Ridiculous

Saw the new Bond movie today.

And there's really not that much to tell.

Either you are a Bond fan, and have already seen it and made your mind up about it.

Or you're not, and you didn't even realize there was a new one out, what with your weekends being taken up with standing in line for the new Twilight movie.

And if you are a Bond fan, and have already seen it, you probably enjoyed it.

I too, enjoyed it.

Which is not much of a review I'm afraid, but again, words will be wasted on either side.

Now I was a little disappointed that it wasn't magnificent.

But not as disappointed as the lady behind us.

To her every thing was "Ridiculous!"

Bond would ride a motorcycle off a bridge and land on a speeding train, "Ridiculous!"

Bond would try to interrogate an assassin while dangling him from a window on the 44th floor. "Ridiculous!"

Albert Finney would flirt with Judi Dench, "Ridiculous!"

Ridiculous

Ridiculous

Ridiculous.

There were only two things I could think of: One, pray to god that none of her spittle would hit me in the back of the neck, and two, what exactly had her expectations been prior to buying the ticket?

This is a Bond film.

Did she wake up from a 50 year coma and insist upon seeing the earliest show available, not realizing that Skyfall is not a Capra title.

She must have been stupid.

No, she was stupid.

And a heavy breather.

She actually entered the theater 20 minutes into the flick, taking each step of the aisle very slowly and huffing and puffing to herself as if one of the three little piggies lived in the projector booth.

I may or may not have spent too much of my movie time thinking about Mrs. Ridiculous and not enough about the movie at hand.

But it was good. Not magnificent.

Good.

And it wasn't a rush out and buy on DVD the moment its available. But it was worth the price of the matinee and maybe even the popcorn if Joann and I hadn't already gone out to breakfast already.

I was also a little disappointed that breakfast wasn't magnificent either.

We had been out yesterday and rode our bikes past a little hole the wall diner that we had never seen before. I made a mental note for us to come back in the morning after Calvin had been dropped off at school.

I don't know how the rest of you feel about little hole in the wall diners, but I absolutely have to try them, just in case they are as good as the dream I dream about how good a little hole in the wall diner should be.

It should look a little run down.

Its should have terrible service, spotted serve-ware, sour coffee, and food so hot and so good that it will burn the roof of your soul.

And there are rules to this magical diner:

You should listen intently as the old timers tell you a thing or two and you should tip that crusty old twat of a waitress like she was the concierge of the Waldorf Astoria.

And when we got to the place, and the door knob was sticky, and carpet was dingy, and there wasn't a soul to greet us, all I could think of was "Heaven, here we come."

But after waiting three minutes in an empty hall, a nice looking man in a floured apron rushed up to us and told us that his produce delivery truck was late and that he had no food for breakfast. He was very adamant about how fresh his food was and how if we could come back in an hour or two he'd be ready.

"But I'm hungry now!" said my stomach.

Or that could have been my wife.

Either way,

Waiting is ridiculous.

We headed to our normal diner, for we were feeling more peckish than adventurous.

And we had a 10:40 movie to get to.

Fresh produce four apron guy is gonna have to wait until our next outing, when we have time and patience.

But even our normal spot wasn't all that good.

Which was really ridiculous.

It was much busier than a normal Monday. And my over medium came out over easy, and my normal crispy chicken fried steak had clearly been microwaved and the waitresses were more frantic than disinterested, which is how I prefer my waitresses, and the guy next to me kept knocking the festive holiday decorations off the table and the old ladies behind me smelled like old ladies.

And nobody wants to eat microwaved chicken fried steak with the smell of old lady in their nostrils.

But I did anyway.

Cause this is America and we should be thankful for microwaves and old lady perfume and the fact that we didn't have to wait an entire hour for fresh produce.

And I ate it gratefully, for I refuse to become Mr. Ridiculous, with a heart full of spite and condescension. And I tipped my frantic waitress lady that same way I would have tipped floured apron guy, who is probably feeling pretty sad that we left and never came back.

But I have become Mr. Ridiculous.

Cause when I'm hungry, I have plenty of things to eat.

When I'm tired, I snuggle into the ridiculously high thread count sheets of my queen sized bed, and sleep.

When Calvin coughs, I have a pediatrician on speed dial.

And when Joann says's she's fat, I have an entire room to disappear to and wait out her ridiculousness.

And I could totally afford the ridiculous price of movie popcorn whenever I don't have a belly full of runny eggs.

So who am I to judge?

Actually, the answer is easy.

I'm the guy sitting in front of you at the movies.

So shut up.