Nine.

I mean, I could guess what this movie’s about, but I’m going to be honest:

I.

DO.

NOT.

CARE.

It could be about that time your mom bought limes when the baked salmon recipe called for lemons, I’m still going to see it. Opening night. In a fucking ball gown.  Carried into the theatre by four swarthy buff shirtless men wearing bowties. Eating grapes with a gold-plated miniature knife and fork.

I’m going to love this movie even though (because?)  it looks like one looooong dreamy designer image (I’m waiting for Nicole to yell “I’m a dancer… I love to dance!“). I want to live in you, Nine! I’m younger than everyone in that movie and it still makes me yearn for my fabulous metropolitan jet-setting youth. Ah, Paris in the 50s! Was there a better time?!?

Congratulations.

Congratulations, Dutchct.

You’ve done two things with your Eastern Bloc art project: cured me of my fear of huge heads (Jack Johnson, you can come back in the house…) and given me the idea of a lifetime.  I’m going to use this same technique to create huge heads of casual acquaintances and then mount them on my trophy wall.  Granted, it will only be vaguely funny for the first couple of years but when they finally come over it will be high-larious.