[Note: This and subsequent posts are a bit delayed, owing to the fact that I actually did take some time to celebrate the holidays.]

Though I identify strongly with metropolitan San Diego, the truth is that I didn’t actually do most of my growing up there. Much of what you’d call my "formative years", including the de rigueur angst-ridden teenage phase, in northern San Diego county. Much of this dry, rocky, hilly region is liberally strewn with sagebrush and the Live Oak (quercus chrysolepis, to be precise; don’t say you never learned anything here). The drive up from the airport was mercifully uneventful; I had been expecting to be served the usual generous slice of gridlock that is one of the storied hallmarks of southern California life, something which has definitely gotten much worse since I moved north.

Though I was looking forward to the grand family soirée, I couldn’t help but be somewhat depressed as we finally entered the arid granite valley where Escondido has stood since 1888. The place has continued to grow, but, on the whole, has done so with a suffocating mediocrity that silently screams "welcome to anywhere". Housing developers churn out seemingly endless numbers of faux Mediterranean tract homes, hurling great waves of terra cotta roof tiles across the landscape that are finally, if grudgingly, hemmed in by the hillsides.

New strip malls have sprung up, and some of the aging ones have been given stucco face-lifts, bringing welcome commerce and tax money to the city, but with the same monotony as the cookie-cutter houses; they, too, are roofed with red tiles meant to evoke favorable comparisons with Spanish or Italian villages, and clad in the same dizzying spectrum of stucco colors like beige, cream, and taupe. All the familiar corporate and franchise chains are represented, just as they are in the neighboring cities of San Marcos, Vista, and Poway.

Besides the politically mandated enclave of quaintness on Grand Avenue and some other oddities, there’s little to distinguish Escondido from, say, Orange County, San Jose, or Riverside. It’s not my intent to denigrate the place, but there’s a numbing sameness to it that is inescapable. I knew that I was not there to take in the local scenery; I was there to see people I know and love. Nonetheless, there is a palpable banality to the place that nags the soul. Though I was excited to be there, I was also glad to know I’d be returning home when Christmas was over.

Upon arrival at our hotel, I prostrated myself on our surprisingly comfortable bed, as the children, still young enough to regard the situation as impossibly exotic, quickly busied themselves with exploring our suite, and marveling at the strange wonders within, like the tiny refrigerator and the lilliputian shampoo bottles. I lay there for what seemed like forever and yet only moments, until yanked from my vapid reveries by my wife, who reminded me of my husbandly duty of heaving our enormous and ancient suitcase out of the car and into the room.

We had arrived. It was time to get down to the celebrating.

I’m in San Diego, my hometown, today. I always love returning to this city. Though northern California winters can’t possibly be described as as bad- not, at least, when places like Wisconsin and Minnesota are discussed- it’s still nice to have left the chilly winter behind. Unless you’re in Mexico, or possibly Australia, it’s always a safe bet that the weather is far nicer in San Diego. It was a shirtsleeve-comfortable 70°F today, in this, my beautiful city.

The trip didn’t start off auspiciously. My wife struggled to keep a very active two-year old in check at the airport while I made two shuttle-bus trips to the cheapskate parking lot some light-years distant from the terminal, since I’d completely forgotten to offload the kids’ car seats when I dropped them off. She then forgot that there was a small pocketknife in her purse, and I stood there goggling as she proceeded to to make several snide, cynical, and curt remarks to the courteous, patient TSA guard who waited for us to decide what to do with the offending article. Since the object in question had once belonged to my grandfather, I decided we should mail it back to our own house from the airport, and saddled her with the task. I don’t think this made her any happier, but there was no lasting fallout.

The flight itself was uneventful, unless you count turbulence rough enough to bounce the ice cubes out of my complimentary cup of apple juice. It’s always a thrill to experience, firsthand, 88,312 pounds of glass, rubber, plastic, and aluminum getting tossed around the sky like a footbag, then suddenly feel yourself momentarily in free-fall. Though I love flying, it’s still disconcerting.

Upon landing, we immediately performed our ritual of visiting what is, perhaps, the best Mexican restaurant in California (which is saying something): El Indio. It’s an institution down there, and, frankly, if you leave the place not liking it, you’re wrong. Anyplace you can watch your tortillas being made is a good one. We sated our craving for taquitos, carne asada and some of the best salsa anywhere, then headed out to our true destination, the suburban sprawl of Escondido.

