The Adnostic

I must be a hateful person. I hate romance novels. I hate call waiting. I hate companies who use base sexual references to sell a professional service. I hate bean paste. Apparently, I am filled with hate and I can add yet another item to the list. Successories.

I can't stand them. I got a calendar filled with them from a publisher and it immediately went into the circular file. If I walk into a manager's office and I see one on their desk or, even worse, prominently displayed on their wall, I have to fight the urge to roll my eyes while thinking, "If all it takes to motivate a company and improve performance are cheap words and stock photography, then why did I bother getting an MBA?"

Then Despair, Inc. came to my attention. They poked fun at popularity of Successories and what a dog-eat-dog place the business world can be.

Something I can laugh at? Yes. Something I would hang on my wall, let alone buy? Absolutely not.

Finally, the Age of Enlightenment for motivational poster art has arrived in the form of Right Brain Terrain's Alternative Motivational Posters.

The posters are beautiful pieces of art with an abstract, yet striking message. They are simple, authentic, well designed, and fail to make me gag. Making them something I would be glad to put on my wall. Even the copy in their About page is perfect:

AMP's are not intended to inspire someone to get off the couch and run a marathon. We believe they serve as subtle reminders of our imperfect nature or of our personal victories. They can be our cheerleaders on good days and our coaches on bad ones. They are positive decorations for our occasionally monotonous lives. They are wall coverings to hide the hole you punched when your best friend crashed your car.

Here's my best endorsement. I want one, and you should want one too. If you're a graphic artist reading this blog, they even have a contest to create their next poster based on song lyrics from Modest Mouse. Not a huge fan of MM, but the song works for the message RBT wants to convey.

I love reading fantasy/science fiction novels. Ha! Ha! Laugh now, feel the cutting force of my imaginary light saber later, foolish mortal!

I usually have trouble finding the Sci-Fi section at the local bookstore, so I resort to an old trick of looking for the glaringly obvious romance section with the knowledge that the Sci-Fi books are usually in the next aisle down. I hate the fact I have to do this, because I loathe romance novels (sometimes referred to as "bodice rippers"), and their proximity to each other gives the location of my favored genre the feeling of Siberia. It is as though I read novels that belong in a leper colony.

Why? Why do I hate something based on the mythology of romance while I enjoy other novels based on all kinds of other myths? Because it's not a mythology, it's porn. Sure, it's porn geared towards women, therefore it has the striking element known as a plot, which is fundamentally absent from most mainstream pornography, but it's still porn.

And the covers are the worst part! No romance dust jacket would be complete without submissive women who swoon at the very sight of a heaving steroid filled set of pectorals. (Gag!)

This is why I could not be happier when Longmire started "improving" romance novel covers with better (and far more befitting) titles. I almost had a laughing fit in my cubicle. This one was my favorite:

Check the rest of them out. Laugh until you cry.

I am one hurting puppy. Katanga served me killer workout yesterday that has left me with a hangover of angry muscles.

My back, torso, inner thighs, and biceps protest every move I make. This what happens when I only ride once a week and expect to do everything with the same vigor of when I was riding every other day. My body eyes me warily and asks, "Are you sure you even want to get out bed, punk? Because it's payback time and we of the skeletal/muscular system intend to recoup."

[Deep sigh] Ouch.

On a bright note, Katanga's owners watched me ride and were very pleased. Jacque wants me to start saving my money immediately so I can begin going to horse shows and showing him in the amateur divisions. A new job I told them. First I get a new job and then I can start thinking about competing again.

Jen passed the baton to me in hopes that I would contribute to the musical meme. So here goes:

Total Volume of Music Files on My Computer: 1,009.9 MB. I keep most of my music on the CDs they came with. It always seemed a little silly to transfer everything to my hard drive when I don't have an iPod. (I love you Daddy, even if you don't read my blog; and I know you'll remember my birthday in August, because there's no way I'll let you forget.)

