Mad Nature Boy

by Jillian Butler, Ampersandology



"Nature Boy" + Mad Men + kitsch value x bongos = MADE OF WIN.

Have a suggestion for a future Ampersandology topic? Got something you’d like to say? All feedback welcome! Shoot us an email at ampersandology@gmail.com, or follow Ampersandology on Facebook. 

Look who just became king!

by Jillian Butler, Ampersandology

You need proof that Roger Sterling is cooler than you?

He was doing the ironic glasses thing before the hipsters even knew Buddy Holly's name. Or that they were supposed to rip him off. Or that you could be be ironic AND not dressed like a hobo AT THE SAME TIME.

Haha, I kid. Hipsters aren't hobos; hobos probably had a job once. Godspeed, Silver Fox.

Have a suggestion for a future Ampersandology topic? Got something you’d like to say? All feedback welcome! Shoot us an email at ampersandology@gmail.com, or follow Ampersandology on Facebook. 

Durham County

by Jillian Butler, Ampersandology

I drove through Durham County yesterday afternoon. It was brighter than I expected. I thought of Hugh Dillon and power lines.



The show Durham County premiered in 2007, and its overall production values has none of the telltale signs that plague Canadian productions: in fact, despite some nagging familiarity, it didn't occur to me that it was set in Ontario until someone mentioned Toronto. The aforementioned passage through its namesake reminded how great the show was: a creepy and unendingly sinister tale of a rogue serial killer amidst the stiflingly ideal backdrop of a Canadian suburb. Into this mix comes Detective Mike Sweeney and his family, collectively recovering from the death of his partner and his wife's breast cancer diagnosis. The characters are infused with morbid fixations: Mike's oldest daughter reconstructs crimes scenes out of clay for fun, and his youngest, Maddy, never seems to take off the toy mask that erases her reassuring girlness into a bizarre, blank facade:

The bastardization of the once-comforting blankness of the Central Canada landscape is what earns the show's ranking as one of the better seasons of a crime drama to debut in the last few years, if not the last two decades (Twin Peaks, eat your heart out). The power lines, of course, were one of the show's best visual motifs, a bleak, commonplace reminder of the intrusions of modern life. They run through the vistas of perfect backyards; they hum in teh background buzz of important scenes; one of the characters, a mother, wonders if they're close enough to harm their growing children. 

Perhaps what makes Durham County so refreshing is its wholesale subscription to the shift in cable television led by shows like Dexter and Mad Men: it doesn't answer every question upfront, and it doesn't mince on the disturbing content or flawed characters of its universe. In other words, in a medium famously created to sell soap, it's finally getting around to being an art form. In fact, the series make me downright excited for Canadian cinema. I haven't mentioned it before, but I always think of Canadian cinema in general suffering from arriving too late to the party, forced to play catch-up with a rancid bottle of raspberry vodka while the rest of the nations have been working on their buzz for hours. In other words, we came to the industry late, when the idea of film as a narrative device was fully formed, and had been exposed to too many weighty examples to emerge with our own voice fully formed. 

So in conclusion, Durham County is a fun place to visit. If the show's any indicator, however, you may not want to live there.

Have a suggestion for a future Ampersandology topic? Got something you’d like to say? All feedback welcome! Shoot us an email at ampersandology@gmail.com, or follow Ampersandology on Facebook. 

Moi? Je joue.

by Jillian Leigh, Ampersandology


You won't often hear me pull out my fancy French on you,* but here goes: 


SWEET JESUS, SOMEONE GIVE ME THIS DOLL. JE T'ADORE, MR. DOLL! À TOI, POUR TOURJOURS.

Thanks, Basket of Kisses! You're the kindest, most gentle of enablers! 


*my fancy French, also, is almost exclusively fashion-based: "Qu'est-ce que tu portes, darling?"

The Cracked Granite of Don Draper

by Jillian Leigh, Ampersandology


*if you're not caught up with Season Three of Mad Men but care to do so on your own--do NOT read on. Spoilers up to 3.11 "The Gypsy and the Hobo."

