A MOST PEERLESS PIEROGI

Professor W. sent out newly-printed copies of my recommendation this morning, and that’s a good thing, because I want to be in a good mood to wax poetic about pierogi.

Was this the Ukrainian dish that launched a thousand ships
And burnt the topless tower of Ilium?
Yes, but only because the waiter was clumsy and spilled the plate on Ilium’s head.
God knows he was apologetic to Ilium afterward,
Who, being so topless on his tower, was left with a pretty nasty-looking scar.

Yes, I ate Ukrainian food yesterday. I really enjoyed it, too. Originally, K. gave me the choice of either a well-known Ukrainian restaurant, a really trendy-looking joint over in the East Village, versus a lesser-known establishment she had heard of, located in the Ukrainian Cultural Center on the same block, only two doors down.

The menu on the window of the Cultural Center looked amateurish compared to that of its more popular sibling. I could peer in through the windows, and from that perspective, I saw a long hallway; well-lit, but very sparse. The place was giving me a vibe, but not a friendly, cozy, hospitable vibe. It was more like an "Exclusive Club for Ukrainian Mobsters" vibe, similar to the "Place Where Legs are Broken" vibe. But I know a thing or two about playing blackjack. Also, I was feeling more adventurous than usual (I went into a woman’s shoe store that same evening!). Ultimately, I said what the hey, and opted for the place that looked like it belonged in a movie called "Big Trouble in Little Ukraine."

Past the spartan hallway decorated in a fresh coat of white paint, K. and I found a small restaurant that was warmly lit, and not very busy. The waitress bid us welcome, and invited us to choose any table. K. and I sat at a small table for two next to a wall, with a tall fern growing behind my chair, which shielded us from the kitchen. It gave dinner a sort of romantic, "rendezvous between spies" feeling. We got complimentary bread and butter, and K. told me the story of how she almost killed a man once, by shooting him in the shoulder with a packet of butter.

The waitress came to take our order. We had a wonderful meal consisting of borsch (which I did not try, though I hear it "beets" most other Ukrainian soups), vegetable schnitzel, boiled pierogi stuffed with meat or potatoes, and topped by a grilled onion sauce, and apple streudel for dessert. The vegetable schnitzel was flaky and flavorful, with just a hint of sweetness. The meat pierogi was a satisfying contrast of spiced, ground pig or cow, enveloped in a supple, hearty potato-based pasta. The potato pierogi simply stole the show. Boiled potato pasta concealing a mashed-potato stuffing, mouth-watering proof that there is no such thing as too much starch.

If any part of the meal disappointed, it was probably the homemade apple streudel. I can’t speak for K., but I had trouble breaking the flaky streudel pastry with my fork. Was the streudel stale? I don’t know. Also, I felt short-changed with the apple filling. Maybe it would have been better if we’d ordered coffee, too.

But all in all, dinner was great. I totally love Ukrainian food now, and after relating to the waitress how much I enjoyed the pierogi, she said K. and I must come back again. Personally, nothing would make me happier. I would love the opportunity to sample the cherry blintzes, the beef stroganoff, or maybe the fried pierogi. All you readers must eat Ukrainian food, too. Dress in KGB-disguise sunglasses and trenchcoats when you visit the restaurant, and make lots of furtive glances with your eyes.

"I ONLY HAVE ICE FOR YOU," OR, "PARK TREK IV: THE VOYAGE HOME"

You could say I was "sled tired" by the time I got home Sunday night. Around four in the afternoon, I went with K., and her roommate C. to Prospect Park. We took a bright orange sled christened "Rosebud" along, too.

We took turns zipping down steep, snow-covered hills atop "Rosebud." I can’t speak for K., C., or other friend L., who used a plastic garbage bag as a makeshift sled. But as far as I am concerned, sledding is the most fun winter activity ever! It narrowly beats out ice skating, which I have only tried once. But trust me, sledding is way cool. The rush of icy air against your face, the slush and people whizzing by, the accumulation of speed, the jouncing and bouncing as you hang on for dear life… My only regret was that I never got to slide down head-first. I really, really wanted to, but many years ago, my mother regretted to inform me that I was allergic to concussions.

