GAME OF THRONES: ALL THAT POO AND A ZOMBIE DRAGON TOO

more poo
Sam’s chamber pot scene could have been funny if GoT had a rep for funny

I tried to watch the first episode of Season 7 after a three-year break and was reminded in the first two minutes why I had quit in the first place:  the showrunner’s preoccupation with fecal matter and mangled human bodies. All that poo before the opening credits invaded my senses and put me right off my food. The autopsy scene that followed was just the icing on the cake.

 

The fact that three scenes in took me right back to where I’d left off three years ago (with

cersei
She just doesn’t change–ever.

a reference to the red wedding) told me that not much had happened on Thrones during my hiatus and that the show moved slower than Harry Potter’s battle with Lord Voldemort.

 

 

 

 

casket
Getting down with Jaime in front of Joff’s coffin raised the euw bar on Thrones

Glacial pacing notwithstanding, how much longer will Queen Cersei hang in there? She has a new do and her stylist is fabulous, but all those scowls and scene chews wore thin by S7 E2 at just past the 30 minute mark. At least I didn’t have to suffer another randy legover between the siblings in front of a dead son’s casket (that one was over the top and too cloying even to shock).

 

 

 

I had to eventually skip to S7 E7 and fast forwarded a couple of times before the wall

funny thrones
A heart-warming stoner scene that, sadly, never happened

came tumbling down. Winter has finally come and the zombies are on the march.

 

Slowly.

 

Very, very slowly.

 

Like this show. In its last gasps.

 

Someone win the game, already. I’m worn out.

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SLAY THAT DRAGON: SANS SERIF AND MONSTERPAUSE

Let’s be clear: I don’t want new clothes, I just want to fit into the ones I’ve got. But this will be a greater challenge than claiming the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms. For unlike the mother of dragons, I am the arbiter of monsterpause, a dark and hideous critter that wreaks havoc on the minds, waist lines, and interpersonal communications of its victims.

Like a Rottweiler gone bad, monsterpause is a nasty beasty, flexed, on guard and poised to strike at a moment’s notice. When it does, sufferers get grouchy, miserable and pugilistic. Ask those nearest me: they know.

My editor recommends black cohosh, an all natural herbal remedy widely used by First Nations. I’ll give it a try, but not just yet. Because as I work and slave over a hot keyboard, I’ve noticed a neat little side effect whenever the big dog comes scratching. Like Viagra and the really great side benefits that result from it, monsterpause seems to generate terrific scene sets and character blow ups in this writer.

Is there such a thing as a method writer? If so, then I think I’m one of them, albeit Method Lite (like Coors). Instead of taking to the winter forest for a cool walk in shorts, I write man characters when my thermostat climbs. In their visceral, florid, furiosity (not a real word) my make believe guys soar and to great effect. My male muses who vet my stuff for authenticity offer praise for my creations, not knowing the subtext behind them. It’s gratifying and a tad sneaky: the lads must never know.

For such a result, I can suffer the monster. if it was a type face, it would be sans serif: meaty, moody and unrelenting in its abject disdain for curves or sentimentality…like Helvetica!

What I can’t rationalize away–yet–is a life in stretchy jeans, and so it must be conquered. My wardrobe, like a finished novel, is snappy, tailored and waiting to be discovered. I shall try to be worthy of both.

Or I could launder my sweat pants and remain at my keyboard.

Grrrrrrrrr.

Unapologetic, adult and cognizant, I wish you good Tuesday. Let’s stay above it.

ABF

#menomadness #writing #amwriting #wardrobemalfunctions