Nobody Blogs on a Saturday morning

It’s a miscalculation to work at a college as you age.

Co-worker: I thought you were twenty-five?
M: You must not have seen me in direct light.

The beginnings of the essay are rooted in aphorisms about the Spartans. Now we have bumper stickers.

In the evening, all the girls in the building are wearing skirts and the boys smell like cologne. When they get off the elevator it smells like a bar: cigarette smoke and cheap booze. I get on with four loads of laundry.

The secret to getting laundry done in a building with college students is to do it on Friday nights.

At parties people tend to laugh more. The music pounds into the walls and reverberates on the ceiling where we lie on the couch passing the time until our eyes shut. A part of me yearns to be upstairs, to be amongst the spilled drinks and haphazard conversations.

Meaning has a lot more to do with our definition than we'd like to admit. Perhaps God miscalculated when he gave us free will.

The cars that pass on the street below make noise like a whirring fan as the rain spins from their tires. The occasional honk rises above the din of voices from the street level below. The kids and those damn parties. Weren't most of us kids once?

In the building across the street all the lights are turned off. It looks abandoned at night, like some ghost ship moored inland. During the day, some workmen climb around on the exterior constantly working on the large balconies that no one ever walks on.

On Saturdays, no one reads blogs. I said something clever earlier tonight that sounded like an aphorism, but it has already slipped my mind.

Most of life is forgotten. If you're lucky, you remember the good things.

Planes coast through the dark blank sky landing at an airport thirty minutes away carrying strangers into this city where we sleep so early.

Outside a few mindless cicadas make noise, uncertain that their season has passed. How do you know when your season has passed? When the music is no longer intended for you?

I don't read on Saturdays either.

I had an incident with wine I'd like to forget. The wine helped.

After midnight the noise begins to ebb. But in the city it is never entirely silenced. A few miles away strangers wipe the drool from their cheeks and awake in a new city. This miracle of flight, imagined by Da Vinci, failed at by Icarus through pride, is just one more way of getting around.

Tomorrow we'll compare paint samples in a store, discuss the difference between hues of blue and green. We won't ask ourselves about the night before. We'll move ahead with our day, and forget about the sirens and the rain and the voices that drift down for the apartment above. Tonight, they were not meant for us. 

On music and children and crying

Crying

I cry most frequently in the car. These moments usually occur when I'm driving in the car. Cars are strange ecosystems where everything is magnified. The slightest provocation, going 23 in a 25, taking a right turn more slowly than you'd need to, can send me into paroxysms of anger. I am, in the words of an old Biblical nature, a vile sinner when I'm behind the wheel of a car. I am, truth be told, a sinner in every other context as well, but at least I'm not actively bearing enmity towards the rest of the human species.

This is a roundabout way of talking about crying, but here we are. I don't know how crying works across gender lines, but I do know that, as a man, I'm generally embarrassed to be found doing it. Though my mother almost never cries either. The thing about the world is that it can break your heart. But sometimes you can slip through days, weeks, a month, without realizing that your heart is a little bit broken that you're like that angel from the Garcia Marquez story, sitting in the middle of a pen with broken and dirty wings. And, more complex than that, you are also the cause of the brokenness, capable of creating the small fissures between people.

But then I'm driving in the car, it's Tuesday, and I'm taking the back way to work. The park is now a canopy of trees. The road, which is clearly supposed to be a stream, is all patches and pot holes. And then a song comes on, and I am accidentally crying.



 Dancing
I wish I could dance. I wish that I was born as someone with rhythm and rhyme and a culture that loved to move. As it is, I still dance because I like too. I just don't do it well enough. It reminds me of being a kid in my front yard pretending to be Michael Jordan. Have I ever been as good at something as I wish that I was? Probably not. In this way life is a series of failures, but I suppose the interesting part is figuring out what I'd like to fail at next. I don't mean that to sound as profoundly disappointing as it might to an untrained ear. I think, and perhaps it's my Judeo-Christian ethic at work, that we are all failures.

Not all music is created for dancing. But occasionally you hear a song that has the right synthesis of beat, lyrics, and musicality that lets you know it was created for movement. The very young, my children included, immediately start bobbing their head to music when a song comes on. Children innately seem to know what music is for. And just like that you're spinning around the living room floor, unmoored for a moment from the thick flesh of time.





S
 I don't know if S would ever listen to music if it weren't for me. I always accuse her of having Germanic roots that desire order and purpose. She could accuse me of having Irish roots that crave disorder and frequent losing of keys, but marriage is best when you are not keeping a record of rights and wrongs. She's from Delaware, though if you ask her she might say she was born in CA. It's the sort of place that everyone wishes they were from. Like New York, it sings its own siren song.

She does like music though, but she doesn't know how to find it. She's said, more than once, that she likes my taste in music more than hers. She's got a bit of the rural still in her soul, despite having a great job in the nation's capital. She likes folk music and blue grass. The woman grew up on Garrison Keilor and loves to hear a fiddle. I don't mind the fiddle, but I can do without it. Sometimes I'll put on a song and play it several times, partly because that's how I like to listen to music and partly to remind that part of her brain that would probably like music if she gave it a chance that she actually likes this song. And after a few days you might hear her say, "I like this song."



 Sadie

She's beginning to ask questions when we play music, like, "Is that a song I already heard?" Or she'll tell you something, the girl loves telling you things, "Daddy, you should put on a sweatshirt if you're cold because it's cold outside." She loves words. Musically, she wants to be a ballerina. She tends to just bounce around the room when she dances, waiting for ballet to lighten her limbs.

What she attaches to now are the songs. "I don't like this song," she might say as we're riding home, listening to the same thing we always do. Or she might say, "This is the new song. This is the new song, mommy." And I write myself an e-mail, reminding myself that when she was three she liked this song.



Julian

I've been trying to instill some decent dancing in Ian since he was young. He actually does a pretty credible side to side head waggle if he's sitting down, and he learned to dance before he learned to walk. Now that he's walking though he's forgotten how to dance. He twirls around in a circle, or does a series of deep knee bends like an old school weight lifter. This, most decidedly is not dancing.

He's a sweet boy though, and he aims to please. The latest word that he's learned is "No," which he says vociferously and frequently. If I say, "that's a trash can," he walks up next to it points and says, "No," in this very deep boyish voice. He's also taken to cars. Now, wherever we are, playground, library, pool, he just tries to wander off into the parking lot in order to point at cars and say, "car." Then he turns around and spots another one, "Car." Occasionally he'll mix it up by walking up next to a wheel well and saying, "esa car!" I think he's attempting to say it's a car, but we'll never really know. The point is, he's already displayed more interests in cars than I ever did. But I don't care because I'm going to teach him to do real man things like dance. I think he likes this song because it reminds him of that great Donna Lewis song from the 90's, I love you always forever.

MSN: Guys: 15 dating mistakes you're probably making

1) Dating.

No one knows how to define a date anymore. Why are you dating someone? Maybe you just want to get together for coffee and talk about politics. Maybe you'd like to rent out the Nationals stadium for a day and fill every seat with a rose. Can't a man just rent out a stadium, fill it with roses, and then recite sonnet 116 to a girl without having it called a date?

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no; it is an ever-fixed mark, 
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks 
Within his bending sickle's compass come; 
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
   If this be error and upon me proved,
   I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 

2) Overanalyzing things

Don't do that thing where you count out the number of characters that they used in a text and then go back and try to use precisely the same number of characters in your text to show that you're on equal footing because your texts just ends," Yeah, I had  a great time as we--" I mean, you didn't play your hand too strongly, but now you just look like someone who can't complete a sentence. I'm just kidding about not overanalyzing things though. Overanalyzing things is fun. Why else would people date? There is no better way to spend one's time than thinking about what someone else meant when they said, "I'll see you sometime soon." How soon, like tomorrow soon? Tonight soon? A week? A month? What did they mean by soon? 

3. Renting a yacht and sailing the girl down to one of the Caribbean islands. 

No worries. I've made that same mistake myself. However, at first they are just sitting out on the prow of the ship, watching it cut through the waves as if it were parting curtains, sipping champagne and wondering if they can get a good tan on their mid riff, and the next thing you know you're down in Antigua proposing, and they're flying home on the next flight. Such is life, man. 

4. Undearanalyzing things

Now is not the time to go hide in your bro cave and pretend like you don't care what song is playing on the radio when the two of you are driving up the coast for lunch. You care. And one of the things that's cute about you is that you care. Don't underanalyze things and treat her like she's a friend when you've secretly been in love with her since the second grade, anxiously waiting for a game of Mash to finish to see if you were lucky enough to get her. Think about it, bro. 

