Dinner Party

Hello World, It's official! The summer solstice pranced in right on schedule, early Monday morning, and officially ushered in the summer season all over the northern hemisphere. As in, "YAY!" Now that we're officially in those lazy-hazy-crazy-days-of-summer, it's perfectly okay to tuck into all the lemonade, watermelon, ice cream and S'mores that you can possibly get your hands on, and don't spare the hammocks, my good man! I know that in many places, the school year isn't technically over just yet, especially where they may have had a lot of snow days or other reasons they had to be closed at certain times, but pretty soon it will be nothing but fun-fun-fun in the sun-sun-sun for everyone, and plenty of it. Speaking of sun, thanks to Bill's rigorous ministrations in our yard - not only keeping the rampant alien mutant poison ivy at bay in the front, but even in the free-wheeling backyard, where the false chrysanthemum and pokeweed can easily reach gargantuan proportions and choke out everything in a wide radius - I was able to spot the fledgling yellow flowers that come up every year against the back fence, and a welcome sight indeed. Alert readers may recall these were given to us as a gift from one of our previous neighbors, and although my faulty memory insists that she referred to them as "Texas Sunbonnets," I have never been able to uncover any independent corroboration of this hypothesis. But I was certainly delighted to see them, whatever they're called, despite the ravages of time and marauding weeds afflicting them on every side. This may not be Texas, pardner, but those yellow beauties surely seem equal to whatever the great outdoors may throw at them, by golly. Well, what hasn't been happening in the wide world of sports lately, I ask you that. It's certainly been one for the books, and no time to take up gambling on sports as a career, especially not for the faint-hearted, that's for sure. It all began with the Belmont Stakes on the 11th, where as we all know, the evil spirit of Affirmed got off to an early start by dashing any hopes of a Triple Crown repeat, when fan favorite Nyquist won the Derby, but Exaggerator ran off with the Preakness handily. That turned the Belmont Stakes into basically a rematch between the two front-runners, and interesting to see which one would win 2 out of 3, and salvage at least a (hypothetical) "Double Crown" from the ashes of the Triple Crown wreckage, so to speak. Not so fast! The brain trust behind Nyquist elected to keep the pony out of the Belmont altogether, disappointing eager spectators looking for a final showdown between the two, and clearing the way for Exaggerator to run rough-shod over the field of remaining hopefuls, practically at will. Once again, not so fast! Instead, it turned out to be one of those years where a different horse wins each of the 3 races (and poor Exaggerator was never a factor, finishing a woeful 11th out of 13) while the hard-charging Destin was nipped at the wire by Creator, a virtual unknown and picked by nobody, who essentially came out of nowhere to pull out the unlikeliest of upsets. In the final analysis, it was only Exaggerator and the unsung Lani who raced in all 3 Triple Crown events, while about half of the field from the Belmont had also raced in the Derby but skipped the Preakness in the middle. Interestingly (well, for us persnickety nitpickers and curmudgeons, anyway) since 1960, 4 horses have won the Triple Crown, while 31 horses won two out of the three - but there were only 22 times in that same period where the 3 races were won by 3 different horses. So congratulations to Nyquist, Exaggerator, and Creator, who combined to accomplish something that is even more difficult to achieve than the fictitious "Double Crown," and that's not just a lot of horsefeathers, believe me. Meanwhile, on the hardwood, the defending champion Golden State Warriors had a commanding lead in the finals, but let it slip through their fingers, and in the decisive seventh game, it was the Cavaliers who brought the trophy home to Cleveland for the first time in franchise history - and in fact, the first world championship in any sport for the town since 1964. It's no wonder that the parade and festivities celebrating the occasion seemed to attract all 3 million citizens of the city on Wednesday the 22nd, and for all I know, could still be going on even now, and who could blame them. On the frozen front, the Pittsburgh Penguins hoisted Lord Stanley's Cup for the 4th time since 1991, beating the San Jose Sharks in 6 games, and in an interesting coincidence, denying fans at the Shark Tank (ya gotta love it!) what would have been their first dance with The Cup since the franchise was founded, also in 1991. And so, with horses, hoops, and hockey out of the way, it will be nothing but baseball from now on - although I admit that I have been seeing stories in the Sports section about NFL mini-camps, so it's obvious that it takes more than the dog days of summer to discourage those football-starved fans of everything gridiron, I dare say. In fact, they've already started playing not only Canadian football in the Great White North, but also Arena Football in 9 widely dispersed cities from Portland, Oregon to Tampa Bay, Florida, which will have to do until the real thing comes along. They tell me this