Author Archives: levijustinrogers

I am Don Draper: “In Care Of” Mad Men Season Six Finale Review

DD

 

            Last Sunday marked the season finale of season six of Mad Men. The season finale was more optimistic than usual as we see our protagonist, Don Draper, finally, (or at least we hope finally) come to terms with the lies he’s perpetuated and his own self-destructive behavior.  For many seasons now, I’ve felt a kinship or connection with our protagonist. To those of who do not watch the show, I do not mean connection as in I am just as handsome and bad-ass as Don Draper, as one might gather from Don from a cursory glance of the series. Rather, a connection with the inner demons of a man who is the sole architect of his own destruction.

 When I first started watching the show, I was enthralled with the style, mystery, and overall bad-assery that is Don Draper. I continued to find his story of stolen identity and traumatic upbringing wonderfully tragic. And over the years I came to identify myself with the character. At first, it was almost in a James Bond hero sort of way. Draper was so cool, with his smoking and his brilliant ad writing and his awesome hair. The way he could command a room. The respect he got from others. But as we knew from episode one, there was a dark side of Don Draper. A side that occasionally made us hate him and occasionally created empathy within us.

But by season six, even after learning of another part of Don’s tumultuous upbringing, we begin to lose respect for the man who once enthralled us. His actions become childish, his adultery troubling, his vices sad. What started out as an enigmatic mystery man became a man who couldn’t hold himself together. Who got the shakes from drinking, whose second wife walked out on him, whose company forces him to take a leave of absence. And ultimately what we see, is a man with an inability to change his behavior(although the season finale does leave us with some hope). Perhaps it’s the guilt from all the lies. Perhaps it’s shame for his own unknown background. Who knows.

And this is where I realized why I resonate with Don Draper. Not because of the lies and stolen identity and traumatic childhood, but because the entire series of Mad Men is about a man who cannot change, or for some unknown reason can’t change.  A man with traumatic childhood, yes. A man who lies for a living, yes. But behind the social commentary and psychology lie a more profound existential question about why people like Don Draper exist. Maybe not why they exist, but perhaps what makes them tick.

Some critics have pointed out that rather than Mad Men becoming more “outwards” focused like we all thought it was, with the social commentary on race, greed, materialism, and America, that the show is if anything becoming increasingly “inner.” Ultimately, since Don Draper is the protagonist, it beckons us to an existential/Freudian tension. Is it the ghosts of Don’s past that are the explanations for his actions? Maybe, though the show seems to point to other factors as well. Or, is Don simply an alcoholic womanizer who likes his lifestyle and can’t seem to change? Whose very personality and being is something of a mystery in an existential sense?  Perhaps Don in a sense is the embodiment of our questions about the human condition. Why are some people overwhelmingly afflicted with inner demons and addictions and self-destructive behavior? Is it nature or nurture? Is it Faustian desire for power and knowledge? Is it simply man trying to be his own god? Being able to do whatever he wants whenever he wants with no consequences? It does seem that what Don desires is power, respect, control, and the free will to engage in whatever activity he desires, and ultimately a desire to be loved.   But this would be a rather one-dimensional point of view (which could after all be the case) and unfortunately I don’t know if it’s an either/or scenario.  In one sense it would almost be more troubling if all the mystery and childhood trauma was non-existent and we were left with a man who at the end of it all, simply is bent towards creating his own will and thereto, his destruction. Because as we see Don in the end is empty and, as we see in the penultimate episode, crawled in the fetal position, postulating a position that Don, in the end, has no idea what Don wants or what all his behavior has gotten him

I find it curious that until the last episode of the series any talk of God or religion was almost entirely devoid in Mad Men. And here in the last episode of Season Six we find an evangelist telling Don that his only sin is in not believing God loves him or could have room for acceptance of him. It seems Don has already given up on himself. But he has also already given up on any sort of idea or salvation that has the potential to save him. In the end, the world of Don Draper is one of hell. He very possibly could be (as others have pointed out here:http://www.pastemagazine.com/articles/2013/06/mad-men-review-the-quality-of-mercy-episode-612.html ) the spawn of Satan as in the symbolism of Rosemary’s Baby, and if he is, or even if he isn’t, we grasp perhaps what is a chilling picture of an idea of hell. One of isolation, hollow desires, and an acceptance of yourself as a bad person with an inability to change.  And this is where my resonance with Don Draper becomes disturbing. 

