I lazily schlepped downstairs this morning, as I had been awake all night it seemed, desperately seeking coffee and thinking about a bagel and cream cheese, only to find my puritanical WASP mother – a woman whose priggish Anglomania can be evidenced by her boundless devotion to Agatha Christie and incessant viewing of Victorian mysteries and droll BBC police procedurals -- in the den, binge-watching Game of Thrones.
"Happy Palm Sunday," she said. "Joffrey is a bastard."
I don't know how other, normal families work: I never did. My mother pines for an era when people would dine in full dress then retire to a book-filled room painted a deep crimson – “the library” – and have intellectual discussions about culture and spatial arbitrage. Now she watches “Ren Faire, Incorporated.”
"Tonight's the big night," she shouts, over the already climbing volume of the television, as she struggles to hear characters whisper, only to be followed by the deafening sound of the score as the scene changes to an army on the march.
There are no bagels.
The score swells again and that maddening opening theme begins. It drives me nuts. It’s ubiquitous now as I have seen two bands perform this theme in concert, including last summer when the progressive Nothing More, on tour with Five Finger Death Punch, opened their set with it to cheers. CHEERS. My mother does not turn the volume down as images of Westeros flash across the screen and I suspect that the birders out at the Sachuest Point National Wildlife Refuge must be in a tizzy that the cacophony is shattering the tranquility of observing the return of the Northern Harrier. At least it’s not “Baby Shark.”
I have mixed feelings about all of this, as Ebony adored this show. She actually read all the books. More, she was a stilt-walker for two summers in college at a Ren Faire in upstate New York, so this show was like candy to her. I remember her imploring me, as the first season was ending, to watch it with her On Demand and catch up. This was so not my thing. I played Dungeons & Dragons once, as a kid, with some of the “smarties” in my class at lunchtime, for maybe a month. They gave me the polyhedral dice to roll and determine my “character” – something I was completely averse to simply because it was the 70s, I was a kid and l grew up liking Matchbox cars and Hot Wheels; Marvel comics and Star Trek reruns (basically: speed, fire, outer space and hot women in mini-skirts with phasers) and naturally I rolled some piteous malcontent who was destined to shamble around the forest waiting to be set upon by one of my sadistic classmates, a Warlock, who would kill me in two turns with spells that would turn “Flesh to Stone!” and then, “Stone to Mud!” And then I’d have to sit there and watch them collect gold or whatever for three consecutive lunch periods before I could roll another character.
And then I would cry to the universe, “Why am I always a Cleric?” They don’t do anything cool. I’d ask them, “Can’t this guy have a van or something? And how come there are no girls? This is so boring.”
I’m not friends with those guys anymore. They all went to M.I.T. and work for the Department of the Navy building onboard guidance systems for Tomahawk missiles used by Virginia class nuclear-powered fast attack submarines.
But Ebony loved that stuff and I loved her and so, I watched it. It was pretty much, as I saw it, with its lavish sets, costumes and beautiful scenery, “Blood n’Guts LARPing for Shut-ins.” I imagine young actors in college are now auditioning for Shakespeare productions by reading sides of Tyrion Lannister. I did enjoy many of the actors but sometimes I would drift off and imagine them doing something I could really get behind. I would love to see Sean Bean and Iain Glenn as MI:6 operatives in the Cold War Europe of the Thatcherite 70s, dealing with the intrigue of Soviet spies and “the Troubles” with the I.R.A.
But Ebony would be really excited to see the premiere of the final season tonight. There would be wine and cheese and chocolates and probably an hours-long joke-filled discussion following the show – if we didn’t immediately re-watch it.
And of course, Mom is psyched.
“I wonder who’s going to die? Do you think anyone is going to die tonight? I can’t wait until Cersei dies!”
Nice, Mom. “I don’t know. You know, Jesus dies this week. Every year, same time.”
“Oh, will you cut it out! You’re watching tonight, aren’t you? The Night King is coming! What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m watching Jesus of Nazareth. Big week for him. Maundy Thursday…”
“Ugh! Stop it! You don’t even go to church!”
No, she’s right. I’m going to watch Game of Thrones, somewhat wistfully, and remember all the times Ebony and I watched it and how she giggled every time I groaned.
But then I’m watching Billions. Because that show rules.
I have to go out and get bagels for tomorrow because I have no illusions that when I get downstairs in the morning, no matter how hard I try to avoid her, my mother will want to discuss the show at length.
I wonder if Advil makes cream cheese.
