Opening voice-over: “Year after year 20-something women come to New York City in search of the two Ls: Labels and love.” If this is true, it’s a horrible indictment of a generation. “Twenty years ago, I was one of them.” Oh. I’m wrong then. It’s a horrible indictment of American culture.

Nice opening montage, but that is not a “hot dress.” You look like a fool. Seriously? I would say that you don’t have a whit of fashion sense. On the other hand, as we see in the next scene, you look hot in lingerie.

Wow. Not two minutes in and we’ve achieved Rated-R status through gratuitous vulgar language.

Almost 4 minutes of exposition to start this thing. Presumably that’s the most effective use of time since fans would already know this stuff cold, and newcomers need to be brought up to speed quickly. I am a newcomer. Carrie, Miranda, Samantha, Charlotte, Big. OK, got it.

Time for some apartment hunting. Mr. Big calls Carrie “kid”? I’m afraid that may be appropriate. I can’t believe the real estate agent didn’t ask her to take off the high heels. Those stilettos are gonna leave marks all over that hardwood floor. Their buyer’s agent tells the realtor that they’re not married? Really? It’s your place to say that (and with something of a judgmental tone)?

OMG, Mr. Big is buying the penthouse for her! “Welcome home, baby.” Unbelievable. It’s like she’s a little princess. “Can we afford this?” Hahaha. Like the patriarchal man cares what you think. “I got this,” he says. He’s got money you don’t even know about. Clearly, it’s a relationship based on trust, you little plaything.

Discussion with Charlotte, who smiles and fake laughs at everything, and with Miranda, who wants to make sure that Carrie is “being smart here.” Yeah, Big is buying “real estate heaven” for his girlfriend, spending untold amounts of money, and you want to make sure Carrie is the one “being smart here”? Carrie responds appropriately, telling them to please not feel concern but jealousy, because that’s what good friends should feel about each other’s success.

Samantha appears magically on the street and they have a forced and fake reunion. To this point, mostly wooden acting. But let’s not forget that the script has been bad, too, and even the best actor can only work with what he’s given.

Samantha lusts pathetically over a piece of flower ring jewelry at auction. “I work hard. I deserve this,” says Samantha, bidding more for the ring than some people make in a year. In the director’s commentary, the director says he hears this phrase more than any other from women. Wow, that’s pitiful. What’s worse: He thinks it’s true. They do work hard, they do deserve this. The sense of entitlement here is appalling.

After more gratuitous swearing—the movie has an unexpected penchant for it—Samantha is, happily, outbid. Charlotte finds the auction sad, not because Samantha lost, but because it’s the auction of a woman’s jewelry, all of which was given to her by her now ex-boyfriend. Yes, Charlotte, it must be so hard to part with things you didn’t earn. Also, this auction is supposed to be somehow embarrassing for the boyfriend, according to Carrie’s voiceover. Don’t ask me how.

Carrie talks with Big about her newly found insecurity of not being married. She’ll sell her old apartment, move into the new place, and make it “ours.” Loved Big’s response: “It is ours. I bought it for us.” Should have added: “Just like I bought you.” Carrie expresses her concern that she would have no legal rights to “this home that I built.” By “built” of course she means “redecorated.”

What follows is the least romantic marriage proposal ever. I’m surprised Big didn’t pull out a prenuptial agreement at the end of it. (He should have.)

Over lunch, Carrie explains her engagement to Miranda and Charlotte, the latter of whom flips out and disrupts the entire restaurant, but this is the movies so they all applaud her. She is unjustifiably proud of herself. Samantha, back in LA where she lives with her boyfriend/movie star, has the sanest response of the group, which is to say she’s not really thrilled with the idea.

Rats. Samantha calls back to semi-apologize for her lack of enthusiasm. Love that Carrie says this is “just two grown-ups choosing to spend their lives together.” I’m not familiar enough with Big yet to know whether I should quibble over the “two” or the “grown-ups” part of that sentence.

Now we get a gay wedding consultant—that’s not cliché—with bad teeth. Strange addition to the movie, but I’m not hip to gay culture. Carrie’s choice of wedding dress is indicative of her fashion sense, which is to say, it’s not nearly so good as she thinks it is. Gay guy is appalled that it’s a no-label dress, as if lack of a “name” designer is the problem.

Charlotte sees Carrie’s engagement announcement in the paper and shrieks in hysterical fashion again as she did in the restaurant. Is that a thing with her? Was she known for that in the TV series? I’ve got to assume that the answer is “yes.” She does provide us with the insight that Big is a New York financier—one of those Wall Street SOBs who tanked the economy, so that’s nice.

Carrie’s done some writing for Vogue, and now that word is on the street that Carrie is getting married, the magazine wants to feature her in a bridal layout. Because photo spreads of staff (or is it freelance?) writers are just what you do. Carrie gets through the “oh I couldn’t possibly” to “I’d be happy to to” in under a New York minute, proving yet again, it’s not skill or talent, it’s who you know. What a wonderful lesson for us all. As a final note, I can’t believe Vogue actually allowed their name to a sullied by having an editor say, “You can’t be photographed as a bride once you’re over 40.” That’s really a hideous view on women and fashion, even in a movie this shallow.

Carrie gives us a parade of designer wedding dresses, some good, some less so, but all touted as perfectly spectacular. When she’s finally the finished, she’s in a horrible tie-dyed bag garment that’s so unflattering as to make the wedding dresses seem that much better. And one of the designers simply must gift Carrie with the wedding dress of her dreams. How difficult it must have been to stand there having your picture taken! How deserving you are for having labored so long and so hard!

Later, Big refuses to write Carrie a love letter since it’s not his “style.” If you have to do any writing, I’m still advising you to do a pre-nup there, Big.

Miranda, the workaholic, seems to treat everyone and everything as a means to an end. “Let’s just get it over with” has to be the worst sexy-talk ever. Husband is rightly upset with this view of his lovemaking. Miranda, sticking to her guns and unwilling to admit any mistake, launches a new crusade to prove that she and Steve are having enough sex, even though it’s been six months since the last time.

Miranda takes her “problem” to the “girls” who are more than happy to engage in a spirited sex talk. Miranda is left uncomforted by Samantha’s constant sex, Charlotte’s 2-3 times a week, and Carrie’s surprising unwillingness to share. Carrie won’t talk frequency, but insists on boasting about Big’s sexual prowess nonetheless. The specter of erectile dysfunction raises its head. (Ha! See what I did there?)

Oh good! Samantha gets the flower ring anyway. Turns out she was outbid by her west coast boyfriend, who called in over the phone and spent an extra $40,000 or so as he and Samantha bid against one another. Well, you know Samantha deserves that ring. She’s worked so hard and all.

Boyfriend refuses the thank you sex from Samantha, which is frankly the most unrealistic part yet in a wholly unrealistic film. Samantha consoles herself by watching live action porn from the new condo neighbors next door.

Big remodels Carrie’s closet in the new place. She must be amazing in bed. You’ll never convince me he’s motivated by love of her personality.