is their 29th AFL season, believe it or not, in spite of having no teams in such sports mainstays as Chicago, Detroit, St. Louis, Dallas, Boston, Cincinnati, Kansas City, Houston, New Orleans, Milwaukee, Pittsburgh, Denver, and of course, The Town So Nice, They Named It Twice. (No, not Walla Walla.) Everywhere else, people will have to find other ways to entertain themselves, and for anyone who figured on taking a spin on an off-season Zamboni, may I present the following disclaimer from the NHL official website, and they're obviously not taking this lightly by any means: "The Zamboni word mark and configuration of the Zamboni ice resurfacing machine are registered trademarks of Frank J. Zamboni & Co., Inc. © Frank J. Zamboni & Co., Inc. 2016. All Rights Reserved." Of course, Monday was June 20th, which must have seemed like a perfect time for our friends at Positive Promotions to send out, yes, their selections for 2017 calendars, and thanks so much not. They assure me that their variety of E-Z 2 Stick Calendars feature both magnetic and adhesive strips on the back, and the custom imprint will keep your company's name in view all year long - regardless of being 7 months ahead of schedule. Speaking of keeping things in view for a long time, it reminds me that there are some things that are better left unseen, and often painfully so, I don't mind saying. In my travels lately, I found myself behind a vehicle from the nice folks at Magenta, Inc., whose giant truck was elaborately painted with what they described as "RUBISH REMOVAL" - and which I can only surmise is when they come and take away a bunch of rubes and yokels from where they're not wanted. Then I was stopped in front of a deli with one of those changeable lighted signs, where they invited me in for what they referred to as "HOT BREAKFEAT," which in no way enticed me to come inside and sample this mysterious warm option, whatever it might be. On the local front, you're welcome to go visit the helpful people at Direct Mattress & Furniture on North Avenue in our fair city, but if you happen to espy one of their trucks out on the road, you can't help but notice that it is very brightly emblazoned with the words: "DIRECT MATTRESES" instead, for all the world to see. Now, I have always been of the opinion that when a store or truck sign is misprinted, I blame the sign company and not the customer, since at least the sign company should know better - and certainly nobody should be saddled with a screaming typo on a sign or truck anymore, in this day and age of rampant auto-correct at everyone's fingertips. Not to mention, someone who doesn't understand the difference between "stationary" and "stationery" shouldn't be in the sign business to start with, for heaven's sake, even if the spell-checker is not going to help you on that one. Honestly, between the rubish, mattreses, and breakfeat, it's enough to give anyone a pounding headache. Fortunately, modern healthcare is at the ready to spring into action at a moment's notice whenever called upon, so no worries on that score. Last year, Bill had occasion to sample the care at one of the premier medical establishments in our region, and found much to his liking, in spite of it all. We found out later that every year, they also toss quite the shindig as a expression of patient appreciation, which includes a nice dinner, speakers, and breakout sessions, all at the amazing price of zip, zero, nada, zilch, and 100% on the house, thank you very much. We decided to take advantage of this opportunity, and recently found ourselves hobnobbing with over 300 doctors, administrators, patients, and guests at the well-appointed DoubleTree by Hilton in the sprawling countryside of Tarrytown. The dinner was very nice indeed (including individual cheesecakes for dessert that were simply divine, heaven knows) with peppy music and congenial company, and even the speakers were not nearly as long-winded and boring as the old Secretary's Day luncheons that we used to suffer through on behalf of the Chamber of Commerce all of those long years ago. My one quibble might be that the lack of valet parking rendered the enormous campus much more of a disadvantage than otherwise, and I personally would have voted for a shuttle bus to ferry us back and forth to the parking lot, and glad of it. But everything else was lovely, not to mention, informative, entertaining, and innovative, or even all three at the same time. It was almost like having Nyquist, Exaggerator, and Creator all show up together, but with the added benefit that I didn't have to share my cheesecake with anyone. Now that's what I call a dinner that's definitely on the right track! Elle

Room For Improvement

