Resting time! 8/28-9/1

Golf Review, 1986 Masters Tournament: Final Round

Golf Review, 1986 Masters Tournament: Final Round

Mr. Nicklaus’ creamy yellow shirt hangs in Georgian air with the body while it’s fifteen degrees under 100°F, the golf balls finding their ways toward flagged holes before and after swinging professionals start treading around leaf greens.  Mr. Norman, second up, has the curious visage of a welcomed ghost as he looms above hilly bridges when taking eyelash glances.  Nicklaus is nearing fifty age after a couple of spare decades gaining the Masters on occasional field celebrations, but Mr. Langer wins the Masters ’85 and Mr. Crenshaw almost fills the top at 86 years after year 1900.  No, I’m not saying Crenshaw is an old geezer at this point; in fact, he’s fairly young at a moment when 86 years have passed since 1900, so Nicklaus isn’t the only golden bear on the planet.  We find Mr. Nicklaus making one glove a very stretchy article of his field uniform as this golden bear creeps in from his standing in sports evolution to rub the grass wielding a formal golf ball, at the epic moments having vague awareness of sticky flags.  So, we have Greg Norman the Australian Angel; and Pavin, Tway, a Japanese smile, plus I sing about Ken Green!  There’s way many greens on the golf world in Augusta: jackets, trees, grand césped.  Jack Nick strikes some poses in gentle ways as he makes one over a gord of water, acting as his own endeavor in the face of Georgia’s wide natures even if a few threads of hair are blown.  The Masters House which Jack smiles in is a place where a 3-Time Masters Victor washes his eyes over in forced happiness and jaunts over a comfortable microphone seat in order to display a hard-worked passion for golf enjoyment.  In fact, one of the reasons or hearts that I write so much for myself and the internet audience is because of Golf Channel: Golf Channel’s constant influence on my confidence simply because they work for persistent confidence.  It’s interesting how they show a photo of “the Golden Bear” as he frowns then earlier, since later on Nicky wins and becomes more of a middle-aged celebrity.  Of course, Pavin gets a nasty surprise near that gord of water; his swing doesn’t look or sound right; so, it’s as if Mr. Pavin acts on his own accord during his show of wiry physics.  Victory convos are hints of marvelous times until there’s rainbow’s end; Mr. Nick has levels of comprehension which somewhat show on his face whether he’s grim and entertained or happy and wild, so a country’s clothing may only show features with limits.  A game of golf for an athlete for it is partially about rebasing his or her focus on physics, a fact which can’t downplay the importance of Golf Channel’s chats and vibes; to add to Nick’s comment about “composing the body,” I believe we struggle with our own literacy of sports regarding everything.  A mind can fail against lots of storms throughout generations of refined freedom.  Golf news reporters continue to make educated guesses about mysteries and pretty much ignore so much information: as one of my educated guesses, I ponder over their wonderful attitudes when plenty of golf conundrums must exist.  The nourishing music of the ’86 Masters is quite often leveled with the shredding presentations of warm flowers, although my female parent can’t smell anything anymore, and I mourn over the loss of older versions of technology like the now vintage cameras or those few Nick’s irons.  I’m not sure if golf has gotten more popular because of videogames; it’s not like Nintendo made Mr. Nicklaus more famous, and so many sports gamers just want to kill something.  A novice television show on ABC Family in either the 90’s or the 00’s just shows a type of “disc jockey golf” played by stupid reality actors in two golf fashions: gullibility, nonsense.  I’m biased on these subjects because an individual’s fun can also be her or his offenses; besides maturity levels aren’t precisely divided.  Nicklaus implies in his after-game interview before getting his coat dressed by Langer that nerves are like the brushes of psychological minds which twist and turn but must be assorted with thought locations for one’s psyche.  A pair of golf news spectators gasp in mild shock as Nick applicates criticism over prejudiced journalists: you know, their ageist comments about activity bearings and poor elders.  I rather say that Nick wins occasional Masters Tournaments than give dumb statements over humans and varying maturity; after all the tickles by news writers, there’s various days and new ignition senses with which golf enthusiasts must wake up or wake down to with pleasure, concentration, great thoughts, and bending vigor.  Faces in Jack’s crowds are involving if also bright over grass and imperfect in small ways for group emotions; on this ’86 sunshine ladle of life, crowds go nuts on momentary hours even when silence is keen boredom, plus Nicky gets his balls on the Augusta land curves with determined eyebrows and confidence that may be rebuilt up again and again.  My English language is disordered from my fractured schizophrenia; still, I watch golf games off and on and pay gradual attention to golf’s intense walking athletes bounding to long distance holes, themselves separated yet marching across reflecting dirt and attempting to live out the morals of gold entertainment.  Nicky strikes a bald match with sensations and rolling ball vibrations, so it’s a brisk accomplishment for this golden bear when tough activity scenes become popular memes.

