Home is Where the Heart Is...Trying to Claw It's Way Out!

I have been home for 24 hours and I hate it.  I don't want to be here.  I want to pack up all of my belongings and drive far, far, FAR away.

Not far enough.

I once heard this area described as "the Island" from LOST: you can leave this place, but it's just a matter of time before you come back.  Apparently, the Island isn't through with me yet.

Suck my constant, brotha'!

There are several reasons why I want to be anywhere else but here, but I will narrow it down to four so I don't bore my audience (who I'm assuming is me since I'm the only one who comes on here).

#4: My Mother

I love my mother (she did lug me around for nine months, after all); however, I am not a fan of her as a person.  She is extremely close-minded and completely naive about how the world works, refusing to consider alternative views.  Any disagreement with her immediately becomes combative.

A typical argument in the the household

Now, I'm not trying to sound like one of those snotty little brats who believes because they saw The Breakfast Club they know how the world works; I simply know she is clueless about how the world works.  She refuses to believe that technology is the driving force behind our society and social media is how the world connects.  She is like one of those people around the time photography came out who believed cameras steal souls.

The best way I can describe an argument with her is Eric Cartman.  Everything's fine until he doesn't get his way, then it's "Screw you guys!  I'm going home."  It's like talking to a six-year-old sometimes.

During the last three years, I have come to realization that my mother is crazy and my father is a henpecked shell who allows his wife to run over him so he doesn't have to deal with her insanity.  I honestly feel bad for him.  Also, strangely enough, my respect for him has grown immensely.  He has been able to put up with her ass for close to a quarter of a decade; after five minutes, I'm done.

Based on actual events.

Returning home means she gets to nag me about getting a job around my hometown because "people don't hire people who ain't got experience."  Because an MA, some experience, and supreme talent don't mean anything.  I'll also be reminded constanly of how I "ain't got no money" and "you broke."

Apparently, grammar is not hereditary.

#3: Horrible Cooking

Here is how dinner goes down in the home:

1. Take thawed chicken breast and place them in a pan

2. Preheat oven to 350°

3. Pour any liquid on chicken for flavor (salad dressing, marinara, salsa, pureed dog puke, etc.)

4. Bake the shit out of it for an hour (or until any semblance of juiciness has evaporated)

Fun times.

When I came home for my fiancee's sister's wedding, I was treated to a nice, tasty slab of pork loin, or, what I like to call, ham log.

Appetizing, isn't it?

"Marinated" in God only knows what sodium-filled concoction, ham log is packed tightly in what can only be described as a meat condom.  Freeing it from its plastic prison only makes matters worse; it looks like a mix of canned dog food and what one finds floating in a gas station toilet.  Then there comes the eating of it, which, while not horrible, is not exactly a wonderful experience due to the über saltiness.

The next night, I had salmon.  Normally that would be cause for celebration because I love salmon.

How I feel when I'm served salmon.

Nothing could ever possibly ruin my love for this wonderful gift from nature.

Enter The Debbie.

Mother dearest happened to overhear a recipe on one of the early morning network shows that had the preparer smother the superfish in horseradish sauce and cook it.  I was hesistant, but, since I love salmon and hadn't had it in three months, I was willing to try it.

This affront to God tasted like someone had puked up the fish and served it on a plate.  I reminded me of the time I had too much to drink and spent 20 minutes in the bathroom in penance for my love of rum and coke.

It almost ruined salmon for me.  Almost.

#2: The News

I hate the local news and the dumb-ass hicks they put on it.  San Antonio had dumb-asses, too; however, English wasn't their first language and the Texas school system is ass backwards.  I hate hearing the inbred "suthun durawal" where the speaker crams as many goddman vowels he can in one syllable.

I'm not saying everyone in the South is like this; I'm just saying this exist...and always end up on television or the radio.

I can't even listen to the radio anymore because of the right-wing asshats who believe Obama is an "A-rab" and muslims are Satan's henchmen.

