luca eli fierro-feinstein

born 1:56AM, 5/22
7 lbs. 10 oz.
20 inches

we are starbucks

You don’t have to work in advertising to spot a vapid, unimaginative campaign, but it does make one all the more glaring. Such is the case with Starbucks’ shameless new "I am Starbucks" PR fluff-piece - a campaign only eclipsed in hackiness and unoriginality by the "How do you [name of product]?" campaign (as evidenced here).

Is Starbucks really fooling anyone? Seriously, what’s the point? As a means of helping them better understand (and market to) their customer, I offer the following:

"I am an unemployed freelance designer. I've checked my email 78 times today. I'm on my third cup of coffee. I am Starbucks."

"I'm homeless. It's warm in here. I am Starbucks."

"I had to go to the bathroom. I am Starbucks."

"I’m reading a well-reviewed contemporary novel, trying to look hip. I’m wearing a beret to hide my bald spot. Hopefully one of these young women will talk to me. I am Starbucks."

"I know I’m supposed to boycott large corporations and all, but regular coffee just isn’t strong enough anymore. I am Starbucks."

"This is what passes for culture in my suburb. I am Starbucks."

reality

A few months ago, Julia and I caught the end of the season finale of Top Chef while she answered email and I embarked on the 386-step process of assembling an Ikea bureau. When it was over, we started bemoaning the fact that the wrong chef won, before stopping to laugh at ourselves. Yes, even two cynics like us are still susceptible to the manipulation of reality TV editing and production.

It’s one thing to formulate an opinion based on someone’s performance (American Idol, America’s Next Top Model), but it’s another to do so through the editing of a few judges’ opinions about food you cannot taste. Plus we had seen maybe two or three episodes the entire season. But it didn’t matter – we were just so sure that Sam was let go too early and that Ilan didn’t even deserve to be in the finals.

Neither one of us are reality TV junkies, but we’ve each had our brief periods of obsession. Julia became so infatuated with one season of America’s Next Top Model that I feared she might burn our apartment down in a rage if her favorite contestant lost (fortunately Yoanna won). And I have religiously watched every episode of The Ultimate Fighter – the only reality show where the contestants are actually required to fight.

I barely know enough about reality TV (I’ve seen maybe a total of five episodes of Survivor) to speak with any authority on the subject, but clearly the most enjoyable part of these shows is the elimination. The overly dramatic music, the quick scans of all the nervous faces, the eliminator clearly relishing in the power – made all the more enjoyable if the person is certifiably insane (see: Tyra Banks).

So that got me thinking: Why not produce a reality show (working title: Eliminated) that is nothing but one, hour-long elimination? I guarantee that with enough over-the-top production and the right condescending mix of judges/panelists, no one would even care why the people were being eliminated. You could start with 100 contestants and slowly whittle away the field. Two weeks in we’d all already have favorites and villains:

"I so hope Tricia wins!"

"That Bruce is such a smug bastard. GOD I hate him."

I think it’s everyone’s hope that they could somehow wind up on one of these shows, but I’m guessing we’re just not ready for "America’s Next Top Copywriter" yet. "NO one would watch that," says Julia. I would.

infant cpr

A few weeks ago we went to an infant CPR class – the most surreal event of a surreal few months. Pretty much the entire experience was disturbing. The hallway of the building where the class was held reeked of homelessness (no idea why), and the room was adjacent to an Army recruitment center. During a break in class I was wandering around the lobby and a fatigue-clad recruitment officer noticed me (an able-bodied man) through a conference room window and almost leapt out of his seat.

The class itself was held in a beat-up room with about fifteen wobbly
desks, each equipped with a plastic baby. A slightly dirty plastic baby. We received a thoroughly exhaustive overview of infant CPR from a spastic, wiry middle-aged woman whose temperament was far from reassuring. Traditional borders and boundaries do not apply to the kinds of women that teach birth and baby-related classes. In the past few months I have seen women my mother’s age manipulate their breasts to demonstrate feeding positions and crawl on all fours on meeting room tables to perform proper labor-easing hip gyration. I’m just not comfortable with anyone being that comfortable.

After sanitizing our respective babies’ faces with moist towelettes (a process that made the experience even more gross), we were lead through what felt like hours of simulated chest contractions and forced breaths. Counting to thirty again and again in unison (along with a metronome!) while chest-compressing is not unlike group aerobics, and Julia looked like she might pass out several times. And after our instructor ran though every conceivable choking scenario (I don’t think Julia will ever let our kid with 200 yards of a balloon) I was light-headed as well.

The last time I heard the word choke used so frequently in conversation was when I was training jiu-jitsu, but then it meant something positive and altogether different. Most of the resuscitation technique discussion seemed to focus on what could go wrong, and the fine line between prepared and paranoid was pretty much obliterated. After a "bonus" fifteen minutes of adult CPR and a PhD dissertation worthy breakdown of car-seat safety, we were finally allowed to leave. After walking safely past the recruitment center, through the hallway (holding our breath) and out into the night, Julia turned to me and said, "Well, that pretty much sucked." It sure did.

seen on the train this morning

Faded white satin warm-up jacket, reading Transit Workers for Christ.

happy belated birthday, g.o.

Despite the fact that we are expecting a child in two weeks (as sufficient an excuse for distractedness as any), I'm ashamed to admit that I missed the one-year anniversary (last week) of this here blog. Simply unacceptable.

Reading back through a year's worth of posts last night (and staying up until 3AM in doing so), I realized what an incredible year it's been. I also realized my inverse proportion between daily responsibility and posting frequency.

So, I'd like to thank those of you who have read and encouraged me from the beginning, as well as all the stragglers I gathered along the way. As a means of commemoration and compensating for the lack of production lately, here is a selection of my favorite stuff from the past year (from narcissistic nonsense to the fruit post that got over five thousand hits):

first post

a ny doctor’s office

tv

the ninja and the monkey

memories of family cars

my thoughts on music and race/culture

monkey

jewge

fruit: a risk vs. reward analysis

ikea by southwest

of men and hoops