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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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Entries in dick cheney (86)


In Which We Won't Order Anyone To Go With You

Died for the Watch


That feeling: when it's been too long since you have had a Thrones-ing. Watching King Tommen fawn over a cat named Sir Pounce doesn't quite fill the hole inside me.

God how I hate you, Sir Pounce. You are mangy, your politics are mostly likely left-liberal, and I suspect you of making secret, inappropriate jokes about the amputee in the King's Guard. Sir Pounce your bon mots are no match for my bon blogs.

Sir Pounce, you rascal. Get off the bed. Cats aren't allowed on the bed, Sir Pounce.
You know who is a fantastic eunuch? That Grey Worm.

But let me get back to Tommen. This little persnickety tween is no king. Joffrey was a man. He once shot an arrow in the boar that killed his father. Sure, it was a pouty arrow, but come on - he shot an arrow. He didn't lavish his attentions on a cat and a woman who closely resembles the Joker.

Cut scars in the side of your face. Do it. Tommen'll love it.

Having to listen to Littlefinger pleasing Lady Arryn was disturbing at best, treasonous at worst. Overhearing anyone have sex can be downright unpleasant for all parties concerned, but at least you know it's not King Tommen by himself in his chambers calling out for his pathetic cat in the night.

Frankly, I have a lot of respect for Lysa Arryn. It must have been really hard to watch people constantly making moves on your ginger sister when you know that (1) you had better goods, (2) you were better at squeezing people's hands really hard and (3) Catelyn Stark pouted a lot, probably too much.

A romance for the ages. Jamie et Bronn forever.

To take away the pain, it is important to find refuge in simple friendship. Sure, Jaime probably went too far with his actions in previous episodes, causing The Onion A/V Club to run that oh-so-regrettable headline "Rape of Thrones", but a lot of crazy shit happened around Joffrey's corpse. That was no one's fault, understand? Indicate that you heard me.

only reasonable soundtrack for this is Animal Collective. You know I'm right.

I find joy in the wondrous, odd-couple journey of Tyrion's squire and that tall woman. The two are absolutely adorable together. Why couldn't they have taken Sir Pounce with them, ideally sacrificing the beast to the White Walkers? I loathe you, Sir Pounce. Even a frozen, zombie version of you would not be kewl. I want to travel back in time and have Joffrey send an arrow into you. The only acceptable spirit animal for a King of Westeros is a wolf, unless HBO springs for CGI that week. Then it's a dragon.  

Let's free all slaves...for a week!

Lynne informed me recently that I am godfather to a child named Arya. At first I laughed, but then I grew serious. I wondered aloud why you would honor a child by naming her after a woman whose greatest achievements involve acting way too young for her age, having a hot friend named Hot Pie, and wandering across the King's Road for a solid three seasons. No wonder that scarred fellow is always so upset with her, does she even have an M.F.A.?

At least have breakfast the morning after. Not that big a deal.

Now that all my hatred of yore directed towards Bran Stark is now focused lagely on the king's cat and Anna Wintour, I can get behind the emotional journey of the young paraplegic. Deprived of both mother and father, stranded in a cold land, imprisoned by a guy doing a weird impression of a sadistic Lee Evans, I can finally sympathize with Brandon Stark based solelyon the fact that we both recently lost a lot of strength in our legs.

Fuck you, Sir Pounce. Also, must Jojen Reed spend half his waning hours meaningfully nodding to his friends and family. Use your words, marshling.

One way to make characters memorable is by giving them a distinguishing feature like a tattoo, burn or hysterectomy.

You know who was a fantastic eunuch? All of the eunuchs.

Next time on Game of Thrones promises the exciting conclusion to the trial of Tyrion Lannister. I hope he calls every single one of the dwarves at Joffrey's wedding to testify on his behalf. You can say a lot of things, but you can't say those little buggers didn't do a fantastic job representing the death of the Mad King and Robert Baratheon's victorious rebellion.

Um yeah that's not symbolic or phallic at all? Enjoy your trip with Ser Podrick. (It's not a test.)

Miss you Joffrey. I keep missing everybody. Ned. Myrcella. Craster. Renly. Roose Bolton's bff. Lord Mormont. Everyone. Sansa, because she's in the Eyrie. I even miss Littlefinger sometimes, usually when I'm wondering how big his dick is. I miss that Walder Frey guy. What was he all about? I miss the whore that Tyrion used to try to appease, even when she was being super-weird. I miss Nymeria and Lyanna Stark. But most of all, more than anything, I miss The Sopranos.

Dick Cheney is the senior contributor to This Recording. He is a writer living in an undisclosed location. 

