The Booth in the Corner

*) it's been forever and a day since I wrote anything. I used my 'story ideas' book to suggest a fictional topic. Weird to write fiction after a bit of time off. It said I needed to write about "the Booth in the Corner."

Needs a window behind it...

Clark had hated it when the state went totally nonsmoking. His own personal experience had been that smokers had tipped better than anyone ever before and since. He was not a smoker himself, but his parents were. He filled his time outside of the coffeehouse with writing and the gym-so the smoke was only temporary until something better came along. Besides, he felt it was another intrustion of the world at large into the private lives of its citizens. He heard the arguments, and he eventually, reluctantly agreed that carbon monoxide was killing others.


But that did not change the fact that he was making less money. His justification? He was going to die anyways. Might as well use the extra cash.

Clark dreamed of college, of all those things that the public at large told him to buy. He thought occasionally of a big house, perhaps a picket fence. But he had lived out of the loop for so long growing up, the product of hippies, that the coffeehouse was more of a career move than a interim placement. He eventually developed a series of responses for older patrons who asked, “what’s next for you?”

Everyone seemed to buy the marriage or the college bit. Occasionally, if the group was young men or women, he would add he was waiting for his big break in modeling. He was not much to look at, but they never seemed to catch the joke when he spit it out like cold coffee.

He also never really minded the Saturdays and the Sundays. Since the quitting-smoking bit hit the Joint Java House, he decided to learn to love them a bit more. The customers were now ruder than the smokers, but more did arrive and so did the trade off. He did realize that the daily counts were not that much different before and after the law took effect. The only thing that really increased were the amount of people who said ‘venti’ instead of ‘large.’

The lunch crowd clears in an hour. He liked the way they came in, filling every booth and seat from the back to the front and left in the same order. During the week? Nothing. Saturday and Sunday? Everyone must need some kind of fix.

JJH was always a coffeehouse, even though it had been built in the fifties. You could tell. The tables were not the rehashed used-shop kinds, but instead, steady booths and decent sized café tables that held up inside and out. Just inside the front door was a huge piece of furniture. That booth was designed for larger groups, or, by the way it looked out on the main floor, mobsters. Strangely, it’s occupancy was low. His boss would find the space needed outside of the loft-office on the hardwood, the wifi keep her connected to the books. Once and awhile a drunken party would hit the space trying to sober up before electing to just call a cab for the night.

Clark was embarrassed when he noticed the light blue silhouette of a tall man lean out.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t realize someone was there! Let me get you a menu!” he yelped from a nearby four-seater he was wiping. The man did not turn to look at him. Just nodded slowly, crinckling the back of his neck. Good, this means he’s waiting for someone.

Clark ran to the back, wiped down a menu and then returned to the front. The food was terrible, but the coffee menu was all that people looked at anyways.

The man had switched to the other side of the table, as if to get a better view of the empty street.

“Here you go. You think want a coffee off the bat?”

The man twisted his head, leaving his torso aimed at the front of the Joint. He pressed his bottom lip into the top on, curving the area under his nose. His eyebrows rose at the same time and a smile worked its way out. The rest of his body flowed to join the direction of his head.

“Yes. A large one.”

“We can, hey,” Clark noticed, “hey, have we met? Is this your first time to the joint?”

“I have that kinda face. No, can’t say I have. But, then again, do you think that your coffeehouse is any different than others?”

“Yeah, it’s different! It’s got me!” Clark twirled his mug, creating a pinstripe splatter on his shirt. He winced when the damage was apparent.

“Ah, I see. Guess that’s the attraction, then.”

They both rolled their eyes for different reasons.

When Clark returned with a mug and the carafe, the gentlemen seemed to have moved once more. “Bad lighting?”

“Excuse me?”

“The lighting? In the booth? Is it bad?”

“No. Why?”

“Why did you move?”

“I was called away.”

“Oh, did you find the bathroom okay?” He moved his head back towards the rear of the Joint.

“Something like that.”

Clark wished the guy was a smoker. At least the tip would have been better than the repartee. When the older women at table four decided to go, Clark felt a bit dejected. It was him and the corner booth alone. No distractions. The barista and the cook were discussing politics. He failed at finding his paperback. And he hated folding napkins.

He headed back to the table to justify taking a small break.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Clark got a clearer look at the man. He was chunkier than he first realized, the lower parts of his body caught off by the high rise of booth’s table. The visitor had moved to the end of bench now, but did not make any indication on if he planned on leaving. His shoes were boring leather-fare, worn but comfortable. He had on black shorts made of denim and a wrinkled polo shirt. But the clothes covered up someone who appeared massively clean. His hair was clipped to it’s severe edges, as if recently cut; the smell of perfumed soap still floated away. His teeth, when the illuminated, were brisk and white, their bottoms lined up as if pressed from ivory.

“Ah, okay, I was going to take a break and I’ll be right back.”

“Excellent.”

“So?”

“So.”

“So? Do you need anything?”

“I need someone to talk to.”

“Excuse me?”

“I need, I need someone-oh, never mind.” He returned his gaze to the front window.

“I,” Clark looked back to the kitchen window. The barista was now giving the finger to the cook. He figured the cook was probably returning the gesture back to the barista, but he was out of sight. “I can take my break here then.”

Clark was not the friendly type, he mentioned to himself repeatedly. It was a rouse, brought on by years of working in public service. Over the years, men and women would try to give him their phone numbers or would become dissatisfied if he did not sit and talk to him. He learned that being quaint gave better tips. And the distance meant that he grinned all the way home without worry. He surprised himself when he slid it on the vinyl, “L” shaped booth. The air underneath pressed the stranger vertical about an inch.

“You don’t have to, really, don’t, you can go on your break.”

“Oh, so that’s how you’re going to be then! Alright, don’t worry, I don’t charge a dime. But if you’d rather, I’ll get you another cup,” Clark feigned and hoped the customer would take the bait.

The visitor grimaced as if trying to cover the pain of stubbing his toe, uncertainy riding through his body.

They sat and stared at each other.

“You know, I once had a lady here completely elaborate how she kicked her ex husband in the nuts after her divorce was final. She had made a copy of her housekey, snuck into his, their, house and moved a chair to face the front door. When the bastard came in with his new honey, she stood, walked over and cracked the schmuck in full view of the street. Never filed charges. I never saw her again.”

“And this is supposed to make me feel what, exactly?”

“One, you’re supposed to realize that it is sometimes easier to talk to strangers. And two, that this booth doesn’t really feel alright. Dang, I guess it is pretty lumpy, isn’t it.”

“Hadn’t noticed.”

“I have. Look, you don’t have to talk to me. I’m working a double, you looked like you could have someone to talk to. I feel like talking.”

“Probably too much caffeine from the coffee?”

“Probably. True. Didn’t think of that.”

“Well, I’m just, well. Let’s just say, I lost a friend today.”

“Lost as in ‘lost?’ Or lost as in, um,” the coffee in his system had given him energy and he bit his lip, “passed away.”

“Something like that.”

“Dude, I’m sorry. Then who are you waiting for?”

“I’m not sure.”

An old coworker colleague of mine, someone I’ve kept in touch with over a social network, was bragging about her life. She has two beautiful children and has been able to keep her amazing figure. Her husband is still a hottie even after all of these years and, frankly, she had much to boast to about.


She mentioned in her posts, “The life I prayed for is now here.”

I got it. I understood her on several levels. I got it.

I live in Florida now. I have a beautiful husband. And though I might look pregnant, I’ve been able to keep this figure too. And as a bear, that’s a good thing.

But I had to talk a little about living out your dreams. For eons, I had noticed, I dreamed of living next to or nearer to a Disney Park. Any park really. I spent tons of money to see them and when I did, I hurried through like a kid on a sugar rush hoping to enjoy the moments in a buzzed blitz.

