In Which We Find Someone To Play The Bass

Hard to Say is This Recording’s weekly advice column. It will appear every Wednesday until the Earth perishes in a fiery blaze, or until North West turns 40. Get no-nonsense answers to all of your most pressing questions by writing to or by dropping us a note at our tumblr.


Aaron has been dating my friend Katy for just short of two years. She loves him dearly and sees a future for them together. They are both in their late twenties. Recently, Aaron told me in confidence that his Italian-born parents want him to take a long trip to Italy and “find a wife there.” I guess this is something of a tradition. He has had some great experiences with his family in Italy and he confessed that it is something he has considered. 

I recently observed someone ask Aaron whether he had a girlfriend, and he said yes, “She is really nice.” This struck me as true but also a bit underwhelming. Do I tell Katy any of this, and how do I advise Aaron?

Priya C.

Dear Priya,

That’s how someone would describe material possessions, like a soft pashmina or an adopted pug, not a significant other. There’s definitely a lack of passion in his cadence and demeanor. According to his missteps, the red flags line up perfectly. One, he doesn’t love Katy enough and is already resorting to flying out to Italy. Two, a part of him still wants to please his parents to fill a void (i.e. parents never got him the Yorkshire terrier he wanted on his 5th birthday).

When we were younger, my parents knew my brothers and I weren’t going to have traditional marriages. Not every parent is going to let their child run into the wild to figure their own romantic endeavors. They fully accepted the upcoming cultural and generational shifts. Marriage is just the cherry on top for them. I rolled merrily along with my life and didn’t expect anything of it until I met a girl in college who had an arranged marriage. She fell in love with him as time went on, but it was an unusual and fortunate circumstance not everyone is so lucky to have.

Aaron should fully accept the full responsibility of what is to come. If he is percolating the idea of flying to Italy quite heavily then he should tell how Katy how he really feels about her. More importantly, ask him if Katy is his soulmate, or if the timing is right, “his soulsies.”


My stepsister Andrea has a young son named Ruben of 12. He is hyperactive and frequently embarasses her in front of company. I realize he has behavorial problems, but my fiancee isn’t as used to dealing with him as I am. Our wedding is in a few months and she has said in no uncertain terms that she does not want Ruben to be anywhere around us that day.

I realize the possibility of ruining the ceremony would be terrible, but I have suggested as a compromise that he could attend the reception where more than one individual is likely to embarrass themselves. I feel it would be a long-remembered omission to disinvite a member of my family who is a part of our lives, even if he has issues with ADHD.

Mark S.

Dear Mark,

You’re actually thinking of disobeying your-wife-to-be’s wishing on your wedding day? You stupid, naive motherfucker. Compromises are for Chamberlain and when they are all out of whole wheat wraps. If your family holds it against you or your wife that you made this unilateral decision, it’s their problem.

Illustrations by Mia Nguyen.


“Genesis” – Lau Nau (mp3)

“Kuoleman Laiva” – Lau Nau (mp3)

In Which Ted’s Behavior Reaches A Critical Turning Point

Outlet Shopping


Ted 2
dir. Seth MacFarlane
115 minutes

At the beginning of Ted 2 the title character is living in a two-room apartment with his wife Tami-Lynn (Jessica Barth). The two have slowly been growing apart. After examining their credit card bills, Ted determines that his wife has spent $120 on clothing at Filene’s Basement, an amount he deems excessive for an outlet store. He lashes out at Tami-Lynn, asking her why she needs nice clothing for work when her job as a grocery store cashier demands she wear an apron over it.

Due to drug use, Tami-Lynn’s ovaries have been corrupted into a black fugue. Because they cannot have a child together, and no agency sees them as fit adoptive parents, Ted considers their marriage effectively over. This is the single most offensive notion in Ted 2, although it is not the first time that fertility issues have let directly to divorce.