As Carrie moves out of her old place, packing up everything with the help of her friends, Samantha appears at the door, prompting another shriek from Charlotte. I don’t care if this is her “thing” or not. It’s annoying now, and we’re only about 30 minutes in.

Samantha brings the booze to help with the move. Carrie parades a series of old dresses on which the friends helpfully vote “take” or “toss.” Like Carrie needs to downsize her wardrobe to move into Big’s new 5th Avenue penthouse. The closet in there is the size of a small aircraft carrier. In the end, says Carrie, “It took four friends three days to put 20 years into 38 boxes.” No mention of how much champaign, but Miranda, so stressed and overworked that she doesn’t have time for a sex life with her husband, somehow made it through. Also, movers could have had the whole thing done in less than four hours. Carrie vacates the apartment carrying an Apple PowerBook G4 15″ with power adapter. At least she has good taste in computers.

Back at Miranda’s, Steve compounds an error in judgment and confesses to having an affair—always a mistake but at least somewhat understandable given Miranda’s behavior. Steve is contrite and weepy at his failure, lavishing all kinds of undeserved praise on Miranda who, so far as we’ve seen, has been a workaholic, sex-withholding, absentee wife and mother. “It only happened once and it didn’t mean anything,” says Steve. I’m gonna differ with you on that latter point, buddy. It definitely means something.

Miranda is understandably pissy about this revelation—more pissy than normal, I mean. Steve is surprised that his confession hasn’t led to instant forgiveness sex. Oh, Steve. If you don’t know by now that Miranda’s a ball-busting lesbian, you never will. (I kid. Maybe. I think? Who knows?) Anyway, Miranda’s moving out.

Carrie tells Big that the wedding guest list is now up from 75 to 200—she’s got all the self-control of a cat chasing a laser pointer—and she immediately blames the dress. The dress? Big complains that it’s turning into a circus, and confesses (to the audience if not Carrie) that this is his third marriage. Big is concerned that a big wedding makes him look bad. No, no Big! You’re a scum-sucking Wall Streeter out to bankrupt America. That’s what makes you look bad! Your need to control those around you by purchasing them impossibly expensive goods as a substitute for real love and your inability to form lasting romantic relationships? Both fine with us!

Says Carrie, “I didn’t know that was even an issue.” T-shirt material right there.

On to the rehearsal dinner, where Big is insulted repeatedly and publicly by a partner at the firm. Suck it up and smile, Big. No wonder those guys crashed the economy. They had to work with each other. But leave it to Samantha—coarse, vain, and unbelievably rude Samantha—to rein in the malcontent. She loudly calls the partner a “dickwad” and chastises him for interrupting and, far from being mortified, everyone applauds! Honestly, in what world do people act this way? Even the partner applauds! The lack of shame here is stunning, or would be an a civilized crowd. (And what is the partner actually thinking as he applauds, “Hehe, she really got me there. I sure am a dickwad.”)

Samantha is out smoking cigars with the boys when Steve shows up looking like a wreck. Yes, Steve, crash the party! Do it! It’s a completely inappropriate time to try to settle your marital difficulties with your wife Miranda, but there’s no time like the present to ruin a bachelor/bachelorette party. “I don’t want to bother you all,” begins Steve, who will clearly, obviously, inevitably go on to bother everyone. Samantha goes in to fetch that harpy Miranda who instantly turns cold(er) at the news of his appearance. This has battle royal written all over it. Pass the popcorn.

Yep. Awesome. Shouting on the sidewalk! “You broke us!” yells Miranda, seemingly incapable of comprehending her own culpability in the whole affair. “I changed who I was for you,” she says before stomping off. Oh my. Was she bitchier before she met Steve? Are we only now getting the toned down version of Miranda? I may never know, because there is no chance I’m going to put on boots and wade into the TV series.

Miranda sees Big on her way in. “Are you all right?” he inquires. Miranda gives us more t-shirt material: “No, I’m not all right. You two are crazy to get married. Marriage ruins everything.” Now that is the toast that Samantha should have given. Poor Big! Even Wall Street types must have feelings somewhere under that ruthless exterior. Next scene immediately finds Big at the bar attempting to blot out the horror he’s just experienced, and, come tomorrow, will experience.

The girls retreat to somebody’s bedroom where Charlotte tries to claim she knew Big and Carrie were always going to get together. Apparently, the two have been hot and cold for years—something I’m sure fans knew but that was news to me. Big interrupts the gaiety with a phone call to ask Carrie if she’s sure she wants to get married. Guess he’s gone cold again. He’s says he’s having trouble writing the wedding vows. (“I promise to love you until my dying day or my money runs out, whichever comes first.”) He’s still drinking, a solution that I’m sure has worked well for him in the past.

Wedding jitters from Big force Carrie’s first grown-up act of the movie as she talks Big down from the ledge of single life happiness and back into the morass of marriage he’s wallowed in twice before. Third time’s a charm, Big! When it comes to self-preservation and self-interest you’ve got to give Carrie credit: She’s got game.

Wedding Day, and our opening shot is truly amazing. Carrie has stuffed something resembling a cockatoo in her hair, completely ruining the effect of the beautiful designer wedding gown. No sense of style whatsoever.

Big tries desperately to phone Carrie, presumably to call the whole thing off, but Charlotte’s little girl has swiped Carrie’s cell. What a cute little pixie, carrying off that important plot point like such a grown-up. For some reason, Big doesn’t think to call any of Carrie’s friends and ask to speak with her. Clearly, Big is having a major bout of second thoughts and/or is hungover from the night before. Seeing as how he appears to have not a single guy friend or best man to turn to, I wonder about his mental health. Is he that unlikable? You’d think with all that money he’d at least have a shrink he could talk to. Maybe he just couldn’t get the pre-nup drawn up in time.

Carrie and party arrive 25 minutes late to her own wedding, think nothing of this, but are stunned when Big isn’t there. Only then do they suppose to call him, because as we all know, the world revolves around the bride. Carrie borrows an iPhone, looks at it, and is flummoxed, negating any positive regard she acquired from hauling around that PowerBook.

“I’ve been calling you for an hour. I was out front. I just left. I can’t do this.” Good for you, Big. If she won’t return your calls and can’t be on time to her own wedding or have the courtesy to give you a heads-up that she’s stuck in traffic, cut her loose! Bros before hos! Except, of course, that you have no bros….

Big suddenly realizes this and immediately orders his limo driver to make an illegal U-turn and head the wrong way on a one-way street. Carrie, having been spirited by Charlotte and Miranda out of the NY Public Library wedding site—no church would want to be defiled by this union, apparently—is desperate to avoid public shame and races to her limousine.

Now there is no way Big could know that Carrie is fleeing the scene as he’s talked with neither her nor any of her friends. But he intuits her vanity correctly and intercepts her about a block from the library. She then proceeds to beat his brains out with the bridal bouquet, proving that not all of the $65 million film budget was wasted. Carrie claims that she was humiliated, which seems like a pretty low bar. Big is sorry, or at least says he is. Charlotte tells off Big, denying his apologies, and inserting herself pretty deeply into their relationship, frankly. In the end, everyone drives off in different directions, so I’m thinking win-win.

