Michael Davidow's Blog: The Henry Bell Project - Posts Tagged "mad-men"
Mad Man
“That doesn’t sound like you talking. That’s not Yale, and that’s not Mad Ave. That sounds like Walton talking.”
The first thing many people ask me, when they learn about SPLIT THIRTY, is whether I watch the AMC television show, Mad Men. I tell them honestly that I never have. I wrote the first draft of SPLIT THIRTY years before Mad Men existed. It was actually being represented by a literary agent when AMC made its first splash. I recall asking him if this new television show would help or hurt my prospects. He never answered me. Then he quit. And I put this story aside for a long time, before taking it out to finish.
In those years, too, I stayed away from that program. It irked me, that another writer had succeeded with an idea so similar to mine. I also did not want to be influenced by someone else's vision.
Since starting to market SPLIT THIRTY, though, I’ve become aware of how far Mad Men has gone, and how many people like it. I’ve also seen that some overlap between my work and their work is almost impossible to avoid. We’re looking at adjoining eras, after all, and the same industry. I’ve learned that its writers have made references to Nixon, Rockefeller, Antonioni, and more too, I’m sure.
Thankfully, it was the ’68 campaign that rocked Madison Avenue the most; Nixon’s ad-men being the subject of Joe McGinness’s famous book, The Selling of the President 1968. So maybe they’ll stop before they hit ’72.
And rest assured, in the meantime, the only television show based on advertising that matters to Henry Bell is Bewitched -- because Pooch has a thing for Elizabeth Montgomery.
The first thing many people ask me, when they learn about SPLIT THIRTY, is whether I watch the AMC television show, Mad Men. I tell them honestly that I never have. I wrote the first draft of SPLIT THIRTY years before Mad Men existed. It was actually being represented by a literary agent when AMC made its first splash. I recall asking him if this new television show would help or hurt my prospects. He never answered me. Then he quit. And I put this story aside for a long time, before taking it out to finish.
In those years, too, I stayed away from that program. It irked me, that another writer had succeeded with an idea so similar to mine. I also did not want to be influenced by someone else's vision.
Since starting to market SPLIT THIRTY, though, I’ve become aware of how far Mad Men has gone, and how many people like it. I’ve also seen that some overlap between my work and their work is almost impossible to avoid. We’re looking at adjoining eras, after all, and the same industry. I’ve learned that its writers have made references to Nixon, Rockefeller, Antonioni, and more too, I’m sure.
Thankfully, it was the ’68 campaign that rocked Madison Avenue the most; Nixon’s ad-men being the subject of Joe McGinness’s famous book, The Selling of the President 1968. So maybe they’ll stop before they hit ’72.
And rest assured, in the meantime, the only television show based on advertising that matters to Henry Bell is Bewitched -- because Pooch has a thing for Elizabeth Montgomery.
I and Thou
I started this blog to augment my author’s page on the Goodreads website; then I added it to my Amazon author’s page. Then I recreated it on the Wordpress platform, where three friendly guys have since pressed the “like” button on an entry called “Mad Man.” That was where I mentioned Matthew Weiner’s Mad Men, the AMC television show. That fact stands out to me. Nothing else has produced such an effect.
So in a shameless attempt to market my work accordingly, here is a brand new entry in which I helpfully compare Don Draper to Henry Bell. I am somewhat handicapped in doing so, because I have still never seen Mad Men. But you can learn a lot about it, by reading the news.
Don Draper is the handsome lead character in a glossy soap opera seen and loved by millions. Henry Bell is the burly lead character in a literary novel known to around five people in New Hampshire, Boston, and Washington, D.C. (there is also someone in Los Angeles). Early on, he is described as the “ant” to another ad-man’s “grasshopper.”
Don and his friends seem to drink a lot, but I’m not sure what (there’s an awful lot of discussion out there about how to make “Mad Men” cocktails). Henry drinks scotch, because he’s a Republican (as for his friends: Bertie drinks bourbon, because he’s a Democrat; Walton drinks tequila, because he’s from California; and Pooch drinks anything, because he’s an alcoholic).
Don seems to have some problem with his wife. Henry loves Paula, in spite of their being divorced.
