Plot: Paramount Pictures and Hasbro, whose previous collaboration was the worldwide blockbuster “TRANSFORMERS,” join forces with Spyglass Entertainment for another extraordinary action-adventure “G.I…. Paramount Pictures and Hasbro, whose previous collaboration was the worldwide blockbuster “TRANSFORMERS,” join forces with Spyglass Entertainment for another extraordinary action-adventure “G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra.” From the Egyptian desert to deep below the polar ice caps, the elite G.I. JOE team uses the latest in next-generation spy and military equipment to fight the corrupt arms dealer Destro and the growing threat of the mysterious Cobra organization to prevent them from plunging the world into chaos. “G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra” is directed by Stephen Sommers (“The Mummy,” “The Mummy Returns”). –© Paramount

KATE says-2 1/2 stars If you like your summer action blockbusters loud, fast and full of action and special effects – then this movie is for you.  It’s got chase scenes in the air, chase scenes in the desert, chase scenes on the ice, chase scenes under water…what more could you want?  (Good acting? Good dialogue? Character development? A plot?  You won’t find them in this movie, but not every movie needs those things, right?)  While I did not care for this movie much, it seems everyone else in the theater did.  FYI…I did notice about halfway through the movie there were never more that three sentences uttered between action sequences, if that matters, oh and Channing Tatum is pretty cute.

Ebert – 1 1/2 stars

Reelviews – 2 stars

The beach will be at the Palazzo Versace hotel and will include a system of heat-absorbing pipes built under the sand and giant wind blowers, designed to keep tourists cool in the searing 40-50C heat. (That’s 104 to 122F.)

According to Soheil Abedian, president of Palazzo Versace,

“We will suck the heat out of the sand to keep it cool enough to lie on.” Palazzo Versace will be completed sometime in late 2009 to 2010.

~Kate

Enjoy your Coffee Break!

RoadTrip Soundtrack

Once the weather starts to warm up and the sky is bright blue with big fluffy, Simpson’s-like clouds… that’s when I start to think about vacations. My favorite type of vacation is going anywhere near an ocean, but to me, the most fun part of vacationing is getting there.
The thing about roadtrips is that it doesn’t matter if you’re going to another part of your state or across the country. What makes a roadtrip a roadtrip, is who you’re with and THE MUSIC. The perfect music and the long drive is what makes your vacation more than a trip, it makes it a journey.

As the day of my sure to be best roadtrip ever grows nearer and nearer, I start to research the perfect songs, to make the perfect mix CD, which makes for a perfect roadtrip. I go through each song, eyes closed, and listen to the lyrics, the melody, the percussion. What I’m listening for is that feeling… The one where you’re driving on the open road, staring out your window with the wind whipping through your hair and you think, “This moment is perfect. It could be a scene in a movie.”

Have you ever noticed that in a movie, something completely boring can be going on, like watching someone drive down a highway. But with the music they choose for that particular moment, it’s completely enthralling and you know exactly what mood the character is in, what they’re thinking about, and where they’re going. It’s the mood music. And let me tell you, the music you choose for your own roadtrip is a lot more important than three minutes of a movie.

Just a tip, the soundtrack from Elizabethtown, a movie partially about a roadtrip, is the perfect CD to start out with if you’re new to determining your own roadtrip soundtrack. By figuring out how many hours your drive is, that’s how you’ll know how many CD’s to make. Each CD can hold about 80 minutes worth of songs. Cause nobody likes to listen to the same songs over and over or the same artist 13 songs in a row. You need a little variation. And for those of you who plug in your iPod and just set it to shuffle, I implore you, at least make a special roadtrip playlist and set that to shuffle.

Here’s just a little taste of what my essential roadtrip soundtrack playlist includes:

• Band Of Horses – The Great Salt Lake
• Ingrid Michaelson – Be OK
• Jack Johnson – Hope
• PlayRadioPlay! – Decipher Reflection
• Jason Mraz – Wordplay
• Meg & Dia – What If
• Metro Station – Seventeen Forever
• The Postal Service – Such Great Heights
• Nelly Furtado – Try
• Meg & Dia – Going Away
• Radiohead – Bodysnatchers
• Cartel – Matter of Time
• Of Montreal – Wraith Pinned to the Mist and Other Games
• PlayRadioPlay! – Compliment Each Other
• Regina Spektor – That Time
• She & Him – Why Do You Let Me Stay Here?
• Tegan & Sara – Where Does the Good Go?
• Andrew Bird – A Nervous Tic Motion Of The Head to the Left

Megan currently lives in Ogden, Utah.

She is a lover of RoadTrips, Disneyland,
good books, and music.

Want to submit your own story to be considered for the Guest Headline post to run on Fridays? Just send your story to: lizandkate@live.com.

Enjoy your Coffee Break!