Carrie ends up at Charlotte’s where she drinks like a fish. Miranda confesses to Charlotte that she may have said something vaguely negative about marriage to Big. Charlotte, having no knowledge of, well, anything, absolves her of any significant blame and tells Miranda to keep it on the down low. Samantha books the four of them on a trip to a Mexican resort for what should have been Carrie’s honeymoon. Classy.

Carrie appears without makeup, emphasizing just how emotionally scarred she is. Finally, Carries comes out into the sunlight, makeup back on. Samantha and Miranda have a spirited argument over Miranda’s failure to wax her pubic hair. Fireworks to follow? Oh, yes! Miranda: “So I let the sex go out of my marriage? I deserved what I got?” That’s right, honey. Failure to wax down there has all kinds of brutal consequences.

Pity party tonight at hotel restaurant, says Carrie. The girls, excepting Charlotte who seems more prudish or something, commence getting sloshed. Big couldn’t get out the car, complains Carrie. Ten years together and he couldn’t get out of the car. Yeah, well, when he did get out of the car, you beat him about the head with a floral arrangement. Plus, 10 years together and you still couldn’t be on time to your own wedding.

Samantha starts complaining about her boyfriend the movie star. She regrets having to put his needs first, though he is, after all, the meal ticket. Samantha is incredulous that her world doesn’t entirely revolve around her. It’s just so unfair. Miranda interrupts to heckle young lovers at another table.

Charlotte drinks the Mexican water and gets the runs. Friends are too busy drinking to assist in any way, except to laugh at her distress and humiliation as she soils herself. Honestly, they’re like a pack of girls from middle school but with credit cards.

Upon returning to her old apartment, Carrie decides to hire an assistant. Her applicants are apparently straight off of Craig’s List, since they seem unqualified in varied ways. Carries hires Louise, a black woman from St. Louis, who is slightly less unqualified than the other three. I’m sure the minority angle with be played with much sensitivity and tact. Yup, black man leering at her breasts only 45 seconds later. Awesome.

Miranda heads out to find an apartment of her own, since reconciling with Steve is obviously beyond her ability or interest. I wonder what Steve sees in her. Miranda walks through an Asian neighborhood, is clearly uncomfortable until she sees a “white guy with a baby” and insists on following him to safety. Wonderful cultural commentary continues.

Carrie babysits Charlotte’s kid and reads Cinderella to her, intent on disabusing her of the notion that happy endings are in any way possible outside of a massage parlor. Charlotte returns to announce that she is pregnant, serving to highlight Carrie’s point.

Back in Hollywood, Samantha complains again that the world is not revolving around her.

Carrie receives an email from Big and instructs Louise to set up a spam filter so that she never gets another communiqué from him. Cutting off all communication from the man who loves you seems like such a good way to resolve your problems. Perhaps you can get pointers from your good friend Miranda who is also following this time-tested strategy with Steve.

Miranda and Carrie go shopping for Halloween costumes. Miranda can only find two costumes: Witch or Sexy Kitten. Yours would be Witch, Miranda, or something that sounds-like. Miranda is on the verge of confessing her horrible “I made Big not love you” secret when Carrie sees her issue of Vogue. It carries the Editor’s note that Carrie’s wedding was called off and she’s still single in New York. Her humiliation is complete: Now everyone knows she’ll die an old maid.

Carrie dyes her hair! Yes, a disguise! Hiding in the City. Excellent thinking, Carrie. Changing your external appearance is absolutely more important than dealing with whatever inner turmoil you feel and resolving it successfully.

Carrie calls Samantha with a new phone number and to engage in some long distance coast-to-coast complaining. Carrie’s new phone has a different area code than her old one. There’s a First World Whine for you. Samantha grumbles about her hot hunky neighbor with whom she’s not having sex. Post-phone call Samantha consoles herself with the purchase of a horny little dog and a shopping spree on Rodeo Drive, because nothing fills that hole in your soul like consumerism run amok.

Carrie talks with Louise about her feelings, realizes Louise has feelings, too, and decides that they should go get drunk together. Louise gets a text from a guy, and Carrie starts talking about the sub-text of the text. If only as much attention were paid to the sub-text of this movie. Anyway, Louise goes off to get laid, and Carrie wishes her well.

Carrie and Charlotte go shopping for a desk for Carrie’s apartment. Apparently, Carrie is using her book advance to pay for interior decorating, displaying the financial management skill we would have expected. Charlotte confesses her feelings about her pregnancy: “I’m so happy I’m terrified.” That’s t-shirt material, too. That Charlotte’s general argument, that bad things happen to good people, is basically unassailable does not stop Carrie from convincing Charlotte otherwise, presumably because Charlotte has the intellectual fortitude of flowers in the wind.

Louise gets Carrie a Christmas gift. Will Carrie prove so self-centered as to not have thought of Louise this holiday season? You bet! And now she feels bad. She didn’t know they were exchanging gifts. God, Louise, how could you have been so self-centered as to get Carrie a gift for a widely celebrated holiday without first thinking that she would feel badly because she’s so self-absorbed that she wouldn’t think of a peon like you until you so blatantly brought it to her attention? Come on, woman, show some class.

But surprise! It’s a head-fake. Gifting involves shopping, and what does Carrie love most in the world? No, besides herself. That’s right: Shopping. Although we’ll also accept “shoes” as an answer. And if you said “shoe shopping” then give yourself bonus points. But, no, it’s a hideous Louis Vitton designer handbag, the kind no sensible person would ever be seen in public with. Louise is wholly thrilled that her gift of a crappy $10 DVD has resulted in an accessory she can pawn for at least 20x as much.

New Year’s Eve: Carrie decides to watch the DVD while slurping Ramen noodles. Steve picks up their kid from Miranda and tries again to reconcile, which Miranda brushes off. Cold as ice, that one. Finally, Carries turns to her Apple PowerBook for consolation, but draws a blank whilst staring at the screen. (Never happens to me.) Miranda’s cool exterior crumbling from her earlier meeting with Steve, she calls and wakes Carrie a little after 11 PM. Carrie dutifully gets up and heads out to see her friend, because what makes more sense: staying warm and cozy in bed on a snowy winter night, or walking the streets of New York alone after dark on a night when there are no taxicabs available? I hope Carrie’s got mace in her purse. Excuse me, in her designer handbag.

In the montage of New Year’s we get: friendless Big dining alone in a crowd, Charlotte and family having a great time, Samantha and boyfriend preparing to have sex, the two gay designer guys talking, and Carrie wandering the streets. Miranda opens a fortune cookie, reads it, then throws it down in disgust. What must it have said? “Your capacity for love would fill a dozen thimbles”? The designer gays gulp down some champaign then make out, implying that they have to be bombed before they’d even consider being attracted to each other. I can see that. I wouldn’t describe either as “hunky.”

