“her” or a Hipster Love Story without Scarlett Johansson’s English Muffins

Okay my dear darlings, Plastikoff is in a rear mood today, thaz right he is rearing his rear into direction which, maybe, is rather to avoid, but… he wouldn’t be Russian if he would avoid naming things the way they really are. Yes, thaz right, Plastikof is going to give you a piece of his mind or, should I say, a piece of his ass (smiley face).

As always as it happens, the best thoughts come to me when I least expect them, so, I was having sex last night in the City and caught myself thinking about “her.” Yeah, I know it’s a little confusing: sex, “her.” Was there somebody else I was envisioning while deep breathing with the person I was with?

I know, I know, you still don’t know a lot about Plastikoff but bear with him, it is going to get more confusing hence of his drinking, but, if not of that drinking, he would not be able to say things he wants to say to you. (Somehow it is so freeing to speak about myself in third person. You should try that too.)

So, alright, I was watching this film by Spike Jonze the other night in a movie theater on 14th street in Manhattan and got completely freaked out, like “The Blair Which Project” freaked out and, if you know me, you know that I don’t freak out easily. This film made me feel like I wanted to crawl under my seat, hug my Teddy bear and call for my daddy while sucking somebody’s toe. Yeah, a big hairy daddy with big toes would have been perfect, but hence I was surrounded by hipsters in love or at least that’s what they made me to believe, I felt like my life was going to end there and then. Brrrrr… That was not a happy thought, my darlings, not a happy thought.

Apparently, while contemplating about my big daddy’s toe, I have hit somebody’s chair, by accident, mind you, a couple of times. Well, I was putting my coat on the floor for my future fetal position, just in case I felt like it’s time for me to crawl and emergency hide under it. What came at me next was a true nightmare. I was “nicely” asked to cut it of, because…

Oh whatever, this self absorbed bitch, yes, thaz right, I said it, “a-self-absorbed-bitch-who-believed-that-with-her-ticked-she-bought-the-whole-freaking-theater” let me know that she doesn’t appreciate my being behind her and since I, by accident, mind you again, hit her chair a few times, she threw at me this “die-right-now-you-who-is-not-from-Williamsburg” look and went back to her “casual” talk with her friend via texting on her phone.

Suddenly I, ze Plastikoff himself, realized that this bitch was pretending to like this film about people falling in love with computers. How can it possibly be that this freshly-backed-in-the-nuclear-waste-of-Williamsburg, a transplant from some land of ze US I don’t know about was not paying attention to the love story of a man with a high waist crotch, how?

Thankfully I was hearing that raspy Scarlett Johansson’s voice which made me loose my gay cool and scream at the screen like some kind of drunken affectionado who just finished counting his “organic” chicken on a rooftop somewhere in Rooklyn. (I think I was going for something in Spanish there, but what came out of me was a mix of undefined street slang that is only known to me: “oh betch, you better work that script, nominated for an Ascar. Ah-hummm thaz right, we know iz you, you sexy beast. Show us your titties. Talk to me as if your humangas want to have that sweet love of mine.” (I have no idea where that came from and why I decided to keep this wordy diarrhea here.) I was not sure if I was surrounded by the right crowd for this type of appreciation of actress’s work, so I screamed inside of me, mind you. I felt that the bitch in front of me was watching every move of mine. I was ready to get to my fetal position under my coat on the floor anytime now.

Because of this pressure from the one in front of me I started looking for a reason, any reason for that mater, why I was there and what the duck was going on on the screen. Not finding any answer to my why the theater was full of hipsters and why there were no Scarlett boobs (pun intended) shown on the screen I realized that it must be raining in Alaska. I had to put myself together and give all my concentration to the film.

What was the point behind all those long talky-shmalky scenes without Scarlett’s boobs, I asked myself? I lost my gay-three-snaps-and-a-twirl, let me tell ya. There wasn’t even a little glimpse of any boob in the film, for that matter, as I remember, or was there? I guess I was too involved with thinking about that daddy’s toe which would have saved me from the movie theater full of hipster love. Oh God, I am getting tense only by thinking about the situation I was in. Let me have a sip of whatever is next to me in my glass right now. I think I got carried away a little with all that talk about boobs.