5. Sleeping together on the first date

Everyone knows that good things come to those who wait and that delayed gratification is much better than that which is met immediately. It's best to wait, and since gratification that is delayed is undoubtedly the best, I'd propose waiting forever. Just imagine how great it could be. If Gatsby, considered to be the greatest American novel by many, not me, taught us anything it's that the image of something is nearly always better than the thing itself. 

6. Being too romantic

No one wants you to be too romantic on a first date. Studies that I've just made up on the spot show that 90 percent of people prefer a good sense of humor in their help mate. You know what isn't funny, paying a string quartet to play "I Will Always Love You" at your candle lit dinner table. In truth, only 50 percent of people like someone with a good sense of humor. However, it's still something to consider. 



7. Not being romantic enough

Look, if a girl wanted to just go grab coffee and pay for herself she'd have hung out with her friend. This is a date, so it's probably best that you buy that coffee. In less she wants one of those fancy frozen coffees. You need to send the message that you've got means, but you won't be flying her around in a jet like a contestant on the Bachelor. 

8. Taking her to see the new X-men movie on your first date

Look, even though portions of the movie get the mythology wrong, it's still a fairly complex plot with multiple time strains interacting with one another. It's best to have a first date where you go through your comic book collection and walk her through the real story of Kitty Pryde. This is the sort of thing that girls go crazy for. She'll love nothing more than listening to you describe why Bishop and Cain fight over alternate futures. What girl wouldn't? 

9. Spending the whole date talking about your ex

Listen, guys. This is the internet era. You don't think she's already spent hours stalking your ex on facebook, seeing where you guys went on trips over the past two years, whether you're still friends or not on Facebook. Heck, she's already friended her in hopes of seeing what she's hiding on her profile. Please don't spend time talking about your ex, this girl already knows everything about her anyway. 

10. Going bowling

The thing about bowling, particularly in a metropolitan area, is that it's expensive. And she's going to expect you to at least put up a 150. But you haven't been bowling since you were ten, and you're not sure why they put the pins so far away, and did that beer just cost eight dollars. In the movies, dudes are always teaching the girl how to bowl. In real life, the guy is just trying to crack 100. 

11. Picking out the wrong clothes

I can't stress how important it is to look good. Granted, I've worn the same t-shirts for five straight years, but I also haven't been on a date in a decade or so. Do you see the scarf that Bill Murray is wearing in the shot above? That's the kind of little touch that lets a woman know that you care. Don't just show up in your ratty jeans and underground brewing t-shirt. Put on a nice cravat and show her a good time. This guy is wearing a dope cravat. You don't think he gets second dates? Please.

12. Talking too much about yourself

If this blog has consistently fed you one piece of advice over the years it's that pictures of kittens and puppies are the reason, despite all the adult sites, that the internet exists. However, another piece of advice that I've hammered home is that everyone's favorite person to talk about is themselves. Don't miss this opportunity to let your date shine by gumming it up with stories of what you and your bros were doing over the weekend. Just say, "That's interesting," or "I'd like to hear about your childhood," or "it's interesting that you spent those seven years in Siberia fighting bears, I'd like to hear more about that." You've already got yourself a second date.

13. Talking about your love of ice dancing

Stop it! Everyone already loves ice dancing. You don't need to tell her that. Just watch these people float on the ice like two dancers in the best Jane Austen novel that has never been written.



14. Making the first move

It's better to have a date end awkwardly and to never see someone again then to go in for a kiss or a term of affection only to have the other person deny you. The best thing you can do is just wait, years, sometimes decades for that person to make a move. Eventually, it'll happen or you'll both move on, or you'll die. Win, win!

15. Take someone somewhere, a coffee shop, a mountain, a beach, a park. In the early portion of the date, talk about the weather, how perfect or dreadful it is, to get over your nerves. She makes you nervous, which is fine. It's a good thing. Bring sandwiches and spread out a blanket, or sit on a bench, or walk down the dusty streets of the small town talking about the things that interest you both, the people you see on the street, the places you've been or one day hope to be. Laugh. Float easily in conversation between the serious and the silly. Smile often. Listen carefully. This could be the first of many or the first and last. Either way, let the moments unfurl. Be kind.

MSN: the 13 most annoying people on a plane

1) Children.
Why do people ever get on planes with children? Can't they just get a minivan and drive to Idaho like everyone else, spending the trip alternatively questioning every decision they've made in their life that lead them to this point while wondering if they can make it to the next gas station and through the crushing boredom of the highway and the grey rimmed salt flats and low slung sun on the horizon?

2) The person sitting next to you who takes the arm rest right away.

It's fine to eventually, surreptitiously, slide your arm over and lay claim to the arm rest. However, it's a delicate dane, much like ballet that must be done with appropriate caution and care. Glance at least once or twice at the person sitting next to you before slowly sliding your arm into the rest, then leave it there, but keep your awareness fixed tightly on its slight tremors, on the small space between it and this next person's shoulder.

3) People who pretend to be totally unmoved by turbulence

Turbulence is a sign that the plan is probably going down, and it's not going to be a Romancing the Stone type of thing where you land quietly in a jungle and fall in love with your handsome male guide. But if it was, we'd all fly more often. No. If the person next to you is just continuing to text wildly, laughing occasionally while also playing a game of Candy Crush Saga then you're sitting next to a jerk. They need to be white knuckling that chair arm like any decent human being would be doing and contemplating just whether they've done enough with their meager lives.

4) People who get up to go to the bathroom more than once.

Listen, once you're down in your seat, if you didn't have the forethought to snag the aisle by buying your ticket well in advance then you're up shi- creek when it comes to using the bathroom. I don't care if it's a 19 hour flight across the Pacific, you're allotted one trip, and if the person in the aisle happens to get up then you'd best snag that opportunity as well. Otherwise, it's all getting up and getting down or waking people up who are just having a nice sleep and drool to pass the time on the plane.

5) People who don't get up to let you out but just kind of sit back like that helps at all

If you wanted to give out lap dances you'd have applied for a different job, and probably done more squats. As it is, you're just trying to get in and out of your seat, and it would really help if these people got up instead of pretending that by squeezing their back against the chair they were somehow clearing extra room. They are not.

6) People who fall right asleep on planes as if they are at a cheap motel

You are on a flight, not the Motel 6. At least say hello to the flight attendant, Mitch, who has just delivered a great riff on the necessity or lack thereof of overhead oxygen masks and life preservers. And stop drooling on me.

7) People who stay awake during flights

Stop staying awake during flights. It makes it awkward for those of us who prefer to spend the whole flight with our heads lolling back and forth, waking up once when someone needs to go to the bathroom and a second time to put our seat backs up. When you stay awake, it makes us feel weird about the dream we just had about Andy from Parks and Rec. having a nice pair of abs that we asked him about. Go to sleep!

8) Those people who are determined to stuff their bag into an overhead flight bin come hell or high water

Guess what! There isn't any room? And guess what? You've skipped the bag charge, so just pass it off like a normal person, and we can all continue on with our flight rather than watching you try and stuff an entire set of golf clubs in bin with three suitcases already occupying it.

9) People without children who don't courtesy smile at people with children

You know the only thing worse than being on a plane surrounded by a bunch of kids? Being the person charged with keeping those kids quiet. The only thing louder than those kids screaming in your ear is those kids screaming in my ear, and my flight cost the same amount as yours. Why do I have to sit next to them anyway?

10) People who fly first class

I've never flown first class, and I never will. Not because I can't afford it, but, wait, it's because I can't afford it. Anyhow, just move back in coach with the rest of us and stop making us feel bad about ourselves. I'll make room between my two kids for you to come back and share your wisdom on how to make money and have friends while my one year old wipes a nutri-grain bar on your Armani suit.

11) People who don't drink on flights

Have you ever drank on a flight? It's not that expensive. You should probably be drinking on your flight. I realize you may be getting off to meet your girlfriend's parents for the first time, and you want to make a good impression, but what makes a better impression than saying, "Hey, flying sucks, and I self-medicate to get through it." Don't we all honey, is what they'd probably say before taking you to an Applebee's or something.

12) People who laugh out loud at the in flight movie

You chuckle, quietly. Very quietly. This is not a bar, good sir. Keep that laughter muffled. I don't care how many zany antics that Steve Carrell is up to on screen, you muffle that laugh. Nobody wants to hear laughter on a plane. It's disrespectful to those of us who are white knuckling the whole way and thinking about all the sunrises in Greece and Perseid meteor showers we never watched.

13) People who recline their seats

I never recline my seat. Well, almost never, sometimes S convinces me it's okay. But really, you know how little room there is behind you, so sleep with your chair straight dammit. Listen for most of human history people were sleeping in unheated shelters gathered around small bits of fire. You're telling me you can't make it for 2 hours without slamming your seat into my knees? Stop it.

