2010 September | Periscope Depth

From the Blog

Sep

god’s left hand wasn’t made to get by

Posted by Perich at 7:00 am

At this point, I didn’t believe it was possible, but the Obama administration has just reached an all-new low in its abysmal civil liberties record. In response to the lawsuit filed by Anwar Awlaki’s father asking a court to enjoin the President from assassinating his son, a U.S. citizen, without any due process, the administration late last night, according to The Washington Post, filed a brief asking the court to dismiss the lawsuit without hearing the merits of the claims. That’s not surprising: both the Bush and Obama administrations have repeatedly insisted that their secret conduct is legal but nonetheless urge courts not to even rule on its legality. But what’s most notable here is that one of the arguments the Obama DOJ raises to demand dismissal of this lawsuit is “state secrets”: in other words, not only does the President have the right to sentence Americans to death with no due process or charges of any kind, but his decisions as to who will be killed and why he wants them dead are “state secrets,” and thus no court may adjudicate their legality.

Radley Balko:

There are no mitigating factors, here. Obama is arguing the executive has the power to execute American citizens without a trial, without even so much as an airing of the charges against them, and that it can do so in complete secrecy, with no oversight from any court, and that the families of the executed have no legal recourse.

[...]

So yeah. Tyranny. If there’s more tyrannical power a president could possibly claim than the power to execute the citizens of his country at his sole discretion, with no oversight, no due process, and no ability for anyone to question the execution even after the fact . . . I can’t think of it.

Barack Obama:

The idea that we’ve got a lack of enthusiasm in the [Ruling Party] base, that people are sitting on their hands complaining, is just irresponsible. . . . .If we want the kind of country that respects civil rights and civil liberties, we’d better fight in this election.

I think Obama’s going about this the wrong way. al-Awlaki’s a U.S. citizen. If Obama wants him killed, just send some Chicago PD to arrest him. Or have someone phone an anonymous tip to Atlanta PD that he was seen smoking a joint in Sana’a. Sucker’s dead in a week, tops.

Sep

now watergate does not bother me

Posted by Perich at 7:00 am

Like all humans, I rely on certain rituals to anchor my week. My current seudah shlishit: getting a cheddar and swiss hot dog from Spike’s, plus fries and a Diet Pepsi, and eating it at home while watching something on Hulu. I prefer Burn Notice while it’s in season, but will fall back on another action drama (like Magnum P.I.) otherwise. Coasting around the “dial” leads to the occasional bit of weirdness, though, like that episode of Miami Vice starring G. Gordon Liddy.

Liddy plays Maynard, an ex-CIA officer who’s aiding a cartel of American businessmen in funding the Nicaraguan Contras. Freelance reporter Ira Stone catches some of Maynard’s mercenaries destroying a Nicaraguan village on tape. He flees to Miami and begs Crockett to keep him safe until he can sell the tape to a major network. Crockett doesn’t believe him at first, since Stone’s a paranoid drug addict. I should note here that Stone was played by Bob Balaban, who has sadly never shaken the “raving junkie” typecasting.

Why is this so bizarre to me? Two reasons.

First, Liddy’s not a bad actor. He’s no worse than anyone else on the show. Miami Vice actors either play wild cartoon characters (e.g., Bruce McGill in “Out Where the Buses Don’t Run”) or stare into the middle distance and mumble. Michael Mann can sure frame a shot, but he had little interest in coaching an engaging performance out of his cast.

Liddy approaches his role as a villainous general with sleazy relish. When one of his cartel asks him for proof that his mercenaries can terrorize the Sandinistas, Liddy tosses a necklace of human ears across the table and grins. He only has one odd line delivery, about two-thirds through the episode. He extorts the tape that Balaban’s character filmed from Balaban. Crockett thinks ahead, makes a copy of the tape, and meets Liddy in a parking lot to deliver it. Liddy waddles up with this giant bag slung over his shoulder, which apparently contains a machine that can magically detect whether a videotape is a copy or an original. “Copy!” he yells at Crockett, a mix of shock and contempt preventing him from using verbs or definite articles.

