I have so much going through my mind right now. I need to just spill all this nastiness out and let it stay somewhere temporarily so that I may get through that damned movie review. Faaaaawck. I'm so tired. And I have no real reason to be... I fucking woke up at 4pm yesterday. Sunday was the day that I had planned on going to Art Crawl with some friends and stuff. Apparently my boyfriend called me, like, 6 times while I was sleeping. My phone was off, but when I turned it on, it didn't say anything about missing any calls. The Art Crawl ended at 5pm. I need a new fucking phone. Fuck. I could have gone to Art Crawl on Saturday if my cousin had bothered to call and tell me that his plans had changed. By the time I knew that we weren't going to hang out, it was 7pm and Art Crawl ended at 8pm. I didn't go to Art Crawl on Friday because I wanted to go to rec. I wish I hadn't gone to rec. Then my night wouldn't have ended in exhausted rage and tears.
My ex, the infamous Jimey, was being kind of a dickhead on Friday. I hadn't seen him in a week, so I was excited to see him. But after I get to rec about an hour late, he's nowhere to be seen for about a half hour. Then when he does show up, he's raging mad and won't tell anyone just what the fuck is going on. He just yells and pouts and glares. That cooled down a little bit after a while. Then he remembered that he had something to give me; a wire ring and bandanna that he bought for me while in Jamaica. After the exchange, he said "happy birthday" and stormed off. That struck something in me. I kind of wanted to cry. My birthday isn't until the end of November. That's just the beginning, though.
Later, I'm in the hall, talking to some friends outside of the art room and fish tank, and Jimey just comes up to me, lifts part of my shirt up, and blows a raspberry on my stomach. Right as my boyfriend walks into the scene, he sees Jimey do this. Both of us are horrified and confused. I push Jimey away and he tries to act like he didn't do anything.
Jimey also tried to kiss me several times on the lips during that night. Does he not have any social boundaries at all??? I mean really. What the fuck? Next time he tries that shit, I'm going to report him for sexual harassment or something because really. What. The. Fuck? I don't even know why I bother with that boy anymore! I mean, sure, we /were/ close. We /were/ good friends. But I don't think I can deal with him anymore. Fuck him. Really. I don't think I even want to go to rec this week... Neither does Sylvan. I don't want to go to rec and get stressed out. That's where I go to forget my stress.
4.16.2009
Rule #11 for movie critique
If you want enemies, bash a film relentlessly. If you want friends, bash a film softly.
Rule #9 for movie critique
The purpose of critiquing a film is to try and sway an audience into thinking whether or not they should go and see said film. If, for some reason, you feel like you haven't been straight to the point with your opinions, make a statement either at the beginning or end of a critique that's yay or nay.
Rule #8 for movie critique
Feel free to be as biased as you want; no one will say anything against you because, hey, it's your own opinion, man.
Rule #5 for movie critique
Don't just comment about the film. Make comments about the director/others involved in the movie.
Rule #4 for movie critique
List pros and cons of a movie. Balance between the issue doesn't matter. Just so long as you say at least one good and one bad.
Rule #3 for movie critique
Mention the director at some point, whether it be with praise or disappointment.
Rule #1 for movie critique
Introduce the main characters. Sometimes include the actors' names that play them.
The world is my shirt!
It's an old, old map. No current maps refer to the U.S.'s owner as "The People's Republic of China" anymore. It's just China. Russia isn't even featured on the shirt. If it was, it would probably say "U.S.S.R." I haven't payed attention to geography since tenth grade. I haven't cared about geography since tenth grade. I like the colours of the maps, though. The People's Republic of China is white. So is the United States of America.
It's near impossible to find a movie review on the internet with more than 4 sentences and less than three lines of praise. Roger Ebert loved "Knowing", apparently, saying that it was one of the best science fiction movies that he's seen in a while. Well, I guess he doesn't watch much science fiction at all. Or have a taste for any sort of intelligence. Or is being payed a lot, and I mean LOADS, to give it a perfect scoring. It's a Nicholas Cage movie. How can it even be a quarter way decent? It's Nicholas Cage. Nicholas Cage. Cage. Everybody on the internet hates him. Not even in a loving, silly way. We actually despise him. He's a damn joke. And what hurts us more is the fact that he's making money for sucking. Sounds like he should apply for a different job.
