Things are Going to Get Cranky for a Minute
I've read the other stupid review of Game of Thrones and then I discovered this one today through a Facebook friend.
Honestly, ugh...where do I start.
Let's start with the obvious. Bad writing. I've ranted about it before. I will probably keep ranting about it. But I am sick to death of reading reviews this badly written, knowing in the back of my mind that I barely eke out a living working as an office monkey, then in what pathetic excuse for free time I have with a house to take care of with three kids, I attempt to work on my dream of writing as a job. Then, take your pick, I read a review that some barely literate freelancer for Slate or the NYT has rattled off on the screen of their MacBook, and it makes me want to throw up. Not just a nauseous feeling, but a feeling that only a man who has been kicked in the balls can relate to. Sure, there's pain in the beginning, but also a warmth that begins to glow in one's stomach after taking a shot to the nads. The warmth grows and for a moment, it's comforting, until you realize that what you are feeling isn't a good kind of warmth. It's a kind of warmth that soon presents itself as Pain, Despair, and Roll-Into-A-Fetal-Position-Because-I-Just-Watched-My-Dog-Get-Crushed-by-a-Pickup-Truck feeling of desperation and loss, all in the pit of your stomach.
Maybe I take these reviews too hard.
No. No I don't. You see, there's just something about the smugness of these articles that bothers me. Something about the entire state of privelege when I read them. Rich, spoiled kids who didn't want to do their damned job and give something a serious review, so they decide to prattle on about abstract towers of UPS envelopes and arrogant references that are ironically steeped in that which they claim to loath. "Clean vorpal blades"? For fuck's sake. At least Ginia Bellafante made an attempt at a review, though she demonstrated her ignorance of the genre while simultaneously perpetuating the entire Wall of Literature that many in the genre stand on their street corners and proselytize that there is indeed no such thing as a genre ghetto!
But this ass-clown. He doesn't even get to the review until 300 words in. In a 1000 word review. Only when he utters the fightin' words of "quasi-medieval, Dragon-Ridden Fantasy Crap" does he even get to any meat on the review. The rest is whining about FedEx deliveries, cracked jewel cases, and...it's just god-awful writing. Written in present tense with an attempt to emulate some sort of medieval tone. Is he trying to be meta? Ironic? Fucking goddamned hipsters just need to stop bothering people with irony. But wait! The next 300 words aren't much better. Let's see. He brings up Harry Potter. Lord of the Rings. Chaucer (because everyone knows that the Canterbury Tales is just dragon-ridden, para-masturbatory geek crap, and Middle English is some made-up language that has no bearing on anything whatsoever), icosahedral dice (I take it he's indicting the RPG crowd with the 20-sided die).
So, yes, another 300 words, and he still hasn't actually talked about the series. Six hours of series, months before anyone else got to see it. Six. Hours. You'd think that six hours of ANYTHING would warrant more than oblique references to what the writer doesn't already know about the genre, much less the series. The last 250 words sums up, well, the first two episodes. I imagine the writer [sic] was too engaged in growing ironic facial hair, shopping the Thrift for hoodies, or riding his "fixie" with a can of PBR in hand to actually, I don't know, do his fucking job?
The coup de gras was the reviewer referencing HBO's late night treats during the 80's, such as Clan of the Cave Bear and the Howling 2. His earlier comments showed that he might have been offended at teh secks in Game of Thrones, and it undoubtably brought back painful childhood memories of watching the rear-entry scenes of Clan of the Cave Bear from the top of the stairs when Mommy and Daddy thought he was tucked snugly into his bed for the night.
Oh the humanity.
Did he miss the beginning of the show, where it says "This show has been rated 'R'. For sex, violence, nudity, and Peter Dinklage being so fucking awesome"?
Let me state this again. George R.R. Martin is not writing about boy wizards or hobbits. And it this tool would have actually watched the show, he would have realized that other than the mention of dragons, we are likely to not even see dragons in this series. At least not in the first six episodes anyway. That's hardly "dragon-ridden." Also, he keeps using this word. I don't think it means what he thinks it means.
Maybe the word he's looking for is "riddled?" Maybe he's confused with the works of Anne McCaffrey.
Anyway.
What a fucking hack.
Dear Slate, if you are in need of reviewers that can ACTUALLY FUCKING WRITE send me an email.