"Gunshot (acoustic)" - Lykke Li (mp3)

"No Rest For The Wicked" - Lykke Li (mp3)


In Which Nothing Can Ever Tell You How Bad Noah Is

God Wants You To Cease Filmmaking


dir. Darren Aronofsky
A billion minutes

It feels like an eternity waiting for the only sex scene in Darren Aronofsky's Noah. It takes about ninety minutes into this mess for that to happen. In an instinctual move brought on by the realization that Anthony Hopkins has restored her ovaries, Emma Watson instructs her bf (Douglas Booth) to throw her a high hard one in the area every thinking person calls a hermione. He complies, and we wait for this transcendent moment humanity was denied for too long. Instead Aronofsky cuts away. An entire family sitting next to me whispered, "Goddamnit."

Emma clearly fired her hairstylist for calling her Granger too often, because this is completely unacceptable.

Noah (Russell Crowe) has been instructed by some vague dreams that the world is about to end. He goes to see his "grandfather" who drugs his son and later hits on his wife. Methusaleh (Anthony Hopkins) is the devil in disguise - for Christ's sake he is Lecter - and for good reason. He is the only performer in this utter disaster with the least bit of acting ability.

actually there was a kind of frosty sexual tension between RC and Ray Winstone, but it was never fully explored. Sequel? Jk.

Lynne wanted to see Noah because she loves when two animals, two animals of the same species, are brought together in close quarters. I asked, hadn't she had enough of that?

He can't stop thinking about how weird her ears are. He will never stop thinking about how weird her ears are.

Noah's wife Naameh (a completely insane Jennifer Connelly), reprising her entire performance from the weirdly cold blooded roles she is forced by her agent to play, has had enough of this proximity to another person. So far, all her marriage to Noah has brought her is two mediocre sons and a tent in the desert. He never fucks her, not even on her birthday.

Connelly's Naameh has one completely bizarre scene where tears run down her face and around her mouth, making her look like some depraved ex-wife shown up at Noah's doorstep. You start to wonder why Noah is even in a relash, given that he never looks directly at Naameh the entire movie. When they finally reconcile later he resorts to a bro hug because he doesn't want his mouth to touch her gross tears.

this is the mother of all retouched photos. Actually she looks like the wicked witch of the west tbh
It is hard to know who to blame for this disaster. I could joke and say it was on God for making Aronofsky in the first place, but that would probably be a premature assumption. All of the director's screenwriting efforts have been complete fuck-ups, and in Noah, he even loses the visual éclat that brought him to prominence in the first place.

the people who cut down trees in Avatar were evil, here they are heroes. Missin u always James Cameron

Instead of feeling like a surplus of excess, the visuals of Noah are highly dated. At times the CGI looks unprofessional, and the characteristic bestiary is never even viewed in its entirety. The animals have no personality, even as themselves. We never see them up close, just as a indeterminate mass. No one care for them. Lynne could only conclude that the makers of the production held some bias against any type of creature at all.

The ark itself is a massive disappointment, looking more like a sloppy 2x4 than a construct befitting the God who commissioned it. The only thing that would have made it worse is Frank Gehry.

at least have them kiss with tongue. It's not too much to ask.

No scene in Noah is more than ninety seconds, lest we realize the complete clichéd absurdity of what is being communicated or said, or see how little there is to this entire thing. Aronofsky has never been the slightest bit skilled at subtlety the individuals in his films rarely turn out to be anything other than what they are. As Ila, Watson herself never provides any kind of Eve-ian sexuality; in fact there are few roles in cinema she would seem more ill-suited for, given her mincing, sexy mouse-like appeal and flaccid Englishness.

For some reason Aronofsky figured it would be better to have everyone doing poor English accents, while allowing Crowe to just talk as he normally does, and Connelly to keep her own American whine. Noah is a linguist's nightmare, and it's also a completely racist festival that includes only whites. No one is even tan, though many are dirty.

"Guys, there is this really mean blog post about our movie. Let's build another ark."

What is most missing from this piece of shit is wonder. The world ending and a boat floating across its flooded ruins is supposed to be at least partly enjoyable, the way that falling from a great height suggests a thrill we will remember for the rest of our life, no matter how much longer it may go on. There is no wonder to the animals or the places the ark goes, no delight even at finally reaching land we suddenly cut to the entire group on a beach, without even seeing the discovery. At that moment, I felt like Tom Hanks when he found out Captain Phillips was utter bullshit extremely upset and disappointed with myself for even witnessing this debacle.

I mean, I feel so fucking embarrassed for this shit (below). Emma has like five scenes in the movie, and 90 percent of her lines consist of telling someone her belly hurts:

God will have his revenge on those responsible for these lies.

I mean yes, The Fountain was completely embarrassing and stupid, but it was just some revolting made up story, it didn't have actual things like drama and exciting moments that you expect from the story of Noah. At the very least Noah could have made a compass or done something besides send a really tired seagull out to find land for him. Deprived of all the things humans do in order to survive difficult situations, Crowe's Noah just growls a lot and tries to kill his grandchildren. It would be laughable if it was not so completely dull and boring. Throw in a swordfight, or cast Antonio Banderas as Jennifer Connelly's latin lover. Anything but this.


Dick Cheney is the senior contributor to This Recording. He is a writer living in an undisclosed location. You can find an archive of his writing on This Recording here.

