..but Im Mad about Mad Men

When I continued to reflect on the Sopranos and Mad Men I realized there was something else that was at work. In addition to being familiar with the mafia, the average person comes with certain expectations about mafia films and shows. Mafia members kill people. Mafia members steal. Mafia men often have girlfriends on the side. As a result, when these things subsequently occur on screen, they are not jarring or particularly surprising. The mob film that depicts a pacifist mafiosa, who never takes what does not belong to him, is completely honest and faithful to his family, and pays his taxes ceases to be a mob film, but has become some strange fantasy film on par with Willy Wonka and the Fat Free Chocolate Factory.

But, when I think about what my personal archetypes were for ad-executives in the late 1950's and early 1960's I have to confess that none of those things come to mind. I don't think of killing, cheating, stealing people. I think of Donna Reed. Of course Don Draper has never strangled a man with his bare hands or had someone shoot a bullet in another's head. But, he has killed co-workers to better himself in the way one kills another in the business world, and for white collar men and women this is really not as different as we would like to rationalize that it is. And I know I'm going to isolate myself a little with this next comment, but I have to be real about my own expectations. Yes, I can handle a show that tries to realistically portray life in the "secret" 60's when people looked happy on the outside and were actually miserable in their jobs and marriages. But, Donna Reed and Leave it To Beaver and Lucy existed during that time because there was a belief that people could and should aspire to something greater. That the goal of having a healthy, happy family was a goal worth having.

We currently live in a period of cinema and art where the most consistent thing we do is sit in the grey area and expose the truth that there are no truly good people. Anti-heroes have become our heroes. But in exposing the reality that even people who strive to be good do bad, we have become a people that are too content with the fact that we make bad choices. Donna Reed and I Love Lucy may have not been a true reflection of the average home at that time in our history, but they pointed to what life could be. However, when we spend all of our time elevating bad people to hero status we not only begin to accept that behavior as normal and good, but cannot help but condone it in ourselves.

Chuck Klosterman had this to say about the hero of Mad Men, "Don Draper is a pathological liar who charms women by grabbing their vaginas in crowded restaurants. He's not a good person, but he's kilometers beyond cobalt cool- and he's cool for unusual reasons. He's cool for being extraordinary at his office job. He's cool for keeping secrets and chain-smoking and cheating on his wife. He's cool for the way he talks to strangers."

Maybe I'm crazy, but all of that sounds really un-cool to me.

No Disrespect...

Ever since I saw my first episode of the Sopranos I was quickly hooked. I remember recieving the first season as a birthday present from my parents during the first fall of my graduate school career. The show was already in its third season by that time, and I had avoided watching it due to my love of films like Goodfellas and The Godfather. I did not think there was new ground to be explored in a soap opera focused on the mafia. But, I quickly discovered that what the Sopranos could do that a three hour film could not, was provide the viewer with an extended character study of all the principal players in the drama. Over the course of six seasons, the writers were able to explore the conscious and unconsious struggles that Tony and some of his family members were experiencing. It provided for rich television.

When the show ended and one of its writers left to begin Mad Men, I was initially intrigued by the smart ad campaign. The elegance of the initial advertisements that papered the sides of New York buses stood apart from many other products, movies, and shows being promoted in the same place. Without much time to watch television, I did not watch any of the first two seasons (this seems to be a trend in my life) but was encouraged by my brother to watch it after he provided rave reviews.

Two Christmases ago, he purchased for me the first season of the show on BluRay. It would be hard for anyone to deny the quality of the product. The acting, the production quality, the costumes, the scripts, and everything in the show was top notch. But as I worked my way through the first season I often found myself growing queasy while watching each episode. The parallels between The Sopranos and Mad Men were to me incredibly overt. Both shows explored the main characters two families (the one at home and the one at work). Both had protaganists with "mother issues." Both had men who were troubled by their past, but did not quite fit in at their current "outfits". Both were cold and calculated when it came to business choices, and both were willing to take another person out of the picture quickly if it was ultimately going to be good for business. But time and time again, Mad Men left me feeling extremely depressed, while the Sopranos did not.

