Restaurant Review, McDonald’s 4601 Coffee Rd Bakersfield, CA 93312

This is Mimi J.'s photo from Yelp.
There's good architecture, but it's not a house of good souls.

Restaurant Review, McDonald’s  4601 Coffee Rd  Bakersfield, CA  93312

Artistic family planning is the success or failure of involving methods with optional concentration in preventing or nourishing creativity, so customer service is best expressed from our prejudice of technology as the tendered trials of sleepy moves per millions of workers paid sub-living wages these recent years.  At McDonald’s by Coffee Road, a worker’s calm lack of attraction that results in a distraction rate of less than a baker’s dozen of annoyances for so many complaint fads each disinterested shift may be considered effective for reality perception but not some particular enchantment of chances.  Bakersfield McDonald’s mechanical barriers to employee chemistry prevent all local migrations around sedative entertainment from destroying vulgar expectations or make romance immobile within remodeled comfort assembly.  The corporation’s conversion of greed involves the changing from buyer dismissal to a kind of exaggerated interpretation of happiness, correcting the ugly disposition of a worker during training rest.  At least emotional conflicts aren’t repressed while we change between memes of individualism; to admit something about my lifelong bias, McDonald’s application of restaurant geometry is due to physical causes such as reprimanding eaters or commonplaces of Jesus enthusiasm.  How can a lover of fast food use restraint before maintaining wimpy influences, fun injected in those stuffed teeth that illuminates the restaurant’s winner structures that are easy to ignore on aliteracy standards?  A hot manager’s convulsions may occur in stigmatized episodes, as in also happening through his or her dark glitter of policy fundamentalism or quick associations of labor reducing sexual temperature.  Caffeine used to help stop my gazing has the most serious danger result: hard breathing difficulty by large moments, any mirth defect that results when the joint’s desert growth of its dreamy apathy is disturbed.  McDonald’s disturbances in action caused by shy reasoners in a magnified room opening in most cases occur around ridiculed believers who breathe in faulty opposition or swallow a chill pill or put vibrant energy into secret criticisms.  One imagined dessert of compromising excusers is a blockage of apology as I’m surrounded by attentive helpers because the fudge’s chilly heat can pass the smiling lids and leaves the soft serve’s ends of the golden arch cup into the swift product cavity.  To avoid the surreal symptoms of bohemian meditation, boxed portions of designed food layers yet to be good are opened by me enough for self-ventriloquism unless there’s a dancer.  If both lobby and kitchen are distinguished with McDonald’s restaurant geography and there’s a flashy imbecile, meal replacement therapy is rarely begun right away, and troublemaking customers are instructed to avoid sharply flexing the drama or love for proper food vigor.  This McDonald’s location isn’t a source for the Create Your Taste Menu and, with the workforce’s saclike bulge of spiraling discord, there’s a swelling of irritations with linked motor senses. 

Restaurant Review, Applebee’s 9000 Ming Ave, Bldg M Bakersfield, CA 93311

Here's the Southwest Steak & Black Bean Soup!

