A Game of Thrones

Being a tv-less household, let alone HBO-less household, Andy and I came to Game of Thrones a little late in the game. (Pun!) We had to wait until the first season was released on DVD before we could immerse ourselves in the world of Westeros and beyond. We just finished watching the second season last month and now the fact that season three is currently showing on HBO but we have to wait for nearly a year before we'll see any of those episodes is softly killing Andy, I think.

 
It should be admitted that I'm a fantasy nerd. As a teen, I inhaled Terry Goodkind's Sword of Truth series (who else misses Legend of the Seeker? Erm . . . just me then?) although I never finished the series after I'd read all the books that had been published through 2001. Maybe I should get back to them one of these days, but truthfully, the thought of sitting down with 1000+ page book kind of intimidates me any more. I read all of the Mist of Avalon books until Marion Zimmer Bradley's death. And I'm always in the mood for a good fantasy mini-series like Pillars of the Earth. So it was probably inevitable that Andy and I would fall wholeheartedly for the world George R.R. Martin created for his Song of Ice and Fire.

 
For his birthday in November, Andy received a copy of George R.R. Martin's  A Game of Throne which he read from cover to cover before the day was done. (For reals, all 807 pages in a single day.) Over the next month or so, Andy churned his way through the entire (published) book series, all the while insisting that I needed to read the books too because they were "so much better than the show."

So in the middle of December, I turned the first page of A Game of Thrones. It was interesting. It was good. I read 200 pages in the first few days. But then, I had books that I needed to read for reviews. And then my lovely brother gave me a gift certificate to Barnes and Noble for Christmas which meant I got my hands on some books I'd been longing to read. And I started to get a little tired of the fact that I already knew the next plot twist and turn since the HBO series follows the plot of the first book quite closely.  And well, you know how it goes.

Basically the gist of this post is that I finished the book on Friday. As in, the book that Andy read in a day, I read in four months. Funny isn't it, when two people can agree on liking one thing, but their approach to said thing can be so totally different.  What makes my very slow reading all the more shocking is that I'm the reader around these parts. Andy can go for months without picking up a book.

And that's not even half the battle. Now I have four more massive books waiting for my attention. I'd like to have read both books 2 and 3 before this current season comes out on disc so I'm sort of ahead of the curve. That nearly 2000 pages that need to get read between now and next February. Normally, I'd hardly even see that as a challenge, but considering the fact that it took me four months to read the first (and the second shortest) book, I'm starting to doubt my ability. You guys, I'm not sure I can do this.

What have you been reading/watching lately?

 

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Snow and the Oscars

Snow and the Oscars will be forever linked in my mind.

In northern Minnesota, a massive dumping of snow over the final weekend of February seems as sure as the Academy Awards Ceremony. Yesterday was no exception to the rule. The entire day passed in that snowstorm half light which holds time in place until darkness falls.

It wasn't a huge dropping of snow - just 5 -8 inches of accumulation predicted. But with the way everyone in the Northland's talking, you'd think we were getting 2 feet of snow, and really, such amount isn't unheard of for the traditional end of February snowstorm. How excitable we are about any measly bit of snow demonstrates just what a wimpy winter it's been.

Oscar Night marks the one snowstorm a year I'll voluntarily venture out into. One year, as a friend and I drove to an Oscar gathering, the several inches of snow on top of her car all slide down onto the windshield as we headed down a hill. The windshield wipers, which had been valiantly working to keep up with the falling snow, were paralyzed under this sudden dumping of snow. We stopped the car, hopped out, and swept off the windshield while fresh snow gathered on our hats and shoulders. It's amazing what hale and hearty Minnesotan girls will do for a dose of glamor.


Another time, I fishtailed my way over to an Oscar party in my Toyota Corolla, then slipped and slid most of the way down an extremely steep hill on my way back home to my college apartment at the party's conclusion. Under normal circumstances, I would curse and berate myself for going out in such weather, but on Oscar night, I go with the flow . . .and the snow.   

Just last year, it took me two attempts to get my car up and over the curving steep hill in our road to get myself over to the neighbors'  where they were streaming Oscars coverage. The snowfall outside interrupted the satellite feed that night and we never did see any of the actual ceremony. Turns out the "Academy Awards Backstage Pass" really does just show you the backstage of the Kodak Theatre and we had to use some careful deductive work to figure out what award had just been presented and who had won.


Don't get me wrong; I don't care much about the Oscars. This year, like most years, I'd watched a total of none of the best picture nominees. But don't mistake not caring about the Oscars for not liking the Oscars. Because I love the frivolity of the whole thing:  pretty dresses, cheesy film montages, pomp and circumstance.

Between the Oscars and the upcoming high school boys hockey tournament, this is about the only two week period of the entire year when I wish we had a television. But last night, I missed the Oscars. Instead, I watched the snow slowly accumulate outside, while I dreamed of Hollywood, red carpets, and glamor.

At least I got half of the deal.

 

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Life Without Television

I feel like I talk a big talk about the fact that we don't have a television. I feel like I've lead people to believe that we lack a t.v. because we prefer more intellectual entertainment such as listening to NPR or sipping boxed  fine wine and having compelling discussions about foreign politics over dinner. Perhaps I've lead you to believe that our nightly entertainment is annotating the margins of literary classics.

