OLD FART

The name of the folder on my hard drive is “old fART” It’s an odd collection of fits and starts of sketches, essays, and random observances (“art” if you will). Most of it dates from the ‘90s, when I was busy running an improv troupe, and thinking very highly of myself. I never have the heart to read or delete any of it, because I want to believe that the ideas are strong, and that I really was a genius back then.

Like any old journal or record of the times, most of it is cringe-worthy, while parts of it evoke a nostalgia for what caused me to start writing about it in the first place. I once had an idea for an all lesbian musical revue called Dykes on Mics. Each sketch was a different “ike” word, including Dykes on Ikes, which was to look at lesbians in the 50s, there were Dykes on Hikes, Strikes, Spikes, you get the idea. Nothing ever came of it, but I still carry the image in my head that inspired it, an ensemble of butch lesbians, dressed in blue jeans, leather jackets, and Doc Martens with lacy ankle socks, doing a synchronized dance while riding tricycles and singing “we are dykes on mics.” Yeah, maybe one day, or maybe that image is enough. 

Certainly when I wrote those things, I imagined the next 15 years would play out a certain way. They most certainly didn’t. I certainly never could have guessed the loops, swerves, loves, and losses that have made my life what it is, and I guess that’s the nostalgia, for that of a 30ish performer who had big dreams and the balls to pursue them. And while part of me spends a little too much time in the bitterness of how those dreams eluded me, the me who wrote that stuff on my monochrome Mac Classic (flying toasters!) still resides in the optimism between the TV Producer, Playwright, and Certified Barista.

I’ve always loved a good cup of coffee. My mother and I used to sit in the morning after my brother and sister went off to school. She’d pour a little percolated goodness in my milk, and we’d read the paper and smoke. Well, she’d smoke. My smoking would come later. A habit I always “hid” from her, because she intimidated the hell out of me. While in college, I discovered The Coffee Connection. I loved that place. I drank Kenya AA every day. No matter how broke I was I never skimped on coffee (or my dog’s food. Trust me, cheap dogfood will make your dog fat and sick – spend the $$ for the good stuff). When Starbucks bought the Connection and eventually obliterated them, my heart broke. I was adrift in mediocre coffee when I discovered Peet’s while living in LA. I was saved, and was thrilled to see they had expanded to Boston when I returned in ’04.

When things were dim on the work front, I decided that it might be fun to learn more about coffee, and took a job in their Lexington (MA) store. I still work there part time, and am still a coffee snob, but have never been a fan of the milk drinks, because let’s face it, they’re not coffee drinks; they’re milk drinks. A medium latte is 2 oz of espresso and 14 oz of milk (technically, some of that is foam, but it’s still a cup full of dairy). With the exception of the temperature, that’s more or less what my mother was serving me when I was 4.

What does all this have to do with art? 1998 was my first visible disdain for the latte culture, and something inspired me to write a spoof barista union newsletter. Rereading it now, 14 years later, I’m tempted to clean it up and make it funnier. However, that doesn’t seem to fair to 30ish me, who had a point to make, no matter how inarticulate. So, here it is, unadorned, just a double shot – no foam, sugar or flavored syrup – drink it quickly, like the Italians, or linger like the French. Or finish it and sit there all day, like Lexingtonians.

written 19 October 1998

The Official Barista Union Page

Latest News & Happenings

•      Full length aprons for fall now in three fashion colours:  Loden, Pumpkin and Ochre

•      Half and Half vs. Cream.  Join us for a lively debate

We are a union divided--geographically so--on this hot button issue.  “I think it really just comes down to texture,” says Norma Bleen of Norman, OK.  Norman being in the midwest, is itself divided.  “Cream leaves your joe a caramel color,” betraying her preference, Norma goes on to say, “that you can tell which part of town somebody’s from by how they order their coffee.  Since we’re in downtown, we just ask, ‘smooth or chunky?’.”

Norma will be speaking at next spring’s Seattle Symposium:  Coffee Domination:  Ain’t nothing wrong with that.

