BoJack Horseman Visits Chagall’s America Windows

I brought a flask because your art makes me sad, Marc. They bombed your city, killed your people. You fled because you wanted to live. And I don’t, which makes me the asshole. It’s fair, I know the role. Look at this blue, you captured it in glass. Of course you wanted to live. What have I captured? Liquid in a flask, I guess. I want to be one of your horses flying over the shtetl but I’m not that kind of horse. I’m the horse blowing money at the strip club. Hurting someone’s feelings at the bar. I don’t deserve your kindness towards my species. Not all of us can fly. I can’t even see your sun.

BoJack Horseman Visits the Strip Mall Optometrist

I knew the carpet was going to be stained but these tools look medieval. Clamps and hinges laid out in a briefcase, open on the countertop by the ratty exam chair. The optometrist tells me to take a seat and call it like I see it, old timey umpire-style. I know I’m going to catch something from this steampunk apparatus pressed against my face, or the optometrist’s breath: cinnamon Nicorette working against the halitosis. He flicks the slides on—is that a photo? Little girl with braids and the optometrist in shorts on a beach, faces overexposed. Nobody knows how to take a photo anymore. I cough until he notices and switches to a letter pyramid, apologizing profusely, stammering about the girl in the photo, his daughter, obsessed with trains, adopted at birth. I’m on the third slide when I wonder about the photo—who took it? Who did her braids? Did she like the water? But he's turned around now, writing me a script, telling me my eyes are OK, a touch astigmatic, and they can help with frames out front. There, the receptionist eats a sandwich with a lot of mayo and the salesperson shows me some options: horn-rimmed, wire frames, aviators. I like the ones that make me look younger. “Cool,” the salesperson says, tells me to come back in ten days. The glasses will be ready then.