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Alex Carnevale

Features Editor
Mia Nguyen

Senior Editor
Brittany Julious

This Recording

is dedicated to the enjoyment of audio and visual stimuli. Please visit our archives where we have uncovered the true importance of nearly everything. Should you want to reach us, e-mail alex dot carnevale at gmail dot com, but don't tell the spam robots. Consider contacting us if you wish to use This Recording in your classroom or club setting. We have given several talks at local Rotarys that we feel went really well.

Pretty used to being with Gwyneth

Regrets that her mother did not smoke

Frank in all directions

Jean Cocteau and Jean Marais

Simply cannot go back to them

Roll your eyes at Samuel Beckett

John Gregory Dunne and Joan Didion

Metaphors with eyes

Life of Mary MacLane

Circle what it is you want

Not really talking about women, just Diane

Felicity's disguise

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In Which This Is Not The Sex We Were Promised Gilly

You're Hurting Me


I can make a short list of all the things I eagerly anticipated that did not live up to the hype:

Jurassic Park 3

The return of Arrested Development
Wii U

and now sex between Samwell Tarly and his girlfriend Gilly. What happened, if you missed it, was terrible. She gave him one kiss (no tongue), climbed on top of him after shifting her underwear to the side, and said, "Am I hurting you?" in the voice I use when I am asking Lynne if there is any piaya left over from last night.

I really hope she has bathed in the last five months.

Sam let out a small moan. I don't suppose the incest sex Gilly had beyond the wall consisted of her straddling Craster and asking him if her vagina gave him pain. After Sam saved her from what was at the very least looking like a menage a trois, the least she could do is tousle his hair slightly as she was riding him.


Undoubtedly this was Sam's first time. I would have serious problems if my virginity was taken just as soon as I had gotten my ass kicked. It sets a really bad precedent; e.g. are we only going to get down when some dude kicks me hard in the face?

Sam wasn't the only one not fully being pleased by his partner. Dany has to have sex with the man who is undoubtedly the worst actor in all of Mereen. He mansplains how to be a queen to her right after sex. Do you think after Lynne and I spent hours doing tantric to postpone the inevitable splashdown that Lynne was like, "You know, Dick, you should really slaughter a bunch of Iraqis?"? No. She said what any loving wife would say: "Thank you for the mess."

Khal Drogo would have loved this little guy. RIP Khal Drogo.

Pretty soon the Dragon Queen won't need his advice anymore. She will have Tyrion Lannister to give her the straight scoop on King's Landing: "Where does Jon Snow like to go to for dins?" "Where are all the cutest places to shop along the Kingsroad?" "Was Aemon Targaryen a flaming homosexual and was his boyfriend Ned Stark's dad, Tevye 'Juniorfell' Stark?" It's a rich lore we are dealing with here.

Now that the books have basically been ground up in the shredder and George R.R. Martin is more focused on empanadas than writing, we can start to really enjoy not knowing what is to come. Cersei's imprisonment in the Sept was the last thread of the novels, and it will be great fun because I am super sick of her collagen lips and frozen hair style. Margary Tyrell has never looked so good, I sort of understood why Tommen fell in love with her.

You know, irony usually takes more than ten minutes to unfold unless you're Amy Winehouse.

Stannis' move on Winterfell seems kind of silly now. He should have just sailed south. I mean who is actually going to mount a defense of King's Landing — the people who committed incest or lied are in jail. The only person left over would have been Ser Podrick, but he's not even around.

I really hope he gets the chance to play Hitler before a Sansa Stark fangirl assassinates him in 2025.

Littlefinger's cute scene with Dame Tyrell notwithstanding, I guess the idea is to make Jonathan Pryce a villain worth cutting down? He seems kind of morally ambiguous though. I mean, are we supposed to room for Team Thincest? I am confused by these moral boundaries, especially when Jonathan Pryce is giving speeches that are literally word-for-word articles from the pages of The Nation.

Sansa's reaction to her wedding night was a little patronizing. Asking a man to help her, especially one as narratively impotent as Theon, will be even more annoying if he is finally the principal who ends Roose Bolton's flaying ways. I don't like Roose, but that old woman he skinned looked a lot better without her epidermis than with it.

