Just Jew It

At first they appear a very easy target. Jews for Jesus? The mere absurdity of their name is so illogical they pose little threat. However the name is exactly what pulls you in. It doesn’t have that obscure prowess of the “Latter Day Saints” or “Jehovah Witnesses”. This is a punchy name that not only makes you think but also gives you the intellectual confidence to ask questions. How malevolent can a religious organization be that is not even theoretically rooted in their own name? Surely this is a chance to verbally bury these Jesus pushers once and for all. However, Jews for Jesus is just a crafty disguise for their real identities, the scariest of them all, Evangelical Christians.

With their new 1.4 million dollar campaign in New York City, Jews for Jesus have not only proven to be dead serious, they have staked out a place next to other wealthy religious converters. Lets face it conversion is a business. And Jesus is not the easy sell he used to be. The competition is thick and the demand is expanding right along with the market. With the Mormons and Scientologists practically growing money on trees, this is a holy war that relies on weapons familiar to the church, PR and media. The Jews for Jesus have taken it one step further, the old bait and switch.

Regardless of the Jews for Jesus’s on target tactics, their message still remains unclear. And although I would like to act like I have them all figured out, in all honesty I am bitter about their mystique. Are these Jews just over-achieving Christian converters, once Jews, now saved and looking to bring some of their old cohorts with them? Whatever the case, I know one thing about human nature. If someone possesses privileged information for example the winning lottery numbers, they do not share it with just anyone let alone shove it down your throat. It also follows that if you are really confident in your beliefs you don’t have to constantly reassure yourself with the comfort of convincing others.

Just once I would like the evangelicals to look at me and think “There goes a sinner now and she looks too far gone for me to try or even want her on my side.” Because as a good business person knows you need exclusivity to distinguish yourself as the better product. I know the Jews for Jesus might preach that God’s kingdom is vast and all are welcome. But lets say they did convert every damned person on this earth their righteousness would lose its luster. I think the Jews for Jesus should thank me when I walk past them in the subway for being evil and in effect making them look so good. But they never will. They are preoccupied with the long expensive process of trying to convert themselves.

Kabbalah Blah Blah Blah

In Madonna’s newest attempt to relive the glory days she has released a documentary revolving around her glitzy tours, her eccentric dancers and her larger than life personality. Sound familiar? Only this time, as a spiritually awakened married mother of two, Madonna is not asking us to simply look at her. We are now asked to listen closely because, as the title of this Truth or Dare sequel explains she is… “Going to Tell You a Secret”.

First and foremost, there is no sort of mystery that revolves around Madonna and I can’t imagine her having any secrets left to tell. However, part of her genius lies in the fact that she is the only star to date who does not suffer from being grossly overexposed. I happen to know that Madonna used to sleep with her landlord to pay rent, that she eats Hot Tamales when she craves something sweet and she has a gold plated eyelash curler. And I am not even a huge fan.

The movie begins on par with her hiring dancers all with glowing individualism. The dancer’s instantly bond and start hamming it up for the camera. Then onto the tour, Madonna prays before they go on stage. She wows us with her yoga moves. We get to see her bark orders while she gets her makeup done. All her gays laugh at her lame jokes. And finally, Madonna reads her poems with rhymes like Dr Seuss.

At first the only real difference from “Truth or Dare” is the appearance of her family. A goofy Guy Ritchie, a smart as a whip Lourdes and a darling destructive little boy Rocco, prove to be charming additions. Of course the meat of this movie is in the stage performances. After all this is what Madonna does best, this is why she is famous. It is so sad when famous people like Madonna don’t think their talents are enough and do not feel spiritually whole by just simply entertaining. And so the guru, the flaky religion and the insurmountable ego come out to play and boy does it ever.

“I don’t miss being an idiot,” Madonna says to the camera, speaking about how she used to be before Kabbalah, before she started trying to get “closer to the light.” She also has her guru come on to explain the essentials of Kabbalah and what Madonna has learned. Which is basically a bare bones how to, on being human. I wonder has Madonna ever come across the saying “Treat others how you would want to be treated?” Because she speaks of her realizations as if she is the first to discover that if you are mean to someone, well, they are going to be mean back.