But I never had enjoyed the parks.

Trust me, all those trips with all of those friends were worthwhile and totally perfect. And I would not be able to make such a statement until I lived here. Now that I have a Walt Disney World Premium Annual Pass, the “Diz” world is totally different.

And I never had totally enjoyed the parks.

I noticed it on my first day there. Sadly, it wasn’t with my husOtter. Instead, it was with some fascinating friends that got me in for free. We breezed down Main Street and though there were throngs of people, I didn’t feel their bulk. Not because I was hurried or focused; it was because my cares and worries were different. I could come back and do what I wanted later, so standing on a queue wasn’t so much of a burden anymore. I noticed the sounds of Main Street for the first time, as if awakening from some sort of long endured deafness. There was the stutter of the omnibus; there was the din of children still happy before the heat of the day tagged them into screaming by night fall.

It was as if I had walked into Disney World for the first time.

This emotion become clearer when husOtter and myself purchased those passes and decided the next weekend would be the perfect time to conquer Disney’s Animal Kingdom. I had stepped away to use the bathroom a good five minutes before the park opened for business. I wandered off alone to the Rainforest Café and hit the bathroom. I returned to find the gates were fully open. I had missed the initial collection of tickets.

And I was okay. My heart didn’t go crazy as I rushed the turnstiles. HusOtter had moved himself just inside and was waiting. There was no rush, no panic. The panic was on the faces of those families who had taken a loan to come down to Disney World and were about to run through the park at breakneck speed to get to everything. Not for my beloved and me. We stood there and Mickey and Minnie came to the front of the guests and welcomed us all to the Animal Kingdom.

And we WATCHED. In my skull, previously, I’d be screaming, “get these mice out of my way! I need my Everest FASTPASS!”

Instead, I plain ole laughed at the skit.

A tear rolled down my cheek and I hugged husOtter, hard. My dreams had come true. I suppose I could go ahead and this point and psychoanalyze why I’d not come down to Florida sooner, why I had refused to acknowledge why I wasn’t happy. I was content in Colorado. I had everything I needed.

So I thought. I guess I figured that happiness is measured, something monitored and calculated. And for some reason, my heart, after meeting David and having a decent boring job for a long time, was ready to keep it’s rhythmic pace. I had no idea that more could be had. That I could be HAPPIER.

Happier without doing drugs or drinking.

But here I was, able to do more with my life than ever before. And my heart soared. And, yeah, I cried a little. Lovebutton husOtter could rediscover the world all over again.

So thanks Disney.

Sure, I’ll become like those old farts that have gone over a thousand times to the parks. They complain about the color of the clouds over mid afternoon while completely ignoring the smiling parade of gay couples marching about. They are allowed, but I won’t listen to them. I look at it from the fact that I used to be a movie critic. I love movies. Yet I’m the movies harshest critic. Could it be it is my way of showing them my true caring? Those who poo-poo Walt Disney World really only do it out of love.

There’s a lot to see and do in Disney World. There are some great employees who smile back at you when you smile at them. There are wonderful characters that let you hug them even though you’re an adult.

And I’m loving it. I get it now.

There’s something here, however, I think I need to point out. When you prayed as a child, was the life you have now what you prayed for? Find out why not. It is surprisingly telling. I was so scared to be happy. My mother suffered such personal loss as I grew up and she did her best to let me know frequently. Maybe I felt I had to do the same.

The truth is: I know she’s happy now. And I know I didn’t have to suffer to by happy, at least not any more.

Zen Driving

Not really Buddhist, but it will help you get into the right mind frame....

My surprise today was that the person who almost hit me was not old. In fact, he was a teenager. Foppy Bieber hair edged his eyebrows as his eyes watched the other column of drivers; the column I was not in. In fact, he turned his tanned face briefly to face our Saturn and I breathed a sigh of relief. He was on his cell. I was nervous that I would have to label this youth some kind of automotive freak-someone who gets into accidents without the usual parameters here in Florida.

Are those cones? Or targets?

Perhaps it is my want-and-need to make this place work out, but I really, truly love it here. That means excusing faults inherent to the place and choosing the positives over the negatives. It also means picking my battles. And some are so large, they are hard to miss. My adaptation to my new homeland does have several snafus that if I do not recognize, people might caulk me up to some kind of selective insanity. So I have to mention one of the largest annoyances since I’ve established this beachhead.

Where ever you see gray or yellow are where the bad drivers are, stastiscally speaking, located....

Drivers suck in Florida.

I admit this freely as one of them. No, not as a Floridian driver, but as a sucky driver in general. I’m afraid to say anything, but though I’ve never really had an accident, my husband’s first comments in a negative sense when we started dating were, “you are kinda slow in the left lane;” and, “do you plan on getting there before the movie starts?” I could not drive quickly. I even once said to an officer who pulled me over for speeding, “really? Me? Can I back up and try again? I doubt that was me.”

I was never an aggressive driver. My stepdad was notorious for creating in me a sense of alarm when I was behind the wheel. He led me to believe that every driver on the road today had a vendetta, and they weren’t afraid to call you on it. Years of driving made me think that he was lying.

Wait, that isn't a steering wheel either...

Now that I’ve moved here, I realized he might have been correct.

I trusted him and his words because, in the years since 1982 when I became his stepson, I never once got the chance to drive any of his cars. I’m forty now. I kept my distance. My stepfather communicated to my low self-esteem that I could not be trusted.

But I also learned what a bad driver was.

Since arriving in Florida, I’ve found that driving here is a Zen existence. A true way of training yourself to living in the here-and-now. Zennists aren’t going to daydream about the potential the day might bring forth; they tend to look at what is happening in the moment and react accordingly. It’s surprising that this state is a red state, in the end. Had they looked at their driving on the 1-4 when the tourists arrive from Peoria, Illinois on a Friday night, they might have a different angle. They’d not see red or blue. They’d see a way to connect to their Buddha-self.

My first week here, I had four near misses. Each time the driver was in a larger car (three of them were minivans with fish—sidenote: In Colorado, since I saw this image frequently, I figured the fish meant they had too many children “a school” if you will and that’s why they drove so poorly!) and every time—on the phone.

Not just on the phone, mind you, but not even holding onto the steering wheel. I do not recall seeing them even touching the steering wheel. Now I get it. I live in a massively rural area and every person is a decent car ride away. People really make good use of their phones here. But to have so many near misses in a row with the same reason, I cannot afford to think about anything but the road and getting home in one piece.

How Zen is that?

The one thing is, my job depends on keeping my car intact! Zen or no Zen, this is serious crap. Now I remember in the movie “Cocoon” how they take away the driver’s license of WIlford Brimley (frankly I would anyway-the dude gives me the creeps and I don’t want him near me even if there was a windshield between us); I recall Morgan Freeman’s purpose was to have the voice of God in the front seat when Jessica Tandy got too old to drive as well in “Driving Miss Daisy.” So they’ve even made movies about this older individuals and their driving skills.

These drivers are the voting force of Florida. The AARP is their cudgel and they swing it at laws that would keep us all a bit safer. But it is too much to hope for. Instead, I have learned that the ‘hand wave’ here in Florida means just as much as a turning signal-even if the encouraging hand waves you out infront of them-and they then speed up and almost rear-end you!

This monkey business is the down side of my up-life here in my new found home. I cannot believe how happy I am for all these bad drivers. I mean, really. Now I get to connect to my inner self while taking that forty five minute commute to the south part of town. Amazing.

And thank you, phone youth. I was scared I might have found an new kind of killer-driver. The teenager. But you were smart. You were talking on your phone while driving. Whew. At least it was in Florida!

