Let me be clear: I am not an unkind man.

I’ve willingly and unwillingly gone to cultural events over the years. Sometimes because I love it, other times just to make someone else happy. That’s just how relationships, friendships, whatever, are – you make compromises sometimes.

But this – oh God, no! – is just way too much. Candace Bushnell is penning a new “teen years” book series on Carrie Bradshaw’s sex life in the 1980s. Great, so what, we get Carrie using legwarmers and perms while she has random sex with Judd Nelson-esque characters in NYC, circa 1984?

Oh God, please no more. As much as Hollywood seems hellbent on convincing the world that Bushnell’s work post-2001 is actually worth paying attention to, why would anyone, anywhere, care about Carrie Bradshaw’s affairs in the 1980s? Who exactly is the target audience here? Teenagers? Please, they’re watching Gossip Girl. Twentysomethings? They’re probably too young to have any kind of cultural relationship with the 1980s, which is really what a show like this is about – crazy, drug-fueled parties at Peter Gaiten’s clubs and other Bret Easton Ellis-esque references to the contradictory, insane Reagan Era. Thirtysomethings? Well, as long as they’re not watching Bones or House or taking care of their kids or rapidly-devalued home in the suburbs.

And in other news, the publishing industry in the U.S. continues its slow, steady move towards congealing into pablum.


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