Weighing in on Sex

What have I been doing more important than updating this blog? I've been going to Boot Camp, a hellish hour and a half of sprints and push ups and every other demonic physical exercise I verily hate hate hate. For the next eight weeks. Pray for me, friends. I've gone to the SIFF Film Festival (where I saw Cecil B. Demented and the almost unbearably funny John Waters), I've been exploring my new Target (which seems to be modeled on selling clothes in the Moscow train station), I've been eating sushi from the International District to Ballard. I've been volunteering for Seattle Works Day - which netted me a t-shirt and an afternoon of clearing blackberry bushes from Judkins Park. Blackberry bushes do not enjoy being cleared. Trust me on this.

Also, like all the other people with ovaries - I went to see Sex and the City this week. Unsurprisingly, the theater was jam-packed with females. The one guy who walked in looked as guilty and out of place as a lone man at a matinee of the Care Bears movie. My friend A and I were wearing well, jeans and not Manolos. I would guess that A. does not own Manolos. (It should not surprise you, Dear Readers, that I do own Manolos - compliments of my fashionista sister.) A few of the women around us were dressed in their Carrie digs, as if this was an estrogen-driven form of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. This proved a particularly bad choice I fear, as the day's sole spot of sunshine had given way into damp cold by the time the movie was over and the over-dressed observers wandered forth in their T-bags summer minis. But I digress.

I had to go see SATC - it's like the siren call that diverted Odysseus. I just couldn't help it, although I knew perfectly well I was going to hate it. And I kind of did. In all honesty, the show has always sort of depressed me. Now certainly I watched it (they may be aging, but I have those ovaries). Yes, yes, the clothes on tiny Carrie's tiny tiny body, the shoes, oh god, the shoes - yes, she cries like Molly Bloom, yes yes yes - me lovesssss the shoeses. But the women always seemed to mirror a kind of deep contemporary unhappiness, endlessly denying that the only thing that made them happy was the love of a man - or rather, the admiration of a man. Really, think back. What else was there beyond swinging Gucci bags and finding the right guy? Miranda's work stressed her out, Charlotte never evidenced any understanding or passion for the art world, Carrie wasn't a very good writer at all, and Samantha - well. I really think the less said about Samantha the better.

So fine, they wanted to be in love. But once they were, they were bitchy and demanding and whiny and needy and manipulative and aggressive and nasty and demeaning. Remember that memorable moment when Carrie threw a bag of McD's french fries at Big because he didn't invite her to Paris? When she nearly cold-cocked Alexsander Petrovsky for daring to care more about his opening than her? When Miranda threw Steve out of the house because he got a puppy? When Carrie demanded Aiden get back together with her, remodel her apartment, find her a second engagement ring after the first wasn't "Carrie" enough, and then proceeded to stomp on his heart for the second time in two years? Is it my imagination or are these women beyond the Diva zone?

The movie: two hours and 25 minutes of the same thing in endless loop. The most depressing thing about SATC is the way it seems to make sex nothing more than a sporting event - the one having the most fun wins. Not only is it reductive, it makes every sexual experience a virtual contest of virility which, in my opinion, is sure to take the fun right out of it. (And I actually had a talk with P. tonight that made me consider yet again how much this stupid show really has influenced the way I look at sex - and maybe not in a good way.) When at one point Miranda dares to suggest that she wants it quick because she's a law firm partner and a mom and she's tired, the movie acts as if she asked Steve to slice off his penis and saute it for her. That bitch!

Also, everyone looks kind of rode hard and put up wet. And the actor who plays Smith Jerrod, once the sexiest man ever born if you remove Johnny Depp from the running, has aged in the most pinched and red-faced way.

Here's when he was on the show:



And here he is recently (since I couldn't find a clip from the movie):




I strongly suspect that Kim Cattrall did not drop the demanded ten pounds needed to be all pilate'd for the movie, and the film treats her and her teensy little stomach as if she'd succumbed to obesity. My god! She'd gained (gasp) 15 pounds! Get the mumu, stat! She was clearly eating for two - she and Sarah Jessica Parker who doesn't seem to have eaten a full meal since Footloose. Sweetie, when you start telling magazines about your high metabolism and how you have to eat and eat and eat to keep weight on your skinny ass, please keep in mind: there are pictures of you before and after. What, did someone do a metabolism transplant on you at 25? There used to be meat on your bones. Ah well. Let's all take heart that we are unlikely to be stranded with her in the Andes. Because she wouldn't even make a decent sandwich.


In other news, I also went to see Billy Bragg at the old and lovely Moore Theater in downtown Seattle. Here's Billy:



Dang he's a fantastic musician. Dare I add, smoking hot at 50? (and there, I've found my theme).

He looks like he's gained 15 pounds too, but happily it didn't seem to bug him at all.