"How was your flight?—Fabulous!"

That, I think, is the first instance of the word "fabulous" in last summer's big, pink, glittery, alcoholic film version of Sex and the City. Girls to Samantha (fresh from Malibu): "How was your flight?" Samantha to Girls: "Fabulous!"

From 1998-2004, like it or not, the HBO series had a relatively massive impact on culture. In 2009, its phenomenon is the object of derision, yet many (at least of our generation) have encyclopedic knowledge of its content, from original air date to DVD to On-Demand to censored TBS syndication.

I moved back to New York (after a longish, wonderful hiatus) around the time of the film's release in May. Moving here is always difficult, no matter how many times you've done it. But the dread and anguish and bile of this place at that moment, right before the banking implosion and an election that meant something, that called for sobriety and celebrated Chicago and Washington, were palpable. The show about drinking cocktails and wearing costumes and being single well into your forties in Manhattan's big, old, unburst bubble survived September 11th. But the movie could not reverse New York's ugly forecast in 2008. I mean it worked; it was wildly popular. (Off the record) I saw it twice in theaters (and then once more last night), but each time I had a violent reaction. I wept. I went straight to the bottle. I positively reeled. Because it was humid and grey (or windy and cold) and everyone was in a bad mood and the city (that I thought I knew) felt perceptibly different everyday and Sex in the City was the same as ever and it's not like Sex and the City ever presented an idea of New York that was subtle and beautiful and complicated enough, but it was about a place that esteemed itself, not one that was sputtering and nervous and off-balance, not one where "fabulosity" made a girl feel sick. How the fuck can a five hour flight be fabulous?