Movie Tavern at West 7th

I made my first Movie Tavern on West 7th visitation yesterday.

X-Men.

I probably would not have gone except that I was accompanying two of my sons, one of whom is home for the summer, and the other leaving soon to work in Azirona. And I like comic book themed movies.

The following are the pluses and minuses of the afternoon.

Movie Tavern, plus:
1. Great seats with mini-tables for your food.
2. Great service. Lots of wait staff, quick and unassuming service. Our waiter was more uncaring than unassuming, but more on that later.
3. Great location.
4. Good matinee price and serve-yourself, no line tickets. I like that.
5. Reasonable food prices compared to other movie theaters.

Movie Tavern, minus
1. Small screen. After the Rave theater's huge screen, it's not so much disappointing, as underwhelming for this kind of movie.
2. The food. I can't speak to all the food but the chips and queso are god-awful. I'm not sure if the yellow liquid they serve should be called queso. It's really bad. I have heard reports that the other menu items are bad as well.

X-Men, plus.
1. The Wolverine cameo where he tells Magneto and Dr X, "to go xxxx yourselves," when an attempt was made to recruit him into mutant service. That was his only line, the only memorable line of the movie, and the only scene worth seeing.

X-Men, minus.
1. Who cares about the antics of spare teenage mutants? I sure don't. A girl with mini-wings who can fly and shoot fire spitballs? Most of the movie was spent developing the characters of mutants no one cares about. And the dialogue? "Mutant and proud?" Magneto getting all tongue-tied and teary-eyed after moving a metal satellite tower?

2. This is the worst comic book movie since Daredevil, my favorite comic book hero, by the way. There was not one funny line in the whole movie except for Wolverine's, and there was no drama until the last fifteen minutes. The first hour and a half is spent watching weirdo teenage ninja mutants and b-roll of Kennedy-era, Spy vs. Spy war games with Soviet characters that were approaching campy. At one point I though I was watching a satire of Austin Powers satirizing James Bond. Seriously. It was that bad.

X-Men, plus.
I was with two of my sons at a movie theater laughing, making fun of each other, and cutting-up, which included my promise to order the queso and chips by saying kwee-so and cheeps in stead kay-so and chips. I did and the waiter didn't blink, smirk, or even look disdainfully at me; something we all found very amusing, until son-one said that he, the bored waiter, was going to spit in my drink, which worried me until I discovered that the food deliverers are different than the food-order takers.

The word, "winnnninnng" was used several times in the course of the afternoon, with some good laugh effect. We did make it through the day without any bathroom humor (John), but over-large breast humor was invoked at the appropriate moments. All of this said to prove my sister's dictum that most males never get past age fifteen in the maturation process.

Meg, we proved you right once again. I had a great afternoon.

Movie Tavern at West 7th

Agree or disagree on X-Men or the Movie Tavern?

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A few thoughts from Target. And hangers, the plastic white ones.

We had just finished an enjoyable meal at Pei Wei on Montgomery and Marian said, "I wouldn't mind stopping by Target," to which I replied as I normally do, "no problem."

It was 125 this summer night so instead of waiting and reading in the car, again as I normally do, I attended.

After a few minutes in-Target-aisle the wife noticed the life forces draining from my face and decided to part ways abandoning me to the only aisle I understand at Target, the cereal aisle. Five minutes walking Target aisles and I am hating life, ten minutes the life force is almost gone, and after fifteen minutes you need one of those two-handed emergency-room shockers to revive me.

Getting near that end and at yellow warning stage I returned to the homing point of mega-marts, the check out lines, with a couple boxes of cereal hoping to see Marian, which I did, carrying two bunches of white hangers, a dozen per bunch.

Like much of what I say, none of this is necessarily that interesting but not one month before she had bought two big boxes of those same white hangers, about 100 of them.

"More hangers?" I gingerly inquired. "Yes, I have a few things needing them," said she, and I wisely left it there.

But I was puzzled, (a) because we had just bought 100 and (b) because I have never bought a hanger in my life.

Ever.

I have some good ones from a suit or sports jacket I purchased, and some workhorses like the kind the cleaners give you. Why do I need more? I'm certainly not going to pay for matching hangers. I like the non-matching free ones.

Then again, I prefer hooks to hang my clothes on. Door nobs work well, too, as do chair backs, and doors that are open . . . none of which need to be purchased at Target.

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Where am I?

I stole this from Gwin Grogan Grimes of Artisan Baking Company. I should have known the answer but I didn't.

Mavs Win!