Restaurant Review

Athens NY Style Diner


18750 US Highway 441

Mt Dora, FL 32757-6723

(352) 385-3592

My family is from New York. Now, I don’t mean, they are from New York as in, they were born there but spent more of their life elsewhere—I mean even thou the entire community makes comments about their heavy accents, they refuse to give them up in suburban Colorado. It’s like a scar from a particularly exciting shark attack. They are so New York that people know that even before they get to experience the accent; it’s like they create a New York-vortex that causes W.A.S.P.s to suddenly swear and want to get very, very fat.

It’s this fat part I want to talk to you about. I live back in the East now, right here in Florida. Most would say that isn’t the East, but when you count the snowbirds and Old World seniors that are starting to float down from Boston and NYC, they bring with them not only that East Coast cynicism, but they bring their palates with them too. So I lucked out. See my family, when asked, and they are always asked, “what do you miss most about New York?” They answer with the speed of a pizza delivery:

“The food.”

The last time I was in New York City, for example, my husOtter and I basically ran from restaurant to restaurant to meet the local family-folk and, well, ate. Even when my best friend, before I discovered which shows he enjoyed, I had to know, “What and where did you eat? How was it?”

It’s borne of the fact that New Yorkers share a huge chunk of the Old World, in that they are directly linked to those cultures they left behind. They celebrate that connection, and have for eons, by creating dishes that use local means to get the desired flavors from their varied homelands.

And we get the spoils.

Why the history lesson? I’m here now. It’s not New York, so a meal is just that here—usually in New York, I’d be visiting family or heading to a show of some sort—but I get to sample a bit more than I ever did in Colorado.

And judging my rotund figure? I like me good eats. That’s what brought me to this restaurant tonight. Let just say when the owner seats you and talks about his little island “Xios” near Turkey, you know you’re in for something halfway decent.

And like my parents, he held onto his Greek accent.

We started this meal with a Fried Greek cheese. Now we’re not talking the kind of ‘fried’ you find in state fairs across America. No. This is a chunk of feta that has been lightly sautéd without breadcrumbs and then covered with lemon garlic sauce and served with warm pitas.

Okay, feel free to reread that wonderment again. It was called sagamaki and was, in the words of my grande dame of a Jewish neighbor, ‘to die for.’

See, in those New York diners, place wasn’t key and this spot was the same. There were a few Greek columns. Some paintings of the Mediterranean, but squat elsewhere. See, here in New York, you’re supposed to be worried about the food. Wait. Did I say New York? I meant Florida. But with all these New Yorkers that were seated around me, I was a bit thrown.

I ended up getting a Mediterranean dish, chicken marsala. Yeah, it’s ubiquitous, served frozen as one of those frying pain meals-but here it almost tastes like candy, a decadent treat for taste buds. My husOtter had the standard gyro. I didn’t taste it, but I will say this-he took it home for lunch tomorrow.

Folks, he doesn’t eat leftovers.

So, for me, I’m now a bit prouder to have moved to Florida and to start tasting these wonderful places. And it helps me understand my New Yorker parents and family, displaced in Colorado, when they say, “we miss the FOOD.”

I hope I can eat enough to keep them happy!

Scene One "Heroes on a Friday Night..."

A ROUGH COPY:


Recently, my favorite video game underwent a huge overhaul. It’s one of those MMORPG jobbies and, well, I’m addicted. You’ve already read about my addiction to comic books. Well, let’s see here, I get to play a game with my friends where we play comic book heroes and villains called City of Heroes/City of Villains. I probably don’t need to elaborate on why it’s so addicting for me.

Add to it that fact that I’m a few million miles from my created family and it is a way of keeping in touch with them—we all game together. Keeps us out of trouble and spending money. And it is something my husOtter and myself can do together. Grant you, we just moved to Florida and once things come together, I don’t know how much time we’ll spend on the computer.


Unless, of course, it’s so I can write.


This little fiction piece was born out of the fact that I downloaded some music from the game and had visions of a story using all of our characters coming together…and pitted against all of our villains. You’ll see I forgot characters names (I can’t remember which of Augie’s scrappers is a martial artist/quick reflexes combo), but figured it was more important to just write something…anything. Besides, when do you read about superheroes other than in comic books?


So I’m giving it a go. An little adventure—and this is the intro. Now, my one friend named her character “Mystical Wench,” a martial artist and regenerating character. I just can’t use that superhero name. So I changed it to Mystical—it just worked better for me.


I’ve not edited anything. I’m just happy to be writing.

Augie sighed heavily and wiped his brow. The kids who came into the dojo on Friday nights were the serious ones, the best students and they always gave him more than a workout. He waited until the last one waved by and headed out with their parents before he yelled to the back office.

“Oh Wenchie…you better have a good reason for this,” he said while still looking out the front door.

No answer greeted him.

He figured she still had her headphones on, as she tended to do when she wanted to catch up on work and a class was underway. The uniform “Hai!” that scrambled from the main classroom was more distracting then any amount of music. They did not have a choice with keeping the computer in the back of the storefront. The apartment upstairs also doubled as storage and it was the compromise they had to live with. He shut off the last light and tapped on the door.

“Wenchie?” He leaned in.

“I thought I told you, the newspapers call me ‘Mystical’ now.”

“Well, I’m not the Paragon Times,” he moved over a chair next to her. After a hard stare at the screen, he paused with a sigh, “we can’t bring Bae back.”

“No, but we can bring those Tsoo idiots down.”

“Honey,” he hugged her, “I can’t….”

She was rigid and serious. She was not going to sway from this topic. He quickly edited up the hours she had been on the computer as of late. It looks like the books were going to be even farther behind than ever before.

“Okay, fine, what have you gotten-“ he felt her smile, briefly, without even turning to look at her face.

They met when they were both figuring out what to do with their lives, long before they joined their prospective super group, a level headed organization humorously called a Happy Medium. Augie would find this laughable, considering the amount of firepower they dished out—a great show of power that had nothing to do with being ‘Happy.’

They had seen each other at various competitions across the state of Rhode Island and New England. Her looks brought him in, her style of martial arts uniquely her own. It was not until the state competition he saw the young woman take the adult match with receiving a kick to the ribs-one that could surely have broken both her ribcage and her spine—and yet stand up and walk away. His years of fighting overseas in HongKong and Shanghai showed him that no amount of meditation could give a human that strength.

She had to have a superpower. He asked her on a date and warned her that she could be disqualified.

She ignored him then too. And continued to compete.

And then stepped down before the final rounds.

His mastery of the martial arts and his uncanny super reflexes gave the illusion he had super powers, but it was mere training. Time off led them both to the Hero Corps.

The first time they crossed paths there, even though she had a mask on—he knew her fighting style. It made sense to team up and work the streets together. They could have been like most of the populace, gotten married and raised kids, but her need for competition fuelled her to fight the good fight—and his want-n-need to make sure she was safe gave him further purpose.

They opened the dojo as a further precaution to the persons of Paragon City. If they could not be actively on the streets saving people, at least they could be teaching them to save themselves.

Bae was one of their oldest students and the most decorated. They can never be sure if he had joined the Hero Corps. He was found dead a month ago. The victim of a brutal beating. The funeral was attended by everyone in Augie’s and Mystical’s dojo.

Mystical could not handle it. She had been researching since. She found several links to the Korean underworld out of the borough of Talos Island.

“And there are three shipments coming in tonight. But this one,” she pointed at the screen, “ this one is different from the others.”

“Could be a legit shipment from Seoul.”

“Could be. But look at this manifest,” she tapped away a few seconds. “The most come in during daylight hours, during open harbor. Makes sense with the time it takes for those boats to come up through Panama. But here, “she pointed at the screen again. “This one ship comes in at 3am. It’s legally documented and I’m sure it will check clear—“

“But you checked it against last month’s schedule and it’s out of sync. It’s the only ship coming in with the same goods but at an odd hour.”