Restaurant Review, Applebee’s  9000 Ming Ave, Bldg M  Bakersfield, CA  93311

Materials aren’t styles, but procedures can involve treasures.  Applebee’s Southwest Steak & Black Bean Soup: juicy, wet, meaty, beany, a teeny bit smoky with mild to medium umami taste; Applebee’s Blazin’ Texan: saucy BBQ appearance from as much breadiness as meatiness; Applebee’s Maple Bacon Chicken Piadini: slight hot tortilla crisp over smoother bacon texture to add mouth hot umami taste; Applebee’s Chips & Salsa: crunchy lime flavors by chews for wet mildness in recognition of nostalgic texture as well as familiar licks above Mexican juiciness gusto.  This list is from the rooms inside my tummy out, inducing my favors toward Bakersfield Applebee’s pickup moments table side to involvingly munch, checking p.m. guests four in bewilderment if not the rest smiling or curious with conditional excitement.  No Pink-165, a couple of things for silent promotions unless eaters beg, two to four meat pieces boneless rather than wingless, a building of distant symbols for glamorized alphabet usage, missing promotions for diet energy, plus hidden bacon in a sandwich with curly frills.  I can use a handheld to take pictures of Handhelds then eat the Handhelds with the handheld in my cool pockets, during my faint stay at Bakersfield Applebee’s custom dining architecture of restaurant geography; kicking up the lighter fare with laidback observations over curvy Pepsi glasses and disposable napkins, I think a cup may be like this window during road trip visitations to colorful physics that spell out the hidden annoyance which forces itself in inclusion with Applebee’s server psyche.  The Yelp reader mustn’t improperly judge a message’s ink since I’m schizophrenic with unknown mental disorders, but I confess that my mature bias for Applebee’s collections of rations just stimulates my progression against typical interests, especially since I finally woke up after 5 years of blind life to heavily enjoy foreign foodstuffs.  A mere credit card isn’t an expression, for style is idiosyncrasies, thus there exists good kinds of materialism on a planet where our smiles shine like flashing targets metaphorically.  Applebee’s hours are a minimal surplus in freshness and reflect employee styles that go with demands revolving around business theories called policies; to remark on business practices, I believe restaurant rules are divided associations, so a company’s gusto to stubbornness isn’t completely understood with one basic glance; there has to be constant meals through precious time, in order to interpret my wits correctly and justify Applebee’s readiness with allowed drugs and measured portions of attractive eats.  Applebee’s recent commercials imply romance that isn’t universal; perhaps with their presentation of possible opportunities, imaginary for many citizens, Applebee’s can display their rad affectation for spicy clients.  For a commonplace Yelper to dismiss Applebee’s, vulgar idiots might as well lie about gourmet maple mustard (which complements umami tastes) and complain about peaceful weather (which happens); I wouldn’t talk about effective drinks as a rude metaphor or with gross exaggerations, since Applebee’s exotic tasting and sales of partials for completions become heavy symbols of Applebee’s exotic capitalism, which isn’t totally refined with a cute picture of an apple.

       

Restaurant Review, Round Table Pizza 880 Arneill Road Camarillo, CA 93010

Restaurant Review, Round Table Pizza  880 Arneill Road  Camarillo, CA  93010

Their kitchen is a room, it’s not equipment; the plaza’s courts share their powers with our dining duration near Round Table, thus the gourmet restaurant’s daily experiences revolve around capital strength, also edified personalities to date, when food purchases serve as temporary collections for energy absorption.  Pizza is made in Earth, modified from biological materials to endow living tastes, so pleasure is a nice illusion for citizens with stubborn feelings; I know that we’re aliens to plenty of others, while admitting that pepperoni isn’t so rectangular when it’s a yummy dream to a quiet recipe.  My reaction to Round Table is loose but fits my one-man gang casually under empty moons, however baked a slightly crunchy sandwich returns as from shining white architecture (kitchen) towards roomy dark tables in saucy, rosy tints.  Round Table’s cheeses are ready because knights turn their stare, like walking boxes over fluffy floors, hurried with deep zest that complements red sauce or other house dressings with dollar crusts and vegetable meats, participation varying by moments without ruining my experience.  I have an idea!  Why not create our own appetizers too, along with the salads and fair lunches?  It’s rather a tragedy that extremely many customers don’t agree to pay the money because we need to dive into some of our wants before we can even know what our needs are.  Certainly I can leave a tip without putting my name on it, so I’m an order taker just like Vanessa who has lots of privacy on a business residence of excluded spirits.  There’s nothing like putting musical fruit on mashed taters and savoring Juicy Peach Brisk Iced Tea, relaxing by a table with no numbers during a buffet session of marvelous details in topping enjoyment.  My nails don’t need a hammer at this point.  Every pizza here is personal to me; all the scratch, more silver, one magical duration for my results, hot fire to pan, extra upgrades to colorful cheese with rapid worker movements on budgets above pockets.  Why not get started with where Yelpers are?  How many islands do I have to be on before I can see the dish?  Where these herbs lie in the soda fountain, I may envision a salad bar without exits or spoon those croutons like a horse drinking water, with choices of surface ingredients and core ingredients, kissing the twist of garlic, then letting it fly with classic wings.  Round Table should have a calendar for drinks and fill out all the days, since this rectangular joint’s faint ambiance reminds me of sips from the mountains if not muscles over dirt, brushing the premiums off after nibbling onions through the dust and magnified glory of Round Table dining.  Imagine roasted juice or crisp strips, blends of the melting and creams of the ranch, a side of Lay’s or fun sizes, dining inside to go somewhere I need to know.  Looking for compromise?  Round Table is a fresh picture which transcends capitalism into immersive fields of their concluding atmosphere, love under stops and everyday rolls of bread; all of Round Table’s pizzas include enormous amounts of flavors, aged cheddar, whole milk kitchen equipment; next pick a buffet platter for gracious refills of rations and I’ve got myself a plate that keeps growing or a cup that never finishes, nearby Kmart and sugary gems.