However, my problem is not just the type of people that end up on the news; it's the news itself.

For example, the principle at the local middle school (where my fiancee's mother teaches) was suspended and the police are aiding the county school system in the administrative review.  Unfortunately for the reporter, the school board is keeping everything close to the vest.  Undaunted, the intrepid journalist hunts down leads and squeezes sources close to the situation to provide the public with the answers they seek.

Oh, wait.  No he doesn't.  He posts a thread on the station's Facebook page asking if anyone knew what happened.

Luckily for him, I have a scoop from a source close to the situation.  Here's the link, you courageous correspondent of our community's conscious!

#1: There's NOTHING HERE!!!

As a twenty-something ready to take the world by the throat and choke it into submission, I don't think a small town in southwest Alabama is the best place to launch such an assault.  I moved back to a place that is considered a paradise for senior citizens looking for a place to spend their twilight years clogging up intersections and taking twenty minutes to pay for eight dollars of groceries by writing a check.

Get a goddamn debit card, bitch!

It took twelve hours to drive home from San Antonio.  Want to know what was the most stressful part of the trip?  Houston on a weekday morning in the rain?  Nope.  Getting out of San Antonio?  Child's play.  Going through Baton Rouge?  Not a chance.  The worst part of my trip was driving through my hometown of 12,480.  I went from zen master of the road to the violent sociopath hellbent on murdering every other driver with a rusty fork and my penis.

Once again, thank you, Johnny Depp.

This is a retirement village with nothing to do.  No good bands come to town.  There are no sports teams to go watch.  There's the beach, but that got old when I was eleven.  Instead, I'm stuck with half-dead octogenarians and hillbilly douchebags who think the key to life is to get drunk of their asses, fry something, and yell "Roll Tide" or "War Eagle" to no one in particular while "muddin'."

God, please allow me to get a job that takes me far away from here.  It would be really, really great.  Otherwise, I'm going to be stuck here with all of the others who couldn't escape and settled for what they had...

...which was nothing to begin with.

Life and Times in San Antonio, Pt. 1

I meant to do this a long time ago, but I got a little distracted with my job search as well as the Zombie Gaming Season (Dead Rising 2 and Red Dead Redemption: Undead Nightmare).  After saving the wild west and a fictitious town in Nevada from the ravaging of the undead, I have finally gotten around to posting the first part in my epic(ly boring) adventure deep in the heart of Texas.

Therefore, in conjunction with my lack of artistic talent and the copy of PhotoShop I "borrowed," I present to you:

LIFE AND TIMES IN SAN ANTONIO

Ep. 1: THE ARRIVAL

Before leaving, I had to cancel my month-to-month membership at the MMA gym I was attending.

Then, during our 10-hour trip, we encountered the remnants of a tropical storm in Houston.

Fortunately, we made safe and sound to San Antonio, where my car broke down 2 miles from the apartment.  Even with my emergency flashers on, some old son of a bitch didn't get the memo.

(Phoenix Force Rage comes standard with any 2011 Nissan Altima)

After getting a tow, I got to find out what was wrong with my car, and - more importantly - how much it was going to cost to fix it

However, even after several near-death experiences and being relieved of all the money in my checking account, I was happy to be in my new home.  Now, all I had to do was find a job.  It couldn't be that hard, right? 

To be continued...

Job Hunting Sucks

There is no sugarcoating it.

Trying to find a job during the last six months is perhaps the worst experience of my life.  I have applied to more jobs than I can even remember.  I got an email in late November from some company thanking me for my interest in a job, but they weren't interested in me.  I applied to that job in August.

I guess it's good I wasn't holding my breath.  I could've been president.

I know I am not alone in being unemployed and struggling to find work, but I thought things would be easier.  I graduated in May with a M.A. in English, and I was absolutely CERTAIN employers would be clamoring for someone with my schooling.  I have teaching experience and editing experience.  I taught myself how to use Photoshop.  Come to think of it, I'm a blue-chip motherfucking prospect!

