Archive | May, 2012

Game of Thrones: A Pre-Read, Pre-Viewing Review

26 May

I am surrounded by the Game of Thrones.

Sometimes I wonder if it is good. Is it good? I’m not sure.

As an adult male with a frustrating lack of time to do the things I’d like to do for fun, I have to economize my free time as much as possible. I have to only do extremely high-value things. So, I’d like to determine whether Game of Thrones is good enough before I spend countless hours of my time reading/watching it.

It seems clear to me that Game of Thrones employs a number of swords. Many different swords are used in this book series. You can tell by looking at the cover of the first installment. There are so many swords in the Game of Thrones series that people are making chairs out of them. I have turned over every volume of this series at stores and have yet to see any other weapon than a sword. The third installment is called A Storm of Swords. This lends credence to the abundance of swords in the Game of Thrones series. They are now in the atmosphere. Swords in the atmosphere.  I think there is a helmet like Maximus’s from Gladiator on one of the covers. This leads me to believe that Russel Crowe (As himself) makes an appearance in the series. This is great. This makes all the other characters in the series a little nervous though, because they know about his reputation as a hothead and are afraid to get beat up/be on TMZ.

But aside from the cover and the promise of a variety of blades being employed, it is the writing that really makes this series a winner. “Grabs hold and won’t let go. It’s brilliant.” Robert Jordan writes on the first installment’s back cover. This comment makes me think of sex.

The first installment of the series, Game of Thrones, is about a chess game played by the great old giants of old, way back in the old times. It is also about a pair of large Sudanese men who take turns throwing thrones into hoops hung high in the air. The stakes of these games are not simply the thrill of victory or the fear of loss, but death. Burning death, that burns so badly as you die.

The second book in this series is called A Clash of Kings. I’ll come back to this.

But also in this series seems to be a lot of sex. When people mention the television show, this always comes up, and all I can think of is medieval, smudge-faced, backdoor, pants around the ankles, barn sex. There may be a sword on the ground somewhere in the background. There may be a little person wearing an ornate shirt with puffy shoulders watching, either smiling jollily, or eyeing the pair with a plotting look, his little midget wee wee standing up like the lid of a Magic Marker.

I might not come back to A Clash of Kings.

The cast of Game of Thrones television show is composed entirely of beautiful women, midgets, hydrocephalic children and Tommy Carcetti. I imagine Tommy walks into the throne room, where the guy who was Boromir in Lord of the Rings sits proudly on his throne. Tommy has a huge sword that is much too large for one hand, that is meant for two hands, but Tommy doesn’t understand that a two-hand sword is a real thing and not just a thing that weak guys call a one-hand sword. So, he stumbles in toward the throne, struggling to hold the sword out in front of him. He looks like a toddler trying to carry practically anything.

“I want this–Can I have this throne?” He asks in a heart-pounding moment.

The king stands, his armor squeaks like a rubber ducky.

“NO! This is my throne!”

Tommy lowers his sword. He smiles with one side of his face. “Your name isn’t on it.”

The king’s eyes get wide. He calls his top adviser over. “Have this throne searched for my name! It must be there.”

But no one can find his name anywhere. He shrugs, says a cuss word, and steps down off the throne. Carcetti drops the sword, which clatters loudly to the ground. He skips up to the throne.

[Editor’s Note: What are you reviewing in this passage?]

I don’t know.

Then one of the little people pops out of Boromir’s butt and says “Beebudee beebudee that’s all folks” and the whole series ends.

This book and this show sound awesome. I hope at one point a horse slips on some mud or something and a horse’s butt hole lands on a little person and then the horse says “WAAAHOOOOO” and stands up and runs all over the kingdom and you can see the little guy’s legs wiggling around in its butthole like the horse grew two tiny tails.

Boromir and Carcetti stand laughing, their arms around each other’s shoulders. Two men. Two kings. Two wildly different haircuts.

I can’t wait to experience Game of Thrones.

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Kyle Irion and the Very Annoying Night

15 May

It is Friday night. My band, Savage and the Big Beat, is playing a house show.

My friend, Derek, who gave me a ride, drops me off in front of the house while he finds parking. I’m running late, and for some reason I feel like I’ll be in trouble if I don’t get my things in soon. I expected the second band to have started by now, but it appears the first is still playing. It is 11:00.

I am carrying my pedal board, my guitar, and my “Magic Bag,” which contains no real magic, unless you consider guitar cables magical, in which case I feel really sad for you and don’t tell me you think it’s magical because that will ruin my entire day.

