Where Have You Gone Barbie?

Until recently I had been blissfully unaware of the fact that Mattel had released a Barbie doll that comes replete with tattoos. I was at the toy store with my daughter when I noticed her eyes widen as she excitedly plucked a tatted up Barbie from the shelf. I’ve never been a fan of these dolls and at the risk of sounding like a fuddy-duddy, I feel that they send the wrong message to kids. Some might argue that boys’ action figurines do the same thing. That may be true say for two observations:
1. Boys’ action toys bear an aesthetic that matches their job description. You can make a case that if you were an elite marine, you’d have abs like G.I. Joe too. Have you seen real Navy Seals? They don’t look that dissimilar to the action figurine versions of themselves. Conversely, it’s tough to find a real life Barbie Doll who didn’t pay a small fortune for her disproportionate proportions. Besides, what is Barbie’s profession anyway? I know she comes in a variety of themes, but these seem so arbitrary and aimed at manufacturing diversity where none really exists.
2. Boys don’t focus on their toys’ aesthetics as much as girls. Sure, they love the parts that shoot, squirt and light up, but they’re not sitting quietly in the corner of a room trying to brush the Hulk’s plastic hair. Or debating which outfit is preferable for a Power Ranger to be shot in.
I didn’t think Barbie could slip any further on my approval rating until my kid presented me with what appeared to be “Meth-Head Barbie”—complete with tats, streaked unkempt hair and distressed clothing (apparently purchased at a miniature hooker’s yard sale).
If Mattel’s objective is to introduce our kids to an updated more “realistic” Barbie, can G.I. Joe be far behind? I can see it now:
Introducing Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder G.I. Joe
Now with scars that you can’t see!
Warning: Fragile
This combat-seasoned G.I. Joe comes complete with a kung fu grip, debilitating flashbacks and repetitive night terrors.
Your children will have hours of fun as they help a real American hero reintegrate into civilian life and navigate an indifferent health care system in search of treatment for his substance abuse, occupational instability and generalized anxiety.
Needless to say, my daughter didn’t get the Barbie doll—nor did she seem especially thankful for her new 500-piece puzzle.

Thank You Steve Jobs

The first porno movie I ever saw was on a Macintosh SE/30. Actually, it was less “movie” and more 5 looping seconds depicting a buxom woman jiggling her pendulous breasts at 10 frames per second. It was 1989 and pornographic gifs had arrived, relegating my modest collection of Playboy magazines to ugly stepchild status. I was twelve years old and though I couldn’t comprehend the transformative effect Apple’s technology would have on my life, the reaction it stirred in my trousers instantly made me a loyal advocate of the brand.

Fast forward a decade and after completing my business degree in 2000, I came to the realization that I was not cut out for some career mandating neckties and penny loafers. I considered myself more creative than that. Then again, I wasn’t about to commit to the life of a struggling artist and rely on my mother to wash my clothes, feed me and provide me a modest weekly allowance—in spite of her willingness to do so. I had to find a career that could marry my fierce desire to show off my creative chops while allowing me to live comfortably (and independently). That’s when the idea of advertising popped into my head. More precisely, it’s when the 1984 Apple commercial popped into my head. It was a single minute of film that had seared itself into my memory and inspired me to frequently visit bookstores and leaf through large heavy advertising award books in search of similar brilliance. That rarely emerged. I knew just about everything there was to know about the 1984 spot. I could tell you without a moment’s hesitation that it was conceived by Steve Hayden, Brent Thomas and Lee Clow at Chiat/Day, produced by Fairbanks Films in New York, and directed by Ridley Scott. I could tell you that its unforgettable images were an allusion to George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four, and that the unnamed heroine featured in the commercial represented Macintosh as a means of saving humanity from "conformity". What’s more, I could (and still can) tell you that the 1984 ad played a big part in my decision to pursue a career in advertising. A career that hasn’t reached its apex yet, but still allows me to send my three children to private Jewish day schools, put food on the table and generally lead a perfectly contented lifestyle.

Last night at 7:42pm, prime time TV was interrupted to announce the death of Apple CEO, Steve Jobs. Jobs became a household name – not just because we carry around his legacy in our pockets and handbags – but because he changed the way we live our daily lives. Chances are nearly everyone reading this has at least one product created by Apple, or has an iTunes account, or has seen at least one Pixar film. 