That time I wrote zombie fiction: Chapter 1

By and large everyone else has become a zombie. It's pase, I know, and I kept telling them that as they were knocking at my door and asking to eat my brain. "Just one little piece. I won't eat it all," says my neighbor, who hasn't even bothered to give back the lawn mower that he borrowed two months ago before getting turned into a zombie. This is precisely the sort of thing that gets you a shovel in the head, so I waited until he stuck his head through the window and then I bashed my shovel into the side of his head, which pretty much left the majority of his brain all over the kitchen floor, which, to my credit, I didn't even think about eating. 

I'd like to begin at the beginning, way back when everything was fine, and Ron, that's my neighbor, was just a slightly overweight guy who would invite you over to his house to jump in the pool or play a game of ping pong while being jumped on by his oversized golden retriever with him saying, "oh, we've been teaching him not to do that," which, no you haven't Ron or your dog wouldn't be jumping all over me right now that big, affectionate piece of shit when all I'm trying to do is enjoy a delicious and cheap hot dog at the pool. This is precisely the sort of behavior that is probably going to earn Ron's dog a shovel to the head if I ever see him sniffing around doing zombie type things. 

I'm going to get back to that story in a bit, but can I just say that one of the most annoying and underrated things about the zombieapocalypse taking place is that it's damn near impossible to have an intelligent converstaion. Like, I'd have liked to have invited Ron in and maybe shot the breeze with him for a bit over a cold one about the state of the Lakers, or the decline of Western Literature or something, but all everyone is interested in is taking a slight portion of your brain, which is how we wound up in this situation in the first place. The one thing you can't do with a zombie is say something like,

"hey, let's reason about this for a while, what if I just start you off with a small portion of my leg, and we talk about some issues of food supply over the long term. Have you read the Bible? You know, the part about Joseph storing up all the food for the lean years? How would you say this compares to Cormac McCarthy's The Road in terms of your expectatioins?"

This is precisely the sort of tack you can't take with a zombie because they'll just try and eat your brain, and you'll wind up spending the afternoon cleaning them up off the kitchen floor witth a sponge and a heavy heart because you didn't really mind Ron all that much, on his best days he was a pretty decent guy who knew how to throw a party. 

I was also just starting to get involved in online dating and had made some inroads, had a couple of good nights out with some women who seemed like they were just about crazy enough to go out with me again. And then you start logging in to profiles and sending messages, and you're just waiting around to see if they are going to respond and as if relationships aren't hard enough, there's a possibilty that they've been turned into mindless zombies or are just cowering in fear and not checking their internet dating profile but instead focusing on news outlets and random blog posts, fearing for their life or maybe they just didn't have a good time. How the hell is a guy supposed to know? 

Outside, Ron's dog is nosing around in my flowers, which I'm just going to let go because they're pansies, and I didn't like their shade of purple anyway as it wound up clashing with the brick. I also can't tell if his dog, Rudy, is a zombie apocalypse dog ravenous for brains or whether he's just a normal and annoying dog who will jump up on you even if you ask him to stop. These are the sort of connundrums that you'll probably already aware of if you're at all a fan of the genre. I wasn't a connoisseur, but I sort of knew what to expect in terms of little zombie children coming at your or your wife or something, which I didn't have, so I guess I'm missing a critical part of the zombie apocalypse experience, which is the mental anguish you experience over closed loved ones turning into zombies or living in fear of zombies. 

The main thing, if I hadn't made it totally clear is that the zombieapocalypse is a mix of fear and horror and boredom. There is really nothing good on television. The only channels still running things are just showing repeats of movies that I've already seen, and I don't suppose we'll be seeing new episodes of our favorite shows anymore, and I suppose one of the strange things that you wouldn't think you'd find yourself worrying about is what happens to that awful boy king on Game of Thrones? Does anyone kill him, does everyone? That's the sort of thing that I'm thinking about right now as I'm watching Rudy kind of scoot around the back yard doing dog like things. Maybe I'll go throw him a stick. 

 I knew as soon as I stepped into the yard that I'd made an error in judgement. Rudy had always been kind of terrible at fetch. He was one of those sorts of dogs who gets the ball in his mouth and then won't give it back, and even though he deeply wants to continue playing catch, he's entirley unwilling to give back the ball, which will help faciliate his joy. I'm just saying that it probably wasn't going to work anyway. It also wasn't going to work because once I got outside and saw a bit of Rudy's hind leg protruding at a forty five degree angle I knew that he'd become a zombie apocalypse version of Rudy who would probably even be worst at catch. 

I gave him a chance though, because I'm a decent type of person. Who knows? Maybe zombie apocalypse dogs are different than humans and really keep their good senses about them, so I tossed a stick towards him and said, "Go fetch the stick Rudy." And I should confess that Rudy, ever dutiful, started to lurch across the yard to get at the stick while I snuck up behind him and clipped him over the back of the head with my shovel a time or twenty. 

The sun overhead was bright and surreal. Nature didn't seem to care one wit that everyone had all turned into zombies. It was the sort of thing that you'd take time to reflect on, maybe help put things in perspective, "the earth keeps on spinning, eh bud," I said to Rudy, who wasn't really Rudy anymore, but a rude sort of collection of parts that had once been Rudy. I kind of missed him jumping all over me already. 

I'd been asking myself for the past two decades almost on a daily basis, "What does it mean? What does it mean? Why are we here? What am I supposed to be doing?" And I saw now, in the strangeness of this new world that I'd found my calling. I was supposed to go around shoveling things that looked or acted like zombies in the head. Who'd have thought this is where I'd end up? 

 I carried the shovel back into the house and thought about getting drunk. I wasn't a drinker before the ZA, but I think it might be something I take up. None of the zombies are that into alcohol, and I think about how I could make a joke to them about how they lurch around despite not being drunk. What would a drunk zombie look like? Probably sad. I bet zombies are the saddest drunks ever. I bet they just sit around and talk about the good old days before they became zombies and how they wished that they'd done more with their pre-zombie lives. I bet zombies are existential fucks if you give them enough whiskey. 

I'm out of booze and am going to have to go over to Ron's if I want a refill. Honestly, some other folks have probably got a little bit tucked away somewhere, but I kind of feel like I need to stretch my legs. Otherwise, I'll just sit around and stare at the paisley pattern on my couch and wonder why I chose it. I don't know how to sew or do anything useful, so I guess I'll just have to live with it forever now because you can bet the zombies tore the shit out of all the IKEA stores in the vicinity if they remembered anything about being alive. Maybe to a zombie an IKEA is still a place of horror. 

I probably shouldn't be walking over to Ron's house what with all the flesh eating zombies about. But there is this sort of tacit assumption that I'm making here that being a zombie is a bad sort of thing. Maybe they are walking around delighted inside. Who the hell knows? Wouldn't it be nice to be on the winning team for once? What's so great about being human? 

Just then, off in the distance I see someone running, and I can tell that it's not a zombie by the way that it doesn't lurch but sprints, and I realize that I am rooting for the form, which is a middle aged woman to get away from the three zombies who are clumsily lurching after. Perhaps the great thing about being a human is the ability to root for other humans. Do zombies cheer for each other? 

And then I'm out in the yard with my shovel swinging it around and smashing various zombies in the chest, sending them reeling back while this horrified woman screams and screams and screams as if the world was ending. "We're going to be all right," I tell her, grabbing her arm while the zombies recollect their bearings and kind of amble around trying to figure out just why someone is beating the shit out of them. 

Bernice isn't really my type, but this is the sort of luck I've always had with the ladies. She told me straight away that I wasn't her type either and not to get any ideas about the world being over because until she had found out that there were literally no other options left she wouldn't even consider it. I could have pointed out that I'd saved her life out in the yard, but Bernice is busy trying to fashion one of my couch legs into some sort of club spear. 

"Where do we go next?" I ask her. 

"I've always wanted to see Montana?" she says. "Maybe we should start walking towards Montana?" 

I realize right then that Bernice is already insane and that I'm trapped in the ZA with a person who is just plain nuts because imagine a zombie Grizzly Bear. Just imagine him, Bernice! No club spear is going to save you from that kind of wrath. 

While Bernice is fashioning a club spear we have a conversation about where we're both from.

"I lived upstate for a while, working as a department store manager. After a few years of banging my head against that glass ceiling I started staying at home to take care of the kids."

Here we go. Here is where the ZA gets real. This lady has kids. But I'm guessing her kids are teenagers or something, the sort of kids you want to crack over the head with a shovel anyway. 

