To Have and to Hold: A Stream of Consciousness, the Project K Way
Someone is looking to change his life. Timmy time. Backstabbery in beans and ketchup. Polite or no, Raymond never has to know. We’ll get a hotel. Yeah, you do that. Get a room, Timmy and Pete. And Don.
Not really understanding the evolution of Pete’s hair.
He’s loaning out his bachelor pad now, Pete is. No need to get a room. Not like Don needed one, anyway. He lives in Manhattan and his mistress is an easy elevator ride away.
It’s been 7 o’clock for twenty minutes. The dinner (and wedding) bell(s) are ringing. Bad news, Dawn: Both the caterer and her date have bailed, she’s never going to meet anyone at that office, and it’s impossible to stand out in that crowd of harlots at church. The shoe shine guy’s the last man standing. Ships are passing in the night (and through the plaza). Dating hasn’t changed much. Well, not the frustration of it. Walk on by, Anthony.
The make-up’s not the important part, says Mary Kay. She hasn’t met Joan’s mother. She needs all the help she can get. Yup. The magic’s in the make-up, no doubt. Sometimes, I wish someone would stop by my apartment and try to sell me make-up, just for the makeover fun of it. And then I’d go to Le Cirque. No, that’s not where I’d go. Neither are Joan and Kate anymore, either.
The door opened and he was standing there. Because he lives in Manhattan and his mistress is just an elevator ride away. Eye-catching.
Diamonds. Working out of Spokane, there’s not much farther I can go. Ugh. Responsibility. Who wants it? As per the monster, “My daughter is a partner at a Madison Avenue advertising firm. That’s something I enjoy saying.” Your wits are waiting for you at the Waldorf. Avon’s calling.
Ken Cosgrove is turning neurotic. People are dropping napalm on children. He just came in to complain. Right place for it. Harry has great ideas, and the last danish. Ah, Stan’s back. You know how I love him, right? Not a fan of the Project Kill machine stand-up aura of the token Jew. His moustache is distractingly fraudulent. Bob Benson in the house, as per the new usual. Preppifying the place up … while Stan clears the cobwebs in his ganja cave where hot dogs cry out for mustard. No, ketchup. Let’s order lunch, dude.
Mr. Draper always needs me. Punch me out, please.
Bisou bisou. Look who’s dressed as a French maid. She should call Trudy. They can go to the Easter party together. Where is Trudy? An affair! Megan’s getting a love scene — no, a love affair— with another man — named Rod; or, her character’s character is. What happened to those lessons I recommended? What’s Don going to say about this? Let’s get him comfortable with the infauxdelity.
Did you send Scarlett somewhere? Enter The Pipsqueak. What, exactly, does Joan do in her capacity as partner? It’s unclear.
Welcome to the cuckold-au-vin show. Yes, it gets worse. You’ll have to dine with some soap bubbles. What does a love scene consist of? Is that where babies come from? Don has to ponder this whole thing. Maybe he should take the elevator and see if the answer comes.
Leland Palmer’s sitting down for this. I have no idea what account they’re here for. Or why Joe Namath (and fifteen or so of his best friends) would be singing Broadway tunes. Pipes, Julie Andrews and Punch. How about John Wayne in a sketch version of Camelot? Sexy stuff. Is there anything that makes people smile more than Broadway and football?
(Prediction: Tonight, I will have a nightmare that will feature a David Lynchian scene in which Harry and Leland sing “Yankee Doodle” in baby voices, and dwarves will dance.)
Ah, Dow Chemical! Joe Namath in a straw hat.
The Scarlett letter of the office, she left Mr. Crane on his own — for a Givenchy scarf. It won’t happen again. Not here it won’t.
Please stand by, the petty dictatorship is being overthrown.
Let’s go. Back to work. Everything’s fine.
Project K. If Scarlett goes, so goes the nation, and Harry and Joe Namath and $150,000 of incremental business.
I’m sorry my accomplishments happened in broad daylight, and I can’t be given the same rewards. That went way low, Harry. Below the chastity belt.
Exit The Pipsqueak.
Wedding blues, revisited. Those girls aren’t your friends. Everybody’s scared there. Women crying in the ladies’ room; men crying in the elevators. Sounds like New Year’s Eve, when they empty the garbage because there’s so many bottles. Keeping your head down.That’s what you do when you’re not getting married.
How retro-cool would it be if there were bars adjacent to restaurants that didn’t take reservations and always had long waits … and if at those bars, you sat around a phone that rang when your table, next door, was ready? Cocktails would all be inspired by soda-fountain drinks, of course. And older men would pick up under-age girls. Wait, no, scratch that last part.
Dinner with the soap bubbles. The wife looks a lot like Sylvia. But Don’s not interested. He’ll pass on the grass. And the orgy. Elevator access, denied.
Bonnie and Cly-yde. Why’s Joan being such a square? What a waste of Serge. Or not. Gainsbourg works on everyone. J’adore(d) that (incongruous) scene.
I also adore Bert Cooper. Check the argyle. He was different than you, Mr. Crane, in every way.
Good luck, Megan.
You two layabouts need to get and throw up. Why would you want to be Joan? She’s an executive. And even if they still treat her like a secretary, it’s damn impressive.
Pass the Heinz. Don’t they mean Pass the Grey Poupon? It’s a testament to ketchup that there can be no comparison. You can’t chew on it, silly. It’s ketchup.
Awkward. Team Peggy’s making this a bake-off. And hers is the only cake you’re going to eat. Because the rest of you made cookies. She changed the conversation. Enjoy your crumbs, fellas.
Good morning. Afternoon. Them there’s fighting words.
That’s the Joan I know and love. Missed her.
This meeting of the Lonely Hearts Club is called to order. A round of Special K for everyone. Hear that, Ted? Vinegar, sauces and beans is available. We’re all fighting for scraps, here. Stan and Peggy, they’re meant to be. I don’t care what happens with the boss.
I don’t know how much longer I can take this. Rafe, we can’t. My husband is watching. He likes to watch. Yes, he does. That was steamy. The man in the trench is not amused. Why would he do that to himself? Would she brush her teeth? She kisses people for money. Know what that makes her? Makes her Don’s kinda girl, last time I checked.
Oh look, a bright, shiny, penny. How can I ignore the whore next door? Get on your knees and pray, for absolution.