Epistolary Blog

Epistle to Sarah Jessica Parker

To my dearest darling Sarah Jessica:

As I mentioned to Britney the other day, I was disappointed by the Sex and the City movie. Not only did I see it alone (always depressing), but I also found the writing overambitious and the acting better suited to the small screen than the big one.

The best episodes of the Sex and the City television series are the ones that use a single topic to neatly tie together the lives of four women. Whether it’s Monogamy or Threesomes or The Freakish Behavior of Men, early episodes tackle one theme, and the four principle characters provide four variations on it. You and Charlotte provide idealistic variations, while Miranda and Samantha provide cynical ones. In later seasons, as the audience grew to love the characters as much as the sexy subject matter, the writers were freer to deviate from the neat and tidy single-theme structure and write more complex storylines for the four women, but even in these later episodes the writers never took on more than could be contained in a 30-minute sitcom.

The film, however, takes on too much. It begins with a voiceover in which you explain that women come to New York in search of the two Ls: Love and Labels. Forget the fact that such a statement sets feminism back twenty years. How on earth do you expect to fully explore Love in just two hours and while simultaneously exploring the other L, which will no doubt necessitate devoting at least a half hour to some sort of haute couture montage? Love is more than just a theme. It’s THE theme. There is no topic greater or more imprecise, and to juxtapose Love and Labels feels imbalanced. Saying that the film is about Love and Labels is like saying that the film is about this huge, intangible, invaluable, all-important, life-altering thing…oh yeah, and also shoes. One of these things is way too big to take on, and the other is not nearly big enough.

In the film you and Big finally decide to take the plunge. You buy an apartment together, he builds you a new closet, and you put a fabulous pair of shoes inside it. Then you find a fabulous wedding dress, and the wedding plans begin to spiral out of control, making Big unsure of the true meaning of marriage. (See how one L is getting in the way of the other? Aren’t writers clever? See how Big is acting out of character? He was always such a cool cat, but now he’s a nervous wreck. It’s kind of a glaring inconsistency. And see how Big isn’t quite big enough for the big screen? Chris Noth should stick to television.) Meanwhile, Steve confesses to Miranda that he cheated on her, and it’s really rather heartbreaking—I’m always a sucker for these sorts of confessions. At your rehearsal dinner Miranda is so upset that she tells the already jittery Big that marriage sucks, earning her the Worst Friend Ever Award. (See how Miranda is acting out of character, too?) Big is a no-show on your wedding day, and when you find him in his tux and limo a few blocks from the church you accuse him of humiliating you in front of the hordes you’d invited to see your dress rather than concernedly inquiring what impelled him to stand you up. Nice.

So you go on your honeymoon with your gal pals, who nurse you back to health, and when you get back to New York you hire a personal assistant, Louise: Jennifer Hudson in the most pointless supporting role ever. Louise unabashedly confesses to you that she moved from Saint Louis to New York to find love and also that she uses a service called Bag Borrow or Steal to rent designer handbags. (See how this neatly proves your outrageous opening voiceover claim about the two Ls? Hooray!) So Louise personally assists you and reminds you what it’s like to be young and idealistic and then moves back to Saint Louis so she can get back together with her ex, and you give her a designer handbag as a going away present. (See how your outrageous opening voiceover claim breaks down a little bit here? Louise found labels in New York, but not love. Humph. You also deliver an awkward line about how she’s such a saint: Saint Louise from Saint Louis. See how the writers named her cleverly? And then made you spell it out in case anyone in the audience missed it? Brilliant!)

Anyway, you remember that you put that fabulous pair of shoes in the apartment you’d planned to share with Big and go to retrieve them. You find Big in the apartment, and you kiss and make up, as do Miranda and Steve. (See how Labels, which drove you and Big apart, also bring you back together? I guess vacuity, materialism, and superficiality can both ruin and repair Love! What a clever and confusing message the writers are sending!) Oh yeah, somewhere in all of this Charlotte gets pregnant and says something heavy-handed along the lines of “I’m so lucky. I just keep waiting for something horrible to befall me.” This line, coupled with Cynthia Nixon’s pre-release interview confession that someone in the film dies, leads us all to believe that Charlotte is about to die in childbirth. But no such luck. The only horrible thing that befalls her is a case of Montezuma’s revenge while on your honeymoon. (What a hilarious and anti-climactic twist!) And Samantha, who seems to be spending an awful lot of time waiting for Smith to come home from work, decides that Samantha Jones waits for no man and leaves him. The end.

Anyway, Sarah Jessica, it’s a shame that Sex and the City is over because I would love to be a Sex and the City screenwriter and draw on my recent rash of single gal antics for inspiration. I’m frequently tempted to quit writing epistles to celebrities and start blogging about my love life, but I fear no one would ever make out with me again. Sigh.