Second, and I apologize for repeating myself, Liddy plays a former CIA officer who uses illegal means to funnel private contributions toward archconservative political ends. In other words, he’s playing himself. Had he still been working for the government in 1984, instead of having been arrested for his role in the Watergate burglary, this is what Liddy would have been doing: funding the Nicaraguan contras. As it is, someone got Ollie North to do it.

Either Liddy has no sense of irony or a very well-developed one. I can’t tell. And I used to listen to his radio show (… yep).

I’m not sure which I’d prefer. I love irony so much that I’d be equally happy if the joke were on Liddy as if he were in on the joke. Maybe he had no sense of how the episode would look in post production and thought that he might come out looking heroic. The fact that he kidnaps a helpless man and orders a goon to torture him casts some doubt on that, to say nothing of the necklaces of human ears he keeps in his briefcase. Or maybe Liddy grew tired of American intervention abroad after doing a bid for Nixon. Or maybe he just knows how his bread is buttered. Someone offers him the chance to make a hundred thousand dollars by playing a snarling archconservative; who’s he to turn it down?

He sounds like Edward G Robinson, looks like Mr Clean and carries himself like Gary Busey.

(Note this was actually Liddy’s second time appearing on Miami Vice. The first time, in Season 2, his character was smuggling heroin into the country in body bags)

This was hardly Miami Vice‘s weirdest example of stunt casting. Other odd guest stars include Glenn Frey as a bush pilot (“Smuggler’s Blues”), Phil Collins as a con artist (“Phil the Shill”), Frank Zappa as a drug dealer (“Payback”) and Willie Nelson as a Texas Ranger (“El Viejo”). But you don’t watch Miami Vice for the method acting or the gritty naturalism. You watch it for the cool sets, the slick action and the hot soundtrack. “Stone’s War” features songs by Steve Jones, Jackson Browne and an oddly placed Peter Gabriel track. Miami Vice wasn’t the first franchise to substitute attitude for plot, but few can do it better.

Sep

from the beretta, puttin all the holes in your sweater

Posted by Perich at 7:00 am

Spent the weekend on the Long Island Sound (the CT side) with Sylvia and a posse of her friends. Kristen, whose family owns the house, collects a huge variety of novelty toys. Things like electronic fart simulators, confetti guns, squeezable talking plush dolls, etc.

And the American Idol Sonic Mace.

I didn’t recognize it as a microphone when I first picked it up. Instead of a mic head, it had a vague dome that produced an echo chamber effect when you sang into it. The block underneath it, normally reserved for the broadcaster’s logo, was twice its usual size. And maybe it was just me, but the corners seemed a lot sharper. I pictured Randy Jackson descending from the heavens in a chariot pulled by six-legged goats, swinging it over his head. “VERILY, A LITTLE PITCHY THERE, DAWG!”

I can’t find a picture of it on Google. Probably because it was discontinued, which was probably because it’s a better weapon than an amplifier. The only thing it amplifies is rage.

Like this, but (1) purple, (2) without as big of a mic head and (3) deadly.

Despite this, the confetti gun was the only thing used as a weapon that weekend. One of the host’s friends brought his children. The 11-year-old put the pistol right against his 3-year-old brother’s stomach, Murder Inc. style, and pulled the trigger. The 3-year-old got a tiny burn and ran off screaming. All parties questioned agreed that the incident was (1) kind of a downer and (2) only to be expected, given the age and gender of the parties involved.

Sep

she says that I’m a mess, but it’s all right

Posted by Perich at 7:00 am

(Part three of my series on dating. Part two: on why you have to be yourself)

Last week’s post was about why you need to have good self-esteem if you want romantic success. If you don’t love yourself, nobody else will. However, since I delivered it as an anecdote about a guy asking for dating advice, the conversation (in the mirrored LJ post) drifted toward evaluation of that advice.