It's been a losing battle for Don Draper this year. My affections have waned considerably alongside the cruelty he's been proudly boasting for the majority of Season Three-- look no farther than his snaps at Peggy or curt dismissal of Salvatore. For me, his slow descent into cruelty is a pretty good barometer on his slipping grasp on the once-enviable Draper charisma: the threadbare quality of his once unflappable cool has caused the undereducated and outmatched Dick Whitman (or worse, father Archibald) to lash out like a cat cornered from all sides. Don has been downright mean. 

Now, folks, when it comes to fictional characters, I don't mind imperfection. Actually, truth be told, I sort dislike characters without it (see: Kent, Clark, Jill's dislike of). And I'm not choosy, either: Psychologically damaged? Gee, who isn't these days? Obstinate to the point of rudeness? Join the club! Creepy close with your mother? Er, ah, well, okay, I guess. 

But this season, Draper pushed it too far, as usual; what was once alluring iciness hardened into hardcore cruelty. I understood the root--he'd tried so hard after the estrangement of his marriage to be good, doting on his pregnant wife and being the bright little solider even as Sterling Cooper crumbled under the British invasion. But his efforts fixed nothing like it was supposed to: Betty remained aloof and vaguely dissatisfied, his golden status around the office was under question, and moreover, he was still not happy. It was like plugging 2 + 2 into a calculator and getting an answer of 5; something was inexplicably absent from the equation but from Draper's self-centered design and secretive nature, he would miss it every time. 


I compared Don once to a granite statue: cool, calculated and manufactured to present the world with his best version of himself. That was the whole motivation behind the name-swap, after all. 

And then came "The Gypsy and the Hobo," otherwise known as "The Day Don Draper Stood Still." His little box of secrets was dragged into the light and he was forced to confront a whole mess of truths that being the gatekeeper lets you smother. When you don't have a Greek chorus aware of your every transgression, I'm sure your conscience would sleep a whole lot sounder. 

I bring up Greek tragedy because the entire confrontation scene brought that old (as in ancient) literary trope to mind. Betty becomes Don's Greek chorus, in turns horrified and heartbroken by the convoluted mess that is Don/Dick's past. Seeing Betty react to something we've all had seasons to process was a real treat, and a subtle reminder of how ludicrous yet ingenious the whole assumed identity  plotline is. And the fact that most of it took place in the kitchen and bedroom of the Draper residence-- mundane snapshots of domesticity that has kept Don grounded all these years--really makes me think that this may be the turning point (for keeps this time) for ol' Dick. Note how he referred to the life they'd built that now seemed in ruins: he reminds Betty that this is "our children....OUR home." Would the Don Draper of season one, ready to run away to places unknown with his mistress, ever made such a statement? The home that once trapped him is now the place of his confession and possible release. 


And speaking of Betty....she may still be a housecat--as her mother insinuated during her drug-induced labour dreams--but damn, this kitty's got claws. Having once been in Betty's position myself, I was tickled pink by her cool head and relentless barrage of questions. "You don't get to ask questions." Me-OW. I loved every minute of it, though I go back and forth in my actual evaluation of Betty's depth as a character. I'm sure the Stasi couldn't have player it cooler than Betty did during her long overdue interrogation. 


Anyway, to sum up? I saw Don Draper's granite crack this week, and I liked it. I hope that this is the sign of change on the horizon, because Don was quickly running himself into a place even my fractured idea of affection couldn't follow. Go Team Draper, I hope. At least until I catch Don in either flared jeans or tie-dye. 

Love Among the Ruins

by Jillian Leigh, Ampersandology

"So we're looking for a girl who is 25 but acts 14." -Peggy Olson

A Gatsby without a Daisy

As August 16th fast approaches, how are you preparing for the Mad Men season three premiere?


Me? Oh, nothing major. I brushed up on my 1960s literature. Made vaguely hypocritical gender jokes at the office, had a handful of four Martini lunches, and took off for two weeks for California without telling anyone. I tricked two friends into adultery, hit on my boss' secretary, let my kids play with leftover dry cleaning bags and re-read The Feminine Mystique but lost my bookmark. I decided I was a Jackie who used to be a Marilyn. I dressed like an hourglass, poured myself into a Maidenform, stole my next door neighbour's identity and single-handedly saved the biggest account in my agency with a last-minute evocation of the joys of childhood reborn in dish detergent, tying off my week in an artfully, if artificially, composed bow.