Don’t get me wrong. I know that, like my grandfather said, I’m “living the good ole days”.  I so appreciate being cool in the summer and warm in the winter without any physical labor on my part other than turning a dial, and if I had to actually depend on my own ability to grow my veggies and meat, I would surely starve.

Furthermore, as a marketing professional (and those of you that know me can quit snickering at the word “professional” right now), adoption and understanding of the latest and greatest in the tech world is critical to my livelihood, so you can better believe I Tweet and Facebook, am LinkedIn and signed on for the better part of my life.

But that doesn’t stop me from sometimes wishing the world and everything in it would … just … slow … down …

Since 1986, my nest has been feathered with a succession of boys, three of my own and all of their friends. There were many times when I wondered if I would ever again have a home that wasn’t littered with stinky shoes, Hot Wheels cars, baseball cleats, and drumsticks, and a schedule that wasn’t dictated by ball schedules, or band practice, speech tournaments, and part-time jobs.

Our house was the house where everyone wanted to hang out. That was, after all, how I hoped it would be, and had made a concerted effort to make it that way. For a few years there, it was not unusual for me to go to bed with my three boys up playing video games or watching movies, and wake up the next morning to find I would be making pancakes for 5 or 6 boys, the unidentifiable “lumps” littering my family room.

And then, it started happening. First the oldest flew the nest and landed (thankfully) in a nearby town to find a career he loves, but one that requires strange work schedules with very little time off. Until recently, however, his apartment didn’t have a washer/dryer, so I was assured of seeing him at least every couple of weeks. Then son number 2 graduated high school, started college, and worked a part-time job when he wasn’t in class. He still lives at home, but …

When those two moved on to bigger and better things … so did their friends! I should have seen it coming, but I didn’t. Suddenly, it seems, the nest is a whole bunch emptier and frankly, I’m having a hard time dealing with all the “peace and quiet”.

Number 3 son is not helping me out here one bit. He has a core group of friends, all good kids, but they are quite different from those of my older boys. They actually think they have to go do something somewhere in order to be together! No “just hanging out” at my house for them. Maybe it’s because very few them have gotten a driver’s license. Maybe, they’ll start to congregate here when they’re able to drive themselves over. I can hope for that, can’t I?

But really, it’s more than just angst over an empty house. I worry that, in all their rush to grow up and out, did any of the lessons I’ve tried to teach over the years stick? Are they so hell bent on being connected, fast-tracked, socially networked that they will forget some of the pleasures of life that aren’t found on the information highway, but rather out the country highway where they’ve been raised? I guess I just don’t want them to forget where they came from, even if it’s not the life they choose to live from now on.

I worry. That’s what moms do. I know. I’m not whining. Really, I’m not, but surely I should just see some evidence that at least a part of their old mom is in there? And just when I think I won’t, something like this happens.

Late last summer, number 3 son and his girl, a sweetie that we all love, were spending time together at our house. To give them the privacy I know they need, I had retreated to my bedroom while they were, or so I thought, watching yet another movie in the family room. Suddenly, number 3 comes bursting into my bedroom saying, “Mom you gotta come out and see the stars. They’re amazing.”

I, of course, did what any sane woman who had to get up at 5:30 am the next morning would do. I jumped out of bed and followed him out the back door, greeted with his girl’s voice saying, “over here. It’s the best place to see them.” So there we were, lying on our backs in the dew soaked grass, gazing at a night sky filled with stars, watching as the clouds moved and revealed more and more. I had his girl to my right, and no. 3 to my left. And we talked. And we laughed. And his girl saw her very first shooting star. And it was wonderful.

And I, for a brief moment, had evidence that, even through all his bravado, jock, video game playing, teenage attitude, a little bit of me is in there. The part that appreciates a beautiful sky, on a beautiful summer night, sharing it with the people you love the most. No internet, no video game, no satellite TV. Just mother nature, doing her thing. And it was wonderful!

I know that times like those will get fewer and further between, and it won’t be too long until the nest is completely empty. It’s times like this one that I can sympathize with my grandmother’s longing for the “good ole days”.  And like my grandfather said, I know, too that I’m living them, right here and right now, and the days that come will be good too, for they will be filled with memories of boys eating pancakes, and band competitions, of baseball games and starry nights, and that’s as it should be.

Want to submit your own story to be considered for the Guest Headline post to run on Fridays????  Just send your story to: lizandkate@live.com and check back on Friday to see if your story was selected.

Denise Fuson has known Liz and Kate longer than any of the three of them want to admit. The mother of 3 amazing young men, she spends her days marketing high fidelity stereo speakers for THIEL Audio, and her “free” time with family and indulging in her latest passion, designing and creating beautiful jewelry and beads. She has an oft neglected blog at wiggysisters.blogspot.com.

Enjoy your Coffee Break!

Betcha didn’t know…that the summer nights of catching a jar full of lightning bugs, also known as fireflies, are quickly disappearing.  Take a minute and try to remember the last time you saw a firefly.  Unless you’re one of the lucky few, I’m betting it’s been quite a while. 

