Game of Thrones

As Game of Thrones episodes go, this one was fairly dark. That's saying a lot in a show that traffics in Red Weddings and beheadings. This episode, more than some others, seemed to spend a bit less time on the heroes and a bit more on the innate cruelty of living in this particular world. It left me pining away for the sweeter days when we got to watch Ramsay Bolton flay Theon until he renamed him. I kid. But it did make me miss the sexual libertine, Oberyn. At the end of the day, this episode needed more Oberyn. And yes I'm saying that largely because his accent reminds me a bit of the guy from The Princess Bride.

To the episode:

The episode begins with Grey Worm learning to read. A tack that we've already seen the Onion knight use to escape getting beheaded. It's no wonder that Grey Worm is taking his time to read. Sadly, Dany's servant didn't have him reading a passage about a love triangle. Sadly, he'll have to discover that the old fashioned way. Of course, the last love triangle wound up with the woman in Dany's employ being locked in a safe for life with her lover. (Wouldn't it be great if they had food and water and all those jewels and were still chilling in that vault? No. Eh, I guess they're dead).

From there, we continue with the unfamiliar story of Dany freeing the slaves. Oh wait, that's all she does. However, this time the citizens of little Egpyt are forced to free themselves using swords from Grey Worm. I'd be a little pissed if I was them as some of the other cities had dragons flying around them. Also, is everyone just going to keep marching after Dany? What is the food situation like? How are the supply lines? Couldn't she just settle some people down in a democratic little Egypt?

The dark part of the episode starts here, when Dany, protector of all things good, eschews mercy to nail 150 men up on some boards and then stands over the city lovingly listening to their screams. I think the old Dario Naharis could have this woman, but I'm not sure about the new guy. He worries me. He needs to toughen up.

From there we begin the Jaime Lannister reclamation tour. (This tour just makes the way they bungled the "rape" scene with Cersei all the worse. If we're going to continue down this path with him as an oathkeeper he probably should leave the raping to the men at Crastor's Keep.) While I'm enjoying the fight scenes with Bron, I'd like to see the two of them start piercing each other with more than their swords. Note: I mean their dueling wits. Jaime's chat with Tyrion is enlightening, and Nicolas Causter-Waldo did a wonderful job evoking the character he played in Season 2, strapped to a post, threatening everyone around him. He's a very good actor as is Peter Dinkleage, and if we need to have a couple of people to root for on this show, and I'd like them to be included.

Jaime has a chat with his sister that doesn't end in incest, which is a plus. And finally we get back to what makes GOT so great. People setting out on the open road. Would I have picked Podrick and Breanne? Probably not. I wanted to see Tywin Lannister taking to the open road with Bron or Maester Pycell, but I guess the two of them will have to do. And it seems important that Jaime gave up his sword to Breanne, passing on his birthright, and perhaps acknowledging that he'll never be the same fighter again.

We get to spend a little time on the love boat with Littlefinger. Who confirms both that he was involved in the killing of Joffry and that his ambition knows no grounds. If there is a real player in the game of thrones who seems like he might win, it's Littlefinger. He plays by his own rules, and he is always giving villain like monologues in which he says things like,
S: What do you want.
LF: Everything.

That's classic super villain stuff. I can just see him twirling his mustache for seasons to come.

The Tyrell's sweet old Lady Olenna are implicated, as many suspected, in the murder. She gives her daughter the rather sage advice of seducing young Tommen before Cersei has a chance to turn him against her. Margery, bless her vixen like heart, sneaks into Tommen's room and chats him up, settling for a kiss on the forehead before leaving. Tommen, who looks about 13 or 14, blissfully roles back over thinking of what a nice visit he had with the young Tyrell lady. This is, uh, a bit unbelievable. He may have been reflecting on her nice visit, but I'm not sure it would have been peaceful.

The latter half of the show moves up North. Up North, we're briefly reminded that the new Lord Commander hates Jon Snow and we learn that Locke, he of the hand cutting off, is just hanging out with the Knight's Watch for a bit, just minding his own business, until, yah, death to Jon Snow. In the meantime, Sam laments giving Gilly away just as a bunch of marauders are pillaging and eating their way through the villages like they are at the drive through at McDonald's. Which, yeah, Sam, Either way, maybe don't send your girlfriend to a whorehouse. I'm just saying.

And then we head North of the wall where a new character, or a newish character, who's name is tough to decipher is laying waste to the food and women at Crastor's keep, cussing up a storm like he's an essential character in Wolf of Wall Street. Are we troubled by his brutality? His cruelty? How many truly cruel people are we to see in GOT before we get tired of it, or ask how low people will sink. How many super villains can be created?

Despite the fact that I'm in favor of just ending the Bran story line by having Hodor hurl him off a cliff to go live among the wolves, it's nice to see some pieces finally converging. And I'll admit that the showdown at the Keep, with Locke, Snow, Bran, new evil guy etc. will bring some satisfying pieces into play. Plus, two wolves! I think we're all happy that the wolves have some company. If the brutality and raping at Crastor's Keep, one more reason that they should not have played the Jaime scene as they did last week, isn't enough, we have people sacrificing babies to the White Walkers.

But wait, if you were like me, the scene where the Walker started carrying the baby away really made me start to wonder. How come when the baby looked up the WW just kept carrying it. And, oh wait, where's he going. Is it some kind of city? Is it a village where the WW, who all look kind of grandfatherly in their own way are raising these kids up? Are we about to see a village full of kids kicking around a soccer ball on a thin sheet of ice with some clumsy WW goalie who is laughing because he loves the vitality of youth in comparison with his agedness? Are we going to witness the greatest turn of events in the history of television, greater than anything Lost or X-Files put forth. What if the WW were really just a boogieman story because everyone else was so bad. Maybe they are just a group of gay old men raising kids the right way in the ice, teaching them to grow food and play in hot springs.

Huh. Nah. It turns out they are just handing them over to some guy who looks like the love child of Voldomort and a goat in order to be turned into an army of death machines. I had thought better of you WW. I'm sad.

Her

Her response was sent four days later.