As an ad guy, I know most brands conduct copious amounts of market research to learn what their customers immediate needs are. That’s expected. It’s knowing what they’ll need tomorrow (and the day after that) that’s the real challenge – and that’s where Jobs excelled. He had a clear vision of the future before any of us knew what we needed. It’s the vision I will miss the most. I don’t know what new technology I will be craving five years from now, but I am certain Steve Jobs did.

When Justice Is Garbage

Growing up in Australia, I vividly recall learning about the formation of the country. That during the late 18th and 19th centuries, large numbers of convicts were transported to the various Australian penal colonies by the Brits—mainly to alleviate pressure on their own overburdened correctional facilities. I remember stories of convicts who were shipped to Australia for little more than stealing a loaf of bread. It didn’t seem to matter that poverty was prevalent in 19th-century Britain and stealing food, in many cases, was the only means of survival. Over-strained correctional facilities or not, the punishments being doled out seemed horrendously incongruous with the crimes they were addressing. Imagine for a moment, how a man living in London during the 19^th century must have felt after being forcibly separated from his loved ones and sent to rot in a jail roughly 9,000 miles away—all because he was trying to feed his family at a time when food, employment and social justice were in short supply. Now imagine if you will, being pulled over by a New York City police officer because you were “caught” riding your bicycle [slowly] on the sidewalk. You respectfully point out to the officer that the bike path is littered with potholes, construction and orange cones, leaving the sidewalk as the only feasible path. You assure him that you’ll return to the bike lane as soon as its obstructions no longer threaten your own safety. Then you realize that you are pleading to a brick wall—albeit with a uniform and gun. Some days later you arrive at community court to state your case, confident that common sense will prevail, yet once again, your arguments fall on deaf ears. You’re told that for your “serious infraction” you’ll be required to don a brightly colored jumpsuit with the words “Midtown Community Court” emblazoned across the back, walk through Times Square for seven hours sweeping up trash and dumping the piles of putrid waste into an oversized garbage can on wheels [which incidentally sounds like the engine of a jalopy as it’s being dragged across the concrete, attracting irritated looks from passers-by.] Sure, it’s no penal colony half way across the world, but it is a similarly warped application of the justice system.

Last week I found myself in the company of a young gentleman convicted of shoplifting, a portly, toothless woman found guilty of drug possession, two turnstile jumpers, a pickpocket and a bar room brawler. We were all reporting for duty at The Times Square Alliance—a government funded sanitation service responsible for keeping the area as tidy as humanly possible [a tall order indeed]. My supervisor was Keith, a burly middle-aged man who’d recently completed a seven-year prison sentence for dealing crack. Keith spoke like a journeyman boxer who had taken too many clean shots to the head. I struggled to decipher much of what he was saying but I assume it had something to do with picking up trash. Keith didn’t seem to notice the look of utter confusion plastered across my face every time he opened his mouth, so I simply got to work and prayed for time to pass quickly. It didn’t. In fact those seven hours spent cleaning trash and hiding my face beneath the large brim of my baseball cap, were the longest of my life. At the conclusion of my community service I was left feeling just as confused as I had been all those months ago when I heard the words, “Driver, get off your bike” booming through a patrol car speaker. A warning would have sufficed. A ticket would have been excessive. Community service was just absurd. I imagined the ghosts of my convict ancestry looking down upon me and remarking, “I know how you feel mate.”

