Author Archives: thehamazon

k e x p + me

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“Where the music matters.”

You can usually tell how I’m doing by what kind of music I’m listening to. Did I sleep 12 hours, write 3,000 words of which 1,000 were funny, or wear the fiercest lip color to a meeting? Then it’s time for the Marika, You’re Killing It playlist: 13 songs that make me feel like the human equivalent of a hair flip. Did I do all of those things on the same day and wear heels for more than 10 minutes? That calls for the Bitch, You Are Basically Beyonce mix, a triumphant playlist of 33 songs guaranteed to make me feel like a boss. Point being, if I’m listening to Diana Ross, I’m pretty happy; if I’m listening to sad trombone noises, I probably got dumped by a clown.

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Game of Thrones Finale Recap

 

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Tyrion Bluth

We open in the City of Ashes. 

Tyrion and Jon and Co. stand around like human side-eye emojis and take it all in. Dead peeps everywhere. One lone flayed straggler wanders by in a daze. Tyrion makes his way to what was formerly The Red Keep.

Greyworm reminds us that he’s a hired killer and singularly-minded in obeying Dany’s managerial directions aka MURDER EVERYONE. He kills the followers of Cersei in the street.

The Imp takes a stroll down Memory Lane, then goes to find his awful siblings buried beneath one whole layer of bricks. This gratuitous b.s. brought to you by men who thought this would somehow be a tearjerker moment. NO ONE CARES THEY DIED. I would have been much happier with their untimely demise if Jaime had killed her first and then they died together. And Tyrion should be the last one crying over these incestuous dicks who did fuck-all to make the world a better place for anyone but themselves.

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SAYING GOT-BYE

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It must be Game of Thrones finale time

It’s the end of an actual decade of watching Game of Thrones together. I introduced my husband to the books many years ago, after one of my longtime besties, Kim, stayed persistent and made me read them. I refused for so long because the book jacket looked cheesy as hell — I think there was a white guy on his steed in the forest with a snowy castle in the background (Winterfell, probably) — and the first couple chapters were about spooky ghost folks in the woods, so I passed.

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The Lake Woods

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Lake + Woods

I just recently spent six days at Chelan in the woods — “the woods” is code for “there was no wifi” — with a good friend and it was everything I needed. I leaned into all the -ings. Eating, reading, writing, sleeping, cooking, dreaming, staring, nothing. A whole lot of nothing. I read Crazy Rich Asians. Played Yahtzee. Went bowling during half-price day, and walked along the water. She found Kingsman in the cabin’s DVD collection, so we made vodka cocktails (heavy on the lime) and watched that one night with our feet up. It was probably the eighth time I’d seen it because I’m a COLIN FIRTH FANGIRL. I think he’s my #1 on the ole celebrity exception list, now that Alan Rickman is gone. This is perhaps the most American thing I may say in my lifetime, but the fight scene (tw: very graphic, lotsa murder) where he kills 40 people in one long, continual church scene is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, and the only time in history when “Freebird” was the perfect soundtrack. 

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GOT Recap, S8 E5: No, Thanks

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So accurate it’s painful.

“What is dead may never die” and yet I’m ready to pull the plug on Game of Thrones. Better that than watch this sloppy, predictable, dementia-riddled death at the hands of writers who ultimately chose to serve themselves over the actual story.

As someone who loves television, I’ve always been fascinated by writer’s rooms and the creative process by which these complicated stories get made. And I imagined so many scenarios around the Game of Thrones writer’s room; how they potentially built on each other’s strengths and mapped out George R.R. Martin’s epic fantasy tale together. Was it an austere writer’s room, was it messy, was it thoughtful? I envisioned spirited debates over plot points, and late nights where crafting an incredible fantasy series was worth missing out on dinner with the kids or having a girlfriend. I imagined being part of something greater than yourself, writing your name in the annals of television history, and building worlds for people of all backgrounds to dive into, even if just for an hour. The responsibility seemed great, but so did the honor. “Those writers are so lucky,” I thought. “They must be at the top of their game.”

Now it’s clear that the process for writing this show is furiously masturbating onto a pile of old TV tropes, lighting the pile with misogynistic wildfire, feeding the ashes to a woman suffering in silence who wasn’t given any lines, watching her HORK the flaccid remains onto a typewriter from 1984, then naming her vomit “Game of Thrones, Season 8, Episode 5.”

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