True story for you: my kind and clueless friend Dave is a member of a Manhattan cycling club. It’s apparently very fancy—there’s even bike valet. One day there was a new chubby guy in his spinning class. Dave, being the kind and clueless guy that he is, approached New Chubby Guy in the locker room after class and said, “Hi. I’m Dave. What’s your name?” New Chubby Guy looked around as though Dave couldn’t possibly be talking to him and then, seeing no one else to whom Dave might be talking, finally said, “I’m Matthew.” Later, one of Dave’s friends said to him, “Hey, did you see Matthew Broderick in class today?” Ha.

Hope all is well with you and Matthew.

Love,

Lauren

Epistle from Cat, The Unwitting Epistolary Blog Emmy Correspondent

Last week, my very fabulous friends Erin and Cat ventured to LA and attended the Emmys.  Cat sent me this email, and I hope she won't mind if I share it with my dear readers:

I had to spend the last few days in something of a comatose state—too much booze, food, and celebrities. I don' know how anyone lives in LA.

Okay. So. We had a really fabulous time. The first night I puked on three different Mercedes in the parking lot of Privilege after we talked our way into the table of these huge black French guys who had three bottles of Grey Goose and a magnum of Dom (of which I must have had half), and some bitch put a stilleto into Erin's foot and kind of broke it—it was really huge and purple the entire weekend. Then the next day we had lunch at The Ivy where we didn't see any celebrities, but where the waitress complimented us on our appetites because we really just enjoyed our food and ate it, and that never happens. So if you hear about the mythical Girls Who Finish Their Food in Beverly Hills, that's us. So we ate room service for dinner that night. Then we did a little shopping, where Erin decided about two hours before the Emmys that she wanted to change her whole outfit, so we ran around like madmen for a little bit looking for shoes that wouldn't hurt her broken foot and came in size 11 (we were informed at one store that, "Well, we always stock an 11 for Ms. Hilton, let me see if I have any of those").

So we were running back to the hotel to get dressed and I saw Evangeline Lilly getting into her car. We were very late, but I was still excited because she looked gorgeous. So we threw our dresses on and our makeup in a bag and did it in the car and then sat in the car for like an hour waiting to get the car checked by security, etc. I have never seen such a long line of Town Cars. We got out of the car and were suddenly standing right next to Eva Longoria and Tony Parker. We walked inside and Zach Braff was coming out of the bathroom (I wanted to ask him if he remembered you from high school, but Erin said I couldn't). Then we walked downstairs to the ladies room and Geena Davis walked in in front of me. She must be 6'4", by the way. Huge woman. Then we got in line at the martini bar and Harrison Ford and Calista Flockhart were behind us. All very strange. We made a list of all the celebrites we saw up close and personal if you want to see it, but it's long. After the show (we only saw about half an hour of it because we were too busy trolling the lobbies), Erin made friends with some coked out chef who talked us into the Governor's Ball, where we sat four feet from Heidi Klum and listened to Seal sing her a song. Also, Kevin Bacon has the tiniest ass I've ever seen—it's like he filmed Footloose yesterday. We ditched the coked out chef (the theme of the weekend was sort of How many guys will give Erin and Cat free stuff thinking we're going to hang on them all night and sleep with them and then how soon can we ditch them?) and went to the TV Guide party where Pink was performing and Katharine Heigl is the most gorgeous woman in the world and Tracy Morgan from SNL wants Erin to have his daughter and we started a dance party (no one was dancing and it was unacceptable, so we just got the ball rolling), and then they stopped serving drinks and we went back to the hotel with our gift bags of weird Olay stuff and Hanes products. That's the evening in a nutshell, minus the rest of the celebrity sightings and the mean blonde girls at the restaurants and clubs (there were a lot of them).

Love,

Cat

Epistle to Jack Johnson

To my dearest darling Jack:

I saw you two years ago when I was working as a lifeguard at Hawaiian Waters Adventure Park.  You played a concert on the little bandstand at the base of The Cliffhanger, the park’s requisite wedgie-inducing slide.  Your concert was very casual: just you and your guitar and a guy on bongos and a little girl who had wandered up onstage and was wiggling around in her bathing suit.  You had even gone on a few of the rides beforehand.  I caught the end of your act on my break.  You covered Jimmy Buffett’s “A Pirate Looks at Forty” and changed the lyrics from “I have been drunk now for over two weeks” to the more child-friendly “I have had fun now for over two weeks.”  I was reminded of this at the Jimmy Buffett concert last week when Jimmy changed his lyrics from “why don’t we get drunk and screw” to “why don’t we get lunch at school” and “why don’t we drink milk and moo” due the presence of so many fledgling Parrotheads.  Adorable.  Anyway, I want to thank you for playing at the park and rescuing the park employees from what would have otherwise surely been a few more torturous hours of the Hawaiian music CD that played on an endless loop and was piped throughout the park.  All the employees knew all the songs by heart, and sometimes I thought I would throw myself off the top of The Cliffhanger if I heard the Hawaiian cover of “Chapel of Love” one more time.  So thanks for the respite.

Love,

Lauren

P.S.  I hope you’re aware that your albums are used primarily as makeout session soundtracks.  At least that’s how my boss from the water park used them.