The Joy of Sets: My Big Love for Sex and the City
Sarah Jessica Parker and Chris Noth courtesy HBO
Roses are played, violets are lame
Sex and the City, you are my dame.
In the 10 years since HBO's landmark ode to Manhattan's Manolo Blahniked man-eaters debuted, I've quit drinking, smoking and shoe shopping (almost). I'm far from Amish, but still, Carrie and company would be so ashamed of me. The one indulgence I refuse to give up, however, is my raging addiction to TV's ultimate four-play.
And thanks to the gigantic, pink-velvet encased
Sex and the City: The Complete Series, I can now count on endless DVD booty calls. In fact, just this past weekend,
Sarah Jessica Parker,
Kim Cattrall,
Cynthia Nixon,
Kristin Davis and I all had a good old time.
Twice. Yep, two seasons in three days. How I didn't spontaneously develop a vagina is a mystery, considering the sheer amount of girl power popping off the screen. Yet, going back to the beginning, I was reminded that
Sex's sexies weren't always so "up-with-estrogen!" The pilot is a much darker look at faux-mance in New York, with its defeated comments from a gallery of battle-scarred singletons and toxic, modelizing bachelors. Carrie smoked a ton and had a dirtier vibe, shorter, messier hair and no money. Charlotte had a job instead of a near-sociopathic need for male validation. Samantha was the one who saw Mr. Big first. And Miranda? Turns out she was always a brittle shrew. It was her hair color that changed the most. God bless her.
Over the course of six seasons, obviously, the ladies- and those of us who loved them- grew up. Cosmos were replaced by car seats, funky spunk gave way to fights against cancer and
Sex turned into something much, much deeper. Maybe we didn't all find our Bigs, Steves, Smiths or Harrys along the way, but that doesn't mean the Bergers, Aleksandrs, Aidans, Marias, Mr. Too Bigs and premature Jareds weren't a good time, too. The true joy of this set is that you can literally pop in any disc, from any point in the show's run, and relive the fantasy of Char's search for "the one," the fun of Carrie's post-coital fart and, less we forget, the most fabulous outfits to ever confuse TV viewers. I mean, honestly, if you were to tell me that giant bows, butterfly pins and horseshoe necklaces would be so hot, I would have called Stanford Blatch and had him slap you.
Happily, while the show is long over, the affair lingers on. The movie hits theaters this spring, the syndicated repeats are as ubiquitous as Katherine Heigl mouthing off about whatever's up her butt this week and the set, like a good lover, is a keeper. (Note how I am NOT mentioning the current knock-offs cluttering network TV...even that
Lipstick-smeared Candace Bushnell-ordained mess.) So even though I'm flying solo this Valentine's Day (again!), with my favorite girls around, I can count on celebrating Cupid's Hallmark moment enjoying some of the best
Sex I've ever had. And to those fellows who have yet to find their ladies the perfect gift, I would highly suggest you get in on this action, too!
Next week: A guilty-pleasure round-up even Chuck Norris can't beat.
Until then, don't hog the remote! - Damian Holbrook