Hello World, Happy Father's Day weekend! The time has surely come, as indeed it must, and long overdue, for us to recognize the contributions of all the wonderful men in our lives - whether actual fathers or only in spirit - without whose tireless dedication, strength of character, and inspirational leadership, this world would be a much poorer place. So on Sunday, I urge everyone to hit the ground running, pull out all the stops, spare no expense, and full speed ahead to put together a jolly good time for all the jolly good fellows in our midst, and devil take the hind-most. Of course, around our house that means plenty of catnip mice and bat-a-birds from the kitty contingent, and while Bill is always quick to accept such largesse with good grace, it cannot be said with perfect candor that it would be exactly what he had his heart set on. Actually, all that modern technology needs to do (to repeat that age-old refrain: "If they can put a man on the moon, why can't they ..... [Please insert your own pet peeve here] ?") is invent robotic cat litter that changes itself and puts itself out in the trash, and that would be the only Father's Day gift that Bill could ever want, believe me. Almost slipping by unnoticed was Flag Day on Tuesday, but fortunately The Flag Brigade is made of sterner stuff, and dutifully hoisted the colors upstairs and downstairs before heading off to work, with the patriotic strains of John Philip Souza on their lips, I dare say. Mind you, this was no mean feat with Con Edison and their subcontractors wielding their arsenal of jackhammers to chop out 100-year-old lead pipes from under the street at the time, and "The Stars & Stripes Forever" was no match for it, I can tell you that. In fact, the entire project was so disruptive that on one day when their heavy equipment had completely blocked off the end of our driveway, we found it necessary to drive over the front lawn, sidewalk, and curb just to get out of our own house, thanks not. It goes without saying that even the resourceful John Philip Souza would have been hard-pressed to come up with a tune that would have been appropriate to the words that I was muttering under my breath at the time, I shouldn't wonder. Speaking of special occasions, earlier in the month we had a hankering to see our old friends from upstate, and rather than half of us driving 3 hours to see the other half at home, we decided to split the difference and meet up in the middle at Fishkill instead. I don't mind saying that Fishkill is more of a happening burg than you would expect, and the Red Line Diner smack on Route 9 was jam-packed when we showed up for brunch with our appetites on over-drive. Fortunately, they shoe-horned us in, and it wasn't long before we were stone cold munching on heaping plates of salads, omelettes, grilled cheese, and their other signature sandwiches. When I say that Fishkill is jumping, that's no exaggeration for comic effect - our friends tried to book 2 hotel rooms over a month previously, and were lucky to scoop up what were apparently the last 2 rooms to be had anywhere within shouting distance of the place, and we despaired of whatever cast-off attic garret they might have stuffed us into as a result. In an interesting turn of events, we discovered that the Red Line Diner was on the opposite side of the same parking lot from our hotel, so we figured that it already made up in convenience what it might have lacked in amenities right there. But we needn't have worried anyway, because the Magnuson Hotel turned out to be a fine and upstanding establishment for lodging, and we had no complaints. Even better, since our friends made the reservations and not us, we didn't fall victim to our usual trifecta of hotel calamities, where they've quartered us between the clunking ice machine, the clanking elevator, and hot and cold running Shriners carousing in the hallways at all hours, thanks not. The hotel staff never realized their mistake, and in fact, could not have been nicer if they tried. What they did with the Shriners is anybody's guess at this point. I can't say what brought everyone else to Fishkill at the same time, so that there were no rooms left to be had for love or money, but our plan was to take in the sights at nearby Cold Spring, where we had been a couple of times before, and looking forward to seeing it again. Main Street in Cold Spring is well worth the trip, with quaint and curious little shops lining both sides, and no end to the limitless variety of artifacts, oddities, and collectibles to be seen along the way. Every place that you go into can't help but be interesting, many with one-of-a-kind curiosities that would never be found elsewhere, and worth a look if only for that reason alone. But it must be said that some of the spaces are so cramped and overwhelming, with such a voluminous confusion of tawdry gimcracks, that you start to feel like a suffocating spectator of the TV show "Hoarders," until you succumb to the inevitable and flee the premises with your coat-tails flapping behind you. (In vaudeville, the old joke was: "My apartment was so tiny that you had to go outside to change your mind." Rim shot, please!) It speaks volumes that such inveterate souvenir hunters as ourselves came home without buying one single solitary thing on our travels, which not only surprised us and our friends, but the President's perplexed economic advisers even more so, I can assure you. Leaving the stuffy indoors behind, down the hill and under the railroad tracks is a breathtaking panorama of the majestic Hudson River in all its glory, and the scenic vistas that greet you on all sides are nothing short of spectacular. The grandeur of nature was more than enough to revive our flagging spirits, and of course, some home-made ice cream never hurts, so it was with a jauntier step that we climbed back up the hill to resume our explorations before heading back to the hotel. Some things may change at Cold Spring over the years, but