So late last month, my novel A Flock of Crows is Called a Murder (or, as we lazy folks refer to it, Crows) picked up a review over on Amazon.com. That makes two (count ’em!) Amazon reviews for this book since it was published in 2002. At this rate I’ll be hitting the magic number of, oh, say, 50 reviews, somewhere just shy of halfway through the millennium. Of course by then everyone will be reading their books under the sea on their waterproof devices, and Crows will be classified as science fiction because it takes place on dry land, but hey. Genres shift.
As 2017 came to a close, so too did our getting caught up on all of the available seasons of “Game of Thrones”. It only took us about five months to get through them, because that’s how we binge around here: At a deliberate pace. Sort of like how long it takes the Night King to move south from Hardhome while everyone else flits around the continent on Air Westeros, or however they do it.
Since my wife got hooked by the show, she’s been staying awake for pretty much the entire episode each time — at least until season 7, when the episode lengths started to approach the running times of short movies, which is pushing it on how long she can stay awake even when watching something she likes. But she never stopped with the pithy observations about what’s transpiring on-screen, and I never stopped scurrying off to write them down for later use******, helpfully arranging them by season, so that those who may not be caught up will know when to stop. Because …
Because “Game of Thrones” is only available on disc from Netflix, the arrival of new episodes is subject to the vagaries of timing and the postal service, which means that there are occasions when no “GoT” is available. I’ve tried to fill those gaps with streaming series, without much success so far.
So we’re still watching “Game of Thrones”, and since we’re only partway through Season 3, will be for a while longer. At this point, I’m pretty sure that my wife has gotten into the show. How can I tell, you ask?
Me (discovering my wife on the sofa in the living room at nearly 10 o’clock, after getting home from the studio): “What are you doing?”
Wife: “I thought you* were going to watch ‘Game of Thrones’.”
Me: (looks pointedly at clock)
Wife (disappointed): “Oh, I guess it’s kind of late.”
Me: “Yeah it is. I’m glad you like the show though.”
Wife: “I do, but they could have made it with half the violence.”
Me: “Well HBO wants to make sure we get our money’s worth. Anyway we could watch an episode but you’ll be asleep in ten minutes.”
Wife: “No, I’m awake.”
Me: “Then I’ll be asleep in ten minutes.”
If my wife is asking about watching TV at 9:50pm, that must mean something.
So recently, having waited over six years for the next book in the A Song of Ice and Fire series to come out, with no end to the waiting in sight, and being tired of missing out on all the delicious things that have been happening in the HBO adaptation “Game of Thrones” since it went past the end of A Dance with Dragons―Tyrion meets Dany! Starks return to Winterfell! Jon meets Dany! Dragons meet Lannisters!―I decided it was finally time to bite the bullet and wade through the discs from Netflix.