Sex and the American City.

Friday night in Manhattan and I'm heading to Rita's birthday party, commenting about the weird phenomenon that is the "Sex and the City: the movie" premiere. "Do you know that they're showing it around the clock? And it's sold out...Har-har...can you believe those morons standing in line at 3 in the morning to catch Carrie Bradshaw? Ha-ha-ha.
Text message: we got tickets for the 2am show. Me: I'm in. I'm one of those morons.
I'm the eternal cheerleader for late night activities, especially when legitimate. Macy's open all night? Let's go. After all, I've spent three quarters of my life chasing the end of long conversations in a car, looking for the next autogrill. The sight of the sun dawning while we're still talking inanities extremely familiar. Eh, I'm stuck in a john Hughes movie for life, but I digress. We were talking Carrie and the girls.
First of all, cute that all the jersey girls managed to turn this into an alternative to the usual Date Rape Alley prowling. They were all dolled up in their mini-dresses waiting in line like they were going to a club.
But Agh-the movie. I really don't have anything nice to say. I was never in love with the TV series to begin with, but it had its endearing qualities. The Newyorkism of it all, and how taken for granted it was. How the west village/faggy/fashiony cliches were casually swept into the storyline appealed to the Manhattanite newbie me.
But. Not. This. Mess. I can't relate to these women, and not just because their pursuit of materialism is insane. Look, everybody who knows me knows that I do believe in labels, but the gilded frame within all the action happens in this movie is beyond offensive. So shallow and promoting of lowest common denominator status symbol-after-symbol-after-symbol it's shocking.
These hags never chase beauty, or refinement, or an elevated sense of aesthetics. They have no clue. They would be just as happy walking around with pricetags on. The vulgarity is cranked to the max. These are aging idiots who have learned nothing from past mistakes, who think it's perfectly fine to be a bimbo airhead as long as they make their own money. The mantra repeated under their breath is "strong/independent/strong/independent..." and it's just as believable as when you hear it said by the random beaten up black chick on "Cops."
Really is this what strong and independent women want? What does it come down to? A fancy wedding? It-Handbags galore?
I'm scared and no, I can't relate. I pity you gals, you really got it bad.
Also let's stop the insanity of making it sound like a universal obsession. When I came to this country I was under the impression that Western World customs and traditions were basically similar, country to next country. My, was I in for a culture shock. Nothing was more foreign to me than all this talking about engagements, proposals, rocks, bachelorettes, fiancees and best-day-of-my-life madness. Huh? It can't be serious. But the movie unfortunately is. It basically equates being stood up at the altar with cancer: a tragedy of massive proportions. I don't understand and I don't wanna.

Image from SarahJessicaParkerlookslikeahorse.com