分类： 赛事资讯

Garfield — a beloved childhood character; Garfield Eats — an abomination. “Garfield Eats” is a Garfield-themed restaurant obsessed with perfecting their marketing strategy, and clearly nothing else. With a haunting slogan like, “Love me, feed me, don’t leave me,” I often wonder how they managed to find a phrase so efficient at turning away customers before they even walk through the doors.

The awkward, cringe-inducing titles don’t end there, though. “The Garfachino,” one of their main menu items, is watery and bright orange, and looks about as artificial as spray cheese. The flavor was so boring and bland, it almost made me wish it was spray cheese. Their meals are arguably worse, titled “KIDult” meals for the millennials who have yet to accept that they are not quirky teenagers.

These meals include the “Garnivore” pizza and the famous lasagna. The “Garnivore” pizzas are shaped like faceless Garfield heads that would give any child nightmares. The crust seems two inches thick and was so dry, I felt like I was taking a bite of a cracker with a little sauce sparingly thrown on top. The pizza sauce is also neon orange, despite one of Garfield Eats’ many marketing strategies being proudly boasting the restaurant’s “healthy” and “all natural” ingredients.

And of course, the famous lasagna that Garfield is known for; Garfield Eat’s lasagna tastes exactly how you would expect fast food lasagna to taste: disgraceful. It tastes obviously nuked in a novelty box that is clearly the only attraction to the restaurant in the first place. The flimsy cardboard box features one comic strip to keep you entertained throughout your entire meal. You may think one comic strip isn’t enough to last you the whole time, but it only takes ten seconds to realize the food is not worth eating.

It is clear that this restaurant cares more about public image than the quality of their food when you visit their Google review page in which almost every negative comment that makes a valid complaint is flagged for spam.

As for customer service, it’s bad. The average flagged review mentions how most often the “fast food” comes upward of twenty minutes after ordering despite the restaurant being marketed as a “quick mobile restaurant.” It is shocking how long it takes the employees to microwave a box of subpar lasagna, and sometimes, they can’t even do that. A large amount of the poor reviews mention that their lasagna came undercooked and even frozen in some areas.

So, unless you’re a child who desperately wants a novelty box stained with grease and marinara sauce, I would suggest you keep your association with Garfield strictly by comic strip.

There is no single term that can adequately define music sensation Lizzo, but “bop” star, band-geek-turned-pop-icon, classical flutist, self-love trailblazer, and inclusivity advocate are all apt descriptors. At her Washington, D.C., concert, she took the audience to church, and center stage, from a gold pulpit lit up with her name, Lizzo preached a message of joy, self-love, and celebration. Every ounce of her performance shone with positivity. Even before she appeared, the bright podium and large flats made to look like stained glass windows gave the audience a taste of the revelry ahead.

Then, clad in a silver leotard, she appeared at the pulpit and belted out the first song of her set: “Worship,” an anthem of confidence and self-love. Coupling the song with a nod to Aretha Franklin’s “Respect,” Lizzo made it clear from the start that she would tolerate no negativity in her presence.

Her powerhouse pipes were on full display with the title track of her album, “Cuz I Love You.” She held nothing back, and her voice was just as powerful, if not more so than on her studio tracks, and while she belted perfect high notes, she danced. And it wasn’t merely a little toe tapping along to the beat; she danced. Accompanied by her crew, The Big Girls, they rocked the stage, jumping, clapping, and twerking in perfect unison. None of the women onstage that night, including Lizzo herself, were society’s picture of a dancer or performer. They were full-figured, wearing high-cut metallic leotards, with close-cropped hair or swinging dreadlocks, and almost all of them were black. Therein lies the power of Lizzo’s music; it is a place for people of all colors, creeds, and backgrounds to come together and celebrate self-acceptance and positivity.