If anyone has ever taken Social Psychology in college they have learned about the "familiarity breeds liking" effect. In research on interpersonal attractiveness, individuals are often more likely to be attracted to someone that they see more often. Basically research has shown the the whole familiarity breeds contempt is not as true as some would claim. I began to wonder if this was part of the reason I was comfortable watching Tony and the crew, but not Don Draper and his co-workers. I have seen numerous mafia films throughout the course of my life. The archetypes, the narrative arcs, the conflicts are all somewhat familiar to me. In addition, I grew up in New Jersey with an Italian-Irish father, so even listening to the characters on the Sopranos sounded like home to me. But, the world of advertising or what the business-clad white men of Sterling-Cooper spent their days doing on Mad Men was completely foreign to me. This seemed to me to be part of the problem I was having with the show, but it was not the whole story...

Every knee shall bow, and every tongue confess...

That perfect look of joy blanketing her face. The sign first warmly greeting the reader, and then proclaiming with reckless abandon that she in fact LOVES JESUS and so should anyone who encounters the sign. Welcome to playground evangelism, where a 13 year old girl, without fear or embarrassment, is capable of sharing with the children and the parents in the surrounding area how much she loves Jesus.

Last week, the students I work with in the after school program decided they wanted to go outside and play in the park. Each Wednesday, one of the students is given the opportunity to lead a devotional, or short bible study with guidance from one of the adults. I had been sent a box of tissue paper for use in making decorations for an upcoming volunteer appreciation dinner and one of the kiddos promptly deconstructed the box as soon as the contents had been removed. Working with a furious enthusiasm, she grabbed some markers and began decorating the box, attached some string, and voila a new evangelism tool had been made!

As she walked around the park, she shared her joy and enthusiasm for Christ with such ease. It was remarkable to see young and old people respond to her sign. In the Gospels, Jesus sends out his apostles to spread the good news. He tells them to "enter a house and stay until they depart. And if any place will not receive you and they will not listen to you, when you leave, shake off the dust that is on your feet." The apostles leave proclaiming repentance to all those who would listen. Nearly 2000 years later the experience of disciples like my kiddo remains very similar to that which is described in the Bible. Some were so encouraged by her sign and message, others were quick to tell her they knew she loved Jesus, so why did she need to tell everybody?

Several amazing things happened over the course of the afternoon. One, every ten or fifteen minutes, she would pick a spot in the park, smile, and loudly shout, I LOVE JESUS AND SO SHOULD YOU! This was done with such genuine enthusiasm that many of the people surrounding her could not help but smile. Other peers joined her from time to time and shouted along. At one point, she grabbed me and asked me to join her for her next shout. I smiled and agreed, but when the time came and we counted to three, the volume level I reached could hardly compare to hers. She was quick to criticize me and put me in place, reminding me I was not as loud as I was supposed to be. And in that moment, I realized I was not as loud because I was not as comfortable. Unlike my young sister in Christ, I was actually a little intimidated about screaming at the top of my lungs in the park.

Minutes passed and it was finally time for devotional. We gathered around the slide and jungle gym, seated in a circle on the floor as we were led by a 13 year old through one of the proverbs. And wouldn't you know it, after a little while, some of the other kids in the playground began to gather round and join in. They didn't share their thoughts, or even hang around very long, but they were intrigued by the group of kids seated in a circle. They wanted to know what was going on, and for a brief moment they heard some of the words of the Bible being read aloud in a place known for recreation. I looked around and thought about Jesus. In the Gospel of Matthew he says, Jesus said, "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these." I was witnessing, firsthand, the little children gathering, curious to hear what was going on.

Then I thought about my own hesitation just fifteen minutes earlier to shout aloud how much I loved Jesus. What was preventing me from also proclaiming with reckless abandon how amazing His love is for me and for everyone else in the park. What had happened to my boldness for Christ? And then once again, Christ's own piercing words hit my heart when He said: "I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.

Pluck

Ahh, to have the face that only a mother could love. Or the face that only a mother could pluck! Although, much of my Sunday was spent running from place to place, little of it was spent eating. I awoke, ran to church, and gobbled a bagel from Dunkin Donuts with no butter or cream cheese to make it yummy. Just a plain ol' naked bagel. I then helped chaperone a trip to Harlem Lanes with some of the kiddoes from Graffiti. Although the group was small (7 kids) and I ordered two large pizza pies and two orders of chicken fingers, I only managed to get my hands on once small slice of pie and the smallest of chicken fingers in the two baskets. So, needless to say, when I left church at 7:30 pm I was pretty famished. "Kareem" and I decided to head to the dirty jerz to eat dinner with my parents. Two hours later, we finally arrived. My mother, always the amazing cook, decided to just "throw something together" for us and assembled two delicious crusts encased with ground turkey, seasoning, and melted mozzarella cheese. After praising God for such a feast, I began enjoying the salad and empanada-like creation my mother had assembled. But, as I placed a fork full in my mouth I was greeted with a quick surge of pain that was intensely focused over my right eye.

