You, Sir, Are No Don Draper

I don't watch a lot of network TV, except for a couple of comedies I refuse to miss ("30 Rock" and "Modern Family"). Last night, we ended up watching a new set-in-the-60s show, "The Playboy Club." It's one of two network shows debuting this season -- "Pan Am" being the second -- piggybacking on the popularity of AMC's "Mad Men," albeit about four seasons too late. Both of these new shows pale in comparison to the genius (in my humble opinion) of "Mad Men," in their recreation of that era, the writing, the costumes, basically everything. Okay, so I wasn't even planned for in the 1960s to know about the costumes and sets, but from what I have read about "Mad Men" producer Matthew Weiner's obsessive attention to detail on his show, and what I've seen on the networks, they just can't compete. As one critic pointed out, no one is even smoking on these shows.

Scripts and sets aside, I also have a beef with one "Playboy Club" actor in particular. I'd never seen Eddie Cibrian in anything except the pages of US Weekly, where he became moderately famous for his affair and subsequent marriage to LeeAnn Rhimes. I think he mostly did soap operas and Lifetime movies before this show. So congrats to him for landing a prime time acting job. Unfortunately, I think he sincerely believes he's Jon Hamm. Or rather, Jon Hamm as Don Draper.

I know. Blasphemy.

But watch this clip:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=Sz4egzKDEk4

Wearing a grey suit, clutching an Old Fashioned and having half a can of pomade in your hair does not make you as slick as Don Draper. Just like setting a show in the Kennedy era and giving your actresses bouffants does not make the show an award winning drama.

In an effort to make up for mentioning LeeAnn Rhimes in this post, here is a photo of Jon Hamm. As Don Draper. Cheers!

Megabus

My mom called me twice late this afternoon. When I checked my phone, I saw she left two voicemail messages within thirty minutes. I thought someone died. Who could've died, if my mom was the one calling? An aunt or uncle? Knowing my mom, it could be someone from my hometown whom she knows but I haven't seen or heard of since I lived there in 1992, whose name I may or may not recognize. ("Betty Freeman died of a brain hemorrhage...." she'll say, as I rack my brain to come up with a general age range and face for dear Betty. RIP, by the way.)

I finished putting Eamon to bed with the seventh reading in 24 hours of "Curious George Goes to the Hospital" (more on the inept animal care taking skills of the Man in the Big Yellow Hat coming in a future post) and called her back. No, no one died. But they are taking the bus across two states to visit us next month. Not just any bus, mind you, Megabus! Apparently this is a new-ish shuttle service targeted at people, like Joe and Mary Lou, who hate flying in and out of the world's second busiest airport. It leaves on time, arrives on time, and, unlike Greyhound, is not marketed to recently released convicts. Presumably my parents' fellow passengers will be families with kids and the semi- or fully-retired like themselves. My mom seems excited about it. My dad said, "well, if we don't like it on the way there, we can always walk back."

Oooh-kay then, see you at the bus stop.