The rest of Ted’s jokes aren’t terribly offensive at all. They are scaled back a lot from MacFarlane’s long-running animated series Family Guy, where some of the things said about blacks, Jews, women and Frank Sinatra are downright disrespectful. Ted 2 is tame in comparison – most of the humor is about ejaculation and blowjobs. Seth at least had the dignity to hire African-American actors to say the really wretched things.

In order to get Ted certified as a person and not a material good, he and his friend John (Mark Wahlberg) hire a lawyer named Samantha (Amanda Seyfried). MacFarlane spends most of the movie making fun of Seyfried’s disturbingly prominent eyes. Despite enjoying Ted’s favorite pasttime — marijuana smoking — Samathana is deemed not as cool as a 40 year old guy wearing what appears to be a hairpiece and a stuffed teddy because she has never seen Rocky 3.

Ted 2 was begging for a road movie where MacFarlane could really examine America up close and make jokes about people the elites on the coasts secretly suspect are inbred racists who believe in omnipotent supernatural beings.

Instead Seth targets most of his jokes here at the elites themselves, since most of these one-liners, except the one involving Wahlberg being coated in semen, can only be understood with a college degree or by Good Will Hunting-esque prodigies.

Ted 2 starts to get exceptionally dreary and dull in its second act, when a long courtroom scene slows the comedy to a devastating crawl. Neither Wahlberg or Seyfried is good at anything much escept being a straight man. This would normally be fine, but Ted is just a despondent, rather depressing individual here and even his normal joie de vivre would not be enough to carry material this dull. This Ted is not wild or funny at all, just sad that no one respects his choices or personality.

The rest of the movie is not much better, as Ted’s depression leads him to walk around Comic Con where a vendor is selling his clones for $40, and a Hasbro employee named Donny (Giovanni Ribisi) tries to analyze him for science.

Ted 2 reminds one of the serious turn taken by John Landis’ worst movie, Beverly Hills Cop 3. Beverly Hills Cop 3 would never have been released today. Someone would have seen it for what it was — a dramatic version of a comedy series predicated on Eddie Murphy’s wild improvisation. He refused to do any of that in the production of Beverly Hills Cop 3, thinking this wacky kind of behavior did not fit an older, more mature detective. He may have been right, but no one wanted to see it.

Alex Carnevale is the editor of This Recording.

“The Starting Line” – Matt Pond PA (mp3)

“A Second Lasts A Second” – Matt Pond PA (mp3)

In Which Allegory Is The Only Proper Form Of Argument

Poldark Times


creator Debbie Horsfield

What remains of National Review magazine after William F. Buckley expired and left the reins to a bunch of cranky weirdos who loathe homosexuals presented a symposium this week. The topic was the Supreme Court’s legalization of gay marriage. None of their regular writers were included in the symposium — besides opinion pieces by presidential candidate Ted Cruz and columnist Kevin Williamson, no one wrote at length on the decision. “The Editors” did weigh in, explaining that it was super unfair that gays could marry… for reasons.

It is hard to think of a good argument against gay marriage; most of the “people” in National Review‘s symposium cited polygamy as the motivating factor in their advocacy against it.

The slippery slope extends far further than that. I was forced by my wife Lynne to watch a BBC series called Poldark in which a man marries his servant. I am unsure whether or not this is historically accurate — I know the Downton Abbey sex tape girl made it with her driver, but I thought that was a bit of a grey area. It isn’t as if he was cleaning her toilet, after all.

To be fair, she was a fantastic maid.

I composed an elaborate Modest Proposal parody concerning how no one should be allowed to marry their servant, but out of concern for your time, I replaced it with the impassioned broadside that follows. You can thank me later.

The title character of Ross Poldark (Aiden Turner) fucks his maid exactly once, although on another very symbolic occasion she baked him an apple pie. After an intense night that the producers of Poldark show alarmingly little of, the ginger maid Demelza (Eleanor Tomlimson) resolves to wander away from the Poldark estate, which looks something like a penis:

After you lose a war to Americans, you build homes like this as emotional shelter I guess.

