(Below is an email sent to a few friends after seeing the movie Creed II in the movie theater. The criticisms noted below were born despite the writer's extreme jet lag after arriving from a 14 hour flight from Asia the day before seeing the film. In fact, the author had his eyes closed for huge chunks of the film. Nevertheless, the reason for authoring this review is that 2/3 of the party left the theater saying they "liked" the movie. The author was incredulous and thought memorializing his problems with the film might illuminate the problems with the film for his friends. )
Gentleman, Let me begin by saying that I will use any excuse to spend time with you, my friends, and that I love you guys. I really love hanging with you guys. Nothing in this little op-ed should be read as me being critical of the night, nor should it be cited as a reason for excluding me from future events you might even be certain I'll hate. Thank you for including me in the event. And equally, thank you for letting me tell you why I think Creed II was a horrible disaster. First, let me say that I am familiar with Rocky IV. Let's not forget that Rocky IV is an actual objectively stupid movie. It is absurd, cartoonish, weirdly political, and predictable. Nevertheless, it has redeeming features, one of which is even that it IS a cartoon. The performers were juiced to the gills, the fight scenes were complete nonsense, and every scene in the movie was blown up to surreal proportions like a float at the Macy's day parade. This aspect certainly makes it a fun watch, but it is memorable and compelling because of the story. The hoi polloi find it easy to recall Rocky IV while more or less completely forgetting the two Rocky sequels preceding RIV. In RIV Apollo Creed's death gave real stakes to the drama. Apollo is remembered as a well developed and likable hero. Ivan Drago is sold to us as a mutant designed and built for smashing skulls. There is enough background in the story to explain why and how Drago is different than any other boxer before him. The fact that he then kills Apollo in the ring demonstrates his lethality. This puts our man in a position to slay the dragon (the archetypal name is no coincidence). My point is that Rocky IV, as fucking stupid as it is, (and yes, you have to suspend your disbelief to swallow some of the story and action scenes) has real compelling dramatic elements that make it a watchable and memorable movie. But as a cartoon, it works. Now let's talk about Creed II. I can suspend my disbelief when it comes to the cinema like any other American raised by Uncle Phil and Aunt Viv. But I cannot be grossly and repeatedly insulted as a viewer. Some of the things that happen in Creed II do not even take place on planet Earth. The picture expects the viewer to believe a number of incredible things: First, we are expected to believe in a world where a deaf professional singer can become a pop star, big enough to sing before a heavyweight championship boxing event! And she is not just deaf, but so incredibly deaf that she cannot hear her hubby propose to her from 5 feet away. Take it from a semi-professional musician, there is simply no possible way a deaf person can be any type of professional musician. Hearing aids cannot transform a genetic hearing disability into a minor problem. We know its genetic through other plot points. This proposal scene also exposes our protagonist as a mental midget. This man proposes to his girlfriend, whom he knows is deaf, while she is in another room without making sure she can hear him. As a man who has dated a deaf girl, you don't say as much as, "have you seen my wallet," unless you are facing the person, let alone proposing marriage. Next, conspicuously absent is any suggestion of how much money these two main characters must have. I suppose it is probably because it would make them even less relatable. But a professional pop star, and a championship boxer? Gazillionares!!! And he drives a shitty mustang! The only view of any wealth we get is of Apollo's house where his wife lives. It's nice, but it's not that nice. We are expected to believe that these two new parents are struggling to support a child. Where's the nanny?! They are rich! And to the aforementioned point, these