Recently I've become a fan of the AMC series 'Mad Men', and while I enjoy the heck out of it, sometimes the experience of watching the show can be a little bit, well... maddening.

That's because the protagonist is a character called Don Draper, played by actor Jon Hamm, and the guy drives me nuts; although perhaps not for the reason that you might expect. Yes the dude's a two-timing man-tramp, and yes, you wonder why he'd risk screwing up a marriage to somebody as beautiful as January Jones, but none of that is what really irks me. After all, it would be irresponsible to proclaim with certainty that I would, if I had Mr. Hamm's chiseled features, remain the loyal husband that I've always been. I mean, I'd like to think I would be, but trying to imagine myself in those shoes is a little bit like asking a homeless man which foreign market he'd invest his first billion dollars in.

 

No, what bothers me about Don Draper is the way he cuts off conversations just when they're getting good. The whole first couple of seasons revolve around Draper's infidelities and his wife's suspicions of them, and you can't help but hope that Mrs. Draper will get wise and kick Donald's cheating ass to the curb. The writing is so subtle and the character interactions so realistically mundane, that whenever a serious exchange between the two opens up I find myself as excited as a schoolgirl. "Oh DAMN, she's going to confront him about his cheating, I KNOW IT!"

Yet alas, whenever this sort of thing seems imminent, Don Draper shoots a smoldering look at his wife, and then says something like "You're tired, why don't you go to bed" or "It's been a long day, fix me a drink" or even more unbelievably "I'm not having this conversation with you right now". To my continued amazement, more often than not Betty Draper will offer only a grimace, and the conversation ends right there.

Now, let me just point out that not one of these techniques — and believe me when I tell you I've tried them — go one inch towards stopping my wife from discussing something that's on her mind.  Maybe it would help if I looked a little bit more like Jon Hamm, but in general my lady is going to talk about whatever she feels like talking about. When it's all said and done, there's really not much say I have in the matter.

Yet Don Draper's ability to kill a conversation is a skill held by many people, and usually it's employed to avoid subjects far less controversial than infidelity. I don't know about you, but I've certainly been 'Drapered' a few times over the years. It usually happens just when I think a conversation is getting interesting, but then suddenly gets cut short; usually with a closing statement you can't do anything with. Often the killer is something like "Well, I guess that's just the way things go" or "Anyway, what can you do?" or "Oh well, it all depends on what you believe". Usually it's accompanied by a deep breath or by shifting in one's seat; the sort of body language that suggests a change of subject would be appreciated. It's all meant as a conversational stop-sign, a terminator of lively discourse, and there's little that frustrates me more.

Now, all this must sound like I'm bothering people with probing questions, or maybe that I'm too socially inept to understand when I'm behaving awkwardly. Of course those are both possibilities, but I'm at least hopeful that neither are the case. There's maybe 7 things in the world that I don't suck at, and I think conducting a considerate conversation is one of them. I'm more talking about people who seem to fear a conversation ever becoming 'real'. They're perfectly happy to have a dialogue in which both parties recite every joke from last night's episode of 30 Rock, but if things begin to get just a smidgen more philosophical than that, they shut down.

It seems as if there's only so far that many people are willing to go with casual chit-chat, and in my experience those limits aren't just imposed on strangers. Even in the discourse amongst close family relations, topics seem to center around subjects as mundane as current events and meteorological trends. It's like a quote I once saw on a corkboard that always stuck with me:

To me, there's no more satisfying form of human interaction, at least of those that can be conducted outside the bedroom, than a good conversation in a pub. To produce my ideal evening all I need is a couple of pints on a table, and a worthy chin-wagger across it. A decent talk provides the opportunity to express the thoughts that collect dust inside my head, while invigorating me with valued external stimulation. Sure, reading a book and writing a blog allow for some measure of the input/output that each of our brains desire, but nothing holds a candle to the instaneous feedback that a good talk with another person provides.

