Statesman > XL Blogs > Archives > 2005 > January > 12 > Entry
Wes-land
Wes Anderson is missing his calling.
While seeing “The Life Aquatic” with my friend Dalee (a rare and good combo of zen and glam) the other night, I kept thinking that it was an all-right movie, but that it would be a totally great theme-park ride. I lived in Orlando, Fla., for a couple of years, and so I have thoughts like this. And conveniently, the film was released by Touchstone, which is owned by Disney.
Picture it: The ride attendants (or, as Disney insists you call them, “cast members”) wear the sky-blue Team Zissou uniforms and red caps. Those nifty faux videos of the team in action play in the queue area. An animatronic Bill Murray delivers a performance that’s actually slightly more lifelike than the real Bill Murray’s. Mark Mothersbaugh’s music bops in the background as your “research vessel” passes through groovy seascapes and weathers a pirate attack. At the end, you come face to face with the mighty jaguar shark and, possibly, shed a tear.
“Aquatic” does have a few laughs and a couple of tugs at the heart, but it’s mostly just its own beautiful alternate world. I was happy to cruise through and enjoy the scenery, but it would have been nice if there’d been a single character there I cared about. That might not be such a flaw on a theme park ride. Imagineering, Wes. I’m just saying.
The post-holiday reveling continues. Jason, a prominent local ne’er-do-well, and I shut down both Thistle and Opal’s on a school night but not before polishing off a basket of Opal’s fries. Better than Hyde Park fries? Discuss.
My intra-blog summit with Rhiannon at Curra’s South fortuitously occurred on the day we had winter last week, so I could eat caldo tlalpeno and feel all cozy. The next night, Angela — whom I will always refer to as “my friend who jumped out of a plane” and I meandered through the Warehouse District. The kind, kind folk at Apple Bar made my Bloody Mary Martinis so deliciously extra-spicy my eyes rolled back in my head. We ogled the cute boys at Rain and then decamped to Light, which has those neato massaging recliners (because barhopping can be so stressful). A girl could get used to that. Actually, a girl could get used to a water wall and full bar, too . . .
Next was Brown Bar, where the long wait to hear “99 Problems” did us in, and we headed home. I fell into bed, and the next thing you know it was 8 in the morning and the cat needed feeding. My voice-mail told me Angela had called the night before. Uh-oh. Maybe I had her keys. Maybe she’d lost her wallet. I shouldn’t have turned the ringer on the phone off.
I listened to the message.
“Sarah,” she said urgently. “Brad and Jennifer broke up! I can’t believe it.”
My spicy drinks made me feel a kinship, undeserved though it was, with Rebecca on “Amazing Race.” In one triumphant episode, she slurped down the spicy soup that the other teams couldn’t handle at the Roadblock and decided that she needed something healthier than her relationship with Adam. Although, really, what wouldn’t be healthier than a relationship with Adam? Smart, cute and culturally aware Kris is still my pretend best friend on “Amazing Race,” but it seems like perfection just comes naturally to her. Rebecca has grown a lot — the alleged reason everyone goes on reality shows in the first place. I haven’t seen this week’s “Race” yet, so if it all went terribly wrong and she got confused about diesel again just don’t tell me.
Once, I found a bridesmaid dress at Nordstrom in about 10 minutes flat. But the search for any other kind of clothing there baffles me. Normally, stores are the only place I have a keen sense of direction. I could be your wily native scout in Retail Land any day. But in Nordstrom, I wander disoriented. Anything I am drawn to is so expensive I’m immediately sorry I touched it. Like, do you know what a little Zac Posen dress — the kind of thing Natalie Portman throws on to go to 7-Eleven — costs? I can’t even tell you in polite company.
I crossed paths with a flock of tweens who were so over the whole thing. One announced to her friends, with a world-weariness that makes Courtney Love seem daisy-fresh, “my most expensive jeans cost like $108 and I don’t even like them that much.” Life’s hard, baby girl. Save the money for a massaging chair.
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