the Hudson River is a don't-miss feature that never fails to delight. After being out all day, we thought that a quiet dinner for four in the room would be just what the doctor ordered, and the helpful hotel staff were quick to recommend the local pizzeria as their go-to eatery of choice. Their free delivery made it a no-brainer for us, and in short order, we were enjoying their pizza, calzone, and garlic knots, which were as tasty as we could have hoped - although having a table would have been a handy touch, rather than eating on the bed and pressing the credenza into service as a buffet. Another nice addition would have been a pool and hot tub where we could relax after dinner, but alas, the Magnuson was notably lacking in that respect, so we had to amuse ourselves for the rest of the evening. We accomplished this (as us old geezers often do) by discussing our health issues, and solving all of the problems of the world, no thanks to these darned young whipper-snappers nowadays ("Get off my lawn!") who seem to have us all hurtling headlong to blazes in a hand-basket, and hang the consequences. (The fact that people have been saying exactly the same thing since at least the time of the ancient Greeks, I think in no way repudiates the validity of this opinion, and I don't mind saying that I am unanimous in that.) In the morning, we found the hotel's complimentary breakfast a bit on the spare side, but still better than having to go outside and forage in the wilderness for ourselves. With time on our hands after we checked out, we set our sights on a giant indoor flea market just up the road, and joined the throng of happy bargain hunters on the prowl. This cavernous building was host to hundreds of booths, laid out in a neat grid, and offering anything from the most retro vintage relics, to the very newest whiz-bang gizmos, and need I say, everything in between. There were even kiosks where you could get a haircut, manicure, or massage, believe it or not, plus vendors selling real food, like burgers and fries, BBQ, fried chicken or fish, pancakes, and assorted bakery products that smelled as good as they looked. Unlike our hotel room, they had areas with tables and chairs where people could eat comfortably, and I said to Bill that someone could actually go into this place and literally never leave. I was beginning to wonder if the hotel hadn't discovered the solution to their Shriners problem after all. All too soon, it was time to bid our fond farewells, and go our separate ways into the sunset, as it were. The trip home was uneventful, and unburdened as we were, without copious amounts of souvenirs for a change, unpacking the car was a snap, requiring no teams of Sherpas as is usually the case. The cats had been up to their usual hijinks in our absence, but not enough for the Governor to call out the National Guard, so we considered that a good sign. What they were doing with that noisy ice machine and wheezing elevator, I'm sure I have no idea. Say, who let those Shriners in here? Elle

Fast And Loose

Hello World, Long have the poets wondered, "What is so rare as a day in June?" and well may they wonder, indeed. For the most part, the weather in our environs has been a very fickle friend for sure (and the flying fickle finger of fate from the old "Laugh-In" days would be no match for it) but there have been a handful of days that were so outstanding, it would just take your breath away. Unfortunately, these treasures have been interspersed with alarming conditions of such miserable wretchedness that we can draw no other conclusion but that our old nemesis Comrade Mischka is once again up to his old tricks at the controls of the Kremlin's infernal weather machine, da? By the way, I love Mother Russia. Speaking of spreading the love around (spasibo, tovarich!) the new month had hardly even gotten underway when suddenly here we found ourselves welcoming in the first of Ramadan on Tuesday, of all things. Ramadan is one of the slipperiest movers and shakers of all the movable feasts, flitting about anywhere from spring to fall and back again, with no rhyme or reason, and leaving its bewildered followers bobbing it its capricious wake, and fumbling around like "who did it and ran." Most of the time, movable feasts are nothing more than confusing and distracting oddities, and their adherents simply traipse along after them, wherever in the calendar they may land, without much in the way of repercussions whenever that might be. But Ramadan has got some serious game going for it, where the faithful fast during the daylight hours, so the difference between strict observance of the festival in June, compared to November, can be dramatic - and that's not just the junk food talking, believe me. And speaking of fast [Please insert elaborate eye rolling from our old friends the dinosaurs in The Peanut Gallery at this blatant misuse of homonym humor] I'm sure that everyone realizes that if Memorial Day has come and gone, then the venerable Indianapolis 500 has surely come and gone right along with it, by golly. This year's Bump around the Brickyard (known as "the 100th Indianapolis 500 presented by PennGrade Motor Oil" for sponsorship reasons) saw a crowded field of 33 drivers take the starting flag, with numerous previous winners among them (although a noticeable dearth of female