Since my crotch can't write, I'm obliged to do so on its behalf. Said crotch wishes to protest for not being credited for its appearance in Quick Cuts (July/August, p. 8, lower right hand corner). While I can't speak for other crotches, mine hasn't been known to make it into national publications very often. And on the rare occasions it does, it deserves full recognition. Allow me to set the record straight. My crotch has been pestering me to feature it in an ad for as long it can remember. Besides, I hear that Archive lives to publish this sort of thing. Ergo, I wrote a headline to go with a full frontal of my beloved nether region. Then I tortured a client till they ran it. Jack Blades handled the photography and art direction. (Poor bastard, extended exposure to blowups of my jock have rendered his right eye useless). There, all concerned parties have been duly credited. Don't hesitate to send me a free copy of James B. Twitchell's book. It would make my crotch very happy. Thank you.
Kapil "Pablo" Kachru
A Boomer's Lament
After reading Bruce Stockler's piece "Talking `Bout My Generation" (Viewpoint, July/August), I was both frightened for him and of him. No, it's not because he criticized the use of "Free Bird" in an advertising campaign I wrote, but rather because Mr. Stockler is the archetypal aging baby boomer from Central Casting who believes that nothing ever was or will ever be as pure and meaningful as when he was a teen. Did he actually request in print that mainstream society as a whole not try and convince him ". . . that teenagers today cling to Korn or Kid Rock or Limp Bizkit songs with the same serious pre-David Letterman lack of irony" as his generation? Sure they don't. (FYI: Bing Crosby fans thought Sinatra was a joke. Sinatra fans thought Elvis was a joke. Elvis fans thought The Beatles were a joke. Beatles fans thought Led Zeppelin was a joke. And so on.) And his bawdy tales of beer-fueled, mailbox-vandalizing road trips? That's pretty much a synopsis of this week's episode of Dawson's Creek. For some reason it meant more back in the `70s. But I guess you had to be there.
Mud or not?
I loved your "Mudfight!" cover story on political advertising (July/August). Except, uh, for the cover. What is that stuff so painstakingly smeared all over your two faux candidates? Chocolate syrup? Used oil? Both? In any case, it's a useful reminder that the more closely you look at most ads - political or not - the less true they reveal themselves to be.
Associate Creative Director
David, you're in Houston. How do you know what mud looks like up here? We got our mud from the banks of the Hudson, which is essentially one big Superfund site stretching all the way to Canada. Used oil, you say? Exactly. Mixed with battery acid, dioxide, and actual Yankee soil. So sue us. - Ed.