The Jigtastic Journal of J. Na Na

I was chatting with the Body Shop Boy who has a crush on me the other day, and he asked me if I lived and/or worked nearby. I replied that I lived in Nob Hill. He then asked–in jest, trust–if I worked at the Nob Hill Theatre. We then laughed. (See here for explanation: http://www.nobhilltheatre.com/) I then continued with an “Eeeek! No! I can’t deal with public penis. It has to be all mine or nothin’.” Now, I’m no stranger to adult entertainment, but I enjoy it in the privacy of my own home. These little nudie shows are too much for me, and make me squeamish and embarrassed. I can’t even walk down the street where the Nob Hill Theatre is located unless I’m on the other side of the street. But more power to those who enjoy it, and props plus to those with the courage to participate in it.

It always bugs me when the proprietors of certain establishments–corner stores, cafes, restaurants–at which I’m a regular delight in seeing me, know my name, and know what I’m going to order. There’s this little cafe near work where I always go with co-workers, and it is run by this Asian man with a bouffant hairdo, and his wife. I always get a veggie sandwich or veggie bagel. And they smile when they see me, and have started just asking, “Veggie sandwich or veggie bagel?” Today, the guy even asked my name. Maybe they’re just happy to have my money on a regular basis as a customer. I just don’t like for people to be so pleased about me eating.

Speaking of, Gideon and I are doing Absinthe tonight. Not the drink, but the restaurant. Where they have a delightful variety of Absinthe drinks. And the head chef was on “Top Chef” I think. I anticipate wildly good times, and have tucked two Aleve in my wallet to combat the forthcoming hangover from hell I suspect will set in after some joyous barhopping in Hayes Valley. Cheers-a-rella!

I’m mildly over the moon–my company just announced that we would *not* in fact be having pay cuts or furloughs.  This is specifically for the branches that fall under our category, and I couldn’t be happier.  They’re not even reducing our paid time off accrual.  Cool beans!

SF cab drivers are perhaps one of the most interesting groups of people you’ll ever meet.  Personally, I love them, as I am keen on taking long walks around the City soused as can be, and barhopping with abandon, and they are always readily available to take my inebriated ass home.  True, there are some who just quietly and kindly deposit you at your desired intersection.  But others are this sort of quirky, curmudgeonly, liberal, loquacious lot that always like to put in their two cents about politics, pop culture, philosophy, or this and that, and I’ve had many an interesting chat with one.

One guy mentioned how the Borg in “Star Trek” are actually a model species, because they take the best parts of every species they encounter and integrate it into their own.  It is, of course, the fact that they do so by tyrannical force that makes them bad, though.

Another guy brought up “The Grapes of Wrath” by John Steinbeck in comparison to current times, which was summer reading for my junior year AP English, and which I hadn’t through of in years.

One guy picked me up the same day that psycho Christian assassinated that abortion doctor, and we discussed how antithetical it is to believe in a higher power and yet be willing to resort to murder in the supposed name of your beliefs.

Who knew that you could get not just a ride home, but a nice chat, too, for your money.

I would say it was unexpected.  I would say I was surprised.  But really it was neither.  It was nice.  In fact, it was a bit like the last scene in “Amelie” when you see her in bed next to Nino smiling that little knowing smile of hers.

Friday night, I hung out with Gideon.  Right off the bat, he seemed to be a bit more personable, his usual bit of snideness was tempered with a bit of warmth.  He was loquacious, and asked me about myself instead of letting me steer the conversation.  And at the end of the night, at the Mix, he confessed that he knew I liked him and that he liked me.  That something had clicked, and he realized that I’d been dropping hints all the while.  We even made out at the Mix, and thensome back at his place, part of which took place on his balcony with that amazing view of the Bay.

But enough of that. 

It was awesome to get that admission from him, and a few warm and fuzzy texts were exchanged between us the rest of the weekend.

Unfortunately, the next day when I BART-ed home and walked through the door, the guilt sat in–I’d left Sugar overnight without any food in her bowl.  Her howls sounded exactly like a baby’s, I kid you not.  Brandon asked if she’d been hungry the previous night and whether or not he should feed her if she starts up like that.  I felt bad, but I hadn’t planned on not coming home.  Seriously, Child Protective Services should be called on my ass.

