Credits. Cha, cha-cha, cha-cha. Cha, cha-cha, cha-cha. Cha, cha-cha, cha-cha, cha-cha, whee, go xylophone! Splashy bus! Ohhh, the five-dollar tutu, she is ruined. Cha cha cha.
A cab pulls up to the curb. Carrie, in her silver Manolos and a one-shoulder handkerchief dress (ruined by her black bra), and Charlotte, in a prim-and-proper black dress with a white collar and sash belt (very domestique) and silver Prada shoes (love them!), hop out. Char urges Carrie to hurry, but Carrie can't "hustle" in those heels. Well, you should have bought Prada, you silly thing.
The setting? An art gallery in Chelsea. The exhibit? A woman who is sitting still, with a metronome, atop a ladder made of knives. Wow, I just reviewed a show in the Philadelphia Fringe Festival that's like this. One woman, two boxes, three days. She spent three days being in two boxes, in a circus sideshow tent. I said you can see people living in boxes all over Philadelphia, but art is, I guess, all about context.
The Chelsea gallery is packed with socialites, staring at the performance artist. She's doing this for 16 days, hoping to change the energy in the room, and thus the energy in the world. Okay. Carrie is like me, all, can we go now? Lunch? Now? Charlotte recalls the days when she worked "in the galleries" and "performance art was more theater than installation," but this woman "has taken it to the level." Yeah, she's the Gandhi, but without the social change part. Carrie looks around the room, and woof. There he is. Mikhail Baryshnikov. Misha. The H-O-T man. He's looking right at her. Carrie looks, then looks away, then looks back at him. He drops his face into a funny sort-of smile. Woof. I love it when men do that. Carrie gives him a Mona Lisa, then whispers to Charlotte that a man is staring at her. Char looks over her shoulder, in time with Carrie's swiveling neck, but he's gone.
The two friends leave. Char stops at the desk to send her regards to Circe, and as Carrie dabs balm on her lips, Misha appears again. Carrie points him out to Char, who gasps and says sotto voce that he is Alexander Petrovski, the artist. He sees them staring, and Char shuts up. He moves to leave, but Char, star-struck, stops him. His "Abstract #1" was her first big important sale when she was "first working in the galleries." He nods, bored, and says "mmm." Carrie peeks from behind Char at him. Char would gush some more, but Misha puts up his hand and asks what she thought of the exhibit today. Char says, "Very moving. Significant." And what did Carrie think? "Good." Misha says she must have thought it was funny, since he heard her laughing. Carrie says she's "not very arty." So, she didn't think it was "significant?" Carrie goes off; what the artist is doing isn't art. "Oh, please. There are depressed women all over the city doing that and they aren't calling it art. Put a telephone up on that platform and you'd just have another typical Friday night waiting for some guy to call...and if anyone bothered to come down here at 3 AM, she'd probably be around the corner having a Big Mac. Why do you think she has the knife ladders? To keep her from running out and getting a snack." Char tries to butt in with, "She's kidding," and Misha says, "Who are you? Your name?" Carrie Bradshaw. "And you are a comic?" Carrie doesn't quite know what to do with that. Charlotte introduces herself; she just wants to say "how very, very important your work is." Misha says, "So what," and walks away. Char is elated. Carrie just mutters, "You arre a comik?" That's what he said, honey. You were trying to crack with the wise, weren't you? At least he sounded like he maybe thought you were funny. Russians aren't exactly known for their senses of humor.
Ding-dong, Blair's home (in Miranda's apartment), and he brought something hot and sizzling. And I don't mean his ass. I mean a pizza. Mir complains that he breezed by without giving her a kiss, and he says he was waiting until he could use his hands. Then he does. They are such red-hot lovers. Then Miranda notices the little box on top of the pizza box. He says it's a surprise for after the pizza. Miranda fondles the box, and he playfully slaps her hand away. "After the pizza." Then his pager goes off (some b-baller broke his knee skateboarding) and he has to go to the hospital. Miranda waits about five seconds before opening the box. Inside is a giant chocolate chip cookie that reads, "I LOVE YOU." Miranda picks it up and starts eating it anxiously. Carrie VOs that Miranda doesn't like surprises.