I'm going to have to consult The Onion, a fake newspaper, for any sort of decent review, because all of the reviews I find online are short and air-headed. I shouldn't care, though. Movie reviewers are the scum of the art world. They don't even make their own films. Their opinions should not be respected. Or even heard. Because that's all that they have to offer to films; their opinions on the hard work of probably a couple hundred people who put hours and hours of labor into making something. Sure, it might not be considered "quality", but at least they made something. At least they're actually earning their money. Film critics(along with any other sort of critic, really, who don't add to the community that they so proudly judge) just offer opinions. That's all they do. That's all they're good for. Most of them aren't even good. Most movie critics show obvious bias in their ratings. And a few, like the Pioneer Press reviewer, Chris Hewitt, don't even try to remain unbiased. Like Chris, they just make a long winded summary of the movie, adding in obvious points of like or dislike for the film but never give any reasons as to why they like/dislike the art that they watch but never bother to take part in. I could go on attacking Chris Hewitt for a while... Maybe in another post. I'm just so fucking disgusted with movie reviewers.
It's near impossible to find a movie review on the internet with more than 4 sentences and less than three lines of praise. Roger Ebert loved "Knowing", apparently, saying that it was one of the best science fiction movies that he's seen in a while. Well, I guess he doesn't watch much science fiction at all. Or have a taste for any sort of intelligence. Or is being payed a lot, and I mean LOADS, to give it a perfect scoring. It's a Nicholas Cage movie. How can it even be a quarter way decent? It's Nicholas Cage. Nicholas Cage. Cage. Everybody on the internet hates him. Not even in a loving, silly way. We actually despise him. He's a damn joke. And what hurts us more is the fact that he's making money for sucking. Sounds like he should apply for a different job.
I'm going to have to consult The Onion, a fake newspaper, for any sort of decent review, because all of the reviews I find online are short and air-headed. I shouldn't care, though. Movie reviewers are the scum of the art world. They don't even make their own films. Their opinions should not be respected. Or even heard. Because that's all that they have to offer to films; their opinions on the hard work of probably a couple hundred people who put hours and hours of labor into making something. Sure, it might not be considered "quality", but at least they made something. At least they're actually earning their money. Film critics(along with any other sort of critic, really, who don't add to the community that they so proudly judge) just offer opinions. That's all they do. That's all they're good for. Most of them aren't even good. Most movie critics show obvious bias in their ratings. And a few, like the Pioneer Press reviewer, Chris Hewitt, don't even try to remain unbiased. Like Chris, they just make a long winded summary of the movie, adding in obvious points of like or dislike for the film but never give any reasons as to why they like/dislike the art that they watch but never bother to take part in. I could go on attacking Chris Hewitt for a while... Maybe in another post. I'm just so fucking disgusted with movie reviewers.
4.13.2009
Fight Club: the book!
As we all know, Fight Club is a movie that holds Edward Norton, Brad Pitt, and Helena Bonham Carter in the main roles of the film. The film, maybe not obvious to too many people, was adapted from the book by Chuck Palahniuk. I have been reading this book. My boyfriend let me borrow it, in exchange for him being able to borrow my copy of Watchmen. He threw in V for Vendetta into the deal as well. The moment tht Fight Club was placed into my hands, I was instructed to read the first page, and I did exactly that. It didn't even take two sentences to get me lost into the pages of Palahniuk's brilliance. Of course, I didn't just stand and read through several pages as Sylvan stood by, waiting. I really wanted to. I'm sure he wouldn't have minded, though. But adventures awaited!
Shortly after adventuring and Sylvan going home, I picked up Fight Club for a second time for some bed time reading. I read forty pages in one sitting and on the first page, I had learned a few recipes(most likely partial recipes... I'm too afraid to try them) for home made explosives. It was ridiculous. I slept well after that reading. Babies don't sleep that well.
