Why We Watch "Sex and the City"
by Claire Zulkey

I had been introduced to the "Sex and the City" earlier this year at college by my roommates, who seemingly had an easier time living in filth (they were not big on taking out the garbage) than missing a single episode of the show.

Before you even see your first episode of the show, or even have a clue of what it's about, it's hard to miss the fact it's extraordinarily popular. You can't pass a magazine rack without seeing Sarah Jessica Parker's mug, flanked by her similarly-dressed and sexily-posed co-stars. It's a show that needs to be investigated by anyone who wants to stay wavering atop the crest of the pop-culture wave.

For the life of me, I cannot recall what occurred in this introductory (shall we say de-virgin-ing?) episode. But it's a safe guess that it included sex, the discussion of said sex over brunch, expensive clothing, swearing by Samantha, bitching by Miranda, fretting by Charlotte, and frantic reflection by Carrie.

The problem is that this scenario occurs every episode, without much variation. It's a formula, with a few new outfits, characters, and kinks thrown in each week to vary it. When you think about it, "Sex and the City" isn't that different from "Golden Girls," which sometimes ran on a similar formula. Substitute the above for tender, older-people relationships, the discussion of said relationships over cheesecake, Southern purring by Blanche, birdbrain activity by Rose, spunky joking by Sophia, and sarcastic intellectualizing by Dorothy.

The main difference between the shows, however, is that it's hard to believe the dames in "Sex and the City" are actually friends (maybe if they all lived together in a house in Florida and wore caftans). Let's face it; other than having a penchant for taking luxurious meals together, the ladies have nothing in common. Miranda is seemingly the most normal of them all (normal emotionally as well as, let's face it, physically), while Charlotte is the annoyingly naïve prude, set off by Carrie's slut-with-a-heart-of-gold act, and Samantha's slut-without-a-heart-at-all. Why are these women friends? It seems like every episode they fight and make up, too. Sure, I have the occasional spat with my girlfriends, but not on a weekly basis.

It's also difficult to attach oneself to a show that doesn't seem to attach itself to anybody in particular. More guys rotate through this "Sex and the City" than overly attractive, underachieving women did through "Seinfeld." While it might not be fair to ask these girls to settle down or anything (heaven forbid!), it would be easier to warm up to the show if we could become attached to some of the guys, other than Kyle MacLachlan's flaccid character, or the unappealing and unpleasant Mr. Big.

By the way, it seems that for what hot/haute mamas the four ladies are supposed to be, they don't really seem to be pulling down the upper echelon of men in New York. A visitor to a Gold Coast bar here in Chicago could easily spot a handful of men better-looking than the sex toys the ladies paw around.

So, why is the show supposed to appeal to me, a member of the young-woman-viewing audience? The witty writing? There are more laughs and insights in a re-run of "The Simpsons" than in "Sex and the City." The blatant discussion of sex? Please. Every red-blooded-American gal has been saturated with enough open sex-talk between issues of "Cosmo" and the average romantic comedy. The frank discussions? I'm not so sure. I can get just as much potty-talk from some of my pirate-mouthed girlfriends. (For the record, I had been aware of the term "fuck buddy" before it left Kim Cattrall's pouty lips.) It really can't be that the scenario of women caught between enjoying singledom and yearning for commitment is such an unbroached topic (We see it every day in "Cathy," for God's sake.) There are no new insights, only new Manolo Blahniks.

Why I find myself watching the show, and why I think everybody else watches the show, is because it is The Thing To Watch. It is a completely overrated half-hour of viewing, yet its viewers have been successfully programmed to believe they're missing a major chunk of American culture by not tuning in. It is addictive. Both of us woefully HBO-deprived, my best friend and I lately rented a DVD of one of the seasons. It was late, I was tired and sneezing from her cats, and my sense of reason told me, "This is not a good show," but part of me screamed "More! I must watch more!"

Proponents of the show could argue that my projected ennui with "Sex and the City" stems from show-jealousy (you know, the kind that makes girls say they don't like Jennifer Aniston because deep down, they're mad that they'll never be as thin as she is.) I'll never be as cool as the ladies on the show are. As an aspiring writer, I am jealous that I cannot afford to lunch all day with my friends and spend a scant 15 minutes a day typing away on my laptop in my chic apartment with a cigarette dangling from my mouth. I'm pissed because I don't own a single Fendi bag. I'm uptight because I don't have a phalanx of adorable, sassy, gay male friends. I am jealous of the show most of all because I am not adequately educated in either sex or the city (as a Midwesterner, were I to be portrayed on the show, I'm sure my character would be costumed in overalls with a blade of grass clenched between my gappy teeth, saying "Yee-haw!" and having sex with my cousin.)

I don't think so, however. Were these the reasons that I don't find much value in "Sex in the City," you wouldn't find me watching any TV, any movies, or be reading any fashion magazines. And then where would I be? Positively uncivilized, darling.

E-mail Claire Zulkey at clairezulkey@hotmail.com.