Oh, and I read Bruce Handy's richly meticulous piece in Vanity Fair, accompanied by haunting and painfully chic photography by the one, the only Annie Leibovitz, a pairing that is the very definition of 'no-brainer.'

But other than that, you know. Not much.

Don and Betty's Paradise Lost (Vanity Fair)

Nightclubbing, Bright White Clubbing

by Jillian Leigh, Ampersandology

Take that, Dorothy Parker: boys DO make passes on girls who wear glasses! Come, fake little Don Draper, a toast: here's to us, Don! Here's to us and our impossible dreams. you, to live a productive and fulfilling life built on lies, and me....to be a stewardess in 1963.

Hmm, now that I mention it, I think I have that dress in blue...

If you haven't played with this already, and recognize the words "Don Draper" or "Hell's Bells, Trudy," zip thineself over to Mad Men Yourself faster than Abbie Hoffman at a Young Conservatives meeting.

Do the Twist

I don't know really know what this is or where it came from, but I sure am glad it's here.

The launch date for Mad Men season three has been announced and behold: August 16th. Which is insanely close to right now, a fact that makes me all kinds of happy. The above clip pretty much nails why Mad Men is so fun to watch.

But aside from all the drink-happy clips, it does a sound thematic interpretation of the Big Important Arc that the show's so good at weaving. Especially in choosing to tie tying a little red bow around Paul Kinsey's presentation about "executive bank accounts" directly to 'ladies' man, man's man, man about town' Don Draper. In case, you know. You missed that the first time (PSST! Don is living a lie!).

And hey, YouTube is telling me there are more of these little numbers, so I know where I'll be spending my next hour or so.

Eight Blog Posts In Search of an Author

As is my way, I tend to get carried away with high color abstracts. I get real excited about an idea, then if I don't immediately engross myself with it before I get distracted, it falls to the wayside when the Next Big Thing comes along (and trust me: the Next Big Thing? It always comes along). So in the interest of full disclosure, I post this, which is quite literally the least I can do: a list of blog topics without a post.

Ian McEwan: Cold-Hearted Bastard or Lovable Mad Scientist?

5 (Other) Reasons to Beware the Ides of March

The Young People Terrify Me

You Want to be a Cool Guy? Use a Hedara.

The Rise of the Hip-Square and the Death of Camp

Bad News Bears: A User's Guide

Sad Guys on Trading Floors

The Mystifying Peggy Olson

Fake Interviews with Unlikely Subjects (an ongoing series)

I wrote them down, meant to go back to them, and never did. Sad, really. I'll probably still tackle a portion of them someday, but for now, I'll just let them stand as a monument to the addled cobweb of distraction that is my mindscape.

Aftermath: Catastrophe.

I KNEW IT. Almost $5,000 on the nose. 

Lunch with Jon Hamm has gone to someone else. a***c, you have made a powerful enemy in me today. 

Ladies and gents...a HOT MESS in the making.

Lunch With Mad Men's Jon Hamm Up For Auction On Ebay. 

Um, so can anyone loan me some money? I'm probably going to need at least...$5,000. Yeah, that should do it. Man, you know I'm good for it! 

C'mon guys! How often is that you get to be a PART OF HISTORY? And not some lame chapter of history, with old dead guys and boring trade negotiations. The HOT MESS part of history, the kind where everyone involved should have known better! You know those bystanders, sadly shaking their heads from the sidelines? That could be you!!! A part of you has always wanted this, buried deep in the darkest tangles of your mind. You know this is true. 

So please forward all donations as soon as possible. I want to seal this up quickly...you understand, of course. 

Literary Feud = ON.

DAMN IT. 

Stuff White People Like #123: Mad Men. 

You guys, is my number written down somewhere in a very public place? Because let me tell you, SWPL has it. Uh, my number that is. Actually, that kind of fell apart upon delivery but...whatever! Stuff White People Like is pissing me off! Everything they say applies to me, and I feel that this is a serious invasion of my privacy. 

The fact that I am, in fact, a White Person is giving me an inferiority complex! And then I'm getting a superiority complex about having an inferiority complex! GOD! 