Last CD I Bought: Split Lip Rayfield ~ "Should Have Seen it Coming," if you don't count the pile of CDs sitting on my dresser awaiting my poison pen reviewing style. I'm thinking of doing them all at once and calling it, "The Good, The Bad, and The Unlistenable." But don't hold your breath, I take forever.

Five Songs I Listen to a Lot These Days: I'm a big fan of good radio. I'll always prefer a well chosen variety to repetition, not matter how much I like a song. The songs I've really enjoyed hearing on the radio or in my CD player are:
1) Little Sister - Queens of the Stone Age - I've always liked this band, but when they echoed my feelings on moshing during a recent interview, I fell in LOVE! "Rock n' roll isn't about a bunch of drunk, fat, sweaty guys slamming into each other; it's about hearing a great song and grabbing a girl to dance with."
2) Hand That Feeds - NIN - Dark and gritty with a steady base that won't let you go. Just the way I like it.
3) Hundred Dollar Bill - Split Lip Rayfield - You dumped/rejected her, now you're sorry that you had. I like to think a lot of guys feel this way about me, but I know it's not true.
4) All For You - Ruth Brown - One of her lesser known songs that's filled with the happiness of how much she loves her man. Sometimes a good song that celebrates love is all you need to get through your next bad date.
5) Mushaboom - Feist - All about the aspirations for the life she wants to have once she starts making a little more money. For now, it is the theme song of my existence. "It may be years until the day, my dreams will match up with my pay."

Now I Pass the Baton to:
Well, I don't know any other bloggers all that well that Jen didn't already tag. So I guess I'll pass the baton to you.
Enter your responses in the comments section below or in your own blog. Go!
Except for Brian. Brian gets a baton!

Growing up, I loved watching the Dukes of Hazard. Those cute boys, in those tight jeans, always one step ahead of the tyrannical government figures, but always out to do the right thing. What's not to love?
Daisy was my first televised, fictional role model. She was smart and sexy. No man could turn her down, and lucky for them, she had a heart of gold. I still dress like her sometimes. Only, I prefer a good pair of denim capris to a pair of shorts that fail to cover my generous behind.

Recently, I was elated to learn that Warner Bros was coming out with a Dukes of Hazard feature length film. With all the remakes being done these days, it's about time they got around to this one. But, will it be worthy of its predecessor and namesake? Let us turn to the best snap judgment aid of any unreleased movie . . . . the casting:

Sean William Scott - Bo (Hmmm, interesting. I think he's self-effacing enough to make it work.)
Johnny Knoxville - Luke (He's willing to make an ass of himself for a joke.)

So far I am not overjoyed with the choices that have been made, but I'm not expecting Citizen Kane here.

Burt Reynolds - Boss Hogg (Unexpected and will never pull off the disgusting factor that went along with the original character)
Willie Nelson - Uncle Jesse (BRILLIANT)
Jessica Simpson - Daisy (Wrong, wrong, wrong)

You have no idea how angry I am with this. Daisy had beauty and brains; Jessica has the brainpower of a gnat and the self-reliance of Bit Bit. Somewhere, somehow, a casting agent must pay for Jar Jar Binxing my beloved franchise! It may not be today. It may not be tomorrow, but I will have my revenge!

Last Saturday my roommate and I had our first official Geek Out party.

"Wha?" You may ask with all the eloquence your public education can afford, I will gladly explain:
A Geek Out party is where we invite all the people who contribute to the Barflies.net group blog (and anyone else who is super passionate about the Internet or computing in general), enjoy some tasty barbeque, hook into the WiFi, and start surfing.

A majority of the population may find that pathetic and strange, but to us it was incredibly exciting. Surfing the net and blogging, can be such a solitary act. Just you, and your computer, and that "18 year old” telling you she needs a good spanking. Kidding. Really. But it truly is an experience you normally don't share with anyone else.

