Keep having really interesting dreams about animals. The other night I was a big bear, gamely wading through a jungle, scratching my back against a tree whilst a half-naked boy was trying to find his family. Then there was me as a potato head, amidst the chaos of a talking cowboy doll, and a little spaceman contemplating suicide because he found out he didn’t have any superpowers. I feel sorry for people with no imagination, I really do.
We kicked off with Alexander’s wandering hands touching Carrie up in a restaurant. His arty friends turned up, and they all proceeded to have a good old natter about his upcoming art exhibit, which was to be his first one in six years. All I can say to that, is what kind of lazy bastard takes six years to do anything? The Beatles released about ten classic albums in that time period, ‘we’ won a world war in less time, and Jack The Ripper eliminated half of London’s petulant prostitute problems in ONE SIXTH of that time. It’s simply not good enough.
Charlotte was showing off her new puppy, the gorgeously cute Elizabeth Taylor. The dog was prancing and wiggling through New York, mincing more than a sensational Spaghetti Bolognese, or perhaps more relevantly, more than Gay Stanford on a day where he doesn’t feel ugly and bald. Charlotte planned to enter Elizabeth Taylor in one of those dog shows. Think Crufts, but with more odious Americans whooping and cheering, like those annoying divs who shout out “GET IN THE HOLE” whenever Tiger Woods swings his golf club.
Miranda was complaining about the move to Brooklyn, bemoaning her lack of internet. Her angry stance softened somewhat when her shitty gossip magazines were delivered to the new place, instantly transporting her into a wonderful world of celebrity cellulite and top ten tips on how to have the perfect piss. Funny how loads of women proclaim themselves to be so secure, so satisfied in their lives, when all they do all day is watch shit programmes like ‘The Hills’, read ‘Heat’, sip vodka through a pink straw and swear constantly, just to justify their mundane boring lives. Do something interesting, learn to play chess, stick playing cards on your wall, or if you’re thinking really outside the box, kill yourselves.
Samantha was getting wiggy with it. By that I mean she was wearing a lot of different wigs. She was concerned when the shitty gossip rags ran a story of Smith being gay because he was snapped in a photograph with Gay Stanford. I have no idea why she would worry so much, the picture looked less like two gay men posing provocatively, and more like the Hollywood hunk Smith putting a tender arm around a terminally ill older gentleman, albeit a dying man wearing a lurid green shirt.
Despite this, she was offended by being called a ‘fag hag’, forever killing the myth that Sex And The City is a gay friendly programme. As if cancer wasn’t bad enough for her, no-one believed she was fucking Smith. To counter this, she had him fuck her in front of a camera, a filmed sex act that was casually sent to the same gossip crap that had originally called him gay. Classy. It’s weird, any other episode involving a dog bleeding from her anus and you’d think I was talking about this scene with Samantha, being brutally arse fucked by Smith, but alas it was Elizabeth Taylor getting her period. This programme is getting weird.
Very weird for Carrie. A lot was going on in her life, most notably her insecurity about her relationship with Alexander. She was concerned that they didn’t have anything in common, and that they weren’t involved enough in each others lives. An interesting dilemma. Before I met my girlfriend I honestly couldn’t have given a shit about art, drawing or stop motion animation, but now I find myself fascinated by all aspects of her life, including art as that is a big part of it. This coming from the most selfish person I know – me! It wasn’t a conscious effort for me to be interested, it just naturally occurred, and I think maybe that’s the test of a relationship. If you need to HAVE to make an effort to talk about anything, then maybe you just shouldn’t try at all.
Big ringing her up constantly didn’t help Carrie either, and nor did Alexander being rude to her friends after she brought them round to see him. To be fair, he had told her not to bother as he was especially busy with his upcoming art ‘thing’, but she ignored him and wheeled them round anyway. How horrible of her, dragging a cancer victim halfway across New York for just a cursory glance at a maverick Russian artist.
We ended with Carrie and the Russian talking properly, for the first time about his own insecurities in his own work, and how sometimes he would look at the art he had already created and think it was pony. I’m paraphrasing of course, but there was a certain beauty, an innate sense that no matter how successful you are, you might always be riddled with the self-doubt, self loathing, and self-love that comes with being one of the most talented and inspirational people of your generation. I should know, I have two gay friends.