Fast forward a few weeks and it’s time for Fashion Week, when “the women of New York leave the foolish choices of the past behind and look to the future.” Miranda begins talking about the greatness of Steve, which means she’s either high as a kite or lonely as hell. A couple of months ago he was such a loser she wouldn’t give him the time of day. Charlotte begs Miranda to forgive Steve, but one begins to wonder how emotionally crippled Steve must be to still consider coming back. Charlotte feels the opposite about Big but proves inadequate to the task of expressing it.

Enter a parade on the fashion catwalk: Horrible, nonsensical dresses that no self-respecting woman in her right mind would wear. I know, I know. “Self-respecting” and “right mind” are both disqualifiers for the girls. On the way out, Samantha is attacked by a crazed PETA supporter who splashes ketchup/blood on her white coat and shouts, “Fur is murder!” Ah, the contrarian view so sanely presented. Still, is this really the movie for a political debate? It’s such an odd interruption in the flow of whining and self-pity. Samantha is wholly unfazed, embracing the crazies with “God, I miss New York!”

A few weeks later Carrie meets Louise’s boyfriend Will, and just in time for Valentine’s Day too. On the day itself, Carrie reads through her Vogue issue and meets Miranda for an overpriced special menu dinner. The waitress assumes that the two are lesbians, which is correct to the extent they both prefer women more than men and themselves to all other people. Carries tells Miranda about her discovery that in the Vogue article she did not say “we” once. In a moment of drunken clarity she says, “I am the reason he did not get out that car.” Don’t worry, Carrie, the feeling will pass and you’ll be sober in the morning.

But this prompts the Big Reveal from Miranda. How will Carrie handle this so-called betrayal? Will she discuss it calmly with feelings of empathy toward her friend who’s been tormented for months by carrying this (relatively minor) secret? Since that’s what adults would do, I’m predicting she’ll do the opposite and this scene will devolve into hysterics. Yep. Awesome. Will this end with Carrie fleeing the restaurant? Oh yes, it has to. Problems are meant to fled. There she goes, not only running away from any opportunity to fix her fragile emotional state, but also sticking Miranda with the overly large Valentine’s Day bill. Well played, well played.

Cut to Samantha lying on a dining room table naked except for strategically placed bits of sushi, all an elaborate Valentine’s Day surprise for her boyfriend. She looks yummy, as does the ménage à trois going on in the condo next door. Boyfriend returns three hours late. Samantha is irate, though it’s not like he didn’t call and say he’d be late. He totally did. Samantha, still unable to accept that the world isn’t her personal oyster, throws food at him and storms off. Would advise her to simply go to the neighboring apartment, where I’m sure she’d be both happier and welcome.

Miranda is really sorry, and having taken a page out of Steve’s notebook, has bombarded Carrie with phone calls, cards, and flowers. She finally shows up outside Carrie’s apartment in a taxi, and the two talk it out while the meter runs. It’s almost like they try to invent bizarre new ways to waste money. Miranda, unable to use her keen legal mind to formulate any ideas of her own, pitches the same arguments at Carrie that Steve’s tried on her for months without success. Guilty, your honor. Carrie points this out, and wins immediate concurrence from the cabbie, who sagely nods his turban.

Miranda takes this to heart and agrees to couples counseling with Steve. You should see the body language in counseling. Miranda couldn’t look more defensive if she tried. Her eyes are the only thing left to cross. Steve gives a little bit of push back in counseling—”I know I made it hard for you to trust me, but you made it hard for me to trust you.” Miranda is incredulous. Steve, gathering steam if not courage, pushes onward. “You cut me out of your life.” No kidding, buddy. She always has time for the girls, and no time for you. Your mistake, other than confessing your indiscretion, was expecting different.

The counselor tries to qualify this with one of the the most confusing statements ever: “All you can know is that you want to move forward and risk that the love that you have for each other won’t allow that to happen.” I literally replayed this three times. I still don’t know what she’s talking about. As this statement represents the supposed turning point in their relationship—because if they’re not getting back together I’ll be stunned—it’s a pretty important plot point, and it requires clarity. This is literally meant to be the wisdom that changes their minds about each other, their relationship, and what they will do going forward. And, having heard it repeatedly, it doesn’t make a lick of sense.

Steve and Miranda finish counseling and aren’t allowed to talk with each other for two weeks. What kind of budget marriage counselor are they seeing? I thought the point was to get them talking and interacting again. Anyway, Miranda chats with Carrie who apparently has forgiven her for trying to act in Carrie’s best interests. The counselor, undoubtedly a Ph.D. from some unaccredited correspondence course, has decided that Steve and Miranda will meet in two weeks at some predetermined spot, and if they both show up then the past is all forgot. This seems like a strategy that would only work in movies, making it pretty darn convenient.

Carrie tells Miranda that she will have to decide about Steve based not on some cool level-headed thinking (of which Miranda appears incapable anyway), but instead she will need to rely on her emotions. Given that she has the emotional maturity of a prepubescent teen, this may not be the soundest of advice. But I’m not picking on Miranda. It’d be bad advice for any of them.

Carrie returns home to find out that Louise is engaged and moving back to St. Louis. I’m sure she’s just fleeing the dysfunction of Carrie’s world. Let that be a lesson about Craig’s List, Louise.

Speaking of lists, Miranda makes one of Steve’s Pros and Cons then decides to find Steve at their Brooklyn Bridge meeting spot. There’s never really any doubt that Steve, that emasculated pushover of man, will be waiting for her. If he had any self-respect, he would have left Miranda a long time ago, but love is blind, among other things. What does he see in her? Income? An attorney in New York must make bank. This vignette closes with a nice view of Miranda’s breasts as she and Steve finally have sex.

Samantha, Carrie’s voice over informs us, has it all, but lusts after her sex fiend neighbor, and so lives in hell.

Carrie throws a housewarming/babyshower party. Samantha shows up slightly heavier than usual and is promptly criticized by one of the gay designer guys for having a gut. Samantha is eating to avoid cheating on her boyfriend, she says. Her friends promptly set her straight: The boyfriend may have stayed with you through chemo, but if he’s not as sexy as your next door neighbor, he’s got to go.

Samantha flies back to have a breakup talk with her boyfriend: “I love you, but I love me more.” Honestly, she’s the most self-aware of the bunch, I think, but that’s damning with faint praise. We find out Samantha is 49. Holy cow, she’s hot for 49. Samantha pretends to give back the flower ring, but rather too readily agrees to keep it when the boyfriend tell her to.

Samantha returns to New York as our token minority, Louise, leaves for St. Louis. Louise implores Carrie not to mess up the web site she’s worked so hard on. Hope you did it in WordPress or something that doesn’t let Carrie fiddle with the code too much.

A very pregnant Charlotte accidentally bumps into Big at lunch and attempts to flee. Big chases her down, as classy men do. Charlotte attempts to insult Big, fails, and breaks her water in the process. Unable to hail a passing cab, Charlotte is convinced by Big to take his Mercedes. Her water is going to be hell on the leather seats, Big. That’s got bio-hazard written all over it.

Carrie appears at the hospital to congratulate Charlotte and her husband on the birth of a daughter, and learns how Big sacrificed a couple hours of his dreary existence as well as his car’s interior in a vain effort to see Carrie while putatively helping Charlotte. Charlotte’s husband, the bald political consultant from The West Wing, tells Carrie that Big’s been writing to her.