I recently received a few scandalous electronic mails suggesting that I am obsessed with seeing penises where they are not. One even threatened that if I expressed regret at never seeing the Mountain’s member one more time he would traitorously start reading the wretched Game of Thrones recaps on some other website. I wrote him back, saying, “Methinks the lady doth protest too much” and included a gif of Catelyn Stark being murdered.

In some ways Poldark is basically a Cateyln Stark prequel, which should horrify every thinking person.

You can’t help but see penises on Poldark, even if they are not veiny or fleshy. The main character lives in a penis, and he has a scar running from his left eye to his jaw that looks like a long, stringy phallus. Turner’s acting is a little overdone, and his main quality is an overwhelming handsomeness. He works very hard nonetheless, and he does take his shirt off an awful lot to make up for the lack of visible genitals. Instead of bidding farewell to Demelza, Ross Poldark decides to make her his wife.

The only thing missing from Poldark is any individual of color, and any homosexual. Downton Abbey got us used to expecting extensive gay storylines full of unrequited love and sexually transmitted diseases in our British period dramas. Poldark has none of that — the National Review crowd can enjoy it as good Christians enjoy the Bible and, apparently, denying citizens equal protection under the law.

None of these people can marry.

One article I read from a guy named Rod Dreher was particularly pernicious, and deserves special mention. Christians don’t like being called hateful, he explained, without explaining why he does not want gays to be able to commit to one another for life. Given the decision, he went on to say, it is now Christians who are the righteous minority. He seemed to take a certain disturbed pleasure in this. Naturally he finished his column with the most inane sentence in all of op-ed dom: We live in interesting times.

The wedding was sold to US Weekly for six million shillings.

After Poldark marries his servant, he immediately puts a bun in her oven. She and the baby get sick from an illness that is going around Poldark’s copper mine. It is never cleared up why he can’t get a more honest occupation, like that of columnist for the Dallas Morning News, with which to provide for his family. Instead he subjects the working class of his region to his penis manor, his slighter-higher but still pretty low wages, and the diseases of the copper underground, the one he inherited from his now-deceased father.

Digging in the earth himself is beneath his own dignity. As a veteran of the American War of Independence, he is finished doing the dirty work, even if it is his own dirty work. Instead his child is the one who suffers, perishing from the contagion. This is irony, only semi-tragic and not humorous. Gay marriage should have been a tremendous victory for conservatives who championed the importance of the family unit as the standard grouping of civilization. Instead they made a mess of things.

Dick Cheney is the senior contributor to This Recording. His conscience is massive at this point, and expanding every day. He grows larger in our appreciation of him. You can find an archive of his writing on This Recording here.

“Sitting On My Dream” – Friska Viljor (mp3)

“Painted Myself In Gold” – Friska Viljor (mp3)

In Which We Hurt Each Other With The Things We Wanted To Say

35 Things I Have Done In the Context Of A Relationship And Subsequently Regretted


1. attended a production of Hamlet where the voice of the ghost was piped in using a boombox

2. murdered a spider

3. seen a psychotherapist

4. it is a strange thing to be prayed to

5. consumed kale

6. gotten a tattoo

7. gotten a tattoo removed

8. willfully misunderstood when Valentine’s Day was

9. masturbated using an issue of Popular Mechanics

10. worshipped Jesus

11. taken a pet back to the point of sale

12. pretended to be invested in the outcome of Friends with Benefits

13. stated the lyrics to Nickelback songs as if they were my real emotions as a test

14. prepared a picnic

15. subtly hinted I was allergic to lingerie

16. cheated at a game of dreidel

17. purchased and destroyed one of those Eyes Wide Shut masks

18. subtly put down the Air Force

19. ran a magnifying glass over a cyst

20. intentionally lost at Taboo

21. read Dance to the Music of Time

22. felt more beautiful than I looked

23. thrown up

24. not flinched when the other party suggested Adele had a “Jewish face”

25. told an orthodontist to go fuck himself

26. repressed my deeply held belief that Mr. Clean is a sex offender

27. worked out

28. feigned that I enjoyed any part of The Avengers

29. purchased Friends with Benefits on Blu-ray as a gift

30. pretended not to know Meatloaf’s sexuality

31. suggested a ferret “wasn’t as disturbing as I expected”

32. touched what I thought was an erection but was actually a toothbrush

33. had sex without a condom

34. danced to the music of time

35. thought it was always anyone else’s problem other than my own

Ellen Copperfield is the senior contributor to This Recording. She is a writer living in San Francisco. You can find an archive of her writing on This Recording here.

