Last night, the final Sex and the City episode aired on HBO. I didn't watch it. It's not that I really disliked Miranda, Charlotte, Samantha and Carrie. Rather, we just never got past our first date. I still remember it quite well: I was invited to a party for the premiere of season four in a swanky flat in the Marina district of San Francisco where I was living at the time. The place was full of good looking people and the scene offscreen was a near mirror image of the one onscreen. Except for one small detail: breasts. They were popping up all over the place in the show! Perhaps it was just too much too soon in our relationship, but it left me wondering just how deep our relationship could ever become. The resulting feeling of watching such things whilst in the company of beautiful, intelligent, savvy women was almost more awkward than the time Ethan and I rented Woody Allen's "Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Sex (But Were Afraid to Ask)" and watched it with my mom a mere twenty feet away. Now I've all but sworn off TV (being stuck at home for a week in a snowstorm with newly-activiated cable TV caused some serious overdoses) and am happily engaged. Some might say I was just ahead of the trend.
Across the pond, a BBC viewer named James had this to say: "Sex And The City is indeed one of the greatest achievements that America has produced."
I wonder if Stephen Ambrose would have agreed.
Comments