My new glasses arrived, and they’re great. The prescription seems better than the old pair, even though they’re the same. Makes me wonder . . . do glasses lose potency after a while?
Ha ha no, that’s ridiculous. It’s the way they sit, probably. The old ones got loose and sloppy. I should’ve taken them in for tightening, but I hate to ask the Target optical people to do that when I didn’t buy them there. Yes, yes, I know, they don’t care, it’s a job, it’s not as if they burn with resentment. One of them offered to tighten my glasses the last time I had my eyes checked.
“But I didn’t buy them here.”
How nice. I don’t know why anyone buys glasses in the stores. The monopoly prices of the store suppliers is preposterous. I would’ve paid $400 for the frame on my face now. I paid $89. I also bought two pair of clip-ons, at $3.00 each. The Walgreens clip-ons are $15 or so, and I ruin a pair every other month. But: they weren’t really clip-ons. They clicked. They had a spring in the bridge, so I could expand them, fit them over my glasses, and let them to with a satisfying click. The ocular equivalent of the Zippo clink. A man needs these things. Sounds of tools, of everyday metal precision.
The new clip-ons just slide on. FIT FOR A LAZY AGE OF BETA MALES.
Anything else of insignificance to report? At Target the other day they marked down the tubes of chorizo. (Sorry, have to check my watch; just buzzed. Busy crime night in the hot town, with five shootings and a carjacking on the Southside.) (Nope: just an alert telling me daughter is near an incident. I’m used to that. She gets more crime alerts about me than I get about her, by a factor of 10.) The chorizo was .99, a savings of $1.50. I had an instant vision of weekend breakfast eggs with chorizo and pepper jack, and maybe a green salsa over it all. Ohhh yes.
So I rose Saturday, opened the chub, as it is truly called, and extruded the lurid reddish-brown substance into the skillet. I poked at it for fifteen minutes and couldn’t tell if it was cooked. I mean, I’m sure it was cooked. Just didn’t look like it. Usually you look for the reddish innards, right? It was all reddish.
Eventually I gave up and took a spoonful. It was . . . napalm gruel. A mealy paste with a sadistic flavor. I like hot food, but sometimes you think they’ve upped the heat to mask the other deficiencies. What’s in this? Oh, abbatoir sweepings mixed in with micro plastic nodules for cohesion, mechanically separated colons, horse eyelids. Muy spicy, no?
I threw it out and ate Chinese-owned sausage. By which I mean . . . ? Brookfield is my favorite frozen sausage Pattie. A Chinese firm bought them a while back.
That did not have to happen, but how about that, it did.
Obviously Ross Cohere, an actor noted for bring scenes together in a satisfying fashion:
"No, it can't be Roscoe, that's too obvious!"
Serial time! Because there's an extra week this month.
Well, new plot! They’re going to see a new torpedo boat the government has developed. But first, we have to deal with the past events that no longer matter one whit:
Okay. Can we get to the torpedo?
Good! And he presses hard on the wound until the yegg gives up the hideout location! No, of course not. He's a Federal agent. (I think.)
Usually it's the other way around:
Goes without saying:
If you recall where we left off, the driver was shot and they went over the cliff. Well:
Okay okay let's get to the torpedo boat!
Look, it’s that new invention, covering the event!
It’ll be able to see the event four miles away, because it’s part telescope. The boat does indeed blow up the ship:
Beethoven’s Egmont Overture again. Well, Stark’s boys gas the pilots of the torpedo boat and board it, which the TV picks up.
Tracy goes out in a speedboat, rescues the yobs, finds the gun that fired the gas canister, traces it right back to the warehouse that sold it, and it’s a two-on-four fight.
Death - by NET!
I wonder if anyone over 30 paid any attention to these, or whether there was a contingent of guys who just loved the stuff.
||That will have to do. Matches await!