•      Letter from the president--2% taboo

Tips of the Trade

•      Milk steaming safety

The union no longer endorses the “stick your finger in and see if it’s okay” practice to check on steamed milk.  Please use the thermometers.  New ones should be arriving shortly.  The Union thanks and acknowledges Rusty “Thumbs” Riley for his leadership in this area.

•      Gloves a fit for all hands

Taking a page from the exciting world of Golf, the midwest union members can now get tight fitting gloves made from an exciting new polymer developed by Maxwell House.  For years now our upper Great Lakes have been complaining of chapping in winter due to the deadly combination of tumultuous door swinging, steaming milk and cold coins.

•      Multitasking, how to be charming without late lattes

Charm.  Not a quality we’re known for.  It’s sort of part of our charm.  Why pay $2 for a steaming cuppa joe if you can’t have hardy handful of attitude served up with it?  When that morning rush comes and the lowfat halfcaf lattes are piling up, what do you do?  In order to fully address the question, we spoke to two of our liaisons. 

First Dennis Dupree who works for a major chain. 

We’re not supposed to have ‘tude.  If people want tude chances are they’ll patronize a real coffee hut. So we need to be chipper or no tips.  My trick for joy in the face of YUPPIES who are making more money than I’ll ever see is to swallow my anger and resentment.  I try to get there first thing in the morning, and make my self the most expensive roast  in the house and smile involuntarily from the high grade caffeine coursing through me.  It helps me feel superior without being patronizing.  I say helpful things like, “Enjoy the commute”, “Nice tie” these things remind me that I can be happy at a minimum wage (minus dues) since none of my clothes need to be dry cleaned.  I try to think about my guitar.

Crystal Brandiron who works at the Dire Cafe in Cambridge, MA, has this to say:

I have in intimidating tattoo on my right forearm.  I just roll my eyes at the customers and tell them to try and have a great day despite themselves.  And, I’m convinced it’s what keeps them coming back.  When we’re really busy, I always try and say something politically incorrect about their appearance.  Since we’re in Cambridge, I can count on their being so shocked, they can’t cope with their change and just drop it in the jar.

•      Strike Information

Happily, there are no strikes to report.  However, unrest is brewing in several geographical areas.  The fall cider season has made its usual dent in coffee sales. In Appleton, WI (coincidence?) Plotsky’s Lube and Joe reported double cupping on cider.  “Cider just doesn’t get that hot,” said Frank von Bruegger, aka Midwest Watchdog.  We’ll keep you up on developments.

Benefits Update

•      3rd Degree burns are now 100% covered

Thanks to a valiant effort leads by Rusty “Thumbs” Riley, a barista in Reno, NV.  Our health plan now recognizes both the common occurrence and the severity of such burns.  Health plan representative Dr. Arnold Profit calmly stated that he was confused and thought “1st degree were the bad ones,” and has thus flipped his policy.  So, stay out of the sun (as if) cause 1st degree burns can only now be treated with Solarcane, Noxema and Sour Cream.

•      Chamomile is a now available without a prescription

In a related note--to keep our overwrought caffeinated coffee constructors calm, dosages of Chamomile can now be found in every Zee First Aid Kit next to the Pain Aid.  Please do not touch the tea in the store, it is for the customers, and reportedly, a placebo.

•      Fee free coin wrappers available at the Credit Union

Roll those tips in style!  Free wrappers in fashion colors at the Barista Credit Union.  Also low low interest rates (15%-18%) for members needing a auto loans. 

OTHER PEOPLE'S CHILDREN

It begins around 40.  That ticking sound that started at 35 gets louder.  Whoops!  Forgot to have children. 

Now, as a lesbian, having kids is a little trickier since accidental pregnancies tend to not happen. Besides, I’d have to be really drunk.  Like that one time college.  Hey, we all experiment. 

Anyway, around 40, for those of us who expected to have kids by now and find ourselves without any, the ticking reaches a point of distraction.  So we consider the options:

1.     Anonymous donor/sperm bank which is kind of like a one night stand without the walk of shame.  But 50 thousand dollars? If I had that kind of dough, I sure as hell wouldn’t waste it on sperm, especially when there’s so much of it lying around. 