So, as you see, I was having a “fantastic hipster” time until… No, no, I am not kidding, I did “try” to have a great time, but for some reason my version of a great time had that spill-of-my-drink-on-that-bitch’s-head the whole freaking time I was listening to Johansson’s voice. This is what “romantic” comedies do to me. I want to (said in a soft voice) hurt people. They are just oh too happy and… bam, bam, bam… sorry, I got myself carried away by those “happy” thoughts of… well okay, we are here not to discuss what makes me happy, I am Russian, for God’s sake, tragedy is my comedy and horror is my life.

So alright, the film made me realize that I have become that mushy bearded hipster watching films about people doing nothing but playing computer games. Oh what a lovely notion to think that there is nothing more important than to talk to your computer and wear those pastel colors indicating that the people in the future are definitely not wearing make-up, because that would clash with those hipster Instagram filters used on the film itself.

I got hungry, let me tell ya. I thought about food while watching those oh so pale actors on the screen. Because of this pale sickness coming from the screen I realized that there are no dark skinned people in the future. Was there something in the food that made everyone so pale? Wait, and what exactly were they eating there? Well, I guess they were just popping those happy pills that make them full of… God, I needed a drink, but I had left my water bottle with two weeks long residue of alcohol at home thinking that… apparently I was not thinking, otherwise that bottle would have been with me the whole freaking time. Damn you overpriced movie theaters with soft drinks only! Even the effing drinks are soft there. Ugh!

So, alright, what is the point of this entry, you ask me? I used one thousand two hundred and sixty nine words here… Oh ef it, there is no point in it. “her” is a scary film about bullshit people who talk with computers instead of each other and … it has no boobs!

Unusual Books for the Nooks (And Crannies in Your Life)

Now this is a list of books I want to read!
Take it away Little Miss Menopause!

P.S. Don’t forget to read her “Who’s Writing This Quirkiness?” page. You will thank me later ;)!

Once Upon Your Prime

Disclaimer: This topic has no author turning over in his grave. It’s all in fun.

Let’s turn “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie” into “If You Give Your Spouse Some Nookie.” I think books should grow with us as we age. I don’t want to keep packing up my beloved classic children’s literature into cardboard boxes to be rummaged through by sticky hands at garage sales for a quarter. Any writer expecting to have their children’s book become a Classic AND sustain a permanent place on our bookshelves needs to offer an intriguing 2nd Half-Of-Life version. We are no longer wearing footie pajamas and reading in our bean-bag chairs. Now we’re donning housecoats (what IS that type of apparel for, anyhow?) and reclining in our Barcalounger chairs.

In that spirit, here are some new “Grown-Up” Title modifications and a few of my recommendation notes to the Author.

SELF-HELP SECTION

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Did I just Eat a Murakami Cat?

Inspired by Haruki Murakami, his cats and maybe my roommate has something to do with all of this.

Well my dear darlings, I don’t know what happened here and why you were not reading my wonderful passage I wrote about E. Nokrošius just a few days ago, I just don’t know and, I guess, I will never know. Even thought I might pretend that I don’t care about things of that nature, but I do care and it hurts me so much that I want to grab another gallon of my favorite Port (of course it has to be my favorite Port, what else?) and have it down to the very last drop right at this moment. Drown that sadness Mr. Plastikoff, drown it!

That’s right, I am definitely going to do that… as soon as I have these seventeen dollars and forty cents to spare, of course, but for now, I guess, I will just have to write something about cats and be sad.

You are probably surprised (or at least I want to think that you are) and are asking yourself, why cats? Well, my darlings, there are a lot of people who love cats, so since they do love them, I have to write about them, right? Oh bullocks, I am just a little too emotional right now and there is a reason why (no, I am not allergic to cats, no, just probably a little verklempt (you really need to read this drunk, it’s more enjoyable this way. There is a reason why I am releasing all this gas on a Friday afternoon) (smiley face)).

It might be that I have inhaled way too much of that smoke which came out from that tea pot my roommate left unattended for a few hours on the stove and almost burned this whole damn house down. Could it be that? Yes, it could be.

The smell of burned hair is still lingering around me like some kind of esoteric mist that you spray around to make all these daemons disappear.

