Not enough weekend, considering the amount of week coming up. We may be a bit scant here on a day or two, since I have five pieces due, a speech to give, and a funeral to attend. At least I'm not standing in the kitchen, frozen in place by some rare neurological condition that makes you wake, hours later, shocked when your muscles finally relax and the cup shatters on the floor.
I was getting my weekly hot dog from Walkin’ Dog, and took a few napkins out of the dispenser. They seemed thin. I waved them at the owner, and said Hey! How long have you been doing one-ply? I thought this was a two-ply kind of joint.
He laughed and admitted that yes, they were one-ply; he couldn’t get any two-ply tissues. He explained how he couldn’t get the straws he used to provide, either; the only ones available were too thin for the milkshakes he sold. He picked up a cup and said he couldn’t get the ones that were legal (I’m not sure what this means - some city reg, no doubt) and had to beg Coke for some supplies.
“We’re living in a one-ply world now,” I said. He agreed: one-ply world, all right.
Target the other day:
Welll, let's mosey over to the lunch-meat depart -
I do need orange juice; we're low.
Guess I'm not alone in that condition, then.
Wife wanted some tea:
The good news? I do not need pasta.
Headed over to Lunds & Byerly's for some of those tasty house brand entrees:
This could be a lack of people available to stock, I know. Could be a lot of things. What it isn't is what we hoped the future would look like during the bare-shelves era of March 2020.
For once, it's not immediately obvious. Also, sigh. Thanks for the reminder that the past had its ghastly cliches:
It's much more clever than the previous puzzles.
Personally, I wouldn't give away the ending in the title.
Or perhaps it just describes a situation from which our protagonist must extract herself?
Looks like a fashion mag setting. That's where career gals could flourish in the hard, heartless big city.
Libbie Block wrote over 250 short stories, and had two books made into movies. “Wild Calendar” is an odd name, but I suppose it does concur up the idea of a madcap life. Look at all these debaucheries I’ve penciled in for the month!
Barbara Bel Geddes is a charm-school grad with a heart of gold, and a trusting nature. She meets a guy in a store where she models. He's greasy and unattractive, but connected to power somehow.
He invites her to a party on a ship, held by “Oilrig” Smith. Let's say it goe well:
Just kidding. Let’s enjoy some fake newspapers that show how important this was for the world:
Anyway. Unfortunately for the kind, good-hearted lass, here’s her Howard-Hughes hubby.
I’ll watch anything with Ryan. All Ryanisms are on display: that sweaty, desperate sense of self-loathing, always at odds with his size, and his cruel swagger, which his size enhances. The simultaneous sense of being incredibly alive and horribly dead, somehow.
(Incidentally, I swear I’ve seen this room before. Students of movie sets can probably rattle off a dozen films that had those windows.)
I won’t bore you with a recap; not here for that. Enough to say that he’s horrible, she runs away, and finds a kindly doctor who needs a secretary and just happens to be. . . .
The other doc in the office . . .
We know him by name now, don’t we? After all these years? Sam Drucker! Aka Frank Cady! Except it's not. It's another guy who looks and sounds like him. You know, harried and decent.
As you might expect, imdb reviews call it a lost noir gem. It is not a lost noir gem. It’s a two-hankie studio product, and if it wasn’t for Ryan it would be nothing but suds.
I’ll give it this: it has a nice way of reminding us that Oilrig is HUGE and POWERFUL.
It's like she's married to the Jolly Green Giant's brother. The one who went into business.
That'll do! See you around.