Which I hadn’t planned to touch on before this week, but hey, that’s how blogs work.

I can’t pretend to be an expert on dating. Since the time I started seriously dating girls, I’ve been through several awkward affairs, many online dates, a few one-night stands, the occasional drunken makeout, some friendships with benefits and a small number of serious relationships. I’ve dabbled in everything and excelled at nothing. So if you’re looking for the winning formula, I don’t have it.

But I can tell you what works for me. And if you were at one point a guy like me – sitting on the sidelines, frustrated at the apparent romantic success of every straight male other than you – this might help.

The most important piece of advice I have to offer: lead an interesting life. Fill your waking hours with a variety of engaging activities. Pack your schedule. Do things that almost nobody else does. Stay busy.

For example: in addition to my day job in online marketing (SEO/SEM), I write fiction; I edit a pop culture blog; I teach jiu-jitsu; I perform with and support a comedy theater in Cambridge; I’m a regular at karaoke; I show up to every Yelp event I can make; I do yoga at least once a week; etc. If someone wants to see me, they need to get on my calendar early.

How does leading an interesting life help your dating life? A few ways.

First, it gives you plenty to talk about. If your evening routine six nights a week is to crash on the couch, beer in hand, you might find a few ladies who want to talk to you. Maybe. There’s certainly lots to say about the shared experience of pop culture. But if you were that good at making small talk, you wouldn’t need my advice.

Nothing gives you that conversational edge like when a woman’s eyes light up. “Really? You do that? That sounds fascinating.”

(Note: this doesn’t mean you should turn every conversation into a lecture on how fascinating you are. You should spend as much time asking about her life as she spends asking about you, if not more. But you’ve got to bring something to the table. If she asks, “what do you do?” and you say “oh, this and that,” she might think you’re edgy and mysterious. Or she might think you’re unemployed and unambitious.)

Second, it gives you breadth. Trying a bunch of different things broadens your skill set. It exposes you to a bunch of different attitudes as well – the competitiveness of your softball team is different from the wild rush of skydiving, which is different from the precision of gourmet cooking, etc. Growing additional dimensions makes you more of a catch.

Third, it gives you confidence. I talked last week about finding the one activity in your life that puts you “in the zone.” You have a greater chance of finding this activity if you experiment with a bunch of different things. I didn’t think that I’d take to jiu-jitsu when I started it. I never expected to still be doing it a decade later.

Fourth, it expands your social scene. Finding someone who’s an ideal match for you requires a lot of different variables to fall into place. The more people you meet, the better the odds. Maybe you’ll find the woman of your dreams at a cooking class. Or maybe you’ll make friends with someone who’ll invite you to a housewarming party, where you’ll meet the woman of your dreams. Or maybe you’ll make a friend at that housewarming party who invites you to hear their band next week, where you’ll meet, etc. Being social pays off exponentially.

Fifth – either most or least important, depending on your perspective – it keeps you from brooding. What makes me most miserable when I’m single and struggling is having lots of free time. I curl up on the couch, staring at the walls. Or, even worse, I check Facebook incessantly. If you’re too busy to mope, however, you’ll be in a better mental state. Getting out every night and doing something exciting keeps you from recoiling inward.

I wouldn’t think leading an active life needed that strong a case to be made for it, considering the inherent mortality of our race. But, if you’re still unconvinced, here’s five good reasons.

(Part four: on online dating)

Sep

macheteconomics

Posted by Perich at 7:39 am

New post on Overthinking It, examining Machete through the lens of public choice theory and anarchist philosophy:

a State is that agency which (1) has a monopoly on force in a given area and (2) upholds the claim that this monopoly is legitimate.