drivers this time around, with only Pippa Mann strapped in for the fair sex) and a surprising win by rookie driver Alexander Rossi of Andretti Herta Autosport. (Those of us "of a certain age" will remember Mario Andretti in his prime racing days with the legendary Andy Granatelli, who took an unheard-of curiosity known as STP oil treatment, and through sheer bravado, turned it into one of the most recognizable products the world over.) One interesting tidbit about this year's race was that the winner Rossi, with a slim lead in mere seconds, gambled on making it to the finish line on the remains of his car's gasoline and fumes, rather than lose time by taking another pit stop to refuel, and basically coasted into the checkered flag in one of the slowest finishes that has ever been seen in Indy history. Talk about fasting - maybe that wasn't such a blatant misuse of homonym humor after all! In other sports news, the NHL Stanley Cup finals have come down to the mighty Pittsburgh Penguins from the east, and the San Jose Sharks from the west, with the defending champion Chicago Blackhawks already having been eliminated. Not so on the hoops front, where the defending Golden State Warriors are on the prowl for a repeat over the Cleveland Cavaliers, and looking pretty darned serious about it, by all accounts. On the diamond, the Yankees climbed out of the basement over Tampa Bay, making it back to .500 for the first time in over a month, while the somewhat erratic Mets continue to tantalize with a respectable 34-26 record, and only 3 games behind the first-place Nationals. The surprising Cubbies can still claim the best record in all of baseball by a wide margin, and a comfortable 9 game lead in their division, but it is only June after all, and personally, I wouldn't print up those commemorative championship jerseys just yet. I have no reason to believe that the evil spirit of Affirmed has anything against the Cubs per se, but let's face it, "The Curse of the Billy Goat" has successfully been working its local magic keeping Chicago out of the World Series since 1945, and probably doesn't need any outside help to keep this going indefinitely. Heck, if the billy goat had been Russian, I'm sure that Comrade Mischka could guarantee that the Cubs would never win again throughout the whole of history, not for any amount of rubles, vodka, borsht, or caviar, nyet? By the way, I'd like to take this opportunity to make it perfectly clear that I love Mother Russia. On the home front, the yard continues to dazzle on every side, with the stately mountain laurel popping open in pearly pink perfection, followed by the daylilies and tiger lilies, and more chickweed and false asters than anyone could ever imagine in one place at the same time. Our old stalwart rosebushes are outdoing themselves, even my grandmother's ancient mini floribunda, still going strong all these many decades later, including being transplanted several times through a variety of locations near and far. (Not to cast aspersions, but at some point I have to wonder if there isn't some part of it that's actually rampant alien mutant poison ivy, and it will outlast us all, I dare say.) And while we're on the topic of things that should outlast us all, you would think that a 16-pound tool being used only occasionally by a real estate management company would fit that bill to a T, but you'd be sadly mistaken. Our young and eager maintenance staffer came bounding into the office recently holding both parts of the offending equipment in separate hands, and pointed out that he was going to need a new one in order to continue breaking up the damaged concrete bumpers around the parking lot, since it was the only one heavy enough for the job. I asked him to write down what he needed as a replacement, which I must say that he did not only willingly, but promptly to boot. But it was with some surprise that I noticed later that what he requested (apparently without irony) was what he described as a 16-pound "sludge hammer," which admittedly came as news to me, but on second thought, has its own quixotic sort of logic about it that makes it seem perfectly reasonable. Of course, this is coming from one of the only people you will ever meet who regularly travels around with a sledge hammer and wedge in the car at all times, since I don't bother to unpack them every year when I come back from camping, and notwithstanding the elaborate eye rolling and ill-mannered snickering from our old friends the dinosaurs in The Peanut Gallery dogging my heels, as it were. On the other hand, at least I knew enough not to get on the wrong side of Caveman Thak at the controls of the Kremlinhenge prehistoric weather machine, who summarily ushered in a climate cataclysm that the giant reptiles have not recovered from to this very day, and no one to blame but their own snarky selves, so there. And may I just say for the record that I have always loved Mother Russia. Elle

Running Wild

