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There is no moment between human beings that I cannot record…” Bernie in The Conversation 

I’m going to start writing a short movie review every Saturday starting NOW and I want to start with The Conversation which is a classic 1974 Coppola directed thriller that I just saw a few months ago for the first time. I love Gene Hackman and since he stars as Harry Caul I was pretty sure I’d dig this movie and I did. I give this a 9 out of 10 stars.

We are first introduced to Hackman’s character through his act of surveillance as he narrows down the world to a sound, we are given a view of his psychological neurosis as we watch him take off his pants while he speaks with his landlady about privacy. “This is Harry Caul from upstairs…Yes, well, thank you very much. Thank you…You’re really very nice, yes, but…what I wanted to talk to you about was how did you put it in the apartment?…What about the alarm? Oh you did?…I thought I had the only key…well, what emergency could possibly…all right, yes. You see, I would be perfectly happy to have all my personal things burned up in a fire because I don’t have anything personal. Nothing of value. No, nothing personal except my keys, you see, which I really would like to have the only copy of, Mrs. Evangelista. As of today, my mail will go to a post-office box with a combination on it and no keys. Goodbye.”

As an invader of other people’s privacy, as a man inundated with the sloppiness of other people’s secrets, as a man who profits from the weakness of others, the compulsion towards intimacy that drives people to indiscretion of sharing secrets, he is obsessed with his own privacy, his own lack of secrets, his own life devoid of intimacy. 

Yet, he is fascinated by other people’s compulsion towards intimacy. One of the best scenes is when he hooks up with a girl while playing the tapes of the couple’s conversation in the background. It is like he is devoid of human feeling and must channel it through these tapes, he is trying to be simply a recording apparatus, but this case breaks him. I think it is the lilt of the girls voice and her stating “I always think that he was once somebody’s baby boy. Really, I do. I think he was once somebody’s baby boy, and he had a mother and a father who loved him, and now there he is, half dead on a park bench, and where are his mother or his father, all his uncles now?”

Something about her triggers a deep impulse in him to protect, he is afraid of the blood on his hands if she is murdered.

The only other moment we see his character soften, to become emotional and intimate is when he plays along to jazz records with his saxophone. Apparently, according to IMDB trivia, Gene Hackman learned to play saxophone for the film and that makes sense as these scenes are so textured and powerful. The later scene of Hackmen playing saxophone after ripping his apartment to shreds in a fit of paranoia searching for a bug is notoriously poignant. 

I completely recommend this movie; it is from an era when thrillers were tense, unresolved, full of long ariel shots and feel lived in, like you just happen to be lucky enough to see shit going down. 

I love anything meta and films about surveillance & crisis of consciousness are my jam. If you haven’t scene this movie, do.  

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peanutbutterdreams:

#savages “No Face” Fay Milton is an animal on drums. I love watching her ponytail bounce. (at El Rey Theatre)

Saw Savages at the EL REY last night, but the show lacked that electricity which is the real essence of rock & roll. They tore it up with precise, driving rock as to be expected from when I saw them destroy and leave a wake of awe at Coachella - their all black attire & cool scientific control & precision was striking in the desert heat. They burst on the washed out palette we washed down with unlimited Heineken. In the beer soaked, sweaty afternoon of the second day of Coachella, Savages were a sharp breath of fresh air.

However the show last night felt stuffy. More like the El Rey just played the record really loud on a great sound system while I drank overpriced Red Bull Vodkas for some energy. The show lacked that electricity which is the real essence of rock & roll.

The Savages need to loosen up! Dude you sold out 2 shows in LA have some fun & thank your fans. Give your fans something to talk about. Figure out the performance piece & write some more songs & of course I’ll see you again Savages but next time I don’t want to need caffeine to stay awake.

Love
Greta

Source: peanutbutterdreams
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So here’s an excerpt from my Master’s thesis which was apparently written by a possessed version of me. Still I fucking the Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.

