Grown Ups Talking

Look at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L68aKVAzwQ4 and check out a very silly sketch from MadTV. It features the Mac iPad, a computer driven sanitary pad with “vaginal firewall protection".

Fast-forward 5 years and yesterday Steve Jobs announced the launch of the Mac iPad, “Our most advanced technology in a magical and revolutionary product at an unbelievable price.” It’s a computer that’s a book reader and a gigantic ipod that you can twiddle around with and do a bunch of things.

But that’s not the point. What were they thinking? If you watch the MadTV piss-take you see the gals plug-in in their iPads (not a salubrious sight) and dance around in silhouette with their iPads strapped on.

Silly executives, they had no women in the room when they came up with that Stupid Name.

So what else is new? We are starting off the second decade of the new century and the women are still almost never in the room for this part of the discussion. Ads, books, movies, every day culture still weighs heavily towards aiming at men.

Take American Pie, or Superbad, or Youth in Revolt, or anything by Seth Rogen or Ben Stiller. They are all a guy’s eye view of life. Hollywood’s version of a movie from a women’s point of view is Sex in the City. Which I quite liked. But while shoes are nice, they are not exactly worthy of a religion.

The point is, sexism is alive and well and creating our culture. Ideas, strategies, and creativity, are largely the purview of men, who are usually white (see The Obama Campaign Team). Somebody needs to remind them that women buy and vote and watch things too. Ahem, over half the population?

So watch iPad on YouTube and have a giggle. And maybe this will convince the powers that be that celebrating diversity is not only humane, but actually good for the economy. What better argument can there be in this great country of ours?—Pomerol

After days of travel, days of sorting out computers and internet, days of finishing off belated design projects, I, Pomerol, am happy to announce the beginning of the summer, as it pertains to myself and the slipper.

France is an interesting country with interesting food and wine, and interesting bureaucratic spiderwebs. Fortunately the slipper has superior language skills and all of these problems were worked out with a minimum of Pomerol-esque involvement- though I had to maintain a sympathetic look on my face.

When in doubt, look sympathetic. I think this is what 7 years of training for psychologists amounts to. You spill your guts, then a someone looks at you understandingly. You start to realize how rare this is in your normal life, burst into tears, then hand over a large check.

I could do that! In fact most bartenders do. I guess they make it all in tips.

Anywaze, welcome to France, and here’s hoping that Ahamdinejad loses. –Pomerol

Heading Franceward tomorrow. Seems I’ve been organizing this trip for the last 3 months. Now that its finally upon me I’m very nervous. Impending middle-age does this to you. Ordinary life becomes difficult and dangerous. I was a wild child, i used to waltz around on beams 20 feet high, race across highways, binge-drink. Now a nice glass of white wine and an early night is pleasant.

I guess that’s what I like now, pleasantness. A morning in the sunshine, very pleasant. A light breakfast and a walk in the park, particularly pleasant. An economic meltdown and any children’s television show, not pleasant at all. One more Dick Cheney sighting, downright unpleasant.

So a summer of pleasantry looms. And you know the weird thing? Business is booming, in my small Pomerol-ish way. Pleasant manners get you places. Either that or everyone else is busy and I’m at the end of their list of graphic designers. See, the world of graphic design is filled with flesh-eating maniacs. Competition is cut-throat and the most blood-thirsty survive. So this recent flurry of work is very odd, but a pleasant surprise.

Think I’m sounding like a greeting card? You’re not wrong. But Chianti and I have been so fed up for so long that an occasional escape into pleasantvile can salve the psyche. Not to worry, I’ll be bonkers again soon enough.-Pomerol

Hot weather has finally hit our mercurial borough and I went out on the first leg of my annual round of not-jogging-very-far regimens. I’m feeling ridiculously proud of myself, though most of my sweating is due to the weather rather than any actual exertion. Hot to trot indeed!

Being not very employed at the moment like many many many of my fellow humans, we try to fill the day with economical time-killers. Jogging not very far but taking a long time over it is a good one.

Another one is lunch, providing it’s cheap and they don’t throw you out too soon. The slipper is an excellent luncher. In his day he has been known to make lunch last until dinner. Of course he learned the art on Fleet Street where lunch used to be not just the reason for being a journalist, but the means by which you were a journalist. Or so he claims. I’m not sure how much actual news was gathered at these marathons, but they certainly talked about it a lot.

Our leaders have also been setting the lunching pace. A couple of days ago the Republican Party, in the form of former presidential candidate Mitt Romney, House Minority Whip Eric Cantor, and, God help us, Jeb Bush (yes, he’s a brother), met in a pizzeria to lay out the “new” Republican goals and ideals before a munching press corps.

Not to be out-lunched, Obama and Biden (both of them!) flanked by top reporters and senior writers, stopped in at a trendy greasy spoon in Washington to get down with the people and wade in on some serious hamburgers. Biden was in hog heaven, Obama obviously hadn’t had a burger for a long time and stumbled a bit over the condiments. Yes we can, indeed!

And finally the presidents of both Afghanistan and Pakistan met for lunch hosted by Senator John Kerry. The Senator expressed support, the presidents extended their sweaty palms for large checks, and then they all had coffee and dessert.

So lunch is either a way to get through the day, make a point, fund a war. One of our more flexible meals.

Thankfully today I teach a class in the afternoon and may even skip lunch.

I’ll save it up for a rainy day. With dark times ahead, I’ll need all the lunches I can get.—Pomerol

A soft gray day with some free time before my afternoon class, I snuck off for a quiet browse in a local bookstore. It struck me, as I strolled through, how much my buying habits are influenced by my point of view, and in this case, my height. Being a fairly tall Wine, I can comfortably see the 4-5th shelves without craning up or stooping down. More average-sized vintages are probably more 3rd-4thers.

You wonder how the marketers, who already have sex, age, income, race, religion, education, nationality, voting record, eating habits, career, technology use, transportation use, and, of course, reading, all wrapped into neat little graphs to determine what kind of covers, subjects, advertising, and last, and probably least important, what kind of writer, could be used in a logical way to optimally place books in order to sell them.

Don’t kid yourself. We are talking about an entire industry devoted to promoting and selling books. The big tables at the front of your average Barnes & Noble are filled with titles whose publishers have paid Large amounts of money for the privilege.

Authors go on book tours, and if you are a work-from-home person, you might hear the same author bleating the same neat refrain to several different NPR hosts in a matter of hours, and that’s before you get to television and what remains of newspaper book sections.

As I, Pomerol, increasingly approach impending middle-age, it is simply easier to rely on height. The books that are stacked highest on the front tables receive my perusal, the higher shelves of authors and magazines are easiest for my gaze. A truly vintage Wine might shrink a little in old age and discover a whole new world of fascinating reading.

Point of view comes into so many areas of life. One radio interviewee had lost his job and he joined the army to go to Afghanistan with his wife’s blessing because it was a steady income with health insurance for the family.

Another was concerned she couldn’t afford those $5,000 children’s birthday parties anymore.

It all depends on your point of view.—Pomerol