Shortly after adventuring and Sylvan going home, I picked up Fight Club for a second time for some bed time reading. I read forty pages in one sitting and on the first page, I had learned a few recipes(most likely partial recipes... I'm too afraid to try them) for home made explosives. It was ridiculous. I slept well after that reading. Babies don't sleep that well.
3.16.2009
A Freshman's Middle PAssage
For a girl as inexperienced as I, it's quite a difficult task for me to think of some "middle passage" that I have come to endure. For someone to expect a three page paper from me about this "middle passage", having no story, fictional or not, is a problematic circumstance, as you may have guessed. Sure, I could write about my freshman year of high school, or how I am still on my voyage, or even write a long-winded rant on how someone's entire life is a "middle passage".
I despise sounding cheesey when I am genuinely attempting to be serious, so I'm sure that you can see why I am avoiding so desperately the possibilities I've listed above, despite seeing them as my only options that deem themselves worthy of being potentially three to four pages in length. I've also completely abandoned the idea of writing a fictional story because that would require more time, thought, and effort to write rather than recording an experience of my own that I know only too well.
It's interesting, to me, my own strong reluctance and resistance of putting my nose to the grindstone. Why am I so reluctant to write about the most important year of my bleak life so far? Why am I avoiding the subject I know so well? Why am I trying so earnestly to avoid, in my mind, a cliche subject despite my previous willingness to use them? Why am I dodging an easy minimum of six pages?
You know, before my freshman year, I never posed questions like this to myself or anyone. They never really passed through the head of mine that previously only held thoughts and feelings of blank hatred for so many things. Granted, that dark period was also the time when I met my best friend of three years. We got along so well probably because partly we both held that redeemable hatred for the world and its inhabitants. When we had our falling out in ninth grade, I remember her saying "You've changed, Osa." I'm assuming for the better, which she didn't seem to want to accept. It felt as if she wanted to have me preserve my junior high attitude for the duration of my entire life. I probably would have kept those angry thoughts if I hadn't moved on to Como Senior High and met my good friend Sam Woodman.
Sam Woodman is the type of person who is just outright random and odd. He ended up being the beginning of the change of my views on the world and life in general. If it hadn't been for my attraction to him, my naive and shallow brain probably wouldn't have listened to him as much as I did. Sam Woodman purely told me once that he enjoys life. I was stunned at the harsh impact of those few words and my mind blew open, leaving the hole to only expand even further later on. Just the pure idea of enjoying life made all the sense in the world and no sense at all to me. Suddenly, school wasn't so dreary and dark.
My enlightenment didn't really begin to take shape until I started to learn more and more about my English teacher. On the first or second day of school, he told the class about his trip with his wife to somewhere in Asia. They had been riding their bikes everywhere and came upon a bridge. This particular story is also where I learned how frugal my teacher is. There was a toll for the bridge, which was about twenty five cents per person to cross. Mr. Bonnett and his wife thought that was ridiculous, so they turned towards the small river and, holding bikes above their heads, they crossed the waist deep running water.
Well, this story earned my immediate respect for Justin Bonnett. And because of that respect, I listened to him exponentially as compared to my other teachers, and allowed myself to bother with his many critical thinking and discussion questions. As it turned out,
I feel I might have lost that joy for life again over time. It's not that I hate being alive. I love breathing, being conscious, being able to feel such strong emotions like joy or sorrow. But as time passes I feel as if I am losing that strong sense of excitement for life that I once had. I'm glad that I could experience that excitement when I needed to most.
-discontinued-
I despise sounding cheesey when I am genuinely attempting to be serious, so I'm sure that you can see why I am avoiding so desperately the possibilities I've listed above, despite seeing them as my only options that deem themselves worthy of being potentially three to four pages in length. I've also completely abandoned the idea of writing a fictional story because that would require more time, thought, and effort to write rather than recording an experience of my own that I know only too well.
It's interesting, to me, my own strong reluctance and resistance of putting my nose to the grindstone. Why am I so reluctant to write about the most important year of my bleak life so far? Why am I avoiding the subject I know so well? Why am I trying so earnestly to avoid, in my mind, a cliche subject despite my previous willingness to use them? Why am I dodging an easy minimum of six pages?
