|
|
So the weekend was just being old settled homebodies, with a few intervals of unusual activity, like spending 45 minutes figuring out how to shower without getting the would wet. I bought her an enormous plastic sleeve that could've doubled as the Jolly Green Giant's prophylactic, and put it on with great care. I am terrified of stepping on her foot, or accidentally kicking it as I pass. It brings to mind the great mystery of childhood, and my absolute conviction that there was a cartoon character named El Soretoe, a Mexican cliche with the hat and sarape and large sweaty swollen self, his prominent toe always throbbing, inevitably struck or trod upon in the course of the story. There is no proof such a thing existed. Perhaps I should google it again; it's been five years. Maybe something's come up. Nope. Anyway. Worked all weekend on this and that, had the aforementioned cozy hours, got my haircut, and went to the Giant Swede's to watch football. Victory! Great way to start the week, especially since it didn't have any false accusations from an angry codger. To wit, e.g.: Friday is the day I go to the local market to buy certain things and sample the cheeses. In late October I started a Friday ritual at home: I would buy one of the small portions of some exotic cheese, the leftovers from the carving, and I bid wife to come downstairs for a break: wine and cheese and crackers. A new little ritual. I know! What a jerk! I'd divorce me too! On Friday the store has cheese samples with crackers and spreads. Delicious. Unless it’s Goat. No goat cheese for me. I don’t know why they keep pushing the goat. This time it was a mild cheddar, cave-ripened or something. The other sample had some sausage, thinly sliced, with a cheese spread, and I savored it. In 2026 this will change, of course, along with everything else, because I have to leave. If I end up where I want, I’ll be close to a Kowalski’s, but it’s larger and doesn’t have the neighborhood charm. Sigh ANYWAY then it’s a chat with the samples lady. She had a cheddar-beef-broth goop, British in origin. “You had this last week,” I said. “I can’t take a sample. I know what it’s like.” “Oh I have different crackers,” she said. “Well that makes all the difference.” I had one and swooned. Just marvelous. I got some other items and made my way towards the bread department. Ah - another sample! A perky happy lady was handing out sauce from Broder’s, the local beloved Italian eatery. She offered the bolognese; I took some. Quite good. She gestured to it on the shelf. Ten dollars. Eh. Then she pointed to the third option, which was described as “Long-simmering.” “‘Long simmering’ makes it sound like an ancient grudge,” I said. “Like a Sicilian vendetta.” She liked that. I tried it, and hmmm, this is good. I made up some fiction about getting it next week on pasta night, because I always want to leave them with some hope. I was staring at the pastries case, considering a fritter for the next morn, when an old man stamped up to me and said: “Are you handicapped?” “I am not,” I said. “Then why did you park in a handicapped spot?” “I did not.” “Yes you did.” “No. It just looks like it should be, but it’s not. When you go out, look - there’s no sign, no painted mark on the spot.” He scowled, and I walked to check out. I knew I had not parked in the handicapped spot, but I can see why someone would think so. Aerial view: I was parked all the way on the left. See?
It’s possible the man was remembering the long-ago days of 2022, when Google street view last went into the parking lot. It was handicapped, then.
I hope he realized the error of his ways. It is likely he settled on thinking that I thought it was probably a handicapped spot and didn’t care. By the way: it's possible that I'm in the building in both shots, and we'll never know.
We continue with a small amount of manufactured enthusiasm to explore the trademarks of 1925, because no one else is. NO ONE!
Say, I have more trademarks in the folders than weeks in the year. So then!
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
 |
Ladies and gentlemen . . . the end.
Oh who could it be
Remember back to the first few episodes? It was the beginning of the year. January, February, when YGH had no idea of the flaming freight train screaming down the tracks towards his unsuspecting head, and we joked about the lame mystery concerning The Leader. The villains in the serials always had a Leader. In this case he directed by radio the band of Red agents, headed by that biatch Laska, and we only saw his back. Well, he hasn’t been around in ages, and they haven’t mentioned him much, and so many people come and go during this thing the final reveal might be a big shrug. I do remember there was a Blackhawk who had a twin; might be him. Don’t know and I certainly do not care. First, the last cliffhanger resolution: I think this sums up the entire run.
After this they’re on the chase again, looking for the Red Agents who stole Element X. The Blackhawks, now numbering four, chase them by car and plane. They escape to the same set - er, the backup lair. Looks a lot like the other lairs.
Oh! Finally! Guns! Remember, the Blackhawks don’t carry guns. So this should be over soon.
I’m sure he’s wearing a vest? It’s never explained. He got shot in the guts and fell two stories and it’s all good. Anyway, the Blackhawks get the two gunmen. Another Blackhawk has trailed Laska and is tailing her. We cut to . . . THE LEADER!
On the phone he tells Laska to give the cylinder to another agent then distract the Blackhawks, and lead them to a trap at “station 6” which we learn is another serial staple, the abandoned cabin in the mountains. They set traps for the Blackhawks:
I guess this guy is supposed to blow up Laska too, because the Leader doesn’t trust her anymore for some reason. He runs away, gets caught, gets dragged back, and produces my favorite moment of the entire serial:
Laska takes it on the lam as the cabin explodes. They follow her to LA, to the impenetrable fortress of the Leader. Or the office. Apparently the receptionist is out to lunch. And now, the conclusion.
Only question: since we’re not going to end with a kiss, the serial will probably end with all-around laughter. Right?
They're all 12. And that's okay.
This week's Diner.
That'll do. By the way . . . you won't believe what's coming tomorrow! No, you probably will.
|
|||||
|
|||||
|
|||||
A nice warm weekend at home, an oasis of warmth in a brutal bone-cracking cold world. You can tell it's cold by the yellow spot in the snow - they're all within ten feet of the back door. The dog does what the dog needs and trots back in. Since the Wife is housebound from the foot surgery, she could only sit and read and watch TV - things contrary to her bustling get-it-down nature, but she didn't bridle at the restrictions, and enjoyed having full and complete justification for taking it easy for the first time since 1985. 