Stuff White People Like, you've got too far. I could deal with the Wes Anderson dig (#10).  I even made peace with being a Girl With Bangs (#104). I have accepted the fact that 74 of the 123 entries applied either directly or indirectly to my everyday life, and the other 49 made an unsettling, oddly reflexive sense to me. 

But now...now you're hitting me where I live and, like most White People, that makes me very uncomfortable. You need to get out of my well-manicured backyard, located directly in the heart of an up and coming neighbourhood, or I will assault your senses with some clever deadpan humor and go back to reading the Onion and watching the Daily Show. 

You hear that Stuff White People Like? I AM GOING TO CORRECT YOUR GRAMMAR. 

Stuff White People Like, you are the wolf at the door and I shall NOT let you in. Wait, what's this? What the...#101: Being Offended. 

That's it, Stuff White People Like. Literary feud= ON.  Good day to you, sir. 

...

I SAID GOOD DAY. 

......yaaaaaaay....!

Jon Hamm. Lex Luthor. Awful bald wig. Together at last. 

I don't know what's been in his cornflakes lately, but it gives me a happy. Look how CUTE he is, being all comedic. It's a new hobby for him, like rock cleaning or stamp collecting or something. I don't know, what do people do for hobbies these days? I generally just complain about how all men should wear suits and smoke in the office. That's a hobby, right? 

AW. He's like a puppy who just discovered his tail! 

"Lex Luthor Bailout" with Jon Hamm - watch more funny videos

Just so we're clear, the breakdown of that earlier metaphor looks something like this: 

TAIL=making jokes. 

PUPPY=hot sexy man who until recently was rewarded only for being hot and/or sexy. 

I love it when beautiful people are rightly rewarded for so being. 

The End of Year Tally

2008: nice knowin' ya. Here's what your saucy trails left behind.  

Best in Show

 DRAMA

Mad Men.

Oh, Mad Men. How do I love thee? Let me inappropriately hit on the ways. In its second season, everything about Mad Men I loved was warped and rendered impotent: the changing times made youth the new buzzword and the old guard looked rigidly traditional, the excessive drinking got once-ballyhooed employees quietly fired, and his wicked ways nearly cost Don his home, his wife and his suit as he went on a bizarre pilgrimage to California (actually, the part where he was kind of naked was pretty awesome; also awesome was all that completely hot!bad!wrong! sex he found himself having. Oh, I am a fan in so many, many ways). And in the end, we were back at the beginning- with Betty and Don together, Pete without Peggy or a prayer and those things left unsaid loudly exposed- but it had changed imperceptively yet distinctly, like a party dress worn the next day. The end of season two was a quiet riot that'll ripple into the next. 

 Dexter

In other news, Michael C. Hall continued to confuse my delicate sensibilities as the inexplicably attractive sociopath Though, I suppose next to the overbearing Jimmy Smits, a potted plant would be sexy (future note, Jimmy: “yelling” is not a synonym for “acting.”). Its third season had an excruciatingly slow start, but once it took off, it went running. But once again, it does tend to fall back on its own worn-in tropes: Dexter is given a seeming soul mate only to be forced to exterminate them; La Guerta has poor taste in friends and feels betrayed; Harry Morgan is a douchebag. 

For the win: Mad Men, because at least its sociopaths have an attractively human veneer.

COMEDY

How I Met Your Mother

I remember the announcement of How I Met Your Mother in the din of other sitcoms that would ultimately prove a disappointment. It sounded stupid: a father relays the entire story of how he met the mother of his children to said kids. But check this out: How I Met Your Mother is, dare I say it, amazing, sweet, hilarious and heart-rending. It only gets funnier with time and repeat watching. It corners that nebulous period in between leaving your natural family and starting your own, when your friends and lovers are the only family you need, and pinpoints the exact bittersweet tinge of this gradually evolving lifestyle. It’s a show that blows continuity out of the water (a gag set up in one episode may not pay off for three) and doesn’t waste one of its considerably talented cast members.