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Summer in Rose Park

The airplanes ascend, through orange streetlights and “Compramos Oro” white neon signs, backlit by turquoise dusk skies that make me think of Mexico. The telephone wires stretched across the street. A man riding his bike. Another skateboarding. The Miami Heat win the championship. And I wish I was somewhere by the beach. But I am in Rose Park in the city of salt. Cars drive by. Bumping rap or mariachi music.

In our neighborhood, people still sit out on the porch. 

River White, Like Elephants

ImageThe river was white, like the ivory from elephants, and its bank was lined with fallen trees stretching their branches into the river, like the bones of elephants, the sky was hazy blue and the clouds slightly wispy, there was some sun, bright—especially through the haze, but it was getting late. We were tired from the day of work and drank beer along the rocks. The rocks were black on bottom and white on top—from the river below and the sun above.

“What will you do after this?” she said.

“Work.”

Where?”

“Somewhere. Coffee shop maybe, maintenance.”

“For how long?”

“Don’t know.”

“Will you go back to school?”

“Maybe.”

The river sparkled even brighter white, when the sun shone on it. It was probably minerals of some kind. We stared for a while into empty spaces, and the empty spaces stared back at us, mirroring.

“Why do you think the river is like that?”

“You mean all white?” she said.

“Yes.”

“I don’t know. Minerals maybe, runoff of some kind.”

“There’s not a factory up the river is there?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Hmm.”

“Who knows what causes these things.” I said.

“Well, scientists do.” We opened new bottles, filled with beer. A sunshine ale, because it was still hot.

“You think so? I don’t think so. I don’t think anyone knows about these things. I mean really knows, even about the simplest things.”

“Someone has to know.”

“Why, why does someone always have to know?”

“Because someone has to know.”

“I don’t know if anyone does.”

“There has to be answers. What would you tell people?”

“I don’t know.”

“No really what would you tell them if they asked. If you had to answer.” She took a sip of her beer.

“I don’t know.”

“No! If you had to answer.”

“No that’s just it, I would tell them, ‘I don’t know.’”

She looked at me hard, trying to read me. I took a sip of my beer. We continued staring into empty spaces, and she was nervous.

“Well what do you want to do in the fall?” She was getting slightly perturbed.

I answered, “I don’t know.”

She gave me another look, grittier. The river was still white but the trees began to look black, because the sun was going down.”

“Something of value.” I finally said after a few minutes of silence.

“Like what.”

“I’m going to say the same thing, you know, so please don’t be angry.”

She took another sip of her beer, this time in spite, because she knew the answers. She kept looking at me and I said it again. She got up to leave.

“Are you being honest or are you just being some sad, pathetic creature?”

I said it again.

The birds flew in the air, high, like kites. We continued to sit on the bank, dry from lack of rain. She sat back down.

“It’s not like I want this,” I said. “I don’t. If I could change I would.”

“You can change. It’s not that hard.”

Her face looked irritated, mine tired. She wanted resolution. I didn’t know what I wanted.

“I wish it was that easy. This honesty bleeds into doubt which bleeds into a lack of faith.”

“But if you’re honest you would find the truth… you would find what you’re looking for.”

“You’d think so, right?”

She looked away, into the hills—into the river, white like elephants tusks.

She got up to leave, this time for good I think. I wanted her to stay, I really did. But I also knew that she had to go. And I had to stay. Not that I wanted to. But I had to. I really did.

And she left, for good I think.

 I drank the final sips of the beer. The sun was going down fast now. The bright orange was fading to a dark purple haze.

I sat there not really sure what to do. So I drank and I lit a cigarette, slowly, with care.  I breathed in deep, inhale.

And I tried to exhale. I really did. 

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Let There Be Light!

And God said, “Let there be light.” And there was light.

Genesis 1:3

 

Every so often my coffee world and my writing world line up and I can do both at once. Here’s an article I wrote for my friends at Caputo’s about Light vs. Dark in coffee.

For many years now, dark coffee has reigned supreme in coffee shops, grocery stores, and restaurants alike. To order a large dark drip coffee is almost as American as McDonald’s or baseball itself. .

Many of us equate “dark” coffee with “strong” coffee or full bodied coffee. What we are saying when we order a dark coffee (or French Roast/Vienna Roast) is that we don’t want a watery cup of coffee. We want coffee that’ll stick hair on our chest and wake us up like a shot of cold water to the face. The truth however, is that 80% of the time dark coffee is not synonymous with “strong” coffee but with burnt coffee.