In Texas as depicted in Machete, no agency has a monopoly on the use of force. The Network and Jackson’s vigilantes can trade gunfire with equal capacity. Both sides are criminals, but neither seems particularly afraid of the cops. Texas has no government – no State as Weber would recognize it. Therefore, it’s an anarchy.

But what sort of anarchy is it?

Ch-ch-ch-ch-check it.

Sep

no more pencils, no more books

Posted by Perich at 7:00 am

The following problem kept me up about an hour past my bedtime on Sunday. I didn’t read it anywhere (that I recall); it came to me as a thought experiment. I’m stumped, so I’m crowdsourcing the solution.

POSIT: A math professor comes home one day to find that his 8-year-old son knocked over the bookcase in the study. The bookcase is wrecked and heavy math textbooks are everywhere. The professor grounds his son for two weeks.

laiva-bookcase He then buys a used bookshelf on Craigslist. Sadly, this bookshelf is a rickety IKEA reject. It can only hold n heavy math textbooks on any given shelf provided there are n+1 heavy math textbooks on the shelf beneath it. If a higher shelf has a number of books equal or greater than the shelf beneath it, the shelf will tip over. (This doesn’t hold true for the bottommost shelf)

The next day, the professor sets his grounded 8-year-old son to reshelve all his math textbooks. Bored at being stuck indoors, the 8-year-old decides to make a game out of this project. The game has the following rules.

(1) The boy can, in a single move, either shift a book from the floor to the bottommost shelf, or shift a book from one shelf to the shelf above it.
(2) The boy cannot shift more than one book at a time in a single move.

So he can shift a book from the (vast) pile on the floor to the bottommost shelf, or he can shift a book from a lower shelf to a higher one. But he cannot shift a book such that it’ll cause the shelf to tip over (i.e., leaving four books on one shelf and three on the one beneath it, or two books on adjacent shelves).

After some time of this, the boy finds himself with the following allocation:

Three books on the bottom (or 1st) shelf
Two books on the 2nd shelf
One book on the 3rd shelf^*
… and an uncounted pile of books scattered on the floor.

QUESTIONS:

(1) How many moves will it take him to get one book on the 4th shelf?
(2) Is there a formula for determining the number of moves it would take to get a book onto the 4th shelf? Or onto any given shelf?

#2 is the more interesting question for me. I could work #1 out through brute force on Sunday, shuffling flat glass beads around as if they were books on a shelf. But I couldn’t figure out what the formula was.

If you’re good with the math, please take a stab at this. If you’re not, please forward it on to someone whom you think might like it. The solution’s not going to save a life or win the Clay Prize or anything. But I’m curious and it’s probably trivial to someone who knows more than me about math.

^*I’m aware that this allocation couldn’t exist if the boy was following his own rules from the get-go. 8-year-olds are fickle.

Sep

the man at the back has a question

Posted by Perich at 8:04 am

The Real Inspector Hound: an entertaining little production of a Tom Stoppard classic. The play begins as an oddly mediocre British murder mystery, which the audience watches along with two theater critics. However, by the second act it becomes clear that the traditional delineation between play and audience is being broken – at least for the critics, and likely for us as well. Expect the usual Stoppard wordplay and absurdity.

Staging it in the round, rather than a proscenium, gives the production some unique challenges as well as opportunities. There’s a lot of business that goes on in front of a lit backdrop that was lost from where I was sitting. Seating the critics in the audience helps create the immersion that the meta-narrative requires, but it forces half the audience to crane their necks a bit. Fortunately, several creative bits take advantage of the open space and the crossing angles, particularly the contract bridge game and the second act tea service.

The performances are all sharp and clever. Danny Bryck, as the mysterious stranger Simon Gascoigne, exhibits excellent chemistry with his female leads. Cynthia (Georgia Lyman) and Felicity (Anna Waldron) portray both the warmth of infatuation and the chill of scorn with equal intensity. Mrs. Drudge (Sheriden Thomas) steals every scene in which she has a line through excellent comic timing. And the two critics, Moon and Birdboot (Barlow Adamson and William Gardiner, BU’s drama instructor), have mastered Stoppard’s dialogue and deliver it boldly. When the focus has to bounce between the critics and the stage – the critics commenting on a scene as it unfolds – the timing suffers a little, however. Maybe due to acoustics, maybe due to energy.