He's not going to be able to ever be pleased by a woman after this. Those Sand Snakes are just the best.

In Dorne, Bronn sang a song to a beautiful maiden. She used a poison known as The Long Farewell on him, which is actually the same potion I used to disassemble Ronald Reagan when his anti-abortion speeches started getting tone-deaf. I understand he thought a fetus was a child, but when I asked him to prove it, he just ate peanut M&Ms and watched Welcome Back, Kotter.

Provable facts are all I am interested in now. Subtlety and inneundo are completely lost in Game of Thrones, but this is simply because they have vanished in the real world. I still have questions about I, Claudius, as to what parts of the story are true. But with Game of Thrones the only question I have ever had is, "Would it be hard to bring myself to orgasm with my left hand if I lost my right in a welding accident or if Melisandre needed my blood for a potion?"

He may never have wintercourse again.

The story of Bronn settling in Dorne and having a beautiful young family with the girl who exposed herself to him is the kind of subplot Game of Thrones sorely needs. There has to be some coming together. It can't all be constantly only falling apart.

Dick Cheney is the senior contributor to This Recording.

"Bronze Head" - My Brightest Diamond (mp3)

"Apparition" - My Brightest Diamond (mp3)


In Which We Attempt To Get To Higher Ground

Re: The Lists


These are things that happened: He went away and had an experience. Let’s call it a big experience. So when he came home, he packed and left again.

This is how he packed: He separated his belongings into what to keep and what to sell.

These are things that he’s keeping: Some of his clothes, bags to pack things in, some notebooks, meds, sentimentals and essentials.

These are the things he’s selling: a pair of brown dress shoes, a chocolate bunny, a fruit rollup, several pairs of pants, nedi pots that he got for free thanks to some incongruity on the internet, one earphone, a hat he found, a digital camera, a video camera, a camera camera, a trash can that will presumably be emptied, a chest of drawers, Q-tips, ethernet cords, Christmas lights, a lamp, a TV, a semi-functional but fully bumber-stickered laptop, a DVD player, a roll of fancy film tape, a hookah and seven rolls of coals we rooted out of a garbage bin outside of a storage center in Queens, shoe polish, some cords, glow sticks, a box of wet-naps, a bobble-head President Obama, a disco ball, and books.

He put each individual picture up on Craigslist along with a sales gag (“Christmas Lights: Make it Christmas ALL THE TIME. All your friends will be all like, ‘Is Santa here? This place is the jolliest’” and “Q-Tips: Tampons of the ear. Get them while they're not thrown out or given to my roommate”) and joked that he expected to get messages from concerned friends and strangers that’ll conclude with suicide hotline referrals.

These are the ways that he left: When I kissed him, partly freed by the decision we had made and partly just trying to quench my shit before everything went dry, I tasted him for the first time again, but when I opened my eyes, his were 2,000 miles away. In Colorado, maybe, or Wyoming. I told him he had dead eyes.

My purple toothbrush, which he bought months ago so I would have one when I stayed over, stood alone in the toothbrush stand. He had been back at his apartment for three days.

He said he was sorry.

I was sorry too. I did the requisite shower cry after we’d spent the night launching clichés at each other, trying to make the other feel more. The cry was kind where you don’t want to be in the shower anymore but can’t imagine getting out of it and having to hear the degree of your misery measured in pitch. I held the tiled wall, washed my face, and got out. I went to his room and took the towel from my body and wrapped it around my head, then continued to cry. Surrounded not by him, but by his “save” pile and the “discard” pile, the posters on his wall, pictures, et al., I let the sobs shake as I went to the window and fingered the initials E.T.W—probably his grandfather’s — imprinted on a leather box. I stared out the glass, through a screen to the wall across the ally. I even said out loud, why is everything created to make us believe in lasting love? Artists and copywriters are assholes, except it came out, why...why...do they doooo that? Asses. Then I got dressed and blew snot rockets into the trash.