Poetry Collection Review, Jeane: Poems by Jeane Elise Rilling

Poetry Collection Review, Jeane: Poems by Jeane Elise Rilling

I’m not a philosopher who says “we” in substitution of “I.”  Jeane was a young poet who went through a short life before death.  My mom gave me this poetry collection; it belonged to her mom, who got it with her high school yearbook.  It’s a tribute that was shared with high school graduates from Herbert Hoover High School, around Glendale in California.  Jeane’s demands of romance are akin to James Joyce’s rather than Edgar Allan Poe’s.  She makes large use of clichés because they’re the most powerful in pronunciation terms, being musical with ideas that should be memes like “frosty star” or “velvet blue.”  Intimacy about Spring and songs is illustrated with a kind of awareness that isn’t so keen but on a higher level instead.  A star’s laughter in the heavens is a bad rhyme for her, so Earth to her seems more like what Christianity heaven ought to be.  I’ve heavily listened to plenty of music on all music genres except rap, so I’m possibly biased about Jeane’s works; in particular, I’ve been listening to a whole lot of songs from the internet and am reading Poetry Magazine and poems from Poem Hunter with my bias on what reading nature sounds like.  Jeane’s intuitive about naming various objects like concrete and bees so she can portray her cute ways with romance, although she’d be mentioning love (not really talking about love) when history is rolling and so many kinds of people are claiming to be Americans.  For example, she might talk about how a rose would still have its gaze for some of the streaming forms of nature.  The poetry book’s cover includes the elongated imprint of the letter J to Jeane’s name that’s inked with a long tail; there’s something about that towering J which makes me think of Jeane’s death as well as her intimacy with “Christmassy” parents and “Dream-Away Lane.”  Jeane’s words are built with dreams that overlap other words, so clichés have dimensions of transportation over meanings to boney voices and blood muscles.  If I could meet Jeane today, I’d ask the poet how long she’d been awake after birth, since a bed involves a person’s exhaustion through it that transcends faith until anybody becomes a birth.  Jeane’s rhyming often is the cause for accidental philosophy; just consider the relationships between phrases “mirth” and “birth.”  The poetry here is a collection of abstractions which transcend from memes about weather, streets, rides, her dad, and plenty more, with emphasis that is simple yet intuitive because of Jeane’s affection for queens and our sky’s godliness in layers.  Can the reader imagine frosty stars?  I think of wedding cakes!  Jeane’s lovely associations revolve around normal words but are only half-descriptions, thus I wonder if the act of reading is a vague concept; I can say that I’m watching movies, but I can’t say if I’m watching books, according to our traditional literacy customs.  I don’t know what happened to Jeane on her last vacation; but from the looks of her flowery language and natural interests, I’d say she’d been living a life of vacations due to her attitude that’s less than infatuation but more than her admiration of defense.

Because of the free poetry on the internet, and Jeane’s absence from the internet, I’ll type here two poems of hers that I think are very special:

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NIGHT FLOWERS

I put a rose into a vase,

Then breathed its fragrance in;

It seemed so pure and innocent-

As if it had no sin.

I thought a fairy lived inside

And slept there all day long,

Lulled to sleep by a little breeze

And soothed by the wind’s soft song.

But every night, when the world was still,

And the moon in the blue rose high,

She would leap from her rose with an airy song

And raise her arms to the sky.

Then up she would float, like a silver dream,

To dance on a moon beam gold,

Till the moon would pale and sink from sight

‘Ere the sun’s morning message was told.

Then down from the sky and the aerial heights

That she loved, would the fairy come,

‘Way down to the earth and her crimson rose,

To wait for the sinking sun.

But when the sun, with its lovely light,

Has faded again from view,

Then up she will fly with an airy song

To the moon and a velvet blue.

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CLEANING HOUSE

These are the wardrobes of forgotten dolls,

Cracked and dusty, in their ancient bed

Carelessly placed, shoved in some corner,

Wearing painted smiles that long were dead;

Ah, well, each ruler’s favorite sometimes falls!

Poor toys, do you remember me at all?

So often have I gaily played with you

And set the crooked stitches in your gowns,

And now, your fates I am to settle, too;

Bring out the victims to my justice hall!