30 Rock

30 Rock, on the other hand, corners a far more specific 30 something: the neurosis-fuelled, post-Oprahfied single woman. Skimming the footsteps left by her more obvious ancestors (from Mary Tyler Moore to That Girl--which yes, I remember despite being a ‘maybe someday’ in my mother’s vocabulary at the time of its release), Tina Fey rocks the single girl instability with more candor and honesty than her spiritual foremothers. Plus, here’s Alec Baldwin at his most sexually confusing to tide you over! (WHY AM I ATTRACTED TO HIM?!?)

For the win: How I Met Your Mother. Anything that puts money directly into the bank account of the ridiculously talented comeback kid Neil Patrick Harris is the winner of basically everything.

Best in Suit: Um, even having a category suggests there's anyone other than Don Draper who could take this distinct honor. And I’m insulted by the possibility.

Best in Buff: Is it just me, or should Daniel Craig, Robert Downey Jr. and Kate Winslet just never wear clothes again? It seems like such a waste of effort on their part. Or at least wear as little as possible.  OR! Just make a series of 1930s throwback pictures where they lie around smoking and bantering in various states of undress. NOTE: this is probably one of my better ideas. 

Honorable mention: Chace Crawford, if you’re not going to take off your shirt, at least help your friend and co-star Ed Westwick do so. Honestly. Do I have to do everything around here? Because I’m okay with that.

 Most Bittersweet Inevitability: 

 Best in Film

 The Dark Knight: Hype that’s well-earned, for once. Bless the socks of anyone in this film whose name doesn’t rhyme with “wreath,” because they were overshadowed by his powerhouse, celluloid-shaking turn as the Joker. There’s not much to say that hasn’t been said already.

 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days: Nuanced, gripping and tedious in a way that feels like friendship, this little film about repressed liberties haunted my synapses for way too long.

 Frost/Nixon: I just…I just can’t deal with the fact I’ve placed a Ron Howard film on any list of mine, so I’ll leave it at this: YAY SAM ROCKWELL. 

 Vicky Cristina Barcelona: Charming, frothy and still thought-provoking, Woody Allen granted me the mercy of making Javier Bardem attractive again. Woody: thank you for this. No, seriously.

 Iron Man: Look. Ain’t no better time onscreen than watching Robert get his Downey Jr. on. The marriage of superhero and cool have never blended so logically; in the past, it was a relationship that needed work and a lot of special effects, but in Downey’s hands it becomes an afterthought. His Tony Stark is snickering at us the whole time: “You thought that was cool? Give me two seconds. Ha. See? I know. I’m awesome.”

  

The Spielberg Award for Artistic Echo 2008

 An award that goes out every year to the filmmaker that most clearly exhibits a trademark fascination with a certain subject, movie after movie. Named for Steven Spielberg, who likes to fall back on his artistic themes like a junkie falls behind on the rent, this award commemorates those in filmmaking who, though they do it well, do it often.

 Previous winners include Adrian Lyne (“Hey everyone! I like adultery! Ask me why!”), Sam Mendes (“The suburbs blow—permit me to demonstrate.”), and Stanley Kubrick (“Dear human race: FUCK YOU.”).

 This year’s winner is…

Steven Spielberg, for a stunning return to extraterrestrials! Just when you thought he got it out of his system, folks, it crops up again in the latest ode to B-movie serials, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (sidenote: did someone get paid by the letter for that title?). All those madcap caper flicks and serious dramas couldn’t distract him forever: Steven has a serious thing for the otherworldly, the unexplained, the big-headed and eight-fingered. Steven, darling—I love you. But you really need to get over this little fixation on outer space. It’s beginning to embarrass us all. Out of his entire filmography (both as director and producer) I counted no less than 12 films with either explicit or implicit connections to aliens. Steven, this is too many. Admit it--deep down, if you could have found a way to blame Jaws on little green men? You would have.

 Oh my God. You did, didn’t you? Oh, Steven.

 Extra points awarded because  The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull  managed to straddle at least two more of Spielberg’s old standbys. First up, the unresolved daddy issues: Shiiiiiiiia LeBeouf (goddamn, I love that kid) shows up to give Indy a chance to muse on the disappointed daddy syndrome left dangling by The Last Crusade. Marion is such a whore. Anyway, it’s a big thing with Spielberg: guys and their dads. Never growing up. Etc, etc.