Not pictured: Me

Maybe I am wrong to think that.  But, I thought I could get a job with relative ease.  And I'm not talking about a career job; I'm talking ANY job.  I applied to menial jobs that high school kids do.  I applied to practically every store in the local mall, either in person or online.  One would think with those odds I would land me something.  I mean, I'm fairly certain I can sell overpriced t-shirts to douchebags.

100% of Buckle's customers

Unfortunately, four years of post-secondary and two years of graduate-level education leave me lacking when it comes to working for Express, J. Crew, Buckle, PacSun, Macy's, American Eagle, Abercrombie & Fitch, Radio Shack, GNC, Old Navy, GAP, Best Buy, or Game Stop.  I was even rejected by a grocery store!

Here Everything's Bullshit

However, I'm not losing sleep over not working for those aforementioned companies.  Honestly, other than for a paycheck, who wants to work for those assclowns?  Maybe there are a few kids out there who think it would be great; however, after a few weeks, those little dweebs soon realize what we all know:

"Let my weekends go!"

But, there were three things that happened during my job search that were devastating and nerve wracking:

No. 1:   Victory Sports USA

When I first arrived in San Antonio, I applied to a sports memorabilia store.  While that doesn't seem like that big of a deal, the guy I got my application from was the district manager who spent an hour telling me about their business model, the fact they need people to work, and how they want bright young individuals to help build the store into a national chain.  I left feeling I was a shoo-in, that I was going to have a job and be able to pay bills and do things like go to a nice gym, get cable, buy healthier food, and go to a Spurs game (or the very least a Silver Stars game).

They can't dunk, but they have great fundamentals.

I sat by the phone for two weeks waiting for someone to call.  My fiancee had to convince me to let it go.

Ellen:  Honey, it's been two weeks.  They aren't going to call.

Me:  You don't know that!  They are checking my credentials.  Calling references.  Doing background checks.  You can't be to careful in this day and age, you know!

Ellen:  (Taking the phone away) You need to get off this couch and apply to other jo--

Me:  WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU KNOW, BITCH!  YOU DON'T KNOW SHIT!  THEY WILL CALL AND I WILL GET THAT JOB AND YOU CAN SUCK MY MOTHERFUCKING BALLS, YOU STUPID FUCKING PIRATE HOOKER!

The role of me played by Gary Busey

Obviously, she was right.  She is always right.  She is a wonderful woman and I am sorry for ever doubting her or calling her such names.  She did not deserve to be talked to like that.

"I'm sorry!  I apologized, okay?  Can you please take the gun outta my face?"

Six months later and I've still not heard from them.  But, that was pretty painful.

No. 2:  PetSmart

I was really pissed off by this one.

My fiancee managed to land a job working as a cashier at PetSmart.  She tried to convince me to apply for a job as a stocker at the national pet store chain.  I told her no and that, with my education, I wasn't going to apply to a job that a high school dropout could do for peanut shells.  She nodded her head and went back to making dinner.

Oh wait, that's not right.  She went behind my back and applied me online anyway.  As a matter of fact, she did it on two different occasions.  I was livid...until I never heard PetSmart.  Either time.

While this isn't different from not getting any callbacks from the other jobs I applied for, it annoys me because I get to hear my fiancee complain every day about how they need more employees, some of the ones they do hire have no idea how to run a register, or they are completely unreliable.  Ellen and a friend of mine helped train a new girl for cashiering duties.  She only showed up for one other shift and was never seen again.

I smell crime drama...

So, if I understand this, I taught classes full of 19-20 year-olds English composition, but I can't handle a register or put up cat food.  However, they hire some ditz who shows up for one shift and says, "Eww!  I'm not working here.  The place smells, and the cats aren't even cute!" and is never seen again.  And, for a month after, they kept putting her on the schedule.

Yeah, great call.