Restaurant Review, Toppers Pizza 3940 E Main St Ventura, CA 93003

Restaurant Review, Toppers Pizza  3940 E Main St  Ventura, CA  93003

Combinations?  Visit with influential ambiance for several hours seeing ladies in flower dresses and agitated guys with sunglasses on cloudy days, tuning into the tall curvy restaurant’s television choices of tennis and sharp grins, thus having ranch dijon by Cucumber Court through absorbing a spacious atmosphere with big box videogames and labels of urban comforts.  The salad bar is a fresh base for chunky rations, given bowls and silver pizza trays due to Toppers’ front counter customs of saturated black menus if not only employees with comedic associations; just to add to the mix of Ventura’s rapid and cool walks of life, I can let ice melt a little into decorated paper pipes of Diet Coke while being alive after death, sipping pizza sauce and flossing with slices after nurse party runs and recovering from outrageous blues.  A pizza topping is a stamp you can lick!  Ovens can be like the miniscule stars representing people’s exhaustion from the 80’s; we should build pizzas like we should write complicated letters, so toppings must be accurate badges of cheese pie taste when pizza artisan employees drizzle the honey over creations of melted textures.  Toppers’ pastrami is stronger than Old New York Deli & Bakery Co.’s in Camarillo yet milder compared to Subway’s, but I can burn with nostalgia because of all the different pastrami shapes and flavor taste relishing.  Ordinary plates can be special no doubt since events click in with our motives off and on, kids busy in the tight corner arcade and impartial dudes swinging napkins over cross table tops, and restaurant travelers can pick up poppers and pizza cookies near the largest fork statue in the beach county.  Toppers’ has top hits and bottom hits when it comes to pizzas, select sauces and requested anchovies, various sandwich simplicities, what used to be Kettle Classics, zapped fontina cheeses, a relatively rich lobby with zip-zap turns and senses of gross humor, and a very fresh salad bar that’s wider than Santino’s with colors that are less dull yet really sparked or enticing.  Hours on demand are stories for customer help, so families get more comfortable and keep a kind of dining psyche they understand; from this less-than-acute focus for my observation, plates are often missing however eyes are gleaming; “Eat More Pizza,” and talks might be surrendered to by bittersweet parents especially after our tasty memories interfere with our delicious perceptions.  There’s bare notions to Toppers’ enriched welcome that catch fire from Italian American freedom, even as the hot slices get the cold cuts, so Ventura’s cultural flows become Toppers’ community of horse-eye individualism and thus the pretensions to our fear eventually twist up reality in return for rush wheel emotions, which are true and designate what passions and boring temptations lift the lily.  Toppers’ silent comments about tall board menus keep the common fashions away, and the workers’ low voice customer information serves as my nostalgic tune for real key dining after lovers don’t get enough fun for stupid jokes, so I wish upon Toppers’ ovens for Italian spiciness as well as eaten quarters.  Basically, Ventura Toppers’ checkered foundation revolves around urban layers which pull from the darkness for improved art, leaving us with molten pizzas and intriguing gangs while, too, stopping the madness in order to portray edified fun that’s a time-bone to Toppers’ physics of imbecility.   

This is the Chicken Ranch Dijon Pizza.

Song Review, “Hip To Be Square” by Huey Lewis And The News

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Song Review, “Hip To Be Square” by Huey Lewis And The News

I’m not sure if the singer’s lack of care is proven, or if exercise doesn’t involve care because of his passion, since ambiguity is quite often a mystery for someone (the song narrator) who’s constantly in check with his feelings about wit or stagnations from absent judgment.  Huey’s clothes isn’t an excessive shield to his lusty magnitude, but paintbrushes to his jocular trail of tears.  The music video is on YouTube.  Huey’s sense of the truth doesn’t have to be exact when the world isn’t its own witness, considering hip technicalities that fall into play with slow motion from the band’s endurance of this performance.  Huey’s chants are sometimes paused and complement involving “saxations” (to quote smooth jazz saxophonists), indicating humorous romance that’s determined prejudice when the singer’s witty ignorance is a clever hint of his informal prominence with interesting haircuts by planetary freeways.  “I used to be a renegade, I used to fool around, but I couldn’t take the punishment and had to settle down.”  His lyrics are shapes which illustrate his powerful dismissal of questionative drifters leaning towards sensible goals, acting as regressive memes for glorified sociality while Huey manages a convincing voice to his motivating associations.  A song implies knowledge of physics just as a sound becomes a symbol for materials, thus Huey’s demonstration here is intriguing romance against doubts of nostalgia only because our homes for performances keep changing.  Fresh grammar can be a sign of new ideas, so I’m not bookish about stories I don’t know or constantly shifting from boring pleasantries in order to be selfish, but wishing upon artists to get self-help for life’s obscurity and interest in friendship.  I write this way and listen to “Hip To Be Square” because I want to get to truths that are higher than light and reaching around the darkness again, very much in tune with my whole body in the name of squares and dudes with destiny.  Huey’s reflective about the enraptured band’s melody of high voice customer information, entering a slanted dimension where rock musicians have polite compensation for doubts rendered as positive clues to hyper cultures.  Huey’s perceptions like mine most certainly aren’t dull and the song contains lines of lyrics that act as honest frames of visual opinions, which of course are heard from the ears by our brains after we wake up from our first messy birthdays.  History in the making is a chance if not thousands of risks, and Huey’s creative embarkment of friendly listeners is an act, a part of music industry processes, noting also that excellence is a point of magnification while serving as a stress factor for performance athleticism.  Still, I hope that saxophones keep playing in an age where troubles are promoted and virtue is on artist demand; to tell the reader the truth, I’ve enjoyed the sound quality of “Hip To Be Square,” so while I can’t judge a song by its price, I can judge a price by its song.  

