I am the one and only.
I live in Los Angeles.
I like eating, filmmaking, playing Elder Scrolls: Skyrim, writing, and people.
Ask me anything
Mostly this is a blog about stuff I cook, want to cook, or want someone to cook for me, Game of Thrones gifs, and the cool dogs I hang out with. (That's a metaphor.)
(Also, saying that's a metaphor is a Werner Herzog reference.)
cmeathrell at gmail is where I nerd out.
ANDY GREENWALD, LADIES AND GENTS
Thank you for making me laugh. out. loud. on a Monday morning.
(Sean T. Collins is my other go-to GoT recapper.)
"Can I dwell on what I scarce remember? I held a castle on the Marches once, and there was a woman I was pledged to marry, but I could not find that castle today, nor tell you the color of that woman’s hair. Who knighted me, old friend? What were my favorite foods? It all fades. Sometimes I think I was born on the bloody grass in that grove of ash, with the taste of fire in my mouth and a hole in my chest. Are you my mother, Thoros?"
Arya stared at the Myrish priest, all shaggy hair and pink rags and bits of old armor. Grey stubble covered his checks and the sagging skin beneath his chin. He did not look much like the wizards in Old Nan’s stories, but even so…
"Could you bring back a man without a head?" Arya asked. "Just the once, not six times. Could you?" A Storm of Swords, George R.R. Martin.
The sense of pattern recognition that comes from diving into fathoms and fathoms of canon is its own kind of narrative reward.
The problem — and the excitement — of Game of Thrones comes from rewards and expectations.
I just wrote a whole lot of stuff about Game of Thrones that you probably shouldn’t read to begin with but definitely not if you haven’t seen the show or read all the books. But if you don’t care either way, knock yourself out.
If Game of Thrones itself had a house motto, it might be, “What’s past is prologue.” It’s true for the highborn, who live their lives in the constant light — or shadow — of their ancestors. And it’s true, too, for those scrambling to gentle themselves. (Ros has to remind Varys that “prostitute” is her “former position.”) The big, Silence of the Lambs–ish reveal at the end of Varys’s story — it puts the balls in the fire — is not only effective because, Jesus, Varys has a dude with his lips sewn shut stuffed in a packing crate, but because it shows, in an unsettlingly casual way, just how long memories can be. Time heals no wounds, grudges, slights, or offenses. It’s no coincidence that the show’s ever-impressive opening credits depict centuries of Westerosi history: all those tales are still feeding the beast.
Which is part of the reason being a Game of Thrones geek is so great: The sense of pattern recognition that comes from diving into fathoms and fathoms of canon is its own kind of narrative reward.
This is good and relevant to my current critical interests (cf. Barthel’s comment on the show):
Nobody bother me or text me or email me or ask me out for drinks for AT LEAST another 48 hours, or until I actually write something about this.