Cavegirls
To the best of my knowledge, not a single person I know has any problems with my being a lesbian. What they are seriously worried about, however, is that Kathy and I don't have cable. Even our being vegetarian, which once struck everyone as a rather bizarre lifestyle, doesn't seem to bother anyone much anymore. Although at least in Kathy's family this may have something to do with our having reached some sort of critical mass, with as many as seven of us, at one time or another of late, having been of that persuasion. The cable thing, though, continues to perplex everyone.
My sister, for instance, recently asked us, "Do you think you're ever going to get cable?" Her tone was one of concern, as if she were wondering if she should organize an intervention of some sort or at least suggest therapy. I've also noticed that cable viewers are like bilingual speakers, slipping back and forth between network and cable in their references to television without even realizing it. When they see our faces go blank at an allusion to Carmela Soprano or David Fisher they get a look of embarrassment, as if they've made a faux pas by referring, albeit obliquely, to our "difference." I try to keep up despite our obvious handicap, and being a faithful subscriber to TV Guide I at least know the names of the shows and some of their characters, but it's not the same as watching. Who could know, for instance, the subtle dance of seduction that took place weekly between the Skipper and Gilligan if they hadn't seen it for themselves?
That's why, in a fit of self-improvement, we decided to start renting episodes of Sex and the City this summer. We could have frittered away our time at the library or the health club, but instead, we selflessly opted to watch a cable show. In addition to wanting to be able to reconnect with our families and friends, my curiosity had been piqued by my friend Bob, who has been telling me that Sex and the City is the gayest show on television--though apparently it has competition for that title, according to the Internet, with everything from Pamela Anderson's VIP to Hollywood Squares to Xena: Warrior Princess, though I guess the latter wouldn't surprise anyone who ever saw it. We thus set about watching the show like nerds on holiday, for whom everything is an educational experience.
So what makes Sex and the City so gay? Forget about the sex, which, while constant, is pretty unrelentingly heterosexual ( though I'm told one of the characters has a lesbian relationship at some point in the show ) , and the city is mostly a backdrop. My guess is that what makes Sex so gay are the glamorous parties, the chi-chi restaurants, and the fashions, especially the fashions of Carrie, who looks, to my way of thinking, as if she secretly aspires to be a very tacky drag queen. Kathy and I will be the first to admit that we are not necessarily the best judges of fashion, as most of what we own has labels that say not Versaci or Gucci but, instead, Eddie Bauer or Field Gear--nice homey, American names for people who wear boxy shoes and unassuming shirts and pants. Still, I'm pretty sure that a fluffy pink fabric flower the size of Arnold Schwarzenegger's head pinned at one's left breast is not in good taste. The show's writers know this, too, though, having Carrie mistaken, in one episode we watched, for a hooker.
With nearly the entire third season under our belt ( so to speak ) , I have begun feeling a little smug, like we are not so far behind the rest of the country after all. And then I realize that we are watching this show on videotape. Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't everyone else pretty much watching their old cable shows on some newfangled thing called DVD? No cable, no TIVO, no DVD, no Versaci--how can we go on? We might as well be looking at drawings on a cave wall, wrapped in bear skins. Then again, with two girls per bear skin, who needs television, cable or otherwise? And DVD, with its "Easter eggs"? We've got our own hidden surprises.
Yvonne Zipter can be contacted via e-mail at yz@press.uchicago.edu .