gazillionares let Rocky, his trainer and mentor, rot in the shittiest Philly apartment imaginable. We are expected to think of Rocky as a wise old sage who speaks in axioms, yet how wise could this idiot be? He was champion of the world and he doesn't have a dime now? He kneads bread in the basement of an Italian restaurant. Now Rocky won't participate in the training for an idiotic fight against a complete no name. Why not? The viewers are insulted throughout the film by the idea that our protagonist is ever in any real danger. This is the most insidious and frustrating part of the film in my opinion: this false dichotomy of he will either a) win or b) die in the ring like daddy. The viewers are expected to believe that because Apollo died in the ring, that this is a real possibility for Adonis given a completely different situation. This is stupid. It's a rare event that someone dies in the ring, and there was no evidence whatsoever that Viktor even had this capability. He is big--so what? There is not even a hint that he is a Genetically Modified Organism of death like his daddio. The filmmakers could have easily included a reason why Viktor might be a threat. But they did not. He was just an abused child of a 'has been' dad. That doesn't make a great boxer. He was never a real threat. The character development was insanely half-assed. The promotor. Did it not bother you that we never even knew this cat's name? We have no idea who he was. No character development at all. Viktor Drago. Also, no attempt to develop this character. He has about 3 lines in the entire movie. He comes out of nowhere. We get no back story other than he's the son of a guy. And yeah, he's big, but he doesn't have a record worth mentioning, and he has no compelling story whatsoever. Drago. The whole movie is about how Drago became a part of some vague Russian aristocratic elite, and he is trying to get back in with this rich crowd through his son. This entire relationship between his son, the aristocrats, and his ex-wife is completely undeveloped and un-intriguing. It's also in conflict with his original character. Ivan was never a socialite who wanted to drink expensive champagne with business tycoons. He was a machine built for killing. The Plot. Truly, I could not find a coherent plot point in the entire film. Here's the story in a nutshell: Heavyweight Champ is challenged by an amateur whose father was a great boxer. Challenger miraculously beats the hell out of the Champ for no defined reason. Champ has a deaf child. He gets depressed. He stops training because he's emotionally weak. Then he trains in the desert with ex-cons for a couple weeks which somehow makes him good again instead of dehydrated and rhabdomyolitic. Then he wins the re-match with a broken rib. By the way, Rocky is a bad grandpa. The end. There is absolutely nothing at stake in this movie. Viktor Drago did not kill Apollo Creed. Viktor Drago is a nobody. And the film made no attempt to develop Viktor Drago's character or why we should think of him as a villain akin to Drago, his father. Instead of giving us some evidence of why we should fear our villain, the film wasted time on extraneous plot points involving his girlfriend's hearing disability. (This was probably a crude attempt at weak symbolism--> her disability was a symbol of his ironic inability to communicate or hear Rocky's sage advice. Everybody is deaf!) Instead of showing how jacked the main character is, how about some fucking plot points? Maybe this movie is just pornography for women and supposed straight men who for curious reasons like to watch muscular men do sports? Wrapping up, Rocky IV, although it's also a very stupid movie, it works because it's a cartoon. Modern motion pictures have been trending toward realism: like the Christian Bale Batman movies. The "realistic cartoon" genre let's viewers believe that superhuman potential could be realized on planet Earth. But Creed II fails as a genre because it doesn't choose to be a cartoon, but also doesn't choose to be believable. It certainly has aspects of a fantasy, but nothing so fantastic to make it so. You can't have it both ways. Seriously though, the promoter character is the biggest mystery. Why even have that guy! And the dialogue was garbage.