“Heart Won’t Stop” – John Mark McMillan & Sarah McMillan (mp3)

“Walk Around My House” – John Mark McMillan & Sarah McMillan (mp3)

In Which We Are Not Very Good Swimmers




The day after graduation, I woke up hungover to attend the baptism of the man I had been sleeping with and thought myself to love during those final months of school.


I thought, before writing this, that I would leave out the graduation and the school, the short time span, and, most notably, the loving — but I am immature, hasty and young, and it all shows whether I declare it at the start or hide it.


Is thinking to love someone and loving someone the same? This nags at me, though there was never a point at which he either thought to love me or loved me that I know of; the question, or problem, applies only to me.


I could reconcile my quandary if, looking back on it now, I decide that I only thought to love him, and this method of thinking was an error. But as it stands, I either continue to think that I loved him, continue to think that I thought to love him, think to love him still, love him still, or deny all of the thinking and the loving entirely. Sometimes I think that the act of thinking to love him more or less equates to loving him. That is to say, sometimes I presume to substitute one for the other, thinking: I love to love him or I loved him or I loved to love him or I love him, or I don’t and didn’t ever. Loving or not; not thinking. That is simpler.

I admit this sort of thinking and loving is insufferable; if I repeat the word enough, I hope to dull it so that it does not bring me so much shame, in writing or otherwise.


Reading over that initial sentence, the only word that now seems somehow misplaced is man. Was he a man? I don’t mean this as a slight, but sometimes I think he was a boy instead.


I often sent him e-mails of poetry. Thankfully, very little of it was my own, though that does not excuse it. One poem I sent him, near the end, was George Oppen’s “Boy’s Room.” As I was preparing to leave one morning, for good (it was always for good), he said, “I’m sorry, it’s only a boy’s room.” “You’re 24,” I said back, not caring about poetry.

I don’t know why he said it; he was never “gasping / for breath over a girl’s body” — or not mine, at least.


Truthfully, he was not then 24. It was many months until his birthday. Now his birthday has come and gone. I sent him a forcibly cheerful email, which everyone advised against. I did not write of us sleeping together, or even make any veiled references to it.


I regret that I am not the sort of person that can say fucking with any sort of ease.


I say sleeping together because I am a prude, but also because it is accurate. I think he regrets both  — the actual sleeping side-by-side and the fucking. They are not the same thing, but the blanket term comforts me, pairing them as I sometimes pretended we were paired.


Lying in my bed one afternoon, in my room, I was struck by how much larger his bed was than mine.

I told my roommate my observation while she studied. “Aren’t they the same size?” she said, looking up briefly. She had seen his room before, and her memory was more precise than mine. However, I knew that there was no way that he and I could lay side-by-side, not touching on my bed and still fit. One of us would slide off. I was certain his was larger.


I was tracing the line of his back one night in his bed, not sleeping, when he interrupted, “That hurts my back, actually.” It was without warmth, but I had often traced two fingers along either side of his spine in this way.

I withdrew my hand, thinking myself seared, though I could have been pressing too hard. The curve of his back was distinctly elegant — something that may have been from years of swimming, or simply God-given, though I don’t know which.


The last night I spent in his presence was spent mostly in the dark of his living room. He and a friend of ours joked half-heartedly back and forth while swigging whiskey, as I tried not to fall asleep on his couch. I had been driving all day after moving my belongings back to my childhood home, and was exhausted to return to the place I had just left three days prior — bouncing from one old, abandoned home to another with nothing new to carry.