The crowd, of all ages and races, unequivocally reflected these ideas, and their energy nearly exceeded that of the performers. The cheering was deafening — even louder than the music — yet respectful at the same time. The audience hushed immediately when The Big Girls carried several tiny puppies (with cotton-stuffed ears) onstage to promote a local animal rescue, then screamed in excitement when Lizzo whipped out her flute to play a quick interlude and lead-in to her hit “Juice.”

Although the show was sweet, it was never syrupy. The bombastic hits and slow-rolling ballads were underscored with the knowledge that what was happening onstage was truly unique. It was a celebration of empowerment and self-acceptance by often-marginalized people: the taking back of power stripped away long ago. That night, Lizzo was the preacher at a church of joy and self-love. The central commandment: “If you can love my fat black ass, you can love your goddamn self.”

By Raeanne Ong, age 17, Raffles Institution, Singapore

Startlingly illuminating, and unapologetically honest, Sally Rooney’s debut novel, “Conversations with Friends,” surfaces the nuanced complexities of human relationships, and the way in which they construct and define us. Set in Dublin, the novel follows 21-year-old college student and aspiring writer, Frances, and her beautiful, intelligent best friend and ex-girlfriend, Bobbi, with whom she performs spoken-word poetry. After a chance encounter at one of their performances, they become acquainted with Melissa, a journalist, and her husband, a handsome, semifamous actor named Nick. Suddenly, and inexplicably, the pair of friends find themselves indelibly drawn into the couple’s world as Bobbi befriends the ceaselessly fascinating Melissa, and Frances finds herself unwittingly enthralled by Nick. As the story progresses, so too does the complexity of Frances’s relationships, as they slowly begin to spiral out of her control.

Although arguably not as acclaimed as her 2018 breakout hit “Normal People,” Rooney’s debut novel is certainly not to be overlooked. “Conversations with Friends” combines Rooney’s deadly precision and clarity of prose with characters that are real, relatable and as charming as they are intellectual, creating a breathtaking story that is insightful, miserable and wonderful all at once. As its title might suggest, the novel certainly does revolve largely around conversations among friends, and Rooney skilfully makes use of a multitude of different mediums through which to convey these conversations. Through phone calls, emails, instant messenger and, of course, Rooney’s signature dialogue that is purposefully characterized by a lack of quotation marks, the novel never once fails to deliver on dialogue that is both astutely introspective and jarringly relatable. While Rooney’s particular writing style is admittedly fairly polarizing, on the contrary, I believe that it confers her works a distinctive and idiosyncratic kind of charm that is not only effortless and efficacious, but also very much stylized as uniquely Sally Rooney’s.

Most significantly, “Conversations with Friends” informs us that there are no perfect relationships to be found in life. That loving unconditionally implies not a blindness to the flaws of others, but an acceptance of them; that in order to truly love, one must be able to love in spite of them; and to be truly loved, one cannot be afraid of the vulnerability that accompanies intimacy. Only in submitting oneself to the mortifying ordeal of being known, can one truly experience the rewards of being loved. At the end of the day, what Rooney offers in “Conversations with Friends” is not so much a directive on how we should go about experiencing and conducting our relationships, but rather, an ode to the complexities and absurdities that characterize humans and their connections with one another.

By Olivia Jonokuchi, age 18, Greenwich Academy, Greenwich, Conn.

I thought I’d seen the peak of Asian-American representation in cinema after watching “To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before” (2018) and “Crazy Rich Asians” (2018) in the same year. Turns out, I was egregiously mistaken.

As an Asian-American with an inclination for art and philosophy, I’ve never felt a movie shake me to my core so much as Alice Wu’s stunning cinematic achievement “The Half of It” (2020). A romantic comedy drama starring any Asian character is rare, but one that’s also set in an insular, religious hometown starring a queer immigrant high school student? OK, now I’m definitely watching.

Interspersed with quotes from Plato, Camus, Sartre and Oscar Wilde, this deceptively weighty and clever movie will manage to make you laugh, cry and contemplate your identity all at once. Centered on the friendship between Ellie Chu (Leah Lewis), a Chinese-American, queer, essay-writing entrepreneur, and Paul Munsky (Daniel Diemer), a lovable buffoon of a football player who struggles to string his words into coherent sentences, “The Half of It” exudes an undeniably unique charm.