I have a suspicion though that it could be that my roommate might have cooked that poor cat which was looking through our kitchen window the other day, sitting peacefully on the fire escape. It could be that, yes, it could be. This definitely would explain that burned hair smell around the apartment. I hope that this is not the case, because otherwise how am I going to write about the cat today when I have no immediate inspiration looking at me as if I am some kind of head of a smoked fish I ate a week before on Brighton Beach. Could it be that? Yes, it could be.

Now why the duck a cat I want to write to you about today, why? Well, my dear darlings, I do not know. What I do know though is that somehow I need to get your attention, because, you know, I am an attention whore, why would I work in theater otherwise for, a cute smiley face? I don’ think so.

If you would have read my previous entry, you would already know how I feel about this Lithuanian cat Nekrošius, who is more of a tiger, if you ask me. I am still afraid to meet him though. I am scared that he might bite me (pun intended) and I might lose all the motion in my, let’s say, left hand. Brrrr…

This is quite, what’s the word for it, horrific? No, that is not the word I want to use here, but whatever. Nobody wants to lose their left hand to anybody unless… hmmm, the cat is definitely not around anymore. That is a little too suspicious…

So, alright, cats, cats, cats and the theater. What kind of connection do they have? Oh God, I am going to have a really hard time naming this entry. Good luck with not sounding like some crazy Russian who just ate a cat and have forgotten about it the minute he did it.

Yes, I am crazy and who wouldn’t be considering that I have chosen theater as my carrier. Darlings, I get it, working in theater is equals being homeless, yes, I get it, but I am not that crazy yet that I would forget about the cat I just ate. Too many “that’s” on this page, if you ask me. Hmmm, I have a weird feeling in my stomach all of a sudden.

Well alright, I guess I will need to ask my roommate about that last meal he invited me to taste just before that fire broke down. I sense a Shakespearean plot brewing, but moving on…

As with all of my genius entries which have no particular place or need to be on the almighty Internet it happens so that I give you some valid information at the end of my jumbo-mumbo every time I talk. You might not realize that, but I do.

You, most likely, will never need to use that “valid information,” because, you know, even though I like sharing, I share only things that are more convenient to me. Would I be sharing information about how to get rich? I don’t think so. It’s all a secret, even to me, so ride the subways as I do, when, of course, I have those two dallas and fity cents fo a ride. God gracious, that’s almost the prize of two bagels and a coffee…

Sharing is carrying, you must understand that, unless you are a cat, of course, then a smoked fish head sounds more appealing to you than some guys ranting about things that matter only when you are alone, surrounded by the smoke and think that your roommate wants to smoke you alive because you dropped a few water drops on the kitchen counter (true story)… oh wait, no wonder I feel like eating myself. I smell like that smoked fish. Let’s just hope those cats can’t… oh damn you Murakami.

But anyway, what is that “valid information” I want to share with you, my dears? Oh that’s right, books that you should read before you are smoked out from your apartments by your roommates. These books below all have talking cats and are just… well read it and let’s talk about them.

So here they are:

Mikhail Bulgakov’s “Master and Margarita”

Haruki Murakami’s “Kafka on the Shore” and

Definitely something by Edward Gorey

Here is a little clip to spice things up. We all know how we like some youbty clips do go with those words. I present you Gorey and, of course, his cat:

Oh and to those theater fans, Grotowski used cats as examples for actors to watch, but about it at another time. I need to make sure my neighbor’s cat is still alive.

Have a pussy day, or should I say a weekend, my darlings. And what is this here on my plate? An eyeball? Should I faint for a dramatic effect now or should I leave it for tomorrow? Oh whatever (faints)!

Running after Nekrošius’s Nose

Okay my dear darlings, I finally got home from my night of smoked fishing on Brighton Beach. Let me tell ya, those stray cats were ready to eat me alive there. I never knew that there were so many of them running around. I guess neighborhood restaurants are doing great in these times of hunger, since there is no need for that specific cat meet on the market.

But let me leave the cat meat for another entry. Maybe it will be more appropriate to talk about its tenderness while discussing the differences between Bulgakov’s cat Begemot in his “Master and Margarita” and Sharik of his “Dog’s Heart,” who knows? This could be quite an interesting subject to discuss considering that people love cats and dogs. And shhhhh… (whispers) sometimes they eat them without knowing that they are actually doing it.