Earlier that day, I made PB&J sandwiches using K’s mom’s homemade blackberry jelly. We had a winter picnic (Or supper, as it was already very dark in the park.), and then the cold started to get to all of us. One more intense slide down the snowy hillside, then we parted ways. K. went back to L.’s place for hot tea, and I wandered the other way, carrying "Rosebud" with me. I walked through the ankle-high snow to Prospect Park South. Before I left the park, I stopped to go to the bathroom against a tree atop a hill. No one was around to see me. The wind blew against my back, and going to the bathroom out in the wild, alone, the secret shared between myself and the tree I was urinating against, and no one else, felt indescribably good. Like I had committed a crime and gotten away with it.

I walked down Prospect Park South to the F-train station. But all the trains had been cancelled. Snow from the blizzard was still stuck to parts of the tracks. I walked down Prospect Park Southwest to Ocean Avenue, then walked across Ocean Avenue, the park there on my left side all those many, many blocks. I entered the station for the Q-train, the train I would usually take back-and-forth between Mill Basin and Prospect Park. The Q-trains were running, so I was happy. I got back home within an hour. It felt good to shake the soft, sticky snow from my shoes, and take off my heavy coat. Rosebud looks happy in the vestibule.

WANT NOT, WASTE SOME

Since Sam and thecomicman both came down with a mysterious illness simultaneously, K. and I went to see "The Aviator" instead.

Actually, we had Indian food for dinner, then went to see the movie. And I almost ruined the entire night by obsessing about WASTE.

See, my major thing today was to visit a former professor at NYU during his office hours. This professor, who will remain nameless, enthusiastically agreed to write a recommendation letter for me, sometime around mid-November. I dropped off a packet of papers, forms, and other info two weeks later. The man has had two months to write the letter for me, and despite regular phone messages and e-mails from me urging him on in his letter-writing process, it turns out that HE DIDN'T WRITE THE LETTER.

The letter must be in by next Friday. All the professors have been out for the last month on winter break, of course, so today was his first day of office hours for Spring 2005. I showed up at his office at 3:45 pm, fifteen minutes before his office hours start. 4:00, he's still not there. 4:15, still not there. 4:45, I'm still waiting.

By 5:00, the professor's still not in. He played hookey for his own office hours! Now, I don't go back to NYU very often, and I would rather have spent this afternoon doing other stuff than making the trip to campus, and waiting in vain. I skulked away feeling like I wasted the entire afternoon. This probably had something to do with walking away empty-handed and great worried. But nonetheless, I had the shadow of WASTE looming over me.

So then I met K. and we bought tickets to see "The Aviator." Then we ducked into a restaurant for Indian food. You readers will be happy to know that I didn't waste time eating Indian cuisine, only money. That's right, I really should have known the rules of ordering food there.

See, I figured I was only allowed one starch, either the flat bread called "nan" (?) or white rice. When the guy behind the counter asked me if I wanted both, I assumed I was substituting an extra starch for a vegetable dish. Then he asked me if I wanted some cabbage cooked with potato. I thought, "Oh. Maybe they sell by weight." I asked only for a little of the cabbage, and in hindsight, I shouldn't have let him pile on so much. Finally, I added a bottle of water to my order, but that's okay because I've been using the last bottle for more than a week.

The grand total for the dinner: Over $9.00! I honestly thought the guy had charged me and K. together, and said as much. "That's for both of us, right?" But it wasn't. It was only MY food. You know, I really hate ordering food anywhere I can't just point to a color photo with a corresponding number. Why couldn't that place have been more like McDonalds? "I'll just have the number 3, but supersize the white rice." Still, I will admit that their chicken masala was good, and not too spicy.

So I spent a few bucks more than I expected for a meal. Or should I say, I WASTED a few bucks more? You could say I was preoccupied. The entire walk over to the theater, I kept thinking Waste waste waste. So much waste today. Time. Money. Waste. Nothing got done. I doubtlessly mentioned some of these feelings of waste to K., which probably got on her nerves after a while.

Luckily, we saw "The Aviator," a great movie about a man (Howard Hughes) with real problems in his head. Hughes had his share of obsessions and phobias, and while his phobias ultimately crippled him, his obsession with building perfect planes saved him from men who wanted to bankrupt his airline.

I felt happy as I left the movie with K. Hughes' story made me wonder if my obsessions about wasting time, money, the future, could seem sick, but ultimately be my salvation. If not, well, at least I'm not going to the bathroom into empty milk bottles.

FUN—SUPERSIZED!

