Stephanie Kocer

Writer. Editor.

Beautiful Boy Review

It is hard to make a movie about addiction. Not because the subject matter is difficult, but because it’s hard to show the emotional turmoil behind it.

“Beautiful Boy,” is a movie about a teenager addicted to crystal meth and his dad’s struggle to help him get sober. Steve Carell plays David Sheff, a freelance writer. Timothée Chalamet plays his son Nic, a good student and a creative, whose experimentation with drugs at a young age leads to a dangerous crystal meth addiction. Makes you uncomfortable right?

I gotta say, I’m always wary of movies about addiction that are based on memoirs. It can be really easy to Great Gatsby them. You know, they make a powerful story on the page, but it’s almost impossible to really show what addiction is on screen. A teenager with a meth addiction isn’t something you can make up. So when you portray it in a movie it has to seem real.

“Beautiful Boy” almost gets there. Like I’ve said before, I like my true stories gritty. There were plenty of scenes that showed Chalamet putting drugs into his body, but I kind of wanted more. When Nic would go missing and his dad couldn’t find him, where was he? What was he doing? I mean, we know he was doing drugs, but what kind of people was he with? Was he alone most of the time? Although I felt the movie probably left a lot of that grittiness out that had to have been in the book (I haven’t read it but it’s on my list), I did feel like it did a good job of showing Dave’s distress that at some point he had to let go and hope that his son would be able to get sober on his own. I was impressed by his character’s dedication to his son even when he told him he had to figure out his addiction by himself. The old saying, you didn’t cause it, you can’t control it, and you can’t fix it. Continue reading

Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald Review

This summer while a few friends and I were visiting Colorado we went for a hike at Rocky Mountain National Park. During our hike we somehow ended up in a rather tense discussion about Harry Potter. Did Professor McGonagall know Harry’s fate the whole time? Meaning, did Dumbledore ever clue her in on the whole he’s going to have to let Voldemort kill him so it kills the part of Voldemort that lives inside of him so he can come back to life and kill Voldemort thing? Oh calm down. Deathly Hallows came out over a decade ago. This is child’s play.

“Of course she knew,” my friends answered. Even if Dumbledore never explicitly told McGonagall why they had to keep Harry alive so he could die at the right time, she got it. Because she was McGonagall. She got everything. While we were listing all the reasons we knew she knew a couple of grown men passed us on the path. Before we even had time to quiet down and do that whole awkwardly passing another party in silence thing on the trail, the men answered my question back almost in unison, “Oh, she definitely knew!”

Like how you know Darth Vader is Luke Skywalker’s father even if you’ve never seen “The Empire Strikes Back,” Harry Potter is a huge part of the conversation of pop culture. Even if you’ve never read the books or seen the movies, you know what Hogwarts House you belong in. Harry Potter has been a part of my life since second grade. My mom bought me the first few books and read them out loud to me. Eventually I got old enough to read them on my own. Say what you will about my generation, but the one thing we really owned well was Harry Potter. I feel sorry for the dummies who had to grow up with that Twilight nonsense or even The Hunger Games. We hit the jackpot of literary heroes. Not to mention we got the queen herself, J.K. Rowling.

I love Harry Potter with every fiber of my being. It is freakish the things, characters, and their connections from the Wizarding World that I can remember off the top of my head as if I’m discussing the politics of the day. It’s that rooted in my brain. So, naturally, when I heard Rowling was expanding her Harry Potter universe I was excited. Although, I didn’t quite understand why she had decided to focus on Newt Scamander and his famous book. Weren’t there more, uh, interesting and important characters to focus on?

Nonetheless, two years ago I went to see “Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them” in the theater opening night. And I have to say, I really enjoyed it. It somehow fit well in the world of wizards I had built up in my mind. I loved Newt and I loved Eddie Redmayne playing him. I loved the supporting characters and loved seeing the American version of witches and wizards. I was even interested to learn more about Gellert Grindelwald, a mysterious character from the Potter books that seemed like he could definitely have his own movies. Continue reading

Bohemian Rhapsody Review

I have not been looking forward to seeing the new Queen biopic “Bohemian Rhapsody.”

Everyone knows I love classic rock and I love Queen. I’ve been sick worrying for the last year and a half about how badly Hollywood was going to mess up their Freddie Mercury movie. I’m obsessed with Freddie and his narrative. In fact, this is the second time in the last few months I’ve written about him. Biopics rarely show the whole story of their subjects. They either go for the feel good or go for the political statement, and, as I feared, “Bohemian Rhapsody,” went for the feels.

