Fireland / The Clip-Ons

It is extremely bright here. The altitude, the low-story buildings, it all adds up. How many drunk jaywalkers did I almost kill as they bolted across Colfax, because the sun was right in my goddamn face? Unknown.

P.S. Colfax is where The Connection and the BBQ place is, and where there’s an almost endless number of sweet 50s-era signage, including the excellent Satire Lounge, owned (like the entire block) by Pete of the Greek mafia. And then there’s Argonaut Liquor whose sign is equal to its epic name, though I secretly prefer the let’s-get-down-to-the-nitty-gritty Drink’s Liquors, which is further west out nearer to where I live.

Anyway point being I felt the need to buy sunglasses, which I have never worn in my life. It’s like: Who am I, Roy Orbison? I feel ridiculous. I prefer to be all squinty and glaucoma-y or whatnot. (Nota Bene: I am not familiar with ocular diseases.) But when I’m driving along the ‘Fax (Nota Bene: Just made up that nickname) and literally cannot see anything except the throbbing corpuscles in mine own aqueous humour (see above), I figure it’s my civic duty to pick up some shades.

I go where all discerning shoppers go, which is duh Walgreens, which is where I went to get some ointment a few weeks ago when something bit me and gave me Elephant Man lip (more on that later but rest assured this something — I assume some kind of fucking brightly colored spider — was all: “Yeah I messed that bitch up two time,” and then high-fived his little spider buddies for like half an hour because that’s how long it takes spiders to high-five), and I examine all the sunglasses and am nodding sagely, like: “Yes, yes, this pair will not only protect my eyes from the sun’s harsh UV rays but will also make me quite popular with the rundown tooth-free senior prostitutes right outside by the bus stop, yes.” It’s embarrassing! Sunglasses are.

What makes matters worse is my vision is flawed and what I really need are prescription sunglasses. But prescription sunglasses? You buy a pair of those and you have to also hand over your testes in a little paper sack and then wave goodbye to them forever. And I need those dudes. Right? So then I find myself — and as you look down the barrel of your mid-thirties you start saying “I find myself doing such-and-such” more and more often — I find myself examining the clip-on sunglasses.

So, this is a low. We all know this. Even worse? I buy some. And then just the worst part? They don’t really fit my regular glasses, and kind of just latch on awkwardly, only providing maybe sixty-six percent of the sun-filtering that I was hoping for. I just sit there in my car, one-third blinded, sadly shaking my head and thinking of when I was a child and how I was definitely going to grow up to be a famous movie director.