Gramps taught me how to make a real Manhattan. Mixologists get it wrong all the time. If there's ice in your Manhattan, the guy who made it fucked up. A long time ago, I posted Gramps's recipe on MySpace, but since that's no more, I'll post it here for posterity: Take two shots of whiskey (it can be rye, but it's better if it's regular whiskey) and one shot of sweet vermouth. Stir it together over ice. DO NOT SHAKE. Then, pour it into a martini glass, but make sure none of the ice gets in there. Put a cherry into the glass (I skip that part, because I'm an asshole and I hate fruits and veggies), and you're done. Gramps told me that he knew a guy back in the 'Fifties who would drink about 10 of these things and then drive home to his family. Do that math: three shots (two of which are whiskey) times ten. I asked my grandfather if this guy died young, and he didn't. His heart gave out about twenty years ago, which placed the guy in his seventies.
Showing posts with label mad men. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mad men. Show all posts
Monday, April 6, 2015
HEY FUCKERS #21: HOW TO MAKE A MANHATTAN
To commemorate the return of MAD MEN (and the return of me drinking Manhattans), I thought I'd post my grandfather's recipe, which I posted a while ago in GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS and before that, on my MySpace blog.
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #128: QUIET DESPERATION
MAD MEN is nearing its end. It comes back in spring 2015 for the final episodes, and I'll be truly sad to see it go. For a show seemingly about nothing, it's also about everything.
Most people wonder why I like the show, and it certainly isn't the reason most people like it. Everyone sees the characters smoking and drinking at work. They see an age when black people never rose higher than the elevator operator, or the waiter, or the cook in the back. Women knew their place as housekeepers. People look nostalgically back at those things, not realizing that the show is actually taking the piss out of that shit. Honestly, it might have worked a hundred years from now. The problem is, there are too many people still alive today who remember those times, or they're children of people who remember those times. Hell, I was raised by my grandparents, and the tang of the MAD MEN era was still alive in my own childhood, just about to die. Instead of recognizing the show as a lampoon of a misbegotten era, everyone looks fondly back at those good ol' days.
OK, I wouldn't mind being able to drink on the job. That would be cool. But keep in mind, the good ol' days were only the good ol' days if you were white, male and preferably middle-class, at the least.
The part I truly enjoy about the show is the quiet desperation. The lack of communication. The unsung desires of the heart, and the unfulfilled dreams of the average person.
But there's more to it than that. I completely forgot, but the show used to have a tagline, and I was reminded of it tonight: "Mad Men: Where the Truth Lies." I hate most taglines, but that is pretty much spot on. I think the ultimate message of the show is that we are all advertisers. We pick the best versions of ourselves, and we put them on display to the world. See how cool I am? Come on, fellas. Like me. Please?
But that version of us is rarely the truth. It's the truth we want, and if we want it enough, maybe--JUST MAYBE--it becomes the truth. We spend most of our time trying to get people to like us. To be our friends. To maybe fuck us. To spend time together. We no longer need our survival instincts when it comes to our physical lives. We've become completely independent on our social survival needs.
This is so much more true today. We post things we think will get our friends' attention. We live to see who likes our Facebook posts or retweets things in our Twitter feed.
Here's the interesting part, though: I don't think that's a bad thing, just so long as you don't hurt other people to get that attention. We all want to be loved. Sometimes, when we're at our wits end, and we're ready to throw in the towel because everything sucks and always will suck, we just want to be held and to be told that we're worthy of another's love.
Don Draper is his own creation. Literally. His real name is Dick Whitman (as we learned in the first season, so I don't want to hear anyone screaming about spoiler alerts). He was dissatisfied with his life, so he took the place of someone else when the real Don Draper died in the Korean War. He built a new life for himself. And as he gets older, it's tearing him apart. You can see the Draper facade falling apart, and Dick Whitman yearning to break through again, which is why he took his kids to see the house he really was raised in, a whorehouse from the Great Depression.
It's all about identity. If you look at it from a certain angle, it's THE TWILIGHT ZONE without SF or horror elements. It's all about one man's self-destructive tendencies because he no longer wants to live the lie he created. He wants to be what he once was.
