What pleasures “Mad Men” affords are not all that different from those we enjoyed watching Fonzie operate like a real man in a world before feminism, or even Hawkeye and Trapper John cutting up in a fantasyland Korean war playground before the Alan Aldanization of the American male.

As I watch “Mad Men” fall on its face week after week, completely missing the zeitgeist, tone, attitudes, speech patterns, and body language of 1960 New York, I’m reminded of late “Happy Days” and M*A*S*H, when the barest pretense of accurately representing the earlier era were cast aside and Anson Williams and Loretta Swit sported mid-70’s blow-dried, feathered hairstyles. Don’s wife, especially, is as 2007 as any young female can possibly get without sporting a tribal tattoo and engaging in drunken lite lesbianism for YouTube. She’s not believable for one second as a young 1960 wife.

She’s not marrying anyone, she’s fairly honest about her task of seducing the entire staff, male and female, to get what she wants, and as far as we know, she’s never shown one jot of weakness there — except when it comes to her roommate since college, Carol. Just like Lily Powers in BABY FACE, Joan refuses to ditch her wing-woman, even though she could get a mighty nice apartment out of the deal. Why?

I’ll say the wrong thing, to get it out of the way: Carol and Joan are straight-acting bisexuals, determined not to give up their ambition for that din-lit, twilight butch/femme bar scene that was still criminal, in the 60s. Joan doesn’t mind trading her body for security, and she’s sure she can outwit or distract any man in the civilized haunts she frequents. Marriage is not on her mind: Gaining enough experience and contacts to one day move to a ad firm that accepts women as account execs, is.

The best way a woman could step up in that world of networks is to work the rooms to death — to know every media buyer, every client, every designer, until she’s ready to use that mental Rolodex to her benefit. Joan’s in the perfect place to become a ground-breaking feminist, as most alpha females were. They could play both sides at once — mouthing cliches of female solidarity to keep the broads off her back, saying the soothing things in private meetings, to the guys, to keep them entranced.

MAD MEN mentioned Joan Crawford for a reason, folks: We’re seeing the equivalent of the Crawford of MY DANCING DAUGHTERS, getting ready to step up her game. And, who is to begrudge our Joan a plain, but presentable, female friend, always there for restorative vacations, the quiet dinner at home, the bracing doubles game at the club? Sooner or later, if this show lasts more than two seasons, we’ll see Joan have her own office with its own tasteful bar, I tell you what.

heard / typed

(identifying the psychiatrist on the telephone) / physiatrist
jealousies, activities / jealousy’s, activity’s (lots of apostrophe-s’ing last night)
Montclair / Mount Claire
Last one to Chumley’s / Last one to Chung Lee’s

names:
Holloway, Rumsen, Lyndon Johnson / Halloway, Rumsin, Lynden Johnson
Betty Draper’s nickname sounds like Birdie, though the captioner is torn, once using Berty and later Burty

What’d I say? / What I say?
Polka Dots looks like a lot of fun / Hope it does — it looks like a lot of fun
simple, to the point, colloquial / simple, to the point
no chute, no body / no shoot, no body
Nights Inn off the Taconic / Knights Inn off the Deconic
bridesmaid’s bridesmaid / bridesmaid bridesmaid
The nomination, as expected, is a lock / The nomination is expected as a lock
fan of the mollusk / fan of the mulusk
the stench of Brylcreem / the stench of Brill Cream
those long walks / those long locks
In what way? / The only way
eighth floor landing / eight floor landing

And over the end credits, Rosemary Clooney’s memory is tarnished:
Botch-a-me, I’ll botch-a-you / Bache me and bache you

That’s well less than half of this week’s crop.

You are right on about the deadly Cheeverism of the show. I just happened to be reading a bunch of his stories when I watched the first few episodes and I made the same remark to my wife. The same fatigue with the morose self-pity willfully mistaken for worldly enlightenment that set in after 9 or 10 stories is reaching full flower for me as this show slips from appointment TV status to a kind of running joke. The writing is amateurish and cloth-eared. The focus-grouped retro-references are particularly annoying. How long did they study the complete deck of Trivial Pursuit Boomer edition to be able to name check Lenny Bruce, Marshall McLuhan, and Nixon’s Caracas fiasco?

The hunting thing is ridiculous.

And that was a lame slap.