, you know.)

Later that night I went to Temple for the first time to hear David Harness and Louie Vega spin.  It was like a typical superclub, with a marble interior so the lights had more of an effect.  David has put the weight back on, but spun in Dajae’s “Brighter Day” for me.  I spent I don’t know how much on overpriced drinks served in, like, baby cups, but didn’t want my breath to smell, so made the idiot decision of buying a $7 pack of mints from one of the candy girls.

The night itself was…lacking.  It was bad enough that no one was available or could afford to come with, but there was just nothing sparkling about the whole affair.  I got my dance on before boredom set in, and I set sail for home. 

And what is with the total lack of vocal records?  Just gimme a song with words for Chrissake, and make sure they’re fun and uplifting.  Am I axing for the mundo?

Makes me miss ever more the End Up days of the early 2000’s, when David and Ruben would spin these amazing disco sensations, songs that you couldn’t buy in the stores or download online.  It was just that good and special of a time.

I went to an orthodontic consultation on Wednesday in West Portal.  I actually used to live out there when I was with Sean, and enjoyed revisiting the quaint little street with random shops.  Going back there makes me realize how much I totally did not take advantage of all the cute little restaurants there.  Sean and I might have lasted a bit longer if we’d, ya know, sort of gone out together a bit more often.  Or maybe that would’ve hastened the end.
In any case, the six G’s quoted by the orthodontist to get some relatively minor work done was laughably quaint, and I’ll probably not be back anytime soon.  I mean, I’d rather spend such cash on booze, bar fare, and Botox.  C’mon!
David Harness and Louie Vega are spinning at Remedy tonight.  I’ve never been, but I like both of them plenty.  And the End Up has been sucking vag for many, many months now.  Sad.  Here’s to hoping I can stay awake and muster the energy and wherewithal to go.  You.  Guys.

I have decided to soundly rebuff the suggestion that washing your hair everyday is a bad thing because of some cockamamie idea that it saps precious natural oils that your locks produce to protect themselves. 

My reason is twofold: 1) Not washing your hair leaves it dirty.  Especially if you’ve been sweating away at the gym or fucking somebody.  Laying your filthy head of hair on your pillow at night leads to waking up with a filthy face full of zits.  I speak whereof I know.

And 2) I haven’t got that much on top as it is, so these phantom scalp emollients aren’t going to give me as much help as I actually need.  There’s not that much protection they need to provide, so if I kill off a few by cleansing my hair, such is life.

Happy Mother’s Day, you guys.  And if you are a mother, I’m so sorry.  That just must be so awful.

My chi has been in such a state that I finally resolved to stop listening to prank calls on YouTube and house music podcasts at work, and logged on to the classical station for a little relaxing rebalancing.  It’s a little better today.  I’ve only had two or three murderous thoughts.

With the end of the ’00s but a year away, I can’t help but wonder how this decade will be defined?  You’ve got the hippie ’60s, the disco ’70s, the greedy ’80s, the politically correct ’90s, and now what?  The idiot ’00s?  I mean, that’s all I can think of when it comes to the state of the nation as a whole this decade.   

Clinton bowed out of an era of general prosperity.  Then we elected a mental defective.  Twice!  We had two depressions: one little one, one big one.  And the corporate greed of the nation ran so rampant, that the importance of getting as many passengers onto as many planes as possible to make as much cash as could be made superseded the need for airport security.  And 9/11 happened. 

The average person has more technology at their hands than ever before.  And it is used in perhaps the most meaningless and trivial ways possible.  Twitter anyone?

And who can forget the apocalyptic issue of gay marriage?  How fantastic to think that while the rest of the nation and the world went to shit, we spent more than two seconds huffing and puffing about the pros and cons of two perfectly happy, sane citizens of the same sex getting married.  In the context of history, this will be a sad time to look back upon–and we have the technology that guarantees every last debate, every nasty blog, and every despicable newscast featuring children with “Yes on Prop 8″ signs keeps the saga immortalized forever!

Frankly, I think this will be an embarassing decade to look back on.  The doh ’00s.

It’s hardly anything new, but I’ve been viciously tired these past two weeks, and can’t seem to catch up on sleep.  It’s either because I’ve been busting my ass at the gym, or it’s those two weekends in a row I spent up all night with Costella (the bitch…).

In any case, last night’s dream started off with me renting a house with some other guys that had lots of petrified artifacts.  That’s right, petrified bones, petrified animals…I think even a petrified pool.  Oh, and it was haunted.  And gross and dusty.  But I woke up at one point with Beyonce and Solange in bed.  God knows what that means.

Then it segued to me needing to get to my company’s satellite payroll office to pick up a payroll advance before it closed at 5:30.  I took a cab and asked it to drop me off at the front of the building, but instead, it dropped me off at a side entrance where there was some convention.  Then I dashed to the elevator with about fifteen minutes to spare and was about to hit the button for the fifth floor when I noticed five babies in carriers in the elevator.  One of the women from the convention said, “Oh, these are just going up to the tenth floor” as if it was normal to ship up babies unattended in an elevator. 

Knowing I couldn’t leave them alone, I went up to the tenth floor, with them, but their carriers began to slide into the elevator shaft and then…I woke up.  To a fucking bird outside my window that sounded like the Wheel of Fortune wheel when it spins.

Ya boy needs a good night’s sleep with no bad dreams or bad birds, y’all.

I had Friday off and, despite the drizzle, was fantastically productive.  I got laundry done, finally bought some non-work clothes for myself, bought a few books, and picked up some things for the house.  Then LG came along, we trekked down Polk, had lunchies, and then it kicked in:  the agonizing pain. 

I’d added more weight on with my Thursday workout, and apparently there’s a 24 hour lag time before the pain kicks in as your muscles try to repair themselves. 

As it was, it lasted all throughout the weekend with me groaning and moaning in surefire pain.  Not fun.  But I did manage to get my desk cleaned up, tossed my old broken DJ decks (*sigh*), and set up my iMac.  Couldn’t find the power cord, but at least I got the hard part over.

I desperately need a new prescription for my contacts.  It’s like rain on a windowpane that’s never completely cleared off.

Every so often, I’ll encounter some gross-as-fuck straight guy who seems to think I want to get into his pants.  Once, in the bathroom at Old Navy, this grody ghetto black guy actually went so far as to put his back to the divider between the urinals as if I’d try to sneak a peak.  Such a display of prim defense at my very presence then pushes the idea into my head that they think I want a gander at their junk, and have an interest in getting down and dirty with them.  This then invites a wave of nausea and vomitous stirrings in my stomach, as no such vile act had ever begun to cross my mind.  Where do such gross people get such wild imaginations?  Foul, foul, foul.