This blog is the sign you've been waiting for. This is all the permission you need. What's stopping you? Nothing is stopping you. Now …
GET
OUT
THERE
AND
LIVE
YOUR
LIFE.
What's the worst that could happen? They could laugh at you? Fine, they could laugh at you. “He looks like a ninth grader who sells pot behind the tennis courts.” They could say that. “Nice mustache—I always wondered what Legolas would look like as a porn star in 1975.” They could say that, too.
You know what you’re gonna do if they say that? You’re not gonna care. You’re not gonna notice. You don’t even have to hit the block button because your eyes literally can’t see the tweet.
Because when THIS is your life—
—your life does not have to answer to anyone.
What we’re talking about right now is electricity. What we’re talking about is defining who you are. These are pictures of Timothée Chalamet. Timothée Chalamet is your life guide for today. Timothée Chalamet is a Hollywood A-lister. He’s also a Knicks fan. The Knicks just knocked the Boston Celtics, the defending champions, out of the NBA playoffs. Timothée Chalamet watched the series from a courtside seat at Madison Square Garden, where a beam of energy from the dimension of Pure Fun flowed into our galaxy through the conduit of his mortal body, and he also ate some snacks.
The Knicks’ 4-2 series win against the Celtics was not, on paper, a world-historic upset. Boston was the no. 2 seed in the East; New York was no. 3. But it felt like a world-historic upset. Partly because Boston won it all last year. Partly because the Knicks have, for many years now, been semi-cursed—not glamorously cursed in the way the Cubs or the Red Sox used to be, not cursed to the point that non–Knicks fans had to acknowledge or respect their condition, just steadily consigned to an existence of mundane frustration, as if they were in the slow lane on the freeway and the semitruck next to them refused to let them get over.
Twenty-five years since they’ve appeared in the conference finals. Fifty-two years since they won a championship. So toppling the team with 18 titles from the city that’s New York’s biggest sports rival? Overturning 20-point deficits in Game 1 and Game 2? That’s cathartic. If you were a Knicks fan like (to pick someone at random) Timothée Chalamet, this win felt huge on a destiny level—a slow-motion ballad montage level. It was way bigger than you’d expect from a second-round series pitting a team that went 14-2 in the Atlantic Division against a team that went 12-4.
And no one on earth embodied and performed that catharsis like Timmy. An overwhelming sense of ecstasy burst through the fiery crust of the earth like the Shai-Hulud, and our lad the Lisan al Gaib was there to to meet it like:
Just last year, hardly anyone would have believed this. If you’d walked into a sports bar in mid-2024 and said that wispy little Timothée Chalamet was about to become the nation’s sports bro in chief, you’d have been laughed out of the room.
It wasn’t that he kept his fandom secret (he didn’t) or that he’d never been to Knicks games (he had). It was just that, in those long-ago days of last August, sports seemed kind of peripheral to his whole deal. He was so elfin. He had a fancy accent mark in his first name. He starred in artsy, sophisticated movies, and when he pivoted to blockbusters, he didn’t set himself up as your standard meat-and-potatoes Marvel guy; he played a manipulative antihero in Denis Villenueve’s Dune, a franchise marked by a certain stylish aloofness.
He grew up summering in Le Chambon-sur-Lignon, for God’s sake. He speaks French.
But friends, we make our own destinies in this life, and Timothée understood his own sports bro soul even if we didn’t. In December, in a now legendary appearance on College GameDay, he astonished the world by casually dropping a rapid-fire series of knowledgeable and accurate college football takes, all while wearing a sensationally cool neon-pink puffer jacket. In one instant, everything changed. We woke up the next morning in a new world. A world where highbrow and lowbrow are no longer enemies. A world where the color of a man’s outerwear says nothing about his ability to diagram a Cover 2 defense. A world where the Kwisatz Haderach can correctly identify the upside of Arizona State.
A world where Timothée (!!) Chalamet (!!!) is the golden boy of r/sports.
Sometimes you get to choose your heroes. Sometimes the moment chooses them for you. As the Knicks gear up to face another old nemesis, the Indiana Pacers, in the Eastern Conference finals, Timothée Chalamet is the hero our moment needs. Night in, night out, he’s giving us a clinic in how to live our truths. Grow the musketeer goatee you want. Put on the baggy pants. Hit Ben Stiller with the double high five. You can live in fear, avoiding all risk of criticism or embarrassment, or you can live boldly, grinning like a fiend over every clutch Jalen Brunson bucket, as God intended.
Joy is waiting for you; all you have to do is go down to the front row of life and claim it. Fear is the mind-killer, after all, and this—
—is the opposite of what fear looks like.
