21/11/97
Toy
From Hell
Itג€™s
just a cute little
thing, but the
hysteria it causes
is virtually real.
I braced
for the worst:
three girls, on
their seventh
birthday, could
only mean one
thing. A new Barbie
invasion.
Color my
world ultrapink.
Those damn dolls
and their clothes
and accessories
and spinoff products
for wannabe Barbies
-- Barbie shampoo,
Barbie soap, Barbie
skin cream, all
of it pink, pink,
pink -- have given
my girls a rose-colored
view of girlhood
that can't be
good for them.
The Iranians
ban them; me,
I'm more tolerant.
I grumble, but
in the end I let
girls be girls.
So there
we were. The oneth
of October. Birthday
day. Warily, I
eyed the array
of smartly wrapped
gifts on the table,
bracing for the
worst. The kids
tore in to them,
paper and plastic
flying this way
and that, and
then ... that's
when I heard it
for the first
time:
Beepbeep.
It wasn't
a Barbie.
Beepbeep,
it tootled tunefully.
"Oh,
that's cute,"
I said, "what
is it?"
My wife
took a look. "EEEEEEEK!"
she said. "Oh
God Oh God Oh
God not THAT!"
"EEEEEEEEK!"
the girls said,
chucking the new
Barbies under
the table.
"Well,"
I said, indignant
at being the only
one who didn't
know what was
going on, "what
is it?"
My wife
has vital news
sources unavailable
to me -- her sister
in London -- so
she already knew.
As nothing of
this ... this
thing had
been mentioned
in the Post sports
pages, I was completely
unawares.
She told
me about it. It's
an electronic
virtual reality
pet, a Tamaguchi,
and from what
I could understand,
it will, in a
million years
from now, stand
as the defining
artifact of the
20th century CE.
She cited stories
of worldwide lunatic
behavior, of staid
London financiers
falling under
its spell and
missing appointments,
of content families
getting sucked
asunder by the
effects of this
palm-sized dervish,
of the psychological
deviancy committed
upon an entire
generation of
children.
"Aw,
c'mon," I
said, nervously
fidgeting with
a Barbie gown
hemline that had
unraveled. "It's
just a --"
Beepbeep.
I sensed
I'd better act
fast. I launched
into my annual
"Now You're
A Year More Mature"
birthday speech
(passed on from
Orbaum father
to Orbaum child
nigh on 15 generations
already). The
only response
I got was a carefree
giggle from one
of the Talking
Barbies under
the table; my
children missed
the speech. They
were in the throes
of uncontroled
hysteria.
"It's
gonna die!"
"Feed
it! Feed it! It's
dying, feed it!"
"It
needs love, which
button do I press?"
"EEEEEEEEK!"
THE
THING repels me,
as does any instrument
of mass control.
It excites
me, as a tumultuous
phenomenon, an
unimaginable success
story, a mere
toy that induces
an almost cultic,
fascist mesmerism
upon its subjects.
It lures
me, because it's
cute. It's an
egg-shaped clump
of plastic with
four buttons and
a display screen.
Completely innocuous.
Just a toy.
Once you
initiate its programming,
it is born. You
can't turn it
off. It becomes
humanesque --
and you
become robotic.
When it beepbeeps,
you have to respond:
you may be told
it needs a cuddle,
food, cleaning;
when it gets older,
you have to educate
it.
When it
needs company,
you have to be
on hand to tap
the right buttons.
You don't want
a morose Tamaguchi,
because concurrent
with its life
cycle are its
"S needs."
The stilted English
on the package
explains this
to be "S
= happiness +
education + hungry."
A chart is given
of how your compubaby
will look, with
an S ranging from
0-2 if you've
been neglectful
(it'll look like
a sad squid),
or an S of 18-21
if you've been
fanatically devoted
(it'll look like
a happy lionfish.)
It'll die
if you're not
constantly attentive
(it lives on a
programmed daily
cycle). The ultimate
aim seems to sustain
it until the end
of its natural
eight-year life
span, or as long
as the battery
lasts.
Furthermore,
it's --
Beepbeep.
-- yikes!
I gotta go, the
Tamaguchis need
to be hugged.
my kids are in
school and I promised
to take care of
things till they
get back and ....
DAYS
PASSED. Most of
the gifts were
already abandoned
in boredom, broken
or shelved. My
children became
too busy to play
with their Daddy,
explaining that
it's a full-time
job being a parent,
could I wait until
their Tamaguchis
are older.
Bloody
Japanese.
I thought
I could snap my
children out of
it at Yom Kippur,
explaining that
religiously observant
people like them
were not allowed
to touch electronic
gizmos on the
holiest day of
the year. But
it turns out the
Talmud specifically
categorizes Tamaguchis
as living beings
that must be sustained.
So very
suddenly, our
lives changed.
My babies, now
mothers; me, cast
aside, remembered
only when someone
needed a Tamaguchi
babysitter.
Told you
so, my wife told
me. Not just once.
It took
time, but finally,
a breakthrough.
Thinking
that something
must be done,
I gathered the
family for a talking
to: the wife,
the children,
the cats, the
Tamaguchis. We're
humans, I reminded
them.
The kids
immediately went
on the defensive:
"The Japanese
are humans too!"
one of them exclaimed.
"We learned
that in school."
So that was it.
Just a misunderstanding.
They thought ...
I grinned.
Guffawed. I roared
with laughter.
I shrieked mirthfully.
"You mean
-- you mean you
think this
is what a Japanese
is? No, girls!
No, no, no! The
Japanese are humans!
Like us!"
"Like
I said,"
the child reminded
me coldly.
As wildly
improbable as
it was, it made
sense. For all
the influence
of the Japanese
on our everyday
Israeli lives,
who's ever seen
one? To a seven
year old girl
this side of the
world, a Japanese
could well be
a virtual reality
concept with a
computer chip
for a brain. For
all I know, Japanese
children may think
the same about
Jews. (It wouldn't
be the first time
in history.)
I didn't
know if I could
reverse their
misconceptions,
but I had to try.
"Girls,"
I said, "it's
time someone explai-"
Beepbeep.
"Girls?
--"
Vanished.
"It's got
kaki," one
of them called
from their bedroom.
I formally
called an end
to the family
meeting. The cats,
who thought we'd
gathered for dinner,
stalked off in
disgust. My wife
moved off to the
kitchen, saying
nothing very,
very loudly. I
was about to get
up when my eye
caught a forlorn
figure. Looked
like an American.
It was covered
in pink crinoline,
pink lace and
pink sequins.
I had the
most terrible
thought.
Oh, no!
It would
be the natural
sequence of things.
As sure as money
makes money, and
success breeds
success, this
was what human
progress had to
come to:
A Tamaguchi-controled
virtual reality
Barbie. The first
living doll, on
the market just
in time for my
girls' eighth
birthday.