I got through a good two-thirds of my work out Tuesday before throwing in the towel.  I blame the sudden intake of a lot of saturated fat due to my recent affinity for potato salad.  I know, I know–potatoes and mayo equals a carb and fat fiesta.  But I had the urge for something smooth, cool, and creamy down my throat (watch what you think), and potato salad so fit the bill.

Last night as I was laying in bed watching TV, Sugar came and set on my stomach not once, but twice.  There have only been about three times on record where she has laid on top of me in the two and half years I’ve had her, so I was pleasantly surprised.

Then I went to sleep and dreamt of this place I dream of sometimes that’s like a fairy tale, Disneyland version of Venice, with colorful buildings that look like candy and tall swirling peaks.  Bliss.

Friday night started off at Martuni’s with what was supposed to be a few drinks with Tessa, but also to meet my co-worker’s Mike’s parents in from Fresno. His mother, by his own description, is much like Grace’s mom on “Will & Grace” as portrayed by Debbie Reynolds. Tessa flaked, but it was still a fun time getting soused and singing show tunes and pop music. You just can’t help but have fun at Martuni’s.

You also may have one hell of a hangover the next day if you ain’t careful, as happened to me. Despite being a pro and really only having two or three cocktails, I had one helluva one Saturday. Still, I pushed on through and met up with Dascha for a power walk to Valencia, where I am encouraging her to move. I want a friend who lives on Valencia. It’s my goal to get someone to move there so we can go barhopping and brunching. It’s such a cute and trendy ara.

Then Sunday, I made it out to Sutro Park. It was a beautiful day, and there were several people dressed like Devo in the “Whip It” video playing cricket. I’m not kidding. Strange, but not unfamiliar sight in Frisco.

I wish I had someone to sing that song “Words” by Anthony David and india.arie to.

I’ve changed again.  Somehow or another, I’ve discovered that making plans with people as opposed to making plans on the fly is actually more fun.  Ya see, when you have people pencil you in for a date, time, and place, you then have a more or less guaranteed slot on their social schedule.  Whereas if you try to plan things the same day, you may not get them, and thus not have as much fun as if you were with them.

Do you see the distinction?

And so I put it to the test for Friday night, and had happy hour in the Financial District with Roze.  We ate at this super delish and cute Thai place overlooking Fisherman’s Wharf and enjoying the evening sun.  Then we went to Royal Exchange nearby and finally the bar in the Hyatt on its awesome atrium level with its divine mixed drinks and bad service.  We both spoke of wishing we worked in the Financial District so as to have regular sightings of hotties in business attire on a regular weekday basis.

Saturday, I hung out with the horrendous Costella, and was up far later than I should’ve been, thus essentially deleting any plans for Sunday.  And although I’d planned a drunken power walk to Valencia with Dascha, I was too beat and she herself had just come home at 4:00 am.

But I rallied my defenses yesterday, which I had off, and made the most of it.  I returned J. Co’s cable box to Comcast and bought Sugar a $30-fucking bag of cat food.

Speaking of, Sugar is the last sort of creature you ever want near you when you are hung over and/or unhappy.  Her entire existence revolves around needing:
1) affection
2) food
3) to go to the bathroom.

And when you try to accommodate any one of them for her, it always ends up being the wrong one.  She starts squeaking and howling like a rabid wilderbeast, so I go to pet her, and she shakes her head before I’ve even touched her as if she beridding herself of some invisible, offensive dirt on my hands.  Or she starts wailing away plaintively, so I assume she has to pee/poop, and open the door.  And she stops right at the door  and looks at me like I’m an idiot.  Or I go to put a cup of food in her bowl, and she darts over and gives me this incredulous look as if I’ve just said something really stupid.

Charming feline.

Yesterday, we went to Pac Bell Park or AT&T Park or whatever the hell it’s called Park for the ball game for our staff retreat.  Picture it: hot sun, big crowds, filthy bleachers, small seats, and screaming children.  Plus me. 

Not a pretty picture.

I downed two screwdrivers for a total of $20, but they were made with Smirnoff, the piss of vodkas, and the kind of alcohol that just sits in your placenta and makes you feel gross.

My division of three cut out relatively early and had a late lunch at Momo’s, then went home.  I was so blasted from the sun and the crap drinks, that I ended up canceling my haircut appointment even though I desperately needed it, and took a nap.  I awoke about an hour later and didn’t know where I was, and had forgotten that I had a new roommate.  Disorienting indeed.

