The wonderful thing about having to write a weekly column where I tell you everything I’m doing is that I’m terribly boring, and typically doing nothing. I pretend that I’m up to something fantastic, when in general it’s just the usual. Too much late-night eating, happy days with the girlfriend, homework and caffeine. That’s about it, yo. But naw, I’m seriously super exciting. I scale mountains of amazement, and look down upon you peons and just chuckle. Deep belly laughs of condescension. I have a kind of sick desperation in my laugh.

Monday Morning Commute. Every Monday I’m going to detail the various things I’m either currently or will be watching, reading, playing, and listening to in the next seven days. It’s Monday. You’ve got a long week of school, work, or compulsive masturbation to get through. Tell me the arts that you’re indulging in, to stave off suicide.

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A couple of days ago I found out that season three of Mad Men was coming to the ole digital video disc this week. I was naturally stoked, since I hadn’t checked that shit out yet and was wondering when I’d get to stare at Joanie for another amazing thirteen episodes again. Oh, and uh, take in an incisive look at mid-century America or whatever. I sent away for it on Netflix and received news that I’d be getting it in mail sometime today.

I was stoked. And then I had the weirdest god damn dream.

I had this odd dream where my better half confessed that she didn’t actually like Mad Men. I was shocked, for she has been my wingman in all of my Mad Men viewings. The murky waters of my dream shifted, I was appaulled. I mean, I don’t handle dreams where she wises up and leaves me well. But this was like three-thousand times worse.

After she told me that she was never really into it, I sat there in my dream, confusion, distraught. And I looked her dead in the eyes, and I remember saying so completely serious:

This is going to be a problem.

There are certain dealbreakers for me in relationships, I just never realized this was one. I mean, I’m not demanding. I just can’t date chicks who can’t respect The Trilogy, who smoke, or worship zombies and other cults. But apparently Don Draper is up there for me too. I never knew. I decided to share this with Lady Caffeine.

Ian: I had a dream you secretly didn’t like Mad Men, and you told me, and I seriously went, “This is going to be a problem.”
Ian’s Better Half: hahahaha
Ian’s Better Half: it probably would be a problem

Well then. I’d hate to see what would happen in a dream then, if someone was like, “Yo, Ian, I love you, but like, Billy Adama is lame.”

I’ve documented my love for the women of Mad Men throughout this blog. Usually I’m waxing philosophic about the curves of Christina Hendricks. But I suppose I can give it up for the American Dream Ideal of this one January Jones, if it involves the actress playing that rocking an insane amount of cleavage.

Well done, Mrs. Draper.

Sitting at the gym today almost paralyzed with fear that I wouldn’t be able to voice my nagging, unintelligent opinion. Sitting bored on the elliptical watching the deluge of sloppy bullshit that passes for news and entertainment. And then I saw Oprah was on, and she saw fit to wipe out both my fears and boredom. You see, Oprah was doing a fucking 1960’s episode in honor of Mad Men or some shit. She had both Mr. And Mrs. Draper on the show. She had some bullshit 1960’s barbershop boyband on all singing and being wonderful. The entire set was retro.

And I’m just sitting there wondering, what the fuck? I mean, it sounds counter-intuitive to me for a powerful black woman to be plugging the 1960’s, when both African Americans and women had it pretty rough back then. Sure, when she interviewed January Jones (Betty Draper), Jones spent four seconds like, poorly articulating the lack of rights for women. But besides that, the entire thing was a nostalgic orgasm. It wasn’t some critique, it was just like CHECK OUT HOW IDYLLIC SHIT WAS, ARE YOU PUMPED HOUSE WIVES!?

I find it doubly ironic, since Mad Men spends (from what I’ve seen, which is a season and some change) a significant amount of time exploding the myth that the 1960’s was some happy, Camelot-esque period. The whole thing screamed “Missing the Point!”, dedicating an entire episode to the sappy, syrupy illusion of the 1960’s in honor of Mad Men, a show which spends its entire time deconstructing that myth, spending time to highlight the inequalities of both women and African Americans.

Oh Oprah! You’re the bee’s knees.