Restaurant Review, Subway 9280 Telephone Rd Ventura, CA 93004

Restaurant Review, Subway  9280 Telephone Rd  Ventura, CA  93004

These city knights (labor force) play their craft according to fresh principles during the singing of urban fire that’s dining, pickling out toppings and house sauces for much of Ventura’s cultural flow of attended kids and gracious cups of free ice.  My positive input is concealed in breaths until the Dreamboat ships the ruined letters, so colorful stagnations of mine become recipes for physics and enjoyment; as a theory, this Telephone Road Subway is an establishment of blues that personifies busy lives with acute focus that’s happy customer service on the Christmas holiday while usually self-accommodations at other points in history.  The head boss relates to his workers while being in an entrepreneurial class because the whole business is built upon rapid innovations which correlate from very involving human affairs.  A worker’s taste is his or her realization just before money compromises imply various reasons over simplicity towards complexity at once through situations that aren’t carefree but initiated for continuous production.  Subway’s hints about production include presentations, slices, baking, heating, toasting, bringing, disposing, filling, squeezing, and other properties of restaurant actions, especially for a petite suite near Asian American restaurants and tabacco selections.  Modern radio showcases popular hits like “Frosty the Snowman” on the 12th month and slow rap ensuring visitors what summaries kill romance by cell phone mongers.  Subway’s turkey stays in portion with normal turkey allowances unless freedom turns into a meme enough that customers request double meat with cheese triangles, stipulating here capitalist objectives for extended meals around durable chairs inside one small corner missing golden oldie entertainment and informal dancing.  Subway’s technology isn’t some mistake, instead offering particular pastrami alongside from quiet local promotions and setting up artisan hands on public demand, releasing tangy honey mustard and pinkish orange hot sauce to accompany communities that aren’t wild but intuitive, calm, and provoked due to employees’ degree of natural assumptions.  My talks with citizens on Subway’s land have resulted from pardons which reveal themselves big and small in the face of genuine American characters; thus, personal consumption of saucy meatballs, juicy soups, nutty cookies, and half lemonade feels great for me even when happiness pulls out the plug and drifters share close opportunities.  Persons cautious with health should try ribose or add twice the chicken to salads, since history is in the making prior to our understanding of famous technicalities.  Subway’s footlong isn’t a foot short, and a worker’s flat wit when present is a sign of broken rules, although it’s no pretext to sadness but self-actualization for novice materialism.  I related well with strangers and passed quite a few invigorating times, so this Telephone Road Subway starts among resources as a joint for animated enthusiasm and mysterious ideas.

