"I'll Have A Cheeseburger . . . Hold The Onion."

Well,  I haven't been able to look away from the visual allure and the simultaneous train wreck that is the show "Mad Men" on AMC.  It's not that the show itself is a train wreck, it's that the lives of most of the people on the show which are a train wreck . . . either that, or they are just about to leave the rails.

I am still trying to catch up to the present season through archived past seasons that can be found on these convenient disc things called DVDs.  Your local library is a good source for procuring this episodic drama if you are way too cheap to dole out the cash and don't care about adding this TV show to your personal viewing library.

I have just gotten through Season Two, at this point, and have been noticing similarities the actors and actresses on the show share with actors and actresses from years gone by - some of them even being of the animated variety.

While it is true that the show's main character, Don Draper (played by Jon Hamm), has a Fred Flintstone-class five o'clock shadow by 11 am, the woman who plays his wife is the person who made me think of a less famous cartoon character.

January Jones plays the Misses Don Draper.  In a less formal age we would call her, "Betty." An interesting fact I just recently learned about January is that she has managed to do what few others have done in modern civilized society: She is a self-taught actress . . . and quite proudly so.

I know, many of you are thinking the same thing as I, "How can this be.  Is it really and truly possible for someone to 'teach' themselves how to 'act'? Rocket Scientist, Brain Surgeon or airline pilot maybe . . . but . . . teaching yourself how to 'act'? How can one manage the hours of study and intense mental strain associated with such an endeavor, not to mention all the testing and certification one must go through just to obtain a license to 'Act'"?

Truth, as it turns out, is stranger than fiction.

Don't get me wrong. January Jones is easy on the eyes and as long as those same eyes are glazed over from admiring her generously ample supply of female pulchritude, what she says when she 'acts' in her one dimensionally self-taught fashion, seems to matter less and less.

Now. To the good stuff.

In 1953 Warner Brothers Pictures released a Merrie Melodies Theatrical Cartoon titled 'Muscle Tussle,' starring Daffy Duck and a rather fickle girlfriend duck who could be whisked away by the mere sight of a more muscular physiqued, body-building, muscle beach-type drake, who came complete with all the  innocent charm of a common barnyard fowl.  The girl is obviously NOT a mallard.

The physical similarities between the two only convinced me that my memory had served me well and that I was onto something big here. Really big.  OK. Maybe I overplayed that a bit, but the similarities between the two were striking and similar, if not notable and evident.

Since the quality of a "screen captured" image from the 'Muscle Tussle' cartoon is not of a high resolution variety, you will have to indulge me by visiting the link to the featurette in question.  Once you have taken a gander you will be able to see the physical similarities between the two.

Does it go as far as leading to a case of apparent "Separated at Birth," as was in the earlier instance of secretary Peggy Olson and Theodore "Beaver" Cleaver?   Maybe not.

But it's pretty darn close.

See for yourself

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Rrr2ZGA7BQ&playnext=1&list=PL40ABEF30D337C8D1

I Couldn't Believe It: They Were 'THIS BIG'!

Some people live double lives.  How many?  I don't know, but every now and again they pop up in the news, like the traveling salesman who has a wife in every city he has an account in or the Amish guy who secretly dwells in a modern house with electricity, which no one knows about, somewhere in the next county.

Everything seems to go along OK for people like this, until someone starts asking too many questions and overloads the their ability to effectively and convincingly conceal their true selves.  That is what I was thinking about when I wrote this.

You would be correct to assume that the title of this entry has nothing to do with the text - but it probably got your attention.



UNRAVELING

I offer fleeting glimpses
Where you see what you can see
Sometimes your eyes make contact
With the things that make me me

Don’t judge my motives harshly
They have the best intent
It’s just that I seem ill-equipped
Living in this rotting tent

I’m unraveling
Keeping some things from your eyes
Unraveling
As I'm served my humble pie
Unraveling
Known to none and known to strangers
Unraveling
Don’t pull that thread or I can’t hide

My answers closely guarded
Cards kept to my vest
Sometimes to answer candidly
Is not the course that seems the best

You'd judge my motives harshly
If you knew of my intent
My equation equals secrecy
With key factors not yet lent

I'm unraveling
I didn't see how this could be
Unraveling
To be exposed for all to see
Unraveling
Known to none and known to all
Unraveling
How could a big man feel so small?

I listen to your questions
How can I dodge your words
And still give you the answers
To sound like things you've always heard

Don’t judge my motives harshly
I have the best intent
It’s just that I feel ill-equipped
When the conversation’s spent

I’m unraveling
Right before your very eyes
Unraveling
Perhaps you find yourself surprised
Unraveling
Hidden from none and known to all
Unraveling
Holding that thread so I don’t fall

When There's Nowhere Left To Run

I am all for people keeping in shape. If jogging is what takes you to your happy place, then by all means, visit it as often as you must. The thing that really sort of ticks me off is how you get there.

Across this great country, as well as where I live, there are numerous planned mini communities known as sub-divisions.   These 'sub-divisions' of the larger community are paved with quiet, tree lined streets, aesthetically appealing curvalinear sidewalks and dead-end cul-du-sacs - all perfectly designed to offer the chronic jogger a safe route on which to run and keep them from the potential harm of a speeding vehicle.

Why is it then that many of those who need to jog insist on doing it along busy two-lane state highways and other busy roads?  Sometimes they do this late at night or before sunrise, taking their lives into their own two running shoes with the faith that their tiny little reflective vest will protect them from all harm and impending doom.

I really don't have a gripe if the shoulder is sufficiently sized to accommodate an adult human figure and leave a wide enough berth so I can pass them and not worry about clipping them with my side mirrors, but why on earth do some of these knuckleheads insist on running along the side of a busy road, in bad weather, when all they may have to tread on is six inches of pavement, at best, on the side of the paint stripe that separates my lane from the snow-piled berm?  If the snow is piled up that close to traffic, is it really worth risking your life?


I do have a theory about why some of these people jog where they do: It's all psychological, but since I am not an expert in the field, I cannot say anything with any degree of certainty. On the other hand, since psychology isn't an exact science, I am more than willing to offer my opinion to the masses . . . or at least to the scarce quantity of people who supposedly read this blog.

I think these joggers do it so people will see them exercising.  It kinda goes back to the old "if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it does it really make a noise" sort of thing.  If they get all duded up with their fancy running shoes, body-hugging tights and day-glo vest and they don't get the satisfaction of having the drivers of 700 cars see them as they pass, sweating up a storm to get in shape, then somehow it's just not worth it.

They could get the very same work out winding their way through a quiet sub-division not having to worry about getting side-swiped by an Septic truck, a drunk or someone who could panic and run if they were to hit someone along the side of the road.  Don't even get me started on the ying-yangs that think they can run two abreast out into your lane of traffic and refuse to go single file because they act as if they posses some divine right to do so.

To those of you joggers who continue to do it in the shadows, exercising quietly and modestly without fanfare and the apparent need to continually draw attention to your exercising self, I salute you. Keep it up.  For those of you who insist on running in traffic, I fear it's only a matter of time before one of you becomes a grill ornament.  In the last few months I have come very close to accidentally taking the life of an arrogant jogger on a handful of occasions. If not for quick reflexes and an empty lane beside me, I shutter to think what may have happened had I not seen, at the last possible moment, the flimsy reflective vest with which these runners seem entrust their lives from harm. That's a game that a smarter person wouldn't play.  Had I looked away from the road at the wrong second, I would be writing this from a much more sad and shaken perspective.


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