I do not recommend boxers at the gym.  I was on the elliptical the other day and my junk was being roughhoused between the folds of fabric in a most unpleasant way.

That new Trojan Ecstasy commercial with the mime is a hoot.  You know, where the gloved hands open the box, and mimes the actions of unwrapping and applying a condom.  A brilliant piece of advertising.  And if I was regularly getting a piece of ass, I’d so make the purchase.

It’s happening in subtle, but pleasant ways.

The other day, two co-workers, one with whom I don’t interact very much, stopped me in the hall and said, “Oh my gosh!  Look at you!  You can tell in your face that you’re losing weight”.  Okay, so that was none too subtle, but it was nice to hear.

Thursday night, Mandypants said, “You’ve been going to the gym, haven’t you?  I can tell.”  A nice statement.

Saturday at Gideon’s party, he seemed almost taken aback for the first few seconds when he picked me up, like he didn’t recognize me.  And during the party, he even patted my stomach as he passed by.

Am I blowing smoke up my own ass?  Entirely possible. 

Still, it’s nice to know that these two to three days a week for the past few months are paying off in some small way.  I may not yet be Marky Mark circa 1994 by any stretch of the imagination, but the effort is there.  You.  Guy.  Sssss.

My three-day weekend began Thursday night with what was supposed to be “just a drink” with Mandypants in the ‘Stro, and that started off at Lime, segued to the new place that has replaced the old Trocadero Transfer–it’s more opened up, with booths, a makeshift dancefloor, and seems just adorable (three stars)–and ended up at the inevitable Trigger, which seems to just be packed and happenin’ every night.  Mandy grabbed the boys as they walked by, and a mash-up mix of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” and Lady Gaga’s “Just Dance” was played that sent us into conniption fits of joy.

Friday, I made the beleaguered mistake of hitting the gym in the morning with a miserable hangover.  I got through half of my workout before I began to see spots, and cut it short.  I spent the rest of the day doing chores and looking for a microwave, but by God, microwaves are effing expensive.

Saturday was Gideon’s Fourth of July party in the Berkeley Hills.  The view from his place was phenomenal, as was the punch, and we all sucked it down while watching fireworks in Berkeley, Oakland, and SF, and shooting the shiz.

I then took what was arguably the most frightening cab ride of my life.  Firstly, I declined offers to be driven into the City since I didn’t want to inconvenience anyone, even though I knew it would be a $50 some-odd dollar cab ride.  As we got to the on-ramp to the freeway, it had been closed off due to the holiday, so we had to take this alternate route through a dark and ompletely unfamiliar part of the Bay Area.  We then headed onto the freeway with bumper to bumper traffic, and my driver kept falling asleep with every stop and go movement.  I had visions of us hitting another car (which he nearly did) and being stuck on the freeway, with me tearfully calling a friend, waking them up at the crack, and asking them to pick me up.

But we finally made it back into the City, and I nearly kissed the ground of my apartment as soon as I set foot back on it.

Sunday, the sun went away in the morning, which was just fine by me, as I needed to take a nice long walk and rebalance myself.  That of course didn’t stop the Sunday Evening Depression from hitting full force, but no matter.  It’s a new week.  We’re supposed to go to the friggin’ baseball game at Pac Bell Park for our staff retreat on Wednesday.  And I have Monday off.

Cheers ‘n stuff.

Mr. Alterhausen concluded his Pride week stay and departed for San Diego yesterday.  And J Co and KFC packed up and departed last night, and Brandon moved in.  In one fell swoop, the bustling buzz of Casa Fiesta decrescendoed into a gentle quiet.

I hadn’t realized it, but most of the wall decorations and mirrors belonged to J Co, so the house is a bit barren except for my room.  But I don’t entirely mind.  Gives it a nice clean sheen, a new palate upon which to decorate.

Brandon seems very personable and chill.  I had hoped to take him out to a welcome dinner, but was feeling slightly sickly.  I swear I musta had an ulcer from all this grief with the landlord. 

Gideon invited me to a 4th of July barbecue at his place in the Berkeley Hills.  The unbelievably beautiful view from his place is the wall paper on his cell phone, and I’m a sucker for beautiful views, so should be fun.  I’m a sucker for Gideon, too, but who knows where that will take us.  I will be celebrating our freedom from the British, even though I would have probably been happier growing up in Britain than here, by toasting to the fireworks while getting toasted.

Cheers, uryone.