Television Series Reviews:  The last season of Mad Men.  Like Hangover III, so well illustrated by President Obama in a televised exchange earlier this year, the crew of Mad Men should have quit while they still held together any kind of quality writing team.  The script for the last season gives every appearance of having been written by grade school children (spawned from the flock of producers) who have been introduced to hallucinogenic drugs after being struck repeatedly on the head with baseball bats.  Don Draper is seeing dead people all over and having sex with a waitress in the alley of a restaurant.  The waitress simply knew it was right to have sex in the alley with him while she was on break.

Vapid stupidity and the ignoring of all vestiges of life’s realities escapes these damaged children’s Mad men Down the Toiletwritings.  Roger is given a George Armstrong Custer moustache.  Please.  And it just goes on and on into the dopiest vignettes, one after another, added together like domino pieces without the order.

In one fell swoop, the producers of this splendid drama show, displaying character revelations breathtaking in depth and feeling over the years, descend deep down into a ceramic bowl with the distant sound of a toilet flushing.  Skip this piece of whatever it is.

Save your Charmin for more worthy crap.


Better Call Saul.  This show came out of nowhere.  Actually it came out of the hugely popular drug adventure called Breaking Bad.  Saul was the lawyer.  A team of producers and writers went backward six years and revived earlier versions of some of the memorable characters.  As with Frasier, calved off from Cheers years ago, the split-off overcomes the parent show in popularity and quality.

BCS rocks!  It’s sweet!

Last week’s show, the one just before the season finale, was the ‘edge of your seat’ stuff not seen in a long time on the small screen.  And it was all character, honor and reality based.  The action is there but the show requires you to think to appreciate it.  Saul’s confrontation with his brother is the stuff great writers see on the screen, and then stand up and applaud aloud.  It’s better than they could have written and they know it, but it’s so good the work must be honored.  It’s a hundred and ten mile an hour fastball.  Watch this show, slow to develop to a certain point until it blows your sox off.  AMC Mondays, but the season’s over.  Try “On demand.”  Netflix has it too.


@Properties  is not coming to Lake Geneva?
Don’t believe a word of what you hear or see.  They’re “behind the lines” paratroopers have not landed at the small office next to the Olive Oil Company next to Potbellies on Cook Street.  Their giant SUV automobiles are not parked in Ruth, the Kite Lady’s parking lot on Wrigley.  Kinga answers the door if you go up to the secret place temporarily rented before they move into where Salami Sam’s was.  When our X-Files investigator asked her about any of it she simply said that her name was Kinga and that was all there was too it.  The realtors bustling behind her, whom could only have been realtors by the look of them, would not look up and Kinga wouldn’t let anybody in.  When asked about whether Kinga’s last name was Konga, she quietly closed the door in our investigator’s face.

The NSA version of real estate sales is about to descent upon an unsuspecting Lake Geneva like a silent cloud of locusts on a cornfield.

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