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Runners high? I must have gotten some bad shit." The term fat shaming is a bigger catchall than Adele’s blouse during an all you can eat nacho night at Champs’ Sport Bar. These days I hear a new phrase every couple months that I don’t know how to define, who made it up, or why I’m a bad guy for not knowing its definition. Fat Shaming is one of these phrases. I admit all the transgender stuff crept up on me too, but I don't dare dip my toe in that piranha tank. First, on fat shaming: What is fat shaming? Is it pointing and laughing at a fat guy in sweat shorts struggling to pick up a nickel? No, that’s called being a 7th grader with an underdeveloped brain. Is it complimenting a fat person on the elliptical at the gym for showing up? Wrong again, that’s called being autistic. Is it the broad concept for addressing obesity? Is it? Because I’m clearly not ready to give that up. What is wrong with being fat? It depends who you ask: If you asked my father, you might as well ask him, “What is wrong with being dirty?” Morally there is nothing wrong with being either of these things. You are just as free to cram dozens of donuts into your mouth as you are to refuse a shower after cleaning the catfish you just dragged out of the Ohio River. Your body is your own. You are free to be as disgusting as you want to be. A few years ago, my oldest brother started moving up in the belt sizes with the help of late night pizzas and too much beer. My father had loads of fun at his expense, and every lunchtime conversation took a detour to explore this subject of how Joe was getting fat. And when Joe finally got motivated to eat better and get in shape, the jokes died. The hard truth is that you can't make fun of a fat guy for being fat once he gets in shape. So doesn't fat shaming die when people start taking care of themselves? Certainly, my father is a particularly sick man. But most of us aren’t crazy like him. Most of us don’t really care that much about people's weight issues, and I certainly don’t pick my friends based on the ability to share sweaters. Being fat will neither determine our friendship nor my respect for you as a person. But I will never accept that you are powerless to lose weight if you want to. That’s right. You can be fat, and I will still love you. But I cannot want you to be fat. Just like I cannot want you to ride a moped. It is no secret that being fat increases just about every health risk. If you are obese, you increase your risk of:
There is no controversy around the medicine. There are real ramifications to being fat. So when you say to your friend, “You are getting fat. I’m pretty sure that necklace shouldn’t be that tight,” you are not doing or saying a bad thing. You are in essence saying, “I love you, and I don’t want you to die. And I love that necklace, and it’s going to snap.” Why isn’t the medicine enough to motivate people to lose weight? Have you ever been to Dayton, OH? If you believe human life has value, go to a suburb of Dayton, OH, and see the truth. There you will find the end of humankind. T.G.I. Fridays next to Panera Breads next to Chili’s next to Outback Steakhouse next to Texas Road House next to Steak and Shake, and guess what… All of these horrific chain restaurants are completely packed with gigantic people eating ice cream desserts piled so high they need a Sherpa to get on top of it. And they all think they can't help it. The average American has successfully convinced itself that it has no power over their pant size. It is genetic. We are victims. Ain’t none yer bizness. For some, criticizing fat people is the same as criticizing someone for the color of their skin or their gender. Because being fat is not a choice. Fat people cannot choose to eat celery. Honestly, what is and isn’t a choice these days causes more confused finger pointing than a drunk Chris Christie in a Dunkin' Donuts. Being fat is many choices. Ranch dressing is only one of them. You can hardly say the word “fat” anymore. You have to say “big.” But these words mean different things. Shaq is big. Ralphie May is fat. Ralphie May is unquestionably fat. Good God is he fat! If Ralphie is just big, then who is fat?* The dangers of euphemistic language are real. By collectively softening these words, we are collectively softening up our stomachs and ass cheeks. We soften our reality too and make it easier to ignore the very real dangers listed above. The misuse of words creates a lie, and this lie effects our health. It has the effect of widespread complacency in the premature deaths of millions of people. In other words, when you call a fat person big, you are killing him and millions of other people. Here is my favorite: According to a new pharmaceutical advertisement, 1 in 35 American adults now has Binge-eating disorder (BED). BED is when you can’t stop eating. You polish off those Buffalo Wings and grease your phone up ordering another pie from Papa John's. It’s a disease. You can get this disease by either hanging out with Willie Nelson or otherwise eating like an average Daytonian. Of course, there is a pill that goes along with BED. Vyvanse -- a synthetic amphetamine similar to Adderall. So now instead of eating four pizzas, you can get jacked up, study for finals and then vacuum your bed sheets. Crack cocaine for a made up illness. It’s not medicine. It's another problem. And it’s a lie. Of course, my point is that fat shaming is another unhelpful phrase that confuses real/important issues. Obviously, we need to be kinder to each other, more empathetic, and better at helping each other. There is never a need to go out of your way to hurt someone. Kindness and consideration are hugely important to me. But if you are obese and you are in front of me in the checkout line, I won't say anything, but I'm probably going to take a peek at those microwavable shells and cheese and wish it was politically correct for me to help you. Conspiracy Theory Thought: maybe the food industry perpetuates this myth that we need to accept fat people the way they are so they can keep selling French Fries. Nah fuck it, who wants cake? *Ralphie May had not yet died from his obesity when this article was written Kramer: You should take cold showers. I try to keep my mind neutrally buoyant. I’m not a perpetual thrill seeker. I don’t usually try for excessive highs from ingesting or inhaling powerful chemicals. But I also do everything in my power to avoid the lows. Our “nine to five” jobs (Or more realistically “eight to six”) can be depressing. Our jobs, other distractions, and the inevitable emotional turbulence that comes with life can shake our calm like faulty scuba equipment during a Mexican dive adventure. We need to equalize.