However this isn’t offensive, this is typical. Every Kabbalah lesson she condescendingly graces us with is nothing compared to when she actually takes a trip to Israel and gives a speech on how there can be peace between Muslims and Jews. As if decades of conflict, war and blood shed could be solved by a visit from a mega celebrity. She might as well have stood in the middle of the Gaza Strip and tried to inspire everyone by singing “Holiday.” “I am not here representing a religion,” Madonna says, modestly dressed and nervously ringing her hands at the podium. “I am here as a student of Kabbalah.” She then goes on to suggest that if everyone in Israel started to see this messy old situation through the eyes of a child, things would like get better. This is because children know no prejudices and they don’t know who is Muslim and who is Jewish.

At the end of this mortifying movie two kids, one dressed as a Muslim one as a Jew, walk arm and arm into the sunset and Madonna whispers “Now do you know my secret?” Yes, thank you Madonna, it is very clear what you have become.

Gorillaz In The Mist

When reading the reviews of the Gorillaz performance at the Apollo Theater, it seems that Sunday night was press night, and unfortunately for the Gorillaz this was the night that they experienced technical difficulties. The Gorillaz decide to play at an ancient theater effectively bringing loads of money to a historical site that is still undergoing renovations, and when something goes a bit wrong with the technology, the critics are outraged? Is the Gorillaz music nothing without its animation? When the animation was introduced in hopes of making it more about the music and not the personas in the band. Once again the genius of Damon Albarn is overshadowed by the critics constantly shifting focus, I am sorry that Damon has exercised some bratty behavior in the past in his band Blur. As someone that attended the show on Wednesday night, I dare to focus solely on the live performance to demonstrate what Albarn seems to be begging for. I will also remain unfettered by the notion of a temperamental rock star and a technological mishap at a 100- year-old theater.

In the past year I have been to several concerts that played the game of “how many people can get on stage at once?” Although I was impressed by the Canadian orgies that are Broken Social Scene and Arcade Fire, as soon as the curtain lifted at the Apollo Theater to reveal a 14 piece string section, five back up singers, three guitarist, two drum sets and an upright piano, I thought, this is how it done. Opening with the “Last Living Souls” the string sections instantly shined with a lush, memorizing sound.

As the concert continued, there was so much to watch on stage, the animation was simply in the background. When I did take a look Jamie Hewlett brilliant creations, I was not disappointed. His dark apocalyptic stories compliment Gorillaz’s music but this was the concert that was purposefully engineered to finally let the fans pay attention to the man behind the curtain, so I did just that. When collaborators on the Demon Days album showed up for guest performances I was fixated.

Nenah Cherry, Ike Turner, De La Soul, Roots Manuva and Dennis Hooper, to perform spoken word, were all in enthusiastic attendance. No matter how short their performance it was sticking to show’s commitment to keep every note live and authentic to the album. Sure they could have petitioned one woman and one rapper to do every little part, but this would take away from the point of a collaboration, The Gorillaz’s were smart to take advantage of the only venue and city that could accommodate these fine details

The stage reached full capacity when first a children’s gospel choir, and then an adult gospel choir came out to sing and dance. Their non-celebrity status and their, “we don’t give a fuck” spastic dancing, made the crowd even wilder then Hopper and Turner. Throughout the concert Albarn remained unlit at his upright piano, and from time to time he would awkwardly bounce up and down on his bench. When is came time for the encore, after a couple Gorillaz puppets were ironically controlling the crowds applause, the curtain opened a second time and Albarn could be seen kneeling next to a drum set with his head down. It was if he was mentally preparing himself before he sang his only song with the spotlight on him. Perhaps the years of bad press paralyzed this poor man. Surprisingly he managed to exude a comfortable stage presence, but I have a feeling it took every muscle in his body.


I thought long and hard about how heavily the animation weighed on the overall entertainment of this concert. If I had been there on Wednesday night would I have joined the critics in their unsympathetic pans? I say no. The animation is for the videos, the packaging, and to be used as a disguise. At the Apollo theater, Oz was revealed live, who needs the projection.

Penis Party with Lips

I started the night thinking I wouldn’t have much fun at all. How I went from being a Bachelorette Party Girl for my Halloween costume effectively making fun of the entire tradition, to dusting off the very same flashing penis veil I wore that night to adorn my own cousin’s head, I am not sure. My cousin is getting married at the beginning of April and when her finance and ten of his closest buddies boarded a plane to Las Vegas and her party was no where in sight, I folded. But if I was going to throw a bachelorette party it was going to be the most tasteless, most obnoxious party that I could possibly devise, and that’s how I and 13 friends ended up at Lips (a drag queen joint in the West Village).