I think that's something many of us can empathize with. Sometimes I think back on certain memories, like the year that I obsessed over the Garfield comic strip and hid the books my mother borrowed from the library, just so she couldn't return them and I could keep them. Or the days when my cousin and a few friends would stage GI Joe wars in my basement. Or the war games we used to play with water pistols. Or the times I could sit back and enjoy a good thunderstorm. Or when I could look out at a snowy day, knowing that I didn't have to go to school and enjoying the eerie silence outside my bedroom window. All of those things and more.
But the one thing that Don Draper doesn't take into account--just as we don't--is that the good ol' days were not really the good ol' days. Murder, kidnapping and rape happened in our towns, but either they didn't make the papers, or our parents kept knowledge from us. Maybe small town America could leave their doors unlocked at night, but you can bet the motherfuckers living in the cities threw the deadbolt on before going to bed.
Nostalgia is a funny thing. It fills you up with good emotions, but it's all a lie. Things are never as they seem, and they are rarely as we remember them.
Something to think about when MAD MEN comes back.
Most people wonder why I like the show, and it certainly isn't the reason most people like it. Everyone sees the characters smoking and drinking at work. They see an age when black people never rose higher than the elevator operator, or the waiter, or the cook in the back. Women knew their place as housekeepers. People look nostalgically back at those things, not realizing that the show is actually taking the piss out of that shit. Honestly, it might have worked a hundred years from now. The problem is, there are too many people still alive today who remember those times, or they're children of people who remember those times. Hell, I was raised by my grandparents, and the tang of the MAD MEN era was still alive in my own childhood, just about to die. Instead of recognizing the show as a lampoon of a misbegotten era, everyone looks fondly back at those good ol' days.
OK, I wouldn't mind being able to drink on the job. That would be cool. But keep in mind, the good ol' days were only the good ol' days if you were white, male and preferably middle-class, at the least.
The part I truly enjoy about the show is the quiet desperation. The lack of communication. The unsung desires of the heart, and the unfulfilled dreams of the average person.
But there's more to it than that. I completely forgot, but the show used to have a tagline, and I was reminded of it tonight: "Mad Men: Where the Truth Lies." I hate most taglines, but that is pretty much spot on. I think the ultimate message of the show is that we are all advertisers. We pick the best versions of ourselves, and we put them on display to the world. See how cool I am? Come on, fellas. Like me. Please?
But that version of us is rarely the truth. It's the truth we want, and if we want it enough, maybe--JUST MAYBE--it becomes the truth. We spend most of our time trying to get people to like us. To be our friends. To maybe fuck us. To spend time together. We no longer need our survival instincts when it comes to our physical lives. We've become completely independent on our social survival needs.
This is so much more true today. We post things we think will get our friends' attention. We live to see who likes our Facebook posts or retweets things in our Twitter feed.
Here's the interesting part, though: I don't think that's a bad thing, just so long as you don't hurt other people to get that attention. We all want to be loved. Sometimes, when we're at our wits end, and we're ready to throw in the towel because everything sucks and always will suck, we just want to be held and to be told that we're worthy of another's love.
Don Draper is his own creation. Literally. His real name is Dick Whitman (as we learned in the first season, so I don't want to hear anyone screaming about spoiler alerts). He was dissatisfied with his life, so he took the place of someone else when the real Don Draper died in the Korean War. He built a new life for himself. And as he gets older, it's tearing him apart. You can see the Draper facade falling apart, and Dick Whitman yearning to break through again, which is why he took his kids to see the house he really was raised in, a whorehouse from the Great Depression.
It's all about identity. If you look at it from a certain angle, it's THE TWILIGHT ZONE without SF or horror elements. It's all about one man's self-destructive tendencies because he no longer wants to live the lie he created. He wants to be what he once was.
I think that's something many of us can empathize with. Sometimes I think back on certain memories, like the year that I obsessed over the Garfield comic strip and hid the books my mother borrowed from the library, just so she couldn't return them and I could keep them. Or the days when my cousin and a few friends would stage GI Joe wars in my basement. Or the war games we used to play with water pistols. Or the times I could sit back and enjoy a good thunderstorm. Or when I could look out at a snowy day, knowing that I didn't have to go to school and enjoying the eerie silence outside my bedroom window. All of those things and more.
But the one thing that Don Draper doesn't take into account--just as we don't--is that the good ol' days were not really the good ol' days. Murder, kidnapping and rape happened in our towns, but either they didn't make the papers, or our parents kept knowledge from us. Maybe small town America could leave their doors unlocked at night, but you can bet the motherfuckers living in the cities threw the deadbolt on before going to bed.