Movie Review, “Zulu”

Movie Review, “Zulu”

Tribal bodies are swimming through weeds over sharp-edged mountains to battle at red coats with patterned shields and unmagical scepters, ruining their mud hospital with languages of heat in tongues of flames against ruined alcohol.  One crazy soldier relishes shaky sips from a smoked vial before living his then nightly daze of the Zulu Tribe’s rapid marches however awkward and to the point the folks with ash’d skin, the British fools, absorb their gravity by stomping hills and working guns out formal piles of weapons.  Someone’s after royal badges and will leave them in hot dust, only to help a tribe with ammo of the warring dead inside the great outdoors.  So, what’s the brush at their ankles?  The late 1800’s is an eclipse of races which hurts the eyes of crude soldiers on this unfair couple of days; in particular to “crude sagacity of dominance” by the British and the Zulu Tribe’s sundances of warfare, the white and the black are in their own melting pots even if some of their kins will become supper for the Earth to cherish their rotten muscles.  At this point, a fancy hat is hardly a shield when its down shadow looms over places with wild toasters; if one army gives a salute, the other army thinks its pretension.  The British armies put so much harm on other armies as well as themselves, and plenty of British residents today are more worried about the names of things; in other words, names that mean nothing.  It doesn’t matter if God’s name is Jesus; people are dying here!  Army movements here are either lucrative or diminished soon, bodies flowing over golden weeds of bloody waste, treading on a bright planet during momentary hours of peace when even a wild cat with a fuzzy knob of a dangerous tail hurries against lazy gunshots on divided paws.  There’s something rich about sunlight as it hits Mr. Caine’s temple, so I remark here on the mysteries of shadows and try to define them: slight at moments, dark against flames, becoming ingredients to humanity’s melting pots while turning the spectrum of hate into something massive: the eclipse of a smile beyond a fighter’s gasping approach, switching her or his face’s reflections of odor into resounding thuds of psychological impediments.  Everything has a smell, lots of colors, becoming mediums for camera angles; at least, everything shown.  When pleasure exists for a soldier, something has to give.  Consider this blue sky land as the azure colors of the horizon change gradually with the soaking dips of history; a commonplace historian might say that the Zulu Film is historically accurate on a mild summer day, horrible coffee in hand, reading the newspaper while being a blithering pedant of familiar objects.  DVD’s permanent at all in small ways signify little; reality changes, and millions of seeds die in the womb before anybody is born.  The Zulu Tribe resists goofy temptations to launch as imbecile fools; war is a poor accolade since, quite simply, plenty of sides are wrong, the right sides destroying humans like bugs as if deer look at them too closely.  What’s notable here is that the British army and the Zulu army own materials that aren’t weapons, so their patronizing arrogance lives on for some expert kinds of materialism; what’s ironic here is that the actors have to act out pompous stubbornness by being less self-disdainful and livelier in probable tunes of physics for fictional, historical spirits.  Of course, it’s not that clothes mean nothing; it’s that wearable uniforms exist on people’s figures in spite of most bodily actions.  I know that golf channels advertise clothes; businesses accidently imply that materials are behaviors, so indeed actors must constantly struggle against the urge to run on happy dreamlands when reality is screaming at their faces.  History movies of very many kinds have to serve as fictional obras which still get at the partial truths with special information: a deniable plot, more questions, examples laminated in video forms, requisite camera angles rather than perfect ones ever, inscribing technological descriptions of conditioned monsters across the sands of time with presentations that may make you queasy yet soothe my attention spans.  Africa has its blinds of madness which are constantly downplayed by the African tribes’ gay wits; I’ve watched so many cheap documentaries about tribes in Africa, and “Zulu” has reasonable physics since one of its creators for the movie for sure had the learned help of studying tribal rumors about foul play and forced kinds of understanding for armies.  I actually consider an African tribe as a kind of army.  I’m the kind of guy who listens to foreign languages even if I don’t naturally speak them (sometimes I make up sounds); not only there’s those profits of visual learning when I ignore my own desires sometimes, but nations of cultural types of charm if occasionally failing to be inevitable dominance or imprisoning submission gear themselves for troublemakers.  In one of the beginning legend slots of “Zulu,” a Zulu Warrior tugs at the clad dress of a prestigious, temperamental woman prior to his inconvenient death by a quick spear, chanting a showy song that is unwelcoming for the Zulu Tribe’s reunion celebration.  What if a leader is like some butler for our privileges?  I’m most certainly not in that much glee for American Freedom when it’s defined by world leaders through personal tastes and exotic reasons; let’s amplify “Zulu”’s involving meanings or else dispute with ourselves how we live while others suffer.  There’s this unmelted exchange by the British Army and the Zulu Army between freedom and compassion, shared context of meaning possibly illusionous because of intense whispers between soldiers and battle-cries among warriors.  An arbitrary motive that a historian can have is often needed in order to define the truth with optional bias; however alas, some political thinkers are horrible philosophers because they’re bad anthropologists constantly feeling the need to pick sides without being so careful due to lack of descriptions.  Once I had a black preacher at a ghetto church who told the doubtful crowd to drink the Bible; I’m still drinking it, but humanity at large is still open and long for me to handle, and “Zulu” is a tough poetry source of shattered alcohol and tattered sundances.