There was a Q&A with the director and the cast after the performance we saw. Unfortunately, learning more about what went into the show dampened my enthusiasm for it. The director took an interpretation of the script that discards Stoppard’s crossover between reality and fiction. Instead, it’s a literal read that tries to ground the play in the world the critics occupy. Hearing that was somewhat disappointing; it made a bunch of otherwise clever choices seem a little flat. I also don’t think the play needed an intermission – it’s a one-act play as written – although breaking up the momentum did make the opening of the second act hilarious. And, as mentioned before, a lot of the staging choices were obscured, if not outright invisible, to a large portion of the audience. Ultimately, I found the performances more compelling than the director’s interpretation.

Sep

beginning with a look and then a smile

Posted by Perich at 7:32 am

(Part two of my series on dating. Part one: my dating advice to teenagers)

Years ago, I witnessed an Internet argument (on Livejournal, natch) between several benevolent females and one frustrated guy.

The frustrated guy had voiced some of the common complaints about women: it’s easier for them because they get to be choosers; they date jerks instead of nice guys; they’re so superficial, etc. Implicit in every complaint – and, toward the end, explicit – was the refrain why can’t I find a girl who likes me? Someone suggested that there was no magic to it. The way to attract a girl you’ll be happy with, she said, is to be yourself.

His response: “I’m so sick of hearing that!”

You rarely see someone voice their insecurities, and the flaws inherent in their philosophy, as loudly as that. That’s why it stuck with me for years. It’s an object lesson into why some guys have perpetual trouble with women.

To the guy who’s sick of hearing “just be yourself,” I have to ask: what sort of advice were you expecting? Were you hoping for some seduction archetype that you could put on at the start of the night and take off with your socks? Some blend of PUA, Don Draper and AXE body spray that would start the panties dropping? Some arcane combination of language, posture and timing that overpowers a woman’s will?

If so, what does that say about you? What does it say about your self-esteem that, when someone tells you to Be Yourself, you react with frustration? How much must you hate yourself for that to be the case?

Also, supposing I were to give you the secret words that’ll get any woman into the sack: what would you do with them? Form a meaningful relationship with the girl you tricked? How are you going to do that, when their attraction to you is predicated on a charade? I thought you were supposed to be the nice guy, not the jerk who takes advantage of women. And here you are asking me for the secrets to get a chick to sleep with you.

(This leads to one of those open secrets about dating: that Nice Guys aren’t really Nice Guys. They think sex is something they’re entitled to, and that the assholes / jocks / rich guys are taking up more than their fair share. That’s a creepy, manipulative attitude, Nice Guy. Women can sense that attitude on you like a musk. That’s what’s driving them away)

What most people find attractive is confidence. Not cockiness – though it’s often a close substitute – but confidence^*. This confidence can take several different forms. A joyful, outgoing exuberance. A quiet, knowing look. A serene acceptance of the world. A bold attitude that infects the whole room. A calm certainty that comes when you’re holding up your end of the conversation. All of that’s attractive.

Looks have a lot to do with it, too. But you’d be surprised how much dressing well, shaving regularly and smiling improves your appearance.

The reason people keep telling you to Be Yourself, Nice Guy, is because that’s where you’re most likely to be confident. That’s where you’re most likely to hit your stride. When you’re putting on a mask, negging 9s and angling your crotch toward your target, you’re not increasing your confidence. You’re playing at being confident. In reality, you’re more self-conscious than ever, checking in on your playbook (“did I touch her when she laughed? have I talked to her too much? do I need to neg her?”) and checking out of the moment.

