Apparently I’ve a bit of a tendency to obsess. It started quite innocently with a doll named Cliona, it then escalated to trapping the tooth fairy, a few years later it was acting out scenes in Buffy before I finally went on to the harder stuff; gay men, corsets, and drugs. And yes, there is a possibility I’m mixing myself up with Liza Minnelli in this nostalgic brainwrong, but to be fair she is another one of my not-so-secret obsessions.
Anywho, like every self-respecting DCU graduate, I am now wholly obsessed with box-sets. I go to Laser more times a week than I have hot showers, in fact me and Laser-dude (that is his full name) have this wink-and-a-nod thing we do every time we overhear some idiot American dude saying Synecdoche wasn’t as good as he expected it to be (okay that happened once). The past three, possibly four years have been riddled with box-set fests, so much so that I have trouble remembering certain milestones in my life without stemming them in a season (and by that I don’t mean spring/summer).
You may not have seen my puke-up-a-pelvic-bone-with-excitement post about Boardwalk Empire a few weeks ago, if not, start your nerd lessons here. Mad Men will be my new obsession. And so, I appreciate Rolling Stone Magazine feeding it.
The attention to detail, from conversational idiom to collar-point widths, is evident in every episode. The prop team blows you away. There are stacks of old Look magazines, genuine expense-report sheets and receipts from a business trip (hotel: $2.80; cab to restaurant: $1.12; dinner: $19.44).
Check the entire feature here.