But these are not the things I want to talk with you about on this pre-winter-vertex night of cozy dreams, no. Suddenly (well not so suddenly, but okay, I’ll leave it here for the suspense’s purpose) I got this need to tell you about my biggest influences of my life.

There are a few directors in Lithuania who made this country boy fall in love with all things theater. These directors not only changed how I see theater now but also they were able to influence the future theater audiences and audiences alike.

Going to theater in Soviet countries at that time when I was growing up was equals to being educated and intelligent. If you haven’t seen one or another production everybody was talking about, you were not interesting enough to be invited to parties. So, yeah, people saw a lot of theater in these times of red and sickle and yes, most of it was really good.

Okay, so there is this Lithuanian theater director Eimuntas Nekrošius who changed a lot about Lithuanian theater, right. There are books written about him. Funny, but he is probably more popular in Italy than in Lithuania though. Why is it so, don’t ask me that, because the point is not about being popular. The point is that he was one of those directors who revolutionized theater arts.

The breaking point in Nekrošius carrier happened when he put a production of “Uncle Vanya” in 1986 on one of Lithuanian’s most famous stages. With this production he completely changed how classics were put on the stage.

Well, of course, when I say to you things like that out of the blue they mean nothing to you. You say, who cares about some theater in some Eastern European country nobody knows about, and why suddenly we should care about it?

…and you are right. There is nothing for you to care about, because firstly there is almost no way to see that production today and secondly, why should I care about you carrying? The change is understood only when it is physically lived and emotionally experienced live.

Well, my dear darlings, Nekrošius introduced to the audiences another way of “reading” classics. Classic plays became relevant again. Nekrošius got rid of heaviness of Naturalistic Theater by having the form speak the text. Naturalistic Theater became very boring. Director’s Theater started growing in popularity.

Of course saying that Nekrošius invented another type of theater is the same as saying that Madonna invented Vogueing. The change in theater was happening way before Nekrošius put that famous “Uncle Vanya” on the stage.

My theater revolution happened when I saw Nekrošius’s Nose. Well, it was something else I saw on the stage, not the actual nose of Nekrošius, you understand that, of course? Nekrošius adapted Gogol’s “The Nose” making the nose a character which represented another organ on a male body which is to this day dangling in between legs if not supervised.

It was a show about an organ men keep in their pants most of the time. In Nekrošius’s case it was out and about in the open revealing some facts about the Soviet culture. With this production it was obvious that Nekrošius was exposing way more than the organ itself.

The Nose became that simpleton intelligentsia was embarrassed to talk about. I still remember that famous scene where the character of Nose and Major Kovalyov, the character whose “nose” was cut off, went to the theater. The simpleton Nose watched a performance and absorbed it through his simpleton’s brains. He was reacting through his baser instincts watching ballerinas perform a classical dance. Ballerinas by the end of their performance were wearing heavy soldier boots instead of pointe shoes and dancing Can-Can to Nose’s entertainment. They were being groped by whom else but Nose himself after he got bored sitting in one place. Fun times, I say!

This production of “The Nose” was an absolute genius. No wonder that after it Nekrošius kind of disappeared from theater. Was he afraid that he would not be able to top his nose (pun intended) with anything else? We will, most likely, never know.

The audiences were waiting for Nekrošius’s next production as thirsty cats for that milk. Nekrošius released Pushkin’s “Little Tragedies” after “The Nose”…

…there is still that one production nobody will ever see, because it never reached audiences. It only stayed in rehearsals.

Nekrošius was rehearsing “Carmen” after releasing his “Little Tragedies” which won him a National Prize as the Best Director of the Year. Something happened with him during that period. He was not able to finish “Carmen” even though everyone was constantly talking about it.

Later we learned that Nekrošius went to rest his genius in a house nobody is proud to talk about in Lithuania. I don’t think anybody knew if Nekrošius really went to a crazy house or not, but those were the details that made my mind spin. Who doesn’t want to hear stories like that? These stories about genius artists need to be overly dramatic. We are talking theater here, so of course normal equals boring.

What came out of him after his “retreat” was absolutely mesmerizing and breathtaking. His “Hamlet” and “Three Sisters” completely shut the doors to the old ways of reading and performing any play in Lithuania’s theaters. I believe that there was no actor who didn’t want to work with Nekrošius at that time. Yes, I was one of those actors too, but don’t mention that to Nekrošius. I am still planning on playing that soldier in that play by that author (smiley face).