A pillow and blanket were laid out, though I didn’t know for whom. He was always having guests stay over and seemed to crave, or at least welcome, constant company. Everyone assumed that they were close enough friends with him to stay the night. I no longer felt that way, however, though I did adopt the pillow and blanket temporarily, while trying not to sleep on his couch.

He looked at me kindly from across the room, saying, “You just want to sleep, don’t you?” This seemed to comfort him, so I did not respond.


As the night continued, I righted myself and began to stretch, sore from travel. He took the pillow and blanket in my absence, curling up. It became clear that it was he, not I, who was now in danger of nodding off.

“Don’t you want to go to your bed?” I asked.

“I don’t like my bed that much,” he said, muffled, into his pillow and blanket on the floor.


Now, I try to regard that modest remark warmly, as if he were saying, it’s nothing personal, it was the bed all along that I didn’t like, not you! Of course, I would reply brightly, it’s a shame we never settled on a more appealing locale — the dirty apartment floor or the table with the mugs of stale tea, for instance.

I don’t know if the bed was a casualty of my imprint, or of someone else’s, or of his own. None of these options would surprise me.


In his poem “Firstly” from Love, Poetry, Paul Eluard writes: “Le sommeil a pris ton empreinte / Et la colore de tes yeux.” Sleep took your imprint, and the color of your eyes. I say it hushed like a prayer.


I was not surprised when he told me he was going to be baptized.


To be fair, I should say re-baptized. He had been baptized as an infant and grown up very religious; I encountered him during a brief lapse of faith.


Now that he has returned to his faith, I often imagine that he has sewn together the moment when he stopped believing with the moment he was re-baptized, and that I rest in the crumpled fabric, beneath stitches.

Though, what is this fabric part of, and does it clothe him? I can’t see from here.


I used to write him many letters in class. When I wasn’t writing letters, I would write over and over again, in the margins, “Stand still, and see the salvation of the Lord.” The phrase related to the course, but disproportionately, compared with how many times I wrote it.


Now that I am standing still, I think I saw more in movement, but I won’t use this opportunity to draft a religious treatise. Only that: it is hard to see light from beneath stitches. I do still enjoy the phrase’s alliterative effect, and sometimes it returns to me, flowing past as water would.


I went to the beach almost every day this summer, partly because I had nothing else to do, and partly because I love the ocean. Though I became transfixed by water after the baptism, the writing of this feels more often like sifting sand before a boundless body.

“I am the easiest of men. All I want is boundless love,” writes Frank O’Hara, mocking me.


His eyes were clear, distilled blue. They were not the color of the ocean.


I asked him once what color he thought my eyes were, though I know them to be a murky blue-green. I like to see which color people settle on as a matter of self-absorption. “They’re gray,” he answered.

Les yeux glauques. He had often spoken of the term in class, mistaking glauques for gray, acting as if it amounted to something beautiful. I did not recognize the reference at the time of my question, and now, I do not know if he was making any kind reference at all, or if I have made it all up, desperately.

Why does he not see any color in me? I thought instead, and said only, “Your eyes are blue,” something that he knew.


Incidentally, glauques does not mean gray, but sea-green, or unclear, depending on whose translation you trust. Reading now from Pound’s “Yeux Glauques,” the poem we read in class, I come across the stanza “The thin, clear gaze, the same / Still darts out faun-like from the half-ruin’d face,/ Questing and passive…/ Ah, poor Jenny’s case…” Why did he think glauques meant gray, and what about them is beautiful? So far as I can tell, glauques amounts to neither, and it lawlessly sticks in my mouth when I try to pronounce it correctly.


St. Augustine advises, “Water is a unity, all the more beautiful and transparent on account of a yet greater similitude of its parts… on guard over its order and its security. Air has still greater unity and internal regularity than water. Finally the sky… has the greatest well-being.” Try as I might, I cannot make water cohere with the sea.


Today the sky is August gray, and it does emit the greatest well-being, and vividly.