After a relationship is over, and especially if that relationship was a mutually good one, the dam that you define yourself against breaks down and the rest of the world comes flooding in. The only survival tactic I knew was to get to high ground and let it come. So I went to the park in Sunset Park for the sunset, allowing myself the torrent of the sentimental and the sincere, unfiltered. This is the flood:

Everyone was happy on top of the hill. Even the children were, and the most genuinely unhappy people I’ve ever met are children.

The book I read, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, wouldn’t let up. This wasn’t a hard one, since every word feels like tripping on a rock and falling into understanding. But I was absolutely sure I was getting it wrong, superimposing my own mental state over the philosophical whose-its and whats-its allowed by Czechoslovakian repression by a totalitarian regime a long time ago. I wasn’t trying not to.

There were butterflies. One landed on my foot. That wasn’t even fair.

The wind got me good. One day when I was ten, I went into my backyard on some errand for my mother, and as I was going back inside, I looked at the wind blowing through the trees that were the woods that were my everything as a kid. I said to God, “Blow through the trees again if you exist.” It was probably a Sunday and I had probably just gotten home from church. I searched through the trees that were the woods that were my everything as a kid, but they refused to move. I repeated it again just to be polite, in case He didn’t hear me, and got nothing. I understood later that that’s a common command of the selfish but that didn’t stop the tumble through atheism, agnosticism, and ambivalence that filled me up to yea high until now. But as the wind rocked the tree to my left and line of them directly in front of where I sat in Sunset Park, I realized what a jerk I was then. The wind doesn’t blow for me. It seems that only after the dam floods does fishing for comfort lead to humility.

Everyone paused as the sun set. Even the kid in the oversized sweatshirt and hood and massive earphones moved to a better vantage above the tree line. I stared into the sun as it started down, but it started to eclipse everything else, and the purplish splotchy bits, like bruises on my point of view, took over if I blinked away for a moment. My head had exercised its metaphor muscle for about two hours already, so it couldn’t help itself. The sun was a source of beauty, but gaze too long and fully, and the rest gets lost. Blue Manhattan far away, light on the buildings, light on the grass, light on the harbor, the way the city got more saturated, definitive in receding light, all gone.


There was a father and son blowing bubbles with a $2 bubble machine. The soap spheres bowed up the hill towards me, and the child screeched, chased them and then barrel-rolled back down to start again. I tried to take a video of it: the bubbles’ collective trajectory up the hill, the clear sky, Manhattan in the far right almost entirely out of frame, the child, the father, the $2 bubble machine. I couldn’t tell if I had pushed record because of the light’s glare, but as a fresh swarm floated past me, one popped on the corner of my phone as if to say, “Don’t try it. This — not the mini-movie — is it.

You got me there, Bubble. My phone lost power in the next moment, and I gained my breath.

In the weeks after I sought out anyone who could help me prove that I didn’t move to this city for him, that my decision was my own and that it was a good one. Also, a heat wave descended on New York and trolling for air conditioning units in the better-ventilated apartments than mine became a mode of survival. When the proxy dam I propped up in the mean time can’t withstand the torrent, I reconsider the materials. When that doesn’t work I get to higher ground and I let it come, resolved that there are worse things than personal revelations folding over one another. And I’ll keep returning to the lists until I can fill the spaces in between.

Kenzie Bryant is a contributor to This Recording. This is her first appearance in these pages. She is a writer living in Queens.

"Fine and Mellow" - Jose James (mp3)

"I Thought About You" - Jose James (mp3)


In Which Matt Dillon Was More Of A Figure Of Speech

Come Back To Us


Wayward Pines
creator Chad Hodge

When he breathes out, Matt Dillon's face resembles a puffy blowfish. Matt should have been on Lost. As Secret Service agent Ethan Burke, Dillon is fantastic at the only thing ever required of him on Fox's Wayward Pines, which is to bristle at unexpected developments in his life. When you think about it, Matt Dillon, 51, could have been much better than Matthew Fox or Henry Ian Cusick in their respective roles. By the way, I still wonder what happened to Matthew Fox. Did he die from remorse after his creative involvement with Damon Lindelof?

Her hair looks like Play-Doh.

