Sex and the Sassy

Today I schlepped from hot hot Manhattan out to hot hot Brooklyn to have brunch with Micah, his sister Jordan, Ann, and her boyfriend Casey. After eating while glowing with sweat under the charitable spin of a ceiling fan, we walked over to the Brooklyn Academy of Music to see Sex and the City.

We figured the fact that we were a week late, combined with the fact that we were in Brooklyn and at BAM — not in Times Square — would guarantee us a fangirl-free afternoon with our own, deeply-buried and shame-drenched inner fangirls.

Not so.

The place was packed, and I had the distinct pleasure of sitting next to a sassy black girl who was there alone and talked to the screen as if to her close friends at home. My biggest bone to pick with Sex and the City is that it has nourished people like her. Actually, for the most part her comments were encouraging: “Oooh, you look good, girl!” or “Oooh, she gonna give you a Louis Vuitton purse!!!” or “You take your time, girl!” or “Why men always be like that?!”

I thought to myself, She’s here alone. She longs for the female kinship she sees onscreen and the complications that men bring to the lives of said females. Let her have her fantasy — besides, Isaac, you may or may not do the same sort of thing at home when you watch Anne of Green Gables.

And then, at the end of the movie, she pushed me and said, “C’mon, let’s hurry this up,” and climbed over me to get out of the row.

That’s when she fucking lost me.

Anyway, about the movie. I so thoroughly enjoyed it. Was it a quality film? I was too busy with a huge grin plastered across my face the entire time to really be very critical. It was so lovely to be back with those characters and those actors. I laughed, I cried, I was thrilled to be able to quickly muster a sizable list of friends who would spoon feed me if I was too devastated to eat.

Cynthia Nixon, I love you.

The guy who played Stanford, I’m so glad you only had two lines.

Van, I squealed a little when I saw you taking Kim Cattrall’s coat.

Whoever sang “Auld Lang Syne” during the third sequence to make me cry, please identify yourself. That was good.

Lisa Kron, I really loved your play Well and I know we’ve all gotta eat, but nonetheless I’m sorry they had you bussing tables in that diner in the last scene.

Jennifer Hudson, just stop — unless you’re opening your mouth to sing, in which case by all means go ahead. If you’re opening your mouth to “act” (read: stink up the joint), please go. You’d better not be back for the sequel.

End of the movie, you creeped me out. Please don’t endorse the endless clones of our beloved quartet clickety-clacketing down the streets of New York — they’ll only multiply, and pretty soon we’ll all have to sit next to them at the movies and then — then – you’ll be sorry.