There was a lollipop dildo involved...

Now what great story doesn't start with that line? This entry is a bit out of keeping with most of the other ones, but that's okay because this blog is ultimately about whatever I want it to be about.

I really have a lot of trouble understanding the celebrity culture. You know what I mean, that gawking, let me critique whatever you do, say, or wear, love you one day-hate you the next sort of mentality. I can't say I'm immune to it, unfortunately. Just last night I was standing on the street in the city and saw someone exit a limo across the street. Not too out of the ordinary for New York, but then people started taking pictures with this guy. Neither myself nor my friends could figure out who he was, and I was a bit tempted to run across the street to discover his identity and report back to my friends. This was partly due to a slightly annoying desire I have to feel like the only one “daring” enough to do certain things, but also (and it pains me to admit this) due to that sickening voice in the back of my head- who is that?! Do I care about him?! Do I need his autograph too?!

I didn't run across the street. Though I will admit to the slight fascination I felt, I also swear up and down that for the most part, I couldn't care less about celebrities. There are exceptions: I like to think I'd keep my cool, but chances are I'd melt into a bubbling pile of fangirl goo in front of Barack Obama and almost any other politician, Jon Stewart, Rachel Maddow, Richard Dawkins, Ralph Fiennes, Gene Ween of Ween, Stephen Fry, and Johnny Depp, to randomly name a good few off a short list. All of these, except Johnny Depp (and perhaps Ralph Fiennes and maybe maybe Jon Stewart) are not the sort of celebrity who often graces magazine pages or Best or Worst Dressed lists. But I guess I wouldn't know, because I can honestly say I've never visited Perez Hilton's website, watched TMZ, or flipped through any of the many celeb gossip mags out there (except when they were the only thing on a breakroom table). It's not that I don't have opinions, or even that I don't like fashion. I do actually like fashion and have many opinions. I just refuse to care about a stranger's life to the point of letting it interfere with my own. As for the celebrities I do pay attention to, I do so because of how they can enrich my own life (except Johnny Depp. I pay attention to him because my eyes won't look away. He's so pretty....).

The reason I bring this up today is because I was so blessed yesterday to be able to ride along the Sex and the City tour bus for three and a half hours. The best part of it? The yummy cupcake we got as part of the tour. I was doing a friend-ly duty by going, and even though I am a fan of the show, I must say I cannot, for the life of me, understand why anyone would care to see where they filmed Carrie and Mr. Big, or where Trey and Charlotte got her engagement ring. Maybe it's due to the fact that I was born in and grew up near New York City, but I'm jaded. I don't care where Carrie and Miranda talked about blah-blah-blah, because, as my good friend Era pointed out, that's where she and her gay army got drunk at two in the morning and tried to chase hookers and trannies. Okay, so that's not my story, that's her story and I used it because of its more interesting nature. The point is, however, that I have lived parts of my own life on the streets of NYC, so why would I care about a fictional character's life on these streets?

Alright, I can understand being a fan of a series and also not being a NY native. Now, this may make me a total geek, but sign me up for any Harry Potter tour in a second. That's pretty much the only non-educational tour I'd enjoy, and at least that is about a book series. That being said, I don't mind the fact that the tour exists or that people go on it, especially those who don't live in the city. To each their own. But since I paid to be on the tour, let me at least enjoy it to the extent that is possible. I can suffer through what was essentially a three hour bus ride plus a few stops for friends. What I can't take is people who use the tour as an excuse to let their inner Samantha out. “Oh my god, we just missed Sarah Jessica by ten minutes!” Excuse me, old lady with the short curly hair and moled face, but you are no Samantha. Samantha is no Samantha. Now stop yelling to the entire bus about your son who just won his Little League game and the fact that we just passed a Dunkin' Donuts and let the rest of us hear the goddamn tour guide lady before I run back to that sex shop we stopped at where Charlotte bought the rabbit and shove a life-sized lollipop dildo down your throat! Then will you feel like a real Samantha?!