Which leads to the second option.

2.     Begin the mental inventory of male friends.  Who’s married?  Who’s single?  Old enough to remember “The Big Chill?”  Who’s Successful?  Artsy?  Who’s open minded enough to participate in this kind of life changing experience?  Should he be involved beyond donation?  So many questions.  Eventually leading this single girl to a drink and a cigarette – two things apparently frowned upon during pregnancy - puritans.

3.     Adopt one of them made in China models.

4.     Meet a woman who has already done the work.

It began innocently enough.  She was only 8.  Hmm…that doesn’t sound innocent at all, does it?  Let me rephrase, I met a woman who had an 8 year old daughter.  Let’s call her “Punky.”  Punky thought I started coming around the house to hang out with her while her mother cooked dinner.  It was fun.  We’d watch public television together, participate in learning crafts, and read.  Wrestling was frowned upon as promoting violence but we still managed a few body slams now and then. The next thing I knew, we started to become pals.  Until…Punky caught her mom and I stealing a smooch in the kitchen.  Not a big smooch, but a smooch nonetheless. 

And that’s how the war began.

Like most wars, this one was about territory.  And after a lifetime of absolute power, this princess wasn’t about to cede one iota of the kingdom. 

I never had a chance.  But that didn’t stop me. 

Reasoning with an 8 year old is an exercise in crazy, so explaining that adding me to the equation actually meant more love, not less, was interpreted as “I’m taking your mother and putting you on the next boat back to China!  bwahh hah ha…

I needed a new approach.  I resorted to bribes and trickery.

I happened to working for PBS on a kids show at the time, so needless to say, Punky was the Princess of Swag.  She was outfitted with hats, t-shirts, posters, pencils, stickers and anything else I could lift from the foundation.  Her response, “I love Ruff Ruffman.”  Then.  “But I still hate you!” 

When that blatant attempt failed, I began to feign interest in soccer.  Because really, what’s better than setting your alarm for 7am on a Saturday to watch a bunch of kids who barely understand the rules of Red Rover engage in a complex game of passing and goal scoring?  Week after week I saw a group of frustrated sweaty kids who for the love of God, should be home watching cartoons and eating Cap’n Crunch.  Plus there’s the added bonus of being an object of wonder.  Obviously, mom’s been coming to these games alone all year…they’re not sisters…ooh, lesbians.  How exotic.  Our politically correct exterior is compromised by our traditional upbringing.  Cognitive dissonance takes over so they say nothing, and stare.  And at least in the case of the fathers, and maybe one hot mom, imagine what we do in bed.

After about six months, Punky realized I was in it to win it.  I picked her up from soccer practice one day and we stopped at a local BBQ place for take out.  On the way over she complained that my car smelled like coffee, the radio was too loud and that I was not to speak to her.  After we ordered and were waiting for our food, there was one stool open by the window.  I offered it to her, but she refused, so I sat down.  As we waited, and she looked at everything but me, I could see how tired she was.  I sat there quietly, and the next thing I knew, Punky came over and rested on me.  For 15 seconds she was my kid.  This battle was mine.  But the war raged on. 

Even though she was not my girlfriend’s biological child, Punky learned a lot from her mother, especially when it came to trust. Every step closer - like that one - was met with tremendous recoil.  So every time Punky let me in, she’d push me back twice as hard – just like mom. 

Here’s a lesson for all you would be step-parents, pointing out this mirror pattern of behavior in answer to the question, “Do you think I’m a good mother?” is always a bad idea.

And so on it went.  Punky’s Sherman marching through my Atlanta.  I hate you, you’re not my mother, you can’t tell me what to do, you’ll never move in here, you’ll never marry my mom, I never loved you, I was lying, blah blah blah.  

I needed to retreat.  But there was nowhere to go. 

