Game of Thrones. Here’s what I knew about it. It was popular and people got hooked on it. It was mystical, or supernatural. I was told there are “interesting politics,” among “kingdoms,” that, according to friends, I might find interesting as I’ve worked in politics for more than twenty years.
I rented the first season last weekend. I even kept it an extra day despite the late fee when I didn’t get around to watching it.
But I’ve now watched the first 10 minutes of the first episode and I’m like, yeah, I don’t need those images in my head. Ulgh. I’ve always been sensitive to that stuff. Scary movie images, they imprint on my mind. I can summon to perfection Linda Blair in The Exorcist floating above the bed and the micro-second, tiny flash I saw on a TV in maybe 1983 of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. The circumstance in which I saw the flash made it all the more creepy. I’d come with someone else. I didn’t know the people whose house I was in. Texas Chainsaw Massacre was on the TV. A guy who never turned around sat a sofa watching it. Things were going on in rooms down the hall. The house itself was suburban, sterile, and barely furnished. There were no lights on. It was dusk.
Cocaine. You could feel it.
It was barely a flash I saw over the back of the sofa from where I waited alone in the kitchen, just chainsaw and blood and me wanting out.
Surprisingly, this aversion to scary movie images doesn’t carry over to Quentin Tarantino or David Lynch movies, which I love. So go figure.
But the Game of Thrones’ dead doll eye thing and dead faces frozen in their last moment’s terror on the stumps of their hacked up torsos? I popped out the disk. I’m going to pay the late fee and pass for now.
Instead, I went to Netflix and searched streaming for Diane Keaton movies, an act which for some reason wasn’t good for my self-esteem. But in my defense, before I did that, I searched for The Lost Weekend and Withnail and I, both classic drunker flicks, but neither was available. So don’t judge.