I saw "Supersize Me!" the Morgan Spurlock documentary about the dangers of eating nothing but McDonalds for 31 days, at K’s house yesterday. Someone came up with the brilliant idea of eating a big bag of McDonalds food at the same time. Mmmm… McDonalds food… Quarter-Pounder with Cheese… Large fries… Sugary orange drink fortified with Vitamin C…

I was pleasantly surprised by how even-handed "Supersize Me!" was. I don’t know if it was the title, or maybe some advanced piece of hype I read about the movie, but I expected 90 minutes of full-on, unrepentant McDonalds bashing. Morgan Spurlock certainly argues that fast food is a major component of America’s growing obesity problem. But he also makes an effort to link fast food to a growing trend of increasing crap consumption, and decreasing physical activity, which has infiltrated our daily lives.

So, sure, we get an entire month of him eating nothing but McDonalds food. But we also get an expose of school cafeterias, where hardly any cooking is ever done anymore. Apparently, corporations make billions of dollars feeding our nation’s school children frozen beef patties and canned sloppy joes—not much better than fast food, nutrition-wise—even though making meals fresh would be cheaper, and better for the kids. One cannot help but be amused when Spurlock and crew profile a school that makes fresh meals, and has better-behaved children as a result, and it turns out to be a juvenile hall.

"Supersize Me!" also reveals the downsizing of Physical Education classes, which I personally didn’t think was too much of a tragedy. But then I was introduced to the sugar-water addict. There’s a character in the documentary whose consumption of Coca-cola would make any sane person want to yell at them, "DON’T YOU KNOW HOW MUCH SUGAR YOU’RE CONSUMING, FOR GOD’S SAKE?!" He admitted to guzzling 2-3 bottles of soda per day. That’s 2-3 TWO-LITER BOTTLES! At the time Spurlock and crew profiled him, he was in the hospital to have his stomach stapled. The man’s doctor told him his weight was dangerously high, and what with the diabetes he had already developed, something needed to be done to curb his consumption. I just sat there thinking, "This man needs to stop drinking soda, and go take a walk. He does not need unnecessary surgery that will only jack up medical insurance costs for the rest of us."

Clearly, Morgan Spurlock experienced serious health complications as a result of his fast food binging. But as I said, any McDonalds-bashing is kept to a minimum (And mostly, in the form of some very creative clown paintings), or spread around to other recognizable fast-food companies.

In fact, this may seem unbelievable, but I think "Supersize Me!" actually gives McDonalds some extremely potent free advertising. In the course of a month, Spurlock has to order each item on the restaurant’s menu at least once. While I was sitting there, Quarter Pounder with Cheese Value Meal already digesting, I would see each new sandwich or breakfast item float by on the TV screen, and I’d feel this irrepressible urge to go to the nearest McDonalds for a Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese, or Chicken Nuggets, or McGriddle. It’s true, I tell you! I had serious McDonalds cravings all throughout "Supersize Me!"

I need to stop watching movies, and go take a walk.

ABOUT LAST WEEKEND…

It was not devoid of events. Indeed, it was not uneventful. One could go as far as to argue that it was… eventful.

I got to eat good food, carouse with good friends, and put a smile on a soon-to-be bride’s face. I got to explore Grand Central Station, ride a train to Westchester, play a round of Taboo, and travel back to Yankee Stadium in a convertible with the top down. I got to better acquaint myself with a couple whom, prior to the weekend, had been mere acquaintences. I got to listen to the soundtrack of "Storytelling," pet a friendly cat, almost check out a new apartment, and still get back to Mill Basin in time to have cake at my cousin’s birthday party.

I got to windowshop at all the fancy markets in Grand Central Station on Saturday, stare at the overpriced, marinated filet mignons and rack of lambs in the East Concourse. I got to fondle a $7.00 jar of spaghetti sauce, leave a fingerprint on a $3.00 tart wrapped in clingwrap at the bakery, shake a $5 box of crackers with Italian words and cursive font, while backlit by warm, overhead lights, like a ballroom scene in a costume drama. I got to chip in with K. for the largest cheeseboard we could find at Murray’s Cheese Shop, which cost less than a pound of Murray’s cheapest cheese, which was chipped from the cheeseboard Rock of Gibralter by chisels wielded by the martyred hands of tiny orphans, which was smoothed into Moses tablets under the martyred feet of abused street urchins.

I got to buy cookies from "Hot and Crusty," while waiting for K, and man, do I wish I had bought them from the other cookie shop instead, and not been such a cheap bastard.