Of course, if you think women are attractive molds of moist plastic, and not human beings with agendas, then maybe acting that way will be more like Being Yourself. But I thought you were the Nice Guy.

(Part three: on why it’s important to keep busy)

____________
^*To find the difference between confidence and cockiness, put two confident guys in a room together. If one of them is cocky, he’ll start pushing the other one.

Sep

home is the place I want to be, but I guess I’m already there

Posted by Perich at 7:00 am

Every fall, the Hancock Tower starts bringing in live musicians to play during the afternoon. It’s someone with an electric keyboard, or a flautist, or a string quartet once we approach the Christmas season. It adds a touch of culture, the kind you’d get in a suburban mall or a clean hotel, to an otherwise utilitarian space. Plus, the lobby and mezzanine of the Hancock feature interesting acoustics. They’re divided by pillars, walls and elevator banks, but sound carries through the open spaces.

Walking to the gym this week, I passed a violinist in the lobby. She had a music stand in front of her while she worked some baroque air. I didn’t stay long enough to place it, but I doubt that I would have recognized it even with another hour. My ear for classical is limited. She had her case and her puffy coat in the corner, resting against a pillar. She must have set them there when she arrived; she’d retrieve them from there when she left. Not that anyone would think she teleported into the lobby out of the phlogiston. But something struck me about those little evidences of her arrival and her imminent departure. It’s like going to an art gallery and seeing a dolly leaning next to Water Lilies. Guy in coveralls with Latex gloves checking his wrist watch.

We don’t think much about music in transactional spaces. You listen to music in your home. You nod your head to the manager’s playlist in a cafe. Even when I’m in the car, I associate the music with being in the car, not with the act of transit. Music belongs to a destination: I’m here, so let’s crank up the stereo. Or it’s something you carry with you to retain that destinational sense of security: the iPod cocoon on the subway. The kind of music you hear in hallways, in food courts, in elevators, is always bland and forgettable. The day I’m browsing in a Target and I hear PJ Harvey’s “50 Foot Queenie,” I will buy a latte just so I have something to spit-take.

A few years back, there was an article in the Washington Post about a world-renowned violinist playing a Stradivarius in the D.C. subway. The article couched this as some sort of experiment: to see if “the masses” could recognize profound art. I saw this article shared several times among my circle. Everyone thought it was really deep, including me. Only one of my friends^* pointed out the obvious: no one noticed this really profound performance because people don’t go to the subway to look for art. People go to the subway to get some place in a hurry. There’s no subway station in D.C. where I’d want to loiter.

(In fairness, the article makes the same point near the bottom)

The lobby of the Hancock Tower – and don’t get me wrong, I love working here – is a transactional space. It’s not a destination. No one goes there just to chill. You’re passing through there on your way to or from an office. Adding music makes the space feel a little more humane. But why bother making it good music? Why bring art to it? No one’s going to linger. No one’s going to be moved. I wonder about these things when I see a Berklee or Longy student, cradling the instrument she’s studied for years, playing to 30-second audiences in the lobby of an office building, standing for three hours with short breaks, then snapping her violin into its case, shrugging into her puffy jacket, and wondering who she talks to about her check.

____________
^*Probably Joel. I can count on him to be irreverent.

Sep

but you see I’m on a losing streak?

Posted by Perich at 7:00 am

mad men

Last time I talked about Mad Men, I predicted that “[t]his season should mark Don becoming less relevant and Peggy and Pete moreso. They’re the face of the ‘youth culture’ that’s going to become more important as the Sixties roll on.” Well, the last few episodes (Ep5 through Ep8) have not been about youth culture. But otherwise I was right.

