Re-Views

“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!

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

    • hahahahaha I ate the English Muffins, Little Miss Menopause. I was hungry after all this talk about boobs. Can you forgive me? (and now I need to figure out how to link to things on this blog. That will be interesting considering that it’s almost five o’colck (I am leaving this misspell here :)!) in the morning and I just finished my third (or maybe the fifth, who counts, glass of my favorite Port :)!

  1. Pingback: How “A Streetcar Named Desire” Took “Blue Jasmine” to the Oscars | Slog About All Things Mushy

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