The episode ends with….
“Now I am quietly waiting for the catastrophe of my personality to seem beautiful again and interesting and modern…,
Jesus, Don… it is and it does.

So for Matt Weiner, the genius who breathes life into Don, Peter (known in my house as “Warren” due to his eerie resemblance to the he/she villain in “Homicidal”), Peggy, Betty and all the rest, I submit another poem, from the same book.  One that expresses how I have always felt about the movies… and great tv and most of all great writers.

Roll on Don Draper, you tortured soul… you fucking rock.

To the film industry in crisis

Frank O’hara

Not you, lean quarterlies and swarthy periodicals
with your studious incursions toward the pomposity of ants,
nor you, experimental theatre in which Emotive Fruition
is wedding Poetic Insight perpetually, nor you,
Promenading Grand Opera, obvious as an ear (though you
are close to my heart), but you, Motion Picture Industry,
it’s you I love!In times of crisis, we must all decide again and again whom we love.
And give credit where it’s due: not to my starched nurse, who taught me
how to be bad and not bad rather than good (and has lately availed
herself of this information), not to the Catholic Church
which is at best an oversolemn introduction to cosmic entertainment,
not to the American Legion, which hates everybody, but to you
glorious Silver Screen, tragic Technicolor, amorous Cinemascope,
stretching Vistavision and startling Stereophonic Sound, with all
your heavenly dimensions and reverberations and iconoclams! To
Richard Barthelmess as the “tol’able” boy barefoot and in pants,
Jeanette MacDonald of the flaming hair and lips and long, long neck,
Sue Carroll as she sits for eternity on the damaged fender of a car
and smiles, Ginger Rogers with her pageboy bob like a sausage
on her shuffling shoulders, peach-melba-voiced Fred Astaire of the feet,
Eric von Strohnheim, the seducer of mountain-climbers’ gasping spouses,
the Tarzans, each and every one of you (I cannot bring myself to prefer
Johnny Weissmuller to Lex Baxter, I cannot!), Mae West in furry sled
her bordello radiance and bland remarks, Rudolph Valentino of the moon,
its crushing passions, and moonlike, too, the gentle Norma Shearer,
Miriam Hopkins dropping her champagne glass off Joel MacCrea’s yatch
and crying in the dappled-sea, Clark Gable rescuing Gene Tierney
from Russia and Allan Jones rescuing Kitty Carlisle from Harpo Marx,
Cornel Wilde coughing blood on the piano keys while Merle Oberon berates,
Marilyn Monroe in her little spike heels reeling through Niagara Falls,
Joseph Cotten puzzling and Orson Wells puzzled and Dolores del Rio
eating orchids for lunch and breaking mirros, Gloria Swanson reclining,
Jean Harlow reclining and wiggling, and Alice Faye reclining
and wiggling and singing, Myrna Loy being calm and wise, William Powell
in his stuning urbanity, Elizabeth Taylor blossoming, yes, to you
and all you others, the great, the near-great, the featured, the extras
who pass quickly and return in dreams saying you one or two lines,
my love!Long may you illumine space with your marvelous appearances, delays
and ennunciations, and may the money of the world glittering cover you
as you rest after a long day under the kleigh lights with your faces
in packs for our edification, the way the clouds come often at night
but the heavens operate on the star system. It is a divine precedent
you perpetuate! Roll on, reels of celluloid, as the great earth rolls on!