Staten Island was like a quaint European country. The American music was 20 years behind, and you could smoke wherever you wanted.

Episode One: where there’s smoke…

Carrie tells the peeing politician her address: 245 E. 73rd Street, which doesn’t actually exist. Still, I would like to go walk down East 73rd Street sometime.

It annoys me that she keeps calling him “Mister President.” Is that supposed to be a Marilyn Monroe nod? He’s running for New York City Comptroller.

I did pick up Miranda’s line “hello, I’m drunk” (off one sip of a Staten Island Iced Tea) for personal use. I said it once when a freshly-minted bartender friend made me an experimental drink and everyone was leaning in to hear the verdict. It went over quite nicely, thank you.

This episode is full of firemen, leading to a coffeshop conversation: “Why are firemen so fucking cute?…It’s the hero factor…plus, they’ve got that good guy look in their eyes.” I’m pleased to know that my boyfriend is SATC-approved. I’m sure he will be thrilled when I tell him the news.

Charlotte has to butt in with her comment about women really just wanting to be rescued, which will probably lead to some soul-searching on my part but also gives Miranda the chance to mumble: “no, no rescue,” when Steve is trying to put her into bed after her eye surgery. She’s all hopped up on sleeping pills, and I guess her saying that is supposed to reveal that she’s afraid Charlotte is right. It’s also really funny.

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