More importantly there were stories going around about how Nekrošius worked with his actors. We saw with our own eyes how actors spent their most famous scenes under dripping ice cube chandeliers, or under coffins, hanged above their heads, full of heavy stones dropping to the ground, or trapped inside of huge rugs from which was no way to escape. These stories were as entertaining as productions itself. They were very physical and oh so good.

This is an image from “Macbeth” where boulders were falling down while Kostas Smoriginas as Macbeth was acting on the stage:

Nekrošius’s Hamlet played by Andrius Mamontovas had to get his dagger from a huge frozen ice cube:

He had to stand with a shirt made out of paper under a dripping chandelier made from actual steal saws and ice cubes in his “to be or not to be” scene. Here are some excerpts from “Hamlet” with Mamontovas:

It was magic. No, Nekrošius was not using some tricks or gimmicks to make audiences gasp, no. Nekrošius was removing Shakespearean text and making it speak through the actions of actors and visuals, so you “heard” the text while listening to those drops dripping on Hamlet’s back revealing his “naked” soul.

Of course there were many audience members who couldn’t understand what was going on in front of their eyes. Many of them complained that Nekrošius was way too symbolic and “too cold” because of that symbolism.

The thing is that you really needed to know those plays before going to see his productions. That’s why it became a must to read those classics before going to see how those classics Nekrošius interpreted.

Thankfully, because of the almighty Internet, you all can see a few clips from his productions. There are a few of my all time favorites there. Get familiar with them and I promise you, you will never read another Shakespearean play the way you used to.

Nekrošius is a director of form. He directs a human body on the stage in such a way that the body becomes that medium between the text and the audience. The form and what an actor does is more important for Nekrošius than what an actor says with the text. Nekrošius is very specific about what and how props and sets work in conjunction with a human body. He is very good at finding where to place objects on the stage and finding that certain movement for actors to express the text to the fullest. He marries the form with the text and an actor is that connection.

Nekrošius uses familiar objects to create new meanings for them. He selects what needs to be used with uncanny precision.

Othello used houseplants and pots to create a grave for Desdemona after killing her. Here is that scene:

But my favorite from his “Othello” is a scene where Desdemona is saying goodbye to Othello. Nekrošius chose a prima ballerina, Eglė Špokaitė, to play Desdemona confirming to me that he chooses movement and form over acting and text. Here is that clip which still gives me shivers and goosebumps:

You can catch Nekrošius’s productions around Europe for sure. Here is a link to his theater’s website:

“Meno Fortas“

If Nekrošius comes to your town, do yourself a favor, go and see his work, but, of course, read those plays beforehand.

Yes, you might find yourself completely lost during his productions, but believe me, those productions will stick with you for a long time. You might figure them out much later than you thought you would. Be prepared to sit in a chair for three or four hours. It might be long but it will be worth it! Have a drink before hand and you should be fine dissecting all this beauty on the stage.

To say that Nekrošius hasn’t influenced me is the same as saying that I’ve never sang in the shower. Do I sing in the shower? I guess you will never know, unless I get a glass of Port and reveal it to you with gross details sometime later. I am going to leave you with that open, never ending nose. Take your time catching it, but catch it while it is still around!

Gone Fishing or Something about Stalin

Well okay my dear darlings, I have to write this entry in a subway car as some kind of alternative-ass-writing artist. It’s late, alright, and I got drunk in the city, so sue me. I haven’t had my Port for quite some time now, so whatever you say, I do not care. I just got abused by a drag queen, kissed by somebody I was and I think still am attracted to, so, of course, I am drunk, what do you expect me to be after spending the night surrounded by all these high heels on the rocks, I mean… oh never mind… This should be a perfect time for me to write all those five reasons why you should wear heels at least once in your lifetime, but I won’t be doing that, because, my dears, I just got some Mexican musicians entertain my loneliness in this subway car, and… And what the heck are they doing here, at this hour, singing in a subway? Oh wait, it’s already New Year and I believe it’s bright outside. So, of course, it must be another day. So my dears, I will just get another sip from my strategically covered water bottle which holds a residue of some kind of alcohol, but I digress saying that. And I digress not because I am drunk at 9AM on a Monday morning, no. I digress because the alcohol I am drinking right now is not alcohol anymore; I am pretty sure about that. It tastes as some kind of weirdly flavored liquid that came out from those ice cubes I got into my drink just before I left that place I had to leave many hours before I got myself this unbelievably drunk. Wait, what is that? A finger nail? Oh whatever, I will just pretend that it’s a cherry in my drink, but enough about it. There are many more important things to discuss here, like, for example, world hunger or what dress one or another celebrity wore at one or another Globe or whatever they’re called now.