It’s Time To Bring Back Home Ec

There’s a hilarious scene (one of many) in the film Superbad, in which the character Seth says to his Home Ec teacher, “Look, we all know Home Ec is a joke - no offense - it's just that everyone takes this class to get an A, and it's bullshit.” It’s hard to argue with Seth, and I recall feeling the same way when I was a high-school student and forced to seamlessly transition from learning about the French Revolution to baking chocolate chip cookies. But with more than half of all adults and more than a third of all children being overweight or obese, perhaps we ought to reconsider Home Ec as something more than just bland food, bad sewing and self-righteous fussiness. Consider the program’s original premise — that producing good, nutritious food is profoundly important and takes study and practice. Seems downright reasonable, no? And in light of the failed efforts made by many cities and states to tax junk food or to ban the use of food stamps to buy soda, Home Ec may just be the weapon beneath our noses to effectively fight skyrocketing rates of heart disease and diabetes. Indeed, in the early 20th century, home economics was a serious subject. When few understood germ theory and almost no one had heard of vitamins, home economics classes offered vital information about washing hands regularly, eating fruits and vegetables and not feeding coffee to babies, among other lessons. Eventually, however, tenets about health and hygiene became so thoroughly popularized that they came to seem like common sense. Today we remember only the stereotypes about home economics, while forgetting that many Americans still don’t know how to cook, or that consuming vast amounts of highly processed foods made cheaply outside the home only adds to the enormous health crisis on our hands. In the midst of contracting school budgets and test-oriented curricula, the idea of reviving home economics as part of a broad offensive against obesity might sound outlandish, but teaching cooking — real cooking — could help address a host of problems facing Americans today. At the very least, it gives kids the tools they need to objectively decide whether or not Ronald McDonald has their best interests at heart.

I Survived The Great Earthquake

The first thing that went through my mind during Tuesday’s earthquake was “Man, I don't remember being this bad at Jenga.” For a moment I forgot I was at work and thought the earthquake might be my asshole neighbor upstairs. Then I realized it was God (so yeh, I was kind of right). The devastation was unbearable as I watched the cup of water on my desk tremble, spilling liquid onto my keyboard. To be honest, the water only hit the F12 key. As I write this, I have no idea if that key is permanently damaged, mainly because I don’t know what F12 does, or what any of those “F” keys do for that matter—but I digress. Somewhere between my impressive Jenga tower collapsing and being forced to evacuate the building where I work, I thought the Rapture had arrived and that we were all going to die. I seized the opportunity to play out one of my workplace fantasies and dropped a deuce on my boss’ desk. Turns out, that was a bad idea (incidentally, do you know if anyone is hiring?) I considered it the worst Rapture ever before being informed that it was, in fact, an earthquake. Prior to Tuesday, I thought earthquakes were the sole domain of Los Angeles. I guess there is now officially nothing special about L.A. Anyway, as we stood outside waiting to be told whether or not it was safe to return to our offices, I was suddenly overcome with the urge to shop. Remembering the wisdom of former President Bush, I though “If we don't go back to buying things soon, the earthquakes win.” An hour later I was back at my desk thinking Japan must be laughing its ass off.

Where Have All The Brave Rabbis Gone?

In light of Leiby Kletzky’s murder I have a question: Where have all the brave Rabbis gone? The community leaders willing to stand before the media circus and demand the maximum possible punishment for Levi Aron? The Rabbis anxious to unapologetically declare to anyone willing to listen how unfortunate it is that we cannot legislate that this piece of human garbage suffer the same fate that he dealt to a defenseless little boy? Perhaps I’ve simply missed these venomous reactions and harsh condemnations in the plethora of web-based content in circulation, but I suspect it’s more likely because it doesn’t exist—and that’s a grave shame. Instead, we’re left with sheepish clichés like that of one Lincoln Square Synagogue Rabbi who wrote, “There are no words. There are only tears.” Really? No words? This is precisely the time for words. Harsh, unremorseful and ardently delivered words at that. Contrary to the sentiments of most community leaders, words and tears are not mutually exclusive. Eulogies and collective sadness should not trump expressions of disgust and outrage aimed squarely at a self-confessed child predator and murderer—regardless of him being a “fellow Jew”. What an empty phrase that is, “fellow Jew”. I for one refuse to curb an ounce of my disgust simply because of the coincidental fact that Mr. Aron and I were both born to Jewish mothers. If religion is indeed the cause for such mitigated rage than it serves to validate the atheists who contend that theology is a neurological disorder. It would certainly explain the bizarre and dangerous position held by Rabbi Shmuel Kamentizky, vice-president of the Supreme Council of Rabbinic Sages, who advocates banning ultra-Orthodox Jews from reporting child sexual abuse to police. To reinforce this absurd dictate, Kamentizky seems comfortable with victims and witnesses being threatened, forcing them to remain silent or report abuse to rabbis only, not the police. This manipulation of “Torah values” and ignorance to the irreparable damage caused by poisonous members of Jewish communities must stop—full stop. Silence regarding this matter is reprehensible as is any leniency afforded to these monsters simply because they look the part or grew up in the same close-knit communities they would later turn on.