Carrie returns home to find that Louise has been reading and saving Big’s emails. Carrie finally breaks down and reads them all. She goes the 5th avenue apartment to retrieve the shoes she’s left there—she’s spent months without them, but whatever—finds Big, and makes out with him. Big ultimately offers a more romantic marriage proposal than the business deal they did the first time around. Still: pre-nup, Big. Pre-nup.

They marry at City Hall, or some such place, in front of a justice of the peace. Big calls in the girls for the after party at a local Denny’s. Big is so high class. Great that he has their phone numbers now, when he didn’t on the original wedding day.

Finally we see the girls go out to celebrate Samantha’s 50th, and Carrie drones on about girls becoming women. If only.

Other than what they’re already doing, there is nothing Apple “must” or “need” do to remain competitive, to avoid irrelevancy, etc. Any pundit who declares otherwise is, quite frankly, a moron when it comes to Apple, and, one suspects, in other areas as well.

I bring this up because I keep reading about what Apple “needs” to do. Some of the things I’ve heard in recent days: Apple needs to pay shareholders a dividend. Apple needs to license their intellectual property. Apple needs to open up iOS, the operating system for the iPhone and iPad. I mean, blah, blah, blah.

Let’s be clear: Apple has enough money to buy every employee a swimming pool, fill it with dollar bills, then let them go swimming Scrooge McDuck-style. Am I saying they “need” to do this? No, I’m saying I wish they would, because maybe that would shut up the pundits who are trying to tell them what they need to do.

That’s not to say that there aren’t things that Apple should do. Making the sharing of contacts on a iOS devices an opt-in for users is a good example. Apple should definitely do this (and I think they will).

But “needs” to do? “Must” do? Apple ain’t gotta do jack.

But it drives me crazy when they get stuff wrong, as I believe they have in Police Who Illegally Broke Into Gizmodo Journalist’s House Deride Seized E-mails as ‘Juvenile.’

The iPhone 4 story, in case you’ve not heard it, goes like this: Apple engineer loses a prototype iPhone 4 in a bar, two dopes find it and sell it to Gizmodo who publishes all kinds of info about the then unreleased iPhone despite Apple’s repeated attempts to get it back.

At the time, police executed a search warrant on the home Gizmodo editor Jason Chen, who they believed had purchased the stolen phone which is a crime in the state of California. Here’s what EFF says:

…regardless of whether Chen or Gizmodo could have been charged with any crime related to obtaining and discussing the phone, state and federal law plainly barred the issuance and execution of the search warrant directed at journalist-held information “obtained or prepared in gathering, receiving or processing of information for communication to the public.”

The search warrant, of course, would not have had anything to do with Chen’s journalistic endeavors. It would have been concerned with the buying of stolen property and the recovery of the property itself. In essence, EFF is arguing that the journalist shield law is so strong that it allows journalists to traffic in stolen property without police or court interference. I disagree.

Let’s say I break into the EFF offices. If the police suspect me can they execute a search warrant looking for evidence? One would think yes. What’s unclear is why that should be any different if I’m a journalist.

I further object to this conclusion:

It turns out that prosecutors concluded that neither Chen nor Gizmodo did anything wrong after all. Legally, that is.

What the District Attorney concluded, of course, was that there was insufficient evidence, which is hardly the same thing.

I do agree with EFF’s assessment that the DA’s comments on Chen’s unpublished email correspondence were unprofessional. As someone who’s read Gizmodo occasionally, I’m also not surprised that the DA termed the email “juvenile.” But EFF is right in saying that the information should not have been publicly disclosed by the DA.

I wish they had the other parts right as well.

Here’s the thing: The late ’80s/early ’90s Civics with those little VTEC 4-cyclinder engines will run until the car literally falls apart around them. I don’t know what magic pixie dust Honda sprinkled into those things, but our 1991 Civic has 321,000 miles on it, and the engine, frankly, shows little sign of distress. It was rebuilt at some point (my dad says at 200,000 miles, but I think more recently), but it keeps going and going like an automotive Energizer Bunny. Meanwhile, the interior lights don’t work. The trunk leaks when it rains. The back doors won’t open. The radio doesn’t work. The crankcase leaks oil. The dashboard light is out (fun for night driving!). And more. So I’d been waiting for the day when the guys at Valley Specialists, the local Honda/Acura master mechanics who I highly recommend, would just tell me it was time to get a new car.

But it turns out they’re master mechanics for a reason: They can fix darn near anything, and they happen to be fairly affordable. So whatever problems I’d encounter would be inexpensive enough that I always thought I could eke a little more life out of the car. The turning point came in the Civic’s last visit, when the office manager Jim grimly informed me that Civic needed a $650 repair plus another $250 if I wanted to fix that oil leak. I dare say that my enthusiastic response was not what he expected; I knew this was the major car repair bill that would finally prompt me to upgrade.

The Honda Fit had been on my radar since it was introduced. The subcompact received rave reviews and seemed the perfect replacement. Although I occasionally need to drive a 120-150 miles in a day for work, mostly it’s a car Erin will drive about 5 miles to and from school. I looked a little bit at the all-electric Nissan Leaf. It would work well for Erin’s daily commute, but in talking with my soccer buddy Steve who owns one, I found that he was seeing a range of about 65 miles before needing to plug-in and charge up (for 30 minutes or more). I think that electric may well be the automotive future, but I don’t think it’s quite here yet. I also don’t know where I’d get it serviced, and not just because it’s electric—because it’s not a Honda. Since we moved back to Salem in 1999, I’d gone through four mechanics—one went out of business, two I didn’t care for, and one I didn’t think was competent. Getting a Honda meant having mechanics I knew personally (from soccer) and who I trusted. That alone was a very big incentive for me to stick with Honda/Acura.

Buying a Car
Here’s the process that I went through to buy the Honda Fit. I’m not saying I did it perfectly—in my defense, I’d never purchased a new car before—but at the end of the day, I’m pleased with the results. I feel like the parts of the auto buying experience that I could control actually went pretty well.

First, I started exploring used Fits. Well, that quickly led me to new Fits because great reviews, high demand, and the Japanese Tsunami had led many used Fits to sell for more than their original sales price. Traditionally cars lose 10% of their value as soon as they’re driven off the lot. Here, it seemed like the Fits were gaining 10% because nobody could get them.

I began by looking at the Honda web site and repeatedly using the “Build your Honda” tool. I must have tried dozens of different permutations of Fit and Civic and maybe a few other vehicles as well. I found it fun, and it was free. I also felt like I came away with a good sense of what options were available and what the MSRP (Manufacturer’s Suggested Retail Price) was on those things. I continue to think this is a good starting point for potential buyers.