His baptism took place in a church, in a tub full of water. He wore orange, a color I had never seen him in, and made a speech whose contents I cannot remember, though it moved me at the time. I do remember watching as he and his orange shirt descended, and then rose up again, smiling. But where were his eyes looking? Not up, but out. A horizon.


Having a Coke with You / is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne / or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona / partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian / partly because…” reads some of the first stanza of O’Hara’s “Having a Coke with You.” It concludes, “it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still / as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it / in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth / between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles.” Frank and I would like to know: what was the joyful, orange shirt doing in that statuary church?


When I see him emerge from the water, do I see the orange shirt, or do I see him? Which is smiling, and which is moving?


“Out of the ash / I rise with my red hair / And I eat men like air” ends Plath, and I concur. In actuality, my hair is more orange than red, if we’re going to stick to colors. Sometimes I call it gold, in a fit of megalomania, something to which I am regrettably prone.


When the sky is not August gray, I go to the ocean and sometimes regard it, and sometimes swim in it. I am not a good swimmer, but I do well with the cold and the salt does not hurt me.

When I leave the sea to return to my pieces of sand, as what do I emerge?


And can I rise from anything at all?

Allison Neal is a contributor to This Recording. She is a writer living in Berkeley.

“Shrike” – Crywolf (mp3)

In Which We Rent Him Out For Weddings And Parties

Hard to Say is This Recording’s weekly advice column. It will appear every Wednesday until the Earth perishes in a fiery blaze, or until North West turns 40. Get no-nonsense answers to all of your most pressing questions by writing to or by dropping us a note at our tumblr.


My boyfriend Dan has a friendship with a woman in his workplace. She is very nice and I honestly don’t believe she is after him. The problem is that she asks him to accompany her to workplace events and seminars on a frequent basis. It’s one thing if it is strictly professional improvement, but many of these engagements are dinners and celebrations and it seems like Dan is purely her escort.

Dan doesn’t really see the problem since I don’t have the time or inclination to go to even those obligations to which I am invited. Should he respect my wishes, or am I out of line?

Catherine P.

Dear Catherine,

It sounds like this woman is doing all the work for none of the financial or physical remuneration. Have you considered getting her a gift basket or one special night with the one you love?

But actually, no, if this pisses you off it is important to mark your territory. Freak out about this and groan obsequiously every single time this woman is even mentioned. Your boyfriend should realize that there are not ever any other people in the world. There is just the two of you. Anything else is a threat or a corpse.

If he actually leaves you for this woman, I am very sorry.

My boyfriend Aaron and I have been seeing each other for six months after meeting on Tinder. He is something of a nervous guy at times, never more so than when we are being intimate. He is extremely well-endowed so has nothing to worry about on that front. Still, he gets a little anxious and as we start, begins narrating every aspect of ahat is happening. The amount of apologies on offer is amazing, but quickly gets old. If my head is accidentally bumped he will stop completely and ask me if I am OK. Once, completely unprompted, he left to get me ice.

I have tried to talk to Aaron about this, but even after I explained, he looks verbally constipated during sex and I can tell he’s not himself. Is it possible to get him over this hump?

Lucianne R.

Dear Lucianne,

Some men are brought up to think women are very delicate. At the same time, they ignore pretty clear evidence that Angelina Jolie keeps the souls of the men she couples with. Do you think she was like, “Hey Brad, I’m heading for your anus” on that fateful first date? Some things are better when you don’t know about them beforehand, like Ellie Goulding and the Batmobile.

I suggest physical intervention in this case. Aaron won’t shut up, but he probably wants to, so put your finger on his lips and shush him as you take over. Failing that, cover his mouth and nostrils tightly. When he begs for his life, remind him, “I thought I told you to close your trap.”

If you are keen on a more psychological approach, tell him a story about a friend named Marcia Hamsbottom who had an ex-husband who would not stop quoting The Big Lebowski, no matter how many times she told him she hated it. If he says that the name Hamsbottom sounds made-up, wonder aloud how he has not heard of RCA recording artist Duracell Hamsbottom. I think he was in Outkast?