Carrie and Mir walk down the sidewalk. Mir vents that Blair said I love you "on a cookie...then I panicked and ate the entire thing. If it wasn't there, I wouldn't have to deal with it." Mir says it wasn't the message, but the medium. I have to agree. Who says they love someone for the first time via a cookie? Or any other baked goods? Treats should not be the vehicle for expressing important emotions. I think the best time to tell someone you love them is after a faintly unpleasant chore, like moving a desk up three flights of stairs. If you can get through that, what's every other bump in the road. You think I'm kidding. Carrie says that Blair is in fact "perfect," but Mir seems a little doubtful. She agrees that he is being super-cute in helping to plan Brady's first birthday party, at which Steve's Maaa will probably put in an appearance. Carrie asks if there will be any clowns. "There is nothing scarier than a clown." That reminds me of the TWoP recapper convention in Las Vegas one year, when we dragged Jessica to Circus Circus completely against her will and tortured her by pointing out all the creepy clown art. And by we I mean "me." And that's not the only thing that's scary about that casino. Circus Circus is so ghetto that a C right on front of the building burned out, and it stayed unlit all night. We're talking "Circus Ircus." In Las Vegas. They didn't even care. Could you see that happening at Caesar's Palace? That's my point; it's ghetto.
Lunch minus Charlotte begins. Samantha takes out reading glasses (Chanel, she says), and says to Carrie's smiling face that yes, she needs glasses, and she has a young man who loves to fuck her, and she's fabulous. Mir asks if she's thought of putting that on a t-shirt. I'd wear it. Only because it's all true. Carrie asks if they've heard of Misha before. Mir is all, who? But Ye Olde Tymer Sam ("forty-fucking-five!") says he was the shit back at Studio 54. Wow, no cobwebs even. He looks good for 53. Carrie just says, "He was odd." Well, maybe he wasn't as COMICAL as you, my dear.
Char sits down, grinning like a jack-o-lantern. With good reason. She's pregnant. Three weeks! The table erupts in congrats and ebullient smiles. Sam says, "Oh my god." Then, she excuses herself and scratches her crotch. Then she explains that she's "growing it out," meaning her pubic hair. "Smith enjoys a full bush." Charming. Dignified, even. Char still glows. "Everything is exactly like it always was, but I'm pregnant!" Way to go, Charlotte.
Carrie's phone rings. Hello? Hello, it's a hot Russian for you. He says "good afternoon," and she says, "Sorry, wrong number." She hangs up. He calls back. She hangs up again, before he can even get a word out. He calls back a third time, and she says peevishly that she can't understand him. It's Misha, hot Russian, calling for your comic ass, woman. Oh. Oh. Carrie, huge idiot, tries to pretend it's not her. "Hold on, I'll get her for you. Caaaa-rrie! Uh, hello?" Misha is not fooled one bit. He got her number from Char's friend from the gallery. "Are you still loffing ot thot arrtist? Saying that she eats oll night Big Macs." Carrie squinches up her face and says she's sticking to her guns. Misha thought she would. "So let's go see her at 3 AM, to be sure." She asks if he's serious. "I'm serious, she's serious. You're the one who isn't serious." Carrie doesn't like the idea of getting out of bed to go to Chelsea at 3 AM. Misha suggests 1 AM, and that they have dinner first. At RUSSIAN SAMOVAR! God, do I love Russian Samovar. It's the best place EVER. They make all these vats of different vodkas, huge glass jars behind the bar filled with the fruits and herbs that flavor them. God, it's delicious. 52nd Street, y'all. The first time I went there was with Gustave and his friend Barbara, who is now my friend (hi, Barbara!), and we got so hammered. Barbara bet me $10 that I wouldn't go over to this hot Trainspotting-looking guy and get proof of his age (Gustave thought he was in his thirties, I thought younger). So, emboldened by vodka (the cranberry is fabulous, as is the apple cinnamon. Dill, good, if briny. Horseradish, painful), I went. He was EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD. And WITH HIS ENTIRE FAMILY. So yes, I hit on a hot teenage Russian boy at Russian Samovar, in front of his whole clan. I sent him a shot of coriander vodka afterwards, and his family toasted him. Then I went recently to kill time before Iggy and the Stooges played at Roseland, and the twenty-four-year-old rock and roller I was with called me "hardcore" because I kept ordering carafes. Everyone should go to Russian Samovar. Did I mention that they have live entertainment? There's a pianist, and sometimes a woman who plays guitar and sings, and does traditional Russian dances. She's like the Russian Charo, dripping in Christian Dior jewelry and sky-high blonde hair. She's amazing. Russian Samovar is amazing. Carrie and Misha have a date. The phone rings again, and Carrie answers with a smile. But it's not Misha. It's Harry.