Either Amazon’s data miners are hiccuping, or their sales figures are so low they’re getting really desperate. This just landed in my inbox:

"We’ve noticed that customers who have purchased American Horticultural Society A-Z Encyclopedia of Garden Plants by Christopher Brickell also purchased books by Christopher Brickell. For this reason, you might like to know that Christopher Brickell’s American Horticultural Society A-Z Encyclopedia Of Garden Plants is now available . You can order your copy…"

Holy cow! If I liked it the first time, how can I go wrong?

I don’t really have any particular topic to write about today. Macworld San Francisco is coming up this next month, though! Like the Islamic Hajj, any Mac cult member is expected to make at least one pilgrimage to a Macworld conference, if he or she is at all able to make the journey. This shall be my second, though I must admit that my motivations aren’t completely Apple-related. I expect to see several former colleagues there, in between cruising for tchotchkes, mooching tutorials out of software vendors, and trying to decide whether to finally break down and buy an iPod or spend the money on a sandwich and a bag of chips at the convention center feeding trough. This being an Applecentric gig, I also expect to gaze longingly at horrendously expensive third-party gadgets of impeccable design but dubious relevance to my life.

I expect it to be fun, unless I happen to wander by the area that they’ve set aside for Mac games. Yes, there are a few contemporary games that are ported to the Mac, like UT2004 and Medal of Honor, but let’s face it, being a Mac gamer is almost as pathetic as being a Log Cabin Republican or, God forbid, a blogger. If I ever had to make a hard choice between platforms, I would have to go with the machine that took me through Half-Life and its sequel.

Speaking of Apple, though, our division must be feeling more flush than in it has in recent memory. The Christmas Scrupulously Value-Neutral Winter Cocktail Party (which I did not attend) saw some pretty decent door prizes being handed out, like a G4 iMac and an iPod or two. Not too shabby, considering that I think everybody went there pretty much expecting the usual piece of fruit and a new #2 pencil stuffed into a plastic sandwich bag decorated with a green twisty-tie.

Since I’m on the topic of the company I work for (and I am really glad to have a job, too: it’s a tough market out there, judging from some of the want ads in our local newspaper), I have to publicly protest against the encroachment of AOL-speak in intracompany e-mails. I mean, really. I know that a lot of what we send each other is dealt with on a very casual level, but it just plain looks like crap. Old favorites like "FYI", "ASAP" and "SOL" are relatively benign, but I actually got a message from somebody last week with both the clichéd "LOL" and the agressively illiterate "r u?". I wince at this stuff. Seriously, it makes the sender look like a rather low grade of moron. (Since this person has been otherwise unimpeachable, their identity will remain anonymous.)

I did get a case escalated to me by a departmental manager a couple of days ago that originated from our intrepid Sales department. One of our client sites has been having some trouble with their application, and the salesperson wanted someone to "f/u" with the client. Since the matter was dropped in my lap, that seemed to indicate that I was chosen to "f/u". I was rather surprised that they wanted the Sales request granted, but my lot is not to question, so I went ahead and fucked up with the client. I called him on his mobile phone at 4:30 AM, called him a stupid douchebag, reset his firewall rules to their default open settings, and purged all his server backups before selecting a half-dozen random tables in the production database and deleting their contents.

I mean- that is what "f/u" stood for, right?

I was, but I’m not anymore. I may never be again. I had just sold something on eBay (see the immediately preceding post), and was feeling pretty good about the Internet. It seemed, briefly, that the ‘Net was a nice, happy place that will enrich human lives and create a more egalitarian geopolitical and economic system.

I was wrong, and the buzzkill landed on me like a ton of PVC fetish gear not minutes after the buzz began. The ‘Net is still just a sleazy dump full of weird sex-related products like this one, where you can buy a piña colada-flavored beverage packaged inside a phallus. While I can see this idea selling to niche sectors like flaming drag queens, pretty-boy helmet huggers, or perhaps as naughty party favors for bachelorette shindigs, I shudder at what the world might look like if this thing becomes a craze. Can you imagine being able to keep a straight face at a business meeting ever again?

Perhaps you’re more into actual sex than simply cavorting around with a fake dick glued to your lips. Not to worry, the same company has lubricants in similar containers, but repackaged for niche markets, like gays, middle school kids, and goths. I really think they could capture additional market share by introducing an all-in-one design catering to the underserved demographic of gay middle-school goths, however. Perhaps they’ll take the easy way out and just sell a variety pack.

The Internet is a horrible place. Can someone please make it stop?

I just sold something on eBay. Holy cow! The damn thing works, and I’ve got $500 that feels like it just popped into my wallet out of thin air. Which it did, basically.

Sure, eBay has been around for ages, in Internet reckoning, but I hadn’t ever dipped my toe into this particular pool. Neat!