"Don't look at the metacritic Jennifer. You won't like what you see."

"Lonely Child" - Christina Perri (mp3)

"Sea of Lovers" - Christina Perri (mp3)


In Which Gwyneth Paltrow Appears Under A Sapphire Sky

Honey You Are A Rock


At first it was difficult to decide what song exactly I should choose to commemorate the all-too-sudden passing of Gwyneth Paltrow's marriage from this earth. I was pretty much evenly decided between Marc Cohn's "Walking in Memphis" and "Gangsta's Paradise," until I remembered how my wife Lynne quietly whispered, "There's far too much Gwyneth to take in here/More to goop than can ever be found" when Chris Martin initially went outside of his marriage for a consolation prize. Her mane reminded me of a young Simba: Gwyneth can never be surpassed, only glided alongside, like an F-15.

I have been crying all night, and when I stopped crying and trying to make the lyrics of "Magic" apply to Chris Martin's weird affectation of considering pre-come "first orgasm", my tears evaporated. That's when my pride kicked in.

Is there anything she can't do, except you know, be happy?

To console myself, I wallowed in what is perhaps one of GPalt's most underrated performances - her two hour long butchery of an English accent in Neil LaBute's weirdly flaccid Possession. In a rarity for a major actress, Paltrow plays ten years over her age, in a role that would make a lot more sense for her now that she is (1) crazypants and (2) showing the faintest glimpses of a middle age that most prayed would never arrive.

Possession concerns the romance between Maud Bailey (Paltrow) and a young American scholar portrayed by Aaron Eckhart. Together, they pursue the mystery of a literary affair centuries old. Despite ample use of awkward silences and the penetration of the American's anus with a quill pen, the two never quite generate the requisite chemistry to make their romance the slightest bit believable. Gwyneth's accent varies from slightly bad to utter and complete shit, but it's all worth it to watch her play a buttoned-up English professor whose idea of a compelling sexual experience means getting felt up on a weekday.

literary research b4 5mbps internet was so hard guys, you don't even know. So many turtlenecks.

Possession switches back and forth between Gwyneth's genuinely sad accent and a literary romance discovered by the two scholars that took place during the late-1800s. The chemistry between the historical couple (Jeremy Northam and Pride and Prejudice's Jennifer Ehle) is equally lacking, especially since the woman seems to have a greater interest in an extremely attractive lesbian (Lena Headley). In contrast, Gwyneth's sudden movement and prevalence of onesies gets the heart rate moving a bit faster.

It is hard to think of who exactly Gwyneth ever had any chemistry with. She felt a lot more like Iron Man's mom, her version of Sylvia Plath turned her modest, and as Margot Tenenbaum she was so asexual that the only relationship she could ever consummate was with the mirror image of herself (Luke Wilson). She never even had to "consciously uncouple," her natural state was isolated, like an extremely shy owl.

Doing everything he can to resist complimenting the part in her her hair.

Possession is a lot better on mute, since watching Gwyneth swish and strumpet around like she's hunting for the Declaration of Independence in National Treasure begins to take on a momentum of her own when you're not focused on how silly she sounds. You always knew that Chris Martin was in no way the right man for Gwyneth, because she would require a timeless beacon of sexuality that could unnerve her steely veneer, and allow her to come apart without being torn asunder. (I have been reading a lot of Courtney Milan novels, so my apologies.)

At the time it was released, Possession's main story took place in the present. Watching it now, both tales are period pieces. No one has a cell phone, and all interneting is done on Macbooks. A good twenty percent of the film, in fact, is just waiting for the Prodigy service to load whatever Usenet group had good information about the sex life of the unfortunately named Randolph Henry Ash. Things were pretty bad before the internet was instantaneous, but waiting for web pages to load added to sexual tension and brought baby lion cubs closer together.

No woman has ever looked better in a down jacket than this girl.

I alluded to this earlier, but perhaps the main failing of Gwyneth's real life husband was that he thinks everything that comes out of his body is some holy object. The second he starts getting the least bit moist, he loudly exclaims "I'm coming! I'm coming!" and puts on a shit eating grin like he's just found all the differences between the two pictures in those Highlights puzzles.

The New York Daily News reported the two had been separated for some time, a relatively obvious state of affairs given that one can only pretend to take a man who writes a song concerning his adoration of clocks seriously for so long. Gwyneth's initial new squeeze, according to the paper, was a doofy looking entertainment lawyer who actually had the decency to keep up with her website. He would romance her with certain bon mots like, "Saw your website today," or "Good post GPalt" and she would melt into a small, Simba-shaped puddle. It is truly astonishing how little it takes to make some people happy. 

Dick Cheney is the senior contributor to This Recording. He is a writer living in an undisclosed location and the former vice president of the United States.

"Keep It Real" - Timbaland ft. Ginuwine (mp3)

"Lobster & Scrimp" - Timbaland ft. Jay-Z (mp3)

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