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!