I got to help giftwrap the giant cheeseboard on the train to Westchester, got to hold hands with K. almost the entire way, got to talk to K. about Chinese bakery food, South Korea, and life in the Northwest.

I got to drink champagne, see Maggie and Ryan cheer after she unwrapped the cheeseboard (They no longer have to display their cheese atop a dry paper towel!), eat sesame crackers (but no cheese), devour strawberry shortcake with thick whipped cream and cupcakes.

I got to do surprisingly well on the first round of Taboo, sucky on the second round, better on the third, and overall, give back less points for my team than I earned. I got to test how well my friends really know me, by giving a clue, "I need to be fitted for one of these," to which Hal answered "A straight jacket!" (The right answer in only four seconds flat.) I got to arrive at the realization that I know a little too much about pop culture, that my friends know just as much, if not more, about pop culture, that my taste in movies is probably different than Jay’s, less anime-centered than Adan’s, and that Dan rents things I wouldn’t pony up cash for in a million years.

I got to hitch a ride back to the city at one in the morning in Maggie’s friend J.P.’s snazzy convertible, which K. wanted to ride in with the top down (the convertible’s top, not hers) on a blustery winter night. I got to feel the cold wind whipping my face, got to see the signs on the highway rush past my upturned eyes in a green-and-white blur, got to lose myself in the expanse of night sky, all the while holding hands with K. in the backseat, unable to hear a word spoken by Hal or J.P. up front, the sounds accompanying their mouth movements drowned out by the funneling air, K. and I conveying almost everything between us through squeeze and touch, squeeze and touch.

I got to have brunch Sunday morning with K.’s friends across the street, got to discuss the art of frying eggs, fruit salad, hurting peoples’ feelings, and ‘zines. I got to put off seeing that new apartment in Bushwick, because my ex-co-worker was not home. I’ve got another chance in the coming weekend.

I got to hug K. a lot, which made me feel happy, the kind of happy that leaves you on edge because it cannot last forever. I got to walk to the subway station with K., and talk about how great a time we had, and to make plans to keep seeing her, if not forever, than at least another week. I got to kiss her goodbye.

I got to come home to Mill Basin for my cousin’s first birthday. I got to watch him tear the gift wrap (with some assistance) off his new toys. I got to eat more cake with heavy whipped cream and strawberries. I got to feel big in wholly unexpected ways. I got to sleep very late that night, having stayed at the table until the very last dregs of the weekend had been drained from the bottle.

BECAUSE I COULD BE WRITING GRAD SCHOOL APPLICATION ESSAYS…

…Let me talk about Veryfine Grape Drink instead.

Back when I was a wee lad, so wee I was still living in the bowels of Brooklyn, Veryfine Grape Drink was my favorite beverage. Granted, it was full of sugar, bereft of actual juice, and tended to leave a lasting stain on a white T-shirt. But it was also the perfect antidote to a hot summer day, and the bottle had the coolest label ever: Plain white, with a simple, cartoony drawing of a bunch of purple grapes.

I associate so many happy times with Veryfine Grape Drink. The summer right before my family up and moved to Miami, my cousin R., whose parents were going through a separation, stayed over at our house. R., my brother K., and I would spend our carefree summer days playing tee-ball in Marine Park. We’d come home, sweaty and our hair matted, and we’d immediately run to the fridge, where we’d be sure to find it stocked with Veryfine Grape Drink. It always hit the spot!

Unfortunately, Veryfine products were bottled in Massachusetts, so when I got to Miami, I found to my distress that none of the supermarkets carried them. No bottles with the plain white labels and simple drawings of fruit were anywhere to be found! I couldn’t help feeling that an important era in my life was now over. Also, I went through extremely painful sugar withdrawal, which could only be tempered by a combination of Kool-Aid and methadone. But that’s another story…

Time passed, and eventually, I learned to live without my Veryfine Grape Drink. I heard a rumor that the company had gone out of business, having been squeezed out of the unhealthy kids drink market by such pretenders as "Hi-C" and "Capri-Sun." (Capri-Sun? Who drinks juice in a bag? What are we, Bedouins?) I admit that, during moments of weakness, I humbled myself and drank Hi-C in order to avoid juice, or worse, milk. But the experience always left me feeling cheapened. What can I say? Veryfine had the gift of making me feel "very fine," but Hi-C neither gave me a "high," or helped me to "see" anything, other than the mediocrity of Hi-C.