“GOOD LUCK!” A fat man says to me as I approach the house. He looks very sweaty and his facial hair is growing in a pattern similar to the way moss grows on a tree. I look to him and say nothing, but silently wish him luck with his fight against obesity.

The driveway to the house is packed with cars and people. It is dark and there are few lights outside, so the scene is a series of silhouettes. Cardboard cutouts of people and cars. I see two men peeing on a fence. I remember when I could pee on a fence. That was before I had gainful employment/a grown-man penis that feels strange being whipped out around 19 year olds.

I waddle to the garage/performance space with my equipment.

There is one door through which people are entering and exiting the garage. My drummer emerges through it and offers to help carry my things. He grabs the magic bag and the pedals. I carry the guitar. We force our way through the crowd and enter the converted garage. It is full of young, sweaty, intoxicated humans. The air is thick with musk and smoke. It’s like walking around a biker’s crotch parts.

We make our way into the kitchen. I do not know where to go from here.

“This way” my drummer, Ryan, says. He leads me down a hallway to a back room that I can tell is lit by a single red bulb. I begin to have flash backs to Caligula and the Doors movie. I get nervous.

He opens a door at the end of the hall and my butt-lips tighten. My leather donut is at full tension when Ryan turns and says “You can put it all in here.” In here. I wasn’t expecting the sex to happen so fast. And I thought there would be more people.

“I thought there would be more people here,” I say, slowly putting down my equipment.

“You kidding me? There are tons of people here!”

Fear shoots through me like an arrow. Where are they? Will this be a sexual ambush? Ambush my bush?

My palms are sweaty and my package has shriveled to resemble a tiny mushroom growing on the knot of a tree. I try to excite myself. I think of running water–fountains, rivers. I feel an extremely strong urge to urinate and realize I am thinking of the wrong things.

Noticing my hesitation, Ryan asks “You okay with this? I promise it’ll be safe here.”

Safe. Safe.

“You sure?” I ask.

“Yeah. No one is going to get in here but the bands, and they don’t want you messing with their stuff, so they aren’t going to mess with yours.”

“Sounds like a pretty shitty orgy,” I say, the mix of “shit” and “orgies” instantly making me hard. Now I’m ready. I just hope I’m gay enough.

Ryan blinks a few times and says nothing, then “What?”

I realize I have misjudged the situation. Seeing all the windows are shut and locked, I turn around and walk out of the room as quickly as I can.

When I reach the crowd in the kitchen, I see a man I know. His name is Phil. Hello, Phil.

Phil says hello.

“I feel a little silly,” I say. The music is forcing me to yell into Phil’s ear.

“What? Why?” he yells back.

“I didn’t know this was a theme party.”

“A theme party?” Phil leans back away from my ear. He looks confused.

“‘Saved by the Bell,’ right?”

“I d–”

“90’s clothes.” I look around “Is this not a 90’s party?”

“No.”

“Thrift Store Dumpster?”

“No.”

“Sequins and Just Straight Up Ugly Polos?”

“I can’t tell if you’re talking shit on everyone or not.”

I hear the phrase “shit on everyone” and harden again.

“No, no,” I say, forcing laughter. “I’m just kidding.”

Phil laughs too. He will hate me forever.

I go outside and meet up with Derek there. He is standing by a Mazda and drinking some strange concoction that with every sip is taking minutes off of his life. Roy Robertson of the Roy Robertson Band is also there. He is spinning in place and then ducking very low before springing back up and spinning again.

“Hey Derek,” I say. “Hey Roy.”

“Hello,” Derek says, his voice dripping with the jolliness of intoxication.

“Time,” Roy whispers, then blows a small handful of dirt from his outstretched palm.

“When’re you guys going on?” Derek asks. The first band is wrapping up, leaving two more bands to play before we go on. It’s 11:15. More people are showing up every minute, too many for the house and garage to contain. I’m pretty sure that it’s going to get busted up before we go on.

A man walks by. He is wearing a safari jacket and trousers and he says very loudly that he has every intention of “getting fucked up” this evening.

“Those ancient words,” Derek says, a fire kindling behind his eyes. “Like an incantation.”

The first band ends and the second begins setting up. It is 11:25. At midnight, I look over to the garage and sigh. They are still setting up.

“How long does this band need to set up?” Derek asks. “It’s like fucking Rush is playing tonight.”

But it is not Rush. It is a different band, who could use a little RUSHing.

There is noise from the house. The second band has started. It is 11:32. I am having a conversation with Roy about recording my band’s EP.

