The maddening allure of Don Draper

Ah, Mad Men. Just when I thought there was nothing to watch, I realized I had yet to dive into this show, one that people had been talking about for so long. Good outfits, great looking cast and amazing writing make for a delicious diversion.

There is something about that Don Draper, in particular. How can one man be so despicable, and yet so intensely attractive, all at the same time? That brooding, dark-clouded artist subsumed under man-sized muscles is a force of nature, I swear.

I was beginning to think that his antics outside his marriage had become a bit much for me to stomach as I devoured the first season. But then, like a shot straight to the heart, the writers had Don reading from Frank O'Hara's Mayakovsky in the last episode. Swoon.

Now I am quietly waiting for
the catastrophe of my personality
to seem beautiful again,
and interesting, and modern.

The country is grey and
brown and white in trees,
snows and skies of laughter
always diminishing, less funny
not just darker, not just grey.

It may be the coldest day of
the year, what does he think of
that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,
perhaps I am myself again.

The catastrophe of my personality, indeed. How better to describe that feeling of passively anticipating change, with none forthcoming, and none on the horizon. You are no longer young. You never will be again. But the inaction, the waiting, continues.

Goodnight, Mr. Draper.