All posts by Matthew Callan

Boob Tubery

A Recap Disclaimer

PLEASE NOTE:  We have received complaints from readers who object that our episode recaps of the popular HBO series The Saga of the Clan Saga contain too many details of the episodes they review. We know that many people choose to record and binge-watch this series yet still want to be a part of the recap community. We also know that many people have never, ever seen an episode of this show but have contemplated doing so at some vague point in the future and do not wish to have their hypothetical viewing ruined for them.

Therefore, we want to warn all potential readers that the following recap of the most recent episode of The Saga of the Clan Saga contains a considerable number of such details that may fit the legal definition of “spoilers.” (See Korematsu v. Television Without Pity, 2005.) We realize there is much disagreement on this point, but we continue to believe that the best way to discuss an episode of a television show is to talk about what happened in it.

For those of you who have seen the most recent episode, please be advised that the writer of this recap included references to the series of books upon which The Saga of the Clan Saga is based. We are aware that many viewers have religiously read these books, but that not all you have. We’re also aware that many of you have read only some of the books, or read them while your attention was diverted, or may have thought you read the books but only dreamed you did.

We recognize that the events from the books alluded to in this recap may or may not be represented in future episodes and therefore may serve as spoilers. Please be advised that this will be especially true for those of you who have only read volumes 1 (“The Dragon-Scorch’d Plains”), 2 (“The Most Encarnadine Nuptials”), and 3 (“Prelude to the Afternoon of the Long Axes”). If, as many fans have, you chose to pick up the Saga from volume 4 (“The Blood-Soaked Plains of Samovar”), you may be safe, but we cannot vouch for this 100 percent.

If you have only read volume 7, it is imperative you DO NOT read this recap UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. We cannot stress this enough. If you do, you will understand immediately why we have warned you not to, but by then it will be far too late to atone for your horrible, horrible mistake.

If you fit into any of the above mentioned at-risk groups yet still feel compelled to read this recap, please switch your browsers to our specially coded REDACTED site. Here, you will find each of our recaps with identifying characteristics blacked out in the manner of classified documents. Please be aware that the site’s administrator will be unlikely to help you find the correct page for this episode, as he’s not quite sure where it is either.

Anyone who uses the details, descriptions, and accounts in this recap to spoil this or any other episode of this or any other series, via any means of information technology past, present, or yet-to-be devised, will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Spoilage carries a maximum federal jail sentence of 10 years. Don’t become a statistic.

If you or anyone you know has been the victim of spoilers, call the Spoiler Victim Hotline for information about counseling and treatment in your area. If you accidentally swallow this recap, please seek immediate medical attention.

And now, without further ado, we present our recap of episode 507, “The One Where Wrathmire Kills Galdarf and Assumes the Throne, Only to Be Thwarted By His Bitterest Rival and Burned Alive”

Literary Endeavors

Buy My Novel At Your Local Book Shoppe (Sort Of)

Last week, I took Hang A Crooked Number down from Amazon for a variety of reasons delineated here. Since then, I’ve made it available for purchase directly from my blog in epub and PDF form.

Following that announcement, I’ve gotten a number of requests from the device-disinclined population to read the book in non-electronic form. I wish I could fulfill these requests, but while book printing is easier and cheaper than it’s ever been, it remains neither cheap nor easy. The price to make physical copies of my book wouldn’t be insane in the grand scheme of things, but they would probably run into 4 figures, and if my ebook sales are any indication, I’d never make back those costs.

I honestly wish I could make my novel a “real” book because I still have a romantic attachment to seeing a book I wrote on a shelf in a quaint book shoppe where WQXR plays gently in the background and some weird dude monopolizes the store’s only table to plow through a pile of Schopenhauer. So I went ahead and did the next best thing.

I’ve put my book up for sale via Kobo, an ereader device/app that has partnerships with a number of indie bookstores across the country. It’s a small way to read ebooks for titles like mine that are only available in ebook form, yet still support the existence of local bookstores (as opposed Amazon, which wants to crush them). If you go to this page, you can a zip code and find a nearby store that sells ebooks via Kobo.

If you’re in the NYC area, I know Word, Housing Works, and Greenlight all work with Kobo. So if you wanna buy Hang A Crooked Number while still supporting the printed word dispenser near you, consider this path. The bookstore gets a cut, I get a cut, local shops get to stay in business, and you get to buy something quickly and easily without stepping on someone’s throat. What a novel concept.

Stories

F train, 7:20 am

I used to see him every morning waiting for the F train. I’d climb the stairs from the L to the F platform and there he’d be, as if he wouldn’t appear until I arrived. He wore black frame glasses and had a mop of carefully messed-up sandy brown hair with sideburns, and was always dressed with assured but subdued style. He favored striped shirts and dark pants and I got the idea in my head that he used to be in a power pop band, or still was.

He’d never be alone. A little girl clutched his hand, adorably and impossibly blond. She appeared to be around my own daughter’s age at the time, three or four years old. The dad also had a Snugli strapped to his chest cocooning an infant girl, who barely stirred except to occasionally nuzzle her tiny head into her father’s chest.

They went the same way as me, boarding the F at the very front of the train. The little girl would perch on her seat and look out the window at the nothing of the subway tunnel yet still see enough to ask an endless series of questions: What’s that? What’s that? What’s that? The dad would answer to the best of his ability while reminding her they would be on the train for just one stop and then they had to get off, okay?

They would position themselves to disembark at the very first door, a few feet in front of me as I steeled myself to do the same. I would wait to move until the dad got his cargo off the train, the little girl toddling onto the platform with harsh but unsure little girl steps,

Sometimes I would dash past them, not wanting to get caught behind them on the stairs leading back to the street because I was running late or had work waiting on my desk. But sometimes I wouldn’t care and I’d walk behind them, watching the little girl scale the steps, lifting one foot as high as she could, then the other.

Seeing him with his little girls reminded me of my own little girl I’d just dropped off at day care. He reminded me that my work day was just one long countdown until I could see her again. I envied him, but I wasn’t jealous. I was happy for him, happy that he could do this, happy that somebody could, happy that he was happy, and he looked happier than anyone should that early in the morning.

I saw this dad and his girls most mornings for a year or two, maybe more. Then one day I didn’t seem them, and it made me sad. I didn’t see them the next day, or the day after that, and I was still sad. But then I didn’t see them for a while, and soon I forgot that I hadn’t seen them in a while, and they were lost in some hazy place in my mind.

On Monday morning, I took my usual route to work at my usual time, my ears plugged up with headphones and my mind swirling with a legion of slights I hadn’t even suffered yet, and as I ascended the stairs from L train to the F, there he was. He had only one little girl with him now, and not the same one as before. The blonde girl had been replaced by a tiny redhead, the former Snugli occupant. The Snugli was gone, and so was the blonde chatterbox who used to clutch his hand. Older and off to school, just like my own girl.

They weren’t waiting around for the F train like they used to. The dad and the tiny redhead climbed the stairs to street level. The girl hoisted one leg with defiance, then the other, just like her sister used to, while the dad beamed, and so did everyone on the platform who saw them climb.

I stared at them as they went, until the F train arrived to take me away. I used to see that every day, I remembered. I was glad to know that I missed them.