“The Tsoo have something coming in,” Mystical pointed out. “That’s my hunch.”

“Do we have to do this? Can we just pass it on? I’m exhausted, totally exhausted, because you didn’t help teach class.”

She looked at him.

“And I better find my costume.”

“Yeah, I’m not letting these bastards sleep again.”

“Can’t we call Borrie? Brehon?”

“Borrie? Maybe,” she looked at the wall clock, “he tends to stay awake late. And Jake? Well….oh no. That’s tonight.”

“See? You’ve been in front of a computer too long.”

“I can’t believe I forgot.”

“It’s okay, Jake called me and wanted to confirm the phone number.”

“Ah, cool. So he’s going?”

Jake had been the Brehon longer then they had been Mystical and _____________________. So long, in fact, it seemed like Jake O’Savage’s friendship with them was the first time the Brehon had human contact. He worked at the University all day and as a hero all night for the famed Legion of Superheroes at night. Time was not wasted on the tanker they called “the Brehon.”

As a gift for their long standing friendship, Mystical had set Jake up on a blind date. A blind date that was going on this very evening. They knew not to bother their friend, no matter how well he knew the city and could help them with their investigation of the Tsoo.

They suited up and used their base teleporters to head to nearby Talos Island to visit with the Tsoo.

Restaurant Review: Mobo Sushi

Ignore the ".com" there, folks, I just liked the picture for what I was writing!!

You’d think with me being totally into Zen mastery and Eastern philosophy, the wonders of sushi would have a special place in my heart. And judging by my shape, you’d think I’d so enjoy eating those flavorful morsels would bring me another step close to Nirvana, ya know.


Yep. That you’d think.

So, after deep meditation, I have to come to another personal truth.

I don’t like sushi. In these trying times, money can be issue. And, well, if you saw my size, girth and height, you’d realize, sushi doesn’t really fill me up. If it were to do so, it would take a few hundred pieces to get me started. And since sushi is such a labor intensive work of culinary art, it takes specialized chefs to make them. And they are paid very well. So a sushi meal for this old RooBear means a few hundred bucks…

…only to be hungry again a few hours later.

However, let’s look at the reality.

Sushi tastes fantastic. The Japanese are a people of the true ascetic. They take a small slice of fish, add details and puft, in one bite, you are taken to places you didn’t expect. I was reminded of their wondrous beauty on a recent trip to Mobo Sushi right here in the Springs. Now, I’m going to make a gross generalization, but something I’ve observed while doing time here on the Front Range is that, well, we have a huge Asian population. I believe that with all of our military men returning from various bases on the rim of the Pacific, we have been blessed with some truly strong flavors of the Orient due to this.

And Mobo is a blessing. And I’ve been to two of the best sushi restaurants in the Springs.

And my feeling is that this place beats them all.

But I cannot figure out why. Tomo is good, to be sure, but the Western décor throws back memories of cheap sandwiches makes you expect easier pricing; Ai is massively expensive, but the front counter holds so many nick-nacks that you feel like that they might be lying about their quality.

Mobo, poor Mobo, is thrust back in an empty strip mall that is the victim of the recession. The only other business worthwhile is a nearby coffeehouse (I’m there right now!) and that’s it. However, when we arrived, the place was bustling with local military types. Now, remember my feelings about sushi, right? I decided to let my husOtter order those morsels whilst I experimented with the general contents of the open menu.

My gosh, it was good. The portions were truly American in size and the service was prompt and direct. The flavors were undeviated and profound. I felt the meal was cooked when I ordered, instead of being reheated.

And then there was my husband’s sushi. I leaned over and dashed a bite and, within moments, I remember my first days in high school when I discovered Japanese culture in my AC coursework. It was great then.

And it was suddenly great again.

I WILL be going back to Mobo sushi. With or without the sushi. And I want to steer the rest of you there too.

Something that's come to light to us recently--all of my family's bestest friends are people we eat with. My mother has four best friends and each and everyone one of them is an accomplished and confident cook or is, at least, married to one. And, as we devoured this meal like ninjas, my husband pointed out that our dear friends had smuggled him to this place a few weeks back, so he knew of it's beautiful flavors. In that statement, I realized that my best friends were really just the same as my mother's. People with fantastic palates. So I've come to the realization it's not what you eat, but who you eat with...and judging by how good this place was? They must really care for us!

MOBO SUSHI
5975 N. Academy Blvd

Colorado Springs, CO 80918
(719) 593-8249

Movie Review: Iron Man 2

I’ve long pointed out that the movies, heck art-in-general, have two purposes going for it: one, to enlighten and another, two, to entertain.


And it seems that the summer months are all about entertainment, which may or may not be a good thing. When I sit and see movies like “Transformers 2,” it seems like the decline of Western civilization is right in our faces. We have the same characters, explosions, thin waistlines (I don’t know many who look like my movies stars, really, outside of my own husOtter who poses like a soap actor when he sleeps…but that’s for the other blog), and noise. The concept of ‘entertain’ is piled high without real thought about the audience and it becomes something of a mess. The result? Earaches and a feeling like you’ve just eaten a bowl of rice: full for now but wanting more in an hour or two more.

Paramount rushed the summer gates with the first Iron Man movie, releasing it bright and early in May. This gave me the sense that they weren’t sure what to do with the movie. They knew the fanboys would flock to get a front row seat, but weren’t sure about the non-comic book crowd. DC’s comic book universe has been around so long it’s been absorbed into popular consciousness. Everyone knows Batman’s Bruce Wayne and Superman’s Clark Kent like they know Las Vegas is in Nevada and that Washington is full of idiots. But Iron Man?

Not so much.

The movie burst onto the screen and began something very new in the superhero worlds—a movie that had marvelous actors actually doing something. The writing was quick and direct, the special effects were appropriate. It even worked on the enlightenment issue, showing us that technology is now at such a level that it can help us but also limits us. We’ve been on a kick these days, celebrating every iPad and Windows 7 we can get our hands on.

But what happens when the power goes off? And the movie tagged that idea, by making a movie that anyone could watch.

It was heady stuff for what many see as a kiddie movie. There’s still this thought that comic books are the stuff of teenagers. Perhaps there is a truth to that. But the fact is, the comic book universe is a multifaceted concept not unlike a soap opera with very large biceps and chests. The complicated story plots on those printed pages suggest that you really have to pay attention, and it pulls the audience up just a bit farther than teenage boys.

Couple that with the fact that comic books’ second old age of the 80’s—those ‘teens’ are now running Hollywood. And they really put a lot of thought into those titles, almost as if the superhero movies of today are love letters from their high school years.

I’ve not reviewed the movie yet and there’s a reason for that, a reason I had to preface here, I’m afraid. You probably know that I’m out of the comic book closet with my recent review of Kick-Ass. So you’ll probably think I’m going to like Iron Man 2, by mere fact that I’m addicted to these kinds of flicks.

But the fact here is that there’s something going on up there on the big screen in this movie sequel that I want you guys to understand. Iron Man 2 is a good movie, plain and simple. The story slogs a bit as you watch it, however, because, well, those fanboys who wrote the movie seem to be a bit full of themselves. They want to milk and add as much stuff to keep those fanboys using their disposable income on large popcorns and midnight showings. And the average viewer might be a bit turned away.

I do believe, however, that there is a message lying underneath, and it’s a message that has more viable themes for the average viewer. There’s a message about the slow killing machines do to us and how our reliance on the world of the mechanical isolates us. Tony Stark as played by Robert Downey started a romance his famed Pepper Potts, played by Gwyneth Paltrow (look! Someone not suffering from winning an Oscar!). But here…he keeps her at arms’ length. His life with the battlesuit that he built in the first movie and is slowly saving the world means he’ll be in danger and he doesn’t want to hurt her. Do you see the metaphor I’m getting at?