Videogame Review, “Mario Kart 8”

Videogame Review, “Mario Kart 8”

Dr. Mario heads through downloading drivers into ice cream traffic cones to visit a dinosaur at a gingerbread house, stopping by Undead Motors for a king’s oil and sunshine parts to his midget racing car so he can upload his 1-Up Fuel and see dandelion rainbows and kitchen ghosts.  The Italian American also happens to visit a princess in her kitty costume who nearly runs over birds and frogs, but Cheep Cheep Beach is still an aqua blue crystal clear and he has so much trouble with Rainbow Thwomps who crunch out all their teeth.  The doctor who is that plumber owns a nice glowing subcoaster because of his funds from the canyon’s gingerbread crowd.  Two princesses work in a pastry shop and become responsible for the phenomenal tunnel hall donuts, but Dr. Mario drives in “Don’t Know Jungle” against thoughts for useless coins and hopes to Mario that Toad Harbor doesn’t have any toads.  Once upon major times, Mario saved a castle’s hot air balloons from burning with Bowser’s Oil by kicking the bucket.  The wild woods is an environment like lit candle houses have it since Princess Peach’s servants live in the same houses as miners do live in, while Dr. Mario must drive where dolphins wear goggles and protect their home from underwater electric eels.  He happened to have driven through the Dragon Driftway and get the taste of seeing ninja murals, and the twisted mansion has a good shortcut to Waluigi’s Library which ghosts dine near without looking at plumbers or carpenters and becoming gone materials.  Mama Luigi knows a princess who owns an electrodome where Toadstool Disco plays and boney flowers dance to the beats.  He’s Mario’s brother, and also a mother.  Of course, grave skull creatures sail on a vain ship in Bone-Dry Dunes; Dr. Mario has been working with environments of someone’s choices, and now Tone-Fry Maroons will swelter in a bad music park after these mysterious sands reflect the halos of cloudy vines in the heavens.  Mario’s vehicle has a fuzzy battery, too.  He takes the sports drink made from a burning monkey’s bananas and also makes a pitstop by Lemmy’s Tire Service; Lemmy rips him off, so this plumber gets by the mushroom piston and watches an actor on Mario Kart Television named Captain Falcon.  The brave racer says on TV, “Show me your moves!”  Of course, a mute city is the Tron of Zelda, and so Dr. Mario turns into metal sometimes and conducts a machine with bars over bullets and trials, putting on a golden wheel towards Mario Motors.  He gets involved with a mannered purchase for a dolphin at the Super Marine World Dive Shop; however, he nearly gets fisted by a Lava Godzilla and enters himself for the fun flowers, stopping by the tropical grocery for mushrooms that won’t quit and getting waved at by so many dinosaurs and dancing natives with long noses.  Did I tell you about Yoshi’s Egg Market?  Well, there’s plenty of eggs on the mountains, and Mario crashes with stars before getting struck by cute lightning.  Dr. Mario hates it with gritting teeth when some goombas do the cha cha dance on one of his raceways; Captain Toad’s toy store will put smiles on people who wear masks, and there’s a coffeehouse that serves coconuts right by the subway.  Shy guys have worked with metals and jewelry since 1987 and have been meowing since Nintendo’s dawning era, and selected few shy guys fly on galaxy air to places that advertise the doctor’s plumbing gear.  Where do these planes come from?  Why, the Boomerang Brothers International Airlines!  The airplane facility is a sunshine airport that supports the Organization for Women’s Racing.  Sometime in the future, more princesses will own dream gliders and get plenty of bananas, so Dr. Mario rides on the Bowser Ship Rollercoaster and thinks about how he spent his time at a park as a baby, even owned the park as a baby.  He ignores usual commercials about turtle shells since he’s also a scientist who solves puzzles and gets rid of germs; he’s trying to defeat a dictator in a race.  King Koopa wants to build rollercoasters down the drain and torture gold folks, but Mario won’t let him hurt feelings.  Mario talked to the Big Bad Wolfe, who wears a Hawaiian shirt and looks out from the tanned coast at night auroras and one wonderful lighthouse in comfortable daytime.  The Big Bad Wolfe also has a mother who dresses herself an apron in her Animal Crossing world; Dr. Mario leads the other racers from Undead Motors, going sightseeing in a city that belongs to a princess’s servant who happens to be a captain: Captain Toad.  (He also works as Construction Worker Toad.)  A camera-alien’s sign raises a battle-cry alarm when two or three guys drive backwards, but Dr. Mario dodges sumo musical balloons and gets to the castle’s hot air balloons by mushroom flight.  Captain Toad’s Propeller Toad Transport Buses offer great service even in the face of goodness.  Dr. Mario smacked his face onto a snowy tree by Wario’s dam last week, but now, his sunshine parts are working!  King Koopa loses in the race and Dr. Mario gets all kinds of trophies in the shapes of eggs, flowers, stars, diamonds; yep. At last, he can be a plumber and a racer, but his carpenter job was awful: he had to, 80’s then, use a mallet first on a fireball, then after then he picked up a pipe to guard a gorilla whom he will later get banana energy drinks from.  (ColecoVision, eh?)  Mama Luigi knew ghosts who didn’t eat much at the twisted mansion’s fountain; besides, a doctor is conditioned for orders in new ways as time flies.  Dr. Mario had such a marvelous kiss from Princess Peach by the castle during the 90’s; now hot air balloons are free to roam with creatures wherever they slumber: ice ice, dry dry, moo moo, cheep cheep, sweet sweet.  As their old folks say, “Press A to start!”