"How much food do you have?" she asks. "What's your inventory like?"

I could already tell that I'd hate being a part of the ZA because people were going to be running around saying words like inventory and stock until you were as tired of talking about them as the weather. I could forgive Bernice because she said she'd worked in a department store, so maybe talking about inventory was normal for her.

"Shit, they're here," she says.

"Who is here?" I ask her, anxiously heading for the window.

"My children," she says.

There are two lanky figures out in the yard now, standing a few feet from the window, looking inside in that sort of dazed, but I could really go for some human flesh kind of way that zombies always are. Plot wise, it seemed like the same thing kept happening, and I was reluctant to go out into the yard again.

 The real crux of the ZA is present in what I saw next. This woman's two sons, who she'd birthed and raised up, spent countless numbers of hours tending and loving, were pounding on the glass and trying to come inside to eat both of us, and we had to decide what to do. I suppose if I had to do it over again I'd have stepped back out into the yard and shoveled them around a bit. I guess that's what I was supposed to do. I kind of briefly forgot my raison de etre for existence and panicked. "Shit! Shit! Shit!" I said, turning back towards Bernice to see what she was doing. 

Bernice had taken my moment of indecision to sneak around to the door and lock herself out. I watched her approach her two sons, walking slowly towards them with her arms raised, like it was straight out of a movie. You know what they always tell you in these kind of scenarios is that you just have to realize that your loved one is gone that you're doing them some kind of favor by putting them out of their misery. But I can tell you, from up close. It is all just very sad, which I suppose is one of the main things the ZA has in common with our normal everday life. It is just terrifically sad. I guess the difference is that in our real life we are just disconnected, or riding around in a car listening to a sad song when it suddenly occurs to us that kids are fucking starving in Africa all the time or addicted to crank, and here we are, driving to work misting up to some stupid song, and after the ZA, the deaths are right on your front door. I don't know if life has fundamentally changed. I'm not one of those types who thinks individuals or our species are capable of making any sort of rapid change. I think we do things slowly and poorly. 

She died quickly. 

Have you ever read Hamlet? If you haven't you're missing out. It's one of the great stories in the history of man honor, murder, existentialism. So much existentialism. At the end of the day everyone eventually has to decide what type of person that they're going to be. Was I going to be the type of person who watched Bernice get torn limb from limb without trying to save her? 

As it turns out, I was. I was just like Hamlet, which is why it's such a great play. Because we all eventually wind up in a Hamlet type situation, trying to decide if it's better to act or to just sit around eating potato chips while your dad is killed and ends up marrying your uncle or your neighbor is eaten or not. To be or not to be, right? It's funny because I was just saying that maybe I was born to shovel things in the head and now I'm saying that I'm not, but such is life, right? One minute you're a king and the next you're a fool.

Game of Thrones

It's rare that I get to use my MFA in creative writing, so explicitly, but after this episode of GOT, it feels appropriate. One of the many cliches that also annoyingly have the sound of truth that you hear when getting a Master's in creative writing is to go where the "heat" is in your story. The point is that the characters that you should spend the most time bringing to life are precisely those characters that already have life in them. I have other cliches, but I want to save them up because that degree wasn't as lucrative as I hoped it would be.

For GOT, the heat has always been in King's Landing, and I don't just mean the sunny weather and whorehouse. It's part of why I've argued that Brann's storyline should be cut or greatly truncated. It's why, after an initial explosion with Dany and a nice season for Jon Snow they're both mired behind very large walls where not much changes. The real interesting intrigue, even when they set forth like Littlefinger or The Hound always arises in King's Landing. The real secret there is that the storylines involve multiple characters with a multitude of convergences and differences in desires and demands. Essentially, as the old facebook status says, It's complicated.

 And, just to test that theory, the introduction of Oberyn has proved it to be true. From his first lengthy sexposition, multiple meanings, to his last stirring speech to Tyrion, he's been working his way towards the heart of the rot in King's Landing. Certainly Twyin's assertion that even the Lannister's can't pay their debts means it runs deep.

For all my talk of GOT's exposition, sexposition, and general wordiness in order to get across major plot points, occasionally things happen. This particular episode was the sort of episode where things were starting to happen. And I'd submit that some of the sorts of things that were happening were made more significant or pleasing because they weren't someone taking a sword through the mouth, but someone having a wound stitched, or a life affirmed. I don't know that GOT has any great need to please the audience by having these sorts of things. The most popular show on television is about zombies and GOT is about money, nihilism and the destruction that war brings to people on the margins. And yet, I found myself satisfied with this week's episode, in part because it was easy to see things starting to come together for the good guys. Believe it or not, in less the White Walkers really are running a very friendly and affordable day care as I speculated a few weeks ago, I'm kind of pulling for the people in King's Landing.

It's pleasing to be right about things, even if book readers already knew them. And the opening scene involving Jaime and Tyrion proved what I suspected to be true: it wasn't going to be one of the usual suspects. In the long term, the revelation that Jaime can't beat a stable boy is interesting as is the rather neat and pleasurable undoing of Tywin's plan to get a proper heir. The moment that I'll point to is the one where Jaime said, "Careful, I'm your last friend in the world," was both touching and sad. And, as we discover later, true nearly from birth.

From there Tyrion interviews Bronn, who, surprise! to no one, is in better straits than when Tyrion left him. He's getting married and planning on murdering his wife's older sister. He's a good man, and I hope the show doesn't lose track of him entirely.

In the meantime we've been reintroduced to the new version of the mountain. A six foot 9 strongman from a northern country who enjoys hacking people to bits. This plot point, though perhaps predictable, the minute Oberyn stepped onto the council it was clear he was going to be on Tyrion's side one way or another, brought nice verisimilitude to the episode, which included the confession of his brother, Sandor Clegane, to Arya about the way his face was burned. Spoiler: it was, Gregor, the mountain, who once was protected by his father and is now protected by Tywin.

As I pointed out in my previous post, even without the Mountain arriving on the scene, it seemed clear that Oberyn would be Tyrion's champion. However, what wasn't clear was how he would get there. The scene was designed and acted beautifully. Peter Dinkleage thinking about how exactly he'll die or hack at Gregor's knee is saved twice over in his conversation with Oberyn. Oberyn relates a story to Tyrion about being present at his birth. Oberyn tells a clearly bewildered and stung Tyrion how everyone, Cersei included, told him that the new baby was a monster, how he expected claws and teeth and red eyes. However, when Tyrion was revealed, after Cersei apparently tried to pinch off his penis until Jaime stopped her, he told her, "That is not a monster, that is just a baby." In one stroke Oberyn banishes the hatred of Cersei and confirms the one thing Tyrion knows that he's on trial for, being different. It's a heartfelt scene and it's believable that Oberyn is the bringer of justice.

Out East the meandering of Dany and her theoretical dragons continued. Though, full credit to the show runners for Dany telling Daario to do what he does best followed by, "take off your pants." It's nice to see the women in Westeros occasionally running the show. I'm not sure why Daario started the scene with flowers when he could have been strumming a lute, but that's a story for another day. After sending Daario off to kill every master, Dany changes her mind when Sir Jorah visits her and gives her a small lesson in justice. Though I don't mind the love triangle between young and old, Dany's story has ground to a precipitous halt, and all momentum gathered from dragons and eunuch soldiers is going to be squandered soon.

The other erstwhile hero, Jon Snow, is also mired in a campaign that he can't win, bravely pouting when his plan to flood the tunnel is turned down. Has anyone ever looked so aggrieved as Jon Snow? And he has to put his wolf away. Whatever momentum was gathered North of the wall in the last season has also ground to a halt, and we're now waiting for the two hero archetypes, Dany and Jon Snow to lead people to victory, except, they are not nearly as interesting as any of the Lannisters. I don't know what this will mean for the long term plotting of the show, but it's worth keeping an eye on.

The story of Podrick and Brienne continued with a brief visit from "Hot-Pad" or whatever, giving them the rather large clue that Arya is still alive and on her way to the Eyrie. If this is going to end with Brienne fighting The Hound, I'm out. He's bared his soul, and I'm rooting for him as much as anyone. I'm also assuming that Podrick's sexual prowess has reached all the way out to Eyrie, and I doubt Petyr is going to let his newfound love, Sansa, anywhere near him.

We got to see Melisandre, (who is fast replacing Danerys in the minds of teenage boys as the best part about GOT) taking a leisurely bath before assuring Stannis' wife that they'd need to bring her daughter along on the voyage, which can only mean one thing: to kill her. I don't know how this is going to end, but I'm assuming that it doesn't go well for Davos.

