We're into Barbie but have mixed emotions about Ken

It's often been said that some women develop a distorted self-image due to playing with dolls at an early age, especially from playing with Barbie. Her arched feet, her disproportionate proportions, her ever-flaxen hair that never needs conditioning or styling, her even-glow, tanned skin that's never known Botox, a microderm abrasion, or even a Buff Puff. Barbie represents a type of female genetic "perfection" that most women, save a well-financed few within the 213 area code, can never hope to achieve. (Nor should they, in my humble opinion. But that's another posting for another day.)

I would argue that not only are some women's perceptions of themselves distorted by La Barbie--thanks to childhood toys, their perceptions of men are distorted as well.

My proof? Look no further than Barbie's asexual, castrated, pastel-favoring best friend, Ken. I defy anyone to avoid befuddlement over the mixed messages Ken sends and the mixed emotions he engenders.

Ken in a nutshell: A chiseled, pliable, hairless body. Perfect, immovable hair, unstirred and undeterred by the harshest, most grueling bubble bath. A sherbet-hued wardrobe that favors sweaters worn as stoles around the neck. And, of course, no genitalia, not even a suggestion of it, just a void between his legs. Ah, the ideal . . . eunuch. Ken minus the nutshell, as it were.

To my knowledge, Ken is the only man that Barbie has ever known. Given Ken's ethos, as well as his fashion sense, is it any wonder then that some women spend their lives barking up the wrong tree of love and desire? Most men, at least those who've never written a tome chosen by Oprah for her bookclub, simply don't measure up to the standard that Ken conveys. I would imagine that to some little girls, non-sexual, non-demanding Ken--representing all men--seems to say to Barbie--representing all women--"I'm here for you, Barbie! All for you! I just want to admire and dote on you! You're so beautiful, so glamorous! I'm content to wait forever for you and never, ever entertain the notion of a physical relationship with you, my precious, pure Princess!"

We men do generally better Ken in the genitalia department (although disappointments do occur), but that just causes problems in most real-life relationships. The Barbie-infused mind of some women must regularly question how real reality actually is, compared to the comforting confines of child's play. It's hard not to imagine this sad kaffeeklatsch conversation: "Get this, gals--There's this unsightly growth between men's legs that requires regular care and feeding at all hours of the day and night! That has a will of its own and more sensory sensitivity than their brains! It can double in size (if you're lucky), but it tends to fade from glory rather quickly and often without sufficient warning or memorable satisfaction. What? You knew already? Why didn't anyone tell me about this?!"

Oh Mattel. What societal havoc hath you wrought?

Meanwhile, over at Anheuser-Busch HQ, they seem never to have heard of Ken and are banking that most of their all-male clientele aren't familiar with him either. However, from their commercials, they do seem to assume that most of their male customers are familiar with a type of Barbie (a Barbie cross-pollinated with Pamela Anderson, perhaps) and expect all women to be her--perfect body with a gi-normous, ahem, rack, a low-maintenance (if a bit consumer-goods-laden) lifestyle, and totally, impossibly, flexible and posable. You know the type: The Swedish Precision Bikini Candystriper Majorette Corps, Inc. Or whatever, delivering the goods to a certain class of men with all the nuance needed to make a Schnauzer laugh milk through its nostrils. If only Mattel would introduce a breastfeeding Barbie with beer on tit-tap--stout on the left, lager on the right--this insidious, gender-manipulating matrix would be exposed for all to see.

Of course, not all women are affected by Barbie and Ken in the programmatic, problematic way, nor are all men--free-thinking, completely heterosexual women and men, I should stress, who don't get all their lessons in "genderology" from Lady O or her heir apparent, Dr. Phil "Quickdraw" McGraw. But Maureen Dowd has made a better career out of those discussions than I ever will, so I'll leave that crumb for her next New York Times column.

Still, there are lesbian and gay perspectives about Barbie and Ken to consider, and being something of an expert on half that equation, I'll take over from here, Mo.

For example, some lesbians might actually be into Barbie, especially if she were more of a shaved-head, natural scent, "tank grrrl" kind of Barbie, a Barbie who only dons gowns and tiaras as part of an ironic, post-feminist statement or to go incognito as she rocket-launches into a high school prom. These gals might view Ken as a helpful, "eunuchly" qualified housekeeper or spear-carrier to rough-and-tomboyish, executive-by-day/softball-player-by-night Barbie--but surely he is no worthy, equal companion to Barbie-rella.

At a tender age, some young lesbians probably assumed Ken was, well, lacking, no doubt because of the gelati-flavored ensembles he prefers to wear. And because of his innate Nelly Olsen-ness, Ken might have been perceived as little more than a helper, an attendant, a Bobby Trendy, populating the planet solely to serve the female force that rules Amazonia. Thus, in the minds of some lesbians, Ken, a veritable Homo Hop Sing, exists chiefly to saddle up Barbie and Midge's horses for their ride off into the sunset, to fix all their meals, to clean up after them, and so forth--a kind of lesbian Brokeback Mountain, if you will--with nary a complaint or need expressed, ma'am.

Sort of the inverse of some straight men's fantasies about women, you might say. Except that Ken isn't expected to do all that, plus put out at the end of the day.

