*/ Sucker For A Big-time Masochist \*

Was it only a coincidence that the familiar horns from Ain’t That a Kick in the Head could be heard as I exited the movie? Or was the latest from Sex and the City really messing with my mind? Never has a song been more fitting. Sure, there was plenty of cooing and sighing from the perfumed, peacock-bright crowd in the theatre courtesy of New York’s, knockout fashion but these snatches of satisfaction came a close second to the dominant debates I overheard. Namely, that the on-off, ten-year relationship of Carrie and Big was rubbing this female crowd up the wrong way. Hallelujah! It appeared I wasn’t alone in feeling a little queasy over Big’s extreme fickleness and Carrie’s virginal patience. After all that she’d endured from the guy, would marriage still be uppermost in her mind? Surely a hasty exit from the relationship would seem the sanest option. Honestly, am I lying in saying that the acidic romance and perfunctory soul-searching on offer chafed far worse than Miranda’s renegade brazilian ever could?

Big looms suitably large in the movie but that’s an easy task considering the fact that he’s the only male character with a smidgen of depth on offer. Where the series earmarked plenty of time to beefing up the supporting boys, the movie gave Steve et al the elbow in favour of fashion and the girls respectively, to its discredit. It’s Big’s third wedding; he wants a small ceremony, ideally one that only Carrie and himself attend. And as the wedding veers further from his control, Big’s angst and anxieties are laid bare, showing us a little more beneath his crystal-cool exterior. But it’s also Carrie’s first strut down the aisle. That should count for something, right? Apparently not. In doing her best to meet Big’s needs, Carrie steps right up once more, allowing him a few more pot shots at her fragile heart. We are left with the conclusion that Carrie’s precarious place in the world (aka forty and “on the shelf”) is every woman’s nightmare. And her final acceptance to do things Big’s way proves just that. So much so that, in the end she’s prepared to scrape the egg from her face and still enjoy the omelette.

Refusing to talk to Big for as long as the length of a whole fashion season, Carrie first tortures herself in solitary confinement (presumably picking over in her mind all the possible reasons why things went wrong) before finally blaming it all on the flippant comment of a female friend. This neatly ticks the box for a little girl-on-girl action in the form of some good, old-fashioned female mistrust.

It made me think about a boy I’d dated last summer. He was funny, charming and bastardly as hell, so it ended badly, of course. Boy A carried on super poking pussies, whilst I made an effigy from a shirt he’d left behind. Still smarting two weeks later, I stood poised, pin in hand, to stab the dummy when he telephoned. We talked, made up and were back together in the flick of a well-cracked whip. How could this happen? I can only surmise that in our pursuit of “happyness” us girls sign up and agree to take evermore pain and drama, and men, just like Boy A and Big, deliver it by the sledgehammer load.

The movie trots out hunting feverishly for the next big dick, a la Sam Jones, as the fashionable thing for modern girls to do. “Happy ever after” is horribly shredded and hastily patched up right before our adoring, mostly feminine eyes. No matter, we still hold our breath and wait for Carrie to put herself out there, knowing it could lead to further misery and disappointment, but hoping that this time she’ll get it right. Walking the paradoxical tightrope between liberal promiscuity and conservative marriage ain’t easy.

Maybe I should have left the cinema with the feeling that if that’s what love is, then I’ll take a cat, a granny flat and a good bottle of red wine. In reality though, just like the girls, I know I’ll be back out there sprucing, preening and waiting for the next dose from Mr. Wrong. But don’t worry: according to Dean Martin “my life is gonna be bea-uutiful!”

*/ Friday Night at The ‘True Blue’ Last \*

“Wanna dance?” asks the boy.

“Dance?” repeats the girl.

The boy’s dressed nice and neat. The girl’s got feathers in her hair, scuffs on her golden boots and a ladder in her metallic, Lycra body stocking. They’re standing in the centre of the pub’s floor. Lights flash. Beats beat. His question makes perfect sense but she doesn’t respond immediately.

Instead, she screws her face up into a rumpled half-smile, as if there’s a pile of poo right under her nose and yet, she kinda likes the smell. Something of a devilish flash skips across her face. I caught it; I’m not so sure the boy did.

Next thing you know, she’s undone his fly and her hot little palm’s disappeared inside his pants. He’s shocked! I mean, the boy could catch tennis balls in his gob.

“No. I don’t want to dance with you,” she says a few seconds later as she pulls out her hand. With a little hop and a skip she’s gone, leaving him standing there alone.

Poor lad. I’ve been there myself, I recognise his confusion. He doesn’t understand that this is the girl’s calling card, her signature piece. It’s just the ‘thing’ that she’s got goin’ on. Nothing more, nothing less. He just wants to dance with the pretty girl and see where the night takes them. He ain’t from Laanden Taan.

I’m still watching as our man slinks off to the side of the dance floor. When he isn’t looking down at his shoes, he’s shooting daggers at a girl to the left of him, who’s got some lad half hidden under the ruffles of her ra-ra skirt. And he’s sneaking peaks at the agitated boy-on-boy action to his right.

A bit more sleaze here; a little more smut there. Just when did ‘normal’ life get so x-rated? I mean, you can’t blink nowadays for strumpets who’re willing to bare all and get their stuff read ;)

And what was I doing, you ask? Let’s just say that, like you are right now, I was a voyeur.

A Net Presence Ain’t Good For The Body

Let’s start this off with a little techie moan. I love technology but the bitch don’t love me back – she keeps giving me the cold shoulder. It feels almost as if you’re getting somewhere and then – bumpf – you’re bounced out and in free fall mode, getting nowhere fast. It’s a technical K-hole.

Sharing work online - contacting people - adding friends - reviewing images - editing work - diversifying markets - adding layers and ‘depth’ to my page - tagging. We’re a nation, no planet of ------- (add here as appropriate, I’ve got my word) who go from the house to the car; from the car to the office; from the office to the sofa and from the sofa back to bed. And I’m just as bad as everyone else. I spend days looking out the window. The sunlit lawn in my garden taunts me as another day is spent in front of my computer, smoking too hard and drinking too fast.

*** slurps ***

*** burps ***

*** rubs back ***

Really, is it anything more than just staring at a screen, clicking buttons, watching shapes, colours and lights? Just like the nation of Mercer followers in Phil K. Dick's most famous novel – are we nothing more than a sleeping herd, dreaming of electric sheep?

For me this blog’s about trying to re-dress the balance of consumption and creation in my life. Game online, play music, spend money – in short, just clickin the effin’ mouse. I’m doing my best to tame my inner industrial beast.

What am I talking about? I love this!

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