When Paul asks Ellie to ghostwrite a love letter for his crush Aster Flores (Alexxis Lemire), Ellie finds herself in a Cyrano-like situation, falling hard and fast for Aster herself.

Hopeless romantics be warned — this story is about friendship. As Ellie makes abundantly clear from the outset, “This is not a love story. Or not one where anyone gets what they want.” Yet each character ends the movie a better version of themselves — braver, bolder and more open-minded. Perhaps it’s not what they wanted, but rather, what they (and the viewer) actually needed.

Wu’s Asian-American perspective is evident in the carefully devised character of Ellie’s father (Collin Chou), who only wears his flannel pajamas for the majority of the movie and is clearly depressed. Unable to get a promotion in America, Mr. Chu seems to have resigned himself to a life of stagnation. When Paul asks Ellie why she and her father haven’t left their hometown, she notes how “speaking good English trumps having a Ph.D.” Through her depiction of Ellie’s father, Wu acknowledges the struggles of the immigrant whose economic situation mirrors that of many Asian-Americans; we may have job accessibility, but we still lack upward mobility.

With Asian-American, immigrant and L.G.B.T.Q. representation, and no generic happy ending, “The Half of It” stands alone in the teen romantic comedy genre. It’s a story about finding yourself, navigating the trials and tribulations of love in high school, and, above all, forging relationships with the most unlikely of friends. If you haven’t heard the name Alice Wu, you haven’t seen “The Half of It.”

By Patricia Estrada, age 16, Charles Wright Academy, Tacoma, Wash.

Remember your first crush? Remember feeling the heat of the blush spreading across your cheeks, the exhilaration of the stolen glances, the butterflies flitting around your gut? In case you forgot, allow “Kimi Ni Todoke” to take you on a trip down memory lane.

With pastel-laden animation reminiscent of Studio Ghibli’s iconic artistry, “Kimi Ni Todoke” (“From Me to You” in English) dives into the world of unassuming social outcast Sawako Kuronuma, whose unfortunate resemblance to the Japanese horror icon Sadako foils her valiant attempts at friendship. However, upon arriving at high school, a series of fortunate events — beginning with a meet cute with golden boy Shota Kazehaya — brings new opportunities. It’s an unconventional take on unrequited love: As the two navigate the turmoil of teenage drama, their feelings for one another deepen, each mistakenly believing their feelings are unreciprocated. Sawako’s comical innocence and lack of social know-how, coupled with Kazehaya’s charisma and stubborn resolve, make for a captivating story of love, misunderstanding and growth. However, don’t expect to be bored by predictable schoolgirl romance clichés — “Kimi Ni Todoke” is deceptively complex, with an emotional intensity capable of reducing the most resolute cynic to tears.

Unlike its peers, “Kimi Ni Todoke” doesn’t cut corners. Discarding the standard “kiss first, talk later” principle that reduces shows like “My Love Story” and “Maid Sama” to absurd romantic fantasies, “Kimi Ni Todoke” hooks viewers with authenticity. The show delicately peels through layer after layer of intricate back stories, using this slow burn to develop an undeniable affinity between viewer and character. This careful pace gives the story a vivid quality, allowing viewers to savor the depth of each moment.

Watching this show takes patience, but patience will be rewarded: heart-beating confessions, tear-ridden reconciliations and heart-wrenching confrontations — all amplified by the intimate candor of Sawako’s internal dialogue — are the culmination of the gradual emotional crescendo. By illustrating each character — from the protagonist to (seemingly) trivial side-characters — in unparalleled depth, “Kimi Ni Todoke” makes emotions palpable, the atmosphere tangible. Yet the show doesn’t rely on ostentation for its emotional gravity. In this world, a mundane classroom harbors a breathless atmosphere when Kazehaya greets Sawako, the girls’ bathroom becomes a battleground between romantic rivals, the school lawn emanates dejection and despair.

