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Tuesday, June 03, 2008

Sex and the City

I never understood why either the tv series or the movie of the same name Sex and the City were named that. Shouldn’t it have been Sex in the City since the entire five years of the HBO dramedy revolved around the erotic exploits of its four lead women characters? I’ll confess in the spirit of full disclosure that I was never a fan of the original show. It’s a personal thing. I have always had an aversion to horses. They scare me and I find them overwhelming, so you can see why Sex and the City would turn me off. It’s Sarah Jessica Parker. I’m sorry, Dear Readers, but let’s be blunt. The girl looks like the cartoon character “My Little Pony.” Sarah has been “blessed” with a face straight out of the Kentucky Derby, and every time I look at her I am reminded of my summer at Camp Fond Deldbai Sikpreestz, where I was bucked off my “training” horse, Maredulamerde. I ended up in the biggest pile of equine “endings” I’ve ever seen and I smelled for three days, despite the five showers I took to get rid of the odor. The other girls called me “s----head” and meant it literally. It scarred me for life. Ever since then I’ve avoided everything from merry-go-rounds to My Friend Flicka. And one of the worst of the worst things to gaze upon has always been My Little Pony Parker.

So I hope you can appreciate that it took a lot of medication and dedication to you, Dear Readers, to get me to “climb back up” on the proverbial horse and check out Sex and the City just for you. For real fans of the television series, this Sex and the City is a perfect remedy for the years of deprivation since the show ended. For everybody else, it will no doubt be as interesting as a Hormone Replacement Therapy commercial, something I am sure the majority of the audience present the day I attended was already very familiar with in a most personal way.

I know for a fact that the fans were satisfied. The movie, which for a non-fan is as never-ending as the Bush Administration, is nearly two-and-a-half hours long. When you figure in a theater full of gi-normous Diet Cokes you can appreciate the stampede of The Menopausal towards the Ladies Room which came as the credit rolled. Fortunately, I was a sprinter at one time and managed to get to a stall before the line queued up and so I was able to overhear the comments of those in line as the voices outside my stall fawned on and on about the movie. I thought perhaps I should hang up my va-ja-jay and see a doctor about getting a sex change. Obviously, I was a traitor to my gender. I was not feeling the love for Carrie (My Little Pony Parker; Smart People), Miranda (Cynthia Nixon; The Babysitters), Charlotte (Kristen Davis; Deck the Halls) and Samantha (Kim Cattrall; The Tiger’s Tail), but the faithful were satiated and gleefully happy with the results.

As for the film itself, it is difficult to describe without spoiling what few (surprise?) plot advances happen in the course of the story. The plot doesn’t really seem to go anywhere except in a circle as the women split up into their own individual stories and then cross paths every ten or fifteen minutes to reiterate everything that just happened so the other three can squeal or comment on whatever the others have done. The MAJOR event, of course, and the one that drives the whole movie is the culmination of the ten-year long relationship between Carrie and Mr. Big (Chris Noth; tv’s "Law & Order: Criminal Intent"). Will they finally get married? Does it matter? At least My Little Pony Parker gets to s-l-o-w the action to a crawl as she models half-dozen designer wedding gowns for a Vogue spread, as if Vogue had suddenly been turned into Horse & Rider magazine.

There’s also a non-plot for perfect housefrau Charlotte about having a baby, which seems to be just an excuse to give poor Kristin Davis a few scenes with her tv hubby Evan Handler (now of tv’s “Californication”). She is so unassuming next to the other three hams mugging at the cameras that she is barely noticeable, especially with Nixon’s Miranda gnashing her ugly brown teeth and scaring what few men were in the audience and Cattrall as super-cougar Samantha, practically checking birth certificates of every high school age boy she meets just to make sure they are legal. It also seems from this film that once they reach 25 or so they have an expiration date as well, but you’ll have to see that for yourself.

You can definitely tell this is a work of fantasy. Not only do these women seem to have a never-ending supply of ready cash, patient men, and trendy designer clothes, they also are decent enough to never look aghast at one another and tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. No matter how completely idiotic Carrie may look with a feather bird in her would-be wedding veil, none of the others say a word. The fact that Samantha can’t sit down without her mouth popping open because she’s had her face pulled so tight her original cheeks are now …well, now they are her other cheeks, yet her friends say nothing. Miranda, with a hair-don’t and what seems like a permanent expression that resembles a cat’s ass would be a natural target of criticism, but not to these gals. The closest they’ll come to her face is to point out her need to wax that bird’s nest residing in her bikini. And Charlotte? How can anyone say anything bad about the invisible woman? She dresses like the school marm from “The Little House on the Prairie” and agrees with everybody about everything. In other words, these women love, love, love one another and support one another unconditionally.

Actually, now that I’ve written that, it doesn’t sound like such a bad thing, does it? Perhaps I’ve been too hard on these gals. I can’t stand their materialistic obsession with Vera Wang and Vivienne Westwood and Manolo Blahniks and Jimmy Choos, but it sure would be nice to have four friends you could call at any time of the day or night and actually expect them to show up with a shoulder to cry on. I just don’t want to have to keep a bale of hay in my foyer for one of them.

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