Song Review, “Blowin’ in the Wind” by Bob Dylan

Song Review, “Blowin’ in the Wind” by Bob Dylan

Forms of poetry are often logos of memes with positive flaws while songs have new kinds of sentences, considering my patience with time as though my eyes are actually the students for these ears under my hair.  “Yes, and how many ears must one man have before he can hear people cry?”  Dylan’s associations with mankind are fine because he stays loose and plays with syntax to get insight whether he uses plain English or not, so the intrinsic behaviors to his godly motives are fascinating if also miraculous of intellect as well as rarity.  Utter honesty is his best defense when visions are as light as air, contemplating here about the evolution of deaths even if my prosperity can never be considered the obvious return from my oral literacy or one special type of speech impediment.  Dylan’s accuracy of life portrayal isn’t sketchy but quite a definitive reference to wisdom and proclamations which become ironic for possible answers that’d be too long.  The catch phrase “Blowin’ in the Wind” for me implies mystery of wisdom since torrents of weather really haunt peaceful armies before spelling out an unknown danger, being itself a collection of memes that form the real word in a society of slippery doves and washed mountains.  My favoritism of folk music is too my actualization of materialism with secondhand spirits during this sleepy discovery of rounds with musical notes, turning my exhausted body into a medium of reception in the causing sunshine near those musical videogame consoles.  Dylan’s courage is really his fear, very much in tune with his awkwardness of bravery at a moment here and there, performing with twisty physics; I can say more about this, and Dylan’s determination isn’t usually his regret throughout song playing but promises in emotional terms.  His childish strength is his romantic reign of the song’s pieces of advice relating to Earth’s likely devastations, so Dylan’s imbecility is cute yet truly serves as a warning symbol for doubt exaggeration.  “Blowin’ in the Wind” is a romantic chant because Dylan juggles ideas with infatuated meanings rather than observing an obvious thesis, and by getting to basic predictions he turns out to be a very unlikely hero.  Dylan can inscribe lyrics under purple light due to his abstractions with easygoing agony as well as vague demands, and he cuts a statement to the bone, living through reactions toward ordinary nature in his interesting admiration of defense.  Maybe rapid feedback from reviewers gets customers going, but I like to treat our reading as a chance for meditation instead of fashionable conversation attributed to busy people.  In fact, fashionable conversation attributed to busy people is a source of aliteracy.  By my phrase “admiration of defense,” I’m describing what romance is in poetry.  Indeed, with answers blowing in the clouds around the bends of Dylan’s proclamations over historic references, I believe we need to be more confused about our learned behaviors since our knowledge of love may occasionally be a precipice to the darkness.  “Yes, and how many times must a man look up before he can see the sky?”  “Blowin’ in the Wind” refers to an answer; however, it may refer to a question in addition, so we can try to find statements in the air without having favorites that ruin vivid scenes or training aggravated nerves.  It’s pretty neat to be called a friend after I’ve realized my personal edification of sensation over mystery, so Dylan’s casual attraction to his notions is his gusto of his involved presence around quick-playing harmonicas as well as catchy tunes that play out the roles of a guardian over humanity, and it’s legal.

Restaurant Review, Baja Fresh 4769 Telephone Rd G2 Ventura, CA 93003

Restaurant Review, Baja Fresh  4769 Telephone Rd G2  Ventura, CA  93003

A fulfilling of grilled veggies strikes Baja Fresh’s fancy as its promiscuous act or their favoritism of diets, lobby time in flourish between our onset of maturity and consumer responsibility.  The boxed restaurant flows with several kinds of romance that are vital to customer services under certain circumstances; see also the worker adrenaline, a humorous rumor of their smart attention span that may cause confusion or a new crush with money.  Such opinions of mine vary in truth, occur at certain moments in time, and are more common in language than in fashion.  This excitement often spreads to my lungs and I help my parents with inhalation abuse, shorter than six feet for Spanish, meaning Baja Fresh to be taken as wanted when deciding on ravenous solutions to maintain the right amounts of healthy tastes on my boca, blood pressure in flight, replacing lost tacos such as chalupas or sammiches, or providing myself with quick nutrition that kicks all the vitamins out of orbit.  Baja Fresh’s act of lots of basic foods sticking to each other is paramount to their lovely intrinsic behaviors to their peevish motives, a corny mistake on their skin appearing as informal hints of smirking cheeks, clusters of entertainment with possible edification for experienced customers, and thickened appreciation for untutored minds, especially near the checkerboard dining room and wedding fingers and curvy rows of seats.  Baja Fresh’s ingredients aren’t the emulsifiers of gifts but rare spicy effects for which Baja rice and fire-grilled meats are done after an open/closed sign is implied with clear glass doors, since in my mind an exit is also an entrance.  The Mexican Cuisine implies a restaurant’s intuitive ability to cook with objects that used to be biological and vessels that are art as background or comfort; Baja Fresh’s study on the insides of burritos is managed for typical retail workers to test for cashier strategies, blocked kitchens, hardened behaviors in infatuation, served packages, high voice customer information, mental love, breath stops, and dining and lobby stagnations for the employees’ impressive associations of ideas.  Later, normal experiences become affected with reflection.  Del Taco in California’s state capitol has warlike services compared to Ventura Baja Fresh’s brisk, easy-going sociality; not to mention, Baja Fresh is a painkilling and imagination relaxing location lived for, not to die for, managing their imbecilic nerves (really nostalgia) and some kinds of natural disorders.  The Smoky Queso Fundido becomes the basic medium of spiciness for devilish burritos within the context of energetic metaphors like warm tortillas and low sauces.  Baja Fresh’s 99¢ drink fad isn’t so popular, and we see their illustrations of food, and the menu is a story itself about cuisine explorations.  Any defect in the chemistry of workers is handled with only the correct prejudice; that is, the romance present from intuitions, the powers of disinterest, and their immediate apprehension of the future.  There’s no evil here!  A small hotspot made from real emotions of the Ventura market, by East Main, the restaurant has been used in re-imagining Ventura’s local traditions and sitting around with Salsa Crema by lovers and procrastinators. 