The other story that finally became touching in the way that I've been wanting for weeks was that of Arya and the Hound. She finally starts listening to him, granted it involves stabbing someone in the heart, but at least she has her listening ears turned down. But more significantly, we get a bit of character development, as the Hound relates how he got the burn on his face. This detail, it was his older brother, is what makes this episode feel more contained than some and in a good way. The structure of this portion felt right, and the scene of Arya cleaning and stitching, (though I'm not sure about the cleaning portion. Don't be afraid to really clean it out Arya) is a nice counterpoint to the scene with Oberyn and Tyrion. Here are two complicated people banding together.

The last portion of the story takes place at the Eyrie, which, does anyone live at the Eyrie. It appears to be only Lysa and Robyn until Petyr and Sansa came along. And even after the four of them are living there, it appears to be only them, but it's also one of those places where someone is always watching you, or coming up on you in a corridor. In short, it's a creepy place and the queen is bat shit crazy. Exactly the sort of woman you don't want watching you kiss her husband from a creepy place above the wall.

Robyn Arryn's love of flying things foreshadows his own mother's long flight to a quick death, with Petyr, now installed as regent of the realm. He's a quick Tyrion death and a shotgun wedding to Sansa away from being in control of most of the north. I'm just hoping he invites a few other people to live with him in the Eyrie, and maybe does some redecorating as well, or flies his stepson or something. Maybe he can fly him all the way back to King's Landing, where all the interesting stories reside.

Pennsylvania and blackberries and monopoly

Just now we've returned from Pennsylvania. Something tells me it's north of here, but the closest I've ever come to understanding Pennsylvania is on the Monopoly board. Green was my favorite color, and I always mortgaged, begged, bartered and stole from the free parking in order to get all three green properties. The problem with the greens is that you can't ever build anything on them by the time you've got them. Houses cost nearly as much as they do on Boardwalk and everyone is always landing in between the greens on community chest or heading to jail instead.

In the morning, I'll be headed back to work. The weekend is always ending just when it's really getting started. What if I told you someone once told me the same thing about life, bending over a game of chess, his king nearly in checkmate, the smell of honeysuckle on the breeze.

Just now I've bought a thornless Natchez bush from some online vendor. I'm a terrible gardener because I always want the plants to flourish without care. I water them on occasion and imagine the rich succulent fruit that will be spilling off their branches in late spring. By late spring most of the things I've planted are dead, dry brown leaves and root systems shriveled with neglect. I'm a libertarian when it comes to plants, and I explain this to them as I pat the soil around them. "Look, here," I say. "This is as close as the two of us are going to get." I read somewhere that if you talk to plants they are more likely to bear fruit. I rub the small green leaves between my thumb and fore finger like the long blond hair of some distant love. "Listen," I say. "Come late spring if you do everything right, we're going to have a celebration."

The plants, like people, never listen too closely. They are always too busy going about the rather simple process of dying. Next year things are going to be different. I'm going to plant the blackberries early, allow their roots to dig down deep, gripping the soil like a sculpture cleaving to the stone from which it was formed. Next year I'm going to learn to hammer nails, and buy wood at Home Depot in the right quantities. I'm going to build a screened in porch, and while the mosquitoes bump frantically against the screen, we'll sit on soft cushioned couches, eating blackberries and drinking wine while the evening chases the heat of the day. 

7 Fun summer activities to do with your kids

1 Play a game of hide and don’t seek.

Though long disparaged as the lesser cousin of hide and go seek, hide and don’t seek can be one of the most fun activities you could possibly do with your children over the summer. In this old classic you drop them off at your in-law’s house and then get on a plane and fly to an exotic locale to drink daiquiris and step into a turquoise ocean, the sort where you dip your toes in and say, “I didn’t know the ocean could be this warm,” before falling asleep while reading something by one of the prominent Victorians.

If you really feel the need to include them in your activities it’s probably best to take pictures. After you return, load up the computer with photos and stream it to the television. Your children will love watching all of the wonderful things that you did while you were away. “This is mommy sleeping in a chair.” “This is mommy drunk at noon on a Tuesday.” “This is a picture of me snorkeling.”

2. Fly a kite

Wake up early on a Saturday morning, get the kids hiking shoes on and sun hats for a riotous day of flying a kite. Drive outside of the city, pull over when you reach a large clearing, the type which buffalo probably would have claimed if they hadn’t all been killed off and let your kite go, watch it soar like an eagle, the string playing out gently from your child’s nimble fingers. If only Icarus could see you.

I’m kidding. Have you ever flown a kite? It takes about half an hour to construct the thing and about ten minutes to have it torn to shreds by a combination of recalcitrant winds, low lying branches, and frustrated children who were confused and though that “flying” a kite actually meant that it would fly. “No dear. Flying a kite involves watching it soar about four feet off the ground for a moment before it nose dives into the unforgiving turf , breaking some essential piece of piping before finally showing that gusto that you’d been wanting from it in the air as it slips through your fingers and scuttles across the ground like a piece of Texas tumbleweed.

3. Take them to Disneyland or Disneyworld.

 It’s this incredible place where they help children’s dreams come true. If that seems too abstract, I’ll put it in more concrete terms: you get to watch a real life performance of Beauty and the Beast with a 19 year old that you kind of fall in love with, even though you’re eight and weren’t sure you liked singing until that day. Theoretically. They also have princesses walking around in full regalia and rides that perfectly simulate the experience of being a live Disney character like that tiny roller coaster that simulated the experience of the Smurfs that was the only roller coaster that you were willing to go on because heights, moving fast, and pretty much everything else terrifies you. Theoretically.

Wait. Stop the presses! I’ve been told that other people know about these Magic Kingdoms as well. So apparently you won’t be spending a few magical days experiencing the world as if it were a fairy tale, rather, you’ll be standing in excruciatingly long lines with impatient children. It will be overly sweaty underpants hot and because everyone else knows about this place as well it will cost a thousand dollars, and you’ll understand, at least in part, why Adam and Eve were in Paradise. There were only two of them.

4. A beach weekend!

Beach weekends are the best! Small children, the large unforgiving ocean, piles and piles of sand that end up in your car for months even after you spend a solid twenty minutes doing that thing with a towel to kid’s feet where you kind of burn the sand off with the friction you’re creating, because parents, but especially dads, really loathe all that gd sand on their new or old upholstery.

I jest. The beach is the best because the crashing waves can obscure the sounds of unhappiness that are emanating from your children. “What’s that honey? I can’t quite hear you. I’ll read this article in Harper’s more to see if it has the answer to your question.”

Besides which, you get the unalloyed pleasure of applying sunscreen to children. This would be entirely fine except they tend to treat the whole affair as if you were applying battery acid to them instead with much needless wailing and gnashing of teeth while you keep asking yourself why you ever think it’s a good idea to leave your living room.

But then, at some point, they’ll be playing by the water, their laughter floating by on a gentle ocean breeze—your eyes, mere slits, the sea gulls are crying in the wide net of sky and for a moment, maybe two, you’ll find contentment.

5. Road trip!

What could possibly be better than the open road? The miles and miles of sun scorched highway stretching out before you like some ungodly snake—oaks, maples, scrub brush, stands of Eucalyptus giving way to evergreens, white pines and conifers sprouting up on the backs of low lying mountains. And think of how excited your children will be to be taking part in this experience with you. I’d suggest bringing a copy of Kerouac or McCarthy, either version of being on the Road will do. It will touch them to see how much time and effort you’ve put into this endeavor, how you’ve mapped everything out to maximize the trip, see every last sight, stop at caverns of limestone, roadside stands where they sell the world’s best hot dogs, stay in a hotel with a hot tub. Of course they will! This is going to be the best trip since Herodotus went across Northern Africa.

Or will it? You can pre-construct a sign that says, “I don’t care who pinched who first, I’d just like it to stop.” Or, “I will pull this car over if you don’t stop whining. You think I won’t do it. I’ll do it. I’ll drive this car right off this bridge.” And so on. When you’re at the Grand Canyon, prepare for a letdown. “It’s just a big hole.”

6. Take them to a ballet class

Every child loves the movie “Black Swan,” where the ballerina is slowly driven insane, creates a double of herself and eventually winds up dead after dancing like she’s never danced before. What little girl or boy couldn’t get excited by that promise. Most children are, at heart, artists. They understand that it is better to have burned brightly across the sky than to sit like a bulb in a front porch light, waiting to go dim. And that’s why they love ballet.

Mind you, I’ve never been to ballet class, but I assume it’s just a bunch of happy little girls jumping around in skirts and boys in tights thinking they are Peter Pan. What better time to be an insane princess or a child who doesn’t ever want to grow up? Who hasn’t, after their youth has passed, sat on the front steps—in the late summer light, listening to the whir of cicadas and the trilling of sparrows and starlings, and thought how wonderful it would be to have remained a summer child forever, wrapped up in one’s imagination and the endless months to come.

