Crash … Into Me & My Stream of Consciousness

Mad Men, as per usual

What’s with the spinout, six-foot version of Alan Ladd? Eek! Crushed-out cigarettes. Crashes to ashes.

It’s just like last time. It means they didn’t like it, and then they got drunk; they took me on a joyride in the Impala.

Are you not up to the task? Seven ways to go in six weeks, and we have to depend on cane boy, the cripple. Don’s in a foul, scratchy-voiced mood today.

I can’t even show it to you (then don’t). But I’m gonna: Three years of monthly deadlines wrapped in red tape. Something about God running something past His wife. And then they’re not going to church. Chaough looks a mess. This is a painful meeting, except for Harry Hamlin, who’s somehow paradoxically perfect because unable to transcend his Harry-Hamlin-ness.

Harry’s going to get everybody fixed up (even me? I’d like to get fixed up, too).

You’ve got to stop loitering, Don. You’re stalking me, and that’s cool, but you’re smoking, and the butts are butting in over here.

If you ever really cared about me at all, knock it off.

I get so emotional, baby. I just want to talk to you about a few things is all.

Megan, Megan, Megan. Nothing else gets through to you.

Have we ever seen Don do a desk wipe before? I think not. It’s a Campbell move.

Naptime for Bonzo.

Somebody needs some Vicks VapoRub. We’re going to need it for this flashback.

We’ve discussed my dislike of the flashbacks, right?

Go up there, get Pinocchio, and bring it down.

Betty’s dwindling away. And I like her red stripes. Less so, her helmet hair.

On what street corner did you earn enough penny-candy cash to buy that number, Sally?

Peggy has red stripes, too — probably not what I’m supposed to be thinking about here when we’re mourning a loss.

Post mortem, the doctor is in.

Okay. I’m ready for Stan to shave his beard. In fact, while we’re at it, 2013, I think it’s time for everyone to shave their beards.

What kind of shot of creativity (a.k.a. propietary energy syrum or complex vitamin superdose) is this guy injecting into Dan’s cute-eous gluteous? Uninterrupted creative focus, energy, and confidence. No one told you about this? All the ad dudes are doing it, bro. Drop your drawers, sweet cheeks. That’s a mouthful.

Heart condition, Sterling? No worries. We’ll shoot you up anyway.

Guess the mild stimulant doesn’t do much for coughs.

Dear Lord, please don’t make coughing the new back-to-the-whorehouse cue. I’d rather not be on tenterhooks every time there’s a throat-clearing. Ahem. Hallucination. Too bad it’s not of the tripped variety, like the great acid drop of Season V, episode vi. Best divorce scene of all time, Roger and Jane’s.

I was a child when she was a child in this kingdom by the sea. Ooh! A creative strategy session. We need fifteen more, can we find another? In what family is it, “Son, I bought you this car”? That Guy’s family. Dreams do come true. Dads buy Chevys for their sons, and dead men become saints.

Dad, I wanna marry Stan, you okay with that? Can we get a Chevy?

Dammit, Ginsberg. You just flushed a toilet in my head.

What are you, class secretary, Coffee Chief?

Wait, did Don just say “submissive”? The timbre of his voice is as important as the content.

I’m their favorite toy. Wind me up, and watch me dance. It’s my job. Learned that routine from me mum, no, my first girlfriend.

I’m not myself, you see. Cheshire cat, talkin’. White rabbit flashes by, tapping as he goes, late for an important date. Swoosh.

Anyone have the number for Doctor Who of Whoville? I want one of those ass shots.

Go ask Alice.

Hey, s’up? It’s me, Don. I know you’re all feeling the darkness here today, but there’s no reason to give in. No matter what you’ve heard, the process will not take years. In my heart, I know we cannot be defeated because there is an answer that will open a door. There is a way around this system. This is the test of our patience and commitment. One great idea could win someone over. (Try typing that on an iPhone.)

Do you have any idea what the idea is?

I still haven’t found what I’m looking for, but I’m not going to stop looking. Do what you have to do; order some Kung Pao, if that’s what it takes. Use Seamless. Hire a Task Rabbit, not the white one; he’s always running, late. Charge it to Miss Swinson, the Queen of Hearts. She lives in a whorehouse. She’ll give you some soup for your troubles.

That’s it. The soup whore. I’ve got it. Everyone’s wearing new clothes; Peggy has a pillbox hat.

We have a mother, at last we have a mother! Wendy’s here. She knows what you’re thinking.

Carnegie Deli has great soup. It’s a warm hug.

It’s Saturday? I’m in the soup. You’ll know it when you see it. It’s going to crack this thing wide open.

Stan has 666 ideas.

Lovely Wendy’s here to stay (and — crop-dusting alert! — my dog just farted, which is interrupting my train of drug-induced thought).

Does someone love me?

Listen to your heart.


Where do broken hearts go? What about broken stethoscopes?

Are there birds living in Megan’s hair? Or bats? Or monkeys? Will they fly out of there? Out of hell?

Stan down!

The stalker’s back. Day and night, night and day. I must think of a way into your heart. Not by lingering in the hallway, high.

Stan up!

They kiss… O to the M to the G. This is my favorite moment of Mad Men, ever. Better than David and Maddie (even if it didn’t happen). Better than Dinky Rachel and Dippy Ross. And even if romance isn’t in the cards for these two star-crossed copywriters, that was a lovely moment, that loss-sharing bit. Good on you, Pegs, you and your great ass.

Your daddy loves fried chicken. Come over here and give a hug to your grandma Ida. Is Sally tripping too? You come over here and give me some sugar. Your dad still handsome? Your mom a piece of work? Check and check. (This scene ain’t too shabby, either.)

While most would associate a mother-son ad for oatmeal with home and family, Dan looks at a maternal bosomed figure in a do-rag (you know who wears one of those, don’t you?) feeding her kid and he’s back in the whorehouse losing his virginity to Amée.Granger’s delivers.

Who’s she? That’s grandma Ida. Know where Daddy’s gold watch is? I’ll know when I see it. In the drawer by his bed. Dumb Bobby. Are we negroes? Dumber Bobby. These children ought to be in bed. They played a joke on both of us. Goodnight. When I come back. You best be sleeping.

This may be hard to believe, but…

Get everyone. No, wait, just listen. I’ve got it.

I’ve got this great message. I’m the Messiah. I hold people together. What is that thing that draws them? It’s a history. It may not even be with me. It’s bigger than that. It’s bigger than a bread box, bigger than a car. Way bigger. It’s everything. The basic priniciple of advertising. What if they turn off the TV? How do we get our foot in the door? Take away their pain, then punch them. The answer to all their problems is not a Chevy or oatmeal. I gotta go. No time for art. They’ve planted white roses where there should be red ones.

Stan’s up, again. (Such a disappointment.)

Sylvia? Megan? Everyone? I am the Messiah. Come in. Have some oatmeal. What’s going on? Some elderly negro women held your children hostage and robbed you blind. She said she was your mother.

Don down. Down the rabbit hole. Back to the whorehouse again. Beaten with a spoon, cherry on top.

Sally seems so grown up, but she’s really still a kid. We’re all children here. Busy.

I’m okay, you’re okay. I left the door open. It was my fault.

Call me around 1970 when they’re ready to make an ad. Every time we get a car, this place turns into a whorehouse.

Mamas and Papas, play Alice off the stage, please.

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