I will never ever in a million years see the film version of Sex and the City. (I've never seen the TV series either.) You already know my aversion to vagina movies, and, if anything can be labeled a vagina movie, this is it. Apparently, this weekend's audiences for Sex were 75% women. You know how much stray estrogen must've been pumping through air ducts at cinemas across the nation? You know how many women in heat must've been secreting vaginal juices onto movie seats? If I had been at a screening and so much as accidentally brushed against a few audience members, I may very well have impregnated them all. And then where would I be?
While my avoidance of Sex and the City is somewhat understandable, you may not quite grasp my equal disdain for the BBC sci-fi series, Torchwood. Loren has been watching that show as much as possible, and it's pretty much the only thing in our Netflix queue. I was kind of looking forward to the series because of all the Captain-Jack's-a-homo hype, but I actually ended up having to force myself to make it through the entire pilot. I now run around the apartment, accusing Loren of embracing "Dorkwood," and doing the most absurd imitation of Captain Jack this side of Cardiff—you really have to ask me to do it for you the next time you see me in person. Loren claims I'm a philistine, and I'm perfectly happy to let him call me what he wants as long as I never have to watch another episode of Dorkwood ever again.
So, I feel like a man without a country, or, more appropriately, a man without clear-cut gender loyalties. I refuse to run with the women who run with the wolves, and I won't hang with the guys and polish my pocket protector. What am I to do?