The Cold War

Carrie VOs that when it's cold outside, New Yorkers head inside and look for ways to keep warm. Her scenario includes a corner table at a bistro, a tray of raw oysters, and Aleksandr's hand down her top. He's totally trying to cop a feel, right there at the table! Carrie, in her typical modest fashion, squirms a bit and whispers, "People are loooooo-king!" People are also gagging, rolling their eyes, and recommending that a room be taken out in either of Carrie's or Alek's names. Even a fake name would do. They just need to be sure to procure a room with enough room for the tree the two of them are sitting in. Alek keeps fishing around for some boob and says that no one is looking. Then, two men and a woman stroll up and boom, "Petrovsky!" Alek leaves his hand on Carrie's clavicle for another long moment as he greets his people, and then invites them to sit down. The woman say something about there being many restaurants in New York, but "everyone's at Pastis." I hate how some people brag and kvetch at the same time. I try to stick to one or the other. But then again, I don't live in Manhattan. Maybe it's a thing we in the provinces just wouldn't understand. Like a black thing. Alek introduces his homies -- a painter; Alek's youngish assistant; and the woman is the editor of Art Life magazine. The (sixtysomething) painter and the (fiftysomething) editor instantly begin congratulating Alek on his upcoming show at a gallery in Paris, his first show in six years. Alek is modest. Carrie, clueless. She is clearly hearing this news for the first time. The painter says of Alek's poker-faced modesty, "You are so full of shit." Alek says, "I never said I wasn't." The editor says, "Well, the world is waiting with breath that is bated." No pressure. And way to make Alek's show about people's expectations and not his actual work. I guess when you're that advanced in your career, it becomes that way; people expect your body of work to become more evolved and impressive and meaningful. So, no pressure, Alek! Just sparkle, Alek, spaaarkle!

Editor calls for menus and a wine list, and asks Carrie, "So, how are they?" Carrie scrambles to hand over a menu and says the oysters are just fine. No, Editor meant Alek's new pieces. Carrie falters, and says she hasn't seen them. What about that lightbulb thing that looked like a set remnant from the "Rock Your Body" video? It was very 1970s beauty parlor. Editor, in a vaguely superior tone, asks Carrie what she does. Is she an artist? No, a writer, Carrie says. Novels? No. And here's where Carrie gets very upward-inflected-tone and forehead-creasey and insecure. She writes a column? For a newspaper? The Times, asks Editor. No -- the New York Star? Wow, I know the art world is insular, but when an editor of a magazine doesn't know Carrie's fun, fluffy column, I have to question her judgment. People in journalism are the only ones who regularly read bylines, and to claim ignorance of a peer's work is a little rude. But then again, Carrie isn't a critic per se; she's a features kind of girl. I can see why Editor is ghettoizing her, but it isn't cool. Alek comes to Carrie's rescue and says her column is about men, women, and sex, and that it's very smart and funny. Aw! Sweet. Editor says she's sure it is. Alek says, "You aren't sure, you are snide." Editor opens her mouth, but doesn't protest. Because her number is 666 and we all have it. Alek leans over and grabs a leftover copy of the New York Star from a nearby booth and begins reading from it. Carrie protests and ducks her head and looks baleful and aghast and everything, but Alek still gets out a sentence about how no one has enjoyed the sixty-nine position since 1969. Assistant laughs and says it was funny. Carrie says that wasn't one of her "smartest." I'd call it a witty truism. Snaps up to Carrie. Oh my god, what am I saying? I'm identifying and appreciating Carrie? Wuh? Snuh? Who am I? Who's talking?

Charlotte, Anthony, and Miss Pretty Pretty Puppy Dog Elizabeth Taylor stroll the streets. A woman stops dead in her tracks and ejaculates the fact that Miss ET is the prettiest puppy in the whole wide world. Charlotte is loving it. Anthony, not so much: "That dog is getting cruised more than me, and we're on the corner of Gay and Gay!" Unlike the corner of Gay and Straight, as on QEFTSG, or the corner of Talentless and Lame, as on American Idol. Char says that maybe ET misses the show ring, since she's feeding so much off the love energy of all the people in the street. Anthony gripes, "She's a freaking attention whore." Then a hot guy says, "Cute dog," and Anthony screams, "Thank you!" Char wants to re-enter ET into competition; with Charlotte's love and guidance, ET will be a winner. Anthony is all, "What the hell, go for it. Nobody puts Baby in the corner." Char looks at him dubiously, and he yells, "Dirty Dancing! Hello!" Seriously! Stay gold, Anthony.

Miranda enters her new home in B------n, and it isn't with a look of joy on her face. The place is messy, under construction -- clearly a work in progress. So is Mir's attitude. She had to walk all the way from the subway in her shoes. Steve asks why she doesn't carry them and wear sneakers for that leg of the journey. He does not add, "Like everyone else in the world who has any sense." Miranda pulls a Call Her Miss Ross diva fit and says that Steve can take her out of Manhattan, but he can't try to take her out of her shoes. Um, Miranda? Back in Season 1 you wore skinny, almost New Wave ties and massive shoulder pads. You've come a long way, fashion-wise. It's okay to don cute sneakers when schlepping to and from work. May I suggest Pumas, or my favorites, Adidas with the fat laces? ["Maybe even a smart sneaker-styled mule or slip-on?" -- Wing Chun] Steve says that if Miranda refuses to sneak, she should stop complaining. Word, Steve. A thousand times, word. Miranda asks after her DSL line, adding that Steve knows she can't live without high-speed internet access. Steve says he was putting up sheet rock in Brady's room, and asks if she wanted their baby to "live without walls." Maybe just without borders. Steve does have good news: the mail arrived. Including Miranda's copy of Tattle Tale. She gasps hugely and runs to the couch, practically spooning the sleazy tabloid. Steve says he can't believe she reads that trash, and she's all, "It's my thing. Let it go." Then he starts, "Oh! Madga and Brady are...." Miranda cuts him off: "I'm reading this. You no longer exist." So that's how married couples make time to read. They turn their mates invisible! I have to remember to try that. "Love you, honey! Now you don't exist."

Stanford (eee!) and Marcus struggle to find a table at a busy restaurant (Pastis, maybe?), until Stanny sees Smith, having a drink with a woman with long black hair. Marcus says how hot Smith is in that Gus Van Sant movie. Oh yeah, that hot performance in that fictional movie. Stanny says that Smith may be a hot actor, "but can he pull off a fuschia Oswald Botang shirt?" I'd venture a guess and say yes, he can. Smith is doing everything right this season; why shouldn't he score perfectly clothes-wise, too? Stanny excuses himself and says he's a friend of Samantha's. The woman with the long black hair turns around and says, "I hear she's a wonderful woman." The two boyfriends "Ohmygod!" and kvell over Sam's new look. Marcus says, "It's very Jefferson Starship." No, that was more of a perm. I think Sam's hair is more Jefferson Airplane. With a touch of Star Trek thrown in. She's turning "a little hair loss into a lot of hair gain." Stanny says, "You're getting wiggy with it." Oy. I guess that means we can look forward to a wig parade. I had hoped Sam would be getting some more serious plot lines coming up, but no. Not yet, anyway. Oh well. Stanford and Marcus join them at their table. Some doofy-but-hot fanboy rushes up and gushes that his girlfriend is so hot for Smith. Can he have a picture? Only if he gets Smith's friends in the shot. Marcus lays his head on Smith's shoulder and grins hugely. It's a cute photo, but nothing to make a girlfriend kvell over.