First, let me say it was not a bad film. I did enjoy parts of it. I mean, Queen was a very dorky band. They loved the feels, so it did a good job paying respects to their larger than life music. But there was a lot of Argo-ing (adding plane chases where they certainly did not happen) going on. And unfortunately for me, I couldn’t sit in the theater and not think about all the things it was misleading a potential new generation of fans about. A simple Google search would help you fact-check all of the inaccuracies to both Queen and Freddie’s stories, but I can’t help but lay them out for you here. Because I need you to know.

But first, let me explain what “Bohemian Rhapsody” got absolutely right. Continue reading

Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil

Ever since the big move back home to Minnesota, I’ve had a personal goal for myself to read more. In college I read constantly. But that was only because I was an English major and my only homework was, well, reading books. Those books were usually assigned to me by professors, though. For four years I never had to think about what books to buy and read. Even if I didn’t like a book we were reading in class cough* Let US Now Praise Famous Men*, I still had to finish it so I could participate in class discussions. But even then, the satisfaction I got from finishing a book and being able to say I had read that book was beyond words.

Maybe that’s nerdy. And if you think it is, then you obviously weren’t an English major. After I graduated I read a lot, but that time I was able to choose the things I was reading. I rarely read fiction, unless it’s something like Gone Girl or Harry Potter. My go-to is usually nonfiction. Maybe that’s the journalist in me, but things just aren’t compelling to me if they aren’t real. I read a lot of memoirs, some good and some written by celebrities.

But then I got a new puppy, a new job, and moved to a different state. In the chaos of packing up my life and begging Cooper to stop eating the bottom of my couch, I stopped reading. It wasn’t necessarily purposeful. I just seemed to run out of time at the end of every day. I was exhausted. So after I moved I made a promise to myself; I was going to read more. And I was going to read the good books, the classics. Growing up going to a poor, Catholic school we seemed to never have the resources to afford any of those classic books you read in high school besides 1984. I think there was one English class where we read A Tale of Two Cities for the entire semester and did nothing else.

So the goal was set. I was going to read the classics. And I was in luck! My mom, aunt, grandma, and I had been planning a trip to Savannah, Georgia for months. It would be the perfect time to get through some books. So I packed my carry on with a few and off we went to the deep South. Continue reading

Take Me Home, Country Roads

About a year ago a psychic gave me a palm reading and told me I was afraid to take chances. “Just remember that you control your destiny,” she told me.

Her words cut like a knife. What did she know about my life anyway? I did cool things all the time! I was fun and adventurous! I had a great job and a boyfriend at the time. I was truly living my best life!

The only reason I was sitting at this woman’s kitchen table getting a ridiculous hand massage in the first place was because her and her husband were friends with the boyfriend mentioned above. I was politely letting her judge my life, trying to form some sort of connection with her to make that guy happy. But the worst part about that uncomfortable evening was the fact that she was absolutely right. I was lying to myself about being happy with how my life was going. Income and a boyfriend were not reasons to be happy. Like a palm reading, life is much deeper than the surface level. She also told me that my relationship with that boy wouldn’t work out, which she was also absolutely right about. He broke up with me a few days before my birthday. I had been thinking about whether or not he was right for me for awhile before he broke up with me. I was getting increasingly annoyed by his obliviously selfish behavior. I would practice my breakup speech in the shower and in traffic. But I was never brave enough to pull the trigger. I was choosing being unhappy and annoyed.

I often make decisions based on what I think others want me to do. I’m a people pleaser. I want everyone to like me. And I wait way too long to get myself out of situations because I’m afraid to take chances. What if I rush into a decision and then I can’t go back in case I change my mind?

The psychic had me pegged so accurately that I could no longer ignore the already burning desire I had to make a change in my life.

When I thought about a recent, truly happy moment in my life I pictured myself wrapped in a blanket sitting on the couch in my parents’ basement in Minnesota, my heart pounding as I watched the Minnesota Vikings about to lose yet again to the New Orleans Saints on a cold January day. My brother was tearing up as he paced back and forth and my dad sat in his recliner, head in his hands, as he kept muttering, “how could they do this to us again?” And then Diggsy ran the ball into the end zone. My dad was crying. My mom was screaming. My brother and our dog were running in circles. I just pulled my blanket up over my head so they couldn’t see me crying. I was beyond excited about the Vikings win,  but I was also overcome with emotions that I was going to have to drive back to Iowa after the game and leave my family behind. I missed them so much it felt like I couldn’t breath. Continue reading

A Dog Owner’s Prayer

Dear Lord,

Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change right now and by that I mean the fact that my puppy has not quite grasped the concept of potty training yet.