With its intricacy and enduring emotional appeal, “Kimi Ni Todoke” leaves a lasting impression. The duality of its impact is a triumph: While its wholesome love story satisfies the inner teenage girl (assuredly within everyone), its profound exploration of individual growth, emotional maturity and the power of singular moments leaves one feeling enlightened, lingering long after the end of the last episode.

By Aadit Manyem, age 16, West Windsor-Plainsboro High School South, West Windsor, N.J.

When the world reflects on the tumultuous year that was 2020, music will function as a light in the darkness. The bearer of this light revealed himself to be Abel Tesfaye, also known as The Weeknd, who released his glistening fourth studio album “After Hours.” Despite the Recording Academy’s failure to recognize the glory of “After Hours,” — apparent after it received zero Grammy nominations last November — The Weeknd’s latest project is a testament to his unparalleled artistry, brilliantly blurring the lines between pop, R&B and hip-hop.

The Weeknd’s genre-bending abilities are put into full force on “Blinding Lights,” a record-breaking retro sensation. Traces of ’80s influence are heard throughout the album, primarily due to producer Max Martin’s heavy use of synthesizer keyboards and kick drums. Despite these vintage elements, The Weeknd maintains a fresh, contemporary sound via hip-hop-influenced instrumentals in tracks such as “Heartless” and “Escape From LA,” courtesy of producer Metro Boomin.

Moreover, The Weeknd strays from industrywide crutches such as partying and sex, previously explored in his past albums “Beauty Behind the Madness” and “Starboy.” He instead reminisces on past relationships and heartbreak, crooning over an atmospheric instrumental: “Where are you now when I need you most? / I’d give it all just to hold you close,” on the album’s title track. The Weeknd delves deeper into heavier subject matter on “Faith,” a personal favorite, singing: “I’m losing my religion every day / Time hasn’t been kind to me I pray.”

The Weeknd has undoubtedly made stylistic and auditory changes from his previous albums. However, were all of these changes beneficial? “After Hours” is The Weeknd’s first full-length album without a single feature. Although the project is not particularly long, hearing one voice for nearly an hour could have created a tedious listening experience, leaving the listener longing for variety. Instead, I found intimacy in this simplicity, by the end feeling as if I knew The Weeknd on a first-name basis.

Since his 2011 debut, The Weeknd’s discography has had many ups and downs, but “After Hours” reaches an unprecedented high. The overlap of seemingly incompatible genres is a testament to The Weeknd’s versatility as a musician. Nevertheless, I cannot say I am surprised — what else do you expect from an artist who can bring Metro Boomin and Tame Impala to the same record?

This album is a cohesive blend of fragility, vanity and bravado all in one. Only The Weeknd can bring you to tears on one track and make you get up and dance on the next. “After Hours” is undoubtedly a blinding light in the pitch-black shadow cast by 2020.

By Andrew Lin, age 13, Upper Canada College, Toronto

Greg Heffley, everyone’s favorite wimpy kid, has burned through years worth of diaries — sorry, journals — yet has never shown growth or change. His life, in the form of this series, is a perpetual nightmare, propelling itself forward with sequel after sequel, repeating itself over and over, but progressively getting less worth reading. When Greg complained about being “stuck in middle school,” maybe he was talking about “Diary of a Wimpy Kid.”

Since its 2007 release, the “Diary of a Wimpy Kid” series has churned out 15 books, four movies and several spinoff books, standing out for being written in the form of Greg’s journal and containing his (mostly negative) remarks on school, family, friends and everything else that Jeff Kinney, the author, throws at him. The books don’t follow clear-cut story lines — as expected from a middle schooler’s journal — but end with climactic scenes, be it confrontation with bullies or narrowly escaping an angry mob by drifting a camper an into a bridge, “Fast and Furious”-style. The latter, however, is an example of “Diary of a Wimpy Kid’s” problem.