Mom defended Punky’s actions by suggesting I was assigning adult motives to a child.  I don’t know, she seemed pretty damn immature to me.  My suggesting she lend diplomatic relations to the turmoil turned into my making her choose between myself and Punky.  Speaking of childish motives!  Mom liked to point out that my “lack of compassion” stemmed from my not having children of my own.  Note to all of you single parents out there looking for love.  Saying, “You don’t understand; you don’t have children” is never going to make things better.

No, I may not have children, but I have been on the planet long enough to gain a little insight into the parent/child dynamic.  And whether they’re homemade or store bought, they’re still a reflection of you.  So the next time you’re wondering why Punky’s such a pain in the ass, and ruining your love life - look in the mirror. 

Cause I’m telling you – first hand – nobody can break your heart like a kid.

12 THINGS I LEARNED FROM RUDOLPH THE RED NOSED REINDEER

From the day he was born, Rudolph was shunned by his own father and the local industry boss for, as the talking snowman put it, “his nonconformity.”  In spite of his mother’s protests, his father forces his son to “pass” among his peers.

Lesson 1:  Looking different = bad. 

Meanwhile up in Santa’s Castle, poor Hermie is forced to make toys when he’d rather be a dentist.

Lesson 2:  Individuality = bad.

Lesson 3:  Misfits find solace in song.

In spite of his innate talent, Rudolph is ridiculed by his peers, his coach and his father.  He is ousted from the reindeer games.

Hermie attempts to find a way to use his skill set within the confines of his workplace, by giving dolls teeth.  He is punished by his boss and laughed at by his fellow elves.

Lesson 4:  Peer pressure’s a bitch, and authority figures are narrow minded - no matter what your species.

Lesson 5:  The talking snowman is a pussy.

They see no choice but to leave.  Eventually they cross paths with a prospector who offers them passage on his dog sled.

Lesson 6: Road trips are much more interesting when traveling in the company of a crazy man carrying a gun and pick axe.

After getting lost in a fog as thick as peanut butter, our heroes stumble into a world as strange as they are and meet a jack in the box in drag.

Lesson 7:  Island of Misfit Toys = Provincetown.

Not wanting to endanger his friends, Rudolph leaves the Island, goes through puberty and decides to come home, only to find his parents gone.  Santa, instead of offering help, ostensibly tells Rudolph that his folks, and girlfriend, are probably dead, there may not be Christmas, and it’s all his fault.

Lesson 8:  Santa is a Narcissist.

Rudolph finds his mother and Clarisse trapped in the cave of the Abominable.  He valiantly tries to free them but gets bashed.  Hermie and Yukon arrive right on time and devise a plan to trick the beast.  It works, and all are saved.

Lesson 9:  See Lesson 6.

Everybody witnesses Yukon’s horrible death.  Traumatized, they return to Christmastown.  Santa, Donner, Head Elf guy act contrite.  Yukon, it turns out, miraculously survived falling off a cliff, and shows up at Santa’s Castle during a terrible storm.

Lesson 10:  It takes an Epic journey to teach a town about tolerance.

Lesson 11:  Bumbles bounce.

Finally, Rudolph saves Christmas with his Red Nose serving as Santa’s headlight.

Lesson 12:  Nobody likes you until you have something they need.  Then you’re a freakin’ hero. 

A MOVING EXPERIENCE

Why do we move?  For most of us over 40, it’s because we have to.  The landlord’s jacked the rent, or our small house can’t contain our growing family.  A new job, or a new relationship.  And sometimes, in the case of a few too many friends, marriages ending. 

Mention moving to just about anybody, and the response is often a shudder.  “Moving sucks.” 

I have been in my apartment – the first floor of a two-family house – in bucolic Belmont, MA, for more than six years.  I moved here from Los Angeles.  I found the place on line, had a friend check it out, and lo and behold I was home.  When I arrived, I thought I’d be here for a year or two, then I’d meet the right person and we’d buy ourselves a little bungalow somewhere. 

Instead, I’m divorcing myself.  And it feels really, really good. 