Nostalgia is a funny thing. It fills you up with good emotions, but it's all a lie. Things are never as they seem, and they are rarely as we remember them.
Something to think about when MAD MEN comes back.
Wednesday, October 29, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #100: MY GRANDFATHER, A MAD MAN
Tonight was spent in an unexpected fashion: I was in the hospital with my grandfather, who had slipped and fallen outside. He scraped his noggin pretty badly, but it wasn't as bad as it could have been. It's OK, he didn't even need stitches. The VA took a CT scan and saw there was nothing wrong. They just put a bandage on and told him to put ice on it for 20-minute intervals.
Still, it's kind of fucked up that this happened today when I told you all I was going to talk about him in tonight's GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS.
First, I should give a great deal of thanks to him. All of the times you've heard about me being in the hospital, dying from pancreatitis or suffering from a mystery illness or trying to live with an abscess or fighting through dental problems, he drove me to the ER. For a change, I got to drive him. I rolled him around in a wheelchair. I stayed by his side while the hospital ran a variety of tests on him. And then, as I left with Gramps in the wheelchair, bringing him out to my car, I brought the wheelchair back to the lobby. On my way, I saw the guy who collected wheelchairs from the parking lot. He was in his own wheelchair, and he thanked me profusely to the point where I started wondering if I was the first person to ever bring a wheelchair back to the lobby to save the poor guy from having to go out and bring it back. It's not like this is a shopping cart you can just leave in the parking lot. It's a frigging wheelchair. I couldn't imagine someone NOT bringing one back to the lobby.
But that's not what I'm here to talk about. I want to discuss my grandfather's youth as a mad man. No, he wasn't in advertising. However, he led the kind of MAD MEN lifestyle you see in Jon Hamm & Co. He went to martini lunches and smoked in the office and all the other things you see on that particular show.
Truth is, he was in men's clothing. He worked in sales at Bonds until it went under. Then, he worked locally at Leonard's until that was sold. All told, he worked in the business for more years than I've been alive, even now. But back in the day? That was something different.
Gramps taught me how to make a real Manhattan. Mixologists get it wrong all the time. If there's ice in your Manhattan, the guy who made it fucked up. A long time ago, I posted Gramps's recipe on MySpace, but since that's no more, I'll post it here for posterity: Take two shots of whiskey (it can be rye, but it's better if it's regular whiskey) and one shot of sweet vermouth. Stir it together over ice. DO NOT SHAKE. Then, pour it into a martini glass, but make sure none of the ice gets in there. Put a cherry into the glass (I skip that part, because I'm an asshole and I hate fruits and veggies), and you're done. Gramps told me that he knew a guy back in the 'Fifties who would drink about 10 of these things and then drive home to his family. Do that math: three shots (two of which are whiskey) times ten. I asked my grandfather if this guy died young, and he didn't. His heart gave out about twenty years ago, which placed the guy in his seventies.
My grandfather told me about the time he was driving home with the woman who would become my grandmother, and they hit a guy in a shady part of town. They looked in the rear view mirror, and they saw a guy back there in the street, but they were certain the guy was pretending, so they drove on. This, of course, shocked me when I heard about it. However, he told me that people who didn't have so much money back then had a habit of jumping in front of cars just to get a payday when they get hit.
And then there were the stag parties. Gramps would get all of his work buddies together, and while their wives played bridge in the living room or parlor, the guys would watch stag films while smoking cigars and drinking scotch.
Surprisingly, these are all things I learned as an adult. You'd think that knowing these things as a child would have informed my career as a writer of fiction. Not so. The world has always been fucked up, it's just that most people don't think about it.
I grew up in a house that was next to a whorehouse. Of course, I never knew that when I was a kid. However, my mom and aunt went to school with the daughter of the woman who whored herself out next door. Johns would drive through the neighborhood, looking for the house, and they would sometimes see my grandmother, who was only forty back then, and think she was the woman they were looking for.
They eventually arrested that poor woman. The family that moved in after her bore a daughter of their own, who would eventually become the first girl I ever played doctor with.
There are certain things you don't expect of suburbia . . .
You never think your neighbor is selling her body to stay afloat.