Perhaps I wouldn’t have taken the loss of Veryfine Grape Drink so badly if the adjustment to South Florida had been easier. But it wasn’t, and many times, I needed the comfort of a familiar beverage. When I was at my most desperate, after I heard that the company had gone out of business, I went to the library to see if I could find a recipe for Veryfine Grape Drink in the public domain, and I did. Unfortunately, my chemistry skills were non-existent at this time. While attempting to synthesize sucrose, I ended up manufacturing regular ethanol. On the bright side, the drink was a hit in the more rural areas upstate, and the blindness I experienced after first ingesting the strange brew was only temporary.

But there’s a happy ending to this story: Just this morning, on the way home from the bank, I stopped into my local newsstand to get the paper. I thought about purchasing a Snapple, and while perusing the soft drink freezer, I saw a product called "Veryfine Chillers." They had a flavor called "Glacial Grape" which sounded a lot like the old Veryfine Grape Drink from my youth, only this one contains actual juice concentrate. It contains 100% of the advised daily requirement of Vitamin C. But get this: It tastes just like Veryfine Grape Drink!

Apparently, Snapple bought the old line, and hopes "Chillers" will catch on with the health-conscious drink market. I don’t know whether they’ll succeed, but I hope they do, so I can still enjoy the happier part of my childhood on a hot summer day. Here’s a reason to think things might just turn out okay: Snapple has a monopoly on all the vending machines in New York City public schools. That means they can almost force students to purchase Veryfine Glacial Grape Chillers, or any other flavor Chiller. And security guards aren’t letting students bring in drinks or bottled water from home, lest they interfere with the monopoly. So take that, Capri Sun and Hi-C! Your reign of sugary drink mediocrity is over!

I THOUGHT ‘NAPOLEON DYNAMITE’ WAS OKAY—GOD!

It’s a sweet little film, worthy of its cult status. The filmmakers probably used a real house, a real school, and real outdoor settings in Idaho. Combine these aspects with lots of static camera shots, and the movie reminded me very much of the films of Hal Hartley, though it never matches the epic feel of Hartley’s 1997 masterpiece about social outcasts, "Henry Fool."

While "Napoleon Dynamite" and the films of Hartley concern themselves with poor, white, dysfunctional misfits struggling to find their place in the world, the former is a much gentler film that everyone can enjoy. The main characters of "Napoleon Dynamite" are, in their hearts, nice people. They crave the same love and sense of belonging as the rest of us. They just happen to do jerky things like tell the girl friend of the title character that said title character thinks her breasts need to be bigger. Uncle Rico never intended no harm, though.

You cheer for these underdogs against the dark forces of despair and high school. Well, at least in the case of Napoleon, Pedro, and Deb, you cheer. If the movie has a glaring flaw, it’s the sub-plot of Napoleon’s older brother Kip. I appreciate the irony of Kip finding his soul mate on an Internet chat room. It is especially unexpected that his chat room dream woman turns out both good-natured and voluptuous, as opposed to someone who looks like Ernest Borgnine.

Maybe I am apprehensive towards Kip finding love via the net because of all the chat room stalker stories that saturate the news. Hot honeys who turn out to be retired FBI agents or bus drivers. Rendevous that end up on the six o’clock news. If it isn’t entirely creepy, it still seems rather strange. But I’m glad Kip got a satisfactory return on all the time he invested. God knows, I’ve paid more for less.

I might have one other problem with "Napoleon Dynamite." No, it isn’t the heavy 80’s-laden soundtrack, which is actually quite good. Nor is it the ‘wish-fulfillment’ nature of geeks winning one from the ‘in-crowd.’ I sense that Napoleon and Pedro’s victory is temporary at best, that in the long run, the high school experiences of bookish non-Heathers will remain difficult. No, my problem is how all the main characters hook up with somebody. All the main characters, that is, except Pedro.

Look at that ending again. Napoleon and Deb play maypole together. Kip and Laphonda ride off into Detroit, if not the sunset. Even jerky Uncle Rico gets a mysterious chick on a bicycle. But what about Pedro? He’s the freakin’ class president, fer Chrissake, and he has to bask in his victory with only his family?

What, the Mexican guy can’t end up with a white chick? Would that be too edgy for an independent film, the kind of property major studios would supposedly never touch? I can go rent "Much Ado About Nothing" if I want to see the token minority get brushed off by all the chicks of the ethnic majority. Heck, I can save a buck and just reminisce about twenty years growing up in Miami.

