Mid-Year Resolutions

Between June 1, 2010 and June 1, 2011 I'll be accomplishing two things.

1.) Lose 44 Lbs.

2.) Not wear underwear.

Stay tuned...

Of craigslist and chatroulette

The advancements society has made in the internet age are remarkable.

We accomplish once-monumental tasks at the snap of a finger and click of a mouse. Each day lately, I’ve explored some nuance of the web I’d yet to sample (I’m working on a really sweet RSS feed). It’s difficult to keep up with what’s new when I haven't grasped entirely the things I claim to know. I still don’t understand both Facebook and Twitter to their full extents, although it’s on my agenda.

Anyway, the culture we’ve fostered on quick, efficient task management can be a great thing (email vs. post office, online shopping vs. going to the mall, etc.). But many times the internet is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad place.

Craigslist

I have two qualms with craigslist.

To qualify these statements, let’s operate under the assumption that I trust everyone I do business with on the internet, mmmkay?

I purchased a 60” DLP TV before the Superbowl XLIV after my main man Jake moved out. Upon deciding on my move and learning the shipping cost, I realized I needed to sell it quickly. Due to its free-ness, I trusted (smart!) craigslist to let my business handle its business.

When aiming to pawn my beast of a television (still for sale!), I found a seemingly legit (but really not legit) buyer after a few hours. She would handle the shipping, send me a bank approved money order and be out of my life forever. All seemed hunky-dory. After a couple weeks the money order didn’t come. I realized I was duped.

I mean, yes, she said she was a deaf-mute woman from Seattle who was buying a television for her cousin in Indianapolis, so making phone calls were a no-no. But is it really my fault for believing her? (Of course.)

In my world, people of every type get the benefit of the doubt on the first try. No matter what defines you, you’ll always get a shot with me, regardless. Even if you’re a Helen Keller-type from the great Northwest, I’ll let you buy my TV! That is, until you burn me. The check never came, and I haven't put any effort into selling it anymore.

Nonetheless, television is still on the market. Dedicated Hombloggers, I challenge you to please fucking buy it, for the love of god.

Craigslist exists as a prominent tool for informal job hunting. I earned my internship at Luck Media and Marketing through a vigorous perusing of CL. So it has its benefits. The lack of a quality filter is a problem.

Most of the issue is with the applicant (read: yourself). Applying for jobs is a brutally mundane and tedious process. It’s a lot like baseball. If you connect on three out of ten at-bats, you are considered a good hitter. Same for applying. You’re going to miss a lot. I did.

You'll get to the point in the application process where you really stop caring about what you are applying for, just so long as you're applying. You play the numbers. Job quality takes a backseat to desperation. Nothing matters other than the existence of a job opportunity, and you're going to apply for that job because you are poor, mindlessly bored from applying for jobs all day and basically a whore to the system. You convince yourself you'd enjoy jobs you have no business applying for; jobs you are far overqualified for. But hey, jobs is jobs, man.

When I saw two listings that said “Looking for a PR/Content Writer,” I was resigned in viewing both of them. First was an herbal foods supermarket chain. It seemed pretty legitimate, working for a company given decent wage for work-from-home tasks. Not too bad. I applied, spent two hours on a proper resume and cover letter then submitted it. Granted, the company did have a Thai sounding name to it, I talked myself into thinking this was a valid company owned and operated by non-Americans who could use my services in translating their broken words to proper, readable English (I was wrong).

Diving deeper into the company's offerings, I was taken to a products page where I was (not) surprised to see the 'healthy foods' they spoke of wasn’t quite that. If by ‘healthy’ they meant ‘alters your health’ than I guess that’s not entirely false advertising. But ‘foods’ is certainly not a proper way to describe this.

Yes, I learned the position I sought after for hours was not a grocery store in need of PR/Content writer, but instead a company looking for a shameless man to SPAM you about a red bull with powers of ‘enhancing the activity of sexual hormones in men’ and ‘nourishing the body’s reproductive glands’ (with NO sugar, NO caffeine, and NO CALORIES. Tell me more!). Needless to say, Luck Media and Marketing seems like more gainful employment. Going to concerts and getting free awesome CDs might be a better job perk than bringing home free cases of liquid Cialis (cheers!)

I’m drawn to craigslist, though. I will continue to look at what kind of free shit I can get. But do trust that I won’t be so naïve next time I seek employment.

