The Foggiest

No fog in London?

That was the real revelation in the Mad Men kick-off for me. I mean we knew that Don had a shrouded history, will boink most persons of the female persuasion, and has limited parenting skills. We knew that the art director guy was gay, that the baby-faced brat was bratty, that the founder of Sterling Cooper had eccentric taste in art, etc.

But they’re discussing the London Fog account and suddenly there’s this it- wasn’t-really-fog factoid. Hunh!? I mean, what’s that pea-soup that Sherlock Holmes and Jack the Ripper are always wandering around in?

Evidently it was this. Research courtesy of your friendly EPA.

By the by, we Staggers (who disdain the premium cable channels in favor of TCM) have been making our way through the DVD’s of In Treatment‘s first season. Only halfway through and I consider myself cured. Whatever psychological knots may distort my own pathetic psyche (and I’m sure they are legion), I don’t want the likes of Dr. Call-Me-Paul Weston trying to untie them. Dude, stop with the Roland Barthes and start reading around in Getting-A-Grip for Dummies.

Now, Dr. Melfi. Can keep a secret; never comes out of the chair and goes all Mike Tyson on you; nice legs. Maybe make you reconsider.

But, as Mrs. Stagger reminds me, that shrink on Mad Men, remember him? First season maybe. Very cold fish; not sure he even had a name; used to call up Don right after Betts’ sessions and rat her out. Kinda tips it back the other way.

So, for the moment, think I’ll just keep wandering around in my own neurotic fog…  smog… whatever it is. Instead of being ripped out of it, thank you, by some jacked-up therapist.

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