Soon after his capture Levi Aron predictably declared that he “hears voices”. It's a pity that one of those voices isn’t from a high profile rabbi telling him that death would be too kind a punishment for his sins.

A Bronx Tale

I’ve lived in New York for almost a decade yet never visited the Bronx Zoo. Central Park Zoo, roughly 25 minutes from my home, was the furthest I had trekked with my kids to observe a depressed polar bear and a couple of sea lions with Tourett Syndrome. On July 4^th weekend, my wife and I finally decided to take our three children to the Bronx and see what all the fuss was about. It was a blisteringly hot day, which in Zoo terms means an overpoweringly stinky day too. At first, the mélange of putrid odors emitted by the animals served to help us as we simply followed our noses from the bus stop where we’d been dropped off. As the stink intensified, we knew we were close until voilà—we arrived. The noxious air combined with the suffocating heat evaporated my excitement for visiting the Congo Gorilla Forrest—or any other habitat for that matter. It took every bit of willpower and discipline just to keep down the hotdog I had devoured moments earlier. But having gone through the upheaval of packing diapers bags, backpacks and schlepping a bulky double-stroller through the sweltering subway, and repeating the process for the subsequent bus ride, there was no turning back now. In spite of my white t-shirt now soaked in sweat and revealing the precise location and aesthetics of my nipples, we pressed on. Of course it was important not to openly acknowledge the pungent smell from fear that my kids would start incessantly complaining. So I suffered in silence, even when my daughter declared, “Daddy, it’s so smelly”, to which I responded, “Is it? I hadn’t noticed” (I imagine she could smell my bullshit too.) After a full day touring the impressive grounds and exhibits it was easy to see how the zoo had garnered its world-famous reputation. However, that day, the funky air would eclipse any memories of leaping lemurs, chest-pounding gorillas, or butterfly gardens. As if the animals weren’t contributing enough to the air quality, my infant son soiled his diaper in diarrhea moments before we exited the zoo. When I relayed my experience to an ardent fan of the zoo (who also happens to be a great fan of fine art), he suggested that I was being petty. In turn, I suggested that he probably wouldn’t have appreciated his recent trip to the Louvre if he were forced to view the Mona Lisa while knee-deep in shit. As for the Bronx Zoo, a December return may help erase from my memory what hundreds of animals and 100 degrees seared in.

This Week In Absurd Stock Photography: Old People Using Computers.

Welcome to the first installment of Absurd Stock Photography. Not sure what stock photography is? Well, allow me to explain: It’s a comprehensive library of photographs usually used by advertisers without the time or cash to orchestrate a commercial photo shoot. Instead, they find existing photos that they can attach to their products and services. There are plenty of stock websites like Gettyimages, Corbis and Istockphoto—to name a few. Stock images are used all over the place—print ads, websites, banners and even T.V. The problem is, these pictures weren’t shot with any particular idea in mind, so they tend to be horribly generic—and in many cases, absurd. And when you spend your days combing through copious amounts of crappy advertising (the way I do), you can actually see patterns emerging in the stock imagery universe. This blog series is dedicated to demonstrating some of those patterns.

Lets start with “old people using computers”. If you type “old people” and “computers” into any stock library search field, you’ll find thousands of images. The first thing you’ll probably notice is that many of the old people in the photos look positively delighted. This of course, is completely unrealistic as most old people fear technology even more than they fear Jack Kevorkian. Anyway, here’s a sample of stock photography used by some pretty high-profile advertisers (who shall remain anonymous). I’ve removed the adspeak that originally accompanied these images and replaced it with my own captions.

No Officer. I Didn’t Realize It Was Illegal To Ride On The Pavement.