Song Review, “Walk Of Life” by Dire Straits

Song Review, “Walk Of Life” by Dire Straits

Sounds can become layers, but I’m not sure if the same sounds are their own one layer.  A musician must live in a habitat that’s special and desired until there’s an end, so sounds follow with his or her pursuits.  It’s true that instruments play in part because of Earth’s weather, although I’d have to consider musicians with their daily routines as well as their vacations.  Musicians rest and play so well, since goals are a matter of proclamations and livelihood, and slogans can be collections of memes like “Walk Of Life” that contain pressure from so many artist feelings.  While it’s true that a feeling can be a bad association of ideas, thinking is not everything.  Dire Straits’ vague perceptions are interesting and stimulate our imagination about beats in relation to cultural clues over golden oldies and “turning all the night time into the day.”  I’m not sure if all the keys can be revolved around a single layer of music as they can several layers of music; the song itself is an interpretation of decades of music, so sounds themselves can become great memes if they’re continuously passed down by musicians and listeners.  “Walk Of Life” is open for interpretation because the 20^th century of music was lived for by millions of musicians and listeners, and thus art is more like a proclamation of life rather than its exact description.  If some Amazon reviewers give this song four stars and think that two and two make four, I’d tell them that mathematics is collections of memes like songs and that cultures just have to begin somewhere.  Just Dire Straits’ place in history can be like time itself, and the layers of music from “Walk Of Life” nourish out of their creative nature to shake up the boundless definitions of music until our ears drip with the healthy, vivid tunes.  The song’s layers of music are definitely not built up like a planet so much as a dream, and they’re constantly serving up Dire Straits’ cognizance of music society when they’re refining the beats to suit their individual perfection of song estimates.  A singer’s woo is an abstraction of typical animal roars, so memes about dedication and devotion can be special abstractions rather than just mere acceptances.  Due to this observation, poetry must be at least one abstraction.  Mark Knopfler really digs Johnny!  It’s probably confusing to talk about feelings apart from descriptions for the same reason that a musician is often feeling after given descriptions.  “Walk Of Life” is designed with magnificent echoes, at least metaphorically, and the vague sound levels ramp up on the song’s own composition as though they slightly stick to hard substances such as the loudest voices and the gluey arrangement of cultural memes.  Of course, listeners can stipulate what kind of progress lives with a song if they actually describe in their heads the emotions possible and impossible before going on to feel it.  Dire Straits is a present of golden thunder which rocks the sparks after settling down slightly with the peaceful storms, and “Walk Of Life” is a popular example of theories in practice from creativity.