                I hadn’t really thought about whether I’m lonely or not. I suppose I don’t spend enough time dwelling on things to ever have it come up. I think this is kind of callous sounding or something, but maybe the anecdote is just to stay busy. Don’t sit around thinking about those people or whether or not you’re lonely and you probably won’t be lonely. I know that makes me sound simple, but I believe in the power of positive thinking.

David and I are having the best time that we’ve had in months. Being around him, even for a few days, reminds me that he’s the sort of person that I could spend a lifetime with, which seems kind of crazy to say at my age. Like, the other day, he just called me in the middle of the day, when he had this tiny little break at work, just to say that he was thinking of me. It’s nice to feel special, to feel loved. Have you ever felt that? If not, you’ll love it when it happens.

I think I understand what you are saying about living in the west. The feeling of the place is cavernous. It makes you want to write big poems about the grandeur of the soul. Out east, everything seems a bit more insular. I’m not sure which is better.

                After she awoke she sat for a while in bed. The sun made bits of shadow dance on the wall. She was sleeping in a yellow room, with two small square windows. It had been her boyfriend’s sister’s room until she left for college, and now she was inhabiting it, a stranger’s bed, a stranger’s room. Her toes were cold. The sheets were almost impossibly stiff and- tucked tightly beneath the mattress, so that she could not wrap the covers around her as she liked. Little drafts of cold occasionally slipped beneath the sheets with her and she shivered.

                The visit was going well. Her glasses were on the bureau next to her bed. She only put them on when she was by herself because she was certain they made her look librarian like and unpretty. The family breakfasts in this house were large and well attended events. In some ways, they unnerved her. Breakfasts at her family home were rare and haphazard. Often, she and her sister would eat in the living room, reading a book, or watching a show, while their parents finished up. The meal was never particularly formal.

                She found that she liked to ease into her mornings, slowly and surely. She enjoyed an hour or two of quiet in the morning. Something about the first voice of another person, if it came to early in the morning, was like a piece of glass being shattered on the floor. She knew it was silly and that everyone in the family meant well when they said, “Good morning, and how are you?” which she cheerfully answered, the color coming into her cheeks as she smiled brightly back at them, all the while wishing that she was back in bed or wandering some old country road, listening to the birds or the sound of a distant mower.

                If she lay in bed for a few moments longer perhaps she’d be ready for that sharp hello. Or better yet, better yet, maybe she could sneak outside before anyone else was up, walk down the driveway past the magnolias and find a quiet place to sit. Life is an interpretative act, a jigsaw puzzle spread out on the floor of the mind. What did his father mean when he said that he liked her choice of major? Why didn’t his mother offer her a glass of wine?

                She slipped out of bed, into her clothes and contacts and walked downstairs. Something was going to have to happen with her breath before she spoke to someone from within five feet. The house was old and the stairs creaked, reverberating in her mind as if they were fireworks booming. She wanted to be a ghost. She wanted to slip through walls and observe a conversation about herself without her being present. She had to walk through the kitchen to get to the front door and to her shoes. It felt like a really slow adventure novel.

                His mother was washing dishes at the sink. The kitchen was south facing, and a large bay window brought in the first bits of morning light. In the yard, evergreens shifted in the breeze. A row of yellow daffodils ran in a row along the house, interspersed with Hollie and azaleas.

                “Oh darling,” Janet said, turning from the kitchen sink, arms half-covered in flour, “how are you this morning?”

                She didn’t remember the crash or the rescue in detail. Bits and pieces of it came back to her in flashes. She couldn’t remember if she knew that guy sitting next to her was attractive before or after the crash. He said he remembered seeing people, strands of hair floating aimlessly before they were carried to safety. Now sometimes when she remembered the crash she was those same people, but she knew that they weren’t a part of her memories, but of his.

                “I’m lovely,” she said, “just lovely.”

                “I’m sorry if I woke you up,” Janet said, turning back towards the sink and spreading dough across a baking sheet, covered in flour. “I wanted to make something nice for everyone. Not that they’ll appreciate it,” she said, smiling.

                She didn’t know how to escape, or whether she even needed to escape. How could it be so terrible to have a conversation with someone’s pleasant mother? Her hands white knuckled the chair as away from Janet’s gaze, she had to either make a move towards the door or sit and be a part of the morning, sacrificing that bit of solitude that she knew she wanted.

                “Can I get you anything?” Janet asked, and Lauren sat, pulling her chair around to face the kitchen, so they could talk together with ease.

The first few days at his house passed in just such a way. Early morning breakfast with the family, in the afternoon, someone would suggest an outing and they'd make their way to a lake, or a shop, or a market, or for a short hike to find some flowers or a few boulders with some water running over it that his littlest sister was convinced was a waterfall. She felt the most natural with the girl, Elsa, seven years old. Children were disarming like that, capable of only being themselves, which was enchanting. Maybe the enchantment that adults feel with children is only the loss of this ability. Though she was nineteen and possessed of good looks and some intelligence she already missed being a child. 

On the morning of the third day, after an expansive breakfast of eggs and toast covered in hollandaise sauce along with roasted potatoes, she set out with Elsa to hunt for flowers. It was difficult to be parted from David for even a short period of time. She felt that what was happening between them was magical. It was as if a part of herself was connected to him, like a spool and thread, and as she wandered away from him into the thick grass, she felt herself unwinding. 

And yet at the same time it was a relief to be parted from him. She had lived for eighteen and a half years without feeling connected to anyone in quite such an oppressive way. How nice it was to walk among the grass with this little girl. They were hunting for butterflies. 

"You have to be very, very quiet," Elsa reminded her. Elsa had pig tails held in place by two large white ribbons, but her expression was of a general giving commands at war. 

"I understand," Lauren said, smiling once Elsa had turned her back. 

They walked through long grass, left a bit wild, running up to her knees and Elsa's waist. The ground was a bit wet, and she knew they'd have to take off their shoes before returning to the house. Her feet made a slight sucking sound as they gathered and released the mud. Elsa didn't necessarily remind Lauren of herself at that age. Lauren had no been so confident. She'd been bookish and mostly avoided visitors by reading whenever they were around. She had been shy by nature. However, Elsa reminded her of childhood none the less. 