Don has some other existential crisis going on, too, which seems to manifest itself in various shades of sex and wardrobe changes. Henry’s existential crisis has something to do with Ecclesiastes and the work of Thomas Kuhn.
J. Crew is marketing a line of clothing based on Don and his friends. Henry wears the same grey suit in nearly every scene, and I don’t think Peterson’s neckties survived 1973.
Don is haunted by his time in Korea. Henry fought in Italy, where he attempted to avoid getting the clap.
The actor who plays Don shows up on a lot of magazine covers. When I think about who could possibly play Henry, I think about Sterling Hayden, and Bill Holden. Then I wake up, and I go to work.
And I should probably end with this: Mad Men was created by some forty-something Jewish guy who was born in Baltimore, and who really liked the sixties. SPLIT THIRTY was written by some forty-something Jewish guy who was born in Boston, and who really liked the seventies. He wishes Matthew Weiner well. Perhaps they will meet someday.
So in a shameless attempt to market my work accordingly, here is a brand new entry in which I helpfully compare Don Draper to Henry Bell. I am somewhat handicapped in doing so, because I have still never seen Mad Men. But you can learn a lot about it, by reading the news.
Don Draper is the handsome lead character in a glossy soap opera seen and loved by millions. Henry Bell is the burly lead character in a literary novel known to around five people in New Hampshire, Boston, and Washington, D.C. (there is also someone in Los Angeles). Early on, he is described as the “ant” to another ad-man’s “grasshopper.”
Don and his friends seem to drink a lot, but I’m not sure what (there’s an awful lot of discussion out there about how to make “Mad Men” cocktails). Henry drinks scotch, because he’s a Republican (as for his friends: Bertie drinks bourbon, because he’s a Democrat; Walton drinks tequila, because he’s from California; and Pooch drinks anything, because he’s an alcoholic).
Don seems to have some problem with his wife. Henry loves Paula, in spite of their being divorced.
Don has some other existential crisis going on, too, which seems to manifest itself in various shades of sex and wardrobe changes. Henry’s existential crisis has something to do with Ecclesiastes and the work of Thomas Kuhn.
J. Crew is marketing a line of clothing based on Don and his friends. Henry wears the same grey suit in nearly every scene, and I don’t think Peterson’s neckties survived 1973.
Don is haunted by his time in Korea. Henry fought in Italy, where he attempted to avoid getting the clap.
The actor who plays Don shows up on a lot of magazine covers. When I think about who could possibly play Henry, I think about Sterling Hayden, and Bill Holden. Then I wake up, and I go to work.
And I should probably end with this: Mad Men was created by some forty-something Jewish guy who was born in Baltimore, and who really liked the sixties. SPLIT THIRTY was written by some forty-something Jewish guy who was born in Boston, and who really liked the seventies. He wishes Matthew Weiner well. Perhaps they will meet someday.
Get the Look
His hair was long but neat, his moustache long but trim. He wore bell-bottom denim pants, an open-necked, silver-threaded shirt, and a Navajo medallion strung on rawhide twine across his chest.
No, that’s not Henry. That’s the guy who sells marijuana at the antique store down the street from Walton’s office. But it’s all about fashion these days, and I would hate to think that the stalwart crew at the Fifty-Ninth Madison Committee to Re-Elect the President would disappoint any potential readers in that regard, especially when you can now easily purchase your "Mad Men" bona fides at J. Crews and Banana Republics all across this nation.
So here’s Henry himself: “Heavyset, five-foot-ten, dressed in a grey suit, with white shirt, slim dark tie, and silver tie clip; he was almost burly, almost truculent-seeming, but for nut-brown eyes that glittered with wit, covered by eyeglasses made from thick black plastic, that he could slap on and off his face to notable effect.” Not sure where you can get those nut-brown eyes, except to say that my father had them, and yours might have had them, too.
So if that’s too hard, you can also try the Pacinetti approach: “Shirt sleeves with precocious cuff links, that stuck out too many inches from the pipecleaner arms of a loudly-patterned suit; soiled Hush Puppies on his feet; a mop of black hair like an electric guitar player might have.”
Or better yet, channel your inner Walton: “He was tall and handsome in tight-fitting trousers, nonchalantly paired with a gold-buttoned blazer; those pointy shoes turned out to be cowboy boots, too. They went with long sideburns, an untrained thatch of auburn hair, a natural suntan, and an angular western face betraying the barest beginnings of middle age.”