Second, I knew that I had no desire to negotiate with car salesmen. I don’t haggle for a living, I’m not particularly good at it, and I have little desire to learn. That leaves me at a distinct disadvantage when it comes to the normal car buying process. (I did briefly entertain the idea of engaging our neighbor across the street, an attorney, to negotiate on our behalf.) Eventually, I looked at two car buying services, USAA and Costco. With these services, they contact a dealer on your behalf, negotiate a price somewhere below the MSRP, and send you the offer which you are free to then accept or reject. Both USAA and Costco services have a “build your own car” web site tool. I found that Costco’s had more of the accessories I wanted on the Fit whereas the USAA tool was lacking some. This is literally why I choose to go with Costco, and it was based on a misunderstanding.

Honda ships the Fit from their factory in Japan (new plant to open in Mexico soon) in a Base, Sport, or Sport with Navigation configuration. Those configurations can be either manual or automatic, so effectively there are six different models of Fit coming out of the factory (though in different colors, admittedly). All accessories—from floor mats to splash guards—are dealer installed options. I didn’t know it at the time because I didn’t see that on the Honda site. I assumed that Honda put all the accessories on at the factory. (But if they did, then what would the dealer overcharge us for?) So it didn’t matter that USAA’s site didn’t include all the accessories. The dealer would just be adding the ones I wanted after the car arrived. I’m satisfied with the $250 no-haggle discount I got via Costco; however, I don’t know if I could have saved more via USAA. If I were doing it again, I would certainly try USAA service as well to find out.

Costco’s car buying service simply put me in contact with the local Salem Honda dealer of dubious reputation. I filled out the online Costco forms on a Saturday. The local dealer’s rep called me Sunday afternoon with the name of a person to talk with at the dealership the next day. He told me they even had a Fit on the lot—it’s a car in short supply thanks to strong sales and a certain Japanese Tsunami of which you may have heard. Up to this point, things were moving smoothly, and I was pleased.

Arriving at the dealership, I was told the person with whom I had an appointment wasn’t in. They handed me off to Tony, a junior grade salesman with, as it turns out, no real decision-making authority. Tony was a nice enough guy, and I don’t want to understate that because being nice is important, but it was not a promising start. Oh, and the Fit they had for me to test drive? Sold. (“Overnight?” I wondered.) Then while sitting in Tony’s office, I heard on the intercom the name of the guy I was originally supposed to be meeting. Excellent. Of course he was in the building.

That’s what it took for me to understand what we had here: a classic car sales showroom. And I mean that in as disparagingly a way as possible because relationships are built on trust, and I go in ready to trust. But when you don’t have the car you say you have, when you make an appointment then change it when I arrive, and when you hand me to a junior grade fellow when the guy I was supposed to meet with is still in the fricking building, you’ll excuse me if my shields go up and I henceforth don’t fully trust a damn word you say.

Does that sound bitter? It’s not intended to because that’s not how I feel. I find sales shops like these, whatever the product line, to be unfortunate. I feel experienced enough now to deal with this sort of thing, but I hate that I have to. Why do Apple’s official retail stores have the top sales per square foot in the United States? Because they are the exact opposite of this type of buying experience.

Don’t think that I wasn’t cordial or that I wasn’t interested in doing business. It’s just that when you can’t trust who you’re doing business with, it’s a lot more work and it’s not pleasant. Tellingly, if these people were my clients, I would fire them.

For what it’s worth, Erin had her guard up from the very beginning. I don’t know if she has a fear of being taken advantage of, if she’s naturally more intuitive about these types of things, or if she’s just not quite as trusting of people in sales circumstances. Regardless, I tried to shield her from as much of this process as possible, because dealing with people you don’t trust isn’t fun, and she, quite understandably, hates it.

When Erin and I both visited the dealership in early August, we were told that we could reserve a 2012 Fit Sport that would be delivered in October. They would be getting four of them in: one was already sold (a classic sales technique, so no idea if it’s true), two were manual transmission models, and would we like this one here, a Silver Sports Fit with automatic transmission? Why yes, yes, we would. $500 down would reserve it for us.

The dealer didn’t have a firm MSRP from Honda on the 2012 models—a fact I knew from checking online previously—so I insisted that the deposit be fully refundable. If Honda was going to jack the price by $500 or $1000—the Fit is in high demand after all and the strong Japanese Yen is hurting profit margins—maybe I didn’t want a 2012 Fit. I had Tony write “Fully refundable” on the $500 deposit agreement we signed. The take-away here is that you should always feel free to modify a “contract” to your liking. If you don’t like it, don’t sign it. This wasn’t asking much of the dealer: If we didn’t buy the Fit, in no time they’d surely find someone who would.

We also looked at accessories. It turns out that there is the Honda price and the dealer installed price, and they are not remotely the same. Because your helpful Salem-area Honda dealer will charge you $75 to install…floor mats. I wish I were kidding. The cargo tray, a large plastic piece that literally drops into the hatchback area of the vehicle, is a relative bargain with an installation cost of $20. To be clear: I don’t mean that the floor mats were $75 and the cargo tray was $20. I mean that they cost whatever Honda charges plus the dealer charges $75 and $20 respectively to install those items. Ultimately, we decided to decline all accessories and packages through the dealer. We’ll be buying parts through College Hills Honda and having Valley Specialists install them all. Trust me, they won’t charge $75 to put in floor mats.

So we rolled on through August with our 1991 Civic. While we were on vacation in California, a received a call: They’d received a final shipment of 2011 Fits. Was I interested? At this point the specs and the pricing on the 2012s had not been released, so I had to take a leap of faith. Cars generally are improved at least slightly from one model year to the next, and I was willing to hope that I’d be rewarded by waiting 60 days. I knew there was no major revision scheduled between the 2011 and 2012 models, but I declined to take a 2011 Fit. I ended up being right about this—the 2012 was $50 more and added noise reducing glass and few other minor features—but this was just me getting lucky. Honda could just have easily followed Subaru’s lead and jacked prices 7%.

September came around, and I received a voice mail from Tony with the exciting news that “the 2012s are in, and oh, by the way would you like blue?” Blue had been our original color choice. We’d settled on silver since it was an acceptable alternative and, more to the point, actually available. Now I was being offered blue again.

“Hmm…Okay, sure…Pick up tomorrow morning? Great.”

I ran upstairs to tell Erin the news, and just after telling her, the phone rang.

“Uh, I’m really sorry, but the blue one was pre-sold to a lady in Alaska.”

Now that may well be true—indeed, it’s a weird enough excuse to have a ring of authenticity to it. But it’s also the type of thing you can hear as sales manager saying to a junior grade: “Just tell him you sold it to some little old lady in Alaska.” Erin took this, I’m sure, as further evidence that car dealers can’t be trusted, or at least that this one can’t, and she may be right. I’m inclined to think that Mr. Junior Grade got excited about having actual cars to sell and get a commission on, and he made a mistake. Ultimately, I didn’t care. Silver was fine with me. Junior Grade Tony, in the most wonderfully indicative phrase of our brief association, ended our phone conversation by thanking me “for being understandable.”