7. Comfort them

After a long day of working and commuting walk upstairs to comfort your crying child. When you pull him out of the crib, his curly reddish hair will be matted to his head. Briefly lay him down to take off his shirt. In the sliver of light coming from the hallway find your way into the rocking chair. Sit in the dark, while his breathing slowly calms through hiccups, rocking until he is quiet. Then move quickly to the crib to put him down. As you do so, he’ll begin to cry. Lie down on your back next to his crib in the middle of the hardwood floor, reach your hand through the slats of his crib and rub his belly with the palm of your hand, say, “It’s okay, buddy. It’s okay. I’m here,” until he quiets.

When you pull your hand away and try and leave he’ll roll to the side of his crib and look through the slats with his small, intelligent eyes. “Hi,” he’ll say. And you’ll reach your hand back through the slats and rub his forehead while he starts to drift off to sleep. Eventually, your hand will slip away as you yourself, exhausted from the day, drift off to sleep in the middle of the floor. Above you, he’ll be standing now in his crib, saying, “Hi. Hi,” at your prone form on the floor.

Twenty minutes later when you awaken to a pain in the center of your back that is nothing more than the hard floor rising up to meet you he’ll still be chattering to himself, happily though, and you’ll slip out the door and into the remains of an evening already half-spent, drowsy and confused, happy to have calmed, if only for one night, the pains of a child.

Game of Thrones

This episode was heavy on exposition, primarily because of Tyrion's trial. However, it made me wonder halfway through whether I should switch over to watch one of the CSI's to see a more nuanced portrayal of the justice system. That said, the reward, which was not really the plot point, but Peter Dinkleage's wonderful and sneering portrayal of Tyrion as he threatened everyone in the King's Landing nobility with death was well worth the trip.

However, plot point. We've now had two trials involving Tyrion that have ended with him asking for a trial by combat. Maybe next time he should just skip all the shennanigans and ask for a trial by combat. Wouldn't is save time? Wouldn't it save everyone time? Why wouldn't Sandor Clegane just make himself constantly available at court rooms in order to help dispense justice? It just seems like it's easier to skip straight to the good stuff rather than hearing your lady love stab you in the back. And after how well he treated you, for shame.

I haven't read the books, thank God, happy to have saved myself those forty hours of my life, so I don't know who gets called as his champion:

1. Jaime Lannister

The pros of this one are obvious, he's his older brother, an accomplished swordsman and all around, minus the maybe rape scene, good guy who'd be willing to to the mat for his brother.

The downside is that he's missing his sword hand and would wind up dead. The upside of this is that it would extinguish the Lannister line leaving Tywin no choice but to pardon Tyrion in order to continue the family name. I don't understand the legalities of Westeros as it is, so for all I know Jaime will be fighting for the realm.

2. Brienne

She's got a Valyrian steel blade and bested Jaime in hand to hand combat.

The cons are that she's out on the open road with Podrick, which kind of makes her a non-starter, and I'm still not sure about her haircut or Jaime's for that matter. Tyrion needs someone to fight for him with excellent hair.

3. Bronn

He's a dirty and good fighter who already saved Tyrion's bacon once.

Con-I don't know if Bronn would actually fight for Tyrion again. The upside isn't nearly as good. He's in a decent spot now and could probably find work elsewhere without putting his neck on the line.

4. Jorah Mormont, Jon Snow, the ghost of Robb Stark, Sir Barrisan, the white walker version of Benjin Stark, Nedd Stark's head, Dany's biggest dragon

Pro-While I think any of these options would be good, I'm not sure if they'd qualify due to distance, death, or general creepiness.

5. And probably the choice here: Prince Oberyn.

One of the downsides of hearing all the testimony from various turncoats is that we didn't get more cross-examining from Prince Oberyn, who was limited to asking Shea whether she provided good sex to Tyrion after he asked. I feel like Prince Oberyn was ready to have a good time and Tywin kept cutting him off. He's probably where we're going with the trial as we've already heard how great a warrior he is, and he doesn't care one bit for the Lannisters.

The episode begins with Stannis Baratheon, King of the Andals, something something of the first men, guy who looks perpetually unhappy or is it slightly constipated. Whatever is happening with Stannis better happen soon because we're in Season 4, and it's about time for him to do something besides look sour and watch Sir Davos save his ass. While I'm intrigued by the Iron Bank, I'm equally troubled by the ever expanding GOT universe. At some point the field must begin to narrow, and yet, here we are watching Mycroft Holmes negotiate for the future of the realm. I think it's pretty much a shoe in that Benedict Cumberbatch will voice the dragons for the final season.

And now to sex. Sex is one of the more pleasurable things that human beings have invented, somewhere above squash and below badminton. And yet, in GOT, no one is ever engaging in a quiet afternoon of sex followed by a long nap. Rather, in Ramsay's case they're being clawed to pieces by his human hunting girlfriend or lounging about delivering exposition. And welcome back Saalador Saan the sex pirate. This seems like an obvious shout out to Andy Greenwald over at Grantland who probably writes the best GOT recap. However, his return is ignominious. In part because he has to deliver so much exposition instead of enjoying the fact that he's about to engage in some sex. I just want to know if anyone ever enters a brothel or their bedroom and comes out not having spoken more than a few words or whether they're all exhausted from having to deliver up an explication of their day before doing the deed.

From the scene with the sex pirate, which allows me to elide the continual rather fantasy-sided presentation of the female sex is the story of Yara. I've complained about some bits on Thrones, particularly the Theon torturing and at time Bran's slow plot or Stannis' battle with his bowels, but I've been told by readers that they pay off. And yet, is it worth the time? For instance, apparently Yara has a rather wicked backstory that would allow the show to provide another nuanced and strong female character, which might counteract the claims of misogyny thrown at the show and its creators. But instead we watched Theon have every part of his body flayed. The show is so large that we can forgive such mistakes, but waiting six episodes in to rejoin Yara's quest, only to have it abandoned so quickly feels like a calculated miss. Hey, remember her? Yeah. Okay, bye! In fact, I thought the actress did a wonderful job portraying a strong female character and her speech was inspiring, but we were introduced and ushered off stage in about ten minute's time.

Yara encountered Theon, still very much the creature of Ramsey Bolton. Note: though Ramsey is pretty much bottom of the barrel I half admire the glee that the actor is portraying in his nastiness. He's not quite Joffry level obnoxious, but it's an interesting take. And now he's convinced Reek to go back to being Theon. There was something alluring about watching him give Theon a bath, and Alfie Allen is pretty adept at displaying a wide range of emotions.Yay, all the torture porn paid off....oh wait, no it didn't.

Can we all just agree that if we got a shot of a random villager than nothing good will come of it. Oh look, those guys are herding sheep. Wait, it's a CGI budget being blown. At least this time the characters didn't wind up being a midnight snack. I've read elsewhere that George RR Martin intended to show how war has unintended consequences on the poor and underprivileged. The show constantly reinforces this with scenes of pastoral beauty or love cut short by murder or dragons eating goats. I guess the point is, if innocent people are walking about, something or someone is about to get eaten.

Meanwhile Dany is going through the difficult and boring job of ruling. Okay, I'll pay you back for your goats. I will not apologize for crucifying your innocent father, but okay, you can bury him. You could see the mental wheels turning, trying to figure out the impact this decision would have. It's the plot of Antigone, which is the original Game of Thrones, but Dany makes, maybe? the right decision and allows the nobleman's son to cut him down and bury him. However, the point is, ruling isn't fun. Maybe she should just get in her ships and take over Westeros...I doubt it though. She's elsewhere for the long haul.

After a meeting of the small council Varus is reminded by Oberyn that he is from Essos. And Varus, in a very unVarus like move, casts his eyes at the Iron Throne when he speaks of his true desires. I've long suspected, since season 1 when Arya overheard him talking that he's secretly pulling for the realm to be taken over by Dany and the people from the East. I think he's biased that way, but I suppose time will tell.

The trial scene was long, even by GOT standards, comprising the last 18 minutes of the show. In that time we learn that everyone Tyrion has crossed, or merely minorly pissed off, hello Shea, is ready to turn state's witness against him, except his brother, who is willing to give up his longtime love of his, uh, sister, to become the ruling Lannister down the line. However, Tyrion screws that all up when he's pushed to the edge by the backbiting and lies. And, as I started this post with, the acting of Dinkleage is pretty much off the charts. You really believe that he'd like them all to die. 