But honestly, these are just suggestions. Fashion is a way of expressing yourself; just like painting, just like writing. Try to have fun with it, then. Try to uplift your fellow man. And don’t just follow a recipe, either. Follow Selma Kahn’s recipe.
Because according to Bell -- she had style. “Not exactly a beauty queen. But style to spare. She could make a party dress from tin foil and bubble gum.” Her secret was pretty simple, too: she stole her hats from Bergdorf Goodman.
No, that’s not Henry. That’s the guy who sells marijuana at the antique store down the street from Walton’s office. But it’s all about fashion these days, and I would hate to think that the stalwart crew at the Fifty-Ninth Madison Committee to Re-Elect the President would disappoint any potential readers in that regard, especially when you can now easily purchase your "Mad Men" bona fides at J. Crews and Banana Republics all across this nation.
So here’s Henry himself: “Heavyset, five-foot-ten, dressed in a grey suit, with white shirt, slim dark tie, and silver tie clip; he was almost burly, almost truculent-seeming, but for nut-brown eyes that glittered with wit, covered by eyeglasses made from thick black plastic, that he could slap on and off his face to notable effect.” Not sure where you can get those nut-brown eyes, except to say that my father had them, and yours might have had them, too.
So if that’s too hard, you can also try the Pacinetti approach: “Shirt sleeves with precocious cuff links, that stuck out too many inches from the pipecleaner arms of a loudly-patterned suit; soiled Hush Puppies on his feet; a mop of black hair like an electric guitar player might have.”
Or better yet, channel your inner Walton: “He was tall and handsome in tight-fitting trousers, nonchalantly paired with a gold-buttoned blazer; those pointy shoes turned out to be cowboy boots, too. They went with long sideburns, an untrained thatch of auburn hair, a natural suntan, and an angular western face betraying the barest beginnings of middle age.”
But honestly, these are just suggestions. Fashion is a way of expressing yourself; just like painting, just like writing. Try to have fun with it, then. Try to uplift your fellow man. And don’t just follow a recipe, either. Follow Selma Kahn’s recipe.
Because according to Bell -- she had style. “Not exactly a beauty queen. But style to spare. She could make a party dress from tin foil and bubble gum.” Her secret was pretty simple, too: she stole her hats from Bergdorf Goodman.
As Seen on TV
He took his practical place on the sidewalk with flocks of kids in Levi jeans and pea coats, pinch-faced women in brown or tan, carrying shabby shopping bags with small clutching hands, sour-faced men in navy-blue overcoats, cops, hustlers, housewives, teamsters; he was just passing through these parts, and he never pretended otherwise…
Pity Matthew Weiner. All he has done is successfully entertain millions of people for the past five years, by making a show that has launched careers, sold clothing, and driven one guy from New Hampshire up the wall. But he apparently botched his take on St. Mark’s Place in his show’s new season, so people are criticizing him. He apparently showed it as being dangerous, back in the day, when it was not.
It looks like he was riffing on a well-known murder that took place in that area, a few blocks to the east. And in making a minor geographical adjustment to that story (perhaps out of respect for the actual event), he deviated too much from reality.
Now I tried hard to keep Henry Bell’s Manhattan (and his Los Angeles, and his Washington) as real as possible. I am sure I also messed up, though, and more than once. So I sympathize with my imaginary friend on this score.
When Henry and Pooch and Walton are cruising Times Square, for instance, “the stars above them stayed invisible in the smoky autumn sky, the sidewalks underneath them providing better constellations, foil wrappers, and hidden mica; mica set into the pavement like ice cubes floating in scotch. Flashing neon above their heads somersaulted downwards, too, reflecting in every taxicab’s windshield, and streams of light electrified the onyx rows they traveled through…”
Maybe Times Square really wasn’t like that in 1972; maybe there really weren’t “cars and cops to keep him company, and tense teenaged hookers; needles of neon at the corners of his spectacle lenses, and shallow oil rainbows in the gutters by the street…” I hope those things existed. Otherwise I’ll get panned.