Getting the Car
Erin and I hauled the kids with us down to the Honda dealer to get the car. I hung out with them in the spacious upstairs guest lounge while Erin took a test drive of the Fit—the first for either of us—with Tony. She seemed to like it. It’s funny about women and cars. I think all she wants is reliable transportation from A to B and a radio to boot. Me? I’m stoked that the driver has 3 cup holders, that the iPod will play through the stereo via a USB jack in the glove box, that it’s got crazy-awesome fold down seats, and on and on. She assures me that she’s excited about all those things too, but surely we’ll agree I’m more demonstrative in my enthusiasm. Anyway, successful test drive.

Then the paperwork nightmare. Our $500 deposit? Not on their paperwork. The $250 Costco discount? Not on their paperwork. So Tony fixed it all up. Purposeful omissions or incompetence? I don’t know where Occam’s Razor comes down on this one.

We verified all kinds of information for them. They even ran a credit score (803—Woot!)—and tried to offer us financing at least three times. I was very happy to have set up financing through USAA previously. The dealer’s 3.99% APR offer from our August visit was beaten by USAA’s 3.25% APR. Now, when I’m just about to buy a car, they’re telling me that they can “save me some money on financing.” Well, if that were true, they should have started with their best offer. But they’re not going to give their best offer first, because if you’ll take 3.99% so much the better for them. Who is the dealer looking out for here? Right. Not the customer.

Finally Tony turned us over to the sales manager, Mark (who Tony called “The Bossman”), who proceeded to come over and talk at us with the speed of an auctioneer. Blah-blah-blah-and-all-you-need-to-do-is-to-sign-this-paper-here-saying-you-agree-to-buy-the-2012-Sport-Fit-at-this-price-and-you’ll-be-ready-to-go. It was, on some level, a truly remarkable performance. The very force of his words and personality left me momentarily stunned. I kid you not, I would almost be willing to pay the man to talk at me again just so I could feel that wave of confusion wash over me one more time.

Up to this point everything, however occasionally distasteful, I’d seen with perfect clarity; I knew what was going on. The Sales Manager does 15 seconds of rapid fire babble and, literally, for 5 to 10 seconds, I don’t understand what’s happening. It’s almost like he could have been talking in Greek. As I say, I’d almost like to experience it again just so I could try to figure out what he did.

I’m pausing here to expound on this for the following reason: I’m a business person, and I deal with people and money frequently in the course of my work. If I could be thrown into even temporary confusion, I pity the souls who don’t have any business acumen. This guy could fleece them like sheep, which he probably does. If you ever find yourself in any contractual situation where you don’t understand what is going on, take a timeout. And make sure that the paper you’re about to sign says what you think it should.

Because, interestingly, the Bossman’s paperwork didn’t have our $500 deposit even though Tony had supposedly fixed that. And the $250 Costco discount wasn’t in the paperwork either, a fact which, when we pointed it out, led to the following spectacular exchange:

Mark (gruffly): “The Costco discount doesn’t apply to 2012 models. It’s only for 2011s.”

Ty: “That’s not what we were told.”

Mark (aggressively): “Who told you that?”

Ty (looking at Junior Grade Salesman Tony): “Oh, hi.”

Mark storms off.

Tony, running off after Mark: “Don’t worry. I’ll fix this.”

Honestly, it was like being part of a real life comedy show. Mark was clearly just so disgusted that Tony couldn’t upsell us anything (financing, accessories, warranty, etc.) and that he had to give us a $250 discount on top of that, that he just walked off in a huff. I don’t think we even saw him after that. Which was OK by me. I don’t think he likes people. Hell, I don’t think he likes himself.

Importantly, Erin and I were in immediate accord: If we hadn’t gotten the Costco discount at this point, we would have walked. The $500 deposit was on a VISA, so I could have still disputed it if necessary. But I think it was clear, to Tony at least, that if he wanted the sale, he was going to have to give us the Costco discount. And what’s more I’m not sure that they would’ve had a lot of choice: Costco’s auto buying service has to be worth something, or why use it? If I’d walked out, I’d be sure to be talking to Costco and they’d be talking with the dealership and, potentially, Honda itself.

After the Mark episode, we were handed over the finance guy who made us officially decline all the warranties, protectants, sealants, and every other possible upsell. He filled out the DMV paperwork and took care of the final contracts which included the official sales price. As you might have guessed by this time, the price was incorrect and did not include our $500 deposit (though it did, interestingly, include our Costco discount). The finance guy told us that even though the number was wrong, we could go ahead and sign. “We’re not crooks,” he said, and I remember thinking (1) it’s always bad sign if you’re forced to make that claim and (2) that sounds mighty similar to Nixon. We insisted that the finance guy print up a new contract, a correct one this time, which we reviewed carefully and signed.

At the end of the day, I really love the car. I continue to think Honda’s engineering and design are amazing. If you’re a member, I recommend checking out the USAA and Costco auto buying services. I recommend buying your Honda accessories through College Hills Honda and having them installed by a trusted mechanic. I trust and recommend Valley Specialists. I would not use again and do not recommend the Honda automative dealership in Salem. But I do really love the car.

We did, and over the years our correspondence tracked the changes of our lives. She married in ’92 and divorced in ’93. Graduated law school in ’95 and married again in ’97. Worked as an attorney and a public defender. I will miss her letters and emails because, whatever the information they contained, they always reminded me of our fond meeting in Europe, and, by extension, the hope it gave me for meeting new friends no matter where I go.

I wish that I could have known Jennifer better than I did. She was proof that it only takes 5 minutes to change someone’s life for the better, and for that and for her, I shall remain grateful.

Happily for me and my peace of mind, Sal was the star of that team. Nobody had his talent. His English was iffy, but who cared? On the field, he was tricky, shifty, smart, and darn near unstoppable. I remember in one game watching him dribble virtually the entire opposing team, walk the ball into the goal, and get called for being offsides—which incensed us to no end, since how can you be offside when the ball is on your feet the whole time? To this day, I have no idea how he dribbled like he did. He was a wonderful soccer inspiration for me during my teenage years.

I played with him intermittently after high school. We took an indoor team down to a tournament in Eugene, and he was as amazing as ever. Played with him for a few seasons of outdoor Over-30 soccer until the cancer left him too weak to play. I remember in particular his last outing at Bush Park, where a group of us Salem Kickers gather regularly to scrimmage. He was so grateful and so delighted to be out there playing, and he was, of course, as dangerous as ever with the ball.

As recently as March, he had emailed with high hopes of joining us in this coming outdoor season. Obviously, it was not to be. Tomorrow, as the saying goes, is promised to no one. But 44 seems too young an age to die. I am thankful that the length of his illness gave him time for goodbyes and that I had the opportunity to express directly my admiration for him, both via email and in person at his 25th anniversary celebration in January. I know he was at peace, because he said so and because that is what the tone of life reflected. He had come to terms with his own mortality, even if perhaps I’ve not, and to the end of my acquaintance with him, he exuded a classiness and a style that leaves me hoping, once again, that I can someday emulate him.

Unfortunately: This is not so much the story of Secretariat as it is the story of Secretariat’s owner. Since owners of horses don’t really do a whole lot other than, you know, own horses, a lot of drama had to be manufactured. The jockeys, the trainers, the stablehands, well, they do the actual work. Any of theirs would have been a more compelling tale. Instead we see them in limited, very clichéd supporting roles. “Secretariat: A Horse and Her Owner” would have been a more accurate if not better title.

