The Limp Mysteries of THE LIFE AQUATIC

It's magical!

You know what I don't understand about The Life Aquatic with Steve Zizzou? Why hasn't Drew Barrymore asked Wes Anderson on a date yet? Is there something wrong with him? I mean, I know 95% of my hometown would look at him and nod 'Yes'--and then mention that he probably couldn't bench more than eighty-ninety lbs, if that--but didn't Drew Barrymore marry Tom Green? That guy only had the one testicle. What do you think Wes Anderson is missing? It just doesn't make sense that those two haven't hooked up. Maybe he only has, like, a colorful sea pony in a champagne flute down there. That's really all he has in his newest movie, The Life Aquatic with Steve Zizzou and Lots of Shots of Bill Murray's Nipples. WAIT! Maybe that is what the movie is about! The writer/director's failure to get hit on by Drew Barrymore. This would make some sense to me. It would add the fragrant spice of...uh...drama and human yearning and...something to think about between shots of Willem Defoe in his fucking Speedo.

Incidentally, my thanks to Mr. Anderson, as I'd often wondered what Jeff Goldblum would look like in a pair of nut-huggers--for the record, nice-sized Johnson, but totally out of proportion with his balls. Or at least the left one. Now that is filmmaking! Be sure to show up late. That way you'll be forced to sit in the front row of the theater, where you can spend two hours nestled snugly beneath three feet of middle-aged, Judaic hog (dimensions may vary, depending on the size of the screen).

Fantastic! Anyway, this whole Drew Barrymore thing didn't occur to me until I was back at the old apartment, sweating myself autistic. In kind with the sort of asstrocious architectural lunacy that dominates Boston, the woman upstairs controls my goddamned thermostat. Turns out her father was a Greek Cypriot, and her mother was a motherfucking African fucking violet, so she has some sort of genetic weakness that demands wave after wave of heat and (in response) ambient rage.

So there I am, sweating the dimples off my face--after nearly overdosing on $9.75 of pure Texas quirk--and wondering what the hell the point of making The Life Aquatic could possibly have been. I mean, this movie is NOTHING, and you can do NOTHING without even making a fucking movie (I like the word. So fuck off). I have to assume it is considerably more difficult to write, arrange financing for, and then complete a feature film than it is to...say...go down to the local cafe for an oversized scone and an Americano. Yet, every morning (or afternoon, as the case may be), I awake with a powerful motivation to walk down to the square for said items, only to remain on the couch in my shearling-and-calfskin slippers (many thanks to Jesus for the being born in slipper-season thing). To go and do something like a movie, you have to want to, right? So how exactly do you want to do NOTHING (stick with me, next I'll be italicizing capital letters, or vice versa...SHIZNIT!), to the point that you go out and overcome enormous obstacles just to get your unique nonvision committed to film?

Sure, the cutaway boat stuff and Disneyland sea creatures charmed me into a more innocent, childlike mindset--back to a time when I trusted Mister Wizard's opinion on everything and sometimes had trouble wiping my own ass--but charm does not a story make. Someone, please tell me what Zizzou's malfunction was supposed to be? Why did he want to hang out with Luke and/or Owen Wilson, who seems like such a dick all the time? I don't get it.

Responses will be appreciated. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go sweat now.

PS - Yes, I realize that this post is entirely about penises. But one can only blog from lived experience.

PPS - No, the name of my band in college was not Ambient Rage. That was the name of my first puppy.