On why I hate "Sex and the City."
Tonight, Sara, Michelle, and I watched an episode of the show. Sara commented that the show was more about the myth of New York than anything else, besides maybe sex. And lo, I began to think. The unreal New York in Sex and the City is flooded with things in life I have no use for: thousand dollar items of clothing, hip fusion cuisine, socialites, gorgeous straight men, queenly gay men and Starbucks. In Carrie Bradshaw's New York, concrete sparkles like a high gloss peticure. In the ficticious New York that I swoon for, my apartment has handsized roaches treated by a Harvard alum with sores over his veins, and I can smell the neighbors cook and hear them argue. Every night in the Bowery, Patti Smith crows out a radiant "Gloria," in her tattered clothes. A petit brunette in pink ballet shoes quietly asks if she can take my picture when I cut through Time Square. I can feel the grime of the city streets grease my bootsoles, and when I look up past the craggy brownstones, I know that the city could swallow me whole. I want to scream and prophecy under subway tracks like Ginsberg. This city does not exist, but damn Sara Jessica Parker for sticking her debutante playland in the same space on the globe.