Rocky Horror for the Pussed? 


I
had the misfortune of seeing a group of mammals in the wild, an
occurrence that set back my internal man clock back approximately
eleven years and four months. Set me back I tell you. Back to a time
when I was a little less desensitized to the world around me and when
what immediately popped up in my head made its way to my mouth sans
filter. A purer time when the fuse was a lot shorter and the tolerance
levels were nonexistent.

Women.
Wealthy, tanned, enhanced women en masse. Oprah’s Army. The Estrogen
Entourage. Sipping margaritas on the rooftop bar, wearing colorful
feather boas and gossiping like it was going out of style. Which it
sadly never is. There was at least thirty women all gathered with this
event in mind as they got geared up for a ladies night at Sex & the City.
They spoke of tennis [shocker!], automobiles [one was disappointed in
the big red Hummer her husband bought her], and of the lovely night out
they ladies were having while the husbands were forced to stay at home
and I dunno… sip aged scotch from crystal decanters while the maids
tended to the children.

I
quietly enjoyed my own beverage, listened to the hired musician butcher
‘Sara Smile’, and waited for them to leave so I could light up a cigar
and enjoy it without invoking their ire. They could take me, no doubt.
I bitch and moan here but as a collective unit they could swarm me and
have me skinned and deboned in fifteen seconds flat. They learned how
to do this to men in The Secret.

After
they left, another similar group formed sans feather boas but with the
same goal in mind. In fact, I was going to be seeing the movie with my
wife but the idea of large groups of women massing [near Sullast] to
see the rather shitty feature film continuation of the TV show somehow
chafed me. Questions brewed:
  • Do these people not deserve their own film to flock to as a group and revisit?

  • Aren’t
    guys worse with their Men’s Groups at church, their beer-centric
    Cro-Magnon shindigs, and their pilgrimages to Adam Sandler and Will
    Ferrell movies?

  • Myself excluded, isn’t Sex & the City a safe haven away from the prying eyes of straight men?

  • Haven’t
    these women earned the right, having put up with countless hours of
    tanning, skin care, hair care, meetings with the surrogate mother
    who’ll carry their kid and postpartum stretchmarks, and tennis lessons
    with Clive the chiseled? It’s THEIR time, dammit!.

I
saw a microcosm. Most of the people flocking to see the film [which
dipped dramatically in its second week, which is a nice sign] aren’t
cold and fiercely synthetic social animals like the ones I witnessed
but I did shiver a little at the thought of this film in particular
having some sort of long term Rocky Horror-esque
where masses of the worst sorts of ladies convene to mimic the annoying
excited greeting screams of the onscreen quartet of broads, gasp at the
rock hard abs of the Grecian next door neighbor, raise a drink every
time the cast does, name drop the fashion brand names as they appear
onscreen, and do a shot every time something happens onscreen that
makes my sperm die.

It’s
a horrific thought made even more horrific at the the idea that a
scarily emaciated Sarah Jessica Parker [who I grew up loving] is sort
of a role model to her audience. Her Carrie Bradshaw with her extreme
gauntness and overt make-up give ol’ Dr. Frank-N-Furter a run for his
money in the creepy department and still she is the image of what a
young girl might want to strive for. She’s wealthy, popular, in demand,
and you can watch a chicken nugget work its way through her system
through her clothing thanks to -0.5% body fat. What’s not to like?

Everything.
I own every episode of Sex & the City on DVD and enjoyed the show
but the movie and all it represents can plain fuck off.

- Nick Nunziata wishes he could turn feather boas into real boas.

Before
I go, here’s the latest thing I’m adding to the blog. Each day I’ll
have a song, a piece of artwork, a photo, a Mary Worth, or something to
further justify your click and to give the trolls a little more ammo.
Today, another perverted Art Jam between myself and real artist Andrea Rothe. Click the image for ENLARGE
:


Artwork by Nick Nunziata & Andrea Rothe.