I’ve recently jumped onto the Mad Men bandwagon.  I don’t watch TV, so much as pass out drunk in front of it.  I haven’t parked my ass in front of the tube so eagerly since Deadwood.  The writing on Mad Men is brilliant.

I have to discover things in my own time.  Even if the recommendation is coming from a friend, unless they’re setting a shot of something in front of me, it takes me anywhere from 6 months to 10 years to pick up on a trend.

Watching Draper reminds me Patrick Bateman.  I won’t qualify that statement.  If you can’t recite American Psycho line for line, fuck off.

Watching this show is like looking into a time machine.  I was born from the generation born from this generation.  I remember the plastic clobbering sound the old rotary phone made hitting the hook.  Of course, my mother didn’t spend the day washing down speed and anti-anxiety pills with whiskey.

She had Jesus . . .

There are generation gaps – things that didn’t pass the generation between – but there are more that made it through.  The disposable nature of everything.  The emotional disconnects.

Just like mother used to make.