Chatroulette

The title of this post promises some musings on chatroulette. Here they are: Don’t go to chatroulette. Everything you’ve heard about it is true. I’m all for freedom of speech, but never should exist a forum where teenagers and grown men are placed randomly in the same room with no regulation or consequences. Everything you’ve heard about chatroulette is true. Anything goes, and it usually does. On the metaphorical tower that is the internet, chatroulette. is the end-place when people shoot down through the basement’s trap door. It’s lower than low. Yet I can't take my eyes off of it.

Thanks for reading, here’s a portrait of Carl Weathers.

Los Angeles

Los Angeles is the craziest city of all time. Although, I’m familiar with strictly Burbank (my home), reading the news and realizing what’s three miles away scares the hell out of me. Through three weeks, I’ve been desensitized to the surrounding areas. Once you dip your toe in the crazy pool, the feeling of cannonballing is understood, if you get my drift.

To start, the guy that lived in the room before me was a nutcase. It should have echoed louder when the roommates said on their Facebook message, “our other deadbeat, scumbag roommate.” This guy accurately fits the description. He stands about 5'5" and weighs probably 150 lbs., hardly paid bills and just sat in his room the entire time. He was mean and spiteful, thus the guys kicked him out. Upon hearing the name taking his spot, he messaged me on Facebook DEMANDING 900 DOLLARS from me for a security deposit.

Nothing I signed said I owed him or anyone else a security deposit. But because I am a reasonable and rational adult, I tried to level with him and gradually give him his share ($300) of the deposit over the course of my stay here in L.A. I’m not gaining income, making reimbursing this asshole the single lowest priority for me (re: if he doesn’t get his money…meh.)

The ironic thing about this situation is he gave the guy who lived here before him $300 for the deposit even though it wasn’t required. He (asshole) willingly handed him (old roommate) cash so he might be responsible for the security deposit.

Granted I don't owe this kid a cent, I tried to give him $80 the other day in exchange for the mailbox key, the outdoor key, and my garage door opener (which, for some reason, he walked away with). He returned a couple of the items and told me he would cash a check. I told him to come back with the remaining goods or I would cancel the check. He promised me a return after depositing the check that night (dumbass).

He tells me he can't cancel it until tomorrow and I go ahead and cancel the check and take the fee that it cost me ($27) out of the money he would have gotten back for his security deposit. He called me back made threats. He said, "You life is going to be miserable out here because I know where you live and I will wait until you are asleep." Good times! He mentioned making mine and MY PARENTS lives hell. “I’m not going to stop to try and get this money that you owe me” (spellchecked for your reading!) I don't really owe him anything, remember. All the while he is threatening to sue me for the money, so I’m prepared for court sometime within the next month. The People vs. Homrig.

I can't stress enough this is the stupidest kid with I've dealt. His number is blocked from my phone, my email and my Facebook, The door locks and the mailbox key are new.

I'm halfway nervous this kid will sneak in the back door of the complex and gun me down in my sleep. I'm halfway laughing at this situation for kid is so desperate for cash it his life's passion to injustice me and mine anyway he can. WINNER!!!

A couple days ago Dan and I climbed a mountain. Due to heavy elliptical and treadmill work earlier in the day (toning that ass!), I was unable to reach the top. But we were above mid-air planes taking off at the visible Burbank airport. It was pretty sweet seeing all of the L.A. skyline and the valley (Burbank and other cities like it are considered the valley). Dan and I are both still reeling from the brutality of the climb.

I’ve been woken up every day to the sounds of jackhammers, cement-mixers and other various machines. They are installing a new pool, hot tub, waterfall and fountain in our complex with promise of awesomeness. I don’t need an alarm clock for I’ve trained myself to respond to the sounds of rubble smashing at the buttcrack of dawn. It’ll be nice to have both a gym and a hot tub 20 yards from my room. But damnit, the sound is intolerable.

Keep on Hombloggin’

Peace and love

The West Side

Flagstaff is the most beautiful city I’ve ever traveled to. On the north side of I-40 lays a range of incredible snow-capped mountains. South -- oceans of deserts. I missed the first half of the Butler game because I had to call the 5-0 to come let me out of a subterranean parking garage that wouldn't accept my money. All I missed was Matt Howard clanking three bunnies. Great job!