"Shhh..." Elsa said, holding up her hand. "I found one." The butterfly was perched on a bit of saw grass, bright orange wings expanding and contracting. It was really just a very well-dressed insect. But beautiful. Elsa crept up as quietly as possible behind the butterfly and threw her net out over it. "I've got it," she cried, holding her net aloft, and for a moment she did, but the butterfly, sensing its danger, fluttered wildly about and wound up making its way out of the top of the net and hovering in the distance for a moment before disappearing into the grasses and small trees. 

"Why did it go?" Elsa asked, fighting back tears from her fierce little face. 

"I guess it prefers flying to being in a net," Lauren said, bending to cup Elsa's chin in her hands. The little girl pulled away quickly and scampered ahead. In truth, Lauren was happy to see the butterfly escape. Who wouldn't be? 

After she read the e-mail she crept upstairs, hearing each slight creak of wood as if it were thunder. She was in the precarious position of desiring David and yet still feeling some fraction of herself drawn to H. Could a person exist in fractions? She did not know. This was the first time that she felt that she’d truly been in love.

She brushed her teeth vigorously, in round small circles. Most days she thought she had a pretty face. Though sometimes it would surprise her, the small nose and pale skin of her reflection rising up to meet her, was she really so white? At night, David would cup her chin in his hands and tell her that she was beautiful, running his fingers along her cheeks and across her lips. And in those moments she could almost believe that she was pretty, though some small part of her always stood back, reserving judgment for some later day.

The top floor of the house was warm in the evenings. David kept the window of his room open, and the smell of honeysuckle would drift in and out with the wind. They had established a kind of routine after five days. She’d knock on the door of his room after the lights were out, so the two of them could process the day. Really, the first night she’d only meant to process the day. Certainly, her mind was capable of wandering elsewhere, but she’d intended to speak only of what his mother thought of her, and how his father laughed so easily. Really, her mind was always in two places. His room was no exception.

She said, “I think I’m falling in love with you,” lying sideways across the bed, her head resting in his lap.

His eyes were alight when he responded in kind. And, in the occasionally beautiful wisdom of the young, they had the good sense to stay silent afterward, to let the gravity of the moment wash over them. Later, they talked of his parents.

“I’ve always loved my father,” he said, absently stroking her hair. “My first memory is of my father. I can feel the sun on my back, and I’m walking across the grass towards my father, and he’s leaning down to pick me up, his hands impossibly large and warm. I don’t know. I might have made it up.”

“That’s strange to me, though I’m glad you have it. I like everyone in your family. It’s like watching the pieces of a puzzle that fit together perfectly.”

“We’re not always perfect.”

“Of course not. It’s just that my dad was really different than yours. If I had a real first memory of him it would be of him reading the newspaper, very quietly.”

They talked in this way for a while, of family and the way things were before they knew each other and world was set aright. The feel of his fingers on her clavicle was electric. It was as if the wings of a butterfly were flapping against her skin. And beneath that giddy feeling of his touch was another feeling, more violent that she felt herself struggling to control. Perhaps he only wanted to kiss her. Perhaps she only wanted to be kissed.

He placed his index finger on her calf and ran it slowly up the back of her leg, sending slight shivers through her body. The blinds were shuttered, pale fragments of moonlight lay on the floor. The moment before anything happened between them was full of bifurcation. She both wanted and did not want him at the same time. She simultaneously burned for him and yet, a part of her held back still, thinking of his parents in the next room; strangely, she thought also of the crash, of the tendency of things to fall apart. Could she trust that the hand on her leg would always be there?

The moon was spinning behind a wreath of clouds. In the distance, an owl was hooting. Throughout the evening she maintained, deep in some core part of herself, a distrust for everything that was happening. She felt that if she gave herself over entirely to the moment that there would be no chance to step back. Would she enjoy it more if she just let go? She didn’t know. She never planned too. Even as she burned, she thought of the colder days to come.

The family was up early the next morning for breakfast. David’s father had plans for them to pick blueberries.

His mother was in the kitchen, expertly pouring bits of dough into two cast iron pans. “Have you really never been berry picking?” she asked.

“No,” Lauren said, slightly ashamed now that she had never gone to pick berries. Picking berries hadn’t ever occurred to her, or anyone in her family, she suspected, as something that you could do. 

13 movie romances we can learn from

 Luke Skywalker and Princess Leah

This was one of the greatest untold romances of the 20th century. What would have happened between the two of them if things had been allowed to progress? Sparks, fire? All of the above? We can learn from this romance that it’s important that you vet your choice of a soul mate to make sure that they aren’t your long lost sister. Because if they turn out to be your long lost sister, things probably aren’t going to work out.

Awkward time later. 

Noah and Allie from The Notebook

It’s hard to remember much of The Notebook as I was trying to watch it while trying to keep from drowning in the flood of tears that was pouring forth from every audience member with a heart, a soul, and properly functioning tear ducts. After I fashioned a boat from four chair legs and a couple of cushions I was able to appreciate this tale of love finding its way through even the toughest of circumstances and lasting until the end. The lesson was that when shi- gets hard, it’s probably best to just keep working even if it’s going to turn everyone around you into a blubbering mess.

Get an umbrella. And yes, the Spanish version was way better. Have you seen a telenovela? 

Bella and Edward from Twilight

Though I haven’t seen any of the Twilight movies, or read any of the books, it’s safe to say that these two are probably the greatest love story told since Romeo and Juliet, except this ends in life everlasting instead of death, a minor detail. The primary thing that I learned from this coupling is that it pays to be young, attractive. We should all strive to be young and attractive, even if we’re like 65. The other lesson is that raised stakes make for an exciting love life. Would it have been as exciting if giving in to Edward meant that she would get a mild case of herpes? Probably not, and I bet America isn’t watching that trilogy with baited breath.

So she's like an undead vampire for life now? I guess you save on health insurance. 

