Lookin' at Yer Sex In The City

In varying stages of consciousness, I’ve now watched
between 6 and 8 episodes of Sex in the City. To my
considerable surprise, given the sexual nature of the
show, maintaining an alert state was not always easy;
more than once I lapsed into deep sleep. So, in
fairness, I did not count those missed opportunities
as part of the 6 to 8 I mentioned. If it wasn’t
pleasurable, why would I or anyone, for that matter,
voluntarily subject themselves to such torture? A
reasonable question.

After a seven or eight year run on HBO, the program
concluded this past year with a bang. Virtually every
media outlet of any consequence chronicled it’s
passing, as they earlier had Dallas, Mash, Sienfeld,
Friends. and a few other pop culture sensations.
Though I’d heard of the program and had certainly seen
numerous pictures of Sara Jessica Parker staring at me
from the tabloid racks at the supermarket checkout,
not having access to HBO, I’d never seen the show; my
education was not complete! To be sure, Sara
Jessica, from the vantage point of the tabloid
pictures I’d seen, impressed me as a strikingly
attractive woman, and that probably played some small
part in my finally wanting to fill this cultural void
in my life. That, coupled with the fact that, my
daughter came into possession of the 2nd season on
CD’s. I promptly borrowed them. Mind you now, I was
careful not to suggest anything bordering on a
prurient interest. This represented a quest for
cultural knowledge in the purest sense. Some may
delight in taking stock of shapely boobs and butts,
get excited at the sounds of groans coming from
couples grinding in the sack, or breath fast and
heavy at the sounds of rank, raw sexual talk between
semi-gorgeous babes seated close together around a
small coffee table sharing meat market commentary
about their latest romp in the sack, not me! Nope!
All I wanted to do was feed my incredible hunger for
knowledge of the pop culture; if somthin’ important
was bubblin’ in that domain I had an obligation to
know about it.

Sex and the City action is set in the Big Apple, has
a pronounced Mid Town flavor and features a cast of
four yuppy, thirtyish looking working women, and a
varying collection of their boyfriends; some of whom
seem to enjoy a little more permanence than others.
That is, they appeared in more than one episode. Now
I’d like to clarify one thing right up front, Sara
Jessica looks a lot better starin’ up at you from the
pages of those super market tabloids than she does on
the TV screen. To be sure, she’s not ugly, but then
she’s no raving beauty either, nor are the other
women of the cast. Indeed, that may in fact be part
the series’ appeal. Most guys can look at these
rather nondescript looking women and entertain the
thought that yes, she’s not beyond the range of the
possible; and by the same token, women can identify
with them too. In sum, these are the sorts of people
you would commonly meet in the supermarket, workplace
etc. But back to Sara Jessica for a minute. Judging
by her physical contrast with other characters, she
much smaller than I’d imagined, and rather, dare I
say, mousy looking. Interestingly enough, Ms.
Parker’s appearance noticeably changed with changes
in her attire or hair style, so much so that at times
I wondered if, in fact, I was seeing the same person.
Each episode features shots of one or another of
the women being pounded in the sack, showing virtually
everything but the insertion; and, about that, not too
much is left to the imagination; his size, or lack
thereof, and how it feels represent the dialogue. Now
if you’re not accustomed to hearing the word “f. . ..”
used in it’s varying grammatical forms, i.e., as an
adjective, a noun, and the like, brace yourself. It’s
used commonly enough in the dialogue here to make it
as inconspicuous as the articles a, an and the. But
then the word “f. . .” and it’s crudity are right at
home in dialogue that’s saturated with most other
common vulgarities associated with sex: “c. . .t, p. .
.y, c. . . k,” you get the idea. Let us not forget,
this show is titled, Sex and the City.

Though we are told that these women are
professionals, an attorney, a writer etc., beyond the
telling, the professions are of no consequence; the
focus of these shows maintains an incredible fidelity
to the theme announced by the title Sex and the City.
In terms of dramatic complexity the action doesn’t
wonder much beyond the sophistication of what’s
happening between dogs joined in the street. Now,
I’ll willingly admit my view is a bit harsh. .
.jaundiced even. We do learn a bit about these
young women and do develop a voyeuristic interest in
their lives not unlike the relationship people have
with the TV soaps in the afternoon or the more current
batch of reality tv shows. It’s sadly true that in
modern obese, porked up America, we’d rather sit on
our ass in front of the TV eating, drinking and
watching people live lives of adventure, no matter
how base or mundane, than to actually expend the
energy necessary to have that adventure ourselves.
I’m not a prude, I’ve done a few things in this
life that won’t recommend me for beatification anytime
soon; and I’ve done a few others that I’d do again if
this old body were only willing, but as we discover at some point in
life, if we’re perceptive enough, the past is past,
not to be reborn again tomorrow. And, given the
vociferous, self-righteous moralizing that so
characterizes the rhetoric of our times, I’m a little
reluctant to venture into any commentary that touches
upon the morality of shows like Sex and the City. To
be sure, the carnage that attends the current war is
of far greater, more immediate concern in my world.
Still, I can help but worry some about what impact
such programs as this will have in shaping our future
lives and the way we relate to each other. I don’t
have answers only concerns. In someways I think,
maybe 1984 arrived on schedule we just didn’t know it;
i.e., Big Brother wasn’t quite so obviously apparent.

Lookin’ at tv,

Davy Crockett