Jon Stewart once said music is the only thing to pacify the monotony of Trans-American highway driving. He said between thinking about everything from "where the nearest rest stop is" to "how you have let down everyone you have ever met in life" can only be bridged by tunes. Music was the only thing keeping him from driving off every bridge on the way. The point is the silence of my own mind is terrifying place. You know how you tend to suppress memories awkward and shocking? Driving alone is the realm where these memories rear their ugly heads. If you yourself ever embark on a trip of this magnitude with no one, you'll know what I'm talking about.

That's where Bruce comes in. My auto-relationship with the boss started in late February 2009 before I moved into the dude ranch. I purchased a CD at a Carmel Wal-Mart and Rocked out. My radio doesn't work (snapped antenna), I operate solely off of CDs and my iPod fed headphones (illegal). I threw in Greatest Hits. My CD player broke shortly after. Through a year of laziness and choosing to spend my money elsewhere, the CD remained firmly affixed. Still haven't taken in out yet. Greatest Hits has cycled through over 1000 times (est.) and is scenery in the Civic. Yes, Mr. Springsteen, we we're definitely Born to Run.

I arrived in California around 10 a.m. on April 6. My distance traveled astonished the man at the border who asked me if I was transporting fruits and vegetables. I said no and he let me into the Golden State.

Do yourself a favor and map out the most secure cities to refill gasoline. You don't want to end up in Victorville, CA with this guy staring you down. Being on the road for 7 hours for the third straight day, hitting the California mountains was the most nerve-racking experience of my life. To witness people drive on the freeways in this state is witnessing a type of vehicle operation you would never imagine. People pass both on the right and left. Motorcyclists drive in between two side-by-side vehicles; slowed, stopped or even when you are going 75! Reckless, dangerous, aggressive are adjectives. They don't do the horrors of driving down the 134 justice, so I'll create an adjective. Aggrangerless. Scary.

Relieved, I arrived in sunny Burbank, CA!

The first week was a blur. I was travel-logged the first three days and purchased a bed the second day. I familiarized myself with the area; went to Vonn's (supermarket), Autozone (car repair shop) and Subway (sandwich shop -- did you know they offer avocados at Subway in California? MANIFEST DESTINY!). Got acclimated with the new roommates Dan and Jordan, who gave me a crash-course in all things California (Don't jaywalk). We hosted a party in my honor that Friday where I was introduced to some really cool people. Because we live in an apartment complex neighbors aren't too keen on parties. A very-apologetic security guard came to the door three times to tell us to keep it down, and inevitably the fiesta siesta-ed as we opted to speak in whispers around midnight.

The next night was awesome. I took the subway for the first time (not as scary as I would have imagined) down to Hollywood where we exited. Scaling the stairs, sunshine hits your face and you see the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Countless stars line the sidewalks containing names of many celebrities (one that stood out that night was Michael Jackson's. R.I.P Little Michael). Passing through numerous costumed-characters and aspiring hip-hop artists (all charging $10 for their "services" -- getting in my face and demanding I listen to your CD is not a service, it's intrusion), we made our way to a bar and watched a UFC fight.

After that, we headed up to an actor's house in the Hollywood Hills. Getting there means driving up Mulholland Dr. This narrow, windy path is the physical incarnation of where the other half lives. By far and away the most awesome digs I've ever been in. An original Picasso was framed on the wall. Perfect view of the city from his balcony. Over the hill in his backyard was the stage of the Hollywood Bowl.

The next week we went to Venice Beach. No doubt one the neatest spots I've ever been. Venice is crazy. Has to be one of the most liberal places in the world (look it up). It was at Venice Beach where I tried my first fish taco. Also, the first time I saw the Pacific Ocean. The beaches in California vary form the beaches I was used to in Florida and on the cape. Venice lies in cozy nook, where you can see for miles each way. North is Santa Monica, whose unique pier is noticeable for miles. The coolest thing about the landscape out here is every which direction you look (sans smog) -- mountains. Beachside was the most impressive view I’ve seen of the peaks. The contrast in elevation was staggering. I'd never seen a mountain before I drove out here. I'd visited beaches infrequently. I sure as hell never saw both simultaneously. Outstanding.

I am a man of leisure. But I need some cash. Conveniently, Sahms live in California, too! My Aunt Cewa operates booths at festivals and I lent my years of experience to her operation for a couple of weeks. I drove to the desert and sold corndogs at Coachella Music and Art Festival. Having never been to a music festival and hearing tales from my cousin Ed about his past experiences at Bonaroo in Tennessee, I expected to be in for a wild ride. Life that weekend was a party for many, but it was labor for our group. I can't opine properly on what life was like for attendees of the concert. Witnessing a music festival mostly sober (mostly) was wild. I was posted up next to a tent where the rave crowd (NSFW -- but completely suitable if you wanna see what I witnessed for 12 hours a day for three straight days! Plus, FRANK REYNOLDS was sooooooo close to me! --- see the vid) congregated. Selling fried foods to thousands of people on extacy all day wears on a man.