I had been thinking about leaving this place, but couldn’t find a better set up than the one I had.  Inertia had convinced me that I wasn’t going anywhere.  Then a friend showed up at my door with a proposal.  That we combine resources and get a place bigger than either one of us could have on our own.  We started looking, and hit the jackpot on our second spin.

So, as I sit among boxes filled with belongings, debating about when to wrap up the dishes and cookware and convert to take out and paper plates, I am filled with joy.

Moving has been a regular part of my life.  By the time I had completed high school in Chicago, I had attended 5 grammar schools, 2 junior high schools and lived at 7 different addresses in two major cities (Chicago and Miami).  I moved to Boston to attend college, and like the rest of my friends, moved around steadily through my mid 20s – on campus, off campus, Allston, Brighton, Brookline, a brief domestic partnership in Belmont, an artist’s life in Somerville…and eventually out west, where, after a tumultuous first year, I landed in a West Hollywood apartment for about 5 years.

I chalked it up to gypsy blood. 

But this move is different.  This move finds me letting go of my past in a way other moves have not.  While I’ve never been a pack rat, I’ve held onto stuff.  Stuff I don’t need, stuff I don’t even necessarily like.  Stuff that makes me think of other things.  Of people, of times, of places that they represent.  An odd collection of souvenirs from all my previous addresses. 

When I was in high school (I only attended one high school, but moved during my senior year), my very sweet and very tall boyfriend fancied himself an audiophile.  He had purchased a new stereo and was explaining its components to me.  I was jealous.  I was drooling.  I had a job and I wanted a stereo, just like Michael’s. 

He took me to United Audio in Chicago’s Lincoln Village, where a large, gregarious salesman extolled the virtues of a 22 watt per channel Sony analog receiver – the same one Michael had.  There were two inputs – one for phono; one for tape.  I’ll take it, along with turntable and speakers, please.  (The tapedeck would come later, after a few more paychecks).

Then somebody invented CDs. 

I had to upgrade, but I couldn’t bring myself to part with that Sony.  I loved its silver case, its horizontal AM/FM dial.  The little red preset lights.  Its simple elegance.  I told myself that one day I would use it again.  As a radio, or I’d put in the basement and teach the kids about records and needles and flipsides.

I sealed it in a box.  I took it to LA.  I brought it back. 

Finally, I concluded that whether or not I ever get that rec room, it’s time for the Sony receiver to go.  I made the guy on freecycle who wanted it promise me that he would take care of it.  He did.  Whether he does or not, isn’t my concern.  We’re divorced.  And it feels good. 

Moving is a beautiful opportunity to take inventory, to think about what we have and what we need.  What we like, and what we hang onto out of habit.  It’s a chance to redefine, to restate, to prune, to rid ourselves of ballast and take control of our environment.

It’s so easy to accumulate, and so difficult to set free.  Perhaps because we live in such lean times that excess feels excessive or perhaps as I get older, I’m less trapped by the trappings, and have changed my mind about what’s really important, and what is simply folly.

I kept Michael’s love letters.

Nobody says it better than this man.  George Carlin – a place for your stuff

 

5 YEARS, STILL NO MAILBOXES

It took me until the last night in New Orleans to finally get that post card written.  Properly stained with hot sauce and Abita beer, the image of a crayfish boil and Mardi Gras beads was stamped and ready.  Heading towards the hotel from Café du Monde, I was confounded by the lack of mailboxes in the French Quarter.  One would expect that the area with the highest concentration of tourists would have a few around for exactly this purpose.  The front desk clerk informed me, “No mailboxes since Katrina.”

What a simple thing.  What a simple gigantic thing.  My mind wandered back to those devastating days at the end of the summer of 2005.  To streams of bodies, people on rooftops, the Superdome.  The chaos, the corruption, the catastrophe.  The failure of everything from the levees, to the local authorities, to the feds.  FEMA trailers.  And here we were, in a post jazz fest haze with powdered sugar on our shorts, just like every other damned tourist. 

But were we damned?  Musicians, club owners, proprietors of all stripes thanked us for our help.  Thanked us for our money, for returning, for rebuilding, and for not letting their city die.

