El Sexo en la Ciudad

Despite my demeanor, sense of style, gravitation towards paisleys, and my mother's personal opinion, I am a man. It has occurred to me that as a man, there are a few things you must never do: Never ask for directions, never interact with the man at the urinal next to you, never let them see you cry, and above all else, never watch Sex in the City. Just when I thought I had this whole manhood thing nailed down, along came Julie.

Allow me, if you will, a little preemptive saving-face...

I love football, the gorier the horror movies the better, I have watched the entire Original Star Wars Trilogy (IV-VI of course) in one sitting, and... well... I am a complete nerd in nearly all respects (i.e. my last example). I wouldn't say I pride myself on my masculinity, as I find gender roles to be antiquated, and well, there isn't much to be proud of anyway. I always keep an open mind when it comes to movies and TV shows that are geared towards women. I never complain on Thursday nights when Julie puts on her Patrick Dempsey Snuggie and hunkers down for two-hours of "America's Funniest Hospital Workplace Sexual Harassment Suits", or better known as Grey's Anatomy and Private Practice, even if my film school background tells me to avoid them like the plague.

For those of you who have never watched these shows, they revolve around the careers and romances (as if they're separated) of hot-shot surgeons. Along with mixing the sexual melting pot of Seattle Grace Hospital, the doctors of Grey's Anatomy are challenged with odd and miraculous medical situations. "These two people are connected by a giant pole jutting through them both... It's just like my relationship with my boss."

As it would happen, the bedroom drama rarely stays in the bedroom, since every time we are shown a surgery, someone is bound to bring up the latest gossip. I can't imagine the patients would want to know where their heart surgeons hands had been prior to the operation. Good thing they are unconscious, otherwise they would find out that their surgeon isn't even anti-bacterially fit to prepare them a salad.

Private Practice, on the other hand, tones down the promiscuity (and the surgery) in favor of emphasizing the emotion of each medical sleepover, making Grey's look like its loose, party-girl cousin. Oh, and PP adds more babies, so obviously it's geared a little more towards men...

As I peruse the pink velvet case containing all six seasons of Sex and the City, it appears to be some sort of text book on monogamy. I don't know when I enrolled into Julie's School for the Giftedly Committed, but somewhere between Engagement Rings 101 and the Art of Painting Baby Rooms, I realized my window of opportunity to assert my manly spin on the relationship had long since been boarded up.

I cannot clearly recall how I agreed to start watching Sex in the City, or how I agreed to watch it enough times to have finished the entire series, plus two movies. As if clouded in an Ambien-induced haze, my memory of these choices are conveniently vacant.

I can't say I relate to any of the characters, aside from maybe some of the poor saps who dated the psychotic Carrie Bradshaw.

Charlotte was the one I found most attractive through most of the series, that is until she became possessed by some catty, racist, baby-crazy demon in the later seasons.

Miranda, the snarky one, provides the all too important voice of reason, always in true "Debbie Downer" fashion. You would think I'd be drawn to her pasty complexion and Irish blood, however with beauty being skin-deep and all, I have known better for some time now.

When Samantha isn't spouting some overly corny line as set up for a plot-driven pun, she can be genuinely funny. She spouts a fair amount of decent jokes throughout the series. The problem I have is that when retelling said jokes to family and friends I rarely get the response I'm looking for, I guess "dick" jokes don't really work out of context.

And finally Carrie... I don't want to be mean so I'll end it at that.

The men that appeared did add a bit of intrigue for me as I love picking out obscure actors. Whether it was Jim Gaffigan as the guy who never closed the bathroom door, Craig Bierko as an overbearing Jazz Man, or the reoccurrence of the guy who played Dexter's Dad and Raiden, in the second Mortal Kombat movie.

However, solace in the male roles was reserved only for these guest stars, as many of the main characters were just as intolerable as their female counterparts. I start with Julie's favorite, the Neo-Hippie, Applebee's-Lovin' Aiden. When he isn't acting like some kitschy Alaskan Radio DJ, he whines over Carrie's lack of commitment. I mean really guy, really, is Carrie really some wonderful prize that you just must lock down? By the time his character was introduced in the fourth season Carrie hadn't shown to be any great "catch", so why were all these men fawning over her so readily? Right! It's a TV show, I almost forgot.

Perhaps I watched out of the joy I got from changing the audio track over to Spanish on a whim, or pausing the DVD when one of the women were making a particularly heinous facial expression. The likeliest reason of all, is that since this was an HBO show there was always a very good chance of seeing some boobies. The be all, end all of the television-watching decision making.

Looking back, I'm glad that I watched it. Giving Julie the joy of sharing however many hours of her favorite show (I'm too afraid to count) has given me the ultimate trump card in choosing what will now run endlessly in the Hers and His household (not counting the frightening movie-experience I misguidedly forced us into with Paranormal Activity, as you will read in our next post...).

It gives me great pleasure to finally say "Farewell Prada! Hello Adama!" On to Battlestar Galactica!

*Julie would like me to acknowledge that when charged with the task going to the window to pick up the pre-paid tickets to Sex and the City 2 by myself, I was appropriately defiant.