my so-called blog: out-culture vulture

Click on title to know why then read on.

Well bless my bulgur and call me UNDRA queen. This third world progeny is hoisting the overtaking dirty finger at the New York literati for being slow to have caught on the show that is her "Freudian death wish," as Pete Campbell would put it. I may just be getting as cocky as the show's period chauvinists. My sister, Melissa, & I have dissected the disturbing deja vu Mad Men can incite from our sibling psyches despite that we have not really known that we both are obsessed with it until we get to reunite and catch up in my Vegas hotel room (yes, my life is never tawdry) which was kinda apropos (had to use the word. Hah! Take that Dan Kois and Lane Brown). Like Andy Garcia in the baby carriage-down-the-train-station-steps in the Untouchables she shoots, "Doesn't it remind you of old BISCOM?" I still have to turn our eldest sib, who has a namesake in the show btw, into a convert. Give in to the pomade, girdles and claustrophobia, sistah! As I am a Miranda (according to a Facebook app) in the SATC universe, I definitely am a Peggy (complete with irrational attraction to brainy, irascible jerks in the workplace) in this alternate thread.

The series plods but not in a bad critique kind of way but much like the eerie, poignant strains of an impending (symbolic?) suicide permeated by the music of the opening credits. We just sit back and watch the countdown of lives imploding in an era at the cusp of radical change. We tsk-tsk at the archaic standards of couthness and perceptions as much as we inwardly wish ourselves back into that world.

Personally, the lead character, Don Draper, is both the tip of this iceberg and the cherry on top. Jon Hamm is hot damn! I have not even bothered to mull on his Golden Globe-winning, Emmy-nominated performance. His Draper though is an antithesis but somehow reminds me of my father as I've seen him as a girl growing up. It's the immaculately combed hair, the white t-shirts, perspiring over a playhouse on a hot day, a hand laying on his sleeping daughter's forehead as he piles on the blankets after coming late from work and the scent of pomade, after-shave & nicotine that came with the strong, implacable air that both lead, awed and cowered lesser men. Ala FPJ.

Anyways, back to the middle finger. Even New York Times & Vanity Fair are in the bandwagon that dollies through the office of Sterling Cooper. Hmmm? So can you blame my cockiness? Perhaps I am just the product of my roots? As the saying goes, "Guina pala kag guina piko ang kwarta!" and of course the immortal, "Indi kami tikalon!" To the literati, go figure that out.