I know, I know. I’ve only had him for a month and in his defense, he has been doing OK with it. But for the love of you, if I have to clean up one more puddle of pee I may invest in a litter box.

Give me the humbleness to praise him when he does gesture to go outside and successfully goes potty in the dead grass outside my apartment building, and give me all the patience in the world to not yell too badly when he trots over to me in the kitchen, stares me dead in the eye, and squats right then and there.

Bring me strength oh lord to give him credit for the fact that he does have standards and doesn’t shit in his kennel. And please remind me not to lecture him about all of the money mommy is spending on puppy pads. He does not understand such first world problems.

Let me stay chipper, even when he wakes me up at 3 a.m. to go outside only to discover that he’s already piddled in his kennel by the time I put on pants and find my glasses.

Don’t let me be upset with him when he goes potty in my car. It was an accident and I too get anxious about things sometimes. He will one day be better at controlling his bladder. I hope.

Give me the poise I need when I take him outside and get stopped by an overly friendly neighbor to say, “excuse me but my dog is about to piss on this common area carpet so I suggest you get out of my way immediately. And no, you cannot pick him up.”

And finally, lord, when I do get frustrated, let it not be with him but with myself. For I chose to get a beagle knowing full well how damn stubborn they are.

And, yes, I know dogs take on the personalities of their owners, so I have really brought it upon myself bringing this furry monster into my home. But damn is he cute.

Amen.

Keep Yourself Alive

I’ve had severe writer’s block for a while now. I never had a problem with writer’s block before. I almost thought it was a myth. But then it rushed over me life a plague I just couldn’t shake. I’m here to say writer’s block is very real. Even now I feel a struggle to get out the words I want to say.

It’s hard to say when this all started. I used to make it a goal to blog every week. I even did some freelance work in my free time. But then I got a job working in PR at a nonprofit and my free time seemed to disappear. I found myself getting more and more frustrated with not only finding the time to blog, but the content to blog about. I deleted the blog I kept all throughout college and into that first glorious year out of school. The things I wrote there suddenly seemed to annoy me. I was worried that current and future employers would see the things I had written and consider them silly or not good enough quality. Then I went through a breakup in December. There were so many things I wanted to say about it, but I couldn’t bring myself to say those things publicly.

And so I stopped writing all together. I recently realized that I didn’t care that much anymore about my former relationship and why it ended. The over it stage of a breakup is the best stage. I had written a lot about that guy and how he made me feel privately on many occasions. And those words and feelings were just that; private. So when it felt like things were finally done and I had let them go, I found myself missing something else in my life, and it wasn’t a boy. I missed words and the way I used them to tell a story. And then came the “what the hell am I doing?” moment. Continue reading

Meet Cooper!

When I was in 3rd grade my parents finally let me get a dog. I had been obsessed with dogs since my first viewing of “101 Dalmatians.” But my parents didn’t think I was ready for one. They pulled the typical you have to feed it and walk it and play with it card. Dogs are a lot of responsibility. They’re basically babies. After years of begging, they gave me a letter at Christmas saying I was ready. I could pick out any puppy I wanted.

So I picked a beagle.

Beagles are the perfect dog. They get along well with kids and other animals. They’re damn cute and are the perfect size; not too big, not too small. And they have a terrifying amount of personality. That’s just a polite way of saying they have a tendency to have a mind of their own. My parents questioned my choice because of this, but I had already made my decision. I had read all the Shiloh books and seen the movie  “Cats and Dogs” 100 times. I wanted a beagle.

Nick the beagle was born on Christmas, hence why we named him Nicholas. If people thought Marley was the worst behaved dog they’d ever heard of, then they clearly never met Nick. He ate literally everything. Food from the table? Yup. Food from the fridge? Yup. Food right off your plate? You bet. It was not uncommon to see aluminum foil and plastic bags in his dumbs in the backyard. Whenever he got mad at us he would swallow socks whole. One time we were supposed to go to New York for a family road trip. Whenever we went on vacation we would bring Nick to the local dog kennel. He was well loved there and they took good care of him, but he hated when we left him. So to counter our plans to leave he swallowed one of my dad’s fancy work socks about a week before we were suppose to leave for New York. How did he know we were about to leave? He was just that smart. Socks would usually resurface in a few days, but this one was not coming back up. My mom took Nick to the vet and the vet scheduled surgery. We decided we would postpone the trip until after his surgery. On the morning we were supposed to take Nick to the vet he thew up the sock in his kennel.

