Last Friday night we were sitting around the table in our green room, a borrowed office at the top floor of a museum. The topic on the table, so to speak, was The 'Yeah-So-What' Posturing Of Guys Who Admit To Having Watched Sex And The City. (For the record, Mike used to DVR the series when it was on HBO.)
I waited til Father's Day to go see the movie, so I wouldn't have to wait in line, and I'm pretty sure I'm the only one in the band who's seen it. I think I liked it for weird reasons. I teared up at weird parts and laughed at not-funny moments. I think the guys would like it for the same reasons I did, though, and they'd probably notice the same parts. There's this one scene, for instance, where Carrie, who's a writer for a living, admits to checking out library books just to smell the pages. I've been doing that since I was six, and only my best friend (who's also a writer) and my mom know this about me. OK, and maybe a couple of ex-boyfriends.
Anyway, that's what I liked about the film -- that someone paid attention to the little details that establish and cement creative friendships. Shared stupid trivia, shared disasters, triage and cleanup. Shared absurdity and alienation. Shared connection and fleeting glory. Shared mediocrity, shared contempt for mediocrity. Shared bathrooms.
The scene that put a lump in my throat was when Samantha, possibly my favorite character because she's so buoyantly self-serving, brings in breakfast on a tray. She feeds the heartsick Carrie some yogurt and winks her trademark 'that's my bad girl' wink. Shared dares to keep on going because who you are is the whole point of what happens to you.
If you're lucky enough to have a friendship like that, then you come pretty close to knowing what it's like to be in a band. Me likey.