If you’ve visited my blog lately, you may have noticed the tumbleweeds drifting across the open space where blog posts should be. It’s been a solid two months since I’ve posted anything on here, and I really wish I could chalk it up to writer’s block, to being uninspired, to being too busy. But alas, I won’t be getting off so easy. In the past couple of days, I’ve finally decided to face the truth: I haven’t written anything because I’ve been a bum. These are my confessions.
“You would’ve done the same for me.” I am ashamed of how many times this has been my reply to the words “thank you.” I am ashamed of this because of the implication that I carried out an act of kindness because I would expect the same from the person I did it for. “The true measure of a man is how he treats someone who can do him absolutely no good.” Looking back on all the times that I uttered, “You would’ve done the same for me,” I wonder if I measure up. I have been humbled by the memory of times where I had nothing to give, and needed so much.
A few years ago, I went through a very difficult time in my life during which I was so full of hurt and pain and loss that I couldn't offer anything to anybody if I tried. I lived with a family friend for a few months to escape a toxic home life. I was often like a ghost in their home, moody and unpredictable, but they loved me like one of their own anyway. I spent many sleepless nights awake with friends who understood that I couldn’t bear to be alone when the nightmares haunted me. I spent hours on the phone with friends who helped me carry the weight of my heartache, never complaining about the fact that I was easily distracted and often disinterested in their lives. I was sensitive and distant and hard to get along with, but in spite of that, people took the time to give me love.
Martin Scorcese’s “The Wolf of Wall Street,” starring the ever-talented, Leonardo Dicaprio, is one hell of a movie. From its three hour run time, to the 506 F-bombs, the drinking and pill popping, lavish homes and luxury items, this film is a thing of excess in every way. Scorsese is not shy about drugs and sex and money, which is fitting, because neither is his protagonist. Jordan Belfort is the epitome of capitalism and displays all the selfish, greedy, money-grubbing behaviour one expects from a dirty white collar con artist. The film exposes (again, as it’s been done before) the wild and unsavoury underbelly of Wall Street, something many audience members may not have known was quite so ugly. So of course, you’d expect that some people wouldn’t like the film. In fact, I’m sure that some people hate it. More conservative audiences are bound to be offended by the strong language, frequent nudity and scenes of debauchery. The film is in some ways gaudy, and over-the-top, and really in-your-face, but to suggest that “The Wolf of Wall Street” it is glorifying the kind of greed and excess that the it portrays, and that it might encourage people to take similar actions, is absolutely ridiculous.
