Did you walk to work this morning with an extra wiggle in your hips and mangled foreign-language lyrics in your head? I sure did.
My first reaction to last night’s Mad Men premiere was a forehead slap and a gag reflex. Harry needs to get the boot right quick, as does pervy perv Lane Price. I don’t pay out the wazoo for premium cable just to go to bed on Sunday nights with a bad case of the heeby jeebies.
But I’ve got to hand it to that minxy Canadian cosmetic dentistry candidate Megan. Comment dit-on BALLZ? I haven’t seen amateur musical stylings like this on primetime television since Katie Holmes belted “On My Own” on Dawson’s Creek like 76 years ago.
Back in college, I spent most of my time drinking warm Vodka mixed with Snapple out of previously used Solo cups and/or shotgunning Frescas. It was a confusing time.
But once in a while, I’d put on my special occasion bathrobe (the one not covered in bronzer and smudged mascara) and sip Yellowtail while grooving to an iTunes playlist called “Cocktails.” I would wriggle around kind of like Megan, but also kind of like a goldfish in one of those plastic baggies they come in from the pet store/ local carnival.
In short, it was the Zooby Zoo scene on meth.
Anywhowho, Megan’s bravura turn as a 60s lounge singer last night reminded me just how satisfying French lyrics and a smooth jazz bass line can be. Hit it Eartha!