That’s because the firefly population is disappearing.

Last year 100 entomologists and biologists went to Thailand for an international symposium on the “Diversity and Conservation of Fireflies.” They attribute the firefly decline to two factors, development and light pollution.

The natural habitat of these magical bugs, which is fields, forests and marshes, is being overtaken by urban development and human traffic.  More houses and people around = less fireflies.

The other big problem is light pollution.  Our night skies are no longer dark enough for fireflies.  According to firefly.org (which looks like it’s pretty much the authority on all things firefly)…

Both male and female fireflies use their flashing lights to communicate. Some species synchronize their flashes, sometimes across large groups of thousands of insects. All species speak a language of light—scientists believe they use it to attract mates, defend their territory, and warn off predators.

Human  light pollution is believed to interrupt firefly flash patterns. Scientists have observed that synchronous fireflies get out of synch for a few minutes after a car’s headlights pass. Light from homes, cars, stores, and streetlights may all make it difficult for fireflies to signal each other during mating—meaning fewer firefly larvae are born next season.

Check out these tips on what you can do to bring these fireflies back to your own backyard.

~Kate

Enjoy your Coffee Break!

how to tell the temperature by listening to cricket chirps. Apparently how frequently a cricket chirps varies according to temperature. If you count how many times a cricket chirps within 15 seconds and then add 37 to that number, you will have a fairly accurate estimate of the temperature.  Well…Jiminy Crickets!

Enjoy your Coffee Break!

OK, so I didn’t use it for the whole season last year – just once. Which was more than enough for this chick.

I must first take offense that he didn’t offer to mow my yard for me. He’s a healthy 30-something, not to mention my younger brother. Nevertheless the offer never came. Instead I met him at his house a few blocks away to load the mower into my trunk.

His lawn  mower directives were without complication. “The rollers have to be facing toward you. Otherwise the blades don’t turn.”

In other words, there was no five-foot rip-your-arm-out-of-its-socket pull-to-start cord. No on/off button. Just a cylindrical set of blades powered solely by the muscle behind the handle. Hadn’t this type of lawnmower gone out with the Stone Age? I was going to be mowing said yard with a giant pair of scissors on wheels.It was my worst lawnmare come true. I didn’t have much of a choice, though. The yard needed to be mowed desparately and the grass cutting fairies were nowhere to be found.

I heard something that resembled a snicker coming from Colton as I rolled “Michael’s Scissorhands” onto the grass.

To my amazement, the blades expertly sheared through the first few feet of grass. I was momentarily tempted to sing “nah, nah, nah, nah, nah” to him. But the amazement was short-lived as I broke into an all-out sweat about 10 square-feet into the project. With each step I took, the more difficult Michael’s Scissorhands became to maneuver.

Maybe it would have been easier if the yard was flat. It was not. Moreover, it was full of little holes, just big enough to trap the wheel and stop the Fred Flinstone mower with every step. I struggled and tugged and pushed and pulled, wondering how something so seemingly simply was turning into a thorn in my side.

About that time, a car drove by. I sensed the driver slowing down to get a look at the spectacle taking place on my grass. I surmised that the quickest way to save face was to stop what I was doing and pretend I doing just about anything besides what I was actually doing.

My plan seemed to work. The car appeared to resume normal neighborhood speed, and I went back to the business of, uh, mowing. And I use that term loosely.

A few minutes later, I looked up to see a young man approaching on foot, spotting his grin from about 30 feet. Again, I stopped fighting with Scissorblades.

“That’s some old school,” he remarked (thank you, Mr. Smartypants – like I don’t know this).

“It’s my brothers. He’s saving the planet.”

It was the only response I had. There was no way to save face. No way to even appear to save face. I’d like to point out, no offer of help came from this guy, either. “Thanks for nothing,” I wanted to scream.

I found myself staring at the Episcopal church across the street. Perhaps I could pray to Saint Michael, the church’s namesake. As the patron saint of chivalry in medieval times, my rescue would be imminent.

Until I realized that in modern day Christianity, ol’ St. Michael is considered a warrior – which likely meant suck it up and keep mowing. At which point I had to wonder if Michael the brother and Michael the Saint had conspired against me via Michael’s Scissorbaldes, the lawn mower.

Which was about the time the phone rang, ushering in a true saved by the bell moment. It was my oldest son, who wanted to come visit for the night.

“Of course you can come over,” I said with sweetness born of sheer desperation. “On one condition…”

Alas it appeared St. Michael had heard my pleas after all. And my oldest son, whose middle name happens to be Michael as well, would forever be heralded, at least by his mother, as patron saint of lawn mowing. It had been a sign, no doubt about it.

Which is why I found myself in Home Depot with my dad. I trust it goes without saying that my brother – and his scissor-blades – have been fired.