And I wouldn't be lying if I told you that MPR is on at least once every single day in the cabin or that I've spent the last three nights cuddled up on the couch reading an increasingly tattered copy of Anne of Avonlea.

But here are some truth facts about the whole "sans tv" situation.

• We don't have room for a tv.
• I don't want to pay the bills the service
• I prefer to get my TLC and Bravo fix in short but intense doses when visiting others.

And remember that Netflix account?

Yep, this weekend Andy totally upped our Netflix account so we can have three DVDs at a time.

Can we claim superiority over all t.v. owners out there? I think not.

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Life without a Television

I grew up in a household lacking a television, but least you fear my brother and I were raised as some northern hybrid of the "homeschool jungle freak," let me assure you that we did not spend our afternoons studying up for the National Spelling Bee. In the summer months, our maternal grandparents were our next door neighbors and more afternoons than not, we'd head over for our diet pop and a couple hours in front of the tube, watching Cartoon Network and Nickelodeon (and later on, MTV and VH1), slowly turning our brains into a soft jelly.

During the winter, my grandparents headed south, forcing us two kids to depend on the library for some old fashioned entertainment. In college, I enjoyed the hundreds of complimentary cable channels that came with on-campus living and quickly discovered that people really meant it when they said "there's nothing on." Now that I'm on my own, I once again live in a household without a television and it's hard to miss the blaring, commercial ridden box when there's Netflix.

Through it all, there's always been a time every year when everyone in my family actively seeks out a television.

Yep, Minnesota High School Boys Hockey tournament time! The four-day tournament always takes place in St. Paul over the second weekend of March. It almost always handily coincides with my birthday (including my birth day) and I have gone so far as to have friends tape the championship games on the two occasions when I've been out of the country during the tournament. Needless to say, the tournament offers the best hockey in the world. The color commentary of intrepid tournament announcer Lou Nanne is basically the soundtrack to this annual weekend at my house.

Over the years, we've come up with pretty creative ways to get around the fact that none of us own a television to watch the tournament. One time, my father (who always walks or bikes to work) came home from work with a borrowed t.v. so small, it fit inside his backpack. If I remember correctly, the only thing the teeny t.v. ever displayed was a whole lot of static. Another time, we borrowed a larger television, but the set only got reception in our (unfinished) basement. That year we huddled around the t.v. on the concrete floor between the wood pile and roaring furnace. More often that not, we ended up crashing at the (sometimes unheated) home of some out of town accommodating friend or relative to get our annual fill of hockey.

The ridiculous television adventures seem destined to continue. Just last weekend, I headed over to the neighbors' for some Oscar viewing. We figured we could stream the awards show, but the only thing streaming was a backstage commentary, complete with the thank you cam and press conferences, but no actual shots of the actually ceremony. Figuring out who actually won required careful deductive skills. But that's just life in the woods, alienated from the world of popular culture.   

As for the hockey tournament this year, Mom says she's figured out a way to stream it. We'll just see how that goes, eh?

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Happily Ever After?

I am the first to admit that I have terrible taste in television. Perhaps because I grew up in a home without a t.v., I find myself drawn to the glowing animated box like a moth to the flame. While I can defend my penchant for Project Runway and Top Chef, some of my other television habits completely lack defense. No matter how much knitting I may have gotten done while watching Millionaire Matchmaker, The Real Housewives of Orange County, or The Hills, the time spend watching such drivel truly are lost hours of my life.

So when the satellite receiver in the Shack spontaneously exploded last fall, just when I was contemplating moving in, it seemed like a no brainer to not fix it. The decision not to have television had nothing to do with living life closer to nature and everything to do with saving a couple bucks and keeping me away from my guilty pleasure: the Bravo Network. Of course, we promptly set up a Netflix account.

While we keep the bad television at bay, I continue to have devastating access to my beloved chick flicks. I enjoy the run of the mill conflict of interests and the predictable happy endings of chick flicks. But when I popped in Must Love Dogs this morning while doing laundry, even I found the plot a little too predictable.

As a person in a committed relationship who is contemplating pet ownership, I guess I wanted dogs to feature a little more prominently in the plot line. Sure “Must Love Dogs” made a cute title and a great poster, but little time was spent exploring just how pet ownership affects a relationship. And even though it was supposed to be an edgier chick flick that focused on the divorcee instead of the twenty-something, it was still had the heavy handed standard chick-flick application of “I found someone I’ve committed to and now my life is perfect” to all characters: even the ones who’d shown no inclination towards commitment at any other point in the film.

I know I watch bad television and poor movies that are all pretty far removed from reality. But still . . . .

Why are we always feed this line that our lives are miserable until that magical moment of falling in love? Why does falling in love in the movies always lead to marriage, maybe some babies, and little else on screen?

I’m not saying I’m anti-commitment, rather, I’m wondering: “what’s next?” Is there really no life after making a commitment worth making a movie about? And most importantly, are dogs and cats involved in happily ever after?

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