Sex And The City 2: This Time, With Even More Shiny Stuff!

From left to right: Bossy Miranda, Yelpy Carrie, Sexaholic Samantha and Optimistic Charlotte.
Off screen: The shattered remains of my soul.

I wasn’t going to see the new Sex and The City movie, but after the ferocious critical response – and then the furious aggregating of that response on women-focused blogs – intrigued me. I thought I would see it, write about it myself and see if I couldn’t illuminate a corner of Carrie’s shriveled soul that someone hadn’t before.

Well, I can’t. The critics have covered everything. The movie is long, dull and hideous to look at, with gaudy clothes and even more hideous interiors. There’s no more plot here than in a catalog, which makes sense since this is a movie about stuff, from cars to rings to watches, instead of characters. It offends gay men, Muslims and women, even though they’re the ones who are expected to strap on their highest heels and go in costume, like so many Star Wars nerds, to watch it.

So, since all the best points have already been made so frequently and humorously, I’ll take my mom’s advice and say something nice. Or else I won’t be able to say anything at all.

Five Good Things I Could Say About The Sex And The City Sequel:

1. Boy, they cast Miranda and Steve’s son well. He freakishly has David Eigenberg’s face, but Cynthia Nixon’s hair and eyes. Was he grown in a lab?
2. There are two fine male asses to be seen in this movie.
3. At one point, Charlotte wears a rather cute red and white striped dress.
4. Craning my neck to see the whole screen from only the third row was still less nauseating than watching Avatar in Imax 3D.
5. I regret seeing it less than I regret paying 99 cents to download Casper’s Cha Cha Slide (Part Two.)

Dispatches From the Job Hunt

Looking for jobs, applying for jobs and going for interviews are three of the things I dislike most in life. Sure, I probably hate Glenn Beck and ebola more, but I don't have to actually encounter those things in my daily life. Yet. Job hunting, on the other hand, has become my new hobby, now that the weather's cooled down enough that I can't say "sweating."

Sadly, however, I'm an English-speaking Cultural Studies major in a bilingual city where all the job postings seem to be ridiculously qualified. Today, I've found postings for a plant assistant, an assistant hockey coach, and a "science and innovation officer." Come and gaze with me, if you will, into my cover letter for the first position:

"Although I may not have the expected qualifications of a degree in horticulture, I do have a degree in Cultural Studies. As you can see, both degrees involve culture of some kind. I know it's not much, but it's a start. And as Dorothy Parker once said, you can lead a whore to culture, but you can't make her think. I am no whore. Please hire me."

I am expecting a call back at any moment.

Two Bits Of News

Sorry Bangles, but your Manic Mondays have nothing on my ... Torrid... Tuesdays. Somebody get on finding a better alliteration than that. Anyhow, yesterday two big things happened in the life of Marty.

1. My brother got engaged!
2. And I quit my job!

Now, this isn't necessarily quite the yin/yang of life events it seems. Although my brother's engagement is certainly on the crest of things, my quitting isn't all bad. Sure, it seems likely that I'll never find another job in this city. But on the other hand, I had been unhappy for a while and needed to stop bitching and do something about it.

So, whether I end up back in Toronto, or turning tricks on the street in a few months, at least I can always think back on this week and remember that I was happy. And flush with tax refunds.

On Watching Your Team Lose

Today, I did something I had spent the past couple of weeks bitching people out for doing. I walked out of a hockey game early, just because my team was losing, and I knew they were going to lose the game entirely, and I just couldn't watch it happen.

So, I'm a hypocrite. However, I'm a sympathetic hypocrite. Getting into hockey over the past few weeks has been a lesson in transference. Once you start caring about the sport, the guys on the screen aren't just a random collection of guys with skills and high salaries. They're a representative of you! They play well, and you have hope for your future. They play poorly, and suddenly your streak of bad luck stretches all the way to the TV screen and you have to turn it off.

However, you've already started to behave in completely irrational ways. You start bargaining. "Let them win this game and it will make up for the crappy interview and terrible day I just had. Let them lose and I'll realize that I'm cursed."However, this makes no sense. First of all, there are dozens of fans on the other side doing the exact same thing. Are you praying in Montreal? Then somebody in Philly probably did the same thing. And, judging from tonight's score, it seems like they did a better job than you.

Clearly, it's mostly up to the people on the ice, as well as people behind the bench whether your team wins or loses, no matter how much you hope, pray and wear the hell out of your jersey. So why bother? Why should I have bothered to stay for the rest of the game?

First of all, there are the standard reasons. Sports end up connecting you, just like the shoe commercials predict. Trite, but true. I watched Montreal beat Washington, eating pickled eggs in a tavern, yelling just as loudly as the rest of the people there even though I was English* and under 45 years old. It's also good conversation fodder when you're on breaks at work. And there's something heartwarming about seeing entire metro cars turned red because everyone has their Habs gear on after a win.

Then there's the other reason. It's about perseverance. No matter how much they're sucking, teams can't just go home before the final buzzer sounds. And even once it does, they'll just be back next year. It's Sisyphean - and, since we're going that far - a lesson in existentialism.

Unless, of course, someone sells your team and then they end up moving. In which case, maybe you really are cursed.

Texts From Last Period

Don't worry, there will be a Post of Substance tomorrow, but for tonight I wanted to share perhaps the most Canadian communication I have ever taken part in. My friend Jo couldn't watch Game 7 tonight (and thus missed out on its blessed result), so I was put on text duty to keep her informed of the score. Between things like "4-0. I don't even know. 4-0." and "They did it! 5-2 final score." There was this little nugget of maple-flavoured goodness:

"Don cherry's suit is purple velour [sic] with satin trim tonight."

Mumble, Grumble, Go Habs Go

Events have conspired to turn me, a person who hated all sports except for college football, into someone who's avidly watching the Montreal Canadiens' run in the NHL playoffs. I thought for sure that the charmingly gap-toothed Ovechkin would get them, but they beat the Caps. And then I thought the Penguins and Sidney Crosby's questionable facial hair would do it, but goddamn it, they sent it to game 7. Now I'll proudly suffer those maudlin Tim Horton's ads, Don Cherry's suits and the terrible new Hockey Night in Canada theme just to watch a game.

I would like to say that I have a certain sympathy for Jaroslav Halak, because I often feel like the 200th-odd pick in life, but the truth is I lack his hand/eye coordination, so I'll just say I enjoy seeing this diverse and annoyingly abrasive city come together, as one... so that it can likely destroy a small part of itself in celebration of a win.