During the first couple seasons of Mad Men, I didn’t really think the show lived up to the hype. I love the show and we never miss an episode in my household, but with shows like Six Feet Under and The Sopranos so often being left at the Emmy altar, I wondered if Mad Men really deserved all the accolades.

After season three, I now wonder if the accolades can ever live up to the insane quality of the show. My wife insisted, about midway through the season finale, that I publicly apologize to the show for having called it overrated in the past. I apologize (but I am, in part, thinking about the January Jones GQ cover as I do it).

Over at Skeptical Hypochondriac, I mull over a few recent findings from a Pew/Annenberg study on how we’re being impacted by the rise of social networks.

For many months, I’ve been thinking, Damn, my wife’s underarm cleanser container looks way too much like a toothpaste dispenser. And this morning, that similarity took its toll. Yuck. Not recommended.

Don’t get me wrong here. I enjoy looking at cover shots of January Jones and Shakira as much as the next guy. But are we going a little too far with the photoshop work on these images? Looks like the artist who did these two covers graduated from the same program. The use of light down the cleavage, shading on the main breast and then another fading to white along the dark clothing is signature work. Needless to say, the Shakira artist poured about 18 tubes of Starbucks Via into a single cup of hot water before going to work on the mane.

On one hand I’m trying to make a serious point about the body images that we all (especially women) are expected to emulate even though they are nearly impossible in real life. On the other hand, I sort of wanted and excuse to search for, download and photoshop these images myself.

Let the record show that the above proves both hands were busy with fairly respectable activities throughout.

Our neighborhood in San Francisco is famous for massive Halloween crowds and this year was no exception. We (usually at least two of us) have to site at the bottom our steps where we pass out dual-fisted handfuls of candy. Closing the door between trick or treaters would be impossible.

We had a burrito truck parked in our neighborhood.

So many people come from so many different parts of town, I half-expected to see some kids dressed as Muni transfers.

How serious is our hood when it comes to getting into the spirit? We had four carved pumpkins, a massive witch hanging from our front door and glowsticks lining our front steps. As the evening got underway, one of the neighbor’s kids walked over, took a look at our entryway and quite seriously asked, “How come you guys don’t celebrate Halloween?”

About 10pm we usually get our last few groups of teen stragglers. Who do you have less respect for: Teens who egg and toilet paper your house before greeting you at the door with a line of B.A.s, or teens who dress up and want a piece of candy?

One year during college, my friend Dave went out for Halloween dressed as me (I was a semi-known person on the Berkeley campus known as the Mic Man). One of the people who recognized the outfit said are you the Mic Man? When my friend replied that he was, the guy said, “Wow, you normally look a lot fatter.”

My three year-old son was dressed as a skeleton and helped me pass out candy for part of the night. At one point, a little girl (a year or two his senior) came walking up our steps. She was also dressed as a skeleton. My son blushed. He stood there staring at skeleton-girl for at least twenty seconds. Then he started piling candy into her bag. One handful after the other, never averting his gaze. Player play.

I like to keep my costumes simple. For the past few years, I’ve gone as the Rainbow Man with the John 3:16 sign who was at all the sporting events in the 70s and 80s (Tho, since I’m Jewish, my sign says Jacob). Hopefully my career doing this ends better than his did.

My three year old son broke his late night record by staying up until 10:30pm. When I finally put him to bed, still in his skeleton suit, his last words of the night were, “Dada, is it Thanksgiving now?”