The Geek Out party was extraordinarily social. We all broke out our laptops, logged onto the WiFi, and started talking about, showing, and sharing our favorite web sites and tech tricks.
I showed Sandra my favorite shopping blog, Kevin and Julie discovered BoingBoing just by going through some of my bookmarks, and Justin was introduced to the magic of random generator Web Zen. And that was just the stuff I get giddy about.
Jen gave a quick lesson on moblogging to Sandra and Justin. Sandra introduced little Logan to a site that lets you build your own virtual rollercoaster and rates it by the average amount of fear it generates. Justin gave a short dissertation on how Captain Kirk was an intergalactic mack daddy that no other leader, of any ship known as Enterprise, can ever compete with.

All in all, a great party. Jen wants to have Geek Out parties about once every month while the weather stays warm. Here's hoping.

Justin is the OCG. [Photo lifted off of Jen]

Some people have expressed concern over the perception that I have unceremoniously dumped my boyfriend, because he is old and his legs don't work so well anymore, in favor of a younger and more handsome model.

This is not the case. Katanga is just not boyfriend material. He is way too needy. He needs me to be brave for him because he is about as ball-less as they come. Stationary items, lying motionless on the ground, send the fear of GOD into his little pea brain.
You have no idea how annoying that is, especially when the first thing your trainer asks you to do to warm up for jumping is canter him over a pile of poles on the ground. Most horses would be bored stiff by such a task; Katanga needs me to prod him with everything I've got just to get anywhere close to it. No balls I tell you! None!

I still see Millbrook every Saturday and give him cookies and it breaks my heart to see the longing look he gives me as I walk past him with a halter intended for Katanga. I'm still in search of a nice person with horse property to give him the happy retirement I am unable to afford. He deserves it so.
He is still, and will always be, one of the best partners I've ever had, and Katanga is so not my boyfriend.

The future King of Bean Paste Cakes has informed my ignorant self that the correct name for the cakes is Momiji Manju; and that if there ever was a contest to prove who indeed is the real Momiji Manju King, he would take out his opponent Nancy Kerrigan style and win by default.

He also reminded me of his status as a musician and therefore doesn't have to know how to dance, people dance for him. Obviously, he is unaware of what a triple threat he would be if he was a musician, a dancer, and a momiji maker. Now that's a man who never goes to bed alone.

Please pardon me, your Royal Momiji Manju Highness. You reign supreme over little known Japanese foodstuffs.

Mr. Smarty Pants: In Japan they have these bean paste cakes that are shaped like maple leaves, and the machine that makes them is SO cool, and they're not available in the US. I could get the machine, make my own cakes, corner the market, and I could be the King of Bean Paste Cakes!
Me: Sure, until someone else got the machine, started taking up your precious market share, then he would be the Crown Prince of Bean Paste Cakes, and then you would have a dance off to see who was the real King of Bean Paste Cakes!
Smarty Pants: I would beat him to a pulp.
Me: Not if you had a dance off. I've seen you dance.

When are you coming home? When will we see you again? When are you coming home? When will we see you again?

Are you noticing a pattern? My usual answer to this series of parental inquisition is, "I dunno." But then I realized that Sunday was Mother's Day and that I would win the Worst Daughter of the Year Award if I didn't head up the 405 to the Sauna Fernando Valley to see the units and miscommunicate with Mom and watch Deadwood with Dad. (Ever see an actor perform a monologue while receiving oral sex, all the while the man who washed your bottom when you were two is sitting in the chair next to you? I'm surprised more families don't spend quality time like that together, and Ian McShane totally deserved that Golden Globe)

I called Mom earlier in the week to tell her I would be coming up too see her on Sunday.

Mom: What will you want for dinner?
Me: I dunno. (please refer to pattern afore mentioned above)
Mom: Well, what do you want to make for dinner?
Me: (laughter)
Mom: Oh. Never mind.