   

Restaurant Review, McDonald’s 1215 Magnolia Ave Corona, CA 92879

Restaurant Review, McDonald’s  

1215 Magnolia Ave  Corona, CA  92879

The flower running mother over tile love gifting ketchup napkins against the diet float’s ice somersaults, me her son cherishing cobalt trays of golden waste because of Quarter wrinkles and Mac layers to cloudy hills mostly golden, #118 the Quinta prior to return.  Picture Magnolia!  McDonald’s is so tender for change despite gearing up for public belongings of land and fame, so particular that eggs are nearly exactly shaped up to their folds of imagination while Ronald Clown finds pool children.  “Chicken Nuggets are great!”  McDonald’s has instruments for cooking that go with the fryer tunes, grill pops, evening sandwiches, all made for attractive pollution when checks and balances combine to intrigue employees toward customer edification if not dining entertainment.  It enchants a believer that a smile can have an eclipse of flesh!  Corona McDonald’s is California Autumn by table color selection and drink fountain wood, although newspapers for sharp red furniture (upside down lamps) don’t complement their spotty reflections because of their proper ink.  Corona McDonald’s group of laborers may not sparkle with obvious happiness to a blind hater, but a young cashier’s grin reminds me of charming monsters on TV.  I’m forcing the reader to make educated guesses about my complicated memes because my childhood waned with McDonald’s soft brown touches of arches, boxed nuggets, shoveled fries, Olde Ronald Friend Crackers and eclipsing chocolate raindrops.  McDonald’s food has lots of shapes for personal nostalgia to which I give in about, and dad’s amigo from the venturous harbors still owns McDonald’s worn vintage mug for pillow fluffing his bench.  Corona McDonald’s has tremendous shadows above tile love with furnished wipes, indicating that Magnolia Crown through geometrical art related to children meals and quirky prices.  It’s not that McDonald’s is expensive, but that there’s gradual relations of offers which coincide with fingered measurements of wowy compromise: “I’m loving it.”  Believe McDonald’s for some reasons you’d have for trusting Farmer McDonald; as I think about it, critics can be deceptive.  McDonald’s serves beef that’s more meaty than Circle K’s multi-ingredient beef and has totally less high fructose corn syrup.  (Of course, I try to pronounce all ingredient names and just make some sounds up: what’s the alphabet for my cat’s tongue?)  McDonald’s varies their language trends of syntax and inter-textual clichés for tray advertency, menu board hype, bus postings, and sliced Happy Meal buckets; so over the years, McDonald’s kind of creates their own holidays (not for fasting, although it’s fast) relating times like “Fish Filet Tuesday” or what I call Afternoon Breakfast.  Plenty of fish will be fried: 70’s call.  I wonder why McDonald’s has not given me a Soft Serve McFlurry with Peanut M&M’s or coffee drinks with cherries; but to contradict my spirit, I use McDonald’s Sweet & Sour Sauce for pasta dishes along with Popeye’s Honey Mustard: I almost think like another alien.  McDonald’s charms me with sweet simplicity; Corona McDonald’s rules an angled dining home.  The Big Mac is a tall mac of secrets.