No. 3:  Rio Grande Jewelry Supplies

This is the most egregious offense.

I found a job on Monster for a copywriter/editor for a jewelry supplies company in Albuquerque, NM, a place I really, REALLY want to be.  

 Land of milk and motherfuckin' honey

If you know anything about mixed martial arts, then you know that one of the best camps in the world is Team Jackson-Winkeljohn based in Albuquerque.  I want to train there more than anything.  They have some of the best fighters in the world under their banner, including Rashad Evans, Nate Marquardt, Carlos Condit, Shane Carwin, Diego Sanchez, and - of course - top pound-for-pound fighter Georges St-Pierre.

Your girlfriend wants to sleep with him more than you.

And that's even before I mention the job.  The job would require me to help create ads and write stuff.  Essentially, this is stuff I can do with ease.  I created a new super resume that had a logo I created for myself on it.  I even taught myself how to use Adobe Photoshop and InDesign to make myself a more viable candidate.

 Nothing says talent like sticking boobs on a raptor.

And it worked.  I was put on their ass-backwards path to employment.  The first step was filling out two pre-employment assesments, which are pointless.  However, as pointless as they are, I managed to move on to the "next step:" the background check.  They emailed me the forms and I faxed them to Rio via the 3-in-1 printer/fax/copier at my apartment complex's office.  All was good.

It's all mai tais and Yahtzee.

Except it wasn't.  After a week or so, I emailed Rio Grande and asked them if they received it.  They hadn't.  After briefly panicking, I refilled out the form and sent it via email.  They sent back an email saying they got it.  One week later, I got a letter saying they were deliberating and gave me the information they found on me during their background check.

Two weeks later, I got an email from the business coach of the copywriter team at Rio Grande.  He requested writing samples that are "reflective of your work and 'your voice'."  Once again, the next day, I sent three writing samples, one of which was an A research paper and another was a couple of chapters from a story I wrote as a part of my thesis

It's a cross between Wolverine, the Bourne Identity, and a Michael Bay wet dream

He responded that he sent them to the copywriter team.  Once again, I felt a sense of accomplishment and felt one step closer to my dream.

And so I waited...and waited...and waited.  A month later, I emailed Mr. Business Coach (seriously, does anyone know what in the world that is?) asking what was going on with the process.  Another week went by and I didn't hear anything.  I started preparing for the worst; however, I still felt I deserved to know my fate.  So I called the man (which, in hindsight, I probably should have done a lot sooner).

After telling him who I was and what I was inquiring about, he stuttered and stammered before squeezing the trigger on my Albuquerque dreams.

It resembled something like this.

He repeatedly told me they weren't interested in me or the possibility of interviewing me.  However, he did tell me that they would keep my information on file since getting through the pre-employment assessments were "a huge hurdle to clear," which is just a like a girl saying "we can still be friends" after she rips out a guy's heart and curbstomps the hell out of it.

No!  Not again!

I didn't take that too well.  I became depressed and stayed in bed all day.  I didn't care anymore.  I didn't want to apply to anymore jobs.  I didn't want to go through all of that shit again.  I either wanted to sit in the corner in the fetal position or turn into the Incredible Hulk and smash the fuck out of everything.

What you mean Hulk not qualified?!

I took a few days not to do anything.  I didn't want to say or do anything that would further to keep myself from doing in irreparable damage to my chances of getting any other job.  Posting all over the internet "Fuck you Rio Grande, you motherfucking cocksucking bastards!  I hope you go bankrupt because your president blew all your earnings on coke that he snorted off a tranny hooker's dick" isn't going to do me any favors, no matter how good it would feel to say it.

But that doesn't matter.  I'm still unemployed at the moment and I'm preparing to move back home because I have no money or job prospects in San Antonio; however, as much as I will miss the Alamo Drafthouse, I didn't have the greatest time in San Antonio because I couldn't afford to do anything, and, since my fiancee was being worked to death, we couldn't go and "see the sights."