Where are we now? I don't know. A lot of shi- is still happening all around the globe. Remember the Brotherhood without Banners? Me neither, but we spent a couple of episodes with them. Remember The Mountain? Me neither, which is good since they had to change actors. Despite being heavy on exposition, all in all this was a strong episode of GOT. One where you get a sense that looking at all the moving parts is as dizzying as gazing down the Moon Door where Rob Arryn has thrown all the bad men. I suppose if I have one take away, it's wondering whether we have enough time to tell all the stories that need to be told. They've promised that the show will be seven seasons, and I'm already wondering if that will be enough, or whether we'll wind up having to be reminded of too much on the last day or asked to forget all that has come before. What I'm saying is, I can't wait to see Nicki and Paolo next episode.

Game of Thrones

While this was mostly the Cersei episode of Game of Thrones, I think this was also an episode that began to show some of the cracks in the foundations of the George R.R. Martin source material. After the hub bub over last week's reveal of who the Night King or something along those lines was, it began to be clear that the showrunners were going to have to extend out beyond Martin's material, or shift certain portions to keep it interesting. But now the real question is, can they?

I asked last week whether or not Dany was taking all of her slaves with her, and more importantly, what they were eating? I'm hoping she didn't capture a bunch of those Thrain type guys, or she'll be shocked to discover they've been eating her slaves. However, we got our answer this week when Dany was told that the people in Yunkai and Slaver's Bay in general had retaken the cities and were in need of help. When Dany that took the Unsullied and her dragon's were flying about making flambe of everything in sight, it felt inevitable that she'd retake King's Landing with her army in a matter of months. It now feels clear that we'll get to watch her retreading her steps in Slavery's Bay until the show accidentally ends with her sitting by the sea listening to Dario Naharis play his lute. As a plot point, I'd be fine with Dany reshaping her destiny and keeping it on this side of the Narrow Sea. It would be quite a gesture, to rule these people and do it well. Except, it's a fantasy series, not real life, and we desire convergences. People had warned me that her plot grinds to a halt and watching her retake cities without much intrigue is evidence that it was no lie.

The second plot that felt a bit rushed, or thrown together, was at Crastor's rape Keep. There, Game of Thrones pulled a classic later season Downtown Abbey move by introducing a villain, the knife fighter from the bottoms, only to have him killed roughly fifteen minutes later. I understand that it gave the scene more gravitas when he suddenly developed a sword mouth. (Note: Obviously Jaime needs to have his hand refashioned into a sword, but imagine if you also had a sword mouth? You could go around stabbing people with your face. I suppose the problem would be properly lodging the sword there without removing portions of your brain. Still, sword mouth).

The Locke sub plot also came to a quick end when Bran launched himself into Hodor to do some murdering. And while I was happy to see Locke go since he cut off Jaime's hand, it was kind of a strange way for him to die. What would all this have looked like if the Knight's Watch had just been gunning for our original villain, the man who stabbed Mormont in the back? How much would have been lost? I suppose it was a detour for the Bran sub plot, which also apparently drags, but the whole scene felt cinematic, which is to say, rushed. Let's throw all these things together and see what happens as opposed to playing the long game. The long game is what made the scene at the Red Wedding so sad and believable. I worry that as we move beyond the book the show will be more concerned with cinematic conventions, which are more interested in sword mouth than in the long game.

Also, does anyone see a spin off show about Crastor's wives in the offing? What are these ladies going to do North of the wall sans housing? It felt like one of those moments when she said, "Burn it. Burn it all to the ground!" where maybe one of the other women could have said, "Yes, burn it all! But maybe keep a few beds and the kitchen." As it is, apparently they are going to wander around amongst the White Walkers and hope for the best. We'll see you in blue eyes ladies.

Though I've predicted that Sansa eventually ends up married to Ramsey Bolton, it's nice that she's getting a stopover in the Eyre to spend some quality time with her aunt Lysa and her breast feeding 12 year old cousin. Which, oh by the way, speaking of playing the long game, it was fascinating to hear that Lysa was responsible for killing her husband and setting the events that lead to the downfall of the Stark house in motion. Littlefinger has been pulling strings like a spider for far longer than we ever knew. I've still got my money on him to end up as one of the last villains alive.

Aunt Lysa, no fool, rightly understands that her husband's interest in Sansa may be more than ornamental, and though I look forward to more seasons of Sansa being powerless and stupid, I'm still ready for that Ramsey and Sansa wedding, where no one dies, but we're all just as sad as if they had.

I thought Arya Stark would have morphed into a death machine by now, training with the face changing man from Davos, but she's still just clumsily reminding herself of all the people she needs to kill, even when they're already dead, Joffrey, or currently keeping her alive, The Hound. As it is, she's stuck on the Robb Stark path, which ends up with a wolf's head sewn on top of your body. Maybe she's looking forward to that, otherwise, it might be time to start listening to the lessons her new Maester, The Hound, is teaching her.

The road trip of Pod and Brienne is just beginning and already I've enjoyed watching him bumble around on a horse and basically admit to being Tyrion's maid. I don't know if the characters hold as much promise as Jaime or Bron did, but I'm willing to watch them yuk it up around the countryside until they eventually have to murder some people, because GOT.

Though I haven't spoken about it yet, the bulk of the episode is Cersei building her case against Tyrion. I'm not sure what character on television has been as terrifying, sexy, and oddly sympathetic. Her monologue to Margery about Joffry's moral failings was another insight into her unhappiness. Though Margery seems to misunderstand her and almost forsakes the odd olive branch that Cersei extends. Besides which, amongst the current options, Tommen probably is the best king. Now let's all get behind him!

Cersei spends some time buttering up her father, who tries to remind us about the Iron Bank of Bravos. Plot point. I feel like we need a primer. Maybe an extremely long sexposition scene with Tywin and Oberyn where the intricacies of the bank are described alongside Oberyn's love of all things flesh. I have to say it was disconcerting to see him walking in the garden with Cersei and talking of his children as opposed to in the middle of a pile of writhing limbs. On a sad and true note Cersei's response to his line, "We don't hurt little girls where I'm from," was true and sad, "They hurt little girls like that everywhere." There are certainly no promises in Westeros where murders routinely take place at weddings and Oberyn seems to forget this when remembering his beloved Dorne.

Where are we headed now? I don't know. It seems that Tyrion will be on trial. Lysa Aryn will be spending the nights banshee shrieking above Sansa while Dany rules in Slaver's Bay. What's happening with Mance? How bout the Thrain of Thrains? We could maybe use one more red wedding to clear out some characters before the momentum builds again. Instead, it still feels sprawling, and I wonder if that will become a problem, and if we'll have more scenes like that at Crastor's as time goes by. I hope not because the joy of this journey so far is that we're not in a hurry because eventually everyone is going to die anyway. Just listen to how long Arya's list is. Santa Claus, Master Pycell, (maybe the same person), The Hound, Sir Jorah from his stint on Downton Abbey etc. etc.

That Time I got kicked out of a bar in Kansas City

                If you’ve never been to Kansas City, I’m talking about the one in Missouri, then I can tell you two things: it is a city of fountains and it’s hot in late summer. These are probably the sorts of things you could have figured out yourself after a brief Google search of the weather and a picture or two of the city.

                It was hot that particular evening down in the Power and Light District, and we were drinking. Most of my friends had been drinking all day, slow, rapturous, post-apocalyptic type drinking, not focused on the plebian act of getting drunk but on the hedonistic pleasure of drinking alcohol itself. These two are distinct in my mind, though perhaps they run on parallel tracks in history. However, there is a difference in kind in waking up early to drink oneself into oblivion and waking up early for the pleasure of the drink, even if the terminus is occasionally identical.

                Everyone around the house was drinking beer. I don’t drink beer. We’d spent the evening at a Royals game, complaining about how shitt- the Royals were and how terrible Scott Shield was that night. He was throwing moon balls, and he took ten to fifteen seconds between pitches. It was one of those warm nights when you knew you should be somewhere else and that baseball, unlike many team sports, was possibly invented for the sole subject of boring you to death.

                It was one dollar hot dog night, and I purchased three. It was the sort of hot dog where the first bite lets you know that you’ve overpaid by at least 90 cents, hot dogs that have been sitting under a heat lamp for days. Hot dogs that have told one another the hot dog joke,

                Two hot dogs are going around on one of those twirling oven type things that you see in gas stations and 7 eleven’s when suddenly one hot dog says to the other:

Hot Dog A: We’ve got to get out of here! We’re spinning around in circles here getting roasted alive.

Hot Dog B: thinks to himself, what the heck! A talking hot dog?.