But at least now I have proof that it wasn’t just my imagination. See that, Dad? The ladies aren’t exactly banging your door down when you’re the token boy, are they?! Social alienation wasn’t a pigment of my imagination after all, was it, Dad? I know you’re reading this, Dad! I KNOW YOU’RE READING THIS!!! YOU GODDAMN ANSWER ME!!!

THE BLOG AQUATIC, with PHIL X!

You may be wondering who I’ve been spending a lot of time with lately. If only I weren’t such a playful and/or secretive bastard, I’d go ahead and write her name in my blog. However, I am nothing if not precocious, so I will refer to her as "‘K.’ of the Alternate Reality Incident." Or just ‘K.,’ for short.

Last Tuesday, K. and I went to see Wes Anderson’s new film "The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou." A two-hour ocean voyage with Bill Murray! It was a grand old time, and I highly recommend this movie to anyone looking for a good comedy. Fans of Wes Anderson’s other films ("Bottle Rocket," "Rushmore," "The Royal Tennenbaums") will probably love it.

My favorite aspect of "The Life Aquatic…?" The perfect casting of Bill Murray. Captain Steve Zissou, underwater explorer and documentary-maker, has lived a charmed and successful life that many would envy. The man’s got fame; wealth; he’s inspired an entire generation a la Howdy Doody. He’s clearly had his share of groupies, as evidenced by the character of Ned Plimpton (Owen Wilson), who may be his son.

But despite the superficial joys of a lifetime’s worth of excess hedonism, Steve Zissou is unhappy. His fame is fading; his deep sea explorations don’t net the same kind of press they once did. He’s on the downside of his second marriage, this one to the excellent Angelica Huston. Oh, and the only member of his crew who might actually like him has just been eaten by the rare jaguar shark. The only thing worse than an aging has-been might be a lonely aging has-been, and the only actor who might have done this role better than Murray is William Shatner.

Not that I’m a Shatner expert (Although I did see "Boston Legal" three weeks ago, when he went head-to-head with James Spader over a pharmaceutical company witness. It was awesome!), but the only difference I recognize in the two actors’ respective styles is the erstwhile Captain Kirk’s tendency to grope for dignity in his characters. Bill Murray? Forget it. His Steve Zissou has seen it all and honestly doesn’t give a f*ck. Steve Zissou found fame and success so readily beneath the sea, he’s never had to stare into his own abyss. He’s never had to plumb the depths of his own personality. He’s never had to grow up, never had to face life as anything but a public darling. Not until now, anyway.

Steve Zissou is a man in a state of full shock. Shocked to find himself unloved at such a late middle age. Shocked that his star is on the decline. Shocked that his longtime friend and partner Esteban is dead. Zissou begins the movie totally out of it. The funniest bit of dialogue occurs when a member of the underwater explorer’s club questions the scientific value of killing the jaguar shark. Zissou’s response: "Revenge. I haven’t figured out how I’m going to kill it yet. Dynamite, maybe."

One might expect this funk of Zissou’s to eventually fade away by the time the end credits roll. But what makes this movie brave is how Steve Zissou never quite awakens from his near-sonambulant state. "The Life Aquatic…" isn’t about a man who loses, then finds, so much as it is about a man who loses, then loses, then loses some more. Who knows if Zissou’s final documentary is the hit of the explorer’s club? We can’t all be Aerosmith. Heck, we can’t all be Bill Murray, doing some of the best acting in film, period, after enduring a horrible stretch during the late 90’s.

Another thing I want to mention about "The Life Aquatic…:" It’s directed by Wes Anderson (and written by Anderson with Noah Baumbach), and the writer/director is quickly becoming one of my favorites. A common thread in all of Anderson’s films is the focus on families, both blood and surrogate, and the lack of central villains. Every character in "The Life Aquatic…," save for the gaudily-dressed pirates who are depicted as cartoons, is really an okay person. The snide Allistair Hennessy, whom we expect to take an elephant gun to Zissou’s head for property theft, comforts Steve for his tragedy. Belafonte crewman Klaus (Willem Dafoe in a bad German accent) rudely slaps Ned Plimpton when they first meet. But after he and Ned bond over the making of the official Team Zissou flag, they become like brothers. It’s no different from the character of "Bob’s older brother" in "Bottle Rocket," Anderson’s first full-length film from back in 1996.