You never think of your coworkers as guys who would gather together to watch porn while their wives played cards downstairs, and that something like that would be a socially acceptable practice.
You never think of your grandfather as a guy who drank and partied and fucked and generally had a good time.
You never see Gramps as Don Draper, but let's face it. He probably was. I know, in my case, that my grandfather lived up to those kinds of things.
It's not always a good thing. He's sexist, even though he doesn't mean harm. My grandmother once told me that he said, on their first night together back from the honeymoon, that he swore to never do the dishes because that was women's work. He's racist and refers to the mail woman as a Negress, but he means no harm to her. He would actually step in and do his best to stop harm from coming to a woman or a person whose race was different from his own. He's not a hateful guy. He knows that the world has moved on, and he's trying to be better about it. He's not there yet, and he might never be. But he's trying,
I don't know about his feelings on gays. I've never asked him or seen anything from him on the subject. My guess is that he doesn't like them, but he would not want them to be hurt because of their sexual inclinations. If he saw someone being hurt for such a thing, I'm certain he would step in and do his best to help them out of the situation.
My grandfather is not perfect, but he raised me with as much love as anyone could ever bestow upon another person. For all of his flaws, I love him more than I've ever loved another man.
Tonight, I washed blood out of his hair. I treated the wound as best as I could, and I bandaged it with what I had at hand. I looked up the symptoms of a concussion, and I asked him about his experience. Thankfully, he was in the Army, and treatment for him at the VA was free. I drove him there, and the VA checked him out, tested him and made sure he was OK for release. Thankfully, I was right about my diagnosis: there was no concussion, and he didn't need stitches. They let him go after three hours.
In three years, he will be 90. He's got a lot of my medical issues: the 'Beetus, high cholesterol and hypertension. He's had all of these without losing limbs, losing sight, having a heart attack or having a stroke. He gives me hope.
I'm an atheist, so I don't do prayer. He's Greek orthodox, even though he hasn't practiced since he was a boy living in a household that demanded he reject English for Greek in ordinary conversation. As far as I know, he only prayed once as an adult, and that was when he had skin cancer. It was cut off of him, and it was benign, so he was fine afterward.
If you pray, I'm sure he'd be grateful for anything you would say to any Lord that might exist. I even hedged my bets a little. I don't believe in God--or any god at all--but I offered my prayer to whoever might be listening, not because I think anyone's listening, but just in case. I would never ask anything for myself, but for Gramps? I'd ask the world.
Thank you, John Kopoulos, for everything you've done for me. I hope for . . . well. I just HOPE.
Thanks for reading this GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS. It's the most important one I've ever written, and I love you all for making it this far. Hugs and kisses for you all. Goodnight.
Still, it's kind of fucked up that this happened today when I told you all I was going to talk about him in tonight's GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS.
First, I should give a great deal of thanks to him. All of the times you've heard about me being in the hospital, dying from pancreatitis or suffering from a mystery illness or trying to live with an abscess or fighting through dental problems, he drove me to the ER. For a change, I got to drive him. I rolled him around in a wheelchair. I stayed by his side while the hospital ran a variety of tests on him. And then, as I left with Gramps in the wheelchair, bringing him out to my car, I brought the wheelchair back to the lobby. On my way, I saw the guy who collected wheelchairs from the parking lot. He was in his own wheelchair, and he thanked me profusely to the point where I started wondering if I was the first person to ever bring a wheelchair back to the lobby to save the poor guy from having to go out and bring it back. It's not like this is a shopping cart you can just leave in the parking lot. It's a frigging wheelchair. I couldn't imagine someone NOT bringing one back to the lobby.
But that's not what I'm here to talk about. I want to discuss my grandfather's youth as a mad man. No, he wasn't in advertising. However, he led the kind of MAD MEN lifestyle you see in Jon Hamm & Co. He went to martini lunches and smoked in the office and all the other things you see on that particular show.
Truth is, he was in men's clothing. He worked in sales at Bonds until it went under. Then, he worked locally at Leonard's until that was sold. All told, he worked in the business for more years than I've been alive, even now. But back in the day? That was something different.
