THE SCORE

When I got home, I noticed that the apartment mate had cleared space in the refrigerator. And I asked her where the second bottle of my praescription eye-drops was. "Right there!" Where? "Right there on the shelf! Moments later, she told me "move it, fat boy!" and located it immediately. The two things we learn from this are that I couldn't see the trees for the forest (I mistook the bag for a bakery bag which might have contained part of a batard), and she really needs her own eyes checked, as the term 'fat boy' does not apply in the slightest.
I am, if anything, scrawny.

It had been a long day. Three of the elderly delinquents were absent from the backroom during today's game, for various idiotic reasons, and I'll be sure to let them know that today's monumental defeat, downfall, going down in flames, was entirely due to them not being there to cheer on the home team. They failed everyone. Hubris cometh to a fall. Losers. Traitors.

The home team being that numeric bunch of losers from Santa Clara.
Who lost monumentally, couldn't be any more lost.
Failed utterly, spectacularly.
Oh boy.

In any case, it may be time to rub cheesesteak on your wounds.

Imagine sauteed onions, and maybe bellpeppers, grilled meat, stuffed into a toasted long bun ("hoagie roll") and slathered with melted cheese goo. Dinner of champions. Washed down with a fine champagne in celebration.


Optional: a small bowl of cioppino on the side.


Would you also like some Rice-a-roni?
It's a regional treat!



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