When we rolled up to Lips last Saturday night and saw a stretch hummer limo parked out front we knew we were in the right place. Why is it that bachelorettes commonly call on the entertainment of drag queens while bachelors go for the strippers? I can only assume that drag queens are seen (mostly by conservative types) as novel, naughty and risqué. Before Saturday I would have scoffed at this notion, surely it can get a lot crazier and glamorous than a bunch of overweight men packaging their meaty thighs into pantyhose like sausage links. And upon arrival my cast of atypical bachelorette party goers, consisting of about 3 straight women, 7 gay men and a lesbian hipster, were looking at a circus they have all seen before, no novelty applied. As my one friend quipped “This place reminds me of the Denny’s in LA.”

Lips is a dark pink cafeteria, the ambiance was lent to two disco balls and a rotating, multi-colored spherical light that indicated when a show was about to start, while adding the element of artificial chaos…those crazy drag queens. The first thing I noticed is there was no stage, and not much room at all to even sashe, shante. After we were seated by Epiphany, our waitress, Peppermint, came over to get our drink orders. Because it was $30.00 a head for an open bar for three hours we proceeded to order only these two drinks, the Lips Ice Tea and the Dragaritas for the rest of the night, sometimes two at a time.

Several of these disgusting pink drinks later, the sphere light was flicked on and the host of the night (Gusty Winds) put down her bag of Ruffles chips long enough to welcome us and then lip sync a song, a gay favorite, “Big Spender.” Gusty was a husky woman, dressed in a black number a la Dress Barn. Her make up and hair were fittingly over the top, however the performance didn’t match. A few lackadaisical hand movements and only a few attempts to drop it like it was medium more than hot. One was forced to draw talent from her lip syncing abilities, however her darkly lined, puffy puckers proved unappetizing.

The show went on, a couple of slim and sprightly black girls succeeded in watchable choreography. And the most memorable would be the performance by the 6 ft 5in, 300 pound, All Beef Patty. Although a tragic mess she at least took my roommates face and buried it in her man tit cleavage for a good laugh. But sooner than later, I noticed that everything started to become good for a laugh. My friends, a typically rowdy bunch, saw this place as carte blanche to be wholly obnoxious. When Lips was in between shows, we unwittingly became the show. A drag queen came around to make us balloon penises, tits and vaginas. We all cleverly ordered a good ratio of each to then simulate lots of different sexual encounters with our latex appendages.

After my hair got tangled in the twist of the balloon penis that separated the shaft from the head, I decided to check on the bachelorette. The sober, pregnant, bachelorette, was now wide eyed with the curse of clarity. I was hideously drunk and resorted to slur apologizing for her having to witness this ridiculousness. That is when we turned to find my lesbian friend straddling the bachelorette’s older, married and straight sister in a tongue heavy lip lock. Two people from the party went immediately to the bar to celebrate with shots of tequila. The poor bachelorette could hardly process her sister’s behavior. For me, this was the moment I decided the party was success in both its tackiness and entertainment. Lips succeeded in creating an inhibition free atmosphere. That must be the allure of drag queens, especially hideous ones. They are convincing with their crooked wigs, cakey make up and gender bending ways. To truly not give a fuck is wild fun. This is not a new concept, but LIPS is a good reminder, and the stiff drinks made it mindless.

The Deceiving Ring of Fire

It makes sense from a marketer’s perspective. What better time to exploit the works of a legendary singer/songwriter via a Broadway stage then right after his biopic has been critically acclaimed AND him and his wife are dead in the ground. The new musical "Ring of Fire" has about as much to do with Johnny Cash as "The Color Purple" has to do with Oprah. But why does Broadway need to deliver anymore, when the fact is a ticket buyer buys the marketing scheme, not the show. This so called musical has truly boiled my bitter blood albeit I am not a big Johnny Cash fan and I had comped tickets. So let this be a warning to those sweet country tourist that used to play Johnny Cash records with their grandpa while watching the crops grow, don't spend a red cent on this hoax!

In a recent article on playbill.com, many of the shows creators and cohorts have the audacity to try and explain its obvious flaws as if they were selling points. Pardon me if I can't embrace the novelty of a show with no plot, timeline, characters or real talent. As the article gently puts it:

"A book musical without traditional plot, a show with a multitude of characters, a broad-strokes sampling of the American experience — and the faith, family, roots, travel, home and relationships that come with that experience."