As for St. Mark’s Place itself, it shows up just one time in SPLIT THIRTY: it’s where Selma Kahn decided to bleach her hair and cut it short. Only makes sense if you know this extra fact: Andy Warhol ran the Exploding Plastic Inevitable at a dance hall called the Dom, in St. Mark’s Place, in 1966. Edie must have been there.
Pity Matthew Weiner. All he has done is successfully entertain millions of people for the past five years, by making a show that has launched careers, sold clothing, and driven one guy from New Hampshire up the wall. But he apparently botched his take on St. Mark’s Place in his show’s new season, so people are criticizing him. He apparently showed it as being dangerous, back in the day, when it was not.
It looks like he was riffing on a well-known murder that took place in that area, a few blocks to the east. And in making a minor geographical adjustment to that story (perhaps out of respect for the actual event), he deviated too much from reality.
Now I tried hard to keep Henry Bell’s Manhattan (and his Los Angeles, and his Washington) as real as possible. I am sure I also messed up, though, and more than once. So I sympathize with my imaginary friend on this score.
When Henry and Pooch and Walton are cruising Times Square, for instance, “the stars above them stayed invisible in the smoky autumn sky, the sidewalks underneath them providing better constellations, foil wrappers, and hidden mica; mica set into the pavement like ice cubes floating in scotch. Flashing neon above their heads somersaulted downwards, too, reflecting in every taxicab’s windshield, and streams of light electrified the onyx rows they traveled through…”
Maybe Times Square really wasn’t like that in 1972; maybe there really weren’t “cars and cops to keep him company, and tense teenaged hookers; needles of neon at the corners of his spectacle lenses, and shallow oil rainbows in the gutters by the street…” I hope those things existed. Otherwise I’ll get panned.
As for St. Mark’s Place itself, it shows up just one time in SPLIT THIRTY: it’s where Selma Kahn decided to bleach her hair and cut it short. Only makes sense if you know this extra fact: Andy Warhol ran the Exploding Plastic Inevitable at a dance hall called the Dom, in St. Mark’s Place, in 1966. Edie must have been there.
Cutting it Short
He also stopped by the pool to watch a swimmer take laps, and he stared at her mutely when she surfaced and climbed to the patio. Wet footprints on dry cement that faded to nothing, step by step; and shorn hair like a beaver’s pelt, easy for skimming the water from.
We think of the early seventies as a time when women had long hair. That was certainly the most popular style. But it makes no sense to take that style and apply it across the board, as if every female alive in 1972 would have rushed out to conform (and to look the part). Then, as now, many women would have kept whatever had worked for them in the past (Henry, remembering Paula: “When she ran her hands through her dark bouffant, shiny red stones peeked out like accidental garnet…”). And a few would have struck out on their own. The result being a patchwork quilt at street level: styles from the past thirty years, out and about.
Selma Kahn, of course, both stuck with something she liked, and struck out on her own. And while her immediate inspiration may have been Edie Sedgwick, she probably had Mia Farrow in mind as well; not to mention Twiggy; and not to mention Jean Seberg.
But it didn’t even start with Seberg. Shirley MacLaine claimed the gamine cut for her own, all the way back to fifties, while Leslie Caron and Elizabeth Taylor showed some moxie, too.
This is all to say that my research into the Mad Men phenomenon has disappointed me in at least one respect: that show seems to believe that everyone alive in 1965 (or whenever) automatically wore whatever seemed fashionable in 1965, and you can make people believe it’s 1965, by wearing that stuff.
The styles of SPLIT THIRTY are timeless. They’re also a total mess.
We think of the early seventies as a time when women had long hair. That was certainly the most popular style. But it makes no sense to take that style and apply it across the board, as if every female alive in 1972 would have rushed out to conform (and to look the part). Then, as now, many women would have kept whatever had worked for them in the past (Henry, remembering Paula: “When she ran her hands through her dark bouffant, shiny red stones peeked out like accidental garnet…”). And a few would have struck out on their own. The result being a patchwork quilt at street level: styles from the past thirty years, out and about.
Selma Kahn, of course, both stuck with something she liked, and struck out on her own. And while her immediate inspiration may have been Edie Sedgwick, she probably had Mia Farrow in mind as well; not to mention Twiggy; and not to mention Jean Seberg.