If you’re not bent over in peals of laughter right now, I assure you that the problem is not with the joke, but with the teller. There are so many problems with the teller. The basis of most good jokes is in breaking them down, for instance, isn't a thinking hot dog just as strange? I'll desist. 

                I finished two hot dogs before chucking the last one out. We were all sitting in the outfield waiting for Scott Shields to stop kicking around the rosin and throw the damn ball, so someone could smack something else into the alley, your typical All-American type evening.

                (I want to confess here that I write better when I am most awake and therefore mentally acute. I should also confess that I am always tired. There are rare exceptions, like tonight, when I feel awake, though I always end those sessions as quickly as possible with a pill or two to help me sleep, or I know I’ll be in for hell tomorrow morning. I’m at my best for roughly twenty to thirty minutes a week, sometimes even up to an hour though I don’t like to push it).

                After a while people started to peel off from their seats, wander around the stadium to take the place in, comment on the relative beauty of the place or pick up some ice cream to wash out the taste of the hot dogs. We all proclaimed the stadium as being possessed of its own kind of beauty, a piece of land virtually out in the middle of nowhere, some perverse replica of A Field of Dreams where the players were all millionaires and corporate sponsorships were ubiquitous. But still, there we were just watching a ball game in middle America.

                We marveled over a replica of the Royals stadium where a bunch of little kids were playing a game of whiffle ball. They didn’t have that sort of thing when I was a child. Not that it would have mattered.  We used to live games in the bottom of the sixth to beat traffic. I didn’t even know baseball games went nine innings. Watching those kids bound around the field like a bunch of extremely happy bunny rabbits made me nostalgic for my own childhood, when I’d use a whiffle bat or a crude board to smash at a tennis ball and send it skying over the trees.

It was evening, and the bugs were congregating around the lights like bits of rain. By the time we’d reached the sixth the game was nearly three hours in. The replica field where before children had been playing, being their own favorite Royals as I’d once been David Cone or Frank Viola was nearly empty and sad. A lone child was running the bases while his father texted someone just behind home plate.

By the time we’d hit the seventh inning it started to feel like it was closing time at the bar. But at some point during the evening it had been discovered that there was a radar gun. And though I’m often loathe to ascribe typically masculine traits of competition and advancement among friends; there was a radar gun, a measurement, a strict way of defining yourself in relation to your peers.

                The story is a bit more complex as we’d spent the better part of two summers playing an elaborate game of whiffle ball called water baseball. We spent countless hours in our friend’s back yard shirtless, keeping stats, leaving early from odd jobs or making time in the middle of the day to grouse at one another and fire whiffle balls in the seventies in low eighties. I supply that piece of information because we once procured a radar gun, which wasn’t even the strangest thing. We also wrote and published a magazine with statistics and profiles.

                And on this fine evening, years later, it was hard not to think back on those summers when we’d all been 18 or 19, before anyone was drinking in earnest or working at a career of any use. It was time once again to prove to each other that we could bring it. The problem with my elbow is that it doesn’t work anymore. I blew it out a number of years ago through some combination of firing dodge balls at annoying kids at a summer camp and proving myself by trying to throw people out at home from left field on a particularly crappy slow pitch softball team. I’ve never quite recovered from the injury, despite an exploratory surgery, and I can really only throw a ball a few times before it starts to ache.

 Of course, I say all this because the radar kept claiming that I was only hitting the high sixties, though I threw the last pitch left-handed after my right elbow and upper arm had started to throb. My friend T who won could always throw the ball hard, though never with any accuracy. We’d bet five bucks a piece on the endeavor, and he came out with thirty five bucks, though I swear his pitch would have hit an actual batter in the head, which was what you always had to watch out for when he was pitching. My elbow was throbbing for the next few days, though it was briefly alleviated with the application of rum and whiskey later that evening. (I should confess that even writing about my elbow has awakened pain receptors, and it’s currently aching dully as it probably always does when I’m using it in the slightest though I often forget).

                We headed downtown from the Royals stadium after the pitching displays that clearly left the audience members in awe. A father and son were up right after us, laughing at our left handed throws and refusing to get in on the betting action. We had a brief argument about where we should go, with some people saying that we’d been to the Power and Light District the evening before, and that it was kind of meh, while others of us, myself included, thought that it must have been just that particular evening, and that even if it was meh, at least it was better than the unknown.

                Here’s the thing about the unknown: it’s usually better than meh. However, we could not have known that, (okay, we could have) as we sped off into the Kansas City night. It was a bachelor party, and we were ready to set the city on fire.

                The problem with the Power and Light District is that it’s not a real place. It’s an urban planner’s dream of what fun might look like: an outdoor concert venue, the ability to have open containers outside, a court yard wreathed in bars, karaoke joints, pizza places and all populated by the best and brightest in Kansas City. The problem, as we later learned, is that almost no one from Kansas City goes there. It’s the place that everyone goes to when they are in Kansas City, which means you wind up spending the evening with a bunch of other people who are just in town for a night of fun, but have no meaningful connection to the place. I understand, despite never having been there, that this is largely the appeal of Vegas and thus the ad campaign, but something about it feels strangely empty in Kansas City, though the term we heard most often associated with it by locals the following day was “douchey.”

                But still, we were out that night, listening to an eighties cover band, enjoying drinks, the warmth, the lights, and the brief span of three days that we share together that have to cover the other 362. One of my friends was buying me a drink and explaining to me how much we’d meant to him when he was a teenager, how we’d been the people that had helped him hold it together, and if it meant buying a few extra rounds once a year, he’d always be fine. I’m cheap by nature and nurture, but am willing to accept drinks, though I usually begin by saying no.

                After a while the crowd in the court yard starts to thin out as the people who have come down for this spectacle of lights choose their favorite or the most appealing bar. We settle on a pizza place that has a decent DJ and settle into a corner with a few beers, watching a baseball game on an overhead television where a guy is going for a perfect game. The rest of his athletic career will probably be a let down after this moment. It’s probably best that it only lasted 8 1/3.

                The floor is slippery but sticky in spots where people have spilled beers. It’s a nice floor for dancing as pizza parlors go, and the DJ is playing a lot of nineties rap, which makes everyone shake just a little more. The parlor has an island, about three feet across and twenty feet long, that runs the length of the side of the bar that we’re on dividing two rows of booths. The island is populated by girls who’ve come to the bar to dance, and presumably couldn’t resist the impulse to get up on stage to do it. This is different than the sort of place where it’s the bar tenders doing the dancing, which I’ve seen in nearly every Southern city that I’ve been in, which is more problematic and relationally strange and winds up in some people, not us, buying eleven dollar drinks.

                We were dancing below the island and watching the game when one of my friends got pulled up onto the island to dance. Within seconds, as I cheer him on, I hear the DJ say, “No dudes on the bar.” My friend doesn’t hear and the DJ muffles the music to yell, “Hey. No dicks on the bar.” The DJ is a muscle bound guy wearing a black t-shirt and a wrist band, and though he’s kicking out some good music, he has all the appearance of a classic douche.

                In general, I’m a pretty law abiding sort of guy. I’ve feared authority since I was very young. My kindergarten teacher scared me so much that I think she thought I might have been handicapped, so paralyzed was I with fear. When I see a cop, I always slow down, even if I’m already five miles an hour under the speed limit. My immediate reaction to confrontation is to wish that I was a turtle that could hide under a shell.

However, as my friend got down from the bar, a chord of injustice had been struck that made the evening feel off kilter. We danced for a while longer, but everything was different. The people seemed way more annoying, and it struck me how unfair it was that only women were allowed to dance on the bar. Yes, I’ll grant you that, by and large throughout the course of human history, mostly do to misogyny and patriarchy women have been the ones doing the dancing on bars. However, the years was 2013. We had Barak Obama as president and Hilary Clinton on the way. What was wrong with dudes dancing on the bar, besides the fact that no one would stare up at us and want to stay? Economically, a lot, I suppose.

M: Are you ready to leave?
  G: Sure.

M: Do you know how we’re going to leave?

G: How?

M: We’re going to go dance on the bar.

It was a good idea. And as we moved across the floor and the music swelled I was the first one to jump up on the seat and start dancing, followed by four of my friends. We were precariously close to the island, but not quite breaking the rules of the bar. But somewhere out there was my kindergarten teacher, breathing down at me, wondering why I couldn’t cut straight with scissors, and I knew it was time to strike back. And so six of us jumped up on the island, and I danced my way down to the end, hopped off on the floor and quickly walked, with the help of a security guard, out into the warm, warm night. From there my friend and I danced to “Get Lucky” in the courtyard with a bunch of cops watching, but the mood of the evening had already been struck. I’d been kicked out of a bar for the first, and I’m sure last time in my life.