It’s invigorating stuff and it burdens the picture. But it makes sense. Sequels are supposed to carry us somewhere. And Iron Man does. I really felt that the characters were different by the end of the picture, the sign that the movie sequel works. It may not be great, but I think it is above adequate.

Mothers' Day Musings...

We are programmed to seek our heroes in popular culture. Makes sense that our society wants us to be the best, so our immediate sources for entertainment should circle around those kinds of heroes who are direct (and most likely, American and have a large gun) and have substantial things that you don’t have. That way, you have to continuously work and contribute to those who make money without ever reaching those lofty goals. I think of John Wayne, who is frequently painted as a hero by those who define themselves as “Boomers.” But ask yourself, outside of defining himself and very, very manly, what did he do for society, other than to recommend you shoot things too? He donated money? Most likely. Did he save a busload of kiddies from falling off of a cliff?

No, I can’t think of much outside of that.

Sometimes, you can find a hero built outside of the constructions of popular existence. If you look to history, you can find those people who encouraged you without actually seeking to be a hero. They aren’t working for a large corporation or talent agency and walking around with their own fabricated myth. I know I’ve always liked Abraham Lincoln. He became president, and much like Obama, and had to pick up the pieces of the previous Commander-in-Chief’s mistakes. Buchanan had refused to deal with the issues of slavery, instead just paying lip-service to the people of the South to keep them happy. Four years were up and he vacated. Lincoln stepped up the plate. He went against his own party’s philosophies of states’ rights; he overstepped the dem’s beliefs by taking away further rights in an attempt to bring the nation back under control.

He had to watch every word he stated, lest another state turn on him. He knew the war was about equal rights and the ideals our forefathers had purported, but he knew as he stated the word ‘slavery’ even in the Northern states, he’d be destroyed. So he kept mum about the issues at hand and set about the task of nation-building. He got to work because it had to be done. He kept his nose clean; he let his intention be as clear as he could.

The markings of a hero.

So, for little old me, heroes are those who do what is necessary to get the job done. I suppose by that definition, I should praise “W” Bush, but let’s face it. He kept saying “Mission Accomplished,” as if he did. He invaded the wrong nation not because it needed to be done, but for vanity. He took away rights but gave rights for corporations to earn more money by raping the countryside.

So let’s avoid those in power when defining heroes, shall we?

It’s Mother’s Day. One of the few holidays I really think Hallmark got right. Valentine’s Day is a bit superfluous, for you should be celebrating love with your partner daily. Christmas? Completely commercial. Thanksgiving gets more to the point and has nothing to do with Hallmark.

But to celebrate something like moms? Since most of us had one at some point, by blood or family relations, it’s good to go. Since Boomers have made divorce so popular, you would think that would lessen the impact of this special Sunday, but it is strangely going strong, even if, for most, the coupling that defines a mom is losing its power.

This Mother’s Day, as I ponder the work that my own mother has done, I realize, well, she’s technically is my hero in more ways than any John Wayne or Abe Lincoln. I look at her and think, “wow, how could I ever do that well?”

It’s not like she’s made of money. But she gets by. She does her work; she makes ends meet. But it didn’t happen overnight.

The fact is, my biological father died when I was four years old. I hate having to use the adjective “biological” before his title, but I still refer to my step-dad as, ‘Dad.’ For all definitive purposes, he has been very much my father. But the man who was there to begin with sadly left the picture in the early seventies.

Now, this was a time of bra-burning and women’s rights. The pill was circulating like candy and women were becoming more and more part of the workforce. In that way, my mother had an advantage. This wind of change got her a job and got her in the door, as a single mom. I look back at myself in my mid-twenties. I was on my own with a decent job and was doing the things I had missed out on in my teens. I had come out of the closet around that time and saw the world through very new eyes.

I could only imagine having kids, let alone TWO! I’m too immature NOW, I couldn’t imagine being how old she was with tykes. I like staying up late, I like playing video games. I couldn’t ruin it with kids. But she did, holding down two, three jobs. I was part of the latchkey generation of Xers, but the reason was clear, even to my young age. But she did it.

And she had lost her husband. If David had died, I wonder if I could even feed myself. He brings me joy even when he’s grouchy with me; he makes me happy even when he’s not in the room. If he were to pass? I tear up with thought; I doubt functions would continue. My mother felt those things too. Her husband died after a prolonged bout with cancer. But she kept going.

With two kids. Two kids who were less than perfect.

But she did it.

In the movie A River Runs Through It, there’s a quote, something along the lines of “the questions of youth, if not answered by a certain time, never will be.” With my Mom, all the aggravations posed from a rough kid-hood (mostly inspired by my rambunctious older sibling) eventually faded. Now we call each other not to report on the latest goings-on and landmarks we’ve cleared, but to just sorta check in and make fun of our bizarre family. I know that these communications bring about a sense of connection and belonging that far surpasses the cultural milestones that we must all obey (birthdays, anniversaries and the like). Childhood and the lectures my mother are supposed to give me have faded to nonexistent and we see each others as equals.

As I recall the importance of this day, however, as much as the phone calls suggest otherwise, I cannot accept my mother as an equal. The purpose of a hero is to beyond anything I can accomplish but certainly can aspire to be.

Here’s to you Mom. You are my hero. Today and every day.

Journal Entry---Fiction

Mrs. Oquendo has her couch moved to the curb. Why? (prompt)  This story is unedited---I had to write 1000 words, that's all, after getting the prompt.

Stew stirred his coffee slowly, wondering if he should treat himself to a ride down to the corner store something that tasted better. He normally would have had his coffee black, but the swill his grandmother kept in her cupboard, a cheap brand that she could afford, was just not cutting it, even after several adds of sugar and milk. He hated milk, but could not deny it was saving him from this flavor hell.

He cracked his back and looked out the front windows. His grandmother’s windows always impressed him. For years, he had grown used to the smaller panes of glass that modern windows have, but here, like most grandmother visits, was a step back in time. A large pane, three feet by two feet, gave a view on the street. The glass itself was not without flaws, a result of natural glassblowing. It had a warp in the upper left hand side, giving cars westbound the image of folding into themselves as they disappeared down the avenue. He moved the shade up, having pulled it down to cover the light from the streetlamp a few hours earlier. He eventually had to just move the couch he slept on further up the far living room wall to find some peace to sleep. The move of the furniture did not help him rest, but at least he had tried. His grandmother still suffered in the hospital less than a mile away. He’d have to fight the effects of the bad taste of this coffee and get back there before she tried to down breakfast.

The shade exposed to his view something new that had grown on the curb. Instead of the usual dead grass and weeds on Mrs. Oquendo’s side of the duplex’s evement, a plant of a different sort had grown over night.

There, with the torn up lawns surrounding where the legs had joined the ground, was Mrs. Oquendo’s couch. It had to be hers. Shattered glass dusted the ground from the front of their collective homes and met with the bottom of the angled divan. It sat at an angle, as if it was inviting strangers to join it to watch Stuart put on his shirt in the living room. Stew stared at the brown and red stained behemoth as he got dressed, its pillows remotely placed where they should be but someone who must have been angry.

Stew was puzzled that he had not heard a thing through the night, but sleep came intermittently through his discomfort, so he supposed that when he did finally nod off, it was pretty steep. He had to dig for a shoe underneath the moved couch, a victim of the furniture shift. He felt a specific anger growing, a gift of this new situation. He didn’t want to go to the hospital, for the trip would probably bid further bad news. This situation on the other side of the duplex could also have the gift of aggravations.