The moments I was able to hop around concerts were pretty great though. I first saw Them Crooked Vultures, who, needless to say, rocked it. The Jay-Z closed it out on Friday. Not a big hip-hop fan, but dude killed it. He played about eight encores. Cewa informed me that Paul McCartney wooed the crowd last year. Amazed. Saturday I stumbled onto this gem (far better live, but a great song) randomly. Home had been on my mind that weekend. A very timely find. Then it was the show I wanted to see the whole weekend, MGMT. I barely made it in time to witness a little Electric Feel, reminding me of a certain Blue and White football team's playoff run this past year (fail.)

Anyway, weekend goes well. We camped in a tent in the desert for four nights. The party went on around us for hours; sleep was at a premium. Alarm clocks are not needed in the desert. You arise when the temperature goes from 50 at night to 90 within 20 minutes of the sun creeping over the horizon. Closing down shop, some of the employees (re: assholes) from the event staff decided that we weren't coming back to claim our gear (really?), so they snatched our possessions from our campsite. FREE WILL! In our burgled tent contained my car keys, four pillows, the IU blanket my sissy made for me, a pair of jeans and MY CAR KEYS! We can't find them. No sign of the tent anywhere. Fortunately, I have my wallet and cell phone.

As my car keys gone, despair sets in. How am I going to get home? What the Hell am I doing out here? How could someone do this to me? I HATE CALIFORNIA! Shirtless, I scream. I am literally in the middle of the desert. After an exhausting weekend, there is no foreseeable path to safety.

Holding back tears, I call my KSF. "Mom...I've never felt so far away from home."

As usual with me, things aren't as dramatic as I make them out to be. Cewa called a locksmith and he bailed me out within a couple hours. Mercifully, the road to Palm Springs for a night was close. I made it back to Los Angeles that day and slept for three days. My main man Sub Xero (donate to this man's wallet!) visited for an afternoon. I returned to the desert for three more days for Stagecoach Music Festival. This was far more pleasant than Coachella (not nearly as many people drugged out). Saw Toby Keith and Brooks and Dunn, stars of the country music world (both outstanding). A fantastic weekend. The country music crowd is far tamer than the filthy hipsters from the week before. Plus, it was great reconnecting with my cousins who I never saw.

After 10 days of shamelessly hollering at every hot chick that came up to order a corn dog, I was ready to head back to L.A. and get myself in order.

Thanks for reading!

A month on the west coast

I feel guilty starting the Homblog so late in my expedition to California. I'm sure I've already spaced just about everything that has happened on my trip, but I'll be sure to hit on the finer points so you too can experience what it's like to ride shotgun in the Blue Dragon for 30 hours listening to nothing but Bruce Springsteen (for those of you that are mathmagicians, you'd already know that 3o hrs./53.1333333 equals roughly 34 Boss revolutions).

I took off April 1, 2010 at around 8 a.m. After passing through the most lame driving state of the union other than Texas (more later) in Illinois, I arrived in Missouri and saw the arches from a far and crossed the Mississippi River. Both of these were landmarks i'd never seen (now glad to say that I have) and really the last iota of thoughts of turning back. The landscape of Mizzou is flat-out breathtaking once you get reach the outskirts of the STL. Hit the great state of Oklahoma where my main man Dougie resides in Tulsa. OK was the first instance where the sil changed color; transitioning from the normal Indiana shit brown to a handsome shade of orange.

On the trip I hadn't eaten and took my maiden voyage with a bit of Aderol to keep me pepped up. Needless to say that was the first and last time I sample Aderol, because my body crashed upon arrival in rush hour Tulsa at 5 p.m. and my car nearly did the same. Serving to the shoulder, I became quickly aware that it was not kosher cruising at 78 m.p.h. on the same Will Rogers Highway (RT. 66).

/quick fact, Will Rogers, great American humorist who was the first of his kind, and I share the same personality traits. ENFP! The Meyer's Briggs personality test proves that me and Will, whose epitaph famously reads "I never met a man I didn't like," are both considered "Discoverer Advocates?" Cheers!

