Posting about posting

I've been following a few thought lines recently on the internet which touch upon how social networking sites like Facebook & Twitter have transformed the internet, specifically with respect to personal blogs.  If you're provided with a single, centralized place to interact with the people you know, provide updates to your life in various formats, then why go through the trouble to set up an independent place on the web with all the hassle of customizing, and the labor of updating it on a regular basis?  

In my own experience, since I've joined Facebook, I've made very little effort to post anything on this blog, which at one time I used to document my own personal thoughts and significant events, not so much  for anyone else, but primarily for my own amusement.  

Now, in addition to regularly signing in to Facebook, I've also been experimenting with using several different journaling, or quick thought-capture apps, so most of what I have been recording has been piling up on my computer, instead of  appearing in this space.  As such, what has always been for me an introspective process, has become so once again.  But after considering the discussion mentioned above, I realized that what I appreciate most about personal blogs is the intermittent dialogue generated by posting.  

Therefore, in the very near future, I think I may, slowly, and not without some resistance produced by in fact living life, and yet naturally under some consternation arising from potentially missing self-imposed targets, endeavor to begin again, quietly, deliberately, to post.

Spring in SF

States Visited Update

Okay, so until I get around to posting pics of what I've been up to the past few weeks. Here's a map of the US states I've visited so far.

FYI, inter alia

When you see someone wearing an item of clothing that has a place name on it, resist the urge to ask them if they are from that place. Chances are, they are NOT.

And one more thing, do everyone a favor and wash your stank ass before you go out in the morning. Nobody needs to smell your two-day crotch rot on the way to work; I don't care how cute you are.

So I just got back from Ross (Dress for Less!) over on Potrero Hill, where I returned a few items of clothing I bought for interviews, but realized this morning I will never wear. Usually, when I buy something it stays bought. I'm not one of those people who'll pick something up just in case, availing myself of the generous return/exchange policy. My mom shops that way, however, which leads me to believe it is an effective method, particularly if you are concerned about saving money in the long run. I hate to shop, so the idea of returning something is just dragging out the process. I'm definitely a "Get in, get out. Yeah, that looks good enough" type of shopper.

I'm excited today because I've located a Coinstar machine and I'll be able to exchange all the coinage I've been accruing since I moved here that has been cluttering up the desktop in my bedroom, thus screwing with my OCD desire for Minimalism. (Quick! Bettina & Max are coming! Clear! Clear! Clear!) I plan to redeem my coins for credit at iTunes, since I buy stuff there all the time anyway, and I get 100% of the value. New music, yay!

Walking in San Francisco

Those sea lions that everybody goes to see.

View from Telegraph Hill.

Coit Tower.

On the way to the bridge.

On the other side.

Here's a few pictures I took this week. On Wednesday I walked over to Coit Tower on Telegraph Hill, and yesterday I walked across the Golden Gate Bridge to Marin County. The views of the bay were exhilirating. While it was sunny, the wind was intense, so I basically froze my butt off. I couldn't believe all the tourons on the bridge in shorts and t-shirts. The walk across is 1.2 miles, and I listened to my iPod (various house remixes, a little Madonna, and some reggae), taking me about 30 minutes to get across. On the other side, I found the "Lone Sailor". (Obvious jokes regarding said sailor's continuing lone status omitted.)

Afterwards, I walked back across the bridge, and took a bus through the Presidio. I met up with my buddy Charlie and had some awesome Chinese food at Dragon Well in the Marina District, and then several pints at local watering hole. That evening, I went to the Lonestar Saloon, and ended up networking a bit with some friendly bears, in the process learning that Guadalajara has an amazing gay scene.

Obscure Hottie

Okay, so I just put down the bowl (of salad) that I was eating, and looked up to see that the final episode in some marathon countdown of "Ghosthunters" on Sci Fi was on the TV. Is it just me, or is Steve Gonsalves kinda hot? I particularly like his full sleeves. Most guys that have them might look kinda scary, but he's got a cute face, so it makes a nice contrast. Plus, guys with tattoos have good stories. Now, I don't mean the muscle guido with the waxed eyebrows/gelled hair sticking straight out (at the gym!), and the fuckin' tribal armband. He MIGHT have good stories, but they're all the same one. (Got drunk at the shore and banged some chick. Burrrp). I'm talking about the guy with the blood-dripping heart stabbed through by a knife with the word "MOM" written on a scroll unfurled before it tattooed on his bicep that's wrapped by a vine of barbed wire entwined all the way to the wrist with skulls, naked ladies, guns and spider webs all caught up in it. And, that's just his RIGHT arm. He's the one with the good stories....

Ericspeak

frattastic adj. -of or relating to a fraternity or its members, i.e. tending toward conformist group behavior, espec. in dress & mannerisms (see douchebaggery).

hot mess n. -a person, usu. under the influence of alcohol or narcotics, who makes of themselves an embarrassing public display, as in, "Did you hear what Georgette did last night? Girrrl, she was a hot mess!"

It's for the attention (really).

