So everybody loves Mad Men. Like seriously, I have not met a single person who does not love Mad Men. And I know a lot of people. Never having cable, I’m always a little behind the curve in terms of television (I watched Sopranos for the first time in 2008, and Breaking Bad has yet to grace my screen), but Mad Men, for some reason, I just wasn’t excited.
Last night, we took to The Netflix and decided to make the leap. The intro was cool if not period, and I liked the first few scenes well enough. But then I started feeling all agitated. The more I watched these manly men being Men, these womanly women being Women, the more urgently I felt need for some fresh air and a cigarette. Preferably consumed in tandem.
Sipping on my Camel Light several minutes later, I wondered what had gone wrong. I mean, obviously it’s meant to be wry. There’s onionskin layers of self-reflexivity – it’s clearly all a pun! Except, of course, for how it’s also not. And that’s what made my skin crawl.
I took one last drag and went inside. As usual, my timing was impeccable. I’d walked in on the scene where three or four ad executives – “Mad Men”, they’ve coined themselves – are holding a weaker man down and tearing his shirt off. “Pretend it’s prom night,” snickers one of the Alpha males, snapping a suspender off the poor young wretch. “You can be the girl.”
My mind quickly faded white, and I got lightheaded.
“See, that’s not funny,” I said, once my vision had returned to normal.
I really don’t think it’s funny at all.
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