Mad and sad

Mad Men is over, ending on a beautiful if ambiguous note. I was beyond sad for a couple of days afterwards, but I'm now attempting to stay in my Mad Men cocoon by revisiting series 1 and 2 (which I have never seen in full and thus was always at something of a loss in later seasons) and listening to music of the era.

Here's one of my favorites, which I remember from 1960s AM radio: Brian Hyland's "Sealed with a Kiss." A lovely melody, spare instrumentation, accompanied by Hyland's plaintive voice rising above it all--this is my idea of a pop classic, a song and performance that have stood the test of time. I honestly can't think of many if any recent (last 10 to 20 years) pop songs managing to achieve this level of enduring perfection. Too often it's technology over tune, publicity over performance, and vocal pyrotechnics over the pure and simple voice. What a world.

I wish I could sing like this, express myself musically, create a piece of art so beautiful and long-lasting, and touch the hearts and minds of many or even just a few.

But I'm not greedy. At this point in my life, I'd be satisfied to refocus my career energies on becoming one of the backup dancers in this video. Lithesome moves in tandem and always in sync with the beat. Suddenly I'm transported to 1962, pre-Internet, pre-AIDS, pre-Vietnam War, and am full of possibility and promise.

Hullabaloo. Shindig. Come on baby, take me where the action is. I am there.

Last night I dreamt that Don Draper loved me

"Don Draper Wiki" by Promotional Photo. Source: Wikipedia

They're baaaaaack. My odd, more than likely Wellbutrin-induced dreams, that is.

Last night I dreamed that Don Draper left me cooling my heels in an office building lobby while he went up to his office with "an old flame." Some tacky blonde shiksa who worked a perfume counter or ran a flower shop. I can't remember which.

I sat in the lobby for about 10 minutes. It became a lunchroom for office workers, then a "Borscht Belt" neighborhood block party. I figured it was pretty obvious that Don wasn't coming back for me anytime soon. He didn't owe me anything, we weren't a couple. We were "just friends," but there had been some low-grade tension between us, and I had secretly hoped it had been of a sexual nature.

I started to walk home, trying to thread my way through the boisterous neighbors. I ended up walking along the river where I ran into an old friend. We chatted for a few minutes and then he invited me to have a drink with him at a bar downtown. I agreed.

We caught up on each others' news, had a couple of drinks, and I bitched about "this guy in my life" who wouldn't treat me right. I vowed never again would I take his B.S.

The "old friend" invited me back to his place, but I declined. I needed to be alone.

I arrived home and my brother was there, asking me about my evening. I started to explain what had happened, when ol' Don himself rings the doorbell and asks to see me. My brother lets him in and departs. Don says hello. He seems more brooding than normal, then starts asking me questions: Where had I been? Where had I disappeared to? Why? 

When I told him I'd decided not to wait around, had ran into an old friend, yadda yadda yadda, he had the nerve to ask me, "Did you sleep with him?"

I told him that was hardly relevant or any of his concern, given his recent actions and the platonic nature of our relationship.

He then grabbed me, kissed me passionately, and professed his love for me. We then started talking about us and our future together.

And then I woke up. Of course.

Oh, don't worry, I know it won't last. The point is that Don Draper told me he loved me! And I didn't have to sleep with him to make that happen!

The moral of the story? When you're dealing with the Don Drapers of the world, treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen. He fell like a debutante's dress on prom night.

But come to think of it, so did I.

The secondary moral is this: Don't watch a documentary about the Borscht Belt or an interview with Elizabeth Moss right before bedtime when you've got a belly full of fish tacos and lemonade.

You're welcome, world.

Time of the season

This season's MadMen musical inspiration, both real--"Elenore" by The Turtles) (and here I thought they were only good for "Happy Together")--and imagined--"Lavender," a recent release by Ray LaMontagne that sounds so much like the 1960s, it makes me want to don some paisley and bellbottoms and grow out my muttonchops. That is to say, groovy, baby.



Hard to believe this is the final season (even if it is spread over two years). As frustrating and opaque and imperfect as you can be at times, MadMen (really, *Megan* Calvet? Trés Montréal, oui, mais Megan est française--ou ses parents sont français, au moins--pas montréalaise, je crois), I will miss you like I miss the '60s.

Meaning vaguely, hazily, but still acutely.