“In both Prufrock and Portrait of A Lady, the teleological imperative of atmospheric causality drives the poem’s denouement only for the last-minute conclusion to wryly evade the seeming inevitability of the narrative thrust. The endings of both poems dodge the dangerous consequences set up by the poem and everything surfaces as a twisted joke in which nobody will really die. This serves to reinforce a suspicion that the sensations and environment described by the narrator are hyperbolic exaggerations hallucinated by his psyche. The narrative personas emerge as unpredictable and untrustworthy as the lines between fantasy and fiction, the serious and the comic, and the sincere and absurd keep blurring.
Our wariness of each narrator replicates each narrator’s own lack of trust in himself. The narrator is struggling to control and clarify his identity and the reader is attempting to determine the authenticity of the representation and the honesty of the speaker. For example, Prufrock speaks to us not quite in hallucinations nor Freudian fantasies; for, his feelings of being “formulated and sprawling on a pin,” or desires to be “a pair of ragged claws / Scuttling across silent seas,” express states of mind for which there is no easy verbal equivalent. By these statements, Eliot shows Prufrock engaging in active self-representation and attempting to reclaim some control over his identity. Ironically, Prufrock takes action in representing himself in a very passive way; he is very engaged in showing how disengaged he is.”

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I used to be a walker of walls. 

I am obsessed with this wall in my neighborhood. I love how it is filthy and shellacked with thick layers of paint. It somehow both looks wet, yet it’s cracking and peeling… the wall looks alive. When I saw the wall the other day, I was in a tough spot. I can only understand the direness of my position if I think of it terms of being an animal fighting against extinction. I love how Darwin broke down the boundary between animals and humans in the “Descent of Man,” it is a meta-boundary destruction; he was a fucking insightful man. Most importantly, Darwin understood “It is not the strongest of the species that survives, nor the most intelligent that survives. It is the one that is the most adaptable to change.”

I used to be a walker of walls. The very thought of conforming to be safe, of hiding behind a wall to be unseen never fit me, so I learned to survive on the edge. I learned to be chameleon, to perform for my audience a certain form of being that they found most appealing. I was to someone whatever version they wanted of me. Then suddenly this reptilian survival side began to disgust me. The primary thing that disgusted me was the people, particularly men, who thought they knew me or knew what I wanted. Nobody knows what I want because I don’t tell anybody. I’m afraid that I will fail, that I am wrong in my desires or that things will never happen how I want. Leaving in a fearful, unsatisfied world, shedding my chameleon skin, I became a viper, recoiling from affection and snapping with precision at my enemies. I have become a slimy serpentine beast, hiding in the dirt where I belong in my world of buried aspirations and shameful femininity. I do not want to appeal to anybody. 

This is no rebellion; this is an abyss of conformity. This snake world is not for me. I am in a writhing pit of snakes, of selfish creatures wrestling for a chance to bite first. Arguing over who has the biggest teeth or most venomous arsenal, I have sunk into a subterranean boundary and feel further away from what I want than I ever have. I can’t play the snake game, hissing behind each other’s ears, tattling and gossiping until we all tangle into a pretzel and ensure our mutual destruction.

It is time to evolve in order to survive. If I want to be different, if I want my life to change, I have to change and I need to look at things differently. This thought of the need to survive, coupled with the desire to thrive to start an evolution revolution or a survival revival in myself is the genesis of the second picture.  A snake has a bite, it is a purveyor of poison but it’s skin has no weight, it is shaving of prosciutto versus a hunk of dry salami that is chameleon skin.

If I want to be a walker of walls again I need to develop a thick skin. If I want to survive again I also need to learn to be chameleon and if I want to thrive I will not let what I have to do to survive make me shameful or depressed, I will find joy in the thrill of the hunt to thrive, the vitality of change. Darwin showed us that no matter how great your idea is, unless you can relate it in an engaging, appealing way, you should probably cut off your writing hand (this is during quill times people). Darwin was a walker of walls. Sure, he failed to get some things right, but what do we remember more, his failures or his grand vision, his impact on human thought and his breaking down of philosophical boundaries that liberated the minds of many people.

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The wind roughens my hair,
Whipping and twisting my locks,
Searching for knots.
You are moving so fast on the sand towards the huge sharp rocks, 
But suddenly you stop, as a figure moves between you and the ocean.
 
A man stumbles out of a cave pulling up sweatpants.
Then a woman tumbles out after him, wobbly like a calf on new legs.
The man releases a beer-soaked belch, punctuating the atmosphere.
The woman giggles as if to say she just cant get enough.
 
As she brushes the sand off her teal souvenir t-shirt,
Bits become caught in the rivulets of the white conch shell on the front of it,
The shell is stretched so taut on her chest,
That the puff paint cracks a little more,
Each time she takes a breath.
 