Dean and Cindy from Blue Valentine

Hey, who wants to be punched in the gut by life? You? Awesome. I thought you might. Let’s get together and watch Blue Valentine. You know what can occasionally be really hard? Relationships. You know what can make them even tougher? When Ryan Gosling pretends to be a balding older dude instead of the hot piece of a—that he respectfully is. This movies is so real that it hurts, and I’m  a fan of how some of the random events, the little missteps that occur can take something beautiful and turn it into ash. I guess the main thing that you learn from this movie is that it’s a great movie to recommend if you want to depress people.

Everything about this depresses me. 

George and Mary from It’s a Wonderful Life

Remember what Mary turns out like without George? She’s this terrified librarian instead of the gal who wants to dance the night away doing that swervey leg thing before falling into a pool. Later, she’s mildly upset at George for not giving her back her towel. Without George, Mary isn’t nearly as fun. I suppose there is also probably a lesson about standing by the person you love in their time of need because life, though it may sometimes seems so, is not one long and straight path. You may wake up one day and have one functioning leg, a cat who is dying of liver cancer, or a DVR that is entirely full of shows that you haven’t watched. Life is unpredictable, and once of the joys of commitment is just that, the thing itself, someone to be there.

That's right, Mary. Life is going to be zany with this guy. 

Tyler Durden and well, Tyler Durden in Fight Club

This is a beautiful relationship from the get go. Edward Norton is a guy who needs someone to cheer him up, and Brad Pitt is a man with incredible abs. That is the sort of relationship that I want to watch unfold. This is the sort of relationship where you learn that sometimes you have to punch yourself in the face to figure out what you need from your life because as introspective and full of self-knowledge and tests that tell us who we are, and who we are destined to be, life is still a bit like light coming through the shade of a windows, scattered ribbons on the floor, who’s shape you can only predict in hindsight.

The second rule should be something else because I think you already said that...Oh, I get it. 

Belle and the Best from Beauty and the Beast

This relationship is the quintessential example of how a personality is far more important than whether the person you’re dating is of the same species. Everyone has wanted to marry their dog and then thought, well, they are loyal and loving and have nice eyes, but also, they’re a dog. Beauty and the Beast teaches us the Leviticus was wrong about all those injunctions.

You are warming my heart with your cross-species love. No limits. 

Allen and Madison from Splash

The lesson that this movie teaches us, and keeps on teaching us, is that if your damsel lives in an underwater kingdom you can instantly grow gills. That’s the kind of information you can bank on for years. Also, Tom Hanks is at his best when Madison is in her worst straights. I’d say he loved her in spite of her deformity, but the real lesson is that he loved her because of it. Blond hair isn’t natural.

That's right buddy, swim into your underwater kingdom. Wait, Shark! Shark! Nah, I kid. 

Margaret Hale and John Thornton

I’m going to talk about this movie right after my heart stops palpitating from thinking about the raw masculinity of John Thornton coupled with the fire of Margaret Hale. What are you doing right now? Probably nothing. Trust me when I say it’s time to fire up your Netflix queue and watch yourself a romantic British miniseries. These two characters are about as gothically romantic as you’re going to get, with swooning, and saving, and arguments, and misunderstandings, it’s pretty much the equivalent or better of a Jane Austen miniseries. Be still my heart. But seriously, go watch it.

Sigh. 

Jacob and Hannah in Crazy, Stupid, Love

I realize now that this is the third Ryan Gosling movie that I’ve included on this list. I guess the real thing to learn from this list is that Ryan Gosling is very hot. Now, that’s a shallow thing to look at in a relationship, and not really of lasting value, but sometimes we suspend the rules because people are beautiful. Isn’t he beautiful?

Sigh. 

Baby and Johnny from Dirty Dancing

Nobody puts Baby in a corner. If you do, we’ll dance our way out of it. Baby and Johnny teach us that the only way to persevere in life and relationships is through the art of choreographed dance. Is there really any better lesson that we could be given than that? Is there? I think not. Dance children, dance!

No words. Except those. 

Nina and Lily from Black Swan

Nina and Lily each us that the only way to persevere in ballet and relationships is through the art of choreographed dance. Sometimes we have to learn a lesson more than once for it to really stick. These two have a classic relationship of understudy and lead that drives them both to be successful, and honestly, I got chills when her black wings unfurled at the end of that movie. It was beautiful.

Oh, dancing. 

And last but not least Wal-E and Eve

I’m joking. Wal-E could do way better than liking a robot who’s soul mission is to destroy. Sure, eventually the robot comes around to being kind of decent, but that’s the kind of volatile relationship that you want to stay away from or you’ll wind up laser beamed one morning.

Run, Wal-E E##ing run! 

Jessie and Celine From all the movies

They are about the best long term thing going in terms of relationships in movies. Are you done with North and South yet? Go watch Before Sunrise. Look past the tapered jeans into the soul of those two lovebirds experiencing a first spark and then watch the next two movies because life is complicated. 

Awesome. 

I love you Celine. 

Just watch this part and decide. 

MSN Mondays: 12 Ways to have a good morning

1. Start your morning at noon. The only thing more pleasant than having a good morning is not having any morning at all. Pay no mind to the fools who will tell you that you've wasted away the day. False. You've woken up just in time for brunch.

2. Go for an early morning jog at 5 AM. People who wake up really early always feel like better people than those that sleep in. Even if you have to drag yourself out of bed with your body protesting that it hates you every moment of the morning, imagine how good you'll feel when you're the only person out on the open road, jogging, or having a heart attack or whatever. There is nothing more satisfying than the feeling that you are better than other people. Get up early and celebrate it.

3. Break the noon rule. I don't know who came up with the injunction about not drinking before noon, but they were probably a communist who didn't love America. Nothing says you're going to have a good day like a beer or a bit of whiskey at 9 AM. It may also mean that you take a long nap in the afternoon, but that's fine too, naps are of the gods.

4. Use your vast income to employ a large staff of people who greet you with good mornings, popping out from behind large sofas and tapestries of unicorns, people who are paid to be so cheerful that you'd feel like a swine for treating them poorly. Mind you, you'll really want to treat them poorly. Who has time to be pleasant in the morning? And yet, as your cook hums in the garden and tells you what a bright beautiful day it's going to be despite the rain because at least it gives you a chance to stay inside and get to know one another better, you'll....never mind. These mornings would be awful.