The first and most demoralizing obstacle of my day is the carousel of torture called “getting out of bed.” Every 24 hours, at approximately 5:30 AM, the wheel spins again and lands on “Bankrupt.” Here’s what I tell my therapist about how I wake up: I’m smothered in warm liquid inside of a lava cake. My eyes are closed, and I can actually feel my neurotransmitters sitting on recliners about to start their second IV of Dilaudid. They smile. We smile. The whole world smiles back, raises a cold drink, and sinks back into the hot tub. Wait. Oh shit. Now it’s dark. Something doesn’t feel right. What is that noise? Suddenly, I see two headlights coming quickly toward me, a 16 wheel semi-truck lays on the horn and heads straight for me. I wake up. It is my alarm clock. I fall out of bed half sick and stop the sirens. I creep back into bed and pull myself back into my tasty gooey chocolate cocoon. The internal lectures then begin: Addict (to me): Stay here. You have nothing to live for. You are nobody. You have nobody. You have no money. Everybody hates you. If you killed myself, nobody would come to your funeral. Just stay here. This warm bed is all you have. Logic (also to me): Well, if you killed yourself, at least you wouldn’t have to pay for a haircut. It is nice and warm in here, but you really should get out of bed because... you have to pee. Me: Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I finally yank myself out of bed and stumble into the bathroom. As my bladder and the voices in my head clear out, my post-somnolent depression sets in full force. This is my life? This is what I do now? I look in the mirror. It does not help. I turn on the shower. I guesstimate the knob to a warm to hot setting. I get in. I spend a few minutes taking a nice normal comfortable shower. But then… I take a few deep breaths, yell a few more obscenities, and I turn the shower knob to its coldest setting. There is a two second delay in which the water doesn’t yet know it’s cold. Like a confused defensive back who intercepted a pass and took off running toward his own end zone, the moment seems to last forever. But the message is delivered, the water abruptly switches gears, and the ice-cold knives hit me. The manner in which I force myself to stay under the cold water is not consistent. Sometimes I count 30 slow breaths, sometimes I sing all the words to “Lydia the Tattooed Lady,” and sometimes I set a timer. The important part is staying under the cold water at least 3 or 4 minutes or until I no longer feel cold. I cannot adequately describe the unpleasantness that goes along with the first few cold showers. But the more unpleasant it is, the better it feels to get out. So when I get out I’m finally awake. When I dry off, I no longer feel worthless. I no longer feel like cashing in the chips and going back to sleep. I no longer feel like a victim. I feel awake and alive. I guessing you likely wouldn’t doubt that a cold shower wakes you up. After all, burning yourself on your stove would wake you up too, but that doesn’t sound so good either. Wim Hof says, “Feeling is understanding.” He is also out of his damn mind. But you cannot understand the benefits of cold showers unless you feel them yourself. Give this new habit a shot for two weeks and see if you get addicted like me. The best part of taking cold showers is that they are convenient. You are in the shower anyway. If you make it a habit to end every shower this way, there is no added time commitment. As is probably obvious, I have a hard time feeling good in the morning. I'm a grumpy sleeper. But getting the cold blast is the first great thing to happen to me every day. I’m obviously not providing a scientific paper here, but here are some of the benefits of cold showers I’ve read about*: 1)Anti-depressive effects 2)Improved circulation 3)You actually want to get out of the shower 4)You feel warmer when you get dried off 5)Increased testosterone 6)Healthier hair and skin 7)Increased sperm count (could be a drawback) 8)Increased energy 9)Daily test of your will power 10) Promotes fat loss 11) Decreases inflammation Of course, you don’t have to take my word for it. *None of what I write is scientific writing, so I’m not going to regularly cite sources. If you want more information you can ask Google like the rest of us. If you continue this simple practice every day, you will obtain some wonderful power. Much like the words spirituality or foreplay, the word meditation is a vague label for a broad concept most would prefer to avoid in casual conversation. Hearing these words at all can be off putting, and if asked directly, most of us would probably have trouble defining them. When used in conversation, words like these have some imperceptible power to derail your Built Ford Tough attention like a Czech Hedgehog. We might not know what these words mean exactly, but we know we don’t want our secretaries talking to us about them.