She was still breathing heavily,
Face flushed from fucking in a cave; the two of um, like a pair of sea lions.
 
But, at least there was something between them.
Which is why I am chasing you,
Why Im chasing that feeling,
Though my stomach is sinking like our feet into the wet sand.
 
Today is not long enough to tell you how much I wish we were together.
Right now, caught up in the moment, holding hands,
Laughing so hard that we fall on top of one another, naturally,
Like a wave caressing the sand.
Instead, I never say a word and silent tears like saltwater sting my face.
 
The man crushes his beer can;
A sharp crunch, like the sand grit in her teeth.
He tosses the can and pulls her close, but not to roughly grope,
He surprises me as he sweetly kisses her neck,
Inhaling her intoxicating mix of saltwater and excitement.
 
Suddenly I see the beach is littered with tiny acts of love,
Worn over time into grains of sand,
No different in appearance than an aluminum beer can.
But, we will leave no traces of our love on the beach.
There is no end to our love; no shape can contain it and nothing can match it.
 
Because it simply does not exist.  
We found this buzzing between our eyes and our thighs,
But just let it drift away like mist.
For what is love without a word or an act put to it?
 
 
Without seeing each other naked, going crazy and then laughing about it,
Without inhaling each others breath and missing each other in our beds.
Without looking in each others eyes and saying the things we think only when drunk at 2am.
 
In its secrecy, our love feels forgettable,
In its distance, our love feels fragile,
In its purity, our love is nothing but emptiness and longing
Always floating away on the wind and never belonging.

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Jen jiggled her leg nervously as she tries to relax on the plane ride home from visiting her Dad. She watched out the window, as the trees shrank into broccoli. She pictured her Dad, ensconced in blankets shrinking into a cocoon:  a world-worn moth awaiting the turn of time to bring him back to life. The urgent care unit of the hospital had a sense of time all it’s own. It wasn’t so much urgent as painfully slow. One twitch of a finger could take months as liquid dripped and bodies turned cold. The urgency lay in the desperation of life about to end. The ward seemed to battle against the ravages of time, to slow things down; a citadel of patience in a world bent on fast-forwarding. In a tiny hospital in the middle of nowhere in Oregon, her Dad lingered, for once the world would wait for him.

As clouds obscured the view and rain chilled the panes, Jen takes comfort in the fact that her Dad’s urgent care nurse is strikingly beautiful. Porcelain skin glowing like a creamy white paper lantern, sparkling bright blue eyes, and cheekbones chiseled with chilling scientific precision. A stark beauty quietly working in a rural catholic hospital; almost as if the nurse had been waiting all this time for someone like Jen to come along and find her existence romantic. Jen’s Dad had taught her to appreciate beauty and she felt that this nurse was chosen for him.

As the stewardess’ less than arousing backside plodded up the aisle, Jen considered how many people’s memories involved that woman’s ass. Perhaps her father’s nearly fatal stroke had concentrated her mind to record every detail out of fear of losing everything. Jen felt so acutely aware, like she’d never forget a single sensory input from this trip. She wondered what smells, feelings and images came to her Dad while he lay on his floor for three days before his land lady came to see what the fuck was up with the rent and found him, face down on the floor, mumbling incoherently and probably covered in booze. Jen wished she could ask her Dad what he was thinking about while he lay on the floor. Jen couldn’t help but hope his thoughts had at least touched on her. But she couldn’t ask right now, his thinking was too cloudy and his speech was still too crackly, like a foreign radio station with poor reception.

One time, when Jen was ten or so, all bangs, skinny legs in lilac jean shorts, her family had rented a house at the beach. She remembers walking home from dinner with her parents. Her little sister was adorable, stuffed in a light teal sweatshirt, nose nipped red by the wind and waddling in bursts on the beach, like a wind-up toy with a wonky pelvis and stiff little legs. Her Dad walked similarly home from dinner, stumbling childishly for an adult. Jen remembers thinking it was funny. She skipped behind him, wanting to laugh but still sensing she shouldn’t, feeling confused for not laughing out-loud, despite the pulling of her lips into a smile. She was also confused why her mom was walking abnormally fast, holding her little sister, glancing backwards; the whites of her eyes glinting in the navy blue night.

