I was driving home today, enjoying a little college radio in the truck. The song ended and the DJ talked about it for a bit, then did a quick news break about what failed garbage our president and Senate majority leader are up to at the moment, and then: “So on Game of Thrones — ”
BAP — I smacked that ancient radio knob so hard that it almost popped off. I knew when this season of GoT started that my decision to hold out for the books probably wasn’t the happiest or easiest way to go. Probably it’s not the most successful choice in the end, either, depending on whether the book series is ever completed. But I’m not going to pay for HBO, and I don’t have a subscriber buddy to piggyback on. And I’m okay with that. Really! I’ve trained myself to skip over articles and pics of the show. (Et tu, New York Times? WTF) I’ve muted every different permutation of show hashtags I can think of — though some still get through. I don’t know why I thought radio — RADIO!* — would be safe from spoiler incursion.
IF MOSES SUPPOSES HIS TOESES ARE ROSES
Chatted with one of the neighbors about our respective gardens, garden pests, trees, and house projects. She pointed out her rose bush that had lovely burgeoning foliage, but no blooms. Afterward I poked around online and found some fascinating recommendations for pruning, and for beating the hell out of your non-blooming rose bushes with broom handles. Ours is a violent race. None of this made me want to grow roses. Maybe next year, after the garden has been dormant for winter and I have regrown my masochism.