But why is meditation such a dirty word? Mention meditation to the ‘Average Joe’ and watch as he immediately stumbles into an internal dialectic hall of mirrors requiring a quick escape lest he sponge up any of the tainted conversational voodoo. Mention meditation to a coworker and see how long it takes them to go back to their cubicle and tell their friend in the adjacent box that that dude who drives the silver Honda CR-V is “into some weird shit.” Meditation is for people so bohemian and out of touch they think, “global warming,” means more hugs. But what is the hang up? To my understanding, meditating does not imply that you also bath with a collection of crystals you bought off a hippy named Cucumber at Bonaroo. In order to meditate you do not have to wear dirty yellow parachute pants with a beard down to your naval while reciting passages from the Bhagavad Gita. Meditating can be as simple as sitting down for a few minutes without thinking about how you want to stab your boss in the dick. I started meditating while I was in law school as an attempt to balance out what is an undeniably unpleasant three-year experience. At the time, I was dating a temperamental Korean girl named Moon who would constantly tell me that no relationship could ever make her happier than a piece of candy could. I was drinking so much coffee throughout the day that by 5:30 P.M. my daily lightning bolt headaches would make me feel like Nick Nolte on the morning after St. Patrick’s Day. Between the somewhat stressful graduate school requirements, a bad relationship and a physical addiction to brown liquid I was open to trying new low risk methods at improving my condition. A friend of mine gifted me a book called Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind: Informal talks on Zen meditation and practice by Shunryu Suzuki. He gifted me this book with the caveat, “Most of it doesn’t make any sense, so just be ready for that.” He was correct. To most logical people, “The slowest horse is the fastest horse and the fastest horse is the slowest horse,” is not useful equine research. A = not A. Ok. Symbolic Logic for Buddhists is probably not a very popular course for philosophy students. But I learned to enjoy the ridiculous poetry in the book even if my analytic mind found humor in the silly metaphors. I decided to begin using the book as a guide to start a consistent meditation practice. First thing in the morning, I would read one chapter in Suzuki’s book (they are extremely short chapters), let all the Zen horseshit wash over me without trying to make any sense of it, set a timer for 15 minutes and sit down to focus on my breathing. When I finally finished the book, I started over. I found that soon my headaches started to go away. I needed less coffee to obtain the same level of focus. I felt calmer throughout the day and during fights with Moon when she would hurl buckets of kimchi at me. My morning routines got clearer and more organized after having one activity already planned out. And altogether, I felt better and more awake. Feeling better is always the goal. Everyone can feel a little bit better, and meditation is such an easy way to do so. All you have to do is sit on the floor for 15 minutes and focus. There are no necessary accessories. No necessary chants or prayers. No necessary headdress. No necessary weirdness. Just sit down for a little bit. If you are interested in adding this simple action to your day, you could do what I did and start with Suzuki. Or there are a few different iPhone Apps like Headspace that offer guided meditations. I’ve used Headspace, and I like it because it essentially acts as a timer and also gives you a little bit more of a roadmap if you are too distracted. Too many of the world’s top performers meditate on a daily basis to deny its benefits. And once you incorporate it into your daily routine, you will be able to experience the benefits yourself. And once you do, you too can ostracize yourself from your coworkers at the company picnic by telling them you are into some weird shit. |
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