As if it was in a dream, Jen can picture her Dad one moment wobbling, cartoonish on a slight precipice, then the sound of something dry being crushed, and suddenly he was square on his back in a deep pit of sea grass. It was so sudden and surprising she didn’t even see the slipping in the soft sand, the rolling down the embankment, and flattening of thick grass. She remembers him lying in the pit and coughing, she sat, hands at her sides, gripping the cool sand. As she looked down, she felt distant, like he was in a deep dark pit. Leaning forward from the sandy edge and looking down, she was trying to make out his face under the darkness, like it was under a dark mesh sheet. Her Dad had a distinctive face:  warm, intelligent eyes, and a full German beard. Her Mom had always said when they met and he was fresh shaven and barrel-chested, he looked like a young Sean Connery. Her Mom had told her friends that her new husband looked like James Bond. Now his diet of meat and beer had muddled his features and his beard obscured his commanding jaw line. His face now looked a rough sketch of a past photograph, a sad, soft blurry mess.

Jen dug her fingers into the sand as she leaned forward; the sand felt wet, cold, and scary like quicksand, like maybe she might fall too and like maybe she wanted to. Dad?? She called down, her voice wavering with concern. Just give Daddy a min…” a wave crashed, hissing and loud, “…ny. His voice was like words she had carved in the sand earlier that day, only to have a wave erase the middle part away.

"Come on Jenny, Daddy will be fine. He just needs to rest a bit!" She remembers her Mom yelling. She looked up feeling torn. Feeling like her Dad was a beetle she should probably flip; that somehow the world might be more right if she helped him out of this predicament. How absurd Jen now thought! "He just needs to rest a bit!" This wasn’t Alice & Wonderland; this was her Dad in the sand, toppled over from alcohol, not from whimsy. Jen’s mother had been insistent, dragging Jen by the skinny little arm away from the sand pit. Jen kept looking back in the dark, wondering if she would ever see her Dad again. At that age she already knew that some people never come back to you.

A minute became two hours later when her Dad wandered home. Jen had been tucked in with a quilt that felt thin and stiff, she lay, uncomfortably still and quiet, acting asleep, while her parents fought in the next room. She could make out the words but did not care to listen. She blocked it out so well that she didn’t realize they had stopped yelling until she heard her door creak open. She closed her eyes to fake sleep and interpreted the heavy footsteps to be those of her father. A kiss planted on her forehead, cool and sandy and smelling a little like varnish. The kiss felt rough, cold, and sad. But, there was so much tenderness in it.

Even then her Dad must have realized the fragility of his marriage and the precious few more moments he would spend with his two daughters before he would fall into a pit so deep, nobody could see the bottom of it.

Jen had always felt like she left a little of herself back at that sandpit. The part of her that hated distance and longed to be so close to someone she knew they would never leave her and she would never leave them. A mutual trust built to withstand the tenuous grip we have sometimes on life, like a slipping foothold in the sand.

 Maybe if I was beautiful like the nurse, she wondered, giving into self-pity.

Maybe if I had precious sapphire eyes and creamy skin smoother than a manila envelope and fire red hair that gave my every movement an electrifying sense of thrilling intelligence

Of course the nurse, she had learned, was also a paramedic who flew helicopters. Jen pictures the nurses fiery curls bouncing, bounding Baywatch style to the rescue, perky tits drawing everyones attention to the severity of the situation. This nurse was hot and cool all at once, science and sexshe was surreal. When Jen looked at the nurse, she felt like Salvador Dali.

Jen imagined painting the nurse, a figure standing holding her own face, yes, in hands of glossy, statuesque alabaster, like long gloves of propped silky sheets billowing from mahogany twigs, fragile against washed out desert and vast azure sky.

Why do I love surrealist art? Jen wondered. I think it’s the textures. Surrealism brings out the melting dimension of every object and delivers it in a way that’s dangerously sharp and kitschy—like fondue—art served hot on a stick. Ultimately though, I think surrealism is essentially making things ooze. Ooze out their secrets. Narrate their subtext. Say their inner thoughts. Gush their desires. The slime of everyday, the buildup of years … Jen guessed she was afraid of what her Dad might ooze. Afraid he might ask why she never came to visit him. Afraid he might ask her Mom why she had left—why she abandoned him—why she gave up on his attempt to stop drinking. Ask why he couldn’t change—why he let alcohol and depression ruin his life. Ask why he had been given life if he had been cursed from the get go to destroy everything that ever mattered to him. 