Broad strokes indeed, so broad that they forgot to paint a picture at all, not even an abstract image in the likeness of a musical. It is as if there was no attempt to engage the audience members by using that age old method of say...... storytelling. Instead the audience is offered infinite opportunities to clap along with a relentless ho-down that even Dolly would think it too much.

Without a positive note to play, the creators spend a lot of time highlighting all the things this show is not.
"It's not a concert at all," Tony Award-winning director Maltby (Ain't Misbehavin', Fosse) told Playbill.com. "[Producer] Jim Freydberg wants the tag to be 'ask anyone who's seen it,' because in a way, you can't describe what it is. It's a book musical without a book — a play made up of songs. It's not abstract, it's very specific," Maltby explained. "But it's variable: The couples progress through life. If you know Johnny Cash's story you can see the contours of his biography in the show. But it's not only his story."

Translation: "We don't know what it is or how to sell it other than using Johnny Cash, ask someone who has seen it, if they hated it, oh well, the tourist will buy the tickets regardless."
First let's examine what is currently in the running for my favorite quote of all time "it's very specific, but it's variable" ummmm...ok? Perhaps I could be drawn in by this complexity, like a Johnny Cash fan intrigued by his dark and layered personality? As for the "couples" they mean the six people close in age and mediocre talent. You can't just take the cast of Rent, spray some grey hair dye on the characters that have gained a little weight, put an old apron and overalls on the next two that aren't aging well, and then award the final two, and their face lifts, with the parts of the country teenagers, outfits courtesy of Hot Topic. And then expect the audience to see how these couples represent three generations of country family life and basic family values.

What "Ring of Fire" is, I am still not sure. All I remember is scanning the theater in disbelief after every song began (that subsequently totaled 38 times) as I became closer to the realization, that there was no dialogue and there was definitely no Johnny Cash. I hit musical showcase rock bottom, when one of the characters(?) sang an early Johnny Cash song called "Look at Them Beans". Which was a song about how the character(?) wished his dad lived long enough to see their most plentiful bean crop to date. And who can forget one of Johnny's classics, the ill-harmonized trio of "That Damn Egg Sucking Dog". I am guessing I was supposed to be tickled with the charm of country rhetoric. However this is where the show becomes insulting. It assumes that the audience will find a condescending entertainment value in watching the hicks dance. It was like a country minstrel show, brimming with bad grammar, stereotypical stereotypes, and embellished knee slapping for lack of better choreography.

“Ring of Fire” claims to capture the essence of Johnny Cash while portraying basic family values. If I am not mistaken, wasn't Johnny Cash a rebel drug addict? I highly doubt this ex-con’s essence lies within red rhinestone bordered denim skirts that flash under the expensive lighting of a Broadway stage. This obvious clash was best illustrated in the opening number where the oldest looking character (most grey spray) performs Johnny Cash's cover of a Trent Reznor song entitled "Hurt". At this point the audience is still under the impression that this is the story of Johnny Cash and are quick to pin this character as their Johnny to be. The Trent Reznor song was such a brilliant cover for Johnny Cash to sing at the end of his life. In his old shakey voice, it was haunting to hear Reznor's lyrics sung by a man that had literally lived through them. When this poor Broadway actor did his best to sing with that same arresting truth and pain, it didn't fall short, it couldn't even get off the ground so it could fall. It was stagnant, confusing and highly awkward.

It is clear that in this infinitely offensive musical (?), showcase(?), country circus(?), whatever, the bait and switch is among the slimmest I have seen. Believe it or not, the original title “The Johnny Cash Musical Showcase” was canned because, according to Playbill.com, “it suggested a Cash biography or sounded a little too much like a TV concert special starring Cash.” What exactly does “Ring of Fire” imply? Especially when it is coincidentally opening one week after its assumed movie counterpart “Walk the Line” is set to win a plethora of academy awards. I dare say that this transparent scheme was carefully planned, but not full proof. If there was ever a time for ticket buyers to express outrage at Broadway for banking on public stupidity, Ring of Fire is the perfect vehicle for this much needed backlash. It is one thing to continually insult the American consumer, we are used to the crafted dupe. This time they have exploited a deceased American legend, whose fans might not be the most docile of characters. The playbill alone, is a prototype for false advertising. And the only photos available to represent this musical are the ones I have posted. Take a look at this bait, do you think glitzy musical showcase?

