I went to see Sex and the City on Friday with two of my chicas. Unlike some people, we did not go all-out glam, but Ali wore some serious fuck-me shoes and we had a very good time. I found the movie extremely satisfying. It ain’t Godard or anything, but it’s a damn good chick-flick. (I thought the scene where Samantha feeds Carrie her breakfast was really beautiful – in fact, the whole portrayal of Carrie’s depression was brilliantly done.) And watching the audience was almost as good as watching the film itself. Even in the lobby, it was extremely apparent who was there to see SATC and who wasn’t. The entire theatre was crammed full of hetero-women in their 30s and 40s, drunk off their asses on cosmos and wearing clothes that really would have looked better on their daughters, and gay men, also drunk on the cosmos but generally better attired. We sat down just as the usher was telling everyone to be sure and move all the way in. The man I was sitting by asked if they could tell people not to try and save whole rows (the answer was no). I looked around and realized we were in the midst of an enormous group of extremely tipsy, extremely loud women.

“Are those the people you were talking about?” I asked the man.

“Hell, yes, honey,” he said. “They told us they were saving this row, and I was all, ‘You might *think* you are, but we are sitting HERE.”

I laughed. “What I like is that not only did you sit in their row, but you took the very best seats!”

“Damn right,” he said, “if they are going to have the paleolithic gall to save an entire row on opening night, they deserve what they get.”

Paleolithic gall. I dunno what it means either, but I’ll be damned if I don’t try to use it at least three times this week.

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