Jen was afraid he might tell them that their absence from his life made him want to die. That their inability to help him had turned him into this oozy mess that couldn’t stop bleeding, yet  couldn’t stop breathing. Why every time things were almost good, almost perfect, they would fall apart and he’d be left alone like in the dark in a sandpit. Maybe he felt more comfortable drowning in depression than being happy. Like a cold blooded amphibian preferring the cool wet muck to the warm sand. A sputtering, lost, cursing fool, twitching in a pool of his own excess, drowning in their absence, Jen knew her father was more of a man who had the heart to love but lacked the discipline.

His oozy mess was sweet and endearing, like a baby eating mashed yams in a high chair and smearing them all over his face. He just wanted to see Jen and her Mom, to look them in the eyes and say he loved them. I wonder how long hed wanted to do that, Jen thought and realized that it was she that had wanted to forgive him and love him again for so long.

Why are you crying? her Dad had asked as she hovered above his bed. Because Im happy to see you, she tried to assure him. Jen was also crying because she wished she had seen him before this but would she have understood him so well? Would she have loved him so much, so directly?

Somehow she could interpret his ooze. Jen understood his sorrow, his passion, his inability to be the person he wanted to be due to a crippling illness—addiction—that complex triangular vortex of his own endless passion for women, art and wine; his endless romance with life; his insatiable lust for living. He couldn’t find a peace and a home and Jen knew as she looked in his eyes she oozed too because she shared the same inability to find peace, the same desire for a fuller life yet the inability to wait for it, to build it, to trust herself enough.

Jen understood that she and her mother represented the closest he had ever been to a stable, happy life and he wasn’t as miserable in it as he was without it. She had seen his regret in the visits over the years:  the hugs that lasted too long with her Mom, the apologies for not being a better father that made her so chocked up for all her own regrets that she couldn’t swallow. She knew she represented his failures, yet he was willing to face her, and had been trying to do so for a long time, it was Jen who had to let him back in.

She knew it was time to tell him she finally understood and that she would learn from him. It was time for her to show him that she was his daughter, give him a reason to feel he might belong somewhere.

Jen’s Mom sat helpless and sad, not sure what to do and Jen knew it was up to her to reach out to her father. So Jen reached in her pocket and pulled out her iPod and her headphones. She carefully selected her Dad’s favorite song, putting one headphone in his ear and one in hers. The Animal’s The House of the Rising Sun, raw and supple played, she sang along with him; happy at the awful sound as he closed his eyes and garbled the words like gravel. She closed her eyes too and imagined the day when he had played that song on vinyl and told her that this song was why music existed. The iPod dipped into silence.

They made eye contact and she felt the texture of his eyes. The soft outer coat shone like watercolor, the saucy melty middle served over-easy on toast, yet a crisp intelligence popped underneath in the dark pupils. A resistance. He was not resigned, not remote, but a wry smile twitched on his face at the grand surprise that he was still alive after all. It wasn’t about hope, it was about chance and struggle; about taking risks. Hope had nothing to do with it. Desperation made things fall apart and made you put them back together again. The best we could do was trust ourselves and wait for a moment to make our wrongs right and do the perfect thing.

The nurse served her Dad a tiny plastic container of Jello Tapioca pudding that night and when she asked him how it tasted, he grandiloquently responded, “It’s like crème brulee!” Paralyzed left side or not, that old son of a bitch was still there, ready for a chance to be wily, charming and funny despite all the stupid pain. He would be extraordinary until his dying day.

Her Dad might have been a shitty father for a bit, but he was one hell of a character, one strong, stubborn, passionate man and though no Hallmark card would ever fit the bill, Jen would take this fucker any day, hold him in her arms and proudly call him Dad. She 

 

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It’s been awhile since I posted anything, so I think I will warm up with the most wanted from my county last time I was home. I love that Michael’s birthday is mentioned, so you can send him a card.