“So what do you want to record?” Roy reaches into his pocket, turns away briefly, and when he turns back, has inserted some sort of strobe-light bead into his mouth.

“A few of our songs?” I reply. I am confused.

“WRONG! You want to record lifesex, passion–” Roy keeps getting closer and closer to me. His voice is altered and difficult to understand, because he still has the light up bead resting on his tongue. “love, hate, mystery, war, dogs.”

“Dogs?”

“Like at the dog park,” Roy says, then spits the light bead into the air. Some spit lands on my face. Although this is the first bit of saliva that has touched my face, I feel I’ve been spit on all night.

“I’m confused,” I say.

I walk away and wander through the crowd. They are like refugees. There are so many of them and all seem so aimless, all drinking makeshift booze out of makeshift containers. I see a man drinking beer out of a measuring cup. I try to find people to talk to, but can find none. The last I heard from Derek, he had to “Drain it” and had taken a jug of trashcan punch with him. I asked him why he needed the trash can punch to drain it. He took three bounding steps toward me and grabbed me by my shirt.

“Because, Kyle. I’m lookin’ good, but feelin’ bad.” Then he growled like a wolf and walked to the back of the house.

When a group of young people climb onto the roof, I elbow the guy next to me and make a comment about the dangers of not minding the soft spots on the roofs of old houses. He looks at me like I’ve got blood coming out of my eyes and walks away.

As he leaves me, I see blue and red lights bounce against the house. I turn and look to see where the lights are coming from. There’s only one place they can be coming from.

I look back to the garage. Young people are piling in as if the government has come to collect financial aid payments. I start to walk to the garage, pulled by the invisible attraction of mob mentality. I reach into my back pocket, where my flask is stored. I pull it out and drop it on the ground.

When it hits the ground, it makes a dull clink and the clink is like a flipped switch in my brain.

I ask myself why I’m going to the garage. I’m 25. I have no reason to fear. I pick up my flask and walk back to the cars and lean back on one while listening to the party’s hosts roll around in the social mud trying to convince the cop that everything will be OK, promise.

“I’m not trying to kill the party guys,” the lady cop says. I wonder what the hell she thought she was going to do when she pulled up to the large gathering of illegally intoxicated minors. “Just keep it down, please.” All the hosts nod and thank her for being a good nice cop and she leaves.

Once she is gone, the party continues as if she had never come.

And then the second cop comes.

I tip my hat to the shitty old house and leave.

The End.

Rules for Junior High Dances

6 May

“Okay boys, listen up. I want everyone to have a good time tonight–the entire faculty does.”

“I don’t,” the PE coach that does the sex ed says.

“Everyone except him. He doesn’t want you to have a good time. And do you know why? Because he knows what a “Good Time” can really lead to. Babies. Warts. Discharge. Yes, and it can happen to you. If it has already happened to you, tell your friends how horrible it was. If you try to say it wasn’t that horrible, you’re a liar and you’re not welcome to the snacks anymore. Here are the ten rules.”

  1. Hands must be above the waist at all times. 
  2. Hands must be visible at all times. 
  3. No “Bumping” or “Grinding.”
  4. Keep your crotch and rear-ends as still as possible. 
  5. Resist all temptations to touch her hair. Your greasy little fingers will only ruin it. 
  6. Hold her hand.
  7. Watch her purse and don’t bitch about it. 
  8. No kissing on the first date. 
  9. Open as many doors for her as you can. Don’t open a door for her if it will take too long or take too much effort; that will just make her uncomfortable. 
  10. The more folds the note has, the more facets to your complex and beautiful love for her. 
  11. Go to the dance after Homecoming.
  12. Buy her ticket. 
  13. Dance. 
  14. Tease her, be playful, but never, ever, ever tease her about her looks. 
  15. Hang out with her instead of your friends from time to time, instead of always the other way around.
  16. “Hanging out” is not her watching you play Madden.
  17. Dance.
  18. Call her.
  19. Call her and talk back.
  20. Call her and talk back and ask lots of questions. 
  21. Make out for a while without grabbing boob. 
  22. “A while” is not three minutes.
  23. Dance. 
  24. Sex matters. 
  25. Often times, the more ridiculous you feel while doing something, the more she’s going to love it. 
  26. So, do ridiculous (romantic) things.
  27. Not loving someone who loves you does not make you smarter, cooler, or more reasonable than that person. 
  28. Be careful with people who love you, and don’t fuck it up.
  29. Dance.
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