The Gentilly Stage

When you go to New Orleans for the Jazz & Heritage Festival, you can’t hide who are.  Shorts reveal alabaster legs.  Portable chairs and jaunty hats reveal your destination.  Open your mouth to a taxi driver or bartender and “ain’t from here” falls right out.  T-shirts from previous festivals reveal dedication.  Dedication to music, dedication to food, dedication to a place unlike any other.  Even in the hurricane (the kind you drink) soaked French Quarter, you can feel the pulse of a city with its own unique quantum signature.

Routes to and from the festival varied with the taxi drivers, some stuck to the main thoroughfares, while others took shortcuts through less redeveloped neighborhoods.  There were still plenty of houses boarded up, marked with high water rings and spray painted with X codes.  Remnants of the storm weren’t always readily visible, but they were there, even as the drunk girl  from Kansas, sitting on her mother’s lap, endlessly rambling about how this was her first time in New Orleans, tried to distract. 

But in May, the real distraction was in the Gulf of Mexico.  A city still on its knees, kicked once again by a disaster made worse by man’s inability to contain it.  During the course of a single conversation, I heard how a man weathered the storm, rebuilt his house (17 feet of water), and whose livelihood now hangs in the balance.

With my Midwest roots and New England address, I can’t for a moment pretend to know what means to be from New Orleans.  Chances are I’ll never march in an authentic second line, or take up residence in Bywater, but I could feel the pull that seduces so many into seeking its rarefied air, to imagine oneself immersed in a place so mythic, it almost doesn’t seem real.  New Orleans stays with you long after the coffee trudged home from Café du Monde has been consumed.

And as the world once again watches it recover from a disaster of biblical proportions, my faith is bolstered by a non-scientific, statistically insignificant random sampling of taxi drivers, bar patrons, and local artists who, underneath their differences, all had the same message, “this is home.” 

Allen Toussaint sings "The City of New Orleans" at JazzFest 2010. 

THE LOST INNOCENCE OF LOST INNOCENCE

Fogey alert!  I may have just crossed the line of “darn you kids and your culture,” BUT…

I happened by a classic the other day.  1980’s “Little Darlings” starring Tatum O’Neal, Kristy McNichol and Matt Dillon (also, a young, adorable and naturally blonde Cynthia Nixon as hippie girl “Sunshine”).  For those of you who may have forgotten the details, McNichol plays “streetwise” Angel.  You can tell she’s streetwise by the fact that she is smoking in nearly every scene.  Streetwise kids always smoke.  It’s one of the things that make them streetwise.  Tatum O’Neal smoked in “Paper Moon,” and she was like 7.   She also smoked in “The Bad News Bears.”  However she did not smoke in “Little Darlings” because she represented the rich girl – over educated and snotty.  The movie is rated R, and I’m betting it’s not because of the smoking, but rather the content, which, by today’s standards, is downright prudish.  Which is what got me thinking in the first place.

Anyway, Ferris (O’Neal) and Angel (McNichol) are summer camp rivals, you know being from opposite sides of the tracks and all, who enter into a contest to see who can lose their virginity first.  Ferris immediately sets her sights on the unobtainable adult counselor, Gary, portrayed by a disturbingly hairy Armand Assanti, while Angel rows across the pond to the boys’ camp and finds Randy (Dillon) whose feathered locks are enough to make any girl quake in her tube socks.  Of course, the whole camp is in on it, betting their allowances.  In the end - SPOILER ALERT! – Angel and Randy do it, but Angel lies and said they didn’t, while Ferris and Gary don’t do it, but Ferris lies and says they did. 

I was 14 when this movie came out.  I don’t actually remember seeing it in the theatre, yet it has always been part of my consciousness.  Tatum O’Neal and Kristy McNichol (and for that matter, Jodie Foster, the girls from “The Facts of Life,” and “Square Pegs’” own Sarah Jessica Parker) were about my age.  They were my peers.  When I looked to find myself in the movies and TV, I saw them.  So when it was time for Buddy from “Family” to give it up to the badass from “My Bodyguard,” it’s going to make an impression.  Er, so to speak.