5. Use your somewhat vast sums of money to purchase a trained bear and a pair of monkeys. When you wake up in the morning have the monkeys perform the play "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead," when you tire of their chicanery, watch the bear ride around on a tricycle until he falls, shattering a mirror and leaving you in stitches on the floor. He may try to eat you. If he doesn't, think of what a success the morning will have been? It's not every morning that you don't get eaten by a bear. (I guess it is).

6. Go down to the convalescent home and take home a senior citizen. You can make him/her tea and spend the morning trading stories of your misspent youth. For variety, argue with her about the small details of the story that she's telling you, say, "It didn't happen quite like that. Or, that's not how I remember it that particular summer wasn't hot it was merely warm." The two of you will begin to slip into the quiet camaraderie of any morning, sipping tea, rocking in your chairs, listening to the buzz of insect and the cars humming by.

7. Take a break from your usual fair, Cheerios and a bit of banana, sliced neatly and placed on top. This morning, open at that smoothie maker you've been dying to use. Remove the frozen Kale that you've been told to eat, mix it together with some blueberries and strawberries. Just sit and breathe as you anticipate the array of flavors that are about to reach the tip of your tongue. The Kale is too strong. The smoothie tastes like something that you'd have refused to eat as a child. Something that your father would have forced you to eat or remain at the table for hours. But this morning is different, sure the clouds are low and threatening, but you can throw this smoothie away and start all over. You are no longer a child who must wait for hours to be excused.

8. Put on a song, preferably something from Broadway or by Disney. Sing along with the song using the entire spectrum of your voice. Imagine that if someone walked in your house that morning, they'd mistake your singing for the voices of angels. When the song ends and you wander back into the shower to wash your face and hands with water nominally colder than you'd like because the pipes cannot bear the cold, remember the music that lies deep inside you, like water in some ancient well.

9. Sleep with someone beautiful and wake up before they do. In the movies, people sleep too soundly. You will not be able to slip on your jeans and shirt while they lay asleep, hair splayed across the pillow in attenuated morning light. Move as if you are trapped in quicksand, slowly deliberately. Watch the play of muscle and bone along their calf, the small ridges of their collarbones, take in, but do not touch, the side of their cheek slightly creased and soft. This is a morning unlike any other morning that you'll ever have, which makes it nothing unique.

10. Using your vast sums of wealth, gained through legitimate means, buy an orchestra to gently play you into the morning. You'll want to start with the woodwinds. flutes and oboes, played as if you are walking on the muddy path of a swelling stream, until you are picturing fairies dancing about your room with tutus made of dandelions. Then the strings will start, two violins and perhaps a cello. The strings will remind you of your childhood, waking up early on Christmas morning and sitting in front of the tree waiting for the joy to come. The percussion, a bass and snare will be played next, the tromping of feet, a reminder that only industry can gird us against the passage of time and finally the brass, french horns and trumpets heralding the coming of the morning. Today is the first day of the rest of your life.

11. Play that wonderful game that we all did as children, where the ground is comprised of lava. Try and get from the safety of your bed to the comforts of your shower without breaking your neck or having your toes seared off. No doubt the bottoms of your feet will be singed by the time you are eating a bowl of oatmeal with raisins and plotting your next move. To get from the chair to the carpet you'll have to jump across at least five feet of solid lava. Push the chairs together and get a running start, as you fall, heading face first towards the steam and imminent death, remember that all of life is a dream from which we are constantly awakening

12. Reader, imagine that I am there with you just as you awake. The night is no longer with us, and we've already forgiven ourselves for what we'll make of the day. I've made buttered toast with jam and cups of espresso. I've opened the window to let in the crisp morning air, lifting the hairs on your arms. We are probably near the sea, you and I. Let's spend the morning talking of the pets we had when we were growing up. You'll talk of dogs and me of cats until we find some common ground. We'll talk of the schools that we were in, the teacher we loved and hated. We'll talk of the people that we first loved, the color in their hair and the tinge of their skin. We'll talk about the mistakes that we've made, or intend to make, forgiving ourselves again for being less than we'd intended to. And dear reader, we will fill the morning with laughter until we are spent, eyes watering, stomachs tight, waiting for the afternoon to embrace us. 

Game of Thrones

Game of Thrones: The breaker of chains and saver of budgets

                Unlike a typical Game of Thrones episode the action in this episode picks up right where the last one left off (as if we needed any more proof that it’s really a ten hour movie as opposed to individual episodes) with Cersei shrieking at Tyrion and Sansa for killing her beloved Joffry. Admittedly, we were all upset with the death of one of televisions greatest villains, but not nearly as agitated as Miss Lannister.

And thus ends, in rather rapid fashion, the mystery of who poisoned the king. Note: what’s the point in being king if you can’t even have a wedding without getting murdered?  Twyin goes on to Tommin for a bit about the litany of dead kings before pitching himself as the man to trust. If I was Tommin I’d be asking if I could just get a job on the small council like Varus or maybe as a seamstress or something. What’s the life expectancy for a seamstress on GOT? Notes the Hound saying the people will be dead by winter. Okay, maybe a maester is the way to go. The king was poisoned by Littlefinger, which should have been at least on the radar. You don’t just get a whole voice over scene talking about chaos allowing you to climb the ladder only to disappear to Dorne for eternity, especially not with that pencil mustache. We’re all feeling good for Sansa now safe from the arms of Joffry and into the hands of Littlefinger. I’m guessing she ends up with the bastard son of Roose Bolton, but I guess we’ll see. Fingers crossed.

In terms of plot lines, is it even vaguely reasonable to question the development of Tyrion as the murderer? I mean, is someone besides Tyrion going to point out how unlikely it is that he’d poison the king so brazenly? It was heartwarming to have Pod try and stand by his man one more time without any mention of his sexual prowess. 

