Nice predictions, Vin. Take a lap.
(More in-depth thoughts on the conclusion of True Detective’s first season are forth-coming)
The last episode of True Detective is tonight. I will, unfortunately, be playing hockey around when it airs so I will miss it. But thanks to the wonders of DVR I will be able to catch the episode tonight around midnight.
Here’s my predictions:
- The Yellow King is Sam Tuttle
- The “Five Horseman” are Eddie Tuttle, Billy Lee Tuttle, Maggie’s Dad, Commander Speece and possibly Errol Childress.
- Carcosa is the place where the ritualistic murder/rapes are committed.
- Marty dies.
- Marty’s daughter Audrey was abused a young girl by her grandfather, Maggie’s dad.
But absolutely all of that could be wrong, who knows? I’m super excited for this episode.
HBO’s True Detective with Woody Harrelson and Matthew McConaughey is absolutely fantastic.
I should really stop writing there, but I won’t because I’m a narcissist. The basic premise is two Louisiana State Police Criminal Investigations Division homicide detectives’ hunt for a serial killer in Louisiana across seventeen years and multiple timelines. There’s a present day set of detectives interviewing Marty Hart (Harrelson) and Rust Cohle (McConaughey) about their investigation into a serial killer in 2002. The interviews are interspersed with flashbacks to the 1995-2002 investigations, and but flashbacks don’t always line up with the narrative from Cohle and Hart.
When I say that’s the basic premise, I mean basic. This show is deep. I hesitate to compare it to LOST, but in terms of referenced material and breadth of subject matter I would say it has touched on as many topics in a few episodes as LOST did across its entire run. There are numerous articles about the referenced works and concepts, but I’ll recommend two of them: i09, GeekRex.
I may do some follow-up posts about True Detective in the future because I’m absolutely hooked on this show. I’m going to read “The King in Yellow” and rewatch the episodes on On-Demand, but I can’t recommend this show enough for anyone who enjoyed (/enjoys) LOST, Hannibal, or Breaking Bad.
So I’ve sort of just resolved to update this once per month, and since I’m running out of month here it is.
I’m heading to the UK on Sunday. I’ll be “in country” for 12 days, working 10 of ‘em. My flight leaves on Sunday and lands Monday morning. I’ll have enough time to shower and change before starting working in the afternoon.
I’m excited about the trip and about what the trip means for my future at the job, but I’m also kind of bummed that I’m essentially going to spend 90% of my time in London staring at the inside of a cubicle and/or sleeping. I’ve already nixed my more adventurous plans of jet-setting/train-hopping through Europe and resolved instead to spend my one weekend there catching all the sights in London: Buckingham Palace, London Bridge, Tower of London, Big Ben (and Parliament), Westminster Abbey, Churchill’s War Rooms, and if I have time Sherlock Holmes’ museum. So if you follow me on Twitter, expect to see a metric fuck-ton of amateur photos.
That’s all I got.
I don’t know when I first wanted to be a writer but I’m pretty sure it had something to do with The Catcher In The Rye. Here is a prequel to the story that put me at ease with all my teenage angst. The Ocean Full of Bowling Balls reads a lot like a chapter from Catcher; it follows Holden’s eldest brother – ironically named Vincent (he later becomes D.B. in Catcher) – and the events surrounding the death of Holden’s older brother, Kenneth.
I downloaded the other two stories, but haven’t read them yet. Something about this story just grabbed me. It’ll probably be years before I actually grasp what “bowling balls” mean, just like it look me several years out of high school to fully understand Catcher, and the sociopaths it empowered. This story, if nothing else, solidifies for me that Salinger was a wonderful, brilliant writer.
I’ve spent the better part of the past year-plus making excuses. The ones that I’m specifically referring to are about my health/weight. Around my 25th birthday I was in the best shape of my life. I was about 174 lbs (at 5’9″) and I had abs. They may not have been six-pack abs, but they were visible without the need to suck in and flex out.
That seems like a long time and a lot of beers and burgers ago. In that time I:
Most of which was done while working 4-5 days per week out of state; driving back and forth to Connecticut each week.
These were the excuses I used, reasoning that when things changed/calmed down I’d have a chance to get back into shape. Well the only thing that has changed is my waistline. I’ve made it to the gym a few times during the span, usually with a friend from work, but I haven’t been to the gym on a weekend (Friday – Sunday) in probably a year. I haven’t joined a gym near my new home since I bought the place… in October. I’ve also started homebrewing, which has added a new level of enjoyment to my favorite hobby: drinking.
I’ve also found myself drinking more during the week and on the weekends, because my job has been (m0re) stressful (than usual). The increased hours I’ve been devoting to work have taken away time from what I like to do (read, write, work-out, ec) and what I need to do (chores, also work-out) and this in turn has caused me to devote this time towards sleeping. Which I try to make up for on the weekends, and in turns leaves less time THEN for what I like and need to do.
So I’m making a commitment to myself. I’m about 189 lbs right now. I will get down to 180 lbs by the end of the summer. That’s about a 4.5% body-fat drop (I’m around 20.5% now). And here’s my plan to do it:
So there it is in all its easier-said-than-done glory. Wish me luck.
There’s pornography on the bench in the subway station. I’m staring through the haze of ten pints of mistake and regret trying to figure it out. Is this a gift from a benevolent pervert or a twisted, sticky middle finger to the quiet ease of an empty subway station?
The train is late. The train is always late.
My hands look far away, knotted and twisted and crusty. I flex the fingers and feel the scab on my knuckle pull tight and ache. I wonder how whatever is under my fingernails got there. I wonder about how I’m going to get it out. Some things work their way in deep. They burrow down and hold on. They are hard to get out. You try not to think about it so much and put the devils to work on lighting a cigarette you don’t really want or need.
The train isn’t coming.
The ash burns down to the filter as smoke wafts through the bent digits, and I’m trying to remember if I ever did more than light it. I’m trying to remember if I lit it at all. If the evidence suggests. The butt end burns a hole through the chest of a naked woman caught in the throes of feigned ecstasy. As more of her torso incinerates it looks more like she’s screaming. Help me. It burns.
Sometimes help doesn’t come. Sometimes the trains with all the heroes on board are late.