 That being said, Shia LeBeouf is awesome. The fact that his entire character is a thinly veiled attempt to piss off Marlon Brando’s already pissed off ghost made my decade (ps. The Wild One called—it wants its DVD cover back).

 Which leads me to item two: pop culturbation. Steven knows his pop culture, that’s for sure. Between the ode to 1950s greasers (the only time I actually enjoyed myself in the entire running time) and the thwarted attempt to capture the golden age of campy sci-fi, Spielberg had the outlines of something real good. Which brings us back to the insertion of aliens, and the unfortunate fixation therein. Oh Steven. You may be a broken record, but it’s one I like to listen to. 

Jon Hamm is the Man of the Year.

'Kay. Here's the part where, if I were a less-composed young lady, I would insinuate my willingness to assist Mr. Hamm remove that cumbersome, constrictive suit he's always wearing, for free. Yes, absolutely free. What can I say? I'm a giver. 

Were I less composed, I might take one look at the gloriously precious photo spread that's two parts Dust Bowl, one part Calvin Klein and offer to take his place in the bread line. 

I may also threaten to take him behind the middle school and get him violently, unfeasibly pregnant. 

You know. If I were less composed. 

Thank the heavens, I always say, for decorum. 

SociopathCHIC!

Dexter Morgan—formerly dark and delicious, and born so strange.

But now, utterly boring.

I’ve hung around Dexter’s third season, mostly out of loyalty (remember, this is a gal who stuck around the last season of Buffy, faithfully, like a dog watching its anemic master die of a paper cut wound). However, factors converged to put distance between us: its Sunday night slot put it in direct competition to my beloved main squeeze Mad Men. DON’T NOBODY come between me and Don Draper. So, I’ve been catching it OnDemand…at my own pace, which can be generously described as ‘glacial.’

The other factor? Dexter, the creepy, morbid show about cheering for a serial killer, started its third season with not a bang, nor a whimper….but an open-mouth yawn.

Where’s the change? Where, I ask, is the evolution? As always, Michael C. Hall is stupid hot, with the sloe-eyed wonderment of a really evil puppy. But after the high drama of last season (DOOOOAKES!) it’s back to business as usual for Dex. Hey, more killing! Hey, more Rita! Hey, more ironic references to Dexter’s secret proclivity! I’m really starting to hate those, by the way:

Annoying Waitress

Hold on…I got these new shoes and my feet are killing me.

Cloying Dexter Voiceover

Give me a few more minutes and I’ll be killing you myself.
Harry was right…eating out can be murder.

[/fake Dexter moment]

Oh ha-ha, I get it! It’s the difference between what is said and what is meant! Ha ha ha HUMBUG. They added little tweaks to the formula, but honestly, it just feels like more of the same. I’m not actually that annoyed, but it’s more the principle of the thing. How long they expect to flog this horse is beyond me…the horse isn’t dead yet, but it’s got a bad cold (might not make the winter). But apparently it’ll be around for at least two more seasons. I’ll be there, probably, till the end—as mentioned before, I am stupid loyal.

However, I’ll give the showrunners this: whoever was behind this campaign is a certifiable genius. So CHIC. That person should get one hundred dollars and a unicorn. Or, you know, some kind of advertising award. But let them decide (Psst! Unicorn! Go unicorn!).

They ran this summer in their mock-respective publications. I just love it. It's sociopathic and it's chic...it's sociopathCHIC!

{Full story at Pajiba.}

Mad Men's second season draws to a close...

...and I scramble desperately to find something else to occupy my waking hours. I CANNOT MEDITATE DURING THIS PARTICULAR EMERGENCY. It's going to be rough; the nearest estimate I heard for season three was July 2009. That's...many months from now! Many months. I'll have to fuel my obsession with only the fumes of 1960s hijinks. I suspect I'll be reading a lot of period literature and watching many terrible films starring Doris Day. God, I might have to watch Pillow Talk again. That was a dark day.