"I pledge allegiance to the Mac of the United States of McDonald's!"

Restaurant Review, IHOP 632 Sycamore Avenue Vista, CA 92083

Restaurant Review, IHOP  632 Sycamore Avenue  Vista, CA  92083

The grumpy concern of Server Joyce helps with her flip-flop handling of my red velvet pan combo on a brisk blue day by this moon crescent seat, so I trace Sycamore back to its blue avenue of passing greys when Island Tabasco reigns over Heinz 57 in wetness like red puddles hanging beyond reflecting yolk.  7-Eleven and IHOP serve red velvet goods that aren’t crumby yet taste like divine redness topped with blurry atmospheres to designate the bottom fragiles.  Of IHOP’s wiry hashbrowns or thinner sausage links, I try to imagine a giant breakfast of abnormal twin plates as one meal puzzle over distinguished combinations until my tiny mouth sandwich rains with old fashioned syrup and Neufchâtel Icing.  “Manners isn’t just going out to dinner!”  I haven’t received all of IHOP’s oldest news because the pancake company avoids their past mascots at many cardinal joints; my pleasure of dining money is mysteriously unfounded on diving sunsets, so IHOP in Ventura and IHOP in Vista.  It’s interesting that IHOP calls a pile of pancakes short when they’re bigger than lots of things that bug me like tealights and trainer buttons; there’s a click that gets me from the revolution of burns which only gets more complex with Server Joyce’s shuffling physics: I get a cost on a price, then she deserves honey mustard along floors of professional liberty.  Let’s just try to dust away the sugar and find sweet compromise, since seasonal pancakes can dress the freckley white plates on their sides with American exotics and crispy sharing, not to mindfully ignore tongue-watering rings with circled onion slices and my personal homebound favorita: Chicken Strips with the vanished dip, bumpy-fried with milder brown hues for their slightly coarse textures and monster shrimp appearances.  So I get a pan combo with links and yolk: fast break!  I’m always a guest one (deniable generalization) for one Pepsi Diet without following obvious steps or using commonplace threats: twisting potato slivers onto my hard meal carry thing, relishing cakey eggs, completing a buttermilk survey for brief offers, entering my munching sounds with transcending judgment for IHOP.  Did I mention that pepper is sandy?  My delicious exaggerations are memes of urban absorption, thus I tickle cheese on a monster before IHOP rids the shining carafes and I kiss their grill by absorbing a sandwich.  These teeth drip with soft chews, so I hurt ice cream over and over again.  After those rising morning eats resemble comfortable accidents if just remarkable solutions also, where’s our vacation histories while IHOP’s coffee paintings loom around their Vista’s edged construction joint?  Maybe IHOP just needs among other prizes a few more crackers and 4D Uniforms, admitting here my cranking opinion about ketchup streams and cupped ranch.       

Song Review, “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” by the Rolling Stones

Song Review, “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” by the Rolling Stones

It’s possible for us to feel that some people aren’t people.  I don’t know, is the Devil some guy?  Let’s try not to be bookish about the Holy Scriptures and define “Satisfaction”: gritty, feely, sparky, tasty, associations of courage, expanding a few minutes with surprises, a lost song narrator from all the empty fashion conditioning his opinions about blank shirts and dumb cigarettes.  Someone from the Rolling Stones discovers the professional procrastinations situated inside communication societies; as my calculative prejudice informs me of better judgment, I realize the painted band’s silly conundrums via monochrome concert stages are unfamiliar territory, rattled up from insipid evil because of monkey interferences thanks to ramming decorators (concert audience members).  “American Pie” is an exaggerational piece like “Satisfaction”: there’s this constant want of energy that humans have a tough time swallowing, and so protestors, and so haters of haters.  When I hear the Rolling Stones hate, I don’t necessarily tell them to stop hating because there can be forgiveness due to all the devastations.  I wish the song was longer so I can perhaps understand the caped group’s agony of victory.  If a real buddy smokes the wrong drugs, that person can either be offensive or pretty gay, and either characteristic can be associated with fashion.  (I’ve smoked intelligently for exotic health.)  The worlds of music can revolve around life’s hints as well as life’s descriptions, and the Rolling Stones’ stubborn excitement is amazing because listeners are entering the curtained dimensions of the rad song narrator’s boredom; his boredom isn’t vague, it’s pure rather if not tiresome.  Sometimes I think emotions can be people, so I think of “Satisfaction” as an unmoving beast, a sheer conundrum, stopping little for excuses and adventuring through the planet’s lack of static shock or electrified promotions.  (Or so it seems…)  Try to believe in the Rolling Stones!  I can’t believe “Satisfaction” is less wet, more dry, ringing through my Wii U like an angel on a plane, a song narrator in tunes with a deserving lady while basically going berserk like a naïve go-getter!  The song’s fresco melody is just the beginning!  Of course, I have that vulgar tendency to detract from hard slumbers for my approach over measurements of pleasure.  Maybe the Rolling Stones aren’t rolling in “Satisfaction,” but I sure get a kick out of their dark honesty especially, and freedom hurts too.  Accents cover their sounds with reactionary hope, stipulating the outrageous band’s rhythms of defeat, calling order a chance, the song narrator engineering a new kind of emotion between happy and sad without its name.  The whole song is a rough invention of passing tunes, so I respect a despicable believer, and I suspect happiness with glowing simplicity because, quite frankly, we may never find the ghosts who eat fruitcake today. 

