So, of course, there's a lot of speculation and debate about the final episode of Mad Men, which makes sense. I don't recall any show being dissected as thoroughly as this one was on a weekly basis. Not the Sopranos, not Game of Thrones, not even the imminetly dissectable Walking Dead. There are recaps of those shows, pieces on the motivations of characters, etc. But none of the what-does-it-REALLY-mean in-depth analysis that Don Draper, et al, have garnered from the press and fans. Perhaps much of the search for deeper meaning comes from the fact that the characters on the show were closer to us than people like Tony Soprano or Khaleesi or Rick Grimes. Very few of us have been mob bosses, queens of mystical realms or post-apoclyptic survivors. But most of us have worked in an office, had offices "romances," dealt with asshole bosses and had conflicts with our spouses or other family members. Then there's the familarity of the subject matter: advertising. It operates on our emotions so it was great to see what goes on behind the scenes, or at least one man's interpretation of what goes on behind the scenes. What do the people who make us feel warm and fuzzy about Chicken McNuggets really do and look like (probably not like Don Draper, but still...). So in light of that familiarity, most people assumed there was something working under the surface. Which is why you had all of these theories about how the final direction of the show and how it would end. Everything from Don Draper is really D.B. Cooper to Don (or someone) is going to fall out of a window and die, a la the Mad Men opening credits. The mix of theories all pointed to one thing: people wanted something definitive. Which makes the actual ending all that much more perfect. SPOILERS FOLLOW There is, actually, something definitive about how the saga of Mad Men wrapped up: Don reaching bliss in a "hippie" mediation/personal growth retreat in California. He's always dabbled in marijuana so he's familiar with a different plane of consciousness. He appeared to be most relaxed and at his TRUE self (Dick Whitman) when visiting the real Mrs. Draper at her home in California. And his "lost weekend" of partying with Hollywood wanna-be starlets and the like seemed right up his alley. And then there's my personal theory that the end of the line would be California: In a promo teaser for the first half of Season 7, Don is shown driving along a coastline, a vast expanse of water behind him. The music playing is Doris Day's version of "Que Sera Sera" which not only was featured in the Alfred Hitchcock movie "The Man Who Knew Too Much" in which she also starred, but was also the theme song for her TV show in the 1970s - which was set in California (San Francisco, to be exact.) Then there was the final use of the old "I'd Like To Teach The World To Sing" Coca-Cola ad of 1971. It was intriguingly jarring an ending as the infamous abrupt blackout closing of The Sopranos. But it was perfect. Don is an advertising man, through and through. He took to it more than anything else in his life: marriage, kids, responsible drinking. So when a guy like Don finds bliss, he also finds a way to capitalize on it. No one in his office had that kind of connection with that type of counterculture (well, maybe Paul Kinsey and Stan Rizzo, but he wasn't about to listen to them). To him, it was a revelation. So why not share it...and make some bucks in the process? You could argue that the ending was tied up too neatly, with most of the characters finding the place they wanted/needed to be. People can (and do) bitch about how there was no big payoff, no final unmitigated ending. Don dies. The future is shown where Sally looks at her own children and vows to raise them differently. All of the kids secretly birth by Don meet to discuss their never-present old man. But if having the consumate advertising man find a way to use his newfound happiness in his line of work isn't a realistic and perfect ending, I don't know what it.
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I've done design/desktop publishing stuff for a while now, but there's always something new I've seen or heard about that makes it all continually seem new. Which I guess is the great thing about design. It's never stagnant.
If you're interested in design, print or otherwise, there's a great new series of e-mail classes coming up that might be of interest to you. Called "Design Pitfalls," it's a course taught by David Kadavy, who wrote "Design for Hackers" and was a lead designer at a couple of Silicon Valley start-ups and who has won a few international design awards. Sign up for the course ends soon. Do it here: http://designpitfalls.co/ Born in 1207, St. Elizabeth of Hungary was married at 14, widowed at 20, died at 24 and was canonized four years later. An amazingly rapid run to spiritual stardom by any standards, liturgical or otherwise. Like being elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame after a brief, injury-plagued career.
Following her husband's death, Elizabeth pledged herself to the spiritual service of inquisitor Konrad von Marburg, who responded to her devotion by imposing upon her strict standards of behavior. Standards that Elizabeth found impossible to uphold. As punishment for her shortcomings, Elizabeth was repeatedly beaten and her children sent away. All for not living up to impossible standards. In the first grade at St. Elizabeth Elementary School, I was told that I could no longer be left-handed. Not explicitly told. It was simply suggested that I use my right hand for writing. Suggested in the way Sr. Paula would removed the pencil from my left hand and reinsert it to my right on a daily basis. I sit at my desk, the fingers of my left hand wrapped tightly around a No. 2. My face inches from the paper, monitoring each line as I practiced tracing letters. A. M. R. Suddenly, the sound of hard-soled shoes padding across the wooden classroom floor. A shadow over my paper. A cold hand wraps its fingers tightly around mine, the stark sleeve of an all black garment in sharp contract to pale white skin. "Right hand," Sr. Paula says. Firmly. "Remember. Right hand only." She wrests the pencil from my left hand and nestles it in my right. Uses her own hands to bend and twist my four-year-old fingers into the proper writing position. Each finger individually readjusted. I grip the pencil awkwardly. It is the shaky supporting beam of a shoddily built house. Holding it there feels like an unnatural act. My hand looks like someone else's. It moves like someone else's. The concentration needed to form a simple "S" is like trying to will a cup to levitate. I need to rewire my brain, to forget what is natural. Relearn how to move. Left is not left any more, but "LEFT." My hand does not do as it is told. Writing is now a standard that is impossible for me to uphold. I regress often. Both unconsciously and intentionally. I focus on tracing letters and keeping a lookout for Sr. Paula. She discovers me several times, falling into "bad habits." Each time, the pencil is yanked from my left hand more forcefully than before, sometimes accompanied by a strike with a ruler as painful reinforcement. As if the left hand had been operating on its own in defiance. The pencil is jammed into my right hand, this time with more determination than before. The fingers squeezed harder as if to fuse them into formation. Decades later, I learn that the Latin word for "left" is "sinistra." It is also the Latin word for "evil." For centuries, left-handed people were considered evil. In league with the devil. It was believed that Satan used his left hand to baptize his disciples. That those who practiced the dark arts saluted Satan with their left hands. In many cultures, the left hand is used exclusively to wipe oneself after defecating. So it was in 1960s Chicago that I, a left-handed four year old, had a soul that needed to be saved. Yet as abruptly as the effort to convert me into a right-hander began, it ended. With no fanfare, the squeezed hands, the twisted fingers, the rapped knuckles simply stopped. The pencil allowed to remain in my left hand, however awkwardly poised. Sr. Paula remained at her desk, rising only to scold gum chewers. The entire issue was no longer important. The devil inside me left alone. "Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world Then shall he say also unto them on the left hand, Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels." Matthew 25:33-34...41 (King James Version) There's probably an official answer on the end of this practice somewhere. I wouldn't know. My affiliation with the Catholicism pretty much ended after eighth grade. I went to a public high school and Sunday mornings were for watching football. I became a newspaper reporter, taking notes with my left hand, the devil somewhere over my shoulder. |
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