In high-school there were all sorts of opportunities for such heart-to-hearts. I mean, what else was there to do? According to my memory, the best times of my life weren't spent in a night club or at a party, but in the walks home with my friends afterwards. While some of those friends are still around and willing to engage in intimate conversation, the number of them continues to dwindle. As I discussed in Bad Boys, Mystery Men; there seems to be a heightened sense of privacy that grows in people when they leave adolescence. It's as if all personal information becomes more preciously guarded, and one's philosophical or ideological opinions get recategorized as top secret. I know a few people who I was once was very fond of, but who's conversational offerings have dwindled so severely in recent years that I find myself having lost a considerable degree of interest. Harsh maybe, but true nonetheless.

Of course, as with everything, I like to blame television for at least part of this phenomenon. And yes, I get the irony that I started off this rant talking about a television show. But give me a break - I watch TV maybe 30 nights in a year, and Betty Draper took up most of them this time around the sun. Oh sure, television doesn't necessarily contribute to our overactive sense of privacy, but it does rob of us of the conversational opportunities to train that tendency out of ourselves. Can you imagine a time before the idiot-box, when conversation was the only form of entertainment available? Can you imagine how much better people were at gabbing then? I often try to.

But perhaps there's an elephant in the room that I should address, lest I fail to examine the issue completely. Am I the freak here? Do I desire conversation at a level that's not normal? Or more controversially, am I just using this criticism in a thinly veiled effort to display my intellectual superiority over those I deem to be poor conversationalists?

I certainly hope not, and here's why I don't think that's the case. While I can't deny that I enjoy talking to someone who's interested in the same nerdery that I am, it's certainly not a prerequisite for me enjoying a chat. Some of the best conversations I've ever had have been with people who just wanted to discuss something deeply important to them. Conversations centering around lost love, fears about the future, or even just affection for one's children; none of which necessarily stimulate the intellect, are all excellent talk-fodder to me. That's because in those moments one really gets a chance to know another person. Their most naked concerns are revealed, and by their choice to discuss it with you, a true token of trust is exchanged. 

I'm flattered when somebody trusts me enough to tell me something real about themselves, and I try to do my very best to deserve the honour. I think it's the same for almost everyone.  If a person deems you worthy of sharing an embarrassing bit of truth about themselves, you'll do your very best to make them feel comfortable about it. That's actually a deceptively easy thing to do, because each and every one of us harbour truths that we wouldn't put on a resume. It's absolutely normal to be abnormal, and most of us would like to be the kind of people one can admit those nuggets of goodness to.

You see, the universe is majestic, but indifferent; built by powerful forces that do not care whether or not they're understood. Lost somewhere in all that cold and inconsiderate vastness, clung to a speck of rock, are a few billion human beings. Us humans are different from the surrounding matter, in that we wonder, hope, reason, and feel. We are curious not just about the stars but about our own histories and especially our destinies. We're curious about what we're really worth and why we even bother.

We have many questions for our universe, but it can't talk back to us.  While we can investigate our world as individuals, the only method we have to validate our conclusions is to compare them with those of our peers; to seek out the only other thinking beings in all the expansive darkness, and through our collective efforts, shine a little light.

In short, if we're not using our time on this planet to get to know each other, then what are we doing?

Is there a point to this article? Am I suggesting some course of action that people should take for the sole benefit of making them more interesting to me? I suppose not, and maybe I'm just lamenting about the fact that unless you're my wife or a dear friend from highschool, both you and I will die without ever having really known each other. Maybe after reading this blog you'll find yourself increasingly happy about that arrangement, but I'm not. We have exactly one way of being understood for who we are, and that's through conversing with the other sentient beings around us. If we don't bounce our world-views off of other people, we're a little bit like Tarzan; raised amongst other living things and able to communicate on a rudimentary level, but forever denied the the joy of a really intimate intellectual connection.

So, for goodness sakes, turn off the television tonight, go to the pub, and lose yourself in a good chat. They have beer there, so it'll be easier than you might think. In the process you may have a chance to talk about what really moves you, and you just may learn something about another person. At the very least, you'll be reminded that you're alive.