Washed Weekly: In the Arena
Will took a risk, and dragons are dancing.
Welcome to Washed Weekly — a weekly newsletter that will feature original columns, quick reads, exclusive product drops, and an offering of some of the best content we’ve created throughout the week that was. Read it, enjoy it, and pass it on to anyone you think will enjoy it, too. You can also check out the Washed network of podcasts.
I Took A Risk
by Will
“Don't be too timid and squeamish about your actions. All life is an experiment. The more experiments you make the better.”
― Ralph Waldo Emerson
On Wednesday, I woke up like I wake up every morning: with the sun, without an alarm, with my dog staring at me, and with drool in my beard. I took a shower. I had washed my hair the day before so it was brief. After drying off and brushing my teeth, I stood in front of my closet staring at the day’s possibilities.
Inside my recently organized closet was a stack of shirts, with two new shirts being atop that stack. One green and one purple, I opted for what I thought would be the safer choice — the green, pictured here:
As I looked in the mirror, I began to feel uneasy. The color felt brighter than it looked in the photos. It was a shade of green I’ve never worn before outside of St. Patrick’s Day or Austin FC matches. While I didn’t believe it looked bad necessarily, I did think something was off. With my espresso waiting for me and the kids stirring, I walked out of the bedroom without much more thought.
Upon getting in my car to go to the office, I found myself still feeling off. So, again, I did what I always do. I put on some music. The “Mo’ Betta Blues” theme by the Branford Marsalis Quartet, in particular.
While I wasn’t surprised Brett was at the office before me since I was a few minutes behind that morning, I was a bit perturbed he got the closest parking spot to the door. As I parked in the secondary spot, I got out of my car and was glad to not have to get my keys out to unlock the office door. It’s the little things in life.
But when I walked through the doors of Washed Media HQ, I looked down before saying anything to Brett.
“I hate my shirt,” I admitted for the first time. “I’m not sure what this color is.”
In that moment, confronting it head-on felt like the best course of action. In fact, I didn’t really even have a choice. The words came out when I could sense the elephant in the room growing larger and larger. This shirt — a plain green shirt — had suddenly overtaken who I was. With hindsight being 20/20, I was surprisingly frustrated with the man I was just 40 minutes prior. He should’ve never walked out the door with so many question marks looming.
“Yeah,” Brett confirmed, “I’m not sure it’s really your color.”
I nodded.
“Like,” he continued despite not needing to, “it’s not really part of your normal earth tone color palate.”
Like, okay, man, I get it.
“I think it’s too bright,” he reiterated.
I decided to take my mind off it by engaging in my morning routine: kick my feet on the desk, pop open my laptop, sip my coffee, and do something creatively productive. The moments that day between 8:43 a.m. and 9:37 a.m. were quiet.
But then Randy arrived.
Dillon had already gotten to the office — but obviously, I didn’t need to worry about my shirt around him because he’s colorblind. Dave, however, usually gets comfortable before fulling diving in to conversation.
Not Randy, though. Oh no. While this morning wasn’t a complete “case of the fuck-arounds,” there was a route in which we could get there. I knew almost immediately that he was going to ask the one question I did not want him to ask.
“Ohhhhhh!” he pointed, “New shirt for Will?”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
When wearing a new article of clothing or taking any sartorial risk, one always hopes that said risk will not become the focal point. More often than not, those “I really hope my boys don’t immediately roast this” thoughts creep in and become so pervasive that you toss on something new.
“Yeah,” I explained to Randy, “I hate it, thanks.”
“Yeah, it’s not what you usua—”
I stopped listening.
The shirt itself? It’s cut nicely. It fits me well. I like the material. I own two identical shirts in other colors that I wear often. But in this moment, in that time in space, the universe put the wrong shirt on me at the wrong time.
I took a risk. But like with a lot of risks, it didn’t pay off.
There’s always tomorrow, and some shirts are just better for bedtime.
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It’s Finale Time In Dragon Land
by Dave
As I was watching the great dragon stomp-out on last week’s House of the Dragon, I had no idea we were in the penultimate episode. Looking back, I should have realized it. Not that the season has been lacking for action, but this one was turned all the way up. Sheepstealer got checked into submission, Ulf switched teams, and Aemond is officially in an unhealthy relationship with a mystical woman and his mother. Sick.
With the finale looming and exactly one (1) OCC podcast appearance under my belt, I’m really all over the place with this show. I’m not losing sleep or anything, but I’m out here pondering while consuming AI slop and greenscreen videos breaking down lore that I’ve never even considered. It’s a great place to be with a show. Say what you will about season 2, showrunners, “the books,” and things of that nature, but I’m good overall with the contribution HOTD has made to the universe. They were up against it. A lot of skeptics wondered whether they could deliver on the heels of Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, which was universally loved.
For those wondering, I am still Team Black. That has not changed. I don’t feel good about it, but I’m not jumping sides just because Aegon got his swagger and dragon back. Yes, it was objectively badass, and no, I don’t feel great about the development. I don’t blame anyone who was on the fence for rolling with Team Green going forward. Aegon just had the scene of the season when he needed it. Game of his life type shiii. All you can do is tip your cap and move on.
One of my biggest questions for Sunday night is, of course, what’s next for Alicent Hightower? Assuming she failed to assassinate her son (the idiot), she’s on her own. At Harrenhall. Or in the Riverlands. Not good. I think Sunday night is the last time we see her, but I don’t know who does the deed. I wouldn’t be shocked if she went out on her own terms rather than letting her son’s mystical castle lady, or worse, her son, strike the blow.
And Ulf. A guy who’d probably give the whole dragon rider thing back if it meant he could link with the fellas at the pub one more time. Who saw this coming? Most of us, honestly. The clues were there if you’d just put down your phone and watch. I’m predicting a backfire (backfyre) when it comes time to do some betrayin’. He’s been a dragon rider for 6 weeks, so no, I don’t trust his ability to be key personnel during the biggest battle of the season.
I’m ready, though. Surely this won’t end with my Queen letting her paranoia further ruin her short reign as Queen of the Andals et al. No way. No way she freaks out and burns the Hightowers and all of Tumbleton to the ground. I’m just going to continue to ignore all the red flags. Let’s go.
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