However, the sexual prowess rod of power is now firmly in the eh, hands of Oberon. If there is one thing that I’ve learned about Oberon during his brief stay in King’s Landing it’s that he’s a sexual libertine. In case you’d forgotten after the first episode, GOT chose to have him engaging in sexual congress with no less than five other people, or as I like to call it, never. Despite the fact that GOT has taken some flack for its not exactly even handed presentation of the female body and sexuality it doesn't seem like its changing soon. This episode was more egalitarian in terms of providing some male nudity as well. Note: though appointing Oberon a judge and trying to win over the Dornish people seems like a good move wouldn’t Tywin be a little more concerned about putting someone who wishes him dead on a court that he hopes to rule over? I mean, Tyrion has a way out now. Do they have hung juries in Westeros. This was not a pun.

Speaking of which, the story of the Mother of Dragons takes yet another similar turn as she arrives at the gates of a city that looks like a small scale replica of Egypt. As any student of history knows, cultures that develop around scant resources, particularly water, generally rely on slave labor and have authoritarian rule. Dany is no student of history though, so she continues to blame them for their ways. Note: Why are all the slaves allowed to sit around listen to her talk anyway? Aren’t these people supposed to be working? It seems like these masters were already being a bit slack. But the real moment of freedom is when she catapults chains over the walls to encourage the slaves to become free. It’s inspiring, and a new take on her similar story.

However, whence the dragons? If I had three dragons in my army they’d be circling me at all times, raining down bits of fire or pouring tea or whatever, just because, dragons. In Dany’s case, the budget holds her back, and I understand that limitation, but couldn’t she at least have afforded one dragon to burn the champion of the city to ash?

And now we need to talk about the champion of the city. A man who parades around on his horse for roughly ten minutes while everyone cheers, these shots all take place from far away, and we never really get a shot of our erstwhile champion, except the underside of his penis as he pees on the ground. Note: Does this guy get an actual credit in the episode, or do you think he had a penis double? As breakthroughs go this was probably not his moment in the sun as he remained entirely obscured and was cut down in a cloud of dust by Dario Naharis, warrior poet in rather quick fashion. Would the old Dario Naharis have resorted to a knife? Probably not. He would have pulled the man off his horse and bear hugged him to death and then taken off his shirt. New Dario is probably writing a poem about it. Alas. 

And, further in the alas category comes the tale of some of our characters who had developed in complexity and began to become fuller human beings took a step in the wrong direction. Full confession, having Jamie rape his sister at the foot of his dead son's grave was a bit of a step down from the honor bound man we saw lying to save Breanne. Perhaps we could have pruned that scene away from the narrative, or perhaps we're just okay with necrophiliac incest type stuff. 

The Hound and Arya continued their delightful journey, however, it once again ended with them leaving with all the chickens. Though in this case the chickens were pieces of silver taken from a farmer and perhaps the advice the Hound gave wasn't the worst thing in the world, reminding Arya that complexity is a part of life and that she should avoid having her head cut off if possible. His raw pragmatism in robbing a farmer and his young daughter isn't exactly laudable, but it's not as reprehensible either, (except that Arya was beginning to like him :(). 

Speaking of scenes of familial bliss, was there anyone who didn't expect the happy father and son scene to end with an axe to the head? Like Tolstoy said, there are no happy families that do not end up with an axe in their head, and there are no unhappy familes who are not eaten by cannibals. Tolstoy is great. Also, is the Magnar a terrifying bringer of death, or is he just a conservationist in disguise? Meanwhile, Jon Snow and his beautiful hair are headed North of the wall to deal with the men at Crastor's in order to keep them from revealing the true piddling nature of the forces at Castle Black, which, wouldn't he find that out anyway when he attacked? Is he accomplishing anything? Sometimes it's hard to tell because I just focus on that beautiful hair. 

Easter

From E.B. White’s introduction of his late wife’s essays entitled
Onward and Upward in the Garden.

The only moment in the year when she actually got herself up for gardening was on the day in fall that she had selected, in advance, for the laying out of the spring bulb garden. The morning often turned out to be raw and overcast, with a searching wind off the water — an easterly that finds its way quickly to your bones.

Armed with a diagram and a clipboard, Katharine would get into a shabby old Brooks raincoat much too long for her, put on a little round wool hat, pull on a pair of overshoes, and proceed to the director’s chair — a folding canvas thing — that had been placed for her at the edge of the plot. There she would sit, hour after hour, in the wind and the weather, while Henry Allen produced dozens of brown paper packages of new bulbs and a basketful of old ones, ready for the intricate interment. As the years went by and age overtook her, there was something comical yet touching in her bedraggled appearance on this awesome occasion — the small, hunched-over figure, her studied absorption in the implausible notion that there would be yet another spring, oblivious to the ending of her own days, which she knew perfectly well was near at hand, sitting there with her detailed chart under those dark skies in the dying October, calmly plotting the resurrection.

Sophocles 

 “There are many strange and wonderful things in this world, but none stranger than man.”

Jesus

And one of them, a doctor of the Law, putting him to the test, asked him, "Master, which is the great commandment in the Law?"

Jesus said to him, "'Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with thy whole heart, and with thy whole soul, and with thy whole mind.'

This is the greatest and the first commandment. And the second is like it,

'Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.' On these two commandments depend the whole Law and the Prophets." (Matthew 22:35-40) Let us remember the second great commandment that arises from the first. I do not think it was intended to be taken as lightly as we have taken it. 

Mine

Let's also be reminded that the celebration of the Resurrection is a celebration of the wedding between the divine and the human. That, if the scriptures are to be believed, the Lord saw each and every human being as worth saving, as special, as exceptional, as we'd all like to see ourselves in our heart of hearts. It's a good day for reflecting on the mystery and the wonder of divinity and humanity.

A reflection from an old essay

In Vernazza, the small fishing boats bobbed gently in the bay, and the lights of the city lay across the harbor like a lover’s silky slip, and the combination of dark water, small foreign towns, and being stranded from even language made us feel gloriously alone. When we left, the tracks wandered through hills striped by vineyards and into mountain tunnels that opened to views of the Ligurian Sea, and the whole ride my wife took pictures while I read a book about the founding of Rome, and no one bothered to check our tickets or ask us any questions to make sure we belonged, and we still arrived safely, in the arms of some far away heavenly city. Reader, listen closely to the churning of the wheels, to the train’s thumping engine beneath your feet, watch the waves settle into the shore, they are all one, listen to all these sounds as we travel together to the same city. Reader, You are loved. 