If God allows me to become an old man, I am pretty sure I will be one of those grandpas with eyebrows that could use their own gardener. They are bushy and unwielding now, so they can only get worse when old age settles in. Apparently one of these hairs was out of place and my mother thought it had fallen off and was resting on my face, ready at any moment to fall onto the dinner table. But, in fact, it was still very much attached to my face and when she pulled on it, my whole head moved forward. I felt like one of the three stooges being poked and prodded. Suddenly the food didn't taste so yummy, because my right eye had been assaulted by my loving mother. After promptly apologizing, "Kareem" laughed out loud stating he had been looking at that hair for our entire two hour journey home, anxious to brush it away himself. Who knew eyebrows could be so disconcerting?

From Another Time...

“Welcome to the land of make believe!” As a child, whenever I heard those words spoken my heart would skip a beat and I would imagine life as it could be while riding on locomotives and spending time with characters from my favorite children’s books. Because well, the Land of Make Believe was a small theme park in Pennsylvania and those words were spoken on the television in my home several times a day during the summer months when the amusement park made most of its money for the year. I recently heard that this park was closed and I was saddened. I don’t really know what disappointed me about this news, because truth be told, it wasn’t a very nice theme park. The rides, of which there were not many, were poorly maintained and operated by strange people who had decided to stop their wandering carnival caravan in western Pennsylvania in the hopes that enough people would come and pay for them to eke out a living.

But my thoughts about this now closed theme park are merely reflections from the mind of a 30 year old; someone who has been to Disneyworld and Universal Studios. I have been blessed with the opportunity to visit cities like Paris and currently live in the “big apple.” The Land of Make Believe has been transformed by the mind’s eye as the result of other experiences, which I have deemed better than those formed by my time spent there many summers ago. But, if I stop to think about that place and what it meant then, it suddenly takes on a whole new meaning. As a young child, I didn’t know about all of those other theme parks. My world was much smaller, and a trip to the park to ride on my sled after a snowstorm was much more exciting than shaking hands with some overgrown mouse with blank eyes and a psychotic smile. And more than being young, my parents were young. Young and struggling. As a young child my mother chose to stay at home to raise my brother and I, and my father drove 25 city blocks to work at a small machine shop. Although my memories are not ones of longing for a better life, as an adult it is easier to see that my parents worked very hard to create a home that convinced me that I had it all and it did not come at a cost. And the Land of Make Believe, while small and insignificant, represented a financial sacrifice that my parents were willing to make to bring my brother and I to a place we believed we needed to visit.

Looking back on the time spent there, frames a lot of other experiences I had growing up with loving parents. As a young child, my parents took a couple’s vacation to Mexico. While they were there they purchased a small, iridescent donkey made of paper, called a piñata. When they returned from their trip I remember the joy on their faces as they gave me this present they had brought from a far away place exclaiming, “it is filled with toys and candy!!” As a child, I could not imagine how this small object could contain all the latest action figures, race cars, and Kit Kat bars I could crave, but the look of joy on their faces convinced me my imagination was clearly stifled. So, I took a stick and pounded away at that paper donkey. After several whacks I finally landed the definitive blow which resulted in the small animal splitting in the center. As the two pieces fell to the floor, I remember the confusion that overcame me when there was nothing in the center of the donkey. I thought it might have been a cruel trick being played by my father, but the look of horror and simultaneous disappointment on both of my parents’ faces communicated this was no joke. This was a mistake. THEY were supposed to fill the piñata and now their son was confused by the empty hole in his paper toy. I don’t remember what happened next in that small family drama. I think the memory of their faces and my reaction to the empty donkey clouded my ability to encode the events that followed. But, as I look back on that day I see it as another example of two people thinking of their child (my brother was not yet born) and trying their best to create a house of plenty for him. Two people who loved their little family, and despite their struggles wanted their child to have it all.