Still, Mrs. Oquendo was a sweetheart. She always had greeted him on those lazy summer days with fresh candies and lemonade. She had retired long before his own grandmother had and filled her days with gifts for her grandchildren-cookies and milk and the occasional plaything. She and his own grandmother were dear colleagues, walking together to the senior center for games of cards and DVDs.

In fact, she had spoken with him just yesterday, offering him dinner instead of having to eat at the hospital. Sadly, he had to refuse. But he knew the meal would have been outstanding.

He clasped a lock of his own hair at the disrepair of the couch, a quick inspection before banging on the door. Deep gashes filled the edges, as if the nails of a beast was trying to redecorate the couch before slamming it right off the sidewalk.

Sure enough, the equal grand front window of Mrs. Oquendo’s side of the duplex had been knocked outwards. He ran to the front door as he flipped the cell phone open. He had never had to call 911 before. He wondered what he would have to say. He did not have the place’s address memorized prior, so he stopped at the front step and glanced at the numbers.

“This is 911—what is the nature of your emergency?”

“I don’t know, I’m at, I’m at….”

Mrs. Oquendo was standing before him. Her flowery prints swayed around her girth a gift from both the wind and her size. She had plastic shoes that crushed the pavement with small grinding sounds as she approached Stew.

“Now Stuart, there’s no need for that, sweetheart, no need. You just tell them you’re sorry.”

Stuart looked her up and down to see if there were cuts or bruises. She appeared neat and clean and satisfied.

“I’m sorry, there seems to be a mistake, I thought my neighbor might have had an accident.”

“There you go, sweetheart, now you come her and give Mrs. Oquendo a huge hug!”

Stuart relaxed and looked back at the couch on the side of the street. He hung up the phone, relaxing seeing the eyes of his grandmother’s friend.

“Oh that? Long story, sweetie, long story. You come here.”

He hugged Mrs. Oquendo and missed his own grandmother’s embrace when he arrived after the accident just two days ago.

“What happened Mrs. Oquendo? You alright?”

“I am, I am! Good heavens, you look like you just woke up!”

“I did, when I saw the couch, I need to go get ready to see my grandmother,” he pointed out.

“Oh, you just head right in there and get ready. You need anything? I have food, like I always do! I have fresh coffee, too.”

Journal Entry: Nonfiction—

If you could have any view from your home, what would it be of?

A few years ago, my buddies over at Disney had a great promotion—who the heck remembers the name of it, but I do remember it had something to do with these ‘Magical Moments’ where they have these Cast Members with random gifts stand in certain spots and, if you were there, puft, you got a gift.

Some of them, well, most of them were zero skin off of Disney’s nose, and basically giving you the overpriced crap they bought for 30 cents from Oriental Trading years ago and couldn’t get rid of. Some was just a cup of soda pop; maybe the occasional pair of ears. Husotter and I won as well, getting a free “Fast Pass” for all of the rides in the park for one day and then getting a lanyard with a collectable pin on it.

Okay, those were pretty cool gifts, moments, whatever have you. We danced and sang when they handed it to us.

But there was a huge, huge, huge prize. Something we only saw reported on the nightly news. It was so big that they would only give it to one family a night. In Disneyland, it was a night in the apartment that once called itself the Disney Gallery; in Walt’s World, it was the space in the famed castle. Can you imagine? As much as I love Disney, imagine staying in those magical parks and seeing the pixie dust settle and the Imagineering folks prepping for another Disney Day.

I think it’s important to point out, I’ve seen the Disney logo of a castle every day of my freegin life. I have it practically on everything, including the wallpaper of this computer I’m writing from. I don’t want a view of that dreamy castle.

But the specific view I’d love to have would be from either of these two spaces. The view would be for those 24 hours out the front, side and back windows. I want to see not only the night come to a close and the lights shut down; I want to see the wondrous clamor of incoming joy and prolonged happiness of dreams coming true.

Disney portrays things in my life that I believe. Now, understand, I don’t mean the man himself or the corporation that became the bottom line of cash flow—I’m talking about the ethereal concept of a dream factory we call Disney. A place where fairies are more than real, animals can speak with more comprehensive understanding then their human handlers and adventures can happen to the everyman more so than any hero prepped for the job.

The Disney Parks represent a certain virtual reality before the term was even invented. We all have dreams. For some, they filter through the time created by age and when rational thought overturns the fanciful. But kids don’t suffer from that. They can play Superman, with the help of a blood-red towel in the backyard (with the dog standing-in for Krypto). And a family, linked to that child, can relive those now-unbelievable moments.

Or they can be like me.

I never really left.

“If you don’t grow up by middle age, you don’t have to,” James Gurney was quoted as saying. With me, that’s true. My brain, when permitted to wonder, creates tales that only I can make true with pen and paper. And I work with children, so I know that those dreams change every couple of moments.

And I’m not alone. I know of a myriad of adults who play video games and go to Disney without any nieces or nephews in tow. I’d be one of them.

My father passed away when I was four. I was too young to appreciate the magnitude of the event, but strangely, I remember that my world changed right afterwards-Ma took me and my brother to Disney World. And all of those dreams that kids make up were in front of me. I hate to use the word “life-affirming” but my dreams had become realized.

And that “World” was not clean, folks. There were ghosts floating in old homes and skeletons on the beaches of Caribbean. But for my tiny brain, I could handle it and grow up understanding. From those small steps in the Florida sun, I had found myself.

So that’s why I want to see those smiles (and yes, I’m even okay with the too-tired tears that appear around naptime) from the comfort of my home, the origin topic of this post. I would love to be part of that dream too, some day, making people happy just as much.

I hope that makes sense. I didn’t mean to get so heady, but many, heck, everyone asks why I love Disney so much. Hopefully, this scratches the surface. I cannot use my gifts of language too much, for defining my joys to you would be like describing colors to a man blind since birth.

You’re just going to have trust me on this!

Journal Entry: Nonfiction..

Journal Entry (nonfiction):


If you could occupy the world occupied in a novel, which would you choose? [taken from the book “IF” by Evelyn McFarlane and James Saywell]

Garsh, any where but here, really. I mean, with the wonderous worlds that books creates, even the evilest of ones, there’s more existing, there’s more excitement, there’s more adventure then this world can ever have!

The first world I would be drawn too is the world that took me to novels in the first place. Sherlock Holmes’ gaslamp existence in Edwardian and Victorian England. I’m not one to believe in past lives, but I have consistently been drawn to this exciting time when the boundaries of life were being rewritten in London. Steamerpunk (think of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen) was massively exciting, providing today’s technology but keeping the novelty of worlds yet to be explored . Jack the Ripper was haunting the streets, and trust me, I’ve read several novels about that creature. HP Lovecraft even pulled the style over to Boston, but the feel, the emotion, the DARK would still be there.

I have wondered, at times, there was something about past lives attached to this wonderment I have about this time period. There's an envigorating energy that comes across me when I read tales from this time period, this concept of, well, familiarity, that makes me feel kinda creeped out.

Okay, if you read my last post, you also know I’m a comic book freak. How I would kill to jump into the world of Metropolis, Gotham City or Genosha. Heck, I’ll even go one step further and say Paragon City. Yeah, I’d be a superhero. I’d fly. I’d stop bank robbers. I’d be thin.

And even though I’ve played in the worlds of Greyhawk and the Forgotten Realms, I don’t think the wonderments of Dungeons and Dragons would draw me in.

There were no toilets frankly.

But there is one world I would live in. Yes, it’s been novels. You’ve all been to Disney World. What I would do to live in those clean reproductions of tomorrow like Tomorrowland or Adventureland. I don’t know why those two would pull me so, but if I had to live IN an attraction (no novel required), it would be the Haunted Mansion. Gotta be.

