Sex in the City or: Tales of Irish Fish Wives

I can see how one can become addicted to blogging. Blog away, blog away. It's also interesting to see what other people blog about -- recipes, pictures of dogs, trips to Sedona, my life in Manhattan.Speaking of that, I always found myself oddly unmoved by "Sex in the City". I guess it's supposed to represent a free-wheeling female version of debauchery amidst sophisticates, and God knows I'm not a prude, but personally I see that more as a ticket to VD than to liberation. I also found the guy who played "Mr. Big" to be the exact antithetical opposite of what I would want in a man. Did they choose him to make Sarah Jessica Parker's nose look smaller? Oy, I'm going to hell. I actually think she's quite pretty, but hey, what can I say, I'm evil.Their characters have an affair, and roll around in their gorgeous apartments while Parker lights up post-coital cigarettes. Instead of coughing and demanding she put the damned thing out, "Big" looks at her like she's made out of filet mignon while his wife stays home alone, blissfully unaware of his treachery. I never watched enough of it to find out if she DID find out, but God help the bastard. I'm enough of an Irish Fish Wife without being anyone's wife to know that if my husband cheated on me, I'd brain him with the frying pan. Then, I'd take off for a remote South Seas location (if only I knew where those were), and spend time staring at the beach and catching up on my reading. It would be too dull to just stare at the beach. I'd have to do something, but lots of walking would be involved before I called up my lawyer.Although maybe I'd give him another chance. Maybe is the key word here.So that's that. Another Sex in the City episode involved a woman stripping at some party. Fast forward ten years and she's pregnant. The Sex in the City foursome visit her at a snippy party in CT somewhere and stare at babies. Career Women vs Mothers! Finally, Striptease Sally comes and finds them at Samantha's party a few weeks later and tries to, you guess it, strip again. But she can't, by golly, her fingers are too swollen and so is she.The whole thing was pretty pathetic, although Parker's character keeps a runnning narrative that's supposed to be deep as shit. How deep shit is, I don't know. Oh yeah, she also thinks she might be pregnant, but gets her period just in time to ruminate deeply on cosmic issues of life, love, marriage, children, but not, presumably, betrayal. Striptease Sally learns that she's no longer a stripper, and gives birth, we can conjecture, at some point. I would be more interested if it was Rosemary's Baby, and the baby came back to scare the living hell (no pun intended) out of the Sex in the City foursome.As for Mr. Big, I think we should send him packing to Siberia, where he can play tunes on his nose with his pinkie. The guy's too much of an oily slick bastard for yours truly.Where have all the gentlemen gone?Papa, can you hear me?Don't read into that, Dr. Freud.

Top Ten List of Inanity

The List

1. AOL would be improved if Charlton Heston's voice said, "You've got mail"
2. Someone please, please destroy the monster that is Dr. Phil. Or at least pull that unholy talk show off the air.
3. Why did Sting do that stupid Jaguar commercial? Why do all these celebrities sell out? Is there something I'm missing out on here? Do they really need the money?
4. 3 am is either a really good, rich, creative time, or the hour from hell.
5. According to The Exorcism of Emily Rose, that has to do with demonic forces. Don't say I didn't warn you.
6. Invariably when I see a movie these days, someone decides to pretend they are in their living room. Then, I want to hurt this person.
7. I would never hurt them, but I might take their cellphone and jump up and down on it.
8. BECAUSE CELLPHONES HAVE TAKEN OVER AMERICA!! For the love of God, people, find a therapist, because your phone might as well be a joint! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!! Talk about an addicted society!!
9. I keep my cellphone on "silent", mostly, esp. in church.
10. I have my most irreverent and sexual thoughts in church, 'cause some things never change.

Papa, can you hear me?