And that’s my point!  The double entendre.  The wordplay, the dirty overtones to every sentence spoken.  Those did not exist in this movie.  As Randy and Angel started to have real feelings for each other they got emotional and weird.  They cried, they didn’t communicate, they acted like 15 year olds who are in over their heads.  I found myself thinking about the movie “Juno,” and how everything that came out of Ellen Page’s mouth was precious.  Here was this pregnant girl endlessly quipping, while Angel used smoking a cigarette to stall the eventuality of having to take off her clothes.  “Juno,” for the record, is rated PG-13.

Meanwhile Ferris played at sophistication while chasing an older man.  She pretends to drown; she shows up at his cabin in a nightgown.  Not a negligee but a nightgown, like a proper 15 year old wore in 1980.  His treatment of her was respectful and sweet.  Her lie to the campers was romantic and exactly what they wanted to hear.  The contrast between the fantasy and reality of sex when you’re not ready for it are played out starkly and emotionally.  Ferris has no idea that she’s implicated Gary in statutory rape and it’s not until he spells it out for her that she even gets an inkling of where her misguided crush could have led.

As they age, movies become not only cultural reflections of the time were made, but reflections of how the movies themselves were made at the time.  There was nothing fancy about this film.  The pace was slow, and the camerawork unobtrusive and simple.  The soundtrack wasn’t chock full of late ‘70s hits (it consisted of 6 songs, two of which have subsequently been cut, probably for rights issues.  However, “Let Your Love Flow” played over the end credits).  It was just a little movie about two little girls and one big issue, and all of the awkwardness and discomfort that surrounds it.  The fact that Angel and Randy even had sex is only implied by the post coital jeans buttoning and the bewildered look on their faces.  Angel’s disappointment that it wasn’t what she thought it would be only reiterates how little we knew back then, when the only authority we could trust for all things sexual was Judy Blume. 

Today's parents are much more open and honest with their kids about sex than ours were with us.  As standards and taboos have changed, 15 year olds have been exposed to way more sexualized content than we ever were.  It takes a lot more work to surprise them.  At the same time, there’s something to be said for seriousness of sexual contact.  Because for as glib as we all like to be about it now, we sure as hell weren’t then.    

IMDB currently lists a Little Darlings 2011 in preproduction with JJ Abrams as the producer.  I don’t know why Hollywood feels compelled to remake so many films when there are so many original works being ignored.  Well, of course I do, they have a built in audience of GenXers taking their kids to see the films that defined our own teenage years.  Double dip admission.  If it does get made, I sincerely hope he can capture the true confusion and consequences of losing your virginity before you're emotionally ready to handle it.  Since it’s listed as a comedy, I doubt it.

I imagine they’ll cut the smoking, though.  You know, to keep it PG-13.

SEX & THE CITY 2

**Contains Spoilers** as if there was actually a plot.

As the lights dimmed and the opening credits started for the first Sex & The City movie, my silenced cell phone lit up.  I saw my sister’s name and knew the news wasn’t good.  In her no BS way, she simply reported, in true Fischer fashion, “Our mother is dead.”  My 76-year-old mother had a stroke earlier that day, and I was a thousand miles away.  I already had a ticket to fly to Chicago in a few days, and after some debate, we decided she would get through this one as she had the other scares, and I should come in as scheduled.  She didn’t.  At 8:30pm on Saturday, June 7^th, 2008, I was faced with a choice.  A silly choice, but a choice.  Do I sit through Carrie & Company or do I leave?  Leave and do what, exactly?  It was date night.  My girlfriend at the time had gotten a sitter for her 8-year-old.  Our relationship was in trouble and the strain of my mother’s declining health was pushing us to our emotional limits.  I had made my way into the lobby of the Harvard Square theatre to finish the call and sat there, alone, staring into space.  I could hear that the movie had started.  I thought about my mother.  How she worked for years in designer sportswear at Bonwit Teller and then in couture handbags at Marshall Fields.  I thought, who better to spend time with than four ladies who love beautiful clothes as much as she did?  I went back into the theatre and slumped into my chair.  I really wanted to get lost in the fantasy of Carrie’s wedding to Big, but the distraction of the day’s events made for a more compelling movie in my head.  I sat there in a daze, thankful to not have to interact with anybody.  I remember thinking, “this movie isn’t very good,” but chalked it up to circumstance.  Girlfriend was little comfort, and less than two days later, on the night before I was to leave for Chicago for my mother’s funeral, we broke up.