The important thing is I need to keep trying - and I have been.  But constantly failing to so much as get an interview is extremely discouraging.

Honestly, I think Sisyphus had it better.

"It's a living."

The Iron Bowl is Outdated

Ladies and gentlemen, I feel that the title of the Alabama/Auburn rivalry is a little dated.  Due to the fact both schools have sunk hundreds of millions of dollars into their respective stadiums in order to break the record for "Most Drunken Assclowns in One Space," there is no way in the world either team would allow the game to take place at Legion Field in Birmingham, AL.

Shit hole!

In other words, the "Iron Bowl" doesn't seem to fit anymore for this game.  However, if Birmingham wants to keep the name, they can add another superfluous bowl game and slap the title on it.  Doesn't the "Dr. James Andrews Iron Bowl" have a nice ring to it.  Seriously, the only publicity he gets is when a star athlete goes down with some sort of injury.  Wouldn't it be nice to hear Dr. Andrews name attached to something vaguely positive?

The face of many ruined fantasy teams.

As for the now nameless Super-Rivalry of the Deep South, I have a solution...

What did you expect?  It's Alabama

The Inbreeders' Cup.  A battle of oafish flipper babies for the enjoyment of other flippers babies.

And probably this guy.

However, we, as a people, should apply these changes retroactively.  Therefore, I would like to congratulate the Auburn Tigers for their dramatic come-from-behind victory against the Alabama Crimson Tide in Tuscaloosa.  And, to commemorate such an achievement, I would like to present you the Buffett-Gump Cup to celebrate the accolade of being champions of people who like boning their relatives.

Congratulations and enjoy the 365 days of bragging rights in a state whose hero is a fictional character portrayed by Tom Hanks.

The Walrus Method of Physical Fitness

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages.  Step right up to try the new workout program that is sweeping the nation.  I call it...

The WALRUS Method

 

(patent pending) 

Yes, people, get in on the ground floor of the Walrus Method, a workout regiment that gives you a flat stomach, round butt, and strong tusks.

Based on this guy right here, The Walrus Method uses psychology to get you into a mind to lose weight and get in shape because, frankly, are you going allow a 4,000 lb. sea elephant be more physically fit than you are?

You don't have to spend hundreds of dollars on DVDs and exercise equipment to do this program.  All you need to do is watch the walrus, ask yourself if you want to be compared to a two-ton amorphous blob of blubber, and get off your ass!

Don't let a zoo animal get the better of you!  Start training today!

Disclaimer: This program is in no way, shape, or form real.  If you think it is, may God have mercy on your soul.  The whole point of this is to show you that you are a fat motherfucker and a goddamn walrus is in better shape that you are.  Seriously, when was the last time you were able to look down and see your genitalia?  You sicken me.  I hope you die having a heart attack while opening a jar of mayonnaise.

The Walrus Program:  Where being like a walrus isn't such a bad thing!

New Blog. Yippy-Skippy

Things are always cooler when Bruce Campbell says them.

I have tried for years to incorporate "Groovy" into my repertoire of phrases for years because he made it sound so awesome.  Who would have ever thought a white person could do that?

I'm pretty "Groovy" was used til death in 70s blaxploitation films, which I am actually a fan of (if anyone actually reads this, check out Dolemite.  You'll laugh your ass off).  But, Mr. Campbell turned it into something that reeked of awesomnicity.  Hell, he made losing a hand seem cool.  Can you name another person who made losing an appendage seem like it's not the end of the world?

The point of all of this is, like 50 trillion other people and pets, I have a blog.  In this blog, I will discuss things I am going through as well as wax eloquent about things that interest me (like Bruce Campbell's ability to make dated words timeless).  I'll also put up some comic stuff I'm working on chronicling my time in San Antonio and my dealing with being unemployed.  If anyone actually reads this, thanks for coming. 

Now go read Jorge Garcia's blog like you were going to do in the first place.

-JR