Pete and Peggy were each born into certain roles – Pete the blue-blood, Peggy the homemaker. In the first three seasons, each of them chafed (Peggy more than Pete) in the life they were born into. Pete doesn’t have a social consciousness that a contemporary audience would recognize. But his earnest attempts to sell Admiral televisions to African-Americans seem more genuine, albeit mercantile, than Kinsey marching in Alabama. Peggy had a chance at being a mother thrust upon her in Season 1 and decided she wouldn’t have it. The two of them have stepped out of their cradles and into their careers.

In S4, they take charge in more dramatic fashion. Pete takes the initiative in trying to impress the Japanese clients in “The Chrysanthemum and the Sword.” Sure, he gets a lot of the details wrong – Pete’s doing double-duty as the Baby Boom and as a comic foil for Don. But Pete’s not coasting on his Ivy League connections any more. Note especially his confrontation with Roger in that episode. Roger and Pete come from the same world, but they no longer take the same sides.

(Tangent: I thought Roger taking refuge in patriotism was particularly clunky. Bombastic speeches about fallen comrades? Joan thanking him for making the world a safer place? What the fuck’s with this Aaron Sorkin bullshit? If I wanted protagonists talking about what the scene was about, I’d watch network television)

Pete throws his weight around when Ken Cosgrove returns to the office, reminding Cosgrove that they’re no longer peers. Ken – and I love Aaron Statton more than I should – swallows his pride and agrees. This isn’t supposed to endear us to Pete, even as a power play, but it’s more progress in the same vein. Pete’s no longer relying on his family name to one-up people. Now he’s relying on his career.

Is this what Don would do? It feels like what Don would do. I'll ask Don.

Peggy, meanwhile, struggles with being a career woman. Well, let me rephrase that. Every drama since General Hospital has devoted a B storyline to the woman who has to choose between Falling In Love and Pursuing Her Dreams, or between Raising A Family and Success In The Workplace. This is nothing new, and Mad Men wouldn’t be noteworthy for depicting it. Thankfully, Weiner and company have avoided the most obvious pitfalls and struck their own path.

(Tangent: … with the unfortunate exception of Peggy’s arc in S1. I can’t find any interpretation of Peggy’s behavior regarding her pregnancy that I’m comfortable with. Either she didn’t know she was pregnant [unlikely], she knew but she imagined it would just go away if left untended [unlikely] or she had a secret plan to deal with her pregnancy that we never saw on camera [poor writing choice]. It’s possible I missed something, since I wasn’t watching the show as closely back then. Still, I’m happier to be past it)

Peggy is not choosing between Raising a Family and Success In The Workplace. She’s made that choice. She’s a career woman. She wants to design compelling ads, the way Don does. Her struggle comes not from her internal conflict – which she acknowledges but moves past with little trouble – but from getting the rest of the world to accept her.

No one believes that she wants to do what Don does. Her boyfriend thinks she wants a traditional relationship, which is why his birthday surprise for her is dinner with her parents. Her coworkers think she got where she did either by sleeping with Don (Allison) or by being frigid (Eddie Rumsen, the new art director). And Don doesn’t understand why she can’t just abandon the rest of the world and plunge herself into work.

Peggy’s stopped ignoring the jibes that people mutter behind her back and started firing back. Sometimes she’s harsher than she needs to be, like when she yells at Eddie. Sometimes she’s more daring than a man in her position would have to be, like when she challenges Stan to work in the nude. Sometimes, like with Don, she just breaks down.

This pencil's a little dull ...

But Peggy remains the optimistic center of the show because each time she succeeds. Rumsen leaves her be – or at least acknowledges that Peggy’s someone he doesn’t have to worry about. Stan, having been broken in a way that most fraternities would frown on, treats Peggy with genial respect.

And Peggy and Don? No talk about them would be complete without recapping “The Suitcase,” one of the most touching and incredible episodes of the show so far.

The crux of Peggy’s relationship with Don comes during their screaming match – the mere fact of which is telling in itself. When Don got mad at Betty, his anger was tight and savage: grabbing her by the wrist, pitching his voice so as not to wake the children. When Don gets mad with Peggy, he’s drunk and impatient.