Charlotte miscarried. It happens. And it's got to be the worst feeling in the world. Carrie arrives, and sits to her on the couch. Char, her face shiny and tear-stained, ignores her offer of mint tea and says she can't go to Brady's party. Of course not. Mir will understand.
Mir and Blair cross the rest of their party favors off the birthday to-do list. Check, done! Blair asks about the cake, and then says, "You like chocolate, don't you." Duh, Blair. Everyone say it with me: Sexual chocolate! I knew that you would. Then he drops the cookie bomb. He wants to talk about the cookie. I'm sorry, I don't like sentences that start that way. I like things that end in "cookie," though. Mir says she wants to talk about it if he gives her a minute. He says it was five days ago. She says, "Delicious!" What about what it says? She says, "Sweet! It was so sweet!" They kiss. Then we go into a VO of the fake show Jules and Mimi. They're confessing their love for each other. Mir watches skeptically, and pauses her TiVo to call Carrie. She says she "is so fucked up," because she can't say "I love you." After all, Blair said it (on a cookie) and she couldn't. Mir thinks she's never going to be happy. "Is he the one? I don't know! Because I am so fucked up, and I'm never gonna know!" Carrie tells her to turn off Jules and Mimi and go to bed. Mir says, "You know what used to make me feel better? Cookies." Oh the sweet, delicious, chewy chewy chocolate irony.
Carrie types in her apartment. She starts off talking about Valentine's Day cards, then about how "everyone is waiting for that one thing to make their life complete -- that job, that family...when will waiting for the one be done?" Oh, god. Never? Today? It's true. And now I want to know the answer.
Samantha, wrapped in a towel, blow-dries her hair. Then, for no good reason I can think of, she aims the blow dryer at her crotch. Then she does a double-take. She picks up the tweezers, then gets a better idea.
One box of blonde "Nice-n-Simple" later, she stands in front of the mirror, nude, and screams. Her pussy hair is now Manic Panic orange. Wow, Kim Cattrall looks GREAT naked. And the real nickname for a pubic wig is "merkin."
The orange pubic hair segues into a clown wig: Brady's birthday party. But Mir said there would be no clowns! Jessica, look over there. AT THE CLOWN. Just kidding. Steve's Maaa, god bless Ann Meara, ordered the clown. She tells Steve to tell the clown to open the door, since she paid him. Maaaa cracks open a Budweiser and says she hopes Mir isn't offended that she brought her own beer. Mir is maybe a little bit offended that Debbie and Maaa embrace so warmly, and that Debbie joins Maaa in popping open a can. Harry walks in with a huge gift, sans Charlotte. Char, still feeling the loss of her pregnancy, is sitting and staring at the TV. Mir says, "She'll be okay," and yeah. But you can't make that happen. It needs some time.
On the couch, Char tunes in to an E! True Hollywood Story about Elizabeth Taylor. Aww. I can think of no better medicine that doesn't come in a massive glass vat at Russian Samovar.
Sam drags Carrie into the bathroom to commiserate about her gray pubic hair. Carrie, sitting on the toilet and eating, puts down her plate so she can put her head in her hands and moan, "This is a child's birthday party." Thanks, Carrie. Now I don't have to say it. I mean, shut up and let me do my job. Sam makes the point that while it's okay to wear Chanel reading glasses, "this," a.k.a. her genitalia, is "not supposed to get old. No one wants to fuck Grandma's pussy!" Not even Grandpa? Well, someone's got to fuck Grandma. Carrie stands up and says, "Bye." Then Sam says she dyed her pubic hair. Carrie says she's going to count to ten, and then leave. So, in this, the final episode of Season 6A of Sex & the City, Samantha says she left the dye on too long, and yanks up her skirt and says, "I'm Bozo the Bush!" Carrie gasps and buries her head in her hands, only to come up for air and take another peek at the horrible orange mop. The VO? "Some things are scarier than a clown." Would one of them be a total lack of dignity? Or dyed pubes? I mean, it's just hair, it'll grow back. Shave it again, already.