"Bob’s older brother" might be the most obnoxious preppie cocksucker in independent film history. He bullies Bob around, and we can’t help but cheer when James Caan verbally brings him down a peg. But when the tables are turned, and the younger sibling is left hanging, what does this preppie cocksucker have the nerve to do? He tells him, "Bob, you’re my baby brother, and I love you."

Wes Anderson tends to pepper his movies with exceptionally colorful characters who dress or talk funny, and do strange things (I don’t know the extent that his frequent collaborator, Owen Wilson, is involved in the peppering). As a result, his movies are often accused of being too "whimsical," abandoning a certain degree of humanity for the sake of visual style. But Anderson’s outlook is certainly humane, which is good enough for me. And I’ll gladly take two hours on the Belafonte with Bill Murray, listening to David Bowie songs performed in Portuguese, partaking in that true rarity since the days of "The Graduate"—a comedy infused with melancholy and actual pathos—over time-and-a-half of James Cameron’s oceanliner, and Leo and Kate standing in front of the railing, which seems more like a cover to a harlequin romance novel and less a labor of love each time I see it.

FIRST BLOG POST OF THE NEW YEAR

Let’s get this out of the way as quickly as possible.

WHERE I’VE BEEN: If you’re a regular reader of this blog, you’ve probably noticed that my 1999 adventures ended abruptly after November, 1999. What, no more two-fisted time travel tales?

Actually, I haven’t been free to post over the last four weeks, because I got stuck in a parallel dimension, very similar to our own. Here’s how it happened: Rupert Zwevoid, alien being who bestowed upon me the secret of time travel, also bestowed upon me the secret of interdimensional travel. The information was in a little book called, Secrets of Tranversing Both Time and Space, the Zwevoid Way. It was an early Christmas present. Dog-eared, but a first edition!

Apparently, I can attach blinkers to my time capsule/ cast-iron bathtub, the "Mr. Peabody." Then, as long as I remember to signal first, I can pass laterally from one dimension to the next, the way an automobile would change lanes. Going from my dimension to the alternate one was easy enough. However, it turns out that it was an interdimensional "No Passing Lane." A traffic Zwevoid pulled me over, and when I couldn’t produce a satisfactory registration, he impounded my timepod and suspended my cross-dimensional travel rights for a month.

So for the last four weeks, I was stranded on an alternate Earth. Good thing the alternate version of myself was also living in New York City! I surprised myself at home, explained the situation, and was fairly surprised at how understanding I turned out to be. In exchange for helping my doppelganger with his holiday shopping, I got to sleep in his bathtub and do a little sightseeing. Oh man, the alternate universe Earth is one disturbing place!

Get this: In the other universe, George W. Bush, son of George Herbert Walker Bush, has just won re-election (No, he didn’t die of a cocaine overdose. Instead, he narrowly won Florida in 2000!) Also, the U.S. has been at war with Iraq for the past year, for what seems like no better reason except the quest for cheap oil. Some say Iraq attacked our country, but there’s scant evidence of it. Thousands of American soldiers have died in the past year during the course of our occupation, and who knows how many more will give their lives before we’ve either siphoned Iraq’s oil reserves dry, or we leave? I’m not sure whether the parallel universe Americans support having their sons and daughters die for a sham war, but Bush won re-election despite widespread discontent toward his policies. Oh yeah, there was also a horrible tsunami that killed over 115,000 people in southeast Asia. Happened just a few days before I got the "Mr. Peabody" back and returned home. Even more unbelievable: Martin Scorcese is the frontrunner to win Oscar for Best Director next year. I know what you’re thinking, and I was definitely listening for the "Twilight Zone" theme song everywhere.

But something good did come out of getting stuck in a parallel dimension for the past month. I feel like I’ve become very good friends with someone, someone who also exists in my home dimension, though I never had the chance to get to know her over here. No, it just wasn’t meant to be over on this side of the transdimensional passing lane. She had her cadre of warriors and scholars to run with, and I only met her because of that unfortunate Dragon business.

Ah, the passage across the Lake of Fire… K. and H. ferrying me across, coercing me into helping them purchase the magic sword, the Dragonslayer, in Bartertown… I still remember the strange electric shock of the Dragonslayer, binding itself to my hand… And who could forget K.’s ex-boyfriend, S., the most evil wizard in the land, who wanted the sword for himself…? Good times…

But who knows. It’s a brand new year, bringing with it fresh possibilities. And so…

HAPPY NEW YEAR FROM ‘WHEN BLOGS ATTACK!’