A few months later, when the movie showed up on HBO, I tuned in and realized that even through my crazy grief filter, I was right.  It wasn’t very good.  It wasn’t terrible, but it was too long, and Carrie and Big didn’t seem like a plausible couple to me.  Their whole wedding debacle made me question the viability of a love that could turn so quickly.  Still smarting from my own love gone wrong, I was far more interested in Miranda and Steve.  Could they overcome true betrayal?  But as a fan of the show (I own all 6 seasons), I know that in Carrie’s heightened world, the emotional hard work comes in third behind Girl Power and Fashion Week.  Carrie seemed shrill and shallow in contrast to her friends who had moved from party-girl-ville to hot-mom-land.  Even Samantha’s story – that she couldn’t commit to Smith – seemed to be coming from a place of truth.  A sweet city hall ceremony and brunch with the gang was a fitting end to these ladies and their stories. 

Bringing Carrie to the big screen proved once again that there are women who will spend money to see movies.  It’s no secret that the over 40 (30?) female demographic is considered non existent by Hollywood standards, but there are a lot of us out there the same age as Carrie, who want more than just a chick flick.  And while the S&TC franchise doesn’t ask a lot from its fans, it seems to appreciate how invested we are in the characters.

And so, upon the success of the first movie, a second was commissioned. 

It’s been said that the women of S&TC behave like gay men.  If this is true, then the characters who showed up for the sequel were four tired old queens.  What a bunch of miserable, shallow, shrill, unlikeable group they’ve become.  Miranda and Charlotte being the least offensive, I think because they were allowed to mature a wee bit.  Their relationships with their husbands and children are complicated and messy in spite of being portrayed as one dimensional.  As fans who’ve “known” them for so many years, we can accept the conceit of Charlotte baking cupcakes in vintage Valentino, and Miranda suddenly in a position where she’s being treated misogynistically , because of the knowledge we bring with us when we enter their world.  Women in their 40s can relate to them on some level, even those without nannies.

But Carrie and Samantha remained stuck, selfish and immature.  Their disrespect to the culture they were visiting was probably intended as high camp, but instead came across as lowbrow.  I am not easily offended, but really, Samantha?  Flipping off an entire crowd of Arab men?  Using menopause as an excuse for such loutish behavior?  And Carrie, a few nights at home on the couch and suddenly your life is over?  You run into Aiden 6,000 miles from home and can’t manage to behave like an adult?  I never liked Carrie and Aiden together.  They never had any energy as a couple.  They had nothing in common, they shared no mutual interests, and they had conflicting lifestyles.  I could accept that ridiculous kiss if there was an iota of chemistry between them.

And yet, the most egregious offense of Sex & The City 2, was not Stanford and Anthony’s big gay wedding, the lack of a real plot, or the bloated running time, it was the fact that the City wasn’t New York.  I’ve seen interviews where the setting is rationalized as a backdrop for an escapist fantasy.  Er, the entire series was an escapist fantasy.  But what made it real, was four modern archetypes finding themselves in a city where it’s easy to get lost.  By taking away the character of New York City, and replacing it with Abu Dhabi, we are left with a sophomoric at best, and at worst, an insulting “fish out of water” story.  The ladies deserve better than that.  And so does the audience.

Somewhere between Samantha giving a blow job to a hookah pipe, and Carrie’s “race” to find her passport (exactly where she left it…big wow), I found myself hoping my phone would ring.