Friday, January 16, 2004
Sex & the City and A Good Hearted Robot
WARNING: strong language and sexual content below.
I hate "Sex & the City". However, the Missus likes it, so I sometimes watch an episode with her. The other night, we were simpatico in our annoyance with the writer(s) of the show. Gay man #1, Carrie Bradshaw, is, in voice-over, telling us how weird it is that her Russian-born older sculptor boyfriend likes to read poetry to her. She goes through a litany of stupid possible reasons for this, never once veering into the vicinity of the reason I screamed at the T.V. (with the full support of the Missus) "How about this, Carrie: maybe he's literate and actually likes READING POETRY!". Of course, even in such a delicious moment of smug condescension toward the show, I still know that the reason I dislike it so much is that I've watched enough of it to form an opinion. I hope that someday I can be far enough removed from shows like "Sex & the City" to not know anything about them. To actually be able to give a reply when asked about a show like this, "what city, Cleveland?".
And Samantha thought she needed to have breast implants? For such a vain woman, it didn't seem that she'd ever looked at her own body. I like Kim Catrall, but every time I see a lunch scene where her character peppers the conversation with comments like, "if I'm not gagging on a Haitian longshoreman's cock by the end of this sentence, I'm going to bomb a children's hospital", or, "selecting a competitive college is a lot like fucking" or "I demand to be fucked in all of my orifices at once (including ears) just as if I were the self-hating gay man that the writers have made me, and in so doing, maybe blind myself for a few seconds more to the abyss opening under my feet and widening a bit more every day, someday at last to pull me and my inane and tawdry life into oblivion. Never to be remembered or mourned, having made no difference to anyone, ever, down I go. Please, sweet negation and nothingness, annihilate the remaining scrap of my defiled Soul, such as it is: unmake me and let the time of my meaningless life here be as a meson to the Universe that is Time. By the time I finish this cappucino. I mean it.", all I can think is, "you are breaking Crow's heart, Kim". ¶ 23:23
I hate "Sex & the City". However, the Missus likes it, so I sometimes watch an episode with her. The other night, we were simpatico in our annoyance with the writer(s) of the show. Gay man #1, Carrie Bradshaw, is, in voice-over, telling us how weird it is that her Russian-born older sculptor boyfriend likes to read poetry to her. She goes through a litany of stupid possible reasons for this, never once veering into the vicinity of the reason I screamed at the T.V. (with the full support of the Missus) "How about this, Carrie: maybe he's literate and actually likes READING POETRY!". Of course, even in such a delicious moment of smug condescension toward the show, I still know that the reason I dislike it so much is that I've watched enough of it to form an opinion. I hope that someday I can be far enough removed from shows like "Sex & the City" to not know anything about them. To actually be able to give a reply when asked about a show like this, "what city, Cleveland?".
And Samantha thought she needed to have breast implants? For such a vain woman, it didn't seem that she'd ever looked at her own body. I like Kim Catrall, but every time I see a lunch scene where her character peppers the conversation with comments like, "if I'm not gagging on a Haitian longshoreman's cock by the end of this sentence, I'm going to bomb a children's hospital", or, "selecting a competitive college is a lot like fucking" or "I demand to be fucked in all of my orifices at once (including ears) just as if I were the self-hating gay man that the writers have made me, and in so doing, maybe blind myself for a few seconds more to the abyss opening under my feet and widening a bit more every day, someday at last to pull me and my inane and tawdry life into oblivion. Never to be remembered or mourned, having made no difference to anyone, ever, down I go. Please, sweet negation and nothingness, annihilate the remaining scrap of my defiled Soul, such as it is: unmake me and let the time of my meaningless life here be as a meson to the Universe that is Time. By the time I finish this cappucino. I mean it.", all I can think is, "you are breaking Crow's heart, Kim". ¶ 23:23