The first few books were successes, spinning jokes, commentaries and illustrations together in a way that was relatable to their audience, leaving kids asking for more. Kinney tried to give them more, but he had lost his spark; to keep the series going, he resorted to ridiculous over-exaggerations, to absurd jokes, to repetition, repetition, repetition.

“Diary of a Wimpy Kid” relies on Greg being selfish and having a flawed view of his world; as he said in the first book, “I’ll be famous one day, but for now I’m stuck in middle school with a bunch of morons.” This started out humorous and sometimes even relatable — but, 14 sequels later, Greg is still the same cynical, socially clueless wimp. The other characters haven’t changed either — and neither have the ideas. The only difference is that the characters have now been simplified, losing their relatability, and that the jokes and stories have been inflated to ridiculous proportions. Even the youngest kids will notice this and grow tired of Greg’s suffering and complaints. Someone needs to confiscate Kinney’s air pump before another sequel arrives.

Yet “Diary of a Wimpy Kid” still sells. Every year, a new audience enters the target age group and discovers Greg’s journal for the first time, then begs their parents to buy them a copy. Unlike other series, which search for longtime fans, “Diary of a Wimpy Kid” is being kept alive by the very thing it discarded: growth.

Maybe I’m being too harsh; maybe the series just isn’t right for me. Or maybe I inevitably did what our wimpy kid doesn’t. Grow up.

By Chloe Chang, age 16, Herricks Senior High School, New Hyde Park, N.Y.

Garish, loud and radiantly bright are words one might expect to describe a photojournalistic chronicling of life in the L.G.B.T.Q. community, however, Mengwen Cao’s latest project, “Liminal Space,” eschews popular stereotypes, offering queer portraits that are unapologetically ordinary and painstakingly in-the-box — and that’s the point.

With blaring headlines and outrageous glamorized magazine covers of self-expression — the queer community has garnered increased visibility in today’s cultural scene. Unfortunately, this step forward has catalyzed a largely spectacularized and glitzy-glam view of what it really means to be queer. This media trend comes from an industry that has largely shunned diversity in gender and sexual identity in the past. The result: an apologetic and overproduced portrayal of queer identity that neglects to detail the authenticity and vulnerability of their lived humanity.

In contrast, Cao, an up-and-coming Chinese queer photographer, is exactly what the photography scene needs. Choosing to explore the communal space between race, gender and cultural identity, Cao’s newest photo series reveals the seemingly-mundane privacies of queer life and redefines the sensationalized modern media image of the L.G.B.T.Q. community. In a culture that frequently transfigures the image of queer individuals into grandiose visions of violence and glamour — to see young queer adults fixed into a casual and authentic frame is enlivening.

Vitalized by intrinsically subdued hues and dreamy textures, the photographs in this series illuminate the “liminal space” of queer life by capturing its models during the prosaic and diurnal junctures of everyday life that are often neglected by the camera. By snapping friends during intimate and fleeting instances of privacy, Cao — the artist-turned-social-activist — preserves the delicate essence of human vitality with a click of the shutter — capturing the silence that frames queer life behind the exterior noise.

Featuring photographs softened by natural golden rays, Cao captures the intricate streaks and shades that highlight the vivid landscapes of their portraits: In “Suzy & Cristine,” a sun-kissed Sapphic couple lovingly embracing atop ruffled bedsheets. In “Grace Preparing for Hot Pot,” soy sauce and fish balls scattered across a wooden table, with warm, cozy light and tantalizing smoke rising from the heated pot. Grace, clad in a casual muscle tee, focuses on the traditional Chinese dish in front of them with a candor that reveals a slice of daily life without any of the camera’s performative elements.

A stark contrast to the eye-catching ostentatious displays of queer models in modern photography, Cao designs these quotidian moments to the familiar and authentic backdrops of everyday life. Through capturing nondescript instances of queer beauty in bluntly vulnerable moments, Cao brings to life a candidly realistic image of queer individuals that broadens the span of society’s camera lens.