Tuesday, April 30, 2013

There Was This Bomb In Boston

What a messed up few weeks, eh? You had these innocents, hanging out all happy-like, and BAM, razor-sharp metal comes ripping out of nowhere, tearing into their skin. Universes, lost. What could these people have done to deserve such a sentence? In an instant they were deemed unworthy and erased, all because they happened to be in a particular place at an unpropitious time.

Oh, and there was this bomb in Boston.

If abortion is made illegal, an argument goes, it will slide into the shadows of back alleys and butchers. How, pray tell, is Kermit Gosnell's monstrosity of a practice any different? Murder on Main Street is somehow not murder?

Where is the coverage of this abomination? The marathon and the fertilizer plant relegated it to a non-story, thanks to our state-run media, and some journalists have even flat-out refused to cover it.

Three of the nine charges detailed in the grand jury report have been dropped. Nevertheless, the remaining accusations are enough the make Josef Mengele jealous. Is this really what women want? What power is there in choosing to be abused? What virtue lies in beheading "little aliens"? Curiously, why so shrill about the rifle and yet so diffident about the scissors? 

Per usual, I've more questions than answers, and concur with the good doctor, both on principle and the federal government's role in such matters:
"If you can't protect life, then how can you protect liberty?"
Speaking of keeping dead babies in jars, we finally met Mrs. Stannis Baratheon. She was just as touched as I'd imagined, and it cemented the rightful king's dour, ever-present anguish. We were also introduced to their sweet , greyscaled daughter, Shireen, and it hit me just how large Westeros really is. Like Tolkien, how could such an expansive world, replete with so many rich characters, arcs, plots, religions and locales all stem from the mind of one man?   

Having already become invested in the characters from seasons one and two, I'm astounded by the depth of the new ones. How and where is there even room?! Beric Dondarrion, the Lightning Lord. Vargo Hoat. Mance Rayder. The amazingly erudite and dismissive Kraznys. But my favorite? Lady Olenna, the Queen of Thorns. Her exposition on the mottoes of the various houses was superb, and "Growing Strong" is ironically pertinent to this entry:

As with last year, episode nine ("The Rains of Castamere") may set a new standard for holyf*ckingshit. George R.R. Martin definitely has a way of making this fantasy world very, very real. As Ned Stark proved, sometimes it's not enough to be good. A little guile can go a very long way...
And who are you, the proud lord said,
that I must bow so low?
Only a cat of a different coat,
that's all the truth I know.
In a coat of gold or a coat of red,
a lion still has claws,
And mine are long and sharp, my lord,
as long and sharp as yours.

And so he spoke, and so he spoke,
that lord of Castamere,
But now the rains weep o'er his hall,
with no one there to hear.

Yes now the rains weep o'er his hall,
and not a soul to ear.