Venice: Him

He learned of her death from a friend. A friend who was writing condolences on a no longer extant Facebook wall. A week later he was in Venice, talking to people that she'd known in the last month of her life. They were a mixture of vagrants, travelers, and failing intellectuals, ex-pats for the most part, male and disaffected. She was in Venice to work on something for her disseration. He had never really understood exactly what she was working on, something to do with reconciliation in fourteenth century Italy as it related to the subjugation and subsoquent influence of the people of Gaul. But he could have been entirely wrong. It was entirely possible that she just liked sleeping with older men.

The romance of Venice was palpable from the time he left the train. It was an entire city dedicated to the metaphor of decay, to the passage of time, and the futility of our Sisyphean efforts to deny its passage. Every crumbling facade or basements subsumed in green water, was a reminder of ephmerality, though not a nudge towards living. The key was slowing down--skipping the furiousness of Saint Mark's Square, the pigeon's, billboards, guide books and aimless energy of people here to see the city because it was a spectacle that would one day be gone. These people were missing the essential charm of Venice. It was a great place to resign yourself to death, not to escape it, capture it, record it as it was happening, no. It was the place where a person could end up at any point past twenty five, long enough to have been washed up in the disappointment of knowing that one's dreams will never come to full fruition that they will always be out on some endless horizon.

H was sitting outside, drinking cheap coffee, making these rather shallow observations about Venice when he noticed someone staring at him. The man looked to be in his mid-sixties, he had white hair and a white mustache, and H was certain that he was staring at him.

Her

After she read the e-mail she crept upstairs, hearing each slight creak of wood as if it were thunder. She was in the precarious position of desiring David and yet still feeling some fraction of herself drawn to H. Could a person exist in fractions? She did not know. This was the first time that she felt that she’d truly been in love.

She brushed her teeth vigorously, in round small circles. Most days she thought she had a pretty face. 

Though sometimes it would surprise her, the small nose and pale skin of her reflection rising up to meet her, was she really so white? At night, David would cup her chin in his hands and tell her that she was beautiful, running his fingers along her cheeks and across her lips. And in those moments she could almost believe that she was pretty, though some small part of her always stood back, reserving judgment for some later day.

The top floor of the house was warm in the evenings. David kept the window of his room open, and the smell of honeysuckle would drift in and out with the wind. They had established a kind of routine after five days. She’d knock on the door of his room after the lights were out, so the two of them could process the day. Really, the first night she’d only meant to process the day. Certainly, her mind was capable of wandering elsewhere, but she’d intended to speak only of what his mother thought of her, and how his father laughed so easily. Really, her mind was always in two places. His room was no exception.

She said, “I think I’m falling in love with you,” lying sideways across the bed, her head resting in his lap.

His eyes were alight when he responded in kind. And, in the occasionally beautiful wisdom of the young, they had the good sense to stay silent afterward, to let the gravity of the moment wash over them. Later, they talked of his parents.

“I’ve always loved my father,” he said, absently stroking her hair. “My first memory is of my father. I can feel the sun on my back, and I’m walking across the grass towards my father, and he’s leaning down to pick me up, his hands impossibly large and warm. I don’t know. I might have made it up.”

“That’s strange to me, though I’m glad you have it. I like everyone in your family. It’s like watching the pieces of a puzzle that fit together perfectly.”

“We’re not always perfect.” 

“Of course not. It’s just that my dad was really different than yours. If I had a real first memory of him it would be of him reading the newspaper, very quietly.”

They talked in this way for a while, of family and the way things were before they knew each other and world was set aright. The feel of his fingers on her clavicle was electric. It was as if the wings of a butterfly were flapping against her skin. And beneath that giddy feeling of his touch was another feeling, more violent that she felt herself struggling to control. Perhaps he only wanted to kiss her. Perhaps she only wanted to be kissed. 

MSN Mondays: Top 20 Wedding Guest Complaints and how to avoid them

I've been in eleven weddings. This means that I'm rarely the one complaining about how the wedding is going. I'm at the head table, or near it, eating first, two to three glasses of wine into the evening by the time you're discovering that the seating chart has placed you next to the groom's third cousin, who is a cat. That said, I've been at enough weddings to know every complaint that could ever be uttered. In no particular order.

1) There isn't an open bar. In fact, no one ever has an open bar at their wedding because open bars cost roughly 100,000 dollars for one evening in which you discover that everyone you invited to your wedding is a drunkard and the only upshot of the open bar is that you wind up with a few guests getting belligerent or weird, which isn't really what you want on your special day. This complaint can be disregarded. Just buy enough cheap bottles of wine to keep the guests mumbling to a minimum.

2) The seating chart is off. Here is the only thing you need to know about making a seating chart, put people who know and at least to the best of your knowledge like each other near each other. Do not create a table of people who you think might really hit it off. No one wants to hit it off at a wedding. They want to be sitting next to their friends remembering all the good times they used to have, not wondering why they are making small talk about a trip they once took to Ohio.

3) The wedding venue is too hot, cold, sandy. Get married inside where God can see you, you heathen. It's never too hot or too cold in a church, except when it occasionally is. But normally heat and AC make it a palatable place for your nuptials to take place. If you want to get married outside move to Oregon with the rest of the hippies and stop inviting us to your wedding. No beach weddings. I effing hate sand and so does everyone else. I'll be finding it in my car's floor mat for weeks. (I've been to a lot of outdoor weddings, and I've loved all of them. Each of your weddings was the exception to the above listed rule. Apply this rule to every complain that I have about a wedding and remember that it didn't apply to yours, which I loved).

4) Destination weddings. No one cares about this day as much as you. Don't make your friends fly to Prague to see you get hitched only for them to end up face down in a gutter by the end of the week because they wanted to make the most out of the trip. Get married in the most convenient location for the most people or wherever the girl is from of wherever you're closest to as a couple now. If you invite me to Venice, I'll go, but I won't be happy. But seriously, go ahead and invite me.