All of these thoughts have flooded my mind because yesterday I landed in another land of make believe. The land of Los Angeles, where adults write fantastic stories and grown men are paid to blow up cars. Where 50 year old women undergo extensive plastic surgery in order to extend their career a couple more years, and everyone “does lunch” to seal the next big deal in television or film. But, in this land of make believe, this la la land of southern California I have been blessed to visit the home of an old college friend. A guy, who not completely unlike my own family has married, has a soon to be four year old child, and is expecting his second on February 18th. A guy who left the east coast to pursue his own dream of success in this land of make believe and who in the process has started a family.

Each morning we awake and sit at the breakfast table. There is always tea, toast, cold cereal, and a small glass of orange juice. The apartment is small, but is filled with a warmth and love that makes the space precious. Earlier this year, my friend completed his first feature film and is in the process of trying to sell the film so that it will be distributed. While I was not around for the work that has been done for him to get to this point it is hard to capture in words the struggles and sacrifices that have been made to get here. Money borrowed from family and friends, numerous meetings with studios to get space, long hours spent writing and drawing storyboards to ensure efficient work time. But, in the midst of these struggles a family is growing and two young people are striving to build their relationship and provide their child with all of the things she needs and wants. As an adult, our recollections and the stories shared by older family members are the windows through which we understand our past. Sometimes, though, we are blessed with experiences that allow us to witness firsthand the things we were unable to fully understand when we were younger. My time here is a gift from God. As a guest in my friend’s home I am able to experience through the eyes of an adult the struggles my own parents underwent to get me to the place I am at today. It has also allowed me to see the power of love and its ability to transform every situation. Even those filled with hardship and sacrifice. People often wonder what life is all about. Why are we here? What is the meaning of all of this, or if there is any meaning at all? For me, the answer has always been to love. God’s love for us is more than we can ever comprehend, but his hope for us is to extend the love he has shown for us with those we encounter in our daily life.

And so as I spend time in this land of make believe I am reminded of the sacrifices and love given to me in my early childhood from my parents. And I am encouraged to watch another family, in the early stages of their own growth together, striving to make their dreams a reality while lovingly raising a child who will grow to have her own hopes and dreams. Dreams that will someday take her to her very own land of dreams, land of hopes, land of make believe.

Thryonomys swinderianus

(WARNING- THIS ARTICLE WILL BE CONSIDERED OFFENSIVE- APOLOGIES TO ALL WHO READ BUT THE AUTHOR ACKNOWLEDGES HIS IGNORANCE WHILE STILL FEELING THE NEED TO RANT)

The title of this blog refers to the scientific name applied to what is commonly known as the Greater Cane Rat. According to Wikipedia "it inhabits Africa, south of the Saharan Desert, lives by reedbeds and riverbanks, and can grow about two feet long weighing a little less than 19 lb (8.6 kg)." In other words this rat can kick any NYC rat's ass!! People who grow up in NYC are well aware of the rat infestation problem. A bestselling nonfiction book called Rats: Observations on the History and Habitat of the City's Most Unwanted Inhabitants recounts how these little guys actually run NY. On any given day, whether it be extremely late at night or early in the morning (in most cases both, depending on your point of view) we have all seen these furry friends scampering about the train tracks, sometimes being bold enough to join us on the platform.

Everyone reacts differently to these creatures. Some are horrified, some tolerant, and some think they would be fun to play with in a lab (so they take them to the leading scientific institutes and feed them cocaine, make them run mazes, and sometimes open their brain and attach electrodes to understand numerous biological mechanisms). The rare new yorker will actually think them cute, and want to take one home and keep it in a glass cage. But, I have yet to hear a friend, random passerby, or acquantance look at one of these little guys and say, "dinner!"

But two weeks ago I went to see a movie called "No Time To Die" which featured an important dinner scene where the entree was Thryonomys swinderianus or as it was called in the film, Grasscutter. Now what was particularly great about the choice of cane rat for dinner in the movie was how special it was to eat. If rat were to become a regular menu item in NYC, I would imagine it to sit alongside cart food or Gray's Papaya Hot Dogs. You know, cheap and not healthy. But in the film, the main character secured this dish to be cooked at a betrothing dinner. He searched for the finest grasscutter so that the girl of his dreams was sure to remain faithful to him. As the character's licked their grasscutter covered fingers, it was clear this was a meal to remember and Asante (the main character) had in all respects "sealed the deal" with the woman of his dreams.