Restaurant Review, Montezuma 112 E Stroube St Oxnard, CA 93036

Restaurant Review, Montezuma  112 E Stroube St  Oxnard, CA  93036

¡Welcome to the Gulp of México!  With some roots locating to Oxnard of a Shell gas station and some streets glittered with colorful black, Montezuma, a Mexican restaurant with guts, is a familiar face in Ventura County, and nearly four burritos later, with attentive server support of hundreds of tacos per year, it’s also one of the suburban neighborhoods’ wisest choices of source.  Among the wealthy stomachs, Montezuma has plated grub for thirsty troublemakers who want to live by ranchy eggs with those romantic prices that have cooled off over the past years, keeping in mind that a few sales above nostalgic articles can have a big taste of macho gusto on spicy entrepreneurial rations in a decorative market like Oxnard, with prices that can stretch well into our figures.  Montezuma has enjoyed a dark room appeal with magnificent determination as its lurking ambiance to dive from for some of Southern California’s most quiet and hand-switching families, from Ventura County’s history when we are a beachside population with workaholic beauty further inside our hungry hearts that lured the cities’ magnitude to its sweet urban status as the hometowns of cautious patrons.  Over the past year, Montezuma’s food has developed from an intrinsic hub called the kitchen that rivals Baja Fresh’s fresh grilling, with many former customers who traded money for firm layers of the Mexican Cuisine offering up their own emotional clues near the serious wall decoration.  With a highly laid menu, free salsa chips and support waiters, the circumstantial profits of dining become a spectacular feature over their luxury dominance of precise estimation.  Soda refills and hot chews have gravitated near bored lovers, so fat burrito sales tend to offset the performances of financial parents and the taco bonuses that come with survival times, and we laze up during the smooth waiting times in the Oxnard market, which I dare say, and note that yellow burrito sauce at the very zooming atmosphere above footsteps is delicious after the millennium when our mouths relished quite a few returning flavors.  Whenever I’m looking at their suspenseful layers of eats, consumer confidence comes into play; when I’m aroused by Montezuma’s destiny, I’m going to think about the productive grade of my money at hand and spend money for un-diminishing returns, but if my worries interrupt my schedule with Montezuma, I can stay where they are for sets of minutes ahead of time.  Montezuma’s luxurious burrito design over heavy dishes on the west side of an open cash register table has particularly been in demand along the richly castaño atmosphere.  From my last meal, a burrito many inches wide and several inches long on a secular plate on the easy table at Montezuma between streets and streets fitted my bill and squeezed into my sour head, and Montezuma’s unique views of boney walls and artifacts are similar commodities to those of Santa Barbara Chicken Ranch.  Montezuma’s gains show vigor in their propriety, but it has been the grand sizes of food that have pulled up Mexican extremes, like Milano’s Italian offerings by a Ventura marina.

This is Brad M.'s photo from TripAdvisor.

Song Review, “Walls” by Tony Rice

Song Review, “Walls” by Tony Rice

Musical notes squeeze out with Tony Rice’s force when song lyrics convey intrinsic behaviors to motives, but they’re determined through voice colors which I define as one type of stagnation.  When Tony Rice chants those memes about morning windows and vocab discovery, I hear between the lines; I sense exquisiteness for songwriter Gordon Lightfoot’s engagement with defense over absurd romantics.  Tony Rice sings Gordon Lightfoot’s original song rapidly without exaggeration and constructively with vague levels of sound comprehension.  Tony Rice’s album of Gordon Lightfoot covers really excited me and opened my eyes to Lightfoot’s occasional comedic songwriting since a lover’s seat can be like that sure belt of open security, not to mention that bluegrass music is like a genre for fainted hearts who dream on until these familiar scenes break up the young history into miracle berries.  The phrase “walls” here is a metaphor to me for Lightfoot’s disappearance with weather, flight with stories, complex notions about plain talks, and it progresses with its kissy flows of summaries rather than just its clues about glorious calendar days.  Lightfoot’s original song version is more silly than Rice’s cover of it because Lightfoot really expressed confusion about his nostalgia with references to odd home qualities like a wood and sewed socks.  The bluegrass music of this song Tony Rice ringed for while taking advantage of minute-second quips that portray Rice’s fever for the meanings while shining from the wind and turbulence of confession-hatching phenomena.  Rice observes less vigor in his voice and appears less radical, since he was practically talking while singing to maybe provide a less formal touch to Lightfoot’s remarkable heroism as silly as it is.  Rice’s fans might remember some of Rice’s slower tunes from live concerts, and Rice’s “Walls” is sample enthusiasm for lover defense and procrastination.  Many poets don’t explicitly say “love” but use a range of images from infernos to sexual proceedings that have no connection with love let alone offense of admiration.  Artist stipulations look clean to a blank eye, so imagination should be needed and wanted for music engagement via musicians or likely for hearers of profound oral literacy.  Rice is reciprocal here when he was catching the tune and creating a peaceful storm of string arrangements, and his character or lingo is evidence of his renewed stream of consciousness when a listener pinpoints the exclamations of a guitar weeping in happiness.  Many of Rice’s songs aren’t sung but simply played, and Rice’s “Walls” may be like that new roar of sunshine that wafts gently through my ears with Rice’s prominent disposition, and I enjoy the songs due to my means of individualism as well as excitement of approvals and disponible attitude.  The song’s quickness is part of the song’s proclamation of obscure humor, and Lightfoot’s lyrics remind me of my disposal of affection during my relationship with colorful stagnations.

This photo is from Pinterest.
I want to give the reader an idea about the kind of music reviewed here.