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I am a Los Angeles-based twentysomething. I have a profession, and I have a secret life in music, and this blog isn't about any of that. I like Blogger because I can't read what you're thinking.

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Friday, October 30   >>


Last Sunday's Mad Men was so intense. Like Sopranos-in-a-diner intense.


I think I love Mad Men so much because when I see Donald Draper, I see my dad. He's a cheating, lying, twisted son of a bitch who even makes a living off of being a cheating, lying, twisting son of a bitch. Watching Donald break down was like watching my own dad break down when I told him that he's the biggest disappointment I've ever met and will likely ever meet.


So, I suppose the program carries that much more weight for me because underneath all my spite and hate, I am absolutely desperate to figure out why my dad is the completely fucked person he continues to be. The fact that Donald Draper leveled with his wife is just a testament to the tragedy and reality of television: a Donald confessional would never happen.

If Mad Men knew the true psyche of a man who wants to epitomize the already-epitomized alpha male, Mad Men would not have let Donald Draper tell his wife his life's story. Mad Men would have submitted to Man's cowardice -- you know, the very void the entire male collective is trying to cover up with all its naughty faults?

Mad Men would have brought more light to the reality of feminist uprising and had Betty kick Donald out. Because that's what the smart woman does.

Plus, the show's lead character can't really be in love when he's fully admitted to being in the business of manifesting it. Doesn't anyone even bother to remember that?

But what can you expect when 7 of 9 of its writers are women?

Juicy and thrilling as it may be, Mad Men has a hard climb to save itself from becoming just another television fantasy, to the liking of Grey's fucking Anatomy or Desperate Housewives, sans all the self-congratulating jester cunts.