In Tulsa, Doug hooked it up. We ate delicious meats and had ice cold Budweiser Lites. Cheers! On the first night Doug respected that I needed to sleep, so he lent me a couch. Cheers! Sorry. Next day we went to a Native American casino, where we both proceeded to hand the blackjack dealer a hundred dollars and left shortly there after. Did you know Tulsa is home to Oral Roberts University. After braining up on the man, I learned he is bat-shit crazy:

To summarize, Roberts (the first televangelist) basically commanded Protestants who followed him to donate to his efforts. Then he did two things. 1. He decided to build maybe the least structurally-sensible building in the entire country.

In 1977, Roberts claimed to have had a vision from a 900-foot-tall Jesus..."

Hey, to each his own. But to rationalize...Roberts had an epiphany and opted to build the worlds worst hospital.

The City of Faith Medical and Research Center consists of three triangular buildings, the tallest being 60 stories. Generally, hospitals have things called wards which are wide, filled with hallways. You get the point. If the elevator breaks; its tolerable. Say you have...I don't know, a baby. "Oh sorry, the maternity ward is on the 36th floor. The stairs are too your left." Nonetheless, still really splendid architecture.

The second thing Roberts is famous for is his huge hands. And you know what they say about guys with big hands...they put up giant statues of them. HAYO!!!

Douglass and I went hiking on a sweet trail and got lost one day, and watched Butler beat Michigan State and watched some movies. After breaking my dipstick in my car, I left on Sunday and was on my way to Albuquerque, NM...and due to mild hangover/nightfall, I stopped in Amarillo, Texas. Not because I wanted to, but because a Texas Ranger pulled me over (Note: you are not allowed to speed in Texas at night. I was going about 5 over and they burned me. I sweet talked my way out of a ticket and was let off with a warning. I'm guessing it was either my well manicured beard or the fact that I was some kid scared shit-less, clad with an Indiana license plate at 11 p.m. in the middle of god-knows-where with all of his material possessions jellied in his vehicle. As I pulled into the Motel 6 (that's right), I was ready to saw some logs when a the foot of my foot was a shattered syringe. Needless to say, I slept like a baby that night (sarc.)! After six hours of Z's in the Methamphetamine capitol of North Central Texas, I forged on to Flagstaff with a powerful 9 hour drive (or roughly 11 Springsteen-revolution).

After a mind-numbing day of driving through the desert and witnessing the ground shift from handsome orange to fuschia, I was able to do something I've wanted to do since junior year of high school. Entering the heart of the Grand Canyon State an opportunity presented itself for me to do something I've wanted to since I discovered my main-man Don Henley. I was standing on a corner in Winslow, Arizona and nearly was knocked onto the ground by destructive prevailing winds. Refueled and ready to make the last 60 miles to Flagstaff, I hit the highway.

Five miles the sky turn orange and my visibility lessened. Traffic stopped three cars ahead as the lead story in AZ hit me square in the Civic. It was a sandstorm! Oops. It was a sandstorm! The sky instantly went red and fortune was on my side as I stopped. The guy behind me wised-up at the last second and stopped, too; narrowly avoiding a collision by swerving to the shoulder 360 degrees at about 40 m.p.h. I forged ahead and found later on the news that evening that traffic was backed up over six miles behind me. Police waved me on through but decided to stop everyone else around me. I made it to Flagstaff a few hours before the Butler game in enough time to grab a bite and beer. I chatted with a retired economics professor from Marquette who was backpacking with his son near Phoenix. It was at that moment I realized book-reading is more socially redeemable than watching ESPN and Lost. He touched on the differences between Micro- and Macro- and all I could muster up was some ramblings on the impressive E.R.A. of Tim Lincecum (it was opening day) and whether or not Tom Crean can really coach or if he was just a flash-in-the-pan for recruiting Dwayne Wade. You know, just two scholars in their own rights eating Roast Turkey Avocado Sandwiches and drinking India Pale Ale.

Watched the Butler game and then the road for the final leg. I'll leave you be for now, but if you read the Homblog at another time you might find some pretty wild stuff.

Will Homrig make it to California? Will he receive death threats? Will his roommates throw the quietest party in history in his honor? Will he shoot a commercial for Coors Light?

(Ans: Yes. Yes. Yes. No.)

Sup

Welcome to the Homblog. This will be an update on my daily musings. You better like it or you might earn a big punch in the face from yours truly.