Song Review, “Dreamland” by Gordon Lightfoot

Song Review, “Dreamland” by Gordon Lightfoot

An intriguing musician’s relationship exhaustion can lead to that worldwide creator’s hung darkness when there’s so much struggle love in the Canadian air and it’s practically impossible to pick the summertime roses.  As the assorted song would imply, a wise feminine involver could’ve been quite a troublesome failure that it’d lead up to her bossy mind of forced cautions or the exclusive men could’ve pushed or pulled her into providing edifying flare if not crowd pleasure.  Rolling Stone Magazine’s demeaning review of Gordon Lightfoot’s gold album Endless Wire was a peevish collection of false hints related to Mr. Tom Carson’s unreliable prejudice about dull accountants, raunchy passion and romantic taste, music strength and Carson’s bored interest, in addition to contradictory evidence and impoverished theories: Lightfoot has performed like a foot-tapping knight within the West publics’ intermixed levels of proper conviction however negative it can be and is aggressively passionate and tasteful of couple drama enough to redefine vintage favorites like “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” for his re-rhythmic Gord’s Gold 2 and “Old Dan’s Records” for his re-poetic All Live.  Think of “Dreamland” as a surprise from no man’s land that pumps oil into the figure and leaves us with redefining numbers.  What’s particular to this sweet country selection among external and internal factors is that the song narrator’s status of marriage is completely unknown and that there’s this grief on something that’s either socialized infatuation or dead-on serious.  I think the song narrator knows about the foggy gist over her informal parties, whoever she may become.  Most certainly their dolly clothes aren’t obvious situations but materials for occurrences, so it’s painstakingly difficult to foretell if these extreme lovers would act desperate or just remain hungry and psychologically dirty.  There’s the commendable song narrator’s aggravating rhyme of the paradoxical memes “choose” and “lose,” but he’s humorously charismatic about sudden travesties and doesn’t want all the vain struggle and burning pain associated with their wild dreamland.  My advice for the song listener is to not listen to this magnified creation using a Wii U Videogame Console and one of Nintendo’s 3^rd-party headphones, partly because you might devastatingly lose Lightfoot’s stereo echoes and get too deep an understanding of studio microphones.  (In fact, Lightfoot’s reigning voice is an enticing temple that flows well with a 50’’ High Definition Television.)  To fairly discern here how remarkably serious and fortunately long this song is, I should tell the studying reader (and Lightfoot hopefully) that I casually shared its song lyrics with a Hispanic girlfriend and then she broke up with me.  Concluding indeed, Lightfoot’s stagnations of horrified imagination here coincide with the imaginary personages’ drama of rainbow number one: the competition of romance emotions defeat and deceit, not to mention “you make me do what you want me to do then you run the rules on me.”  The usurping madam may resemble what a 19^th-Century Englishman would refer to as a celebrating hoyden.  I greatly wonder by childhood memories what kind of authority she’s showing off: comprehension of input, or mere dominance.  Gordon Lightfoot’s “Dreamland” is made for hearts of gold and liver with onions; it’s wonderfully intrinsic, on beat with off-beats in language rather than ordinary sounds, displaying Lightfoot’s un-pretended affectation for trouble and stirring commotion. 