Gramps taught me how to make a real Manhattan. Mixologists get it wrong all the time. If there's ice in your Manhattan, the guy who made it fucked up. A long time ago, I posted Gramps's recipe on MySpace, but since that's no more, I'll post it here for posterity: Take two shots of whiskey (it can be rye, but it's better if it's regular whiskey) and one shot of sweet vermouth. Stir it together over ice. DO NOT SHAKE. Then, pour it into a martini glass, but make sure none of the ice gets in there. Put a cherry into the glass (I skip that part, because I'm an asshole and I hate fruits and veggies), and you're done. Gramps told me that he knew a guy back in the 'Fifties who would drink about 10 of these things and then drive home to his family. Do that math: three shots (two of which are whiskey) times ten. I asked my grandfather if this guy died young, and he didn't. His heart gave out about twenty years ago, which placed the guy in his seventies.
My grandfather told me about the time he was driving home with the woman who would become my grandmother, and they hit a guy in a shady part of town. They looked in the rear view mirror, and they saw a guy back there in the street, but they were certain the guy was pretending, so they drove on. This, of course, shocked me when I heard about it. However, he told me that people who didn't have so much money back then had a habit of jumping in front of cars just to get a payday when they get hit.
And then there were the stag parties. Gramps would get all of his work buddies together, and while their wives played bridge in the living room or parlor, the guys would watch stag films while smoking cigars and drinking scotch.
Surprisingly, these are all things I learned as an adult. You'd think that knowing these things as a child would have informed my career as a writer of fiction. Not so. The world has always been fucked up, it's just that most people don't think about it.
I grew up in a house that was next to a whorehouse. Of course, I never knew that when I was a kid. However, my mom and aunt went to school with the daughter of the woman who whored herself out next door. Johns would drive through the neighborhood, looking for the house, and they would sometimes see my grandmother, who was only forty back then, and think she was the woman they were looking for.
They eventually arrested that poor woman. The family that moved in after her bore a daughter of their own, who would eventually become the first girl I ever played doctor with.
There are certain things you don't expect of suburbia . . .
You never think your neighbor is selling her body to stay afloat.
You never think of your coworkers as guys who would gather together to watch porn while their wives played cards downstairs, and that something like that would be a socially acceptable practice.
You never think of your grandfather as a guy who drank and partied and fucked and generally had a good time.
You never see Gramps as Don Draper, but let's face it. He probably was. I know, in my case, that my grandfather lived up to those kinds of things.
It's not always a good thing. He's sexist, even though he doesn't mean harm. My grandmother once told me that he said, on their first night together back from the honeymoon, that he swore to never do the dishes because that was women's work. He's racist and refers to the mail woman as a Negress, but he means no harm to her. He would actually step in and do his best to stop harm from coming to a woman or a person whose race was different from his own. He's not a hateful guy. He knows that the world has moved on, and he's trying to be better about it. He's not there yet, and he might never be. But he's trying,
I don't know about his feelings on gays. I've never asked him or seen anything from him on the subject. My guess is that he doesn't like them, but he would not want them to be hurt because of their sexual inclinations. If he saw someone being hurt for such a thing, I'm certain he would step in and do his best to help them out of the situation.
My grandfather is not perfect, but he raised me with as much love as anyone could ever bestow upon another person. For all of his flaws, I love him more than I've ever loved another man.
Tonight, I washed blood out of his hair. I treated the wound as best as I could, and I bandaged it with what I had at hand. I looked up the symptoms of a concussion, and I asked him about his experience. Thankfully, he was in the Army, and treatment for him at the VA was free. I drove him there, and the VA checked him out, tested him and made sure he was OK for release. Thankfully, I was right about my diagnosis: there was no concussion, and he didn't need stitches. They let him go after three hours.
In three years, he will be 90. He's got a lot of my medical issues: the 'Beetus, high cholesterol and hypertension. He's had all of these without losing limbs, losing sight, having a heart attack or having a stroke. He gives me hope.
I'm an atheist, so I don't do prayer. He's Greek orthodox, even though he hasn't practiced since he was a boy living in a household that demanded he reject English for Greek in ordinary conversation. As far as I know, he only prayed once as an adult, and that was when he had skin cancer. It was cut off of him, and it was benign, so he was fine afterward.
If you pray, I'm sure he'd be grateful for anything you would say to any Lord that might exist. I even hedged my bets a little. I don't believe in God--or any god at all--but I offered my prayer to whoever might be listening, not because I think anyone's listening, but just in case. I would never ask anything for myself, but for Gramps? I'd ask the world.