Does Hollywood of the Day of the Locust count?

Movie Review: Kick-Ass

So yeah, I saw "Kick-Ass."


And yeah, it was against my better judgement. Seriously. I mean, I listen to Roger Ebert and Rotten Tomatoes. That doesn’t always mean I do what they say. I’m totally one for respecting others differences, but in the end, I believe that I have do what I want to do.

I wanted to see this movie. It’s pretty clear I love me some superhero movies. I really do. And everyone panned "Superman Returns. They were right. It sucked moosepenis. But I still went to see it. It’s just the way I am. Maybe it’s something inside my heart to be a rebel. And since I’m such a chickenshit to rebel against people I know, it’s much easier to rebel against writers and post-ers I’ve never met.

So I went to the critically panned Kick-Ass this past night. To show you how much of a rebel I am, I didn’t even try to convince my husband to go. The mere fact there was a swear word in the title turned him away.

Now I don’t know how to say this, but how can you agree with a critic AND say they’re wrong at the same time. Roger points out the violence in this movie, mostly instigated by and to an 11 year old girl, is just so out of place that it’s painful to watch. And reading that, even I was given some pause.

‘Cause it’s right. Most of the carnage of this bloody piece of work is about a super called “Hit-Girl.” And, through her and the other situations, the violence is heightened by its mere number. The message becomes clear pretty much from the outset. Superheroes, in comics and in the movies, are about the fighting. It is all about the combat.

And there is too much.

But is there? I’m reminded of Quinten Taratino movies. So much violence exists in those movies, you become immune by the final climax of all of his movies. The gore fades. And this movie, sadly, kinda does the same thing. I keep seeing fighting and blood. And by the violence’s profundity, I was able to tune it out.

If that makes any sense.

What ends up happening is you see the storyline underneath and realize, this is a plot we’ve seen before. In all of those other superhero movies. The film seems to realize this and ends with the same verbage as every other big picture adaptation of a comic book-a massive storming of the castle. In trying to get us to wince with every knife thrown, the picture, instead, gives up arguing with the audience and just goes with the easy way out.

No wonder they released the movie in April, that nadir of films that studios have no idea what to do with. If the filmmaker didn’t know what to do, how could the studio?

There are some bright parts---Aaron Johnson has leading man energy and keeps his energy focused with the movie spirals out of control. Take a look at Nicholas Cage’s quick performance. He’s still a good actor, folks, and also rises about the material. He should think about doing smaller roles more often.

But the movie itself is strictly for the comic book geek. Oh crap, I just outed myself. I’m totally fine with admitting my being queer—but I’m less forthcoming when it comes to my love for comic books and being a fanboy. Guess then I’m out of the comic book closet—and that’s probably the most interesting thing that can happen with his oddball flick.

Besides, being a comic book geek, I can say this:  The book is better. And in there, the blood IS terrible. I mean, look at the cover art alone....

Movie Review: Clash of the Titans

When is a classic a classic?


I came to this question when I watched “Clash of the Titans,” last week. See, for two hours, I had a bit of free time to really kinda ponder this query—given the fact that my brain was empty as much as this flick was. I saw it with a group a friends, should you wonder why I would subject myself to this show. I also wanted to see this from the perspective of a teacher. Nothing beats the classics, as it were, for teaching fiction.

And I’m still looking for a good example.

See, in 1979, I saw this now-classic picture with good friends of the family. Our world was recently turned upside down with that little upstart of a movie called “Star Wars,” making our expectations totally be rewritten when it came to special effects. But the original “Clash” held true. Yes, it was pretty obvious where the stop-motion special effects blared across the screen, but it proved something back then—

--when the story is well written, you can handle bad special effects because you honestly want to see what happens.

You know, a ‘classic.’ Older movies that really stand the test of time due to great writing and decent acting.

I’m starting to wonder if Hollywood really hates us when this is what they choose to remake. Why mess with success like this original’s title?

See, I’m fine with remakes. It brings us back to original while improving any flaws (if there were any) of the first go-around. They also expose youth to titles they never thought they’d like. I think of the remake of “Psycho” and was impressed with how many teens were in the audience. That’s a good thing. You know they were going to be talking about it over java at the Starbuck’s afterwards.

This isn’t that kind of remake.

Hollywood hates us, and this is the perfect example. Why write something original? Just hack up the starter materials. This movie completely revamps the original storyline. In the first go-around, Harry Hamelin’s Persesus is not an ace fighter. He looks rough-hewn. The gods bicker and look like they are having fun with toying with humanity. Now, we have Sam Worthington looking pretty with zero tan even though he lived for most of his life on a boat. His milky white skin reminded me of the ‘prettiest hooker’ played by Heather Graham back in “From Hell.” He’s so out of place, his placement in the movie starts looking like he was digitally edited into every scene.

But Hollywood doesn’t care for you or this movie. Sam’s the flavor right now, so let’s slapdash this movie together and spend more on special effects. They are grand, occupying most every minute of the movie—so the wonders of this Ancient Greece makes monsters as commonplace at hot dog stands in New York. Where’s the surprise, folks?

Further proof that with a decent story, we don’t really care. I could excuse much of this if I actually cared. Here we have Hades as the bad guy again; the Kraken moved to being his pet-project. Um, wasn’t that Poseidon’s pet?

Um, what?

The film flounders like this. You are given so much free time to let your brain wonder as I did, you realize how vacuous this picture really is. Characters appear without a name, disappear and then everything starts to seem like the director is sitting behind the camera mentioning, “bring me another latte, they’re releasing this in the spring. Besides, it’s not like they’re going to notice after the 3-D is done.”

Yeah, ANOTHER 3-D movie. Trust me, being a Disney buff, I love the wonderment those attractions offered at Disney World. But now those displays are obsolete—because now 3-D is as ubiquitous as political stupidity. It’s killing those cool Captain EO visits! And, well, the fact is, you can’t polish a turd. Again, Hollywood figures we’re stupid. They find all their bad movies and then add 3-D. They can charge us more with the 3-D stuff. Yet the movie is still bad. It’s even hurting any good movies like “Up” because we’re growing tired with the saturation of the market.

I’m waiting for a Mel Brooks’ parody, ala “Silent Movie” or “Blazing Saddles.” Something about a film director who is so lonely he wants to jump into everyone’s lap at the same time in every theatre. So he makes 100s of 3-D movies. There’s something in there.

Something creative and novel.

So, I guess what I’m saying is this—either see the original and enjoy it or save your money for the action films that are in the trailers before the movie. Unless you have a need to go to the movies. Then just buy popcorn and leave.

Restaurant Reviews: Indigo Joe's

Alright, I like to eat. And because of that, I sometimes don’t have discriminating taste. I don’t have many vices left, frankly, outside of a decent palate that needs tons of tasty bits to keep it entertained. So when I go out to eat and I’m actually going to sit at a table, I have decent expectations. Not high expectations. Decent is usually enough. In a world that gives us Applebee’s drive up service and Red Robin’s cookie cutter service, expectations will be slightly dulled after a time.

We went out last week to this place called Indigo Joe’s. Our western corridor of Colorado Springs is a mess. I don’t think there is one independently owned storefront or restaurant the entire Powers boulevard distance. So if I’m in that area and have to eat, I always tend to look for not the Mom-n-Pop diner, because I would have to squint too hard. Instead, I look for that one place that I’ve not actually gone to.

That’s I how I found Indigo Joe’s. It’s labeled as a sports bar. Sports bars are not known as high cuisine either. You figure the average Joe is going to be slamming beers, not wine, and the food should be salty, easy to chew and probably decently spicy to keep you buying drinks.

I’m okay with that. I like to eat, remember?

