karl marx probably wouldn't drink vodka gimlets either.

i am a mad men fanatic. the obsession started a little over six months ago after three pseudo-dates with one of new york's most notorious "pick-up artists" (okay, hustlers). i met him in a coffee shop down on houston one day while i was desperately applying to anonymous e-mail addresses on craigslist under the "art/media/design" section of "jobs". it was raining out, so i opted to sit by the window (there is something very romantic about people watching New Yorkers in the rain). so there i was, no make-up on, unwashed hair (still long at the time), and struck with with an overall look of annoyance on my face (one: due to my lack of unemployment catapulting me further into debt, and two: due to an unwelcome houseguest who had been crashing on our couch for over a week). so in walks this dude who had breezed by the window no less than two seconds prior. i remember checking him out on the street because he was tall, slim, and attractive (apparently my only three stipulations for being on "hottie patrol"), however, my immediate reaction was still 'he's wearing a baseball hat and walks kind of like a douche bag. no thanks.' so he walks into the coffee shop and makes a b-line for desperate little me sitting in the back corner. i try to ignore him at first, but then he starts making conversation with me, so i oblige. i can't remember the exact details of the chat, but i do remember something about democracy in the czech republic and a joking reference to freud (all in about two and half minutes, mind you). okay, i thought. this guy can't be too bad. he's educated, looks you in the eye when he's speaking, appears to have all limbs in tact, maybe he's for real? so i gave my number (my real number). off he goes (because he's in a rush, naturally) and i'm left sitting there contemplating what his inherent flaw could be (because i'm a cynic and when things are too good to be true, they usually are).

it takes about a month before we actually go out, mainly due to the fact that i'm incredibly flaky when it comes to these things and also that i was relatively preoccupied with starting a new (shitty) job and getting over an ex-lover (also shitty). oh, and also it was summertime, so soon lest we forget my pension for rooftop binge drinking and amphetamine-fueled nights of dancing on the lower east side. trust me, i'm an exemplary adult. so i meet him after work for some moderately-priced seafood fare on 23rd street. i arrive fifteen minutes late because truth be told, i was contemplating hopping on the l train and going back to brooklyn (ah, the old "slip away"), but i do show up. he's there, he already ordered (what?), he's still wearing a baseball hat (turn off), and he starts in on what could be dubbed "20 questions on speed" (including personal topics like past and present sexual encounters). after about ten minutes, any normal girl would be freaked out, but having my fair share of creepy friends and being a bit of a creep myself at times, i decide to level with him. within minutes he lets down his testosterone-charged exterior and begins to open up about what he's all about. writing instruction manuals and hosting seminars on how to fuck girls in the city on the cheap. awesome! he also dabbles in erotica. even better! did i also mention that he's in his thirties...and a harvard grad? top notch! so there i was, trapped in a booth with one of new york's most notorious public perverts. sexual deviance aside, he makes good conversation (and hey, at least he's upfront about his motives), so we end up chatting for about two hours (moving beyond the realm of sexual politics at this point). eventually he starts talking about the amc original series "mad men" (which i had only heard of, but had never seen at this time). having only known me approximately two and a half hours at this point, he deduces that i would be attracted to don draper (the show's male ego-driven, emotionally unavailable, chauvinistic protagonist). me? no way. i am immediately offended by this comment. this is wendy dorer he's talking to. he doesn't know me. i date artists and intellectuals with social problems, guys who respect women only because they've had such few encounters with them in the past, liberal extremists who themselves have read "the feminine mystique". never, and i mean, never would i be attracted to a "'bro." so he hears me out and challenges this notion by suggesting we go back to his place (off madison avenue, ironically) to watch a few episodes of season one. my sane mind (which parted ways with me around age 17) doesn't even factor in and within minutes i'm on a bus uptown (god forbid he front for cab fare) to watch mad men in what has the potential be a sex dungeon.

so his apartment is not a sex dungeon, but comparable in size. just barely larger than my college dorm room, his studio consists of a bed (lofted - seriously? dude, you're 33), built-in bookshelves (complete with a copy of the book of mormon and a box set of looney tunes dvds), a desk with a PC (turn off, but i do commend his response to my Mac snobbery with "what would marx use?"), a leather chair (pretty nondescript), and a beautiful white sony lcd flatscreen (i have the utmost appreciation for aesthetically pleasing technology and this certainly fit the mold. bravo!) so we hang out, fool around for a bit (because hey, he was attractive sans baseball hat, and i had made a sober conscious decision based upon the fact that i knew his story), and finally pop in the dvd's. sadly, he was right. i immediately fell in love with don draper. maybe it was because he had conditioned me to like him, or maybe it was my inner submissive female who wants nothing more out of life than to settle down in westchester with a man's man who cheats on her, but is okay with this fact because his career affords you a live-in housekeeper (slave) to watch the children while you and your girlfriends smoke and drink and ride english horses at the country club all day. is that too much to ask for? while in real life, i find myself more likened to the character of midge daniels, (the bohemian illustration-artist from the village that don has a brief affair with in season on), the series itself transports me to a world where i want to be betty draper. thank you, january jones, for your mediocre acting abilities and outstanding wardrobe stylist. you inspire me to be less of a modern woman.