Matt's wife Theresa Burke is played by Shannyn Sossamon. She seems an unlikely choice for a long suffering wife, but director M. Night Shyamalan finds something in her androgyny. Wayward Pines is, I am not sorry to say, better acted, better cast and better performed than anything J.J. Abrama has been involved with. Matt is drawn to the town of Wayward Pines searching for his missing partner Kate (Carla Gugino). One day he wakes up into an idyllic and charming town. Naturally, the only thing he can think of to do is leave.

Carla became a little too close to Matt Dillon on the job. It is a bit too soon for another adulterous hero, but Dillon is also perfect at conveying the properties of mistakes. He is no more responsible for their occurence than God is responsible for the tragedy of The Mindy Project's cancellation. Unlike other actors, his errors all come across as feckless, guiltless.

The Rock is very sorry for how he acted last night. She's very lucky her husband was a helicopter pilot.

Things manifest differently for a woman. Dressed up in the style of decades earlier, Gugino looks like a strumpet even when she is Taylor Swifting about how conflicted she is about having sex/intercourse with another man's wife. Gugino, 43, is finally beginning to look like a woman in middle age, but her girlish appeal is still intact. Wayward Pines wins you over with its perfect casting and pace more than any actual substance.

It's nice to see a Scientologist can still get work.

In a bar in this mysterious, final town Matt Dillon meets Juliette Lewis. It feels like Lewis has been around for so long; the shocking news is that she is only 41. Her chief talent consists in making manufactured surprise look completely genuine. The fun comes when we simply watch her react to Matt's loopy questions. She gives him her address if he needs somewhere to stay, and it is at that address where he finds the body of a  missing cisgender federal agent.

Terence has trouble juggling multiple roles because of his utter devotion to the Stanislavsky Method.

Looking for answers — as well as his wallet and firearm — Dillon heads over to the sheriff's office. There Terence Howard is quietly fulfilling his contract with Fox, the same way Nucky's brother on Boardwalk Empire has magically been cast on every single HBO show since. Matt eventually has a breakdown and winds up in the hospital, where his real troubles begin. He cannot drive out of the town of Wayward Pines, since there is a massive electric fence circling the habitat.

Say what you want about M. Night's questionable taste in material/Scientologist actors, but he is fantastically talented at atmosphere and tension. Wayward Pines is incredibly fun for this reason. Here Chad Hodge (The Playboy Club) has an actual mystery that will deliver according to the novels it is based upon, rather than the strategery of Carlton Cuse taking notes for Lost's direction from message boards.

He has the best back of the head in television today. I want that hair as a wig.

Mr. Cuse recently bestowed upon us the rather dull third season finale of Bates Motel. The prequel to Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho succeeds entirely on the charisma of its star, the brilliant Vera Farmiga. In contrast, Cuse's newest show The Returned, also airing on A&E, is about as exciting as Lost-Jin flashback episode. You will not be surprised that The Returned concerns a massive cast of people all returning to a locale after they are believed to be dead.

In what is a major step forward for Carlton, there is barely anyone from Lost on the show, not even Nestor Carbonell. (Michelle Forbes was too good to exclude on this basis.) In what is not a major step forward for Carlton, The Returned concerns a group of white people from very different backgrounds and circumstances struggling with a mystery that has left them in an isolated place. Apparations and figments of their imagination recur, and they cannot make sense of the specifics of their lives. Lost should have died a long time ago.

Michelle Forbes should be in every show.

There is actually something deeply wrong about these many reincarnations of Twin Peaks. For all its perfection in mood and atmosphere, Twin Peaks was actually tongue-in-cheek, which many of these projects seem to ignore entirely. There is not really even one joke in Wayward Pines or The Returned — like Lost, they are utterly sincere interpretations of the same basic theme: understanding human beings at the level of a community rather than at the level of a person is a waste of time.

Treading over this ground might seem a little dull, but as long as Matthew Fox and Evangeline Lilly remain on the outskirts of employment and general good will, I suppose I can accomodate this trend.

Dick Cheney is the senior contributor to This Recording. He is most known for his disgust with the ending of Lost and being the former vice president of the United States.

This should have been what was in the hatch.

"Just Saying" - Jamie xx (mp3)

"Stranger in a Room" - Jamie xx ft. Oliver Sim (mp3)