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So the other night I was lucky enough to be at a bar in LA with karaoke happening. I mean it was on. I sang Private Eyes and Super Freak. It was a very freaky scene, though there was no incense, wine & candles. There was only Old Fashioneds and karaoke ranging from the obscenely bad fat girls butchering Aerosmith to the adorable, my friend in a floral sundress with a perfectly turned little girl voice to Sheena is a Punk Rocker. So rad to see a new friend’s karaoke personality coming out.

Some songs I’d like to remind you of:  She Bop. I mean besides The Divinyls, is there any other song as directly about female masturbation. Also guys singing along to She Bop is quite enjoyable. The impassioned I bop, we bop breakdown is what life is worth living for.

But the primary highlight would be this amazing dude, looking pretty good in his black tshirt, only the slightest trace of beer gut, and in nice blue jeans. So he goes up to sing what I assume is ACDC Shoot To Thrill or well you know how all ACDC songs sound the same. Then OUT OF NOWHERE he busts out some Cher “Do You Believe in Life after Love” lyrics over the ACDC. It was magic, or maybe that was his stringy, partially balding long hair being flipped he even did some awesome leg moves, like borderline ballet.

I mean shit got real. I was legitimately cheering, wooing, I mean yes into my second Old Fashioned, but I could have been sideways on the floor drunk and would have still cheered, even if my lip had to touch the nasty bar floor. Ok maybe not.

For 3 minutes that guy, that middle aged balding man singing Cher, rocked my world.

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Ok so I’m kinda in love with this song right now. Let’s go ahead and make it the official song of like forever. Hall & Oates are almost a parody of themselves but they are so damn good at harmonizing and making low production music videos. 

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Game of Thrones has garnered quite the reputation for abundant amounts of cleavage and sheer revelry in the realm of boobery. It is refreshing to see so many natural boobs, Game of Thrones is like the 1970s Playboy of television. All these nubile, luscious soft tits just begging to break free from various states of undress. I once tweeted that every time a new female character is introduced I can’t stop thinking about when we will see her boobs and what her nipples might look like. This is still true.

During Season 1 and 2, I have seen more boobs than I have seen in my entire life. Game of Thrones makes me feel like a horny teenage boy, or maybe the average heterosexual adult male. Okay now I sound like my Mom, quick let’s make this dirty. The nipple reveal becomes like a mystery grab bag prize, but in the end, in my quick education in natural tits, I have determined that it primarily has to do with proportion and math. If some nerd has made the mathematical equation for perfect nipple to areola to boob roundness ratio please send it to me.

Speaking of math, nerds have begun a tally, consider this below graph. Also wtf happened in Episode 8, did a STRAIGHT WOMAN with SMALL BOOBS write it??

Boobs Per Episode

So what keeps us watching Game of Thrones? Boobs???!! Well yes. I mean look at them. However, if boobs are like a hook in a pop song, what makes Game of Thrones any better than a flashy light pop song? Game of Thrones right now is like early Beatles, catchy, fun, different, a Medieval invasion. (Medieval is the most ridiculously impossible word to spell by the way). 

I think we watch Game of Thrones because we enjoy worlds or universes of high stake decisions. We like seeing life and death put before a character, a character whose head may very likely be chopped off. Our culture glorifies times in the past where life and liberty was not taken for granted, but people lived with hedonistic gusto without concern for moral consequence or with honor codes that justified revenge and personal justice. 

We want to fuck, fight, strategize, drink, & give birth to dragons like it might be the last night one earth. Game of Thrones is set in an apocalyptic time, in a world where doing what is right totally screws you over and playing dirty seems to put you on top. It is a world where you can trust no one, not even your self and your own weaknesses and desires not to undermine you. We understand the world on the verge of upheaval and change, a world of fear, betrayal and survival.

Game of Thrones puts us back in touch with our desire for survival and boobies, gratuitous boobies is part of that caveman impulse. Even if boobies aren’t for you there are still, hold your breath, FULL FRONTAL DUDE SHOTS or DICK CAMEOS as I like to call them. 

Either way, the show is full of adrenaline and lizard brain impulses, that is why we can not stop watching. This is Happiness is a Warm Gun, Hey Bulldog, Why Don’t We Do it In the Road, Revolution Beatles. Rough, horny and still catchy. Let’s keep watching and see where it goes, if anything the show is giving us Norwegian Wood.

And your Boobs Can Sing!

BOOOBS & Candle

Well you have the internet, if you want to see more boobs, I don’t know LOOK.