The majority of coffee roasters are not as concerned about quality as you might think. They’ll buy inferior beans or poorer quality beans to mix in with the other beans to “cut” the coffee (in drug slang.) However they can get away with it because the darker you roast coffee the more it “burns” out any flavor deficiencies and provides a consistent, albeit, smoky and dark taste. Drinking coffee should be like drinking wine or eating cheese. You should be able to tell the basic difference from a Pinot to a Cab or from a Cheddar to a Swiss. Coffee after all is a crop. A crop with a specific taste and flavor profile dependent on the region it comes from. Coffee from Hawaii should taste different than coffee from Ethiopia. Roasting coffee lighter can accomplish this.

In the past decade we’ve seen a major switch of coffee roasting companies who are sourcing higher quality beans and roasting the beans lighter so you can actually taste them. Darker coffee, while one may still prefer it, is generally burnt. There can be such a thing as a “dark” roast that is not burnt, but it will not be as nearly ashy and flat tasting as one might be used to. For many years light roast coffee has been equated to “weak” or “watery” coffee, while in fact light roasted coffee has a considerably higher amount of caffeine than dark roasted beans. Light or medium roast coffee is not weak coffee, but rather roasted so that the true flavor and terroir of the coffee can come out.

In reality the terms “light” and “dark” are not accurate measures for how we should be describing coffee. For anyone interested in learning more about coffee and trying “specialty” coffee, you’ll find that factors such as region, country and processing provide a better measurement of what coffee will and can taste like. 

It’s not bad to be a fan of a darker roast, but once you get a taste of what really good coffee can be, it’s hard to go back. Like any other specialty food item, coffee is nuanced and for us in the coffee world this is what makes coffee great—the ability to taste differences from bean to bean and region to region—and it’s hard to get that from low quality beans roasted dark.

             

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Enough With All The Folk Music! Let’s Hear Some Rock N’ Roll!

PC

Enough with all the folk music! Let’s hear some Rock n’ Roll!

The debut album from The Pentagraham Crackers, Live From the Palace of Payne, is simply a fun, rockin album. The music matches the groups name itself—it’s quirky and fun with just a hint of evil. It’s dark lyrics with dancy riffs and a promise to never take itself too seriously.
Nick Neihart, whose bowl cut and Tom Selleck mustache make him look like a movie character from the 70’s, fronts The Pentagraham Crackers. His previous self-titled album Songs Made of Salt was a singer-songwriter folk album rich in lyrical depth and brooding intensity. Live from the Palace of Payne is a departure from this genre as Neihart brings us a rockin surf punk record. It’s noticeably lighter, and yet lyric and poetic enough that the melodies stay with you and make you think.
The lyrics themselves are nothing light, but the music and occasional yeehaw and faux southern drawl from Neihart remind us that we’re allowed to have fun. The first track “Mouth Full of Gutters,” starts slow and bluesy but by track three your playing air drums in your car. Track three is a fun song about killing yourself where Neihart sings “ I’m gonna get myself some of that sweet sweet lovin, gonna stick my head in an old gas oven!” Track eight is another fun one where the chorus has Neihart yelling “Depression!” over and over again with a classic Ramones punk vibe. It’s fun and sad and dark all at the same time.
The drums are fast and the guitar riffs hard but the lyrics themselves are perhaps the best part of the whole album. The chorus from “Birds to Breath” is just one example of the incredible lyrical quality of Neihart’s work, “I’ll be the one to break your tired neck, “ he sings “let the birds into your chest/their wings will beat the wind into your breath/and those secrets that you’ve kept, will one day resurrect.” While on other songs, melodies of “heaven is a quiet place” echo softly in the background.
The album ends with the song “Forty Ounces of Blues,” a slow bluesy tune that settles us back into the darkness we’ve just entered and danced through. But the entire album is a reminder that sometimes there’s nothing to do with darkness but laugh in its face and dance in its backyard. Perhaps munch on some graham crackers, put them in the shapes of pentagrams, just for fun.

Where the Octopi Hide

Image

 

 

Where the Octopi Hide

 

In dressers:

Beneath your folded underwear[1]. Eight legs stretching through the three[2]-hole fabric

 

Behind newsstands:[3]

Grocery store bags in hand, with a pair of sunglasses, leaning against a used grey van.[4] Don’t ask how its body was supported. It wasn’t.

 

In your esophagus:

Those late-nights when you can’t sleep[5], and feel something slippery inside you[6], suction cups against your ventricles, that’s it, they use your body[7] as a sarcophagus, right there in your esophagus, because they like to die in long stretches of tube that rhyme with ancient[8] Egyptian burial rituals.