Gas Station Review, Tesoro U.S.A. Gasoline 785 S Tucker Rd Tehachapi, CA 93561

Gas Station Review, Tesoro U.S.A. Gasoline  
785 S Tucker Rd  Tehachapi, CA  93561

Vigorous payments for integral snacks with conditions of my authority will help with these descriptions over gifts until money gets its hash: 1 Pepsi Rockstar, 1 Pepsi Rockstar.  Try to ponder of our site’s layers of references to the whimsical tunes of sales, or under ounces.  “My cash is seven, I’m in heaven!”  My social response to Tesoro is a heavy collection of moral codes related with witness literacy or the rich understanding of supervisions, but periodic walking around curvy aisles leaves us with my peripheral comments on Tesoro’s attuned cashier roles, Cheetos Crunchy Xxtra Flamin’ Hot, Rockstar’s vitamin flavors with medleys of freshness, comparing the workforce’s fortitude of gladness to the jokeful emotions of an Italian liquor store’s crew I visited middle to south of Italy.  Referring to the Monster Refrigerator around this shadowy station is akin to feeling azure heat: no gloves, no rings, just touching dings while fingering chilly sips near decorated fridges taller than golden hair.  A cashier’s muscles hang in the building’s weather of accommodations as he or she applies happy returned opinions to me for bubbles yet to erupt after thousands of responses, so I have an X-ray vision of labor when employees imagine they’re cooking transactions about geared deals inside a square construction place with shadowy blue darkness.  I’ve a rhino nose for Cheetos’ garlic powder over its enriched corn meal and even see Rhino Propane before illustrating those rhythm methods for tropical jazz, myself reading “Words From A Wanderer” by Alexandra Elle during super events with Rockstars, Monsters, wakey metal, music absorption, energy drinks, and nuts.  The Xxtra Flamin’ Hot Seasoning has salt that complements the yeast extract, flavors over colors, sandy powder to buttermilk, Red 40 Lake, and the entire bag of Xxtra Hot Flamin’ Cheetos contains more than 20% of my daily thiamin.  A serving of cheetos is either seven lucky numbers or three of them, so because my hunger is quite an illusion to a basketball cage pal of mine who’s a romantic undertaker I get dandy chips that are twice as hot for the literature of dates.  (I don’t know if my girlfriend was brandy or just a sable.)  Customers may find it difficult to know if Tesoro U.S.A. is a place or some action; however, consider the portioned refreshments along with my diversions of sizes, me generally overliving with a stomach for gifts beyond purity and into exotic health if not only U.S.A. Tesoro’s caffeine selections: teas, coffees, sodas, all cold.  Since a word can be worth thousands of pictures, I like writing with colors of mystery.  Tesoro is a tarsal bone around the upper ranged middle of the Albertson’s Plaza, designating as a tiny gasoline house with a moderate roof near divided pumplines and a straight metal poster of Coca-Cola’s 99¢.  It’s not a restaurant, but you’ll find some irregular shapes such as Starbucks’ carmel glass or Mountain Dew’s snake can, and the first drive you’ll be on for Tesoro may be the last one in your life.  Tesoro USA isn’t an accident, a motive, the productivity of charm, problems, situations, but a gas station with concerned laborers in smirks with remarkable results. 

     

Sandwich Shop Review, Capriotti’s Sandwich Shop (Edgewater Casino) 2020 S Casino Drive Laughlin, NV 89029