Peggy: You never say ‘thank you’!
Don: That’s what the money’s for!

Two sentences that summarize four seasons of storytelling.

Peggy’s story is a search for acceptance in a foreign land. Peggy wants to plunge herself into work with the same intensity that Don does. She finds certain parts of Don’s life deplorable – his alcoholism, for instance – but most of it attracts her. Being brusque to subordinates? Being called a creative genius? Casual sex? Sign Ms. Olsen up!

But only in Season 4 – and even here it’s a struggle – is she finding the door open when she tries it. Before, her attempts to speak up in meetings were ignored, downplayed or laughed off. She had to do more work than her colleagues, like stepping up to cover for Eddie Rumsen when he passed out drunk, in order to be recognized. To paraphrase Chris Rock, she has to soar to get what everyone else has to walk for.

The world is eager to give Peggy recognition – as a girlfriend, or a wife, or a mother, or a counter-cultural radical, or a humorless bitch. But that’s not the recognition Peggy wants.

Don, on the other hand, is a cipher without a soul. He has nothing but the mask that he puts on for the world. That’s what makes him so good at advertising. That’s what lets him outfox the Japanese at their game of etiquette. That’s what lets him schmooze with Roger Sterling, who’s far enough out of a midwestern farm boy’s world as to be effectively alien. That’s what lets him turn the Glo-Coat campaign into an award-winning conversation piece.

(Tangent: what made Don and Peggy’s argument so compelling, to me, was that both of them had a point. Peggy may have provided the genesis, but Don made it into a fully fleshed commercial. Peggy does deserve thanks, but the agency deserves the credit)

All his life, Don has been told what to want. He’s the ideal ad man because he’s the ideal audience for advertising: someone plagued by anxieties that he hopes achievements can solve. He gets a job – then what? He gets a family – then what? He becomes a partner – then what? Don’s used to accepting material substitutes in place of self-awareness (e.g., “that’s what the money’s for!”).

What does your choice of pants signify about your childhood?

Now, having confronted the void of his self by saying goodbye to Anna, Don has to decide what sort of man he is. He’s started keeping a journal, a process of introspection which he loathes but sticks with. He’s trying to make himself healthier, albeit in small stages: swimming a few times a week, drinking in smaller doses. But more than anything else, Don’s future’s being presented as a choice between the three blondes in his life: Bethany, Dr. Faye and Betty.

Bethany’s younger and freer, but she’s not a ditz. She knows that Don is keeping her at arm’s length. And even if she’s willing to “make [Don] comfortable” in the back of a cab, she won’t let him any further in unless he opens up. Don has less problem opening up to Faye. He respects her work, plus she’s closer to him in age. But, on top of all that, she’s a professional at learning what people want. Bethany wants to be the next Betty Draper, high society wife – note how her eyes go wide when she spots her mirror image in the restaurant. Faye wants to be the next Betty Draper, recipient of pillow talk – lying next to Don at three in the morning, sharing theories on the zeitgeist.

(Tangent: the narrative seems to be preferring Faye, but I think the two of them are even. Both Bethany and Faye put up a good front of resistance, then melt as soon as Don gives them that off-kilter look in the backseat of a cab. They’re both eager to have intercourse with him. But Bethany ends the evening in her case; Don ends it with Faye. I could see Don ending up with either of them without much difficulty)

So what’s left? Season 4 began on Thanksgiving 1964. As of Episode 8, it’s June 1965 (presuming that “(Can’t Get No) Satisfaction,” if not diegetic, was at least contemporary). Five more episodes in the season could take us back to Thanksgiving again. We still have the Voting Rights Act, Highway 61 Revisited, John Lindsay’s mayoral campaign and the Vietnam War kicking off in earnest. And I’ll lay two dollars that Episode 13 features someone watching the world broadcast premiere of the Charlie Brown Christmas Special.