Dear readership: Your humble hostess has decided to correct a five year cultural lapse by diving into the critically acclaimed Mad Men, which she heretofore had not watched. Courtesy of the local video store, she's unraveling television's endless 60s cocktail party over this long hot summer.
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Oh sweet love of life.
Season one. Season two. Season three. Four discs each, 13 episodes per. The season sets are just as addictive as the Lucky Strikes dangling from Don Draper's fingers, as seductive as Betty's lush ruby lips and as intoxicating as a neat shot of bourbon pouring into a rocks glass. Best of all, there's no pesky seven day stretch between what just happened and what happens next.
Will Betty ever see Henry again? Is Joan really gone for good? Will Sal ever give in to his rainbow desires? Your answers, young Grasshopper, are just a click away.
You sit in your dark living room gulping it all down, remote on your lap. The images on the screen lull you as cooing secretaries float amid sets awash in the colors of Necco wafers, dotted with the primary reds, blues and yellows of their lovely frocks.
What to women want? poses Don. As if he had to ask.
Watch one episode, sleepy steamy Erin. Watch another and another. Watch and watch until the smoke curling from Roger Sterling's cigarette somehow floats out of the television and into the space before you. Breathe in these mysterious vapors as the beads of perspiration collect on your chest. Lay your head, bangs sweaty against your forehead, upon the welcoming cushions.
Don't fight it, sleepy Erin, just drift drift drift ... drift off into your thick hot dreams.
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