What you wouldn’t expect is fatty leftover bits, no flavor and bad service. It was pretty evident that’s what happened when we were there. We ordered an appetizer, salads and food. All showed up at the same time. The waitress complained three times about her ‘not getting the system’ of the computer. It was evident. But I believe I can expect a certain normalcy. She went ahead and put all three parts of the meal in at the same time right after we ordered. Then she left them under the lights until they were dry and rubbery. I’m not sure what she was thinking. I’m not sure what I was thinking either, expecting common sense in today’s world. I should pinch myself next time.

The appetizer was new to us-teriyaki sticks of beef. We thought, what the heck, it sounds different. Instead, it was the grizzle from some cheap beef covered in sauce. They were still pink. And really, really chewy. Bubble gum had more consistency. We had to spit out chunks.

Salads were fine. Just served at the same time. I would expect it to be fucked up, by nature of everything else.

Then the meal followed suit. Dry. Boring. I ordered something spicy, a Cajun chicken sandwich, thinking this would be the place to get something like that---my mistake. I didn’t realize the tanning bed of a heat lamp could not only kill the flavor, but actually move jalapenos towards the negative end of the spectrum. Instead, I got green boogers that had all the spunk of a Jonas’ brothers’ album.

It was gross.

See, cause I like to eat. But I don’t hate myself enough to subject myself to this crap. Folks…don’t go. Let’s at least encourage these people to work a bit for their chains.

Movie Review: Diary of a Wimpy Kid

Middle schools sucks, frankly.

If it didn’t teachers today would not have meetings, weekly, if not hourly, about ways of avoiding bullying and how to build self-esteem whilst the government sends messages that you are stupid and cannot be trusted---I mean, we have so many repetitive meetings, it is really impressive that many of these issues that one experiences only in middle school should been solved probably in the fifties. But these issues are STILL happening. It’s part of human development. Anyone who was in middle school knows it has nothing to do with adults. It has everything to do with being a pre-teen. The hormones, the inability to grasp any kind of reality and this nagging feeling that you’re not going anywhere---quite soon. That’s the focus of the kids, not the adults. And any movie that reviews the eons that are middle school years, that should be their focus.

So teachers, including myself have frequent meetings, all trying to figure this ‘middle school’ thing out.

And the kids are still all weird.

I loved middle school. In fact, in my years of growing up, middle school ranked right up there with college. Yes, it did. I had just moved to Colorado and my thorn, my older brother, stayed in New York. It changed my world. No one judged me. I was able to be myself for probably the first time in ages.

So I loved middle school.

I didn’t realize I did until I started teaching junior high back in the year 2000.

The reason I elaborate on this is due to our most recent viewing of Fox’s Diary of Wimpy Kid. We hit it up as a date night movie this past Friday night and it was actually pretty dang good!

I know, I know, some kind of date night, right? You have to understand, dear readers, my husband---we met over Disney movies. We still laugh at farts and giggle at rampant stupidity.

Yes, middle school seems to be his favorite too!

JK Rowling is a godsend on several levels, really. With her writing dang good young adult fiction, we have hundreds of other authors finding the time to put pen to paper and capturing stuff that is quite excellent—all for young people. Diary is an example of this. Yeah, there have been great authors before, but now, kids are finishing their Harry Potter and heading back to the local bookseller and trying to find something else just as interesting. Diary is an example of that. It started as a cartoon on the website ‘Funbrain.com’ and expanded and expanded. It detailed the trails and pitfalls that we have all blocked from our collective pasts when it comes to remembering sixth, seventh and eighth grade. Filled with stick figures to emphasize the humorous text, this book is a quick read that is full of the stuff that makes my first sentence true.

It sucks because, well, you’re becoming a person, you’re not one yet. Greg Heffely typifies the social experimentation that sixth, seventh and eighth graders suffer through. Maybe you should try out for the play; maybe you should take up wrestling. Greg is mortified by his best friend, Rowley, who technically does nothing wrong but be himself. He is browbeaten by his older brother, Brodrick. He doesn’t know what he wants. The book captures stuff I see in my job daily.

And that is why I liked this movie. Unlike JK Rowling, the villains here are not teachers who wield magics that are, quite literally, evil incarnate and can kill you. His parents aren’t not dimwits who seek to embarrass him either. Instead, all the normal stuff a preteen could fear are there—the bullies, the indecision, and the wicked older brother.
And it captures it quite well. Sure, it is exaggerated to some extent, but it truly takes the time to get it right.

I also should mention something about the lead, someone named Zachary Gordon. I’ve worked with teen actors my whole life. They want the fame and the recognition, but having to work for it? Kids only emote when no one is looking. This kid actually is engaging and I bought it. Kid actors tend to rely on the director to tell them the details, but Mr. Gordon pulls it off—a teen we like even when he is unlikable.

So here’s a movie to rent if you have a middle schooler. However, I’m not stupid, it’s not for you probably otherwise. I’d recommend it if you survived this review and maybe nodded once or twice. But beyond that? Nada. That’s why I’ll say it’s really good, but not excellent.

After all, middle school sucks, frankly.

Review: The Ghost Writer

"Boy that was a forgiving mother," my coworker explained.

Our discussion, for some reason, had led to my writings and she had inquired about at what age I had started being an author. I pointed out that I had abhorred a blank page and would sometimes create tales for no purpose whatsoever. The conversation verred this way and that, and at this point, I had elaborated on a moment in high school. I still hadn't mastered typing, so I had my mother transpose one of my handwritten tales for my English class.

The story was that of a murder. I had written a short story about a painting in a wealthy man's home where people would stare at it, go home and then multilate themselves graphically.

My coworker and mother were wondering why me, a person who really strives to find connections with the personalities around him; a man for whom the term "Poopiehead" is a frequent jibe---could write about a man who cuts off his own cheek and eats it.

I bring this up in lieu of my recent viewing Roman Polanski's thriller "The Ghost Writer." In the vein of the best of Hitchcock movies, the film is all about the plot and how it unfolds. The characters are as 3-D as a mystery can let them be. The fact is, in these kinds of delicious horrors, the characters are required to behave in a certain way--and that way means they have ability to be a cold blooded murder. Even the most likeable character in any of these stories must have the motivation to bite off a bat's head.

So when it comes to reviewing these movies, there's really one thing to write about. How well the film makers take the well worn path and stretch, stretch, stretch the tale so that we're belted to our seats until the very end. Everything else we sense, to some extent beforehand. We know something wrong with this person; we know that person is messed up already. But the fact is, who well is it handled.

Don't get me wrong, this is a good movie. Not excellent. Not bad either. What makes it not bad, is the filmmaker is taking a risk here. There's not the quick editing required for the MTV audience. There's the pressure of, at least, presenting these characters in a light that...even though they can kill a person, they must be likeable so that we care should they die unexpectedly. Kids today, they want movies with blood and zero complication. It's the reason there's been 3 Final Destinations but a decent flick like this released in the no-man's land of April.

Hitchcock would be proud. All the elements are there.

Polanski is an excellent filmmaker. His personal angst has led him and us to the ability to really pile-driver the pressure of a given situation. He also gives us a protagonist who is like myself. He knows better, and it shows. He's intelligent and he gets it. But he still goes forward with his writing.

But in the end, we're left cold with zero reward for swimming through the tension of the scenes. I felt that the energy lagged in the third act and, like a solider in a prolonged war, we're left just as wary. What is it with Europeans and their non-clipped storylines?

So you're looking at a movie that's half way decent and actually worth the price at the theatres, but ultimately, not creepy enough to ponder again when you get home.

Sure, there are themes in this movie about our sneaky government and how it throws wars for it's own gains; but really, with the insurance bill being arugred with daily on the news, Americans have already learned about this evil in spades. So the timing is off, way off.