But it didn’t even start with Seberg. Shirley MacLaine claimed the gamine cut for her own, all the way back to fifties, while Leslie Caron and Elizabeth Taylor showed some moxie, too.
This is all to say that my research into the Mad Men phenomenon has disappointed me in at least one respect: that show seems to believe that everyone alive in 1965 (or whenever) automatically wore whatever seemed fashionable in 1965, and you can make people believe it’s 1965, by wearing that stuff.
The styles of SPLIT THIRTY are timeless. They’re also a total mess.
The Wasteland
Having grown up in the 70’s, my imagination has long been influenced by what I’ve seen on television. And jumbled images from the attic of my mind doubtlessly informed the writing of SPLIT THIRTY.
The opening credits of The Odd Couple, for instance (and the various interiors they used for Oscar Madison’s apartment, who despite his last name, allegedly lived on Park). And the same for Hawaii Five-O: sixty full seconds of orgiastic snarl (when they finally make that film of SPLIT THIRTY, those saturated colors will live again). Hawaii Five-O has a special mood, too; as does The Fugitive, Room 222, and Pooch’s beloved Bewitched. My wife could not understand why I watched Love American Style whenever I could, these past few years; but I could not resist. It tasted like cotton candy when I was writing this story.
Which all begs the question, of course, as to why I’ve avoided Mad Men all this time. But as I’ve said before, I did not want to taint my own vision of Madison Avenue with that of any other soul.
Having recently seen bits and pieces of AMC’s show, though, it appears to be a hell of a lot more stylized than what suited Henry Bell. The sets look antiseptic. The clothing seems cut for dolls. And as I think that’s part of Matthew Wiener’s shtick, I don’t mean those statements as criticism, either.
For the best small-screen version of the Gotham found in SPLIT THIRTY, however, you have to go back another few decades, to a program called The Naked City (inspired by the film of that same name). I recently watched an episode that trailed a little kid from midtown Manhattan to his home in Brooklyn. It was sun-lit, dirty, and riveting. It even had Diahann Carroll. And another with Frank Gorshin as a stool pigeon trying to make dough for taking a bus back to Oklahoma by hustling a game of ping-pong; and another with Robert Duvall as a washed-up boxer aiming for one last fight. Worth every second of attention, whatever late hour you are lucky enough to find these things.
That, or watch Family Affair. Long live Buffy and Uncle Bill.
The opening credits of The Odd Couple, for instance (and the various interiors they used for Oscar Madison’s apartment, who despite his last name, allegedly lived on Park). And the same for Hawaii Five-O: sixty full seconds of orgiastic snarl (when they finally make that film of SPLIT THIRTY, those saturated colors will live again). Hawaii Five-O has a special mood, too; as does The Fugitive, Room 222, and Pooch’s beloved Bewitched. My wife could not understand why I watched Love American Style whenever I could, these past few years; but I could not resist. It tasted like cotton candy when I was writing this story.
Which all begs the question, of course, as to why I’ve avoided Mad Men all this time. But as I’ve said before, I did not want to taint my own vision of Madison Avenue with that of any other soul.
Having recently seen bits and pieces of AMC’s show, though, it appears to be a hell of a lot more stylized than what suited Henry Bell. The sets look antiseptic. The clothing seems cut for dolls. And as I think that’s part of Matthew Wiener’s shtick, I don’t mean those statements as criticism, either.
For the best small-screen version of the Gotham found in SPLIT THIRTY, however, you have to go back another few decades, to a program called The Naked City (inspired by the film of that same name). I recently watched an episode that trailed a little kid from midtown Manhattan to his home in Brooklyn. It was sun-lit, dirty, and riveting. It even had Diahann Carroll. And another with Frank Gorshin as a stool pigeon trying to make dough for taking a bus back to Oklahoma by hustling a game of ping-pong; and another with Robert Duvall as a washed-up boxer aiming for one last fight. Worth every second of attention, whatever late hour you are lucky enough to find these things.
That, or watch Family Affair. Long live Buffy and Uncle Bill.
March Madness
“Good morning, Chan. It’s Henry.” “Henry? Are you back from the coast?” “Here I am. Live, from Madison Avenue.”