Little Doll Shop Of Horrors

As the American public plunges further into the land of make believe it is no shock we are apt to bring our poor children down with us. The malleable mind of a child seems especially attractive for parents who seek an alternate reality. For those kooks who have sworn off all that is real, have the money to make this commitment a reality and use their daughters as vehicle to feed this delusional flame, may I suggest The American Girl Place. A perfect venue to perpetuate a custom made little fantasy world that in return makes you and your daughter feel more human, all the while meticulously tending to a very large, but very charming piece of rubber.

Make no mistake The American Girl Place is not just selling you a doll, and the story that is sold with each doll appears to be their specific and adventurous tale of woe. However the real story is a saga filled with endless costs, overpriced ventures, and a long winded whine that can only be silenced by the swipe of your credit card.

Upon entering The American Girl Place the air is thick with three things: consumerism, excessiveness, and the brats that fuel them both. Hats off to Mattel for coming up with this cash cow. It was lucrative enough that every over-privileged child absolutely needed the latest and greatest, now The American Girl Place has given that same nagging voice to an inanimate object. These American Girl Dolls are essentially a mini version of your daughter with a life sized version of their expensive demands.

This doll shop comes equipped with a Salon, Hospital, Theater, Photo Studio and Café, all of which have no qualms about some of their customers not possessing a heart beat. I believe the souls of The American Girl Place employees may suffer the most. Never have I seen eyes as vapid and lifeless as the woman behind the counter at the Salon surrounded by little girls yelling at them, demanding that they do not pull their doll’s hair too hard. Scenes like these do not exactly portray The American Doll ethics of politeness, or their famed hook line and sinker, 'a return to innocence.' However a more accurate depiction would be a return to sexism. The lesson taught in The American Girl Place is not how to be a girl, but how to be a woman with children. Forgive me if I fail to see the innocence in a 9 year-old single mother.

The story of each dolls character obviously aims to teach a history lesson of its own. The Native American doll, Kaya, (from 1764, has her hair in two braids and cloaked in cow fringe) is an adventurous warrior that “draws strength from her people.” Or how about Samantha from 1904, her “world is filled with frills and finery, parties and play. But Samantha sees that times are not good for everybody. That’s why she tries to make a difference in the life of her friend.” This friend being Nellie the little servant girl that lives next door that Samantha takes pity on and befriends. By far the most offensive doll is of course the one African American doll named Addy, a slave that was recently freed from her master and is just now learning how to read and write. These stories go on and on via books, movies, and even revues put on in The American Girl Place Theater. The apex of the plot is always how the girls adjust to the hard times of the past whether it be, The Great Depression or the tribulations of colonial Virginia, somehow these dolls are strong and muscle through. From these tales the pro-argument is formed. Mothers claim these dolls to be good role models for their children. However, what a spoiled little white girl can learn from a story about surviving depression and slavery is questionable. What these young girls are definitely learning, to the delight of The American Girl Place, is how to spend money. This lesson brought to them by their biggest and most immediate influence, the same people that are spending $100.00 for two matching bowling suits for their daughter and their daughter’s doll. The American Girl Place even offers a day package as if it were a spa for $280.00 a pop.

Another pro-argument used to defend little this doll shop of horrors centers around the required maintenance of the doll. The store offers a sort of refurbishing option. Moreover, if your daughter one day messes up the hair or breaks off the arm of their overpriced doll, then you can conveniently bring the doll to the Salon or the Hospital to be fixed. I have trouble even entertaining this notion because first it assumes that these kids are so crazed that they all out mangle this carefully crafted doll. There is a reason why at the age of eight I always knew never to open my mother’s antique closet. My co-worker's niece has an American Girl Doll that she only touches to change its outfit. Let’s just assume for a moment these dolls don’t exactly live the rough and tumble life of say, Tickle Me Elmo. What exactly is going to happen to this doll that a comb can’t fix.? And where does it end? Will there be an American Girl Place Battered Doll Shelter, where the dolls go for support if they are mistreated by their owners? This just in, kid’s toys break easily and that’s why you buy them cheap.

Perhaps the most unlikely victim of The American Girl Place is the children that seem to be living out their heart's desire. It is difficult to deny the pink elated face of a little girl realizing a grandiose tea party fantasy in the Café. Surely this is their dream come true beyond anything they could ever imagine. Yet this is the problem. There is no room for imagination. The tablecloth, the server, the people, the damn tea is all there, leaving them without a single thing to pretend. I challenge anyone to tell me about their childhood tea parties where they poured actual tea in the glasses for their wide array of stuffed animals and dolls. At The American Girl Place their tea parties consist of adults, dolls, a server and real drinks. While in this Café I think I actually heard the imaginations of twenty little girls dissipating out of their ears like the whistling steamy stream of a teapot.