Alright, I've finally broken the streak of 90 consecutive days without going to the gym, by going to the gym last night. I had forgotten how good it can make you feel in a way that pills, booze and Latino rentboys cannot.

Am I stoned right now?

When I try and explain to straight people what it's like to be gay (that is, the ones who feel the need to ask), I usually feel like a NEXUS6 replicant trying to explain himself to a human: "If you could only see what I've seen with your eyes..." Not because I feel like I am talking to my creator, but because, I mean, some of the things I've seen, I just don't think would be believed.

PS The test of the question in the title is the preceding paragraph. You tell me.

Quiznos Clusterf**k

Alright, I don't have a lot of time to get into it since I am at work, but I have to get this out. Katie and I walked over to the Quizno's located at 339 Baronne Street (store #10805) to get something to eat, and escape the office for an hour or so. Prior to walking over, there was a general discussion around the office about how slow the service is at this particular location. This was the fourth time I've gone to eat there, and this time was no different than the three previous in terms of the unnecessarily long lines, and piss-poor attitudes among the employees. I realize this is the South, and therefore I should expect a certain degree of, how to put this gently, "laid-back, casual" attitude in terms of service, but this place far surpasses the traditional, take-your-time approach.

Everytime I attempt to order a side garden salad with my sandwich, I get blank stares and confusion. Clearly, I'm going to combo that, so of course I want a drink. The flow is just fucked up at Quizno's. Compare McDonald's, the vanguard of all things fast food. Ordering is simplified and predictable. At Quizno's though, the sandwich makers do not seem to know the right prompts to get things moving along, and I am never sure who to tell what. As such, it takes a long time to convey what I want without sounding like a demanding asshole. And it takes an even longer time for them to actual prepare it. (Mind you, I order nothing customized, just standard menu items.) I think the double workstations is one confusing element, pre- and post- oven. But at this particular location, the real hold up is the cashier, who is the same everyday, and who feels it necessary to carry on personal phone calls all the while ringing people up, or at least attempting to.

What a way to start the week!

On Monday, I was returning to work from lunch--now located in the CBD, as I have changed jobs--and I was passing in front of Le Pavillon Hotel on Poydras Street, a few blocks from my building. As I reached the corner, I noticed some scaffolding, and looked up to see the work they were doing. As I did so, a rain of white paint began to fall all around me, ruining everything I was wearing, including my vintage reversible black ADIDAS jacket that I found at Buffalo Exchange right after the storm! Even though I realized this event has seriously fucked up my day, I wasn't really all that upset. I casually walked into the hotel and requested to see a manager. The woman behind the front desk immediately rushed off to find someone in charge. As I was waiting some jackass tourist, just checking in, asked me if I was a painter, or if there had been an accident. THAT pissed me off, as if it wasn't fucking obvious what had occurred. My response was kind of abrasive, and he immediately apologized, as if he had been the one to spill the paint. I kind of felt bad for snapping, but only for a second. I just hate having to point out the obvious. Anyway, the hotel manager appeared around that time, along with the head contractor doing the painting. This guy was clearly nervous, but he took charge and said he would handle it. We went to his truck and he asked me what he could do to make it right. I told him that $200 would sort it out(drycleaning and/or new clothes, lost wages, and just general pain in the ass damages). At first he balked, telling me he only had a $100 bill and mumbling about might having a check. He eventually located one, as I composedly explained to him the shitstorm I could rain down if I were to do what I should do. That is, make a complaint to the City, who would send out an inspector and issue a stop work order, causing him to breach his contract with the hotel, thus generating a few lawsuits, etc. He quickly changed his mind and wrote out the check.

Once I had the check in hand, I walked a block to my bank and deposited the monies into my account (it eventually cleared). Then the hassles really began: explaining what happened to my coworkers (while covered still in paint), lining my car with garbage bags to avoid paint transference, getting home, stripping down and then going to the laundromat to see what could be salvaged.... The jacket was ruined which was the most disappointing thing, but hey, I think I negotiated a pretty good deal given the situation.

The dumps.

While researching heat lamps for a bathroom renovation project I am working on, I came across this particular post which was generated by the search string "bathroom heat lamp".

Hilarious.

Hail Mary

Another appearance of the Virgin Mary! This time she has revealed herself to us in the form of chocolate drippings found beneath a vat at a chocolatier in Fountain Valley, California.

I am fascinated by the whole Virgin Mary appearing in random places phenomenon, partly because I have to wonder why she would choose to do so, and why exactly it would be categorized a miracle. I mean, is that really on par with giving a blindman sight, or not getting burned up in a fire? The other reason is that it seems that the Virgin only appears miraculously in this manner to hispanic people, and since I am hispanic, I am always on the look out personally for that time when the oil drippings below my parked car will coalesce before my eyes into her shape, signaling me to pull over, get out of the car and drop to my knees and pray, or when driving about the city, I will recognize her face in the huge piles of garbage that still litter the streets here, offering hope that one day someone will clean this crap up. Of course, if that were to happen, I suppose that pile would have to remain, as it would now become a shrine, with all the requisite flowers, candles, and weeping women showering it with glorious adulation.