Mad Men, a drama on AMC about a Madison Ave. advertising firm in the 1960s, is quite possibly the best TV drama I’ve ever seen. Don Draper, the terribly flawed and intoxicatingly likable main character, appeals to something primal and existential in us. The following is a clip from the 1st episode of season 2.
I would basically echo everything Mike said about the tragic passing of the irreplaceable Esbjorn Svensson.
Mike and I saw the Esbjorn Svensson Trio at Blues Alley in early 2006 and I was blown away by their music and equally as struck by their humility and demeanor. I’m disappointed that I’ll never see Svensson again live, but his albums have been with me in cloudy skies and on rainy nights.
“You wake up at Seatac, SFO, LAX. You wake up at O’Hare, Dallas-Fort Worth, BWI. Pacific, mountain, central. Lose an hour, gain an hour. This is your life, and it’s ending one minute at a time. You wake up at Air Harbor International. If you wake up at a different time, in a different place, could you wake up as a different person?”
Edward Norton: “Fight Club”
After over 50 flights this year I feel as if I’m in a constant sleep walk - a waking malaise characterized by heavy eye lids and hotel bars. A sense of place, the anthropology we create around our home, our friends, our city, is inextricably tied to our sense of self. I’m getting used to that sense of self being a piece of checked luggage.
I’m at home over the Memorial Day holiday weekend, spending time with my dog and my family. It’s been a reflective few days, saturated in malaise and thought but not much sleep. As I navigated the landscape of those thoughts late last night I started browsing through my old bookshelf and pulled a number of Shel Silverstein books to browse through, including A Light in the Attic.
Paging through this old, dusty book, inscribed lovingly by my grandmother, reminded me that for all the effort we may pour into trying to vocalize our feelings or explain our philosophies, sometimes language that a child can understand is the most piercing.
One poem stood out in particular, entitled “Whatif.”
Last night, while I lay thinking here,
some Whatifs crawled inside my ear
and pranced and partied all night long
and sang their same old Whatif song:
Whatif I’m dumb in school?
Whatif they’ve closed the swimming pool?
Whatif I get beat up?
Whatif there’s poison in my cup?
Whatif I start to cry?
Whatif I get sick and die?
Whatif I flunk that test?
Whatif green hair grows on my chest?
Whatif nobody likes me?
Whatif a bolt of lightning strikes me?
Whatif I don’t grow taller?
Whatif my head starts getting smaller?
Whatif the fish won’t bite?
Whatif the wind tears up my kite?
Whatif they start a war?
Whatif my parents get divorced?
Whatif the bus is late?
Whatif my teeth don’t grow in straight?
Whatif I tear my pants?
Whatif I never learn to dance?
Everything seems well, and then
the nighttime Whatifs strike again!