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These are the author's essays and thoughts that he wishes he was given the opportunity to write about in college. This is his page to vent and post random ephemera. Remember that stuff posted here is subject to the author's opinion and may not accurately reflect the actuality of subject matter. Basically what I'm saying is: this is not your daughter's tumblr.
With regards to basketball, in order to be considered one of the best free throw shooters of all time, you need to hit about 90 percent of your free throws.
9/10 hoops in your lifetime.
Is this a model of success that we have become accustomed to strive toward?
You can have a little failure, but if you aren’t jumping through 9 of your 10 hoops, you are failing?
I think it’s just a bad analogy. Failure and success are such boring terms. They imply ultimatums and produce banality. They are as indefinite as infinity. Failure and success is associated with the concept of heaven versus hell. You have two ends, and when your life is over, you either end up on the good end or the bad end for the rest of eternity. Euphoria or suffering.
So if you jump through 9 out of 10 hoops, then do we define this as a level of success? Do you get into heaven?
If you only hit 1 out of 10 hoops, did you fail?
Those are both stupid questions. You never indicated how large the hoops are, and how close or far they are from you.
My personal advice. Don’t think. Just change and refine, change and refine, and be as far from comfort as you possibly can. Success is infinity. A verb, not a noun.
Time to gather data, facts, and evidence and see what systems I like for myself. Been a while since I’ve posted. Welcome back me.
Trees are frosted outside.
Yeah, that’s not deep at all.
I am a Seahawks fan and I live in WA state. Today, I went to breakfast at a local bar/restaurant that has a lot of television screens that show all the football games. Most of the tables were occupied, so my father and I sat at a six person table with only one man at the corner of the table by himself. He was watching the only tv with the Bills-Buccaneers game on, and he had a Bills jersey on. He quietly ordered his food, and watched as he saw his losing record Bills team get absolutely wrecked by a Tampa Bay team, also with a losing record. No generic sport fan would give two shit’s about that game.
Later, I wore my Seahawks jersey, and I watched my team lose. I felt okay afterwards because the team is doing fine. The Seahawks are having one of their best seasons ever as far as we know, and they are already going to make the playoffs.
They lose to the 49ers, and people on my facebook news feed that hate the Seahawks and their fanbase apparently acknowledged the fact that “the royal we” were quiet after the loss.
I don’t feel compelled to justify how my team performs on social media. I instead just think of that Bills fan at the corner of the table. There is no way I could explain why that guy is a Bills fan in the state of Washington, but he supported his team. The dude enjoyed seeing his team play. It was his Sunday catharsis for whatever he was going through in his weekly life.
Before I actually dig into anything remotely close about Amélie, I think I deserve to start with the following statement: I hate movie reviews as pieces of print. Basically, when it comes to me to decide what movies to watch, I look at the rottentomatoes score and the overall consensus. That’s it. Many film critics at this point do not have the same powerful voice as Roger Ebert once possessed before cancer and death eventually silenced his insight. It seems as though film critics are merely responsible for constructing the tomatometer, which decides which movies are fresh or rotten based on simple percentages. But honestly, why not write about movies as the pieces of art that they are?
Hell, there are many books that analyze literature and poems, and I’m sure that they are many pieces of commentary from film experts that can tell you what to know during the special features play-through of a particular film. And, I know there are plenty of essays that reflect on the deep and intricate meanings of films. But, I’m just gonna put each of my respective index fingers in their respective ear sockets and pretend that none of this exists, and my shitty blog is the only way one can read about every movie in the history of mankind. What a dreadful scenario that would be.
So now that I’ve vented like a typical internet bitch, without getting to any thesis whatsoever, I would love to shit on a movie that I am sure that a lot of film-goers love (and love to hate if they are pretentious)—Amélie. I don’t shit on the movie in a knock-it-down-and-criticize-every-little-bitchy-scene sort of way, I mean shit on it in the best way possible: it’s the French way.