After visiting The American Girl Place I stepped on to the street to see a homeless man sitting outside the door, freezing cold and begging for change. I wanted to ask if he knew that there were dolls inside this store that are treated better than him. If these parents of the American brats are seriously looking for a positive learning experience, why don’t they pick a real under-privileged orphan, from 2006, and take them out for a day of food, hair care, theater, and maybe by the doctor for a routine physical. This would really show these kids how to befriend the less fortunate, how to be generous and kind, and how lucky they are to be a wealthy American Girl.

Sex and The City Bus Tour

Let us pray, “Armani, thou art in Neimans,” the Sex and the City tour guide has her eyes closed and her head down. A bus of 55 women is cruising past the church where an episode of Sex and the City was filmed. “In the name of Gaultier, Dolce and Gabanna, Amex.” The tour guide ended the prayer and looked up to receive few giggles.

The three hour long Sex and the City tour is the epitome of America’s unhealthy relationship with television on wheels. I do not recommend this tour to anyone who regards New York City as much more than a TV studio. The Chrysler Building in not a prop and the four girls in Sex and the City do not live in Manhattan. For some, this is common knowledge. For my delusional bus mates, this is debatable.

Throughout the entire tour I was forced to exercise my silent scoffing, (a technique I learned especially for this outing) while the tourist remained shocklingly tame and boring. Carrie’s character on Sex and the City would have cleverly coined these people “borist." Who knew the self proclaimed Samanthas and Charlottes would be such a tough crowd.

Caught in traffic on Fifth Ave gawking at a shopper’s paradise, I amused myself by guesstimating how many of the borist had spent their mortgage payments on pair of Blaniks. The tour guide offered up a small dose of reality by quoting Carrie’s spending at 40,000 a year on shoes while making 54,000 a year salary. As if this was the only piece of info lent to the argument of the show being unrealistic.

The mood lightened a little as we pulled in front of a sex shop, and a clip from the episode where the girls shop for a “Rabbit” dildo was shown on the little bus TVs. It occurred to me then, Sex and the City was full of little commercials. Miranda was holding the dildo explaining its pleasurable functions while Charlotte squealed “Oh it’s not gross at all, it's even pink! For girls!”

After a lot of nervous giggling and faking repulsion, it was onto the front stoop of Carrie’s home in the West Village. Before we were herded to Carrie’s stoop, we were required to scarf down a knock off Magnolia cupfake in the park next to the Magnolia Bakery. The tour guide seemed annoyed by the speil she spouts off every tour convincing the borist that "Magnolia only gives people so many cupcakes at a time, so they had to get them from another bakery but it was the same recipe." It wasn’t a shocker when the pudgy borist covered in all things Canal Street did not need much convincing to ingest yet another item just a smidgen away from the real deal. It was clear these women were not interested in that silly old burdening ritual otherwise known as reality.

The last stop, which would be much more functional as the first stop, was a bar to drink Cosmos--the martini made popular by the show. We all sat down to yet again try to get as close as we could to feeling like the characters on a TV show. After my first martini hit my empty stomach, I felt friendly enough to call the tour guide over for a chat.

You see at the time I had a red, bulbous, pimple with a pulse on my forehead. As we were talking I could see the tour guide’s focus move up to my huge blemish. I began to recoil in embarrassment until the dusky light of late afternoon caught the thin gloss spread over the herpes nesting in the crack of the tour guides mouth. I instantly battled back focusing my gaze on the crusty cloisters drowning in Abreeva. I could see the tour guide squirm a bit at my sudden counter attack, but neither of us missed a beat of the conversation all the while in a flaw stare down. Brainwashed by the tour I heard my inner monologue sounding off in my head in a voice just like Carrie’s.

I had to wonder what Sex and the City was really about. I was not befriended by one woman. When I did try to reach out I was aggressively ogled in some sort of comparison shoot out. Is this show really about empowering women and loving thy sister as yourself? Or are we drinking the martinis, eating the cupcakes and using the dildos to fill a void? As the rest of the women boarded back on the bus, I turned around to face the remaining martinis that would now be mine at no price. Why are these women getting back on the bus, turning to television for answers, when they are spread out right before us on a tray. Free booze! Pink for girls.