Basket of Kisses

I just got home from two days in Manhattan. It’s around midnight on Saturday night and I am exhausted and full, in many ways.

Over dinner in the city I flashed on a piece of a dream I had somewhere over the last few nights. I read that the actor playing Ken was cut for next season. In the dream I couldn’t remember his name (Aaron Staton), but I was devastated. I think I was looking at something like a script or some other ‘inside’ document where you could see he’d been cut. And we were terribly sad about it.

‘We’ were terribly sad about it.

Not Deborah-and-I ‘we’, but like, we the audience, we the cast and crew and Matt Weiner and all of the production team and the Janet Maslins and Stuart Elliotts and Joe Buas and genius commenters and AMC fucking TV themselves. And it was ‘we’ all together, not we over here and them out there. It was like the group hug in the finale of the Mary Tyler Moore show.

I fully recognize that I need to get a life. But it is kind of interesting to watch how this is all processing in my brain. I am not even going to give any effort to figuring out what else this loss (and loss of control) might possibly be representative of in my life. Nope.

Anyway, whatever. That was my dream. Not as epic and iconic as Deborah’s, but just as fucked up.