French people do some weird shit. I’m serious. I had a roommate in my junior year of college who was a foreign exchange student from France. He was critical of all the shit about America. He scoffed at the fact that our local grocery store supplied cans of spray cheese as well as wine extracted straight from the giant glass body of the Kool-Aid man. Yet, by the end of the year, he ended up consuming more cases of Old Milwaukee that I ever thought imaginable (and I only imagine ninety-one 91 year old “don’t tread on me” conservatives drink more than him—women included). He also had a habit of acquiring pieces of fried chicken and dipping them in a jar of mayo before eating them. That’s not American as far as I’m concerned. But, is it French?
I, along with many other young Americans who have so graciously been avoiding France all our lives because we’re too poor to travel through Europe and making terrible excuses, have been brainwashed to believe that French life is a lot like Parisian life. When I think of France, I think of some guy sitting at a café by the Eiffel Tower. This man is wearing some sort of horizontally aligned black and white stripped sweater with a red scarf and a beret. One would lead me to suspect some guy who looks like the Hamburglar, but that fucker is American. I won’t let the French take over McDonald’s with their Royale-with-Cheese Bullshit. It’s a goddamn quarter pounder with queso (I only type pro-American so that I sound like I’m an intelligent asshole who is critical of America or something). This man also sports a beard, but a sissy one. Think of him looking like a classic villain with perfectly groomed facial hair that juts out of his face like three rapiers in opposite directions. He is smoking some cigarette, he probably isn’t wearing any pants, and as soon as he finishes saying “Oui Oui” in his conversation, he does a quick tug of his left mustache, downs a pint of red wine, scarfs a croissant, and jumps on his vespa travel device so he can quickly get to the next cafe. The problem is that he is not going to the next French cafe. It’s all a red herring, and this is exactly what Amélie wants you to believe.
Amélie is not a French movie. It’s not a comedy. It’s not romantic. Even the é in the title is distraction that leads you to believe that this is a French movie. No, Amelie is a movie about expectations of love in a world of illustrated and colorful two-dimensional characters. In many regards, Amélie is really a painting that looks like a movie.
Every character in this film is not complex. You are tricked to believe that characters are complicated, intricate, or downright interesting (if you honestly cannot think of a better descriptive word) with the narrator pointing to insights of what they like and dislike. Amélie’s father is noted as liking things like organizing tools and hating when his swimsuit gets too tight as he leaves the water. Her mother is introduced in the same fashion. Almost every character is described what their personality is like by the narrator. Even the main character is predictable, she’s shy but hilarious because she is so “imaginative” and ultimately controls the fate of what good and ill happens of others. The movie is fairly simple too, there is not major plot that needs to be resolved, and this is what gives the movie charm. This is what makes the movie funny. I think that Amélie is a great story of the bullshit it tells.
Amélie is a painting that an older person and a younger person are discussing. I like to envision an older man who a master of improvisational storytelling spinning a fantastic yarn to a curious, young little girl who does not know much about art, but knows a lot about making things up too. The storyteller discusses every character that they see on the painting, and ultimately makes up a story about a girl with a glass of water, otherwise known as the protagonist of this piece—Amélie. Every single scene is this movie is colorful and imaginative like a painting, and every action in the scene is funny, humorous, delightful, etc because of how ridiculous the story is as the storyteller persists in his ramblings to the young girl.
It’s how I would personally view art. If I see a painting that depicts a scene, or a portrait of a person, I love to make stuff up about it. Whistler’s mother is a goddamn whore for all I know, and the screaming dude is nothing more than a guy who has just seen the ugly girl he accidentally like on tinder match up with his profile. What a shallow guy, that screaming bastard. And this is what’s funny! Even the ending is something that could be made up on the spot, Amélie is hopelessly in love after her long awaited one-night stand, and mostly everyone else is happy or somewhat happy based on her actions. She doesn’t live this complex Parisian life as the viewer (and especially the American viewer) is inclined to believe.
I have only seen this movie once, and I loved it. I would be the narrator if I could be a character in this movie. The narrator is definitely a character in this movie, hell he is also one of the protagonists. It’s a grand tale of love, romance, and comedy all made up on the spot. Next time, tell a kid at the park some tale and ask him questions about it.
"How did barbie acquire her upper middle class lifestyle?"
"I don’t know."
If the kid responds with “I don’t know,” that you can be assured that they are an unimaginative brat.
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