All of them and more played single-episode paramours for Charlotte, Carrie, Miranda, or Samantha, then invariably vanished from Manhattan forever, usually once an embarrassing, ultimately incompatible sexual preference was revealed. The early seasons of Sex and the City are a parade of baby-faced soon-to-be celebrities: Bobby Cannavale, Bradley Cooper, Timothy Olyphant. Justin Theroux playing two different boyfriends. Also in that same conversation it’s revealed that Miranda is the only one of the foursome who consistently reads Carrie’s column - which we already knew, but it was nice to have confirmation. The sock drawer feeling eventually killed this skill so that I could live, though some vestige of it remains, because here I am writing this now. And yet I couldn’t stop doing it, in part because it came so naturally to me I was good at mountaintop removal, both efficient and skilled. Actually, I just looked up mining techniques in search of a better metaphor and what I was doing was closer to mountaintop removal, in terms of environmental devastation (in this metaphor the biodiverse mountaintops razed in the service of coal extraction represent my mind, body, and spirit). It wasn’t just that I was out of ideas, it was more like I was desperately strip-mining my thoughts, opinions, and experiences. The sock drawer feeling started to crop up more and more, especially toward the end. This was during the decade where I maintained a personal blog and also blogged on daily deadlines and did mostly first-person writing professionally. By “a lot” I mean I think about it every few weeks or so - impressive considering that the episode originally aired in 2002 - but I used to think about it even more, like almost every day. I think a lot about the season five brunch where Carrie tells her friends that, due to a dating slump, she’s run so low on ideas that she’s tried to write about her sock drawer: “Men as socks.” “Socks and the city!” Samantha samanthas immediately. My dog does something funny: “You are … comic?” Somebody tries to make a funny joke on Twitter: “You are … comic?” I see either a comedian or a comic book: “You are … comic?” Somebody says “you are”: “You are … comic?” Neither a catchier nor more loaded turn of phrase was uttered at any point during Sex and the City’s run, and it is a part of me now. The words “You are … comic?” run through my mind probably about five times per week. Petrovsky, a big-time artist played by Mikhail Baryshnikov, asked the women for their thoughts about the piece as they all prepared to leave, sending Carrie into an extended monologue about how she didn’t buy it - “I mean, if you put a phone on that platform it’s just a typical Friday night waiting for some guy to call.” This tickled Petrovsky, prompting him to ask the question that is burned into my mind for eternity. her “lover,” she and Charlotte had just taken in a performance art piece at a gallery in Chelsea: a woman was living there, on a platform, not eating or sleeping for 16 days. When Carrie first met Aleksandr Petrovsky, a.k.a “The Russian,” a.k.a.
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