The film attempts to link Secretariat’s greatness to the women’s liberation and the anti-war movements of the early 1970s and to apply a Christian veneer to the owner’s faith in her horse (we open with a voiceover of Job 39:19-24), the latter of which is not wholly off-putting at the start but certainly is by the end when a Gospel choir seems to be equating a race horse with Jesus. These flaws, while egregious, are not the worst of it.

The conflicts in this movie are either quickly resolved (evil trainer is fired), nonsensical (inheritance tax of $6 million can only be paid by the sale of Secretariat), or forgotten (family issues conveniently disappear). The evil trainer scene was so trite that it was painful to watch. The inheritance tax issue which was to become the central conflict, driving all manner of choices and decisions, made no sense. If the farm is worth enough that they will owe $6 million in estate tax, the farm and its assets must be worth more than that because the US estate tax rate has never been 100 percent or, I guess in this case, more. (In real life, Secretariat did not save the farm. It was saved the year before by Secretariet’s stable mate Riva Ridge who won 2 out of 3 Triple Crown races.) Finally, the family issues: Mom is gone an awful lot, Dad is rightly aggrieved, and the kids don’t seem to care. Well, these all disappear in the last act, because who needs that kind of unresolvable unpleasantness when Secretariat runs so fast? It’s a horrible bait-and-switch because it means all the family issues that drive the first act are filler.

This is the type of movie you get when the writing stinks. Disney’s live action films have this tendency (“Remember the Titans” indeed), because theirs is a saccharin vision that never was or will be. Real conflict with messy complications and difficult choices has no place in their world. Unfortunately, that means there is little to be gained in watching their live action films. Despite the greatness of the horse, Secretariat is a case in point.

Here’s a question for any long-time PVP reader: How would you describe Skull? Big blue troll, sure, but more specifically: Gentle giant, friendly, well-intentioned, flatulent, happy, and dopy-as-hell. For all his wonderful qualities, and they are many, he’s a dip. And that’s OK! He’s a great character that way. To wit, this comic from around 10 years ago:

Great comic, of course. Brent is snarky (as he should be) and Skull is happy and dumb. It’s a great little scene, true to both characters, and frankly touching too.

Here’s today’s comic:

What is Skull supposed to be there panels 1 and 2? Suave? Dear God, he’s never suave. He’s a dope. He’s happy-go-lucky. He’s incapable of even attempting to be suave! This is such a gross violation of character that it borders on what George Lucas did to C3PO in the droid factory. Characters in PVP have lost their characterization. This should be a scene of Francis meeting Marcy, not Skull and Sonya, but characters in PVP are now virtually indistinguishable from one another, so there we are. And it is painful.

Thought experiment: Re-imagine the above scene, staying true to Skull’s character. For me, it goes like this:

Skull (with eager expression): Hey, Sonya…Wanna see a movie tonight? Uh, with me?

Sonya: That’s sweet, Skull, but…

Skull (surprised): But what?

Sonya: I have a boyfriend.

Skull (happy): Oh, that’s OK. He can come too.

Everybody stays in character, you get a little Ghostbusters homage in there, and you’re set up for a wacky time at the theatre.

My best guess—and I don’t know the artist personally, though I did write him an email about these problems a while back—is that Kurtz is burned out. Maybe he has been for a few years now, and figured the recent move to Seattle might recharge the batteries. It won’t help, because PVP’s problems aren’t an issue of artist location or creativity. It’s that he’s moved away from the very things that brought him success, namely a superb comic style art and strong characterization.

As I’ve said before, I think Kurtz on his game is as good as it gets. He’s just been off his game for awhile now, and the above are some of the reasons why. I continue to hope he’ll get his mojo back.

Similarly, I was very proud of Elisha’s effort. After a morning basketball game and getting injured at the beginning of the race, she stuck with it and completed the course which is a testament to her perseverance. Indeed, even that I think undersells how well she did. Rested and uninjured she can easily beat her time of 12:14, but it was good enough for 90th place of 178 for Kindergarten girls.

Unfortunately, I’m not sure the kids want to return to the event next year. With both Jonah and Elisha getting knocked over at the start (poor Elisha really getting creamed), neither seemed very happy with the overall experience. In another year, we may get a chance to test the adage that “pain is temporary, pride is forever” when we ask them if they want to run the race again.

I hope they do.

I mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy. Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.—Martin Luther King, Jr 

Yet the world is an undeniably better place without Osama bin Laden in it. There is evil in the world, and at times the good must rise up and extinguish it. Surely, two world wars can have most of us agree on as much. Unless we’re willing to live with enslavement and tyranny, I see no other solution than force of arms for keeping dictators, madmen, and terrorists at bay. It is the sad nature of humankind that evil exists.

I think it folly to suppose that Gandhi’s and Martin Luther King, Jr.’s efforts through nonviolence and civil disobedience, as successful as they were in India and the American South respectively, could avert war between nations, stop international terrorism, or bring outlaws to justice. Indeed, without British shame and Kennedy’s National Guard one wonders how successful the aforementioned nonviolent movements would have been.

Nonetheless, nonviolence does not compromise one’s soul in the ways that violence does, and that is an enormous strength and value that should not be underestimated. Within a civil society, nonviolence protest can be the most effective and least diminishing course of action. It takes a willingness on the part of the oppressor to accept change, but it can be highly effective. (Case in point, the recent nonviolent revolution in Egypt.) That would be similarly true on the larger geopolitical stage, except that I don’t believe that it generally works. (At least I can think of no ready example.)

But none of this makes the good Reverend wrong. Hate begets hate, and darkness easily consumes the soul. Nations must fight wars with great reluctance not only because of the physical destruction that takes place, but because in war we dent our humanity, and after the experience our souls are never quite the same. The soldiers returning from the front lines are only the most obvious casualties. No one can convince me that our national psyche is better now than it was on September 10, 2001.

People are in the streets celebrating the death of bin Laden today, which strikes me by turns as macabre and idiotic. Celebrating death might be fine at an Irish wake, but it’s another thing entirely to be jubilant at the murder of another human being, no matter how heinous. Grim satisfaction seems a more appropriate response than jingoist pride—especially when in so many ways we’ve lost the undefinable “war on terror.”

Having spent trillions of dollars, instituted Big Brother-like surveillance both internationally and domestically, and dramatically curtailed civil liberties, how can we claim to have won? How will we ever? We’re on a path to literally bankrupt our country, and we’re less free (individually and collectively) than we’ve been at any time in living memory. Of this, what changes with the death of the world’s leading terrorist?

On this final question, I can only be happy if bin Laden’s death serves as the beginning of the end of US overseas military entanglements, and then not so much at his death as the possibility that we may begin to remake ourselves into a peaceful, solvent, freedom-loving nation. If his demise marks a necessary first step in a return to our better selves, so be it. What I celebrate is not his death, but the prospect of personal and national peace and the hope that such a thing is still possible.