Until then, keep up with the great work.
Honestly, ugh...where do I start.
Let's start with the obvious. Bad writing. I've ranted about it before. I will probably keep ranting about it. But I am sick to death of reading reviews this badly written, knowing in the back of my mind that I barely eke out a living working as an office monkey, then in what pathetic excuse for free time I have with a house to take care of with three kids, I attempt to work on my dream of writing as a job. Then, take your pick, I read a review that some barely literate freelancer for Slate or the NYT has rattled off on the screen of their MacBook, and it makes me want to throw up. Not just a nauseous feeling, but a feeling that only a man who has been kicked in the balls can relate to. Sure, there's pain in the beginning, but also a warmth that begins to glow in one's stomach after taking a shot to the nads. The warmth grows and for a moment, it's comforting, until you realize that what you are feeling isn't a good kind of warmth. It's a kind of warmth that soon presents itself as Pain, Despair, and Roll-Into-A-Fetal-Position-Because-I-Just-Watched-My-Dog-Get-Crushed-by-a-Pickup-Truck feeling of desperation and loss, all in the pit of your stomach.
Maybe I take these reviews too hard.
No. No I don't. You see, there's just something about the smugness of these articles that bothers me. Something about the entire state of privelege when I read them. Rich, spoiled kids who didn't want to do their damned job and give something a serious review, so they decide to prattle on about abstract towers of UPS envelopes and arrogant references that are ironically steeped in that which they claim to loath. "Clean vorpal blades"? For fuck's sake. At least Ginia Bellafante made an attempt at a review, though she demonstrated her ignorance of the genre while simultaneously perpetuating the entire Wall of Literature that many in the genre stand on their street corners and proselytize that there is indeed no such thing as a genre ghetto!
But this ass-clown. He doesn't even get to the review until 300 words in. In a 1000 word review. Only when he utters the fightin' words of "quasi-medieval, Dragon-Ridden Fantasy Crap" does he even get to any meat on the review. The rest is whining about FedEx deliveries, cracked jewel cases, and...it's just god-awful writing. Written in present tense with an attempt to emulate some sort of medieval tone. Is he trying to be meta? Ironic? Fucking goddamned hipsters just need to stop bothering people with irony. But wait! The next 300 words aren't much better. Let's see. He brings up Harry Potter. Lord of the Rings. Chaucer (because everyone knows that the Canterbury Tales is just dragon-ridden, para-masturbatory geek crap, and Middle English is some made-up language that has no bearing on anything whatsoever), icosahedral dice (I take it he's indicting the RPG crowd with the 20-sided die).
So, yes, another 300 words, and he still hasn't actually talked about the series. Six hours of series, months before anyone else got to see it. Six. Hours. You'd think that six hours of ANYTHING would warrant more than oblique references to what the writer doesn't already know about the genre, much less the series. The last 250 words sums up, well, the first two episodes. I imagine the writer [sic] was too engaged in growing ironic facial hair, shopping the Thrift for hoodies, or riding his "fixie" with a can of PBR in hand to actually, I don't know, do his fucking job?
The coup de gras was the reviewer referencing HBO's late night treats during the 80's, such as Clan of the Cave Bear and the Howling 2. His earlier comments showed that he might have been offended at teh secks in Game of Thrones, and it undoubtably brought back painful childhood memories of watching the rear-entry scenes of Clan of the Cave Bear from the top of the stairs when Mommy and Daddy thought he was tucked snugly into his bed for the night.
Oh the humanity.
Did he miss the beginning of the show, where it says "This show has been rated 'R'. For sex, violence, nudity, and Peter Dinklage being so fucking awesome"?
Let me state this again. George R.R. Martin is not writing about boy wizards or hobbits. And it this tool would have actually watched the show, he would have realized that other than the mention of dragons, we are likely to not even see dragons in this series. At least not in the first six episodes anyway. That's hardly "dragon-ridden." Also, he keeps using this word. I don't think it means what he thinks it means.
Maybe the word he's looking for is "riddled?" Maybe he's confused with the works of Anne McCaffrey.
Anyway.
What a fucking hack.
Dear Slate, if you are in need of reviewers that can ACTUALLY FUCKING WRITE send me an email.
Until then, keep up with the great work.