Char watches the Elizabeth Taylor story, rapt. La Liz says, "Now is the time for guts, and guile." Char resolutely gets off the couch.
Charlotte, in a pink dress and updo that's completely Holly Golightly, steps out of her building, dons sunglasses, and walks down 5th Avenue. Wow, that's a fast recovery. Char has got guts, and guile.
Mir autopilots through her son's first birthday party. Debbie comes up and says everything looks so nice, and isn't it great everything worked out so good? And she really loves Steve, by the way. The words are like a knife in Miranda's heart. Then Blair comes up and says he can't wait to sing to Brady, and hey, where is she going? Is everything all right? Mir nods a tiny bit and runs off to get the cake.
She stares at the cake, which only reads, "Happy Birthday, Brady." Steve walks in, with a candle shaped like a number one. He's all, will you look at that? Mir says, "I love you. I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't have said it! I fucked it up! But I love you!" It's okay. Steve loves her too. "I mean, come on!" They kiss. Magda walks in: "Where is cake!" Miranda shows her the candle. Look at that candle! Magda sees more than a waxy number one, smiles, and closes the door.
It's the birthday song time. Charlotte walks in just in time. Everyone sings, and Miranda blows out the one candle. Harry asks Charlotte if she made a wish. She nods. And Carrie VOs that, three weeks later, Miranda got hers. She and Steve got back together. Aww! And aww, no more Blair's ass. Sigh.
It's late, and Russian Samovar is crowded. Aiieee! The blond with the ponytail and the white blouse is the one that sings and plays guitar! That's her! I've seen her! The manager sends Carrie upstairs, and wow, is it ever beautiful. Misha is there, waiting for her. He informs her that she's late. She says it's early. One in the morning. He seats her at a beautifully set table and serves her some Russian snackies: herring, beet salad, veal in aspic. Carrie doesn't know what aspic is. "What is it, a kind of meat Jell-O?" Carrie? Quit being an idiot. A hot Russian guy is serving you food in a gorgeous room. Enjoy. ["Also, who doesn't know what aspic is? Didn't Carrie have grandparents?" -- Sars] She tries to banter, but he's not on that wavelength. First he teases her about the proper pronunciation of his name ("Coll me Bob"); then she tries to get him to tell her stories about Studio 54, but he only says, "What is there to remember? Martha Graham's face, Andy Warhol's wig. I rarely think about the past. I care about what will happen today, what could happen tomorrow. Yes?" Carrie looks at him and says, "Yes." Oh, yes.
Samantha stands in front of Jerry in what must be a Betsey Johnson kimono (pink, with a leopard collar) and says she has something to show him, and she doesn't want him to freak out. She drops the kimono, and he says, "Whoa. Where'd it all go?" She shaved it off. And...Sam can't say she has gray pubes. "I don't have time for you to be down there, searching for it." I think he bought it.
Carrie sits upstairs at Russian Samovar, listening to Misha talk about how he likes his dark studio, and pain. Carrie says, "You are too Russian. You got a girl out of bed to tell her you like pain? Lighten up, Bob. Don't you know any jokes?" Dessert arrives, and Carrie has some tea sweetened with black cherries at Misha's urging. Then he insists she take a banana and stash it in her purse, for breakfast. As she tries to fit the banana in her clutch, he asks, "Is thot a bonona in your purse, or are you just glod to see me?" She cracks up.
They get to the gallery at 3 AM. The cab zooms off, with Carrie's purse inside. Misha flies into action, leaping and running down the street until he catches up with the cab (!) and gets her purse. He opens it, and holds the banana up in the air triumphantly.
And, at 3 AM, the artist is still there. Carrie looks at her. Misha whispers, "Do you vont to gif her a bonona?" Carrie giggles, then looks at the artist, abashed. The artist cocks an eye at Carrie and almost smiles. Subtle.
Carrie and Misha emerge and grab a cab. Misha talks in Russian to the driver, and he drives off. Carrie is all, what the? Misha says he told the driver to wait so they could have a proper goodnight. Oh. They smile at each other. Their faces are very close together. He says, "You are funny. Light." She smiles. He says, "So. Not tonight, eh?" Carrie shakes her head no. They kiss. She VOs, "And he tasted like black cherries." Sweet.