Alright, Plastikoff decided to ride this train to the very end, just because he suddenly realized that he needs some smoked fish that goes perfectly well with all this drunken debauchery. And you can get that particular smoked fish on Coney Island only. Why only there? I do not know. Maybe because the ocean is right there if suddenly you feel very adventurous after eating that fish.

Okay, I got the fish and I poured another glass of Port into my water bottle just because I can. Mondays are dark in theaters, so I don’t feel guilty drinking at this hour. Got it? Good.

The alcohol level in my system is high enough to be able to speak about serious art and when I say that, I really mean it. To understand the Russian soul you really need to get drunk to the point that you don’t remember yourself. And when you don’t remember yourself, you remember things that matter the most. There was a reason why Stalin made all of his ministers drunk at his parties. He would listen to them. Some of them, of course, would not show up at the next party or anywhere else for that matter, because, my dears, Stalin would make them disappear as that smoke on an early morning blown by the wind and I am not talking about that kind of smoke you smoke your fish in. In Vino Veritas, that’s right, and for most of them that “veritas” ended up in Siberia. And why the heck I am speaking about Siberia all of a sudden? Is this because its winter and I feel quite cold sitting here all by myself on Brighton Beach? Or is it that there is something else I want to tell you about the Russian soul?

Now why my dear darlings am I bubbling so much about drinking, Stalin and Siberia you’d ask? Well because that was the time when theater in Soviet countries was booming. This was the time when the greatest theater traditions were born.

Since everything was censored greatly and there was literally no book in press that would not use a quote from Marx or Engels, yes, that’s true, a quote had to be included somewhere in the beginning of any book going to press otherwise it would be not released, artists were becoming very creative about how and what they wanted to say to their audiences. People started looking for alternative ways of getting information they were missing because of the censorship. Artists during that time began learning how to speak and create “in codes.” Nothing would get passed through Soviet censorship, you know that already. It’s almost like in today’s United Sates where every camera on your computers is regulated by that invisible man who oh so wants to get into your naked business. Why else would you use your camera for? (Smiley face?)

But returning to the Soviet times, there were, of course, certain authors that would not pass the censorship even with those quotes, but this entry is not about them. We are talking about theater now. There were theater directors who put a classic play (let’s say something Shakespearean) with some hidden messages in it critiquing the Soviet regime. This is where a tradition of a theater-director-who-was-able-to-tell-something-else-“in code”-while-putting-up-a-much-known-play-at-the-time was born. People flocked to theaters to watch those shows and “read” those hidden messages inside performances. People literally had to wait in line over night in freezing cold to get those tickets to see one or another play. Tickets were sold out the very first day of the month when theaters would release those seats for sell. If you missed that first day, you had to wait for another month to see one or another production. If you were lucky, you were able to snatch a ticket for a show which would happen sometime at the end of the month. Those tickets, most likely, were for standing-in-the-isle “seats” only. This was the time when Director’s Theater was born. A director was the story teller, the stage was his/her canvas/book and audiences came to see what a director wanted to say to them about the situation they were living in.

What happened next with theater in Soviet countries and why you most likely will hear a director’s name attached to a production there first, I am going to discuss in my later entries when I am less drunk and not as cold as I am right now. For some reason I am still entertaining an idea of a winter swim in the ocean, but let me get that fish eaten first before my neighborhood cats realize what’s happening here.

The fish is done but for some reason I still feel like I need to add something before I get completely surrounded by those cats. I will just say blatantly, today is a perfect time for the United States to catch up on all that lost time when Director’s Theater was cultivated in those Soviet countries “everybody” here still calls Russia. I am going to elaborate about it a little bit more in other entries but for now I am leaving you with this fishy smell. Tah-dah

Should I still go for a swim?