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Mad Men is about New York—about commerce's life-giving artery, Madison Avenue, that slices through it, and the capillaries and venous networks that spring off of it. It is about the hustle and the self-made myths of the city that never sleeps. But since the very beginning, California has loomed over the show like a smiling threat. California is Anna Draper. California is where Don turned into Don. It is where he has longed to expand his business since the beginning. It is where he nabbed Megan, and it is where he takes his kids to be closest to them. (It is, tellingly, where Betty would never go.) It has been an occasional punchline (think of Danny Strong in a headband and bellsleeves, or double-breasted Roger with convertible hair) but for Don, our hero and antihero, it has always held the promise of new beginnings. (And topless pool parties.)

And so in "Time Zones," we criss-cross coasts and cultures, examining the refracted bits of our fallen Sterling Cooper. The best and funniest pair of contrasting scenes: expats Pete and Don, holed up in an L.A. greasy spoon, ordering "the Brooklyn Avenue"—pastrami and coleslaw, washed down with coffee—while kvetching about office gossip, bemoaning the state of West Coast bagels, and indulging in that great New York pastime, detailed dissection of apartment size. Pete's bloated balding is now in check, and he's as sun-crisped as his toasted rye, but you can't take the New York out of the New Yorker. Back in actual Manhattan, Margaret takes Roger to brunch at the Plaza's Palm Court, white-gloved oasis of East Coast money, in order to have a totally chill hippie-off over pressed juices. (Okay, Bloody Marys, but still.) Both are inexplicably tanned, Roger reeks of "incense" and threesomes, and Margaret appears to have recently read 1969's version of The Secret. They play "I forgive you" tennis for a while. They are one with love. Then they get eggs.

That we catch Roger and Pete out to lunch, and barely beyond, is not an accident. SC&P is officially that—D-less—as confirmed by Joan and printed on new mugs. The remaining leadership is scattered like dandelion fuzz between Detroit, L.A., and New York, but the prevailing vibe is one of rudderlessness. Roger is off…entertaining. Bert is MIA. Cutler is seeing about some inauguration tickets. Ken is running on Tums. We see a recessive glimmer of Ted Chaough, all hangdog-faced on visit from L.A., which he hates. The only ec we spend any real time with is Don's replacement, the agency's New York creative chief, Lou.

Hooboy. Lou, you guys. Where to start? His reading glasses droop from a tired string. His mohair cardigan is a cloudy gray-blue so strongly savoring of Mr. Rogers, we kept waiting for him to pop off his brogues. His spends his weekends chopping firewood, possibly chasing a hoop with a stick on certain holidays. He is in every way Don's opposite: a punctual, perfunctory, wholly condescending guy who makes racially awkward comments (the creative team and Dawn stops in its tracks after Lou calls them "Gladys Knight and the Pips"), has formal minutes taken and read back to him in meetings, and professes himself "immune" to Peggy's hustle, or any hustle, really. (Speaking of his choice of "immune," can we talk about the way he talks? Like a pediatrician who revels in his job a little too much? "Yes, nurse," close the door; everybody "ready for your routine checkup? Open your mouth and say ah." Can we get ten CCs of shuttheheckup, or what?)