How is the lesbian perception of Ken as "homo helper" different from that of a straight woman's perception, you ask? Good question. Yes, Ken is a compliant, helpful attendant in both scenarios, but a certain type of straight woman expects that Ken, despite all signs to the contrary, will "be a real man," always picking up the check, never expecting "repayment" (but grateful for the morsel of a chaste kiss), and eager to help her select party dresses and appropriate jewelry for any romantic dining-and-dancing escapades the two may enjoy together. It's a life spent with Michael Bolton, Prince Charming, or perhaps Nico from the "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter" commercials.

By turn, Ken's devotion and loveliness reflect positively on Hetero Barbie's fantasy of self.

You'd never catch Tomboy Barbie entertaining such troubling, retro notions. Lezzie Babs couldn't imagine a cozy, candlelit evening at home with the cats and Queer Ken, building a deck together for Barbie's Dreamlogcabin, or sharing a sleeping bag, not even as a necessity when she and Lipstick Midge have had a temporary parting of the ways over Midge's insistence on an entirely vegan menu for their next all-female bookclub-and-barbecue get-together.

But what about the other third sex, gay men and their relationship with Barbie and Ken? Another good question. In case you didn't know this already, many gay men think Barbie is a diety. Some gay men worship Barbie, pay tribute to her, and have been known to call upon her to help them in moments of distress. Let it be . . . Barbie. The oft-heard gay greeting-card adage, "I want to be Barbie 'cause that bitch has everything," is both funny and true.

Barbie is too lovely and too product-oriented to be merely a Hag-in-Waiting; she is everything, completely worthy of all their Queer Eye-for-the-Het-Girl attentions. Hair! Make-up! Gowns! Lighting! Action! If anything, some gay men facilitate Barbie's supreme sense of self; they are the mirror that reflects Barbie's glamour and glory. In pop culture terms, think Anthony to Suzanne Sugarbaker from Designing Women.

Vice versa, Barbie, mind-blowingly, is the mirror that reflects some gay men's own glamour, achievement, and self-actualization. She represents refinement, taste, beauty, creativity, and an amazing line of credit, plus has a body that has been perfectly sculpted out of a durable plastic compound by scientists and engineers in a California laboratory. Every twink's dream. Think George Michael's friendship with former Spice Girl Gerri Haliwell.

Thus, viewed in this light, some gay men and Barbie and some straight women and Ken are forever entwined in a sisters-are-doin'-it-for-themselves symbiotic cha-cha-cha.

But someday, someone will come along to make Ken's head swim and question whether he really needs that mango-hued "St. Tropez" sweater from the International Male catalogue, might could lay off the body waxing, and cause him to reveal to a world unable to read subtleties (not to mention subtitles) that Barbie and he aren't that close.

And that someone is G.I. Joe, man of all men. Burly, brawny, ripped, and decked out in form-fitting uniforms and "activewear," G.I. Joe even earns some grudging respect from all-men-are-pawns Lesbian Barbie fans. Hetero Barbie lovers like the concept of G.I. Joe--he is attractive and obviously straight (or at least "straight-acting, straight-appearing")--but, try as they might, they just can't get past all that testosterone and lack of interest in the complexities of female attire and feelings.

Joe is loyal, patriotic, confident, and comes with his own overstock of apparel and paraphernalia. Joe's the kind of well-accessorized man's man Ken would like to bring home to Mom and flaunt in front of all his friends just to set 'em off. "Hey, bee-yatches! Lookit what Santa stuffed in my stocking for Christmas!"

Still, Joe is genital- and body hair-free, which will cause problems later in life for both Joe and Ken. Most gay men, for example, will ultimately dump straight (-acting, -appearing) arrow, nice-guy Joe for the well-endowed, rough trade charms of a Carlos, Billy, and/or Tyson. This "CBT" triumvirate will surely break Ken's fragile heart, not to mention . . . other body parts . . . and his retirement savings plan . . . but live and learn, Ken, live and learn.

* * *

Growing up, my sister never had a Ken, just a Barbie, which I enjoyed playing with, alongside of my couple of Joes, a blond and brunette, the latter with "real" hair and a beard. I also had a Big Jim, who showed up on the scene with his own camper van, lots of camping equipment, and, if remember it right, no shoes, no shirt, no service. As I recall, some combination of Jim and Joe almost always ended up naked in the back seat of Barbie's car, their taut torsos decorated with hand-drawn, Bic Flair felt-tip tattoos. Barbie would drive them around the house or the yard--from secret military base in Africa to wild adventure, Deliverance-themed camping trips to the tasteful home the men decorated together, at which Barbie served as perpetual houseguest and eternal galpal. I can just picture the pink palais du plaisir now, with Barbie's name scratched off the entrance to her former home and replaced with a Tom of Finland-designed "Adam and Steve" mezuzah . . . or perhaps I'm just remembering it differently than it was.

Nevertheless, at this boys' club, girls were always allowed, at least if they were stylish, entertaining, and didn't mind the guys dressing their tresses and lacquering them with makeup from time to time.

Naked men? Tattoos? Female chauffeurs and pink palaces? All-night makeup sessions? My poor parents . . . .

Maybe I have a few of my own psychosexual playtime issues to explore and ponder as well. Now where did I put that molded plastic, incredibly hot, psychotherapist doll, Dr. Troy Freud . . . ?