 The episode itself was underwhelming, which was fine: I didn't expect to be blown out of the water. No, instead, Mad Men built me a raft so I could float down the water and quietly tally my sins. Or something less dramatic. If I'm honest, I was left unimpressed with the use of the Cuban Missile Crisis as the framing device du jour. I think that had mostly to do with the show's tendency to underplay the subtext and jack up the surface; as such, the sense of panic, terror and apocalypse felt like a case of tell, not show. Unlike most of the ingenious cultural timeline spikes they've used in the past, using those 13 days in 1962 left me wanting: knowing the outcome in this case sort of deflates its impact, instead of subverting it.The line Mad Men has to dance between being precious and being relevant is paper thin.

Something like the Nixon/Kennedy race, which could have been a self-referential mess ("Hey, Nixon's trust-worthy, not like that little punk Kennedy!"), was used perfectly: they used the race to pit generational differences against each other and play on the expectation that every single viewer knew what the outcome would be. Meditations on an Emergency didn't do it poorly, obviously, just not as smoothly as other episodes have. 

But back to the REAL issue, as presented in the helpful visual I've made just for the occasion: 

...to my new life's work! 

As 'unfortunate' as it is, Mad Men has overtaken my previous instruction at the School of Hard Knocks and shown me the RIGHT way to conduct myself in matters private and public, personal and business. Contained inside the detailed scripture of Mad Men's canon I find the answers to the questions that have long haunted me, such as:

 Q. Mad Men, how can I get respect at my workplace?
A. Belittle everyone, but only in ways that you can deny later. Don't waste a single word. Keep a fifth of rye on hand at all times. Be better at everything than anyone, especially the things you haven't done yet. Wait a month before you remember the new girl's name—she might not last and you don't want to waste your time.

 

Q. I've been told my attire can sometimes be inappropriate. Is it possible my hemlines are too short?
A. Those people are jealous. Darling, God wouldn't have given you such precious little ankles if he didn't want you to show them off. If I were you, I'd invest in some heels and maybe a new anklet; anything to put a little salsa in your step.

 

Q. Black dress with the swirly skirt or red dress with the cute sleeves?
A. The color of the dress is irrelevant. Ideally, it will end up on the floor of someone’s office or hotel room, so maybe what you should be thinking about is how it looks crumpled in your evening’s path across the room. Also, can it be dry-cleaned?

 

Q. Mad Men, am I a bad person?
A: Probably not. But what the hell do we know?

 

Clearly, all that effort I put into being a modern woman was USELESS; I have to become the modern, female incarnation of the 1960s MAN. It sounds confusing and sort of mentally unbalanced but I’m convinced it’s worth my time. I will carry the beautiful message of those misguided smucks forward into the 21st century with grace, aplomb and a considerable store of whiskey. Luckily, I can use the hiatus to forward my new! Impressive! Lifegoal!

 

My 11 Step Plan to Becoming the Ms. Draper of Our Modern World
A.K.A.  Things to Fill the Gaping, Hollow Dearth of New Mad Men

 1. Invest in suits: many, many suits. 

2. Work on my ability to blow everyone away every time I say anything.

3. Smoke and drink. Constantly.

4. Practice my misogynistic slurs on my family and friends; collect feedback:

                        Me: "I will not let a woman talk to me like this!"
                        Friend: "You should mention that to your gender. Also, WHAT?"
                        Me: "Hmm, you seem offended. TERRIFIC!"

5. Perfect my belittling ability down to a Look--one solid glance that within 1.3 seconds can destroy the Pete Campbells of the world and herald my arrival as Draper Heir to the Future.

6. Make bad decisions--lots of 'em.

7. Fear the future and despise the past: suspect the young and dismiss my elders.

8. Dress impeccably—everyone is watching you.

9. Hit on everyone, but only if it gets me what I want.

10. Be ruthless—but not in a mean way. Make it seem like my success is not only incidental, but also disposable.

11. And finally, I will move forward. This never happened. It will amaze you how much this never happened.

 

There you have it. By July 2009, I will have BECOME Don Draper, or a reasonable, gender-appropriate facsimile. Stay tuned for updates!

Why I Find Don Draper So Attractive: A Helpful Diagram

1. The Words

This mouth is clever, talented and deceitful, and to paraphrase Jack Donaghy, I just want to kiss him on the mouth to stop him from saying such ridiculous things. Don’s a man of words, not action. He gives voice to the big ideas he’ll never follow through. His mouth is also home to such memorable Draperisms as:

 “Mourning is just extended self-pity. In New Guinea, pygmies grind up their ancestors and drink the powder in a beer.” (I like to think he researches these facts and waits patiently for a chance to use it in conversation)

“Every day I make pictures where people appear to be in love. I know what it looks like.”