That’s the kind of jerk beagles are. Nick was constantly getting into things in our backyard. He was obsessed with rabbits and anytime one would have babies in our backyard he wouldn’t stop until he had violently murdered every last one of them. My dad would yell into the house, “Goddammit Nick got into the rabbits again!” before he grabbed a shovel and disposed of the corpses. One time he got an infection from a weed he had eaten that got stuck in his gums. He had terrible teeth from everything he’d get into. They would randomly fall out all over the house. My parents used to call Nick the “Million Dollar Beagle” because of how much money they spent over the years on his vet bills. Continue reading

What the Minnesota Vikings Taught Me About Love

 

On the day I was born my dad brought two kid-sized footballs to the hospital—one red for Ohio State, one purple for Minnesota Vikings—and politely asked the nurse if he could put them next to me in the little plastic box they put you in when you’re minutes old. I guess the nurse said it was OK, because my dad still has the pictures of moments old me next to two footballs slightly bigger than my head. To this day, those little footballs sit on a shelf in my bedroom at my parents’ house in Minnesota.

When I was really young, before my little brother was born, my dad used to dress me up in a mini Ohio State cheerleader uniform on Saturdays, and a Cris Carter jersey on Sundays. We would sit together on the couch and watch the games as he told me things about the players and how the rules worked.

So it seemed fitting that on Sunday, January 14, 2018 at 7:15 p.m. (CT) I was once again sitting on the couch at my parents’ house with my dad watching the Minnesota Vikings about to lose embarrassingly. Again. All my life the Vikings have, for lack of a better phrase, fucked it up. My dad used to talk about this mystical Vikings team from long ago that actually won things, even making it into the Super Bowl four times (losing every time, of course). There have been rumors of curses over the years, and even Brett Favre couldn’t help us. The Vikings have always been down and out. Always. No one believes in us. And that was the feeling in my parents’ basement as we all bowed our heads in silence as the boys lined up for one more play before the clock ran out.

The next 10 seconds, as Paul Allen would say, are Minnesota history.

I’ve truthfully never cried at any sort of sporting event until last Sunday. And I was really trying hard to not let my dad see. For years, he and I have argued about football. I’ve pretended to not really care about football just to get a rise out of him. He gets so annoyed with me, and I don’t blame him. But the truth is, football is so ingrained into my being because of him that I have no other choice but to love it. My dad always says that, “everything you ever need to know about life is on the football field.”

It wasn’t until Diggs crossed into the end zone that I realized my dad has always been, as usual, absolutely right. Continue reading

No Man is a Failure

For as long as I can remember, my mom has always made us watch “It’s a Wonderful Life” the week before Christmas. It’s one of my favorite movies. Who doesn’t love watching Jimmy Stewart discover the real meaning of life with the help of an adorable angel named Clarence?

At the very end of the film Clarence leaves Stewart’s George Bailey a note in his old copy of “Tom Sawyer,” saying “No man is a failure who has friends.” It’s meant to sum up the lesson of the film, but my family has always used the line to remind each other, at any time of year, that the love of family and friends makes you rich.

This December as I turn 25 I’ve been reminding myself of Clarence’s words. A year ago I was in a very different place than I am now. I was struggling with a lot of things in my life and as a result I alienated friends and family. I had gone through a terrible break-up that left me confused about who I was. It took a lot of work and self-reflection to get past that period. Throughout the spring and summer I began to feel better and was feeling happiness again. Then, I started dating someone new. This new guy was perfect in a lot of ways. He was smart, sweet, and fun and we had a lot in common. He never made me feel unsure of myself. He was good to me and made me feel safe. Every moment I spent with him I felt my confidence coming back. Although I don’t believe that a woman has to have a man to make her feel complete, in a lot of ways he helped me return to my old self. Everyone in my life commented on how happy I was. They were excited for me. And I was very happy.

We broke up last week. There are many reasons why a December birthday is awesome (decorations, sharing a birthday month with Jesus, etc.), but it’s not the most ideal time for that all too real phenomenon of the holidays that makes you face the reality of a relationship. Maybe it’s the present thing. It’s a dilemma for couples who haven’t gone through the holidays together yet, and unfortunately, our problem was that one of us was fully ready to get the other person gifts, while they panicked.

This break-up is different than my last one, though. For one, in the end it was pretty mutual. I love and respect this guy so very much, but there were a lot of things working against us. We were trying to do long-distance, living nearly four hours apart. And as great of a guy as he is, he has a lot of things he has to figure out before he can truly commit to someone and it wasn’t fair to me to have to wait around for him to figure it out, especially when it seems like there’s a good chance he never will. Continue reading

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