 

 


[1] She is never coming back

[2] weeks since you last saw her

[3] it was the fourth. The papers claimed something about independence, freedom. things she ironically also exclaimed just last night, before midnight, with her beautiful black hair blowing across those red lips telling you it was “…”. You can’t even repeat it in your head. It began with an O and ended with an er

[4] You made love in there, next to used soda cans and bottles of fake spray tan

[5] even after a bottle of Nyquil

[6] and five glasses of jack

[7] she made you feel like you had eight legs and a head the size of your body,

[8] No more

 

 

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Shepard Fairey and the NRA

Shepard Fairey and the NRA

Growing up in a small mountain town in Colorado, guns were everywhere. I myself am not opposed to gun ownership. The reason I like this photo however is because it portrays the contradictions of a belief in “pro-life” ideology and unrestricted use of guns. In refusing to consider even minor requirements like background checks, we do a disservice to those marred by gun violence.

Mostly, I like this photo because it will piss off a lot of Christians who think they can believe in war and pro-life sentiments. As I heard Chris Haw says once, “Our money says in God we trust when our economy is founded on the seven deadly sins.”

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Wendell Berry is a Badass

Wendell Berry is a Badass

I wish I could get the whole interview but some very interesting thoughts from Wendell Berry. He’s my new favorite person. 

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Wendell Berry is a Badass

Wendell Berry is a Badass

I wish I could get the whole interview but some very interesting thoughts from Wendell Berry. He’s my new favorite person. 

http://www.abpnews.com/culture/social-issues/item/8130-wendell-berry-expounds-on-gay-marriage#.UX8zeyvWFeS

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Her Dad is Dying

Her dad is dying. Slow and fierce. Yesterday he threw up green bile, exorcist style. With no warning. It washed out of his mouth like a fire hydrant, then dribbled down his chin. It was green, dark green, like kale, or the leaves of an evergreen.

 

He has dementia. Lewy body dementia. The average lifespan of someone with this disease is seven years. He has been alive for ten. His wife died a year ago almost exactly. He’s been a vegetable for awhile now. His eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, clutching his left arm. We’re not sure what he sees. The white ceilings of a gaudy rehab center or…spaceships. She tells me that when a person is dying they see stars they try to pluck at. Or little twinklings. His arms can’t move enough to pluck, but perhaps his eyes see the stars. Who knows, maybe he can see beyond the hubble telescope. See what the rest of us are missing.

 

Or maybe he sees ceiling tiles. His mind blank and worn enough that nothing registers. His breathing comes in gaps now. His body looks yellow and it’s not just because he’s Japanese.

 

We go see him every day after work. She (my wife) gets off work at 5:15. We go see him after. Hang out for an hour or so. By the time we get home it’s late. 7:30 or so. We’re indecisive about dinner so we don’t eat dinner until 8:30. Or we get pizza or cheap Chinese food. By the time we eat, it’s 8:30 or 9. We watch some T.V. Go to bed, get up again and do it the next day.  This is our life.

 

I’m getting bigger. Bigger and fatter. My stomach is like Buddhas. I used to ride my bike. But we have a dog now. And dying parents to attend to. Besides, I’m too tired anyways. I’ve drank every night this week. It doesn’t help my Buddha stomach. She doesn’t like that I keep smoking, but I don’t know what to tell her.

 

I have to run a Farmers Market booth for my coffee business tomorrow. I don’t want to. I also have to take a pay cut so we can move into a new location. I’ll have to get a part time job. It’ll probably be some fucking coffeeshop that serves gasoline. The perks of starting a small business. I haven’t written in weeks. My stomach’s been sick from alcohol. I’m listening to a lot of David Bazan and Glen Hansard.

 

His eyes are open. Staring.

 

We didn’t think he’d make it through the week…but he did. We didn’t think he’d make it through the weekend—but he did.

 

It’s Monday. Eight to nine days since he’s had food or drink.

 

She’s exhausted. We’re exhausted.

 

We sit here, waiting. Waiting for her dad to die. Waiting for relief.

She goes to work every day. Expecting a phone call. The call never comes.

 

Since the diagnosis, she knew it would be inevitable. But now it’s so close, and yet, so far away.

 

The medical bills pile up.

 

 If anything her worse fear is if he doesn’t die. She’ll have to finish the Medicaid application. Come up with money out of thin air.

 

Not that she doesn’t love her dad, she does.  More than ever. But there are practical implications to death. Debt. And medical bills, And funeral expenses. And so on. Those things disappear when death comes (sort of).  Besides, he’s been sick for so long. A vegetable for years now.

 

 

 

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