You know, before my freshman year, I never posed questions like this to myself or anyone. They never really passed through the head of mine that previously only held thoughts and feelings of blank hatred for so many things. Granted, that dark period was also the time when I met my best friend of three years. We got along so well probably because partly we both held that redeemable hatred for the world and its inhabitants. When we had our falling out in ninth grade, I remember her saying "You've changed, Osa." I'm assuming for the better, which she didn't seem to want to accept. It felt as if she wanted to have me preserve my junior high attitude for the duration of my entire life. I probably would have kept those angry thoughts if I hadn't moved on to Como Senior High and met my good friend Sam Woodman.
Sam Woodman is the type of person who is just outright random and odd. He ended up being the beginning of the change of my views on the world and life in general. If it hadn't been for my attraction to him, my naive and shallow brain probably wouldn't have listened to him as much as I did. Sam Woodman purely told me once that he enjoys life. I was stunned at the harsh impact of those few words and my mind blew open, leaving the hole to only expand even further later on. Just the pure idea of enjoying life made all the sense in the world and no sense at all to me. Suddenly, school wasn't so dreary and dark.
My enlightenment didn't really begin to take shape until I started to learn more and more about my English teacher. On the first or second day of school, he told the class about his trip with his wife to somewhere in Asia. They had been riding their bikes everywhere and came upon a bridge. This particular story is also where I learned how frugal my teacher is. There was a toll for the bridge, which was about twenty five cents per person to cross. Mr. Bonnett and his wife thought that was ridiculous, so they turned towards the small river and, holding bikes above their heads, they crossed the waist deep running water.
Well, this story earned my immediate respect for Justin Bonnett. And because of that respect, I listened to him exponentially as compared to my other teachers, and allowed myself to bother with his many critical thinking and discussion questions. As it turned out,
I feel I might have lost that joy for life again over time. It's not that I hate being alive. I love breathing, being conscious, being able to feel such strong emotions like joy or sorrow. But as time passes I feel as if I am losing that strong sense of excitement for life that I once had. I'm glad that I could experience that excitement when I needed to most.
-discontinued-
1.30.2009
Wow. I'm harsh.
So I'm cruising along the hallway in my school. Yes. The hallway. As in, one hallway. Out of two hallways. The pleasures of attending a tiny school involve no obnoxious bells, and two hallways.
So I was moseying down the hallway, one of two hallways, where I came upon a section of wall that was decorated with what I thought were little silly and totally not serious snap shots of fellow students that my other fellow students had taken. But upon further inspection, I realized that, hey! These look to be picked out as the cream of the crop! The cream of the tiny, lazy crop. My faith in art schools plummeted to the 7th circle of Hell with utter disappointment. This was mostly caused due to the snapshots being taken with a fish eye lens. A FISH. EYE. LENS. Just let me inform you that those things are more expensive than a rhinoceros and also I'd like to let you know that I am totally NOT exaggerating. The waste and devastation obliterated me to the fullest.
Honestly. These cream of the lazy bastard crop photos were hanging on the wall, my wall! How dare they put that rubbish up there! That was the point where I decided to take photography 1 that year so that I could raise the average a little higher for this miserable display.
So I was moseying down the hallway, one of two hallways, where I came upon a section of wall that was decorated with what I thought were little silly and totally not serious snap shots of fellow students that my other fellow students had taken. But upon further inspection, I realized that, hey! These look to be picked out as the cream of the crop! The cream of the tiny, lazy crop. My faith in art schools plummeted to the 7th circle of Hell with utter disappointment. This was mostly caused due to the snapshots being taken with a fish eye lens. A FISH. EYE. LENS. Just let me inform you that those things are more expensive than a rhinoceros and also I'd like to let you know that I am totally NOT exaggerating. The waste and devastation obliterated me to the fullest.
Honestly. These cream of the lazy bastard crop photos were hanging on the wall, my wall! How dare they put that rubbish up there! That was the point where I decided to take photography 1 that year so that I could raise the average a little higher for this miserable display.
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