Blog on, Lonesome Prairie Dog

I must be in a chatty mood today, although I am currently feeling like hell.
Thinking about Ben Affleck and unholy spawn led me to the popular theory that coffee shops, bookstores, etc. are great pick-up joints. I disagree. When I am browsing for books or drinking coffee, the last thing I want is someone to hit on me just as I've reached the best part of Jane Eyre or the caffeine hits me squarely between the eyes. Call me sad and pathetic, but that's just how I feel. How I hate going into a place that is less than sophisticated and having people stare at me because I am a woman alone. That's why cities are great for single women: it's rarely a problem. In smaller towns, or at least ones that don't have that wonderful anonymous cloak, you can get stared at. It's never fun to feel focused upon simply because you have a vagina. I'm sure men have their take on this, but at the moment, I'm probably not in the mood to hear it. But whining/blogging are separate issues, non??
When you feel really down, you can pretend to be French.
So this is the blogging universe, to move to a different topic altogether. I am happy picturing millions of bloggers linked in some marvelous mind-meld, hunched over computers and laptops everywhere. I am also happy going to street festivals full of art and then leaving early, because too many humans makes me feel utterly and completely claustrophobic. Must be the curse of the true introvert. Normally I like to see a bit of art and do a little people-watching.
One fabulous thing I saw was this strange wooden figure of a man who reminded me of the dude who tried to sell Oliver Twist in the movie -- the one that came out long ago, in the 70's maybe? In fact for some reason the song "One Boy for Sale" has been going through my mind lately. Whoever sang that song had a marvelous voice (I'm sure someone out there in blog-land knows who it is). Very sad, to be an orphan-child. I really need to re-read Oliver Twist one of these days, if I ever read the damned thing at all.
(In fact I did read a great thing lately -- that during the time of serial writing, which Dickens did -- I believe he was paid by the word -- people would rush to the docks as the continuation of his latest story was dropped off and ask the man delivering it what had happened to the characters, i.e. "What happened to Pip? Did he get away?"). For some reason that makes me fucking happy. I think I was born in the wrong age, b/c being a modern person often simply sucks.
Then again, it's not like I had a choice as to when I was born. Existential crises are so passe. Ha, ha ha.
I think I might have wanted to be a Victorian, but then again, in a past life, maybe I was. Shirley McClaine, can you hear me? How nice to believe in this stuff and hold lectures for $400 a pop. Maybe I'll jump on the reincarnation bandwagon, too.
I now retire my cynical, lonely self, and retreat into cover of darkness. Meaning eating dark chocolate, probably. I rarely drink, and didn't get stoned until I was 30. That was a happy time, actually.
Papa, can you hear me?
Blog on, lonesome prairie dog.

The Unholy Spawn of Ben Affleck

OK, I went through hell just to post this blog. If anyone reads it, it'll be a miracle. Frankly, I just want to write and think that maybe somewhere, out there in tenuous cyberspace, someone will read it, and go ahead and make my day!
My original title for this blog was The Unholy Spawn of Ben Affleck. It scares me this man is procreating, although I recognize that's a cruel thing to say. Jennifer Garner seems very sweet, in a wholesome West Virginia kind of way, but he looks like he's going to end up playing "Eight ball with a bunch of hookers", as my erudite Irish Catholic cousin is known to say. Heh. It would be sad but hilarious, in a sad kind of way, if he ran off the day of the wedding and was discovered with said hookers in a sleazy bar somewhere, the jukebox playing something by Stevie Ray Vaughn. There would be a kind of demented justice there.
I went to Mass today with some very nice but very conservative friends, speaking of Catholics. Why are so many priests homosexuals? Can anyone tell me that? I half-expected the dude to start playing a Cher CD during the middle of the service. The woman who did the cantoring stuff had a very scary executioner type face, and for some reason during the Consecration of the Host bit (for you non-Catholics, this is basically the rite where the priest, acting as a conduit for God, kind of like a giant water slide in human form, turns the bread (host) into the body of Christ and the wine into the blood of Christ) he was ringed by four, count 'em four, altar boys. Now that I have reduced priests to theme park rides, I will conclude this paragraph.
Jesus, do I have issues!
I also have a very unrequited crush on Craig Ferguson. Being the fantasy-minded, escapist, highly delusional Pisces that I am, I spend happy moments picturing the two of us married, or at least happily partnered. I think it could work: I'm irreverent, only ten years younger than he is, and have a great sense of humor (I'd like to think). My childhood, being kind of Dickensian, might amuse him in the sad, pathetic way it amuses me at times. I just like the guy, what can I say: he is hunky and Scottish, but he's also literate, charming, sweet, and intelligent. I don't give a shit that he's an ex-alcoholic with two ex-wives (or should I say, recovering drunkard). Drunkard is a tad harsh, but we Irish people can be, even if it's only a drop in the bucket for yours truly.
Christ, do I have issues!
Anyway, I dispense with the repetitious stuff, and get back to the main point of this blog: Fucking Ben Affleck! Seriously, he's not the worst actor ever, although sometimes he seems to be reciting his lines from a great distance, kind of like his head hurts or something. Garner is the superior performer out of the two of them, even if her Alias character is simply a barbie doll who kicks ass brought to life and forced to change outfits ten times throughout every program. Can we say, "Male Fantasy Brought to Life"? I can, tee.
I would like to say I am available to write for your humorous magazine, or magazine seeking humor. I will write and eventually perform stand-up, which I am getting up the courage to do, and if you like, I will spend moments throughout my performance whole-heartedly, with a tear in each eye, endorsing your magazine! I'll even buy you a drink afterwards if you attend my gig.
This is before Craig Ferguson takes me into the proverbial horizon, the sun gently illuminating our hair.
God, do I have issues!
I lied. I am repetitious.
May the Unholy Spawn of Ben Affleck never darken your doorstep, may we discover the mysteries of repressed homosexual priests and oh yes, Craig Baby? Email me anytime.
Blessings.