Its charm continues to elude me. It’s a soap opera with elaborate sets. I think it has more to do with the self-regard of non-native New Yorkers than with any particular dramatic import. But hey— Matthew Weiner: where is the love?
Ten random Mad Men moments from the Henry Bell novels:
10. Pullman Porter eats a mango (Gate City);
9. Pooch sings the Ko-Ko-Bite jingle during lunch at the Four Seasons (Split Thirty);
8. Jack Mercer stares down a peacock (Gate City);
7. Liesl Engelbrecht and Paula Bell dance the twist (Gate City);
6. Pooch throws up in Times Square, while Henry talks about the Ted Bates agency (Split Thirty);
5. Henry insults the woman in mink (Split Thirty);
4. Tasha gets covered with magazine advertisements at Kahn’s studio in Hell’s Kitchen (Split Thirty);
3. Selma smuggles a strawberry milkshake into Chasen’s (Gate City);
2. Baby Robert falls into a swimming pool (Gate City); and
1. HENRY GETS DRUNK (the whole damn thing).
Its charm continues to elude me. It’s a soap opera with elaborate sets. I think it has more to do with the self-regard of non-native New Yorkers than with any particular dramatic import. But hey— Matthew Weiner: where is the love?
Ten random Mad Men moments from the Henry Bell novels:
10. Pullman Porter eats a mango (Gate City);
9. Pooch sings the Ko-Ko-Bite jingle during lunch at the Four Seasons (Split Thirty);
8. Jack Mercer stares down a peacock (Gate City);
7. Liesl Engelbrecht and Paula Bell dance the twist (Gate City);
6. Pooch throws up in Times Square, while Henry talks about the Ted Bates agency (Split Thirty);
5. Henry insults the woman in mink (Split Thirty);
4. Tasha gets covered with magazine advertisements at Kahn’s studio in Hell’s Kitchen (Split Thirty);
3. Selma smuggles a strawberry milkshake into Chasen’s (Gate City);
2. Baby Robert falls into a swimming pool (Gate City); and
1. HENRY GETS DRUNK (the whole damn thing).
Town and Country
“About that money. We changed our vehicle the other day. And our new vehicle depends on you. How is that for starters?” / “Here I am.” He crossed his legs and arms. His head hurt, and so did his spine. The MCA man gave him a smile. He was of Bell’s same generation, but better-looking and better-appointed; he had pictures of his children and his wife on his desk, too. Studio-produced, with good lighting. / Bell’s future surely contained a root canal.
So Mad Men is coming to an end, and okay, I admit it– I'll miss it (wink). It doesn’t matter that Split Thirty came first in time (ask the agent who represented it for a minute); it doesn’t matter that The Henry Bell Project is more about politics and religion than it is about advertising; it doesn’t matter that Selma Kahn is sexier in text than half a dozen highly-posed mannequins could ever be, on television. Matthew Weiner deserves a hand. Every single day, it seems, another New York Times reporter is wiping away a tear.
Please tell me, New York Times, why do you care so much? And why are you now giving us “upshots” instead of news? And why is the new Sunday magazine so damned hard to read? And why did you ever allow Herbert Muschamp to write about architecture, or Seth Scheisel to write about video games?
Sorry, I digress.
Anyway, I have always suspected that the Times loves this show because it makes New York City feel good about itself (poor New York, with its raging inferiority complex), and my buddy Ginia Bellafante wrote the other day that I was right: that Matthew Weiner’s political arguments could be boiled down to a sense that city-people are smarter than non-city-people; that cities will save us, or nothing can; and that New York, in particular, is just plain better than the rest of this country. Hmm.