Thank you, John Kopoulos, for everything you've done for me. I hope for . . . well. I just HOPE.
Thanks for reading this GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS. It's the most important one I've ever written, and I love you all for making it this far. Hugs and kisses for you all. Goodnight.
Thursday, August 7, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #31: ROGER AND ME
Of all the characters on MAD MEN, I identify most with Roger Sterling. While he takes his work seriously, he also knows that it's not so important that it's the end of the world if something gets fucked up. He's got an odd anarchistic streak in him that probably didn't exist in many WWII vets. He's even got an open mind when it comes to a lot of things, like trying LSD with his wife and hanging out with his hippy daughter.
However, there is one thing about his character that I get so much more than the rest of it. In one episode, his mother dies, and he takes it pretty well. His family falls apart around him, but he plays it off with very few ruffled feathers, almost to the point where everyone else thinks he might be kind of crazy since he doesn't show his emotions like a normal person.
Yet later in the same episode, the shoeshine guy he's used for decades dies, and Roger breaks down and cries. No one expects it, but . . . well, I get it.
Don't get me wrong. When my mom died, I broke down. I knew she was on the way out, and when my grandparents got the call, they told me right away, and I lost it. I knew it was coming. I'd prepared for it most of my life. Also, it should be noted that Mom and I had a lot of anger issues with each other. We spent most of her latter years arguing with each other. But the moment I heard about her death, I cried. The second thing I did? I told my brother Bob, and we cried together.
It's the second part I understand more. For example, I've been going to my barber for as long as I can remember. He knows how I like my hair. He's not a hairstylist. He tells off-color jokes. He likes to drink (although I think he quit smoking a while ago). If he ever died, I don't know what I would do. I don't think I could bring myself to go to a salon.
Or how about the comic book store I go to? I've known the proprietor for many, many years, from way back when I was first buying comics in the 'Eighties. What am I going to do when he's gone? I can't get into the chain stores, like Graham Crackers.
With these old school guys, it's about environment. It's about experience. These are things that can't be replicated on a mass scale. Seriously, when I get my hair cut, I might as well be in the barber shop in Dodge City on GUNSMOKE, and whenever I visit the comic book store, it feels like I'm in an old smoke shop of old, searching for pulps (and let's face it, I've actually bought pulps in this place).
Roger Sterling's co-workers looked at him like he was weeping over something superficial, but they're wrong. He was weeping over the end of a way of life, and that's something I really don't want to think about.
However, there is one thing about his character that I get so much more than the rest of it. In one episode, his mother dies, and he takes it pretty well. His family falls apart around him, but he plays it off with very few ruffled feathers, almost to the point where everyone else thinks he might be kind of crazy since he doesn't show his emotions like a normal person.
Yet later in the same episode, the shoeshine guy he's used for decades dies, and Roger breaks down and cries. No one expects it, but . . . well, I get it.
Don't get me wrong. When my mom died, I broke down. I knew she was on the way out, and when my grandparents got the call, they told me right away, and I lost it. I knew it was coming. I'd prepared for it most of my life. Also, it should be noted that Mom and I had a lot of anger issues with each other. We spent most of her latter years arguing with each other. But the moment I heard about her death, I cried. The second thing I did? I told my brother Bob, and we cried together.
It's the second part I understand more. For example, I've been going to my barber for as long as I can remember. He knows how I like my hair. He's not a hairstylist. He tells off-color jokes. He likes to drink (although I think he quit smoking a while ago). If he ever died, I don't know what I would do. I don't think I could bring myself to go to a salon.
Or how about the comic book store I go to? I've known the proprietor for many, many years, from way back when I was first buying comics in the 'Eighties. What am I going to do when he's gone? I can't get into the chain stores, like Graham Crackers.
With these old school guys, it's about environment. It's about experience. These are things that can't be replicated on a mass scale. Seriously, when I get my hair cut, I might as well be in the barber shop in Dodge City on GUNSMOKE, and whenever I visit the comic book store, it feels like I'm in an old smoke shop of old, searching for pulps (and let's face it, I've actually bought pulps in this place).
Roger Sterling's co-workers looked at him like he was weeping over something superficial, but they're wrong. He was weeping over the end of a way of life, and that's something I really don't want to think about.
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