You see, I was once very excited to make dinner for my family and make Mom proud of my prowess in the kitchen. I made a chicken curry stir-fry. It turned out well, but my mother complained about smell the following day and ended up lighting incense to mask the stench of curry. My mother hates incense and I haven't cooked in my parents' kitchen since. Heck, her oven is sill a mystery to me.

I told Jen about this and she was bewildered as to why I wouldn't cook for my family, especially on Mother's Day when it was clear that my cooking is exactly what she wanted for her special day. Once again, I was a prime candidate for the Worst Daughter of the Year Award. I hate that award. The bouquet of guilt that comes with the prize package will crush your very soul.

So today I called Mom to ask her if she still wanted me to cook dinner tomorrow.
Mom: Yes.
Me: Okay. I was thinking of making Pot Roast Pasta. Do you think you have two pounds of bottom round roast in the freezer?
Mom: I'm not sure.
Me: Well, find out because you better start defrosting that thing now.
Mom: Yes dear.

After I got off the phone Jen mentioned that I talked to my Mom like she was an 87 year old (my candidacy renewed). So I explained to Jen about the freezer of meat.
Me: My mom has a full sized freezer in the garage. It is as big as our fridge/freezer combined, and it is filled with meat.
Jen: Why would anyone do that? Why doesn’t she just buy food as she needs it?
Me: She buys meat on sale and then freezes it until she needs it. This is why she is the biggest Jew of us all.
Jen: Think of it this way - when she kicks off, you'll be rich.

That award is all mine.

I'm at a show at the King King, only half listening to who's on stage and nursing my beer.

Kelly: He looks kind of like Neil Young.
Me: Yes, if Neil Young took just a little less care of himself.

There are a few things about San Francisco I'm not all that crazy about. The scary Ride Your Bike to Work Day Riots are a little over the top, and the going rent is enough to make me think that a refrigerator box outside of Sears is the next best thing to the Ritz.

But then there are a few things that make me think it would all be worthwhile. The live music clubs, the amazing swing dancers who keep me on my feet until dawn, the architecture, the quirky art scene, and lets not forget the food!
Now I have another reason to be jealous of people who live in the City by the Bay. My favorite t-shirt designer is having a sample sale.

Buy a Ninja Kitty T for me!

Gather around kids, for today is a day we shall mark with great sadness. No, Melissa hasn't made up with her In-Laws, there's still plenty more material where "My Daughter In-Law Sucks" came from (but Logan is back, so no more phallic pictures).

Nay boys and girls, Pat O'Brien checked out of rehab. The ramifications of this may not be felt outside of Internet and a few boring entertainment news shows. But we who blog shall grieve. We will cover the mirrors, rip our clothes, and sit Shiva for one of the best fake blogs ever - I'm Stuck in Rehab with Pat O'Brien.
Gone is my daily date with "Adam", the pain killer addicted kickboxer and his cohorts in recovery:
Bobby Brown
Whitney Houston
Paralyzed Lesbian "Flo" and her monkey assistant
Sheryl Ann
Joaquin Phoenix
and let's not forget, the Insider himself, Pat O'Brien and his riveting fear of Eskimos

It may be okay to cry, but at least we still have open letters to Star Jones.

I would be quick to point out my status as an uber geek if it wasn't for one fatal flaw - I do not own a digital camera or a decent mega pixel camera phone (may the end of my Cingular contract make haste). This being the case I usually rely on friends and disposable cameras for my imagery.

This photo (supplied by Ms. Jen) was from Jen's birthday BBQ last weekend. I got distracted and Paul surprised me by grabbing my shoulder and dragging me into the shot. If you can get around the grandma hat and my enormous front teeth, you'll notice the mix of surprise and amusement on my face.

In honor of Jen discovering that I have a grandfather, a great grandmother, and a great-great grandmother who were all natives of Selma, Alabama; I felt it was only proper for me to post my Yankee mother's recipe for White Trash Chicken.

If you're wondering what kind of beer to use, simply recall the immortal words of Dennis Hopper in Blue Velvet, "Pabst Blue Ribbon!!"