Metrosexual Risingposted by Jazz at 2/13/2005 08:11:00 AM
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This looming crisis comes as a result of yet another unintended and unforeseen consequence of joining Netflix. I knew I wanted to participate in this new media delivery experiment because of the dozens upon dozens of potentially watchable movies which come out every year which I fail to see, generally because of:
- a lack of time
- having no interest in sitting in crowded theatres
- a complete failure of Georg and I to agree on more than two movies per year which we're willing to sit through together.
I love gangster movies, so I was positive that I was going to be checking out the Sopranos. And I had every good intention of doing so. However, three different (male!) friends at work had been telling me that I should look into Sex and the City. I was reluctant at first.
"But," I reasoned to myself, "it's an excuse to see Sarah Jessica Parker, Kim Cattrall, Kristin Davis and Cynthia Nixon naked, so... what the hell"? (Side note for the prurient at heart: there really isn't all that much nudity, at least in season one, and I don't think Parker gets undressed at all.)
That's when I fell into the metrosexual trap. While the first episode of season one seemed a bit weak (mostly, I think, because you're getting to know the characters) I gave it a chance and watched a couple more. Before I knew it I had watched the entire first season over a period of a few days and had already moved season two up to the top of my Netflix queue.
It wasn't the potential sexual allure. It wasn't any one particular actor or actress. It was the writing, plain and simple. I was bombarded with so many memorable, side splitting quotes that I gave up trying to write them down to remember them.
("There are 1.3 million single men and 1.8 million single women in New York. As of the last census, twelve of them thought they were getting enough sex.")
Once the characters were developed they became engaging and fascinating, but the writing is what carried the day. Thoughts of the Sopranos were pushed from my mind, as well as much further down in my order queue, and I realized that I was hooked.
So... next time you're heading to Manhattan be sure to give me a call. We'll hook up for a double-cream half-caf triple cinnamon espresso grande and bemoan the ending of the series while reliving the exploits of the girls. If, however, I show up in a kilt... just shoot me and run for your life.