“People were buying cigarettes before Freud was born.” 

 And of course: “What you call love was invented by guys like me to sell nylons.”

  To be honest, I’m pretty sure I’d be okay with whatever lies Don chose to tell me because, well, he’d phrase it so pretty. That would be totally okay with me. Keep in mind, though: I'm shallow.

 

2. The Necktie.

The tie is key—it’s perfect for fixing affectionately, tugging instructively, or straightening after he’s kissed you roughly in the stairwell. In other words, it gives me terrible, unprintable ideas.

 3. The Hair

God, this hair: it’s like a time capsule in itself. Brylcreem should pay him a commission, he does so much to promote this look. It’s just another piece of Don’s considerable armor, but it only makes me wonder what it would take to mess up. No, not wonder: actively plan.

 

4. Note! 

The placement of a desperate and angry fist where his heart should be.

 

5. His Bearing

His every move is so calculated and precise, it’s like watching a granite statue. He understands the ingredients in human behavior, and tries his best to imitate it—but considering that every man he knows either hates him passionately or is stuck in hero-worship, he can’t ever fit comfortably anywhere. In his quest to become Don Draper, it’s like he overdid it out of gate, becoming an uber-mensch that actually bears no resemblance to a real man.

 Let me reiterate: granite statue. Yay!

 

6. The Vice Squad: Smoking and Drinking

In my mind, Don is most at home inside a haze of cigarette smoke and the stale smell of uncapped whiskey. I like to think Don smokes (and drinks) partly because it gives him something to do when he’s actually doing nothing: a man as perfunctorily focused on production as he is would hate being accused of doing nothing. Either way, he looks so criminally good doing it that I kind of want to give him a medal for it. It will say Congratulations! Cancer hates you.

 

7. The Cuffs

The perfect punctuation to being a relentless bad-ass: just smile, straighten your cuffs, and punch the joker in the mouth. Not so har-de-har now, is it, funny man?!? There could be a spin-off show where Don just punches people, smokes and takes women roughly in the hallway. I will finance this project.

 

8. Pocket Full of Scribble

Most of his brilliant ideas end up scribbled on whatever’s handy---which, factoring in his daily activities, is usually a cocktail napkin or matchbook--and he keeps them all. I imagine it as the one thing he childishly collects, squirreling them into the corners of his desk drawers or jacket pockets. So endearing! He’s secretly a loser.

  

9. The Grey Flannel Suit

I don’t think it’s a mistake that Don’s de facto uniform is the eponymous grey flannel suit of pop-lit fame. Don IS the man in the grey flannel suit, and as such, his clothing is sort of invisible, always some variation on his usual jacket + skinny tie = hotness. Seeing him out of it is always a visible shock: usually, it ends with my jaw on the floor. Dear God, it’s hard to imagine he wasn’t born in those high-waisted trousers….but oh so fun to try. 

He Sleeps on a Bed of Money

What, what's that I hear?

Don Draper to Host Saturday Night Live?

To paraphrase Michael Corleone, just when I'm out, they pull me back in again.

Not that me and Saturday Night Live were ever what you'd call 'tight'—it flits back and forth between being
irreverent and irrelevant in my day to day life. The SNL Digital Shorts made up for a solid two year gap during which I really, didn't think about it at all. 

But then they go and do this, knowing full well that the siren song* of Don Draper is one I not only succumb to, but would record in MP3 format so it can go on my iPod later. YAY! TEMPTATION WEARS A GREY FLANNEL SUIT!

*Siren song of Don Draper REPRESENT! I imagine it would sound something like a late Nina Simone rip off, with Don's spoken word poem overlaid:

 

Love is something
Men like me
Invented to sell oven cleaner.
Automotives. Washer/dryer sets. 

Move forward, it will shock you,
That none of this ever happened.
By the way

There is no tomorrow.
There's barely a today.
And for crying out loud—
Tip your waitress. It's embarrassing.