What’s that officer? Get off my bicycle? O.K. What seems to be the problem? No I didn’t realize it was illegal to ride on the pavement. But I was going very slowly and as you can see, there’s construction happening all along this road and the bike lane is completely obstructed. You don’t care, it's still illegal? I understand, but you can imagine how dangerous it'd be to try and ride around all those potholes and orange cones right? It’s not your problem? Good point sir. Wow, riding on the pavement must really be a serious issue. I guess you must have seen a lot of folks bowled over by cyclists huh? No? You never saw one? Well I’m sure the people who make these rules know what they’re doing. After all, you pulled me over while I was riding alongside that elderly woman in the motorized wheelchair, instead of, say, ticketing that guy who is double parked across the street—or that gentleman over there, treating that ATM like it’s a urinal. Show you my license? Sure. Here you go. That’s correct, my name is Dov. Nope, it’s not a spelling mistake. That’s really my name. What kind of name is it? Jewish actually. People often ask me about it. It means bear in Hebrew… Shut my mouth? No problem. Not to be pushy or anything, but roughly how long will this take, because I have to get home to my kids before the nanny leaves...It’ll take as long as it takes? I see. Well, that sounds completely reasonable. You can’t rush these kinds of things I suppose, although I am a little concerned about my kids being left home alone. Especially my toddler who’s cleverly figured out how to remove the protective covers on our electrical outlets and place his grubby little fingers in harm’s way…You don’t care? That makes sense. You seem to have that whole cool irreverent thing going on, what with all those tattoos. I'm particularly fond of that skull on your neck. I was always a big fan of Skeletor from the He-Man series…No officer, I’m not being a smartass, I was just noticing your…O.K I’ll shut my damn pie hole. So this is a summons you’re handing me? Is there a fine involved? You have no fucking idea? I take it I’m the first person you’ve issued one of these things to. I’m not? You’ve given out hundreds of these? And you still don’t know if it carries a fine? No, I’m not insulting your intelligence at all sir. I just assumed that…Of course I’ll keep my fucking mouth shut. But if I may, can I appeal the summons and if so, how do I go about…Yes, I know you saw me riding on the pavement. I’m not denying it sir. But as I explained earlier, the road is undergoing construction and…You don't give a crap? Right. You mentioned that earlier. What’s that officer? Why yes, that is a folding bike I’m riding. No, I don’t have a vagina. It’s actually quite convenient because I can simply fold it up and bring it into my office…What’s that? Tell somebody who gives a shit? Totally understand. Well, I imagine there are a bunch of pavement-riding cyclists with an unwelcome surprise coming their way huh?...I’ll take your driving away as a yes.

Go Find Your Own Impairment

You should never hit a person wearing glasses. Unless of course, that person is wearing a pair of those clear-lens nonprescription fashion-glasses that they don't really need to wear. Then if the mood takes you, feel free to stroll right up to them and plant one right in their independent thinking, counter-culture, non-vision impaired retro-faces.

Unfortunately, donning a pair of fake-glasses seems to be all the craze at the moment, with non-myopic folks walking round in chunky hipster frames that they find enjoyable to wear in spite of the fact that they have no practical use. On behalf of all the genuinely myopic folk, I say NO YOU CANNOT ADOPT THIS LOOK ON A WHIM‑ESPECIALLY WITHOUT HAVING ENDURED THE ANGUISH OF A BESPECTACLED LIFE. The only people who should be allowed to hop on the four-eyed bandwagon are those who have to squint first to confirm it is indeed a bandwagon coming and not, say, a motorized wheelchair. And speaking of wheelchairs, I believe these geek-chic wannabes would proudly show up at nightclubs buckled into a thought-controlled wheelchair because ''that Stephen Hawking dude sure seems to pull a lotta chicks''. Seriously, this shortsighted attempt at shortsightedness has got to stop.

You can’t just fake being visually impaired. You have to have endured years of torturous schoolyard taunts like, “Those glasses are so thick I bet you can see into the future”. You have to have suffered the embarrassment of wearing goggles over your glasses during swimming carnivals. You have to have endured the tragic yet comical trauma of trying to catch a girl’s attention by making sexy-eyes through -5.5 corrective lenses, like some horny cave beetle. You have to have weathered the humiliating shame of wearing glasses during sex, killing the vibe by having to stop every two minutes to wipe condensation off the lenses with a pillow cover. You have to have endured the frustration of finally taking your glasses off during sex and not knowing what the hell you're touching or grabbing—only to eventually discover you’ve been making out with a lamp for 20 minutes. You have to have dealt with the annoyance of buying glasses that don’t suit you because you obviously weren’t wearing your glasses while you were trying on the new pair.

If you haven't endured any of these challenges, then remove those big lens-less black Wayfarers immediately and go find your own impairment to leech off!