Hello World, Happy June! Honestly, what's not to love about the month famous for brides and dads, proms and grads? Besides, unlike many other months (February springs immediately to mind) it rhymes with so very many other jolly things - like moon, loon, tune, soon, dune, boon, spoon, prune, croon, goon, noon, toon, swoon, to name but a few. Not to mention, even more so, there could be a buffoon who ties a balloon to a spittoon in the saloon near the lagoon, while wearing maroon like a tycoon, and spinning like a doubloon in a typhoon. Whew! That's certainly more than enough rhyming nonsense for any one day, and almost enough for the whole month put together, and that's saying something. Speaking of saying things, I recently gained a new follower on Twitter, who identified him or herself as Camelot G. Gillis, and stated forthrightly (and apparently without a hint of irony) "My brother and I like to discuss currant events." Why, thank you, Camelot, and I'm sure we're all looking forward to your observations regarding dried berries of the Black Corinth grape cultivars, Vitis Vinifera, I dare say. Perhaps the siblings have a second Twitter account called "The Daily Prune - all the news that pits." Of course, last weekend was Memorial Day, and Monday was the time for The Flag Brigade to do their patriotic thing, from sea to shining sea, and all the purple mountains majesty that anyone could ever hope for, by George. It was raining in the morning, so Old Glory didn't make its appearance until later in the day, but the important thing is that the often over-matched and under-achieving Flag Brigade did remember to hoist the colors upstairs and downstairs - and bring them back inside later (yes, the same day, I can assure you, and ignoring the howls of derisive laughter from our old friends the dinosaurs in The Peanut Gallery) which is not to be taken for granted, by any means. Or in the (sort of) immortal words of Barbara Frietchie, George Pope Morris, and Rose Hartwick Thorpe, "Shoot if you must this old gray head, but woodman spare that tree, because curfew must not ring tonight!" Alert readers may recall that Memorial Day weekend is also the time for my sister's annual barbecue, gleefully attended by thousands of her closest friends and relatives - plus space aliens from the deepest reaches of the universe, and time travelers across the dimensional spectrum from the earliest prehistoric days to the farthest far-flung future, and back again. This time around was the 44th iteration of the annual Whoop in the Woods, and well into its 3rd generation of distinguished visitors among its vast and diverse guest list, many of them growing up in the shadow of the cabin as a Memorial Day mainstay, and knowing nothing different their whole lives. The weather was too hot for volleyball, but perfect for relaxing in the shade with a cool beverage, and the company was very convivial, with even total strangers being welcomed as long-lost friends. In the crafts tent, the Klingons and Cro-Magnons did a fine job making colorful loop pot holders, while the Romulans and the Huns tried their hands at puff-painting on T-shirts instead. Meanwhile, cavorting in the sprinkler were Imhotep, Caesar Augustus, and William the Conqueror, but when one of the cyborgs tried to join in, well, let's just say that it was not a pretty sight. We all learned a lesson about how electricity and water are never a good combination, and giving new meaning to the phrase "current events." Zap! If Memorial Day weekend has come and gone, it means that the summer movie blockbuster season is well and truly upon us, and no escaping its relentless grip on our wallets full of discretionary income. The super heroes hit the cinemas in full force, with "Batman vs. Superman," the latest "X-Men," and "Deadpool" leading the way. As usual, Bill and I were about the last people to go see "Captain America: Civil War" in glorious IMAX 3-D - although in spite of it being out almost a month already, we were amazed to see it with over a dozen other hardy souls, rather than just the two of us rattling around in the whole theater entirely by our little old lonesomes, as is generally the case. The new movie is not technically an "Avengers" film (although it included many from the original team - such as Iron Man, Black Widow, Hawkeye, War Machine - as well as newcomers like Ant Man, Winter Soldier, Scarlet Witch, Falcon, Vision, Black Panther, and an adorable teenaged Spiderman) but notably lacking Thor and The Hulk this time around, alas. Bill felt it was over-long, and I had to agree that it had some trouble getting off the ground to start with, making it seem longer than it was. But the action sequences were top-notch, and with a few extra super powers, gadgets, and gizmos to play with, the special effects were delightfully different and entertaining. On top of it all, the story was actually interesting, if not exactly plausible, and not just a rapid-fire steeplechase full of explosions, fights, and aerial stunts. Admittedly, I can't wholeheartedly endorse an Avengers-type movie without the darlings of Asgard, the squabbling brothers-in-arms Thor and Loki, but for all that, it had a lot to recommend it, and I'm glad to throw my recommendations in right along with it. It's true that I can't vouch for the quality of their loop pot holders or puff-painted T-shirts, or even their commentaries on currant events, but in the (almost) immortal words of Gunga Din, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and Joyce Kilmer, "You're a better man than I am, with brawny arms strong as iron bands, but only God can make a tree." Say, isn't that King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table weaving lanyards? Elle