Game of Thrones

June 7, 2013

So I sat down the other day and watched an episode of “Game of Thrones” with my daughter. I had absolutely no idea what was going on, because I refuse to watch the show just as I refuse to watch all the other shows— The Sopranos, Mad Men, Modern Family, Breaking Bad—which I am assured I have to watch as they are so well done and so utterly addictive. I have no desire to be addicted to a TV show, to need to rush home on such and such a night to watch “my” show or DVR it (if I knew how to do that or even what it means), to discuss it endlessly around the water cooler. I have no time for that. I have other ways to waste my time.

Anyway, I sat down to watch it with my daughter as a kind of bonding experience (much better than having to bond over other favorite shows of hers like Say Yes to the Dress or Storage Wars) and since this was Season 3 Episode 22 I had no idea what was going on, especially since there were at least 15 completely unrelated subplots going on, most of which ended with a major character having his or her throat cut. But I think I have a handle on the thing. Essentially in the first couple of episode they must have introduced about 250 main characters and for the past three years they have been steadily killing each other off, usually by cutting the throat. Ultimately there will be only character left and he or she will have won the Game of Thrones.

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More flower paintings.

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I went for a walk and this was in front of the local Jehovah’s Witnesses church so I went back with my paints the next day, which happened to be a Sunday. Made a point of chatting up the deacon before I started painting and everything was copacetic. These are irises, not lilacs.

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These are almost feral strawberries growing in my daughter’s neglected planting bed. After I painted ’em, I ate ’em.

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Rhododendron. Right outside my front door.

Justin

June 5, 2013

Justin is young. He likes to fish in the Charles but has never caught anything worth eating. Still he wants to keep at it. His last reel broke. Justin wasn’t feeling well or up to chatting up the passersby. As a result he did not collect much money. A young woman, Regina, stopped to talk first with me (“I’m a photographer, my boyfriend is a surrealist painter”) and then with Justin. I shamelessly eavesdropped, but Justin’s story was essentially that he had moved here from points unknown with his girlfriend, she had kicked him out of her apartment, and he ended up on the street.

Justin

I need to learn to toot my own horn (on the other hand, at my age, it’s a little late to learn a new trick). However, I did score a fairly prestigious coup, I guess. My panhandler paintings were featured in the Boston Globe Sunday Magazine. Herewith the spread:

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