Sandwich Shop Review, Capriotti’s Sandwich Shop  

(Edgewater Casino)  2020 S Casino Drive  Laughlin, NV 89029

It’s good to be rebasing the limits around sparky habitations for Pepsi’s carbonated hydratants and the stand’s Russian Dressing, thus the casino’s fancy carpet I tread over by robotic eagle cries if not mere gambling noise is the fluffy stepping stones toward Nevada’s freedom of compromise along with bubbly ordertakers laboring near dark counters for this slowly roasted purpose that’s quite refined but still in my bleached face.  Scratch that, my blush is tanned and rosy; think of the host as joy and me as ale, take a sharp picture of that sandwich elongating nine inches together with something Swiss and another thing Russian called the Capastrami that’s built with pastrami, coleslaw, and one dairy source.  The loyalty of felicit eyes between us leads to our gratitude of strangers being us, myself a rolling tourist with studies over green sleeves and herself cashing debit to let it coincide with smiling complexions of awareness.  Let’s just say also my hotel room isn’t written up to a maid’s dream of a gratuitous tip since firm names really disappear beyond the infinity of random visits while I explore these elevator halls to go with gift tickets, flag hats, twinkling keychains, electrified cans and expensive carbonations, slivers of cuts too, as mi hermano discovers his gord of aquatic ripples and an employee with quick laughter serves me a contained package of slippery bites with odd layers of wrapping which complement my saucy ration’s meat sweetness and white hues of their drippy apparence.  Capriotti’s Capastrami may not be lifted to me on a silver platter although its richness in wet texture reveals the pain I go through from In-N-Out’s lunch, so I relish the Russian Dressing and Capriotti’s stuffings on a tight stomach while nibbling under cooked flavors in order for lofty sandwich appreciation and blue cola thirst to wash me into my bets about hen and hay, living above sacrificed opportunities holding my mathematical focus over the top and reeling in my passion a shredded sammich to cute fantasies.  Cap’s Specials?  Rules are divided associations until workers grow up!  I’m sure a customer doesn’t inform others that Edgewater’s home in Laughlin is some familiar sport or lots of riviera areas practically because of Edgewater’s beach pretensities, but what’s better than a super artificial shore where jet-skiers ride and I procrastinate in a bingo necklace around hard chairs and unyielding tables for the Capastrami’s touched fixings of meated ingredients and coleslaw gloss?  There’s a shape we have money for!  (My brother) Nathaniel’s favoritism of sandwiches is extremely fixed for him to venture through very much of a kitchen’s innovations, so I pay attention over him when sampling little restaurant goods like Capriotti’s sandwich that’s a bit succulent without obvious grease.  I recommend bringing many snacks from the Laughlin 76 for a more attuned dining at Capriotti’s Sandwich Shop after chipping batches of refined quarters into Wheel of Fortune Machines or pushing lotto buttons to send alien cows to Moorovia, not to mention Pepsi Rockstars and the Cheeto Cry.  My, my, my!  I hope my enjoyment is credential!  I have an accident in a place after eight thousand rooms before illustrating a packaged deal for my taste buds all without the ribbons, but at least Capriotti’s national reputation is expressed in stringed menus today.

  

Food Store Review, Fastrip 1200 Coffee Rd Bakersfield, CA 93308

http://www.pepsicaliforniaprintshop.com/products/fastrip-shelf-strip

Food Store Review, Fastrip  1200 Coffee Rd  Bakersfield, CA  93308

Life can remain terminable to a clothed eye for twisted sips as well as dusty bites in a go to minoring the velocity until this rad detainment, hunger movements with storing that electrifying niacin inside my urban tummy because airy tabs wall over foods without normal descriptions except maybe in special labels about proper name grammar.  I have the primal drive for cash by the peeper’s dozen, Fastrip carrying into thousands of buys per yesteryear while cashing quantities for divine amounts, a long Coffee Road against school magnitudes if never much rainy or actually one rainbow of plazas, so I’m totaling Voss Lemongrass Tangerine along the store’s powdery grime of their people’s natural flows of quick rusticity with Hershey’s geometric desserts and metal caffeine like some flavored banana split, but reminding myself whether the engrossed man cashier would go between temperamental love and a carefree production of releasing manufactured rations for a cute sap like me.  (I had a haircut.)  A premature customer on Yelp may endow businesses with grades only to his or her feedback more typical jokes with cliché attributes, but Fastrip has given coffee lovers our liberty of burning tosses through clinging to Bakersfield’s coarse pool of biological sand and shelving erratic wrappers foodstuffs around fuel stations housed with poppable snacks to these yummy sifon Pepsi’s.  Voss related European water, dazzling energy carbonation, colas toward precious data, I’ve the hidden wisdom of sweetness at top gear for nonfat dry milk or riboflavin statistics in order to live the relaxed consumption in a Kia Soul to laze about goodness near the red lobster joint and try to imagine dad’s purity of evolution, so I’m my own customer’s ready birth peace to peace while cherishing Fastrip’s city rarity of gifts that’ll ride, beckon, clown, hold, push, pull, and slip.  Fastrip visits are modernly commodities of shadows which after entertainment and return to spirits I tan once in a blue moon during epic seconds for constructional eating over painted traffic just to crunch numbers in sacrificed languages under rectified assumptions for Fastrip’s candy clues on public demand that’s quite private too.  Of course, preparations aren’t simply natural for a convenient store’s workforce in the absence of dumb efforts throughout their history, plus it’d be verified if reviewers didn’t act on false questions or assume those environments to must be clean and ridiculously polite like fashion shows.  The cashier who helped me wasn’t stern in current felicity although he didn’t understand my silly requests and permitted me to down prices that were lower than stated on worn product stickers.  There’s continuous velocity of shopping and laboring at the #705, with little in the way of pretentious hats and shirts but extreme through his lasers to my snacks while there’s subtle phantasms for human errors by yellow boards.