Over a hundred years ago, Lobster was considered peasant food. As a bottom dweller of the sea, lobster was salted and canned and fed to the poor. It is a testament to marketing and clarified butter that we now are willing to pay high prices at the finest restaurants to eat what was once given to the destitute. So, it got me thinking. Maybe we are looking at the whole rat problem in NYC from the wrong vantage point. Imagine a NYC where rats are served only at five star restaurants and the girl you are taking to Rue Rodente for the friday night date is expecting you to propose to her, because there would be no other reason to take her out for such fine food? It sounds like a win-win situation to me? But first, we need to feed our rats what those grasscutters get in Africa.

Piss like the Hulk

Since I was a child I have always had an unhealthy obsession with the Incredible Hulk. I capitalize the title, because the Hulk is worthy of capitalization. Even as an adult, I am occasionally reminded by family members (during large gatherings when I have friends with me) that when I was a kid I would often come storming into the room, tear off my shirt, and bust out my best Hulk impersonation to the amusement of my aunts and uncles.

One of my first childhood toys was a stretch Hulk figure, which allowed you to pull on his arms, which would eventually return to their normal length and shape. Great idea, unless you were a kid like me and pulled too hard. Suddenly your Hulk doll is oozing green goo from the neck and his arms are no longer so stretchy.

Recently, I came across a scrapbook I had created in highschool. Littered on the pages were stories from the paper about the baseball teams I had played for as a kid and class pictures from the first couple of years I attended school. But, smack in the middle of the book was a torn sheet of paper which contained my first attempt at writing a short story. My memory flooded and I recalled attempting to write this story the day after the last televised movie of the Hulk ever aired on networks. The movie was appropriately titled, "The Death of the Incredible Hulk!" I was apparently appalled by the decision to kill off such a vital franchise hero and I took it out on my typewriter. The next morning I started what was to become my magnum opus, "The Hulk Lives!!"

I only filled 2/3 rds of one page.

I guess I was not as passionate as I thought about ensuring a longer life for my childhood hero. But, nevertheless, I felt the need to write the story at the time.

Yes, I have seen both Hulk feature films, and both on opening night. Sick, I know. But since the Ed Norton film came out I have not thought much of the green goliath. I have moved on to more mature films and heroes. You know, like Nacho Libre. But recently my mind wandered to my jade colored friend when I started taking a new vitamin.

I have not been feeling well for quite some time now, and in times of desperation you are willing to try anything in the hope of some relief. So, last week when no one was looking (well I was in my bedroom alone so of course no one was looking) I popped a multi-vitamin in the hopes it might make me feel a tad better. The pill was about as big as a golfball and Im pretty sure it started dissolving as soon as I put it on my tongue cause it left the taste of melted tar in my mouth for about 15 minutes. I waited for my body to feel better, but much to my shock this nasty tasting vitamin did absolutely nothing. That was, of course, until I had to go to the bathroom several hours later.

As I made my way to the restroom I was unprepared for the experience I was about to have. To make a long story short, my urine was neon green! Think classic gatorade flavor. I was shocked and amused at this development. Maybe that vitamin contained traces of gamma radiated material and I was slowly mutating into my childhood superhero. To what extent did this vitamin change my internal make up? If I was pissing green maybe my eyes were going to turn green and I would soon be able to leap the height of some of the tallest new york skyscrapers!

I decided to test it out. As I left my apartment I noticed that the bus I often take was slowly creeping away from the stop. With my new green piss, would I also be also blessed with super human Hulk-like speed? I ran to catch the bus. Pushing myself to the limit, I nearly caught the back of the directional light, but the bus pulled away and I was left walking to the train. Guess the speed thing had not yet kicked in. But, as I approached the train station I was given my second opportunity. As I entered the turnstile I realized my train was about to depart and I arrived at the door as it was closing. I decided to use my new superhuman strength to tear the doors open and ensure I would be a passenger on this very train. But, alas, the door did not open and the train took off leaving me to wait for the next one to arrive.

So, all I got from that crummy vitamin was a bowl full of green pee. But, it was nice to revisit an old childhood friend, and just for a bit, HULK OUT!