It occurs to me that I'll probably be the object of unquantifiable animosity for saying this (mostly because I received it firsthand in the form of a two-hour argument from a friend when I mentioned these feelings at Tryst this summer), but Sex and the City did a lot of pretty terrible things - it peddled a bastardized version of Third Wave feminism disguised as actual female empowerment, completely marginalized straight men who happened to not be terrible people and glorified a culture of unparalleled consumption.
Important though these objections are, perhaps preeminent among the sins of Carrie Bradshaw is that she convinced an entire generation of college students that they could write sex columns. Hundreds, maybe thousands, watched the show and dreamed of being the favorite quote of people unable to think for themselves on Facebook. I have proposed in all earnestness that we should burn most of these sex columns (other than those found in this issue, of course), only to quickly correct myself: we shouldn't burn them, no, not anyone reading this. Instead, we should give them to blind people and illiterates to burn for us, as they are impervious to the verbal toxicity.
My six-week break between Hilary and Trinity terms began right after I received this assignment, so I hopped on a budget flight to Ireland to begin my search for the meaning of life (or at least my month of aimless wandering) with no real idea. I thought St. Patrick's Day in Dublin might take my mind off the column for a while. Instead it hammered home the theme I knew I needed to talk about: porn.
Walking through Dublin at midnight, I saw the streets flowing with beer, vomit and unrealized expectations, and countless bodies diving headfirst in to the gutters to lap it up. It was all highly pornographic. You see, when I talk about pornography, I'm not talking about it in the literal sense of the word. I'm not concerned with Playboys hidden under beds, but with preconceived notions sold in the storefronts.
Important though these objections are, perhaps preeminent among the sins of Carrie Bradshaw is that she convinced an entire generation of college students that they could write sex columns. Hundreds, maybe thousands, watched the show and dreamed of being the favorite quote of people unable to think for themselves on Facebook. I have proposed in all earnestness that we should burn most of these sex columns (other than those found in this issue, of course), only to quickly correct myself: we shouldn't burn them, no, not anyone reading this. Instead, we should give them to blind people and illiterates to burn for us, as they are impervious to the verbal toxicity.
My six-week break between Hilary and Trinity terms began right after I received this assignment, so I hopped on a budget flight to Ireland to begin my search for the meaning of life (or at least my month of aimless wandering) with no real idea. I thought St. Patrick's Day in Dublin might take my mind off the column for a while. Instead it hammered home the theme I knew I needed to talk about: porn.
Walking through Dublin at midnight, I saw the streets flowing with beer, vomit and unrealized expectations, and countless bodies diving headfirst in to the gutters to lap it up. It was all highly pornographic. You see, when I talk about pornography, I'm not talking about it in the literal sense of the word. I'm not concerned with Playboys hidden under beds, but with preconceived notions sold in the storefronts.