Well, if that’s what my brother Matt was saying, politically speaking, I have to admit I am unconvinced. I remember long ago reading an article by Joyce Carol Oates– holy hell, Joyce Carol Oates!– about how Timothy McVeigh bombed the federal building in Oklahoma City because he grew up in some sad poor town in New York State without the benefit of city culture (city culture as defined by Joyce Carol Oates, I guess). As I myself grew up in a sad poor town here in New Hampshire, I remember being irked by that thesis. As if growing up in New York City protected one from feeling empty (wow, is it that simple?), or being an idiot, or crazy, or violent (Son of Sam, anyone?). Or maybe she meant a place like Cambridge… home to Harvard, thousands of budding artists, and the fine young Tsarnaev brothers…
I dunno. I was always careful in writing The Henry Bell Project to leave people alone; to not argue too much, with what made them happy. Henry is certainly fond of cities (as is the author, Oates Carol Joyce!). But Bertie — a true city boy– repairs to the country whenever he can. Paula is quite content in a suburb. Jack Mercer likes pineapple plantations; Pooch likes to be in motion; Selma is happy wherever she can get an egg cream (which you can’t get anywhere these days)… my point being that we all move around a lot these days, and that questing souls, thoughtful minds, and working hearts can be found all over the place. There are no short-cuts to spiritual integrity (ask Sal Paradise about that– no, not my character, but still). And well-trod roads can lead people to disaster. (Can you imagine, by the way, what today’s more sensitive three-year-olds will be saying about the horror of growing up in “Brooklyn,” come another fifteen years?)
It was the citified Democrats, after all, who first insisted on empowering minorities and giving voice to all dissenters, regardless of their smarts or common sense: demands that the outer fringes of the Republican Party soon came to embrace with glee, leading to the disaster that is Congress, today.
“We have met the enemy, and he is us.” That’s Pogo, friends– and Pogo lived in a swamp.
So Mad Men is coming to an end, and okay, I admit it– I'll miss it (wink). It doesn’t matter that Split Thirty came first in time (ask the agent who represented it for a minute); it doesn’t matter that The Henry Bell Project is more about politics and religion than it is about advertising; it doesn’t matter that Selma Kahn is sexier in text than half a dozen highly-posed mannequins could ever be, on television. Matthew Weiner deserves a hand. Every single day, it seems, another New York Times reporter is wiping away a tear.
Please tell me, New York Times, why do you care so much? And why are you now giving us “upshots” instead of news? And why is the new Sunday magazine so damned hard to read? And why did you ever allow Herbert Muschamp to write about architecture, or Seth Scheisel to write about video games?
Sorry, I digress.
Anyway, I have always suspected that the Times loves this show because it makes New York City feel good about itself (poor New York, with its raging inferiority complex), and my buddy Ginia Bellafante wrote the other day that I was right: that Matthew Weiner’s political arguments could be boiled down to a sense that city-people are smarter than non-city-people; that cities will save us, or nothing can; and that New York, in particular, is just plain better than the rest of this country. Hmm.
Well, if that’s what my brother Matt was saying, politically speaking, I have to admit I am unconvinced. I remember long ago reading an article by Joyce Carol Oates– holy hell, Joyce Carol Oates!– about how Timothy McVeigh bombed the federal building in Oklahoma City because he grew up in some sad poor town in New York State without the benefit of city culture (city culture as defined by Joyce Carol Oates, I guess). As I myself grew up in a sad poor town here in New Hampshire, I remember being irked by that thesis. As if growing up in New York City protected one from feeling empty (wow, is it that simple?), or being an idiot, or crazy, or violent (Son of Sam, anyone?). Or maybe she meant a place like Cambridge… home to Harvard, thousands of budding artists, and the fine young Tsarnaev brothers…
I dunno. I was always careful in writing The Henry Bell Project to leave people alone; to not argue too much, with what made them happy. Henry is certainly fond of cities (as is the author, Oates Carol Joyce!). But Bertie — a true city boy– repairs to the country whenever he can. Paula is quite content in a suburb. Jack Mercer likes pineapple plantations; Pooch likes to be in motion; Selma is happy wherever she can get an egg cream (which you can’t get anywhere these days)… my point being that we all move around a lot these days, and that questing souls, thoughtful minds, and working hearts can be found all over the place. There are no short-cuts to spiritual integrity (ask Sal Paradise about that– no, not my character, but still). And well-trod roads can lead people to disaster. (Can you imagine, by the way, what today’s more sensitive three-year-olds will be saying about the horror of growing up in “Brooklyn,” come another fifteen years?)
It was the citified Democrats, after all, who first insisted on empowering minorities and giving voice to all dissenters, regardless of their smarts or common sense: demands that the outer fringes of the Republican Party soon came to embrace with glee, leading to the disaster that is Congress, today.
“We have met the enemy, and he is us.” That’s Pogo, friends– and Pogo lived in a swamp.