Illustrations by Mia Nguyen.

“Love Is Strong” – Shelby Lynne (mp3)

“Down Here” – Shelby Lynne (mp3)

In Which Aromatherapy Is The Only Thing That Keeps Kaitlyn Going

Nick’s Bracelets


Now that the men and women of Game of Thrones have gone back into their caves to debate who is dead and who is not, my Sundays are completely free to catch up on The Bachelorette. Last night Kaitlyn straight up slept with this guy named Nick in Dublin under the principle of, if I have sex with someone overseas, did it really happen?

He takes most of his romantic lines from Grey

It did end up happening. Kaitlyn is primarily known for being humorous, which is odd because she never tells jokes, really. She laughs a lot and dances when music is on, which when I think about it doesn’t make her different from any other human being. She has a tattoo of a bird on her arm, a rather unsightly marking. As she explains the ink, it reminds her that wherever she is, she has a way home.

Kaitlyn makes her actual home somewhere in Arizona, not far from the devilish lair of one George R. R. Martin. Not a single person got laid this season on Game of Thrones except for the Queen of Dragons. Kaitlyn is considerably less threatening. This week her men held a fake funeral for her in Dublin. She lay in the casket giggling as they pronounced limericks about her untimely passing.

This was actually a cute idea in theory. In practice one guy started crying as he remembered his mom’s funeral.

It was all a bit macabre, especially with host Chris Harrison whining like a baby about how Kaitlyn was “the worst corpse ever.” To spice things up, Nick’s main competition got really drunk. Shawn Booth is a personal trainer from Windsor Locks who appears to have muscles above his eyebrows. He got sauced on PBR and moved the party immediately to Kaitlyn’s hotel room, where she had previously fucked Nick.

getting drunk and confronting the bachelorette is pretty much heaven for any personal trainer.

Here he told her about his feelings. I don’t doubt that young men have feelings; I just don’t understand whey they can’t repress them, expressing their emotions in open critiques of the new True Detective only. “Rachel McAdams’ haircut is the shits” and “I think this is exploiting sexual violence as a replacement for dramatic seriousness.”

That’s a lot of bracelets, but then against Nick is part Navajo.

Disturbingly, Shawn was expressing his innermost emotions on the same couch where Nick stroked Kaitylin’s leg and murmured such malapropisms as, “I want to know every part of you,” and “I can’t get enough of you.” Nick, a software sales executive from Wisconsin, wears a set of bracelets everywhere that he goes. Each indicates an aspect of his interior self.

A man should hold a woman’s face during kisses and at all other times.

As Nick and Kaitlyn engaged in their various intimacies, GRRM had the idea of crosscutting their sex with a deep conversation between Shawn and Jared about how much they trusted her. While ostensibly a sexist move, the producers of The Bachelorette softened this attack on their heroine by showing soft images of birds and bees mating. A fountain exploded into the Dublin night to represent Nick and Kaitlyn’s simultaneous orgasm.

The only other alternative was to film Nick’s cock up close.

The amount of woman-shaming going on by the producers of The Bachelorette is, naturally, in poor taste. Of course Kaitlyn fucked Nick — which of us would not do the same? He has bracelets, bracelets, and when he leans over, he puts his hand against his own head to indicate how fucking casual and sexy and fun this all is. Considering the rest of the candidates for Kaitlyn’s affections look like they got out of a clown car, this means a hell of a lot.

The irony is that Nick is the same man who, at the end of the last season of The Bachelorette, asked Andi, why did she have sex with him if she did not care for him to choose himself instead of Josh Murray? No one has ingratiated himself so quickly and shallowly among such stiff competition. Nick deserves to know why these women want him if they do not really want him. The answer is that he smells like cinnamon and Brut.

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

Everything in one shot. Damn the cinematography on this show is top notch.

“Black Heart” – Carly Rae Jepsen (mp3)