An AP photo from the Fort Worth Star Telegram website.

I couldn't be happier for Dirk, Jason Kidd, Jason Terry, the team, owner, and coaches -- and the guy in the Cowboy hat that started the franchise, Don Carter. Great playoffs.

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Pentecost Sunday or Whit Sunday

Pentecost (Ancient Greek: Pentēkostē, "the Fiftieth [day]") is one of the prominent feasts in the Christian liturgical year commemorating the descent of the Holy Spirit upon the disciples of Christ after the Resurrection. The feast is also called Whit Sunday, Whitsun, or Whit especially in the United Kingdom, where the following Monday was traditionally a holiday. Pentecost is celebrated seven weeks (50 days) after Easter Sunday, hence its name. Pentecost falls on the tenth day after Ascension Thursday. From Wikipedia. Here

Veni Creator Spiritus ("Come Creator Spirit") is a hymn normally sung in Gregorian Chant. It is believed to have been written by Rabanus Maurus in the 9th century. The hymn is performed during the liturgical celebration of the feast of Pentecost. From Wikipedia. Here.

The Middle Seat. The final travel post.

The middle seat: a space that passengers of aisle and window seats expect to be vacant, as in empty, as in open, as in no one there.

The window seat gazes heavenward, the aisle seat grants the legroom of earth, but the middle is in between. The middle seat is purgatory.

It is the seating assignment that purges its occupant of self-worth because it is there that one is  squeezed between two unknown masses and aware that it is the space you now uncomfortably occupy that they want. You are held responsible, a thief of their comfort, an elbow room bandit.

No one talks to the middle seat occupant, he or she is personna non grata.

And if the ignominy of this seating assignment isn't bad enough the physical limitations are. To wit:  three bodies equals six arms but three seats equals four arm-rests which equals trouble, because if all three occupants of the aisle have some girth, shoulders touch, thighs touch, and those extra arms overlap or fight for the thin strips of arm-rest real estate.

Add to this one other element and you get the seating assignment hat-trick from hell.

I am referring to a person in front of you who insists on total recline of his seat during the flight. A middle seat, large neighbors, and a seat reclined onto your knees and one is certain that the gods have spoken and that sins are being atoned for right here, right now, by me, and my knees, and my elbows.

Yes, I have just peeled myself from the middle seat.

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Beach Bikes

I have been visiting the same beach resort all my life and I have seen many changes in the now almost sixty years.

A few things remain the same. Skeeball is still popular in the Boardwalk arcades, and predates even me; same with bumper cars, although they no longer have the whip-lashing ability they once did.

A good beach bike is not much different than the early days of Boardwalk cruising.

The odd thing about a beach bicycle is that, unlike the city street bike, the more honored bikes at the beach are old, rust-covered and well worn. They have been ridden and appreciatively ignored by generations of families for many years. A good beach bicycle looks like it belongs where it is, as does its rider. The beach is no place for a bike that positions the butt uncomfortably high and bends the back over curled handle-bars.

No, the beach bike is wide bottomed, and fat tired, and made for comfortable cruising. The rider sits upright, is relaxed, dons a goofy hat, and spends his time enjoying the view.

The beach bike rider is not concerned with time. He's not checking his pulse rate watch.

The beach bike may have some utilitarian purpose like holding a book or a newspaper, or a bag of beach fries, but it's usually stripped of everything not absolutely essential. The kick stand has rusted into the closed position, the fenders have long ago rusted off. Beach bikes don't need locks because nobody steals them, and besides it's against the spirit of an old bike to lock it. They don't mind being left out in the rain and being dusted with a little sand. They'll like a little oil on the chain, and a little air in the tires, but besides that they're maintenance free.

Most things change no matter where you are, fortunately, some things don't.

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Stewart's Root Beer Drive-In, Vineland NJ.

I have been in Philadelphia for the last few days, and yesterday, needed to visit my brother in Vineland, New Jersey.

Every once in a while the food gods smile upon us when we are visiting foreign lands and looking for a place to eat. Such was the case with Stewarts Root Beer Drive-In. Since root beer is my soda-fountain beverage of choice and Stewart's is a good one,  I tried it.

The lunch special was a Polish sausage sandwich served on a bun with provolone cheese and fried peppers and onions. It sounded perfect. I added french fries on the side and a big glass mug of root beer. Service was car window on a tray style. It was perfect.

The sandwich was piping hot, the fries crisp and the root beer ice cold. I had died and gone to heaven.

Stewart's, please expand into Fort Worth. I hear there's a great spot right next to the In N Out Burger.

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