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I’ve had urges to blog, lately. When these urges bubble up, I begin to write the post in my head, but am immediately stopped by my own self-criticisms. That voice tends to say things like, “Don, nobody cares to hear your opinion of [fill in the movie title],” “Really, is it important that your readers know how bad the service was at the taqueria near your apartment?” and “Perhaps your extremely critical views on the homeless in San Francisco are harsh and need not be exposed…” So, that is my excuse for not blogging. That, and a work-schedule that has me busy during my most energetic and enthusiastic hours of the day; good for them but bad for my faithful, eager, attentive readers. I’m a celebrity. Please pay attention to me. Love me.

Where to begin…

I work for an online retailer of adult DVDs, toys, apparel, and online videos. To protect myself from getting Dooced, I’ll not name the company for which I work. I will say that I thoroughly enjoy my job. My peers and leaders are wonderful. The company is pretty progressive and looks upon it’s employees as human beings and not merely numbers. I wouldn’t say that this company is perfect, but it’s certainly the best that I’ve worked for; so much better than the massive, evil corporations that I’ve previously pissed blood for.

I began my employment with this company in June of 2006 as a Customer Service / Technical Support Representative. In January, I was promoted to Floor Supervisor. Transitioning into this leadership position has been interesting. I’m learning a lot. So far, so good.

Living in San Francisco is lovely. Cost of living here is a mother fucker, but it’s doable. The job-market is strong, so finding a job isn’t terribly difficult. Driving is more of a hassle than a convenience. Public transportation is much more affordable and will take you to every corner of the city. I do miss my car, but only because of the sun-roof and brilliant-sounding stereo system. I’ve compensated for the latter by upgrading to the 80gig iPod. I officially have all 1,210 of my albums with me at all times. If I could implant this thing into my head, I would. Scalpel?

Speaking of Apple, I’ve converted. That’s right, I said it. It’s been years since my last Apple and dammit, I missed it. The Blackbook that I’m typing on right now does what it’s told, every time. I can dig that. I even convinced the girl to get one. Hers is white.

Just prior to beginning this blog post, I was practicing bass guitar. I must say, those strings fight back. My fingertips are tender and my wrist is quite upset at me for making it bend in ways not recommended by anyone who has an understanding of which direction bones and ligaments are supposed to point. That was a long sentence.

I really thought that I had something to say, tonight. Apparently, I don’t. I’d go into my recent excitement over the things that come out of Mike Gravel’s mouth, but politics is kind of a non-issue for me since the five-year plan includes moving to another country.

How about some random shit. Here goes…

I had this idea for a product. “Mandaids,” it would be called. Bandaids for men, basically. They’d be in the shape of machine guns, trucks, breasts, beer cans, etc. This is not a serious idea. I just like to write stupid shit down when it pops into my head.

At work, I speak with customers via phone and email [mostly email] from time to time. I’ve come across the following [real] names: Denormous, Tarizona, Vice Verse, Lovely. I’m not joking. Those were their names. Parents really need to confer with someone who isn’t retarded when determining the moniker that their children will carry with them for life.

Do people not understand that there is such a thing as too tan? It’s one thing to have a nice glow about you. A little color. It’s quite another to look like leather. Please, please stop.

Well, I really didn’t have anything to say. I suppose that I should be better prepared for my next post. Maybe I’ll even say something that matters.