5) They just don't see it. That's fine. They can take their bad attitudes about the woman that you're committing yourself to and move it along as opposed to drinking up all your Charles Shaw and spending the night complaining about you or the love of your life, or year, or decade or whatever.

6) They don't understand why you wrote your own vows when God already got it right when he wrote The Book of Common Prayer. Listen, mostly I'm with them. You better knock these vows out of the park because you've chosen to be on the big stage, so don't mess it up. If it isn't pithy and doesn't make me tear up or laugh then forget it.

7) Some of the toasts were a bit too risque. This is not a problem. The only way a toast can be ruined is by excessive sentimentality. A toast is a time to make everyone laugh a bit, prod some gentle fun at the bride and groom before winding up with something slightly sentimental that leaves everyone thinking that you really get it. Toasts are easy.

8) The music is terrible. Please, don't play terrible music. If you get a DJ, go ahead and let that DJ do his thing and mix in some up beat tunes. Wedding music is usually pretty great because everyone knows the songs and it's one of those rare times when different generations are actually dancing together and you get to see how awesome your uncle's quick step is. Don't mess that up by playing too many instrumentals or slow song after slow song.

9) The ice sculpture that you painstakingly carved for nights on end of your beloved looks more like a mixture of Mr. Tumnus and a sea gull than a real person. Have these people ever tried to work with pure ice? I'd guess not. Even ending up with something that doesn't look like an oversized ice cub is an accomplishment. I'd like to see them try and make an ice sculpture.

10) Their ex is at the wedding. Why did you invite them? Well, you invited them because you liked them both a great deal and don't think that because they broke up that you can't invite them both. Hell, you barely see them and all they're asking is that the two of you get together for one evening and behave civilly, or get back together and regret it in the morning or whatever floats your boat. Have you had a glass of wine yet?

11) The orca whales didn't stay for the entire reception. What? Is this ancient Rome? Are you not entertained? Wasn't it enough that they came at all? If you had to do it over again would you have one of them fight a Siberian tiger on a man made lagoon during the reception? Sure. But hindsight is twenty twenty. Stop whining.

12) There isn't dancing. Why even get married? What's the point? It's a big dance party with free booze and everyone is the star. Don't you take that moment away from them. Don't you dare.

13)  It takes like two hours to get to the food at the reception. You've paid your caterer enough to figure out when to excuse tables. Don't leave older folks who wish they already asleep waiting around to get a bite of salad at five o'clock and certainly don't leave your younger friends without some solid food to wash down all that liquor or there will be hell to pay. Also, you've paid them enough to treat those people like Gordon Ramsey on crack. Get into them or there will be hell to pay. Everyone eats, and they eat quickly.

14) You're taking your pictures after the wedding. This can be fine or awful. As long as your photographer is being paid what they deserve and understands that people are waiting. By all means, shoot away. However, if it is a 1.5 hour destination shoot, let's remember grandpa and grandma and take a few family pictures ahead of time if we don't want to see the bride.

15) The impersonator that you paid to actually get married on your behalf turns out to be a bit of a lech. This has happened to all of us. You get cold feet at the last second and wind up paying someone else to make a  commitment for the rest of your natural life that you just can't get into right now because you're in Vegas at the craps table. But then that guy turns out to be kind of lecherous. Super awkward, and totally avoidable. Do your research ahead of time.

16) The Nicoise salad has old Tuna on it. If there were a ranking, messing up on the nicoise salad would probably be complaint number one of your average wedding guest. Don't mess this up at your wedding.

17) You had spare decorations and in an effort to save money wound up using spare Bachelorette party items instead of traditional decorations. Your aunt and uncle aren't going to think it's as hilarious to be drinking out of phallic straws. Just pay the extra for the nice flowers.

18) You forgot to invite them to your wedding. Yeah, yeah, so you grew up together, but you stopped being friends like two years ago. And deep down you suspected that they never really liked your or that you never really liked them, and also, have you seen the price for an open bar? Anyway, it was a numbers thing. Call me sometime. We'll catch up on Facebook.

19) You jumped out of the wedding cake in the nude and performed a rendition of Boyz II Men's I'll Make Love to You, which apparently some people found tasteless. Well I'll tell you what's tasteless, that suit coat with four buttons, amirite? Deep down, they enjoyed the show, and it's your day dammit.

20) We’ve Queen Victoria to thank for the tradition of the bride wearing white. We’re also to thank her for the presence of bridesmaids to carry the train. And, it becomes quickly apparent why the woman had an entire era of western literature named in her honor. She’s commandeered at least two major elements of the most momentous day in people’s lives, or at least the day with the most riding on it.

Samuel Johnson said of his friend Thomas Carlyle, “It was a blessing that he and his wife Jane married one another: thereby making only two people unhappy, rather than four.”

 My wife wore a semi-cathedral length train. I can only discern that from the pictures. The memories of my wedding day are scattered, like the page of a magazine swept by the wind. And yet, it seems to me that the tradition of carrying the wedding train into the church was a false step, an apt metaphor lost.Marriage is a mixture of the sacred and the profane. The train, dragged along the floor, gathering bits of grime on its route is symbolic of what’s to come.

Here is my ideal wedding: I’d like to see an argument over whether divorced parents are sitting far enough away. I’d like to see the bride and groom argue over how much they’re paying the band followed by a conversation about contributions to a 403b. I’d like to see a first dance where the groom breakdances and the bride waltzes around him in perfect timing. In short, I’d like to see people begin that damned honorable and difficult pastime of being married for all of us to see. And let the train’s dirty hem be the first sign.

Perhaps the day is better described in this way:  It was like boarding a train in the middle of the night, finding oneself a comfortable seat straight away and leaning against the cool window, falling into a deep slumber.  And then slithering through the night, passing through cities with names you don’t know, passing by the darkened windows of cathedrals from another era and arriving at the end of the line, awakened by a shake on the shoulder, quickly wiping the drool from the window, hoping that only you were privy to the indignity of existence before stepping out into the caesious morning light, trying to make sense of this new city, with gables on all the doorways, and serpentine streets with peculiar names, and all the women walking quickly in large straw hats. Here I am, you say, and begin walking across the cobbles.